summer 2009

Transcription

summer 2009

SUMMER 2009
O U R 2 0 TH Y E A R
T E E N IN K . C O M
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Contents
SUMMER 2009
V OL . 20
N O . 10
C REATIVE W RITING I SSUE
POETRY ........................................23-51
20 pages, more than 180 poems
Index of poets....................................51
FICTION
Spargel..............................................22
Mrs. Prekash ......................................27
Perfect...............................................31
Unsung Heroes of the Night .................31
Can You Hear Me? ...............................34
Space and Immortality .........................38
Shattered Glass...................................39
Time Waits for No One ........................44
Wasted Away......................................44
Whimper Bang....................................49
BOOK REVIEWS .....................20-21
Watchmen • Alias Grace • The Story of Edgar
Sawtelle • Into Thin Air • One Flew Over the
Cuckoo’s Nest • Miles to Go • The Road •
Everything Is Illuminated • The World I Live In
EDUCATOR OF
THE YEAR .......................................6-9
Find out which teachers took top honors
this year
Send Your Work
☛
☛
The Rain Song.............................................10
Up in Smoke ...............................................10
The Firemen ................................................11
Four Daughters............................................13
Autobiography of a Good Catholic Girl.......13
Summer Love Triangle ...............................14
Under the Constellations............................14
From a Dance Team Girl............................19
FEEDBACK ........................................4
ART GALLERY.........................12, 42
Paintings, drawings & photos
COLLEGE DIRECTORY ........17-19
Cover art by Rikki Warder, Voorhees, NJ
Background art by Jennifer Kuo, Richmond, CA
Send it
Online –
Mail –
Email –
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MSL
06/09
ADDRESSING RACISM
IGNORING IT
Feedback
BY
I completely share Kari Sandell’s views on
racism and agree with her statement that
“Giving attention to bigotry only strengthens
racism.” She points out how ethnic groups
will take a derogatory name and use it as a
culturally binding force. I hate hearing an
African-American man call his friend
“n***a” because it makes me feel as though
people like Martin Luther King Jr. and
Malcolm X, who devoted their lives to battling racism, fought in vain.
I know that as human beings we are
capable of eradicating racism, and we have
already come a long way. We simply need to
be willing to take the last few steps and stop
watering the weed. Thank you so much, Kari,
for making this clear.
Yeda Perry, Phoenix, AZ
THE RANDOMIZER
“God must have had his reasons ….” The
final line uses well-placed irony to point out
the indiscriminate ways of death. “The Randomizer” by Aviel Steinberg is supposed to
communicate just how unexpected death can
seem. We never, ever know when it’s coming,
so we think it is cruel and arbitrary.
Heaven is portrayed in this short story –
and elsewhere – as a peaceful afterlife. I like
how death in Aviel’s story is controlled by
“the randomizer,” because that’s just what it
is … random.
I have an unusual sense of humor, so the
line “Let’s just say we had to take that little
toy away from him,” when describing God
and death, appealed to me. “The Randomizer”
was my favorite article in the March issue.
Anonymous, Vineyard Haven, MA
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We’re here al
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Emily Sperber, Ed
AUTISM INTERVIEW
I am grateful to Allison Shea for her interview with a parent of an autistic child. Due to
the rapid explosion of children diagnosed
with autism, many teens are taught about it
but not how it affects families.
As the older and only sibling of an autistic
youth, I understand the endless patience
required and the value of every minuscule
accomplishment. We siblings are indeed
affected the most: we grow up faster, worry
constantly, and make sacrifices never considered by our peers. However, we also have the
joy of being with these very special children,
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Teen Ink •
and my experience has taught me lots of irreplaceable lessons. Thank you for this insightful and unexpected article.
Natalie Breen, Medford, MA
ON HIS BIRTHDAY
It’s sad how siblings take their anger out on
each other. I too have expressed my fair share
of frustration and selfishness toward my sisters. I do feel bad, though, after we fight. I
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SUMMER ’09
own advice. Sarah has a plan that would work
for anyone. It isn’t just a poem; it is a piece
that could save lives.
Kelly McFarland, Wilmington, DE
know it probably hurts their feelings.
In “On His Birthday” by Michelle Saucier,
how did Zach keep a smile on his face? He
was so optimistic; I would have broken down
and cried! It’s probably his confidence in the
fact that although they are yelling and mad
for no reason, they love him.
This story shows what siblings do to each
other. I think a lot of brothers and sisters learn
to treat each other badly from TV shows.
Reality shows probably have the most impact. They teach young adults to be rude and
mean – not just to siblings but to parents and
friends. Instead they should show how kind
brothers and sisters can be to each other.
Tori Caudillo, North Platte, NE
“Dear Peers” was incredibly deep, yet its
simple letter approach made it easy to relate
to and understand. Peer pressure is a common
problem that is often defined as a desire to be
cool and fit in, but most of the time children
give in to what the idiot masses tell them to
do because they are fed up with the teasing
and jokes. Even the strongest spirits falter in
the face of a hundred arrogant fools. The
worst part of lumping teenagers together is
that the good-natured ones, being sensitive,
are eventually corrupted.
I applaud the author, Sitav Nabi, for resisting the corruption of the mind and, in some
ways, sparking a rebellion in me. I think
“Dear Peers” will resonate with a lot of
young people, and the fact that it does disgusts me. We shouldn’t have these problems,
but somehow, it’s a blemish on society no one
seems to care about.
Shelly Ho, Brooklyn, NY
PICTURE STREET
The poem “Picture Street” by Beau Wright
caught my eye. I like that it’s short because I
often forget the beginning of a poem or story
by the time I get to the end.
I like the idea of time as a street that you
can drive up and down. This poem intrigued
me – the idea of being able to travel in time. I
would fix my mistakes, relive my happy
memories, get to know those I had brushed
off or forgotten, and many other things.
I really admire that although this poem is
short, it is still a great poem. Whenever we
have poetry assignments, I write and write
because it never seems quite complete. It
always seems childish and unfinished.
Jamie Smith, North Platte, NE
TEEN DRINKING
I agree 100 percent with Sarah Benett’s
article “Teen Drinking.” Really, what is the
point? Just to be in with the “in” crowd?
I’m from Delaware, and recently a college
student at the University of Delaware died
from alcohol poisoning while trying to be
part of a fraternity. That is truly sad. No one
needs to drink to fit in. My advice to teens is
just put the bottle down and let people accept
you for who you are.
Rae Cave, Newark, DE
PLEDGE
SUMMER SKIN
“Pledge” by Sarah is a poem that describes
how every girl feels. I personally am not
struggling with anorexia, but I know girls
who are. Even though I don’t have an eating
disorder, that doesn’t mean I like how I look.
Many girls probably feel the same way. I
don’t know anyone who loves everything
about themselves.
This poem really describes the way many
girls think, which is why I love it. I too will
make a pledge not to envy others’ looks, but
to be happy I’m me and no one else.
I think this poem is very inspiring because
it will make many girls take steps as Sarah
did and pledge to like themselves for who
they are. It takes a strong person to write
about how she feels and actually listen to her
Wow! Teen Ink, you are amazing. This
magazine displays so much young talent and
creativity. The manifold themes and situations covered by these teen writers are
extremely vast as well. Anyone could find at
least one story they can relate to.
A recent favorite of mine was “Summer
Skin” in the February issue. This nonfiction
story was beautifully written and intriguing.
It left me wanting more, which every good
story should do. I have felt this way about
many pieces in your magazine.
Thank you for publishing this magazine so
students like me can display our work for
others to enjoy.
Brittne MacCleary, Phoenix, AZ
Educator
The 16
th
Winners
Anjum Ahmed English Air Force School, Bareilly, Uttar
Pradesh, India Nominated by Harsha Mishra in the January issue
“Mrs. Ahmed made English a subject we enjoy studying.”
Greg Budzien Language Arts Arrowhead Union High,
Hartland, WI Nominated by Tera Roeker in this issue
Elizabeth Crane Science Brookline High, Brookline, MA Nominated by Emma Marks in the March issue
“Ms. Crane considers teaching to be a small action that can affect the
whole society. Our class covers science topics that are relevant today and
will help us improve our society and the world.”
Jeffrey Grimm Biology Solon High, Solon, OH Nominated
by Cathy Huang in the December issue
“Mr. Grimm’s unique teaching style, contagious enthusiasm, and
unwavering patience have made AP biology my favorite time of the day.”
Connie Nolen English Pelham High, Pelham, AL Nominated
by Kaitlin Orr in the February issue
“Mrs. Nolen helped many of us find our drive in life, and she helped me
find mine.”
John Oberwetter Humanities Culver Academies, Culver, IN Nominated by MacKenzie Davis in the February issue
“Mr. Oberwetter is a passionate writer, a poetic reader, an excellent
teacher, a blatant eccentric, and a hippie.”
David St. Armand English Holy Name Central Catholic,
Worcester, MA Nominated by Maureen Coakley in this issue
Jesse Wakeman Student Advisor Conrad Middle School,
Wilmington, DE Nominated by Maurice Gattis in the April issue
“Because of Mr. Wakeman and his firm but concerned tactics, I am a
better student today. But above that, I am a better person.”
Greg Budzien
LANGUAGE ARTS ARROWHEAD UNION HIGH
by Tera Roeker, Pewaukee, WI
skull notebooks reminded us to be organized.
ast year, as I walked down the hall enLaunching high fiber bars and apples into the
joying an ice cream sandwich, I noticed
class, Mr. Bud communicated the importance
a small, thin man walking toward me. He
of a healthy digestive tract. I do not know any
seemed interested in my treat, so I told him
other teacher who would sacrifice his body in a
about the free ice cream in the cafeteria. A huge
slapstick rendition of Spider-Man, but as he
grin stretched across his face and he jumped in
leapt from a desk wailing “Spider-Man! Spiderthe air, pumped his fists and screamed “Free ice
Man! Does whatever a spider can,” he miscalcream!” With his hands waving over his head,
culated, resulting in painful bruises.
dodging students, he skipped toward the cafeJust when I thought his class would be a conteria. This response caught me by surprise, and
tinuous comedy routine, Mr. Bud revealed the
with a chuckle, I continued to class. This man
depth of his character. As we sat in
was AP English teacher Mr. Budzien.
dark silence, he showed the class a
Between my first impression of Mr.
Mr. Bud
moving slideshow of inspirational
Bud and the stories I heard about intimidating essays and the dreaded po- clearly loves messages. That day solidified my
belief that he is a remarkable man.
etry packet, I really didn’t know what
his job
Goose bumps rose on my skin, and I
to expect from his class. However, afrealized Mr. Bud is much more than
ter the first minute, I knew it would be
a comedian. He understands young people’s
my favorite. Mr. Bud clearly loves his job.
emotions and motivations.
That first day in my other classes, we spent
Mr. Bud is the most dedicated and encourag30 minutes reviewing a lengthy syllabus and
ing teacher I have ever had. He transformed my
then jumped into the material – but not in AP
writing through his comprehensive evaluations.
English. For the entire first week, Mr. Bud got
His strict enforcement of perfection provided
to know his students by going around the room
the impetus for my growth as a writer.
asking each of us to describe our interests and
Although I do not have Mr. Bud this semesfears. He genuinely cared and wanted to initiate
ter, I regularly visit his room simply to talk.
a personal relationship with us. I knew he
He is a role model, and clearly teaches from a
would not only be my teacher but my friend.
place of joy and love. His infectious smile
A novel could be written about his endless
reveals a tremendous person I respect for his
antics and quips. Particular days in his class,
devotion, honesty, and sincerity. He encourages
however, I am certain I will never forget. Tears
me to reveal my true self and have confidence
of laughter rolled down my face as Mr. Bud
in stretching my limits. I am very grateful for
performed his “how to be a good student” skit,
Mr. Bud. ✎
complete with props. The kitty cat folders and
L
David St. Armand
ENGLISH HOLY NAME CENTRAL CATHOLIC
side also. When our class read The Five
People You Meet in Heaven, we shared
by Maureen Coakley, Worcester, MA
laughs along with tissues. We did not want
the growth of his students than the by-theto put the novel down. What other teacher
t’s ninth grade English, E period, in a
book curriculum. Mr. St. Armand was not
would cry with his students? Mr. St.
classroom full of crazy hats, T-shirts
afraid to voice his opinions: “Sit up! You
Armand showed my class that no one
hanging from the lights, quotes from
look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame!”
should be ashamed of sharing their feelShakespeare, Aristotle, and Einstein. As stu“Speak up! I don’t have supersonic hearings. He always knew how to make
dents enter they are greeted by a man in an
ing!” His comments made us
students feel comfortable.
oxford shirt and tie with a strict expression
laugh, giving us a break from
Some days no one would
on his face. I was among those students, too
In memory of participate
the serious literature.
in class, so Mr. St.
scared to walk into the intimidating classMr. St. Armand believed
room. “Go home! Somebody loves you!”
an inspirational Armand took our silence and
that a classroom was not just a
turned it into his own, showing
the teacher yells. We all jumped in fear. That
room, it was a stage. Our preteacher
us that everyone can have one
was when I knew my freshman English
sentations were not just oral
of “those days.” He was not
class would not be taught by the book.
reports, they were performances. Standing
just another teacher; he saw what we saw,
Mr. St. Armand stood in the at-ease stance
on a chair seemed outrageous, but I soon
he felt what we felt because he broke down
he must have learned in the Army. He was
learned that our teacher wanted us to gain
the wall between students and teachers,
intimidating, towering over us with a serious
confidence and make our voices strong and
building friendships.
look on his face. But behind the soldier
loud. Ever since the chair speeches, I have
No kid in my freshman class will ever
stance was a man of persuasion and intellect.
felt a confidence boost in every presentation
forget the time Mr. St. Armand was ten minHe was the man who made me love English.
I have made at ground level.
utes late. The being late part did not shock
I had never before experienced a class
Mr. St. Armand showed his emotional
us, but he rode into class on a bicycle wearing
where the teacher was more concerned with
I
06
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’09
a crazy hat, ringing a bell! No teacher had
ever gone that far to get students involved.
He told us the history of his hat and why it
was covered with dice, flamingos, and umbrellas. He believed poets should let loose
once in a while, which is why we would
design our own crazy hat and write a poem
about it. The project helped us free our
minds and made poetry easy for us. We
knew we could do anything because our
teacher just rode into class on a crazy bike!
My ninth grade English teacher taught
me a lot about life. He helped me build
confidence, learn in a fun way, and loosen
up my mind. Now, whenever I look back at
my crazy “Pirates Booty” hat, I remember
a devoted teacher who thought about his
students first and the book second.
Tragically, Mr. St. Armand died unexpectedly two years ago. He was a devoted
educator, an emotional man, and a loving
friend – all things a life-changing teacher
should be. ✎
COMMENT ON ANY ARTICLE AT TEENINK.COM USING THE ADVANCED SEARCH
of the
Year
Contest
Honorable Mention
Allen Frank Band Director Jim
Bonnie Maxwell Life Science Thorpe High, Jim Thorpe, PA Nominated
by Kathleen O’Donnell in this issue
Shady Side Academy Middle School,
Pittsburgh, PA Nominated by Dani Plung
in this issue
Lesa Hodge English Saint James
Academy, Lenexa, KS Nominated by Sarah
Quinn in this issue
Tim Kipp Social Studies Brattleboro
Annemarie McClung German Jay County High, Portland, IN Nominated
by Joshua Yoder in this issue
Union High, Brattleboro, VT Nominated
by Maya von Wodtke in the April issue
“Mr. Kipp stands in the doorway, his
weathered briefcase reflecting his character –
the leather tearing at the seams, knowledge
ready to pour out the sides.”
Zabrina Nicholson English Gunnery Sgt. Robert Lemke Amy Nocton World Language Naval Science Delaware Military Academy,
Wilmington, DE Nominated by Brittany
Hanks in the January issue
“Gunny always knows when you are about
to give up. I think he has failure-radar. He
swoops in and tells cadets they can do more;
he convinces you to exceed your limits.”
RHAM High, Hebron, CT Nominated by
Alexandra Turgeon in this issue
L
Crothersville High, Crothersville, IN Nominated by “Jane” in the May issue
“As a teen with security and trust issues, I was
afraid to rely on anyone. Mrs. Nicholson took
the time and effort to help me.”
John O’Kneski History Delaware
Military Academy, Wilmington, DE Nominated by Anthony Sammons in this issue
HISTORY DELAWARE MILITARY ACADEMY
by Anthony Sammons, Wilmington, DE
M
r. O’Kneski is the reason I am considering becoming a teacher. His
sense of humor, teaching methods, and overall excellence as an educator have inspired me. Though I’ve had some amazing teachers, Mr. O.
has been the most influential in my learning process.
Mr. O. makes me laugh more than any teacher. He makes jokes about the
presidents and his favorite show “The Shield.” He tells us stories about his
native New Jersey and his previous students. When students sleep
in class, he warns them about the “crowbar.” He is the only
person I know who can combine comedy and politics
seamless fluidity, then jump back into the lesson,
His teaching with
letting that familiar New Jersey-accented voice guide
the class as if we were on a field trip.
methods
His teaching methods electrify the class. He
electrify
brings legendary court trials to life and makes presidents appear so real we can see the sweat on their
the class
foreheads. When we discussed the assassination of
John F. Kennedy, I could see the bullet and the grassy
knoll; I witnessed the horrified look on Jacqueline
Kennedy’s face as she held her dying husband.
He involves students in his lectures. He likes to compare other countries’ relationships with the U.S. to the relationships of couples in our class. During the
presidential election, he had us vote to see if the class preferred Barack Obama
or John McCain. He explained the court system by asking if we knew anyone
who’d had a run-in with the law. We were basically the Senate of the Roman
era, getting feedback for our opinions and getting praised or scorned for them.
I nominate Mr. John O’Kneski because I relish every class I have with him. ✎
esa Hodge
Does your teacher
deserve to be on this
page next year?
ENGLISH SAINT JAMES ACADEMY
by Sarah Quinn, Leawood, KS
no tolerance for any funny business,
ophomore year and the first
but instead I discovered she has a
semester of junior year were
great sense of humor. When I made a
hard for me. Besides difficult
smart-aleck comment, she bantered
school work and overwhelming
right back with playful teasing. I
amounts of homework, I was having
loved her class and was excited to go
serious social issues. Through it all,
– unless I hadn’t done my
one teacher was always
homework.
there for me.
The end of that year, I
During sophomore
hit my low socially.
year Ms. Hodge was
There were terrible
my teacher for
She is
rumors circulating
American Literamy role
about me. I couldn’t
ture, and honestly,
wait for the year to
I was scared of her.
model
end. My parents and I
It was obvious she
discussed
transferring. I
wouldn’t accept any
declined, thinking that over
foolishness from me. She
the summer people would
was very composed, stood
forget the rumors.
with perfect posture, and spoke as if
On the first day of junior year, I
she had rehearsed her words. She
walked in and, without warning, my
acted like a college professor and it
eyes started watering. Everything
was obvious she was incredibly smart.
reminded me of sophomore year.
Throughout sophomore year, I
My peers may have forgotten, but
pushed her to see what I could get
I hadn’t.
away with. I was, after all, the class
Electronic Media Arts with Ms.
clown. I thought that she would have
S
J
ohn O’Kneski
Hodge immediately became my
favorite class. I was the only junior
among all seniors and happy to be
with people who didn’t know about
the previous year. When the seniors
went to lunch, I had study hall and
stayed in the classroom with Ms.
Hodge to do my homework. I told
her all about sophomore year, and
she listened sympathetically.
She knew what was going on and
helped me through it all. If I didn’t
bring a lunch, she would pull out a
granola bar from her desk for me. I
often confided in her and considered
her a good friend. She always knew
how I was feeling as soon as I
walked into her classroom.
Now I am at a new high school,
have great new friends, and am very
happy. I know that when I graduate,
it won’t be the rumors or the transfer
I will remember most. It will be Ms.
Hodge. She is my role model, and I
know that I am blessed to have a
friend like her. ✎
VOTE FOR YOUR FAVORITE ARTICLES ON TEENINK.COM AND TEEN INK RAW
Send your nominations all summer!
www.TeenInk.com
CCreative
r e a t i v e Writing
W r i t i n g I nnstitute
st it ute
LLocated
o c a t e d aatt UUCC B
Berkeley
e rke ley
AAugust
u g u s t 2-15,
2 - 1 5 , 2009
2009
S eeminars
m i n a r s iinclude:
nclude:
PPoetry
o e t r y * Short
S h o r t SStories
tories
NNon
o n -fict
- f i c t ion
i o n * Playwriting
P lay writ in g
51 0 - 54 8 - 66 1 2
www . ed uc ati o n un l im i te d . co m
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
07
Online Creative Writing Classes
Want to become a better writer?
Here’s a chance to take an online writing class through Teen Ink to expand and
improve your creative writing skills.
Each class runs for six weeks and will focus on the creative writing process through
lectures, discussion and fun writing exercises – all online. Class size is limited to
18 teenagers to enable lots of individual attention.
In this course you will develop your powers of observation, imagination, and language as you explore
fiction, creative nonfiction and memoir writing.
Six-week sessions
start online:
June 2
July 14
August 4
Only teenagers age 13-19 are eligible
For more information, go to TeenInk.com/writingclasses
and view a sample class and learn more about this unique opportunity.
Enrolled students will also receive a free one-year subscription
to Teen Ink magazine.
Questions?
Check out TeenInk.com
Email: [email protected]
Call: 617-964-6800 (Weekdays, 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. EST)
BAND DIRECTOR JIM THORPE HIGH
by Kathleen O’Donnell, Jim Thorpe, PA
I
can’t help but smile when I recall marching band practice in
the hot August sun, and afterschool concert band in the dead
of winter. Mr. Allen Frank always had something to share – a
story, a song, even a life lesson.
Mr. Frank has the best personality. He was always saying something positive and always smiling. His brilliant one-liners also
made him one of the funniest people I have ever known. I never
knew that anyone could be so happy at work, but Mr. Frank’s love
of life and his job radiated from his every action
and his every sentence.
Mr. Frank has a passion for music and
teaching that I’d never seen before. I
recall him spending time helping me.
He never became frustrated when I
He showed
couldn’t play a piece of music right.
me the simple
Instead, he helped me work through
it. Mr. Frank taught me that music is
joys in life
something everyone understands; it
truly is a universal language. His joy
and love of band triggered my dreams of
being a professional musician.
The fall of freshman year Mr. Frank announced
he would be taking a teaching job closer to his home. I sank to my
chair as sadness overwhelmed me. Over the next couple months,
we practiced harder than ever to give him the best concert we
could before he moved on.
Saying good-bye to Mr. Frank meant letting go of so much more
than someone close to my heart. It was letting go of a whole part
of my life and some of my happiest times.
In the three years since Mr. Frank left, music is still the biggest
part of my life, which I owe to him. Mr. Frank showed me the
simple joys in life, and I could not ask for a better perspective. ✎
B
A
my Nocton
WORLD LANGUAGE RHAM HIGH
by Alexandra Turgeon, Andover, CT
The next day, I had a very hard time, cont is impossible to judge teachers by stustantly wondering if my grandpa was still
dent test scores; instead, the measuring
alive. By the time I got to Spanish, I’d been
stick should be how educators positively
crying. As the bell rang, Señora Nocton
affect and inspire those they teach. Señora
asked me if something was wrong and was
Nocton, my Spanish and Italian teacher,
genuinely sympathetic.
makes an effort to reach out to all her stuThat Saturday, my grandpa passed away;
dents, truly caring about them. Of all my
after a horrible weekend, I was dreading exteachers, only Señora took the time to say
plaining for the fifth time that I would miss
“happy birthday” and wish me luck on my
school for his funeral. But as soon as I
driving test.
got to my desk, Señora sat next to
When I hand in an essay, she
me and asked about him. When
gives me positive feedback
I told her of his death, her eyes
immediately. Señora must
filled with compassion. She
see a hundred students daily
Señora
told me not to worry about
and have numerous papers
any work but to spend time
to correct each night; it is a
gives
with my family. The followwonder that she is so generselflessly
ing weeks were tough, but
ous with her time. Señora
they were more manageable
does not gain the esteem of
because of her friendly face.
her students by being a
The
title of “Educator of the
pushover. Rather, students respect
Year” is truly a prestigious one that canher because they know she will return
not be bestowed lightly. However, I believe
the favor.
that Señora Nocton is deserving of this honSeñora Nocton also gives her time and efor. She constantly goes above and beyond.
fort as advisor for the Cultural Awareness
By the end of each year, her students have
Club. She has chaperoned trips to Costa Rinot only improved their language skills,
ca, Argentina, Ecuador, Uruguay, and Spain.
they have grown as people. Señora gives
Besides being an exceptional educator
selflessly and I think she should be recogand person, Señora Nocton supported me
nized for everything she does: that
through a tough time in my life. In only the
is the true measure of an outstanding
third week of school, my grandfather had a
teacher. ✎
stroke. The doctors said that he was dying.
I
onnie Maxwell
LIFE SCIENCE SHADY SIDE ACADEMY M.S.
by Dani Plung, Pittsburgh, PA
voicing of them, which miraculously, no
gain, please, no guilt. I’m alive
one – not even the student in question –
and well,” read the e-mail from
seems to mind and, in fact, everyone rather
Ms. Maxwell. I gaped. If someenjoys.
one had dropped a two-pound keyboard on
Through Science Olympiad, many of us
my head and sent me to the hospital in an
who would have had nothing to do with
ambulance to get seven stitches, I probably
each other have become the best of friends,
would not have been so forgiving, even if it
and none of it would have been possible
was an accident. Yet, she forgave me withwithout Ms. Maxwell. She gives time and
out hesitation and never treated me any
energy to our team, and I regret that
differently.
we don’t acknowledge all her
Ms. Maxwell, my biology
work more often.
teacher, has a perfect underOn our way to our first Scistanding of seventh-graders’
She has a
ence Olympiad tournament,
minds and natures, from the
Ms. Maxwell cautioned us to
top of the social ladder to
perfect underleave our goggles on for
the bottom. Whenever I or
standing of
safety. “Don’t worry about
my peers on the Science
goggle-face,” she said.
Olympiad Team (which she
seventh graders “You’re science geeks! Where
coaches) need advice on anyyou’re going, everyone is a
thing related to the mountain of
science geek, so goggle-face is
stress that is middle school, she
considered attractive!” Our entire team
gives it to us. Unlike some teachers, she
let
out
a cheer.
understands the position that we bottom-ofMs.
Maxwell’s
honesty, humor, fairness,
the-ladder kids are in, and how difficult it is
ability to give amazing advice, and other
for us. Sometimes, understanding is enough.
traits make her a teacher who is well liked
My biology teacher is a very opinionated
by all. She was first my dedicated Science
person. If she does not like a student, that
Olympiad coach, then my inspiring biology
student – along with the rest of the school –
teacher, but it took the violent meeting of
knows it. They do not, however, know it
my keyboard and her skull for me to see
from Ms. Maxwell’s behavior since she
her as the extraordinary person I now know
never treats any student unfairly, even when
she is. ✎
executing her duties as Director of Discipline. Her opinions are known only by her
“A
A
educator ofthe year
A
llen Frank
nnemarie McClung
GERMAN JAY COUNTY HIGH
by Joshua Yoder, Bryant, IN
M
any great things have come from Germany, including
my teacher, Mrs. Annemarie McClung. I have been
lucky to have her all four years of high school. I
learned that she not only views teaching as her job, but she also
cares about the success of every student.
An average school day for her involves teaching five different levels of German and French. She ties in experiences from
life in Germany and makes sure her lessons are relevant, keeping students attentive. Although she is an excellent language
teacher, Mrs. McClung’s involvement does not
end there.
The German, French, and Foreign
Exchange Clubs are held together by
She is an
Mrs. McClung’s excellent organization. For Foreign Exchange Club, she
outstanding
has students host others from different countries for the year. She has
role model
also created Exchange Weekend,
where exchange students from other
schools come together at our school.
In my high school, recycling used to only be
a concern for the Earth Watch Club. Now, with the help of Mrs.
McClung and German Club, recycling efforts are prevalent
throughout school. Mrs. McClung raised money through the
German Club for receptacles for bottles and cans. And as a
result, bottles and cans in the trash have greatly diminished.
Not only is Mrs. McClung helping our school, but she is helping the environment.
Each day, I am reminded how lucky I am to have such a great
teacher. She is an outstanding role model and has made an impact in my life. Through teaching classes, leading clubs, and
promoting recycling, Mrs. McClung has shown me just how
important it is to be involved in my school and community. ✎
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
09
n o n•f i c•t i o n
“The Rain Song”
I
woke up that morning hating my
best friend, David.
This is something that I had
been feeling for a couple of weeks. It
started at the beginning of the summer.
David liked a girl named Bridget who
was notorious for dating and breaking
up with boyfriend after boyfriend. I
should have known this better than
anyone; Bridget and I used to be
friends. But somehow I thought it
would be different if she went out with
David, so I helped set them up. She
broke up with him after two weeks,
claiming there was no chemistry. What
she really meant was she was bored.
David was devastated. I didn’t have
the heart to tell him that this was a
regular occurrence. He didn’t know it
then because she was his first girlfriend, but he falls hard. His emotions
are fragile. He didn’t understand that
boys are disposable to Bridget; she
dates for fun, and when she gets bored
she moves on. She loves selfishly and
immaturely, her passion waning with
every minute.
David tried to stay away from her,
especially when she acquired a new
boyfriend. That is, until she called him
crying, saying he was avoiding her.
She told him that she couldn’t sleep
because she missed him, how she had
been vomiting and crying her eyes out
because they weren’t friends.
He and I talked about it; I told him
he should let her know it would take a
while for him to get over what had
happened and that after that maybe
they could be friends. He agreed, but
of course, that’s not what he did. On
the contrary, he spent more time with
Bridget, so much that he started ignoring everyone else, including me.
So, that day, I decided to call him –
Up in Smoke
by Emily Scott, Shelbyville, IN
partly because I was sick of him ignor“Okay, then I guess you can take me.”
ing me (and the rest of his friends) and
I heard him chuckle. “That’s better.”
partly because I needed a ride to Latin
“But I have to tell you that even
Club. Every year we have a bonfire,
though I know she has a boyfriend, I
and normally I get really excited about
really think Bridget likes me.”
it, but not this time.
I rolled my eyes, thankful that he
He picked up on the second ring.
couldn’t see my face. “You thought
“Hello?”
the same thing two weeks ago. And
“Hi. Is David there?”
she said she didn’t.”
“That’s me.”
“I know.” He sighed.
“Oh. It’s Emily.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what I think,
“Yeah, I know.”
but it won’t make you very happy.”
“Well, I called because I need a
“Nothing makes me happy
ride to the bonfire, but are you taking
anymore.”
Bridget?”
Now I sighed. “She likes having a
“Well, yeah, I’m taking her.”
Plan B. She wants someone to fall
“Okay, then, I’ll just
back on if things don’t
ride with someone
work out, and right
He didn’t
else.”
now you’re it. You
“What? Why?”
don’t deserve that.
understand that Really. You deserve
“Because every time
she’s around you ignore boys were dispossomeone who will
everyone else, and I
make you her only
don’t feel like being
plan.”
able to Bridget
ignored today.”
There was a short
For a second he
silence. “I’m going to
seemed to have misunderstood. Then
talk to her tonight. I spent a whole
he said, “Yeah, I guess I’ve been pretty
week learning this song that reminds
stupid about that.”
me of her – ‘The Rain Song’ by Led
“You sure have. You can be friends
Zeppelin. I’m going to play it for her.”
with both of us, you know, though I
I couldn’t believe what he was
wouldn’t necessarily advise it. But if
telling me. She wasn’t worth a minute
you were going to pick, it was supof his time or a string on his guitar, but
posed to be me. After all she’s put you
I was tired of having to fight to be his
through, all the hours I spent trying to
friend. “Well, I’m not going to try to
help you pick up the pieces, I get
stop you.”
So we went to the bonfire. I stayed
shafted. Come on, David.” I had been
away from David and Bridget, to let
working on this speech all day.
him do whatever he was planning to
Silence consumed the telephone for
do, but as we walked back to his car
a moment. “You’re right. I know you
afterward, he told me he hadn’t talked
are. I’m really sorry. I’ll stop doing
to her. “I didn’t do it. I just couldn’t
that, I swear.”
find the opportunity. I really wanted to
I tried to remember what I would
and I couldn’t.”
have sounded like if this were a trivial
I felt terrible. I was trying to think
conversation, like we used to have.
by Ashton Griffith, Mexia, TX
but from the fist of a brave man. This man
hear screams. Terror and shock – bold,
grabs me first and shoves me out the broken
intense emotions throw themselves at me.
window. My bare feet hit the ground and
It’s two in the morning, and we’re all
glass from the window slides into them. Air
running and fighting the smoke. Fighting for
races into my lungs.
our lives.
*
*
*
The smoke is so thick that I can’t see more
I’m sitting on a couch letting someone
than three feet in front of me. The doors are
wash the black from my face.
blocked with wallpaper from
My family is crying. Why can’t
hell. I’m sweating and crying,
Glass
shatters
I cry? Why can’t I hold them
and if my lungs weren’t black
they’re holding each other?
and cloudy, I would be screamfrom the fist of like
I hear my mom say she thinks
ing. Flashes, lashes of light,
still in shock. For the first
laps of flames, and for a second
a brave man I’m
time I make eye contact with
I think I am dying.
her and try to squeeze out a tear.
We run back and forth, side
It doesn’t come.
to side looking for a way out with our sting*
*
*
ing blind eyes. Things are blowing up in the
I
live
in
a
house
that
has
two
fireplaces. I
next room. I can’t think about anything. I
go to school, come home, go to my room,
can’t worry about my brothers. My mother’s
and by 5 p.m. I have cried myself to sleep. I
frantic screams can’t get to me. I’m comhave nightmares. I hate this new town; I hate
pletely focused on myself: my life, to get
this huge house. The only thing that keeps
out, to survive, me, me, me. I can’t breathe.
me alive is my sister and a Saosin CD that
Glass shatters, not from pressure or heat
I
10
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’09
never stops playing. I eventually start sleeping with it on. My nightmares lessen. I don’t
know if it’s the comfort of Anthony Green’s
voice, or time, but sleep becomes easier.
I wonder if my sister hears me crying on
the other side of the room. I wonder if she is
as homesick as I am. I wonder if to her this
brick house replaces our old green house. In
my heart it doesn’t compare. I miss chasing
her down Hopkins Street with bare feet. I
miss the way sunlight leaked through the
floor in the kitchen. I miss that ragged
house.
I want my life back.
*
*
*
I’ve shared with you the gloomiest part of
my life. A time that I remember like yesterday, but it was over a year ago. I am much
better now. I am back in my town and my
school. I can assure you, though, that I’m not
perfectly healed. I am still homesick. I sleep
with a nightlight and often an old Saosin
CD. The fire changed me. It scarred me. ✎
Photo by Sam Weissbach,
Bellevue, WA
of what to do to help as I climbed into
the backseat and Bridget got in front.
As he pulled out, David said, “Hey,
listen to this song, you guys.” He
pushed the play button on his stereo.
It was “The Rain Song.”
No one said anything on the way
to her house, and the ride somehow
lasted exactly as long as the song. I
wanted to cry. I just kept watching
David’s face and that look he gets
whenever he’s trying to hide his
emotions. Every once in a while he
glanced at her, and I watched his heart
break with every chord.
David put the car into park in Bridget’s driveway. She left with a perky
“Bye!” and a slam of the door. Obviously, it wasn’t much of an emotional
experience for her. After she left I
moved into the front seat and David
started talking.
“I hope she liked it. She told me to
call her later tonight.” He paused. “I
really wanted to play it.”
I wanted so badly to make him
realize that he didn’t need her.
“Play it for me,” I said. “I don’t
want to go home anyway. Let’s go
somewhere and you can play it for
me.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. Let’s go to the park.
I want to hear it.”
So we went. I sat on a swing while
David got his guitar. He sat next to me
and started playing. I watched his fingers trace the path on the neck that he
had worn down practising the same
song for a week. I watched his face; he
was no longer concealing his feelings.
Everything he had felt since the summer was etched there. He looked like
an old man who had loved, lost, and
lived to tell about it.
As he neared the end of the song,
he threw the pick into the grass and
played with his bare hand, pouring all
his passion into the strings. I wanted
to cry as he finished.
“Put that down,” I said, pointing at
his guitar. I walked over and enveloped him in a hug, the kind that I
only shared with him: caring, compassionate, and meaningful. “You are
amazing.”
He looked at me. “Thank you.” ✎
The Firemen
by Arieh Levi, Teaneck, NJ
pushed himself up. He beckoned for the nurse and
picked up by the first person to notice their brilliance.
asked her, in a voice nearly nonexistent, if she could
We sat there, brothers, oblivious to everything but the
get the art he had made. When she placed it in his
lights. They blinded us, astounded us, awed us.
hands, he looked at it with a silly smile and shoved it
We couldn’t speak; the loud whirring of the jet’s
at me.
twin engines spoke for us. We did not know where we
“Look, Arieh. Look what I drew for you.”
were flying, only that it was not here, that the gems
He had drawn squiggly lines up and down the page,
below us would soon cease to exist. We were off – to
crisscrossing at one point, intersecting at another,
infinity and beyond, as Buzz Lightyear would say.
turning in circles, ovals, forming squares, rectangles,
My father sat in the front, quietly talking on the
and then finally gliding to an abrupt stop at the edge.
phone. Sometimes, he would turn and look at us, our
Some were green, some yellow, all the coltiny bodies close together as we gazed
ors of the rainbow. On top of that, he had
dumbfounded out the window at the city
below, the jewelry box that would soon be
The doctors added all his favorite stickers of trucks and
cars and planes and Buzz and people from
closed and left in a dusty attic, in a forgotten house, in the back of someone’s prehad kept him “Toy Story” and “Pocahontas” and “The
Lion King.” It was the most beautiful art I
occupied mind. There was longing in his
had ever seen.
gaze, a deep regretful yearning. He needed under a spell
Something caught my eye. In a lonely
to be somewhere else, anywhere but on
corner of the page was a humble sticker. A
this plane. He knew the destination – he
fire helmet. It had been a long time since we fought
knew why we were spending thousands of dollars that
any fires, and the town was burning. I had a job to do,
we didn’t have on a private jet, and it troubled him.
even if I had to go it alone. I looked at it for a bit
He was no longer the lion. He was the gazelle that
longer, then hugged my brother and left.
knew it is being stalked silently from the brush but
*
*
*
cannot escape. Time had my father in its iron clutches
When I was four I changed. I grew older. So old, in
and would not let him go. Fate had decided the path;
fact, that one day my father and mother – along with
now it was only a matter of time.
my baby sister and I – packed up the van and drove
*
*
*
Photo by Samantha Richardson, Glencoe, ON, Canada
back to New Jersey from Milwaukee. The drive was
My brother stayed at the Children’s Hospital of
long, but I was old and could handle anything. When
Milwaukee for a few months. I visited almost every
we were halfway home, I asked my parents where my
day. One in particular stuck with me, like a weight on
He was my knight, defending me from the mighty
brother was. Instead of responding, they began to
my chest.
howling winds and the swirling currents below.
quietly sob. “He has gone to heaven,” my mother
I had just finished my chocolate milk in the cafeteHe would ease into his parking spot on 40th Street
whispered as tears fell.
ria and headed upstairs to see my brother. I stood on
while I, nestled in the back seat, silently slumbered as
“What will he do for his birthday?” This was too
my tiptoes, staring at him through the glass. He sat
only a 4-year-old can. And then he would turn around,
much
for them. I got no answer, only more sobs. I
feebly
upright,
his
back
cushioned
by
pillows.
and, with the same raw emotion a lion feels for its
stared at my mother hugging her knees and my father
Machines surrounded him, their little plastic hands
cubs, he would watch me. His pride. His joy. In that
looking intently at the road. What had happened to the
placed in various spots on his chest. His face was
moment he knew that nothing could ever come beknight I once knew? The man who would charge over
puffed up from the drugs administered hourly, his
tween us. And then he would wake me, and we would
the mighty George Washington as I slept in the back
hair, gone, due to the chemotherapy.
enter his office together dressed casually in our doctor
seat, knowing only comfort and love?
The energy was gone from his body. But it was his
whites. I loved going to work. I was old, and I was
It rained hard as we drove. The angels were weepeyes that held me. They were not his young, innocent
never going back.
ing. We drove through the city, but the gems had vanbrown eyes. They were sunken in his skull, the skin
*
*
*
ished, picked up in the maelstrom and lifted off to a
around them pulled tight. They were dark, the eyes of
Once upon a time, my brother and I were firemen.
sunnier, kinder place. The sky was cloudy, distraught,
a sad old man in the body of a child, a man who has
We wore helmets and heavy-duty vinyl suits, bright
and my father remained silent. I knew something had
gone through life the wrong way, experiencing more
red with horizontal yellow slashes across the top and
moved within him. He had been infected by somegrief and misery than happiness. They contained no
bottom, and badges on our lapels. Our firehouse was
thing I could not explain. He would never be the
joy, no hope, only pain. They did not belong to my
in the basement. On the right of the stairs were six
same, yet there was nothing I could do. There were
brother. I wanted to rip them out and replace them
green wooden rods connecting the stairs to the sloping
houses burning and I, without my brother, had to stop
with his real eyes, deep brown and full of life, full
ceiling, which served as our poles. They were used
the flames from consuming everything they touched. I
of innocence, gems – no, rubies – no, diamonds. I
often, as houses seemed to burst into flame on a conreturned home, slid down the fire pole, donned my
wanted
to
screw
in
those
eyes,
and
sistent basis – oddly, always immedifire suit and helmet, and got to work. ✎
watch as the color rushed back into his
ately after school. We would rush
It had been a
cheeks and his strength returned. He
downstairs, donning our uniforms and
would throw off his cream-colored
screaming “Fire, fire!” as we slid down
long time since
sheets, jump out of bed, and run to me,
the green poles to the inferno that
and we would hug and laugh and roll
awaited us. We were the best firemen
we fought
on the floor, inseparable, forever.
ever.
He would tell me all about this weird
*
*
*
any fires
place
where the doctors had kept him
When I was four I changed. I
under a spell. He would say that I had
changed in the sense that I grew older.
saved him, and now we were going to go home and
So old, in fact, that one cold, wintry day my father,
jump into our firesuits and helmets and then fly back
suddenly anxious and stone-faced, took me and my
on our jet to Milwaukee. We would run through the
brother to the airport and hurried us onto a private jet,
hospital putting everyone’s bright brown eyes back in,
full of little blinking lights and seats that leaned back
and put out all the fires, and we were going to save
as far as you wanted. We took off, the city disappeareveryone, everywhere. We would be together always,
ing under us as my brother and I gazed wide-eyed out
and nothing could ever part us again. That was the
the window, our small faces and hands pressed against
road I wished for. Follow the yellow brick road, as the
the Plexiglas, our breath causing it to fog slightly.
Munchkins say.
The city, thousands of miles below, was laid out in
I walked into the room slowly, my face masked, my
miniature. It looked as though a million jewels had
hands carefully washed. He turned his head and his
fallen from the heavens, and there they lay, sparkling
Photo by Adrianna Robles, Stamford, CT
eyes lit up. A smile cracked his gaunt face, and he
– rubies, diamonds, emeralds – all waiting to be
W
hen I was four years old I changed. I grew
older. So old, in fact, that in the winter I
would put on my father’s boots – the yellow rawhide ones every child wants – and trudge off
to work with him through the chest-high snow and
into the giant silver Acura with little blinking lights
and the radio that could go as loud as my father
turned the knob.
We would charge over the George Washington
Bridge, flying on his silver steed thousands of miles
above the mighty Hudson, weightless, untouchable.
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
11
art gallery
Art by Luke Stymest, Montclair, NJ
Art by Alice Bucknell, Sarasota, FL
Photo by Narongsukchai Tintamusik, Sachse, TX
Photo by Christine Franzel, Luck, WI
Photo by Susannah Benjamin, Greenwich, CT
Photo by Sarah Cancelarich, Hillsdale, NJ
Art by Gracie Gralike, St. Louis, MO
n Ink
TeeA
R W
er’s
Viehwoice
C
Art by Shayla Fish, Ladoga, IN
12
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’09
Photo by Roopa Shankar, San Jose, CA
Photo by Margaret Petersen, Moblie, AL
Draw … Paint … Photograph … Create! Then send it to us – see page 3 for details
by Chanie Howard, Duluth, GA
I can see her now: her faithful, tired brown eyes,
here is no wind tonight. Not even a slight
her colorless hair efficiently coiled on her scalp, her
breeze. The stiff sheet of tatami clings to my
coarse hands expertly scouring old pots and pans
unprotected back; its stray fragments prod
caked with grease. She holds back her tears. “Four
against the wetness of my arms. The fan hums slugdaughters. Think of the good men they will marry,”
gishly. Water droplets strike the smooth surface of the
she reassures herself. She recites a quick prayer:
shower floor. Pit. Pat-pat. Pit. Pat-pat. My heartbeat
“Give my daughters four healthy sons.”
pounds with the rhythmic water droplets, creating a
“Ah-Tai lived to see everything: her second daughmetrical waltz. My restless feet drape across the metal
ter’s death, then her first. It broke her heart, but she
ventilation, no longer cool against my searing ankles.
swallowed her tears. Second daughter disappeared.
The heat liquefies my lungs. I pant.
Rumor said Japanese attacked the train she was on.
“Stop moving.”
Set it on fire. Ah-Tai went to look after“I can’t. It’s too hot.”
ward. Couldn’t find her daughter any“Go sleep. You sleep, you will feel
She begged the where. No body. She went back every
cool.”
day for three months. Still no body. She
Silence. My heart thuds with every
gods to save her had lost one of her daughters. ‘Bad luck,’
pant. The fan drones.
said the village people.”
“Mama, it’s too hot.”
last daughter
The breeze picks up now. It pacifies
“Sleep.”
my
agitation. My lungs slowly solidify.
“Tell me a story.”
“Ah-Tai was 40 when she saw first daughter die.
“Go to sleep.”
Uterine cancer. She was barely in her twenties. She
“You owe me a story.” Stillness. “You owe me two
was in so much pain when she died, she chewed the
stories.”
IV tube in half. When that didn’t cure the pain, she
“Be quiet. Go to sleep.”
chewed off her tongue. ‘Cursed family,’ said the
“Come on. Tell me about your parents.”
villagers.”
“My parents? You hear before.”
Her back loses its solidity. She bends with her
“Please?”
burdens,
though still quite unbowed. She stops caring.
“I tell you about Ah-Tai.”
The soles of her feet become frozen, thick hide; shoes
An unexpected breeze engulfs me.
are no longer a necessity. Her heavy eyes sag, harmo“Ah-Tai was my grandmother, your great-grandnizing with the withering chrysanthemums. She
mother. She was tough. Nothing like grandmothers
catches her lifeless reflection in the muddy rice
now. She have four daughters. Always want son. Four
patties. She cowers and cries. The village people
mistakes. Four bad lucks. The village people laughed
stare. “Bad family, bad spirit,” they say.
at her bad luck. She held her head high. Called it a
“Third daughter lost hearing after second daughter
blessing. No son, but four good daughters.”
T
died. No one knows why. She had high fever in middle of night. Ah-Tai took her to nearest doctor. It was
too late. She had lost all hearing. He charged her 500
yuan for waking him up. She walked all the way back
home with third daughter. When she got to front
steps, she kneel down and kowtowed. She begged the
gods to save her last daughter. Let her marry well, let
her live. Then she got up and scolded herself for such
shameful thing to do. She vowed to save face.”
Perhaps she is a water tiger: born in the year of the
tiger, under the element of water. She doesn’t know
the exact day or even the accurate year, but judging by
the limpness of her underarms and the slackness of
her chest, she deems herself a tiger – born around
1902. A cunning tiger with a heart of opaque glass:
she weeps for her favorite pig, slaughtered for the
week’s dinner. She swears off meat. She learns of
herbal remedies, becoming her own doctor. She guarantees her youngest daughter a long, prosperous life
because bad things only happen in threes.
“Ah-Tai pass away before your grandmother did.
That was her goal. Happiest thing that happen to her.
She even saw you before she died. Said good thing
you do not look like her. Said it was a bad thing to
look like woman with huge troubles. I wanted you to
look like her. She got her last wish: perfect daughter,
your grandmother. Now you know why we honor the
dead. The village people said her luck changed. Her
luck was always the same; she just had more faith.”
Outside, the streetlamp flickers. Dust particles
steadily drift near me, casting a soothing silhouette. I
shiver. The wind speaks, and I listen. The tranquil
voice of Ah-Tai’s solitude swathes me. I sleep beneath
the serene blanket of admiration. ✎
Four Daughters
Autobiography of a Good Catholic Girl
by Frances Calingo, Congers, NY
Y
ou remember the birds chirping
outside, the sighing Starbucks
barista, the dried blood on the
walls, and the sterile smell of sanitation.
He was trapped in that room for weeks,
and you would visit diligently like a
good Catholic girl. It wasn’t the first
time you had to waste hours in a waiting
room and double-buckle your seat belt
on the drive home, and it certainly
wouldn’t be the last. And you never
knew how to take it all at once.
You remember cruising through corridors and watching your heart corrode
before your eyes. You’d sprint up the
stairs to reach his room – 41A, third
floor – and he’d be there, lifeless as
1910, yet maintaining that half-hearted
smile. Why couldn’t you smile? You
weren’t the one whose arteries were
clogged with tubes, and you weren’t the
one with the ungodly gash on your
chest, and you weren’t the one with
blood and dignity and courage streaming down your legs like an onslaught of
tears. You could have been so much
stronger. Why weren’t you?
You remember walking ahead of
him, just to watch him hobble up the
stairs. If each step was a mountain, then
he was trying to scale the Andes on a
broken ankle. It was a traumatic sight,
and there was nothing anyone could do
except pray the stairwell would shrink
You bottled up everything. You had
to a single stride. No one would have
to. You internalized all of the 5 a.m.
known how to respond to it, let alone
prayers and 8 a.m. coffee overdoses and
you. You couldn’t offer a hand because
2 p.m. bathroom breakdowns. You sent
his hands were gripping the banister.
your reality to a desolate island alongYou couldn’t offer your sympathy beside your pain, joy, shame, and hope for
cause you didn’t know what to say. You
something better. With everything
couldn’t offer your strength because
deemed too hard to face locked away
you didn’t think you had any. Someon desert sand and desert waves, you
times you could only laugh at how pitiwere able to function. You woke up
ful it was. Sometimes you could only
every morning and went to school and
cry at how pitiful it was. Sometimes
did your homework
you could only look
every night like a good
away.
You sent your
Catholic girl. And
You remember how
swiftly you descended
reality to a desolate sometimes in your
sleep, you’d remember
the stairs of your home
how hard you cried and
to help your ailing
island alongside
how solid the bathroom
father like a good
your pain
floor felt beneath a delCatholic girl. You’d
uge of tears. This is how
bring him his food and
you dealt with everything, and how you
take away the dirty white dishes and
learned to keep a straight face.
clear the once-sacred ground of the onceOne day, you grew past it. One day
sacred family room. And he’d be there,
scattered like the dirty white napkins on
you were able to live, and love, and feel
things as if they were real; as if you
the ground and broken up like the unfinwere real. You knew it was all just a
ished food on his dirty white dish. Your
con, though. You knew that at a momother would yell at you to clean up
ment’s notice, things could go horribly
everything, because he couldn’t have
wrong and you’d have to repeat the
another accident. If he did, he’d have to
early morning treks to Hackensack
go in for more surgery. And you’d have
Hospital. But that was too easy to obto tell all your newfound friends that you
sess over, and you knew you just had to
couldn’t go to their parties because your
avoid it. So you surrounded yourself
dad was being slit down the middle
with people and places and superficial
again.
stressors – anything that would distract
you. You knew that one day you’d have
to face your pain, but for now, it was all
sealed in the tidy airtight void where
your heart was supposed to be.
I’ve seen you grow up, and I’ve witnessed you become the strongest basket
case known to man. I’m proud of you,
in my wicked little self-deprecating
way. I know how hard it was to stare
back into the languid eyes of a man you
loved and tell him he’d be all right
when you weren’t so sure. I know how
hard it was to walk through the hallways at school as if you had no reason
to feel anything. I know how hard it
was to realize that you were strong
enough to grab your life as it strode
swiftly down the street. I know how
hard it was to figure out why you were
so hopeless and then fix yourself, as if
everything that happened to him had a
greater effect on you.
I know it very well because I lived
through it with you.
You and I have more in common than
you think. You had to watch someone
you love crumble and then come back
from hell. I had to watch you crumble
and climb your way back from hell.
The major difference between you and
me is that I didn’t love you when I saw
you crumbling. I loved you when I saw
you come back. ✎
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
13
A Summer Love Triangle
I
t was July, the summer of 2007.
Briny air clung to my skin as I
stretched my towel out over the
sand. The sun was hot but not uncomfortable. I reached into my beach bag,
excited to have a free day at the beach.
I pulled a tattered, mildew-scented
paperback out of my bag and groaned.
Maybe this wouldn’t be such a restful
day after all.
My dad is a voracious reader, and
for his fiftieth birthday I had created a
private book club for the two of us. He
is constantly traveling for business, so
Photo by Junia Zhang, San Diego, CA
I thought it would be a great way to
spend time together doing something
we both love. The first book on our
list was Charles Dickens’ David
Copperfield. My vision had been
lofty: we would read side by side
in huge leather chairs and discuss
interesting themes while sipping
cappuccino and educating ourselves
with great literature.
Dad had embraced my vision and
plowed through the heavy tome with
gusto. In fact, three months had passed
since he finished the book, while I
hadn’t gotten past the first three long,
dull pages.
Surprised by how quickly the summer days were drifting by, I promised
myself that July was the month of
Dickens and Dickens alone. But the
constant lure of the warm ocean and
cool breezes left me with little time to
settle into a good book. When I sunbathed with my friends, they would
doze, flip through magazines, or read
chick-lit beach books. There I was, the
next towel over, trying to focus my
sun-soaked eyes on the pages of Dickens’ magnificent yet exhausting prose.
The margins were so small, the print
so miniscule! As the days sweated
along, I began to dread opening that
by Alexandra Preiser, Westport, CT
torn and musty book resting reproachWith excitement, I tore open the
fully on my nightstand.
package, freeing Harry from his
I had made some progress (page 20
bonds. Cardboard shreds fell to the
of 805) when, on July twenty-first,
floor as I held the book for the first
just as I was dog-earing my page to
time. Its brand-new yellow cover
grab some lunch, my mother called up
shone like the blazing sun. Mine, all
that a package was waiting for me in
mine! I hugged the thick novel to my
the kitchen.
chest, welcoming Harry into my arms,
I double-checked the date before I
welcoming him home.
allowed my heart to start racing. It was
Eating wasn’t necessary; I had a
the twenty-first, to be
private date with Harry
sure – the date prePotter planned for this
Harry was
ordered books had
evening. I carried him to
been promised. My
my room and placed him
wearing my
hands began to shake
on my pillow. I unconwith anticipation;
put Copperfield
favorite cologne: sciously
every limb in my body
in my nightstand drawer,
trembled as I realized
hiding him in the darknew book
the long-awaited day
ness while I slowly
had arrived. I flung
opened the cover of my
poor David Copperfield to the foot of
new treasure.
my bed and sprinted downstairs, each
Harry smelled delicious. I think he
mad footstep screaming Harry’s name.
was wearing my favorite cologne: new
The shipping label stated to the
book. Not a hint of mildew in his beworld that he belonged to me. After
guiling aroma. Propping the book up
I’d spent months dreaming of his
on my knees, I dove into the magical
arrival, Harry Potter, the seventh and
world I had missed so dearly.
final, was at last mine. Thoughts of
Hours passed me by unknowingly
young Copperfield and his foolish
until it was three in the morning; I was
wife, Dora, were swept aside as my
the only one up in my house. I pulled
elated mind cleared room for incantamy lamp closer so the room was black
tions and potion recipes.
except for the halo of light
➤➤
Under the Constellations
by Gillian Collins, New York, NY
But tonight, I am older, and I feel for the first time
p, Daddy!” I pulled my father’s pant leg.
the distance between what was and what is. We live
He took me into his arms and lifted me
in the stars’ shadows; their past is our present. I can
onto his shoulders. From this vantage
feel the universe expanding and the darkness growpoint, I could touch every atom of our universe. My
ing. Somewhere in that space between past and
father turned to my mother, who hovered nearby, and
present, the power of free will is so
asked her to find her favorite star. She
much responsibility. Can I really decide
pointed wordlessly to somewhere far
to be happy? If so, is unhappiness selfaway. With greedy hands, I stretched
The power
imposed?
to pluck the twinkling fruit from the
of free will
*
*
*
heavens. I cradled the treasure in the
Everyone knows that stargazing is
skirt of my nightgown, eventually
is so much
best under distilled summer skies. As
passing it to my parents. My mother
soon as I was old enough to connect the
stored our treats in her pockets, which
responsibility
dots in coloring books, I was tracing
swelled yellow and ripe. We three
constellations. I remember my starry
berry-pickers snacked on strawberry
night coloring book, the way it smelled like Play-Doh
stars for dinner.
and my mother’s eccentric cooking. I dog-eared my
*
*
*
favorite constellations, like teenagers push-pin or flag
There’s something about summer that gives happia world map full of dream vacations. I liked the taste
ness urgency. Consciousness lounges slothfully on
of words like Andromeda, Centaurus, Sagittarius on
our porch, swinging in a hammock, waiting for us to
realize the swiftness of approaching apocalypses.
August sunsets beckon us to embrace initiative, to
make the most of those last few afternoons before
school.
In the afterglow of one such summer evening, I
saw for the first time the eerie light of yesterday-today stars. My father lifted me on his shoulders, and
my mother held my hand. She asked me, “Did you
know looking into space is traveling back in time?”
“Some of the stars are so far away, they are already
gone,” he added.
As any little kid might, I feigned familiarity with
the ways of the universe, pretending this wasn’t news
to me. I was too small to understand the implications
of this revelation anyway. Little girls shouldn’t have
to know that the night is contagious, ever-burgeoning,
Art by Allison Hefely, Vancouver, WA
and all-consuming.
“U
14
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’09
my tongue; their aftertastes were big and foreign. I
felt like a grown-up, making something so enormous
in the sky fit on the paper in front of me. Wielding my
Crayola markers with growing deftness, I brought order to chaos and beauty to the mundane. I loved hearing from my parents that my lines were straighter, my
dot-counting skills better. These accounts of my
progress made me feel powerful with potential, and
that’s a good feeling.
As a child, I spent most of my summer days willing them into nights, when stargazing was feasible.
At morning breakfasts, I traced constellations and ate
Life cereal, but I wasn’t allowed to look at the sun;
my mother told me its rays would eat my eyes.
Many afternoons, I would lie on my back and try
to make shapes of the clouds, but they didn’t make
sense to me. They were too big, too unwieldy; I
always got lost in the blue between. But the night,
the stars could be mapped – they could be mine.
My parents were my telescopes. My dad would tell
me about the science of stars. With vast gesticulations, he would build me black holes, big bangs,
asteroids, planets. We lived together in this tangible
world of adventure, pursuing answers. He would lift
me, hold me safe to his chest, and then whip me
around in orbit. “Boom! Thunder! Crackle! Pop! Shh!
The Milky Way is busy,” he whispered into my ear as
he whirled me through extraterrestrial trajectory.
My mother sang to me, O Muse, the great Odyssey
of history-blurred mythology. Cooking macaroni and
cheese, she told me about Sisyphus and his boulder.
Driving to the grocery store, she described Zeus and
his lightning bolt. Most importantly, though, my
mom told me that it was my job to redraw the constellations. “What do you see?” she’d ask, but not in
a way that makes you think there is a right answer.
“Show me, Strawberry.” My hand in hers, I ➤➤
I admired David’s classic appeal with a
new appreciation. The novel fell open
to where I had left off and, like a lost
friend, he raced back into my life with
undiminished fervor. With one last
longing sigh for my lost Harry, I dove
back into my relationship with David
with renewed commitment.
As the humid July nights melted into
cooler August ones, I nestled close to
his fictional body. We sat together
throughout the tiresome five-hour
plane ride to California. His intelligent
prose comforted me as I fought with
my best friend. David aged, became a
widower, and wrote a book as I made
new friends, enjoyed the summer heat,
and readied myself for the coming
school year.
The dense pages began to loosen up
as I learned to appreciate David’s wit
and remarkable intellect. Where I had
previously thought us so different, I
began to see that we shared much.
Throughout the time we spent together,
he made me laugh, cry, and think. My
eyes grew accustomed to the small
print as I felt myself being drawn into
an even more vivid world than Harry
Potter’s.
My friends questioned the bulky
novel I lugged around. Why wasn’t I
reading the latest Gossip Girl? Could
that thick text really be just for fun? No
one could understand my relationship
traced my own picture, made my own myths, defined
At the end of last summer, I found myself divided
and at war, struggling to keep my family together as
my own heroes.
their marriage fell apart. He saw stargazing as a
When dusk finally arrived (pity those poor, deluded
science; she experienced constellations as artwork.
children who are afraid of the dark), my family gathAfter trying for so long to save them from themselves,
ered on our porch for dinner. After the meal, I rushed
I watched the moon melt, dripping from the sky,
to claim the hammock, my cockpit at the threshold of
blistering on my tongue. The trouble is, nothing
day and night. As I rocked in this cradle, the stars
breaks equally, and something’s always lost. Trying
above me blurred, and I drove myself dizzy. In time,
to make one into two, crumbs fall. Something cut up
my parents finished the dishes and emerged from the
probably won’t fit back together, and I fear I will
kitchen to save me from my sky sickness. Their soft
always be incomplete.
weight on either side of the hammock slowed my
Sometimes, when I am caught between two places,
orbit, bringing my world to a gradual, buoyant stop.
neither of which is my home, I wonder if I’ll survive
We floated there together, part of the universal everyin the gray. I am between black and white; I am neiwhere, interrupted only by the rush of a passing car,
ther. Will I just bleed away, stretched so
some surprising semblance of others.
thin, like ice on a lake? I am solid, but
Together, we soared through space
step carefully, so deep, wet, cold.
and time. Leaning out of our aircraft, I
I used my
We don’t spend our summers under
touched my coloring book constellathe stars anymore. Stranded on Earth, I
tions, momentarily tangible in slow
memories to
found music (the Beatles sing “Strawmotion. I believed that my imaginamap the stars berry Fields Forever”) and discovered
tion, my ideals, would always be
pretty people, pretty words. Even so, I
accessible.
was sad like the sky, seeking the context
*
*
*
of everything, even fleeting moments of happiness.
This summer place was ephemeral. We left love
I started using a night light. Before sleep, I would
hanging there, like water vapor words in yesterday’s
silence the moon behind curtains and dismiss the stars
air. That fall, I grew too tall and jaded for picking
as planes. I curled up in fetal position, a coiled moberries from my father’s shoulders. My coloring
mentary eternity, detached from the extremities of my
book was replaced by the burden of math textbooks,
mind and body. Night became a means of escape: I
clocks, and perpetual preparation. New York City
spent as much time as possible in the darkness, where
stars are eclipsed by competing industrial lights and
I could be numb and unconscious.
other remnants of humanity’s edifice. My schedule
The other day, I found that coloring book. It was in
is scratched with ballpoint pen expectations; I am
a box, blanketed in dust, buried among other memoalways starving for more time.
ries. Flipping through the pages, which still smelled
My memories of early summers are just that –
of Play-Doh, I found that I remembered the constellamemories. They are probably qualified, maybe
tions. I closed my eyes, painting the Big Dipper on
delusions. I’m not sure whether to believe them.
my eyelids. Stars endure. They are unaffected by the
You probably shouldn’t. This I remember, though:
Photo by Christina Costello, Hopedale, MA
with Copperfield, nor could they identify with my desperate need to stay up
all night with Potter.
I never mentioned to David my
activities that night he spent in the
drawer. The adulterous secret burned in
my chest like a hot coal. But I decided
that what David didn’t know couldn’t
hurt him. As I lay awake one evening,
shivering in the cool breeze from my
window, I realized that few people
could comprehend the affection I
shared for my two conflicting loves,
David and Harry. ✎
scrambled eggs had a copper aftertaste,
surrounding Harry and me. Guilty
and I gave a nasty look to anyone who
thoughts of my abandoned David flickasked me to pass the orange juice. I felt
ered across my mind as I turned the
dissatisfied not only by the mediocre
pages. I had never stayed up this late to
eggs but by the way Harry Potter ended
be with him, never skipped dinner to
– and the realization that it had ended.
enjoy David’s quiet company. I felt like
I was in a whirlpool, being sucked
I had let myself get so absorbed in this
deep into this addictive relationship
fantasy world that I couldn’t fathom a
with Harry.
return to reality. Had the past 12 hours
A corner of my mind considered
really ended? Could it be? Was Harry
David, growing dusty in my drawer,
no longer a part of my life?
alone and deserted. What would he
I couldn’t accept that I would never
think of me? I feared his judgment, his
experience that tingling rush of excitemute reproach. But
ment upon opening a
wait, Harry had defeated
just-released Potter book
Voldemort! He was
again. Never again
Rejection
going to beat him once
would I smell the disand for all! My eyes
stabbed me like a tinctive bouquet of
swelled with proud
freshly printed pages
Cruciatus Curse mixed with mystery and
tears and my throat
tightened at the thought
anticipation. Never again
of my beloved grinning
would my imagination
triumphantly over his fallen enemy.
be so thoroughly captivated that I
Thoughts of Copperfield vanished as
could hardly eat or drink, let alone
I realized that it was over, all over; the
sleep.
boy I had spent five years of my life
My melancholy attitude persisted
obsessing and fantasizing over was
throughout the day. Lying on the blisnow a grown man and married. The
tering sand as my magical fling faded,
epilogue left me no room for interpremy thoughts reverted to an earlier and
tation; Harry was lost forever, bound to
perhaps deeper love. Dear old David
that red-haired brat. He was gone,
Copperfield sat patiently in my canvas
escaping from my eager grasp as
bag, awaiting my caress. The paperquickly as he had entered it. Rejection
back felt flimsy in my hands, so used
stabbed me like a Cruciatus Curse.
to Harry’s durable hard cover. The texThe next morning I was cranky. My
ture was not unwelcome, however, and
happenings of earthlings.
In time, I wrote these words. I used my memories,
whether fabricated or accurate, to map the stars. As it
turns out, city lights – those of apartments, advertisements, car blinkers, stoplights, desk lamps – are stars
too. I live here, among my pieces, defining my own
constellations. ✎
Art by Samantha Picardal, Flushing, NY
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
15
Teen Ink • Summer ’09 • Page 17
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www.alma.edu • 1-800-321-ALMA
Since 1904
Bachelor of Fine Arts Degree Programs
3D Modeling and Animation
Multimedia/Web Design
Design
Illustration
Life Drawing
Painting
Watercolor Painting
An independent, accredited,
four-year college of art and design
located in Cincinnati.
BFA degrees for fine artists and designers.
Our nurturing environment embraces
your uniqueness.
American Academy of Art
332 S. Michigan Ave.
Chicago, IL 60604-4302
312-461-0600
Visit us @ www.aaart.edu
For www.assumption.edu
info, text 648acma to 64842
BURLINGTON
URLINGTON
C
COLLEGE
OLLEGE
Carleton
College
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arn a B.A. on or
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2895 College Drive
Bryn Athyn, PA, 19009
267-502-2511
www.brynathyn.edu
Office of Admissions
61 Sever Street, Worcester, MA 01609
1-508-373-9400 • www.beckercollege.edu
For info, text 6burcol to 64842
The City College
CVA is a private, accredited, four-year college
of art and design offering Bachelor of Fine Arts
degrees in graphic design/interactive, illustration,
photography, drawing/painting, sculpture, and
interdisciplinary art and design studies.
o f N e w Yo r k
Hawaii’s only Catholic university provides an excellent education in the liberal
arts tradition, offering unique programs
(e.g. Early Childhood Education,
Forensic Sciences, Interior Design)
and generous merit scholarships.
3140 Waialae Avenue
Honolulu, HI 96816-1578
800-735-4733
www.chaminade.edu
Find your future in more than
90 specializations in architecture, biomedicine, education,
engineering and liberal arts &
science at CCNY.
Convent Avenue @ 138th Street
New York, NY 10003
212-650-6981
www.ccny.cuny.edu
Liberal arts college with an emphasis
on preparing leaders in business,
government and the professions.
Best of both worlds as a member of
The Claremont Colleges. Suburban
location near Los Angeles.
Cornell, as an Ivy League school and a
land-grant college, combines two great
traditions. A truly American institution,
Cornell was founded in 1895 and remains a place where “any person can
find instruction in any study.”
18618 Oxnard Street, Tarzana, CA 91356
800-785-0585 • www.columbiacollege.edu
410 Thurston Avenue
Ithaca, NY 14850
607-255-5241
www.cornell.edu
For info, text 6484cch to 64842
$%,!7!2% 6!,,%9 #/,,%'%
s 5NDERGRADUATE3TUDENTS
s .ATIONALLY2ANKED!THLETICS4EAMS
s -ORETHANPROGRAMSOFSTUDY
INCLUDING#RIMINAL*USTICE"USINESS
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3CIENCE%QUINE3TUDIESAND
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$ELAWARE6ALLEY#OLLEGE
$OYLESTOWN 0!
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For info, text 6delval to 64842
• Quality and affordable private
university
• Safe and historic campus near the
Jersey Shore
• Choose from over 30 majors
• Residential Women’s College
• 7 NCAA Division II Sports
• Coeducational University College
900 Lakewood Avenue • Lakewood, NJ 08701-2697
800.458.8422, ext. 2760 • www.georgian.edu
DUQUESNE
UNIVERSITY
"UILTON#ATHOLICEDUCATIONVALUESOF
ACADEMICEXCELLENCE $E3ALES5NIVERSITY
ISDRIVENBYDEDICATEDEDUCATORSAND
ADVISORSTHATINSPIREPERFORMANCE
3TATION!VENUE
$%3!,%3 #ENTER6ALLEY 0!
WWWDESALESEDU Earn a BA in Global Studies
while studying at our centers in
Costa Rica, China, India, Japan,
South Africa, and New York City!
9 Hanover Place, Brooklyn, NY 11201
www.liu.edu/globalcollege
718.780.4312 • [email protected]
For info, text 64gcliu to 64842
344 Summit Avenue
Saint Paul, Minnesota
55102
651.224.3416
CVA
U N I V E R S I T Y
CCH is the film school with focus.
You learn the whole art and the
whole business.
You graduate with a hot reel, and a
real BFA.
Come Find Your Focus.
College of
Visual Arts
890 Columbia Ave.
Claremont, CA 91711
909-621-8088
www.claremontmckenna.edu
CORNELL
Duquesne offers more than 80
undergraduate programs, more than
140 extracurricular activities and
personal attention in an atmosphere of
moral and spiritual growth. Ranked by
US News among the most affordable
private national universities.
600 Forbes Avenue • Pittsburgh, PA 15282
(412) 396-6222 • (800) 456-0590
E-mail: [email protected]
Web: www.admissions.duq.edu
Hamilton College is a national
leader for teaching students
to write effectively,
learn from each other
and think for themselves.
Writing resources from a writing college:
www.hamilton.edu/teenink
ÎÎÎ
500 Salisbury
Worcester,
500 St.,
Salisbury
StreetMA 01609
1-866-477-7776
Worcester, MA 01609
www.assumption.edu
1-866-477-7776
www.artacademy.edu • 800-323-5692
1212 Jackson Street • Cincinnati, OH 45202
Earn a B.A.
on or off-campus,
off-campus, develop
develop
y o u r your
o w n own
m a j o rmajor,
,
a t t eclasses
n d c l a s s eat
s a The
t T h e Film
attend
Film School, become
School,
become a civically
a civically engaged
engaged
citizen,
citizen, and and
muchmuch
more.more.
A religiously-affiliated liberal arts
college located just outside of
Philadelphia offering an outstanding
and truly personalized academic
experience grounded in an
environment of faith.
• Small New England College founded in 1784
• Welcoming atmosphere, easy to make friends
• Every incoming fulltime student receives a
laptop computer
• Thorough preparation for a career-targeted job
• We place 95% of our students in jobs upon
graduation
• Academic Excellence in the rich,
Catholic intellectual tradition
World Class Faculty in Small Classes
averaging 20 students
Quality of Life in a 90%
Residential Community
w w w.cva.edu
Dartmouth
A member of the Ivy League and
widely recognized for the depth,
breadth, and flexibility of its undergraduate program, Dartmouth offers
students an extraordinary opportunity
to collaborate with faculty in the pursuit of their intellectual aspirations.
6016 McNutt Hall
Hanover, NH 03755
603-646-2875
www.dartmouth.edu
rSmall seminar-based classroom setting
rInterdisciplinary curriculum focusing
on social sciences, humanities, arts and
sciences
rLocated in the historic Greenwich Village
neighborhood of New York City.
r880 students from 43 states and 13
countries
www.newschool.edu/lang
Fostering creativity and academic excellence since 1854.
Thrive in our environment of
personalized attention and in
the energy of the Twin Cities.
1536 Hewitt Avenue
Saint Paul, MN 55104
800-753-9753
www.hamline.edu
A national liberal arts college of
1700 students, located 35 miles
south of Minneapolis/St. Paul.
Distinguished in humanities and
science education, 60 percent of
students study abroad.
Admissions Office
Carleton College
Northfield, Minnesota 55057
1-800-995-2275
www.carleton.edu
Columbia College
Chicago
Learn to Write: Fiction Writing Department
Learn skills to help you
publish fiction, creative nonfiction
and scripts and to succeed in a
wide range of jobs – at one of
America’s premier writing programs
600 S. Michigan Chicago, IL 60605
[email protected]
www.colum.edu
Preparing students with individual
learning styles for transfer to
four-year colleges.
15 majors including two B.A.
programs in Arts & Entertainment
Management and Dance.
99 Main Street
Franklin, MA 02038
www.dean.edu
877-TRY DEAN
Fordham offers
offers the
the distinctive
distinctive Jesuit
Fordham
Jesuit
philosophy of education, marked
philosophy of education, marked
by excellent teaching, intellectual
byinquiry
excellent
teaching,
intellectual
and
care of the
whole
inquiry
care of of
thethe
whole
student,
in and
the capital
world.
student,
in the capital of the world.
www.fordham.edu/tink
For info, text 6FRDHAM to 64842
Harvard offers 6,500 undergraduates an
education from distinguished faculty in
more than 40 fields in the liberal arts as
well as engineering and applied science.
8 Garden Street
Cambridge, MA 02138
617-495-1551
www.harvard.edu
Teen Ink • Summer ’09 • Page 18
A challenging private university
for adventurous students
seeking an education with
global possibilities.
Get Where You
Want To Go
www.hpu.edu/teenink
For info, text 64HPU4U to 64842
A leading liberal arts college,
where writers thrive (together with
artists, scientists, and other
lovers of learning).
Ransom Hall, Kenyon College
Gambier, Ohio 43022-9623
1-800-848-2468
[email protected]
www.kenyon.edu
Mount Holyoke is a highly
selective liberal arts college for
women, recognized worldwide for
its rigorous academic program,
its global community, and
its legacy of women leaders.
MOUNT HOLYOKE COLLEGE
50 College Street, South Hadley, MA 01075
www.mtholyoke.edu
Hofstra University can help you
get where you want to go, with
small classes, dedicated faculty
and an energized campus.
hofstra.edu • 1-800-HOFSTRA
[email protected]
Academic excellence
and global perspective in one
of America‘s most “livable”
metropolitan areas.
1000 Grand Avenue
St. Paul, MN 55105
800-231-7974
www.macalester.edu
rA faculty consisting of 70+ worldrenowned jazz artists.
rStrong emphasis on small group
performance.
rPriceless experience in clubs,
performance halls, and recording studios
in New York City.
my.ithaca.edu
100 Job Hall 953 Danby Road Ithaca, NY 14850
800-429-4272 www.ithaca.edu/admission
For more information call
1-800-847-PACE
or email [email protected]
www.pace.edu
Talent teaches talent in Pratt’s writing
BFA for aspiring young writers.
Weekly discussions by guest writers
and editors. Nationally recognized
college for the arts. Beautiful residential campus minutes from Manhattan.
200 Willoughby Avenue
Brooklyn, NY 11205
800-331-0834 • 718-636-3514
email: [email protected]
www.pratt.edu
Hands-on learning from industry-experienced
faculty
Co-ops and internships built into the curriculum
Johnson & Wales plans to award $105 million in
financial aid in the 2008-2009 acdemic year
Four campuses: R.I., Fla., Colo. and N.C.
Johnson & Wales University
8 Abbott Park Place
Providence, RI 02903
1-800-DIAL-JWU
www.jwu.edu
BELIEVE.
PREPARE.
CONNECT.
SERVE.
The World Awaits.
www.newschool.edu/mannes
Ohio Northern is a comprehensive
university of liberal arts and professional
programs offering more than 3,600
students over 70 majors in the colleges of
Arts & Sciences, Business Administration,
Engineering, Pharmacy and Law.
Ada, OH 45810
1-888-408-4668
www.onu.edu/teen
Palmer College is where
chiropractic began
Three campuses to choose from –
Iowa, California, Florida
Natural, drug-free,
non-surgical health care
Graduate-level program leading
to a Doctor of Chiropractic degree
www.palmer.edu
Princeton
degrees that work.
BACHELOR X ASSOCIATE X CERTIFICATE
Degree programs in business, culinary arts,
hospitality and technology
rWorld-renowned faculty
rSmall classes
rPersonal attention
rInternational student body
rNew York City location
www.newschool.edu/jazz
Pace University offers talented and
ambitious students the opportunity to
discover their potential and realize their
dreams. Campuses in New York City and
Pleasantville, NY.
Experience the Power of Pace.
Choose from more than
100 career fields.
www.pct.edu/ink
Located in New York’s stunning Finger Lakes
region, Ithaca College provides a first-rate
education on a first-name basis. Its Schools of
Business, Communications, Health Sciences
and Human Performance, Humanities and Sciences, and Music and its interdisciplinary
division offer over 100 majors.
University
Princeton simultaneously strives to be one
of the leading research universities and
the most outstanding undergraduate college in the world. We provide students
with academic, extracurricular and other
resources, in a residential community
committed to diversity.
Excellent Programs.
Programs.
Excellent
Outstanding Facility.
Outstanding
Faculty.
Affordable Cost.
Cost.
Affordable
337 College Hill
Johnson, VT 05656-9898
1-802-635-2356
WWW.JSC.EDU
A visual arts college north of Boston
where creativity and independence
thrive through choice, connection
and community. BFA and Diploma
programs. Founded by artists to
educate artists.
www.montserrat.edu • 800.836.0487
[email protected]
MyMarywood.com
For info, text 6484mca to 64842
· Over 40 undergraduate programs
• Nationally ranked liberal arts college
• Self-designed and interdepartmental majors
• Small classes taught by distinguished faculty
• 100+ campus organizations
• 23 NCAA Division III sports
• A tradition of service-learning
offered with Dual Admissions into
graduate and professional schools
· Located in Fort Lauderdale, FL
· New state-of-the-art Performing
and Visual Arts facilities
www.nova.edu/admissions
(800) 338-4723
Located in New York City,
Parsons’ rigorous programs
and distinguished faculty
embrace curricular innovation
and global perspectives in
design. Programs in all art
and design disciplines.
61 S. Sandusky St. • Delaware, OH 43015
800-922-8953 • www.owu.edu
For info, text 6484owu to 64842
Central Pennsylvania’s only
professional art college, offering
BFA programs in fine arts, graphic
design, illustration, and
photography.
Where art becomes opportunity
www.newschool.edu/parsons
A picturesque New England campus,
offering programs in Business,
Communications, Health, Liberal Arts,
Education and Law. Located
mid-way between New York City
and Boston with Division I athletics.
Consistently rated among the top
Master’s level Colleges in the North
in U.S. News and World Report.
275 Mt. Carmel Avenue
Hamden, CT 06518
1.800.462.1944
Princeton, NJ 08544
(609) 258-3060
www.princeton.edu
www.quinnipiac.edu
2o4 North Prince Street
Lancaster, PA 176o8-oo59
1-8oo-689-o379 • www.pcad.edu
ST. MARY’S
UNIVERSITY
• Personal attention to help you excel
• Powerful programs to challenge you to
think in new ways
• No limits to where St. Mary’s
can take you
One Camino Santa Maria
San Antonio, TX 78228-8503
800-367-7868
www.stmarytx.edu
SlipperyRock
A culturally diverse urban, studentcentered, Catholic university, dedicated
to educating leaders who contribute to
the economic and cultural vitality.
16401 NW 37th Avenue
Miami Gardens, FL 33054
800-367-9010
www.stu.edu
For info, text 6484stu to 64842
University
Develop your creative mind in BFA
and BA programs emphasizing
independence, experimentation, and
the development of personal vision.
The interdisciplinary environment
combines studio and liberal arts.
SRU provides a Rock Solid education.
Located just 50 miles north of Pittsburgh, the University is ranked number five in America as a Consumer’s
Digest “best value” selection for academic quality at an affordable price.
800 Chestnut Street
San Francisco, CA 94133
800.345.SFAI
www.sfai.edu
1 Morrow Way, Slippery Rock, PA 16057
800.SRU.9111 • www.sru.edu
For info text 64srupa to 64842
75 years of keeping Hands-on in Higher Education
Training Pilots and Technicians for
aviation and related industries since
1928. Call or log on today and begin
your flight to a successful career!
Licensed by:
OBPVS
8820 East Pine St.
Tulsa, OK, 74115
800-331-1204
www.spartan.edu
A distinguished faculty, an
innovative curriculum and
outstanding undergraduates offer
unparalleled opportunities for
intellectual growth on a beautiful
California campus.
Mongtag Hall – 355 Galves St.
Stanford, CA 94305
650-723-2091
www.stanford.edu
when she became frustrated studying
e were both leftovers. Our
Spanish flashcards during class. She
friends had paired up quickly
was almost human – exactly what I
to avoid the same fate, and
hadn’t believed possible from a dance
we were stuck without a group. What’s
team girl. Her perkiness didn’t fade,
more pathetic and embarrassing in high
her laugh never tired, and her lightschool than being left without a chemhearted humor was always nearby, but
istry partner, having to sit there and
somehow, her obliviousness to the
wait for the teacher to ask, “Who
darker side of life didn’t bother me.
doesn’t have a group?” and look at
Her preferred discussion topic of dance
you sympathetically. Then you hold
didn’t make me want to gag as much as
your breath and wait helplessly to be
I thought it would. We were almost
paired up with the guy who smells
friends. Almost.
like a sewage dump or the girl whose
Midterms approached, and suddenly
boogers litter the underside of her
Jill wasn’t at school. This wasn’t undesk. So I turned to the girl next to me,
like her; she often missed first period
a stranger who had also been abanbecause she was tired from dance the
doned by her friends, and asked if she
night before. And so I didn’t think a
wanted to be my lab partner. She
thing of it. Then at lunch,
seemed as desperate as I
a rumor was suddenly
was not to be left to fate.
Jill helped
spreading. Jill’s dad had
And so I met Jill.
died. I tried to convince
She was on the dance
me cope with myself it was only a rumor,
team, a group of girls I
but I had difficulty imaginusually tried to avoid.
her loss
ing who could come up
Their hair was always
with such a horrible lie.
curled and tied back with
And
it
wasn’t
a lie. When her best
colored ribbons, and their clothes were
friend came to school the next day and
coordinated with their handbags and
began crying, I knew it was true. I later
shoes. Dance team people were always
found out that he’d had a heart attack
smiling and laughing as though high
after driving Jill’s sister to college. The
school was the most wonderful time
medics tried CPR, but he was gone. No
and they were sooo thrilled with everyone expected it.
thing. I, being as sarcastically pessiI’d never known her father – or any
mistic as they were cheery, regretted
member
of her family, for that matter.
asking her the moment she agreed.
She was just the girl I sat next to in
How was I going to survive the endless
chemistry class. Just one of the
giggling chatter about lip gloss and
acquaintances you acquire switching
pom poms? It was rash and stupid,
classes every 42 minutes.
I decided, but I would honor my
As I opened my assignment book the
commitment.
day after the incident, I noticed in my
As time passed and chemistry labs
scratchy handwriting I had written
came and went, I found I didn’t lament
“Jill’s Birthday.” Her dad had died the
choosing to work with Jill. There were
day before she turned sixteen. Sitting
days when she overslept and days
W
SWARTHMORE
Suffolk University, located in vibrant
downtown Boston, offers over 80 areas
of study, providing students with the
skills and experience they need to
achieve lasting success.
www.suffolk.edu
Undergruate Admission 800-6SUFFOLK
8 ASHBURTON PLACE, BOSTON, MA 02108
A liberal arts college of 1,500
students near Philadelphia, Swarthmore
is recognized internationally for its
climate of academic excitement and
commitment to bettering the world.
A college unlike any other.
500 College Ave.
Swarthmore, PA 19081
800-667-3110
www.swarthmore.edu
by Alyssa Whittington, Gibsonia, PA
there with my assignment book in front
of me, and for several days afterward, I
tried to grasp what that would be like. I
had difficulty focusing as I performed
everyday tasks. What would I say
when she returned? “I’m sorry,” or
nothing at all? Would she burst into
tears? If she did, what should I do? I’m
not the hugging type, and for the first
time, I found myself wishing I were.
Jill missed a week and a half of
school. Then she reappeared. Suddenly Jill was sitting next to me in
chemistry, as if nothing had happened.
I began to doubt the legitimacy of the
story, praying that by some miracle her
father had woken up, unharmed. It
wasn’t true, but the lie helped me. The
black and white rules of childhood had
become gray, and lying seemed more
real than truth.
Jill smiled, she laughed, and she
functioned better than the rest of us. It
took all I had to look her in the eye or
dish out the dry, sarcastic humor that
defines me. She was changed, though.
Someone who hadn’t known her might
say she was fine, a perfect example of
a thriving high school student. But I
saw through every silence and noticed
that sometimes she’d force her eyes
back to the chemistry notes before her.
She needed a distraction.
It has gotten easier. There are days
when we laugh while cautiously lighting the Bunsen burner. There are times
when I can tell she isn’t thinking about
balancing chemical equations. But she
never loses her grin. I find I don’t sit
awkwardly, unsure of what to say. She
helped me cope with her loss by simply breaking the silence. And every day
I return the favor by replying, even
though it’s harder than remaining
Photo by Casey Carpenter, Zionsville, IN
quiet. I try not to worry about offending her. And I look her in the eye.
Before knowing Jill, I’d never appreciated the spirit of those who celebrate
the small things. Maybe, behind all the
talk of dance steps and spring fashions,
there’s fulfillment. These people have
thoughts, worries, and desires, but they
can push them away to find a little
superficial bliss now and again. People
like Jill don’t smile and laugh because
their heads are filled with light and
fluffy thoughts. They do it because they
can find moments of joy in their lives.
Jill has given me perspective. Every
day I try to understand those around
me, and I’ve come to realize that a
senseless giggle now and again can
save you. Jill is the savior of my first
period Honors Chemistry class, and the
strength of her happiness leaves everyone in awe. Our class learned about
more than the periodic table and calculating molar masses. We’ve been dealt
a lesson in death and optimism … from
a dance team girl. ✎
From a Dance Team Girl
THE UNIVERSITY OF THE ARTS®
Located on the vibrant Avenue
of the Arts in Philadelphia,
The University of the Arts is
devoted exclusively to the study
of the visual, performing, and
media arts.
The University of the Arts®
320 South Broad Street
Philadelphia, PA 19102
800-616-ARTS (2787)
www.uarts.edu
TM
P. O. Box 7150
Colorado Springs, CO 80933-7150
1-800-990-8227
www.uccs.edu
Earn a world-renowned degree in a
personalized environment. Work with
professors who will know your name
and your goals. Choose from 41
majors and many research, internship
and study-abroad opportunities.
you can
go
www.upb.pitt.edu
• 1-800-872-1787
Bradford, PA 16701
beyond
www.upb.pitt.edu • 1-800-872-1787
PA 16701
For info,Bradford,
text 6upittb
to 64842
7),+%35.)6%23)49
A medium-sized university, the
University of Rhode Island offers both the
resources of a larger research institution and
the friendly, comfortable atmosphere of a
traditional New England college.
Newman Hall
Kingston, RI 02881
401-874-7100 • www.uri.edu
For info, text 6484uri to 64842
Private, Catholic, liberal arts college
founded in 1871 by the Ursuline Sisters.
Offers over 30 undergraduate majors and
9 graduate programs. The only womenfocused college in Ohio and one of few
in the United States. Ursuline teaches
the empowerment of self.
2550 Lander Rd. Pepper Pike, OH 44124
1-888-URSULINE • www.ursuline.edu
At Westminster College, you'll engage
in a full college experience.
Reach your fullest potential –
Inside the classroom. And out.
Visit us and
turn YOUR college thinking inside out.
501 Westminster Avenue
Fulton, MO 65251
800-475-3361 • www.westminster-mo.edu
,OCATEDINTHEBEAUTIFUL.ORTHEASTERN
0ENNSYLVANIA7ILKESISANINDEPENDENT
INSTITUTIONOFHIGHEREDUCATIONDEDICATEDTO
ACADEMICEXCELLENCEANDMENTORING7ILKES
OFFERSMORETHANPROGRAMSINPHARMACY
THESCIENCESLIBERALARTSANDBUSINESS
4AKEATOURATWWWAROUNDWILKESCOM
WWWWILKESEDU
7EST3OUTH3TREET
7ILKES"ARRE0!\7),+%35
Yale College, the undergraduate body of
Yale University, is a highly selective liberal
arts college enrolling 5,200 students in
over 70 major programs. Residential life is
organized around Residential Colleges
where students live and eat.
SUMMER ’09
P.O. Box 208234
New Haven, CT 06520
203-432-9300
www.yale.edu
• Teen Ink
19
Book reviews
20
GRAPHIC NOVEL
Watchmen
by Alan Moore &
Dave Gibbons
I
frequent a comic book store,
and one day while hauling a
stack of classic issues up to the
register, I stumbled upon a very
different looking comic. “It’s a
graphic novel,” I was told, as I
flipped through Watchmen, the
1986 award-winning creation
by Alan
Changed Moore.
the rules for Masked
men? Check.
graphic
But where
novels
were the
Pow! and the Thwap!? Where
were the flashy colors? Pages
and pages of dialogue looked
like torture to my 10-year-old
attention span. When I picked it
up again six years later, I saw it
in a completely different light.
Watchmen is set in an alternative modern America, one
in which regular denizens of
New York don costumes to
fight or create crime. The tale
begins with the gruesome
murder of the Comedian, a
government-sponsored superhero. Rorschach, an independent vigilante, tracks down the
remaining superheroes to warn
them of an attack. As more are
killed and discredited, they
realize that there is a horrible
explanation for the assaults.
This is a masterpiece, a tourde-force that changed the rules
for graphic novels. Moore took
the deflated superhero plotline
and revamped it, revealing a
disturbing and unsettling
humanity beneath the capes.
His writing is gritty, emotional,
and undeniably human. Unlike
most comics, this novel is for
mature readers.
Watchmen rips away the
overtly sanguine shield that
characterizes most superhero
comics. These heroes are human, their psyches complex,
and their morals ambiguous;
the “good guy/bad guy” ideal
is not as clear as in classic
Superman comics. The action
is anchored in realism, and the
story closely mirrors the events
of the 1980s. Only one, Dr.
Manhattan, actually possesses
supernatural powers but is
controlled by the government
as a weapon. The rest deal
with their obsolescence and
life choices in varying degrees
of sanity.
Drawn by Dave Gibbons,
Watchmen is not glamorous and
stunning like newer comics,
but subtle nuances give each
frame a vitality. Symbolism is
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’09
rampant, and it becomes an
activity to pick out inconspicuous details.
As the chapters progress, it
becomes clear that the story
line is not a linear investigation
of one murder. Moore depicts a
world living in fear, switching
perspectives and time periods
to show the rise and fall of
the characters. The violence,
although sparser than your
typical comic, is more violent
with painful deaths and bloody
frames. Themes are mature –
including one of a superhero
getting raped – but not beyond
a high schooler’s capacity.
With a special “Absolute
Edition” on shelves and the
recent movie, this book is
everywhere. Watchmen reads
like a profound novel. The
pictures add to the reader’s
enjoyment and take the story
to greater heights, allowing for
beautiful unspoken moments.
While the concept of men and
women dressing up to fight
crime sounds foolish, Moore
pens it perfectly and makes
the story both plausible and
entertaining. ✎
by Michael Scognamiglio,
Saddle River, NJ
HISTORICAL FICTION
Alias Grace
by Margaret
Atwood
“S
ometimes I whisper it
over to myself: Murderess. Murderess. It rustles, like a
taffeta skirt along the floor.”
Margaret Atwood’s ninth
novel, and perhaps one of her
most acclaimed, is both an exquisite glimpse at 19th century
society’s ideology and a beautifully written
Recounts piece of fiction. Shortreal-life
listed for the
murders
Booker Prize
and winner of the Canadian
Giller Prize; it was first published in 1996.
Set in Atwood’s homeland of
Canada during the mid 19th
century, the novel recounts the
notorious real-life murders in
1843 of Thomas Kinnear and
his housekeeper Nancy Montgomery at the hands of Grace
Marks and convicted criminal
James McDermott. This brutal
crime lives on in infamy and
contains no small measure of
mystery to this day.
While the story is certainly
based on factual events, Atwood masterfully weaves an
absorbing narrative, filling in
the blanks with meticulous
aplomb so it becomes difficult
to decipher fact from fiction.
Atwood creates the fictional
doctor, Simon Jordon, who is
researching the case 14 years
later. We, along with Simon,
seek the answer to what on the
surface appears to be a simple
question: Is Grace Marks innocent? But Simon uncovers some
uncomfortable truths about
himself and the society that he
calls home. We are left as unsuspecting voyeurs as Simon’s
world, along with his beliefs,
begins to unravel through every
encounter with the enigma
known as Grace Marks.
Atwood goes deeper into her
characters than most writers
would feel comfortable. She
allows us to scrutinize their
dreams, hopes, fears, experiences and expectations, yet still
retains ambiguity to make the
reader question if what they are
reading is the truth. Every character is flawed. Every character
is human.
The reader isn’t patronized
or spoonfed information. It’s an
interactive experience. Filled
with sex, crime, history, drama,
and social propriety, Alias
Grace achieves the elusive
goal of possessing something
for everyone.
This book is as thoughtprovoking as it is brilliant. ✎
by Ehssan Shamoradi,
Edinburgh, Scotland
FICTION
The Story of
Edgar Sawtelle
by David
Wroblewski
W
hat are you looking for
in a book? Action?
Suspense? A devastating fire?
A faithful canine? An awkward
run-in with a newly engaged
ex-fiancée? If so, you’re in
luck, because The Story of
Edgar Sawtelle (penned by
master storyteller David
Wroblewski) has all of these.
This book is thick, but don’t
be intimidated by its size. It’s
truly a modAn exciting ern classic
tale of love, destined to
end up on the
loss and
bookshelf
hope
wedged between To Kill a Mockingbird
and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
In this lovely tome you’ll
find an idyllic story of Gar,
Trudy, and their mute son,
Edgar. Edgar communicates
with sign language, which is
fine because he only interacts
with his mother, father, and
dog, Almondine, who all understand ASL. Edgar lives a
relatively quiet life, and wakes
every morning to the sight of
the dog kennel that has been in
his family for generations.
The dogs on the Sawtelle
farm are bred by Gar, named by
Edgar, and trained by Trudy.
They are such a phenomenon
that people come from all over
the country to see them.
All this is turned upside
down when Edgar’s uncle,
Claude, returns to the farm he
deserted long ago. Gar is suddenly found dead, but Edgar
cannot prove that his uncle was
involved because Claude has
already found his way into
Trudy’s affections. When
Edgar attempts to prove that
his uncle is after the kennel’s
money, his plan goes horribly
wrong, and Edgar is forced to
flee for his life.
Novelist extraordinaire
David Wroblewski has spun
an exciting tale of love, loss,
and hope. ✎
by Tiffany Wines,
Sackets Harbor, NY
NONFICTION
Into Thin Air
by Jon Krakauer
T
here are good books, there
are bad books, and then
there are the books in between.
Into Thin Air is one of those. I
generally find nonfiction boring, and this was true for most
of this book. For the last hundred pages, however, I couldn’t
put it down.
Into Thin Air is the story of
the 1996 Mt. Everest disaster,
told by Jon
Story of the Krakauer, a
Mt. Everest reporter who
was asked to
disaster
accompany
the expedition to write a magazine article.
For the first half of the book,
Krakauer explains how he
came to climb Everest and
recalls the events that led to
this ascent of the highest summit in the world. Along with
him were some accomplished
climbers and some who probably couldn’t climb Mt. Hood
without a guide, which made
for an interesting mix. Virtually
nothing happened until almost
the end, so there is not much to
tell without spoiling it.
I think if I hadn’t been reading this book for school, I
would have given up after a
few chapters. I didn’t really
feel like I got to know most of
the characters, and there were
times when I felt Krakauer was
trying to divert blame from
himself, instead of just telling
the story.
Most of the writing seemed
like one huge newspaper article, stretched out and fattened
with useless information that I
couldn’t remember when I
needed it later in the book.
There was little dialogue and
too many quotes.
As I said, the last hundred
pages were a lot less dull. All I
can tell you (without giving it
all away) is that a lot of people
died and the ones who managed to live made some hard
choices.
I would recommend this
book to avid mountain climbers
and people who have more
patience than I do when it
comes to reading. ✎
by Mckenzie Spooner,
Portland, OR
CLASSIC
One Flew Over
the Cuckoo’s
Nest
by Ken Kesey
B
efore reading One Flew
Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, I
had never really thought about
insanity, how it is dealt with,
and how it relates to ideas such
as freedom and morality. In this
classic novel,
Provocative Ken Kesey
successfully
and
challenging weaves a stirliterature ring message
into a story
that is both unsettling and
thought-provoking.
The narrator, Bromden, is a
patient at a cruel and oppressive insane asylum. He and his
fellow patients are ruled by the
iron fist of a harsh nurse who
controls them by reminding
them of all that is wrong with
them. Nobody even considers
fighting back until an unusual
patient arrives: a cheerful man
named McMurphy. His minirebellions against Nurse
Ratched give the inmates hope
that they can defy their oppressor and escape the prison that
the hospital has become,
despite their disabilities. By
stepping up to the position of
leader and hero to the patients,
McMurphy gives the others
hope and courage.
Kesey’s exploration of
mental instability, sexuality,
conformity, and control make
this book a provocative and
challenging piece of literature.
Its impact is different for each
reader, and the topics are intriguing. I would
➤➤
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
who changed so many lives,
learning to accept her “cankles,” and sharing her love for
eating eggs with syrup, Miley
connects with readers. For
someone so young, Miley is
one of the most brilliant people
I have ever seen. Her fame
hasn’t changed her; she stays
grounded with the help of her
family and her faith.
When this book came out, I
became Miley’s number-one
fan all over again. In reading
Miles to Go, I felt like a part of
the family. ✎
Miles to Go
by Alexandra Krupp,
Ada, MI
by Bailey Richards,
Homer, AK
by Miley Cyrus
M
iles to Go took me on a
road trip through the life
of a girl I thought I already
knew everything about. Boy,
was I wrong. With every sentence, I felt like Miley was
talking to me, having a sisterto-sister chat. She wrote this
book with her heart, and that is
why it is so meaningful.
Miley is not a cookie-cutter
celebrity, like many say. She
knows where
Her fame she came
from and
hasn’t
changed her won’t forget
it. She lives
by her values and holds onto
her strong faith.
Miley’s family is always her
top priority. While she may be
famous and live in L.A., who
she is hasn’t changed. If her
little sister, Noah, wants her to
stay home and watch a movie,
Miley will. Even if Miley gets
invited to a celebrity party, it’s
clear that she will choose her
family first.
My favorite part of the book
was when she talks about
Vanessa, a girl who was, as
Miley puts it, “the sister God
forgot to give me.” Vanessa
was a 9-year-old suffering
from cystic fibrosis. Miley met
her at a hospital and they became instant friends. Miley
kept in contact with her family
and often visited Vanessa at the
hospital or called when she
was on tour. One day Miley
called only to find out that
Vanessa’s time on Earth had
ended. Miley was devastated.
She immediately got off the
tour bus and lay down in a
frozen field. This was when
Miley realized how much she
had needed Vanessa, and how
important it is to love every
day and not take it for granted.
This was just one of Miley’s
many beautiful stories.
Somewhere between introducing us to Pappy Cyrus,
FICTION
The Road
by Cormac
McCarthy
T
he Road is a unique tale of
a father and son traveling
through a post-apocalyptic
America. Their destination is
the coast, where they hope to
find some semblance of a better
life. Day after day they travel,
facing unimaginable difficulties
and constant reminders of
death. Their life is miserable
at best, yet they have each
other, which seems to be all
they need.
The story itself is incredible:
a father and son, struggling to
survive, find salvation in each
other. Unfortunately, the tale
begins slowly. Each day the
two walk many miles along the
road searching for food and
signs of civilization. Then the
plot becomes more complex
and interestWill tug at ing. The
the reader’s characters
heartstrings make discoveries that
provide the reader with insight
into their personalities and
what happened to the world.
The protagonists are fascinating. It is clear that the
father would do anything
for his son. McCarthy indicates that the child is the only
reason the man has remained
alive. Adapting to ghastly conditions, he tries to teach the
boy how to live in this savage
world. More importantly, he is
determined to instill in his son
a desire to live.
While the father is an interesting character, it is the child
who will tug at the reader’s
heartstrings. This boy has only
known a desolate life, and yet
still has compassion and a
strong desire to help others. He
accurately shows that even in a
world full of evil, there is still
good. The love between the two
is intense, pure, and real, and
ultimately becomes the moral
of the story.
McCarthy manages to
eloquently convey the message
“love conquers all.” By constantly describing the gruesome
setting, he reminds the reader
of just how miraculous the
protagonists’ survival is. The
burned wilderness, ash-filled
air, lack of sunlight, and pitchblack nights make the reader
feel hopeless. However, love
gives the characters the will to
survive. At times, the son wonders if death would be better,
and as the father’s heart breaks,
the reader understands how
truly bleak their situation is.
The Road is a beautiful story
set in a landscape of depression
and hopelessness. The style,
setting, characters, and plot
come together to make this
book one of a kind. However, I
felt that McCarthy did not develop the full potential of this
story. He could have delved
even deeper into the characters
and made the story more eventful. Despite this, The Road is
still well told. As the book ends,
it leaves many questions unanswered, but the theme is effectively conveyed. ✎
by Meghan Kubic
FICTION
Everything Is
Illuminated
by Jonathan
Safran Foer
I
stared vacantly at my
required summer reading
book. All I knew was that it
was about a Jewish boy and his
heritage, which didn’t sound
too enthralling. I’d already
been immersed in horrific stories of concentration camps and
the legacy of a Jewish heritage
– why should this book be any
different? Not until I read the
first paragraph and found myself simultaneously confused
and entertained did I realize
how much I had underestimated this literary work.
Rarely do novels cause me to
laugh out loud, but Jonathan
Safran Foer’s Everything Is
Illuminated did. Documenting
the tale of a Jewish boy’s ancestors in Ukraine, the novel
follows Jonathan and his new
Ukrainian acquaintances as
they search for the woman who
supposedly saved his grandfather from the Nazis.
I fell in love with this book
as soon as I realized that the
syntax would always be
humorously horrendous, that
the gibberish used by the
Ukrainian character Alex could
be deciphered only with a thesaurus, and that humor would,
ironically, be integral to this
tragic epic.
I usually find myself avoiding depressing books or those
that make me “appreciate”
some solemn historical event.
Safran Foer captivated me by
making me laugh; I only realized that I’d learned lessons
about the world and myself
after I’d finished this book.
Initially, I busied myself
with understanding Alex’s
elegantly mangled words and
getting to know the cast of
characters. A plethora of
nineteenth-century Ukrainian
Jews, a dysfunctional modern
Ukrainian family, a dorky
Jewish boy from New York,
and a psychotic, masochistic
dog made for enjoyable reading. I soon found, though, that
the serious nature of the book
was apparent beneath the layers of linguistic humor.
The history of Judaism is
scarred by anti-Semitism, and
my teachers have insisted I be
aware of this so that I can understand my roots. But reading
books on the topic caused me
to resent my heritage. I wasn’t
exploring my religion to fulfill
any personal curiosity. Using
the playful wit customary of
my people, Safran Foer encouraged me to value Jewish
culture. Sometimes, I even
forgot that I was engrossed in
a book devoted to the horrors
of genocide.
When I think about this
book now, it is not a newfound
appreciation for my heritage
that first comes to mind, but
uncovering
Captivated truth. This
me by
book is about
making me breaking
down stereolaugh
types. It’s
about being willing to let
others see “the real you.”
In the beginning, Alex boasts
about his many girlfriends and
nights at the discothéque, but in
the end he admits that he is
simply a confused, compassionate boy with a zest for life.
By letting his guard down, he
realizes that other people can
accept him for who he is. He
also comes to understand
Jonathan and loses his antiSemitic assumptions.
With this knowledge and an
important year ahead of me, I
plan to search for my own
personal Augustine (as the
mystery woman came to be
known). I plan to let others see
my flaws, and realize that I
might be valued in spite of
them. ✎
by Hannah Weinberger,
Pepper Pike, OH
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
The World I
Live In
by Helen Keller
I
hear Helen Keller jokes all
the time. How did Helen
Keller burn her hands? She was
trying to read a waffle iron.
How does she drive? One hand
on the wheel and one on the
road.
In The World I Live In, Keller
conveys what life is like for a
deaf and blind but fiercely intelligent woman. She doesn’t
recall events chronologically.
Instead, she concentrates on
imagery – the feel of faces
under her fingers, the
scents from her
childhood, and
her dreams.
Keller
Winne
TeenIn r of
describes her
k.com
childhood as
Online ’s
Book R
one vague
evie
dream. She
Contest w
wouldn’t have
noticed the difference, she says,
between dreaming and
waking except sometimes she
ate pancakes in her dreams and
woke up hungry. Things are
different for her now, though,
she attests. The difference is
language. It took incredible
effort for the young Keller to
learn sign language, but once
she did, the barrier was broken
permanently.
In this book she battles people’s stereotype of what her
handicaps mean – almost too
sternly. She’s angry that some
think she can’t develop her own
idea of what colors are, or write
poetry about sounds, or even
understand the world she lives
in. “Look,” she seems to snarl,
“I understand more than you
do.” She overemphasizes this
point but does it with such intricate, beautiful language that
the reader finishes the book
enlightened and entertained.
The World I Live In is a
classic. Keller understands
language better than most who
can hear. Now when I hear
tasteless jokes about her, I
laugh – she’s so above any
invalid label. I believe she
would have laughed too. ✎
Book reviews
recommend this book to anyone interested in contemplating
these controversial and at times
uncomfortable issues.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s
Nest shows just how crucial
one person’s optimism can be.
It is a story of struggle, hope,
and the faith that an individual
can breed in the hearts of man.
It is an amazing piece of writing and a true work of art. ✎
by Yael Spivakovsky,
Brooklyn, NY
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
21
f i c•t i o n
22
Spargel
by Julia Holewinski, Merrimac, MA
as they scrutinized the spargel we were selling,
here is only one word that I know how to say
comparing it to the spargel the other spargel vendors
in German.
were selling, because not only was it spargel season,
Mappenklemmplatte. Binder clip.
it was Spargelfest.
Why my father took this as a sign to pick up everyAnd I had to watch my father change here. Drinkthing I knew – from my bed to my dog to my favorite
ing beer until his face turned permanently red, the
pen to the “Our Happy Home” mat by the door – and
sweat rolling down the side of his face from the hot
move me to Germany with him is a mystery.
sun, and sometimes I would catch him crying, wiping
From my perspective, we were perfectly fine in
the tears from his eyes and then pressing his fingers
our house by the highway, cars whizzing by, providto his mouth, as if his tears may have turned to
ing a gentle hum to fill in the noise of neither of us
alcohol and he could just drink them away.
talking. He doesn’t like talking, my father, and I
I kiss the top of Bruiser’s head, and he
don’t like it much, either. He is fat, with
knocks his giant noggin into my face as if
a bushy, graying mustache, and he likes
Germany is to acknowledge the gesture. I laugh, topto cook. All he seemed to do after my
pling out of the plastic chair to get on my
mother died was cook, but I didn’t mind
my new evil hands and knees to play with him, the only
the silence much, because it meant I
who speaks my language anydidn’t have a curfew and our dinners
stepmother companion
more. My phone has no service here; our
were always good, when we had dinner.
Photo by Brittany Upole, Terra Alta, WV
computer makes no connections. I am
At night, the cars would send me to
isolated from everyone who used to make me, me.
The day after the German-Josh incident, I snuck
sleep, the yellowish-white of the headlights seeping
Except for Bruiser. He doesn’t know two words of
into the money my father had been saving and
through my thin curtains and running along the side
German, either.
bought myself a German-English dictionary. I sit
of my walls, the buzzing providing a distant lullaby
A blond boy approaches us. My father is busy
here now, reading it in the shade of our stand. My
I’m sure my mother used to sing.
laughing over something with another fat man, so I
father sips a bottle of beer and bellows a crude song
I liked it there.
stand up, not even bothering to dust the dirt off my
with two other vendors. I don’t even want to look up
And then we moved.
jeans. They are already discolored from infrequent
the words.
We didn’t move like other families do, with all the
washing, splotched with brown; I can’t bring myself
“Hallo,” says a voice I barely recognize. I look up,
hubbub and special arrangements. I simply came
to bother anymore.
squinting against the sun, and see German-Josh. I
home one day and found a suitcase on my bed. My
The guy is cute. His hair is long and windswept
turn around: Bruiser is breaking the neck of a sheep
father had scribbled a Post-it note: “Pack what you
forward, and he wears big John Lennon glasses that
squeaky-toy I had brought with us, far in the diswant. We’re leaving.”
reflect the clouds. He looks like Josh, my boyfriend
tance. I turn back. My face and the words of the
Looking back, I guess it was inevitable. He couldn’t
before we left. I never told him I was going, let alone
dictionary are reflected in his glasses. I wonder what
stay here. He had to run away. Run away from the
where. I never told anyone. We just … left.
color his eyes are.
memories, run away from the world, run away from
“Hi,” I say, hoping that it’s enough to convey that I
He points to the stand. “Spargel?”
the broken lights traversing his bedroom walls at
don’t speak German. I point to the boxes of green
“Spargel,” I confirm, and I stand up, raising my
night. Which is how I ended up here, watching his
vegetable in our cart. “Spargel,” I say. He nods,
chin, hoping I look like a salesperson. I point to the
shining round face as he babbled in German and
confirming that the vegetable is, indeed, spargel.
sign that lists our prices, acting as though I would
sold asparagus.
Bruiser, upset that I’ve abandoned him, bounds
know the difference. I still have no idea how the
Or spargel, as I am continually corrected.
over. Before I can stop him, he’s kicking up dust in
whole euro thing works yet.
Bruiser rests his head in my lap. I scratch him
the middle of the road, jumping up, putting his paws
He buys some. He turns to leave but stops, coming
behind the ears, sighing, looking up at the sky,
up on the German version of Josh. I hoist myself
back. He points to his temple, then gives me somestraining for even the slightest sound of a passing
over the stand, the bottoms of my Converse dangling
thing wrapped in brown paper that he had been carrycar. When he had first said “Germany,” mumbling
out of the shoes, holding on by a thread. Germaning in the crook of his arm. I take it, and he waits. I
it over his shoulder at the airport, I was fine. I
Josh is saying something in German, and if I underunwrap it, glancing warily at him to make sure that it
thought of the Autobahn. I thought of the sound
stood it, I’m sure it would have been a long string of
is, in fact, a gift for me.
of things going at top speed, of freedom, of moving
swears.
I let the paper fall to the ground and lift the gift up,
on, of moving forward.
“Sorry!” I say, grabbing Bruiser’s shoulders and
blocking the sun with it. It’s a leash.
I hadn’t thought of this.
pulling him off. He’s a Great Dane and hard to
I smile. “Thank you,” I say, hoping he understands.
I hadn’t thought of sitting in a godforsaken spargel
handle. I had forgotten though. He never jumped on
“Bitte schön,” he says.
stand by a dirt road, smiling at ruddy-faced Germans
anyone back home. “I’m sorry. I really
*
*
*
am. We should keep him on a leash ….”
He comes back for more spargel every
He continues to issue words I can’t
Not only was day for the next three weeks. We never
understand. I stand there, pulling
say anything, and I have no idea
it spargel
Bruiser down. “Bad dog,” I hiss, “bad,
whether he’s paying me the right
get down, Bruiser, damn it ….”
in fact, he’s probably just using
season, it was amount;
“The kid says you need to get a
me to get cheap spargel for his spargel
leash,” my dad shouts. I glare at the
soup for Spargelfest for his spargelSpargelfest
German version of Josh.
happy family.
“I know. The dog’s a bastard.”
But I secretly hope not.
Josh-the-German rips off his glasses and says
Today, I stop him from leaving. I hold out my hand,
something else. I look to my father, who looks
and he turns, looking at me, then warily at Bruiser,
slightly confused, then tunes in again. “And he says
who’s at my feet, panting in the heat. He stares,
that dog is a bastard.”
waiting. I swallow, and close my eyes, trying to
I look pathetically at the boy, and point to our
remember. I can do this, I tell myself. I can do this.
stand. “Spargel.”
“Danke für den Kaufen unseres Spargeles,” I say.
*
*
*
Thank you for buying our spargel – at least, I think
I hate Germany.
that’s what I said. I hope that’s what I said.
I have to hate it. It is an obligation, not a choice.
“Thank you for you to sell the spargel to me,” he
Like how you’re supposed to naturally hate a stepsays.
mother, or a bratty little sibling. Germany is my new
I smile. I smile, and I do not know what to say
evil stepmother. And I am Cinderella, crawling
next.
around on my hands and knees, trying to please it,
So I say the only thing I can.
trying to make things even remotely better for myself.
“Mappenklemmplatte.”
Photo by Kayla Capps, Burlington, NC
I’m not doing a very good job.
Binder clip. ✎
T
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’09
The Simple Things
It’s the simple things that make life special
A cool breeze on a warm summer day
One that soothes the heat that makes
you freckle
That makes you feel loved in a warm and
comforting way
It’s the simple things that make life sweet
The smell of summer honeysuckle that climbs
the mailboxes I pass on my bike
While smiling at the rainbow of butterflies
I meet
So different yet so alike
It’s the simple things that bring us joy
The way my favorite horse wiggles his nose
when he sees me
His face lit up like a child’s when he sees
a toy
As the large flies buzz like a bee
It’s the simple things that make us smile
Like the horizon as sea meets sky
Two perfect shades of blue invite you to stay
a while
As the sound of the waves allows you to fly
It’s the simple things that make a life
worth living,
Knowing that if we could live forever we’d
only barely discover life
Realizing that while the universe takes away,
it is always giving
And most of all that you are loved
by Emily Morrison, Jacksonville, FL
Lest I Forget
It’s just cotton, isn’t it?
just some cotton stitched together
nothing special
a cotton tee filled with that rough cologne
that strong aftershave
that sharp pepper fragrance
cotton stitched with memories
time strewn together
into the light-knitted tee of my past
he would sit on the beach
a floppy hat on his head
grains of sand between his toes
exhilaration and panache
achieved on the
fingerboard, the stage
on which violent rage stars
in orchestrations
of fury’s antonyms
by Srinath Reddy, Tampines, Singapore
Beautiful Stopwatch
My heart whacks the
inside of my warm and soft
chest,
sending a light drum to
the internal ear inside my
head
The ivory keys are plucked and
prodded with restrained
intensity as
my mouth dries up like
a marker with no cap
Whoever thought
and scribed these notes on paper is no
genius, but
a god, an all-knowing being,
a piano in human form, just
guiding the hands of its body
to the
right keys with
the perfect amount of force
I can feel the slight pain in my throat that
already
hasn’t had air in it
for the past minute
or so,
as the saltwater rushes
up to the nooks of my eyes,
as if a dam has leaked
But my tears don’t shed because
this music
has frozen time around
me, stopped the fly on the table,
a rustling strand of
hair, a
gasp of breath
All that are moving are the pads of the
fingers, more like
mouths, speaking this act of pure
love and simplicity.
by Elena Saavedra Buckley,
Albuquerque, NM
he would toss me in the air
give me five kisses
dance with me the whole night long.
Less Than Dust
That leaves me with absolutely nothing.
And you with nothing but my poorly
organized phrases
And we will both
Limp along the concrete concourse
Trudging toward the moth-eaten curtains
Of time we wasted
Screaming wordlessly at mountains.
I would scream down ninety mountains to
less than dust.
I would for you.
You who I do not entirely know
Nearly as well as anyone would ever guess,
I would scream down ninety mountains and
several large foothills
If I thought it would change a damn thing.
I would write down every word I ever thought
to learn.
For SATs or ACTs or GREs or ABCs or
Impressing those above and below me
waiting to be impressed.
[So I thought.]
I would write down every word I knew twice,
In pencil,
If I thought that they would mean any more to
you than my silence.
I would sing every song and dance every dance
And throw every projectile
And project my voice and project my name
and project my thoughts and ideas onto a
screen as empty as
These words.
I would.
There is nothing for me to swear on,
Nothing left to accept as holy.
But you can take my word as it is.
Because they are all I have
And even they are not truly my own.
And most likely never will be
[I will never manipulate anyone
The way you manipulate your words.]
I would scream down ninety mountains
But that would accomplish
Absolutely nothing
And half a pot of coffee.
Black.
No sugar.
Not at a time like this.
But for now all I have is the cotton tee
just some cotton stitched together
nothing special
by Brooke Hillman, Warrington, PA
Violinist’s Fingers
Lament
Oh, dear
The grief I feel
Fate is cruel
I would do just about anything to turn
back time
The long hours I endured, painstakingly
calculating the order of each word
And inspecting countless synonyms for the
right connotation
Flipping through old, musty-smelling library
books that cause throat congestion
Reviewing search engines that bring up
endless listings from the vast internet world
And struggling to select the suitable type of
citations for each source
Oh dear, Computer, you have failed me
I can no longer salvage my precious
document
If had known
Had I only known
I would do anything for that one second
To press the CTRL and S buttons
simultaneously
Run your needle through this dark life
Threading it with sunlight.
Shed these demons of the past,
Forever clutching at my soul
Trying to claim it as their own.
Halt these wars of indecision,
That rage on within
Tearing at the fabric of my being.
Catch my breath for me
As I stumble endlessly into your eyes
So on we can stand,
Forever hand in hand,
Face this fight as one.
by Kaelyn Lynch, E. Northport, NY
Mystic
I’m placing a firefly’s wing on your lips
and powdering your eyelashes
with butterfly dust, (so you can make the
world fly)
because this is reality and faeries
don’t exist unless my happy ending does.
But you spoke too fast –
and the iridescent wing fell paper-like to
the floor,
…
underneath their
calloused demeanor
is a vibrancy
acquired painstakingly
during their births
into careers of
by Molly Gard, Corvallis, OR
Needlework
I have attended many years of public
education
Which taught me that screaming down
anything
Rarely amounts to much.
And but
I would happily defy these people with my
wagons of teenage angst and my cannonballs of insecurities and flawless reasoning.
I would write you poetry day and night
And afternoons and dawn and other times the
earth dissolves in
Shadows of incalculable measure
I would write you new mountains
Of sorrow and love and loss and gratitude and
anger and
forgivenessandhumorandsunlightandtortureandrevengeandsolitude
But I know
Oh our forsaken God knows
That every word that pours from me
And falls
Through the veil, disappointed
be engraved forever
not wash away like
sandy footprints on the beach.
For you.
by Diana Park, Closter, NJ
…
I want the past
to have the memories
I want them to stay
Nevertheless
I would still scream them down
To dust and ashes and sand and fish and atoms
Would only be erased later
Or worse yet
Ignored completely
By your synapses.
where I crunched it,
when I stepped in
for a kiss.
And what’s more
by Grace Gregory, Greenfield, MA
Photo by Olivia Klingaman, Canton, OH
POETRY
•
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
23
Hip Hop
What is it about you that is so different?
Is it that booming bass,
Or is it those wavy synthesizers?
Maybe it’s the way you flow,
Or how you say what you mean and
mean what you say?
Or it could be your wide range of influences.
From rock and soul to jazz and reggae,
Across the globe you are inspired.
What is it?
It’s the change you’ve made.
From beat-boxing, DJ-ing and breakdancing,
You went on to become an activist,
Standing up for what you believed in.
You became a genius, lyrically telling your
knowledge through all the struggles.
You never gave up; you stood tall and strong
You have grown so much
But never forget where it all began
Stay real
I am in a wool blazer buttoned
Cherry red sunglasses with black lenses
Marked with greasy fingerprints
High tops with duct tape holding
One sole down
And a gaping hole in each knee
Exposing right where I forgot to
Shave
In this city
I know we do not know much
We are urban decay in a cornfield backdrop
Children with cigarettes dangling from smirks
Old women with lunacy pinned to their sleeve
And little plastic tricycles
Face-planted on our soggy lawns
As our mothers call to us
Behind cigarette smoke
To come in for some
Good old-fashioned
Mexican takeout.
by Lauren Polson, San Rafael, CA
by Tajahniya Sapp, Brooklyn, NY
Afternoon Habit
Advice
The setting sun paints cozy rectangles
Across the floor where I sit,
The temperature tugging my eyelids.
As I lie down, swiftly succumbing,
Your words are my lullaby.
I did not listen to my friends,
Though they were old and wise,
For I had love inside my heart
And stars in front of my eyes.
by Kira Bonk, Romeoville, IL
They told me he would be untrue
And that he was no good,
But I told them they were wrong,
As any girlfriend would.
I should have listened to my friends,
For now I am bereft;
He set his sights on a fairer maid,
And then just up and left.
In this city,
There are children
They live in apartment complexes
Crammed together smelling
Body odor, Chinese food, laundry detergent,
Urban rats seek out dead cats
In the storm drains
In this city,
There are children
And they leave little plastic tricycles
Face-planted on the soggy lawn
In front of sliding glass doors
Where their mothers light up
And watch them
Eyes over the crossword puzzle
Feet in slippers
In this city,
I am living with a love story
It is in my back pocket,
And I have a dream
It is in my front pocket
In this city,
Named Della Marta
Lower Michigan
24
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’09
Big Mouth,
little words
Inevermetsomeone
Whocouldtalksofast
Andsaynexttonothing
Insuchanurgentmanner.
I NEVER MET SOMEONE
WHO COULD TALK SO LOUD
AND YET SPEAK SO SOFTLY
I COULD BARELY HEAR.
!!!I!!!never!!!met!!!someone!!!
?who?could?use?tons?of?punctuation?
!?and!?express!?no!?emotion!?
… it … sounded … like …
m-o-n-o-t-o-n-e …
My friends were right and I was wrong,
But I must reap what I have sown.
I closed my eyes and plugged my ears,
And I was left alone.
In This City
by Emily Lisanti, Shoreline, WA
I … like … never … um … met …
someone …
who … could … uh … think … so …
much …
and … like … say … hmm … so … little …
that … I … er … saw … no … point …
to … it …
They knew that he was playing games
And toying with my heart,
But I was sure that he was true,
For I wasn’t very smart.
by Callie Rhodes, Tuscaloosa, AL
Finding a corner and taking a seat.
Finding a book and curling up tight.
Eyes are on words, but my mind is elsewhere.
It’s in the lunchroom, conversing with friends.
It’s outside, at the tennis court, cheering.
It’s in the bathroom, gossiping with a stranger.
As much as I want to, need to,
The side that I’ve relied on has led me astray.
Tempting with the ideal of everything,
But knowing I can’t get it while nestled in
its wing.
Cool salted tears stain my face with regret,
A remorse I never knew existed.
I scan the titles of the books,
So many people writing so many tales,
The bell has rung.
I pick up my things,
And finish the chapter I am in.
Photo by Hannah Stewart, Axtell, TX
Being the Mouse
And like a deserted animal I strayed away.
The noises and commotion stirring
something I’d come to fear,
Always known, hiding in different parts of
my body.
Seeping out when the moment was at hand.
In the back of my throat, the lump that
won’t go down,
In the base of my stomach, twisted and gnarled.
The cold sweat on my nose, I hastily brush off.
Converse on carpet I walk through the
classroom to the hall,
I imagine a mouse.
Scurrying across the kitchen, trailing after
the thing it wants most.
Or is it running from a predator?
The broom is at my attention now,
Swatting at the mouse.
Crushed and battered, I stray to the library.
They look up, I look down.
I follow the rows of books, each one a
portal of forgetfulness
Calling me to read it.
I have all the time in the world, but no time
to lose.
I slink to the back of the library,
•
POETRY
I never met someone
who could fake it so well
and fail so miserably
that I stopped believing.
hang on
but how can you stay strong?
rip off the blight and
watch it come again
and again
until
finally
you collapse
rotted through
by Hana Connelly, Cambridge, MA
Mt. Washington
Good authors are like beautiful trees,
pummeled by wind and brought to their knees,
blistering cold shutting them down;
gold, tattered leaves a humble crown.
But some writers live life covered up,
unhindered, unchanged, as they start to
grow up.
These trees are abhorrent, perfection a bore,
with symmetric beauty, they’re just an
eyesore.
Youth is too perfect, pain gives true fame.
Only the battered will have a good name.
Growth will bring change, and change will
bring strife,
and writing is better when tempered by life.
I am a writer of queer quality,
strong roots, bears fruits, but no reason to be.
I’ve no reason to tell, no reason to write,
for I have been pampered for all of my life.
So I hope that the fires come early this year,
though other young trees will quiver
with fear.
I’d rather be ash than ashamed of my tale
where cowardice always seems to prevail.
Youth is too perfect, pain gives true fame.
Only the battered will have a good name.
Growth will bring change, and change will
bring strife,
And writing is better when tempered by life.
Give me drought, give me wind,
give me heat, give me pain,
for what I hate most
is monotonous rain.
by Emily Brehob, Dearborn, MI
DidYOUum!!!hear
that?
by Joanna Loewenstein, Ridgewood, NJ
Love as a Fungus
of course there were signs
but pride
threw lemon in your eyes
like a mushroom on a tree
it grew and spread
diminishing
your beauty
when you looked down and saw
the blotch of darkness
there was nothing left but
to scream
isn’t it supposed to be
a flower?
blooming bright and
standing tall
words of wisdom
be strong
rot claims the weak
while those who
bend not break
Die
I feel like so much
right now
this moment I could burn
my skin would melt
and glaze stones
Take a mirror to the sun
I would die in reflection
burning deep there‚
turn to ash or sand,
or honey, or silk cloth
or something else
My dream was ice
water, and my wish.
happy under white light
so nice
painless
lookdownmyfeetsparkle
as I go
swirling like black
oil
by Kelsey Britton, West Branch, IA
Thread
It started out
With a train of thought
That went on and on and on
Like string
That turned into a tangled mess.
Sometimes, with little patience,
You cut off what you can
With scissors.
And somewhere along the line,
I forgot things.
Little interwoven fibers,
One by one.
There was
No needle
To pull the thread along.
And I forgot a few more inches of string.
Until all I had
Was a tiny little piece
And I couldn’t quite remember
Just where it had started off.
by Diana Dessy, Woodlands, TX
They Retreat
They Rage
In the choppy waters
Of the world, the wars
They wage. Against
Right and wrong, they
Retreat, they rage.
Using guns, grenades, growing
Greater power by the hour.
Watched by wise eyes of
Children, chilling story of horror,
Witness to the warrior,
Run ragged, hungry and hurt,
But first, a sudden burst.
Enemy fire kills the desire
To lie down, retire for the
Night, no peace after light, just one
More fight, with the bullets’ bite.
The great green tanks trudge by,
Mechanical brothers, born without mothers.
Made to make the fight more fierce.
To terrorize and victimize with sandy
silhouettes
Against the sun-soaked desert of death, but a
Single flower blooms in certain doom, so
we assume.
The only light is fading life, watered
By boiling blood.
Heavy artillery shells fly like fireworks
Fast through the night.
Artificial light, might be the end
The final battle, bombs banging on bunker
Doors, fall to the floor.
Air whips the white flag flying
Freely, but cold as steel he
Shoots the peaceful, the blinding bright white
Turns ragged red, they begin to battle again,
And bullets begin to hiss by his head.
by Ian Clark, Wheaton, IL
Wore her diagnosis like an ID key card,
opening all the doors,
getting her into the right crowds.
And we rolled our eyes
at the self-absorption,
poked fun at the melodrama.
How absurd, we said, shaking our heads,
miming razors across skin,
laughing.
And I held firmly to the edges of my sleeves,
smiling, terrified,
trying to hide the Band-Aids.
by Sally Fritsche, Columbia, MO
The Dream
Isn’t Dead
The dream isn’t dead
Though I’ve seen it take flight
It spread its great wings
And disappeared into night
I watched it go, bidding good-bye
But I would see it again
I know I would try
Such fantastic illusion, an amazing sight
Sparkling amber, green, and gold
I kissed the wings and held on tight
But let go and watched them unfold
I knew it would be back
Like it would always be
For this dream, the beautiful bird
It is a part of me
It comes back now and then
When I give it a home
An open heart to love it with
And loyalty to be shown
I let it fly, let it go away
To whatever it searches for
But I know it’ll be back someday
Standing at my front door
I look ahead to the future
For I know it will be bright
Someday, I’ll not have to watch my dream
Disappear into night
It will sit beside me, holding my hand
Kiss my face, forever true
For my dream is only my dream
If my dream is you
by Lisa Marie O’Keefe, Brick, NJ
to the transit buses
minus streetlights aligned
but love and memories
and your dumb jokes
that never made me laugh –
like the one about duct tape and the force –
both have a light side and a dark side
and hold the world together.
Now it’s holding her together.
goodnight house
to the frameworks
minus noiseless musings
by Andrea Szucsik, Winnipeg, MB, Canada
Got nothing to prop her up on
but summer nights and tears
and your stupid clichés
about boy things, like Chuck Norris,
how he holds duct tape together.
Eye Contact
eyes meet, impulse to stare
the intent gaze intensifies
the chaotic world continues
but all of its frivolities
disappear in the fog
Got nothing to give her life with
but puddles and laughter
and your annoying wisecracks,
always making fun of me:
how silence is golden
but duct tape is silver,
holding your lips together.
for a five-second span
time and place forgotten
a name, a purpose, a thought
lost in the stupor
lids stay strained
will not dare to blink
every flake of worry
vanishes in the misty haze
My work isn’t perfect.
It’s messy and lopsided;
it’s hormonally imbalanced,
but I’ve got enough of you
and enough duct tape
and it’s holding her together.
heads turn, moment gone.
by Jami Harmon, Gilford, NH
Five Blocks
by Amanda Sternklar, Glenmont, NY
Five blocks from where I lived
Is where I live now
Five blocks from the convict
who was arrested again and again
but always managed to get out of
heavy jail time
Five blocks from the woman
whose belly started swelling
so her husband kicked her out
Five blocks from the little girl
who used to run away from school
Five blocks to the nice painter lady
next door with her jasmine arbor
Five blocks to dogs who lick instead of bite
and never howl all night
Five blocks to a bigger house and
nicer neighbors
So little distance
So far away
New
by Ashley Morgan, Spring, TX
by Joanna Nastarowicz, So. Plainfield, NJ
The kitchen needs new cabinets,
the walls need new trim,
and the patio needs new tiles.
Constant complaints, harping, and carping,
my mother never ceases,
my father ceases listening.
“It’ll go on the list” is his response
After every tantrum and fight.
HGTV, DIY, and TLC
shows, which I see as wood,
wood that fuels the fire.
Its warmth turned to ice.
The cold shoulder, the silent treatment,
used to get throw pillows and knick-knacks.
This fire never stopping, only smoldering
“We could use new faucets for the bathroom,
new curtains for the porch …. ”
(Be)Coming Home
Isn’t It Odd
Isn’t it odd how
when people say, “This won’t hurt a bit,”
it usually does?
Isn’t it odd how
when people say, “I see,”
they usually don’t?
Isn’t it odd how
when people say, “It’s over,”
It
almost
never
is?
Isn’t that odd?
Attention
by Madi Carpenter, Bothell, WA
When she arrived,
her friends flocked around her,
a cloud of makeup and safety-pin piercings
she showed her wrists
proudly,
her hair dyed shades of tragic,
eyes circled dark.
hello little hour
goodnight earth
to the sleeping bodies
minus beautiful minds abuzz
goodnight winnipeg
Unplug the scorching lamp
that is the day
A black sheet of onyx
stretches itself across the sky
Hiding the worn day
bruised purple and orange
Expand into an arm of the creamy couch
Splash down the pipes
With the misty bath water
Photo by Jayda Simmons, Jessup, MD
Duct Tape Love
Bend into the rise and run
Of oiled steps
I’m trying so hard,
picking the pieces of me
up off of the floor,
putting them back
into an imperfect, imbalanced,
human teenage girl,
holding her together.
Let the line where lip meets cleft
Become the edge of truth
For snapdragons
in the yard
This house
is me.
by Callie Hitchcock, Denver, CO
Got nothing to stick her
back together with
POETRY
•
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
25
this is a trap
The Hunt and
The Thrill
he says
this is no friendship
with the feelings i have
and honestly
i just want to
curl up on his leather couch
and play with his cats
and forget that he ever
infected
me.
this is a trap.
thisisatrap.
this is A TRAP.
shut up.
you’re the one who
created it and i am the one who
fell into it.
and in my desperation to
cling
onto any pieces of
this friendship
i’ll apologize
for your actions
and you’ll accept
my apology
and break me
over
and over
again.
It was surgical exactness.
The bent feline tilts its head –
Whites, tans and browns lifted from the grass
As it manages its haunches.
Its spiked teeth gnaw –
Tiny needles of the grisly surgeon –
Bone forcing through
Veins and tissue.
Carefully, it tucks its feet
Drains the blood from her victim’s neck.
It creates a mess in the yard –
Blue and yellow tufts
With dark blood spilling onto the ground.
Its body is tense,
Trembling in keenness of a job well done.
Its brutality is a natural gift –
Claws and jaws are its to use.
It is excited by the chase: the hunt –
It loves the odor it produces.
It likes to watch the flies envelop the
tiny corpse –
Black bodies crowding in to lay their eggs
In the warmest of places.
The beast feels a rush when leaving the dead –
Exact slicing –
A small head left to lie across the yard.
She is a killer.
by Hillary Robson, Germantown, TN
I let you.
by Jennifer Gates, Hopatcong, NJ
Sting
Thanksgiving
You play the game well
sly,
slick,
slithering into the
souls of helpless young girls
just to
sting them with your poison
and leave them aching
sick.
sick venom spreading,
infiltrating red blood,
to pour out in clear form
from her eyes uncontrollably
leave her there forgotten to
sneak up on your
next vulnerable victim
with your beautiful yet
deceiving green eyes
that hide all your dangers
Close your eyes and picture this
A Thanksgiving dinner filled with bliss,
Relatives hugging and laughing with cheer
Sounds like cards slapping, and kids
playing near
Aromatic scents of cake and apple pie
Ham, dressing, and collards, all side by side,
Deviled eggs filled with pickles and spice
Hot, steaming macaroni only family
makes right
Soft textured cornbread, sticky barbecue ribs
Lines and lines of people try to get first dibs
A memorable Thanksgiving, where family
members spend time
A Thanksgiving tradition passed down the line.
by Amber Butler, Thomson, GA
by Lexi Ramil, Forks, WA
At the Park
It’s sad
when
you have spent the past ten days sitting
on the couch doing,
well, doing
nothing.
by Ian Seay, Baltimore, MD
From Here to
the Sidewalk
Peeking from beneath long lashes
his gentle gray eyes search your gaze
for guidance. You show him again –
he messily attempts to mimic
the motions, but the knots won’t hold, and
laces come apart like a Pull ’n’ Peel
cherry Twizzler. Patiently you wait;
he purses his small lips and concentrates
exclusively on the challenge at his feet.
Finally, a feeble bow balances atop
both shoes – his eyes outshine his smile
as he stands and saunters out the door,
displaying his delight in newfound expertise.
by Megan Buckner, Gilford, NH
smoking, I mean.
and that you have nothing
to look forward to.
except another TV dinner, I mean.
But what’s the worst
is when
you stop knowing
what you’re doing.
You stop acknowledging how sad
it is. And it is. Sad, I mean.
by Johanna Costigan, Dobbs Ferry, NY
Crush
I found the dead girl in a lake
while wandering a field
I watched the crows circle around
but somehow I could feel.
She glides through
the milky way
discreet to balance the coins on top.
I saw her lying near the edge
to no fault of her own.
And walking nearer helped me see
that which I did not know.
And hides her eyes behind
aluminum cans,
the coldness
against her
all she can feel.
I wanted to reach out to her
and grab her by the soul.
I wanted to hold on to her,
I dare not let her go.
I feel she’s lost so much, but if
I help her then she’ll see
the truth behind love in this life
and how real this love can be.
by Courtney Billow, Richfield, PA
POETRY
It’s also sad
when
the happiest thing in your life
is the fact that you might
quit.
She forces the bill
across the marble counter.
Finally, I’ve found the nerve
to cradle up her soul
and send it flying far, far up
to the place I’ll never know.
•
It’s also sad
when
the only calls you have made or
received in the past
month
are from or to your
freaking mother.
The Dead Girl.
I’ve studied more intently, finding
fate’s no more than luck.
Just a gamble of “which way”
Does it deserve such trust?
Photo by Margaret Gilroy, Hillsborough, NJ
SUMMER ’09
Page by page i rip
Out Poems
As i write them
The notebook
Growing empty
Pages running low
Because
Poems
Are flowing out of me
fast
And the notebook
Is having trouble
Keeping up
Between my pity and her pain
she told me something true.
She feels that she’s lost everything
with nothing left to lose.
by Carolina VonKampen,
Cedar Rapids, IA
Teen Ink •
It’s Sad.
But someone’s let her down before.
Someone has let her fall.
And if her soul cannot find rest,
I fear she’ll lose it all.
When I went to the park today,
Two little children came to play.
They played hide and go seek
behind the trees
Running and screaming
in delight.
After dunking their heads and feet
under the cold fountain,
they leave the faucet on
and walk away.
The little girl runs to catch up
with her brother,
pigtails flying,
and I get up to
turn off the faucet.
26
The notebook
The sparkle
the cream soda
linger
in her strangled heart.
by Stephanie Chen,
Vancouver, BC Canada
Our Song
For years my life has sung to one tune
Unscratched, the melody beautiful, pure
Set on repeat the disc went on and on
’Til the needle slipped and the music died
Scratched to the core, cut at the heart
Skipping ’til only screams were heard
And when the disc stopped only silence
The drooled refrain which I can’t escape
For this record played our life
Its internal verse that kept us believing
To the deep beat that never let us fall
All faded to a crack and eject
And where time heals the broken
Days just shattered the disc
Pieces of us scattered upon the future
Never again to be heard
by Bryan Mann, Knoxville, TN
by Sarah Jose, Chicago, IL
blared from speeding cars. No, there was nothing
rs. Anjali Prekash sat clicking at her laptop
wrong with the picture as far as Shekhar could see.
as moonlight flooded in through the winBut then he noticed an unfamiliar convertible parked
dow. Of course, you wouldn’t notice the
in front of their building.
moonlight, because every light in the apartment was
“Well?” Anjali demanded. “Don’t you see her?”
on. She was a plump woman of 49. Her carefully
Shekhar narrowed his eyes. His wife had never
dyed black hair hung in a long braid down her back.
referred to a car as a she before. Maybe naming them
Although she may have seemed old at first glance, her
would be next.
face revealed a sort of vigor that was rarely seen even
“I see it,” Shekhar admitted. “The neighbors probain youths.
bly have guests. It really isn’t anything to worr-”
Brisk winds made the room almost chilly; every
“What?” Anjali said. “You foolish man. I’m talking
window was open. From where she was sitting, Mrs.
about that Nandani girl across the street.”
Prekash could have smelled the aroma of donuts from
“Huh,” Shekhar yawned.
the bakery on the street. But at the moment, as she sat
“Look,” Anjali said through clenched teeth.
stiffly at her desk, she didn’t notice the sweet scent.
At second glance, Shekhar saw that
No, she was far too busy e-mailing her
the cat was standing up on its hind legs.
cousin about a juicy scandal.
The cat was not a cat at all; it was some“The moment
Mr. Shekhar Prekash, a small
one wearing a large black hoodie.
man in his fifties, sat on the living
of
elopement
is
“Hmm.” Shekhar yawned again, then
room couch, which Mrs. Prekash had
smiled. “Perhaps we should call the
recently had redone in bright lavender
no time to have Shahs. Maybe it’s that Bugman person
upholstery. He was reading the newspaper. His hair was graying in patches, second thoughts” breaking into their apartment.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Anjali exclaimed.
and the wrinkles at the corners of his
“Can’t you see it’s that Nandani girl?”
eyes were visible behind his glasses.
“Is it really?” There was something a little fake
Mr. Prekash never opened his paper in the morning,
about Shekhar’s tone, but Anjali was too preoccupied
not since his wife had, 22 years ago, seen a cockroach
to notice.
in the kitchen and announced that as long as she was
Art by Danielle Klebes, St. Augustine, FL
“Yes, she’s even wearing a sari under that jacket.
up, every light in the house would be on. Always a
And she’s carrying that bookbag of Shev’s we gave
light sleeper, Mr. Prekash gave up retiring early a long
face when she finds out her daughter ran off with an
them. Remember – the one with the large bleach
time ago.
odd taxi driver in a red cap!”
stain. Where on earth can she be going at this time?
The only other person in the room, Mr. Prekash’s
“Mmm. It will all be very amusing.”
And in a sari, no less.”
brother, Kash, snored in the rocking chair, like he had
“She’s gotten into the car and they are about to
Mrs. Prekash was uncharacteristically silent for a
every night since he moved in three months ago. The
drive off,” Anjali informed him.
moment, chewing on her lower lip as she watched the
Prekashes’ son, Shev, would normally be watching
The engine was heard once more. “They are
furtive movements of the girl below.
late-night dramas, but he had recently gotten a job at
going!” Anjali sighed with an air of satisfaction.
“Maybe she’s got to work late or something,” said
the pizza parlor nearby.
“Oh, I’m going to have so much fun telling everybody
Shekhar, a little too casually.
“Shekhar,” Anjali called to her husband, “what was
about it. To think I got to see the entire thing. I won“Don’t be so dim, Shekhar. She works at that
the name of that boy’s uncle – the one who refuses to
der who the boy is.”
Italian restaurant on Third Street. Why would she
come to the weddi-” She suddenly stopped, realizing
She laughed jubilantly. Shekhar remained silent, his
wear a sari there?” Silence for a moment. The girl
the location of her husband’s feet. “Shekhar, how
face hidden behind the newspaper.
stood still, shivering from the wind.
many times do I have to tell you, keep your feet off
“I’m going to go get some hot cocoa,” she an“Shekhar, she must be eloping! That’s why she took
my clean coffee table. Every day I polish it and every
nounced, “then I’ll write about everything to Jenna.”
that bag instead of a fancy one. Guilty conscience.”
night you ruin it. I remember that that banker from
A few seconds later, a piercing scream came from
Anjali sounded unusually gleeful.
Calcutta once promised me that he would never ….’’
the kitchen.
“How interesting,” Shekhar commented aridly.
Shekhar merely grunted and put his feet down, as
“Shekhar!” Anjali shrieked, emerging from the
He went back to the couch and resumed reading
he always did as soon as she started on one of her
kitchen clutching a piece of paper. “It was Shev!
the paper. Kash snored and muttered something
lectures. If his wife had continued to speak about that
Shev was that odd taxi driver!” She began pacing. “It
about blue kangaroos. Anjali, though,
Calcuttan, she would forget about her e-mail and
wasn’t a taxi. It was a delivery car. I knew
remained propped on her elbows,
lecture endlessly. He simply went back to reading the
those pictures were pizzas. He was even
staring out the window.
“A sensible
newspaper; apparently the police were searching for a
wearing his uniform!”
“She’s pacing up and down the road,
robber nicknamed “the Bug,” and Miss Venezuela had
“Look!” she yelled, shaking the paper
girl
like
her
most likely having second thoughts.”
won the title of Miss Universe. A second later, her
in her hands. “He left a note on the
“Why would she have second
lecturing and his reading were interrupted by a loud
would think
fridge. What are we going to do?”
thoughts?” Shekhar said sarcastically.
snore from Kash.
She began angrily to beat Kash’s rock“If you are going to elope, you do it
“You know what, Shekhar?” Anjali said, casting a
twice”
ing chair. Poor Kash’s head banged the
or not. The moment of elopement is no
weary eye at Kash. “We should call Raul and tell him
cushion every time she hit it. Then she
time to have second thoughts. The chilhe can’t stay here next week. One of your brothers
stopped, her eyes widening. Kash, who had jerked aldren these days are as wishy-washy as the weather.”
living here is enough.”
most awake, snored and went back to sleep. Anjali ran
“A sensible girl like her would think twice,”
“Hmm, while you’re at it, you can thank him for
to the front door in such a frenzy that the floor shook.
Shekhar reasoned. “Besides, if she wants to elope, it’s
letting us stay at his house in New York last winter.”
She grabbed the keys and quickly put on her slippers.
her own business. Why don’t you finish your e-mail
Anjali sighed, and after a moment of consideration,
As she left she panted, “It’s not too late. They just
to Jenna?”
sat back down. She was about to resume typing when
left.”
Anjali clucked her tongue. “If she was sensible, she
something on the street caught her attention.
There was a loud clamor on the stairs. Soon another
wouldn’t be eloping. And Jenna can wait.”
“Shekhar,” she hissed, peering out the window.
engine roared and sped off. Shekhar, still sitting with
“You eloped,” Shekhar reminded her quietly.
“Shekhar, come here.”
his face behind the paper, slowly lifted his feet and
Luckily for Shekhar, his wife didn’t hear. The noise
“Wha-?”
put them on the coffee table. He picked up the phone
from a raucous car engine had drowned out his voice.
“Come here,” she insisted.
and dialed.
“Oooh,” Anjali cried, “here’s the boy. He’s driving
Shekhar trudged over to the window and looked out
“Shev? She’s coming after you. You’d better head
in some ugly red taxi. He’s turned so I can’t see his
onto the street. He could see nothing out of the ordifor Canada.”
face. He’s wearing a red cap and a strange outfit. I
nary. The crescent moon made small patches of light
Shekhar hung up and went back to his neglected
can’t make it out. The taxi has pictures on it, but I
on the sidewalk and car tops. A large black cat was
story about the Bug, a wide Cheshire cat grin on his
cannot make them out either. It almost looks like – it
sitting on the steps of the building across the street,
face. ✎
couldn’t be that. Oh, imagine the look on Mrs. Shah’s
while several others loitered on the sidewalk. Music
M
SUMMER ’09
f i c•t i o n
Mrs. Prekash
• Teen Ink
27
Busy Bodies
Busy bodies
No one can stop
Not even for a single second
Everyone is busy stuck on themselves
JUST STOP
BREATHE
Can’t you hear?
Can’t you listen?
I think I’m going to crash.
Am I alone?
Why is everyone else so perfect?
Is it me?
I try to scream it at the top of my lungs,
“You’re going to overwork yourselves!”
But nothing comes out
There must be an error in my biological
system
No one would ever understand
Do I even understand?
Busy bodies
Perfect bodies
I envy the busy bodies
I barely have energy to get up in the morning
They seem to be raging with it
I envy the busy bodies
I envy what they represent joy, happiness
What do I have?
Raging anger
I need to get it out
But no one is listening
They never listen
They’re too busy to even stop
DISAPPOINTMENT
I hear it more than once
I hate busy bodies.
by Sahira Torres, Wilmington, DE
Thunderstorm
rapacious thunder rumbles
in the mountains
the whole sky is conspiring
into storm
your image turns in my head
obfuscated like the sun
behind dark clouds
lightning curls, flickers, flashes
piercing
I long for your touch
on my skin
dampened
by anxiety
I stumble outside
rain douses me
sweet, hard rain drops
drumming on my skin
wets the needy earth
I hold my breath
and lose the feeling
that I’m alone
amorousness sweeps me
A Crest-Endorsed
Snowfall
When enveloped by the icy silence
Of echoed heartbeats
And soft snowfall,
My breathing comes in rasps
Of peppermint toothpaste,
A taste of pure delight.
When metal meets pavement
Coated with resilience,
And untainted white,
There comes the sound of grating
Of nails against chalkboard,
And Sky creeps toward Night.
by Kaitlyn Ernst, Centerbrook, CT
sunshine
first of all
he wouldn’t dance around anyone’s question
or make anyone smile
and everybody would hate him
when you and your boyfriend walk in the rain
and your makeup comes off
he’d say
“you look pretty”
good-byes would be easier
because we would always be able to say
hello again
people would be proud of what they
are
instead of desperately trying to fit into
something they
are not
summer would last forever
and we would always smell like chlorine and
green grass and sun and cherry popsicles
and be happy
people would all have the ability to
find the simplistic beauty
in an ugly and complex world
i’d be your sunshine
your only sunshine
i’d make you happy
when skies are gray
by Dakota Davis, Westwood, KS
that night, you would have watched the stars
instead of the people
you wouldn’t care if they all knew your name
your bottle of kahlua and your “best” friends
wouldn’t be the only thing you had
at the end of the day
people would lie on their trampolines and
watch the sunset
•
POETRY
by Amy Ruth, Georgetown, DE
impeccable disorder
you’ve come so near to feel so far;
i think i’m drowning in the promise
of you
you strike me as rather tragic
(i’m still cool from the warmth
of your jacket)
it’s the most romantic thing i’ve
seen, your riot eyes
so lost, pounding out a new
niche for you (man, your fire
could burn this place down) –
i smile so slightly as you
ghost across my floor with
caffeine veins (cocaine ain’t
got nothin’ on you,
babe) and you are back, back,
back at the beginning and you’ve
never seen me before –
nothing has changed.
by Amy Wakamo, Atlanta, GA
Soft Blue Eyes
His soft blue eyes seem almost out of place
In contrast to his rough composure
He takes a puff from far away
But never will he come any closer
He walks as if he’s on top of the world
His body shifts from left to right
On the outside he seems okay
But inside his mind takes flight
He’s quick to clench his fists and swing
His muscles are always tense and ready
He says he’s fine but if you stare too long
You’ll know he’s popped too many
there would be no feelings of
“the band has a singer, they don’t need me”
we would get to go make brownies at his
house on a tuesday
we would “escape our simple lives” and play
Forever stain impulsiveness
Onto virgin flesh
In hidden locations
That for show,
Will only be displayed to friends at parties
To prove how mature you are.
Reveal the scars of adolescence to your parents
Only when you’ve turned 18.
i still love you.
i would
capture the neon red sign in a bar
and make it my favorite color
and he would come back to visit and say
“in some ways, kansas city is more real than
clearwater”
SUMMER ’09
he would buy me a bag of cherries from apple
market and we would walk to the price
chopper and change in 3,000 pennies for $28
that would be something i’d make happen again
and i wouldn’t want to kill overdramatic girls
and space-invading boys
i would just want them not
to be alive
anymore
girls wouldn’t sit by the toilet and erase
everything they ate that day
Today, as I look around, I see autumn.
There’s a certain sadness in it, but I know the
sun can’t stay forever.
With every change of mood I’m closer to the
falling leaves.
I might just become one.
Would you still remember me?
The songs I sing are all about you, even when
they’re not at all.
which was painted blood orange
he wouldn’t have made friends with the
exacto knife he used to cut his grip tape
and she wouldn’t have carved up her arm with
a safety pin on new year’s when she was
drunk and he broke up with her
there’d be an awful lot of
“but either way, man, i’m glad you came.”
Fall(ing)
Teen Ink •
by Kayley Rosell, Yelm, WA
freedom and socialist democracy would be
easier done
than said
by Francine Hendrickson, Arden, NC
28
I take the heartbreak everywhere.
All the same places that I take the memories.
I can’t function because something inside of
me says, “No, I won’t forget.”
And today, as I look around, I just see you.
There’s a certain sadness in it, but I always
knew you couldn’t stay forever.
Photo by Kellie Seldon, Everett, WA
On Getting Tattoos
Initiating high school.
Your body is a
Naked canvas,
Governed by rivers of hormones
Pitching into lakes of
Rebellion
Quarried by teenage angst.
Sometimes, the weakened dams of reason
And weekends
Cannot withstand
Spontaneous
Floods of individuality.
They fracture, leaking inspiration
Onto the surface of bare skin
Leaving
Invisible blueprints for calligraphy
And cartoon characters
That can be made permanent
With a steady hand
Wielding black ink
Away from disapproving eyes.
If you ask if he’s all right he’s sure to say,
honey, don’t worry
But those soft blue eyes, they always tell
such a different story.
by Carissa Waldner, Middletown, CT
Dusk
Warm gusts dry his body.
He dries until the heat becomes too strong,
and then, reptilian, scurries back to the
frigid waters,
allowing his body
to sink
and melt
and blend.
Soon, when Sun has graced lonely Mountain
with its company,
he will break from his cocoon and venture out
and like a butterfly
delve into nature’s secrets
accessible only after dusk
on a summer’s night.
by Jonathan Belvin, White Salmon, WA
I Shouldn’t
new outlook on life
I know I shouldn’t
But I have to
Magnets pull me toward heartbreak
Life is short so they say
Try to look at it from my way
I’ve been homeless three times
People get hurt all the time
In the fourth grade two people died which
left me confused
But back in December another died and it all
cleared up
My life could end tomorrow
And what would be thought of me by you
I have no certain expiration date
And neither do you
One of the most important things in life is
To live every day like it was your last
Be on the move and don’t let anything
ANYTHING slow you down
But the absolute most important thing is to
be yourself
And if people don’t like ohhh well that’s
their loss
The secret to living life to the fullest is to
Dance as much as walk
Sing as much as talk
Laugh as much as you breathe
Love as long as you live
But I do
Blindly falling when hopes dash
But when I don’t
I panic, systems crash
Wishing for what never will be,
I hope, hope for the impossible …
The phone rings.
“Light My Candle”
I scream.
Loudly.
But “hello?” I answer.
Tingly needles poke
When he replies
Love “I know I shouldn’t” but I do.
I am.
by Allison Conway, Fort Worth, TX
Please Can I Have
That Guy?
Please can I have that guy who sings to me?
Please can I have that guy
Who knows how to raise my cheekbones from
ear to ear in the most unfeasible situations
Who doesn’t mind my immense eating habit
and finds it to be intriguing
Wondering why the food doesn’t stick
Like nectar on bees
Who makes me the only dirt cakes from scratch
which he says he put his whole foot in
Who walks like cocky Tyson Beckford with
his superlative swagger across the catwalk
Who recalls my every knock-knock joke and
has them all stored in the back of his mind
like a FedEx package
Originated from my inner Dave Chappelle
Ready to be delivered out the soles of his lips,
To be mutual between us once again –
And no one can interpret this but us because
It’s our little secretive jest
Who keeps that Orbit fresh breath and
Colgate smile;
Who talks like a baby Barry White, with
his assuring
Big daddy tone in preparation of a slow
seduction
Of my mind mentally silent from the world;
Who knows that bombarding me with
compliments
Like an overflowing sullied toilet filled with
feces, urine, gum, and hair
Is just too typical: please can I have that
guy friend
Who knows that I don’t want that.
Who is not prepared to change himself to
appease me.
Who, when I collapse to the floor like an
iron-lacking anemic
While broken with tears and moaning like an
abused milked cow
That enjoys nothing but the fresh dry grass
From the vast fields of the suffering and
polluted earth used and abused,
Picks me up like a strong lion would grab his
cub in the clutch of its mouth.
by Janelle Zarrelli, Plainfield, NJ
by Holly Williams, Boise, ID
When I Look Inside
I wish to have been born a cloud
But I was conceived by humans,
Wearing a skin of flaws
The philosophers say
You have to look inside yourself to find
the answers
So I slide into my throat
I float around, amazed at my internal organs
Cells whisper
Into my ears,
Reminding me of who I’m not
I crawl away into my heart and I find a
desk and chair,
So I try to write a letter,
Ease the pain of thoughts
But the ink crawls up my skin,
Tattooing me in thorny scrawls
I try to run away,
Veins wrap around my arms
I try to push the door open
But it pushes right back
So I wrap my arms around my knees
And I just sit there and I scream
The pounding of my heart gets louder
Like a toddler beating a drum
So loud is that drum,
I have to unwrap my arms and cover my ears
I stop screaming and scrunch my face
in anguish
I think that toddler is mighty strong
And then it gets quiet
It’s like I’m in the center of a jellyfish
umbrella
And I just sit
The Middles
Everyone is always talking.
Talking about:
Before. Before love. Before life. Before
losing a hundred twelve pounds. Before
the material world infests your mind with
rules about shoes and lipstick shades.
Talking about:
The after. After finding your other half. After
dying. After being able to fit into clothes
from twenty years ago for who knows why
that desire exists in some. After “being
happy.”
But what about the in-between?
The middles?
The road there?
I have never seen the cover of Seventeen
plastered with someone who isn’t there yet,
someone who is on their way. Doesn’t
anyone care about those?
About me?
Half awed
Half afraid
Because I know,
No matter how long I sit there,
I’m never going to find out who I am
by Yesenia Carrillo, Sunnyside, WA
My Bare Self
humans graze in herds
those poor wretched beasts
blinded by the thickness of their wool
only for me to shave it
so that each one, naked and bare
must suffer the reality
that they are not
what their thick outer layer made them
out to be
a new light brings new gain
individuality
14 and young,
14 and my heart has wrinkles
but only
for the foul creatures
have shaved me of my precious fleece
and now I too
stand just as them
and can claim to hold my head no higher
than a swine
who has been penetrated by his own tusk
society poaches the innocent
and we are naked for its profit
Guinea pigs to its downfall
and the failure
of its trials.
by Lydia Ward, Stevens Point, WI
A Guest
You hear a Voice that’s haunting taunting
The Head of the Table’s talking talking
And His words are walking walking
In your mind
Round and round
With a sickly, twisted sound sound
Your Ear is intently listening
When your forehead starts a-glistening
And your Hands begin to sweat
As your Mouth begins to wet
Your Hands go a-gripping gripping
To the Glass
Your Sweat goes dripping dripping
Your Throat goes a-lumping lumping
Your Heart goes a-thumping thumping
And Adrenaline goes a-pumping pumping
Up Your Spine
Your Glass in grip goes squeaking squeaking
And Your Eyes go seeking seeking
a distraction
From another guest’s action
by Olivia Correas, Greeley, CO
I am dripping
Again, the Glass goes creaking creaking
And Its Contents go leaking leaking
I am dripping
– with blood
– with tears
they are churned
and brewed deep
within me
I don’t tend to
the kettles –
I simply don’t
care enough to
bugs, insects, crawl inside
strike matches on their
crisp skeletons and
light the fire
bright dew drops begin the concoction
skin scales, leaves, grass
they boil down to a thick,
steaming liquid
it burns to be alive.
I secrete involuntary lies
they wait behind the skin,
begging to be released;
to roll down in sweet, hot beads while
the dogs are sitting to lap them up.
Now, the Glass goes breaking breaking
Then Your head is aching aching
From nerves painstaking staking
The cracks go slashing slashing
At Your Lips
And the shards go smashing smashing
Onto the tablecloth
At Your hips
Your Eyes go blinking blinking
And Your Back goes sinking sinking
Just as You were thinking thinking
To Excuse Yourself
The Head of the Table’s laughing laughing
The guests’ attention goes halfing halfing
Onto you
Finally, You start standing standing
Eyes of the Supper Guests demanding,
demanding
Why
You sigh
And exit
by Breanne Coates, Lebanon, TN
by Nicholas Hébert, Austin, TX
Photo by Jennifer Novotny, Chickasha, OK
POETRY
•
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
29
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by Kelsey Hill, State University, AR
at the sink and fills the silence with chatter. When she
he eyeliner makes the dark circles less proturns around, she takes in the waffles still on my
nounced. The lip gloss hides the trembling. The
plate, only missing a few bites. I smile apologetically.
ponytail conceals missing patches of hair. The
“I’m not very hungry this morning.”
Abercrombie sweater covers bruises. I might look at bit
“You’ll need your strength for this afternoon.” She
thinner, but everyone will ask about my new diet. My
bites her lip. She doesn’t like to bring it up over
hair might not shine the way it used to, but the pink ribbreakfast. I eat another bite.
bon will distract curious eyes. One hour of preparation
“I packed your lunch.”
and I look like myself. One hour of preparation and no
“I’m 18, Mom. I can pack my own lunch. You have
one will know. One hour out of 24. Sometimes I wonmore important things to do.”
der if it’s worth it – wasting a twenty-fourth of my day
She reaches for the paper sack. “But
on a lie. But then I see my wispy hair and
now I know you’ll have something to eat.
baggy eyes, and I have to do it.
Checking my makeup one last time, I
The thought And you need to eat, okay? You have to
keep your strength up.”
push my sleeves up, though not past my
of all that
Sighing, I take the bag. I know this
elbows. I slip on a cute pair of flats –
peanut butter and jelly sandwich won’t be
heels are too dangerous with shaky legs
food turns my eaten, not any more than the one yester– and grab my Hollister bag. Padding
day or the day before. And even if I do
downstairs, I inhale the scent of waffles
stomach
eat it, I’ll just throw it up later. Anything
and syrup.
consumed after 11 ends up in a plastic
“Morning, Mom,” I call.
basin at 4:07. It’s just the way it works.
“Morning, baby,” she chirps. “Did you sleep well?”
“Hon, have you thought about what I said the other
“Better than I have been.”
day?” she asks.
She sighs, and her eyes look a hundred years old
I shrug noncommittally.
for a minute. “Any improvement is good,” she says
“Sweetheart, you can’t hide this forever. Eventually
half-heartedly.
you’re going to miss school and people will start ask“Of course.”
ing questions.”
“I made waffles.” Her offering.
“Mom, I have two months left of high school. I
“Thanks, Mom. Smells delicious.” My offering.
can make it ’til then. I’m class president and probaI sit at the table and she hands me a plate. The
bly valedictorian. I was voted ‘Most popular,’ ‘Most
thought of all that food turns my stomach, but I force
fun to be around,’ ‘Best smile,’ and ‘Most likely to
a smile and thank my mother again. She busies herself
T
succeed.’ I’m the girl who’s got it all together. People don’t want to know that the girl who’s got it all
together, doesn’t have it all together. People don’t
want to know that girl is dying!”
“Honey, don’t say that. You’re not dying.”
“Yes, I am. I have cancer. You heard Dr. Morrison. I
have maybe a year left. But that means I can graduate
and then never see those people again. I’ll die and
they’ll feel sorry for me, but at least I won’t have to
endure their pity.”
“But …,” she tries to interrupt.
“Mom, listen to me. I don’t want to be the girl
everyone looks at and whispers, ‘Look at her. Poor
thing, she has cancer.’ I can’t handle that. I want to be
normal. Just for these last two months.”
“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay. Just remember, it’s
okay if you don’t have it all together. Sometimes
things just fall apart and there’s nothing we can do.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I grab my bag and lunch and kiss
her on the cheek. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” my mom replies. This exchange,
once taken for granted, is now a vital part of every
morning, every afternoon, every night. Three little
words, followed by four more, have come to mean
more than an entire conversation. They bridge all gaps
and disagreements, because we both know there is
now a finite number left.
Keys in hand, I open the door and blink in the early
morning sun. My silver car waits in the driveway and
as I walk toward it, I check my reflection in the tinted
window. Perfect. ✎
Unsung Heroes of the Night
S
ometimes you have to make a decision. It might not be the best decision, but you make it anyway. When
the only course that lies open to you is the
low road, the one shrouded in shadow and
lies, you know. You know it’s the endgame.
The cards have been dealt. The die cast.
My name is Jack, and I am going to die.
I know this: “On a long enough timeline,
the survival rate for everyone drops to
zero.” Mine just dropped a bit earlier.
The man sitting across from me, balding
and married – judging by the ring on his
finger – shifts uncomfortably and strokes
his eyebrow. He doesn’t know what was
avoided this night. He sees me as a hired
thug. He’s right – sort of. Sometimes,
when you walk in the dark, it takes a
shadow to light the way.
“So let’s go over this again,” says the
D.A. in the knock-off Armani suit. “Start at
the beginning, please.” He wants me to talk
about my job with the Face. “Friday, May
3, you were unloading crates down by the
wharf.” He is filling in details that we both
already know.
“Yes.”
“What was in them?” I knew what was
in them, but when you work for the Face
you don’t ask questions. “I never asked.”
Questions can get you killed.
“What if they were dangerous? You
could have been killed.” He is trying to
play the role of the good cop: I’m your
friend, help me help you.
“Occupational hazard.”
Flippancy – my wife used to say it was
my only flaw.
by Julian O’Cain, Guelph, ON, Canada
you hafta kill some people once in a while?
“And working for the Face isn’t? You’re
Thems probably deserved it,” he’d said.
a smart man – could have gotten a good
“Cancer treatments cost a lot.” He flips
office job.” He is right, of course. I could
some papers. “Ah yes, your wife died of
have gotten a well-paying office job. In
leukemia last year.” God, I miss you, Aims.
fact, I had one for a while.
“The Face paid better.”
“So you were moonlighting for the Face.”
“No health plan, though.” He is referring
“Yes.”
to my current condition; even if I survive,
“And when she finally died, you started
chances are the Face knows what I was up
working for the Face full-time?”
to. Either way, it doesn’t look good.
Not until he came, a shadow in the dark,
“These things happen.” He pauses, tries
told me he needed help, that the Face was
a different approach.
planning something, something big. That
“Out of everyone we pulled from the
he was after the kids. The shadow said that
river, you are the only one,”
I could help. He gave me a
he pauses and looks at me,
purpose.
“alive. And you pass it off as
“Yes.”
When you work
if this is some sort of giant
“What else did you do?”
for the Face
joke.”
“Ran errands.”
“Laughter is the best med“Not just an errand boy,
you don’t ask
icine.” I start coughing and
were you? The Face trusted
notice a metallic taste. He
you. You see, we have reports
questions
tries again.
that show you as pretty high“You were the only one
ranking among his lieuwho lived. Why do you think that is?”
tenants, practically his right-hand man.”
“Luck.” He knows I’m not telling him
“Something like that.” Not that being
everything – got to give the man respect for
trusted by a psychopath gets you much,
his tenacity.
other than a head start.
“So you were unloading crates and you
“What was it they called you? Ah, yes –
ended up in the river half alive … there’s a
the White Knight. Not after your snappy
lot missing here.”
dress sense, I take it.”
Like how one of the other men had a
“No.” The boys probably thought they
grenade. Like how even the best-laid plans
were being witty naming me after that
can go horribly wrong. Like how I started
urban legend.
working for the Face.
“It seems you got your name from your
“Care to tell me why you started workability to talk the Face out of mindlessly
ing for the Face?”
killing innocent people.”
Jimmy – that s*** – went to school with
“Honor amongst thieves.”
him and knew I needed cash. “So what if
“You expected honor from that nut job?”
f i c•t i o n
Perfect
Silence. He shifts uncomfortably. The
silence grows as he strokes his eyebrow,
then starts again. “So you were unloading
crates and something happened, something
you hadn’t planned on.”
Pain flares up. The worst part of this
night is not knowing.
“Someone showed up that you weren’t
expecting. There was an explosion, and
everyone died … except you.”
Not knowing if I made a difference, if
the Face was stopped.
“Who showed up? What happened when
they did? Who killed your friends?”
“Not my friends.” Coughing blood.
“What was in the crates?”
It’s time, I decide. So I tell him. He
leaves in a rush.
“You could have told him sooner.” A
shadow in the dark.
“I wasn’t sure if you were alive.”
“I made it. Thought you would like to
know that the Face failed. His plans are
ruined; he won’t recover for a long time.”
“Good,” I say. “Good.”
“They’re after you, you know.”
“I figured.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I miss my wife.”
Unspoken, my question hangs in the air
between us.
“Here.” He hands me the morphine
control. “I’ve taken the safety off.”
“Thank you.”
“You will be remembered for what you
did – an unsung hero of the night.”
My eyes close. God, I miss you, Aims.
And I press the button. ✎
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
31
Custer’s Last Stand
C-C-Caffeine
Estranged kaleidoscope,
unseemly customs,
between brazen earth-molting sky,
uncontemporary temptress lends
pleasant friction,
of modernized ambassadors
whose resolution is brass,
of nature-bred gladiators
whose resolve dyes red,
moccasin-led massacre,
marrow and metal remains,
slaughter surrendered legacy,
yours,
esteemed general.
Limbs tingling and twitching, eyes
just a little too wide
as the familiar chemical takes its course.
by Sherry Starks, Middleburgh, NY
Falling
They bloomed
in the spring
to the luscious
fruit on a tree
but the temperature
drops with the
red fruit
and the
flaky
crystal
snow
by Keenan Ward, Park City, UT
Self Aware
the towel wrapped around
hangs, no breasts, no hips
just twelve ribs and
a stomach indented
bright pink nail paint
as if to distract
us from what we see,
the sallow, sunken face
her bottle-dyed hair
the only weight on her body,
what does she see
in those poorly veneered eyes?
does she see all the knobs
of her bird-hollowed bones,
or the chubby little kid
who was always picked
last in gym class?
Corrosive and sticky, like lukewarm acid,
Mountain Dew Code Red pools in a cavity.
Its cheery cherry flavor makes a late-night
toast
to all my future friends
in the dental industry.
Oh, this is an ode to caffeine!
That invisible conductor of late nights,
speeding up the tempo
of fingers drumming and feet tapping
to the quiet droning of electronics,
of thoughts racing endlessly
trying to convince me that, no,
the neighbors would not care to experience
Daft Punk’s greatest hits
with floor-shaking bass, at least
not until breakfast.
The stale glow of the monitor gives in,
drowned out by a harsh wave of sunlight
crashing through the window,
exposing the wreckage left by
another sleepless night:
Weary eyes,
the noxious smell of an overheated monitor,
and overworked candles
perched haphazardly on bulging stacks
of paper,
now sitting in pools of wax that dried
smooth ruby red
all over someone’s homework.
Crushed plastic bottles,
once heavy with sugary soda,
lie all but drained at my bare feet.
Staggering to bed, I feel just as empty.
I have not one ounce
of honorable fight
to give
when sleep
surges
in
by Alison Rieger, Broomall, PA
by Corinne Herman, Camarillo, CA
32
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’09
I want to slowly become your history.
Softly, I’d be immobile before you knew
I was there, and always waking
In truth, I’ll lean against your porch rail,
Its white paint chipping to thinning grass
Searching your eyes
I’ll drown in etherealized memories
For I want to paint you and
The light as one
Simply, I’ll dress you in shades of
Blue, green, and silver like the moonlight
Cutting my view and the moment in half
Fluid you are my art
But I am not an artist, and you’re too real
for this dreamy trance of a moment
your face demands a vivid reality
As this, you are a photograph
I remain on your porch,
The moon rinsing half the yard clean
I wait for the light to move
as the shadows shift across your face
Patient in my silence
the morning will come
and I will welcome it, as you
have always taught me to do.
White
Gray
Black
Sprinkles of snow
One week later
Cold
Branching asphalt cracks yawn and perspire,
Flowers fold out sunshine pistil tongues,
Silently sip tears from swollen clouds
Watch the sky sigh with mirth.
Until the next release of rain
Portraits of thoughts
on love
Winter
Release
And, beating, the world quenches
lasting thirst
In the pounding marriage of sky and earth,
Filling crevices to make whole what is broken,
Giving sun-chapped souls a chance to breathe.
by Kyrsten Persells, Northville, MI
by Alexandria Bennett,
New Haven, CT
by Meg Clowers, Oak Ridge, TN
The leaves of trees crumple and set sail
To the tune of harpstring raindrops,
Of whispers and wishes sent on the wind
By lovers with hands rough from roses.
with eyes shut
and fingerbeds open,
showing my cat scratches
and sugargliders.
They converse in my
head
and I shoot endless
water and spit at
them full of nonalcoholic
beverages and flaring nostrils.
For I will become their pet
in no time and
perhaps nothing
but Batman
could save me.
Photo by Kirsten Singletary, Northville MI
Alligator
There are
crocodile eggs
at the basin of
my sink
smiling up at me
with pointy teeth
and snapping tooth
jaws like diamonds
and missing eyeballs.
I glare at them
•
POETRY
Breath unfurls from lips that whispered
Excitement flushes through already
Reddened cheeks
The chill inhaled returns as smoke
Sleet decorates town into a fantasyland
Where angels are made
And children turn into eskimos
Until the call of hot chocolate is too tempting
to resist
Sweater upon sweater
Upon layer upon layer
New boots are quickly worn
And the cool hurries along
by Aniko Gomory, Tallahassee, FL
Apples
I like apples
of all different sorts
They make a great snack
when I’m playing sports.
Green apples, crab apples,
red apples, too,
golden delicious,
great from the first chew.
I eat them for breakfast.
I eat them with lunch.
I eat them at dinner.
I eat them at brunch.
Mom says they’re healthy.
I say they’re sweet.
She says they’re sensible
To me they’re a treat.
by Benjamin Bordelon, Mandeville, LA
July Again
it was july then
the cool night scented of indigo and lilacs
undulating over and under
entwined limbs, seeking solace
in our memory.
it has stayed there ever since,
illumed by splashes of neon fireworks
dripping across the night’s blueblack sky,
scarring and imprinting our retinas with
millions of blinding tattoos.
crickets serenaded us with scratchy arias
composed by master musicians of
timeless renown
and the nodding grasses bent in time with
whisperhushed words floating in the air.
i see you, in bursts of technicolor light,
sporadically
painting your visage in my mind forever
with broad
strokes of amaranth, goldenrod, saffron
and i see you, clearer than before,
darkness lends clarity through blindness
i feel you
and it is july again
with oceans licking salted bare
skin and white sand gold dust
reflecting the ice fires of
Lyra’s silver strings.
quiet nighttime, jealous
waves reach to tear you away
but my embrace holds fast and
i feel you, warm beneath my hand.
hearts entwined into one, beating same
beats, pumping same rhythms
in time with the hum of the tide
in the bay by the harbor.
with stars as only witnesses to
rhapsodies unspoken,
i witness you. first and last time as
July again under your gaze comes to a close
each july, one lifetime younger
falling into infinity, celebrating a
perennial story
of annual passion.
now it’s july
and arctic winds blow frost against skin
no longer warmed by harlequin ardor.
winter in july, and it won’t come undone
it’s still july
and i love you now.
by Amy Rohman, Park City, UT
Downtown
Centered
This was Westfield, Downtown
Before the cop cars.
We stood behind Starbucks
Kids with their lighters and ciggs
With energy drinks
Filched from the Stop and Shop
Down the street
Anthony’s car speakers blasted Metallica,
too loud for soft-spoken ears
But the employees didn’t care
As long as we were on the other side
Of the non-Starbucks owned Brown Door
The vintage matron griped, the constables
showed up
These days seem like the town’s all out
And prostitots are running around
Got a bender to set up our tripwires soon
Movie theater lights shine outward
Cast shadows on pavements
As we walk out Broad Street
To Nomahegan and the Gazebo
From the swingset you can see the stars
Now look through glass panes on windows
Into wired factories whose jobs we don’t know
I want a doughnut, she wants one too
Promenade to Stop and Shop
“I’ve got you covered,” a smile for her
Laze outside until the monotones come
Drink sodas ’til the crack of doom
Or at least until we gotta be home
Parents phoned, required home by eleven
Disinclined to acquisce, but otherwise
I’m grounded
So now is the death of our Dusks
And the birth of our Midnights
by Danica Pavlik, Plainfield, NJ
Winter
Ice engulfs the grass
Leafless dead trees frosted white
Spotted eyelashes
by Taylor Andersen, Eagle, ID
She’s the One
She’s the one
who’s gonna save the world,
who’s gonna save you, boy,
from whatever ails you.
A multi-symptom drug
to make sure you don’t get too addicted
to the poetic upper of being
down.
She’s the one who swears
to inaugurate her beach house
with banana pancakes and sleeps all day
on off-white sheets
held in a pair of warm arms
or curled up by herself
(She likes to believe she could die alone
and happy.)
Please understand,
she would love to make you her world,
but fears another apocalypse,
even though she knows she’d survive
with stronger wings than before.
Please understand,
she would love to love you forever,
but forever always seems to define
itself differently
than she’d like,
so make no promises, and waste
all the time you have
together.
surrounded by missile and smoke.
when “hit the floor” and “keep running” are
the only things spoke.
where killing is every day.
thanking the Lord that you ain’t died today.
and dying tomorrow’s a great possibility.
and all the soldiers under my responsibility.
we live and we die together. our policy.
and I would never take anyone off of me.
they fight and they cry for me.
they die for me. it’s a war that’s just how it’s
got to be.
but we save a seat, when it’s time for me
and my end to meet.
there’s a time when it’s gotta come.
so save me some, until then it was nice
now I gotta run.
enemy is close behind, and my behind
isn’t safe until i cross that boundary line.
by Jaime Maxwell, Winnabow, NC
by Aldo Penafiel, Annandale, VA
Red Light
the repetition of
two times two
The light turns red
And I sit alone
Bickering parents sit in the front seat
And I sit in the back. Alone.
the repetition of two times two –
you whispered against the grain of
sodden cardboard water:
as if it unlocked volumes of verse.
I look out the window
It gets foggy from my tears
The people who matter don’t notice
But strangers stop and stare
if you stayed and waited for the
ink to print on your calloused fingers,
I stop in reluctant, pushing glasses
up the acute angle of my nose.
They look at me
While they wait for a green light
I wonder if they wonder
Do they stop to think about me?
what kind of teacher (the best –
the most visionary kind) would
lie to her students? Hopeful
illegible writing veers the inside
and paints my eyes shut.
Do they wonder why my tears flow?
Do they wonder why I’m sad?
Do they stop to wonder?
Or does my existence cease
when the light turns green?
if I penned the archaic,
imperial formula in the margins of
bleak paper, their faces,
scarred and hopeful
(in a row, with tall texts the sentry
by Mackenzie Lowry,
Rockville Centre, NY
at the wall and brink) of knowledge.
it is all a game, i promise.
wilted cigarettes press on the
lines of rhyme – syntax
Books are meant
to be felt.
Hate
The hate that ran from his lips
Nearly knocked me unconscious.
His words ripped through my heart
Everyone saw it.
Twenty-seven sets of eyes burned me,
Confused stares closing in,
The room began to shrink.
What was happening?
I shakily inhaled
And knew I had to run
My tears hit the floor
And then I was gone.
Heat radiated through my face
My eyes were on fire
The tears hoped to cool them
But the fire was too wild
My lungs begged for air
But something resisted
The short panicky breathing
Made me feel dizzy
Sudden fatigue consumed me
The cool bathroom wall
Prevented me from falling
I’ve gotten it together
But makeup streaked my face
My cheeks still burned red
As I quietly walked away.
by Greta Schultz, Brookfield, WI
Absence
peeling back the
blue tuesday
sky the
absence of everything
tore through my heart.
our orange wall
disfigured my imagination
and what I thought was
love
was but imagination;
disfigured, distraught
with eternal fulminating.
ah, the potency of
poetic cogitation!
by Nina Russell, Brampton, England
Photo by Jasmine Rose, Bourbon, MO
in the seconds when our fingers touch
when you prove that you are here.
And our lips would be distant without
the words
I weave through anecdotes to impress you,
and your teeth are grinning around the replies
I cling to with cold hands.
These conversations are more intimate
than kisses
And I can feel them more than hands
And we’ve set this table with flat or
silverware
that we choose to become
empty plates and fitting spoons
lying in wait of what comes next
with bated breath and shallow thoughts
floating at the surface of the deepness
of the hours I’m with you.
A Day at War
by Danielle Behrendt, So. Setauket, NY
Books
Books should be
torn apart,
consumed by frustration,
reread with love
or understanding
’til the pages rip,
the covers disintegrate.
(she answers
small circles of uncertainty
A
B
C
B
A)
Readers must leave
Marks,
Remnants,
Memories
of a time when
touched, held, revered
by a collection of words.
like translucent flowers:
an unrecognizable gift.
so this is where the poets die:
in books and brittle papers.
by Cynthia Miller, Chevy Chase, MD
Books are
meaningless or
filled with heart
by a writer, a muse, a subject,
A loyal reader.
Serendipity
For so many moments within the hours
of this night our eyes refuse to end
I find myself bewildered by the tired sight
of you
Shocked that the puzzle piece I’ve been
searching for
Is just one body away.
And my breath is soaking up your existence
through the slender trophies you slip to me
POETRY
Books are meant
to be felt.
by Caroline Wallace, St. Petersburg, FL
•
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
33
f i c•t i o n
34
Can You Hear Me?
by Tabith Hale, Ossipee, NH
moments felt like days. Time had decided to crawl,
the middle of the room a girl was looking for a place
he crowded hallway was swarming with
enjoying my suffering like everyone else.
to sit, her head whipping around like a nervous bird.
voices, all uniting into one loud hum. EnI closed my eyes and everything went silent. I was
She
glanced
at
my
empty
table,
her
eyes
locking
tangled in the roar was the sound of lockers
free. No voices, no laughter, no staring eyes. Nothwith mine. Apparently I was more intimidating than
opening and closing and, every once in a while, a
ing. I let myself get swept away in it. So this was
I realized. Not with her, she thought and somehow
teacher yelling over the clamor. I was standing in
what it was like not to care? It felt like I was sleepslid onto an already full bench.
front of my locker, taking another look at my new
ing for the first time in my life. I was at peace.
I looked down at my table and ran my finger over
schedule for the second semester. I have a bad mem“Hey, are you all right?” The voice sounded so far
its surface, tracing the fake wood grain.
ory for schedules. The lighting wasn’t nearly bright
away. Someone was shaking my shoulder. “SomeLooks like someone’s on a diet. Anorexic much?
enough. I strained to see the words, my own shadow
body get the nurse.” I couldn’t tell if the voice was
Faith Palmer again. What did she have against me?
blocking most of the light.
out loud or in my head. I forced myself to look. A
I
watched
out
of
the
corner
of
my
eyes
as
she
Is she just going to stand there all day? An irripair of nervous brown eyes slowly came into focus.
nudged the girl next to her and signaled in my
tated voice rang through my head. I looked over my
direction with a giggle. My hands
Dark hair dangled around his face – a face that
shoulder. Ashley Garland was standballed into fists. I didn’t want to deal
looked at me without scorn, without sneering, just
ing behind me, eyes glowering behind
with this, I endured enough already. I
looking, seeing me. “Can you hear me?”
mascara-coated lashes, recently
Knowing how
got up and grabbed my books just as
I nodded, sending a jolt of pain through my skull
glossed lips parted slightly in an impapeople really
thoughts from Faith’s table started
and down my neck. I winced.
tient scowl. She was waiting to get
hitting me, each worse than the last.
“Don’t move,” he said. “I think you hit your
into the locker next to mine. I knew
see
you
–
well,
I
ignored
them
as
best
I
could
and
head.”
His eyes flitted around my face. “The nurse
she hadn’t spoken out loud, but I had
made
my
way
to
the
bathroom.
Call
it
is
coming.”
heard her nonetheless. I felt the blood
it hurts
hiding if you want, but I stayed there
“It hurts.” My voice sounded pathetic.
rush to my cheeks as I closed my
until lunch was over.
“You might have a concussion,” he said. I agreed.
locker and stepped out of her way.
The rest of the day passed in pieces. Sometimes it
My thoughts felt muddy. It was as if I were a little
With an exaggerated sigh, she slipped past me.
felt as if time moved quickly. Sometimes it barely
girl again – scared, confused. Through the mire of
Finally, her voice murmured in my head.
seemed to move at all. I was infuriated with myself.
my mind a thought began to form: I didn’t know
It started a year ago, this whole “hearing what
what he was thinking.
I had been dealing with this long enough that it
other people think about me” thing. At first it was
My tongue betrayed my thoughts before I could
shouldn’t
still
hurt
me.
But
every
time
I
heard
a
interesting, being able to see behind each fake smile
voice in my head, I couldn’t help but feel the sting.
stop it. “Why aren’t you thinking something bad
and insincere “How are you?” But soon it got deI didn’t want to hear any of them ever again! What
about me?”
pressing. I had always known that people could be
right did they have to judge me? Why should they
He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think a concuscruel, but I had no idea they were a thousand times
pick out every little thing they didn’t like about me?
sion is bad?” he asked with a little chuckle. There
worse in their heads. Why hold back if you don’t
To make themselves feel more perfect? Probably.
was something in his eyes – maybe I was imagining
think anyone will find out?
Those leeches! I hoped that they’d all grow old,
it, but it looked like he was figuring something out.
I’m not a mind reader. I don’t know anybody’s
alone, and ugly. And I hoped someone would
I looked around. People were staring at me, lookdeep, dark secrets. I can’t go looking through peoing
anxious and concerned. They must have been
remind
them
of
it
every
day!
ple’s memories. I only hear what others think when
As I walked to my locker I fumbled furiously with
thinking about me, but I couldn’t hear them. A wave
it’s about me. And, trust me, knowing how people
of relief melted over me. The voices were gone!
my binder, checking my schedule one last time. So
really see you – well, it hurts.
what was going to be my final torture of the day?
I looked back at the brown eyes. He looked so
I walked to homeroom with my head down,
Gym. My stomach twisted into a knot. Someone
concerned. No one had ever looked at me like that.
hoping no one would notice me as I slid into an
must really have had it in for me.
I wanted to thank him. He made me glad that my
empty chair. No such luck.
Dreading the locker room, the imminent mental
heart hadn’t stopped. I felt silly, considering I had
Shy Girl should do something with her hair. I
remarks on my lack of coordination, the unsympanever met him before, but I decided that he was my
recognized Jessica Lander’s voice.
thetic
coach,
I
put
away
my
books
and
slammed
the
personal angel.
You should burn that jacket, fatty. That had to be
locker. I felt numb as I walked to the gym. Each
He looked up. The nurse had arrived. “An ambuFaith Palmer. Hobos dress better than you.
stride propelled me forward on stiff, quickly moving
lance is coming,” she said. “Everyone, go to your
I tried to block out the voices. I told myself over
legs. I probably looked like a zombie. Everyone I
classes, please.”
and over – as I had many times before – that it was
passed was a blur. Every voice in my head was just
The boy looked down at me, then up at the nurse,
just human nature, an automatic response; everyone
background noise. I had finally snapped.
as if trying to decide what to do. Panic gripped my
does it. It didn’t help.
I can’t remember what I was thinkrattled brain. No! I didn’t want him to
Why’d she have to sit here? I looked to my right.
ing when I got to the gym doors. I
ever go away. I needed him. He was
This voice was coming from the guy at the desk next
I
was
doubt
I
was
thinking
at
all,
which
is
the only one who had bothered to be
to mine: Josh Taylor. My eyes caught his. He looked
probably why I walked right into
nice; I couldn’t lose him now. I
away. She’s so awkward.
bombarded by
them. My body slammed against the
grabbed his arm. “Don’t leave,” I
Think of something else, I told myself. Don’t let
heavy metal and the force sent me
said. I felt connected to him even if I
them get to you. They don’t know you can hear them.
their thoughts
reeling back. Next thing I knew, I was
didn’t know anything about him.
Anna looks like she’s going to cry, I heard Matt
on the floor, my head spinning. I
He smiled gently. “I won’t.”
Hammond scoff to himself. That’d be hilarious.
should have remembered they were pull doors.
“I’m Anna,” I said, glad that I could remember
I slid down as far as I could in my chair and let
To my despair, I was jolted out of my zombie-like
my name.
my hair fall over my face. I wouldn’t let them have
trance.
I
could
hear
people
laughing
all
around
me.
I
“Ryan.”
the pleasure of seeing me fight back the hot flood
was immediately bombarded by their thoughts. It
While the nurse was busy checking if I was all
threatening to fall from my eyes. No, I wouldn’t give
was a cascade of voices. Some were a little conright, I couldn’t take my eyes off Ryan. His deep
them that.
cerned; most were hurtful. I noticed that some were
brown eyes locked with mine and for a moment I
By the time lunch rolled around, I had no appetite.
even out loud.
wished I could hear his thoughts. Just maybe for a
I ignored the long line of chattering students and
I was trapped in a whirlwind, completely overminute. The way he looked at me – it was as if he
discreetly took a seat at a table in the back. I pulled
whelmed. I couldn’t think, couldn’t move. I had to
was asking me something.
out some homework but was too stressed to focus. I
force myself to breathe. I could hear my heart
I heard sirens approaching.
decided to study the ceiling instead. The squares of
Can you hear me, Anna? The gentle voice echoed
aching
to
explode.
I
wished
it
would.
I
wanted
it
fluorescent lights made a checkerboard; I hadn’t noin my head, taking me by surprise. It was his. Was it
to stop, stop letting me survive, stop beating, just
ticed that before. The lights had a greenish tint and
a memory or was I really hearing him?
let me go. Looking around at the swirling faces, I
the longer you stared at them, the darker the room
Yes, I can hear you, I thought. If it is you.
wondered why no one tried to help.
appeared. I was beginning to feel disoriented by the
My throat dried up, getting tighter and tighter,
A slow, gorgeous smile crept across his face. I
time the line to the kitchen was nearly gone. Tables
as if someone was choking me. Tears burned my
knew you could. ✎
were filling up and the noise around me grew louder.
eyes, blurring the world. It hurt. I hurt. Those few
I knew someone would notice me eventually. In
T
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’09
Between Rails
My Cello
Ascent Noir
Peter Pan never showed up
to punch your ticket to Neverland.
So please don’t wait on the tracks anymore.
Don’t linger on those rocks, they’ll burn
your feet.
I’ve walked the rails, followed them
not to the end, just to the next station.
But there I found a half-cent tax on
penny candy
and a river of pre-used ticker-tape.
So maybe, instead, you should send in
your résumé,
Ask Captain Hook for that ticket to Neverland
And cross the tracks to wait for him,
to see if he shows up.
My Cello is a wonderful work of art,
Taken from a hollow log and shaped
into a half bitten pear on both sides
with smooth edges and sharp corners
Cut thin until the moisture opened up
the deep dark sound of meticulous
Mozart and beloved Beethoven.
i was told
although i was the center of my own universe
the stars would not lie
at my feet
by Hannah Melville-Weatherbee,
So. Freeport, ME
sometimes i
remember
sometimes i remember
dr. seuss books that declared
with such certainty
that individuality was
all that mattered
bible verses that explained
why we would be going to hell
if we didn’t pick up the pace
looking through mousetraps
and crossing our fingers
as we prayed:
don’t die, little guy,
don’t die, don’t die.
now,
on an apple-juice stained sofa
i watch smoke leave
a sagging body in a gray sweatshirt directly
through the nose
and i wonder if this is what
dr. seuss meant all those years ago about
nonsense waking up the brain cells.
and i’m thinking,
i shouldn’t let you do this.
but then again,
i am such a hypocrite.
sometimes i remember
sunday school priests
and how they would describe
heaven as this place where
you love god
so passionately that
it is enough
and it is enough
and it is enough.
so maybe if i could believe in
boys in the ripped jeans
and gray hoodies
enough to make them gods
i could make this world
heaven and i could tie-dye
my past blue and green
and it would serve as earth.
glitter littered
my frozen toes
and broken skin
i knew
by Esther Huh, Woodside, NY
Photo by Marissa Geiser, Chilton, WI
End of the World
Runaway.
walking barefoot through space
I’m standing at the end of the world
It’s where salty air grips your throat violently
And then becomes pleasurable
It’s where the sea meets the sky
In a dull blue line
Before me
Electric hills and mountain tops
Where runaways run far
Just run away with me, my dear
Uncover who we are
Beneath the stars and blanket black
We lie and watch the moon
I’d lie with you forever more
And sing the same night’s tune
hadn’t been such a good
idea as perpetual dusk engulfed me
in one swollen gulp
It’s where the wind caresses the tiger lilies
In big ceramic vases
Where the street glimmers
With diamonds and emeralds of broken glass
Where children’s thundering, heartbeat
footsteps
Pound as they race for the rides
In bright and foamy sandals
I’ll keep you far from war and such
And hold you close tonight
I’ll give you all that I can give
And try to be your light
So run away with me, my dear
And bring me all your love
You’re the girl from all the movies
The one that I’ve dreamt of.
a star
It’s where the garbage and mystery
Flirt lazily with murder
Where the seagulls converge
On plump, glossy trash bags
Where the flies hum
Their own ode to the stench
Amplified in June’s humidity
It’s where the tiny diner stands
As it implodes from within
Where nothing ever changes around here
It’s the immortality that lurks
In the peeling, stained wallpaper
And the sticky linoleum floors
And the cigarette-tainted voices of
the waitresses
I’m standing at the end of the world
This is the city limits
Your world limits
You don’t go any further from here
I’m bracing myself on the edge
So only the ocean can laugh at me now
by Sara Jansson, Princeton, NJ
July 23rd
Sometimes nothing is better
than a glass of cold water
poured
on my feet,
sizzling
on the hot asphalt.
Sometimes the dragonflies buzz
and whine
like an old woman
who claims she’s had enough of life
but won’t give it up,
not yet.
but i always seem to
remember you.
Sometimes the sun is hot on my neck
and your kiss is the only balm,
cool and passionate
like the distant stars who fleck the sky.
I will need you in the summer.
by Holly McDede, So. Plainfield, NJ
by Andrew Dobies, Long Grove, IL
sometimes i remember god,
and sometimes he remembers me.
i stepped on them anyway
the glitter spread
to my legs my arms my head
and there i hung in silence
[at the center of my universe]
by Ashley Eberhart, Culver, IN
Backbone
we fight like cats, backs arching
hissing, spitting.
you say, “grow a backbone”
oh, but that’s just what you need.
a backbone.
maybe you could face yourself.
a backbone, to keep you from
twisting all the way around
so the lies don’t slap your face
into blazen chagrin.
a backbone
so you don’t have to be
just like the ones who brought you here.
a backbone.
by Ryan Smith, Hastings, MI
The Death
of a Poem
It hurts, I swear it does,
As you run a spear through the words.
I listen to the sloppy speech,
The unkempt pronunciation.
Meaning lost,
To uncaring ears
by Gabrielle Hempel, Cincinnati, OH
I want to caress the words,
And you hold them at arm’s length,
Stare them down,
Then begin your long hike through them
Dissecting, inspecting,
Then smashing back together the
mutilation of
Poem, story,
Heart.
Farewell
Umbilical cord stretched across miles.
Hand trembles for scissors. Untouchable.
Family wounds uncared for by first aided
smiles.
Dirt encases you like newly laid tiles;
“Gone” written upon the casket is your label.
I love the whisper of feeling on my tongue,
You swallow it without knowing.
Rushing on,
It rushes down.
Periods missed,
Inflection lost.
Dismembering the entire work.
All the family tree is left with: blood-filled
vials.
Videos not even on cable.
smiles.
And I wait ’til you’re gone,
Then recite words with meaning.
Hold them in my heart,
Cradle them.
Try to touch the author’s skin
For it must hurt to be lost,
To be tortured.
Feeling unknown
And I hold the story,
And coax out,
With loving care, its meaning.
Barrels of lies float in wake of aisles.
Porcelain bathtub; rocking girl unstable.
Grief tuned into one station. Unmovable
party dials.
No celebration with pictures on tables.
smiles.
For surely this is the fate of this work,
Show it kindness, respect,
Please treat it as a poem.
All affairs simply put into files.
Memories. Please. Become forgotten fables.
smiles
by Aleana Christian, Independence, MO
by Tracy Ewert, River Forest, IL
POETRY
•
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
35
Little Dream World
I walk
In my field of colored paper flowers
Watching the petals
Slowly fall off
And flutter through
The rainbow colored wind
As the white rain
Begins to drip down
From candy flavored clouds
To soak the multicolored flying petals
Of the paper flowers
And bring them to rest
In the dying black grass.
by Katie Richardson, Fayetteville, AR
of something we eventually named “horizon”
and a moon that changed shape from crests
into spheres
come nightfall
we were given plains
empty and vast never-ending in each direction
and rolling rock
glaciers of ice toward our northern pole
and strobes of heat at our south
we were given life
in the composition of creatures, humans,
and breath
and chose names for the bodies of water
that separated our continents –
titled them Atlantic, Indian, Pacific
and divided further into cities (Singapore
and Rome)
areas and territories based on factors
such as jewels and belief, color and race
fed ourselves from the soil we were given
and swallowed fruits from seeds where
clementines grew
perplexed but without hindrance
Photo by Kristin Duprie, Bremerton, WA
deep sleep slumber
I like to watch you sleeping
your chest, it caves, your lungs inflate.
the faintness of your voice, it soothes
dreams captured in tangled locks
I remember when they were orange.
the breath you breathe it’s louder now
I still don’t understand
what are you trying to tell me?
your paws tucked neatly under that chest
your nape, it peeks from under those locks.
back turned toward the sun
I don’t agree one moment!
the sun should illuminate your face
within a sweet face rests tired muscles
today, it’s a collarbone foundation.
toes tangled in sleep, ankles wrenched
with exhaust
your clothes don’t fit you right
a sleepy voice now tugs at my sleeve
I can barely hear the hum
escaped dreams, come and tackle me
tickle, tackle, ’til I fall
into a deep sleep slumber too
by Tina Saienni, So. Brunswick, NJ
Child of the Snow
(Snow Angel)
You spin in diamond
Pale as the snow you came from
Spring sends you away
by Elizabeth Ridolfi, Auburn, CA
Evolution
we evolved from nothing.
given only our ground as platform
we struggled to walk on two feet
watched a ball of light rise and set on
either side
36
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’09
began to untangle dialect
record history on the bark (the browns of trees)
and make what little we knew then known now
began to build
to use two god-given hands to form structures
and stability
for our children’s children from irons and ores
with hopes of moving society forward (and to
survive) and did just that
that and more and continued to make
establish government and before or after
all of this
decipher the difference between days
declared Sunday a day of rest and worship
and found ways to manipulate language to
form poetry or song
twisted fate and misled death into thinking
“it wasn’t its time”
And to think – we have evolved
From nothing into this
by Edye Pucciarelli, Pittsburgh, PA
The Night
The dark doesn’t judge you
Or show you what you lack.
It hides all your secrets
And only shows what’s fact.
It lurks in every corner
And waits for you to see
Into its dark depths
And meet your enemy.
A comfort and a shield
To the prowlers of the night,
A dark sheet to disguise
What we see in light.
A black shadow on the moon
A pigment on the sun
The backdrop of the stars
A mystery undone.
Chapter after chapter,
Have been heard but never written.
Whoever enters never leaves
Because their soul was stricken.
by Brittany Bailey, Springfield, VA
•
POETRY
56th Street
The velveteen beards of words on the
veterans of wars
Their day-swindled spindly legs framed by
Oakwood canes
Skin as thin as oil-soaked translucent paper
Thin as cellophane hanging off the face
Adorned by a well worn, proud, the
bristly ’stashe
Dark as sunken eyes, sloping telescopes,
kaleidoscopes, monoscopes.
Men who hustle lusty prostitutes, loose and
limp and busted
Men speculating prospects without pretense
Without pretext, without preamble, preface,
predominance, prejudice.
Men with a routine of dereliction
Knuckles rudely protrude from meatless
fingers
Grip a sad-framed Oakwood cane.
could easily ruin your stomach.
Drink the water.
Drink the water, and you’ll know for days,
What slithered down your throat.
Agonizing cramps will refuse to leave
your gut.
You’ll know your mistake.
The air is stale.
Where do you go?
You’re lost, remember?
The wind shifts,
You see trees and then smoke.
Still no one for help.
Still no sun for light.
A sharp pain from your stomach.
You collapse.
The ticks are now latched tightly to your skin
With their heads nestled.
by Chalmus Davenport, Humboldt, TN
by Kate Conway, Green Village, NJ
My Mercy and Grace
On the Civil War
Dead (After Lowell)
When the world drowns you out
And you blend into the chaos
When who you used to be
Is buried under the rubble of confusion
I will hold you close
And never let you fall
Your greatest fears will disappear
And only love will remain
I will cast your worries to the ends of the earth
And relinquish the grasp
Of the world’s chains from around your wrists
You are no longer a slave
No longer a servant
To sin
But rather free in my arms
Free in who I am
Let my love rush over you
In a cascade of comfort
Washing away your anxiety
And easing your strife
Erase all your memories of terror
And doubt
The repeat of lies that have been ingrained
in your being
I will etch out
And fill the gaping holes with my mercy
and grace
In a gray corner of upper northwest
The mute circular headstones stand
In the old cemetery of the dead
of Fort Stevens
The decayed, rotted, fishbone ribcages
Nourishing bricked over soil
As the sentries, too faithful by decades
Still guard the road to the filled marsh
Where the glass temple dedicated to
Transcience, celebrity, ruin and madness
Stands, on the other side of Penn,
The great parade ground of the republic
From Pope’s mausoleum, where rests,
Orphaned in history, St. Gauden’s plaster
Nearby the pond stagnates
And overgrown tourists feed overgrown
goldfish
Who eat, ****, fin and expire
Under the watchful eye of the bronze
horseman,
Grant, rising upon his marble bubble
by Douglas Graebner, Bethesda, MD
To the Still Clock on by Natalie Rex, Windermere, FL
My Wall
Leftover
Trees, tall, slim, crowded in some places
In front of you.
Wander blind into the thickets
Trails become fuzzy thoughts.
Were they ever there?
No, I don’t think so.
Ticks cling to your pants.
You’re their hopes,
Their dreams,
Their very reason for existence.
Though you may not know they’re there
Until some time after.
Ah, and now you’re lost.
No one for help.
No sun to see.
Only trees,
Tall, slim, and crowded in some places.
And the ticks,
Who are still ascending your legs.
You’re thirsty.
The water from the lakes and streams
This grease won’t leave,
my hands, residue from yesterday’s
leftovers.
No matter how often, nor how
hard I scrub
palms and fingers are never freed
from particles’
greed:
I am disallowed to feel
clean;
time upon time
day after day, a spotstain, or two, does persist;
yet I must not dwell, on
crumbs from Yore’s table,
before I, too, am
left-over, the
grease on my guests’ hands.
by Brian Sparks, Philadelphia, PA
Good-Bye Song
right then,
Vein-chaser, I will chase you to the end.
Well, you are gone.
When I wished for it so long ago
I never thought it would happen.
I never meant it.
Though I may have always acted
Otherwise
I really did love you.
Now it’s empty here,
Not a sad empty,
Just odd and open.
Like a wall stripped of photographs
Or a shelf missing the books
That we’d seen for all our lives.
Pictures that I wasn’t in.
Books I’d never read.
And now, just gone.
We laid you in the ground today.
I played “Lead, kindly light” for you,
But I didn’t do you or the music justice
Skipping half a line by accident.
But your old friends seemed to like it
As they reminisced about how they
Miss you too.
A child with black eyes is what I was,
you laughed,
With nothing more than broken childish
dreams,
But an ocean can smooth out the roughest
stones, you said,
And love can resurrect a pile of bones.
by Roberta Crossley, Ivins, UT
I am a Sculptor
I am a sculptor
with quick and helpful hands
shaping my poetry (slowly)
to what I want it to
look like
sculpting my mind
onto paper
pushing around my dreams
until they fit in order,
the perfect shape.
by Brooke Turner, Rochester Hills, MI
Just to Feel You
i would reveal my vulnerability
and deploy emotion-satiated drops
down the contours of my face
just to feel your fingertips
whisper reassuring secrets
across my eager skin
as you blockade a stream of defenselessness
from flowing into
the corners of my lips
by Jenny Goldberger, Marietta, GA
Vein-Chaser
Sometimes you just gotta try to breathe,
you said,
In and out, up and down, believe, you said,
Your eyes will burn the world will turn,
there’s always something new to learn,
And I’ll love you ’til the edge of the world,
you said.
Even stars that shine are going to die,
you smiled,
And a heart that beats its fire never lies,
All dragons someday lose to knights in armor,
you smiled,
But before that hero, many widows cry.
A blade against my skin is the answer,
you cried,
The key to something sweeter, better, kinder,
That tear fell down your cheek and I knew
carrots, throw on some bacon bits and
BOOM you gotch yourself a party, and you
ask yourself if it’s a good idea to invite that
one guy from work that always wears the
pocket protectors that nobody really likes
and you know it isn’t, but you do it anyways because you’re a moron! E-I-E-I-O.
A Cool Wednesday
Evening
by Ariel Egbert, Goose Creek, SC
If this is who we are, then what are they,
you asked,
The ones who choose the way we’re going
to be?
I think we ought to know to choose ourselves,
you sighed,
This reflection isn’t what I want to see.
As soon as we are born we start to die,
you said,
And growing old might well be going home,
Is dying just the end or are we living for
that end?
Whichever, I don’t want to go alone.
Sometimes you just gotta try to breathe,
you said,
In and out, up and down, believe, you said,
Your eyes will burn, the world will turn,
there’s always something new to learn,
And I’ll love you ’til the edge of the world,
you said.
by Antonia Chandler,
Lake Forest Park, WA
Mad Gab
They think they are giving out gold
“Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie: pregnant
with twins!”
“Britney Spears goes on a physiological
breakdown”
“Oprah’s weight explodes”
“The Olsen twins’ hidden family drama”
The magazine isn’t worth
the dirt under a hobo’s fingernail,
but it’s priced at $4.00
“100 ways to look slimmer for the holidays”
“Sex tricks he’s been dying to try in bed”
“The most voted-for, hottest celebs of
the year”
They’re getting closer to the inside, but it
only tickles my interest.
I scan the photos, taken probably years before
the story
was ever written, with computerized
castings and mutations under the eyes.
The shopping cart rolls forward
because my mind has moved on.
by Casey Haaf, Bridgeton, NJ
Infomercial
I’m here today to talk to you about obesity
among the fast-food industries. Once upon
a howdy dooda, old McDonald had a farm,
emphasis on the HAD, all those clickcluckin’ oink moo bastards are wrapped
tight between two bun patties, Burger Punk
for a nickel you can super size it! 89 cents
for a lighter to throw some California tree
in my happy meal and if you spin the flint
hard enough you can watch little Peter cottontail hoppin’down the bunny trail, pickin’
up the prairie dogs and pfft, boppin’ ’em on
the head, but what I probably love most
about Idaho is the salad with the little baby
Art by Zoelle Metzger, Boston, MA
Having you
alongside me
So here we are
on this cool Wednesday evening.
Finding new scars
and realizing how deceiving you are.
So here we are
your guilty pleas
after you lied to my face.
Please, proceed.
Go on,
on with your rambles blanketed with lies.
I’m not up for the chase anymore.
So here we are
Splitting apart.
It’s like ping pong.
Words cutting our souls,
back and forth.
We cannot even remember the start.
And this is where we are.
Going our separate ways,
by Sara Strack, Milwaukee, WI
Is much better than going to London, Italy,
France, Greece, Hoboken
or being caught up in the crowds on the
streets of New York City while going to the
Empire State Building
partly because your cologne smells like a
better, more handsome version of Ben
Affleck
partly because of my love for you, partly
because of your love for your new Mustang
partly because of the rain trickling down your
window, partly because of your hands
partly because of the way your words inspire
my psyche and soul
it is difficult to understand how one can live
their life without this intoxicating bliss
the way your brown eyes longingly converse
with mine, wordless, content, practically
frozen in time
in the cool October nightly breeze, we are
hidden beneath a large warm cover
burrowed deep with a family of bunnies in
their holes
and the city pedestrians seem to make no
noise at all, just a blur of images
you suddenly wish if only this moment could
go on forever, sitting upon your scruffy
maroon porch steps
I glance at your soft jaw line, and I would
rather look at your face than at all the busy
people of the world
and when you are with me my stress seems to
fly away
and what is the point of all the busy
pedestrians hurrying to jobs
when they never got the chance to pause for a
second and experience a perfect situation
with a mate, for it was unconditional love at
first sight
suddenly realize how fortunate, have someone to hold, someone to longingly care and
deeply cherish
when many never got the chance to
experience this pure glee, as if never existed
to begin with
this will not fritter away on us; I whisper
these soft words into your ear then we sit
upon these cold steps, not alone but together.
by Sophia Petris, Linden, NJ
First Snow
Deep in the night it comes
Covering footprints of summer
Purifying the landscape of the year’s sins
As it falls, each perfect flake a masterpiece
Life
Slows
Down
And takes the time to stop
And look
At the beauty that surrounds it
The sound it makes is like angels
landing softly
It makes you want to cry
And laugh
And ponder at the strangeness of it all
Like magic it envelops you in its secrets
Whispering silly wonders in your
incredulous ears
Dancing around your lifted soul
Proclaiming its love to your open heart
As it falls, petty evils melt away
And you are left with a blanket sewn
with hope
Covering you with its simple promise.
by Hallie Loft, Contoocook, NH
purple
Fields of grasses
dried blonde by the sun
shadowed by storms
royal purple clouds reaching
toward the oceans like old coke bottles
rain streaming deep into the red soil
bulging dirt gives way
tentacled weeds grabbing fiercely
in the twilight cast by oak trees
shining leaves dying
withering
drying richly orange
under the swelling storm clouds
rain like cold pebbles nurturing its
upturned arms
by Alexander Pollak, San Francisco, CA
POETRY
•
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
37
f i c•t i o n
38
Space and Immortality
by Victoria Gilcrease, Pearland, TX
bopped his head to them and pretended that they were
thoughtversation. He was one of the last in the long
t was clear and bright that day, as it was the day I
written especially for him. The little man had been
string of students, and walked up to the podium with a
met Sarah. It was three years ago when I first saw
bopping and waiting for the opportunity to suppress
limp.
He
did
not
have
a
limp.
What
was
he
doing?
The
her, sitting on a flat black rock under a tree readopposing members of his community and to have his
speaker before Max had been sweating profusely and
ing One Hundred Years of Solitude, which I had never
way. The little man was not to be underestimated – he
Max was sweat-less and boyish in comparison, his
read but recognized as a weighty kind of book. I had
worked the switches. And now I was glad that I had
pressed white oxford shirt a perfect complement to the
gotten excited by that, the juxtaposition of that weight
said it. I hoped that Sarah would recognize the line
rumpled blond hair that, when at full capacity, only
against her lightness – two aspects that so rarely go
later, as she replayed the scene in her confused and
built him up to a shameful 5'3". He looked now as if
together and when they do imply some kind of misslimited brain, that she would trace it back to its origins
he had just emerged from a shower, fully clothed. He
ing information, some buried piece of the puzzle
and analyze the hidden meanings and the subtext of the
sparkled. His glasses winked.
that thumps and beeps from its grave, crying to be
song, tracing it back always to our relationship and to
“Commitment
is
often
difficult,
but
rewarding
when
unearthed.
how she had failed me.
you lose yourself completely into another person. It is
Today I watched the sky from inside St. Michael’s
She looked at me now, distraught. She did not
a very beautiful thing, marriage is.” This was the comchurch, where the high school graduation ceremony
understand. I conversed with her mentally.
mencement speech that he had prepared, and Max
was trickling along at an impossibly slow rate. I had
spoke the words as a kindly dictator
– Why do you fight me?
anticipated this day for weeks, years,
speaks to his people: “I have total and
– You have no reason for this.
imagining the release from guilt that an
– I have many.
official confirmation of commitment’s
“I was destined complete knowledge of every aspect of
your lives, but do not worry, I will pro– You do not.
completion would provide – free, finalfor
greatness,
tect
you.”
He
pattered
back
to
his
seat.
– I have been planning this, the timing, the converly, free! I’d assumed that the ceremony
My friend the wind slapped me on
sation, the wind, everything. I am responsible for all of
itself would take no time at all – that it
and you are
the back as I approached Sarah after the
it. The universe answers to me.
would be instant, a Las Vegas-marriage
ceremony,
which
had
ended
inconclu– Will …
kind of event, with diplomas packed
stagnation”
sively as such things always seem to do.
– Do you not see how beautiful this is? I am doing
tightly into a massive piñata that would
This did not concern me. I was off to
this for you, planned it this way, held out my action so
be assaulted by desperate students scatbigger and better things. Part One of my plan had
I could do this on the day we graduate, the day when
tering its contents, a mound of squabbling kids kickended smoothly, though with some delay, and Part
everything must symbolically end and the past is
ing and grabbing – it’s yours if you can catch it!
Two
was
beginning
to
unfold.
locked up with a key and the key thrown into the past
The ceremony was the first and least important in a
I had asked Sarah to meet me here, under the
with everything else. This is the only way! We can
list of three key events that I had planned for today.
white columns and the bright sky on the porch of St.
choose our memories! We can paint in the colors and
Each event was exponentially more important than the
Michael’s, after the ceremony. She arrived before me
the winds and the details of our shoes and eyelashes.
one preceding it so that every minute of every hour
and was leaning against the white swirls of the column
Everything can be remembered, if timed appropriately!
would be building up to something bigger, something
with her mouth slightly open and the wind hitting her
Twenty years from now, you will look back and regreater, with the spectacular finish always in sight, a
face from the northwest, increasing her blinking and
member the minutia of this moment, every word and
perfectly timed apogee of freedom.
causing her to place one foot slightly behind the other,
glance, not because it means anything but because it
The ceremony was delayed by a graduation tradifor
balance.
All
was
going
as
planned.
happened at this juncture in our lives, this day, this
tion, a custom that the school insisted on continuing.
“Listen, Sarah,” I started. I could already tell this
time. Is this true? Have I broken your heart yet?
Every member of the graduating class walked up to
was going to be good. “We’ve had some good times,
I walked away feeling satisfied and confident in my
the podium and delivered a brief statement that they
you and I. We’ve seen some great things. For a while
superiority. Max was waiting for me on a bench across
had prepared. The intention was to provide students a
the world rested flat in our hands and we used it as a
the street. The bench was white marble and coated in a
brief chance to address their class one last time, a way
Frisbee ….”
forest of green vines, broken in patches where passerby
to verbally and emotionally conclude the four years
“Will?”
had vigorously sat and where Max sat now, rhythmithey spent together.
I was not finished.
cally tapping his right foot on the leg of the bench,
Thoroughly discussing the event with my best
“I
am
not
finished.”
knocking it persistently, a relentless salesman at the
friend, Max, mapping out the pros and cons and comMy plan was faltering; I could see it in her rapidly
door. He stood up when he saw me, excited.
paring the opportunity loss with the embryonic potenblinking eyes and crooked stare. Had her nose always
“We are free.” He had watched my encounter with
tial, the future, we came to the conclusion that the idea
been that crooked? I began anew.
Sarah and knew what was what.
was ambitious and destined for failure. At a magnet
“I think that it’s time for us to go our separate
“Yes, we are,” I agreed.
school of 1,500 kids, there was no way it could work.
ways.”
Max and I walked down the street, east of the
“There’s no way it’ll work,” Max had said. “You’ll
“What?”
church, toward our prearranged destination. Part
see.” He said that a lot. “You’ll see, Will.” His chin
“I can’t afford distractions. You are
Three. We had walked these streets so
tilted up in my direction, mouth stretched unnaturally
too
loud,
too
honest
and
conspicuous.
I
many times over the past four years,
thin. It was his way of assuring me that he knew more
We were
am destined for greatness, and you are
since that first day our freshman year
than I did.
stagnation. Look into my eyes and see
when we bumped into each other on the
As a matter of fact, he was right. Students had been
planning our
my pupils, see how they extend into
sidewalk. I, lost outside a new high
reading their two- or three-sentence inventions for
worlds you could never hope to know,
school; he, an after-school skater on a
hours now. Had it been hours? Even the principal,
hiatus into
blacks and blues and freezing winds,
mission to orbit the neighborhood. Since
whose job it was to preside over the ceremony, was
shivering winds. Max is my ally! You
yawning, looking at his watch, rolling his eyes, showtruthful existence then we continued meeting in that spot
are another loose end.” I was excited. I
daily, there on the sidewalk, Max skating
ing signs of agony. There is no way it hadn’t been
was
getting
carried
away.
“I
thought
and spinning on roller blades and I walkhours. Each student read their phrase in slow motion,
that you were special, but I was wrong.”
ing beside him, a power duo. We each brought somevowels arching on for minutes at a time, with words
“Why do you do this?”
thing to this friendship. Max benefitted extraordinarily
becoming useless vacuums of meaning, exercises in
“Everything I learned about breaking hearts, I
from my sage wisdom, my stability, my good looks,
self-gratification. Why do we still communicate with
learned from you.” That last part surprised me and I
and I from his quick thinking and his math skills. Had
speech? It is not conducive to communication; it is
had no idea what I meant by it. I hadn’t intended to say
we chosen to pursue gambling careers, I would be the
negative thought! We should have mind conversation
that back when I had first planned this confrontation at
person enchanting the dealer with my charm while he
by now. How can we not have mind conversation? I
the beginning of the school year, now so long ago,
counted the cards.
stared at the back of a girl’s head, trying to slingshot a
when
Max
and
I
had
started
plotting
self-discovery,
our
But Max was jauntier than usual today; the swishthought from my brain to hers.
hiatus into alternate and truthful existence, but when I
swish of his pants took on a frantic tone.
Turn around.
still awaited the right moment for final detonation. I
“I didn’t think we were going to make it.”
Turn around!
vaguely recognized the phrase I had just used as an
“I know.”
Nothing. We have failed. I was trying to do someoverdramatic tag line from a song I heard in the car on
“Yesterday we had obligations. We had specific
thing spectacular and she was not cooperating. It was
the way to the church. I had always dismissed the tune
tasks that had to be done, and the quality of our days
time for drastic measures.
as ridiculous, but there was always a little man in my
was measured by the size and time and difficulty of
You will die at sunset!
head who respected the lyrics, listened to them and
those tasks. We lived for paper, for alarm clocks ➤➤
Max approached the podium, interrupting my
I
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’09
Shattered Glass
Max was pirouetting on the front two wheels of his
rollerblades as we approached the bus station, tickets
in hand. The sign hanging above the station was in
Spanish and leaning to the side, a double offense. This
was apparently a construction worker hangout, judging
from the men of exceeding upper body strength with
cracked yellow helmets loitering around the building,
purposeless without heavy tools and building material.
They stared at Max as we approached. Max sashayed.
This is wrong. It is right! We walked into the crowd
of construction workers preparing to board the bus, the
one that would take us from Michigan to California to
begin our adventure. Part Three. This bus. My forward
steps and this bus. The top of Max’s head bobbing and
this bus and the woman bus driver with blond hair that
looked so much like Sarah’s but with none of the brilliance, a tangled independence that spoke of drunk
husbands and sticky children and not of epic novels
and trees. No, no, this is wrong.
“Max. I can’t.”
Max now sat on the curb, beneath the open and
threatening glass doors of the bus, removing his
rollerblades. He squinted, then shrugged. He knew.
“I know.”
And Sarah looked at me, eyes glimmering in that
first clear blue day, freckles frolicking on her apple
skin like living connect-the-dots trying to find unity,
strength in numbers. She smiled as she noticed me. I
was a puppet, a victim of its universe. I did not want
to die in space. I did not want to be with the stars,
cold, frozen and unwelcoming, alone, unknown. I did
not want to die at all, ever. I just wanted to be here,
with Sarah, with Max smiling approvingly in the
distance, not too close, only close enough to appreciate
and to understand, and I wanted to make a home with
her under the tree and to live like Hercules in the garden
of Hesperides and to never sleep but to stare up at stars
that smoldered in the sky, where they belonged and
where I did not, and I am taking her hand in mine and
no one can stop me from doing this, no one can stop
me from taking her hand and spinning the ring on her
finger around with my thumb, you cannot take this
from me because I am free, I am free, I am free! ✎
f i c•t i o n
and phone calls, for appointments kept and paper
speeding by beside us as birds blasted by unmolested
clips fastened, and for paper, always for paper.”
overhead. The world is slowing. This is not life, this is
I let him continue because I knew he enjoyed it.
not fast-paced and breathtaking. We were not moving
“Yesterday we thought that paper could save us,
fast enough. We needed to pick up the pace. What is
that every sheet carried potential for salvation, every
happening? I had been exhilarated, I had been in conwrinkle and line a fated plot turn for our blindly
trol, I had steered the wind and manned the universe.
murderous lives.”
And it was all wrong now; it was the same, nothing
“And now?”
had changed, but I was no longer buoyant.
“Now we are done with yesterday.”
My steps were slow and sluggish. Max looked
His logic was sound. A gust of belligerent wind hit
ridiculous, the underbelly of cool, all glasses and
us as a collection of cars flurried past, all of them
rollerblades and inflated hair and munchkin stature.
white, a fleet of mechanical doves. I wondered briefly
But what about Part Three? Part Three! The culminawhat would happen to the roads if someone were to
tion! The apogee! This is all wrong. No, it was deserase the white lines delineating each lane. Would
tiny! It was the path that Max and I had been planning
cars continue to speed past unphased, conditioned as
and it was right.
Hadn’t we sat in the field every day during our
they were to constant alignment, or would they escape
lunch periods, when we could finally escape from the
from their pasts and rocket uncontrollably for a few
meaningless stories and the chatter of
glorious moments before igniting like
active mouths? Hadn’t we planned our
stars into the sky?
“Max?”
exodus? We were going to be travelers,
“When I die,
“Yes?”
mapmakers, pilgrims. We were going to
“When I die, I want to be shot into
see more than the road we walked on
I want to be
space. I want my body to be loaded into
daily, rollerblading and orbiting – this
shot into space” road, this place, we were going to be
a single-passenger rocket, anonymousbetter than all of it. We were better than
ly, in the middle of farmland or the
all of it. And hadn’t we planned every
ocean, and I want to be launched to the
last detail, the bus tickets, the hotel arrangements, the
farthest coordinate possible. I want to be frozen etermissionary work, the martyrdom, everything? We
nally in an uncharted and uncelebrated quadrant of
were going to drop all previous commitments and
space. I don’t want to be remembered, I don’t want to
begin anew, snip away all attachments like plastic
be thought of, I want to be alone and cold and frozen
tag-holders. We were going to be free.
and unthinking and away from all of this. What?”
Sarah looked up as I approached, holding her book,
“I just, uh-”
so large, so wide for her small hands. She was illumi“What?”
nated by the sun, her skin the color of an apple’s
“It’s just, what is this about? Because you’re talking
meat. She sat in the grass, and I could tell that she
about space and death and I think you’re really talking
didn’t need me and I wanted her to need me. I wanted
about something else. If you don’t want to do this
to open jars for her, to put boxes in high places for her
anymore, that’s fine, I just think ….”
and then to lower them down again at her behest.
“I am talking about astronomy.”
“Sarah-”
– This is right.
“No.”
– Do you really think so?
“Are you sure? Because I really think-”
– Yes. I know it. It is destiny.
“Drop it, Max.”
– Can I trust you?
We moved in silence, swish swish, swish swish, cars
– I will never break your heart.
by Laura Klasek, St. Louis, MO
well-washed shards are from bottles he himself carelessly
e slowly turns the pliers in his hand, curling the
threw into the ocean.
wire around itself. With one last squeeze, the next
The mobile is for his granddaughter, Andi. Her brother,
piece of his beach glass mobile is complete. It
Gordon, has a similar one – well, he does if Melissa hasn’t
sparkles as he holds it up to the sun and translucent brown,
thrown it out. He wouldn’t blame his daughter if she had.
blue, and green dance across weathered skin.
She has every right to still hate him. She has every right to
The soft sound of clinking glass echoes through the
ignore his existence.
workshop. The small room is furnished with a table and a
In his daydreams, the lovingly crafted mobiles hang
folding chair. Older mobiles hang from the ceiling, movover
the cribs. Melissa and her husband might hate them
ing slightly from side to side. A 25-year-old fan sits in the
but decide that the children need something
corner, blowing softly, ruffling the pages of
of their only living grandparent. Melissa
the book emblazoned with a cross that sits
This green is
might use them as a lesson: never touch
on the corner of the table. One framed phoglass bottles; the stuff inside is pure poison.
tograph stands next to the book. It is of a
for Hefeweizen,
Another piece is firmly attached, and he
younger man – brown bottle in hand, arms
checks his watch. His meeting is in an hour.
around a smiling woman – grinning into the
this brown for
They are going to play cards. His wife loved
camera on a picturesque beach. The photocards. Every time they play at a meeting, he
graph isn’t there for happy nostalgia. It is a
Budweiser
is reminded of how she had begged him to
reminder of what he has lost and what he
go to a meeting, to talk to someone, to call
still has to gain.
his brother, to play chess with Melissa, to take Max huntHe pushes his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose and seting for shells, to walk the dog on the beach, to feed the cat,
tles into the worn folding chair. He sifts carefully through
to do anything but drown himself in a brown glass bottle.
the round-edged beach glass, looking for the right piece to
He finds another piece of beach glass and carefully
attach next.
inserts a wire in the small hole, threading his past and
The browns and greens shine back into his eyes. He can
tying it in a mobile to hang over his granddaughter’s
still identify the color of glass that each beer brand used
bed, so she might know some day that he never meant
for their bottles. This green is for Hefeweizen, this brown
to hurt anyone. ✎
for Budweiser. He wonders, as he always does, if these
H
Photo by Jessica Furtado, Bradford, MA
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
39
The Invisible Ones
Mother May I
I am the ugly one,
The outlier in skinny-model-land.
You think me stupid and fat,
The duckling that remained grotesque.
Eyes slide past me,
Wishing I would take another seat.
But I stay, cramped and wretched,
Watching the world.
Mother May I …
go and play amongst the blood red roses
where children scream eternally
never knowing the wild posies.
I am the poor one,
The result of unkept promises.
You look at me, pitying, contemptuous
I can’t chase my despair away with a match.
Eyes slide past me,
Longing to pass on the used toy.
But I stay, clinging to dream confetti,
Watching the world.
I am the quiet one,
The wallflower in the corner.
You wonder why I’m here at all
I don’t limit myself with words.
Eyes slide past me,
Wanting the caterpillar to become a butterfly.
But I stay, singing in silence,
Watching the world.
I am the crazy one,
The caged bird of the rehab center.
You scorn me, are frightened of me,
Hate my neon-pink thorns.
Eyes slide past me,
Already judging, guillotine ready.
But I stay, laughing, crying,
Watching the world.
You do not see us,
But we are there.
You do not hear us,
But we are there.
We watch the world,
But you don’t watch us.
We are the loneliest
And yet the least lonely.
We are the Invisible Ones.
by Shirley Doan, Shrewsbury, MA
In Loving Memory,
Leah Elizabeth
I remember
When we would play
King of the mountain
On your freshly made bed
Mommy would be mad at us
But we wouldn’t care
I remember
How I would let you win
Just to see you shine
When you would say
“I beat my big sis!”
Mother May I …
laugh and sing for all to hear
and lead the frightened children
away into the Silva of despair.
Mother May I …
Dance and Cry in a scarlet colored sky
while drops of red come pouring down
from blood-filled clouds.
Mother May I …
say good-bye to all of those who have done
their time
while jumping to their deaths to join their
beloved friends
leaving only me to weep away the
loneliness I drown myself in.
Mother May I …
leave or do you wish for me to stay
in a never-ending life of misery.
Mother May I …
No, sweet child, no.
by Sarah Dunbar, York, PA
Ode to the Weary
Math Student
Woe to the math student,
In an advanced class,
Who tries oh so hard,
And yet can’t seem to pass
The equations are evil,
The numbers, nonsense
And all the test grades
Contain dark suspense
A slave to the book
Odd answers are in back –
Oh so tempting to look
Who studies for hours,
And stares at the page,
The body is paralyzed,
But inside, so much rage
Doomed to the grave,
If surviving to the bell,
The soul may be saved,
But oh, when returned home
There awaits homework,
The student, in despair,
Calls the teacher a jerk
But now your image is just
A picture in a frame
And all I can do now
Is remember.
by Katie Iaba, Massena, NY
Photo by Kristen Albert, Plainville, MA
Teen Ink •
by Jessica Lippe, Central Point, OR
Unconscionable
How should I take it when a young brother
calls me out my name?
Talkin’ ‘bout I want because of the length of
his chain.
How should I feel when you boss me around?
Talkin’ ’bout you’re a pimp, but you’re so
lost, you can’t be found.
What should I do when all you want from me
is my set of measurements?
Talkin’ ’bout you want a red bone,
a 38, 24, 31.
How should I react when you hand me
your gun?
Talkin’ ’bout you just want to have some
harmless fun.
How do I pick up where I left off?
When I’m doing time for your decisions and
another family is mourning over their loss.
This is the story of a gansta’s chick, whose
Clyde so soon forgets just who got his back.
The one he smacks around, controls her life,
causes the utmost amount of confusion
and strife.
The one who gave up her intelligence to feed
his fifth grade reading level male ego.
The one who was finally let free out of his
dangerous clutch.
The one who was remembered by the size of
her butt.
The one who finally has a clue as to what to
do with her life.
The one whose love has no price.
The one who found her own source of
appreciation of her inner beauty.
The one who holds the key to her own
destiny, finally.
by Anonymous, Athens, GA
To a Younger Version
of Myself
Dear Me,
I do believe
you should find this letter
between volumes of
Harry Potter books
on a dark and rainy
Sunday.
There are many things
I feel I could tell you
that might make your world
a little easier.
I remember
How your brown hair
Bounced when you would
Run up and hug me
Your big blue eyes
Widened in excitement
40
Woe to the math student
Who will surely die
The numbers are deadly,
And no one knows why
The brain has shut down,
The body is weak,
And oh, what’s awaiting
In math class next week?
SUMMER ’09
•
POETRY
But in doing so
you would lose
the spontaneity of life
The sudden, sharp
pain
of losing a friend, or
joy felt on that 4th of July
spent with him
even if it was
fleeting
…There is one thing
I’ll let you know.
In the spelling bee
(you’ll win this time
instead of getting second place)
if you spell
hexapod
with an A
not an O
Good Luck,
Rebecca
by Rebecca Turchan, Neenah, WI
Yellow Flowers
A name is pride honor and family
is shoulders to cry on and
Memories are everything once forgotten.
Kentucky is childhood roots and summer
is board games truck rides leaving but
knowing that
Christmas is plaid jackets popcorn tins
and tradition.
May 9 was AP test no more studying
and a phone call
is changing lives in those short minutes.
Pain is black dresses good-byes and realizing
that time
is spending every minute with people you
love and
Hugs are favorite cousins tears and escaping
that pain for a brief second.
Grandpa was God Grandma CNN basketball
Yellow Flowers
respect loyalty taking care of loved ones hard
work and
I’m memories tradition and trying to
live up to
that name that is pride honor and family
and everything
he was.
by Megan Carr, Overland Park, KS
God Poem
God is? Father mother teacher
punisher big brother preacher?
I will? Love serve worship adore revere
Respect exalt attend obey learn fear
We say God gives cause for everything
We think God has purpose for the crying
Kids die because God wants them in the sky?
With God there is always a reason why.
And even if I drift (to the devil?)
If I wandered down to lower levels
God would boost me back where I’m
supposed to be?
The one who’d stay up through the night
for me?
Or is it me, even in the dark, all along?
Or is it me, even when in light, all along?
My ups and downs, my joy and pain,
my being
Is made by me. Frightening, might be freeing –
That I am my own shoulder to cry on
I am my own dusk and my own new dawn.
I am Father mother teacher
punisher big brother preacher.
by Ana Brett, Fairfield, IA
Thorns
She holds a fragile ball,
Pure crystal,
In the delicate design of
Her interlocked fingers.
The light reflects and refracts
Into bursts of living color,
Blending to make rainbows.
But her spiderweb of fingers
Breaks, accidentally,
As all things do,
And so does the crystal;
The broken pieces poking,
Like thorns,
Causing lipstick red
To bleed from every
Surface with a heartbeat
They touch.
by Alyssa Smith, Hamilton, TX
La Belle au Bois
Dormant
In the dampness of summer heat
we bounce on that trampoline
in our own secret garden, where the hedges
and weeds and sunflowers
are overgrown
look at us,
we are beautiful
we are young
we are alive
we are untouchable
There are memories
when you see time pass by and flow like syrup
we danced through life
do you remember?
We thought we were Sleeping Beauty
guarded by a dragon
saved by a prince.
Childhood is lemonade stands on your block
and Mickey Mouse pancakes and seesaws,
sandcastles
and believing in fairy tales
do you remember
how our mothers found us sleeping on your
couch one afternoon
really thinking that princes would come
to wake us up
and we would marry them and dance on
clouds and our dresses would change
from pink to blue and back to pink again
well, now we don’t believe anymore
in fairy tales or each other
life woke us up one day, not a prince
it got through the thorns around our castle,
the ones that shielded us from reality
when it did
you were you and I was me
and neither one of us
was Sleeping Beauty
by Raisa Tolchinsky, Evanston, IL
Highways
Listen when the cars zoom over the street
They tell stories to the bits of gravel
They are embedded in. Their engines sing
Of all the places they’ve been, but just
Couldn’t stand to leave, so they take pieces
Of the past with them, until they make a mark
On the inside of their homes.
Outside, some are just declarations of
allegiances that were
Popular enough to be mass produced and some
Are badges of pride and medals of honor
slapped
On to adorn the metal armor.
Inside, some are blemishes left by forgotten
one night
Stands, reminders for every once in a while
When the past can be seen in the cracked rearView mirror. Some are bits of nostalgia, dots
Of childhood and crayon that over time melted
Away into aged, lonely fabric.
But greater than the outward bruises and hearts
Worn on outdated sleeves are the thoughts
That fall and rise closest to the ground.
Some look like scars, where stray nails
Tried to find a home or make a friend
But no one ever wanted them, so they
Were pulled away, leaving a hole
Just so they would be remembered for
Once. And then there are places where the
Grooves have been worn away by rough
Highway tracks and dusty country paths
And memories of back home.
by Moira McAvoy, Chesapeake, VA
See This
Kaleidoscope
Sleepwalking
At night, I escape
in my drowsy stupor I roam the hallways.
I take long scalding showers and wake up
all red and spotted;
I flick the lights on and off for hours;
I climb onto balconies and yell about
nothing at all.
See this kaleidoscope of colors
moving, shaking, spiraling
out all over
my page, my life?
Yeah, well,
you are the paint exploding
over it; your hand, my hand
are both on the brush as I
pick it up.
At night, I sleepwalk
all the stress of my day is let out in
the darkness.
I scare others but petrify myself,
because that girl sleepwalking down the
hall isn’t me.
She is all of my fear; my hopes; my anguish;
my loves and my annoyances;
everything that is me wrapped up into one:
And hey, I thought you should know –
I don’t paint because I’m inspired by
the way the
sun plays hide and seek, all like a
child
below the horizon.
I don’t paint because I feel the sand
between my
toes, or because
I feel time blow the breeze back through
my hair
at the beach –
But that girl sleepwalking down the hall
isn’t me.
by Keegan Watters, Dallas, TX
Spring
I believe
That there is such a thing
As new life.
For different people
It comes in different ways.
In the new green grass
Tenderly poking its head up
After an early April downpour.
The small, unsteady legs of a newborn calf
An hour after birth
As it tries to stand for the first time.
The minute details that few notice,
Buds still green
Waving gently in the wind
One would never guess that come sunrise
they will open
Slowly, subtly, but steadily.
This is the magic that is Spring.
Rising dew on a newly sewn spider web.
A butterfly lighting softly on a flower in
full bloom.
In these, we come close to perfection,
As close as we will get
This side of heaven.
I paint because I know you.
by Lauryn Chamberlain, Okemos, MI
Trip
On an uneventful trip
Complicated by problems,
A man threw himself onto the tracks,
And a fire broke out.
The train slowed to a stop;
Everyone poured out.
In mid-July,
Clouds boiled away by the sun,
A fire blazed,
Polluting the clear blue sky with orange
and gray.
We passengers sat and waited.
The air cooled.
Night drew close.
The train moved into darkness.
Photo by Olivia Twining, Dallas, TX
by Kofi Bofah, Media, PA
Parting Is Bitter
Writing Freeze
This moment is:
lying on our backs
under velvet skies
with crystal chandelier drops.
And as it passes, as it ends,
as quickly as it arrived,
I will be able to turn
To our impressed forms
And feel the heat
that radiated from our pores.
Until one day.
One day,
I will not be able to
Turn to our impressed forms.
The bent blades will leap
Back to a soldier’s attention,
millions of
straight, green spinal cords.
It will radiate a nothingness,
A loss of a moment
that can never again
be.
My once fluid imagination has
stopped. I’m frozen.
Stopped, and distracted,
I freeze.
The leaves have stopped mid-air.
On a slant and on a pause, the leaf cannot fall.
On a gray, about to be blue, Tuesday morning,
life should be ready to burst.
Juices of sunlight would pour from the
parting clouds.
But, from my fingers, only empty air.
They’ve not yet fallen, those leaves from
this morning.
When will they land?
The anticipation is a killer
The branches peer down.
Wonder why their leaves have stopped?
Creations of color, but when.
When? will these bites of yellow touch base
with the earth?
Tell me.
I’m winter when it’s autumn,
I’m still when my duty is motion.
Frozen, when all I want is to pour.
by Kathleen Euler, Sewickley, PA
by Meganne Eaton, Columbia, MO
Comatose
We’re hanging on a gossamer thread of lies
and fairy-tale dreams.
You’re Alice in Wonderland; a cheshire in
a tree
Set adrift in the sea of doubt
Laced with traces of the harsh reality
I’m a mouse in a maze of mind
e’re chasing the cheese
Spinner of fate, the web shorn
Bitter tears of regret; things realized too late
The mad queen paints blood on roses and
tears up dreams
chasing a disillusioned reality
Trapped of own; wished free
Lost and alone
in my cave of mind
my cave of mind
one and my own
by Clarissa Lee, Highland Village, TX
by Dominique Bible, Brooklyn, NY
POETRY
•
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
41
art gallery
Art by Jose Hadathy, Marietta, GA
Art by Lacey Thomas, Wasilla, AK
Photo by Joanna Sterngold, Woodland Hills, CA
Art by Zoelle Metzger, Boston, MA
Photo by Emily Fogel, Cape Town, South Africa
Art by Bonnie Shih, Fremont, CA
n Ink
TeeA
R W
er’s
Viehwoice
C
Photo by Olivia Ezinga, Alto, MI
42
Photo by Bianca Azcuy, Damascus, MD
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’09
Art by Ariel Goplin, Moses Lake, WA
Photo by Lindsey Wasson, Woodinville, WA
Draw … Paint … Photograph … Create! Then send it to us – see page 3 for details
I’m a Written Check My Poems Hide
Pepto Bismol
Under the Rocks
Validate me, endorse me, I’m a written check
Made out for the amount you want, I’m
in transition, cash me in, withdraw
my balance,
I belong to you.
You say my hair looks like a mane.
I disagree.
Manes belong on lions and I am no animal.
Yesterday
I was
Found
Hiding in the thicket
Of tangled thorny lies
And fears hidden by nervous reactions
But
The leaves have all dropped out now
My armor
No longer impenetrable steel
A sharp remark
Beats at my last fragile shield
Pale old deceptions
Flinch at a sudden glare
Truth has a way
Of eating you apart
I’m almost gone
My remains are scarce but pure
Yesterday, I was
Crawling
A stranger to myself
Fighting a reluctant battle
My anger erupting
One wrong word spit out
Then
Silence
Crumpled and forgotten, I’m the original
of the copy you lost in the back of your mind
How can you ignore me,
I’m something that pays!
Representing so much possibility,
I’m just here
waiting unnoticed in your billfold for days.
by Kristen Orr, Santa Rosa, CA
Marielle’s Dance
She capers across the living room carpet,
hands tracing an intricate pattern in the air
as her feet crisscross on the floor.
I try to ignore her best I can,
my nose shoved stubbornly
in the centerfold of a magazine,
but I see her out of the corner of my eye,
twirling, dancing, flying.
My little sister,
almost an exact replica of me,
except that from every orifice of her body
seeps an incandescent glow.
She slips from my fingertips,
leaping lazy figure-eights
around and ’round and ’round.
She prances across the Milky Way
in long grand jetés,
toes pointed, legs straight,
arms out and up and open
in a wide, graceful U.
She swings on Saturn’s rings
as if crossing rusty monkey bars,
then soars from star to star
until leaping up in an arc
and descending down
toward Neptune,
in a cannonball to the sea.
She floats on her back
catching her breath slowly
and then rises to begin again.
She dances, dances, dances
back to me from across the galaxy
until she is inches from my hands.
I reach out to her and beg
“Take me with you.
Take me to the edge of the sky
where up is down
and falling is flying,
where time is timeless
and hide-and-seek
never ends.”
She smiles in pity and says nothing,
immersed in her dance,
twirling in and out of sight,
following a labyrinthine path only
she can see,
dodging the couches and the coffee table.
I watch her hair move like a shadow,
dark as a vacant night
until the lamplight latches on
and illuminates the strands like
shooting stars;
all the while, I sit back
wondering when the moment passed
that I lost my courage to dance.
by Maria Carlos, Columbia, MO
My poems hide
behind big brown eyes
Like early morning
Cloudless skies
They are disguised
In the salty sweet of sea dense air
And its resonate voice
In a shell
Curtained between
the most wrong grammar
and the beautiful recreations
in the mispronuncications
in the recreation
of word play
They cache among
Collected “Je ne sais quoi”s
fashion faux pas
and of course the occasional
“Say what?”s
I never did understand Spanish
Blanketed between the sheets
of the “it’s almost love”s
and the “it’s getting there”s
and in the “it’s not quite finished”s
Let’s not forget the “Yes, Of course the
homework’s done”s
When you haven’t even started
Poems hide
in the cracks of the quarks
of the imperfections
of an almost perfect day
Waiting for just one person
To closely examine
The gum on the sole of a shoe
But alas, We forget that the gum
Has a soul too
by Peyton Cacioppo, Baton Rouge, LA
Memories
Photograph jumps unexpectedly
from the page
Bitter memory previously admired by
a younger version of
myself
Cried over in days
now regretted
Hidden needles act as daggers
Piercing what I thought was a healed abrasion
Drawing blood through bandages
Unwittingly applied
I flip the page
The image lingers for a moment
and eventually subsides
I continue on
relieved
But nonetheless on guard
Until, not surprisingly
You appear once more
This time not alone
Beside you sits a girl,
ignorant happiness
reflected in her eyes
How it was the day
before
my smiles turned to lies
I shudder
closing the book
Wincing at the pain
of my scars
Ripped open to create a new wound
by Abbye Woodward, Oxford, MA
Except for the occasional times when I bare
my teeth in anger.
But there’s a part of my animal brain that is
still in love with you.
Why?
You only cause me pain, discomfort,
and nausea.
The same symptoms cured by a Pepto Bismol
tablet.
Next time I see you I’ll make sure to take a
couple ….
by Danielle Conzelman, Enumclaw, WA
You
You are
so
exquisite
And I
so
insignificant
But you
taught
me
I learned
that
laughing
Was not
so
difficult
Yesterday, I was
Sold out
By an enemy
Burrowed deep
Inside myself
The unforgiving war we fought
Ended briskly
Many lives were
Lost
I don’t recognize
The face I’ve so
Delicately molded
Yesterday
Hard, bittersweet anger
Ate away
What was left
Of my shielded soul
by Christina Thai, Westchester, CA
too loud
silence is dripping from their lips
the crowd’s expectant eyes
look up with anticipation
they are aware of what’s around them
more importantly,
aware of what lies within
silence is burning their skin
alighting their mind with realization
in their mind, the loud static is sin
they are the population, the representation
understanding lies in their eyes
which sparkle like fireflies
glinting in the sticky heat of the sun
they do not look for comfort in noise
the world around them holds none
they scream with their silence
begging you not to look for comfort in noise
with silence there will be more joys
the faces are painted with unbreakable poise
because they know, their smiles are prouder
can you hear their flourishing silence?
it is getting louder
Today
I am a lost dreamer
A bitter sailor
No thrill for unknown lands
A silent screamer
Finding no peace in the
Soundproof walls
of selfish minds
Today
I am scratching away
At a pad of
White-hot paper
My hostile mind
Is exhausting
I’m trying for
Something more
But it’s all in vain
I am
Recording
Something I
Hope to never
Remember
I am thirsty for
The sweet simplicity
Of a blank slate
But I must live with what I’ve done
As I will have to live
With what
by Ish Arora, San Jose, CA
I’ve
Become
by Liz Nasca, Edinburg, VA
Photo by Jessica Kishi, San Antonio, TX
POETRY
•
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
43
f i c•t i o n
Time Waits for No One
by Madison Waller, Clarkston, MI
Soon every inch of every wall was
“Was that the ….”
surroundings. “If walls could talk …,”
covered. I could see their faces when I
“Yes.” My mother already knew
my father would always say.
closed my eyes. Some were wooden;
what he was thinking.
The hallway to the kitchen lacked
some were metal. Some were rusted,
“But how?” I could sense panic in
any source of light, so the walk
tarnished, darkened with age, shattered,
his voice.
seemed to last forever. The kitchen
or cracked, but still they continued to
“It chimed. It’s not the end of the
led to the living room, bathroom, and
count off the minutes of eternity.
world. You and your silly superstitwo bedrooms: one for my parents,
My head rang with the hypnotizing
tions.” Her gentle voice calmed him.
one for me. And in the corner of the
ticks. The candles illuminated each
She squeezed his hand as if to reassure
living room, under the oriental rug my
hand moving at the same pace, exemhim. Her radiating glow lit the room
mother purchased to cover up yet
plifying the fact that time didn’t seem
and she walked over to me and kissed
another rose-colored stain, was the
to pass fast enough. I was trapped in
my forehead. “It’s getting late,” she
trap door to the basement. Under the
the haunted echoes that drowned out
said. “You should get
warped floorboards where
the living and welcomed the dead.
some sleep.”
each footstep echoed, the
For me,
Then one night I snapped. I couldn’t
I turned to go to my
basement sat empty, extake the reflections in the clocks that
room. “’Night, Mom. I
cept for the grandfather
superstition love you.”
weren’t mine. I couldn’t understand
clock.
why, when my father slept, I heard
“I’ll
make
you
pancakes
I hated the faceless
was a religion in the morning. Love you
footsteps cutting deep into the floordemon the clock had
boards. I wasn’t safe in that house. I
too.”
become. Its rusted hands
wasn’t safe with this man who had
She lied. In the morning she was
were trapped behind glass, but they
grown into the ground that I wanted so
gone. I remember waking up to a comreached around the house as if to taunt
desperately to escape.
motion in the basement. I heard glass
us with our superstitious fates. The
I walked into the living room and
breaking on the concrete floor, wood
clock had been broken for as long as I
found my father rocking back and
smashing against the walls, the gong
could remember. The hands never
forth in time with the ticking clocks.
of the chimes being thrown all around.
moved, the chime never sounded, time
His eyes were blank. The candles he
I didn’t even cry. I couldn’t. The
never passed. So when my mother
had placed in a circle around him lit
funeral was small. Only the priest, my
unexpectedly passed away that Februhis face in a way that made him
father, and I attended, joining the six
ary night, I blamed the monster in the
almost unbearable to look at.
uninvited guests whose pitch-black
basement. They say that if a broken
“W-we need to go.” I struggled to
wings stood out against the crisp white
clock chimes, death will soon follow.
find my voice after so much silence.
snow. The sharp cackles of the crows
They weren’t kidding. When the maHis head slowly turned to meet my
seemed to linger in the frigid air. My
hogany structure of the clock rattled
eyes. The fire reflected off of his black
father’s face tightened as the coffin
and the thundering chime bellowed
pupils and pierced the night air.
was lowered into the ground. He
through the house, we all froze. I
“We can’t go.” His lips came tothought no one had seen him place
remember I cried.
gether and began to expand until his
the rusted hands from the destroyed
whole face stretched into a grimacing
grandfather clock in my mother’s
smirk. He laughed – a deep throaty
pocket. I was sure she would have
by Loreena St. Dennis,
sound that for a moment overpowered
objected, but I couldn’t tell him.
Andover, MN
time. “We can never leave. We are the
We never talked about her. Ever. In
sick?” or “God, eat something.”
hands to the clock we live inside.”
fact, talking was rare. My father had
he’s never been this cold before.
Before, they had had nights that lasted
I felt a chill rush up
changed. The obsession
Not the type of cold that aches in
until sunrise over telephone wires. And she
my spine and for a
consumed his whole
your feet and causes convulsions in
Something
thought that he knew.
moment I was frozen.
being. He had fallen prey
your jaw; the type of cold that jams up your
The love she kept for him, she thought
It was 3:33. I know this
to the house and all that
mind, like a song set on repeat with no
dark and
he’d seen it coming and would take it. But
because at that exact
it stood for.
power or volume dial to make it stop.
his pockets were filled with the hands from
We no longer ate toReally cold.
powerful filled second, something dark
a body wearing the perfume of money and
and powerful filled the
gether, if there was even
She twists in her sheets, one hand
perfection, and her own pockets were filled
the house
house.
food to eat. The electricmaking its way between the air particles.
with the pressed pennies she collected at
I stood helpless as I
ity was shut off; the
Her breath comes in a screaming whisper
museums and carnivals – useless.
watched each candle blow out one
plumbing no longer worked. I was
and words she’s never known trail along the
She’s never been this obstinate
by one. Tick by tock, the room grew
prisoner to the confining walls and
tip of her tongue. The deep
before.
darker. They say that if a candle blows
suffocating darkness that seemed to
red of the muscle flexing
She’ll never
It’s a commonly known fact
out by itself, evil spirits are nearby.
fill my lungs. I swear the silence grew
beneath her ribs seeps in the
she’ll never reach perfection
They weren’t lying.
thicker every day.
edges of her vision, pushing
reach perfection that
before the hospital doors, a fact
As the last candle went out, I caught
My father must have thought so too.
away her thoughts as they
that means nothing. Like the fact
before the
a glimpse of my father’s horrifying
One night he brought home a clock.
transform into words.
that smoking offers potential
smile. He remained motionless as the
An old oak frame surrounded a shatShe’s never been this alive
hospital doors health risks such as lung cancer,
clocks read 3:33. Silence.
tered glass plate over hand-painted
before.
that birth control has the risk of
Suddenly they all stopped. All of
numbers. He hung it in the kitchen
Months have dragged
heart attack or stroke, that gum contains
them. The silence rushed over me and
like a trophy. The methodic ticking
along, seeming so tedious and endless in
two calories that could be the deciding
took my breath away. Time no longer
mirrored a heartbeat, as if making up
the present tense, until they evaporate into
factor between a size 0 and a size 00.
echoed off the walls.
for the one we had lost. My father
the rest of yesterday. When her long-term
It’s a fact that denies processing.
I slowly crept to the door, keeping
either found comfort in this – or the
memory compacts them, she can’t rememThe foundation in her head will break
my eye on the dark outline of my fainsanity got the best of him – because
ber what she wore or said or how many
soon, though, and she’ll fall through in a
ther. I remember that just as time left
every day after that he would bring
things she ruined.
whispering scream until her arms are
the clocks, something left my father.
home a new clock.
She only remembers how, after a while,
wound through with needles and wires,
That was the last time I saw him. Or
Like a mad man he frantically made
all the food she wasn’t eating didn’t tempt
pumping artificial life into her.
that house. I walked away that night.
room for each addition. Sometimes at
her anymore. Her convex mirror distorts
She’s a lithium battery, ready to be
Unable to run or scream, I walked
night I would catch him just staring at
her hollow insides and blends the shadows
recharged
when all the energy is used up,
silently away from everything I had
them. His sunken eyes had turned
under her ribcage.
until the socket in the wall sparks into
ever known. And my footsteps kept
black from the darkness we lived
The boy she wants with the murky eyes
white light, and the boy’s murky eyes
time through the night. ✎
in, and his thin lips stretched into a
and the sharp jawline doesn’t utter a word,
become clear. ✎
twisted smile that distorted his face.
not counting the occasional, “Are you
T
hey say that superstitions are
fallacies. Yet all my life I have
avoided walking under ladders,
only opened umbrellas outside, and
held my breath when passing cemeteries. They say it can’t hurt you if you
don’t believe in it, but I can’t help but
be obsessed with the constant reassurance that I haven’t altered my fate, my
luck, my destiny, by a mere slip up in
my life. For me, superstition was a
religion, and that was that.
I always blamed that house for
doing this to me. It brought my family
bad luck. Even as a child I could feel
the wind blow a little differently each
time I stepped into my yard. The stairs
creaked a little louder. The mirrors
gazed a little deeper. Something was
in that house, and even the horseshoe
above the door couldn’t stop it. Nothing could.
The house looked normal from the
outside. The long, winding driveway
secluded us from passersby, and the
pine trees that covered nearly every
inch of the backyard practically
scraped the clouds. I never thought
much of the eerie landscape; the
whole town looked like that. But the
inside was what made me shiver.
As you stepped into the foyer, the
cream wallpaper that had turned yellow with age began to tell you stories.
A red stain in one corner added a
splash of color to the otherwise drab
Wasted Away
S
44
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’09
Reflections
There is no crease in this armor.
Your edges are too smooth to scale
with bruised fingers and tired eyes.
Joints creak
No light escapes from the salt of your womb
where you are ragged and boiling with ants
prickling up
and down
your steel-plated spine.
From between the cracks
secrets leak out
and rust shut.
Your image in my spoon is bloated
and breach-birthed.
Beads of condensation slide
into the converse-concave well
where I cup your breath in my hands,
knowing it will always trickle through.
I cannot touch or see where you lie.
You trust in echoed watercolor futures
glinting off your soap-bubble skin.
It becomes your name.
This is not a mirror,
it’s just metal.
by Yona Yurwit, Faywood, NM
Adolescent
Evolution
I go through many stages
Of complication.
Metamorphosis is for butterflies
But this caterpillar cries
For the future,
For the creature within
That is beautiful but hidden
Words that are unwritten
Waiting to escape.
by Hillary Duncan, Chesterfield, VA
Perfect
Perfect strangers in perfect harmony
You and I would make a perfect “we”
If you think about it illogically
Because logic never helped us see
You and I would make a perfect “we”
Define “perfect” and I think you’ll agree
Because logic never helped us see
The truth of what things are and could be
Now I break this rhyme
Break out of time
Because time is an illusion as you have
eluded me
I’ll make a new beat
Dance with bare feet
In the rain
Forget my pain
My shame
Each loss without a gain
But I cannot forget
Those burning eyes
That turned my eyes
And churned my mind
Until
All that was left was
A single thought
A single want
A single need
But sometimes fear is more powerful
than greed
So I turned aside
Closed my eyes
And mind
Pretended to forget
Pretended there would be no regret
But my action
Or lack of
Was worth regretting
Crying as my sun was setting
Denying me you and denying you me
Denying what could be
Denying us “we”
And if you think about it illogically
All there ever was was
You and Me.
by Marika Tobak, Fort Bragg, CA
The Kiss
Women remember the first kiss,
men remember the last.
– Anonymous
Holding back, don’t want to rush
Take a breath, no need for a fuss
Gravity, doing its job
Pulling us together, our walls come undone
And twist others toward her will of
conversation.
Oh how I had once envied her ….
she is plates ahead of him.
but still with thirty seconds left,
he could easily go back and sit
with his twenty-three soft companions
inside his shell of plastic with no worries.
And suddenly all of my insecurities return
With only her simple picture on the screen.
And I had no map to show me the direction
to take
To get away from the state of mind toward
the girl,
They could settle for peanut-butter and fluff,
but he longs for the cherry jam
to smear across his crisp, tanned surface.
And still, he is not quite there.
The hacker of my mind.
If he attempts to emerge too soon he will
appear flimsy and tasteless.
If he falters a little he will become charred.
Undesirable, worthless dog food.
by Priscilla Anderaos, Spring, TX
Ode to the
Old Fisherman
But as soon as his courage goes stale,
he feels his beckoning. A metallic thud
urges him
to a world of hunger-filled breath,
thrust into the life he has desired for ages.
The old man’s days were indistinct
From one another
All consisting of the same work and toiling
Merciless on the hands
Callous, an armor
Against splintering wood
Thick, rough rope
And tender, raw skin
He finally feels needed as he is set beside
his buddy bacon, and among his cousin
egg. His life of worthless counter-topping
is finally sliced.
by Zach Blake, Gilford, NH
A pause, he’s making sure
Timid smile, we’re alone in this world
Hesitation, we’re both new at this
Anticipation, a moment we don’t want to miss
The aromas
Of the untamed sea
And all which it entailed
Remained with him eternally
Whether in his dilapidated shack
Or hours from the port
Where his boat impatiently waited
Sails fluttering in the salty breeze
The man could still detect
The separate scents of seaweed, salt, and fish
Suspended in midair
Or gaze at his rough and battered hands
As he reminisced about
Fishing days
Long nights looking longingly
At the brilliant stars
Which clashed with the deep
Charcoal sky
And the whole universe of sea
Nothing else
Solitude
Just the fisherman and
The sea
The kiss sends me spinning
My head starts reeling
My heart starts pounding
As my body starts shivering
Sparks start flying
Fireworks exploding
Time stops ticking
Eternity is growing
In a kiss
In the kiss
Pulling back, to catch some oxygen
No doubt we’ll do it again
Nervous, don’t want things to change
At least not in a bad way
Another moment, breathe back again
Lean in to kiss me again
Comets dance across the skies
Sighing, I close my eyes
The kiss sends me spinning
My head starts reeling
My heart starts pounding
As my body starts shivering
Sparks start flying
Fireworks exploding
Time stops ticking
Eternity is growing
In a kiss
In the kiss
Fireworks exploding
Everything changing
Heart racing
Eternity growing
In a kiss
by Brittney Dussault, Anacortes, WA
Puberty
Like bread jammed into a toaster.
Caught between one world and the next
He longs to be buttered
but is still premature.
He is frightened of the orange juice,
her long slender body and
golden pulp-filled nectar.
Photo by Ashley Berry, North Port, FL
by Caroline Grunewald, Pittsburgh, PA
Butterfly
Faces
She
flutters into a bud,
dew-blessed petals mingle
with her breath
flower fingertips struggle to ensnare
this color-dusted beauty,
but her flight
makes this as simple as explaining
love.
Yesterday was Sunday. The day I dress up
and smile at everyone. Listen to everyone’s
problems and hand out free compliments. I
sit still and pay attention to the choir.
The never-do-anything-wrong girl.
During the week, I dress down. I act
like my friends and laugh at the cost of others.
I hug someone, then go and tell my friends how
ugly that someone looks today.
The go-along, tag-along girl.
by Lauren Amoros, York, PA
Hacker
At home, I am what my parents want
me to be. I sit still at dinner, do my
homework, listen to the stories they
tell of their day. The super-special
daddy’s girl.
Strangely enough, the same wave of panic
sweeps through my mind
And something stills in my gut
Just to see her face reappear on the computer
screen as before.
All of these faces I have confuse me. I’m never
quite sure who I am at the time, Or if I am the
right person with the right people. Yesterday,
I was the got-it-all-together girl. Today I’m the
not-sure-of-anything girl.
She was back.
She was back in some shape or form
In my life and the lives of others around me
In the quiet, carefree spirit of the summer.
Back to do as she wished.
To shatter my illusions of undisturbed
happiness
POETRY
by Alexandra Kuykendall, Carrollton, TX
•
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
45
The Gospel
According to
Vincent van Gogh
I want to experience life like a pastor
In the Baptist mass that I flip past while
Channel surfing on Sunday mornings.
Pausing only the moment it takes
For the picture to flicker on the screen
And a deep passionate voice to fill the room.
I want to speak in sonic booms.
To shake rafters. Leave hearts quivering,
Minds hanging on my every word.
To entice exclamations from
An audience too moved to hold back.
To live with all the ferocity of a church choir
To write words that captivate throngs
of believers
But I can’t keep the attention of a stuffed
animal audience
And I’m finding it hard to believe these days.
Believe in a force I can’t see or have ever felt.
So I’m searching.
For a voice to guide me, I find it not in a book,
But in the subtle silence of words that are
left unsaid,
Emotions left unexpressed
And the depths of the starry, starry night.
by Haley Schwartz, Palatine, IL
Pastries
My mother
Bakes her memories
into pastries
We eat them sweet
And we know how the city smelled
How she laughed
How her diaries burned
How the plane soared away from anything
she knew
And here, we add more sugar
Because tasting her sadness is too too
Bitter for suburban tongues.
i cry because I’m just like you
somehow i think you know
you bowed your head
and closed your eyes
and told me you would try
try to be a better dad
forever until you died
i believed in every word you said
at first it made me smile
then i woke up and realized
all your words were lies.
by Tobian Thompson, Manassas, VA
Signature
Shakily, like a child
Taking his first steps,
The pencil descends uncertainly
Onto the paper and scrawls
Fish Stark, nearly illegible
And one s backwards.
Over time, it neatens
And the s reverses.
It is meticulously printed
On worksheets, then
Turns into scrawling cursive
Signed on a college application.
Receipts, letters, forms.
Marriage certificate.
Birth certificate.
Divorce papers, a bit unsteady
And with a small watery
Splotch next to it.
Memos, legal documents, checks.
Over time, it gets shakier
Until it degenerates back
To what it was 70 years ago.
Once more, on a doctor’s bill,
The pen wavers across the page,
Stumbling through the F-I-S-H,
Botching the S, mangling the T,
And then trailing off in the middle
Of the A.
The pen drops on the desk.
by Fish Stark, Annapolis, MD
Dancing on
Daddy’s Toes
Dancing on Daddy’s toes.
light feet with no miseries
except those little enough to be fixed
with a band aid.
Independence arises.
dancing on your own two feet
louder, softer, differing continuously
but you.
Until you become they
a twosome, a pair,
a partner dance
flittering delicately around each other
soon your toes become crushed
by light angel feet
running around frantically,
as you administer the band aid with a kiss.
by Meaghan Demallie, Jamison, PA
Love Is Sinking
Within the last four days
My heart began to sink,
Connected to an anchor
By a thick steel chain.
It was thrown overboard by an old widow,
The unhappiest kind of people.
The saltwater stings
Where the metal ring had tugged,
Stinging.
My heart has finally reached
The coral on the sea floor,
It was rough and scraped deeply,
But it settled comfortably into the bed.
My heart stares up
From its place at the floor.
The rays of sun came down through the water,
Each time a fish would swim by
The ribbon of light would be interrupted,
When the fish had passed by
The light would reach the sea floor once again.
by Michelle Surka, Hopkinton, MA
by Beth Ver Steeg, Spencerport, NY
Daddy’s Girl
In a Dream
Last night i dreamt i saw your face
I saw you smile at me
i thought i heard you say hello
but i knew that couldn’t be
You said you loved me
but i didn’t believe
so i turned to walk away
but as i walked
in the mirror beside me
you kindly asked me to stay
somehow i knew you were sad
i could tell
i saw your despair
in every tear that fell
you repeated again
in a slow, low tone
you begged and pleaded
for me not to go
i scream because i hear your voice
I’m your flesh and blood
so really had no choice
you never cared enough to call
or find out how i was
to you i was just a memory
crushed, blown away like dust
you turned your back most
you tied your pain below
Well, they rhyme with orange.
In a dream I meet the man who gave me life,
The moment before he ruined it
The one who I loved, who had time to
play catch
And ask me about my trivial kindergarten day
And carry me on his shoulders.
I’m older now but he remained the same,
The same devil
Dressed in a rolled polo and khaki shorts
Wrinkled from the time they spent
on the floor
Of a strange man’s bedroom.
I can see now the tracks on his arms
And the emptiness in his smile.
The “accidental” bruise about to form
On my 6-year-old rosy red cheeks
Haunts me
As I ask, “Why?”
He answers, the gin on his breath
swarming my nose,
Warming my senses
Daring me to turn away
But I stay strong.
So strong I don’t hear his reply, I guess
I never did.
by Nora Tjossem, Grinnell, IA
by Anonymous, Culver, IN
46
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’09
Photo by Maria Dutsar, Sandy Hook, CT
On Paper
You know that feeling
where you have
everything
to say
but no words to say it with;
or the color of
the clouds
that fill the sky
just above a sunset;
or the smell that you only
notice
when you’ve been away
from home a long time?
•
POETRY
Behind Closed Eyes
I can remember watching the hourglass
Grains falling
Following one another
It asked me what I was searching for
I just sighed, turned it over and watched it
run out again
Behind closed eyes
One cannot see the fate of high spirits
Burning and crashing
A lonely vapor appearing
Sad phoenix rising from the ashes of life
I can remember listening to music to calm
my busy mind
Because rainy days keep coming and
clouding up my thoughts
And in the nighttime
I stand under the tree branches
The falling water chills to the blood,
the muscles, the bones
Behind closed eyes
One cannot see the fate of high spirits
Burning and crashing
A lonely vapor appearing
Sad phoenix rising from the ashes of life
by Coy Truman, Orrville, OH
The Isolation,
The Separation
Hair is falling over her eyes
A curly brown curtain
Between reality and eyes of sadness
Hiding feelings that her face can’t help
but show
Wishing it would all go away
Blinking back tears she knows so well
Each drop that falls pushes her farther from
the world around her
Tangling her up in these feelings she
keeps inside
The unconscious thoughts that she hides
Become her new reality
The emotions are too raw
To share with other people.
He brushes past her
Bringing her back for a moment.
It makes her both long for him and loathe him
In reality, on the other side
One scary moment
Has passed by
Is it safe to pull back the curtain?
Or should she stay hidden?
She starts to emerge
But the vulnerabilty
The defenselessness
Is too much
In case of another tragedy,
Another gust of him
Another wave of tears
She stays behind
She plays it safe
Separate from reality
Although it waits to surround her again.
To engulf and consume her.
Chew her up
And spit out what’s left.
So she lets the curtain close again
Taking in the honeysuckle smell
The smell of safety
The smell of isolation
Calming her foolish concealing heart.
by Amelia Parnis, Livonia, MI
The Pen
Today
Physical confrontation is not my style.
Verbal abuse ain’t how I roll.
Instead, my weapon of choice is nothing
but a pen.
Not for launching dart-like projectiles at
my enemies,
The shrill waves of a French horn thrust me
out of my gentle sleep,
Signaling me to start my day once again.
My hands flow through chores without
question or concern,
As if they have a mind of their own.
Next, my feet drag my wilting body outside,
While my eyes open up to the sunlight,
My ears grasp the sound of awakening birds,
My nose captures sweet pine and
morning dew.
But I,
I just make it to tomorrow.
but rather to rip them to shreds
on a piece of lined paper.
I’m invincible, they are no match for me
or my ultra slick Bic click-able.
I’m like Judge Judy,
with the way I can call you an idiot
and you can’t say anything back.
Try to get a word in edgewise – oh wait,
you can’t.
I’m like Dr. Phil,
with the way I can easily pick out
your problems,
but there’s nothing wrong with me!
I can’t fix any
but I can surely make you aware of ’em.
I’m like Oprah Winfrey,
how easily I can lie to your face
about how I love your new novel.
The way you used third person narration
was brilliant!
I’m like Jerry Springer,
with my cunning attempts to incite a riot.
I’m just an innocent bystander, right, guys?
Maybe it will look
more convincing if I break up this altercation
with mace.
Any day, any subject, my pen is there.
He’s not biased like everyone else.
I just let it flow, sometimes without
even thinking:
like this inanimate object is an extension of –
me.
I’m thinking of naming him,
like those creepy old ladies who name their
thousand cats
after their ancestors dating back from
George Washington.
Fortunately, I don’t have a thousand pens; just
one. Until the inkwell is bled of color, I will
never cease.
Our one-way relationship redefines the phrase
“pen pal.”
I’ll write until I run out of paper, switch over
to hemp if I have to;
Because like the Declaration of Independence,
I am free.
by Seamus Kirwan,
Gilmanton Iron Works, NH
VI
Car doors slamming shut. Background noise.
I hear my pulse instead of your voice.
Sorry. It’s just louder.
Today is autumn. Leaves change colors.
They fall. I fall. You called.
My phone was dead, though.
That’s why you’re here.
That’s your excuse, anyway.
Street lights turn on. Illuminate the
sunset town.
But I couldn’t see you in daylight, either.
Sorry. I’m probably just blind.
I’m sure you’re beautiful.
by Jacqueline Stoermer, Dayton, OH
by Grant Germano, New City, NY
Problematic
Penitentiary
Ode to the great blue sky
Oh, how I wonder why –
Am I inside
They say “an institute for learning”
With always the yearning
To be outside
The walls feel ever closer
Think I can focus? No, sir.
Trapped inside
The bell rings, time to escape,
Dashing for the door looking like an ape
I am outside
Free
by Eli Cilley, Gilford, NH
Porcelain Stars
The moon falls for the sun
And begets beautiful stars
With absent skies of trust
And celestial scars
Skin scorched to porcelain
Let’s see what the dark beholds
As patience dies to wear thin
And your embrace awaits cold
In the Eyes of
Poseidon
Photo by Demetrius Anderson, Ft. Meade, MD
Danny
Danny dances in the rain.
He finds no reason to complain.
Danny found a friend that falls
That cleanses him, soul and all.
Danny found a spectator,
That doesn’t judge his behavior
Or his dancing or his prancing
In the rain that falls, enchanting.
Danny dances in the rain,
with not a care within his brain.
Danny lets his cares all fall,
With the rain down, down, down.
Danny feels a rush of freedom,
Groove and move and jump inside ’im.
Shaping every leap and thought,
Dancing like he’ll ne’er be caught.
For I have
been in here
far too long.
by Issaiah Wallace, Enterprise, WV
As though the arena of this page might
release you
I remove you of type, of the empty pen barrel,
it would be
blasphemous to act as though your self
is of my own devising – you are too lovely
to come from my imagination. Even as I
write this
I am weary of creating. Not the thinnest
tendril of
lightning would suffice you. The most
forbidden
alchemy could not outshine (no matter
what scientist has memorized his formula)
or devalue your delicate shape
as you lean to cradle what aches. This way
you might lay your hand over the womb of
joy and its bloody kicks, its shimmering
foil that
by Georgia Beaver, Dresser, WI
I once dreamed of poetic landscapes
Or to hold a true love
but I have no more faith in this fate
For this world is not enough
The moon falls for the sun
And begets beautiful stars
With absent skies of trust
We make this world ours
An Inventor’s
Finest Plan
Danny left his work with mind
To know that now’s his time to find
A quick escape from his daily grind,
Making him the purer kind.
Danny knows the moon must hide,
Take the sky? The clouds obliged.
Masking Galileo’s pride
Behind their falling moistened hide.
fried
The wind wisps this rose garden
And the clouds cloud my head
But I search for you … I always have
On this destiny, never before tread
by Samantha Evans, Hopatcong, NJ
Danny dances in the rain
Oblivious to any pain.
The tiny rocks beneath his toes
Are never a distracting woe.
He feels the night, cold and bitter,
As the raindrops fall and pitter
Patter on his hat, frayed and tattered,
And on his shoes of weathered leather.
Part the seas
With lips the same
To find the genie
With a wish unmade
So maybe I can grab your hand
And we can leave this place
with a kiss good-bye
And your hair in your face
Somewhere there’s a violet sky
with jewels encrusted in the dark,
allowing enough light to kiss the crests
of the thousand waves teasing the shore.
Footprints sink into the cool sand
as we run down by the water,
racing the swell gathering at our ankles.
Our only company being each other,
though we’re watched by the moon –
silver contrasting its quiet backdrop –
beaming upon us. We stop to watch the sea
and fall to the sand scattered below.
In each other’s embrace, we laugh like children
and kiss like lovers,
and the moon grows jealous.
The tide washes away the sand beneath us,
and we go with it, into the depths of that
watery world.
Now the moon has no reason for jealousy –
the same can’t be said for the sea.
shreds your open stare charming serpents,
venom cooling into a tempered dance.
Your trick
is one that hardly any can perform,
I need
to hatch.
turning poison to your paint. No king’s
triton could command you from the
smokestacks, an inventor’s finest plan,
rotted
hours.
no conveyor nor arm of perfect factory
could replicate the inertia that gathers with your
swinging in close and reaching for the vaguest
rotted
days.
threads of elsewhere, or for me,
my outstretched
brushes. Nothing is so real as your artistry.
I could not design you if I was condemned to it.
I cannot
move.
I cannot
make a single
sound.
I would shake this page until you walked
from it, I would
pry the sides of knives to meet your face.
Otherwise
the damage circles. Otherwise the
devastations triumph.
Crack
this shell
or these whites
will glue
me
down.
With this pen I proclaim them dead.
by Madeleine Barnes, Wexford, PA
by Genevieve Chasty, Andover, NJ
POETRY
•
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
47
Holly Was the One
No one ever taught me
How to ride a bike.
There wasn’t enough room at my house
Not enough time to learn
I was old enough to teach myself.
Excuses, excuses.
But Holly was the one who let me borrow
Her mud-stained purple bike,
Complete with mini-license plate
stating “Holly”
On the back
To prove her ownership.
Holly was the one who led me down the great
concrete hill
By her house
And gave me brief directions on how to pick
up speed.
And Holly was the one who watched me
Climb on the bike
Start pedaling
Faster
And
Faster
Until I couldn’t control the great amount of
speed
I had accumulated.
I started to fly, and rode the wind on this
Borrowed
Mud-stained
Purple bike.
And I closed my eyes
Took my hands off the handlebars
And let myself soar.
Off into the clear, bright, blue sky
And up toward the brilliant, warm sun.
Holly was also the one
Who scraped me up
Off the curb,
Pulled her borrowed, mud-stained, purple bike
Off my
Mangled,
Bruised,
Crash-landed body
And helped me stand on my own two feet.
Holly was the one
Who took my hand,
And helped me walk back
Her mud-stained
Borrowed
Now scratched
Purple bike
Back up the great concrete hill.
Holly was the one who taught me how to ride
a bike.
But I will be forever thankful to Holly
Because Holly was the one
Who taught me how to ride
But Holly was also the one
Who taught me how to fall.
by Lindsey Blais, Woonsocket, RI
Numb Knees
My mouth moves in silent prayer,
While sweat pools, cooling on my face.
Serenity, I don’t know the feeling,
Only my own anxieties tinting my vision in
icy blue.
My breath comes out in gasps,
Fear clouding my vision, burning metallic in
my throat.
I cannot remember what they said in church,
It never struck a chord,
I never thought that I
48
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’09
Would find myself here,
Kneeling at the foot of my bed,
My knees slowly going numb,
And the clock tick-tick-ticking in my ear.
When you talk to God, what do you say?
When you have left the phone off the hook
for so long?
Forgetting about old what’s-his-name when
things are going fine.
What would he say if he answered at all?
I never thought I would want this,
Never thought that I would need
Something, anything, to keep my fear away.
Never thought I would look to my own
muttered words,
For promises and everything-will-beall-rights.
And now that I’m here,
I’m feeling foolish,
Talking to my walls,
And now I wonder if there is anything really
there at all.
by Sydney Anderson, Redmond, WA
Remembrance
I remember the pain and the glory
and the breathtaking injuries and
the medical bills and the demonic
sled and the uncounted hours of lifting
and the summer camps and the
brothers and the coaches and the tears
and the blood and the laughs and the
extra hours and the three-a-days and
the big hits and the big runs and the
life lessons
you taught me.
I just wish I could repay you.
by Drake D’Ambra, Carmel, IN
like a big dumb fish,
struggling for breath because
you poisoned my body
with specks of lead in my blood like pepper,
from the wells
in your eyes
and mouth
and other, secret places,
like the sweet dampness of your neck.
What we cultivated was
dark and healthy like the soil,
bearing new shoots
pushing blindly against the moist ground,
wet as the mouth that births
such beautiful words,
and I whispered,
“don’t ever leave.”
Your voice contains the spice of a
Southern twang,
just enough to make me smile,
and you said,
“we’ll see.”
You hair carries the wind,
you talk of bigger things than me and my city,
and I know you are restless to be
away.
And selfishly,
I drank you up too often and too long,
and the sun dried up all your smiles,
your wells turned bitter,
and you left in a cloud of dust
just as winter settled upon the city.
You left my eyes stinging and
remembering
how words used to drip lazily
off your tongue, mystifying my senses,
and how you are still a little
in my blood.
by Jaden Gragg, Shawnee, KS
Bee’s Knees
You tell me that honey always
attracts more bees than vinegar.
I hate your clichés, so I ask you
Why would I want to attract bees?
All they do is scare you
And sting.
Art by Lidia Kawashima, Sunrise, FL
Spindles of Honey
The first time I heard you speak,
your words flew around
the long hallways in my brain,
temporarily empty as you amazed me
with your crystal smile.
You were sweet as a jazz record,
cute as a French postcard,
quaint as a tea-kettle,
supple as a willow branch,
and I didn’t know how to respond to such
old-fashioned charm.
Whenever I saw you
I drank you up,
lapping like a thirsty dog
out of a dirty bowl,
and you had me satiated
with your radiance,
the fluidity of your movements, curve
between thumb and finger,
and the way you left my heart suspended in
my throat
•
POETRY
You say
not to be such a cynic,
There are too many of them
And you’re too sweet
To begin a life of doubt
now.
You think my negative thoughts
won’t get me anywhere at all.
Which makes me ask,
where was I planning to go?
I’m doing fine right here.
You tell me that eventually
I will have to go
because all good things
must come to an end.
Have I told you
that I hate your clichés?
I kiss your honeycomb hair
and tell you
that you might be the one
with all the honey, but I’m the one
with the bee’s knees.
And that’s the one cliché I really
don’t mind.
by Randie Adler, Tenafly, NJ
Viewpoints
I am a stem of grass,
Small and trifling.
Do you notice me? Do you see?
I feel the weight of everything
The music of your speech pours into me:
Like the sweet nectar of the rain.
The fear, the anger, the wrath, the pain.
The laughter, the gaiety, the warmth.
I am words, always changing.
If you look me up, what will it say?
What can you look up, for I am both:
Everything.
Nothing.
Pouring out of the opening to your
inner feelings,
Your being.
I control nothing, I just make it happen
for you.
What will you make happen for me?
I am a girl, thirteen years old.
I sit in the grass, speaking to whoever
will listen.
My crown of daisies pressing into
my forehead,
My freckled arm strumming my
wooden guitar,
The sun pours onto my hair,
Sitting in the grass,
Speaking the words that make me,
Me.
by Josephine Demme, Nyack, NY
Conclusions
Yesterday, we decided
That potatoes taste like home.
We chose purple over pink
And ladybugs over butterflies.
We preferred our grandmother’s
peanut-butter fudge
Over the kind in the store,
And agreed that wearing black is appropriate
At almost any occasion.
We found that the streets of Chicago
Are organized in a comprehensible fashion,
That luxury hotels
Are probably not worth it.
We laughed when she said “fountain,”
And I said “bubbler,”
When her accent
Was easily misunderstood.
I told her that her skin was always tan
Because of where her mother’s from.
She told me
That we have the same blood in our veins.
We told each other,
That we would chat again soon,
And kissed good-bye
Next to the Thai restaurant.
by Maggie Chandler, Gloucester, MA
haiku
little haiku poem
bouncing around in my head
messes up my hair.
by Oliver Koppenberg, Kerrville, TX
by Robin Yang, Greenville, NC
“Rebellion, revolution.” Julia waved her hand.
isps of smoke curled on themselves to form
“Semantics. What’s the difference?”
overdrawn punctuation over people’s heads.
Catey rolled her neck around to look at Julia, whose
Catey frowned at Julia and said, “Put that
green eyes were still hidden from the rest of the
out. You know I hate the smell of cigarettes.”
world. “It all depends on which side you’re on. Good
Julia used her free hand to flick her brown hair out
or bad.”
of her face and exhaled, smoke streaming from her
Julia opened her eyes. “Which side is good?” she
mouth. “They’re cloves,” she explained. “Come on,
asked. “Isn’t it subjective?” The butt lay limply in
Catey, live a little.”
her fingers, forgotten; she wasn’t as addicted as she
Catey snorted and waved away the sickly smell.
pretended to be.
Julia talked like she was the new kid in town, grungy
“No,” Catey replied. “The good side is the one that
from the big city. But she was really the one who
wins.” She tried to meet Julia’s eyes, but eyelids got in
grew up here knowing every parent of every child
the way again. Giving up, she said, “We
within a two-year margin; Catey was the
Photo by Chyla Pugh, El Dorado, KS
won’t win.”
slightly dirty one from somewhere with a
stopped, and opened her eyes. They looked at each
“I want
“Probably not.” Julia paused. “You said we.”
Starbucks.
other, intensely aware that the blanket of noise that
“Hmm?”
“Catey,” Julia had said when they met.
to start a
had cloaked their revolutionary discussion had been
“You said we. We won’t win.” She smiled.
“C-A-T-E-Y. God, isn’t there a plain Katie
whipped away. Silence was only the lack of sound;
With her eyes closed, she looked almost
around anymore? With a K and an I?”
revolution” peaceful. “You never say we. I say we.”
what closed over them now smothered and deafened
Catey had shrugged and then asked for
them. Catey realized what Julia had found under the
Catey turned her head. “Why are we talkJulia’s name, which was spelled the conlayers of verbose dinner conversations.
ing
about
this?”
she
asked
the
rest
of
the
picnic
tables.
ventional way. Julia had looked like she resented
“Yes,” said Julia. She took a deep breath, and Catey
“What
else
is
there
to
talk
about?”
Catey’s orthographic abnormality.
almost
wished that Julia still had that clove.
“Things.”
Catey
turned
back
to
see
Julia
peering
at
“I want to start a revolution,” Julia resolved
Catey swallowed and focused past Julia to see the
her with one eye open. “Get a job.”
suddenly. For dramatic effect, she stuck the butt in
over-laughing mother staring at her. She blinked.
“Oh, what’s the fun in that?” Remembering her
her mouth and drawled again, “I want to start a
“This is getting too intellectual,” said Catey. Everyone
clove, Julia relit it.
revolution,” breathing over Catey’s plate of mashed
else trapped the words in their suddenly deprived
“I hate it when you smoke,” Catey said. She
potatoes.
eardrums, trying to make sense of it all.
coughed for effect. Julia’s former classmate’s mother
Catey noticed that Julia didn’t have any food. “You
“Well, we’re the self-destructive ones.” Julia patted
laughed
too
loud
at
something,
and
Catey
looked
for
spend extra money on cloves, which are worse for
her
jeans pockets, even though she knew she didn’t
her
own
mother
because,
suddenly,
she
wanted
to
your health than normal cigarettes and smell almost
have
any more cloves. She stood. Catey put her hands
know
where
everyone
was.
She
tilted
her
head
and
as bad. Don’t tell me that’s not revolting.” She poked
on the table, ready to push herself up, but made the
imitated Julia’s earlier position, trying to find in the
Julia’s bony shoulder. “Eat.”
mistake of looking at the crowd. Pausing in a halfbuzzing crowd what Julia had heard.
Julia inhaled once more, holding her breath. “You
rise, she caught the eye of some adult who probably
“You won’t do anything,” she muttered.
know you like it,” she exhaled. “You wouldn’t have
knew Julia but maybe not sweet Julia’s friend. She
Julia rubbed her thin arms, bare to the cooling June
dragged me here if you didn’t. But I refuse to eat with
tried to curve her lips up but failed.
afternoon. “Yes, I will,” she said.
the congregation just because you’re a good daugh“Um,” she said. In an over-exaggerated motion, she
“You
won’t,”
Catey
contended.
“You
talk
about
ter.” Catey’s mother directed the choir of their church.
straightened
and stepped around the bench.
starting
a
revolution
all
the
time,
but
you
won’t
ever
It had monthly dinners, and occasionally Catey liked
Julia
closed
one eye. “You know we’ll lose,” she
do
it.
What
are
you
revolutionizing?
How
are
you
to guilt herself into going.
pointed out, eschewing all her previous notions of
gonna do it? You don’t know. You just talk.”
“Then what do you want to do?”
revolution. Catey shrugged like she did when they’d
Julia looked at her, unblinking.
“Start a revolution.” A woman whose son went to
first met.
“What if you end up starting a rebellion? Then
high school with Julia sat down next to them. Julia
“Come on. Let’s make a dramatic exit,” Julia said.
where would you go?” Catey asked, because Julia
smiled at her, asked after the unnamed child, and slid
As they left the vicinity of the dining area, someone
didn’t say anything. “We’re stuck here. I know, I
further down the bench, pressing herself against Catey
in
the crowd said something that ended with an exclaknow,
college.
But
where
are
we
going
after
we
gradto prevent any further attempts at conversation.
mation point. Overdrawn punctuation
uate?
We’re
stuck.
We’re
stuck
in
exile
Catey sighed. “Get a tattoo, then.”
bent around various vocal chords. Sometogether
until
the
end
of
the
world.
You
Julia snorted. “What about the pitchforks and the
know that. You said that, once. And
“Where are we one went to find Catey’s mother.
flaming torches and the angry mothers calling us
“It didn’t exactly come out right. It’s
what are we going to do when we get
scum and wanting nothing to do with us?” She tilted
going after
not how it’s supposed to happen. It’s
sick of each other?”
her head and appeared to listen to the walls of noise
supposed to be love,” Julia explained
Julia put both elbows resolutely on
around them, accents falling up and down in a pattern
we
graduate?
later, leaning against Catey’s legs on a
the table and curved her hands around
that she knew too well. Closing her eyes, she said,
hill.
them.
Putting
her
weight
on
her
arms,
“It’s not a revolution until there’s protests and
We’re stuck.” sloping
“No,
but
it’s what you wanted. Angry
she
leaned
forward
and
moved
her
face
editorial wars in the paper.”
mothers,
editorials,
some rotten eggs.”
closer,
almost
daring
Catey
to
say
more.
“Ah,” Catey said. “What you want is a rebellion.”
“Rotten eggs weren’t mentioned earlier.”
Something snapped in her eyes, but maybe Catey had
“Maybe the mob will forget them.”
just imagined it.
“I thought we were the mob.”
“Do you ever think …,” Catey rambled. “Don’t you
“Hmm?” Catey squinted in the dusk.
ever think that maybe we’re friends because we’re
“I thought we were the mob.”
both self-destructive?” She wanted to get up, but then
“No,” said Catey. “We’re the kids who don’t know
Julia blinked.
what we just picked up, only that we set it off.”
Julia leaned over and put her mouth against
“I thought that was a mob.”
Catey’s, interrupting a new sentence. Clove-laced
“It’s not.”
breath crossed Catey’s lips and tasted bitter against
“Don’t you ever wish you were a plain Katie, with
the palate of mashed potatoes. Some of Julia’s air
a K and an I?”
entered Catey’s nostrils and told her sweet and spicy
Crickets chirped too loudly, drilling into Catey’s
instead of bitter, and then the law of kisses closed her
brain
and pushing Julia’s words out. She tried to
eyes, even though Julia’s hazy green irises stayed
think. “No,” she said, and realized it was her usual
open to everyone. Maybe Julia didn’t want the law
answer to Julia’s questions.
to apply to her.
Julia tilted her head so it rested on Catey’s knees
Their noses bumped, and Julia rested back on her
and rolled her eyes up to look at her. “Good.” ✎
elbows. Catey followed her lips for an instant,
Art by Willow Lightfoot, Nevada, IA
W
SUMMER ’09
f i c•t i o n
Whimper Bang
• Teen Ink
49
Nostalgia
When I was young living in the
House in the middle of the forest
There wasn’t anyone for miles to talk to
So I’d have to talk to myself
My cat and I would be great jungle explorers
Wandering between the trees
Making spears out of fallen branches
Listening to the wind laughing its stories
Or sometimes, when it rained
and my cat refused to leave the house
(cats being more sensible than little girls)
I’d see how many worms I counted on
the pavement
And when the sun came back out I’d
Put the worms back in the dirt before
They fried on my driveway – all crunchy
And at night I’d lie on my back in the grass
Counting the stars ’til I fell asleep
Safe in my solitude
by Kenzie Simmons, Parker, CO
Bird in the Chimney
Of lilac and linen, ivory and love,
My rough hands
Take hold. A dove
I wrest from the sooty doom above
And restore to airy lands.
My rough hands.
by Kelly Goodfellow,
Huntington Beach, CA
Deadly
I was nine when it took hold of you,
your brain, your memories.
It was only the first stage
and I did not know about it
at that time.
You were already forgetting some things,
but that was what old people do, right?
Forget things, I mean.
I did not think much of it.
I did not know
that this thing
as it wrapped its deadly fingers
around your mind,
would cause me
everybody
yourself
some pain
years later.
I was twelve when
you started to repeat stories
over and over again:
your parents’ marriage,
your thirteen brothers and sisters,
the town in which you grew up.
I thought that this was what old people did.
Repeat stories, I mean.
Normal, right?
By the time I was a teenager,
I finally understood
this deadly thing
that was taking over your mind.
“How is school?”
You would ask me,
over and over again.
“How are you?”
“How old are you?”
50
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’09
“Are you being a good girl?”
On the verge of adulthood,
I’m watching you vanish
before my eyes.
Your body,
sunken in the wheelchair
no energy left.
Your eyes,
lifeless,
not full of light anymore.
Your hands,
Small, soft, wrinkled
no longer reaching out to hold mine.
You don’t recognize your own grandchildren
anymore.
Not your son, your children.
Everybody is someone new to you.
For seven years
the deadly thing
slowly,
selectively,
consumed your thoughts,
your memories,
your existence from the last eighty-three years.
You are a blackboard
with chalk written on it.
Minutes, seconds later,
the chalk is wiped off
until the blackboard
is blank again.
by Emily Hewlings, Hatfield, MA
Patches
Through lips sewn together
you speak to me
a trail of subtle, sickening lies
all spilling down
Gone and Forgotten
You walk to your locker
Pushing and shoving past the swarm of teens
Grab your stuff
And turn around
You expect to see a girl sitting by the
window, alone
Gazing at the sky, serene and peaceful like
But she’s not there
The bell rings
You walk away
And she fades away, gone and forgotton
Second period, you enter class and sit down
The seat next to you is empty
You used to secretly watch her doodle,
fascinated
And when she was sad, she escaped the world
by opening a book
The bell rings
Class starts
And she fades away, gone and forgotton
You don’t remember in middle school
You made fun of her because she was
“Uncool”
She stopped showing emotion
You lost interest
The world lost interest
People like her are replaceable
Always another nerd to take her place
And as school goes on
As life goes on
She fades away
Gone and
Forgotton
by Emily Roldan, Bettendorf, IA
Through eyes glassy like the moon
you gaze upon me
if a crocodile tear can shine in the moonlight
yours can sparkle, fooling even the stars
Through uninspired fingertips
you lap me with your words
your luscious lips curling
into a vicious snarl
Through outstretched arms
you reach out to grasp anything
anything that you can manipulate
so you come out on top
Through a feral stance
you rise above me
ready to take on
the world
by Jordan Bass, Sanford, FL
Firefly
(did you hear it?)
Did you hear it
Whisper
See it
Flicker
Feel it
Flutter
The idea
Inspiration
Firefly in your heart
Gone
In an instant
No time to capture.
by Hanna Crooks, Louisville, KY
•
POETRY
Photo by Bryttany Obrzut, Shenandoah, PA
Threads
A weathered white dress, wrenched
from a safe cocoon
Hung, glistening, on the wall.
The vibrant ivory echoes his mockery.
He knows.
The tear in the seam
The tear in our delusion
Nights when he never came home
He laughs
A sick show of gloomy bliss
and soothing distress.
A fabric of faded fear.
He’s home
by Molly Kaufman, Newton, MA
My Side of
the Orange
Fall back into this canopy like the arms
of a lover
encase yourself with the cocoon of
our wrinkling, fluttering, pollenated limbs;
allow sunlight to wear our patterned skins thin.
Gradually our synthetic wings will crumble,
and when bacteria has eaten our remains
let us wash out with the tide in parts,
molecules ebbing into the Dead Sea and
letting loose the decayed warmth around
our hearts.
If tides engulf us where each other lies,
let sea spray finally open these feeble eyes.
by Haley Stark, Seal Beach, CA
November
My throat is tight from the
snickering cold wind that waltzes
around us
in spite, we push against its
wingtipped shoes and cherry blossom corsages
freckled grass and tan oak trees are
humming along
to this icy orchestration
are we the only ones who hear the syncopation
of a thousand curling cumuli
or a million bursting moons?
this deafening lull is what binds our
quivering legs and willowed arms to these
silent screams
we cry
by Yasmin Majeed, Cupertino, CA
Intolerance
(chasing me down)
You’re really gunning for me,
Trying to take me out,
Why won’t you let it be,
What is this all about?
Now you got me on the road,
Gotta get out of here,
and I’m carrying along a heavy load,
of paranoia and fear.
You’re riding on my heels,
won’t leave me alone,
do you know how it feels?
or are you an emotionless drone?
Now I’m racing down the freeway,
but I don’t feel so free,
Is there any leeway?
Is there any space for me?
Why, just ’cause you won’t accept,
Just ’cause you don’t understand,
Just because you’re so inept,
you spit on my open hands?
Well, I guess you can’t accept
nothing different, don’t matter who,
killing yourself with your inner hate,
Man, I feel bad for you
by Fatmire Ahmeti, Wilkes-Barre, PA
Perfectly Imperfect
I’ll write a story,
Silver sharp knife in hand
beige, soft skin on the table
the scribbling begins
first just lightly scraping the surface
of the life underneath the façade,
then deep gashes in the pride
revealing the hideous truth
You don’t like it
so you take it and fold it into wings
perfectly imperfect
they crash into the walls of your mind
which you can’t seem to escape ….
by Zoe Gamer, Fort Collins, CO
I’ve See Your
Face Before
Faces swirl
fuse
mold
into one
as El trains
whip past.
I’ve Seen Your Face Before
you aren’t that different
At All
Faces recycled
Her:
A Porcelain doll
careful not to
shatter
the glass
Him:
eyes like
coffee truffles
follow mine
down
the escalator
Us:
gawky
sweet smiley silences
cross our faces
spelling out the words
we dare not say to
the other
Cosmic forces made it
this way;
we aren’t the same
simply repeated patterns,
a strand of DNA
dripping with A’s
T’s
C’s
G’s
Cohesive:
our humanity –
a fresh scar
sole tear
lone kiss
but faces
become the same
as El trains
whip past
by Mollie Knapp, Chicago, IL
Art by Danielle Klebes, St. Augustine, FL
soul
Graffiti
Offering
i took
the half empty glass
of my
soul
and held it out to you
poured it into your lap
when all i wanted to do was
hide
“Today is the day to start. Realize that you
are not forever. Begin today.”
– Anonymous quote on a bathroom stall
In the road, leaves die, frosted,
breathing out air hopelessly
in the gutter.
The ground is unwieldy, hard, and
I find that he will not yield
to the advances of my feet,
which tread lightly,
invitingly,
over the crumbled dirt.
The sky leans down, scooping my
heart out cleanly.
It touches the ends of the earth,
which have been cleared of trees
recently
to free the dome of the clouds.
So spurned,
I turn from the earth
to the hidden sun,
purged by the cleansing cold
Phrases scrawled on a bathroom stall
Holy scriptures of adolescence
Psalms of hormone-driven emotion
Etched in pencil
Or pink or black marker
I love so and so
Inscriptions of hope
Love not war
An occasional cruel word
The tribulations and triumphs
Of the teenage soul
Impassioned phrases
Seeming so insignificant
Meaning so much
Behind each of these statements
Lies a poem unwritten
but then i looked up
and realized that maybe
it was not as
important
as i thought
because you were turned away
and didn’t even feel it
spill onto you
maybe it was
only tears,
only water
after all
by Una Creedon-Carey, Plattsburgh, NY
by Amber Hathaway, Veazie, ME
by Sarah Weiskittel, North Bend, OH
Index of Poets
Randie Adler .......................48
Fatmire Ahmeti ...................50
Lauren Amoros....................45
Priscilla Anderaos ...............45
Taylor Andersen ..................33
Sydney Anderson ................48
Ish Arora..............................43
Brittany Bailey ....................36
Madeleine Barnes................47
Jordan Bass .........................50
Georgia Beaver....................47
Danielle Behrendt ...............33
Jonathan Belvin...................28
Alexandria Bennett .............32
Dominique Bible.................41
Courtney Billow..................26
Lindsey Blais ......................48
Zach Blake ..........................45
Kofi Bofah...........................41
Kira Bonk............................24
Benjamin Bordelon .............32
Emily Brehob ......................24
Ana Brett.............................40
Kelsey Britton .....................24
Megan Buckner ...................26
Amber Butler ......................26
Peyton Cacioppo .................43
Maria Carlos........................43
Madi Carpenter ...................25
Megan Carr .........................40
Yesenia Carrillo...................29
Lauryn Chamberlain ...........41
Antonia Chandler ................37
Maggie Chandler.................48
Genevieve Chasty................47
Stephanie Chen ...................26
Aleana Christian..................35
Eli Cilley .............................47
Ian Clark..............................25
Meg Clowers .......................32
Breanne Coates ...................29
Hana Connelly ....................24
Allison Conway ..................29
Kate Conway.......................36
Danielle Conzelman............43
Olivia Correas .....................29
Johanna Costigan ................26
Una Creedon-Carey ............51
Hanna Crooks......................50
Roberta Crossley .................37
Drake D’Ambra ..................48
Chalmus Davenport.............36
Dakota Davis.......................28
Meaghan Demallie ..............46
Josephine Demme ...............48
Diana Dessy ........................25
Shirley Doan .......................40
Andrew Dobies ...................35
Sarah Dunbar ......................40
Hillary Duncan....................45
Brittney Dussault ................45
Meganne Eaton ...................41
Ashley Eberhart ..................35
Ariel Egbert.........................37
Kaitlyn Ernst .......................28
Kathleen Euler ....................41
Samantha Evans ..................47
Tracy Ewert.........................35
Sally Fritsche ......................25
Zoe Gamer ..........................50
Molly Gard..........................23
Jennifer Gates......................26
Grant Germano....................47
Jenny Goldberger ................37
Aniko Gomory ....................32
Kelly Goodfellow................50
Douglas Graebner ...............36
Jaden Gragg ........................48
Grace Gregory.....................23
Caroline Grunewald ............45
Casey Haaf ..........................37
Jami Harmon.......................25
Amber Hathaway ................51
Nicholas Hébert ..................29
Gabrielle Hempel ................35
Francine Hendrickson ........28
Corinne Herman..................32
Emily Hewlings...................50
Brooke Hillman...................23
Callie Hitchcock..................25
Esther Huh ..........................35
Katie Iaba ............................40
Sara Jansson ........................35
Molly Kaufman...................50
Seamus Kirwan ...................47
Mollie Knapp ......................51
Oliver Koppenberg..............48
Alexandra Kuykendall ........45
Clarissa Lee.........................41
Jessica Lippe ......................40
Emily Lisanti.......................24
Joanna Loewenstein ............24
Hallie Loft...........................37
Mackenzie Lowry ...............33
Kaelyn Lynch ......................23
Yasmin Majeed ...................50
Bryan Mann ........................26
Jaime Maxwell ....................33
Moira McAvoy ....................41
Holly McDede.....................35
Hannah Melville-Weatherbee...35
Cynthia Miller.....................33
Ashley Morgan....................25
Emily Morrison...................23
Liz Nasca ............................43
Joanna Nastarowicz.............25
Lisa Marie O’Keefe ............25
Kristen Orr ..........................43
Diana Park...........................23
Amelia Parnis......................46
Danica Pavlik ......................33
Aldo Penafiel.......................33
Kyrsten Persells...................32
Sophia Petris .......................37
Alexander Pollak.................37
Lauren Polson .....................24
Edye Pucciarelli ..................36
Lexi Ramil ..........................26
Srinath Reddy......................23
Natalie Rex..........................36
Callie Rhodes ......................24
Katie Richardson.................36
Elizabeth Ridolfi .................36
Alison Rieger ......................32
Hillary Robson ....................26
Amy Rohman ......................32
Emily Roldan ......................50
Kayley Rosell......................28
POETRY
•
Nina Russell ........................33
Amy Ruth............................28
Elena Saavedra Buckley......23
Tina Saienni ........................36
Tajahniya Sapp....................24
Greta Schultz.......................33
Haley Schwartz ...................46
Ian Seay...............................26
Kenzie Simmons .................50
Alyssa Smith .......................41
Ryan Smith..........................35
Brian Sparks........................36
Fish Stark ............................46
Haley Stark..........................50
Sherry Starks.......................32
Amanda Sternklar ...............25
Jacqueline Stoermer ............47
Sara Strack ..........................37
Michelle Surka ....................46
Andrea Szucsik ...................25
Christina Thai......................43
Tobian Thompson ...............46
Nora Tjossem ......................46
Marika Tobak ......................45
Raisa Tolchinsky .................41
Sahira Torres .......................28
Coy Truman ........................46
Rebecca Turchan.................40
Brooke Turner .....................37
Beth Ver Steeg.....................46
Carolina VonKampen ..........26
Amy Wakamo......................28
Carissa Waldner ..................28
Caroline Wallace .................33
Issaiah Wallace....................47
Keenan Ward .......................32
Lydia Ward ..........................29
Keegan Watters ...................41
Sarah Weiskittel ..................51
Holly Williams ....................29
Abbye Woodward................43
Yona Yurwit.........................45
Janelle Zarrelli ....................29
and the anonymous poets
SUMMER ’09
• Teen Ink
51

summer 2009

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Notes