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SEPTEMBER 2009
O U R 2 1 ST Y E A R
T E E N IN K . C O M
It’s those
butterf lies
again.
Life’s going to come at you from all directions.
There’s stress. And there are people asking you
to smoke weed, and to change who you are.
All that pressure can build up inside of you.
But you don’t have to get caught up in all of it.
There are ways to let it go. How will you
deal with it?
Office of National Drug Control Policy / Partnership for a Drug-Free America®
CONTENTS
S E P T E M B E R 2 0 0 9 | V O L . 21, N O . 1
COVER FEATURES
DEPARTMENTS
iPod Health Hazards
12, 37
“iPods and MP3 players have become an important
part of our daily schedule, but what teens don’t
realize is those same devices are also damaging
our hearing.”
– “iCan’t Hear,” page 20
A Pakistani Teen’s Life
Art by Jodie Lesman, Jamaica Estates, NY
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“Teenagers worldwide have the same basic problems: pimples, chemistry assignments, measly
allowances, and a shortage of clothes. But in
Pakistan, parents don’t let us go out with friends,
not because they think we might drink or do drugs,
but because they fear a bomb may blow up at any
minute.” – “The Middle-Eastern Teen Scene,” page 14
Remembering 9/11 and
Hurricane Katrina
“My 9/11” ..................................................................page 6
“In Memoriam” .......................................................page 6
“My Towers Crumbled Too” ................................page 6
“Louisiana Warmth”.............................................page 14
“Can’t Fly” ...............................................................page 18
“Rebuilding Hope” ................................................page 19
Review: The Usual Rules ....................................page 30
“I invite anyone who can’t see the good in America,
despite her blemishes, to leave. True patriots love
their country enough to stay and work to change it
for the better.”
– “Modern Patriotism,” page 16
Cover photo by Jacob Gonzalez, Hubbard, OR
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College Directory
College Essays
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Feedback
Fiction
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Heroes
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Pride & Prejudice
Reviews: Book
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
• Three Cups of Tea • The Overachievers • The Usual Rules •
Fast Food Nation • The Freedom
Writers Diary • The Fourth K
29
Reviews: Movie & TV
Glee • 17 Again • Ponyo • Paul Blart:
Mall Cop • Repo! The Genetic Opera
Patriot Games
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Reviews: Music
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• The Fray
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09/09
FEEDBACK
Articles mentioned here can be found on TeenInk.com
TeenInk.com
Heroes of Sept. 11
I was at the library when I spotted Teen Ink
magazine. Curious, I flipped to the first page
and was immediately excited – I could send in
poems and short stories for publication, which
is my life dream!
The first thing I did when I got home was
go to TeenInk.com. I got permission from my
parents and submitted four poems and two
short stories. A week or two later I received an
e-mail from Teen Ink. I eagerly clicked on it
and found that my work had been posted on
the site. The feeling was indescribable.
The website has boosted my self-confidence, given me feedback, and shown me that
I can keep working toward my goal of publishing a novel. I now know that if I want
something, I should do my best to get it – and
sitting around doesn’t help!
I just want to say thank you, Teen Ink.
Though I’ve only been published online thus
far, I know that one day I will see my name in
print. You have altered my life, and I want to
give you credit.
Natalie Kray, Allen, TX
“Heroes of September 11” by Alice
Anichkin from Brooklyn, N.Y., is a touching
article that chronicles the events of that tragic
day. I learned about men and women involved
in the search and rescue, the terrible chain of
events, and how it affected the country.
Though I was young like Alice, I can remember schools closing early that day, and
watching the coverage on television. I didn’t
understand how serious the situation was then,
but I now know that it was an act of cowardice
that has forever left a mark on America.
Unlike Alice, I was hundreds of miles away
on that day, so I could offer nothing but my
hopes and prayers for those who died and
those who loved them.
Brianna Marriott, Wilmington, DE
Editor’s note: We’re thrilled that you
found our site, Natalie. Have you seen
the new TeenInk.com? We just relaunched
it with many new features we know you’ll
enjoy.
Happy Endings
I have noticed that many of the fiction and
nonfiction works published in Teen Ink have a
positive outlook, a happy ending. While these
are pleasant to read, one has to ask, when is
optimism too much? I’m all for positive thinking, but readers should also be exposed to the
darker side of life. Why not publish a story
about someone who experiences a tragedy and
gets nothing in return? After all, that’s life.
Also, some stories feature young people
who have overcome drug addictions or eating
Greetings from Teen Ink
As we too start this new school year, we’re eager to hear from
new readers and welcome back old ones. If you’re new to Teen Ink,
this is your magazine. Every opinion, every experience, every piece
of art has been created by a teenager like you. We have no staff
writers or assigned stories. We depend completely on you, so we
hope you’ll send us your work (see page 3 to find out how).
To celebrate our 21st year of publishing teen writing, art, and
photography, we’re relaunching our website with many new
features (including the ability to connect your profile to Facebook)
to make it easier and more fun for you to interact with other teen
writers and artists. If you haven’t gone to TeenInk.com and created
a profile yet, we hope you’ll check us out.
This month we’re publishing stories remembering September 11
and Hurricane Katrina. You’ll also find articles on sports, travel,
health, the environment, and community service. And reviews of
books, movies, and music that other teens loved (or didn’t). Plus, a
whole lot of fiction and poetry … so, flip through and take a look.
There’s a whole lot more coming between now and June, so
send us your writing and artwork and keep up-to-date by checking
TeenInk.com.
disorders. While these experiences are appreciated, what about those who face an addiction but are unable to defeat it?
Not every story has a happy ending. I think
it would benefit Teen Ink’s readers to see both
kinds: happy and real.
Melanie Petrola, Scottsdale, AZ
Brave Writers
I would like to thank Teen Ink and all the
teens who have written about their lives and
the challenges they face. These authors open a
new window for the rest of us who may never
have had to face anything so tough. For example, I could not imagine how it would feel to
have an eating disorder. I used to believe that
anyone who did was a misguided person, and
now, thanks in part to reading articles in Teen
Ink, I realize that people who suffer from
these disorders need more than criticism –
they need support and guidance. These different perspectives open our minds to new ideas
and thoughts about life. These writers are very
brave to share their stories.
Charlie Gandarilla, Glendale, AZ
Stephanie Meyer
Emily Sperber
P.S. Want to get involved? Join our Student Advisory Board.
Find out more at TeenInk.com/studentboard.
4
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’09
Sara Dickinson made a great point: she
wants to be happy when she grows up.
Doesn’t everybody? But, is that the answer
we give when asked? We usually reply with
career ideas, or our plans for college. None of
that matters though – our parents and friends
also just want us to be happy. From now on,
when asked I’m going to reply with one word,
“Happy.”
Ashley VantHul, Trent, SD
Is the SAT Useless?
It’s Over
Andy Thompson’s article “It’s Over” is
about football, but I don’t think that is the full
message. The true meaning is that time flies,
so we must treasure each moment. Andy talks
about how he never really thought about his
senior game because it felt so far away, but
then it was all over in no time.
My brother told me he never thought about
the last day he’d play his favorite sport either.
But every time he comes to one of my games,
he realizes how much he misses playing.
Because of this, I know not to take this time
for granted and treasure it while I can.
Jordan Lindberg, Dell Rapids, SD
When I Grow Up
As a junior starting to look at colleges and
consider what I want to do with my life, I can
relate to Sara Dickinson’s article “When I
Grow Up.” Her descriptions of kindergarten
made me nostalgic for a time when the
question “What do you want to be when you
grow up?” had a simple answer. As a child, we
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responded with a job that made us happy.
Now we are expected to consider many
factors and be confident in our answer. I
usually say, “I don’t know yet.”
Realism has replaced idealism. Our dreams
must be realistic. But how can I predict now
what will make me happy in the future?
Sara’s article reminded me that regardless
of what I choose do with my life, I will always
want to be happy. My new answer to that everpresent question will now be one I am certain
of: “Happy.” Thanks, Sara!
Dennis John, Thornwood, NY
Senior Editor:
Stephanie Meyer
Editor:
Emily Sperber
Production:
Katie Olsen
Outreach:
Elizabeth Cornwell
Editorial Assistant:
Cindy Spertner
Advertising:
John Meyer
Volunteer:
Barbara Field
Intern:
Monica Wiles
Though it was well-written, I strongly
disagree with Caitlin Shea’s article “Is the
SAT Useless?” I think that this test is not only
a fair assessment of knowledge but a great
measure of work ethic.
Caitlin points out that in school, some
pupils can only get good grades by seeking
extra help. Consequently, they don’t perform
well on the SAT. However, she doesn’t mention that there are many SAT prep courses and
books available to guide students to success.
But when it comes down to it, the test is
supposed to measure academic promise, not a
student’s potential when helped by others. In
addition, by getting a good score, you are
showing colleges that you put time and effort
into preparing for the test. Colleges want to
know that the students they admit are going to
step up when it counts, and this test is another
way of assessing work ethic.
At 13, I have already taken the SAT twice.
I think this test is perhaps the best way colleges can evaluate students, as the results reflect not only knowledge but work ethic.
Melissa Parnagian, Parlin, NJ
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SEPTEMBER ’09
• Teen Ink
5
nonfiction
My 9/11
by Kenny Kutzer, Gibsonia, PA
reached my grandparents, who had spoken to him
wasn’t on American soil September 11, 2001. My
and confirmed that he was fine. He had been in midfamily was living in Germany. My brother and I
town Manhattan that day and could not get out of the
were home with a babysitter that afternoon becity. It would end up taking him 17 hours to get
cause my mom was having her hair done. It was just
home. He walked to the Lincoln Tunnel and asked
after 4 p.m. in Germany when my mom heard on the
some Japanese businessmen to take him through. My
car radio that a plane had crashed into one of the
aunt picked him up in New Jersey.
Twin Towers. She thought at first it must have been a
That evening my mom and I went to buy groceries.
small plane. When she got to the salon, the hair stylEveryone in the store was silent as though stunned
ists were listening to the radio too. It soon became
with disbelief. People were shopping,
evident that this was something much
going through the motions, but everyone
bigger, much worse, than an accidental
crash. When the second tower was hit,
Hundreds of was listening to the radio to see what
would happen next. We learned that the
my mom rushed home, her hair still wet.
people waved Pentagon in Washington, D.C., had been
She was crying when she came
through the door, and immediately
American flags hit and that another plane had crashed in
Pennsylvania while heading toward our
turned on the TV. We had only one Engnation’s capital.
lish channel, CNN International. The
My parents decided that I should go to school the
sight was terrifying because both buildings were on
next day; I was in kindergarten. I was nervous about
fire. The station had switched to nonstop coverage
how the other kids would react, even though there
and would stay that way for the rest of the week. My
were many other American students. We were
father came home early from work, and we all sat in
amazed to see that many German kids were wearing
front of the TV in shock at the unimaginable horror.
red, white, and blue as a symbol of solidarity with
My mom tried continuously for three hours to call
the U.S. The principal of my school was even intermy uncle, who works in New York City and had
viewed by a local TV station about her U.S. students.
clients in the World Trade Center. Finally, she
She then held an assembly to talk about what happened.
Our neighbors were wonderful that week. Many of
them knew we were American, and they brought us
flowers and sent cards addressed to “Our Wonderful
American Neighbors” expressing their sympathy and
horror that such a despicable act had happened.
Friday, September 14, was a national day of
mourning in Germany. Chancellor Gerhard
Schroeder held a rally in Berlin that was broadcast
across Germany on all the television stations. At the
Brandenburg Gate where John F. Kennedy gave his
famous speech in the 1960s, Schroeder said, “John
F. Kennedy stood here and said, “Ich bin ein
Berliner” (I am a Berliner). Today we stand here
together and say that we are all Americans.” A
gospel choir sang “Amazing Grace” in English, and
in a country where waving their own flag is too great
I
In Memoriam
They carved through the sky,
cut through the throats
of the silent clouds,
unyielding
Igniting the flames of hate,
blowing on the blaze of anger,
dancing with the torch of fear.
In the early morning,
life
cut down, shot beyond meaning.
They carried hatred
on a sling around their necks
and screamed the war cry of
anarchy.
They did not know it then
that they ended so many more lives
than they knew.
For they killed the ones they left behind.
by Heidi Schneider, Mattapoisett, MA
a show of nationalism, hundreds of people in a
crowd of thousands waved American flags.
Every church in Germany held a service that night.
We went to church in Odenthal, where we lived, and
it was packed. Many people greeted us knowing that
we were Americans and expressed their sympathy.
The priest said a prayer for us and gave a wonderful
sermon about suffering and pain in the world. The
choir sang “America the Beautiful” and everyone
joined in.
I think that many Americans don’t realize how the
rest of the world reacted to September 11. The news
media here, of course, was focused mainly on the
American reaction. My experience on that day was
different from my peers, and they are memories I will
never forget. I saw the world come together that day
with one voice to support our country. ✦
Photo by Pooja Bag, Naperville, IL
My Towers Crumbled Too
by Amber Gafur, Kenner, LA
My teacher suggested that my mom keep me home
acism is defined as the belief that race acfor a few days. I was an innocent child told not to
counts for differences in individuals’ characcome to school simply because of my race. My mom
ter or abilities and that a particular race is
held me tight again, only this time for a different reasuperior to others. As a Pakistani-American, I have
son. The real world had been revealed to me.
witnessed and experienced racism, and I believe that
That was my first experience with racism. Because
it should be considered obsolete by now.
I am of Middle-Eastern descent, I was
September 10, 2001. Today was a
stereotyped the same as the horrible
great day. I became class president of
the fifth grade. As I waited for my mom I was ostracized terrorists who bombed my country, my
home, on September 11, 2001. At first, I
to pick me up after school, my classand verbally
wondered why I couldn’t be another
mates congratulated me. I stood tall and
race. Over time I realized I’m not to
abused by
smiled at everyone as they passed. I reblame; society is.
ceived gracious hugs from my friends.
my
peers
No race is superior to any other. AmerToday was my day. I was proud of myicans are all the same. I believe the U.S.
self for defeating Victoria, who had been
today is still slowly recovering from the racism that
class president since kindergarten. My mom pulled
has existed since its formation. Thankfully, my genup and jumped out the car, giving me the greatest hug
eration is less focused on race and realizes that color
ever. I felt her pride as she held me against her chest.
is only skin deep, which bodes well for this country’s
September 12, 2001. Two days ago, I received
future. I truly believe that slowly but surely, divisions
hugs and words of encouragement from my peers.
caused by racism are diminishing and will continue
Now, I was ostracized and verbally abused by them:
to do so. ✦
“Terrorist,” “Bomber,” “Murderer.”
R
6
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’09
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
Art by Ellie Schmidt, Denver, CO
TEENINK.COM
USING THE
ADVANCED SEARCH
“I
don’t understand … You want me to ride
that?” I asked, feeling my upper lip curl
involuntarily – well, almost involuntarily.
“Ah … yes,” Jacob said, peering at me from under
his Cleveland Brown’s baseball hat. That in itself was
something I didn’t understand. Baseball hats for
football teams?
“I’m sorry, Jake, but I refuse,” I said, shoving my
blunt bangs out of my eyes. “I need a jumping horse.
This one is barely worthy of a glue factory.”
I had come to Jake almost five years ago for my
equestrian needs. He had provided me with three of
my four prize mares, and now he was offering me
this beast?
“McAllister, please. Don’t you trust me?” Jake
nonfiction
The Gift Horse
by McAllister Lark, North Ridgeville, OH
minutes. I sighed and nudged Trebeau’s sides with
amount of pain. I peeked over at Trebeau, who had
my shoes. I clucked my tongue against my teeth. The
struggled to his knees and was kneeling there
horse tensed up and so did I, bracing for a problem.
inspecting me for himself.
“Come on, handsome,” I coaxed.
“Your collarbone and fingers are definitely bro“Run him around a bit,” Jake called. I nodded and
ken,” Jacob said. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”
turned Trebeau toward the line of
“Man,” I groaned, and glared at
jumps, the tops lined with bristles.
Trebeau with all the intensity my blue
I sped him up around the turn. It felt
eyes could muster.
like I was riding a camel in the deep
Jacob grabbed my backpack. “Come
I felt his knees
end of a swimming pool. “What is
on.”
sway under
going on?” I gasped, struggling to
“Wait, Jake. You’re forgetting somecontrol the swaybacked animal.
thing.”
my weight
“He’s running,” Jake replied.
“What?”
“Are you sure?”
“My horse.” Trebeau wobbled piti“Positive.”
fully over to me and stuck his head into
“What happened to him?” I asked, as we passed
the groove between my elbow and rib cage.
Jacob the fifth time. I had avoided the jumps because
Jake cocked his head. “Are you sure?”
I wasn’t convinced Trebeau could handle them.
“Yes.”
“Well, you know I rescue all my animals.”
I left the stables with three broken bones and a
“Yeah.”
new horse. I only regretted three of the four. ✦
“We found Trebeau tied up in a kitchen.”
“A kitchen?”
“Yeah, and his tail was caught in the pantry door,
so he had to stoop to support himself.”
“So that’s why he has these knees?”
by Nika Allahverdi,
“Exactly.”
Los Angeles, CA
“Who would do that to him?”
“I don’t know. But he’s the strongest horse I’ve
ika.” Camille looks at me. “Are you married?”
ever known,” Jake commented. I slowed down and
“No, baby, I’m not.”
allowed him to pat Trebeau’s backside as we passed.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“How so?”
“No.”
“He was broken down, but he still came out fight“Nika, if you get a boyfriend, tell him that you won’t marry
ing and ready to go.” I detected fondness in his voice.
him, okay? Okay, Nika, tell him that you will never marry
“You sound just like me, buddy,” I murmured, and
him.”
the horse whinnied softly in reply. “We’ve both been
“Cama, what are you so worried about?”
broken, huh?” I stroked his neck. The small indenta“Ni-iika-aa. Because if you marry your boyfriend, then
tions in his skin began to feel like the craters of the
you’re gonna move away and I’ll never see you,” she says,
moon – uneven and dented but full of mystery and
her nose turning pink and eyes watering. “You’ll move far
possibility.
away and forget me. You’re gonna forget me, Nika.”
“Ready to try the jumps?”
“I’ll never ever forget you; that’s just impossible. But I
“What do you say, Trebeau?” No response came
can’t promise never to marry, okay?”
from the horse, but I took it for a yes anyway.
“But do you wanna marry, Nika? Do you want babies?”
I tapped Trebeau to the starting line. The horse
“Yes, one day. But not anytime soon.”
broke into an uneven run, his hooves smacking the
“Not soon?”
ground in an undistinguishable pattern.
“No, not even in ten years when you’ll be almost as old as I
“First jump … you can do it,” I urged.
am now and I’ll be 27.”
I felt him start to raise his front legs and groaned.
“Are you gonna look different, Nika? Are you gonna
It was too early.
change?”
“McAllister!” Jacob yelled.
“Camille, everybody changes,” I tell her as her eyes water
I yelped as my body hit the ground.
up again. “Look.” I pull out a photograph of my brother,
Jacob was at my side immediately, hoisting me up.
cousin, and me. “This picture was taken when you weren’t
I winced. “Sorry, sorry. Are you okay?” I sat up and
even born yet. Do I look the same?” She shakes her head and
looked over to where Trebeau was struggling to get
smiles. “How about Tamik?”
up on his damaged knees. It was the most pathetic
“No, he has a different haircut.”
sight I’d ever seen – like a bug that had fallen onto a
“How about Emiliya?”
pool cover and was stuck in a tiny puddle of rainwa“No.”
ter. “McAllister?” Jacob prompted. “Are you okay?”
“See, everyone changes. It’s not bad – that’s just how it is.”
“I think so. I think I broke my collarbone. Maybe
“But I don’t change.”
my index finger.”
“Yes, you do. You just don’t notice it. When you were born
“Can you move it?”
you were only this big.” I hold out my hands to show her how
“Ouch. No.” My finger cracked with an incredible
tiny she had been. “And look at you now.”
“But still, I don’t want you to get married. You have to pray
to God and tell him never to give you babies. And then you
say ‘ah-men.’”
“Camille, I’m not going anywhere soon. So stop worrying,
okay?”
She looks up at me. “Okay.”
“Camille, how much do I love you?”
“A million?”
I stand in a void
“No.”
Dreading the day to endure
“Ninety-six?”
Into school I trod
“Much, much more.” ✦
by Marnie Lemonik, Lubbock, TX
Camille
“N
Photo by Amelia Freske, Sublette, IL
asked, his tanned skin glinting in the sun as he leaned
on the fence, cowboy style.
“Yes.” He was the best horseman I knew.
The horse in question – a knock-kneed chestnut
stallion with fleabites and scabs covering his
lackluster coat – raised his head and whinnied, as if
aware we were talking about him.
“Please give him a chance. I wouldn’t be showing
him to you unless I knew he was perfect for you.”
“Can he jump?” I asked, nuzzling the horse’s nose
with my open palm.
“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Jake smiled and
exposed his teeth, yellowed from nicotine and coffee.
“All right,” I sighed, knowing I’d caved too easily.
“Let me grab my helmet. Are the jumps set up?”
“Right out back,” he said. I yanked my auburn
curls back into a messy bun and jammed my black
riding helmet on my head. It must have looked horribly out of place, this formal riding accessory, with
my skinny jeans and ragged tank top.
“What’s his name?” I called as I tied the laces of
my vintage Pumas. I heard numerous nickers from
the horses and inhaled the comforting smell of damp
hay, mud, compost, and the shampoo that Jake used
to wash the horses.
“We call him Trebeau.”
“Treble?” I asked, butchering the name as I took
the reins Jake offered me.
“Très beau. Like “very handsome” in French.
“So it’s false advertising?” I joked, hoisting myself
into the saddle. “I think that’s illegal in Ohio.”
I felt the horse’s knees sway under my weight, all
120 pounds. “Are you sure he can support me?”
“Trust me,” he said for the second time in 15
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nonfiction
Car Ride
I
by Alexandra Preiser, Westport, CT
feel nauseated. The Merritt Parkway winds around southern Connecticut like an amusement park
ride, and I am the unhappy passenger
with her eyes shut tight, grasping the
safety bar and waiting for the fun to be
over. Hail is rapping against the car
window, which frustrates me because
it’s early April. I wouldn’t mind
throwing up right now. I like that feeling of relief right after a nice heave.
A sudden wave of traffic appears,
and my dad slams on the brakes,
thrusting my head into his seat. Nausea is replaced by a pounding ache
above my left eyebrow. My right eyebrow feels oddly excluded. How do
headaches like this occur? Maybe I
have a concussion.
I open my mouth to tell my dad that
I am concussed and we have to pull
over. My above-the-left-brow ache
worsens, and my right brow decides to
throb as well, probably to exert its
equality. I begin to form a sentence
when we encounter another backup,
and he stomps the brake again, making
my body lurch forward enthusiastically. I’m surely concussed now. There
isn’t an exit for 20 minutes, so I will
just have to hope that my brain does
not hemorrhage during that time.
My dad is on the phone with his
secretary. He says something about
“the big one” and how he thinks they
should “give it a code name.” I am
certain that my dad is a CIA operative.
He often gets picked up in shiny black
cars and goes to Europe. Whenever I
ask him what he does for a living, he
turn on my iPod and play some
gives me some long-winded explanamelancholy music. I feel like I have
tion that involves buying and selling
something to be sad about, but really, I
and lending and doing. He should
am just wishing I did. I turn the volprobably decide on a better cover story
ume up and lean against the window,
– for example, that he invented meand I am in a movie. I am the forlorn
chanical pencils and is living off the
and misunderstood teenager, peering
royalties. I would suggest this to him,
sadly from a moving car. What’s more
but I don’t want his superiors to realpoetic than crying quietly while
ize I am aware of his real job.
watching gray scenery fly by? The
His cell phone loses connection and
music is not only in my ears but all
he curses. It must be stressful working
around me. The song changes to
for the CIA. I wonder how many times
something slow and sweet, number
he has jumped out of airplanes or
two on the movie soundkarate-chopped terrortrack, and the audience
ists. Maybe he is just
pities my sadness. I feel
the tech guy, translating
I am certain
profound, even though I
snippets of foreign teleam only thinking of my
phone calls and obscure
that my dad is
own profoundness. I like
computer code.
a CIA operative movies when teenagers
The odor of sewage
gaze out the windows of
and burned rubber permoving cars.
vades the car. It smells
The place we are driving through is
like teeth that haven’t been brushed
ugly, and the gray sky only accentuates
for two days. Yum. We are crossing
this. Along the highway, rectangular
over the George Washington Bridge,
shipping crates are piled high as a
and I hold my breath, a habit leftover
mountain. There are tigers in those
from games I played when I was
crates, and couches, and foreign toys.
young. This is a long bridge. It would
Maybe people live in them. It’s a colorbe a pity to die from lack of oxygen
ful city of boxes, each filled with whatbecause of a childhood game, but I
ever you desire. Where do those boxes
can’t bring myself to inhale. My friend
go? I think North Dakota, or Siberia.
claims that if you hold your breath
A road sign warns, “Reduce speed –
over a bridge, you decrease the
congestion ahead!” I feel congested. A
chances of it collapsing as you cross.
man is pulled over trying to fix his
It’s scientifically proven, she says.
smoking car. They told us once in
Well, I believe in science, so I don’t
driver’s ed that more people are killed
breathe until we pass through the toll.
standing in shoulders than driving on
Sure enough, the bridge does not
highways. But I misheard the instruccollapse.
tor and thought he said that more
Everyone in the car is asleep, so I
Golden Summer
people are killed standing on shoulders than while driving on highways. I
thought to myself, I will never stand
on anyone’s shoulders again.
I can’t keep my mind on one subject. I have nothing to think about
anyway. I could think about smokestacks or highway routes or billboards.
Smokestacks emit nitrogen and sulfur
particles, which go on to create acid
rain. Transcontinental highways were
invented in the early 1900s to provide
paid busywork to the unemployed.
Billboards were a product of rising
consumerism during the ’20s. My
thoughts are occupied for 37 seconds.
School has taught me too much. I
wish I could see a smokestack and
merely remark on the beauty of the
billowing clouds it creates. I wish I
didn’t know where all these highways
led so that I could fantasize that some
of the cars are driving to Rome or
Beijing. I guess someone, somewhere,
is driving to Rome or Beijing. This
thought makes me feel better. These
cars are only going to New Jersey.
I can feel my mom’s eyes burning
into the side of my head. She is saying
my name. I wonder what she wants,
but I have finally found a piece of comfortable glass to press my achy brow
against, and I don’t want to risk moving
it. She leans over and taps my shoulder.
She knows that I hate being tapped, so
she must really want to talk to me.
“Yeah, Mom?”
“What are you thinking about right
now?”
“I have no idea.” ✦
by Kennis Dees, Palm Harbor, FL
street from the Native American burial ground thought
hat is in a name? What is the worth of a name
nothing of death or sadness. Summer would last forever.
after the person is gone? There’s an ancient
How could we have known that life would change?
Native American belief that to utter the name
Summer days would transition into hospital nights
of the departed is to yank them away from paradise.
and the smell of salt was replaced with medicinal soap.
There is one name I have not dared to speak for many
One girl would lose her hair and the other held her close
years. A lost friend, now forever nameless, and the sumas she cried, watching strawberry locks swept away like
mer when we were immortal.
the morning tide. Second opinions drowned out memoI often look back at that golden summer when two
ries of running down to the shore, and nausea erased the
young girls were still naive, just learning about life,
taste of sweet cherry popsicles. Laughter
family, and love. We’d run down to the
transformed into hoarse whispers, and little
spraying ocean, and all the waves were
girls grew too old too fast.
taller than us. It was a summer of cherry
Two little girls
One girl slowly left us, like the sun fadpopsicles, of lying in the sand dunes and
ing
into twilight. I wish I could say that I
getting lost in the beauty of the sky. Two
got high on life
was there at the end. That I defied the laws
little girls got high on life and strawberries. We learned that potato chips go best and strawberries of hospital visitation and lied, saying I was
family. I wish I had been there to hold her
in sandwiches, not on the side. It was a
hand as the faint smell of salt diminished
golden summer, never yellow, but golden.
and
her
bright
blue eyes once again visited the Cape
That summer, when the wind rippled through strawshore.
berry sun-streaked hair, there was always a hint of salt
I wish I could say something cliché like “I swear time
in our shorts and sundresses. We filled the days with
stood still,” but it wasn’t like that. It was a normal day. I
laughter and shrill shrieks as we chased each other
laughed with friends, passed a math test, and bickered
around the jungles of the back yard. From the porch, we
with a boy about something stupid. I wasn’t prepared to
spun tales of what really happened up in those starry
come home to a tearful mother, a grief-stricken sister,
skies. Summer days were made of muddy knees and
and the weight-bearing thought that she was gone. I
sand castles, and twinkling nights filled with silly
look back now, thinking that all I wanted was to have
promises and “never-forgets.”
her talk to me and laugh with me one last time, and she
Oh, the innocence. To look back now at that summer
never would.
brings terrible pain on gloomy days. It was the pure
I became hardened to the goodness in the world, the
truth of childhood that we in our houses across the
W
8
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’09
COMMENT
Photo by Shanze Zar, San Antonio, TX
same world that had given us that golden summer. The
sun rose in hues of red and royal gold, and I did not
blink. Someone would reach for the old picture of the
two of us, age nine, with cheeky smiles, pigtails, and
wide eyes, and I’d look away.
Then, slowly, as I grew older and maybe wiser, I
began to look around. I realized that even though she
was gone, I could still carry on her spirit. I tried to be
more aware, to be more alive.
I still put chips in turkey sandwiches and smile in
ecstasy whenever I eat strawberries. I still love to sit on
the dunes of the Cape and slurp cherry popsicles as the
wind ripples my hair.
I will always hold onto the memories of that golden
summer. ✦
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W R I T I N G WO R KS H O P S
nonfiction
Puppies and Lost Innocence
with is that everyone and everything dies eventually.
t’s Saturday and my parents’ friends are having an
His dismay grows. He asks when I will die, and Mom
anniversary dinner, so I’m staying home with my
and Dad, and himself. I have no idea what to say.
little brother, Murillo. It seems like a normal
I haven’t thought about death for a long time. And
night at home. I’m on the computer looking at
somehow through Murillo’s rudimentary grasp of the
MySpace and Facebook while Murillo watches TV
idea, I feel the terrible fear of it again. Not that I ever
in the living room.
lost it; I just forgot its inevitability. Sadly, Murillo
He comes in, his usual curious self, and asks,
has just realized that life doesn’t last forever. That
“What are you doing?”
night my brother left behind his childlike innocence
“I don’t know. Using the computer.”
and embraced the reality that everything in this world
“Oh.”
does and will end. And that, simply put, broke my
“What do you want?”
heart.
“Nothing. I’m bored.”
Why is it in childhood we wish time to
“Let’s watch a movie.”
I want to see pass so quickly – we want to grow up so
“Okay.”
fast – yet as adults we wish just the oppoI settle in on the couch while Murillo
the world
site? We let go of our small ambitions to
jumps around reenacting “X-Men.” I tell
through new do things like climb a tree or ride a bike.
him to relax and pick a movie. As we’re
Why do we trade those joyful dreams for
scrolling the down the screen, viewing the
eyes
again
hopes of mortgages and coffee breaks? We
choices, Murillo see the word dog and
replace our wonder and amazement with
decrees that as our night’s cinematic
countless responsibilities and endless taxes. Our
entertainment.
mountains whittle into hills while our roads to
I make the selection, and “My Dog, Skip” begins.
Calcutta lead only to dirty backyard paths.
Murillo is immediately intrigued with the young boy
I left my childhood back in an apartment on
and his playful puppy. At the end of their adventures,
Pauline Street years ago, and ironically I moved back
the dog in his simplicity teaches the boy life lessons.
there this past month. I walked in so much taller. I
Little did I know, Murillo would do the same for me
scaled the walls where I once imagined being Spiderthat night.
Man and showered in the stall where I one day sang
As the movie comes to an end, the boy, now a
my loudest. The roof got lower and I can now reach
young man, is leaving for college and his loyal friend
the top of the refrigerator, but that’s okay. Murillo
stands watching him get on the bus. I glance at
taught me that today. He showed me that life is a
Murillo. His little heart is overwhelmed at the scene,
succession of moments. To live each one is to sucand his eyes fill with tears. He begins to cry as if it
ceed. Failing to do so is a kind of death.
was the first time he ever cried.
I hope Murillo continues to shock me with his pure
He asks why the dog died and all I can come up
I
moments of wisdom. I hope he continues to show me
that I worry too much and that I forget to breathe
throughout the day. I want to see the world through
new eyes again. I want to live in his garden where
colors are brighter and the air is softer, and each
morning is more fragrant than the one before.
Murillo taught me today that if you can somehow
carry your childhood with you, you’ll never really
grow old. Time isn’t forever; he and I both know that
now. But to live life with the same amazement as a
child is a goal that I will keep in my heart as long as
I can.
It’s never too late to let go of our coffee breaks and
follow the road to Calcutta, to cry for a puppy’s life
or try to climb a tree back to the place we once knew.
I hope one day you find that place too. ✦
Photo by Emily Fogel, Cape Town, South Africa
Advanced Math
Dear Freshmen
by Alan McQuinn, Arlington, VA
by Raven Dunstan, Hull, MA
our society. Our trends. Our belief system.
reak it down. Piece at a time. Break
Our humanity. Pulsing through us. Making
it apart. Smash it. Divide ….
it you. You, it. Zero.
A function. Has a form. X-compoBreak it down. Piece at a time. Copy it.
nent. Y-component. Slope. Curve. Soul?
Repeat. Multiply. Divide ….
Derivative. Mind. Second derivative. Body.
A function has another function. Breeds
Less and less. A piece of a whole. Integral.
another function. And another. Even a zero.
Second integral. More and more. A conEspecially a zero. Carbon copies. Bluestant? No, who needs a constant? Needs
prints. Advanced. Dumbed-down. Stanuniformity. Consistency?
dard? Unique? Life has a function. Is a
Break it down. Piece at a time. Complifunction. Has a form. Has trends. Has
cate it. Expand to simplify. Divide ….
variables. Has pieces. Has limits. Has
Variables. Useless placeholders. X-comprocesses. Has us. More funcponent? Thought. Complicated
tions. More processes. Universignifiers of useless psychobabZeros make sal misunderstanding. Us?
ble. Y-component? Emotion. ZBreak it down. Piece at a
component? Reality. Who needs
more zeros time.
Limits. Continuity. Laws.
an axis? A childhood. Who
Explain them. Divide ….
needs a defined reality? A conYou can’t divide by zero. You can’t
cept of where we are in our time line. Our
exchange powers peacefully. Well, numbers
axis. Implications targeting us. Our theocan. Humans can’t. History says no. Bloodries. Our societies. Our postulates. We are
shed. Tyrants. Trends only make more
the variables. We are the placeholders. We
trends. Zeros make more zeros. Ever seen a
exist as wild chaos. Entropy.
fraction of a person? A shell? Victims?
Break it down. Piece at a time. Derive it
Someone eaten up by themselves? Square
to you. Limit. Divide ….
roots. Self-obsessed? Exponents. They add.
Go too far and you get zero. Derive zero.
Don’t multiply. Jerks breed more a**holes.
Get it. Do it. You can’t. It consumes the
Cruelty, more sorrow. Who needs characfunction. It spreads like wildfire. Zero
ter? Who needs three dimensions? A
resistance. Ever seen what a zero will do to
sphere. A planet. An amassment of confianother function? Swallowed alive. Picture
dence. A thought process. A language all to
that silly second “Matrix” movie. Mr.
itself. Math.
Smith is a zero. He converts all others to
Break it down. Simplify. Reach a point.
himself. Except our hero. Our martyr. SalA solution. An answer. ✦
vation is incorruptible. That’s life. That’s
O
B
10
by Petrus DosReis, Winthrop, MA
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’09
COMMENT
n the day of freshman orientation, when I visited my new high
school for the first time, I almost had a nervous breakdown. Everything about the school seemed so difficult. When I got home, my
parents said, “You’re nervous and that’s okay. Everyone is afraid of high
school.” I denied it. I wanted to be strong, so I refused to let anyone know
about my fear, even my closest friends.
On the first day I was late for every class and was constantly lost. The
school seemed like a puzzle that I couldn’t figure out. Was this how the
whole year was going to be? I didn’t think I could rise to this challenge,
especially carrying a huge backpack that I could barely lift. It was so big
that I could knock someone out with it! The upperclassmen seemed to peg
me as a nerd, and they were probably right.
Despite my fears, after the first week I finally
It is okay to be had my schedule figured out. With the exception
falling up and down the stairs a couple of
scared about a of
times and getting laughed at, high school was
turning out to be not so bad. It was actually
new school
much better than middle school and much more
challenging.
Since then, I’ve been elected vice president of my class (which wasn’t
much of a triumph since only three people ran for the four positions). Even
so, I am a representative of my grade, a politico in training, which makes
me proud.
So, for any incoming freshmen out there reading this article right now, I
would like to let you in on a couple of secrets. Shh! You must promise not
to tell, okay?
It is normal to be scared about a new school. Take a deep breath and
relax. High school is something that any student – and I repeat, any student
– can overcome. Make sure you participate in some extracurricular activities because you’ll find it easier to make friends (and to get into college).
Strive to do your best, even if it isn’t straight A’s.
Most important of all, be who you are, whether you’re a nerd, an athlete,
or a drama geek. Don’t try to masquerade as someone you’re not (trust me,
it doesn’t work). Now you know the true secrets of high school. ✦
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travel & culture
The Middle-Eastern Teen Scene
(gasp) cheerleaders. There are some groups
live in Pakistan. That’s right, sound it out: Pa-kiof people who hate other groups of people,
stan. You might have heard of it on the news – the
Teen In
but the worst that happens is generally a
place where the whos-its are throwing bombs on
RAW k
R
eader’s
cold war.
the watcha-ma-call-’ems. And no, it’s not Iraq or
Choice
On the downside, our yearly grade isn’t
Afghanistan, but we’re getting there.
based on a series of exams throughout the
What is it like, really, to be a teenager in a thirdyear. To be sure, we have tests and midterms,
world country? Well, for one, we know all about life
but they don’t count toward our final grade. That
across the seven seas, thanks to the friendly neighhinges on one big exam at the end of the year that’s
borhood cinepax (yes, that’s what we call our movie
created by Cambridge University in England.
theaters), Hollywood, and Hillary Duff. But since our
After school I’m faced with the age-old question:
films haven’t yet evolved very far, and Bollywood
How do I spend my time not being bored today?
doesn’t really give our side of the story, let me fill
Starting my homework, until absolutely necessary, is
you in. Consider this the East’s version of the Consimply not an option. But neither, it
fessions of a Teenage Drama Queen.
seems, is hanging out with friends at a
Everyone loathes getting up in the
that isn’t home.
morning. However, I am not as fussy
What is it like place
You see, teenagers worldwide have
about it as my brother, who, despite being
to be a teen in the same basic problems: pimples,
in medical school, still refuses to set his
assignments, measly alalarm and depends on the entire housea third-world chemistry
lowances, and a shortage of clothes.
hold to wake him. It is considered a famBut there are some problems that we
country?
ily success to get him out of bed and into
face in Pakistan that you couldn’t even
the shower in less than 30 minutes with
imagine. Our parents don’t let us go out
minimal shouting and zero water throwwith friends, not because they think we might drink
ing. And blessed is the day when we get to our reor do drugs, but because they fear a bomb may blow
spective workplaces and schools on time because
up at any minute. That’s hard to argue with.
said brother got ready with a few minutes to spare.
And so I, along with my friends, find solace in
And that’s just the start of my day.
television, our cell phones, and the Internet. You’d be
I share the school bus with a bunch of kids whose
surprised how enthusiastically we follow American
brains have progressed from peanut-size to walnutIdol. I shed actual tears when Adam Lambert lost!
size during their 12 years of education. On a good
Not to mention how miserable my whole school was
day, they may discuss the merits of constipation over
when Michael Scofield died on Prison Break. And
diarrhea. On a bad day … well, I won’t go into that.
Rufus and Lily from Gossip Girl, and Brennan and
You’ll just have to take my word for it when I say
Booth
from Bones, had better make something of it,
that it’s a relief (no pun intended) to arrive at school.
because
everyone on this side of the globe is rooting
School is a whole different ballgame here. For one,
for them. And House … well, all he has to do is go
our teachers do not give detentions. Also, there is no
on being brilliant.
designated lunch time. Hence there are no “cool” or
Life is busy and full. Here, everywhere. It’s funny
“dorky” lunch tables. You just grab a bite to eat
how we forget the problems of our country. Most of
whenever you can. Third, we have no mascots or
I
Louisiana Warmth
F
our years ago, the walls tumbled
down. Water poured over and
through the levees washing
away everything in its path. People’s
lives changed forever. New Orleans
changed forever.
However, the roaring spirit of this
city did not change. The hospitality
Art by Caleb Howell, Wolfforth, TX
14
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’09
by Mahnoor Saad, Islamabad, Pakistan
us in Pakistan don’t want to worry about
Talibanization, the government, and the
economy. And that’s one more thing we
have in common with most of the civilized
world. ✦
Times
Squared
Bruised blue canvas
Splattered with the shock
Of neon signs
Of familiar faces
suspended.
Above congested roads
Choked with yellow cabs
Coughing fumes.
Above steamy sidewalks
Clogged arteries
Spotted with a boast
Of imitation Gucci bags
Of roasting meat
hanging.
Above towering brick
Looming shadows
Waggling tongues
Screaming soles
The hum of insomnia
irresistible.
by Pallavi Thampi,
Mississauga, ON, Canada
by Emma Chasen, Babylon, NY
flooded under 14 feet of water. A
and optimism of the residents remain.
local lovingly called “Uncle Dave”
The French Quarter was spared the
described New Orleans after the hurriintense wrath of Hurricane Katrina. It
cane: “When we were allowed to
is a lively area filled with jazz, jambacome back into the city, it looked like
laya, and a nonstop party atmosphere.
a nuclear explosion had hit and we
The infamous Bourbon Street is the
were the only survivors in the world.”
life of the party and attracts hordes of
The residents of New Orleans felt out
tourists. From the outside looking in,
of touch and alone in the world. Minicitizens of New Orleans seem to live
mum aid was given to the
amidst one big party.
city, which is why, four
Unfortunately, this is not
years later, it still looks as
the reality for most.
Bridges that
if the hurricane just hit.
As a visitor to New
collapsed into
This does not discourOrleans, I expected to
age
the people of New
leave the airport and
the lake have
Orleans, though. Their
immediately be imnot been rebuilt Southern hospitality,
mersed in a swampland
generosity, and welcomof crumbling buildings.
ing spirit never wanes.
That was not the case
A small barber shop hidden in the
either, but the damage still evident
folds of the French Quarter is adorned
today is shocking.
with a rainbow sign that reads HeadPeople stand outside of what is left
Quarters. The walls are lined with picof their homes with hammers in hand
tures of Marilyn Monroe. The talented
ready to take on the project of rebuildhairdressers have worked on Broadway
ing. Bridges that collapsed into the
lake have not been rebuilt. Neighborand traveled the world, but as one
hoods were wiped blank leaving only
worker, Grant, said, “I arrived back in
rotting remnants of buildings. And this
Louisiana because I just missed the
is four years later.
Louisiana warmth.” Louisiana warmth
Some sections of New Orleans were
is a magic that encompasses everyone
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
who lives in and visits the state, and not
even a hurricane can blow that away.
Ricky, the shop owner, described a
second tragedy residents had to face.
“We all just finished rebuilding our
homes with new sheetrock. Finally
everything seemed to be back to normal. Unfortunately, we were then told
that the sheetrock was emitting toxic
fumes. I was afraid to check my walls.
I didn’t want to have to tear my house
down and start all over again.” However, he said this with an attitude of
acceptance and continued with his
work, as if tearing down his house had
just been a passing thought.
So the walls came crashing down
once again, but this time not from the
force of water pushing in, but from the
people pushing back.
The people in New Orleans have a
determination that is rarely seen. To an
outsider, this lifestyle of nonstop partying may appear wasteful. However,
there is a lot of substance to the city.
People make the choice to celebrate
what they have instead of focusing on
what they have lost. They embrace the
ability to celebrate and live in the
moment. This is Louisiana warmth. ✦
TEENINK.COM
USING THE
ADVANCED SEARCH
by Bryce Gladfelter, New Ringgold, PA
Departing from our rooftop, we gravitate toward the plaza.
he time is 5 a.m. The city of Marrakech, Morocco, is
By the time the sun has ascended, monkey handlers and
breathlessly quiet. Suddenly, chanting resounds from
snake charmers are welcoming the day. The skirl of shrill
a nearby mosque. Within moments it is followed by a
pipes is enough to make even the most tolerant person
chorus of guttural voices, emanating from over 100 minarets.
insane. I pity the snakes.
Asleep on a rooftop terrace, I am jarred awake
After breakfast in the plaza we plunge into the
by the thunderous call to prayer. This is my
From mosques markets.
Everything is rich in color – vibrant
Moroccan alarm clock.
My family and I are spending several days
around the city, scarves, jewelry, teapots, and tasseled rugs.
Tables are heaped with camel-leather saddles,
exploring the markets of Marrakech. From our
chanting and
daggers, spices, and fresh produce. Our personal
rooftop terrace we have a sprawling view of the
city. The markets form a web of alleyways
music resound favorites are the stands piled with figs and dates.
In the center of the stands are holes where
thatched in bamboo and hopelessly tangled.
for worship
Moroccans pop up like prairie dogs to take our
From the central plaza, the streets radiate out
order. These salesmen are aggressive; in order
in a labyrinth capable of making anyone feel
to grab our attention they try everything short of physically
directionally challenged. In the distance loom the snowattacking us.
capped Atlas Mountains.
“One moment, please!” they shout, beckoning us as if they
are providing shelter from a tornado. “Just look – no buy!
You like? Almost free!”
Most of the women are mummified in shawls, like sacks
of potatoes with eyes. People are everywhere – rowdy
children, wizened old folks with canes, teenagers swerving
erratically on mopeds, and beggars crouched under cardboard aligning cigarette butts with Mecca. Young boys wear
their hair gelled in spikes and when they swagger past my
sister, they holler, “Oo la la!”
Animals are also numerous. Donkeys haul carts containing everything from Coca-Cola to propane tanks. Cats roam
the streets scavenging bits of meat and gnawing at fish
bones. Roosters peck at the ground.
We wander between cracked, sunset-colored walls until
we detect the stench of the tannery. This is an open area with
vats of water made milky with pigeon droppings. Workers
slosh in the rank broth in nothing but shorts, laboring to tan
Photo by Adeline Nieto, Ridgefield, CT
sheep leather. It looks like a vast honeycomb where men
hang skins to dry and mangy cats wander the rims. To dull
the stench we are handed sprigs of mint leaf to sniff.
Across the street is a building where leather is made into
purses and other accessories. A salesman removes nearly
by Sarah Abdelaziz, Marietta, GA
every cushion from the wall in his attempts to convince us to
was born an Arab. I was born an American. Somepurchase one, and then begins unrolling carpets and tapesthing I know can be said within one breath but is for
tries in desperation.
now said in two.
We plod onward. Five times a day we hear the call to
I have, because of my heritage, felt my blood course
prayer. From mosques around the city, chanting and music
vividly through my veins and seen a heart break vioresound for worship. Lunch calls for overpriced tea on a
lently within a lover’s chest. I have, because of my
terrace. The tea is choked with mint leaves and is so sweet I
slanted nose, my thick eyebrows, and my large brown
can feel cavities forming after the first sip.
eyes seen more of the world than one dimension. I have
At the dyers’ souk (fabric marketplace), pieces of cloth are
seen how, in my heart, West and East can survive, but I
hung from lines and lifted with hooked poles. The colors are
have also seen how West and East can collide, and I
striking and vary from crimson to turquoise and cobalt blue.
have seen my heart as the world’s stage.
We climb a spiral staircase to view the scene from the
I live for what? I do not know, but I feel a constant
terrace. Somehow we find ourselves bargaining with a man
compulsion to speak for every child with skin the color
who offers 8,000 camels in exchange for my sister.
of Mediterranean sand.
By nightfall the plaza is a hive of humanity. Like moths to
I cannot deduce whether I am standing apart or living
a flame, we are attracted toward the lit center. Men push
within, but I breathe. I dream, I love, I yearn, I cry, and
food carts and set up cooking tents, banishing the snake
I live for that part of my soul that shares a piece with
charmers and their repetitious song. Soon pungent smoke
every other. For each day I live is courage within itself.
clouds the air. Chefs busily fry small greasy sausages.
Each day that I take moment by moment, rather than
Buckets of snails entice passers-by. Determined tattoo artists
hour by hour, each second I breathe – inhaling knowlpursue us with syringes of henna, while we follow the aroma
edge and exhaling presumptions – I am bringing familof frying food.
iarity to the legends of my world. To my Mother Teresa
One has to be aware while roaming the plaza. The traffic
and my Rachel Corrie. To my Gandhi and my Aung
is chaotic with mopeds swerving around bewildered tourists.
San Suu Kyi. My Abraham Lincoln and my Martin
The whine of motorbikes pierces the air. Pickpockets steal
Luther King Jr.
up behind us, without success.
With every breath, I retain more of my essence as I
“Where you from?” inquires a fruit salesman.
collect the pieces of myself floating in these clouds.
“The United States.”
And when I am lucky enough, I will catch a morsel of
“A thousand welcomes,” he exclaims.
my fellows’ souls, taste the overwhelming undertones
From dawn to dusk the markets enthrall us. We realize a
of saccharine, and savor the hope that we as a whole
week would not be sufficient to see all the wonders. Returnmay augment our greatest flavor, love.
ing to our rooftop terrace, we hear the fifth and final call to
That I might breathe and say, “I am an Arab-Ameriprayer, while below us drummers pound out the heartbeat of
can.” One breath in, another out. ✦
Marrakech. ✦
T
One Breath
I
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TEEN INK RAW
Raised by
Apaches
I was raised by cow butchering,
Always yelling,
Cow roping,
Biscuit eating,
Apache speaking,
“Cook some tortillas
And make ’em good!”
Cowboys
Some crazy stunting,
Cliff jumping,
Grass rolling,
Acorn eating,
Playing with rez dogs,
“What happens if I get
That bull mad?”
Kind of cousins.
I was raised by loving,
Caring,
Responsibility taking,
Apache speaking,
“Traditions are important.”
Multicultural parents.
travel & culture
A Day in Marrakech
I was taught by a nail painting,
Eyelash curling,
Always drawing,
Thread and leather beading,
“Is my makeup all right?”
Kind of sister.
A knee scraping,
Stick fighting,
BB gun shooting,
Knife carrying,
Horse riding,
Love camping,
“You start a fire this way …”
Kind of brother.
I was raised by frybread eating,
Tamale eating,
Tortilla flapping,
Acorn dumpling making,
Pageant running,
“Family is everything,
Learn your language and traditions.”
I was raised by Apaches.
by Starsha Dosela, Laveen, AZ
Photo by Jessica Golla, Omro, WI
SEPTEMBER ’09
• Teen Ink
15
opinion
Modern Patriotism
by Scott Ogle, University Place, WA
today as “loyal opposition.” This means seeking to
hat makes a patriot? People through the
change the social behavior of your country out of
ages have carried out both horrible and
feelings of national love and patriotic duty. Loyal
wonderful acts under the banner of patriotopposition is not the blind obedience of the uninism. How then are we to define it? The concept of
formed and ignorant but rather active and sensible
patriotism is just as debated and relevant today as it
reconstruction of a system that one believes to be
was during the Civil War. If our nation is to survive
essentially good but critically flawed.
its current challenges, the definition of a true patriot
As a student at a somewhat liberal school in an
must be clear.
exceedingly liberal state, I constantly find myself
So, what is true patriotism? Only 57 percent of
annoyed when my peers talk about
U.S. citizens over 18 described them“moving to Canada” or some other
selves as either “extremely” or
nonsense. My response? “Go ahead.
“very” patriotic in a study by AARP.
The desire to
Please move to Canada. It’ll be much
Can our nation really survive on 57
change America is easier for the rest of us to fix things
percent? I believe these shoddy
your constant whining.”
ratings are the result of widespread
a demonstration of without
While some may consider this harsh,
misuse of the term “patriot.”
love for the nation I invite anyone who can’t see the
Many believe patriotism to be
good in America, despite her blemblind obedience to one’s nation.
ishes, to leave.
Samuel Johnson, one of the most
We must love our country enough to stay and work
quoted European writers in history, said,
to change it for the better. We must follow the exam“Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel.” Are
ple of civil rights activist James Baldwin, who said,
patriots really just a bunch of yes-men who bow to
“I love America more than any other country in this
the president’s every whim? If so, one wonders how
world, and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the
we have managed to remain a democracy all these
right to criticize her perpetually.” He and other memyears.
bers of the then-loyal opposition understood that the
I have to disagree with Johnson. I prefer to quote
desire to change America is itself a demonstration of
Carl Schurz, the German revolutionary and, later,
one’s love for the nation.
American political scientist who said, “My country
Some say that there is little reason to love Amer… if right, to be kept right; and if wrong, to be set
ica. I don’t believe any rational person would accept
right.” Schurz’s idea of patriotism is often referred to
W
this. Sure, our country has made mistakes throughout
history, but while the ethics behind some of these
decisions were admittedly murky, it is not right to
blame the entire nation for a few morally ambiguous
politicians. After all, think of the many wonderful
contributions America has made to the world. The
the cotton gin, steamboat, cylinder printing press,
telephone, light bulb, gasoline-powered car, and even
air conditioning were American inventions. The first
slave to patent an invention did so in America, and
the modern rocket was developed here. The first
flight across the Atlantic took off from America.
Think of where the world would be now were it not
for this country.
Despite our achievements, it is important that we
not lose sight of the big picture. Part of loyal opposition in modern America is a long-term world view.
We must look into the future and decide what role
we will play in it. As Spanish-American philosopher
George Santayana said, “A man’s feet must be
planted in his country, but his eyes should survey
the world.”
Many third-world nations receive regular and
crucial support from America. Our relationship with
China will become more significant as that country’s
wealth and power grow. It will take the practical
investment of time and resources by loyal activists to
ensure America’s continued prosperity.
In the words of Norman Thomas, “If you want a
symbolic gesture, don’t burn the flag; wash it.” ✦
Sexting: Know the Facts
Bathroom Politics
by Katie Bachman, Auburn, NY
by Jordan Alper, Santa Monica, CA
that compromising photo is now completely
igh-tech has created a new low. The
up to the recipient. You may think you
term “sexting” is a combination of
know your friend, boyfriend, or girlfriend,
the words sex and texting, and
but can you trust them forever?
refers to the practice of sending sexually
Many young people who thought sexting
explicit photos electronically, mainly by
was a harmless game ended up having their
cell phone. The incidents of sexting have
lives destroyed. In one tragic incident,
dramatically increased in the past few
Jesse Logan, an 18-year-old from Ohio,
years; 20 percent of teens said they had sent
was mercilessly humiliated after explicit
a sexting message, according to a 2008
photos she had sexted to a boyfriend ended
study commissioned by the National
up circulating among her peers. She evenCampaign to Prevent Teen and Unplanned
tually killed herself.
Pregnancy and Cosmogirl.com.
Imagine being convicted of
Though many in our generathe
of child pornography
tion are taking part, few underWhen a photo andcrime
serving five year’s probastand the serious consequences
or video is
tion. You are rejected by colof this irresponsible fad.
leges, lose your friends, and
Recent advances in technolsent,
privacy
have to move because your
ogy have revolutionized the
is lost forever home is too close to a school.
way we interact socially. Cell
You’re unable to get a job, and
phones and e-mail have
you have to register as a sex
changed the way we commuoffender until you are 43. That’s exactly
nicate but have led to dangerous and
what happened to Phillip Alpert, a Florida
destructive behavior. While some teens
18-year-old. He ruined his life by circulatmay think sexting is fun or harmless, this
ing nude pictures of his girlfriend (which
new craze can have devastating conseshe had sent him), by texting them to his
quences. When a photo or video is sent to
friends, her friends, and her family. The
another person, privacy is lost forever. The
legal problem: she was only 16 and a
content can be broadcast to anyone. The
minor; distributing explicit photos of a
original sender has no control once he or
minor constitutes child pornography. The
she presses “send.”
real problem: like many teenagers, he did
The consequences of sexting can be
not understand the long-term consequences
severe, ranging from embarrassment to
of his actions.
imprisonment or worse. Explicit photos or
Sexting may seem like harmless fun, but
videos forwarded from person to person
teens should think twice before hitting the
can cause embarrassment for the original
“send” button. There is no turning back
sender. Many teens don’t realize that once
once a message is sent. ✦
they hit “send,” control of who else sees
to stand next to, like an eighth grader
t school, it’s common to hear
picking his nose and wearing smelly
one girl ask another, “Want to
gym shorts. Stalls are a safe-haven
go to the bathroom with me?”
where I can sit in privacy and read
But I have never thought to ask that of
about how “John was here,” or “Stop
a guy friend. I doubt I would get a
writing things on the wall, John. You
positive reaction if I did. The male
aren’t funny.” But urinals represent a
bathroom experience is utterly
privilege of manhood; I don’t want to
different from that of the female.
seem like less of a man for choosing
Even in the most disheveled of
a stall.
men’s rooms, there are rules. An
High school students are heading
unspoken etiquette is observed,
toward a bathroom upespecially when it comes
heaval: college co-ed restto selecting a urinal. One
must always furnish neigh- An unspoken rooms. After spending our
bathroom lives separated
bors with a buffer zone of
and operating under dramatat least one urinal. If this is etiquette is
ically different social codes,
not an option, look up and
observed
how are men and women
pretend to be deep in
supposed to adapt to sharing
thought. In addition, avoid
bathrooms? Will we talk
all communication, along
together? Will men start visiting the
with unnecessary eye contact.
bathroom in groups? Will I finally be
I believe that women’s social
able to escape the awkwardness of the
behavior in the bathroom shows
men’s room?
their confidence and illustrates men’s
Change is necessary for us to graceinsecurity. The women’s bathroom is
fully
handle our college bathroom
a destination where they can talk
experience. I am tired of following
without men overhearing. Guys
stringent rules, but at the same time,
hardly take advantage of this privacy
treating this place like a living room
and experience their restroom without
seems inappropriate and unhygienic.
the chit chat. We feel free to debrief
What can I do to spark this change
each other on our weekend escapades
and to help prepare both my fellow
and talk about personal issues outside
men and myself for the college expethe bathroom, but never in it.
rience ahead? Maybe next time I’m in
Personally, the question of whether
the bathroom I will ask someone how
to use the stall or the urinal haunts
his day is going, or what he thinks of
me most. Urinals may be crowded,
the tasteless graffiti on the wall. ✦
possibly with people I wouldn’t want
H
16
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’09
A
COMMENT
ON ANY ARTICLE AT
TEENINK.COM
USING THE
ADVANCED SEARCH
by Julia Ginter, Sunland, CA
and Howe are correct, then it is difficult to see how the
ticks and stones may break my bones but
name YouTube Generation could be applied to the
names can never hurt me” is a cute saying
same group of teenagers.
but an obvious miscalculation of the power
If someone were to judge a generation’s character
of words. It’s all in the name. Names are used to
by the content on YouTube, he would surely weep for
categorize all sorts of things, especially people. The
the future of humanity. All degrees of crude pervade
generation name game is yet another attempt to fit
every pixel, in the videos as well as their comments.
people into a mold: those from the Silent Generation
The most viewed, top-rated videos are an amalgamaare beatniks, Baby Boomers are hippies, and don’t
tion of mind-numbing stupidity. Granted, there are
forget the Generation X slackers. Individuals are
exceptions (those four guys dancing on
defined by these labels.
treadmills: sheer genius), but this is a sad
Those currently attending high school
will find that they have been typecast
“Millennials” minority.
It is difficult to find a positive side to
into a cohort born between 1991 and
hold themselves this unfair epithet. However, a new per2000. Until recently, they had been
spective is revealed when examining what
called the Post-Echo Generation, as
to higher
YouTube actually represents. It has been
people who only faintly remember the
said that the Internet is to our generation
Post-Cold War era. However, the media,
standards
what television was to the Baby Boomers,
for some unknown reason (perhaps a
but with a significant difference.
cruel joke), has started to refer to this
While the advent of television spurred cultural
group as the “YouTube Generation.”
conformity, the Internet teaches diversity. On the Web,
To put it mildly, teens have expressed a distaste for
creativity and originality are glorified. No website is a
their new name. This is understandable since, really,
better example of this than YouTube, where anyone
who would want to be associated with a website
and his pet hamster can attain fame. YouTube reprewhose poster child is a fat man gesticulating wildly to
sents everyone – the guy across the street, a cousin
Romanian techno? Names conjure an image. With a
in Tennessee, a pen pal from Bangladesh – coming
name like the YouTube Generation, what will these
together to utterly humiliate themselves. Social
coming-of-age teens be known for? Poor spelling?
theorists call this process “globalization.”
William Strauss and Neil Howe are credited with
Whatever way you look at it – this somewhat romandeveloping generational theory and have written
ticized interpretation, its literal representation, or
several books on the subject, including Millennials
Strauss and Howe’s analysis – it appears that the name
Rising, which follows the graduating class of 2000.
YouTube Generation is here to stay. If you find this
They argue that teens today are actually recasting the
depressing, take heart in the fact that as a member of
image of youth. These “millennials” hold themselves
this group, you are entitled to drown your sorrows in as
to higher standards; they are less aggressive, rude, and
many hours of pointless video footage as you want. ✦
sexually charged than previous generations. If Strauss
“S
Lighten Up!
by Alex Deich, Santa Cruz, CA
reader as for yours as a writer. Don’t spend all of your
quick survey of the work on TeenInk.com
lovely, fluffy, and ultimately endearing energies
leaves me feeling down. How melancholy teen
writing about how messed up the world is or how
writers are. Page after page of angst-filled,
few people understand you. Write something about
angry, whiny drivel! The day I wrote this, for exam“Gordito: The Crime Solving Dog,” or “The Time I
ple, the most popular unpublished fiction piece was
Ate Thirty-Nine Pies.” Such stories are bound to tickle
about a boy whose father had died. The story was
at least a few humor glands.
decent, but this kind of writing is incredibly common.
Now, I am not saying that angst has no place in
What are your lives like? What causes these teen writwriting. Of course it does, especially on a site like
ers to craft so many stories about depressing subjects
TeenInk.com. Indeed, angst is a feeling as legitimate
like prostitution, murder, and rape?
as any other. But it is not, as many of
Whatever happened to the short story
you think, a personal pain. Have you
writers of the Strand Magazine (to
Have teen
read Catcher in the Rye? You probably
which Arthur Conan Doyle contributed
enjoyed it because it’s incredibly easy to
his tales) or the essayists who wrote
writers
simply
relate to the main character. The reason
about dogs, smoking, and the cakes that
not read much is that Holden Caulfield experiences
their wives made? (Humorist James
what every single adolescent does: angst.
Thurber wrote about all those things.
comedy?
I certainly experience angst. OccasionGood stuff.)
ally, I feel down, friendless, and rejected.
Have teen writers simply not read
What do I do when in these funks? I read something
much comedy? If not, then I recommend Oscar
by one of the aforementioned authors. Then I sudWilde, P.G. Wodehouse, James Thurber, George
denly remember that the world is a pretty entertaining
Bernard Shaw, David Sedaris, Stephen Fry, E.B.
place and, regardless of its reason for being, life is
White (who was well-known for his light-hearted
pretty all right. And I feel the same feelings but ampliessays before he became a children’s author), Eric
fied when I write anything humorous.
Newby, David Mitchell, Peter Cook, Al Franken,
Not that writing humor is easy, mind you. Oscar
Douglas Adams, Mark Twain (he wrote more than
Wilde and George Orwell agreed that humor is the
Tom Sawyer), and Rowan Atkinson.
most difficult of all prose. But it is also often the most
Or must we attribute this dismal trend to that old
accurate and powerful.
bastard, teen angst? Do these writers just have so
Now, please, write something funny. I really want to
many feelings that they can barely contain themselves
read
it. ✦
and must vomit them onto paper, lest they pop? If that
Editor’s note: If you too are looking for a laugh,
is the case (and I think it must be), then for heaven’s
check out the fiction starting on Page 31.
sake, mix it up! I say this as much for my sake as a
A
Thoughts
at the Park
It’s warmer now but there’s
still snow on the ground.
Snow and plastic wrappers
and paper and cigarettes.
When will be The Day
We Clean It All Up? When
will be The Day We Clean
Ourselves Up?
opinion
YouTube Generation
You stole those sunglasses
from the store we went to last
night but when everyone
at the party put them on
I told them the glasses belong
to you. Who does anything
really belong to? Who do we
belong to?
In my dream last night the
stoplights only worked
sometimes. When they
worked I asked “Who is this
an act of?” and the voice
replied “Man.” When they
stopped working and the
cars still drove on, I asked
“Who is this an act of?” and
the voice replied “God.” When
will be The Day We Claim
What We Believe In? When
will be The Day Our Beliefs
Claim Us?
The door at the park is
narrow and long. It looks like
it is made for a narrow and
long person. When will be The
Day We Have Structure
Which Fits Everybody? When
Will be The Day We Have
No
Structure
at
all?
Structure and stoplights. The Day We
Cleaned Ourselves Up. Doors and
property. The Day We Decided
Who It All Belongs To. Plastic
wrappers and stealing. The Day
We Claimed Our Beliefs.
It’s warmer now but there’s
still snow on the ground.
by Emma Heldman, Cincinnati, OH
Photo by Sam Weissbach, Bellevue, WA
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17
pride & prejudice
Orange Bracelet
was suddenly seeing things on a broader scale.
ther guys have said it’s weird that I
I attended a camp exclusively for drum majors
wear a bracelet that a homosexual gave
from across the country. While there, I obme. When I started wearing it, I found
served that most marching bands serve as a
myself having to answer questions about my
refuge for a school’s misfits, those brave few
sexual orientation. When asked about the
who dare to be themselves. Oddly, my own
bracelet, I often laugh or say, “You’re right – it’s
Pleasantville-style band didn’t fit this stereodumb,” but that’s not what I’m thinking. I don’t
type. But just when I thought I was leading an
try to explain it to them; it would be too hard.
army of suburban clones, an “unMy family has always been
conventional” freshman arrived.
accepting. Despite my parents’
I
found
myself
His name was Mason. With spiky
mainly conservative views, a famblond
hair, clear-polished toenails,
ily friend has made them aware of
admiring the and pink
designer glasses, he left no
the perspective of homosexuals in
most hated
question as to his sexual orientaAmerica. After growing up in this
True to the stereotype, he was
environment, I had quite a shock
person I knew tion.
a flautist, and a darned good one.
when I entered high school. I was
Something about him struck me
amazed at what I witnessed in my
from the start. Not once did he do anything with
overpriced, Republican, Wonder Bread comthe intention of being offensive. He was never
munity – prayer groups preaching the death of
self-righteous, defensive, or overbearing. So
gays, teachers turning a blind eye, and terrible
much was said behind his back, it must have
slander from the uneducated, all of which went
been impossible for him to miss, and yet he
unchecked.
never showed any hard feelings. In a world of
In my third year in marching band I became
disgusting conformity, I found myself admiring
a drum major. I met all 230 band members and
the most hated person I knew.
When Mason approached me on our trip to
Disney World, I was surprised. He held out his
hand and inside was an orange leather bracelet.
Across one side he had inscribed “Drum
Major.” The presentation was bold, fearless.
Members of the band were everywhere, watching in horror, repulsed and confused.
I wear the bracelet every day, but not because I am gay, and not because I particularly
like orange. I wear it because it’s more than a
bracelet to me. It’s my way of saying to the
world that against this tide of disappointing
conformity, Mason will not stand alone. I
silently profess to all who witnessed our exchange that a failure to understand something
should not lead to persecution of it. Every day
I put on the orange bracelet, I am reminded
that the happiest, bravest person I know is also
the most cast out. ✦
Art by by Ama Liyanage, Ottawa, ON, Canada
O
Art by Brian McGuffog, Fishers, IN
My Name
by Mohammed Hussain, New York, NY
M
y name, Mohammed, is the same as the prophet
of my religion, Islam. He was the last of our
prophets and was kind and nice, not greedy or
vengeful. My name may not mean hope, strength, or
courage, nor beauty. However, it represents many things
to me.
When I was born, my uncles and aunts, my father and
mother, and all my relatives wanted to name me. Finally,
my father chose Almosharaf Hussain, or Al Hussain.
My first name became Mohammed. In addition, I got a
nickname, Suvo.
My name is the candle, and I am the moth. It is my
skin. It may not mean beautiful, but to me it is like the
ocean, shimmering as the sunlight plays on its waves.
Also, my name represents bravery and intelligence, like
Tom Thumb, the little boy in that fairy tale who tricked
the largest thieves and the slickest animals.
Like Hercules, my name has infinite strength. It speaks
to me, tells me who I am. It dances, plays, walks with me.
It is my brother because it will be with me forever, but it
is also my enemy. My last name, Hussain, sometimes
pricks me. It is not always the beautiful sanctuary of my
life. I am sometimes criticized for it; it relates to someone
else and causes people to tease me or say bad things.
However, I am still proud of my name because it
represents an important thing: me. ✦
Can’t Fly
Dear Friend
Did I fly
into the Pentagon?
the fields of Pennsylvania?
the Twin Twin Towers Towers?
Do you remember that movie where one girl
o you remember in middle school you
was kind to another and sat at her table because
came up to me one day and introduced
she was alone? Everyone seemed to think it
yourself and your friends? I didn’t
was so unrealistic. Even I scoffed a little. But
know them and didn’t really want to, but you
do you realize that I always felt like that girl?
kept talking to me. You laughed and joked with
You rescued me.
everyone, and I was amazed. I still am. How
Can you believe I am crying? Maybe I’ve
can you have such humble confidence, such
only
just realized what you did for me. I
openness?
wonder if I’ll ever have the courage to
You are not a “social butterfly,” but
give this note to you. You’d probably
the way you embrace all people and
deny everything.
let them open up of their own will is
You
We’ve drifted apart, but that’s
more powerful and beautiful than any
rescued because you helped me drift. I have
social butterfly I’ve ever met.
more friends now. I like people.
Can you believe that I’d never
me
And I see classmates who remind
known anyone who did that for me
me so much of who I was – who
before? Someone as gently persistent
feel the negatives outnumber the positives.
as you? I will always remember that.
Maybe that’s why they are drawn to me and
Could you see that I was unhappy? I don’t
I to them.
think so; I hid it well. I was never interested in
I want to be like you, my friend. I want to
obvious grief. Just silent sorrow.
see the beauty in people and help them find it
But do you know how silent unhappiness can
in themselves.
affect a person? How it can twist a mind into
Your Grateful Friend,
thinking so many negative things? And so few
M.G. ✦
positives?
You don’t see me as a dentist
I am Al-Qaeda
suicide bomber
Arab
You don’t see me as a father
As a husband
a grandfather
I am known as
Arab
I don’t need company
I draw more eyes than a peacock’s wing
Random selection my brown a**!
How long will that line last?
I can’t fly
without everyone thinking they are going to die
Osama has closed our window of opportunity
in the Land of Opportunity.
by Kyle Stark, McHenry, IL
18
by David Chrzanowski,
Mason, OH
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’09
by Meia Geddes, Sacramento, CA
D
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I
nsignificant. Passing empty lots of
six-foot-high weeds, that word best
described how I felt. From inside a
Suburban with the air conditioner
blowing through my hair and a bottle
of cold water in my hand, I surveyed
the Lower Ninth Ward in New Orleans.
Six slabs of concrete sat in a line
where six houses used to be. Pieces of
a rusty fence lay on the side of the
gravel road. Everything was quiet and
still. I tried to imagine this neighborhood before Hurricane Katrina. Three
times as many houses would be standing, adults would be watching from
porches as their children jumped rope,
sending “Cinderella, dressed in yella
…” echoing down the clean, paved
roads as the aroma of fresh shrimp and
sausage gumbo wafted through the
humid air.
It was only 4 p.m., but I had already
been up for eight hours working on
Pastor Washington’s house. Though the
interior was destroyed, the foundation
and walls were intact. The sad part was
that none of those hours had been spent
working directly on the house.
My church volunteer group had been
removing debris around the house, and
believe it or not, ten people working all
by Ellen Burns, State University, AR
but I knew that was unlikely. I would
day was not sufficient to clear the
go to sleep with a full stomach and
wreckage. The floodwaters and strong
wake up to a hot breakfast, though
winds had deposited broken Christmas
someone just a few miles away was
ornaments, lumber, metal, and myriad
spending the night longing for food
other objects in Pastor Washington’s
and would wake up hungry, illyard, leaving him with more stuff than
equipped to face the day.
he could ever want, but at the same
As my aching muscles rested against
time taking away all he had.
the cool sheets, I began thinking about
Though the small area I had cleaned
everything I had done and seen that
was noticeable to me, when I stepped
day. I reached for my
back, I realized that I
camera to help fill in the
had only managed to asI tried to
gaps. I saw shots of my
semble the edges of the
brother and me heaving
puzzle, leaving the midimagine this
pieces of wood onto a
dle empty. Only a few
neighborhood
pile, and some others durminutes ago I had felt
important and benevobefore Hurricane ing a water break.
Then I found a picture
lent, but as I imagined
Katrina
I had forgotten about. Begiving myself a pat on
fore we piled into the
the back, it was as if I
leather seats of the Suburban, my
felt a firm slap on my hand.
brother and I had posed with Pastor
That evening, I couldn’t help wonWashington. I don’t know if it was the
dering what Pastor Washington was
intense Louisiana heat or my exhausted
having for supper. I tried to eat as
and sore body, but I had neglected to
much of my dinner as I could, but
notice the pastor’s genuine, appreciabecause the portion was so generous,
about half of the shrimp and pasta
tive smile.
remained. I piled the leftovers into a
No, I hadn’t provided shelter for all
the homeless flood victims or made
styrofoam container, telling myself that
I would eat it sometime between now
sure they went to bed with full stomachs, but I did bring a handful of joy
and the drive home tomorrow morning,
Computer Skills for Retirees
and how to use it; how to use Explorer to access the
y aunt Blanche was an original Rosie the
Internet; and an explanation of Google, Yahoo, and
Riveter during World War II. I always
e-mail. One of the first exercises was to sign up for
enjoyed listening to her stories from those
Gmail accounts.
times. She had an old Apple computer, and often durNow I have a fairly large class. While some resiing my visits she would ask me to help her with it. I
dents stay just long enough to learn the basics, others
realized I enjoyed working with older people, so I
continue on and learn more advanced programs like
asked myself, What can I do to make their lives betMicrosoft Word and Excel. The Internet is always a
ter?
popular topic, and we cover everything from YouTube
I discovered many resources available on the Web
to Wikipedia. We explore websites specifically orifor older citizens, and computers can help them reented or helpful to older folks, like the AARP site and
main vital and connected to a broader community.
WebMD. We also discuss video chatting
The obvious answer for me was to teach
and, most recently, Twitter. Many of the
them computer skills, but I questioned
love using e-mail to connect
whether anyone would be interested.
My students residents
with friends and family. One of my stuI know that few generations are as
were eager to dents even uses Microsoft Excel spreadcomfortable with technology as mine.
to keep track of her prescriptions
My mother is still learning how to use a
move into the sheets
and bills.
computer, and my grandparents did not
Teaching this class has been a very rich
computer age
even own one until we gave them our old
and full experience. I have the pleasure of
laptop. For my generation, knowing how
meeting a variety of people and have
to use a computer is an essential part of
found that each brings their unique personality and
life. However, I realized that many older folks have
experiences to the class. I have gotten to know many
limited exposure to computers and learning to use
of them well. One gentleman asked for my help conthem might be very daunting. Nevertheless, I decided
tacting a publisher by e-mail. It turns out that he is a
to take on the challenge.
successful author and a very interesting person. When
I visited several assisted-living communities to
he was in the Army, he was almost court marshalled
solicit interest in classes and set up shop at a local
for reprimanding a superior officer who made an antifacility that did not offer computer instruction.
Semitic comment, and later he became friends with
Initially, only a few people attended my Saturday
President Nixon. His latest book is an autobiography.
classes, however, they were all eager to learn. After a
Two of my students have become so proficient that
few weeks, word spread, and more and more came. I
I
find
it hard to teach them anything new, so I have
began to realize my preconceptions about seniors’
asked
them to help other residents when I’m not
ability and willingness to learn were wrong. My
around. This is proof that it is never too late to learn
students were eager to move into the computer age
new skills.
and become Internet literate.
Older generations are often seen as having little in
We started with the basics, such as what a mouse is
M
and comfort to an 80-year-old man. I
looked at his tired eyes and realized
that though what I had done that day
didn’t seem like much to me, it meant
everything to him.
When I awoke the next morning, I
was sad that I couldn’t stay longer but
glad I had done something to help.
More volunteers would pick up where
we left off; Pastor Washington was just
starting his new beginning. His smile
was going to get a lot more use.
“So, was this experience what you
anticipated?” my mom asked as we
loaded our suitcases into the car, the
unmerciful sun’s bold blaze beating
down on us.
“I don’t think I could have imagined
anything like this,” I said, thinking
about the thousands of people who
were still homeless and the debris
everywhere. It’s hard to believe that
four years have passed since the
hurricane.
“I bet it was harder than you
thought.”
“Well, Pastor Washington has
already persevered through the hardest
parts. We’re just here to show him he
hasn’t lost everything. He still has
hope.” ✦
community service
Rebuilding Hope
by Adam Sands, Alpine, NJ
common with teens, separated by barriers of history,
mannerisms, values, and technology. In my experience, the gap is really not as big as it first appears. I
have formed connections with these seniors that have
evolved into true friendships and overcome perceived
obstacles. Sometimes we simply talk about the impact
of new technology and other times we discuss how
the world has changed during their lifetime. They
enjoy talking to a young person and I like to hear
what they have to say.
These older folks have made me realize that teachers learn from students too. I started my class with the
idea of helping them, but have learned as much about
life from my students as they have learned about technology. We have come together to share common interests, bridge our differences, and develop mutual
respect. For me, this experience is what community
service is all about. ✦
Art by Ellie Sallee, Mt. Washington, KY
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health
Get Moving!
by Kayla Garbison, Goodyear, AZ
M
mm … that delicious smell of warm dough and glutinous
glaze – your taste buds are tingling. You have to have it.
The jelly-filled delight is luring you. Would you like to
know the secret to enjoying a delectable doughnut guilt-free?
If the answer is “yes” (and we all know it is), exercise is the
key. But burning up unwelcome calories isn’t the only benefit of
regular exercise; it can also improve mood, sleep, and overall
health. Daily workouts can create a whole new you.
So what’s the holdup? Get moving! Exercise is a fantastic way
to blow off steam and take your mind off your long to-do list.
Physical activity has been proven to calm your nerves. It stimulates numerous chemicals in the brain, causing you to feel happier
and more relaxed. Endorphins, the feel-good chemical produced
through exercise as well as other activities, assist our bodies in relieving pain and can reduce feelings of depression and anxiety.
Most importantly, through regular exercise the body begins to
feel and look better, boosting confidence and self-esteem! So, the
next time you are dealing with a tough breakup, don’t reach for
the Chunky Monkey; instead take a brisk walk and soak up some
sunshine. Trust me, the stress and sadness will melt away.
It can be tricky to fall asleep at night when your mind is racing
with details from the day. Because of Americans’ busy schedules
and fast-paced lifestyles, sleep deprivation is at an all-time high,
according to SleepNet. The solution is simple: incorporate a short
workout before bed and you will feel rested and alert in the morning. Why? Because exercise increases metabolism and creates
muscle fatigue, which are cues for your brain that rest is necessary. This can encourage your body to fall asleep more rapidly.
Exercise is a fantastic way to blow off steam
iCan’t Hear
by Tania Joakim, Colleyville, TX
M
usic players are very important to teens today. We listen to them while we get dressed
and on our way to school. We try to sneak our earbuds in during history class; we listen
after school, while doing our homework, and before bed. Our iPods and MP3 players
have become an important part of our daily schedule, but what teens don’t realize is those same
devices that supply us with so many hours of entertainment are also damaging our hearing.
Most teenagers believe that listening to music for long periods of time is perfectly fine. In
fact, we should not use our iPods for more than an hour a day at a reasonable volume (80 decibels or less). This could be a challenge for many teens, who are in the habit of cranking it up and
rocking out to their favorite songs. The iPod’s volume capacity is more than 115 decibels, which
is well beyond the recommended level. The Royal National Institute for the Deaf found that
“39 percent of listeners between 18 and 24 years of age do not practice safe listening habits.”
The effects of frequently listening to loud music include permanent hearing loss. The hair cells
in the ear – irreplaceable cells that send electrical impulses to the brain – can die from sustained
abuse. After going to a rock concert or listening to a lot of loud music, you might hear a soft ringing in your ears called tinnitus. This is an indication of acoustic trauma that
over time could result in hearing loss if precautions aren’t taken.
Turn down
iPods and MP3 players offer lots of storage and battery life, allowing
teens continuous access to a wide variety of music without giving their
the volume ears a break. With exposure to that quantity of loud music, it’s no surprise
that “acoustic trauma produced by exposure to loud sounds” is the third
major cause of hearing loss, according to science writer Robert Finn.
Many teenagers think that only older folks are vulnerable to hearing loss, but many young
adults experience acoustic trauma. “Over 28 million Americans suffer from hearing loss, and
nearly half are younger than 65,” according to The Daily Barometer, Oregon State University’s
campus paper. With Apple and other MP3 companies releasing new products and features every
few months, teenagers across America have unknowingly developed listening habits that are
damaging their hearing.
So, what can you do to keep your ears healthy? Turn down the volume on your iPod so the
person next to you can’t hear the drum beats. Allow your ears to recover after exposure to harmful noise levels. And replace the buds for your iPod with over-the-ear headphones. “Earbuds
placed directly into the ear can boost the sound signal by as much as six to nine decibels,” according to website Science Daily. That is approximately the difference between the noise of a
vacuum and that of a motorcycle.
The ability to hear is a very important gift that we should cherish and preserve by educating
ourselves about the activities that could damage it. ✦
Fad Diets
by Mollie Stampfler, Plainwell, MI
Fad diets will also make your cravings for
ith all the publicity around extreme
real food stronger, so when you choose to end
celebrity slenderness, many teens
the diet you will eat more and gain weight
and adults have turned to fad diets
faster than you lost it. Going on and off these
to lose weight rapidly. The Cabbage Soup
diets can also raise your cholesterol.
Diet, the Grapefruit Diet, the Master Cleanse
A balanced diet should contain 55 percent
Diet, the Zone Diet, the Chicken Soup diet,
of total calories from carbohydrates, 30 perand many others promise dramatic results in a
cent from fat, and 15 percent from protein,
short time. However, although they may be
according to Dietitian.com. Too much of any
tempting, they fail to provide the balanced
one can be harmful, but so can too little.
nutrition that a healthy body needs.
A study done by Ryerson University states
Fad diets can lead to malnutrition, but
that fad diets are “out of balance” and have
sadly, not everyone seems to care. Some are
“high health risks.” Not only can
willing to do anything to lose
be bad for your health, they
weight quickly, and founders of
Some people they
have many side effects. The Wheat
these diets take advantage of that.
will to do
Foods Council has found that many
According to the American
diets cause diarrhea. Likewise,
Heart Association (AHA), fad
anything to fad
Fairview Hospital claims side
diets violate the first rule of good
lose weight effects include heart irregularities,
nutrition: eat a variety of foods.
headaches, dehydration, dizziness,
Fad diets recommend exactly the
fatigue,
constipation,
nausea, and vomiting.
opposite, promoting low protein/low calorie
The AHA recommends “adopting healthy
foods or liquids. However, your body needs
eating habits permanently, rather than impamore than that. The American Dietetic
tiently pursuing crash diets in hopes of losing
Association, the U.S. Surgeon General, and
unwanted pounds in a few days.” It goes on to
the American Medical Association all recomsuggest, “Unlike an incomplete liquid protein
mend using the Food Guide Pyramid to plan a
diet or other fad diets, a good diet can be
healthy balance of nutrition, according to
eaten for years to maintain desirable body
Dietitian.com.
weight and good health. Fad diets fail to
The lack of protein and nutrients in fad
provide ways to keep weight off.”
diets often shocks the body. Even though the
While losing weight quickly may sound
diet appears to be working, no fat is initially
appealing, teens must know the risks of these
lost. Instead, up to 10 pounds of necessary
diets. There are better and healthier ways to
fluids may be flushed from the body. This can
lose weight and keep it off. ✦
leave you malnourished and dehydrated.
W
Photo by Kevin Guebert, Atlanta, GA
In addition, the peak in body temperature after physical activity
drops slightly when bedtime approaches, which generates a
deeper, uninterrupted sleep. When the alarm clock buzzes, that
snooze button will no longer be compulsory! You will awaken
ready to start the day, which will improve concentration, productivity, and disposition. Get your rest and you’ll be at your best!
Keeping fit is the answer to a long and healthy life. Exercise
boosts HDL, or “good” cholesterol, and reduces LDL, “bad”
cholesterol. In addition, keeping active prevents (or helps manage) high blood pressure by helping the blood flow smoothly and
preventing nasty buildups of plaque in your arteries. As humans –
especially women – age, their bones can become frail. Now dairy
isn’t the only answer to strong bones. Frequent workouts can
avert osteoporosis without the milk mustache.
Are you ready to combat chronic disease? Kick cancer to the
curb, dance diabetes out the door, and tae bo type 2 away! Exercise is the cure. It strengthens your heart and lungs by delivering
oxygen and nutrients to your tissues, which helps the entire
cardiovascular system. Big deal? You bet! A heavy-duty heart
and lungs give you more energy to do the things you enjoy.
Despite all the advantages already mentioned, the most helpful,
the most overlooked benefit is … exercise can be fun! Getting
active doesn’t have to be unbearable; you don’t need to pump iron
or run a marathon to be fit. Sign up for weekly hip-hop classes
and boogie yourself slim, or take a dip in the pool and backstroke
your way to a banging bod.
Find an activity you enjoy and go for it! You have plenty of
reasons to get physical. ✦
20
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’09
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Vital Signs
by Molly Pelavin, New York, NY
but my effort and love for the language showed in
er hands flew with precision, each moveeach sign I mastered. I was so eager to put my
ment carefully thought out. Her face was
new knowledge to use, I convinced my drama
painted with frustration; this was her only
teacher to do a play in sign language.
means of communication, and I couldn’t underI would sign in my sleep. Random stuff, lines
stand. I ducked my head in embarrassment and
from the play, things I wanted to tell Cheryl,
fetched a pen and notepad to explain to my best
lyrics to songs, even things my English teacher
friend’s mom the reason for my visit.
said in class. I felt great about my progress – until
For five years this was the norm. Each time I
I was with Cheryl. Then my hands would jumble
entered the room, my mind flooded with guilt
up; it was embarrassing. In a group conversation
and anxiety. I always needed someone to intereverybody had to slow down and wait for me so I
pret for me. Her daughter-in-law, even her grandcould understand.
children, wouldn’t take the time to learn sign
One night at dinner it clicked. Everyone was
language, but I was not okay with being another
signing, and suddenly I could follow the converperson in her life who made her feel like an
sation. As Sean lifted his hands to interpret for
unimportant outcast.
me, I could see disappointment in
That night I kept seeing that look
Cheryl’s eyes, but I didn’t stop him.
of alienation on her face, and I
thought of nothing else for days. The
ASL would be Cheryl slapped his hand, looked me
in the eyes, and signed directly to
next time I saw Cheryl, I refused to
part of my life me. She said that no one was alget the notepad or let my friend Sean
lowed to interpret for me anymore.
interpret. I had decided to learn, no
forever
She knew my heart and how much I
matter what it took.
loved her culture. I left their house
The only signs I knew were the
that night feeling very happy. I knew that ASL
alphabet, but I could see the pleased glow on her
would be part of my life forever.
face as I spelled out each word, letter by letter. I
About a month ago, Cheryl, Sean, my dad, and
wondered how she felt knowing that someone
I
took
a trip to California State University, Northcared enough to learn to communicate with her.
ridge. As we sat in the office of the Deaf Studies
Sean worked with me, spelling words to help me
student advisor, no one interpreted and I underpractice. He also showed me basic signs like
stood. He explained the education I would receive
“you,” “Mom,” “Dad,” “please,” and “thank you.”
to become a sign language interpreter and how
Sometimes I went to Sean’s house to watch his
he’d like me to start in an advanced ASL class.
family converse. I’d pick up new signs, but someI left the university so excited. So many people
one still had to help me. Other days I would sit
miss out on getting to know people who are deaf
with Cheryl for hours spelling words and she
because of their inability to communicate with
would teach me the corresponding signs. When I
them. Now I would be able to help.
started this process I was excited to learn someThat night Cheryl and I sat in our hotel room;
thing new; I never fathomed how many opportunishe reached out and signed with smiling eyes.
ties would open up as a result, not to mention the
Unlike the days in her living room with a
close relationship I would develop with Cheryl.
notepad, I understood and signed back, “I love
Within three weeks I had learned basic Ameriyou, too!” ✦
can Sign Language (ASL). I wasn’t very good,
A
t the delicate age of four, I discovered that death
was permanent. Thanks to the song “Puff the Magic
Dragon,” I learned that “a dragon lives forever, but
not so little boys.” At the time, I didn’t realize that the little
boy in the song didn’t die – he simply grew up. I was
deeply disturbed. For several nights I was unable to sleep,
bombarded by thoughts of all the things I would miss if I
died. Number one was George, my stuffed monkey and best
friend. I assumed that stuffed animals, like dragons, lived
forever, even when their human friends died. The thought of
George alone in the world upset me enormously.
A few years later, death became more than just a childish
fear. On the night of Nov. 20, 1999, I lay on my living room
floor doing my third-grade homework. My dad went into
the bedroom to check on my mom and discovered she was
not breathing. She was dead.
For five years, she had battled breast cancer. Her death
had been imminent, a fact I knew but was never fully prepared for. I didn’t scream or cry, only stared in shock at
myself in the mirror and thought, You have no mother. A
feeling of anguish rushed through my blood.
Then I realized that I hadn’t given my mom her Christmas
present. It was a small bottle of lotion I had made by combining all of the other lotions in the house. I had labeled it
“Sweet Dreams.” Now she would never see it. My dad
dressed her in new pajamas and placed the gift in her hands.
I was numb for months before I really cried. It was years
before I ceased to imagine that she would walk through the
I hadn’t given my mom her
Christmas present
door every time I heard the key in the lock. In this fantasy,
she was never thin or pale or walked with a cane. She would
glide back into my life with shiny hair and a wide smile. Inside, I never stopped missing her. I was without my favorite
dinner companion; my best, fresh-laundry-smelling hugger;
my safest, opal-ring-wearing hand to hold. But on the outside
I carried on normally, even robotically.
In eighth grade, I became the valedictorian of my class.
One day, my dad stopped by to watch the graduation rehearsal. As I stood at the podium and read my speech, I
looked out into the audience. Among my classmates, I saw
my dad smiling. I could have sworn there were tears in his
eyes. When I finished and turned to go offstage, I looked
again but he had disappeared. He told me later that he was so
proud but heartbroken that my mother couldn’t be there.
Dad always said how badly my mom had wanted to
watch my sister and me grow up. He would say that she was
watching over us in heaven, but I wasn’t sure if he believed
in such a place, or if I did. Still, I like to imagine that my
mom can see these moments of my life by some supernatural expedient. With every move I make, I wonder if she
would approve.
When I enter college next fall, it will have been 10 years
since my mom died. I still think of her daily but no longer
daydream about her magical resurrection, and my dad has
stopped talking about her in heaven. Instead, he observes
that I have her smile, her artistic abilities, and her independent streak. It is then that I realize that she isn’t completely
gone, because my sister and I are her daughters. My mom
may not be in the auditorium when I graduate high school,
but her intelligence and fortitude will bring me there.
My future awaits, and I will dive into it like my mother
and father always wanted. I will devour books on jellyfish
and constellations. I will make underwater films on the
Great Barrier Reef of Australia. I will understand the
concept of daylight saving time. I’ll fall in love.
There is a galaxy of places to visit, billions of people to
meet, and an infinite number of ice cream flavors to try. The
memory of my mother, my past, and my fears will not
haunt me but inspire me to live. ✦
VOTE
FOR YOUR FAVORITE ARTICLES ON
TEENINK.COM
by Ronni Starks, Cleburne, TX
H
Perfectly Honest
college essays
Sweet Dreams
by Erin Lavitt, Granby, CT
live together.
y palms are not sweating as I type this.
Like I said, I have no flaws and I’ve never felt fear. I
I’ve never lied to my parents and said I was
am a heroine and I love school, and I never, ever tell a
doing my homework when I was instant meslie or mess up or feel depressed when I break out or my
saging friends, and then flunked an English essay as a
hair’s the size and shape of a space shuttle. I know
result. I’ve never handed in work that was “just good
emotionally and intellectually that beauty is on the
enough” or disagreed with a teacher about a grade.
inside.
I’ve never studied my butt off for finals just so I would
You have just read a confession of my vices and
get a 3.0 upon transfer to a new school. I’ve never cried
shame and guilt. If you’re still reading, you are probably
at night because I was afraid I wasn’t good enough.
the kind of person I want to learn from –
I’ve never done any of these things, because
patient, kind, and sick of reading sentimental
I’m perfect.
I always smile politely at people who
I never fidget essays about family tragedies.
I’m not perfect, and I won’t pretend to be.
taunt me. I never blow off a friend because
in
class
or
I
do
want to be accepted by your school and
I’m annoyed. I never, ever tell a lie. In spite
make you see that I have good qualities. I
of my ADD, I never fidget in class or fall
fall asleep
want to be independent but also want help
asleep because my medication kept me up
transitioning from school to life. I enjoy
at night. I never make sarcastic comments
learning and debating. While I’m not always the best
in World Civilizations. I never have mood swings, and I
student, I try.
never read science fiction during English, even when I
I’m competitive and argumentative. I love warm
hate the book we’ve been assigned.
weather
but tolerate anything as long as the company is
I never blow off church on Easter because I’d rather
good.
I
have
mood swings, but I will try to manage
eat chocolate and harbor doubts about Catholicism,
them.
even though attending mass would please my father. I
I will do my very best to succeed at your school, but
never play “anywhere but here” when trying to find a
I’ll be honest about whether it’s a good fit. I love writseat in the cafeteria, or wish myself invisible during
ing, even essays, and I have a weird sense of humor. I
study hall. I never binge, even when depressed and
wrote the first draft of this essay long before it was due.
angry with my mother. Speaking of mothers, I never
I’m never, and do not aspire to be, perfect. ✦
fight with her either, even though we’re too alike to
M
AND
TEEN INK RAW
SEPTEMBER ’09
• Teen Ink
21
Teen Ink • September ’09 • Page 22
ASSUMPTION COLLEGE
5!HASARICHTRADITIONOFEXCELLENCEIN
ACADEMICSSPORTSANDSTUDENTLIFE
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Personal attention.
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www.alma.edu • 1-800-321-ALMA
Bachelor of Fine Arts Degree Programs
„ 3D Modeling and Animation
„ Multimedia/Web Design
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American Academy of Art
332 S. Michigan Ave.
Chicago, IL 60604-4302
312-461-0600
Visit us @ www.aaart.edu
Since 1904
An independent, accredited,
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located in Cincinnati.
BFA degrees for fine artists and designers.
Our nurturing environment embraces
your uniqueness.
www.artacademy.edu • 800-323-5692
1212 Jackson Street • Cincinnati, OH 45202
BURLINGTON
COLLEGE
A religiously-affiliated liberal arts
college located just outside of
Philadelphia offering an outstanding
and truly personalized academic
experience grounded in an
environment of faith.
• Small New England College founded in 1784
• Welcoming atmosphere, easy to make friends
• Thorough preparation for a career-targeted job
• We place 95% of our students in jobs upon
graduation
2895 College Drive
Bryn Athyn, PA, 19009
267-502-2511
www.brynathyn.edu
Office of Admissions
61 Sever Street, Worcester, MA 01609
1-508-373-9400 • www.beckercollege.edu
Columbia College
Chicago
Liberal arts college with an emphasis
on preparing leaders in business,
government and the professions.
Best of both worlds as a member of
The Claremont Colleges. Suburban
location near Los Angeles.
890 Columbia Ave.
Claremont, CA 91711
909-621-8088
www.claremontmckenna.edu
Preparing students with individual
learning styles for transfer to
four-year colleges.
15 majors including two B.A.
programs in Arts & Entertainment
Management and Dance.
Learn to Write: Fiction Writing Department
Learn skills to help you
publish fiction, creative nonfiction
and scripts and to succeed in a
wide range of jobs – at one of
America’s premier writing programs
600 S. Michigan Chicago, IL 60605
[email protected]
www.colum.edu
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99 Main Street
Franklin, MA 02038
www.dean.edu
877-TRY DEAN
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Hamilton College is a national
leader for teaching students
to write effectively,
learn from each other
and think for themselves.
Hofstra University can help you
get where you want to go, with
small classes, dedicated faculty
and an energized campus.
hofstra.edu • 1-800-HOFSTRA
[email protected]
my.ithaca.edu
100 Job Hall 953 Danby Road Ithaca, NY 14850
800-429-4272 www.ithaca.edu/admission
b u r l i n g t o n . e d u
800/862-9616
U N I V E R S I T Y
CCH is the film school with focus.
You learn the whole art and the
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You graduate with a hot reel, and a
real BFA.
Come Find Your Focus.
18618 Oxnard Street, Tarzana, CA 91356
800-785-0585 • www.columbiacollege.edu
Cornell, as an Ivy League school and a
land-grant college, combines two great
traditions. A truly American institution,
Cornell was founded in 1895 and remains a place where “any person can
find instruction in any study.”
410 Thurston Avenue
Ithaca, NY 14850
607-255-5241
www.cornell.edu
500 Salisbury Street
ÎÎÎ
Worcester,
MA 01609
500 Salisbury
St., Worcester,
MA 01609
1-866-477-7776
1-866-477-7776
www.assumption.edu
Carleton
College
A national liberal arts college of
1700 students, located 35 miles
south of Minneapolis/St. Paul.
Distinguished in humanities and
science education, 60 percent of
students study abroad.
Admissions Office
Carleton College
Northfield, Minnesota 55057
1-800-995-2275
www.carleton.edu
Dartmouth
A member of the Ivy League and
widely recognized for the depth,
breadth, and flexibility of its undergraduate program, Dartmouth offers
students an extraordinary opportunity
to collaborate with faculty in the pursuit of their intellectual aspirations.
6016 McNutt Hall
Hanover, NH 03755
603-646-2875
www.dartmouth.edu
DUQUESNE
UNIVERSITY
Built on Catholic education
values of academic excellence,
DeSales University is driven
by educators and advisors that
inspire performance.
2755 Station Avenue
CenterValley, PA 18034
877.4.DESALES
www.desales.edu/teenink
Fostering creativity and academic excellence since 1854.
Thrive in our environment of
personalized attention and in
the energy of the Twin Cities.
1536 Hewitt Avenue
Saint Paul, MN 55104
800-753-9753
www.hamline.edu
Writing resources from a writing college:
www.hamilton.edu/teenink
Located in New York’s stunning Finger Lakes
region, Ithaca College provides a first-rate
education on a first-name basis. Its Schools of
Business, Communications, Health Sciences
and Human Performance, Humanities and Sciences, and Music and its interdisciplinary
division offer over 100 majors.
arn a B.A. on or
off-campus, develop
y o u r o w n m a j o r,
attend classes at The
Film School, become
a civically engaged
citizen, and much more.
CORNELL
DELAWARE VALLEY COLLEGE
$%,!7!2% 6!,,%9 #/,,%'%
• 1,600 Undergraduate Students
s 5NDERGRADUATE3TUDENTS
• Nationally Ranked Athletics Teams
s .ATIONALLY2ANKED!THLETICS4EAMS
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INCLUDING#RIMINAL*USTICE"USINESS
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E
• Academicexcellence
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in thearich,
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rich
Catholic
intellectualtradition
tradition
Catholic
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World Class
Faculty
in Small
• Highly
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faculty
andClasses
averaging 20 students
small classes
Qualityvery
of Life
in a residential
90%
• Close-knit,
active
Residential
community
(90%Community
of students live
on campus allÎÎÎ
4 years)
Duquesne offers more than 80
undergraduate programs, more than
140 extracurricular activities and
personal attention in an atmosphere of
moral and spiritual growth. Ranked by
US News among the most affordable
private national universities.
600 Forbes Avenue • Pittsburgh, PA 15282
(412) 396-6222 • (800) 456-0590
E-mail: [email protected]
Web: www.admissions.duq.edu
Harvard offers 6,500 undergraduates an
education from distinguished faculty in
more than 40 fields in the liberal arts as
well as engineering and applied science.
8 Garden Street
Cambridge, MA 02138
617-495-1551
www.harvard.edu
An experience of a
lifetime, with experience
for a lifetime.
BUSINESS
CULINARY ARTS
HOSPITALITY
TECHNOLOGY
Providence, Rhode Island
1-800-342-5598
www.jwu.edu
Excellent Programs.
Programs.
Excellent
Outstanding Facility.
Outstanding
Faculty.
Affordable Cost.
Cost.
Affordable
337 College Hill
Johnson, VT 05656-9898
1-802-635-2356
WWW.JSC.EDU
Fordham offers the distinctive Jesuit
philosophy of education, marked
by excellent teaching, intellectual
inquiry and care of the whole
student, in the capital of the world.
www.fordham.edu/tink
A challenging private university
for adventurous students
seeking an education with
global possibilities.
Get Where YOU
Want To Go
www.hpu.edu/teenink
Academic excellence
and global perspective in one
of America‘s most “livable”
metropolitan areas.
1000 Grand Avenue
St. Paul, MN 55105
800-231-7974
www.macalester.edu
Teen Ink • September ’09 • Page 23
BELIEVE.
PREPARE.
CONNECT.
SERVE.
The World Awaits.
MyMarywood.com
A visual arts college north of Boston
where creativity and independence
thrive through choice, connection
and community. BFA and Diploma
programs. Founded by artists to
educate artists.
www.montserrat.edu • 800.836.0487
[email protected]
Mount Holyoke is a highly
selective liberal arts college for
women, recognized worldwide for
its rigorous academic program,
its global community, and
its legacy of women leaders.
MOUNT HOLYOKE COLLEGE
50 College Street, South Hadley, MA 01075
www.mtholyoke.edu
Choose from more than
100 career fields.
www.pct.edu/ink
Talent teaches talent in Pratt’s writing
BFA for aspiring young writers.
Weekly discussions by guest writers
and editors. Nationally recognized
college for the arts. Beautiful residential campus minutes from Manhattan.
200 Willoughby Avenue
Brooklyn, NY 11205
800-331-0834 • 718-636-3514
email: [email protected]
www.pratt.edu
61 S. Sandusky St. • Delaware, OH 43015
800-922-8953 • www.owu.edu
One Camino Santa Maria
San Antonio, TX 78228-8503
800-367-7868
www.stmarytx.edu
www.nova.edu/admissions
(800) 338-4723
University
Princeton simultaneously strives to be one
of the leading research universities and
the most outstanding undergraduate college in the world. We provide students
with academic, extracurricular and other
resources, in a residential community
committed to diversity.
Princeton, NJ 08544
(609) 258-3060
www.princeton.edu
Ohio Northern is a comprehensive
university of liberal arts and professional
programs offering more than 3,600
students over 70 majors in the colleges of
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Office of Admissions
Ada, OH 45810
1-888-408-4668
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A picturesque New England campus,
offering programs in Business,
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mid-way between New York City
and Boston with Division I athletics.
Consistently rated among the top
Master’s level Colleges in the North
in U.S. News and World Report.
275 Mt. Carmel Avenue
Hamden, CT 06518
1.800.462.1944
www.quinnipiac.edu
SlipperyRock
ST. MARY’S
UNIVERSITY
• Personal attention to help you excel
• Powerful programs to challenge you to
think in new ways
• No limits to where St. Mary’s
can take you
offered with Dual Admissions into
graduate and professional schools
· Located in Fort Lauderdale, FL
· New state-of-the-art Performing
and Visual Arts facilities
Princeton
degrees that work.
BACHELOR X ASSOCIATE X CERTIFICATE
• Nationally ranked liberal arts college
• Self-designed and interdepartmental majors
• Small classes taught by distinguished faculty
• 100+ campus organizations
• 23 NCAA Division III sports
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· Over 40 undergraduate programs
University
A culturally diverse urban, studentcentered, Catholic university, dedicated
to educating leaders who contribute to
the economic and cultural vitality.
16401 NW 37th Avenue
Miami Gardens, FL 33054
800-367-9010
www.stu.edu
SRU provides a Rock Solid education.
Located just 50 miles north of Pittsburgh, the University is ranked number five in America as a Consumer’s
Digest “best value” selection for academic quality at an affordable price.
1 Morrow Way, Slippery Rock, PA 16057
800.SRU.9111 • www.sru.edu
75 years of keeping Hands-on in Higher Education
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A distinguished faculty, an
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intellectual growth on a beautiful
California campus.
Mongtag Hall – 355 Galves St.
Stanford, CA 94305
650-723-2091
www.stanford.edu
SWARTHMORE
Suffolk University, located in vibrant
downtown Boston, offers over 80 areas
of study, providing students with the
skills and experience they need to
achieve lasting success.
www.suffolk.edu
Undergruate Admission 800-6SUFFOLK
8 ASHBURTON PLACE, BOSTON, MA 02108
A liberal arts college of 1,500
students near Philadelphia, Swarthmore
is recognized internationally for its
climate of academic excitement and
commitment to bettering the world.
A college unlike any other.
TM
P. O. Box 7150
Colorado Springs, CO 80933-7150
500 College Ave.
Swarthmore, PA 19081
800-667-3110
www.swarthmore.edu
1-800-990-8227
www.uccs.edu
Earn a world-renowned degree in a
personalized environment. Work with
professors who will know your name
and your goals. Choose from 41
majors and many research, internship
and study-abroad opportunities.
you can go
beyond
www.upb.pitt.edu • 1-800-872-1787
Bradford, PA 16701
7),+%35.)6%23)49
Private, Catholic, liberal arts college
founded in 1871 by the Ursuline Sisters.
Offers over 30 undergraduate majors and
9 graduate programs. The only womenfocused college in Ohio and one of few
in the United States. Ursuline teaches
the empowerment of self.
2550 Lander Rd. Pepper Pike, OH 44124
1-888-URSULINE • www.ursuline.edu
At Westminster College, you'll engage
in a full college experience.
Reach your fullest potential –
Inside the classroom. And out.
Visit us and
turn YOUR college thinking inside out.
501 Westminster Avenue
Fulton, MO 65251
800-475-3361 • www.westminster-mo.edu
,OCATEDINTHEBEAUTIFUL.ORTHEASTERN
0ENNSYLVANIA7ILKESISANINDEPENDENT
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Yale College, the undergraduate body of
Yale University, is a highly selective liberal
arts college enrolling 5,200 students in
over 70 major programs. Residential life is
organized around Residential Colleges
where students live and eat.
P.O. Box 208234
New Haven, CT 06520
203-432-9300
www.yale.edu
the
t
a
p
o
Sh
A medium-sized university, the
University of Rhode Island offers both the
resources of a larger research institution and
the friendly, comfortable atmosphere of a
traditional New England college.
Newman Hall
Kingston, RI 02881
401-874-7100 • www.uri.edu
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environment
The Rise and Fall of Gas
by Duke Halloran, Heath, TX
companies are businesses, and they must make money.
quick glance at your local gas station’s prices
It’s easy to observe when filling up your tank that
might suggest an end to the energy crisis that
there is cash left in your pocket, but is the 20 bucks you
has plagued America for the past few decades.
saved at the pump really something to celebrate? Even
But before you go racing off to buy a gas-guzzling SUV,
if it’s thanks to the unemployment of millions of Americonsider why fuel prices have plummeted. No titanic
cans? Is $1.53 per gallon gasoline worth the
new oil fields have been discovered, and
largest economic decline in U.S. history
the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting
Don’t
be
fooled
since the Great Depression?
Countries (OPEC) hasn’t decided to play
is a nonrenewable natural resource,
Santa, so why did the price of crude oil fall
by downward andOilwe’re
running out of it. The world’s
from $140 to $43 per barrel recently?
trends in gas dependence on oil has increased over the
Though dictated greatly by global
past century to a point where there simply
politics, the price of oil is also affected by
prices
isn’t enough to last. With every passing day,
supply and demand – that old term you
we grow closer to the future depicted in Mel
may remember from history class. Because
Gibson’s
“The
Road Warrior,” where gas has gone from
of the global economic recession, consumers have cut
a
fuel
for
transportation
to a substance more precious
their spending on luxuries including gasoline. With
than gold.
plunging demand for petroleum, oil companies are
Don’t be fooled by downward trends in gas prices;
taking it on the chin too. Whether it’s selling for $40 per
nothing good comes cheap. ✦
barrel or $400, oil still costs a lot to produce. Oil
A
The Gardening Womb
I
think I know why early man moved from huntergatherer to farmer. A certain mystique exists in
plowing up the ancient womb of the earth, fertilizing it, and planting seeds.
As I consider this, I am holding the rich, hot cow
manure I just bought at the local Harvey’s grocery. I
am sowing the manure between carrots and white
half runners (green beans).
Manure – a concoction of decayed and digested
plant matter and the last link in the cycles of carbon,
nitrogen, and other chemicals – is strange; like compost it embodies a sort of cannibalism among plants
and, in a way, animals.
Simplicity
Warm, soft
The sunlight drops from the leaves
Onto my dry, rough hands.
Summer grass brushes lightly,
Fingers across my sunburned face,
Gently coaxing me, calling me
From a still, waking sleep.
The yellow dandelions nod
Their crowned heads awake.
The warm, soft breeze whispers
Slow songs without words
Drifting melodies, clouds of notes
Singing through the leaves overhead.
Time has no meaning, no substance
On the pastures of High Lonesome
Only a presence of endless peace.
Gentle breezes; a sun-baked breath
Still, grazing shapes on the horizon
Their presence quiets all noise.
Locusts sing to another golden day while
Giant ants return seeds to a decaying tree.
I awake in an old saddle full of dreams
A simple and magnificent sight
A sea of bowing grass and waving leaves.
It makes all the difference, the Indian cries,
When I am still and silent upon the Plains.
The difference was always within me.
by Erin Melton, Lubbock, TX
24
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’09
Photo by Nastassja Salem, Doha & Sydney, Qatar
by James Mahoney, Valdosta, GA
When a person dies, we bury them, they decay and
unlike in human pregnancy, I, a man, participate
the plants absorb the nutrients – effectively, eating
completely in the gestation of my “children.” I must
them. Along comes a cow or some other herbivore
provide the nutrients. But in a bizarre, ironic twist, I
which eats that vegetation, digests it, and eventually
eat these offspring, and those I spare, or possibly
produces the once very smelly but now
their ancestors, will eventually eat me.
weirdly non-malodorous stuff I’m holdMaybe that is the reason humans, or
ing. I am feeding the plants their own and Gardening is
rather lonely old men, garden. It is the
possibly my ancestors, who will eventuthe comple- closest we, as men, will ever come to
ally feed me … and thus I am a cannibal.
re-creating the peace of the womb and
tion of the
As I spread the possible remnants of
bearing children. The things we do in the
long gone and forgotten family members, “circle of life” garden, women’s bodies do inherently.
I realize the manure is not just hot from
Perhaps man chooses to farm as an
the warmth of the day; it’s also rich with
extension of his natural need to procreate.
nutrients; my hand can almost feel the fertility, taste
In the end, regardless of why we grow plants – and
this link of life to the egg – the plant I have grown in
regardless of their end use as food, as my children
the womb of the great mother. I feel a blast of selfare, or as decorations, like so many topiaries and
consciousness and a pang of irony: man, impregnator
orchids – gardening is the completion of the “circle
of women, doing the same to mother earth. However,
of life.” Isn’t it a beautiful irony? ✦
Bicycle Commuting
by Max Zhou,
Bloomington, IN
You might be thinking, I don’t have time for
may not be a movie star, best-selling author, or
bicycle commuting. Actually, you probably do. You
billionaire when I grow up, but one thing I will
could cut back on your TV time and pick up this
be known for, at least locally, is commuting by
activity that helps you get fit, have fun, and care for
bicycle. It’s sad to see how few people do – even
the environment.
though many could. Lots of people recycle and
Bicycling is good for you. It can help you lose
avidly campaign for the reduction of greenhouse
weight,
since it works the two biggest muscles of
gasses, but by driving cars, they’re still contributyour body, your quads and glutes.
ing to the problem.
Bicycling improves your cardiovascuYou might be picturing me as an
health, which can prevent many
extreme environmentalist, but I’m not
You could cut lar
diseases and blood clots. Cycling burns
one of those teens who wear shirts that
calories and is a low-impact sport,
say “Tree hugger” or “Help save the
hundreds of
meaning it carries a relatively low
world: Recycle.” Actually, my interest
pounds of CO2 chance of stress injury, unlike running.
in exercise, health, and fitness led me
Bicycle commuting also saves
to cycling.
money.
When you buy your first road
Since then I have learned that while
bike, helmet, and accessories, you might be
being good for your body, bicycle commuting is
shocked by the cost. But think about it this way:
also a great way to cut greenhouse gasses. Many
given fluctuating gas prices, you can save a signifiactivists recycle, plant trees, and drive hybrid cars,
cant amount each year by not driving a car.
but bicycle commuting could be even more effecCycling is very sensible. You can get in shape,
tive than all of those combined. Instead of shaving
save money, and help fight greenhouse gas emisoff a few pounds of carbon dioxide emissions every
sions, all during your commute. How’s that for
year, you could cut hundreds of pounds of CO2 just
multitasking? ✦
by commuting by bicycle a few times a week.
I
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heroes
Girlfriend
Friend
Tara Wolf
Vince
by Tylor Hultgren, Junction City, KS
War weighs heavy on all of our hearts, but so
ow would you describe strength? Is it
much
more for those with loved ones in the
the pain you feel as you try to squat to
service.
Her step-dad left at the beginning of her
your max? Or is it how you react when
senior year to put his life on the line for our
faced with death, destruction, or good-byes?
country. He may not be her dad, but he loves her
Would you have the strength to stand tall knowas if he were, always pushing her to be the best
ing everything you care about could be gone in
she can be. He won’t be there to watch her walk
the blink of an eye? This is the kind of strength
across the stage at graduation or to coach her
we all want but few attain.
summer softball team, helping to mold her into
Just one person I know has this kind of
the best athlete she can be. He won’t be there to
strength. She has felt pain time and time again
move her into college. Without a father figure to
but stayed strong when most of us would have
guide and protect her, the tears came, but she
crumbled under the weight of emowould not fall. She is strong.
tion. She has the heart of a lion but
Sports are her life, but even that
is as gentle as a lamb. If you met
her on the street you would never
She is the true would change. A week before basketball season began, a friendly
know this seemingly ordinary girl
definition of game of powder-puff football turned
has been through so much.
to disaster. She made a move for the
She felt the pain of getting the
strength
end zone and her knee gave out.
call that no 15-year-old should
Could this be the end of sports for
receive – two of her best friends
her? A million thoughts rushed through her
had been in a serious accident and one didn’t
head. She had planned to play softball in colsurvive. As she watched her friend lowered into
lege. Would they still want her? At the doctor’s
his final resting spot, the tears came, but she
office she got the news: a torn ACL requiring six
would not fall. She is strong.
to nine months’ recovery. A tear slowly rolled
When a tornado ripped through her small
down her face – no basketball, no softball. She
rural town, a place where she had felt so safe, it
felt like her whole senior year was falling apart.
damaged more than just the walls of her school
Her struggles have been constant, always
and childhood home; it tore at her heart. More
there like a bad dream she can’t wake up from.
than just buildings, these were the storybooks of
But she will survive and be even stronger beher young life. As she watched so many memocause of them. All the death, destruction, and
ries – her first Christmas, first day of kindergood-byes in the world couldn’t keep her down.
garten, meeting lifelong friends – destroyed in
She is the true definition of strength. The tears
seconds, the tears came, but she would not fall.
will come, but she will not fall. She is strong. ✦
She is strong.
H
by Mikaela Weintraub, Upper Saddle River, NJ
remember who inspired me to write every day:
Vince, the guy who used to come to the coffee shop
where I work.
Even though he stopped coming and telling me his
theories on life, I’ll always remember him. He was a 29year-old artist and novelist, and he always got Temple of
Heaven tea, usually a medium. He often wore a blackand-white bandana, chains over a black tank top, and a
dark jacket with a studded belt looped through his jeans.
He looked intimidating except for the fact that no one
was ever intimidated by him.
He drove a jeep, and he lived
I swear
in an apartment, I think. Or
maybe it was a house, but he
he was the
lived alone. At least he had a
smartest man home though. At one point he
was homeless – I think when
I ever met
he was a teenager.
Anyway, I only knew Vince
for two weeks, and I talked to him just twice. But I
remember taking in every word he said. Damn the
customers who came in when we were talking. It made
things a little awkward when I returned to my seat
across from him, my eyes fixed on his mouth because
that was where the words were coming from.
I swear he was the smartest man I ever met. He knew
what he liked, and he did what he wanted, and nothing
held him back. His eyes held no sympathy, yet I could
hear in his voice his empathy for everyone who might
need comforting.
So Vince told me to do what I like every day. If I liked
writing, I should write every day. And ever since, I don’t
think there’s been a day when I haven’t written. ✦
I
Grandfather
Robert Zumbrunn
by Robert Hite, Chapman, KS
“W
hat’s his name?” This is the phrase
I dread hearing. I despise the reason
I have to hear it, and I never thought
it would come from my hero – the man I was
named for.
When I was little, I went to my grandparents’
house every day while my parents worked and my
brother was at school. Being with Grandma and
Grandpa was always fun. I remember how my
grandma always had a candy bar for me, and let me
watch “The Simpsons,” even though my mom didn’t.
But my favorite part was “helping” Grandpa.
My grandpa was a farmer, and he liked having me
Photo by Junia Zhang, San Diego, CA
26
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’09
and continued to farm until he was 80. We thought he
along to help him. He often had a job for me –
would never slow down, but then we started to notice
usually something that involved my small hands.
that he was forgetting things and he had become
His were massive. We always joked that Grandpa
paranoid, thinking that my grandma was going on
couldn’t pick his nose because his fingers wouldn’t
picnics with other men. We took him to the doctor
fit. So Grandpa would have me squeeze my hands
for tests and found out that he had Alzheimer’s. It
into tight places to tighten a screw or slide on a
was a crushing blow. What made it even worse was
washer.
how quickly it took over.
When I wasn’t helping Grandpa, he would take
Then he had a knee surgery that made it harder
me on rides on his tractor or combine. One time
for him to get around. He had to use a walker, and it
when I was very little, my grandpa called to see if I
was difficult to get him to do exercises so he could
wanted to ride on the combine the following day.
improve. Nevertheless, he wanted to do
My mom was helping me with the
everything he’d done before the surgery
phone but I couldn’t reply because I
and Alzheimer’s. Several times Grandpa
was fighting back tears; all I could do
We thought he fell and Grandma couldn’t get him up
was nod. My mom laughed and said
Grandpa couldn’t see me and I’d have to
would never and had to call my mom in the middle of
the night to come help.
say “yes” or “no.” I loved riding with
slow down
Eventually they realized they had to
him. Once he even let me drive the
put him in a nursing home. My grandma
tractor.
plans to move to the duplex next door
Grandpa was always doing nice things
once it is built.
for me. He often gave me little trinkets. One time, he
Since my grandpa is alone now, someone in our
gave me a pocket knife. It’s all rusted and dull now,
family visits him regularly. Recently my mom, dad,
but I will keep it forever because it has value that
uncle, and I went to see him after church. It was one
money can’t equal.
of the hardest experiences I’ve ever had. My grandpa
Memories are also something money can’t buy. A
had always been my idol, my hero. When I was
couple of years ago my grandpa and my family went
younger, I wanted to be a farmer just like him.
to church together every Saturday. Then we would
eat at a nearby restaurant. Often Grandpa’s sister
Grandpa taught me so many lessons and has done so
much for me. He was one of the best men I know,
joined us. I remember that they both liked cottage
and now he is like a vegetable.
cheese with a packet of sugar on top.
Now years have passed and I am growing up and
My hero asked my mom twice that Sunday what
my name was. But I know, deep down, that he knows
getting busier and I don’t see my grandparents as
me. After all, a name is just a word. ✦
much. Amazingly, my grandpa somehow defied age
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sports
At Home on the Field
by Katelin Anderson, Glasgow, MT
New singer Jesse Lacey wrote, “I’m an old, abany shoes are full of gravel that’s grinding
doned church with broken pews and empty aisles.”
into the soles of my feet and raising a
Don’t get me wrong, a new pair of white Nikes is
blister on one toe. The bruise on my shin,
one of my favorite things. I love coming home to find
painfully pulsing with each heartbeat, has turned a
a Hollister box on the steps, blowing a few hundred
deep, almost black, shade of purple.
bucks at the Buckle, and getting that perfect pair of
My knee’s torn wide open and the Band-Aid won’t
jeans for Christmas. I would be miserable without my
stick. Blood is seeping through, leaving a rusty stain
iPod, and Brian Fallon’s voice is the best thing I’ve
on the crude athletic tape holding it in place for one
ever heard. I love driving to Fort Peck for no particumore inning. It’s more band than bandage though,
lar reason, jamming out to Brand New the whole way.
restricting the blood flow to the rest of my leg, as the
I’m always waiting for a late night phone call or a
pins and needles stabbing my calf remind me with
chance to reminisce about the good old days when
every step.
we rolled our own fingers up in car windows. I
Each movement also reminds me of my last at bat,
wouldn’t trade those nights for anything, but still,
as the dull ache in my side becomes a severe shock
outside these rusty chain-link fences, even when I’m
of pain. I’m used to it though; after all these years
happy, I’m still not fully content. A part of me is still
I’ve learned that sometimes stitchmarks are the price
out on the field and the rest of me is
of first base.
longing to be there too.
My arm’s shot to hell, and my elbow is
I’d always rather be out in the rain, my
throbbing. Tossing the ball 50 feet feels
I am playing
cleats caked with mud, robbing batters of
like hurling a shot put. Not to mention
softball and
bases and pitchers of confidence. That’s
my ring finger is broken at the knuckle.
Every throw is now a test of mental
I am content just what I do. Of all of the things I’ve
tried in my life, I’ve found that you can’t
strength.
beat the feeling of reading a ball right off
Fat beads of sweat drip off my forethe bat, diving on instinct at that precise moment, and
head, stinging my eyes. My mouth is gritty with dirt.
coming up firing like it was all just reflex.
My head, however, has never been better, and my
There’s nothing like staring down the pitcher from
heart is bursting with pride. Even though I’m tired and
that undefeated team – the one I know hasn’t really
hurting, even though I’m dripping sweat and encrusted
been tested yet – and smiling as I dig my cleats into
with dirt, for this moment and all those that I spend on
the dirt. Then, as she throws her rise ball, her breadthis field, I am completely in love with my life.
and-butter pitch, there’s nothing better than watching
Outside these rusty chain-link fences I am insecure
it go right by into the catcher’s mitt. After a few more
and reserved. I’m bored and anxious, easily distracted
balls and foul tips, she’s rolling her eyes in frustraand frustrated, and nothing ever seems right. No mattion between pitches. Standing there in the box, I
ter how white my shoes are or how well my jeans fit,
watch her demeanor change from calm to panic and I
I am never as confident as I am in this uniform. I can
love every second of it; it’s a guilty pleasure.
fake it like a smile, but I can’t do it for real.
She resorts to throwing way inside, high and tight,
No matter how many songs I have on my iPod,
to back me off the plate. Nothing makes me feel
there will always be something missing. No matter
more in control than digging in deeper, crowding the
how far we drive or how loud the music is, I’ll always
plate even more, getting a little chalk on my toes, and
crave something more. Even after an unexpected
knowing I have her right where I want her. I’m in her
phone call from a childhood friend, there’s still that
head and no matter what she does, she can’t beat me.
empty feeling like a hole in my chest. Like Brand
M
Photo by Chelsea Benda, Smyrna, TN
I live for situations like that.
And finally, when she makes her mistake and
throws the only good pitch she’ll ever give me, and I
put it over the left-field fence, I know that I am exactly where I am supposed to be. Everything is perfect, nothing is missing, and I can’t help but flash a
real smile as I take a victory lap around the bases.
I’m playing softball and I am content.
What I experience on the field – mentally, emotionally, and even physically – is difficult to describe.
Even when I’m frustrated beyond belief, near tears
after a heartbreaking loss, or covered from head to
toe in Icy Hot to numb the pain, I know in my heart
that there’s nothing I’d rather be doing. There’s nothing else that I’m supposed to be doing.
It’s the brand new pair of Nikes, the jeans that fit
perfectly, and a four pack of Rooster Booster all
wrapped up in a Hollister box on my front steps. For
me, there’s no other word for it than contentment. ✦
Off the Blocks
Round 1
A blur of maroon
warm-ups cast
aside
like a curtain
drawing
open
show’s about to start
skips a beat. It’s on.
fear this moment will be my last. I am all
I study his footsteps. Each is carefully placed.
alone. Everyone has vanished. It’s just me. I
As I shift direction, he makes a mistake. I pounce
can hear my heart pounding in my chest. At
on it and sweep up his leg. I drive as hard as I can,
any moment I am sure I will throw it up. I have
and hold onto that leg like it’s a million dollars.
waited for this moment. I have feared it. It has
We both hit the mat hard; I’m on top. He
come like a roaring train, picking up speed as it
crawls away fast, but I hold on tight. I’m not
approaches. It’s here now, and I can get on or let
about to let him slip away. My hand
it pass me by.
is squeezing his head and ankle. I
I tell them my name. They hand
push with all my might – so hard
The whistle
me a red anklet. I drop to my knees
body aches.
to put it on. In the back of my
blows. My heart myNow
it’s all over. He is rolled on
head, fear is growing. At the same
his
back
like a dead roach. I keep
time, a wave of excitement overskips a beat.
him
down
with all my strength. I
comes me. Nothing in my life
It’s on.
can feel the blood rushing through
compares to this.
my body, from my head to my toes.
I count my footsteps as I walk to
I hear the count: 1 … 2 … 3 ….
the mat; they feel like my last. My eyes meet
Finally, after what seems an eternity, his hand
his. He is just like me. He has prepared for this
hits the mat.
moment. I study the blank expression on his
I stand and look into his eyes. I can see the
face; I know behind it lies fear – a fear I will
tears
he is trying to hold back. He has come all
bring to the surface.
this
way
and I have ended his dream. I can’t hold
“Are you ready?” the ref asks. I nod, trying
back my smile. My hand is raised; I am on top of
hard to conceal my fear.
the world. I have just won the first round in the
When my opponent shakes his head, I know
state wrestling meet. ✦
it’s about to begin. The whistle blows. My heart
I
Golden-yellow shines
bright above
all colors in the field
He fires ferocious
Muscles as whistle
blows bombard only
his competition
gentle wind caresses bare
skin in crouch position
mind is set only on
precision
execution
excellence
Heart and soul go in;
Victory waits on the other side.
by Patrick Lewandowski, Chicago, IL
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TEEN INK RAW
SEPTEMBER ’09
• Teen Ink
27
music reviews
28
HIP-HOP
Mos Def
The Ecstatic
I
bought this album not knowing what to expect. On the
way home my mom wanted me
to put it in. Halfway through
she said that the music was too
weird, and that is how I knew I
had made the right choice.
For years Mos Def has
consistently been the most
innovative MC as far as his
lyrics and delivery go. This
album is no exception. But it’s
been a while since we’ve heard
new music from him.
Hip-hop in its
purest form
He has spent the last few
years building up his acting
chops. You may have seen him
alongside Bruce Willis in “16
Blocks” and teamed up with
Jack Black in “Be Kind
Rewind” – both very entertaining movies. Now, the multitalented hip-hop artist is
returning to what he does
best – rapping his butt off.
When I listened to this disc
for the first time, I was taken
aback by the staggering variety
of sounds. The producers
seemed to take extra time to ensure that no two songs sounded
alike. For example, the first,
“Supermagic,” features an
energetic guitar riff and a tinge
of Indian flavor. Track three,
“Auditorium,” sounds like a
fusion of traditional MiddleEastern and background music
from a classic ’70s cartoon (it
reminded me of “Johnny
Quest,” for some reason).
“Quiet Dog” (my favorite) is all
heavy-hitting African drums
and fast-paced, inventive lyrics
from Mos Def. In “No Hay
Nada Mas,” Mos Def sings in
Spanish with Spanish guitars as
accompaniment.
“The Ecstatic” has two
notable guest appearances: an
artist named The Ruler and
Brooklyn native, Talib Kweli.
Other than that, it’s basically
what you’d expect. Okay, I
lied; you would never be able
to guess what was on this disc
until you put it in. This is
simply a stellar CD in every
way and I have no complaints.
If you do not keep an open
mind, or are a picky music
listener, you may not enjoy this
album as much as I did. But if
you are tired of hearing the
same old rap music that talks
about stuff no one cares about
and makes rhymes out of the
exact same words more than
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’09
once (Soulja Boy, anyone?),
then get this album, because
this is real hip-hop in its purest
form. Mos Def has proved that
you don’t need radical promotion to make a successful
record. Sometimes, the quiet
dogs are the ones that bite the
hardest. ✦
by Kyle Gardner,
Jefferson City, MO
INDIE POP
Charlotte
Sometimes
Waves and
the Both of Us
A
lmost all of the songs on
Charlotte Sometimes’
debut CD are about her romantic efforts. In love, Charlotte
seems to have already given up.
The most successful single,
“How I Could Just Kill a Man,”
presents an assertive take on
the relationship that she is ending. “It feels too good without
you,” she sings triumphantly.
Battling her
personal demons
Born Jessica Charlotte
Poland and adopted as a child,
she borrowed her stage name
from a slightly twisted children’s novel by Penelope
Farmer. The book centers
around a boarding school girl
being taken back in time 40
years and placed in the body of
another young woman. The
book also inspired a song by
the Cure titled “Charlotte
Sometimes.”
The idea of exchanging identities has stayed with Poland
and appears in many of her
songs, including “Toy Soldier”:
“It’s okay if we play pretend/I
promise to forget/you’re plastic
and on my shelf/Let’s fake
romance/and I’ll be someone
else.” However she does end up
battling her own demons in
“Losing Sleep.” A far less selfconfident ballad in which
Poland struggles to meet her
own level of personal excellence. This is yet another example of Poland’s desire to trade
her identity; in the song she is
“Trying, trying, trying to
be/anything other than me.”
Poland’s voice not only
delivers ballads in a silky,
spacious tone but showcases
light folkish elements that
convey her poignant lyrics in a
refreshing way. Lines range
from the feeling of being taken
for granted by a lover to
searching through an ex’s
apartment in “Ex Girlfriend
Syndrome.” She varies from a
confident and determined individual to one attempting to
keep her self-worth.
While this album deals with
the common theme of heartbreak, the emotional trials
Poland conveys are anything
but clichéd. For instance, she
compares her emotional mistreatment by a boyfriend to
being under the influence of a
drug in “Sweet Valium High.”
And in “AEIOU” Poland
becomes involved with a man
who has an addiction to fictional verbalizations and a
penchant for deceitful whining.
At times, Poland can be
assertive. She can be timid. She
can be another person. She can
be everything she feels all at
once. And she can make you
undergo all she is feeling
through her lyrics and harmonious beats. Take a listen and
she’ll destroy any preconceived
notions you may have. ✦
by Melissa Horacek,
Great Falls, MT
ELECTRONIC
Passion Pit
Chunk of Change
I
f you haven’t heard of Passion Pit yet, you will. This
five-part Boston-area electronic
band is making a name for itself with its first EP, “Chunk of
Change.” While the group uses
synthesizers and keyboards,
Passion Pit is far from your
average electronic dance band.
Their songs are different and a
breath of fresh air in this age of
techno electronic dance music.
Throw out a chunk of
change to buy it
“Smile Upon Me” is reminiscent of the Postal Service, with
its fast, quiet drum beats and
ongoing keyboard melody.
“Live to Tell the Tale” starts
with a quiet mid-tempo beat,
then adds synthesized instruments. The vocals come at just
the right moment and fit harmoniously into the song.
The EP’s most popular track
is “Sleepyhead,” and it isn’t
hard to figure out why after just
the first ten seconds. It starts
out as though vocalist Michael
Angelakos is going to bust a
rap, but with the soft backup
vocals and signature keyboard,
there are no words to explain it.
But play it once, and you’ll
have it on repeat for a while.
All the songs go so well together, and every one is unique.
COMMENT
Angelakos’ falsetto is such a
perfect fit for Passion Pit’s
style, you can’t imagine another singer taking his place.
Ayad Al Adhamy also does a
great job synthesizing everything and giving each song its
own identity with the pitch and
tempo.
I’d recommend this album if
you like music from the Postal
Service, Muse, Kanye West,
Switchfoot, The Starting Line,
or John Mayer. Passion Pit
doesn’t just make good electronic music, they make good
music, period. So, throw out a
chunk of change to buy it; you
won’t regret it. ✦
love her for it.
Overall, “Circus” is one of
Spears’ better albums, and
though it’s been out for a while,
if you haven’t bought it, you
should definitely check it out. It
not only shows us her different
facets but also reflects us.
At least for now, Spears has
climbed back to the top of her
game, and in my opinion, she
deserves every bit of success
that comes her way. ✦
by William Xiang Chen,
New York, NY
ALTERNATIVE
The Fray
by Christina Tea, Fresno, CA
The Fray
POP
T
Britney Spears
Circus
B
ritney Spears is finally
gaining ground in her
comeback, reclaiming the
“queen of pop” title once more.
Spears has always produced
great music, but personal
troubles dimmed her performing light. Now, she is ready to
get back into what made her
famous and is returning with a
big bang.
Spears’ most recent CD,
“Circus,” is a pop anthem
crowd basher with dance beats
Reclaiming the pop
music scene
and catchy tunes, reminding us
what this Southern gal is all
about. The first single, “Womanizer,” is a catchy dance song
bashing players and showing
both guys and girls that no matter how sly we are, we’re going
to get caught. This catchy tune
has already hit number one on
the Billboard Hot 100 – Britney’s first hit single since
“Baby … One More Time.”
The second single and title
track, “Circus,” is the tune that
we’ve all been waiting for. It is
very danceable and the video
shows the best of Spears’ performing abilities. As great as
the song is, the most interesting
part is the meaning behind it
all. Spears’ whole life has been
a circus, and now she is ready
to pull hard on the reins and
show everyone that she is
definitely the ringleader.
The third and current single,
“If You Seek Amy,” is an honest, chart-worthy song that may
cause some controversy with its
lyrics. And the video is just as
provocative. This single shows
the raw side of Spears, and fans
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he Fray’s self-titled album
is a fantastic blend of pop
and rock music that grabs listeners and throws them into a
whirlwind of rock tempos and
deep lyrics.
When I first picked it up, I
felt like putting it back. The
cover art had a dark feel. But
Whirlwind of rock
tempos and deep lyrics
after I put it in my car stereo,
my opinion changed. Within
the first 30 seconds of the song
“Syndicate,” my foot was tapping and my fingers itching to
turn up the volume.
All these songs have a lot of
meaning to them. After
listening to “Happiness,” I
paused it for a few minutes and
thought about what it meant. I
had a similar reaction to “You
Found Me.” These songs have
several hidden messages. Some
could incorporate them with
their religion and others may
relate them to a relationship.
Another reason I fell in love
with this album was that it
wasn’t all “rainbows and butterflies.” Most pop music is
about falling in love or having
a crush. The Fray’s album is
different and you can find deep
meaning in each song.
Faster, more hard-rock songs
(“Syndicate,” “Enough For
Now,” and “You Found Me”)
balance perfectly with slower
songs (“Happiness,” “Never
Say Never”).
Even if you aren’t a fan of
pop or rock, this album is a
good buy. As you listen, the
songs form meaning and stay
rooted in your mind. The
amazing vocals, strong messages, and stellar music are
worth listening to. ✦
by Jillian Langford,
East Grands Rapids, MI
USING THE
ADVANCED SEARCH
COMEDY
Glee
17 Again
C
S
an we have a round of applause for a realistic show
about high school? Thank you.
“Glee,” a new series on FOX,
is about students trying to find
their niche. And they do – in
the Glee Club. Their principal
is looking for any excuse to
cancel the club (since the last
director was fond of flirting
with members). Enter Will, the
(cute) Spanish teacher and a
former Glee Club member
himself, who takes over to help
the club regain its former glory.
But there’s a tough road ahead.
With a talented cast – featuring Lea Michele from “Spring
Awakening” and Matthew
Morrison from “Hairspray” –
“Glee” is the most realistic
portrayal of high school
students on television.
I am gleeful to see this show
The most realistic high
school show on TV
break stereotypes and inject
honesty into its writing. Unlike
with Blair Waldorf or Naomi
Clark, I can relate to these characters (they don’t walk around
dropping brand names). They
are searching for who they are
because they don’t fall into trite
social categories like jocks,
cheerleaders, etc. And what a
relief to find a student in a
wheelchair (Arty) outside of a
Hallmark made-for-TV movie.
I feel warmth after watching
“Glee,” compared with my desperate urge to buy hairbands
after watching “Gossip Girl.”
I’m not a fan of “High
School Musical,” yet I enjoy
the singing and dancing in
“Glee.” Unlike “HSM,” which
was directed at preteens, these
characters have depth. Rachel
is a talented girl who wants to
be accepted by her peers and to
be special, and Finn is a jock
who plays football and endures
his teammates’ teasing because
he enjoys singing. “High
School Musical” – cheesiness +
real life – unrealistic plans to
save the day = “Glee.”
Sure, “Glee” contains some
clichés – Rachel is going to fall
for Finn – but in spite of this, I
think the show will inspire
teenagers, and even teachers
who have lost the love for
what they do. Why? It’s honest.
It is not extravagant or pure
fairy tale.
It’s real. ✦
by Grace Vaitilingam,
UEP Subang Jaya, Malaysia
VOTE
orry, girls, but your favorite
“High School Musical” star
can’t sing and dance his way
through life forever. But don’t
feel bad – he’ll still be dribbling basketballs in “17 Again,”
as well as doing a little dance
in the opening bit. In this comedy flick, Zac Efron portrays
Mike O’Donnell, who has the
humorous yet touching experience of being a 17-year-old
again.
The movie begins in 1989,
when Mike is 17 and on the
brink of adulthood. He’s handsome and talented and has a
steady girlfriend. His coach
tells him that a scout is attending his basketball game, and if
Mike plays his best, a full
scholarship could be his. Then
his girlfriend tells him she’s
pregnant. Mike throws away
his chances for a scholarship
and marries Scarlet.
Twenty years later, 37-yearold Mike (played by Matthew
Perry) is in a bad place. He’s
had the same job for 16 years –
without a promotion. Scarlet
(Leslie Mann) has filed for
divorce and kept the house.
Their two kids, Alex (Sterling
Knight) and Maggie (Michelle
Zac Efron delivers
an outstanding
performance
Trachtenberg), completely
ignore him. Mike stays with
Ned (Thomas Lennon), a millionaire video-game-obsessed
nerd who has been his best
friend since high school. After
a particularly bad day at work,
Mike visits his old school and
meets an odd janitor. While
driving home, he is transformed
into his 17-year-old self again.
Under the fake name of
Mark Gold, he enrolls in high
school to live his life over and
undo the mistakes he made. He
tries to help his kids with their
problems – whether they like it
or not. Meanwhile, Mike hangs
out at their home, helping
Scarlet with the garden she’s
redesigning. Mike is faced with
difficult choices nearly identical to those he made 20 years
before.
This movie highlights the
conflicts that come with acting
responsibly. It also shows the
problem of peer pressure in our
schools. Teenagers are pressured into having sex, and
perfectly nice girls get dumped
by boyfriends for abstaining.
Trust me, you won’t regret
seeing this movie. Almost
every scene, besides the
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touching ones, has comic relief.
Lennon deserves special recognition for his portrayal as Ned,
the eccentric Lord of the Rings
fan.
What surprised me most was
Efron. I expected his transition
to a more mature role to be
bumpy, but with this movie he
gracefully steps away from the
“HSM” franchise and delivers
an outstanding performance.
Despite the lack of song and
dance numbers, Efron is entertaining as a 37-year-old in a
teenage body. He convincingly
captures a grown man’s surprise at the new popular trends.
I especially enjoyed the scene
that promotes sexual abstinence, which results in him
being marked as a weirdo for
his old-fashioned beliefs.
“17 Again” is a gripping
family movie that will excite
and entertain both adults and
children. ✦
by Janelle Chang,
Hong Kong
ANIME
Ponyo
“P
onyo” is Hayao Miyazaki’s tenth film. Named
one of the best animators of
his time and voted by Time
magazine as one of the most
influential Asians, Miyazaki
has drawn and directed many
famous anime films, including
“Spirited Away,” the first anime
movie to win an Academy
Award.
Most of Miyazaki’s films are
hand-drawn; his first to use
computer animation was
“Princess Mononoke,” which
topped the box office until
“Titanic” was released a month
later. Although Miyazaki used
computer animation in some of
his movies, with “Ponyo,” he
The graphics are
amazing
again hand-draws everything –
over 170,000 images.
“Ponyo” is about a goldfish
who escapes from home. She
becomes caught in a jar in the
sea but is rescued by Sosuke, a
boy who lives on a cliff. He
cuts himself on the broken
glass and the fish licks his
wound to heal it.
Sosuke and Ponyo develop a
close relationship. Then the
master of the sea takes Ponyo
away. Since Ponyo has tasted
human blood, she starts becoming human. Ponyo tries to
return to Sosuke but a tsunami
threatens to destroy the island
where he lives.
Miyazaki does a great job
AND
TEEN INK RAW
representing waves; at times
they are monsters and other
times giant fishes. All the
graphics are amazing. Because
I’m a big fan of Miyazaki’s
films, I highly recommend
“Ponyo.” ✦
The movie is rated PG, and I
recommend it for all ages. A
few scenes could scare young
children, but the next scene
will have even the little ones
laughing again. ✦
by Remy Loet, Denver, CO
by Daniel Schmidt,
Littleton, CO
COMEDY
MUSICAL
Paul Blart:
Mall Cop
Repo! The
Genetic Opera
A
W
shopping mall is under
siege at Christmas time!
Is this really the plot of a
comedy?
In “Paul Blart: Mall Cop,”
Kevin James (from TV’s “The
King of Queens” and the movie
“I Now Pronounce You Chuck
and Larry”) will have you
rolling on the floor with laughter at his clumsy antics.
Paul is not the most physically fit guy and also suffers
from hypoglycemia (which
makes it difficult for him to go
for long without eating). When
he fails the obstacle course in
his police training, Paul gets a
job as a mall cop. Unfortunately, he is made fun of not
only by his coworkers but also
everyone in the mall.
Paul is single and lives with
his mother and beloved daughter, Maya (Raini Rodriguez).
Maya and her grandmother are
out to find Paul a perfect match
Will have you rolling
on the floor
using the Internet. However,
Amy (played by Jayma Mays
from “Red Eye”) comes into
Paul’s life when she begins
working at a kiosk in the mall.
Paul is determined to impress
her, but crashing his Segway
scooter doesn’t make for a
good first impression, and
falling through a restaurant
window after drinking too
much doesn’t improve his
chances with her either. In
another hilarious scene, Paul
gets called to a Victoria’s
Secret store to calm down a
customer who is in an argument over a bra … and gets
beaten up by the woman.
One busy holiday shopping
day as the mall is about to
close, Paul is asked to lock up
the arcade. He becomes caught
up in a game of “Guitar Hero”
and doesn’t realize that the mall
is under attack by a gang of
criminals disguised as Santa’s
helpers.
When Amy is taken hostage,
the movie becomes an exciting
whirlwind as Paul transforms
from awkward mall cop into
hero.
elcome to the year 2057.
All around the world,
people are dropping dead from
organ failure. GeneCo, a biotechnology company headed by
Rotti Largo (Paul Sorvino),
specializes in organ replacement and even offers a payment
plan similar to a car loan. However, if you fail to make even
one payment, the repo man will
repossess the organ.
This horror rock-opera
revolves around three stories.
Nathan Wallace (Anthony
This generation’s
“Rocky Horror
Picture Show”
Stewart Head) is the widowed
father of 17-year-old Shiloh
(Alexa Vega) by day and a
“legal assassin” by night.
Shiloh has a rare blood disease
and a spirit to experience the
real world that her father won’t
allow her to be part of.
Then there’s the Largo
family. Papa Rotti is dying and
has to leave GeneCo to one of
his children: murderous Luigi
(Bill Moseley), drug addict
Amber Sweet (Paris Hilton),
and deranged narcissist Pavi
(Nivek Ogre). However, it
seems Rotti has a special eye
for young Shiloh.
The third story involves
Blind Mag (Sarah Brightman),
the star of GeneCo’s annual
Genetic Opera, Shiloh’s godmother, and Nathan’s next
target for repossession.
Narrated by the Grave
Robber (Terrance Zdunich),
“Repo! The Genetic Opera” is
destined to be this generation’s
“Rocky Horror Picture Show.”
The many styles of songs,
tastefully brought to life by the
talented cast, will keep your
attention. The scenery and
clothing reflect the cyber-metal
theme. However, when it
comes to gore, this film makes
“Sweeney Todd” look like
“My Fair Lady.” ✦
movie & tv reviews
TV
by Jayson Barrand,
Fort Wayne, IN
This movie is rated R.
SEPTEMBER ’09
• Teen Ink
29
book reviews
FICTION
The Perks
of Being a
Wallflower
by Stephen
Chbosky
T
he Perks of Being a
Wallflower is the brilliant
story of young Charlie. As he
ventures through high school,
he enters doors he never knew
existed. Through his letters
readers feel his pain and heartbreak, his happiness, and the
feeling of the infinite.
This book is a coming-of-age
novel that will surely touch
everyone who reads the letters
Charlie writes to an unknown
person. You see him transform
Made me feel like
I’m not alone
from a shy, introspective,
intelligent “wallflower.”
This book is more intimate
than any diary. Every teen can
relate in some way to Charlie.
Many experience similar problems making friends, having
crushes, experiencing family
tensions, exploring sexuality,
and dealing with depression
and drug experimentation. He
also struggles with his best
friend’s suicide and his beloved
aunt’s death.
I recommend The Perks of
Being a Wallflower to everyone. Beautifully written and
touching, this novel has made
me feel like I’m not alone. ✦
by Nikki Boyd, Bear, DE
NONFICTION
Three Cups
of Tea
by Greg
Mortenson with
David Oliver Relin
T
hree Cups of Tea tells the
story of Greg Mortenson,
who endeavors to build schools
in Pakistan and Afghanistan. It
describes “one man’s mission
to promote peace one school at
a time.” This is a great read if
you’re looking for inspiration
to change the world.
The title comes from a local
proverb that explains how after
sharing three cups of tea, “you
become family,” and this is
exactly what happens to
Mortenson.
The journey begins with
Mortenson’s unsuccessful
attempt to climb K2, the
second highest mountain on
earth. Even though he fails, the
book shows his strength and
30
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’09
determination, which eventually help him overcome obstacles to building his first school.
Descending from the mountain, he ends up in the small
village of Korphe, where he is
treated with great hospitality.
To show his gratitude, he
decides to build a school there.
Endeavors to build
schools
You read the hardships and
obstacles Mortenson had to
overcome to finish this project
(and many more).
What Mortenson has done is
impressive. Three Cups of Tea
gives him the recognition he
deserves by chronicling these
incredible feats. With his many
accomplishments, it is nearly
impossible to maintain an
unbiased opinion of him. Even
though David Oliver Relin
intended to be neutral, he idolizes Mortenson and even states
in the introduction that “it is
impossible to remain simply a
reporter” in his presence.
Though the style of writing
is great, at times it falls short.
The book is written in the journalistic style of a very long
newspaper article and can be
tedious. But if you don’t mind
that, this book is an excellent
read. Three Cups of Tea will fill
you with joy and empowerment
because if one man can do it,
anyone can. ✦
by Claudia Sitiriche, Plano, TX
NONFICTION
The
Overachievers
by Alexandra
Robbins
T
he Overachievers: The
Secret Lives of Driven
Kids is a book about teenagers
who struggle to do well in
school. I’ve had similar experiences trying to balance academics with my social life,
so this is definitely a book I
could relate to.
You might wonder, Why
should I read this? After all, it’s
Teens trying to
perfect their lives
about school. Not so; it’s also
about teens and the stress of
social factors and trying to
perfect their lives.
For example, Taylor struggles to fit in. She tries to
prevent her popular friends
from thinking that she is too
smart. Another character, AP
Frank, is pressured by his
mother to do well in school, but
he has trouble living up to her
high standards.
Overall, this book is extremely addicting, and I would
recommend it to all teens. It
really shines a light on what
teens go through every day to
manage their lives. Alexandra
Robbins definitely captured my
interest with this book. ✦
by Paul Nguyen,
Westminster, CA
FICTION
The Usual Rules
by Joyce Maynard
“T
hey didn’t know much,
but they knew that a
plane had crashed into one of
the World Trade Center towers.
Her mother’s building.”
This quote is a powerful
indication of how great this
book is. The Usual Rules is
about how a girl transforms
herself into a totally different
person after her mother passes
away in one of the World Trade
Center towers on 9/11.
Wendy, who is 13, learns on
September 11th that a plane
crashed into her mother’s building: “Most of the kids in her
How 9/11
affected people
homeroom crowded around the
windows, not that you could
see much through the smoke.
The air seemed to be filled with
snow, though it was actually
bits of paper.”
Wendy eventually is picked
up from school by her stepfather
and her little brother. Since her
mom usually picks her up, this
makes Wendy feel even worse.
Finally, they give up hope
that Wendy’s mother survived
and accept the fact that bad
things happen. Wendy doesn’t
take it well and ends up going
against her mother’s wishes and
moving to California to be with
her father and his girlfriend.
This book describes Wendy’s
experiences with a pregnant
16-year-old, dropping out of
school, and meeting a bookstore
owner whose son is autistic.
I love this book. It deals with
problems that I have faced, so it
was comforting knowing how
others reacted and managed.
The book pulled me in right
from the beginning describing
how 9/11 affected people. It
gave me a vivid picture of
everything that was happening.
The Usual Rules is moving
because it makes you appreciate everything that you may
take for granted. ✦
by Olivia Vollmers, Dexter, MI
COMMENT
NONFICTION
Fast Food
Nation
by Eric Schlosser
E
ric Schlosser’s Fast Food
Nation: The Dark Side of
the All-American Meal appears,
by the title, to be an analysis of
fast food and American obesity.
However, much to my dismay,
the first hundred pages are
spent on the history of
McDonald’s and other fastfood chains. Yet despite my
initial disappointment (and
boredom), reading Fast Food
Nation was an eye-opening
experience.
In the last section of the
book, Schlosser takes the
reader on an epic journey
through the fast-food industry,
Disgusting but
informative
from the consumer’s plate all
the way back to the potato
farms for French fries and the
cattle ranches in Texas for the
burger meat. He exposes the
corruption, sanitation issues,
and dirty little secrets the fastfood industry has worked hard
to hide. Schlosser describes in
gory detail the filthy state of
slaughterhouses and the
scarcity of government officials
to inspect this massive industry.
While Fast Food Nation isn’t
in the same ballpark as Supersize Me, Schlosser’s book
brings the consumer out of the
seemingly wonderful shadow
of the Golden Arches and into
the harsh reality of the food we
put in our mouths. He mixes
personal stories with wellresearched and interesting facts
to keep the reader’s attention.
Overall, you will finish this
book thoroughly disgusted
but very well-informed and
enlightened. ✦
by Aubree Barnett,
Allen, TX
FICTION
The Freedom
Writers Diary
by The Freedom
Writers and
Erin Gruwell
T
he commercial for this
movie looked depressing
but motivating – about a
teacher and her students who
became a family. When it came
out on DVD, I rented it. I knew
it would be a tearjerker, but
nothing could have prepared
me for all the crying I did,
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TEENINK.COM
except, of course, reading the
book.
During the movie, I cried
tears of sadness at the beginning and tears of joy at the end.
Afterward, I was motivated to
read the book, which I knew
would be moving too. It was
even more inspiring than I
imagined because of the stories
of 150 teens and their teacher,
Erin Gruwell.
The Freedom Writers Diary
depicts teens’ feelings and
They are my heroes
struggles. It took me a while
to read because it was so
emotional, and because of
that, I felt connected to the
Freedom Writers – even
though I wouldn’t dare compare my problems with theirs.
They are my heroes trying to
change the world. I didn’t
want their stories to end.
When I finished the book, I
watched the movie again. I
cried less but it still stings. My
favorite part of the book was
the poetry about discrimination
and being proud of who you
are, no matter your race, size,
or occupation. ✦
by Nicki Ambrogi,
Carmel, IN
FICTION
The Fourth K
by Mario Puzo
T
he pope is dead and terrorists kidnap the president’s
daughter – I was hooked from
the first page of The Fourth K.
One aspect I love is that the
protagonist, Francis Kennedy
(the president), and the antagonist (the terrorist Yabril) are so
similar. Despite being enemies,
I was hooked from
the first page
they understand each other and
think the same way, so they
don’t see each other as evil or
bad.
I also like how Puzo always
has something exciting happening so you don’t get bored, and
he surprises everyone at the end
with a huge betrayal.
I am planning to read more
books by Puzo and would
recommend this one to anyone
who enjoys long, descriptive
novels. It’s perfect for mature
readers who like action and can
handle some gore and violence.
All in all, I give this book a 9
out of 10. ✦
by Mitch Kimball,
Dexter, MI
USING THE
ADVANCED SEARCH
by Tristy Anderson, Victor, MT
gaping mouth. He clenched his eyes in preparation
He did a wonderful job impersonating Mrs. Undery sense of humor is a bit, well … odd. It’s
for a major-league snatching. Sure enough, Mrs.
meir snatching a kid by the hair and dragging him
caused me some trouble over the years, in
Undermeir grabbed his hair and headed off down the
off. He did both parts – the kid and Mrs. U – and it
fact. For example, the only time I ever got
aisle, obviously expecting Bob to be firmly in tow.
was side-splitting. One of the reasons Bob had the
sent to the principal’s office was because I laughed –
To everyone’s surprise, Bob remained safely
routine down so well was that he got snatched at
in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Old Mrs.
seated at his desk, eyes clenched, pencils up nose.
least once a week. It was as though he had reUndermeir’s math class.
Mrs. Undermeir rushed back and made another pass
searched the act. He knew every little nuance of a
They don’t make teachers like Mrs. Undermeir
at his hair, but to no avail. She snatched again and
snatching and how to exaggerate it just enough to
anymore. At least I hope they don’t. She was tiny and
again with even less effect. Apparently, it was the
turn the horror into humor. It was a gift.
fierce, with an 80-year-old face and 20-year-old red
first time she had encountered bear grease during a
One day before school, I made the mistake of
hair. Her wrinkles were permanently fused into a
snatching. All the while, Bob sat stricken, the yellow
bragging to Bob that I was going to get through the
frown beneath that glowing halo of frizzy red.
pencils protruding from his nose, a terrified look on
year without being snatched by Mrs. U. Bob was
Mrs. Undermeir was the Jesse James of sarcasm:
his face.
concentrating on combing his hair into a
she could quick-draw a caustic remark and drill you
Maybe it was Bob’s expression that got
weird shape. Recently, his father had
between the eyes with it at 30 paces. She once hit
I
felt
a
laugh
to
me, or the way Mrs. Undermeir stared
shot
a
bear,
and
Bob
had
come
into
a
Charlie Duncan with a slug of sarcasm that spun him
at her greasy palms, eyes full of rage,
supply of bear grease. He had slathered a
around half out of his desk! Then, she walked over
coming on
disgust, and incomprehension. Whatever
copious amount on his hair and was
and coolly finished him off with two shots to the
the trigger, it bypassed my fail-safe
pleased to see that he could now mold it
but easily
head. Charlie recovered but was never the same. He
mechanism. A wild, booming laugh
into any shape he wanted. He combed it
was a sad case.
strangled it
detonated like a bomb in the frozen
flat against his skull so that it looked like
Charlie had always been dumb. The reason Mrs.
silence of the room. I could scarcely
he was wearing a shiny helmet.
Undermeir had drilled him was that he had been
believe it was mine. I hoped it was Logan: only he
“How’s that look?” he asked me. “Funny?”
sneaking a look at my answers during a test – that’s
might possibly be stupid enough to laugh in Mrs.
I couldn’t help grinning.
how dumb he was, or so Mrs. Undermeir remarked,
Undermeir’s class. But no, the laugh – now diminish“Yeah, pretty funny, Bob. I like the one best,
catching me with a ricochet from her shot at Charlie.
ing from a roar into a sort of breathless squealing –
though, where you comb it straight out from your
She never coddled the dumb kids like some of the
was none other than my own. I had been betrayed by
forehead so it looks like a duck bill. Ha!”
kinder, more merciful teachers did. She made them
my own odd sense of humor! By Bob and his bear
“Okay, good,” he said. “I’ll go with that. Should
learn the same stuff as the smart kids. A few teachers
grease! And yes, even by Mrs. Undermeir!
get some laughs. Now what were you saying?”
let them relax in the cozy vacuum of their stupidity,
As I writhed in agony of mirth – half hilarity and
“I said that I’ve never been snatched by Mrs. U.
but Mrs. Undermeir forced them to learn everything
half terror – I could feel Mrs. Undermeir’s stiletto
I’m gonna make it the entire year without getting
the smart kids did, even though it took them three
eyes piercing my flesh. My stunned classmates failed
snatched.”
times as long. Everybody hated her for it, even the
to find my laughter infectious. He who laughs in
Bob turned one of his malevolent smiles on me.
smart kids, who were cheated out of the satisfaction
Mrs. Undermeir’s class laughs alone.
“No, you ain’t. Today you’re going to burst out
of knowing more. Anybody could see that wasn’t fair!
“You! Bob!” snarled Mrs. U, glaring at us. “Go to
laughing right in her class.”
But, anyway, I was telling you about Charlie. He
the office!”
“Not a chance!” I retorted. The mere thought of
couldn’t do arithmetic without counting on his finShe pointed the way with a finger shiny with bear
disrupting class would totally paralyze my entire
gers. Mrs. Undermeir didn’t care if he had to use his
grease. I left the classroom erect and dignified. Bob
laughing apparatus. It was like having a fail-safe
toes as well – he was going to learn just as much
went out the door sideways, doing his comical
mechanism.
math as everybody else. Charlie did too, but it was a
vaudeville dance. It didn’t elicit a single snicker.
“You’ll
laugh,”
Bob
said.
“I’ll
make
you
laugh.”
terrible strain on him. When we got to multiplying
After the principal droned his boring lecture on the
I shook my head. “No way.”
and dividing fractions, poor Charlie’s fingers moved
importance of discipline in the learning environment,
In the whole hundred years or so that Mrs. U had
so fast we had to keep a glass of water on his desk to
he ordered us back to class. As I passed the entrance
taught, I was reasonably sure that not so much as a
cool them off. It was a good thing we weren’t doing
to the coatroom, I heard strange sounds coming from
snicker had ever been heard in her class, let alone a
algebra; someone would have had to get a fire
the far end. A quick glance revealed that it was Mrs.
laugh. It was absolutely insane for Bob
extinguisher.
U. At first I thought she was crying, possibly over the
to think that I, a profoundly fearful and
Fear was Mrs. Undermeir’s one and
disappointment of failing to snatch Bob’s and my
insecure person, would achieve fame
only motivator. It was as though she did I could feel Mrs.
hair. But, no – she was laughing! Cackling, actually,
as
the
only
kid
to
ever
burst
out
laughher teacher training at a Marine boot
Undermeir’s
ing within snatching range of Mrs.
quietly to herself.
camp. She would stick her face an inch
Undermeir.
It struck me then that Mrs. U had an odd sense of
from yours, snarling and snapping, then
stiletto eyes
But he was determined. As soon as
humor too. ✦
rearrange your brain molecules to suit
her fancy. It was clearly evident to the
piercing my flesh she turned her back to scratch some
fractions on the blackboard, Bob went
person whose brain molecules were
into his routine. He took a dainty sip of
being rearranged that breath mints eihis ink bottle and made a terrible face. His greasy
ther had not been discovered or did not come in a
duck-bill hair contributed considerably to the humor.
flavor pleasing to Mrs. Undermeir. The oral hygiene
I felt a laugh coming on but easily strangled it. Bob
of an executioner, however, is rarely a matter of great
was genuinely disappointed.
concern to the victim.
Undaunted, he stuck two yellow pencils up his
I was a fairly timid person and took great care not
nose in a walrus impression. I felt a major laugh
to attract the wrath of old Mrs. Undermeir. I studied
inflating inside me. Bob imitated a walrus taking a
ways to make myself invisible in her class with such
dainty sip of tea. That almost got me, but the laugh
success that a couple of times she marked me absent
exploded deep in my interior with a muffled
when I was actually there. Pitiful victims were
WHUMP!
that caused Olga Bonemarrow to glare
frequently sent to the office after being violently
suspiciously at me from the next row.
snatched out of their desks by Mrs. Undermeir.
Feeling as though I had suffered major internal
Month after month I escaped, unsnatched, making
injuries, I wiped the tears from my eyes. Bob took
myself increasingly invisible until, at last, there were
this as an encouraging sign and pulled out all the
only a few weeks left of school. I thought I was
stops. He was doing his duck-billed walrus daintily
going to make it safely through the year, but I had
sipping tea while wiggling its ears when Mrs.
not taken into account my oddball sense of humor or
Undermeir turned around.
my friend Bob.
“Bob Meyer!” she roared, hurtling down the aisle
Bob was the class clown and felt his purpose in
like a tiny, ancient, redheaded dreadnaught.
life was to make people laugh. Man, was he good at
Bob’s ears ceased to wiggle, the pencils in his nose
it. Everyone liked him. We would gather around at
quivered, and a bit of inky drool dribbled from his
lunch to watch his routines and laugh ourselves sick.
Photo by Amber Woodin, Wingdale, NY
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The Wrath of Mrs. Undermeir
• Teen Ink
31
fiction
32
The Other Side
by Andrew Lu, Saratoga, CA
sword glowed with the light of ten
he Black Gate lay asunder, a
suns, and his shield with the light of
heap of twisted, smoking iron.
ten moons. His footsteps rang like
The Guardians were felled,
silver bells as he advanced into the
their steaming corpses smoldering in
throne room of the Dark God.
their own foul blood. The Khahasar,
Here at last was the Hero. The Palthe Black Legion, were decimated and
adin. The Champion. The Vanquisher
scattered, helpless against the foe.
of Evil. He was a confident beacon of
Their blood painted the walls and ran
power and purity, shining in the shaddown the steps of the Citadel. Even
ows of the Dark God’s kingdom.
the Horrors, chained and bound for
“At last,” said the Hero. “At last, it
centuries, had been loosed – a desperhas come to this. Goodness stands in
ate measure; they, too, were destroyed,
the heart of the Citadel, and Evil tremlying like mountains of flesh in the
bles before the Light.” He
courtyards, their very
raised his sword and
scent carrying death to
Azharis stood pointed it at the hulking
any mortal creature. The
on the throne.
last line of defense, the
up, towering a shadow
“Here, it will be finished.
Lich Lords, the Wraiths –
This is the final battle.
dozen feet
the most powerful seryourself, ye
vants of the Dark God –
above the Hero Prepare
demon!”
even they were now
Azharis sighed. There
falling before the enemy,
was silence for a moment.
writhing in unspeakable agony as they
“Have you nothing to say, Shadowdissipated into black dust on the ebony
king?” demanded the Hero, waving his
stones of the Hall of Endings.
holy sword imperiously.
Now, there was but one left, the
“What? No, not really,” said the
greatest of all: Father of Night, Eater
Dark God. “I was just wondering if
of Souls, Devourer of Worlds. Azharis,
you were done.”
the Dark God. He sat on his throne of
The Hero blinked. His face was
skulls and waited, his eyes fixed on
hidden behind the arcane silvery metal
the bronze doors to his chamber. With
of his helm, but Azharis could still tell.
a final wail, the last of the Lich Lords
He was a god, after all; he knew these
fell. There was silence.
things. Quickly, though, the Hero
Azharis waited, his blood-red eyes
regained his composure.
never leaving the door.
“No, fiend,” said he, stepping forA moment later, the great bronze
ward. “It is you who are done. Your
doors shuddered under a mighty blow,
reign will finally be ended. The people
ringing sonorously like a giant gong.
of this world will be free of your
Infinitesimal stone flakes dislodged
scourge forever.”
from the ceiling and lazily drifted
Shaking his head, Azharis folded his
down like black snow. The chamber
black, clawed hands together. “It’s aldoors shuddered again, and cracks
ways this way with you heroes. Never
spidered up the walls. The flames of
any consideration. Never any sympathe braziers wavered. Still, Azharis sat
thy. And they call me the nasty one.”
upon his throne, unmoving.
The Hero paused. This wasn’t how
The postern rang a third time and
it was supposed to go.
burst asunder. Into the throne room,
“It’s always the same,” the Dark
into the Last Chamber, charged the
God continued, waving his talons
enemy.
sadly. “You rascals … always coming
He was a huge man, positively
in here, wrecking the place, killing
massive, clad head-to-toe in brilliant,
minions left and right, flinging holy
shining armor, silver as the stars. His
fire this way and holy water that way,
and smashing all my nice pottery. You
know, you could come right up to the
top of the big tower in the middle.
Instead, you go around laying waste to
everything. There’s really no need.”
The Hero gaped but recovered momentarily. “You … you … but surely,
you see … the hellish works of evil
must be purged from the land. Your
vile creations must be destroyed.”
Azharis rolled his eyes. “I’ve heard
it all before. I don’t suppose anyone
told you how this all works?”
“Well, not as such, no,” said the
Hero. “I … I was reasonably certain
that I would come here, vanquish your
minions, destroy your dark legacy, and
then engage you in a climactic mortal
duel for the fate of the world.”
“And then what?” Azharis asked
expectantly.
Art by Daniel Naelitz, Gibsonia, PA
T
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’09
“I … you …,” the Hero
stammered. “Well, you’d be …
er … vanquished, of course,
and there would be peace and
prosperity and happiness for
centuries to come. I’d win the
hand of the princess, become a
prince and eventually the king
… the standard denouement
really ….”
The Dark God stared at him.
The Hero wasn’t quite sure
what to do with his sword. He
had been pointing it at the hellion, but he detected the beginArt by Erek Stone, Wolfforth, TX
nings of an arm cramp. After
horns, from a holy white bull on the
some deliberation, he warily lowered
Isle of Exelsus.”
the tip to the ground.
“That’s, um, very nice,” said
“What?” the Hero said finally.
Azharis.
“Now, here’s how this is
“That’s how it goes.”
going
to
work.”
“Is it?” said Azharis. “I say, do I
“How what is going to work?”
look vanquished to you?”
“This whole, you know, final battle
“Er … no, you look rather, ah,
thing.”
robust,” the Hero said. “For an evil“Oh.”
doer,” he added hastily.
“You’re going to stick me with that
“Well, do you think you’re the first
sword
– that nice one there in your
hero to come up here and start waving
hand
–
and I’m going to say someyour sword at me and talking about
thing
along
the lines of, ‘Oh no! I am
the end and final battles and such?”
vanquished,
but I shall return, you
“Of course not!” the Hero exhaven’t
seen
the last of me,’ etc. And
claimed. This he knew. “There was
then
I’m
going
to pull that lever, over
Victor the Great, and Lothar the Holy,
there
–
see
the
big
red one? Yes, that’s
and Samar the White, and … that big
the
one.
No,
don’t
touch
it, you idiot.
fellow with the hammer, what was his
There’s
a
good
boy.
I’m
going
to pull
name …?”
that
and
set
off
the
self-destruction
“Gabriel?”
mechanism for the Citadel.
“Yes!” cried the Hero. “Yes,
“Everything will start to collapse.
Gabriel. That’s the one.”
You
will make a daring escape, leap“So, you see my point then.”
ing
from
falling stone to falling stone,
The Hero looked at the Dark God
swinging
from parapet to parapet …
blankly.
you
know
how it goes. It’ll be very
“I’m not vanquished,” Azharis said
dramatic,
a
good story for the grandhelpfully. “So these things, these ‘final
children.
battles,’ they don’t seem to involve a
“Meanwhile, I get to retire for a few
whole lot of actual vanquishing, do
centuries,
maybe catch up on my readthey?”
ing,
while
you live out your nice long
“No, I suppose not,” mused the
life
as
a
hero,
perhaps saving cats from
Hero. “But, you were defeated! And
trees
and
pulling
old people out of
your power reduced. You were driven
burning
houses
and
the like.
into exile, never to appear again for
“When
the time comes,
centuries!”
I’ll
just
throw
together a
“Yes, you see, that’s
new
Citadel
at
some ex“Do you have
what I’m talking ab–”
treme
point
of
the
map, fix
“Then I shall defeat
any
idea
how
up
some
new
minions,
and
you, and the world shall
the
whole
thing
will
start
difficult it is to
be safe until such time as
up again. By then, of
you reappear!” the Hero
be
evil
all
the
course, you’ll be dead, and
shouted, waving his
no doubt some other
sword with great convictime?”
young zealous fool, pertion.
haps a distant descendant
The Dark God rubbed
of
yours,
will
be a part of an ancient
his temple with one clawed hand,
prophecy
or
something,
and he’ll get
doing his best to ignore the rivulets
your
sword
and
proceed
to ‘vanquish’
of blood that ran down his face as a
me
all
over
again.
Got
it?”
result.
The Hero stared. Azharis sighed.
“They never seem to tell anyone
“Look, sorry for going off on you
how this works,” he muttered. “Might
like
that. I’m just so bored with this
as well just give a holy sword to a
whole
tired shtick. Just give me a little
moose and call him the Hero.”
poke,
and
I’ll pull the lever, and you
“No, not moose. They’re bull
run
like
hell.
Easy as pie.”
horns,” said the Hero.
“It
seems
like
you get off rather
“What?”
easy,
though,”
said
the Hero. “I mean,
“The horns.” The Hero pointed to
you’re
all
evil
and
nasty
and ➤➤
his shining helmet. “They’re bull
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really, it’s not so bad. I get a few good
millennium, I’m evil, the next, it’s
centuries of retirement.” Azharis stood
someone else, and I get to be a … a
up, towering a dozen feet above the
Love God, or a Wine God or someHero. “Go on, poke away. It’s really
thing. Something fun, you know? To
just a formality, but it’s tradition, you
tell you the truth, I volunteered to be
know.”
the first Dark God. I thought it would
“Oh. Yes,” said the Hero. He drew
be a lark. Let me tell you, it’s not. It’s
back the holy sword, then paused.
not fun at all anymore. I can’t even
“What is it now?”
enjoy the simple pleasure of watching
“Um … well …” the Hero said
peasants run screaming these days.”
uncertainly. “I … well, I, for one,
“But–”
would like to say, um, thank you.”
“And you’re all so ungrateful, you
Azharis stared. “Really?”
self-righteous buffoons. I
“Oh, yes,” the Hero said.
do this for you – for you –
present a big, juicy com“I say, do I look “You’re … you’re doing a
bang-up job, I must say.”
mon foe, a terrifying dark
vanquished
“You think so?”
presence that mankind can
“Oh, definitely, defiunite against, who just hapto you?”
nitely. Evil as they come.
pens to be conveniently deHad me fooled completely.
feated at all the right times.
Hasn’t been a real war between the
I do this and what do I get? ‘Your dark
kingdoms for almost a thousand years.”
reign is at an end! Your vile works must
Azharis smiled, his fangs glowing
be destroyed!’ No appreciation at all!
pleasantly in the light of the luminous
None!” Azharis lapsed into sullen
Hero below him. “Well, that’s very
silence. The Hero stood awkwardly on
kind of you. That makes me feel better,
the steps before the throne of skulls.
really. I must say, you make a rather
“So … I … er … just poke you with
fine hero, yourself.”
the sword, then?” he asked quietly.
“Oh, you’re too kind.”
“There’s no battle?”
“No, really. You dispatched those
“What? No, there’s no battle. I’m a
orcs with ineffable style. And you
god, you ninny, I could turn you into
butchered the Lich Lords quite handa booger before you could fumble a
ily. Usually they’re a bit of trouble.
one-liner.”
They even killed one poor hero a
“Oh.”
few centuries ago, threw the whole
“Well, all right then, let’s get on with
schedule off.”
it. I got a little carried away there –
Dead Leaves
“Oh, my.”
“Yes, it was quite the conundrum.”
“Well, thank you.”
“Not at all.”
They stood in awkward yet affable
silence for a moment.
“I suppose we should get on with it,”
said the Dark God.
“Indeed.”
“It was nice meeting you,” said
Azharis, placing a clawed hand on the
red lever.
“The pleasure was all mine,” said the
Hero. And then he poked the Dark God
lightly on the chest with the holy sword.
*
*
*
And then, with a mighty blow, the
Hero vanquished the Dark God, who
screamed in rage and promised to return for vengeance on the world once
more, before vanishing into the darkness from whence he came. No longer
supported by its master’s dark power,
the Citadel began to collapse, and the
Hero made a daring and narrow escape
before the dark realm was drawn back
into the abyss. And the Hero lived
happily ever after with his beautiful
princess bride and the adoration of his
subjects. He left as his legacy the holy
armor and sword so that when the Dark
God returned again, there would be another Hero to face him and defeat him
and return the world to peace and
safety once more.
Or something like that. ✦
fiction
destructive and everything, and you
just get poked once, and then you’re
off to the beaches for a relaxing vacation reading Sartre? Hardly seems fair.
Seems there’s no –what do you call it –
justice.”
“No justice?” the Dark God asked
incredulously. “You speak to me of
what is fair? I’m the one who has to sit
here, holed up in this bloody dark tower
for years on end, telling slackjawed
troglodyte minions what to do, tying
their shoes for them, organizing their
raids, dealing with idiots like you who
can’t even deliver a one-liner properly,
while all the other gods get to prance
around half-naked, drinking wine and
schmoozing with easy mortal women,
and you say there’s no justice?”
“I–”
“Do you have any idea how difficult
it is to be evil all the time? Do you? I
have to be a complete bastard to everyone, forever! It’s quite wearing! Sometimes, I just want to feed a rabbit some
strawberries or something, but I can’t,
because I’m the Dark God! I’m the
Devourer of Worlds! Do you know
how much bloody pressure that is? Do
you know how depressing it is to wear
all black for 3,000 years? Do you have
any idea what it feels like to have your
hair permanently on fire?!”
“You–”
“They told me it would be a
revolving schedule. You know, one
by Daniel Towns, Portland, OR
his wife poisoning him.
his morning I spoke with my neighbor, Joseph.
“Yep,” I said. “It’s nice to be able to relax during
I was raking leaves off my driveway and patio,
the week.” I glanced down and began again to rake
and he was pulling weeds in his garden. We
the leaves into a neat pile.
waved and said hello, and exchanged the usual
Joseph’s wife’s voice rang out from the house:
niceties and neighborly greetings. He did not look
“Joe? Did you take a look at the dishwasher? I think it
very well, so I asked if he was feeling sick.
needs some oil in its gears or something.”
“No,” he said, “I feel all right. I was in the emerShe stepped out their front door, toting their toddler
gency room last night, though.”
in
one arm.
“Oh! What happened?” I was both concerned and
“Oh, hi, Amos,” she said, smiling and waving at me
surprised by his nonchalance.
across the low bushes that separated our lawns. She
“Nothing terrible; I had a bit of a stomach ache.
pointed the baby at me and made him
You’ve met my wife, right?”
wave as well. He babbled and smiled,
“Yes,” I said. “What does she have to
his face covered with applesauce.
do with it?”
“Hi, Carol,” I said warily.
“Well, she made spaghetti last night,
This woman
“How are you? I like your new car, by
and it made me a little sick because she
had
tried
to
kill
the
way.” She chatted for a while about
ground up a bottle of aspirin and mixed
the
weather and how her son, Todd, was
it in with my tomato sauce,” he said,
her husband
learning to walk and how she wanted to
watering his petunias contentedly.
buy a video camera to record his first
I was speechless. I stood with my rake
steps. I nodded, taking it all in without
in a loosening grip and mouth wide
smiling or laughing as I normally would.
open and stared at him. For several moments there
I couldn’t stop thinking that this woman had tried to
was silence in the warm late morning air, but I seemed
kill
her husband the previous night, and neither of
to consider it more awkward than he did, for he made
them
seemed to think anything of it. I found myself
small talk.
wondering whether it was polite or insane of me not
“Are you still working on that logo for the Canato mention it. I guess I decided that it was polite.
dian snowboard company?”
She turned back to her husband, setting Todd down
“Uh … yeah. I’m drafting designs right now,” I
to crawl around the yard. I picked up the trash bag
sputtered.
and began to rake leaves into it. I tried not to listen to
“That must be a fun job. I don’t get nearly enough
them, but it was impossible to ignore their voices.
time to finish my projects down at the plant,” he said,
“Joe, did you plant those roses we bought last
sighing. He sat back on his heels, resting for a moweek?”
she asked, walking slowly toward him.
ment to wipe the sweat from his reddened forehead. I
“I think they’re still in the pots in the garage. I’ll do
tried to detect any sign of emotion over the subject of
T
that when I’m finished here. Where do you want
them?” He squinted up at her, shielding his eyes from
the sun. He was very sweaty and looked quite small as
she stood over him.
“How about the side of the house next to the blueberry bushes?”
“All right. I hope I can finish before noon. What’s
for lunch?” he asked, standing.
“I’m making roast beef sandwiches,” she replied.
She still seemed taller than him.
“Mmm,” he said, “my favorite.” ✦
Photo by Annise Blanchard, Smyrna, TN
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fiction
Monster
by Rachel Epperly, Columbia, SC
open the door and wrap my arms
But, oh, it looks so delicious.
around her and tell her that I’m sorry,
A drop of butter slides from the tip
that I love her. But I don’t do anything.
of the loaf onto the plate. My mother
I listen to her bunny slippers shuffle
scoops it up with her finger and licks
downstairs to the kitchen, where she
it. Her gesture breaks my spell. I
will pour herself a glass of milk, all
immediately banish all thought of
the way to the top, and tear open a sixslipping a hunk of bread past my lips.
pack of donuts, stuffing them into her
I look into her face. Her blue eyes
cheeks. She will look at her hands
are glassy, scared, and tired, too much
covered in white powdered sugar and
for me to take in, to deal with. I focus
feel horrible, so she’ll go to the fridge
instead on my computer’s screensaver,
and grab a pack of carrot sticks that
watching a colorful ball bounce back
she’ll attempt to munch on before
and forth.
digging into another pack
She wordlessly offers
of donuts.
me the loaf, pushing it
I take my notebook
forward tentatively. I keep One day I looked
from
my pillowcase and
my eyes on the bouncing
in the mirror
catch sight of the bread
ball.
and saw myself perched precariously on
“I made it for you.”
my nightstand. In one
Her mouth turns up in a
differently
fluid motion, I knock it
feeble attempt to conoff the platter and under
vince me. I watch the ball
my bed, then grab my notebook.
turn red and bounce inches from the
I flip through page after page of
corner. Her smile fades as she places
numbers and words until I reach
the plate on my nightstand.
today’s date.
“I can get you a glass of milk if you
Jell-O: three spoonfuls
like.” Her voice is hopeful, pleading.
Water: six glasses
The ball bounces, turning blue.
Crackers: two
“Well, I’ll let myself out now. Keep
I smile. Each day I resist the monup your reading,” she whispers, pokster is a day well done. The monster is
ing a finger toward my novel, the one I
sloppy and despicable. I spend every
couldn’t care less about. Her glance
hour of every day avoiding its temptawavers between me and the bread
tions. The monster is who I can’t bebefore she turns to leave.
come. I would rather die. The monster
I know she is standing outside my
is my mother.
room, breathing softly and trying not to
*
*
*
cry. I know that she is crying. I know
For years there was no monster. She
that she is lonely. I know that I should
was just my mom. We used to spend all
of our time together in the kitchen,
baking bread and cakes, chicken and
soups. We concocted creations that
looked beautiful, smelled delicious, and
tasted even better. At night we would
by Zero Kiryu, Moosic, PA
settle on our cozy sofa, arms laden with
delicacies, my head resting against her
e is your world. He is the one you would live and die for. You love the color of his
stomach, comfortable on her rolls of
skin – different from yours – the perfect balance between light and dark, day and
beautiful freckled skin. I loved how
night. You love the way he tells you he loves you. He says he’ll marry you someday.
after a bad day she would wrap me in
But your mom does not approve. You wonder every day how anyone can be so bigoted.
her arms and pat my back before servHas she not felt the way you do at some point in her life? She doesn’t understand, just
ing me a slice of buttered bread she had
rants and raves about your “taste in men” in that nasally voice you hate – the one she only
made while I was at school.
uses when she’s angry.
One day I looked in the mirror and
Later you sit on your bed, and turn up the volume on your iPod. “All the Same” by the
saw
myself differently. I saw my arms
Sick Puppies blasts through the ear buds.
getting
rounder, my face growing
Wrong or right … black or white … if I close my eyes … it’s all the same.
thicker,
my legs stouter. I was scared. I
Your mom has forbidden you from seeing him again, and Dad’s taken to keeping a
saw myself becoming the monster.
shotgun in the living room.
For months now I’ve eaten only
In my life … the compromise … I’ll close my eyes … it’s all the same.
what I need to survive, to keep the
You remember telling him you were afraid but that you wouldn’t stop seeing him. He
monster away, to make sure I’m not
asked you to run away with him, just drop everything and run, figure it out as you went.
becoming her. I can’t look at myself
But you said you wanted to wait and see if it would blow over. The look in his eyes was
without imagining a giant me, lumbersad, as if he knew your parents would never accept him.
ing around with trunklike thighs and
You hop off your bed and start shoving clothes into an duffel bag, making a trip to the
plump cheeks. In order to keep from
bathroom for your toothbrush. You head to your desk and stare blankly at a piece of paper,
turning into her, I have to keep her
pencil in hand. You write a quote that has been in your heart from the minute your parents
away. At first it broke my heart to see
told you that you were making a big mistake. It’s short, but it’s all you need to say.
her cry, but it’s the only way.
You head down the hall to the laundry room. Your mom has piles of clothes on the
I slip my journal under my pillow. I
floor, organized by color. You grab bits from every pile and toss them to the middle, creglance at my body and can tell that
ating a mound no longer separated into lights and darks.
I’ve gotten smaller. My clothes are
Green, yellow, red, blue, black, white – all heaped into one huge pile. You lay your
much looser now.
message on the top. It doesn’t say who you’re with or where you’re going, but it wouldn’t
I’m proud but at the same time I’m
be hard to figure out.
scared. I didn’t want to become the
“Laundry is the only thing that should be separated by color.” ✦
monster, but now I’ve created a
monster of my own – someone who is
I
t’s a lie. I know it is. But I can’t
risk telling her the truth.
*
*
*
I hear my mother’s footsteps on the
carpeted oak floor. I shove my notebook into my pillowcase and grab a
novel off my nightstand, tucking my
knees under my chin, assuming a reading position. Her slippered feet stop in
front of my door. I picture her standing with her plump, freckled cheeks
pressed to the cool planks, breathing
softly, eyes closed. After a long moment, she raps gently. I don’t answer.
She lets herself in.
She looks old and ragged, from the
flaps of bluish skin beneath her eyes to
her frumpy frock, stained with grease
and ketchup from her lunch of fries
and sausage. The remnants are crusted
in the corners of her mouth, easily
discernible. Her curly hair is pulled
into an unkempt bun, a failed attempt
at masking the streaks of gray. She is
breathing hard, struggling to recover
from climbing the stairs.
My mother is holding a tray of fresh
bread. It is golden brown around the
edges and snow white like a dove
inside, beckoning me to touch it, smell
it, taste it. I recoil from my thoughts,
my face displaying a pained expression
reflected in the luminous computer
screen on my desk. The bread transforms before my eyes into a mass of
numbers and calculations. I’m hungry
but I can’t eat it. It’s caked in butter.
Too many calories. Too much grease.
Dirty Laundry
H
34
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’09
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bone thin, frigid to all around her, who
can’t stand the sight of herself.
I get off my bed, weak on my thin
ankles, and push back the curtain to my
closet. Behind piles of clothes and
blankets, I draw out the full-length mirror that I took down when the monster
first arrived. I squeeze my eyes shut
until I have it lined up in front of me.
I open my eyes and look at the girl
looking back at me. Her hair is thin
and brittle. Her cheekbones jut out in
unattractive angles. Her elbows and
knees protrude from her thin nightgown. Her skin looks stretched, and
her eyes are sunken. I touch my nose,
my eyes, my cheeks. The girl in the
mirror does the same. I search my reflection for the monster, her layers of
fat and sweat, but I can’t find her.
I sit cross-legged on the floor and
cry. I cry for the girl in the mirror, the
monster, and me. I cry for my fear, my
hunger, my pain. I cry because I want
another chance.
I don’t bother drying my eyes as I
dive for the plate under the bed. I tear
into the golden loaf and shove piece
after piece into my mouth, instantly
regretting it. I can taste bile in my
throat; my body is unaccustomed to
solid food.
I throw the rest into my closet, tears
pouring down my face. I know now
that I’ve gone too far. The monster has
been defeated, but a new one has taken
her place, one that is too strong to
stop. I know that I’m losing, but I owe
it to my mother to forgive her. It’s not
her I’m afraid of, but myself. I realize
I have hurt her, and I must make it up
to her before my time is up, before the
monster wins.
I seize the empty plate and dry my
eyes. My skin prickles as I retrieve
the loaf from my closet floor. I carry
the plate and bread – intact except for
the piece I attempted to devour – to
the kitchen.
She is sitting at the table, tears drying on her cheeks, stuffing donut after
donut into her mouth. When she sees
me with the plate, she guiltily brushes
the crumbs from her mouth.
I wrap my tiny arms around her
round ones. She seems taken aback at
the notion of me hugging her, but she
hugs me back. We stand there for a
long time until she looks at the bread.
Her face brightens.
“You ate a piece. Oh, honey, did
you like it?”
I had attributed her happiness to our
embrace, but she was rejoicing because
she thought I had eaten, which makes
me sad, but I know what I have to say.
“Yes,” I whisper, burying my head
in her neck. We both begin to cry, but
our tears are not the same. She cries
for joy that I am eating again, and I
weep because I know I will never win.
I feel terrible giving her false hope,
but it’s the only thing to do.
It is a lie. I know it is. But I can’t
risk telling her the truth. ✦
TEENINK.COM
USING THE
ADVANCED SEARCH
by Artem Camar, Orem, UT
emerging from the briars. Its large tusks
he wind whistled past Oar’s ear. It
were the first out, followed by its nose,
told of many things: a small wolf
beady black eyes, and large head. The
crouching in a densely populated
beast was five-feet tall at the shoulder!
thicket awaiting the moment to spring on
Master Keen motioned for the boys to
its prey, a young buck; a graceful swan
battle the boar. Oar was determined, yet
quickly guiding her signets to the safety
fearful; the monster could gut him with a
of their marshy nest. These sounds flew
single tusk. He glanced at Jart. His friend
past Oar’s ear within seconds.
nodded and gave a shaky smile.
The forest is lively today, he thought. I
Oar moved to the right of the boar,
wonder if Jart heard it all? Oar looked
while Jart went to its left. Both nocked an
over at his companion to see him stealthily
arrow; Oar strung up an extra one to give
trying to creep closer. Jart stepped on a dry
his attack more sting. Master Keen had
twig and froze, his face contorted in surtaught him this, warning that it required
prise at ruining his cover yet again. Oar
extra concentration and that one twitch
smiled broadly, and then quickly motioned
could loose both arrows and
for his friend to follow him;
alert the prey of your position.
their teacher was getting
The boys zeroed in on the
ahead of them. Jart scurried
They would
pig, their faces tense. Oar
forward, snapping dozens of
become men nodded to Jart, and the arrows
twigs along the way and maksoared through the air, two
ing faces that implied he was
when they
piercing the boar’s tough
stepping on glass.
made
their
hide. Jart’s arrow punctured
Both Oar and Jart were 16
the beast’s shoulder, causing
and would be considered
first kill
it to rear on its hind legs and
men today if they could make
bellow. One of Oar’s arrows
their first kill without Master
clung to the monster’s flank. Oar heard
Keen’s assistance. They were both tall,
Jart cry out with alarm; his second arrow
yet Oar had a more fluid way of moving.
had just barely missed Jart’s shoulder.
He seemed to blend into the shadows,
Both boys’ eyes widened in panic: the pig
creeping closer without his prey noticing.
had heard Jart’s cry. The beast turned,
Oar’s eyes were black and hostile, his
locked its eyes on the boy and began its
build wiry, with pale skin and sharp feacharge. It lowered its tusks and bellowed
tures. In contrast Jart was gangly – all
a war cry.
elbows and knees – and his curly brown
Oar took off running. He would not let
hair bounced when he walked. He had a
his companion die. He drew his short
bright stare and freckles covering not just
sword and staggered after the stampeding
his face but his whole body.
monster.
They were both dressed in hunting
*
*
*
garb: gray cloak, brown breeches and
I’m going to die! Jart thought. I’m
tunic, and a bow and quiver. Oar also
really going to die! I’ll never be able to
carried a half-arm sword. Oar put a long
tell Sopha I love her … never kiss Mum
finger to his lips and winked at Jart, who
good-bye … never roughhouse with my
grinned. Oar sensed the boar up ahead.
brothers again … never become a man
They heard an owl hoot. It was Master
with Oar by my side! Good-bye, world!
Keen’s signal. Through a series of hoots
Life was sweet while it lasted. Jart deand clicks, they deciphered his message:
cided he was going to go down kicking.
“Approach quietly.” The boys exchanged
That way, at his funeral, Oar could tell
mischievous glances and quickened to
them all how courageous he was.
obey their teacher.
Jart smiled past his fear as the boar
On the far end of the clearing ahead
approached, its tusks just yards away. He
was a large briar – the boar’s den. Master
drew his bow, nocked an arrow, and stood
Keen was crouched behind a low thicket,
defiantly with his shoulder facing the
arrow nocked and ready to fly. He glanced
oncoming beast preparing to impale him.
back at the boys and scowled at the noise
He let his arrow fly and it hit its mark,
they (namely Jart) were making. Oar
right in the monster’s snout! Jart felt like
shrugged and Jart smiled.
dancing!
Keen was quite old but as agile and
The pig squealed horribly, shaking its
silent as a fox. His black hair was tied in
head, trying to dislodge the arrow, but to
a severe knot. Oar had tried to copy him,
no avail. It stayed put, the swan feathers
but his hair was too stubborn and he
quivering. Jart pulled out another arrow
didn’t like it long. His hair was usually
and let it fly, but this time it missed comhalfway down his neck, with the bangs
pletely. He cursed softly and was about to
parted down the middle. He brushed a
send another when the boar began its
lock back, and then was irritated at himcharge again.
self for moving for such a trivial reason.
Oar sprinted, not caring if he stumbled.
Master Keen had worked with them for
His main goal was to reach the pig before
weeks to build up their ability not to
it gored his friend. His short sword was
fidget. The number-one rule of being a
drawn, ready to slice into its thick hide.
tracker was not to move, and in this
He screamed a war cry and stuck the
forest, that rule was the thread between
blade into the pig’s left flank. The metal
life and death.
sunk in clear to the hilt. The beast
A squeal drew Oar’s eyes from his
shrieked in pain. Oar tried to hold to the
teacher to the boar’s den. The pig was
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monster but
was thrown off.
He pulled out
his bow and arrows, letting the
shafts fly and hit
in a steady beat.
Oar smiled, his
friend was going
to live.
The pig sunk
to its front legs,
blood frothing
from its mouth. It
snorted and fell
onto its face, a
last grunt escaping its maw.
Across the
clearing, Master
Keen smiled; his
students had taken
down their first
beast. Tonight they
would celebrate in
the Main Hall of
the tavern and get
Art by Lexy Khella, Bradenton, FL
first pick of the boar’s succulent
meat, as they were carried into
now at the mercy of the boar.
manhood.
Keen saw Oar fall as he shoved Jart out
Jart and Oar clasped one another’s
of the way into a patch of briars. He cried
forearms, laughing, dispelling the tension
out in pain but quickly scrambled to help
and drama they had just survived. Keen
his friend. But there was nothing he could
was about to step forward and congratudo; his arrows were spent and he had no
late them when he saw the pig’s head
other weapon.
move. It wasn’t dead, and the boys were
Keen pumped his legs harder; he had to
just inches from its sharp tusks. He realget there before the pig became mobile
ized he could not reach the beast before it
and did more damage. As he ran he
took at least one of his apprentices’ lives.
reached for his owl-feather arrows and his
“Oar, Jart! Run!” he screamed, praying
willow bow, aiming at the boar’s head. He
they would hear him. They didn’t. He
raced forward, a third of his mind set on
raced across the clearing, determined to
his feet, another part aiming the arrow at
protect them.
the pig, and the last worrying for his ap*
*
*
prentice’s safety. He released the arrow,
Oar clasped his friend’s upper arm,
stopping just long enough to launch the
relief and pride swelling in his chest. Jart
shaft straight into the hollow beneath the
felt the same. Tonight at the feast he was
pig’s skull and shoulders.
going to kiss his mother and
With any luck, the arrow
ask Sopha to dance. He
would dig deep enough to
smiled broadly and jumped
The
beast
puncture its heart. Lady Luck
for joy. He was going to
appeared to grace Keen today,
experience life! “We did it,”
turned and
for the arrow hit its target.
Jart exclaimed, hugging his
began to charge The boar dropped, never to
friend fiercely.
get up again.
“We did it ourselves, with
When Keen finally reached
no one’s help! We’re men,
Oar, he found Jart kneeling by his side
Jart!” Oar cried gleefully.
and patching up his ankle with a bit of
Where is Master Keen? Oar wondered.
cloth from his cloak. Jart made a joke
He looked over to his teacher’s hiding
about wishing Oar had thrown him into
place and saw him racing toward them,
something besides briars. His face and
waving his arms and yelling. It sounded
neck were covered with scratches. Keen
like “Run!” Why would they need to run?
knelt, smiling widely, his eyes nearly
Oar wondered. The beast was dead at
watering with relief and pride. Jart and
their feet … wasn’t it? Oar glanced down
Oar would live to be men.
and saw the pig’s snout move.
*
*
*
He swiftly turned to Jart who had just
Later
that
evening,
Oar
and
Jart sat at
noticed Master Keen and was trying to
the
high
table
in
the
Main
Hall,
awaiting
decipher the words his teacher was shoutthe
freshly
cooked
boar.
The
low
ceiling
ing. Oar acted quickly. “Take care of
was decorated with herbs, the walls bore
yourself, Jart,” he whispered. “You were a
torches, and the whole village filled the
true friend.” Oar shoved his friend out of
hall. Grumpy old Fren was there, Tona the
the way as one of the pig’s tusks thrust
town crier, the Yzar twins, Kiip and Pore,
into his calf, causing him to fall. He was
continued on next page ➤
SEPTEMBER ’09
• Teen Ink
35
fiction
continued from page 35
and Jart’s family: his tall redheaded
father and plump mother, whom he
kissed and twirled, his sweet sister and
three older brothers who had pounced
on him. Jart smiled broadly, content.
Oar was feeling something different. He was proud that he had killed
the boar with his friend by his side,
but he had no one to share the moment
with. He felt empty. He lived alone
and had no family. His mother had
died during childbirth and had never
told anyone who his father was.
Oar took a sip of mead. They were
allowed to drink the brew for the first
time tonight; it was also tradition for
the new men to ask someone to dance,
particularly a young lady. Oar didn’t
know whom to choose. Jart would
select Sopha.
He glanced at the crowd, trying to be
polite in his mental comments. A
woman stood by the back wall, holding
her husband’s arm. She’s pretty, Oar
thought. But I would probably get a
black eye from her husband if I asked
her. He continued looking, rejecting
several others – one was too tall, another too old, a third far too young.
He could ask Jart’s mother … no, he
couldn’t. This was his manhood night.
A flash of blond hair caught his eye.
Who’s this? He thought. A newcomer?
She must have arrived with the travelwould like to speak on behalf of Oar
ing bards. She was beautiful … gortonight, seeing as his father isn’t
geous, really. Her hair was spinning as
present,” he said, glancing at Oar,
she twirled with a man who could have
who gave him a grateful nod.
been her father. She smiled gaily, and
“Today Oar proved, along with
her dimples were visible across the
Jart, that he is a man. I am so proud
room. She wore a shiny blue dress and
of him. He faced a five-foot boar this
had white flowers in her hair. Oar made
very morning and, with Jart’s assisup his mind: he would ask her to dance.
tance, killed it.”
After what felt like ages, the boar
Keen paused to gather his
was brought out. Every morsel was
thoughts. “My fellow comrades,
devoured, and according
people of this village,
to tradition, Oar and Jart
join me in raising your
chose the first pieces.
mugs to these two young
He was now
When it was time for the
men. They have truly
fathers make toasts, Jart
at the mercy earned it.” Everyone in
couldn’t have been
the hall stood and
of the boar
prouder while Oar felt
toasted the boys.
like disappearing. No one
Oar had tears in his
would toast him. All eyes
eyes. He caught Keen’s
would turn his way and then dart back
gaze and thanked him with a heartas people remembered that he was Oar
felt look. Keen smiled, and said, “To
Noonesson. His face burned with
Oar and Jart, the men.”
shame and he sank down in his chair,
“The men,” the village replied.
hoping to sneak out before Jart’s
Everyone drank and then applauded
father finished.
enthusiastically.
When the toast ended, Oar felt like
The rest of the night was feverish
he was going to die. Everyone was
and fantastic. Oar asked the blond
staring, but then with a loud cough,
bard, named Jree, to dance, and to his
Master Keen stood up, his black and
pleasure she gleefully accepted. Oar
gray hair gleaming in the torch light.
hardly felt the sting of his wound, and
He raised his pint of mead, staring into
Jree didn’t seem to notice as she
its bubbly depths thoughtfully. “I
laughed in his arms. Jart asked Sopha,
Green-Gray Eyes
A
s you saunter over to tap her on the shoulder,
I feel as if I’m watching, in slow motion, a
scene I’ve seen a million times. The eyebrows arched in surprise, the open mouth of recognition, the dazzling smile preceding the laugh – my
God, she still doesn’t know. No one knows.
Except me.
By the end of the hour, she’ll be won over by
your undeniable charm. Your looks don’t hurt either:
Art by Brittany Chapman, Washington, PA
who seemed the proudest and happiest
person in attendance that night, and
she hung on Jart’s every word, not
letting go of his arm once.
They twirled around and around
until all four of them were dizzy. Then
they talked long into the evening. The
night was perfect, and Oar finally felt
like he belonged. ✦
by Rebecca Ihilchik, Toronto, ON, Canada
first kiss, that jolting sensation of your mouth brushtousled sandy hair, understanding green-gray eyes,
ing past her trembling lips. She will read and re-read
a lopsided smile, and one infuriating dimple in your
the sentimental love letters and poems she keeps in a
left cheek when you grin.
locked box under her bed. She does not realize her
She’ll give you her number. You’ll call the next
time has almost run out.
morning, full of flattery and humorous anecdotes –
Then, one day, you will lead her away for a “talk.”
I always wondered, did you look those up on the
She will be beside herself with stunned, salty tears.
Internet beforehand? You’ll arrange to meet that
You will pat her on the back as you would a dog and
night, maybe at a posh café or for the newly released
walk away, leaving her with so many questions: how
blockbuster film. You will laugh and joke and enand when and why? She will call out for you, but her
thrall her once more.
throat will be congested with fear and regret. She
And it will begin.
will sit shakily and review your history, trying to
You will drive her home in your father’s rusty red
identify what she did wrong. She does
Honda. You will twist the key slowly as
not realize that she has done nothing but
you turn off the engine, and you will
hint at a next time – will there be one?
You will spin fall prey to your charm.
All this I envision in a tenth of a secOf course, she’ll assure you, as she
your web oh so ond: the tears, the memories, the unsaid.
places a delicate hand on your warm
As I watch your lips move and your
arm, of course there will be.
carefully
green-gray eyes flash with the thrill of
A beat of silence. Then, in that captithe game, I do not notice her faltering
vating way that only you know, you will
smile and her furrowed brow. Instead, I see your
raise those green-gray eyes to hers. Perhaps she will
mouth form a small “O” of shock as she collects
remark how uncannily like the ocean they are. She
her belongings and strolls away. As she passes the
does this in hopes of your lips on hers. She does not
place where I sit watching, I glimpse the faintest
know that it has already been scheduled for the next
hint of a smile, the corners of her lips upturning
date. There will be no kiss tonight.
slightly in acknowledgment. Before I can react, she
You will let her go, leaving her shaking knees to
is gone.
turn to soft pudding. You will drive away, dust trailI glance at you and am pleased to notice a frown
ing behind your wheels. She will unlock her front
disfiguring your pleasant face. Didn’t see that one
door and stumble up to her bedroom, unaware of
coming, did you? Those green-gray eyes are angry as
what she has just begun. She does not know yet what
you catch me watching. I smile in response.
is to come.
Then I gather my things and, humming, follow the
You will spin your web oh so carefully, and she
girl out. ✦
will begin to truly care. She will often recall your
Photo by Shirley Yu, Metuchen, NJ
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SEPTEMBER ’09
• Teen Ink
37
poetry
Antique, or Just
Unwanted
Photo by Jessica Tenekegian, North Hills, CA
shh silence
my mother is beautiful
like antique metal
and dusty engagement rings.
i look in her tarnished silver
hand mirror
and try to turn my face
in search of resemblance,
but the glass
is freckled with age
and i have mascara runs on my cheeks
so i put it facedown again
and draw a smile on its dusty back
instead.
wind chimes sound outside
as my fingertips brush her earrings
and necklaces,
remember times
when i’d sit on her bed
and choose jewels for her to wear
while sipping warm milk
from a covered cup.
there’s a watercolor hung
over a crack in the off-white wall
of a flower vase i did in fifth grade.
i still taste the pride
as i stare at it now
while fingering my mother’s dark-gold
engagement ring
adorned with a sapphire framed by diamonds
she refuses to have it resized
(i would too.)
by Grace Gregory, Greenfield, MA
Sol Invictus
Her hands are ice, in color and to touch;
They shake with winter chill in summer heat.
Perhaps her words may tend to say too much,
And yet, her truths are never quite complete.
Her eyes are not like gems, not past compare
But river stones that time has worn away.
The sunlight mourns to tangle in her hair,
Her skin not porcelain, but brutish clay.
We pass upon the avenue at dusk
Her smile is sweet, a trap for butterflies.
She rattles, wind-born, winter’s empty husk
And I give honest thanks for honest lies.
No frozen moon could hold such distant chill;
She doesn’t know. Perhaps she never will.
by Jennifer Aronson, Phoenix, AZ
Sitting on a plastic table
At a garage sale
The dust drapes an angelic figurine
The soot tickles her blank eyes
They stare at you
They stare at everything
They stare at nothing
Her marble dress
Is French blue
Faded, warm to the look
Cold to the touch
So deceiving
But not meant to be
The pink lips
Spotted with white
Are worn
So old
That they’ve curved down into a frown
Wishing
Someone would touch her
Consider laying a quarter on the plastic,
And taking her home
It’s every girl’s wish, you know
To
Be loved
By someone
Anyone, really
Just as long
As they can feel
Wanted
Useful
To know they belong in a heart
Or
Even
On a mantle
by Winter Katterhenry, Jacksonville, FL
Piano Keys
The angelic sound paints itself into my mind.
The undoubting rhythm of Largo.
In a moderato, my fingers sway across
white and black.
The song has a ring so gentle and lovely
and sublime.
Canon comes to mind and I play.
And I play, my eyes drift shut.
A memory cuts into my drift and harder now
I play and I play.
A wise saying crosses my memory, reminding
me of something.
And my eyebrows furrow out of confusion.
Then suddenly I have the urge to clench my
teeth and start all over again.
The angelic sound burns into my brain.
The unforgettable notes of Étude imprint
themselves and now …
And now I seek a better song.
Across the white keys I play, then a black
and another white.
I play, play, play.
How I simply love to play!
Playing the Entertainer I get a joyful bounce
to wash away earlier thoughts.
I sit alone in my room and play.
The keys to my piano, my eyes enjoy
what they see.
I play and I continue to like it.
So I play Hungarian dance on my piano keys.
by Liyah Mitchell, Muskegon, MI
Faded
Bullet Point Life
It is a single moment
Frozen in time
Embracing an emotion
Capturing it to call upon
its beauty
Like a butterfly
caught in a hungry net
It is a mixture of happiness,
Nostalgia and regret
A reminder of better times
Perhaps a small token
of all that remains
Your only wish is to return
and do it over again
But the entity of time
is not compassionate
It allows no room for second chances
It is unforgiving
The chance has passed
All that is left is a single moment,
Frozen in time
To be gazed upon
when a faded memory
is not enough.
A cold, hard dot
Marks the start
The words can’t make a complete
Sentence
Sometimes, a verb isn’t present
No punctuation no correct grammar
Line after line
An unending to-do list
Meant to organize
And disrupts instead
Mandatory actions
One after another
Presides over all
inferior intentions
No space for accidents
No room for
Maybe
Or
If
Keep to the schedule
It’s your life
So live it like you want
All ready, the way you like
A Bullet Point life
by Rachel Muntz, Fullerton, CA
by Temi Obaisi, Delanco, NJ
Newsweek
Grandma’s Hands
There is a picture of you, Nameless Man,
On the corner of this spread and I study
your face
Rivers
Contained only by a thin sheet
Of silky skin
Twine their way over the surface
Of porcelain hands
Your knuckles curled under, your knees
pressed to
The ground, your rifle pointing forward
Bullets strung in strands around your chest,
around your
Waist in rounds
Their heads facing upward – a time of death,
an enemy’s name
Stamped across each of their metal tips
And God knows you will aim for their heart,
for their brain,
For the places where the life is
And if you make it back alive, Nameless Man,
You will stand proud beneath your flag
Your soul lost in the corpses and shells
(They say that “war kills them all”)
by Edye Pucciarelli, Pittsburgh, PA
Comfort Zone
Welcomed back with lukewarm arms,
you are back to the basics.
Like an old pair of jeans that worn the
day before,
it fits you perfectly.
An itchy sweater,
an ugly jacket two sizes too big,
you look ridiculous, but you are safe from
the turbulent jungle.
Out on a limb, you came from.
The bruise on your shoulder
compares nothing to the shame that
debilitates you
from standing tall like you once had.
It was Chance, perfectly orchestrated
but entirely out of your power.
Like decay, deprived of flesh,
crumbling to where you
belong.
by Kristin Benes, Downers Grove, IL
38
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’09
•
POETRY
Once
Upon a paintbrush
These fingers did clasp
And they danced across paper
Waltzing
Swirling
Swinging
Gliding
To a symphony of colors
Creating visual music
Now
Unable to paint
Without the guidance
Of owl eyesight
They lie idly on the table
In repose
As my hands do the waltzing
Across zebra piano keys
Notes falling into the ears
Of my grandma
Whose hands used to dance
by Tia Heywood, Haines, AK
Frustrations
The clink of clean dishes,
Barely covers the sound of your fussing,
Stinging eyes,
But I hold the tears back with all I’ve got,
There must be a hole where your heart is,
I wonder who took it out?
You blame it on me and all my
disappointments,
Laugh lines used to circle your lipgloss
covered mouth,
But were replaced by a tense jaw
And a frown,
The words,
“I’m proud of you”
by Ariyana Boulden, Woodbridge, VA
Shangri-La
The day the starfish were high,
we were swimming toward the sun
and nirvana was only a stroke away.
We carried stories in our stomachs
and let them bubble up from our throats
until we could see them wrap around
the waists of street venders.
The merry-go-round music tangled in my hair
but I never wanted to shake it out.
Your breath was in my lungs
when the citrus-sucking sunshine
made your heart skip a beat.
Our feet burned black on the boardwalk
when we walked too far,
looking for where the ocean herself was born.
When the mermaids called our names,
we waded through tide pools,
let seaweed grow around our ankles
and promised never to uproot them.
And finally the seagulls brought us
aphrodisiacs from the Gods
so we climbed the lightning bolts
and became a new constellation.
by Georgina Cannie, Needham, MA
California
You laughed only once all day –
when i choked out good-bye and
You knelt to tie my tattered laces.
staring mercilessly at the top of your head,
i counted the dark swirls and they
were speckled
achingly with white and the soreness there
something besides the brittle cold that
turns breaths
into cumulous clouds.
somebody across the park wears the same scarf
light pink and i can tell from here that it’s that
soft kind of wool that doesn’t even itch and
days from now, your future sees movie stars or
palm trees –
but right now, it’s just the snow on
scratchy mittens
and pale ice that scars my hands.
somebody wears the same scarf as me
and thinks about california.
You look up at me with ice forming
along your eyes and cheeks.
for a second, i thought
You said
You’d stay.
by Debbie Ghim, Arlington Heights, IL
Leaving My Mother in
the Kitchen for Things I
Don’t Really Need to Do
I wish I had the time
To stop and chat
But I have some things to do right now
That I can’t get out of
I’m sorry
I know I said I would
But we can always talk another day, right?
It’s not like we only have today, right?
Right?
The path between the front door and the
driver’s seat
Reminds me that there are seventeen stones
sunken into the soil
Including the one
I made in first grade
With the dragonfly
In shining slivers of glass
I know you said you liked it
But I really have no way of knowing
‘Cause everyone tells their kids that
I once heard of a boy who
picked fights
so someone would throw him
in juvie,
and he could write.
What a fool.
Not because he had incriminated himself,
(people incriminate themselves every day)
but because
every mind is solitary confinement
and every poem,
a fight.
Robert Frost
Take everything I have ever made and run it
through me. Let me soak up
every bitter emotion. Let’s pray I make it to
the hospital, so as doctors and
nurses “tsk” and task I can discover that I
don’t want to be
stitched back up, I don’t want to be saved.
No.
I want to be made into
Teen In
an example.
RA k
“Look” they will say,
ReadW
Choiceer’s
“Come see.”
“Look.”
“Come see.”
I wish my madness
Extended beyond High School Angst.
I wish my insanity
Had more substance.
I wish the way I feel now,
Would matter once I’ve lived ten more years
And felt things much harder.
But mostly,
I wish I had endured enough psychosis,
To write
Just like Robert Frost.
How I wish I could string together
simple words,
Like
Snow
And
Woods,
And have the sense to walk in them.
by Matt Rogers, Maplewood, NJ
And someday, have everyone know those
words that I once thought in my head, then
wrote on a tablet, then punched in on my
loud black typewriter.
Right now
I know you’re getting ready
To casually flick the garbage disposal switch
And return the bread to the drawer
Where it lives
Between the cutlery and plastic bags
Swinging back around
To sort the forks and knives into their
little burrows
In the wash crate
White plastic mesh
Constructed to withstand
High heat and sudsy water
I start the engine
And the rumbling reminds me
That the last thing I ate
Was cinnamon toast
That you made for me
And you ate the heel
While I got the good pieces
That were fluffy on both sides
Somewhat unfair
Considering you prepared everything
All I did was clear my plate
And leave the tray on the counter by the sink
As if it would have taken too long
To rinse it off and put it in the dishwasher
I can only wish now
That I will get the chance
To drop a little gratitude
In your tip jar
The one I’ve been filling with hugs
For quite a long time
by John Fisher, Hickory, NC
Detention Center
The Architect
Seasons
I wish I could be just like Robert Frost.
But those kinds of words and sentences,
poems and sentiments,
Only come from truth and experience.
So I can’t be just like Robert Frost.
Because my madness, my insanity, my feelings,
Are just those of someone
Who has not really experienced …
Well, anything, really.
Yet.
Photo by Susannah Benjamin, Greenwich, CT
by Antonia Chandler,
Lake Forest Park, WA
Hands
Tear into this poem
You’re subsistent like a fever,
And I’ve got the flu.
My chattering teeth and carbuncles
Are just remnants of you.
Tear into this poem,
rip out its roots
and chop away its stringy structure.
You’re in my hand, doll
My sweet, I’ve had my fun …
Times were great until you rehashed my scars
And realized you’re the one –
The one who could shake my universe.
Deceit … all these times.
Translucent eyes lied
In your beautiful plaything-face.
I was distracted and now testify.
I exclaim that if beauty lies in the skin,
It will be masked by the blood, the benefactor
When he realizes what the mask causes
Reciprocation, Deviation, Debilitation
Are starkly concealed by the makeup of beauty.
They plant my grandmother into the
frigid earth,
and I want to ask just how they plan to
harvest her next season.
You’re subsistent like time.
And even though you’re mine –
As I grow wizened and turn gray –
You win the battle day-by-day.
And I’m still alive – even if it’s this state
With a pervasive plaything in the hand
Of me, an ambitious castle for a princess
To dwell in until I fall to sand –
I am trapped in my own dungeon
And bound to let time decide our fate.
You are insuperable.
by Myrah Fisher, Jacksonville, FL
by Cam Cunningham, Cincinnati, OH
And my relatives, the skeletons of the North,
tell me it’s like
the snow smothering the crops,
a hot sun melting the ice,
the seeds steeped in the soil
emerging once again, green.
Dislocate this poem,
feel your fingers through
its rhythm and peel
away the alliteration
that binds this poem together.
Consume this poem,
feel the predicates dribble
out your mouth as
you crunch them out of existence
Insult this poem,
call out its [“important”]
images and themes
and crush them into
powdery debris
Fully destroy and defile this poem,
take its spine of stanzas
dismantle each column and
puncture away each word until
they barely utter a syllable.
Incinerate this poem,
watch the embers piece as
the smoke implodes
and circle of ash that remains
Sweep up that poem
and give it a name.
by B.T. Cole, Chicago, IL
by Randie Adler, Tenafly, NJ
POETRY
•
SEPTEMBER ’09
• Teen Ink
39
What I See With
My Eyes Closed
I close my eyes and little windows pop up on
my eyelids
I pull the drawstrings, trying to close the shades
But I’m stuck in my thoughts.
I wait for something brilliant to implode on
my eyelids
But I’m filled with
Nothing,
A poison with a smiley-face sticker covering
the skull.
The land of the dead ensnares me, holds on to
every drop of me,
Keeping me in their line of lost souls.
Crickets
Asthmatic
I once heard that to write well
You have to write what you remember.
I don’t know where this voice comes from
since my lungs are coated
with 10 millimeters of the finest dust
and my tiny mouth
can’t afford to pleasure
the heaving rhythms crunching through
my tangled prose
And this is what I remember;
Sun-popped freckles danced upon our
overcooked bodies,
And opened pores dripped with sweat.
Green blades of wet grass dangled on our feet,
As we leaped about in our summer skin.
Crickets laughed at the moon,
And drinks spilled on the fire,
As we sat in our own smoke for hours,
In the dusk of the summer dirt.
I see the line encompasses lands
And vast escapes of the ones who never
made it,
Never succeeded in playing the game,
Learning the rules.
And in one moment summer blew away,
Like a red balloon
That slipped from a child’s finger at a carnival.
And we shed our careless skin,
As the leaves leaked their colors,
And the pumpkins were being picked from
their patches.
Maybe that’s what I fear;
That I follow the rules, play the game
Only by instinct, which requires me to
forget thought,
Give in to my senses,
Play the way I’ve played since I discovered I
had to.
And then it just happened.
The grass coiled brown,
And the rotting leaves blanketed the streets.
And the cancerous pepper began to spread
With each passing month.
And you started to wither like a towel
Accidentally left out in the rain.
I used to think I was great; I could follow
the rules,
Accept all the nonsense the world
couldn’t handle.
I’d give anything to
Hold those moments in my fingertips,
between my toes
Like sand. Never letting one drop fall.
If only our favorite moments had lasted a
little longer,
Then maybe we wouldn’t have to lose sleep
Over what we did wrong,
Or what we would do over.
I realize now that I was a toy,
Being who they needed me to be.
I’m not sure I want to be a toy anymore.
For one, I needed constant rewinding,
Reminding.
But one day, I will run out of winds
And no one will think to rewind me.
Then where will I be?
For what’s a toy without a human to rewind it?
Who am I without a human to
Rewind me? Remind me.
I realize now, now that I can control
Some aspects of the game
That, yes, life can be about choices.
But sometimes
We store ourselves in too many bottles.
Package ourselves away
Into underwhelming nothingness.
Need to stop these thoughts.
Stop the senses and all their
Impatient, over-intensified feelings.
Need to open
My
Eyes.
by Chaya Berger, Flushing, NY
Got a Cold
And like the crickets preaching
Through the meadows in June,
There’s comfort in the sound of existence
When the IV beeps,
Or when the tank of oxygen puffs with each
inhale that is taken,
In hopes that tomorrow will bring
something better.
In hopes that life will carry on for one
more night.
And it is in this moment that
Freedom is stolen.
And everyday gratifications
Quickly become everyday impossibilities.
That life is just a vessel waiting to be released,
Because there’s always an ambushed soul
That didn’t get the chance.
And this,
This is what I will remember.
by Kara Schoen, No. Dartmouth, MA
Sour Summer
Sour lemons,
A sunny face.
Open windows
And a familiar place.
Sour boredom
Burgers sizzling.
Rickety tree house,
Sodas fizzling.
Sour grass,
Pinky toes.
This is living,
The way everyone knows.
Stuffy nose
Full sinuses
This may be a
Day of minuses
by Maggie Apple, Greensboro, NC
by Kira Jorgensen Duus, Roseville, MN
I wonder if maybe it is not me that is speaking.
Maybe it is allen ginsberg and
alexander supertramp
washing their dirty socks beneath my trachea
discussing in endless dictation
the glory of their lives before death
before, when their blood ran clean and thick
and bright oxygen screamed through
their pores
by Alice Beecher, Hopkinton, MA
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’09
•
POETRY
I know you want to stay here forever, love,
trust me, I do
I know you want to stay here forever, my
love, I would like to, too
But, summer is coming to an end
Even now, still in August, the leaves are
beginning to change
Pretty soon we’ll have to say good-bye and
go back to our lives
Yours in Massachusetts
Mine in Washington
You’ll look out into the Atlantic and see the
gray ocean swells
Perhaps you’ll think how the gray ocean
On a stormy night looks remarkably like
my eyes
I’ll look out into the Pacific and see the blue
sea moving peacefully
Perhaps I’ll think how the blue sea
On clear days looks remarkably like your eyes
I know you want to stay here forever, I do, too.
But summer is coming to an end
Pretty soon we’ll say our good-byes and go
back to our lives
On opposite sides of the country, looking out
into two different seas
Perhaps you’ll think of me; perhaps I’ll think
of you
by Kourtney Swank, Burien, WA
Contradictions
Photo by Jenn Branch, Cincinnati, OH
Reminds Me
of Summer
Windows down, hand outside, riding on the
waves of the breeze
mixes with the sound of static from the radio
and the smell of the greasy potato chips.
Feet on the dashboard, turquoise-painted
toenails.
She laughs at a joke, smiling at him, one wrist
resting on the wheel.
White sunglasses slide down her nose.
Playground’s swing set, sand under heels as
they kick off, a running start
into the sky, pumping their legs, higher
and higher
until one lets go, soars, lands, rolls.
Grass stains on pant legs
that you hope never come out in the
wash, completely.
Lying out in the sun, sweat mixes
with sunscreen,
back is sticky against the rubber chairs.
Heat presses down, suffocating.
Dive in.
Goose bumps, water up your nose, handstand
on the concrete floor.
Over as soon as it started,
all that is left is a stack of photos waiting to
be organized,
a tan line quickly fading,
and you sitting and wondering, as the sun sets
earlier and earlier,
if you dreamed it all.
by Alex Kloos, Evergreen, CO
40
Perhaps You’ll
Think of Me
The logs are burning, but the fire’s cold
The sun is out, but the day is old.
The leaves are moving, but the air is still
The plant is green, but the life’s been killed.
The eyes are eager, but the thoughts are scared
The voice is dull, but the memory cared.
The cup’s half full, but the hope is gone
The mind wants night, but the heart
wants dawn.
The woods are quiet, but the echoes cry death
The ocean is silent, but the lungs scream breath.
The mouth says yes, but the conscience says no
The feet stay still, but the legs long to go.
The words won’t come, but the rhythm is loud
The fear says later, but the pen says now.
by Kelsey Vaughn, Meadow Vista, CA
Charlie Brown’s
Annual Kicking of
the Football
(Haikus of childhood memories of the
Peanuts characters)
Once again running
Steadily moving forward
Yes! He will connect
Lucy promised him
She will keep the football still
Crash! Same as always …
Ouch! That really hurts!
No more playing with Lucy
Tricked! Maybe next year …
by Amy Harleson, Wolfforth, TX
Dragonflies
before i even open my eyelids,
I know you will be gone.
And the dragonflies that danced
in the mist of the sprinklers
will be gone too.
I wont smell summer anymoreBut the cold frost of winter
That will form icicles in my hollow bones.
Seasons later, I will still be recovering from
this one.
July brought laughter,
August whispers of anticipation and fear
An entire symphony constructed with heartbeats
I hastily scrambled to catch the seconds
Slipping through my fingers, and out of my
mind
And then sunlight hit your face
But thank god, moonlight concealed mine
I swear time froze
And everything, from the smell, to the look in
your eyes
Hung around me for hours afterwards
September split history
And every event or recollection that follows
Will be defined as “before” and “after”
A sign, I’m sure, that parts of me are trapped
in times past.
I trace my path along the red veins
The black canvas in my eyes
That faithfully paints my memories
In acrylic paint; violent red, deep brown
Replaying what I want seen
Just once more
Before I bring myself to awaken
And loose them, the whispered secrets, and
acrylic paintings
All over again
by Fatima Mirza, Fremont, CA
Don’t Cross Me
Why would you say that?
I know you’re prone to speaking
before thinking,
But if ex-addicts can refrain from their poisons,
Then you sure as hell can learn to keep your
forked tongue in line.
And where do you get off acting so
holier-than-thou?
From what I can conclude, we’re all seated in
wooden desks.
We each write with number two pencils.
So where’s the throne you decided to place
yourself on?
I don’t see it.
Where did the malice originate?
I wasn’t even breathing in your direction
When I heard the hiss of your voice divulge
what it should have kept hidden.
So that’s how you want to play, huh?
I’m game.
Believe me, boy, I’ve got the rage of a
wild horse –
A potent mix of fear and fury toward
my enemy.
My grudges last …
Don’t cross me again.
by Katie Dean, Waxhaw, NC
Everything I Do +
A lot of things …
am from a crowded three-bedroom home,
One Mistake = Yelling IFrom
a truthful poem,
And No Thanks
A dewy blade of grass,
I do my best,
But you don’t care.
You see all the mistakes I make;
Never the good things I do.
I go straight from school to another,
To pick up the two youngest siblings;
Taking them home with me to do chores
and homework.
Never do I get one thanks.
At 5 p.m. the third and fourth siblings
get home.
I make them do their homework and chores;
Feed them if you’re not home by 6:30 p.m.
Never do I get one thanks.
But today.
I fell asleep after the other two got home,
And because they didn’t do their chores right
– didn’t eat,
I got yelled at – again no thanks.
Who Is Left to Love?
If the black man
Hates the white man
And if the white man
Hates the red man
And if the red man
Hates the yellow man
And if the yellow man
Hates the black man
Then who is left to love?
And a purple cast,
Healing my battle wounds.
I am from a broken spirit,
From a soulful lyric,
And a cold embrace,
I didn’t want to hold.
I am from rainy days,
A blissful haze,
I’m from the Lord’s good hands,
A wonderful Man,
He put me on this land,
To tell you about a journey,
I am taking,
It’s called Life,
And it’ll have its strife.
When it's done,
I’ll have a lot of things
To say I’m from …
by Correena Spangler, Holgate, OH
Noon
by Kayla Morris, Crayon City, OR
I can’t do one thing wrong;
You depend too much on me;
That’s what you say.
No thanks again today – just yelling.
Excuse me for making one mistake.
Excuse me for being tired.
Excuse me for having a bad day.
Why don’t you yell at me for it? – never mind
you’ve got that covered.
You’re tired when you come home;
Don’t want to act like a parent.
Oh, you poor thing – I’m 16;
How do you think I feel – especially when I
get no thanks?
I try to do my best,
But that’ll never be good enough for you.
So just yell at me,
And don’t thank me – like always.
by Christine Heffner, Augusta, GA
La Attaque Called
Feminine for
a Reason
if only fingertips could
move as swiftly as the thoughts
flittering, dancing, floating
tickling reality
alas! almost there
tip of that damned tongue
always letting things slip
a w a y
from that jubilant mind
trumpeting profundities
profanities
silence.
breathe.
teethmovesofastbutstillcannot
catch
those fleeting, ignorant thoughts
from hopping out of that Little Too Big mouth
those softish red lips
that pretty darling face.
by Jessica Boyer, Lake Placid, NY
Photo by Allie Kolz, Lake Villa, IL
Dogwood
The tissues by me
On the floor
Are far too radiant to be tissues;
And in the night,
Bear more semblance to blossoms fallen
From a dying dogwood tree.
Dying alone
In a mothballs-and-spiderweb bed
With only the shafts of sunlight –
Those that struggle through
Grime-sealed windows –
To hold my hand
The flickering dust motes in the air
Are the ones to stroke my face
And it is the scuttling of spiders
In hidden woven realms
With the buzzing of flies
And the clanging of the long-broken furnace
That whisper reassurances
In murmuring stream tones
And harmonize with the clinking
Of beer bottles festooning the clothesline
Dusty and already seeming empty, hollow
Those to see me off
The green turtle lamp
Paper cast cracked with time
Laying open the tender meats within
And the velveteen bear
With the falling-out eye
And patchy fur
And the dusty feather
From better days
Fluttering with my breaths
Up, down, twitch
Until it lies still
The silence of death
Is beautiful
And the clock tolls
Twelve
by Birch Malotky, Shorewood, MN
by Ariel Henderson, Cartersville, GA
Because
What the hawk
perhaps sees
And then
They all tell you that
It’s for
Your own good,
And when you
Ask
“Why”
There’s no reply
Except
That
Child-dreaded
A quilt of color lies beneath it,
As it slices the heavens
Like a blade through margarine.
The geometric pattern seen only
By the vigilant eyes
Of the single screech skimming
Over, around, and through the clouds
What a wonder to behold.
I might wonder if he
Views an equally stunning prospect.
I wish to ask if he sees
A flowing river flanked by lush,
Green, rolling mountains that climax
In stunning ivory apexes.
I only dream of what he sees
As he flips through the sky,
For I know it is an image
That will never amaze my eyes
“Because.”
You can ask
And ask
But
Resolute adults
Always chide
With a stinging
“Because.”
by Sophia Nissler, Hillsborough, NC
by Jack Goldfisher, Los Angeles, CA
POETRY
•
SEPTEMBER ’09
• Teen Ink
41
A Learner’s Permit
Déjà Vu
gripping the wheel
and gritting my teeth
ignoring my father
sitting next to me
while trying to avoid
the bright red truck
parked on my right
i see another little girl
gripping the handlebars
and gritting her teeth
ignoring her father
walking next to her
while trying to avoid
the dark red mailbox
coming up on her right
both of us wondering
when daddy will take off
the training wheels
I can see it again
That place
On the highway
I’ve been here before
It’s bittersweet, this remembering
Like remembering the smell
Of a summer
Long forgotten
I’ve been here before
But this ain’t gonna stay
‘Cause it’s past, gone, good-bye
And I can’t revive it
Because it’s that sweet tune
that you just can’t seem to remember
it’s that taste of popsicles
in a hot summer
long ago
long forgotten
by Elizabeth Schubert,
Oklahoma City, OK
Keep moving forward
For every person who has to
embrace promising,
Few are willing.
It will be very difficult.
Take courage and patience.
Take advantage of the opportunity.
It will take a long time to develop.
Dramatic rallies will forgo big gains.
It’s that record that’s too scratched
to play again
but the haunting tune
spills out anyway
and unknowingly
dances by your ear
You stood where no one can see you,
Where no one would notice you.
Were you wishing someone would call out
your name,
So you could walk over and feel wanted?
Are you discontented?
Have you been yearning to belong?
You felt like your world was caving in,
Yet you would never admit it, although I
could see it.
You have all these fears and no one to tell
them to.
Is this what you call pain?
Is this the point where you’re finally going to
claim your life back?
Just gather yourself together and leave.
There’s nothing here worth saving anyway.
Your world is caving in and I can see it.
I see the pain you’re in.
There’s nothing left now, trust me.
Get up and reclaim what’s yours.
Your world is caving in, but I’m here to
help you.
I’m here to fight with you.
by Michelle Guilbault, Peoria, AZ
by Kira England-Carroll, Boulder, CO
Done Before
Watch the fire blaze as I know it’s
done before
Remember the days you cried and told
him nevermore
Taste the air of patience, as you’ve cut out
That piece of life
You feel the framed glass breaking, but
You’ll never cut the strife
There are signs, beyond that rally,
Reasons to believe.
Long-term optimism is important.
Keep moving forward,
And out of the woods, winners.
by Chris Buelow, Hartland, WI
Death
Leaving you
Empty
Like a cave
Mother bear gone
Leaves the baby
To survive
By itself
You Bend Until
You Break
Photo by Katherine Armstrong, San Antonio, TX
The Paint House
Leave the fire’s blaze as I know it’s
done before
Forget the days you cried and told
him nevermore
Spit out the air of patience, as you’ve
Cut out that piece of life
You’ve bandaged the thin glass breaking,
But you’ll never be his wife
Night and Day
Like night and day,
They belong together.
They depend on each other.
They need each other.
He is bright and warm with his perfect smile.
She is dark and mysterious with her black eyes.
As he lights up the air with his presence, her
eyes sparkle like the stars that
come with nighttime.
As she reveals her luminous smile, curved
carefully to match the crescent
moon, his blue eyes mirror the sun’s joy.
Though very far apart, they are always near.
When one hides its face in shame, the other
will come to its rescue.
Her nights are filled with pursuing his
warmth as her star-speckled hands swim
through black water to find his handsome face.
His days are bursting with impatience as he
waits for her smile to cast its light, to
set the illusion-filled mood.
When his eyes open to reveal the beauty that
lurks within him, her smile is faint
behind his radiant shine.
A piece of her always remains when she is
away, waiting there to remind him
that she’ll always be there.
She was there when gray gloom covered his
jubilant colors.
She’d wait as he cried his heavy tears of pain
and sorrow until the gloom faded away.
He knew she was there,
She was waiting for him …
She was the reason why the strong winds
would sweep through the trees when
he laughed.
She was the reason for his radiating heat
that warmed the hearts of others when he
couldn’t contain his happiness.
She was the reason for his cold, bitter tears
that froze the atmosphere when he cried
because her smile was nowhere to be found.
She was the reason for the beautiful colors
that he would paint in the sky when she
returned to him.
By Meloni Wall, Thomson, GA
She was always there.
She was always waiting.
Aboriginal
Waiting for the day he would realize that she
loved him as much as he loved her.
Just like night and day.
They belong together.
They follow each other.
They love each other.
Now she’s gone
Never able to talk to her
Never able to tell her
You loved her
A gang of the Creative Creed,
Sleep the day in the Paint House,
Waste the night in the Paint House,
Included in an artist’s self-portrait,
Connected by the bleach, the ink, the brazen
cheap paint,
That runs in the veins of the Family of Fame,
Like vampires we drain our muse,
The hunger isn’t tamed,
Our time won’t end,
In the primal urge to show ourselves in love
or hate,
In ink or paint,
In wit and friendship,
Or violence and conflict,
Time can stand still.
Upon different points in my life,
I visited an ageless man of unique skill.
Catering to me, he offered many options
Of how to give my life over,
How to compromise and give happiness
to another.
His services would sometimes render weapons,
And sometimes for sport, other times for show.
He would not explain to me his secret.
Countless times I would ask him, would beg
of him,
Because I did not understand.
All I wished was to understand.
The pleasure always came back to pain.
“But what else do we have to live for?” he
asked me.
I didn’t have an answer.
It was his craft, ageless.
He pushed me to the edge of a reckless
risk-taker,
And he was called Love, the boomerang maker.
by Jose Montes, Mount Prospect, IL
by Ben Orgill, Southampton, England
by Julia Rawnsley, Omaha, NE
by Francine Hendrickson, Arden, NC
My time at the Paint House off the
leafy avenues,
Autumn gold and they glint like the summer,
Settle into whirling youth in all its violence,
Passionate hate and loathsome romance,
An upstanding cast in the vivid theater of
the times,
The marriage of cynics and poets (we are one
and the same),
Tears
Lose their shape
Exploding out
Running down
Salty
Warm
The taste of loneliness
Memories rush at you
First day of grade school
Last day of college
Birthdays
The good days
And the bad
The many times you yelled
I hate her
And the many times
You never said
I love you
42
Teen Ink •
SEPTEMBER ’09
•
POETRY
by Michelle Levy, Cypress, TX
See the world
I can see the world in you
the Grand Canyon in the crevices of your palm
hiking through each cliff,
traced with my fingers
Niagara Falls in your tear ducts
I can sail a boat through them,
blown by the wind of my breath
even the Milky Way in your eyes
sparkling colors against a dark canvas
staring into mine with love and intensity
and we see in each other
we see the world
Walking through
the Woods
Sunday with
the Family
My feet hit the snow as
I walk, the wind blows, homeless
Through trees and my heart
Uncle Ryan drinks his coffee.
Aunt Sherri smells of soap.
Cousin Joshua chews his bubblegum.
Gigi tries to cope.
by Elizabeth Ridolfi, Auburn CA
Abandon
Like a home in a hurricane.
They just leave,
And never look back.
Gone.
And you feel worthless,
Unloved, Unwanted.
You’re expected to go on.
But where do you go?
You can’t help but ask,
Why?
Is this my fault?
Did I do something wrong?
But they don’t care.
Twice a year he gives gifts.
Like an ask for forgiveness,
With no words, no feeling.
Like money makes problems fade away.
But money is a Band-Aid.
It makes everything feel better, look better
Momentarily.
But when it falls off,
You see the oozing, scabbing sore,
That is the truth.
And as you stand there,
Right where he left you,
You watch him move on.
Laughing, Loving, Smiling.
Things you’re not sure you could do again.
But he still never looks back.
Yet, sometimes he tries to make you feel guilty.
Like it is your fault.
Like you didn’t call or you didn’t write.
But he’s just trying to cover the real truth,
What he can’t face:
He hurt you.
He left you.
And now he feels
Regret.
Selfish people do selfish things.
by Hannah Vandiver, Monticello, IL
Exile
the fiery sun beats down upon the sand,
a fallen king sits taking its abuse.
trapped in places no one understands,
his worth has faded from the years of use.
the time he’s spent here all amounts to naught,
frozen in the fires by the sea,
and, wrapped up in his solitary thoughts,
he’s stuck in limbo for eternity.
and over time he slowly fades away,
a shadow of the man he used to be.
the sand grows higher every single day,
and soon there will be nothing left to see,
unless some kindred soul’s haphazard glance
can catch the glint of bronze and take
the chance.
by Christos Schrader, Wyckoff, NJ
Water Cycle
The world is a river, it pushes me back
fighting forever in an upstream battle
Every day a struggle, a migration through
the current, forcing myself along.
I fight when the snow nips my bare heels
melts into my sleeves, down to my elbow
The icy wind turns my fingers to plaster
I push through when my car becomes
A blocky shape of Styrofoam,
My mother turns red laughing.
Alex tries to please.
Alan snaps his photos.
Nick tinkers on his keys.
George watches football.
Justin stuffs his face.
Trixie often barks.
Abby wears her lace.
Photo by Rebecca Sheeler, Coventry, RI
Dinner with the clan.
Kisses good-bye on the cheek.
Although we hate to go our ways,
We’ll do it again next week!
A Show for the
World to See
by Benjamin Bordelon, Mandeville, LA
I’m your little puppet,
lifeless until said otherwise.
You pull my strings
and I smile
laugh
frown.
Dreams
Rubber slides on asphalt with the city’s
falling dreams,
Where ambitions slip beneath frenetic wheels,
And these dreams, they slosh in the streets
and scream
Until they meet some painless death on
stainless steel.
An engine burns with fury to escape each
dusty curve,
For dreams unbroken it roars with
rising speed –
The hopes crushed under traffic can’t be seen
in such a blur –
But still they wither in the cracked concrete
and bleed.
The motor’s droning deepens as it hastens to
the chase
In pursuit of where lost thoughts might one
day fly,
Past every shrine to luxury with dead dreams
at its base,
Where no boundaries block the freedom of
the sky.
I push when I want to curl into a ball
And I shake, want to stop, to go home
When the water seeps into my mind
trying to take control of me, make me
give up. The water, the snow, the pool
push me back, they break me down,
but I swim on.
by Garrett Mulchrone, Chicago, IL
I’m wired to your hands;
tap your fingers and I’ll dance.
My heart is linked to your brain,
everything you think, I love
hate
pity.
Portland at Night
it’s dark now, as the car rolls from the
parking garage.
the street lights flash across your foreign face,
and you look out in awe.
have you never seen this city at night?
i wish you could see more of it, tonight,
with me.
here is no manhattan, no times square, but
you are entranced.
reflections slide across the glass panel and
spill over into our hands,
yours folded politely in your lap.
our futures are not over, but will soon
disentangle themselves,
and separate, and the images painting their
dreams on our legs
will soon become only memories, have
already become simple memories
of one night in this city,
accompanied by smooth street noise and the
hum of the accelerator.
did you catch those moments, or let them
slip away?
it’s dark now, and i’ll never know the answer
The thin twine
that connects me to you
that is my lifeline, please don’t lose it
or I shall fall
shatter
die.
The eloquence of my movements
is a result of your will.
Whatever you’d like me to do
I’d do it without a thought
saying
prayer.
The Goldfish
I’ve loved you once before
and we all know what happened.
But I’d gladly do it again
even if only for a day
minute
second.
The steak knife’s blade
screams, as it fails to pop
the bubble encompassing
this small town, where
I wander the streets like a goldfish
lost in its fishbowl.
Is it right
for a puppet to love her master
when all he’s done
is cause her grief
pain
sorrow?
I despise plastic seaweed,
whose inability to change frightens me
more than grinning great white sharks,
gracefully traveling the seas.
I still love you though
after all is said and done.
Because my spiritless form depends on you
to show the world how I laugh
cry
pretend.
by Peter Charland, Southwick, MA
I have only experienced the taste of
salt water in
small doses, teasing my tongue, and I long
for the wailing fire alarm my eyes send out
when salt water tickles them
every day of my life.
I don’t need a diving board to jump into
the ocean – not a blink, not a word, just
a seamless transition: a sole piece
of paper, afloat, holds the key
for little goldfish lost to find its way to the sea.
I struggle with low vision, no traction.
sliding and skidding, when
stopping’s not a defense but a
carefully calculated counterattack
Cold wetness creeps from the hem of my pants,
A beast crawling slowly to steal all my warmth.
by Alexandra Ashworth, Portland, OR
Security
by Jessica Kalin, Onsted, MI
Less than a mile into the wood is
a tree
whose branches spread wide
like open arms.
There is a knothole a few feet
off the ground.
The perfect foothold to climb up to
a thick branch
that bends off into two
The ideal place to lie and
read or
write or
Just breathe.
Looking up
into its sturdy branches
Makes life seem a little more stable.
July Darkness
Tall grass sweeps the stars
As night presses silent fields
And the wind whispers summer.
by Allison Body, Chesterfield, MO
by Julie Powers, Marcellus, NY
by Melissa Kleinert, Wexford, PA
POETRY
•
SEPTEMBER ’09
• Teen Ink
43
Heartwreck
Memorial Day
Last night
I broke his heart.
Sobbing
And clutching my ankle,
He fell to the floor,
But I pushed him off.
He just kept crying
More and more.
I finished washing the old table
we bought for summer days like this –
Warm, bright leaves and sparrows fluttering
down to the mowed lawn. And now
the odor of cooking burgers wafts
straight up my nose, penetrating sensory fibers
with an aroma laced with burning human grace.
SunChips scatter into a bowl, pouring from
the bag
I lift high. The label reads, 140 calories
per serving
of eleven chips. I insert, with scorn:
Last night
I broke his heart.
He tried to defend himself,
To understand me,
To get me to understand,
But I shook him off,
Left him there and
Let go of his hand.
Last night
I broke his heart.
I walked onto the grass,
The night-enveloped field.
I looked into his face
Then got up and walked away
Saying “Am I not pretty
Enough to chase?”
Last night
I broke his heart.
I pushed him away,
Hoped he would follow,
That he’d want me again,
But he just turned
And said to me,
“I guess I’m leaving then.”
140 souls forgotten within that dose of
whole-grain snack
someone bought just for this lovely picnic,
so clean once people learn to ignore the hints
of meaning
floating past our ignorant eyes, nose, and heart.
Time to finish setting the table for the
”special” day.
A plate is piled high with toppings for the
red meat
that is supposed to be cow; but the meat reeks
of something considerably closer in relation.
The toppings of choice are tomato and
lettuce: they
represent the ground the vets returned to, only
to be ignored, to rot in unmarked graves
dotting the Earth on all human-declared
battlegrounds,
As we party through their Memorial Day.
by Larissa Gula, Pittsburgh, PA
I broke his heart,
Shattered to pieces,
I can’t fix this mess,
Tear-struck eyes,
His face in his hands,
This is not my best.
by Jennifer Rong, Irvine, CA
Pushing for the Past
I once stood tall towering over the
crooked house,
stretching my arms,
waking from sleep.
She hasn’t swung in a long time,
leaving me here
only to wait.
The shame there will be
to see her childhood stripped
and gone, just gone without any good-bye.
I’d tell her my defeat came quickly,
less pain they say.
I wish I were still tall,
watching over the crooked house,
Waiting for her,
to swing once more
back and forth, back and forth.
by Hannah McNally, Bath, NY
Photo by Paige Barry, Woonsocket, RI
The Savage
Kind of Peace
War
is a place, a time,
true things ancient, told as lore,
never seen as a crime
and struggle is the norm.
Teen Ink •
by Emily Roldan, St. Francisville, LA
Bath Time
The Shampoo is the one
We used to clean the dog
When I was young.
I reach out to ring the doorbell,
Then pull my hand away.
Apologize. Just do it.
I glare at the dirty kitchen,
Then look longingly at the TV.
Clean the kitchen. Just do it.
I look at her answers – correct answers, I know.
Then at my own erased paper.
Cheat. Just do it.
I twiddle my thumbs in the waiting room.
Then look into the ER.
Say good-bye. Just do it.
I kissed the boy. I jumped from the cliff.
I apologized to my best friend.
I did my homework. I copied her answers.
I said good-bye in the end.
I did it all.
Was it wrong? Was it right?
Was it day? Was it night?
When did it happen? Where were you?
How did it happen? Would you have, too?
An Ode to Swinging
The pine smell mixed with the rose salts
Reminding me of the cover of a
Vogue magazine
That I stole from my mother.
The model was perched on a rocky river bed
Like a wood nymph
The Vogue photographers just stumbled upon.
The soap is the licorice one
He gave me for our one-month anniversary.
He said I was not a vanilla girl
And should not use vanilla soap.
I take a deep breath and sigh.
It is nice to smell like myself.
POETRY
I doodle on my paper.
Then think, what’s twenty-seven divided
by nine?
Math homework. Just do it.
The suds collect between
The strands of my hair
And glitter like rhinestones
On a flapper’s undergarments.
Their fathers of fathers of … fathers of war
sat with their staffs
and stood with their swords
and fought with the clash
of a wound still sore.
•
I gaze into his adoring eyes.
Then gulp and wipe my sweaty hands
on my jacket.
Kiss him. Just do it.
Choices, choices. Go ahead. Just do it
The soap bubbles clung to my skin
Like pockets of previously unexplored
Intergalactic space.
SEPTEMBER ’09
Bungee jump. Just do it.
I cannot smell flowers
When I use it,
Only clean dog.
Violence
is the survival of brutes
who call themselves gents
with their proud warrior roots
and armor that glints.
by Akila Metheny, Greensboro, NC
44
Tears refusing
To still
Babbling incoherently
I’ll regret
This moment
When sane
Something cracked
Inside me
Try to
calm me
Everything I
Didn’t show
Pours out
Sadness, Frustration
Can’t control
Myself anymore
She speaks
Words unheard
eyes open
through salty
rain and
I realize
I’m in
Spanish class
and they’re
staring at
me
The conditioner is the gag gift
I got on my sixteenth birthday.
My friends said it smelled like
The pine air-freshener
I kept in my beat-up old car.
The wind yawned with me,
then died to put my hair back in place,
the hum ringing in my ears.
She swung on my swing
back and forth, back and forth,
I can still feel it now …
(nervous) breakJust Do It
look down at the hundred-foot drop.
down => depression IThen
at the thick rope that binds me to safety.
I pull the drain and watch
The cloudy water tornado out.
by Denise Baughn, Jacksonville, FL
by Clara Button, Houston, TX
Always, as I approach the playground
I am greeted
by its black rubber-lipped smile. As if
I just flew
back into time, the sight of the swing
brings back
memories of the blue plastic swing set in my
grandmother’s backyard and when I rush over
I am hugged by the narrow strip of rubber. So
perfectly it molds to my butt and though the
metal chain ropes holding me aloft are cold
as the air around me, the feel of it squeezed
between my two fists is empowering. I can
feel it reverberate through me as I make my
first push and instantly I’m flying. The cold
air whipping through my hair and numbing
my face doesn’t matter; only the sight of the
treetops growing steadily closer and closer with
each arc upwards holds my attention.
The chains
squeak their encouragement because
they know,
and I know; just a little higher and I’ll be there.
Rubbing the old chains leaves rusty love stains
and along with me I carry the penny scent
of our
union on my hands. When the ride is over and I
return to earth, I sit, taking one more moment
to feel its tight embrace before getting up and
returning to reality.
by Zakia Elliott, Philadelphia, PA
Kiss
drowning
We Wonder
Hors de Paris
Kiss me in black and white
With your thick-lashed eyes closed.
Let’s make a perfect night
And who but us need know?
slowly slipping under
down, down, moving faster and faster
starting to lose my breath I reach
I reach for anything to hold close
desperation begins to set in
mistakes begin to come
I can’t turn it off
lying has become a drug
one we are deeply addicted to
farther and farther away from god we slip in
what seems to be a
sort of never-ending free fall trying to climb
back up seems to be a nearly impossible
task now
you feel so lost
you ask you friends for guidance
but all too quickly they tell you that you
are fine
but suddenly something tells you
all hope is not lost
you begin to pray to god to
pull you back
you begin to notice the sun again
the darkness begins to fade
you feel crystal clear
and the rest is up to you
he has pulled you out of
the darkest of darknesses
you soon begin to trust in him again and
focus your life around him
the lying is done.
I wonder
if you’ve ever taken the time
to think that maybe humanity is alone
or if you’ve always accepted
what the patriarchy told you.
I wonder
if it’s ever occurred to you
that you let others control what you do
and that maybe reality
is right in front of your face.
I wonder
if you’ve ever experienced the beauty
of simply staring while being by the ocean
or the sunset
or if you’ve always been too intent on
making up stories and attributing meaning
to natural events and formations.
Yesterday I heard your voice
In this windowless farmhouse you built
so long ago
In France’s quiet countryside
Where the red fields glisten
With hopes of more than just
Last year’s corn, dryly peeking above the
wire fences
And skies as colorful as a Paris I’ve never seen
So I’ve been dreaming a lot lately
J’ai beaucoup rêvé dernièrement
I’ve thought of
Going out to Paris
Just to meet
Those city boys with the lazy smiles
Who live in sanded villas
The ones whose eyes are filled with
cathedrals and viridian waters
Who smoke cigarettes outside old coffee shops
And who smell of wine and sea salt
But you would say to me
The city is not for people like us, Fifille
There is much work to do here
For I’ve only known farm boys
With eyes like our horses
Looking out over the fields
For something to hold onto –
Quelque chose à quoi s’accrocher
But last year’s corn didn’t grow
And there isn’t much time for anything else
And if you were alive
You would have said to me
The plow is hungry, Cherí
And the fields are ripe
So, tomorrow I’ll plant
The corn without you
And this time
I’ll let it grow tall
I’ll leave the sickle in the old tool shed
The one you built, but now the roof leaks
I’ll let the russet stalks peek above the
wire fence
So they can see over the fields
And as the wind rolls by
They can whisper to me
À voix basse …
Oh, sweet corn, before I cut you down
Tell me what it looks like
In Paris
Hold me with the sunlight
Of your warm fingertips;
Trailing across my eyes
And stenciling my lips.
I’m an acquired taste,
Yes, a rare vintage wine.
Sip me slowly, don’t haste;
I’m worth at least one try.
Let me melt into you
And lose yourself in me;
A world, fleeting and new
That only we can see.
With your arms my lattice
Green ivy I become,
Entwining you in bliss.
We are alike to none.
Kiss me the final time,
I’ll breathe you in again.
Until another time,
Until we kiss again.
by Aryelle Young, Scottsbluff, NE
I want to …
I want to hear a song from every country,
In every language,
From every culture,
From every planet
I want to hear a song.
I want to see a smile on the face of a child
opening a gift,
A person hugging a loved one,
Someone who just got married or had a baby
I want to see a smile.
by Anonymous, St. Louis, MO
Who I Am
I am a poet
Caught and torn between the love that I lost
and a hope for a better future
I am the high E I can’t ever seem to reach
My voice, a constant comfort and betrayer
My soul fears its power
by Bethany Gardner, Littleton, CO
To Think of Nothing
They tell me to think of Nothing,
To empty my mind and focus on Nothing.
But it’s hard to focus on Nothing.
Because if there’s Nothing,
Then what do I focus on?
by Alicia Holland, Bronx, NY
A blank paper … it was Nothing?
But even a paper is Something.
Right?
So how could it have been Nothing?
How could I have been right?
So, when I got a chance,
I took a crayon and colored all over Nothing.
When I was done, I thought,
There, now. Nothing’s finally Something!
But can you really change Nothing?
I am what I am
Spiderwebbed with temptations
Silly spells surround me
Drenching my very wrongs
In honey-buttered misinterpretation
“Nothing is nothing,”
They told me.
“Think of Nothing,
Focus on Nothing.
White is Nothing.”
I dream at a speed of hummingbird’s wings
And my eyes flicker deadly fantasies
No reception will ever pick up
But white is Something.
It’s a color.
And Nothing is Something too.
Because if Nothing was nothing,
Then nothing wouldn’t be Nothing.
by Bella Michel, Littleton, CO
I wonder
if you’ve ever just stared up at the stars and
released your preconceptions and
wondered.
They gave me a picture of Nothing,
And then asked me what it looked like.
I told them, “Nothing.”
And they said,
“Exactly.”
I am a distraught checkerboard
The logic was lost when the curiosity began
Taunting those who listen and laugh
Amused by some who think me aloof
My finger tips are always cold
I hide behind sweet seasonings
Praying that my brittle internal
Will only overcome when I choose to surrender
I wonder
if you’ve ever taken the time
to think that maybe there is a higher power
or if you’ve always accepted
what you thought science told you.
I wonder
if it’s ever occurred to you
that no believer believes always
and that many of us have actually grappled
with atheist objections.
I wonder
if you’ve ever experienced the beauty
of simply being while staring at the ocean or
the sunset
or if you’ve always been too intent on
allowing your neurons to assemble images
of objects
as they appear to the naked eye.
So therefore Nothing is Something.
Just like blank paper is Something,
And white is Something.
Nothing has to be Something too.
And that Something is Nothing.
by Katelyn Carter, Monticello, IL
by Cara Dorris, Glastonbury, CT
Film
I walk along the asphalt
Wait for awhile
’Til everything starts to fade
Into the sun
Photo by Alexandria Becker, Eight Mile, AL
before
We’ll sit still
And watch the cars flicker past
The sidewalk will crumble
And the streetlights will dim gold
You’ll split the stars
And throw them like props
Across the floor
We all end up there anyhow
The morning
the sky shimmered pink
And red leaves were melting
But maybe someday I’ll realize
And hang them from silver lines
So we can catch them
And with bare hands, let them fly away.
down
to preside over black ants passing
He spoke nostalgia,
and my heart cracked.
by Stephanie Renteria, Irvine, CA
by Brianna Haining, Brier, WA
POETRY
•
SEPTEMBER ’09
• Teen Ink
45
Calculating
Cold Hands
(Un)masked
Poetry is never easy
Calc calc calc.
Do (aspiring) poets calculate?
I think not.
Will integrals ever
Worm their way
Into my inner words?
I hope not.
They say math is
The universal language,
The language of the world.
Well, in that case
I will create
My own world.
It is located
On the continent
Of my lappy,
In the geographical region
Of My Documents,
Within the borders
Of the Stuff folder valley,
Just East of the indigenous
Word Document people,
And titled “Experiment.”
(If Plato created
A city of speech
Then by God so can I.)
For now,
The Republic of Experiment
is locked behind
a password.
But perhaps someday
The borders will open
And the natural bounty
Of my world
Will be exported.
Perhaps someday
The world will be
United by a language
Better than calculus.
You hate cold hands, so
You shove them in your pockets
As you walk up the driveway
Late on Friday night
You’re surprised to see me here, I can tell.
I know I’ve usually left a note
On the countertop next to a sticky ring of coffee
Made sometime this morning by your cup
Explaining that I’ll be back by eleven.
I haven’t spent Friday night here in quite
a while.
“And how was your day?”
“Mine?”
Well, let me tell you exactly what you want
to hear.
My homework’s already been done.
I’m all prepared for the project next week
And the test on Monday.
In short,
Everything is absolutely perfect.
“Let me make you some tea.”
Because I know you hate cold hands.
I’ll boil the water, choose your tea,
And gracefully present it to you.
“Cream and sugar?”
Still, I’m managing to maintain that smile,
A phony smile.
How do you always fall for that smile
Without seeing right through it?
I assume you will forgive me now.
I know it’s still early, but you see,
The tea’s gone cold by now,
And I know that you hate cold hands.
I won’t be of much help anymore.
The only words I have left are cold.
I will die faceless,
Placed in a masked grave.
Concealed by top layers,
Never to be seen.
Poetry
sounds easy enough
but try to write a poem that’s not about
horrible breakups
the beach
butterflies on pretty flowers
sunsets
or
Love.
Especially not Love
Now add in all sorts
of clever little details and hidden messages
and line breaks
while at the same time try to
remember and keep straight in your
cluttered head
all those great big words like
assonance
consonance
personification
and hyperbole.
Get an idea and hold on tight to it
because soon enough you’re going to be
distracted
and once it finally dawns on you that this
simple poem
is due tomorrow
you’ll stay up really late
and throw whatever words you can on a
piece of paper
and turn it in.
by Kelsey Timmer, South Bend, IN
I Cannot Write
You Off
If I spilled our story upon pages for all the
world to read,
It would never change the fact that you have
damaged me.
No, words cannot restore to me that which I
have lost,
They only amplify my actions and what their
fleeting pleasures cost.
I cannot write a love poem that will negate all
the rest,
To vent with pen and paper, removes no
burden from chest.
Constructing songs of stricken stanzas will do
nothing for my soul,
For I’m missing too many pieces, I’ll surely
die before I’m whole.
But laughter will be my medicine because, to
me, you were a drug,
And undeniable addiction – merely poison in
my lungs.
Oh, I knew you’d never catch me, not that
you’d cause my fall,
My words to you spoke volumes, whereas
yours meant nothing at all.
I realize these lines change nothing … for I
cannot write this off,
But I’ll waste ink with the efforts, in hopes of
moving on
by Kaylee Jones, Dewey, OK
46
Teen Ink •
by Kathryn Todd, Lumberton, NJ
On the Border
Standing on the Border
between Good and possibly
Better,
I take what I can from the Good
and try to leave,
believing that
“Possibly Better”
deserves
a fighting chance.
by Melissa Unger, Pittsburgh, PA
The Non-Hitchhiker
Do Not Disturb
It’s hot by this highway
Dried out and powdered, everything
A flat, solid, dead yellow
The poster board shifts between
My sweating fingers
Purple ink slipping from the arms of
Do and Disturb
I lean over and stick a finger into the yellow
Dirt, wipe it off on my sock
A minivan rolls by
She glances at my sign, looks at me
Alone again and the heat is expanding
Swelling like an infected wound
My arms ache from holding up this poster
Put down the sign
Contract in my lawn chair
I don’t actually worry about
Being disturbed
by Rebecca Straznickas,
San Francisco, CA
SEPTEMBER ’09
•
POETRY
Lonely, pensive thoughts weigh down
Constricted chest, weakened soul.
Still a smile forms upon my lips,
Mutilating self identity.
Gawk into murky eyes,
Watch my world fall apart.
Surrounded by much sin,
Keeping conflicts close within.
My end will come silently,
For no one knows my pain.
Intense, subdued screams,
Lost to whispering winds.
Cries and tears subside,
As heavy lid closes.
Chains and bolts,
Will never show my hardware,
As I submit to an unmarked grave.
by Angelica Ramos, Middleburgh, NY
Facebook
I see that it’s easier for you
To write on my wall rather than
Talk to me face to face.
It’s easier for you to flirt and chat
and poke and
Find out where I’ve been and
Where I’m going and
Who I’m talking to.
This way you can look at
My photos, my videos, my comments,
Look at them all
And I will never know what
You saw.
You do this because it’s easier for
You.
But it’s easier for me too.
Maybe I don’t want to see your
Face, your real face,
Or look at you.
Maybe I don’t want to do something
As simple as pick up the phone and give
You a call.
Or even a text.
Or maybe I’m just bitter because
You chat with several girls at a time
But never get back to me First
Or Last.
I’m lumped in the middle of your
Facebook Flirting.
And sometimes it hurts.
All because it’s easier for you.
And me.
by Jo-Dean Seymour, Minneapolis, MN
by Amy Davis, Louisville, KY
construction
He stood
neon orange sign in hand
staring off into space
moving only occasionally
to flip the sign
the sound of construction
growling behind him
horns honking
noise surrounding him
yet still he stood
almost frozen
his head now hexagonal
his body a pole
he could hardly speak
only two words escaped
stop and slow
by Devan Burgess, Park City, UT
When Words
Betray You
When words betray you
As they often do
When lies remain still untrue
You’ll turn around and come to find
All the tact you left behind
Could have saved you from all this shame
Now you’re to blame
When friends betray you
As they often do
All their promises
Remain
In little pieces on the floor
Never would have thought of this before
by Sarah Bryant, Prentiss, MS
Photo by Megan Mercier, Ocala, FL
CAN YOU SOLVE THE
LONDON
EYE
MYSTERY?
Ted and Kat watched their cousin
Salim board the London Eye, but
when it’s time to land, everyone
gets off—except Salim. How could
he have disappeared into thin air?
When the police have no luck,
Ted and Kat team up to follow
a trail of clues across London
Cover art © 2009 by Debra Lill.
in a desperate search to find their
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cousin. Ultimately, it comes down
to Ted, whose brain works in
its own very unique way, to find
the key to the mystery.
Winner of
the Carnegie
Medal!