ywp anthology 2

8/8/2019 YWP Anthology 2

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Acknowledgments

Young Writers Project is made possible by hundreds of people and organizationswho have donated money, time, expertise and helping hands. From students and teachers

to business leaders and Web designers, from professional writers and arts organizations toeducational experts and foundations. So many people make this project possible.Each week, YWP publishes great student writing in nine newspapers: St. Albans Mes-

senger, Essex Reporter, Colchester Sun, Burlington Free Press, Times Argus, Addison Independent, Rutland Herald, The Valley News and Brattleboro Reformer. Thanks to each of those papers fortheir generosity in affirming students ideas, opinions and creativity.

Special thanks to John Canning, YWP Board Chairman and Physicians ComputerCompany founder for whom the phrase I cant doesnt exist; and vice chairman StephenKiernan whose enthusiasm moves mountains and organizations to give. Other Boardmembers past and present: Rick Machanic, Alysia Perkinson, Marc and Dana vanderHey-den, Douglas Beagley, Bob Stevens, Dave Demers, Luanne Cantor, Suzanne Beste, LynneBond, Rachel Morton, Tom Carlson, Bobbe Pennington, Hasse Halley and Barbara Ganleywho understood how to push our ideas further.

Also thanks to Melanie Roberts who designed our ubiquitous logo; attorneys JoeSano and Serge Bechade of Prince Lobel Glovsky & Tye and CPA Tom Telling whodonated so freely of their expertise in helping the nonprofit get started. Writers such asChris Bohjalian, Philip Baruth, Rusty DeWees, Howard Mosher and Doug Wilhelm, toname a few, saw method to our madness of nurturing new writers. Jeff Stone of Bear-Code in Montpelier has killed many late night hours developing new fixes for our manyWeb sites.

Many businesses and foundations have shown faith in our ideas: The Vermont Business Roundtable and more than 50 of its members were our founding support-ers. Major contributors are and have been: A.D. Henderson Foundation, Bay and PaulFoundations, Admiral Nelson Foundation, Amy Tarrant Foundation, Windham Founda-tion, The Metz Family Foundation, Richard & Deborah Tarrant Foundation, Susan Cross,Northfield Savings Bank, KeyBank and PCC. Hundreds of individuals have donatedthrough the online knitting service run by Kathleen Bruce of Williston. A special nod toFairPoint Communications which supported this anthology, financed seven Schools Proj-ect sites and helped us conduct a study of our work.

Thanks to special project partners: Vermont Stage Company, Vermont SymphonyOrchestra, Vermont Midi Project, Vermont Youth Orchestra, Lake Champlain Cham-

ber Music Festival, Burlington City Arts, Lake Champlain Basin Program, Bookstock, St.Albans Cooperative, Cabot Cheese, Upward Bound/UVM and the Council on VermontsFuture.

Special appreciation to YWPs Eva DeVries, our Webmaster on parental hiatus, andto Lee McIsaac who does so much in the shadows; without her this project would not,could not have done so much so quickly. Lee, YWP Board Member Kathy Folley anduber-intern Kate Fallone were instrumental in making final selections for this book froma monstrous 8,000 submissions. And, at the end, Andrea Grays impeccable design andthe professional printing of Queen City Printers, Inc., made this publication look so grand.

Thanks to you all.

Geoffrey Gevalt YWP director and founder


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We are proud to dedicate

this anthology to the leaders of

FairPoint Communications who recognize

the value of digital technology in fostering

creativity and learning among youth.

Without FairPoints support, this

book would not have been possible.


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Introduction

Young Writers Project emerged from two questions: Can we give students more

voice by providing them with more audiences? Can we raise peoples awareness of theimportance of writing and the declining performance of students in our schools?What began as a newspaper feature in 2003 became an independent nonprofit

organization in 2006 and has grown to a multi-faceted digital learning enterprise. Witha staff of three, Young Writers Project:

Selects best student work, builds pages and publishes in nine newspaperseach week during the school year. Since 2006, we have received over 21,000submissions. We are receiving upwards of 7,000 submissions a year.

Maintains a civil, student-led online writing community, youngwritersproject.org ,that has approximately 3,500 active teen users who produce upwards of 30,000pieces and 50,000 comments a year.

Runs the Schools Project, a comprehensive digital writing program for schoolsthat includes teacher training and development, lesson plans, mentoring anda working leading-edge Web site for teachers and students to use as digitalclassrooms.

Puts on a variety of programs and special projects at its Winooski headquartersand at various locations with all sorts of organizations throughout the state.

And works with colleges in Vermont and New Hampshire to provide schools

and students trained college mentors who provide feedback to young writers.

Whew.

We stay up late at night and derive our greatest joy from publications like this: Ashowcase of the best of the best. The young writers you see here come from all walksof life and grades 3 through 12, from schools all over the state (and one from NewHampshire) and a few schooled at home. We have listed these students according totheir grade and school at the time they submitted; many have moved on.

We chose the finals from some 8,000 submissions gleaned from early 2009 tothe spring of 2010. All those who made it should feel proud; all those who didnt, tryagain. Best selling novelists have papered their walls with rejection letters; they knewthat publication would come, the next ideas would be better. Writing takes practice, it takes resolve, it takes voice. Keep on trying; keep on writing.

Cheers

gg


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Days passSlowlyTime creeps,Inches,Softly alongUnknownOn deathlyFeet It slidesThrough

The doorOf My open heart.AndBefore ICanEven blink,ImCaught fast InRazor claws.Hostage,I squirm,TryTo breakFreeOf the trapI haveLedMyself intoUnwillingly.But onceDoneTheres noGoing back.Im stuckFast And furious.

Authors note: this poem represents the passing

of time, and how sometimes when you arentthinking about it, time passes much faster thanyou expected.

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Whatsin a dream?Only ourhopes and fears,longings and yearnings,wishes and desires.Only everything we everworked for,wanted,cared for,

loved.Only ourheart,body,mind,and soul.Only the stuff that makes uswhoweare.Only what we needto survive,to live another dayto keep goingeven when were beat.Only what makes usstrive,reach,learnand growWhats in a dream?The possibilities of the universe.


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Out in my PJs.Locked outside the house again.

This time in the rain.

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going up the lift skiing down the long cold slopes

oddly this is fun


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The first time I rode my go-kart was awesome! I zipped down the driveway swingingthe back end around and around, then zipping to the side doing doughnuts. It waswicked! I was roaring around the wet lawn at 35 miles per hour, spraying up water. It was exhilarating. For days all I wanted to do was ride the go-kart. When we ran out of gas we called Dad down to fill up the tank. Then it was Ethans turn to drive. Dadstarted it, and we jumped in and sped away. Wahoo! The word discovery comes tomind when I think about that first moment that I rode my go-kart. I had never riddena go-kart before, and it was fun, new and exciting. When I first rode my go-kart it wasa true discovery.


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Butterfly wingsare soft and gentleon my face.Flutterby, butterfly,perched gracefullyon my nose.Flapping,flittering,Please never go away.Butterfly feet

tickle my cheeksand stick to any surface.Weightless, but delightful whenwalking around my face.Butterfly,I could do this allllll day.Please never go away.Butterfly kissesare the best.Light and gentle,fluttering uponmy cheek.They lingerand remainwhen everything else is gone.Butterfly kisses,Please never go away.

:/4


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i. In Scranton, I am a giant. I dont know if its something in the water or the air, orperhaps in some shared ancestry, but no one there seems to grow above five foot six. Imcertainly not the biggest person, but I feel like a behemoth, towering above the stoopedpopulace like some blond deity, a messenger from the seldom-heard Land of Light.

ii. Nothing is bright. Every color seems to be muted to a tannish brown by thechoking air. Except for sunsets which, against the chemical-filled sky, seem to light theworld on fire. The brightest thing is inside the nursing home, soft, white heaven wherethe bodies of elders quietly die, away from the public eye.

iii. Cissys house was dead, dead the moment she left. Gramma, her sister, helpedher out the door talking soothingly about a vacation in a five-star hotel, full of niceneighbors. That left me and Frank, Grammas husband. My family explored Cissys atticand the basement, full of the seldom seen residue of life. At ninety-two, Frank doesnt climb stairs, so I stayed downstairs with him, surrounded by pictures and disconcertinglittle statues of cats and one stuffed cat. Cissys cat was her guardian and protector, ablack and white monster that mauled ankles and leapt on heads, spitting and hissing,still haunting my childhood memories. It had starved quietly, just as Cissy began toforget things. Her caregiver found it mouldering under a bed and replaced it with astuffed one. Cissy didnt notice.

iv. The house reminded me a bit of Papa Jacks when he died. Jack was Grammasfirst husband, my grandfather. He had been the God of my childhood, the strongest old man who ever lived, the wisest, the safest advisor and closest friend. Hed goneto war and loaded too many bombs onto airplanes, bombs that made his skin rebelagainst him and covered him in sores and pain. On his last day, he stood up from hishospital bed and spent the last ten minutes of his life staring at Death, trying to stopthe cancer from taking him lying down. I can see him still, his jaw set, the barest shiver

in his limbs as my mother hurried me out of his room. I was nine, and that was Papa Jack, not the gray body in the coffin the next day, not the winking specter fading fromview near his tombstone, though that was closer. Cissy didnt go like Jack. She just faded out, her mind eating who she was from the inside, until we came and took herbody to the clean place.

v. She always wanted to die here, she never knew anywhere else. Seventy-twoyears here, never slept a wink under any other roof. Frank was sitting on the couch,waving at the old house vaguely. He was Jacks replacement, the fat old banker man

with no past, happy to take up at Grammas for companionship in his twilight years.She said shed die under this roof. I guess, in a way, she has, he ran his hand alongthe old piano, listening to the faint notes, each one slightly sharp or flat. The thing


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Today was a Thursday. Thursdays have always been good days for me. Mymother and father were both born on a Thursday. The very first time I drove was aThursday, too. I even got my first boyfriend on a Thursday, though weve been apart now for several years.

Every Thursday morning is special. I always make myself a banana-bread-and-cream-cheese sandwich and eat it in math class. Everyone probably thinks me strange,but I just blame their looks on envy. I usually eat breakfast at 6:15 on the dot, andmath class is at 8:00, so Im always craving the sandwich long before I let myself haveit but Im never truly hungry until I pull it out. I guess its just part of the magic of Thursday.

Id decided to put raisins in today, and I was enjoying the fruity twist. As I finishedthe last bit, I noted to myself to remember to adjust my routine to make raisins aregular part of my life. I was lying back in my chair to start my morning nap (thefive-minute one thats usually cut short by the teacher bursting into the room withher usual uncontainable energy) when I saw Jamal edge into the room, dodging past others straight towards me.

Jamal had been my friend ever since kindergarten. He left the public systemfor private school for six years after that year, so I had to get to know him againin seventh grade, but we still felt like wed known each other forever. There wasnt anything in the world we didnt do together, and since we lived next door to eachother, we spent nearly every night with each other, at one or the others house. Peopleoften thought wed make a great couple, or were one already. We werent, though. Hewas just a friend to me, and I just a friend to him, no more.

He soon reached the edge of my table, and sat down abruptly, not bothering totake off his coat. He seemed frazzled, and though he was usually insane, I could tellthat maybe hed come back out of the deep end and didnt like where hed landed. Ascrazy as he was, though, Id never expected him to blurt out to me that his mom hadhad a heart attack the night before, and that the police had found her curved serenelyaround the wheel of her sedan in the middle of the field, random turns marking a clearpath in the corn.

As if she was just sleeping. As if she was just sleeping, he repeated, and burst intotears. I gathered him up in my arms, bony elbows sticking out until he finally huggedme back, his chin digging into my shoulder, brooks of tears making quick sticks for thefloor and all, and squeezed him tight.

Thursdays had always been good days for me.


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Water is like art.It dances on thespiders web and glidesacross its spindly strands.It drips off of the maple leaves and

shinesin the iridescent light.The water carves throughmud banks andsnakes along the road.

And in its place it leaves us naturesMona Lisa.

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My grandfather started hunting when he was nine years old. (This means he hasbeen hunting for 54 years.) He first learned how to shoot when his father was thecommander of the National Guard in Rutland. Oftentimes my grandfather tagged alongto target practice with his dad. In fact, he went so often that as a boy he became asgood a shot as many of the soldiers.

So when hunting season came around, he already knew how to handle a gun andhe was ready to go into the woods with his father. Deer hunting was a tradition passedfrom generation to generation, and the venison provided the family with meat for thewhole winter. And there was also the thrill of the hunt.

My grandfather has many good hunting stories but one of his favorites goes likethis My grandfather had a new girlfriend: my grandmother. One November night,they stayed out late on a date even though my grandfather was going hunting earlythe next morning. The next day, before sunrise, my grandfather sleepily found his wayto his favorite spot in the woods.

It was a nice sunny day, very warm for the season, with no wind. My grandfatherhad climbed up the mountain and decided to sit on a big comfortable rock to wait for a deer. The next thing he knew he had fallen asleep. My grandfather awoke tothe crunching of leaves; he looked up and saw a doe. He froze and waited. And sureenough, a majestic buck came right behind. My grandfathers rifle was lying four feet away from him and he knew that the deer would run as soon as he moved. He madea dive for the gun. He grabbed it and took careful aim, and then he shot. He got hisdeer.

When I talked to my grandfather last week, he told me that there are not as manydeer in the woods nowadays. He said that he thinks it is because there arent as manyfarms in Vermont now. He said that when he was young if you did not see 12 deer ina day, it would be a bad day. Now, if you see 12 deer in a season its a good season.Because of this, my grandfather wonders if the next generation of Vermonters will get into hunting. Especially since, for my generation, video games and YouTube seem a lot more exciting than sitting in the woods alone waiting for a deer.

My grandfather still hunts but he hasnt gotten a deer for years now.Actually, I dont think my grandfather hunts just to get a deer. I think the real

reason my grandfather still hunts is to spend time with his family, to be with nature,and to enjoy the solitude of a few crisp November days.


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Those cold, blue waters we call LakeChamplain

and Champ, the lake monster, calls hishome.

Id swim there every day if I could, tryingto avoid

the zebra mussels at the bottom.When the wind picks up,the waves come crashing to the shore,where I look for rocks, worn down from

the water.On hot summer days, I dive off the dock

into the lakeand keep my eye out for fish.My mom tells me Im crazyfor jumping in on a day she calls cold.I look over at New Yorkwonder exactly how wide is the lakewatch the sun set over the Adirondackssee the suns reflection on the water.Tons of boats cut the surface, like scissorson those cold blue waters, we call Lake

Champlain.

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Im drinking in thesetting sun,golden and streakedlike the woodDad worked withlate at night,nose-tickling shavingspiled in little mountainsaround his feet.Im pouring my

piano musicout the window,thick,darkand sweet like maple syrup on thechocolate-chip pancakesDad used to makeon Sunday morningsbefore church,standing in hisscuffy-leather slippers,holding a spatula.Im stirring thecalm, warm airwith my finger,slowly,making little tornado whirlslike Dads paddle madewhen he would sit me behind himin the canoeand Id watch theglossy, wooden oarscoop bubbles from the deep.

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A fat water balloon tossed on a hot summer day

Watery applesauce flung from a babysspoon

Melting ice cream slipping from the coneAn unsuspecting bug meeting a

windshield head onA delicate egg tossed from friend to

friendAn aimless bird flying into a second-

story windowSplat


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The truest poetryrises from the heart of despairviolently rips raw emotionfrom the poets soulpresents itself in the shape of insanity a frenzy of adjectives vying for one

memory ignites a fire across the pagebreathes fresh air into the flamesgrasps tightly the poets hand

slams it to the burning paperdances for the joy of all things realrests among the rubble andblames such devastation on pureunconditional love.

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Afraid of whats going to happen next.Looking all around. Trying not to showyoure scared.Thinking,Why did I sign up for this?But then the memories of Home -your familyand friends.Saying to yourself I have to make it back for them.So you keep thinking about themand trying to find a way to picture themin your mind.But then you hear gun shots and youhave to go -leaving your thoughtsbehind.


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You love winter.The way the snow fallsdrifting down.You want me todancewith you foreverand into eternitynever stopping for air.But its cold out here,its cold.

Yes, I will dance with you.Yes, I will let you spin me.Yes, I will let you sweep me up,whirl me around.

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But dont you feel the coldcreeping under our collarsand into our bones?Into our hearts?Its cold out here,its cold.So I may have to leave you.Leave you to warm myself from the chill of the winter.And yes,I may feel bitteras I watch you dance withanother girl.As I watch you sweep her up towards

the sky.but its cold out here.Its cold.


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The radio blaresfrom a small cornerof the beaten hut threatening, hatingthe room goes silent for all of a moment before another voicebounds through the speakerKill the tall trees!rings, echoes in my ears

the bowl slips out of my hands and shattersinto millions of tinyclay pieces; the hairs onmy arms prick upwardspreading a ripple of goose bumps over my skin andfear in my soulthe lives of the Tutsiswill be changed dramaticallymy existence solely inthe hands of God.

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Winter iscrawling underneath my new flannel

duvet coverand snapping my eyelids open at 3 a.m.Its pushing warmth out of the

neighborhoodthe way the autumn breeze pushes the

crinkled leavesoff the maple sapling in my front yardand into the road.

Winter istrailing behind a rainy summer,the one that met true freedom the dayby the lake in June. The perfect summeris a hard act to follow.Snow will rise up from the lake and

ponds,puddles and streams;frost will frame our window sills one

morning unexpectedly,as soon as we think an Indian summer

is due,the suns last kick.It will cover our cars and mailboxes.It will separate you and me from where

we once stoodin the fading light of summer.One day, I will look up from my

homeworkand see wet slush falling from the clouds.This is how winter comes;gradually, quietly, finally.


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This is not meWho can it be?He in the mirror looking back at me

Those eyes, those earsThat nose, those tearsReflecting all his deepest fearsOne by one the options disperseThis must be me in that reflective universeIt must be meBut how can it be?I feel the smileBut see the frownIm looking straight

But hes looking down,This is not meThis being I see.

G@%#$


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I watch as he tucks the clothesaround his naked form,letting material drape looselyover his skin, and tangle withhis mind.He loves the feel of boy-jeans andt-shirts that mask his curves, becausehe loves to make melook.

His brown hair is short, andbrushed messily awayfrom his face, so I can seehis eyes,deep,shining and colored likemuddy puddle-reflections.Candlelight flickers in their darkness.How do I look? he asks me,words unsure andtripping over each other.I just nod.He smiles at me witha question lingering on his mouth, andhis lips look stained withsweet pomegranate from whenhe bites them,nervous, andI wonder what theywould taste like.Change?Love?Freedom?Desperation?I try to touch him,make the connection, but my lips just meet cold glass,and reality grows cleareras his features grow faint with my condensation, and

both of us areholding back tearsas I whisper,You look beautiful,

Darling.

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A voice speaking loudlyIs bound to be heard

Screaming is not necessaryBut one simple thing isOne act One jobOne responsibilityVoteSo pay attention to the newsOn our future president Your own points are validYour opinions are your own

So voteThe most important thing to rememberIs your voice makes a differenceSo small and powerless?NOThe perfectly square white slip of paperThat is eaten by the counterIsMost definitely what you have to sayBeing acknowledgedFor your voice is loudBellowing in the silenceA Voice So LoudGo Vote


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In seventh grade,I stood stillin front of my class.seventy-four pairs of judging eyeswatchedas chop! chop! chop!went the scissors.My ponytail came away in my hand.That day, I showed seventy-four self-

centered thirteen-year-olds.

Showed them that the world wasnt allabout them.

Cause somewhere out thereI knew there was a little girl with cancer.That little girl just wanted to get better,she wanted to heal.No one knows better than a seventh-

grade girlhow important your hair is.And so, chop! chop! chop!went the scissors.If I could share what I had to make

someone happy,if I could give someone trying to be

strong a little more strengthto help them heal themselves,and if I could show that to a class full of

seventh graders,get them thinking,

I knew the world would be a better placetomorrow.

So, chop! chop! chop!went the scissors.Step through time to yesterday,my sister walked through the door,ponytail in hand,smile on face,beautiful gold-blond hair cut away.And as she proudly showed me what

she had doneto help another person in need,I couldnt say a word,because chop! chop! chop!

the scissors had taken all her beautifulhair away.Vain, selfish, horrible me.I only saw the loss.Only later did I see the beauty in her

choice,the beauty in her holding out that

ponytail,the beauty in her giving what she had to

somebody else who needed it.

As I considered my blindness,I ran my hands through my long darkhair

and chop! chop! chop!I remembered the glorious feeling of

knowing that in the moment I was doing something purely good.And that was beautiful.


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I saw a familiar face today

Never serious, always at playShe danced in my headAnd messed up my mindI know that shes prettyI thought she was kindBut now that girl I knew is goneHer rosy aura, thus withdrawnShe came with a purpose

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She left with my heart I wish she had stayedBut leavings her part Her natural styleWith theNever-nail-paintingToe-sock-wearingOverall-lovingWonderWill always beIn the back of my mindMaking me wish I hadnt Left her all those yearsAgo.


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Say what you want Judge as you pleasebut My question to You isCould You Walk in My Rubber Boots?Step in my shoesIll show you how it feelsYoull be the hot topicId assume my name tastes goodit rolls off your tonguewith the pre-conclusion that everythings

trueYou say youre My friendbut step in my Rubber Bootssee from my viewYou would envy My strengthif You could see what I go throughBe unwantedBe empty.My dads long gone.My mom tries her hardest Walk a mile in My Rubber Boots.Try to keep up.I dare you

just for a day or twomaybe Id get more credit if you spent thirteen years in My Rubber

Boots.

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The world is crackled withcylinders of ice,and the hazy sunshows watery and pale,its weak raysnot warm enough tomelt away the cold.Whats left of the foliageand the last of the violet-emerald

plum leaveshave delicate spines of frost shivering downtheir veined backs,and their tips arestiffened by snow.My garden is ruined,and the beautiful, lushplants that once boretomatoes and pumpkinshave shriveled intognarled masses of brown vines,complete withunharvested,rottingfruit.Silence,and the worldshows silver,with black andwhite chickenspecking alongthe edges of theframe.


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Judgment Daythey tell me.I dont believein

judgment day.Because I dont have secretsfrom the wind.The sun is my heart.I bury my thoughtsin the grass.I am already openedAndEarth

doesnt judge.


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Ive been told to never cut my own hair, but then again Ive been told to stayindoors in thunderstorms and always wear shoes in class. I wet a comb and scrutinizemy head in the mirror. An inch off the front, maybe. No more. My smallest pair of scissors dangle from my fingers, blades swinging. They glint silver in the noonday sun.

Comb down. Hold straight. And cut.Scissors dont snip,not in my hands. They bite. They snag each strand between the

blades and sever it individually with a sound like a zipper, each tiny percussion clickthe noise of another hair giving up the fight. St-t-t-t-t-t-tnp. Strands drift like leavesinto the sink. They stick to my skin and flutter to the floor. I grin. St-t-t-t-t-t-tnp. Thisisnt hard. This is fun.

Careful. Dont get carried away.! Im only happy when Im changing,Id said.When Im becoming something different.St-t-t-t-t-t-tnp. Is the front even? No? Dammit. Comb. Hold. Cut. How bout now?

Becoming something different. Becoming someone new.Now its lopsided. St-t-t-t-t-t-tnp.There. Fine.Curls falling like leaves, like snow, like rain. Theres something addictive about

cutting parts of me away.What if I dont like who I have become?Then change again.St-t-t-t-t-t-tnp.Change again!Im cutting locks at random now, whatever my fingers can catch and hold long

enough for the blades to gnaw away. A downy brown fuzz covers the counter and liesin patterns on the floor. This is war. Identity versus self-loathing. Perfectionism versusdisappointment versus the passage of time. Hack away enough of me, and maybe

one side will emerge victorious. Stupid. Stupid! The scissors tumble from my fingersand land softly in the sink, cushioned by the casualties of battle. Did I really think thiswould work? Did I believe a haircutcould change anything? I am the battle. Win thewar, lose myself. But Im already lost.

Do I really believe that?Maybe.Does it matter?No.Its just hair. Cut it off. Cut it all off. Itll grow back.

And by that time school will have started again and people will move on and Iwill move on and I will lose even this. And Im afraid.


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Im falling from the sky,Clouds rushing all around,The sun flashing in my large blue eyes,The wind rushing by me as if I am flying

100 miles an hour,Im falling from the sky,But I dont even know why.Airplanes circle overhead,

Their white wings obscuring everythingelse,I see great thunderheads on the horizon,I know a storm is coming but I dont

care,The world is like a great mass of green

below meIm falling from the sky,But I dont even know why.I cant help but wonder when Ill be

home.The ground is far away but Im goingfast.

My shirt fills up with falling air as Iplummet down.

My eyes are watering from the speed of dropping toward earth like a boulder.

I wonder why I am here.Did I fall from a plane?Or was I pushed?Im falling from the sky,But I dont even know why.As I fall I can start to see the great

expanse of land below with moreclarity,

I can see a great turquoise ocean belowme,

And to the east I see rolling hills and redbarns,

And tiny little dots moving like ants insand.

The lake surface is fast approachingBut Im not scared,Im falling from the sky,But I dont even know why.The sea is only feet from me now,I know I will land with no trouble in the

silvery water.With a splash as big as a three-story

building I hit the water.And just like that I had gone down into

its depths only to rise up again.I surface and start swimming to the

rocky shore.I fell from the skyBut I dont even know why!

Afraid the world will roll forward without me, afraid this thin shell of an identitywill shatter under the weight of my own expectations, as it has time and time again.Afraid of becoming nothing. Of staying nothing. Afraid of a future I cannot see. Afraidof a present I did not mean to create.

Thats why I keep trying to change myself:Im afraid of change.


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She is clearly aged not old, but she has years topile and count,enough to trace her fingersdown banisters, close her eyesand ponder, to pinpoint when and where and how and why.Every minute of every day, not burdens, but obstacles, pieces she has toput togetheror gently peel apart,pieces that obscure yesterday,the day before,and the week before that.The brilliance in wisdomrarely overshadows theache in her knees, orthe pain in her heart that her children are grown andher green houseis empty. A crochet nearly finishedand a pie to bake, yes,time consuming, but useless after that.The brush is silver andher hair is silver andthe mirror, silver too flashes of metallic, reflectedin the glass, that dive around the unlit room;the most striking monochromeeyes have ever set their gaze upon.She combs her hair withtrembling hands,gently pulls out a strand or two she cries,and the grayish tint of tearsfits nicelyin her silver world.

A@%+T/*#@%,+A)Q1%P,.%2)*>%D%.%2)M7,-./*U#D'7*A#88"'*34),,"5*67%8'*B

Littered with papers and mugs,candles and tape dispensers,old napkins.Everythingthat doesnt really have a home.Papers with important datesand phone numbers that hardly ever make it to the handsof their recipient.Lost in the rush of yesterday,Cell phone chargers and checkbookshide under piles of mail.Dozens of notes telling us toClean up your rooms!are scattered about.

Wallets, toothbrushes, and grocery listsare set down without much care.Notebooks with half-finished storiesor notes are arranged in untidy piles.Books that were supposed to be returneda few weeks backlie in heaps of disorder.Salt and pepper shakersstand in the middle of this chaos.Theyre the closest thing to a centerpiece.I guess you could say its sort of a mess.


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Three words to describe him then: troublesome, slightly lonely and ecstatic overeverything. He could find humor in anything. He rode the bus home with us all thetime, yet even now, just a moment ago, no one ever considered him one of US. Hewasnt from the richest of families. In a small town, Id never heard of or seen his dad.Yet every single day hed come to school with a smile on his face, even when the kidswould beat him up because he was smaller, even when they told him to hang himself in the closet when he got home. It seemed nothing could get him down, he was theboat that wouldnt sink because of their words.

But how much can someone really take? When he woke up he had to go toschool, when he was at school he had to go home, and I cant picture either one beingthat much fun for him.

One day he got on the bus and he was someone different, someone I could barelyrecognize. He was like a piece of clean white paper whose edges were burned undera lighter and smudged in dirt. His eyes looked like the peaks of the mountain at dusk.The kids still told him that they wished hed get hit by a bus one day, but he never saidanything back anymore. Except for that one day when I finally noticed him again. Gostab yourself, the world would be a better place! someone from seat 24 said.

Calmly, he turned around in the middle of the aisle. I probably will, his wordscut through the laughter that followed and hit me somewhere inside the heart. Hegot off the bus, with his head hanging low. Three words to describe him before:troublesome, slightly lonely and ecstatic over everything. Three words to describehim now? In trouble, all alone and ecstatic over the lighter and knives he keeps forprotection in his back pocket. Some things dont stay the same.


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I am embarrassed for them.They walk and talkWith their heads held high.They push their way through theCrowded high school halls.They push and poke and prod and

point. I am embarrassed for them.They call herA Slut.

They call himA Freak.They call meA Dork.

I am embarrassed for them.They push and poke and prod and point At usIn every single direction,Waiting toHearUsScream.

I am embarrassed for them. They look at her, but they dont seeA girl who has confidence,A girl who is comfortable with her bodyA girl who has a need to share her gift

with the world.They look at him, but they dont seeA boy who is desperateTo stick out in this worldWhere everything is theSame.They look at me, but they dont seeHow I always watch a sparkIlluminate an entirely dark room.(They only wonder if their eyes were

playing tricks on them.) I am embarrassed for them.They push and prod and poke and

point.

I am embarrassed for them.They will never see the world asBeautiful,Never see theWonder,Never see theSheer happiness.

I am embarrassed for them.I remain here,In the middle of this crowded room,Basking in the warmth of that small

spark.And them?They remain

Huddled in their separate corners,Shivering to keep warmIn the night.

I am embarrassed for them.They will never understandThat we will always be warmest When we areTogether.

A@%+!%**%&+3),/)%.%*X%.#(*3#"D'7/('#.1,='/4),,"'85*67%8'*9N

I canned the 66th tomato todayIm calling it quitsThats enough for me.I was too busy todayTo watch the birdsEven the squirrels went unnoticed.I miss the mourning doveTurning its headPeering at me through the window.I wish I could hear its voiceMary says its very mournfulMust be to match its mournful eye.I had better not start another subject Im coming to the end of the pageAnd Id be writing on the placemat.


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My shoes are all worn down. The laces unraveled a few days ago. The soles arepretty much molded to my feet, and a few other peoples too. Of course, there aredrawings along the inner edge that are carelessly smudged and hidden by dirt. Ivetried to make the rubber whiter by using toothpaste, which only sort of worked. Thereare various marks on the canvas from food, grass and an intentional-looking markerstreak that pulses of subtle revenge.

My sweaters all worn down. The sleeves are all stretched out from switching fromperson to person too much. The pockets a little looser than normal from the weight of my iPod. The zipper gets stuck pretty often. And some threads are loose, too. Dog hairsare now woven into the rest of it. I wore it for about four days in a row at some point,but Id rather not talk about that. The whole things shrunk a bit, and it smells a littlelike someone I used to know.

My jeans are all worn down, too. They are a bit shorter than Id like, and the cuffsare predictably frayed. You can see the creases from where I rolled them up duringthe summer when I was too lazy to change. Theyre terribly faded and have severalpen marks on them. Holes are brewing at the knees and at the outer seams. Its weird,but I trust them more than I do some people. And maybe theyre even lucky. Theyvebecome beautifully soft and familiar, at least. Im very used to losing them and leavingthem and just as suddenly finding them again.

Sure, Ive danced in all these. Ive daydreamed while wearing them, too. Written.Slept. Cried. Loved. Breathed. Im exhausted and so are my clothes. Theyll still takeme places, though. Theyre always happy to hold more memories. And Ill alwaysremember it all, I promise.


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Does discovery itself actually go looking for the discoverer? The idea spins insidemy head. To me, the best things in life are found by accident. Discovery isnt planned, it

just happens; and thats what makes it so magical.I found a girl who changed my world. She was everything like me, and completely

different from me at the same time. She understood me in every sense of the word.I found myself clinging to the small details that pieced together her extraordinarycharacter: the way her auburn hair seemed to have a mind of its own, sticking out inevery direction; the way she dressed, a beautiful disaster of prints and plaids paintedon her like a canvas. Her eyes seemed to pour out emotion from inside of her andchanged colors in the sunlight. But truly the thing I loved best about her was that nomatter how awful of a day I mightve had, she still knew how to put a smile on myface.

Discovering Taylor came by accident. One frigid night in October at a concert venue I turned the corner through the doors and collided with her. As I mutteredapologies under my breath, she stuck her hand out and introduced herself. I know inmy heart that there was a reason I met her. She showed me to the nth degree what itslike to be different. Our passion for nonconformity was like the fuel to our friendship.She helped me to understand myself and who I am as an individual. When I look backon it, I didnt find Taylor. She found me.


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They dont see the starsin their city of lights,webbed in with a shroud of goldcheaply sheltering themfrom the cold fathomless night,spinning their livesin a world of plastic promisewhere the moon is replaced with the

electric beamsof a subways headlights.

Graduation day,moving from Motel 6s to Super 8scold coffee to espresso machines,up the pecking order, fromlicking stamps to leather chairs.They see the way mankind runs itself,ticking clocks and busy shoppers,but they dont seethe stars.

7/''/,4+>,..,7*I%J3@%?"8#.2*1#2)*34),,"5*67%8'*[

When I turned around it was gone My skateboard! My baby!Who cares about the girlfriend? I need

my board.Kick flips, shuv-its, 50-50, board slides.I need them, I miss themI need the rush of running away from

the blues after a great session.I need the feeling that Im flying, that Im

free.

The only way to solve my pain is to findmy love,

To find my passion,To find my board.Im searching for my baby.Shes not under the bed, not under the

table.Shes nowhere to be found!I look in the bathroom. I look in the

halls.I look up high but Im not that tall!I look in the bedroom and there I seeMy girlfriend with my board Board in one hand, saw in the other.She looks at me and says, The board or

us?I sit down and think long and hard.I remember the kick flip off the 5-stair.But then our first kiss.So many memories, so hard to think.Shes giving me a bad look, the saw is

getting closer So now Im out here with my friends,

pulling doubles off an 8,Still running from the blues,Not a care or a girlfriend in the world.

K)1;9"H%,+E2%'+3@'.4'7*6',72'*A,77#//'JT',@"'/*C4%8'=J5*67%8'*9N

All the words that people have said,Running around inside my head.Fag, stupid, retard, STOP.

Accept me even if I dont fit your world,Please be quiet or speak kind words.When you call me loser,See yourself through my half-open eyes,And when you step on my broken

hands,Feel my knuckles crunch under your

tongue.I will fight no more except with silence,Until you realize that life is just a

disguise,And nothing matters, but love and

acceptance.


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I wish it would stopThe bullying is startingI wish it would stopCalling me namesI cannot repeat I wish it would stopPushing the tableTowards my chest I wish it would stop

People avoiding me

I wish it would stopTalking about meBehind my backI wish it would stopRegretting me beingTheir project partnerI wish it would stopThe boys being rudeI wish it would stopThrowing stuff aroundWhen teachers arent nearI wish it would stopThe bullying is starting again

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Hello to the girl looking back at me.Why do you have rivers of black

running down your red cheeks?Hello to the girl who knows me best.Why is your hair a mess?On the night you should be living your

life?Hello Little Miss Death.Why are you cursing to the ceiling?Saying youll never fall for him again?

Even though you still want to.Hello myself,Your hands are running throughout your

hair.Youre crying, and your makeups

running.He left you for her, on the night of your

anniversary.You know youll always love him,

because he still has your heart.

>,-+*@%+3"&1-+S.'*+G",*/,.%'M%/?.8%)7%*A?F)'7]''E7'8'7#4F*1G*+?(("'*A#88"'*34),,"5*67%8'*H

A regal tint of violet swims across the sky,the blues, the yellows, the rainbows,serving as a dye.

Beneath the spectrum of colors,flapping as they hide,tumultuous birds dance aroundsinging as they glide.

A tranquil silence lingers,the world for once at rest.The artwork of the fingers,is eventually at its best.

0.&+A)Q1%+ O'//'*+7?8'%?*U#@(,.*!"'='.(%7J*34),,"5*67%8'*L*

Jack screamingPeas flyingMilk spillingDogs barkingGoing crazyAlready cleaningDinner just beginning.

>-J/#%+",+6%&;%#*/,4+*@)*+3),-%&1.'*+0H/,/",)*)

A#/)%*SJ88A,?.(*A%./K#'"8*R.#,.*1#2)*34),,"5*67%8'*99

Hum listless strains of imitation tubayou once heard at a gay rights rallyin Detroit, and when someone asks,say it was played at your great-unclesfuneral.Tap out your messagein Morse Code and if no one

understands,click your fingernails against unstable trees with an aura of wisdom.Discard solemn footsteps in favorof lyrical shuffling if it flaps and slapsembrace it.Embroider yourself with jangling metal,twist clinking medallions in your hairand stand in a stiff breeze, arms

outspread,letting the passing cars slow tooverhear your clothingchime its defiance.


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She said:Stories are just that,stories,flights to pace and prowl,the bones of poetry and secrets:into these we build our lives.

Do you rememberthe stories from your childhooddo youever let those musty books

take purchase in your mind?Do you ever let those figures

reassemblethe bones of creation,the archetypes of nascence,to be filled in by theflesh and facesof real time?

That woman on the cornercould be Rapunzel,skinny and cigarettedher walk-up patio perched highagainst a low-down world;if I wanted to see herId take the stairsbecause her hairs too short andsmoke-stainedto ever really climb.

Or -Snow White for the modern eraEastern chambermaid, mildly bredemptying the wastebasket every morningon the corner of Seventh and Main.Rapunzel smokes,oblivious to the congressof colliding tales

just below her window,every morning.

Snow Whitestands under five feet and shes got thin Asian lipsand a home-stitched facenot anonymous enough for comfort,and no one will exalt herin a transparent coffinwhen she pops off.

Snow thinks the subway isa luxury:for all its jerks and belchesthere she can rest herbound and weary feet.

Sharing her low-slung plastic benchis the girl in yesterdays makeupand last weeks clothes.Frosted hair wont comeback into fashion in greaterManhattan,but her crowd appreciates it;

theyre the ones flicking cigarette ashinto drainpipesand fending off the down-lows

in their potbelliesand leather jacketswho crave more tricks thanthey can pay for.Where is she going, dressed like that is there an appointment in the worldworth requiring such an abusiveshade of red?

Id like them all to meet, somedayin that pub above the laundromat.

Rapunzel with her bored lips,Snow White with her deference,Sleeping Beauty with her pierced-heart narcolepsy.Each asleep in one way or another,each missing a piece potent enough towake up her corner of the world.


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I was nine when I first hunted deer.I sat in the woods hoping to hearThe crunch of leaves, the snort of a buck.I knew the rules, all I needed was luck.The sun was shining on my face,Then I heard the steady pace of A deer coming up the path.It seemed like it was a minute and a half.My breath was quick, my heart was fast,I waited for the deer to walk on past.

I finally got a glimpse of its brown,But on her head, she had no crown.But that didnt matter, all I wanted was

meat,So I slowly leaned forward in my seat.I fired the gun; she had no time to run.She fell to the ground, not making a

sound.I was nine when I first hunted deer.I hope I enjoy it every year.

G",;%''/",A,""J*U,./,.1%7(K,78*1#2)*34),,"5*67%8'*[

Ill admit it.But only here.Only where I amUnknownTo You.I am Jealous.I amVeryExtremelyExcruciatingly

Jealous.Of You,Your talent,Your seeminglyDifficult Life.Of thoseAround You.Who touch,Who cling,Who steal your attention,Your affectionFrom Me.Why?Why do I feelThis jealousy?Could it beBecauseILoveYou?


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I have never seen such a brilliant shadeof blue as the reflection in their eyes.

The swirls of sky and teal, green andgold,

Staring out the window with wonder.They shine saying they want to see the

world.I have never seen such a brilliant shade

of blue as the ocean on Plum Island.The soft waves from the boat moving

you up and down as you walk fartherin.

The murky water is dark and beautiful,Changing from black to blue to the white

foam on the shore.I have never seen such a brilliant shade

of blue as the sky covered by athousand soft clouds.

Ill lie here with you and watch it,Watch the blue stand still with nothing

to move it, nothing to change it forhours on end.

The sky is flat while the clouds pop out at you,

Breaking the never-ending blueI have never seen such a brilliant shade

of blue as the lights that flash whilethe music blasts.

Hundreds of hands raised, moving inrhythm

Or the paint sprayed across the railroadbridge

Dripping down the side following thegroove of the cement

Then drying, never to be washed away.I have never seen such a brilliant shade

of blue,As the color floating everywhere around

them,

3/,*%&+C88J*>%=@&'""A,?.(*C&7%)%=*R.#,.*1#2)*34),,"5*67%8'*B*

Winter.The word sounds so . . . likable.Like snow falling softly, big flakes

bringing with them a silence unlikeany other.

Like smiles and rosy cheeks and bigmugs of warm tea in front of acrackling fire.

ColdThis word grips you.

Its the bony, long hand that reachesout and grabs your shoulder, grippinghard, reaching deep, crushing yourbones.

The word cold puts ice down yourthroat as it gets spoken,

balling up in the pit of your stomach.Cold is coming.And sois winter.

In the eyes of those I love, in the ocean Icome from,

And the sky I see every day.I had never seen such a brilliant shade

of blue,Til I looked around.


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Many years ago, while Wind was still young and full of life, he met Earth. Humansand animals of every kind roamed on her in harmony as pets. Wind whispered jokesin Earths ear and helped her care for her little friends.

Wind quickly fell in love with Earth. Soon they had two children together. A girl,Water, and a son, Fire. Water and Fire had numerous arguments, but the family washappy. Then Fire acquired a taste for anger. He burned Earths pets, and even attackedhis mother.

Wind tried to intervene but that only made Fire stronger. Fire turned Earthscreatures against each other before Water was able to control him. Wind howled forhis familys pain. Whenever you hear Wind howl today, Water is battling Fire as hetries to cause more harm. Wind will continue to cry out in mourning for eternity.

:1""-'*)/,+S%(J*U?(F,-/F#A,?.(*A%./K#'"8*R.#,.*1#2)*34),,"5*67%8'*9N

She sits alone on the hillside, next to the tree, watching the people go by. She canhear the clanking of the bus garage, the rustle of the wind in the dying blossoms aboveher. One hand tucks an errant strand of her long blonde-brown hair behind her ear,exposing two flashing earrings matched to her brown tank top. Her blue eyes wanderaimlessly until they stop. A sad glaze forms over her face, the petty indifference rushesin to disguise the unwanted emotion. He leans against the flagpole looking the otherway, even though he knows she is there. His water-blue eyes are hard as stone and thesuns light trapped in his blond hair reminds her of a halo. She never could decide if he looked more like a fallen angel or a Greek god.

He glances in the window, finding her in the reflection. Her hair is wild, just ashe remembered, but her eyes have changed. Theyre the same blue though now theydont sparkle like fireworks. They lie there like tidal pools forgotten by the waves. Hewonders if it is his fault. Her eyes were his favorite, the way they always told the storyin her mind. He recalls the first time he saw those eyes, staring at him from across theroom, pulling him irresistibly into her universe. He wonders what shes thinking.She wonders what hes thinking. She wonders if hes thinking of her. Absently in hermind she traces the white lines scrolling across his favorite black t-shirt. They end in ared blotch above his heart that she always thought looked too much like a bloodstain.

She remembers this shirt, how he wore it when he said goodbye, and she rememberswondering if that red stain was all that was left of his heart.


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I hateComparisonI dreadThe deep

Judgment Of differenceIm irritatedHow it Winds throughSociety

Sinking intoOur automaticthoughtsI loatheAny secondGlanceThat isnt Quick acceptanceIn my headEven theAngry wordsI am writingIt bothers meHow you might Be usingAny negativeWords about This poemBecauseYoure comparingIt to othersRight nowAnd youDont thinkTheres anythingWrong with that

S.'*+?2+I)-+),-+7%+M'%(7#4'*3)"%./FJE'77#/&?72)*>'.(7%"*34),,"5*67%8'*W

In the front of a lineWaiting patientlyFor the Ferris wheelIt slowly comes to a stopThe ticket man stops and opens the gateWe walk up the metal steps to the cabWe hop inside and sit downWe move up and come to a stopThen it starts and stops againThen it churns forward and doesnt stop

We come near the ground, but then wego up again

Just my dad and meWe watch the people on the groundThey look like tiny, little dollsMoving aroundWe talk about what ride we want to go

on afterwardWe choose the merry-go-roundWe feel a soft, kind breeze blowingIt rocks the cab gentlyThen the ride slowly comes to a stopThe ticket man opens the doorWe step out Together we clank down the stepsAnd through the exit gate.


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Snow clustered around my feet, crumbling where I stepped. The slight smell of wood smoke touched my nose. And although I listened hard, no sound reached myears. So there I was walking through the thick swirling snow.

As I walked I was listening. My vision was completely white, disrupted by onlya few pine branches. A faint sound reached my ears. It steadily grew louder as Iwalked on. The sound was someone singing a swirling melody, much like snow falling.Entranced, I walked forward, following my ears. I stepped carefully, not wanting thesinging to stop. At last, I came upon a large clearing. Carefully, ever so carefully, Ipushed back the branches. In the clearing, dancing like falling snow, was a beautifulFairy yes, it must be a fairy because sticking out of her long white hair were twopointed ears. Maybe she was the Snow Queen, though Snow Princess seemed morelikely since she looked so young.

My head spun. All I wanted was to go dance with her, the Snow Princess, but apart of my mind rebelled. Dance with her? the logical part of my mind said. It had apoint; my snowsuit would look like a mess next to her gauzy white and silver gown.But no one would be watching, only her and me. My longing won and I leaped out of the bushes, amazing myself with my graceful movements. Her eyes, a shocking blue/silver, found me. She bounded over and I suddenly found myself dressed much likeher. She reached out and took my hand. Her hand was as cold as the snow she dancedin. She smiled at me and I forgot everything but that smile and that hand.

I knew then that this was where I was meant to be forever. I would dance in theclearing forever with her, The Snow Princess, my Snow Princess, my Dancing Princess.I will dance all my life with her by my side in this clearing in the wood in the thick,drifting snow. Dancing forever in the endless calm of winter.


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Blue.Icy blue.Cold blue.Pure blue.Shadowy blue.Bright blue.Shades of blue.Silver blue.The perfect blue.Icy blue in the snow.

Cold blue in a sapphire.Pure blue over commonly used.Shadowy blue in the night sky,Next to the stars.Bright blue in the skyWhen the sun is out to play.Silver blue in the clouds.Shades of blue everywhere.But I like the perfect blueIn my heart.

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I am afraid of spiders,wiggly, creepy and crawly,small enough to get anywhere,and when they pop up they scare me.I am afraid of failure,a sudden stop on the road to success,and its hard for me when I dont get it,especially when Ive tried my best.I am afraid of heights,not deathly afraid but still,

things like climbing high trees I dont dobecause Im afraid Ill fall, which I will.I am afraid of fish,silly as it seems,but when my uncle dropped one in my

lapyou shouldve heard me scream.Spiders, failure, heights and fishin comparison seem so smallto the fear that someone will disapprove

of me.Yes, thats what trumps them all.

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If courage were a colorit would be bright red,red as a Crayola crayon,as a cardinal,

as a childs balloon.If courage was a tasteit would be a jalapeo pepper,hot and spicy.It has the power to take downwhoever dares challenge it.Confident and readyfor whatever comes its way.If courage was a smellit would be freshly cut grass.If courage was a soundit would be a lions roar,strong and powerful.

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It is a perfect winter morning.Icicles hang from the rooftops.A thin layer of snow covers all the

branches.

Deep, untouched snow is on the ground,and tiny

snowflakes are drifting down from thesky.

Suddenly, I feel lonely.I wait for a bird to sing,a brother to stir, anything.There is only stillness.


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Feathered flakes of snow adrift,On the frosted land,Silencing every echo withAn icy, numbing hand.A crystal in the window makesRainbows shining bright,While warmth from the old fireplaceComforts with flickering light.Birds have long departed,Though not the stolid crow,Who croaks atop a barren treeThat whispers of its woe.

Above the silent, frozen land,Above where fires hiss,Above the lonesome, lingering crow,The sun bends down and gives the hillsA gentle, silent kiss.

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I could see better thingselated memoriesgolden wingsdays gone bya summer sky

joyful dreamsand crystal streamsfreedom hereand everywhereclouds so perfect youd

stop and staresongs sung withbeautiful notesand parties heldon top of boatsblankets soft likebaby furkittens that sit in your lapand purrI could see better thingsstars as bright asdiamond ringsbirds that flit through the airchildren with skinso very fairvelvet roses that smellso sweet and fine Grecian candyto eat silk-topped pondsforest frondsthe golden sunas days beginfields of wheat a lamp-lit street soft rainpouring downfaces that could neversee a frownhomemade piekites that fly

waves lappingat the shorepeople who take lessand give moreI could see better thingscastles holdingqueens and kingsand at the end of the dayI think I might just saythat I could see the starsunworldly glowall this and morethrough the window.


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I was 12 years old when I first met the farm at the end of Duffy Road. Since thenwe have fallen in love, and it has saved my life on numerous occasions.It was Easter morning four years ago. The haze that I see when I picture it nowprobably wasnt actually there Ive never seen that kind of fog outside my dreamsand distant memories but it gives the setting a mythical quality I must havesubconsciously created for dramatic effect, to honor the significance, the importance of the moment.

My dad took my brother and me on a walk together down Duffy Road whilemy mom was cooking the Easter ham. I dont remember what exact point in theirdrawn out, disheveled divorce my brother and I were tiptoeing through at the time.But I do remember that I was already turning rigid in the presence of my father alone.And I had already become frustrated with my brothers airy indifference. Like on thismorning, when his footsteps paraded through the puddles in an aloof simplicity that was already enviable to my heavy, 12-year-old conscience.

Duffy Road is precisely two point five miles long. I discovered that a couple yearslater while looking for a five-mile loop to run during track season. The road stretchesout behind my neighborhood and twists shallowly into the mountains. In its finalcurve it traces a small field and comes to an abrupt halt at the foot of a very modest silo.

That Easter morning the three of us introduced ourselves to the farm at the endof Duffy Road. My father brought us to watch the horses grazing in the shade of thebarn. He rambled and they trotted and listened with me. My dad made himself cry. Awhite mare made eye contact with me. I was in love.

Every day of that April vacation I visited that silo. And hundreds upon hundredsof times following it. The silo stood in the rain along with me when I ran away. It protected me. The horses learned my darkest secrets. They forgave me. The farm hasbeen my escape, and Duffy Road has guided me home more times than I can count.I find myself lucky to have a savior as tangible as an actual place. My relationship withmy father has distorted further, repaired itself and distorted again, but two point fivemiles away I can always find a small patch of untainted peace.

I have never met the owners of the property or discovered the names of thehorses. But that seems irrelevant, almost threatening to the sustenance of my secludeddreamland. My heart is bisected by Duffy Road, at the bottom, a modest silo.


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Please. Listen.Do you hear?No?Press your ear to the paperto the windto the world.How about now?Ah.Yes.There you go.

Do you hear the sound of last breathsunfair trialsunjust killingstruthless criminalsprejudiced governmentspeople crying for their lossesmoney spent for the wrong reasonspeople contributing to disaster while

trying to heal it all?Do you hear all of theseends?Yes.They all pile up until you

just cant listenanymore.You want to make it all go awaybut you cant.Listen again though.Do you also hear thebeginnings?Do you hear thefirst breaths laughterfeet walking to schoolhands being heldfirst kissesfirst loveshands being shookpapers signed

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The beautiful dreamerwith a teacup for a headand chamomile for hairlong draggingarmsof willow branches and licoriceThe beautiful dreamerwith legs made of crushed-up candy

canesmixed with vanilla ice creamon a hot September dayThe beautiful dreamerEyes of cinnamonand a mouth of taffymuddling her wordswhile she spits out her thoughtsthought over thought over thought layering themselvesUntil nothing makes senseand the world goes to wasteOne day shell bean artist a writera singera dancerOne day shell bea girldiving off cliffsand jumping out of planesTo slowlydrop back intoreality.

water being poureda village of voices celebratinga smile spreading across an unknown

face?Listen to the world.Listen often.You might just find that there are

beginnings as well as ends.


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Student Writers and Artists

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ywp anthology 2

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