College - Teen Ink

SUMMER 2008
O U R 19 T H Y E A R
T EEN INK . COM
Poetry • Fiction • Book Reviews • Nonfiction • Art
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SUMMER 2008
Contents
V OL . 19
N O . 10
Send Your Work
☛ We need ☛
1. Your NAME, YEAR of birth, home
ADDRESS/CITY/STATE/ZIP, PHONE NUMBER, SCHOOL NAME
(and English teacher), and EMAIL ADDRESS.
C REATIVE W RITING I SSUE
17-35 POETRY
19 pages, more than 150 poems
38-50 FICTION
Lady Donna........................................38
For Rent............................................39
Hidden Blue........................................39
The Secret Society of Lefties..................40
Talking Back.......................................42
Dead End...........................................42
Count Vicole and the Slayer...................43
It’s All About the Gophers.....................46
Six Uneven Stairs.................................46
Afghanistan.........................................48
Outside..............................................49
The Colors of Love...............................49
How to Find Your Mom’s Stash...............50
A Night Like This................................50
36-37 BOOK REVIEWS
Fever 1793, Catalyst, Speak • Foundation • Tell
Them I Didn’t Cry • That Hideous Strength •
The Heart of a Woman • The Lovely Bones •
The Other Boleyn Girl • The Giver • The Strange
Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde • Godchild
6-7 EDUCATOR OF THE YEAR
See award winners – which teachers took top
honors this year
8-16 NONFICTION
Summer Blues..............................................08
The Lanes.....................................................08
My First Job.................................................10
Carbecue.......................................................10
Potty.............................................................10
Nancy...........................................................13
It’s On..........................................................13
Once Upon a Dream...................................14
Love Is a Cactus..........................................14
Model Aspirations.........................................16
Sight of Summer..........................................16
4 FEEDBACK
12, 41 ART GALLERY
Paintings, drawings & photos
44-47 COLLEGE DIRECTORY
Cover photo by Raul Ramos,
Monte Vista, CO
For art and photos, place the information on the back of
each piece. Please DON’T FOLD ART.
2. This statement MUST BE WRITTEN on each submission:
“This will certify that the above work is completely original,” and sign your name*.
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LOL – laughing out loud
IIRC – if I remember correctly
IDK – I don’t know
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MSL
6/08
PAPER
OR
Fedback
PLASTIC?
Sophia Aguilar’s article “Paper or Plastic”
really opened my eyes. I had no idea that it
takes 450 years for plastic bottles to break
down and 1,000 years for plastic bags. Wow!
Perhaps they should print that information on
the bottles and bags to encourage more recycling. I really don’t know if it would help
though.
Sophia is right when she says humans are
lazy. I know I have been. After reading this
article, I realize I can’t be lazy. We all need to
do our part. Try bringing your own bags to
the store when you’re shopping. If you have
plastic bags at home, I suggest taking them to
a thrift store so they can be used again. Please
don’t litter. If you see litter, pick it up. Don’t
think, I’ll let someone else do it. We all need
to be proactive to save our beautiful planet.
Kyle Cosman, No. Platte, NE
All these original pieces can be found on TeenInk.com
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summer long!
As I was reading “Paper or Plastic?” I
thought that there must be an alternative to
the use of plastic bottles for drinks since plastics are filling up our landfills. Also, recent
news has reported that plastics used for water
bottles contain bisphenol-a (BPA). According
to The New York Times, BPA is a potentially
toxic chemical. The Department of Health
and Human Services endorsed a study that
showed BPA caused neural and behavioral
changes.
Because of the effect that plastics have on
the environment, I have been reusing disposable water bottles and Nalgene bottles. I am
sure that many are in the same predicament. I
believe that glass bottles should be used for
soda and drinking water.
First off, glass bottles are made once and
then can be reused. That will cut back on the
production of bottles and the amount of waste
going into landfills, as well as eliminate the
problem of BPA. The consumer can also benefit from glass bottles by returning them to
the store for 5 or 10 cents each.
Arguments against glass include the monetary and environmental costs to transport and
sanitize the bottles. Every day new machinery
is being made to conserve more energy and
water, and propane and natural gas are being
used in more vehicles, I believe that these
new processes could reduce the overall effect
that the bottling industry is having on people
and the environment. Using glass bottles will
cut the amount of waste going to landfills
while providing the consumer with a toxinfree bottle and money for returning it.
James Murray, Glendale, AZ
Box 30 • Newton, MA 02461
(617) 964-6800
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04
Teen Ink •
TOP FIVE REASONS
isher
John Meyer, Publ
TOUGH LOVE
AID WORKERS
I loved the article “Tough Love” by Evan
Mascitti. I also push myself to the limits so I
can do my best in sports (although I prefer
football to baseball). I love to push myself
when I lift weights. There is nothing more
gratifying than pushing out that last rep. Also,
I love the fourth quarter in football games because I know that I have worked hard during
the off-season and can make that last tackle
so we will win.
Barrett Pieper, No. Platte, NE
Catherine Newhouse’s interview titled “Aid
Workers” was excellent in portraying the
hardships that children in Uganda face every
day. I hope this will encourage students to
look into the Invisible Children Organization
to understand what is going on. However, I
think that until they experience this chaos
first-hand, they may not attempt to make a
dramatic difference. My school has a Schools
for Schools club on campus and I urge others
to do the same to create awareness for this intense African struggle.
Kyle McLain, Phoenix, AZ
CIRCULATION
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high schools and junior
highs in the country.
EDITORIAL CONTENT
Teen Ink is a monthly
journal dedicated to publishing a variety of works
written by teenagers. Copyright © 2008 by The Young
Authors Foundation, Inc.
All rights reserved. Publication of material appearing in
Teen Ink is prohibited unless written permission is
obtained.
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 or services.
FREQUENCY
Every month
September to June.
from
THE YOUNG AUTHORS
FOUNDATION, INC.
The Young Authors Foundation, publisher of Teen
Ink, is a non-profit corporation qualified as a 501(c)3
exempt organization by the
IRS. The Foundation, which
is organized and operated
exclusively for charitable
and educational purposes,
ADDITIONAL COPIES
For a back issue, send provides opportunities for
$4.95 per copy for mailing the education and enrichment of young people.
and handling.
SUMMER ’08
itor
Emily Sperber, Ed
Editor’s note: For more information on
how your school can get involved, visit
www.invisiblechildren.com.
HAUNTED
If you need any proof that teenagers can
write good fiction, read Kaily Dorfman’s
“Haunted.”
Forget for a second about how everything
flows so smoothly or how you cannot find a
single cliché in her work. It seems as if
Amanda is haunted in more ways than one.
Maybe being a loner made her seem like a
ghost too. How many times have you sat in a
classroom and realized suddenly that there
are people nobody seems to notice? I have,
and I think the author has too. “Haunted” is a
great read.
Kevin Limiti, Lynbrook, NY
While reading “Top Five Reasons” by
Kaylee Cook, I was almost certain that
Kaylee was against opinion sections. She
really had me going. At the beginning, she
tapped into the source of my annoyance:
know-it-alls who have their opinions published. Sometimes I can’t stand to read what
people like that write. But, by the end of the
article she had accomplished her goal: forcing
others to acknowledge that without opinion
sections and know-it-all debaters there would
be no news or breakthroughs. Kaylee proved
that whether we like it or not, without these
pieces, no one would have the courage to
speak their mind.
Josiah Allison, No. Platte, NE
JUST
A COLOR
Every time I pick up Teen Ink, I find something that grabs my attention. This time it was
a poem by Olamide Aremu. “Just a Color” is
so true to the stereotypes in the world that
African-Americans have to deal with. It’s actually quite sad.
I love how she described herself as not
“ghetto” or from the “hood.” She says that
being black is just a color and not who she is.
This poem made a difference to me, and I
hope it makes a difference all over the world.
Theresa Kempczynski, Middletown, DE
ICARUS
I enjoyed the short story “Icarus” by
Caitlin Marsh with its many gems hidden beneath the surface, ready to be discovered.
The first amazing part lies in the character’s background: wings cut off, beaten, and
left in a ditch to die, she manages to survive
until someone finds her. Second, she, by the
power of reading, is transported to a magical
land with characters much like her – the story
of Icarus and his father Daedalus. The best
part, however, is not that she is different – it
is the fact that she stands up for her beliefs
and does not recant.
Thank you, Caitlin, for writing such a good
piece.
Edwin Young, Hemet, CA
FISH ARE FRIENDS,
NOT FOOD
“Fish are Friends, Not Food” by Colleen
Cregg is amazing. It changed my life forever.
I am a vegan now. Never again do I wish to
eat an animal by-product. Colleen’s article
taught me a lot so I just want to thank her.
Audrey Deines, Faribault, MN
HAMOCIDE
Obesity is an issue that plagues America.
“Hamocide” by Steve Etheridge presents the
dilemma that Americans face when it comes
to quitting their fattening lifestyles. I absolutely agree with Steve’s conclusion that
Americans should return to Paleolithic ways
in which the fattening dressings, seasonings,
and toppings would be reduced to little or
none. Many basic foods like meats, fruits,
and vegetables have natural flavors that are
satisfying enough without the extra ingredients. If we cut back on the excess junk that
we add to meals and snacks, I believe that
obesity in America would greatly decrease.
Joseph Ramos, Phoenix, AZ
A brilliant first novel by a teen author!
Isamu Fukui
6800(5352*5$06 ] :$/187+,//
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It’s time to pick a side….
In an alternate world, in a nameless
totalitarian city, the iron-fisted Mayor
rules the school system with the help
of his Educators. Fighting against them
is a group of former students called the
Truancy, whose goal is to take down the
system by any means necessary, at
any cost.
A NOVEL
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free monthly newsletter!
www.tor-forge.com /newsletter
Against this backdrop, fifteen-year-old
Tack is just trying to survive, but when
someone close to him gets caught in
the crossfire between the Educators and
the Truancy, Tack must learn where his
loyalties lie.
“A big, raw, sprawling
action film of a book,
combining martial arts,
street fighting, midnight
raids, rooftop flights,
and a high body count….
Action rules, and teen
boys will swallow
this book at a gulp,
demanding more.”
—VOYA
+VOF°+VMZ
Publishers Weekly
Hot Galley
Pick for Kids
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SUMMER ’08
• Teen Ink
05
Educator
The 15
Annual
th
Winners
William Bowers ALGEBRA II/TRIGONOMETRY Gretchen Horvath ORCHESTRA Orville A. Todd MS, Poughkeepsie, NY
Holy Name Central Catholic High, Worcester, MA
Nominated by Ariel Silva in this issue
Pascale DeVito HISTORY Horace Mann School, New York, NY
Nominated by Shira Laucharoen in the December issue
“Mr. DeVito’s teaching style sometimes seemed absurd and yet a relief from the
structure and narrowness of our other classes. When we entered his class, we
laughed and enjoyed learning without the anxiety of cramming for the next test.”
Tom Fechter MATH Arrowhead High, Hartland, WI
Nominated by Marissa Arndt in this issue
Coral Fry ENGLISH Centreville High, Centreville, MI
Nominated by Dawn Tribbett in the January issue
“Mrs. Fry taught me that I don’t have to fit into the orderly scheme of life, but
instead choose my own paths and dreams. Now whenever I write a paper, I imagine
she is my audience and I strive to impress her.”
Sharon Garnes SPECIAL NEEDS Lincoln Middle, Noblesville, IN
Nominated by Alayna Crouch in the February issue
“Mrs. Garnes taught me that we have obstacles to face our whole life, but
working toward overcoming them one step at a time can keep you from being
overwhelmed. She is my hero and inspiration.”
Nominated by Phoebe Wang in the January issue
“Often playing side by side with students, Ms. Horvath eliminates awkwardness.
Her presence is accompanied by a sense of assurance. Without her wisdom to open
minds, many would still be blind to the power of music.”
Steven Houser HISTORY Horace Greeley High, Chappaqua, NY
Nominated by Noah Sheinbaum in the April issue
“Mr. Houser views history as one big show. He is genuinely excited to tell his
students what happens next in the story of history. He is the reason I want to pursue
a history or political science major in college. I certainly no longer doubt whether I
enjoy history.”
Hunter Moon HISTORY E.A. Laney High, Wilmington, NC
Nominated by Danielle Watson in this issue
Linda Neidl ENGLISH Notre Dame-Bishop Gibbons, Schenectady, NY
Nominated by Elizabeth Allers in the March issue
“Mrs. Neidl taught me to defy stereotypes and expectations, to take risks and not
be afraid. Her confidence and pride in me inspired me to do things that I never
imagined possible.”
Hunter Moon
Tom Fechter
HISTORY E.A. LANEY HIGH
MATH ARROWHEAD HIGH
by Danielle Watson, Wilmington, NC
by Marissa Arndt, Hartland, WI
I
06
never thought the words “I love math” or “Math is my best subject” would ever
leave my mouth. But I’ve said these phrases more times this year than I can remember. It’s not every day I score a 100 percent on my geometry final. But,
again, this year was different.
Being visually impaired, I have never considered math easy. Listening to math is
more complicated than being able to see how a problem is solved. I never could fully
understand how a formula was performed without going for extra help.
When my vision teacher discovered the Smart Board, which is an enlarged touch
computer screen, my school purchased one for me without hesitation. The goal was
to use it for math. I would sit at the teacher’s computer while he taught on the
Smart Board, which is the size of a white board.
Mr. Fechter, my geometry teacher, spent his summer learning to use the Smart
Board. He also had to adjust his lesson plans, but he was more than willing to do
that to accommodate me.
I have never had a teacher as eager as Mr. Fechter to see me
succeed. He also figured out different assignments that would be
more beneficial to me. Math was brought up to a whole new level
in my eyes. Now, I could finally see the notes in real time like the
rest of the class. The students were amazed by what Mr. Fechter
was able to demonstrate and teach using the Smart Board.
Mr. Fechter is a teacher with all the answers. And yes, he answers the big question: When am I ever going to need this in life? He answers that for every chapter
we study. He turned ordinary pictures into TV pixels, reflected monkeys into mirrors, and evolved squares into the game of Tetris. These were just a few of his ideas
to show us how geometry is used everyday and surrounds us wherever we are.
Mr. Fechter goes above and beyond in his commitment to his job. He is a
dedicated educator who makes geometry not only hilarious but a class where students truly learn. I could not have made it this far without him. This is why I am
nominating Mr. Tom Fechter as Educator of the Year.
Mr. Fechter is like Superman, minus the tights. He gets students to do what they
never thought possible. This even includes scoring 100 percent on a geometry
final. ✎
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
T
he bell rings and a smile leaps to my
face. It is time for Honors U.S. History, my favorite class. I shrug on my
book bag and skirt along the crowded halls,
bursting with anticipation. What am I going
to learn today? Stepping into the classroom,
I’m greeted enthusiastically by Mr. Moon.
He is the reason history (which I had
loathed for years) has become my favorite
subject.
In my experience, history teachers tend
to lay down events of the past without zeal,
hammering dates into your head for the
sole purpose of a test. These facts could
not possibly relate to me. Why
would I care what America’s first
passenger locomotive was called
(Tom Thumb, by the way)? I’d sit in
these classes, dying from boredom,
and although I would take notes and ace the
tests, nothing ever stuck with me.
The first time I realized how much I
enjoyed Mr. Moon’s class, I was explaining
a newspaper article to my father that Mr.
Moon had mentioned that day. Hog waste is
one of the prime ecological hazards in my
hometown of Wilmington, North Carolina.
Until Mr. Moon described just how monumental this buildup of waste could be, I
was clueless about what was happening in
my own backyard. This was real knowledge, and although it wasn’t going to be on
a test, it affected my life.
By sharing current news with his class
every day, Mr. Moon reminds me that history isn’t only what happened decades ago,
but also the things that happened yesterday
and even today. With his innovative style,
Mr. Moon brings history to his classroom
and encourages us to get involved. For we,
as students, are bound to create something
uniquely our own: history.
Outside of class Mr. Moon heads Teen
Democrats, an afterschool club that builds a
foundation for future voters and politicians.
One day my generation will be running the
world, and even sooner than that we
will be voting. Being an informed citizen is one of the most important parts
of a democracy, and Mr. Moon creates
an atmosphere where peers can discuss
their different perspectives about the changing world.
Mr. Moon is a phenomenal teacher. He
connects with students while teaching them
the importance of history and becoming
involved. I know firsthand how he inspires
students to look outside the box when delving through the mysteries of history. “It is
all about perspective,” he explained to me
once. “The business leaders will see things
differently than the laborers.” Being in his
class has changed the way I interpret the
world, for the better. ✎
of the
Year
Contest
Honorable Mention
Josh Byrd BAND Arrowhead High, Hartland, WI
Nominated by Bryan Douglas
“Mr. Byrd encourages kids to continue in band with his positive attitude and his
optimistic outlook on life. He not only teaches band but also life lessons, manners,
and how to help others.”
Emily Farrell ENGLISH Strath Haven High, Wallingford, PA
Nominated by Jane Brendlinger in the April issue
“With Mrs. Farrell’s guidance, I became a more disciplined and skilled writer.
She not only acted as a teacher but as a personal publicist to each of her students.
She constantly found writing contests for us; more often than not, her students
won.”
David Fitzgerald SCIENCE The Webb Schools, Claremont, CA
Nominated by Robbie Zimbroff
“Not simply lecturing, Mr. Fitz allowed us to experiment and discover principles on our own. He was always there to help, but he insisted that we stretch
ourselves to take the necessary steps. In essence, we became active leaders, not
passive followers, in his classroom. I have realized that true leaders help others
develop the confidence, analytic abilities, and communication skills to be in
charge.”
Andy Freeburg ENGLISH Arrowhead High, Hartland, WI
Nominated by Mike Shields
“Students who barely get by in school because they don’t care, find themselves
trying because they have Mr. Freeburg’s respect, the respect they felt they’ve
deserved their entire high school career but never got from any other teacher. He is
the Fonz, the definition of Arrowhead High School.”
Suzanne Gauvin MIDDLE SCHOOL TEACHER Holy Name Central Catholic High, Worcester, MA
Nominated by Rachel Buckley
“Mrs. Gauvin would read directions out loud and have us underline the
important parts. Looking back, I realize those are still the first things I do when I
get an assignment. I no longer believe that I’m crippled. I just had to learn to work
alongside my learning disability to see the greatness in me. I don’t know where I
would be without her help.”
Julia Keller-Welter VIOLA Westfield, IN
Nominated by Meredith Foster in the May issue
“‘With schools losing funding, string instruments are the first to go. I must preserve the future!’ We’ll never know if Julia Keller-Welter succeeds in her task, but
her efforts are certainly appreciated by the students she guides through the world
of music.”
Bill Mangano COUNSELOR Austin E. Lathrop High, Fairbanks, AK
Nominated by Troy Conlon
“As a hockey player, I know how important it is to keep grades up, and Mr.
Mangano was always there to remind me. Through my travels for hockey, living in
California and now in Kansas, he made sure I was taking all the classes I needed
to graduate. I really appreciate all that he has done for me over the years.”
Susan Osterhaus MATH Texas School for the Blind, Austin, TX
Nominated by Rosemary Lawson
“Susan has refined teaching strategies related to math content to enhance the
understanding of visually impaired students.”
Ian Veitenheimer ENGLISH Pinkerton Academy, Derry, NH
Nominated by Rachel Flynn
“Mr. Veitenheimer takes the time to find out what we read and how we like it.
He gets to know us and tries to understand us. He takes our recommendations and
actually reads them, talking about them later in more depth than we ever could.”
Mari-Claire Zimmerman NURSE ASSISTING Waukesha County Technical College, Pewaukee, WI
Nominated by Anna Quint in the April issue
“I have never met anyone who genuinely cares about the safety and comfort of
people more than Mrs. Zimmerman. This passion translates into teaching skills
that inspire the class to be caring and compassionate.”
William Bowers
ALGEBRA II/TRIGONOMETRY HOLY NAME CENTRAL CATHOLIC HIGH
by Ariel Silva, Worcester, MA
M
r. William Bowers was my Algebra II/
Trigonometry teacher. I walked into his class
hating the thought of math, and at the end of
the year I left wanting more.
On that first day of school, my classmates and I were
dreading math class. We all complained to Mr. Bowers
how we never “got” math, and how our past teachers
had done nothing but confuse and torture us. He
simply smiled and said, “Give me a chance to
prove myself, and I promise you will walk away
from this class having learned at least one thing.”
Mr. Bowers taught us with techniques that
some of us had never seen before. He used a projector
and a Smart Board, which caught our attention. He
went out of his way to find new technology that would
get us interested in math.
He found a website that had our math book and gave
us each a password and username to access it. This
made a big difference for doing homework because we
didn’t have to lug our textbook home and we had all the
help we needed at our fingertips.
Mr. Bowers also made his own website. We could
check our average and see a list of completed and missing
assignments, tests, projects, and quizzes. Every night he
would update the grades. I visited the site almost every
day because I wanted to see how I was doing and I
liked watching my grade go up. It motivated me to
study and complete my homework because I could
see how my efforts affected my grade.
Mr. Bowers teaches with a confidence that none
of my other teachers have. You can see that he truly
loves what he does. He always answered all our questions and constantly told us, “There is no such thing as
a stupid question.” So when someone didn’t understand, they were not afraid to ask.
He made time to ensure every student was on the
same page and no one was left behind. He made math
seem easy. For once in my life I “got” math. He taught
me how everything in math connects in certain ways,
and the rules and equations began to stick in my head.
Mr. Bowers made math grow on me until it became
my favorite subject. He made it fun. Everyone in our
class showed a lot improvement. By the end of the third
quarter, I had a 100 average. I had always gotten 70s
and 60s and now I had a perfect score! I was so proud.
I don’t know anyone who didn’t like Mr. Bowers. He
connected with us on a level that other teachers didn’t.
We could joke around with him and be ourselves.
Mr. Bowers and his wife have since moved to Maine
and are teaching there. Everyone was so sad and
begged him not to go.
We all felt like we knew Mr. Bowers and that he
knew us. Everyone was always involved, everyone mattered to him. Mr. Bowers changed me as a student and
made “impossible math” accessible. ✎
SUMMER ’08
• Teen Ink
07
n o n•f i c•t i o n
Summer Blues
curiosity getting the best of me. The water looked
he sun was just beginning to stream through
alive. As far as the eye could see, a dark cloud wove
the blinds when I woke up. It was a beautiful
in and out of the waves. I took a closer look; it was a
summer morning, and I had the feeling it was
giant school of bait fish. It doesn’t take a fisherman
going to be an unforgettable day. Full of energy, I
to figure out that where there are millions of little
leapt out of bed. My room is small, and along the
fish, there are going to be big fish.
wall above my bed is a series of wooden fish carvSea gulls and other birds flew in, stretching down
ings by local artists. A yellow nightstand stands at
the shoreline and seeming to block out the sun. They
the foot of my bed. However, it didn’t matter that the
took turns diving into the water and plucking out
nightstand was outdated and out of place; it made my
fish. The minnows jumped and splashed, but there
room a truly unique and enjoyable place to spend the
was no escape.
summer.
My dad handed me my rod with a spoon lure
The house was in Long Beach Island, and we have
(which is metal, curved like a spoon, and pointed at
lived there part-time for as long as I can remember.
both ends). It is designed to look like injured bait –
My room may have been dull, but whenever I was
an enticing offer to an unsuspecting fish.
there it was the brightest place in the
“Go ahead and cast,” my father said.
world, devoid of the stress of everyday
“I think
I stepped into the surf and instantly felt
life. This morning felt particularly that
way for some reason as I climbed the
there’s going the small fish wriggling like snakes around
my legs. I brought the rod back behind my
steps and headed for the kitchen.
to be a blitz!” head and snapped it forward, propelling the
Within a few hours, I was on the
hook and lure into the center of the school
beach, lying in the sun with the sand beof bait. The lure glistened in the sun as it flew. It
tween my toes and the moist, salty breeze blowing
splashed into the water, and I felt the line tighten; I
off the ocean. The sun climbed high, and I could feel
already had hooked a fish.
my skin beginning to burn.
My heart raced as I prepared for the fight. In the
“Put more sunscreen on,” my mom said, interruptdistance, I saw my bluefish jump out of the water.
ing my relaxing moment.
Blues are known for their aggressive nature and
As I rubbed in more, I heard a screeching of gulls.
razor-sharp teeth. I pulled back and began to reel,
This wasn’t their usual call; it was louder – dozens
balancing the tension so the line wouldn’t break,
flocked just offshore. I stared, trying to understand
slowly inching the fish closer to shore.
their behavior.
I looked down at my feet but could see only bait
Then my dad yelled over the noise, “Grab your
fish. Suddenly, they began jumping, some as high as
pole. I think there’s going to be a blitz!”
my waist. Startled, I spotted the reason – a school of
“What?” I yelled, barely able to hear over the
bluefish. Each over a foot long, they swam like torpebirds. “Did you say a blitz?”
does around my legs, inches from collision, snatching
“Yeah, and it’s going to be a big one,” he responded,
any bait they could. One wrong move, and the razors
confusing me more.
in their mouths could slice my leg open.
Dad was already halfway to the water, so I followed,
As quickly as they had appeared, the blues were
T
The Lanes
W
e are the only ones on the
lanes; behind us, a family is
having a pathetic excuse for
a birthday party. Sydnie is using the
bathroom for the millionth time. I
Photo by Olivia Dafonte, Sharon, MA
08
by Adam Nolte, Wyckoff, NJ
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
gone, leaving me untouched. However, I still had a
fish to reel in. I backed out of the water and reeled
harder, slowly bringing it closer. I felt the tension run
through my muscles as the fish made every effort to
get away. It jumped again, this time three feet out before splashing down. I knew it was close; I was just a
few minutes from winning the fight of my life.
With a final effort, I landed the fish. It was about
two feet long and 15 pounds. I proudly carried it up
the beach and saw my dad smiling at me. What felt
like forever had been only five minutes.
“Nice fight, buddy,” he called as he approached, a
rag and pliers in his hands. “Now, let’s get him off.”
He grabbed the fish and gripped the hook with the
pliers. Inside was a row of teeth, small but extremely
sharp. The hook removed, my dad threw the fish
back in the water and handed me the rod.
“Now, what do you say you get another?” he
asked.
“No problem,” I joked as I cast. Once again, just as
the lure hit the water, a fish took it. I could tell I was
in for a thrilling afternoon.
This continued for what felt like hours, but eventually the blitz ended and the beach quieted down. The
birds disappeared, and the excitement was just a memory. The sun was beginning to set, and, exhausted, my
dad and I started back for the house. I was just 10 years
old, and had never experienced anything like this.
“Has this ever happened before?” I asked, still
amazed at the day’s events.
“I remember when I was a boy, just a little older
than you, there was a huge blitz like this one. My dad
and I fished ’til the sun set, just as we did today,” he
said. “It was great spending this one with you.” He
put his arm around me, and we continued our walk
home. ✎
by Edie Rosen, Tucson, AZ
I wonder if they love anyone as much
smile at Hannah.
as I love my friends. Do they have
“Fake names. You’re Nancy Lanpeople they love so much that every
caster, right? Maybe I’ll play as Ms.
time they remember that it will end
Dena St. James,” I say.
soon it feels as though their chest is
“God, Dena would suck at bowlcaving in? Do they have people whom
ing.” Her voice is deep, sure, always
they literally don’t know how to live
with a hint of laughter. I get a vision
without?
of our alter egos, Zella and Dena, agI am pulled out of my reverie when
ing, Botoxed but always classy ladies
my friends return with the tacky balls,
we created one day, and my smile
bubbles of their laughter
grows wider.
“Oh, wait, I’m definitely “I could not floating over me. They point
at the screen and inform me
going with Gidget.”
Sydnie comes back and
be any worse that I am up first.
“I could not be any worse
decides to be Dakota Moss,
then proceeds to do a strik- at bowling” at bowling,” I chuckle, after I
throw my second gutter ball.
ingly good impression of
Hannah starts in with her psychoLindsay Lohan in the so-awful-it’sbabble crap about how the brain congood-again movie “I Know Who
trols the bod and if I believe I am good
Killed Me.” The stripper-Lohan imat something, then I will be. Her eyes
pression ends with us laughing so hard
glow with optimism, as always; her
we’re gasping for air.
voice is half laughing, half Tony RobAfter we compose ourselves, Hanbins, as always. I scoff, as always. But
nah and Sydnie get three neon-pink
I totally try it, as always, because after
eight-pound balls as I put on shoes
16 years of friendship (we met as inthat are like prostitutes – enjoyed for
fants and I apparently stole her shovan hour and then discarded.
el), I trust her more than anyone. I go
I stare at the motley crew of workers,
from gutter balls to knocking down
curious about their lives, their friends.
nine pins. Then she smugly continues
on about the wonders of the mind,
citing examples, many of which I
know she is making up, a habit she has
had since we were two.
Sydnie is amazed and laughing
loudly, as always. She’s a force, always has been, always will be. Even
in her darkest moments, her bad, selfdestructive moments, she is strong and
hilarious. Sydnie and I make faces at
each other while Hannah says the winner of this incredibly competitive
game has to buy lunch.
I wonder if they can feel it too, that
every laugh has a little more urgency
than before. That every get-together
needs to be cherished a little more. Do
they feel that excited-guilty feeling as
well? Thankfully their laughter brings
me back, as always.
They tell me I am up and I look
down the lane. Those pins are a long
way off … They cheer for me, and a
smile graces my lips. I toss the ball –
it gracefully rolls down the long,
smooth path and knocks down all the
pins. Getting a strike isn’t so hard. ✎
At ETC extraordinary people
make exceptional theatre.
Beginners and experienced students,
ages 14-18, are welcome to apply.
June 28–July 31, 2008
Information and Application on line at:
www.etcschool.org
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8
“This program has given me a chance not only to be
involved in wonderful theatre but also to find things
out about myself I never realized were in me before.
I have more confidence and faith in myself because
everyone has been supportive of me.”—Danielle
“This summer has given me the experience of working
in a real theatre and has taught me how to live in a
community that is run by the spirit and willingness of
its members.” –Caroline
WRITING CONTEST
Deadline:
Postmarked no later than
January 11, 2008
presented by
COLUMBIA COLLEGE CHICAGO
FICTION WRITING
DEPARTMENT
ALL HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS
submit in Fiction, Creative Nonfiction
& Playwriting
For an entry form and contest guidelines, please see
http://www.colum.edu/Academics/Fiction_Writing/YA/YA08
or contact Chris Rice at 312-344-7611 or
[email protected]
Attention Students!
MAINE MEDIA WORKSHOPS
2
Teen Ink Wants Your
BELOIT COLLEGE
0
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Center for Language Studies Summer Intensive Programs
8
YOUNG ARTISTS PROGRAM
Arabic • Chinese
Japanese • Russian
PHOTOGRAPHY z FILMMAKING z MULTIMEDIA
June 14 - August 8, 2008
F E E D B A C K
• Intensive 8-week and 4-week programs
• Earn up to 12 credit hours - personalized instruction
• Open to high school students; minimum age of 17
• STARTALK scholarships for Arabic and Chinese
• Residential program in a beautiful Wisconsin setting
Join the
Teen Ink Student Advisory Board!
© Taia Kwinter
www. HIGHSCHOOLARTISTS .com
rockport, maine
TeenInk.com/StudentBoard
t
877.577.7700
z
t
[email protected]
z
Contact: Patricia Zody, Director, Center for Language Studies
Beloit College, 700 College St., Beloit, WI 53511
Tel: 1-800-356-0751 or 1-608-363-2277
email: [email protected] • web site: http://www.summerlanguages.com
Maine Media Workshops does not discriminate on the basis of age, race, color, sex, sexual orientation, marital status,
religion, creed, ancestry, national and ethnic origin, physical or mental handicap.
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SUMMER ’08
• Teen Ink
09
n o n•f i c•t i o n
My First Job
by Veronica Hawes, Jonesboro, AR
began to growl. I felt like a peacekeeper trapped in a
eing 17 without money can be frustrating.
coliseum filled with lions. A battle raged on the court
So when the chance to referee elementary
while the inhumane spectators yelled at every play.
basketball came my way, I jumped at the
Suddenly, even the coaches, who I thought would
opportunity to have more than just lint in my pockbe my allies in this chaos, took off their masks and
ets. I thought it would be a fun way to earn some
revealed themselves as my worst nightmares. My
“easy money.”
only companion, my whistle, suffered from a severe
I have always enjoyed the game and looked forcase of stage fright, filling my head with doubt every
ward to seeing it from a different point of view. My
time I thought about blowing it.
love for basketball and my familiarity
My
lack
of
My lack of action fueled the heartless
with it convinced me that this would be
crowd.
Even on the rare occasions that my
the perfect job. When I played or
action fueled whistle gained enough courage to pause
watched from the bleachers, I often
fighting, the ruthless bystanders were
found myself criticizing the referees for
the heartless the
still not appeased. I could do nothing right.
bad calls. How could you miss that? or
Frustration flooded my cringing soul.
Do you need glasses? I wondered. I
crowd
With only 3:30 left on the clock, I spotted
convinced myself that I could do better.
the light at the end of the tunnel. Oh, how heavenly it
How difficult could it be, especially with a bunch of
appeared before my eyes. It revealed itself as an ansecond- and third-graders?
gel floating from the neighboring court to rescue me.
I looked forward to my first night as a referee, but
Michael came over just in the nick of time, saving
right after the tip-off, my fantasies faded. These
me from losing my sanity and helping me dodge the
sweet, innocent third-grade boys transformed into
storm of rotten fruit that would soon be thrown in my
demon children. A fire burned in their eyes. Never in
direction. In a flash, I passed my whistle and authorimy wildest dreams had I imagined that such competity to him, as I quickly scampered to the safety of the
tiveness boiled within these miniature monsters.
bleachers.
Claws protruded from their fingers, and some even
B
Carbecue
L
ike all great American tales, this
story begins at a Starbucks. Well,
technically, it began at my high
school with me begging my friend
Kelsey to take me to Starbucks. I mean,
we had a whole 20 minutes before class.
Plenty of time, right?
Anyway, there we were, jumping up
and down and checking the time every
five seconds. “We’re going to be late because of you!” Kelsey muttered angrily.
Slowly but surely, our coffee was being
made. Maybe 20 minutes wasn’t enough
time.
“Have a nice day,” the barista said as
she handed us our coffees.
“Thank you,” Kelsey replied. “Okay,
let’s go!”
“Hold on!” I called, running to the
cream and sugar stand.
“Oh, come on! Bobby, you are such a
Potty
by Robert Rasmussen, Mesa, AZ
freaking girl!” The insult didn’t seem to
We drove through the lot and spotted
make much sense coming from her, but
it: a carbecue. The entire front of one of
whatever. We jumped in her car.
the cars was on fire. We pulled next to it
“Five minutes. That’s plenty of time! I
to get a better look and saw burning oil
mean, like, that’s five minutes! We can
dripping from its engine.
make it back, right?” Man, I can sure
“KELSEY, DRIVE! It’s going to blow
sound convincing when I want to. We
up!” I shouted, panicking.
finally pulled into school
“Students, you have one
(after feverishly cursing every “Are we in the minute to get to class,” came a
red light), but when we arvoice over the intercom.
rived, our jaws dropped. The
“KELSEY, PARK! We’re
middle of an
area was covered in smoke.
going to be late!” I shouted,
action movie?” again panicking.
“Oh my God,” we said
“Will you make up your
simultaneously.
mind?!” she screamed, looking frantical“That’s horrible for the environment,”
ly for a spot that would be safe from
Kelsey finished, an incredibly depressed
look on her face. “What did you do!?”
spontaneous explosions. Slamming on
She shot me an accusing look.
the brakes and jumping out, we ran
“What in the … Hey, maybe we’ll
crouched over to avoid the smoke.
Security guards rushed past us carryhave an excuse to be late!” I said joyfully.
ing fire extinguishers. Sirens blared as
“Let’s see what’s going on.”
M
Teen Ink •
fire trucks pulled into the lot.
“Kels, is it just me, or are we in the
middle of an action movie?” I asked, half
expecting to hear helicopters and gunfire.
“Mmnm umnumn-num,” Kelsey responded, her sleeve over her mouth to
block the smoke. I assumed she said
something along the lines of “Get moving! We’re going to be late!”
We booked it into the building and
made a mad dash for our classes. The
intercom buzzed loudly. A voice rang
through the halls.
“Students, you should now be in your
fifth-hour class.”
I pushed through the waves of students
crowding the door. I made it! I was about
to take a huge victory gulp of my coffee
when the teacher said, “Bobby, you
should know the rules by now. No coffee
in the classroom! Put it in the back.” ✎
by Keegan Watters, Dallas, TX
us would keep the creaky door closed, one would hold
y teeth ground together, my knuckles grew
up her cell phone as a feeble substitute for a flashlight,
white, my biceps swelled with effort. Crinkling
and the third would change into dry clothes.
my eyes in concentration, I knew I had to fulTrying to feel accomplished for devising such a brilfill my duty: I must keep the Port-A-Potty door closed.
liant
system, but nonetheless more terrified than when I
We could hear drunken men stumbling around outside
got lost in Venice for half an hour, I kept the frantic voices
our cramped sanctuary, their voices slurring and beer
in my head to myself. What if those men find out we’re
bottles crashing to the cement. Ten o’clock on a summer
in here? What if we get raped? How are we going
Saturday night in Pensacola Beach, Florida, was
not an ideal time or place for three 15-year-old
“I wasn’t to get back to the bus? Though they didn’t say
anything, I’m pretty sure Allison and Hannah
girls to be roaming alone. Hannah, Allison, and I
scared” were having similar thoughts – I could see it in
had been left behind by our swim team when we
Allison’s death-grip on the door and in the uncharstopped for a mint chocolate chip ice cream
acteristic
quiver in Hannah’s voice as she repeated incone.
audible prayers.
Now here we were, crowded into a handicapped PortTen minutes later, we were ready. Arms loaded with
A-Potty so we could at least change out of the wet bikinis
soggy swimsuits and sandy towels, we grabbed each
that none of us filled out, feeling like three stupid baby
other’s hands, counted to three (1 … 2 … wait! 1 … 2
rabbits about to be devoured by hungry foxes.
… 2 1/2 … 2 3/4 … 3!) and carefully pushed open the
After several frenzied minutes of tittering in the pitchPort-A-Potty door, using our sleeves to avoid touching
black confinement, we finally decided on a plan. One of
10
Sitting by myself, far from the screeching of the
hostile masses, I managed to find an inkling of pride.
My sense of dignity did not come from the fact that
the people were now yelling at fresh meat, but because I had not been banished from my duties as a
referee.
The horn sounded, and the nightmare ended. I
awoke to reality, and what were once little monsters
were now adorable boys running around, laughing
joyfully. The ruthless parents and coaches patted me
on the back, telling me what a good job I had done.
Either they were trying to be kind, or maybe they
were overcome with guilt for bashing my confidence
to smithereens. I longed to escape from the gym, but
I had to wait for my “easy money.” I cherished every
dime I earned that night.
I now realize how difficult refereeing is. I could
have let this traumatic evening ruin my future on the
court, but instead it kindled my determination to do
better. I still hope to become a great referee, but I
know now it will take hours of hard work. No matter
how much I wish the cash could be handed to me
without any effort, I learned that there is no such
thing as easy money. ✎
SUMMER ’08
the handle. We spotted my mom and Hannah’s mom
sitting in my mom’s car about 20 yards away, their faces
damp with sweat from worrying. We ran to them.
Now, almost a year later, we laugh about that horrible
situation, jokingly retelling our story.
“I wasn’t scared,” Hannah pronounces, with her hands
on her hips.
“It really wasn’t that bad. Those drunk guys didn’t
scare me!” Allison declares, her green eyes flashing,
daring someone to challenge her.
“Yeah,” I lie, “me neither.”
Maybe they weren’t scared. Maybe it wasn’t that bad,
but still, my pulse quickens every time I tell the story.
Once more, I smell the stale odor of cigarettes and beer,
taste the salty sea residue and minty ice cream on my
lips, but also I hear Hannah’s falsely confident voice and
feel Allison’s fingers in mine. Like that old Cherokee
fable about trying to break apart a bundle of sticks, on
that night we weren’t three, but an indestructible one. ✎
Online Creative Writing Classes
Want to become a better
writer this summer?
Here’s a chance to take an online writing class through Teen Ink to expand and
improve your creative writing skills.
Each class runs for six weeks and will focus on the creative writing process through
lectures, discussion and fun writing exercises – all online. Class size is limited to
16 teenagers to enable lots of individual attention.
In this course you will develop your powers of observation, imagination, and language
as you explore fiction, creative nonfiction and memoir writing.
Sessions start online:
June 10 for six weeks
July 8 for six weeks
or
August 5 for six weeks
Only teenagers age 13-19 are eligible
For more information, go to TeenInk.com/writingclasses
and view a sample class and learn more about this unique
opportunity.
Enrolled students will also receive a free one-year subscription
to Teen Ink magazine.
Questions?
Check out TeenInk.com
Email: [email protected]
Call: 617-964-6800 (Weekdays, 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. EST)
* Classes are restricted to teenagers age 13 – 19.
art gallery
Photo by Arenda Robinson, Palo Verde, AZ
Art by Yu Kun Zhang, Toronto, ON, Canada
Photo by Wenting Cao, Fremont, CA
Photo by Lindsey Heimbach, Selingsgrove, PA
Art by Xiao Hu, Naperville, IL
Art by Jess Palamara, Bethel Park, PA
Art by Phyllis Schlafly, Far Hills, NJ
Photo by Giovanni Nunez, Houston, TX
12
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
Art by Tinh Vo, Monte Vista, CO
Art by Samantha Wickstrom, Albany, NY
Draw … Paint … Photograph … Create! Then send it to us all year – see page 3 for details
by Shaylene McPhee, Waterbury, CT
This went on every day. I arrived
there from school to the smell of her
dinner simmering on the stove. She
took my coat while I took my shoes
off, and I did my homework as soon as
I sat down. I abided by her rules and
was polite.
One day, I arrived crying. A boy in
my class was moving away and I was
devastated because I thought I was in
love with him. As usual Nancy was at
the door, waiting to take my coat. She
asked me what was wrong and led me
into the kitchen to our usual seats.
I was crying too much to talk, so I
couldn’t explain why I was sad. She
gave me a hug, holding me and rubbing
my back. She assured me all things
happen for a reason and when my pain
passed, I’d be a stronger person.
After that, Nancy and I would talk
once I finished my homework. I told
her everything, and she described
things the way they really were. She
spoke her mind honestly and sometimes even cussed like a sailor, but I
respected that. Nancy taught me the
meaning of honesty. She also started to
let me taste the food she cooked.
I began to stay at Nancy’s house
even after my mother came home. I
liked her. She was fun to talk to and
her house always smelled good, so
most days I stayed there instead of
going home.
Then one day, I saw something on
the kitchen table that was not normally
there. In addition to her crossword
book, pen, and ashtray, there was a
small stack of papers. When I asked
her what it was, she said it was her
will. She explained that a will was a
bunch of papers that said where her
stuff would go when she died.
Photo by Courtney Koslof, Bethel Park, PA
I got worried and asked her if she
was dying. She laughed and said, “No,
screen door and let me in, saying,
not yet, but I can’t wait for the day. If it
“Take off your shoes and leave them
ever comes, don’t try to save me.”
right there. Let me take your jacket.
Then I asked her about the oxygen
I’m going to put it on the back of the
tank. Nancy told me she had a condisofa.” And that was it. She sat down at
tion called emphysema, a lung disease
her kitchen table, put her oxygen on,
that made it difficult to breathe.
and lit a cigarette.
Hearing this, I was confused and
Whenever I passed Nancy’s house, I
upset. I asked her why she smoked.
had always seen her sitting at that
Nancy said, “Honey, when I die, I want
kitchen table with a cigarette in her
to die happy. Cigarettes and soap
hand and her oxygen tank next to her.
operas make me happy. I’d like to die
The table was right in front of the slidright here with everything I
ing glass doors so she
my chair, my soaps,
could look outside. Her
I tried to avoid love:
and a cigarette in my hand.”
living-room TV was also
That was one small conpositioned so she could see this woman at
versation among many we
it. I figured this was her
all costs
had in the next few months.
way of watching her afterNancy became my best
noon soap operas while
friend.
She
taught me to do what makes
patrolling her yard to make sure no
me happy and not to take anyone’s
sneaky kids came around.
guff. She told my mother, “I can put a
That first day at Nancy’s was scary.
thousand dollars in front of your
She made me sit at the kitchen table
daughter and walk away and she
with her and do my homework right
wouldn’t touch it. I trust her with anyaway. She set down the rules and dething.” She was right. I wouldn’t have
manded that I obey them. Homework
touched it, and I was glad someone
came first every day; I couldn’t swear,
appreciated me.
or interrupt her while her soaps were
One day, I noticed a change in Nanon, and couldn’t complain about the
cy’s house. She greeted me as usual,
smell of her cooking.
W
hen I was 10, my mother
needed a babysitter for me
since she was still at work
when I got home from school. The only
person available was an old woman
named Nancy, whom I was terrified of.
She was grumpy and hated everyone.
None of the neighborhood kids could
get too close to her yard or she’d come
out screaming. We couldn’t play ball
near her house because if the ball happened to land in her yard, we knew it
was gone forever. I tried to avoid this
woman at all costs.
When my mother broke the news
that Nancy would be my new babysitter, I cried. I thought I had done
something wrong. I didn’t want to
leave school that first day. The bus
dropped me off at the end of the street,
and I walked as slowly as I could to her
door. Before I got there, she was standing in the doorway. She opened her
Suddenly the entire neighborhood
took my coat, and helped me get my
was outside to see what was happening.
homework out. But I didn’t smell anyWhen they noticed me hysterically crything cooking. She had always eaten
ing and the ambulance crew entering
the strangest foods, and it excited me
Nancy’s house, looks of horror struck
to imagine what I’d smell that day. But
their faces. My mother hadn’t known
today, there was nothing cooking. I
why I had called her because I was so
didn’t ask her but just figured maybe
difficult to understand, but she knew
she was ordering in for once.
when she found me outside in Alysha’s
When we sat down, Nancy lit her
arms.
cigarette and turned to watch her
Nancy died that day. Sometimes I
soaps, but when a commercial came
wish I had called the ambuon, she put her cigarette in
at her house, rather
the ashtray and put her
Today, there lance
than at Alysha’s, so they
head on the table. Usually
when she did this, she
was nothing could have told me how to
resuscitate her. But then I
asked for a shoulder mascooking
remembered what she had
sage, so I got ready and
said about not wanting to be
said, “Nancy?” She didn’t
saved and wanting to die with everysay anything. When I said her name
thing she loved. She was watching her
again, she fell to the floor. Her face
soap operas and smoking a cigarette
was pale and her eyes open.
while sitting in that favorite chair of
I screamed and ran to the neighbor’s
hers. I was there too. And now I realize
house and pounded on the door. A girl
that I was a part of that group, the
I hung out with, Alysha, answered. I
group of things she loved. Nancy loved
was in a panic and she couldn’t underher chair, her soaps, her cigarettes, and
stand me. When I said “Nancy” she
she loved me. ✎
understood. We called an ambulance
and then our parents.
It’s On
n o n•f i c•t i o n
Nancy
by John Horvath, So. Plainfield, NJ
H
e was standing in the doorway like he owned the place. There was a look of
smug satisfaction on his face. I looked back at him and knew it was on.
If anything had ever been on before, I wouldn’t have known because I’m
not too good with history. It was so on that nothing has ever been so on since that
time. The radio was on, the fan was on, even the TV was on, but everything seemed
silent. Things were so on that Western music instantly began playing in the background.
The dog ran and hid under the table from the impending fear of what was about
to go on. She knew – she knew it was on.
I looked dead straight into his eyes. I enjoyed that he seemed nervous, like a wild
turkey walking into a festive house on Thanksgiving. But I was nervous too. My
heart was running a marathon inside my chest. My legs became like loaves of bread
and I felt like they wouldn’t support my weight. A bead of sweat slid down my forehead to my nose. The room was so silent and so tense that I could have sworn that
the drop sounded like broken glass when it hit the floor.
The dog began to whimper because of the intensity of the moment.
I wanted to look and see if she was okay, but it was on and
It was
I knew I shouldn’t, but I did. I quickly glanced over just long
high noon enough to see her paralyzed under the table. She was like a statue
– a statue of a coward. I’m no coward, I thought as I quickly darted
my gaze back to my opponent.
He was in the same position. His hand began to shake as it neared his weapon. If
we weren’t inside, the sun would have been beating down on us; but that Luxo lamp
was pretty hot too. It was high noon.
My knuckles turned white
with desire as I got ready. All
of a sudden I felt like I could
do anything; perhaps that was
the adrenaline. I wiped my
forehead and squinted. That
Western tune played and we
knew it was time once we
heard the whip slap. He kept a
steady gaze and spit out the
side of his mouth toward the
garbage can and gritted his
teeth at me.
We drew at the same time
and shot as well as we could.
He drew paper. I drew scissors.
The cookie was mine.
It was delicious. ✎
Photo by Chase Sikes, Stephenville, TX
SUMMER ’08
• Teen Ink
13
n o n•f i c•t i o n
Once Upon a Dream
She was from Washington, a blond, blue-eyed girl
nce upon a dream, I was at summer camp,
who hung out with the in-crowd, the preps. My
apprehensive, my book bag clutched tightly
friends from school would have hated her; the
in my pale arms, trying to soften the thumpwicked stepsisters wouldn’t be able to see past her
thumping of my heart.
appearance, but I was different.
The ground was hard, a mixture of brown and
She was one of my close friends, even closer than
green fading beneath my feet. Half grass, half cethose at school. We sat on the steps of the college
ment. Half beauty, half reality. I sighed, the sound
campus during breaks, laughing and joking with
carried by the wind, drifting away into the sky. There
teachers, making new friends.
was a day, long ago, when I stood between grass and
Once upon a sea of memories, I had a true friend.
cement, between beauty and reality, and she smiled
The joke was stupid, just one of the perverted
and told me, shamelessly, that I was no longer her
comments we – everyone in our dorm – would make.
best friend. Beauty blinded by reality. Tears streamed
Yet it set us howling. The RA looked at us, eyebrow
down my face. Left alone on the mud and grass, feelcocked, eliciting more peals of laughter.
ing hollow inside.
We sang Disney songs until one in the morning,
Once upon a nightmare, I had a fair-weather friend.
laughing. Our scratchy voices bellowed, “Look at
I looked up. The dormitories were a mud-brown
this stuff, isn’t it neat?” until we collapsed,
stone separated by cracked cement, heated
exhausted, into our twin beds and fell asleep
by the scorching sun. My castle, my prison
I never
grinning.
– which one, I didn’t know.
It was heaven, a break from my depresThe sky was blue with dots of fluffy
wanted to
sion. I could relate to everyone in my dorm.
white littering the edges. A speckled egg. It
wake up They all had been through what I had, loved
was beautiful. I heard chattering and
what I lived for. It was a beautiful dream,
turned my head, my black hair whipping
and I never wanted to wake up.
around. It was a group of people, goths, friends. Evi*
*
*
dently they had known each other for a long time. I
Once upon a dream, I felt safe, loved on the dark
looked longingly. They seemed so happy. I wished I
dance floor, my head on his shoulder, his arms
could be that carefree.
around me protectively. I held him tightly, and he
Suddenly, a hand reached out and tapped me on
hugged me back, afraid that if we let go, we’d slip
the shoulder and I turned, interrupted from my wistfrom each other’s grasp, never to meet again.
ful daydream. It was Mom. She saw where I was
I’d liked him for one week and he’d liked me for
looking and shook her head, her eyes flashing.
two. We didn’t find out until the second to last day of
“I don’t want you to hang out with those people,
camp, the second to last day of that unbelievable
you hear? They dress strangely. I don’t want you to
dream that I wished could be reality. Light brown
be like them.”
hair nearly covered eyes the color of milk chocolate,
I sighed in resignation but nodded, walking slowly
sweet, loving. He was Prince Charming. My Prince
into my mud-colored dorm, away from the fears and
Charming.
hopes of the real world and into the sheltered one of
Once upon a summer camp, I found my first love.
summer camp.
The dance was slow and we swayed to the beat,
*
*
*
darkness enveloping us. Behind me, I could hear my
Once upon a dream, I smiled genuinely for the first
friends chatting about us. My dress swished around
time in a year. It was something she had said, my
my body and I felt loved, carefree.
new friend at camp. I clutched my book bag tightly,
“I like your dress. It’s purple,” he whispered, and I
afraid that I’d drop it in the midst of our laughter.
O
Love Is a Cactus
N
ot long ago, my girlfriend gave
me a cactus. Like many things
with her, I decided not to ask
why. She has an interesting idea of what
constitutes a present. She’s given me a
plastic llama and moose, books that
she’d read and not particularly liked, and
a carved wooden box that used to hold
cigars and that, when I received it, held a
paper clip and one earring. I think I
speak for everyone reading this when I
say – huh?
“It was my mother’s,” she said, and I
wondered if some day I would have a
conversation with her mother, who’d say,
“Oh, and by the way – I’d like my cigar
box back.” Worse, suppose we broke up.
It would turn into one of those messy
stories you read about in the advice
columns, although usually the item is a
ring, or something of value that the
mother thinks is now hers again. I could
imagine the advice lady saying, “While
the cigar box technically belongs to the
young lady, she would demonstrate considerable class and tact to return it.”
It worries me; I don’t want to keep
14
by Luna Ruan, Pittsburgh, PA
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
smiled, the code name I had used for him, purple,
singing softly, mingling with “Stairway to Heaven.” I
hugged him tighter, wishing this song, this unbelievable dream, would go on forever.
*
*
*
The alarm clock rings and my eyes slowly open,
leaving me with only wisps of the events. A dream. It
was just a dream, and dreams can’t last forever …
can they?
A fairy tale. A field of flowers. A fantasy. I close
my eyes and when I open them, I’m left with nothing
but memories. Life is normal again, the dream has
faded, just a vague thought to reflect upon when the
English teacher asks for another essay.
My heart is empty again.
My world, though, seems just a bit fuller.
*
*
*
Once upon a dream, I lived and died again. Yet
even in my death, I still clutch that book bag of
memories tightly, fearing that I will lose it if I loosen
my grip.
Once upon a dream, I went to summer camp. Once
upon a dream, I forgot about the problems in my life.
Once upon a dream … Once upon a blissful memory
… Once upon my life … ✎
Photo by Chantal Cough-Schulze, Falls Church, VA
by Sarah, VA
anything in the box for fear I’ll get atme!” They don’t swarm around your
tached to it. On top of that, it has both
feet, nudging you toward the food dish
the appeal of being a girlfriend-gift and
like cats and dogs. They just sit there, in
the creepy factor of having belonged to
a polite “Don’t mind me; I’ll just wilt
her mother. I keep it in the back corner
then” way.
of my closet behind a shoebox, where I
So I am determined. This time I am
don’t have to look at it.
not going to screw up; the cactus will
But the cactus was charming, like a
have everything its green heart could
green spiky ping-pong ball sitting in a
want. I water it every night at the sink;
little terra-cotta pot. The spikes are so
sometimes in the morning, too, if it
small and soft that they feel
looks dehydrated.
Even so, it’s not doing so
like fuzz. I took it as a show
I’ve killed hot. It’s developing this weird
of good faith that she trusted
crease in its center, so it looks
me to take care of something.
I don’t know why: I’m chron- plants before less like a ping-pong ball and
more like a prickly peanut.
ically late, and I have the
And, because I’m paranoid, I’m startkind of mind that can remember how to
find the volume of a cone but has trouble
ing to wonder whether this is a trick
with things like birthdays – and plants.
plant that doesn’t grow but just gets a
“Don’t worry,” she said, when I
funny crease and then keels over. This
isn’t a good chain of logic to follow, bebrought this up. “It’s a cactus. It doesn’t
cause it gets me into other troublesome
need much. Just put it in the sun and
pits. I can see my girlfriend smiling to
water it whenever you remember.”
herself, thinking, A cactus. I gave her a
I’ve killed plants before. It’s not that I
sad little cactus that doesn’t even grow.
don’t have good intentions; I just forget
And she was so grateful. Sucker.
about them. They’re small and they don’t
And if the cactus wasn’t meant kindly,
call out, “Sarah! You need to take care of
what about the other presents? I always
assumed that they were part of her
slightly off-kilter charm, like her earnest
lectures. But now I can hear her snickering: “An old wooden cigar box. And I
told her it was my mother’s!”
And howling over the plastic moose
and llama: “She adores them! What a
rube.”
I begin to imagine my next scathing
e-mail: “Guess what? I just said thank you
to be nice. I never liked them! ROFL.”
Wow, what razor-sharp wit, there.
And I do like them.
I especially love the cactus, my sad little cactus that I can’t seem to do much
for. So I went online, and I found this:
“A cactus can suffer from overwatering,
and may crack … Cacti can tolerate occasional mistakes in watering. Death by
slow dehydration, because people are too
terrified to give their plants what they
need, is not any better than death by
overwatering.”
Great. I can’t water it, and I can’t not
water it.
Love is a cactus. ✎
ALWAYS BET ON THE KID
DON’T TRUST ANYONE OVER 25
It’s Homeland Security versus one bright, tech-savvy
teenager, as an innocent ARG game gets the wrong
people branded as terrorists.
(“Doctorow’s novel blurs the line between current and
potential technologies, and readers will delight in the
details of how Marcus attempts to stage a technorevolution…. Buy multiple copies; this book will be
h4wt (that’s ‘hot,’ for the nonhackers).”
—Booklist, starred review
YOU DON’T KNOW JACK.
Nobody does—not his parents, not his few friends, not
even Jack himself. But he’s learning. He’s discovering that
he has a knack for fixing things. Not bikes or computers—
situations. When he discovers a body in the New Jersey Pine
Barrens, Jack sets out to bring a dark secret to light.
“An eerie page-turner with an awesome teen hero….”
—Ridley Pearson, New York Times bestselling
co-author of Peter and the Starcatchers
$
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SUMMER ’08
• Teen Ink
15
n o n•f i c•t i o n
Model Aspirations
“J
ulie Chen, they are ready for you now.”
Jamming my sweaty palms into my jacket
pockets, I nervously enter the audition
room. This is the room where two people observe me
like an experiment to determine if the mouse (me) is
special enough to be called back for further testing.
My time here is always a blur – I just do what I am
told. Runway walk, check. Pose innocently, check.
Pose fiercely, check. Smile naturally, check. Tuck in
my tummy, check. No smudged mascara, check.
Confidence, check. Cheerfulness, check. All traces of
discomfort or sadness left at the door, check.
Photo by Wenting Cao, Fremont, CA
$300 for comp cards (business cards for models), and
For years, this was my life. It all started the sumother expenses. My parents, jaded from the $900 namer before eighth grade. My parents had gotten some
tional contest, only agreed after hours and hours of
professional photos taken for them. I thought modelme begging.
ing was fun but never took it seriously until one day
The agency sent me out on few auditions. With
when a friend of my parents said my photos looked
every day I did not receive a call, I grew more delike the portfolios real models use.
pressed. My passion had grown to full-fledged obsesSo when a national contest came, I convinced my
sion, and the monster inside me had become so hideous
parents to take me for an audition, and I was selected.
that I could hardly think of anything else. If I couldn’t
I was told I had potential. They said that for only
model successfully, I thought I was going to die.
$900 I could attend a weekend event where dozens of
The final straw came in July. Since I wasn’t tall
the most prestigious modeling agencies from around
enough to be a runway model, I decided to focus on
the world would be present. At 13, my hopes of intercommercial modeling. There was an open call in
national fame and fortune (not to mention access to
New York City. I convinced my dad to take me. The
top-notch designer clothing like Zac Posen and Verthree-hour drive was filled with appresace) clouded all judgment, and I
hension, and after waiting hours, I barely
begged my parents to let me go. We
My passion had spent two seconds in front of the Ford
have never been rich, but they saw my
agent, only to be told that I was too
enthusiasm and begrudgingly agreed.
grown to full- short. The ride home was excruciating –
I waited impatiently. I imagined bethose years of frustration finally
ing signed by Ford Models and Elite
fledged obsession all
came rushing out like a dam being unModels and Wilhelmina Models – of
plugged. I was inconsolable for weeks.
course they’d all want me! For months,
Years later, I know that the trip to New York City
any boredom or disappointment I faced was pushed
was actually a godsend. It helped me realize that I
aside, because I would soon have the chance to be a
was not cut out for modeling. I didn’t actually love
real model. I would grace the covers of Vogue, Elle,
modeling, just the idea of it. At 13, I recently had lost
Cosmopolitan, and Harper’s Bazaar, and I would be
the chubbiness of elementary and middle school. I
happy.
was considered a freak and an outcast. Not only was
Of course, I wasn’t signed, but what hurt the most
I ugly, but I was unlikable. I had no talents – my asis that Elite Models told me that they would take me
pirations of becoming a famous singer were quickly
if I grew to 5'9". At 5'5.5", that would take a miracle.
crushed by my mother – and I desperately sought an
I wished for a growth spurt. Milk helps bones, right?
escape from my classmates’ disapproval and my
I drank a gallon a day.
complete lack of a life.
I could not imagine giving up my dream. I didn’t
I just wanted to be special, and I was naïvely deterhave to model for Chanel, but surely Macy’s would
mined to reach an impossible goal. I learned the hard
be easy. So I made an appointment with a local modway not to depend on only one thing for my happieling agency. When the agent asked me to pose, I
ness. The experience has helped me develop a thick
was so awkward that I almost considered walking
skin that will help me for the rest of my life. ✎
out, but wouldn’t give up that easily. The agent then
demanded $500 for classes, $500 for a photo shoot,
Sight of Summer
S
chool was out and summer had
officially begun. Many teens
traded their books for bathing
suits and headed to the beach. I spent
my summer working.
Being a camp counselor is exhausting but rewarding. In summers past, I
watched the kids come and go week
after week, received my minuscule
paycheck, and said good-bye. The normal routine. But this year, one child
stood out. His name was Matthew, a
normal 10-year-old who lived in darkness. Matthew was blind.
I had been both anticipating and
dreading that first day of camp. Who
wants to work anyway? The clouds
were dark gray and the sky even
seemed drowsy, like it didn’t want to
go to camp either. Just a few days ago
I had received an e-mail about
Matthew: he was reluctant to participate or make friends. Sounds like a
bundle of joy, I thought.
I found my bunk, greeted the kids,
and went over some rules with them.
At first, I couldn’t tell which one was
Matthew. Later I introduced myself.
“Hi, I’m Greg. What’s your name?”
16
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
by Julie Chen, Paoli, PA
by Greg D’Amico, Voorhees, NJ
leaving me no choice but to sprint
I asked.
“Matthew Howell, but not like a dog
across camp in my drenched clothes to
howls!” he joked. I walked him to a
get it. Curiosity gripped me as the zipper on his backpack dangled, almost
bunk and asked if there was anything
in his Yankees backpack that he needed.
begging me to open it. What was in
“Everything – except what’s in the
that front pocket? Why didn’t he want
front pocket. I don’t want anyone to
anyone to see? My hand ignored the
see that,” he replied. The counselor in
orders of my brain, and I unzipped it.
me said he might need whatever it was
I sighed, reflecting on the past couand that I should peek, but instead I
ple of weeks, and things began making
respected his wishes.
sense. I reached in and pulled out
The summer progressed,
Matthew’s cane. It was foldHe was
and Matthew and I felt
ed, bright red with a white
like we’d known each othball at the end. I didn’t
reluctant to blame him for not wanting
er forever. He often told
me that he wished we
I couldn’t think of any
participate or it.
were brothers. Even
10-year-old who would.
though I knew everything
make friends The next day when I saw
Matthew’s smiling face, I
about him, I still hadn’t
asked him about it. His smile melted.
looked in his backpack. Whatever it
“It’s new. I don’t want the other kids to
was, he seemed to be doing fine withsee it. They don’t have one,” he said.
out it. We talked about his favorite
sports, music, and activities. He wantI tried to convince him to try it out
for me. “Can we call it a light saber?”
ed to be a DJ and referred to himself
he asked.
as DJ Blast. He had a great imagina“Of course,” I replied. We held a
tion, sometimes pretending he had his
bunk meeting to talk about Matthew’s
own club, and he would sing for the
other kids while they cheered him on.
light saber. The other kids responded
in a way that neither he nor I would
One day after a swim, Matthew had
have imagined. They loved his cane
forgotten his backpack in the bunk,
and wanted to play with it.
Then the whistle sounded and the
day was done. The kids ran back to
their bunks and it was just Matthew
and me. He whispered in my ear,
“Thank you.”
Sitting on the bench on the last day
of camp, my college future came up. A
10-year-old was giving me advice
when I expressed my worries. “Don’t
give up. You’ve got nothing stopping
you. I can’t see, for crying out loud!”
he laughed.
Then it hit me. It took me eight
weeks to realize what I did at that moment. Imagine the view of a city skyline with the sun beaming through, or
a field of flowers blooming in spring.
Even a flurry of snow on the first day
of winter is something we take for
granted. Matthew was robbed of all
these, but he could still make 12 kids
at camp laugh. He made the best of it.
I learned to stop holding myself back
and capture my goals, no matter how
far-fetched they might seem. We
helped each other a lot that summer. A
summer I will never forget – the summer I met Matthew. ✎
Morning
This is Earth’s sacred time to pause and reflect
The clock allows diamonds of dew
A moment to gather and glisten,
To shimmer and reflect the gentle rays of
The blazing sun,
Slowly emerging from its place of hiding.
Few sit to observe its surfacing
Until blinding rays cut through their windows
And surprise their sleeping eyes.
Afternoon
The sun moves steadily across the sky,
Staring intently at life below
From its daunting position overhead.
The Earth is awake; its inhabitants scatter in
hectic motion.
The clock reads early
Still, the fear of too little time is not simple to ignore
Time is sprinting
And it doesn’t mind letting you fall behind.
Evening
The hustle and bustle subsides.
The clock arrives at a brisk walk,
A pace consistent with the unveiling
Of a masterpiece of color and light.
Nature’s arrogant display of its supreme beauty,
The sunset,
Greater than the attempts of any man
To surpass or recreate.
Night
The clock creeps,
Time tiptoes across the universe
So as not to disturb the dormant planet Earth.
The black sky, however, is secretly alive
With shifting images cast into the heavens.
The gathering creations of dreams
From the people below.
Sleeping soundly in harmony with the Sun.
by Alyssa Pesavento, Tower Lakes, IL
A Poem To …
This is a poem to john
I do not capitalize the name
Of a hypocrite
Of a racist
Of a let-down
Of a screaming lunatic
She says that this is not my battle to fight
That I shouldn’t hate him for what he did to her
I nod
I do not capitalize the name
Of an abusive husband
Of a self-centered man
Of a liar
When I call home I do not ask to speak to you
What would I say? Things I do not mean?
So, pass the phone
I do not capitalize the name
Of a man who won’t help himself
Of an abandoner
Who will come to my graduation? people ask
Well, all of the family members that matter, of course
But not him
I do not capitalize the name
Of a father
by Anonymous, Culver, IN
Mandatory Poem
Inside My Luggage
I have to write a poem for English
But I don’t know what’s right to write
Maybe I can use school as the theme
I think I actually might
Nobody knows
Nobody sees
The bag that’s sitting next to me
Invisible to all I meet
The bag that hides at my feet
But school is such a lame topic
I need something much better
Like family and friends, or possibly sports
Or the ever-changing New England weather
Whatever one I decide to write
I have to make it good
A lot of lines, a couple rhymes
Some vocab words? I should
Geopolitics and myopia, perhaps
But neither of those words rhyme
It makes no sense to put those in
And I’m running out of time
If I don’t write a poem soon
I think I’ll surely fail
If I don’t hurry up
There will be nothing for me to mail
And I still don’t have a topic
I’ll never get this done
A poem shouldn’t be this hard to write
A single one! Just one
A peculiar thing just happened
That I have stumbled upon
It seems I wrote a poem
From simply rambling on!
Keys to unlocked doors
Reminiscence of broken tokens
The worries that fill my mind
Every time I open
This beat-up bag of mine
Poetry
The 24-Hour
Performance
Torn with age
And beaten with abuse
Slowly rusting its handle
Mud caked along its sides
It’s sad to see what it’s become
Heavy it weighs
For each day new wonders
Fill the hollow bag
As it drags along beside me
Heavier with each step
Never to leave
No matter how far I run
The bag will find me
It will always be there
Holding my past
The things I can never forget
by Danica Zielinski, Congers, NY
by Brandon Sprague, Hull, MA
African Society
Color of my skin making me who I am, who I am
set out
to
be …
No different from other human beings this sphere
lovely
Earth
Uncle Kevin accomplished things some people wish
they can accomplish in years done in
a matter
of months
CEO of Pepsi, Richmond, Virginia, sitting high
on power
and
money
Skin so precious, unique with a glare that “knocks the
sun right out
of
place”
Years and years of pain non-unity covering America
with handcuffs where only black can be revealed
but yet can’t be seen as take me to the days of
slavery
where
it
wasn’t okay to use a regular bathroom or even interact
with
other
races.
Photo by Carissa Grapes, Buckeye, AZ
Anno Domini
I want the infant eyes I once had,
Untainted and good.
I’d like to live in you again.
Sometimes I push my head
up against your stomach.
make myself believe that really living. if I push
hard enough,
all your skin will fall back,
and I can curl up inside you, right
back into my first womb.
reattach my umbilical cord
to feed off you.
I want your heart to beat for mine.
For a while,
mine’s so broken,
that with every rhythm I know it pulses only
because it is involuntary.
If I could control it I would rip it apart
and sew it back together
over and over again.
Our world doesn’t have to be the way it is but the way it
was is in the past and it can only be
Better or
Worst
Just so
I could feel my viscera heal,
and know
that blood always clots.
by Garrett Ellis, Plainfield, NJ
by Emilia Allen, Clarkston, MI
SUMMER ’08
• Teen Ink
17
Poetry
Pen
Turning Point
Biblioteq
my pen is
poised above
the paper.
waiting.
the blank white
void
penetrates my thoughts.
In her hands, a book enfolded.
She spread its wings
to look at its feathers
and only saw that burdened ballad
of the many things
to which we have no answers:
Why do such things happen?
it cracks a hole in my
brain.
a trickle of words
drips
down.
splashes of images
land
ink spots stain.
As the illustrated tale began,
the engine ignited,
the road was read
and the white lane lines foreran.
Scenes looked arid.
And not knowing where this led:
Way leads onto way,
in stone – nothing was written.
why?
creativity oozes
out my ears, crawls
from beneath my
skin.
my fingernails itch,
hands tremor.
Trees teemed both sides of the passageway,
polar crippled their beauty.
Sediment covered the asphalt.
Dull colors – Gray. Gray. Gray.
Headlights burning brightly,
the machine came to a sudden halt.
Surprises are always discovered,
but mostly the cruel ones are destined.
I may never be able to decipher
the Cyrillic languages
with their characters so deceptively
similar to my own,
asking me to misinterpret.
But here, where translation
is packaged conveniently
between leatherclothcardboardpaper,
it would be so easy to know,
like picking tomatoes.
I’m sure the pop would be delicious
and sour-sweet
but I am unfortunately allergic,
and my eyelids swell up
Quasimodo-like
with a hint of lycopene,
so I’ll have to remain
deliciously
ignorant,
feasting on air.
how?
an overflow of scenery
dribbles from the
brimming mind.
it rushes in through my
eyes,
out through my
nerves.
energy buzzes around my
head.
flustered. hand
cramp!
eraser marks smear.
not that …
this.
by Emily Begnel,
Arlington Heights, IL
Trevor
By Willaby Creek, down South Shore Road
There stands a small wooden cross.
It’s white with peeling gold letters;
On your birthday your mom
Puts balloons and flowers on it,
I guess to make things seem better than they are.
Has it really been seven years since it happened?
Since that morning that I woke up
And there was ice on the road
And my brother told me what happened?
Has it really been seven years since
I went to your funeral and cried
Because, even though you were just
The kid next door, we were friends?
I can remember how every day
You dressed up like a different animal.
And that old fort down in the trees
Between our houses.
I can remember how you and Ashley
Pretended to be dead to teach your sisters
How to do CPR and rolled down that grass hill
That summer
But now you really are dead and I have to admit
That it’s kind of hard without you.
Your sister’s doing okay, so don’t worry
And so is your mom and grandparents
And all your friends from school.
So wherever you are, just be happy.
We’ll miss you.
R.I.P. Trevor York 3/4/01
by Delta Rotter, Neilton, WA
18
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
To continue is up to the engine.
To decide to move on,
regardless of the hardships,
and take our paths with caution.
With that path withdrawn –
where do we take our road trips?
What will occur next –
in just another grief-stricken fiction?
by Diana Clarke, Worcester, MA
He Didn’t Know
Gossip hurts
Popular or not
Sheltered by the quiet
I hide the hurt
Packed bags and tears
on the dreaded day
that my cousin
left for the war.
Infinite hugs and kisses
were showered upon him
by parents, aunts, uncles
and cousins.
All of them
except me.
I gave him the
silent treatment.
It was only because
I didn’t want him
to go.
But he didn’t know that.
He bent down
on one knee
to talk to me.
He tried to get me
to smile,
but to no avail.
I couldn’t let him
see me cry.
I wanted him to
wonder
why I was so mad.
Be mysterious.
I pulled away
from his
outstretched arms –
I knew I would
never be able to
let go if I did.
But he didn’t know that.
I wish I would have
told him that
I loved him.
I wish I would have
told him that
I would miss him.
I wish I would have
told him not to go.
For the words that
went unspoken
live to be my greatest
regret.
But he doesn’t know that.
And now he never will.
by Danielle Davis, Omaha, NE
by Whitney Bedor, Clarkston, MI
Had made the right choice, or not –
the engine continued
on dead man’s curve.
Decisions rendered quite without thought,
readers previewed,
before the driver was even allowed to observe.
The turn too sharp –
for the driver, no ending was chosen.
In her hands, a book enfolded.
She spread its wings
to look at its feathers
and only saw that burdened ballad
of the many things
to which we have no answers:
Why did my bird fly away
before I was driven?
by Cassandra Cavalier, Oldsmar, FL
Photo by Alexis Reed, Clarkdale, AZ
Gossip Hurts
I Live by Poems
An Issue of Pride
I.
Restless Kipling Road
Father said it’d all be better by morning.
To hush my hands
and all their flailing.
I didn’t believe him.
He never got quite good
at shaping stories
or a life for himself.
It took a while
for him
to get up, get out, get going,
but once he started
he couldn’t
stop.
I live by poems
lined with pungent verbs
and enriched with vigorous nouns
collaborating and
singing together to concoct a symphony
each stanza simply a measure
a metaphor a chord
each word a note but
the might of some words
leave an impact on readers
and ring for longer forming
an echo
He collapses and begins to weep.
After an uncountable amount of time
he wipes his red eyes and dries his tear-stained cheeks.
He checks his voice; no croaking.
Back downstairs he spies his target.
No apologies tonight.
The yelling continues and the fight drags on.
II.
Lehigh Avenue Dollhouse.
Come now, it’ll be all right.
You’re the one.
I can rest
my aching earlobes.
They’ll hear something sweet tonight.
My scalp can breathe in again.
An oasis of peace, but a shelter
for hidden insanities.
We’re all a little nuts.
III.
Aspinwall Apart.
It doesn’t have to be this way forever.
Contorting to confinement.
Mother’s drifted.
She hates that damn box you put her in,
but she could never hate you.
IV.
Sweet Ivy Street serenade.
My veins are forever entangled in you,
weathered with emotion.
You held me down.
It’s almost as if my
parents’ shouting sustained you.
But they moved onward,
so fast you didn’t have time
to tug on their limbs,
to say you would always be there.
But I knew you would.
Endings scare the hell out of me.
But I’ve never been a fan of beginnings either …
by Jordan Solomon, Pittsburgh, PA
Forget Ginkgo
Media promises fast cars, big dreams
But my G.I. Joe Kung Fu grip can’t grasp
The toy soldier thought platoons and war teams
Fighting doubts with synaptic head gun rasp.
Pip Pip poetry pops Prozac, late night
Red Bulls, red eyes, chemical concentrate.
Scratch scratch poetry writes real dreams, night-light
Soft-says to fatigued pupils: “dilate.”
Ain’t no yesterday no more, miss dolly
The city sponge absorbed our memories,
Blew, like dandelions, our teenage folly,
and tore blank pages from our diaries.
This lifestyle paints the neon moral boat
We sail away from “the before” we wrote.
by Arthur Gutnov, Chicago, IL
I live by stories
created with sizzling thoughts
and bubbling queries
woven together by the rays of the sun
the glisten of the moon
and the shimmer of the stars
the words are an intricate dance
flowing like a stream
every sentence is avidly choreographed
designed to present diverse movements
yet all are bound together
moving as one
Denied
Refused
Rejected
Declined
The writing still broils within my soul
Each time repudiated
The longing soon returns
And the temptation simmers within my conscious
by Audree Steinberg,
Los Angeles, CA
Night Swimming
Shadows fuse together
As she sinks below
The kettle’s rim.
She is her own key
Alone on the milky ripples.
It’s my turn. I’m naked
Save for the brush
Around me.
My shins flash white
and wane to black.
Together, in the water,
We are dark things,
Emerged from limestone karsts.
We’re all that’s alive now
In this night, in this kill.
by Madison Knudson, New York, NY
Little-Known Fact
It’s a little-known fact that no green’s without blue;
One needs a prism of colors to make a new hue.
From other shades we draw to concoct our own
tincture;
Others’ palettes are used when we paint our own
picture.
What dyes trade hands between painters are key;
The colors within shape what each painting will be.
Some painters share nothing but dark, stormy colors;
These ominous shades darken the image of others.
Others, still, give a sugary, shining rainbow;
Like candy, this paint is often too sweet to be
swallowed.
The union of all hues is desired when finished;
A portrait of contrast is a thing to be cherished.
by Nick Chevalier, Spring, TX
by Mike Rajala, Davisburg, MI
Safe House
Poetry
Endings
And my heart is never locked,
But the walls around it: solid.
And guarding myself is what I must do.
by Tara Atkins, Eatonville, WA
Art by Asia Bennett, Hudson, MA
Blissfully Numb
Even the whitest of snow turns ashen,
mere slush in respect to the
pristine beauty it once was
until the heat becomes too much
and overwhelms the weak defenses
of the innocently fair flurry of frost.
I find myself wondering
whether the snow will ever prevail,
stay brilliantly unscathed by the sun.
Protected forever from harm,
dirty tires and gaudy children’s rain boots.
A chilly garden of Eden,
trapped in a moment of time
and wishing to stay there endlessly.
A constant shield of hurt
with built-in insulation –
no worries of melting
into a puddle of loneliness,
anxieties about fitting in
with the other snowflakes,
or disheartening thoughts of
Spring’s inevitable arrival.
No uncertainties about whether or not
it will ever have the grandeur of an igloo,
the strength of a magnificent snow fort,
or the ever-sought exquisiteness
of a glorious ice castle.
If the snow suddenly got
everything it had ever dreamed of –
a single moment frozen in time’s cold abyss,
everything, for that full moment,
would be flawless.
And it would be enough
to make it through one more
disgustingly sweet Spring
and one more horribly sticky Summer
to have that heavenly night
where everything begins again with Winter,
and endless frozen moments await.
by Jessica Rutsky, Solon, OH
SUMMER ’08
• Teen Ink
19
Poetry
Carved Orange
Lilies
Love Notes on
My Shoe
A wild escapade through the
Carved orange lilies
We will take
Shade and light
Dreamers and unbelievers
Paradise
The sublime coordinates
Vacancy of my mind
Fill with scarlet waves of joy
Winter emerges
Football fields hide beneath the
Sheltering snow
Awakened by your touch
Footprints patterned on the beach
Phantom lovers
Retrace their naked steps
That leave a scar in time
A million-dollar heartbreak
Seeking new patterns
A helpful hand to collect the tears
Needing the warmth of one’s touch
My mind is stagnant from the lack of sleep
Awakened by the jagged edge of an irregular heartbeat
Dislocating the pattern of the past
Molding the foundation for the future
Contouring the beginning of the slippery slope
Leaving the rest for uncalculated events
Time dances by
Bringing new wings to my heart
I see him through the complex eyepiece
Of a sniper scope
i drew a heart on my shoe today.
tomorrow it will be gone.
yesterday i wrote about your laugh.
you laugh when i fall
i hate it when you do that
but then you pick me up.
that’s gone too.
a previous note wrote
I
Care
Too.
i know you care.
you care
so much.
one note is only faded.
i don’t blame it.
the ink was forced on the
rugged patterns.
the words might always be there
and they will also
be on my
Heart.
Forever.
please look me in the eye
make your voice strong
show it off
when you say
i love you.
i don’t understand.
do you mind telling me
what you meant
when you looked away
to say the three words?
that’s all they are to you.
Three
Words.
i’ve got One for you.
Heartbreak.
by Lily Chubb, Santa Monica, CA
by Shelby Goodwin,
Grand Junction, CO
#21
Photo by Richard Foland, League City, TX
Retract
I cannot reach out
I am stolid, stoic
To reach into the depths
of someone’s heart
is to be burnt
So my hand retracts, stays put,
afraid of rejection
So my heart remains closed
afraid of misunderstanding
To be apart
is to be safe.
To be safe
means to be alone,
cold,
without the flame
of another’s heart.
by Barbara Richards,
Queens Village, NY
20
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
Days have their Sleepy Tendencies
With Beetles on their Shores –
Their Hearts will glow – their cities burn –
With oceans on their Moors
Winter Starlight
As the skies grow dim
Day’s end grows near,
We head to the hill,
Our place to get away.
Upon calm collected skies we gaze,
Wondering what the stars are doing.
Up there, or out there,
Wherever it is they truly are.
Where it is they sit, or stand,
Why it is they remain.
Unknown to all but the stars
What they might await.
All the times we arrive to marvel,
They question our reasons to ponder.
We leave unfulfilled
To return to our lives,
Of discontented blatancy.
by Jared Martel, Gilford, NH
Three Strikes,
You’re Out
Sitting in a restaurant with you
Makes life seem better. We talk
About us and in the background we
Listen to the baseball game playing on the radio.
A candle burns in the middle of our table
Slowly dripping wax. Our food comes to
The table. “And Sosa steps up to the plate!”
You sit there with fork in hand, pushing the
Peas around your plate, building a fort
Avoiding eye contact and conversation.
It reminded me of the snow fort we built
Last winter.
You whispering softly in my ear
About how we would be
Together forever.
“Strike one!”
A red rose lies in front of each of us.
Mine slightly wilting as you pluck
The petals off of yours.
“Strike two!”
The flame of the candle starts to flicker
As the wax starts to drown the wick,
Stripping it of anything to burn, slowly killing it
Like our conversation.
You place your fork in your steak and with the
Other hand, drive a steak knife into the heart.
“Strike three!”
You pull out your handkerchief, lightly kissed
With red lipstick, and start wiping the
Juice from your hands. What’s left
Of the flame dies as the smoke
Burns my eyes, causing them to water.
“And Sosa has struck out!”
I have drowned in Strawberry Jam
With Tulips in the snow
The Beetles’ hearts will Sweetly glow –
Toward paradise they yearn.
by Rebecca Morris, Buffalo Grove, IL
When Waxy Hope drips in lines –
The Sun cannot surmise.
It’s infamy – it has to be –
The Beetles’ stolen Prize.
They call to me, enticing
From my overflowing shelves,
Their pages softly yearning
To share their untold wealth.
Even the Sun’s most flickered Wait
Descends more than Fire –
It’s made of mountainous Candlelight –
it claims his Desire.
And I, the greedy reader,
Gladly give in to their pleas
And thumb through all the pages
With an air of practiced ease.
The Ruby Boss cannot Behold –
The Tarnished Copper’s flight.
It rains Soft – rules Alone –
The Tulips burned in Spite –
And with every page I’m turning
And with every chapter read
I’m getting closer to the ending,
But it’s a start I’ve made instead.
by Sarah Goldwasser, Manassas, VA
by Kelsie Anderson, Indianapolis, IN
Books
The rain came pouring
As they lay snoring
Deep in dreams
Of shouting and screams
Children crying, bridges falling
Cars crashing, French fries crawling
People flying
People dying
All through the night
They toss and turn in fright
Dreams can be scary, wonderful places
So many new and exciting faces
Terrifying, beautiful, scary and bright
All of these things create a fight
Reality, dreams, reality, dreams
Your head screaming with what’s right and wrong
Going on for far too long
Tossing and turning late at night
Waking up from a terrible flight
Dreams become reality
Reality becomes a dream.
by Toni Jo Brown, Windsor, CO
The Forgotten
Rolling his cart past the blocks
Dressed out of style
From years gone past
He once rode his bike past the chain-link
That guarded young minds from the world
Playing in grass long brown
Intellectual he once was called
And to college he almost went
Paternal influence grounded his mind
A job milling wood
Full of noise, he lost his ears
Lungs filled up with cancer
The boom moved on
The trade elapsed
Now the town just sits and waits
His life just rolls by
Squeaky wheel and all
Stuck on the curb
His days now spent calculating birds
Or falling rain upon his unclothed head
Cold, bitter mathematics
Relenting nothing
Asking all
He pushes on
by Carolyn Boyd, Union, OR
Musical Therapy
No Time for Love
Two essays, math problems, and more.
Additional homework tonight to stress me out.
I swear, it never ends no matter how hard I work.
It’s like climbing a brick wall, a wall that keeps building.
I wish that you would go away.
Can’t you see that I am so very busy?
I cannot fall in love today.
I rush upstairs, ignoring my dog’s greeting,
And settle down in my comfortable leather chair.
The computer boots up, it slowly hums to life
But not fast enough, as my fingers keep drumming
Impatiently.
I anxiously look around my room: my sanctuary,
my haven.
My frantic eyes come to focus on my old Fender.
With its dark coating, flaming frets, and shiny
silver strings,
It calls me toward its lonely corner.
I pick it up, placing the strap over my head
And assume a comfortable posture.
There’s a pick on the desk; its smooth surface graces
my fingertips.
I strum across the strings, all surprisingly tuned.
The sound is soothing.
No, I do not want you to stay.
And no, you may not kiss me.
I cannot fall in love today.
I dislike your daunting disarray.
Maybe tomorrow we will see.
But today you must go away.
And no, I do not want another bouquet
Your advances are a catastrophe.
I cannot fall in love today.
My schedule I cannot disobey.
But today I am finally free.
I asked: Why are you going away?
To which you reply, “I cannot fall in love today.”
by Kristen Skvarenina, Berwyn, IL
I play awhile, for how long I know not,
And realize how long it’s been since last time.
I’m rusty at first, my chords sound erratic,
But soon the feeling’s natural again.
My busy mind, once fraught with worry,
Steadily begins to subside and relax.
My amp blares, all movement becoming second nature,
As I am one with the music, letting it flow through me.
When I finally set my old friend down,
My soul is relaxed and ready.
I vow to play again, once my work is finished
So I start typing.
by Travis Harsin, Gilmanton, NH
My City
People walk by me,
Hurried, hustled, hungry.
Their words fly around my head,
Words of worry,
Words of anger,
Words of celebration,
They all pass by me
Without notice of my existence.
The birds beg at my feet,
Hoping to receive a scrap of food.
The stray dogs beg at the food stands,
Hoping for some kind of treat.
The children beg to their parents,
Hoping to receive a toy.
The cars beg for movement,
Hoping traffic will let up soon.
Skyscrapers tower over my head,
Competing with the other buildings to see who is grander.
People race past me to catch a taxi,
Competing with the other people to get there first.
Photo by Katie Lawrence, Shepherdsville, KY
I have no time for the sweet nothings that you say.
Your musty cologne makes me dizzy.
I wish that you would go away.
Poetry
The Rain Came
Pouring
Chip-Uh
His once smooth
black and white coat,
his noble proboscis,
were not accountable with his
current emaciated
pride.
No,
too many Kibbles and Bits
means
more chins than necessary
and
gray consumes the black hairs
in an eventful battle
about his nose.
Youth falls through
chewed, tired paws.
that s t r e t c h out
before his
corpulent body
embracing the heat of
an electric fireplace.
by Cecilia Bergerid, Stafford, VA
Hot
And here I am.
In the middle of all this madness.
Taking in the music of the streets,
And the beauty of the craziness.
I find myself taken aback,
By how much beauty there is in this city.
This city I’ve lived in my whole life.
Crazy, quixotic, eccentric it may be,
But these same streets, colors, sounds, and buildings I see
Come together to make this city.
This city I call my home.
a curve in the dark
was all you’d see
two shadows in the 3:00
nighttime streetlamp light
a heartbeat thunder of two breaths
intertwined with car-seat rhythms
was all you’d see
through parking-lot dusk
and fogged windows
no one to see
hands that roamed
in places only lovers go.
by Micaela Kamp, Woonsocket, RI
by Gabrielle Guarnero, Edmonds, WA
SUMMER ’08
• Teen Ink
21
Poetry
The Woods
Frozen in Time
Tossing a Glance
Deep within the trees, heavy and lush,
perches a patch of fungus on a moss-covered trunk
basking in the sunlight, a crimson they blush
they cling to the tree that is underground sunk
I am lying in the snow
The delicate ice crystals fall on my frigid face
My childhood has been frozen in time
Memories echo through the crisp air
A crocodile is aimed from upriver to eat
A robin – burbles from a dripping bush
Will learn through the chain-link at an improbable world
Avoid any enclosed space.
While squirrels whip their tails as they scutter,
Not far away, an icy stream floods,
As a butterfly elegantly flutters
from wet rock to flower, landing on a leaf-bud
The delicate ice crystals fall on my frigid face
Everyone is growing older around me
Memories echo through the crisp air
Toboggans, saucers, and flexible flyer sleds fly down
the snow-covered hill
It stormed all night
Noises –
That usually woke me from rest, afraid of monsters
Now it cleared
Face pressed to the wind
Throats and lungs swollen
And our absent names untangled.
A lone bee twirls, sweetening the honey,
While their maple tree continues to rot,
a couple of humming bumblebees
float, pollen-full toward the buzzing knot
As I am the only passerby,
Within my heart, this image I sanctify.
by Erin Rappleye, Barrington, IL
Our Girls
Gaunt
figures
with bright
square clothes
over scrawled dark
pencil:
long faces,
thin lips, large eyes:
(one in the forehead,
the other,
exiled by my childish hand
to a perch on
the left cheekbone),
stare from their
two-dimensional vantage points
on recycled paper
at the graphite contours
of the women
in clean
pink dresses.
Chosen tendrils
escape from charming coifs
to hover around level eyes
and pouting lips.
The eyes look up at their creator:
child-artist with a riotous laugh,
a Crayola jutting from
curly blond hair,
while I,
a gaunt figure
in bright square clothes,
look on
with longing
to be a woman like this girl.
by Liana Amend, Chambersburg, PA
Bald
The sliding doors lead me into a nightmare
Rows and rows of hollow eyes and balding heads.
Fear permeates my skin, like radiation to theirs.
Their worries are hidden behind blockades of support
Paralysis doesn’t allow me to move
Amazed at the youth of these victims.
Not knowing what to do,
I clasp his bony fingers in mine.
A smile breaks across his face and joy resonates
throughout the room,
For a moment, his eyes flicker with light.
For a moment he isn’t dying
He isn’t scared.
by Samantha Lagace, Gilford, NH
22
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
Everyone is growing older around me
The memory of hot cocoa and creamy soup warms
my heart
Toboggans, saucers, and flexible flyer sleds fly down
the snow-covered hill
Jagged icicles hang from rooftops
I am lying in the snow
The memory of hot cocoa and creamy soup warms
my heart
Jagged icicles hang from rooftops
My childhood has been frozen in time
by Shaina Kass, Solon, OH
At a table with silver candlesticks
I pointed to a place where kids had made angels
in the snow,
They float forever –
When wings can wear a human face
For a world not yet won
He will not fall until he notices his mistake
I could feel the sun coming off the water
All the singing is in the tops of the trees
There.
All seemed at peace.
by Jamie Carver, Culver, IN
Rotten Eggplant
I crossed the bridge
where the water was pink,
laden with animal carcasses,
the small skeletons exposed.
And from you,
I extracted a globe,
warm to touch when I was cold,
as you told me your dreams
of the other side.
But your room was a litter box;
through the excrement,
I crawled.
And I was puking eels,
neon, glowing eels,
all over my favorite skirt –
so delirious
when you reached for my hand,
I was peeling layers from my nose,
dark, crusty raspberry bumps:
I took your hand in mine
and let you feel the bruise.
by Laura Ferruggia, Voorhees, NJ
Photo by Arely Aluña, Chula Vista, CA
Ballet
Our Eyes Meet
Satin slippers, with limbs of ribbon
edges frayed from time and use
overuse.
Countless hours wasted practicing precise dance forms
that audiences will never truly appreciate.
Her bone structure screams for
freedom from regimented rehearsals and
strict standards.
She longs for a stage under soft, twinkling lights
where her
emotions guide her movements; where
rules
and instructors are not needed.
She longs for the day where
anyone can showcase their soul through movement
without the looming fear of heavy
and harsh criticism.
Her individuality will be praised;
her spirit will be longed for among those who
watch with
adoring eyes.
They will glide past one another,
like leaves in a summer breeze.
Toes pointed, ribbons laced
and spotlights casting soft circles
on the bare, dusty stage.
by Brittani O’Hearn, Salt Point, NY
by Sara Brooks, Nokesville, VA
Nameless Employee
Nameless employee
Slouched against
A familiar grocery
Watches unfamiliar faces
Clad in coats
Dodge stray plastic bags
Whipping by their ankles
Averting left
He exhales
A last smoky wisp
Before carelessly dropping
A cigarette to the ground
He watches it fall
Too slowly
Only to snub the flame
With his sneaker
Attention now returns
To the busy shoppers
He sits in his old
Decrepit house.
Smoke fills the room.
Next to him,
A bottle of whiskey,
Empty as usual.
A Marlboro burns slowly
In the ashtray.
Will his life flicker out soon,
Just like the cigarette?
Dip spit coats his harmonica,
A thought to himself,
Maybe that’s why he can’t play
Like he used to.
He picks up his pen.
Looks at his paper.
Thinks.
Nothing.
He looks around,
Sees all the cases of memories,
All the cases of heartache,
All the cases of his soul.
He strums his guitar one last time
Before placing it on the floor.
A note, one that used to be so
Familiar,
Now,
Just a stranger
Floating in the
Smoke-filled room.
Never to be wanted,
Never to be played again.
by Josh Groenke, Gilford, NH
Soldiers
Water Sports
Dust and sand coat the skin and clothes of men
Who sacrifice their lives for people they
Will never know. Still, they don’t question when
Or why, they just try to live through each day.
His kiss tasted of trepidation,
like the first toe
in the water,
tender,
slow,
suspicious.
His lips had moved
like the slipping backs of dolphins,
his hands’ movements
like trembling swells.
The people they fight for don’t understand
The struggles that these men go through. Instead,
They hate all our soldiers who fight, and band
Together to protest a war that they dread.
An explosion is heard a few miles down
The road the soldiers drive on. They don’t stop;
They keep their eyes on the prize. Through the sound
That’s made, their fear grows: one might make
them drop.
In war they are strong as they fight to save
The land of the free, the home of the brave.
by Justin Smith, No. Barrington, IL
He’s Going
Somewhere Today
Two days later his ticket turns to a place
buses come from all over
to pick him up.
Black turns to color
spaces become filled in
sadness becomes happiness
no more waiting
the sun has to rise
his mother kisses him good-bye
he gets on the bus looking from
the back window waving good-bye
until he can’t see her no more … no more …
no more …
So Far From
Morning
by Keni Powis, Plainfield, NJ
The midnight hour
Comes, cold and heartless;
Empty of all thought,
Devoid of empathy.
Surrounded by black smoke,
blinking my stinging eyes
each breath more labored
I hear their screams.
What is happening to my people?
To my city?
Cinderella has
Come and gone; as her
Magic fades away,
Leaving a maid where a
Princess once stood. Now,
Her riches have turned
To rags once more; her
Only hope lies in the
Morning so far from
This midnight hour.
She does not know this,
And weeps in the darkness.
by Rebekkah McKalsen, Fulton, NY
An Indefinitely
Surprising Return
Progress is being made,
hearts are built up.
Built to break.
In the meantime,
the silence and secrecy through the distance
is causing me to
Live my life through a phone.
by Kayla Cook, Clinton, MI
Lady Liberty
Turning,
facing the towers
I see the unmerciful flames
like a python
wrapping around the building,
choking out
every last ounce of life.
Poetry
Stranger Among
the Smoke
I told him it was okay,
that the depths of this
unknowing
did not bother me,
that I was ready to strap on
Infatuation’s scuba gear
and go exploring
beneath the surface.
But still he stumbled,
pulled away with the fear
of a child by the poolside,
a little boy who had once floundered
too far off the deep end.
It’s from this distance I can tell
the dive I’ll make is futile.
For in his face and shifting stature,
I know the eyes of one who will not swim today.
by Lee McKinstry, Westlake, OH
From the Bleachers
I sit in the bleachers
admiring his arms
his legs
his face
as he pummels the ball
as it skims the net
He’s such a fool
He’s SUCH a fool
Am I not obvious?
How can this be discreet?
Or is he ignoring me?
No.
That wouldn’t make sense
because when he sits in the bleachers
he admires my arms
my legs
my face
as I pummel the ball
by Christine Stoddard, Grinnell, IA
He comes to the window,
taking his last breath –
jumps.
I reach out my copper hand
to catch him,
but it is too late.
I wish I could help.
Rage burns inside of me.
Pulling off my spiked crown
If only I could lift
my heavy, cement feet.
I want to fight for them.
If I could just get across the waters,
I’ll pick them up,
protect them.
I feel so helpless.
by Lindsey Sacco, Cromwell, CT
Photo by Masaleen Ohama, Palatine, IL
SUMMER ’08
• Teen Ink
23
Poetry
On a Revealing
Myopia
I let my world melt together,
Like a watercolor painting.
The figures blur.
The colors mix.
The ugly are less offensive.
The beautiful are less dazing.
Filling my eyes with the hidden truth.
by Blaise Leeber, Hull, MA
Swim Lessons
As 7 a.m. approaches
The rectangular container fills to the brim
With water and too many pairs of legs.
Stale, warm air and burning eyes dominate the scene.
Parents still half-asleep
Slap on a smile and radiate confidence
Toward their bundles of joy.
The lady in the red one-piece yells, “JUMP!”
He stands with arms wide open
Ready for the crash landing about to occur.
He said he’ll catch me, she thinks
He said he would.
With bounding strides of panic
She leaps feet first and eyes closed
Into the unknown.
Moments of confusion and abandonment
Are followed by panic and resentment.
Thrashing in the water, she climbs her way to the top.
Three quick breaths of sticky oxygen flow
into her lungs
The chlorine rips at her eyes and throat
She wonders if this is the end.
Finally, he comes to her rescue.
“You did it on your own!” he exclaims
As he cradles her in his arms.
But the trust has been broken
And the fear of the unknown has seeped into her brain
And trickled into her heart.
Mindless
Is It Real?
Mindless
walking
fools.
Always having to enlighten the world with their
“wisdom”
Until they dictate everything
Going back, way back,
In the depths,
The primordial ooze,
Back to the bang that sparked the universe,
What’s matter?
What’s life?
A preamble to another life?
Are we dead in hell?
Was I just born?
Another man done and gone back to the start again,
Over and over wandering in blissful night,
Going back to what is loved.
Sanctuary real or fake?
Let’s go, man,
Start a religion,
Make beliefs,
Ramble on and on until there’s nothing left.
What manners are left?
They took flight to the other side.
Can I see what you really are?
A slithering reptile on the prowl.
Come join our feast; we will be waiting,
Waiting on you, good friend; come on, let’s play,
Let’s live.
Live through the myths, plagues, deaths and sorrows,
Let’s live through all of it, witness it all,
All to be had and nothing to lose,
Gain with me,
Dear friend,
The wisdom to perceive a life a birth and a death,
Let’s perceive the present,
Past and future,
Let us see what it’s like when doors are open,
Let us go to the realness,
The realness of true sight.
Robots
Who can’t think for themselves.
Always seeking the opinion of those greater than them
in the pyramid of society.
Doing what they say is right.
Trying
To break us down
to our bare bones.
Craving that rush of power,
To see us sweat.
Wanting
the satisfaction of our pain
and knowing that they caused it.
Demolishing the walls of our spirit,
and letting us collapse.
Yelling,
Persistently trying to lodge their views into our minds.
When we deny them
they start to shove words down our throats,
wishing for us to drown in their ocean of supremacy
Must we walk in fear
Thinking that we will be silenced?
That we will become nothing?
All because of these
mindless
walking
fools.
This Smile
I Belong to Music
Lifting you to my mouth
I slowly pierce your soft skin
I hold your extinguished life in my hands
And smile as your blood runs down my face
We’ve all seen heart fiends, dumb beings, moral shot
with a bullet
Diluted wonderland selves praying to be accepted
by nobodies
Romance cutting hearts in half and leaving them under
a tint of blue I cozy up to grinding notes that slit my
throat and make me float
Fill me up better than one of those lickety split
jack rabbits
that leave more to be desired
Music makes me smile and gives me faith
I don’t need stupid guys, white lies, or cloudy skies
I want notes waltzing on a staff
That slip and slide up and down my curves getting me
high on melodic life
Music is my lover as it pumps into my heart into the
beat of my own drum in the concert in my chest
So shake my hips and dance like this
As deeper and deeper the melody flows into my marrow
Rushing, caressing and missing me, making love to me
from the inside out
L.O.V.E. won’t suffocate me in anticipation of shredded
hopes
So lovers crawl up legs like ants
But music courses through me, learns me, feels me
Opens the eyes of my soul in a tranquil dance of eternal
sunshine
Music belongs to me as I belong to Music
It does not cheat, it does not hit, it does not lie
Hit me with all your music because with music you
don’t feel a thing but peace
by Tara Jayakar, Inverness, IL
by Sima Rose, Albuquerque, NM
by Kelley Frick, Gilmanton, NH
Peaches
I held your life in my hands
Longing to savor the taste,
And feel your blood run down my face
This smile i’ve painted
how marvelous
This color i’ve speckled
So appealing
But this picture
This secret
The disguise
The gray
I cannot wash away
by Chelsie Gatton, Mequon, WI
Perfectly ripe and about to fall, you
Are the color of sunrises past
I held your life in my hands
The sweet and subtle flavor you contain
Triggers a pining curiosity
To feel your blood run down my face
Standing among the trees in the grove
With the sunshine beating down on me
I held your life in my hands
I inhale deeply. Taking you in
Provokes a crazy hunger inside me
To feel your blood run down my face
Photo by Eveliz Vega Marzán, Bayamon, PR
24
by Josef Trajanoski, Wyckoff, NJ
by Meg Kotmel, Victor, NY
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
Thoughts
Moth
These split ends,
so brittle,
deflect even the most
accepting eye;
my dark
shiny roots
are impatient.
The spoiled tips
are becoming less
and less familiar;
the cores of each strand
give its worthiest effort
to avoid the grim
fate of their precursors.
But how simple
to just snip the decay,
and there will be supple ends
in its place, soothing
to the roughest fingers.
Grasping onto a rusty silver bar
With delicate, skinny fingers
Gently curling over, forming an arch,
To provide some support
In addition to five little toes
Adorned in a pink slipper
Balanced on the new hardwood floor
Sit and struggle through hours.
The darker the night, the brighter the stars.
Your eyes cut through me like my heartbeat cuts
through silence.
This streetlight is empty without your silhouette.
Yet still, I’m here, staring into fluorescents,
looking for you.
You plague me.
by Farah Momen, Congers, NY
Why?
Why must you despise me –
Is it because my skin has been kissed by the sun’s rays?
Are my roots too deep for you,
Or is it my will to find a brighter day?
Why must you look at me with different eyes,
Is it because I stand tall?
My river flows jubilantly with life,
I am Africa, after all.
Why must you hate me,
Is it because my hips are wide like mountains?
My bone structure is thick,
And my love flows like fountains?
Forming another arch
As their hips thrust forward,
Under the silver bar
Their heads dip back in unison
And strained smiles
Are presented
Under the command
Of a strict Russian instructor
Their legs form perfect angles derived from
Years of rehearsals just like this
Tight black leotards conform to
Any curves that might exist
Though they only place a barrier
Between dancers and perfection
On Caroline Avenue
marked by a plaque
of honor to
preserve an artifact of
nature, these elderly branches
twist and dance like vines
on the side of
Grandma’s house
I am meant to fly on stage, she thought,
with nothing holding me down.
by Laura Fanciullacci, Hatfield, PA
by Katelin Adams, Anniston, AL
My silhouette has to be envied, she thought.
As my arms arch over my head,
As I lift my foot and twirl
They will applaud and wish
They could do as I can.
Examining her form in the mirror
Comparing herself to the rest
Critiquing her form as well as her body
When No One’s
Watching
When will you realize
That I am proud to be black?
You have never held me down,
And you will never hold me back.
Sweet voices disappear
laughter all but ceases.
Nasty looks are formed,
and faces flood with creases.
Smiles and giggles fade away,
and everyone releases
their pain when no one’s watching.
by Bethanie Young, Stephenville, TX
Ribbons and Roses
by Krystan Saviola,
Niagara Falls, ON, Canada
by Jordan Dyer, Sunnyvale, CA
memories of Will’s army
jacket whose colors had fit
puzzle-piece like into the
scenery seep from
a crook
molded to fit no others
than us –
bark’s enclave suspends our
worries until clocks
call us back
to conventional
homes in a
fake city
Why must you call me names,
And try to deteriorate my race?
Do you really think that it’s that easy
To put me in my place?
The ribbons tie tightly
Around the slender stem of the roses
I read the card aloud
To myself
I toss it aside
The worthless words
The meaningless babble of heart
I pick up the bouquet
The thorn pricks my index finger
Blood slides from the thorn to the water
Filling the once-clear vase with black
I pull the ribbons letting the flowers fall where they will
And as the black blood spreads
The flowers die
The stems rot
And the petals wilt
Until they fall
Disappearing into the darkness of below
And the ribbons lie lifeless
On the table by the vase
Eventually to be carried away
By the breeze of someone passing
And by the wind of lost love
Poetry
Maintenance
Photo by Dana Denison, Saratoga Springs, NY
Copper Hair
He takes out his almost too large wax box.
Picking and choosing which tools to use.
As he prepares the ski he prepares his mind for work.
Brushing …
Pushing the copper along the luminous black base,
Cleaning the wounds from the battle fought that day.
He moves tip to tail.
Stroking the ski
He uses strong force, but it is his soft touch that cleans
the skis.
If eyes are present,
a peaceful silence abounds;
at exiting, all serenity
is murdered by the sounds.
Screaming insults or curses
sends evil on her rounds
of hurt when no one’s watching.
Perhaps if we remembered
that we’re not alone,
life would be much calmer
instead of hostile drones
ringing in my ears
and rotting all my bones
so slowly when no one’s watching.
His hair is now the bristles of copper and nylon.
Straps that once held his hand are now his arms.
His body is now the wood that separates ski from
a hand.
Brush and stroke,
He moves down the ski.
Astounding change that occurs
with nobody to witness
what goes on behind closed doors
and manifests the sickness
of man, thus identifying
the pretext of happiness
as counterfeit when no one’s watching.
by Kimberly Thuman, Park City, UT
by Lovetta Pajibo, Kingsland, GA
SUMMER ’08
• Teen Ink
25
Poetry
Green Light,
Red Light
You sit on the shag rug
To your left, a bin filled with old Polaroids,
Dirtied around the edges from years of fingerprints
To your right, your old black Labrador
His tail thumps against the side of your nightstand
One picture catches your eye,
You in your favorite bathing suit,
The black one with red tulips
You were with your child, your little princess
You had stood in the pool,
The cool water crashed over your bare legs.
you didn’t know, just two hours later,
Your girl would be stolen from you
By a man who volunteered to end her life
One too many at the bar,
A green light,
A red light,
And the sound of metal colliding.
by Karla Bentcover,
Arlington Heights, IL
Persistence
It is in the small things we handle.
When a child rides their first two-wheeler straight
into a tree,
and gets right back up. Eating your first bite of
real food
that actually went in your mouth. Talking to a boy,
even though all the girls in your class say he has
cooties. I stood up.
Later,
if you have wanted to quit a sport
because you were like a pilot running on empty skills
but kept going.
If you have seen the pain friends have gone through
with relationships
and just want to hide in your own little
world of make-believe, but then you don’t.
If you have gone through what it is like to lose
a loved one that makes you think
you could never love again, but you do.
Later,
when you can no longer hide
from the angel of death
as if you were a mouse against a cat
you keep on fighting. Once you have fought until you
have nothing left you will look back at everything
you have done in life and have only the amount of
energy left to smile as wide as the ocean.
by Samantha Clement, Destrehan, AL
Appearance
We sit.
I in my desk, and she in her tree.
Both surrounded by thousands like us.
At first glance,
We have no individuality,
No definition.
Sitting beside our counterparts,
We are the same.
The sun rises on her smooth surface,
But once more it goes unnoticed.
She blushes with fresh exuberance,
Yet is not noted for this change.
Look harder.
Inside, the similarities fade.
Flowing, ripe juices course throughout.
Their sweetness is tasted for the first time.
Differences flood our inner walls,
Yet outside we remain unchanged.
An outward façade binds us
To our peers.
But inside we are not the same;
Inside we become who we are.
by Lyn Wenzel, Louisville, KY
During That Winter
During that winter
When snowmen came alive
You had to see to believe
Perfect
Pristine
And how you could almost taste it
Surely the best part
(Always saved for last)
Were the snowballs
Into perfect orbs they would form
Crunching as the delicate snow
Strained under the compression of my
Worn-out, soggy gloves
When the transformation was complete
The newborn rockets were
Fired mercilessly at
Siblings, friends,
Or anyone unlucky enough
To be within the battle zone
During that winter
by Oliva DeCarlo, Farmington, NY
Sleep
An escape without really leaving
Never going outside your door
Yet you see a new world
One that’s exotic
It’s located inside your memory
Imagination is what powers it
The feeling of flying
The experience of free-falling
The smell of lilacs
The sounds of an orchestra
Being directed by a talented talking ape
It’s the one surefire way
Of becoming the superstar of your dreams
Without the crazy paparazzi
Instead of failing for being wrong
You may fail for being right
In your insane dreams
During the night
by Irene Cunningham,
Bremerton, WA
Photo by Andy Green, Phoenix, AZ
26
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
The Three-Legged
Race
The gun was fired, and off we go
“Run,” Paul says, “Run and fight!”
Run hard, run strong, from birth to death.
A race, our race, a race called life.
Not track, nor dash, nothing rash
This life, our life, the Three-Legged Race.
Two by two, through ups and downs.
One after the other, needing another.
Be it brother, sister, best friend or lover;
We run life, our life, a Three-Legged Race.
The bond is forged, true and deep,
strong and pure, so long enduring.
The bond called friendship, a bond called love
This bond that lasts us … for a while.
Attached at the heart; a steady pace
Through hard times, a smiling face
A shoulder to cry on, and one who listens
Wiping away the tears that glisten
My God, I thank you for this Three-Legged Race.
Growing together, experiencing together
Knowing life’s joys, knowing its sorrow
You always there, waiting each ’morrow.
Thank you, Lord; thank you, my friend.
Someone to run with, in this Three-Legged Race.
But paths do split, and good-byes are said.
The bond dissolved leaves a shining thread.
Clutching and grasping, reaching for something
But it’s gone, you’re gone, off far ahead
You’ve found another, left me alone, facing life
all on my own
I need you! I’m empty! So lonely and dead …
I’m minus a leg, only got two.
I stumble and fall in this Three-Legged Race.
“Get up,” a voice says, “Get up and go.
Run hard, run strong! Obtain my prize.”
But I’m cold and I’m weak, can’t even speak
So hollow, so empty, where did you go?
I crawl on two, missing you
But what can I do? There’s no going back.
Life’s one way, and merely memories are left;
Pursuing my path; going alone, only two legs in a
Three-Legged Race.
Each day is pain, my thoughts on you
What did I do? I’m such a fool!
Rage and anger, sadness and sorrow
A viper’s nest of dark emotions
At last I collapse, fall to the ground
I find no worth in continuing now
Only got hopelessness on this planet round
My face in the dust, no strength to continue
Is this the end of my Three-Legged Race?
But two arms encircle me, He picks me up,
A voice so calm, so warm ’n’ deep
“Rest here, find peace, wait for another
One day, you WILL continue my race.”
Eyes closed, I sleep, content for a while
Forward I go, a little relief, my Savior, my Lord
bearing me
Carried, I look, awaiting your face
Are you alone like I in the race of life?
I’ll find you, you’ll join me, my friend, and
my soulmate.
Together, we’ll go, hope ’til the last.
Until the end, ’til the finish
This is Life’s Three-Legged Race
by Jonathon Bowyer,
Richmond Hill, GA
But You Didn’t
All That Remains
Afraid of the future
And of the past
I’m only safe in the present
Calmly sailing
Alone
No one to judge if I’m failing
’Cause if I was
It’d be clear to everyone:
Me, floundering in the water.
I took a slice of moon and put it my hair
But you didn’t say
I glowed.
I scattered the stars in my eyes,
But you didn’t say
I shone.
I splashed the blue ocean water on my face,
But you didn’t say
I glistened.
I told you “I love you” yesterday,
But you didn’t even
listen.
Voices echo in my head softly … calmly … hauntingly …
Memories dance in my mind like figures on a roll
of film
Faded, fading, dying
His face enters my dreams,
His hands hold onto mine
His embrace lingers in thought
The promise lives on in words
His laugh, his smile, his amiable spirit,
All alive within my heart
by Marcy Weber, Lansdale, PA
Grim Reality
Denial
I close my eyes, open them again
& reread the text message,
“dead” … there it is.
My mouth drops and my jaw quivers.
I am shocked, as if I were just dropped into the Arctic
Ocean.
After a few minutes I erase the text in disbelief.
I am short of breath.
My nose begins to run.
I lie back on my bed.
Anger
My face is warm with rage.
I clench my teeth & think to myself.
How can he be gone?
Why was he taken?
Shaking in pain, my heart feels like it’s being stabbed.
I clench my fists closed.
I am bitter.
Confusion
Driving by the tracks where he was hit.
I see mounds of flowers.
I raise my hands & draw them across my shrinking view.
Hunched over I shake my head & turn away.
Why him? He was so young.
Acceptance
I catch myself looking for him
in the hallways where we used to pass each other.
I can’t walk by the park without thinking
about that sticky summer day
when all of us climbed up into that small, creaky tree
house.
We sat up there until sundown, laughing & talking.
Most of the laughter was product of his clever
personality.
There isn’t anything anyone can do to bring him back.
However, we can remember what made him so special
& try our best to keep that alive.
by Maggie Glimp, Barrington, IL
by Landis Marie Fraser,
Alpharetta, GA
The Final
Showdown
The wind howling in the willows
The shrill laughter and glee;
It had heard it all
Before the final hour of its fall.
So gently the northerly would it blow
But cease! Alas, unexpectedly;
Yet, the boiling rage it had braved
And shrewd minds and a towering blaze.
But reality gives birth to only ashes
Remnants
Ruins of a memory
Reality displays mere representation to honor a soul
And the truth hurts
Burdens
Pains
Like scorching daggers piercing into the chambers
of the heart
Twisting
Plunging
Killing
All that remains, all that existed
Leaving only memories
Moments burned upon film
Fading until they vanish with the touch of Death
by Holly Tran, Middletown, RI
When the earth had cracked
And skulked too had the wintry warriors
It had stood its ground
Despite the coldness circling it round and round.
Nothing had been so precarious,
As to steal it of its rightful throne;
Yet now however, the tempest brewed,
And risked it being crushed and slew.
No survivor from the battlefield,
No patron with a gilded chariot;
None could hold the reins of appalling gale
And all that was left to do was plead and wail.
How easily had the raging furor
Proven its superiority over the majestic wisdom
For, when the heavens, after the storm, uncoiled,
The battered leaf had submitted to the tender soil.
by Rewati Kulkarni, Abu Dhabi, UAE
Where I Come From
To the Moon
From Below
I am from smiles and good mornings
To sweet hugs at night
From the woods of camping
To roasting golden-brown marshmallows.
From barks and meows
To slobbery pants and purrs.
My mindless musings often follow
The uncertain path of the high-flying swallow
Beyond the ground that binds us to our fate
But when comes the morrow’s sun, I find I am too late
I am from clicks on the Dell computer
To silent rings on the phone
From hanging with friends
And being told to come home.
Above our heads and atop the night
It circles us, too high for flight
I reach up my hands to the shining sphere
Hoping to console this fear
I am from wet splashes with the family
To lying on a summer night under the stars
From school dances and parties with friends
To telling deep dark secrets while catching a late movie.
The presence of this ethereal glow
Is something that we’ve come to know
When the night has a light such as this
Then soon, our world, the sun cannot miss
I am from rough pain
And sharp happiness
But most of all where I am from
Are people who care
And people who I know will always be there.
by Kara Anderson,
Kingston, ON, Canada
Poetry
Sailing
by Brianne Becker, Nashotah, WI
Photo by Sarah Marshall, Blairsville, PA
Shadows
Looking out the window of my slow-moving car,
A scene soon catches my eye.
A young girl grasps her father’s hand as the slowmoving traffic carries on,
eyes filled with such admiration and hope.
There she goes running on the sidewalk,
carefree in the wind,
with pink ribbons dancing wildly in the air.
She turns and for a second I think she sees me
With round blue eyes that cut into my soul,
But she turned away faster than she even glanced
Leaving me feeling more alone than ever before.
It was there when I tried to grasp the reflection,
But it waned as a candle in the wind,
Flickering in the darkness
Dying against the strain of time.
I returned home tired and hopeless,
Reminiscing on swing sets and slides.
The sweet taste of innocence,
A time when pain was a skinned knee!
Nobody ever stops to think, This won’t last forever,
No child ever imagines one day they will be an onlooker,
Hearing voices in the distance,
Seeing shadows of their past.
by Meredith Shapiro, Roslyn, NY
SUMMER ’08
• Teen Ink
27
Poetry
The Ride Down
Seasons
The wind whirling against my face,
Mixed with hard, icy snow
I closed my eyes shut,
While my body leaned back,
But I still hung on.
I gripped tightly as I whooshed down
Almost there, just a little bit more
As I was speeding down, a crazy sensation hit me
The feeling of thrill, excitement, and exhilaration
came upon me
I was going so fast; I had no control of where
I was going,
Just knew that I was going all the way to the end.
I saw the end, I was almost there
But then my foot got stuck in the snow
And I twirled and lost my balance
I rolled down, and down, and down
Everything was blurry and distorted
Everything was hectic, frenetic, and chaotic
Then all was still
And I was at the end
I made it to the end.
I am autumn
I am the swift passage between heat and frost.
I am the wind, the rain, and the crisp leaves.
Each year I am the turning point between summer
and winter.
I am the pivot that makes the leaves turn color and the
air cooler than it was before.
by Sarah Lee, Congers, NY
Chasing Childhood
I had a dream last night
Where I saw childhood run away.
I chased it ’til I could no more
And everything faded to gray
What happened to the picnics?
Cotton candy at the fair?
Nobody goes anymore
Too busy to even care
Where are the dress-up clothes?
Trips for ice cream after school?
Now we’re doing homework
Or pretending not to, if you’re cool
I am spring.
I am the beginning of a new year.
I am the blossoms, the misty rain showers and
the garden hose.
I am a second chance, a new beginning.
I help the warm weather become evident to
the surrounding world.
I am the time of year where patios are put to good use
and the puddles on the sidewalk are just about dry.
I am spring.
I am summer.
I am bittersweet; unanticipated, yet craved.
I bring heat and romance to the world.
I am the epitome of love season.
I help reintroduce the world to the fun it once knew.
I am pool season and vacation-planning mayhem.
I am the time of year that brings breezy nights and
sand between toes.
I am summer.
I woke up the next morning
Wondering why I was so blue
And I realized it was no dream
I let childhood go too soon.
We are the seasons.
We help bring life and love to the world.
We keep things changing and help people realize that
variety is a good thing.
We are the laughter, the smiles, and the freedom.
We are the seasons.
by Alisa Tiwari, Chevy Chase, MD
by Haley Zambie, Phoenix, AZ
Someone Fix That
F***ing Faucet
Immortality
Chemistry class.
Somewhere in the school,
there’s a faucet dripping.
drip.
I’m sure of it.
drop.
I crack my knuckles,
draw on my shoes.
drip.
write poetry.
I’m over you.
drop.
I swear it.
“I’m insane. Fix me?”
Last night I realized.
Drip.
“I could kiss you better.”
Drop.
could it … ? – no.
no, of course not.
drip.
but yet there it is.
DROP.
the irony might kill me.
by Kayla Sheridan, Reno, NV
28
I am winter.
I am the gateway to warm weather.
I am the cold days, the black nights, and the frosty
evening.
I have occurred once a year, no less, no more.
I help the spring become anticipated as I make my
smooth transition from autumn.
I am the time of year where singing is joyous and the
bells are ringing.
I am winter.
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
Solitary
Confinement here
Ice-cold bars
Never escaping from this
Eternity
by Melinda Cohoon, Tigard, OR
An Almost
Awkward Silence
Dependent upon your words,
I wait to hear.
Something resurrected from my
Childhood hopes.
Locked beneath my own pages,
I’ve waited for this.
Your eyes cheat me.
They hug your cheeks and
Battle monotonously.
For the sake of sanity,
Say those words.
Nervous tensions clutch me,
Drown my securities,
Drain the integrity of my anticipation.
I watch your lips,
Waiting.
Rhythmical trembles of my chest
Choke me, dismantle
my motor skills.
I should have known this.
by Desiree Golden, Cressona, PA
Where I Am From
I am from juice,
from Minute Maid and
Simply Orange.
I am from the cold stone floor,
freezing my feet.
I am from the bamboo plant,
the palm tree,
and the money plant as green as money.
I am from curry and temples,
and Dr. Seuss and Bollywood,
from Mum, Dad, and relatives.
I am from the cleaning and organizing.
From cleaning my room to being organized.
I am from festival of lights
so happily and brightly celebrated.
I am from India, butter chicken to naan.
From the Grand Canyon to the Himalayas is the growth
of my family.
From pagers to cell phones is the improvement
of my family.
I am from my family.
I am from speaking my language,
trying not to lose dignity of my religion and culture.
I am from packing boxes and moving.
From Canada to Texas, to Chicago,
and then to California.
I am from respecting animals more than people,
from giving and helping we needed.
I am from band practice to playing tuba,
from learning something new every day.
Photo by Adria Olson, Edgewood, WA
by Sabrina Sapal, San Diego, CA
Don’t mind my vacant, flustered, fuddled stare,
I’m like this because minds do roam afar,
When they’re witness to your blissfully rare
Pair of wane eyes; how they resemble stars.
God, how they shine, surpassing all others,
Glistening, glittering, glad fully bright.
How they passed before, my brain now wonders,
And yet a wonder I behold each night.
Every morning I wake, captivated,
Alive from the sunlight through my window,
Reminded of a soul now agitated,
Dying as I wait for your shadow.
And while the sun blinds, your stars glow golden,
Our full, enamored stare, eyes wide open.
by Sarah Pelston, Elizabethtown, KY
For You, Grandma
I do not see her growing old
With lids that limp and weigh with years,
Yet not imprisoned within the bound confines of
her many volumes
She sparks, she lights, she sings
Songs of God-intoxicated psalmists
Who lifted their hearts to a divine Father
A presence they felt with equal immediacy
To that which she feels today – but I see only her past
and future …
I do not see her growing old.
I do not hear her weakening voice
With words still sieging, capturing space and listeners
as the Seas in Exodus
None hardened into dogma because of her years
Not congealed into structured philosophic borders
She weaves, recounts and ricochets
With tales that enliven days buffeted by hardship,
bound by dignity
She has to tell the story one more time … in the moment
Be sovereign in her detachment from an unreliable
posterity
But I hear only her past and present
I do not see her growing old
I do not feel her senescent hands
With veins that poke through pools of spotted creases
Instruments that have swung the scythe of destiny
From war to peace to prophecy
Molding her line, inculcating the generation to come
She caresses, she weaves, she fulfills
With touches that promise eternity and
Embraces that would unharden the hearts of pharoahs
So much warmth, with midrash in each touch
The candor of angels that counter the fear of Heaven
Which could at any moment intervene and break
the storyline
Replacing the heat of the here and now
With cold, numbing denouement
But I feel only her presence now
I do not see her growing old.
by Jourdan Urbach,
Roslyn Heights, NY
The Last Day of
Summer
On the steps of the neighbors’ house
Sit the kids and their watermelon.
With streams of juice trickling down their chins.
Suddenly those small black seeds
Start flying through the air.
A game begins amongst good friends,
As summer ends just to begin again.
by Graham Suvick, Gibsonia, PA
Counseling
Sessions
Sentiment of the
Century
A year
Five months
Fifty dollars a week
One red couch
Someone to talk to
No more silence
Telling her
How hard it is
You shouldn’t be here
You should be normal enough
But you have to say
Everything inside
I miss you
And I hate him
I don’t understand this
That is just too confusing
White tablets,
Blue pens
Inside my head
The diagnosis?
Something to swallow with water
I love her
But it’s wrong
It’s taken
This long
To spill out everything
A year
Five months
And fifty dollars a week
That white summer dress deflated me.
washed away my words
Eden eyes and Lebanon lips hit me
like a tsunami.
Her tides flow between my ribs
and rinse my heart valves.
Fixation on quartz cheeks accented by
rose-petal blush and ivory skin.
She expels riptides from her lungs
and the undertow will always keep me
in the ocean.
A seashell veil hides her from me.
by Emily Welby, St. Peters, MO
The Dragon Queen
Her mane of hair flows gracefully
Down from her frozen scalp.
Her ice-cold eyes shine vividly
As they chip us down to pulp.
Her diamond teeth all glitter from
The inside of her maw.
She smiles wildly to see you
Squirm beneath her silver paw.
And as her beaded tail whips out so
She can hold me from afar
We both begin to thrash about
So we won’t become the martyrs.
Poetry
Look Into Me
by Zach Calo, Brookline, NH
Venice in Reverie
Up and down the shoreline,
Our burning necks a startling contrast
against the bone-dry whiteness
of the sea-bleached boardwalk beside us.
Stopping, we would point out every oddity,
Every strung-out hippie freak.
Drunk on nostalgia, we’d grin and
Turn to face each other, saying,
“Venice Beach, oh I’ve missed it so.”
Wandering for hours with no destination, no motivation,
We embody the spirit of the place.
Thus, returning to the fold,
we join the followers of Venice.
Pausing, my father would turn his face
to feel the heat of the October sun.
He’d laugh and tell me how
he much preferred the changing of the tides,
to the changing of the leaves.
And I’d just smile and count
the freckles on the back of my hand
and bury my feet
in the coarse, dark sand.
Standing there, like some monument to youth,
I would listen as my father reminisced
And watch in wonder
as the years slid off his face.
by Meagan Jungman, Papillion, NE
We have crossed the Blue Bright Lady
Who stole the golden throne.
She snatches you up in bejeweled jaws
And leaves nothing but your bones.
Her steely gaze now turns on me
And I melt beneath her stare.
I know I’ll die quite painfully
As she holds me in the air.
We tried to win! We really did
And I swear we haven’t failed
I know the real Queen’s coming home
Then that Dragon will turn pale.
Yeah, you heard me, she’ll set you straight
Then you’ll be gone for good
When our Angel takes your place above
And you’re dead beneath the woods.
But Dragon Queen, you vengeful witch
Ruler of ice and snow,
How calm you sit upon the throne
As my Wonderland burns below.
by Bethany Lindell, Houston, TX
Photo by Ananya Mishra, Austin, TX
Gratitude
Your white-capped summit is calling,
Waiting for those who will claim it first
There is nothing more for anyone’s wanting
Than to make your fresh powder bubbles burst
While on your peak gazing down
I will choose my trail with care
For on my head is a crown
That I will forever wear
I thank you, mighty peak
For it is you I will always seek
by Jarrett Barbuto, Franklin Lakes, NJ
SUMMER ’08
• Teen Ink
29
Poetry
Teardrops
The Star Crusher
My eyes avoiding others
To conceal the dusky red.
Walking to the deserted bathroom stealthily
So no one sees me.
Man looks up on the clearest of nights
And gazes upon the darkened sky,
And wonders at distant galaxies,
At nebular clouds and comet-tails.
But most of all, he dreams of stars,
And how he wonders what they are!
The pounding anxiety grows black steadily.
Seeing my refuge at the end of the corner,
I quicken my pace.
Hearing my pumping heart in my ears,
And hearing laughter in this indifferent world,
My walk turns into a run that seems eternal.
Beneath this shadowy lighthearted exterior,
I am feeble.
Caring no more about the world,
I burst into the abandoned bathroom.
A darkness creeps within me,
Entangled deeply inside.
A burden in my heart
Craves to come out.
Tears stream out of my eyes endlessly.
Constantly searching for God,
I wish for the misty tears to stop pouring.
But no one hears my desperate cries of help.
The tears burn the skin when they dry on my face.
Stealing my strength from me,
And yet I continue to cry.
I look in the mirror:
The tear is the only shine left in me.
by Rutu Shah, Congers, NY
Unforgotten
Thick old books
With covers brown
And parched to crumbs
Just like my lips
With yellow souls
Dry yellow souls
That once were white
That once were clean
Like me
But we’re both special now
And rare
by Emily Petit, No. Kingstown, RI
I Float Back
I float back to you like a habit
that’s hard for me to break
let you break me
more
and
more with each kiss
each touch
until I’m finally just a pile of broken bones
beneath your feet
I see the stars burning in the night
But no stellar dreams cross my thoughts …
Instead I dream of upending the sky
Shaking out the invaders in my space!
Why are they above and I below?
Who dared to let them rule my sky?
I’m sick of being just a friend.
To you the title was
pointless and unnecessary.
But to me it meant
everything.
Yet … try as I might, there is no hope –
As I reach out and grasp in vain,
Stars slip through like grains of sand,
Distant and cold in their lonely space.
by Bella Berger, W. Des Moines, IA
Do they see us die, and do they know
That one day they will lose their light,
That every star is bound to collapse,
Succumb to forces beyond its control?
Cold. So very cold.
It smells like iron and sterility.
The light hits my eyes like a freight train,
An unyielding force holds me firmly by my appendage.
My world turns topsy-turvy and I thrash violently
against the oppressors.
Gigantic groping figures prompt me to do something
What do they want? WHAT DO THEY WANT?
I’m aware of a thudding on my back
And suddenly my body convulses against my will.
The intake stings brilliantly against my insides,
Threatening to rupture everything I had come to know.
The warmth sucked away from me a moment before,
Explodes abruptly in a burning passion from my throat.
The noise erupting from my bowels shocks me for a
moment,
Then I greedily take advantage of my newfound
weapon.
My world abruptly turns upwards once more,
And the giants permit me warm rough blankets to end
their suffering at my commotion.
Little do they know their troubles with me have just
begun.
Do they look down upon the Earth
And watch the foxes giving birth,
The termites swarming in their nest,
Birds and beasts settling down to rest,
The humans looking up, who sigh:
“Can I? Can I?”
The stars and I – we’re both mortal things,
And when I die, I will go nova too,
And I will live on as scattered dust
That slowly congeals and is born anew.
So once again, when you number the stars,
I will not have died – merely winked at you.
by Avery Yen, Sharon, MA
Where the Sad
Things Hide
Untitled
Is how we remain.
The Struggle
As they kissed for the last time
His eyes betrayed the cruelty of his crime
She was broken beyond repair
His last words, “Take care,”
Locked into her mind they stood
Where even death did no good
And hidden there in that sad place
Is the trace of an angel’s tear as it rolls down her face
The water it stained as it fell
There is where the sad things dwell
I oftentimes wonder what my first breath must have
felt like,
And sometimes I pretend that I know.
by Sarah Thompson,
Santa Barbara, CA
I sat in the airport reading a magazine
My eyes started to wander across the scene
They fell upon a man with dirty clothes and messy hair
He paid no attention to it, he didn’t care
by Megan Jacobson, Houston, TX
The Stranger
Across the Room
He wore slim-cut jeans and a worn-out hat
He had a tattoo on his arm of a baseball bat
He had a five o’clock shadow you could see from a mile
And it looked like he hadn’t had a haircut in a while
His face was weather-worn and tanned like leather
He must have lived somewhere with pretty rough
weather
He had a scar above his left eye
I wondered what happened, how and why
The ants swarm out of the anthill,
Off to fight the war.
For Queen and hive!
For Glory and God!
Locked in mortal combat,
Fighting their little war,
They don’t look up;
They don’t see the foot come down.
As I boarded my plane I looked back once more
The man was making his way to the store
As my plane left for Egypt to see the tombs
I couldn’t stop thinking of the stranger across the room
by Nigel Halliday, Gibsonia, PA
by Brendan Reid, Calgary, AB, Canada
Photo by Daniel Hales, Durham, NC
SUMMER ’08
title.
Time has passed,
and nothing has changed.
Ants
Teen Ink •
I only wanted one thing,
a simple five-letter word,
If I could touch them, then I might
Take one down and grip it tight,
Crush it to dust and scatter the bits,
Crush it as small as physics permits!
by Na’Tia Hurst, Lexington, KY
30
Untitled
(In Your Favor)
Watch Out
Old and wrinkled with veins that show through
My grandmother’s hands with the little fingers
bent at the knuckles
Place themselves above the stripes of black and white
And sink deep down into the keys
A sweet melody flows
Engulfing my ears and soothing my soul.
My anger is like a parasite
Suffocating and murderous
My tears an avalanche
Drowning you deep within
My fears like a spider
Crawling all over your skin
My emotions a fire
Burning you to a crisp
My kiss is death
Sucking your soul from within
My love is a porcupine
Tough to handle and penetrate
So next time you want to touch my feelings
I’ll dig wounds into your flesh never healing
by Alexis Lee, Park City, UT
Her Sad Eyes
I find myself thinking
As I stroll down the hallway
The students bring scenes of jungle chaos to my mind
Students fight ’til the death
A teacher scrambles
Picks up pencils, grading book, car keys, coffee mug
Half full of scalding liquid
Gets bumped by a student
Student runs away, catching up with his friends
Doesn’t offer a hand, or even condolences
Teacher looks onward
From her sad eyes
Tears form in the corners
Teacher stays kneeling
The floor digs into the knees, leaving an impression
Coffee drips from the rim of the mug
Red, black, blue, white shoes flee the scene
Drip Drip Drip
Teacher bursts into tears
Gets up off the floor
Leaves the building
Strolls down the walkway
by Jordan Sleva, Clarkston, MI
Write Your Name
write your name upside down
on paper all white
the shards of glass handwriting
pierce definitive night
The grass so green wilts an ebony black,
Army is approaching and there’s no turning back.
Stars overhead shiver in utmost fear,
They know Judgment Day is almost here.
by Denise Keene, Danbury, CT
Corporate Chess
Two sides adorned in red and blue,
Draw swords to conclude a long-fought issue.
Across the field echoes a shout,
And then begins the bloody bout.
As they run into the shadows
Undercover of the rain,
They come across a wounded ally,
Blinded by his pain.
He looks at them and he says,
Don’t you see this is insane?
As his stare goes blank, the others
do as they’ve been trained.
They’re all pawns in a game
Of vicious corporate chess.
Identical, except the colors,
Those with which they dress.
They might as well just settle this
With pieces on a board,
And save the lives of countless soldiers
Save them from the war.
Thunder booms and cannons fire,
Angels sing, a solemn choir.
The time it took was just a flash,
And now the land is reduced to ash.
Battered soldiers take their leave,
In the sanity of man they no longer believe.
Bearing scars that haunt the mind,
The fate of the enemies is now intertwined.
The fight was won that very day,
The land of the French was taken away.
The English gain was far from benign,
At the Battle of Abraham in 1759.
By Amanda Dickson,
Calgary, AB, Canada
by Christos Schrader, Wyckoff, NJ
The Cat
see through the glass
your watch heavy on my wrist
seconds torn from my grasp
many things i have missed
All was silent,
A gentle breeze caressing buildings,
The snow fell, coating the ground.
A light flickered on.
see through the glass
the sunset appears
you’re running too fast
innocent light disappears
A black cat tiptoed.
Grazing the snow
As if a ghost.
The cat disappeared,
The light flickered off.
shards of glass
nostalgic and raw
pour out on the page
plead the future i saw
those words on the page
have now become mine
reflected like a mirror
etched like a design
A raven soars over clouded skies,
Awaiting a deathly battle and broken ties.
In the heavens sits a mourning moon,
Weeping for the end of an age and the start of doom.
Tears of the gods puddle on broken stone,
Soon all that is living will be reduced to bone.
Blankets of fog block out the burning sun,
From its place in the sky waiting for war to be done.
in an unquiet sleep
dreaming all gray and blue
dream of sparkling glass
cast from an ocean world view
see all of these things
and come back to me once more
go from me once more
the skies open up
and glass tears rain to the floor
The Battle of the
Plains of Abraham
Poetry
Old and Wrinkled
The silence broke,
A trash can toppled.
The sound of rats everywhere,
The light flickered on.
A swift, clean, precise blow,
Silent, stealthy, the black cat.
No squeal of pain, no shriek of terror,
Simply death.
The light flickered off.
write your name upside down
on paper all white
the shards of glass handwriting
form the reflection in sight.
Blood leaked
As the cat sipped.
The sound of the cat disappeared,
The sound of the rat,
Dragged through the snow.
The light remained off.
Nothing.
by Jenny White, Schaumburg, IL
by Kenny Langer, E. Northport, NY
Photo by Leah Brinson, Kokomo, IN
The Sentiment
Lightly tapping across the floor
Paws with nails too long,
Whispering by a couch on fours
Delicate hair rubbed wrong;
Silently preparing to strike
Joints are cracked and bowed,
Heaving atop cushions alike
Bright hazel eyes aglow;
Bristly licking a familiar face
Tongue is coarse to skin,
Purring across a limb with grace
Throat humming with affection.
by Danielle Zigon, Carmel, IN
SUMMER ’08
• Teen Ink
31
Poetry
The Black and
White Keys
One Window Is
All I Need
How to Survive a
Fairy Tale
I sit here as the cool wave of calmness
Takes over my spirit
The white and black keys
Adjoined to each other
Space out like a perfect rhythm
The first few notes trickle down the wall
Hitting the ground, these despairing raindrops
With a harder and louder progression
Riding up the crescendo until it becomes a storm
A melancholic tempest in E minor
Thunderbolts hit here and there
Doom is here, playing its own solo
A finale’s lightning bolt hits as a pause follows
The ringing of silence is unavoidable
The war is over as sadness descends
Rain falls softer in a stagnant tempo
Softer and softer
Until it is nothing
But an eerie trickle of the black and white keys
Then came the last triumphant thunderbolt
Anticipated yet feared
And as soon as it began
The song is over
To see things I never imagined
To see others instead of me
To get inspired by the things around me
Where maybe, just maybe, things make sense
If you should find yourself lost in a book,
Where certainly no one would think to look,
Follow these tips to keep yourself safe,
From witch, or from troll, or cold-blooded snake.
by Andrea White, Golden, CO
Be Helpful
If someone should ask you for a helping hand,
Help without thinking, do not be grand.
Chances are, they will later come back,
to assist you from a confusing trap.
by Liliann Nguyen,
Hoffman Estates, IL
Be Cunning
While there are those who mean you no harm,
There are the people on the other arm,
Most would eat you without a regret,
So stay alert to keep safe from them.
Art by Carollynn Goldenberg, Hawthorne, NY
Fade to Winter
Fake
The rustle of leaves surrounds me
Like rain unseen
It pings the dirt
And stops so fast.
you’re all fake, you wax people,
mannequins dressed for Paris,
doing everything, everything expected of you,
assuming roles, snatching positions,
lining up in flawless rows to battle,
in any way possible,
against the rest of us.
and you must, you must win.
Why have trees become reptilian?
Right when it’s cold
They shed their coats
Don’t they get cold?
Icy blue skies make it so cold.
In summer it
Was so pretty
Heat now escapes.
by Paige Harvey, Oak Ridge, TN
Stronger
Shut me in a windowless room
Though I long to see the sun
I will not utter a word of reproach
For I am stronger in my disgrace.
I shun your taunting murmurs
Like poison to the mind –
And though I long to see the sun
I am stronger in my faith.
Leave me blind without the light
So forcefully removed from this room,
I’ll in myself lead the way
For I am stronger in this fight.
by Aishah Kuzu, Dallas, TX
A Tragedy by
Shakespeare
Life is a tragedy by Shakespeare,
the occasional laugh,
the occasional cry,
it is filled with villains and heroes and conflict
on both sides
and in the end,
everyone dies.
by Wendy Wanner, Columbus, MT
32
Listen
If you’re given advice, listen or be doomed,
Even if it comes from an animal,
However degrading, I am sure you will find
it is highly preferable to stay alive.
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
but then comes the mind bomb,
the explosively unexpected U-turn
that occurs every now and then,
when you throw the yoke of your superiority
off your shoulders, forgotten almost completely,
as you ooze sugar, bleed sweet,
chatter friendly and crack inside jokes
like eggs, and you mix it all together and
serve it up.
and we all, we all devour it like cake.
hypnotized and mesmerized and
all the more smashed when like
that,
you snap back, rubber overstretched,
assuming roles, snatching positions,
and sticking us in the freezer
until needed for future use.
Stick to the path,
don’t open the door,
keep away from that cottage,
or we’ll see you no more.
Follow these hints,
and you will be safe,
but beware if the rules you ignore and break.
Don’t say we didn’t warn you.
by Karissa Elliott, Spokane Valley, WA
Go, Girl
Run, girl
Flee from your dreams
Too optimistic
Find a new reality
Jump, girl
On the brink of your scheme
No more ingenuity
Nothing as it seemed
Sprint, girl
No longer one
Changed forever
Your past has just begun
Cry, girl
You are broken
Heart in pieces
Nothing left to be spoken
by Samantha Reyes, Coral Gables, FL
by Elisha Laubacher, Canton, OH
The Eve of
Yesterday
Marbled mazes sweeping past me,
tug of war of blues and yellows
golden skies
sleeping pillows
crimson lullabies. Just listen.
Pages thick beneath my fingers,
rough and smooth.
Imitate me, draw me closer,
closer, closer
The Pickle
The pickle
Moves
floating around in the
Pickle juice
I open the top of the
Jar
shut.
Reach inside and enjoy my
Delicious meal.
by Laurin Werner, Midliothian, VA
by Logan Ballard, Elizabethtown, KY
Quitting School
The sun was born here
to bake the clay,
to dry the salt,
and to stir the ocean-blue.
Jen slouches as she’s sitting in the main office
Waiting as her mom signs papers to quit school
Handing over her textbooks to the principal
Looks at her mother as tears go down her face
Wishing that her daughter would have got all A’s
Trusted her that she would never be late to school
Hoping that one day she had a good career …
Now her name deleted in the school computer
All her classes have one chair empty
The hallways missing a student going to every class
Walking to her locker
She opens it and it’s empty
No books, papers or pictures
Jen’s quitting school
It saturates the deep valleys
and penetrates the rolling hills.
It fills the streets with joy.
The sun does not burn.
It does not scorch.
It cleanses
and it heals.
It washes away
the scars of the past:
the wars,
the hatred,
and the bloodshed.
This beloved city
to muse upon –
from ancient times
to now –
is enlightened
by this magnificent orb.
People run into the streets.
“L’Chaim!” they chant.
“Bismillah!” they sing.
Divided they may fall,
but united they stand
when they are beneath
His light.
by Lauren Mitchell, Clarkston, MI
It’s Too Early
No, not yet
Just five more minutes
Let me stay
Head rested on a fluffy
Gray-sheeted pillow
Still partially dreaming
Slowly drifting away from reality
But forced
To abruptly stop that trek
And turn back toward reality
And make my bitter depart
From the cozy, welcoming bed
by Josh Streich, New City, NY
Spring Bares
Its Teeth
Carry on into the distance
Where thunder rumbles and lightning strikes
Across the stumbling plains of Montana
The air, fresh from rain, cool and crisp
Just right for the green to show
And the flowers to boast
Strewn across the green meadow
Are leaves of old, dead but promising
Renewed strength given to the trees
Standing centuries tall
While I, five years of age, compare
Time slows with sly grace
And tiptoes silently through
As the doe cowers and eats
And the squirrels clutch fallen walnuts
All keeping up in the chilly warmth of spring.
by Sam Tarillion, Fremont, OH
Nowhere Girl on
the Horizon
What’s making you nervous, little blond-haired girl?
Lost in a red dress in her own little world
A forest of change with falling leaves and dead trees
But you still seem to smile for seconds
For me
But as you run toward the purple cloudy horizon of
such a long trail
Like a movie it seems slow, like every minute is frozen
I don’t know where you’re going but I’d like to go too,
but my dream is closing
So I’ll say good-bye to you
Poetry
Jerusalem
by Numen Enders, Worcester, MA
by Mariangela DiPaola, Edison, NJ
Rainy Dialogue
Lying in the Snow
The chill.
creeps up my back,
slips down my shoulders,
wraps around my arms.
I face the night sky.
nature to nature.
beautiful.
terrifying
moonlight envelops my skin,
dances across my eyes.
diamond stars
float through the icy sky,
like fireflies skimming water.
My breath is vapor,
soft against the glassy frost.
I feel the chill.
again.
the snow drifts
and I drift away.
Lying in the snow.
by Andie Dodge, Nampa, ID
Oak Tree
Oak Tree,
Round and Strong,
Rustling leaves,
A dark villainous monster,
Staring into the night.
by Grace Mills, Tomball, TX
You stand in the rain, frowning.
Your eyes water your cheeks.
I’d ask what’s wrong,
but you won’t tell.
I tie my tongue in a pretty knot.
I cannot answer
a question never asked.
If you stand in the rain, you too would frown.
And I’ll be amazed if dry your face stays.
Don’t be mad.
Don’t step in mud.
It’s a puddle of dirt.
by Kathy Trinh, Philadelphia, PA
The Gift
Predicted snow creates snow-day rumors
Everyone starts to chatter
As the first flake is spotted
Teachers forewarn about driving home
And of course the delay on due dates
Yet suspicion still runs in minds
Home at last with homework to do
Contemplating if completion is necessary
Leads one to watch the news
Forecasts predict a heavy downpour
More hope is instilled
Time is the last factor left
Morning comes with the radio blaring
Footsteps are heard running to the TV
Mother Nature has delivered her gift
by Clare Kilbride, Rock Island, IL
Compass
there was that one
overwhelming moment
the world exploding fuchsia
and sunshine,
the lines of the map
becoming crisper,
clearer –
fresher.
but now that beautiful peak
weighs cracks
down my back
and still through my sweat
and in the light of the moon,
i cannot remember the divisions
of my map.
by Kenza Moller, Santo Domingo, DR
Photo by Seita Ohama, Palatine, IL
SUMMER ’08
• Teen Ink
33
Poetry
The Kingdom
Quay the Swell
To Write a Poem
See here now,
these are the
wheatfields of Kansas:
sanctuary from delirium.
Where every scarecrow
is fully armed
with bayonet and
rifle to protect
his newfound brain.
These dusty men
patrol the highways,
ever watchful for
tornadoes and witches.
This is the
domain of the
Lord of Ruin,
whose eyes are
hazel from insanity
I lay my body
across the white of the catamaran, and
look at the dead space between us spread out
like the Pacific between Okinawa and Cali.
I close my eyes for a moment, hearing our
children douse themselves in the
aqueous salt of the sea.
my mind is blank
like the paper in front of me
a pencil, waiting anxiously in the wings
the stage is set
to write a poem
Your fortune teller
Had it wrong
This
is the way
the world ends.
Bang.
by Jesse Hall, White Salmon, WA
We’ve been clashing tides lately,
coming together only under the toes
of our children. I pull high
waves out of the small drop-offs,
demanding them to dive or swim
sideways, while you let them drift
gently in your own current. We are
like the approaching squall I see
brooding dark across the ocean.
I dive my hand in the torrent of
your hair to tell you.
But you have already seen it.
“It’s heading west. It’s all right.”
For a moment, I protest,
until I see you close your eyes again.
Your face nuzzles into your elbow,
and you drift in that peaceful current
I am used to seeing; suddenly, I feel a
warm wind easing the storm away.
by Sharron Reyes, Jacksonville, FL
Stories
Photo by Lauren Southam, Reading, Berkshire, UK
Make Believe
34
There are so many stories
etched into this ground.
There are so many walls that won’t make a sound.
There are trees and soil that have consumed it all
and yet none speak a word.
Ceilings and railings,
imprinted with touch
invisible now but it’s all a rush.
The muffled sounds of
old news and gossip
silently leaking like water from a faucet.
We walk atop the steps
talk amongst the old voices
and touch the hands of strangers from a past
we never knew.
by Kiran Waheed, Queens Village, NY
words, the actors
pacing around backstage
waiting to make their debut in this poem
and the director, inspiration
giving the cues
the curtain rises
each word plays a lead role
the music picks up speed, faster and faster
just as suddenly, it’s all over
and i have a poem.
by Aliyah Weinstein, Mount Laurel, NJ
The Fairy Tales
Make believe the fairy tales
They are locked inside your head
Make believe that you’re okay
Or make believe you’re dead
Go throughout your day
Think what you want to think
Notice things
Notice life
Even if you are behind yourself
Hide in the mask
Hide in the dark
Hide yourself with smiles
Until you get by yourself
Release the scared child
Expression
Protection
Your true self
No more lies
You know who you are
So come out
Please don’t hide
You can do it
by Chelsi Alexander, Oak Grove, MO
We were doomed from the beginning,
Blinded from the start,
But nothing can be done
To fool a happy heart.
With each smile and giggle,
Every embrace and every kiss,
We were shooting toward a happy ending,
And we missed.
Cinderella lost her slipper
And it was never found.
Prince Charming came too late,
Now no one’s sleeping sound.
Pillows are soaking wet,
Hopes are all lost.
No more dancing in the clouds.
Dreams have all been tossed.
The fairy-tale warmth has left us
As winter’s setting in.
The storybook reads the end,
But where should we begin?
Now your heart strives to be broken,
And you long for lonely nights
This time our ship is sinking
We’re going down without a fight.
Tribute to a Friend
Well, here comes the truth,
That all things bad will soon end.
Because you’ve inspired this song,
the day you became my friend.
Sometimes when I’m bored,
I think of many strange things.
Like eating the moon,
For we all know it’s made of cheese.
Though, it is so vast, I must proclaim,
That I’d have to purge myself with a tire iron.
Which leads me to think of deer,
I’m not quite sure why,
And it then makes me want to grow antlers.
As I stare at Larry, the sharp-toothed stapler,
I’m bombarded by baby-eating bats!
I run like the wind,
Though I’ve never personally seen it run before.
Then I’m a cloud, up in the sky,
Floating around without a care.
But, unbeknownst to me, I’m in for a scare.
I awaken with a sudden, horrific realization.
My unwritten poem is due today!
by Amanda Bush, Milan, IL
by Francis Dacasin, Milpitas, CA
by Tylan Stroud, Blacksburg, SC
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
With your eyes at the sidewalk,
You can’t focus on the good.
You don’t notice all your traits,
When I know you really should.
You think life is just a waste.
A disappointment ’til the end,
When I’m here to clarify the plus,
With these lyrics that I send.
A beautiful mind is what you have,
A kind soul you’ve been granted.
You’ve looked past the evil downfall,
With the many you’ve been handed.
You overcame the high fences
That grew on these roads.
You’ve struggled to smile
Through all those lies you’ve been told.
The Nightmare
Heart thumps
thudding with purpose
beating like a drum
through my rib cage
making my vision blur
my world is tilting
all because of three little words
“I love you.”
Focusing intently
on the simple task
of breathing
by Emily Thomas, Columbia, SC
Epitaphs and
Clichés
I am a writer of epitaphs and cliché love songs,
My fingers are covered with ink and my body
with bruises.
Look past my first impression and I can be your
sundress bride and you my pinstriped lover.
My voice may not be beautiful, but it’s all that I have,
And the butterflies don’t flock to my outstretched
fingers.
Look past my crooked smile,
And we can be a vision in tie-dye and high-top
sneakers.
I know I’m imperfect, and not even in the way
that you like,
My shoes don’t click right and my eyes rarely close.
Look past my blood-rimmed fingernails,
And we can sit on the street corner and play the guitar.
I am an omen of awkward moments and broken pencils,
The grass I walk through never grows as quickly.
Look past my out-of-place laughter,
And we can be the reason the other opens his windows.
by Celia Lechtman, Ashburn, VA
Ode to Clavicles
In the crevices of my chest
Through its valleys and troughs
You delicately tie a bow
So fragile and thin
Nestled between knobs of my shoulders
You are jewelry of the bone
A poor girl’s necklace
Modest collar to my bare torso
by Nida Ahmed, Elizabethtown, KY
Photo by Andreina De Abreu, Hamburg, PA
Index of Poets
Katelin Adams ........................................25
Nida Ahmed............................................35
Chelsi Alexander ....................................34
Emilia Allen............................................17
Liana Amend ..........................................22
Kara Anderson........................................27
Kelsie Anderson .....................................20
Tara Atkins .............................................19
Logan Ballard .........................................32
Jarrett Barbuto ........................................29
Brianne Becker .......................................27
Whitney Bedor .......................................18
Emily Begnel..........................................18
Karla Bentcover......................................26
Bella Berger............................................30
Cecilia Bergerid......................................21
Jonathon Bowyer....................................26
Carolyn Boyd .........................................21
Sara Brooks ............................................22
Toni Jo Brown ........................................21
Amanda Bush .........................................34
Zach Calo ...............................................29
Jamie Carver...........................................22
Cassandra Cavalier .................................18
Nick Chevalier........................................19
Lily Chubb..............................................20
Diana Clarke...........................................18
Samantha Clement..................................26
Melinda Cohoon .....................................28
Kayla Cook.............................................23
Irene Cunningham ..................................26
Francis Dacasin ......................................34
Danielle Davis ........................................18
Olivia DeCarlo .......................................26
Amanda Dickson ....................................31
Mariangela DiPaola................................33
Andie Dodge ..........................................33
Jordan Dyer ............................................25
Karissa Elliott .........................................32
Garret Ellis .............................................17
Numen Enders ........................................33
Laura Fanciullacci ..................................25
Laura Ferruggia ......................................22
Landis Marie Fraser ...............................27
Kelley Frick ............................................24
Chelsie Gatton ........................................24
Maggie Glimp ........................................27
Desiree Golden .......................................28
Sarah Goldwasser ...................................20
Shelby Goodwin .....................................20
Josh Groenke ..........................................23
Gabrielle Guarnero .................................21
Arthur Gutnov ........................................19
Jesse Hall................................................34
Nigel Halliday ........................................30
Travis Harsin ..........................................21
Paige Harvey ..........................................32
Na’Tia Hurst...........................................30
Megan Jacobson .....................................30
Tara Jayakar............................................24
Meagan Jungman....................................29
Micaela Kamp ........................................21
Shaina Kass ............................................22
Denise Keene..........................................31
Clare Kilbride .........................................33
Madison Knudson ..................................19
Meg Kotmel............................................24
Rewati Kulkarni......................................27
Aishah Kuzu ...........................................32
Samantha Lagace....................................22
Kenny Langer .........................................31
Elisha Laubacher ....................................32
Celia Lechtman ......................................35
Alexis Lee...............................................31
Sarah Lee................................................28
Blaise Leeber..........................................24
Bethany Lindell ......................................29
Jared Martel............................................20
Rebekkah McKalsen ..............................23
Lee McKinstry........................................23
Grace Mills .............................................33
Lauren Mitchell ......................................33
Kenza Moller ..........................................33
Farah Momen .........................................25
Rebecca Morris ......................................20
Liliann Nguyen.......................................32
Brittani O’Hearn.....................................22
Lovetta Pajibo.........................................25
Sarah Pelston ..........................................29
Alyssa Pesavento ....................................17
Emily Petit..............................................30
Keni Powis..............................................23
Mike Rajala ............................................19
Erin Rappleye .........................................22
Brendan Reid..........................................30
Samantha Reyes .....................................32
Sharron Reyes.........................................34
Barbara Richards ....................................20
Sima Rose...............................................24
Delta Rotter ............................................18
Jessica Rutsky.........................................19
Lindsey Sacco.........................................23
Sabrina Sapal..........................................28
Krystan Saviola ......................................25
Christos Schrader ...................................31
Rutu Shah ...............................................30
Meredith Shapiro....................................27
Kayla Sheridan .......................................28
Kristen Skvarenina .................................21
Jordan Sleva............................................31
Justin Smith ............................................23
Jordan Solomon......................................19
Brandon Sprague ....................................17
Audree Steinberg....................................19
Christine Stoddard..................................23
Josh Streich ............................................33
Tylan Stroud ...........................................34
Graham Suvick .......................................29
Sam Tarillion ..........................................33
Emily Thomas ........................................35
Sarah Thompson.....................................30
Kimberly Thuman ..................................25
Alisa Tiwari ............................................28
Josef Trajanoski......................................24
Holly Tran ..............................................27
Kathy Trinh ............................................33
Jourdan Urbach ......................................29
Kiran Waheed .........................................34
Wendy Wanner .......................................32
Marcy Weber ..........................................27
Aliyah Weinstein ....................................34
Emily Welby...........................................29
Lyn Wenzel .............................................26
Laurin Werner.........................................32
Andrea White .........................................32
Jenny White ............................................31
Avery Yen ...............................................30
Bethanie Young.......................................25
Haley Zambie .........................................28
Danica Zielinski .....................................17
Danielle Zigon........................................31
SUMMER ’08
Poetry
Unfinished Love
Confession
• Teen Ink
35
bookreviews
36
FICTION
Fever 1793,
Catalyst, Speak
by Laurie Halse
Anderson
T
here should be a shrine to
Laurie Halse Anderson,
complete with an eight-foot
statue wearing a cape. She is
such an important and influential person that all teens should
be aware of her work.
I was first introduced to her
when I read Fever 1793, which
is about the yellow fever epidemic. I read it from cover to
cover, and when I closed it, I
was literally in awe. I loved the
fact that the story was realistic.
The yellow fever epidemic really
happened, and when I realized
that, it was like a light bulb
going off in my head. How
“Three heart- could such
a tragic
felt stories
event hapthat changed pen, yet I’d
my life”
never
heard about it? I was probably
12 years old at that time, and
books for my age never
broached such depressing yet
important topics. I needed
more.
Fever 1793 led me to challenge myself and read books
outside of my recommended
age group. And so I devoured
classics like To Kill a Mockingbird, murder mysteries by Mary
Higgins Clark, and popular series like Harry Potter and Twilight. And I will always remember Fever 1793 as the book that
changed my outlook.
When I picked up Catalyst at
my library and realized it was
by the same author, I was overjoyed. I had high expectations.
I expected it to be good – better
than good. I expected it to be
another emotional, truthful, and
extraordinary book.
And it was. It taught me how
imperfect everyone is, even
those who act like they own the
world. And before the book
ends, Anderson surprised me
again with tragic events that
pushed the limits of youngadult literature. She hit at controversial topics, yet taught me
something that I couldn’t have
learned any other way. I was
able to put myself into her
characters’ shoes and feel their
emotions, both good and bad.
And that had an effect on me.
My next book by Anderson
was Speak. Parents tend to lead
their kids away from topics like
rape. Sure, it’s not the most
pleasant thing to read about as
a child, but rape happens to
kids all around the world. It’s
there and it’s the plain raw
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
truth, no matter how difficult it
may be.
So when I read Speak and
learned how much someone
can be affected by rape, it hit
me straight in the heart. Here I
was again, reading yet another
controversial book by this author, yet I didn’t have any of
the reactions that adults would
assume. I didn’t feel scared or
worried, I felt grateful and
sympathetic. Being able to see
through the eyes of someone
else – someone who has gone
through these tragic events –
taught me more than I’d ever
expected from a book.
Anderson gave me three
heartfelt stories that changed my
life and outlook, and I hope she
will continue to affect others
like me. ✎
by Chelsea Swiggett,
Avon Lake, OH
SCI-FI
Foundation
predicts when “crises” will occur, and every few years a vault
opens and plays a recording,
steering the Foundation on the
right track to avert disaster.
All the characters appear
strange because they seem as if
they’re hiding something. Gaal
is clever and humble but very
gullible. Hardin, the mayor of
the Foundation, is smart and
always has a contingency plan.
Ponyetts, a trader, will do anything to fulfill his quota.
Even though these books are
written in the third person, Asimov reveals the plot through
dialogue and action rather than
thought. The books comprise
small short stories relating to
different crises, but from a new
point of view. Each chapter is
like another book, and nothing
is ever repeated.
Foundation should be in your
library. ✎
by Denis Stepanenko,
Brooklyn, NY
by Isaac Asimov
MEMOIR
W
Tell Them I
Didn’t Cry
ritten by none other than
the grand master of science fiction and mystery, Foundation can be considered a
modern classic. Isaac Asimov
published the first three books
in 1951, then three decades later
surprised
“The grand fans with
master of three more
science
astounding
fiction and volumes.
Anyone famystery”
miliar with
Asimov’s style will adore the
series. It is written mainly in
the twentieth-century science
fiction style, which is very dependent on plot. He gives away
only a piece of the puzzle,
making you believe an illusion
of the truth until the last second,
when the story abruptly ends
and leaves you dumfounded.
The book begins with Gaal, a
young man from a backwater
planet who has come to study
psychohistory with the great
Hari Seldon, creator of this
math-based science that predicts
the future using probability. The
scene quickly switches to Seldon’s trial, where he is accused
of treason against the Galactic
Empire. He pleads innocent,
and explains that the Empire’s
reign will end in 500 years and
a 30,000-year-long age of barbarism and ignorance will
follow.
Seldon gathers the brightest
minds and sends them to the
Foundation, a nearly useless
agricultural planet that is bullied by its powerful neighbors.
Using psychohistory, Seldon
by Jackie Spinner
S
ince American forces invaded Iraq in 2003, 124
journalists have died there. The
story of the journalists’ plight
in Iraq remained largely untold
before this heartfelt memoir
about the horrific realities and
the difficulties of resuming a
normal life.
Jackie Spinner began working
for The Washington Post in
1995, re“A side of porting priIraq that few marily finAmericans ancial
have seen” news. In
2003, she
applied for a tour in Iraq and,
due to unforeseen circumstances, left with just a week’s
notice and without the usual
month of training. She tells the
story of her struggles to stay
alive, the difficulty of assimilating into Iraqi culture, and the
desire of The Washington Post’s
Iraqi staff to become more
American.
Spinner takes an unbiased
approach in her book. She never
criticizes the military or reveals
her political opinions about the
war, which gives the book a different feel than run-of-the-mill
Bush-bashing.
The few pages at the end of
each chapter (written by Spinner’s identical twin, Jenny) are
particularly poignant. Jenny
tells of the heartache and
emptiness experienced by their
family as her sister barely
survives each day in a war
zone. She gives the story more
depth as she confesses her constant fear of losing her sister,
her best friend.
Despite the tragic deaths of
friends and her own near misses,
Spinner still fills moments of
terror with simple things: baking cookies, a ride on a swing,
soccer in the hallways of her
hotel. When some may have
lost their sanity in the intensity
of the moment, Spinner helps
others keep their direction.
To call Spinner a hero would
be accurate. But considering
the feelings she expresses in
her book, bestowing this title
solely on her would be an insult
to those who risked their lives
every day, the friends she may
never see again, and the people
who never return home.
Spinner’s story is a rare masterpiece of longing, terror, and
kindness. It is an eye-opening
trip through a land devastated
by bombs, insurgents, and violence. Spinner shows a side of
Iraq that few Americans have
seen: a side of hope. ✎
by Matthew Heck,
Wichita, KS
FANTASY
That Hideous
Strength
by C.S. Lewis
T
hat Hideous Strength is the
third and final book in this
series by C.S. Lewis. Most of
you know him from Chronicles
of Narnia, but in my opinion this
book is much more dynamic.
Like the Chronicles, this series,
especially the last book, relates
directly to Christianity and
explores it in a new light.
However, That Hideous
Strength focuses more on end
times and the concept of marriage. Like Chronicles of Narnia, this book is crammed full
of action and adventure. The
plot twists around the idea of
loyalty and obedience while
still being able to make personal
decisions. The space adventure
“Crammed has a science-fiction
full of
theme, while
action and the intricate
adventure” writing and
drama give it a classic feel.
The characters are so real
that you find yourself trying to
understand them and wanting
to meet them. In the other
books, Dr. Ransom has been
the main character, traveling
through the vast reaches of
space to Venus and Mars
(called Perelandra and Malacandra by natives). However,
Jane is the focus in this story.
Headstrong and controlling, she
sees her new marriage as an
equal partnership, almost businesslike. But once she finally
meets Dr. Ransom, all of her
beliefs are challenged, contradicted, and corrected.
I have read hundreds of
books, but never such a perfectly
written and well thought out
novel. Literally every sentence
is filled with imagery unequaled
by any other. No matter what
your religious views are, this
book must be read. ✎
by Jared Carl, Galesburg, IL
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
The Heart of a
Woman
by Maya Angelou
I
never liked to read because I
thought all books were horrible like what we read in school.
However, in ninth grade when I
read Maya Angelou’s first
book, I Know Why the Caged
Bird Sings, I was intrigued by
the way she talked about her
life. Her autobiography includes The Heart of a Woman,
which is the fourth of six volumes and it is outstanding.
There is contentment and sadness, grief and joy, just like in
her first
“Contentment volume.
Before
and sadness,
grief and joy” reading
this book
I advise you to read the previous three or at least the first, or
you will be completely lost.
The Heart of a Woman is
about Angelou when she is in
her early 30s. Her life was
chaotic as a singer-dancer living in New York City. She
wrote for the Harlem Writers
Guild and was a coordinator for
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s
movement. Along her journey
she meets Billie Holiday, Malcolm X, and Dr. King.
This book deserves four
thumbs up for the way Angelou
describes her life. It could be
easily read in a couple of days.
It would appeal to men and
women in different stages of
life. Its central themes are the
joys and burdens of being a
black mother in America as the
son she had at 16 finally grows
into a man.
I would definitely recommend this book to anyone who
is interested in the racial problems that the U.S. had and is
still having since Martin Luther
King and Malcolm X’s time. ✎
by Katrina Herrera,
Miami Shores, FL
The Lovely
Bones
by Alice Sebold
T
he Lovely Bones is a compelling read entwined with
honest and heartfelt accounts of
life, loss, love, and letting go.
Since 2002 the fresh, thrilling
words of Alice Sebold have
touched the hearts and souls of
millions who have found clarity
in her one-of-a-kind novel.
Sebold’s first book is based
on the brutal rape, murder, and
fascinating journey of an insightful adolescent. Susie
Salmon is adjusting to her new
life in heaven, which is quite an
endeavor in itself. Meanwhile
her family is
“Thought- torn between
provoking the painful
characters” memories of
the past and
the difficult journey of their future without her.
Susie narrates the story from
heaven, which adds depth to
this fascinating best-seller as
she draws readers in with her
deep, compelling thoughts and
desires. Readers develop a
bond with this girl as they feel
what she feels and watch as she
watches those left on earth,
caught in the whirlwind of grief
surrounding her loss.
This novel is full of interesting and thought-provoking
characters. The story revolves
around a grief-stricken father,
who’s trying hard to love his
two remaining children without
forgetting his lost little girl, and
a mother who is not so sure she
ever intended to be a mother.
And of course, readers encounter the unforgettably disturbing and raw Mr. Harvey,
Susie’s murderer.
Readers will also be impressed with the author’s creative depiction of heaven and
the seamless flow between the
happenings there and on Earth.
Mesmerizing and interesting,
this book makes one feel as
though she is sitting right there
beside Susie in her beloved
gazebo. The suburban Pennsylvania neighborhood where
Susie lived is important to the
setting as well. The novel is
about all that is horrible and
unknown that lurks beyond the
perfect picket fence and closed
front door: “Murder had a
blood red door on the other side
of which was everything
unimaginable to everyone.”
This novel is most appropriate for mature young adults and
those who have been (or have
yet to be) exposed to heartwrenching and life-changing
loss. It is a tale of the truth and
trials of family love. It is about
dealing with death, and the important lessons we have to learn
about life.
Readers will be blown away,
likely unable to pry their eyes
off the page as the vivid and
compelling changes of Sebold’s
characters and intense plot unfold. The importance of letting
go, moving on, and seeing love
will touch the hearts of all who
take a peek at this world
through the eyes of Susie
Salmon. ✎
by Zofia Smeja,
Burlington, ON, Canada
HISTORICAL FICTION
The Other
Boleyn Girl
by Philippa Gregory
T
he Other Boleyn Girl is an
introspective novel that explores what life in the court of
King Henry VIII must have
been like. Philippa Gregory’s
descriptions of places and characters are vibrant and vivid.
She portrays historical events
through the eyes of characters
who are fallible and human.
Mary and Anne Boleyn are
normal girls who become
caught up in the struggle for
power. They are pressured by
their family to win the favor of
the king. At first, Mary is liked
by the king,
“Ambition but then
Anne mato be the
next queen” neuvers her
way into his
favor. While Mary believes that
she truly loves the king, Anne
has the ambition to be the next
queen.
Gregory makes the reader
pity Anne because she lacks
someone who truly cares for
her and feels hopeless. On the
other hand, Mary chooses to do
what she thinks is best for her
despite the opposition of her
family.
The Other Boleyn Girl is an
excellent novel that takes the
reader on a wonderful adventure
of hope, rivalry, deceit, regret,
and love. ✎
by Celine Li, New City, NY
FICTION
The Giver
by Lois Lowry
A
fter reading The Giver, I
was left confused and disappointed. It seemed as if it
would be interesting, but you
can’t judge a book by its cover.
The contents were dull and
predictable. Quite honestly, I
wouldn’t recommend it to any
reader seeking a fine piece of
literature. It just doesn’t suffice.
The Giver is about a young
boy named Jonas. He resides in
a futuristic society in which
each citizen is assigned a job, a
spouse, and children. The children are born to mothers who
will never get to see them. Trying not to give anymore away, I
will only say that Jonas is assigned an important job and is
challenged with the release of
an innocent child. Jonas is left
with the option of leaving his
home, job,
“Dull and and family
predictable” to save the
child, or
facing the harsh reality of his
community and job, and enduring the release of the child.
This book was dreadful. I
became more and more dissatisfied with each page. It was a
waste of time and hardly made
sense. I’ll admit, there were a
few interesting lines, but far too
few to continue reading after
the first chapter. Although I finished it, I regret doing so. It
was, by far, the worst book I’ve
ever picked up. It proved to be
mediocre, no better than what
the average person could conceive. I wouldn’t recommend it
to anyone. ✎
discover the truth. Magnificently developed, each character’s
believable personality adds to
the quasi-realism that defines
the book.
Published over a century
ago, the story is still well
known today. Although I knew
the final twist, I found myself
no less thrilled by the ending.
The archaic style and diction
further enhance the adventure,
and the reader is ultimately left
feeling fulfilled.
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is
very easy to recommend. It
makes for a quick read, but so
much is condensed onto each
page that its stylistic and thematic depth makes its brevity all
but hidden. This is a compelling
and thrilling tale of horror. ✎
by Milo Toor, Palo Alto, CA
Check out the
Book Reviews
on
TeenInk.com
for summer
reading ideas!
by Nic Icaza, Galesburg, IL
GRAPHIC NOVEL
CLASSIC
Godchild
The Strange
Case of Dr.
Jekyll and
Mr. Hyde
by Robert Louis
Stevenson
N
o single word could do
justice to Robert Louis
Stevenson’s timeless novella,
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll
and Mr. Hyde. Eerie and complex, the story is a mixture of
horror, suspense, and psychology that refuses to be pigeonholed. Terrifying from start to
finish, the
“Compelling book is
and thrilling impossitale of horror” ble to put
down.
Even when the last page is
turned, the haunting words will
linger in the reader’s mind.
The tale follows Mr. Utterson, a lawyer and friend of the
respected Dr. Jekyll. But when
a grotesque and possibly murderous man by the name of Mr.
Hyde shows up, the friendship
takes a turn for the worse. The
situation grows more suspicious and the relationship between Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
becomes more perverse, until
Utterson finds himself so
baffled, he must intervene to
Godchild is a manga strictly
for fans of gothic-style comics,
the occult, and scary situations
that might not ever happen to
anyone, unless that person is
completely crazed. However, as
a book published by Shojo
Beat, Godchild is unusual, as
the magazine more often publishes teenage girl romance
manga. Godchild may cause
the reader to develop a deep
fear of ax murderers in rabbit
masks who attend mad tea parties, young women with friendship problems and an obsession
over dolls, suits of armor with
pointed objects, and doctors
who claim they can make you
beautiful. Yuki has a way of
drawing gore that would scare
children.
The perfect plot has many
bookreviews
FICTION
by Kaori Yuki
W
ritten and drawn by
Kaori Yuki, the creator of
Angel Sanctuary and The Cain
Saga, Godchild has a dark and
mysterious atmosphere that
keeps readers dying to get their
hands on the next book. As a
manga fan and a young art critic,
I consider Godchild to be one
of the best books I’ve ever read.
In London, England, during
the late nineteenth century, a
17-year-old nobleman named
Cain becomes the head of the
Hargreaves family after the untimely death of his father. He is
very quiet and seems to always
be the odd one out, so he thinks
of himself as a black sheep. As
a hobby, Cain collects dangerous toxins, giving him the reputation as the “Earl of Poisons.”
His only loving company is his
10-year-old half-sister, Mary
Weather, and his butler.
Each chapter revolves around
a different plot that holds mystery, murder, suspense, and
dark horror that always seems
to find Cain in the “Capital of
the Fog.” In most of the chapters, characters whom we least
expect are killers or completely
psycho, which makes this all
the better. Though many die in
the end, it keeps the story interesting and the chapters are each
strange in their own way.
unexpected twists and turns
that keep you anticipating what
will happen next. As Cain
solves mysteries, bits of the
past are revealed in inconspicuous ways so you gain an understanding of the characters.
The characters are completely
developed, with realistic qualities that make them seem human. Being quite enigmatic,
none gives their own life story,
but their histories are revealed
in their behavior and their
“The artwork physical
appearis virtually ance, such
flawless”
as the
scars on Cain’s back being a result of his father’s nightly
abuse.
As to be expected from Yuki,
the artwork is virtually flawless. Every character looks
unique with a fitting background. Yuki adds so much detail that you have no choice but
to continue reading.
Usually, if someone were to
hand me a horrifying book with
an eerie-looking main character, I would turn it down, but
with Godchild, it’s impossible.
I recommend this manga to
fans of the occult and gothicstyle atmosphere with cliffhanging resolutions. On a scale
of one to 10, Godchild is a definite 10. ✎
by Amber Stanley,
Newport News, VA
SUMMER ’08
• Teen Ink
37
f i c•t i o n
38
Lady Donna
by Liza Pichette, Horseheads, NY
“Why so much work? Yesterday also you were
“I can fight anyone but him.”
ady Donna watched her brother, Cort, spar in
busy.”
“Conrad? You could whip him until he was butter
the lush courtyard beneath her window. She
“The
tournament
of
the
Summer
Solstice
has
begun.
without
breaking a sweat. He lacks defense; he’s all
knew she could beat him with a sword, bow,
I have to finish these swords and shields.”
about striking the first blow.”
or horse. She also knew that her hopes of being a
“Can I help in any way?”
“Not him. The other one.”
knight, or having any type of adventure, were futile.
He smiled weakly. “Your beautiful smiling face is
He looked up at the opposing team, then back to
She was a noblewoman, and such things were not
all we can afford now, my lady.”
his sister. “What’s wrong with …” He saw the look
allowed.
“The knights whose swords you mend shall be
in Donna’s eyes. “Oh, no … please don’t tell me you
She liked observing from above because she could
privileged indeed to have your craftsmanship on their
have feelings for Andrew.”
watch for her special knight. His name was Sir Anside.”
“Cort, I didn’t know–”
drew Cassidy. His abilities in sword fighting were al“Many
thanks,
my
lady.
Good
day.”
“Donna, he’s not going to begrudge you a victory.
most legendary, excluding those of Sir Launcelot du
As she walked home, an idea began to form in
He doesn’t even know it is you.”
Lac. Sir Andrew would often spar with her brother,
Donna’s mind. She ran to Cort, who was resting
“But I’ll know,” she persisted.
and it could be believed that they were friends.
under a tree.
“Look, we may not even have to worry about it.
Donna’s heart fell realizing Andrew was not in the
“Cort, you know that I am good at sparYou’ll beat Conrad, and I’ll beat Andrew, and we’ll
crowd gathered to watch the match. She
right?”
go home with the prize money. We won’t need the
tried to continue reading the book in her
She yearned ring,
“Yes, I know only too well. I’m still retie-breaker.”
lap, but her eyes wandered back to the
Donna nodded, trying to stop her heart from racing
fight. The rhythmical movements, the rush to be part of covering from our last fight.”
“There’s
a
tournament
in
town
for
the
and
focus on the fight before her. She needed to win
of excitement at the swing of swords, she
that world Summer Solstice. I want to enter it.”
this, whether or not Sir Andrew was watching.
yearned to be part of that world, a world
Cort’s brown eyes studied his sister. Older
But it did not go as planned. Donna beat Conrad
only accessible to men. It was times like
by only two years, he had become accustomed to the
easily, but Andrew beat Cort in an unexpected twist.
these that she wished she had been born a boy.
way her mind worked. “You are not asking for my
In the tie-breaker, Cort beat Conrad as easily as his
Frustrated, she left the window and descended the
permission, only my help.”
sister had, as Donna dreaded her fight.
stairs, heading outside. She knew where to go to
“Yes, will you help me?”
I can do this, she told herself. As Cort said, he
cheer up. Walking along the dirt roads of the small
“Aye, sweet sister, I will. I only feel sorry for the
doesn’t know it’s me. But that was not enough to quiet
town, she was easily recognized in her royal attire.
knights against whom you will fight.”
the sick feeling in her stomach as she realized that
Her dress of topaz and amber brought out the color
Hours later, Donna checked herself in the mirror,
the time to fight had come. She rolled her shoulders,
of her eyes and raven hair, making her beauty unsurmaking sure her guise was in place. Her long hair
trying to focus. Unfortunately all she could see was
passable.
was braided in a tight bun under Cort’s hat, her womAndrew’s handsome face.
She arrived at the blacksmith’s forge. “Good moranly figure concealed by his baggy shirt. She tried to
Cort stood beside her and patted her back. “Don’t
row, master blacksmith,” she said teasingly to the
keep her face from reddening at the realization that
let him know that you’re a girl,” he whispered. “I
tall, muscular man in front of the flames. He looked
she was wearing pants that formed to her every
don’t think he would want a woman who can fight
up momentarily, a smile creeping to his lips as he
curve. “All right, Cort. Methinks I am ready.” She
like a man. You can do it, Don. Give him a fight he
continued his work. When he was done, he wiped his
turned
to
him.
“What
do
you
think?”
will never forget.”
brow.
“I think you are the most beautiful boy I have ever
Inspired, she walked onto the field. Her heart rac“Good morrow, my lady. To what do I owe the
seen,” he replied with a smirk.
ing, she shook Sir Andrew’s hand. Closing her eyes
pleasure of your company on this fine day?” he
She hit his arm. “Be serious!
and saying a prayer, she felt her breath hitch as the
replied in the same tone of amusement. Though sepa“Donna, you look fine. You’re a very convincing
fight began.
rated by class, they had been friends for years. Kevin
boy.”
At first, Donna was clearly beating Andrew, who
was one of the main reasons she enjoyed the activi“Good, they won’t let me in otherwise, and everywas on the defensive. However, soon both were on
ties she did.
thing will be ruined.”
offense and exchanging blows. Cort watched his sis“Boredom, I’m afraid. Cort is sparring, and I feel
“Be
merry,
sweet
sister.
Everything
will
go
as
ter fight in amazement; she matched Andrew blow
excluded, so I came to see if you would spar with
planned.”
for blow. Soon, there was no way of knowing who
me.”
“Wait,” she said. “What will my name be?”
was winning. The graceful dance was rapid, their
“My apologies, Donna, but I must work. So many
“Don Hagan,” he replied after a moment’s thought.
swords flying in brilliant arcs and crashing together.
knights come to my forge demanding my trade, I
“I know that the ‘Don’ is from ‘Donna,’ but what is
The judge walked onto the field, halting the match
cannot pause for a second.” He picked up a sword on
‘Hagan’?”
with a wave of his hand. “This match is ruled a draw.
the anvil, putting it into the coals. “Since dawn I have
“It is a German word meaning ‘strong defense.’
The winners of this tournament are the team of Lord
slaved, and yet my work is not finished.”
Believe me, little sister, you live up
Cort Shanahan and Lord Don Hagan!”
to that,” he said affectionately, gently
The crowd cheered, and Donna
“The tournament beamed proudly.
tweaking her nose.
They arrived at the grounds a short
“You fought bravely, Lord Hagan,”
of the Summer
while later. In this tournament, teams
Sir Andrew said, extending his hand.
of two knights fought in each match. Solstice has begun”
“You, also,” Donna replied.
Cort would be “Don Hagan’s” partThe following day, Sir Andrew apner.
proached Cort as he warmed up for
One by one, they took on pair after pair of knights
sparring. “Cort, where did you find that man you
from across the country, beating each with amazing
fought with yesterday? He was unbelievable.”
ease. Cort was good, and so was Donna, but together
“He is an old friend who was passing through. If
they were unstoppable. Soon, they were in the semiyou’re lucky, he may return one day.” He eyed Donna
finals, then the finals.
knowingly as she sat in the shade nearby. She smiled
“Now the final match before we crown our Chamand turned back to the book in her lap.
pions of Swords in the Summer Solstice Tourna“If I’m lucky, he will never fight me again. He
ment,” a judge announced in a booming voice. “In
nearly severed my arm.”
the first round: Lord Don Hagan against Sir Conrad
Donna watched the sparring match begin with
Mathers. The second round will feature Lord Cort
hope in her heart. Maybe one day she would fight Sir
Shanahan against Sir Andrew Cassidy.” The crowd
Andrew again, and beat him. She smiled. Maybe on
rose to their feet at the sound of each name. “If a tie
that day she could fight him as Donna. She shook her
occurs, the opponents will be switched.”
head, looking at her book once more.
Donna’s heart dropped in disbelief as she saw Sir
Moments later, she peered at them again. Sir
Andrew, his smile making her melt, his blue eyes
Andrew caught her eye and smiled, giving Cort the
seeing into her soul.
perfect opportunity to deliver a blow that knocked
“Cort, I can’t do this,” she whispered.
him off his feet.
“Donna,
we’ve
come
too
far.”
Donna laughed. Maybe. ✎
Art by Kelly Keim, Fort Collins, CO
L
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
f i c•t i o n
For Rent
by Lisa Wang, West Roxbury, MA
I have left. I don’t look back again. I promised myself
I. THE PRESENT
I wouldn’t. The years I spent, the memories I made,
he moving van is out front. And even though
have been sealed and forgotten like so many boxes.
I’m trying not to, I’m looking back. I’m lookAt graduation we’re sitting at the same table, our
ing back and trying to remember the things that
chairs next to each other, but there’s a mile between
I’m leaving behind.
us. An ocean seems to have grown in that space, an
In the storage room there are several cardboard
ocean that we can’t swim. The camera flashes as
boxes containing childhood memories and useless
we’re turned away from each other.
mementos. At the bottom of the heap is a box labeled
That was the moment we started to forget.
in an unrecognizable scrawl. Inside is a silk gown and
a dusty album that hasn’t been flipped through in
II. THE PAST
years. A stack of faded photographs falls to my feet.
We stand together, posing for a picture in matching
or the better part of 16 years, we did everything
blue dresses. Her hair and makeup shimmer flawlessly
together. We lived next door to each other
as she flashes a plastic smile. My eyes don’t match
across from the same Korean laundromat and
my happy face.
took the same bus to and from various schools. We
The truck is here and the boxes sealed, and soon I’ll
went through bad safety-scissor haircuts, scabby
close this door for the last time. I hate moving – you
knees from playing soccer, matching pink-and-green
always leave behind the things that mean
braces, studying for the SATs, awkward
the most. The tire swing that’s too low.
school dances, cramming for tests, science
Our friendship projects that started off with a huge bang,
The broken wind chimes we made in
second grade. The pouch of assorted
into the movie theater to play
slipped through sneaking
beads from all the necklaces we broke
“Dance Dance Revolution,” birthdays, holthrough the years. The scraps and ribidays, any day – the best moments of our
the cracks
bons from our favorite clothes. The cliplives we spent together.
pings of dresses for the weddings we
At the end of high school, I think we redreamed about. The best stones we collected from the
alized it was time for a change.
beach.
One day we were walking to class in silence. After
In front of Macy’s Department Store we stand
years of memories, talking about anything and everywhile she poses with her new purse. Light reflects off
thing, after 16 years of being such close friends, we
her lipgloss. There’s a smile on my face, but it doesn’t
were seeing each other for the first time. Even though
quite reach my eyes.
we were side by side, we’d never been further apart.
In the attic, the air is thick with dust and things forSomehow, through the long high-school years, our
gotten; a thin mist seems to spread across the room. I
friendship slipped through the cracks. A group of girls
cough as I open the boxes. They bring back so many
walked by and tugged her sleeve, saying they had
things I’ve struggled to forget. No one else will ever
news to share with her.
understand how much these memories mean to us.
She turned to me with a forced smile. “I’ll see you
She winks coyly into the camera as we drive back
later.”
from the DMV, and I’m not even bothering to pose
I smiled back. The last secret we would share was
this time, my gaze trained determinedly on the stop… there would never really be a later.
light as we wait for it to change.
I hate going into my new house – an empty house
III. THE FUTURE
stripped of all, but full of someone else’s memories. A
he’ll invite me to her wedding for old time’s
house doesn’t cease to be someone’s home even after
sake and I will watch her live the life I’ve only
they’re long gone. I stack the last few boxes and wish
dreamed about. She’ll have a lavish wedding
something could delay the final good-bye. But it’s all
that includes everything 11-year-olds could dream
T
F
S
Hidden Blue
by Misha Hartman, Verona, PA
traits. He is smarter than everyone here, and he is
e steps into the classroom with his head down,
kinder. I think his best trait is his hidden blue eyes.
almost ashamed to be here. He walks quickly
His deep blue eyes are darker than the sea, and Poto the back to an old chemical-stained desk,
seidon could never possess them. No other person in
but his effort doesn’t work. The jocks notice him and
the school has eyes like his. They’re always covered
begin to pull puns. His head lowers with each throbby his thick black hair which drifts down to his neck. I
bing word.
notice them every day and they haven’t ceased to enHe is the smartest guy in the school and is often
thrall me.
used as a model student in class. Each
Class ends and he quickly leaves, his
He
is
smarter
time he is mentioned, classmates turn and
normal
routine to avoid confrontation. I
stare while his head lowers to its limit.
than everyone smile at him every day; I wonder if he noHe barely looks up, only to take notes
from the chalk-caked board.
here, and he tices.
Another day, another class, and with it
He looks at me and I smile. He turns
come more words. He steps into the room
his head, lowering it again, and begins to
is kinder
with his head high. He walks slowly to the
write. I wonder if it hurts him more than
back and sits next to me. Everyone glares at his unit hurts me. People smile and act kind, but they make
usual behavior and takes off in conversation and gosfun of him. People smile at me, but I shrug it off.
sip. I can’t help but smile as he stares at me during
I’m an outcast among the girls. I’m not a shopper or
class.
a rich girl who flaunts dim-witted talent. I sit by myClass ends, and gossip stirs. He stands as I stand,
self, and I’m the subject of gossip and cruelty, but I’m
and I look at him with a smile. He smiles in return,
not as smart as him. I can’t say that I feel sorry for
which makes his eyes gleam. He leans over and whishim for being mocked because he’s the smartest guy
pers, “You have gorgeous green eyes.” ✎
around. I feel sorry for the others who don’t notice his
H
Photo by Austin King, Studio City, CA
about. She’ll walk down the aisle and I’ll look up and
smile at the stranger she’s become. And I’ll tell myself that tomorrow will be different, but that will be
just another lie.
IV. THE MEMORY
always wondered why we called it friendship. Because friendship is the boat that never sinks, our
cheery third-grade teacher liked to say. But if
we’ve learned nothing else from the Titanic, it’s that
there is no such thing as an unsinkable ship. All ships
will sink at some point. Eventually, after years and
years of drifting across endless oceans, they’ll start to
fall below. Ships sink on principle.
There are some friends who are, in all respects, forever. But most hold a shorter lease on our lives. You’ll
grow up and realize that the people you’ve become
are too different from the people you used to be. And
then there are times there is an ocean between you –
an ocean you can’t possibly swim. Then it is simply
better to let go than to stay and waste what once was a
beautiful thing. Yet friendship is sometimes even more
precious than family, because friendship is a wish, a
promise, a choice to love.
Friendship, through all its phases and depth and
beauty and tragedy, is really only for rent. It can never
be permanent.
We are 10 years old, at my birthday party. We are
surrounded by all our family and friends. Everything
and everyone who matters is crammed into that tiny
living room. We don’t have much, but we have all we
need. For a long time, it was enough.
When I remember her, I’ll remember what she was
like then. I’ll remember sneaking out to sled down the
steep hills when we should have been doing chores.
I’ll remember the creek where we tried to fish. I’ll remember the sunny days and spraying each other while
hanging the sheets to dry. I’ll remember chasing the
bees in the apple orchard until the sun grew too hot.
I’ll remember her at her best. Before she changed.
Before she forgot the things that really mattered.
Our friendship lease is over, but looking back, we’ll
see it for what it was – a brilliant, beautiful thing.
There is no way to erase the times we spent together,
and that will always be enough.
When I remember her, I’ll remember what she was
like then. I’ll remember her at her best. I’ll remember
us at our best.
We sit side by side on the same seat and blow out
the candles together. ✎
I
SUMMER ’08
• Teen Ink
39
f i c•t i o n
The Secret Society of Lefties
Y
ou won’t ever read about it in the morning
newspaper, you won’t ever hear about it on
the news, and you won’t ever be a part of it.
Because, you see, it’s a secret.
We hide it so well that some of them don’t even
realize that there is a world outside of these walls.
For them, this is life; for some of us too, this has
become all we know.
I don’t think any of us know exactly how it started.
We just all had an obsession … no, obsession is the
wrong word. We had a desire to become as wonderfully unique as they were, and to make them feel as
special as they could possibly be.
It was innocent at first, I swear. We never intended it
to go this far, but somehow it escalated. First, it was
just small gifts to the special ones – a notebook or a
pen, you know, to make them feel loved. Then we
started befriending these special people, asking them
questions about what it was like to be the way they
are and do what they do. That earned us some strange
looks. We didn’t care. It only pushed us to try harder
to get to know them, their ways.
Then somehow, and I’m still not sure how, someone had the idea of keeping these special ones safe
from the world’s harm, where they would be ours.
We keep them a secret.
*
*
*
“Oh my God, she is so heavy,” Claudia said.
“Suck it up. We’re almost there,” Monica replied.
“Shush! Do you want someone to hear?” Grace
asked.
The three girls trudged down the long hallways of
Grace’s house, which she had inherited from her parents. Years of decay caused the floors to creak. Mice
scurried across the wood parquet, into the cracks that
danced along the walls.
“Hang on. She’s slipping,” Monica said. They
stopped and re-adjusted.
“Why do I always get the heavy end?” Claudia
asked.
Monica rolled her eyes. “You don’t. Remember
when we had to carry that kid Jason, and he weighed
like 250 pounds? You didn’t hear me complaining
when I got stuck with his massive thighs.”
“Can you two please shut up? We have work to
do,” said Grace.
They had reached the basement door, which
looked out of place in the dilapidated Victorian. It
was a vibrant purple, with stained-glass windows and
yellow trim. It opened with ease, and the stairs didn’t
creak as the girls made their way down.
The sight at the bottom of the stairs was something
out of a movie. All ideas of the house upstairs were
forgotten in a rainbow of colors resembling a kindergarten classroom. The walls were bright blue with
posters of smiling children. Circular carpets were
arranged in the center, surrounded by desks of red,
green, and blue where the lefties could sit and learn
about their ancestors, their beginnings. They could
read about the scientific studies, and of course, practice their writing. Along the walls were larger desks,
Photo by Kayla Davis, Corydon, IN
40
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
by Megan Shea, Tewksbury, MA
where the society members could watch them. ObAll 10 girls obliged. After all, they loved to write.
serve them. Know them. Learn with them.
A while later, after the eight society members not
The next room was packed with army cots covered
present during the latest mission had been filled in on
in flowered bedspreads and sheets. They placed the
the events, Grace changed topics.
girl they were carrying on an empty one before hur“As you may recall, Lefty 214 is a hard one to caprying back upstairs.
ture. Her name is Melissa Jones. Do you all rememOnce Claudia and Monica left, Grace went into the
ber?” Grace looked at the nodding heads. “Good. She
kitchen and dialed three digits. Two rings and then
is, as of now, the last lefty in our school, the end of
silence.
our mission. We need her to be complete. You know
“Lefty number 213, secured. No problem. We’ll
how we tried to do it before. We shall do the same,
gather same time tomorrow morning,” Grace said.
tonight,” Grace said.
Again, silence.
“Are you sure we’re ready to try it tonight? I mean,
*
*
*
it took a month to plan Jessie’s kidnapping, and
I suppose, by now, we owe you some explanation.
Melissa is a tough cookie,” Nicole said.
And as the head of the society, it is my duty to fill
“Are you questioning me? Have we ever failed when
you in.
I was in control?” Grace asked, standing her ground.
Trust me, we’re not stalkers. We’re not kidnappers.
“I agree with Grace. I think tonight’s the night for
And we are most certainly not pedophiles. We are
a mission this big. We’re ready,” Claudia said. She
protectors. These people need us. They need us to tell
stood next to Grace. “Come on, girls, think of all the
them how special they are. To let their skills grow in
work we’ve put into this. She needs us to do this for
a secure environment. No one else understands them
her. Melissa doesn’t know how much she’s lacking
the way we do.
from being around the righties all the time.”
So we keep them where they are with their own
“She does need us,” Hillary said.
kind and are the dominant ones.
The girls nodded.
They are our secrets.
“We can do this,” said Monica.
They are locked in the basement of my house, just
“So all is a go then?” Grace asked. Clapping and
below our meeting room. We don’t force them to
cheers erupted from the girls. “Perfect.”
stay. They can leave any time they want, if they can
*
*
*
figure out how to get out. As of yet, no one has.
Six girls tiptoed down the sidewalk and across the
As a society we befriend these special ones. Somemanicured lawn. The metal ladder they were carrying
times it takes time. Others are very open to us. We
clanked, the sound piercing the clammy night.
tell them that they are interesting and that we want to
“Her window is on this side,” Monica whispered.
learn about them. And then we take them here and
They were in front of Melissa’s house. Four girls
lock them in the observation room.
would crawl up the ladder and through
They are with Melissa’s window, before standing in the
They don’t mind. In fact, they love it.
They thank us for all they have learned.
darkness of her room.
their own kind One would watch the area. One would
*
*
*
Grace set 11 glasses of lemonade on
the ladder. Then the four who were in
and are the hold
the coffee table. The ice cubes clinked
the room would drug her, tie her up, and
against the glasses. She picked up one
dominant ones take her down the ladder and across the
and sipped it thoughtfully, the condensalawn to the van. She wouldn’t make a
tion rolling off the bottom and hitting the floor.
sound. And she wouldn’t fight. None of them ever
A piercing scream rang out from below.
do. Grace would watch from the sidewalk, dressed in
“Just in time,” said Grace.
black. Once everyone was in the van, the driver
She walked to the outer wall where a calendar hung.
would peel away through the deserted town.
With the pen dangling on a string, she made a small
When they arrived, the other three would be waiting,
mark in box number 13. It was only one letter: S. The
ready to make the long haul into the basement where
legend at the top explained that S stood for scream.
Melissa would spend her days, forgotten by the rest
This is Grace’s job since she is the head of the soof the world. Where she would be kept a secret. They
ciety. The lefties are kept in her house, in her care.
would place her on what would forever be her cot.
She listens to them all day and keeps a log of their
They would untie her and drink lemonade upstairs,
activities.
congratulating themselves on a job well done.
*
*
*
*
*
*
A while later, the door to Grace’s house creaked
Her eyes opened, but she shut them immediately.
open and in walked 10 girls. Nothing was out of the
The fluorescent lighting was too bright. But she didn’t
ordinary about them. They all looked to be highhave fluorescent lights in her bedroom, she realized.
school age, they wore normal clothing, and they
She shot up from her pillow and looked around. Distalked of normal subjects.
gusting green paint decorated the walls, and the
The floor’s groans sounded like tree branches rubmany cots around her were filled with sleeping
bing in a wind storm as the society traversed the dark
strangers. She didn’t know where she was, but she
halls that hid cobwebs in their shadows. The girls
knew one thing for sure: this wasn’t her bedroom.
slipped one-by-one through a door just like the baseAnd so Melissa did the only thing she could, she
ment door.
opened her mouth and screamed.
Once everyone was settled on the couches and had
*
*
*
taken out their notebooks with the spiral on the other
Grace didn’t even look up from her notebook when
the scream ripped through the floor. She only smiled,
side, Grace passed out the lemonade.
and made a small mark on the corner of her paper.
“Has everyone been practicing?” she asked. A few
Another S.
girls nodded.
They had done it, goal complete. All 214 lefties
“Wonderful, because we need to be just as perfect
were now theirs to watch and learn from. It was only
as they are.” Grace smiled and closed her eyes, runa matter of time until there would be more. Because
ning a pen through her left hand. “Splendid. Now,
they were always on the lookout, to make them feel
down to business, did everyone get the call last
good about themselves.
night?” Again, everyone nodded. “Monica, they may
She smiled again and said quietly, “Our special
want to know the details. Why don’t you fill them in.
secrets.” ✎
And,” Grace paused, “it would be best to take notes.”
art gallery
Art by Raul Ramos, Monte Vista, CO
Photo by Daniel Hales, Durham, NC
Art by Tiffany Everett, Auburn, AL
Photo by Lindsey Wasson, Woodinville, WA
Sculpture by Brett Czechowski, Spartanburg,SC
Photo by Hannah Brewer, Princeton, IL
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Draw … Paint … Photograph … Create! Then send it to us all year – see page 3 for details
Art by Allan Leung, Plano, TX
Photo by Matthew Shuman, Sharon, MA
SUMMER ’08
• Teen Ink
41
f i c•t i o n
Talking Back
by April Bangaysiso, Toronto, ON, Canada
was known as a goody two-shoes who
prah taught me valuable lesdid everything the teacher expected,
sons – from where our crap
having my homework complete and
actually goes, to what to do
cross-referenced, handing in projects a
when my car’s brakes suddenly freeze.
week ahead of time, and volunteering
Ellen DeGeneres introduced me to
to whack the blackboard erasers.
eye-catching dance moves that are
The only friends I had were the
ahead of my time, filled with high
chess team and some of the math gekicks and contagious laughter. The
niuses who seemed more interested in
women on “The View” led me to wait
solving equations from past Pascal
at all times for an argument to erupt in
contests than having a decent convertheir roundtable. I am a sucker for a
sation. I was a social outcast who was
good estrogen-filled drama where I
the butt of some crude
mentally imagine a large
jokes and a punching bag
scoreboard during the
“I am an adult, for the muscular guys who
verbal catfight. And you
kiss their biceps and
can’t forget good ol’ Jerand I want to be could
crush Coke cans with their
ry. Jerry Springer taught
me one important lestreated like one” pectorals.
That was who I was a
son: there are other peomonth ago, as I paid my
ple living much more
dues in high school. In my opinion,
uneasy lives, to say the least.
high school didn’t do anything for me
See, television has taught me a lot.
except reinforce my goal of getting
Whoever said it is bad for you is inthrough the name-calling from stusane. Daytime programs influenced
dents and God-long lectures from
my knowledge of everyday life as the
teachers.
ticking clock of my life goes by, secI just wanted to get out. Out of the
ond by second.
O
Photo by Joseph Browning, Mesquite, TX
I never really experienced anything
in real life that taught me valuable lessons, never learned from my mistakes
or took the plunge into something
risky. Never have I had an adrenaline
rush or been so filled with excitement
that I nearly wet my pants. Never.
You could say I was brought up to
be the poster child for any parent in
North America. As an only child, I
was taken care of profoundly by my
old-fashioned mother and father, having a curfew that cut into my weekly
intake of medical dramas as well as
late-night R-rated movies. At school, I
Dead End
by Carrie-Beth Beall, Deale, MD
W
e sat in a drowsy daze, blowing
cool air on each other’s necks.
That’s when we heard the jingle.
I jumped up, my thighs sticking to the deck,
grasping a dollar in my sticky summer hands.
Together we ran, our bare feet slapping
against the hot tar of our dead-end street.
Seeking refuge in the shadows of leafy
trees, the truck whizzed past. That was our
game.
Our hair billowed as we ran. I stopped.
He had won again. Some days he would let
us win, but when he didn’t, the ice cream
tasted that much sweeter. ✎
42
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
building where I felt imprisoned. Out
of my parents’ house where the Internet was controlled – making Facebook’s homepage a large caution sign
gawking at me. I wanted to get out and
become somebody who wasn’t known
as Michael and Katherine’s perfect
son. And that is what I did a couple of
weeks ago.
“I’m taking a year off.”
There, I had said it full of confidence, staring straight into my father’s
eyes. I swear I might have even puffed
my chest for effect, controlling my
fear of one of his long, loud lectures.
Even his scary hand gestures could
make my weak heart stop.
My father, Michael Adams, was a
doctor, a gynecologist, to be exact. He
spent his days between his patients’
legs talking about their “problems.”
Dealing with that six days a week,
with free time tight on his schedule, I
knew he liked to come home and have
a meal on the table. Later he would
smoke a cigar, telling himself that they
were totally different from cigarettes.
For a doctor, he really was in denial
about the medical facts.
I always thought he looked like one
of the Sopranos, mustache identical to
his raven hair, sitting in his black
leather seat. For the last 18 years of my
pathetic life, I have observed his rear
work an indent into the poor dead cow.
“No.”
inhaling on his cigar like mad.
That was the only reply, mixed with
“I’ve been taking nothing. And I
an exhale of smoke. I wanted to yell at
have not gone stupid. I need to do this
him, tell him that he was committing
before I become some lonely man
slow suicide (my guidance counselor’s
with a bunch of cats who sews his
exact words about smoking) with his
name in his boxers.”
“healthy” intake of nicotine. But that
“But I thought you liked that, dear,”
was off topic. He had obviously made
my mom sighed.
it clear how he felt with the two-letter
“It is thoughtful, Mom, really, but I
word that I had grown accustomed to.
am too old for that. I am too old to be
“I have already thought this through
your little boy you can manipulate as
and my decision is made. I am taking
if I were a toy. I barely get out of the
a year off before college, whether you
house. I don’t even know our neighlike it or not.” Damn, I had finally
bors, and we have been living on this
composed a sentence that did not fit
street for 18 years. I barely know me,”
the mold of the obedient child. I had
I sighed, letting everything out.
used words often referred to as “talkMy father’s eyes softened just the
ing back.”
tiniest bit while he played with the end
My father was as surprised as I was,
of his lit roll of death and my mother
sitting up in his seat. My mother
fingered the tiny pearls that added pergasped behind me, having finished the
fection to her life. There was really
dishes.
nothing left to say as I turned on my
“Beau, you do not talk to your faheel, the faded rubber soles of my
ther like that,” her soft voice scolded.
shoes leaving a mark on the hardwood
Her one-inch heels clicked as she apfloor. Before continuing up the stairs, I
proached. She was a petite woman in
turned. “And I’m moving out,” I added
her mid-forties just like dear old Dad.
before running up the steps, nearly
She had the look of a schoolteacher:
tripping. The moment of silence was
her dark hair in a bob and pearls aldefinitely over.
ways around her neck. Right now, she
Yup, that was me three weeks ago,
was acting like a teacher, telling me
standing my ground.
what was right and what was wrong. I
I am Beau Adams, 18 years old and
knew she had this right to some extent,
proud to have noticed that faint hairs
seeing as she carried me for nine
are growing on my face. I have never
months and was tortured during 23
had a kiss that actually counted. I have
hours of labor before I was willing to
never smoked, never. I have been
enter the world. I knew that, but I was
tempted seeing my father’s cigars lyon a roll. Step one to my plan: getting
ing in the den, calling out to me. But I
the hell out of the house still intact.
resisted. I also have never drunk alco“I am an adult, and I want to be
hol in my life. I know many people
treated like one,” I explained. Talking
my age who have mastered the techthis out would be good. Compromise
nique of getting wasted. I am well
would be even better, if my parents
aware of the horrible outcomes, like
would go for it. “I want to take a year
drunk driving and becoming a total
off as I said and–”
pig at inappropriate times. Maybe I am
“And what? Become a stone head
just stupid like my father has said nuwho impregnates a girl and becomes a
merous times since our last talk, but I
father who could have been a doctor
want to experience everything – all the
but decided to be nothing but an
good and the bad.
‘adult’?” Why did he feel the need to
I want to meet new people who
do those air quotes? His
don’t know about my past
voice held enough mockthe names I was dubbed
I have never or
ery as it was. “Is that it,
since the age of 14. I want
Beau?” He really did
had a kiss that to do so many things that I
have a way with words,
am excited for the year to
actually counted come, even if I will be cut
and a temper. A long
vein popped out of his
off from my bank account,
neck as if it were ready to burst from
which my parents have been putting
all the hot air in his head.
money into since I was just a tiny little
“Michael,” my mom said, trying to
toy to them. As for my college fund, I
calm him down before he erupted. He
can’t even go there. My only source of
was like a dormant volcano, sleeping
money is the birthday and Christmas
for years until something or someone
checks from aunts and uncles who
triggered the lava deep inside.
pinched my cheeks until they were red
“Don’t you hear him, Kat? We raise
or left their crusty lipstick on the side
him the right way and now he’s gone
of my face.
all stupid.”
Sigh.
Maybe my expectations were stuAlthough I don’t have much cash, I
pid. There was no way my wildly anhave come into this with a purpose.
gry father and schoolteacher mom
Leaving home, not going to school, is
would actually listen to a word I said
probably the best thing I can do. Sayand go for it.
ing it right now it may not sound very
“Have you been taking drugs?
smart, but in the long run things will
Drinking? Because this is not you.
work out for the best.
This is not my son talking,” he huffed,
Or at least I hope so. ✎
by Brandon Joe, San Francisco, CA
from muscle number two.
one who was the origin of all the others.
he young Count Vicole breathed deeply as he
The mercenary’s swings became clumsy as he tired.
“There is who we really are, and who we need to be
stood on the balcony of his castle. “I love the
He
dropped
his
guard
for
an
instant,
but
that
was
all
in
times of hardship,” Vicole replied. “We must somemoonlight’s glow upon my face,” he said to no
Vicole needed. After several minutes, a circle of mertimes do things we don’t usually do to overcome these
one in particular. Little did he know that a simple
cenary bodies surrounded Vicole. His white gloves
hardships.”
thing like moonlight was just what this young vamwere now a dark red from where he was sliced, and
With that, the epic battle begin. Claws and silver
pire should fear.
his cloak was torn to shreds. He had thrown all his
clashed. Neither the vampire nor the werewolf backed
*
*
*
knives. Only the young demon slayer remained. The
down. Finally, the wolf crushed Vicole’s chain in his
Elsewhere a 16-year-old demon slayer sat in a quiet
slayer had just a few cuts on his legs and arms.
teeth. Then he spoke again: “This human, he has tried
corner of a candlelit pub. He drank his chalice of banHe aimed his crossbow at Vicole’s heart and fired. If
to kill you, but still you feel no hatred.”
shee breath while he told the bartender of his advenit
hit,
it
would
finally
be
over.
To
the
slayer’s
surprise,
Suddenly everything fit together in Vicole’s mind.
tures.
just before the shaft reached Vicole, the count exploded
“You were the one who took the slayer’s memories,
Suddenly, the door burst open and a hellhound leapt
into a flurry of bats that flew to the second
and you planted a false memory of me doing it!”
through, closely followed by a werewolf.
Vicole cried. He tried to calm his rage. At the same
Half the people were so drunk, they didn’t The door burst floor, where he rematerialized.
In a calm voice, the count said, “Please, I
time, the master wolf’s blood thirst took over, and he
notice. As the hellhound slaughtered three
people, the werewolf lunged at the demon
open and a don’t want to hurt you. I have done nothing howled at the moon. An eerie silence followed, the
against you.” The slayer only felt anger. He
night as still as death.
slayer, but he was faster, dodging and
Somewhere in the distance, something scared a flock
hellhound knew the count had tried to kill him and
drawing his pistol loaded with silver bulhad
stolen
his
memories,
but
Vicole
played
of
crows from their roost. Out of the cover of a patch
lets. He took aim, but before he could fire,
leapt through innocent. How pathetic. The angered slayer of trees stepped the slayer. Only he was part werethe hellhound snatched the gun.
took out the wolf’s fang and with all the
wolf; the transformation was almost complete. Vicole
Confronted by two monsters, the slayer
hatred he had for the count, threw it at Vicole’s head.
knew if he didn’t slay the master wolf soon, he would
reached for another weapon: his whip with shards of
This was the end for Vicole.
have to kill the slayer. He would not let that happen.
silver dangling from the tip, reflecting the glittering
*
*
*
Vicole suspected that the slayer’s mind might have
candlelight. The hellhound snarled and charged, but
The demon slayer threw something at him. He hadn’t
already become that of a blood-thirsty werewolf.
the slayer somersaulted through the air, landing on the
listened when Vicole tried to explain his innocence.
“Slayer, I have summoned you,” said the master wolf.
bar. He cracked his whip and the werewolf turned into
With
a
gloved
hand
the
count
caught
the
projectile.
It
“Here is the one who stole the thing you hold dear.
a human corpse, then evaporated, leaving only a fang
was a wolf’s fang. Furious, he threw it back. It sank
Let us attack him together and restore your memories.”
behind.
deep into the slayer’s arm.
Vicole tried to protest, but he didn’t know if the
The hellhound leapt and clawed at him. But the
Vicole knew it would be just a few hours before the
slayer was listening. He bent on his hind legs, ready
slayer had yet another trick up his sleeve, or rather a
full moon rose and this young slayer transformed into
to maul Vicole. Just before he pounced, he did someholy knife. He threw it, and it pierced the hellhound in
a werewolf and was under its curse forever. There was
thing strange. He gave a smile and a wink that only
the head. The beast shriveled into a dried-out carcass.
only one rumored cure. He would have to kill the
Vicole saw.
The young slayer retrieved his weapons. He susmaster werewolf – the one older than even he. Vicole
The slayer jumped, but changed direction in midair,
pected who had tried to kill him: the one who went by
watched
as
the
young
slayer
collapsed.
He
didn’t
know
clawing
at the werewolf. The master wolf swatted the
the name of Vicole.
why or how, but he knew he had to save this human.
slayer and knocked him out cold.
Though Vicole tried to hide it, the slayer knew the
Vicole tied up the slayer with strong silver chains. At
It was just minutes until the transformation would
count was a vampire. He intended to kill that vampire
least he would be safe, he hoped. The count went into
be complete, and Vicole had no more weapons. Still,
and get his memories back. Who was he and why were
the woods and made a deep cut in his arm to lure werehe attacked the master wolf now with bare hands,
his reflexes so fast? They had saved him so many
wolves. There was only one problem with his plan. It
receiving a claw deep in his abdomen that sent him
times. He was faster than any other slayer, faster even
would attract all the werewolves in the area – and there
hurling through the air, landing beside the slayer.
than any other human. First, he would need to get
was no telling if the master werewolf would come.
Vicole was exhausted and knew this was the end.
supplies before he paid a visit to the count.
*
*
*
He
had no strength, and the master wolf was getting
*
*
*
The young slayer awoke with a start. He was lying on
closer. Just as all hope seemed lost, he noticed a key
In his tower, Vicole was drinking a tall glass of red
a stone slab, tied with chains. He rememdangling from the slayer’s neck. It looked
wine. It didn’t taste as good as blood, but he had
bered throwing the fang. Vicole had
Vicole’s plan like sterling silver. At least Vicole hoped
stopped drinking blood – it was inhumane, and he had
caught it and thrown it back. Then he’d
so. Mustering up an ounce of strength, he
sworn to protect humanity.
blacked out. As he lay there, he thought would attract all grabbed the glittering key, slid under the
Suddenly, there was a loud bang at the front door,
maybe Vicole wasn’t the guilty one after
wolf, and stabbed him in the gut.
and somewhere in the distance a window broke. Vithe werewolves master
all. He easily could have killed him, but
At first nothing happened, and Vicole
cole could hear booted feet running toward him. He
he didn’t. The slayer could almost see
worried that perhaps the key was not
checked that his knives were firmly attached to his
in the area
the moonlight streaming from the winsilver. Then the master wolf vanished,
belt, and then put on a cloak to conceal them. He
dow. He suddenly felt dizzy, full of new strength, and
leaving only a shining box. Vicole grabbed the key
grabbed his swords and was ready to defend his home
for some reason had an urge to cry out at the moon.
and crawled to the box. He was even more surprised
or go to hell trying.
*
*
*
when the key fit and it clicked open. Inside was a
*
*
*
Blood seeped from a dozen places on the count’s
shimmering orb that floated toward the slayer. As
The young slayer rushed in behind his mercenaries.
body where he had been wounded
soon as it touched his head, he started looking human
There are only a few ways
by werewolves. Still, Vicole
again, and in a few minutes he regained consciousness.
to kill a vampire. The first is
didn’t
forfeit.
He
was
a
blur
as
Vicole was exhausted. “Let’s return to my castle.
to cut his head clean off. The
his silver chain danced, reflecting
We can talk there,” he suggested.
second is to drive a wooden
the moonlight. Vicole had slaugh*
*
*
stake into his heart. The last is
tered dozens of werewolves alBack at Vicole’s castle, the broken windows were
to infect his blood with wereready, but not the master wolf; he
fixed and the mercenaries buried, while the slayer
wolf saliva.
was running out of time, for the
tended to his wounds. Later that night, around a roaring
The slayer had taken the
moon was almost full in the sky.
fire, the slayer properly introduced himself as Wyriden
werewolf’s fang, still dripping
Suddenly, Vicole sensed somethe Elf. Vicole had heard that elves have incredible
with saliva, from the pub.
thing
behind
him
in
the
underbrush.
speed and grace, which explained why Wyriden was
Everything else he found at the
He cartwheeled out of the way as a
one of the best slayers.
weapons store. There was no
dark shadow shot past. He turned
Then Wyriden made an interesting business propoway that this vampire would
toward the looming shadow. It was
sition. The two of them would become demon
survive. The first hired hand rushed
a werewolf, perhaps the master. Surhunters. After Vicole thought for a minute, he agreed.
in and Vicole easily slaughtered
prisingly, the wolf spoke: “Tell me,
That night the elf and vampire rested. And for once
him with his sword. The second
vampire, why would you risk your
in his life, even in the home of a vampire, Wyriden
man slashed at the count, who somlife for a human?” Vicole knew this
knew he was safe. ✎
ersaulted, using an ancient fighting
had
to
be
the
master
werewolf,
the
Art
by
Elisa
Williams,
Cottonwood,
ID
style to fend off a flurry of attacks
T
SUMMER ’08
f i c•t i o n
Count Vicole and the Slayer
• Teen Ink
43
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f i c•t i o n
It’s All About the Gophers
by Lexie Sharabianlou, Walnut Creek, CA
“Gopher?”
e were stuck in traffic when Mom turned
“Whatever. So when they’re hungry and they find a
down the radio and glanced in the rearview
gopher
and the gopher doesn’t move, the wolf will
mirror at us.
kind of lazily, you know, catch and eat it.”
“All right, girls,” she said, “I have a piece of wisI sharply turned to my sister to see that her expresdom for you.” She slipped into another lane, pushed
sion matched mine: eyes big, mouth gaping, eyesome blond hair out of her eyes, then added warily,
brows raised.
“regarding boys.”
“You want the boys to eat us?” she asked.
Automatically, I replied, “Is this about sex?”
“Mom, this lecture is freaking me out.”
The car swerved a bit as my mom’s hands jerked.
“Why does the wolf have to eat the gopher?”
“What? No!”
“I don’t want to be a gopher!”
“Is it about birth control?” piped Lily.
“… are you saying we should be lesbian gophers
“Heeeeeeeeeeeerpes?”
and not get eaten?”
“GIRLS!” my mom’s hands shook.
“NO!” my mother burst. “Girls, just let
“It’s not about any of those!”
me
finish!”
“Then what?” Lily asked.
“Mom, this
Art by Lauretta Andrews, Kannapolis, NC
I rolled my eyes at my sister. She shook
Mom reached up to adjust the mirror.
“Or can’t the gopher like, swipe at the wolf, at
I glanced at the highway billboards. Lily lecture is freak- her head, glancing at the back of Mom’s
least?”
head.
fiddled with the trash that had accumuing me out”
“Kick dirt in his face?”
Mom continued, “Okay, so if a wolf
lated in the hours we had spent on the
“Push him in a lake?”
gets hungry and finds a gopher and the
road.
“GIRLS!” my mother cried, through our giggles.
gopher runs away, then the wolf gets excited, you
“Squirrels,” Mom said, “or gophers.”
“What I’m trying to say is, it’s more fun for the boy
know wagging its tail and sticking out its tongue–”
I tugged at my seat belt nervously.
if he chases you. Make him work for you!” Mom
“I thought you said this wasn’t about sex,” I
Mom continued, “You see, boys and men have
sighed again. “So, no more of this flirting with boys.
mused.
this–”
No more calling them. No more–”
She gave me a warning glare. I shrugged. “So,
“Mom, are you talking about playing hard to–”
“But, Mom! We can be friends, can’t we?” I grumwhen the wolf has something to chase, it has a better
“No, no I’m not,” she said.
bled.
time.
Like
when
you
play
tag,”
she
added.
“Yes, you are. Why else would you mention squirMom shook her head sympathetically. “I’m sure
“So, the wolf is ‘it’?” Lily asked.
rels?”
you can, sweetheart, but sometimes they get things
“Yes.”
She shook her head and sighed, “All right, so I
mixed up. They can’t help it.” Then after a moment
“But to be ‘it’ we’d have to have tagged him, right?
am.”
she added scientific backup: “Hunter instincts.”
When did the gopher tag the wolf?”
“You told me this yesterday,” I pointed out. “And
“Mom, we can make it clear that we’re just
I heard my mother grit her teeth; she muttered
last Sunday. And when I was calling Jim–”
friends. We can remind them. Use sticky notes if we
through her clenched jaws, “The wolf was ‘it’ in the
“It’s not for you,” my mom interrupted. “It’s for
have to. I don’t want to make my friends chase me!”
first place.”
your little sister.”
“It’s different with boys, honey!” she insisted.
“But
what
if
the
gopher
wants
to
be
‘it’?
Every
one
“But I was there too,” Lily groaned.
“You see, it all started in the cavemen times when the
of God’s creatures should be able to play tag and be
“Anyway!” my mother said, plowing through my
men would hunt–”
‘it’! Quadrupeds, amphibians, rodents, and fish
sister’s sentence. “Where was I? Gophers. Yeah,
Lily turned away from the window and
everywhere!”
that’s better. Gophers. Well, actually wolves.”
punched me lightly on the arm, “Massachu“Okay! Okay!” my mother cried.
“What? Wolves?” my sister snapped, leaning for“I don’t want setts.”
“They were never playing tag! He just
ward suddenly to peek around the driver’s seat.
“What, seriously?” I asked, leaning over
chases the gopher, okay? He likes chas“Yes, wolves.”
my friends to to her window.
ing! It’s fun and exciting and interesting,
“What about the gophers?”
“Yeah, right there, the weird-looking
do you understand? That way when he
“They’re coming. Hold on.”
chase me” green
car.”
catches the gopher–”
“What about boys? I thought you said this was
“Oh man, that thing is beat up.”
“He catches the gopher?” Lily said. “I
about boys.”
“Girls?” Mom said.
thought in this scenario the gopher doesn’t get
“They’re the, um,” Mom’s fingers tapped the
“Ooh! Oregon!” I punched Lily in her side.
eaten!”
wheel nervously, “they’re the wolves, sweetheart.”
“Girls, do you understand? Are you going to run
“Well.” Mom’s grip on the steering wheel tight“And who are the gophers?”
away from the wolves? Girls, do you understand
ened. “It does.”
My mother was silent.
what my analogy is about?”
“How is that better?”
“Mom! We aren’t the gophers, are we? Why are
“It’s about having sex,” I exclaimed.
“I’d
rather
be
the
gopher
that
isn’t
getting
chased
we rodents?”
“Olivia!”
by wolves,” I piped. “What does a gopher have to do
“Because!”
“That’s what gophers do, Mom.”
not to get chased by wolves?”
“Mom, can you just turn the radio back on?”
“No, it’s like this,” Lily said. “You see first they try
“Yeah, these are some stupid gophers,” Lily said,
“No! This is important and I need you to listen.”
and make friends with the wolf, but the wolf thinks
turning to me. “Why can’t they just go back in their
“Okay, so wolves, when they’re hungry, if they see
they want to play Monopoly when the gopher wants
holes?”
a groundhog–”
to play Twister. Then the wolf gets mad and demands
a samurai showdown. And then the gopher pulls out
her ninja stars and light sabers and shuts down the
wolf, then runs to the hole she should have been in
the whole time.”
by Samantha Lotz, Pewaukee, WI
“Nice. Can I be that gopher, Mom? That’s one
hey are the only ones that trip me. I am the only one who cleans them. Six
cool gopher.”
uneven stairs with uneven boards and splintering sides. Six that are out of
“No! You have to be eaten!” My mom was flusplace but fit in. Six stairs worn smooth by years of treading shoes. From the
tered, her shoulders tensing and her head shaking.
window I can see them, but my mother says to stop staring.
We snickered. “Wait! I mean, will you just take this
Their memories are long. They have felt three generations of feet walking over
seriously? Do you understand the message?”
them. They stay put and go far and watch noiselessly with their inconspicuous star“Yeah, it’s all about the gophers.” I said solemnly.
ing and silent laughter. This is how they live.
Mom’s shoulders sagged.
If one cracked under pressure, the others would surely bend like fingers on a pi“That’s right. That’s exactly right, thank you,
ano, each following the last. Live, live, live, stairs whisper as I pass over. They love.
Olivia. It’s all about the gophers. Just be good little
When I am too alone and too uneven to keep living, when I am a drop of salt in
gophers and make the wolves chase you.”
the ocean, then I walk over the stairs. When there is nowhere else to walk on the
“Before they eat us.”
lane. Six that stay in spite of the rain. Six that are above and remain above. For
Photo by Ginamarie Darcangelo,
“Exactly.” ✎
Rochester, NY
their only purpose is to see and see. ✎
W
Six Uneven Stairs
T
46
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
Teen Ink • Summer ’08 • Page 47
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f i c•t i o n
48
Afghanistan
by Kyle Murphy, Calgary, AB, Canada
through the outskirts of Kandahar.
he sun was just above the horiTwo jeeps, each with five soldiers and
zon when I awoke. I went
a manned machine gun on top, were
through my normal routine of
on patrol duty, trying to keep our half
showering and eating a hot breakfast.
of Kandahar safe. I was settled in, my
However, today wasn’t a typical day.
rifle pointed up with the safety on.
It was a big day, one I hadn’t wanted
My thoughts wandered to home. I
to come, but also one I couldn’t wait
missed it already. I hated being away
for. Today I was leaving to join the
from everyone I loved, and I missed
fight against the Taliban. I was a Pricity life. My first two days here had
vate First Class in the Second Light
been dull. Once we arrived we’d been
Infantry Division of the Canadian
given an orientation of the airfield,
Armed Forces.
then pressed right into patrol duty,
The cab honked, startling me. I
which wasn’t exciting. So far I hadn’t
gathered my duffel bag containing
seen any action … I wasn’t sure I
photos of my family and girlfriend,
wanted to.
and a hunting knife my father had
The other guys were talking about
given me on my eighteenth birthday.
home. Most of them had been
I took a last look around
a while.
my apartment, noticing the
This was here“Jim,
what’d you leave
bare walls. I sighed, knowback
home?
Got a wife or
ing once I left, I wouldn’t
the Taliban’s
girlfriend?” a guy named
be back. This place had
fault
Simon asked me.
become my home during
“Yeah, my girl’s doing a
the last year; I was going to
degree in psychology. How about
miss it. I stepped outside and walked
you?”
to the cab, not looking back.
“No, she left me just before I came
*
*
*
to this stinkhole. She wasn’t going to
I handed the driver a crisp 20. I
wait.”
would fly from Calgary to Toronto,
Sometimes I wondered if my girlstaying at the base for a few nights
friend would wait for me. She said she
before flying to Kandahar.
would; I hoped it was true.
As I entered the terminal, I saw faOn my left was Sergeant Ryan
miliar faces. My family, a few friends,
Smith. He’d been here a long time. He
and my girlfriend had come to see me
was a brutal sarge, one who demanded
off. I smiled, feeling a lump in my
the absolute best, which always
throat. This was the last time I would
seemed to be more than anyone could
see any of them for a very long time. I
do. If you ever got a compliment, it
noticed my mother had shining eyes
was not to be disregarded.
… she had never wanted me to join
Across from me was Justin. He’d
the army, much less go off to fight. I
been here two months, a private, like
remember very clearly the day I told
me. Corporal Heather Davis was drivher I was going.
ing. I thought she was brave to face
“You don’t have to, sweetheart, if
the Taliban and the torment of an allyou don’t want to,” she had said.
male group. She was hardened and
“Mom, I want to,” I had said quietly.
had experienced a roadside bomb and
She hadn’t seemed to hear me.
an urban firefight or two alongside
“There are many things you can do
Sarge. Not many could say they’d seen
right here in Canada to help. You don’t
action, though. Usually we kept to our
have to put yourself in danger,” she
half of the city and the Taliban to
had pleaded, on the verge of tears.
theirs.
This was going to be a hard goodI heard a muffled explosion.
bye.
Through the front window, I saw the
After going through security, I
jeep ahead of us roll over.
boarded the plane. After a few min“Bomb!” Heather shouted. She
utes, the turbines began to whir, and
slammed on the brakes just in time, as
the plane pulled toward the runway.
the second one blew up right in front of
My heart beat with anticipation. These
us. I was tossed forward and hit my
would be days to remember.
head. My vision blurred, and for a
*
*
*
second I lost my hearing. I thought I
The convoy hummed as it traveled
would black out, but everything quickly
came back into focus.
“Hostiles on the west side!” Sarge
shouted. “Everyone out of the jeep!
Someone get on the big gun!”
All hell broke loose. I grabbed my
gun and bailed out. Simon got up on
the gun and began firing. It was loud
and drowned out all other sounds.
Countless shells hit the ground. Men
stood in the long grass and began
shooting at us. Most seemed to be
very bad shots, but there were lots of
them – at least 12.
I leaned around the jeep and tried to
Photo by Noah Poythress, Platte City, MO
T
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
Taliban soldiers falling like dominos.
Hot shells dropped into my shirt and
burned my skin. I looked up and saw a
military helicopter – our backup had
arrived. I heaved a sigh of relief. Soon
the gunfire ceased, and I knew we
were going be okay.
I was sitting on the ground beside
our wrecked jeep when I noticed
movement out of the corner of my
eye. Then Sarge spoke.
“You know, Private, in the heat of
battle, you can’t always make the right
decisions.”
I was quiet. I didn’t know where
this was going. What had I done
wrong?
“When one is pressed to make a
quick decision, they have to base it on
the information they have at the time,”
Photo by Monica Lawlis, St. George, UT
he continued.
return fire, but my trigger was stuck. I
“Did I do something wrong,
tried again, and it wouldn’t move. I
Sarge?” I asked.
looked at my gun and found the prob“Yes, something terribly wrong, but
lem. I clicked off the safety and fired
something any man, including myself,
at a man 25 yards away. I didn’t think
could have done in your position.
about any family he had, or loved ones
Follow me, Jim.” He brought me to
who would miss him. I was trying to
the jeep I had shot, overturned in the
survive. I fired a few times and hit a
ditch. The windshield was smashed
tree, then he ducked out of sight.
and smoke billowed from the engine.
I paused to reload, and the machine
To the side, bodies of the victims were
gun droned on. I saw a Taliban fighter
laid out.
stand up in the grass with a long tubeTears rolled down my cheeks as I
like object on his shoulder. He fired
saw the product of my hasty decision.
and a stream of smoke trailed behind
A two-year-old child had a hole in his
the projectile. I felt my heart sink as I
arm and a gash across his face. Blood
realized what it was.
crusted his clothing and forehead.
“RPG!” I shouted. “Move!” I dove
Beside him was a woman, just as
toward a ditch as far from the jeep as I
bloody, with a surprised look frozen
could. The explosion knocked the
on her face. Then a man.
wind out of me, but I’d gotten far
Hate overwhelmed me. This was
enough away to escape. I lay still for a
the Taliban’s fault. If they weren’t
second and then rolled into the ditch.
here, we wouldn’t be. I screamed. I
Simon had been in the jeep when
screamed louder than ever before. It
the RPG hit. He hadn’t heard me; I
echoed, even though there were no
don’t think it would have made a difmountains or buildings around. What
ference. He’d cut down at least four
had I done? I looked again at the
Taliban fighters. I heard Sarge calling
child’s face. A sob escaped my lips.
for backup. I aimed at the man who’d
“Forgive me,” I whispered.
fired the RPG. Taking my
I ran. I ran past the bodies
time, I fired. He clutched
of
the dead Taliban fighters.
I could not
his gut and went down.
I heard voices calling me,
Unless anyone from the live with what but I didn’t stop. I kept runother jeep was still conning until exhaustion overI had done whelmed me. I knelt and
scious, we were alone until
backup arrived. It was four
began to sob. I could not live
against seven. We had no big gun and
with what I had done.
no air support. Our chances looked
My hand went to my pistol and I
grim.
pulled it out. I put the barrel under my
The gunfire stopped for a few secchin. It was cool, even in the blazing
onds and I spotted an open jeep speedheat. My finger felt the trigger, and I
ing down the dirt road. It showed no
began to shake. Sweat poured down
intention of stopping. It was 50 meters
my back. My fingers slipped and I
away now, spraying dust behind it. We
almost dropped the gun.
couldn’t afford to have more Taliban
My heaving sobs continued. I was
against us. I brought my gun up and
overwhelmed. I hated myself for my
began firing. A few holes appeared in
crime. I’d taken the life of a child. I dethe windshield, then I hit a tire. The
served to die. But something stopped
jeep lost control and rolled into a
me. My thoughts went back home, to
ditch. I smiled and turned my attention
my girl, my family, my friends. I had
back to the other hostiles. I reloaded,
promised them I would be safe. None
fired, reloaded and fired again.
of them believed it, but I’d promised I
It must have been only five minutes,
would be back, and not in a body bag.
but it seemed like a lifetime. I began
I uncocked my pistol and got back
to hear whirring above us; then I saw
up to do my job. ✎
by Caitlin Wiser, Covington, WA
that reaches as far as I can see. The air is thicker and
together, never touching.
fresher than inside, which smells white. This smells
But that’s only on sad days. On happy days, I like
like my mother’s perfume, my old baby pajamas, and
to wave at my friends, the girls. My parents say they
purple soap.
are only trees, but I know better: they are little girls,
I can put out my arms and spin around and I don’t
like me. They stand in a row outside the window of
hit anything. Underneath my bare feet, the grass
my bedroom-box. Their skinny bodies and arms are
blades tickle. When I step on them they bow down but
draped with bead necklaces and feathery boas, all red
then spring back when my foot is gone. Everything
and white and pink. They play dress-up just like me.
outside is so alive!
When I stand at the window, it’s like we’re together,
I run around the house, which looks less like a box
almost. Whenever they see me watching them, they
on the outside, and more like a fairy-tale castle. I can
giggle and smile and wave. The jewels on their rings
see my friends, the girls. I run to hug them, but they
flash in the light of my friend, the balloon.
don’t hug back. My parents are right; they are just
Outside is scary too. In the dining room is a wintrees. But I don’t stop loving them. Their bark is
dow where I can see a wall made of wood, and a lion
smooth and looks like paper from a thousand years
lives behind it. Between the pieces of wood I see its
ago. I plunge my hands into the dirt in their bed. It’s
yellow coat as it paces back and forth. Once, the lion
soft and moist, and I squeeze it in my fingers and
escaped. It leapt over the fence, ran to the window,
squish it between my toes.
and jumped up, trying to eat me. Lions eat little girls.
I hear a sound, and I spin around, because I recogI saw its pointy teeth, and its red tongue drooled all
nize it. I thought it was a lion, but now I
over the glass. I screamed, and Daddy
see I was wrong. I go up to the fence, and
chased the lion away with a stick. Mum
Lions eat little peek through. Its tongue is hanging out,
locked me in her arms until I stopped
and its tail is wagging. My father told me
screaming.
girls. I saw its once that means happiness. Maybe he
I used to think that maybe that was
me too.
why I couldn’t go outside: because of
pointy teeth likes
If I’m not in danger from the sky or the
the lion. But I don’t think that anymore.
trees or the dog next door, why am I not
Today I saw children outside my parallowed to go outside?
ents’ bedroom window. A boy and a girl. They were
“Brenda!” the front door flies open, and Daddy and
running and screaming, only I think they were
Mum run out. Before I can protest, they scoop me up
screaming for fun because they were smiling. Seeing
and put me in the car. The car is white, like our house,
them made me want to go outside.
but somehow I don’t mind the white so much anySo I’m going. Today I’m going outside. I don’t care
more. Or the white smell. I can close my eyes and reabout the lion. I walk down the long white hall, and
member the sweet smell of outside.
down the white, squeaky stairs. No one hears me. I go
“Baby, what were you doing?” Mum sobs, holding
to the window where I visit my friend the balloon. Tome and covering me with kisses, “Don’t you know
day she is floating up by the blue ceiling of outside.
you can’t go outside? You’re allergic to sunlight!” Her
When I touch the glass, I can feel her kisses crowding
soft brown hair brushes against my cheek, reminding
to touch me. They’ll be so happy when I let them in.
Photo by Morgan Croft, Fridley, MN
me of the tickling grass. It smells like cherry blossoms.
Quietly, so the grown-ups do not hear, I unlock the
Daddy starts the car and pulls down the driveway. I
window and pull it up – it is stiff from never being
to get in and brush my cheek, warm my cold fingers,
know without asking that we are going to the hospital,
opened. Before I can think, I crawl out and drop onto
and fill my eyes with their glowing light.
another white place.
the green carpet outside. Outside!
But they never get in. It makes me so sad – I hate
Now I know that it is the sun, my best friend, who
All
at
once
I
feel
a
hundred
different
kinds
of
love.
this stupid glass! Sometimes I cry. Sometimes the balis the real danger. Somehow, though, I know she
I feel the sun’s heat on my skin, and the warm sumloon throws a white blanket over its head and cries
doesn’t mean it. The sun is still my friend, as are the
mer breeze rifling through my hair. I look up and realwith me; fat tears splatter the outside of the window
sky, the grass, the dirt, the dog, and the cherry trees.
ize there is no roof on outside, just the bright blue sky
while mine splatter the inside, and they trail down
The scent of air and earth clings to me. It’s a part of
me now, a part that I never want to forget.
“Baby, thank God you’re all right,” Daddy says. I
know now that when he yells, it is because he is trying to keep the fear out of his voice. His rough hand
by Milan Harden, Battle Creek, MI
reaches back to squeeze my leg, and his skin feels like
the bark of the trees.
afraid
of
them,
but
he
rode
it
anyway
to
prove
that
he
ed is the color I turned when Mark Adams first
I am happy to be alive too. However, I would not
was “man enough,” I guess. When the ride was over,
kissed me on the cheek. I said I most certainly
have traded my trip outside for anything. Now that
he dashed to the nearest trash can, emptying his stomdid not like him, and he said he could prove I
I’ve seen it, walked in it, breathed it in, I’ll never be
ach. So much for manhood. I couldn’t stop laughing.
was lying. He knew a special test. By changing colors
the same again. And I want to go back, despite the
That is, until he said if I didn’t stop, he’d kiss me on
I failed the test, and he couldn’t stop laughing.
sun. I’ll go back again and again and again.
the mouth. Barf kiss: gross!
Orange was the color of our fingertips when we finBecause my name is Brenda, I am six, and I have
Blue
envelopes
are
tied
up
with
string
in
a
shoebox
ished a family-sized bag of Cheetos. We stayed up all
been
outside. ✎
under
my
bed.
Love
letters
Mark
left
in
my
night watching “Star Wars” movies. Mark
locker,
signed,
“Your
secret
admirer,
Mark.”
I
couldn’t believe I’d never seen a George
“Violet is told him signing his name defeated the purLucas film. We didn’t eat popcorn because
he had lost his popcorn-popping privileges. the color of pose of a secret admirer, but he said he didn’t
care.
He didn’t tell me why; he just said it was a
passion”
Indigo ink on the palm of his hand where
dark day in the Adams household.
he wrote “I love you.” I kissed his palm, and
Yellow daffodils were pushing up from
all of his fingers, before settling on his mouth.
the ground when he took me to the park, saying we
Violet roses I received a week before our annivermust “celebrate spring.” He brought an enormous red
sary.
We never exchanged gifts on that day. He said
kite, the kind that has a tail with ribbons. As we sat in
red ones were overdone. “Besides,” he added, “violet
the grass, he undid the sun-colored ribbon in my
is the color of passion.” He waggled his eyebrows,
brown hair, adding it to the tail of the kite. We ran all
and I laughed, hitting him lightly on the arm.
around the park to keep our kite flying, the ribbons
The colors of the rainbow are the ties that bring
waving.
Mark and me together. Growing ever stronger, they
Green was the color of Mark’s face after we rode
portray our love. ✎
Photo by Morgan Croft, Fridley, MN
the biggest roller coaster in the amusement park. He’s
M
y name is Brenda, I am six, and I have never
been outside. I live in a house that is like a
box, with smaller boxes for rooms. The
walls are white, the floor is white, and the ceiling is
white. Sometimes I hate that color. I like the colors I
can see outside … but I have never been outside.
Our house has big squares of glass in the walls, so
lonely children can look out. I have to be sneaky
when I peek behind the curtain, though, because they
don’t like it. They are my father and mother.
Once, Daddy caught me looking outside, and he
grabbed my arm and yanked me away. He yelled until
I covered my ears. It was worse when Mum came,
though. She squeezed me and made funny little noises;
tears trickled out of her eyes and slid down her face.
Now, when I look outside I make sure they don’t
catch me. I am scared, but I can’t help it. I have to look.
Outside is like a fairy tale. Down is a fuzzy green
carpet. Up and far away is the happy golden balloon
that scrapes along against the blue ceiling. Sometimes
I wish I could hold that beautiful yellow balloon; I
know it wishes the same, because it blows me kisses.
When I press my face against the cool glass, I can feel
the balloon’s kisses crowded on the other side, trying
f i c•t i o n
Outside
The Colors of Love
R
SUMMER ’08
• Teen Ink
49
f i c•t i o n
How to Find Your Mom’s Stash
you do, they’re going to think you’re an idiot, and as
irst of all, be naive. Be curious and easily
far as this group goes, that’s the beginning of the end.
swayed. Listen to your friends when they say
All the respect they have for you will be gone and
they want to help you, even though you had no
that means going back to how you were before. Sitintention of looking for it on your own, even though
ting at home with your mom and sister on Saturday
they’re the ones who put the idea in your head. Just
nights unaware of what other kids your age are doact like you were going to go on a big search anyway.
ing, and no way of getting out there to find out.
Button up your army jacket and lead them to your
That is the last thing you want. You’ve spent so
tiny ranch-style tract house in the historical part of
many
years longing to know what it is to be a teenager,
town. Giggle along with them, mocking your mom’s
and
while
your definition has changed over the last
drug and alcohol habits. Tell of her strange activities,
few months, you’ve finally made it. Your new definiand embellish the stories a bit. Chuckle slightly
tion involves the word angst and replaces a
while telling the tale about the catnip in
the cabinet and how you were never al- Your arguments letter jacket with a camouflage one. It
means trading rehearsals for the school
lowed to feed it to the cat, letting them
aren’t worth musical for a drug search you never
assume it was a stash. Don’t tell them
before thought was necessary. Having
that the reason was because the cat was
stating.
You
obtained this new sense of self, you are
big and mean and bit your tiny hands
not willing to give it up. At least these
whenever you tried.
won’t win
friends seem to enjoy this version of you.
Grab your boyfriend’s hand and hope
When you get to the police station, jaywalk across
that he can see that you’re actually scared. Hope that
Canterbury Lane and cut through the open field. Try
he knows you well enough after these three months
not to look at your feet; it will only get you thinking
to see that this worries you and that most drug use
about snakes. If you’re caught staring at the grass and
makes you uneasy. Don’t act standoffish or hurt
watching your combat boots too closely, Jessica will
when he shows no sign of understanding. If you
give her customary commentary and there’s the posshow him you care, it won’t be a treasure hunt anysibility you’ll be laughed at.
more. If it’s not a treasure hunt, they’ll lose interest.
The best course of action is to remain quiet but to
As long as you’re friendly, they’ll continue to make
listen closely. Laugh at their jokes but make few of
jokes and the truth of how scary this is will never
your own, speak only if you have something worthhave to meet your eyes.
while to say. That is probably the most important
Don’t let them know how straight-edge you really
thing. Be one hundred percent positive that what you
are. Don’t tell them that deep down, the word f--k
have to say is worth saying.
still offends you. Don’t say that you were oblivious
You’ll reach your tiny abode just after the field. If
to your mom’s drug use until they came around. If
your mother knew that you had friends with you, she
F
A Night Like This
G
irls: One with a tank top – brown,
revealing – her elbows perched
on the side as she leaned forward,
peering down. Mothers coaxed children
forward, glancing worriedly behind as if
one might have escaped when she wasn’t
looking. One small girl jumped for the
plastic bag nestled in her sister’s arm,
knowing of the sweets inside.
A woman, her jogging pants and T-shirt
stretching, wrestled a suitcase as tall as she
was and heavier than she ever would be
into the center of the machine. Two hands
on the handle, feet anchored, she pulled.
She was boarding the boat because it
seemed like the right way to go. She in
fact did not know where it would go.
One driving the ship. She was the best,
and everyone knew it, a woman not only of
color but of character and skill. And three
more, two young and one not so young,
Photo by Michael Diamond, Hawthorne, NY
50
Teen Ink •
SUMMER ’08
by Madison Borth,
Bolingbrook, IL
wouldn’t be happy. She thinks your friends are pyromaniacs and drug addicts. She’s not far off, you know.
Lead them to the bedroom down the hall, the one
across from yours. As you pass, shut your door. It’s
messy in there. You have Simpsons sheets on your
bed, which the mob recently decided to be foolish.
You agreed, if only to avoid conflict. Your arguments
aren’t worth stating. You won’t win.
In your mother’s room, have them look in all the
usual places. The closet, the TV stand. Take the bedside table yourself. The chances are too good that
embarrassing things are in there, and your mother is
already the butt of jokes. While you’ve been hurt by
your mother a lot recently, you still feel as if they’re
hurting you when they say things about her. If this
happens, just think of how she screamed at you about
your calorie counting and said you were stupid. Remember specifically how she refused to take you to a
counselor. Remember how she said you should manage it on your own. Remember you were only 13.
The feeling will subside.
Sam will look under the bed and call you over.
Giggle slightly at the pot that everyone knew was
there. Don’t show so much shock at the cocaine. Just
look nervous, but strong. Everyone else will look unsure. Act as if you knew somehow. Note that you really had no idea and you wouldn’t have recognized it
if Sam hadn’t said what it was.
After you find it, send them home. They won’t be
very supportive, but they’ll try to pretend. They’re all
too confused to be genuine. Kiss your boyfriend
good-bye, and when you shut the door behind all of
them, burst into tears. But certainly not until then. ✎
by Allie Thek, Scotch Plains, NJ
children so they could see. An older girl,
exhausted, sitting, staring at nothing in
holding a bag of candy, hung up her phone
particular.
and looked up, then down. Her sister, a
Boys: Fathers perching their children
small girl, had disappeared into the color
on the rails. A man running to catch the
and the night.
boat as the gate closed. Boys on wheels
As the boat crawled onto the open water,
of all varieties came on. Collecting
tilting back and forth with enough motion
money from everyone, sitting near the
to be noticeable but not nauseating, the
captain because the small control room
wind picked up.
was the only place where there was no
It blew hard. It blew so hard you
wind. There were not many boys in town
couldn’t hear anything except the band,
on a night like this.
couldn’t see anything except the lights
There were not many cars either. Three
because if you tried to look away then the
or four of a possible 36, their inhabitants
wind got into your eyes. It blew so hard
choosing to continue inhabiting.
and was so cold you couldn’t
The sea-snail rumbled,
couldn’t do anything
groaned, burped. A girl in a
The boat think,
except marvel at the light, the
tank top – brown, revealing –
leaned over further and smiled slammed into dark, the lines and colors and
periodic sound. The wind
as the engine created whirlthe dock pushed you into it and you were
pools in the night.
forced to let it swallow you.
As it pulled away, there was
Girls stared. Boys stared.
a flash. A bang. Even the woman with a
The fireworks grew, until they seemed
suitcase as tall as she was and heavier
larger than the port, the city, the horizon.
than she ever would be looked up. A
Each seemed greater than the one before.
phone was next to her ear, but she did not
Each seemed unique: oohs, and ahs.
talk into it.
And suddenly the strangers were
Three more, two young and one not so
connected.
young, looked up in surprise. They had
The motion was abrupt. The boat
seen this before. One small girl gave up
slammed into the dock almost purposeon candy and walked to the side of the
fully … or maybe it was the captain.
boat. Silence, disappointment. Sitting
Maybe wind did get into her room. The
near the captain, in the only place where
ride had been 25 minutes. She took a
there was no wind, a man turned and
deep breath and congratulated herself.
stared into the night, above the treeline,
Girls: They were forced to recover.
above the marina.
One with a tank top – brown, revealing –
The light came again, in colors and
tore herself away from the side of the
whirs and bangs. Fathers turned their
boat. Mothers coaxed children forward,
glancing worriedly behind as if one might
have escaped when she wasn’t looking.
One small girl directed her attention to a
bag nestled in her sister’s arm. She had
forgotten how fiercely she longed for the
treats inside.
A woman, her jogging pants and T-shirt
stretching, wrestled a suitcase as tall as
she was and heavier than she ever would
be onto the dock. Two hands on the
handle, feet anchored, she pulled. Finally,
it gave. Her cab had not arrived.
One driving the ship. The entry had not
been her best. She needed to fix the window; the wind was distracting. And three
more, two young and one not so young,
exhausted, walking quickly to a car that
would take them to bed.
Boys: Fathers lifting their children
down from the rails. A man running to
catch a car as the door closed and the
engine started. Boys on wheels of all
varieties took off. Preparing to collect
money from new passengers, one left the
control room where that night there was
wind. There were several boys going
home on a night like this.
The cars were long gone, the inhabitants
never having cared.
An older couple, of whom no one had
previously been aware. As the rest filtered
off methodically, they stayed. They held
hands, held each other. They leaned against
the netting on the ferry, gazing into the
night, smiling as the last light faded and
the darkness again engulfed them. ✎
It’s those
butterf lies
again.
Life’s going to come at you from all directions.
There’s stress. And there are people asking you
to smoke weed, and to change who you are.
All that pressure can build up inside of you.
But you don’t have to get caught up in all of it.
There are ways to let it go. How will you
deal with it?
Office of National Drug Control Policy / Partnership for a Drug-Free America®
BUILD…
a house
a friendship
a family
YOUR LIFE.
There’s more to a
home than wood
and plaster—and
more to a family
than living under
the same roof.
www.randomhouse.com/teens