2020 Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology

2020
Ralph Munn
Creative Writing
Anthology

2020
Ralph Munn
Creative Writing
Anthology

© 2020 Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh
All rights revert to the individual authors.
Printed and bound in the United States.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

2020
Ralph Munn
Creative Writing
Anthology
Committee Chair
Sienna Cittadino, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh—Allegheny
Committee Co-Chair
Whitney Philipps, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh—Knoxville
Editorial Committee
Bethany Spina, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh—Beechview
Jessica Clark, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh—Brookline
Kelly Rottmund, Carnegie Library of Pittsurgh, Teen Services
Leah Durand, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh—Main
Lisa Dennis, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh, Collection Services
Marian Streiff, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh—Mt. Washington
Matt Zeoli, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh—Brookline
Rachel Greene, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh—Squirrel Hill
Rebecca Whalen, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh—West End
Suzanne Thinnes, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh, Communications
Book Design
Justin Visnesky, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh, Communications
Copyediting
Adrienne Jouver
Cover Illustration
Jake Pfeuffer

TABLE OF CONTENTS
About the Ralph Munn Creative Writing Contest ...........6
Judges’ Biographies ...................................8
Short Prose
1st place
“Hip Hop Science” by Ariella Riccobon ...................... 13
2nd place
“Butterflies” by Mia Naccarato ............................ 21
“Hat Time” by Khailil Tookas ..............................27
“How To Write a Book” by Khailil Tookas . .................... 31
“Paper Girl” by Riley Kirk ................................33
“The Little Red Boots” by Riley Kirk .........................37
“I Remember” by Marie Roa ..............................41
“Bloody Mary” by Natalie Cohen ..........................45
“Tipping the Scales” by Rebecca Gerse ......................47
“Return” by Roan Hollander ..............................53
“When I Knew” by Spencer Greenberg ......................57
Poetry
1st place
“All Unknown” by Aliya Pimental ...........................63
2nd place
“Red Yellow Green” by Jayla Andrews ......................65
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“The Color of Her Eyes” by Ava Weidensall ...................67
“Space Traveler” by Carter Krummel ........................69
“Mac Flip” by Charles Forster ............................. 71
“Love is Timeless” * by Eliyah Roberts .......................75
“Grandma’s Credit Card” by Gemma DeMeo .................77
“So Do I” by Jade Chatman ..............................79
“Sacrificial Wolf” by Jo Pastorius ........................... 81
“The Only Bird in Town” by Madalynn Hill ....................83
“The Voice of Travel” by Maggie Morvay ....................85
“Fall” by Maxwell Kimbrough .............................87
“Queries From a Mediocre Man” by Phoenix Thomas ............89
“Spring Forward” by Seth Parente .......................... 91
“Modern-Day Messiah” by Shana Reddy .....................93
“You” by Worood Alobedi ................................95
Acknowledgements ..................................96
*Judge’s Commended Piece
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ABOUT THE RALPH MUNN CREATIVE WRITING CONTEST
Born in 1894, Ralph Munn started his library career as
a reference librarian in Seattle in 1921, became Flint
Public Library’s Librarian in 1926 and then on to the
Directorship of the Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh in 1928
until 1964. During that time, he held the positions of
Director and Dean of the library school at the Carnegie
Institute of Technology, now Carnegie Mellon University,
until it became part of the University of Pittsburgh in
1962. An endowment fund created to honor his legacy
now provides support for creative writing opportunities
for young adults through the Library.
Thanks to research by Sheila Jackson and the
Development Office, we know that the original use of this
endowment, contributed by friends of Ralph Munn, began
in the 1960s for a lecture series on librarianship and
transitioned to use for creative writing workshops in the
1970s, under supervision of the Carnegie Institute, which
oversaw the fund. After a hiatus in the 1990s the contest
was revived in 2007 with additional help from other
bequests. Library staff and volunteers led workshops and
formed an editorial board to judge entries to the contest
and find professional writers to choose contest winners.
In the first year, the contest took off, receiving nearly
300 entries, and it has not stopped being a popular and
anticipated part of Teen Services.
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Since the creative writing contest joined forces with the
Labsy awards under the Teen Media Awards banner,
it continues to evolve as a way for Allegheny county
teens to be acknowledged, published, and awarded for
their work and creativity. The libraries in the county are
proud to support this creative work and provide spaces,
mentors, and resources toward that end.
Tessa Barber
Chair, Ralph Munn Creative Writing Committee (2015–2016)
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JUDGES’ BIOGRAPHIES
Poetry
Jari Bradley
is a black genderqueer poet and scholar from San
Francisco, California. They have received fellowships
and support from Callaloo, Cave Canem, Tin House,
The Pittsburgh Foundation and The Heinz Endowments.
Their work has been nominated for Best of the Net by
The Offing, and was a finalist for Columbia Journal’s
Fall 2019 Contest in Poetry. Jari’s work has been
published in The Adroit Journal, The Offing, Academy of
American Poets, Callaloo, Columbia Journal, The Virginia
Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. Jari Bradley (MFA:
University of Pittsburgh) is the current 2020-2021 First
Wave Poetry Fellow at UW-Madison.
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Prose
Jewell Parker Rhodes
currently serves as the Piper Endowed Chair and
founding artistic director of the Virginia G. Piper Center
for Creative Writing at Arizona State University.
Her novel Ghost Boys quickly became a New York Times
Best Seller and has garnered over 25 awards and honors,
including The Walter Award, the Indies Choice/EB White
Read-Aloud Award, and the Jane Addams Children’s
Book Award for Older Readers. Jewell is also the author
of Towers Falling, winner of the 2017 Notable Books for
a Global Society, and the celebrated Louisiana Girls’
Trilogy: Ninth Ward, a winner of a Coretta Scott King
Honor Award; Sugar, a Junior Library Guild selection,
and Bayou Magic, a We Need Diverse Books Educational
Selection. Her newest middle grade novel, Black Brother,
Black Brother was published in March 2020.
Jewell has written numerous children’s and adult
books hoping to inspire social justice, equality, and
environmental stewardship. She enjoys teaching, walking
her Toy Aussie Sheepdogs, theater, dancing, and music.
Born in Pittsburgh, she now lives in Seattle.
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Short
Prose
12 Short Prose

1st place
“Hip Hop Science”
Ariella Riccobon
2nd place
“Butterflies”
Mia Naccarato
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14 Short Prose

Ariella Riccobon
Grade 9
Pennsylvania Virtual Charter School
FICTION
Hip Hop Science
“I’m telling you, man,” my dad says, “it’s science!”
I look up from my Earth Science homework and raise an eyebrow. “Hip hop
on the radio plus batter in the oven does not equal a perfect cake.”
I turn my brain back to plate tectonics and try to block out my dad raving
about hip hop and pastries. I’ve got to do well on this assignment. I’ve got to
pass this year, because I don’t want to end up like my dad.
My dad wanted to be a pro baker, with his own little bakery where he could
share his “tarts with heart” and his famous “lov’n lava cakes.” He bussed tables
at a cafe for years, trying to save up to get his dream place. His boss was literally
about to give him a raise when a customer came to him with a complaint about
my dad. Apparently, my dad had been caught goofing off and dancing with a
mop when he was supposed to be waiting tables.
Needless to say, he got fired.
I’m not gonna end up like that. I’m not gonna let myself get distracted.
Which is why I am currently trying to block out my dad talking about how
hip hop makes great cakes and my sister’s blaring headphones—turn it down
already, Phillipa!
“Sure it does,” my dad is saying. “C’mon, I’ll show you!” Dad drags me to the
kitchen.
“Hey,” I groan.
“Pretty please with a cherry on top?” Dad nudges me to the fridge. “C’mon!
You get the eggs and milk.”
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I sigh and open the refrigerator.
Dad tunes the radio to the hip hop station. The best music in the world
begins to blast from its speakers. I smile as I hear a familiar beat. Maybe homework
can wait.
The ingredients are spread out before us. Dad cracks his neck. I crack my
knuckles. Then we start cracking eggs. I beat batter to Will Smith’s “Just the
Two of Us.” Dad dances with the broom to “Sunflower” while he sweeps up the
flour we spilled. Dad and I sing along with “Lots of Lovin” at the top of our
lungs while Phillipa groans and turns up her headphones. We add sugar, and
the sounds of Queen Latifah and LL Cool J fill the air while we sweeten the mix.
Then Dad reaches for the yeast.
“What are you doing?” I grab his hand. “There’s no yeast in cake.”
Dad checks the recipe. “Oh, so there’s not!” He reaches for the cocoa instead.
We sprinkle salt in the batter. Dad accidentally dumps in more than a dash.
“Hey! Mom said to go easy on the salt.”
“Oh well, it’ll still taste good.” My dad pours the milk, which sloshes into the
bowl and onto the counter.
“Wait, we almost forgot the most important ingredient!” Dad snatches the
batter bowl before I can pour the mixture into the pan. Smooth as butterscotch
pudding, Dad mimes taking out his heart and putting it in the batter.
“Can’t forget to add your love’n.” He winks at me. “It’s gonna be the Sunflour
Bakery house recipe.”
I smile. Maybe Dad could have been a baker like he wanted, if it weren’t for
the singing and the dancing. And the bad jokes. I shake my head. Good thing
Dad didn’t want to be a comedian.
Dad sloshes the batter into the pan. I hum along with the radio and wash the
spoon by licking it clean. Dad plonks the pan on the oven rack, sets the timer,
and takes a bow.
“Just you wait, Jules! When that cake is done, you’ll never doubt me again.”
I smile and roll my eyes. Dad spins me around the kitchen while the timer ticks
down. The radio plays on.
***
16 Short Prose

“It’s science,” the doctor says to Phillipa, our mother, and me. He points to a
diagram of the human body. He tells us how too much salt can cause pressure
on the heart and blood vessels. He tells us how too much stress or excitement
can make the pressure get very high.
How high blood pressure can cause strokes.
He probably says more, but all I can think is: This is not science.
Science is a cake in the oven. Science is my dad singing along with “Lots of
Lovin” and making a mess of the kitchen. Science is dancing with my dad as the
timer ticks down.
Science is NOT my dad doubling over coughing while the timer dings cheerfully.
Science is NOT sirens blaring, the radio sputtering out, and the smell of
burnt cake. Science is NOT my dad lying in a hospital bed, a broken radio without
even a buzz of static.
I can’t stand it anymore. As the doctor drones on, I slip out the door.
***
I gaze down at my dad. He is lying quietly in bed, wires leading from him
to a blinking machine. Every now and then the machine gives off a faint beep,
the ghost of a beat. The table next to his bed is covered with flowers and cards.
A wilting sunflower sits next to a misshapen cupcake. Another cake ruined.
“You said it would be a perfect cake,” I whisper to the man in the bed. “But
it burnt. I ruined it.”
The machine answers me with a beep. I whip around and glare at the machine.
“I wasn’t talking to you!” I growl at it. I turn away from the machine that has
replaced my father. I pick up the cupcake from the bedside table and wonder
where this cake went wrong. Did someone add yeast? Did they forget the sugar?
Maybe they put in too much salt. I plunk the lump of cake back on the table.
Beep.
I turn back to my dad. “You said the extra salt wouldn’t hurt. Look what it
did to you,” I blink away salty tears. Saltier than the recipe calls for.
“You were wrong.”
***
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Later.
Back at the house.
The rooms feel empty, a tart without a heart.
I sit at my desk and try to focus on my homework. My pencil taps. I try
to find something to say about plate tectonics when my heart is a convergent
boundary, crumpling from the pressure. Like the pressure that caused Dad’s
stroke. I throw down my pencil and stand up.
Somehow, I find myself in the kitchen. Dad’s boss from the cafe stopped by
earlier, with a tray of lava cakes. Each cake had an identical plastic sign that
read “Sorry for your loss.”
Now the tray is sitting on the counter, half-empty because my sister went
and ate three whole cakes. The remaining cakes sag on the counter, looking a
little lonely.
Phillipa picks at the last bit of cake on her plate, her brow furrowed, “I think
he forgot the salt.”
The radio’s antenna twitches. I head for the cabinet.
“You get the eggs and milk.”
Phillipa looks up, startled. She brushes the crumbs off the counter and
stands up.
Five minutes later, all the ingredients are spread out before us. Well, almost
all. We still need a song. The broken radio sits on the windowsill, its speakers
listening expectantly.
“Ready?” I ask. Phillipa nods.
I press “preheat” and the oven begins to warm up.
Preheat to 350.
Turn the knob and preheat to 350.
So, bro, you want to be a pro baker?
No skimping on the salt from the shaker.
If you wanna call yourself a cake-maker,
Flip it upside down and dribble it like the Lakers.
Hey,
Dad would say,
Crack your knuckles then your eggs.
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Your homework can wait until a later date,
‘Cause right now we’ve got eggs to break.
You’re gonna need to clean for sure:
The flour showered on the floor.
Sop it all up with a mop,
Pretty please, with a cherry on top.
When you bake a cake you ought to know,
The yeast is a no go, yo,
‘Cause there’s no dough to throw, bro,
You’re gonna need some cocoa though.
See,
This won’t be
Written on the recipe:
You’re gonna need to part with your heart,
If you want to learn the art.
Blend your beater in the batter,
Doesn’t matter if it splatters.
You wanna get a baker’s dozen?
Put your lov’n in the oven.
The timer ticks, tickling my ears.
Spin my sister, shed salty tears.
Perfect hip,
Perfect hop,
Science cake,
Cake hip hop,
Perfect cake,
Hip hop science,
STOP!
The timer dings.
We hold our breath as I pull out the cake.
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I set it on the rack to cool and prepare the icing. I offer the spoon to Phillipa.
“Wait, you want me to do it?” She chews her lip and eyes the cake. Then she
shoves the cake and spoon back to me. “You and Dad do it better.”
I scoop up the spoon and press it into her palm. Phillipa takes a deep breath
and clutches the spoon with both hands. She dumps a glob of chocolate on the
cake. She spreads it around, smearing icing all over her hands. The still warm
cake crumbles and sticks to the chocolate blob.
“It’s horrible,” Phillipa’s eyes get salty. “I ruined it.”
“Hey,” I put my hand on her shoulder. “It’ll still taste good.”
On the windowsill, the radio smiles.
***
The next week I turn in my science paper. I get an F for decorating my
paper with little cupcakes and radios. Apparently, my science teacher doesn’t
agree that hip hop on the radio plus batter in the oven equals a perfect cake.
That’s okay. I don’t need an A in Earth Science when I’ve got a degree in Hip
Hop Science.
When I get home, Phillipa is already there, trying to jam new batteries into
the radio’s rear. She looks up guiltily. “I just thought…” She sighs and looks at
the floor.
I dump my books on the table. I reach over and turn one of the batteries
around and the radio bursts to life. Phillipa jumps at the sound. Then Phillipa
and I smile as we recognize the song. The sounds of “Just the Two of Us” fill the
kitchen. I turn up the radio, and my sister and I sing along with the best music
in the world.
Ring-ring! I pick up the wireless. “Hello?”
“Jules, is that you?” My mother’s voice is being drowned out by some annoying
beeping sound.
“Yep.” I reach over my sister and turn down the radio. “Where are you, Mom?
I can barely hear you.”
“I’m at the hospital.”
“The hospital?” I strangle the phone with both hands. I picture the cupcake
lump and wilted sunflowers, and I glance over at Phillipa. “Is it Dad?”
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For a moment all I hear is long distance breathing. Then I hear my mother’s
voice loud and clear.
“Jules, your father is awake. He woke up and he said something!”
If she says more, I don’t hear it. I tackle Phillipa in a hug and spin her around
the kitchen.
“He woke up!” I put the phone back to my ear. “What did he say?”
A new voice, cake fresh from the oven, responds: “What did I say? Hmm, let
me think on that one.”
The radio winks.
“Told you it was science!”
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22 Short Prose

Mia Naccarato
Grade 11
North Allegheny Senior High School
FICTION
Butterflies
I met Caroline when we were both gap-toothed and pigtail-wearing fiveyear-olds,
sitting not-so-patiently in Ms. Lombardi’s kindergarten class. She
came over to me and offered me her purple crayon after Vince Trainor broke
mine. She told me that purple was her favorite crayon, but she trusted me with
it anyway.
We became instant friends.
I remember Mom laughing at us when we came trudging through the house
in the summertime, muddy and smelly from long days of playing.
“You girls really took to the dirt today, didn’t you?” she’d ask.
I’d shrug before Caroline would launch into an explanation about all of our
findings that day, from tiny slugs to bigger butterflies. Caroline always had a
soft spot for insects. She’d make me play this game with her; she called it Butterfly.
We would wrap a blanket around us and pretend we were caterpillars in
our cocoon. Then, after giggling beneath the blanket for a while, we’d hop out
in a series of shouts and hollers, declaring to the world that we were butterflies,
not caterpillars anymore.
Mom would stand laughing on the porch, drawn outside by the ruckus.
“Honestly, girls,” she’d say. “Don’t you ever get tired of each other?”
But that’s the thing about Caroline and me. We never got tired of each other.
When other girls got catty and mean and backstabbing in middle school,
Caroline and I stayed together. Every day, Caroline and I would head to the
after-school program in the library. We’d talk and laugh for hours before Mrs.
Cummings would finally pick us up to take us back home. Since my mom
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worked a lot of late shifts at the hospital, Mrs. Cummings would let me come
back to her house with Caroline to wait. Caroline and I would sit in her room
and paint our nails and read her books and talk about anything and everything.
We were our own little world spinning on its own little axis.
When high school finally started, Caroline and I found ourselves in different
classes. She had a STEM-focused schedule—she wanted to be a neuroscientist—and
I had a schedule packed with art and literature classes.
She went from being my everything to only being my something. She had
her group of friends and I had mine.
But we never stopped talking, really. We still made an effort to walk home
together every day after school. We still made an effort to say “hello” in the
hallways.
When Caroline got her license, we drove to and from school together every
day. I only lived a couple of blocks away from her, so it was easy for her to come
by and get me. Mom would sometimes let me borrow her car when she didn’t
have work, but that was rarely. Mostly, I relied on Caroline.
And she relied on me, too, in a way. When her dad died in the middle of
tenth grade, she practiced perfect stoicism around her friends. She recited variations
of “I’m fine” and “it’s no big deal” until they stopped asking how she was.
But I never stopped asking how she was. Eventually, I cracked through her
shell of “I’m fine” and got her to talk to me. To be honest, it didn’t take much
coaxing. It never did.
She told me how painful it was to lose him and how pressing the loneliness
was. She told me about how Mrs. Cummings had to take on two jobs to pay the
bills until their family could find another solution. She told me anything and
everything all at once.
We became inseparable again. She stayed at my house on the nights that
the loneliness and melancholy was too much to bear, and I welcomed her with
open arms.
We became each other’s world again, and we found ways to meet up constantly
throughout the school days and weekends.
We studied together for the SAT’s during eleventh grade, and we applauded
each other when we got our scores back. By planning our futures together, we
could picture ourselves in them, still as bonded together as always.
And we couldn’t imagine ourselves in any other way but together. We
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planned to go to college in the same city—Boston—so we could still see each
other. We planned to live together in our senior years at college.
We planned and we planned until one day Caroline arrived on my doorstep,
crying and alone, and told me that she couldn’t stay. She had to get going.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
And then she told me about how her mom had lost one of her jobs, and how
they were moving a couple towns over so they could get back on their feet. Living
costs were higher in our area than some others, so it was understandable. It
was logical. It made sense.
But I still couldn’t shake that sinking sensation in my gut. I couldn’t get rid
of the feeling that my world was crumbling, piece by piece, and that I was stuck
among the rubble.
She hugged me that night, smelling like rainwater and dew. Her jacket was
soaked and her eyes were soaked and everything was dreary.
But that was two weeks ago.
Now I stand in front of the Cummings’ house, watching the clunky truck in
the driveway as it gets loaded with couches and tables and boxes and memories.
Caroline comes through the front door with her life packed neatly into crisp
boxes, ready to be shipped to their new home.
I watch as she hands her pile to the brawny guy in the back of the truck, and
I can practically hear her urging him to be careful with it.
I watch as she turns around and sees me standing in the empty lot across the
street, unable to move closer. Distance is safe. Distance is not losing your best friend.
She runs over to me and envelopes me in a tight hug. I can smell the sweat
and energy she’s pouring into this process—into saying goodbye, into leaving
her old life behind.
“It’s not like I’m moving across the country,” she whispers to me, her breath
warming my ear.
“It’s not like you’re moving down the block, either,” I reply.
She laughs in that musical way that she does before kissing me lightly on
the cheek.
“You’ll be okay,” she tells me, putting her hand on my arm.
“I should be saying that to you.”
“Maybe,” she shrugs. “But I’ll be fine. I know where I’m going and what
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I’m doing.”
“You were always meticulous like that.”
“Meticulous,” she laughs. “God, you’re such a literary nerd. Who says that?”
I smile at her sadly, and her laughter fades.
“Seriously,” she tells me softly. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too,” I say. “You have no idea.”
We stand there for a while, just taking each other in until Mrs. Cummings
calls Caroline inside to finish up.
She grins at me, her eyes wet and glassy. I can’t bring myself to grin back.
“Here,” she says, taking something from her front pocket and putting it in
mine. “For later.”
She winks and turns around, running back into the house that isn’t hers anymore.
I stand in the same spot and watch as the Cummings come outside and get
in their car to follow the truck. I watch as both vehicles leave the driveway, drive
down the street, make a right, and disappear. I watch and I watch and I cry.
Eventually, Mom finds me sitting and sobbing and wishing I had said more
to Caroline before she left.
“You can still see her,” she says soothingly, sitting down beside me and rubbing
my back.
“It’s not the same.”
“I know,” Mom sighs. “I know.”
She eventually coaxes me off of the ground and ushers me back into the
house, tucking me into my covers the same way that she did when I was little.
She brews me a cup of hot chamomile and lays with me as I drink it.
“It’s going to be okay,” she says, over and over. “It’s going to be okay.”
Eventually, it’s late enough that Mom has to go to bed before her early shift
the next morning, so I’m left alone with the ghost of what was.
I roll onto my side, prepared to start a fresh round of sobbing, and I feel
something dig into my thigh.
“What in the world?”
I sit up and fish a little box out of my pocket. Caroline’s little box.
It’s royal blue, with gold embossed into the top. I slide the lid off gently and
26 Short Prose

dig through the tissue paper until my fingers brush something smooth and solid.
It isn’t until I hold it up that I recognize what it is.
A pendant of a butterfly, spreading its big wings, ready to take flight.
“Oh, Caroline,” I laugh, remembering the way she used to hold her arms out
and run around my backyard until she couldn’t anymore, fluttering until she
finally fell over from exhaustion.
Attached to one of the butterfly’s legs is a small piece of paper with a little
cocoon drawn on it.
I’m always here, it says. Just a call away.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m yanking my cell phone off its charger,
ignoring its angry buzz. I dial the number I know by heart, and I feel a small
sense of victory when I hear the groggy voice on the other end say, “It’s two in
the morning, you know?”
“Just a call away, huh?”
I can practically see her smile on the other end of the line.
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28 Short Prose

Khailil Tookas
Grade 12
Pittsburgh Allderdice
NON-FICTION
Hat Time
Sept 27, 3:46 PM
Today was a very important day for me. I’d been looking forward to today
for a while now, but strangely, as I walked, I could hardly feel anything. It was
like the world around me didn’t exist. Actually, I was feeling a lot of things,
but none of them from outside. My feet made no sound on the pavement as
they drew me closer to the school. My school bag was weightless, and the cars
around me seemed to be mere abstractions. My thoughts were consumed with
this moment that I had been leading up to for the past week. Crossing the street
to end up on the sidewalk in front of the school, all I could feel was the beating
of my heart. Each pulse carried more than just blood and oxygen, but something
more essential to life. They carried all of the thoughts and feelings that
were constantly begging for release, lest they destroy me from the inside. And
through a blue crochet hat, I held my heart in my hand.
Sept 20, 3:34 PM
Today was pretty boring. School was a drag and I had to cut the grass when
I got home. There was one exciting thing that happened today though. I was on
my way home and I decided to take a different bus route in the hopes of taking
more time and not having to cut the grass. I had been on the bus for about 10
minutes listening to music and letting the world around me fade away, when
the bus stopped and I looked out the window. There’s a good chance that if I
had been sitting a couple seats farther back, or if I had been more occupied with
my phone, that I would’ve missed her. An old friend of mine (I’m gonna refer
to her as Jane Doe) from elementary school had just gotten on the bus. I was
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extremely surprised to see her here since her school gets out much later than
mine. (Though we hadn’t seen each other since elementary school, we managed
to keep in touch.) She didn’t notice me at first, so I texted her to turn around,
and she came to sit next to me.
It was such a surreal experience to see someone from so long ago, and it
surprised me how much she had changed, but even more so, how much she
stayed the same. She had to get off only a couple stops later, but we still had a
brief conversation. It was awkward, neither of us really knew what to say to each
other, and we mainly resorted to sharing woes about school. But still, there was
something strange to me about the whole encounter. Even though we hadn’t
seen each other in so long, she greeted me more warmly than most of my friends
ever had. I didn’t have to make her popcorn, I didn’t have to give her my stuff
to look through, I didn’t have to do anything special to get her attention. It was
pretty strange, and I still don’t know why.
Sept 21, 3:47 PM
I didn’t have anything in particular that I needed to do after school today,
so I decided to go visit Jane. It wasn’t the first time that I’d gone to her school
to meet someone (another friend of mine used to go to that school before she
moved), yet this still felt like it was a new experience. I got there before their
school day was over, so I stood by the doors and waited. While I waited, I
stopped to think about some things that had been going through my head since
yesterday. Was I going to seem too excited? Would she even care that I showed
up? The longer I stood there, the more going there seemed like a dumb idea.
I started to feel like she would just brush me off with a simple hello and go on
about her day without giving me a second thought. I wouldn’t have been surprised;
she had no reason to want to spend any time with me.
Waiting, time seemed to get slower and slower, until finally, a flood of students
came rushing out the doors. Being careful not to get swept into the crowd,
I tried to see if I could spot Jane amongst all of the chaos emerging from the entryway.
When she came out, she didn’t see me, so I had to force my way through
the crowd to her. Fearing the expected outcome that had so ravenously consumed
my thoughts, I tapped her on the shoulder and greeted her a little louder
than I needed to.
My fears seemed to be ill-founded. She showed me the same warmth and
enthusiasm as she had on the bus yesterday. After talking to a few of her friends,
we departed from the crowd and I walked with her to her bus stop. Again, we
didn’t talk about anything deeply personal, although we did discuss our common
30 Short Prose

interest in jewelry making and the arts in general. Today was a very good day.
Sept 22
Today was certainly interesting, but I didn’t enjoy it as much as I should
have. It was my school’s homecoming and I went with a couple of my friends (I
didn’t want to go all that bad, but I didn’t want to leave my friend John alone).
The dance wasn’t really that exciting and aside from the people I went with,
there was nobody there that I would’ve enjoyed hanging out with. Even the
people I went with were failing to make the night enjoyable. The only “good”
thing that happened today was my commute to the dance. I had to take the bus,
and being the person I am, I decided to visit Jane again. She had been telling me
about the less than ideal job she had just landed downtown, and her shift ended
around the time I would need to be downtown anyways to get to the dance.
We walked together to go meet one of her friends (they were on their way to a
birthday party) and ended up waiting in the subway station. On our way there,
our conversation was more personal than our others had been, and it felt more
natural and familiar.
We didn’t end up having much time together, and when it was time so say
goodbye, I made a dumb mistake. The past two times we had seen each other,
she always parted ways with a handshake that we both held onto, just a little
longer than normal. Physical contact was something that even some of my
closest friends shied away from, so this felt strange and special. But today, and
maybe it was because her friends were there, I didn’t go to shake her hand when
we said goodbye. I felt and feel so dumb for that.
Sept 23
Not much else happened today except that I learned to crochet hats, and I’m
making one for Jane.
Sept 27, 3:48 PM
Carrying this piece of me intended as a gift, I reached the sea of people pouring
from the school. I found Jane pretty quickly, standing in her usual spot with
her friends. Again, making my way through the crowd, all I could feel was my
heart beating. This shouldn’t have been as intense as it was, but I couldn’t help
it. This hat was a part of me, and more than that, it was everything that had
happened over the past week. I had never felt such strong catharsis as when I
was making the hat, even though it was a calming and slow task. Everything
that had been running amok inside of me had found its way out and found new
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esidence in each individual stitch that I crocheted. This hat felt like a book of
my feelings, and when I handed it to Jane it was like those feelings were trying
to break free of the vessel I had put them in. Everything had been leading up to
this one moment. But when she put it on, it was just a hat.
32 Short Prose

Khailil Tookas
Grade 12
Pittsburgh Allderdice
FICTION
How to Write a Book
Have you ever looked at an author and thought, how did they write so many
books? So many books so fast? Well the fact is, they have a secret system for
churning out novels that are sure to top charts the moment they’re published.
So today I’ll be outlining the five simple steps that’ll have you writing bestsellers
in no time.
Step 1. Choose an uncommon and interesting topic.
This is probably the most essential part to getting your literary masterpiece
recognized the second it hits the shelves. Forget the age-old adage of ‘don’t
judge a book by its cover,’ because that’s exactly what you need to count on your
readers to do. Your aim is to sell as many books as possible, and having your
work stand out on the shelf as unique and interesting is the first and most important
step in doing so.
Step 2. Make a story the readers won’t expect.
Building off of your niche topic, you as an author have the freedom to make
your story whatever you want. Use this freedom to give your readers something
fresh and new. Break old tropes and stereotypes. Kill the main love interest by
chapter four, only to reveal that they didn’t die but are in fact the main villain.
Make the main plot actually a side plot to a much larger story. The world is your
oyster, and your pen is your godly tool of creation.
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Step 3. Proofread and fix plot holes.
After you have your story jotted down on several scraps of paper you happened
to have with you when a new and glorious idea fell into your mind, you
may feel inclined to rush to your rough draft immediately. This would be ill-advised.
The worst mistake you can make as a writer is thinking that you didn’t
make any mistakes. You’re only human, so it’s to be expected that you may have
forgotten to include how the shoes your main character wears are actually connected
to the main antagonist, providing the backbone of the entire narrative.
Happens to the best of writers, just look at Hirohiko Araki.* But luckily, you
have the ability to reread your story outline and see where certain things don’t
match up. Though this step may be short, it is far from unnecessary.
Step 4. Monkeys at a keyboard.
So, by now, you should have started your rough draft, and you’ve probably
made an astonishing discovery. Writing sucks. This is where our next step
comes into play. All of your favorite authors saved their best trick for last. What
you do now is move to Argentina, join the underground writer’s mafia, and submit
your story to the monkey room. In 1914, Émile Borel came up with the
theory, that if you had an infinite number of monkeys typing at keyboards, one
of them could eventually write any of Shakespeare’s plays by sheer statistical
chance. Well, the Argentinian writer’s mafia has taken this idea to heart and
created a room of specially trained monkeys to constantly produce literary genius,
being prompted with nothing more than a rough guideline and a healthy
salary of Cheez-Its. It may sound wrong and like a cheat, but it’s what all of
today’s greatest authors have relegated themselves to, and if you hope to stand
a chance amongst literary giants like James Patterson and Dr. Seuss, you need
to take their approach.
Step 5. Profit.
You’ve done it. You published your masterpiece. You’re currently living on
an island you bought with the money you made from your book. You send a
monthly fee to the mafia for their services. It wasn’t so bad was it? Becoming
a successful author is pretty easy when you follow the right steps. It was especially
easy considering there’s drool on your arm. Wake up. You fell asleep at
your desk while you were writing. You should probably get back to work; the
book isn’t going to write itself. Although that dream you had could make for an
interesting essay . . .
* Hirohiko Araki is a beloved Japanese manga artist who is well known for his tendency to forget
important plot lines and key details.
34 Short Prose

Riley Kirk
Grade 9
Gateway High School
FICTION
Paper Girl
I am a paper girl. Composed of crude lines and harsh angles, my details fill
in as he etches his inspiration, his graphite flowing against the paper pad. My
face emerges out of the blurry lines: a distinctly sharp nose with absent nostrils,
two sockets with no gleaming irises, no mouth at all save for a straight-sketched
line between my nose and the dimple in my chin. He pushes his glasses to rest
further up the sharp bridge on his nose, where a small valley indicates the frequency
of this working habit. His wispy, prematurely receding hair tucks behind
his knobby ears. He reaches a new level of concentration, newfound gritty
determination setting his jaw. He tries. I have to give him that. He tries to fill
in my pupils with a motley brown and blends it too little, then too much. Using
a crooked pinky, he smudges his hard work out of existence and leaves me just
an outline once more.
Another day brings new trials and new defeats. He uses an angular tool to
trace out acute cheekbones and a rosy pencil to shade in a slight blush, as if I
had just become the object of a particular schoolboy’s affections. Try harder, I
thought. My face was not provocative, but it was not to be doomed to childlike
innocence either. Middle ground was necessary, but neither he nor I could mark
where it was.
Some afternoons in his attic studio go better than others. After many moons
have passed, I find myself with the beginnings of a neck. Those two short strokes
erupting from my jawline serve as the key to a locked door of possibilities. He
has options now. A gaudy jeweled necklace could adorn my throat, hinting at a
decadently elegant life, or perhaps a scar telling stories of long ago, stories that
have been buried deep in my traumatic past. All of these and more fill out my
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neck and are erased as he is still hopelessly lost.
My artist is not known widely, but a few of his earlier paintings hang in galleries
on the main street. This was a long time ago, when he was happy. When
the missing panes that let in chilly breezes and too-hot sunbeams made him
laugh instead of scowl, and when he took joy in every step of his process not
just finishing a piece. After his first painting was hung, he had a few comrades
tour his artistic quarters, the ramshackle attic space with cloudy windows and
drafty walls. It was not much, but he was proud. Proud of the started and finished
sketches pegged to his walls, proud of the dyed garments he had strung
over the broken windows to make it seem just a little homier. As his frustration
with me develops, I sense this necessary pride slipping away. Artists must carry
a certain air of superiority around them; otherwise, they are replaceable with
any ordinary citizen.
He takes a pen this time and outlines my face, outlines what he knows is
right. Propelled by this single confident action, he shadows a soft valley underneath
my nose, providing depth and character. But the nose is disproportionate,
and he is defeated. He puts me in a dusty crate on a high shelf by the drafty
window. I feel his dissatisfaction in my paper bones as he tries without success
to move on to other pieces. I am always retrieved from the crate. Trapped in a
mutual place of grievance, he and I are one, but never quite united enough for
him to resist erasing any potential progress. The perfectionist monster in his
chest beats his lungs until he can’t breathe and threatens to burst out and rip
me into pieces some days. His pencil furrows shaky grooves into me, and his
eraser smooths them out again, my face becoming more and more unrecognizable.
In fact, I would be nothing but a sheet of wrinkled grey paper if not for
those pen lines he etched in so long ago. But even they are fading.
We fall into a pathetic routine. He’ll add a feature to my shape, become aggravated,
and blur it out again with his kneaded eraser. The broken panel in the
window will let in an unsatisfactory breeze, or the unevenly spaced floorboards
will creak too loudly, and wham. He has fallen off the deep end, flailing miserably
in the cold grey waves, and all I can do is watch from my crate prison.
My body feels his pencil shake and twitch with persistence when he is sick,
which is, all of a sudden, more often than not. When he moves his easel to his
bedside, I am the sole subject of his thoughts. At first, I am flattered, but now all
I wish is to rest. I gave up on the thought of being complete a long while ago. He
rests, but when his eyes are open, they are trained on my lines. His green eyes
search my own vacant pleading sockets like boats in a storm seeking a lighthouse
beacon, eternally lost in the fog. One day, his eyes don’t open. One day,
36 Short Prose

his charcoal trembles for the last time. And I am taken off of my pedestal and
crammed back into a box, seen only as the silhouette of what could have been.
It is several months before the light hits the bends and folds of my paper
again. A young girl, his daughter, lifts me out, holds me to the window. I see that
his studio has fallen into even further disarray. Not artistic. Just abandoned.
I brace myself. Nobody else will recognize my lines, and I am doomed for the
garbage, doomed to rot underneath yesterday’s newspaper. Maybe if I am lucky,
I will make it into the recycling bin. Her brow sets into a familiar crease that
reminds me cruelly of him. She sets me on his drawing board and disappears.
I hear the familiar slam of the trapdoor being pulled down behind her and her
soft footsteps echoing down the ladder. I feel the oak beneath my parchment,
soaking in the wood and breathing in the particles of dusty sunlight for the
first and last time. When she comes back, she dons a smock and carries a jar of
water, his least favorite brush peeking out of her breast pocket. She sits, and she
paints me a lemon-yellow dress, a daisy tucked behind my freckled ear, auburn
waves of hair cascading down my slender shoulders, dazzling amber eyes with
the faintest scar at the eyebrow and a mouth curving up ever so slightly at the
edges. And my paper heart is complete.
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38 Short Prose

Riley Kirk
Grade 9
Gateway High School
FICTION
The Little Red Boots
a short story about a girl who grew up too soon
They were a gift from her great-aunt, the one who held a firm belief in solid,
practical gifts. Dismissing fads and trends, mechanical engines and dollies, she
was the infamous downer at Christmas parties. Polite smiles and appropriate
niceties were drilled into the children of the family from a young age, and over
time, the young ones learned to expect a nice pair of long johns or a new feather
duster in place of any of the items on their long, hopeful lists. The girl was not
like the others. She was genuine, a rare trait in children, as they are really only
partially developed at such a young age. For each “useful” trinket bestowed upon
her, she tried her best to find a special purpose and home in her bedroom. Even
after her shelves filled up with clutter, and her mother promised it was all right
to donate some old gifts, the girl made sure she treasured each and every present
from her favorite great-aunt Lolly. The first gift that she didn’t need to force
into a role came on her sixth Christmas. Aunt Lolly was overtaken by one of her
common and unusual illnesses and was unable to personally deliver her gifts
that year. The rest of the family was not particularly bothered, but the girl found
herself longing for the monotonous company of her tedious yet familiar aunt.
A brown paper parcel was waiting on her front stoop when she arrived home
after her last day before holiday break. As her eyes caught on her name scrawled
across the front in black ink, the girl’s heart fluttered with the childlike anticipation
of unwrapping a parcel specially delivered for her. Nestled neatly in crisp
white tissue within the box, the boots waited patiently, breathing in the musty
air of their cardboard walls. Sunlight splashed over their crimson sides as the
flaps lifted, causing dark spots to dance over their rubber as the girl lifted them
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in her arms. With a squeal of excitement not often heard and a flash of gums
where her front teeth used to be, she raced inside with the little cherry red boots
cradled to her chest. Her mother smiled fondly at her daughter and asked her to
try them on. After briefly confusing the left foot with the right, the girl slipped
the galoshes on her feet. The boots fit perfectly: warm and small, snug and safe.
The boots accompanied her everywhere from that day on. They went tromping
through puddles left behind by April’s spring showers, and they journeyed
all the way to second grade in the fall. After the first few months, the novelty of
the new shoes had worn off for the girl’s mother, and she begged her daughter
to transition to sneakers, flats, any other shoes. But the boots were it for the
girl. They served as something familiar in new places, a comforting security
blanket in anxiety-inducing situations. The boots watched over her from their
place on the shoe rack in the hall when one late autumn day her mother finally
set her foot down and declared shoes were not to be worn inside the house. She
claimed they would scuff the new floors. Everybody knew that her mother didn’t
care about the floors. And everybody knew that her mother hated the color red.
Best of all was when the girl could put the boots on her feet, when her little
toes could stretch and wiggle in the perfect amount of space between the toe and
heel of the boot, when her ankles rubbed against the warm felt insides, when
she could go splashing. The rain comforted the girl almost as much as her boots
did. Some children harbored a perpetual fear of thunderstorms; meanwhile, the
girl sat on the porch with her Aunt Lolly and watched the lightning flicker down
while the cat hid under the steps. Her great-aunt warmed her hands around a
mug of milky tea and taught her that there was a sense of security in rain, that it
was God’s message of rebirth. The girl loved the rain that grew the flowers more
than she loved the bright blossoms themselves. The familiar echoing drumroll
of thunder that signaled the forthcoming storm made her heart twinge with
anticipation. These meetings with her aunt were often silent, so that they could
both hear the soothing patter of the rain mottling the sidewalk out front. There
was an unspoken but mutually understood agreement about this.
Over time, the boots became the girl’s sole companion on the majority of
these rainy days. Her aunt hated to miss a storm, but various ailments seemed
to befall her one after another, whether it be a migraine or a wicked bout of
pneumonia. Unwaveringly faithful, the girl’s little red boots sheltered her toes
in the most torrential downpours as her visits with her Aunt Lolly became increasingly
sporadic. Now only a few weeks away from her eighth birthday, the
girl could no longer wiggle and squeeze into her beloved rain boots, but still the
boots did not give up on her. Instead, they watched.
40 Short Prose

The boots watched as the girl raced through puddles in her new grey sneakers,
and they watched as the simplicity and serenity of her early years fell prey
to an irretrievable depth. The boots watched as they were outgrown, albeit
never cast off, for the girl could not bear to give up the last sliver, the last
tangible memory, of her happier days. Following one wet summer afternoon,
they were left by the front stoop, where the girl often discarded them after
playtime, but this time they were never retrieved. The boots watched from the
stoop as the girl left in and out through the same weathered wooden door for
school every day. The boots watched as a merciless drought took the county
in its grasp and refused to loosen its grip on the driest summer in the last
decade, as the overly enthusiastic reporters called it, eager to sink their claws
into any story with potential to be dramatized. The boots watched as her beloved
great-aunt heaved her belongings up the front steps, and they watched
when the paramedics heaved her down. The boots watched as a torrid, dry
thunderstorm brewed, the very worst kind. The boots watched as the phone
rang, over and over again with a desperate urgency. The boots watched the
forks of lightning lick the parched sky. The boots watched as the neighbors
brought casseroles, hesitantly at first, and then all at once. The boots watched
as the girl ran out of the house under the crackling scarlet sky, voices and arms
shouting and grabbing but never reaching. The boots watched as she didn’t. As
the headlights flashed, as the tires squealed, as the brakes slammed too late, as
the sky broke open and the rain poured. All that remained was a pair of little
red boots, forever watching the rain.
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42 Short Prose

Marie Roa
Grade 9
Pittsburgh Obama
NON-FICTION
I Remember
“Do you trust me?” my Papi said. I will never forget those words.
I remember the three adults sat across from us and sat us down on a bench.
Now I was panicking. My mom gave me a look of pity and sympathy, almost as
if saying “brace yourself.” So I did.
“Mama is… no longer with us”.
I don’t remember who said that. That moment moved so fast, time froze.
My brother started sobbing. I heard a scream. I think the scream came from
me. Then I was in a fetal position on the floor. Cradling myself. And just like
you see in the movies, it started raining. I thought the world was mocking the
tears flooding out of my face, soaking my clothes. I didn’t know where the rain
stopped and my tears started. Then I remember being lifted by my Tio. I think
I was still screaming. I was still in disbelief. My thoughts were racing, she’s not
dead, she’s not dead, they’re lying, she’s my world, they couldn’t take away my
world, could they?
I remember the car ride home. My brother was crying, sobbing.
My mother kept repeating, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” Then I lost it. I was enraged
at her. I stopped crying in that moment. Then the walls caved in and the sky fell
from where it stood.
“It’s not okay she’s gone! They took her away!” I screamed. That time I was
conscious of what I said. Guilt and grief hit me both at once. I leaned my head
against the window and stared at the rain. A small part of me had still hoped
that she was still in Chicago. She was my world or at least the part of it that
made everything else a little less bitter. They can’t just take away someone like
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43

that. I never knew which they I was referring to. I just knew they took her.
Ripped her away from my life moments before she was in my grasp.
I remember the thoughts that went through my head. They were more toxic
to me than any poison I could have put in my body. We pulled up to our house.
The yellow brick that built up my house was much duller than it had ever been
in the past. The dull yellow complemented the sky’s gray as the clouds cried out
with us. I walked up the stairs and felt the dread, that weighted mist again. I
opened the door to rivers of tears feeding into a sea of sadness. A good chunk of
my relatives were in my house. They all greeted me with looks of pity.
I remember how hard it was not to cry as I walked through the eyes of sympathy.
I hugged and said my hellos, then I climbed the stairs to my room. The
weight of grief made me sluggish and out of breath once I got to the top. I laid
on my bed and the mental dam broke. I started sobbing, seemingly flooding
my room with my sorrows. My Papi walked in and asked me to join the crowd
downstairs. The thankfulness I felt that he came to me was quickly trumped by
the anger and frustration that boiled up inside me. I stood and slammed the
door, soaking in the sadness that stayed in my room.
I remember I sat there until dinner. I didn’t eat lunch, I wasn’t hungry. I
was never hungry after that. I decided to get up and join the others. When I
got down the stairs the eyes looked at me again in pity. I looked on the coffee
table and there was a suitcase. It was Mama’s. My mom had my grandmother’s
broken crumpled-up glasses in her hand. One of my Tia’s let out a slight sob and
I began to comfort her. It was the most silent dinner I had ever had. A silence
comforted by collective sadness.
***
I remember a couple of days later we had to go to her apartment. We pulled
up to the old folks home, it was taller and loomed over us as if to mock us. Ha,
I’m still standing. I got out of the car and walked into the building with what
felt like a pity party of relatives. The building attendant greeted us and hugged
me and my brother and let it be an apology. I’ve always hated people apologizing
for a loss. It doesn’t bring them back. We all got in the elevator and I pressed
for floor five. When the doors reopened I was staring at a puzzle of a mountain
range, framed and hung on the hallway wall. I walked to her apartment and
unlocked the door. I couldn’t tell you the apartment number. I never knew what
it was, I just knew it was the last door to the left.
44 Short Prose

I remember walking in the smell of that place and that day, permanently engraved
in my mind. The apartment was untouched; we all stood at the entrance
taking it in. It was some of their first times seeing it. A part of me expected it
to be worn down and ancient. Like she had never really been there. It felt like
a knife to the chest, even worse than people saying that she was dead out loud.
Another part of me hoped that she would be there when we walked in. Seeing
that she never truly made it back started to make everything real. Too real for
my liking. It hurt so bad. The memories of sleepovers and mornings I spent
with her came flooding back. Most moments were well spent. Regrets came too.
I regret playing on her computer for too much time. I should have been in the
moment. Regret is the worst feeling. I still have that computer.
I remember snapping back into reality and looking around, just then noticing
that everyone else had gone deeper into the two rooms. And then I looked
over and saw my Papi crying. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry. The
strong sturdy man had never shown that side of him. I gave him a hug and we
stayed there for a minute letting the sadness stay. We had invited it in the minute
we all walked in the door. That was the last time I ever stepped into that
apartment. Now my grandpa lives there. I have never had the courage to step in
there to visit him, so he visits me.
I remember that things went downhill from there. The world felt wrong—
like the sky had fallen at my feet but the pieces didn’t fit back together. I was
furious. Enraged at everyone around me. I was a good person, taught that bad
things don’t happen to good people, yet here I was. People would apologize
and apologize, they still do. I don’t need apologies, I need the sky to be back
in its place. I need the birds to sing. I need the flowers to bloom. I need the
rainstorm to be over so I can finally see the rainbow. The knife in my back went
deeper and deeper into me. Every thought of her made me aware of the pain.
It makes me relive those moments. Those thoughts made me hope that maybe,
just maybe, she was still driving back home. They made me hope that the
doorbell would ring and she would be standing there with open arms. Hope
can be a horrible thing.
I remember that I had lost any sense of faith in God out of the little I had to
begin with. I blamed him. I was the most furious at him. Like he had taken her
away. Like he had taken a chunk of my soul away. I felt like I was being punished
for something I didn’t do. Or did I? I used to question what I did to make
this happen. As if it was karma for something I did. Like I was left just waiting
for the punchline.
I remember looking back at old photos of myself and questioning if that
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45

was even me. We look the same but aren’t the same person. She has my face
but behind that are just shattered pieces of person waiting to be mended. It’s
unfortunate that it took her so long to learn that she had to grow a pair and face
the mess she had created.
I remember during that year everyone tried almost everything to get the little
girl back from before the incident. But it didn’t work, she was long gone. Her
remnants shielded by walls so thick nothing could possibly get through. Nothing
was going to touch her again. It was a downward spiral of everything. Like
being underwater, constantly swimming up. Breathing in but no air filling the
lungs. That need left unsatisfied. Once you got to the surface a tidal wave even
bigger than the last taking you back down. I just wish the waters were calm.
I wish this was the part where I give some advice. Say that that broken
12-year-old girl is fixed, but she’s not. And she never will be. The weight of her
bottled rage and despair stops me from wanting to get out of bed. I wish there
was a happy ending I could write. A lesson that’s been learned and taught, but
the damage is something duct tape and once-upon-a-times can’t fix. The aftermath
of all of the rebuilding is something I’ll just have to adjust to. Like the
walls surrounding that innocence I once had. I never will get over it, the ruins
of the past still stand strong. But the clock keeps ticking, so I’m still running.
46 Short Prose

Natalie Cohen
Grade 11
Commonwealth Charter Academy
FICTION
Bloody Mary
She is a blood-red beverage: savory, spicy and flavorful.
She was a merciless queen, reminiscent of loose-leaf parchment, silver daggers
and the metallic aftertaste of murder.
She is a spirit, an apparition, a phantom only dared to be conjured by giggling
sisters in the safety of their mother’s bathroom.
Three rasps of her name are all it takes to summon her and the souls of
thousands slaughtered under her rule; her bitter resentment towards those who
wronged her casually contained in neat rows of cold, fragile chalices.
Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, the girls chant between snickers,
expecting the moment to come and go without a ghastly trace.
As their last shout echoes off of the tiled walls surrounding them, a heavy fog
fills the room, despite the locked windows.
Ice crystalizes the large mirror above their mother’s sink. The girls huddle
together for warmth, teeth chattering, hearts hammering, thoughts racing as to
why, how, who—
You, they squeak at what once was a small shadow in the corner of the glass,
now a black void in the shape of a human woman.
Except this woman is anything but human.
Dark smoke cascades from the scowl etched into her lifeless face.
What makes up her body are the faded, overlapping portraits of those she
ordered to be hanged, the faded, overlapping howls of those who came and
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47

went without a trace.
Spare us, the girls beg of Bloody Mary, promising they will never utter her
name again.
Mary, however, feels no more merciful than she had centuries prior and hungrily
descends upon the children.
Their throats overflow with red liquid, this tangy, bitter taste of Bloody Mary
the last sense that runs through them as the room collapses in a fit of far-off
giggles and groans.
48 Short Prose

Rebecca Gerse
Grade 9
Westinghouse Arts Academy Charter School
FICTION
Tipping the Scales
Topher examined the scales laid out in front of him. Each shone with multichromatic
beauty, and he was determined to unlock their secrets. He picked up
the scale furthest to his left, a pale yellow one just a tad bigger than his hand.
He tilted it, and as the light shifted, shades of chartreuse and dark gold danced
across its surface. It sparkled like a polished jewel in the natural light provided
by the hole in the roof of his cave, but he wasn’t interested in its beauty. He
wanted to break it down, to be the first to truly understand what makes a dragon
scale so valuable in alchemy. He had come so far just to reach this moment.
A smirk crossed his face as he remembered his younger self’s scientific hijinks.
***
His dad had been a woodcutter and couldn’t for the life of him understand
why Topher had been interested in science.
“We are wood people, Toph, and wood people cut wood,” his dad had
always said.
But Topher had been insatiable, devouring books by the dozen and even
gaining access to the Royal Library for his studies. Eventually he reached a
point where he no longer wanted to read what other people had discovered, but
to discover himself. His earliest experiments had certainly been interesting, but
not exactly successful. Topher had spent as many hours cleaning up his failed
experiments as he had dreaming them up. As he matured, his experiments be-
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came a good deal less explosive, and Topher felt he was finally ready to make a
real discovery, something that could change the world as we know it. Dragon
scales were an item of great power and intrigue within the scientific community.
Getting one was nearly impossible, and he had been determined to have several.
All prospective alchemists knew to avoid the Mountains of Mourring. That
was where the dragon caves were, and due to several unsuccessful attempts to
get scales, the dragons weren’t exactly friendly. Topher had ignored these warnings
completely, climbing alone up to the caves without even a dagger to protect
himself. He brought only what he would need for science. He arrived at the
mouth of one such cave. Topher peered into its depths but didn’t step in. He
didn’t want to be rude.
“Hello?” he called, his voice echoing loudly as it reverberated against the
damp stone walls. “Dragon? Come forth and face me!”
He tried very hard to sound intimidating. First impressions are everything,
after all. Topher heard nothing for a minute or two, but then a scraping sound
echoed loudly all around him. The sound of scales sliding across the cold stone
floor. He straightened himself up, preparing to meet the dragon. It came into
view, a magnificent beast with midnight blue scales that glimmered even in the
darkness of the cave. It opened its mouth, and at first Topher thought it would
speak. Then he saw the beginnings of fire gathering in its throat and he shouted
in panic, “Please don’t roast me I just want to talk!”
The dragon was taken aback by this. The gigantic mouth gaped at him and
then closed.
Topher was notoriously smooth-talking. His father had once said that “he
could talk a snail into eating its shell.” He had never needed that skill more than
he did at this moment. He suggested what he referred to as a “mutually beneficial
arrangement for the purposes of scientific discovery.” Toph was a master of
using big words to trip people up, but the dragon seemed more taken aback by
him talking at all as opposed to what he was saying. Topher took a deep breath
in preparation to speak, but he was halted by the dragon with a flick of one of
her deadly claws.
“Give me one good reason why I should even let you speak to me. Oh wait, you
can’t, because I won’t let you talk to me. Just turn tail, like you all do,” the dragon
said. The voice was deep and grinding, almost like rocks being ground against
each other, but it was distinctly feminine. She stared at him, daring him to say
another word. Topher had come too far to turn back without even having tried.
“I really don’t think it’s fair that I’m to convince you without words. I’m
50 Short Prose

not a telepath.” As he said this, her eyes flared, but with anger or surprise he
couldn’t tell.
“Well then, of what use could you possibly be to me. You are nothing but a
puny human who deigns to think your tongue is quicksilver even to a dragon,”
she said.
“Like I said before, I would like to suggest a mutually—”
“A mutually beneficial arrangement for the purposes of scientific discovery,”
she mocked him. “I heard you the first time.”
“Please, just hear me out! I am handing you the opportunity of a lifetime.
When has anything like this ever been done before? Hell, even been thought
of? The first dragon and alchemist alignment. Try to let them forget you then.”
Topher found himself speaking with a passion he didn’t know he had. The dragon
was just as shocked by his heartfelt exclamation. She stared at him, and the
look she gave him seemed more open, like he was finally getting through to her.
“Fine. You can stay here for, shall we say, a fortnight. Consider it a probationary
period. After the fortnight is passed, I will decide whether or not to roast
you alive. Until then, you can stay in one of my spare caves,” she said, and thus
they came to an agreement.
Topher would live with the dragon and have access to her expansive library
and any shed scales, and in return he would help out around the caves, tidying
and organizing everything the dragon was unable to reach with her massive
claws. The dragon, whose name was Kanzul, agreed, and Topher claimed one of
the side caves that branched off from her main cave as his own.
***
Topher looked around fondly at his collections, finding it hard to believe he
had moved in only a few months ago. The once barren stone walls were now
covered with shelves that were packed with books, journals, vials both full and
empty and a million other things. Dragons only shed their scales a few months
out of the year, and Kanzul wasn’t in the habit of keeping her scales, so Topher
had waited and waited until shedding season had finally passed. Out of an uncharacteristic
fondness, Kanzul had brought him not only her own shed scales,
but the shed scales of several other dragons. No one across all of history had
ever had an opportunity like this, and Topher would not squander it.
He took a deep breath, gathered all his focus, and concentrated all of it on
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the scale in his hand. He immediately noticed the texture was different up close.
Rather than being smooth like a polished pebble, the surface vaguely resembled
reptile skin. He ran his finger gently across it and wondered how he hadn’t noticed
before. He picked up another scale, this one dark blue with hints of teal
and purple, and compared the two. On first glance, it would seem the scales
were only different colors, but they had completely different textures. Perhaps
this was affected by the color or the environment the dragon was from, or maybe
there was more than one species of dragon. The last thought made him shiver.
So many discoveries were right in front of him, waiting to be made. He got
out his materials and began the arduous process of breaking the scale down.
Topher wiped sweat from his brow. He had been working for almost nine
hours straight, and he would have kept going if not for the loud protesting from
his stomach. He shrugged off his special experiment clothing and left the scales
to find food. He rummaged absently through the food stores, in search of anything
that hadn’t gone bad. His hand came across substances that would have
made anyone else stop and shudder in disgust, but he was used to it. He pulled
his hand back to find he had accidentally stuck it into an old bucket of milk. The
milk had curdled, and he attempted to wipe the slimy off-white lumps onto a
nearby washrag. Immediately he plunged his hand back in, used to it. He finally
found a chunk of cheese that wasn’t too green, and he plopped down on the
floor to eat it.
As he chewed, he thought about what he’d discovered so far. Usually things
broke down under high heat, but the scales were impervious, which made sense
as they were dragon scales. He tried various acids and solutions, but for a while
it had seemed like he would have to give up. Eventually, he had the bright idea
to ask Kanzul for help.
“You want me to help with your experiments?” Kanzul asked skeptically.
“I’m just asking a question,” Topher sighed.
“And I’m just providing you with shelter and the scales already. If you still
need things from me, maybe I should be doing the experiments myself,” the
dragon huffed.
She was difficult, Topher knew this, but she wasn’t impossible.
“Look, I just want to know if there are any substances that can damage dragon
scales.”
Kanzul paused, thoughtful, and absently tapped one of her claws on the cold
stone ground.
52 Short Prose

“Nope. I’ve never encountered something I couldn’t beat,” she said proudly,
but Topher could tell it was a front. He’d spent enough time with Kanzul to
know that she was avoiding his question. The clear, slimy membrane of her inner
eyelid slid over her emerald green eyes, and that proved it. She was blocking
him out, and even he couldn’t get her to talk.
The shifty nature of her answers confirmed for Topher that such a substance
did exist, but he wasn’t going to get her help in finding it. When Toph was at
odds with his experiments and just couldn’t make any more progress, he always
turned to Kanzul’s magnificent library. The biggest cave of them all, even bigger
than Kanzul’s personal quarters, and every square inch was packed with books.
Books in English, Latin, Hebrew, even some languages he didn’t think were
real, like the deep purple leather-bound books with glowing green script that
gave him a migraine just to look at.
He went there now and made sure to avoid those strange dusty tomes. He
spent a week straight in there, sleeping among the books and only eating when
Kanzul yelled at him to. Finally, he came across a book of magical herbs and
discovered dragonsbane.
Dragonsbane grows only in one forest out of the entire world, so what were
the odds that it would sit just a few days journey from the Mountains of Mourring?
He packed a leather satchel with the least perishable food he could gather,
survival materials, the book, and a special container for the dragonsbane.
Topher was finally ready to leave, but he couldn’t just disappear on Kanzul.
He already felt awful for going behind her back, and if he just disappeared, she
would never trust him again.
“Kanzul, I’m going to be gone for a few days. To visit my family,” he lied. Kanzul
looked up from what she was doing, and her eyes seemed brighter, happier
than he had seen her in a while.
“Don’t take too long. It’s hard to find a maid these days,” she joked, and he
forced a smile. He turned and left, trying not to think about how he was betraying
the only person he had ever truly considered a friend.
Finally, he reached the forest and almost immediately came across a plant
that matched the diagram in his book. Muted green leaves and a deep violet
flower with exactly 3 petals and an orange starburst center. The leaves were
harmless, but he picked as many of the flowers as he could fit in the container.
Finally filled, he returned to the cave, hiding his new treasure from Kanzul.
He’d had to be very careful because dragonsbane was, as it’s so aptly named,
the bane of dragons. He found that the herb in its natural state did nothing to
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the scales, but boiling the flowers created a liquid that melted the scales down
to be concentrated.
The product was now boiling away in his room so as to concentrate it. He
shoved the last chunk of cheese in his mouth and stood up. Topher went back to
his room, plopped onto his bed, and slept.
He woke up as the fire dwindled beneath his vials. Topher rubbed his eyes
and crossed the room to where the “Dragon Juice” as he had fondly named it
was being concentrated. He watched as a final drop of shimmering yellow liquid
plopped into the vial, and everything stilled. He picked the vial up gently,
stopping it immediately. The vial was about as long as his index finger and was
filled halfway with the shifting yellow substance. He smiled at it. “This isn’t my
big discovery,” he thought to himself. “I’m just getting started.”
54 Short Prose

Roan Hollander
Grade 10
Pittsburgh CAPA
NON-FICTION
Return
I. Shower Outside
You’re sweaty, the California sun has been hot oil all day. Ready to bathe, you
carry a towel. But your uncle stops you.
“Go try the outdoor shower!” He tells you, a wild man of you-only-live-once
spirit. You’re reluctant, and the thought of baring yourself outside makes you
cold. All you can picture are eyes.
He hands you a mini flashlight, sends you on your way with a smile.
You roll the light on your palm as you walk, finally laying it on the
shower bench.
You click it, a damp light grazes your stomach.
Shiver, even though it’s California, and it doesn’t seem right to be cold in
California.
There’s a thrum in the air, stars scattered across the sky. You imagine a hand
spreading them, like sprinkles. The sky’s smoky ink, the color of fog breath at
midnight. Where the horizon trickles out glows sallow orange, lagging into dirt.
Vines cling to the top of the shower. Their shadows breathe in, quiver, and collapse.
You finally find the shower knob and unleash a stream. Fiddle with the temperature
a bit, can’t find the right one and leave it. Just feel.
Your shoulders curl inward, a surrender to the stars and the air and unseen
eyes. There’s nothing to conceal you from the world; the water is a transparent
slip and dusk is no reassurance.
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The slither of a breeze brings an awareness of yourself you don’t often have.
Those are legs, goosebumps on your skin. You realize the calluses on the outsides
of your big toes, how they curve down to the wood floor. Here are fingers,
these long arms which you lift like a bird, letting rivulets run like vines around
your forearms, drip from your palms. Here are ears, eyes cold and stung by
shampoo, ropes of hair on your forehead.
There’s nothing between you and outside air. You think of nature’s nearness,
your exposure to rain and insects and teeth.
The Earth exhales and blows leaves onto your skin; you’re frail. The top of
your head is chilly and you wonder why humans’ bodies are so ill-equipped for
the wild. Vulnerable.
In your mind, you sift sand through your fingers. Inhale salt of the ocean,
slice your feet on coral reefs and feel fish scales slick across your back, the movement
of water. You hug a tree, curve both arms along its flaking, living breadth.
End up lying in a field, wishing to absorb the flowers and become one, wild and
nectarous and free.
II. Eat Your Garden, Barefoot
You open the door quickly, shutting it as a swarm of fruit flies ambushes your
face. Their tiny bodies bump your skin. The air is practically a puddle, made of
sweat and sun juice. You slog yourself to the garden.
Soil is wet between your toes, on your heels. Water seeps up, pooling. Each
footprint you leave is like knuckles in a sponge; your uncle will disapprove of
the mud-prints you’ll leave throughout the house, but the cool decay on bare
feet is worth it.
The tomato plants prickle and smell like earthworms and dirty heat. Each
fruit is its own bulb, full of seeds and sweet water. You can tell they’re especially
ripe; when you nudge them, they become raindrops and plummet.
You plop a particularly orange one onto your tongue, roll it around like a
fifty-cent gumball until a molar catches the skin and it pops. The seeds, in their
little membranes, slip through your saliva and you try to hold them with your
front teeth. The trick is to catch their abdomens, bite down, and the encasing
will break with the seed.
Warm tomato skin, dimpled by dirt, cleansed with the kiss of rainfall, is still
thin in its baby phase. That’s the time to harvest.
You test Earth’s heartbeat with your feet. Try to feel the huge ball of fire
somewhere down there, underneath the clay and sand and streams.
56 Short Prose

You think about the number of earthworms burrowing beneath you, and
the web of roots that supports the soil. And the insects and skeletons and split
tomatoes that the ground constantly absorbs.
You forget what you walk on sometimes.
III. Swim in the Rain
There’s always that fear of lightning and water, together. But with your uncle,
you must learn not to be afraid. If this bald man with a belly button scar
isn’t, why should you be? Or at least, you need to forget your mind.
You and your family, not linked by blood, but hugs and nearness and food, sit
in the hot tub, one person in each corner. Four, including you. Your skin glows
radiator pink, enough to scoot your shoulders out of the water—letting off some
steam, literally.
Through the trees, fat rain arrives. Plips on the water disappear, immediately
swallowed by hot tub jets, but the four of you can feel them wallop your heads.
Your uncle says it’s time to swim. Not in the hot tub, in the lake.
Ignoring the sky’s hungry stomach rumbling on the ridge, you run together.
Woodchips on the path dig into your feet’s soft underbellies, and you leap awkwardly
to avoid them, a waving dance of flailing arms and ecstasy.
Uncle tells you that if you make your eyes even with the water level, you can
see the rain bounce. You sink into the lake, knees in the mud, and watch. Mud
water curls up to your lower lashes, tickling them; water drops attach themselves.
As each drop falls, it drags the lake back up with it in a vain attempt to
return to the sky.
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58 Short Prose

Spencer Greenberg
Grade 12
North Allegheny Senior High School
FICTION
When I Knew
I clutch the handlebar before me with ferocity, and it’s not until I realize I’m
losing sensation in my hands that I relax my hold. Caught by the grip of paralysis,
I can’t tell if I’m on the brink of fainting or just simply too overwrought with
fear to think straight. My senses quickly begin to dull as they check my seatbelt,
and I can feel myself losing touch with the physical world around me. I am no
longer a sentient, conscious human being but merely a vessel of utter paranoia
and terror. The sheer concepts of security and groundedness and even life itself
are fleeting. My heartbeat spirals into a tempest as it becomes progressively
more pronounced, and all the sounds of the amusement park—children calling
for their mothers, teenagers laughing as they sprint to the lines, rock music
playing on a loop through the loudspeakers, the firestorm of screams permeating
the atmosphere—all of it seems to die away and melt into a sinister lullaby.
I’m ripped out of my daze by an excruciatingly uninviting piercing noise,
before hearing the ride operator begin her preplanned send-off.
“Welcome to the Top Thrill Dragster. Please make sure all your valuables
and belongings are put away and…”
“These speeches are so dumb,” I croak, hoping to trick myself into feeling
better by making light of a hopeless situation. But the words barely even escape
my mouth.
You never should’ve chosen dare.
You never should’ve chosen dare.
The words reverberate over and over again in my mind.
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“Oh my God, are you good? I can’t even tell if you’re breathing right now,”
Margot says, visibly trying to conceal her amusement.
“You know how afraid I am of heights,” I murmur, without even cracking
the slightest bit of a smile. She stops joking because she does know. She knows
exactly how terrified I am.
As soon as the ride operator finishes her farewell, I immediately feel a jolt of
movement as the car begins to proceed forward. It’s too late to turn back and
all I can do at this point is close my eyes. My thoughts aren’t coherent anymore;
they’re just a sporadic, random mixture of panic and worry.
And then the countdown commences. A simple countdown that shatters any
remaining sense of stability I thought I had. A countdown that sends a wave of
shock down my spine, that ricochets into my chest and echoes relentlessly in my
head. The last thing I feel is Margot’s hand, its soft and delicate touch grazing
my forearm before landing on top of mine. And one singular thought, a thought
that felt so indescribably distant and foreign only ten seconds earlier, washes
over me in that short moment.
Safe.
60 Short Prose

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Poetry
62 Poetry

1st place
“All Unknown”
Aliya Pimental
2nd place
“Red Yellow Green”
Jayla Andrews
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2020
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64 Poetry

Aliya Pimental
Grade 12
Westinghouse Arts Academy Charter School
All Unknown
Delicate hands trace
A bare back
Soft lips whisper
Words of warm honey
Speckled green eyes
Seem to see something
So clearly
A suave smile
Laughs into dimples
Silly tones describe
Sweetness in another
Through this fog of
Lovely tones of lavender
Are rough hands
Hitting a porcelain face
Rushed lips placed
On those unready
Speckled green eyes
Selfish with desire
Seeing
So blindly
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A disconnected smile
Doesn’t sense the discomfort
Demanding tones
Drown
The expression of others’ needs
Leading to abandonment in
Lovely tones of lavender
66 Poetry

Jayla Andrews
Grade 12
Westinghouse Arts Academy Charter School
Red Yellow Green
I never stare straight on
at the gleam reflected by
what traffic designates as
the permission to travel further
My eyes tend to dart over
resting contently on
the occupied passenger seat
I feel my heartbeat in my lungs
and the pulsing of
something undiscovered
yet teeming with
certainty
I gently accelerate
matching the vehicles ahead
knowing that at any moment
a pin drop could shatter the
stillness that lingered
on my lips
and the warmth from our hands
resting on the center console
-when the unknown is promising
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68 Poetry

Ava Weidensall
Grade 9
Baldwin High School
The Color of Her Eyes
imagine that none of this exists.
there are no towns,
no cities,
not even a whisper of smoke from some distant cottage.
it’s only you.
you and the meadow that goes on forever,
with patient grey mountains holding up the crystal dome of the sky.
the day is soft.
its light sways in the running of the breeze
like the heather at your calves
as cotton-puffed clouds occlude the eye of the sun
before letting it see once more.
you walk.
not hurrying, not lingering, not worrying.
you just walk with the breeze,
and it feels like someone holding your hand
and smiling, saying
“everything’s gonna be alright,
just you wait.”
you stop at a spring.
the water is glass,
clear and smooth in your hands,
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liquid mirror in the sunlight.
and the places where the sunlight hits,
illuminated greater than any Sirius or Polaris,
the warmth that spreads you a smile to match its own,
that is the color of her eyes.
70 Poetry

Carter Krummel
Grade 12
Hillcrest Christian Academy
Space Traveler
I am a lone space traveler,
Drifting in a sea of stars.
Behind a thin, cracking window,
I watch the world fall apart.
The cosmos drags me to sleep.
I fail to resist in full.
And so, I plunge into a world of reverie,
Dangerous and beautiful.
I have no planetary home,
No estate in any place.
But why would it matter anyway,
It will all be gone when I awake.
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72 Poetry

Charles Forster
Grade 12
Pittsburgh Allderdice
Mac Flip
Always a song stuck in my head, usually the Diablo
I’m looking for the secrets in the lyrics, but he dunno
Where to hitchhike to, so I don’t know where I’ll go
I’m scared to end up wit him and the excelsis Deo
You were just saying something, how rude of me
I was just making conversation rudimentary
These are the bars of the century
And this shit comes to me elementary
You losin your mind like a fucked-up sentry
Don’t worry, I’ll help you find your marbles eventually
I am the overbearing, all-seeing entity
And you can’t make a singular step to me
I’ll fuck you up and escape the penitentiary
Just to show you how to do it professionally
Writing the bars on my phone cause the pen’s too deep
But still I’m diving down like I play for Napoli
My brain hold depths, I’m sinking mentally
I’ll just let you know when I need some help for me
Always a song stuck in my head, usually the Diablo
I’m looking for the secrets in the lyrics, but he dunno
Where to hitchhike to, so I don’t know where I’ll go
I’m scared to end up wit him and the excelsis Deo
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I spin in circles to get more loopy
I psych myself out, self-duping
I wonder how to find my truth, g
I don’t need you to read me the eulogy
I’m not obsessive, I’m depressive
I’m losing my mind to the excessive
Instability of my mind in its casing
Shaking like adrenaline got my heart racing
No stopping, I keep faking
Might have to find calm in baking
I like cookies, they’re pretty amazing
I think it’s shallow, but I need breaking
I can’t write unless I feel it
That’s why these lyrics turned out real shit
Real shit, the shit I talk about
Fighting like I’m in a pro bout
Got nothing to fight but I’m fighting still
I can’t use weapons, not Kill Bill
I fight with my hands and my feet
And my arms and my gawky physique
I fight even though I’m so weak
I really can’t fight, I’m too meek
Always a song stuck in my head, usually the Diablo
I’m looking for the secrets in the lyrics, but he dunno
Where to hitchhike to, so I don’t know where I’ll go
I’m scared to end up wit him and the excelsis Deo
Verse three, coming at you like fake heat
I can’t create, I emulate, no originality
I want something original, but lord knows I’ll go jazzy
If it means I get focused, talent on the rap sheet
Cause I can’t recruit, I only have me in a back street
Kickin it with the boys, but you know I’ve got bad feet
Shooting at the goal, but I’m not hacking
74 Poetry

Just faking it like a Scot on St. Patty’s
I rap slow to fill the time
Stroking out, like I’ve lost my mind
It’s in single time, here’s another filler rhyme
The flow breaks in loopy like it’s from Sublime
The verse not long enough, I gotta flesh it out
The rhymes self-aware, but they’re showing self-doubt
No more self-esteem, the confidence gone now
I wish I could freestyle the words right off my crown
I’m just rambling, don’t you listen anymore
I’ll probably mess it up like the Yankees in ‘04
I’m losing momentum, the potential energy not in store
So I’ll cut to the chorus like 23 lines before
Always a song stuck in my head, usually the Diablo
I’m looking for the secrets in the lyrics, but he dunno
Where to hitchhike to, so I don’t know where I’ll go
I’m scared to end up wit him and the excelsis Deo
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76 Poetry

Eliyah Roberts
Grade 12
Shady Side Academy
JUDGE’S COMMENDED PIECE
Love is Timeless
One World One Sound, what we practice we need to preach
But the only sound I hear are guns going off in the streets
Children crying, children dying being separated from family
Name calling, guns cracking, is this the world that future generations
need to see?
We all blossomed from the seed that brought us love and war
But the only love we seem to bring ain’t love from an open door
The hate we receive is coming full-throttled, “Your hair is too nappy,” “You’re
too skinny,” “You’re too dark,” “You’re too… black,” “You’re… too… black”
There are no enemies it’s just our inner me’s
That drive us to keep the shackles under lock and key
Making the cuts that we bleed through
The hate they’ve dug us into
The lies they tell their children
The stories that they’ve kept hidden
The hate they keep on giving
The words that got us tripping
That make us question the cost of living
We swallow each other’s words and cough em out like we all got bronchitis
The Isis through our Iris
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Making kneeling seem like a crisis
Thinking black lives aren’t all that priceless
The hate is temporary but our love is timeless
That’s what most people forget
Hate is temporary but our love is timeless
Love is timeless
78 Poetry

Gemma DeMeo
Grade 12
Westinghouse Arts Academy Charter School
Grandma’s Credit Card
In 1963, my grandmother applied for a credit card.
That small piece of plastic didn’t come easy, though.
Being a single parent in the ‘60s was hard,
but being a single mother in the ‘60s was harder.
Women were not people but a liability,
or a walking shopping spree.
Companies turned her down
for no reason aside from gender
and marital status.
This was not an irresponsible child
asking for a dollar for soda.
This was a mother and working woman
trying to pay for bills and groceries and new shoes
for her children.
Discover accepted her request.
In 57 years, she has never switched to a different company,
and she still keeps that very first card in her wallet.
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80 Poetry

Jade Chatman
Grade 11
Pittsburgh Obama
So Do I
My friend tells me that she wishes
She could sleep forever
“But I don’t want to be dead!” she says
“I just want to wake up and be 35 years old
And have a stable job.”
When she tells me this
The words
“That’s impossible”
Almost come out of my mouth
But I remember where we are
And who we are
So I look at her and say
“So do I.”
My mother once tells me that she
Wishes she was younger.
“I just want to go back 17 years—
Before I had you,” she says.
She tells me this to be funny
And to see a smile on my somber face
But before
“That’s impossible”
Comes out of my mouth,
I look at her and say
“So do I.”
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82 Poetry

Jo Pastorius
Grade 10
Pittsburgh Carrick
Sacrificial Wolf
by people are you damned
the sacrificial wolf
not as soft as the dear lamb,
nor as easily are you fooled.
still they lead you to the slaughter
and pull tightly on your rope
and you snarl and bare your teeth
but they refuse to let you go.
and you pull and try to break it
but their grip you cannot shake
because you scare them, you’re too mean
and you need to go away.
what they never seemed to learn
about a cornered animal
is they only growl when they are scared,
it’d be fine to let you go.
what they never tried to learn
is that you are not a sheep
and they can’t kick and they can’t hurt you
just because they deem you weak.
because God gave you teeth
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all sharp and made for biting
and they never would have guessed
that you were never one for fighting.
84 Poetry

Madalynn Hill
Grade 9
Westinghouse Arts Academy Charter School
The Only Bird in Town
Naked branches wail out under the cold touch of their claws,
their vicious nails sinking into the frail wood.
The breeze sings a cold song,
one of remembrance and virtue.
A tune that crawls along their feathers,
and grazes the air as they fly.
On their tree, they are perched,
wishing death upon strangers through harsh glares,
and wailing out deafening calls.
Though, who would say they’re graceful,
full of beauty,
without acknowledgement of such flaws?
The first spring morning brings bloom and soaring dots in the sky.
With every new day, there’s an awakening,
and small chirps at your window.
The beckoning sounds of existence falling right from their beaks.
Flock after flock after flock,
their feathers melt the scenery,
still throwing their unwavering glances upon us.
They hold our loved ones in their eyes,
and set the tone for Earth’s next disaster.
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86 Poetry

Maggie Morvay
Grade 11
Carlynton Jr./Sr. High School
The Voice of Travel
No don’t make me leave
The little voice inside pleads
Don’t make me go home
Where we only wear monochrome
And hope
That one day we would live like a kaleidoscope
Twisting and always changing
While rearranging
Into something ravishing
That would not be damaging
To one’s eyes
But here I can put on a disguise
So why should I ever leave
When here I can play make believe
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88 Poetry

Maxwell Kimbrough
Grade 9
Central Catholic High School
Fall
Wind floating through trees
Colors changing among leaves
Cold air surrounds me
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90 Poetry

Phoenix Thomas
Grade 9
Westinghouse Arts Academy Charter School
Queries From
a Mediocre Man
What do you define as a man?
More importantly, what are the stipulations to being one?
Is it a strong jaw and courage?
Or is it a level head and vulnerability?
It seems like men follow a strict yet silent code.
There’s no room for error,
Weakness isn’t tolerated.
So when I walk the streets,
My presence is seen as comedic.
Their eyes examine my skin,
Scanning every vein for the verve of masculinity that defines them.
Then the laughter ensues. They cackle and grin at the thought of me
Parading my false confidence on my sleeve.
So here I stand,
Questioning what will validate me in their eyes.
Do my hips meet your standards?
Is it my vocabulary that threatens you?
Does my tone provide the coarseness you crave?
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If I reduce myself to the point where I hold no recollection
of the aspirations engraved inside me, would you be satisfied?
Have I customized myself enough to fit your vision?
Am I man enough for you?
92 Poetry

Seth Parente
Grade 10
Westinghouse Arts Academy Charter School
Spring Forward
You wake yet again,
From an alarming dream,
Only to realize that the world knows not,
Of the sorrow,
Felt by one when eyes are closed.
Shades of yellow cast onto skin,
Stained by a spring sun,
The birds outside the window,
Sing louder than ever before,
Taking with them any memory of fear.
Rising to a new scene,
Feet reach the ground,
Worn carpet comforts your mind,
A sense of familiarity overwhelming all senses.
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94 Poetry

Shana Reddy
Grade 10
Upper St. Clair High School
A Modern-Day Messiah
what does it mean to be a messiah?
he (xe) asks me
i do not know
how to explain
the voices, speaking in tongues
i don’t understand
(maybe my ancestors did. are they angered at my naïveté?)
how do i explain
the blank white eyes
in the middle of the night
whispering
‘they’re the one. they’re the one.’
i do not want to be the one
i want to be me, forgotten
how am i supposed to say
i wake up screaming
from dreams (read: nightmares)
of blood-soaked sand
and burnt corpses adrift at sea
i down pills, almost religiously
praying hoping,
hoping that the visions are of ages past
and not the future
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i want to tell him (xir) all of this
but the voices
won’t
stop
screaming
96 Poetry

Worood Alobedi
Grade 9
Westinghouse Arts Academy Charter School
You.
Oh no, there i go thinking about You again.
i despise how just the thought of You makes
my fingers freeze,
my body shake,
my mind come to a halt,
salty tears stream down my red cheeks.
Because for a reason i cannot bring myself to acknowledge,
i miss You.
But our love was built on deception,
it was surely known to eventually fall,
for a rocky base will surely make all else collapse
and gravity isn’t known to be merciful.
Yet somehow,
despite all the pain we caused one another,
i still miss You.
And for some aching reason,
i still love You.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
So much about the 2020 Ralph Munn Creative
Writing Contest has been different because the
Covid-19 pandemic is making our world different. An
unprecedented need for patience and caution have
dictated the flow of this year’s events. Within this shifting
relationship to time and normalcy, cries for racial justice
are thundering through society and in our streets. This
demand for a better world is led, in no small part, by
young people. As always, I dedicate this anthology
to them. Our young writers make Ralph Munn—and so
much more—possible. We will keep celebrating you and
building with you, wherever your ambitions might take us.
I am grateful to this year’s judges, Dr. Jewell Parker
Rhodes and Jari Bradley, for their willingness to
participate. There is nothing easy about picking winners.
They did not shy away from the weight of their task;
rather, they approached it head-on. Both judges took on
their roles with compassion and a critical lens that will
help the writers as they develop their craft.
A huge thanks is also due to both rounds of committee
members. The initial committee enthusiastically helped
refine the structure of the contest. The second round of
committee members gracefully stepped into a moving
process. I so enjoyed reading and discussing the pieces
with all of you.
Much invisible work goes into this contest and anthology.
Thank you to the Library communication team, event
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planners, department leads and leadership who support
Ralph Munn year after year. It is meaningful that you see
the value in this project.
A special type of thanks to Connie Amoroso and
Adrienne Jouver. Adrienne’s careful eyes ensure the
writers’ work has all the impact intended. Connie, over
the years, has built a foundation for the anthology. It
stands tall because of what she has put into it.
Of course, thank you to all the educators and mentors.
Whether you are parents, community workers, teachers,
library staff, teaching artists or simply invested in the
youth of Allegheny County, your work is critical. Please
keep doing what you’re doing. Please find ways to
connect, and stay connected, even across new kinds of
distance. Now is when we need you.
Sincerely,
Sienna Cittadino
Ralph Munn Committee Chair
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2020 Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology
Written by Allegheny County high school students, grade 9–12
Compiled by Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh and Allegheny County Teen Specialists
2019 Cover Art Winner: Jake Pfeuffer