2023 Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology

2023
Ralph Munn
Creative Writing
Anthology

2023
Ralph Munn
Creative Writing
Anthology

© 2023 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

2023
Ralph Munn
Creative Writing
Anthology
Editorial Team Lead
Leah Durand, CLP – Main
Editorial Team
Tyler Burkhart, CLP – Allegheny
Kayla Copes, CLP – Squirrel Hill
Rachel Herbstritt, CLP – Main
Avery Lesesne, CLP – Lawrenceville
Mel Newcity, CLP – West End
Inga Schmidt, CLP – Beechview
Book Design
Justin Visnesky, CLP – Main, Communications
Copyediting
Adrienne Jouver
Cover Illustration
Alex Riccobon

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Editor’s Note . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
Judges’ Biographies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
Short Prose
1st place
“Hold on Tight” by Sofia Mancing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
2nd place
“Memories” by Annabel Gujski . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
“Mi Casa es Su Casa” by Alexis Alarcon . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
“Shooting Stars” by Elena Clark . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
“Deathwish” by Sophia Whitman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
“Directions for Moving on When Your City
Winks Out of Existence” by Elena Eiss . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
“Truth or Dare” by Joanna Li . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
“How the Monopoly Tied Their Loose End” by Bobby Kartychak . . 53
“Bedsheets” by Maryam Sadullaeva . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
“Dancing In The Afterglow” by Brooke Deegan . . . . . . . . . . 65
“Hungry Humphrey” by Mason Roberts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
“closer than before” by Asata Brown . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
“Forgotten Poetry Resurrected
by Remembered Prose” by Dagny Haglund. . . . . . . . . . . . 87
“All That Can Happen To You On A Train” by Alex Staresinic . . . 93
“Sprinkle” by Zora Burroughs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
“Of Birds and Worms” by Andrew Hall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
“I believe you” by Sheina Brocha Taub . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
“The Cherry Lane Ordeal” by Bella Minyo . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
“The Nature vs Nurture Experiment” by Brant Lipson . . . . . . . 133
6

Poetry
1st place
“Infestation’s Hope” by Natalie Augustine. . . . . . . . . . . . 143
2nd place
“Home” by Ashnavi Ghosh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145
“The Lost Voices Of The Young” by Nola Toussant . . . . . . . . 147
“Far Off” by IsaBella Blick . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149
“I Dream No More” by Willow Wright . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151
“Daughters With Sharp Teeth” by Leia Leviathan . . . . . . . . . 153
“Grief” by Si Reason . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155
“Which Roses Shall I Pick?” by Basya Taub . . . . . . . . . . . . 157
“Apple Slices” by Audrey Jiang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159
“mom” by Madison Montello . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161
“Beautiful Land” by Madeleine Ng . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163
“A woman like her.” by Madeleine Ng . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165
“An ‘Ode’ to Education” by Bella Minyo . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167
“i’m busy right now, but please
leave a message.” by Audrey Coleman. . . . . . . . . . . . . 169
“What I Know About Black Magic” by Benjamin Quint . . . . . . 171
“The Elder Statesman’s Guide to Travel” by Benjamin Quint . . . . 175
“The Folly and The Scapegoat” by Audrey Starck . . . . . . . . . 177
“Idols for false idols” by Francis Sparrowen . . . . . . . . . . . 179
“A call to action for the ones we lost” by Ekow Opoku-Dakwa . . . 181
“What The Universe Must See” by Everest Gray . . . . . . . . . 183
“elegy for a rosebush” by Elizabeth Bennett. . . . . . . . . . . .187
“Too Young” by Resa Lascek . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 189
“fawny moon” by Julia Hart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
7

EDITOR’S NOTE
Ralph Munn was the director of The Carnegie Library
of Pittsburgh from 1928 through 1964. An endowment
fund, started by friends of Ralph Munn to honor
his legacy, began with supporting a lecture series
on librarianship. In 1970 the fund transitioned to
supporting creative writing workshops. After a brief
hiatus, the fund began to support the creative writing
contest and was revived in 2007.
I had the honor of leading the Ralph Munn Creative
Writing committee in 2013 and again this year, 2023.
The committee, community judges, and proofreaders
are always impressed with the submissions; they
explore and give detail to experiences teens are
facing, working through, and, in the process, learning
more about themselves and the world around them.
I hope you enjoy reading this anthology. I hope you
find pieces that speak to your lived experience or
help you to understand the lived experience of others.
Thank you to this year’s community judges and
the Ralph Munn Creative Writing Project Team
for reading entries with thought and care. Thank
you to the Communication and Creative Services
department for their support in putting the anthology
together in a way that invites readers to pick it
up and read the incredible stories and poems of
8

this year’s writers. Thanks goes out to the Office
of Programmatic Services for organizing and
leading the work of the contest year after year.
The biggest thanks and appreciation go out to all
our contributors and readers. Carnegie Library of
Pittsburgh could not support this opportunity without
your efforts, support, and encouragement.
Thank you, Thank you, Thank you!
Leah Durand
Chair, Ralph Munn Creative Writing Contest Project Team
(2013 & 2023)
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
9

JUDGES’ BIOGRAPHIES
Prose
Elizabeth Agyemang
Elizabeth Agyemang is the author and illustrator
of Fibbed, a middle grade graphic novel published
by Razorbill, and Heart-Shaped Lies, a young adult
novel coming from Delacorte. She writes about magic,
history, folklore, love, and fairy tales, and draws from
elements of her Ghanaian heritage and faith. When
she isn’t gushing over books or comics, she spends
her free time dissecting classic movies and TV shows.
Find Elizabeth online at elizabethagyemang.com
10

Poetry
Rho Bloom-Wang
Rho Bloom-Wang serves as the 2022-2023 Youth Poet
Laureate of Allegheny County and Editor-In-Chief of
Plaid Literary & Arts Magazine. They are passionate
about creative expression as a means of pursuing
both individual growth and social and environmental
justice. Rho is a winner of the Oakland Sidewalk
Poetry Contest, and has been nationally recognized
by YoungArts and the Alliance for Young Artists &
Writers. You can find their work in Lumiere Review;
the tide rises, the tide falls; Qommunity’s Revive;
and elsewhere. Rho loves long hikes along trails with
wild blueberries.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
11

Short
Prose
12

1st place
“Hold On Tight”
Sofia Mancing
2nd place
“Memories”
Annabel Gujski
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
13

14 Short Prose

Sofia Mancing
Grade 12
The Ellis School
Hold On Tight
Rene stood at the edge of the tracks, silent. The man barked at them to be
quiet, so as to hear the train best when it came around the bend. One of
the other kids had spoken—he said he was hungry. His name might have
been Oscar, but Rene wasn’t sure. She couldn’t remember any of their
names anymore.
A steady thrum, like the beat of a chanchona, now pulsed through the
tracks. Rene felt it vibrate throughout her body, sinking into her bones.
“La Bestia está llegando. Prepárate.”
The man inspected the line of children. They stared solemnly at their
worn shoes, reviewing their instructions. They had learned these steps
weeks ago. The man had made sure of that. He told them to be ready when
the time came.
She repeated her instructions, too: Watch the train as it approaches and
do not break eye contact. Stare it down. When it arrives, jog alongside. Do
not trip. No one will help you up. Spot a handle on the side of the car and
jump to it, feet on the lip of the car, both hands on the handle. Hold on tight.
Rene looked up. She heard La Bestia before she saw it. It was coming.
The woman holding a tiny dog poked Rene in the shoulder. Rene opened
her eyes and heard the evening bus doors wrench open. She needed to
move forward—St. Louisans got impatient. She boarded, careful to clear
the gap between the curb and the bus’s landing. Timing her steps improperly
would mean getting caught in the doors, or worse, falling into the
February sludge lining the curb.
She hopped the gap and found a seat. The rocking of the bus as it pulled
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
15

away from the stop made Rene nauseous. She closed her eyes once more
and tried to remember the steps.
There was once a bus stop near home in El Salvador. It was the only one
in the village, but the bus always came. The fare was cheap, too. The drivers
used to smile and greet Rene as if she was at the family dinner last night.
The wheels squeaked, partly flattened, and the paint peeled from the
doors like dead skin. The bus always rocked, but the movement was comforting.
Rene could sleep on that bus on her way to town.
She stared at her hands. These days, in this country, it was the only way
to keep from unraveling when she felt the familiar jolt of a bus pulling up
to its stop or a train pulling into the station. She waited until the others had
gotten off, then stood with her purse and groceries and took a breath. She
got off the bus, saving her smile because this bus driver didn’t smile back.
“Almost two thousand miles. That’s how far you will walk. You will be
tired, and we will run out of food sometimes. ¿Entienden?”
All ten kids nodded. Their parents had warned them that this man, the
coyote, was not their friend. But he would get them there, their parents had
said. He would smuggle all ten of them to the border and then disappear.
Their parents promised that they would see them soon.
“You will not complain. You will not cry. You will not disobey me. You will
not leave the group. ¿Entienden?” the coyote growled.
The kids nodded again. Rene looked to her big sister, offering an encouraging
smile. Maria was twelve then, the oldest and smartest in the group.
The most afraid.
Rene pulled out her keys and unlocked the apartment door. She
placed the dried goods in the pantry and the produce and milk in the
fridge. She poured herself a glass of water from the tap and drank. The
loud THAP, THAP, THAP of plastic shoes on hardwood announced a blur
of pink tulle, rhinestones, and chocolatey brown hair as it whizzed past
Rene into the kitchen.
“Maria, ¡calmate! Why aren’t you in bed?”
“¡Papá y yo somos princesas! Wanna play with us, Mamá?”
Rene laughed. Maria had so much of her aunt in her. In her eyes and
her chin and her creative spirit. At five years old, she was ruler of her own
kingdom and stayed up until ten o’clock.
16 Short Prose

If only Maria and Oscar and the others could have seen her.
Little Maria was proof that Rene had made it.
“Por supuesto, querida.”
She watched La Bestia as it approached and did not break eye contact.
She stared it down. She jogged alongside the rusting metal boxes. She did
not trip because no one would help her up. She found a handle on the side of
the car, looked back to see Maria one last time, and jumped, feet landing on
the lip of the car, both hands wrapped around the handle.
She held on tight.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
17

18 Short Prose

Annabel Gujski
Grade 11
North Hills Senior High School
Memories
Wind whips my hair; the chill of the September sea stings my feet. I clutch
Alice’s arm as we wade into the ocean, each of us pulling the other forward.
We’re unable to charge into the cold waters like we used to because there’s
no gap-toothed smile waiting for us, no steady hands to pull us up when
the waves knock us down.
Mom watches us from the shore, of course, her red hair glowing in the
bright sunlight, but the distance between us is a chasm and the bridge is
broken; the sand is quicksand, and the shells are little knives. She has never
enjoyed swimming in such rough waters, but I know she would if we asked
her to, and that’s enough, that’s a comfort.
Letting the waves crash over me, however, feels cathartic. It’s a distraction,
action, adrenaline. Mild terror, when a wave towers over me. Relief,
that feeling of living when I emerge on the other side with salt in my
mouth and wet hair in my burning eyes, the rough rim of my hat scraping
my forehead as I pull it on tighter. Then comes the fear, the twist in my gut
as I whip around to make sure the next wave isn’t about to crush me.
Alice and I swim farther out into the sea, and we float next to each other,
letting our bodies bob with the waves, hurrying to surge forward or jump
beneath the surface before some collapse on top of us.
“It’s not the same,” Alice says after a while, her voice quiet, barely distinguishable
over the ocean’s roar. She stares toward the shore, her hazel
eyes fixed on the pale blue beach house we’ve stayed in every fourth week
of September since we were young.
“I miss him too,” I tell my sister, because there’s nothing wrong with
our vacation; there’s someone missing. There’s someone missing and his
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
19

absence is a black hole, sucking away the beach and the beach house and
reducing them to reminders of Before while we live trapped in the After.
This is our first vacation without our Dad. Our first time back to his
favorite beach after that wretched December night that ended with three
members left in our family rather than four. A year ago, we were here with
him, smiling and joyful and excited, glad to get away from school and the
mundanities of everyday life. The thought brings tears to my eyes; nothing
affects me quite like the reality of lost happiness.
“Go under it,” Alice shouts, watching the massive wave approaching us.
It’s a game we play, predicting their strength and inclination to break over
us. I dive into the water a few seconds too late, and the wave’s impact
throws me backwards underwater. My body hits sand; saltwater forces itself
up my nose. Shoving my hair out of my face, I scramble to get back
up, get on my feet before I’m hit again, mostly unfazed. Wiping out is part
of swimming in the ocean. Maybe I’ll go back to shore and rinse out my
mouth with water before getting back in—
My hands pause on top of my head, smoothing out my hair. Where’s
my hat?
Panic surges inside me. Because it’s not really my hat. It’s my dad’s hat;
I’ve just been wearing it, keeping a part of him with me in the waves. And
now it’s gone.
I scan the water around me, wishing it was clear rather than murky.
Please let me see it, please please please. I lean down, dragging my hands
through the sand and water around me, frantic.
Alice is next to me. “Marin? What happened?”
I straighten, grabbing her arm to keep her steady before an oncoming
wave knocks her off balance. “Dad’s hat. I can’t find it, the wave pushed it
off, it’s gone—”
“We’ll find it, don’t worry. I’ll go get Mom. You keep looking.” It’s strange
having her try to calm me down rather than the other way around. I instantly
feel guilty for it. But there are bigger things to feel guilty about.
The hat is a blue baseball hat, and it used to be one of Dad’s favorites.
He lost plenty of hats to the sea over the years, whether by fishing out on
a sandbar or swimming with us, but this is different because he’s not here
to lose them anymore. I need to find it, I need to get it back, I should never
have worn it into the water in the first place, I clearly wasn’t thinking, how
20 Short Prose

could I have been so stupid?
Soon Mom is next to me, searching along the shore. I can’t look at her; I
can tell that she’s upset and trying to hide it. When my uncle comes down to
the beach to fish and asks what happened, I tell him, and I can see the anguish
in his expression, notice the way his eyes fill with tears as he turns away.
“I’m sorry,” I keep telling Mom, almost choking on the words. “I didn’t
mean to.” And I find myself wishing that words were more powerful because
I love words and yet they’re failing me, unable to convey my deepest
feelings. Or maybe I’m just failing myself; I can think and write and cry
about emotion, but I can never talk about it.
“I’m not mad at you,” Mom says, and I know she’s not, she’s not even
disappointed. She’s just sad and I’m the one who caused her to be sad and
that’s enough to have me holding back tears. It’s becoming clearer and
clearer that the hat is gone, swept away by the waves and the current, and
there’s nothing we can do to get it back.
No. It can’t be gone. It’ll come back, wash to shore, float to the surface,
something,
My grandma and grandpa return from their walk to the lighthouse. Alice
runs to them, leaving a trail of footprints in the sand. She talks to them for
a moment, then throws her arms around Grandpa while Grandma walks
over to me and Mom. “You can’t find it?” she asks with a sad, trying smile.
Mom puts an arm around me, shaking her head. “It could have been any
of us swimming out there. You know how the waves are.”
“Don’t feel bad about it, Marin,” Grandma tells me. “It’s just a hat. Your
Dad had plenty more. Maybe he just wanted it back and had the ocean do
him a favor.”
Wouldn’t he have wanted it to stay with us? So that a part of him is here?
“Al and I are planning on going out for dinner,” Grandma continues, “so
we’ll be heading inside.”
“I could make dinner,” I offer, desperate for everyone to be together, to be
happy. “We could play cards after.”
“Maybe tomorrow. It’s been a long day for everyone.” A sad day.
After my grandparents depart, Mom, Alice, and I linger at the beach for
another half hour, still searching the sand and the surf for a blue hat. The
wind picks up to the point that sand blows in our eyes, so we finally trek up
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
21

the path back to the beach house. The three of us are lost, adrift, aimless,
not like the ocean but the sand, ironic because I hate the sand, its graininess,
the way it gets everywhere. I thought I needed the cool ocean water
to soak me, smooth me out and make me firm rather than ready to blow
away, but instead it took Dad’s hat, my anchor, and cast me out even more.
The beach house feels hollow. As I pad up to the loft room Alice and
I share, I hear the shower running, the TV playing downstairs, but the
sounds only register dimly, like I’m standing on the other side of a pane
of glass. Why did we even go on this vacation? It feels like a waste of both
money and time, a failure.
Even in the loft, I see Dad everywhere. At the large window, holding
binoculars to his eyes, pointing out the ships in the sea. Walking up the
steps, holding a handful of chocolates he stole from my grandparents’ secret
stash. Sitting on my bed, fitting plastic-bag parachutes on little green
army men to toss out the window.
Unable to stand the forlorn, vacant feeling twisting inside of me, I ask
Alice if she wants to watch a Barbie movie. It’s a tradition of ours; we love
to make fun of the sometimes-bizarre movies that were our favorites as
kids. She says yes, and I hope that it will brighten our moods, brighten the
whole house.
But when we go downstairs, my uncle is already watching TV—some
war documentary on the History Channel. It looks interesting, but more
the sombering kind of interesting rather than the amusing kind.
“I’ll still make dinner,” I tell Alice, wanting to surprise Mom when she
gets out of the shower and comes downstairs. I heat up some cans of soup
and put together some sandwiches, feeling terribly inadequate. We’re on
vacation. We’re supposed to be happy, all together having fun. If only Dad
were here…
If only I didn’t lose his hat. Things were going well until I lost the hat,
weren’t they? We had finished unpacking, the sun was out, the sky clear,
the sand warm and welcoming beneath our feet.
When Mom comes downstairs and sees that I made dinner, she smiles
and kisses me on the cheek, but I know I didn’t make anything better, I
know I didn’t fix anything. We eat shrouded by silence and sadness, and I
find myself biting my tongue to hold back senseless apologies. I can’t start a
conversation because I’ll only ruin it; I can’t hold back the guilt, the sorrow.
And what could we even talk about that would be real rather than fake?
22 Short Prose

The beach was nice today. I’m so glad we’re here. Even the shallow topics
are soured by the inevitable. It would have been nicer if Dad was here. How
could you be glad we’re here when Dad isn’t?
While Alice and I wash the dishes, Grandma and Grandpa walk in the
door, Grandma complaining about how their waiter looked like an “imprudish
surfer-boy.” They fuss over my uncle, asking if he caught any fish, if he
ate anything, if his shower works better than it did last year, all the while
trying to ignore the gaping absence of their other son. They don’t ask about
the lost hat, which bothers me because it’s all I can think about. Imagining
Dad’s favorite hat floating alone in the dark, deep ocean makes the waters
I’ve always loved so much seem ominous, even cruel. But I’m just being
hypocritical; if they did mention the hat, I’d feel worse, guilty enough that
my stomach would likely twist and make me feel sick.
Soon, after we bid goodnight to Mom, Alice and I make our way back up
to our room, everyone retiring to bed early, tired from the twelve-hour drive.
Alice closes the blinds on her side of the loft, and I remove the framed closeup
picture of a pelican from the wall, knowing its beady eyes unnerve her.
With Dad, we used to leave coins in some of the thicker picture frames like
this one, hoping that we could rediscover them the next year. But the pelican
frame is penniless, and I find myself feeling both relieved and saddened.
“Good night, Marin,” Alice says, and I hate the wispy wistfulness of her
voice; I hate the way I can’t make things better. I feel like I ruined everything.
I lost the hat. I lost Dad.
“I’m sorry about the hat,” I whisper, unable to say anything else, anything
of substance. Unable to voice any of my feelings beyond the constant guilt.
“Don’t worry about it anymore today,” Alice replies, and I want to cry
because that was Dad’s favorite thing to tell us, that was his best quote, the
one we wrote at the end of his obituary.
Thinking about his obituary reminds me of the picture of him we chose
for it, the same picture I keep in the locket I wear to school every day. I
stride over to my side of the loft, seized by the sudden fear that I somehow
lost the locket as well. But no, it lays on the nightstand, right where I left
it before we went to the beach. I sit on the edge of my bed and cradle the
heart-shaped pendant in my hands; if only it was a magical artifact I could
wish on to bring Dad back, to make everything right again.
It takes me a moment to work up the courage to open the locket, to face
the past. The picture of Dad is one that was taken here, right in front of the
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
23

each house, near the pool. In it, he’s grinning, his blue eyes glowing starbright.
He’s wearing the hat, his best hat, and seeing it is like a slap to the
face, reminding me of my terrible mistake. How could I have lost it?
Dad also holds the reason for his smile: a whole sand dollar shell, his
favorite type, a rarity in the normally rough North Carolina waters. I remember
how he found it along the shore; Alice and I were with him, as well
as Mom. We were all together, happy. I can’t help but smile thinking about
that day, the shell, how accomplished we all felt after finding it.
My smile begins to fade after a moment though, of course, because I
have no reason to smile; Dad isn’t here. You’ll never see him smile again.
With quick hands, I close the locket and turn off the lamp, unable to
bear looking at Dad any longer. Guilt and grief claw at my aching heart
as I curl up on the bed and close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come. Time
passes and I’m left awake, feeling terribly alone because I know the rest of
my family is asleep. It’s a desolate kind of feeling, making the beach house
seem even emptier.
I keep thinking about the hat, lost at sea. Dad, lost forever. With my eyes
closed, it’s like I’m sinking down into the dark depths of the ocean, never to
be found again. The dim sound of the waves crashing outside is an antagonist
rather than a comfort.
I turn in bed, reaching up to close the blinds, as if covering the window
will do me any good. My eyes catch on a warm light illuminating a small
section of the shadowy beach, its source indistinguishable. I move closer to
the window, squinting to see through the darkness. There’s a man, standing
at the shoreline, staring out at the tumultuous sea. Everything about him is
familiar: his height, his build, the way he holds his shoulders, the stillness
with which he stands.
I reach up to rub my eyes. I’m dreaming. A bolt of feeling floods through
me, something close to relief, because I’ve never dreamed about Dad before,
despite my fervent longing to.
But when I blink a few times and look out the window again, Dad is
still there, on the beach. Maybe it’s not him. But it is. I know it is. My heart
tells me the truth, and though my head is sometimes cruel, this is beyond
a fragmented delusion.
Before I even register what I’m doing, I’m climbing out of bed and padding
across the room, heading for the stairs. I sneak a glance at Alice, but I
decide against waking her up; my explanation would sound ridiculous. And
24 Short Prose

I would feel guilty for disturbing her sleep.
The house is silent and still as I make my way downstairs. I unlock the
door that opens out onto the porch, taking care to be quiet, then I inch the
door open, exhaling in relief when the air remains reticent. I slip out into
the night, the wind tossing my hair, my bare feet pressing against the cool
wood of the porch. I’m not up high enough to see past the sand dunes to
the shore. To Dad.
If it were any other time, any other place, I would never feel comfortable
sneaking out like this, but here, the night is cool and calm, welcoming me.
Everything about this moment feels right. The sky is a velvety indigo with
a hint of dark silvery clouds; the stars are like salt in the sky, as if someone
spilled the shaker against dark cloth, their beauty a simple accident.
I jog down the sandy path to the beach, the light from the moon and
the stars guiding me. As I crest the sand dunes, my heart sprouts wings,
ready to fly.
Stark darkness faces me. My chest caves. The wings disappear in a flood
of fallen feathers.
I search the darkness, desperate, while tears begin to taint my vision.
The warm shroud of light I saw from my window is gone. All I can see is
black; all I can hear is the ocean’s battle with the shore. I feel like a fool,
disillusioned by hope, by fathomless desire.
Still. I can’t help myself. “Dad?” I call out into the night. My eyes have
adjusted a little; the darkness isn’t so daunting anymore. My heart tugs me
through the sand until it dampens beneath my feet and the ocean roars in
my ears. “Dad?”
Nothing.
Salt wets my lips, and I know it is from my eyes, not the sea. What did
you think you would find? He’s gone, Marin. He’s never coming back.
I stare at the ocean, just able to make out the peaks of the waves before
they crash down. I feel like I’m waiting for something, like this can’t
possibly be it. I don’t want to give up and slip back inside as if I never saw
anything. I’ll only feel worse than I felt earlier, and I certainly won’t be able
to fall asleep.
Then the reason for my sleeplessness comes back to me, lifting my heart
with hope. The hat. What if I saw Dad because the hat washed up to shore?
What if it was a sign?
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
25

The waxing moon is bright above me, allowing me to scan the strip of
beach where the sand meets the sea. No hat. Again, my heart tugs me forward
so that gentle ghosts of mighty waves lap over my feet, sending little
chills through me. How could I have thought the ocean was cruel?
Leaving footprints melting into the darkness behind me, I walk along
the shore, searching for the hat, my eyes never straying. When I find it, everything
will be better. Everyone will be happy.
I’m caught off guard when a bright beam of light spills across the
sand. For a moment, my heart lifts in my chest as I wonder if this is the
same light I saw from the window in the beach house. The same light
that revealed Dad.
But when I turn around, Alice is jogging towards me, a flashlight bobbing
in her hand. Her presence causes guilt to ebb through me; I must
have woken her up when I was sneaking out of the house. “I followed
you,” she says with a smile as she comes up beside me. “Since when are
you this adventurous?”
“You should have stayed inside,” I tell her, because I’m a hypocrite of an
older sister.
“Then you should have brought a flashlight with you. There’s no way
you’re going to find Dad’s hat if all you’re doing is ambling around and
squinting to see in the dark.”
I admit she has a point. My heart doesn’t lift again, but it warms a little.
“You’ll help me find it?”
“Of course. The middle of the night is an odd time to search, but I’d love
to try.”
I find myself smiling at Alice’s brightness, relieved to see it instead of
sadness. This, exploring the beach at night, excites her. It’s like an adventure.
It makes her feel alive.
As we move farther and farther away from the beach house, scanning
the sand and the shore and the shallows, my belief in finding the hat dims
again, despite my appreciation of Alice’s presence. I feel like a horrible
sister. Why am I dragging Alice around looking for something that is so
clearly lost, swallowed by the sea?
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “Let’s turn around.”
“We don’t have to.”
26 Short Prose

“Yes, we do. What if Mom wakes up and sees that we’re gone?” How could
I have been so selfish?
Alice has no response. What can she say? We turn and head back to the
beach house. If Dad were there waiting for us, I would think of it as home,
but he’s not so it’s not. Soon, we stand before the sandy path that winds
back up to our house. Yet neither of us moves. Alice must feel the same pull
I do, like we’re missing something, we’re not ready, going in is giving up.
Holding back traitorous tears, I resolve to sit in the sand, let it sift
through my fingers. Alice sits down next to me, silent, resting her head
on my shoulder. The stars glitter above us, and I’m struck by their beauty,
which is so much more pronounced here rather than back home in the
light-polluted city. I wish I was one of those people who could point out all
of the constellations, as if that could help me appreciate and comprehend
the magnitude of the sight more. But at the same time, it’s nice viewing the
stars as a whole, absolute and infinite, utterly awe-inspiring.
Everything reminds me of Dad. Like the stars. They remind me of a day
when I was younger, years ago, when we sat out on the swings together at
night and I felt bereft, like I was searching, aching for something. I looked
up at the dim stars and wished I was brave enough to want to be someone
like an astronaut. I told Dad, and he smiled and said that I just needed to
find myself. And I think that I have since then, I think I know who I am,
what my passionate dreams are. At first, the thought is comforting, but then
it warps, because I didn’t know that finding myself also meant losing Dad.
Tears trickle down my face. The hat is lost at sea just as Dad is lost forever.
Guilt presses in; it’s like I ruined vacation for myself. I wouldn’t feel this
way, so devastated and unmoored, if I hadn’t lost the hat. Would I?
My restless fingers snag on something buried in the cool sand, and for a
bright, hopeful moment, I think it might be the hat. But I realize it’s not as
I dig beneath the sand and take something small into my hand.
“What is it?” Alice asks, curious, straightening and straining to see.
The item fits right in my palm, but I can’t quite make out what it is in
the dark. I stand, wincing a little at how sandy I’ve become, and head toward
the sea, Alice following close behind.
I dip my hand into the chilly water and rinse the sand off of the object,
then I hold it up to catch the moonlight. Alice turns on her flashlight, but
the moonlight is enough to let us see.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
27

It’s a sand dollar shell. Milky white, like a ghost. Fragile but unbroken
by the rough waves.
I think of the picture inside my locket. Dad’s smile. His hat. The sand
dollar in his hands.
Maybe the image of him I saw from my window was just a memory, but
it was—is—still enough.
“Remember shelling with him on the sand bars?” Alice asks quietly. “The
songs we’d make up for the different shells?”
“I remember,” I tell her, and it hurts, but it also soothes, a balm to the
grief at the same time. For once, I don’t hate remembering. For once, I feel
as if everything might just be okay.
The stars smile down at us. The ocean sighs, as if in relief. Our memories
are a river that flows into the shimmering sea.
28 Short Prose

Alexis Alarcon
Grade 12
Winchester Thurston School
Mi Casa es Su Casa
My family history is nuanced and complicated; we are Peruvian doctors
and Italian steel mill workers, artists and scientists. We’ve lived on three
continents over the decades and continue to be spread across oceans and
mountains, countries and cities. Being a second generation American, I
don’t get generational wealth. I understand the concept perfectly fine but
hearing about the huge family trip someone’s grandparents paid for, or the
summer house that’s been in the family for years is a foreign concept to
me. Divorce runs in the family, so I’ve only ever known three houses for
my three living grandparents. Only recently coming to understand generational
trauma and the reality of my parents’ lives before me, some of my
memories in each house make more sense to me now.
Pasta. On every surface. Flour in the air. Mixing spoons, bowls, and miscellaneous
dishes piled high in the sink. All the windows and doors open
on a hot summer day allowed the sounds of a sleepy and small former steel
town to meander into the kitchen. There were far too many cooks in the
kitchen. Seven to be exact. In the kitchen of the house my mom grew up
in and the one my grandma hated at first sight, more than two is a party.
Every holiday is magic here. Not in a cheesy, marketable, Disney-magic way,
but in a hug from someone you’ve forgiven and been forgiven by way, a hug
from someone you thought you lost, someone you never want to let go. It
isn’t always warm, and it isn’t always perfect, but it’s my second home, and
I already shudder at the day we’ll have to sell.
Polkas poured out of the old radio, Polish and English overlapping and
intertwining, competing with laughter and singing for space in the air. It’s
quieter now, without Aunt Laura. The first time my uncle came back here,
there was far more space in the unchanging dimensions of his childhood
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
29

home. Silence hangs heavy, a thick contrast to the light shifting through
stained glass. There was still flour on the counter and dishes piled high
in the sink, waiting for my grandma’s boyfriend to wash them. Before my
memory starts, a home movie does. Myself (3), Grandma (65), and Aunt
Laura (alive) lay under the table with my pastel plastic tea set while I pretend
to pour another round. There is no memory more nostalgic than the
ones you can’t quite remember, can’t quite revisit. The dining room table
is still in the same place, sure, and Grandma is still here, still making too
much food for a shrinking family.
It seems like just yesterday I was driving to my paternal grandma’s house
to spend the long weekend surrounded by family. All the cousins (about six
out of twelve have been born at this point) would go up with our parents to
spend the weekend at Gammy’s house. With the addition she built herself
(with some help from the Amish), and the above ground pool right off the
deck, her house was my favorite in the summer. It always smelled musty
like a museum not an old people home. She would grill burgers, hotdogs,
and steaks while we built a massive bonfire, pouring kerosene until the
flames reached the leaves of the trees and the heat scared the cats back into
the house. We’d run in the back field picking blackberries till sunset, when
the parents would yell for us to come back inside this instant and don’t go
near the property line. To be fair, Gammy’s neighbor only had allegations,
no convictions. But they told the girls to be extra careful walking near his
house. I was 8. Too young to understand why.
It’s quieter there, too. We don’t go anymore, sold it for the lowest possible
price without losing too much money. The day we moved her out was
the last day she was herself. Her sickness crept up and before we knew it,
she couldn’t take care of herself. We like to joke that I got my license so
quickly because of all the hours I put in driving to the new apartment with
my dad every time she wandered off, because if you’re not laughing, you’re
crying and who wants to cry all the time? It’s shocking to see how quick
everything happened, looking back. House sold, stuff sold and packed up,
drove up to Oil City, drove down to Moon Township. Her kids swooped
in like vultures to grab what they could and pick off the remains. Mark
and Joe didn’t bother to show up, and Bill came for a day to grab what he
wanted and left without helping. Jorge Agustín Nicolás Ruiz de Santayana
y Borrás, or George Santayana in English, said it worst, “the family is one
of nature’s masterpieces.” He clearly hasn’t met mine. Grandparents are
undoubtedly the glue of the family. Ours is slipping away from us, eroding
the bonds that kept us together once upon a time.
30 Short Prose

I tune out the radio and tune back into the conversation.
“No, you can’t.”
Tires rolled to a stop delivering the car to the driveway.
“I’ve never been, why not?”
Seatbelts click doors open doors close.
“Too messy”
Walking through the gravel.
We know the doorbell doesn’t work, and he won’t answer the door
if we knocked or called. We know his phone is off or missing or he just
won’t answer.
Dad calls for him. Once, twice, three times. Silence slams into his words,
knocking them out of the air.
Crunching through gravel into the thicket, not a magical wood but the
backyard of a hoarder.
We find him in the garden, blue surgical scrubs and work boots hunched
over a potted plant.
“Hola Louie, Alexis,” he crunches over to us, YSU baseball cap, work
gloves, and pruning scissors indicate he’s been out here a while. His small
stature could be swallowed by the weeds at any moment.
I’ve never been inside my grandpa’s house. I’ve only been on his property
twice. No one understands, and I don’t really care to fill them in on
all the drama and shit and dynamics in my family. Here is what you need
to know: my dad’s parents have been divorced for over forty years. My dad
lived in Peru with his dad’s family for seven years, during which he did not
see his mother. At this point, anyone with half a brain can understand why
that might be tough, and why his relationship with his mother wasn’t the
greatest when he came back. This memoir isn’t about him, but my story
and his are intertwined and inseparable; he grew up without his mother
and I grew up without knowing what a stable marriage looks like. I grew
up without “grandma and grandpa” being the foundation of the family, the
glue holding his family together. He might get mad about me writing this
but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and the only thing I know from
my grandpa’s house is the expansive garden and the decaying back porch.
I’ve only ever known three houses for my three living grandparents. I
don’t want pity; I have memories and photos and that’s all we get, right?
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
31

You can’t take anything with you once you’re gone so I consider myself
lucky to have any sense of family at all. Home is singing while cooking,
clattering dishes over the radio, reminiscing about lost time, love, people.
Home is changing and growing and it’s uncomfortable and weird and it
hurts most of the time. Home is a mystery, an enigma, pain better left in
the past. It isn’t always warm, and it isn’t always perfect, often far from it,
but it’s mine. It’s who I am and who I want to be, and I wouldn’t trade any
of it for “perfection.”
32 Short Prose

Elena Clark
Grade 10
Winchester Thurston School
Shooting Stars
Ring! Ring! Ring! Ciela jolted back to the present as the school bell rang
its earsplitting sound, signaling the end of the day. All the students started
packing up their supplies and shuffling out of the classroom, while her
teacher desperately tried to inform them of the homework over the weekend.
Ciela knew she should listen, but schoolwork was the least of her concerns.
As she made her way through the front doors and down the worn stone staircase,
all she was thinking about were the morning announcements.
As usual, Ciela passed the chipped cerulean sign in front of her school,
which read Viotto Public High School. It was in serious need of a makeover,
but the school probably didn’t have the budget. Ciela sat down on the warm
metal bench next to it, carefully setting her backpack beside her and taking
out her sunglasses to protect her eyes from the bright sun. Pittsburgh
wasn’t usually sunny, but even the weather seemed to agree it was time for
summer break.
Ciela began fidgeting with her rocketship keychain as she started thinking.
During morning announcements, the principal stated that there would
be an astronomy competition on June 9th for high school students all over
Pittsburgh, held downtown at Dufort College. The competition would be in
the form of an exam with multiple-choice questions and an essay. Whoever
scored the highest and demonstrated masterly knowledge of astronomy
would be the winner and they would receive a scholarship. Dufort College
held one of these events every four years, each time with a different academic
subject. This competition was a big deal for anyone, but even more so for
Ciela. If she won, not only would she be able to follow her dream of becoming
an astronomer, but she would be able to financially support her mother.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
33

“Ciela! I’m here!” Ciela turned to see her best friend, Florian Winters,
running down the steps of the school. Ciela smiled, Florian was always late
to walk home together. Actually, he was late for everything. He always had
been ever since the two of them met in kindergarten. He rushed over to her,
brown hair falling over his bright forest-green eyes.
“Sorry that took me so long, I was trying to find my calculus notebook.
Turns out I left it in the calculus room!” he laughed, seeming very embarrassed.
“Seriously, though. I was running around to every classroom except
for the calculus room because why would I forget it in the calculus room?
I should have been keeping track of it in the calculus room! There was no
way I would have forgotten it and then…” he trailed off, making an exaggerated
gesture with his arms as if to say “I forgot it in the calculus room.”
Ciela laughed. “That sounds exactly like you, Flor. Now let’s get home,
my mom is probably expecting me to help out in the cafe this evening since
it’s Friday.” Florian nodded and they headed off.
All the way to her mother’s cafe, which doubled as Ciela’s house, Florian
excitedly rambled about Pokémon, the evolution of the French aristocracy
in the 1700s, how sedimentary rocks were formed, and his favorite
kind of apple, an envy apple. This was how it usually was with Florian, he
talked about the most random subjects with no distinctive connections
between them, yet he somehow seemed to know everything about each
topic. Ciela knew a lot about astronomy, but that was the only subject
that she cared about. Florian was fascinated by everything, even if it was
as minuscule as “why is gum sticky?” which made talking with him both
exhausting and enjoyable.
Ciela and Florian approached the cafe, the shiny glass windows reflecting
the baby-blue sky. The door creaked slightly as Ciela opened it, and she
was immediately greeted by her mother’s smiling face.
“Kumusta, honey!” she exclaimed, walking out from behind the counter
and giving both her daughter and Florian a hug.
“Kamusta ka, Ms. Cosmique?” Florian asked in Filipino, the language
that he had been learning for a few months now.
“Oh, I’m doing fine, sweetie. Your accent is improving!” Ciela’s mother
smiled, and Florian grinned in return.
“Do you need me to help out today, Mom?” Ciela asked, although she
already knew the answer.
34 Short Prose

Her mother frowned; her eyes filled with guilt. “Yes, honey. I’m sorry.
Although if we don’t get many customers maybe we can close up early.”
“C’est bon,” Ciela replied, causing her mother to look down at the ground.
Suddenly realizing, Ciela’s blue eyes widened and she excused herself to go
put her backpack in her room. As she walked up the creaky stairs, she berated
herself for speaking French. Ever since her father passed away a few
years ago, her mother got uncomfortable when Ciela spoke his language. She
knew it wasn’t on purpose, her mother just missed her dad. But it still hurt.
At around 7:30 p.m., her mother finally closed the cafe. Florian had long
since said his goodbyes and left to go eat dinner, and Ciela was searching
the back kitchen for something to eat. Finally settling on instant ramen,
she ate quietly at the abandoned wooden tables in the cafe.
“Hey, Mom? I’m going to go take a walk. Do you need me to help clean
up before I leave?” Ciela called into the next room.
“No, sweetie, you can go!” her mother answered back. Ciela grabbed her
navy blue notebook from her room, along with a golden pen, and rushed
out the door. When she got outside, she breathed in the cool evening air
and looked up to see the last splashes of pink and orange fading out of the
sky. She started walking towards the top of Mount Washington, admiring
the City of Bridges below.
Finally, she reached the top of the hill. By now, the stars and moon
had taken over the sky, declaring their dominion with twinkles and silver
sparks. Up ahead, Ciela could see the old stone building, with distinctly
half of the dome still intact. The abandoned observatory. She didn’t know
its name, but she knew her most vivid memories of her father came from
this place. Ciela walked inside what was left of the dome and lay down on
the soft, ghostly-green grass. She gazed up at the night sky, blue eyes sparkling.
She breathed in the fresh air and let the wonder of the sky take her
away. Ciela felt the stars hold her as the moon bathed her in pearly silver
light. Ciela could see Deneb, Vega, and Altair, which made up the summer
triangle of the constellations Aquila, Lyra, and Cygnus. She imagined a
different solar system for each of the stars, letting the awe of the millions
of possibilities consume her. These were Ciela’s favorite nights. When she
could just stare up at the sky, letting all of her worries fade at the splendor
of the stars.
*
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
35

The next morning, Ciela woke up at 6:30 to help her mother prepare
for the day’s customers. She took out cookie sheets and the chocolate chip
cookie dough from the fridge that her mother had chilled overnight. Taking
an ice cream scooper, she set to work placing little balls of dough onto the
pans. Just as she was putting the cookies into the oven, she heard a knock
at the door. Running out to the main room of the cafe, she saw Florian
on the other side of the glass, waving with a goofy grin on his face. Ciela
smiled back and beckoned for him to enter.
“Why, hello there, future champion!” Florian exclaimed. “I have a surprise
for you today.” He took off his pine-green backpack and unzipped it,
revealing four huge textbooks. “I stopped at the library on my way over
here and picked up their finest selection of astronomy books.” He looked
rather proud of himself.
Ciela gave him a grateful look, but she doubted he had brought her
any books that she hadn’t already read. But to her surprise, he sat at
one of the tables and motioned for Ciela to join him. Clearing his throat,
Florian announced:
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for Ciela’s Ultimate Astronomy Test!
I will be asking her random questions from these books, and she must
answer each in 60 seconds,” he gave her a sly smile. “I bet you weren’t expecting
this, huh?”
“Bring it on!” Ciela grinned back.
Florian cleared his throat and opened up a thick book labeled Astronomy:
What Are Stars? and flipped to a random page in the middle. Ciela
recognized this book; she had read it last year and enjoyed it a lot. She had
even made flashcards to test herself on what all of the colors of stars meant,
how to measure what elements they were comprised of, how to tell how far
away they were, and almost everything about stars. She was fairly certain
that Florian wouldn’t be able to surprise her.
“What is solar luminosity?” he asked.
“The measurement of how bright a celestial body is based on the luminosity
of the sun.”
“What does the symbol for the unit look like?”
“It sort of looks like the Target symbol! A small circle inside of a larger ring.”
“Excellent,” Florian smiled, flipping to another page. “How do you name
all the stars that make up a constellation?”
36 Short Prose

“Well, each star is given a letter for the Greek alphabet according to how
bright it is, but it can have another name too. Take Delta Cassiopeiae for example.
‘Delta’ tells you that it’s the fourth brightest star in the constellation,
and ‘cassiopeiae’ shows that it’s from the constellation Cassiopeia. However,
the star could also be called Ruchbach. Names like these usually come from
Greek mythology or words in other languages,” Ciela answered.
Florian had seemed fairly impressed with her knowledge and continued
asking her questions until lunchtime, even when Ciela was preparing food
or beverages for customers of the cafe.
“What’s Venus’ atmosphere like?!” he yelped, catching Ciela by surprise.
“It’s thick and filled with carbon dioxide. It…has clouds made of sulfuric
acid that trap heat, making the planet extremely hot, even more so than
Mercury,” she replied. “Oh!” Ciela was so focused on answering, she nearly
dropped the plate she was carrying with a vegetable sandwich. She turned
back to Florian, who was hiding behind the book, eyebrows raised, and
glared at him.
“Sorry,” he squeaked.
Ciela sighed but gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s ok. I really do appreciate
your help. I mean, I only have a week before the competition!” she bit
her lip. “I’m…also not certain that I will do well. This is my only chance, Flor.”
Florian took the plate out of her hands and set it on the counter, yelling,
“Garden Vegetable Sandwich for Yua!” then he turned around and hugged
her. “You’re going to do fine. You’re one of the smartest people I know. As
long as we continue practicing, you’ll be even more of an astronomy superstar
than you already are!”
Ciela smiled at this, but she couldn’t shake the sickening feeling that she
would be underprepared, and all of her hope had been for nothing.
For the next week, Ciela studied and practiced and studied and practiced.
Florian would occasionally come over and drill her, and when he
didn’t her mother filled in. She listened to podcasts on astrophysics while
she made coffee, read her astronomy books under her desk at school, and
practiced her flashcards at lunch. But still, she felt underprepared. All of
the studying was making her very tired, and it was getting to the point
where she commonly got irritated by the smallest things. If somebody
walked by her desk and brushed her backpack on the floor with their foot,
she would snap at them. If her mom gently reminded her to focus on making
breakfast wraps, she would complain. If Florian went on his rants, she
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
37

would groan. Her mother and her best friend seemed to understand how
she felt, but Florian stopped trying to comfort her and instead seemed annoyed
with her attitude.
Finally, it was the day before the competition. Ciela had pretty much
butchered all of her homework before summer, but she found it hard to
care. The scholarship was more important than a few factoring worksheets.
That evening, she nervously paced around the cafe while Florian yelled out
constellations, and she relayed the stars that made them up. At last, Florian
set down the textbook.
“Alright, Ciela. I think that’s enough,” he told her.
“No! Florian pick that book up right now! I’m not ready yet!” she
snapped back.
Florian raised an eyebrow. “I’m tired of all this self-deprecation. You’re
ready and you know it. If I have to read one more sentence about which
elements are produced by a supernova, I’ll die. And that’s saying something
considering I normally find everything interesting.”
Ciela bit her lip and looked up at him. His green eyes were dark and
defeated, his expression without any of its usual innocent wonder and
enthusiasm. At that moment, the guilt that she had been trying to bury
rose up and swept over her like a tidal wave, knocking her off of her feet
with realization.
“Oh, Florian. I’m so sorry!” Ciela looked to the floor once again. “I knew
that I was being foolish, I just…this was probably my only chance. But that
was no excuse to treat you that way. You’ve been nothing but helpful and I
took that for granted.”
When she mustered up the courage to look at him again, he was still
glaring at her, but his gaze had softened with contemplation, as if he was
deciding how to take her apology. Ciela felt as though she was about to cry,
her emotions like rocks being thrown at her with full force.
“I’m… going to take a walk. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said as she turned
towards the door.
“No, Ciela, wait!” Florian called, but Ciela was already sprinting up
the sidewalk.
Ciela slowed to a walk as she neared the observatory, a silvery light
reflecting off of the glass dome. Slowly, she made her way up into what
*
38 Short Prose

emained of the old building. She glanced at the spot where she would
normally lie down, in one of the many areas long overgrown with grass and
moss. Sniffling, she collapsed onto the soft ground and let salty tears roll
down her cheeks. Covering her face with her hands, Ciela wept. Feelings of
emptiness, sadness, worry, hopelessness, and anger were all drowned out
by one thing, the painful longing for her father. Maybe this wasn’t even
about the competition anymore, she just wanted to see him again.
Chh! Chh! Ciela’s eyes burst open when she heard the muffled sounds
of footsteps on grass. Whipping her head around, she saw her mother and
Florian walking into the former interior of the observatory. Confused, Ciela
thought that she must be hallucinating. Only she knew about this place.
Her father had never brought her mother here…had he? Her dubiety must
have shown because her mom gave her a warm smile and sat next to her,
giving her a big hug.
“Ciela, this observatory was the place where your father and I first met.
I had come across it by accident, and he always had a love for the stars,
just like you. After he passed away, I’ve come up here every night after you
went to bed.”
Ciela couldn’t believe this. “B—but how? Why? Did you know that I
knew about it?”
Her mother smiled. “Of course. Whenever you said that you were going
for a walk, I figured you were actually taking a trip to the observatory.
It seemed to be one of the only places to bring you comfort, so I just let
you go there by yourself. If you had wanted me to come along, you would
have told me.”
Ciela looked up, tears still threatening to escape. “Mom, Florian, I’m
sorry. I’ve been such…such a jerk lately. I was just so worried about the
competition and I don’t think I’m over what happened to Dad, but that’s
no excuse.”
Florian sat down beside her. “That’s not the sort of thing that you just
‘get over,’ Ciela. Loss is an inherent part of life. What’s important is that you
keep on living it and doing what you love. You love astronomy, so not only
can you win that scholarship for yourself, but for your father, and mother,
as well. That’s probably why you’ve been feeling so much pressure lately.”
Ciela cracked a small smile. “Since when did you become a philosopher?
But… I think you’re right.” She looked up at the stars in all of their glory.
Each one looked like a tiny glimmer of hope, slowly making her heart bloom
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
39

with confidence. Then, she saw a glittering streak of light shoot across the
sky, making her eyes widen. Ciela turned to her mother and Florian.
“I’m going to win this. I’m going to do it for you, Mom, you, Florian, and
for Dad,” she smiled. “I love you all.”
As Ciela walked down the hill and back to the cafe with her mother and
Florian, she felt more inspired than ever. Perhaps it was the shooting star.
Perhaps it was the night sky. Maybe it was Florian, her mother, or her father.
But she was fairly certain that it was all three. As her father always used
to say: Dreams are like shooting stars. If you don’t believe in yours, you’ll
miss it in an instant.
40 Short Prose

Sophia Whitman
Grade 10
Upper St. Clair High School
Deathwish
The mailman was a tired old man with a long-tangled beard and wrinkles
around his eyes from smiling too much. His square little car was sputtering
along the road through the wood while the mailman chuckled quietly to
himself, remembering a conversation he’d had long ago. The wood was a
good place for chuckling. When the wood was a chuckling place, sunlight
poured through the tops of the trees.
The wood was a good place for crying too. When the wood was a crying
place, the sun would disappear behind a cloud, and the soft breeze would
turn into a harsh whoosh of wind. Within seconds, the man had forgotten
the joke he’d shared with a friend all those many years ago, and tears were
streaming down his face as he relived…something. The wood was made
of memories, but they flew away as quickly as they resurfaced. Soon, our
mailman was chuckling again, but I couldn’t tell you what about.
He was broken from his memory when he heard a voice tentatively ask,
“Excuse me?”
The mailman looked around, uncertain if he’d only imagined it. Of
course, he hadn’t. Meet our young protagonist, friends. This is her story as
much as mine.
“Mr. Mailman,” came the voice. “Down here.”
The mailman looked down. The girl in front of him was young, with
scabby knees and dark, frizzy hair tucked under a bucket hat. He guessed
she couldn’t have been older than ten, and she couldn’t help but remind
him of another child he’d met some time ago, though her name slipped his
mind the second he pictured her.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
41

“Hello, my dear,” said our kind mailman, returning his focus to the present.
“How may I help you?”
“I’m trying to get back home,” she explained. “Could you give me directions?”
“Well, there’s no houses for a good ways,” the mailman responded, “but
I’m on my way to deliver some things, so I’d be happy to have you along
and help you get home.”
The girl smiled and unhesitatingly hopped up into the passenger’s seat
beside him.
“I’m Nathaniel. What’s your name, my dear?” he asked as he started back
up his little mail car.
“Joanie,” the girl answered.
He tugged at his beard. “Where am I taking you?”
“I can’t remember my address,” Joanie replied after a moment of thought.
“I think I’ll know it when I see it.”
Our mailman smiled. “In that case, would you mind if I made some
deliveries while we look?”
She smiled back and shook her head. “Not at all. Anyway, maybe we’ll
meet people who can help me get home.”
The two rode through the wood, sharing jokes when it was a chuckling
place, comforting each other when it was a crying place. After a good few
miles, a house came into view. It looked as if it had grown there in the
wood rather than being built; it was as tall as the trees, the roof sloped at
a whimsical angle, the floors topsy-turvy lopsided to fit perfectly into the
space it occupied.
There was a garden surrounding the foundation of the home, decorated
with sculptures of people, animals, and fantastical creatures alike. Flowers
that shouldn’t have been in bloom at the same time were. The porch swing
rocked back and forth in the breeze, and wind chimes faintly clanged a
familiar melody. It was like living in a fairy garden, Joanie thought, as she
strained her memory for where she’d heard the tune before.
Nathaniel got out of his little car slowly and hobbled to the front door.
Joanie followed uncertainly. After only a couple solid knocks, an elderly
woman wearing a frilly apron opened the door to the fairy garden home.
She had a faraway look in her eyes but smiled warmly at the old man and
the young girl that stood outside.
42 Short Prose

Nathaniel reached into his bag and produced three envelopes. He handed
the bundle to the woman and watched as she carefully tore open each
envelope one by one.
Reading, she came to tears. Wiping her eyes, the old woman smiled,
gave Nathaniel a hug, and said, “Thank you. Thank you so much for what
you do.”
Nathaniel bowed his head and answered, “I’m just doing my job, Teresa.
Have a nice day.”
Her eyes landed on Joanie, and her tears of joy turned into a pitiful
expression.
She reached out. “So young,” she said, brushing her fingers across Joanie’s
face and cupping her chin in her hands. “I could be her grandmother.
And I have so many lovely birds for her to meet.”
Joanie pulled away abruptly, startled and confused. She had the feeling
the old woman was a little out of her mind (and let me tell you, Joanie was
quite right, but that’s a story for another day). Nathaniel noticed her panic
and placed a hand protectively on her shoulder. He thanked Teresa again
and told her they should be going.
Once Teresa’s whimsical home was out of sight, Joanie turned to the
mailman and asked, “Why was she so happy about those letters?”
Nathaniel answered, “Those weren’t just any letters. Those were prayers
and well wishes from her family.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“That’s my whole job,” he said simply. He checked his bag. “Do you want
to see where I get my letters? I think I need to get some more before I finish
my deliveries for the day.”
The pair drove in silence. The wood didn’t really seem like a laughing
or crying place right now for Joanie. More of a just thinking place. I understand
the feeling. After about an hour, Nathaniel slowed his car to a stop
on the side of the road to the left of a pond.
Joanie tilted her head. “I thought you said we were going to a post office,”
she said in confusion.
“No, my dear,” Nathaniel said, getting out of the car and retrieving a fishing
rod from the backseat. “This is my pond of letters,” he explained. “Watch.”
He cast the line into the lake and waited. A few minutes passed before he
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
43

egan to reel in the line. He delicately removed an envelope from the hook.
“Oh, look,” he said, though he didn’t sound surprised. “This one’s for you.”
“Who’s it from?” Joanie asked. “How did they send it? How is it dry?”
“I told you,” Nathaniel calmly repeated. “It’s a prayer, for you.”
Joanie was puzzled. She tried to wrap her head around how that was an
answer for her question. She had so much more to ask him, she didn’t know
where to start, and I don’t blame her.
Nathaniel set down his rod and knelt in front of the young girl. “Joanie,
do you know why you are here?”
She shook her head.
“You’re, well, dead, Joanie.”
The girl remained unmoved; confusion written all over her face.
“Have a look in the pond,” Nathaniel told her, leading her gently to the
edge of the clear water.
When our mailman looked into it, he saw nothing but their reflections
staring back, but when Joanie looked down, she saw a middle-aged couple
crying hysterically as a telephone clattered to the ground. She saw a bewildered
young man, barely more than a boy, being interrogated by a police officer.
She saw a casket and a somber crowd dressed in black. She saw the light
shrinking, becoming farther and farther away as she sank into darkness.
“You might still have a chance,” came Nathaniel’s voice through the vivid
images she realized were only in her head. She felt him tuck something into
her pocket. “Dive in.”
So, she did. Joanie plunged into the water, and all of a sudden, she
came to her senses. She was drowning. It was pitch black outside, and the
water was frigid, and she had weights tied to her ankles. She reached into
her pocket and grabbed a knife, sawing away at the bonds on her feet. She
didn’t want to die. Not now. Not like this. She wasn’t done with this world.
Joanie freed herself and kicked and thrashed, finally breaking the surface.
She threw her sopping wet hair from her face, and she sobbed until
she laughed, and she swam to the shore of the lake.
A young woman lay on her back, knowing she might have been successful
in drowning herself if she hadn’t had a knife in her pocket to cut her
bonds. As she gazed at the reflection of a twenty-three-year-old in the steel,
she realized she hadn’t remembered bringing a knife.
44 Short Prose

Who’d put it there? A name, my name, was on the tip of her tongue,
but she couldn’t quite grasp it. I was a dream that had flitted away
from her mind as soon as she woke up, lost in the wood of memory. She
reached into her pocket again and found an envelope with her name on
it, somehow still dry.
She tore it open as fast as her fingers could and read my message inside.
I’ll see you in another life. All the best, Nathaniel.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
45

46 Short Prose

Elena Eiss
Grade 11
Pittsburgh CAPA
Directions for Moving on
When Your City Winks
Out of Existence
Your city is called Diaphanon.
Or rather, it is before you leave it. Leaving Diaphanon is only the first
step, though. Getting to the Town of Twinkling Lights is the second.
You exit the hills of Diaphanon by foot via the one yawning tunnel connecting
Diaphanon with the outer world. Desert expands around you, and
Diaphanon disappears behind. The air here is dry and scorching. Unused
to it, you shift your scarf that better fit your old city’s climate to cover your
head. You look back at the tunnel, but all that remains of the opening to
your city is a wall of rock blocking the entrance. You know the city past it
isn’t there anymore, even if you managed to climb over the hills. What you
would find is an empty valley, despite the major metropolitan area there just
minutes before. You thought it would be like this––there had to be a reason
no one ever came back to Diaphanon after leaving city limits––but the sheer
suddenness of it all hits you as you stumble across unfamiliar desert land.
The Town of Twinkling Lights is a collection of dusty streets and several
squat buildings with wooden fronts. Light shines from its streetlamps,
illuminated signs, and through the windows of a single building. A radio
tower glows red.
The one lit-up building is a bar. Not a saloon but close, no double doors
swinging open and shut. The lights in here are dim, creating an atmosphere
of dinginess during the day but warmth at night. Now, it is night. A neon
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
47

cactus floats among glaring beer brand signs on the wall behind the bar.
Candles flicker in mason jars on round tables. A woman wearing a leather
jacket and heavy eye shadow stands behind the bar, perpetually wiping a
glass with a rag. She is the only person in the bar, in town, until you arrive.
The woman (let’s call her Amaryllis, though that is not her name) will
ask you what you want to drink. You will not tell her anything, still shellshocked
by your departure and your city’s subsequent vanishing, but she
will get you a drink she knows you’ll like.
You will like it. You sip it at a table near the back, though all of the tables
here are near the back. It is that kind of place. You drink until you are
done. Another person or group of people might walk in. Amaryllis will ask
them the same question, they will give the same blank stare, and she will sit
them down with different drinks. Perhaps, if you recognize them, you will
announce that recognition and you will share a brief but meaningful exchange.
Even if you don’t recognize them, you recognize they are also from
Diaphanon, your city, so you give them a knowing nod which they reciprocate––you
are all on the same path after all––and then you return to the bar.
Amaryllis never pours you another drink, even if you ask. She doesn’t
charge you, either. Instead, she hands you a notecard with an address printed
in green pen. Amaryllis smiles and thanks you for visiting Bar Egress.
You leave. The bell on the door clinks as you walk out.
Without your own car to take you to the address on the card, it being
abandoned on the side of a road somewhere in Diaphanon after finally
running out of fuel, a different car is waiting outside the bar with a driver
sitting in the front. If your car is in Diaphanon, it is gone forever, gone
with the city, a city drained of its people by the same diasporic path you
now take, its buildings left to ruin, a pocket closed off to the world with
all memory of it trapped within city limits. You are thankful for a ride in
this new car. It is midnight blue with a glowing taxi sign on its roof. You
clamber into the backseat.
Its interior is charcoal gray, the same color as the cloudy night sky above.
The taxi driver has indescribable features, ones your mind knows in the
moment but loses the second you look away, but beckons with a hand for
your address card. You hand it over, shut the door. They hand it back to you
a moment later and take off.
Somewhere between less than an hour and an hour, the blue taxi pulls
up to a house in a neighborhood. It’s not in Diaphanon, you know that, but
48 Short Prose

otherwise it could be anywhere. The taxi door opens on its own accord with
a small pop. You reach to your pocket for your wallet but find it’s not there.
Your mind conjures up an image of it lying on a coffee table. There had
been no use for it for years in your collapsing city, but you don’t remember
using it before the decline began either. You don’t remember anything from
before the decline, just the framework of your existence. But now would be
a useful time to have your wallet and, damn it, you left it at home.
The taxi driver doesn’t ask for any money, so you give a polite nod and
hurry to leave in your semi-delirious state. The door snaps shut, and the
taxi speeds away without making a sound.
You are left stranded in the suburban night. It must be late summer
or early fall. Perhaps some perfect moment of spring. You wouldn’t know.
After so long in Diaphanon, after so long living its collapse, you don’t even
know what season it is. Everything was just…the same there. Always. Always
until it wasn’t anymore. And that was the end of the city.
A brisk wind gusts, and the clouds clear enough to reveal night sky. It
is starry, but nothing close to the stars you would see in Diaphanon. Those
were unworldly. Unreal. It should never have made sense to see that many
stars in a city.
As if reacting to a hot pan, your mind sparks and you keep moving, this
time up the set of stairs to the house that shares an address with your notecard.
It is a lovely house, just the kind you would want to buy. Its oak door
opens at your touch, and your hand flicks the light switch as if by instinct.
Perhaps it is. You wander this home, growing more and more familiar with
each inch you cover. When you reach the living room, you find your wallet
lying on the coffee table. Oh, duh! Of course you left it there, silly. It’s just
like you to forget your wallet at home.
Home? Is that what this place is? It must be. Your books are on the
shelves, even the signed copy of the third tome in your favorite fantasy trilogy.
You definitely remember putting those sheets on the bed last Sunday,
and the milky bowl in the sink is evidence of your breakfast this morning.
You are home. This must be home.
As your eyelids grow heavy with sleep and you climb the stairs to your
bedroom, your mind fills in the information on your character sheet: your
job, your relatives, your friends, your favorite restaurant, what bus you take,
what your drink order is at that cafe you like.
Without changing your clothes, brushing your teeth, or using the bath-
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
49

oom, you face-plant onto your bed and fall asleep. It has been a long day
of…things. You are too tired to even think of the things, to remember what
they are. So, you sleep.
The next morning, you wake to your alarm like you always do. You’re
out of milk, so you scramble a few eggs for breakfast. Almost late, you walk
out the door with your fly unzipped and your jacket in your arms. You’ll fix
those later—now you wave to your neighbor, Linda. On the bus ride to work,
you lament your failed courting attempts of both your office crush and the
barista at the coffee shop. At work, you talk to your coworker about how
much you hate your work. When they leave to print something, you sit back
in your desk chair and imagine guillotining your boss. You cackle into your
third cup of coffee, and the person in the cubicle across from you looks at
you funny. You think you’ll tell your friend about this during lunch; she’d
find it entertaining.
This is your life now. Now? This has always been your life. Right? Of
course it has. You hate it and you love it, but most importantly you live it;
you are fully conscious of every decision that you make and every action
that you take. You feel things, you cry, you are happy, you experience. You
live, and that is something Diaphanon could never give you in all of its perpetual
perfection, a city of stars and mannequins, no matter what it could.
Diaphanon is something you forget almost entirely. That first morning,
Diaphanon is the greatest dream you’ve ever had—you swear you should
write it down or something. You don’t. You soon forget the city, that little
boy’s jarring disappearance that woke Diaphanon from its slumber, the
city’s then conscious and disarrayed citizens, the first city exodus, all of the
events afterward that led you here. You forget the family and friends you
left behind or who left you. You’ve got new ones, it’s fine, and new memories,
childhood and recent, of them all.
The only thing that stays with you is the city’s name—Diaphanon. It’s always
there in the deepest corner of your mind. Sometimes it will appear on the
tip of your tongue in the same way you might recall that vermillion and entropy
and quadratic formula are words, even if you don’t know what they mean.
Diaphanon…there’s something nostalgic and crazy familiar about it you
just can’t place. You swear you’ll look it up in a minute, but a minute goes
by, and it’s left you once again.
Your city was called Diaphanon.
50 Short Prose

Joanna Li
Grade 9
Fox Chapel Area High School
Truth or Dare
“Let’s play truth or dare. Who wants to go first?” The question hung in
the air. I looked at them and then slowly nodded my head. “Then, truth
or dare?”
“Dare,” I said.
“Okay, I dare you to go up to the attic and play the Bloody Mary Game,”
Carolyn replied. I was scared, but I didn’t want to look like a baby. So, I
went up to the attic. Before I opened the door, I looked down at Carolyn
and Stacy, who both smiled and urged me on. I took a deep breath before
opening the wooden door.
Unlike the rest of the house, the attic was old and unclean. It also had a
tangy iron smell. There were leaves and cobwebs strewn across the floor. I
walked around the attic with the candle before seeing my reflection in the
big mirror. The ornate but rusty mirror had broken flower accents.
My face looked back at me, eyes wide, and said, “You should have
picked truth.”
I ignored it. I pressed a hand in the mirror before setting the candle
down and starting the game.
“Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary,” I chanted. I saw a face appear
and bit back a scream. It wasn’t my face. The face was gaunt and had oozing
wounds that spewed a black substance. The face smiled and showed some
teeth that were also stained black. I looked into her eyes and was sucked
into the mirror. Then I saw myself in the mirror. Adjusting MY clothes and
MY hair. Before leaving she smiled and said, “My name is MALLORY.”
I heard banging and a scream after MALLORY left. I don’t know how
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
51

long I was inside. I think I might have fallen asleep. I woke up when MAL-
LORY returned and knocked. She peered into the mirror and smiled. She
peeled off my skin slowly to reveal a body covered in black sludge before
smiling like the Cheshire Cat. She stayed like that for a while, dripping
black sludge that bubbled on the wooden attic floor. After admiring her
true form, she slowly walked into my mirror. Once she came in, I fell out.
Then I looked in the mirror and she grinned while more black sludge oozed
down her chin. I waved her goodbye, hoping that she would not follow before
leaving the mirror. I looked from the attic window and saw some jack
o lanterns standing in the moonlight with candles in their mouths. They
grinned at me as the wind slowly burnt out their candles.
I left the attic and looked into a decorative mirror in the hallway. Drip,
Drip, Drip. Blood dripped from the mirror and had formed a scarlet pool. I
looked closer and saw a lock of blond hair was floating in the pool of blood.
I pressed a hand onto the mirror. It didn’t budge. I imagined what may
have happened to Stacey. What may have caused her to lose a lock of her
curly hair. Stacy had the most luxurious blond curls that I always had envied.
Maybe she was taken into the mirror by MALLORY, I thought. Maybe
that was what all the banging was.
(“You should have picked truth.”)
I went downstairs and saw Carolyn lying on the floor. Her throat was slit,
and her eyes were frozen. Death had already taken her. I looked at another
mirror in the front hall. I looked quite nice. I poofed my hair with my hand
and smiled. There was no one to bother me now. Then I saw myself. The me
after MALLORY. The traitor, the one who had killed her friends.
(“But it wasn’t me. It was MALLORY.”)
I saw me, the one with blood all over her. In her hair. On her hands.
On her clothes. On her body. I raced home, slipping in the blood. Mother
screamed when she opened the door. She didn’t see me. She saw the aftermath
of MALLORY. But to her it was me. She saw me, the one me who was
the murderer. I went into the shower and showered. No matter how much
blood I rinsed out, there was always more.
Mother walked in after I finished dressing. She took me to the police
station and left me there. They tried to bury me. They told me that I was
the last to die. They told me that I had no heartbeat and that I was dead. I
couldn’t go back. It took so long to crawl up here. So long. My nails broke
just coming out of the casket. It was better here than underground. Under-
52 Short Prose

ground was cold and muddy. It was where Carolyn and Stacey cursed me
for not saving them from MALLORY. They called me Judas, but they would
have done the same.
(“Always pick truth, never dare.”)
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
53

54 Short Prose

Bobby Kartychak
Grade 10
West Allegheny High School
How the Monopoly
Tied Their Loose End
One
The woman in the hospital room wears a crown of lace and fake hair.
She lays upon her throne of plastic and uncomfortable pillows, staring
longingly through the large window on the opposite wall. The only things
providing a break from the room’s oppressive sterility are the numerous
bouquets of flowers dotting the space. They occupy every surface, on every
table they stand, hoping to provide a glimmer of comfort to the woman in
the hospital room.
The flowers on the tables were brought in by nurses and doctors who
treated the woman in the hospital room. The daffodils are pink like blush
from a makeup kit; the tulips, yellows and greens that are reminiscent of a
summer’s day. They watch as she is ushered out of the room in a wheelchair
by two nurses. They do not see the procedure, but they know all too well
what is happening: the nurses are injecting their poison into her body. It’s
the third time this week, which means she’s getting sicker.
While the room is void of the woman’s presence, the flowers busy themselves
by looking out of the room’s large window. The room has a view of
the city of Boston outside, although much of it is blocked by the adjacent
wall of the hospital. On the corner of the wall sits a LifeCorp sign; LifeCorp
is the company responsible for manufacturing, well, everything commonly
used by the public. They got their start as an online marketplace for
other vendors to sell their products, however, as they accrued more and
more money, they started to acquire these other companies until they were
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
55

the last major company standing. Life all around the world had been this
way for generations, and the only people who remembered a time without
LifeCorp’s omnipresence were long gone. Everything from the woman’s hospital
bed to her chemo treatments had been made by LifeCorp.
Two
As the woman returned from her treatment, the flowers took notice of
the fact that she seemed more frail than usual. She was more exhausted
than ever from fighting her sickness, which led her to take a nap upon getting
back into bed. In the woman’s dreams, she recalled an elderly man who
was formerly a patient at the hospital. Henry was his name. He and the
woman had been good friends; they had spent much time together during
and after treatments.
The dream was focused on a memory from a few days before Henry
passed away. One day, the woman glanced across the hall and saw the man
engaged in furtive whispers with a young woman dressed in a black pantsuit.
I wonder who that is, she thought. That girl looks professional. I’ll
have to ask him about it later. Maybe she was helping him with legal stuff
from the hospital. A few moments passed before the young lady got up and
left the room. The woman took note of the lanyard around her neck that
seemed to hold an ID of some kind.
A few minutes later, when the woman had the attention of a nurse who was
changing her IV, she asked the nurse who the formally dressed woman was.
“Across the hall, you mean?”
The woman nodded.
“Oh, she’s Henry’s daughter. Janice, her name was. She’s…intense, somewhat.
Still real nice though.”
When the nurse left, the woman glanced into Henry’s room. The man’s
face had an aura of somberness surrounding it. The woman remembered
that she had tried to console him, but he said he didn’t want to talk about
it. A few days later, he passed. Succumbed to the cancer, the doctors said.
The woman still thought something was off with that explanation, however.
After all, he had been infected with a less invasive type of cancer. But the
woman still believed the doctors in the end. Of course, unexpected things
can happen when you’re sick with cancer. It was possible that the opioids
she was on were making her skeptical of things. Henry had only passed
mere days prior to the woman’s dream, and the freshness of the wound
caused her to awake in tears.
56 Short Prose

Three
In the weeks that followed, the flowers started to realize that the woman’s
days were the same pattern. Monday was an off day from treatment; she
spent the day in her LifeCorp bed watching sitcom reruns on her LifeCorp
television, while eating hospital food off of a LifeCorp tray. Wednesday and
Friday contained similar plans, as they were also both off days from chemo.
She had recently been upped from three doses a week to four, which
meant Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday that week were all going to
be treatment days. On these days, the woman ate all she could without being
sick in the mornings before being wheeled down to the treatment room
at 10:00. After her LifeCorp chemotherapy sessions, she would arrive back
in her room around noon, when she would sleep for a few hours until the
late evening. At this time, she wanted to eat dinner, but knew she wouldn’t
be able to keep it down. She kept herself on this routine for two more weeks,
until one day, her restful Monday was interrupted by a LifeCorp associate.
A knock at the door startled the woman. She wasn’t used to visitors on
non-treatment days. “Come in,” she said. A young man wearing a black suit
entered the room. He had a LifeCorp ID on his waist, held by a clip. The
name on the ID read John Smith. How normal.
“Hello, Ms. O’Connor, I’m glad to see you. How have you been?”
asked John.
“Well, as you can see, I’ve surely been better. What do you want from me?”
asked the woman petulantly. Everyone knew that when you were visited by
a LifeCorp employee, you were almost certainly about to receive bad news.
“Well, I’ve received some information regarding your financial situation.
To be blunt: it’s not good. As this hospital is a LifeCorp-subsidized establishment,
you currently owe us $72,347.89. Is this due able to be paid?”
“Does it look like I can pay you leeches that much money? If I had the
money, I would’ve done it already.”
John was becoming anxious. “Well, of course, I understand that. I just
thought maybe you had some family or something that could assist you—”
“Don’t. Talk. About. My. Family.” Family? The woman had none; they
had all gone missing or died after they amassed heavy levels of debt. The
woman didn’t exactly come from wealth, and many of those deaths were
suicides. Once you messed with LifeCorp, it was hard to get out. “I can’t pay
back the money,” reiterated the woman with a resigned sigh.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
57

“Well, then we will have to stop your treatments,” explained the man
with a sympathetic glance.
“No, please, no,” pleaded the woman. “I’m getting better, I swear. Just ask
my doctors, they’re right outside. Just a few more weeks, and they’ll be able
to operate. I swear, please. Please.” The woman had tears in her eyes, and
she was ready to do whatever it took to get herself healthy again.
The man sighed and agreed. “I really shouldn’t be doing this, but if
you’re close, then…”
“Thank you, thank you!” exclaimed the woman, clasping her hands together.
“You won’t regret this, I promise. I’ll leave the hospital and get the
money as soon as I’m recovered from surgery.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He gave the woman a faint smile. “I better leave before I
change my mind.” The man left, closing the door behind him.
The woman could barely contain her smile as she thought about what
she would do next. Her life was saved, and all it took was the kindness of one
man. With a weight lifted off her shoulders, the woman laid back to sleep.
Four
The next few weeks of treatment were routine for the woman. She waited
with nervous anticipation of her surgery, which was scheduled to take
place in two more days. The first day was normal, and she made sure to
drink plenty of pineapple juice, which was supposed to help reduce swelling
during recovery. The second day, she was not supposed to eat or drink
anything, as having food in her system could interfere with the anesthesia.
She spent those quiet, uninterrupted hours pondering her experience in
the hospital. First, the delivery of the news that she had cancer. The tears
and emotions that came with that. Later, the visit from the LifeCorp officer
and the man across the hall who had been her friend.
The man across the hall, she thought, what was his job? I remember he
had run into financial troubles. No family to help him either. That was why
they had become such great friends; neither of them had any family to visit
them, so they had to rely on each other. Cashier, recalled the woman. That
was his job. A cashier.
Eventually, the woman’s thoughts led her to reminisce on his final days.
He had been unable to eat or drink anything, or even get up to use the bathroom.
It saddened the woman to remember the almost pitiful state he was
in at the end. Those memories made her think of the visit from his daugh-
58 Short Prose

ter a few days before he passed. Wait a minute—he himself had told her
that he had no living relatives in the city or anywhere else nearby. So why
had the nurse told her that she was his daughter? The woman was puzzled.
A few hours later, it came to her. When Janice had turned to leave Henry’s
room, the woman got a flash of her ID. She had thought it was something
from the hospital, but she remembered now. On the top right corner
of the ID, the unmistakable LifeCorp logo. He must’ve been visited by someone
like John, the man who had a meeting with her.
But what about the suspicious manner of his death? He had a lesser-progressed
version of cancer; why did he die so early? The woman brought
to mind one night a few days after his visit from LifeCorp—she had heard
muffled screams coming from across the hall. She hadn’t thought anything
of it; the dementia ward was directly below her, and those patients had a
tendency to be loud at night. Plus, she was on a heavy dose of painkillers
that night, and the intoxication made her think she had possibly imagined
it. The woman also recollected that Henry had been pronounced dead the
following day. But could the screams have come from Henry’s room? With
this revelation, while she still had questions, she knew one thing: LifeCorp
could not be trusted.
Five
Should I leave? Should I wait? Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions,
thought the woman. LifeCorp can’t be tangled up in something like that.
After all, they are widely respected and trusted; there’s no way they’re tied
to Henry’s death. With her newfound free time in the hospital, the woman
made a plan: she would stay in order to receive the surgery, as it was needed
for her survival. Then, as soon as she was physically ready, she would
escape the hospital. Where she would go, what she would do, all that was
unknown. All that mattered was escaping the grasp of LifeCorp.
By this point, it was almost 8 o’clock at night. The woman would be sent
to be prepped for surgery at 10, and the surgeons were to operate on her
throughout the night. For the duration of those two hours, the woman sat
in her hospital room, nervous and jittery. Any noise outside of her closed
door caused her to jump. As she looked around the dreary, sterile room, she
took notice of the flowers that all the LifeCorp nurses and doctors had given
to her as sympathy gifts. Every single bouquet was tainted now. As the
clock crept closer and closer to 10 o’clock, the woman busied herself with
the television. She tried and tried to soothe her racing nerves by mindlessly
channel surfing, until one story on the national news caught her eye.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
59

“Mere hours ago, tragedy struck the Cleveland Medical Center when a
patient, a Patrick McClelland, supposedly fell off of a rooftop balcony. Mc-
Clelland was the victim of a recent heart attack, and he had been a patient
of the Cleveland Med Center for five days. Nurses report that he had money
issues, reportedly being unable to pay the hospital his bills,” somberly stated
the reporter.
The woman’s eyes widened with interest and curiosity. The news anchor
continued on. “The death appears to be a suicide. Patrick had no living immediate
family members, perhaps another reason for his untimely death.
Authorities have opened an investigation. However, no suicide note has been
found at this time. More updates are forthcoming as the case develops. In
other news, an economic report published by LifeCorp is suggesting that…”
Six
In her bed, the woman’s mouth was gaped open, with her hands attempting
to cover her shock. Just as the reporter moved on to the next story,
the clock struck 10. It was time for the surgery. The woman heard a knock
at the door and let the nurse in. As the nurse moved into the doorway with
a wheelchair, a different woman interrupted by placing her hand on the
nurse’s shoulder. “Can I speak with Ms. O’Connor for a moment before the
surgery? I sincerely apologize; however, the matter is rather pressing,” said
the mysterious woman. The nurse nodded and left the room.
Ms. O’Connor took note of the peculiar woman’s appearance. Tall,
with heels that made her even taller. It was almost intimidating. She was
dressed in all black, with a LifeCorp lanyard hanging around her neck. On
her chest sat a LifeCorp ID. Her name: Jasmine Washington. The nurse
must have mixed up her name; it was Jasmine, not Janice. Ms. O’Connor
greeted her and tried to remain calm. Inside, a million alarm bells were
ringing in her brain.
“Ugh, that story about the man in Cleveland? Unfortunate, isn’t it?”
Something wasn’t right with Jasmine—the woman could feel it. “Hello, Ms.
O’Connor. I apologize for the hasty manner of this meeting, but it was urgent
that we speak with each other. With regards to your financial situation,
there have been some… predicaments you have placed us in.”
“What kind of predicaments?” inquired the woman. She kept her tone
cool and collected. “Another associate of yours visited me earlier. He said
that I would be okay for the surgery. I promised it would be okay. What’s
the problem now?”
60 Short Prose

“John, the one who visited you earlier, is too loose with the rules. He was
sent to solve your financial problems, but he is too lax with the rules. He
has been…dealt with, one might say. It was in LifeCorp’s best interests to
send me in order to tie up loose ends.” Ms. Washington appeared to have
some regrets about the visit, but she was loyal to LifeCorp in the end.
“So what, I’m just a loose end to your corporation now?” the woman spat
out, with emphasis placed on corporation. She was becoming angrier with
every word out of the associate’s mouth. “This shouldn’t be a way for your
dead, bleached corporate souls to make money. This is my life,” she said.
“I understand the sentiment, Ms. O’Connor, really I do. But LifeCorp has
ordered it, and so it shall be done.” The woman slowly stood up from her chair
and strode across the room to a desk that held an extra pillow on top of it.
“Wh—What has been ordered?” asked the woman. Her fury was starting
to melt into something different—fear. As the LifeCorp associate turned
her back to the woman, Ms. O’Connor saw in her room what she had seen
across the hall a few weeks prior. She was the one in Henry’s room that day,
and she must’ve been the one in his room that fateful night. “It was you!”
she blurted out, unable to stop herself. “You were the one in Henry’s room,
and… my god, you killed him, didn’t you?” The woman sat up in her bed
and scooted away from Jasmine. If she was just nervous before, she was
petrified now.
Jasmine’s face fell, and she groaned. “I was hoping to get through this
without you figuring it out. Now I really do have to get rid of you.” She
carelessly grabbed the pillow off of the desk, as if she was in a trance. She
started moving toward the woman in the hospital bed.
“G—Get rid of me? I swear that isn’t necessary.” The woman had tears in
her eyes now. “You don’t have to do this. I won’t tell anyone. That news story?
That was you guys too, was it? It’s ok, I promise. I won’t say anything.”
The woman’s pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. Jasmine Washington
tried to console her as she inched closer and closer to the edge of the bed. “I
wish I didn’t have to. I really do. I’m sorry.” She descended onto the woman
and placed the pillow over her face. The woman’s screams and cries went
unheard as her arms and legs thrashed in her bed. In that moment, the
woman knew the pillowcase and its unmistakable LifeCorp logo would be
the last thing she ever saw.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
61

62 Short Prose

Maryam Sadullaeva
Grade 10
The Ellis School
Bedsheets
I always make my bed in the morning, or any time I get out of bed. My
mom planted this seed in me at a young age. It then grew into a good habit
that my mom is proud of. Although, the way I make my bed is not always
to my mom’s liking. Or she feels the need to show some extra love. So, she
remakes my bed and my brother’s. Whenever she does, it’s perfect. It’s neat,
clean, and has no folded sheets. Sheer perfection. There are times when I’ve
helped my dad make their bed. Each time I noticed that, just like my mom,
my dad makes the bed immaculately. I’ve always wondered how my parents
could make such perfect beds. I kept thinking about how they became such
professionals at making beds. Maybe it was their parents? Or they learned
from the internet? Or maybe they’ve just done it for so long that they now
know the tips and tricks. There was one thing I didn’t consider. The thing
my parents told me after I asked my question.
MY PARENTS’ EARLY LIVES IN AMERICA
I am not told much about my parents’ early lives in America. I was told
about my mom’s breakdown after her first dishwasher job in an American
restaurant. She couldn’t believe how she left her life and career in Uzbekistan,
just to become a dishwasher in America. I was told about my dad’s
first—I believe—experience with the American police. Where he didn’t
know you couldn’t just reach for your license without telling the officer.
The outcome of that action is being on the floor surrounded by cops who
believe you have a firearm in the car. I was recently told the story of how my
mom told my dad to pursue his directing here. She told him that they could
start a company of some sort and he could continue directing. He declined
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
63

due to religious reasons. There is one other story I frequently hear now.
The story I now hear a lot is about their previous jobs at hotels. My mom
and dad would clean hotel rooms when they were “illegal immigrants.” My
parents worked at the same hotel company but in different locations. After
a while, they started working at the same location. They worked many
shifts to earn enough money to get by in a new country. Although, they
still tried to have some fun. My mom recalled that she and my dad would
play competitive games. They played this one game to see who could earn
more tips at work. Before transferring to the same location as my dad, my
mom would earn more tips. People gave a lot more tips at the location she
worked at than my dad’s. As a result, my mom would win, and they would
go out and get a treat with her tips.
My mom talks more about her experience working at the hotel than my
dad. But not so regularly. The reason is that a lot of the experience was
filled with bad moments. My mom would be given rooms that weren’t hers
to clean. It was very hard for her. But she couldn’t complain, she didn’t
have the right paperwork. At some point in time, she was pregnant with me.
Sadly, her coworkers did not pity her and still gave her their rooms to clean.
She would use some harsh, and some not, cleaning chemicals to clean the
rooms. I think this is where I got my cleaning chemical allergies from. I
don’t know if that’s the sole reason, but still, it was unhealthy for her—and
me— to clean all those rooms while pregnant.
My dad always made sure to help my mom with her rooms. If he finished
up early, he’d help my mom clean. He would clean a part where my
mom wasn’t, help her clean something, or assist her in making the bed.
Whenever I think about this, it gives a clear picture of my parents’ relationship.
They have gone through hell, but in that hell, they always made sure
to help each other. They cared for and looked after each other throughout
their darkest times.
Whenever I see my parents make their bed in the morning, I can hear
them recall those times. My mom recalls them in a happy tone, despite how
hard they were for her mentally and physically. I like to think it’s because
my dad kept pushing her to keep going back then. He still does now. My
mom never confessed this, but I firmly believe it. I also see how in sync they
are when performing this ritual. Showing how many years they’ve done
this together. But this time, in their room and not someone else’s. Whenever
I catch this tender moment, I appreciate it. I appreciate that my parents
worked so hard and kept going. Not only for themselves, but also for me.
64 Short Prose

And every time I see my mom remake my bed, I appreciate it. I appreciate
it even more than I used to now that I know the story behind her and my
dad’s skills at bed-making.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
65

66 Short Prose

Brooke Deegan
Grade 9
Pine-Richland High School
Dancing In The Afterglow
“You don’t have to worry, Precious,” Mother Eva would always say to me.
“Even when I seem to fade away, my heart and soul will not decay. You will
find me—not as I am now, but as I will be—dancing in the afterglow.”
In the deepest crevasse of my mind, I folded the looming thoughts of
Mother Eva’s departure neatly, attentively, and discreetly (though she constantly
tried to remind me that she would not be around forever). I knew
the truth was that one day, she would leave me stranded in this world that
she had rescued me from, but only a quarter of a part of me could begin
to believe it. Somehow, even when we have these weeds of ideas tediously
growing in our minds, we have the ability to cut them down. They, without
fail, will come back, but just because they reappear does not mean we give
up on killing them away. It made me more comfortable, more content in
the moment to neglect all that negativity. But once the tides had changed,
and reality had struck, I finally had to become brave enough to accept it.
- - -
I had been independent for what felt like the most lethargic amount of
time imaginable. I was born without a family to show me care; I was alive
without a love to need me there. I trailed the most treacherous of paths
in order to survive on my own and bruised myself stumbling over avoidable
stones. I was ignorant and unknowing and young and reckless and
unbelievably afraid. But in my weakest moment, when I needed someone,
anyone, it was Mother Eva who discovered me in my detrimentally hopeless
state and held out her selfless hand for me to take.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
67

She brought me into her careful cottage, tucked and hidden away from
the misery of the life that I had known. There, she cradled me in her
loving arms, her loving arms attached to those selfless hands. I did my
utmost to never take any of it for granted. For years, she swayed me so
sweetly that I became the woman I had longed to be. I was no longer ignorant,
unknowing, young, reckless, and afraid. I was bright, clever, fearless,
newly poised and remade. Underneath her strongly gentle eyes, I
was born again, and recalled to rise. Mother Eva was the most incredible
being that one could have ever begun to wish to know, and although she
appeared to be as human as I, I thought and remain thinking of her as
some sort of supernatural thing.
She was simply too good to be true for a lifetime. My Fairy Godmother,
my savior, the carrier of my burdens and my once-sorrowful soul.
When the lively, iridescent twinkles that had usually surrounded her
began to dim, that was when I stepped into my phase of denial. “Eva is
immortal,” I told myself, cavernously knowing that she was not. “She will
never leave my side.”
I watched her grow (or shrink, I suppose) weaker. I began to take on the
role of the giver, as the coddler. I owed it to her, after she had whipped me
up into shape the way that I had needed more than I could have known. As
she faltered more and more every day, her magical essence was getting to
be less prominent. She held onto me regardless, just as I had held onto her.
This lasted a few years, maybe. At least it wasn’t sudden, like a rapid burst
of unforeseen climaxes before an unsatisfying ending to the novel that is
life. It was a slow burn, but it was one that I refused to see coming anyways.
- - -
All this to bring us to where I found myself a few days ago. Mother Eva
was seeming even further out of sorts than I had ever witnessed. And I
had seen her at some low points. So, this was a fright, but it was a fright
that I remained composed for to the absolute best of my ability. I silently
stared as she wobbled and waivered throughout our humble kitchen on
that morning, slightly shaking as she attempted to cut up fruits for me to
eat for breakfast.
“You don’t need to do this for me anymore, Mother,” I had said, making
my way over to remove the butter knife from her old, selfless hands. “I
have been old enough to do things for myself for a while now, remember?
68 Short Prose

Please, let me take care of it. I will make you a meal as well. You deserve it.”
She turned to me, somehow dull and illuminated all at once, because
she was such a force of starlight that even in her faintest era, she was
more blazing than any one stable person could manage to be. The corners
of her wrinkled, rosy lips effortlessly sprung upwards, and her chestnut
eyes magnetically connected to mine. “But I love this, Precious, and I love
you. Who knows when I will be able to make another breakfast for you
again? Since you were broken and little, this is what has given you joy, and
so therefore it is what gives me joy, too. Let me have this.”
I didn’t want to say it, but I did. “What do you mean, ‘Who knows
when I will be able to make breakfast for you again’? That’s nonsense, Eva.
There’s tomorrow, there’s the day after that, the day after that, the day
after that, and the day after tha—”
“I’m not going to live forever, love,” her voice moved in and out as she
spoke. “You have to know that. And not just know it but accept it.”
For the first time, I began to believe her. The tides changed; reality
struck. I felt deranged. I felt so stuck. There was nothing that Mother Eva
did not know. She knew that she was taking off soon. And I started to realize
it then, too, as much as I didn’t want to, as much as I hadn’t wanted
to since the moment she scooped me up and carried me in. “What if this
really is the last day we are together?” I asked myself, entering a spiral.
I had no clue what else to do, other than give her back that butter knife
and let her struggle with making breakfast as much as she pleased. If
there was one thing that was clear about Mother Eva, it was that she was
indestructibly peaceful. She wasn’t worried, so why should I have acted
differently around her then? Growing up, she always told me never to fret
about the day that she passed. She spewed off the typical “I’ll always be
with you” words, but at this point in time, once I had finally learned to
accept the fact that she would be gone, I did not yet know how to trust
that she would find me with her spirit. I was left spiraling, alone as I was
right next to her cutting up those figuratively rotten fruits. And I couldn’t
show how scared I was. Because I so desperately wanted her to know that
all this time, I had been listening to her when she begged me not to worry
and had not been brushing it off as we both had naturally assumed.
Mother Eva and I spent the rest of that day as we normally did. We were
merrily eating, comically bantering, and tenderly soaking in one another’s
perfect presence. Of course, for me, there was that daunting undertone of
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
69

her soon-to-be-disappearance, but as I always did, I pushed it back just far
enough for me to enjoy my last times with her. For she was my Fairy Godmother,
my savior, and the carrier of my burdens and once-sorrowful soul.
I had to be brave for her.
- - -
The sun set that evening, and coral waves washed over the sky as if it
were an ocean of earthy pink.
“Take me out there to watch the sunset, will you, Precious?” Mother
Eva asked.
And so, I took her out there and assisted her in sitting down in the
cushioned chairs that laid on the patio of our careful cottage. I sat beside
her and placed her selfless hand in mine. I held it tightly, she held me
tightly. The sun then sunk from the top of that pink ocean to the horizon.
Once there was nothing but sprinkles of coral light remaining in the sky, I
turned to Eva, whose eyes were harmoniously shut.
“Mother? Are you there?” I whispered, on the brink of newfound tears.
She didn’t respond, but she didn’t need to. The silence screamed the
answer on her behalf, and I collapsed into her familiar yet altered arms
just like I did all those years ago. She had found me before, but I was now
lost once more. She was gone. Evaporated out of existence. And I never
truly thought that it would happen, but it did, and it happened with me
by her side.
I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed some more, not moving away up and
out of my seat. Her selfless hand was still in mine. I wouldn’t let go, I
couldn’t. But for a moment, I decided to look up. Wiping the thick droplets
out of my eye-sockets, I was able to see something quite clearly. It was the
sky that was different. It was not the night, but it was past the sunset. And,
as delusional as it may sound, I saw the trail of her heart and soul. In that
sky. Dancing, prancing around as if it was putting on a show just for me. I
never knew what she had meant before, when she told me to search for her
in the afterglow, but I knew then that that is exactly what I saw. Mother Eva
was there, above me, more glorious and enchanted than ever before. I had
found her—not as she was, but as she is—dancing in the afterglow.
70 Short Prose

And there I have looked for her every night since then. There I will look
for her every night in the future. No matter what happens to me, or what
happens to the world that wraps around me, I am grateful to have peace
in knowing that I will always have her within my sightline, dancing in the
afterglow of her life and my nights.
My Fairy Godmother, my savior, my nightlight.
Dancing in the afterglow.
Look, I see her now, dancing in that afterglow.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
71

72 Short Prose

Mason Roberts
Grade 10
Winchester Thurston School
Hungry Humphrey
“Mom, I have plans, I can’t babysit,” Adam said in frustration. Halloween
had made its way into New Harbor, and trick-or-treaters began to fill the
streets.
“Your plans will have to wait,” Adam’s mother said. “I got called in for the
night and your father won’t be home until later, so I need you to look after
your brother and Barry.” The two five-year-olds sat on the couch watching
a Halloween cartoon special. “Keep them inside, and make sure they go to
bed by ten. I’m trusting you with this, and if it goes well, I promise you will
be able to hang out with your friends next time.”
“Fine.”
“Alright, to keep them busy tonight, I got something.” The present had
pumpkin wrapping paper, and upon seeing it, Johnny and Barry ran towards
it. “Make sure you all stay inside tonight; you know how dangerous
Halloween can be.”
Adam grabbed the present; a clunking noise could be heard from inside.
Just as Adam’s mother was going out the front door she turned around and
said, “We’re having some flooding problems in the basement, so don’t let
the boys go down there.” After that, Adam and the boys said goodbye, and
they went into the dining room to open their present.
“Barry, why did you get dropped off tonight?” Adam said with a questioning
tone.
“Daddy said he had work, so he called Johnny’s mom and now I’m here.”
“What’s in the box?” Johnny asked, his glow in the dark skeleton shirt
was slightly visible in the dim room.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
73

“Ok you two, I’ll open it.” A few minutes of hacking through the thick
cardboard with a butter knife later, and it was open. The packaging looked
like something out of the eighties. The plastic window on the box revealed
a giraffe-like toy, with strangely large teeth giving the toy an uncanny appearance.
One of the eyes was missing, and the pattern on its fur was slightly
faded. On the top with large orange letters, the box read “Hungry Humphrey.”
Upon taking it out of the box, it stood at a height of two feet tall, its
legs barely supporting the rest of its body. A small pamphlet tumbled out
of the box; the same orange lettering read “Instructions” on the front. “Take
turns pressing Humphreys teeth, and try to avoid getting chomped!”
“I guess it’s a game,” Adam said. “Let’s play.”
The two boys took their turns, giggling as they pushed the teeth in.
“Can we get pizza later?” Johnny asked.
“I like cheese and pepperoni,” Barry said with a goofy grin on his face.
“Yeah, sure we can get pizza,” Adam said as he chose the next tooth. It
slid into the gums of the strange giraffe, but the toy’s mouth remained open.
After very careful consideration, Johnny and Barry both chose their next
teeth, and the mouth remained open. When it was Adam’s turn, he chose
a tooth and pressed it down. The noise was different this time, almost as if
Adam had just pushed the plastic tooth into real gum tissue. Before Adam
could move his finger out of the toy’s mouth, it chomped down hard onto
his finger. A searing pain shot through Adam’s entire body, and when he
looked down, the once clean toy now had flecks of blood splattered across
its uncaring face. Its pearly white teeth were stained a slight pinkish color.
“Uh oh, you lose…” Humphrey said through a broken voice box. Adam
screamed, and after a lot of trying was finally able to get his finger out of
the grasp of the toy. The wound wasn’t too deep, but it was still trickling a
tiny stream of blood. Barry was crying, but before Adam could say anything,
he felt a small tug at his shirt. Johnny was looking up at him holding a
Mickey Mouse Band-Aid.
“Thanks, bud,” Adam said. After putting on the Band-Aid, he grabbed the
toy and threw it into the garbage. “Who the hell would make this thing’s
bite so strong?” Adam whispered to himself. “Alright guys, why don’t you
two go watch a movie while I order the pizza.” The still upset boys went
into the other room and sat down on the run-down couch. Adam went into
the kitchen and picked up the mounted landline to call his mother.
“Yes, sweetie?” Adam’s mother said with an innocent tone.
74 Short Prose

“What the hell was that thing Mom? That could have seriously hurt one
of the boys!” Adam said in a whispered scream.
“What do you mean? Hungry Humphrey is just a toy, he was one of my
favorites when I was a child.”
“Whatever,” Adam said, annoyed with his mother’s lack of concern. “Johnny
and Barry are watching a movie, and after that I’ll put them to sleep.”
“Good. Remember, stay inside. No matter what.” With that the phone
went dead. Adam called the pizza shop, and within an hour the three boys
were eating pizza and watching a movie. The rest of the night went without
any problems, and as the movie ended Adam took them to bed. Barry slept
on a sleeping bag on the ground of Johnny’s small room. Adam flicked off
the light and went back downstairs to wait for his parents to get home. He
sat back in the green reclining chair and flipped through the channels until
he found something to watch.
A little while later, Adam heard something fall in the kitchen. As he
walked into the kitchen, he was shocked to see that the trash can had been
completely knocked over. He went to pick up the mess, not knowing what
could have knocked it over. Then Adam remembered Hungry Humphrey,
and he frantically looked for the doll in the trash. He found nothing. Maybe
it was because he was watching a horror movie, or maybe it was just intuition,
but Adam knew something was wrong. Adam ran upstairs to check
on the boys. Adam opened the door to see the two boys sleeping peacefully.
“Humphrey’s hungry…” the distorted voice box of Humphrey said
from downstairs.
Adam woke up Johnny and Barry, “I need you to hide in the closet. Don’t
come out until I tell you to.”
“I don’t want to play right now,” Barry said as he was roused from
his slumber.
“Humphrey’s Hungry…” The voice box repeated. As the color drained
from the boys’ faces, they quickly changed their minds about hiding. Once
the boys were in the closet, Adam crawled under the bed and waited for
Humphrey. The static of the voice box drew closer, and when Humphrey
appeared in the lit-up doorway, something was terribly wrong. The doll
was taller, lankier than it was last time Adam had seen it. Its soft fur was
stretched, and in the places that it tore, there was exposed and pulsing
muscle. The once vacant eye slot was now replaced with a squishy, bloodshot
eye. Humphrey scanned the room, its teeth chattering as it did.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
75

Adam could hear his heart pounding in his chest. Fear ran through every
ounce of his body, and Humphrey continued to walk towards the closet.
Right as the creature started to extend its putrid arm towards the door
handle, something compelled Adam to get out of his hiding spot.
“Get away from that door!” Adam yelled at Humphrey. The abomination
turned around, its terrible eye landing on Adam. A loud electric
cracking sound echoed from Humphreys voice box, and it began running
towards Adam.
Adam began sprinting through the hallway, almost tripping over a toy
car. He jumped down the flight of stairs, nearly spraining his ankle as he did.
The distorted static from the voice box followed behind him, the stench of
death coming ever closer as Humphrey made its approach. Then Adam had
a terrible realization. Adam’s mother never wanted them to make it through
the night; this was all a trap. Adam tried to slow Humphrey down with
chairs and cabinets, but it wasn’t enough. As Adam neared the door to the
basement, Humphrey attacked. Its arms grabbed Adam, and even though
they looked frail, the grip was solid. Before Adam knew what was happening,
he felt a throbbing pain from his shoulder, or what was left of it. With one
chomp, Humphrey had exposed bone. With a scream, Adam reached out his
arm and grabbed a vase, smashing it against Humphrey’s rotting head. The
creature recoiled, allowing Adam to escape its iron grip. Even though the
pain was excruciating, Adam pushed forward towards the basement.
Adam ran through the basement door and quickly descended the creaky
stairs. It was dark, and as Adam reached the bottom, he felt the squelch of
liquid under his feet. Maybe it was just flooding, Adam thought to himself
as he approached the light switch. Adam flipped a switch and had to hold
down vomit at what he saw. The ground was covered in a thick layer of
blood, some of it clotting but more of it staining the ground a deep shade
of crimson. In the middle of the floor was Adam’s father, or what was left
of him. A fire ax was embedded in his back, and much of his lower half appeared
to have met the same fate as Adam’s shoulder. He was still dressed
in his New Harbor police uniform, and on his belt, Adam saw a ring of keys.
“Humphrey’s hungry… ”
Adam heard the demented toy begin to walk down the stairs; its shadow
larger than it once was. Adam grabbed the keys from his father and picked
up the ax that had slayed him. Adam was done running, if he wanted him
and the boys to have a chance of surviving this nightmare, he needed to
fight back. His shoulder pulsed with pain; a shower of blood rained onto
76 Short Prose

his once pristine shirt. As the footsteps grew closer Adam hid behind the
staircase, ax in hand, prepared to end this nightmare once and for all.
“Humphrey’s hun… ”
Humphrey wasn’t even able to get the voice line out before Adam
slammed the ax down into the creature’s terrible face. The ax pierced
through the thin cloth of the toy, revealing a mass of muscles. Humphrey
made a deafening shriek, but the creature remained standing. Adam used
the rest of his might to push the creature back, and he ran up the stairs.
The now-wounded Humphrey was right on his tail, the shriek following
him like a phantom. Adam reached the top of the stairs and slammed the
door to the basement shut. Adam placed the ax in the door handle, locking
it from the outside. He could hear Humphrey slamming the door, attempting
to break through.
“Boys! Downstairs now!” Adam screamed, realizing this might be their
only chance to escape. The footsteps of Johnny and Barry rang through the
house, and Adam was relieved to see that they were ok. Barry held a small
Nerf gun close to his chest loaded with three foam bullets.
“Towards the door!” Adam said with determination.
“But Adam, isn’t it nighttime?” Barry said while staring out the window.
Adam followed his gaze to see a bright light coming from outside the house.
The house was surrounded by fire, its flames nearly touching the house.
Adam began to panic as he heard Humphrey getting closer and closer to
breaking down the door.
“Garage.” Adam said, his consciousness beginning to fade from the pain
in his shoulder. Adam led the boys to the garage, where the heat from the
flames was more prominent. The broken down RAV4 sat in the corner
of the garage, its green paint chipping away to reveal the chrome body.
Adam ran towards the chain to open the garage when he heard the door
finally break open from inside. With all of his might, Adam pulled down
the chain and opened the garage. A cool breeze swept through the now
open door, but with it the flames became almost blinding. Adam saw two
figures dressed in crimson cloaks from behind the fire, holding hands and
chanting something.
“Humphrey’s hungggry… ” the now nearly unrecognizable voice box of
Humphrey squeaked out. Adam went through the key ring until he found
the correct one and slammed it into the keyhole. The doors unlocked, and
the boys scrambled into the backseat. Adam entered the driver’s seat and
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
77

turned the ignition. As a fourteen-year-old, Adam had never driven a car
before. The now towering figure of Humphrey began to approach the vehicle.
Right as Adam was about to slam on the gas, one of the hooded figures
stepped through the flames and revealed their face.
“Mom?” Adam said.
“Sweetie, didn’t I tell you to stay inside?” Her face was twisted into a cruel
smile. As Humphrey grew ever closer, Adam made a choice. He and the boys
did not deserve to die because of the sins of their parents. Adam slammed
on the gas; the car burst to life so quickly that his mother could not even
wipe the smile off her face before there was a loud thump from under the car.
Humphrey ran towards the car, but it was too fast. The car burst through the
flames; the remains of its paint now almost completely gone.
As the car passed the second hooded figure, it suddenly halted to a stop.
The hooded figures’ arms pulsed as he held the car in place. Humphrey
stopped eating Adam’s mother and began walking towards the rest of the
group. From under the hood, Adam could see that it was the bearded face
of Barry’s father. The joyous man he once saw was no longer there, and all
that was left was hatred. Humphrey was about to reach the car when Barry
rolled down his car window.
“Barry, what the hell are you doing?” Adam yelled.
“Sorry, Daddy,” Barry said with sadness in his voice, and he pulled the
trigger. The small foam dart flew through the heated air and struck the eye
of Barry’s father. He recoiled from the pain, and just as he did Humphrey
attacked. The plastic teeth easily broke through the neck of the man, and
the rest of his body fell limp to the ground. The car burst to life once again,
and with a cloud of smoke, the boys left the bloody scene behind.
“Don’t look back,” Adam said, tears streaming down his face. The boys
followed their instructions, and Adam began racing through the once
peaceful streets of New Harbor. Places he once knew were now up in flames,
rubble lined the streets. Many houses on his street were in similar disrepair
to his own, with large flames wrapped around them. There were no signs
of survival. Then Adam saw it, large creatures began breaking through the
houses. They were similar to what Humphrey became, but larger, faster,
stronger. Adam didn’t allow himself to slow down, even though the pain in
his shoulder began to become unbearable.
Adam drove as fast as the old car would let him, going through a few
mailboxes as he went. The carnage the boys found themselves in was in-
78 Short Prose

describable, even the air itself was tainted red. The creatures, sinewy and
cruel, began to grab at anything that moved. As they ate, they grew larger
and their toy disguises were completely abandoned, leaving behind twisted
masses of hatred. Adam kept driving, the two boys in the backseat quivering
in fear at the horrors they saw through the car windows.
Adam continued to dodge through the chaos of New Harbor and finally
made it to the bridge leading to the peaceful Maine forests. Out of the corner
of his eye, Adam saw one of the creatures through the skyline reaching
its terrible arm towards the car. With one last push of adrenaline, Adam
slammed on the pedal with all of his might. Pops of metal began to come
from the car as it reached speeds it never was meant to reach. The arm
closed in, almost as if it had infinite range, but before it could grab the car,
the boys made it to the tree line.
The sputtering car made its way through the path for a few moments before
it finally took its last breath. Adam looked back through the rearview
mirror to see the distant fire of what used to be New Harbor.
“Did we make it?” Johnny said through shaky cries.
“I think we did, bud,” Adam said, trying to stay strong. In front of the
car, Adam began to hear the distant sirens of emergency vehicles. With that
small reassurance, Adam’s adrenaline broke and all that remained was the
extreme pain from his shoulder. The fire trucks began speeding into the
ignited town, while an ambulance stopped next to Adam’s car. The paramedic
began to pull the delirious Adam out of the driver’s seat and onto a
stretcher.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood, what happened?” the paramedic said with
obvious fear in his eyes.
“There was a toy with teeth…and it grew and tried to kill me and the
boys… and… and… ” As Adam was put into the ambulance, he saw the two
boys being comforted by other paramedics. The panic he felt subsided, as
he knew the boys would be taken care of. After a long day, Adam finally
allowed himself to sleep.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
79

80 Short Prose

Asata Brown
Grade 10
Winchester Thurston School
closer than before
Felix had always been an independent cat. So much so that the boy didn’t
question the lack of her presence until the same seven pellets of cat food
had been in her bowl for five days straight.
He asked mom if she’d seen Felix around. She said no but reminded the
boy that she’d asked him to run the lint roller over the couch yesterday.
“Sorry, I was busy and forgot” wouldn’t have made for a good excuse as it
was Friday night. She’d told him to a few hours ago. And a few days ago.
“Hey, when’d you last see Felix?” he asked his sister, standing at the edge
of her doorway.
She was sitting at her desk, papers and eraser shavings scattered about.
She looked up from her calculator. What math was she in again?
“I dunno, dude, maybe last Sunday.”
“Last Sunday… ”
“You don’t know? She’s your cat.”
The boy thought to argue—she was the family cat. Mom and sis and he
took turns making sure her bowl was full. Dad…bought her. The boy used
the money he got from shelving books at the library four blocks down to
buy her food and sometimes the fancy expensive wet stuff. The boy bought
her toys that she showed no interest in playing with. He ran his fingers
through her thick calico fur when she allowed and simply ran water over
the scratches she rewarded him with when he pet without permission.
His cat had been missing for 5 days and he had not noticed.
*
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
81

It was 11:30 before he knew it. No sign of Felix in the bushes in the front
yard or running around on the back porch—like there hadn’t been for an
entire five days. The boy thought to venture into the woods that sat a few
yards behind the house. He’d go out in his slides and a flashlight to look
for her as the sun fell. He’d go out and he’d find her cold dead body slunk
behind a tree, the white of her coat matted with dirt.
The image filled his mind before he could tell it not to, and the trembling
caught his lips before he could tell his tears not to fall. So, after looking
out front and out back and calling Felix’s name out as if he was asking
if she was gone rather than if she was anywhere near, he found his feet
carrying him to his bedroom, then covered himself in a cocoon of blankets
as he sobbed. It was 8:30 then.
Now it was dark, and the streetlights outside lined the road, warm only
to the eye. The boy’s face lay cold and wet against a pillow soaked with tears.
I killed my cat, he finally accepted after hours of the realization hitting
him again and again. His cries would tire themselves out, then start up
again. And at that same moment, he remembered that he’d forgotten to
take the trash out. Again. Just like the week before. So again, he collected
the trash from the kitchen and set it out on the curb. Cold wind hitting his
raw face and chilling his eyes in their sockets. He looked around in the dark,
expecting Felix’s ghost to emerge from a corner and nip at his legs like she
did when she was hungry or when she knew there was good canned food
hidden in the cupboard and not the dry shit he portioned her for the day.
He deserved that.
Then, he heard a soft cry from down the road. He didn’t want to let himself
feel relief, but moments later a small cat trotted from the darkness. In
the dim warmth of the streetlamp, he saw a matted but familiar form. Half
a moment, then his body pulled itself forward, feet heavy on the pavement
as he ran into the street. He thought to yell out her name, but all that came
out was a choked cry.
*
For the next few weeks, the boy bounced the idea around in his head
that some alien had taken over his cat in a plot to invade human society. It
was a joke most of the time, but sometimes he couldn’t tell.
He had often questioned why people even got cats. All the cute cat compilations
on the internet had him fooled, because when his mother agreed
82 Short Prose

to get him a fluffy companion to lift the gloom that never seemed to leave
him, all he got was this little furball full of spite. The worst part was that no
matter how many times she pushed another glass off the dining room table
or pawed at a petting hand with claws fully unsheathed or made a home
in the cardboard packaging of the fancy new cat bed he spent a month’s
worth of pay on instead of the actual bed itself, she knew the boy would
continue to keep her around. Humans’ sentimentality told them cats were
just curious or too dumb to understand the frustration they caused. Plus,
their cuteness balanced it all out. But when Felix looked the boy in the eyes
after stepping all over him, he knew that she wasn’t dumb at all.
However, she was cute, and the fulfillment that came with taking care of
something alive made the boy feel like he was doing something with his life.
But Felix’s eyes were different now. Filled with genuine curiosity where
the boy had been familiar with a cold dagger-like stare. She still pawed at
him when she wanted something—scratches or food or to play with her
toys for once, but her claws weren’t always out. When they were, he still
didn’t think she had any intention of hurting him.
The boy took extra care filling her bowl for every meal now. He had gotten
to it before his sister or mom had the chance to do it in passing.
“I wish you’d take this kind of responsibility over all your other chores too,”
said his mother. “That reminds me, I got another email about your grades. I
know you think half-assing the bare minimum will get you by but you’ve…”
Her voice faded away as he turned up the music in his earbuds to mask
her and the growing irritation in his throat. It took all he had not to roll his
eyes and put the broom back in the closet. But Felix had made more of a
mess eating than usual, and if he took the broom out, he may as well sweep
the whole floor. Doing it on his own filled him with satisfaction, he found.
“You got that, boy?”
“Yes ma’am” he replied, not knowing exactly what he was agreeing to,
but hoping his mother would walk away.
*
A foul stench began to follow Felix around. Like cat piss, the boy remarked,
before realizing that was most likely the case. For some reason,
Felix had decided to stop using the litter box and opted to pee on whatever
surface she happened to be on when the need came upon her. Sometimes
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
83

she sat at the door and yowled, begging for someone to let her outside. The
boy refused to, but everyone else felt it fine. Maybe she would piss outside
instead of on the couch and carpet. After a few hours, she would return to
the door and beg to be let back in.
This attempt to keep the house clean backfired. She tracked dirt and
leaves and whatever else back into the house. Not only that but the pee
stench indeed lessened, only to be replaced by what smelled like rotting
meat. No, not replaced. It was simply more apparent than before.
“Ack, boy. I agreed to let you get that cat ‘cuz I thought it’d be less trouble
than a dog. Now look,” his mom said.
Days of scrubbing cat pee from the carpets had begun to get on his
nerves. He knew expressing that frustration to his mother would be taken
to offense, so he downed a groan and spat out, “I’m sorry Mom. I’ll
clean it up.”
Still, her eyes narrowed. “And watch your tone.”
*
“I tell them not to let you outside and now here you are all cold and dirty
and smellin’ like you dragged somethin’ dead back with you.”
The boy held the cat an arm’s length away with one hand supporting her
bottom. He sat her in the tub and began to run a bath. Her temperature
alarmed the boy, so he made the water a little more warm than usual. Although
she did not shiver.
They talked as he scrubbed the dirt out of her fur. A mrreeeoooww, then
a, “I know I know, but I’m glad you’re being so cooperative.”
By the end, she smelled like vanilla and meowed appreciatively, although
if he sniffed too close to her mouth, he could still smell death on her tongue.
He looked at his fluffy friend and stood, proud of his work. Unfortunately,
he still had to clean up.
“You are free, my friend,” he said as he opened the bathroom door. But
she did not move from her spot at his feet. After a few attempts of shooing
her away, he decided to let her stay as he cleaned up after himself. She just
stayed, staring at him.
That night, Felix curled up in bed next to the boy. Her hair tickled his
stomach, startling him so much he almost screamed. It was strange for a
84 Short Prose

number of reasons. For one, Felix never, ever, got in bed with the boy. She
had her bed. Or her box. Or whatever corner she ran off to when he would
try to sit her next to him. Second, she made no noise. No purrs, no meows,
and no yowls when he went down to scratch her head. And third, when his
hand met her head, he found that she was cold. Completely. The heat in the
house was on. The bath was as warm as it could be without being scalding.
And she had been up and active. Running around the house. Following the
boy around. She was almost as cold as a rock.
Is something wrong? Is she sick? the boy worried. He sat up and pulled
her towards him. Then his heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t feel her heartbeat.
He scooped her up and checked again. Her back, her chest, her stomach
maybe? All the while she did not make a noise, and he felt just how
frigid she was all over. Feeling frantic, he held her by the shoulders, up and
away from him to get a full look. Perhaps it was a trick of his desk lamp
and the dark of the room, but her body hung unnaturally long. Slack as if
the muscles were strung loose and her bones simply fell in line with gravity.
And they kept sinking. Down and down…
With a yelp, the boy dropped the poor thing straight on the floor. Her
legs left his grip with sickening ease and she plopped onto the carpet. Not
like a cat. Almost like a balloon filled with blood, meat, and bone, her
weight dropping before she sprung back up into proper form.
A moment.
“What the hell was that, girl?”
He was simply met with a blank stare. Then a meow.
“… Just the light then, yeah? I don’t need a freaky ass cat, that might be
the last straw for Mom.”
She cocked her head as if to ask a question. With no answer, the boy sat
back on the bed with a heavy creak.
“You comin’ back to bed?” he asked, although part of him didn’t want her
sickly feeling back on his skin. Like bone moving under the skin.
But the cat obliged. She crawled into bed with the boy snuggling close
to his chest. He held her little body close, hoping he could warm her in an
embrace. Her cold simply seeped further into his chest. His heart slowed
and his breathing steadied, and the boy drifted off to sleep, his hands sinking
into her skin.
*
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
85

It was boring in that house. That’s why Felix made her way out the front
door late one Sunday night when the boy opened the door to take out the
trash. The woods had rats and birds and trees. Places to jump and nap
and play. In the woods, there was also a thing. What it was, Felix did not
know. It had no shape, just mass. Its colors clashed and muted each other
out, like an entire set of watercolors blended together until it was a muddy,
filthy, greyish-brownish wetness that soaked the page and pulled pulp from
the surface. Tendrils danced along its body, feeling the air and space and
ground around it. Desperate to understand where it was. And why it was.
Felix wanted nothing to do with this odd presence. She simply found
that hunting birds in these woods was much more exciting than watching
that boy be glued to whatever activity for hours upon hours. His mother
considered it a dedication, to frivolous things albeit. Games and comic series
binged on a whim. Eyes glued to a show for hours at the cost of mealtime
and actual important things. It was a distraction, really. A way to pass
time until he happened upon something that would make his time being
better well spent.
None of this was important to a cat, of course. Felix carried on, for her
curiosity would not do her in. It simply followed.
The thing had no eyes, but Felix could feel its mass inching towards her.
Daring to get closer. And closer. And closer. And closer.
Closer until it brushed up against her tail unexpectedly, granting it a
hiss in return.
Closer until its tendrils dragged slowly across her coat, a sickly wet feeling
that left no moisture behind.
Closer until it started grabbing at her, like how a child grabs at a confusing
new creature. Eager to feel it and know it. Knowing nothing and
wanting more.
Felix was running now. To where? She did not know. Desperate to get
away, she dashed across the dry leaves, twisting and turning and leaping
on whatever she could to shake it off. She ran and ran and ran—until at
some point, she found herself running in circles. And she found she could
not stop.
The thing got closer and closer, and Felix knew that there was no escape.
Her body would not let her. It would not let her. And it grew closer and
closer still.
86 Short Prose

Eventually, Felix’s legs gave out beneath her. She lay gasping on the duff,
panic shaking every cell in her body, yet her muscles refused to burn anymore.
And it moved closer. And closer.
Closer until finally, it sunk into her skin. The poor thing was freed from
any feeling as the mass of darkness overtook her. Seeping into every muscle.
Every bone. Every organ that moved and beat and thought and saw. Closer
until it was in her blood. Running through her veins as if to give her body
function and her being life.
After a few minutes, Felix was gone. And after a moment, the cat stood
up. She then spent a day or two wandering around the woods, now just
under two feet tall, until she came upon a familiar road one night and saw
a boy her brain told her she knew.
*
For some time, Felix experienced the world like new. All so fascinating
until the gray walls of the house lost their wonder, and she remembered the
vast woods outside. For some reason the boy would not let her back outside,
so she would yell until someone else opened the door.
The woods were fun until her body would stop working for some reason,
then the empty rumbling in her gut would remind her that she was supposed
to eat. So back into the gray house she would go. Every day was full
of learning about the limited joys of this new, small existence.
Eventually, this body gave out. So, she needed a new one. Tonight, she
would crawl into bed with the boy to get close. He did that for her, holding
her tight to his chest. So close she could almost feel his hopeless heart that
pumped life through his veins for no other reason than function alone.
From there it was easy to leave this failing body to get closer.
And closer.
And closer.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
87

88 Short Prose

Dagny Haglund
Grade 10
Winchester Thurston School
Forgotten Poetry
Resurrected by
Remembered Prose
Every day, I walk home from school. It’s a ten-minute walk at a normal pace,
twelve when I’m so in love with the world that I stop to look at everything,
and eight when I need to cry. I spend far too many hours every day at
school, five days a week. I am like a parasite hatched onto the yellow walls
of my school sucking in everything the building holds up. And the second I
step out of that building, I combust. Not from some codependent relationship
I have developed with my school, but from a constant state of fluttered
emotionality I experience within the walls of the organism I am attached to.
I hide within those walls too. Sucking in so much blood, so many nutrients,
so much knowledge, judgment, stress. So, when I get flung off by the
passing of time, everything I have sucked in seeps out from the pores of my
own walls. This often happens when I walk home from school.
Nearly every day I wear a pair of orange Adidas shoes that my cousins
gave me for Christmas. I have so many shoes, so many options and expressions
of myself to choose from, but I always choose the orange ones. They
carry me home and occasionally become splattered with what is falling
from my pores.
One day, I spent the whole walk staring at my shoes watching their
suede skin become stained by the rain while hiding my face from my neighbors.
I wrote a poem in my head. A new word with every step. And I told
myself, the second you get home, you have to write this down. But I forgot
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
89

to, and I forgot it. All I remember is the beginning and the end. It started
with oh baby and ended with oh baby.
Oh baby.
I’ve tried to reconstruct this poem in my head so many times. While sitting
in the hallway, legs bent toward my chest staring at the floorboards, I’ve
forced the fabricated words back into my mind. On ceramic bowls hidden
by cream plastic walls staring at equally cream-colored stucco flytrap ceilings.
On hills overlooking schools full of girls and plaid skirts. On the sweaty
backs of my friends. On top of a yellow sports car belonging to my dead
grandmother. On my bed. But all I’ve produced are dusty manufactured recreations
of other paintings sold in the back aisles of home goods stores.
I’ve written so many poems in my head, all of which are currently stuck
between the folds of my brain. And whenever I attempt to retrieve them,
they fall deeper like how a roly poly rolls up at the touch of a curious child.
When I write poems in my head, everything else must first fall apart.
Everything has fallen apart so many times before. Life must have been
designed by some pretty terrible engineers who leaned toward the artistic
side of construction rather than practicality. My father says, “Pain is art.” I
say, “Well, burn the paintings.” And the books and the films and the records
and the clothes and the food. And the poems.
When I write poems in my head, everything else must first fall apart.
Today, I asked my mother, “Why is everything always falling apart all
the time?” And she said nothing. I thought she would say “because you’re
15,” but she had no response, no words of comfort, no guidance, just silent
agreement. My neighbor is dying. I stayed up until midnight waiting for
her to get pulled into the ambulance, but she refused to go to the hospital.
She knows it’s time to die. And so does my friend’s mother and my father’s
college friend and my aunt’s mother.
Everyone is dying and everything is falling apart. Like it always does.
And this is life.
Oh baby, if only we could remember the poems from the singed black
pages they once sang on.
But I can’t. And there are too many. And everything falls apart too often.
And when it all does, I am I. And I write poems in my head.
But I am not a poet. I hate writing poems. I hate not being perfect and
not knowing what to do. But there’s only so much perfection life has room
90 Short Prose

for. When it runs out, the poems run in.
I came home to an empty house last week. Everything was so still and
so quiet. I made myself dinner and put a record on so I could pretend the
noise was the presence of other people because the last thing I wanted to
do was have an intimate sit-down dinner with myself. I stared at the person
across from me and their white dry-walled face. They stared back with no
expression, just acknowledgment. I was falling in love, so I put a cowboy
hat on to make them smile. It was actually for me, and I smiled. They kept
watching me eat the same leftovers I had had for three days in a row.
“I hate you,” I told them. They said nothing. “Did you hear me?” I asked.
“Your cowboy hat looks stupid,” they finally said. “Ok,” I said. Oh baby.
We finished dinner in silence, and I cleaned up the dishes. The record
stopped and scratched against the fabric of itself. When my great-aunt became
too old to live by herself, we temporarily moved to Maryland to clean
the house out. I stole three tadpoles, which were all dead after a month,
and my father stole ten records that have continued to reproduce to an
infestation. I sat in front of the nest of records and admired their bodies
and brains.
I closed my eyes and pointed to a random one. It was Vampire Weekend’s
Modern Vampires of the City. And then the modern vampires of the
city were dancing around my living room. “Join us,” one said. “You’re one of
us.” “Can I keep my hat on?” “Yes, I love it.”
I positioned myself in the middle of the dance floor, between the two
speakers. And everything fell apart in the most beautiful way.
I spun and jumped and wiggled and cried and fluttered and screamed
and twisted and laughed. “Isn’t this beautiful?” the modern vampire asked
me. I nodded my head and moved until I began to sweat. Until the album
was finished. Then the fabric whispered as I fell to the floor. And I wrote a
poem in my head. I don’t remember how it went, but it started with something
like, “I hate dancing.”
I went to a school dance a few months ago in a blue dress and a space
fighter Kentucky Derby-style red hat. I spent the whole night dancing to
pop songs, which my younger self would have fake gagged over. That night
I forgot that I needed to be perfect, that I needed to be critical, that I needed
to be. I found myself in the dance circle, except this time no vampires
were surrounding me. I swung my body around without making patterns
or rhythms. Just swinging. I felt like I was floating above everything. And
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
91

the next morning, I thought about how stupid I must have looked flinging
my body around while everyone else made rhythmic patterns with their
sweaty bodies.
Oh baby.
The year I turned 14 I didn’t want to celebrate my birthday. It wasn’t
out of some teenage rebellion and hatred for conformity, it was the byproduct
of death. It was 15 days after my grandmother’s funeral, and we
were on to the next event to celebrate. Goodbye Grammy. Happy Birthday.
And this is life.
The most snow I had seen in years that day also happened to be celebrating.
I told myself that it was my grandmother telling me to have fun.
But grief makes people think silly things for a fleeting second of comfort.
The street began to turn white and the world went silent. Happy Birthday.
Here is peace.
Whenever it snows, I plunge myself into Debussy’s genius and walk until
I can’t feel my toes. I started this tradition on my 14th birthday. I layered in
every coat I owned and walked through the ice while listening to “Clair De
Lune.” I felt peace. I felt comfort. I felt cold. I felt everything.
I walked to a church park and laid in the snowy lawn. Above my eyes
was a tree that looked like fuzzy white wiring. It had so much energy, yet
so much stillness. I closed my eyes and listened to “Clair de lune” on repeat
until my body became covered with a thin layer of snow. Everything fell
apart so beautifully.
The poem within the neurons of my brain said to me, “Happy Birthday,
here is everything.”
That night I dreamed about my grandmother. She was gorgeous. She
told me, “Tell your mother to be less hard on herself.”
I was recently looking through pictures of my grandmother on the internet.
I read her obituary, which my mother wrote and thinks is horrible. She
wrote about me in it. “Carole is survived by…” I wish I could put a period
before my name, right after survived, I thought. Oh baby.
My grandmother bought herself a yellow Corvette for her 70th birthday
because everything is always falling apart all the time. I remember being
little with white pigtails that blew in the wind in the front seat of her yellow
car. We drove around her retirement community in Florida filled with
golf carts and American flags and houses painted like seashells. Her spider
92 Short Prose

hands with silk skin draped over them would grip the steering wheel while
my little brain thought, Keep those hands on the wheel. We would go so fast,
it scared me. And behind the wheel was a 70-year-old woman with dementia,
blue eyes, and purple fingernails.
My grandmother’s own brain ate itself. She had no license, no freedom,
no thoughts. And this is life.
The yellow corvette now sits in our driveway. I can see it from my bedroom
window. Sometimes I forget that Grammy is dead and sometimes
I forget that she ever existed. One night I was sitting on the steps, being
hugged by the roses listening to Elvis Presley. Elvis told me, “I’ll be so lonely,
I could die.” “Me too,” I told him back. “They’ll be so lonely, they could
die,” he responded. This was the last thing he said to me. I walked toward
the driveway and bent over the yellow hood of the yellow car. And I hugged
it, pretending it was my grandmother.
I wrote a poem in my head while personifying metal. It started with
something like “Why is everything always falling apart all the time?” And
ended with something like “Oh baby.”
I’ve written so many poems in my head and nowhere else in this world.
When everything falls apart, the poems come out. They come out on the
trampoline entwined in a hug starting with the words “This is going to end.”
Running in the rain with the words “What am I doing?” Lying in bed with
the words “Cream-colored stupid stucco fly trap ceiling.”
Walking home from school with the words “Oh baby.”
I wish I could remember the poems from the singed black pages they
once sang on. But I burned them.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
93

94 Short Prose

Alex Staresinic
Grade 10
Winchester Thurston School
All That Can Happen
To You On A Train
Y’know, trains are so loud when they’re goin’ by, but when yer inside em it’s
real peaceful. Still makes a sound, but inside it’s not so harsh and like it’s
yellin’ atcha, repetitive yeah, insistent, but more soft, more like a heartbeat.
We pulled outta the station a while back and been chuggin along West for
a couple hours now. It’s nice in here. Yeah, I’m hungry and my joints creak
and I can barely keep my eyes open these days, but you won’t catch me
complainin’. Besides, I don’t need my eyes to listen. I’m happy right here,
listenin’ to the train.
It had been kind of a boring train ride. Kinda boring day too, just the same
as all the others. Same train ride I always do to visit my daughter. Same ride
‘cross Pennsylvania from my city to hers. Her callin’ woke me up from my nap,
always her with that same old crap about how I oughta be careful, and she
shoulda come with me, and she doesn’t think I can handle myself.
“I know, I know…Yeah, we’re comin’ up on the curve, I’ll be there soon
enough,” I try and reassure her, but I can tell she’s not really listenin’.
She calls me just about every day now. Feels like every hour. She’s always
worryin’, that one. I tell her she shouldn’t but ‘course that’s the last
thing she wants to hear. She really shouldn’t be scared for me, I do this trip
all the time, back and forth, back and forth. Nothin’ exciting has ever happened
on this train. She wants me to move over there with her, says goin’
back and forth like this isn’t good for me. “What do you know about what’s
good for me?” is what I want to say. But I don’t say that. That would get her
arguing again. Easier to just wait her worries out. So, I’ll talk to her until
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
95

she’s done, and she lets me go. I rub my bad knee as she reminds me to be
careful again. It’s been gettin’ worse these days, always aching.
“Alright, you call me as soon as you get here. Bye, Dad. I love you”
“Bye, Cathy.”
And now I can get back to listenin’ to the train. I learn lots from listenin’.
The squeals and screeches of brakes and the whip of the wind ‘round a
speedin’ train can tell you stories if you listen. When I listen, I hear stories.
The stories of battles, of wars, of massacres, of any way you could think of
to fight with someone. I am told about glorious conquests that happened
long ago and about bitter defeats that will occur long after I’m dead. They
are all meaningless to me of course. A defeat and a victory are the same
story told from different perspectives. The time or reality of them doesn’t
matter either. I mean, what’s the difference, really, between havin’ happened
so long ago that it is lost to history, and havin’ never happened yet at
all? No difference. Not to me anyway, I won’t be around to see if it happens
one day. But even if I’ll never know what the train tells me is lies or not, I’ll
still listen. You can learn lots about a person tellin’ you a story even if that
story’s all lies. And besides, listenin’ gives me somethin’ to do as I watch the
world fly past my window.
Lookin’ at the landscape out my window, I start to think as I often do
about one night many years ago. It was dark out, but the wind was cool
and calm. I remember ‘cause that’s my favorite kind of night. But this is
not a pleasant memory. I was comin’ home from work. It was late and she
shoulda been in bed for a while. But she was sittin’ in the kitchen and as I
walked in, she looked up.
“What’re you doin’ up?” I grumbled as I grabbed a bottle from the fridge
She looked nervous and stared at the table as she said,
“I wanted to talk to you. About me going to college.”
“Not this again.’’ She was always going on about her stupid dreams.
Wanting to go to someplace a million miles away where I’d never see her
again and she could learn some useless stuff. She didn’t care what I thought
about it, just focused on herself, as always.
“I don’t see why you’re so against it. I want to go.”
“You don’t need to go to no college. You got everything you need right here.”
“No, I don’t! I don’t want to live my whole life in this stupid place. You
can’t keep me here.”
96 Short Prose

“Hey, look at me! You live in my house. You’re my daughter. You need to
listen to me. And I say you can’t go!”
And she started yellin’, “I’m 17, dad! You can’t control me forever. And I
won’t let you stop me! And if you want me to just shut up and listen,” she
stopped yelling and looked at me. “Maybe I live in your house, but I won’t
follow your rules anymore.”
She don’t know what’s good for her. These stupid dreams of hers are
gonna drag her down one day. And I can’t let that happen, I gotta do somethin’
to get these dreams out of her head. This is what I told myself after,
that I had a good reason. “Get outta my house then.”
“Fine, I will.” Her voice was tremblin’, but I couldn’t find it in me to care.
I looked up from my drink and I said, “Good. Get.”
I—I don’t like thinkin’ about this.
I didn’t see her for a long time after that night. Hardly heard anything
about her in all that time. I didn’t know where she was or what she was
doin’, I didn’t even know if she was dead or alive. And now she comes to
me askin’ me to move my whole life to be with her. I’ve already moved half
of it at this point anyhow. She might think it all worked out fine for her
and that she had friends to crash with and it’s been a long time and she’s
changed and all this should be behind us. But I still remember, and I don’t
think she’s changed at all. She ran away because she was selfish, she didn’t
care if I was worried about her, if her mother lost sleep wonderin’ if she
was alive. She didn’t care. What does she want me there for anyway? Just
to have me around? I’m around enough as it is. However much she says it
would be good for me, it’s just her bein’ selfish again.
A loud tapping brings me back. In the seat across the aisle from me,
some young guy is listenin’ to something on his phone. He’s tappin’ his foot
in time to it, I assume. I’m sure it’s great fun with the music in his ears, but
to me it’s just the hollow, erratic, irritatin’ slap of rubber on linoleum. I bet
if I could have got up, I would see the rest of the train is plugged into their
phones too. Full of people with their ears stuffed up with music, blockin’
themselves to all that’s out there. I can’t believe these people, listenin’ to
some song when the whole world is out there to hear. You can’t listen to
anything with your earbuds in, listenin’ happens in the real world when
your ears are unblocked. There’s plenty out there to listen to if you open
your ears. I sigh, I’m lettin’ these people distract me for no good reason. I
should just get back to listenin’.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
97

I get lost in listenin’ to the train, it seems to have taken hours, but we
can’t have gone far at all, or we’d be almost there already. I hardly notice
we’ve gone anywhere until I look out the window. We’re in a forest, snow
blankets the ground and ice over just about everything more than you’d
expect for this time of year. Must be in the mountains now, I suppose. Can
you believe it’s snowin’ up here? The first time I came up here ‘round this
time of year, I couldn’t. But as much as it might still seem warm down in
the city, these mountains are a different world. Nothing you’ve ever seen
compares to flyin’ through snowflakes at this speed. It’s beautiful for sure,
just lookin’ out there makes me shiver with all that cold. I love lookin’ out
the window when we’re up here. Watching the frozen forest whip by me, it’s
exhilarating. We keep goin’, and it keeps gettin’ colder. The hills roll up and
down beside me, and we never seem to be noticeably goin’ up—nor down—
but the snow gets thicker, and it’s gettin’ cold in here. I’ve got my coat on,
and I shift a seat over—to the protests of my achin’ bones—get myself away
from the window, but still, the cold creeps in. I always get stiff in the cold,
my bad knee is locked up, and achin’ again, but it don’t matter, I don’t need
to get up for a while anyhow. I’ll just keep watchin’ and listenin’. But after a
while, the snow just keeps gettin’ heavier, and soon I can’t see five feet out
my window, and I think to myself, how long have we been here, we probably
should’ve—we should’ve been out of the mountains by now. Sometimes
I get lost in the time, but surely it’s been hours. And that’s when I start to
notice it, the screamin’.
At first, it’s just the same old whistle of the wind around the train, and
the squeal of the wheels along tracks. That same old sound I love listenin’
to. But slowly it gets louder and louder and louder until I can’t hear
nothin’ else, and it don’t sound like a whistle or metallic friction anymore,
it sounds like a scream. Sounds like many screams, too many to count, too
loud. Something’s wrong, nothin’ exciting has ever happened on this train.
Who are those people screamin’? I wish they would stop. Their screams are
inside of me, always getting louder, splittin’ my head wide open. Still somehow
tellin’ me their stories even through their incomprehensible screeches.
And it’s so loud now. God, won’t they just shut up? Someone’s gotta help
them. I look across the aisle, to the young man in the seat across from me.
He’s still listenin’ to whatever’s in his earbuds, he doesn’t seem to notice
anything wrong. But the screams are so loud, they’re still gettin’ louder,
how could they be gettin’ even louder? He’s useless, I’ll have to do it myself.
Before I know it, I’m hobblin’ to the connection point between cars so I can
do it. I don’t know what I’m thinkin’ I could do. But I gotta do it. I gotta get
98 Short Prose

out there so I can stop them. So they can stop that horrid screamin’.
In the back of my mind I pause, and I wonder what the hell I really think
I can do about this. But that thought is soon disintegrated by the unceasing
screams splittin’ through my head like lightning. The tidal wave of voices
screamin’, screechin’, clawin’ at my mind, drowns out any thought but to
make them stop. It’s all I can do to keep my feet on the ground. My hand
on the handrail’s the only thing that tells me I haven’t been washed away. I
didn’t realize how weak I was gettin’ until I needed to do something. I flail
my arms against the thin, cold metal walls again and again, and it’s not
doin’ anythin’. And the screams are still—still!—gettin’ louder. And soon,
they pull me under, and I find myself screamin’ with them, howlin’ in protest
of some god who would allow this.
At one point it gets to be so loud that it’s quiet again. I can still hear
them, still feel their pull, but it’s not in my focus anymore. I look at everythin’
around me, the snowflakes flyin’, and all those people in their seats,
and I can’t help but think of my daughter. She’ll be so worried about me,
she always is. But this time she was probably right.
All I can hear is screams and I’m not sure what’s my own and what’s
them anymore. The sound pulls me in until I’m not sure if I can’t see
anythin’ or if I’m just not payin’ attention to that. They pull me toward
them and I’m gettin’ lost in the babblin’ stories they tell. They pull me in
so close that I can’t tell where the division lies between me and them. And
then, I can hear somethin’ else. It’s sheet metal bein’ rent apart. A terrible
sound, true, but a welcome one. I can hear it, that must mean the screams
have stopped.
As I hear this terrible, wonderful sound, I start feelin’ the cold wind on
my skin. I open my eyes to find myself outside. The train is right there next
to me, so close I could touch it. It keeps barrelin’ forward, payin’ me no
mind. The wind slams into me with its sharp snowflakes, but I don’t hit the
train or the snow-covered ground. The wind catches me and drags me up
and up, and I can see everything up here. I can’t hear nobody screamin’ either,
just the faint and growin’ fainter screech of wheels on track. The train
is below, still rumblin’ along, like a great steamin’ snake through this vast
expanse of snow. I couldn’t see much from the train, but up here, I can see
for miles. And now that I can see, I’m not so sure there ever was a mountain.
It stretches on for miles, flat like this, not even a hill on the horizon.
And the snow never stops either. I’ve never been a religious man but if this
isn’t hell, then I don’t know what it is. My legs if they’re even still there at
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
99

all, hang limp, swayin’ in the wind. I feel myself driftin’ further away from
the train. I see the end of it comin’ up beneath me, and I know I’m not
gettin’ back. But I don’t need to either. I’m so high up now I can hardly see
in the windows anymore. I don’t know if anyone else is still in there, but I
hope they all make it. I look into the distance where I hope the train tracks
will one day curve their way to Philadelphia. Where my daughter will wait
for me. God, I forgot about Cathy. She’ll be so worried for me.
100 Short Prose

Zora Burroughs
Grade 11
Shady Side Academy
Sprinkle
I live in a large community. I am surrounded on all sides. I have always
found it hard to form my own identity. It doesn’t help that my family looks
exactly like me. There are quite literally hundreds of others who share my
exact appearance. I fit in with others, but sometimes I feel like I don’t have
my own personality or flair. While I often feel uncomfortable being a part
of such a large group, I never fail to be entertained.
I don’t have much freedom, so I end up watching through the glass for
long stretches of time. The jar where I live sits on the counter above the
freezer and provides a great view of the shop. Minutes, hours, and days go
by as I stay pressed against the glass. I enjoy observing the scene. I watch
customers enter and exit the store. Quickly, I begin to notice patterns. After
a couple of weeks, I think I’ve seen it all. I’ve stared at the young couples
who came in with dyed hair and tattoos. I’ve eavesdropped on the big families
with grandparents, aunts and uncles, and swarms of little kids. I’ve
cringed at the awkward teenagers on their first date.
But one day, I noticed something new. A mother and her young child
walked inside. The mother told the young boy he could choose whatever
he wanted “since you’re the birthday boy!” The child grinned. He began to
order a sundae with vanilla, chocolate, and mint chip ice cream. Then he
added whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and caramel sauce. He requested
cherries and crushed nuts. I watched the mother’s face as her expression
gradually changed from happiness to concern. Her brows furrowed as she
stared at the menu board. As the boy began to tell the worker that he
wanted “rainbow and chocolate sprink—”, the mother interrupted him. In
a shaky voice she said, “Honey, I think that might be enough.” She released
an awkward laugh with a twinge of embarrassment. I was confused, I’d
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
101

seen many customers venture through the store, but this situation was
unique. Usually, the parent, wanting to keep their child from a massive
amount of sugar, was firm and authoritative. But this mother showed signs
of pity for her son. Finally, I realized she was calculating the cost of all of
the toppings. She must have been a few cents short. Sprinkles, on top of
the rest of the sizable sundae, cost just a few cents more than the money
in her pocket.
As I came to this realization, my thoughts were interrupted by the boy’s
whining voice, “But you said I could pick whatever I wanted!” This scene
I was familiar with; I knew a meltdown was looming. Soon enough, tears
started streaming down the child’s face. By then, the rest of the customers
had all turned their attention to the mother and her son. She attempted to
console the boy by saying, “Honey, let’s not make a big deal out of it! You
can still get whipped cream and chocolate sauce on top.”
As the child grew visibly upset, the employee behind the counter comforted
him. He said, “Hey buddy, do you wanna hear a super top secret
only the ice cream scoopers know?” The boy, suddenly curious, nodded
his head yes. “Your sundae is already super yummy with the toppings and
sauces, because the sprinkles don’t taste like much at all. They look pretty,
but that’s about it.” The boy began to calm down, and the mother displayed
gratitude to the worker as they locked eyes over the counter. At the register,
the mother pulled out the exact amount due in a few crumpled dollar bills
and loose change.
As I watched this encounter, waves of feelings suddenly arose. This was
the day I began to understand my purpose. I thought to myself, “I am the
addition, the decoration, and the topping. I look pleasing, but I have no
substance.” I was overcome with sadness. I felt unworthy, inconsequential,
and random. I longed to be adequate and substantial.
Days after, I remained caught up in waves of depression. But I continued
watching like always. An older woman walked inside and ordered a
scoop of vanilla on a cake cone with rainbow sprinkles.
The worker gave her a chuckle, “This is the exact order my six-year-old
daughter always gets!”
The woman replied, “Well, I am a kid at heart, though I may not look
like it! It’s the little things that matter, and boy, do these sprinkles sure
make me happy.”
102 Short Prose

The worker scooped the vanilla ice cream into the cone. He then reached
for the jar of sprinkles.
Before I know it I am falling.
My family and I are scattered with the shake of the employee’s hand.
I tumble through open air onto a bed of ice cream.
Finally,
I feel fulfilled.
I may not be the essential component,
but I add value in a small way.
I add joy.
I spread happiness.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
103

104 Short Prose

Andrew Hall
Grade 10
Westinghouse Arts Academy
Of Birds and Worms
Act One
Scene 1
Forest
BIRD, a little blue bird perches on a branch. She’s clutching WORM in
her claws, humming to herself. The leaves on the trees are the deep browns
and reds of autumn.
BIRD
Singsong
Tweedle dee dee. Tweedle dum dum.
WORM
What are you waiting for?
BIRD
Hmm?
WORM
If you’re gonna eat me, just do it already! I can’t stand waiting here all day.
BIRD
Sighing
Oh, sorry. I’m not feeling very hungry, I guess. It’s just—never mind
WORM looks up at BIRD curiously. He jumps out of BIRD’s claws and
sits on the other side of the branch.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
105

WORM
What’s up?
BIRD
Oh, really it’s nothing. I’ll eat you now, let’s just get on with it.
WORM
Scoots a little closer to BIRD
Come on, just tell me!
BIRD
You really want to know? It’s a little silly.
WORM
YES!
BIRD
Okay, okay. If you say so.
The lights turn off and a spotlight falls on BIRD.
Somewhere, a sad violin begins to play.
Dramatically
I was hanging out by the power lines yesterday. You know, just grooming
my feathers and watching the cars go, like usual. When something on the
other side of the road caught my eye. I flew over and guess what I saw?
All my bird friends, all of them, laughing and playing in the water. Without
me! Oh, it was so humiliating.
The lights turn on, and WORM is now crying and holding a box of tissues.
He blows his nose loudly.
WORM
Between sobs
That. Is. So. Sad.
BIRD
Oh no, don’t cry—It’ll be alright. I’ll make do with no friends. That’s right!
I’ll just, well I don’t know, be some kind of a hermit for the rest of my life.
No family, no friends, just me. Alone. With no one. Forever.
As BIRD is talking, she gets more and more sad, before she snatches
the tissue box from WORM and starts sobbing as well.
106 Short Prose

WORM
That’s it!
WORM stands to his feet.
I can’t stand to see you like this! I have to do something about it!
BIRD
What could a measly little worm do to help me? I’m hopeless!
WORM
I’ll be your friend.
BIRD
Really?
WORM
Sure! What’s the worst that could happen?
BIRD
You get eaten?
WORM
Well, yeah, but you were gonna do that anyway.
BIRD
Fair.
Blackout.
Scene 2
Forest
BIRD sits across from WORM on a tree branch. She’s wearing a French
beret and is painting WORM on a mini easel. WORM is striking a pose.
It’s snowing.
WORM
Paint me like one of your French worms!
BIRD
What?
WORM
Nothing. How’s the painting coming? It’s freezing out here!
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
107

BIRD
Almost finished! Here.
BIRD turns the painting to the audience. It’s a painting of WORM
with cartoonishly muscled arms riding a skateboard.
WORM
Looking down at his arms
That doesn’t look a whole lot like me.
BIRD
It’s art. I’m an artist. Painting isn’t supposed to be totally accurate,
it’s about how things make you feel.
WORM locks eyes with BIRD.
WORM
Okay. How do you feel about me?
BIRD locks eyes with WORM for a moment, before getting flustered and
quickly turning away. She looks towards the audience with a dazed
expression.
BIRD
I think. I think you’re very, very…
WORM
Very what?
BIRD
Very…um…wormy!
WORM
Skeptical
Wormy?
BIRD
Yep! You are very wormy. It is very clear to a master painter such as
myself that you are indeed, without a doubt, wormy.
WORM stares at BIRD for a moment, before giggling and swiping
the painting from BIRD.
WORM
108 Short Prose

Well, thank you very much. If you say I’m wormy
I’ll take it as a compliment.
BIRD
Laughing
Anytime.
WORM holds the painting out to look at it.
WORM
You know what might make this piece even more wormy?
BIRD takes the painting from WORM. She holds it out, trying to
see what WORM is talking about.
BIRD
No, what?
WORM
A sweet mohawk.
BIRD
I don’t think you get art.
WORM gasps and swipes the painting back from BIRD.
They both laugh and begin play-fighting.
Blackout.
Scene 3
Forest
WORM and BIRD sit at the edge of a tree branch. The sun is setting
in front of them. The leaves on the trees have bloomed in pink,
spring blossoms.
WORM
Bird?
BIRD
Yes, Worm?
WORM
If you could have anything in the world, what would you want?
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
109

BIRD pauses to look at WORM, surprised by the question.
BIRD
What kind of question is that?
WORM
Laughing
I don’t know…just humor me. What would you want?
BIRD pauses again, trying to figure out how to say what she wants.
BIRD
I…ah, this is too hard. You go first.
WORM
What? I asked you, you go first!
BIRD lays back against WORM’s shoulder, nudging him,
BIRD
Whining
Gooo firstttt.
WORM
Pushing bird away, laughing
Okay, okay, jeez. I’ll go first.
BIRD gets off of WORM and turns criss-cross to him,
giving him her full attention.
WORM
Would you quit staring!
BIRD
Whatever do you mean?
WORM
Sighing
Whatever. You promise not to make fun of me?
BIRD
I promise.
110 Short Prose

WORM
Okay. Well. I…if I could have one thing in the whole world,
it would be to fly.
BIRD
Really?
WORM
Shocked
What’s wrong with that?
BIRD
Nothing, nothing.
BIRD and WORM say nothing for a moment.
BIRD
You know, I’ve taken you flying before. If you wanted to again,
all you had to do was ask.
WORM
I know, but that’s different. I want to be able to fly.
BIRD
What do you mean?
WORM turns towards the audience, dangling his feet off the branch.
WORM
I mean, I want to be able to fly for myself. To go wherever I want, whenever
I want! To be whatever I want. You don’t realize it, but you’re so lucky.
If I had your wings, I wouldn’t be so afraid to get off the ground. I could
roll right off this branch and know my wings would catch me. I want that
security. I want to know that no matter what I do, no matter who I choose
to be, I’ll have something looking out for me.
BIRD looks at WORM in awe. WORM snaps out of his monologue and
realizes just how close BIRD and him are to each other. He begins to
speak as their faces move closer.
WORM
Softly
How does it feel to fly, Bird?
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
111

BIRD
It feels like when I’m with you.
WORM looks surprised at BIRD but soon melts into a smile. WORM lays
his head down on her shoulder. They stay there for a few moments before
WORM breaks the silence.
WORM
Bird?
BIRD
Yes, Worm?
WORM
You never told me what you’d choose. What do you want more than
anything in the world?
BIRD
I already have it.
End.
112 Short Prose

Sheina Brocha Taub
Grade 9
Yeshiva Girls School
I believe you
“Wake up, honey, it’s implantation day.” I wake up to my mother pulling off
my blanket and shiver as the cold air hits me.
“Up, up, up!” mom says as she gathers some of my nicer clothes to wear.
“Today is a very important day, and I’m so excited for you!” I hear a small
ding as her sensor embedded in her arm blinks red, indicating a lie.
“Mom” I say tentatively, “Tell me the truth, tell me what you really feel,
lying won’t protect me, you know that.” I smile and add “ I’m twelve and
a half now, I can handle any truths.” Mom stops rummaging around my
closet and sits down on my bed. Now that I look closer, I can see deep bags
under her soft brown eyes and her hair, which is the same color and texture
as mine, is slightly greasy, as if she hasn’t had time to wash it.
“Honey, all I want is for you to be happy, and if you want to be happy
about implantation day then you should. Of course I’ll have reservations,
I’m your mother and I want you to be safe.”
When I get to school there’s that weird sort of nervous quiet in the hallways
that’s always there on implantation day, as a whispered rumor or two
circle around the hallways. This year it’s about someone whose mother was
part of a renegade band, and refused to let her son get the implantation.
No one has heard from them since. I get swept up in the crowd of students,
and the many bodies push me to the auditorium. I take a deep breath and
sit down. It’s all going to be okay, I tell myself, thousands of other people
have done this before you. But my brain doesn’t want to listen to reason
and my stomach feels queasy.
“Attention students, please everyone be quiet!” The principal, a graying
man with a short disposition, stands on the stage in a vain attempt to cap-
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
113

ture everyone’s attention.
“Students, our prestigious mayor is coming, please behave!” upon hearing
this the room settles down, with a mix of awe and resentment on their
faces. The room buzzes with nervous energy for the next few minutes as
the principal drones on about what an honor it is for the mayor to join us.
Finally, arriving several minutes late, the mayor enters the room.
“Hello students!” the mayor chirps. She is a tall, almost lanky, 40 something
woman, who has thin hair with a bad dye job.
“What a special day this is! I remember not so long ago when it was
me listening to my mayor on implantation day. Yes, this is a tradition that
has been going on for generations, and you get to be a part of it. For all
those who have reservations, who ask why we do this, let me tell you a
story. Long ago, humans were dishonest and distrustful. They would turn
on their neighbor and accuse their friends. Because of this distrust, when
the renowned scientist, Edward. E. Eclair gave AI free choice, they turned
on the robots too. After a long and bloody war, which many lost their lives
in, robots came out victorious. But of the people that remained, only a few
believed that the robots are what is the best for us, or that we could work
together to build a better world. More and more robots were destroyed and
human lives were lost. There were constant attacks on the other kind. So
the people and robots that believed in a world built back to compromise
both kinds made a plan.Those people and robots were the first esteemed
world council, and that compromise is implantation day.” The mayor pauses
to breathe and look down her half moon glasses at us. The room is quiet.
“Every year, all the twelve year olds in all the countries get assigned a
robot. This robot is installed in the heart, because that is the root of all our
feelings. Not only does the robot run on our heart beat, but in return can
detect our lies, and remind us to be better, and more honest people” I can
hear someone next to me whisper “remind us!” under their breath in contempt.
“more like force us.”
“Also,” the mayor continues,” a small plate will be installed in your arm so
your fellow peers can see how honest you are.” She takes a moment to hold
up her arm, showing us that the plate in her arm is glowing a soft green,
what she is saying is true.
“Humans have the amazing ability to do spontaneous acts of kindness, illogical
good that keeps our world going for no benefit for ourselves. Robots
are logic bound, highly intelligent, and unable to lie. But human lies are
114 Short Prose

our greatest fault. They rip down whatever good our kindness does. And
robots are incapable of self sacrificing kindness, doing things just because
they feel right.” she holds up her arm plate again, “Together, we are whole!”
The crowd cheers as she walks off the stage, followed by rows of alumni,
holding their arms with the plate embedded high. They stop in front of us
and the music stops playing. One of the alumni step forward,
“We” the alumni says, and the crowd repeats after him, holding the plate
in their arms against their heart, “will work together, to build back a world
shaped for 2 kinds. For the strong to help the weak, the cowardly to help
the brave. Alone we have talents and faults, like a jagged piece of glass, But
together is how we were always meant to be,” he takes a breath and watches
the room, and then finishes the pledge by saying, “Balanced!”
After the ceremony we take turns getting checked up. The official who
has been telling us what to do says it’s to make sure we are healthy enough
to get the surgery, but I hear others whispering that it’s to make sure anyone
who the robot might not detect lies from are ‘taken care of’. I shudder,
thinking of all the people who are resentful, even angry, at our system or
the council themselves. The mayor said it’s in human nature to be distrusting,
so of course people don’t completely trust a system either, but I still
get nervous. There have been more and more uprisings, unknown renegade
bands blowing up scientific facilities developing new robots, and material
storehouses.
“Summer, Olivia” a doctor calls out, waking me out of my daydreaming, “
come, don’t worry, you’ll be out in a jiffy” he says with a big smile, too chipper
for his own good. I immediately don’t like him. We walk through lots
of winding white hallways to a small checkup room. The doctor takes out
his stethoscope and checks my heart rate telling me to breathe slowly. They
check the heart because all the technology will be placed, and run, here.
After a few minutes I notice that the doctor has been standing still, with a
small frown replacing his annoying smile for far too long.
“What is it, is there something wrong?” The doctor startels and replies
that everything is totally normal, but as he leaves the room I see the plate
in his arm is glowing red. A lie.
After a while a nurse comes in and takes me to an operation room. They
ask me if I want anesthesia, and I do. Then my world goes dark.
Hello, hello? Oh look, you vitals are back online, you’re awake! Hello, I’m
Eva, your friendly lie detector life friend, and I’m not leaving! Literally, I
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
115

can’t, I’m installed in your heart and have no legs.
Who are you?
Hello, Im eva.
You said that, but where are you, where am I, and how can you hear my
thoughts?
I’m in your heart, the left atrium and sinus node specifically, and part of
me is in the high council’s lab in North carolina. I am, as previously stated,
inside you! But don’t worry, your thoughts are private, I won’t share them
with anyone. You are in North Carolina’s saints hospital , would you like
me to pull up the GPS coordinates?
No, that’s okay.
Your blood sugar is low, so you should eat something like an apple.
What!?
Apple, definition: /àp(e)l/ the round fruit of a tree of the rose family,
which typically has thin red or green skin and crisp flesh. Many varieties
have been developed as dessert or cooking fruit or for making cider.
No, Eva I know what an apple is, I’m just not used to someone reading
my blood sugar. don’t worry i feel fine
Okay, I believe you.
I don’t feel fine, my head is spinning and I’m seeing stars but I just did
something unheard of. I just lied to a robot.
After I get home I lay down, and after a while, my mother pokes her
head in my room.
“Can i come in sweetie” my mother asks, but it’s more of a rhetorical
question because by the time I can answer she’s halfway to my bed.
“Honey, I heard from the doctor that did your check up before your implantation,
something fascinating. Do you know what that was?”
“No, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I see her eyes jump to my
panel, which is glowing a soft green.
“Fascinating” she whispers, and then snaps back into focus and looks
at me. “ Your doctor noticed that you have an irregular heart beat, a specific
condition never heard of, that allows you to lie to robots. Lie to robots! Your
doctor is a part of a renegade band and you’re lucky he was, if it was anyone
else you would be dead. The high council wouldn’t allow anything they
116 Short Prose

can’t control. We haven’t been able to plan anything big because our robots
would sense something, and we can’t lie when they ask if we’re planning
anything. Ending before it even began. Until now.” she takes a breath and
I mull over her words, then something clicks in my brain.
“Wait, you said we?” With a small smile my mother rolls up her arm and
shows me just below her arm plate, a x, so small you wouldn’t notice it
unless you were looking. The symbol of the renegade.
After my mother leaves the room I lay down on my bed and stare at the
ceiling. My mother, a renegade, living in my very home. All those missed
nights and panels glowing red with lies click now. She’s a renegade. Does
she expect me to be one too? The renegades want to fix our society by burning
it down instead of stitching it up. They want a place where they can
be free to do as they please, the only thing reining them in would be their
own moral compass. And a lot of people don’t have that. I realize that the
renegades think that by having a lie detector they have walls up, confining
their decisions in a box . But in truth, the lie detector breaks down the
walls, and they’re just ashamed of what’s hiding behind it. I decide right
then, right there, that I want people, and robots, to always see the true me,
because deception just creates more deception, making a web so sticky you
can never leave. I will not lie to my robot.
Hey eva.
It’s late oliva, you should be asleep.
I know, it’s just been a long day and there is something i want to talk
about.
Ok. this is exciting, i’ve never had a dmc before!
I can lie to you.
Ok. I believe you. Wait, that is impossible. I am confused. Are you joking?
I am bad at sensing jokes.
Woah, calm down eva. Here let me show you. I am 11 feet tall.
Ok. I believe you. That means you beat Robert Wadlow, the tallest person
in recorded history, by 2 feet and 11 inches! Is that humanly possible?
No eva, it’s not. I’m lying.
Ok. Your secret is safe with me.
Why? The most logical thing to do is to report me.
You might get in trouble for not.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
117

But we are friends. Maybe, because you can lie, I can do illogical things too.
Thank you
Can I ask you a favor?
Of course.
Please don’t lie to me.
Don’t worry, I won’t.
The next day I take a deep breath before I knock on my mother’s bedroom
door.
“Hi sweetie. Do you need anything?”
“I want to join the renegade.”
“Good. we have a lot to talk about, but not here.” She hands me my coat
and smiles ‘“I think it’s about time you go to your first renegade meeting.”
A bit later we pull up to an abandoned warehouse, with broken windows
and crumbling walls. We enter and weave around rows of what looks like
old library shelves, stacked up three stories high. When we get to a shelf
marked 34b, she moves it over, revealing a trap door. The entrance to the
renegades compound. We walk down stairs until my feet hurt, and i lose
count at number 324. Eventually we get to a door where my mother does a
complicated series or knocks. I hear a doorknob turn and the door opens,
revealing a bright room inside. As my eyes adjust to light after the dark
stairwell, I look around. The room is relatively bare, with benches on all
four walls, and a large whiteboard that looks dirty from so much use.
“The benches are all at the same height, showing that we should all be
equal,and all entitled to our own choices, with no high council reigning
over us.”
“But isn’t that also what the high council wants,” I ask, remembering
what the alumni said in the pledge “for us to be balanced?” I hear someone
scoff, and I turn around, finally noticing the door opener. She has short,
white hair on half of her head, ( it must be dyed, because she looks no older
than twenty five) and the other half of her head is shaved.
“There’s a difference between equality and balance,” door opener says, “
balance is slowly adding and taking away bits and pieces of a society, like
a recipe, until it’s perfect for one man’s vision. Equality is giving everyone
the same fighting chance, and then letting nature decide what happens.”
We walk into the main room and see about 8 people already seated, and I
118 Short Prose

ecognize one of them as my doctor, still wearing that annoying grin. A few
people call hello to my mother and someone named Trix, who I realize is
door opener. Some people cast me sideways glances and I hear a few whispers,
but once my mother sits down the room goes quiet. I realize that she’s
some sort of renegade leader.
“Hello everyone” my mother begins” today i bring my daughter, the key
to bringing down the high council and robot reign!” The room bursts into
cheers and starts to go over details of a plan that they have obviously been
working on for a while, waiting for the right person to come along.
“What we want to do is get into the high council’s lab in north dakota,”
my mother begins, addressing the crowd, “ This is where they keep the
main computer, which sends signals to all the implanted robots. Trix, our
hacker, has made a hard drive that once inserted in the computer will send
a bug to all the implanted robots, and it will only be a matter of seconds
before all the robots crash. Once the high council can no longer use lie detectors
on us, they are defenseless.”
“Yes” the doctor says” they guard everything with lie detectors, and they
use it as a crutch, which is a liability for them, because they have hardly
any other defenses. This is where you come in, olivia.” he grins at me. “ The
compound has lie detectors at every entrance, where you have to state your
name, profession, and if you’re loyal to the high council. Before now the
last question has always stumped us, but you can just waltz right in! From
there, there’s a few more lie detectors, with more of the same questions.
Once you get to the main computer you just jam in the hard drive and bam!
Do you think you can do that?” He asks it in a condescending tone with his
big smile still plaster to his face. I really hate this guy, and wouldn’t mind
bringing down the renegade just to wipe his smile off his face. But i just say,
“I think so,” and that seems good enough for them, because Trix says
good, and holds up a small black square. The bugged hard drive.
“Wait,” says a short, stumpy man in the corner. His eyebrows seem to be
permanently drawn together in a confused expression. “ Isn’t that, like..,
our disk thing, with all our secrets and stuff, because they look exactly the
same.” Trix rolls her eyes and says in an extremely sarcastic tone
“Yes, we are going to use the hard drive with all our renegade names and
aliases, and just hope Olivia presses the right button.” she sighs, “ why do
we keep him around, again?”
A girl sitting next to him, with a sweet, heart shaped face, says some-
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
119

thing about them both being SSD hard drives, in an attempt to smooth
everything out. I turn to her and ask,
“How do you decide who keeps the hard drive with all the secretes, if you
all should have equal right to have it.’’ I know I’m treading on dangerous
waters but I need to know. When she turns to answer me she doesn’t look
suspicious, only confused.
“Huh. I never thought about that. But you shouldn’t worry about who has
it,” she winks and says “’cause she’s probably the person you trust most here.”
That means my mother has the hard drive.
When I get home my mother drops me off and leaves, telling me she’ll
be gone for the night. That gives me about 7 hours to find the hard drive.
Oliva, what are you doing?
Looking for this hard drive.
Why do you need the hard drive?
If I can insert the renegades hard drive into the main computer, instead
of the bugged one, then it will send that information to all the implanted
robots. Once the implanted robots know who all the renegades are, it will
be a matter of time before they are shut down.
Judging by your GPS coordinates you have been frantically searching
your apartment for the last hour and a half. Any luck?
No.
Humans tend to hide things inside items of sentimental value.
Ok. So what does my mother hold most important?
You?
As far as i know my mother didn’t implant it inside me, she seems to be
pretty against implantations as a whole. -Wait, I think it might know
where it is. After my dad died she put away her wedding picture, I think
as some sort of coping mechanism. But it’s now on her nightside table.
Oohh! Is this what excitement feels like?
Eva, it’s here! We’re bringing down the renegade tomorrow.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my exterminator outfit the renegades gave
me as I hug my mother goodbye and walk up to the main entrance of the
120 Short Prose

high council’s lab. ‘I’m so proud of you honey,’ my mother said. I guess that
all depends on what I do today.
“Hello. Welcome to the high council’s lab, North Carolina branch.” I look
up and notice that I’ve reached the main entrance. In Front of me are two
big sliding doors. Mounted above them is a small robot that looks alot like
a security camera. It swivels its head (if you can call it that) to look at me.
Its small camera glows red, looking alot like one eye glaring down at me.
“Hello-”
“Place your wrist on the sensor before you talk.” Next to me there’s a hip
height, thin metal box, ending in a wrist sized half circle. I place my wrist
in the half circle and after a few seconds the whole box starts to pulse a soft
green. I realize that it’s pulsing along with my heartbeat.
“State your name.”
“Olivia Summers.”
“Olivia Summers. Age- 12. Height- 56”. Mother- Dora Summers. Father-
Robert Summers, deceased. Is this correct?
“Yes.”
“ State your profession”
“Exterminator apprentice.” The metal box keeps pulsing a soft, steady
green. No lie detected.
“Are you loyal to the high council? Answer in a yes or no format.”
“Yes.” The box stays steady, and after a moment the doors open. I walk
through the doors and follow the map the renegades made me memorize.
Left, right, left, left, forward, right. Before long I’m through the last lie detector
and at the main computer. The main computer is a big, ten foot high
box, filled with wires and buttons and levers varying in size. Along the left
side are slots filled with dozens of hard drives. I take a deep breath and jam
the hard drive in.
The machine is silent, and all I can hear is the mundane chattering of
government bureaucrats, going about their day. Suddenly, I hear the machine
whirr to life, processing the hard drive. A small light blinks on, right
above the hard drive port, glowing a bright green. It worked! I feel my
shoulders loosen, and finally, a rush of pride surges through me. I’ve given
my world, and my mother, a second chance.
Oliva, I don’t feel so well. I think I’m glitching.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
121

It takes a second before I register what she said. How could eva be glitching?
I frantically search through my deep pockets until I find the other hard
drive. It’s the bugged one. That means the renegade’s, the one filled with
secrets, is currently in the computer. Unless… maybe everything was too
easy. The dropped hints about the renegades hard drive, my mom being out
for the whole night, her picture frame happening to be on her bedside table.
Bits and pieces start to click into place until a very ugly picture forms. It
was a trick. Both hard drives were bugged. I never had a choice.
Oliva! What’s happening? I think I’m dying. I’m ScaReD
Just hold on a little longer, I can fix this, I know I can. Please don’t leave me.
It’s ok. Did we at least win?
All around me lights are flickering, robots are sparking, and I can see renegades
storming the building, randomly firing bullets. I know that the robots
and high council aren’t prepared for this. They built a perfect society
where this would never happen. But humans aren’t content with perfection,
and now everyone will pay the price.
OliviA?
I swore to my robot I would never lie to her, and Eva told me that she wasn’t
leaving. I guess it’s fitting that we break our promises in a breaking world.
Yes, eva. We won.
Ok. I believe you.
I hear static and know Eva is gone.
122 Short Prose

Bella Minyo
Grade 10
Shaler Area High School
The Cherry Lane Ordeal
Wolfgang and Grant stroll leisurely through the Département of Vaucluse
in Provence-Alpes Côte-d’Azur, located in the southeastern region of France.
Their shoes scrape softly against the bumpy, well-used cobblestone street
guiding them to their destination. The faint smells of Monts de Venasque
cherry waft around the population’s noses, giving the whole town a sweet
aroma. A customer is haggling with a stall merchant over the price of
imported wines, years 1934–1936, from Bordeaux. An old, deteriorating
church looms in the distance as its bell reverberates seven times, echoing
throughout the region. Neutral-colored stone and stucco buildings line the
roads with large windows giving the town a rustic appeal.
Grant glances back and forth, taking in as much as possible of the quaint
area. He halts in his tracks upon seeing a faded, over-stuffed scarecrow
standing tall in a vegetable garden in front of a house. Flashbacks flood his
memories. The bank, the town angrily swarming his home, his father’s lifeless
body dangling from the beams in the attic. It’s all still so fresh feeling,
he can’t help but think.
Wolfgang glimpses at Grant. “Is everything alright? You look dazed.”
“I’m fine, I just got a little lightheaded from the heat. Should we stop at
a cafe for a quick evening bite?”
Grant’s childhood friend and fellow detective, Wolfgang, pauses, choosing
not to press the issue further, and nods towards a cafe with outdoor
seating. “How about this one?” Wolfgang replies. “It has a nice view of the
cherry orchards. It’s just at the end of this road, Cherry Lane.”
Grant responds, “That sounds wonderful.”
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
123

The two stride closer and plop into the deep blue rattan chairs. Their
seats offer partial shade from the setting sun under the cobalt and white
striped awning.
A young server walks up to Wolfgang and Grant’s table.
“Can I get you gentlemen anything to drink?”
“I’ll have a coffee, please,” says Grant, and Wolfgang orders the same.
The server walks away with their order, back to the small cafe.
Grant and Wolfgang chat quietly, discussing the latest devastation from
the stock market crash.
“The chief just cut two more desk clerks,” mumbles Wolfgang, an assistant
detective. “I just hope he doesn’t start looking at our department.”
“Me too. I just joined the force a couple of years ago, and it was only because
you put in a good word for me. I’d be the first person to cut,” Grant
sighs and bites his lip, a nervous tick he has yet to shake from childhood.
“I’m sure everything will…” Wolfgang trails off, a curious glint in his eyes.
A tall brunette woman walks by in a flowing navy dress reaching just
below her knee. A floral scarf is tied around her waist in a bow. She slips
a slight smile to Wolfgang as her dress and loose hair flutter in the breeze.
Just as soon as she appears, all that is heard is the clicking of her heels as
she walks away, leaving Wolfgang with a dreamy expression in his eyes.
“Well, well, well, looks like you got a case of the butterflies,” smirks Grant,
glad for the distraction.
“Oh, shut it.”
Wolfgang tries to look away but can’t help the grin spreading from ear
to ear as his face reddens.
“Maybe if you chase after her, you can take her on a dinner date?” chuckles
Grant.
Before Wolfgang can respond, the server reappears with their drinks.
“Would either of you like anything to eat?”
Wolfgang, happy to change the subject, replies, “What would you
recommend?”
“Well, we have a lemon tart with freshly picked Menton lemons, native
to this area. It would go very well on this warm June evening,” remarks
the server.
124 Short Prose

“We will do that then,” says Wolfgang, taking a sip of his coffee. “Two
slices of your lemon tart, please.”
The server walks away after taking their order and returns quickly due
to the few occupants in the cafe. As the dishes clatter on their round table
with ebony wrought iron legs, a pompous man, outfitted in a well-tailored
suit, bumps into the server and table, leading the plates to slide off and
shatter. A few shards topple over and fall onto the detective’s ivory trousers.
The boisterous man turns angrily and shoves the server sending him
and the table tumbling. “You! How dare you run inta me! Don’t ya know
better than to pick fights with me? Especially afta last night!” yells the man.
The server, visibly trembling, stutters, “I—I am so s—sorry, sir.”
Grant and Wolfgang share a look, their confusion and mild amusement
showcased on their features. Hesitantly Grant says to the menacing man,
“Sir, it was just an honest mistake. You accidentally bumped into our server.
You reacted aggressively by pushing our server into our table, which could
have hurt him, us, and the table next to us quite a bit.”
The man snorts, and his left coal-black eyebrow reaches for his slickedback
salt-and-pepper hair. He takes in Grant’s shorter stature, observing
with a smirk the ruffles of chestnut hair and innocent verdant eyes. With a
biting remark ready on the tip of his tongue, the over-dressed man suddenly
hesitates. Icy blue daggers glare at the two detectives, sporting badges on
their light-hued Gaucho neck polo shirts. The man quickly recovers, but his
mood darkens as he leans over the two young investigators, casting a dark
shadow over where they sit.
“You gumshoes better stay outta this. It’s none a yer business,” the man’s
deep voice resounds barely above a whisper so only the server, Wolfgang,
and Grant can hear him. “Oh, and don’t try any of yer games, followin’ me
an whatnot, you won’t get very far,” is the last thing the man threatens as
he walks away, the clicking of his shoes against the pavement serving as an
ominous warning.
Wolfgang turns towards the visibly upset server, still positioned on the
ground. Reaching for the server’s arms, he pulls the server up.
“Are you okay, sir?” asks Wolfgang. “That was quite the confrontation.
Can we do anything to help you?”
“No, I… ” the server pauses. “I’m fine, just a bit shaken. Thank you for the
offer. It is greatly appreciated. I must get back to work, and I am terribly
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
125

sorry about your desserts.”
Grant hurriedly adds, “It wasn’t even your fault! That bastard should be
the one to clean up this mess!”
Grant places a handful of francs on a nearby table, the silver coins rattling
against the marble surface. The server graciously accepts the francs
and scurries away.
“Wolfgang, what just happened?” whispers Grant.
“I’m not sure, but I don’t have a good feeling about it. Maybe we should
find out more about that man, given the way he threatened us.”
Wolfgang and Grant begin walking to the general store further down
Cherry Lane. The wind swirls, almost knocking Wolfgang’s cotton golf cap
off his head and pushing the tree branches into sinister curves. The once
welcoming atmosphere turns foreboding as the clouds thicken into a menacing
mass. Just as the first droplets of rain come down, the two investigators
set foot in the general store. A small, shimmering bell hanging from
the door signals their entry.
Wolfgang strides over to the counter where the store clerk sits, scanning
the daily paper. The clerk stands up, a middle-aged man with an apron tied
around his gray striped shirt tucked into black trousers. The clerk glances
wearily at the polished badges adorning the shirts of Wolfgang and Grant.
While stroking his mustache and puffing from a cigar, the clerk rasps,
“Is there anything I can do for you, detectives?”
“Do you have any knowledge of a man in his late fifties, greasy salt-andpepper
hair, and of average height? He wore a navy pinstriped suit,” Wolfgang
responds.
“Hmm,” the clerk taps his index finger against the sturdy wooden counter.
“That man would be Joey Prepotente. He came in here not too long ago,
maybe an hour, to use the telephone and asked about the quickest way to
get to the harbor. I gave him some directions. That’s about all I know. Sorry
can’t do more for ya—er, you fellas.”
Grant adds, “Are you sure you didn’t notice anything unusual about
him? Maybe an accessory?”
“Well, he did have this ring. Real big and shiny, had a red-looking snake
on it. There was some writing, but I couldn’t make heads or tails of it,” offers
the clerk.
126 Short Prose

Wolfgang responds, “Thanks. We’ll be on our way out now.”
Just as they exit the store, a blood-curdling scream rips through the air. A
chill ripples through the night as Grant and Wolfgang dash into the pouring
storm to the scream’s origin. They run across Cherry Lane into the courtyard
overlooking the cherry orchards, where a behemoth of a tree stands.
Ripe scarlet cherries dangle from the branches, underneath which
an older woman stands, horror imprinted on her face. Swaying in the
breeze, the faint outline of a body hangs, illuminated by the flashes of
lightning penetrating the skyline. A rope the color of crimson is knotted
around the victim’s neck and tied to the cherry branches. Another flare
of lighting shines upon the face of the body, identifying the man as the
cafe server. Wolfgang’s brows furrow as he glances over at Grant, whose
face is pale as a sheet.
A voice faintly echoes in the night, “Help…please…I can’t breathe…help!”
Grant hesitates. The figure is reminiscent of his father, an outline scarring
him as a child. But, taking a deep breath, Grant sprints to the body,
outpacing Wolfgang, who had already started over, and swiftly unties the
skillfully made noose.
The server collapses, gasping for air, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
A blood-red men’s handkerchief floats out of the server’s pocket onto the
weathered cobblestone. Wolfgang motions to the elderly lady and asks her
to alert the local police.
Pacing over to Wolfgang, Grant murmurs, “The initials on this handkerchief
have JP; perhaps for Joey Prepotente.”
Wolfgang nods and lifts the server, who gratefully says, “Thank you. I
don’t know what I would’ve done if no one rescued me.”
“Of course, it’s our job to help people,” solemnly replies Grant.
Wolfgang leads the server to a wooden bench and eases him into the
seat. The massive tree’s extensive foliage offers some cover from the torrential
downpour.
“Can I get your name?” Wolfgang asks.
“My name is Pierre. Pierre Fournier.”
“Ah, yes, there was a boy living on my street when I was younger with
that name. Quite a nice kid. Now Pierre, can you tell me anything about
who did this to you? Or even how it happened?”
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
127

“I—” Pierre breaks off. “I’m very sorry, detective, but could I please have
a moment to collect my thoughts? I’m still recovering from—er—being almost
killed you see.”
“Yes, of course. I understand how traumatic these events can be. I’ll be
back once I’m done talking with Grant, the detective I work with.”
Wolfgang then strides over to Grant, whose lonely silhouette is gazing
at the cherry tree.
“I know that must have been hard on you, with how similarly it mirrored…his
death.”
Grant glances at Wolfgang and responds, “My father’s death has haunted
me for years, thinking maybe I could have done something to save him.
But I can’t control the past. I can only control how the experience will
affect me now.”
“It can be difficult in our line of work, but I’m glad you’re feeling somewhat
better, even if it doesn’t feel like much.”
“Me too. It will still take some time. But for the moment, let’s focus on
what just happened. Whatever transpired here feels incomplete. We’re
missing a piece of the puzzle.”
An eerie stillness settles in the air. The trees stilled and crickets quieted.
“We’re missing more than just a piece of the puzzle. Something about
this doesn’t sit right with me,” mumbles Wolfgang.
Grant’s mouth hangs half-open ready to respond until a boom echoes
into the night.
Wolfgang and Grant’s heads shoot in the direction of the noise. A mountain
of smoke escapes from what they can only assume is the quaint little
cafe they ate at an hour earlier. The cafe’s roof appears engulfed in red and
orange hues that dance under the starry sky, despite the bullets of water
piercing through the chilly night.
“Oh no!” wails the server, trembling hands sliding down his pale face.
“They got to him.”
“Who?” Grant and Wolfgang ask in unison.
“The poor old man. The cafe is all he has left! And he’s all by himself!”
Grant gets ready to bolt back to the cafe, but Wolfgang holds out a hand
to stop him. Wolfgang motions his head to a man leaning against one of the
brick buildings leading from the alley from Cherry Lane to the courtyard.
128 Short Prose

Thinning gray hair sits atop the man’s head as he breathes heavily with
his hands resting on wrinkled trousers.
“Sir, are you alright?” shouts Wolfgang.
“I’m…” the man pauses to let out a string of hoarse coughs. “I’m quite
alright,” he manages to choke out.
Grant gazes with curiosity at the man trying to catch his breath.
“I can’t imagine what you must have done for someone to go after you
and your server like this…” Grant trails off as he gestures at the scene
around them.
Wolfgang stoops down to retie his shoe and keeps a calm demeanor on
his face, but his mind is running wild.
Someone tried to kill that server, and the cafe is up in flames! But for
some reason, the culprits are yet to be seen. And there’s not a single trace but
a crimson handkerchief. This was an organized operation, but by whom?
Wolfgang stands and walks around himself, observing the entirety of
the courtyard.
“Grant, have you seen that elderly woman? She should have been back by
now I would think. I noticed a police officer posted at the street corner next
to those food stalls from earlier.”
“You’re right. Perhaps she got hurt from the explosion?”
“Possibly or…” Wolfgang hesitates. “Let’s talk to the server and ask him
what he saw. He should hopefully be ready by now. The same goes for
the old man.”
Grant gives a terse nod in response.
You never know who might be listening. That’s a lesson I learned the
hard way, Grant thinks to himself.
“Let’s go to one of those lounges I saw while walking down Cherry Lane.
I think it would be a good place to get out of this rain and dry off,” says
Grant, putting an arm around the old man to help steady him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” asks the old man. “My cafe didn’t
burn down. It was the delivery truck behind it!”
“But—wait, what?” Wolfgang starts. How is that even possible the cafe
didn’t catch on fire? It sure looked like it, is what he wanted to say, but the
man was already hauling Grant back through the alleyway from the court-
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
129

yard onto Cherry Lane.
“Are you sure it’s safe to go back to the cafe, sir?” asks Wolfgang.
“I think I know my own cafe,” shouts the man. “Hurry up, or we’ll all be
even more soaked!”
Sighing, Wolfgang runs a hand down his face in exasperation. He begins
to follow the older man with the server right beside him. Wolfgang gazes
at the artfully crafted buildings around him, the damp brick and stucco
glistening in the hazy streetlights. He catches a look at himself in one of
the windows, hazel eyes staring right back and wind-tossed hair sticking
out in a few places. Wolfgang quickly smoothes his hair with his hand, then
returns his gaze back to the server.
“Are you feeling better, Pierre?”
“I guess. Nothing different than how I’m usually treated by those bastards.”
Wolfgang raises an ebony eyebrow in shock. What kind of server finds
this treatment normal?
“Well, don’t worry too much about it. It’s Grant’s and my job to find those
kinds of people and make them face the law for their actions.”
The four men enter the cafe as the water continues to pour from the sky.
Inside the cafe, the seating resembles that of the outside sitting area.
The same blue rattan chairs and tables are arranged throughout the open
area. Dim lights, attached to brass sconces, cast shadows on the gray walls.
Despite the coolness outside, the cafe inside is stagnant and warm.
The old man motions to a table with four chairs, and they all take a seat.
“Shouldn’t we take a look at your delivery truck?” concernedly asks Grant.
“Nah, what good would we be able to do anyway? It’s raining cats and
dogs out there, and it’s not like I can report it to the police or anything.”
“Maurice, they are the police,” says Pierre, shaking his head.
“What? I don’t remember seeing you two around here,” queries the old man.
“We aren’t police officers from this region,” says Wolfgang. “Grant and I
are detectives on a squad from England.”
“Well, then, what are you two doing in Côte-d’Azur?”
“We were here for some diplomatic reasons, but things wrapped up early,
so we decided to take a look around the area.”
130 Short Prose

“Yeah,” agrees Grant. “It’s quite nice around here when trucks aren’t
blowing up. Other than that, I’m enjoying the atmosphere.”
Wolfgang pinches the bridge of his nose and elbows Grant in the side
with a look that says, “Shut the bloody hell up.”
Grant stares at Wolfgang obliviously and mouths, “What did I do?”
“Your town is a very nice place,” assures Wolfgang, sighing. “We just have
a few questions regarding these recent events. We would like to do what
we can to help.”
Pierre seizes the cafe owner Maurice’s hand, “Please let them help.
They’re not like the others. Maybe, and I know this is wishful thinking, but
maybe they can help us with Les Cloches Pourpres.”
“Quiet, boy! Don’t you know they have eyes and ears everywhere!”
“What is Les Cloches Pourpres?” Grant and Wolfgang ask in unison.
“Les Cloches Pourpres is a local gang. They take whatever they desire
and hurt whomever they please. In your language, it translates to ‘The
Crimson Bells,’” says Maurice.
Wolfgang gazes around the room. Les Cloches Pourpres, huh? Must be a
small gang because they’ve flown under the radar of the Côte-d’Azur police.
I guess they have bigger fish to fry. Or they’re on the gang’s payroll. Wolfgang
clenches his jaw and turns back to the conversation, as Grant asks
what Maurice and Pierre had to do with Les Cloches Pourpres.
Pierre responds with a nervous tremor in his voice, “They use our delivery
trucks for transporting their shipments. I don’t know what’s in any of
the crates they have, but it’s something smuggled in with the cherries from
the local orchards.”
“And how do you know this?” asks Grant, quirking an eyebrow.
Pierre nods to Maurice, “He got caught up in the gang when he couldn’t
make payments on the cafe. The stock market ruined this town, and even
though it may not seem like it, everyone is hurting. And, when people are
hurting in times like these, they can get desperate.”
“I didn’t realize what I was getting into,” admits Maurice. “They made it
seem like they were just lending me some money to get by and that I would
pay them back once I got the money. But, I never made the money back,
and they said they would take away everything and everyone I loved and
cared for if I didn’t get them the money somehow.”
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
131

“So,” says Wolfgang, leaning his forearms on the table. “How did you ‘pay’
them back?”
“I offered them my silence on their operations. They wanted the truck.
I guess they thought my cafe was very unassuming. They said it was the
perfect front. No one will suspect the old man, of course.”
Wolfgang leans back in his chair and pulls out the red men’s handkerchief
from the courtyard, placing it on the table.
“When we untied Pierre from the cherry tree in the courtyard, we found
this handkerchief with the initials JP on it. Earlier today, Joey Prepotente
threatened Pierre and us while we were trying to enjoy our pie. What do
you know about Joey and his relationship with the gang? What is his role?”
Grant sneaks a glance outside the window from his seat and sees a figure
standing outside. He cranes his neck, straining to get a better look at
the person. Why did we choose a table so far away? Just as Grant is about to
turn away, he sees the shadowy figure lift something in their hand. Grant’s
heart skips a beat and then the beat after.
Pierre opens his mouth to respond to Wolfgang’s question when a shot
rings through the balmy cafe. The glass window shatters into a million minuscule
shards. Grant’s eyes widen as Pierre slumps forward. His forehead
hits the table, making a sickening smack that only sweaty flesh can on a
marble surface. Crimson blood pools around Pierre’s head and drips off the
sides of the table, onto the tiled floor.
Wolfgang tries to yank Grant under the table, but the person who fired
the shot has already vanished, lost to the thundering rain and gloomy night.
Grant tries to move, tries to do or say something, but he is frozen, rooted
to his spot.
Wolfgang stands up and lightly shakes Grant.
“Grant. Grant, come on. We need to get out of here.”
Maurice hunches overtop Pierre, holding his body in his hands. Tears
streaming down his wrinkled, tired face, he chokes out, “This was never
supposed to happen. Never.”
Grant turns to Wolfgang, eyes set and jaw clenched.
“We’re not leaving this town. Not until we’ve figured out this plague, this
disease, spreading to all these people. We will find whoever did this.”
132 Short Prose

Wolfgang strides over to the front of the cafe and grabs a piece of floral
fabric caught in the broken glass, blowing in the wind.
“I think I have an idea of where we can start.”
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
133

134 Short Prose

Brant Lipson
Grade 10
Winchester Thurston School
The Nature vs
Nurture Experiment
Walking out of the terminal, looking over at the huge windows offering a
view of the Delta planes on the runway, I see a hyperactive child who runs
up and bangs his head on the huge window. When the child bangs into the
window, I chuckle, imagining the window falling off when he bangs into
it, so he falls onto the runway of BWI cracking his head open, the child’s
screams fading as more blood rushes out of his head. Hehe. That would be
so funny.
Turning off airplane mode, I see a text from my father. Hey Si, Hope your
flight went well! I texted him back thanks and looked around for some kind
of place to eat. I’m in gate A32 and my flight to Phoenix Sky Harbor is gate
A40 so I have no need to rush. Spotting a Starbucks, I grab my wallet and
get in line. I don’t even need to look at the menu to know what I’m going
to order, a Chamomile tea. It’s my favorite drink. The man standing in the
front of the line startles me, he’s wearing a tuxedo that reminds me of a
recurring nightmare I’ve been having of me cutting myself open.
The nightmare is the same every time: I’m standing in my bathroom of
the house I grew up in, about to turn the faucet on when I notice the walls
are really 2D images on four pieces of cardboard, then I feel the sand at my
feet and the cardboard walls fall away. I’m on a beach when I notice a man
standing at the shore. He has my long, dark hair but it’s slicked back and he
has on a tuxedo with nice dressy shoes. He turns to face me. That’s when I
see he has blue eyes instead of brown eyes like me. In the dream, he looks
at me and the beach is suddenly some kind of basement. Fake Sirius, as I’ve
decided to call him, calls me “Leo” and lunges at me. He slams my head
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
135

against the concrete floor, my head is hurting so much and before I have
the chance to understand what is happening, I am screaming and Fake
Sirius is smiling, really enjoying himself. I manage to turn my head and
see that he took a short knife, jamming it deep into and across my stomach,
that’s when I see my bloody guts coming up and out of me. The dream ends
when I roll out of my bed, screaming.
Still standing in line, I hear my phone ding, seeing texts from my parents.
Dad wished me a good flight, and Mom asked about Baltimore; my
parents lived in a little town outside of Baltimore before they had me. I unfortunately
wasn’t able to grow up anywhere that remotely resembled a city.
I had to grow up in stupid Raeford, North Carolina. Raeford is two hours
from Rally, there’s only about three places to eat, one little grocery store,
and a small volunteer fire department. I grew up basically in isolation, only
around adults, really.
Giving the barista my order, I wait next to the counter and grab my
tea. I see on the cup the barista spelt my name ‘Sirise’ when my name is
actually spelled ‘Sirius.’ Looking at my phone, it’s now twenty minutes until
boarding, so I make the short walk to my gate, set down my backpack, and
pull out the latest book I’m reading, The Dead Girl In 2A by Carter Wilson.
It’s about a guy who meets a woman on his flight who is planning on killing
herself, both of them have no memory of their childhoods. I’m almost
halfway through it; I read it on my flight from Boston Logan to here. I, of
course, like it because it involves memory loss, the whole reason I’m flying
out to Phoenix. My psychologist, Dr. Aronsin, said he has a friend there
who specializes in amnesia, that I would be his ‘ideal patient.’ It’s not really
the weird dreams that I worry about, but I don’t like that my memories are
only in fuzzy pieces; I think I’m the only twenty-year old to have memory
issues. My memories aren’t all there. I can, however, remember certain
things and some in great detail, including my first memory.
In the memory, I’m sitting on a couch, the floor real hardwood, me facing
a yellow wall. I’m watching a news report, the reporter saying, “Bill
MR.25.05 The Cloning Prohibition Act of 2001 proposed by Florida Republican
Dave Weldon passed the House, July 31st. This bill would prohibit attempts
of cloning cells, tissues, stem cells, of humans or animals. Receiving
or importing such attempts would also result in civil and criminal punishment.
President George W. Bush supports this law.”
But other memories are just blurry. For example, my parents tell me at
the age of twelve, we went to some kind of amusement park called Kings
136 Short Prose

Dominion but I only have a vague sense of the memory, like I know it’s
there, but I can’t recall any specifics about it.
I am a bit weary about seeing this Dr. Hixon guy. I mean, I trust Dr. Aronsin,
it’s just I don’t really care for him that much, there’s nothing wrong
with him necessarily. It’s my weird parents who want me to see him. They
said if I wanted to move to Boston I had to be seeing a psychologist while
I lived there. I know why they’re worried. The memory is a bit fuzzy but
when I was around the age of eight, I drew some kind of picture of a guy
bleeding out, I vaguely remember them freaking out. I thought it was funny.
As a teenager, I never hurt anyone or anything, but because I liked to go
into the woods and stab trees, pretending they were people, and because I
had dreams with, as my dad likes to say, “dreams of violent thoughts and
desires” they pay for me to see a doctor. So they don’t freak out on me, I just
pretend I don’t have these “violent desires” or whatever. I’ve never actually
hurt anyone, and I won’t. At least, not without a reason.
I hear the boarding call for my group, so I get in line, happy to finally
board, I got a window seat. Settling in my seat, I see the woman who is
sitting next to me. I see that she has a little dog in a carrier, sleeping. I love
animals, and I think anyone who hurts animals should have their stomachs
cut open, their intestines wriggling around outside of them.
When we start to take off, I put my headphones on, grab my phone, and
hit play on Cars 3. I know I’m technically an adult, but I love basically anything
that has to do with cars, both the Disney franchise and actual cars.
Not really sure why, it’s kinda like I was born just loving anything car-related.
As the movie plays, I feel myself falling asleep, drifting off to the sound
of Lightning McQueen crashing and losing his race.
The cornfields feel to be as timeless as infinity, all looking the same
wherever I look. Next to me is a broken-down looking house, and behind
me there’s the road and a sign reading “Ocean City: 80 miles, Rehoboth: 60
miles.” I’ve never been to either of those places. Without deciding to, I walk
into the house, excited for some unknown thing. The house smells like a
lab and I see what I realize is my latest victim. I get excited without even
wanting to, at the sight of the kid with a bashed head.
I wake up. Realizing I was in a dream, the bump of the descending plane
startled me awake. The kind of dream I just had isn’t a bad dream, those
dreams with the bloody bodies are actually my favorite. Of course, I don’t
tell anyone that.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
137

Once I deplane, walking through the Phoenix airport which looks like
any other airport, I do see one thing that stands out. One of the ads on the
wall catches my eye, saying, ALCOR: Life Extension Cryonics. My parents
are both fascinated with cryonics. I don’t really get why. Like wow, freezing
bodies. So much fun. I think slicing open bodies would be more fun.
Outside of the airport I call a Lyft and head over to Dr. Hixson. I’m in
Phoenix, but his office is in Glendale, only about twenty minutes away.
As I stand outside of Dr. Hixons’ office, my skin absorbing the warmth
of the Glendale sun, I tell myself what I always do before any kind of doctors
appointment. There is nothing wrong with the ‘violent thoughts and
desires’ you have, you’re normal, people are just judgy, your parents are
weird. Just put up the act like every other time, and nothing will go wrong,
and remember to turn up the charm. I take a big breath and step inside.
Dr. Hixon is sitting in an office chair next to a desk with a laptop. He has
shaggy blond hair and blue eyes. This office reminds me of those liminal
space pictures I’ve seen YouTube videos of. It’s not that the office really
looks like a liminal space, but it makes me feel the way I do when watching
those nostalgia-inducing videos. I remember reading a comment on one of
those videos that liminal spaces feel familiar because you’ve been there in
your past life.
Dr. Hixon gestures for me to sit down on the couch and to talk about
basically anything. This doesn’t seem very experimental but ok. So I just
told him about the nightmare, where I grew up, having odd parents and
of course, the memory loss. Dr. Hixon really perked up at that and said, “I
like you, Sirius. I can show you the truth about everything. You can call me
Riker, by the way.”
He got up and went through a door to the right of me. I suddenly start to
feel an odd mix of anxiety, excitement, and nostalgia, like I’ve been to this
weird-looking office and met this man in some other lost time.
Going through the door, I get a big whiff of formaldehyde. Looking
around, I’m in some sort of concrete basement with large, shiny silver
cylinders that have to be at least eleven feet tall. There looks to be about
twenty in total, ten in each row, the logo on the cylinders says, “Chillers
Cryonics”. What. The. Hell. I follow him down the hallway. Creepy. Riker
stops in front of one of the cylinders. There’s a little stand next to it that
reads “Ambrose Anu Sirken. Circumstance: Serial Killer; Nature vs Nurture
experiment”
138 Short Prose

Before I can really think anything, Riker calls out “Ambrose” and I hear
unexpected footsteps coming from behind the giant cylinders, startling me.
What pops out from behind the cylinder is what really startles me. It’s Fake
Sirius. He looks almost exactly as he did in the dream, blue eyes, dress
shoes and tux.
“You see. You’re a clone. This guy is Ambrose,” Riker says, gesturing towards
who I guess is Ambrose. “He was a serial killer in the late 1990s until
2001. The government made a deal with him that if they could use his DNA
to clone him, instead of killing him, they would turn him into a corpsicle.”
I just stand there, stunned, trying to calculate what to do next.
“The Nature vs Nurture Experiment is an experiment that was started
in the 1970s by the CCDR or Cloning and Cryogenics for Defense and Research
department, when cryo and cloning was starting. The goal of the
experiment is to see two things: if nature or nurture’s a bigger factor. And
if there is a way to prevent serial killers/terrorists/perverts based on how
they are raised, if there are any common factors. The people/clones used
had to be somewhat obscure, so no Ted Bundy. They were to be raised
completely differently from their original childhoods. You’re one of these
subjects. You’re the clone of Ambrose Sirken/CCDR experiment #370. A
small-town serial killer. He lived in Sykesville, Maryland.”
“So, wait, I never had a childhood? I’ve actually always been twenty?” I
ask, more questions swirling around in my mind, unsure what to ask.
“Though with some cloning techniques that would be the case, we’ve
engineered a new cloning technique. Similar to Dolly the sheep.” He takes a
big breath and looks up observing me. He continues. “It works in two parts.
We first take cells from all organs of the Original and implant them into a
sort of artificial embryo made up from the Original’s DNA. Placing that embryo
into a kind of incubator machine, the embryo grows normally. At the
three-month mark, we take neurons from each part of the Original’s brain,
implanting them into the embryo. We then take the embryo out of the incubator
and place it into a willing surrogate. Because some mutations occur
by themselves, it can result in slight differences like height and eye color.”
Riker then goes on to explain that Ambrose is one of the first of the
corpsicles to be unfrozen. Well shoot, I guess this explains why my parents
were always obsessed with cryonics.
Riker then got a very serious expression on his face and explained how
I cannot tell this information to anyone. What am I supposed to do? Just
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
139

go back to Boston and act as if everything is normal? When I asked why
he told me this, Riker said it’s a clone’s legal right to know they are a clone
when they turn the same age as their Original was when they were cloned.
I still don’t see how any of this ties into memory loss, until Riker explains
that the ‘dreams’ I have aren’t really dreams, but flashbacks, memories of
Ambrose from so long ago. Because my brain contains both his and my
memories, it sort of confuses the hippocampus, resulting in some of my
memories being extremely detailed and sometimes only having a vague
sense of a memory.
So far, Ambrose has just been staring at me, not really looking like a
serial killer but like a bored college student. He finally speaks up, his voice
making me cringe, do I really sound like that?
“So, you’re my clone.”
“Uh, yea I guess so.”
“Well, here’s a bit about me.”
As he starts talking, I kind of zone out, imagining putting a knife in his
face, which is my face but also not my face. So I don’t really hear all of what
he’s saying but I catch a few things. That he was known within Sykesville
as the Business Man Killer because he was dressed like one when he killed
people. He described his childhood as craptacular—having parents who
would lock him in his room and would hit him. His favorite drink is chamomile
tea and he loves airplanes. One of his victim’s names was Leo, and
his favorite place was Ocean City. He explains how though he grew up near
Baltimore, he would take his bodies to the rural cornfields of Maryland.
I just stand, awkwardly unsure of what to do. Ambrose was suspended
within time for twenty long years, yet he’s here today, talking so casually as
if he hasn’t been frozen or cloned. When I notice that Riker is taking my
shaking hand, putting a little knife in my palm. I look over at him, confused.
Before I have time to use the knife, Ambrose suddenly looks excited, looking
the way I do when I imagine cutting someone open or bashing in their
face. Ambrose lunges at me, slamming my head into the floor, the silver
cylinders suddenly becoming blurry.
Ambrose looks down at me. Stupid Ambrose. If he had just gotten the
lethal injection instead of being cryogenically frozen, I wouldn’t be here.
He towers above me now, and says he’s sorry, but I deserved it because I’ve
gotten to live for twenty years instead of him. He’s now talking fast, and I
notice he has the hint of a southern accent among his words.
140 Short Prose

Without moving my head, I look down the hallway, seeing that Riker
is standing in the doorway, a mere observer of this hell show. My head is
throbbing a bit, but I prop myself up on my elbows and realize I’m still
holding the knife, and I quickly slash one of Ambrose’s ankles. He yelps in
pain as I slash the other one. He stumbles back, giving me time to get up.
As I’m getting up, I can tell Ambrose is bending his knees, about to lunge
again. But he’s stiff. So before he can, I jump on top of him. I take the front
of his head and bash it into the floor. I hear a crack. Wow. I feel just like
I did in the dream, excited, adrenaline rushing to my veins. Ambrose is
thrashing under me, screaming, me having the advantage of being slightly
bigger. I take the knife in my hand and put it into his neck. He stops thrashing
after that. Putting the knife in his neck felt…nice. So I take the knife out
of his neck; it makes a squelchy sound when I do. I put the knife into his
solar plexus, then put the knife up and down, across his stomach. My imagination
is finally being fulfilled. The slicing really isn’t that hard to do; it’s
a rather simple task, the movement deeply ingrained within my muscles.
I sort of forgot Riker was standing at the end of the hall. Turning my
head to look at him, I see he doesn’t look angry, but sort of surprised and
excited, looking at me the way you look at a test you got an A on even
though you didn’t study. He’s holding up his phone, not recording a video
but speaking into it like he’s talking on the phone, saying,
“CCDR subject #3-7-0: the result was nature. My hypothesis was correct.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
141

Poetry
142

1st place
“Infestation’s Hope”
Natalie Augustine
2nd place
“Home”
Ashnavi Ghosh
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
143

144 Poetry

Natalie Augustine
Grade 10
Pittsburgh CAPA
Infestation’s Hope
Consumption has been slow
but exponential, an acidic
prodding. Rooted in my intestine
and rising to my lungs, I feel
I must have hundreds
of the hiveminds.
This death has given me
purpose. Fertilizing
from within,
my cells grant entrance.
I’m a nurturer. More so now
than ever before.
Maybe the parasites
will remember their host.
Think of Mom
and my internal warmth,
their food that took
a life of preparation.
I don’t mind if they devour
my stomach and my heart,
all I ask for are my eyes.
When my babies
lure in the chariot,
I’d like to see my angels.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
145

146 Poetry

Ashnavi Ghosh
Grade 10
North Allegheny Intermediate School
Home
Home is where I come to everyday.
I take off my coat,
Dust my hair from the fallen snow,
And rub my shoes on the doormat.
Home is where I smile and laugh.
I drink hot milk and eat soft biscuits,
The couch sinks when I sit down,
And I say nothing.
Home is the place of my belongings.
I water my plant,
My drawer of childhood holds reminiscent toys,
And the smell of vanilla and whiskey fills my nostrils.
Home is the place where tears are shed from my eyes.
I crouch down and shield my eyes with the cusps of my hands,
My thighs turn black and blue because I cannot make a sound,
And I feel ashamed for being in this state of mind.
Home is the place where I feel safe.
I leave the lights off even when I’m awake,
My toes land on the inner edge of the staircase,
And pure silence only happens when the stars shine.
Home is where I am happy.
I feel irritated when words are spoken,
The shining lights make my body ache,
And I am trapped inside the darkness of my own abode.
Home is the person I come to everyday.
They hook their grip on my arm,
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
147

A hand is around my waist,
And a smile greets me with every word I say.
Home is the person that makes me smile and laugh.
They form the shape of a heart with their fingers,
Bump my head twice so I don’t grow horns,
And play games with me while displaying adoration.
Home is the person with whom I belong with.
They fit perfectly into my arms when I hold them,
Love is showered upon me as my eyes hold still,
And I am reminded of the cherry blossoms’ eternal blooming.
Home is the person who causes me to shed tears.
They tell me I deserve nothing but the moon and stars,
I curl up and sob while my face is unearthed,
and I finally feel proud of my importance.
Home is the person I feel safe with.
They assure me their ears crave the sound of my voice
I leak of my passions that I have yearned to share
and my shield is stripped away as my body becomes exposed.
Home is the person who gives me happiness.
They express emotion which overwhelms me
I smile in my sleep when my dreams show me a possible reality
and the stars begin to smile at me rather than pity my silence.
Home is the promises which give the comfort of living.
148 Poetry

Nola Toussant
Grade 10
Pittsburgh Science & Technology Academy
The Lost Voices
Of The Young
Footsteps,
Green Converse hitting the tile
like sands through the hourglass
School Bell
Gun Shots
Bullets of a rifle rake the classrooms
19 children who will never make it home
19 children who never got to finish the school year
19 children who will never smile again
No open-casket funerals for them
Families burying children in the dead of the night
An 11-year-old traumatized for the rest of their life
Children identified by their shoes
Children decapitated by bullets
Lives permanently altered by the magazine of an AR-15
Just like the children of Sandy Hook
But they say, “This time is different.”
This time is different
When they are indifferent
When will it be different?
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
149

150 Poetry

IsaBella Blick
Grade 10
Pittsburgh CAPA
Far Off
It’s not every day
you can break past our world.
Sunday night,
celebrating at my cousins’ house,
we were watching Camp Rock and
the adults’ chattering was like
pitter-pattering of rain
and they went outside
and pointed into the cloudless sky.
Orion’s Belt,
the moon straight above,
and two bright points of light below.
My stomach flipped when I looked.
It felt like the celestial distance swallowed me up.
It felt like maybe, finally,
I was able to head into the endless space beyond.
I dream of seeing every star. I dream of holding one.
I’d always wanted to see other worlds with my eyes.
There they were: Jupiter, smaller, an ordinary star,
and Venus, larger, glaringly vivid.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
151

I gasped, my eyes wide.
No one seemed to care as much as I did
that we could see past us
into a wide
open space
much larger than you and me.
152 Poetry

Willow Wright
Grade 10
Avonworth High School
I Dream No More
I dream no more.
Resistance gone.
We won’t settle the score.
The silence is deafening.
The pain, so intense.
The anguish we hold
absent of sense.
You robbed us of culture.
You stripped us of pride.
We dreamed of a future
with you alongside,
but left with the trauma
and tears that we cried.
We lift our hands to the air
with hopeless despair.
We beg for your mercy
with our desperate prayer.
I dream no more
as you cast me aside.
I dream no more for
my spirit has died.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
153

154 Poetry

Leia Leviathan
Grade 10
Environmental Charter High School
Daughters With
Sharp Teeth
Like all daughters with sharp teeth
I am protected by my mother
And my father
And the parts of them that live inside me
Like all daughters with sharp teeth
The freedom I have craved puts me in harm’s way
My parents do not know me the way protector knows protected
Only I know me that way
I am a new bird
They taught me to fly and then set me free
Like all daughters with sharp teeth
I have been raised to use them
I have been trained to fight dirty
I have forged a new style of fighting
I call it Kick Claw Bite
It is designed with my little strength and sharp teeth in mind
It is designed for my survival
Like all daughters with sharp teeth
I am not all sharp teeth
I am soft laughter and hope
I am clever and kind
And even these sharp teeth are lovely when bared in a smile
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
155

156 Poetry

Si Reason
Grade 10
Chartiers Valley High School
Grief
Loss is heavy, hanging over you like wet clothes
soaked from a rainstorm
like bags of sand slowly pulling you down.
You told me that you’d see me soon.
Naive, I believed the words you said as if they were fact.
I know it is not your fault.
A puzzle missing its pieces, a kid without a dad.
I want to connect, latch on to your signal
as I do in the coffee shops mom takes me to.
She tells me how you used to go there together.
What a waste to lose your dad at seven.
All the years we could have spent together,
the firsts my mom catalogs in that little book
lived as a family. A full unit instead of a shattered
one, we are still picking up the pieces. They’ve been glued
back together, but there are still gaps, open spaces.
I am fifteen now, lost but found.
I want to etch your memory into my skin with ink,
so you will be with me forever.
Some of the weight of you being gone has been released.
Your loss is less fresh now like a bruise slowly healing until
it is only a faint yellow color. Still painful to the touch.
I see myself in your old pictures, the fading ink fragile
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
157

like it could be taken away with the slightest touch, suddenly,
how you were taken from me.
Loss is heavy, like a boulder slowly crushing you
in a cavern where you are alone. You can barely keep
it above your head, it threatens to take you down with its
massive size, gravity doing you no help.
It was inevitable, no other infinity exists in this reality
where I am without loss. Where the innocent seven-year-old
lives happily ever after with his dad.
But this is my reality where loss is familiar.
158 Poetry

Basya Taub
Grade 11
Yeshiva Girls School
Which Roses Shall I Pick?
Once, I stared out of a window on a passing train
Catching glimpses of fields of roses
I looked at a single rose
Though in a moment it is gone, and I will not see it again
For the train goes on, and I cannot, cannot stop
A moment chosen as my truth means forever more are false
Only one rose can be picked in my field of roses
Did you know that a moment chosen is a moment lost and there’s nothing,
nothing you can do but ride on?
Do you know?
A small girl stands in a field lit up by the sun
She makes her choice
To stop and smell the roses but
Does she know that the sun will set?
And she can only love so many roses
I sit down in my field of roses
After spending hours grasping for them all
But the clock moves on, unbidden
And a truth selected makes all others false
Now I stare out of the window on a passing train
Gazing at a setting sun
I look down at the bouquet of roses in my hands
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
159

160 Poetry

Audrey Jiang
Grade 10
Shady Side Academy
Apple Slices
Apples on a pure porcelain plate
Taste sweeter and crisper
Coming from your knife
Without fail.
Sister got stitches from
Pushing the blade far too hard
Into the apple core.
Slice, slice
So it slivers the apple and her hand.
All she wanted
Was that taste, while
She watches the apple-skin-colored blood
Drip, drip
Down.
Sister never liked
Green apples anyways.
I saw slices on my desk
Without fail,
Every night.
I see your smile
Without fail,
Almost every night.
I saw neither
After our screams
Stick in the air
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
161

And stare into my red core.
Yet, the silence afterward
Is what stings
The most.
But the apples returned
On their pure porcelain plate
On my desk,
After the morning arose
Accompanied by an
Apology.
162 Poetry

Madison Montello
Grade 12
West Allegheny High School
mom
the taste of iced coffee is sweet down my throat but i hate
the taste of the breath it leaves behind
the worst part is its linger throughout the day
the kind that all bad tastes seem to have
the metallic of blood
from peeling the insides of my lips
the morning after forgetting to brush my teeth the night before
none of these are the most sour of tastes
none of these compare to the permanence
of three letters
which i avoid arranging next to each other in my head
it reminds me of their taste in my mouth
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
163

164 Poetry

Madeleine Ng
Grade 11
Oakland Catholic High School
Beautiful Land
Formosa, the sailors once shouted,
Seeing that dot of green amidst the blue sea.
It was a promise of wealth and opportunity,
Of sunshine and splendor,
And they dropped anchor quickly,
The black sand shore trailing into the rich green.
I wonder what they would think now,
Seeing vibrant flowers and ripe red mangoes,
Fields of pineapples stretching towards the horizon,
Majestic green trees shading the tranquil mountains
From the warm blue sky and tropical rain.
Beautiful Isle, they named it centuries ago,
And its name, though no longer used, still stands.
I share that name in my mother’s native tongue.
Beautiful Land—
Where my mother’s hometown is,
A part of another world that lives on in me.
But as a child, sometimes I wondered,
As my eyes met
Cold blue, gray, hazel narrowed into glares;
Did my past extend beyond my single digit years
To stretch across the sea,
And all my ancestors’ histories
Suddenly also defined me?
Stand tall, my mother told me.
Don’t let troubles overshadow you.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
165

And I listened, and stood tall,
Yet sometimes I still feel like the person on the outside,
And I remember how I used to regret and wonder,
What prevented me from stepping beyond that glass door
So I would no longer have to look from the outside in?
I first considered my appearance,
I then pondered my belongings;
They had more, they had most, they had it all.
But I could not put a number on how many things I needed
Before I would be able to reach their limits
And cross that threshold
To enter that door.
The door is made of glass; it’s thin,
And while I almost feel part of it all,
I know I do not belong,
And I am still separated by some unknown force
That keeps me out of the inner circle
Where people talk, decisions are made,
Where my destiny is decided for me.
Where I must be defined.
Over time, I have learned to look the other way
And notice the expanse of field and sky surrounding me.
I recall how my mother told me,
Stand tall—
Beautiful Land.
And then I know
That the name my mother gave me
Does not really refer to Formosa,
Nor does it point to America—
It’s a promise of the future,
Of what’s yet to come;
I trace my past, feel my present, lean into the future,
And like a tree, I stretch my arms out towards the sun.
I leave the glass door behind
Like a full-length mirror reflecting vapid dreams—
I’m finding my own path,
And I realize that I am limitless and undefined in this open air
With the unending freedom and promise
That carries me into a thousand tomorrows.
166 Poetry

Madeleine Ng
Grade 11
Oakland Catholic High School
A woman like her.
I wish to be a woman like her
She who lived four generations ago;
We could not communicate as well as we wished
As I could not speak her language,
And she understood little English.
But all that was needed to be said
Was translated through my father,
Or was expressed through her smile.
While her stature was small,
Her midnight hair turned silver as stardust,
She seemed as tall as a soldier,
Resilient, admirable, and strong.
I admire her strength.
She was strong not just physically,
But spiritually;
And this inner fire within her
Kept her browned face alight
In the darkest of times.
I cannot begin to imagine
What she had gone through,
But sometimes I try.
She grew up in the midst of the Great War,
She was a witness to the dark shadows of World War II—
She was an immigrant, a survivor,
Watching the rise and fall of war-torn Philippines.
She was a grandmother and widow when she arrived in America,
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
167

Decades later she was the great-great-grandmother to us all.
Her fighting spirit never wavered,
Keeping her memory sharp and her expression young.
She must be proud that her daughter became a colonel in the air force,
She must be proud that her grandson works as a doctor,
She who saw her children reaching
Towards the sparkling light of a brighter future.
My parents remembered her in her nineties,
Working in the garden and cooking for her family;
I wonder if her mind often passed between her children in America
And the other half that remained back at home.
I remember the last time I saw her two years ago.
My family and I stood in the snow, looking in,
Seeing her wave from the other side of the glass.
She met my eyes with unparalleled clarity,
Defying age for more than a century.
I wish to be a woman like her
She, unbounded by space or time.
Her light, her love, her spirit lives on,
Rising like fragrant steam
After the downpour drench of monsoon rain.
I think of how she survived, and I imagine
Her feet planted in the red clay earth,
Her face tilted towards verdant fronds and vines,
Seeing that patch of blue sky and sunshine
Dotted with American planes flying overhead.
168 Poetry

Bella Minyo
Grade 10
Shaler Area High School
An ‘Ode’ to Education
At first, I was last
Left in the dust to play catch up
Never given a chance to rise up
Opportunities just within reach,
Only to be taken while I sleep
And then last became first
All because my needs were in thirst
All to be more, to be better
Cause it didn’t matter
As long as I mattered to others
To become someone worth talking about
So that people would have no choice but to make a round-about
Yet here I am alone to look back and wonder why what they said mattered
And now last to first to never feeling my worth
But, oh wait, what about your straight A’s and grades
And “friends” and the extracurricular “games” we play
Man, they must all think you’ve got it made
Until they stop to think—if they ever do—
To actually be concerned about you
I mean, who needs friends when you’ve got your straight A’s,
Because these years are just a game we are all forced to play
As you hide behind the mask of fear
The mask of dignified silence
About to crack under the pressure from your peers
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
169

Because when did they collectively decide that you have to be wise?
No…stop…wait…you’re fine
Breathe in breathe out, you’re fine
It’s fine to hide under the mask of intellectual violence
Because you are first, so no one really cares
So then what is it worth to be first if it’s all just gilded and broken lies
That was once cracked up to be something we all thought was better
And then at last, when will they realize no matter last or first
The game we all play is wrecked and rigged and made for a loss of self-worth
170 Poetry

Audrey Coleman
Grade 11
Mt. Lebanon High School
i’m busy right now, but
please leave a message.
the universe has been trying to call us
for years.
hoping to get something
other than the voicemail message.
trying to warn us of
what is to come
if we refuse to confront
the beasts under our beds.
sending us sign after sign hoping
someone
will take the hint.
yet we are too enamored
with development
to hear her cries.
the phone’s ringing buried
by the sounds of construction
and expansion.
the echoing trill being drowned out
by other influential voices of the world.
leaving us annoyed at the chiming
in our ears we hear
every once in a while.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
171

one day,
she will stop
trying to phone.
accepting that we will not hear
her desperate pleas.
she will finally realize
that it is not
her fault
that we were blind to see
what is looming
above us.
only when it is too late
will we realize
what she was trying to tell us.
what that faint ringing sound was
in the back of our minds
for all those years.
we will attempt to crawl
back into a mother’s warm embrace,
oblivious to the fact
that we will likely crumble
before we reach it.
172 Poetry

Benjamin Quint
Grade 12
North Allegheny Senior High School
What I Know
About Black Magic
Have you ever used, or been associated with anyone
who has used black magic?
What kind of a question is that
Before you adjusted the blinds
I could see that you had nightmares about those heels
and the freckle peeking through the veil
where she kissed you underneath the bleachers
after soccer practice
And everyone knows the trick
where if you pull out each tooth by hand
something close-enough
washes back in the sea foam
Is—Is this procedure?
Calliope had everyone’s star chart
plotted by the second time they met
forgetting how often stars fall from the heavens
and how quickly auspices come to pass
During her breakup she tried pet names
as if dogs never tire of fetch
and when sparks flew
it surged the grid
and the static resurrected the lights
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
173

in a dim green
A surefire expulsion
had anybody but the janitor noticed
So instead
her coven carried her bags for a month
while
she walked silently on pins and needles
I can’t say it never happened here…
Viziers don’t like their photo taken
Skin falls loose too loose on their gaunt skulls
and they prefer the mystique anyway
allegedly well whatever
Andromeda wanted to be one so bad
started dressing like one even though
the ribs aren’t showing through
and I must say
the integral packet looked perfect
and it didn’t start bleeding
not any rot at all
until after
it was passed back
… but I can say…
Take a compliment well
like a wind in your sails knocking you
in a direction between
on and off course
Witches need elevator pitches
Black magic says its true because it rhymes
and where I’m going
glassy scales clog the drains
from molting
So read up and
just wanted to follow up and
yes I’ll pencil you in
Let’s hope Keynes is right
when he says
174 Poetry

with enough bravado
you need not repay your debts
… I’ve never been involved.
the smile is wide too wide
Great! That’s all I need to hear.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
175

176 Poetry

Benjamin Quint
Grade 12
North Allegheny Senior High School
The Elder Statesman’s
Guide to Travel
Pack light—each ounce you bring is one you’ll have to pedal.
Travel young, as adventures lie ahead for futures so unsettled.
Imagine the mem’ries you’ll make on ramen and canned beans,
Fulfillment, I predict, follows no laundry and no screens.
Abandon the folder of diplomas
and your supposed erudition,
square meals and fair aroma
alone will finish out the mission.
Sleep bare on grass, subsist on thorned forage—
Not that brave? Modesty weighs a ton,
so before overstuffing all your storage,
don’t balk at Five in One.
I pulled myself by the bootstraps,
so don’t grow hostile to good advice.
Stop whining about collapse
knowing on scraps you can suffice.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
177

178 Poetry

Audrey Starck
Grade 12
North Allegheny Senior High School
The Folly and
The Scapegoat
This just in: The Earth is saved.
From the laboratories of the Northern Seas,
Our prayers have been answered.
As the vengeful storms ravage our planet
And the land of the free drowns beneath
Poseidon’s tears,
Humanity has once again proven its divinity.
While God has watched our misery from his home in the stars,
Man has delivered itself to salvation.
Where Mother Nature failed us,
Her children of the dirt have risen to carry themselves to victory.
From the mind of God’s abandoned creations:
The home away from home—Earth 2.0.
Say goodbye to our flawed planet
And say hello to mankind’s utopia.
This automated world fixes every imperfection
That God’s omniscient eye missed.
There will be no more rampant storms,
No more rising seas,
No more blazing fires,
And no more rising temperatures.
The oceans will be clean,
And the air will be cleaner.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
179

There will be plenty of food for everybody,
And mankind will once again be happy.
Buy Earth 2.0 today,
And join us in the digital world of the future.
Reject the heavens’ faulty planet that they burdened us with,
Turn away from the neglect of God,
And return to humanity.
180 Poetry

Francis Sparrowen
Grade 11
Environmental Charter High School
Idols for false idols
Is this what you want?
A gilded man that holds all your value
or a plaque that says, “Wow you did it!”
Admiration with engravings for only 20 bucks
made in lands far away by the faceless children
the corporations don’t want you to know about.
Just a mass-produced pat on the back from a higher-up.
Or your smiling face on the wall,
to remind everyone why they keep working here when they could be doing
what makes them feel whole.
But the gilded men don’t care about that.
They don’t care about your dreams, because machines don’t make ideas,
they only make a profit.
And, if you do have a dream loud enough to be heard, the gilded men
stare at you with dollar sign eyes wondering how they can
Chop,
Twist,
And screw.
Till you’re a reflection of what people want to see.
Not a person of ideas but a person of character
Characters that people know
Characters that people love
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
181

The gilded men hold you up for your greatness.
You stand on stage being watched by the same faces that were once yours.
But you’re not like them anymore, you can’t relate.
You’re just another cheap, mass-produced gilded man for society to hold up.
182 Poetry

Ekow Opoku-Dakwa
Grade 10
Pittsburgh Allderdice High School
A call to action
for the ones we lost
We only try to heal the wound
When we see it
Right before our eyes
When it is our child
Our mother
Our brother
That takes the bullet
But then
It is too late
The piercing screams
Travel across time and space
As their very essence
Seeps into the soil
They once called home
Wishing
We had done more
Before knowing
That ours would be next
To start a day
Where the pain never ends
But now
Too little too late
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
183

Watching
As life slips away
Left with the guilt
The weight of inaction
Of knowing there would be others
Of not doing enough
Hopeless
Knowing that tomorrow
Another bullet
Heads toward another innocent child
And yet
Those in whom we trust
Seem unable to make a change
Their words say they care
But,
Their actions say otherwise
This land
Yours and mine
This land I sought for protection
Can I dare to trust in it?
Knowing
that I may be next in line?
Fearful
Endless threats to my school
Knowing
What could be around the bend
What could be around the corner
Coming for me
All I can do
Is speak
And write
And scream
But my words seem empty
No action
No change
So I have no words left
Since you have no actions
184 Poetry

Everest Gray
Grade 11
Quaker Valley High School
What The Universe
Must See
I know I am not supposed to love you
Because I see what the universe must see
When I leave you, I feel the softness of your skin lingering in my memory
But like everything else, it melts away
Though I am sure I cling on to it dearly
into the angelic feathers of an elusive phoenix
the silk pillow of an ancient royalty
the most expensive fur coat on the market
the pinkish crown of a newborn baby
I’m still working on the finer delineations
because I see what the universe must see
A million of the world’s most softest things, evoking great emotions,
many greater than what a soft touch could ever promise to bring to me
Extraordinary begins to dull,
And your skin is lost to infinity
But sometimes I think I am supposed to love you
when our arms collide
And the ground is struck with a forceful magnitude
so severe that every breathing creature is fossilized
In an instant we are hand in hand again, pointing at a shadow of the
massive creature before us
One I had just seen in its final moments alive
We had been to this exhibit together
It is not quite as assembled as the one that had died
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
185

I know you miss me when I am distant, but I have a reason to be
I see what the universe must see
burning nebulas of a thousand degrees
unfathomable, expansive galaxies
filled to the brim with blinding stars
darkness, planets, and debris
When I reach out to you, at the same time, I am reaching the length
of the universe
once indistinguishable as we are
we could never really touch, our atoms repel as individuals,
But not as a thoughtless mass of everything that has begun to form the stars
I can’t think I’m meant to love you as I am
When my love is so much worse
And in a different life, we bore the universe
We are only a shadow of what we once were
A glimpse into everything we could have been
And I can’t even pick out a softness
I’ve seemed to have lost the softness of your skin
but then again, I think I am supposed to love you
because sometimes I see what you must see
when a breath escapes your lips and crawls onto mine
swirling and tumbling into ferocity
into the turbulent thunder, the collapse of many structures
many houses, many things, in tragedy
Understand what you are getting into
Because I see what the universe must see
And it feels wrong to love you like this,
Like I’m fighting against what I am supposed to be
There is guilt in trying, because we were never offered the chance
Every disaster occurring simultaneously
But I just can’t stay away
Because you just won’t let me
Your hand grazes my spine and I feel a sudden shiver
shuddering in the tundra of barren lands, looming glaciers,
and unforgiving winter
collapsing underneath me in soft waves
186 Poetry

among thousands of fish of brilliant colours
under the hot sun, we are snorkeling someday
You hold me close with no intention of letting me drift across the universe
the colours and cool water around me begin to fade
And then I am with you, rid of all harm
I am nowhere but in your arms
Against all better judgment, I love you deeply
Because for a brief moment, it is just you and me
I don’t see what the universe must see
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
187

188 Poetry

Elizabeth Bennett
Grade 12
Homeschool
elegy for a rosebush
as my mind wanders away from my desk,
eyes still locked on the
window in front of me, i find the rosebush.
through the summer it smiled back but
i’ve looked away too long and
it’s dead now, worse than gone; frosted over and forgotten,
rattling leaves and chilly thorns, a hollow echo.
the husk of a bloom is all that’s left
wilted and solitary and sorrowful
wrapped in leaves that curl and close out the world, stiffen—
rigor mortis.
not a flower (in the same way a corpse is not a human),
it’s frayed and brown at the edges,
time-worn fabric, useless, age-stained, neglected
bright once, and hopeful, now
the petals are withered to parchment
delicate and lovely in their desiccation
old paper begging for ink that never sinks in.
somewhere in the gap between mind and memory i turn back
to new paper and ballpoint pens
and i forget again
leaving the rose to dip and dance
and fade
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
189

190 Poetry

Resa Lascek
Grade 11
Mt. Lebanon High School
Too Young
I never went to the hospital while you were there.
I’m sorry.
“If I could have, I would have.”
That’s what I tell myself,
Anyway.
But I don’t think I would have,
Maybe because I was afraid.
I did not see you in that state,
Until you were gone.
I had no idea that things were that bad.
That’s why when they said you were sick,
I brushed it off.
Of course, you would be fine.
You were too young not to be.
No one told me.
No one ever feels the need to tell me these things,
Because I’m too young.
Everybody is too young when fate befalls them.
“Of course, he will be fine.”
I’m sorry.
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
191

I’ll hold your sister by my side.
Because she is well and truly
Too
Young.
192 Poetry

Julia Hart
Grade 11
Pittsburgh Allderdice High School
fawny moon
i looked to him
and said it feels like i am god
and he asked:
why that was such a bad thing?
and i just glimmered and sweat
and peeled at the seams
of my downy fawn skin
reborn again is my name
and he never did understand
how i quailed under the moonlight
and how i tore at my candle burnt skin,
searing for freedom and fickle chance
and my throbbing head
how my nails curled under solar baked sun
and my eyes burst in the water into dew drops
and spread across blades of grass
and smiled up at him from the ant’s godly pupils
he would never understand because he
was ignorant to the stories nature fed him
clothed him and led him,
he did not see it because he would never
understand what it felt like
to be a moon child in a cloudy sky
a godless spirit in crisis
Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
193

a fairy under fluorescent light
a curly haired fawn in the shoulder of a crow
and he would never smile
and he would never dance
beneath the moon as i told him to
and he perished lightless
beneath the ground
and oh how false
to be the one he calls divine
and have no god of my own
194 Poetry

Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2023
195

2023 Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology
Written by Allegheny County high school students, grade 9–12
Compiled by Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh staff
2022 Cover Art Winner: Alex Riccobon