ywp's anthology 8
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Anthology 8
Young Writers Project
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Acknowledgments
Thank you.
This book is the result of the focus, talent and energy of a handful of people:
Susan Reid, YWP’s publications director; Kathy Folley, former teacher and YWP boardmember; Helen Whybrow, mother and writer/editor; YWP staffers Doug DeMaio and
Sarah Gliech; YWP mentor Zoe Riell; and a host of hard-working high school youthswho helped read, select and edit all work. Queen City Printers did their usual impec-
cable job of printing.
This work came from youngwritersproject.org, which, last fall, was replaced with an
entirely new site. The old site (archive.youngwritersproject.org) had 300,000+ civil postsand comments — proving that young people are better than adults in being respectful.
Thank you for that. The new site — with some 2,100 users from all over — continues to
have a daily dose of refreshing creativity, candor and humor.
YWP has many partnerships to create incentives to write and/or publish bestwork. These include vpr.net, vtdigger.org and RETN educational television, and newspa-pers — Addison Independent, Brattleboro Reformer, Burlington Free Press, Charlotte News, The Citizen,Colchester Sun, Essex Reporter, Hinesburg Record, Journal Opinion, Milton Independent, Rutland
Herald, Shelburne News, St. Albans Messenger, Stowe Reporter, Times Argus, Valley News, Waterbury
Record and Williston Observer. Arts, education and civic partners include The Generator,Dartmouth College, Calvin Coolidge Foundation, Vermont Town Forests Centennial
Celebration Committee, 350.org, Committee on Temporary Shelter, Boys and Girls Club,
Vermont Stage Company, Washington County Youth Service Bureau, Flynn Center for
Performing Arts, Vermont Young Traditions, Vermont Refugee Resettlement Program
and many public libraries and schools. YWP is a 501(c)3 non-profit that depends on donations to keep going. Our small-
est was $2.10 from a woman in Nebraska whose heart was larger than her pocket
book. Our largest was from The Bay and Paul Foundations, which supports organiza-
tions throughout Vermont that elevate youth voice and agency, improve educationalopportunities and promote sound ecological practices. Jane’s Trust gave us a major
challenge grant — that we met.
Our other major donors include A.D. Henderson Foundation, Amy E. Tarrant
Foundation, Burlington Telecom, Champlain Investment Partners, Susan Cross, StaigeDavis, MGN Family Foundation, Main Street Landing, Michael Metz, National Life
Group, Physician’s Computer Company, R&R Foundation, Bill Roper, Turrell Fund,Vermont Arts Council, Vermont Business Roundtable, Vermont College of Fine Arts,
Vermont Community Foundation (Admiral Fund, Ann C. Livingston Fund, Saunders-
Wise Fund), Vermont Department of Libraries, Vermont Humanities Council, WindhamFoundation and several anonymous family foundations.
Thanks to the current YWP Board of Directors — Douglas Dickey (chair), Val Gard-
ner, Kathy Folley, Michael Mathon, Nicholas Morley, Jeff Baron, Kathy Yanulavich,
Colin Dodgson, Don Posner. And thanks to former board members Jessica Nordhaus, Jenn Karlson and Sarah Quayle for their services on the board as well.
Many donate time and advice: Barbara Ganley, a writer, photographer and digital
education expert; Lisa Ventriss, president of Vermont Business Roundtable; John Can-
ning, co-founder of Physician’s Computer Company. Also: Stephen Barraclough, Jensen
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Beach, Penny Bishop, Rich Boyers, Scott Campitelli , Denise Casey, Staige Davis, RajniiEddins, Steven Glazer, Thomas Greene, Reuben Jackson, Giovanna Jager, Michael Jager,
Stephen Kiernan, Kerrin McCadden, Michael Metz, Melinda Moulton, Bill Roper, BillSchubart, Sarah Stewart Taylor, Tim Volk and Karen Yacos.
And thanks to hundreds of teachers who, every day, get their kids to write. They
share our hope that the next generation will find the confidence, skills and voice to
shape their futures.
Geoffrey Gevalt
YWP founder and executive director
Writers Gabrielle Jarrett and Katherine Duan at a YWP workshop
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Introduction
This anthology is dedicated to our futures.
Inside these pages you will see the bright, interesting, funny, powerful ideas of
youths — their words and pictures, their worries, pain and confusion, their joy and
individuality. I guarantee you will walk away with warmth in your hearts. You will see
that these kids are thinking and feeling. They are paying attention. They have energyand intention and are taking creative risks. Their futures will be good. They will do
things. And, because they can write well, they will succeed.
What might be harder for you to see in these pages is the future of YWP.
For the first time, we have included work from youths outside Vermont. In 2015,we opened our teen writing community, youngwritersproject.org, to youths from anywhere.
We are developing partnerships with youth organizations around the U.S. to give the
site the diversity — and critical mass — needed to help youths share and question andsupport and argue and learn from each other. We believe that in a respectful space,
youths can learn a great deal from differences and can gain cultural and global literacy. The book also contains references to digital versions of the printed pieces: WakeUp, America is best understood as a video or performance piece. A Beautiful Death
and Photograph have entirely different impacts as digital stories — words with audio,
narration, music and video. This reflects two things:
YWP now has a monthly digital magazine, The Voice (thevoice.youngwritersproject.org), and publishes youth work on valued sites such as Medium (medium.com/
the-crow ), Cowbird (cowbird.com/ywp), as well as YouTube, Vimeo, Tumblr andmore. (We will continue to publish with our traditional Vermont media partners
— newspapers, radio, VtDigger and, soon, TV.)
not only gain strong skills in writing, but also in digital media, social media
navigation, verification of digital information and finding audience in the digitalworld.
Which brings us to the big change at YWP. Soon we will offer, for a modest
donation (or scholarship), live, interactive learning experiences taught by YWP staff
and experts from all over the world. These online XPs, as we call them, will allow
those youths who want more or need more to explore new ideas, hone their skills, getfeedback and guidance and produce something to be proud of. For school credit, too,
if they want.
For this future vision to happen, though, we need your help.
If you are a young writer, please encourage your mates to join youngwritersproject.
org; help them take creative risk, too.
And if you are an adult, tell these young people what you think of their ideas.
And, yes, here it comes, help YWP. We are a small nonprofit; we depend on your
generosity. If you think our work is important, if you think it matters that youths gainthe writing and digital skills needed to shape their future world, please help us help
them. Give what you can. Join our future vision.Cheers and keep writin’
gg
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In the beginning, there were trees.
That’s how it always begins, right?With the trees.
Conifer and deciduous,
oak or pine or maybe some birch.
In the beginning, there were trees.
But not anymore.
Hundreds of years ago, yes,
they were there.
I imagine crab apples lined the stream.
I hear the water babbling over smoothstones,
marshy grass, muddy feet of children,
the first generation to be born
into the New World.
I imagine when autumn’s blaze began,
the apples plopped into the brook on
occasion,
crafting a sweet, fermented smell.
The tall maples caught fire with color,
amber and brick-red.
The beech bled russet and gold.
The birch, as well.
And the pines would have stood strong,
unconcerned by the frosty mornings and
chilled breeze.
But that was ages ago.
I can only imagine the trees
by the now-brown trickle of water,
littered with Coke cansand Wal-Mart bags.
The trees are gone.
In the beginning, there were trees.
And at the end of Earth’s life,
the trees are gone.
In their place, is my favorite place:
Discounts like you wouldn’t believe;
prices so low, it makes you look twice!
Old Navy.
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Hey.
You probably didn’t thinkyou’d ever hear from me again.
Maybe you didn’t pick up
because you lost my number
and the one flashing on your phone
screen
is foreign to your eyes.
Remember when we used
to know those digits by heart?
I still do, I think.You probably don’t.
That’s okay.
I only called because I found that shirt —
the plaid one with the beige buttons —
that you left at my house
two summers ago.
It was under my bed
and it made me think about
how that’s a perfect representation of our
friendship,
swept under the bed,
into the dark, the dust,
the place where no one bothers to look
unless they’re searching
for something they’ve lost.
Sometimes things roll under
and you don’t bother fishing them out
because in the moment
you don’t need them.That’s what happened to us,
isn’t it?
We were kicked beneath the mattress
and neither of us bothered
to crawl back into the light.
I guess that’s what I’m doing:
trying to get back to that place.
But it was summer when we
disappeared,and the sun in the summer is brighter
than that of the winter,
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I knew I wouldn’t have you for long.
You were a carnival fishyet I bought you food and kept my eyes
on you.
When I tapped on the glass it scared you,
but I needed to know you were there.
Some days I would convince myself
you’d live forever.
Other days I stared painfully at the cold
glass,
watching your brightly colored scales
pass
until I was left crying, pretty positive you
were dying.
But the truth is
you were not the one to die first.
I was.
With every stabbing thought of you
floating to the surface,
a part of me died
and it fueled you in a way,promising you’d stay.
But my best parts went first and soon I
was not me,
and you swam away
with the parts of me you had taken in
your scales,
and I grabbed at you but you were
slippery
and your slime stuck to me,and now all the other fishes are harder
to catch.
and I’m not sure I recognize
the snow-blanketed garden
or the icicle-trimmed rooftops.
If this is still the same place I left,
please call back.Or even if you only want your shirt,
because I have that, too.
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We are all immigrants to this land,first, second, third, tenth,
everything in between and after;
we are all newcomers in one sense
(even if over a land bridge).
So who are we to close our doors?
In a country of immigrants, we propose
a ban — to shut our gates?
Retract our open arms?
Who are we to close our doors?
My first ancestors arrived
on these shores in 1640;
my last ancestor arrived in 1950.
What if our doors had been closed then?
Who are we to close our doors?
Don’t try to tell me that you don’t know
someone who came, or whose parents
came
from abroad, whom you couldn’t bear
to miss.
Don’t even try.
Who are we to close our doors?
We are a country built off the backs of
immigrants — legal or not —
we are built off their sweat and tears.
So many of us are immigrants,
if not quite directly.
Should we close our doors on us?
Who are we to close our doors?
These people you endeavor to keep out by shutting our doors,
they will still find a way in.
The only people you are inhibiting
are the ones we want to stay.
Who are we to close our doors?
By shutting ourselves off,
we are shutting off our future;
we are dishonoring our legacy;
we are depriving ourselves of our
greatest gift.
Who are we to do that?
Tell me this is far more complicated;
come on, do it.Tell me I don’t understand.
I know that’s what you want to say.
But on a fundamental level,
in the most basic of senses,
who are we to close our doors?
What have we become?
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It’s a touching sentiment
when you say that you two
will be together forever,
but it’s no more than empty words.
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I remember when I used to pray,
begging on my knees.It took too long to realize,
they never answer pleas.
I’ve given up on the saints,
angels heard on high.
All I care for now
is that I never die.
I’ve visited the devil,his hordes of hungry hands.
But the screams of tortured souls
roared across the land.
I took a peek at purgatory,
hoping for some peace.
But the silence was too loud
and I had to take my leave.
I turn my ear toward Earth,
home to the righteous fool.
I hear the meek will inherit here.
Good.
They’ll be easy to rule.
How can you promise your life to
another at such a young age?
Do you know the significance of your
actions?
Do you know the repercussions of yourwords?
How can you possibly know what the
future holds?
But maybe I’m wrong.
Maybe you will be.
with all the other hopefuls.
Maybe you shouldn’t listen to me.
What do I know? I’ve never dated —
I’ve never found anyone I would want
to date.
Maybe you should listen to me.
I avoid the heartbreak you cling onto,
and the drama that contaminates the air,
that chokes your lungs.
Why should I commit now?
Who says that my other half lives in the
same state as me,
let alone the same country?
I will not let myself become preoccupied
with seeking out love.
This is nothing against you, friend;
we live different lives.
But there are 7 billion people in the
world,
and I’ve only met a few.
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Tonight is screaming panic
and little sister’s labored breathing.
Mama’s hands smell like strong soap,
tired hands wired with tension.
Tonight is my blond hair hanging like
strings of discomfort.
Papa’s fear chokes my breath;
his voice swings from his throat intreacherous uncertainty.
Tonight is sirens shrieking louder than
the words I long to say.
Tonight is hope strung up to be hanged,
her mouth open in a last attempt to say
goodnight.
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If you want people to listen,
you have to be assertive.
To be assertive,
you have to show confidence.
But if you’re confident,
you might come off as prideful.
And if you are prideful,
people might see you as annoying.If you are annoying,
people won’t be nice to you.
When nobody is nice to you,
it’s hard to have confidence.
Without confidence,
you can’t be assertive,
and if you aren’t assertive,
nobody will listen.
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On the morning of my little brother’s seventh birthday, I woke him before dawn,
coaxed him from his bed, and took him out back to the woods to go flying rabbithunting. I dressed him in soft black clothes. He looked like a particularly small ninja.
I even let him wear my leather moccasins that I had bought at the gift shop last year.
I told him to be quiet. And sure enough, he was quiet. I handed him a burlap sack to
catch the flying rabbits in. Everyone knows that’s how you catch them, after all.
I pushed open the screen door. The air outside smelled like mud and moon and
mystery, and I smiled at his goofy, little face as he sucked it all into his lungs. And we
went into the woods to catch a flying rabbit.
We crept up to the knot of grass, he grinning all the way, and threw the burlap
sack over it. I pinched the top closed tightly so it couldn’t escape. I handed him the
sack. He took it eagerly in his red mitten and held it up to his face.
I held back a laugh at his silly, silly face.
Inside the bag, something bulged out a little. Then it moved, straining against the
burlap’s tight weave. My little brother dropped the bag, and from the fraying top burst
a feathery white wing. Then another. Then a little cotton ball of a tail went soaring past
the moon. And the bag was empty.
And a rabbit feather, soft and downy white, lay nestled on the ground.
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bedroom. It is a different world from that of my study, with a computer in the corner,
a TV in another and my bed in the center. The walls hold posters, not war hammers,
and there is an easel instead of a typewriter. I try to be stealthy as I ease around
the bed, sword held before me. Across the room from the door to my study is the
entrance to the tiny kitchen. It is darker even than the bedroom, and I wish I hadbrought my candle. I step through the threshold into the black kitchen. As quickly as
my old bones allow, I move to the light switch, slashing my sword at the dark. When
the lights flash on, I see no one. My small fridge and smaller oven press against one
wall, with the door to the bathroom across from them. The only thing out of place is
a shattered plate beside the tiny table. It had been the ceramic breaking that tore me
from my world of mystery and love.
The culprit cowers under my chair, his dark fur still on end. The crash of the plate
he had dislodged had scared the kitten as much as it had scared me. Smiling, I set my
blade on the table and kneel. Cooing and extending my wrinkled hands, I pick up my
shaking cat and carry him to his pillow in my room. He is asleep by the time I settle
into my own bed. I curse myself when I remember the candle flickering in the other
room. But I am too tired to get up and blow it out.
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i.
I have too many big feelings and toomany small words.
ii.
Sometimes they break out of my skin,
bleeding black ink on the paper.
iii.
Every time I write it hurts,
and I don’t know where these words
come from.
They are not my words
iv.
These words hurt others
more than they hurt me,
but painful words beg to be spoken
more than they can be shut up.
v.They tell me I am smart
but I do not know what I am doing right
because they tell me to learn from my
mistakes
and I cannot tell if I am even trying —
and that’s too easy to count as living.
vi.
I want to tell people things, everything,
and even though it is hard, I trybecause I do not try hard enough
everywhere else,
so at least I can try to be honest.
Even though I do not even want my
thoughts,
they are still mine, so I must keep them.
vii.
I feel too much. I feel too little.And it all comes out at once
like a messy flood of tears and sighs.
I do not like how I am not me.
I do not like how I am not trying to be
me.
I try to change but I like myself the wayI am,
at least I think so, but I am never sure.
viii.
I dream too hard, too far,
always chasing, never followed.
One thing leads to another and
I am left behind again in the dust,
watching others live better than I.
But my head will not come out of theclouds
and I wonder how other dreamers
do not trip every time they think bigger.
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I saw him at my windowpane.
I saw his fingerprint.
I saw his silver paintbrush leap
from glass to winter wind.
And over Old Man Winter’s storm
I saw him cast his eye,
and after storm in quiet slept,
he silently passed by.
He placed a stroke of silver paint
upon a willow tree
and painted plumes of purest white
like waves from frozen seas.
Upon my window every morn
he leaves a flower fair,
a frozen gift for all to seethat cold Jack Frost was there.
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I open my eyes and I am floating just a few feet off the ground. I’m on a smallwispy cloud, cool on the bottom of my feet. My arms and legs do exactly what my
brain tells them to do, no longer bound to the prison of a wheelchair.
Every dream begins with me reading the newspaper. It’s a bright morning with
a light mist floating off the river as the aromatic steam from my coffee fills the small,
sunlit room. Every dream has its own variation; today, I have two pieces of toast and
the news is in Swedish. But they’re only little variations; the rest is the same: in my
wheelchair, reading the paper on a warm, autumn morning. Then I look down and
notice I’m sitting in a normal chair, but my legs haven’t changed; they’re spindly and
weak.I wiggle my toes, then my ankles, then my legs and try to stand. I stand up,
wobbly at first, and then I’m floating. I can feel the cold floor underneath me, but I
never touch the ground. It’s a complex sensation, not any that one feels in real life, but
in a dream. But this life is my real life; my living self is just a dream.
When I wake up, the dream is fresh in my mind, but then it blows away like mist
in the morning, swept away with the rusty leaves on a crisp, cool breeze. My cloud is
gone from under my feet, but the feeling will never vanish from my memory.
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Do you spend hours worrying about your son?
Does your son often come home late? Party?
Do you often fear he is doing drugs? Drinking? Having sexual relations?
You need Good Son, the cure for everything that’s wrong with your child. You no
longer need to spend hours trying to change your son or wallow in disappointment
because Good Son will solve all of those problems you’ve been losing sleep over for a
small payment of $15.99 per month.
of his life negatively; however, after I got Good Son, my son once again became the
downhill. He became interested in art and was set on throwing away his athletic
scholarship to a prestigious college for art school. Then a neighbor told me about
Good Son. It really works, and now my son is right back on the track he’s always
Get Good Son today, because if you don’t tell them how to live their lives, who will?
*DISCLAIMER: Side effects may include long-term resentment once treatment stops, disconnection ofcontact later in life, major depression and/or anxiety, and a lack of self-identity and individualism in
patients.
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Starting at the trailhead —
roots, rocks galore,
many trees, all now dead,
littering the route.
Climbing higher, not much longer,
soon the sky is dark.
And each night, the wind grows stronger,but not the sun.
Trees are gone; rocks remain,
cold and barren, outcast,
many miles all the same.
Here you will see the last
summit.
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I said to him,
He told me to make my own adventures,
but wondered,
spending your whole life
searching for what is right in front of
And he grinned.
Ten years later, andhe followed through on his promise.
Life was never boring and
we were the brave explorers.
me
while I skipped ahead of him on the
path.
But when I paused,
he chided me gently for letting anyone
hold me back.
I said to him,
He quirked his eyebrow at me and
flung me into the air,
only to catch me again and
set me properly down once more.
And late at night when I would sigh
and look longingly at the stars,
he would drag me outsideand we would
climb trees for hours
and howl at the moon as if we were
madly drunk,
and maybe we were,
or maybe the rest of the world were
fools.
That’s what he’d tell me.
Sometimes when the bills stacked up too
high
and we had to downsize our house
again,
I’d look into his eyesand think,
maybe we’re wrong.
But staring at the brisk-walking, bleary-
eyed rich man
and his fur-lined, schnauzer-carrying
wife
whose highlight of the day was gingerly
sipping
lemon-infused water, reading the latest
exposés
and preening in the mirror,
I laughed and proudly strutted by in my
ripped jeans
and flowers in my hair.
I saw envy in his puppy eyes,
patted the dog on its lavender-
shampooed head
and said,
And I saw envy in his puppy eyes.
of saying.
And I meant it.
As high as the ups were,
it was no wonder that when I fell
I scraped my nose on the bottom.
He unwrapped my arms from aroundmy stomach,
put them around him instead.
I will sweep you up into my arms,
carry you until we reach the sky,
and if we are allowed to enter,
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He was a shabby dog. He walked on thin, bony legs, his golden hair matted to
his sides with mud and grime. Many years on the street had whittled him away toonly skin and bones, and when he lay in the back alleys, his face disguised by dirt and
twisted shadows from the wires and trees above, he would practically disappear. It was
as if he would sink into the ground, covered in a blanket of mud.
He was a perfect little boy. He would stand straight, raise his hand during class,
and never had a single smudge on his ironed clothing. The other mothers would
marvel at his immaculate hair and silence while they ate hors d’oeuvres and sipped
cocktails every Thursday afternoon. When they tired of their gossip and whispered
complaints about their husbands, they would chatter about their children, often
commenting loudly about how they wished they were more like him. It was on sucha day, when the ladies had gathered in the foyer of his home, already beginning to
prattle as they unloaded their coats and bags, that the young boy scampered out the
back door. Tired of their shallow compliments and constant glances, he had retreated
to the outdoors.
It was a somber day. Dark clouds blanketed the sky, and a furious wind darted
about, sending a paper bag flying down the street where it was eventually dropped
carelessly in a puddle. As the boy stopped to rub his cold arms, for he had forgotten
his jacket in his hurried attempt to escape, the wind swept his favorite model airplane
from his bony grasp. Startled, he began to chase after it, dodging street lamps and
puddles. The plane twirled and spun, just out of his grasp until it flipped over and
dipped into an alley. The boy darted in after it.
The alley was dark, and it took a second for his eyes to adjust to the poor light. A
dumpster was wedged against the wall, and trash and food scraps littered the ground
around it. His plane had landed in a dirty puddle, the left wing snapped completely in
half. He was about to abandon it and return home when he heard a scuffling behind
him. He crept further into the alley.
When he first saw the dog, he jumped back in surprise; however, as he looked
more closely at the figure lying curled on the ground, he noticed how thin the dog’s
legs were and the bits of gum and trash twisted in his hair. Slowly, the boy bent downand eased forward. The dog startled back, but then fell, his legs too thin to hold his
weight. He then gave in and allowed the boy to gather his grimy body into his arms
and carry him out of the protective cover of the alley.
The boy knew his mother would never approve of the dog, so he hid him under
a shed awning in the garden. He snuck into the house and returned with a basin of
water and some soap. At the first drop of warm water the dog relaxed. He allowed
himself to be scrubbed vigorously by the boy’s careful hands, and then, inside the
shed, the boy nestled him under an array of picnic blankets and a tablecloth.
The dog remained there for many weeks. Each morning the boy would arrive witha platter of food, sometimes meat from dinner the night before; other times, it would
be bread and leftover milk from his breakfast. He spread old crossword puzzles and
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Sunday comics over the floor of the shed, and that became the dog’s home. Soon, the
dog was able to walk again. The boy would wake early in the morning before the sun
rose and run with the dog beside him, the early morning light reflecting on his golden
fur.
It was a Thursday when his mother found out about the dog. One of hermeddlesome friends had decided to leave by the back door in the hopes of examining
his mother’s dahlias when she noticed dog tracks in the mud around the shed. The
boy’s attempts to hide the truth were futile. His mother descended on his secret with
claws out. She ordered him to remove the dog from her sights and banished him out
the back door with a sweep of her hand. It would be idle to defy his mother, so he
trudged to the shed and opened the door. He looked down at the dog’s golden hair
The dog simply rubbed against his pants affectionately, leaving bits of golden hair
behind. The boy led the dog down the street and began to walk. He realized that he
had nowhere to take him. He found himself wandering toward the alley where he had
first found the dog. As he walked, he noticed a small boy standing on the side of the
street. His pants were perfectly ironed and his shirt didn’t have a single smudge on
it. The other children seemed to be avoiding him, and the boy couldn’t blame them.
He looked boring and uptight, and then the boy realized why this other kid seemed
familiar. He looked like himself — before the dog, before his small, wonderful rebellion
that had hid in his shed and run with him in the mornings, and rubbed golden hair
on his pant legs. Gingerly, he led the dog over to the boy.
The boy looked up tentatively.
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-'+ )6C%*+
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I picked you a flower
in that big field north where thechestnuts grow
and the squirrels chatter without pause,
past the hills and the little stream
where you helped me build the
footbridge
when my hands barely covered the area
of your callused palms.
I can taste the air still, soft and sweet,
carrying the fragrance of the forest.
I strapped the short, rusted dagger to my
hip,
the one we found buried beside the elm
tree
when the cat killed the swallow
and we used our bare hands to dig a
hole in the earth.
I cried in your arms when I saw the
broken bird.
I pulled on my tall boots and I left for
the forest beyond the old barn
where the cat likes to nap in the hay,
where the sky is blue — so blue — and
gold, too.
The forest was bright. As I walked along
the winding trail,
birds sang high above in the ancienttrees.
Across the footbridge frigid water trickled
over gray stones, and I walked on, to the
top of the hill.
Under the blue sky, stretched a vast,
rolling field of red.
I ran down the hill, cut off the trail,
ducked under branches and leaped over
roots.I found the field, growing wild with red
flowers,
rolling like ocean waves as wind blew
across the land.
But as I ran ahead, my attention was
caught by something peculiar:
among the field of red grew a singlepurple stalk, a lupine.
.3+Q,
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Rowan Wilde Riggs’ autism and inability tospeak fuel his voice as a poet.
eat these colors the light fails to stay still.
up in the sky my colors blow in circles
with geese traveling south. tell them not
top of mountains. in the sky. poems tell
?3*$/0 -#6QC
5.&0$.+ ABA&)6/, R602&):
Trump has really funny hair
and his skin is like a tangerine.He hides behind a lot of lies,
a money-made smokescreen.
The things he says are racist,
sexist and obscure;
the only way he’d be all right
is if ignorance had a cure.
If he becomes the man in charge,
I will surely leave.The loss of a once great country
we will have to grieve.
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.+$F'+,9 .%DD$ !$6F+ $*0 1QQ3#"$/%"O
A&E&; L&)%.2/, ?&/0 A")0#.2%.+
a peach, dip it in pizza sauce, pickle it, slice it into five unequal sections, then feed the rest
was quickly cut off by David.
a dark brown suitcase with yellow metal clips. She put it on the table and placed her
hands on each clip, flipping them up one by one for dramatic effect.
(Disclaimer: This obviously does not work.)
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He shuffled across the stage to the mic. He could see the people in the audience
snickering at him, pointing out his messily done tie, his shoes that had been stainedfrom hours of work, his too-small coat. The paper he held was starting to get
crumpled by his clenched hands. When he reached the microphone, the audience
went silent. Even if they hated him, they knew better than to be disrespectful in front
of the teachers. He cleared his throat. Unclenched his hands. Brought out his paper.
Uncrumpled it. Read it.
A little bird looks from its nest
into the place beyond.
One day he’ll fly, leave for there,
to where he thought he belonged,
for the other birds inside his roost
were not very kind.
They made fun of him, you see,
always left him behind.
So he gathered up what little courage
lay beyond his feathers
and jumped, knowing he would fly
to a place that was better.
The children in the audience were silent, but he wasn’t done yet.
And as he pumped his little wings,
he rose into the air.
He flew away from his old nest
in happiness and cheer.
So when you think it’s hopeless
and nobody ever likes you,
just spread your wings, little bird,
and see what you can do.
He folded his paper and started to walk off the stage, but a swell rose from the
audience and erupted in the form of the loudest cheer ever uttered in that auditorium.
The students surrounded him, asking him where he had learned to write like that,
what had inspired him, and many other questions. He just smiled through all of them.
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-'%, ;%// 23" B+ $ )3M+.3+Q
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This will not be a love poem.The mud of humanity has sucked me
in and dragged me down and I must
pretend,
for just a moment,
that I am part of the earth. I must
pretend, for just a moment,
that my mind does not redirect to you
every time I see
line by a passing car
out the window of a grungy pick-up
truck
the sky
motorcycle
This will not be a love poem.
I must pretend, for just a moment, that
the only things I care for are
road, cooling my soles
knees when I venture off the road
as I step into the river
over and over as the wind mingles
with it
This will not be a love poem.
I must hope, for just a moment, that
what I have
in this moment is all that I need in order
to live
this moment. Life is as it should be. Imust believe, for just a moment,
that I state my truth when I say
be exactly what another longs to hear
the feet of our love
happen to me
This will not be a love poem.
I must pretend, for just a moment, that
beauty will not always make me think
of you.
This has not been a love poem.
76#%36,
L&) 1+.7"+H, !0J D2
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Never forget this moment, my child, the
old man said.Never forget feeling young and
weightless, never caring, and always
moving.
Never forget being so small, but feeling
so big,
and seeing everything in this world in its
purest form.
Always remember to dance in the sun
and sing in the rain.Never lose that sense of wonder, that
feeling that keeps you searching and
prowling through the darkness.
Never forget to love; never forget that
you are loved.
Never forget this, my child, because if
you do,
the world will crumble at your feet, and
you’ll never look up.
Be kind; give your hand to the underdog
even if no one else does.
-6Q5/%*&
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It is hard believing
that a river is falling
in the most peaceful of ways,
droplets of water
tripping over each other,
falling miles, but in a matter of days.
Laugh as if all the sound has been locked
away
and you’re trying desperately to reach it.
Never forget these things, little one;
always hold on.Of course, I am just an old man telling
you stories that fill your head
and cloud your thoughts.
But try to remember, little one, because
someday you will feel like you are falling,
and you will think that nothing can stop
you.
But if you remember all these things,
you will feel like you are flying.
!"#$%& (&))%**&+", -./0 12"3.+
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LO ;%*"+# -$/+
9&:6;& 5&N%, 86+2%)70")
It was our first winter in Vermont. In fact, it was our first winter ever. My family
and I had come from Kenya, Africa.
My older brother and I were getting ready to go to school. I was dressed head to
toe with many layers of clothing. I was very hot; I wondered what all this clothing
was for.
My mother told my brother to put on his gloves. He refused.
My mother persisted, but there was no changing his mind, and so we started our
first winter adventure. The walk to the school from home was not far. As soon as I
stepped outside, I could feel the cold air rush at me. I looked back at my brother and
he had his hands in his jacket pockets. Other than that, he looked fine.
We had one more street to cross when I heard my brother scream out loud. His
hands were pink, but not any kind of pink I’d ever seen. There were tears rushing
down his face.
My mother reached in her pocket and took out his gloves. He eagerly took them
and put them on. Still, the tears were running down his face.
To this day, my brother always wears gloves on a cold, winter day.
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and my mind started to quiet. I was running out of time, but I wasn’t dead yet. I had
time, I told myself, time to write the story that would either save my life or sign my
death sentence.
I sat on the edge of my seat, my knees bouncing up and down, my pencil gripped
tightly in my hand. As I put it to paper, I resigned myself to write as I had neverwritten before, with a determination like no other. The pencil scratched across the
paper, making what might be my final mark on the world, and I just kept praying the
)33H
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Here I am,
standing alone in a crowded hallway,
craning my neck to see
above the many heads.
And there you are
at the center of it all.
I can hear you
even from here,
talking and laughing
with the giant group
clustered around you,
blocking you from sight
so that the only ones
who can recognize you
know you well —
or used to, anyway.
I push my way through
the loud throngs of people
and pass right intoyour line of vision.
You do not hesitate.
Your face does not change.
Your noisy chattering does not miss a
beat.
You turn away as soon
as you get a glimpse of me.
You look,
but do not see.
I see.
I see your change,
who you used to be,
who you are now.
I remember
when we ran
and talked
and laughed,
no matter whatanyone else thought.
You look.
You look at someone
who has taken too long
to grow up.
You look at someone
who is not good enough
for you.
You look at someoneyou will never acknowledge
you miss.
You look,
but do not see.
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=#$5
D2%H& !B$).%:.+, R602&):
I think it’s kind of rude to swap my occupied sign to lonely without my
permission. I wrote about you like you were a present but now my pen knows you asa memory.
If mud sliding and sports-bra wearing were metaphors for anything, it would
be home. And if home was a metaphor for anything, it would probably feel like the
farthest island away from your ego.
I want to stay up all night with slam poets and Emily Dickinson writing poetry; I
want to watch the stars’ constellations and the sun rise so it can get a nice view of the
world; I want to sing lullabies to what we never put down so it sounds asleep.
I no longer listen to songs and pretend you’re singing them to me.
You’re hundreds of morning runs away, and now I’m ready to make it thousands. When you told me safety is a social construct, I pictured you with your arms out
anyway. Now I just think of you walking away.
You made everything a construction project that was built way too quickly with
no base; lackadaisical causes collapse.
BC you were a person; AD you were a letter; now you’re ... beginning to seem like
something to write about. I feel like you only left for a poem in your name so you
could feel like you left something.
You made me the Brown-Eyed Girl, 17 going on 12, when you ran out. I pictured
you with your arms out and fell into my own. I wrote to you as if you were my diary.
We all know diaries don’t write back.
The tally of hours in my running log could be used to find you again, but I am
done searching. I felt like we were living out metaphors until they didn’t make sense
and you smacked me in the head with logic. If I thought love was a washing machine
cycle, then you pulled me out and let me air-dry in the desert.
I don’t know much about zodiac signs, but I know we’re both cancer-ous. I
thought one of us could be the crab shell and the other its guts, but being crabby
doesn’t work when we can’t even walk forward and my shell is too soft for you
anyway.
I used to look at the mountains. They reminded me of your chest spread out,comfortable, yet smug. I saw your muscular hands reaching over the clouds, one finger
at a time; the stars were my hair.
Now I look at the mountains and see the world around me. You are not as big as I
thought you were.
I wanted you to ask about my idiosyncrasies and point out my flaws like they
were daydreams. I wanted you to see me shivering, wrap your sky around me and ask
about my poetry. But I wanted a dream. And you are not a dream. You are a cloudy sky that Ihaven’t seen in awhile.
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./+$,+9 7$"'+#
5&))&$ A&/"), L..+%)7, =L
Do you remember that time
you said you’d call?
You said you wanted to talk.
Every bone in my body told me no,
but I needed to know.
Hey, Father, why didn’t you call?
All my friends know their own.
Do you know what it’s liketo have a missing part of you?
But it’s always a no-go.
Mother refuses to talk about you.
When she does, she tries to paint a pretty
picture.
But all you do is destroy.
Don’t you see?
Father, you can’t let me be.
Please, I beg of you.
I need to know what I’ve missed.
I need to know who you are.
I hope you understand.
I have this one demand. It hurts not knowing what you’re like.
Don’t you get it?
Not knowing is destroying me.
Please, I beg of you.
You have your cue.
Please, father of mine.
Please, I have to know.
Why won’t you call?
Why did you leave me alone?
Just pick up your phone.
And while I have a stepfather, it’s not the
same.
My own flesh and blood wishes to have
nothing to do with me.
Why must you hurt me?I’m your daughter.
But to you, I’m just a blur.
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?+$# TCC+#F/$,,Q+*
8+&:%. 5&++%/, 8.22"P/ 9&22/
Dear Upperclassmen across the Lunch Room,
Yes, I see you looking at me. No, I don’t appreciate the sexual gestures made
toward me or my tablemates. Yes, I realize that I am the only girl at this table of boys,
and yes, these are my friends.
Your intentions are childish, and if you could see yourselves, I believe you would
be utterly embarrassed. I might be younger than you, but I have the mindset that you
should have, and the dignity to walk by you while you make noises and throw candy
hearts at my friends and me. Not only has this incident shown your lack of etiquette,
but I am appalled that when someone is clearly in need of assistance, whether they
have special needs or are simply struggling with books, you continue to show outrightrude behavior. Even I, the dumb, ignorant, freshman girl, can see that your behavior is
ridiculous, and you look idiotic.
I can only conclude that you are jealous that I have eight football, basketball and
baseball players as friends, and your jealousy only provokes your need to fantasize
that I am in a relationship with all of them. I admire your imaginations, but if you
choose to act it out, please join Glee Club. The cafeteria is not a stage.
Yours truly,
The Dumb Freshman across the Room
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=3*$"6/$"%3*,
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prize you must report to the nearest high school immediately. Upon your arrival youwill encounter
We suggest you see a psychologist to help you cope with the heightening levels
of happiness you’ll experience here. High school is the perfect place to forget about all
your problems — because all you will be able to think about is homework. For the ultimate high school experience, we encourage you to spend your entire
weekends at home studying. After you complete high school, you might find yourself
craving more work. If you do find yourself in this situation, be sure to head to the
nearest college as soon as possible.
Congratulations again, and we look forward to watching you suffer. If you have
any questions, please visit www.schoolisreallyfun.com.
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>6"I.&$ 4.22.$.+, ?//.E M6)B0%")
Dancing tiptoed along eerie streets,
the sky charcoal
like the asphalt beneath our
feet.
Step forward to the beat,
the pulse of our hearts,our hearts to the beat of the ballad
and our fingertips raised up to
heaven.
Floating on the night,
its shoulders carrying us away,
away from time that ticks without
a moment’s glance at its
victim.
We are the victims,
the misfits who accept the insufferable
reality that
the stopwatch will breakand our fingertips will descend into the
earth.
That our secrets will dissipate,
our smiles erased.
But we don’t ponder the
inevitable.
Instead, we wake the restless dreamers
with loud thumping feet.
We laugh at lullabies,
removing our earbuds so the world can
hear our anthems.
We walk with the lights out,
our footsteps submerged in darkness.
We shout with voices that echo the
silence
and we lose our minds,escape our bodily prisons for a
moment.
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(Kiran) The first day of the 10th grade was my first experience with the hijab in public.
I was excited to wear it. I wanted to wear it — and was ready to wear it — if it wasn’t
for the small fact that I was terrified to wear it. This small piece of fabric had the ability
to change my life. At that moment I was signing a contract that changed me from
Kiran Waqar, typical teen, to Kiran Waqar, an ambassador for all 1.6 billion Muslims.
(Balkisa) I remember the woman crossing the street. She saw the scarf wrapped around
my head and decided I was dangerous. I saw her look of disdain as she came near, as
if the surface I walked on was too hot and would scorch her if she came any closer.
Was going toward the road and almost being hit by a car worth it?
(Lena) His eyes were filled with anger and hatred, but his lips spoke those emotions. I
(Hawa) I arrived the first day of school as the first and only Muslim girl that wore
the hijab. I could feel everyone’s stares, razor sharp, their lips moving to form the
questions they would soon ask me. Beads of sweat rolled down my face; pain shot up
in my chest; time was taking its time; my embarrassment was becoming more visible. I
just wanted to curl up in a corner.
They terrorize Muslims and then blame the victim.
Our hurting is silent; we search for the voice to say
Islam is peace, stop being so ignorant, please listen.
March 21, 2003
Fireworks were thrown into a Palestinian family’s van in Illinois.
Flames built up, sliding right past their tires and blowing up in front of their faces.
They just wanted to get home.
The perpetrator, Eric Nix, was trying to avenge the actions of 9/11.
But what can be gained from another’s man’s loss?
April 6, 2004
A woman’s hijab is ripped off; she is verbally assaulted.
She’s dangerous, right? She deserves this, right?
Wait, wait, wait. Who made it OK for my body to become your Barbie doll?
For my body to be yours to decorate and undress?
Who made you God? Who gave you the power to assume and judge?
It’s my body, right? Women should be able to do what they want, right?
So if you can show, why can’t we conceal?
August 6, 2007
A chemical bomb is tossed from a car at a mosque in Glendale, Arizona.The bomb almost hits two Muslim Americans, its force zipping through the air like a
tornado.
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Just imagine what could have happened.
Two mothers could have lost their sons.
Two men could have lost their lives, their past, their future.
But wait, America, you don’t care about our protection
because you are trying to protect yourselves from us.
August 24, 2010
A taxi driver in New York City picks up Michael Enright, his first passenger of the day,
not knowing what is to come.
It’s an average ride until the driver hears the words ‘Muslim’ uttered by the man in
back.
Michael Enright slashes the driver’s face, not once, not even just twice.
What is the price to pay for the freedom of your rights?
What happened to our freedom of religion?
The one promised to you, and you, and you?
And me? What about me?
February 10, 2010
In Tennessee, imagine you are Muslim at your house of prayer, seeing a cross and the
Go home, they said? Go home where?
The hospital where I was born?
The city where I was raised?
The office where I work?We aren’t just Muslims. We’re American Muslims. Equal in every way.
February 4, 2011
Bradley Kent Strott stabs a 57-year-old Muslim man in Florida.
So what was his crime? What did he do?
He simply said he was a Muslim.
But you know what they say: Not all Muslims are terrorists, but all terrorists are
Muslims.
What happened to our freedom of expression? What happened to our rights?
These are the things we see, hear and experience daily.
But did you know of the taxi driver, or what about the Palestinian family?
Now you’ve heard about these
hidden crimes
unheard voices
terror on Muslims
knives and bombs
restless souls
guns and bullet holes.
Wake up, America, the enemy has always been here.
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I3O
8.) A&C/H;, 1+&): G/2.
Waking up on a tired day,
not moving, just sitting.To have no duties, no arduous ordeals
to deal with; that is joy.
Making a joke, seeing others
smile, not just to be nice, or to indulge,
but because they’re actually amused.
You smile too; that is joy.
Stroking a dog or cat, oranimal of any size, shape, type,
that loves you. Not having them
run, tense, fear; that is joy.
own effort, work and patience,
to respond in kind; that is joy.
Dancing, singing, loving,
with your own child,
seeing their sunlight smile; that is joy.
)+$M%*&
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Clink of a coin
palms pressed in prayer
strong sweet myrrh
billows of smoke swelling and spiraling
flames flicker and flit about
soles of my feet naked, kiss gravel
— history is etched on this stone.
Hushed help
pitiful pleasand the silent stupor
of careful meditation.
Steady hums steal
my soul; the yellow dusty words
of a language long buried beneath the
soil,
twisting out of tongues.
Incense sticks infatuate lungs
flowers blossom on cold concrete slabs
as tender promises tie themselves
on gnarled branches,
the frail white thread clinging onto my
wrist,
the loose golden orange robes ebbing
and flowing
like the liquid fire of the sun.
?++# %* P+$0/%&'",
?;%2H ("22%)/, Q.&B$&;
What if we’re wrong
about deer in headlights?What if they don’t freeze because of the
light
or because they’re too dumb
to move out of oncoming traffic?
What if, just maybe,
they want you to hit them?
Does anyone ask if, for that single second
in which they realizethat they are facing death,
they are taking stock,
thinking about life,
about struggle and loss and heartbreak
and triumph and joy,
about death and suffering and pain and
how hard it can be
just to get through one day,
about the impact, the fall, the crash,
the rattle of the last breath escaping their
lungs,
about the peace that would settle over
the scene
when their eyes closed for the
very
last
time?
The lights shine brightly in their eyes andilluminate
a lifetime of fighting for a happy ending
that just might not exist.
The reflection off the pavement and
those never-ending lines
gets brighter and brighter.
The engine’s purr,
maybe the jarring screech of a horn or
the awful grinding of brakescomes upon them all too fast,
and yet still not fast enough to make the
decision for them.
And then, what if they think, no one has
to see me jump —but what if I just don’t move out of the
way?
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LO =$*F+#
A&:.2%). M"$)/"), R&):"2#$
I was 3 years old and I did not know what was happening. One day I started to
cough and have a little fever. I had no energy. I was sick for a week. My mom tookme to the doctor and I was poked and prodded. The next week again, I was poked,
prodded and tested. Finally, I was put in a bed with white sheets and a Dora picture
in the window. Soon I had a full day’s worth of procedures: blood draws, lumbar
punctures and chemotherapy. It hurt, but my family was there to help and guide me.
My dad slept on the floor and my mom on the couch. I missed the farm and
sitting on Sal, the big horse. Horses had been a lifesaver for me. I was always in the
barn with them, riding and helping my dad care for them. I wanted to run and smell
the crisp air and the hay and dust of the barn. I wanted to be on the swing and feel
the wind in my hair. I wished I could fly — fly home.Soon I was able to see all my family. I got my favorite food and my family gave
me foot and back scratches. My parents stayed by my side the whole time. Every day,
there was some kind of test or poke, IVs and purple arms, watching Dora all day. It
hurt. When I got some energy, I was able to play. My parents would pull me in a red
energy to go home. I wanted to stay with the horses 24/7, but I still did not have a
lot of energy. I got to see Sal and smell the barn again and swing and feel as if I were
flying to another planet. I would wake up in the middle of the night craving food.
After almost two years of having cancer, my family and I moved to a small town
in Vermont. I started a new life. When I had enough strength, I went to school. I was
nervous that people would make fun of me. I had very little hair and a scarred past. I
was scared; I thought people would not like me. But I was also a little excited to meet
kids my age. My mom told me to be me and have fun. When I got to school, I became
friends with Reagan and Abby. They were so nice and didn’t judge me. My whole class
was open to me, and my teacher was also very kind and always helped me when
people were mean.
For the next three years, I was in and out of the hospital. I became great friends
with my teacher, and some days I did not want to leave school. Those three years were
a blur. I grew up and on my sixth birthday, I was done with my treatments. I had ahuge party, and I was so thankful I had survived. Some can’t say that.
There were ups and downs, hurts and sorrows, and many tears. My family pulled
through for me, and I think now I have a stronger bond with all of them. I still go to
check-ups, and my past is not gone. When people ask if I wished I had not had cancer,
I still say yes, but it has pulled my family and friends closer than anything else I could
think of. Through my experiences, I have also become closer with horses, and I am
insanely in love with them to this day. I am so thankful I’m still alive, and my past has
helped me grow stronger.
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!6QQ+#
R6
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4 ?$O %* "'+ )%#0%*$#O L%,
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!36/,+$#F'
D3& 4.):+%BC, -&%0/>%.2:
To look upon you
is to be found within myself.
B6*H B+0 ?%/+QQ$
D))&2%/. 4%):/0.:0, !$.2
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;%,'+,
?;;& 8&+C.+, 86+2%)70")
how big it is and all. It just stretches in every direction, and I can see the whole great
shaking his head.
star that seemed to be, somehow, watching over me with an orange glow, warmer and
gentler than that of the other stars.
I made a silent wish on that star, an if-only wish that felt surer and stronger than
ever as I felt it fly from me up to the dark, enormous sky. A firefly darted in front of
my star, led my eyes away from it and made me giggle as it landed in the grass next to
my hand and lit up.
I heard a rustle in the rushes beside the pond and closed my eyes, imagining a
proud mama duck nestling into her soft feather bed with her little ones all around her. I rested my head on the soft pillow of grass behind me with a contented sigh and
4.3%) 56&)7, 86+2%)70")
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G%0%*& ?#+$Q,
=..2%. A&+C2.H, 86+2%)70")
Dreams are the wild stallions of our lives,
flying betweenstrength
and unreliability,
hard to find,
hard to tame,
hard to let go.
Every walker who stays clinging
to the earth
needs to
taste the wind,grab hold of
adventure’s mane
and see where he takes you.
Stop trudging
through endless streams
when you could be
galloping free.
Yet only fools
refuse to choose a steed carefully,
for hope may take you
beyond
where you wish to go
or throw you into the mud
and grow bruises beneath your skin.
We mustn’t pack our hearts away
where they can be
carried off
in a split second of
indecision.A foal
fed faith
will grow strong
even through everyone’s
doubts.
A yearling
who longs to be elsewhere
can’t ever be
fully broken in.
An old mare
who can’t hold any more
whippings
or pull your uncertainties
any furtherdeserves to rest.
J3K )+" L+K 1 X*+VK ;'$" 1"+:
Go. Go faster and stronger.
I can do better, and I will.
Compete with myself, not the world.
Make sure it’s finished, not done.
Let me. Let me tell you at 4 years old that
I am right and you are wrong.
the next two years, but I won’t either.
Also, I will never do this math, and you
I knew. I knew when my mom was sick
and she never had to ask me when her
head needed shaving.
Here is that cup of tea you were wishing
for.
Yes, I know what you need.
What if? What if it’s not what they
wanted?And it doesn’t work out?
What if you leave me,
and the engine of that plane fails,
and I never see you again?
Go, let me, I knew. But what if?
Or what if I let go?
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!%"!H23&) -%22%&;/, A%::2./.E
Someone touches my back.
The click of high-heeled shoes against
the ground
resonates through my bones.
A woman floats upon the ghosts
stacked up past the sky.
There is a man who smokes a pipewho must have died years ago
sitting on a construction worker
who sits on a little girl with a lollipop.
There are sewage men,
lovers and romantics,
poets and chefs,
acrobats and con artists
sitting, stacked up
one on top of another.A man in an overcoat
who will be shot in 36 days
P%00+* L+,,$&+
A&+H&; G/&*&:., A")0#.2%.+
I create castles of glory and dragons of
might,
murders and mystery within the
twilight.
I hold the fate of millions of lives;
I am the Queen of a g r eat beehive.Without t he right leadership my
kingdom will fall,
and my many, many r eaders will have
me killed before nightfall.
My words are not only to tell a story,
but to caress my emotions as a mental
laboratory.
I don’t favor the writing that is cold and
lifeless.The ones that make you feel from your
heart are p
I wr ite f or the thrill of elves, aliens, and
action,
colorf ul worlds of love and sad
I write for worlds of expression.
This is why I write; why do you?
(Can you find the message in this piece?)
B33H,9 LO )3M+
Q&%7. L%!0.>&)", V%.))&, D6/0+%&
One day,
someone asked me,
And I replied,
I am married to
magical wizards, princesses with long
hair,
and my favorite,the blushing pink fairies dancing around
my pillows,
floral wreaths perched on their heads.
We will never part.
My books
sits with a newspaper next to the
woman.
The woman gets up, and the dead man
leans against her ghost.
In five minutes that man will get up,moved by some unknown purpose,
and his ghost will lean on the woman’s
ghost,
who will be sat upon by the next lonely,
tired stranger,
and the next.
I just sit.
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1"R, ;'$" 1 )+
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I write to make up for lost time.
I write to sweep out the pain and
unhappiness
that has gathered in my corners.
I write to allow others to see me,
to allow others to know me,
to allow others to understand me.
I write to apologize to the little girl I once
was,
who convinced herself she liked to write
from the perspective of a boy
so that she could describe womenwith the openness of the creative mind.
I write to free that child from her bonds
and allow her to speak through my
fingers,
describing her love for other females
as I am capable of doing.
I write in the hopes that
some other little girl
will see my words and find herconfidence,
keep the original pronouns in her love
poems,
unlike I did,
unlike so many of us have.
X D3& 4.):+%BC, -&%0/>%.2:
With writing, you lay out moments youthought were worth sharing and let them
hang, waiting to be beaten or covered
up, or worse, ignored. It is difficult for
people to misinterpret words. Which is
why writers have one of the riskiest jobs,
giving things that are so easily sorted,
giving things and depending on others
to tell them whether they are worth
anything.
X =..2%. A&+C2.H, 86+2%)70")
;PS ;G1-U@
Sometimes
our words run faster than the beat of
our drums.
They start to fly
and we can’t keep up
with our own minds,
the words racing
in circles and circles and circles.
So we write them down,
try to snatch them with
nets of black inkbefore they flutter
away.
(Most of them escape
and it’s mere chance
which ones we can catch.)
But sometimes
the ink flows faster than the stream
of our thoughtsand it pulls out words,
a never-ending strand of flowing words,
words we hadn’t even thought to think,
arranged into sentences we hadn’t ever
thought
we could craft.
Our thoughts are a river of words
and our rivers grow longer
when we write.
And when we have finished,
we share our words
to allow people to swim.
X 1+.0& 5&+:HFA%00.22, ?&/0 A%::2.
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-U)) $ !->GS %* Y ;>G?!
The year’s best from youngwritersproject.org/sixword —
and the online usernames of the authors:
The good old days are now.
(B""C
Thoughts unspoken will clutter the mind.
N"/%.P%)0.+
Even sweet tea burns your tongue.
D))&5
So I just went with it.
7+&B.J:
Dry your eyes; you’ll see better.
I&I&I.&)).
The pumpkin exploded. Everything is fine.
KH2")7YY
Her horse and happiness, sold together.
/&+&$/0.3.)/ZZZ
The road diverged; I turned around.
>2"":.:[26)7/
Sometimes life just doesn’t feel right.
5&))&$ !
I’ll forever ask why you left.
Q+":%7%"6/ L+&B"
The woods, once quiet, a battlefield.
9+&)B./4
It’s like you can’t see me.
;&:%/")DJ
I goof off. Every. Single. Day.
M62%.00.:
Sanity is hard in our world.
4%0C&0
A head-on collision, five white crosses
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Writers and Artists
Abdikadir, Balkisa .......................................... 49
Adam, Hawa .................................................. 49
Aiken, Kaleb .................................................. 34
Artt, Trajan ..................................................... 12
Bailly-Hall, Isidora ............................................ 9
Barker, Emma ................................................ 58
Beauchemin, Brandon ................................... 47
Beliveau, Jessica ........................................... 21
Bolding, Christian ............................................ 6
Brooks, Stephanie ........................................ 19
Bundock, Erin ........................................... 8, 30
Canney, Amelia ............................................ 31
Cannizzaro, Sophia .............................. 2, 32, 33
Cohen, Madi ............................................ 27, 41Collins, Emily ................................................. 53
Connolly, Kate ......................................... 29, 43
Contreras-Montesano, Alexandra ..................... 9
Cook, Claire ................................................... 59
Cudney, Zoe ................................................. 26
Daniels, Maxam ............................................ 29
Derksen, Grace ............................................. 17
Diamondstone, Ruby ..................................... 55
Dillon, Nora .................................................... 33
DiStefano, Paige ............................................ 60
Duan, Katherine ............................................. 16Dudley, Caleb ................................... 11, 19, 22
Farrell-Starr, Ella ............................................. 20
Forbes, Wren ................................................. 35
Foster, Emily .................................................. 40
Frasure, Hannah ............................................ 21
Freedner, Hannah .......................................... 28
Ginawi, Lena .................................................. 49
Glueck, Lucy ................................................. 13
Goodman, Fiona .............................................. 6
Gregory, Dan ................................................. 32
Haji, Faduma ................................................. 34
Hardy-Mittell, Greta ........................................ 62
Harris, Bradie ................................................. 42
Heffernan, Briggs ........................................... 14
Huang, Kevin ...............4, 13, 17, 18, 20, 23, 58,
back cover
Isham, Luna ................................................... 22
James, Katie ................................................. 24
Johnson, Madeline......................................... 54
Kelleher, Leah ................................................ 47
Kendrick, Ava .......................................... 57, 62
Kindstedt, Annalise ........................................ 57
Lashway, Erin ................................................ 25
Lu, Grace ...................................................... 55
Macauley, Catie ............................................. 37
Maksym, Ben ................................................ 52
Malone, Ben .................................................. 10
Maquera, Mingo ............................................ 23
Markley, Neelie................................... 42, 59, 62
Martell, Elizabeth............................................ 46
Mason, Hannah ............................................. 41
McArtor, Kayla ............................................... 38McLean, Avery ............................................... 11
McManus, Heather ........................................ 28
Mead, Olivia ..................................................... 7
Moreman, Lydia ............................................. 10
Mundell-Wood, Wells ..................................... 56
O’Kelly, Madison ............................................ 52
Parsons, Henry ............................................. 15
Pryer, Cassidy ................................................ 18
Reed, Madeline ....................................... 30, 48
Richard, Francesca ........................................ 48
Riggs, Rowan Wilde....................................... 28Rivers, Mackenzie .......................................... 46
Sarafzade, Maryam Isabel .............................. 60
Sayamouangkhua, Dylan ......................... 44, 45
Schneider, Aliya ............................................. 39
Smith, Megan ................................................ 16
Staats, Ella ...................................................... 7
Stevens, Sarah .............................................. 43
Storck, Bryan ....................................front cover
Tucker, William ............................................... 12
Tucker, Nicole ............................................... 11
Uiterwyk, Reilly .............................................. 21
Vivanco, Isabelle ............................................ 44
Waqar, Kiran ................................................. 49
Wijesinghe, Shenali ..................... 53, back cover
Williams, Sylvan ............................................. 60
Wonsavage, Max ........................................... 33
Young, Hannah .............................................. 36
Zubarik, Erin .................................................. 61
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