Writing Young Authors Conference 2021/2022 - PNW BOCES
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Young Authors Conference 2021/2022
Writing
t h G r i t
wi
Table of Contents
1. The Four Seasons 11. Beautifully Mixed
Letisha Baker – White Plains High School Anahi Paulino – White Plains High School
2. Untitled 12. Consumer
Anna Carpinelli – Westlake High School Megan Scalley – Valhalla High School
3. Red 13. The Cursed Oak Tree
Isabella Zahl – Hendrick Hudson High School Sering Sherpa – Hendrick Hudson High School
4. Cloudy Days 14. Prologue
Molly Decker – Mahopac High School Meghan Wax – Lakeland High School
5. The Caricature 15. Untitled
Olivia DeVito – Westlake High School Loki Yarrington – Monroe-Woodbury High School
6. Self-Portrait 16. Excerpt from an Untitled Fantasy Novel
Sabbia Gale-Donnelly – Mahopac High School Olivia Cooper – Monroe-Woodbury High School
7. Chapter One: Kaali 17. The Struggle to Find Faith
Charlotte Genesi –Pawling High School Emily Vance – Rippowam Cisqua School
8. The Twin Flames 18. Gallons of Ice Water
Jordan Lubinsky – Fox Lane High School Angelina Ennacheril – Walter Panas High School
9. A Collection of Poems 19. The Forgotten and the Forbidden Chapter 1
Ava Mack – Fox Lane High School Isaac Ham – Fox Lane High School
10. The Boy of Gold 20. Hispanic or American?
Percy Parker – Haldane High School Yanelli Sandoval Silva – Valhalla High School
1. The Four Seasons LETISHA BAKER – WHITE PLAINS HIGH SCHOOL
Summer was like opening a perfectly wrapped present only to
receive something you specifically told the person you didn’t want.
While there’s nothing inherently wrong with the season, the fruit it
bears doesn’t render me speechless.
I crave the elusive chill of winter. I adore how the season’s frosty
weather is fantastically unique but inadvertently dangerous. No
snowflake is the same. Somehow, the sky never gets writer’s
block like me. It has boundless creativity, producing one icy
masterpiece after another; this snowy phenomenon strengthens
my faith that there is a creator. Winter is a heavenly season with
god-like qualities, the power to create and destroy. Somehow,
trees muster up the willpower to withstand freezing temperatures,
and the animals in the forest sleep through the season unfazed by
its minacious tendencies. I’m covetous of that bravery, the innate
ability to show courage through tribulations and find beauty in the
treacherous.
Spring is a season unafraid to show its feminine side. It’s a season
that proves there is strength in the delicate, integrity in the soft-
spoken, and wisdom in the young. Spring is evidence that you can
be renewed spiritually. It’s a season of healing and rejuvenation.
“Every season is equally important; they all have a perfect purpose,” my mother It’s a season that reminds you to slow down and smell the roses.
would say in her soft but stern voice. But I never believed her. How could The budding tulips help you realize that showers bring flowers and
summer be on par with the other three seasons? great things take time, so be patient. You will get through whatever
trial you are facing; just be patient. Spring is the season that shows
I was a wayward child who preferred wayward seasons. I got high off the there is nothing weak about being a woman. When you see the
anticipation of waiting for winter’s first snow and spring’s inevitable blooming baby birds hatch from their nest and look up to their mother in
flowers. Why would my mother expect me, the child who would jump off high awe like they’ve seen an angel, use it as a wonderful reminder
surfaces landing knee first into concrete and sword fight with rusted pipes, to that weak and women are not synonymous. The mothers of spring
like such a stagnant season like summer? taught me that I don’t have to disown my feminine to be strong
because there is strength in the delicate. The season I was born in
June 21st through September 22nd in New York was all too predictable. The showed me that I could be reborn because the same flowers that
only adjective I could use to describe those months is hot. Summer didn’t have wilt always come back even more vibrant.
the mystique of fall, the charmingness of winter, or the beauty of spring. It
had children trying to find ways to entertain themselves now that school was
out, overcrowded beaches, and limited clothing choices. None of that seemed
appealing to me.
1
Autumn or fall, the season so magnificent that it needed two names, also After pondering my childhood memories, it makes no sense why I
the only time of year I’m excited for nature to wither. The cascades of couldn’t see summer’s perfect purpose. Winter helps me appreciate how
butterscotch, scarlet, bronze, and plum leaves collect at my feet, proving wondrous nature is; spring shows me what it truly means to be a woman,
that aging can be graceful. Those elegant leaves colored the same autumn allows me to reflect and slow down, and summer reconnects me
hue as fine wine prove that death is not the end. Autumn is a season with the wayward child still sword fighting with rusted pipes inside of me.
of warmth and chill. You can drink warm or cold cider. You can pick
fresh crimson apples or eat delectable apple pie right out of the oven.
You can snuggle under wool blankets or hold hands as the cool breeze
sweeps you to your destination. If Paris is the city of love, autumn is the
season of love. Something about the season screams family and friends
bonding over a fire. Something about autumn reminds you to count your
blessings. It’s the perfect gift after a scorching summer.
In retrospect, I guess my mother wasn’t entirely wrong. People can’t
help but smile at the thought of summer, so I must not be giving the
season a fair chance. Here’s my best attempt at making peace with my
least favorite season: Summer is the season of liberation. It’s the only
season you can strip down to almost nothing without people making
assumptions about you. Summer is the season where everything ripens
to perfection- you can see apricots, plums, peaches, nectarines, and
grapes glisten in the light at the county fair. Summer also ripens people;
at the start of fall, everyone will be at least two shades darker. The idea
of summer love is enough for anyone to book a trip to the Bahamas,
whether they can afford it or not. The concept of kissing under a moonlit
sky while the waves crash behind you drives thousands to resorts each
year. I can’t deny that some of my best memories are in summer. I
remember planning elaborate trips with friends to amusement parks
once school was out. We’d run around till dawn eating cotton candy and
ice pops. The sticky, sugary liquid would trickle down our lips, staining
our tie-dye shirts, creating a psychedelic pattern. We’d hop from roller
coaster to roller coaster, thanking God that we didn’t have to lug around
huge coats to keep us warm. Then we’d look up to the sky and thank the
fiery sun for these extra hours of light. I remember thinking, “this is what
it means to be free.”
2
2. Untitled ANNA CARPINELLI – WESTLAKE HIGH SCHOOL
When I was in second grade, during recess, I was hit squarely in the
forehead by a football. Seconds after it had happened, my surrounding
peers erupted in laughter. I remember looking around in silent horror
to see all the faces twisted in amusement while their hysterics flooded
my ears. I couldn’t understand why everyone found it so funny. I mean,
I kind of got it, we were eight-year-olds; we laughed when our sneakers
made obnoxious noises against the tile floors.
After a minute, Ryan Howard, one of the popular boys in class, trotted
over to where I stood, leaned down, and picked up the ball. I knew, in
that moment, that he was the one to throw it. Maybe it was his sly grin
or his prideful snickering, but it was so obvious to me.
“Why’d you do that?” I had asked him. Up until that point, I hadn’t
had more than a few conversations with him. We never had the same
classes; we weren’t in the same friend group; at recess, I was the bird
watcher, not a football player.
I hated a lot of people in that school–the teachers lacked
He stared straight into my eyes and said, “You were in the way.” sensibility, the students were cruel, and Ryan Howard existed.
Somehow, this made everyone laugh more. So, in fourth grade, when my father was forced to move
locations for his job, consequently moving us three states
After that day, I never again asked someone why they did something- over, I was relieved; I would never have to see or hear about
-whether it was to me, to others, or to themselves. They could murder Ryan again.
someone right in front of me, and I would not ask, “why?” Maybe it
was some sort of childhood traumatization. Either way, it was just how It wasn’t until years later, when my mother told me that
I turned out. Ryan had passed away in a car accident, that I came to a
realization--I didn’t care. And it wasn’t because of what he
Now, when I look back on that moment, I realize my dramatics, but I did to me in second grade, I just, honest to God, could not
also understand why I had considered it so terrible. I was humiliated. gather enough emotion or energy to feel sad. I’m not sure
I had never been the center of attention before, especially in such a how 8-year-old me would have reacted to that news, but the
negative circumstance. It was terrifying. For several weeks after I was hit version I am now reacted as if you’d just told me what day
with that ball, I’d relive the moment every time I looked at Ryan Howard. it was.
He was a walking, talking, breathing symbol of it. And I--an eight-year-
old who could not spell the word “orange”--hated him for it. Well, at least I really wouldn’t have to see him ever again.
3
Years ago I asked you your favorite color
And you said it was red
Although I’m not sure if that was even true
I know the old you is dead
3. Red Red was your favorite color
ISABELLA ZAHL – HENDRICK HUDSON HIGH SCHOOL So as my face would blush
You knew how I was feeling
You had my heart to crush
I ran the fastest I possibly could
You reminded me I still got beat
Red was your favorite color
Like blisters on my feet
Red was your favorite color
Except for your red hair
You’d order your sister on how to do mine
Our dates were so unfair
The blood sweat and tears I gave for you
With nothing in return for me
Red was your favorite color
So you bought my heart for free
Red was your favorite color
And I’m the one to blame
Red Flags surrounded me for three years
And I still played your wicked game
I know you’re gone
Far away from me
And this heartbreak is nothing new
But every single time
I see anything red
4. Cloudy Days MOLLY DECKER – MAHOPAC HIGH SCHOOL
Flakes of snow drifted to the ground with an enviable lack of haste, coating still half-full, so she removed a long, thin, white stick, slipping it into her
the ground in moisture. It was chilly, but not quite chilly enough for the jacket pocket with a little wry smile.
snow to stick. The crystals melted soon after hitting the grass, making any
attempt to travel a little more treacherous. Faint rays of sunshine teased the She tramped back through the kitchen and out the back door, ignoring
pavement when they weren’t blocked by the mass of clouds on the horizon. her sister asking her where she was going. The snow still wasn’t sticking,
Leftover frost from that morning glazed strands of quivering grass, and tree but it fell in little flurries around her head. She breathed out of her mouth,
limbs that had just become barren dangled sadly from the sky. sending clouds into the chilled air. Her boots found the footholds in the
short wall to the side of the house, fingers and toes digging into slippery
On the sidewalk, a pair of combat boots thudded into the thin layer of cracks in the rock.
snow, turning into a driveway. Two jean-clad legs followed the feet, and
raised a thin torso five feet and four inches from the ground. Brown Four feet off the ground, she perched, digging the cigarette from her
strands of short hair tumbled from the girl’s head, catching snowflakes pocket. From her jeans she removed a purple lighter, flicking the flint
as she clomped towards a gray shuttered house. wheel and holding down to produce a flame that flickered in the cold.
She cupped her left hand over the flame to protect it and put the cigarette
Her bare hands, red with cold, grasped the rusted knob of the door, in her mouth to light it before letting go of the lighter.
swinging it open on weary hinges so it hit the side of the house with a
bang. She stepped into the entryway, shaking snow off of her navy blue Could she have lit it less dramatically? Less like a rock star-drug addict in
jacket, but refusing to remove it. “Ma, you left the door unlocked again!” a punk movie? For sure. But where would be the fun in that?
she hollered, not bothering to take off her boots, tracking the wet and
damp across the rug and into the kitchen. She inhaled, removed the cigarette from her mouth, and blew out steadily,
grinning at the slew of smoke that clouded the air. Her hand remained
“Mom’s not home, Everly,” piped a voice from the square kitchen table. cupped over the dwindling stick. Her eyes followed the burning end of the
Sheets of homework were spread over the table, encroaching on the vase cigarette as it turned red, then black, then ash gray. She tapped the stick,
of wilted flowers in the center. The voice came from Sarah, who was two letting clumps of ash fall to the ground.
years Everly’s junior.
When the last cloud of smoke had been breathed out by chapped lips,
The lanky teen’s tone softened as she spoke to Sarah. “Why’re you starting she dropped from the wall. She spun a little spin, taking in the nicotine
homework already? School just ended. You’re insane.” rush. She let the cigarette fall from outstretched fingers and ground it into
the dirt with her boot.
Sarah frowned, making more pencil scratches into her paper, barely
acknowledging their long-standing argument. The next day, Everly sat in the parking lot of her school, her legs crisscrossed,
in between two cars, leaning against the tire of a small Honda. The air was
Everly shrugged and stalked from the kitchen, heading to the laundry cold and smelled like car exhaust. She was freezing, once again.
room. On a shelf above the coat rack, buried under purple scarves, was
a pack of cigarettes. Her mother’s. The white package was shiny, covered It was the middle of fifth period. She had English. And truly, she had
in plastic film and inscribed with blue letters. Capri. Like because they intended to go. English was the only class that could draw her attention
smelled a little better than Marlboros, they might not kill you. away from the frosted windows. She’d judge the poets and the novelists
and the short story writers, feeling resentment rising in her for any whose
Flipping open the top of the little cardboard box released a sharp scent words displayed even a glimmer of hope. Even if she hated them, she still
into the air. Mint and cigarette smoke. She evaluated the number of found them interesting. The way words were put together made her smile,
cigarettes in the box, deciding if one would be missed. The package was even if her teeth were carefully displayed out of view of any onlooker.
6
But drifting to the room, she started feeling like her heart was rising up approach before he had managed to sit down next to her, a Coca Cola
out of her chest and into her throat. It wasn’t like there was anyone to sit can in hand. He cracked it open without saying a word, and offered it to
with in that class anyway. It wasn’t like that class mattered the slightest her. Everly shook her head. “I only drink diet.”
bit in the end. So instead, she fumbled down the ugly off-white staircase
and out the door the custodians used to unload trash into the dumpster. The boy lifted his shoulders in an offhand shrug and brought the coke to
Now, she’d been sitting in the parking lot for maybe fifteen minutes, his lips. “I’m skipping too. Wanna hang?”
mostly gazing upwards. Clouds were drifting by, whiter and softer than
the day before, but passing each other with kicks and punches of white She sniffed, lifting her chin. “I’m not skipping,” she said, her breath still
fuzz. She watched a cloud stuff a fist into the puffed chest of another, a bit short. “I’m taking a break.”
pulling out its heart and adding it to its own growing mass. The wind
stung her cheeks and whipped tendrils of hair around her face, but the “Sure you’re not.” He frowned at her panting. “Everything okay?”
longer she sat there, the more she didn’t want to move.
She shrugged, imitating his slouched gesture. Everly leaned her head
Her attention was suddenly drawn by the giggles of a pair of blonde against the gray car behind them once more. Her sigh chilled once it
teenagers making their way down the hill to the parking lot. She knew hit the air, sending a sharp cloud of frustration into the sky. After a few
one of them - they were in the same grade, although they did not talk minutes of silence, she spoke.
- Penelope Wesley, a pretty athlete, was holding hands with the blonde
boy as they headed for the first car in the lineup. Penelope pulled on the “Do you think we’re gonna be okay?”
door handle to the backseat, but it didn’t open. Expecting one of them
to whip out a keyring, Everly frowned as they moved on to the next car For a second, the cold not only froze her breath, but time. Her little throat-
in the lot. They tried that door as well, then the next, then the next. None heart thumped in her jugular. Her eyes found the boy’s face, searching
of them were unlocked. On the eighth car, they got lucky. The backseat for a hint of recognition in his eyes.
door swung open, and they climbed in, as Everly gaped in shock. The boy
lunged over Penelope, mashing his barely pubescent face onto hers and “What?” He said, breaking the spell.
laying them down onto the seat.
Everly stood, brushing dirt from her pants. “Nothing.” She spit her ice-
Everly watched until her breathing was quick and trembling, her brain cold heart on the ground, because what good was it, really? And she
buzzing. She finally turned her face back to the sky, letting the dingy turned and walked away.
clouds calm her mind. So her, Penny, and blondey were skipping fifth,
she supposed. Partners in crime. She closed her eyes, sitting rigidly on the
freezing pavement, trying to catch her breath. If I sit here for five more
minutes, she supposed, I’ll be fine. The cold air will freeze my heart so I
can pull it right up out of my throat, and then I can breathe again. Just
five more minutes, and then I can breathe again.
As her breath slowed, she was interrupted by another body dropping
onto the ground beside her. She started, her eyes flashing open. The kid
beside her she’d never seen before, maybe a grade or two younger, with
brown eyes and curly hair. She was most startled she had not noticed his
7
5. The Caricature
OLIVIA DEVITO – WESTLAKE HIGH SCHOOL
The floor had always been comfortable, but
unexpectedly waking up there was not. This was
quickly learned when he turned his head to the side
and found table legs blocking his sight. Specifically,
his dining room table. The mahogany wood,
slightly chewed at the bottom from the dog he had.
Countless, insufferable family dinners were had here
over the years. The bitter memories made him want
to crawl back to his slumber, the slumber he could
not recall falling into.
His calloused hands grasped the wood as he
attempted to bring himself to his feet. His legs
weakened and buckled as the safety of the floor
reclaimed him once more. Faint ribbons of light
streamed through the curtains from the window
above. The slits of his eyes closed as he prepared to
bathe his face in the sunlight; however, that familiar
warmth never came.
Everything was cold.
A red glow creeped in from the darkness of his still-
closed eyes, beckoning them to open. Yet when he
did, the startling discovery that the red glow came
from the window outside was enough to spring
him to his feet. A debilitating chill echoed through
his veins as he hobbled to the window, pressing
his palms to the glass. A heavy fog of crimson red
blanketed the street.
Did the fog cover the whole town? Maybe even the
world… He pondered these thoughts to himself in
an almost manic state. His racing mind was the
only thing he could hear, for the mist had carried an
impenetrable barrier of silence. A quiet that was so
heavy, it was suffocating.
8Turning away from the window, the entire home was dark. Devoid of “Good Morning. I’ve taken off work today, we can all have some quality
all light, all signs of life as well. It was as if all inhabitants of this quaint time together. Feels like we don’t do that much.” His father stated, which
house in a suburban neighborhood had disappeared, evaporated into was unusual for his workaholic self.
that blood-red quilt of gas. Many days, the boy wished and prayed for
people to stop being so loud. He found the sounds of their laughter The boy looked into his father’s eyes briefly. But that second of eye-
irritating, the way they chewed their food or tapped their feet against the contact held enough tension to clue how he really felt about his dad.
floor. But now that his prayers had been answered, finally, he had never Remembering the mist, he turned back to his mother, “Have you checked
missed the noise so much. outside yet?!”
Reluctantly, he turned the corner of the house into the kitchen, its wooden She walked to the bedroom window and peered outside, “I’ve always
cabinet doors beaten down and falling from the wall. The microwave enjoyed gloomy mornings. The sun should be rising soon.” Her face
read the time: 6:13am. This would be the time he would be sleeping on darkened again as she remembered the sunrise, yet she fully ignored the
any usual summer day. But this day was different. It didn’t even feel like a red fog’s existence.
day at all. It was as if he was in a different reality altogether. Questioning
his existence, he continued on through the house. “What about the red mist?!” He was almost yelling now, frustrated by
their nonchalance.
He couldn’t shake those nagging questions from his brain. They were like
flies, crawling on his skin and buzzing their intolerable songs in his ears. “Y’know, I’ve always thought there was something off with your vision.
The thoughts made him itch, and when he did, he ended up pulling a Maybe you really are color-blind.” His dad chuckled.
fly from his hair. Repulsed, he crushed the bug in his fingers. Actual flies
were now buzzing all around his head, as if they were plucked from his “I’ll start on breakfast. I know it’s early but, the sooner that we get things
disgusting imagination. He peered into the hallway to find the source of done, the better.” His mother said, her last remark puzzling him.
the vermin when a noise stopped him dead in his tracks. The wooden They were too calm. He lost his appetite.
floorboards creaked-- subtly-- but enough to hint at some other life in
the desolate home. Quietly backing out of the hallway, he waited for the Both parents walked past him and headed for the kitchen, his dad gently
noise to draw nearer. It was coming from the spare bedroom. Shuffling grabbing his arm and pulling him from the hallway as they went.
noises… was it feet walking? The bedroom door began to open. Whoever
was behind that door was scared; he could sense this in their gradual “You two sit at the table, I’ll make the scrambled eggs,” his mother
opening of it, followed by hushed whispers. suggested.
His mother stepped out of the room, she didn’t notice him immediately. He was dreading having to sit at a table with them. Was he the lunatic for
Her face looked sullen, then she saw him. seeing the mist, or were they for not seeing it?
“Oh, what are you doing up so early, baby? Well, early for you, I should With his mother fixated on the stove, she went off on her tangents, “The
say.” Her face seemed to lit up as she spoke. food will be ready soon. I remember when you were younger, you used to
eat this all the time. After I would come home from work, you would beg
Baby? He was taken aback by the pet name, something she rarely called me to make this for you. It annoyed me at the time but, looking back on
him. Following close behind was his father. it, it was so precious,” she reminisced, hypnotized by the memory.
9The anger of his past was enough to make him leave the dinner table. He pushed his chair in
as his mother sighed with disappointment. The attempt at a perfect family breakfast ruined.
He did remember the other nights, though. The nights where she would fight back tears in
her old mascara because dad wasn’t returning his calls again. The nights that ended in
either a bloody nose or a hug that was nothing short of a caricature. The anger of his past
was enough to make him leave the dinner table. He pushed his chair in as his mother sighed
with disappointment. The attempt at a perfect family breakfast ruined.
He began walking towards the hallway, hearing his parent’s footsteps after him. Something
had caught his eye. The closet door was slightly ajar, enthralling him in its gravitational pull.
His dad sprang into view, breaking him from his thoughts.
No. He did “Hey, we don’t need to go in there. Just stay here with us!” His dad pleaded with him
remember the frantically, acute twitching movements pinged throughout his body. His dad looked like he was
other nights, on the brink of an explosion. His unexpected erraticness sent chills through his son’s spine.
though. The His mother’s hands lightly squeezed his shoulders, “Your father’s right. Breakfast is almost
nights where ready. I worked so hard on it, your favorite, remember?”
she would fight
Ignoring the requests of his parents, he pushed past his dad’s barrier and grasped the door
back tears in handle. A warm energy ebbed from the entrance, encouraging him to move forward. Hands
her old mascara grabbed his arms and head. These hands were pulling, yanking, desperate hands, no trace
of benevolent intent left. Unbridled calamity had broken through the surface, just as he had
because dad broken down the door.
wasn’t returning
his calls again. Tumbling into the room, he hit the ground hard, feeling something brush the very tips of his
hair above him. Cautiously, he lifted his face to find the bottom of a foot resting on his nose.
The nights that He crawled backwards, revealing a horrifying reality as it unfolded before him. The feet were
ended in either a part of a limp and lifeless body, attached to the ceiling from a noose. The body ached for
a bloody nose or him, and as he scanned its face, he saw his own staring back at him. The same flies that
were circling his head moments ago crawled down his deceased body’s face above him.
a hug that was Paralyzed with fear and disgust, warmth hit his head.
nothing short of
a caricature. The sun had risen. The light, in its ember glow and beauty, beat down into the faces of his
parents as well. But the eyes that looked back at him were no longer brown.
They were two pairs of red, beady eyes.
106. Self-Portrait
SABBIA GALE-DONNELLY – MAHOPAC HIGH SCHOOL
i have no reflection
in the bathroom or on any surface
but if i did
it would look like Judy Garland
dancing in a puddle
over a soundtrack of whistled notes
that make me miss a time i’ve never known.
it would look like a story
carried bard-to-bard
honest-to-god
& saved for an evening fire
where everything comes out.
when I glance
in the mirror I see no thing
but if I did it would be sweet
& certain, the type of shadow
you play with on a sunny day
trying to stand on its head
the type of shadow you
stop after showers to talk to in steamed glass -
kind eyes, close, kissable
a preacher of self-love.
117. Chapter One: Kaali
CHARLOTTE GENESI –PAWLING HIGH SCHOOL
Four young children grew up together in an orphanage. Now, no longer tourist would ride back on a beautiful sunset carriage ride. When they go
children, they are grown and separated. They don’t read bedtime stories to tip their driver, however, an empty pocket and a jolted heart are all they
about hidden magical objects, don’t create forts with their thin sheets, had. The thought pleased her; the rich are worrying over their lost cash.
instead, they resort to a life of misery, alone and unheeded, with only one
thing in mind, a wish. Kaali bit down on the inside of her cheek: her eyes were wide open like
that of a dead woman. She glued her eyes to the streets. As she did, men,
Kaali perched herself high above on the slanted buildings, gaining a fully dressed in black suits approached from a dark alley. They grasped
panoramic view of the slums. The rooftops were slick with moisture, briefcases so tight, their knuckles appeared white, even from afar. Kaali
making it nearly impossible to keep her footing. She watched all the almost laughed. Awe, she thought. They’re nervous. If I have time I’ll kill
people carefully, as they chattered mindlessly and weaved in and out of them too. She whirled around and crept without a sound to the other side
shops at Ḥilshɛɛr. of the roof, and just as she expected, several men dressed in the typical
tourist starter pack walked in a tight group. One man turned the corner
The slum’s one attraction is ø væropsɨ ppыac (the town market), a tourist and walked alone into the darkest alley. An alley no tourist dared to walk
trap. The thieves would wander around, blending well amongst the people, into. A smile pulled on her lips as she unsheathed her dagger, the weight
then slip their hand into a pocket and steal a wallet effortlessly. The wealthy comfortable in her grip.
12Suddenly, the light mist turned into heavy rain that drummed on the rooftops. She bounded for the buildings, jumping over one, then the other, nothing
Lighting ignited the night, purple and white appearing like window cracks but the dark alleys thirty feet below. But it wasn’t fear that the ground
against the black sky. Thunder echoes like the bellow of an animal. As she caused, it was exhilaration.
prepared to kill again for Ruse LaRue, good fortune shined down upon her.
There was not a single witness insight and the heavy rain would drain all Thori Dow moved surprisingly fast, farther down the alleyway. He clutched
the evidence and blood from the scene. Her body itched with excitement, a piece of paper close to his chest to protect it from the rain. You’re too easy
but she resisted. I mustn’t become inattentive, Kaali reminded herself. The Dow. She was now in line with him, directly overhead, thirty feet higher.
thought of a full meal and a glass of water sat satisfyingly in her mind.
Thori Dow, the tourist imposter, made his way further down the alley, at a She sprinted and reached the end of the alley. Entangled vines covered
quick scurrying pace. A thought itched in Kaali’s mind, Why is he running? most of the wall, including the ladder that was bolted to the side. She
She ignored it and sprang into action. She leaped farther down, jumping began to climb down. Kaali’s feet began to slip, as the rain pelted down
from building to building until she reached her strategically placed cord. upon across her cheeks. Her gloved hands were the only reason she was
able to climb these walls. They were also the only reason she was able to
The streets turned empty. Some children cried as they got their orange kill and never get caught. Kaali’s wanted posters embellished every wall
capitol dresses wet, others began to collect rainwater on their tongues. The across the slum, and if the stories were true, even some near the rich
adults cramped into stores or under umbrellas, waiting for the shower to sections of the kingdom.
pass. Little did they know, it never stopped raining in the slum; at least it
always felt that way. It was just Kaali. No nickname. No last name- at least none she knew
of. But, Kaali was always wanted, yet there was no evidence to prove her
She walked across the narrow cord, holding her arms out for balance. It murders. She was sly like a cat, hid like a chameleon, fast as a tiger,
was taut and sturdy and matched any other clothing line string along the heartless like an assassin, and could best any of the Witches in the isles.
slums. Kaali heard a splash to her left and whipped her head around to
get a clearer view. The cord swayed back and forth. She struggled to keep She jumped to the ground, not making a splash in the puddles. Thori
her balance as she moved with the wire. Dow was close to the end of the alley. She pressed herself against the
wall. The dagger was gripped tight in her hand. In her other hand, she
Kaali placed a hand over the empty hole where her left eye once existed. held a thick cloth napkin. Her hood and mask were set over her face,
Why must it be this way? Just a few weeks ago, she was caught by a local concealing her identity.
gang leader. She was given a choice: her eye or give information on a
local bar owner. She stuck her chin out stubbornly saying, “Why?” The She heard the splash of footsteps nearing. Her senses heightened. Another
gang leader refused to answer, so she refused to talk. And then, in a single life. Just one more. She repeated every time, What could be the difference
slash, her eye was taken, leaving a disgusting, empty space behind. It between thirty-nine and forty. She kept track, a small mental note. One that
made all she has known harder. brought her both pride and sorrow.
She took a deep breath and dove for the other building. With a soundless May you live out your days in the hands of the Goddesses. She launched
roll, she made it across the wire. The splash was a kid jumping in the herself forward just as Thori Dow reached the end of the alley.
puddles below. Pull yourself together Kal. She gripped the dagger tighter;
the cool metal was a comfortable distraction. You have a job. Her stomach She impaled his stomach and heard the split of his skin. A small smile
groaned and her mouth became drier by the second. crept on her face. A full meal and water. She shoved the napkin down his
throat before he could scream. His eyes bulged and tears formed on the
inner corners.
13He buckled down on his knees. Her hand lay on the dagger. May you live Kaali got up, stumbled and bounded for the roof. She reached the latter
out your days in the hands of the Goddesses, she thought again. Then, took with shaking arms and climbed. Everything was lost in a haze; the pattern
back her dagger. Thori Dow dropped, splashing in the puddles. The blood of the rainfall, the girl happily skipping further and further down the alley,
made a red waterfall down the alleyway. She reached down to check his coming closer and closer to her father.
pulse. Flipping him over, she placed a hand to his neck… nothing. Forty.
She made a mental note in her head and looked back at his face. She reached the roof, and that was when she heard it. The little girl’s
scream. “Dada!” The girl dropped down on her knees and looked at the
Thori Dow didn’t look as if she anticipated. LaRue said he would be a blood pouring from his side. She looked into her father’s widened eyes.
blonde, but she did not expect someone in their early forties. She expected “Wake up!” She pleaded in a scream. She shook him back and forth
Thori Dow to be at least fifty, maybe even more. She stayed crouched beside frantically. “Wake up!” she yelled. “Wake up Dada!” Kaali could sense the
him for another moment, replaying everything wrong he did. Justice. You girl’s tears. She tried to convince herself that her own was just the rain. But,
got justice for the lives he killed. But why did Kaali feel guilty? she breathed sharply and shook tremulously, just like the small girl.
“DaDa?” She heard a call down the alley. “Did you find her?” The little “I’m sorry,” Kaali whispered. “I’m so sorry.” With that, Kaali put away the
girl’s voice echoed throughout Kaali’s entire body. sticky, blood-covered dagger and took off into the night. A crowd started
to rush towards the girl and the dead man. Another shriek coming from
Kaali hid in the natural cover of the night, where the girl in the orange women. “Bradie!” A woman’s voice echoed. It was followed by a scream.
dress would not be able to see her. She reached inside the man’s pocket A scream louder than the crowd of people, louder than the thunder, even
for his wallet. Freshly made leather, precisely cut, an orange oak leaf at its louder than Kaali’s own mind. Kaali kept running, faster and louder than
center. Such a design is only popular in the capital. She reached inside for she had ever run before.
the ID.
Kaali’s body movements became slower as her breathing became faster
“DaDa!” The girl calls again, “Where’s my puppy!” Kaali turned the ID in and faster. Calm down Kal, she told herself. She leaped from one building
her hand. She was shaking and more terrified since the day she left the to the next, feeling no comfort in the heights of the rooftops. The rain
orphanage. The name on the ID was Bradie Monel. Her heart sunk to the began to slow as a heavy fog enveloped the slum.
floor. She looked at the man dead on the ground, then at the sketch of the
man on the ID. She killed Bradie Monel, not Thori Dow. She took the paper In the distance, she could see the small lights coming from Ruse LaRue’s
out from his hands. A traveler’s guide to Ḥilshɛɛr. estate. Inside the walls were Kaali’s worst memories and the reminder of
who she was- a thief. Even so, it was home, Ruse LaRue and all. She had
“Dada!” The girl called again. I killed her father. Kaali’s body didn’t move. learned to love Ruse, even though she was the one that turned her into a
She couldn’t. Tears clogged the back of her throat and blocked her thoughts. thief. Even though she was the one that turned her into a killer.
“Wake up,” Kaali pleaded in a whisper. She began to shake the lifeless Kaali stopped short, nearly losing her footing on the roof and toppling
man back and forth. “Wake up!” she yelled in a whisper. “Wake up!” She down to the alley. Her eyes burned with tears and her hands refused to stay
shook him more aggressively. Tears began to fall in the same pattern as still. Whenever she blinked, the image of the dead haunted her.
the heavy rain. She stopped and put her hands in her lap. “Please…” she
dropped her head low and let the forty kills come in a wave. She turned abruptly. Ruse LaRue shall never see me like this again. The first
time was the day in the orphanage when she was taken, but after that, a
“Dada?” The girl asks wearily.” Kaali heard the girl coming closer. The girl cold and emotionless soldier she had become in the eyes of Ruse.
was going to see him like this. She was going to see Kaali, her father’s
killer, concealed behind her hood with the bloody dagger in her hands.
14“You’re a weapon; weapons don’t weep,” Ruse would say whenever she Kaali made her way, sulking through the streets instead of the rooftops,
cried. She had learned how to suppress her emotions in fear of hearing all the way back to Ruse LaRue. Without the information Ruse wanted, she
that line. couldn’t be sure what Ruse would do when she returned. She expected the
worst; perhaps nights on the streets, three days without food, or inflicted
Kaali wandered back and slowly climbed down towards the streets, being pain. The thoughts sent a tingle down her spine.
more cautious than ever. It had become late, and the daily night terrors of
Ḥilshɛɛr began to come out. People like her were the only ones that dared When she arrived, a light lay dimly lit. Just two small candles coming from
to roam the streets after sundown. the dining room. Kaali pressed her fingers to her sore eyes one more time,
then hesitantly opened the door.
Tonight, however, the streets buzzed with people. They crowded around
small booths and packed into stores. Some were locals, but most were rich The house welcomed her with warmth and comfort. The familiar entry,
tourists. Kaali studied the crowd carefully. One mother made an exciting made entirely off of lies and thievery. It was coated with rare paintings,
gasp with raised eyebrows, and many others had a plastered look of shock. one-of-a-kind vases, and woods from worlds farther than one would travel
with any horse.
Her mind was completely distracted by these people. Her shaking stopped,
bringing her mind to almost as it was before. She slipped through the Although the house was crowded, the rest of Ruse LaRue’s minions lived
crowd towards one of the booths where the crowd gathered. Kaali slipped in the servant corridors. Kaali stayed in the royal wing, the room right next
her hands in pockets, taking countless wallets, and not one noticed. That’s to Ruses.
what she was good at, being completely invisible.
Ruse was like a mother to Kaali, the only mother she would never know.
Kaali reached the booth and took a flyer in her hands. It was extravagant Kaali remembered all the affection and care Ruse showed her in the
and the paper was none that was produced in Ḥilshɛɛr or anywhere near. beginning. The countless bruises she would ice for her, how Ruse would
An oak leaf design borders the paper, and in large black letters at the center hold her hair back when she was sick, how she let Kaali sleep on the couch
says, Kingdom Ball- all invited- from royal to commoner- all are welcome. in her room the first week when she came, completely alone and afraid.
She scoffs and looks at the crowd’s delighted faces, many thrilled with this Ruse gave her a home and love, even though she showed it differently than
new opportunity. the tourist’s mothers that swooned their children with “I love you” and used
names like bud, kid, princess, darling. Ruse showed her love in the way the
Kaali folded the paper and placed it down the front of her shirt. These events world will show it to her.
were best for the rich to make money. For them to enlist new workers. Many
would steal young girls or the priceless decor, regardless of the guards. “You’re late.” She heard a call from the dining room. Ruse. Kaali’s posture
The Kingdom made poor orders, becoming an easy target for people like straightened and she removed her cloak, hanging it on a gold coat rack
her. She will forever hate them. The two princes and their stepmothers. with lions embellished on it. She kicked off her shoes, leaving them to dry
Living beautifully in a large castle, while everyone else rotted away, slowly outside on the porch for the night.
becoming less and less alive.
Kaali walked softly into the dining room where two dinners sat untouched
She had only one place left to go, the night was becoming frigid, and her at the opposite ends of the large, ebony, table. Heat steamed off them.
long black hair, mask, and boots had all become soaked. She couldn’t tell A variety of mixed vegetables lightly drizzled in sauce sat next to steak-
if her shaking came from the cold or the deeds of the night. The cold, she one medium well, another medium rare- a large stack of bread lay in the
thought, definitely. She will never face her emotions. Like everything, she middle, and on either side were two candles, dimly lighting the room. The
will ignore them in hopes one day the pain would surrender. serenity of the room almost brought tears to her eyes. A fire blazed in the
fireplace, crackling slowly, tempting her to warm her cold sore hands.
15Ruse walked in, holding cups of a steaming liquid. She placed one near “Kaali,” she said, “eat.” Silence engulfed them, until finally, they mindlessly
the setting closest to her, and the other on the other side. Ruse motions for chattered amongst each other. Ruse was simply trying to keep her mind
Kaali to sit. Hesitantly, Kaali obeys. The smell of the food comes to her, and from venturing too far into the unknown void. Kaali forced herself to eat
her stomach growls. as much as she could. Her muscles have grown weak, and if she returned
back to Ḥilshɛɛr, she would need her strength.
A dreadful silence fills the air until finally, “Is he dead?” Ruse asked, sitting
down across from her, pulling the plate of food to her. Ruse begins to eat, Finally, they were both nearly falling asleep over their plates. It was already
taking large bites. the next day. Kaali guessed maybe 2 am. If only, they could stay down here
for the rest of the night, but that might be pushing Ruse too much. Ruse
“No,” Kaali’s voice sounded small, she hated it. On the streets, Kaali was was caring tonight, the part that Kaali loved most. Although, when Ruse
feared. But here, she was thirteen again- a terrified young girl. Ruse doesn’t was filled with fiery, and made plans like reciting the alphabet, Kaali envied
look up and pokes at the pink steak with her fork. that version more.
“Well don’t let your food go to waste, child.” This is for me? Kaali wanted Ruse grabbed both their plates and left them in the kitchen sink. Together,
to ask. But, I said I didn’t kill him. Ruse was always unreadable. Her next they walked in silence to their rooms, said their goodnights, and separated.
action was a mystery, and you never wanted to be on the receiving end of Kaali flopped down on her bed. Exhaustion consumed her body, but
the action. “Arnoff told me a tourist was murdered by a knife wound. A name her mind was completely alert. I wish today never even happened. She
like,” she pauses and Kaali’s heart turns, please don’t say Bradie Monel, sighed. I wish I never had to leave the orphanage. I wish I knew where
please don’t say Bradie Monel. “Ah, yes, Bradie Monel.” Her breathing they all were, I wish… She sat up suddenly, an idea formed in her mind.
stopped short, and her fork and knife stopped moving. “Did you kill him?” She grabbed the flyer shoved down her shirt and unfolded it in her hands.
Ruse asked. Kaali’s bottom lip quivered, she tried to talk, but nothing came
out. “Did you kill him?” she demanded. The next full moon - will be held at the castle. Tomorrow was the full
moon. A smile crept across her face, and for the first time ever, there was
“Yes,” Kaali whispered. Ruse’s fist clenched and Kaali felt as if she had a purpose for wishing.
shrunk three feet under the weight of her eyes.
“Why?” That was all she said. It was nothing demanding and was incredibly
unexpected.
“I didn’t mean to,” she said, “I thought he was Thori. I…. I was certain.”
“Kaali, sometimes the choice that the enemy will make, is the obvious
choice.” Kaali’s eyes shot up. The men in black with suitcases. That was
Thori. It wasn’t a distraction. She was bested by a common criminal. “Now,”
Ruse says, “It’s your job to find out which one they choose to use.” Kaali
didn’t move. The thought of how cruel Thori Dow was, petrified her. To put
an innocent life at risk. He made the girl lose the puppy down the alley,
knowing the father would be brave in search for his little girl to be happy.
Her stomach lurched and tears threatened.
168. The Twin Flames
JORDAN LUBINSKY – FOX LANE HIGH SCHOOL
I know I only have a limited amount of time before my mother
will come looking for me. I grab my books, a blanket, a basket,
and decide to stop by the kitchen on my way to the garden.
Every year during the first bloom of spring, I go to the gardens.
The air is always warm and the flowers are newly bloomed
filling the air with their sweet floral scent. It is always perfect.
Always serene. A moment of peace in my hectic world. My
responsibility melts away and I am left on my own apart from
the world. This is a tradition for me. An ode to the days spent
in the garden as a child. Days spent with my brother learning
the different species of flowers in our garden. We would steal
as many figs as we could from the kitchen and eat them until
our stomachs hurt and our breath was sweet. He doesn’t come
with me anymore. His life is filled with the duty of being the
heir to the throne. But I am the forgotten child. The one who
can avoid her duties. The one whose role is meaningless. I
make my way through the halls of the castle. The walls are
covered in intricate gold designs and the tall windows lining the
wall spill pools of early afternoon light onto the castle floors. I
walk carefully making my way across the castle knowing that
I could run into my mother at any moment. She is like a cat.
Moving through the castle quietly and pouncing on anyone
out of line. Servants, courtiers, my brother, but especially me.
She will take any chance to reprimand me or remind me of
how irresponsible I am. Which is why I take extra care as I
slip through the halls and make my way into the kitchen; the
one closest to the garden. As I push open the door, I feel a
hand grab my arm. I groan. The one afternoon I get a year, of
course, has to be ruined. I turn around to see two piercing blue
eyes staring back at me. I sigh with relief. It’s Harper. Harper
is one of our servants. She is new to the castle. I had only seen
her a few times in the hallway and every time I did, I don’t
know, there was something about her.
17“Your mother sent me to make sure you were on your way to your afternoon We lay under the big cherry tree for hours looking up at the sky through
combat training.” It is Harper. She speaks softly and there is a slight waver the branches of the tree. Between bites of ripe strawberries, sticky figs,
in her voice. I grab her hand and I pull her into the kitchen. and salty cheese, we talk. We talk about the future. Her family. Mine. Our
wishes, and our real dreams. Not the ones we tell to our parents or siblings.
“Go grab the crackers and cheese from the fridge and meet me by the But the real ones. The ones you hold closest to your heart and never share.
back door,” I tell her. Except we did. We allowed each other to look in and see those dreams
of a better life. The dreams of an imagination run wild. It’s weird. There
I know that she won’t force me to go to training. Nobody ever does. It was just something about Harper. She was easy to talk to. It felt natural. It
is a sort of commonly known thing among the servants of the palace. reminded me of when I was younger and I was able to share this with my
They deliver messages to me from my mother and I ignore them and they brother. And now Harper.
pretend like I actually did what my mother requested of me. No questions
asked. It doesn’t benefit them to tell my mother that I have disobeyed her The sun trickling down the spaces between the branches of the trees warms
and it allows me my freedom, occasionally “You’re supposed to be in our faces. I look at Harper. Her short black hair is sprawled across the
training Princess Brianna,” Harper repeats. Clearly, the message hasn’t ground and her skin looks soft and delicate in the sunlight. I find myself
gotten to Harper yet. I roll my eyes at her. “You can tell my mother what admiring her turned-up nose and the few freckles that cover her cheeks.
she wants to hear. Also it’s Bri, not Brianna,” I respond, hoping she won’t The way she smiles and the way her eyes sparkle. I catch myself staring and
go to my mother for her sake as well as for my own sanity. Harper looks turn away. I turn back towards her and see her smiling at me. I smile back.
at me. There is a sort of restlessness I sense from her as well as a tinge
of annoyance. She doesn’t say anything as I walk over to the fridge and
then to the cabinets gathering an assortment of cheeses, fruits, and nuts to
bring to the garden. I look back at her again. She still looks annoyed, but
also tired. There are purple circles under her eyes and as hard as she tries
to stand up straight, she has a slight slump in her stance. I imagine that
starting as a servant in the midst of my father being sick has not been easy.
Not that it’s been easy for any of us.
“If I take you with me will you promise not to tell my mother I wasn’t at
training?” She nods.
I take her hand. She looks at me and there is a sort of curiosity in her eyes
as I lead her through the kitchen and out onto the palace grounds. As we
step out, the air is filled with the sweet scent of spring and I take a deep
exhale. I look over to Harper and I see her body start to decompress. We
go to the very edge of the grounds, where the garden is located. I open
the gate and we slide past ivy and rose bushes until we finally reach my
favorite part. It is in the very middle of the garden. There is a huge cherry
tree surrounded by wildflowers and benches scattered about. I never use
the benches though. I always sit right under the tree. I lead Harper to a part
of the tree that offers enough shade as to not completely block the rays of
sun peaking through the leaves.
189. A Collection of Poems
AVA MACK – FOX LANE HIGH SCHOOL
The wistful hunting grounds dappled by cherry limelight. Alas,
Heaven meets hell with an ardent kiss, birthing the purgatory’s neutrality. no.
The big bang, crashing polarities force the rise of a common ground. You- the one who suffers salvation,
Hearts swell with fast-paced passion and the figurative Romeo and Juliet dripping with perspiration and liquid hubris,
cry in eternal separation, teeming with selfish refusal and expulsion.
cast apart by their stubbornness in amending their parallelism-- O! Fight and fiery you,
heads held high, hearts held dear while the world falls around them. sweet, sparkling-- my darling ostentation.
They turn to flowers; forget-me-nots in constant bloom. I’ll be damned to blame scars on scripture and Scorpio moons.
This dramatically obvious ironic subtlety forces exactly the opposite- I’m scorned for lacking cynicism.
the blissful ignorance that my elders spoke so highly of, I hate every candied, honeyed scar,
suffocating me tonight. but I must thank you.
I am more a woman now than I was before-
Sweet nectar coats bottle and throat while they smile and tilt back their eternally thrust into the gaping jaws of suspicion, consternation--
poisoned visage in rapture and relish. lithe and limber in my deadening innocence.
Everything they touch, tainted by blackened purity; quelled by deaf
intention. Now, irritatingly alert,
somber, but sober,
My cowardice paints my pain in the third person; a weak and brittle plea. are those delightful drunken days forever lost.
Hatred is personal; acrimony is art.
Torment cannot be tasted when a barricade is built.
The Delightful Drunken Days
I want you to feel your claws in my back the way I did.
Oh, you.
Hounds and worlds of grey, contaminated by color.
Heart wrenching red:
soulfully sanguine garnets and scarlets and currants gush across your
ashen sky-
Oh, I bleed for you--
for the days without your strike, without your bite.
and still, I bleed because of them--
the days of strike, bite, bark, cry.
Aren’t you bloody brave?
Slayer of dragons and tiny women,
screams fall silent upon your deaf ears.
Clashes of clockwork and insensible idealism--
expecting time to stop simply to satiate my naiveté.
19Every time I get a bruise, I think of you. All I want is to look you in the eyes--
Somber cascades of blues and violets screaming for attention and care; see clearly the pain, bloodshed of your irises.
blistering, bleeding, sanguine flushes of passion and fury-- The consequences you bear,
that’s what you are to me; purely. self-inflicted sacrifices in the feral fight for control.
Ardent in your beliefs and
I hope you see the kindness in this message-- not contempt. satisfied by your dominance--
You travel life’s trail swaying through floods, cyclones, typhoons, you are a paradox;
but are seized by trees. flushed by quiet rage and thunderous harmony.
Dangerous.
Before we met, I was awestruck by your gracious facade-- Necessary.
how you knew what to say, how to dance, and later, when to cry. You are to be loved amongst shadows and lost souls--
Your choking sobs saw mine and our tears flowed together-- a secret yearning to be brazenly brandished.
an acrid, stinging, burdened river of mutual understanding. And I miss you.
An instantaneous connection with an affinity for pain; prone to
desolation. And finally, I do know.
I felt beautifully, calmly, serendipitously You are no monster,
ill in your presence. no bleeding, blundering curse,
I stayed afloat on our magical river of tears-- no egregious burden.
our union was intoxicating. My dearest, you are lost.
I’d never felt this instant comprehension. I swear I will find you.
I felt both freed and tied to you; shackled by my sole confidant--
and I understood why only trees could conquer you.
As beautiful,
as ghastly,
Stacked Masks
as flowing and effervescent as they are,
trees restrain and astringe a wild soul.
The essence of their being is found in their stagnancy, their immobility.
This forces you into a frantic, frenzied state,
and you run from any roots that could inhibit your precious autonomy.
Your state of flagrant furor, your only mistake:
the roots you’re running from
are you.
And I was stuck--
blithely seduced by your careful kindness.
Those who you’ve met once say you’re agape, spread wide,
an open book.
Those who you’ve truly known say you’re bound tight,
your visage composed of stacked masks.
And then there is me. And I don’t know. And it kills me.
20After the party, I walked home at sunrise. After years of fighting off what I thought was a stranger
Even as the blackness was fading, the sun didn’t peek hurling knives at my back it came to me,
through the limitless sky. I suddenly knew it was me all along,
Vantablack still encapsulated my every move. only aided by obstacles I knew I could conquer.
It still strangled my every feeling. Darling, you are always your own perpetrator.
Earth around me was muted, You just need to find a way to join hands with yourself
as was I. in order to kill your opposition.
After the party, I walked home at the rise of a fist So,
from some mother’s son. after the party, I walked home at sunrise.
I walked home, my clothes stolen from off my back. Trapped only in black lace,
I shivered in the wetness that was my body drenched the soaking fabric was of comfort to me.
in rainwater and soot-- It was the only thing touching my skin that night that didn’t
and yesterday’s drinks and seeping makeup-- come back to bite me.
and dappled by bruises I couldn’t remember the source of. Trapped in lace,
I was, indeed.
After the party, I walked home at sunrise, But I was less trapped than I previously thought.
my boat, capsized, The lace was my liberator.
I had already met my demise, and now I have been set free.
due to those who I now despise--
those who drowned me in what I was meant to be baptized in,
in a murky lake where my memory comes back, how magpies
pecked at my dying flesh,
Trapped in Lace
how they laughed, blood staining their expensive neckties,
they ran around me clockwise,
parading my defeat, but not to overly advertise what they thought
was their victory.
I’m not gone.
Not even a little bit.
They took me by surprise, but that is all they took me for.
They took me for weak.
I am not weak.
They took me for frail.
I am not frail.
They took me for meek.
I am not meek.
They thought I would not fight back.
I fought back.
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