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A PEN In The Classroom Anthology
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BRUISES
A PEN In The Classroom Anthology
Santa Fe High School
Santa Fe, New Mexico
Fall 2011
CONTENTS
BRUISES
INTRODUCTION
7
this i believe: personal essays
It Makes the World Go Round
CARSON MILLER
10
12
14
16
DAN SZABAT
19
GABE MOYA
22
24
26
28
30
33
35
39
42
44
46
48
50
The Violence of Corporate
Oppression
AIDEN MQUILLAN
ALEX ESQUIBEL
BONNIE FORTIERSHULTZ
GRETA MILLER
JARED LINSON
JULIET CRITCHLOW
KAYLA CARRILLO
MELODY HETT
MICHELLE PARRY
MIRANDA DURAN
NAYETZY GARCIA
OLIVIA OZELTON
RICK BACA
SOPHIE DIAZ
WILIA WILLIAMS
Playing with Emotions
The Right Way to Stand Up
Kehillah Kedosha (Sacred
Community)
Hoping for an Answer
Leave No Trace
Sentenced to Life
Art to Heal the Heart
The Power of Acceptance
A Mile in Their Shoes
The Violence of Tomorrow
Best Intentions
Forgive and Forget
A Composition of Blood
Revolution
Roller Coasters
Give a Virtue, Receive
Another. . .
poetry
ALEX ESQUIBEL
BONNIE FORTIERSHULTZ
CARSON MILLER
DAN SZABAT
GABE MOYA
GRETA MILLER
JARED LINSON
JULIET CRITCHLOW
KAYLA CARRILLO
MELODY HETT
MICHELLE PARRY
MIRANDA DURAN
NAYETZY GARICA
OLIVIA OZELTON
RICK BACA
SOPHIE DIAZ
WILIA WILLIAMS
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
66
67
68
69
70
71
microfiction
AIDAN MQUILLAN
ALEX ESQUIBEL
BONNIE FORTIERSHULTZ
CARSON MILLER
DAN SZABAT
GABE MOYA
GRETA MILLER
HANNAH HARGROVE
74
76
77
79
80
82
84
86
The Elite
An Eerie Feeling in the Breeze
The Metro
Stolen Tomorrows
The Resolute Ax
A Trophy Father’s Trophy Son
Cherry Popsicles
The Daydream
JARED LINSON
JULIET CRITCHLOW
KAYLA CARRILLO
MELODY HETT
MICHELLE PARRY
MIRANDA DURAN
NAYETZY GARCIA
OLIVIA OZELTON
RICK BACA
SOPHIE DIAZ
WILIA WILLIAMS
87
90
92
94
96
98
100
102
104
106
107
SIXWORD STORIES 109
Name Tag
Black Cat
Independent vs. Dependent
Red Lines
A Drip of Red
Richard
Pulled
Memories Ablaze
Newborn
Scars
The Foyer to Hell
Introduction
his is my sixth PEN In The Classroom residency, but my first at
Santa Fe High School. This year I was again privileged to work
alongside Mariah Runyan, an extraordinary teacher, in her sixthperiod class of tenth graders.
T
As we always do, Mariah and I met toward the end of the summer for a planning session to decide on a theme for the PITC
sessions. There had been an increasing amount of violence in the
Santa Fe community over the summer: road-rage crimes, burglaries, DWI deaths, muggings, and the Occupy Wall Street demonstrations were escalating. I wanted to explore the effect of violence
on our lives as a theme for this PITC anthology.
In our first session, we talked about PEN’s mission, why people
write, and the power of having a voice in this world. When the
subject of violence in our society and its consequences was raised,
the students didn’t feel there was much of it in their lives or our
community. But, after we began to brainstorm the different types
of violence and several had been written on the whiteboard, ideas
began to fly, and the students came up with many, many types of
violence that they recognized as part of their world — from physical to social-emotional and domestic, bullying, media, gang and
environmental violence, etc. Students were also becoming aware of
the Occupy Wall Street demonstrations happening around town,
and we discussed the 1 percent versus the 99 percent and the “financial-inequities” violence that they were opposing.
After accumulating a long list and discussing a recent case of
road rage, which resulted in the death of an innocent young person,
the students were asked to choose three types of violence that interested them from the whiteboard list and do five-minute timed
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writes on each. From their timed writes, individual themes and
topics of interest developed, and many students ultimately wrote
their essays, poetry, and microfiction from these first-session timed
writes.
Although the students didn’t spark at first to the theme of the
ways violence can influence lives, many of them wrote heartfelt,
insightful poetry, essays, and stories about the results of violence on
human life and communities in this anthology, which they decided
to title Bruises.
Many thanks to Adam Somers, Michelle Meyering, Heather
Simons, and PEN USA for their continued support of the PEN
In The Classroom program in New Mexico. Thank you, Mariah
Runyan, for being the caring and talented teacher that you are. You
continue to change lives both in and out of the classroom with your
work.
And thank you to the students of Ms. Runyan’s sixth-period
English class for sharing your emotions, thoughts, and experiences
in the pieces you wrote for the Bruises PITC anthology!
Kate Buckley
PEN In The Classroom Instructor
Santa Fe High School
Fall 2011
8
this i believe:
personal essays
AIDEN MQUILLAN
It Makes the World Go Round
..believe in the power of money. Today, everything seems to come
down to money. Everything from political debates over the deficit and taxes to riots in Europe and school tuitions skyrocketing
come down to this simple thing — money.
I All I hear on NPR these days is how the top 1 percent in this
country possesses 99 percent of the wealth. How “we the people”
finally seem to have woken up and are standing up against this injustice in the Occupy Wall Street protests. Why shouldn’t we? Why
should the working class sit by as loved ones and neighbors lose
their jobs and are forced out of their homes while investment bankers and corporate CEOs have such incredible abundance? Why
should we wait for our government to do something? It seems to
me that our politicians are too busy voting themselves a pay raise.
Money has touched me in more personal ways too. When my
grandmother died, she left her estate to her three sons: my dad,
Mike, and my other uncle, Jim. My uncle Mike owes a large sum of
money in child support to his ex-wife, Rachael. Rachael demanded
Mike’s share of the house and placed a lien on it. Mike originally
agreed to give her his share, but when that didn’t cover his entire
debt, Rachael went after my dad’s and Jim’s shares of the house as
well. My dad has also been paying all the bills and mortgage. When
Dad and Jim finally got everything settled with Rachael, Mike had
a change of heart and decided that Rachael couldn’t claim his share
of the house. My dad has never sued anyone in his life, but now he
has no other option but to sue his own brother about money.
My education has also been affected by money. I was in a private school for two years during middle school, and those were
some of the best years of my life — my best education so far. But
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going into ninth grade, I had to leave because the tuition had gone
up. If I went back, my family might not be able to afford college for
me or my little sister, Shannon.
Money has affected me in so many ways. My outlook toward
the world has been changed drastically because of what my family
is going through with my grandmother’s estate. The Occupy Wall
Street protest affects my view of the world as I watch and hear
about it on the news every day. Money has come to define me and
perhaps my future.
I plan on going into politics or law school in the hopes of being
able to help remedy our badly run financial system, which feeds on
corruption. Money can bring out the worst in human nature. Even
though it may feed corporate gains, I still believe there is hope. I
believe that I and the rest of this country can come together and
bring equality for all people, no matter what economic standing we
are.
11
ALEX ESQUIBEL
Playing with Emotions
..believe the expression of my feelings is important. You can
express your feelings or emotions in whatever way you please.
Whether that is listening to music, playing video games, running,
or, heck, even fighting! Now, I’m not saying go punch someone
if you’re mad. What I’m trying to say is, it doesn’t matter as long
as you let the feelings out. I believe in expressing your emotions
however you want, even if that means bottling them up and saving
them for a rainy day.
I Having a bipolar mother, an alcoholic father, and being a Hispanic violinist in an orchestra with kids whose parents are prejudiced is tough! This is my struggle. Always being the second-best
violinist because no matter how hard I worked to impress the conductor, I never get the solo. Smart but not smart enough. Being a
kid with adult responsibilities is not fun. How do I cope with this?
I bottle my feelings up and put on a happy mask.
Two years ago in eighth grade, my great-grandmother passed
away. I experienced her struggle with cancer. I witnessed her slow
and painful death. This killed me on the inside. So, my eighthgrade year was not the best. As the year progressed, it felt like it
was getting worse. My best friends started doing drugs and drinking. Every day I was offered marijuana by my closest friends. One
of my friends didn’t do drugs. She did do something else; she cut
herself. I thought that was terrible. Why would anyone do that to
themselves? How could they stand the pain? No, she was not masochistic; she just didn’t know how to express her feelings. As we
kept talking about the cutting, I understood why she did it.
One night after a bad day at school, I came home to my aunt
and uncle fighting. My mom and I live with them. On top of that,
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my mother was in an angry mood. She took it out on me, even
though she didn’t mean to. I couldn’t take it anymore. I looked
around my room and saw a mini pencil sharpener. I took the razor
out and examined it. As I studied it, I went numb. I don’t know
what came over me, but I put the razor to my wrist and dragged it
across my skin. I felt like I was in a fog. There was nothing around
me. That’s when it all began. It continued, and it got worse as the
year progressed. I was not and am still not suicidal, but at the time,
after so much drama going on in my life and talking to people
about it, I felt as though there was nothing left for me to do.
Today, as a tenth grader in high school, I must admit I still cut.
I bottle all my feelings up until they explode. Even when people
don’t bottle their emotions up, sometimes they still cut themselves.
In most cases they don’t have anyone to talk to, and that’s why they
hurt themselves. I make friends with people who cut. I talk to them
about it, and we discuss why we do it. By doing this, I have helped
three people stop cutting themselves. My friend from eighth grade,
whom I still talk to, has stopped.
I really hope no one judges a person who cuts themselves, because there is so much more emotion to it. If you know anyone who
does this, don’t judge them. Try talking to them about it, and maybe
you can impact their lives the way I have helped my friends.
I, too, have decreased cutting and have started sharing my feelings more with a trusted, responsible adult. In the future I know I
will stop. I want to be a professional violinist, but if I cut myself,
who will take me seriously? I have used my violin to express my
feelings and stop the cutting. When I play Vivaldi’s “Winter” or his
concerto in A minor, I feel like I can breathe. With the power of
music and emotional support, I will stop.
13
BONNIE FORTIERSHULTZ
The Right Way to Stand Up
..believe violence doesn’t solve problems.
I Bullying used to be a big part of my life. Before I did something, I always thought, could someone make fun of me for this?
Throughout elementary school I was teased for the stupidest reasons: being Caucasian, the color of shirt I wore that day — anything that was different about me.
Middle school began, and I assumed it’d be over because I
was going to a different school than my former peers. However, it
wasn’t. I was still teased about stuff that didn’t even matter. If other
kids did these same things, it was totally normal, but when I did it,
they considered me ridiculous, and obviously I should be ostracized
for it. Of course I had friends, but some kids seemed to have their
hearts set on either making me blush, run to the bathroom to hide,
or just feel bad about myself.
Throughout middle school I used violence to solve my problems. When someone said or did something I didn’t like, I’d hit
them — kick, bite, punch, scratch. Sure it made the problem go
away for a little while, but eventually everyone just hated me.
One day in eighth grade, a boy was making fun of me. Nothing new; I’d heard it all since elementary school. As usual, I tried
to make his words stop with my fists. Trying to impress his friends,
the kid just kept taunting me. I wanted to shut him up; the public
humiliation was too much. I punched him on the arm, a warning.
The insults still flowed freely from his mouth. A quick kick to his
shin. Most people would take the hint and stop, but this kid persisted. I needed him to shut up, so I kept hitting. His abuse wasn’t
physical, but it still hurt. A harder punch to the arm yielded more
hurtful words. The hard blows didn’t shock his mouth into closing.
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I needed him to shut up. Shut up, shut up. Unsure what I was doing
anymore, unsure if it was helping, I just knew this had to stop. One
more insult. This one was really hurtful, like my hand would be. My
fist pulled back, ready to swing, This time, aimed at his face. Just in
time, I realized what I was doing. Would breaking his nose really
solve anything? I put my hand down and said, “Leave me alone.
You don’t know me, just go away.” To further my point, I walked
away. This boy never picked on me again.
The hitting didn’t work; in fact, it made it worse. However, simply using my words resolved the problem. These days, whenever I
ask myself if someone could make fun of me for something I do, or
say, or wear, the answer is, who cares?
15
CARSON MILLER
Kehillah Kedosha (Sacred Community)
..believe in being able to practice the religion of your choice without violence.
I Growing up, I always loved being Jewish and was very proud to
say, “I’m Jewish.” However, when my grandma Arlette was growing
up, she wasn’t able to walk around saying she was Jewish, and she
wasn’t able to appreciate or be open about her Judaism until she
was an adolescent.
My grandma was born in Altkirch, France, right before the
start of World War II. Her father was a German Jew, and her
mother was a French Jew. They were running away from the Nazis
by working their way through various French villages. Her father
narrowly escaped with his life many times. My grandma hid with
her mother, and one day ran out into the town square of a French
village and saw someone being hanged. When she hid from the
Nazis, she also had to hide who she really was: Jewish.
At the age of eleven, my grandmother arrived in Harvard, Illinois, just outside of Chicago. She was no longer afraid to tell
people she was Jewish, but there was only one other Jewish person
besides her family living in Harvard. However, Grandma knew how
important Judaism was to her father. They always went into the city
to go to services and celebrate the holidays. Sadly, my grandmother
never really had a Jewish community to call her own.
During elementary school, I proudly told my classmates that I
was Jewish and brought in food for the various Jewish holidays. It
wasn’t until fifth grade, after much begging, that my parents agreed
to let me join the temple, and my passion for my religion really
started to develop. But it still wasn’t completely there until after my
bat mitzvah process.
16
At the temple, I gained one of the most valuable things that
you can have in life: a community that is open, safe, loving, and
very welcoming.
At the start of seventh-grade religious school, I had my mind
made up that I wanted to quit going to Hebrew school after completing my bat mitzvah. However, midway through the year, I told
my parents that I wanted to stay part of the temple. I realized how
important the community had become to me and how incredible
all my friends were. As eighth-grade religious school began, I kept
enjoying the temple more and more, and it became one of the highlights of my week.
Last year was truly magical for me in many different aspects.
Now that I was finally a high-schooler, I was able to be in youth
group. Little did I know that this would be something that was
about to take over my life.
At my first youth-group event last year, I was shocked at all the
running and screaming as everyone’s friends arrived. Aly, a senior
from my youth group, ran around introducing me to her friends
and made me feel comfortable, but I didn’t yet have a grasp of what
was to come.
A year later, even though I’m not a senior yet, I am the sophomore who is talking to freshman, making sure they get to enjoy
all that NFTY (North American Federation for Temple Youth)
offers. Locally, I’ve had the chance to connect with Jewish teens at
various schools in Santa Fe and am now lucky enough to be able
to call Jackson, Isaac, Jakey, Moriah, Naomi, and Aly some of my
best friends. I also got to engage with other teens from all over
New Mexico; Arizona; El Paso, Texas; and Las Vegas, Nevada, all
of whom I am very close to.
NFTY is not something that is explainable and/or would make
sense to most people. NFTY and Temple Youth Group provide
a place to be yourself and truly be who you are in all aspects of
your life without feeling judged. The relationships formed with
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the adults, who are our advisors, are spectacular and something I
wouldn’t trade for the world. In NFTY, age doesn’t matter, because
you are friends with and accepted by everyone.
As I look forward in life, I know that Judaism will always provide me with a place to be myself and a sense of belonging. I will
be able to walk into any congregation in any part of the world and
instantly connect with others and feel a sense of community. I will
carry on my grandma’s story to future generations so that they can
appreciate where they came from and the freedoms they enjoy.
I plan on staying involved with NFTY for the rest of high
school and running for NFTY-SW’s regional board so that I can
help make this organization just as special for younger generations
as it is for me, so that they, too, can feel the same sense of community and place of belonging that I do.
I can’t wait to see where Judaism takes me in life and how my
relationship with my religion changes in future years. I know that
if I ever need anything, there will always be a Jewish community
willing to help.
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DAN SZABAT
The Violence of Corporate Oppression
C
orporations need to check themselves, because their oppressive
treatment is noxious, this I believe.
Abraham Lincoln once foreshadowed the destiny of our country, which he saw slipping into the grasp of the avaricious when he
said, “Corporations have been enthroned . . . An era of corruption
in high places will follow, and the money power will endeavor to
prolong its reign by working on the prejudices of the people . . .
until wealth is aggregated in a few hands . . . and the Republic is
destroyed.”
Corporations are now allowed to receive the same protections
in a court of law as any single person. Yet with a corporation, what
occurs is, because the corporation is an idea rather than a person, it
is able to operate in multiple areas under different laws. This is why
corporations can be an oppressive dictatorial force in a third-world
country and a cheap superstore in the United States. My belief is
that this is wrong. I think that if you sell to the United States, you
are subject to its laws, and not just when you are in the country.
Recently, I heard about the Occupy Wall Street movement and
disregarded the protests as a bunch of dumb, angry, left-wing college kids. Although as more people talked about it, I began to think
it must hold some water, so I looked into it and found that I agree
with the movement’s anti-greed policies. The way that the wealth
is handled in this country is so unprecedentedly selfish, it is off the
charts.
Corporations also use a certain type of product distribution
called “conglomeration.” This happens when a corporation buys out
other small corporations to monopolize product distribution either
horizontally or vertically. Vertical monopolization means that fac-
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tory and store are both controlled by the same person (corporation). Horizontal is less common and occurs when all production or
all distribution is controlled by preference of the owner (corporation). Both of these actions were thought through and outlawed by
capitalist governments, but due to a large amount of government
privatization, corporations have created a loophole. By combining
some components of a laissez-faire policy and government deregulation, corporations now have the power to rival government and,
in some cases, control it. Deregulation is the selling of publicly
owned services and enterprises to corporations. This I believe is
wrong, because the public cannot vote for who becomes the CEO
or who is on their board of directors. This is what global corporations have come to. I think it is unjust and against the principles
that this country was founded on.
On a windy day in November, I took a trip down to the Occupy
Santa Fe camp. Here I gained my first true Occupy experience.
Though the wind slapped and cracked against their tents, their
resolve was immovable. After conversing with several individual
campers, I began to get the feel for what this movement is all about.
The occupiers as a whole truly believe in only one thing: a change
needs to occur in the way that money is distributed in this nation.
As I talked to the different occupants, this general idea was all that
I could extrapolate as a common theme and that there should be a
new approach to the governance of this nation. Most believed that
it would be some groundbreaking new theory in which the community is valued over the individual while the individual’s rights
remain unperturbed. Leaving the campsite, I was not astonished by
the rebellious motives which those I spoke to held, but rather by
the fact that such a simple drive for equality could build a cooperative resistance despite the opposition of law enforcement.
I write this paper in hopes that it may manifest some of the
circumstances of those less fortunate as well as for those who share
my views. If the saying is true, that we are our brother’s keeper, then
let us not shy away from the looming power of those greedy pigs;
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let us rise at the misfortune of our neighbor and speak out against
grievous corporate ways. The time for idleness has ended, and we
must stand up for those who lack the opportunity to let their voice
be heard. We the people of our country stand for the sovereignty
of democracy and the justice of the republic. It is our right to keep
the power in the hands of the many and our duty to adhere to the
plight of the poor.
21
GABE MOYA
Hoping for an Answer
I
..believe in forgiveness.
It’s forgiveness that can make a relationship last. It’s the power of
letting go of your problems and letting the other person have the
privilege of being in your life.
Everybody has their story to tell. They wish they had forgiven
or been forgiven. Trust me, I know. I am that person who wants
to forgive but for some reason doesn’t have the courage to do so,
because it’s like I have something to hide.
In the past few months, my best friend/bandmate and I have
been arguing nonstop. The reason is, I am jealous. I am jealous of
the fact that his life has changed in a significantly positive way,
causing my life to change. It’s that he has gone to a different school
that has made him happy, and he’s having the time of his life. Some
part of me feels like he wants me there with him, but for some reason I don’t want to accept it. I don’t want to accept that he is happy
where he is and with his new friends.
When we started to hang out a lot, we made a deal that we
would stay the same no matter how many things changed around
us. But I have not been that friend to him. I have called him out on
stupid things, such as being with his other friends more than me
and our original group of friends, or the fact that he has professional pictures of him and some new friend and not his band that was
with him for everything. I have become bitter and meek because
of the changes that have affected our lives. I’m not able to forgive
him for being who he is or accept how his life has turned out. I
have broken the pact, blind with jealousy and bitterness. Holding a
grudge because he has been different to me is just childish. I have
lost sight of what is most important: our friendship and loyalty to
22
each other.
To this day we still do not talk. The thing is, I need to forgive
myself before I can forgive him. What my situation has taught me
is that no matter how bad any relationship you have may be, it
can always be improved with forgiveness. Just open your mind and
heart and you will see surprising results. It’s forgiveness that can
make a relationship last. It’s the power of letting go of your problems and letting the person have the privilege of being in your life.
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GRETA MILLER
Leave No Trace
..believe in caring for our environment. Our homes aren’t the cement and wood rooms we sleep in every night; our homes are the
mountains, oceans, trees, rocks, and life around us. We need to
protect the natural world we live in, which is being harmed more
and more every minute. The earth contains a fragile balance of life
and resources, and respecting it is vital to me and the community
around me.
I As a human, I have a deep connection with nature. As a young
child, I was always fascinated with anything living. From observing
caterpillars on the grass outside my house to admiring the soaring
birds that fly over the mountains, I was amazed with the earth.
Growing up, I began to go on wilderness adventures, whether it
was canoeing in the lakes of the Quetico or going on a day hike
in the mountains around Santa Fe. While in the woods, I always
practiced “leave no trace,” which meant I left the places I explored
as they were when I came, remembering not to litter or even hurt
the plants that lived there. At first, I just loved the fun of camping
with my family or friends, but over the years, I began to appreciate
the emotional fulfillment nature gave me. Last summer, I climbed
Wheeler Peak, in New Mexico. When I reached the top of the
mountain, a huge smile emerged on my face, and I felt bliss run
through my body. As I admired the snowy, blue mountains that
extended as far as I could see, I was lost in the pure exquisiteness of
nature; I couldn’t be happier anywhere else. Being close to the environment made me feel refreshed and renewed and has helped me
overcome challenges in life. Now, I look forward to being able to
stuff my sleeping bag into a backpack and head out into the woods,
for both the fun experiences and the love of nature.
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Unfortunately, my respect for the environment is not shared by
all people in society. Instead of valuing the greatness of the earth
as it is, people are valuing the resources the earth has to offer. The
destruction and pollution of the environment have led to climate
change, which is negatively altering our world, and little effort is
being made to stop it. Human expansion and greed have caused
the extinction of many species, fewer wilderness areas, and a toxic
world.
Last spring I went to Washington DC for a youth conference
on climate change and renewable energy called “Powershift.” I met
many people who told stories of environmental refugees, from people on the Marshall Islands whose homes will soon be underwater
to people in Africa that don’t have enough food due to agricultural
disruption. Learning about how much we rely on the world has
made me realize we need to stop abusing it. Environmental violence is not only hurting nature, it is also hurting humankind.
My connection and love for the earth have benefitted me so
greatly that I can’t sit back and watch it die. We depend on the
world to survive, and taking action to make it healthier should be a
top priority. Whether I’m picking up a piece of trash or becoming
involved in an environmental organization, I can make a difference.
I believe in caring for the environment, to help ourselves and one
another.
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JARED LINSON
Sentenced to Life
..believe in fishing.
I Many years ago, long before I could tie my shoes, I was fishing.
Fishing came naturally, like it was encoded in my DNA. It’s the
only sport besides baseball to which I have aspired to be my greatest. I don’t remember when, or at which lake or stream it happened,
but when I caught my first fish, it was like being sentenced to life.
No, I didn’t go to prison, but something inside of me was born. That
something was a never-ending lust and craving to be somewhere
in the water, catching God’s abundant beauty, and then releasing it
back into nature.
I could go on and on about all my fishing stories, but I can only
think of one that really expresses my belief in fishing. It was Easter
weekend last year, and my friends and I thought it would be a good
idea to go camping without any parental supervision. So we packed
up Tyler’s van with our gear, and whatever food we could scrape up,
which added up to a lot of bread and bologna, a dozen eggs, and
a box of Pop-Tarts. Our trip was unorganized due to last-minute
planning and skipping school to do so. We were not even certain
who would come pick us up. I didn’t care as long as I was fishing.
We left on a Friday, and by Saturday, the six of us had devoured
what meager supply of food we had. Since the Tererro store was
closed, and since we didn’t want to starve, we each began keeping a
few fish to eat for lunch and dinner.
I wasn’t really enthusiastic about keeping the fish. It’s not that
I don’t like fish, it’s just that I’d rather release them and hopefully
catch them another day. Eating the fish got us through Saturday
and Sunday. By Monday, our “roughing it” had paid off. One of our
neighbors noticed that we were out of food and decided to bring
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us some breakfast. He brought over a whole box of Frosted Flakes,
styrofoam bowls, and plastic spoons. We all admitted that we had
never been more grateful for a bowl of cereal. I will never forget
that weekend, or that man who was watching over us.
Fishing has forever changed my life. It has taught me that taking from the earth’s resources only what is truly necessary will be
rewarded in some way or another. This is a value that I’ve always believed in, but never really took to heart until I had this experience.
Before, I was only doing it out of respect and common courtesy.
I will forever use this in my life and pass it on to my children.
Hopefully they will find as much reward in it as I have.
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JULIET CRITCHLOW
Art to Heal the Heart
..believe in creativity.
I It all happened about ten years ago, yet I completely forgot it
until mid-July of this year. I was eating lunch in a cafe next to
the counseling building and was suddenly flooded with memories.
Apparently, as a child, I was depressed. I was about six years old,
with a limited vocabulary and no pill tolerance, so my parents put
me in art therapy. I was doing hands-on, non-directive projects to
heal my mind, and it seems to have worked.
I can’t remember much. There was the shocked look on my
fourteen-year-old sister Caroline’s face as I walked into the living
room. She was babysitting me while my parents were out. I had
picked out the largest knife I could find in the kitchen. Rivers of
tears carved into my cheeks and snot dripped from my nose. I held
that knife to my throat — God knows why. It shook violently every
time I gasped for air between squeaky sobs.
Caroline called out to me, her voice shook as violently as my
whimpering. It took many deep breaths before she convinced me
to drop the knife. She frantically called my mother while hiding
the blade. I sat on the floor and continued to sob until my parents
returned. It wasn’t long before I was sitting in the bright light of a
counseling center.
I ended up with a young female therapist, probably in her midto late twenties at the time. She had short brown hair and sat with
me every day while I explored my feelings through art. The materials were provided. There were stacks of colorful construction paper
on top of crates of markers and pencils. In one corner there was an
assortment of fabrics, each covered with its own unique design. The
walls were covered with the paper from the fantasies of other kids.
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The small room contained a world of creativity made to heal the
minds of the young.
Some days the therapist and I would make trees that expanded into a newspaper forest. Another day my mom, Irene, came in
to help me make a new friend for my stuffed animals; the only
problem was the splinters in the wool stuffing she brought. She
thought that buying cotton would be wasteful, but I did not enjoy
the stuffed tiger, which stabbed me at a single touch! Most days I
just drew whatever came to mind, whether it was the starry sky or a
stick figure watering flowers. Now, when I think back, I realize the
purpose of it all and how healing it was.
I still draw every day. I aspire to make things, whether it be
characters, designs, or stories. Whenever I feel the need to escape,
I know I can find safe haven and happiness within art. In a few
years I will graduate from high school. Maybe then I’ll know exactly what I want to do, but even if I don’t, I am sure that there is a
creative path ahead of me. Creativity defines how I function every
day as a human being. I learn from my mistakes and always strive to
surpass myself. Creativity is what healed me, and creativity is what
I continue to love. This I believe.
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KAYLA CARRILLO
The Power of Acceptance
.. believe in the power of acceptance. In my view, too many people
are not willing to accept anything outside of their own opinions.
What is “normal” to them is what is “right,” and they discourage
anyone they do not agree with. When people do not accept one
another, I believe it is condescending, unjust, and violent. If everyone was more accepting, I think we would all be in a better state of
mind; we would feel better about ourselves. Not feeling good about
themselves is often the reason why people are so quick to judge differences in the first place. When people do not accept differences,
it can create violence in many ways. The violence can get out of
control even if it only seems minor at first.
I
I believe any amount of violence is unhealthy for a community.
Accepting or choosing not to accept certain situations and/or
people has a large impact. It can be either a positive or negative one.
It also depends on how one expresses his/her feelings. Non-acceptance can be positive if you are standing up for what you believe in
strongly or for what is truly right. Even with the best of intentions,
violence can still happen.
When African Americans were trying to gain equality, they
didn’t accept the fact that others were trying to keep them from it.
When Martin Luther King Jr. led the civil rights movement, it was
peaceful on the African American side, but those who tried to keep
them from equality were extremely violent. When people take this
kind of peaceful action, it is positive because they may eventually
get what they want, but sometimes it can be really violent on both
sides.
Negativity can also be the outcome of non-acceptance. There is
a negative outcome when we can’t accept one another’s differences.
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This type of violence happens in every community. It seems it will
happen throughout history. This creates hatred and jealousy, which
too often result in violence.
Throughout my life, and especially now that I am in high
school, I’ve seen violence caused by people judging and not accepting others. In my high school, I always see “different” people
being treated in unkind ways. Whether others realize it or not, it
does significant damage. Teens either make rude comments that
alienate others or just flat out ignore them. Teens are most likely
to judge others when they don’t like themselves. Oftentimes they
feel this way because of what their peers have said or done to them.
This violence can also happen between friends. I know this because
it happened to me.
When I was in elementary school I always tried to be the
funny one in the group, and as a fourth grader, I made friends easily because I was funny. At one point, though, the friends I’d made
did not want to be friends anymore. I could not figure out why they
were so mean and I was hurt. Looking back on it, I think it was
because they had grown tired of my wacky personality. I was different, and they did not accept or like it.
This type of thing still happens to me today. It’s not so much
that my friends don’t like my personality, but maybe they didn’t
like what I wore that day or the way I did my hair, and they make
rude remarks because they don’t accept the different things I do. As
dumb as this sounds, stuff like this happens to me and many others
in high school every day.
There are many times I see kids being mistreated, but one time
in particular stands out for me. At the beginning of this year, there
was a new girl in our class. She was very open with our classmates
about her life. Of course, we were curious about this new girl with
a million piercings, and she answered all the questions we asked of
her. She told us that she moved here because she was having family problems. She even told us some very personal stories. With
31
all the information she gave us, we learned: she was made fun of
because she had a squeakier voice than most, that she was a lesbian,
that she dealt with self-inflicted violence, and she had experienced
family violence too. Personally, I thought she was a cool person,
but when I told my friends that, they freaked out. They thought
she was “weird” because she was so open with us, and they thought
the stuff she told us was “crazy.” Maybe I kind of did, too, but I
didn’t judge her. I thought she was cool, strong, and comfortable
in her own skin, and I really admired her for it. This girl’s life was
full of violence, which she tried to escape by leaving her home in
Oklahoma, yet it continued when she moved to Santa Fe because
kids here didn’t want to accept her differences. When the new girl
came to my class, I did not automatically jump to conclusions or
refuse to accept her lifestyle. Because I refused to join in, there was
no violence toward her on my part, and I was able to get to know
an amazing and unique person.
If people were more open-minded, there would not be so much
of this harassment and bullying violence. Realizing that judgment
sparks violence has made me a kinder person, one who accepts
people for who they are. This will definitely help me in the future,
because if I can accept differences, I can glide over the little things
and focus on bigger issues. It allows me to be a friendlier person
toward everyone, no matter how different they are from me. That is
good for everybody, including myself.
Everyone has differences. We can either choose to accept them
or continue to judge and create violence! I believe that by learning
to accept one another, we will all become better people.
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MELODY HETT
A Mile in Their Shoes
ompassion is a trait of which most people are capable. It is the
ability to share the emotional state of another being, a more
passionate form of empathy. Compassion is one of the most difficult philosophical concepts to understand, but even with a limited
grasp of it, it is something I strongly believe in.
C
Throughout my entire life, I’ve been taught over and over again
the golden rule: do unto others as you would have them do unto
you. It was endlessly embedded into my head as a child, so much
so that I began to ignore it. The neurons in our brains are designed
to cancel out information that’s constant, so I never really took the
phrase to heart — that is, until my teenage years.
Over the past few years I have had a lot of experience with disputes in which both parties were so emotionally hurt that they had
to rethink everything they knew about themselves. On my end of
this, it meant digging deep into my soul to discover my beliefs and
values. Amid the search, I found that one concept kept coming up:
thinking about how the other person felt as I hurt them. Today, I
have engraved it into my brain, and now empathy and compassion
are two things that rule my life.
I’m not saying it’s easy. Empathy is something I struggle with
every day, particularly with a certain person. She and I have issues
that neither of us really understand. They are most likely based on
jealousy, but I can’t put my finger on the cause. Nonetheless, every
time we have an altercation, I try to put myself in her shoes, although often spite gets in the way.
However, every day I make progress in my journey. In fact,
since I wrote the first draft of this essay, this girl and I have become
close friends. I believe that both our abilities to understand the
33
other have assisted in this revelation.
Researchers have found that most serial killers have psychopathy in common. In the mind of a sociopath, one thing is always
missing: compassion. When a killer is committing a horrible act of
violence, they’re not thinking about the other person’s emotions or
the affect they are having on them. This is because they can’t; they
lack the ability to connect to the suffering of their victim.
I am grateful for my well-developed ability to understand others’ pain. It’s not yet perfect, nor do I think it ever will be, but I
believe it gives my mind and soul depth — the capacity to feel not
only for myself but for others as well. It takes time and intelligence,
and it is a struggle, but it’s a struggle that’s worthwhile. I will continue to make the effort for the remainder of time if it means I can
keep my life and the lives around me free of violence and unnecessary suffering.
I believe in compassion, because I believe in myself.
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MICHELLE PARRY
The Violence of Tomorrow
..believe in the mystery of tomorrow and how it can affect today.
I believe that one person has the power to change a whole family
and greatly impact their lives.
I When I was little, my cousin was killed. It was about three
in the afternoon when my mom got a call from my grandpa that
Francisco was dead. All that I remember was that there was a period of time when everybody was really sad and we had to go to a
funeral. I remember that the church was filled with sad whispers
and flowing tears. I had no idea why we were there, but I gave
everyone a hug. And when my aunt Marvi came over to me to say
hi, I could tell something was definitely wrong. To this day, Marvi
is always delighted to see me and has a special glow to her. But on
that day, her glow was not present. I gave her a hug, she held back
her tears and forced a smile. Then I sat down, completely quiet, as
everyone grieved while I stared at my sneakers and wondered what
was going on.
Francisco was in trouble and had been talking to his mom, Luz,
telling her he needed help. She mentioned to my mom and her sisters that they might need to borrow some money, but nobody took
her seriously. Francisco needed rehab for ecstasy and alcohol addiction and was also asking Luz for money because he owed a drug
dealer. All the things that Francisco was dealing with were getting
brushed over. Nobody took the time to stop and listen to Luz and
realize that Francisco really needed help.
I never got to know my cousin. To him, I was just a little girl
with blonde pigtails trying to figure out which toy to play with
next, and to me he was just another tall guy at my aunt’s house
whom I only saw during family gatherings. To tell you the truth,
35
I hardly know who Francisco was. I don’t know his favorite color
or his favorite sports team, but I do know one thing: his favorite
meal — tomato soup.
The night that Francisco got shot seemed like any other night.
Everything was normal. Francisco asked his mom to make his favorite meal — tomato soup. She said that she was tired and didn’t
feel like making it, so he went to the store and bought himself
some Campbell’s instead. The only thing that separated this night
from any other was that it was the last night that his mom, dad
and brother ever saw Francisco alive. He said he was going to meet
some friends to hang out, but by the end of that night, it was clear
these people weren’t his friends.
When Francisco got to his friend’s house, they all went to the
car and called the drug dealer to meet them at St. Anne’s church
parking lot so they could buy some drugs. Francisco went along
with them because his car had a flat. Francisco and his friends came
up with an elaborate plan to steal the drugs from the dealer. Francisco agreed to hide behind the bushes wearing a sweatshirt and
hold a gun. The drug dealer showed up accompanied by some of
his friends. One guy was a bodyguard for a security company so he
had a permit to carry a firearm, and the other one was just a buddy.
When they pulled into the parking lot, Francisco came up to the
window to jack him and demanded his money and drugs. He was
wearing his hood so they couldn’t recognize him. The drug dealer
bent forward, and the third guy shot Francisco in the neck from the
backseat. Francisco ran to the other end of the parking lot, and the
security guard friend got out of the dealer’s car and shot at Francisco as he ran away. Francisco turned back and ran to the porch of
the church for cover, still getting shot at. He then ran to the side of
the church where the fatal bullet went into his side. He fell to the
ground, reaching toward the cross.
Everyone fled the crime scene. Nobody bothered to call an ambulance. They were all too caught up in that fact that if they called
the cops, or for help, they might get in trouble, so they left Fran-
36
cisco in a church parking lot to bleed to death.
I wonder what was running through my cousin’s mind as he
lay there on the ground and watched his friends drive away, saw
the night turn dark, and hoped for someone to come and help him.
Praying to God to give him a hand while reaching for the cross,
hoping it would save him.
Francisco was found early the next morning, about six a.m.,
laying on the sidewalk of St. Anne’s church, his arm still reached
for the cross. The story was that people heard shots the night before and called the cops. A patrol officer was sent to investigate,
but “saw nothing.” By the time the cops identified him, it was the
afternoon, and then the calls came rolling in. Nobody knew what
happened until later that evening when the whole family and an
officer got together at Luz’s house. A call came in from Francisco’s
friend who was with him that night. He wanted to talk to Luz,
but she was busy with the policeman, so my mom talked to him.
He told her what had happened, and then the deputy got on the
phone and asked if he would talk to him. Francisco’s friend told the
deputy everything.
In the end, the drug dealers claimed it was self-defense, and
because one of them had a firearm permit, the punishment was
brushed off too. It’s shocking, though, because the dealers knew
who Francisco was. He was wearing a hood when the first shot
was fired, so they didn’t realize it was him until he started running. Point is, they killed someone they knew, and Francisco’s own
friends watched him as he tried to run away from death and did
nothing to help him.
Even though I hardly knew Francisco, he has taught me a lot.
I’ve learned never to take a day, or the people in my life, for granted.
He taught me to never overlook calls for help and to always help
your loved ones when needed. Although he’s not here today, I can
tell Francisco is watching over me, helping me pick true friends
who will be positive influences and helping throughout my life.
37
Most of all, I’ve learned that each day is filled with mystery.
You never know who is going to step into your life, and you also
never know who is going to fall out of it, either.
38
MIRANDA DURAN
Best Intentions
..believe in treating people with kindness.
I Lately, I’ve been watching this TV show, “Criminal Minds.” It’s
about the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit and the things they
go through to catch someone who abuses or murders — the more
heavy types of crimes. This show intrigues me, not because of all the
violence, but more so because it shows how the criminals became
who they are. When they show you the person’s past, often they’ve
been bullied in some way, whether it be psychologically or physically. They’re affected by that in ways they probably don’t even understand. Often enough, they pick on the people who remind them
in some way of the people who hurt them or are from a similar life
situation.
I don’t talk about this particular time in my life much, but it’s
a burden I can’t seem to forget. Around the time I was in second
grade, I became attached to this girl. She was the first best friend
I ever had. Sure, I had other friends, but none of them really stuck
with me like she did. I’d never gotten as close to a person before.
We talked a lot and did just about everything the stereotypical idea
of friends would include. She was a new kid in my school, and I felt
lucky that she considered me her friend. Increasingly, throughout
the year, we grew closer. It wasn’t until the middle of the year that I
realized two girls were saying mean things to her. It was so long ago
that I don’t even remember exactly what they’d said to her, but I do
remember telling them on multiple occasions that they shouldn’t be
speaking to her that way.
Toward the end of the year, I found out that my friend had to
move. Her family decided, for reasons I don’t know, that it would be
best for them if they moved. They found a house a few towns away,
39
and before I knew it, I was saying goodbye to the first best friend
I’d ever known. I wouldn’t be able to see her much, or at all, really.
Once she left, those girls started to pick on me. At first the
things they said to me didn’t bother. It started off small, and I figured that if I acted like it didn’t phase me, they would leave me
alone. Really, the things they said never got to me much. I knew
they were only teasing me because I was the next best thing to her.
Ignoring their words only seemed to fuel those kids more. They
started to make snide comments all the time, whether it was about
my weight or my intelligence. They constantly told me that I was
stupid and annoying. They told me I was fat time and time again.
They told me that I was a burden to everyone around me, including
my family. After all of this, it did start to get to me. I stopped talking as much, and I stopped voicing my opinions. I basically lived
with my thoughts inside of me for the remainder of the year for
fear that everybody would think I was either a complete idiot or an
annoying buffoon who could never take the hint to shut up.
If that wasn’t enough, my cousin would tease me just as much
as they did. I was a measly eight-year-old and he was a teenager
with a huge ego. He was never joking with the words he used, either. I hated going to my aunt’s house, because I knew the moment
I stepped in the door he was going to start up again. He tormented
me every chance he got. And being just an eight-year-old, I took
to heart most of the things he said. I’d told my mom before why I
resisted going to their house, but she shrugged it off like nothing,
telling me that he was just messing around. Maybe I would have
believed that if he sounded the least bit teasing when he spoke. I
thought about telling his mother the things he said to me. But if
my own mother brushed it off like that, why would his mother —
who treated him like a prince and offered him so much leeway it
made me sick — ever take seriously the things I had to say to her?
So, I let it be. I let the words that were on the tip of my tongue
remain there. I never told her about the girls at school, either. I
40
bottled up my emotions all this time, never wanting to be a burden
to anyone and forced those times to the back of my mind. Nearly
eight years later, I still live like this.
This is the reason that I don’t talk much and why I feel like
maybe it’s better nobody knows that I’m there. The reason that I
think it may be better that my personality screams just another
face to forget. I used to be all over the place, crazy, not caring what
others thought of me. When I was younger, I never cared about
how others viewed me. I still over analyze the things I say and do,
fearful of how stupid I’ll sound. I beat myself up time and time
again about all the idiotic mistakes I’ve made, and it’s all because
of my past.
What gets to me the most is that I don’t think any of them
ever thought for one second about how the things they were doing
affected me. I don’t think they ever thought about the ways their
words hurt me. I was just a person to toy with, someone they knew
wasn’t going to fight back. Not for one miniscule second did they
ever think about the end result.
This is why I believe in treating people with kindness. Whether
you realize it or not, the words you say and the things you do ultimately affect others in ways you may not even consider. You never
know if you’ve touched a soft spot in someone.
Next time, take into consideration the things you’re saying to
someone, because you never know what your words may do to them.
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NAYETZY GARCIA
Forgive and Forget
..used to believe in the old saying, “An eye for an eye and tooth
for a tooth.” I saw it everywhere. If you had a chance to be in my
shoes, would you trust me or let me fall?
I January 2005. I was only nine years old when I heard that my
brother’s friend, James, had been killed by an enemy who came to
the United States from Iraq. The guy had a problem from being in
the war. His friend had been killed in Iraq, so to get revenge, he
shot my brother’s best friend. After he did, he fled back to Iraq.
Now. James’s family is torn up. Every time they see his picture, they
think about what a great son and father he was. The night James
was killed, my brother came to our house and said, “If they don’t
kill you in the war, they will kill you here.”
When I was in elementary school, I hurt another kid’s feelings
really bad and didn’t feel any regret. Later, he hurt me worse, and
I told him to stop teasing me. He said, “Oh, so you just care about
yourself, but no one else is important, huh?” I thought, look at what
you did. You hurt him really bad and now you’re getting it back.
How does it feel? Since then, I always think about others before I
do something that I may regret. If someone does something mean
to me, I try to forgive and forget and be a good person.
Have you ever felt like you have lost something and can never
get it back? It slips through your hands, yet there’s that one piece
of dust that remains to bring you back up. Also, maybe you do
something you might not intend to, but do it because you’re just
not thinking. Once the deed is done, you can expect a long, slow
painful life always wondering, has the person forgot or will they try
to get me back?
These days I think, is this the way I’m supposed to act, or can I
42
forgive and let it go? I have learned my lesson. Some people don’t
believe that. They say, “You do something to me, and I will do
something to you, but worse.” They will hurt you intentionally so
you won’t forget them.
I have been through this and have been on both sides of the
story. Now, I always try to forgive and forget, but most importantly
to move on and have no regrets, because you never know which day
may be your last.
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OLIVIA OZELTON
A Composition of Blood
..believe in music and how it courses through my veins along with
the blood.
I Once upon a time, my real father was in my life. Not for long, but
long enough that I’ll never forget him. I was three years old when
he left my life, but his blood runs through my veins.
A history of violence, rage, and creativity caused by drugs tells
my father’s story. Passionate and kind, controlled by substance and
smoke, he could play guitar like a wizard, sing ballads full of soul
and compassion. I don’t believe Jon was a bad person. Drugs were
like a villain, seducing him, the unsuspecting victim, gaining his
trust. The villain told lies, put unrealistic images in Jon’s head, manipulated. As the victim fell under the villain’s evil spell, he lost
track of what was real — the villain dragged Jon down.
Photos show a tall man, long brown hair reaching his hips. The
feet beneath him are shoe-les s — even on the pavement outside
a Jack-in-the-Box, they’re bare. His smile’s wide, his eyes are as
bright as the colors of his Grateful Dead T-shirt. Jeans worn and
faded. He stands beside my mother, and in her arms is a baby —
me. Without Jon, I would not exist. I’ve downloaded his music to
my iPod, and when I press play, it’s a whiff of instant inspiration.
Music is one of many traits I’ve inherited from my father. Just
as he created me, so has music. It fills me, completes me. My favorite pastime is sitting alone, belting my favorite songs. To me, this is
practice for the rest of my life. I could tell my life story through the
music that’s always been in it. I’m a musician. I plan to be until the
feat is physically impossible.
Not long ago, I got to see the band America.
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I walked into the large room. My eyes were wide with amazement and anticipation, the loud music coming out of those enormous speakers filled me. My heart swelled, and I could barely keep
my eyes off the stage long enough to find my seat beside my mom
and step-dad. I sat through the concert, singing along to every
word of every song played on the stage. Finally, concluding with a
song about a horse with no name, I promptly began to cry. Tears of
joy brought on by such simple lyrics and a melody.
I’ve loved this band all my life. I’d like to think my father also
liked America, but I can’t tell you for sure. When I was younger, I’d
stare at the cover art on a CD of theirs and wonder if Jon was in
this band. One of the musicians shown looked just like him; it must
be him! Of course it wasn’t, but since then, I’ve always made that
connection between him and America.
Jon left our world for the void of whatever is beyond before I
could ever see him again. I was thirteen when I was told the news. I
didn’t cry over his passing because I’d missed him; I never honestly
knew him. I cried because I realized I’d never get the chance to.
But Jon, he gave me a gift. The same gift almost every sibling
of mine has. I don’t get to see my brothers often, but when I do,
there’s always that one thing we can talk about. We listen to music
together, exchange it with one another, and teach it to each other.
This is how — although we live hundreds of miles apart — we stay
connected. I plan on using the gift our father has given me. My life
has always been shaped by the music that’s in it.
The violence of drugs and addiction have always kept us apart,
but music will forever hold the bond between Jon and me.
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RICK BACA
Revolution
iolence is defined as an intentional physical or emotional aggressive behavior against another person, either individually
or as a group. I believe that violence is a social and political
problem, as well as a biological and psychological one. I think it is
important to understand human nature and psychology in order to
understand violence. Even though I think violence, whether it be
social or political, is part of human nature, I think in order to deal
with it and understand it is to be rational and realize that the mind
is always in motion and making new decisions. Because of this, I
believe people’s minds are never in sync, so there will always be
conflict amongst people. That is just the way it is.
V
This can cause political violence and revolutionary violence.
Crowds of people get violent when something has a major or sudden impact on them or their society as a whole. They may also react
violently because of change, most times a negative change that is
affecting them. I think it is awful when people resort to violence
in order to solve a problem, but I think they do because, to them,
violence means power, and with power they think they have a better chance.
Although I disagree with resorting to violence, it is true to a
certain extent that the revolutionary process, which can be violent,
was the most democratic of all historical developments in the past
and present eras. That’s why I believe that natural-born leaders influence people in the most positive way and lead them to success.
Inspirational people like Martin Luther King Jr. and Mahatma
Ghandi shaped the way people perceived the world to a less violent
one. The revolutionary process remains active today, and it is my belief that our world has accomplished a lot. Unfortunately, violence
46
has been too large an ingredient. Just recently, being a spectator to
the uprisings going on around the world, I was shocked with horror to see human beings treated as if human life doesn’t matter. In
Cairo, Athens and Libya, scenes of violent uprisings were on local
and national channels of TV news. It was devastating to see how
people reacted to their situations with rioting and violence.
To move forward, I believe having positive, peace-oriented
leaders will help make our world a better place. With the help of
good leaders, cultures will have a more positive outlook. No lives
will have to be sacrificed for the right to have an opinion, a belief.
A new way of finding solutions to problems will be formed so that
people can express their feelings without having to resort to anger
and riots.
47
SOPHIE DIAZ
Roller Coasters
..believe in asking for help.
I I’ve come to this belief by having two family members with chemical depression, one resulting in self-destruction. Throughout my
life I’ve experienced that asking for help can save you from yourself
or others. That no matter the situation, somebody will listen. “I’ll
be okay,” “it’s nothing major,” or the esteemed “everything will be
okay” were shouted, whispered, and burned into my family’s mind.
Though this is not my personal pity party, this story has made me
stronger.
My cousin Michael and my sister Sarah were born five years
apart and both were diagnosed with chemical depression at age
sixteen. To help Sarah, our family hopped onto the depression
roller coaster of counseling, medication, and constant silence. This
was pretty confusing for seven-year-old me. Sarah tried countless
medications, but she fought them all. My grandparents decided it
would be better if Sarah didn’t live with us for a while. It became
a downward slope of our roller coaster. Sarah got into drugs, she
skipped class to bake in the parking lot. She was unable to graduate
with her class, went missing for days at a time, and lied.
The blame game started. “It’s entirely your mother’s fault. She
doesn’t know how to raise her children,” was said by family members at every Christmas, Thanksgiving, or family event after my
sister went to college on a full scholarship. Ironic, right? By fourth
grade, it felt to me as though I had a lot more baggage than your
average ten-year old.
Sarah reached the bottom of her roller coaster during her second semester of college. She called in the middle of the night: “I
want to kill myself.” Life hit all at once after that. Sarah dropped
48
out of college and went into full recovery. Sarah realized that she
couldn’t let herself get any lower, that the only way to go was up.
She’s twenty-five now and a full-time student.
Michael’s ride was about the same. He was always so sweet,
never got into too much trouble. Michael fell in love, which wasn’t
necessarily a bad thing. This girl was really nice, but seemed to
want Michael only for sex. He couldn’t handle her turndown for
commitment. Michael tried to work things out, but this girl just
kept saying she’d rather be friends with benefits. He threatened her
with, “I’m going to kill myself.” Michael’s mom found out about
these threats and promised she would get him some help. My aunt
had an appointment for him to get his new medication, but I guess
Michael just couldn’t wait. On Thursday, March 11, 2011, Michael
Ortiz took his life. A week later, I sat at his funeral in tears, unaware
of all that was going on. I thought that everyone just fought off depression, that it didn’t affect people in this way. Michael would have
been twenty years old this year.
Both of my family members have taught me something: ask
for help or not? Sarah taught me that if you ask for help, somebody
will always be there to catch you if you fall, and that your only way
to go is up. Michael taught me that by keeping everything bottled
up, you’re only hurting yourself. Michael let his sadness build, and
it stormed him all at once.
I believe in counseling. I believe in appropriate medication. I
believe in believing in yourself. I believe in asking for help.
49
WILIA WILLIAMS
Give a Virtue, Receive Another…
..believe in karma.
I According to Hindu beliefs, karma is the cause-effect situation
where “if one sows goodness, one will reap goodness; if one sows
evil, one will reap evil.” —Vedas. If you try to take revenge, then
karma will let something bad happen. Karma exists within and
around us. From past experiences, I know that karma can and will
justify events in life. I believe that if you retaliate when you are attacked, bad karma will swallow you whole. If you do a good deed,
not just when people see you and you hope to get a reward, then
good karma will justify your life by giving you something nice. Life
has always been set right for me by karma. I try to live my life with
good intentions and actions.
When I was barely four years old, our preschool went to the
swimming pool every three days. But one day, the pool was closed.
Since we didn’t have anything else to do, we went to the high school
pool down the road. It was just as you would expect — noisy and
crowded. We all got in and had fun for the first hour. My friend
went down the slide and I watched. All of a sudden, someone
pushed me into the pool. The horrible, dirty chlorine-filled water
gushed into my system. I thrashed my arms everywhere, but then I
saw the light of the room coming back. I was pulled to safety and
badgered about what happened, who did it? I coughed for almost
half an hour while my friend told me how to handle such a case.
Since it had happened from behind me, I could not answer the lifeguard’s questions. I was not in pain or worried; I was just in shock
that I might have died that day. I didn’t drop a single tear.
I still remember one thing: the lifeguard caught the kid who
pushed me and kicked her out. I never pointed a finger, never tat-
50
tled, and never wished that whoever did it would be caught. When
I look back, I still believe my good karma helped me. I try every
day of my life to live freely and carefree, because life is about much
more than blaming others. I have had a taste of bad karma, though.
All of ninth grade, I hated one kid. Every time I spoke, he would
make fun of me using his bad nasally voice. I loathed him because
he wouldn’t stop pestering me for a single instant. Then I learned
that he was in every class of mine. This kid could find the perfect
mean thing to say about you and put you down. I couldn’t bear it,
but I got through it by keeping quiet and not giving him a single
bad thing to say about me. There was nothing he could use against
me. Still, he would sometimes mumble obscenities to me under his
breath when we passed each other in the hallway.
It happened again later that year. After he’d finally stopped
making me miserable, another kid started in on me for no apparent reason. He was annoying and mean. Luckily, he wasn’t in every class, so I could speak freely about my thoughts and not have
someone snicker and imitate my voice. It was almost like the first
kid had passed it on to the next kid, but because I had been through
it before, I handled it better. I ignored him. He finally stopped
by the end of the year, unable to get a rise out of me. I never had
trouble with him again.
I know I bring good karma to myself. This is why I live my life
the way I do. Now, every time someone teases me or makes fun of
me, I know deep down that karma watches over everything and will
bring him/her to justice. Ever since I’ve put my faith in karma, my
life has gotten a lot better and healthier. The most important life
lesson I have learned from my belief in karma is that if you commit
evil against another, it will come full circle back at you with maximum force and haunt you in ways you may never expect.
51
poetry
ALEX ESQUIBEL
Razor shining there,
Crimson-colored blood running.
Is the pain gone yet?
Cutting
Distracting pain
Bleeding, crying, hiding
Remorseful, repentant, fear, numb
Feeling.
54
BONNIE FORTIERSHULTZ
Why do people fight
knowing that it doesn’t solve.
The choice should be clear.
Terror
Hectic, scary
Screaming, crying, shocking
Pain, violence, causing terror
Panic.
55
CARSON MILLER
What is violence?
Is it war or self-defense?
When is it okay?
Power
Dangerous, dead
Killing, whispering, lies
Scared and worrying forever
Control.
Control
Leaving a lasting impression
Childhood of fear
You are worthless
People you know and love
Unnecessary violence
Violence for self defense
POWER
Scared and worrying forever
Need control.
56
DAN SZABAT
Don’t fight for justice
Byproduct of happiness
Reverse paradigm.
Found Poem
Excuses for unjust acts of people
Corporate ambition
Leaving blue mountains crying
Scrutinizingly rigid are their limits
Machiavellian ways
Worked a hell of a lot better.
57
GABE MOYA
Bleeding with cold fear
I will paint your canvas skin
And I’ll watch it drip.
Twisting
Scared puppeteer
Controlling, killing, run.
Crying, confused, broken, molded
Turning.
58
GRETA MILLER
Nature is dying
The final live wind blows through
Destructing ourselves.
World
Harmed, dying
Destruct, pollute, expand
Greedy, toxic, sadness, empty
Terra.
59
JARED LINSON
Death to the USA?
Your underfunded bombs don’t
Do crap. Please give up.
Fishing
Peaceful, passion
Tying, tossing, reeling
Careful, avoid killing beauty
Release.
60
JULIET CRITCHLOW
Nurturing my peace
Wouldn’t drown without a fight
Life is worth living.
Cruel
Unwanted, hurt
Starved, kicked, beaten
Currently up for adoption
Brutal.
61
KAYLA CARRILLO
Equality earned?
Will people swallow their pride?
In the end, peace wins.
Allowed
Fast pace, constant
Riots, freedom, crimes
Strong, hard-hitting influences
TV.
62
MELODY HETT
My soul is soft clay.
Only you can mold and shape.
This statue I hate.
Rose-colored glasses
Through which the eyes can object
To the real dark sky.
Bruises,
Purple and sore.
Hiding, excusing, and
Not understanding why he hits.
Abuse.
63
MICHELLE PARRY
Spilling, wasting, gone.
Green beauty turned to plastic.
It’s one step too far.
Bruises
bruises
go away after a while
but stay engraved in your heart forever.
purple
red
blue
brown
don’t be afraid
tell me who gave you that mark
no response
too many right words can turn into one too many wrong
if he finds out,
soon she’ll be covered head to toe in
purple
red
blue
brown
each hit is followed by a quick swig
the only thing making him stop
is his rocky balance and stumbling punch
but tolerances get higher
64
and hours pass
pretty soon,
the only thing laying next to her cold, pale face are
purple
red
blue
brown flowers
attempting to hide the fact that her blood
her tears
were his fault.
65
MIRANDA DURAN
Power; use it wisely
It’s not synonymous with
Freedom from the rules.
66
NAYETZY GARICA
War is life now gone.
War is never going to go away.
So pray on your own.
Losing.
Sadness, crying,
Kicking, hiding, cutting,
Twisted, gone, INVISIBLE,
Lost.
67
OLIVIA OZELTON
All we are saying,
As our sanity’s swaying,
Is, give peace a chance.
Running
Fast, far away
Leaving, searching, hiding...
Invisible, feel nothing, but
Escape.
Fear
The fear is visible in her eyes
…standing above him, gun raised.
Many people are driven by violence…
Screaming lust and hate.
As our sanity’s swaying,
We run fast, far away,
Feel the sweat drip…
68
RICK BACA
The dark alleyways
Neon flickers in the streets
Fear glooms in the air.
Power
Hierarchy
Decisions made within
The downfall of everybody
Delete.
69
SOPHIE DIAZ
Michael was nineteen
Took away his heart, for love.
I’ll miss him so much.
Michael
Loving, happy.
Hanging, falling, failing.
He broke hearts, my cousin’s gone now.
Michael.
70
WILIA WILLIAMS
Criminals in life
They deserve to die greatly
Only this will win.
Torture
Cunning, dreadful
Scratching, bleeding, hurting!
Beaten, hit’n’, painfully slow,
Cruelty.
Criminals
Criminals,
Throw them in prison,
Lock them up forever,
Make death their only option,
Take them out of society,
This will scare the rest!
71
microfiction
AIDAN MQUILLAN
The Elite
G
ates stared out of his office window, watching the police beat
back protestors. Hearing the door open, he turns to the man he
had been waiting for.
“Shall we, Mr. Dollimoore?” he asked.
“Yes, Williams is waiting in the car,” Dollimoore replied.
The two men walked down to the car park and then climbed
into a limo.
“Afternoon, Dollimoore, Gates,” Williams greeted them from
the back. “Mr. Lochmond has assured me that he has attained
specimens for our games that are beyond exceptional.”
“Excellent. I was hoping with these riots that he would be able
to collect a few great ones for us.”
The three men traveled in the limo far out into the English
countryside to a remote castle in the middle of a thick forest.
“Finally, I’ve missed our little games,” Williams said as they
walked to the front door of the manor. Once inside, the three men
were led up to a den where two other men sat drinking Scotch in
front of a fire.
“Ah, welcome back!” Lochmond said, getting up from his chair
to greet the other three. “I would offer you some Scotch, but Jameson over there drank it all.” He gestured to a man in the corner
playing with an antique pistol. “Be careful with that, Jameson,” Lochmond continued, “it’s loaded.”
“So I’ve heard that our stock is beyond our usual prey,” Dollimoore said.
“Yes,” Lochmond replied, smiling. “I personally picked them
74
off the streets and bailed a few out of jail. With all the riots, there
were plenty to choose from.”
At that moment, Chrone, the butler, came up with some more
Scotch and refilled all the men’s glasses.
“Lovely,” Williams said. “I can’t wait for dusk to fall so we can
begin the games.”
A shot went off from the corner of the room, and all of the men
turned to see a shocked Jameson, still holding the antique pistol,
and Chrone bleeding out on the floor.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “it just went off.”
“Goddamnit!” Lochmond said. “Look what you’ve done to the
carpet!”
75
ALEX ESQUIBEL
An Eerie Feeling in the Breeze
t was a cold and cloudy day. There was hardly anyone in the town
square. I felt an eeriness creep over me as the King spoke to the
Bishop. I stepped up to the guillotine. The convict had not yet arrived.
The guards suddenly came crashing through the gates with
the prisoner in chains. A sudden breeze gave me a chill. Even I felt
strangely uncomfortable about executing this untoward beast. Over
the years I have executed robbers, rapists, and every type of murderer,
yet this baneful monster had cast his evil spell upon my mind.
The guards presented him to the King.
“Remove the mask!” said the King.
The guards swiftly ripped off his mask; a blank yet psychopathic
expression lay on his face. My eyes saw another chill rush over every
person in the square.
“On this day of August 17, 1798, William Von Traup will be
executed for the killing and raping of over twenty women. He is also
being accused of the sin of dark magic! Do you have any last words?”
the King asked him in disgust.
Von Traup looked up and gave the King an evil smile, then put
his head back down.
“Very well. Proceed with the execution.”
The guards walked Von Traup to the guillotine. I prepared myself. Our eyes met for a single moment, and an uneasy feeling overcame me. Von Traup’s head was placed directly under the blade. The
King gave me a nod, and I knew it was time. I stepped up, closed my
eyes, and pulled the rope.
As the blade fell, there was a sudden cool breeze. I opened my
eyes and . . . Von Traup was gone.
I
76
BONNIE FORTIERSHULTZ
The Metro
ohn’s suit wrinkles down the front as he takes a seat on the early
morning metro. His head sags against the railing beside him as
he fingers his coat buttons. He closes his eyes, promising himself they will only be closed for a few minutes.
J
John reaches the revolving glass door three minutes after eight
o’clock. He ducks in, hoping to be unseen by his boss. No such luck.
There it is, the cancer of life’s brain, waiting to ruin John’s day. Ruining days always seems to brighten Mr. Orwell’s day a little.
“Late again, Mr. Doe?” are the words that slide out of Mr. Orwell’s eel-like mouth.
“S-sorry, sir, my t-train was late ag-gain,” John manages to get
out of his very non-eel-like mouth.
“Hurry to your desk. Time is money,” snaps Mr. Orwell.
John takes his advice. As he rushes to his desk, Mr. Orwell’s
foot somehow manages to slide out into his path, causing him to
trip. His briefcase and papers go sprawling, as well as his morning
coffee and self-esteem. Regaining his feet and ignoring Mr. Orwell’s snickering, John continues to his desk.
“Time is money,” John thinks to himself. “That’s so stupid! If it
was, I’d be paying my bills in GODDAMN CUCKOO CLOCKS.”
John reaches his tiny cubicle, which smells faintly of spoiled
Chinese food, and takes a seat in his uncomfortable chair. Staring
idly at the piles of nondescript paper placed there by Mr. Orwell,
he tries to keep the little sanity he has left.
Suddenly, the room begins to spin, and his head is engulfed
with indescribable pain. John falls to the floor and hunches over
on all fours. His left eye twitches, a pain sears his gut. Mr. Orwell
77
walks in to give him more work and finds John on the floor and
starts to laugh hysterically.
“What’s going on?” Something shoots around John’s head, but
gets tangled and trips over itself. “What’s going — what’s going on,
wha-what?”
“32nd and East Palace. Please keep clear of closing doors,” says
the mechanical woman’s voice as John opens his eyes and sees the
cold, hard plastic seats and industrial steel of his morning commuter train.
What a nightmare.
78
CARSON MILLER
Stolen Tomorrows
t was a cold, stormy night in 1939. Poland and Michaela were
sound asleep. Around three a.m., the wind began to howl, and
there was a loud screech. Six-year-old Michaela jumped up and
ran to her mother, who held her close. Just as they were beginning
to drift back to sleep, there was a loud banging on the door. Before
her mother could get up to see who it was, the door was kicked
open. Young Michaela stood behind her mother with her mouth
gaping open.
Two large men stood in green jackets with black overlapping
zigzags on their lapels. They grabbed her mother and dragged her
outside. Michaela shrieked, and as the sound came out of her mouth,
a third man came into their small, one-room home, picked her up,
and threw her over his shoulder. Then he shoved her into the truck
against her mother. They soon arrived at the town’s central train station along with hundreds of other people. Michaela clung to her
mother, fear in her eyes. They stood and waited in the cold darkness.
As the sun began to rise, they heard a loud shout. Everyone
got quiet. Even the babies kept silent. An officer ordered, “All children to my left and everyone else to my right!” Michaela began to
cry. She grabbed tighter around her mother’s legs until she was
the only child left with a parent. The officer had no patience. He
grabbed Michaela, pulled her away from her mother, and dropped
her into the group of children. She screamed as she watched the
men roughly push her mother onto the train. Her mother took one
last glance back at Michaela before the train door slammed shut.
Michaela was crying so hard that she barely noticed as she was
herded onto another train car with the other children. Michaela
sobbed until her eyes ran dry. It wasn’t until the sun rose the next
morning that she woke up to find herself — alone — in a small cell
that held her fate.
I
79
DAN SZABAT
The Resolute Ax
he city faded behind us with the sun. The suburbs arose slowly.
My car stopped in front of one of the older, less cookie-cutterlike houses on the block, with overgrown hedges and a porch
that appeared to peel from the house itself.
T
I passed the house as he entered the front door and parked just
out of view along an adjacent street. Keys in my pocket, gun holster
unlatched, I passed through the backyards. For just a moment, as
I crouched behind his gate, I wondered about my blind obsession,
was it worth all the risk? I questioned what to do if my suspicions
were real. But, in an instant, these thoughts faded.
Scurrying quickly across his trash-strewn yard, I stepped up to
one window, then the next, concealed by the thick darkness that
shrouded my presence. From window to window I went until I
spotted him. Taking off his work clothes and donning pajamas; in
house-worthy attire, he strode to the living room, and I followed in
his wake, skirting the wall of the house. Turning on the television
now, but he turns too. Not to a seat, but rather to a closed door between the kitchen and the living room. Opening the door for just
an instant, it was enough for me to tell that it was the basement he
entered. I dashed to the basement window, adrenaline thrusting my
beating heart to the bottom of my neck, and peering in to a sight
the likes of which my eyes had never beheld; one of such primal
fear as to make my lunch churn in my throat.
In murky shadows, a sinister contraption. Upon it a desperate,
tightly bound victim. Pitiful, forlorn prey! Urgency struck me, and I
lost control of my limbs. My body a thunderous tempest, I stormed
the porch and blew down the front door.
Dong! The grandfather clock’s unmitigated crashing countered
80
my momentum. Heavy gears hoisting a cleaver of mortality below
halts. I hesitate at the entry, and as the moment itself stood on
the verge of chaos, I was suspended in time, like one who has just
leapt from a tall building as his eyes behold what his mind had
only imagined. My feet fell, leaving deadweight to lapse upon the
pierces of a thousand blades branding my left side.
Erupting from behind the board, inhuman raucous neither
laugh nor cry. His shrill voice reverberates off the sullen walls of
the basement, of my body, of my head, clattering through their
dim distinction. Lean smile — stretching further and further, ear to
ear — a purely satanic grin. His head twitched; I noticed the open
trap door above my head and the busted front door. “I will be back
momentarily,” I managed to perceive, “don’t anybody go anywhere!”
he proclaimed giddily upon a puerile dash for the stairs.
Noticing now my captor on a bed of nails, I cried out. The man
under the edge writhed in pain, blood seeping from his pale skin
where bonds constrained, muffled whimpering distantly echoing
my agony. His face I could not see, but the heaving of his chest
accompanying muffled screams behind the choker made us brothers — mice at the talons of unavoidable destiny. The walls began to
close around me, my mind slipped temporarily from my own grasp.
With the sound of the door slamming, I grappled my way from
the darkness to behold the same foul figure hovering over his helpless sacrifice. My life, and that of my fellow captive’s, flashed in an
instant before my eyes. He squirmed and tugged at the bindings,
and in the same instant that the arbitrary arm reached for the rope
to drop the mortal blow, a bullet from my own arm reached his gut,
his chest, and then his head.
Down he crumpled to the floor in such a dizzying, inhuman
fashion, my own mind twisted from out of control to unconsciousness once again.
81
GABE MOYA
A Trophy Father’s Trophy Son
ou come home and the house smells of whisky and menthol.
You can’t help but think that if Mom was here, things would be
different. You see a plate of food next to a pile of bills that have
been pushed to the side and ignored. It looks to be a microwavable
dinner — it’s cold. You hear the faint noise of the TV in the other
room, and you see the lights flashing in the dark. You hear a bottle
being kicked and rolling across the floor. You hear the footsteps you
used to trust. With every step getting louder, your heart sinks. The
footsteps of comfort have turned to those of horror.
Y
A dark figure is now visible behind the flashing veil of light
produced by the TV. The hair on your neck stands up straight, and
your skin shivers and melts as the figure stumbles closer and closer.
You go through all the possibilities of the next ten minutes in your
head. He steps into the kitchen. You are eye to eye with a complete
stranger. His face has aged ten years in the last five, his eyes bloodshot and baggy. He asks you a question and you don’t answer. You
just continue walking toward the hallway. He then traps you with
his old sandpaper hands. He holds your throat hostage. You start to
believe that you are alone and nobody can save you.
He pulls back his fist, ready to swing. Just as he does, time begins to slow down and you’re left threatened and scared. Your own
flesh and blood, cocked back, ready to swing and break. This isn’t
the first time. You remember the bruise that he gave you with a bat
last week for not taking out the trash, or the broken arm for not
cleaning the house, or the busted lip with six stitches that you had
to do yourself because you accidentally left a dish on the counter.
You can’t help but think, why this life; why were you placed here?
His fist is now closer than it was before. Now you remem-
82
ber when you first rode your bike without training wheels and he
was so proud. You remember the soft, gentle voice of a man who
soothed you to sleep at night. You remember when he would take
you out for ice cream every Saturday and was an innocent man full
of love. You remember running to him when you were scared, having that feeling of safety and comfort.
BAM! But those are only memories.
83
GRETA MILLER
Cherry Popsicles
orothy Johnson sat in her rocker on the front porch, knitting
baby booties for her granddaughter. Her wrinkly, aged eyes
squinted in the bright summer sun. Hot, humid air silenced the
creaking of her rocking chair.
D
She sighed and looked across the busy road in front of her
porch. The old Main Street homes she used to love were gone now,
replaced by a bustling highway and a row of fast-food restaurants.
She remembered when she first bought this house, when the town
was small and quaint. When the sole stoplight in the center of
town was their most sophisticated development. She remembered
the old restaurant, The Good Egg, run by her mother’s friend. They
served the original “chicken noodle hot dish” and homemade cherry
popsicles in the summer. Locals shopped in the small stores downtown; each was unique, stocked with every little trinket imaginable.
In the summer, the children would swim in the pond near the
school. Dorothy remembered how they used to fly through the air
off the old rope swing and splash in the cool, refreshing water. The
younger ones would hop from rock to rock on the edge, careful not
to slip and fall into the pond.
The school in town wasn’t only a place for the students to learn,
but a place where the parents could talk about the news of the day
as they dropped off their kids. The local weekly newspaper had only
two pages, and one entire side was devoted to the comics, because
the editor loved to read the funnies.
The town had a particular charm. Everyone knew everyone.
People were friendly. Life was simple.
Now, everything was different. Now, the town was just the
84
same as the next suburb, a stark, sterile, uniform place in a sea of
sameness. The old local dry goods, clothing, and hardware stores
had gone out of business, replaced by large chains. The pond by the
school had been bulldozed over and a Super Walmart was in its
place. The Good Egg didn’t have enough business to stay open. Her
old neighborhood had disappeared, and a tidal wave of McDonalds’, Targets, Staples, and REIs had swarmed the city.
Dorothy walked to the front of her yard and picked up the
newspaper that had been tossed onto the flower bed. The headline
read, “Intel Moves In.”
Walking back to her home, Dorothy sighed. Inside, she picked
up her crying granddaughter from the crib and walked back out to
the porch. Dorothy sat in her rocker, slowly swaying the baby to
sleep. She resumed her knitting.
85
HANNAH HARGROVE
The Daydream
or the little girl, it starts just same as every other day, with false
accusations and spiteful comments. The noise elevates. Words
of hate bounce off the walls and slice everything in their path.
It will not be long before the fists come out. He waves his hand
in her face, but she doesn’t take a hit that easily. There’s the sound
of breaking glass as a cup ricochets off the wall and shatters into
a million pieces on the floor. The shouting escalates, the hits fall
harder. Tears are mixed with drops of blood, and it is hard to tell
the difference between the two anymore.
F
In the corner behind the couch, the little girl does not see the
agonizing scene unfolding before her. She does not hear the violence breaking away at her life, bruise by bruise, because she is sitting on a moss-covered rock with her mother’s hand in one hand,
and her father’s hand in the other. Their feet dangle into the lazy
river winding through a busy Central Park. The noise of passing
joggers and business people barking orders into their cell phones is
drowned out by their family’s exuberant laughter.
The little girl, hiding in her own piece of heaven.
86
JARED LINSON
Name Tag
nne Frank once said, “No one has ever become poor by giving.”
This quote could not ring truer for me. Don’t get me wrong, I
love giving, especially to the homeless, as long as it doesn’t come
out of my own pocket. The old me was naïve and too carefree with
his money. I was more than happy to give a few dollars to a dirty,
hungry man holding a convincing sign. Now, I am older and more
responsible with my money. I refuse to give it to someone I’m not
certain will use it for the right reasons. I volunteer at a local soup
kitchen where I can give to many more homeless. I watch them eat
in front of me, assuring the good person inside of me.
A
A few years ago, as I crossed the street to the office building
where I work, I saw a homeless man begging on the corner. In desperate need of a bath and dental care, he had a black mangy beard,
which reminded me of a pirate. The sign he was holding said: “Ten
more dollars to buy a hotel room!” His clothes were worn and tattered. On his jacket was a sticker: “Hello, my name is Marty.”
The thought that he was lying about the hotel room never
crossed my mind. I dug into my pocket and pulled out a twenty.
Quite generous, I know, but I felt that I needed to do it.
With grateful eyes, he said, “God bless you, sir.”
I smiled, “No problem . . . Marty.”
I turned and went back to my office, feeling really good about
myself.
That night I stopped at a liquor store to pick up a sixer. In
the parking lot, a police cruiser’s lights flashed with a very angry
person in the back seat yelling obscenities. I asked the officer leaving the store what had happened. “Just another drunk terrorizing
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the liquor store,” he replied, as if it were routine. When he opened
the driver’s side door, the inside light turned on and revealed his
drunken passenger. It was Marty. Twenty dollars wasted. I turned
away before he saw me.
I served the last bowl of less-than-appetizing beef and barley
to a girl somewhere in her late twenties. Years of bad decisions
were upon her face. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. It was
the third time I’d volunteered in the past two months at the rundown YMCA building that doubles as the soup kitchen. It was six
o’clock, and the kitchen was getting ready to close. I grabbed my
jacket and said goodbye to Sarah, another volunteer and my other
reason for volunteering.
I stepped out the back door feeling better than usual about
myself. Outside a man sat on a piece of cardboard, which I guessed
to be his bed for the night.
“Hey, man, can you spare some change?” he asked.
“Sorry, man, fresh out of quarters,” I lied.
“Well, how about a light? I just bummed a stogie.”
“That I can give you,” I said happily.
I pulled out my trusty Zippo and flipped the top. The heavy
aroma of booze didn’t bother me as I extended the lighter. I was
unaware that the man had just awoken from a drunken slumber
and that his clothes had soaked up half a bottle of spilled whiskey.
As the flame touched the end of the cigar, the man erupted
into a ball of flames. He bolted up and started jumping in absolute
terror. I picked up his soggy jacket and tried to smother the flames,
but my efforts were futile. The burning man leaped into the street,
narrowly dodged the traffic, and headed for the fountain in the
park.
“Oh my God. What just happened, Andrew?” Sarah yelled. I
turned to her in shock, unable to get out any real words. I looked
over at the fountain where the man was trying to drown the flames
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and then at the smoky jacket in my hands. Under the left collar I
saw the charred remains of a name tag. I could barely make out the
words: “Hello, my name is Marty.”
89
JULIET CRITCHLOW
Black Cat
ick-tock,” whispered the old clock. Every student was on the
edge of their seat as the clock turned to 11:43 a.m. The old
man only had two minutes to finish his lesson before everyone ran out, but he made no move to hurry. His monotone voice,
which never stopped for the whole 90-minute period, usually sent
people into a dream world. Mei’s glazed eyes watched some gloomy
gray clouds claim the midday sky.
“T
She was the only “different” one in the class. Through her eyes,
many of Mei’s female classmates had luxurious blonde or brunette
locks, curvaceous figures, and round eyes. All of them were much
prettier than she was; short and flat-chested with her inherited,
stereotypical squinty Asian eyes. At the very least, Mei really did
treasure her hair. It was black as the sky during the new moon,
straighter than all the girls who felt the need to straighten their
hair, and soft to the touch, like a baby’s skin. Mei had no friends,
despite the fact that she’d lived in this small town for twelve years.
She stared out the window for the last minute of class. It had
started to rain. A gray haze seemed to cover the town and forest,
and the little plop each raindrop made as it hit the window seemed
to resound in her mind. Mei jumped a little when the bell rang.
Teenage chatter erupted as students pushed to get out of the room.
“What are you eating for lunch today?” A cheerful girl twisted
around in her chair to ask. Her smile was genuine and bright. Intimidating.
“I-I don’t know” Mei stuttered and forced a smile back. She
stood quickly and fumbled to pick up her bag. Mei could feel her
ears warming as she walked out of the classroom. Her stomach
rolled and her head felt unsteady, but she eventually made it outside.
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A small black cat sat in the rain. It was soaked, but didn’t look
like it wanted to move. Its fur stuck up in different directions, and
its eyes were closed. Mei walked up to it. She hesitantly attempted
to pick it up, but the cat ran away before she could. Mei stared. She
realized she was just like the black cat, scared and alone.
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KAYLA CARRILLO
Independent vs. Dependent
t was about 8:12. She had been waiting impatiently in line at The
Daily Grind for what seemed like the longest twelve minutes of
her life. As she stood by and allowed people to push her around
and skip ahead in line, she kept glancing at her watch and thinking:
Gosh, what is my boss going to say? Will I make it on time? It was
8:25 as she rushed out of the coffee shop trying to juggle the variety
of lattés, macchiatos, and other drinks that were so precisely made.
I
As she waited at the stoplight, she took a good, long, hard look
at the people around her. There were people yelling, being rude,
crimes being committed in broad daylight. Everyone just stood
around with “it’s not my problem” on their faces. She saw a man
directly in front of her get pickpocketed, but, like everyone else, she
turned the other way.
She was only a little ways away from work. Still, she was flustered and afraid of messing up her chances for success.
She walked into her office and gave everyone their coffees and
heard a stream of complaints. “This is cold,” or “I asked for a double
espresso” and “lousy intern.”
As she walked into the meeting room to give her boss his cappuccino. He immediately pointed out that it was 8:38, then rudely
pried his coffee from her hands.
“You incompetent girl. I don’t understand why it is so hard for
you to be here on time!”
“I was told to go the coffee shop at the last minute, sir.”
“The foam has evaporated!” he said. “Are you capable of doing
anything right around here? You’re lucky to have this job!”
She stormed out of the room trying to control her anger. She
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remembered how she felt when she lived back home. How mad she
was that no one ever respected her. It was the whole reason she’d
moved so far away. But the big city that was supposed to make her
dreams come true was full of rotten people who cared about no one.
It took less than two minutes for her to realize she deserved
better. Suddenly, she smiled. She got up from her desk, grabbed her
purse, and stuffed the few belongings she had into it. She walked
with powerful steps into her boss’s office and looked him straight
in the eyes.
“I work hard and I refuse to be disrespected by you or anyone,”
she said.
Without giving him time to reply, she turned and walked away
with her head held high.
93
MELODY HETT
Red Lines
he door to the bathroom swung open and shut tightly again as
the girl locked it behind her. She dug through the medicine cabinet, desperately fishing out the razor blade she had placed in a
roll of socks and stashed there—just in case. She had never done
what she was about to do. She’d never understood why so many
people found comfort in cutting themselves. That was, until the
blade bit into her skin. All of her emotions released in tears at once,
as if a dam had cracked and collapsed. After so many months of
concealed agony, the girl had found her solace.
T
She sobbed loudly, hearing the echoes around the house. She
knew that her mother was just yards away in the recliner, which she
rarely left. The girl waited for a knock at the door. It didn’t come.
She drew another swollen red line across her wrist. Her wails of
sorrow grew louder, but still there was no one rapping at the door
in concern.
The girl continued to attack her flesh, each cut more urgent and
increasingly deep. Not deep enough, she thought. She wanted them
deeper. She needed them deeper. Despite her efforts, the cuts were
getting shallower, until she felt like her hand could barely push the
little rectangle hard enough to break the skin.
Suddenly, she became short of breath. She felt dizzy, her head
foggy. The razor slipped to the ground with a splash. She was confused . . . was the floor wet? She grasped the sink for support, but
not soon enough. The girl crashed to the floor and found herself
surrounded by warm syrupy redness. Thoughts raced through her
head. Her past and possible future flashed before her eyes. Her
last emotion was one of regret and true anguish, and with her final
breath, her mouth let out a weak whimper — a final cry for help
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that went unheard.
From the silence of the living room came the crash of glass
breaking. Her mother had collapsed, her crack pipe dropped from
her cold, limp hand.
At that moment, the house that had always been quiet held
nothing but pain, neglect, and, inevitably, death.
95
MICHELLE PARRY
A Drip of Red
he dipped her brush in a can of red paint and took a deep breath.
As she walked over to the huge canvas that hung against the
wall, she heard drips of paint hit the floor. She squeezed her eyes
shut, and a fiery anger burned in the pit of her stomach. It traveled
through her veins and struck her all the way to her fingertips. The
pounding at the door grew louder, and so did her heartbeat. She
let out a scream and swung her arm across her body as the paint
splattered across the canvas. She stood there, trying to remember
what the paint looked like as gravity pulled it down. The memory
was still bright in her mind, but the feeling she got when she used
to paint scenes of open landscapes with two lovers meeting faded
every day with each drug that was forced upon her. Tears began to
stream from her eyes as she twirled the paintbrush up, down, and
across the canvas. She jumped when the wooden door to the attic
broke open and heavy boots rushed through the door.
S
“We found her,” said a deep-voiced government official into
his headset. She quickly turned from her canvas and tried to escape
through the window. One of the officials cut in front of her before
she could break into a run. She bounced off of his muscular chest
and into the arms of another agent. She swung her body from side
to side, bit at his arm, and elbowed him in the gut, but nothing
made him flinch. A hot pinch sparked her right arm as they injected a drug into her. Bright colors whirred through her mind and
everything went black.
A single spotlight was shining down on a red chair. She walked
over to the chair and took a seat. Before her eyes, what she thought
were black walls, moved and opened like revolving doors. There was
a picture she had painted of a beautiful landscape, but this time the
96
picture didn’t have any people in it. All her paintings had featured
someone she didn’t know, a part of their life created by her. She sat
there studying the painting and suddenly felt a huge gust of wind.
The trees and animals in the painting started to move. She got up
and walked into her painting. There she saw a little girl in a blue
floral dress. She noticed that the little girl was painting a picture.
As she walked closer to the little girl, she realized that the girl’s
painting was of the attic she had been held captive in. The little girl
in front of her was herself as a child. The scene she was painting
was current life, setting up her future. She stood there watching her
destiny unfold.
Her world became blurry and began to spin. As she gathered
her balance back, she opened her eyes and knew exactly what she
had to do.
97
MIRANDA DURAN
Richard
ichard drove in silence, the sound of the radio the only thing
he heard besides the purr of the engine. It would be seven soon.
He’d promised his wife he wouldn’t be too late, but it looked
like he’d underestimated the time this would take.
R
Richard’s wife was aggravated that he was traveling so far to
buy a used phone from some ad on Craigslist. That didn’t matter to
him. It was cheaper than buying from the store. His phone rang. It
was the boy from the Craigslist ad. He wanted to meet somewhere
else, and to the man’s dismay, it was on the opposite side of town.
Richard wasn’t worried, though. Standing at nearly six feet and
fairly thick, he didn’t feel as though he needed to be.
He pulled into the parking lot and waited for the boy to show
up. It was growing quite dark. Soon enough, a black car pulled
up and a boy got out. He stood around five-foot-seven, and from
what the man could tell, he probably wasn’t older than his teens.
The boy had a goatee and dark sunglasses. He stood up straight, he
shrugged on his hood, his Locs still in place.
Richard began to approach him and noted that for the tiniest
second there was a shift in his body language. He was no doubt
taking in the Richard’s towering six feet.
He extended his hand to the boy and shot a small grin at him,
“I’m Richard. You must be Dominic, right?”
Dominic shook it, saying nothing other than, “Yes.”
“Nice to meet you,” Richard said. “Ah, I don’t mean to be rude,
but can we make this quick?”
Dominic nodded and moved to take something from his pocket. Richard presumed it was the phone and reached to pull the
98
money from his own pocket. The sun was well below the horizon.
They were alone in the deserted parking lot.
Everything happened in a millisecond. As Richard took out his
wallet, Dominic hit him over the head with the butt of a gun, and
Richard fell limp onto the concrete, bleeding profusely.
Dominic grabbed Richard’s wallet, jumped into his car, and
sped off.
After he was a few blocks away, Dominic parked to examine
the contents of the wallet. Looking through the dollar bills and the
receipts of past purchases, he came across a picture that shocked
him. It was small, frayed at the edges. Creased in multiple places
and about twelve years old, give or take a few. It was a picture of
Richard and his wife, between them a young boy, no older than
four.
Seeing the small boy made Dominic think back to when he
was that age.
Richard’s mother had run away with him when he was young
for reasons he could never find out. Whenever Dominic would
ask her about his father, his mom always assured him that he was
a good man. As he got older, Dominic supposed that maybe his
mother just didn’t want to be with his father and thought it would
be easier to leave. A clean break, if you will.
As he examined it more closely, his gut wrenched in protest.
The woman was his mother.
It hit him with such force that he gasped for breath.
It was Dominic in the picture, and Richard was his father.
99
NAYETZY GARCIA
Pulled
s Margarita was being pulled away, she remembers the beginning of her day. That morning she sat at the table with her
daughter, Katalina, and told her that she was going to be picked
up later by her father, Manuel. Katalina said, “Okay.”
A
When she dropped Katalina off. Margarita said, “Be careful.
Quidado con los limones verdes.” Katalina smiled. “Okay, Mama.”
Everything was calm at work. Nothing new, nothing old. But
then Margarita saw two black cars drive up and park outside the
store. Five uniformed INS men came in and asked the boss and the
employees to go outside the building. Margarita was scared. Once
they were outside they started to ask for papers. Margarita was terrified and didn’t know what to do. They asked for her papers, but
she didn’t have any. “Take her away,” The men said.
Margarita began to scream and yell, “No, no, no!!!” she cried
over and over again, but they pulled her away kicking and yelling.
They took her phone so she couldn’t call anyone to say what happened. In two minutes, it was too late. She was gone.
While that was happening, her husband was on his way to go
pick up their daughter. He got a call from Margarita’s friend at
work. Sobbing, she told him they had taken his wife. She told him
Margarita’s last words were, “No, por favor, no! Yo tengo una hija y un
amado esposo.” With tears in his eyes, Manuel picked Katalina up
and they drove off. As they drove, he told Katalina the bad news.
Katalina began to cry when her father told her they would have to
leave the state to somewhere safer; he wasn’t sure where.
For Katalina, it would mean a new school, new friends, and a
new beginning, but this time without her mother by her side. For
100
Manuel, it would mean finding a new job and a new home for him
and his daughter. It was too dangerous to go back to Mexico, where
there were narcos, drug runners, and death. Katalina cried. There
was no easy way out. Her mom was taken away because she was
illegal. Her father wasn’t legal, either, and neither was she.
101
OLIVIA OZELTON
Memories Ablaze
T
he city is dark. Dark houses, dark alleyways . . . A flash of bright
red interrupts the darkness. Footsteps and heavy breathing break
the silence. Three blocks away, a car alarm goes off.
A young lady runs down the street, feet falling heavily on the
pavement and fear in her eyes. Tears stream down her cheek as she
darts around buildings and through alleyways. With a sudden halt,
she hits a dead end. The alleyway is empty. She’s alone. The girl
shudders and slides down the brick wall of the alleyway, lands in
a heap on the littered ground. She sits there and sobs. Her hair’s a
mess, and her clothes are torn and burnt. No one sees her. They’re
all asleep, safe in their homes.
A woman watches a fire blaze from across the street. “911, what
is the state of your emergency?” the operator says into the phone.
She listens and nods once, jots down an address. “Okay, ma’am, I’ll
send someone out there immediately.” The woman puts down her
phone and waits for the firemen to arrive.
Flames lick the building as a fire truck pulls up. Men get out
and crank up their hoses. They yell at each other, shout orders. One
man, tall and burly, straps a mask onto his head and enters the
building. The firefighters hustle around the building, dousing the
fire with strong blasts of water.
The lone, brave man finally emerges out of the fire, carrying
two limp bodies on his shoulders. He rushes them to the ambulance parked nearby and lays them down on stretchers. His eyes
widen as he looks them over. One is missing a leg and the other an
arm. Their limbs look to be cut clean off, leaving bloody stubs where
they used to be.
102
No fire could’ve done that, he thinks. The man takes another
look at the disembodied figures and runs back to his colleagues.
“There must have been more,” he tells them. “But no way they were
alive. They either bled out or burnt to death. They are all gone.
Weird thing is, they were all missing limbs . . . ” He gives his partner a confused look and then proceeds to help with the fire.
Back in the alleyway, the young girl has finally stopped crying.
There are dark circles underneath her eyes as she stares at the brick
wall across from her. With a final sob, she looks down at her hands.
A smear of blood colors her palm red. But it isn’t her blood. She
stands up and slowly walks out of the alleyway. Staring up at the
bright stars, she tries to remember what she did that night.
103
RICK BACA
Newborn
y knees started to buckle, and my hands started to shake. I lost
track of all the hours we had been scouting the desert wasteland. I felt the urge to just collapse, but I wasn’t going to let my
partner finish the mission on his own. I could feel the heat of the
fiery sun seep through my gear and into my bloodstream. The sandstorm blew into my face, temporarily blinding my vision. Gazing
into the storm, I spotted an abandoned tent. We approached the
tent with caution and used it for cover from the storm. Chris curled
up into a ball on the hard dirt floor. I sat on an old squeaky stool,
and my eyes slowly began to close until I heard the door of a vehicle
slam shut. Chris and I jumped to our feet. My heart was racing, and
I tried to calm myself. The thought of my newborn daughter kept
running through my mind. I peeked out from a small ripped piece
of tent.
M
There were six enemy trucks, twelve men armed with AK47
assault rifles, and four German shepherds. One of the dogs barked
and started advancing toward the tent.
“What do you see out there?” Chris whispered.
“It looks bad, really bad.” I held the tear open for Chris to see.
“Crawl out the back of the tent and run as fast as you can,” said
Chris.
“No, you’re coming with me,” I replied.
“I’ll distract them, now go. You have a daughter to meet!” he
yelled.
A tear ran down my cheek as I escaped out the back of the tent.
I had to use every single muscle in my body to keep running, to not
look back. I approached a dead tree and laid back against it while
104
gasping for air. A spot in the sky grew bigger each second as I gazed
at it. I realized the spot was my rescue helicopter.
I knew that I was going to be able to see my daughter for the
first time.
105
SOPHIE DIAZ
Scars
urk had a feeling today would be great. His brother was coming
back from Iraq. Jeremy had been in Iraq for five years, but Turk
knew Jeremy would be his same old big brother, joking, loving,
and happy.
T
When Turk picked him up from the airport, Jeremy seemed
off, not all there. He was two-dimensional, cold almost. Turk finally
got up the courage to ask Jeremy about the war: “What was it like?”
Jeremy was instantly in tears. Blubbering of friends he had lost,
shootings, and one tragic accident. Turk couldn’t help but cry too,
seeing his brother in such pain.
Jeremy could not sleep that night; flashbacks of the accident
flared in his mind. He never meant to kill that woman, but even
though she carried the white flag, his orders were to shoot. Jeremy began shouting in his sleep, trying to save the dying woman.
Turk came running, thinking that Jeremy was hurt. When Turk got
too close, Jeremy lunged, grabbed Turk by the throat, and squeezed
hard, imagining him as a threat. Jeremy finally came to, only then
did he see that Turk was on the floor gasping for air.
Jeremy called 911. After he knew Turk was okay, Jeremy admitted himself to the psyche ward. He was diagnosed with extreme
post-traumatic stress disorder and began counseling.
Jeremy will never forget what he did to Turk that night, but
the thought makes him stronger. He is still in the psyche ward, but
recovering. The scars are still there, but starting to hurt less.
Luckily for Turk, he will never understand the pain that Jeremy
goes through every day.
106
WILIA WILLIAMS
The Foyer to Hell
s the haze and double vision cleared from my eyes, I noticed
a dim, flickering light throwing sparks on the floor. The walls
around me were covered with blood and moss and kept repeating two words: prisoner 1089. My eyes circled the entire room. I
knew I was trapped. A swinging lamp was the only source of light.
When I came closer, I noticed the smell of rotting wood. I saw a
chest in the corner. When I opened it up, I found a hunk of shaped
flat stone and a pressure plate with which I could open the door.
A
“If I could only find a door,” I said aloud.
A crackle and some static bombarded the room. A booming,
ominous electronic voice came over a loud speaker.
“Greetings, prisoner 1090. You are my newest test subject, you
will stay in your cell until my minions come to collect you. Do not
try to escape or you will be killed.”
The speaker cackled, then all went silent. I had to find a way out
of this cell before I lost my life to a psychopath. I slid my fingers
through the bloody moss and found a groove in the iron-plated
wall. The grooved ending stopped my fingers. A door! I quickly set
up the pressure plate. After a snap and click, the door unlocked.
I ran out. I had so much joy in getting out of the horrible room
that I didn’t look where I was going. The slick floor carried my feet
right off the edge of a chasm into an unknown darkness. The radio
cackled on.
“I know where you are, prisoner 1090, my minions are on your
tail. You may have escaped your cell, but there are twenty rooms
and five levels to get to the control room. Fly my Herobrine slaves!
ATTACK!”
107
His voice wasn’t playful anymore. He sounded really angry.
“Twenty rooms with five levels,” I said. “How am I going to get
out of here?”
108
Six-Word Stories
Pain is my only friend now… —Wilia Williams
We dropped the bomb for terror… —Sophie Diaz
My violence is the right kind. —Melody Hett
Violence — unnecessary yet deeply, completely controlling.
—Olivia Ozelton
Your actions don’t hurt just you. —Miranda Duran
Write violence; reopen horrific, hidden wounds.
—Danny Szabat
Confident girl has dark days too. —Kayla Carrillo
The odds were against him, but… —Rick Baca
What happened to beards and swords? —Jared Linson
109
Ignorance never saved a tortured child. —Juliet Critchlow
Parental rule: love child; sign here. —Melody Hett
The girl cried the whole way. —Bonnie Fortier-Shultz
Lived in hiding. Now need control. —Carson Miller
I could finally sleep without fear. —Greta Miller
That heart beat, meek and forgotten. —Gabe Moya
Does it help? No, it distracts. —Alex Esquibel
Bullets fly, lives taken. For what? —Michelle Parry
Out of sight, out of heart… —Melody Hett
Don’t look now, but you’re gone. —Nayetzy Garcia
110
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