ywp's anthology 8

8/17/2019 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.


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.


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?


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.


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?


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.


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 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.

A&:% ("$.), 8"20")


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-'+ )6C%*+

5&))&$ 9+..:).+, V.+7.))./

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,

R"P&) -%2:. R%77/, 56)0%)70")

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.)

4&0. ("))"22H, ?//.E M6)B0%")


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.'3"3$C'

?+%) 86):"BC, !$.2


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-'+ )%""/+ B%#0

D;.2%& (&)).H, A%20")

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

!"#$%& (&))%**&+", -./0 12"3.+

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


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


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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-'+ L3Q+*"

="+& L%22"), ?&/0 A")0#.2%.+

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/%*&

A&E -")/&3&7., 4%22%)70")

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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34

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.

4&2.< D%C.), -./0>"+:


36/66

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4 !'3" %* "'+ ;330,

-+.) 9"+


37/66

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-'%, !"3#O =36/0 !$M+ S36# )%


38/66

37

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

(&0%. A&B&62.H, ($&+2"00.

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.


39/66

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7%"


40/66

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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.


41/66

40

-'+ ;3#0,

?;%2H 9"/0.+, !$.2


42/66

41

./+$,+9 7$"'+#

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.

A&:% ("$.), 8"20")


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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

=..2%. A&+C2.H, 86+2%)70")


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=3*$"6/$"%3*,

!&+&$ !0.3.)/, 8+&:>"+:

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.

4&0. ("))"22H, ?//.E M6)B0%")


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44

U*%&Q$"%F U*F36*"+#,

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45

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48/66

47

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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.

8+&):") 8.&6B$.;%), ?//.E M6)B0%")


49/66

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49

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51/66

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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.


52/66

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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%*&


54/66

53

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!$.)&2% -%N./%)7$., K$&2&P&0$67":&, !+%

I&)C&

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?


55/66

54

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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55

!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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60

!%"!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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62

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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64

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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ywp's anthology 8

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