2025 Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology

2025

Ralph Munn

Creative Writing

Anthology

2025

Ralph Munn

Creative Writing

Anthology

© 2025 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

2025

Ralph Munn

Creative Writing

Anthology

Committee Chair

Lauren Zabelsky, Office of Programmatic Services

Editorial Committee

Camilo Correal, CLP – Homewood

Halle Dray, CLP – Squirrel Hill

Anastasia Giampa, CLP – Squirrel Hill

Emily Giudici, CLP – Allegheny

Audra Harris, CLP – Main

Cynthia Krol, CLP – South Side

Thomas Ndiaye, CLP – Main

Administrative Support

Kizuwanda Raines, Office of Programmatic Services

Book Design

Justin Visnesky, CLP – Main,

Communications & Creative Services

Copyediting

Rachel Weaver LaBar

Cover Illustration

Riya Verma

TABLE OF CONTENTS

About the Contest . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6

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

Chair’s Note. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10

Short Prose

1st place

“Yesterday” Indie Pascal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

2nd place

“Amekhania” Dessa Shimko. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

“The Automat” Bella Minyo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

“The Devil In The Details” Clifford Brindle . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

“Chronic Recurrent Multifocal Osteomyelitis” Camryn Hager. . . . 47

“Bad Dreams” Annabelle Peters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51

“Love Letters from the Antithesis” Eliza Lazzaro . . . . . . . . . . 55

“I’m Not Good Enough.” Meera Reddy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59

“The Last Light” Suryansh Singh. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63

“Lying in a Puddle” Devon McDonald . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69

“Dinner for One” Anna Delale-O’Connor . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71

“Namji: Walking Down Memory Lane” Hyunsoo Kim . . . . . . . 77

“Negative Sound: When Silence Becomes Music”

Evan Park . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81

“The Environmental Collapse and

Colonial Legacy in the Dead Sea” Sami Alissa . . . . . . . . . . 85

Poetry

1st place

“Al-Amaal School” Maram Alwan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93

2nd place

“Slam Dunk” Meera Reddy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95

“Rain” Indie Pascal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97

“A Goblet Meant to be Shattered” Momo Almarza . . . . . . . . 99

6

“The room that grew teeth” Je’Meya Thomas . . . . . . . . . . . 103

“Flooring of Me” Nadia Petchal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107

“Strength Measured by Age” Juliet Staresinic . . . . . . . . . . . 109

“Mother Sun” Juliet Staresinic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111

“Fragments” Peri Vrabel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113

“Clap Loudly” Hazel Pearson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .115

“Pick Me Up When It’s All Over” Bella Minyo . . . . . . . . . . .117

“The Before and the Now” Kadyn Headen . . . . . . . . . . . . 119

“The Space Between Was and Will Be” Angelina Jones . . . . . . 121

“Our Martyr” Tessa Braham . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123

“Aubade in Shizuoka” Boden Moraski . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125

“4our1ne2wo” Shavonna Crawford. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .127

“The Gold God” Jackson Beemer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129

“when the world tips on its side” Alayna Gill . . . . . . . . . . . 131

“Traveling Vase” Lydia Kalapos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133

“Ghosts and Gold” Vaishnavi Dabas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135

“Ink of Rebellion” Ojasi Madhekar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137

“Wedding Dance” Jackson Beemer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139

“The Earth and I Are One” Mia Greiner. . . . . . . . . . . . . 143

“Learning To Fly Vicariously” Quincy Sauter. . . . . . . . . . . 145

“Ba” Kaelyn Nguyen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147

“Anatomy of Poetry if it is a Bird” Hana Lang . . . . . . . . . . . 149

“I Do Not Wish to See” Zora Rose . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153

“Message in a Bottle” Emi Neuer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157

“More Than a Scarf” Salma Alouane . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159

“The Blue” Sonora Valencheck . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161

“Raindrops” Evan Park . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163

“Lust For Function” Clifford Brindle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167

“The Return of Spring” Abigail Maher. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169

“Baby” Sophia Monaco . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171

“Little Bird” Katherine J. Hanna . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173

Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology 2025

7

ABOUT THE RALPH MUNN CREATIVE WRITING CONTEST

Born in 1894, Ralph Munn started his library career

as a reference librarian in Seattle in 1921, became

Flint Public Library’s Librarian in 1926 and then

on to the Directorship of the Carnegie Library of

Pittsburgh in 1928 until 1964. During that time, he

held the positions of Director and Dean of the library

school at the Carnegie Institute of Technology, now

Carnegie Mellon University, until it became part of the

University of Pittsburgh in 1962. An endowment fund

created to honor his legacy now provides support

for creative writing opportunities for young adults

through the Library.

Thanks to research by Sheila Jackson and the

Development Office, we know that the original use

of this endowment, contributed by friends of Ralph

Munn, began in the 1960s for a lecture series on

librarianship and transitioned to use for creative

writing workshops in the 1970s, under supervision

of the Carnegie Institute, which oversaw the fund.

After a hiatus in the 1990s the contest was revived

in 2007 with additional help from other bequests.

Library staff and volunteers led workshops and

formed an editorial board to judge entries to the

contest and find professional writers to choose

contest winners. In the first year, the contest took

off, receiving nearly 300 entries, and it has not

stopped being a popular and anticipated part of

Teen Services.

8

Since the creative writing contest joined forces with

the Labsy awards under the Teen Media Awards

banner, it continues to evolve as a way for Allegheny

county teens to be acknowledged, published, and

awarded for their work and creativity. The libraries

in the county are proud to support this creative work

and provide spaces, mentors, and resources toward

that end.

Tessa Barber

Chair, Ralph Munn Creative Writing Committee

(2015-2016)


9

JUDGES’ BIOGRAPHIES

Prose

John W. Miller

John W. Miller is a Pittsburgh-based writer and

the head baseball coach at Taylor Allderdice High

School. He was a staff reporter at the Wall Street

Journal for 13 years, and has also reported for Time,

Newsweek, and NPR. He is the author of the 2025

New York Times bestseller The Last Manager. He lives

in Pittsburgh with his wife Meri and son Oscar.

10

Poetry

Sheila Carter-Jones

Pulitzer Prize nominee Sheila Carter-Jones’s recent

book, Every Hard Sweetness was released from

BOA Editions, Ltd. and was nominated for the 2025

Pulitzer Prize for poetry. Her book Three Birds Deep,

was winner of the Naomi Long Madgett Poetry Book

Award, and her recent chapbook Elegy-ish won the

Seven Kitchens Chapbook contest. Her chapbook

Crooked Star Dream Book was named Honorable

Mention for the New York Center for Book Arts

Chapbook Contest. She is a fellow of Cave Canem,

the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop and a Walter

Dakin Fellow of the Sewanee Writer’s Conference.

Her poetry has been published in various journals,

anthologies and newspapers. Sheila received her MFA

from Carlow University where she currently teaches in

their Madwomen in the Attic Program.


11

CHAIR’S NOTE

On behalf of the editorial team, I want to extend my

heartfelt thanks to everyone who participated in this

year’s Ralph Munn Creative Writing Contest. Each

submission reflected the incredible talent, imagination,

passion and courage of our teen writers across

Allegheny County. Your words moved us, challenged

us, and reminded us of the power of youth voice and

the importance of the written word.

Many thanks to all the Carnegie Library staff

who work on the Ralph Munn Project Team. Your

insight, ideas, and dedication to honest critique is

the foundation of this anthology. Anne McLaughlin,

I appreciate your support and encouragement

throughout this entire process. To Kizuwanda Raines,

your attention to detail and administrative support

is essential to this project. I’d also like to thank

Creative Services for their assistance in publishing

this collection. A special thanks to our copyeditor,

Rachel Weaver LaBar for all of her work.

To our contributors: thank you for sharing your

voices. Whether you wrote poetry or prose, your

entries made this process vibrant and unforgettable.

To our judges, Shelia Carter-Jones and John W.

Miller: Much appreciation for your thoughtful

attention and care in reviewing the teens’ work.

Your dedication, insight and feedback were vital

to this process.

12

To the families, teachers, library workers who support

these young writers: Thank you for nurturing creativity

and encouraging expression.

To the readers: Thank you for taking the time to

ensure that every writer in this anthology feels seen

and celebrated.

And finally, to the teens who submitted their work,

whether published or not, thank you for being brave

enough to write and share. Keep writing. The world

needs your stories!

With gratitude,

Lauren Paige Zabelsky

Chair, Ralph Munn Creative Writing Contest (2025)


13

CONTENT NOTE

The 2025 Ralph Munn volume was written by

young poets and writers creating from many unique

perspectives. Part of being inclusive and welcoming

is understanding that not everyone has the same

life experiences and these works may reflect ideas,

situations, and struggles that are new. Some of the

content in this volume contains heavy topics and

themes so we ask that you consume it mindfully.

Be aware that heavier pieces may be difficult to read

for some, but we believe they are stories worth sharing.

14


15

Short

Prose

16

1st place

“Yesterday”

Indie Pascal

2nd place

“Amekhania”

Dessa Shimko


17

18 Short Prose

Indie Pascal

Grade 10

Winchester Thurston School

Yesterday

Close your eyes and time slows. Open them, and all the moments you

thought you remembered are gone. Close them again, and suddenly you

are 14 years old when you used to be 5. An age when you wanted to dress

up in princess dresses and high heels and play with little white cars. But

at 14, you’re studying for tests and rushing to fill out homework problems.

People in front of you start to change, and then, so do you.

I lay on the ground on my side, my eyes closed. I couldn’t see anything

but the darkness that swirled beneath my eyelids. I opened my eyes briefly

and saw Otis jump onto Pop. Otis threw himself into the air and then

launched his tiny body onto the old man. But was Pop that old?

Pop yelped and rolled to the side. I quickly ran over to him and started

to tickle Otis, struggling to protect Pop. Otis started to laugh and laugh,

and he curled himself into a ball as Pop began to tickle his bare feet. I

smiled and laughed as Pop crawled up off the floor and pretended to waddle

up the steps.

“Oh boy, am I beat up! You two are strong!” he said.

I giggled. Otis and I ran upstairs into the kitchen where we sat down

on the purple booth. I felt the leather slide under me as I sat down and

reached out to eat the Five Points cookie that Pop had bought me. Ginger.

Always ginger. My favorite was oatmeal raisin, but he always got me ginger.

Somehow, I still loved it just as much. Perhaps because it was from him.

Otis finished his chocolate rye cookie and ran over to the living room to

find Mom and Gema. The two of them sat in the recliners, talking, my mom

with her computer in her lap.

*


19

“We could go to Bethany Beach this summer, maybe,” she was saying,

“Maybe stay at Deb’s house?”

Gema nodded. “I like it there.”

Otis threw open the cabinet under the TV and pulled out the cards and

the pennies. Pop, Otis and I sat on the floor in a circle as Otis dealt us each

one card. One card that we each then lifted up to our foreheads to face it

outward towards each other.

Pop began, as he always does, “Oh, Indie, you have a really high card.

It’s scaring me.”

I laughed. “I don’t know about that, Pop, because your card is way up

there.” He had a two.

Otis stifled a laugh.

I continued, “I think I’m going to drop out because your card is so high.”

I started to lower my card, but Pop quickly threw in three pennies.

“Okay, okay.”

Otis threw in three pennies. I threw in three pennies. We all revealed

our cards. Pop had a two. I had a jack. Otis had a queen. Pop always seemed

to get the lowest cards, the twos and threes and fours. And he would always

so proudly say that he was going to win because he had the highest card

and we had the lowest cards and that was that.

And so, he smiled and I laughed and Otis bounced on his feet and the

sun was so bright and the sky so blue.

Welcome to Social Studies! the TV screen read, the slideshow’s blue background

vibrant in the dimly lit living room. Daniella stood in front, her

hands firmly clasped behind her back. I sat on the bench next to her, moving

the mouse from one side of the screen to the other side.

“Good morning,” Daniella said, and looked at her sister, Sofia, sitting quietly

on the couch, struggling to be a good student. “Please read the board.”

“All it says is, ‘Welcome to Social Studies,’” Sofia remarked.

“Then flip the slide, Indie!”

I laughed and flipped the slide. A historian is someone who accounts

information about the past…

*

*

20 Short Prose

The cabinet was tall, too tall almost, but I stood up on my toes and

reached into the top. I pushed a curl out of my face and dug my hand into

the top shelf of the cabinet. I felt something soft and fluffy. I pulled my

hand out. In front of me was a little white stuffed animal bunny, its pink

nose bright and black bead of eyes dark. I rubbed my hand over its soft

head and whispered to myself, “Bunny.”

The air was dry in Mesa Verde. The gravel crunched under my feet and

the dirt lifted up to the air and into my lungs. I coughed and looked up at

the structure in front of me. People thousands of years ago lived where I

stood, in these houses dug out of the ground and made of mud and dirt.

People grew up here, learned to walk, talk, discovered how to multiply and

divide, and watched their families die. It was all a matter of time until skyscrapers

began to take form, people began to drive cars, and bridges were

constructed. Snap your fingers and the world and people change.

I skimmed through my booklet, veering through sentences about the

ancient life of people in Mesa Verde. I kept walking, my brother, father and

mother behind me, talking aimlessly. My mother laughed and my brother

kept blabbering about war and fighting and history.

The trees in front of me began to take different shapes, from the green

and healthy short bushes to the charred black and burnt trees. They were

dead and you could see it. But only seconds ago, they were alive?

I walked up the long, steep steps and approached the tall, brown house.

The door was firmly shut, quiet, and silent. The porch was lonely and abandoned,

the cushions missing from the rotting straw chairs. Flower petals

were strewn across the porch, having fallen from the tree. The tree that

stood there for as long as I remember; the tree that I climbed in when I was

young. The ivy was gone, replaced with pachysandra, bald patches of dirt

scattered about. It was calm and organized. But it was different.

I continued to walk up each step, looking around me at the different

plants that grew and bloomed, the places I sat, the places I walked, the

places they sat, the places they walked. When I reached the door, I punched

in 5141 and walked into the house I had known for so long. The living room

smelled faintly of cat food. The rooms were dark, shadows of the dreary day

outside casting in through the windows. I heard light footsteps and looked

down to see Bella, meowing against my ankles. She didn’t used to be here.

*

*


21

And ever so slowly, the navy carpeted stairs started to creak, and Gema,

her brown hair disarrayed, stepped down, one foot in front of the other. She

looked up, saw me and smiled slightly, surprise leaking onto her wrinkled

face. “Indie! I haven’t seen you for ages!”

“Hi, Gema,” I said, neglecting the fact that I had seen her the day before.

“Look how tall you are,” she said. “You’ve grown so much!”

“Yes, I’m almost as tall as my mom.”

“Wow!”

I laughed.

Gema came down the next several steps and peered outside. “Have you

seen Bella?”

“Yes, I just saw her.”

“She’s a juvenile delinquent, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is.”

“I’m worried about Pop. He has been so sick lately. He just doesn’t

seem himself.”

“I agree. He seems very sick.”

“Yes.” She thought for a moment, looking out to the distance as if looking

for something. Something that was simply in the back of her mind, but she

couldn’t grasp. “Have you seen Bella?”

“Yes. I just petted her.”

“She’s sneaky, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Pop hasn’t seemed himself lately. I’m very worried.”

“Yes, I’m worried too.” I inhaled. “I’m just going to do some work on the

porch for a little bit, Gema.” I stepped outside, away from her dementia,

sat on the porch, and pulled out Cloud Cuckoo Land by Anthony Doerr. I

flipped to my page, marked with the White Whale Bookstore bookmark.

Page 152. “… already I have seen things I did not know how to dream … ”

*

Bunny is gray now. Her pink nose is faint. The matted fur encloses her eyes.

*

22 Short Prose

Today is 5x600—600 meters on a track, five times. One and a half laps,

five times. Friday is 3200 meters, eight laps. And then next week is 2x300

and 3x200—300 meters, two times; 200 meters, three times. I didn’t used

to do this. I used to go outside and run and run and run on the muddy single-track

trails and the swamped double-track trails. I used to sprint down

the hills and fly through streams. I didn’t care how many meters or laps

around a track I ran. Now it’s 600s and 3200s and 300s and 200s. I used

to enjoy it. Do I still?

I walked into Gema and Pop’s house to find Gema asleep in the chair,

Pop coming down the stairs. He wavered slightly and tightened his hold on

the railing.

“Hi, Indie,” he said, his voice small and distant.

“Hi, Pop,” I said softly and tiptoed up the few steps to meet him, wrapping

my arms around him. He held onto me, but his hands were light as if

it hurt to hold on, and all he wanted was to let go.

“I’m sorry, Indie, I need to lie down.”

“It’s okay. I have work to do anyway.”

And he walked back up the steps until I couldn’t hear his feet move

anymore.

I took the bus home that day. I always thought that I hated the bus, but

truthfully, I loved to read in the morning when the gray misty skies took

over outside the rackety windows, and in the afternoons when the sun

was overbearing. Even with the headache-provoking rap music Mr. Hank

played endlessly, which never seemed to be rid of ads.

I got home, the rooms dark and gray. The lights were out and the world

seemed as if it was somewhere else. As if all of the people in Regent Square

were at some festival and I was the only one left.

Mom came down the steps, her usual quick skip, and went over to fall

onto the couch. Pulling a blanket over herself, she asked me how my day was.

“Good.”

“That’s it?”

I shrugged. “Not much to it.”

*

*


23

“Pop dropped off dessert.”

Oh, so that’s how it was now. We hardly see Pop and Gema anymore;

they’re always so sick and we’re so busy. We don’t go to their house that often,

they certainly don’t come here, and so we just don’t see them. But we both

do the occasional “drop off.” But why drop off when you could just stay?

I went over to the kitchen and opened the signature Five Points paper

bag. I peered in.

A jumble of crumbs and cookies sat at the bottom of the bag. No typical

ginger. No rare and occasional oatmeal raisin. Chocolate chip.

The clinks and clanks of the Legos on the floor only added to the boredom

building up inside of me. I lay on the ground on my back, looking

up at the ceiling instead of the disastrous mess in the room. The Legos

scattered on the floor, the strewn Nerf gun bullets, and the mini pool table

dumped in the middle of the room, the balls and sticks nowhere to be seen.

Simon and Otis were sitting on the floor, playing Legos, struggling to build

some sort of weapon.

“Otis, do you want to play pool?” I said into the chaos.

“Sure,” came his reply, wherever he was.

“Simon, where are the balls?” I got up and started to look around.

No reply. He simply stood up and walked out of the room. I turned to

Otis, confused. He just shrugged. I walked down the stairs to Simon’s room

on the second floor and knocked on the door. No reply. I knocked again,

and finally heard his muffled and aggravated voice.

“What?!?” he said.

“Simon, what are you doing?”

“Relaxing, I guess. Just playing on my phone.”

“Do you want to do something with us?”

“No.”

I stood there silently for a moment. Did he even remember the days when

we were little, not even that little, when we would play for hours? When we

would run around the house with Nerf guns, fake pistols and lightsabers? Or

when we would tackle each other in the pool? We got along so well. We were

friends. And then Simon got a phone, and… he disappeared. And every day,

*

24 Short Prose

I can’t help but wonder what had happened to my friend.

I sat in the reclining chair, my feet propped up and my headrest lowered

as far as it could possibly go. I was struggling to play Solitaire on one of

Pop’s many iPads, furiously bringing cards to random places only for them

to bounce back because obviously a three couldn’t go on a ten. Pop and

Gema sat on the couch next to me, Gema humming and looking out into

the distance and Pop also playing Solitaire on his iPad. I looked over at his

screen and watched him drag a jack onto a queen.

“You are really good at that, Pop,” I said, helplessly tapping my screen.

“I use it to tell if I am sick. If I am losing, then I am feeling sick,” he replied,

not looking up.

“Oh.”

How could he tell if he was feeling happy?

I was driving home from track practice one afternoon with my dad and

“Sweet Dreams” by Eurythmics came on.

My dad briefly looked at the screen, and monotonically said, “Great

song.” The bass came in, followed by the consistent beat of the drums. Then

Annie Lennox began to sing, her deep but rhythmic voice saying that she

traveled the world and the seven seas.

*

*

Sweet dreams are made of this

Who am I to disagree?

I travel the world and the seven seas

Everybody’s looking for something

Some of them want to use you

Some of them want to get used by you

Some of them want to abuse you

Some of them want to be abused


25

We passed the Cathedral of Learning as the background singers began

their whisper-like crooning.

“You should look more into Annie Lennox,” Dad said.

I nodded. “I will.”

I didn’t know who Annie Lennox was until that afternoon. I didn’t know

about the drums and bass line of “Sweet Dreams.” I didn’t know this music.

Many kids in my generation listen to Taylor Swift and modern pop music.

However, I always found classic rock from the ’70s, ’80s, and ’90s to be

more entertaining.

As a kid, my favorite was Siouxsie and the Banshees, and then Juice

Newton. After watching School of Rock with Stevie Nicks’s famous song

“Edge of Seventeen” in it, my favorite artist became Stevie Nicks. Fleetwood

Mac and Blondie were close seconds.

Things change. Even the music of the world and the way I heard it

changed. The way it impacted me changed. I liked the sounds of unique

vocals when I was little, but as I grew up, my preferences morphed into

the harmony of bass and electric guitar. The song couldn’t be more true:

Everybody’s looking for something. Just at different times.

I found my mom crying in her room. She was sitting on her bed, tears

rolling down her cheeks as her computer lay propped up on the comforter.

Her phone was sitting next to her, and I knew that she had come off the

phone with someone who had hurt her.

“Mom?” I asked quietly, “Are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine.” She wiped her cheeks. “I was just talking to Gema.”

“Oh.”

She started to cry again. “She kept repeating things, over and over and

over again. She was panicking because she didn’t know where Pop was, but

he was at the grocery store. I told her so many times that he is shopping.

But she just couldn’t remember.”

She shook her head and cried for a moment. “She didn’t used to be like

this. I’ve lost my mom, Indie. I’ve lost her.”

*

I came over to her and I wrapped my arms around her. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

*

26 Short Prose

“Salad over here, and who had no cheese? Over here some water, lemonade?

Here’s your lamb kebab, yes, yes. No, no nuts in the pita, no. Yes,

I’m sure. No nuts.” Gray hair stuck out of the man’s scalp, his eyes big and

filled with bushy eyebrows. His hand shook and shook as he handed dish

after dish to each of us sitting at the table. Gema dug into her soup only to

reject it seconds later. Otis immediately passed his salad down to my dad.

Pop took timid bites of rice. Plates began to pile up by my dad, who ate

everything leftover and was considered the “compost.”

Simon pushed his entirely full plate away and immediately pulled out

his phone, scrolling through apps and apps of games. Otis glued his eyes to

the TV and Gabi rubbed her head.

Soon, but what felt like ages, we found ourselves outside. Otis and Simon

were munching on a piece of pizza from a nearby store, and Gabi,

Mimi and Auntie Andy all went to Starbucks. It’s crazy how we were all

given food, only to go find more and more and more someplace else. What

will happen when there isn’t enough food at all?

We all began to walk towards Heinz Theater, making our way through

the crowds of people clambering at the edges of sidewalks, waiting for the

walk sign to turn on. I turned to Simon and pointed up to a building. “That

looks like a building that James Bond would jump onto from a zipline and

then have some crazy chase scene inside the parking garage.”

“No, it’s too high,” Simon said.

“I think it’s good,” Otis said.

“Okay,” Simon said, grumpily.

I shook my head but laughed, and walked into the theater. The building

was encased in gold trim, big and shiny chandeliers hanging from the

ceiling in each room; red painted walls and scarlet carpets enveloped the

entire building. I felt like I was transported back to the 18th century, where

women wore big skirts and strange wigs and men wore weird suits. I looked

over and saw Pop and Gema walking slowly, Uncle Sam helping them up

the steps and through the streams of people. Gema looked confused and

distant. Pop looked sick. But when do they not look like that?

I didn’t feel like I was in the 18th century anymore, but I desperately

wanted to slip back to then. Somewhere where I didn’t have to look to my

left and right and see people struggling to be healthy and happy anymore.

Somewhere where I don’t know anybody that I am afraid of losing.


27

I found my seat inside the auditorium, Max on my left and Mimi on my

right. Uncle Sam sat beside me, pulling on one of my braids every once in a

while. Pop and Gema were behind me too, pointing and talking softly.

A man came onto the stage and began to talk about the knights and

Elton John and Paul McCartney. He made a joke. He went off the stage

and the orchestra started up, the bass and drums and violins and cello and

vocals all contributing to the harmony created on stage. When the song

ended, Mimi clapped and Gema smiled and Max tapped his foot over and

over again to the beat and Pop laughed and laughed and laughed.

Sometime later, I sat in the car again with my brother, mom and dad.

We were going up to the creek house, a cabin that Pop and Gema owned. I

was shuffling music from my phone so we could all hear it in the car. “Yesterday”

by the Beatles came on.

*

Yesterday

All my troubles seemed so far away

Now it looks as though they’re here to stay

Oh, I believe in yesterday

Suddenly

I’m not half the man I used to be

There’s a shadow hanging over me

Oh, yesterday came suddenly

I walked into Pop’s house that day to find him asleep in the recliner.

The warm water rushed over my hands, soaking the dry skin and dirt.

The soap bubbles smoothed my skin. I quickly glanced in the mirror and

saw my torn and dirty track uniform reflecting back at me. I saw my hair,

a mess, coming loose out of the braid. I saw the imperfect scar on my lip

from when I was little. I was about to leave when I saw a girl with glasses

and blond hair come up to wash her hands next to me.

*

*

28 Short Prose

“Daniella?” I said, confused.

“Hi, Indie.”

“Are you running today?” I asked, curious but also struggling to make

conversation with the person I see glimpses of over the years. Ever since I

left her stranded at my old school.

“Yeah, I’m doing the 4x8 and the 4x2. You?”

“4x8, mile, and 32.”

“Cool.”

“Well, bye.”

“Byeeee.”

I walked out and quickly ran away from the bathroom. And that was

it. Except for the one thought that raced through my head—that one of my

oldest and former best friends was gone.

*

I saw Daniella at track practice the next day. I waved. She did not wave back.

Time is damaging, but it is also healing. I have found that I fear the

people around me getting older and older. I fear seeing everyone I loved

and hated as a child shape into a completely new and different person. But

I have also discovered that as people rapidly adapted around me, so did I.

Here I am, now, at 15 years old, sometimes looking forward to the future

and at other times, crying from how fast my life has gone already. In less

than 10 years, I will be independent and trying to find out what I want to

do in my life. In less than 50 years, I will be old and struggling to do anything

in my life.

I know that yesterday is gone. Yesterday, I ran at my track meet, went to

school and talked to my friends—all things I will never do again in my life

at the age of 15 on Thursday, May 16, 2024. But tomorrow is also Saturday,

May 18, and there is so much that I still have to do that I have never done

before. Yesterday is gone, but I am ready for tomorrow.

Gema may constantly ask me where Bella is, but she will also constantly

tell me that she loves me. Pop may always be falling asleep, his sick and

frail body deteriorating, but he will also hug and hug and hug me. Simon

may be on his phone, forgetting and neglecting the people around me, but

*


29

he is also adventurous and exciting at times. Daniella may be gone, but she

will also remember me. And I’ll have new Daniellas, and new friends. Time

continues. People and the world change. And yet, we still go on.

30 Short Prose

Dessa Shimko

Grade 9

Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12

Amekhania

I am going to be a fantastic sister. I stand there, in the doorway, trying to

unlock the mailboxes in the vestibule. Far back is a key, just out of reach,

but my hands falter at the combination and I am unsuccessful. And Dad

walks in, squeezes himself into the doorway, past the mountain of backpacks

and words and children talking about their day. My voice has been

raised above all others. Lucy’s getting a little sister too! We made cards

together today! Lucy’s sister is going to be born on the same day as mine!

I thrust a purple slip of paper into my father’s hands and watch him take

in the flowers and the words. I get a smile, quickly wiped off his face by a

window left open in the locked car. The key has not made its way into the

door, and there is time for him to yell, and I run down to the van to close it.

I am a fantastic sister. I sit there, in the hospital chair, in my polka-dot

pajamas, hair tie digging into my wrist. Wedged against the edge of the seat,

I hold out my arms, desperate, and I feel her weight drop into my arms,

and she cries and wails and screams. Everything shatters; I can feel everything

shatter, and the sterile scent, sterile appearance of the room begins

to shock and burn my nose and eyes. She’s just never met you before, my

mother—our mother—says as she takes her back. You’re doing great. Let me

quiet her down and I’ll let you hold her again. Let me quiet her down and

I’ll let you hold her again.

I am a fantastic sister. I stand by the door keeping watch: for my neighbors

and for my parents, and we runrunrun inside of the house. Jumping

from chair to pillow, pillow to loveseat to ottoman. The parents have made

it inside, my mother grabbing the pasta from the stove, June’s mom walking

in through the back door, my father picking up the tomato sauce from

the burner. My mother fields complaints about the too-hot spaghetti; my


31

father runs back and forth for more bread. I speed through the house with

Imogene and Reese and Silas and Sam and June and Caroline. She follows

us on her training bike, the wooden frame just supporting her, the red logo

matching her shirt. Catching up, her head bobbing as she sets her bike to

the side and runs up the stairs behind us, she stays at arm’s length as we

ransack the cabinets and find the hair glue. Last week’s didn’t come out for

two days and she’s laughing and smiling as we rake it through her hair, as

we form it into something that ignores gravity. Last week’s wasn’t as high

as this one. Last week’s didn’t make it back down the stairs. Last week was

cooler. Last week was tired.

I am a shocked sister. I sit there, legs dangling over the edge of the pool,

grass stains on my knees. She slips down into the water past me and lands

on the ridge. We left the floaties eleven hours from here. Left the pool noodles

four thousand miles away. Left our consciences at the pool in the park

where we were asked about swim lessons and declined because there was

no time. Let her get into the pool without telling her there was a drop-off of

the ledge. A step, she doesn’t realize, and she is thrashing, like she has just

come into the world, and she can no longer touch her toes to the floor, and

I am stuck, frozen. Paralyzed as my mother dives in, as she grabs my sister’s

waist, as she lifts her up out of the pool and into my father’s arms. Still

stuck, still frozen, and I feel a tear run down my cheek, and she is out but

I am motionless, replaying it in my head. And the water is suddenly now

ice, and the breeze is knives, and my mother’s voice is telling me to get out.

I am a bitter sister. I sit there, on the edge of the couch. My mother is

telling me that it’s fine she doesn’t want to go outside. It’s fine that every

friend, every option I’ve named has been shot down. It’s fine, she doesn’t

feel like interacting with them, it’s fine. I do not think it’s fine, and I remember

my childhood cut short by two years inside, and I want her to go

out and play and run and bask in the sun. To go out and climb and build

and explore. She has opportunities I didn’t have, I didn’t give to myself; she

should not be wasting them. My mother says it’s finefinefine, I can feel this

way, she understands, but I cannot lay my burdens and past on my sister

and expect her to fix them for me. The tears stream down my face as I say

that it doesn’t matter, she’s wasting her youth, she’s missing out on her innocence.

I wanted my innocence gone when I was her age, and I wish I had

never lost it, and I don’t care, I don’t care, she’s not going to be like me. I

won’t let her be like me. I sit limply on the cushions and my mother walks

across to the kitchen to grab tissues.

32 Short Prose

I am a terrible sister. I sit there, in my chair, as she asks me to play with

her. To frost a cake. To build a house. To read. And I sit there as I say no. I’m

too tired. I have so much work to do. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I sit there as her

face falls, her posture snaps, her back slouches. She leaves the room.

I am a terrible sister. I sit there, on the porch stairs, as she excitedly

shows me her gymnastics moves. In the grass, grown too long since my

father last cut it, she twists and turns and flips and cartwheels. Rate them,

she says. Out of ten. Over and over and over and over. Eight. Seven point

two. Nine. Nine point five. Ten. She’s satisfied and I am just throwing out

numbers. I sit there, eyes glazed over, staring into the sunset as she spies

her friend walking up our street. She leaps down the stairs and I watch her

run off into the streetlights. I walk past the set table, the watering can, not

touched in years, and go inside.

I am a terrible sister. I stand there and she questions me, tries to start

a conversation. I stand there, pausing to move over to the microwave, and

deflect. Why don’t you have your leotard on? What do you want for dinner?

Are you ready to leave? The Ellises are picking you up tonight. And she

stops her attempts at conversation, her attempts to tell me about her day.

She won the read-a-thon. She got a perfect score on her spelling test. She

did none of this—this was last week, last month, a different friend. She reverses

course. When are Mom and Dad getting home? Can I watch TV until

they get back? What song is this? I stop all attempts, I walk away, she is still

there, she is lonely, and I see the sadness on her face. Searching for some

form of connection. And I cannot see her like this, cannot see her face fall

and her words leave and her run upstairs to escape me.

I am a terrible sister. I lay there, splayed across the couch, doing nothing

and arguing for everything. Mom and Dad are leaving, running an errand,

buying something to keep the house going. She’s walked down the stairs.

Into the room. I beg her, I list reasons. Go, I say. You’ll have fun. You never

get time alone with them. You could convince them to stop at Target. And

she says no, and I list more and more: You’ll get to listen to your book; you

can pick the music. You can pick the songs that are actually happy and not

just mine that pretend to be. It’s a no, still a no, but I have held her attention

this long; I have a chance. And she is stuck, overcome with ideas until my

words hit home and I see it click in her eyes. Like she’s been wrapped in the

thorns I tried to save her from for so long she does not feel until one pricks

her heart. I see her mouth form the sentence before I hear it. You just want

me out of the house. I do. I do. I do not know how to politely say it, I want to


33

be alone so I can suffer from my still-prickling thorns in peace, and I never

had an older sister to try and bubble-wrap me and protect me and seal me

away from all the barbs digging into my skin. Fervent denial escapes my

lips, but it is not enough, and she is staying, staying in the living room.

I am a terrible sister. I stand there, ocean waves crashing around me,

calling out for her to come in. We remembered our consciences this time,

remembered to sign her up for swim lessons. Remembered to give her all

the information. Her eyes snap to the yellow warning flag and I beckon her

in. It’ll be okay. I’m taller. I’m stronger. I can pull you away from the waves

and the water and I can shield you away from the sun. I can run toward the

shore and the sand and I can fight the Florida tides that try and hold me

back. In her jet-black swimsuit, she runs, stepping on shells and rocks as she

crosses over the sandbar to meet me. She jumps in alone, far, far away from

me. A wave comes, the current pulls her, and I run farther into the water to

grab her. But I can’t, and she has moved out past the sandbar, disappearing

under the seawater, her toes not able to reach the floor and her head not

able to reach the surface and gasp for air. And I am frantically waving to

the shore and my mother runs in, grabbing her, lifting her out, because I am

not tall enough or strong enough to do it myself like I promised. She should

be coughing, spluttering, but the water in her lungs is not coming out, and

my father is desperately dialing 9-1-1 and my aunt is running to the nearest

lifeguard and I am frozen like I was on the edge of the pool.

I was a terrible sister. The sun bears down on me, on the wooden casket

in my line of sight, closed and sealed for the ground. And I do not look, or

the wave will cascade, and I am stuck in one place as words rise up into

the sky and move toward the heavens where I will not go. I am drowning,

drowning under the weight of it all, and my head goes to the fact that she

will be here, she will walk into her own funeral, she will sit up out of the

casket—no, it’s not her in the casket, she’ll walk into the park at any moment,

I’ll see her, she’ll say it’s all okay and she’s so sorry she wasn’t here,

so sorry I thought it was my fault, so sorry so sorry so sorry for everything,

for making me think it was me, all me. My mother’s sister walks toward me,

across the grass, across the cemetery, her daughters in tow, and she fails

and stops and I meet her eyes as they move from me to the plot I am still

sitting next to. And I am stuck, still, like I was in the pool and like I was in

the ocean, and I have to get up, stand, walk, and I can’t, but she steps toward

me and I realize my sister is the one in the casket, the one who is not

waking up tomorrow morning, not waking up because of me, and I break.

34 Short Prose

Bella Minyo

Grade 12

Shaler Area High School

The Automat

Every other establishment was closed by the time Tami got off work. Dim

street lights with their hazy yellow glow shine the path to Trix’s Automat.

Clicking kitten heels follow the lit cobblestone street to the brightly shining

automat, like a fly drawn to a fly trap. The jingle of the polished golden bell

rings as the door swings open and Tami slides into Trix’s. As the door closes,

embellished in black “Trix’s Automat” and “est. 1960” right below reflect in

the street lights.

The automat is empty except for Herb behind the shop counter, mechanically

wiping the surface with a barely stained cloth. Bulbous concave halo

lights hang from the ceiling and circle marble-top tables with dark walnut

legs and matching chairs are scattered in clusters throughout the automat.

Encircled on three sides are giant glass windows that would give a pleasant

view to Main Street if it weren’t for it being so dark out, causing the windows

to reflect inwards and show the inside of the automat.

Tami stares blankly at the wall of options. Sandwiches, soups and baked

goods never seem to appeal to her. Like always, Tami gravitates towards the

coffee and orders an espresso. She delicately removes her treat from the

box and the clinking of porcelain reverberates through the automat.

A man in tattered clothes walks in.

“Hey, it’s gettin’ pretty windy out there. Should probably head home before

it rains, Miss Tami.”

“Oh, but it’s not supposed to rain. We’re in the middle of a drought.” Tami

pauses a moment before continuing. “Is everything alright sir? Can I get

you something to eat?”


35

Wide-eyed and eyebrows sky-high, the man looks at Tami as if she were

going insane.

“I’m not so sure ‘bout that Miss Tami, s’already been decided.”

Without answering her question if he needs anything, he tips his shambled

fabric scraps of a hat with a large hole in the center to Tami and walks

out of Trix’s Automat.

Tami glances at Herb at the counter. He hasn’t moved and is still wiping

at the surface of the walnut counter in circle motions over and over and

over. The cloth still doesn’t have any stains.

Click clack click clack goes Tami’s heels until she stops at the same table

she always sits at, right in front of the windows. She methodically places

her espresso cup and saucer on the table and sits down without making a

noise. Tami stares at the white foam on top of her espresso and reads her

prediction.

“Someone will give you unexpected news.”

Tami laughs to herself a little, thinking of the man who had just walked

in. Then the sound of water droplets tapping against the window draws Tami’s

attention through the glass. Sipping her espresso, she gazes pensively

through space, seeing but not really seeing at the same time.

Suddenly full, she puts her unfinished espresso down and walks her

dirty cup back to the coffee dispensary, the clinking of porcelain reverberating

throughout the empty automat as she returns it.

Without looking back to Herb this time, she leaves.

“Bye, Herb. See you tomorrow.”

The door closes behind Tami. Herb looks up. He stops wiping and the

heavy thump of his footsteps find their way to the tiny door with the dirty

espresso cup inside. Herb removes the cup and stiffly walks through the

draping curtains that hide the kitchen of the automat.

All the lights in Trix’s Automat shut off, one by one as if cans being shot

by kids practicing with a BB gun on a fence, until the entirety of Main

Street succumbed to the darkness of the night.

____

Dusk falls on the town as the shopkeepers kiss the sun’s last rays of light

goodbye before the moon’s penetrating spotlights enter.

36 Short Prose

Several hours pass and the crowds begin to thin, the stray cats begin to

go to sleep, and a blanket of black is laid on Main Street. A faded teal bus

pulls up to the station, a lone sign with barely distinguishable letters. Tami

steps off the bus alone and walks leisurely towards Trix’s Automat. A woman,

probably the nice kind that looks like someone’s aunt, is closing up her

shop and passes Tami.

No one says a word, and like each is a ghost protected by their own

invisible shield, walks past without even a glance of acknowledgment of

their presence.

Tami enters Trix’s Automat, gets her familiar cup of espresso with the

slight clink of the porcelain, places it on the table and sits down without a

noise. Herb is wiping down the windows today, making the same repetitive

motion over and over and over as he seemingly can’t get rid of a smudge.

Glancing at her cup, Tami furrows her brows at the prediction etched in

delicate white gloop.

“Something will stain a piece of your clothing.”

Extremely carefully, Tami takes small sips of her espresso. Tami, tired

from her strenuous work today, simply gazes off into a different realm and

is only returned to Earth when a clattering of pots and a shout is heard in

the kitchen. Then silence.

Realizing more time has passed than she realized, Tami stands and returns

her used espresso cup and saucer to the coffee section in the automat.

She smooths out her skirt and realizes there’s something wet on the back

of it. With pursed lips and eyebrows drawn so close they could be holding

hands, Tami walks back to her seat and sees that there’s whipped cream

foam all over where she sat. Shaking her head, Tami racks her brain to

remember if it was there when she first sat but she can’t recall if she even

checked.

“That’s so strange … ” she murmurs tilting her head to the side.

Herb is still standing and wiping in the same spot on the window as

before. Nothing seems to be picked up by his rag as it permanently stays

pristine white like the sterilized starched sheets and smocks of a hospital.

Tami peeks back towards Herb, staring like a porcelain doll through the

window and unmoving like one too.

“Hey Herb, there’s a bit of a mess over on this chair here. I’m not quite

sure how all this espresso foam got on it. Do you want me to clean it up?”


37

Herb stops his cleaning and, like a wax figure come to life, becomes

animated and lively.

“Oh, don’t you worry ‘bout that, Miss Tami. I can take care of it. Why

don’t you head on home? It’s gettin’ quite late and you’ve got a long day

tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Herb. I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a nice night.”

Tami exits Trix’s Automat and Herb stares after her with a too-wide

smile pulling at his face. Once she gets about a hundred yards away, the

smile drops, the waxy resemblance and stiffness returns, and he gathers up

the cleaning supplies and heads to the kitchen. No one returns from the

kitchen to grab the soiled chair. The lights all turn off, one by one with a

loud click.

____

Tami is already seated in her normal spot, espresso in hand as she stares

at the appalling and confusing prophecy.

“Enjoy your remaining days here.”

She can’t tell if it means she is moving somewhere else soon, or if

something bad is happening to Trix’s Automat. Or something else. But she

doesn’t let her mind wander there like no normal person would.

The moon is out in full force tonight like a pie with whipped cream

spread on top, but everyone hungrily waits to take a slice away. Beams of

moonlight penetrate the automat windows and filter into the cafe seating

area. With roving eyes, Tami cautiously raises her cup to her mouth and

takes a few sips.

She notices for the first time that Herb seems to wear the same outfit

every night. But he might just have a specific uniform he has to wear. After

all, Tami wears almost the same thing every night too except for her jewelry.

A shiver travels up Tami’s spine and she notices that the temperature is

unnaturally cold in Trix’s Automat for the middle of autumn. Maybe they

just haven’t looked into a heating system. Tami wouldn’t know; she’s only

been going to Trix’s since the summer.

With a slightly hurried step, Tami returns her cup to the dispenser and

says a curt farewell to Herb, who’s sitting reading a newspaper behind the

counter. He hasn’t turned a page since Tami arrived, remaining in the same

unwrinkled noiseless state for almost half an hour.

38 Short Prose

The golden bell jingles on Tami’s exit. Herb goes to the kitchen. The

lights turn off.

____

Over a period of multiple days, Tami has received several messages from

her espresso that have raised the hairs on her neck and sent tingles dancing

down her spine. She wants to stop going to Trix’s Automat, but something

inside her keeps pulling her to that solitarily lit cafe that only seems to run

at night.

On the bus ride home, Tami toys with the predictions in her head, in the

order she got them trying to make some sense of the prophetic espresso

dispensary.

“People are whispering,” “Everything has been decided,” “Almost there.”

It must all mean something.

The bus reaches Tami’s stop on Main Street and lets her get off.

Everything is closed down, except the fluorescent lights drawing any

wayfaring stranger to Trix’s Automat. Tami almost walks by without going

in until she sees that another woman is already inside, and she decides to

go in there and keep her company. It couldn’t possibly hurt to go in there

for a couple minutes.

Tami smiles at the woman sitting at a table eating a piece of cake. The

woman gives a tight-lipped smile back. The woman finishes her cake and returns

her dirty plate just as Tami receives her espresso. Tami finds her normal

seat. The woman leaves. No one else is inside the automat, not even Herb.

Anxious, tired, and eyes darting like an abandoned fawn, Tami stares at

her espresso’s prediction, etched out in seemingly innocent foam.

“Careful.”

Unable to stand waiting any longer at the automat alone, Tami gulps

down the espresso, every single drop this time. She then notices something

carved into the bottom of her cup.

“Tami Tortaux, 1962”

“That’s odd,” she can’t help but mumble under her breath, “very odd

indeed.”

Herb walks out from the kitchen now, the curtains hiding it falling

behind him.


39

“Evenin’, Miss Tami. How’s the night treatin’ you?”

A paleness washes over Tami’s face as she grips her throat with red manicured

nails. Her eyes bulge a little and a wheezing like a broken kazoo

escapes her mouth.

“I’ll be honest Herb, I’m not feeling too well. Do you have a glass of water?

There’s something stuck in my throat, and I’m a little light-headed too.”

“No problem, Miss Tami. Would you mind comin’ on back with me? We’re

all out of bottled water up front so I’ll get you somethin’ from the tap if

that’s alright.”

“That’ll do just fine, Herb. Thank you,” Tami replies in between coughs

as her face increasingly pales whiter and whiter.

Tami follows Herb to the kitchen. The curtains close behind them and

all that is heard is the fading of Tami’s clicking heels as the silence soon

returns to the automat. There is a stillness for a moment with nothing, not

even the fluttering buzz buzz of the wings of a fly as it’s drawn to the glowing

lights of Trix’s Automat. Then the lights turn out with a click, a click,

and a click.

____

“Okay, Herb, you sure you’ve never seen someone by the name Tami

Tortaux?” I’ve got a few reports she frequented Trix’s Automat and you’re

the night shift so I figured you would know.”

A bristle-mustached cop stands leaning against the counter, chatting

with Herb during the dinner rush at Trix’s Automat. No one has seen or

heard of Tami in a week, and her roommate called in the missing report a

couple days ago when Tami never returned home.

“Well, are you sure you can’t offer me anything? These people need some

closure about her case; it’s the fourth girl this year gone missing and people

are startin’ to talk. You see how that makes me look, bein’ the only detective

‘round here?”

“Yeah, I understand. I’ll let you know if I hear somethin’.”

“Thanks, Herb. See ya around.”

A few hours later and the dinner rush is gone. Trix’s Automat is abandoned

as it normally is this time of night, until a young woman jingles

the golden bell as she walks in, heels clicking on the tile. She ponders her

options at the multiple dispensaries and settles on an espresso. It appears

40 Short Prose

to be a seasonal autumnal flavor or color of some sort.

Porcelain gently clinks against the tabletops as the young woman sits

down, right in perfect view of the window and the three walls of the automat.

She gazes down at her cup of red spiced espresso and the greeting in the

peppermint foam.

“Welcome to Trix’s Automat. You’ll enjoy it here.”


41

42 Short Prose

Clifford Brindle

Grade 10

West Allegheny High School

The Devil in The Details

Lucas swore it must be the newest pass of hair dye. He hasn’t been sleeping

well, and while he always shuffled around in his sleep, he thinks it was the

new layer of crinkle up around his head keeping him up. No, why would he

wake up earlier because of bleached hair? He had forgotten to buy his own

bodywash, and had been using his roommate’s. Is there something in that?

No, that would be a topical reaction, if any.

He shook his head and took it as a blessing. If he was sitting with an

extra hour of morning, he’ll use it to his advantage. After peeling back

the sheets on a bed, unkempt by a night of rolling around, he stepped

off the white carpet of his room and onto the close-knit yellow-and-white

subway tiles of the attached bathroom. He puffed his hair in the mirror: a

shoulder-length wolf cut, blond and bluer at the tips. He liked it, except for

its newfound stiffness. He stripped off his pajama shirt—an ex’s old high

school debate team shirt—and pants and underwear and stepped into the

shower. He enjoyed a slow, hot shower, trying to let the water melt the odd

night off of him. With the curtain dimming and bouncing the light from

above the mirror, and the water floating up to be steam, Lucas felt like he

was under a yellow-hued canopy of jungle. He read the back of his roommate’s

bodywash to discern any agitating active ingredient, to no avail. It

was all sodium lauroyl isethionate and similar jargon which meant nothing

to him. So, regardless, he cupped his hand and poured it in and cleaned

himself with the thick scent of vanilla.

When he was done, he reached through the side of the curtain and

grabbed the maroon towel from its black and forest green sisters. It

scritched over his hair but came smooth and plush over the rest of his body.

He wrapped and tucked the towel over his waist and stepped back onto the


43

carpet of his room. He put on boxers and slid white stockings up his legs,

which pulled his thighs inward slightly with the elastic band at the top. He

fished through his wardrobe and pulled on a green sundress with short

Juliet sleeves. He walked over to the vanity in the corner of his room, which

was nestled between the door to the bathroom and the door to exit. He

pulled out a thin drawer for some rings. He decided on gold: better to wake

him up faster than the subtler silver rings. He went against his standard

maximalist makeup, and only decided on a lip and concealer.

Perhaps the biggest exception to his standard routine was the yeowl in

Lucas’ stomach; he never ate in the morning, but now he was hungry like it

would be his first meal in days. He walked quietly and quickly through the

silent apartment, and plucked black ankle boots from the chrome cubby to

the left of the door, along with his purse. He slid on and zipped up the sides

of the boots, and slipped his wallet and apartment key into the mint green

faux-leather purse before reclasping the little gold bee charm and putting

it crossbody over himself.

After deciding a trek down four flights of stairs in his chunky boots was

too arduous, he walked down the hall to the elevator, where he pressed

‘down’ on the metal plate and received a compliant chirp. He stood on

the array of perpendicular gray and green lines of the elevator floor as it

hummed downwards. He waved a greeting and goodbye to the woman at

the receptionist desk as he passed, and pushed through the glass doors of

the vestibule where the chug-chug-chug of an HVAC system was audible.

The Saturday morning was hot with still air, and the outlet’s stout buildings

pitched long shadows across the brick sidewalk that Lucas gravitated

towards. Many cars stood parked beside them, with old stained parking

meters frowning red with no change in them. Despite the weather, the trees

growing intermittently in plots along the sidewalk weren’t yet reminded

to grow leaves, and thin pale green and yellow shoots wove themselves

around the trees’ roots to steal up all the mulch space the trees were idling

on. Little carpenter bee denizens milled about one tree near Lucas’ destination:

The Always Café. Despite its name, the old store was only open

from about 5 a.m. until 3 p.m. The store’s door was sunken into the grooved

green wood façade, with windows lined with small lights to show off the

baked goods. Outside, there were rusted wrought iron tables and chairs,

with the outer layer flaking off like skin that was pulled too taut over muscle.

In the windows and in front of the store, there were standing and hanging

chalkboards announcing the name of the cafe, as well as “Open! Come

44 Short Prose

on in!” and “Looking for new hires! (Ask inside)” in dusty white and yellow.

Lucas stepped onto hardwood to the ring of a bell overhead. The room

was only negligibly populated, with an old couple at a center table, a woman

with a laptop at the far window, and a man with wrinkled, smiley eyes

standing at the front counter. Lucas approached the man, who had a bushy

graying mustache resting upon his upper lip and a casually worn mauve

button-up.

Lucas had anticipated that he’d step to the counter and know what he

wanted, but despite the gnawing in his gut, nothing struck him as appetizing.

He bought a coffee and a hearty slice of cherry pie—as the kind man

put it—rid himself of a silver dollar and some banknotes to pay him, and

drifted towards a booth seat that tucked itself in the corner and surveyed

the room. There, he mulled over not much and grazed the pie while staring

off into the wooden beams or the ceiling or the panels of the floor or the

charming floral texture of the tabletops. His eyes spaced off to unfocusedness

when his vision was blotted black.

“Pardon me, are you expecting anyone? If not, may I sit here?”

Lucas returned to reality to see a tall, broad, pale man standing in front

of him with his hands slid into his pockets.

Lucas realized he had said nothing. “Oh. Um, no, go ahead.”

The pale man picked up the chair opposite the booth, keen to make sure

it didn’t whine across the cafe floor, and sat down with his waist and neck

in line, upright.

“My name is Isaiah. What would you care to be called?”

He looked over Isaiah’s shoulder to the numerous empty tables. “Lucas.”

“That’s a pleasant name.”

Lucas looked back to Isaiah’s face. He had a sharp chin and thick neck,

and matte black hair. His eyes were a dull grey where they were nestled, under

arched brows, above defined cheeks, and behind silver circular glasses.

Dressed in all black, he drew in the shadows of the room, making everything

around and his ashy complexion seem to glow brighter by comparison.

Lucas had opened his mouth and was about to ask why he had sat down

next to him, when Isaiah preemptively answered him.

“You were an exception to the norm. I walk this path every Saturday,

and have never seen you in this window. Something as pleasantly striking


45

as you would not be easily forgotten, and I care to be knowledgeable on

everything I pass routinely.”

“I’m, I’m not new here. I’ve just been sleeping oddly recently, and I’ve

never been hungry in the morning, but … ” Lucas stopped. “I don’t plan on

making this a habit.”

Isaiah’s slight smile stood steadfast. “I see.” He looked down. “That pie

looks delicious. Excuse me; I’m going to get some for myself.”

He stood up, picked up and reset the chair, then walked up to the counter.

Lucas looked back over the room now that the pale man no longer

blocked his vision. The old couple apparently had left while Isaiah was

sitting down, and Lucas could see the other woman there putting her backpack

over her shoulder. His vision lingered on the door as that woman left

with a quiet ring.

“Sorry to leave you by yourself.” Isaiah placed his plate down gently before

sitting down. He brought the serrated knife surgically across the skin

of the cherry pie and scooped up the piece. After swallowing, he said, “Are

you alright, Lucas? I don’t see how a person could sit with this in front of

them and not devour it.”

Lucas picked up his fork and toyed with it. “My stomach’s forgotten how

to eat breakfast food, I think.”

“I can empathize. There was a period of time when I simply couldn’t eat

meat. I’m allergic to tree nuts as well, so I was very nearly emaciated.” He

took another few bites, then said as he looked up, “I’m very grateful that

I’ve regained that portion of my palate.”

Isaiah continued to eat quietly. He turned his head up swiftly when he

heard the scrape of Lucas’ plate on the table. “I can’t eat this.” He stood

up and walked past the pale man to dump the plate over a trash bin, then

placed the plate and utensils on the receptacle above the trash can. He was

now standing between the door and Isaiah. He was walking through the

door when he heard behind him:

“Lucas.”

He turned around again to see the ashy man holding his bag.

“Wouldn’t want to forget this, Lucas.”

Lucas’ mouth was dry when he responded. “Thanks.”

Isaiah patted down the front of his jacket. “I seem to have forgotten

46 Short Prose

something. Would you like to join me back to my apartment?” Lucas found

himself nodding his head.

The two men stepped back onto the street with the sidewalk now bisected

between light and shadow.

“Aren’t you hot like that?” Lucas asked, since the man guiding him was

wearing a woolly black jacket and dress pants in the early spring heat, in

the sunlight. Lucas was in the shade in a light dress, and he was even beginning

to sweat.

“I suppose,” Isaiah unbuttoned his jacket and took it off, and held it at his

hip over one arm. When he took it off, more of the grey turtleneck he was

wearing underneath was revealed.

The street was lonely, bar the two of them. At the small intersections,

there was never a car, but even so, Isaiah stopped at every one before continuing.

The walk was short, but even so, Lucas’ feet were killing him. It

was only maybe 10 a.m., but he was ready to turn in. He followed after the

other man with slightly shaky vision when he stopped and faced the buildings

to their left. When Lucas’ vision settled, he realized he was standing in

front of his own apartment building. He followed Isaiah in.

He figured the air-conditioned building would do good for his head and

body, but he was wrong. Isaiah led him past the empty receptionist desk

and into the elevator.

His head was pounding from the inertia of the elevator, when he realized

Isaiah was talking to him.

“Are you alright, Lucas? You’re looking paler than me.”

His breath was heavy, and his stomach was bawling for contents. “I’m

nauseous.”

“We can rest in my apartment for a moment, if you’d like.”

“Ugh … Yes.”

Lucas followed him out of the elevator when they reached the sixth

floor. He trailed after Isaiah through yellow halls and over multicolored

abstract-patterned carpet. They stopped at room 623 and Isaiah pushed

open the fake-polished-wood door.

His apartment was the perfect reflection of him in every way one would expect.

Most things were varying shades of black and grey and minimalist. When

Isaiah was walking through the furniture, he was practically camouflaged.


47

He saw Lucas lingering in the doorway. “You may come in.”

Lucas stepped in, and at this point, Isaiah was out of view. He called out

from wherever he was. “You may take your shoes off if you’d like. Sit down

wherever.”

Lucas would like to do that. When he unzipped his boots and placed

them next to the white doormat and two other black pairs of shoes, his feet

were hot. In fact, he was sweating profusely all over. He stepped languidly

and padded softly to a grey loveseat in the common room. When put in

tandem with a coffee table and a leather armchair, it created an “L” that

defined the composition of the room. Lucas leaned back heavily into the

cushion of the loveseat, weak. His breathing came back deep and guttural,

but he did his best to quiet it.

Lucas was staring at the popcorn ceiling when Isaiah walked back in,

wearing his jacket again. He sat down in the armchair.

“I am ready. But we may wait until you feel prepared to leave.”

The pale man set his silver glasses on the coffee table, and replaced

them with a gold-rimmed set of readers. He pulled a thin green book out

of the nook between the arm and cushion of the chair. Delicate gold leaf

on the front read: Dead Barn Owls And Other Works by Andreea Vasilescu.

Lucas wiped off his top lip with the back of his hand. His whole face

was slick with sweat and it was dribbling, putting the taste of salt into his

mouth. He stood up slowly and unsteadily. He walked across the length

of the loveseat and stood in front of the armchair. He pulled at the top of

Isaiah’s turtleneck.

“Yes?” Isaiah asked as he looked up.

He in turn looked into his dull, grey eyes.

Lucas lurched forward and dug his canines into his pale neck. Isaiah

screamed and turned away from the point of contact, but Lucas leaned

farther in, drinking in the deep red blood. He mashed his hand against Lucas’

face to push him away and fell the other direction, staining the white

carpet with flecks of crimson. There were two diagonal slits in Isaiah’s neck

dripping blood. Lucas lunged over the floor towards him and plunged his

teeth into his neck again, and, with his breath hot against Isaiah’s skin,

lapped up with his tongue the rest of the blood leaking down. He squirmed

and groaned, and kept trying to roll away from Lucas’ maw, but he chased

after him and grabbed each side of his throat with both of his hands and

48 Short Prose

pressed him down against the carpet he was staining. Like a trapped, halfdead

insect, he kept trying to wriggle, but his movement was lethargic and

vain. Lucas laid over him until he stopped moving, gasped, then stood back

up and wiped his mouth again.


49

50 Short Prose

Camryn Hager

Grade 10

City of Bridges High School

Chronic Recurrent

Multifocal Osteomyelitis

It’s a bold phrase, one that jumps out at you and makes you feel almost

invaded. One where you awkwardly laugh and look around at the walls

as if they’ll have an answer to what it means. Its definition is no better: a

rare disease—one in a million by scientific definition—in which your bones

will grow inflamed as your body attacks them while they’re developing. It’s

most common in children, those who are still growing into themselves. It’s

a strange phenomenon in itself—an allergy to one’s own skeleton.

* * *

When you are 6, you are leaving to go to your older sibling’s birthday party.

“Mom,” you say. Your words are easy, innocent. “My leg hurts.”

Your mother doesn’t turn around from where she is walking ahead of

you. “Alright, well, let’s get to the car and if it keeps hurting, then we can

figure it out then.”

You don’t remember what happens after. You’ve been told you collapsed

to the ground right then and there.

You wake up 10 days later. Your mother is smiling and crying, and you

don’t really get what’s going on but you have those cheap “get well soon”

cards from what seems like half the world. Your most clear memory of the

time was when you got the gift of a giant balloon dog with a leash built-in.

You would ride around on your wheelchair with it trailing along behind

you, the helium making it bounce on its own accord as if it were alive.

* * *


51

You only really learn the gravity of what happened many years later—

hearing with a strange sort of detachment as you’re regaled with tales of

how you had become the “sick kid,” the one that you think of when waitresses

boredly ask if you’re willing to round up a dollar or the advertisements

that reach out with pathos by begging you to “SAVE THE CHILDREN,” or

the one that famous celebrities or sport players visit for a PR stunt. The

one that people put a hand over their hearts and sadly make a half-hearted

proclamation of sympathy for before quickly moving on with their day. You

nod along to all of the stories and hide your discomfort with the image.

* * *

After monthly blood draws and a couple overnight stays in the hospital

after leaving your house at 1 a.m. and feeling you may die, you’re in your

room and sitting in front of your laptop. You’re looking for something simple

to watch, perhaps as background noise, when you see a video about the

condition appear in your feed. It has only a few views and, as if in some sort

of destiny-ridden trance, you watch it. You hear about this girl who deals

with the condition daily, eternally in pain from the stabbing in her bones

and barely able to leave the house because of it. It’s only six minutes long,

mostly words from a tearful mother, and there’s some link to a donation at

the end of it. The noise shuts off as the video finishes and leaves you with

the war of feelings of both relatability and fraudulence in your mind.

It’s the same feeling you get from thinking of when you got a gift from

a girl out of state when you were younger, a heartfelt letter that some Girl

Scout group made her send to someone who had the same condition as her.

You remember liking the little candies she sent, but not understanding exactly

who she was. Your mother was hesitant to tell you, due to the simple

fact that you don’t deal with the condition every day. You don’t know where

that letter has gone.

* * *

Whenever you’re asked about the condition, you can never find the right

words to say. Usually you laugh it off, waving your hands and saying, “Yeah,

it’s this thing where my body attacks its own bones or something. Like,

get the memo, right?” Those you talk to laugh awkwardly with you, but

exchange glances with one another as if you’re just not getting something.

But really, what else is there to say? Perhaps, “If things had gone worse for

me, I’d need to be in a wheelchair all my life,” or maybe, “My mother had

thought I might die when I was 6.”

52 Short Prose

No, instead you laugh. It’s an inherently absurd thing, after all. A Hallmark-movie-level

misunderstanding within your own body.

* * *

You wonder how that girl in the video is doing now.


53

54 Short Prose

Annabelle Peters

The Ellis School

Grade 10

Bad Dreams

The world was perfect. The sky always glowed a soft pink in the mornings,

melting into a golden afternoon, and then a deep navy sprinkled the

stars. The streets were lined with flowers in endless bloom, the air always

carrying the scent of something fresh and sweet. Smiling faces greeted Livia

as she walked past, their eyes warm, their words gentle. Everything was safe.

Everything was beautiful. But only during the day. At night, the Harmony

State belonged to the men. Livia sat on the edge of her pristine white

bed, gripping the sheets so tightly her knuckles turned white. Across from

her, Mara stared out the window, watching the sun sink lower. They had

talked about it a hundred times before, but it never got easier.

“I hate the nights,” Mara whispered. Her voice trembled, but she wouldn’t

look away from the sunset.

“I know,” Livia said. “Tomorrow we’ll tell someone. Someone will listen.”

Mara’s laugh was dry, humorless.

“They never listen.”

She was right. Every morning, the women woke up in their pastel-colored

homes, safe in their soft beds, the nightmares of the night before

whispering at the edges of their minds. And every morning, when someone

gathered enough courage to speak, the men would tilt their heads, smile

gently, and say, “Sweetheart, you must have had a bad dream.”

A bad dream. That’s what they always called it. Livia had stopped trying

for a while. She had swallowed her fear, plastered a smile on her face, and

played along in the daylight. She had been doing this since she was a young

girl, and eventually, she mastered it. But then Mara started talking about


55

escaping. Not just pretending it wasn’t happening—but actually leaving.

Livia had agreed, because what else was there to do? The nights would

never end unless they did something.

“We should go tonight,” Mara said suddenly. Livia’s breath caught.

“Tonight? We aren’t ready. We don’t even know—”

“We’ll never be ready.” Mara turned to her, her blue eyes fierce. “We just

have to do it.”

Livia nodded, heart pounding.

“Tonight.”

When the last traces of sunset disappeared, the change began. A soft

chime echoed through the air. The street lights flickered, casting strange,

wavering shadows. A lullaby played through unseen speakers, so gentle it

almost felt comforting. Almost. Livia and Mara pressed themselves against

the back wall of their room, hands clasped. They knew what came next.

They had felt it too many times before—the slow pull of exhaustion, the

heavy weight pressing down on their limbs. The feeling of being led away,

powerless to fight, only to wake up in their beds again, sore and silent, unsure

of whether anything had truly happened at all. But not tonight.

Mara squeezed Livia’s hand and whispered, “Don’t let go. No matter

what happens.”

Livia nodded, biting down on her lip so hard she tasted blood. They

couldn’t let themselves slip away. Not this time.

The doors slid open, and the men stepped inside. Always the same men.

Dressed in pristine suits, their eyes calm, their hands gentle as they reach

for them.

“Come along now, darling,” one of them cooed. “It’s time.”

Livia and Mara clung to each other as the men approached, their fingers

tightening around each other’s wrists. It was happening, just like every

other night. The way their minds fogged, their bodies turned sluggish, like

they were falling into a trance they couldn’t wake from. Livia shook her

head violently, trying to hold on to herself. She knew what happened after

this. They would be taken beyond the gardens, past the golden barriers

that no woman ever crossed willingly. Inside the towering, gleaming structures

where the true rulers of Harmony State resided. The powerful men.

The untouchable men. The ones who had created this world where every

woman smiled during the day and forgot the night. It was always the same.

56 Short Prose

Their hands were on her body, and the whispered assurances were, “This

is what you’re meant for.” The way they never bruised her skin, never hurt

her in ways that could be seen. It was all so careful, so calculated. And in

the morning, she would wake up in her soft, pink world, and it would feel

so distant that she could almost believe it was never real at all. Almost. Not

this time. Mara lunged first. Livia followed.

They pushed past the men, their movements frantic, their muscles

screaming as they fought against the invisible weight pressing them down.

A voice called after them, calm as ever.

“Ladies, you’re confused. Come back inside.”

“It’s not safe out there,” another murmured, stepping forward with an

outstretched hand.

“Let us help you.”

Livia’s stomach twisted. They always spoke so gently, so kindly. Even

as they reached for them, even as they dragged them away, they always

sounded sweet. That was the worst part. They didn’t see themselves as

monsters. Mara yanked her forward, pulling her into the street. Livia’s bare

feet slapped against the pavement as they sprinted toward the city’s edge.

The lights around them pulsed in soft pinks and blues, casting eerie reflections

against the glass buildings. The exit was just beyond the gardens. Just

past the barrier. Just—

“Mara!” Livia felt Mara’s hand torn from hers. She skidded to a stop,

spinning around just in time to see two figures pulling Mara back toward

the nearest building.

“No!” Livia screamed, rushing forward. Mara struggled, her eyes wild.

“Run!”

“Mara, no—” A hand wrapped around Livia’s wrist. Not rough. Not violent.

Just firm.

Steady.

“Sweetheart,” a voice said, dripping with something sickly sweet. “You’re

confused. Come with me, and we’ll help you feel better.”

She thrashed, but more hands found her arms and shoulders.

“Let me go!”

“It’s alright, Livia,” another man soothed. “You just had a bad dream.”


57

Livia felt herself pulled backward, deeper into the glowing city, her

screams swallowed by the perfect, endless night.

The world was perfect. The sky always glowed a soft pink in the mornings,

melting into a golden afternoon, and then a deep navy sprinkled the

stars. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue, and the streets outside bustled

with soft laughter and warm greetings. Birds chirped from perfectly placed

trees, their songs blending seamlessly with the cheerful hum of life in Harmony

State.

Livia woke in her bed, the softest sheets wrapped around her. The scent

of lavender drifted in from somewhere, mixing with the warm aroma of

freshly baked bread—a knock at the door.

Mara stepped in, dressed in a pale pink dress that matched the soft,

warm tones of the room.

Her blonde hair was braided neatly, her blue eyes bright. She smiles at

Livia, tilting her head slightly, just like they all did.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Mara said, voice soft and sweet. “Did you

have another bad dream?”

The world was perfect. Or. At least their world was.

58 Short Prose

Eliza Lazzaro

Grade 12

Pine-Richland High School

Love Letters from the

Antithesis

April 15, 2020

My darling,

The stormy dusk reminded me of you. I hear the rumble of thunder in

the distance, but the lightning is not close enough to be my lamp. The power

is out. I will write all that I feel until the sun goes down.

You seem anxious, as though there is some problem the world is counting

on you to fix. I see you shut down, and I can’t help but wonder what

pressure they put on you. You’d rather slouch and contort until all you are

is a blank wall to me. I know what you are hiding. Your room stands frozen

in time, desperately clinging to your childhood. You never wanted to grow

up, never wanted to be burdened by reality. All those scribbles on the wall

remind me now of what your mind must look like. I know you said you

wanted to die young. I think you are extraordinary in a way that the years

can only complement. You add something to every new day. Don’t worry—I

will keep you safe. Just keep living. For me.

My darling,

December 22, 2020

I caught a glimpse of you today. Let me tell you what I observed. Your

eyes are framed by thick, dark eyebrows that don’t fit into any arch. Your

eyes are framed by lashes, thick and dark and long as well, but I don’t

wonder if they get tangled when you blink. I watch them get all twisted

and stuck when you close your eyes. Oh, and those eyes: the darkest shade


59

of espresso, but not the kind you can gaze into. That piercing, sharp gaze

can’t be hidden by any sort of warmth a dull brown could possess. Always

flicking back and forth, smirking, laughing, mocking, thinking—the intensity

is refreshing. I can tell when you burn with passion because your eyes

burn too. They’d burn a hole right through my heart if I let them. If beauty

is terror, then you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I study your

face and I see flaws: scattered freckles and moles that are too noticeable

to be cute and bags under your eyes that, no matter how much sleep you

get, never seem to go away. They are as numerous and raw as the cracks of

jagged glass from the broken mirror you threw on the ground. I am nothing

you said. I will never be worthy of a mirror. And yet I can’t take my own

eyes off of you. I hope you are well.

My darling,

June 29, 2021

You cut your hair. You liked the way it fell in your face and your eyes,

shielding yourself from the world. Countless hours of your day were spent

trying to force your hair into a braid. You loved braids. They made you

feel like the princess of a fantasy kingdom. But your hair would just slip

through your fingers, and now you’re too old to fantasize about anything. I

can’t seem to understand just why you cut it. You can’t stand to look at the

way it curls out at your shoulders but stubbornly stays straight everywhere

else. This hair isn’t any easier to style than before. And yet, I think it complements

your eyes. Bobbing back and forth along with you when you whip

your head around to confront those who dare to mock you, stubbornly

refusing to conform. It’s even that same shade of dull brown. Sometimes I

wonder if you have highlights in your hair, though I know how much you

hate hair dye. It just doesn’t make sense how such plain hair shimmers and

gleams in the sunlight. How do blond and red flecks stand out like the final

embers of ash? I want to reach out and turn that most gorgeous hair into

an updo fit for the most regal queen of all being. Though I know that my

hands are no more adept than yours.

My darling,

November 24, 2022

My life is lacking the romantic musicality it once had. I know that you

can sing. I heard you when you thought nobody was listening. That voice

was raw and raspy. You don’t sing. It makes you feel vulnerable. You put all

60 Short Prose

that you have into each note and the intensity of it makes you cry. Nobody

wants to listen to somebody cry and sing at the same time. They wouldn’t

know what to do. They don’t know how to appreciate the beauty of despair.

But I wish I could record that voice and listen to it all day. It is cracked

and jagged. It is far from sweet. But it is real and it is enchanting. You are

a siren. We can’t understand how you fill the undertones with such passion,

but it is there all the same. And it is mesmerizing. Please sing for me

sometime.

My darling,

January 3, 2023

I see the toll the world has taken on you. Maybe you were right to fear

growing up. Let me remind you of why I so desperately desire you and why

this life is worth living.

You are a Baroque painting. You are oil on canvas. All of that darkness

is complemented by light, shimmering and rippling like the moon in the

river. Your raw emotions take us by surprise and delight. This world needs

you to express them. Your tears are smears of oil that smudge and blur the

lines of right and wrong in technicolored nuance. I know that you cannot

last forever, but I can only hope that you know that you fulfilled a purpose

on this earth in your short time here.

My darling,

May 10, 2024

Your arm is on another boy. A nice boy, I heard. I’m not sure what that

means. I wouldn’t call you a nice girl. He doesn’t seem to be too nice. You

don’t seem to be too happy. I don’t think you had a choice to be with him.

I see your beautiful bouquet sitting alone by your seat. You don’t want to

match with him. He leads you in circles and I want so badly to take you

where you want to be. Why can’t he realize that you have so much more

planned than he can offer?

You don’t like wearing dresses like that. They expose your shoulders.

You can’t stand to look at your shoulders, scarred forever with acne. You’re

learning to live with it. They told you that you could have prevented it, but

they don’t understand the pain you went through, the pain you must live

through every day. And that you would give anything to go back in time

and do things over, but you know it would end up all the same.


61

October 21, 2024

My darling,

You told me you were slipping. I want to reach out and pull you back,

but I know that with each passing day, it will be harder. You are further

away from me, almost unrecognizable. I hold back the tears as I try not to

think about that past life. I never thought I’d miss it, but right now I’d give

anything to be back in time. I can’t connect with that girl anymore. We are

too different. It’s getting harder to remember what it’s like to be innocent.

My ideas are less raw and more tarnished by the world. I have seen too

much to ever let myself feel like that again. I think I knew myself better in

those dark days than I do now. But it’s you I miss most of all. You in the

present, even more than those heartbreaking memories. I wait patiently

for the day that you gather up the courage to look in the mirror again. I

am waiting for you. Soon, I hope, you will be ready. You will pick up those

shards of broken glass and finally meet my gaze. You will realize that we are

the same person. And that you, my love, are beautiful.

My darling,

February 10, 2025

Happy birthday, wherever you are. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen

you. I hope you’re well. Please come back. I know that your life is checkered

with shattered dreams and fallen esteem, but I will always be here for you.

Please?

Are you there?

August 11, 2025

62 Short Prose

Meera Reddy

Grade 12

Fox Chapel Area High School

I’m Not Good Enough.

Step one. Brush your teeth. You don’t want another girl shoving a stick of

her sugar-free gum in your face, telling you your breath stinks but you need

to “hold off” on the extra calories.

Step two. Take a shower. You can’t risk smelling like gym class is your

permanent perfume.

Step three. Pick an outfit that fits in with the latest trends so you don’t

give everyone else the satisfaction of being able to mock your sense of style.

Step four. Makeup. Enough to camouflage the mountainous lumps of

acne that parade your face, but not too much; otherwise, you’ll be labeled

fake. Foundation. Blend. Concealer. Blend. Eyelin– crap. Your stupid, chubby

fingers let the pen slip and glide smoothly over your cheek, leaving behind

a winding thread of black ink. The painting you spent half an hour

meticulously drawing to cover your hideous face is ruined. Step four. Makeup.

Try again. Your best is never good enough.

Step five. Straighten your hair. The damage you do to your thick, oncehealthy

hair seems trivial compared to the comments you get when you let

your natural curls run wild with frizz, unable to be tamed.

Step six. Squeeze your fat, wide feet into toe-crushing, blister-provoking,

ankle-digging heeled boots. You have to learn to walk in heels. You wouldn’t

want to be the only girl wearing sneakers at the winter dance, would you?

Dressed to match your vision, you stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror.

Minutes bleed into what feels like an hour, your poorly manicured nail

tracing the jagged crack that runs down the middle of your reflection. You

embody that fissure, an outlier in an otherwise flawless society of polished,


63

glistening silver. The stranger staring back at you is your creation, a façade

that steals your identity and locks away the girl you once were. She only

reappears after your armor is shed: the clothes, the makeup, the styled hair.

The hours you spend trying to force yourself to become something you will

never be—pretty—leave you hollow and exhausted, a relentless punishment

for a crime you never committed. Why does it have to be this hard? They say

beauty is pain, but does it have to be cruel?

Step seven. Get off the bus. You just have to get through the next seven

hours. For the next five days. For the next nine months. For the next three

years.

Step eight. Find a group of people you can walk to class with because

“walking alone” is not a phrase in your vocabulary.

But you can’t stand the girls you surround yourself with. They cuss,

show up to school drunk, laugh and joke about everything and everyone

that doesn’t align perfectly with the appearances they uphold. You know

you shouldn’t hang out with them, not when they tell you you could have

a chance at being pretty if you “actually tried.” But you’ll take a compliment

from the popular girls. Even if it’s backhanded. Even though they

don’t know and will never understand the amount of effort you put in every

morning to mask your ugliness. They glide effortlessly in a sea of perfect

symmetry: identical waves, each with a cascade of long, straight blonde

hair; gleaming white teeth; bronzed skin; impossibly slender waists; and

legs that stretch for miles. Each detail carefully drawn to beautify, enhance

and amplify their uniform perfection, as if sculpted by an artist himself.

You know you stick out in this group. You know all it would take is

to try just a little bit harder to blend in, to be like them, make something

of yourself. You know you are weak, alone, powerless. Without these girls,

you would be nothing, another loser middle-school girl who couldn’t get her

act together. So, you take each comment, each opinion, each criticism, each

assumption, each judgment, each look that cuts deeper than you can bear,

each whispered remark, each report, each assessment, each review. And

with every one of them, your already nonexistent self-esteem sinks lower,

like a stone dragging you deeper into an endless void where the only escape

is to become pretty—to be something you can never quite reach. Why is everything

I do never good enough?” No one said life is fair.

Step nine. Go to class. The only part of your life that actually seems to

be solvable is schoolwork.

64 Short Prose

But you’ve come to learn that that’s not the case.

You have to be smart, but you can’t act smart. If you’re constantly raising

your hand and answering every question correctly, you’ll be the nerd,

teacher’s pet, suck-up, geek, calculator, robot girl, know-it-all. But you can’t

act too dumb. Otherwise, you’ll be the class clown, jokester, airhead, idiot,

scatterbrain, slacker, goofball.

Step ten. Lunch. The part of your day that should feel like a break.

You sit alone at your regular table while your “friends” wait in the lunch

line. The crumpled brown bag your lunch sits in is boring, ugly, unremarkable,

the spitting image of you. But inside that unappealing, unattractive,

unsightly bag is the most perfect, carefully made lunch, a reminder of the

beauty hidden beneath the surface. You pull out the container of leftover

chicken alfredo your mom crafted last night, the rich aroma of creamy,

peppery sauce wafting into the air as you crack open the lid. The buttery

heaven of golden-brown toasted garlic bread tucked alongside it is crisp

yet soft, the perfect addition to an already decadent meal. You’re about to

take the first bite when you eye the girls from a distance. They’re wearing

matching crop tops today, identical slim waists and toned stomachs peeking

through the bubblegum pink cotton, craving to be seen. Their trays are

empty, except for a can of diet soda. Before they see your meal, you quickly

tuck it back into its dull brown bag. Why can’t my body look like theirs?”

Just get over it already.

Step eleven. Get ready for bed. It’s the end of another torturous day.

Step twelve. Undress. Put your pajamas on.

Of course you don’t have the new lace-trimmed, flirty-fun, silk smoothas-butter,

Victoria’s Secret $79 matching pajama set that every girl got for

Christmas last year. Your faded, hand-me-down blue V-neck T-shirt clings

awkwardly to your body, and your neon orange pajama shorts from Goodwill

feel tighter on your thick, thigh-gapless legs than ever, despite skipping dinner.

“I thought I got fatter today,” you murmur, the words bitter in your mouth.

Step thirteen. Wash off all your makeup.

You watch as streaks of tan and black melt down your face, swirling into

the drain, carrying with them the fragile illusion of beauty. Your hopes and

dreams of being pretty vanish even faster than those streaks. As you gaze at

your mirror, your blemished skin seems to swallow your reflection, leaving

nothing but a raw, exposed version of yourself.


65

“Thank god for makeup,” you say. “Without it, I’d look like a freak.”

This is my life every single day. I don’t choose how I get to live.

I didn’t choose to have frizzy, curly hair.

I didn’t choose to have scarred, blemished skin.

I didn’t choose to have stained, crooked teeth.

I didn’t choose to have scaly, pale skin.

I didn’t choose to have a curvy, bulging stomach.

I didn’t choose to have short, chubby legs.

But being “perfect” isn’t always a good thing.

You tell yourself, “I just want to be accepted—liked, even.”

But hiding your skin under ultra-itchy, extra-coverage, pore-clogging

makeup; buying skin-tight, cut-low, two-sizes-too-small clothing; and starving

yourself with hunger-pains, calorie-counting, meal-skipping habits isn’t

going to fix anything.

You look at the girls around you and wish you had their lives, but at the

same time, other girls look at you wishing they could have your life.

Perfection is a fleeting illusion, constantly shifting and just out of reach.

Chasing it only leaves you empty and lost. What matters most is not meeting

some impossible standard but embracing who you are—flaws, scars,

awkwardness and all.

Because the truth is, you don’t need to fit someone’s definition of “perfect”

to be worthy; you already are. You are loved. You are special. You are

beautiful. You are talented. You are capable. You are deserving of respect.

You are uniquely yourself.

And most importantly, you are always good enough.

66 Short Prose

Suryansh Singh

Grade 9

Moon Area High School

The Last Light

The stars stretched out before Captain Elara Voss, her ship, The Lira, suspended

in the cold expanse of the galaxy. Outside the ship’s vast viewport,

a nebula glowed in shimmering hues of violet and turquoise, an endless sea

of light and dust. The nebula’s light danced across the cold glass, creating

patterns that seemed to whisper stories of worlds far beyond her reach. Yet,

as beautiful as it was, Elara found no solace in the view.

Her eyes, once filled with wonder at the mysteries of the universe, were

now clouded with an overwhelming sense of loss. She had seen it all—

distant planets, breathtaking cosmic phenomena, alien worlds and civilizations

that defied imagination. She had explored the deepest corners of

the galaxy, charting the unknown. But now, as she drifted through space,

she found that the vast emptiness surrounding her mirrored something

inside—an emptiness she couldn’t escape.

Six months ago, she had received the diagnosis. Terminal. Irreversible.

The words had been uttered with clinical detachment, yet they echoed in

her mind, reverberating like a distant, mournful bell. “You don’t have much

time left,” the doctor had said, his voice almost too soft, too kind. It hadn’t

mattered, then, that she was a seasoned captain, someone who had faced

danger and death a thousand times in the vacuum of space. The cold certainty

of mortality, especially in the face of time’s relentless march, had

unraveled her in a way no battle had ever done.

Her hands gripped the armrests of her captain’s chair, her knuckles

white with tension. Her gaze remained fixed on the glowing screen in front

of her where the coordinates were locked in—The Fringe System, the farthest

reaches of known space, where the stars themselves seemed to die in

the quiet darkness.


67

“Fringe,” she whispered to herself. It was a place of myths, of unanswered

questions. It had been a dream once—an uncharted world beyond

the reach of conventional space travel. The Fringe was where explorers

sought to unravel the fabric of the cosmos, where the unknown could be

found in its purest form. But now it was simply a destination, a place she

was headed toward because there was nowhere else to go.

She had hoped, in the beginning, that she could outrun the disease—

that the stars, the galaxies, the endless wonders of the universe would provide

a distraction. But time had a way of catching up, of reminding her that

no matter how far she flew, it was always there, lurking just behind her.

There was no escaping it now. Not the disease. Not the regrets.

Her thoughts wandered to the crew, the people who had once shared the

journey with her. The Lira had been her home for years. A place where she

had laughed, fought, loved and lost. But now, in the face of her mortality,

even the familiar hum of the ship’s engines seemed alien.

As the hours passed, Elara’s mind wandered to the distant past—before

the diagnosis, before the isolation, before the endless march of days filled

with paperwork and mission reports. She had once been full of fire, driven

by a purpose she could barely remember now. Exploration had been her

life. The stars had been her refuge. And yet now, they felt like a distant

memory—a beautiful, unreachable memory that belonged to someone else.

The gentle beep of a communication line broke through her thoughts,

and Elara stiffened, blinking away the haze of exhaustion that clouded her

vision. The transmission was encrypted, and it came from someone she had

not spoken to in weeks.

Her fingers hovered over the console before she pressed a key, and the

face of Commander Alara Holt appeared on the screen. Alara’s brown eyes,

filled with concern, met Elara’s, and the moment their gazes locked, Elara

felt something stir in her—a sense of recognition, of connection. It was a

brief flicker, something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Elara,” Alara said, her voice a steady, comforting presence in the cold

silence of space. “You’re almost there, aren’t you? The Fringe System.”

Elara nodded, forcing a smile. “Almost. Another few days, I think.”

Alara studied her for a moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. The

concern was evident in her eyes, but Elara knew better than to acknowledge

it. She had learned long ago that some things were better left unsaid.

68 Short Prose

“You’re doing this for a reason, aren’t you?” Alara asked, her voice soft.

“Going to the Fringe? You don’t have to be alone in this, Elara. We could

bring you back. There’s still time.”

The words were like a needle, pricking at Elara’s heart. It was true.

There was still time. Time to go back to Earth, to see her family, to spend

the remaining days surrounded by the people who cared about her. But

Elara knew, deep down, that it wasn’t what she needed.

“No, Alara,” she said, her voice firm despite the wave of emotion crashing

inside her. “I’ve made my choice. I need to see this through. I need to

find it—whatever it is—before I…”

She trailed off, the words feeling foreign on her tongue. How could she

explain it? The need to chase the unknown, even as she was fading herself?

The yearning for answers, for peace, that had always driven her?

Alara didn’t press her. Instead, she nodded, a look of understanding

crossing her face. “Just know you don’t have to do it alone.”

The transmission flickered, then went silent as Alara signed off, leaving

Elara with nothing but the quiet hum of the ship. She closed her eyes, leaning

back in the chair, trying to push away the discomfort in her chest. It was

not physical, not the illness she had been battling, but something deeper—a

gnawing emptiness she had carried for years, ever since she had lost her

family to a tragic accident when she was young. The loss had shaped her,

made her hard, made her independent. But now, as the end loomed closer,

she wondered if perhaps it had also made her distant from everything that

truly mattered.

What am I searching for? she wondered. What will the Fringe give me?

She didn’t have an answer, but she couldn’t turn back now. There was

no turning back.

Days passed in a blur.

* * *

The ship passed through asteroid fields and planetary systems, all of

them familiar, but nothing seemed to capture Elara’s attention the way they

once did. It was all fading into a dull gray, the vastness of space becoming

nothing more than an expanse to be crossed. Her crew had long since retreated

into their own spaces, respecting her solitude, though she could feel

their eyes on her. They knew. They had to know.


69

And yet, Elara couldn’t bring herself to speak to them. What was there

to say? How could she explain the reason she had pushed everyone away,

the reason she had left everything behind? The truth was, she didn’t understand

it herself.

On the sixth day, the ship’s proximity alarm went off, snapping her out

of her reverie.

“Elara,” the voice of her navigation officer, Kai, crackled through the comm.

“We’re approaching the Fringe System. You should come to the bridge.”

Her heart skipped a beat, though she had known the moment would

come. She took a deep breath, steadying herself as she stood from the captain’s

chair and walked toward the observation deck. The ship creaked

slightly as it made its way toward the outermost edge of the system.

As she stepped into the bridge, she was greeted by the silence of her

crew, all eyes on her. Kai and the others were gathered around the console,

their expressions a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. They had been

with her through countless missions, through thick and thin, but this was

different. Elara could feel it in the air, thick with unspoken words.

“Captain,” Kai said, his voice tight. “We’re here.”

Elara stepped forward, her eyes locking onto the view screen as the

Fringe System unfolded before her—a dark sea of nothingness, punctuated

only by faint, distant stars. But even in the emptiness, there was something

beautiful, something that called to her.

The stars here were dimmer, harder to see, as though they had been

swallowed by the darkness. The nebula hung in the distance like a ghostly

veil, its gases swirling in patterns that defied comprehension. There was no

sound in space, but in this moment, it felt as though she could hear it—the

quiet hum of existence, the pulse of the universe.

“Is this it?” Kai asked, his voice barely audible.

Elara didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she let the silence wash over

her, feeling it settle into her bones. She didn’t need to answer. The Fringe

was everything and nothing. It was the edge of the known universe, the

place where the unknown began. And for some reason, that felt right.

“This is it,” Elara said softly, her voice filled with a calm she hadn’t felt

in weeks. “The end.”

* * *

70 Short Prose

The ship remained in the Fringe System for days.

Elara spent most of her time in her quarters, but she couldn’t ignore the

feeling that something was waiting for her here—waiting in the dark, in the

spaces between the stars.

On the final night, as she stood once again at the viewport, she saw

something—something faint but undeniable. A distant light, flickering

at the edge of the system. It wasn’t a star, not in the traditional sense. It

pulsed, as though it were alive, breathing.

Her heart raced, and for the first time in days, Elara felt a spark of hope.

The End


71

72 Short Prose

Devon McDonald

Grade 12


Lying in a Puddle

Here I am: sad, cold and wet, lying in a puddle after falling to the ground.

I’m lying here on my back with my limbs sprawled out, moving my eyes

from side to side to watch the people walking by. It was awful. I’m mortified.

My face has started to become hot. An immense amount of shame is

fogging my brain. The puddle I’m lying in is beginning to feel a little slimy,

but still I remain lying, too embarrassed and shocked to get up.

You may be wondering how I got into this situation. Let’s go back to

this morning at approximately 10:13 am. I was sitting in the grass, enjoying

the warm April weather, when I heard giggling. Immediately, my heart

dropped. This giggling was too high pitched and out of control to belong

to an adult. It must be a child. The giggling got louder until, eventually, I

saw a woman and toddler approaching. Looking back, it must have been

a mother and son taking a morning walk. It was quite nice out, after all.

Anyways, as I saw them getting closer, my heart rate increased drastically.

When they were about three feet away, I began to panic. Little kids are cute

but scary.

I could see it in the child’s face before he even tried. Piercing blue eyes,

tiny teeth, bright red lips—so bright there must have been some sort of popsicle

involved, messy blonde hair, and a shirt splattered with chocolate milk

and, again, the red popsicle juice. This child wanted to bother me.

I tried to jump onto a nearby log, planning to use that as a springboard

to get farther away, but I was too late. The child picked me up with his

small, sweaty hands. He was trying to show his mother when—oh. Oops.

You may be wondering how this—a toddler picking me up, approximately

two feet above the ground—was possible. It’s because I’m a frog. Sorry, I


73

forgot to mention that.

Anyways, now it’s 10:48 am and I’ve been lying here on the ground for

exactly 35 minutes and 12 seconds. The child dropped me, his mother said

a few words to him firmly, he started crying, and then she scooped him up

and brought him home. Everyone that walks by seems to be staring at me.

I think they think I’m dead. I’m not. I’m just embarrassed. I may get up in

a few minutes. We’ll see.

74 Short Prose

Anna Delale-O’Connor

Grade 12


Dinner for One

It isn’t easy to be a vampire hunter in the suburbs. One of the few advantages

is the lack of competition. My mom says that growing up in the forests

of Romania, you couldn’t walk a mile without finding an illustrious family

that had hunted vampires for generations. None of them decided to move

to Illinois, so business is better here, even if it mostly comes from kids convinced

their reclusive neighbors have something more sinister going on.

We only get a few good tips every year. But according to our family code,

the fact that vampires still exist means we can’t give up hunting, no matter

how few we actually find.

When I was younger, I thought I would be the one to bring the thrill of

old hunts to our quiet neighborhood. That delusion lasted for about a year,

until I found out that the TSA doesn’t allow stakes through security. I’m still

convinced that there was at least one vampire in the guard staff that day.

Now, I prefer to keep hunting out of school and my personal life, if I

can help it. I treat it like a family business. Other people’s parents have law

firms and real estate agencies; mine have hidden rooms in the basement

and dusty codices stuffed with family secrets. They try their best to act

normal about their “day job,” as they call it. But my mom, who learned to

fight as soon as she could walk, doesn’t seem to know what normal is. For

all his time in accounting, my dad isn’t much better. Their lack of subtlety

hasn’t made them more likely to let me in the business, either. Sure, I’ve

been hunting since I was in fifth grade, but I’m still not allowed out without

one of them. My first solo hunt happened by accident.

We got the tip about the DeLaceys from an anonymous source, and my

mom almost turned it down. Investigating our next-door neighbors would


75

be awkward, even for us. When she eventually decided to look into it, she

told us the investigation would be completely casual. We’d go to their house

for dinner, just to check if anything seemed suspicious.

Then, my mom came down with the flu. It was only a few days until my

dad got sick too, and our dinner invitation was for that evening.

“You don’t have to go,” she told me, before blowing her nose and tossing

the tissue into a pile that towered over her desk. “We wouldn’t want this to

be your first time hunting alone.” From his pile of blankets, my dad tried

his best to nod.

“I’m fine,” I said. “This isn’t, like, a real hunt. It’s just dinner.”

My mom’s brow furrowed. “But if it gets dangerous—”

“It won’t.” At my parents’ concerned looks, I continued, “There’s no way

they’ll try to kill me at dinner. It’s way too obvious, you know? Besides, they

might not even be vampires.”

“At least take something from the armory.” Our family armory had downsized

from a full hallway to a shed in the backyard, but none of the weapons

were small enough to avoid detection. I shook my head.

“Mom, come on. I can’t go over there with a dagger.”

“I just don’t think it’s safe,” she protested. “If you’re going, you’re taking

a pocketknife.”

Before I could respond, my dad chimed in, “Your mother’s right. We

don’t want you getting hurt, and—” he broke into a coughing fit, wheezing

like he had just ran up a few flights of stairs. So, it was settled then. As

much as I didn’t want to be the weird guest who brings a knife to a dinner

party, once both my parents put their foot down on an issue, there was

nothing I could do about it. I could try hiding the knife or leaving it behind

once I was out the door, but with my mom’s instincts for hunting, that

would be useless.

“Fine,” I groaned. “But if Camille won’t sit next to me in math because

she thinks I’m going to stab her when she turns around, I’m blaming you.”

Camille, the DeLaceys’ daughter, happened to be in some of my classes.

We weren’t close friends or anything. Still, I didn’t want her to think I was

trying to kill her parents.

With that, I walked out, leaving my parents to the haze of sickness that

seemed to linger around their room. My watch read fifteen minutes until

dinner. For a few of them, I paced around my house and checked my phone.

76 Short Prose

That got boring fast, so I decided to make my way to the DeLaceys’. With

my best winning smile and my pocketknife, I walked down their driveway.

The first thing I noticed about the DeLacey house was the door. While

the rest of the house looked typically suburban, the entryway was maybe

ten feet tall, with an ornate arched door underneath. I knocked once, then

twice when no one answered.

“You must be Mina,” a tall woman with curled black hair—probably Mrs.

DeLacey—said, opening the door. She had a strange accent that reminded

me of old-timey black and white movies. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Uh, you … too?” I replied. “My parents are both sick, so sorry about

that. They really wish they could’ve made it.”

“Oh, my. I do hope they feel better soon. We’ll simply have to invite you

all another time.” Again, her voice sounded strangely out of place—or out

of its era.

I cleared my throat. “Can I—may I come in?”

“Why, of course!” She held the door open and gestured for me to walk

inside. “Goodness, Camille really ought to invite guests more often. When

James has someone over, they always run inside without so much as a word

to me.”

As I pulled off my shoes, Camille walked into the foyer. “Really, mom? I

don’t think anyone’s said ought to in the last century. Hey, Mina.” She gave

a halfhearted wave.

The last century, huh. Using a few weird phrases wasn’t enough to confirm

that Mrs. DeLacey was a vampire, but it certainly raised my suspicions.

“I’m only trying to be polite to our guest,” Mrs. DeLacey said. “In fact,

Mina, why don’t you find a seat? I’ve almost finished making dinner, and I

wouldn’t want to keep you waiting.” She walked off to the kitchen, leaving

me and Camille in awkward silence.

“Sorry about my mom. She just gets… like this when we have guests,”

Camille waved her hand in the direction of the kitchen and continued, “I

promise my dad isn’t like that.”

She was right, which might have been worse. As Mrs. DeLacey set steaming

plates of vegetables and steak on the dining room table, the rest of the

family trickled in. I took one of the seats on the side; Camille sat next to

me. According to her, her younger brother James was out for dinner with

his friends and wouldn’t be joining us. Mrs. DeLacey flitted around, fussing


77

over the food in her archaic accent. It was a few minutes before Mr. DeLacey

descended the stairs and entered the dining room.

He was only a few inches taller than his wife, but something about his

posture made him seem far larger. I could picture him wearing one of the

hunting cloaks my older relatives used, though I wasn’t sure if it would

make him more or less intimidating.

“Mina, right?” he asked, sitting at the head of the table. “Nice to meet

you. We’re always happy to have a friend of Camille’s over. Honestly, we

were worried that—”

“Dad,” Camille hissed.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just nice to know your kid’s making friends.” His sheepish

smile wasn’t enough to change my impression of him, but he certainly

didn’t look the vampire type. When Mrs. DeLacey sat down, he grinned and

said, “This looks delicious, Liz.”

I tried my best to look appreciative as I ate. The meal was delicious, but

the steak tasted so rare it might’ve been alive. Next to me, Camille picked

at her green beans and avoided the meat entirely. Mr. DeLacey must have

preferred his meals undercooked, because he ripped into the steak with inhuman

speed. While I poked at my piece, he asked for seconds. Then thirds.

He didn’t request a fourth serving, but I had the feeling that he might have

if I weren’t there.

Honestly, I was losing my appetite. Between Mrs. DeLacey’s strange

mannerisms and Mr. DeLacey’s eating habits, it seemed like my family

might have bitten off more than we could chew. One vampire would already

be difficult to deal with—two would be almost impossible. Two potential

vampires, I reminded myself. They could just be strange in particularly

vampiric ways.

My concern must have shown, because Mrs. DeLacey asked, “Are you

feeling alright, darling?”

“Uh, yeah. Fine,” I said quickly. “Thanks for dinner, by the way.” She

glanced at my mostly untouched plate. Before Mrs. DeLacey could question

me any further, Camille came to my rescue.

“It’s getting late,” she said, a little awkwardly. “And we have school tomorrow,

so we should let Mina leave.”

“Oh, I suppose so. Mina, dear, I’ll prepare something for your parents.

It’s a pity they couldn’t make it.” She went to find a box, and Mr. DeLacey

78 Short Prose

followed her. I watched them for a few moments; to me, everything became

a sign of danger. Mr. DeLacey pulled a sinewy piece of meat from

the dish like he was ripping into someone’s throat. Mrs. DeLacey’s quick

steps reminded me of stories about vampires who approached their prey in

total silence, leaving only the sound of terrified screams. My fingers curled

around the knife in my pocket on instinct. As much as I hated to say my

parents were right to be so overprotective, I was starting to wish one of

them was here.

“Hey, are you okay?” Camille asked. I nodded, but she still gave me a

skeptical glance. “You’re sure you’re not getting sick or something?”

“Oh, no way. I just, well. It’s a little embarrassing. I always get a little

nervous around people I don’t know, I guess.” It wasn’t technically a lie—at

least, assuming those people were vampires.

She laughed, sharp and a little harsh. “Over my parents? Really?”

“I said it was embarrassing.”

“Trust me, the only embarrassing thing here is how they act. Ever since—

well, it doesn’t really matter.” Camille shrugged and led me to the door. “If

you want to escape without my mom’s cooking, you should go now.”

“It’s not that bad,” I said weakly.

“Sure, if you like your meat still breathing.” When I couldn’t hold back

a laugh, Camille continued, “Come on, I didn’t see you eat much, either.”

“You’re not wrong, but… I don’t want to be rude.” Especially to vampires,

I didn’t say.

Camille sighed. “Hey, mom, Mina has to leave now,” she called into the

kitchen. Mrs. DeLacey appeared with a clatter of utensils and pots, a bundle

of food in hand.

“For your mother and father,” she said, presenting me with a package of

suspicious looking meat. “Do send them our regards, would you?”

“Of… course. And thanks for the invitation, Mrs. DeLacey.”

“Naturally, darling. Get home safely!” She gave me a polite wave.

I waved back and walked out the door. Before I could breathe a sigh of

relief, Camille followed me outside. The dim sunset washed over her, highlighting

her pale skin in burnt orange tones. She didn’t say anything for a

few moments, and I almost thought she was going to follow me home in

silence. Eventually, though, she cleared her throat and spoke.


79

“Thanks. For coming over, I mean. James always has people over, but it’s

been a while since I’ve been able to… invite someone.” I wasn’t sure what

I expected her to say, but it certainly wasn’t that. Camille seemed to have

plenty of friends in class, and I didn’t even know her that well.

“Uh. No problem,” I said.

“See you tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah. See you then.” Her words only made me feel worse. If her parents

really were vampires, we’d be tearing her life apart by hunting them. But

family duty required us to hunt, no matter the circumstances.

Before she turned around, she smiled.

Her upper lip curled up, revealing a set of unnaturally long canines.

80 Short Prose

Hyunsoo Kim

Grade 10


Namji: Walking down

Memory Lane

Whenever I tell my friends that my grandparents have a “farm,” they envision

rolling hills of wheat crop and barns full of speckled chicken eggs. In

actuality, it’s more like a vast, very well-kept garden complete with an office

seemingly stuck in the ‘90s and an abandoned factory warehouse. It used

to more closely resemble a farm in the past, with a plentiful amount of barn

animals. There are no more chickens or horses left, but a farm nonetheless.

Every year, I take the one-hour trip from Masan to Namji with my grandparents.

Since I only visit Masan for two weeks every year, we make a day out

of the visit to the farm. In the morning, I help my grandma pack leftovers to

use as dog food and compost. From dawn, the house is busy with excitement

for the day ahead. On the way there, we stop for lunch at the same Korean

barbecue restaurant with a play place in the back, packed with blue and

white plastic balls and toy trucks. The authentic Korean food scratches an

itch I can’t fix in America. After our meal, my brother and I sneak a handful

of the complimentary hard candies, smaller than a penny. We suck on the assorted

fruit flavored treats on the rest of the car ride. As soon as my grandpa

parks the car in the gravelly pebbles, you hear loud intimidating growls from

inside the gates. There have always been two guard dogs at a time on patrol

at the farm, shackled to their dog house. I always felt disheartened watching

them in their tiny living space, only given shade by low pine trees. The

current guard dogs, Jjongi and Jjeck, were treated differently at the start. As

puppies, they were allowed to run around freely. However, after a year, they

were shackled to the entrance of the farm. By now, they’ve forgotten what it

feels like to be the companion of a human, so you’re not allowed to go near


81

the dogs. They only see you as a threat. If you step within their territory,

they’ll lunge, snapping their vicious jaws at you. The only person they don’t

attempt to kill at first sight is my grandma. She always makes sure to toss

them some salty, leftover fish bones from breakfast.

After greeting the light biscuit-colored guards, I follow my grandma

throughout a lush maze of perilla leaf, eggplant, and green and red chilli

pepper plants. She instructs me through the process, teaching me which

ones are perfectly ripe and how to yank them off the stems without damaging

them. We stroll through the tall, leafy rows with a woven basket in

hand, taking just enough for the six of us. The farm is impossibly scorching

and pesky mosquitos are everywhere, so my grandma always carried a bottle

of roll-on bug bite medicine in one hand and a basket of vegetables in

the other. The trick is to walk quickly; then they won’t be able to catch you.

The fresh veggies are then transported to my grandma’s mini kitchen space

in the farm. The room is cramped and the tiny fan barely works, but I’ve

had some of my best memories there. Last summer, my brother began having

a mild allergic reaction to a singular cashew. None of us thought much

of it until we realized we hadn’t seen him in thirty minutes. My cousins and

I began hurriedly running through the farm yelling his name, imagining

him lying unconscious in between rows of peppers.

We peeked inside the kitchen, not expecting to see anything. There was

my brother, wheezing with a bottle of ice cold Makgeolli pressed to his

neck. While he was rapidly losing his ability to breathe, my grandma was

busy washing dishes and nonchalantly assuring him that he would be fine.

At the moment, it was a dire emergency, but now it’s something my entire

family can laugh about.

Then, I make my way to the best part of the farm: the old office. By this

point, you already feel like you’re melting in humid, summery heat, which

is why I always make a pit stop at the air-conditioned office. The office

itself feels like a slice of the ‘80s with a chunky beige landline and wornout

floral wallpaper. Numerous yellowed family reunion photos are nailed

to the wall which feature my dad as a little boy, appearing identical to my

younger brother. Strangely enough, these photos are always eerily formal

without a single smile. Everything is covered in grey dust from the small

exhibit of the company’s old products to the pink himalayan salt lamp that

I unfortunately used to secretly lick. However, the small wooden bookshelf

by the office entrance has somehow collected more dust than anywhere else

in the office. It holds all of my aunt’s paperback books from when she was

82 Short Prose

a teenager, which I take a few more of every year. My grandpa used to run

a food company, which sold premade goods like tteokbokki and udon. The

remnants of the company survive through the farm with the clear, acrylic

display case of signature products and abandoned factory to the right of the

office. The factory must have abruptly stopped its productions without any

warning; bulky metal pipes and neon workers’ vests lay discarded on the

grimy cement floor. It’s safe to say that the factory has accumulated even

more dust than the office.

The only place that is free from the grime of the decades is the small

lounge room on the very left corner of the office. Every time my family is at

the farm, like clockwork, we all simultaneously make our way to the lounge

room. My grandma, a retired professional in Korean tea culture, brews

fresh tea in a pale-blue ceramic kettle. While boiling water, she teaches us

the specifics of the tea leaves—the flavor and color of the finished product.

Meanwhile, the rest of us nostalgically comment on old photos. On top of

my grandpa’s desk is a photobooth strip of my aunt and uncle on one of

their very first dates. There’s a heavy beauty filter on the image, which enlarges

my aunt’s eyes and lightens my uncle by ten shades. Next to it is the

one of my dad’s stoic middle school graduation. My then slim dad stands in

between my grandpa and uncle in a navy suit, holding up a graduation certificate.

Again, no one is smiling in the photo. Across the room, the photo of

our family on our 2012 Disney-themed trip to Hawaii sits on the cabinet. In

it, Goofy and Daisy Duck cheerfully pose next to my stroller. I’m absolutely

terrified at the sight.

We never stay at the farm for long; having to constantly evade the mosquitos

gets tiring after a while. On our way out, we greet the farm’s only

employee, who has worked for my grandparents since before dad was born.

He’s even older than my grandparents, but he still arrives at the farm every

day to cut down weeds and shoo away pesky birds, pecking at the plants.

Although he looks quite mild-mannered and easygoing due to his age, I

know that there’s more to his story. According to my dad, he had a pet owl

back in the day who would perch on his arm and hunt down poisonous

snakes, which my grandma would then skin and cook. I’ve also been told

that he has prayed for me and my brother since the day we were born, so I

guess he’s a man of many unexpected multitudes. The farm tends to work

like that. Photo albums and perfectly preserved, old-fashioned rooms tell

me the surprising story of my family before I came along.

Today, I see my uncle as a mature, ordinary man who works for a lightbulb

company. To me, my dad is very extroverted and popular among big


83

groups. He is always the star of the show at dinner parties and church

meetings. My grandma is a down-to-earth woman who cares greatly about

health and not so much about aesthetics. She always tells us to walk with

our chest puffed out and arms wildly swinging back and forth. It’s not very

pretty, but she swears it’s kinder to your spine than regular walking. Lastly,

I see my grandpa as a stony, devout man who is not wired to show affection.

However, the photos show me a different family. My uncle used to be a

popular jock who charmed the two Japanese exchange student girls in high

school. On the other hand, my dad was a bit lankier, more awkward, and a

devoted member of the church choir. His silvery recorder from his teenage

years still plays fragmented Korean gospel music. My grandma, who rarely

wears makeup now, was a fashionista, always sporting dark, thin brows

and a deep burgundy lip. Finally, my grandpa, who spews inspirational

proverbs like small talk and upholds his rigid moral code, single-handedly

held together his family.

Decades ago, my grandpa’s brothers fell to alcoholism and gambling. On

top of providing for his own children, my grandpa took care of everyone

else, getting their dads out of debt and sending them to college himself. I

would’ve never known this if I hadn’t visited the farm and the photo albums

and artifacts that triggered conversation of old family controversies.

My grandpa’s not the type to brag or overshare; honestly, none of my family

on my dad’s side does that either. My grandparent’s farm is like a portal:

uncovering bits and pieces of the long-gone, vibrant and hectic lives of the

reserved people who raised me.

*** THE END ***

84 Short Prose

Evan Park

Grade 11


Negative Sound: When

Silence Becomes Music

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

William Wordsworth, “The Solitary Reaper”

In visual art, there is negative space, which refers to the intentional or

accidental nature of spaces on the canvas being an important element to

the piece. I remember standing before a painting where the vast emptiness

between towering trees evoked a profound sense of isolation and loneliness.

In music, I’ve come to recognize a corresponding concept, which I call

“negative sound.” It refers to the silence within music, concealed inside

small pauses scattered throughout the notes. However, negative sound in

music is never truly silent. It is always tinged with a shade of anticipation,

reflection, or the faded passage of sound which was just present.

Negative sound adds great depth and volume to music just as much as

any written dynamic. It grounds the listener back towards their surroundings.

After a serenade of quiet melodies, silence lulls tension in a piece to

rest, or creates the exact opposite effect of a strong break from the pure

force of a dynamic piece.

There are many variants of negative sound. Composers may intentionally

write rests after a powerful forte, so each of them may feel stretched out


85

in time as the listener waits for the music to begin again. As a performer, I

sometimes insert subtle silences into my interpretations. When playing the

first section of Mikhail Glinka’s The Lark, I envision each piano note as a

singer searching and calling out to the lark. Just as the section ends and a

new one begins, I emphasize the pinprick of silence that dots the melody in

order to stress the singer’s fierce hope for a reply from the lark.

Equally effective is unwritten silence. This is a moment of absence of

sound that is not indicated in the score but arises during a performance,

emerging from the listeners’ personal emotions and memories of sound.

For example, when a pianist strikes a piano key with forceful pressure, it

will produce a clear, bright sound. The note will then decay to nothing, its

presence lingering in the air for moments, as if teasing the wind for being

unable to ascertain its new hiding place. If a pianist then plays a scale

with clarity in a powerful crescendo, the entire spectrum of powerful to soft

sound rings within the silence which follows, compelling the listener to

strain for the contrasting melody that once was there.

I also find moments of unwritten silence in recordings of multi-movement

pieces. Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 2, one of my all-time favorite

pieces, offers two such moments of silence to the listeners. In live concerts,

these pauses are often filled with the coughs and rustling of a vast audience,

but in recordings, they become negative sounds reflecting a full, calming

sensation of the memory of music. In the first break between movements,

my emotional evocation of the wistful strings and powerful piano from the

first movement colors the silence.

In the second break between the second and third movement, I latch on

to the singing, sparkling piano melody which defines the larghetto movement.

The silence accentuates the full peacefulness my mind experienced

during the second movement. Within the quiet, everything surrounding the

music is present: the soft pencil scratching of my own hand taking notes

on a paper, the rough percussive tap as the pencil lightly strikes the paper.

This seemingly small and insignificant background sound would be overshadowed

in the presence of other noise, but in the stillness, they merge

with the music, becoming an integral part of the experience.

Negative sound also manifests as almost-silence. Close to the two-minute

mark of Chopin’s Second Ballade in F Major, for example, the sound

of the piano fades, and the listener is tricked into believing the piece is

arriving at a calm finale. With only the pedal sustaining the barely audible

tones, the notes are delicate whispers. If the world of the ballade is a fairy

86 Short Prose

tale, then this is the happily-ever-after ending—the faint echoes of sound

that linger in the serene F major key.

When I first listened to this piece, I fell into a peaceful contentment

from the delicate touch of major chords, their colors shaded by light touches

of bittersweet minor. In the first two minutes, the pianist performed with

a silky piano dynamic. I struggled to pick up every minute detail inside the

music. My ears were attempting to press themselves closer to the earphones

already shoved deep into their canals. Then the chords stopped, and the piano

resonated with almost-silence. It was an enticing moment as I closed

my eyes and my mind isolated itself, reaching for a tranquil paradise.

A moment later, my mind and ears were torn away from the music

violently. The graph of the sound, which was shown in the playback at the

bottom of the recording, sharply spiked. The A minor key was not satisfied

to be a supporting character.

The almost-silence in this music sings the senses to sleep, if only for

the briefest instant. Suddenly from inside that lull, the darker, insane nature

of the piece makes its presence fully known. The misdirection from

the almost-silent negative sound augmented the shock of the next section,

sending agitated chills down my spine.

Though negative sound constitutes a powerful part of music, I will hazard

that it can be falsely interpreted as an extravagant, distant concept. A

clear boundary of how to use negative sound in music should be imposed.

As a cautionary example, in 1952, John Cage performed a controversial experiment

deploying silence in his piece 4’33.

Would you like to listen? I will give you the score so you may follow along:

Cannot see anything? That’s right. Nothing exists. Nothing written. No

dynamics, no tempo markings, no notes, no sound. It is an empty, bland,

colorless, nothing-at-all piece of “music.” Start a stopwatch, turn a page,

turn another page, but no music can be heard. Some might argue that since

there can never be the same silence again, every single moment is special

and qualifies as “music.” Some might contend that even if all the listener

hears is the slight impact of a piano lid opening and closing, a stopwatch’s

monotonous ticking, and the slow turn of a page, it is truly an “intense

listen.” According to the listeners who applaud Cage’s artistry, silence is its

own music. Indeed, Cage asserts that the piece is about accidental sounds

around you in the moment, heightening in meaning.


87

To me, however, this concept of silence being music in John Cage’s music

is disconcerting, irritating and illogical. As I “listen” to the piece, anticipation

fills my mind—the performer is about to play their music, but all that

exists is anticipation, anticipation for nonexistence. This composition, in

fact, is a contradiction to the construct of music. The silence is inexplicable.

Stand in it, sit in it, listen to it; it is all paradoxical, and impossible to

explain. Silence may be a part of music, but it cannot be music itself.

Negative sound cannot be forced into the fabric which stitches together

a tapestry of music. It should be the connecting strands that hold music and

sound together. Without music notes, silence becomes lost and pointless.

Negative sound is shaped by the notes before and after it, interpreted by the

musicians during their performance, and felt and imagined by the listeners.

As the notes flow upwards in the key of C minor, the piano breaks the

silence after the second break in Chopin’s Concerto No. 2. A light accompaniment

of strings plays softly in the background. Decisively, the final movement

reaches the culmination of both the wistful and the bright movements

before it. The period of silence between the music has concluded, but

every note resonates with a slight yet distinct memory of the silence, just as

silence remembers the music. Long after the sound is heard no more, the

negative sound, if only for an instant, transforms itself into the silhouette

of the most brilliant melody inside my heart.

88 Short Prose

Sami Alissa

Grade 10


The Environmental

Collapse and Colonial

Legacy in the Dead Sea

“How was your vacation?”

“It was great, we swam in the Dead Sea! You know the water is so salty

that you can float!”

“Uh huh. I’ve seen videos online about that and the mud there!”

“Yeah, it’s great for your skin. We grabbed some and took it home, but it’s

fine ‘cause everyone does the same.”

“Oh, did you bring me some?”

“Of course! There were so many special minerals being sold, and it was

sooo cheap!”

The Dead Sea is the lowest elevated place on Earth, more than 1,400 feet

below sea level.

Its elevation will continue to drop almost four feet a year, resulting in

devastating consequences.

Yes, part of the recession is due to warming temperatures, but a more

significant factor is the mineral exploitation of the Dead Sea. It is rich in

minerals such as salt, magnesium, bromine and potash. Companies such as

Dead Sea Works have taken advantage of this by using evaporation ponds,

two-meter-deep ponds shallow enough to evaporate water quickly, leaving

behind the precious minerals (“The Dead Sea Works: Potash Mining at the


89

Lowest Point in the World”).

Contrary to its name, the Dead Sea provides a haven for more than 300

species of migratory birds. It is one of the largest bodies of water in the region.

And as the coastlines creep away, these temporary residents will have

to wander farther to find a new place to call home. Like much of the world,

the Middle East is warming up due to rising carbon emissions. As the waters

dwindle, they leave behind subterranean salt. Water is the universal

solvent. It will erode any natural substances. What was once salt now is a

cavity beneath the surface. These cavities will become sinkholes, blocking

off roads and jeopardizing nearby residents.

Although much of my summers were spent at community pools and

public parks, two weeks every year were spent 6,000 miles away in the

blistering 100-degree heat. I hold vivid memories from my visits to Jordan

close to my heart—intense card games with cousins, making aromatic food

with my grandma, and sneaking out at 2 a.m. to get off-brand Oreo ice

cream from the corner store. Of course, I enjoy exploring Amman’s hilly

expanse dotted with white buildings, taking in the dusty smell of cigarettes

that coated the stone buildings. I spent my time connecting with my family

and culture. And when I return home, I am bombarded with the same

questions:

“Did you visit the Dead Sea?”

“Can you really float in the water?”

“Can you bring mud from the Dead Sea?”

I always drove right past the battered and sun-faded aluminum sign

signaling the exit toward the Dead Sea. Yes, in the past, I had seen the picturesque

scenes of hexagonal salt flats and wanted to go with my cousins,

thinking it would be a little beach getaway. To my disappointment, nobody

in Amman was zealous about visiting it. When I questioned my uncle, he

described it as a place where “tourists get to celebrate our water crisis.”

* * *

The Dead Sea is located between Jordan, Israel, and the contested and

occupied Palestinian Territories. These three nations have more than a century

of conflict. Following the fall of the Ottoman Empire, the British Empire

colonized Transjordan and Mandatory Palestine.

In 1930, concessions for the extraction of salts and minerals in the Dead

Sea were granted to Palestine Potash Limited, later renamed Dead Sea

90 Short Prose

Works (“The Dead Sea Works: Potash Mining at the Lowest Point in the

World”). It was later nationalized by the Israeli Government, granting them

even more power and access. Following the Six-Day War in 1967, the Israeli

Government took control of the Dead Sea and Jordan River and cut off

more than 180 Palestinian communities from water access (Wojnarowski).

Meanwhile, they channeled most of the river’s flow for the National Water

Carrier Project, that only serves Israel, while Syria and Jordan are allowed

limited access given to them solely by peace treaties and trade deals (“Water

in Israel: Israel’s Chronic Water Problem”). In addition, Palestinians are

barred access from the Dead Sea, Jordan River and multiple freshwater

springs and are unable to use them for maritime and agricultural purposes.

This is evident in day-to-day life, as Palestinians consume one-quarter

of the amount of the water consumed by Israelis on average. Not only are

they prevented from obtaining existing water sources, but the Israeli Government

has also outlawed drilling new wells and installing water pumps

(“Death Knell for the Dead Sea?”). The Dead Sea has become more than

a geographical feature, but an outlet for political power. It is just one of

the many environmental crises echoing the allocation of resources not by

equality but by occupation.

Water will flow in the direction of least resistance. Dammed. Diverted.

Denied.

* * *

Tourists in Jordan might come to experience the crumbling Roman

architecture or the sizzling stacks of meat. Yet, nothing will confuse more

than one sound. Lying in bed, watching television and even using the bathroom,

you can hear Für Elise radiating throughout the unassuming streets

that spring to life at night, lined up with street vendors selling shawarmas.

The teeter-totter between the adjacent notes of the hook buzzes over

tinning speakers, gets louder, then fades away. You will be perplexed at

first, thinking that Beethoven has a large fan base in Jordan. Of course,

once you step outside, you will see rust creeping on trucks strolling by with

old speakers blasting Für Elise on repeat. And in the back of these trucks

are dirty, plastic five-gallon water jugs, bumping into each other as the tires

bounce over the crumbling roads.

Once in a while, you will go outside in the fiery sun, buy a couple of jugs

and haul them back to the pantry. This water will be used for cooking and

drinking. And it will last you until next week.


91

As for general use, the water lines will be turned on once a week for a

couple of hours, when water barrels will be filled. Once the water is shut

off, you will only have access to the water in the rooftop barrels for toilets,

showering, laundry and all other uses. Yet again, it will last you till next

week. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Jordan is surrounded from the north, west and east by war-torn people

in search of a better life. Simple diffusion. High concentration flows to

low concentration. Jordan has one of the highest numbers of refugees per

capita in the world. Many of these refugees have fled their countries in the

past 15 years. In fact, in the past 20 years, the population has doubled. As

the climate has heated up, water sources have dwindled (“Water, sanitation

and hygiene | UNICEF Jordan”). Yet, the Jordanian Government has struggled

to notice the warning signs glaring from a mile away. Only recently

have they strayed away from the perception that water is not a scarce resource,

and desalination plants have steadily been made to address the

growing crisis (“Water, sanitation and hygiene | UNICEF Jordan”). However,

these efforts have come far too late and are insufficient to meet the

rising demand. With limited access to water, the growing population, and

the strain of hosting large numbers of refugees, Jordan faces an imminent

water shortage that threatens its sustainability of its people.

* * *

Currently, the Jordanian Government is working on the Red Sea-Dead

Sea Water Conveyance Project that will transport desalinated water from

the Red Sea to the Dead Sea.

Although it will hopefully raise the sea levels, it does not address the

problem from the source.

We must stop using money as an excuse to harm the world that we live

in and cease evaporating the waters from the Dead Sea in hopes of reaping

rare minerals. We cannot and should not ever use water as another pawn in

the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, leaving marginalized communities without

access to essential water supplies. We must spread awareness about the

Dead Sea and water scarcity throughout the Middle East. This is not just

about whether we can save the Dead Sea—it is whether we will wake up in

time to save the innocent facing the consequences.

92 Short Prose

Works Cited

“The Dead Sea Works: Potash Mining at the Lowest Point in the World.”

DeadSea.com, https://deadsea.com/articles-tips/the-dead-sea-works-potash-mining/.

Accessed 1 April 2025.

“Death Knell for the Dead Sea?” Q Magazine, 2023, https://q.sustainability.illinois.edu/the-dead-sea-palestine-connection/.


“Gaza in 2020: A liveable place?” UNWRA, 2012,https://unispal.un.org/

pdfs/GazaIn2020.pdf. Accessed 31 March 2025.

“Water in Israel: Israel’s Chronic Water Problem.” Jewish Virtual Library,

https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/israel-s-chronic-water-problem.


“Water, sanitation and hygiene | UNICEF Jordan.” UNICEF, https://www.

unicef.org/jordan/water-sanitation-and-hygiene. Accessed 1 April 2025.

Wojnarowski, Frederick. “Contested flows: The power and politics of water

in Jordan.” LSE, https://www.lse.ac.uk/research/research-for-the-world/

politics/politics-of-water-jordan. Accessed 2 April 2025.


93

Poetry

94

1st place

“Al-Amaal School”

Maram Alwan

2nd place

“Slam Dunk”

Meera Reddy


95

96 Poetry

Maram Alwan

Grade 10


Al-Amaal School

I like confessing through a poem. There’s a saying in Arabic,

I came to fix it but blinded it.

I stole 50 qirsh from a classmate. The two coins were on the table and

I was hungry. I had forgotten to bring a lyra from my mom.

There’s a saying about literally everything in Arabic.

We say, Hunger is a sinner.

At Al-Amaal in Karak, Jordan, a school for Syrian immigrants

escaping the war

my teacher was Miss Fatehah, from Somalia,

who spoke three languages. Some days she would bring

big meals and share—rice and chicken,

sambuusa. She too was non-native in a country that wasn’t hers.

There is a saying in Arabic, He didn’t

know the place he was going to.

Miss Fatehah often saved me from the principal’s punishments

so I don’t know why I remember

her hitting me with the ruler in kindergarten

and making me hold a textbook on top of my head

before taking me to the principal to get double punishment.

What actually happened was, on Thursday,


97

she caught me when I tried to give back a whole lira, double

what I had taken. I remember a similar situation

where money was the problem. I fled from Hama, Syria,

in a gray, low-key, dirty, seven-seater van with my sister and mom.

My mom forced me to get in the van. Talee, she said

in an angry tone. My dad was already in Jordan.

I didn’t know

anything about the war

but I wanted to stay

eating my grandmother’s zeet w zaatar sandwiches.

Out the van windows, checkpoints. At one checkpoint,

an army man stopped us to check passports—

our passports were dark blue

with golden eagles.

One of them wasn’t stamped.

He said, This is not going to work. You’re going

to have to go back to Syria.

My mom told the driver to tell him, We can’t go back,

we have already left the Syrian border.

The driver told my mom, If you have money, I can bribe.

She gave the money to the driver,

and he told my mom, Allah will return

the money.

The driver put 2K Syrian lira in the army man’s pocket,

the pocket where the stamp was watching my family.

He said, You’re all good now.

Such a scammer.

The principal at Al-Amaal School, a religious woman,

always considered stealing a sin—

Ten on the palm, ten on the top of the hand.

98 Poetry

Meera Reddy

Grade 12


Slam Dunk

“Nice form,” he smirks,

but he’s not talking about my jump shot.

Gleaming eyes trace the curves of my breasts,

slowly traveling down the brown of my body,

hungry for the win,

squaring up to shoot their shot.

I am his court,

a space he claims as his territory,

lives comfortably in,

comes and goes as he wishes.

A home he invades

with lingering stares and howling whistles,

with hands brushing where they shouldn’t.

“You’re a ten,” he tells me,

like I’m the score five minutes into the game.

A trophy to admire,

a medal to adorn his neck,

a varsity letter to pin to his jacket.

But I’m not his prize, not his game to win.

Not a victory lap he gets to parade around.

Not a highlight reel he can hit “replay” on when it suits him.

He watches me move:

dribble, pivot, jump, shoot.

And he calls it finesse, but I call it survival,


99

guarding my body like it’s a hoop

he aims to bring down with him.

To him, I am a sideline to conquer,

each curve, each line a boundary he tries to redraw,

rewriting the playbook so my movements fit his game.

His talk is vain, like he’s untouchable,

the greatest of all time.

But my talk? I hold my tongue.

Because society told me my voice was never meant to rise above his.

Because every time I speak, I’m reminded that silence is easier.

This body of mine?

It’s not his drill to run,

his whistle to blow,

his timeout to call,

his season to own.

I’m not a game he can play and win without breaking a sweat,

not a “honey” he can rebound to when he needs a hit,

not a shiny new plaque he gets to hang proudly on his wall.

I am the slam

he didn’t see coming.

The dunk

that shatters his expectations.

The force

that breaks the backboard of his ego,

fractured pieces of his shallow desires crashing

to the ground.

This court is mine.

These moves are mine.

This body is mine.

And him?

He’s just a foul that’ll never get called.

100 Poetry

Indie Pascal

Grade 10


Rain

It’s raining right now

and I sit inside staring out the window.

I can’t help thinking

sometimes life happens too fast

and sometimes it goes too slow.

but as I looked at my grandpa

lying on the La-Z-Boy yesterday

his beard outgrown and unshaved

his tired eyes closing every second

I knew that life was gone for him

before he even knew it was there.

I knew then,

when we learned that he was sick

hacking and coughing mucus

from his own lungs,

that he was hiding

pretending.

he was weak

and frail but

he showed a side of himself

that I had seen every day when

he was frail.

a side where he impersonated a man


101

that was alive and healthy

because he didn’t want his grandchildren to see

how vulnerable he really was.

I fear for my grandfather—

I fear for how he walks

and how he talks.

I fear for how he is always sleeping

and is too tired to stay awake

I fear how he is constantly in pain

but I know that he will pretend

as if he doesn’t know what I am talking about

and give me a hug

and promise

that he is going to be okay.

It’s raining right now

and the birds are tweeting a lot

as if they’re happy to be in the rain.

102 Poetry

Momo Almarza

Grade 9


A Goblet Meant

to be Shattered

You start out pure

A handmade goblet that should be in museums

Reflecting the sunlight

Glistening

Clean

Loved

People come day and night to bask in your beauty

The first crack can be ignored

Only fill the glass below it

Take sips on the other side so you don’t cut your lip

But bit by bit, the crack grows

And every time you try and drink from your goblet you bleed

You bleed

And you bleed

Soon the goblet itself breaks

Shattered

You can’t ignore it anymore

You try to keep yourself together and your hands bleed

You bleed

And you bleed

People see your shattered glass

Your once treasured goblet


103

Lost all its beauty

All its value

It cracks more

With every careless word

Every ignorant action

Your precious goblet is in pieces

Too many to count

But it still cuts you

You bleed

And you bleed

You feel as if you’ve lost all beauty

Maybe you have

You cannot drink out of a shattered glass

Giving up is hard to do

I have been ground to dust

Shattered and broken

Smashed and crumbled

So fine that I can move with the wind

The water

I still reflect the sun

For I am the sand beneath your feet at the beach

In the water

Blown with the wind

I still hurt

I still bleed

For I still have sharp edges

Children make sandcastles out of me

I spread joy

I make roads

I am at beaches, deserts and streambanks

I flow with the wind and the water

I am shattered

Stepped on

But I bring joy

And I am free

104 Poetry

And I am just as beautiful as an unshattered goblet

Just as loved

And just as treasured


105

106 Poetry

Je’Meya Thomas

Grade 10


The Room That Grew Teeth

The walls hum

with names

I used to answer to.

Carved into plaster

with fingernails,

each letter

crooked,

unfinished.

A language

I forgot

how to speak.

The air tastes like copper—

sharp,

electric—

and hums

in my teeth.

Then,

the walls

grow

teeth.

White.

Waiting.

Wide.


107

They bite

at the edges

of my shadow,

tearing

it into threads.

As if to say,

Move faster.

Be more.

Give more.

I wanted to be

more.

I wanted

to be

everything.

So, I stripped myself

down

to the blueprint

of hunger.

I built a ladder

out of

my own bones.

Vertebrae

By

Vertebrae.

Each rung—

a piece

of me

I thought

I didn’t need.

Fingers first.

Then ribs.

Then

the cage

around my heart.

108 Poetry

Until the climbing

was all

I had

left.

I climbed.

Higher.

Higher.

Higher.

Past ceilings

that peeled

like wet paper.

Into the sky

that cracked

open.

But there was

nothing

there.

Only

mirrors.

Stacked

one

on

another.

Each one showing

a version of me

with brighter eyes

with sharper teeth

with hands

that could hold

the sun

and not burn.

They ask me—

What will you trade

for this sky?


109

And I answer—

Whatever

I have left.

Even now,

I feel

the teeth

closing in

behind me.

There is

no way

back

down.

110 Poetry

Nadia Petchal

Grade 10


Flooring of Me

Or should I just be here now Bare feet on linoleum

Slicing vegetables onto water that I will later turn into stew

— Lana Del Rey

Fluorescent lights of clunky handwriting and missing teeth.

Linoleum tile floors with shoeprints of old friends that

no longer answer.

Begging for items which has ceased

for rapid arithmetic over green numbers and superficial qualities.

My blood heats seeing how no sun is present besides those

on Raisin Bran boxes

and organic oats in plastic sacks.

Time passes in limbo so before you know it the moon has

taken ahold of the sky,

and with it your mind. Forever moving, forever still.

Hitting me in the face so, weeks shift to years

until I’ve forgotten what I was ever here for. Here to wipe the counters?

Here to cash out orders? Here to run with the lilies?

My mind is splitting.

The boxes on the shelf are blurry and indifferent.

Smooth crinkled paper and a layer of dust are my lines of development,

no longer do they trace past my uneven floors and father’s bootleg VHS.

Revised to be on faux wood

on tile over the linoleum floors.


111

112 Poetry

Juliet Staresinic

Grade 10


Strength Measured by Age

A stuffed animal

who I must have not loved enough to give a name

yet dragged around the house until he had holes like

gunshot wounds in his sides

and his lavender skin was so soaked in my snot and tears he smelled like

mildew instead of childhood.

But I think I wasted my tears on being a child,

and I’m wishing for that nameless hippo.

To wipe my tears

now that I have something to cry about,

or to hold as I fall asleep

now that I need something to hold.

I couldn’t quite put it into words when it happened.

It was one of those things I always knew but never realized

until I would lay my head down to go to sleep

and I could feel my age imprinted on him in the way the

stuffing had deflated

and his synthetic fur became matted and rough.

It was a nightly reminder of why I couldn’t cry anymore,

that childhood was something to be ashamed of,

and I had so much shame to hide.


113

114 Poetry

Juliet Staresinic

Grade 10


Mother Sun

I turn my face towards your warmth,

your blinding, almost holy, light

and stare.

You have created each cell in my delicate body

with intention,

and every time I feel your angelic shine

I am reminded of why you are the sun

and I am the flower.

You are so beautiful it hurts

and I am temporary.

I am plucked and pruned into ugly perfection

and I learned I will always grow back.


115

116 Poetry

Peri Vrabel

Grade 10


Fragments

Vines from black banisters,

Slippery roots pushing from dark earth

Dusted with steam and Stella’s laughter.

slick from ancient tears and raindrops.

Cactus skull and dad’s watering can.

Tea kettle whistling,

Whispers of advice growing and

spewing angry mist.

sprouting from the green veins.

Dumpster mirror

crushed into dust

in the sole of a shoe.

Glass turned reflective

glued back together.

Hung on the wall as art.

Shriveled yellow cactus

Blossoming orange peonies.

remains on my windowsill.

Petals begin to fall.

Fallen dirt rests in the cracks of paint.

Picture frame glass embedded

Discarded family photos,

in the bottom of my foot.

forgotten media.


117

Tear-coated mason jars and coffee mugs

Handmade ceramics

broken into shards.

crafted with love,

Lying in the center of a landfill

filled with bitter coffee,

waiting for their fiery demise.

and a touch of cream.

118 Poetry

Hazel Pearson

Grade 10

The Ellis School

Clap Loudly

I clap loudly.

Because I’ve been on the other side of the drop from

the stage to the first row,

I’ve been blinded by the spotlight in my face,

trying to look out into the audience,

and wondering if there was anyone watching at all.

I clap loudly.

Because it doesn’t cost me anything to enjoy the show that I’ve already

chosen to see,

and living in the moment has never robbed anyone of worries for the

future,

or doubts about the past,

at least not ones they wouldn’t have again and hadn’t had before.

I clap loudly.

Because in this world of ours,

it has become increasingly difficult to make art,

when voicing opinions can be dangerous,

when artificial creativity threatens to tear human creativity

limb from limb.

I clap loudly.

Because I know who I want to be someday,

even if it’s not the sort of tangible five-year plan advised

by my guidance counselor.

I want to be the kind of adult who,


119

when asked with an amused smile why she always claps so loudly,

even for these people she’s never met,

looks over at her companions and shrugs with

an equally amused smile,

one that asks,

“Why aren’t you clapping loudly too?”

120 Poetry

Bella Minyo

Grade 12


Pick Me Up

When It’s All Over

Loftily floating through the breeze

As free as I wish to be

From the daily grind of three six five

As a morning cloud’s tantalizing tail tickles me

When the first rays of dawn filter between the beams

Please,

Pick me up when it’s all over

When the dream is done, and crimson leaves crumble

Like murky blips and blops of blood on a brand-new carpet

Channeling their invisibility

But if I wake with a jolt among the supple wild grasses

As a cricket’s chirp echoes mournfully

With a silver maple shadow hanging over me

I’ll just watch the enchanting Waltz of the Willows

As they let their golden braids hang down

And gracefully glide across my cheek

But as the clock begins to strike

And my dreary slumber starts to subside

When fiction becomes reality

Just please,


Then, when the ashen eyes of a weary swallow

Finally, greet me at the end of ‘morrow


121

One day

One minute

One second more

Just give me that time to say, “Adieu, mon amour.”

To my friends who are not that far from my door

In the tumbles of wheatfields under a flaxen haze

When the sun’s last rays shine in disarray

They stumble and bumble and graze and laze

And as the nestlings and neighs of free horses say their grace

Just please,


I promise that I’ll never leave you at the door

When the winds start to whip and the comfort of warmer days begins to

fade

And the last leaf of love has given up the game

And I’ve thrown down my hat and kicked all the trees

Because I’d much rather be soaring with the falcon than drowning beneath

the sea

And yet, once again, I’m stuck running circles, year after year

But I’ll still squeeze you closer and whisper in your ear

Please,


122 Poetry

Kadyn Headen

Grade 10


The Before and the Now

I was (am?) young and free

Excitable, happy, joyous

Surrounded by love and comfort

Familiar after so long

“Social, friendly, such a sweet kid”

My mother freely said

Truth (lies?) laden in her words

Believed by all, she was so sincere

Did I prove her wrong?

Playing in the yard, fireflies on my skin, deer eating Mimi’s roses

Blades of grass tickling my skin

Scratching and biting, it hurt so good

I didn’t want to go inside, for it all to end

But all things do (a fact of life)

I didn’t cry nor did I scream

When Mimi beckoned me for supper

For I knew another day would come soon

Sorrow, anger, despair

I so rarely felt

So why does it consume me now? (Answers I dread to hear)

I am (I was) young and free

Changing, morphing, hating every minute

Shrouded in a fog of my soul’s making


123

My mouth sealed tight, hands shattered weapons of destruction

“Social, friendly, such a sweet kid”

My mother is eating those words now (I’m sorry)

Face a whirl of shadow and deceit, she stares at me,

face full of shock and love

She sees me as I am now, but she misses the me from before

They all do, and I wish to hide, hide, hide

She’s still so sincere, no longer am I

I think (I know) I proved her wrong

My legs are statues of putty, molding to the shape of my sloth

I don’t want to move (I can’t)

I don’t wish to be (I am)

I want to stay inside, for this new form to crumble and die

But I can’t always get what I want (a fact of life)

I want to cry, I want to scream

I want to run, I want to hurt

None can be done

With my ruined face, my welded mouth

My useless legs, my broken hands

Sorrow, despair, anger

I so rarely felt

So why is it all I am now? (All I ever will be)

124 Poetry

Angelina Jones

Grade 11

The Ellis School

The Space Between

Was and Will Be

Flickers in the Static

Memory is a faulty projector,

spitting out reels of half-truths,

skipping frames,

rewinding moments that never played.

I swear I was there,

but was I?

The past is a fogged-up mirror,

fingerprints of what was—

or what I wish had been.

Names blur like ink in the rain,

faces rearrange themselves,

expressions shifting in my mind

like sand caught in the tide.

I chase them,

hold them up to the light,

only to find

they do not recognize me.

Time folds in on itself,

creases where I stood,

where I fell,


125

where I swore I would never return.

But here I am,

again and again,

spinning in the same orbit,

chasing déjà vu like a dog after its tail.

If I can’t trust the past,

how can I trust the now?

The present dissolves even as I grasp it,

slipping between synapses,

fading before I can name it.

Even the seconds betray me—

the clock ticks forward,

but I feel no motion,

only the weight of everything that has been

and everything that never was.

And the future—

a whisper, a shadow, a trick.

An echo of something I haven’t yet spoken,

a place I will swear I remember

when I finally arrive.

Is it waiting for me,

or am I writing it as I go?

A script that changes with every breath,

with every hesitation,

with every dream I let slip through my fingers.

What if I am nothing more than the space

between what was and what will be?

A flicker in the static,

a thought already fading,

a name waiting to be forgotten

by a world that keeps moving forward,

whether I do or not.

126 Poetry

Tessa Braham

Grade 9

Bethel Park High School

Our Martyr

A child is born

Hopeful and pure

Not a care in the world

A worry is no more

Then firsts turn to seconds

And seconds turn to years

Now a child is created

Filled with silly fears

As sounds become letters

And letters become words

A seed of truth is planted

Sprouting from the earth

The child aches for answers

Begs for lonely lies

Filling their mind with joy

For sorrow is disguised

Silly little fears

Turn to hatred and blame

A fire then is kindled

A raging wish for fame

The years then fly by

Faster than they seem

Looking for their future

Forgetting what they’ve seen


127

Caught up in the chaos

Caught up in the pain

Disguised as a life

Simple and plain

The child grows up fast

Yet falls down even harder

Innocence charred

The child

Now a martyr

128 Poetry

Boden Moraski

Grade 10

Shady Side Academy

Aubade in Shizuoka

Shizuoka, Japan, June 19, 1945:

He sits beside her upon the dock, gently turns her face towards his—

Breathe, he tells her,

Breathe, and hear the wind.

A turtle dove slowly circles them.

Inland, soldiers march to a fervent song.

Warplanes, reeking of spray-paint camouflage,

unload seventy-nine thousand two hundred pounds

of burning freedom upon the city.

The wind falls silent.

He reaches out his arm, softly strokes her black hair,

the towering flames reflecting in her brown eyes—

Breathe, Breathe, Breathe.

A worn-out military truck speeds through

a burning intersection, flames writhing—

The wind roars as buildings collapse,

their bright, burning remains etching

brilliant red streaks on a smoke-grey sky.

She grabs him, with shaking hands,

and says something neither of them can understand.

The dock shudders, bombs brighten—

The city glows a blinding white.


129

A soldier runs, as Heaven falls upon him.

He has no destination—only a hell to flee.

Above him, two planes collide, the suffocating smoke

veiling their disfigured remains. They fall

back to earth like fallen angels.

The soldier collapses as a falling rudder pierces

his weary legs. He stretches his bloodied hands,

the heat of the city scorching his back. Is this it?

Out from the clouded sky soars the turtle dove, who lands

beside the soldier. Its orange-tinted wings and

bright red eyes are only camouflage in a burning city.

The dove’s gaze falls upon the soldier, and its eyes speak—

Breathe, they say,

Breathe, and hear the wind.

130 Poetry

Shavonna Crawford

Grade 9

Woodland Hills High School

4our1ne2wo

I am from Rankin,

where porch talk carries like wind down narrow streets,

where the Steel City still hums under your feet

and everyone knows someone who knows your mother.

I am not mean.

Not rude.

Not cold.

But I’ve learned sometimes silence is louder

than a voice no one listens to.

I don’t come with blades—just boundaries

people mistake for weapons.

I feel most like myself

when I’m in my element—

nails junk’d and punk’d,

toes to match,

edges laid,

hair always fresh, always set.

Lashes bold and defined.

This isn’t extra—

it’s essential.

It’s how I stay whole.

Jhené Aiko sings for my brother.

She sings for me, as well—

when I lose myself in the rhythm of love


131

that feels like home and a secret I’ve always known,

when Ella Mai whispers

that even the little things carry meaning.

Tiller’s voice?

It’s the comfort I crave

on nights when everything feels overwhelming,

and I’m just looking for a moment to breathe.

But somehow, I’m still standing,

pulling back to keep my peace,

needing the quiet to remind me who I am,

even when the world tries to take too much from me.

I am from the 412

where ambition is lived, not taught—

self-made pride sewn into my fabric,

grind that doesn’t stop when the sun goes down,

goals I don’t wait for,

but go after, relentlessly.

I’ve failed, yes.

But giving up never learned my name.

So don’t confuse silence with softness,

or strength with distance.

I’m tender where it matters,

and firm in the places I stand.

This is who I am.

Whole.

Unapologetic.

And still becoming.

132 Poetry

Jackson Beemer

Grades 12

North Allegheny

The Gold God

Worship; fall on your knees for the Gold God, friend.

Be a credit to your storied nation.

We must exist only to sleep and spend.

Go to school and work hard so that you send

Your life prospects high; But always with trepidation—


Marry a good idolator who will lend

Good children and improve your station.


Even in old age when the body will not contend

Still give credit to your storied nation.

Worship; on your knees for the Gold God, friend.

And when your coffin falls into the ground, dead,

Your family will still worship without hesitation.


Spend! Spend! And let your heart and mind bend,

Until your soul bursts from temptation.




133

134 Poetry

Alayna Gill

Grade 9

Quaker Valley High School

when the world

tips on its side

when your family doesn’t seem to understand

and all your time you spent proving you are a good kid

falls and shatters on the concrete

into little shards too complicated to pick up

just remember

when the world tips on its side

you will be nothing but prepared

and have nothing to do

but to shrug your shoulders and

pull your lips back to show that

crooked grin that so many say

lights up the darkness

when your friends seem too occupied to

go outside and bike

and rather

add to the ever-going population of earth

while you fight with your family

about how they say “you are going to be stuck here for the rest of your life”

just remember


you will be nothing but prepared

and have nothing to do

but to flip your pillow over on the cool side

and rest your curly head on the silk


135

knowing you will sleep

your desired 10 hours before

you have to wake up and feel like everything is out of place

once again

when you fail that test you studied hours for

and your eyelids feel like boulders shielding your golden-brown irises

that struggle their hardest to stay open

while your honors biology teacher goes on about how

allopatric speciation

is led from geographic isolation

just remember


you will have nothing to do

but to step outside and sit on the porch

with the rusted white paint peeling off the century-old metal

like dried skin from a

two-day-old sunburn

and close your eyes to breathe in the sunscreen-infused air

because life can’t seem to get worse

then the 1/10 vocab test

or the fight with your mom about your boyfriend

or the drama that one girl started

because she couldn’t stand the attention you get

just remember


you will have nothing to do

but head on with your head held high

and your shoulders set straight

because none of the people in the room

know you’ve been through this rodeo

one too many times before

and you leave this bullfight

with nothing less then

a dainty papercut

on the pad of your index finger

136 Poetry

Lydia Kalapos

Grade 12

Mt. Lebanon High School

Traveling Vase

He traveled holding a large vase

Hosting a party of a leaf strand plant

Vase’s patterned surface

Floor granite

That his shoes proceeded upon

Intricate markings decorate

The vase’s array of warm colors displayed

One hand on its end

And one at its side

Palms clasp it by

A bay of leaves continuously waves

Striped tide swaying

The vase is its shell to sink safely into

He told me he had bought a well-suited vase

He’d travel anywhere to find where one was sold

His face was grinning

Irreplaceable

I saw the acclaimed vase

Approaching further

Its appearance danced

I praised

When it fell

And when it shattered


137

He laughed so hard

Nothing to hide, he kept on

Nothing withheld

He laughed long

He told me he had bought a well-suited vase

When I saw it

As pieces scattered across the granite floor

They shivered when they divided

My chest was given a pang

But I looked to him to find

His broad smile so unrestrained

Somehow the vase had accidentally slipped

And he embraced the fate

I accepted the view as mine

The pieces had traveled all across the floor

The soil pattered everywhere, toward

Leaves sprawled

My focus traveled to the way he beamed

The mess seemed to rest away quickly

We both remained amused

His eyes spoke

And his laughter rang

Irreplaceable

Something I could never afford

To lose

Antique shop

He announced

And picked the plant up right

From where it lounged

He’ll travel back to purchase another vase

His words were all truth

“I’ll buy an even better one,

I can afford anything for you”

138 Poetry

Vaishnavi Dabas

Grade 11

Upper Saint Clair High School

Ghosts and Gold

Reaching out—a web of shining silk,

The spider spins, spins, spins,

The golden shimmer spans out in every direction,

Painting an effervescent glow onto the bride,

Her face lights up, generations painted upon her,

Each thread is a word of advice, a warning, a consolation,

Every divot reminds her of her home,

Every flower reminds her of her youth,

Every stitch is who she is,

Every thread is who she will become,

Outside, the crowd roars, ready to send her off,

But she is not yet prepared to leave this all behind,

Generations have spun this thread, countless women saving scraps,

Her mother had entered earlier, carrying stacks of gold,

Her smile glittered with joy, yet her eyes shone with sympathy,

The bride stood still as she was adorned with jewelry,


139

Each weight stabilizes her, each jewel strengthens her resolve,

She fears the unknown, the world not yet discovered,

But her ancestors are with her and their triumphs are her own,

They prop the bride up and push her out the door,

She sees them surround her, smiling gently,

As the garland is wrapped around her neck, they clap,

As the fire burns, they laugh,

As she circles around the flame, their hands reach towards her,

Life touches death—just for a moment,

Until they are worlds apart again,

But, if even for a flash, she sees their faces in her ornaments,

And they are with her once more

140 Poetry

Ojasi Madhekar

Grade 11

Upper Saint Clair High School

Ink of Rebellion

My great-grandfather,

a warrior not of swords, but of truth. The path of blood was never his path,

but his words cut through silence like fire in the dark.

Ink was his weapon, paper his battlefield.

His words carried the force of many whispered rebellions.

On each page, a spark for the land.

The British pressed heavily against India, but he pressed back with

something stronger Written words, a force they could not chain.

From house to house, his whispers grew, turning into echoes of defiance,

into sparks of hope.

My family lived on the edge of struggle,

Never having enough to buy food from the pennies earned

by ink-stained hands.

Yet fear never touched their heart,

and doubt never stole my great-grandfather’s voice.

His words were more than stories, they were the breath of a movement,

the pulse of resistance.

And now, his legacy lives in me,

A reminder that swords may break, but ink endures.


141

142 Poetry

Jackson Beemer

Grade 12

North Allegheny

Wedding Dance

My feet do grow much too tired and weak,

The dance has captured all too faint to speak.

But the music which has put all in trance,

Does allow my cold eye to steal a glance,

Upon the chair which lords do eat their feast.

They gnash and snarl with no thought—as do beasts.

For the bride that’s cloaked like the purest dove,

The feast speaks for her hand but not her love.

Her voice begs all to hear that dreadful plight,

Which keeps the joyest spirit up at night.

But all have been swept in that trance of death,

Calling me to the bride’s pleading breath.

(Her voice sings as follows):

“Yes! Drink the wine and eat the bread for now—

As I stand alone in wretch’d agony.

My heart is but a silent wind-up toy,

And you are crows which feast upon my flesh.

Enjoy it! Ye miser and crony lot,

Empty kindness plagues the best among you,

Blackened hearts and cruel minds the worst of you.

You dance and laugh and sing for all the world

But behind closed doors ye drink to black death,

That breaks the spirit and corrupts all love.

Never to gaze upon a starry night

Or feel the breath of passion on my lip,


143

For my love dies tonight with his foul kiss.

Alas! I can feel my spirit fading.

Each tick of the clock draws my hour nearer,

Nearer to doom and nearer to despair.

Hark! The bells have just rung, sweet melody—

Soothe my aching soul with your lovely tone.

I wish to hear the angels sing once more,

For they will surely never sing again.

Pray! Hear, hear! The beauty of their trumpets,

The sweet song for which they now do play shrouds

My sorrow in a cloak of brightest gold.

There is yet hope among the black despair,

Of life that continues past this battered rock.

I fear that the hour is now upon me,

To be placed in mortal bondage with an

Everlasting wretch; poor in both heart and mind.

But I will go and drink to eternal life—

The doors are open; I am expected.

So, I must now quit your gentle spirit.

But, dear friend, know you have a noble heart—

In a sinful world; to listen for a

Moment to a poor heart’s mournful death song”

(Her speech thus ends and she exits from frame)

Her speech is done; the night begets the dark.

But still, all around, the awful dance rages.

On! On! It goes—the terrible dance rages!

Miles away the music is heard full force,

But still, not a soul bats a single eye.

Alas! The bride, who gave eloquent speech

Succumbs to the sting of the drum’s beating.

She too joins with a smile and widest eyes.

Oh, woe to the world! Oh, woe to the world—

Who stole a soul’s young beauty!

Even I can hear the baleful beating,

Of the death drum that pulls my bloody feet

Toward the dance of mockery and shame

That fills this hallowed, hollow bare white hall.

In the end all amounts to love or pain

144 Poetry

But I thought mayhaps for such a pure soul,

Love would be its only constant calling.

But friend, the world must turn always blindly.

Thus, we must learn to join the deadly dance,

Paupers and kings like—learn to join the dance.


145

146 Poetry

Mia Greiner

Grade 12


The Earth and I Are One

As I gingerly cradle her trembling body,

beginning to fall apart in my hands,

I whisper into her ear my most secret desires

And the Earth and I are one.

I bury my face in her lush green tresses,

letting them soak up all my tears,

unabashed and unafraid


With no brush but her fingers,

she paints me the sky, cobalt and cerulean

married together in perfect harmony


And I watch as they tear her hair out

and rip her refuge apart piece by piece until

nothing is left but her pearly white bones

And still, the Earth and I are one.

I begin to watch her decay,

her once vivid face

losing its vibrancy slowly but surely

And yet, the Earth and I are one.


147

I bear witness to her downfall

slow like rain,

yet still more punishing


We struggle to breathe,

she and I, our indefinite existence feeling more

constrained as each breath enters our lungs

And somehow, the Earth and I are one.

I watch as they,

without remorse,

burn her already-crumbling body to the ground


And now,

after she is reduced to nothing but ash,

I hold her weak, infantile body in my arms

And despite it all, the Earth and I still are one.

148 Poetry

Quincy Sauter

Grade 11


Learning to Fly Vicariously

Learning not just to follow the movement

But to capture it

Feeling every moment of waiting

Not feeling the cold until turned away

I go forward keeping my head up

Thinking about the difference between further and farther

Thinking about my parents

I keep clicking, looking for the right moment

If I was driving, it’d be the “correct” moment

according to my dad

I’ve begun to pick up this mannerism too

I don’t mind though, it avoids confusion

I try to fall in love

With my work, my days off,

The things that bore me

I’ll try to fall in love with anything

I begin to look at the moon and crystals and the time

Initially, without additional comfort,

Only warm in the fact that something was special

I start to fall in love with myself again

I found myself feeling freer,

Wondering if the scars on my back I once felt

Had turned into wings like I’d wished for

Maybe I did fly away


149

I wonder what it would be like in a different life

Wonder if I would like it more

I breathe in the rain and

Try to exhale the ocean

I watch the beauty of flight,

Wanting to know the feeling,

Stifling my jealousy by creating my own art from it

One day I’ll wish I had learned the fulfillment of the audience

150 Poetry

Kaelyn Nguyen

Grade 11


Ba

When Ba cooks, sauces spill, hot oil cracks

out of rhythm. Blaring pops back-to-back.

At home my Ba wears a see-through white tank

and during dinner his cold eyes run blank.

He waits for bitter night to smoke out back

in his leather coat, an old, scratched stone-black.

Returning, footsteps thump, a heartbeat sound.

I love my Ba’s birthmarks and happy frown.

Cigarette smoke kisses seep in my hair,

his scruffy hands hold mine tender with care.

His rough beard pricks my skin. With bulky bones

that cling, Ba holds me. Our heavy love our own.

In a hush tone we whisper stiff sorrys.

But in seconds our hugs fall hearty.

When the thunder comes out, I fall asleep

beside him, safety in his sheets.

My moments with Ba are not fragile,

our distant love waits to be unraveled.


151

152 Poetry

Hana Lang

Grade 9


Anatomy of Poetry

if it is a Bird

I. Eyes

Poetry is just words on a page

—just words on a page—

and I try to look for the meaning in

between the lines but it’s

just words on a page.

II. Beak

Words are like soft fruit, ridged

seeds and crisp nectar that I crack

open, gobble down and regurgitate.

III. Wings

She says, “Poetry is total freedom,”

and without

saying any more,

my words

spread their wings.

IV. Feathers

Freedom is like feathers.

A cost of flying free:

The only thing that is

free and

floating and


153

falling are

my clipped wings.

V. Crown

All on display

like a golden trophy

sparkling and

locked in a cage.

VI. Tail

Trying to balance and coast on the thick wind,

my tail is cutting into the breeze, and

I tell myself balance is important but not critical.

VII. Talons

I am ugly and disfigured when I squeeze my prey—

My prey is ugly and disfigured, but I am

entranced with ugly hunger. I am disfigured.

VIII. Scapulars

My scapulars carry me

and carry weight.

My tallit seems

to drag me down.

IX. Windpipe

Within my throat,

I let words sing

and they let me breathe.

X. Flanks

I can’t feel myself breathing.

I can’t feel my sides following my breath.

XI. Bones

Hollow is me,

lighter is me,

liberated is me,

yet weakened is me.

154 Poetry

XII. Rump

The rump is the weakest

part of me; my hind

where I cannot see,

the rest of me.


155

156 Poetry

Zora Rose

Grade 9


I Do Not Wish to See

A week ago I received glasses and now I can see

The world is no longer blurry in front of me

There is no

Squinting

Widening

Turning

My head 180 degrees to see a word

There was a big explosion that allowed me to see clearly

Hues and lights hit my eyes

The atmosphere opened up wide

To my chocolate brown finders in between my crimson lashes

I put my glasses on and now I can see

The crispness of the edges of letters

The hairs that stick up on your neck

The warning signs that sit under your nose

I find that I notice people looking at me

That’s something I couldn’t see before

Whiplash is a result of me turning to see grins

Widening on faces

Are they snickering at me?

I put my glasses on and now I can see

The pain that surrounds me

I never noticed the hands that grab

I stretch and bend to get them off


157

My stomach gets pulled like an elastic rubber band

That gets tugged too far until it snaps like a twig

I reach for the ground and I can see

How dirty it is and the dirt that sits beneath

Anger and insecurity ride up my neck

Almost choking me to death

Why couldn’t I see this before?

I rinse the day off in warm water

That turns into a green I couldn’t see last week

My skin is gasoline that fuels the fire coming down unto me

I am the frying pan greased with butter

The water is toast waiting to be burnt

Falling into the never-ending tub

Clawing at the smooth white walls

Full of purity I no longer have

I trudge out of a pool of acid

To call for help, I grab my phone

My fingers twitch and groan

All I seem to take is a portal of destruction

It scratches and bites me

I can taste the red ocean leaving my cuts

It’s all too much

I cannot take it

Why haven’t I ever seen this?

The damage is irreversible and I am too far gone

I accept my fate because I cannot escape it

I cannot hold the weight above my shoulders

The rock will crush me any second

Though I still wear my glasses

I no longer want to see

So I can rest in peace

I lower my head

My glasses fall

Like raindrops being released from clouds

Opening my eyes one last time

I find I am struggling to see

Squinting

158 Poetry

Widening

Turning

To see the blurry letters right in front of me


159

160 Poetry

Emi Neuer

Grade 11


Message in a Bottle

There is wonder in braiding the seagrass locs

Of the lady I found

At the end of my world and the beginning of a watery expanse

She sits on weathered rocks

Letting cool winds ripple through her jelly-like body

Woman of war

She tethers her stinging tendrils around my hand

As I reach to draw her ashore

The nematocyst’s nature is to paralyze prey

And even with my gentle hands resting on her shoulder

I am foe

She called upon me in her tidal chariot

Led by horses blessed by ocean’s kiss

As a fading myth proclaims

I swoon in her touch as tender as a moonbeam

And as consuming as a cutting riptide

For it is her twisted way of love

Sweet mother of waves, who knows nothing

But the constant pestering of gulls

Or the plague of carcinogens

Angered by the same man who reveres her

For the price of her worship is her demise

As conquest reaches past the shoreline

From cobalt seas to Neptune skies


161

Who is left to cradle her and simulate the flowing tides?

Can I cherish her in my arms,

Rock her asleep in my gravity?

162 Poetry

Salma Alouane

Grade 12

Baldwin High School

More Than a Scarf

“That thing on her head,” they whispered and stared,

“She used to have curls, does she still have hair?”

A scarf wrapped so neatly, a fabric so tight, But why did it change?

It doesn’t feel right.

Familiar faces now studied me twice,

As if I had vanished before their own eyes.

The girl they had known, with braids down her back,

Had covered her hair, was she ever coming back?

“You’re different,” they’d say, though I felt the same, Still laughing,

still joking, still calling their names.

But their voices were softer, their smiles unsure,

As if I had closed an unspoken door.

I caught the long glances, the questions, the doubt,

As if my own thoughts didn’t count, didn’t shout.

“Did someone make you?” “Are you still free?”

But freedom had never felt clearer to me.

I missed how it felt to belong without thought,

To walk through a room and not feel distraught.

Yet deep in my chest, a fire had grown,

A whisper that told me, “You’re never alone.”


163

And slowly, like sunlight that melts away cold,

The stares became softer; the questions grew old.

High school arrived, and with it, new days,

Where people saw past the cloth in new ways.

“That thing on her head” was no longer so strange,

No longer a symbol of loss or of change.

Instead, it was mine, my crown, my grace,

A part of my soul, not something erased.

The world kept on spinning, and so did I,

No longer afraid, no need to ask why.

They saw me now—not different, not less,

But steady, unshaken and limitless.

I laughed just as loud, I spoke just as free,

And finally, now, they listened to me.

Not just to my choice or the scarf that I wore,

But to all that I was, my heart and much more.

I am not a whisper, I am not a phase,

I am not something that time will erase.

The girl they once knew has never been gone,

She’s just standing taller, her faith holding strong.

So here I remain, with light in my stride, No shame,

no regret and nothing to hide.

The road may be long, but my steps are sure

For I am enough, and I always was pure.

164 Poetry

Sonora Valencheck

Grade 10

Westinghouse Arts Academy Charter School

The Blue

We used to sit by the edge of the water and watch as it rolled down the

stream, weaving around rocks and pushing leaves up against their mossy

walls. The moment the school bell rang at the end of the day, hordes of

us ran to the creek, throwing our backpacks on dry patches of dirt and

rolling up our khaki pants. My friends and I would pretend to be beavers,

making dams out of the twigs we gathered in the woods. We rafted toy

boats and trinkets—scavenged from our little siblings’ Goodwill piles—

along the lines we carved. Childish laughter bounced through the channel

in gentle cacophony; the water giggled back with glimmering reflections

of the summer sun. Our skin smelled of salt and earth; our hearts beat as

slow as the crashing waves.

The water looked just like we did.

We knew, intuitively, how to protect it and that we needed to protect

ourselves from it; the water wasn’t weak. It pounded on the bank, pulling

in algae, softening the sandy floor. Tides rocked fishing boats like cradled

babies; the current rushed canoes downriver.

Everything was fervently alive.

But some kids wanted more, their blue eyes glazed over by fear and temptation.

They hunted species of endangered crawdads, ripped up all the

cattails, flipped over every rotting log, exposing resting creatures to the

mercy of the atmosphere. Their dams were built carelessly, so that water

pooled out in every direction, flooding the grasses.

It did not take long before the water took back what had been taken.

It came in one great mass, one insurmountable army. It bared its seafoam


165

teeth, swallowed, and in a single gulp, entire towns would be consumed.

The air grew heavy with humidity, slowly drowning us with dewy lungs.

Rain plummeted on rooftops at night so loud we could not sleep.

It was time to run. We grabbed everything we could, pictures of loved

ones, our favorite books, journals for documentation, but mostly only

the bare necessities would fit in the little space we had.

And then we left behind everything that created us.

I watched my father cry for the first time while sitting on the back of our

wagon, the salty blue dripping from his eyes. I took my thumbs and wiped

his tears away; there was no time for that anymore. Together, we watched

our village fade into the distance. The horses’ hooves beat at the muddy

trail beneath us. We had little food to give them but they sprinted anyway,

knowing what was coming.

Because as fast as we went, the water only came faster.

On the morning of one of my last days, I watched as my remaining family

packed up yet another camp. Our tents had been washed away in the

night, their remains left scattered across the shore. I took off my shoes

and let the water nip my toes, taunting me. I crouched low so that I could

dip my fingers into the water’s raging body. Its chill crawled up my arm;

ripples licked at my sleeves. A thick fog concealed my body from the busy

voices echoing in the distance. There was nothing left for me here. I whispered

to the water the last thing I knew to say,

take me with you.

166 Poetry

Evan Park

Grade 11


Raindrops

As I walk away from this school

on the rough concrete sidewalks toward CMU,

it’s 5:20 p.m.

The sky already welcomes nightfall,

dark with shades of black and purple,

devoid of stars,

painting the picture of

this moment I am in.

My footsteps carry me along the path

with a rhythm,

the soles sliding against uneven concrete.

Car tires scratch,

traffic clutters,

my foot steps on a leaf—

a loud crunch.

In this reality,

I’m not on my way to a piano lesson.

I’m listening to the natural sounds of everything,

music everywhere,

surrounding me.

Time unfolds.

Every distinct noise blends

into the pleasant hum of the background.

The crunch of leaves,


167

the drone of traffic,

the rhythm of my footsteps,

all fall silent to me.

Everything is calm.

The air is cool, but not stinging.

Life is in a major key.

A solitary drop of water

falls on my hair,

a slight chill,

then dissipates.

More drops fall from the sky,

more erratic, more panicked.

Soon, it is a deluge.

The night,

once calm and pleasant,

becomes a rainstorm.

I am drenched

in a downpour of beautiful liquid petals.

The ominous threat of rain

drowns out all,

spurring me to run,

desperate to reach shelter.

The rain’s light tapping on the roof

was once magnified into a great rumbling

when I was inside a tin hut classroom in Kenya, teaching chess.

The rain transformed into percussion,

my voice was swallowed

in the calamitous echoes of impact.

I screamed my lesson to be heard.

The powerful sound of raindrops

takes hold of all else,

asserting itself as its own reality.

A new reality

soon fades into memory,

like Kenya

in the rain, beneath a booming tin roof.

168 Poetry

In memory,

everything is less sharp,

painted in broad strokes

on a colorful, textured landscape.

The raindrops may return,

but this actuality,

with its bright and vivid shades,

will vanish beneath the horizon like the sunset.

Never again will this moment exist.

It is a sound heard only once,

at this moment.

I breathe in slowly

and exhale.

My breaths are full,

my heartbeat calm and constant.

Listening.


169

170 Poetry

Clifford Brindle

Grade 10

West Allegheny High School

Lust for Function

*

The girl made of carnations

sees the birds and the bees in the prairie

and all their modus operandi.

They are a stand-in for something with supposed necessity.

*

She knows the story of the drone bee’s romance.

Built for sex and not much else.

They are evicted in turns with time.

Propagate and exterminate,

that’s the love life of the drone.

*

She knows of the spiders

who the start and end are aligned for.

Their lust for function trumps survival

and their honeymoon is the first molt of spiderlings.

Reproduction is made of death,

that’s the love life of a spider.

*

The girl made of carnations holds her boy of daisies.

She holds him in gentle grass-borne hands

and he lays on her with sensations of rolling fields.

With everyone around perpetuating the gene of libido,

she looks to Daisy and fears: “Is love made of children?”


171

*

“I love her so much but she saddens me,” Daisy would say.

“I find her with pollen floating on the wind,

her head hung low and lost in some hate of her design.

I feel her heart in mine and I tell her,

‘You are made of petals, not stamen and pollen.’”

*

And perhaps a second comfort he may offer her.

He says, “I don’t want to get pregnant; sounds like hell on earth.

But I would do that for you.”

And isn’t that the greatest profession of love?

To let himself hand over daisy chains,

with his pistil in his lover’s whim,

and promptly he’d be set to function,

if her lust saw it befit?

*

“But honey, I have no lust to function,”

she quickly said in turn.

“I want no remnant, nor next of kin.

The birds and bees and mantises and spiders

have no resemblance to you or I.

We are not the tailless whips nor the whiptail lizards

because we have love, and no need to prove it.

No arbitrary exercise of our parts defines us.

The others can feel the weight of an objective in romance.

Let us simply be. Just a bouquet of flowers.

When the tide brings spring and the spring brings showers,

we alone have been in love.”

172 Poetry

Abigail Maher

Grade 11


The Return of Spring

I was afraid of spring.

I was afraid of feeling the sun on my face while my cheeks

were still pink from the winter frost.

I was afraid of feeling the joy of life returning to the earth

when the sadness of a dark winter still lingered.

I was afraid of winter turning into spring.

I was afraid of healing.

I was afraid that the warmth of spring would make me

forget about the struggle brought by the cold, harsh winter.

But I am no longer afraid.

I am no longer afraid to smell the fresh flowers that bloom

with the start of spring.

I am no longer afraid because I know that the chill of winter

will always return.

I am no longer afraid because I know that the return of spring

does not diminish the pain brought by the winter.

I am no longer afraid because, despite the pain and sadness I may feel,

I am comforted by the knowledge that spring will always return.


173

174 Poetry

Sophia Monaco

Grade 11


Baby

Go home, honey.

Scream back at me.

Cough up corpse words that haven’t got a meaning.

When my cheeks sink, eyelids gut,

I want you to cry next to me.

Force two heaving hands down my collapsed throat;

become my struggled lungs.

Hike my ear to your ribs.

Stroke my cocoa-colored curls back and call me

your baby.

I’ll be better.

We will turn stars to goldfish.

Tangerine teardrops who dive between typhoons.

We will haul them past Pluto,

we will paint their scales passionfruit,

and we will lasso their glimmer in jars,

watch them crackle like fireflies through warm glass.

We will bake them into cream pies,

they’ll suck sweet as poached persimmons.

When old coffee burns carpeted stairs,

rickety toilets don’t flush,

cob-webbed furnace belches,

drafty window she sleeps below heaves,


175

dirt mucks beneath Mama’s bed,

tell me

where are you?

Show me

your tea recipe.

How you crush

chamomile loves,

simmer with cinnamon

and heart and hurt?

Spill till it

soothes the tongue.

176 Poetry

Katherine J. Hanna

Grade 9

Penn Trafford High School

Little Bird

A bird has fallen from the

nest,

Never once did it learn to

fly

His wings were much too

small

Now it lies, broken neck, to

die.

If only he heeded his mother’s

advice,

Took time to learn and

grow.

But alas, maybe at too great a

price,

We watch his eager blood

flow


177

2025 Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology

Written by Allegheny County high school students, grade 9–12

Compiled by Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh staff

2024 Cover Art Winner: Riya Verma

2025 Ralph Munn Creative Writing Anthology

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