01 Cover_Layout 1

“M AG IC I S N O S T R A N G E R
T O B L O C K ’ S WO R L D,
nor is her signature poetic sensibility. And love, in its many
varieties and forms, is celebrated, as always.” —Booklist
+ “Literary-minded readers will
enjoy teasing out the allusions
to Homer . . . but knowledge
of the classic is not a
requirement to be swept
up in the tatterdemalion
beauty of the story’s
lavish, looping language.”
Love
—Publishers Weekly, starred review
O N S A L E NOW
in the t i me of
global
warming
From the bestselling author of
Weetzie Bat
francesca
lia block
START READING NOW! Visit macteenbooks.com/loveinthetime
Available in bookstores everywhere
Teen Ink ad_Love in Time of Global Warming FINAL.indd 1
Henry Holt Books for Young Readers | Christy Ot taviano Books
8/20/13 4:53 PM
CONTENTS
TEENS, GET PUBLISHED!
Submit Online – www.TeenInk.com
Or by E-mail – [email protected]
SEPTEMBER 2013 | VOL. 25, NO. 1
THE FINE PRINT
4
• Submit your work through TeenInk.com. We no longer accept
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through our website are not only considered for publication online,
but also for the magazine. You must include your first and last name,
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Feedback
13 Art Gallery
18-19 College Directory
Nonfiction
• Submitting art or photos. We prefer that you submit through our
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above information to the back of each piece and send to Teen Ink,
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• Anonymity. If, due to the personal nature of a piece, you don’t
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must still have all name and address information for our records.
6-11
BULLYING
12-15
MEMOIRS
Four chairs down • Sympathy for the devil •
Devin Scott’s story • I am King Worm • One compromising photo •
Anyone but me • Coming out stronger • Conquering self-harm
Summer rain • Barefoot princess • A remnant • Rap attack •
Life on the horizon • Being Daisy Buchanan • A health food store
16-17
20-21
TRAVEL & CULTURE
22-23
REMEMBERING 9/11
Costa Rica • Beach camping • Ukraine • Where I’m From
Sympathy for the victims • The Queen’s comma •
My generation • A call to delete cyberbullying • Pride and prejudice •
Beating for Boston
POINTS OF VIEW
I remember this … • The man covered in ash •
Caught in 9/11
• Gifts. Teens published in the magazine will receive a
complimentary copy of the issue containing their work.
24
25
26
27
• Submitted work becomes the property of Teen Ink.
By submitting your work to us, you are giving Teen Ink and its
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and you have our permission to do so. Teen Ink may edit or
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Foundation Inc.
COMMUNITY SERVICE
INTERVIEW
Food and sympathy • Animal rescue
Amy Christine Parker, author of Gated
SPORTS
Competitive eating • Cross-country • WNBA
HEALTH
Suicide Prevention Day • MRSA • Cutting
Reviews
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WW/PP
9/13
Photo by Abby Peters, Lilburn, GA
To submit your feedback or find the articles mentioned here, go to TeenInk.com
Submission Delays
Am I the only one who is frustrated by
how long it takes to get my articles posted
on TeenInk.com? Every time I submit
something, it takes forever to get published
on the website. And it often makes no
sense! A poem I submitted four days ago
was posted before an article that I sent almost two weeks ago. The only explanation I
can think of is that maybe some of the writing topics have more submissions than others, and that’s why it takes a long time for
an article to get reviewed.
I’m not bashing Teen Ink, trust me! I
adore you all. I just feel like it’s my duty to
help you become a better website, since
you’ve helped me become a better writer.
Terrion Newton,
Morrow, GA
Dear Readers,
ng at
Welcome to Teen Ink! If you’re new to us, you’re arrivi
Ink’s
Teen
of
issue
first
the
a very exciting time. Not only is this
of
cation
publi
the
rating
25th year in print, but we’re also celeb
s
essay
of
tion
collec
a
It’s
.
k
our new book, Bullying Under Attac
witthe
and
s,
bullie
the
and poems by the victims of bullying,
the book
nesses. See the back cover for more information about
and how to get your own copy.
from
We have included a number of bullying pieces (some
also
and
—
book
the
nce
the book) in this issue to help us annou
revisto
time
ct
perfe
a
is
because the start of a new school year
l and see
it the bullying conversation. As you return to schoo
to change
do
can
you
what
friends (and rivals) again, consider
21 for
and
6-11
pages
See
the bullying landscape around you.
ing.
think
you
get
and
some riveting stories to inspire you
s of
In addition, this issue contains poetry, fiction, review
servunity
comm
,
health
music, movies and books, articles on
mreme
11th
mber
Septe
s,
ice, opinion, travel and culture, sport
.
teens
by
brances, artwork, and lots more, all
artPlease let us know what you think of the pieces and
each
teens
200
sh
publi
We
.
work, and send us your own work
issue; why not you?
Editor’s response: You’re right – that’s
one reason why submissions are published
on the website at different speeds. Or
sometimes we just happen to have a lot of
new submissions all at once, which slows
things down. We appreciate your patience,
and we hope that understanding more
about the process is helpful.
Aren’t Guns a Right?
After yet another period of continued
scrutiny regarding gun control laws, Jacob
Bergfeld does not secure his point sufficiently in his article “Aren’t Guns a Right?”
Discussing how the president is only doing
his job to protect the innocent, Jacob also
writes about how “good citizens have to
suffer” because of the new policies. Although he does bring up legitimate reasons
why the law should be reconsidered, there
are many holes in his arguments.
Jacob states that the policy limiting ammunition magazine capacity to ten rounds is
unfair to those who are “capable of responsibly handling a firearm.”As a teenager
from the city, I have no experience hunting,
but I wonder what kind of hunter needs
more than ten rounds of ammunition per
Box 30 • Newton, MA 02461
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Publishers
Stephanie Meyer
John Meyer
Senior Editor
Stephanie Meyer
Editor
Emily Sperber
Production
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Associate Editor Cindy Spertner
Production Assist. Alex Cline
Assistant Editor
Adam Halwitz
Advertising
John Meyer
Intern
Lydia Wang
Volunteer
Barbara Field
4
Teen Ink •
Stephanie Meyer
John Meyer
clip. I can’t imagine why this limit is so
controversial, since no responsible hunter
just sprays large amounts of ammunition
into a forest, hoping for a lucky hit.
Lastly, Jacob states that those who have
full citizenship and are screened should not
“have to suffer from these possible gun
restrictions.” He writes that “it is not the
gun that kills, but the operator.” One must
CIRCULATION
Reaching millions
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senior high schools
nationwide.
THE YOUNG AUTHORS
FOUNDATION
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FREQUENCY
Ten monthly issues,
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ADDITIONAL COPIES
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SEPTEMBER ’13
NOTICE TO READERS
Teen Ink is not
responsible for the
content of any advertisement. We have not
investigated advertisers
and do not necessarily
endorse their products
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EDITORIAL CONTENT
Teen Ink is a monthly
journal dedicated to
publishing a variety
of works written by
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Inc. All rights reserved.
Publication of material
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is prohibited unless
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PRODUCTION
Teen Ink uses Quark
Xpress to design the
magazine.
Emily Sperber
realize, though, that faulty screening has
been the reason for many of the tragic mass
shootings across the country.
Part of the major problem we face today
is that guns are being sold too easily with
insufficient background checks. As a result,
we must limit guns as an extra safety precaution. This, in itself, does not hinder any
law-abiding citizen, and is only meant to
ensure the welfare of a community.
Lawrence Kwong, Brooklyn, NY
Summer Hiatus?
I have noticed that Teen Ink only publishes ten issues of the magazine per year. Why
not publish in July and August? With so
many teen writers submitting articles every
day, two more issues would give more writers the chance to have their work published.
Also, with all the homework and other commitments that teens have to juggle during
the school year, summer may be a time
when teens are more productive with their
writing. You would be offering them a better activity to counteract their boredom than
watching TV or going online.
I also think it would provide teens with
the option to read new articles during the
summer without having to strain their eyes
looking at their computer screens or
iPhones. This would be a huge benefit to
both readers and writers. So I ask you, Teen
Ink editors, to please consider this idea.
Cassie Sherman, San Clemente, CA
Editor’s response: We don’t publish in
the summer because most of our copies are
sent to schools which, of course, are closed
in July and August. But summer
is a great time for you to read, fine-tune
your writing, and submit work to us.
TeenInk.com’s vibrant community of writers and artists is active all summer too.
Poetry Woes
Dear Teen Ink,
It’s been three years
Since I decided
That spilling ink
Would be a better
Way to express
Myself
Than holding in
A world of
Feelings and confusion.
Teen Ink,
You don’t agree.
Every article that I’ve
Submitted has been
Cruelly rejected,
Shattering my hope
With each and every
“Website” publication.
I’ve immortalized my
Fears and desires,
Taking care to make
Sure that my writing
Would be as relatable
As possible, while
Holding true to the
Mystery that is
Poetry.
Teen Ink,
What do you want from me?
If there is a secret,
Please enlighten me.
I’m an AP/Honors student
Taking classes
A year above my grade.
However, getting published
In your magazine
Is about as hard as
Scoring a
2400 on the
SATs.
Ajay Green, Irvington, NJ
Editor’s response: We receive many
more submissions in the poetry category
than we can print – sometimes hundreds in
a day! Your best bet to be published is to
pick an unusual topic, then use concrete
and vivid language to get your point
across. We love specificity, strong verbs,
and thoughtful, unusual imagery.
T
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She thought the evil lived
outside the walls.
She was wrong.
At 17, Lyla knows certain things
are not to be questioned:
Pioneer is her leader.
Will is her intended partner.
The end of the world is coming.
But with the end of the world
drawing near, Lyla begins to
question these facts. Soon she
realizes that she has no choice
but to fight–but which side will
she defend?
START READING!
@amychristinepar
Look inside this issue for an interview with the author!
bullying
All essays
featured in
Sympathy for the Devil Four Chairs Down
by Jack Bentele, Houston, TX
by Libby Sellers, Port Matilda, PA
love me, I made it through middle
t might be a cliché: I entered midschool. Yet when I think back, I still
dle school doe-eyed and doughy,
feel the dents in my armor. What that
ready to face the exciting prospects
bully did lasted.
of almost high school. Alas, I was cut
Then I discovered through Facedown by a bully during the horror
book that the all-powerful bully of my
known as gym class. Little things, like
past recently took his own life. How
pushes and shoves into locker doors,
am I supposed to feel about that? It’s
slowly broke down my resolve. Every
not like I knew him well; after sixth
day, sixth period ruined my life.
grade, it was almost as if nothing had
Here, though, is where I learned the
ever happened between us. Even
rules: toughen up, don’t tattle, know
though he affected my life in so many
your place in the pecking order. I
ways, I wonder if I had any impact on
wasn’t one of the “cool” kids, one of
his. It’s strange to think
the athletes, or even one of
that I, who feared him
the respected nerds.
every day, was probably a
The bullying didn’t hapI was cut
very minuscule part of his
pen because I was being
down by a
life. To him I truly was insingled out, and that’s the
visible.
most damaging part about
bully
Yet it seems like I was
it. I was interchangeable
the lucky one after all. The
with all the other invisible
small ways he abused me in middle
kids. Thrown into this environment
school were tiny blips in the larger
where parents and teachers no longer
context of his life, his struggles. I was
rule, kids build their own hierarchy,
an outlet, and even though he injured
and if your role is to get pushed
me, it doesn’t make him a malicious
around and ignored, you might as well
force. Underneath it all, he was a poor,
not exist at all.
confused kid like me. For a brief few
In this purgatory, I wandered from
months, our lives brushed against each
hall to hall, class to class, arranging
other in that locker room and then
my life around sixth period—gym
drifted apart just as easily.
class—and the dominating figure of
Bullying isn’t some great mystery.
my bully. Looking back now, he seems
Middle school can be one of the worst,
a lot smaller. Many years have passed,
most heartbreaking times. Naturally,
and I have toughened up. I’m bothered
people are going to have problems.
by other problems now, but they are
Those problems create both the bullies
more existential and pretentious these
and the bullied. We’re all products of
days. With the help of the people who
our environment, and we all need
kindness and hope during that challenging period. I was lucky; I had the
support of my parents and friends.
But who did my bully have? ✦
hy me?”
Teenagers ask themselves this question every day, wondering how life would be different if they were the head
cheerleader, the star football player, or simply a person who is respected
by their peers.
Sadly, this is not the case for many teenagers.
Tim always sat in the same place during lunch, four chairs down from
my friends and me. He was always alone, always had the same little sandwich box, and always sat with his face angled toward the floor.
For weeks, I tried to get up the courage to talk to Tim and invite him to
join our conversation, but I always found reasons not to. I made excuses
like “My friends wouldn’t be nice to him” or “He’d feel uncomfortable.”
One day, a group of boys known for giving guys like Tim a hard time
snuck up and stole his sandwich box. Tim got very
upset and repeatedly asked them to give it back,
I still regret but they just laughed. I watched angrily, but I am
ashamed to say I did nothing.
not talking
Finally, a girl walked over and yelled at the
boys,
snatched the box from their hands, and gave
to him
it back to Tim. He immediately gathered up his
things and left the cafeteria. He never came back
to sit at my table, four chairs down. I still regret not talking to him, and I
wonder, if I had, would things have gone differently that day in the
cafeteria?
Tim wasn’t the only one who had a hard time at school. That year, just
two days before graduation, a senior committed suicide. I vividly remember when we learned of his death. A hush fell over the school as we listened to our principal make the sad announcement over the loudspeaker.
That boy must have felt so alone in the world, so unwanted, that he
couldn’t see a happy future, even after high school. I watched as everyone
in my classroom grew still and silent. I wondered if anyone else was
thinking about Tim and that day in the cafeteria.
Bullies are easy to blame, but they’re not the whole problem.
As the saying goes, “When you point a finger, there are three fingers
pointing back at you.” The people who don’t speak up, like me, are also a
big part of the problem. We don’t stand up to bullies, because we fear having people think we’re not “cool.” We don’t want to become a target ourselves. But a bully will stop if enough people stand up.
I know from my own experience that standing up to a bully isn’t easy to
do. But if we support each other against those who seek to single us out,
we’ll have a better chance of helping those who sit alone, four chairs
down. ✦
I
“W
Devin Scott’s Story
by Megan Haddox, Colorado Springs, CO
parents entered the house, they found Devin’s body. Overcome
uesday, August 7, 2012, will forever be a day my senior
with shock and grief, Devin’s mother came outside in tears and
class will remember with heavy hearts. It’s the day we
screamed at the kids that Devin had killed himself.
lost a member of our class to suicide as a result of
That night, everyone heard the sad news on Facebook. Our
bullying.
class decided to wear blue in memory of Devin. It was shocking
On August 6th, the second day of school, Devin Scott bumped
to see how many took part, especially given how many kids had
into another student and gave him the finger. The other kid
been at Devin’s house just the night before, taunting him.
wanted to fight. When Devin went home instead of going to the
Our school held a candlelight memorial. Devin’s
park to fight, the boy and fifty other students went
family attended and thanked everyone for coming
to Devin’s house and stood outside chanting his
together to remember Devin. As the theme song
name and saying mean things.
A student
from the movie Up played, we released blue balDevin tried to call the police but couldn’t get
could be bullied loons with messages to Devin written on them.
through on the nonemergency line. He didn’t think
Many students shared stories of how Devin had
he should call 911 because he didn’t need an ambuto death
saved
them from suicide, or that even though they
lance. Devin also called our school’s resource offididn’t know him they were devastated a student
cer. That night after the students left his house,
could be bullied to death. As people shared their stories, a light
Devin was mocked on Facebook for not fighting. The next day at
rain began to fall. We felt that even though Devin wasn’t with us
school, he and the other boy met with an officer to discuss the
anymore, he was crying with us.
situation.
Since Devin’s death, bullying isn’t as common at my school,
Devin was a friend to many, an acquaintance to some, a smilbut as in any high school, if you look for it, you will find it. It’s
ing face in the hallway to all. Then in an instant he was gone.
really sad that we had to lose a student before anyone impleWhen his family got home that day, kids were again outside the
mented a real plan to address bullying. My only hope is that this
house yelling that Devin was a coward for not fighting. They
will never happen again, here or anywhere. ✦
told the kids to go home or they would call the cops. When his
T
Art by Rebecca Huang, Taipei, Taiwan
6
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’13
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
bullying
King Worm
I
stared out into the golden
horizon, watching a parade
of sunlight blink across the
surface of the water. It was
that magical time when the
sun pokes its head up from the
horizon, signaling the start of
a new day. The morning air
filled my lungs as I breathed
the satisfying color of blue
that you can only smell around
water.
It was just me and my papa
that morning, standing on the
sandy bank of a lake, the
water’s edge splishFeatured in
splashing a few feet
away. My pole was in my
hands, and my eyes were
fixed on the tiny circle
where the line disappeared beneath the surface of the water. The
line remained motionless,
waiting to snag a fish.
But my head was stuck
in the past, stuck in a
time when the smell of hatred lingered,
and the reservoir of vengeance was waiting to be filled. Nobody knows, I told
myself. I’m the only one.
My pole started to shake, and I
jumped. I shook myself from my daze
and reeled the line in furiously, but when
the hook popped out of the water, it was
empty. A lost worm.“How many times
do I have to tell you?” my dad snapped.
“When you feel it go down, the fish is
biting and you have to set the hook. Pay
attention.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” I replied.
My dad didn’t talk much, and when he
did, it was mostly to scold me for what I
had done or tell me what I should have
done.
Still, I wanted him to know what was
on my mind. I knew he would yell and
criticize me for my mistakes, but I
wanted to gather the strength to tell him
8
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’13
by Robert Hwang, St. Ann, MO
my belly, forcing the breath from my
my story.
respect and fear me. Other bullies even
lungs. The burning sensation seemed to
I reached in the bait container and
stopped teasing me. I had won acceptseep into my skin, engulfing my body. It
grabbed another plump worm, crushing
ance, but it was not the satisfying life I
was the kind of punch that has a lingerit in half with my thumb. It reminded me
hoped for. But I did not give up, and one
ing aftertaste.
of myself when I was a kid. Vulnerable.
day a new kid named Adam arrived.
When I got home, I took off the yellow
Defeated. I was a worm, or at least I felt
He was white, which was no surprise,
polo shirt and furiously stuffed it into the
like it.
with freckles below his heavy eyelids
depths of my closet, vowing never to
And some people really hate worms.
and a big pair of buck teeth that prowear it again. That punch stayed with me
My childhood enemy was Eric. He
truded past his lips. His face was almost
all night, as I lay in bed soaking my pilwas one of those arrogant, overprivileged
rabbitlike. When asked to read in class,
low with tears of regret.
types, but one thing that always stood out
he stuttered horribly.
I was powerless to stop the bullying,
to me was his devilish smile. I hated that
How embarrassing, I chuckled. An
and because of that I became absorbed in
smile because it meant he was up to no
easy target, I thought.
meaningless self-pity. I
good.
“Hey, Adam,” I said during recess.
pitied myself; I hated those
One time in third grade
“Follow me. We’re going to have some
who made me feel like a
the class was lining up to
fun.”
Racism
worthless worm. And most
wait for the buses to take us
I led the way; Adam followed quietly.
home. Most days I avoided
Near the back of the playground was an
surrounded my of all, I pitied my life.
When I was little, my
Eric, but that day, unfortuarea we called The Hill. It was just steep
life at school
family moved to this small
nately, I was lined up near
enough that nobody could see you at the
town in Missouri to open a
him and his group of
bottom, and because of that, teachers
family Chinese restaurant. I
cronies.
told students to avoid the area. But the
hated almost every moment living in that
I was wearing a yellow polo my mom
teachers were somewhere else, so I took
place. Though my parents were oblivious
had bought for me, with the letters
Adam down The Hill.
to it, the city had a faint whiff of preju“LBBJ” across the breast pocket.
There, I turned around and said,
dice. I always felt different, like a forEric was laughing with his friends. I
“You’re the new kid here, and I don’t
eigner. The burning heat of racism
remember thinking, Please don’t look
like you.”
constantly surrounded my life at school.
my way, but it did me no good. He and
I glared at him with deadly eyes. He
My parents were too busy with their
his friends spotted me and marched over
was hopeless, a nobody at the bottom of
restaurant to notice. And ironically, I
like a bunch of thugs.
the hierarchy.
didn’t want them to know that I was too
“Hey, what’s that?” He pointed at the
As soon as he turned to run, my hand
afraid to tell an adult about it.
letters on my shirt. “LBBJ? Does that
clenched into a ball. I hesitated, but then
So I wandered around every day like a
mean Little Baby Butt Junior?”
I did it anyway. My fist struck out
sardine in a school of whitefish. During
“N-no!” I stuttered. My face reddened.
quickly and grated into his upper back.
my time in that school system, I saw
I tried to act cool, but he could sense
Adam let out a startled cry, loud
only a few kids of color, and that whiff
my fear. His expression turned bleak, and
enough to turn the heads of a few kids,
of prejudice would become stronger
that familiar, devilish smile appeared on
but not loud enough to alert the teachers.
when they were around. Many of them
his face. Nobody would help me. I knew
He ran off without a word.
didn’t stay for long, and I always thought
this, and so did he.
After that, I made Adam my special
they were the lucky ones. When they left,
Heart pumping, I bolted for the other
victim, shoving my knuckles into his
the sad thing was, nobody cared. It was
side of the hall. But I was too slow, and
back throughout the day. Pick on the
like they were instantly forgotten. I
one of his cronies caught me around the
weak, and you won’t get picked on youralways wished I would be the next to
waist and shoved me back toward Eric.
self, I thought.
leave, but the family business took prior“You can’t hurt me,” I said, trying to
One day when I got home, I found a
ity. I knew there was nothsound courageous.
letter addressed to me in the
ing I could do, and being
“Can’t hurt you?” Eric snickered.
mailbox. It was from
teased and pushed around
“Wanna bet?”
Adam’s dad, and it conI decided to
was so normal that I associBefore I could reply, he cocked his
tained a picture of Adam’s
ated school with bullying.
arm and launched a fierce uppercut into
exposed back, covered in red
become a
Desperate to find a way
marks. I was forced to face
bully myself
to deal with the bullying, I
my mistakes head on.
decided to become a bully
Now, at the lake with my
myself.
dad, I looked at my hand
It was a gradual change, like how milk
covered in worm guts. The plump worm
turns sour as it warms up. I sat back quiwrithed in my grip as I stabbed it onto
etly and watched the many Erics doing
the hook. It continued to squirm, trying
their thing, carefully observing the seto escape the steel skewering its flesh.
crets to being a bully. I was tired of waitI looked at my dad, thinking again
ing for results; I wanted change.
about telling him. I wanted him to know
I decided to become the King Worm,
everything. I wanted to tell him about
the one nobody would pick on without
how I had been punched because I was
facing punishment. I copied the attitude
Asian, kicked because I had no friends,
of my bullies and began to torment other
and spat on because I tried to resist. I
helpless victims.
wanted to tell him why I became a monI soon commanded my own group of
ster myself.
cronies. I used my brains to outsmart the
But I didn’t. His sad brown eyes were
teachers; a friendly game of tag in their
peering deep into the lake as if they
view was a perfect opportunity to push
knew all too well. I cast my line out into
someone to the ground, or a little race on
the shining sun, and the worm danced in
the playground was a cover-up to trip an
the watery depths, hoping for another
unsuspecting victim. Ironically, I made a
chance to catch that fish. ✦
lot of friends this way. People started to
Photo by Sarah Layne, Bridgewater, VA
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
Get it right.
Get The Writer.
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Would you
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Deadline:
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SEPTEMBER ’13
• Teen Ink
9
bullying
Just One Picture
naked, or if I was a virgin. At the time, I thought
ou’re fat,” one told me.
nothing of it and answered without hesitation. Even“She’s annoying,” another said.
tually his inappropriate questions morphed into in“Did you hear she’s a lesbian?”
appropriate requests – for pictures of my body.
someone asked.
The first time he asked me to send him a nude
“I just wish she would realize that no one likes
picture,
I said no. So then he didn’t talk to me.
her and just go away,” one girl said to another.
Whenever I texted “Hey” he’d ignore me. I desperThis was my reality. These were words, but they
ately wanted his attention and approval. I wanted to
weren’t just words. They were hurt.
talk to him, and when he cut me off I felt a loss. DeI have been bullied my whole life. I have been
pression began creeping in.
called, “fat,” “ugly,” “whore,” and “useSo I did it. I took a picture of myself
less,” and I have been told to “go kill
with my phone and clicked “Send.” With
yourself.” Wherever I went, the torment
With one
one click I had sealed my fate.
just seemed to follow me, even from
“Hahahaha,” he texted in response. He
school to school.
click, I had
called me fat, told me I had a terrible figWhat is it about me? I often asked
myself. Deep down inside, the bullying sealed my fate ure, and said he couldn’t believe I actually did it. He told me that no one liked
had really taken a toll. After years of
me and no one ever would. As horrible
abuse, I became depressed.
as this sounds, what happened next was even worse.
The bullying really started to affect me last year,
After Richard told me these things, he put my
in ninth grade. It was an ordinary year, except for
picture on Facebook. A friend saw it and texted me.
one thing: Richard. I really liked him. I thought I
I quickly went online. When I saw the picture I had
could trust him with my secrets, but I was wrong.
sent to him only – posted on Facebook for all to
Richard was a year older. We went to the same
see – tears of hurt and disbelief flooded my eyes.
school and rode the same bus. We would text every
He had captioned the picture “What a fat whore,”
night for hours. He made me feel extraordinary, and
and tagged me in it. I remember the horrible feeling
since I was dealing with depression, I desperately
when I saw the picture. I quickly removed the tag,
needed that feeling.
but there were already dozens of comments from his
However, our friendship was a game for him.
friends and people I didn’t even know. Unrepeatable
Eventually his texts became sexual. He began askcomments. I read a few, but I couldn’t get myself to
ing me awkward questions, like whether I slept
“Y
Anyone But Me
B
ack in elementary school, I thought
nothing of my little muffin top
belly sticking out over my shorts or
my stubby arms that waved around when I
ran. I was just me. How could I know I
was supposed to be someone else? How
was I to know that my love for orange
soda, chocolate, and potato chips would
condemn me to a life of endless sneers, an
eternity of being picked last in gym, continuous jokes about “Hannah the Hippo”?
How was I to know that being me simply
wasn’t good enough?
Even now I walk with a heavy weight
on my shoulders as I stare at the tiled
floors of my high school, feeling glares of
distaste at who I am and how I look. My
parents claim I have so few friends because my “loner” attitude tells people I
want to be left alone. But don’t they know
that’s not true? Don’t they know that by
staying away, I’m doing what others want
from me?
I started carrying this heavy weight in
second grade. One day on the playground,
I ran to the monkey bars. I didn’t know
that this would be the beginning of the
weight that would start to build on my
shoulders, like bricks being added to my
pink backpack one by one. A group of
girls sat together on the bars. I beamed at
them and asked what they were doing.
One of the blonde girls, who I still see
today, answered calmly, “We’re in a club
meeting.” I asked enthusiastically if I
10
by “Kate,” ON, Canada
Teen Ink •
read more than a few. Richard had over a thousand
Facebook friends who would see it.
I wanted to kill myself. I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t live with myself, and I sure didn’t
want to tell my grandparents (who I lived with)
what was going on. They would be devastated if
they knew I had shared this revealing picture. I
thought dying was the only solution, my only
escape from the pain.
That night when my grandparents were asleep, I
took over forty Tylenol. I threw up repeatedly. I
eventually couldn’t take the pain, and I clearly
wasn’t dying, so I went upstairs and told my
grandma what I had done. They took me to the
emergency room and got my stomach pumped, and
I was admitted to the hospital to be treated for depression. I would remain there for three weeks.
In the hospital, I regained hope. I learned how
valuable I was. I started taking an antidepressant,
and I learned new ways to deal with bullying and
cope with negative thoughts and feelings. I feel
lucky to have a second shot at life. When I came
home, I switched schools, and Richard was punished for his actions.
To everyone out there who is being bullied, considering suicide, or feeling worthless, you are loved.
Things can and will get better. You have an amazing
life ahead of you. Don’t lose hope. You’ve just got
to believe in yourself and seek help if you are struggling. I’m so glad I did. ✦
by Hannah, TN
you are ugly and unwanted.
could join. A girl with black hair smiled
Bricks continued accumulating throughweakly and simply said, “No, sorry.”
out elementary school, and when I reached
Thud went the first brick.
middle school, my peers began using them
But it wasn’t that heavy. I pouted but
to build houses on my back. If I wasn’t
didn’t feel too bad. Instead I asked, “How
careful with my belongings, I would find
come?” They exchanged hesitant looks.
them torn and scattered or in the trash can.
The girl with the black hair spoke again:
I acted indifferent as girls giggled after
“We can’t tell you. We don’t want to hurt
glancing my way. I was afraid to tell the
your feelings.”
teachers. My classmates would shoot acAnother brick.
cusing glares at me from across the room,
Oh, how innocent I was. I just smiled
but when I started to cry and the teacher
and waved away her answer. Why didn’t I
asked me what was wrong, I’d just say I
leave it at that? If I had, would I be the
didn’t feel good, which was technically
person I am now? “Oh, you won’t hurt my
true. In fact, I felt like trash in
feelings. Just tell me why and
a bin in the corner: useless,
I’ll leave.”
The blonde spoke again,
“This club is unwanted, and most of all,
disgusting.
shrugging as if her answer was
for skinny
In junior high, my peers
nothing, though her voice was
started
to pile large city buildslow and hesitant. “Because
girls only”
ings onto my back, right on top
this club is for skinny girls
of the brick houses. I found the
only.”
notebooks that I had forgotten on the gym
A hundred bricks suddenly landed in my
bleachers, torn and scrawled with crude
backpack. Hot stinging tears flooded my
language and vulgar pictures that made
eyes. I wanted to run, and run is what I
that unpleasant knot tighten in my throat.
did. I hated the tight knot in my throat. I
In high school, I was lost under an unwas ashamed. Ashamed that I was the
ceasing embankment of concrete. It felt so
cause of this uncomfortable feeling for
heavy that I was always slouched forward
everyone around me. No one else had ever
in my desk, ignoring the laughter and
said that I was shunned because of my
whispers of the football players who were
size. But in a way, I should have thanked
dumb enough to believe I couldn’t hear
those girls. They opened my eyes. I wasn’t
them. Or maybe they wanted me to hear.
so innocent anymore. From then on I beNow I am pale from years of staying inlieved I knew what everyone was thinking,
side my house, refusing to go out unless I
the message the world was trying to send:
SEPTEMBER ’13
COMMENT
have to. It’s my fault that it’s gotten this
bad. I made a habit of drowning my sorrows in clusters of Almond Joys, pints of
Ben and Jerry’s, liters of soda, and bowls
of gooey mac ’n’ cheese. I grew even bigger in my misery instead of trying to address the problem.
Thankfully, I am not completely alone. I
have a few friends who are always there to
comfort me, though even they can’t completely take away my painful loneliness.
We’ve had long laughs that leave my belly
aching, and good times that I’ll always
treasure. But nothing hurts more than the
discomfort on their faces as I try to find
solace in them about my weight. They
murmur the things that friends always
say – how they think I’m fantastic just as I
am, or how I shouldn’t listen to what others say – and then quickly change the subject. It tells me that I’m right not to tell
anyone about my distress. It tells me that
even though they are the best of friends,
they can never know my pain. Oddly, I
have very thin friends – friends who will
never know what it is like to be hated and
mocked because of their weight.
I don’t blame those girls on the monkey
bars for what they did. They didn’t know I
would remember their words for the rest of
my life. They didn’t know that from then
on, my every action would be based on
what those around me thought. I only have
myself to blame for caring. For wanting to
be anyone but me. ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
bullying
Coming Out Stronger
by “Gina,” IL
presidential election, marriage equality became a hot
eing gay is never easy. A lot of people are
issue. Since most people knew I was gay, they exclosed-minded and don’t accept homosexuals.
pected me to weigh in on the debate, and I did, postMany LGBT teens live in fear of being buling on Facebook a link to an article and stating that
lied, or worse, being the victims of hate crimes like
by the time I was ready to get married, I hoped I
the horrendous case of Matthew Shepard. I’d always
would be able to without going to another state or
read about the challenges that open LGBT people
facing other problems.
face, including bullying, hazing, and discrimination,
This post was the first time I acknowledged in a
and considered myself lucky I never had to go
public forum that I was gay, and I didn’t think much
through any of that. I thought that if I got positive reabout it. My friends were supportive of my post, but
sponses from most people, I would be exempt from
a few people I thought were my friends were not.
discrimination. I was wrong.
After posting, I went to bed, but during the night, I
I always promised myself that being gay wouldn’t
got angry phone calls, e-mails, and text messages
take over my life. As soon as I figured myself out, I
from my so-called “friends” telling me that I was dismade sure I wasn’t like some of the people on TV
gusting, that I would go to hell, and that they had
who made a huge deal out of it. Honestly, I didn’t
thought I was cool but didn’t anymore. They called
believe that being gay mattered that much. I still
me words that I will not repeat. (Yup, they
thought about the same things as my
were that vulgar.)
straight counterparts: I worried about
I started to cry and immediately
homework, contemplated what I was
I didn’t believe blocked
their phone numbers and e-mail
having for lunch, and waited excitaddresses, thinking it was over. How foolthat being
edly for the parties I was sometimes
I was. When I checked Facebook the
invited to.
gay mattered ish
next morning, there were over a hundred
I lived out freshman year with few
ugly, vulgar, abusive comments on my
people knowing I was gay, and that
that much
seemingly innocent post about my support
was fine. Though life was easier that
of marriage equality.
way, I always felt like I was restricted
I knew that not everyone was going to accept or
by not telling others, and I started to wonder if it
understand this about me, but I had no idea they
would be better just to come out.
would be so mean. Most of these former friends
Before sophomore year, I read a lot of articles by
claim to follow Christian beliefs – loving and acceptother LGBT teens who said that coming out was a
ing everyone, even those who are hard to understand.
positive experience that made their lives better. So I
The next few days I was a zombie at school. I
decided it would be best for me to get rid of all the
started to fall behind in my classes, and I didn’t want
mystery hanging over me like a dark cloud and just
to talk to anyone, even my girlfriend. I communicome out already. I never publicly announced I was
cated in one-word responses and shrugs, and stopped
gay, but I stopped making it a secret. I was honest
being my chipper, carefree self. I was so beaten
about who I had a crush on, and I started going out
down that I didn’t care about anything anymore. The
with a girl. If people asked, I made sure they knew I
people I thought were my friends had left, and even
had a girlfriend, not a boyfriend, though I seldom resome who wanted to stay had been pulled away by
vealed her name.
their homophobic parents. I didn’t think being gay
At first, I loved this new me with nothing to hide.
really mattered, because I was taught to like people if
However, not everyone received the news as well as
they were genuinely nice, not just because they folmy friends did. If being gay is hard, being gay in a
low the “normal” way of living. I guess that’s why I
conservative town is even harder. During the 2012
B
Conquering Self-Harm
T
he term self-harm carries a certain
stigma. Most hold stereotypical
views of how this type of person
acts, or why they do it; these stereotypes
reassure us. After all, it’s easy to judge
someone we view as an obnoxious attention-seeker, isn’t it? Isn’t that what all
self-injurers are?
These assumptions are based on prejudice; people fear what they do not understand. There is no collective reason why
people hurt themselves; it varies. My
reasons may be completely different
from another’s.
I never decided to start hurting myself.
It was a consequence of low self-esteem
and my upbringing. I was overweight as
a kid, and instead of helping me learn to
make good dietary decisions, my mother
sought to shame me. I was frequently
belittled because of my size and singled
out; my family would be served a steak
dinner and cake, and I’d be given a small
LINK
YOUR
TEENINK.COM
Photo by Dakoda Farone-Reed, Rosiclare, IL
never understood racism or homophobia, even when
my Sunday school teachers had tried to instill it in
me when I was a little kid.
I felt so alone and completely shut myself off from
others; I was afraid to trust people. A few days later,
I got a text from a girl I knew from band who wasn’t
really my friend: “I respect you so much for being
yourself and being brave enough to put yourself out
there like that. You have more supporters than you
think. I’m here if you need anyone. I know we don’t
talk a lot, but I think we could be friends.”
The message opened my eyes. Sure, some people
will judge me for being gay, but those people don’t
really matter. They can try to tear me down, but they
won’t affect my life unless I let them. When I closed
myself off from everyone, I forgot about all those
who love and support me, no matter what.
When I got to school the next morning, I held my
head up high, and instead of seeing a sad place full
of enemies, I saw the allies and friends who have
helped me to become stronger. ✦
by “Karen,” Norton, MA
broke the skin and didn’t even bleed, but
portion of grilled chicken and a fruit
I was hooked. Cutting made me feel
cup. While I know these actions were
clearer, more focused. I felt I could surwell-intentioned, they hurt me. I did not
vive anything, as long as I kept my
receive any approval or praise unless I
focus.
lost weight. As a result, my self-worth
Contrary to popular belief, not all peowas inextricably linked to my size.
ple who hurt themselves are suicidal.
I felt trapped at home, and school was
Quite the opposite – most people who
no better. Until eighth grade, I was torself-injure are fighting to live.
mented daily for being fat
It’s a coping mechanism;
and because people claimed
the pain keeps us
I was a lesbian. It didn’t
He inspired somehow,
sane and connected to the
matter that I wasn’t gay. I
me to recover world. After I cut, I felt numb,
began to withdraw, and detotally separate from everypression set in like a lead
thing that hurt me. I lived for
weight.
that feeling, when the scarlet spread and
My thought process changed drastithe ache in my chest subsided.
cally. I began to view myself as worthI cut frequently until this year; I’m
less; I was absolutely nothing. I hated
covered with scars. The majority are on
everything about myself by the tender
my ankles, which are easily covered by
age of nine. These emotions piled up and
my uniform tights and jeans on weekeventually overflowed when I was 13. I
ends. Although I don’t talk often about
made my first cut in the summer of
my self-harm, I did confide in my
2009, with a broken CD case. It hardly
ACCOUNT TO
FACEBOOK
English teacher. He’s an incredible person; he was the first – and so far, the
only – person to tell me that I have
worth.
He inspired me to recover. I’m beginning to realize that my value as a person
is not reflected by the size of my jeans,
and I do have talents. It’s a daily battle,
and I have relapsed, but I got up and
fought on. Now I’m proud to say, “I defeated self-harm.”
Remember, words matter. You can
build someone up or send them toppling
down. Take the time to talk to that boy in
your class who seems lost, or that girl
who keeps her head down. Be kind to
all – just because someone is outgoing
does not mean they are not suffering.
You can make a difference.
To everyone who is struggling with
self-injury, eating disorders, mental illness, or suicidal thoughts, keep battling
on. Things will get better, I promise. ✦
SEPTEMBER ’13
• Teen Ink
11
nonfiction
Summer Rain
by Saskia Levy-Sheon, Oakland, CA
through the prehistoric grasses that had started to infall in love in a moment. Today it was with the
vade the garden. After smiling with the river and
rain. After threatening us ominously for several
stalking the unsuspecting interlopers for several
days with tense humidity and inconsistent
minutes, I left the stream to check on the cherries.
clouds, today it fell. The air cleared and the whole
It was the last day of the season, and the fruit still
countryside seemed to take a deep breath. It let itself
clinging
to the tree was pulsating with ripe, red, virgo, knowing that the mountains held it securely in
ile energy. The rain slid off tight flesh, leaving
their stony arms. Not wanting to be left out of the
streaks behind. The largest bee I had ever seen was
full experience of such a beautiful summer rain, I
drowning herself in a cherry’s flesh, her yellow and
put on my bathing suit and went down into the
black armor bright against the carnal purple of the
courtyard. Opening the old wooden door to the garfruit. She had already eaten half and
den and stepping through the ancient
seemed unable to stop herself from
stone wall was like entering another
My senses grew digging deeper. I imagined her thrustworld.
fistfuls of fruit into her cheeks. The
The flowers were bobbing their
sharper as my ing
juice would run down her chest, sticky
heads in time with the raindrops, the
consciousness and sweet.
trees were swaying, and the bugs were
I smiled and stood back. Rain
flying low over the grass like flashes
expanded
formed drops on my shoulders and slid
of light. Like sparks. The roses
down my bare back. It reached the base
smiled, passionately displaying their
of my spine and I shivered. La joie pûre. I sat on a
pink petals, extending them toward the source of this
white rock in the middle of the garden, next to an
heavenly rainfall.
overturned and empty broken flowerpot. My mind
I walked down to the creek. The water was a
cleared. My senses grew sharper as my conscioussemi-opaque warm gray, except where it sprinted
ness expanded to encompass the garden, the stream,
over the rocks, embracing and cooling them, prothe trees, the bee overcome by lust. The rain against
tecting them from the freshly cleared air. Stuck in
my back grew colder, and narrow streams of water
the streambed, to me they looked encased in glass.
rolled down my spine. My forehead was almost
Suddenly I saw a small group of men fishing on
touching my knees. The back of my neck faced the
the other bank. I’m sure they saw me, but I prewatery sky. I waited. Lifting my head, I watched the
tended that they hadn’t. I crouched low and gripped
rain fall until the droplets streaked against my pupils
the muddy bank. I was a river spirit, peering at them
I
Barefoot
D
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’13
like points of light. Like shooting stars.
When enough time had passed, I went back
through the garden gate, shutting the latch and bolting it twice. I turned around and faced the quiet
courtyard. No carnal cherries here, only docile stalks
of lavender and moss-covered stones, slick with precipitation. The bees swarming these delicate flowers
were of a different nature. They buzzed about in an
orderly fashion, less crazed with dripping purple
concupiscence and longing.
I climbed the stairs, listening to my aunt’s clarinet
music waft out of an open window. Back in my
room, I stripped and dried my chilled skin. I put on a
warm shirt and sat down to write. ✦
Remnant
by Mica Mu, Albany, NY
Yet now she stood, clad in a pale gray windusk was coming slowly. A languid mantle
breaker,
her umbrella hanging over her eyes, as
of dusty blue crept over the orange sky,
salty sand bit her cheeks and chapped her lips. Her
soon to overtake the sun as it sank to the
still-bare feet sank into what remained of the
horizon. Wind was tussling with ocean waves and
sand – faded sand, super-saturated with rainwater.
blankets and tent flaps and hair, one final attempt
Her favorite beach had been torn away from the
to amuse itself before the day vanished at the edge
seaside, and the water, once blue and steady and
of the sea.
dreadfully reliable, now pounded and churned. It
And at the edge of the sea, a barefoot little girl
was no longer blue, but deep black from debris and
yawned. (The sky was already darkening – had she
cold white from foam. The sky, always in her
been there that long?) She was curled up luxurimemory as periwinkle and peach and glowing, was
ously in a purple poncho, her hood hanging over
drenched in watery coffee today, with a few scather eyes. She reclined easily between her parents.
tered stains masquerading as clouds.
As little as she was, she was bigger than the moon,
The tide stretched icy hands toward her toes, and
taller than the mountains. The wind played with
her exposed ankles shivered together as
her hair only because she let it, and if
their chill passed over them. She was
it rained, she would yell at the sky
not pleased. So she threw down her umuntil the clouds moved on in fright.
She was no
brella and pulled down her hood, about
And as little as she was, she was a
longer a
to open her mouth and chastise the sea
princess, and an imperious one at
and sky and rain for being so disagreethat.
princess
able – until the wind caught her hair and
Today she was enjoying the beauty
pulled. It did not pull playfully, and did
of the sea, its constant beat against
not merely tussle. She had not given it permission.
the ivory-gray sands of the quiet beach, and the
And at the edge of the sea, the barefoot (not so
watercolor sky that never failed to obey her.
little
anymore) girl realized that the wind’s perIt was years later, but not many, when things
ceived
deference to her was a delusion, and that
changed for her. Things may not have so dramatithe watercolor sky did not change colors at her
cally changed in reality, but even so – she learned
command. The drum of the ocean would march on
that she might rule over many things, but not over
without her, and she was not a princess, at least not
the whole world. That particular day had been preone who ruled over the natural world. And she receded by a rather violent storm, yet she had inalized that she never had been.
sisted that they go to the seaside anyway. It had
Today, and tomorrow, she would merely be its
become a family tradition to drag everyone down
observer
– applauding it when it suited her, grumto the shore at that time of year, as it was correbling
when
it did not. Other than that, she was
spondent with Mother and Father’s anniversary,
powerless.
and the girl would simply not let a force of nature
She began wearing shoes at the seaside. ✦
diminish her family’s enjoyment.
12
Photo by Mia Erdos, Brooklyn, NY
COMMENT
by Tiffany Lam, Carrollton, TX
Y
ou were a stuffed rabbit with gangly limbs
and a black nose smooth as silk. You were
a gift, an Easter present from eons past,
from a life much, much simpler, I believe. You had
a twin I preferred – bright green and yellow to
your gloomy purples. You were what I ended up
with, second best, much to my chagrin, but I
promised to love you forever anyway. You might
have had a name once – many names. I’d crown
you only to forget and strip you of your titles, bestow upon you new ones and forget again, over
and over, ad nauseam, until one day I forgot to
name you at all, then the next, and the next, and
suddenly you were an undignified peasant in a
wasteland of smooth linen sheets and cottonstuffed pillows.
You weren’t the first of your kind, nor the last,
but from among the rubble and the piled bodies
waiting to be discarded, I remembered you had a
twin, and I reached out and reclaimed you unto
the end, this so-called promise of forever. And
now – now you sit at the foot of my bed, stuffed
into a corner, forgotten, until I blindly, on rare
nights, grope around to find you.
You are old and gray and full of sleep, a bag of
rags I offer half a thought to when I see your
once-silk-smooth nose, now frayed and tattered
threads. You had a twin once, given to someone I
once thought the world of and now don’t think of
at all. You are like her, a relic of the past, the manifestation of my inability to lay it to rest, my stuttering attempts to hold on and let go all at once. ✦
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TEENINK.COM
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SEPTEMBER ’13
• Teen Ink
13
nonfiction
Rap Attack
by Tanner VandeSande, Naples, NY
kid. Gallons of ink went into writing my two-minute
standing on the stage twenty minutes before the first
choked. No, I suffocated. I went cold, my stomrap. By the time I was done, I had gone through all
act and imagining a huge crowd on their feet, cheerach turned over, and I felt the color drain from
the paper in my English binder.
ing and clapping. What I got was very different.
my expressionless face. Even if my brain hadn’t
The problem was, I didn’t know exactly how to
To start, there wasn’t a full house, but a decent
shut down, I had no air left in my lungs to make a
present myself. I wasn’t the stereotypical rapper,
number of people came – enough so that if you emsound. I knew I was nervous, but the middle of my
talking about how awesome I was and how much
barrassed yourself, everyone would find out. Each
act was the worst time for stage fright to kick in.
money I had. That didn’t fit. I mean, I
act seemed longer than the last, and I was getting
I love music and always have, and
knew I was awesome, but getting everymore nervous by the minute. I ran through the song
in my first year of high school I got
one else to believe it wasn’t going to be
in my head dozens of times. I lost count of the acts.
the chance to show my skills to my
Stage fright was easy. I needed to stand out, not blend
I couldn’t focus. I started sweating.
peers. Unfortunately, I approached the
When I finally heard my name, I forgot how to
talent show as though I had something
threatening to in, and most importantly, the rap
needed to reflect a message about me:
move. Stage fright was threatening to overwhelm
to prove. It was too much pressure,
overwhelm me about how it doesn’t matter what you
me. I snapped out of it long enough to get up on
especially for a kid who’d never even
look
like
or
what
you
have,
because
as
stage before everyone thought I had left. They
told anyone he was a rapper. The few
long as you feel the music and have the
handed me the mic, and I was so out of it, I almost
I had told didn’t think I was serious. It
skill, the mic can be yours.
waited for the beat to kick in.
was a pretty crazy idea. I knew I wasn’t that good; I
I didn’t show anyone what I had written before
The first word was almost impossible to get out,
had just started.
the show. I was in a weird position: I wanted to
but I grew more comfortable as the song went on,
One day I was walking through the halls when I
stand in front of everyone and be proud of my work,
and was even feeling good about my performance. I
saw a poster for the school talent show. It was perbut I couldn’t even find the courage to tell anyone I
saw some heads starting to bob, and the judges
fect. I would go on stage, drop a few bars, and the
was a rapper. Except for my parents and a few close
looked pleased.
crowd would go nuts. Everyone would know my
friends,
no
one
knew.
Of
course
my
parents
were
Then it happened.
name, and I would no longer be just another faceless
supportive, but I doubt they
To this day I don’t know exactly what caused it,
thought it was something I was
but I froze and forgot the next line. I remember the
taking seriously. Kids change
look the host gave me when I stopped. It was a mix
their minds about that kind of
of confusion and pity. I tried to come up with someby Kaley Roberts,
stuff all the time. This week he
thing on the spot, but it was pathetic. The line was
Niantic, CT
supposed to be, “Even if you have nine cars in your
wants to be a rapper, next week
garage, if you don’t got the heart you’ll be gone like
an astronaut, parents think. My
97 steps from a tiny tattered beach,
a mirage.” Instead I said, “Don’t hate. I’m great.”
friends were neutral, showing
Frequented by gnats and 70-somethings,
I was done, and the only thing left to do was get
no opposition or support.
The Edge of the World, CT
off the stage. I was embarrassed beyond belief and
As showtime drew closer, I
mad at myself. I should have worked harder on
grew more anxious. I chose to
here it is: the address to my sun-cracked seaside home. You did ask for
memorizing the song, or tried to prevent my stage
go a capella. That decision
my address, right? I live on the horizon.
fright from taking over. I heard my mom say, “It’s
turned out to help me in the
Years one through 16 belong to blue-framed sunrises, sunrises sandokay, Tanner,” and one of the other acts tried telling
end.
wiched between the serene blue-black ocean and a passionate periwinkle sky.
me it wasn’t that bad. I knew it was. There was
The day before the show, all
Growing up on the edge of the world, though, I had no time to bask beneath
nothing I could do but slump in my seat until the
participants
did
a
practice
run.
them. Ocean-side is a busy place to be a kid.
show was over.
I
was
the
sixteenth
act,
so
I
had
At first the callused toes ached and the charred heels throbbed. Four years
When it was time for the winners to be anto
wait
for
a
while.
I
got
old and my feet begged to surrender to the scorching sand. But my overbearnounced,
I wondered if I might hear my name for
through
my
rap
perfectly,
withing imagination made their yelps subside. I constructed sandcastle stories
third place, given that most acts really weren’t good;
out a single stutter, slur, or
that kept me on the beach until after the sand cooled. I decorated castles with
maybe I would got a pity vote as the scared kid. But
word forgotten. I was ready. By
seaweed and took my baby sister shell-hunting. We mixed mud royally and,
when I didn’t get third, I felt that was my last
now people had found out I
when the destructive tide rolled in, sat with sand in our pants and watched in
chance to even come close to proving
was in the show,
wonder. The world was strange, sometimes, in its
what I set out to: that I should be taken
but
they
didn’t
knack for destroying beauty.
know
what
my
act
I am struck
I don’t know seriously as a rapper. How could I face
We were babies on the beach, but we knew that
my friends – or anyone – now?
was.
I
told
people
And when the tide washed away all but our sewith a new much.
what
caused
As I stood up to leave, I heard someone
when
they
asked,
cret knowledge of the world, the horizon was left to
say
my name. I looked up and realized
since there was no
sense of
look at. We looked, but we didn’t see. The horizon was
it, but I froze
everyone was looking at me. I saw two
point in hiding it
all we had ever known. As babies, it just meant home.
wonder
other acts on stage, and the host was moanymore. I got a
My older childhood was normal, minus a few saltytioning for me to come up.
few chuckles but also a few
sea exceptions. I was late to three years’ worth of
I had won. I didn’t understand at first. How could
good-lucks.
piano lessons, swinging in the door at five past with freshly sunburnt cheeks.
I
have
won when I forgot half my song? It was aweI
think
most
people
were
exWhile I waited to audition for community theater, I shook sand out of my
some
to
win, but awful at the same time. I was ecpecting
me
to
go
up
on
stage,
hair, and when showtime neared it was always a struggle to stop the day midstatic,
but
I had to stand on the stage like nothing
rap
“Ice,
Ice,
Baby,”
and
take
a
adventure and race to rehearsal. We lived at the world’s edge, but I never had
had happened. I didn’t make a speech or wave to the
bow. I almost considered doing
time to think twice about it.
crowd; I simply looked at the judges and said
that, and to this day I someEvery year summer leaves suddenly on September 1, taking with it hot
thanks. I took my $50 and walked off. My point was
times wish I had. It would have
happiness and tanned summer friends. Although winter destroys beautiful
proven, just not exactly as I had imagined.
taken the risk completely out of
summertime, in my shabby beach town a freedom like no other remains. Left
I still rap today, and love music even more. I
the
performance.
But
what
with the gnats and 70-somethings, our winter beach community does not
haven’t
stopped trying to get visibility either. Last
would
that
have
proven?
It
have a lot of money. Instead, we have a lot of memories. And, of course, the
year,
my
parents and I took a road trip to NYC so I
would
have
gone
against
everyview. We have three seasons to wonder about the horizon.
could
audition
for “America’s Got Talent.” I didn’t
thing
I
was
trying
to
say.
Fail
A few years ago I started passing long winter days staring at the ledge
make it, but I don’t regret trying. I have videos on
or not, I was too far in to back
where water swallows the sky. Now when I look, I see breathtaking beauty in
both YouTube and Facebook under my stage name,
out.
the wrinkled sea and the way the sun sashays on its surface. The mile-long
Tan-Air (creative, right?).
The big night finally arrived.
ocean reflects the life I’ve led at the beach, a life of freedom and adventure –
I realize now that there’s no point in being embarI didn’t dress any differently
a life on the edge of the world. And lately, when my eyes meet the horizon, I
rassed
about something I love doing. Even if I don’t
than
I
would
on
a
normal
day.
I
am struck with a new sense of wonder. A pulsing excitement.
become
the next Eminem, at least it’s not from a
didn’t
want
to
look
like
I
was
I can’t wait to explore the horizon I’ve watched all my life. ✦
lack of effort. ✦
trying too hard. I remember
I
Horizon Life
T
14
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’13
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by “Sara,” Portland, OR
theirs, and I felt like an interruption all the time anyway, so
have a lot of smart friends who are so empty and
I never called her. I would see Roy’s car in her driveway as
happy. They have single-digit class ranks and that easy
I painted my face accordingly for each party, and I would
laughter that isn’t scared at all. It makes me sick. Their
wonder about her priorities and which one of us was a
recklessness is apparent in their bad posture, the way they
good person and which was a bad person.
all sit with their spines bowed and their hips forward like
Then I would drive off in a loud car with some 4.0
pregnant women about to produce something. This sumfriend of mine, wondering about Sloane and
mer they had parties all the time in their
her mysterious coexistence with Roy. At that
big white homes above Portland. I helped
point, I wasn’t capable of grasping Roy’s
them litter all over their manicured lawns.
For the time
value. I would ride away in a tight dress and
We all went wild at those parties, like we
being, we could be sure that I was headed for a superior night
knew we’d end up somewhere high and
elite, empty people. Happiness wasn’t the
polished. For the time being, we could be
be privileged and with
question; it was purely status. The transcript in
privileged and stupid together and just
waste time laughing loudly.
stupid together my bag – a 3.7 – would barely suffice, but I
had long brown legs and little white collarOur parties were always big and loud,
bones, so I was a package deal. I would stay
but there were very particular restrictions.
out all night at those sick, elite parties and come home
In order to attend, you had to bring evidence of a grade
sweaty and tearful.
point average of 3.5 or better. An entrance ticket was a
It was an issue of connection. I was broken and incortranscript or report card.
rect. Sitting there alone at some smart stranger’s house, I
I never brought Sloane and Roy to these parties with me
felt separate. I lacked the looseness of my smart friends.
because I knew Roy wouldn’t pass the GPA test. Sloane
And I was hiding it poorly. At those parties I tried a bunch
would have passed without a doubt, but that summer was
of different ways of being useful, and they all left me curled
up sick on the carpet. Looking
back, I was sick for a really, really long time.
I met Simon at the Great
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Allen Ginsberg,
Gatsby-themed party. We
for I strode down the alleyways under the trees
wanted to simulate one of
howling at the full moon, just like you and N.C.
Gatsby’s big, colorful parties at
In my starving, hysterical fatigue, and window shopping,
Saul’s house. Everyone wore
I went into the quiet health food store, dreaming of
1920s clothes, and we blasted
your naked stanzas!
old jazz that sounded like moldy
library books burning on a fire.
What elderberries and what eclipses! Hoards of
The important ones, the hosts,
hipsters shopping at night! Aisles full of Doc Martens!
were cast as the characters. Jack
Anarcha-feminists
was Tom just because he’s big.
in the avocados, young idealists in the tomatoes! – and you,
Jenna was Myrtle because of her
Jack Kerouac, what were you doing down by the sprouts?
voluptuous figure. Valerie was
I saw you, Allen Ginsberg, ugly, lonely, bearded
Jordan because she knows
grubber, prodding plums and cherry tomatoes
everything. We made Calvin
and eying the dreadlocked grocery boys.
Meyer Wolfsheim because he
didn’t fit anywhere else. EveryI heard you asking questions of each: Is it local? Organic?
one knew Calvin faked the GPA
Gluten-free?
on his transcript, but we always
Are you my smelly Angel?
let him in anyway because he was so floppy
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of
and wild and stupid in the correct, intelliKombucha following you, and followed closely
gent way.
by the FBI.
Saul was Gatsby, which was very fitting.
He
really was Gatsby, I think. He held onto
We walked down the open corridors together, in
things
dangerously, just as Gatsby does. All
our independent manners tasting artichokes, possessing every
the disappointing sentimentality was there.
frozen delicacy, and sneaking grapes into our canvas bags.
He came down the stairs ceremoniously,
Where are we going, Allen Ginsberg? The doors
drained by the white Christmas lights that
close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
were strung everywhere, wearing pink silk
and a gold suit just like Gatsby.
(I touch your book and dream of your verse in
I was Daisy, in something tight and white
the health food store and feel silly.)
and lacy that revealed my feminine geometWill we stalk all night through dank alleyways?
rics. I doubt he made me Daisy on purpose
The billboards add blackness to night, lights out in the
or to convey some secret, sweeping
Victorian homes,
metaphor. When he read Gatsby, he was imwe’ll both be lonely.
pressed by the metaphors, not encouraged
by them. I had kissed Saul that summer,
Will we amble contemplating the feigned America of love
kissed him hard, but he still never looked
past blue hybrids in parking garages, home to our quiet loft?
me in the eye.
Ah, queer father, brownbeard, lonely old sage,
We entered together on the dramatic stairWhat America did you have when Aphaestus condemned
case because our characters had forbidden
Achaikos
chemistry. They all applauded us, and he
to remain blood-stained for eternity?
smiled and waved at them, not even coming
close to touching me. I tried my best to be a
by Will Howard, Santa Barbara, CA
painted, buoyant fool like Daisy, but almost
I
immediately I felt sick and tight inside.
As Daisy, I represented cruel unattainability. But instead of powerful, I felt
fragile.
Simon was standing in the back with
Calvin. He didn’t go to our school, and
Calvin faked him a 3.8 report card to
get in. Calvin was Simon’s old best
friend. We cast Simon as Nick Carraway because he was dark-eyed and on
the outside. He mostly watched us
laughing and didn’t say much.
That night I felt myself spinning out
of control as I stood on top of glass
tables and threw my arms up over my
head. I pushed my liquid hips at Saul
and put my soft legs near his pale face.
I knew he could feel how warm I was.
Pretty soon everything started looking
ambiguous and blurred like an impressionist painting. I just moved my hips in
my tight dress. Lots of hands touched
nonfiction
Daisy Buchanan
A Health Food Store
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Art by Aaron Black, Perryton, TX
my shoulder blades, and the jazz made my ears feel slippery. Each time Saul looked my way I made a tally in my
head. Ten meant we’d kiss later on the lawn behind the big
trees.
I think I heard the glass table break when I lost consciousness and fell. I woke up on top of dark red stains,
hybrid blood and wine, with a few people standing over
me. Saul took one of my arms and hauled me into the
guest room and shut the door. I tried to grab at his tie, cry
over his silk shirts like Daisy does in Gatsby. He just
pushed me onto the bed and grumbled about cleaning up
the carpet. He was the coward, but I was the one who felt
at fault. My eyes were like a dim kaleidoscope, but I saw
Simon move into the room in a dark blur. I sat up on the
bed and folded my knees against my chest. He looked at
me, big-eyed and so much darker than Saul.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “No, I’m not.” It was a difficult confession.
I needed to be okay. I was painted like a doll and smarter
than 98 percent of standardized testers. I was going to college, a good one. I needed to be okay, but I knew I wasn’t,
and somehow Simon made it slip out of me.
We explained ourselves to each other all night, Simon
and I. That was when we found out that we both hate loud
noises and like simple situations, like sleeping and moving
our fingers. ✦
SEPTEMBER ’13
• Teen Ink
15
travel & culture
Very American
by Kristin Chang, Cupertino, CA
around to slap away a mass of bloodhen I was in seventh grade,
suckers, and partly because an irritatI traveled to Costa Rica
ing strand of sweat-slicked hair
with my best friend, a
insisted on hanging across my face
handful of classmates, and my unusulike a streak of grease. The photo is
ally young biology teacher. Her exconvoluted and rippling with warped
cessive youth must have warped her
greens and blues, and nothing else is
logic, enough to fly eight sweaty, hordecipherable. Apparently, a good
monal pre-teens to a lonely village
pond-water soak does nothing to imabout the size of a Walmart with an
prove the quality of a film strip. But I
unfortunate lack of air conditioning,
don’t mind the lack of pictures.
Wi-Fi, or parental control. This enThere are a lot of things I can still
deavor did not reflect well on her sansee
– snapshot memories that have
ity. Still, nothing sounded better than
been fully developed in my mind. The
an overpriced trip away from the hogreen of the stagnant palm fronds,
hum of suburban adolescence.
sprouting like wings from a wrinkled,
Somehow, through a medley of
dung-scented truck gouged with in“PLEASE” and “I LOVE YOU” and
sect nests and bird-plucked hollows.
other mild forms of coercion, includAnd I can see my best friend,
ing a hunger strike, I’d managed to
Melissa, her hair frizzing in the soggy
convince my parents. They let me go,
air, as she sat cross-legged beside me
with three conditions: I was to stay
on a bench. My teacher was sternwith the group, beware of tourist
faced, pouting beneath a canopy of
traps, and remember to wear my hat,
woven bark and grasses, a tapestry of
as I am apparently starting to resemreddish-browns and greens so vivid
ble my great-aunt Fei, who turned the
that I couldn’t stare at it long before
color of an eggplant after a lifetime of
my eyes began to ache. A throng of
tragic hatlessness.
classmates had departed on some adAnd so I found myself – the girl
venture to follow leaf-cutter ants back
who hadn’t dared venture out of her
to their nest.
backyard for a solid eight months –
The air stuck like glue
parentless and sweaty in
to my cotton T-shirt. It
the remote jungles of
tasted like bitter leaves,
Gandoca, Costa Rica.
Parentless in the vaguely medicinal, and
The tiny town may
have lacked pizza, but
remote jungles like the half-rotting mangoes piled along the sinthere was one thing that
of
Costa
Rica
gle dirt road. The faint
could be found in starodor of gasoline and
tling abundance: mosdung lingered beneath
quitos. They hung in the
the cabana’s awning.
air like ash, miniature vampires that
Melissa and I were sitting on the
insisted on driving you to your wit’s
patio’s benches – an array of sapend. They also managed to photostudded tree trunks that poked our
bomb the only picture I have from
butts with resin-coated knots, like
that entire trip. The rest of the film
rows of warts on the tree’s humped
was lost to a crocodile-infested pond
backbone. We were all starting to
I’d rather not mention.
glaze over beneath the woven palm
The photograph is dense with mosleaves and the sun’s mild gaze. The
quitos, which huddled in dark clouds
day’s light was muted, waxy. The sun
that vibrated above my head. My face
was searing overhead, but it hadn’t
is blurred, partly because I’d reeled
W
quite reached us. The light at ground
first?” And, of course, it had to be me.
level was grayish, sickly. Everything
The cook was a boisterous woman,
else was in full, pixelated color: the
her sunburnt skin glaring with sweat
blue-black beetles, the bright white of
from the kitchen fire, hips swinging
hand-woven hammocks just beyond
and lips stretched into a toothy grin
the fringed green yard. It was the huthat could be mistaken as hostile.
midity that kept us stationary. My biShe could carry a dozen platters of
ology teacher fanned herself with a
rice and beans all in one trip, a feat
frond that was probably infested with
that never failed to entertain us. Wiry
palm-sized ants. I swear that the bugs
and gaunt-faced, she was as supple
there were inflated like animal baland lean as a tree root, but she always
loons.
managed to plump us up. Her apron
Dark-haired figures moved to and
was splattered with rusty stains, and
from the multileveled
we’d all joke that it was
cabana, but it was too
human blood. One of
much of an effort to
my classmates, a redWe’d fall upon
follow them with my
faced boy named Colin,
the rice and
eyes. They plowed
liked to say that she was
through the woolen,
really a murderous
beans with the
charcoal-blue rug that
ghoul who would sneak
hung in the doorway
gusto of vultures into our mosquito-netas a makeshift gate.
ted bunks some night,
The cabana was conarmed with a cheese
structed of crisscrossing beams, rustgrater. Of course she never did such a
ing nails, and a white mosquito net
thing, and she would always scrub at
that pretended to be a roof. When
our empty, greased-up dishes with a
we’d rumbled here by bus, I’d
full-tooth, nose-wrinkled smile that
thought that the net was a layer of
made me feel like I was wading in
snow, not a lacy froth of pinholed fabcider.
ric that was supposed to keep us all
That afternoon, I had dropped my
from perishing of some native disease
backpack in the middle of the deck,
that the locals are immune to. The entoo paralyzed by the bone-soaking
tire structure looked as if it could wilt
humidity to carry it an inch further. I
away with the weight of the air, the
trudged to the table and sat with my
refrigerator-sized spiders, and our
legs hanging out, my cheeks rolling
frivolous suitcases packed with noswith sweat. And I watched in fast-fortalgic doodads that probably cost
ward horror as the cook swung out of
more than the house that held them.
the kitchen as usual, hips swaying,
I felt guilty for flaunting my abunapron stained, hair slicked back into a
dance of denim and cellular technolcap made of mosquito netting. Her
ogy, before I realized how stupid that
foot caught the strap of my backpack,
was. We may have been wearing $15
and before anyone could blink or
sunscreen, but these people were
scream or point a finger, the plates
tragically more happy. And more
with our lunch were shattered on the
forgiving.
ground. Shards of baked black beans
It began with that afternoon. The
and flecks of brown rice sat in apolobirds should have been chirping, the
getic mounds on the deck. Our lunch
palm trees rocking, but everything
had detonated into a sizzling heap of
was still. And gray.
wasted effort.
“Hey, is it time for lunch?” The rest
“See what you’ve done, you selfish,
of my traveling companions had
stupid girl! Eat off of the floor,” she
reemerged from the jungle’s border,
cried, waving a fork accusingly.
tripping through the tangle of swaying
But no, she didn’t say that. For
foliage. We all piled around the
those awful, suspended moments
deck’s central table. For the past three
when we could hear the echo of
days, we’d waited silently for the
porcelain shattering, she stared ahead
cook to push through the blanketed
with glassy eyes, not even bothering
door, and then we’d all fall upon the
to glance down at my offending backrice and beans with the gusto of vulpack. She spun about in her bare feet,
tures. One of the nearby farmers, his
and moments later, she was back out
face shelved with deep, rain-weathfrom underneath that shadowed doorered scars, proclaimed that we were
way, arms cradling another set of
all “very American.” Not a complicarefully arranged platters. She
ment, I assumed, but we were always
stepped over the gruesome remains of
brimming with customary thank-yous.
steaming rice, over the dung-like scatBut I was the one to disrupt this
tering of beans, and set down our
careful lunch ritual. We were always
meal with a resounding clatter. My
on a sort of swaying balance with the
mouth was still idiotically unhinged,
locals, a wary see-saw game of “who’s
eyes sappy with tears.
gonna make a fool of themselves
She hadn’t even stopped smiling. ✦
Photo by Jordan Cutler-Tietjen, Altadena, CA
16
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’13
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by “Megan,” Eugene, OR
brothers race. My little sister stumbles behind until I
ge seven.
pick her up, galloping with her balanced on my hip.
I know we’re almost there when we have
We reach the water. It’s so cold I have to bite my
to stop at the bait shop to buy a flag; we forbottom lip and leap from the icy waves. We run toget one every time. The next sign is when we drive
ward the retreating tide, and then, when it suddenly
through a ring of bare hills that used to hold thoucrawls back toward us, we scream and tumble away.
sands of pine trees. And then, finally, we smell the
Then we hurry back to camp, the water beading up
salt in the air. We open the sunroof, and my siblings
on our skin and falling like tears. We
and I balance ourselves on the seat
grab towels with bold stripes and wipe
cushions between my mom and dad.
ourselves dry.
We hold the flag up until it’s whipWe laugh as
Back in a pair of worn jeans and a
ping feverishly in the wind as we
we write our
fluffy sweater, I investigate the driftlean out the window.
with my siblings. There’s a little
Then we’re on the beach and the
names in the sky wood
river that runs to the ocean through the
car is jumping through the sand. We
heaps of driftwood. We wander across
laugh so hard we fall back inside in a
long logs and pile the smaller ones into
heap. The sky is a beautiful teal as it melts into
a fort. The dogs scamper up and down
the ocean. Foam trails behind the tide in arches;
the logs like mountain goats, their pink
the sand is soft and white in the bright afternoon
tongues hanging from their smiling
sunlight.
jowls. We roll up the bottoms of our
We explode from the car, falling on our knees in
pants and wade through the stream, atthe soft sand. It holds warmth from hours of heat,
tempting to catch any fish scurrying toand we sink in even deeper as the air gradually
ward the ocean.
cools. In my swimsuit, I sprint toward the ocean. My
A
And when the sun sinks so low that it kisses the
sea tenderly, we curl up by the crackling fire. We
roast hot dogs on smooth driftwood sticks, and sip
hot cocoa. We roast marshmallows, and my oldest
brother gives us younger kids lessons on how to get
that perfect golden brown color. We burn half of
them. Then we light the tips of our sticks in the
coals and swirl them around, creating orange trails
in the dark night. We laugh as we write our names in
the sky.
“Bedtime,” Mom says as she collects empty
cocoa cups. Then we crawl to our tents and bundle
into our warm sleeping bags. And amidst whispers
of wind tossing sand and the soft lull of waves hitting the shore, I fall asleep. ✦
Summer in Kiev
travel & culture
Beach Camping
by Gabrielle Gleyberman, Brooklyn, NY
T
hirteen hours was enough for me to travel from one world to another. After a restless
flight that began in the middle of the day and left me somewhere else in the middle of
the day, I was greeted by a hoard of solemn, grim-faced Ukrainians following me with
critical eyes. I was relieved to find my relatives and to drive home, surrounded by big industrial trucks reeking of diesel fuel on huge highways.
I spent the drive laughing at the futile attempts of the government to cheer up the monotonous scenery by putting plants in the most awkward spots, like atop street lights. Surveying the
scene and trying to see what had stayed the same since I last visited, I noticed the identical
pale pastel buildings lined up one after each other, looking like they could crumble at any second. After a restless trip filled with shivers and sneezes (it was unusually cold for late August),
I arrived at my grandparents’ building, which also served as a reminder of the communist era,
with its graffiti-clad playground and uncared-for households.
I come from the city that never sleeps, one filled with liveliness – so it seemed like everyone
was always drunk or sleeping here. I’m used to tall, silver buildings that glimmer in the sunlight, and now I was surrounded by six-story-high Soviet-era
apartments with peeling paint. It didn’t take me long to miss the
I was greeted
sound of a train arriving at Avenue M, rather than a 20-year-old
trolley screeching along vintage rails.
by a hoard of
The scariest transition I had to make was the food; I was forced
grim-faced
to leave my Caesar salads behind for homemade katleti (ground
beef balls) and salo (cured pork fat). Getting to the popular spot
Ukrainians
for teens in the city (called Khreschatyk), I wore what seemed to
me a normal outfit consisting of heels, pants, and a cardigan, but
was stared down like a celebrity. It didn’t take me long to realize that I had to tone down my
New York City side unless I wanted to be harassed by college guys with their poor English vocabularies asking me “vere from Amerika” I had come.
I had left behind a city where random people on the street smile at you, for this place where
I got dirty remarks and snarls from complete strangers. I felt like I stuck out obnoxiously, with
no friends in a country I hadn’t seen since I was a preteen. Was I allowed to ask a stranger a
question, or would that be considered rude? Were their stares supposed to be flattering or hurtful? Did I dare whip out my iPhone on the street? Did they wonder where I was from? My
mind was full of questions, paranoid and anxious, as a foreigner with no experience being
alone for the first time. Amazingly I survived the trip with only a few minor scratches from the
woods where I collected mushrooms and a permanent mental image of a rabbit being skinned,
but I have an everlasting love for my second home, 3,000 miles from my real one.
Escaping from the polluted and littered streets of New York City is necessary once in a
while, and I feel like I ran away to the perfect place. Kiev is my home away from home. It was
relieving to finally see my extended family members, who bombard me with a genuine love
that is hard to come by in the city of no emotions. It’s an experience that not only educated me
about a whole different lifestyle, but brought me back to my roots. I won’t ever forget where I
come from or who I really am. ✦
LINK
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Photo by Viola Zianka, Malang, Indonesia
Where I’m From
I am from sweet tea and collard greens,
from pecan pie and chili beans,
warm campfires and boot-cut jeans.
Of spit-shine clean and milking machines is where I’m from.
I’m from the “Wear your best clothes to church on Sundays,”
to knowin’ how to kick back on the fun days,
to having a blood-red tan from the sun’s rays.
Of spending all day gatherin’ bales of hay is where I’m from.
I am from the afternoons sat up in Ole Smith’s oak,
to the evenings listening to the bullfrogs croak,
to the early morning’s meal of a freshly fried yolk.
Of a spittin’ game and shotgun smoke is where I’m from.
I am from an opening line with some old-fashioned twang,
to the mountains and plains where MLK’s freedom rang,
to the endless summers that go out with a bang.
Of a four-wheelin’ deer huntin’ gang is where I’m from.
Alas, the sun now sets over yonder hill.
Farmer John sets home from his laboring mill.
The big open world seems to sit still.
Because where I’m from, this is God’s will.
by Dylan Garrison, Ormand Beach, FL
SEPTEMBER ’13
• Teen Ink
17
Teen Ink • September ’13 • Page 18
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DUQUESNE
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Teen Ink • September ’13 • Page 19
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61 S. Sandusky St. • Delaware, OH 43015
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Princeton
University
Princeton simultaneously strives to be one
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· U.S. News Short list ranked Pace among
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I 1-800-WILKES-U
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2550 Lander Rd. Pepper Pike, OH 44124
1-888-URSULINE • www.ursuline.edu
At Westminster College, you'll engage
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Visit us and
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Fulton, MO 65251
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Take a Teen Ink Online Writing Class
Check out www.becolonel.com.
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.
Newman Hall, Kingston, RI 02881
401-874-7100
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.
New classes start October 8th • www.TeenInk.com
Located in beautiful northeastern
Pennsylvania, Wilkes is an independent
institution dedicated to academic excellence,
mentoring and hands-on learning. Wilkes
offers more than 36 programs in pharmacy,
the sciences, liberal arts and business.
Attention all writers! URI has a great major
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advertising copywriter, a public relations
professional, or an English teacher! Located
minutes from RI’s gorgeous beaches.
points of view
Sympathy for the Victims
“May every gentle wind that blows bring peace
and joy and happiness.”
– a blessing
O
n May 20, 2013, the storm-prone state of
Oklahoma was hit with a devastating EF5
tornado more than a mile wide. This natural
disaster cut a path of destruction through the land,
destroying buildings and killing 24 people. The tornado hit two schools – full of children – and left
them almost empty.
Can you imagine the terror they must have felt?
When the tornado hit, I was lounging in my bedroom, giving not the slightest thought to the victims.
Did I know? Of course not. But could I have been
watching the news instead of shallow sitcoms? Yes,
of course.
When I arrived at school the next morning, the
disaster had completely slipped my mind, the news
half-digested by my tired brain and cast off into
oblivion as I slept. I headed to choir as usual, taking
the world around me for granted. But my normal life
was shattered when my friend confided in tears that
her nine-year-old cousin had been at one of the
schools when the tornado hit, and now was nowhere
to be found.
“May love and laughter light your days.”
– a blessing
by Tessa Melvin, Grayslake, IL
Have you ever experienced incredible grief, only
like Pearl Harbor, or Columbine, or Newtown, we
to feel it turn into seething rage? As the voices of the
feel grief, sure, but as long as we are not personally
choir rose around me, I felt a weight crash down
affected, we eventually return to our everyday lives.
onto my shoulders. I clutched my friend’s hand and
But it doesn’t matter if a tragedy occurs in Oklamurmured, “Oh my God. Oh my God,” as if that
homa, or Canada, or China, for crying out loud! The
would help somehow. The pain I felt was as if my
victims are human, and the loss of life affects us all.
lungs had been crushed. Not merely for my friend
Whether your home is a shack in a New York alley
and her cousin, but for so many others who would
or a utopian estate in England, you lost family.
never return home from those schools.
I won’t deny that for some that day was
one of happiness. Babies were born, birthWhy? I cried silently, feeling tears well
celebrated, achievements rejoiced,
up in my eyes. These children had their
The loss of days
glory hallelujah! But the men, women, and
whole lives ahead of them – now they’re
life affects children who lost their lives were as much
gone. This is wrong. No, this is abommy family as my blood relatives.
inable.
all of us
I clutched her hand tighter and strugTo the families touched by tragedies: I
gled not to cry, instead straightening my
won’t tell you to be strong. I won’t tell
shoulders and forming a pillar of support for my
you I’m sorry, either, because I’m sure you’ve heard
friend, all the while wanting to scream at the naively
all that before. I know that after the gravestones are
optimistic song our choir was practicing. This isn’t
erected and the flowers have wilted, you will find a
right! I wanted to yell. We should not be singing, we
way to go on. And I cannot possibly express my
should be mourning! Do you know how many died
agony at your loss, however trite that might sound.
last night? You are all so ignorant!
My friend’s cousin is safe now, thanks to a miraAnd that’s when I realized, if my friend hadn’t
cle. I wish the same for you and your loved ones.
had a cousin in Oklahoma, or I hadn’t come to choir
“May all the things you’re wishing for and all
that day, I wouldn’t have even remembered the
your
dreams come true.”
– a blessing ✦
tragedy. I wouldn’t have cared about the victims.
So here’s the deal. When we hear about events
Of My Generation
by Amal Oladuja,
Sicklerville, NJ
the flashy transitions of the action movie playhe 21st century is the era that never
ing on my television, the persistent vibration
sleeps. Life today is ceaselessly overof my high-tech cell phone. These electronics,
whelming.
inventions of greater men and greater thinkers
I am expected to thrive academically, eat
than I, are mental vacations. I don’t have to
healthily, sleep regularly, exercise frequently,
think or reason or deduce; my eyes feed my
socialize freely, converse openly – all while
mind high-fructose brain syrup, the most inmanaging my time efficiently. If I am to sucsincere and artificial form of
ceed in school, I cannot sleep at
modern culture.
home. If I openly communicate
I am expected to follow my
my sentiments, I risk my status
I am supposed
dreams – unless they don’t cash
among peers. How can I eat
to … I am
out to at least $100,000 per year.
healthily when I have no time to
prepare balanced meals? And
expected to … I must learn to construct my passions, tastes, and preferences
junk food and unhealthy conusing the model laid out by the
sumer products are cheaper and
most
prosperous
of the preceding generation.
easier to make. I am supposed to be satisfied
If my imagination cannot erect skyscrapers or
with my life, but am encouraged to make dradesign spaceships, it is labeled a distraction. If
matic changes frequently: go to a new school,
my kindness can’t be used to comfort hospital
make new friends, try things I know I won’t
patients or mollify business clients, it is conlike, grow up.
sidered my greatest weakness.
I’m supposed to maintain focus, to squint
I’ve got to take safe risks, play fair by
past the dazzling glare of the computer screen,
bended rules, and be honest
with – but not true to – myself.
And as long as I do what everyone demands, without caring
about what others think, I belong. Philosophers say I am part
of the “Second Lost Generation.” I disagree. This generation
is found and figured through and
through. Its uniform future has
been ice-picked to the minutest
detail.
I belong to a Stillborn Generation: my destiny was decided for
me before I could suggest breath
Photo by Talia Feinberg, Topanga, CA
or breathe a suggestion. ✦
T
20
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’13
COMMENT
Comma
Knowledge
by Mia Edelstein, West Orange, NJ
T
he Oxford comma, the Queen’s comma, the serial
comma. Call it what you may, but it’s practical,
vital, and a gift to the English language.
See how it was used there? No, still can’t find it? Well,
it’s the last comma in the second sentence. The job of the
Oxford comma is to separate the penultimate entity from
the final. More simply, it is used for clarification.
Despite its British-sounding title, the Oxford comma is
more widely used in America. As standard as usage is on
our side of the pond, The New York Times woefully excludes my favorite comma from
its pages.
Just a
Not only is the dearth of the
Oxford
comma deplorable, but it
grammatical
can also often be confusing. In a
anecdote
tweet that I came across, the
tweeter pointed out that the addition of the Oxford comma would rectify the sentence
“This book is dedicated to my parents, Maureen Johnson
and David Bowie,” making it clear that the inscription is
to four people as opposed to two. The final comma makes
it clear that the names after the first comma are not descriptive of “my parents.” Admittedly, a love child between young adult novelist Maureen Johnson and rock
legend David Bowie would be the best of both worlds.
Is it really that hard? One extra curved little tick mark
could save you decades of embarrassment from the small
community of punctuation-philes like me.
But toll the bells, for my beloved comma may be just a
grammatical anecdote to tell my great-grandchildren
when they ask, wide-eyed, what my favorite deceased
punctuation mark is. ✦
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
D
eath is something we all face eventually. It’s
something we have to deal with and accept
because, ironically, it’s part of life. We often
associate it with old people who’ve lived long, full
lives. But sometimes death steals someone too soon
and needlessly, and it’s difficult to accept. Amanda
Cummings is just one sad example.
Fifteen-year-old Amanda lived in Staten Island,
New York, and was tormented by peers who harassed her in school and on Facebook. Condescending and cruel words were flung at her – in real life
and virtually – and convinced this beautiful girl with
a bright future that she had no reason to live. She
felt so worthless that two days after Christmas, she
threw herself in front of a bus, a suicide note in her
pocket. Her death forced her community to acknowledge the dire consequences of cyberbullying.
Bullying at school has always been an issue. Who
hasn’t had something bad said about them? Recently, however, bullying has expanded its grip to
by Caitlin Larsen, Staten Island, NY
from succumbing to the pressure. We can help those
social networking sites. Unlike face-to-face bullying
teens who are beaten down. I challenge my fellow
in school, there is no escape from cyberbullying
high school students to take a stand against cyberafter the last bell of the school day rings. Rather
bullying. No matter how tempting or funny “jokes”
than home being a sanctuary, technology has turned
at another’s expense on social networking sites may
it into an unchaperoned playground where bullies
be, don’t take part in dealing out malicious comrun rampant, completely hidden from teachers and
ments or encouraging those who do. Stop and think
concerned adults. Everything shared online becomes
about how you would feel if you logged
a target, and unlike face-to-face bullying,
on to find that others were making fun
the torture can be seen and shared by anyFeatured in
of you.
one with access to the Internet. And
In my state of New York, lawmakers
worse, it can be revisited by the victim
have taken steps toward classifying onagain and again.
line bullying as a hate crime that will reAmanda Cummings is not alone.
sult in strong punishment for bullies.
There have been too many stories in the
Reach out to your lawmakers and enmedia about teens committing suicide
courage them to create similar legislaas a result of online bullying. In
tion. In the meantime, if you witness
Amanda’s case, even her posts where
someone being abused online, take a
she was reaching out for help were
screenshot and share it with an adult,
ridiculed. She didn’t want to report her
whether it’s a guidance counselor, your
tormentors because she was afraid the
parent, or the victim’s parent. Anything is better
bullying would only get worse, so she dethan staying silent; silence allows cyberbullying to
cided to live with it. And then she decided
continue and could result in suicide.
she couldn’t live with it anymore and had
Let your voice be heard. Reach out to victims and
to stop it – the only way she knew how.
tell them how much they are worth. Cancel out the
Even when Amanda was in the hospital,
millions of nasty comments with words of praise.
before she succumbed to her injuries, bulMake victims aware of their value as human beings.
lies continued to post cruel comments on
Nothing is more important than a friend in dark
her Facebook page. If that wasn’t heartless
times.
enough, the abuse continued on the memoYou can be the one who helps someone find
rial page set up after her funeral.
strength. Don’t let anyone die believing they are
There is nothing we can do to help the
useless. Let Amanda Cummings’s story stand as a
teens who have ended their lives because of
reminder of what cyberbullying can do. ✦
cyberbullying, but we can prevent more
Beating for Boston
by Katherine Kellogg,Yuba City, CA
We hear it in the news
And it echoes in our minds
That the explosions are brought home
The IEDs lay in our backyards
Our safe haven is corrupted
War splits our soil
And feeds on our thoughts.
Outsiders tunnel inside
Dragging out our secrets
And flaming them to display
Pressuring the ground we walk on
To lift it to the skies
Breaking bodies and brains
Leaving children limp and fallen.
Pride and Prejudice
Some have argued
’m proud of being Jewish, but when the cruel
that a person’s religion
jokes began in high school, I started to quesis a choice, and that if I
tion everything I’d ever been told about my
don’t like being taunted
faith and culture.
for being Jewish, I
“Hey, I found a penny,” said a friend. Then, as
should convert. To me,
he threw it into the dirt, he yelled, “Go fetch!”
that’s absurd. No mat“That’s so Jewish” became a favorite among
ter how much antimy friends too. About half the time when I say
Semitism I experience,
something about money, “That’s so Jewish” folI will always be a Jew. Judaism is my culture, my
lows, even after I insist for the umpteenth time
belief system, the root of my morals
that it’s not funny.
and ethics. It’s so much more than they
I’ll admit, I wasn’t always aware of
how offensive jokes about religion
My religion will ever understand, and I wouldn’t
change it for anything.
can be. I have a friend who’s Moris fodder for
My only wish is that people, espemon. I used to occasionally make
cially my less mature friends, would
polygamy jokes until he vehemently
hurtful jokes take the time to learn about how antiinsisted that I stop. Once I realized
Semitic ideas and actions have led to
how much it bothered him, I didn’t
devastating
results throughout history. Jews have
make another joke about his religion. Why
been persecuted since the Exodus, and the burcan’t my friends give me the same courtesy and
dens that come with our tragic but proud heritage
respect?
can be a lot to handle.
I come from a loving home that accepts all
Let’s face it: being a minority can suck somebackgrounds. We are proud to be Jewish but
times. But that’s reality.
don’t flaunt our religion. Judaism (and religion
What may seem like harmless slurs and jokes
in general) isn’t a topic I typically discuss with
can be dangerous. The first step to ending relimy friends, even though I’d be glad to have a segious discrimination is education—education
rious conversation with them about our respecabout what history has proven can happen when
tive faiths. But to them my religion and heritage
ignorance and intolerance go unchecked. Making
is simply fodder for hurtful and derogatory jokes.
an effort to understand other cultures and speakThey don’t bother to learn anything about it.
ing up against discrimination are both parts of
That’s what annoys me the most.
that education. ✦
I
Bullets rip through domestic homes
As if we live on the Afghan sand
And casualties cross lines
That were never drawn.
The soldiers of our streets,
Brothers of those across seas,
Lay down their lives for us
Protecting everything, from the air
we breathe
To the voices we speak with,
Keeping us safe
But the encasing trap of borders
Lets leeches in and our
Bubbled worlds explode.
When will the time come
When debris flies like planes
And our great empire falls
And we lose our strength?
Will it ever come?
As Boston bleeds, bombed and shot
Battered and bruised,
We stand as one
All thought and hopes pulsing
Beating for Boston.
YOUR
TEENINK.COM
Featured in
by Hillel Zand, Palo Alto, CA
Thoughts keep spinning
Webs that breed spiders of destruction
That are thrown out car windows
And destroy our royal blue protection.
LINK
points of view
A Call to Delete Cyberbullying
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SEPTEMBER ’13
• Teen Ink
21
remembering 9/11
I Remember This
T
welve years marks only a short span of time –
eight years from this day, after two decades
have passed, I will look back and say that
what I remember is nothing. But today, the memories of that day still overwhelm me.
I remember the scent of the grass, the heat of the
sun on the pavement of the old parking lot, stray
tufts of grass growing up through the cracks,
crushed beneath our trampling feet. I remember,
cold and smooth, the metal pole beneath the soft tips
of my childish fingers, our favorite place to play,
where we stretched our short legs to jump and feel
as if we were tall. I remember the blue sky above
our heads, soft white clouds like polka dots, untouched by smoke and flying debris. I remember the
faded red brick of the old two-story schoolhouse
that sat vacant for years, unused and forgotten in
this little town. I remember the house, white and
tall, with the garden in the back filled with flowers
my mother taught us to grow. I remember the passing of a car on the road so seldom used. I remember
the cemetery, seemingly untouched by time, with
by Madeleine Richey, Fort Wayne, IN
fall already,” I wanted to cry. And then they did.
the uneven path leading to the campus grounds,
Over and over. They tumbled to the ground, great
where monks and students walked peacefully on
masses of crumbling concrete, twisted metal beams,
their way to prayer. I remember paradise.
melted glass, all ablaze, belching clouds of thick
My mother’s face, the stretched-out fabric of her
black smoke into the sky, covering the world in
blue-and-white-striped shirt that had so often been
darkness. Over and over the station replayed it so
prey to my small hands – my tugging at her, desperthat the whole world could see in detail the death of
ate for her attention, and the way she folded her
our country. The safety we had struggled to retain
hands in prayer – I can remember. I only need to
for hundreds of years, gone in an instant, brought
close my eyes and I can see her standing there, clear
down with the falling of the first tower, a mess of
as day, and see the wind stirring her dark brown
broken dreams, shattered and marred beyond recoghair. My father I remember too. His dark hair and
nition, darkening the skies.
glasses, face grim as he stood beside my mother,
I remember my mother’s face as she
folding his hands just as she folded
watched, filled with grief and despair.
hers. They are frozen in my memory,
standing before us.
Over and over Not the fear so many felt, just sorrow. In
our small world, even we were touched
My sister and brother stood beside
they tumbled by this.
me. I was the last to stand still, swiping
But what I remember most is the
my long blonde hair out of my eyes.
to the ground people
falling.
Their words have been wiped from my
They appeared in the windows like
memory, unimportant details that my
shadows, looking down as if they were afraid, then
young mind was too foolish to remember. But I releapt from the burning buildings, forced out by the
call folding my hands in prayer, mimicking my parflames licking at their backs and the smoke that
ents and my older sister. She folded
would suffocate them if they remained.
her hands so seriously, dark hair
Launching into the air, they were frozen in time
framing her pale face. My little
for an instant, graceful, beautiful, immortalized in
brother, with his tousled red hair,
that moment before gravity claimed them. They
copied us as best he could.
plummeted toward the earth, accompanied by
We prayed. Our small tongues
smoke and falling debris, crashing down onto the
stumbled over the words as the
unforgiving pavement like baby birds who fail to
breeze blew gently, whispering in
learn to fly. They flapped their wings helplessly, in
our ears. I don’t remember what it
one last, desperate attempt. And then they fell.
whispered to me: another detail lost
I remember the day the Twin Towers fell. Twelve
to time.
years ago, and time still ticking. It’s so strange to
The small TV screen contained
look back on that day and the small child I was,
our whole world. Every pair of eyes
only just beginning to understand that the destrucwas glued to the screen, unable to
tion that was bringing grief into my happy home
move, frozen on the image of the
would reach the four corners of our country, and
Towers falling.
bring the same sorrow into every home. It’s strange
They seemed to take an eternity.
to watch the documentaries on television all these
To my small self, they were just an
years later and to think I remember this. ✦
image on a screen. “Hurry up and
Art by Maria Sweeney, Whiting, NJ
The Man Covered in Ash
Every day at 9:35 a little boy across the hall
would say,
“Hey, look! It’s the Twin Towers!”
As he walked down the stairs.
For the first time in two years,
His dialogue changed:
“The Twin Towers are burning!”
Shock and panic
Washed over me.
He didn’t understand.
Nobody had informed the teachers yet.
Just across a bridge from the point of impact
A clear view of the Towers from the stairs in
Brooklyn
Yet we were clueless.
Soon, though, the panic spread.
Frantic parents swept up the children,
Young “why”s filled the halls as they left
in confusion.
Many were just as trapped as their parents
caught in the chaos,
by “Amy,”
Solon, OH
Remaining at the school for hours and hours
Until they could return to silent households
With a television blaring and empty eyes staring.
One by one they left until the sun set
And I left on my own journey back home.
I was walking the streets of Brooklyn when I
saw him,
A man covered in ash.
White as a cloud
With only his eyes clear.
“Which way to Bay Ridge?” he asked in an
empty monotone.
Three miles in the opposite direction,
It’ll take ages without mass transit.
His dead eyes stilled
As his empty voice replied,
“I guess I better start walking.”
He turned and left that evening,
But he remained
Haunting my mind for years to come.
Photo by Mallory Zeller, Elsmere, KY
22
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’13
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
by Sahej Suri, Tenafly, NJ
everyone is equal, and nonviolence is of paramount
he attacks of September 11, 2001, affected
importance. I refrain from cutting my hair because
not only those who lost loved ones, but countwe believe our hair is a gift from God, and I wear a
less others. They changed my life, leaving inturban in public to keep my hair neat. This made me
ternal scars that may never heal.
look different from the other kids in my school. I
I remember that first day of kindergarten disguess that is how I learned that people fear what is
tinctly. For me, it was the calm before the proverbial
different, and that fear can morph into prejudice.
storm, a harbinger of a horrific, life-altering event
Trying to “fit in” became a wasted effort. I began
yet to come. My teacher, Miss Julie, enthusiastically
to shrink inside myself, and my parents moved me
laid activities before us. I remember she began to
to a private school. It was worse for my Sikh friends
read the first few pages of some fairy tale whose
who still attended public schools. They were picked
name I have long forgotten.
on unmercifully. They were looked at as social outMaking friends was especially important to me,
casts, and many were pressured to cut their hair in
so during my free time, I started talking with Josh,
order to look as though they belonged.
who I hoped would become a longPhoto by Jen Vargas, Covert, MI
It saddened me that as time protime buddy. We discussed our fastopped. Recently, I encountered a police officer
gressed, fewer of my friends kept their
vorite Pokémon, then moved on to
Osama
bin
Laden
who asked me which country I came from. I confihair long. They were afraid, and their
favorite books; naturally, Josh and I
dently, but with a bit of condescension, replied,
parents
understood.
Things
went
from
looked just
became fast friends on that first day.
“The United States of America.” Couldn’t the police
bad
to
worse
for
Sikhs.
Balbir
Singh
My first foray into the kindergarten
like the men
officer recognize me for who I was, or more imporSodhi, a gas station owner in Arizona,
world was turning out to be wondertantly, who I was not? I felt defeated and even huwas
shot
and
killed
for
resembling
the
ful, and my enthusiasm skyrocketed.
in my family
miliated, knowing that I can never truly fit in. More
extreme Islamists pictured on televiHowever, around 9:30, what had
than anything, I knew that I had to speak up. After
sion. On the day of Sodhi’s murder,
begun as a great first day turned into
countless encounters with ignorant, prejudiced peothe same shooter shot at a Lebanese-American gas
a ghastly nightmare. My world turned upside down.
ple, I learned the only chance to rectify the situation
station clerk and into the home of an Afghan-AmeriAll at once, parents were scurrying to pick up
is through education.
can
family.
A
Sikh
cab
driver
had
been
pulled
out
of
their children. Even my friend Josh disappeared beI do not blame people for judging me and my herhis
car
and
badly
beaten
because
he
looked
like
a
fore I knew what was happening. Chaos reigned. I
itage based on the video of Osama bin Laden; we do
“terrorist.” It struck me only then how real the ramilater learned that the mass exodus occurred because
look similar. I blame our education system and even
fications of 9/11 were likely to be in my life.
something “bad” had happened. When I arrived
the Sikh community for not taking a more active
These senseless slayings caused indignation in the
home, I found my dad and uncle sitting on the
role in teaching the Western world about Sikhism. I
Sikh community. I attended Gurdwara, the Sikh
couch, their eyes glued to the television – a most unrecently looked through some social studies texttemple, on the Sunday after 9/11 only to find visibly
usual sight. Normally, they would have already left
books. Information abounds about Islam, Buddhism,
distressed and overwrought families. We were unfor their offices in New York City, near Times
and Judaism, but not Sikhism. Why is information
sure
of
what
to
do,
but
were
told
to
remain
calm
and
Square. Somewhat tremulously, I peeked over their
about the fifth-largest religion in the world so
to
try
to
educate
others
about
our
religion.
My
shoulders and saw a tremendous fire consuming two
sparse? I give deep thought to these questions. They
friend’s father sent letters to neighbors to acquaint
tall buildings. What was happening – and why was
will not go away because the problem has not gone
them with our religion. One day my dad brought
this of such great concern? Trying to get answers
away. I still fear that people will judge me and draw
home an American flag to hang on the front porch, a
from my dad was an exercise in futility. He told me
false conclusions about me and my beliefs. The risks
signal that we were Americans – not terrorists.
to go to my room and read a book, so I did. I
of being a visible Sikh have not disappeared. Since
Because they feared being assaulted, many Sikhs
shrugged and didn’t give it another thought.
9/11, over 1,000 attacks on Sikhs have been
living in New York City wouldn’t leave their apartThe next day at school, Miss Julie tried anxiously
recorded by Sikh advocacy organizations. That
ments.
As
a
result,
a
few
courageous
Sikhs
took
to initiate what she thought would be an age-appronumber does not take into consideration the unreaction.
They
called
together
all
Sikhs
to
meet
to
dispriate discussion about the events of the previous
ported attacks and inestimable slurs. It certainty
cuss ensuring their security. This led to the creation
day. She asked us if we thought the pilot had
does not take into consideration the
of the Sikh Coalition soon after 9/11.
dropped his coffee cup, causing him to crash the
internal angst that plagues many
Its mission was to inform people
plane. Then she asked if we thought the crash
Sikhs, including me.
about Sikhism and to raise awarehappened on purpose. Because I was completely
The risks of
Since 2001, I have attended a camp
ness of the dilemma Sikhs were facoblivious to the concept of terrorism, as were my
for
Sikh youth. Its goal is to enhance
ing; it became the voice of oppressed
being a visible
classmates, I figured that the annihilation of the
our
understanding of Sikhism and to
Sikhs.
My
family
praised
the
creTwin Towers had to have been an accident: no one
Sikh
have
not
help
us openly practice the Sikh way
ation
of
the
coalition
because
it
was
would commit such a monstrous crime on purpose.
of
life.
I have come to realize that the
a nonviolent response to prejudice
Later, I learned that President Bush told the coundisappeared
camp community, within itself, is a
toward minorities in the United
try that the attacks had been orchestrated by an exmajor support group because these
States. Yet the Sikh Coalition could
treme Islamist terrorist organization known as
people truly understand what their fellow Sikhs are
only do so much. I began questioning the strength of
Al-Qaeda, led by Osama bin Laden. When I saw a
going through. We all understand one another’s
my commitment to my religion.
photo of this man, I thought he looked just like the
backgrounds and the inherent doctrines of our reliEver since I can remember, wearing a turban has
men in my family; he wore a turban and a beard just
gion. At Sikh camp, I finally become more comfortdefined
me
in
public.
I
am
visibly
different
when
I
like my dad, the man who had my complete love
able in my own skin, and my true self emerges. I can
walk
down
the
street
and
even
in
school.
My
strong
and respect. Again, confusion overwhelmed me.
breathe.
conviction in the beliefs of my religion is demonIt was not long before questions started coming at
Facing prejudice has made me strong and passionstrated by my turban. However, at that time, as it
me, fast and furious. Is your dad Osama? Why do
ate about my beliefs. I have begun being more
made me more visible in a negative way, and made
you wear that thing on your head? Someone even
proactive about my religion. The course is someme less comfortable. It is still true. Curious people
told me to go back to my own country, implying that
times bumpy, and, at least for now, success can be
rarely seek information about my religion. Instead, I
I was a foreigner, even though I was born and raised
measured only one person at a time. I draw strength
often receive defiant glares. This, more than anyin the United States. The questions soon spun out of
from my convictions and welcome the challenge of
thing,
makes
me
question
wearing
a
turban.
Now,
as
control and slipped into subtle prejudice totally out
one day being respected for who I am. It is my hope
in
kindergarten,
I
just
want
to
look
normal.
of my realm of experience. Josh stopped talking to
that future generations will cease looking through
No one has abused me in a tangible way, but my
me because his father told him that my people were
the clouded mirror of prejudice and begin to reflect
heart has been bruised, and that’s immeasurably
“bad.”
the ideals of moral conscience. Only then can we
worse. I know that people still look at me as differI was brought up in the Sikh religion. Sikhs
rise, healed, from the rubble of 9/11. ✦
ent – as some sort of alien. It has never truly
follow the basic principles that there is one God,
T
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SEPTEMBER ’13
remembering 9/11
Caught in 9/11
• Teen Ink
23
community service
“Somewhere Over the Rainbow”
by McKenzie Wick, Whitefish, MT
right here next to you but you gotta do as I tell you,
time for no bulls--t!” She stormed past the homeless
e clustered inside the entrance of a
all right now?’ And I listened to her. I was scared.
men standing on the curb. With wide eyes, we folwarehouse-style Salvation Army, awaiting
But she started talking, telling me about her Jesus. I
lowed her out into the street.
instruction. The dark concrete room was
told her I didn’t believe in that bulls--t. But she just
She
led
us
nimbly
through
the
San
Francisco
suddenly flooded with afternoon sun, and we were
smiled and said, ‘Darlin’, it’s times like these that
streets.
We
stopped
every
few
blocks,
working
our
momentarily blinded. A darkly clad figure scurried
we all need a li’l bulls--t.’ She told me to sing. She
way up narrow staircases, through creaky hallways,
toward us from the street. I assumed she was a patold me to sing any song I knew. So I started singing
to apartments that reeked of desperation and mildew.
tron of this supersized thrift store, but she hesitated
‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ and she sang with
She would knock gently on the rotting doors and
at the entrance. She looked at us – a ragtag, sleepme. And while I was singin’ I felt something
coax the haggard residents from their windowless
deprived foursome of teenagers. We stared at her in
swellin’ up inside me. Something powerful. I think
caves out into the hall. They always greeted her with
our shorts and tank tops, clutching our itineraries,
that fat lady knew that I felt it, ’cause she was smila smile, sometimes a hug. They eyed us
and she smirked.
ing and holding my hands. That thing was swellin’
suspiciously
as
they
reached
out
“Are you the kids from the misup inside me, and thank God, the man fell asleep.
gnarled,
dirt-encrusted
hands
to
snatch
sion?” Her voice was unexpectedly
“Are you the
Slept the whole hundred and fifteen miles. But even
the food bags from our clean white
rough, and I took an involuntary step
kids from the ones. As we walked away, she would
when he woke up and got off, and me and the fat
back. Her electric-blue hair was
lady stopped singin’, that thing was still inside me.
whisper
their
ailments
like
they
were
buzzed so short it didn’t even look like
mission?”
You know what it was?”
last names. “AIDS.” “Chlamydia.”
hair, and her tattered black hoodie
I watched her with wide eyes and shook my head.
“Chronic arthritis.” “Polio.” Like they
sleeves hung far below her fingertips.
“It was my Jesus. And my Jesus hasn’t stopped
were old friends.
Her ears were punctured beyond recognition, and
swellin’
since.”
After
visiting
a
limbless
woman
who
yelled
at
us
metal chains hung heavy from her lobes. Her slender
I
smiled,
and she smiled back. She held my hand
to
leave
her
alone,
we
stood
solemnly
in
a
rickety
neck was stained black with images of wings and a
tight in hers, and the boy took my other hand. And
old cage elevator. The lights flickered, and we froze
mutilated skull. She wore old black tennis shoes, her
she started humming. She closed her eyes and lay
twenty-one and a half floors above the street. Ten
toes poking through the ends. She looked like someback against the metal bars. The sound came from
minutes. My breathing deepened and my head spun.
one you wouldn’t want to mess with.
deep inside her chest, “Somewhere Over the RainThirty minutes. I sank to the floor. Forty-five minThe boy next to me glanced at me pointedly and
bow.” And the elevator jolted to life.
utes. The woman squatted down between me and the
raised his eyebrows. I nudged him and turned back
The three of us walked down the street, talking
boy. And for the first time, her voice lost its edge,
to the mysterious woman. I noticed that she had
and laughing. Then she started to unand
she
started
talking.
gentle, warm eyes. And she was smiling at me, eyewind her story. I could tell that she
“I
grew
up
in
Detroit.
It
was
a
helling me up and down – no doubt analyzing my aphole. I ran away when I was sixteen. I
pearance, just as I had hers. She terrified me. I liked
“Bringin’ people liked talking about it, about her Jesus
and the things He had taught her. She
hopped a Greyhound bus, thought
her instantly.
food has been
had grown up in the Detroit projects,
that I would live the California good
“Are you the kids from the mission?” she releft her abusive father when she was
life. Well, somewhere along route
peated, grinning at our reactions. We nodded slowly
the highlight
16, and come to San Francisco. She
169, that bus stopped in Nevada. We
and she strutted past us into the building. “Rad.
lived on the streets, sleeping with a
picked up a man who looked scarier
of my life”
You’ll be under my command today.” We looked at
knife tucked in her sock and selling
than
I
do.”
She
laughed.
“There
were
each other, shocked. “Oh, you thought I was here for
Sponsored by
newspapers to earn a few bucks to fuel
four
of
us
on
that
bus,
including
the
the free s--t, didn’t you? This used to be my stompher heroin addiction. An infected needle, shared
driver. And the next stop wasn’t for another hundred
ing grounds. Nowadays, I mostly just run in the Caswith a stranger, made her HIV-positive when she
and fifteen miles. It was just desert. I was sittin’ totro.” We were silent. She laughed.
was 20. All the while, her Jesus was swelling up inwards the back, and a little fat woman was sittin’
“You. You’re with me.” She gestured in my direcside her. A few weeks before the day we met, she
about six seats in front of me. The man sat toward
tion. “And him, too.” She pointed to the boy next to
had landed a job at a motel, cleaning rooms. She
the front, but he kept lookin’ back at me and smilin’.
me. He glanced at me, smiling. “You others will be
proudly showed us her employee picture ID card,
He looked at me like I was a piece of meat, and I
with Nasty Mike.” She looked toward a man leaning
and said that was the first photo she had seen of herdidn’t
like
it.
The
fat
lady
saw
him
lookin’
at
me,
against the back wall, intent on the clipboard in his
self since her seventh-grade yearbook.
and
she
walked
back
and
sat
right
next
to
me.
She
hand.
She asked us if we were surprised that she was a
looked me square in the eye and said, ‘We both
We stood staring as she walked out the front door,
volunteer that morning. We both smiled sheepishly
know that ain’t no friendly smile. Now, I’ma sit
pushing a food cart. “Well, you comin’? I don’t have
and nodded. She said that was always people’s reaction to her. “I figured that even though my life has
been far from perfect, I still owe my Jesus for
puttin’ me on this Earth. I can’t fly to Africa and
by Anamarie Gundersen, Saluda, NC
help those poor starving babies, so I do the best I
can. Bringin’ these people food twice a week has
very small moment I looked into his eyes and saw
ast November I joined my school’s Humane
been the highlight of my life for a while now. Some
myself reflected in them – small and cornered.
Society club. My duties were simple: go to the
people have it much worse than I do.” I nodded. I
Then Rolfe licked me. A lot. In the face.
Humane Society and help by socializing cats,
couldn’t agree more.
It turned out that this monster dog was only misunwalking dogs, and feeding the animals.
She looked at us. “It’s been a pleasure spending
derstood. As my terror faded, humor replaced the adrenIn December, when I was still a relatively new volunthe day with you two. Maybe someday I’ll see y’all
aline. Everyone had been afraid of this giant dog – who
teer, I met Rolfe. Rolfe was a Rottweiler mix – needless
in Africa, and we can help those babies together.”
was probably the sweetest canine I’d ever met.
to say, a bit intimidating. I watched as the other volunShe laughed. “Y’all are doin’ good work. It’s good
Rolfe and I had many hours of fun outside
teers shied away from this huge dog.
to see kids like you out here. Thanks for comin’.”
on our walks. He was a great fetcher and an
In January, I worked up the courage to
I stood before a woman who had overcome more
better escape artist.
slip into Rolfe’s cage while he was sleephardships in her life than I could have ever imagNo one would even
In March the sad reality dawned on me –
ing. Squeaky ball in hand, I softly apined, and she was thanking me for giving a few
adopt Rolfe no one would adopt Rolfe because of his approached the black pile of dog and knelt
hours of my precious, privileged life to help a few
pearance. Determined, I signed up Rolfe for
down. I slid my hand down his back.
people who needed a hand! I felt something
the Pet of the Week raffle.
Rolfe lazily rolled his head my way, but
swelling up inside me. Whether it was her Jesus,
He won. I knew he would.
seeing me so close to him, he immediately stood up,
my Jesus, or just good karma, I felt it.
A few weeks ago Rolfe was adopted by a veteran. I’ll
towering over me. I slid back on my heels, my back
We watched her until we couldn’t see her anyprobably never see that goofy dog again, but I’ll never
pressed against the cage.
more, the gentle melody of “Somewhere Over the
forget what he taught me: to look past appearances and
Rolfe edged closer to my face, as if sizing me up,
Rainbow” drifting back to where we stood on the
get to what really matters, the soul. ✦
even though he was already looking down on me. In one
curb. ✦
W
Rolfe
L
24
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’13
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
A
n inevitable part of being a teenager is forming,
defending, and questioning your beliefs. In Amy
Christine Parker’s debut novel Gated, 17-year-old
Lyla and the other “Chosen” people live in a gated
community waiting for the end of the world. As the
novel unfolds, beliefs are challenged, lives are at
stake, and Lyla might be the only one who can uncover the truth before it is too late. Parker, who previously worked as a waitress and teacher, now writes
full time. Here she discusses her writing process, her
career, and the highs and lows of being a teen.
Interviewed by Lydia Wang, Brookline, MA
how hard I tried, I wasn’t comfortable with it. I have a
hard time believing that I was the only one with questions
and discomfort.
In Gated, Lyla begins to doubt what she’s believed
her entire life. How do you think this issue relates
to teens today?
I think it’s part of being a teen to start to question the
world around you. For the first time you begin to understand that you don’t have to believe the same things your
parents and teachers do. The more you experience the
world, the more you start to see that some things you
thought were absolutes just aren’t. They’re more of a matter of perspective, and your personal perspective may not
jibe with the things you’ve been taught.
What inspired you to write Gated?
I was watching a show on these elaborate underground
bunkers, and it made me start to wonder why these people
were investing so much money in something they most
Lyla questions authority several times. As a teen,
likely wouldn’t ever need to use. This got me thinking
did you ever have to stand up to an authority
about how some people come to believe
figure?
these more extreme ideas and commit to
Yes. I was about 13 and at the house of an
them. From there it was only a small leap to
aunt and uncle. She’d married late in life, so I
“Rejection
is
start thinking about cults.
didn’t know my new uncle well. I was staying
part
of
the
with them over a weekend, along with my
When did you know that you wanted to
younger brother and cousin. At one point my
be a writer?
process”
uncle got in a fight with his son. You could
I didn’t know for certain until about three
hear the son begging his father to stop, and
years ago. Before that, I used to think that
then there were these crashes, and it felt like the house
writing books sounded like a great profession, but it
was coming down. He was beating his son while we sat at
seemed impractical. So many people try and fail that I
the dinner table in the next room. My aunt just stood
think I wrote it off for a long time. Then, while I was staythere, frozen. I begged her to go stop it or call the police,
ing home with my kids and didn’t have a full-time job
but she couldn’t or wouldn’t, so I took my brother and
outside the house, I realized that I really wanted to try
cousin and walked them down the street to the church. I
writing to see if I had what it takes. I had the opportunity
called my parents to come get us and call someone to stop
at that point, and I just took it.
what was happening.
Did you have to deal with rejection on the journey
to becoming a published author? If so, how did you Lyla and her family live in a very cult-like community. What gave you the idea to write about this,
handle it?
and what research did you do to learn about cults?
My first novel was rejected (as it should’ve been, beWhen I had the first flash of an idea about people buildcause the story was not good) by everyone I queried. My
ing an elaborate underground shelter for an impending
way of handling it was to write the next book. I didn’t
apocalypse, I was thinking about cults’ mindsets and exgive myself time to be really upset or down. It was just on
treme beliefs. So it was a natural fit. Plus, I’ve always
to the next book.
been fascinated by them. I watched a ton of documenI think I went into trying to write with the understandtaries, read memoirs from former cult members, read
ing that rejection is part of the process and the only way
books on the Waco siege, read the Jonestown massacre
to up your chances of getting published is to keep writing.
transcripts, watched interviews with cult leaders, and read
I wanted it to be my job, so I approached it with the idea
psychological studies on brainwashing and sensory deprithat it wasn’t personal, it was work. I still try to keep that
vation. The research was ongoing the whole time I was
in mind, because rejection doesn’t stop once you’re pubwriting.
lished. You just have a different kind of rejection: from
readers and/or your editor or reviewers.
What do you hope readers will gain from the book?
What is your writing process like?
During the school year it’s pretty rigid. I drop the kids
off at school and then it is butt-in-chair until they come
home. During the summer, I write mostly at night. My
routine is to revise whatever I did the day before and then
move on to the next scene. I write in longhand first, then
revise that while typing it into the manuscript. Other than
that, I have no real routines. I don’t always write in the
same room or place, and I don’t always listen to music,
though many times I do. I try to stay a little flexible so
that I’m able to write wherever I am.
Your novel features Lyla, a strong female lead. Was
there ever a time in your adolescent life that you
had to go against what was expected because it
didn’t feel right?
Yes. I come from a religious background that was very
charismatic (think tent-revival services), and at the youth
camps I went to over the summer, there was a lot of pressure to speak in tongues. I can remember counselors laying hands on me for a long time to get me to do it, but it
just wasn’t going to happen. I believed in God and still
do, but this kind of thing just wasn’t for me. No matter
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would find compelling?
Maybe a little. The book is very psychological and character-driven. My
only concern was having enough action
to keep teens riveted.
Did you know how Gated would
end before you began writing the
story?
Yes and no. I knew who would triumph and whether or not there was an
apocalypse, but the details – where and
when the final confrontation would
happen – weren’t there at the beginning.
interview
Author Amy Christine Parker
How do you feel once you have finished writing a novel? Are you relieved? Do you miss the characters?
While I write, the characters are so
much a part of my life that I can’t help
but think of them after the story is
complete. As for the writing, I always
feel a little like
what I imagine
my husband feels
like after he’s run
a marathon: exhausted and done
with the whole
thing. However,
give us a few
days’ rest and
we’re ready to go
back – him to running, me to writing. The fatigue is
temporary because the passion
is there.
As far as your
writing career
goes, what are
your plans for the future?
I have a lot of goals and plans when it comes to my career. Right now the goal is to get another book deal and
keep writing full time. Later on I’d love to write something that gets made into a movie or TV show. I’d love to
experiment with writing screenplays. I’d like to write a
fantasy novel for my girls because they love that genre so
much. There are so many goals that I’ll be
lucky to realize them all.
I’d love for readers to walk away with
something to discuss. I want them to be
asking themselves questions: would I be
susceptible to a cult? Would I be the one to
Which authors inspire you and why?
“Would I be
question and take a stand if I grew up
Stephen King, because he writes what I
susceptible to
knowing virtually nothing about the outlove: horror with complex characters and
side world? I want readers to see the concomplex prose.
a cult?”
nection between this society and the
Gillian Flynn, because she writes flawed
societies in traditional dystopian literature.
women protagonists exceedingly well and
And I’d love for them to leave the book
can make me root for some really unlikable
with a better understanding of how emotional vulnerability
ladies. That’s just genius.
plays a part in how people become part of a cult.
Libba Bray, because she writes such intricate historical
pieces and can then turn around and do contemporary
What made you decide to write a young adult
laced with parody and humor so well. I also love how she
novel?
is with her fans.
I’m drawn to exploring the kind of problems young
adults face. I think it’s a fascinating time in people’s lives Do you have any advice for aspiring authors?
when they start to decide who they are and what truths
There is no magic formula or shortcut to getting pubabout the world resonate with them. There is so much
lished. Read and write like it’s already your job. Make
room for drama at this age as well.
time for it no matter what. Live as fully as you can. Make
mistakes, try new things, challenge yourself to conquer
When writing Gated, was there ever a conflict
things that scare you. All of this will help you be a better
between telling the story you wanted to tell and
writer. ✦
making choices based on what you thought teens
FACEBOOK
SEPTEMBER ’13
• Teen Ink
25
sports
Major League Eating
of the competition is everything leading up to it.
n Coney Island, N.Y., every Fourth of July, you
Like a pocket pass, an eight-foot putt, or a bullet
want to believe they’re holding some normal holto first base, wolfing down hot dogs requires intense
iday festivity – like the parade in the Big Apple a
training. The jaw’s masseter muscle, one of the
few miles down. But here there are no marching
body’s strongest in relation to its size, needs to
drums or shiny fire trucks. There is, however, that
pump iron in its own way. Chewing five or more
booming voice announcing: “Destiny has arrived
sticks of gum at once does the trick – and that’s not
and stands above us like a perfect blue sky!” George
a joke.
Shea, the emcee and chairman of Major League EatSure, the average offensive lineman in the NFL is
ing, projects dramatically under his patriotic top hat.
putting up 40-plus reps of 225 pounds on the bench
“Are you ready, Brooklyn!” It’s more of an exclapress, but I’d like to see them try this: the average
mation than a question. 3,000 fist-pumping fans try
bite of competitive eaters is measured
to raise their chants above the crowd.
at 280 pounds of force, a bite stronger
And ESPN broadcasts it all.
than a German Shepherd’s.
Trust me, you’re not the only one ask“There’s
In any other sport, form is everying if eating is a sport. To be fair, ESPN
nothing
pretty
thing.
“I’m doing whatever it takes to
(standing for Entertainment and Sports
get
it
in,”
Chestnut admits. “There’s
Programming Network) has broadcast
about it”
nothing pretty about it.”
annual events such as the National
Sixty-eight hot dogs (buns included)
Spelling Bee. No disrespect to the strenulater, the baggy shirt of the average-sized Chestnut
ous brainwork that requires, but the walk to the
begs the question: why is he not filling that thing
podium doesn’t seem too athletic to me. To most,
out? And why is the competitor resembling the
neither does stuffing 50 hot dogs down your esophaMichelin Man heaving at the other end of the table?
gus. But if you’re one of the doubters, I will change
Simple, really. With the stomach rapidly expanding
your mind.
during competition, body fat takes up valuable space
As the competitors are introduced, the intensity
within the rib cage. Yup, you guessed it: to be sucrevs into high gear. “Teenage Wasteland” blares over
cessful at eating, you have to be fit.
the loudspeakers, and Shea starts going nuts on the
With the clock set at 10 minutes for a hot dog eatmicrophone; the elated crowd becomes a wild mob.
ing competition, your form better be perfect. You’ll
He reads off the century-old introduction for the
see Chestnut’s chin yanked up as he hops up and
number-one eater in the world – six-time defending
down while eating. The bouncing helps accelerate
Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest champ, Joey
the food’s downward journey through the body.
“Jaws” Chestnut. (Yeah, his name is a food too.)
Now, doubters, let’s reflect on the characteristics
Praise is much deserved for this 27-year-old conof a sport. Does hot dog eating qualify?
struction manager from San Jose. The hardest part
I
What Is Mine
Cross country is mine.
It has never been yours or ours.
I have never associated you with running.
I have no memories of that.
It is mine.
It is what makes me different and worthwhile,
and apart from you.
I am a runner.
I am the athlete you never could be.
You could never endure the pain I endure.
You could never do what I do.
I get faster each day
running on spite and determination.
You can’t tear me down when I’m running,
you can’t even touch me.
This is mine.
My pain brings me closer to something great.
Because it is great.
People look at runners with awe and feel inspired.
I lead a team of elite people.
Mistakes we make are pounded away on a course
laden with mud and hills.
We sweat and cry and bleed.
That’s more than you have ever done.
I subject myself to this because each time
I come out a stronger, better person.
Stronger and better than you will ever be.
You can’t tear me down. You can’t have me.
You won’t keep me.
I am a runner and running is mine.
by Allison Drozda, East Aurora, NY
26
by Kevin Lange, Boyne City, MI
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’13
Does it require training? Check. Strength? Check.
Maintaining a healthy body? Check. Technique?
Check. Audience and presentation? Check. Superstars with amazing stats? Check.
Here are some of Shea’s intros for the
competitors:
“Ranked number two in the world, he has 39
world records. He’s the jalapeño-eating champion of
the world with 275. Let me hear it for Pat ‘Deep
Dish’ Bertoletti!”
“Ranked number 10 in the world, he is the rib and
potato wedge–eating champion of the world! Tim
‘Gravy’ Brown!”
“Six foot two, 250 pounds, ranked number 12 in
the world. He ate 19.5 peanut butter and banana
sandwiches to honor the birthday of Elvis, ate six
pounds of French fries … uh, just because. Ladies
and gentlemen, Sean ‘Flash’ Gordon!”
“He added to his title in pancakes, in beef brisket,
in French-cut string beans, but he will always be
known for the time he was buried alive under 60
cubic feet of popcorn and ate his way out to survival! The Houdini of Cuisine! ‘Crazy Legs’ Conti!”
Cheesy? I’d say so, but the fans eat it up.
Look, eating is eating just the same as walking is
walking – though walking is actually an Olympic
event! (Whoever’s in charge creating new Olympic
events, take the hint.) Competitive eating is not “just
eating.” It takes a professional eater, and in its own
wacky way, it’s amusing as hell to watch. And when
“Teenage Wasteland” ends and the 10-second countdown starts, we’ll be chomping at the bit. ✦
A Historic Slam Dunk
by Morgan Starling, New York, NY
often pair them together. If an NBA team starts losing
isa Leslie made history in 2002 when she scored the
money, it is common for a city to stop endorsing its sister
first dunk in a WNBA game. I remember watching
WNBA team. Unfortunately, if an NBA team goes down, it
the replay nearly 10 years later. Leslie sprinted down
often brings the WNBA team with it.
the court after catching a pass, soared up to the rim and
Based on merchandise and ticket sales, the WNBA has
slammed the ball through the net. When I saw that, I felt the
about
25 million fans, and basketball is one of the most popsame joy and pride that I saw on her face. As her feet landed
ular women’s sports. Sadly, it is slowly growing less popular
on the ground, I knew I was watching a legend.
over the years, though fans’ attention remains focused on
Based on the popularity of women’s basketball in the
the NBA.
Olympics, the idea of a U.S. professional women’s basketMore than just a group of sports teams, the WNBA supball league began to grow. In 1996 the NBA Board of Govports many charities. For example, “Read to
ernors approved the idea of a Women’s National
Achieve” is a program that stresses the imporBasketball Association.
tance of reading and online literacy. The initiative
In 1997, the first ever WNBA game was
I
knew
I
was
donates more than 20,000 books through book
played – New York Liberty against the Los
and reading events each year and has created
Angeles Sparks. WNBA president Val Ackerman
watching a fairs
reading and learning centers. Breast cancer awarethrew up the legendary first tip at the game for
ness is also a crucial issue for the WNBA. The
legend
L.A.’s Lisa Leslie and New York’s Kym HampBreast Health Awareness program intends to teach
ton. All eyes were on the ball as it soared into the
the public about the importance of early detection
air. As soon as it descended into arm’s reach,
and to educate and screen women all over the country.
both players were on the scene, eager to win the first WNBA
The WNBA may be just another sports franchise for
ball possession. The first basket in a WNBA game was
some,
but for me and many others, it’s an inspiration. The
scored by Penny Toler of the Los Angeles Sparks. Just days
players show every game that they have the same skills and
after that first game, the Utah Starzz was the first women’s
ability as men and that a sports career for girls is possible if
team to score more than 100 points in a game. However, it
you put in the effort and believe that you can do it. Former
took many years for other records and milestones in WNBA
New York Liberty player Sue Wicks states, “There’s a lot of
history to be made; it was nearly five years later when Lisa
room to grow, and the women who believe they’re worth it
Leslie made that first WNBA dunk.
are the ones who are going to make good things happen durThe WNBA and NBA are often compared to each other.
ing the next period of WNBA growth.” ✦
Many WNBA teams are based in the same cities as NBA
teams, and they wear similarly colored uniforms, so fans
L
COMMENT
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depression. The only thing that made her feel better
eptember 10 is World Suicide Prevention Day.
was cutting. Scary as it is, this terrifying habit is beUnfortunately, most people have never heard
coming very widespread.
of it. I think this needs to change. I know that
Luckily for our family, Emma never succeeded in
not everyone has been affected by suicide, espeher attempt to take her life. Her mother saw the
cially not to the extent that I have. However, raising
scars and immediately got Emma the help she desawareness of suicide is a vital step to preventing it.
perately needed but was too afraid to ask for. LookThis is the aim of World Suicide Prevention Day. It
ing back now, I believe she is happy to
is important to me to inform more peobe alive. Seven years later, she helps kids
ple about this day because someone
Looking
back
struggling with suicidal thoughts or bevery dear to me attempted suicide.
by showing them that they matter
On that fateful day, my mom came
now, I believe haviors
and people love and care about them.
home to tell me that Emma, my older
World Suicide Prevention Day is dedishe is happy
cousin whom I’d looked up to my
cated to honoring those lost to suicide,
whole life, had cut herself with knives.
to be alive
and bringing awareness to the horrifying
She was trying to kill herself and had
facts that on average, 3,000 people comnot told anybody how she felt. I rememmit suicide every day in the United States. In addiber asking Mom why anyone would do that. She
tion, 60,000 people attempt it daily. That is an
replied, “Bullying. That’s why.”
astonishing number. The
For a while after that, my mother was even more
worst part? Suicide is a one
protective of my brother and me. We had dealt with
hundred percent preventable
bullying too, though not to the extent Emma had.
cause of premature death.
It was not until I was much older that our family
With proper help and treatlearned exactly why Emma started cutting herself.
ment, fewer people would
Some girls at her school had found out she didn’t
attempt to kill themselves.
like boys and were making fun of her. Because of
On Suicide Prevention
those girls, almost everyone at her high school
Day, you can take action to
learned about it too. Teens can be extremely brutal
show support. One is to
and their constant bullying sent Emma into a deep
S
The “Pimple”
by Danielle Bain, Northville, MI
write the word “Love” on your wrists. People may
stop to ask what this means, which I had happen
when I participated last year, and I had the chance to
educate them about suicide prevention.
In the past several years, many nonprofit groups
have begun to support suicide prevention and education. One of these is the organization called To Write
Love on Her Arms. This organization is a nonprofit
group that strives to assist any person struggling
with addiction, depression, self-injury, and suicide –
and they raise money so that proper treatment is
available to those who need it.
With the help of organizations like To Write Love
on Her Arms, suicide awareness is on the rise.
Hopefully this progress will continue and one day
we may have a world not plagued by suicide. I sincerely hope stories like my cousin’s will help. ✦
health
World Suicide Prevention Day
Sponsored by
by Jamie O’Neill, Wilmington, DE
painful bumps. I was nervous
RSA? I repeated the vaguely familiar
to tell my mom and go to the
letters in my head a few times. “Yes,
doctor, but the pain was so bad
your results read positive for MRSA.
that I knew something had to
MRSA stands for ‘methicillin-resistant Staphylobe done.
coccus aureus.’ The concern with MRSA strains
I am so glad I went to the
of bacteria is that they are resistant to a number of
doctor when I did. If I hadn’t
the antibiotics normally used to treat Staphylobeen treated when I was, MRSA
coccus aureus infections,” the nurse explained as
could have hospitalized me or even taken my life.
I listened in a temporary state of shock.
Thankfully, my mom and the doctor were supAm I dirty? Did I catch this from someone? Is
portive during the treatment. I was put on several
there a cure? A million questions flooded my
antibiotics for a long time and given ointments. I
mind. I was traumatized and scared, but most of
also had to be more careful about
all, embarrassed.
shaving, covering cuts and scrapes,
A week before, I had discovered an
odd bump on the back of my thigh. I
MRSA could and washing my hands.
According to the doctor, I most
didn’t think much of it, assuming it
have taken likely caught MRSA from nicking mywas a pimple from sweating at volleyself shaving, then coming into contact
ball practice. I completely forgot
my life
with someone who is a MRSA carrier.
about it until I woke up the next
I could have picked up the bacteria
morning to a sharp pain in the same
from
anyone,
anywhere, and when I cut my leg
spot; the bump had grown larger and harder.
with a razor, the MRSA entered my body and
Applying even the slightest pressure to the area
caused a serious infection.
caused horrible pain. I couldn’t imagine how a
I realize this topic could make someone uneasy
pimple could hurt so much.
or cause them to assume I am not a clean person,
I was mortified mostly because this “pimple”
but that is exactly why I am telling this story. I
was so big and ugly. I decided to keep it to mytoo used to think that MRSA was something that
self, not knowing the dangers of this infection.
only dirty or sick people in hospitals got. I want
Maybe it would go away with time. The next day
people everywhere to know that MRSA is actuI woke up with an even bigger bump on my thigh.
ally quite common in schools, locker rooms, and
Now it hurt to stand and half my leg was swollen,
dormitories – anywhere people are in close conhot and painful to the touch. I also discovered antact. It is more common than people realize,
other small bump under my armpit, and another
which is why it is so important to be aware of
on my shin. In addition, I had a fever and felt nauyour body and not be ashamed to seek help if you
seated. I knew this was not just a pimple; somehave health issues.
thing must be really wrong.
Your body is your home. Be good to it so it can
Everyone catches colds or stomach viruses
be
good to you for a long time. ✦
occasionally, but it didn’t seem normal to have
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FACEBOOK
Photo by Alina Ryynanen, Houghton, MI
Scars
I find it sad that we ignore it
like it never happened
as if these scars were accidents
a misplaced step
an inaccurate choice of movements;
clumsy.
I wonder what hurts more
knowing the pain behind every burn
every cut
or the fact it’s supposed to mean nothing?
This girl is just as real as those scars
& the memories are far more sore
than the eyesore you claim them to be –
you say the world will judge me
should they see a single line
but these scars were my own judgment
for all that’s in my mind.
by “Mary,” Topeka, KS
SEPTEMBER ’13
• Teen Ink
27
movie & tv reviews
ACTION
Pacific Rim
W
ith the release of “Pacific
Rim,” both the kaiju and
mecha genres officially make it
to the U.S. in a well-wrapped
two-hour package. Director
Guillermo del Toro has
admitted to being a fan of the
monster genre, and “Pacific
Rim” proves that he not only
knows his monsters but can
translate the kaiju genre into
something accessible to American audiences.
“Pacific Rim” takes place in
the not-too-distant future, in
which giant monsters (the
Kaijus) are emerging from the
ocean through an interdimensional portal, causing destruction in coastal cities across the
globe. The only way to combat
these monsters is with giant robots, known as Jaegers, that are
piloted by two or more people
through “drifting” – a neural
handshake in which the participants are linked telepathically
to each other and the Jaeger.
The most “drift compatible”
people are relatives, or people
who have shared similar life
experiences.
Unfortunately, the Kaijus are
starting to evolve, and the
Jaeger program is losing its
funding. Raleigh Becket (portrayed by a plausible but ultimately forgettable Charlie
Hunnam), a washed-up Jaeger
pilot traumatized by the death
of his brother and former copilot, is called back into service
by his former commander
Stacker Pentecost (Idris Elba).
Pentecost reluctantly chooses
his adopted daughter, Mako
Mori (Rinko Kikuchi), as a new
partner for Becket. She is a
trainee who, like Becket, is also
mourning the loss of her family
due to a Kaiju attack. The relationship that forms between
Becket and Mori is one of the
highlights of the film. It’s not
quite a romance, but too deep
of a bond to pass off as mere
friendship.
The movie manages to find
just the right balance between
action and character develop-
Thrilling and
intelligent
ment. In fact, the film’s effects
specialists did an excellent job
making the Kaijus into true
creatures of fear, undoubtedly
with help from del Toro. The
battles between the Jaegers
and the Kaijus are so intense
that there were times when I
28
Teen Ink •
genuinely began to fear that the
characters wouldn’t survive to
the closing credits.
In addition, a subplot involving Kaiju researcher Newt and
his officious partner Hermann
(portrayed brilliantly by Charlie Day and Burn Gorman, respectively) adds much-needed
humor amidst all the bonecrunching and city-smashing.
The film’s only real flaw is
the lack of time it spends exploring the drifting concept.
The mind-merging scenes pass
by so fast that I felt more could
be gained by delving into them.
Despite this, “Pacific Rim” is
the most thrilling and intelligent action film I’ve seen this
summer. ✦
by Morgan Smith,
Pond Creek, OK
ANIMATED
Monsters
University
R
eleased 12 years ago,
“Monsters, Inc.” was a
classic story about friendship
that was nominated for three
Oscars, and won for Best Original Song. But has Pixar lived
up to the first hit with “Monsters University,” the new prequel?
Mike Wazowski is a smaller,
retainer-wearing college monster-kid. His lifelong dream to
become a scarer leads him to
Monsters University. There he
meets Sully, a lazy, arrogant
big-shot who relies on his father’s success too much. Their
personalities immediately conflict as they both try to ace the
scaring program. But just like
in real college, acing a program
Flawed but
loveable characters
can be difficult, and at M.U.,
that challenge is laugh-out-loud
funny and original.
Just like a college should be,
the campus is full of diversity.
The colorful monsters of all
shapes and sizes belong to fraternities and sororities. Mike
and Sully are in Oozma Kappa
along with Art, a philosophy
major who writes in dream
journals. Don Carlton is a middle-aged, chubby monster from
the Midwest. Then there’s
Terry and Terri, whose two
heads have very different ideas
about what to major in. And finally, Squishy, an adorable nerd
whose biggest fan is his
mother.
SEPTEMBER ’13
Along with these new
monsters, there are recurring
ones from “Monsters, Inc.”
Fans of the first movie will be
pleased to finally learn why
Randall is so mean, why the
Yeti got banished, and why bad
things keep happening to
George Sanderson.
With these flawed but lovable characters, “Monsters University” says we can overcome
differences and still be friends.
But most importantly, it leaves
you with a feeling that college
and the future are going to be
great, especially if you work
toward your dreams. ✦
by Rachel Bownik,
Rogers, MN
own self-contained bubbles.
Depp portrays Edward excellently. He depicts the lost,
frightened man so well that it’s
sometimes hard to believe that
it’s just acting.
The story is heartwarming
and engaging. All the characters are unique and are portrayed excellently. The cast also
includes Winona Ryder, Anthony Michael Hall, and Kathy
Baker. From touching romance
to moments of utter despair,
this film has it all. “Edward
Scissorhands” is a masterpiece
that is sure to move you. ✦
by Ryogo Sakai,
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
TV
FANTASY
Grimm
Edward
Scissorhands
T
im Burton always manages
to surprise us with his outof-this-world stories, complemented by unique characters
with distinct personalities.
“Edward Scissorhands” is no
exception. If you’ve enjoyed
Burton’s other films, including
“Batman” and “Charlie and the
Chocolate Factory,” this movie
will sit right in your comfort
zone.
Heartwarming
and engaging
Edward (Johnny Depp) is an
unfinished piece of art. When
his inventor dies before completing Edward, he is left with
blades as a replacement for his
hands. He’s been hiding alone
in a mysterious castle for years,
but Edward’s life takes a huge
turn after he is discovered by a
kind Avon lady named Peg
(Dianne Wiest).
One aspect of the film that is
particularly strong is the acting.
As anyone familiar with Burton
films would know, the characters are unique and live in their
G
rimms’ Fairy Tales were
originally a set of gruesome, violent, and often unhappy stories written by the
Brothers Grimm. Many were
adapted into happy, usually
musical, family-friendly
movies by Disney. But now the
tales have returned to their
roots in the TV show “Grimm.”
It’s dark, violent, and raw,
much like the original stories,
and I love every minute of it.
“Grimm,” which starts its
third season in October, stars
David Giuntoli as detective
Nick Burkhardt. Nick is a
Grimm: a descendant of the
original brothers who can see
all the monsters they wrote
about in their stories. These
monsters, called Wesen, disguise themselves as normal
people. When they get emotional and lose control, though,
Nick can see them for what
they really are, be they Blutbad
or Hexenbiest or some other
manner of Wesen.
As a Grimm, Nick is the natural-born enemy of the Wesen,
due to his ancestors’ long persecution of them. But he tries
to be different, to become
something his ancestors never
could be: a hero. He doesn’t
kill needlessly like Grimms before him. Nick, as a cop and a
Grimm, fights human and
Wesen criminals while protecting the innocent members of
both groups.
I absolutely love Nick. He’s
brave, loyal, and has a strong
moral compass. He’s got just
A crime drama
with a twist
the right amount of vulnerability and doubt to make him relateable, but also enough
courage, morality, and Grimm
skills to make him admirable.
Giuntoli has really grown as an
actor; it’s clear that he has become more comfortable in the
role since the first season,
which allows him greater opportunities to develop Nick’s
character.
Nick can’t protect Portland
all on his own, though. His
friend Monroe often helps by
giving him information on the
Wesen world. Monroe is a reformed Blutbad: basically, a
big bad wolf who’s nice.
Played by the brilliant actor
Silas Weir Mitchell, Monroe
provides most of the comic
relief. His lines and delivery
are punchy and original, and I
always look forward to his
scenes.
Rosalee (Bree Turner) is a
Fuchsbau, a sly fox-like creature. She owns a spice shop that
also serves as a sort of apothecary for Wesen in need of potions and such. She
occasionally helps Nick and
Monroe with her knowledge. I
also love Rosalee’s character
because she’s so sweet. She
and Monroe have a budding romance, and they’re so cute together. In addition, they’re both
really great friends to Nick.
Normally, Nick tracks down
criminals, which usually turn
out to be Wesen, with his partner, Detective Hank Griffin
(Russell Hornsby). Hank is a
normal person who still tries to
comprehend Nick’s double life
and help him when he can.
In my opinion, “Grimm” is
well worth anyone’s time. It’s a
crime drama with a twist, and a
creative, modern take on the
original fairy tales. It airs Friday nights on NBC. So for me,
TGIF means Thank Grimm It’s
Friday! ✦
by Katie Cockrell,
Alta Loma, CA
Art by Taylor Hamilton, Madison, AL
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R&B
The Great Gatsby
The 20/20
Experience
I
had been looking forward to
the release of “The Great
Gatsby” soundtrack from the
moment I heard about the
movie. A new film of this story
set in the 1920s was sure to
have some interesting tunes,
right? The previews on television had been taunting me for
months when, finally, an iTunes
link took me to the newly released album.
The subtle sound
of music’s past
From the moment I clicked
the preview of the first song, I
knew I would be spending my
$16. Normally, I wouldn’t
spend that much on music, but
this soundtrack is too good not
to own. I instantly felt like I
was at one of Jay Gatsby’s infamous parties.
The artist lineup varies from
Beyoncé to will.i.am to Fergie,
giving listeners a number of familiar voices. But what I love is
that newcomers, including
Emeli Sandé, Lana Del Rey,
and Gotye, are included on this
highly anticipated album.
“Bang Bang” by will.i.am
and “A Little Party Never
Killed Nobody (All We Got)”
by Fergie, Q-Tip, and GoonRock are the perfect songs to
get any party started – very
fitting for a movie about a
party-throwing millionaire.
Then, since “Gatsby” is ultimately a love story, there are
great slower songs like “Hearts
a Mess” by Gotye and “Over
the Love” by Florence + The
Machine.
Like rap? This soundtrack
doesn’t leave that out either.
Jay-Z does his own track called
“100$ Bill,” then returns later
to collaborate with Kanye West
and Frank Ocean in “No
Church in the Wild.”
Although this album is very
modern – with strong bass, ballads, and dance anthems – each
song has a bit of 1920s flair
that will remind listeners of the
setting. In fact, it is the subtle
sound of music’s past that
makes me appreciate what the
producers have done here.
“The Great Gatsby” soundtrack is easily one of the best
movie soundtracks I’ve ever
heard. I recommend an immediate purchase! ✦
by McKenzie Burns,
Naperville, IL
LINK
YOUR
Justin Timberlake
R
&B music has been extremely lacking in passion
and originality lately. When I
hear the hopped-up club beats
of Chris Brown or the remarkably similar Usher songs, I feel
as if the genre has forgotten
about creativity, and is just focused on making money and
producing music people can
dance to. “The 20/20 Experience” is the first R&B album in
a long time that feels new and
fresh. Justin Timberlake
reaches for the stratosphere and
ends up in this star in what
might be his magnum opus.
Justin leaves behind all the
pop stylings of “Justified” and
“FutureSex/LoveSounds,” instead going for a more grownup style of old-fashioned
Motown soul. However, he
show Timberlake pushing his
creative limits far past club favorites like “SexyBack” and
“Rock Your Body,” incorporating elements of jazz, trance,
and even Radiohead-like indie
rock, with his brave use of the
theremin on several songs.
While some do run a little
long, such as “Strawberry Bubblegum,” an eight-minute song
about how his girlfriend smells
like, well, bubblegum, Timberlake’s charm shines through on
every track.
If you are a die-hard JT fan,
an old-fashioned soul lover, or
an indie-rock adventurer like
me, I suggest you buy this
album immediately. Justin Timberlake proves himself to be a
true talent who can last for the
ages. It’s really nice to see him
becoming a master music
craftsman again. But, then
again, you can’t call it a comeback if he’s been there for
years. ✦
by “Anna,”
New York, NY
A more grown-up
Motown style
WORSHIP
Burning Lights
stays modern by embracing
electronic instruments even
more than he did on his biggest
hit, “SexyBack.” His soaring
falsetto sounds beautiful and
rich against both the lush violins and chugging hip-hop
beats.
“20/20” opens with the best
song on the album, “Pusher
Love Girl.” It starts with Motown-style background vocals
and piano, and ends with beautiful electronica similar to Portishead. Following that is “Suit
& Tie,” the biggest pop track
on the album and the one
you’ve probably heard before.
It’s fun to dance to and has a
hot hook, and Jay-Z has a great
cameo, but it’s not nearly as artistically brilliant as the rest of
the album.
Timberlake is a newlywed,
having married actress Jessica
Biel last October, so it’s no surprise that most titles here are
love songs. “Mirrors” is a beautiful, though long, love song
with heaps of violin and synthesizers. It follows in the R&B
love song tradition of greats
such as Marvin Gaye. The
beautiful strings remind me of
one of Timberlake’s most ambitious songs to date, “What
Goes Around … Comes
Around” from
“FutureSex/LoveSounds.”
Songs like “Don’t Hold the
Wall” and “Blue Ocean Floor”
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ACCOUNT TO
Chris Tomlin
G
od’s Great Dance Floor?
What is this guy singing
about? Chris Tomlin, a Christian artist, had just gone from
the classic hit “How Great Is
Our God” to this pop dance
thing. I had been pumped to
hear a new Chris Tomlin
album; I was also going to see
him in concert. And then I
ended up with this fray of
songs.
The new album needed to
grow on me. It wasn’t an instant click. I listened to the
songs many times and finally
experienced the music in concert. Tomlin put on an amazing
show, bringing it to life. Now
I’m happy to say I think this is
an excellent album.
I’d classify Tomlin as a light
pop/rock Christian artist. One
of his previous songs, “Our
God,” had a little more drive.
“Awake My Soul” has a similar
beat to it. “God’s Great Dance
Floor” definitely goes into a
dance genre. He even manages
to get in a Mumford and Sonssounding tune, “Lay Me
Down.” I love how diverse he
can be, and the rhythms help
express the theme of worship.
Tomlin keeps this theme
clear in his album. Even though
he’s turned a new corner in
terms of style, his songs remain
catchy and singable. Amidst a
FACEBOOK
fast rhythm, the chorus of “Lay
Me Down” still catches on in a
heartbeat. I love that even as an
artist expresses his individuality, I can worship along with
him.
The instruments blend beautifully with the singing. The
musicians are fantastic but
know their place in a genre
where vocals take the lead role.
Daniel Carson, the lead guitarist, rocks it with smooth
melodies that don’t detract
from the singing. As a drummer
myself, I liked listening to the
beats of Travis Nunn. The guy
has chops but still delivers the
simple beat over and over in
time with the music. Knowing
this still couldn’t prepare me
for seeing them live.
The Burning Lights tour at
the Target Center in Minneapolis capped off the entire album
experience for me. The concert
was loud, entertaining, and
above all, worshipful. Clearly,
Tomlin’s goal was to bring out
energy and dancing and
singing. “God’s Great Dance
Floor” finally clicked. It wasn’t
just the beat or lyrics, it was the
dancing and the praise. And I
loved the giant beach balls
thrown into the crowd during
the reprise.
By witnessing an awesome
concert, I had the experience of
His songs remain
catchy and singable
a lifetime from this album. I
would play this music for any
of my friends, and I recommend it to just about everyone,
spiritual or otherwise. As only
Chris Tomlin could put it, “I
come alive on God’s great
dance floor.” ✦
by Bjorn Pearson,
Cannon Falls, MN
POP
Lysandre
granted the gift of duality: the
album has brooding orchestral
arrangements as well as catchy,
beat-driven pop songs.
The story of “Lysandre” is
one of young love, abandonment, and bewilderment.
Owens painfully recalls falling
in love with a girl while on
tour. Throughout the record we
are given the details of how
they met at a music festival,
how they were shy and awkward in an adolescent way, and
eventually graduated into staying out all night together under
the stars. Though it may sound
like the plot of the next big
indie dramedy, this story is
painted with a brush of experience and regret. We’re shown a
tale of heartbreak that doesn’t
hold back any details.
Musically, the album flagrantly displays Owens’ need
to experiment with brass and
woodwind instruments, shying
away from his usual guitarbass-drums-vocals approach.
This record, while sure to hold
the interest of veteran Christopher Owens’ fans, broadens the
spectrum of musical normality,
as with other bands in the
SoCal indie scene.
The album begins with a
melody that neither soars nor
carries, but rather rests with the
listener as if to portray a sense
of contentment. This same
melody, given the name
“Lysandre’s Theme,” is played
at the end of every track with
the corresponding arrangement
from that particular song. It
plays the role of an “amen” as
each song prays to be heard
again and again.
It’s almost a shock when you
realize that just 28 minutes
have passed. In a mere 11
tracks we are shown a lifechanging year-long fling in all
its most raw and intimate moments. This album brings into
music reviews
SOUNDTRACK
Raw and
intimate
Christopher Owens
C
hristopher Owens spends
the 28 minutes that constitute his solo debut, “Lysandre,”
reinventing himself as a jackof-all-trades. After leaving his
California beach rock band,
Girls, last year, he has cleaned
up rather nicely and abandoned
his “summer anthem” approach
to crafting songs. We no longer
have to be bored listening to 13
garage rock ballads in a row, as
with Owens’s work with Girls.
On “Lysandre,” we are
reality the often mythologized
aspects of human relationships.
“Lysandre” leaves us with a
sense of hope about our own
relationships that cannot be
replicated in fiction. It instills
something real inside of us that
can only be a true and beautiful
story. ✦
by Daniel Gardner,
Smyrna, TN
SEPTEMBER ’13
• Teen Ink
29
book reviews
SCI-FI
The Giver
by Lois Lowry
C
an you live without colors?
Can you survive without
making a single choice? If you
answered no to these questions,
Jonas’s community would
surely shock you. The Giver by
Lois Lowry is a suspenseful
science-fiction novel about a
Not like
stereotypical
science fiction
futuristic society that seems to
have everything under control.
When the protagonist, Jonas,
becomes the keeper of his
neighborhood’s suppressed
memories, he pays a steep price
for social stability.
In The Giver, 12-year-old
Jonas becomes the new
Receiver of Memory, which
means he’s in charge of “keeping” and “receiving” the hidden
dark secrets about his supposedly utopian city.
There is no war, pain, love,
or choice in this society. Everyone is the same. Although it
may seem that this could create
true peace and a well-organized
community, in reality, everyone
in the neighborhood makes a
sacrifice. As Jonas learns the
dreadful revelations about his
beloved hometown, he makes a
choice that will change his life
forever.
Lowry brings the characters
to life by giving them strong
personality traits. For example,
Jonas is intelligent and perceptive. During conversations with
his instructor, the Giver, he is
curious and always asks questions about the memories he receives. Lowry’s word choices
allow readers to fully picture
Jonas.
The Giver is responsible for
training Jonas to become the
new Receiver of Memory. He
truly cares about his community, despite what they did to
him. He is shown to have a
lot of wisdom and knowledge
by using the memories he
possesses.
This book isn’t like stereotypical science-fiction novels.
Despite the futuristic setting, it
isn’t about outer space and
aliens. It conveys a deeper
meaning, which really grabs
readers’ attention, especially
teenagers’.
The Giver not only won the
Newbery Medal, but it has also
sold more than five million
copies worldwide. This book
filled me with emotions from
anxiety to joy. Be prepared to
get sucked into this futuristic
society. ✦
by Natalie Zhu, Brooklyn, NY
Teen Ink •
by Danielle Martinez,
Scottsdale, AZ
SCI-FI
FICTION
Before I Fall
by Lauren Oliver
B
efore I Fall by Lauren
Oliver reflects everyday
events that happen in high
school. Its plot deals with many
serious topics – most predominantly, bullying.
Samantha Kingston is in the
popular group at her school,
and although she thinks she has
it all, this is far from true. One
Shows what
needs to change
about bullying
night, as she and her friends are
driving home from a party, they
get into an accident. She wakes
up the next day, reliving the
previous day, although she has
actually died. For the next
seven days, Sam lives this fateful day over and over again.
During these seven days,
Sam starts to notice the way
she was treating others, and she
begins to see her mistakes.
Once each day ends, she finds
ways to fix the
problem during the
next day. By the
time the seven days
are up, Sam has become a new and better person because
she had the chance
to learn from her
mistakes.
The author does
an amazing job
describing human
nature and the
everyday events that
teenagers face,
which makes the
Photo by Kristin Resnjak, Novi Sad, Serbia
30
story appealing to high school
students. Oliver shows that, although some people seem to be
perfect, everyone has flaws.
Oliver’s writing gives the
reader a clear image of what is
going on. The story goes
straight to the point. Not only
does this book appeal to my
thoughts on bullying, but it also
provides us with more knowledge of the severe effects bullying has on people. Bullying is a
major problem, and this book
shows what needs to change.
Oliver doesn’t hold back while
showing the good and bad in
people and our society, and
that’s what intrigued me the
most throughout the book. ✦
SEPTEMBER ’13
City of Bones
by Cassandra Clare
T
he movie “The Mortal Instruments: City of Bones,”
based on Cassandra Clare’s
novel City of Bones, was released this August. The cast is
full of promising young actors,
and after taking a look at the
trailer, I know that the movie
looks promising as well. Before
you step into the theater, I highly recommend you read the
book. I read it for the first time
a few years ago, but it continues to be one of my favorites.
The story, characters, and style
of writing are just three great
reasons to read City of Bones.
The best word to describe the
plot is suspenseful. It’s packed
with excitement. It’s hard to
explain the story without spoil-
herself. Simon has been her
best friend for as long as they
both can remember. He’s funny
and innocent; I can’t help but
love him. Jace is introduced as
an arrogant character full of
witty, sarcastic, and sometimes
plain mean remarks, but as the
book progresses, I became just
as attached to him as the others.
Although the connections between characters are a bit rough
at parts, Cassandra Clare’s impeccable writing skills pull
through in a book that will keep
you guessing until the very end.
Everything happens for a
reason, usually one that isn’t
clear unless you keep reading.
Clare never ceases to amaze
me; from the Mortal Instruments series to the Infernal
Devices prequels, her writing
continues to dazzle me. One
minute I am laughing out
loud, the next I am crying. Yes,
there are similarities to Harry
Potter and Star Wars, but that
shouldn’t stop you from enjoying this amazing book. The
writing is key.
The writing, the plot, and
the characters all contribute to
making City of Bones a book I
will read again and again. I
highly recommend it to
anyone and everyone. It is a
must-read! ✦
by Lily French,
Cannon Falls, MN
NONFICTION
Behind the
Beautiful
Forevers
by Katherine Boo
K
Secrets revealed,
demons are fought
ing it, but I’ll try to give an
overview. Clary thinks of herself as normal. But when she
meets Jace, she finds that she’s
anything but. Clary is pulled into the world of Shadowhunters,
whose mandate is to rid the
Earth of demons. Secrets are
revealed, characters are betrayed, demons are fought, and
a love story unfolds. Clary
learns the truth about who she
is and how she is connected to
the Shadowhunters.
She and all of the other characters in this book make the
story feel real. The three main
characters in City of Bones are
Clary, Jace, and Simon. Clary
is a headstrong girl who is just
discovering the truth about
atherine Boo’s Behind the
Beautiful Forevers: Life,
Death and Hope in a Mumbai
Undercity is a moving modern
take on two age-old issues:
poverty and starvation. As you
read, you will follow the triumphs and failures of a few of
the residents of Annawadi, one
of India’s worst slums.
This book’s unique set of
complex and interesting characters will leave you wanting
more. Abdul, a young trash
picker and the sole bread-winner for his family, is wrongly
accused of a horrid crime and
forced to flee his home. Asha, a
strong and wise mother of
three, rises up to the status of
slumlord with nothing but political corruption. Sunil, a
bright and curious young boy,
is the lone provider for his little
sister and himself. And Manju,
Asha’s beautiful and smart
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
daughter, is Annawadi’s only
college graduate.
Together this cast of characters experiences ups and downs
you could never imagine. Can
they triumph and make it out of
Annawadi? Or will they end up
Beautifully written
like so many around them:
poor, sick, hungry, and stuck?
The beautifully written Behind
the Beautiful Forevers will
open your heart and mind to a
life of hope in the worst possible conditions. ✦
by “Clara,”
Wilmington, MA
FICTION
Out of My Mind
by Sharon Draper
I
magine a world where you
can’t speak; you can only
yell and scream. Picture not being able to control how you
move; you manage with sharp,
jerky movements. You are the
smartest girl in your school, but
nobody knows it.
This is how 11-year-old
Melody, the main character of
Sharon Draper’s Out of My
Mind, gets by in life. She was
born with cerebral palsy, a disease that not only handicaps
her, but also robs her of friends
and a normal life.
Everyone in the world, with
the exception of her neighbor,
believes Melody is both physically and mentally handicapped. She is sent to “special”
classes and is not thought of as
a real human being by other
children in the school.
This all changes when
Melody is allowed to take part
A world of hardships
and triumphs
in the written history bee and
succeeds in making the
school’s team. From there,
Melody embarks on her wildest
adventure: fitting in.
This book is a heart-warming, suspenseful tale of how
you shouldn’t make assumptions based on looks. I would
recommend it to all; it will
open your eyes to a new world
of hardships and triumphs. I
hope you enjoy Melody’s story
as much as I did. ✦
by Isibeal McGough,
Pittsburgh, PA
TEENINK.COM
poetry
Photo by Megan Ferreira, Strasburg, VA
The Cocoon Breaks
death doesn’t come like a
thunderbolt to children. death is
a whisper, surreptitiously stolen from the
shadowed face of an adult
who doesn’t want you to be
afraid.
that murmur sinks like a fly
trapped in honey, lethargic,
struggling to the center until
you know what it is, this terrible
thing that you couldn’t know
until now.
until you’ve heard it. Not
seen it perhaps, but heard its
quiet wingbeat, no angel but
a butterfly of death. A contrary
creature who could never find us
and yet someday had to find us.
because life asks for death,
just like a child asks to
grow up.
by Christopher Taylor, Springville, UT
Six Letters
Your name has no meaning – only
a collection of sounds or
a jigsaw of symbols.
But when the cacophony of
the rigid consonants
tumbles out between unsuspecting lips
or when my eyes accidentally skim over
the perfect combination of letters,
I am wrenched into a whirlwind of vertigo
and drowned in melancholy,
yet wild, long-forgotten happiness
in dusty vintage photographs
and ethereal pastel hues that transport me
back to when it all made sense
and when I looked into people’s eyes
like they mattered
and when you would run your finger
along the faint imprints beneath my wrist
as if you were hypnotizing me into loving you.
And then I remind myself that
even ants bravely trek forth
and I pervade my mind with thoughts about
anything but the way your voice sounds like
the staticity of warm laundry
when you talk in your sleep.
The Smoking Hole
for lonely nights
Life Lesson
A cul-de-sac
deserted
no houses
not one
grass overgrown
a single lamppost glowing orange
cigarette butts cover the ground
it was here
leaned against a dark blue punch bug
that i realized who i was
she says she likes to be alone
until she’s seated at a marble counter,
pitting open a grapefruit and
smiling fondly at its pinky-orange nectar,
refrigerator hum echoing
in the dimly empty house,
she welcomes the acidic trickle
seeping into her day-old papercuts,
her slurps rudely remind her that
she is human
and cannot become unhinged
because bones are nothing
if not persistent
Some say that two years is more than
enough time
To mourn the death of a friend, and
to an extent
They are correct.
by Alix Routhier, Beaufort, NC
Liars are easy
to find
Messages from the cerebral cortex
Travel the maze of nerves
Up the glistening lining of my throat
The initial thought
Is a spastic reaction
Causing lips to curve
Revealing white teeth
Flecked with moisture
Slipping tenderly from my mouth,
Drenched in shadow,
Words
Fall
To the ground
Picking themselves up,
They quiver,
Anticipating the slow
Seeping from corners of
Fissured lips
They travel along the spirals
Of conflicting nerves
Up the elevator of my spine
Twisting the double helix
To the roof of my mouth
In the ridges of my nerves
The cavities of my teeth,
They wait as
I open my mouth
by Sarah Buckman,
Jacksonville, FL
Pompeii
I have found, for the most part, closure to
The unexpected death of my elderly neighbor
Knowing that she is smiling lovingly
down from
Heaven.
by Chloe Kimberlin, Greenwich, CT
melting
In grade five
I met a woman named Nancy
she was vintage perfume
and Christmas morning breakfast
And when she fell in love with a sailor
who was composed of sea salt and
fishing nets
she covered her head entirely with blue
barrettes
because she knew the ocean was no match
for her
super
n
o
v
a
blue was his favorite color
and he loved her
more than ice loves m
elt
in
g
so on Sunday
when he didn’t
come down for dinner
she knew
those tattered fishing nets
took his rusty pirouettes of twine-s-e-w-n
sleep
talk
and his salty eyelashes
to a place with lacy skies
and Saturday morning cartoons
But every now and again, a selfish twinge
of hurt
And aching longing to hear her voice
Overcomes my countenance, and covering
my pain
Is a smile as thin and fragile as glass.
The remembrance of her and the memories
we shared
Leave a bittersweet taste in my mouth
and knots
In my stomach.
Regret and shame burrow deep in my core
at the realization
Of how much more I could have done for her
And how I failed at being a good friend.
All the visits I put off, thinking I would talk
to her tomorrow
Or the day after that are now lost opportunities
That are gone forever because I missed
my chance.
If only I had gone over and chatted
more often,
To hear her perspective on the past she
Was a part of, and her knowledge of
the world
And the wisdom she would willingly offer.
Although I miss her terribly at times,
Her smile is in the sun
Her presence is in the wind
Her voice is among the birds
And her never-ending love in the beauty
All around me.
One day we will meet again, and on that
happy hour
I hope with all my heart that she won’t be
Disappointed
In who I used to be and who I grew
to become.
by Anna Sieracki, Appleton, WI
Let the liquid fire take me and
leave my imprint upon the earth.
Let scientists find me in a thousand years,
the peaceful position of my body a fossil
in the rock.
Let the ashes that make up my bones
be set free to the world and spread by
the wind into all the intimate places
of this earth that I never journeyed to.
Let me be a puzzle,
a question to rational minds:
why I illustrated happiness with my
body while all the other empty,
lava-made human shells were twisted
in pain and fear.
Let me go down in history. Not as the girl
on fire
but as the girl who welcomed the flame.
by Lauren Milsted, Portland, OR
by Kara Johnson, Bellingham, WA
by Amanda Panella, Midlothian, VA
the next day
Don’t Be a Hero
she painted her entire house blue
not because it was his favorite color
but to match
her
new
barrettes
Breathe
to breathe life in me
do press from my chest and bones
crack through my marrow
part my mouth, reach down my tongue
and claw through my silenced throat
Don’t be a hero,
a human is so much better
Delightfully decrepit,
a little ugly
Inhale its imperfection
Rejoice in beauty marks,
they hold true beauty
Always
hungry for something
dripping with desire
ringing with repulsion
exquisitely ephemeral
contorted by the aching
yearning
to be a hero
Don’t be a hero
by Clare Canavan, Arlington, VA
by Elaine Lo, Issaquah, WA
POETRY
•
SEPTEMBER ’13
• Teen Ink
31
Forgiveness
I still remember
Me. Him. And the chill of September.
I became a falling stone in the clutches
of gravity,
a drop of blood in his veins.
I remember the distance, and the coldness
of reality
But most of all, I remember the pain.
I tried to muffle the scream of his absence
with fake smiles and indifference.
“I did not love him”
was the denial I repeated every day.
But I did love him.
And he loved me – just not enough to stay.
Photo by Kaylyn Turnipseed,
Harrison Township, MI
Perspective
I know her better than anyone,
But she really grinds my gears.
She sees me go for seconds
And then whispers in my ear.
“You’ve gained a couple pounds, you know,
So you better put that back.
Thigh gaps are always pretty,
And that is something you lack.”
She’s in all of my classes at school,
So I never get a break.
Last week, I wore some makeup,
And she told me I looked fake.
I guess this girl’s a friend of mine,
But she’s bullied me for years.
I laugh with her in public
And then I go home in tears.
But last night, I confronted her
To tell her I had enough.
For the first time, she backed down.
She saw that I could be tough.
“I won’t let you put me down again.
Can I be any clearer?”
I’m glad no one was around
’Cause I was yelling at a mirror.
by Isabella Backman, Broadview, OH
But today I breathed in the air of new
beginnings
instead of unfinished endings.
I gathered the scattered pieces he’d
left behind,
halfhearted apologies and hollow promises
of happiness,
and peeled off his smile from the wall of
my mind,
then flung them into the breeze of forgiveness.
I forgive him.
For placing a turbulent sky beneath my skin
and hanging stars of hope in my eyes.
For giving me scented bouquets of words
that bloomed into deadly lies.
For leaving me bleeding, scarred, injured.
I forgive the night and its darkness
that made me seek the light in his soul.
I forgive the moon and its eagerness
as it accompanied us on our midnight strolls.
I forgive my calculating tears for falling
when there was no longer someone to wipe
them away.
I forgive my emotions for naively putting
my weakness and need for him on display.
I forgive him.
Now I just have to forgive myself.
by Lina Abojaradeh, Worcester, MA
3:17 a.m.
Sorrow wraps a tight fist around my neck
As I shut the shades, crawl into bed
It sinks with me beneath the covers
I drown
Life is
The way the boy slices
Raw fish in the open market
Not by the neck
But in even chunks
The squinting expression
Of the gas-station man
As he stoops in the sunlight
Amid flickering dust
The long lovely drowsing
Of an old man at peace
His mulberry face
In the deepening dusk
Violent, beautiful
Peaceful and pained
A whorl of words
Decaying with rust
Lights snapping off
Flames rising high
Cords tearing apart
Death’s insatiable lust
by Tabitha Potter, Rockwood, MI
Dust Motes
I can see a fly hovering
around my desk lamp
I blow hard at the small insect
(watching with satisfaction as it stumbles
in the cold breeze of my breath)
and return to my work.
But when I look back
all I see are dust motes
slowly drifting in the light.
by Bessie Liu, Irvine, CA
Kitchen Utensils
by Esther Ra, Seongbuk-gu, Korea
The pounding of the
heavy knife, a sure sign my
mother is angry.
by Emily Rouan, Austintown, OH
32
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’13
•
POETRY
The Second
Coming
I thought I saw Jesus shirtless and
sweaty today,
and I thought, what of the bodily functions
of the divine?
That sort of thing really stinks of decay.
He ran right into the street, into a car;
I saw him ricochet,
but he stood up, raised a hand. “I’m okay,
I’m fine.”
I thought I saw Jesus shirtless and
sweaty today.
It probably wasn’t Jesus, but I’ve gotta say
I thought I felt a psalm burning down
my spine.
That sort of thing really stinks of decay.
People gaped at him from windows of
their cafés;
maybe they thought their espressos would
turn to wine.
I thought I saw Jesus shirtless and
sweaty today.
You can walk on water, but concrete
gives way.
Son, this isn’t the higher place. This is the
High Line.
I thought I saw Jesus shirtless and
sweaty today.
That sort of thing really stinks of decay.
by Alana Solina, Leonia, NJ
Piece by Piece
today
i cried over you while i was peeling
an orange.
you taught me to cut lines through the
waxy skin:
starting at the top – at the weird, inny-outty
bellybutton of the orange, pulling down
gently with the peeler, making a beautiful,
straight line, finally stopping at the
bottom, at the place where it was once
connected to the tree. Then you would
start again at the top, moving counterclockwise, taking your time.
you swore cutting it like that made the juice
sweeter, and decreased the probability of
vicious acid juice assailing your eyes.
i never liked peeling my own orange,
even though you had taught
me well.
i liked watching your hands, so strong and
sure, gently peeling away the orange
skin and piling it neatly on the counter,
stacking each section on top of the other,
piece by piece.
the smell would hit me then – the sharp,
sweet crispness wafting toward me. you
would smile, and i would know that you
smelled it too.
then you would present me with a slice of
orange, an expectant gleam in your eyes.
i would smile broadly at you, thinking that it
is not the way one cuts the orange that
makes it sweeter,
but instead the person who cuts it.
by Sarah Patton, Underhill, VT
We
We landed on a stony shore, the pebbles
biting into our wrists.
The sea wailed in the distance, a siren
calling for a kiss.
by Caitlyn Baker, Cape Coral, FL
The Pencil
The pencil
An indirect symbol
Of almost everything
A simple tool
That can create peace
Stop a war,
Or even start one
Depending on its beholder
The tip is used to tell stories
And send words through our minds,
To create art
And share with the world our thoughts,
Emotions,
And views.
It designs our houses,
Our clothes,
Toys, phones and laptops;
Creates our worlds
Without ever wasting a breath.
But its wood can burn holes,
Holes that cannot be restored or forgotten,
Only mended –
Holes that create war
And burn the bridges
We use to keep our friends and family close.
The simplicity of a pencil:
It could kill a spirit,
Or break a heart,
But its eraser can destroy negativities
And memories we don’t wish to keep.
Get rid of mistakes,
Fade them into the rubber and paper
And delete all harm,
And all sadness
From ourselves and the world
For we should only use everything for good
And never harm
So while the war rages on overseas
Where we fire gunpowder and spread blood
Let’s raise our pencils and create
Not only peace with ourselves and neighbors,
But art with our friends and family,
And become acquainted with strangers
The pencil can do wonders for ourselves
and others
We just need to pick it up.
by Delores Garcia, Plainfield, CT
Our Hearth
(What a Sensation!)
Your warm carapace
compressed like lost lust found, a
hearth catching first flame.
Gripping mood, like the
chimney never lit, burns my
senses to black ash.
by Christopher Jackson,
Rochester, NY
Unraveled
This sand is speckled
With shards of broken glass, you warned
As I dragged my feet along the shore
And laughed at your concern
I’d offer you my heart
My soul!
If you would care to take them
You see this fragile skin of mine?
My pulse running swiftly beneath a
flimsy barrier?
Ah – but if I could give it all to you
To offer you the very bones that stack up tall
To unravel myself
From the edge of my forehead
Down to my heels
If I could reach within and pull out
The very fibers of my thoughts
The fragmented systems
And lost causes
For I would offer you my heart, my soul,
and more
If you would care to take them
by Amy Parker, Pompton Lakes, NY
Feathers and
a Wax Seal
Each feather pulled by hand,
Sealed with wax.
The first few are sloppy
Where too careful fingers were
Confused.
As time passes,
A feather, a wax seal,
One after the other in repetitive
Creation. Perfection.
They laugh.
They always do.
The sneers and jeering
Voices that have been there
Since time began.
A smile.
A warm hug.
A warning whispered in the ear:
Don’t fly too high.
I won’t, whispered back.
Everything is golden
When wings slip on.
Feathers and a wax seal.
There is only silence
When the wind picks up.
Feathers and wax.
Flesh and blood.
Muscles bunch under taunt skin
And then –
Airborne!
Ignore the gasps,
The praise.
Continue flying
And look back as
Land fades and draws
Away, disappears.
Art by Eleonore Fischer, Eureka, MO
burns of the broken
ever since i walked away
from the familiarity
of your mountains,
the sky hasn’t looked quite right.
come to mention it,
nothing has.
you see,
the trees have come alive,
their roots strangling me
in my sleep,
and the winter snow burns hot
against the ache
of this skin.
my love,
your mountains have flattened,
leaving me bewildered
before lonesome plains,
and my heart has flown away
leaving me vacant
and bitterly cold.
so as far as
those pools of memories
that etched themselves
into my skull,
i hope they drown you.
by Marisa Freedman, Sharon, MA
East, a smile in the sky.
Noon, a warm hug.
West, a gentle warning:
Don’t fly too high.
But why?
Everything is golden
When wings slip off.
Feathers and a wax seal.
by Robyn Hillendahl,
Boulder Creek, CA
arianna
don’t let yourself
unravel just yet, i
haven’t gotten my
sewing kit,
i haven’t brought
life to your languid
fingertips or
taken you to some
bucolic, silent
place where
your screams will
be my symphony (i
won’t take it
badly if you break
my ears, my love)
by Abbey Shepherd,
Fayetteville, GA
Talk to Me
pieces
I wish I could be daisies and tigers and
Robert Plant
But I can’t.
But I know what I am
And that is a crevasse
Waiting for your demons to crawl in
Because I know I’m strong and you don’t
know you’re strong
And maybe that will make you happy
But probably not.
And maybe someday you’ll meet someone
who’s daisies and tigers and Robert Plant
And that’ll be for the best
ivory soap still lingers in the air
a trace of you in a public place,
a brief moment of remembering
finding you where you had never been
a stranger masked with your scent
by “Hannah,” E. Brunswick, NJ
Airplane Wish
I’m still wishing on airplanes
still wishing on Tuesday nights
and the city street lights
As if they might fall off their lampposts
comment on dreams
and message the late-night office overhead
projecting those business flights against the
dark backdrop of nightmares
For those kids who still stare out their
windows
and mistake them for stars
because how far would we get without them
Really all of our luggage is carry-on
our shoulders
our backs
you can’t gate-check yesterday
and the roar of someone else’s engine
keeps us going
I have no idea how we stay up
but I know some of the high points of my
life have come from touching down on
some strip of an idea
we’re being wished on
by Erica Draper, Fort Collins, CO
Two Wars
your tissue paper still exists
under my fingertips, translucent
we read the bible, your hand in mine,
a child comforting an old woman
blue veins of life under dead, clear skin
burnt oranges, deep browns, strange greens,
delicate patterns for a delicate body
you layered three on your lap at once
always trembling from a persistent chill
pedicures are still a sacred ritual
a sense of pride and beauty held firm,
despite never leaving your house
a value ingrained in your set curls and
nightgowns
kindness is the most beautiful trait of all
a pink crystal dish on the kitchen counter
still filled with dinner mints,
a small treat after dinner for clearing
your plate
melts on the tongue in seconds
a bittersweet taste of missing you
by Colette Bersie, Montrose, MN
Was/Can’t/Is …
True
You promised you would take me to that
movie on Friday,
And help me move into my dorm,
And interview the boy I bring home for
Thanksgiving,
And be right by my side for my wedding,
You told me it was gone; that you were
going to be fine.
But now I’m collapsed in this waiting room,
Holding my breath every time a white coat
patters by.
Fingers crossed and knuckles white,
A crater erupts in my stomach
As the white coat approaches.
My mind races and desperation strikes.
A dark abyss clouds my once hopeful vision.
He opens his mouth,
And my cheeks wet with salty tears.
The staccato words pierce the air.
I see his lips moving,
But I hear nothing.
I inhale deeply,
But am left breathless.
It can’t be true.
My father was born in a white house.
All night I wish I was less and more,
less and more.
His house had two porches.
All day I go places to survive, to find.
He had three sisters; two were dark like him.
But I never get to run and my bones are
getting soft.
Now they take care of him by saving all
the pictures.
The city pressed my feet into obsolete,
flat things.
He also had two brothers, one at each end
of his life.
I sit in towers and curse the concrete, crying.
Now they take care of him with pints and
bottles of gold.
I’ve never had lemonade that wasn’t from
a bottle.
He lived near a quarry that taught him to climb.
I fear seeing my bones because I might find
blue plastic.
His father fixed cables after the war gave
him children.
I have a war that is pushing me downward.
Where did I come from on this dead
spinning rock?
by Taylor Bagen, West Orange, NJ
by Shea Keating, Portland, OR
by Jared Best, Star, TX
POETRY
•
Brooding in
Black & White
The brooding soul
Sees the world in black and white
With fifty shades of dark
And a little less in light
But not by his control
You might believe he’s the most depressed
of men
But he’s really just a penguin
SEPTEMBER ’13
• Teen Ink
33
fiction
The Balloon Tree
by Meredith Thomas,
South Bend, IN
soon became bored.
Only three of us ever knew how it
started. One afternoon, in the early
days of summer, Joanna, Pat, and I,
all sucking orange lollipops and tugging on the strings of tricolor balloons, climbed to the top of a wide
hill at the very end of the town’s single street. At the very top, scraggy
and gray, was an oak. It was a sentinel, leafless and alone. “Poor old
tree,” said Joanna, who had a romantic streak. “It must be so tired of itself. All its leaves are gone, and it has
no color at all.”
Pat, taciturn as Joanna was talkative, merely nodded. He leaned back
against the old tree and sighed. “It’s
really the king of the town.”
We looked at him. He scrunched up
his eyes and gazed into the distance.
“Well, you know, it is at
the very end of town. The
end of the only street. On
a hill.” He cleared his
by Sam Starkey,
throat and ducked his
Vancouver, BC, Canada
head. Joanna’s eyes lit
up.
he speaks in whens.
“If you put something
When your sister gets nominated for an Oscar,
on this tree, everyone
I’ll take you two to Paris and we’ll buy designer
could see it, even on the
dresses.
east side!” It was the beWhen you graduate, I’ll put your name on a poster and
ginning of summer; our
scream like I’m at a rock concert. That’ll wipe the smirk
lollipops had the usual
off your principal’s face.
expired sticky taste of
When I get better, we’ll throw a theme party. I’m
Memorial Day candy.
thinking disco. Or maybe a masquerade – won’t that be
“What do you sugfun?
gest?” I said. Joanna
I nod and repeat: When Izzy gets nominated. When I
stood up slowly, with a
graduate. When you get better.
studied theatrical air.
The nurses speak in ifs.
With her back to us and
If this chemo goes okay …
her balloon gripped
If there are no more signs …
tightly in one hand, she
If the CT scan continues to show …
reached up into the tree.
She says she doesn’t believe in cat scans. She makes
Up, up – until she was
me call them that: cat scans. Those pesky cats don’t
standing on tiptoes, arms
know what they’re talking about, she says. I’m fine now.
waving gently. She
I nod and write her plans in the notebook I always
gripped a high branch
bring. I do the writing now. We’re both afraid to see her
and with careful, awkhands quiver lines of uncertainty on the paper.
ward fingers tied the
I bring her French fashion magazines and stories of
string of her balloon to
my principal and magazines about planning parties.
the tree.
When, I promise her. I cocoon us in whens, where no
“There,” she said with
doubts can tear us apart. ✦
a satisfied finality. “Now
yours.” Pat looked down
at his orange balloon
with obvious reluctance.
Finally he sighed and
stood up. “She’ll never
let us alone until we tie
them up.”
But once the balloon
was firmly tied to the
tree, he seemed to
straighten up. “It actually
does look nice. I mean,
sort of right. Like it was
meant …” He trailed off
and pushed his baseball
cap lower over his eyes.
“Now your turn.”
Photo by Hanna Ginzburg, Tenafly, NJ
T
he children called it the Balloon Tree. It was magic. From
blocks away you could see the
bright colors swaying gently in the
breeze. When you got closer, you saw
the balloons, like round, brightly colored tropical birds perched in the tree.
On windy days a chirping euphony
would erupt from the tree, balloon
rubbing against balloon in a squeaky,
rubbery chorus. You would think that
with so many balloons, the ground
would be littered with their bright
worn-out droppings. But the ground
was all soft grass and rough roots.
One week a group of boys and girls
who had nothing to do decided to post
a seven-day, twenty-four-hour watch
to catch anyone coming to clear away
balloons. Or (oh, traitorous thought!)
add them to the brilliant bundle. They
Whens
S
34
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’13
Joanna had a
tyrannical glint
in her eyes.
They actually
did look right
together,
Joanna’s blue
balloon standing proud and
upright next to
Pat’s orange
one, and mine,
Photo by Kayla Capps, Burlington, NC
taller as I was
taller, crowning
to retrieve balloons, and once we even
them in yellow opulence.
observed the balloon man surreptiWe went home that night with our
tiously releasing his leftover balloons
strange little secret hiding in the corat day’s end. People would come and
ners of our smiles and tingling on the
take photographs, and there was even
edges of our minds.
a small piece in the local paper about
It was not until the next morning
the “Helium Curiosity.” People came
that we discovered the miracle. From
for picnics, and you could always find
our favorite tree-top perch in Joanna’s
spare change from their pockets on
backyard we saw not three colors, but
the ground. It was a tacit agreement
five. A magnificent purple balloon
that this change could only be spent
bobbed on one side of our little trio; a
on balloons.
neon green balloon was fastened on
In fact, people began to take the
the other side of the tree. Racing each
tree for granted until one night when
other in mysterious ecstasy, we arwe were suddenly reminded of its
rived at the foot of the tree in stumpresence. It was in the early, prebling breathlessness. And our mouths
school autumn, the kind of afternoon
remained open as we gazed at the new
when storms quickly gather and thrust
balloons. They were not tied to the
themselves swiftly downward in gray
tree. Though they were helium balsheets of rain. Joanna and I were sitloons like ours, they floated in the
ting on my living room floor, pasting
tree, not held down by branches.
leaves onto a sheet and labeling them
Their long strings dangled free in the
in quavering cursive. Suddenly we
air. None of us spoke.
were startled by a bangSuddenly, from the
ing at my front door.
hill below us, there was
Rushing to it, I beheld a
Their
long
a distant wail. We
drenched Pat. His eyes
turned, recognizing the
strings dangled were wide and he was
distinctive voice of
waving mutely at the
free in the air
Allie Macintosh. She
sky. Joanna followed me
was racing up the hill,
out under the awning of
and we did not underthe porch. And then we, too, were
stand why until Joanna suddenly
struck dumb.
ducked. A pale sky-blue balloon shot
At the top of the hill was the tree,
over her head and situated itself in the
but it was no longer cloaked with coltree. Allie, enviously arrayed in a
ored balloons. In a large, lumpy, rainpolka-dot red dress and frilly white
bowed bundle, almost as if they were
Mary Janes, came more sedately up
tied together, the balloons were sailthe hill, obviously believing we had
ing down the street. We watched
captured it. Suddenly she stopped and
mutely as they floated by above us.
gasped. “My balloon!”
Though they were buffeted by the
She darted up the hill, knocking Pat
rain, they stayed their course, down
to the side. She reached up to grab the
the street, to the edge of town and bestring, but as she did, the balloon
yond. The balloons drifted until they
drifted higher until it was out of her
were no more than a speck, a speck
reach. She turned to me and pointed.
which could be anything, really.
“If you get it, I’ll buy you a fudge
The balloons are gone now. The
pop.”
tree is bare and covered with snow.
I knew it was hopeless, but I hauled
But as soon as it becomes warm and
myself into the tree. The balloon
the balloon man makes his first round,
merely drifted to the other side and
I know that Pat, Joanna, and I will
settled into a tangle of branches.
climb the hill, all the way to the tree,
It was like that all summer. A paand we will start over. Because the
rade, or a visit from the balloon
joy of a balloon does not last forever.
man – a child losing his grip, or a balIt is a pleasure that is merely repeated
loon drifting out of an open window –
again and again. ✦
it could always be found in the tree.
After a while, people stopped trying
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fiction
The Last Symphony
by Yuliya Klochan, Columbus, OH
yourself be consumed by the music, you hyshave worked out between us?” asks the smile. The
adies and gentlemen, welcome our beloved
terical fool, he thinks. You will miss it in the
Mother’s agrees. It could have all been true …
Maestro in his final rendition of Beethoven’s
afterlife. But “Oh, God” will be there. You
Six minutes …
fifth symphony!
bet he will … I almost believe it myself now.
The melody dances in the limelight. A medieval cele“And thank you.”
He smirks at the holy books at his feet. They
bration. The imaginary lights and dressed-up people …
The Announcer finishes quickly, stumbles over tatare silent, stripped of their leather covers by
What a fancy oblivion!
tered Bibles, sinks into his front row mahogany seat. He
a desperate vandal.
The trumpet brings back the promised land. What is
was chosen to speak everyone’s last words. What an
Two minutes … The music is getting
there
to
do
when
all
is
slipping
away?
Dance
to
the
tune.
honor! The Announcer feels pride, a warm feeling in his
louder, filling the room. There is no escapThere is a crash on the street. The people in the hall
chest that he will keep forever.
ing. A storm is raging, drying their useless
are silent, and so are the ones outside. The collapse of a
“Thank you,” he thinks. What a sentimental last
tears …
building? It’s the beginning of the end …
phrase! Not intended for the Maestro, nor
“No more!” pleads the Announcer. It is a
“Let the Maestro finish.” The Announcer
for the “ladies and gentlemen,” eager to
silent scream in everyone’s head. “No
glances at the bared Bibles below. “Let the
hear the “final rendition.” His gratitude is
“No more.
more!” A boiling kind of insanity is cultivatMaestro finish. Oh God! Just one symfor everyone and no one. And his voice
ing in their midst, hearts beating out the
phony. And four minutes left …”
broke when he said it! How unprofessional
Silence …
countdown to oblivion.
There
is
a
reconciliation
in
the
music,
an
he has become!
Silence!”
“No more. Silence … Silence!” The Announcer
outburst, a celebration. In his mind, the An“What time?” asks an Old Woman with
doesn’t know if he is begging the music to stop, or the
nouncer can see his proud ancestors, buildbloodshot eyes sitting beside him.
crashing and the falling and the high-pitched screams
ing this now-rotting world, struggling for
“Seven minutes.”
rising outside, increasing in volume – a macabre chorus
beauty. They hid it in the music, he realizes, to be re“Oh.” She breathes out, her chest shattered by a series
of the dead intertwining with the music, deafening the
vealed on Doomsday. What a grand scheme. How magof rippling sobs.
listeners and the relentless musicians. It is insanely
nificent their dreams. And how hopeful they were of the
Seven minutes … There was a time when he would
loud …
future …
have asked, “Seven minutes to what?”
But the refugees gathered in an abandoned church are
The
Musicians
are
halfway
through
the
end
of
the
The end of the world …
now lost: the Widow in her daughters, the College Grad
symphony. It tells of a Man who conquered a storm. But
Three notes and a downfall. Beethoven’s welcome of
in the Parents that made him a shining star. They are lost
the storm is growing stronger …
the end. The Announcer has heard it before. How fain him. Music is raving, invading their used-up bodies.
A lonely trumpet rings out in the silence. Three minmously clichéd the symphony seemed to him then, the
Relaxed for one second, beating at their souls the next.
utes until the final ovation …
oh-so-great Beethoven’s fifth! How appropriate now.
Four booming notes, then a quieter
A Preacher is reciting the beginning of
Wave good-bye to the majesty of mankind with a baton.
melody, a glimpse into heaven, a celebrathe “Holy Father” …
Escape with the music. Hear the melody emerge a viction of glory. Soon will come the last fourFifty-three times. He’s tried it fifty-three
tor. A splendid idea!
Escape
note motif of the symphony. One minute
times.
For
God’s
sake,
finish
it!
thinks
a
The music pours on. A trumpet proclaims the promwith
left …
young man in the same row, a bright Colised land … They came here to rediscover love to the
No one in the hall is looking at the clock
lege Graduate who once won a meritaccompaniment of timeless beauty. What better way to
the music
anymore. They can see and smell the end.
based scholarship. He’s been a star
spend the final seven minutes of the world?
They are hearing it and they are shivering
student for as long as he can remember.
Across the aisle from the Announcer, a Widow is cudfrom it. They feel the storm. Good-bye to mankind’s
Oh, what grand ashes of dreams he still has smoldering
dling with her two Daughters. The Mother’s arms gently
grandeur! There couldn’t have been a more proper way
inside! Three minutes to fulfill his desires … He reaches
cover the Girls, and the Announcer knows that she
to say farewell …
out for his Parents. They are crying. Just like at his
would try anything in the world to shield them from disThere is a Banker from Park Avenue; a Farmer and
graduation.
aster. Would have sold her soul to the devil, but it’s too
his Freckled Family from Oklahoma; a War Veteran
The music is escalating, gaining force.
late …
with an artificial leg that has made him so unpopular
“No more!” someone in the hall screams. “Stop! Oh,
A Bushy Man is smiling at the Widow from across
with the Ladies; a stuttering Preacher, messing up his
God, please stop! Oh, God!” he chants, moans, whispers
the aisle. Beyond the slight curve of the mouth is a quiet
final amen; the Widow’s two Daughters of indefinite
… No one turns to look, not even the Announcer. He
afternoon in a cheap café, a friends-only reception, a
ages, faces distorted by a torrent of tears; the Anloved observing people once. A useless skill now. Let
warm family peace. Tale of a lifetime. “Perhaps it could
nouncer, a prominent TV figure, a sworn bachelor
with a liking for people no one suspected; an Artist
smiling at the Widow from beneath the mustache
he had hoped to resemble Salvador Dalí’s; a Businessman crying with a Teacher and a Truck Driver
by Tianna Fruth, Minden, NV
and a Doctor and a Professor of No-One-KnowsWhat; a Middle-Class Family of Five who once
depicted some sort of extraterrestrial creature from
e wore a red hoodie on Monday and a black
believed they were the embodiment of a long-forone of those vague teen boy video games.
one Tuesday.
gotten dream, cuddling in the warmest corner of
He was, quite frankly, adorable. Every day of the
On Wednesday, his hair was usually rufthe church; a Beggar, no worse off than the others
week.
fled. Sweeps of black hair fell messily across his
now. And in front of them all stand the Musicians,
She began to wonder why she knew his favorite
forehead and touched the rim of his glasses. Once in
indulging in their last masterpiece, delivering a sabook (the blue one with the faded spine
a while, when he’d flip a page or
cred storm to the hearts of their discrepant auditucked inside his bag) and not his name,
soundlessly scrawl something in the
ence, while the Maestro’s frantic baton conceals
wondered why she could count the secHe was,
planner next to him (left-handed,
the collapse of the world outside.
onds until he opened the door to the liglasses sliding down his nose) he’d
Thirty seconds … A momentary quieting in the
quite frankly, brary (she beat him there most days),
duck his head and run his fingers
melody. An intimate good-bye for friends and famand not ask him it.
hastily through his hair. His hair then
adorable
ily. More crashing, banging, crying, falling outside
It was with trembling fingers that on
fell marginally more to the right than it
… The music is in unison with the world, now
Monday (green hoodie, neon iPod headhad a few seconds before. She woncrumbling, collapsing, ending …
phones dangling from one ear) she moved her stack
dered if he knew this.
One note left, thinks the Announcer. Disaster
of books to his table. Sat down. And talked to him
On Thursday, it was white long sleeves under a
will soon devour his front row. “Finish it, Maestro.
(Kyle, slight lisp, smelled like gingerbread).
black graphic tee. From what she could make out
Finish it.” He turns to the ruined Bibles. “Oh God.”
That was only the beginning. ✦
(which, being three tables and a couple dozen book
One second … “Finish …”
piles away, admittedly wasn’t much) the shirt
The last thunderous chord rings clearly in the
universe of chaos and destruction …
But no one’s there to hear it. ✦
“L
Red Hoodie
H
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SEPTEMBER ’13
• Teen Ink
35
fiction
Everything’s Fine
There were six minutes left in
ilm Olen’s nylon backpack
the block. Twelve-year-old Film
strap slipped down his shoulder.
was never going to make it. He
Rather than pushing it back up,
tried to stare at the paper in front
he lifted his arm to a higher angle beof him, but nothing could distract
cause his hands were full. The strap
him from the building pressure. He
dug into his skin, and the weight of
struggled to hold it in, to stay
the books in the bag made it cut a
quiet. He’d been suppressing the
white band into his arm, damming up
tic for 227 seconds, and there was
his blood. His steps were measured:
no way he could hold out until the
slow and gentle yet purposeful even
other eighth graders had passed in
under the weight of his luggage. On
their tests. He bit his
either side of him, dorm
tongue in a final atdoors hung open, and
As Film
tempt to squelch the
his classmates lay in
urge.
general disarray inside
walked by,
Film broke into a
their rooms, poring over
shuddering
fit of
kids looked up.
trashy magazines or
coughing and blinking,
textbooks, occasionally
They stared
splintering the tense sitossing a baseball across
lence. With ice in their
the hall for a neighbor
eyes, several of his classmates glared
to catch and lazily heave back. It was
at him for distracting their sprints
9:26 on a Sunday night, he noted.
through the last problems. Film
Little else could be expected of colflushed with shame. It was his fault
lege students.
that they couldn’t focus. He bit back a
As Film walked by, kids looked up.
frantic wave of emotion. It was all his
They stared, but never quite made eye
fault.
contact. Some faces pinched into symHe looked down again at his threepathetic smiles while others glanced to
quarters-complete test. He needed to
friends for a social cue. The hallway
finish, and he had just four minutes.
grew too quiet, and Film fidgeted with
His teacher would give him extra time
his bag uncomfortably. At every door,
if he asked, but Film didn’t want to be
he checked the brass number, searchtreated differently. He felt that after
ing desperately for his own.
distracting everyone else, he didn’t
Film didn’t recognize any faces. He
deserve to have a better score. It
was starting sophomore year late, and
wouldn’t help them like him any
his classmates already knew their way
more. They’d always hate him.
His mother argued that, because he spent so
much time suppressing his tics,
it was only fair
that he get the
extra time. If
only he could
finish on time, it
would be a moot
point. Film had
scarcely begun
scribbling out
another equation
when the tension
began to build
again.
Art by Autumn Dellaway, Hastings, England
F
around the social scene (and the dorm
building). Everything about it made
him uncomfortable. He had never felt
so lost. So isolated. A radio down the
hall was playing, and the weak, staticky voice bounced off the walls.
Somehow that mumbled solo voice
made Film feel even worse.
An outgoing agricultural economics major with a cross around his neck
grinned in his direction. He’d never
spoken to Film before, but as he
walked by, the boy called out, “Hey
Olen! How are you?”
Film froze.
36
by Lydia Mullan, Winchester, MA
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’13
– since his diagnosis of Tourette’s
syndrome at seven years old, Olen
had accepted that he would live with
this disorder for the rest of his life. As
is typical in many Tourette’s cases,
his symptoms grew worse with the
onset of adolescence, causing a serious hindrance to his social and physical functioning. Last year when his –
“Film? Dr. Blyer can see you now,”
a receptionist said calmly across the
muffled radio that constantly hung
over the waiting room. She was middle-aged and slightly overweight, and
gave Film a smile as he caught her
Art by Rituparna Padhy, Bhubaneswar, India
eye. At the hospital and the doctor’s
have done? Film bit his lip. He had no
office, no one ever judged him. He
idea what he would do or what he
carefully folded the newspaper,
would have done. Suddenly exhausted
slowly smoothing a purposeful crease
with his own alien thoughts, Film reacross the color picture on the front
solved to continue his original motion
page. All the while, he watched his
and swung the door open. He was
hands. They were gentle, almost
greeted with the smiling face of a
graceful. He rose slowly and looked
normally serious-looking man in his
her in the eye.
sixties.
“Thanks, Caroline,” he said in a
“Hey,” Film said, lowering himself
level tone, trying to look serious and
into his usual chair. He’d been commature. He’d been trying a lot of difing here for almost a year, ever since
ferent things this past week.
his specialist sent him to Dr. Blyer in
“Good luck.” Caroline smiled as he
pursuit of a highly experimental prostarted down the hall beside her.
cedure that could fix everything. It’d
He stopped and turned. “Thank
taken months of checkups and tests
you.” Film hoped the sincerity was
and minor operations to prepare him
apparent in his voice. He’d never refor this final surgery, and now that it
ally thought about what an unusual
was over, Film hardly knew what to
role she’d played in his story. She’d
do with himself. His Tourette’s had
seen him walk in the first day, accomalways defined him.
panied by his mother; she’d seen him
“Hello! How’re you feeling?” the
struggle; she’d seen him every step of
doctor asked, his uncharacteristic exuthe way. And now she saw this. Whatberance pinning his wrinkles into unever this was, he thought.
familiar shapes.
“Blyer says we’re out of
“Well, actually. Very
His Tourette’s well.” Film shifted in the
the danger period. We’re
just waiting for bad side
had always glossy leather chair oppoeffects now.”
site the desk while the docdefined him tor bustled about. His
“You stay strong,
dear.” Caroline was still
success and consequent
smiling. She ducked back into the
renown in his field (which quickly
office.
turned to fame in the media) made
Film continued down the hall. She
him extremely cheerful.
used to walk with him, but it’d been
“No, ah … no symptoms, I premonths since he’d needed an escort to
sume?” he asked hesitantly, cautious
find the doctor’s room. He tried not to
that the reply might damage his mien.
scuff his feet on the nubby carpet on
Film unintentionally flinched and
the way down the hall. One door to
shuddered at the cold metal of the
the left. Two to the right. Two to the
stethoscope as it touched his back.
left.
The doctor drew back in instinctual
A fresh wave of butterflies ashorror. After an instant, they both
saulted Film’s stomach and swirled in
relaxed.
a menacing circle around his heart.
“None,” Film assured him with
The doorknob felt sterile and cold,
relief. “Absolutely none.”
and he nervously pondered the impliThe doctor’s blue eyes sparkled becations of his surgery again. He’d
neath his snowy brows. “Good. More
turned the knob almost halfway bethan good. Excellent.” He took Film’s
fore it occurred to him that a serious
blood pressure carefully, recording it
and mature version of himself might
with a few more digits than procedure
have knocked first. He froze. Should
required. As he worked, Film watched
he knock first? Would it be acceptable
the gray ceiling as he usually did.
to slowly turn the handle back and
“They messed up my age,” he said
start again? Is that what he would
offhandedly.
➤➤
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
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by Shea Keating, Portland, OR
quired characteristics can’t be inherited, but late
When she was my age, my mother had a
at night I would sometimes blame my limp on
boyfriend who broke her leg. Later, after
the broken leg that boyfriend gave my mother.
she’d married my father, he sent her an
4. My father watches the same documentary
apology letter. He was in the army, learning how
about the Civil War every year, starting on
to hurt people in more sophisticated, innovative
Thanksgiving. The rest of the year, he
ways.
watches baseball. He sees nothing pa2. My father has never owned a
I
inherited
my
triotic about hurting people in sophisgun. Once he bought a BB gun to
innovative ways. He never
kill the rats that lived under our
mother’s war ticated,
reminds us that his father fought in
house, and my mother wouldn’t talk
World War II.
to him until he got rid of it. He likes
5. We’ve all inherited a war. I don’t know if
to go fishing, but he throws back everything he
wars are acquired characteristics or not. My facatches.
ther inherited World War II, but not enough to
3. After my mother received the apology letter,
pass on to me. I inherited my mother’s war inI was born. I was born lopsided with scoliosis,
stead. My spine is bent and I stay away from
and would always walk with a limp. I know ac-
1.
classes that made him anxious to get
“Hm?” the doctor asked, fully enback. But, just maybe, now the people
gaged in a quarter ream of his notes.
would interest him as well. Maybe they
“In the article. They said it started
would look at him differently. Everywhen I was seven.”
thing would change. Everything.
“Did they? Did you talk with – what’s
Film’s mother knocked softly on his
his name? The psychologist. Did you
door while opening it, completely oblivtalk to him about it?”
ious to the futility of doing both simul“I only just saw it.”
taneously. This used to bother Film, and
“The article came out a week ago!”
he wondered if it still did. With the po“No, there was a new one in The Hertential for so much change, he had no
ald this morning.”
choice but to approach each scenario
“Really?” The doctor momentarily
with newborn curiosity.
abandoned his notes. “How many is that
“How are you?” she asked, seeming
now? Six? Was it any good?”
slightly concerned that her son was
“They messed up the age.”
standing completely still in
“Aside from that.”
the dark with no apparent
“I didn’t get to finish it.
Everything
motive. He looked at her,
There’s a copy in the waithuge.
ing room, though.”
would change. eyes
“Fine. I’m fine.” A half
The doctor seemed
slightly distracted by this
Everything. smile caught his lips. He really was fine. He’d been sayfact, but he continued the
ing it for a week, but it was
exam, his hands returning
only at that moment that he realized the
to their quick, sure work.
truth in it. Everything was going to be
“I’ll have to read it.” He paused.
okay now. He hoped. “Did you want
“Does this hurt?” The doctor pressed his
something?”
fingers in small circles around the heal“Just that we – the story’s on the
ing scar.
news. Soon.” She hesitated for a moFilm waited a moment before replyment. “If you want to watch.”
ing. “No, not really.”
“I already know what happens,” Film
That evening, Film watched a moth
said distractedly. He was beginning to
bounce in circles around his ceiling
grow weary of the attention. The first
light from his bed. He marveled at how
time “Local Boy Is Cured of ‘Incurable’
the little creature, usually white, apDisease, Doctors are Hopeful for Implipeared black against the glow. It was all
cations” was splashed across the headperception. Everything was perception.
lines, it was exciting. Suddenly he
Feeling a surge of empathy for the
wasn’t the boy who was different from
moth, Film rolled off his black duvet
the other kids: he was a success story, a
and found the light switch with his finmiracle, a hope for others. But the more
gertips. He flicked it off and heaved
Film thought about it, the more he
open the paint-chipped window. The
didn’t want to be the poster child for the
early fall breeze tumbled in warmly and
cure. It was Dr. Blyer’s success, not his.
washed over his feet. It still smelled like
Moreover, how was he to explore this
summer. He was already two weeks late
new life with so many people watching
for fall semester: one preceding the surhim?
gery and one after. Unless he could take
“But it’s fun to see yourself on TV!”
summer courses, he’d have to graduate
“It’s fun to see myself in the mirror,
late.
too,” Film retorted, turning toward the
The more he thought about it, the betlarge glass over his dresser and observter that option seemed. Maybe school
ing the still figure reflected in it.
wouldn’t be a prison once he could con“All right, fine, suit yourself.” She
trol himself more. In fact, it was his
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strong boys with big hands.
6. Now I am driving through the Columbia
River Gorge with a thin boy with dark eyes. Like
my father, he listens to Neil Young and wears
flannel. He inherited a war that makes him stay
away from beer and wine and other bottled poisons. Everyone in his family inherited that same
war, but he will be the first one to not let it hurt
him in sophisticated, innovative ways.
7. In the winter the Gorge is all the colors we
like, all the grays and gray-browns and graygreens. As we drive we make plans for a new
war in which we will knock down all the buildings and rip up all the concrete. That way, our
children will only inherit a restored world with
trees and wild, undammed rivers. ✦
fiction
A Creation Story
high school with the lip-gloss-sticky lips
sneering at him, but when it didn’t end
then, he was totally disheartened. He
wanted to hate all the people who’d
never given him a chance.
Suddenly he was a success story on
the doorstep of a brand-new world,
rather than the stranger. His footsteps
continued down the hall, but his heart
raced. That boy knew his name from the
news. They all knew him. And it made
him a little sick that not one of them had
cared about him until he was “normal.”
They’d whispered and they’d stared, but
they’d never reached out. Every time,
they’d –
“Need a hand?” A girl named Tess
appeared. During his stay in the hospital, he’d been so wrapped up in all the
things that would change, he’d nearly
forgotten those who he never wanted to
change. Like those who’d never shied
away from him. Like Tess. He smiled
genuinely and she pulled his duffel bag
out of his hands.
“So, where’ve you been lately?” she
joked. There was hardly a person in the
state who hadn’t heard of Film Olen and
the Miracle Surgery, the one that would
“Hey Olen! How are you?”
lead to the advance that would cure their
The question still hung in the air.
grandparents of Alzheimer’s, or cancer,
After a moment, Film felt the tension in
or whatever.
his shoulders melt. He
“Oh, around.” He
looked at the boy.
“I’m well. Thank you.”
That boy knew grinned. He’d never had an
close friend.
A small, relieved smile achis name from extremely
Even Tess was more of an
companied the words. He
acquaintance than a friend.
was used to being the centhe news
But she’d always been so
ter of attention – the kid
sweet to him, and he liked
everyone was staring at –
her, even though he’d never given it
but never for the right reason. The first
much thought.
time he walked down a dorm hallway,
He’d almost stopped counting the lithe’d accidentally shouted at a dance
tle brass numbers and had suddenly
major. Her boyfriend had shoved him
when he reached his door.
into the wall and threatened to do some“Welcome back,” she said.
thing anatomically improbable with the
Film changed his mind. He couldn’t
textbook Film was carrying. It was mohate the people who hadn’t been there
ments like that that made Film shy. He
for him, or else he’d have to hate everywas so scared that if he opened his
one forever. He looked down at Tess,
mouth obscenities would pour out, or
her eyes lit with a warm smile. No, he’d
that his tics would manifest themselves
be the bigger man. This was his fresh
as a symptom of social leprosy. It’d
start, after all. ✦
been difficult enough to get through
gave him a brief smile and left, preferring to watch without him than miss it
trying to convince him.
“It is fine,” Film whispered, so quietly that he barely heard himself.
His mother called up the stairs,
“We’re taping it, if you change your
mind!” but Film was already lost in
thought again. It was almost scary to see
a human figure stand so still so close to
him. His eyes were close enough to see
every mismatched stripe that crossed
through the caramel circles. The boy
staring back was as still as the motion in
the stars: impossible to watch, but scientifically there under the façade of a stationary exterior. He watched the nearly
imperceptible rise and fall of his own
chest. Something about the motionlessness scared him. It felt unnatural, as if
the boy on the other side of the glass
was dead and just propped up to look
like his reflection. After looking in the
mirror every morning for the past eleven
years and seeing himself in constant, inescapable motion, he was unnerved at
his own immobility.
SEPTEMBER ’13
• Teen Ink
37
Those Summer
Days
Last night I fell asleep
on the couch and woke up
on the couch.
I remember when I would fall asleep
on the couch
or on the floor, and Dad
would scoop me up and take me
to my room, and I would wake up –
as if by magic – in my own bed.
I remember when
we had a treehouse
in the backyard,
and Ian and I and the neighbor’s sons
would play pirates and catch tadpoles
and eat thistles in the thick
summer heat.
That old tree is bare now.
The wooden plank that was our fort,
our pirate ship,
our stage for fantasy,
rotted away to nothing but
splinters.
I used to lie on my dad’s truck and count
the stars
and twist fallen leaves into crowns,
or pretend to be a racecar driver,
and dream of the day
I would get my own car.
I get in my car to go to work,
remembering how
I used to play on my parents’ cars,
and I
stop –
back up,
climb onto the hood of my Kia,
lie on my back,
and stare up at the drifting clouds.
I smile at them
and they smile at me, and I ask myself,
“Why did I ever want to grow up?”
by Hannah Wagner,
Rock Hill, SC
A Smile
Life is like an overstuffed burrito
If you focus too much on one side,
everything falls out the other.
by Mandy Seiner, Pittsburgh, PA
The Forest’s Fading
Crimson Attire
Crinkled leaves float remorsefully through
the air
The touch of their brown-skinned homes
suddenly a vague memory
As they plunge deeper
Toward a bleak white sea
In their cold graves,
They lie hopeless
Watching the creek’s tumbling waves
turn to ice,
Like Medusa’s victims morphed to stone
The bright flowers darken,
And the shining green grass follows
their departure
While amidst all, the sanguine sun
burns bright,
Oblivious to the life deteriorating below,
All beauty is lost
The white swallows all,
Leaving a blank, clean canvas
Emitting the shine of opportunities
For new creatures and colors and life
A boy and a girl stumble clumsily through
the forest’s aimless path
Giggling nervously
And clutching each other close
Getting lost in the electrifying touch of
each other’s skin
They fall to the ground,
Spread their arms and legs
And paint their figures in the snow
Mimicking angels from the heavens
They reach for one another’s fingers,
Link them closely,
And on their faces
Rosy-cheeked, blue-lipped smiles appear,
It’s All Only
He took my hand and led me
Into his glamorously draped, secretly
Styrofoam
Dream world
Where the sky was the only clock.
Breakfast butterflies on a Sunday morning
Because his eyes shone like love in the light,
And I didn’t know the sun was his
employee.
Over the bridge at night,
Hands burned prints across my skin
So softly but suddenly
The insides of my lids glowed red
Until I opened to black, the torrid closeness
of him
And the icy stone railing on my back.
Now awake and searching
For a cure and oblivion,
I’m lost in the swiftly rushing
Water under his bridge.
“Beautiful!” they declare, throwing their
heads back,
Gazing at the indigo, infinite sky,
Oblivious to the life and death
That lie beneath them
All beauty returns.
by Alyna Karczmar, Crete, IL
Conversation with
Knowledge
You stare me in the face
daring
challenging me with the doubt you instill.
Hoping I won’t take that
step into my unknown
the scent of discovery
weaves its web
through my hair
and sticks to my clothes
you whisper
in my ear
with the sweet breath of knowledge
you look shiny and new
blinding me with your beauty
you can be my
worst nightmare
or my
ultimate high.
you entice children
and belittle adults.
a bully
and a best friend
God forbid I catch you at the wrong time
imagination destroyed by your words
making way for reality
for maturity the world demands
without you, though,
we would be nothing
and for that
I am truly grateful
by Olivia Puente,
Muskegon, MI
For Softee (Two
E’s), Last Seen: 1998 Dreams
Fatigue, still as the summer sky,
I never liked the ivory wool blanket you
came with.
It was itchy. It didn’t match your silk.
I used to wear you as a scarf.
Did you know I couldn’t fall asleep
without you?
The frays came with time, the pilling
came with time,
and there was many a time
that I almost lost you:
In an airport, Denver.
In a hotel, Key West.
In a mattress cover, London.
In a pile of laundry, Greenwich.
Sometimes when I rub my fingers
I can still feel how soft you were.
No flowery words are needed to describe it,
just the sensation of silk between
an index finger and thumb,
cold in the winter if I’d left you alone
too long.
by Olivia Manno,
Greenwich, CT
Photo by Kayla Capps, Burlington, NC
38
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’13
•
POETRY
“Wake up,” it shrieks as it cracks in
your ear and
You open your drowning eyes to the
shut window.
You can’t see the rain dripping off the
clouds, turning black like the night
As it drops down from the sky,
But you know it’s there.
The thunder told you so.
You open your window just a crack, the
screen doesn’t keep
The whipping wind out, concrete and hot
boiling water
You smell through the tiny crack, and you
want to feel the black rain,
Its magic cleansing your soul.
Without shoes you step through the open
door, only to
See the downpour washing the world of its
insecurity. You
Step outside and across the cracked melted
porch, the
Pads of your feet turning black with the
concrete as it swallows the rest
Of your body whole.
The first drop falls on your outstretched
hands as you twirl and dance in the storm.
“Thank you,” you laugh as the rain drenches
your bloodstream, cleansing you of all sins.
And then the storm stops, suddenly, like the
pull of a knife.
It’s almost as if all it wanted was someone
to dance with
All this time.
by Kaitlin Husted, Jacksonville, OR
Sometimes when I’m alone I look in
the closet
I thought I dropped you in.
My rug is ivory; maybe you blend
since there are no lights in there.
And this one time when I am alone,
truly alone,
I cry.
by Natasha Ayaz
Thunderstorm
Sends down a million tiny pearls
That sit on eyelids and make them droop
But thoughts so bright
So neon, purple, gold and silver
Dive deep into a pile of leaves
In the golden autumn sun
Then swim across silver seas to little islands
Where frizzy yellow sun heats sandy beaches
And they lie there in the sun
And eat tiny sandwiches
Soaking up the day and the light and
Mother Nature’s love
Then they fly on little fragile sparkly wings
Up to the sky
And through time
To a field where they run
And play and turn cartwheels under
starry night skies
And throw a Frisbee through the air
Whoosh, whoosh
Then the shimmering thoughts climb up a
snowy mountain peak
And reach the tippy top
And as they look out over the icy land they
breathe in beautiful crystal air
and take a parachute
and slowly fall down to Earth
and then they slide into the chimney of a
little house
and drift into a room that’s painted blue
where there is a little bed
on which a pillow rests
and on that pillow is a head
and in that head the thoughts go to live
by Mary Zuccarello, St. Louis, MO
Summer Letters
Beauty
A Note
The Bus
My room smells like summer.
I don’t know if it’s the scent
Of the rain seeping through the cracks near
my windows
Or maybe those few year-old letters I dug up
from my closet
When I was half asleep,
Too sad to properly dream.
It could also be the way the tears roll up
into little balls
At the end of my chin and stain dark spots
on my shirt.
Maybe the smell of the wet fabric is
reminding me of the paradox
That was the dark summer days where
everyone had a friend
But me.
When everyone had something productive
or leisurely to do
But me.
Instead I would keep myself up in my room,
writing letters
To a lost friend or a lost love
That would be stored in a box
On the top shelf of my closet.
I would cry to myself,
Knowing that no one would notice or care
Or make an effort to try to talk to me,
And that is why I am wishing
My room would smell like anything
but summer.
I want to lick your wounds,
the ones you hide with shame and soft
bandages
under cotton shirts and cologne
I know you have a tendency
to pick at the scabs until they bleed
Mother,
I have gone to find the beach.
I have gone to find the seagulls,
the salt, and the sand.
The smell of burning gasoline
Chokes me to the core.
The rumbling
Never seems to end.
I have gone to find the faces that are mine,
the ones that say hello
on the edge of the water at night
In the belly of the beast,
Interred in a metal cage.
Separated from the world,
Watching it go by.
by Emily Cutter, State College, PA
macaroni and words
I will let you
I will let you
peel off layers of yourself,
the bruised skin plummeting to the ground
like the falling man
12 years later and he still remains
an undocumented suicide,
his body lost among the rubble
but your pains will not go unnoticed
I will collect them in a treasure jar
when you come to me crying and hesitant
of your beauty
I will drag the jar from the living room
despite my own chapped lips
I will kiss the parched skins repeatedly
we will spend hours sewing them back
into you
your skin will be patterned into a lighting
tree
I will press my ear up against your seamed
casing to hear
you oscillate beautiful
you are beautiful
you are beautiful
by Elesa Mackhan, Queens, NY
I have gone to see the seals
as they crawl from the ocean to the
sand, finding their beginning and their
end on this
rocky shore.
I have gone to spread the ashes of
yesterday
onto the paths I will
follow tomorrow.
The hour-long trip,
My spirit yelling to be free,
I get spit out of the monster
To begin the trek home.
I have gone to find me.
Don’t worry.
I’ll be back soon.
by Vinay Malut, Palm Beach, FL
Love,
Your daughter
best friends
by Frances Field, Santa Monica, CA
wrapped in Sara’s flannel tanning
blanket feeling
more beautiful than I was, wearing
whatever I was wearing
cigarette smoke and fire smoke and
surrogate family softness
the first-last adventure of my summertime
sitting in my lap next to my best friends.
The Call
I’m burning in my core, like the earth, like
us all, I’ve spent my last 50 cents on the
call, all I want her to do is say I love you.
I Wore Crocheted
Slippers
I wore crocheted slippers,
my petite size six feet
resting in the tightly laced
fabric in a fit that matched
the very length of my toes.
by Janel Pineda, Los Angeles, CA
Over my head
Staring through a clear wall.
Transparent, but strong.
Outside is a blur,
But inside stays still.
I quell the feelings of panic,
Reminding myself where I am,
Where I’m going,
When I’ll get there.
by Adin Ohman, Walla Walla, WA
she writes poetry the same
way that her mother cooks
dinner: relying on inspiration,
taste, and chance
and not a book of recipes
“Don’t you understand yet?”
My pencil tip breaks, and with it my
self-control.
I clench my eraser
As if I could make any moment go away.
My tongue is rough with fear and
It refuses to synchronize itself with
my mind.
My fingers quiver and I
Drop the pencil from my suddenly
so unwieldy hands.
I have gone to find a kiss that waits behind
the old house on the lane between
Nowhere and Someday.
knife in hand sloppily carving
DMC into the bark of a tipsy tree
wobbling on a wooded hill, the brand-new
sensations
of brand-new sensations leaving their initials
carved into us. It rained and rained and I
almost fell off Hana’s balcony
talking on the phone and singing golden
oldies
with our hands in our laps next to my
best friends.
In my crocheted slippers
I leapt up over the river
of fallen stars, careful to
mind their collision-cracked
whispers. In the clouds
I crafted my own ballet to
the symphony that the sky
provided. I chased dandelionpuff wishes and tagged
along the journey the wind
ventured upon, catching
a ride on his tail.
by Morgan Chesley,
Kasilof, AK
I guess when the flowers
wilted, melting like they’d
been swirled frosting roses
and the cake all crumbled on
the platter, I forgot the
stories the trees told me
and the gift of light
that the sun had bottled
up as a memento.
When your mind starts to reel I
Can see internal collisions and
Fraying edges: there is a loud
Sea inside of you.
“Is it any clearer to you now?”
My tears trip over the ledge of my eyes
and come sputtering down, making my
textbook fertile and arid.
Do you
recall
the Easter Sunday
that I made my own dress?
Powder blue. I sewed on roses.
You said I looked nice
and I said,
“You too.”
And you held me in
the pew when I cried
because the girl
behind us had a seizure.
Remember how we said
Amen
but we didn’t really mean it.
by Irene Enlow, Pohang, Korea
by Christina Gaudino, Flemington, NJ
by Andi Abbott, Wichita, KS
“Must I explain this again, really?”
I shiver beneath the ponderous weight of
your expectations.
Shriveled by your accusing voice,
I try hard to slip into the burning warmth
behind my eyelids.
There are so many words for mistake,
Yet they all signal failure in lengthening
extremes.
How can I avoid accusations
Made by gradebooks and single letters
written in red?
Photo by Emily Wood, Granite Canyon, WY
Powder Blue
with Roses
Doors
Lost saint,
I know you are brimming with
Good intentions, but sometimes
It is easy to place your thoughts
In the wrong jar, and I understand.
(Drowning in your own undoings,
I am still rooted to place)
The ocean is too deep to tread
And you are dripping plastic,
There is no difference between
Laughing or crying underwater.
I licked my chapped lips,
regretting knocking down the
petals in my display of
enthusiasm. Looking down,
staring, at my
crocheted slippers.
POETRY
Tell me you are still you.
by Anna Xie,
Boston, MA
•
SEPTEMBER ’13
• Teen Ink
39
Geometry
Advice
Graffiti walls and bubble-blowing.
Fingers drumming, disinterest showing.
It’s nearly unbearable, the heat.
Float into the cool kitchen. There, a fly
will put you in a trance, slamming itself
against the glass.
Remember that time is gelatinous, measured
in golden honey.
Also note that the lemonade will never be
quite sweet enough, always too sour.
It’s summer and there are absolutely
no shadows.
Pencils scattered and papers flying.
Heads dropping, tired groaning.
Linear equations and square roots.
Spitballs flinging, far they shoot.
A draft from the window and excessive
noise.
Blank stares, erasers as toys.
Fidgeting bodies and wandering eyes.
Geometry unspoken of, and so I sigh.
by Hannah Kern, Delaware, OH
Ode to Pencils
Perhaps the way
Each stroke is made
Neatly and so
Careful and slow
Intending each
Line to become
Significant.
by Kayla Telford, Shoreline, WA
He Is My Guardian
My head rested, ear pressed
To cream-colored couch. It was warm
From a fever-wrought forehead, and the air
tasted damp and stale
Like buttered toast left on the counter all day.
A mound of matted gray, hamster nose, and
rusty purr
Breathed against my stomach.
He is a guardian with crooked triangles for ears
Round and wise and watching
Like a fat harvest moon
Or a gargoyle in front of gilded mansions.
My hands
Warm and sweet-smelling from a summer tan
Weakly clutch the royal fabric over my
stomach
And feel the fur that has made itself
welcome there.
We were spry toddlers together, awkward
teens with knobby knees
We watched together as our world crumbled
and moved and shifted
To fit a new last name
But now
I’ve been left behind.
Still the sweet protector he’s always been,
So mild, even a fish would not detect his
pulse or claws
He is an old man now
With a slight limp;
He needs a cane
And I dread the day
He will no longer be waiting for me.
But here, his lemongrass eyes stared
suspiciously at the click of a camera
While mine, deep brown, stared blankly
ahead
Trying to make this moment seem candid
And keep the smile out of them.
by Isabella Zutrau-Pell,
Chestnut Hill, MA
40
Teen Ink •
Later the shadows
begin to ooze from behind your eyes.
But the heat
still lingers and presses much, much too
close. The cherries in the fridge are
agonizingly sour.
The stratosphere is wonderfully cool. If
possible, fly
toward it as fast as you can. Otherwise,
slow as honey,
you will drop to the ground and shatter
like glass.
Recall what you have been taught: sand
melts into glass.
Try not to sink like heavy, silent amber.
Prevent the shadows
from getting stuck in your cogs. If they do,
coat them with honey
and turn them into pearls. You can’t escape
the heat,
so embrace it. By now you will have
discovered whether or not you can fly.
If you can’t, don’t become sour.
Open the fridge and test if the milk has
gone sour.
I once heard a story about a boy whose
one desire was a tall, cold glass
of milk. If you cannot fly
fill your days in other ways. Brush away
the shadows.
If the heat ever
gets too heavy, find someone to call
your honey.
Whoever she is, your honey
should be able to save you from yourself.
Poof, the sour
is gone. She should float a little above the
earth, like heated
air. Don’t try to make her out of marble
or glass.
It won’t work. You will know her by the
way she banishes the shadows
from your cogs, even if you have made
them into pearls. Please swat that fly.
Now snap out of the trance in which that fly
has entrapped you (just like I said it would).
Time is still moving like honey
because it’s summer and there are
no shadows.
Drink some of that sour
lemonade – you deserve it. You should
really use a clean glass.
Walk back out into the heat.
Don’t fly if it makes you sour.
Sip cherry juice with your honey from
two icy glasses.
Try not to trail any shadows into the house
because they’ll melt in the heat.
by Caroline Yang,
New York, NY
SEPTEMBER ’13
•
POETRY
What I Wrote
in Math
Photo by Alexandra Guzman, Montgomery, IL
The Coldest Day
Dawn was brought to the small town
Like a dust cloud
Of change
It hissed through cracks in windows
Doors
And walls
It made the candle flames
Shiver
It piled in drifts
Against doorways
The day brought no relief
From the scent
Of a new beginning
The sun,
Which once warmed bare backs,
Felt cold,
Old
And distant
Yet the empty playgrounds
Still withered under its empty
Stare
The joyous reunion
Of friends
Enclosed in
Bricks
And glass
Summer was over
by Mason Caldwell, Albuquerque, NM
The Art of Racing
in the Rain
Alone, the rain is not your friend
It soaks your coat and taps your head
Your feet grow cold and you fill with dread
The long walk grows longer soaking wet
But today you are not alone
Another’s smile lies beneath makeup smears
As the sky lets go a million tears
Now you are racing in the rain
Now the rain no longer stings
As a sabal palm spreads its wings
To shelter two untroubled things
Racing in the rain
Eventually this storm will end
And again you will be just a friend
But for now that thought brings you no pain
The art of racing in the rain
by Sam Pickerill, Jupiter, FL
“Sherwin,”
He calls. The word has been said many
times;
His eyes, narrow with scrutiny, detect my
lack of productivity,
I know the system,
I give up the chase,
I hand him a scrape of notebook paper
tainted with slanted anger-driven words,
What could I possibly say?
I find the needless pursuit and chain of
agonizing numbers to be pointless,
This sterile and colorless environment is just
a haven of inspiration,
Both are true,
X = Y,
Find the plane, there is a carefully organized
system of logic to discover a missing link
in the equation,
Logic and rationality are a figment of the
human consciousness to obtain stability,
Our existence is one that is birthed by
irrationality,
The wallpaper is white and faintly speckled,
The fluorescent lights drain the last bit of
excitement the room has to offer,
White, on white, on white,
The color of insane asylums,
The color of infinity,
The color of a dead fish’s underbelly,
I hand him reluctantly a paper that rebels
against his every lesson,
White is a blank canvas.
by Allyson Sherwin, Dove Canyon, CA
Summer of We
It was hot that day
102 degrees
But it was the words he would say
That melted the ice away.
Gummy bears
Plastic chairs
The smell of chlorine
Coming from you and me.
You took my hand,
Led me to a secret land.
With Frisbees
And volleys.
A dive board,
A girl hoard.
We lived free
That summer was we.
It’s what I’ll remember
I was a special club member.
It was very elite.
Just you and me.
It was a secret,
Locked away
In your heart,
Or next to the car.
by Maggie Bowyer, High Point, NC
A Warm Night
Baritone frogs croak
accompanied by crickets
dancing in the grass
by Catherine Moran, Pebble Beach, CA
the deepest
nostalgia
The Classroom
Symphony
my grandma’s house is my favorite place in
the world
because i grew up there
believed in fairy tales there
lost my first tooth there
i remember the plaid couch because i lined up
all of my teletubbies and smiled wide with
my cat, chester, for a scrapbook picture
the laundry room had an iron-shaped burn
on the floor that my grandma hid with
her shoes
my aunt used to let me clean her room when
i didn’t feel like cleaning my own
my room was once my mom’s, blue carpet,
blue walls, brown stain on the rug where i
spilled her afternoon cup of coffee
my happiest memories are there
in corners of rooms and embedded in
furniture that no longer sits where it does
in old pictures
my hideouts, my treasures, my world i created
parts of my childhood kissing wallpapers
with roses and closets that were the
best place to hide if you didn’t want
to be found
sometimes i take old pictures to be my own
i keep them in a place for myself alone
i hope my grandma wouldn’t mind because
they fill me with sighs and it’s good to
know i can still feel
i like the pictures of my mom when she was
a kid best
she smiled a lot, she was happier then
i wish i’d known her then because things
are different now
and she doesn’t really smile the way she did
in those pictures
sometimes i keep some of me when i was
younger, too
pictures when i smiled like my mom
when i believed in fairy tales
and loved that damn iron-shaped
burn that everyone else called
ugly
when i hid notes in my aunt’s
room with backwards “S”s and
crooked hearts
when i would blow-dry my dog and
not have a reason why
i know things are different now
i have all my teeth and fairy tales aren’t real
my mom’s always sad and stains don’t mean
anything anymore
that ugly plaid couch got replaced with a
prettier green one
and i hate that i can’t remember more
i don’t smile like i did in those pictures
the iron-shaped burn is no longer there
i crave black and white days and mistaken
ways when the worst that could happen was
a stain on the floor
The scratching of some busy pencils
The not-so-silent whispering
The shuffling of homework papers
The sound of binders zippering
A cough erupts into the room
And somebody just had to sneeze
Footsteps pattering here and there
The typing of computer keys
The turning pages of a book
There is a pencil sharpening
These noises might seem simple, but
This is the Classroom Symphony
by Olivia Jones, Appleton, WI
Sunburn
Seize; hold onto the moments that matter.
When the sun stays late and the stars
steal breaths.
Feelings of freedom refuse to shatter.
Blissful dreams overcome all fear of death.
Possibilities endless, no one cheats.
Time but a wisp of thoughts long forgotten.
Sticky hands from the ice-cold melting
sweets.
The sense of floating on clouds of cotton
Is easy to come by while the sun shines.
Sleeping under the stars, feeling no fear.
Adventures following the yellow lines.
Reflections of sun-kissed skin in a mirror.
When the days fade slowly into the night,
Those are the days that feel completely right.
Your face,
carelessly kissed (overly loved) by the sun
left red; burnt
soon to be scarred
and left
with the deepest of bronzes
by Payton Grover, Melba, ID
Teenage Angst
Photo by Katie Marke, Nipomo, CA
Philippines
Sheets across bodies,
Perspiration drips down me,
Philippine summer.
by Abi Eckstine, Abbeville, LA
The Storm
Pouring down
Swathing the grass in crisp droplets
And saturating the world in dusky darkness
Blending in the gaps between bare trees
And smudging the layered triangles
Made by the fragile branches
The air
Spills into space
Thick and humid
Obscuring any voices in the haze
Of the continuously splattering raindrops
Growing Up
Then
A jagged scar tears across the sky
Harsh light staining the clouds
Tracing the fragmented branches
And kissing the glistening blades of grass
For a fraction of a moment
How I miss blowing
dandelions and playing
hopscotch all day long.
Almost like
The sun clawing
From behind the blanket of gray
by Natalie Bartholet, Woodbine, MD
by Margaux MacColl, Westport, CT
by Taylor Sorensen,
Grand Rapids, MI
Summer Days
Teenage angst
Is what the grown-ups refer to it as
When we scream and cut and cry and starve
ourselves.
Freedom
Is what we teenagers label it
When we battle through the chains of deceit
adults call love.
Hopeless, then, we become,
When we drink until the world is always
midnight,
And when the sun rises our minds see
shadows that grown-ups call hangovers.
We have to learn, they say,
When we make what they call mistakes.
Driving too fast down the fork in the road
called Wrong.
How can we learn
When we are handcuffed to desks
And force-fed hope and math and science
and dreams.
I will have to straighten up one day
And become one too:
A believer in the Future and a crusader
against the Present.
The girl who let the glass crush beneath her feet,
And who bled through the white socks
called Childhood,
Until there was nothing left but obsidian
blackness
Where a person should be.
I don’t remain.
by Somerset Gall, Lexington, MA
Blushing
you smile to me.
smile to me
eyes unwavering
you tell me your name
(two syllables
five letters)
I offer my hand (you firmly take in yours)
holding on, (for the dear life of me)
You smile
I smile
Your smile, (the sun and the moon and
the stars and the sky,)
all held on your face,
Your face
which was carelessly kissed (overly loved)
by the sun
As I walk away
My thoughts echo your name
My heart dancing to the wings of the
singing birds
Unable to drop that smile from my face
My face,
which was not yet carelessly kissed (overly
loved) by the sun
My face had not met the rays of
summer yet
But instead held the tender alabaster of royalty.
But did I know in that moment (as I talked
with you, then walked away)
That soon my face would too be carelessly
kissed (overly loved) by the sun?
That I would be left red; burnt, (possibly
bleeding) only soon to be scarred
and left the deepest of bronzes?
Did I know that possibly it wasn’t your face
that was burnt (nor mine later still)?
But it was your heart that I saw, the face of
your heart held on the skin.
by Larah Bleiker, Ocklawaha, FL
Mother Homework
Procrastination
Has two children, long late nights
And dark, shadowed eyes.
by Julia McDermott, Potomac, MD
At Night
I remember the song of the crickets
As the tales played with the twitch of their legs
The sticky sweet apples overflowing
Their graham cracker crust
And the twang of a popped string
Slapping the wood of the fret
Slurping down popsicles
Having the juice cling to your chin
The stars were twinkling fairy dust
And dew flickered over the ground
The grass smelled like sunlight
The sunlight shone like gold
But we all knew that night was the best
If you could pry your eyes open for just
long enough
At night the fireflies danced
by Kyra Cooper, Windsor Heights, IA
POETRY
•
Reel Life
I guess I’m not ready for real life.
I guess I’m just not ready for real life.
But I show up every now and then,
Then and again, between each way back
when.
Every time the reels are slightly changed,
Good times pasted in, and dearth rearranged.
Every breath I steal is justified,
And every little battle glorified.
But in real life there’s no storyboard,
Oscars, edit rooms, and sometimes
I’m bored.
So I drift to dream in black and white,
Just a dust mote in a projector’s light.
by Isaac Rothermel, Jacobus, PA
SEPTEMBER ’13
• Teen Ink
41
fiction
Wood Boards and an Old Ford
I
’ll quit someday. But kinda like yesterday, today
isn’t that day, so I’ll sit here on these arthritic
front steps and blow smoke rings up to the heavens, kicking more dust onto these old boots. It feels
good to put this old front porch to use – if you ask
me, it’s the best view in Louisiana. But I’m not
biased. His text said, “I’ll be there before the swamp
goes quiet,” which means I could be here for some
time, and I’m just fine with that. I have a full pack
and a full moon’s blessing to be out all night.
My phone’s ringing on the wood next to me, light
from the screen intrusive on the night. I know who it
is and I know what he wants – he can go to voicemail. The past never has anything new to say. I have
Photo by Carla Ruiz, Lovington, NM
Isn’t She a Beauty?
“I
sn’t she a beauty?”
“She should be walking by
now.”
“She can barely hold a pencil.”
“She’s not dumb or slow, she’s
different.”
“Why are you so tall?”
“Why is she wearing overalls? Weirdo.”
“Can you tell me about this story you
wrote?”
“I want to put her in a higher class. You
should hear the things she says.”
“Here are some of my favorites. They’re
chapter books, but I know you can read
them.”
“You barely ever talk.”
“I hear her talk. You just have to really
listen.”
“Why don’t you try soccer?”
“It’s okay, you don’t have to ever go
back on that field.”
“Have you tried gymnastics?”
“That’s okay, you don’t have to like it.”
“Where did you learn to play chess like
that? Maybe we could play one day.”
42
Teen Ink •
in the speakers.
better things headed my way.
He gives me a grin I haven’t seen since I was a lot
I hum bits of every song I can think of as I chainmore reckless and free of what lay ahead, a grin that
smoke like a champ. Everything from Dolly Parton
got us into our share of trouble. He hands me a lit
to Staind to Brantley Gilbert flows like the smoke,
cigarette and, with my boots on the dashboard, I
keeping me company in the night. My phone is ringdrown in blissful déjà vu.
ing again and I can’t help but laugh just a bit. The
“So tell me, Mr. Jameson, who knows you’re
past went from knocking politely to busting my door
home?” I ask, sure I know the answer.
down, but that’s all right. I’m not home tonight.
“You.” He shrugs. “They’ll find out soon
I’m not sure how much time is passing, but at
enough.”
some point I stop humming and start listening in the
He’s got one wrist on the steering wheel and the
distance for the old familiar thrum of that Stroker
other arm outside. God, he looks good. His hair’s
echoing off the trees. It reverberates in my chest as
shorter than I’ve ever seen it, arms stretching out the
the headlights become eyes in the distance, bobbing
sleeves of his T-shirt, thick bands of
and dipping with every pothole in my
flame and wording winding down his
road. I told myself I wasn’t gonna get
He’s still tan, still looking at
worked up, but here I am, shaking
The past never forearm.
me with blue eyes that hold every possihands and knees like I’m sixteen again.
Look at me.
has anything bility in this world. And I still get carried away ….
As that old panel and primered mess
new to say
“I haven’t been down here in ages,” I
comes to a stop I stand up, toss my hair
admit. He takes a left down the nameless
out of my face, and throw my arms
dirt road, which is technically private
around the only stability in my twisted
property, though old Mr. Holmes wouldn’t hurt a fly.
world, dropping my pride on the dust where it can
He knew all along that we kids would come sneakstay tonight. The poor boy chuckles like he does and
ing down every Friday night and drop our tailgates.
lifts me up for a second like it’s nothing.
We’d drink, swim, fight, and dance our luck away
“Dixon Rae.” He smiles. “Thank God some things
on that river bank.
just don’t change,” he drawls.
He nods. “Me either. The crew is long gone these
“You’ll always be 17 to me, Mr. Jameson. No
days.”
matter how tall you get.”
It looks very much the same as it did eight years
He laughs, and seeing him stand there, alive and
ago on nights like this. The grass has grown in thick
home, is all I could ever pray for. Not even a war
without tires to wear it away. It’s a little more shalcan take that gentle soul of his.
low, but still haunted as can be.
“Where are we goin’?” I grin, because he could
We both hop out, fingers brushing, boots sinking
say Walmart and he knows it.
into the soft clay. I stop a few feet from the water
“Don’t ask so many damned questions. Just
and take a deep breath before pulling off my boots
get in.”
and throwing them behind me, giving him a wink of
There’s always been the same amount of dust
my own. He shakes his head at me.
on these seats, the shift pattern all but worn off by
“Thank God some things just don’t ever change,”
callused hands, and a radio that works when it
he drawls. ✦
wants to. She rumbles to life and old Toby Keith is
by Claire Armstrong, Roswell, GA
“I got your nooooootebook.”
“I know you normally sit alone, but can
“This poem is by Emily Dickinson. I
I sit with you at lunch today?”
think you’ll enjoy it.”
“What do you write about in that red
“Teacher’s pet, teacher’s pet.”
notebook?”
“Did you see her crying when he stole
“You should invite a friend over.”
her notebook? I wonder why she cared so
“I’ve never been to a girl’s house
much.”
before.”
“I bet she’s not even a girl. I bet she’s
“I’ll bring my book tomorrow, and we
like an alien.”
can read together in your spot in the shed.”
“You’re not normal.”
“I’m very impressed with this project.”
“No, she’s not normal.
“You can paint your room
She’s special.”
yourself as long as you clean
“– sitting in a tree, K-I-S-Sup your mess.”
“You know, I I-N-G
–”
“I can help you paint today,
“What are you doing here?
instead of reading in the
didn’t forget”
This class is for middle
shed.”
schoolers.”
“Why does she only ever
“No one is ever gonna like you.”
talk to that boy? They’re both freaks. She
•
•
•
must love him.”
“Your friend hasn’t been over in a
“Those girls don’t know anything about
while.”
poetry or black holes or how to play a
“Maybe tomorrow we could play
game of chess.”
chess?”
“Could you read your essay to the
“Hey, I like your skirt. What? It’s kinda
class?”
cute!”
“I don’t like her. She’s weird.”
SEPTEMBER ’13
by Liz Koehler, Sullivan, WI
COMMENT
“Your hair looks pretty when it’s
straight like that.”
“Tryouts for Junior Tigers cheerleaders
are next week. You should come.”
“Of course you can do cheerleading, if
that’s what you really want.”
“You really don’t want to come with me
to the library?”
“We’re going to the candy store after
school with some other girls, if you want
to come.”
“What’s that girl’s name? She’s pretty
hot.”
“Are you friends with that tall girl?
Maybe I could ask her to the sixth-grade
dance.”
“We’re having a sleepover, and you can
come.”
“What boy do you have a crush on?”
“She wants a cell phone. All her friends
have one now.”
“You’ve never been to Abercrombie?
Oh my god, c’mon in. You’ll love it.”
“If he wanted to ask you to the dance,
➤➤
would you say yes?”
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
fiction
You Don’t Go Skydiving
by Hannah Varacalli, Northfield, NJ
and he’s saying something about death
ou’re on the roof. The apartment building’s
being a great relief. He said that once.
owned by a Jewish man. When you first
At least you think he did. In an intermoved in, you couldn’t figure out how to
view.
open the front door with the key they gave you. You
The air is icy, and it’s the first real
fumbled with stiff fingers in the cold. The woman
thing you’ve felt in a long time – in
inside at the front desk watched you through the
years, decades, since you were a child,
glass door. The man emerged from the elevator. He
since before that night ….
was handsome and wearing a yarmulke. He opened
No, no. You’re no tragic hero, sorry.
the front door for you, smiled as you passed him.
You don’t have one trauma-filled night
The smile meant nothing, but you remember it.
of your past that haunts you, making
You don’t know his name.
you into some sexy enigma. It was just
He told it to you. When you signed your lease, he
the night you realized that you didn’t
told it to you. You don’t know it.
want to live here after all, in this
You’re walking to the edge. You step onto the
world, and you’d like to live someparapet, precarious and swaying, on a tightrope of
where else. You were
brick. You look down and the view
fourteen. You’ve tried exdoesn’t make you sick. You can’t replaining this to people, but
member how many floors there are to
You’re no
they never understood. What happened to
your apartment building, only that you
tragic hero,
trigger such thoughts? they sometimes
live on floor three and you’ve never
asked, or, if they didn’t ask, you could
been on the roof before this. You were
sorry
hear them asking anyway. What hapinvited to the roof once. For a barbepened? What happened? Nothing
cue. You didn’t go.
happened.
Your mother has just died. That’s why you’re
Cold air pricks your skin, and you’ve been falling
doing this. No, no. Not because her death has made
for so long, suspended in this state of plummeting
you sad. You knew that if you flung yourself off a
between the asphalt and the sky. People might be
building while she was alive she would be … You
watching, but you can’t crane your neck to see: the
never decided what she’d be, exactly, but she’d be
force of the wind is too strong. You try anyway, and
some type of unhappy. You’re almost certain she
the furthest you get is looking straight down, and it’s
would be unhappy. But she’s gone now. You’re done
hard to open your eyes, your eyelids are flapping
contemplating and you feel very sure about this.
and you manage to part them a sliver, and the wind
You throw yourself off the building.
is filling you right up, right up, you’re a balloon,
It’s more of a tilt, to be precise. You tilt forward
you’re inflated, you’re …
until there’s nothing under you, and for a moment
Wonderful!
your body threatens to fall feet-first, which would
Wonderful!
just be stupid, but then your body lurches forward
Time is so slow, hugging you tight like it doesn’t
and you’re going headfirst.
want to release you. You like those arms around
You’re plummeting down, coat rippling against
you – how did you never notice them before?
the icy wind, limbs sprawled. Jorge Borges’ voice –
Wonderful!
you don’t know his actual voice, but your imaginaWonderful!
tion’s made you one that fits nicely – fills your head,
Y
“Let’s go on a mother-daughter date to
pick out a dress!”
“You’re coming dress shopping with us,
right?”
“What’s your number?”
“Hey, how are you? I haven’t seen you
in a while.”
“That guy you used to talk to is such a
dork. He’s kinda cute in a pathetic way.”
“This teacher is a total tyrant.”
“You don’t tell me about the cool things
you learn in school anymore.”
“You know, all the boys have a crush on
you.”
“I’m so glad we’re BFFs.”
“You only got a bunch of books for your
birthday? That sucks.”
“My mom taught me how to use mascara. I can show you too.”
“What’s all that makeup you’re
wearing?”
“Could I see you for a minute? I wanted
to tell you how impressed I am with your
poetry. Have you thought about joining the
young writers’ club?”
“You have great enthusiasm
when you chant, but your
tumbling needs a lot of work.”
“I miss your old friend.
How is he doing these days?”
“I think everyone is nominating me for homecoming
court. You will too, right?”
“See you at the football
game Friday?”
“Yeah. We used to be
friends.”
“Your shed is looking
Photo by Dana Mulligan, Falls Church, VA
Ecstasy fills you.
I’ve never gone skydiving. The thought flits
through your mind. Skydiving sounds nice. At the
top of that building, before you tilted off, you
thought you had sucked the marrow out of life.
Every emotion that could be experienced, you’d
felt. Every physical reaction, every event worth living, everything a human being could do – you had
done it. But you’d forgotten about skydiving. You
hadn’t – you hadn’t thought about skydiving.
You scream. You push at the air, looking for
something to cling to, but the only thing that can
catch you is the asphalt, and that’s not what you
want. You want to stop – stop! You want to go skydiving! How could you die before going skydiving?
You’re blind with panic, and the ecstasy’s gone. The
depression, too, but this is worse. You’re screaming.
The world is a neutral spectator, and you can feel it
pausing as it watches, its eyes following you on your
unwilling way down. You’re screaming.
Gravity scrambles to scoop you up and toss you
onto that roof again, and Time gives you all it has,
but it’s not enough, and you don’t go skydiving. ✦
lonely these days.”
“She’s hanging out with him? Wow,
“Your outfit is perfect. Can I borrow that
that’s a downgrade.”
top?”
“You know, I didn’t forget. Sometimes I
“I can’t believe we’re going to a real
think people forgot. Not me.”
party.”
“Ever since she stopped hanging out
“Oh my god. Did you see this girl’s
with us, she just got weirder.”
tweet?”
“She’s starting a literary magazine. I
“Do you want a drink?”
think it’ll be really cool.”
•
•
•
“You are a special kind of smart. Keep
impressing me.”
“Did you know this was going to
“One day I want to be like
happen?”
her.”
“I heard they’re not talking
“They’re
“Let’s explore the world
anymore.”
together.
Travel. Maybe for
“No one just gets on homeboth freaks”
just a little while, or maybe for
coming court without knowforever.”
ing. I mean, you kinda
•
•
•
backstabbed her.”
“Those two. They may never come
“It’s Friday night. Are you not going
home.”
out?”
“Wow. Is this who I think it is? She
“Don’t sit with her. She’s a b--ch.”
wrote a book.”
“I haven’t seen her around in weeks. I
“Maybe your mom can’t throw a ball,
wonder where she’s been.”
but she’s the smartest person I’ve ever
“Want to go to the library with me? Just
met.”
mother and daughter?”
“Look at this red book I found in
“Hey. What are you doing here? I mean,
Mom’s drawer. I think she wrote it.” ✦
I haven’t seen you here in ages.”
Art by Madelyn Gasdick, Orlando. FL
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SEPTEMBER ’13
• Teen Ink
43
Happy Endings
A Caged Bird
to sophia
Company
At age nine, I lived for recess
For ten-thirty in the morning
When all schoolwork suddenly vanished
Like the lights did whenever we watched
a movie
And all of us swarmed like ants from
our classrooms
With clumsy feet and ear-to-ear smiles
There’s a foot in the door, or maybe
it’s jammed
The hinges are stuck on the frame.
The bolts must be rusted, the handle
won’t move
Who could there be – no one – to blame
the highways of Boston
must be bordered by dead men.
I saw one lying there once,
blanketed by street lights in late July,
watched it come up beside my car
like a pale stationary fish,
thought for one crazy minute
that he was sunbathing
on the side of the road
in the middle of the night.
The little girl sits in the sandbox,
Her skin snow white and her hair pulled in
two uneven pigtails,
Because her mother thought it was convenient,
The mother standing by the tree,
A phone pressed to the ear that doesn’t hear
Her little girl’s charming laugh,
She rambles words of strict business,
Her voice effortlessly tearing away
Words the little girl would ignorantly smile at,
Because she would be happy just to
hear them.
The mother goes on, and the little girl
Draws the same circles over and over with
her thumb.
And I wonder
If I should walk over to the little girl
And give her company, myself.
The scorching sun made the monkey
bars hot
But it didn’t stop us for a second
The zip line was too high
I couldn’t even reach it if I jumped
The tree branches in the corner were a cave
Relief from the glowing furnace in the sky
They came down low so I could reach them
I spent a lot of time there on my own
It was my pride and joy
And I thought highly of myself
for finding such a place in a mere
playground
The playground’s platform was a pirate ship
And its steps were the plank
The rock-climbing wall was the center,
the sail
We climbed up to the tallest point and
proclaimed “Land ho!” as we sailed
through the wood chips
Our hands cupped around our eyes were
binoculars, and they worked quite well
Across there’s a window. The glass is torn off
The screen is slashed down the side
The stars have all come out, the night sky
is clear
The blue breeze cools me, chills me, hides me
I am stuck in a castle, a dilapidated palace
There is no way out
If I fly, I will fall; if I jump, I will die.
The world calls me, it shouts, it yells; I run.
Where to?
Nowhere
No one
Nothing. I am a bird caught in a cage.
There’s a foot in the door, or it could just
be jammed
The hinges are stuck to the frame.
The bolts are just rusted, or that’s what
it seems
There is no one to blame but me.
by Maya Kuchan, Palo Alto, CA
We made up pretend fantasies and played
with “what if”
There was no plot or conflict to our story
Just us and happy endings
At age nine, I lived for art
For painting with watercolors
And capturing the beauty of a simple sun
and its squiggly orange rays on a canvas
For having my mom display it on our wall
for the world to see
by Torrey Henry,
Coronado, CA
Penny finger
salutes a wiser eye.
I found your name carved in the
dining room table
where your wandering fingers would pry
away from silver spoons.
The flicker flame peeking in,
a commune of rusty tears
slid into the crevices of your name.
The earth was warmer with your laugh,
my fingers richer with your smile.
by Mara Eisner,
Simi Valley, CA
Photo by Annie McCormick, Noblesville, IN
Driving, 4 a.m.
In the dark, with your hand
on the wheel,
bottle empty,
Plan B
I could rest my head in the shade
of your neck. I could lace
your fingers with chipped nails
and forget
light bleeds over trees.
I could pretend your arms
don’t unnerve me
the way they do,
and I don’t mind the nicotine
when we inhale.
We’re flying, sugar,
at cyanide dawn,
and won’t stop till the crash
smothers sense.
by Audrey Cleaver-Bartholomew,
Manlius, NY
44
Teen Ink •
I found your door at last,
was welcomed by sweat stains
and vaguely remembered faces
and you in the middle of it all,
“Sorry, we don’t have any
air conditioning,” but
I told you it was all right
and followed you upstairs,
dizzy, tired, overwhelmed,
glowing with heat and the joy of reunion.
we sat out under the bug zapper
on your tiny side porch,
getting used to each other’s voices
all over again.
I remember watching the mole on your
upper lip
the same way I did
the first time we met,
startled by how little you had changed,
wondering if you thought
I had changed too much.
Recess was for running and playing and
laughing
And for living
Every second was ours until the bell
marched us back to class
There was no sadness or despair. No
darkness. No reality.
Just flowers and butterflies, bright colors
and smiles.
looking for an address I’d
only seen on Christmas packages,
watching the neon numbers
slide away into the dark,
I felt like
I’d been driving for hours
and we didn’t have the time to slow down
or dwell on it
or wonder why he hadn’t been
wearing any clothes.
SEPTEMBER ’13
•
POETRY
sometimes when I dream,
the dead man still appears
tangled up with salsa and lawn sprinklers,
swimming in your bathtub
beside our grass-stained feet.
sometimes when I come home and
check my email,
when I have no new messages,
I wonder if I ever saw him
(or you) at all.
by Emma Burn, Richmond, VA
to sit in
solemn silence
in the lonely woman’s house there was
one chair.
it sat dry and silent against a dusty table, and
in the rank and rigid fridge,
(more empty
than full) was one wine bottle.
she had
one plate, and one fork, and one spoon.
on the desktop computer, not yet flung
to screensaver, open like an abandoned
book and
still humming, humming:
a half-finished
game of
solitaire.
by Elise Littell, Seattle, WA
by Mary Saddler, West Chester, OH
black dots
black dots
closely scattered
rows and rows and
doubling back and crossing
over, till cream
is no longer background
blurred shadows remain as
pleated and see-through
flutters in dark waves around
sun-colored thighs
leather snug around
steady ankles,
closed around red-polished toes
laced all the way closed
a disclaimer:
love not guaranteed
a wilting peach-colored rose in one hand
faded blue purse in another,
uncertainly empty except for
lipstick and self-conscious sunglasses
set down on a bench
as boots quicken on the floor
stepping over months of
no new messages
around garbage spilled across
the sleek marble floor
her slim arms reach before it’s possible
up toward his short hair
tired hands clench, out of habit,
around a duffel bag
his boots are heavier, dust-colored
instead of glossy black
skin more tan than she remembers,
mostly covered by drab green,
nondescript yet
drawing stares from other tired travelers
breath catches already, not noticing
liquid black caressing her cheeks,
pulled up into a smile, mirroring
her whole body, rising on toes,
muscles stretching up to reach him
as he catches her, stumbles back
and catches himself,
polka dots against camo
love:
not guaranteed
by Margarita Moesch,
Fremont, CA
Sailing
My harness is set,
the steady wind slowly brushes my face
from the west –
perfect.
The sails flap in the wind,
roaring their strength
to take on the mighty lake.
With the utmost grace,
I slide into the boat,
prepare to leave the dock,
dodge through the maze of moored boats.
My excitement grows.
And we’re off,
free to roam the open waters.
Still growing,
my excitement has turned
into an overwhelming smile.
After finding the perfect gusts,
examining the cat’s-paws,
and keeping a close eye on the tell-tales,
we’re ready.
As the boat keels,
my body counteracts the gust.
I curl my knees,
hold on tight to the trap,
and extend my body over the cyan sea.
I feel weightless
with only the boat to trust with my safety.
Trust is key:
trusting your equipment,
trusting the wind,
trusting your instincts.
As my body torques and bends
to counteract the bouncing waves,
I let one hand free,
carefully extending it
to let my fingertips graze the surface of
the water.
When I am sailing,
I can do what I want.
The water has no rules and cannot be hurt.
In my boat,
firmly gripping the tiller in my right hand,
and the main sheet in my left,
I am in control.
Nothing can separate us,
not the wind,
the sea breeze tickling my skin,
nothing.
With my harness hung,
my boat clear,
and the wind dialing down to a light breeze,
I await the next time
I can set sail again.
Sea Turtle
Tour Guide
The first time I took that plunge
off the side of that weathered and washed-out
wooden skiff painted a faded blue,
and into the crystal clear waters,
I parted ways with the world
I’ve become so accustomed to
Instantly I sank, such an awkward sight,
flopping about, gaining my bearing
As the ocean consumed me
flooding my senses
these eerie silent sounds
were all I was hearing
A cavalcade of color
exploded before me
as that salty ocean taste
crept in through the gaps
where my lips met with
the snorkel attached
to my mask that
gave a magnificent view
as I hovered just below
the surface of the sea,
teetering on the gateway
between real life above
and this submerged world
of wonder and make-believe
I broke from my trance and
explored my surroundings.
Underwater outcroppings sat so
massive
upon a white sandy bottom
carved from rock and salt
where an abundance of
life stretched on and on
Vivid yellow brain corals
as bright as the sun
and soft as my bed
seemed so much brighter
than the ones in our heads
and great violet fan corals
swayed with the current
as well as the fire coral.
I kept my distance
as its poisonous sting
was a definite deterrent
And if these underwater plants
represented a city
as bright as the stars,
then the plethora of fish
would serve as the cars
and trucks and buses and trains
that maneuvered their way
through bustling lanes
of this oceanic traverse
Anxiety
Mirror
used to be outside of me now
vacuumed
in at solar plexus,
inverted:
can see myself from every angle;
wracked brain nitpicking every square inch
of my body, my mind;
all analyzed all the time –
I swear there is bleeding in my cerebellum –
always cut myself trying to pick up
alone
broken shards reflecting
my brain
from the
floor.
And out of the distance
A lone creature approached,
hard shell on top
and a beak for a snout
He circled about
as if saying “Come,
follow me, I’ll show you around!”
I followed my new friend
as he gave me a tour of his world,
His stamina not fading
he’d turn his head and look behind
to check if I was still following
and all that we saw waved
with the sea.
The fan corals;
waving
the sea grass;
waving
the parrot fish;
waving
and my sea turtle tour guide …well,
… waving
as if to say, “Welcome home, friend,
we’ve been waiting.”
by Katie Hibner, Mason, OH
Bed Sheets
Tonight you wrap another shirt that smells
like him
around your pillow. His whispers return to you
in the wrinkles of your bed sheets
but your body is still cold, frozen in all
the times
you used to think he really loved you.
by Collin Griffeth, Branford, CT
How To
Be a Wallflower
His face, that expression he used to give you
when you waved good-bye,
is plastered into every concrete sidewalk,
every moving shadow, and
his cologne is on the breath of every flower.
Still, you run away whenever the memories
of his “hellos” flood back,
and you crawl under the bed sheets.
This isn’t what I wanted,
I didn’t ask for it.
All around me I hear screaming,
Yet in the corner I just sit.
I notice you looking at your hands,
Pretending you don’t exist.
I see you carve your name in the wall,
And his name carved on your wrist.
Sometimes he calls your name in public
and you have no other choice but to
shake it off like unexpected rainfall.
Those smiles were never directed
toward you,
but you return them, regardless.
Your greetings a bar of wet soap.
I don’t know how to help,
Or how to make it easier.
Would you mind just hanging on
for a while?
Come on, don’t make this cheesier.
I know you’ve heard it all before,
So you’re not gonna listen to me gushing.
I’m not doing anything bad,
But am I bad for doing nothing?
I’m comfortable here, thanks.
Don’t make me move for you.
Though I know I should speak up,
Do I have to have a breakthrough?
If I can be the hero,
Does it make me the villain if I choose not to?
I guess I have a responsibility, I mean,
Now that I know what is really true.
by Melissa Lang, Fredonia, WI
At night you wrestle with the idea of
his smell
on the pillow of another woman,
while all along you knew you were not
the only one,
but kept opening his door
as if he was the only home you had
ever known.
Though your body may be cold,
sleep without sheets,
listen only to the moon
for it, too, is alone.
by Rebecca Dutsar, Sandy Hook, CT
Finding a Verse
by Kristin Dorris, LaGrange, IN
bedsores
A single word
That bursts in my mouth
Like the skin of a
Sun-warmed late-summer blueberry.
I chew the word, consider, and contemplate it.
Before I swallow it, I find myself
Stuck in a frantic blur of
My soul’s own search
For the very truth
Waiting to be found
Buried in the sun-dried soil
Wrapped and tangled around
The roots of the late-summer blueberry.
Envy
I worry that one day
I’ll wake up, roll over,
and see that you have sunk
so far into the mattress that you have
disappeared,
leaving only the imprint
of your head on your pillow
and the lingering scent of loss.
I want to be a part of you
while there’s still something
to be a part of.
by Madeline Padner, Orangeville, PA
in all these magazines
i see
beautiful
perfect bodies.
And
all i seem to notice
is the dirt
under my fingernails
as i slowly
turn the pages.
Art by Amina Quraishi,
Mississauga, ON, Canada
by Ariel Rudy, Woodstock, VA
by Courtney Walters, West Valley, NY
POETRY
•
SEPTEMBER ’13
• Teen Ink
45
Child Ticket, Please
I’m sorry the driver didn’t believe you
were fifteen.
Perhaps it was the pram that bred his
suspicion.
It may also have been down to the
tantalizing solemnity
With which you met his gaze and which
now radiates
Cold and earnest from your being.
You stare out the window,
Through the glass, through the people,
Through deep eyes you cast upon the
shuddering film-reel of a world outside,
A stare so searching and so clear that
If it were not for the motion of the bus,
Postboxes and trees, unable to escape
your gaze,
Would surely shatter into a thousand
tiny shards.
There is something so beautiful, yet so sad
about you.
My mind ticks on, trying desperately to
decipher your expression.
And then you turn toward the babbling
infant at your feet
And the ends of your mouth rotate into a
half smile.
It is a supreme effort, and the strain, though
not evident
From your silky clear cheeks, is written in
your bottomless microscope eyes
That can only ever look within.
Perhaps if you could see the things from further away they would not seem
so serious,
But, alas, you can’t.
As if conscious of the intensity with which
you bore
Into the infant’s soul, you look away,
And the smile which was so delicately,
so painstakingly wrought
Is gone,
And a profound melancholy fills in the
vanished dimples
And you return to window gazing, pensive
beyond belief.
I’m not sure if even your parents could truly
determine your age,
So I wouldn’t judge the driver too harshly
now.
It is indeed a debate to be had among the
philosophers.
by Zak Tobias, Bristol, England
Remembrances
Each word spilling from her lips
Skitters across the jagged surface
Of a sidewalk engraved with
Concrete memories.
Each glance darting from her eyes
Reflects from the glassy sheen
Of a mirror framing the
Unseen past.
Each delicately callused finger
Drums across a tabletop
Of a desk she has adorned with
Nameless people.
by Michelle Rowicki, Passaic, NJ
Teen Ink •
the best years of
our life
Wii belong together, you and I.
I will devote my life to you,
seeking to destroy all who dare harm you.
I feel Linked to you,
the Zelda of my heart.
These are supposedly
the best times
of our life
but how can
4 years,
48 months,
208 weeks,
and 1460 days
dictate
our entire existence
when the roads we are destined
to take are covered in the
mistakes we’ve made
and the blood
that is to be shed
by the futures
we are yet to dread
is pouring
out of our souls
hallowing our hearts
and caving through the holes
what is the point of it all
if in the end
we will all just be
cold,
lifeless,
and dead
I will be your knight in shining armor.
I will ride my trusty green dinosaur steed
to the ends of each and every level,
kill stealing my way to you.
Photo by Alissa Hitchings, Double Oak, TX
Names on the Board
John “The Dog” ’87.
Sonya.
Sonya.
Sonya.
All in script.
E&B ’94,
sweethearts,
encased in a heart,
like the love of ’94,
smoothed and pointed.
Pointed like the key
that etched it
on the board.
Or the nail.
(Here I sit
shivering at the thought
of Sonya’s
long
breaking
nails.)
But no worth,
no thought,
just names on the board.
But do names on the board
have a story
too?
Soon,
I’m just a
name
on
the
board.
by Madison Fernandez, Brooklyn, NY
On The Platform
It begins with a tremor,
the slightest ripple in the wind.
It seeps through your vision, spreading
like watery paint through canvas.
Air rumbles, ground shifts, bolts spring
and the lights appear, sparking in the dark.
And then it comes – a clumsy stream of
blurred shadows and shrieking calls, scouring
grit and smog across your cheeks.
Blank figures tremble within, flashed
between
your own shivering image.
Your heart pounds,
eyes filled with a coalescence of light
and then it goes, trailing tendrils of
stolen breaths and empty hopes in its wake.
by Stratton Coleman, Gilford, NH
46
Video Game
Love Poem
SEPTEMBER ’13
•
POETRY
I only have a Half Life without you.
With you?
You complete my Final Fantasy.
Your Golden eyes are intoxicating,
your voice a sweet Ocarina song,
a Halo enveloping your hair.
Before you, I was a Resident in the
world of Evil.
With you?
My Soul is of the highest Caliber.
You are my D.S.
My Darling Sweetheart.
I keep you in my pocket,
close to my heart.
Mario is red, Sonic is blue.
Why don’t you hit select
and be my player two.
by Anthony Lopez, Republic, MO
by Kasheka Chitkara, Mashpee, MA
The Lengths
If We Were Colors
Everyone has a song
that reminds them of
someone.
I wish this song didn’t
remind me of you,
but perhaps that is why
it is my favorite.
If we were a metaphor, I would be a flower
and you would be rain.
(As soon as I grew up, you drowned me
again.)
by Dina Haveric, Hinsdale, IL
But we are not colors, or metaphors, or
words that rhyme perfectly.
(Because I cared about you, and you never
cared about me.)
ASTeRoID
The girl named after galaxies
Pays no mind to sweet fallacies.
She’s so completely sure,
Enough to cause fatalities.
Loose astro-knots orbit her neck in the
mundane mold of a red velvet scarf.
Round face framed by
A thick screen of hair, tugged back by pure
gravity and a hair tie;
Bright fiberglass eyes the color of a graygreen Swedish wine bottle
Crinkle at the edges, warm,
And a smile that could charm this planet dry
Of its grief and poverty,
Lie
At the core of
The sky.
by Vanessa Miranda, Corning, NY
Sleepers
They crawl into my head at night
and burrow in my dreams,
to gnash their teeth at my throat
and swallow up my screams.
by Caitlyn Baker, Cape Coral, FL
And darling, if we were colors, I think I’d
be scarlet and you’d be bright red.
(I was always the duller shade.)
by Lydia Wang, Brookline, MA
The Vending
Machines
In the wet blackness
Stood a vending machine,
Its light glowing brightly as ever,
Dutifully flaunting rows of canned drinks
To the bellowing winds and icy water,
Shunned by the rainy night,
Like a cringing salesman
With a door in his face.
by Kavya Dharini, Chennai, India
Caution
Please don’t fall in love with me
I am just sand
falling through the cracks of life
I will run out
of time and love and reason
and disappear
into a receding beach.
by Kayla Johnson, Colchester, CT