2021 Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology

2021 

Ralph Munn 

Creative Writing 

Anthology




Anthology

© 2021 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




Anthology 

Editorial Team Lead 

Kelly Rottmund, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh, Teen Services 

Editorial Team 

Tessa Barber, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh – East Liberty 

Megan Branning, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh – Squirrel Hill 

Heather Cowie, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh – Main 

Bonnie McCloskey, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh – Main 

Kevin Seal, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh – Main 

Book Design 

Justin Visnesky, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh, Communications 

Copyediting 

Adrienne Jouver 

Cover Illustration 

Gianna DiGiacomo

TABLE OF CONTENTS 

About the Ralph Munn Creative Writing Contest . . . . . . 6 

Judges’ Biographies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 

Short Prose 

1st place 

“High Flyin” by Ariel Riccobon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 

2nd place 

“the thing about the sun: a short piece” by Riley Kirk . . . . . . . 25 

“The Affected” by Aria Narasimhan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 

“How It’s Done” by Maya Weaver . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 

“was it worth it?: a short story” by Riley Kirk . . . . . . . . . . . 43 

“Untitled” by Miles Kantor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 

“On Being Anonymous” by Julia Stern . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 

“Atlantide” by Olivia Smathers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 

“A Bird and Its Tiny Wing” by Alaina Cain . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 

“Tiffany” by Jessica Tang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 

“Multiverse Collision” by Robin Troup . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 

“Ambu” by Maanasa Reddy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 

Poetry 

1st place 

“Fell a Victim” by Elena Johnson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 

2nd place 

“Blood Sisters” by Emily Rhodes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 

4

“Number Zero” by Samantha Silk. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 

“The Painter” by Gwendolyn Nace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95 

“The Waiting Room” by Sarah Gallogly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 

“Sunset Ballet” by Samantha Silk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 

“Reflections” by Maanasa Reddy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 

“We Are People” by Finn Lawrence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103 

“Gemstones” by Saanika Chauk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107 

“Wanting to Pray” by Grey Weatherford-Brown . . . . . . . . . 109 

“The Life of Phillis Wheatly” by Aliyah Scott . . . . . . . . . . . . 111 

“Where the Wounded Lay to Rest” by Clara Kelley . . . . . . . . 113 

“Where I’m From” by Evelyn Sorg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115 

“you can.” by Aneri Shethji . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .117 

“Concerto Inferno” by Oladunni Bejide . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119 

“A reprise for Martha, my beloved” by Allen Fiejdasz . . . . . . .121 

“angel : fallen” by Shana Reddy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123 

“fall of the oak tree” by Connor Dalgaard . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 

Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126 

Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2021 

5

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 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. 

6

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) 


7

JUDGES’ BIOGRAPHIES 

Poetry 

Paloma Sierra 

Paloma Sierra (she/her) is a Puerto Rican writer, 

translator, educator, and curator. She writes poetry, plays, 

screenplays, musical theatre books, and opera librettos. 

Emerging Poet Laureate of Allegheny County 2020- 

2021, Paloma has developed plays, musicals, and 

operas with various theater companies. She has 

collaborated with Project Y Theatre Company, 

Theatre Now New York, Poetic Theater Productions, 

Nuyorican Poets Cafe, and White Snake Projects. Her 

poetry and translations appear in Bridge: The Bluffton 

University Journal, Persephone’s Daughters, and 

Sampsonia Way Magazine. Her screenplay “Open 

Frame” is a finalist for the Alfred P. Sloan Foundation 

Screenwriting Grant 2021. 

Paloma holds an MFA in Dramatic Writing and a BHA 

in Creative Writing and Drama from Carnegie Mellon 

University. She is also a member of the Dramatists’ 

Guild and New Play Exchange. 

A Fulbright Scholar 2021-2022, Paloma plans to 

study Literary and Theater Translation at Buenos 

Aires, Argentina. 

8

Prose 

Deesha Philyaw 

Deesha Philyaw’s debut short story collection, The 

Secret Lives of Church Ladies, won the 2021 PEN/ 

Faulkner Award for Fiction, the 2020/2021 Story 

Prize, and the 2020 LA Times Book Prize: The Art 

Seidenbaum Award for First Fiction and was a finalist 

for the 2020 National Book Award for Fiction. The 

Secret Lives of Church Ladies focuses on Black women, 

sex, and the Black church, and is being adapted for 

television by HBO Max with Tessa Thompson executive 

producing. Deesha is also a Kimbilio Fiction Fellow. 


9

Short 

Prose 

10

1st place 

“High Flyin” 

Ariel Riccobon 

2nd place 

“the thing about 

the sun: a short piece” 

Riley Kirk 


11

12 Short Prose

Ariel Riccobon 

Grade 10 

Pennsylvania Virtual Charter School 

High Flyin 

Lois and I, we ain’t that different. 

Sure, my sister is hanging out of the streetcar like a petticoat on a 

clothesline, while I’m happy just to sit by the window, soaking up sun. But 

me and my sis share a love of wind. 

We’re both smitten with winging it; her in the air, me in the jazz. My sis 

is a wingwalker who rides planes the dangerous way, tight-roping along the 

wing. As for me? I’m mighty dangerous on the trombone. 

My bandmates often say, “Our Little Jimmie’s so good that folks stop 

and listen way down in New Orleans!” The guys like to make me seem like 

some kinda one-man-jazz-band. They always try to talk me into doing a 

solo break, but where would I be without a good, strong beat from Snare, 

or a chord from Quick-Fingers? Nah. It really ain’t my thing, all those eyes 

on me and my brass baby. 

That’s why I don’t mind sitting with the other passengers, letting Lois 

have all the attention. Lois can hang out of streetcars if she wants. I get the 

same view from my seat. Besides, if I were over by the door, I wouldn’t be 

able to watch Lois’s face. I wouldn’t be able to see her smiling the sun and 

moon as she flies without leaving the ground. 

*** 

Lois is crazy. Two months since her last fall and she’s already gonna 

fly again. Sometimes that girl don’t know when to quit. She crash-lands, 

breaks some bones, and then does she stop? Not my sis. She’ll keep flyin til 

the day J.C. Higginbotham quits the trombone, and that ain’t any day soon. 


13

I sit near the runway, plucking grass from the already balding airfield as 

I wait for my high flyin sis to show up for her own show. 

I’m about ready to call it a day when someone behind me pushes my hat 

down over my eyes. 

“You look snazzy in that suit, brother. Going out tonight?” Lois brushes 

some grass off my suit. I knew I should’ve waited til after the show to 

put it on. 

“Naw, I’m staying home, Lois. I just love missing my own show.” 

She thinks she’s so funny, asking why I’m dressed up. Lois knows exactly 

what’s happening tonight—it was her idea. Lois and I made a little deal: If 

I let her come see one of my shows, she gets me front-row seats for hers. 

Now I ain’t big on adding more faces to my audience, but Lois insisted, and 

there’s no talking her out of anything. 

I sure couldn’t talk her out of flying again so soon. Last time, Lois fell 

trying to do the easiest trick in the book. She was just going for a stroll 

on that wing, but she must’ve forgotten the first rule of flying and looked 

down, cause next thing she knew she was shaken off the plane. Her parachute 

failed her too, steering her towards the repair shed ‘stead of someplace 

softer. 

After a moment, Lois shrugs, as if brushing a weight off her bad shoulder. 

“Alright! Enough lollygagging, we’ve got a show to do.” 

Her pilot Ray climbs into the aviator’s seat, and she vaults into her own. 

Wingwalking’s all about trusting yourself. Let in one seed of doubt, 

and your propeller’s jammed good. I know Lois, and I know that normally 

she’d be waving to that crowd like a flag in a hurricane. But she just double-checks 

her parachute harness. 

As the propeller starts whirring, I jog through the dust storm to Lois. 

She turns to me and flips up her goggles. “What’s up, brother?” 

I place a hand on her newly healed shoulder. I want to tell her to be 

careful. To go up there and be careful once in her life. But that’s like trying 

to make a river go uphill. 

Instead, I clasp her hand. “Good luck up there, Lois.” 

“Luck ain’t got nothing to do with it. Just pure talent.” Lois smiles and 

pulls down her goggles. 

The plane rolls down the runway, and when it takes to the sky, its wings 

14 Short Prose

shine so bright that I wish I brought my shades. Lois says that she chose 

yellow cause it’s the color of sunrise, but I ain’t so sure ‘bout that. More like 

the color of sun in your eyes, trying to make you blind. 

As the plane circles overhead, Lois struts on the wing, and when that 

gets dull, she starts dancing the Charleston. Maybe it’s just me, but Lois’s 

feet seem to slip and skid on that yellow surface. Lois must’ve noticed her 

feet losing their grip too, cause she gives one last wave before climbing 

back towards the cockpit. 

The flappers behind me grumble. I’d be cheering to the sky if Lois intended 

to get back in that seat, but I know she ain’t done. 

Of course, she saunters right past her seat to the end of the wing, before 

dangling from the struts, just to rub it in. Ray pulls the plane into a loop 

with Lois hanging off the wing. She places her chin in her palm, sitting on 

the underside of that wing like it’s nothing but a common park bench. I can 

almost see those eyebrows wagging ‘neath her goggles. 

When Ray pulls out of the loop, Lois barely gets one leg secured before 

the plane flips her upside-down. Now Lois is hanging from that plane by 

one leg, and I‘m praying it ain’t the one she broke recently. My god, she 

can’t fall already. She’s barely gotten back on her feet. 

Every time I heard about Lois’s falls, I never worried much, cause I 

knew that girl would be back in the air faster than Quick-Fingers could 

run through the scales. But now she’s ‘bout to fall right in front of me, and 

I don’t know what’ll happen if she don’t get back up. Who else is gonna 

order the whole whopping menu while I’m still settling on a drink? Who 

else will invent new ways to sit in a chair, straddling it backwards while 

she sips her coffee? 

I never let that plane of thought pass through my brain before, but now 

it’s coming in for a landing and I ain’t ready. My god, Lois, please just get 

back on that plane, cause I can’t watch you fall. 

Thank god, Lois grabs one of the struts just in time. As Lois climbs back 

on the wing, Ray’s propeller is spinning strong as anything, but I can tell 

Lois’s propeller is sputtering, ‘bout to go out. Lois inches her way back to 

the cockpit. When they touch down, Lois stumbles out of her seat. 

I rush over. “Everything alright, Lois?” 

“Sure thing.” Her teeth are white as piano keys, but the chords ain’t 

sounding right. I know my jazz, and I know when an upbeat tune has got 


15

some blues running underneath it. Still, Lois flashes me that grin. 

“Sure thing, Jimmie.” 

*** 

Even before she was falling off planes, Lois was breaking things. Windows, 

streetlamps, even a tree branch or two. 

And a chimney swift’s nest. Broke every egg but one. I remember helping 

her search those shattered sticks and broken wings for a survivor. There 

was only one egg still intact, and Lois picked it outta the leftovers. She cradled 

that egg and she promised herself it was one thing she’d never break. 

Soon as we got home, she took the pillow off her own bed and made 

a nest for the egg. Day and night Lois watched him, right up til when 

he hatched. 

The chimney swift grew from a sack of bones into a puff of smoke. When 

Lois saw that puffball fluttering his smoky wings, she couldn’t wait til he 

rose to the sky like smoke from a chimney, cause then she’d be close behind 

him in a plane of her own. So she filled her room with paper planes and her 

head with paper dreams, until the day we crouched down to watch little 

Chim get his wings chugging like a propeller. 

But Lois and I forgot to make sure the runway was clear before our pilot 

took off. I should’ve seen the yellow teeth lurking just under the postbox. 

Then maybe the neighbor’s tabby wouldn’t have washed his whiskers after 

the slaughter, expecting praise for the prize he’d dumped at our feet. 

I chased that cat away. I tossed stone after stone at him, and I was still 

heaving rocks long after he’d turned tail and left. Maybe if rocks could fly, 

then I could make that swift fly too. Maybe I could lift my sis up there with 

him, put them both in the sky where they belonged. 

Lois cradled her bird, but Chim’s smoke had already left the chimney. 

Lois had heaped all her hopes on a paper plane, so no wonder her dream 

got shredded like paper in a propeller. 

Lois buried the bird’s broken body, putting him to rest alongside those 

shattered eggs. 

*** 

16 Short Prose

Lois, she’s smarter than me. She waited til after the airshow to put on 

her nice clothes. In that yellow dress, she don’t look at all like she had a 

scrape with death this morning. The beads around her neck sparkle the 

way false smiles do. 

Originally, we were gonna enter the speakeasy the front way and 

find Lois a seat, but I figure it’s time Lois meets the band, so I take her 

round back. 

Soon as we step backstage, I can feel jazz in the air, so fragrant I can 

breathe it in. There ain’t nothing like backstage at a jazz club, with trumpet 

blasts and piano scales chatting along with the musicians. 

“So, Lois, you heard your brother play before?” Charles pokes Lois with 

his saxophone. “Cause when Little Jimmie’s got his axe, it’s like wind off the 

river, cool and sweet.” 

“That so, brother?” Lois says. “Can’t wait to hear you then.” 

Wind off the river? Is he kiddin? The only wind around here is coming 

from Charles’s mouth. I set the record straight for Lois. “Charles is prettying 

things up. I ain’t that good. A pigeon could make better music than me.” 

But when I pull my trombone outta its case, Charles whistles like it’s 

some kinda magic trick. Lois’s eyes dart between us like she’s watching 

some sorta boxing match where we throw praise instead of punches. 

A man’s head pokes in. “Hey! One minute til showtime, folks.” 

Lois catches me before I join the others. “You ready to go up there, 

brother? Cause if you need tips for getting rid of jitterbugs… ” 

Jitterbugs is Lois’s way of talkin ‘bout those little bugs that crawl ‘round 

your stomach before a show. “I’m good, Lois. This is my stage.” 

Lois nods, but she looks like she’s half expecting me to start dancing the 

jitterbug right now. 

While I take the stage, Lois snatches a seat and starts chatting it up with 

some drunk folks, jerking a thumb to the stage. I can’t hear what she’s saying, 

but it must be entertaining, cause those folks start laughing like Lois 

is Charlie Chaplin. 

My sis’ll show off for any audience, even one that ain’t hers. She’s got 

more charm tucked inside her headband than I’ve got in my two-piece suit, 

but somehow I’m the one onstage. Makes me wonder if Lois should’ve been 

a musician ‘stead of me. 


17

But that girl ain’t a musician. She’s a wingwalker, and she ain’t on 

her wings anymore. Lois is in Harlem now. She may be charming, but 

folks came here for the jazz, not Lois. And I know jazz like I know the 

streets of Harlem. 

So when Charles steps up to the mic, I’m ready. 

The first note is a starting pistol, and the band takes off like horses on 

the Harlem River Speedway. Then my axe blows, taking the show home to 

New Orleans. The Mississippi flows out of my axe until a river of jazz floods 

the room. 

Lois whoops and raises her glass. “That’s how it’s done! Show ‘em Jimmie!” 

Normally most folks don’t pay us much mind, worrying more ‘bout their 

dinner selection than the music. But when Lois calls out, a few decide their 

dinners can wait. There must be ‘bout a thousand candles on the chandeliers, 

cause I’m feeling warmer than a day in August and all those eyes on 

me sure don’t help. But when you’re down and out you don’t lay out, not in 

jazz. So I keep playing, even when sweat drips an ocean onto my axe. 

But then, during the chorus, Charles grins with his eyes. And stops playing. 

Next thing I know, the others start to fall back too, like soldiers breaking 

rank. Even the drummer boy deserts me, leaving my brass baby to face the 

enemy alone. 

I can’t believe it. They want me to do a solo break. 

“Let’s hear it for Little Jimmie!” 

“Take it away!” 

My axe is soaked in sweat, way down to her brass bones. But I raise her 

to my lips anyway. 

Lois plants a foot on the tablecloth. “C’mon brother, show em what you got!” 

I told Lois I wasn’t big on adding eyes to my audience, but that girl just 

don’t listen, and now she’s turned a whole room of eyes on me. 

I think my heart just fell down to my knees. Ain’t nothin worse than 

folks cheering you on, let me tell you. Makes you worry ‘bout letting them 

down with every note. I feel the notes I want to play welling inside me like 

tears, but they must’ve gotten lost on the way out, cause my trombone slips 

from my lips. 

If the whole room wasn’t looking before, they sure are now. Folks had 

gotten so used to the music, the silence just wasn’t natural. Lois lowers her 

18 Short Prose

glass. Her hand tells me, Keep going, but I’ve lost the way to New Orleans. 

Charles and the others pick up the song and keep going, but my trombone 

doesn’t sound right after that. 

More like Chalmette Battlefield than New Orleans. 

*** 

Me and Lois take a walk after the show. We decide to head to the speedway. 

The guys said folks would stop and listen all the way down in New Orleans 

if I played solo, but more likely, they were plugging their ears tonight. 

“You did good, brother,” Lois says. 

“You kiddin? That was my worst night yet.” I flop down in the grass next 

to the speedway. 

Lois and I used to check out the races here. We’d watch those horses 

run along the Harlem like they could outrun that river easy. Back then, jazz 

used to flow easy for me too. But times change. Hemlines go up, assembly 

lines move down, and your talent up and runs downriver without you. 

“Hey, you ain’t the only one with bad days.” Lois flops next to me. “Remember 

when I first wingwalked, Jimmie?” 

“Course I remember. You fell and broke all the bones in your arm.” 

“And what happened afterwards?” 

“You went to the hospital.” 

“After that, smart-mouth.” 

“You got up again.” 

“That’s right, and don’t you forget it.” Lois lies back in the grass. “When 

you hit the ground, brother, you just gotta get back up.” 

“I ain’t a wingwalker, Lois, I’m a jazz player.” 

Since the beginning Lois has been nudging me along like a colt. Patting 

me after every race we lost, telling me I’ll be the fastest on the track if I just 

keep at it. Easy for her to say when she zooms down the fast track in life. 

But Lois bet on the wrong horse, and she’s still pushing me to get over that 

finish line. Pushing me til my sides heave and my legs are ready to buckle. 

Lois gets real quiet. “Jimmie, you already know more ‘bout bouncing 

back than any wingwalker. You play your soul out in the speakeasy,” she 


19

says, “and those ain’t exactly legal.” 

I gaze out at the river. Playing at a speakeasy ain’t the same kind of 

dangerous as walking on a plane. But maybe she’s got a point. Where I 

work, you have to speak easy, cause just one slip of a tongue could get us all 

arrested. And every night I slip in there and play my trombone anyways. I 

soar through songs, knowing that a few loose lips could run our speakeasy 

ship aground and sink my jazz career. 

The grass rustles behind us. 

We turn to see a man in one of them fancy three-piece suits walking 

towards us. 

“Scuse me. Are you Jimmie Wallace?” 

“That’s me, sir.” I scramble up and brush the grass off my pants. 

The man proceeds to shake my hand like it’s a saltshaker. “I’m from the 

Cotton Club. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?” 

Heard of it? It’s the best gig this side of town, and any cat worth listening 

to knows ‘bout it. 

“That was some playing tonight, brother. I think your trombone is ready 

for the Cotton Club. What do you say?” 

This man couldn’t have been in the room during my sorry excuse for 

a solo break. Or maybe this man just had ears so sharp he could hear the 

perfect notes that never made it past my lips. 

But the guys always say I’ve got great chops. So maybe they were right 

about something, cause now the Cotton Club wants my brass baby. I open 

my mouth to say I’ll take it, but I decide to give the words some time cause 

my tongue is still trying to climb back up my throat. 

That’s when Lois stands and leans an arm on me. “The Cotton Club? 

Course he’ll do it! The real question is, are y’all ready for him?” 

And I swear I say I’ll take the gig. Thing is, all that slipping and sliding 

in my mouth must’ve confused my tongue cause I say something entirely 

different: “Thank you, sir, but I’m gonna stick with my current line-up.” 

Lois snatches her arm off my shoulder like I’m a hotcake burning 

her tongue. 

Lois has driven her horse one step too far, and now I’m hobbling a few 

yards from the finish, my sweat pooling in the dust. Her hands go slack on 

the whip, but I’m too spent to feel the crop anyways. 

20 Short Prose

*** 

I never liked broken time in jazz. Too irregular. I like steady drumming, 

but life ain’t all ground beat. So when a man comes up to me after the last 

show of the season, I know this song is gonna have broken time before he 

even opens his mouth. His hat’s already off, and he looks like he wishes he 

has someone else’s job right now. 

“It’s about your sis. High Flyin Lois, ain’t it?” 

“Yes sir, that’s her.” 

And that man tells me. He tells me she fell trying to hang from those yellow 

wings without a parachute. He tells me it was real quick, she didn’t suffer. 

But I know otherwise. Cause even worse than falling off her plane was 

watching someone else fall. Lois knew she could always get back up if she 

fell, but if I was stuck on the ground there was nothing she could do. But 

that Lois, she was stubborn, and she tried anyway. 

She went up there, and her propeller got jammed good cause she was 

trying to get back up for the both of us. 

*** 

When Lois first climbed into a cockpit, I was there giving her a boost up. 

When she rattled down the dusty runway, I was running close behind her. 

Lois was tryin to take off, but she was coming up fast on the airfield fence 

and she was running out of runway. 

As we neared the fence, I hollered, “C’mon Lois! I can’t brag about my 

high flyin sis if she don’t get off the ground first.” 

And I swear, I didn’t give that plane one push. But my voice must’ve 

given Lois a great big shove cause somehow she launched into the sky. And 

then she flew. No dives, no loops—just a plane holding her up in the sky 

and a brother holding her up from below. 

*** 

I guess all rivers have to join eventually. I find myself at that same spot 

by the speedway. I flop down and let my tears fall for Lois cause she can’t 

fall anymore. 

I’d give my axe to know what my sis was thinking when she went up 


21

there. What she thought would happen if she managed to pull off that stunt. 

Well, what did she think would happen? That I’d up and fly to the Cotton 

Club on brass wings and suddenly be able to soar through that solo break? 

Be able to pull stupid, crazy stunts the way she does? 

What does it matter anyways? She fell off her plane. Lois went up there 

cause her brother was too scared to get back on his brass plane, and she 

came down the hard way. 

When my tears slow to a steady trickle, I yank out green blades and 

flick them off into the night. Then an axe case sits down next to me, and 

Charles follows. 

“Hey.” Charles brushes some grass off my leg. “You plan on using this suit 

again? Cause the grass kinda clashes.” Charles’s smile stands on tiptoe, but 

it still doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Lois would’ve laughed. She’d have laughed no matter how bad the joke, 

but I ain’t Lois, so I just keep quiet. Charles opens his mouth to comfort me, 

but nothing comes out. So instead, he unsnaps the clasps of his sax case. 

Charles speaks through the sad note that slinks into the air, rising slow 

and easy like a plane off a runway. No fancy stunts, no solo breaks, just jazz 

flying slow and steady with its propeller going strong. Two more clasps 

unsnap and my brass baby joins him. 

The going is slow, and my tears still flow, but Charles doesn’t let me lay 

out. Then Charles and I send that song a little higher, and the two of us fly 

a jazz plane down the river. 

When the notes stop flowing out of me, my tears don’t. I let them flow 

onto my brass baby—I know she don’t mind. 

I lower my trombone. Charles’s axe is already in his lap and I ain’t got 

a clue how long it’s been there. But at some point during the song Charles 

must’ve decided to stop playing. At some point my axe was soaring like a 

chimney swift through a solo break. 

I thought playing solo would taste different, like a cake heaped with 

icing. The kind with so much sweet, you get giddy inside. The kind Lois 

would love. But that solo break was more like a sweet-potato pie. You 

wouldn’t think a vegetable could make a good pie, but the butter and the 

sugar, they make it work. It ain’t sweet in the same way a cake is, but it’ll do. 

I smile a little cause I still have the taste of that solo break on my lips. 

The only folks who heard me play were Charles and the river, but I never 

22 Short Prose

played for the audience anyways. 

On the other side of the river, I can see the sun climbing like a plane 

taking to the sky. 

Now I can’t read minds, but I think I just ‘bout figured out why Lois 

painted her plane yellow. Lois said she chose yellow cause it’s the color 

of sunrise, but now I know why I wasn’t so sure. Yellow ain’t the color of 

sunrise. It’s the color of a sun that rises. A sun that falls each night and gets 

back up again in the morning. 

Yep. That’s my sis alright. 


23

24 Short Prose

Riley Kirk 

Grade 10 

Gateway High School 

the thing about the sun: 

a short piece 

Breanna Lee Jackson is the Earth, spinning round. Even if you’re not always 

sure she’s there, she’ll remind you, because she’s more than a girl. 

She’s a state of existence, the ground beneath your feet. She’s your whole 

world. When she’s gone, it’s hard to tell which way is up. When she’s spoken 

to kindly, she flourishes in green, but if you cross her, she’ll make you regret 

your existence. 

If Breanna Lee is the Earth, then I am the sun, standing still. A flaming 

ball of pent-up gas, energy misused. Sure, the sun keeps everything on 

Earth alive, but that’s all it is. An energy source, replaced half of the time 

by its colder sister. The thing about the sun is if it gets too close, everything 

is set on fire and we all die. 

Bree and I have been together since we were six. We’re juniors in high 

school now. The term “best friend” is a joke. We’re tied deeper than elementary 

school woven bracelets around our wrists; we’re sisters, but we’re not. 

A lot of people think we are. We have the same wild ringlets and sun-tanned 

skin. Most people think Bree’s older, too. I’m practically her shadow, so I 

could see it, I guess. We’re total opposites, really, once you get to know us. 

If you get to know us outside of each other. 

Not a lot of people do that. 

Breanna Lee is one of those universally liked people. There’s an open 

seat for her at almost every lunch table in the cafeteria, or at least if there’s 

not, people are willing to budge over. (Anybody would budge over for Bree.) 

But she always sits next to me by the window. A little table for two. She 


25

always sits down, takes out her cling-wrapped tuna salad hoagie from her 

lunch bag, and greets me with some stupid cornball pickup line, like: “Do 

you like raisins? How about a date?” She has a list of them tacked to her 

bedroom wall, but I think she just started to make them up after a while, 

because I’ve never heard her use the same one twice. That’s the kind of 

person Bree is. She makes you feel special, makes you feel like she spent 

her time researching cheesy things just so you can smile and roll your eyes 

the next day at lunch. 

Bree lives with her father, the Pastor, two doors down from me. When we 

were little, we had always wanted to have flashlight morse-code meetings 

through our windows, like in the movies, but pinch-faced Mrs. Dobbins, the 

mutual neighbor, scolded us after being woken up one night by the lights. 

How were we supposed to know her bedroom would be right there? I’ve 

never reacted well to being shouted at; Breanna yelled right back while I 

cried until we both ended up grounded. We were only seven, then. 

When we were eight, Breanna’s mama drove us to school. That morning, 

she’d dropped us off in front of the office doors in her classic blue Chevy. 

She had the top down, and there was a bandana featuring a motley of colors 

wrapped around her hair. Bree’s mama always used to have the same 

hair as us; she looked like she could have been my birth mother. She kissed 

us both on the cheek, leaving sticky-sweet imprints, told us to have the 

best day and turned the block. And then Adella Lee Jackson merged onto 

the interstate and just kept driving. Well, I guess realistically she parked 

at some point. For all we know, she could have taken the first exit and be 

living in the next town over. But in my mind, and I think in Bree’s too, her 

mama never stopped driving. 

Now, it feels strangely personal that the last time I ever saw Bree’s mama 

was also the last time Bree ever saw her. It doesn’t seem like that was how 

it should have been, but that was how it was; how things often are. Adella 

Lee Jackson dropped her baby off at school and then never came back. She 

wasn’t dead; the police checked that. But when somebody chooses to drop 

off of the face of the earth, it’s not very easy to bring them back. And eventually, 

you start to realize maybe they don’t want to be brought back. 

When we were nine, Bree and I started third grade. We were in all of the 

same classes, per usual. Our reading teacher didn’t like Bree. I wasn’t sure 

why, but the two of them just rubbed each other the wrong way. Our teacher 

wasn’t outright rude or anything to Bree, but she was the first person 

either of us had met that didn’t want to just fawn all over my best friend. It 

26 Short Prose

made Bree furious. I was livid on her behalf, but it was kind of refreshing to 

know that not everyone saw Breanna Lee Jackson as this absolute goddess. 

For all the people who adored Bree, she certainly disliked a lot of them. 

She had a long, long list of people she didn’t like, or as she put it, a list of 

people who just made her straight mad. But quite generally, Bree was liked. 

She was used to being liked, if not adored. The fact that our teacher didn’t 

meet whatever standard of affection that Bree demanded infuriated the 

little pig-tailed girl. I remember once, she failed her book report. I’d proofread 

it the night before; it hadn’t been anything special, but it hadn’t been 

terrible. Breanna Lee had stormed up to the teacher’s desk, banged her little 

fists on the Formica, and shouted, “Why do you not like me?” She hadn’t 

gotten quite the clear answer she’d hoped for, more like a call home. I did 

really well on that report, but my successes were drowned out by Bree’s fury. 

I had liked that teacher, too. 

When we were ten, Breanna Lee had her first crush: Rosie Plank, who 

wore her hair in a million little blonde braids all over her head every day. 

I cared more about the fact that Rosie picked her nose than the fact that 

she was a girl. Unfortunately, other people cared. I remember on Valentine’s 

Day, Bree had me plait her hair all over her head just like Rosie’s. It 

took forever; Bree and Rosie had very different kinds of hair, but Bree was 

persistent, and I went along with it. What did I know about love? I was 

too young to know that this was a bad idea. Bree walked into school, with 

hope in her eyes and a little handwritten card clutched to her chest and 

those stupid braids all over her head. She was laughed out of the classroom 

before she even made it to Rosie. I watched, in secondhand pain for her, as 

she backed slowly out of the door, tearing at the braids like she was trying 

to rip out whole chunks of hair. I looked to Rosie, but she was watching 

with her hands over her mouth, as if she were trying not to retch. I spent 

my Valentine’s Day chasing Bree down, trying to calm her and convince her 

that Rosie’s voice was too nasally anyways and neither of us would be able 

to stand it in the long term. 

When we were eleven, we had our first day of middle school. Bree tapped 

her new sneakers as we waited for the bus. I scuffed my old Chucks against 

the road. 

When we were twelve, we pierced our own ears together. Both of us had 

enough money saved to go and get it properly done at the mall, but Bree 

had wanted to do something “young and adventurous.” Neither of us had 

really been sure how to go about it, but then I remembered my mama tell- 


27

ing me something about how she did it with a potato back in the day. We 

chose to ignore the fact that that story ended with “Don’t ever do it, girls!” 

And so we fetched a potato from Bree’s kitchen, and I supplied my mama’s 

sharpest sewing needle. I guess neither of us were really worried about 

infection. Bree demanded I go first, so I obediently hopped up on her bed 

and sat perched there, waiting for I wasn’t quite sure what. All of a sudden, 

I was on the floor, howling. Bree dropped the ice cube onto her carpet and 

knelt in the forming damp spot next to me to say over and over again that 

she’d hardly touched me, that it was okay. All I knew was that as soon as I 

felt the prick of the needle, my chest had seized, and all I could think was 

get it off. Bree didn’t try to keep going. I put the studs through her ears once 

I’d collected myself up off of the ground, and she didn’t even cry. 

Not a single tear. 

When we were thirteen, I got my period. This was one of the few things 

I beat Bree to. I was almost scared to tell her, except I was at her house and 

didn’t have any supplies, so I kind of had to. She was practically in awe and 

wouldn’t stop asking me questions. At first, I didn’t mind answering, because 

for once, I felt like I had the upper hand over her. I did get frustrated 

after about a week of her asking me questions like, “Do you think you’ll 

attract sharks if we go swimming?” We live in Kansas, miles away from any 

beach, let alone a shark population hankering for menstrual blood. Bree 

got hers a month later, anyways. She’d read some sort of article about how 

women in the same family often got their periods around the same time, 

and she started making us spend every waking minute together, as if she 

thought we were going to somehow trick our bodies into making us cycle 

sisters. As if we weren’t already joined at the hip. 

When we were fourteen, we went shopping in Walmart with my mama. 

Mama went off to collect the items on the list and left us to fool around in 

the cosmetics aisle, just like every Sunday after church. Bree was smearing 

a neon-pink tester lipstick on her arm just as a kindly-looking older woman 

tried to squeeze her cart past us. Bree either wasn’t aware that she was in 

the way, or she didn’t care. Neither was unlike her, but I was embarrassed. 

I tugged at Bree’s shirtsleeve and jerked her out of the way, smiling politely 

at the woman and pointedly at Bree at the same time. Keeping her 

head respectfully down, the woman nodded and smiled a little, then bent 

to retrieve an eyeshadow palette from the bottom shelf. She accidentally 

knocked some more testers to the ground as she crouched down, so I 

leaned down to grab a fistful and put them back on the shelf. Bree gained 

28 Short Prose

awareness of the situation and kneeled beside me to help. There was a moment 

when I was dropping my head, and the woman lifted hers, and just 

for an awkward second, our foreheads brushed against each other. 

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” I had started, but she’d just laughed and looked 

me straight in the eyes, her first time she’d made eye contact. Her irises 

shone a brilliantly startling electric blue, the color I think lightning would 

be while still bottled up in the cloud. 

“You two make the most beautiful sisters,” she’d said. “Look at that gorgeous 

hair you both have.” I had started to correct her but received a sharp 

nudge in the stomach from Bree. 

“Yes, I’m here starring in my latest movie,” Bree drawled in a ridiculously 

phony accent. “Just stopped in this dreadful Walmart for some crackers for 

my miserable mute sister here.” She gestured to me, and I swallowed, hard. 

I really did feel like my tongue was tied up in the back of my throat, out of 

reach. The woman had forced a polite smile, but she looked a little scared. 

I felt like something in her had shut off, even though she was really just 

a stranger. She didn’t make eye contact again and pushed her cart away a 

little quicker. That was me. The miserable sister, the knotted-up mute who 

only ate crackers from Walmart. 

I went home and cut off all of my hair with the kitchen scissors. 

When we were fifteen, Bree started dating her first girlfriend. Lizzy. Lizzy 

liked meditating and only ate plants. She had a big lotus tattooed on her 

boob that always peeked out from her shirt collar. She scared me a little, 

but Bree really liked her, so I tried to like her too. They got in a fight over 

something stupid, like who left out the carton of oat milk, and broke up. I 

didn’t quite believe it at first; that’s how ridiculous the whole thing was. Bree 

wasn’t sad. She’d already moved on and was planning on asking the clerk at 

Walmart for her number. I felt kind of bad for Lizzy, even though I hadn’t 

liked her very much. I still didn’t really talk to anybody apart from Bree (plus 

whoever she was talking to at the time), so I wasn’t dating anyone. But that 

was okay at the time, because my heart felt full. Bree took up a lot of room 

in there, and sometimes when she melted, she filled up the whole thing and 

almost burst out at the edges. That’s how I knew there wasn’t room for anybody 

else at our table for two. Not that I’d ever really wanted other friends. 

I had my mama, and Bree’s daddy, and a couple of Mama’s church friends 

liked me well enough. Bree was all I really needed. We never fought, at least 

not seriously. If one of us had left the milk out, we would have laughed about 

it and been over it and onto the next hill within ten minutes. 


29

When we were sixteen, we both got jobs at KFC. It was miserable, and hot 

and sweaty, but I have to admit it was fun working with Bree. She answered 

the phone for takeout a different way every time, sometimes responding as 

Pizza Hut, and sometimes as a morgue. She ate too much greasy chicken 

straight off the grill, and she had an attitude with the annoying customers. 

Once a middle-aged soccer-mom-looking type tried to order a Happy Meal 

for the toddler hanging off of her leg, and Bree started shouting about, “Do 

we look like McDonald’s to you?” She was fired within the week. I hung on 

and kept working there by myself for a little while, maybe a couple more 

months, because I liked the job well enough and needed the money. But 

then Bree wanted us to go work at the ice cream truck in the park, so I 

quit and went with her. It took her less than a week to get fired that time. I 

guess her personality was just too big to fit inside that little van. It doesn’t 

seem to fit anywhere but right inside of my heart. My heart’s thick enough 

to bear that ruckus inside of it, because I love her. 

We’re seventeen. It’s about seven in the evening, and I’m sitting at my 

little desk peering through the window, trying to look through the dusky 

light and Mrs. Dobbin’s parted blinds to see into Bree’s room. Tomorrow is 

her birthday, and I’m trying to think of what to write in a little card I found. 

It’s perfect for her; little cats wearing party hats jump out at you and start 

singing an animatronic “Happy Birthday” song when you open it. It cost 

seven dollars, God knows why, but it was worth it. I can’t wait to see the 

look on her face tomorrow. Birthdays were always a big deal in her household, 

mostly because her daddy loved to celebrate. I’ve always secretly wondered 

if it was so he could try and mask the sad, sad fact that Bree’s mama 

didn’t want her anymore. But Bree doesn’t miss her mama any more than 

she missed hipster Lizzy. Just another name for the list of anger-inducing 

people. Bree just likes to party. She hasn’t told me what we’re doing yet, but 

I know I’ll be invited. 

I always am. 

I’m still sitting at my window, smiling a little to myself, when my door 

creaks open and my mama sticks her fist in to rap it against the wall. 

“That’s not how that works,” I laugh, spinning to face her in my chair. I 

stop laughing when I see her. This isn’t the strong Mama I know. Her hands 

are bunched together in a nervous knot at her waist, and her skin is hanging 

off of her normally plump cheeks like it’s made of nothing more than paper. 

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” She takes two steps towards me, then falls into me, 

wrapping her arms around my face and pushing my head into her chest. 

30 Short Prose

I’m still sitting in my chair, a little disoriented, trying to figure out how to 

breathe through her shirt and what’s going on at the same time. I don’t want 

to hear her but I do. “She took too many pills, baby. On purpose. She’s gone. 

They tried to—to—,” she’s hiccupping now, “fix her, but they—I’m so sorry.” 

And that’s when I realize. Breanna Lee Jackson is dead. No, that’s not 

quite right. Breanna Lee Jackson killed herself. The day before her birthday. 

She won’t ever be an adult. It’s stupid, but I keep thinking about the 

card still clenched in my hand, thinking about how it won’t matter what 

I write in it because Breanna Lee Jackson will never read it. I feel a hole 

opening in my chest and I start to fall in, drowning in my own black pit. I 

can’t cry. I can’t do anything but sit there, so stiff that I might as well be the 

one dead. I don’t think I’m even breathing at all anymore. I think I might 

be suffocating, but I can’t move. I always had faith that once I lost someone, 

maybe I’d truly start to believe in heaven. But I can’t feel Bree anywhere. 

Not next door, not in my heart. 

I’ve been so annoyed this whole time, feeling like I’m in her shadow, but 

now that she’s gone, I don’t know how to live in my own light. 

And then I realize something else: I am the sun, and I still couldn’t burn 

brightly enough for the both of us. 


31

32 Short Prose

Aria Narasimhan 

Grade 10 

Winchester Thurston School 

The Affected 

The Friend 

Karen was always the adventurous one, she knew what she wanted and 

did it. I don’t think she was ever truly aware of the consequences though. 

We met in the third grade. I was the new student in town, and we were 

assigned the same table in homeroom. Ms. Sparks, our homeroom teacher, 

used to make us partners a lot. I think she later told Karen’s mom that she 

envisioned us becoming the best of friends. 

By the time we were in middle school, we were inseparable. We told 

each other everything, we hung out every day, and on the weekends, we 

slept over at each other’s houses. My parents got divorced when I was in 

fifth grade, and my mom worked multiple jobs. Karen’s family: her mom, 

dad, and brother, took me in. There was always a seat for me at their table. 

The summer before we entered high school, she became a little obsessed 

with ‘glowing-up.’ She said that we needed to become cool for high school 

so that we could ‘get all the boys.’ 

You didn’t care about becoming cool? 

No, not really. I came from hardly any family; Karen and her folks were 

all I had. And to me, that was better than anything. But I guess it was different 

for Karen. She just cared a little more about everything than I did. 

She had me dye her hair two days before school started. It was this bright, 

Pepto-Bismol pink. She thought the boys would like it, but the boys in our 

grade were generally pretty disappointing. On the first day of school, Karen 

told me that she thought he, Mr. Martial, was hot. A lot of girls thought he 

was, but he kind of frowned at her hair. Later that week we dyed it back to 


33

own. Thank god, the pink was definitely a mistake. 

Did you think Charlie Martial was attractive? 

Not really, I prefer clean-shaven guys. But boy did he know how to take 

command of a room. Every time he opened his mouth you forgot about 

the rest of the world and just listened. His articulateness was a powerful 

force, it just sucked you in. He had the innate capability of making the 

most complex of subjects easy to understand. Mr. Martial was that kind 

of teacher, the one whose class you actually enjoy. But people really loved 

him because you left his class, really any meeting with him, feeling like 

you could do anything. 

He started ‘the club’ right after midterms; it was probably December. 

Karen, because she had a crush on him, dragged me along to the first meeting. 

It was in his classroom one day after school. As usual his speech was 

jaw dropping. I think they arranged to have a meeting that next Saturday. 

Did you go to the meeting? 

No, I visit my dad on Saturdays, so I couldn’t go. I don’t remember if 

Karen went, but knowing her, she probably did. 

The Colleague 

My first meeting was on a Saturday. We went to the park and Charlie 

gave us this whole speech about finding our inner voice. He said that 

we would build a strong community, forge everlasting connections, and 

eventually change the world. Not gonna lie, I too was enamored with the 

whole thing. He was sexy, eloquent, had a knack for teaching, and was 

recently divorced. 

Recently divorced? Who was he married to? 

I don’t know too much. Apparently, he had a quickie marriage to one of 

the part-timers at the school. But they got divorced a few months later. She 

was a total gold digger. Took all his money. Poor thing was left penniless, I 

guess that’s why he turned to inspirational speaking. 

Did you go to any meetings after that? 

I didn’t. At the end of the meeting Charlie chose his three favorite members 

of the day and took them back to his place. Looking back, one can only 

imagine what went on. I swear, I always gave him the benefit of the doubt. 

Charlie had been a trusted colleague for years; he was a down-to-earth, 

good person. I wish I’d realized what was happening sooner. 

34 Short Prose

The Friend 

By the fourth meeting Karen became, what I guess the group called, a 

regular. After that Saturday meeting, the one I didn’t go to, she asked me 

not to come. Said that this was something she had to do by herself. I didn’t 

really care, I did other stuff; I ran track, and I sang. Karen and I were still 

inseparable though, she told me everything, but she made me swear not 

to tell. She said that both of us could get kicked out of school if we did. 

According to her, a regular was someone who was invited home with Mr. 

Martial after the meeting. At the end of every meeting, he picked his three 

favorites; Karen said it was a big deal to get chosen. It meant that you were 

the best listener, the most committed, you cared about him the most. The 

whole thing seemed kind of odd, but Karen was happy about it, so I didn’t 

overthink it. 

Did Karen ever tell you what happened at Charlie Martial’s house after 

these meetings? 

Um, she never told me, but I figured it out after a while. She used to 

blush whenever she talked about the club. She started calling him Charlie 

instead of Mr. Martial. Will this get people in trouble? 

No, anything you say can only help us. 

He forced himself on them, his favorites, didn’t he? And they were so 

enamored they thought it was a privilege, right? 

The Parent 

By the time I understood what was happening it was way too late. I never 

had a close relationship with Bridget. We’ve always been a little distant, 

but never once did I think she would do this. The worst part, she didn’t 

even do anything. She was a victim. My baby girl, raised in the number one 

school district in the state, part of a loving family with relatives who cared 

about her and would do anything for her, became a suicide bomber. 

We had bought her a car when she turned sixteen, but she was always 

responsible. It was probably March or April when my partner and I realized 

something was wrong. She stopped texting us when she was going to be 

home late. She would be out all weekend and would arrive home in a daze. 

Are you implying that she was using some sort of drugs? 

It was more like a daydreaming kind of daze. You know, something that 

happens when you’re in love. The kind of stupor that makes you forget the 


35

world around you, that doesn’t allow you to focus on anything. I thought 

she was having some good, high school fun with a boyfriend or girlfriend. I 

guess she was in love with something completely different. Totally sucked 

in, and we didn’t even realize. By May, our money started going missing. 

At first, it was just some stray cash, then some big withdrawals, and then 

she completely maxed out our credit card. She’s always had access, but the 

expectation was that she asked first before using. It was the last week of 

school. I remember it clear as day. My husband and I decided we should 

speak to her about her behavior. We were all prepared to sit her down after 

dinner, but she never showed. We called and texted her, but nothing. At 

some point that night we went into her room. We had built this perfect 

little bay window and this walk-in closet in her room when she was born. 

She loved that room. All the furniture was still there, books and stuff too, 

but her closet had been completely emptied out. She left us a letter, saying 

that she had to leave so she could find her inner voice. That she had been 

inspired, and that we shouldn’t try to contact her. 

Was that the same letter you showed us? 

Yes, it was. We—we, called the police, but at that point she had already 

turned eighteen and we couldn’t do anything. 

The Member 

He had been planning it for weeks. He told us that we proved our undying 

loyalty by carrying out the preparations and that we would change the 

world by going through with the plan. My job was to get the weapons. It 

was really hot that day, dry heat with no breeze that leaves you feeling kind 

of sticky. I left at some point in the afternoon. Charlie had given me over 

$10,000, and there was a list of some fifteen stores I had to go to. 

Did you say $10,000? Where did Martial get all this money from? 

To be honest, I have no clue. I was just told to buy three guns from each 

store, and there were two other club members who did the same on different 

days. I guess he had applied for the permits online weeks prior, because 

he gave those to me too. 

I thought Martial had members throw all their technology into the bay? 

He did, but there was one computer. I think it was one of the first iMacs, 

he kept it in his private study. Real old and clunky, but I can’t be sure. Anyway, 

that night, I went to the stores, as instructed, bought the weapons and 

came back. 

36 Short Prose

Did you know why he wanted you to buy all those guns? There were over 

40 right? 

He hadn’t revealed his master plan to us at the time, but I trusted him. 

I believed that he would do the right thing, that he had our best interests 

in mind. When I got back to the campus, Charlie, myself, and two others, 

moved them all into a spare building. 

Campus? Tell me more about that. 

The campus. It was this old university that we had taken over. All of the 

girls lived together in like dorms. They took over like 7 buildings. The boys 

were the same. Each building served a different purpose, and there were 

still at least 15 empty buildings, multiple gyms we didn’t use, offices. It was 

a huge piece of land, there was even a farm. Charlie had taken over one 

of the smaller buildings for his private quarters. He had a bedroom and 

bathroom and then his private study, which was supposed to be huge. At 

the center was the huge grassy area. Or rather it was supposed to be grass, 

but all of it had died long before us. We hung out and held meetings there 

during the day. We called it The Cut. 

The Colleague 

Charlie Martial resigned from his teaching position at University High 

School in April effective immediately correct? 

No, I’m pretty sure it was May. He turned in his resignation letter and 

just didn’t show up the following week. Charlie was always incredibly committed 

to his job. He was the kind of person that stayed after school to help 

kids, he opened up his room for clubs, basically always went the extra mile. 

In hindsight, I guess he had been detaching himself for a while. By the end, 

he was just doing the bare minimum. Eventually, he was taking sick days 

at least once a week. 

Did he ever tell you why he resigned? Or talk to you after he had started 

‘the club’? 

He did come into my classroom his last day at work, but I wasn’t there. 

He left me this note, it said something along the lines of ‘my job has always 

been my life and I need a job where I feel needed. Teaching was just a 

middle step to bigger, better things. I hope you reconsider joining the club, 

it’s so much better than teaching.’ I didn’t buy it. To me, it just seemed that 

these high school kids were turning Charlie into a self-absorbed mad man, 

by giving him so much attention. 


37

The Friend 

Karen told me she was leaving in early June. She was set to leave for 

summer camp in two weeks. But, instead of going to the camp bus, she was 

going to sneak away and move to the campus. I still can’t believe she just 

left. At first, I went along with it because, because—well I didn’t think she’d 

go through with it. I thought she would chicken out, but I guess she was always 

the adventurous one. How can someone even call that an adventure?! 

Are you okay? Can I get you a glass of water or a tissue? 

No, that’s okay. I’m sorry for losing it. I just kick myself every time for not 

saying something. But I just, I just had no clue what was going to happen. 

So you feel responsible for Karen’s death? 

Well, isn’t that easy to say looking back? It just eats away at me. Not 

because I didn’t stop her, but because I never told her parents, and I should 

have reported it sooner. I think Karen was too entrenched to realize that 

Mr. Martial had taken advantage of them all. She was in too deep, even 

after the first few meetings. But the 200,000 plus deaths, the total destruction, 

I could have stopped it. We wrote letters to each other, she told me 

what was gonna happen. 

Letters? I thought Martial cut off all outsiders from the cult. 

I think Mr. Martial liked me because when Karen told me she was leaving, 

she gave me her address. I had to swear not to give it to anyone. I don’t 

really know how she was able to do that, sorry. 

That’s okay. You say you were able to prevent it, why? 

On the day of, literally thirty minutes before it happened, I got a letter. 

She told me everything. They were going to bomb the Golden Gate Bridge. 

They were going to hold people at gunpoint so no one could get off the 

bridge. She just didn’t tell me when, but maybe if I had acted sooner, they 

would have been able to stop it. By the time I got the letter to the police, 

everything had already gone down. I was literally on the phone with 911 

when the bombing showed up on the news. 

The Member 

You weren’t at the bridge when the bombing happened, why is that? Martial 

trusted you to do other important tasks, like buying weapons. 

The week before the mission, Charlie had chosen about two hundred 

club members to go. At that point, there were well over 300 people living 

38 Short Prose

on campus, and all of us had been trained for various parts of the mission. 

He chose them based on their commitment, to him and to the cause. I guess 

I didn’t get chosen because a few days prior he overheard me questioning 

his plan. I wasn’t sure if all of this was really necessary. I guess he thought 

I didn’t believe in the mission. He pulled me aside, reprimanded me for it, 

and told me that if I wasn’t devoted, I could leave. I told him that I was, 

so he forgave me, and as a punishment I didn’t get to eat that day. Instead, 

I was chosen for mission control. I stayed on the walkie talkies from the 

campus, so we could communicate. 

We’ve heard from many people that over time Charlie Martial’s demeanor 

changed? Can you attest to that? 

Yes, I think we all felt it. At first, I joined this club because I saw one of 

his speeches online. I contacted him, and he told me if I felt strongly about 

it, I should join the cause. That was at the beginning of May. By June, I 

moved onto campus. Overtime he grew colder. People were getting thrown 

out left and right, and punishments were being doled out like hotcakes. He 

spent more and more time in his private quarters instead of out on the cut. 

At some point, I guess he got nervous about whether people were actually 

committed, or they just stayed because they felt trapped. So, he announced 

the burning bridge plan. And I guess people truly were committed because 

very few members even batted an eye. 

The Parent 

The last time we spoke to Bridget was the morning she left. We talked to 

the police, but they said they couldn’t do anything. It just didn’t seem right. 

I mean he was a teacher. It’s just sick. 

Bridget never tried to contact us, not even when she knew she was going 

to die. The first time in a year I saw my little girl was when she showed up 

on the news. For weeks after the bombing, footage of the moments before 

detonation kept playing and playing. She was there, waving a gun at people, 

yelling the crazy chant, her hair flying around her kicking up a storm. She 

was a blonde, just like me. But she was still wearing her locket. The one we 

got her when she turned thirteen. It was this beautiful platinum and gold 

sunflower; it said ‘you are my sunshine’ inside. We never had a funeral. We 

were too embarrassed, upset, mad, I don’t know. There were no remains to 

bury anyway. 

Do you have children? Well imagine raising your child for eighteen years 

to have them join a cult, and then become a suicide bomber. And, what for? 


39

Some dumbass message about finding your inner voice, standing up for the 

poor, and getting rid of capitalism! All of those things you can do without 

being in a cult or killing other people! All of those things you can do without 

getting innocent children involved! 

Sir, I’m going to ask you to calm down. I understand that this is difficult, 

but this is a federal investigation. We need factual evidence at this point. 

I know, it just makes my blood boil. You want to know something funny? 

In the winter, around the same time he started ‘the club,’ my husband 

and I actually went to one of his presentations. It was at the school open 

house. He talked about how his curriculum taught kids to question their 

surroundings, stand up for what’s right, find their voice in a country full of 

noise. I was so impressed; I even went up to him afterwards to tell him. You 

know what he said? He told me that he thought ‘Bridget was an exceptional 

student, had a knack for the difficult work, and should consider pursuing 

it.’ And then, he told me that ‘we’re all working towards a better tomorrow, 

and each of us are bringing our own things to the table.’ Then, in April he 

did another presentation. I went. This time the presentation was all about 

the reasons capitalism breeds inequality and poverty. How the way to live 

was to completely get rid of every social construct, including race, time, 

class, gender. I thought he was a little extreme, and I made my opinion 

clear. His response? ‘I don’t trust people who can’t get behind my vision. 

They just have a personal issue with me, and I hate them because of that.’ 

Looking back, it’s so obvious. By the time the bombing happened, he 

was just so nervous he was going to lose his money, followers, and the 

power he wielded in his manufactured little society. I just don’t understand 

why my daughter had to be a part of it. I wish we could have all stopped our 

children from becoming a part of it. 

The Federal Bureau of Investigation has replaced all personal information, 

including names, with generic, randomly chosen substitutes in these 

testimonies. By request of the families and groups involved, sensitive information 

that hasn’t been replaced has been completely redacted. Until this 

investigation has concluded no additional information or documents will 

be available to the public. 

40 Short Prose

Maya Weaver 

Grade 12 

Oakland Catholic High School 

How It’s Done 

“Snap the beans like this,” you say. 

There’s a bandage on your hand from when the knife slipped at breakfast 

this morning. So you’re swiftly snapping the end of the green bean and 

showing me how to do it, but all I can pay attention to is a bead of blood 

blossoming under the cloth on your hand. The dismembered, unwanted 

head of the bean rattles into the tin bucket, and it all feels a little ominous. 

“That’s how it’s done,” you say, grabbing another bean from the bag. You 

frown at the troubled look on my face, but you turn away because you’re 

not the type of grandmother to plant kisses on your grandchild’s cheek 

and comfort her. 

So I don’t say anything either and grab some beans, just as ruthlessly 

snipping off their withered heads to drop into the bucket. I am five years 

old and it’s getting hot outside, sitting on the stone steps of the barn snapping 

beans, but I don’t complain. I don’t say anything because you don’t say 

anything. I guess that’s how it’s done when you’re a farmer’s wife snapping 

green beans with your granddaughter in July. You leave things unsaid. 

But now it’s Christmas, the next time I see you, and this time we’re in 

the farmhouse sitting around that dingy plastic Christmas tree you pull 

from the cellar every year. We just did the hymn sing, but now we’re not 

saying much, and I want to eat that chocolate pie on the dining table that 

you made earlier. You get up, hobbling a little, but you don’t head towards 

the kitchen for the pie but towards the tree instead. You’ve got a bottle of 

shampoo wrapped with a ribbon for me. 

“It’s mango-scented, tropical like,” you say. “Cause you like warm weather.” 


41

I’m a little surprised you got an extra gift for me, and I can see it’s from 

Bath and Body Works, so you probably took some time and care to get it. 

I want to hug you, but I’m not sure how, so I just say thank you and take 

the shampoo. 

“Make sure you only wash your hair every other day, now. That’s how 

it’s done.” 

I nod my head at you and go back to thinking about chocolate pie. 

But now the chocolate pie’s on the table in the church basement, and 

you weren’t the one who baked it. It’s your funeral, but I don’t really understand 

that. I’m in a black dress, and your Sunday school group from 

the Mennonite church is pinching my cheeks, but I want to go back to the 

farmhouse across the street and pick some green beans. 

We’re shuffling in line for the viewing and I’m wondering at the weird 

shades of lipstick on your Sunday school friends’ lips as we move forward. 

Weird purples and reds I’ve never seen the likes of. But suddenly, before 

I’m ready for it, we’ve made our way to the front of the line and I’m looking 

down at your coffin and wondering at that shade of lipstick on your lips 

because you never wore makeup, and they did it all wrong. 

And now I’m crying. I want to go home to snap beans with you, and 

maybe this time we’ll talk for hours. And if we can’t do that, I want to roam 

the Bath and Body Works together to giggle and look for all the tropical 

scents until we find the perfect one. I want to do all those things with you 

that I never got the time or gumption to do. And I’m still crying when the 

preacher says, “Give her a kiss now.” 

And though I want to run away, I lean down over your powdered face. 

You smell a little like mango shampoo, and I feel a little better, and I give 

you a kiss. Since that’s how it’s done. 

42 Short Prose

Riley Kirk 

Grade 10 

Gateway High School 

was it worth it?: 

a short story 

Ella lived. She lived as loudly and as messily as she pleased, as long as it 

was never on anybody else’s terms. This habit would become problematic 

for her later in life, but when she was young, the days were golden. Oh, 

when she was young. The days of cigarettes dashed out on rails before they 

burned to the end, afternoons of dancing on rooftops without thinking of 

falling, without ever wondering the cost of a dream. And the nights were 

even better somehow, completely wrapping her in the ethereal fabrics of 

constellations and quickly-learned dances. 

Love was not an unknown concept to Ella, at least not in notion. Maybe 

its inner workings were a little foreign, but Ella was loved. She knew that. 

The girls on her college campus envied her, wanted to be her, even. Frat 

boys and sorority sisters alike couldn’t help but to fall into her charms, her 

grace. Ella had a way of simultaneously enrapturing and exhausting those 

around her; it was as if the oxygen in a room itself were at her beck and call, 

following at her heels even if it meant those left behind choked. 

To live with Ella was to love Ella. It was inevitable, really. You couldn’t 

help but be sucked in. When Ella was young (infinitely youthful, as Irene 

would say, eager for any chance to wield the two-year age gap between 

them), the girls promised to have their first apartment together. And 

eventually, after everything else had fallen to pieces, this was the one 

promise they kept. 

Their apartment was clean and bare, with air vents too small to hide a 

person (Irene’s only requirement; she had frightened herself watching the 


43

crime channel), and thick marble slab countertops in the kitchen. Living 

together had the girls finding themselves both closer and further apart 

than ever before. They could pull the rent just fine on their own, having 

fortunately grown up on the richer side of Maryland, but they found a third 

roommate anyways. They told their mother that Stella was just to keep 

them company, but really they both knew she was there as a mediator. And 

Stella was happy to mediate. She was a natural peacemaker, and she was 

good for Ella. Vegetables from the local farmers’ stands made their way 

into the fridge, and Ella found herself in a better headspace than ever with 

Stella acting as mother hen for the girls. We just need an Ola, Ella had joked 

one day, particularly deep in the throes of three-in-the-morning thoughts. 

And from then on, Irene became Ola. It wasn’t necessarily out of choice as 

much as Ella’s demand, but Irene didn’t mind. It made her feel included. 

Even though she was the older sibling, she often felt out of the loop and 

caught in the shadow of the bellowing train that was her younger sister. 

In addition to her general overwhelming presence, Ella also physically 

took up the entire apartment. She left bags and knickknacks in every corner, 

she practically refused to put the groceries in the fridge, standing in favor 

of leaving various perishable items strewn over the impressive counters, 

and she never touched the Dyson vacuum Irene kept in the hall closet. Ella 

thought the hall closet was for liquor and party supplies and often shared 

these thoughts with visitors, who laughed in polite amusement but were 

quietly glad that Irene kept a space in said closet to hang up their coats. 

Besides parties and alcohol, one of Ella’s favorite things was candles. Stella 

turned her on to them, and after that almost every time Irene came home, 

she was greeted with the heady scent of oranges and cinnamon, perfume so 

thick she couldn’t tell when Ella snuck a guilt Marlboro. 

Eventually, Ella’s twenties went out with a literal bang. Stella lost a finger 

as a result of one of Ella’s famous firework displays at a Fourth of July 

party. (I’m not proud of the state of this country, but god, do I love fireworks, 

Ella always said.) Stella promised that she didn’t blame Ella, that she had 

been lucky she hadn’t died, and she was just grateful it was only a finger 

she lost. But something shifted that night, in the acrid tang left behind 

from the violet and crimson explosions. And Irene was mad. She didn’t 

bother hiding it, not like Stella tried to. After a while, she wasn’t so much 

angry as married, and then she was gone. 

One day after class, one of Ella’s friends was sitting across from her in 

a diner. She didn’t remember which friend exactly, maybe a snatch of a 

44 Short Prose

name and something about a nose ring. (Ella tried to keep her circle one of 

constant rotation, so as not to run the risk of being tied down. Ella never 

cut anybody off without reason, but there was always reason for someone 

to be cut off.) What Ella did remember was staring down at the dregs of 

her milkshake, wishing there had been more strawberries, when she heard, 

“You know I’m a little bit in love with you, right?” Ella had not known, because 

being loved and loving are two very different things. Ella wasn’t sure 

what it was to love. 

And now, lying in her bed next to the window facing the sea like she’d 

always sworn she would, Ella feared she’d never learned. Maybe that was 

why she made the call to her sister. It hadn’t gone as she’d planned. She’d 

yelled. She hadn’t meant to. But she was angry. She was angry at the world, 

for taking her before she could start living. She was angry at herself. And 

she held fear closer than she ever had before. Fear and anger often tend to 

be sisters. 

Irene was sitting at her kitchen table when she got the call. She was 

peeling an orange with her left hand and cradling the landline in the other 

when she heard the name she hadn’t heard in a long, long time. Nobody 

called her Ola anymore. Nobody but her sister. 

Almost immediately after she hung up, she called her daughter, the one 

who had moved to Carolina last fall and reminded her so much of Ella it 

hurt. Because in the end, Ella was still Irene’s sister. And even if she still 

shouted when she talked on the phone, Ella was weaker than she sounded, 

and even if Irene would have liked to have been able to put Ella and their 

roaring twenties out of her head, she simply couldn’t forget. 

Ella wasn’t one of those people you forget. 

If you believe in the universe, you might say things have a funny way of 

balancing themselves out. It only made sense that someone who lived so 

loudly would go so quietly. 

One thing was different about the way Ella had always pictured the day 

she’d become stardust. She was all alone. There was no spouse, no children. 

Half-jokingly, she wondered if she might call that unrequited college sweetheart, 

just to have a hand to hold on her way home. 

When Ella was young, she’d always joked that when she went, she wanted 

to be sung to sleep. And so, with her last few puffs of ever-draining 

oxygen, Ella began to hum to herself. And then she sang, until there were 

no words left to be written and no notes left to be sung, until there was 


45

no point in wondering if she was important enough to become a star and 

Ella’s only thought was not could it be enough to dream, but was it enough 

to dream. 

46 Short Prose

Miles Kantor 

Grade 10 

Taylor Allderdice High School 

Untitled 

Time Pearl entry #1 

Yesterday, a strange man was brought to my attention. He had appeared 

early that day and was a raving lunatic, claiming he was me and that he 

needed to talk to me and speaking in a rapid and frantic voice. What little 

I could discern from his gibberish was a deep desire to destroy some 

“them,” take over the world, and get me to join him in his quest. His general 

insanity combined with his distaste for this “them” made me feel that he 

was too dangerous and unstable to be left alive. I killed him, and when 

I looked through the man’s belongings, I found two interesting things: a 

loose sheaf of grimy paper covered in messy vertical streaks of ink and a 

fist-sized sphere of swirling blue light as solid as stone. I threw the pages 

out, but plan to dedicate as much time and effort as necessary to study the 

orb, which I have dubbed the Time Pearl because of its similarity in color 

to time magic. 


Today was my first full day of research on the Time Pearl. My first step 

was to confirm that the Time Pearl was, in fact, a construct of time magic. 

To do this, I acquired constructs for each of the other elements (an eternal 

torch for fire, a sea sphere for water, a compressed stone for earth, a small 

tornado for air, a sample of blood crystal for death, and a meat tree sapling 

for life) and aligned them with the Time Pearl. This elemental alignment 

created the standard resonance effect, proving, for me at least, that the 

Time Pearl is, in fact, a construct of time magic. I conducted the experiment 

three more times to ensure my conclusion was correct and got the 

same result each time. 


47


Today I chose to begin my investigation into the makeup of the Time 

Sphere. My first experiment was to compare how a selection of objects are 

affected by contact with the Time Sphere and how those objects are affected 

by contact with a sphere of time magic. My results are recorded in the 

table below. 

Object affected 

Mint plant 

Paper crane 

A young white mouse 

Effect of 

Time Sphere 

The plant grew 

rapidly, expending 

great amounts of 

resources, before 

regressing in age, 

creating resources. 

This loop continued 

as long as the Time 

Sphere was applied. 

The crane rotted, 

before un-rotting, then 

unfolding back into a 

piece of paper, then 

folding back into the 

crane it started as. This 

loop would continue 

for as long as the Time 

Sphere was applied. 

The mouse rapidly 

grew to old age, died, 

rotted to only bones, 

un-rotted to an old 

mouse, grew younger 

until it was an infant, 

and started aging 

again. This loop would 

continue for as long 

as the Time Sphere 

was applied. 

Effect of sphere 

of time magic 

The plant began 

growing rapidly, but 

the growth quickly 

expended all resources 

available to the plant, 

causing it to die. 

The crane rapidly 

rotted and crumbled. 

The mouse rapidly 

aged, died, and 

rotted to nothing. 

A ten-year-old human No effect No effect 

48 Short Prose


Yesterday’s experiments seem to confirm a thing I previously could not 

even conceive of. It seems the Time Sphere causes a thing it is applied to to 

loop through time. I wish I understood it. I don’t yet. But I will. 


I can think of no way the Time Sphere should be able to loop the object 

it is applied to. I will travel to Chronius Mountain and consult with the 

time sages. 


On my way to Chronius Mountain, I passed a stream. As I walked beside 

it, I saw a rock sitting in the current, and I saw how the water flowing over 

and around the rock created two swirls of water that churned endlessly, but 

I know not if those swirls ever reuse the water contained within. I believe 

this observation has shown me how the Time Pearl came to be. My theory 

is that, under normal circumstances, time flows like a river along an unobstructed 

course, and the Time Pearl is a swirl created by an obstruction in 

its course. This theory requires testing, of course, so I will try to splice more 

time into the Time Sphere tomorrow. 


After my travel for today was complete, I took myself to the task of discovering 

a way to take a slice of time. To do this, I crushed an elemental 

containment crystal to a fine powder, then I placed the dust into a small 

vial and mixed it with water, before connecting the vial to the universe by a 

one-way tube equipped with a compressor, to drain a small amount of time 

into the vial. Shortly after completing this process, I found a small white rat 

clutching a Time Pearl lying dead outside my tent. While I reached down 

to take the Time Pearl, another dead rat appeared, this one with a square 

marked on its forehead. While pondering the rats, I remembered I should 

test the effects of my concoction on a living thing. To begin with, I poured 

the vial over one of the test rats. As the thick liquid poured over the creature, 

it vanished. Then, to test whether Time Spheres behave similarly to captured 

time, I fed the one that had arrived with the first rat to my other test rat 

after marking a square on its forehead. After my rat distraction was done, 

I created another time vial, and, by pouring it into the Time Pearl that had 

arrived with the second rat, I was able to increase the size of that Time Pearl. 


49


All my discoveries yesterday confirmed for me how acute my need is to 

communicate with others as knowledgeable in magic as myself for research 

and support. I will travel as fast as I can to reach them. 


After my trek today was done, I looked into the rat Time Pearl. I ripped 

it open and the magic inside flowed into my fingers and I saw the truth of 

it. The sea of reality was briefly sprawled before me. I saw it all. It needs to 

be told to them so that they might know all that I know and that they might 

know all the secrets I have learned. 


I came to their stronghold and I sought entrance but the gate man 

turned me away and I told him I knew I should be allowed in but he said 

he did not know me and accused me of impersonating someone else and I 

told him I knew Aelore and to bring her to the gate so she would recognize 

me and let me in but the gate man said she was too busy to deal with a 

“raving lunatic outside the gates.” I will now have to return to my home, and 

I will ascend, I will make the sight I had after seeing through the rat Time 

Pearl permanent I will be great and terrible and powerful and they will be 

forced to recognize me and my power and my 


I am going I will be at my home with the resources tomorrow and I will 

begin to be recognized I will be known and feared and respected and I will 

ascend in society and I will be above them all and they will fear me and 


I have seen it I know now that my organization with which I will ascend 

and we will be feared must begin with me I will eat the time pearl 

bestowed upon me by the man before my research and knowledge began 

and I will go to before my research and I will join with my past self and he 

will be educated in my way of time and Time Pearls and we will begin the 

ascending and strike with great and terrible power before the foolish them 

can sense our power and they will be brought to the ground and we will 

be recognized 

50 Short Prose


I am in past have time traveled back then is now will going to recruit 

myself must find me going to ask villagers where I am will find me will be 

recognized will ascend. 

Have talked to villager asked where me is they said they would find him 

soon I will next be recognized and our power will flow and dominate and 

we will rule and it will all be ours. 


51

52 Short Prose

Julia Stern 

Grade 11 

Winchester Thurston School 

On Being Anonymous 

I was waiting in Grand Central Terminal at roughly 3:00 PM in front of 

a worn-down ticket machine that only took cash bills. There were thousands 

of people swarming around me, people with fleece-ball crewnecks, 

and muddy sneakers, and every type of headphone, and not-warm-enough 

glazed donuts from the Dunkin Donuts a block down the road from the 

station entrance. It was there that I finally attached a label to the pleasureful 

impressions I met in these moments—anonymity. In the scurrying and 

hurrying of Grand Central Terminal, the truth was simple: no one cared 

about me. No one was caught on my face for a little too long—no one waved, 

with apprehension or enthusiasm—and I realized that I was very much a 

fly, latching onto the wall of an outdated metro ticket booth, watching the 

world as it flew dangerously away from me. I was a vagabond amidst the 

rush of Grand Central Terminal, who would return home and be me again, 

and my light features and tall frame would spark a rogue mix of neurons 

in my classmates’ brains, but right then, I was just a flat face—maybe less 

than that—a proudly meaningless mechanism in a big churning machine. 

I’d say that anonymity is the most kicked-around and walked-over pleasure 

that I could name; after all, to many people it barely classifies as pleasure, 

but a curse you should carefully tiptoe around so you can delicately 

avoid any face-to-face confrontation. I never understood Banksy until that 

afternoon in the train station when, I imagine, a very theoretical lightbulb 

exploded over my head, and I stumbled across the realization that 

being completely anonymous was a most pure and beautiful euphoria, and 

Banksy had called it from the start (even though, in my opinion, their anonymity 

backfired in the end, poor person). During the months, or even 

years, leading up to my breakthrough in Grand Central Terminal, I encoun- 


53

tered roughly thirty free-thinking individuals every day that had a wide assortment 

of reasons to form thoughts about me, reasons that jumped from 

approving to thorny to myopically neutral, but in Grand Central Terminal, 

that number dropped to zero. Do you know that freedom of occupying no 

one’s mind? I savored that little morsel of security in a great tempest of people—the 

freedom of anonymity, when, for a moment, I could trace the uncut 

glory of my half-baked thoughts, or I could do anything, or act any way, 

and two days later it wouldn’t matter to me or anyone else in the slightest. 

And I followed that winding path of freedom to other anonymous delights, 

the delight of darkness and food-induced brain fog at a foreign table, where 

I lost my fear of mispronouncing “neck” in French, or the delight of being 

underwater, which I discovered at the age of nine or ten, when kids started 

to get real serious about diving-board tricks, the front flip, the back flip—the 

esteem of those aquatic acrobatics brought great anxiety to my nine-or-tenyear-old 

self. I would summit the board, dragging my feet across discolored 

white plastic, hunting for an ounce of courage or athleticism (finding none), 

and all the eyes, the middle-school boys, the power-hungry lifeguard, the 

crabby Church lady, plus the brightness and the noise of the day, would antagonize 

me to the point of cannonball. Always cannonball. But momentarily, 

I would plunge into the bliss at the bottom of a swimming pool, when I felt 

no need to flip or dive or flaunt any of my faux pre-pubescent coolness, and 

there were no eyes, no noise, and soothing rays of soft sunlight. That was 

anonymity, when I could no longer be perceived, and I wished I could stay 

in my sequestered palace of tranquility for the rest of the day, maybe even 

the rest of the week, but I could hear a muffled whistling noise, so I warily 

approached the surface, and my senses grumbled and whined as the fourth 

grader behind me nailed a perfect backward flip. 

I dutifully seek those soft moments of anonymity, in a concert venue, or 

a crowded restaurant, or the overgrown trails of a park far away from home. 

They feel rare. To be known is to be perceived, and perception is what 

scares me the very most in the world, not the dopey perception about that 

swollen zit on your right cheek, but a subliminal perception that lives on 

the bottom shelves of our brains, poking you, rousing you, waiting for you 

to dye your hair green, to move to rural Alaska, to date a guy that gets bad 

haircuts, waiting for you to break and give in, poking, prodding, poking, 

poking, poking… Then you’re at a ticket booth in Grand Central Terminal, 

and for two rotations of a too-blue digital clock, your shoulders fall, and a 

sticky breath leaves your lungs, and perception takes a mid-afternoon coffee 

break, and for the first time in five months you feel perfectly free. 

54 Short Prose

Olivia Smathers 

Grade 12 


Atlantide 

Marcello has felt bound to the Tyrrhenian Sea since he could walk. His destiny 

has laid with the water since he first got ahold of the land. His father 

fed him stories of the expanse of blue, foaming and rippling, beyond the 

walls of Genoa. He told him that the water held new worlds both on and 

beneath the surface, awaiting discovery and promising adventure. There, 

a man could find a better life, free from the sun’s relentless red stare that 

scarred workers’ skin. 

“There’s people out there,” he would whisper, breathlessly. “They never 

have to want for anything. Their sacred slice of the Tyrrhenian provides 

them with luxury beyond what I can provide for you,” he would continue, 

directing his gaze towards the cracked, brick walls surrounding them and 

letting it fall to the damp, dirt floor beneath their bed. 

Seven years after his father’s disappearance, Marcello clings to those 

stories. His grandparents turn away with sharp breaths and red cheeks 

at any mention of Papà, but Marcello has never let their hesitation tarnish 

his faith. Deep in his gut, he knew that his father set off to find that 

water-bound kingdom. The waves, possessive and unfriendly, must have 

delayed his return but no matter—Marcello would find him. And now, he 

could almost hear the tender timbre of his father’s voice calling out to him, 

distant but closer than ever. 

But perhaps the growing growl coming from the clouds, suddenly 

smoky, had just gotten mixed up in his reminisces. He shook his head 

to bring himself back into the present, digging the heels of his boots in 

between two planks of wood on his Disperato’s floor as the ship began to 

sway with the current. 


55

“Marcello, she’s waverin’ in tha’ storm!” yelled Manuel, Marcello’s righthand, 

traipsing towards him with a map in one hand and spyglass, battered 

yet still ornamental, in the other. 

“Not if we can help it,” replied Marcello, matching Manuel’s volume. “Tell 

Arturo and Ivan to man the capstan. I’ll take the helm.” Manuel nodded, 

letting his lips fall into a wide grin. 

“Aye, capt’n. It suits ya’, y’know. Leading us folk to the great beyond and 

such.” He took a step forward to roughly squeeze Marcello’s shoulder, and 

then he disappeared into a softly lit cavern beneath the deck, letting his 

shadow mingle and merge with its new acquaintances. 

Marcello let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He wore 

Manuel’s support like a winter coat. After two months at sea with no sight 

of the glory Marcello promised, he had started sensing inklings of the others’ 

doubt. Cesare and Arturo would abruptly stop speaking when he entered 

into their view, and Ivan had begun to pace along the lower deck in 

the evening. 

“Hey!” yelled Arturo, his breathing labored. “D’you reckon we’ll be out 

of this patch of the sea before nightfall?” He was yelling to carry his tired 

voice from where he stationed himself pulling ropes at the capstan as the 

rain began its brutal battering against the boat. 

Marcello’s breath caught in his throat again, making his chest feel heavy. 

He had no idea how to answer Arturo. How was he supposed to comfort 

his crew when he was starting to feel powerless to the constant curveballs 

thrown at them by tall and unforgiving currents? His heart stayed 

focused on his father and on reaching that sanctuary somewhere in this 

never-ending ocean, but his mind strayed. Had he lured these men—these 

good men—onto a doomed journey with an unachievable end? His faith in 

his father still remained as solid as the steady stone barricades that protected 

Genoa from the unsteady seas. But how much longer could he keep 

Arturo, Cesare, and Ivan committed to an island they’ve only seen through 

his second-hand stories? 

Marcello looked out towards the water for a long moment before he 

turned towards Arturo. “I can’t be sure… ” 

Arturo stopped pulling his rope—it coiled, receding violently—and narrowed 

his eyes at Marcello. “That’s curious, captain.” He grabbed hold of 

the rope once more and began pulling it taught again. “Aren’t you meant to 

navigate us away from turmoil and to this supposed safe haven?” 

56 Short Prose

From below the wooden railing surrounding the capstan, Ivan murmured 

in agreement. Marcello couldn’t hear his gentle dissent through the 

creaky chorus of the rope against brass as Arturo tried to recover his progress, 

but Arturo took Ivan’s feedback as fuel to keep his interrogation going. 

“When d’you suppose we’ll see land again? Actually, d’you even got a 

map of just the direction we’re bound? Anything at all?” 

Marcello’s chest felt heavier now, like it absorbed all the syllables and 

sentences flying through the air, merging them with the breath that already 

weighed down upon it. He believed in his mission, but he had to admit that 

he hadn’t planned out all the details beforehand— 

“Leave ‘im be, Arturo,” said Manuel, reappearing from below deck with 

Cesare. “He’s gotten us all this far, hasn’t he?” 

“We’re NOWHERE, Manuel! He’s gotten us a long ways toward what I’ve 

begun to think has just been a delusion!” 

Lightning struck somewhere nearby, and the crash of thunder shook il 

Disperato. Cesare walked towards the others while Manuel headed towards 

Marcello. He placed a hand on his shoulder, lowering his voice. “They’re 

restless, y’know. Cesare told me Arturo’s been tryin’ to rally them. He’s 

young…” He paused for a moment. “They all expect a clear path to glory…” 

“Rally them? Like mutiny?” Marcello tried to keep a straight face, but his 

brow betrayed him. Nodding subtly, Manuel brought his arm back to his side. 

“Stay on ya’ guard, cap’n” 

They traded nervous smiles, and Marcello approached his crew with 

hands clenched behind his back. Ivan tried to disappear further beneath 

the railing but to no avail. Marcello scanned all of their faces, noticing the 

bags below Ivan’s eyes, the lines deepening across Cesare’s forehead, and 

the scowl etched in place of Arturo’s usual grin. Thunder resounded, temporarily 

muffling the rain’s rhythm. 

“You’re failing us, Marcello.” said Arturo. “Suppose you’ve just blinded 

us for this long with those tales of opulence.” Cesare moved to stand next 

to him. “We cannot go on,” he chimed in, his tone quiet and dangerous. 

“You’ve run our loyalty into the ground and grinded into sand.” 

“Men!” said Manuel, joining the group. “Be reasonable. He can’t control 

the weather!” 

“But he can control his narrative! He took us away from our home—from 

the security back in Genoa with such wondrous promises that we couldn’t 


57

efuse! But look what has become of those vows! NOTHING!” Arturo had 

begun to pace. “He should answer for his mistakes.” 

“What do ya suppose we do to ‘im? Throw ‘im out into the storm? Listen 

to yourselves!” Ivan shrunk back further, if possible. Cesare remained unmoved, 

his face stony, perking up at Manuel’s exaggerated suggestion. 

“My wife could be dead back home by now. Dead.” said Cesare, pausing 

as if his words needed time to penetrate his captain’s skull. “I see no 

all-powerful island people offering me the cure. Why should Marcello live 

to manipulate us another day on il Disperato while my wife takes her final 

breaths in Genoa?” 

“It’s settled then. This is our ship. And you, Marcello,” said Arturo. “You 

will live in that water you worship so.” 

Marcello’s heart was beating so fast that it seemed to stir up all of the 

air trapped in his chest until the pressure became unbearable. He met Manuel’s 

wide eyes for a fleeting moment, and he could’ve sworn they seemed 

to glisten with something other than rain. Then, he ran. He ran from the 

capstan to the barrels on il Disperato’s southern end, grabbing hold of a 

long, wooden fishing rod to defend himself. But Arturo was young, and 

Cesare was strong. They ran right behind him, leaving him cornered beside 

the wine and rations. They grabbed the other rods, using the blunt points 

to inch him closer to the railing. 

“It’s the end of the journey for you, Marcello.” 

Across the ship, Manuel and Ivan remained frozen in place, as if a sudden 

movement would shatter their fragile forms. 

Marcello loved his father. He believed in Papà’s paradise, but the mistake 

he made asking them too was clear now. He breathed out. He dropped his 

stick. Perhaps the sea would embrace him the same way his father once had? 

The smell of salt invaded his senses as he made his icy descent into the 

Tyrrhenian. His eyes, stinging, flew open with the icy shock of the sea, and 

through all the froth and the darkness, he saw the unmistakable, shining, 

sparkling lights of a kingdom ahead. 

58 Short Prose

Alaina Cain 

Grade 11 

University of Nebraska Online High School 

A Bird and Its Tiny Wing 

The manila folder, heavy with papers in my hand, tempted me with the 

urge to drop them and continue on my way, maybe even rip them apart 

and burn them until nothing but ash and soot covered the ground beneath. 

Pushing the thoughts away, frankly, just trying to ignore the heft of the 

papers, both literally and sadly, figuratively. Farther and farther, one foot 

in front of the other, making my way down the street, away from my now 

former house, with its creaky stairs and memory-laden halls. 

As the weeds in the cracked sidewalk accompanied me in this sorrow-filled 

journey to somewhere and nowhere, I let my mind wander and 

empty as well as try to figure out what on earth I was supposed to do next. 

The late summer air, which was beginning to show a slight crisp, caught 

my bare neck, sending a chill down my spine as my wife’s face played on 

repeat, as if the new memory was tracing paper. Everywhere I looked, the 

tears in her eyes, her disheveled hair, and dampened spirit appeared to give 

all the newly bloomed flowers and the sun’s shine through the leaves a soft 

afterimage. A tear welled and fell from an eye, which eye was lost to me, as 

my chest ached as her words echoed within my head. 

“You truly have to know it’s not your fault!” In all my years of knowing 

her, this woman who is heaven on earth, the one who looked down upon 

those who would tell fibs, even ones as simple as an atrocious outfit looking 

wonderful as ever on someone, had never said words that were so untrue. 

Her hand reached up to my cheek, her attempt to stroke it made me pull 

away. The hurt on her face didn’t make sense. If only she knew how much 

my body yearned for her touch, its familiarity and warmth. Why would she 

be the one hurt? She wasn’t the one who was being thrown to the streets 


59

after ten years of love and commitment, by the one person who chose and 

vowed to love you, over something she couldn’t control. Filling my nostrils, 

the smells of fresh-cut grass and barbeque foods, presumably coming from 

the house to my left’s backyard, while the memory of a quick picnic in a 

park nearby engulfed my mind. 

Remembering the crinkled, plaid blanket that was spread out on the 

grass, near a newly planted tree, as we laid out our food. Sliced apples with 

small containers of peanut butter, grapes, and peeled mandarins sat neatly 

placed in a picturesque manner. Second-hand Tupperware containers held 

last night’s barbecue chicken and mac and cheese bake, but the overall 

design was kindly ruined by my need for nacho flavored chips, their bright 

red bag putting a slight damper on the look. But the minute I brought them 

out, her mouth watered, and nothing but a smile painted across her face 

as she munched on them. Her phone’s volume was turned way up, blasting 

tunes from our youth, as she lay on her side, cheek resting on her palm. She 

looked so relaxed and radiant. 

“I swear, you’d be the one to figure out how to get us kicked out of a public 

park!” She smirked at my remark, not fazed. All she did was flip to her 

back, placing both hands under her head, letting out a loud sigh. 

“They should be thanking me! I’m exposing them to fantastic music.” 

Heavy drums and guitar riffs that only professionals would even attempt 

with vocals likely to rip your cords were the noises that came out of her 

phone. I’d never cared for this type of music. I found it loud and a little 

boring. I felt like every song was the same, but this never left the safety of 

my mind, for my wife’s opinion would greatly differ. She loved it; therefore, 

I was a frequent listener. 

That day our late morning picnic, which was always a wonderful time, 

had begun to feel the weight of our mid-afternoon plans. She was hiding it 

a lot better than I was and almost seemed to not have a care in the world. 

Almost like she was excited. My emotions were different. 

“What if it’s me?” I blurted out. 

“Huh?” 

“You know, what if it’s me who’s causing the problem! What if I’m the 

reason why we haven’t been lucky. What if I can’t?” 

“You’re being ridiculous—” 

“It happens, you know, more often than you think.” She sat up, leaning 

60 Short Prose

against her forearms, staring at me as if nonsense had begun to spew out 

of my mouth. 

“Honey, I’m not naive.” 

“I never said you were. It’s just we haven’t discussed the possibility—” 

“Everything will turn out fine.” She scooted closer, placing a hand on my 

thigh. Her touch was warm and soothing. 

Replaying that day in my head, over and over, kept me from realizing 

sooner that I’d walked to the very spot where my wife’s hand sat placed on 

my thigh as she pushed away my very plausible fears. The tree, seemingly 

just as young as it was months prior, stood in front of me. I longed to be 

back in that moment in time. A time before that horrible appointment 

changed everything. The emotions of it all washed over me. 

Breaking me of my trance, rapid chirps rang out as a starling flew to a 

branch that grew just a foot above my head. The thin branch held a foliage 

nest of cawing newborns. I could only imagine the sight of them, the way 

they lay somewhat bare, just a few truffles of fuzz here and there, straining 

their necks, trying to get the food their mother was about to chew and spit 

back up. The simplicity of their lives. 

Lost in thought, I stared at the bottom of the nest, hearing movement 

within as the babies make room for their mother. How it must feel to be 

that mother, to have your babies recognize you as a comforting figure, 

ready to care for their every need. That’s all my wife ever wanted, was that 

feeling of wantedness, of that instinctual thing within her, to be kickstarted 

when she picks up her baby for the first time. But I couldn’t do that for her. 

I couldn’t give her the one thing she wanted and needed in life. No matter 

how much I wanted to— 

Before finishing my thought, I notice something falling from the nest. 

Without thinking, I cup my hands, trying to catch whatever it was. A warm 

being lay in my hands, squirming and squawking, searching for the one 

who was meant to love and protect it. I look, back and forth, from the baby 

bird to the nest above, trying to connect the dots. Looking closer, I notice 

one wing was smaller than the other. One could say it’s the bird equivalent 

of the underwater cartoon character. 

Why on earth would she do that? Doesn’t she know that it’ll die, underdeveloped 

with no ways of gathering resources? Does she have no love? No 

care for her child? 


61

These questions, bouncing around my mind until it dawns on me, the 

fact that the act must’ve been intentional. Its mother, the one who I’ve 

said is programmed to love her child wholeheartedly, had to by the laws of 

nature, throw it out of the nest the second she realized its physical ability. 

Slight adrenaline pumping through my veins, I make my way back to 

the house, finding her car gone from the driveway. The image of my dumbfounded 

face as it took in the earth-shattering statement she made earlier 

must have been too much for her. Speaking in a sweet voice, an attempt 

to calm down the bird, I search the garage for a shoebox or something to 

place it in. Finding a box by the recycling bin, I place an old rag at the bottom 

and gently lay the traumatized bird inside. Its eyes, searching for me, 

the truffle of fuzz atop its head swaying in the movement. Or maybe it was 

searching for its mother and thinking that it was looking for me to save it 

was just a delusion birthed from my sudden loneliness. 

I jam as many clothes as I can into the dust-covered duffle bag that sat 

unused at the bottom of my closet then head back down the stairs with 

the bird in hand. I felt the house’s atmosphere. It felt heavy and just… sad. 

There is no other way to describe it. There would not be a single day again 

when I would walk into this house and feel at home. Where I take off my 

shoes when I’m inside because I’m more than a guest. My status as a member 

of this household was demoted to a simple guest within a matter of a 

few words. She never said that I had to leave right away, but I wouldn’t 

really let her say anything else, for my demeanor changed instantaneously, 

stopping the conversation before it had even started. The couch, the guest 

room, or even the finished basement in a pinch welcomed me, but the offer 

was nowhere near the table. I can’t stay under this roof a second longer. 

But I have to take one last look at the house. I keep it short and sweet as 

tears are beginning to fall from my bottom lash line, then I get in the car 

and just drive. 

I drive and drive, directing the car until the familiarity of my neighborhood 

surpasses. The hotel I ended up choosing was the first one I saw. 

No quick searches to see if there was any crime that had happened there 

or even if it was pet friendly for my new partner in the passenger seat. I 

mean, I would’ve known if something dark and gruesome had happened 

there. After all, she would have never let a day go by without telling me all 

about the terrible things that she was so used to seeing on TV and how it 

had occurred just down the road from us. I quickly check in, keeping the 

opened box below the desk. I attempt no direct eye contact for longer than 

62 Short Prose

necessary in hopes that the chirps and noises would be ignored. 

A click and a thud occur as my hotel room door shuts and my bag hits 

the ground. A sigh leaves my lips, the day’s toll reveals itself as the privacy 

of the cookie-cutter room overwhelms me. The ache in my chest has grown 

since she placed the folder in my hand. At first, the pain was only around 

my heart, but now my shoulders and torso have been infected. I look down 

at the bird, swearing that it’s looking me in the eyes. Tears have been 

coming and going since the words left her mouth today and the lingering 

thought of the abandoning mother was not helping. The words I never 

thought I would ever hear my wife mutter as tears flowed freely down her 

own cheeks, soft and mascara soaked. The idea that someone who loved 

you could do such a thing. 

Placing the box with the bird on my queen mattress, I make my way 

around the room in search of a make-shift water bowl. Birds need water, 

right? I feel stupid asking Google my question, the answer seems so obvious 

too—all living things needed water. 

Doing the needed research on how to care for this bird got me nowhere. 

Instead of fishing around for an answer that could possibly be incorrect, I 

start to dial my animal-loving mom, who would surely have the answer. As 

my thumb dances across the screen, pressing the numbers, I realize that my 

mother would eventually ask about her. Nothing weird, just a mom curious 

as to how her daughter-in-law was doing—now former daughter-in-law. I 

refrain, not wanting to open up that can of worms with her and deciding to 

just call a local veterinarian. 

A young lady, fresh out of school and a mind rich in obscure bird facts, 

gave me the right tools for caring for the creature in the box. I already got 

the first few steps down by keeping it in a box lined with a soft material. 

She suggested moist dog food, a warm water bottle, and a cover over the 

top of the box. Two of those three things were manageable. The dog food 

was ordered and on its way with my dinner. The room had a microwave 

and a sink for wetting a washcloth with warm water to place at the bottom 

of the box, reheating it when necessary. But the cover wouldn’t work. I try, 

once again, to place an opened magazine, a hand towel, and even one of my 

t-shirts over the top of the small box, but anytime I go out of the bird’s sight, 

incessant cries would erupt from it. As the day grew dark and our dinners 

were already eaten, I continued to hold the box. Screeches and yells fill the 

room if I’m not in the bird’s line of sight. If I even try to put down the box, 

my neighbors and I would both regret it. 


63

After brushing my teeth, carrying the box around through every step of 

my routine and getting situated sitting up in bed with it by my side, the 

bird’s cries still won’t stop. It stares directly into my eyes, attempting to 

send a message I obviously wasn’t getting. Crying out in confusion as I 

search TV channels, multitasking like a pro, I pause the flipping and put a 

pointer finger inside the box, stroking the top of the bird’s head. The cries, 

seeming to die down a little as its little body pressed into my touch. Reaching 

the rest of my hand into the box, curious to see what would happen, 

the unimaginable occurring. The bird, crawling into the palm of my hand, 

snuggled inside like a puppy in its too-large bed. The cries, now diminished, 

and all I heard was the soft breathing as the bird drifted off. 

“That’s it.” I gently stroke its back with my thumb. “It’s just you and me 

now buddy. You know?” I pause, taking a good look at its wing, seeing the 

damage by lifting it up slightly. “I quite like your wing.” 

*** 

Living according to a 30 minute timer every day for a few months, now 

in an empty apartment, both the bird and I had figured out a nice groove. 

As I did my daily tasks, it would nest in one of my jacket pockets, or even a 

breast pocket every now and again, trying to be as close as it could to me. 

Even during showers, a little dry spot on the shelf by the soaps was its home. 

After a long discussion of the future of the bird with the young veterinarian 

about whether flying with the flock would ever be a possibility, I notice 

the percentage of my battery, deciding a quick charge wouldn’t hurt. I make 

my way to my room, the little guy enjoying the trip in my hood, and place my 

phone on the charging dock on the floor beside my mattress in an otherwise 

empty room. Seeing it from the corner of my eye, my old stereo sits across 

the room. Suddenly in the music mood, I connect my phone via Bluetooth 

and let my phone choose the music. Standing straight in search for a takeout 

menu, thoughts of chicken fried rice, and maybe even a spring roll— 

The zings and bops of a cajón and an instrument, with a name that’s left 

me, fills the room. While my stomach drops, falling a thousand stories, the 

ache in my chest, shoulders, and torso that was present on that fateful day 

returned and grew to an unsuspected size. The notes and rhyme are familiar, 

a tune I’ve heard a thousand times. The memory of this song, which 

was randomly turned on based on the fact that the damned thing was old 

when I bought it, took me back to my parent’s backyard. 

64 Short Prose

The smell of fast food and light beer filled my nostrils as I swayed back 

and forth with a woman, hair as dark as night who was quite lacking in 

the height department. A smile plastered on both our faces, giddiness and 

contentment, two opposite feelings, bounced off of each other. The voice of 

the woman, singing lyrics of love and devotion surrounded us, as I stared 

into my bride’s eyes. 

“It’s true, you know,” she spoke with a smile. 

“What’s true?” 

“That I love you more than I could ever promise,” she said, repeating the 

chorus of the song. Those words wrapped their arms around me, cradling 

me more lovingly than a mother ever could since these words came from 

a woman who wasn’t programmed like the mother bird. She had free will, 

and she chose me. My cheeks became hot and red, the warmth almost to my 

eyes. I looked away, wanting to say a thousand things but not knowing how 

to articulate it. All my body could do was pull her closer, resting my cheek 

against the top of her head, taking in the day. 

The fact that the day, the one we were supposed to remember forever 

as being perfect, was far from it. It was cloudy with a high chance of rain, 

the original restaurant we wanted to cater from canceled, so a fast food 

place had to step in, her dress ripped—essentially anything you thought 

could have happened did. Any bride would have cried and thrown in the 

towel, upset at the thought of her wedding day not turning out exactly as 

they planned. But not my bride. She welcomed the idea of possible rain, 

saying how cool it would look in pictures. She was happy to have french 

fries and chicken nuggets, saying it was easier on our budget and far better 

in comparison. Even when it came to her dress, a simple flower was pinned 

in place to cover the rip. Some would say that she’s a go-with-the-flow kind 

of gal, except when it came to that one thing. She for some reason couldn’t 

find the upside, even though I was on the line. 

As the song came to a close, my shabby and barren apartment coming 

into focus once more, no more of the backyard wedding scene, I noticed my 

palms were holding my chest and lower stomach, body swaying back and 

forth—just as I did on that day many years ago. Feeling small movements 

at the top of my back, I check the bird and receive a chirp of affirmation. I 

turned my head forward while tears fell, as the image of the young couple 

began to fade. We were young, in love, and very much broke. I thought the 

only difference today was that we were a little less broke… finishing the 

thought would physically hurt me. 


65

Glitching, as it was nearly a decade old, the stereo played the song again, 

the zips and bops filling the room once more. The urge to skip the song or 

to rip the piece of machinery out of the stand and smash it to shreds tempted 

me. Instead, I opted for the cheaper alternative, just pressing pause and 

walking away. 

I want nothing more than to just forget it ever happened and to move 

on, but I can’t. I’m hurt. The woman I’d put so much trust in, whom I told 

all my wishes in life to, had found me disposable. I wipe my tears and ask 

the bird jokingly if it wanted anything from the Chinese place I was dialing. 

As I ate my spring roll and watched some shows to forget the moment 

in the bedroom, I barely noticed the fact that the bird had made its way out 

of my hood—flying on its own to the couch beside me. It chirped, grabbing 

my attention. Seeing that I was looking, it turned around and stumbled 

off the couch, catching itself by gliding the air with its one good wing and 

the smaller, less mobile one. Tears welled up for the second time that night 

because what was about to happen next was inevitable. 

*** 

The field was cool with a bite at this time of morning. The dew freshly 

formed, wetting my shoes and inevitably my socks. Fog covering the horizon 

with only a few runners here and there, usually sticking to the path just 

meters behind me. The bird, once again, taking refuge in the sack of my 

hood, greeting me with a chirp as I reach behind and pick it up. Holding it 

in my hands, just as I did the day I saved it from the attempted murder by 

his mother just months before, I took a moment to just look at it. I admired 

the bird’s growth, despite having a small wing, it made it work, still using 

it to fly since the day it jumped from the couch. 

I lifted my cupped hands, tears streaming down my face in a matter so 

unbothered by the stares of bystanders, pushing it to fly to the incoming 

starlings. I’ve wanted nothing more than for this little guy to fly. It’s made 

for flying with the flock, to work with them in creating mesmerizing shapes 

in the skies. But now that the moment is here, I want nothing more for it 

to deny the offer and to crawl right back into a pocket of mine and we can 

go home to watch dumb shows. 

“Come on, Buddy.” Staring its black eyes right into mine, saying a thousand 

things with nothing but a chirp. The bird turned back towards the incoming 

flock and took off. A tad wobbly at first, but it got the hang of it. I didn’t. 

66 Short Prose

My knees wobbled until they couldn’t hold me anymore. The ground, 

dampening my sweats, cradling me as I watch it become one with the 

group, now indistinguishable. In one singular moment, I went through a 

range of emotions. Sadness for the loss of something that was more than 

a pet, but also the inspiration and motivation to do what it’s doing, to be 

better, to realize that I’m okay with the cards I’ve been dealt. Happiness 

and fulfillment that the bird, who was cared for and loved by me, was able 

to do what it was instinctively made to do, just because I was lonely one 

day and happened to be at the right place at the right time. My ex-wife’s 

decision impacted not only me, but the bird who was my roommate in my 

time of need, as well as its new flock. 

My moment of raw emotions was interrupted by a hand on my back. 

Turning my head, eyes reaching those of amber, seeing that the hand 

belonged to a woman with blond hair and a sweatshirt decorated with 

song lyrics. 

“I’m sorry to bother you, but are you alright?” Her voice, a southern delight. 

Recognizing the words embroidered on her chest, I smiled. 

“I love that song.” I said, nodding my head in the direction of her outfit. 

“Me too! Their sound is so… unique, you know?” I did know so I nodded 

along. “It doesn’t feel like you’re listening to the same song over and over.” 

I smile wide at her words. 

I took one last glance at the mass of starlings, knowing I was yet again 

in the right place at the right time. 


67

68 Short Prose

Jessica Tang 

Grade 10 

Mt. Lebanon High School 

Tiffany 

People live as they breathe and die as they lived. So did Tiffany. Tiffany 

lived as she breathed and died as she lived while living as she died. 

Yes, it was a bit convoluted, but Tiffany thought it was fine. Living in 

a constant state of life-death Schrodinger style didn’t hurt. She was just a 

little more absent-minded, had days where she was more dead than alive 

and days where she was more alive than dead, s’all. 

Tiffany was fine. She had her books and the Internet for when she was 

bored. Maybe her friends were all strangers, but it was fine; it was the age 

of the Internet, after all. 

So Tiffany was fine. She lived as she breathed and died as she lived while 

dying at each breath. It wasn’t her fault the doctors stayed away when they 

came. It wasn’t her fault her cactus (the tenth this month) rotted away on 

her desk. 

She was fine. The doctors might keep her in a big metal box with no 

windows and no life to live by or to breathe by or to die by, but she had her 

books and the Internet, so everything was fine. 

Tiffany was fine, living-dying as she cooked and took care of her eleventh 

cactus and talked to strangers on the Internet. 

Tiffany was alive. 

Tiffany was dead. 


69

70 Short Prose

Robin Troup 

Grade 11 

Hampton High School 

Multiverse Collision 

Captain Agatha Forsythe jiggled the manual helm in the back of the starship 

hopelessly. It was stuck fast, just like the buttons in the control room. She 

crawled back out of the wall, grease streaking her yellow jumpsuit. 

She shook her head mournfully. “It’s hopeless,” she whispered to her 

second-in-command, Cecil Wrackbur. 

“We can’t tell them that,” Cecil grumbled. “They’ll totally freak out.” 

“I know. We don’t have contact with Ceres either. We’re going to have to 

lie about it. We can continue to collect data though, and we can send it in 

when we get ourselves reconnected.” 

Cecil bit his lip. “Will we ever get ourselves reconnected?” 

“Cecil, I was a mechanic before they put me in charge of this piece of 

junk. I’ve known my team for ten years. You just go do whatever you can to 

navigate. If we get it set to manual, you might have to fly this thing.” 

“That’s your job,” Cecil objected. 

Agatha snorted. “I can’t fly a starship. You know that. You’ve been flying 

this thing the whole journey. They didn’t know what they were doing, putting 

me in charge.” 

Cecil put a hand on Agatha’s shoulder. “They chose the person who 

would be best at leading, not the person who knew the most.” 

Agatha shook his hand off. “I have to go make the announcement to the 

crew. You talk to the pilots. I don’t know what you want to tell them—” 

“We could kill them. There are only two.” 

“Please tell me you’re joking.” 


71

“God, Agatha, of course I’m joking. No one has been murdered since 5634!” 

“Not on record. I heard the governor on Polybetes killed someone in 

5863. They covered it up though.” 

“Enough with the conspiracy theories. We’ll tell everyone it’s on autopilot.” 

Agatha nodded. “I’m going to have to tell at least some of my team the 

truth if I can count on their help,” she warned. 

“Of course. Just make sure the ones you tell can keep it under wraps.” 

Agatha nodded. “Oh, and Cecil?” 

“Yes?” 

“Start rationing. We’re going to need all the food we can get to stay alive 

in the coming times. I don’t know when we’ll be able to get it working.” 

Cecil winced, then saluted. “Yes, Captain.” He walked out with as much 

pride and serenity as he could muster. 

“I hate it when they call me that,” Agatha muttered. She crawled back 

into the wall. 

Commander Agatha Forsythe laughed gleefully as she exploded the last 

starship on her screen. Ceres would dominate again, she promised herself. If 

they could only work out this navigation malfunction. 

She didn’t know where they were or where they were going. That was completely 

unacceptable! Her pilots could send their entire spaceship rocketing 

into someone’s deadly force field! And she probably wouldn’t blame them. 

A knock sounded on the outside of the simulator. “Commander?” It was 

her second-in-command, Cecil Wrackbur. 

“What?” she demanded crankily. “You interrupted my practice!” 

“Sorry,” Cecil mumbled. “Commander, we have to decide what to tell everyone 

about our current er… situation.” 

“Cecil, I will have this conversation when I have finished my two hours of 

practice,” Agatha said, acting like this was generous. 

“Commander, we think we’ve gone too far out to contact Ceres. We should 

power down or head back.” 

Agatha kicked the door of the simulator open and almost tackled Cecil. 

“What are you suggesting?” she snarled. 

“Commander, I am suggesting that we should not continue to barrel 

72 Short Prose

ahead into the unknown.” 

Agatha made an ugly face. “You’re afraid, aren’t you? Well, my dear Cecil, 

rest assured that if you don’t follow my instructions precisely, you’ll end up 

in the brig. Or I’ll kill you. Whichever one is simpler. You are going to tell 

all of the soldiers that we’re heading into a battle zone. We have to stay quiet 

and hidden. Then divert all power to our engines.” 

“Commander, I’m afraid I have to disobey,” Cecil whispered. “I refuse to 

send our whole ship to their deaths.” 

Agatha scowled. She grabbed Cecil’s neck in one hand and tightened her 

grip around it. Cecil kicked his legs frantically. After a long minute, Agatha 

let go. “I’m going to imprison you instead,” she said. 

Agatha understood that Cecil was popular and that killing him would 

just make her soldiers angry. But if she made Cecil out to be a terrible person, 

she could execute him later with much less hassle. She grabbed Cecil’s 

wrists, one in each hand, and dragged him out into the hallway, calling for 

the soldiers stationed a few hallways away. 

“How dare you keep this from us?” Sam Bancroft demanded, crossing 

their arms across their broad chest. 

“I thought it was the best choice at the time,” Agatha explained. “Would 

you rather I never told you?” 

Sam sighed loudly. “Okay. I can’t speak for all of the researchers, but I 

guess I appreciate you putting this up to vote. We still might have enough 

food and fuel left to get back to Ceres if we push it. Before we’re all doomed.” 

“Sam… we’re already all doomed,” Agatha reminded them. “My team has 

been trying to fix the system for two months—” 

“See, that’s the problem. You don’t need to fix it; you need to build a new 

one. My researchers will get right on it.” 

“If you all don’t decide to keep going in hopes of finding a habitable planet,” 

Agatha reminded them. 

“Like that’s going to happen,” Sam muttered. 

Twenty minutes later, before Agatha had a chance to do anything, Sam 

was back. “My team is made up of a bunch of idiots,” they muttered. “We’re 

going to continue on.” 

“Are they mad at me?” Agatha asked. 


73

“What do you think, genius? Of course. But they respect your choice, and 

they’ll get over it.” 

“Thanks, Sam.” 

Sam tilted their head in confusion. 

“For your honesty,” Agatha explained. 

Sam snorted. “Our honor is all we have left, Captain Forsythe. We might 

as well try our best to keep it.” 

Agatha smiled sadly. “Keep those scanners on. Never fear, I’m sure we’ll 

work everything out.” 

Sam glared at Agatha angrily. “When we got to Pandora, I was looking forward 

to seeing my brother. Now, even if we make it, I’ll never see him again.” 

“You signed up for this,” Agatha reminded them. 

“I know,” Sam said. “Later, Captain.” 

“Bye, Sam,” Agatha smiled. “See you later. Next life-or-death situation 

that comes up.” 

Sam raised an eyebrow. “I thought that was Cecil’s job.” 

“My mistake. You’re part of the command too, Sam. I have to remember 

that.” 

Sam looked at her curiously, respect glinting in their eyes. “Okay, Captain.” 

Before Agatha could put her foot in her mouth again, they were gone. 

“I’ve decided to let you out for a bit on good behavior,” Commander Agatha 

Forsythe told Cecil Wrackbur. 

“Oh, wonderful,” he muttered. 

“You’re not second-in-command, but you are welcome to follow me around 

like a puppy dog if that’s how you want to prove yourself.” 

“What if I ‘prove myself’ by telling everyone about your deceit?” 

Agatha shrugged. “It’s your life.” 

“Nice one,” Cecil smirked. “Fine, I’ll come. But only if you promise to tell 

them later.” 

“What makes you think I need you?” Agatha demanded. 

“The commotion of mutiny upstairs,” Cecil said innocently. 

74 Short Prose

Agatha’s eyes widened. “It’s you! You’re the mastermind. I will kill everyone 

on this ship for this—” 

Cecil rolled his eyes. “Um, I’ve been in total isolation for two months. 

How could I have masterminded a mutiny?” 

“You tell me!” 

Cecil grinned. “If you don’t tell them, I will.” 

“Fine. Hurry,” Agatha said. “If you don’t get them calmed down—” 

“You’ll kill me, I know. I’m going to lie about it, say that we’re not rocketing 

out into empty space. But you have to tell them later, when they’re calm. 

And you have to say I didn’t know.” 

“Yeah, okay. Just go!” 

“God, I’m going,” Cecil muttered. 

Agatha watched him walk off. He turned around at the end of the hall. 

“You know, a thank you would be nice.” 

Agatha shook her head. “It’s your fault.” 

Cecil shrugged. “Even so. It’s your head if I fail.” 

Agatha glared daggers at him as he rounded the corner. 

“Captain Forsythe!” called one of the researchers. Agatha broke away 

from her conversation with Sam Bancroft and hurried over. “Yes?” 

“I see a huge mass coming towards us at 16 els.” 

“Is that our speed?” 

“No, our speed is only 10 els.” 

“Can I see?” 

The researcher handed Agatha the device. Agatha peered into the scope. 

“That looks like something out of a history book,” she whispered. 

The researcher’s eyes widened. “Oh my god. It’s a warship. Thank you 

so much captain. That was totally unexpected, since we haven’t made any 

warships since the 4200s.” The researcher turned to one of her colleagues. 

“Could we have lost it?” 

“No, it looks much more advanced than anything we ever made,” 

he replied. 

“Sam, can you go get Cecil?” Agatha asked. Sam glared at her. 


75

“Fine,” Agatha sighed. “I’ll do it. I’ll be right back.” It wasn’t worth the 

few minutes it would take to make Sam mad at her again. 

But that was the last thought that ever went through Captain Agatha 

Forsythe’s head. Because at that instant, a bright red light from the mystery 

spaceship hit the little research ship and blew it to smithereens. 

Commander Agatha Forsythe cackled gleefully. Her pilfered hours in the 

simulator had paid off, she’d hit the tiny ship first shot. 

“Commander, that wasn’t a warship,” Cecil reminded her. 

Agatha rolled her eyes. “Shoot first, talk later. Sweep the rubble for survivors. 

I want to know where they’re from.” 

“Commander, if we slow down, we’ll never get back up to speed. We don’t 

have enough fuel.” 

“Cecil, I am tired of you doubting all of my decisions. Of course we won’t, 

but you know what that ship might have had? Fuel. That’s now just floating 

around in space free for the taking.” 

“That might be the first good idea I’ve ever heard out of you, Commander,” 

Cecil smiled. 

Agatha glared at him. “Not funny. Slow down. Now.” 

Cecil plonked himself down in front of the controls. “Get out of here, Commander. 

If you distract me, we’ll hit the rubble.” 

Agatha stalked out. But instead of returning to her room like she usually 

did in situations like this, she walked out into the bay of windows. This was 

often considered the most beautiful part of the ship, but Agatha had only 

been there twice before. But now, something was drawing her there. 

The warship stuttered to a halt, and with a loud kerplunk, a chunk of 

debris shattered on the bay windows, sending a human corpse careening 

out into space. Agatha did a double take. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Her 

exact double was floating off into space. 

As Agatha stared after the body that could have—and probably should 

have—been hers, the wall she had built against her emotions at flight school 

cracked. 

“I’ve been horrible,” Agatha whispered. “And now I don’t have any of the 

answers I wanted.” Then she thought about that statement more. And she 

realized that her branch of humanity was as flawed as she was. This puny 

76 Short Prose

little research vessel had had the guts to delve into the unknown by choice, 

making it so much braver than her vessel of seasoned military troops. Agatha 

realized that it would be better to turn around or die in space than to 

disrupt the beautiful world that whoever had built this starship had created. 

Agatha rushed back into the control room. 

“Cecil, don’t set course onwards after we gather the fuel,” she commanded. 

“Set course for home.” 

Cecil looked at her curiously. “What did you see?” he asked. 

Agatha pursed her lips. “Something I never should have seen,” she whispered. 

“But something I’m glad I did.” 

The side of Cecil’s mouth quirked up into a smile. “If I didn’t know better, 

I’d say you’d had a change of heart.” 

“I did,” Agatha whispered. Then she went upstairs, looking for her room. 

If they were going to die, she needed to make sure that when her ship returned 

home, millennia in the future, everyone knew that there was nothing 

to find in the distant reaches of the universe. Nothing at all. And it was 

hopeless to search. 


77

78 Short Prose

Maanasa Reddy 

Grade 10 

Upper St. Clair High School 

Ambu 

Karnataka, India, June 1958 

My mother took my hair into her hands, carefully pleating each strand. 

She oiled it with fragrant coconut, passing her fingers gently through the 

ends. Sweet jasmine flowers hung off my braids, dispersing their scent 

through the air. The tears dripped from my eyes. My mother didn’t react, 

and she just wiped them with her sleeve. She dipped her finger into the 

inky black kajal and lined my eyes. I could sense her getting more and 

more aggravated at my mood. But I could not help it. The one whose sleeve 

I once cried into for comfort now was the one throwing my life away. 

Perhaps I was the fool. My parents let me indulge in my hobbies more 

than any other girl my age. There had to come a time when it would stop, 

which I still could not accept. Just a year ago, when I was 13, I was a child 

by society’s account, too naive to think for myself. Now, I was a woman, fit 

to be married off. A woman fit to bear children, even though I had barely 

grown yet. A woman fit to be sent away from her family in favor of a man. 

Worse yet, I did not know the man who would be the one to wed me. I 

was not allowed to see him, nor speak to him. I knew his name was Aditya, 

but that was it. 

Despite the intricate gold adorning every part of my ears and neck; despite 

the expensive silk saree draping over my body, I wished to wear the 

simple draping I wore every day. This was the dress I would lose my freedom 

in. No longer would I be “Ambuja” known for her intellect; instead, I 

would be “Ambuja,” wife of Aditya. I would merely be a wife to my husband 

and a mother to my future kids. 

A tear escaped my eye, and the kajal began to run down my face. Then, 


79

my mother snapped. She raised her hand and brought it down on my face. 

“You can’t even control yourself on your wedding day? You’re useless! 

I’ve given you everything! Everything! You can’t even do the one thing I ask 

of you?” she snarled. 

In the past, I would have cried. Now, I knew that there was much worse 

in store for me. The numbness in my cheek spread to my heart. There was 

nothing I could do anymore. No one was on my side. My father and mother 

pushed me into marriage, and society was the one that encouraged it. My 

brother, once the one who taught me to love learning and to achieve as 

much as I could, now looked the other way. He refused to argue with the 

hand that fed him. 

My mother looked at me, with almost a glint of regret, before she left the 

room. I laid my head down, not caring what would happen to my makeup 

and jewelry. Another slap to my face would only make me look worse to my 

husband, so I knew she would not hit me again. I buried my face into my 

thick cotton pillow. I lay there until sleep granted me escape. 

Karnataka, India, July 1957 

“Ambu! Come here and help me with the samosas when you’re done 

washing the clothes!” my mother called. I rushed over and placed the golden, 

crispy triangles on a platter and went to give them to our guests. My 

mother grabbed my wrist, “Chee! Your hair is messy and your saree blouse 

is too low. What will they think if they see you like that? You need to think 

about your future.” I internally rolled my eyes and adjusted my blouse. 

This was code for “Oh, Ambuja, what will your future husband (who 

doesn’t seem to exist) say?” I don’t even need to worry about something like 

that anyway, I’m only 13! There are lots of girls my age getting married, but 

there is no way my parents would do something like that. Even if they said 

so, my parents always praised my other talents, so I doubt they would marry 

me off and waste what I had. 

I stepped quietly into the room and heard Prajush, one of our guests, 

remark, “Ambuja is so smart! I heard she got full marks on her last test, and 

my son tells me that she always ranks at the top of her class.” 

My dad chuckled proudly, “Yes, that’s my Ambu; so inquisitive and always 

loves to learn. She was just telling me about the fundamental theorem 

of algebra before you came.” 

My heart swelled, for it was rare to hear my father praise me. All I usu- 

80 Short Prose

ally got was a nod or an odd mix of a grimace and a smile. I came in and set 

the samosas on our table. I smiled slightly, “Hello, Prajush uncle, Bhavna 

aunty, how are you?” 

We exchanged greetings and I retreated to my room. Although the domestic 

work was little, it still upset me. When my brother lived at home; 

my mother never made him do any of the work. Also, I had more important 

things to do! Tomorrow, I had a state math competition, my first one. I’m 

near the end of my 7th year of schooling, and mathematics at my school is 

too boring and straightforward. I want to learn about complex theorems and 

finish unsolvable proofs, not memorize the rules of possible triangle lengths. 

My teachers didn’t take me seriously either and said that I should just 

stick to being ladylike. It didn’t make sense to me; our country had been 

liberated from British rule just over 10 years ago. Shouldn’t a country want 

to foster the next generation, regardless of our so-called “place in society?” 

I began to get frustrated. I could solve a proof easily, but I could not 

solve the stubborn views of the older generation. You could confront them 

with sound logic, and they’d stare you in the face and laugh. I could have 

the knowledge of a thousand men, but I would always be seen as one arrogant 

girl to everyone else. I shook these thoughts off and took out my math 

books. Right before me, the digits leaped and flew through my head, like an 

elegant Bharatnatyam dancer. My eyelids eventually felt heavy… 

I woke up in a sweat, sprinted over to the kitchen, and looked at the 

clock. 8:00. 

“APPA I’M GOING TO BE LATE!” I shrieked. 

He hailed a taxi and we dashed over to my school. 8:20. I sighed because 

I made it just in time. I had everything together, so I calmed my nerves and 

sat down. I scribbled my work and wrote in my answers. Everything from 

last night danced through my head and onto my paper. My fingers trembled, 

for my hands could not keep up with my thoughts. 

As I etched in my last answer, the proctor called, “Time is up! Put down 

your pencils!” 

I exhaled; I did it. Now, I just needed my results. 

For the next few weeks, I waited every day for the mail to come. Then, 

I’d rummage through and look for my results. Three weeks went by with no 

letter, and I started to get discouraged. Was there some mistake? 

I went to school as usual, and my teacher greeted me excitedly, “Ambuja! 


81

You won 1st place at the Karnataka State Math Competition!” 

I gaped. I was first out of over 1,000 students. I had felt satisfied with 

how I did on the test, but I had no idea I did well enough to win. I fidgeted 

all day because I wanted to spill the news to my parents and my brother, 

Nikhil. He was the one who inspired my love for math and was currently a 

student majoring in applied mathematics at a prestigious college. Nikhil 

was brilliant, and always encouraged me to be as well. He was one of the 

few people who wanted me to go beyond what society expected of me. 

Finally, school ended, and I burst out the door. In the dirt were my parents 

with huge smiles plastered on their faces. 

“That’s my Ambu! Always first in everything!” my mom grinned. They 

hugged me tight and we went home to celebrate. 

“Appa, can we call Nikhil? I want to tell him.” I begged. 

My father grimaced, “Ambuja, he’s busy now, maybe in a few days.” I 

pouted and stomped all the way to my house. 

A deep voice yelled, “Ambu!” 

Deeply tanned with a sharp nose and eyes like ink, there was a figure 

before me. 

“Nikhil!” I shrieked back. 

He hugged me, “Ambu, it’s almost like you’re the one who should be in 

university, not me!” 

That night, we had cake, something that wasn’t common at home. If we 

were going to have dessert, we’d have the almost sickly-sweet milk balls, 

also known as Gulab Jamun. But cake? That was a westerner’s food, something 

that wasn’t easy to come by. 

The cake spelled my name in red letters, each shining like a ruby. I carefully 

sliced into its layers of decadent chocolate and what smelled like rum. 

It tasted like a cloud and was almost as good as the satisfaction of my win. 

My mother, father, Nikhil, and I hugged. I couldn’t stop grinning. Imagine 

the celebration when I won more awards! Perhaps my mother would 

stop making me do chores, and I could practice math problems instead. My 

heart soared at what was to come. 

82 Short Prose

Karnataka, India, June 1958 

My remembrance of the sweet bliss of last year was short-lived, because it 

was now time for me to go out and meet Aditya. From what I had heard, he 

had finished college and was getting another degree soon. Although a well-educated 

spouse is meant to be a good thing, I knew that he had to be around 

twice my age. This wasn’t uncommon, but I trembled at the thought of it. 

I tightened my fist, digging my nails into my flesh. My chest started to 

feel hot, and my head was filled with boiling thoughts. Why did I have to 

yield? Why did I have to marry? Why did this “Aditya” get to pursue education 

as he wished, while I had to sit in this grown-up dress and pretend to 

love him? Why is it that when men rebel, it is called revolution; however, a 

woman who rebels needs to be put in her place? 

Did my parents think so little of every accomplishment I had gained? Did 

my brother know all along about what would happen to me when I got older? 

I decided to stop thinking of it, for it would only upset me more. As I got 

closer to the front room, where Aditya was, it felt more and more like a 

boulder was hitting my chest. 

The house smelled of saffron, and kumkuma, a vermillion powder, was 

on each doorstep. The doorway to the front room was enveloped in fiery 

marigolds, hanging to obscure what was inside. Then, as I strode into the 

room, I decided. I would be like the scent of these flowers, strong and unyielding. 

I would not let anyone reduce me to something less than what I 

already was. 


83

Poetry 

84

1st place 

“Fell a Victim” 

Elena Johnson 

2nd place 

“Blood Sisters” 

Emily Rhodes 


85

86 Poetry

Elena Johnson 

Grade 10 

Carlynton Junior/Senior High School 

Fell a Victim 

Running shoes slap the sidewalk, 

Drips of sweat fall 

grazing the Green grass 

freshly trimmed and so meticulously cared for. 

Paced breathing of a man 

enjoying his afternoon jog, 

A strong man with deep skin. 

He admires cerulean skies 

and welcomes the warm glow of the Georgia sun. 

Tires screech on the asphalt, 

A pickup truck comes to an abrupt stop 

next to the jogging man 

who is too late 

to catch a glimpse of what waits for him. 

Gunshots pierce the afternoon calm 

Death carried by men with pale complexions 

is stricken upon the jogging man. 

Red corrupts the formerly Green 

for color warps the public eye. 

I feel that true sentiment is a delicacy 

when tragedy is commonplace 

“What a shame” 


87

88 Poetry

Emily Rhodes 

Grade 12 


Blood Sisters 

Some days I am only dirt, 

and my sister presses seeds 

into the bowl of my head, calls 

me artist and talented. 

It is a language I don’t speak yet. 

Some days I am stuck in the dark 

of my seven year old bedroom; 

my sister strikes a match 

and in the tiny glow I see 

her face and it makes me brave 

enough to push out into the dark, 

into the swirling blankness 

to grab onto her, 

pull her strong, gentle form 

to mine. She steadies me. 

Some days I am empty streets 

and hollow veins, and my sister 

teaches me to scream and sing, 

fill up the silence. 

We dance to my echoes, 

bloody bodies swaying 

in our own crooked rhythms. 

It’s an animal 


89

kind of perfection. 

Some days I am stuck 

upstairs. Windows shake 

and burst, rain glass onto 

my terrified face. 

My sister glues the broken 

panes into a mosaic 

and brushes the splinters out of my hair. 

Her body presses against me, 

and my blood rushes to her, 

desperate to become hers, to prove 

that we are connected 

on some cosmic level. 

But we are creating a new 

kind of family, and 

our love is stronger than 

the science of our different blood. 

She is my sister 

in every way that counts. 

90 Poetry

Samantha Silk 

Grade 12 

The Ellis School 

Number Zero 

17 years old, he cries out: 

I AM NOT WHAT YOU THINK! 

You think he is a pixel on a screen, 

That you can make him bleed like ink 

On the front page of a scarlet newspaper, 

He refuses. 

So bright, so sure 

I am different, he says. 

what a shame 

thoughts and prayers 

Hear a mother wail; 

He was only a child. 

Hear his friends pound their fists, 

For they will not let you count him; 

He wanted to be different. 

Oh, how hard you try to drown us out 

with the echoes of gunshots, 

Because you are afraid—so damn afraid—to hear our words. 


91

what a shame… 

for we will just chant them louder; 

17 years old, fists clenched 

Fierce eyes, hardened hearts; 

We will not let him become your statistic. 

I am 17 years old– 

I, too, am crying out– 

I AM NOT YOURS TO COUNT! 

I am bright, I am sure 

I am different. 

Do you look at me, and see only a clay mold of a girl? 

When I open my mouth, do you hear words? 

No– 

you refuse to hear our words 

You would rather drown us out. 

what a shame 


No wonder you try to drown us 

in the echoes of gunshots: 

You are afraid. 

And you should be. 

Yes, we are only children 

But tomorrow you will wake up 

And you will find yourself drowning 

In the sound of millions of pounding fists 

millions of children 

who refuse to be your statistics. 

You are so damn afraid… 

92 Poetry

what a shame 


You can try to bury us all you want 

But there will always be more pounding fists. 

Go ahead and keep trying to count me 

But I will 

never 

be your number. 


93

94 Poetry

Gwendolyn Nace 

Grade 12 

Quaker Valley High School 

The Painter 

In the blackness of night, something paints the colors of my walls 

Something like a ghost, silent and spectral as moonlight 

Greeting me with brilliant new shades every morning 

As my laughter of childlike astonishment mixes with quiet tears 

I feel covered by a blanket of the heavy fumes of paint 

Then another thing, cold and wispy—what just held my hand? 

Waking up to a blue color as translucent as the veins in my hand 

I run my fingers over it, feeling the pulse of a heart on the walls 

(Who knew how much life was held inside paint) 

As cool to the touch as an icicle or shaft of silver moonlight. 

I lay my head against the wall and can hear someone’s tears 

Drawing back, I carry on with my morning. 

My ghost leaves behind the leftover paint in the morning 

I pour a bowl of cereal, then pour the paint on top with steady hands 

This blue tastes like the first snowflakes of winter and fresh tears 

Swallowing, I can feel the pulsing heartbeat I felt on the walls 

The milky white and glassy blue mix to make a color like moonlight 

So later in the bathroom, I’ll throw up moonlight and blue paint. 

Days are spent trapped inside dense fumes of paint 

As stubborn as fog that clings to the world in the morning 

My thoughts melt into vague, shapeless forms of moonlight 


95

Colors spot my vision, holding up my arm I see many hands 

Floors sway beneath me, and I balance myself on the walls 

I hate whoever paints my room and cry resentful tears. 

Emerging from the vapor, blinking past stinging tears 

I see the room drooping and oozing with layers of paint 

Endless coats of color have left a thick, clammy skin on the wall 

And its blisters and scars are set ablaze by the light of morning 

I push into a wall, leaving behind a deep imprint of my hand 

The mark warps and distorts, until grotesque under the moonlight. 

Paint thinner glimmers, liquid moonlight 

Dousing the room until it runs down the walls like tears 

I scrub and mangle every surface, burns forming on my hands 

Slowly, I can rip whole layers away like clementine peels of paint 

All that remains are chemicals and shredded colors in the morning 

I’m confident the ghost is banished, staring at my room’s naked walls. 

The paintbrush sways in my hand, shadows swirl in the moonlight 

And the blank wall stands before me as drips of color fall like heavy tears 

This shade of paint will look beautiful in the morning. 

96 Poetry

Sarah Gallogly 

Grade 10 

City Charter High School 

the waiting room 

it’s been years. 

i still sit. 

waiting 

wishing 

tears streaming down my face. 

i inhale, but it feels like nothing is coming in 

i feel my body fill up like a balloon, 

just the way my mind did. 

i simply wait 

for one to burst 

and cause the rupture of everything else. 

i’ve been staring at the same four walls 

for a very long time 

the muted yellow, 

with dents and chips 

that tell the stories of those who have been here before. 

they were just as I am now. 

waiting 

wishing 

they might have tears streaming down their face, 

or red dripping from their fists, 

or a numbness they know is because 


97

they’ve felt too much 

for too long. 

at last, they call my name. 

i wonder how long 

it must’ve taken 

for theirs to be called. 

98 Poetry

Samantha Silk 

Grade 12 

The Ellis School 

Sunset Ballet 

A mass of ocean grass billows 

In the wind of lapping ripples. 

Rows of mossy green 

Ferns like a field of corn 

Leap, pirouette, and tilt 

Like lean dancers on a stage, 

Lilting to lullabies of the weaving waves above. 

Elegant seaweed sways and swishes in unison 

As patient jellyfish float along, 

Both chasing the hypnotic pull 

Of mysterious seawater. 

Spiky sea urchins cling to coral– 

Like the toes of a barefoot child 

Stubbornly grasping at the soft soil below– 

Their thorns nuzzling up against a homely reef. 

A school of fish–small and slick–shoots past, 

Like silver daggers slicing gashes as they streak across the water 

Or a chain of ashen bullets fiercely propelled through the sea. 

Each narrow fish is one brush stroke in a pointillistic painting 

Of birds gliding across a sunset sky smeared with vivid acrylics. 


99

As a lone Garibaldi Damselfish approaches the argentate school, 

Gleaming and glimmering and innocently drifting 

Around the coral stage of this oceanic theater, 

Silver daggers and ashen bullets frantically scatter, 

Frantic to avoid the tangerine twinkles 

Of this outsider, this foreign dancer– 

Costumed in a shiny cape of orange sequins. 

Slivers of silver bullets peek out 

From behind the protection of seaweed 

As they try to erase themselves 

From this oceanic painting, 

Leaving only the fleeting echoes 

Of a sunset ballet. 

100 Poetry

Maanasa Reddy 

Grade 10 


Reflections 

I’m afraid of mirrors. 

I used to see a pretty girl with oak-like skin and wavy hair, 

A girl with twinkling onyx eyes… 

But does that girl exist? 

Why is my dusky skin likened to excrement, 

My thick hair and eyebrows to bushy weeds, 

My eyes are suddenly inferior to ones that are ocean blue? 

When was this a contest? 

My face to that of an ape? 

Did the girl with sparkling eyes ever exist? Or was that what I wanted to see? 

Do I look like a man? An animal? 

Am I dirty? 

What’s wrong with me? 

Is that what people see? 

A woman who has cast away her potential, her beauty? 

Am I a woman now useless; a woman not to be acknowledged? 

What should I do? 

Should I wear contacts? 


101

Should I perm my hair? 

Should I bleach my skin? 

Why did the mirror deceive me? 

What do I do, mirror? 

102 Poetry

Finn Lawrence 

Grade 9 

Northgate Middle/High School 

We Are People 

Our existence was non-existent for some time 

Our troubles were quite consistent, but then we started to climb 

People started to realize we were human 

That blood runs through our veins the same as theirs, we started to tear 

down the segregation because we have no reason to be ashamed 

Because we are people 

__________________________________ 

My name is Matthew Alexander Henson 

The first man to reach the North Pole 

But I am African American 

And my story has not been told 

I grow old 

Newspapers are sold 

With titles of stories that have yet to be unfolded 

For if I spoke, I would be scolded 

So the real story was molded 

Descendant of slaves, an orphan, experienced in Arctic exploration 

Fluent in Inuit, so Robert Peary brought me along for my 

incredible translation 

The hike to the North Pole had some complications 

For Peary, not for me 


103

But I kept with my calculations, you see 

When I reached the North Pole, bear in mind, 

Peary was dragged on a sleigh, ill, and fell way behind 

He felt well enough to lie 

And to convince the whole nation 

That he had done it alone 

So I was brought to frustration 

__________________________________ 

You can call me Marsha P. Johnson 

Have you heard my name? 

It is often forgotten 

Consigned to oblivion, blotten 

I am gay, I am transgender, I am a queen 

I deserve to be seen 

But not as obscene, as an equal 

Because we are people 

I fight for what is right 

For gay rights 

For black lives 

So my people don’t have to hide 

Every day, until they die 

Living a lie 

I am queer 

I am beautiful 

My skin is brown 

I fight for my people, and I deserve to be found 

__________________________________ 

I can’t breathe, sir… 

Sir I can’t breathe… please… 

Oxygen cut… 

104 Poetry

I can’t gasp for air… 

My throat is under his knee… 

I enter the endless void 

My name is George Floyd 

I ignited fire in my brothers and sisters when I died 

I wish I could’ve done the same when I was alive… 

__________________________________ 

Is this what it takes? 

To be recognized, I mean 

Do you have to be dead? 

To be heard of 

To be seen? 

We are black 

We are queer 

We are here 

We are equal 

You cannot keep ignoring us 

Because We Are People 

__________________________________ 

Our existence was non-existent for some time 

People thought our color in itself was a horrible crime 

They thought of us as grime 

Trash to be left behind 

But we never gave in 

We will never be satisfied 

We will never stop demanding justice 

We died to be free 

We died to be equal 

We died to be people 

We will not be pushed aside 

We have cried against this pulling tide 


105

But you will never take away our pride 

We have always been denied 

And it hurts 

It is pain 

It is real 

Stabbing like a needle 

We are your equal 

We. Are. People. 

106 Poetry

Saanika Chauk 

Grade 11 

North Allegheny Senior High School 

Gemstones 

“Don’t be scared” 

He used to laugh 

As she ran for miles 

With a smile of diamonds 

And a heart full of gold 


Eyes shining 

like brilliant emeralds 

Weighed down 

By pockets of blushed quartz 


But she had to remember 

That gemstones were heavy 

And that her pockets 

Were made to break 


Her knees began to buckle 

Under the weight of 

Thousands of stones 

As he only watched and smiled 


Once glittering gemstones 

Lay jagged and violent 


107

Upon the floor 

As aquamarines pool in her eyes 


She scrambles to pick up 

The scathing rocks 

But each time she does 

He hurls them down and they shatter 


Rough palms caress 

Tear-stained cheeks 

As her lips become 

unpolished sapphire 


Cold brown eyes 

Seething and selfish 

Scan her complexion 

Dotted with rubies 


Blossoms of lavender 

And amethyst 

Upon her milky 

Moonstone canvas 


Soft laughter 

Reverberating in the silent night 

Only whispers of bittersweetness 

Stirred for miles 


“After all, I thought you 

liked gemstones” 

108 Poetry

Grey Weatherford-Brown 

Grade 12 

Pittsburgh CAPA 

Wanting to Pray 

There are things I only tell my mother: 

what my Dad has never seen in men 

Before fear sets in, there’s shame, 

the hundred ways I’d done it different 

if I could, lay my palms out like a prayer, 

but I’ve never prayed, I only cry. 

Thunder’s the scream following rain: a crying 

rain during that night ride with Mother & 

she talks about how she prayed 

as a crutch before losing faith in amen— 

in god himself, who stays indifferent 

to everything in a woman but her shame. 

She closes her eyes because she is ashamed 

to bruise when she hears me cry. 

Here are intrusive thoughts that hurt different: 

Men had never hurt my mother, 

when I told her she would defend men. 

I was wrong to use prayer 

as a tool to survive being preyed 

on. No one else felt throttling shame 

when they wore skirts near men. 


109

I am the only girl afraid to cry 

in front of her mother. 

I am guilty of wanting to feel indifferent 

iciness instead of feeling different. 

It is so much simpler to lock fear in a prayer 

than to talk about trauma with my mother, 

beg a friend to open about buried shame, 

the worst: throw back our heads & cry 

out for anyone to please stop the men 

that haunt downtown allies, men 

pretending to be different. 

My misplaced trust becomes battle cry, 

God save men who hide behind prayer, 

let The Book not absolve their shame. 

To Men who have hurt me and my mother 

in the same way: I want to have prayer 

without also pocketing shame 

& letting it all weigh on my mother. 

110 Poetry

Aliyah Scott 

Grade 10 

Pittsburgh Obama Academy 

The Life of Phillis Wheatly 

Queen with beautiful black skin 

A valuable soul born in a time African Americans were invaluable. 

Taken from her home to become a slave to be put in chains. 

Freedom relinquished. 

She didn’t fuss instead kept a grin. 

Slave master taught her how to read and write showed her 

what was imaginable. 

She worked hard and studied harder, she took the reins. 

Started writing poems a king could only wish he had. 

Voice became louder people started to listen. 

White men started to get scared, so they questioned. 

This gift that grabbed people’s attention, on topics that normally 

they would ignore. 

Her hands flow on a piece of blank paper as easily as the wind 

blows through your hair. 

Lost a lot on the way, friends and family, her two children. 

She was living in poverty but that did not stop her. 

Wrote more and that loud voice became stronger. 

Her hands were the power that made the “powerful” cower. 

This beautiful black queen is our ancestor. 


111

PSA: 

Phillis Wheatly died at the young age of 31 and was one of the first 

couple of people to openly talk about slavery. She was a powerful woman 

who stood up for what she believed in and is still honored to this day 

for her poems and bravery. 

112 Poetry

Clara Kelley 

Grade 9 

Fox Chapel Area High School 

Where the 

Wounded Lay to Rest 

We were fighting, as the stories all tell. 

Spoken of as a hero’s calling, a destiny or other, 

to smother a villain’s delight. 

Them, the ever-tempting viper, 

shall gull the weakest in fulfilling their nefarious desire. 

And I, the benevolent hunter, had yet to succeed 

in ending their tyranny. 

We were fighting, as their story will tell. 

Ever the perpetual chase, such is the nature of the game. 

For the cunning viper outwits 

what they cannot outrun. 

Each movement matched; long time we tussled in synchrony, 

anger rising in my weary mind, deciding 

this time I would win. 

We were fighting, as my story will tell, 

when I struck them down; a blow loud enough 

to alarm the gods almighty. 

Emphatic enough, it would seem, 

to vanquish anger, uncertainty in its place 

telling me to raise my fists, for I would be ready. 


113

And in my hands a gun 

that had not been there before. 

Macabre, so spare the gods cross it, 

to complement the damage it had done 

bleeding a painful red beneath me. 

Such was the fate of the waning body 

of my enemy. 

I smiled, 

for this was what I desired. 

To finally win. 

Time walked away, leaving me 

standing. Staring. Waiting, perhaps 

for them to awake and fight as always done. 

Or to lash their fangs in a final ovation, 

poison running black as the gun. 

I found only a corpse staring back, 

asking: 

“What now?” 

We were fighting, but the stories won’t tell 

that my smile cracked as I collapsed. 

I would save them, the deed could be undone! 

To convince time to fix what was not yet gone. 

Words cascaded down, 

falling as does light on a darkened path. 

To search, only to reveal 

the death of my purpose. 

The predator was caught, the day saved. 

The world would live to see another. 

But they would not, and as it would seem 

neither would I. 

I turned the gun around. 

Coup de grâce. 

114 Poetry

Evelyn Sorg 

Grade 9 


Where I’m From 

I am from pages. 

From subtitles and archives. 

I am from the skyscrapers I saw out my window. 

I am from yellow crossings. 

From coffee shops and Italian delis. 

I am from the scent of mums and vegetables. 

I am from Prunus. 

From Highland and Park. 

I am from memories and moments. 

I am from history. 

From science and fiction. 

I am from Pass and Stow. 

I am from the shoulders of giants. 

From the scent of cigarettes and roses. 

I am from greatness and wisdom. 


115

116 Poetry

Aneri Shethji 

Grade 9 

North Allegheny Intermediate High School 

you can. 

the words taken so lightly 

“anyone can do anything” 

you can be whatever you want 

and those two words say so 

they lift up the walls around you 

unlocked by affirmations 

not caged, but free 

to do anything 

but a can is never a will 

because you built your own walls 

that won’t lift up 

walls forced and locked in place 

by nails of self-doubt 

latches of others’ opinions 

bolted by words of disapproval 

so the cage remains 

until time runs out 

the nails, rusted and worn 

latches torn and run-down 

when you realize you could’ve 

you could’ve all along 

the nails, latches, bolts 


117

were never that strong to begin with 

but now time presses on that cage 

so you resort to doing only what 

you can. 

118 Poetry

Oladunni Bejide 

Grade 10 


Concerto Inferno 

His back is hunched over the rows of ebony and wood, 

his fingers bending, arching, smashing at keys. 

A song sounds from the piano keys, telling of a boy— 

scurrying away down the track, the way that he alone knows. 

It is not his, but he shows understanding 

through the way the notes lift and drift under his fingertips. 

His back stiffens and twists, he leans back then forward. 

Flames flicker and burn away sin around the boy, 

barely shrinking away from obstacles that stand in his way, 

he keeps moving. 

His toes and feet scramble through the blaze, 

his soles hot and curled over burning coal and bones— 

the notes sound, loud for liberty and mercy. 

Squeals, shrieks and howling hiss all around the boy 

Soles thumping, grinding on soil so hot it roars blue and glows orange. 

How can skin and blood not be left behind to simmer and boil? 

Toes dig in scorched filth, pushing limbs forward faster, faster, faster. 

Both of them are burning through gusts of energy 

until joints start to ache, and they start to slow down. 

He longs to snap his fingers away from the piano keys but 

the show must go on. 

Sweat from his brow falls in drops onto the rows of keys. 

Hissing, smoke and steam rise upon contact. 


119

Up ahead the path is coming to an end, the notes for 

the track start to space out— 

toes ease up and relax, his wrists lift and pressure lessens against the keys, 

his fingers straighten and his back is high, 

swaying with the surge of his fingers. 

His brow loosens, and the heat cools down, 

drying the sweat on his face. 

120 Poetry

Allen Fiejdasz 

Grade 10 


A reprise for 

Martha, my beloved 

The leaves fall 

so gently on 

to the curb 

and into the 

puddles which form 

on the edges of the street. 

Puddles frequently 

tossed up 

to the dread 

of the old men 

sitting on the stoop 

smoking and talking loudly. 

High heels 

click violently on 

the red brick 

and bounce 

around this 

sarcophagus. 


121

I think they plant 

all these trees 

in hopes we forget 

how cold and 

dark the concrete is. 

I like the color of your hair 

And your southern drawl. 

You’ve been thinking a lot about leaving town. 

122 Poetry

Shana Reddy 

Grade 11 


angel : fallen 

what was it like being an angel? i ask aloud. 

(another question lingers in the sticky florida air that 

i dare not ask. why did you fall?) 

you don’t answer; instead you turn that battered starbright circlet 

over and over in your hands 

it’s been a week since you fell, 

you asked how i found you; 

i said i saw you fall 

i didn’t say that i saw a white streak burning with heavenly fire fall from 

the stars, like dice from an old man’s hand, landing with the full force of 

an atomic bomb in the woods behind my house. you were lying down in 

a crater as if playing dead man’s float without a pool, with burns on your 

back and two ink black horns growing from your cranium and that golden 

rusted halo, bent and misshapen, a few steps from your head 

it feels like hours, 

with the mosquitoes buzzing a safe distance away 

(they don’t dare try to bite you—who knows what ichor will do to them?) 

and finally you answer, in a voice that carries a millennium of suffering, 

and a language that’s long since died out: 


123

the heavens are not a place for mortal eyes or mortal thoughts 

(the apples of discord have been sown throughout the heavens and 

i was the first to take a bite) 

124 Poetry

Connor Dalgaard 

Grade 11 

West Allegheny High School 

fall of the oak tree 

the men in their 

green suits 

come to the oak tree 

wielding their axes 

chop. 

the oak tree fell 

its leaves withered 

branches left bare 

the yellow sun set early 

giving way to the black night. 

the men snickered 

staring down their prize 

lying under the fog atop the forest floor 

illuminated by Selene’s moon 

lifeless. 


125

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 

Thank you, first and foremost, to the Allegheny County 

teens who submitted their poetry and short prose to 

this year’s Ralph Munn Creative Writing Contest. This 

anthology would not exist without you. Each year, you 

are bold enough to share your work with not only library 

staff, but also with your community. Like last year, this 

contest and the creation of the anthology took place 

during the COVID-19 pandemic. And once again your 

writing provides us with a window into the creativity, 

power, and emotion inside each of you. Whenever I have 

the chance, I let other adults know that young people are 

the best thing about our region and this anthology is just 

one example why. 

As always, we dedicate this anthology to you. Our young 

writers make Ralph Munn—and so much more—possible. 

We will keep celebrating you and supporting you in 

being builders of your own future. 

I am grateful to this year’s judges, Deesha Philyaw 

and Paloma Sierra for their willingness to participate. 

Their commitment to supporting young writers, picking 

this year’s winners, and offering feedback to the topscoring 

pieces during busy times in both their lives made 

my heart explode. There is nothing easy about picking 

winners and I am thankful to them for approaching this 

task with such care. 

A huge thanks is also due to this year’s Editorial Team 

members who read and considered each short prose 

126

and poetry submission. I so enjoyed reading and 

discussing the pieces with all of you! 

There is a lot of behind-the-scenes work that goes into 

this contest and anthology. Thank you to the Library’s 

Communications & Creative Services team, department 

leads, and leadership who support Ralph Munn year 

after year. It is meaningful that you see the value in 

amplifying teen voices. 

A special type of thanks to Adrienne Jouver and Justin 

Visnesky. Adrienne’s careful eyes ensure the writers’ 

work has all the impact intended when Justin lays it out 

for printing. 

Finally, 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 

continue to connect with and show care to young people. 

Teens always need you. 

Sincerely, 

Kelly Rottmund 

Teen Services Coordinator, 

Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh 


127

2021 Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 

Written by Allegheny County high school students, grade 9–12 

Compiled by Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh staff 

2020 Cover Art Winner: Gianna DiGiacomo

2021 Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology

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