Scholastic Writing

Ben Clinch
Gold Key, Poetry
Mrs. Usinger, Creative Writing

Everything

Five times zero is
Zilch, which is one-half
Of zip. Now, these
Things all add to nada
Which means you’ve done all of this for naught.
You are not nothing. I promise you that.

Nothing is not everything.
What you do will not result in zero
Recognition. Naught is not a number,
It is an idea, just like zilch.
Just because you have nada, doesn’t
Mean that you have zip.

Now, I want you to zip up your heart
Protect yourself from the feelings of nothing
That surrounds you. Tu no eres nada.
Give zero fucks about what they say to you,
What they think about you. They’re thoughts are worth zilch.
Think to yourself that they have done all of this for naught.

Your life is not for naught,
Zip,
Zilch,
Nothing.
It’s not fair that this life comes to a close. From zero
To a hundred, we all end at the same place, where we see nada.

We know it’s over when there’s just nada.
Know that you’ve done something. Whether or not it was for naught
can only be left up to you. Wear number zero on your jersey
and zip around, accomplishing everything you can
before your time is up, and you’re left with nothing.
Once there is zilch, then you can rest.

Until there is zilch, it’s all about
pedal to the metal. Speed forward, don’t look at the nada
That is quickly turning into nothing,
Naught,
Zip,
Zero.

You always have something going for you, not zilch. Not nothing.
There is something. Count from zero, and you won’t end with nada.
This I can promise you. It will not be for naught.
Now, zip up your coat, and go have some fun.

Carolina Colley
Gold Key, Poetry
Mrs. Usinger, Creative Writing

earthquakes

I.
sometimes, I feel the earth moving even
though it is not. I sway as if
my heart has again forgotten where its center is,
though I suspect it has never known in the first place.
ever since the earthquakes in California summer,
I often feel the ground shiver beneath
my aching knees, and this is to say that
sometimes my body forgets it lives on solid ground now.
sometimes I forget everything
is not trying to run, in one way
or another.

II.
the first earthquake, a 6.4, happened on
the Fourth of July. while preparing for
more family to come over, I was
sweeping desert dust from the floor
when it tried to run from my feet.
at first, my head and my knees did not
believe each other. it is often difficult,
this messy business of convincing a body
to be where it is, and not anywhere else.

III.
my heart keeps trying to remind me
that it is lost. sometimes, I am only
a shaking shell who was once in the way of
the earthquake she was raised in and
I do not recognize the people I love.
they ask me why I’m looking at them with such
a far-off gaze. such a not-me look.

IV.
the second earthquake, a 5.4,
happened early in the morning while
I was still asleep. what a thing it is,
to so nearly miss chaos.
to not see all of the steady
rumbling in the foundation of your home.
to not see the gradual hardening of the earth
beneath your feet until it splits,
opening again and again
each year, an old wound filling
with fresh blood.

V.
it is true, I am not the same me anymore.
I am not the same me after each
summer, when I visit family in California and
my earth is shaken again. each summer,
when I have to go back and trace old fault lines.
ones that Mom once prayed I would forget,
used to hope would fold themselves neatly
back into the wounds they sprang from before
I could learn the way fault lines look in the daylight.
our hearts know anger well. our hearts know
the aching want for escape and how our bones
can never forget where they came from.
our hearts know that fault lines live silently
until they don’t.

VI.
the final earthquake happened while we were at
an amusement park. magnitude 7.1
and everyone was all kicked-in instincts
and not knowing what to do. not knowing
in which direction to run first.
there were only shouts of earthquake
and the rides swaying above us,
silhouetting the sunset; each like a child in
the way they danced on the shaking earth, oblivious
to the tremors.
it was almost beautiful. it was
almost such a gentle
thing. it almost
made the
earthquake
seem
easily
Forgivable.

Jesse Davis
Silver Key, Flash Fiction
Mrs. Usinger, Creative Writing

A Modern Day Break Up

Monday 9:45
Today a glass shattered at work- it reminded me of you. I picked up the broken pieces and examined the jagged edges, making sure I only touched the smooth crystalline surface of the glass. Until my pinky grazed the edge, and that’s when I prepared myself for the irritable sensation that would follow. I could not feel the pain until my coworker warned me of the blood that wrapped around my finger dripping onto the burnt wooden floors of the restaurant. It was a small cut, but I could not stand the burning sensation that followed. The bandaid gave me a false sense of comfort, something you were good at it, as it slowed the intermittent flow of blood. I drove home past your apartment building, hoping to see your expensive car we both know you could never afford parked out front. For the past two years, I have tried to avoid the inevitable shards of glass that you so carelessly let break. Maybe it was the sixth hour of my shift clouding the sensibility I always thought I had, or your friends that came in taunting me from across the restaurant, but the skin sliced off my pinky today was all the closure I ever thought I needed. You are a piece of glass that will always manage to bring pain to whoever you meet, and although I have blamed myself for too long for the things I did, I now know I could never have protected myself from the pain you broke me with.

Thursday 8:30
I told you not to text me again.

Eve Dearborn
Silver Key, Flash Fiction
Ms. Hill, English 9

I Remember

I remember. Do you?
I remember the cool of that day, the wind playfully pulling at the ends of our hair poking out of our hats. I remember the feeling of your gloved hand in mine, pulling me through the snow, our small boots printing the path of our adventure, puncturing the pristine white blanket. Your nose was red, your blue eyes sparkling as we hiked through the woods, sleds in tow. I could never understand how you moved so much faster than me in the snow, as I kept falling behind, my small lungs gasping for air. You turned around, grabbed my sled, and helped me up the hill, your siblings trailing behind. Down we went on those beat up plastic things, tumbling and rolling into the soft banks as diamond dust melted on our faces.

I remember. Do you?
I sat in your room, hugging you as you cried into my shoulder. I didn’t know what was wrong, and you didn’t tell me. But I stayed there all the same, listening to your sobs melt into slow breathing as you calmed down. I sang to you softly, humming a little toon as you trickled more snot and tears into my bushy hair. I didn’t mind, just stroked yours as the weeping started again.

I remember. Do you?
We were at a middle school dance, and the music blared loudly on the speakers. The guy I liked at the time asked me to dance with him that night. I said yes and afterwards fled to the bathroom, where you comforted me, neither of us knowing why I was crying, and then went to join your other friends. Now I was tucked into a corner, my feet shuffling nervously as person after person tried to talk with me over the hubbub. You slid over and grabbed my hands, pulling me into the throng. “Please? Just once with me?” You asked as you twirled me around, making my skirt fly. I nodded, because you were my best friend and I couldn’t say no, no matter how uncomfortable I was due to the amount of people around us. The flashing lights danced through your shaking hair as you held my hand and twirled me again, melting my insecurities away from me.

I remember. Do you?
I was sleeping over at your house again, and your parents had talked with you almost all night long. I could hear you and your mom crying through the door, and I hoped that everything would be okay as I scurried to watch a movie with your siblings. Eventually you had come out and we got ready for bed. When we were settled in, I on the floor across from your bed, you scurried over. I scooched my pillow so we could share it and we whispered to each other about everything. I told you about the boy I liked, you told me about your boyfriend, the boyfriend we both thought was safe, although I was beginning to doubt it. You held my hand in the darkness, both of us giggling until your sister threw a pillow at us and you went back to your bed, still snickering.

I remember. Do you?
I remember the first day you showed me your scars, the thin tattoos you cut into your skin. I traced the lines brushed on your wrists with my fingertips as I held back tears. What could I have done as your best friend to let you do this? I remember trying to shake off the distance between us, hoping you would look at me and hold my hand again, dragging me through the leaves and flowers around us. I scanned your face, hoping I could see the girl I once knew in it.

I remember. Do you?
I remember that party. The one where you showed me your scars again, which had creeped up to your elbows. This time they were much worse, layers of scars cut into each other, making a spider web of pain across the inside of your arm. I held on to your arm, hoping they would go away, just disappear. You regarded them as little boo-boos, having your boyfriend kiss them to make you feel better. My stomach churned, wondering if I should tell someone about this.

I remember. Do you?
I remember the tears of frustration trickling down my face as you joined your other friends. You were mad at me for some reason, but I didn’t know which. Maybe it was me being too weird. Maybe it was me standing my ground, trying to tell you that you should talk with your new boyfriend, the sixth one that month that you had proclaimed your love to, about you not liking him anymore. Maybe it was me standing in the doorway of your car, trying to get my old best friend, or at least you, out of the passenger seat. Or maybe it was just you moving on, away from me.

I remember.
I want to have you back. I want the girl who would laugh with me in the dark, run through parking lots screaming in the chill of winter, fly with me when the wind blew, lay in the grass to watch the clouds trail across the sky. I want my best friend back. I miss every moment we had together. I want you back so we can bake cupcakes, dancing together in the sunlight streaming through the window. I want you back so we can run laughing through the rain, bare feet slapping against the pavement. I want the girl who would hug me for hours, or take goofy photoshoots, or watch random movies that would make us cry, or drink tea and doodle, or rant about how stupid high school boys and periods are, or just sit there in silence with me. I wish I had my best friend back. But I can’t because she died three years ago.

Francesca Ferguson
Honorable Mention, Flash Fiction
Ms. Hill, English 9

The End of the Pier

The young brother and sister clutch each others’ pudgy hands as they approach the pier. The sun shines down on their golden curls and the wind blows about the tiny wisps of hair that frame their faces. They steady themselves then take the first few steps onto the freshly sanded wooden boards. They begin their journey but only make it a few feet before their worried mother calls them back to the sandy beach to build sandcastles and splash in the ocean waves. Next time, they say. Next time we will make it farther.

The boy and girl stand at the start of the pier. They were four the last time they came here, but now they are older, stronger, bigger; ready to walk the pier. Their bare toes curl as they grasp hands and walk along the rough hewn boards. They make it farther than last time, but soon have to turn back when a fellow playmate runs up and reminds them that they have to leave the beach soon. Soon, they say. Soon we will make it to the end.

The boy and girl hold hands as they survey the pier that is before them. Their golden curls have darkened and their round cheeks have narrowed as they age. They are awkward, uncoordinated, and unsure of themselves. Still, they begin their journey just as they have many times before. They have almost made it halfway when the boy’s girlfriend, left alone on the beach, comes to find them. We will make it, they say. One of these times we will see the view from the end.

The young man and woman stand on the same spot they have visited for over 20 years. Their bodies have matured and their stances are confident and self-assured. The woman rubs her heavily pregnant belly as the siblings grasp hands and start down the pier. They make it halfway down the pier before the woman feels a sharp pain in her belly realizes the flood of water at her feet is not from the crashing waves. Once again, they are forced to turn back. We’ll see the view soon enough, they say. Soon enough.

The man and woman hold hands as they walk along the pier. The day is gray and cloudy with no sun to burn their backs and shoulders. The sea spray makes the rocks and pier slippery but they have gained wisdom and experience from their lives, and pick their way along the pier carefully. They have made it three-quarters of the way to the end when the woman’s teenage son and daughter run up complaining about something their younger cousins have done. Soon, they say. Very soon now.

The elderly man and woman hold onto each other with one worn and weathered hand while the other clutches a three-pronged cane they use to support themselves. They have returned to the pier for what they hope will be the last time. Their bare feet clutch the decayed and sagging boards, just as they did when they were children. They have almost made it to the end; it is within reach, when the man’s arm goes limp and his hand falls out of his sister’s grasp. His breath shortens as his skin becomes cold and clammy. Sweat beads on his forehead and he feels the world swirl around him. He is overcome with a sense of impending doom and they are forced to turn back. Next time, they promise themselves. Next time we will make it to the end.

The old woman stands alone at the beginning of the pier. Her back is hunched, and her wrinkled face is lined with sorrow. She has no hand to hold in her own, but instead grasps at the empty gray sky as she braves the pier’s broken and splintered boards. The sky threatens a storm, and the dark thunderclouds impede the view. The woman carefully makes her way along the pier. She passes the places where she turned back when she was 4, and 8, and 16, and 27, and 43, and 70. After nearly a century, she finally reaches the end. She straightens up and stares into the distance. This is not how she envisioned herself reaching the view. Her solitary dark form is silhouetted against the sea as she stares alone into the distance. We made it, she whispers. We made it at last.

Sophia Grassi
Honorable Mention, Flash Fiction
Ms. Hill, English 9

Dragon Eyes

I had always been told that people were jealous of my house and the woods behind it because I had a beautiful stream covered by the trees. The water was clear and fresh and the bottom was sandy in most places, and I always wore my bathing suit. The afternoon sun reflected off of the trees, gleaming onto the texture of the water. Something strange caught my attention. There seemed to be a blue roundish object at the floor of the water, shining when the light caught it right. It was beautiful, and it looked like the sky when Dad used to take me to the beach. What could it be?

I took off my shirt and dove into the water, feeling its chill consume my body. I opened my eyes and tried my best to see. I came up closer, and it was clear that the object had an egg shape with scales on it. I grabbed the egg, feeling its scales catch on my palms. I planted my feet firm into the watery ground, small particles swirling around me, and started swimming up. It was slow getting up to the surface; this egg was small-ish, but had some pounds to it. Nonetheless, I tried my best to , saving the last bit of strength to pull myself up. I stayed focused on the egg as I took a deep breath of air, and saw that there was a crack in it. I was so confused. Why was there an egg? Is this some sort of unfunny joke?

After some contradicting, my curiosity got the better of me, and I carried the egg home, glancing to see that my mother had already left the house. I carefully carried it upstairs and set it on my desk next to the window. The egg had become dry, and was about the size of my outstretched hand, wrist to fingertips. I kept it there as I did my homework and studied for a few tests, glancing at it every now and then. I started to doubt its significance, until I noticed the crack had run farther down, and it started to twitch.

I’m not sure I recall the feelings I had felt. There was some fear, some confusion, but
mostly anticipation. Did I find some mysterious creature? Will it “hatch” soon? After a few hours of forgetting about it, I went to sleep. Little did I know, that night, as I went to sleep, the egg had hatched.

It started as a weird feeling, like an itch, on my foot, to which I rubbed on the blanket. However, upon rubbing on the blanket, the itch didn’t go away and I instead felt something catch onto the blanket. After a bit of rising panic, realizing something was hanging on my foot, I jumped up out of my bed, and whatever was on me was off into the blanket. I ran over to the light switch, turned it on, then saw the blankets moving. I approached my bed, grabbed a corner of the blanket, and tugged it out. I couldn’t even see the thing, there was just a flurry of blue as something flew up and perched on my ceiling light. I was thrown aback against my wall and ran out the door, shutting it behind me. From my upstairs floor, the windows showed the driveway, lit up by my exterior light. My mom’s car wasn’t there.

I didn’t know what to do or what was behind the door, but I went inside anyway, feeling brave as ever. I looked to see a small creature on my desk, looking out the window into the dark night. It had small, dark blue spines going down its back, with small wings protruding from the sides of the spines. It was–a dragon? My brain hurt. Dragons, really? I thought they were only in fairy tales. The small dragon jerked its head around and stared at me. Its eyes were wide. Golden. Frightful. It was actually sort of cute once you get past the fact that it was a literal dragon. It scurried over to the corner of my windowsill that was covered by the curtain, and its long, thin, blue tail hung down from under it. I looked out into the hallway, hoping that one 10 times its size wasn’t waiting out there to eat me. To my surprise, the coast was clear, so I slowly walked towards the window, my heart beating through my ears. I slowly pulled the curtain back to reveal the dragon huddled, shaking, in the corner of the window. It looked up at me and flew straight at my face. I threw my arms in front of my face, falling down on my back with a large thump. The creature scratched down my chest inside of my shirt and crawled around my entire body. I shrieked in surprise and ripped my shirt off, flinging the dragon behind the headboard of my bed against the wall. Chest heaving, I backed up against my wall as the dragon crawled out from underneath my bed, its eyes just as wide, golden, and frightful as ever.

Susannah Lavoie
Silver Key, Personal Essay & Memoir
Ms. Hill, English 9

The Town in the Trees

Bored, I decide to go through the town. The makeshift town, in my backyard. I pass the tree where my brother, Sam, broke his leg. He was nine. Sam was always goofy, and we used to jump off that tree and even our deck, into the snow fairly often. This time seemed no different, but when he was met by the crack of ice and not the fluffy snow he was expecting, it hurt, obviously.

I keep going up to our boulder that seems like just a slightly big rock now. “Someone help me up! This isn’t fair! You guys know I have short legs!” I yell miles up to my siblings and friends on top of the boulder. Eventually, someone helps me up just in time for everyone to get bored and move on. It was easier to get on when my friends made a ramp out of a tree branch. I now climbed it with ease. The view is a lot less stunning now, it seems almost disappointing.

Deeper, I see the teepee. It seems lonely out here. “First one to the teepee wins!” My friend yells. Crunches of sticks under the feet of many children come from almost every direction. The winner, often one of the older boys, or whoever was closest, would receive a small token from each participant, sticks or ferns. If you’re lucky a small mushroom we called “hubahs”, the best currency, was awarded. Hubahs could be used for supplies, labor from one of the better builders, or merely bragging rights. If you found a hubah and didn’t have to work all afternoon for it, you could die happy.

Inside the teepee, I see the shelf that used to be miles out of reach is just merely a piece of bark balanced between the stick walls. What was once our own Eiffel Tower is now only slightly above eye level. The teepee was my brothers’ house and could also be used as a place for business transactions. It served many purposes.

In the middle of town is the fallen down tree which many residential houses are balanced upon. At the end is an indent in the ground often filled with water in the spring and ice in the winter. “Guys come ice skate it’s finally frozen!” Everyone comes and “skates” in our winter boots. Crowded we often bump into each other no one seems to mind. We take turns because there is not nearly enough space for everyone at once.

My foot sinks into the mud of our past skating rink as I keep walking. Further I am met with our town store. “Fuzzy’s” named after our friend’s nickname because of his unfortunate buzz cut. Fuzzy’s was my brother’s store. He was the best at finding supplies, so the store was often fully stocked. It was made up of a fallen tree that pulled up a lot of the ground with it. Underneath was a large puddle rarely visited. At Fuzzy’s you could find anything you needed for building your home. Sticks, ferns, bark, and even flowers for decorating. You could also hire the store owner himself to assist with construction. “Hello sir, I need some help finding a new plot to call my home, and I was wondering if you could be of assistance.” The owner would often help but if he was unable to, he would send his employee to assist you.

I walked to my house which was a gift from our friend. I couldn’t build houses for the life of me, so I was often employing people to make something for me. My house was not very big but sturdy. “Meeting in my house in one minute! Girls only!” No boys allowed in my house of course. I can just barely fit anything but myself in the house now. It was once my palace.

I turn to visit my old restaurant “Stumpy’s,” very creative seeing as it was just a stump used as a table to serve leaf tacos and various stews. “Guys, someone needs to come order something. I’m bored.”. Stumpy’s was one of the lesser visited spots in town. My oldest sister or brother were usually my only customers and only after I asked.

In the back of our town is my friends’ bigger and better restaurant. I don’t believe it ever had a name, but it was popular nonetheless. It was a fallen down tree shaped like the letter Y. In the middle, the workers would prepare your meal. They served burgers. Kids like burgers more than stew and tacos. I was never very jealous because I was also a frequent customer.

Towards our neighbor’s property in the distance, I see our “tree house.” Our tree house was just a platform in between two trees made up of a few wooden boards. “I’m going to play Mario Kart! I’m in first place! I won!” I yelled into the woods around me as my friends were scattered doing their tasks. Even though we had a Wii and were able to play Mario Kart it was much more enjoyable to pretend and win every time. It was worth the many attempts of getting up on to the platform to look out over this town we built.

Looking out, I think back on these memories. Time is such a weird concept, one day it moves at a snail’s pace, while the next it goes in the blink of an eye. When I was in the midst of these times that are now just faint memories, I’m glad I never thought too deeply about time. I lived in the moment and that produced the most pure form of childhood wonder.

When I was younger it felt like I was never the right age to live in this town. When you’re little in the back of your mind you know it’s just pretend, but sometimes that is all you have. You often feel weird imitating something every adult takes for granted. When you’re older and have the real world, you long to be back in the days where you could come and go into reality as you please. I never realized that one day this town in the trees would mean so much to me. I wonder if I had known, if I would have treated it differently. Maybe savored it more. I miss my fake reality.

Evie McLaughlin
Silver Key, Flash Fiction
Ms. Hill, English 9

Diet Coke

I sit gingerly on the edge of the couch. It smells like old people. Like the reward for a life of saving up for retirement. The prize for living the American dream. My Papa is a tall, gangly man with limbs that make his head look too big for his body. He has a beer gut even though he doesn’t drink. I think it’s just extra weight settled there over time. My Nana is a tiny woman with wispy black hair that just barely hides her scalp.

I like my grandparents well enough. They always give me money on my birthday and never insult my clothing choices. I glance over to my mom, settled nobly in a chair. My mother looks like a princess. I don’t know where she got it from, because my grandparents have always lived in this small suburban ranch set in a row of small suburban ranches. And while my grandparents aren’t hideous or anything, neither seem to have that aristocratic quality my mother has. Perhaps I just like my mother that much more. My mom sees me looking at her and drops a discreet wink and smiles a small smile. She slides her thin fingers into a knotted mess and continues to glance from parent to parent, like she’s waiting for something.

I’ve no idea what. And neither, seemingly do my grandparents because they continue to ramble on about which friend has cancer and which has had a heart attack. It almost makes me wish I never grow old. It really sounds miserable. Your friends hospitalized left and right for serious things, with the threat of death breathing down your neck, so close your thin, wispy, not-what-it-once-was hair flutters. You’re nothing but a memory once you retire. And a fading one at that. I guess that’s rather cynical, but I’m very uncomfortable and can’t control what I’m thinking about. I curl forward, trying to make myself small.

“So, how’s Annabelle’s father?” my grandfather barks out. He has a mustache and his face droops like a basset hound’s because of his age, making him sound even more like a dog than he already does. Every word has the hint of that small, short boof noise dogs make. My mom’s waiting expression melts off her face as she twirls a dark curl around and around her finger. So that’s what she was waiting for. I wipe the sweat off of my hands onto the thin skirt of my sundress, and then glance at my mom.

“He’s alright Dad,” my mom says, clearly calculating. Her long lashes dipped in black shield her eyes for a moment. “He’s working in Connecticut at an office job.”

“That’s good to hear. How’s your schooling going Annabelle?” my Nana asks, giving Papa a reproachful look. That’s the other thing, I’m always Annabelle, never Annie or Belle or Ann, just Annabelle.

“I-it’s okay, thank you Nana,” I say quietly with a small smile.

“That’s good darling,” Nana says smiling. A silence, heavy with unspoken words and questions ensues. I glance at my mom, who is staring hard at her untouched diet coke bejeweled with condensation.

“I’d like to-”

“I’m going to-” Mom and Nana say at the same time. They look over at each other, and suddenly it’s like watching somebody in a mirror. Except, my Nana is about twenty years older than my mother. They both bow their heads in a little curtsy-like way, raise their arm closest to the door out the living room and give a gracious but uncomfortable smile. They even let out the same little “ihuhh” before they realize they just did the same thing.

“No, after you,” my mother says. My Nana nods and leaves, and my mom takes a deep breath right before she follows her out of the room. It’s quiet for a moment, but then my Papa turns to me.

“Does your mother need money?” Papa asks his voice low and his eyes wide. He’s craning his neck to see around the door to make sure she hasn’t heard him. I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the heart. Defensive anger for my mother surges through me like a tsunami.

“No Papa. She’s doing very well, actually,” I say pointedly.

“Huh, I’m surprised. She was so young when she had you…” Papa trails.

“Papa I’m fifteen! And mom has a solid job!” I say, furious. I try to ignore the sting in my throat and eyes that indicate I’m going to angry-cry.

“I know that Annabelle,” my Papa says condescendingly. “But I was just asking.”

“No Papa-” I start.

“So,” my Nana barges in armed with a pitcher of lemonade, my mom on her heels. My mom gives me a soft look, her eyebrows scrunched together, and a small smile on her face. And while I know my Nana and Papa are angry with me, that look my mom just gave me is worth it.

Tessa Millette
Gold Key, Poetry
Mrs. Usinger, Creative Writing

All’s Fair in Puzzles and War

Eleven chimes come from
the grandfather clock and echo
throughout the silent house. The glowing
lamp outlines the pieces sprawled
about on the puzzle board.
The two around the board are silent,
as if words will distract
their eyes from spotting the correct
piece. It’s a game of bob and weave
as their heads dodge their own shadows,
allowing the light to guide
their eyes around the table.
It’s a race against time.
The number of single pieces decreases
by the seconds and the picture begins
to appear before their eyes.
The unspoken rule that they each have
their own section hangs overhead.
Once finished, the rest is fair game.
The brown, worn-out puzzle board resurfaces
as the piles of pieces diminishes.
The sections are done.
The true fun has just started.
It’s a game of the eyes, no longer studying
the board but the other person.
Watching,
anticipating what piece will be next.
A guess,
a gut-feeling.
A reach across the table to the
farthest one to the left.
A grab,
a placement,
a perfect fit.
A slap of the arm.
I was looking for that one.
A smirk.
I know.

Tessa Millette
Honorable Mention, Poetry
Mrs. Usinger, Creative Writing

Walking in the Woods

Decisions. Follow the map
or my dog
who seems to know the way through the leaves.
I should know these woods
by now, but all I can think of is the cold seeping through my sweatshirt
and how I have to continue on down the trail.

What was I thinking going down this trail?
I fold up my brother’s handmade map
and put it into my sweatshirt
pocket. Time to follow the dog,
through the woods
I trust him to get me out of the leaves.

The leaves,
explosions of yellow and red along the trail.
Beautiful, I’ll give the woods
credit for that. I never would’ve noticed with my nose in the map.
I continue to zig-zag after my dog,
knowing I have to keep moving in order to stay warm in my sweatshirt.

My faded maroon sweatshirt
blends in with the surrounding leaves.
I’m glad I put the orange vest on my dog
since you never know if hunters are lurking along the trail.
I contemplate pulling out the map
as the sky becomes darker and we head deeper into the woods.

I remember my first time in these woods.
All those years ago when this was my brother’s sweatshirt
and I followed him instead of a map.
It was winter then, when all the trees are bare without leaves
and everything looked like a trail.
But he’s gone now, and my survival is in the hands of a dog.

Her head jerks up at a sound in the distance, and I watch my dog
dart through the trees, away through the woods.
I run after, parting trees and making my own trail.
I duck and weave through the brush, trying not to get my sweatshirt
caught on any jutting sticks and avoiding rolling my ankles on rocks hidden under the leaves.
Fighting the temptation to end this shindig and just pull out the map.

I climb through the brush and find my way back to the trail but no longer see my dog.
What would my brother do? I make the decision to ditch the map and use my instincts to find my way out of the woods.
It’s about time I started leading instead of following. I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt for extra warmth and make my way through the leaves.

Jackson Moore
Silver Key, Flash Fiction
Ms. Hill, English 9

Butterflies

Every year when people turn eighteen, a transformation happens to them. Sometimes it’s simply our strength, or our flexibility. Other time’s it’s something mental, some people get smarter or have a quicker mind.

Our leaders say it’s “Nature correcting its mistakes” which isn’t a fun way to put it. Rarely, rarely enough that it’s barely mentioned at all, nature makes a big mistake. It puts a brain in the wrong body, like a butterfly stuck in its cocoon.

When I’m 18, they say, I’ll become who I was meant to be, who I really am.

All everyone at school could talk about was the transformation, what they think is going to happen to them, what they think will happen to other people. Usually they say nice things about people they like.

Yesterday, my friend Daisy said, “I bet you’ll be so smart and I bet just be a bit more flexible or something,” with a frown on her face. She’s a bit shorter than me, with long brown hair she dyed blonde.

I said to her, “Gosh, I hope not. I’m really hoping for a physical transformation, I can feel it. There ain’t nothing wrong with my brain, I know that for sure.”

She threw her hands with a look of exasperation, “You’re so humble! Are you like this with everyone?” She asked just as the bell rang, so I couldn’t get in the last word.

“Good morning class!” The teacher said, however no one responded. “I know you all want to talk about the upcoming event, but we have aerodynamics to discuss!” Everyone groaned except me, I wanted to be an engineer and design planes, one of the best jobs around after cars were done away with. Boats are only kept for recreational purposes.

The next day, I was eating lunch with my other friend, Artemis. I’d not known her as long as Daisy, but they were still like a sister to me. At least, a better sister than the one I have.

They leaned over to me during a lecture on how many names we know come from the Bible and whispered to me “This is so boring, why’d they choose now for the boring stuff?”

Before I could whisper back, the lecturer, looking bored too, said in a dejected voice “Artemis, please don’t talk during the lecture.”

She gave a look of mock exasperation that made me smile a little.

Today was the final day before it happened. The excitement throughout the school was electric.

I got to class just before the bell rang, but because I wasn’t actually in my seat the teacher still marked me tardy. They probably still hated me from the time I “accidentally” spilled coffee on their chair. In my defense, they were saying “Coffee is not allowed” with a warm cup on their desk, so it was hard to resist.

“Why are you late?” She asked, sounding like Dolores Umbridge from Harry Potter.

“A younger kid wanted to get my picture, if you can believe it.” I said the last part under my breath.

“What was that?” She almost yelled. Her face had turned pink.

“Nothing!” I said with the fake cheerful voice I always use in her class.

“Well, turn to page 1098 in your textbooks, class,” She said.

We all groaned.

Today was the day. We always got school off for this day, but usually it was for people older than us.

Apparently, they’d got it down to a science. Exactly eighteen years after you were born, it’d happen. A few friends and I were on a video call together, so we’d be able to see what the chrysalis looked like from the outside.

Daisy was the first to experience it. It wrapped around her and lifted her up a bit. She glowed bright, like a star. When it finished, she looked the same and yet she sat there, stunned for a minute.

“Well? What happened?” Artemis was the first to speak.

“Somehow, I know exactly how the universe was created and when,” she said slowly.

Suddenly, it happened to Artemis as well.

Daisy gave a surprised gasp, “Wow, it’s . . . so beautiful,” she said quietly.

I finally managed to get my voice back, “It’s amazing.”

In an instant, I felt all my hairs stand up on end, and there was a feeling like lightning was about to strike. My vision was engulfed in a bright light. My heart raced. This is it, I thought to myself.

I woke up to my friends shaking me. “Is that you? Are you ok?” They both asked.

“Ow, my head hurts,” I said. I couldn’t see a thing either.

“You… really changed” they said worriedly. I didn’t really know what they were talking about, but I could feel something soft on my shoulders and back, and it wasn’t their hands.

“I can’t see, I think I need a minute,” I said. They left the room to get some water.

My vision was starting to come back. I could see the outline of my computer screen, and one of my posters. I avoided looking at myself for a while, afraid of what I might see.

When my vision had returned to normal, I finally dared myself to look at my body.

My hair had grown much longer. I was wearing a dress.

“This can’t be right,” I thought to myself “I was wearing jeans before this, and my hair was never this long.”

My friends came back into the room, “We brought you some water, but you should probably sit down if you can,” they said apprehensively.

“Look, we think what happened is that somehow, it made you into a girl. Now, we know how crazy this sounds but that’s the likeliest thing that’s happened.”

I felt a warmness in my chest, and I smiled to myself. This is who I was meant to be.

Ben Snow
Silver Key, Personal Essay & Memoir
Mrs. Usinger, Creative Writing

How Cornhole Changed My Life

“Just put it on the board, Ben!” shouts my Dad. I pick up the beanbag and wipe the sweat from my forehead. The sun beats down on me, illuminating my nervous expression for all of my extended family to see.

I focus on my goal, putting this bag on the board. It should be easy. I have been shooting lights out for most of the day, beating all of my aunts and uncles. Their astonishment when they get bested by a little middle schooler makes me ecstatic each win. I don’t think about how most of the players don’t care about winning as much as they do the Bud Light.

There is a clear line between the folks who actually try to win and those who don’t. My mom is in the latter group, and Dad is tired of losing tournaments despite his clear advantage. I happily replace her as his partner, and he carries me to my first championship.

Still, here I am in the grand finals of the tournament. My dad and I are the powerhouse team, crushing almost everyone we play. He is the strongest cornhole player at the party and we expect to win again this year. All I have to do is put this bag on the board, and then my Dad can end the game. Oh, and if I miss, we lose. No pressure, right?

I steady myself, make sure my footing and posture are correct. I’m shaking. I can feel everyone’s gaze pierce my body. Everything depends on this shot; the whole world is counting on me.

Camera crews scramble out of their company vans and hurriedly set up. I hear a helicopter overhead, filming me from an aerial view. Reporters stand nearby, waiting to interview me after I make this shot. I will not miss. I don’t miss. I step forward and bring my arm back and then forward, like a pendulum. My grip releases, and the bag flies, tumbling end over end.

I feel it immediately; the shot is off. It’s going to the left of the board. Still, I hang on to hope, praying that it sticks. After all, I hit many cornholes that felt off. This one is probably no different.

Yet, I know it’s over. The shot is untrue. I failed. The bag hangs in the air, in slow motion on its course to the green grass beside the board. It taunts me on impact, softly hits the edge of the board, and seems that it might somehow stick. Still, my feelings have no impact on physics, and it ends up in the dirt, along with my dream of winning the championship.

Before I can even think, tears well up in my eyes. I’m a middle school boy, we aren’t allowed to cry. But it’s no use. My devastation is on full display. I shake hands with my opponents, trying not to look them in the eye. I can tell they feel bad for me, even though they earned their victory.

My dad is in a tough situation. I’m his son, but I also just lost him the championship. He sits me down on a bench outside of the tented area. He comforts me and says, “We couldn’t have gotten this far without you.” His voice drifts away. My eyes are foggy, and my ears, muffled. The world spins and fades into darkness.

I recover from the loss later that day. By the time school starts, it’s a distant memory. My dad and I go on to win the next three summers–the first team to three-peat. I’m the youngest champion ever, and my dad and I are the owners of the only trifecta. And while I like to think that we both played a crucial part in our success, it’s my father who did the heavy lifting. Someday, I’ll be just like him.

Autumn Stevens
Honorable Mention, Poetry
Mrs. Usinger, Creative Writing

Daffodil Hill

Another glorious day on daffodil hill unfolds-
as the sun and the moon trade places.
With daybreak’s first blush, my cheeks flush pink with the warmth from the sun
making its way over the horizon.
The sun’s rays shine brightly as a shy dutch tulip.
Another glorious day here on daffodil hill unfolds.
The delicate golden flowers begin to show their faces, fresh with tears of morning dew.
Oh how I wish I could pick you,
but what good would yellow be without its sweetness?
The tied yellow ribbon draped around the little girls golden locks,
Drips honey-
As she bounds through the rows on daffodil hill.
I watch as she plucks the griffin gold petals,
As they cry tears of fresh morning dew,
Dripping honey.

Emerson Totten
Honorable Mention, Flash Fiction
Ms. Hill, English 9

The Cities Marked in Red

The vines curled disinterestedly against the weathered stone bricks, their verdant greenness sharp against the dull, pitted rock. They grew free of reservation, unbothered by the chaotic mannerisms of the outside world. The vines were not inherently special, though they did show a sort of defiant prosperity against the oppressive nature of the apocalypse.

It wasn’t like it was dangerous here, rather that people just didn’t come through. The lasting radiation from the Rust had been discouragingly hard to be rid of, but this sanctuary had been wholly unaffected. Yet it remained, unsettled, unmaintained, and unfixed.

This is why it surprised me so when humans, namely ones who could afford/find the technology of the late two thousand eighties, came through my central corridor.

I had sat up swiftly from the wall, pushing off from it and standing cautiously there as they approached. They were dressed in some sort of technological gear, with helmets resembling that of an old 20’s astronaut, and pretty typical bodywear; light, loose decontaminate suits that billowed in the mild breeze. Their shoes were shiny and black, as well as their gloves, their outfits strangely bedazzled in strips of flaming neon that cast colored glow in the smoggy gloom.

They were armed with odd looking firearms that appeared ferocious and threatening, glowing as well. I backed up farther yet, raising my hands a little such as to put them up or make signs.

They stopped but seven yards away, keeping their weapons down towards the damp ground. My head was filled with all kinds of ideas of what might happen to me.

They regarded me, the shiny black plates of their guising visors damp with the moist air, and I saw some sorts of lights go on under them. They did not speak, not until I broke the silence with a timid, “Hello, there…?”

They turned to each other and made a few obscure gestures, turning back to me afterwards.

After a few seconds, an electronic voice sounded from one of the helmets, speaking with no dialect and enunciating formally and methodically.

“Hello. We are here for direction.”

I inched forward a little, distinctly confused, but even through my confounded nature I promptly said, “Ahm, yes, yes. Where would you be looking to go?”

They turned towards each other for a second yet again, and to my ears small buzzings and clickings from the helmets were heard.

“We will show you,” the electronic voice sounded after a few moments.

They let their weapons hang on their slings and approached me directly. I stood grounded patiently, my concern having eased off now, though I was baffled yet. They stopped approximately two feet in front of me, and one stepped near, indicating to his hand. I cocked my head, seeing nothing extra-ordinary, when a holographic map popped right from his palm into the air a few inches above it. I let out a sound of utter surprise and inspected it. Never had I seen technology such as this before!

His hologram showed a marginally curved plane, upon which were small indicators that resembled bumps and shapes, although there was no such labeling on the shapes. They aligned in deliberate spots until the last few, which were colorless and in a straight line, bobbing up and down mildly. The displaced shapes possessed a red coloration.

The person indicated to the next shape on the straight line, one closest to the nearest red shape. They then waved their finger about left and right relative to the shape. The electronic voice again, “Where is a city?”

It clicked into my head that these were probably settlements, these shapes, and the foreigners wished for their locations. I smiled softly and replied, “Right about thirty-five miles—,” I pointed towards the dusky horizon, flat, damp soil that extended out for the next fifteen miles in every direction from my little cobblestone place. “—that way. Just follow the redbushes, they should be situated every bit-or-so.”

The person stepped back a little, looking to their companion and gesturing, the hologram having disappeared from their gloved hand. I gazed in wonder as they conversed for a moment, making strange sounds to each other. Incredible, I thought, for the amazing difference in the languages that had appeared after the Rust. On they went, and then the electronic voice spoke again.

“Thank you. We will go now.”

“No worries,” I said, waving it off. They were a little strange, but I figured that was just my lack of knowledge for their odd, guttural language.

They nodded, saying nothing more before turning and walking in the direction I had pointed. I watched them go, in all their glow and mystery. It was then I then furrowed my brows, and thought for a moment.

“You can’t walk thirty miles with no supplies! Do you want anything?” I shouted. They turned back now, and I examined their meager, boxy packs, seeing how little they could likely carry.

But they said nothing, acknowledging me and continuing into the fog. I opened my mouth to speak, but then something told me not to, a voice in my head that I had not an explanation for. I shook my head slowly and trudged back into my little house in the stone.

Then, I stopped for a moment, turning and laughing at my own stupidity. The travelers had possessed but three fingers, and I hadn’t even considered this. They had been altered after all. Strange were the ways of the universe.

Some time passed, and as I continued to sit outside and enjoy the silence, I pondered their visit. These strange people with three fingers and their holographic maps. What a strange occurrence indeed. They had not spoken English, either, which had been very curious. I pulled out a can of old soda, looking at the dense fog where those people had disappeared. I sat and I pondered. And as a strange light passed me over far above, an interesting thought hit me in the head.