Poetry
Peace in Nature
Abby Howard Above me fuschia and tangerine streak the sky. Below me water lazily flows by. Green grass stalks emerge from between my toes, my ankles illuminated by the moon starting to glow. Riverside rocks, mossy and grey, keep the frenzied fish at bay. The bold hue of a butterfly catches my eye, its delicate wings flutter by. Over yonder lush green hills hold the eyes captive and make everything else still. The speckled, gnarly, old birch tree sees more than all others can see. A light breeze tickles my toes and the scent of oranges enters my nose. Mottled green leaves sway in the breeze. There is nothing to please and all life is put at ease. Ed
Ned McTigue It’s always nice when the home team wins. It was probably Dad’s favorite thing to say. If you ever saw a Sox game with him, you know it was the first thing he said after they scored the game winner. Probably the only thing he loved more than the Red Sox was his own home team: His colleagues. His friends. Family. He was generous with his friendship, as with his love. And just as we know he loved us, we know equally well his struggles and his pain. But we know now those struggles and that pain are over. We know now he is, finally, at peace. So in spite of this loss, as his home team, we should consider his finding that peace to be a victory. And Dad - it’s always nice when the home team wins. A Lion that Eats the Sun
Delaney DeNorscia Night starts to fade A new day has begun Stare into the sky and see A lion that eats the sun Sunny rays stem From a mane made of gold Devouring our star As the tales had once foretold Glittering beams drip From the ancient beast’s jaw Its claws Firmly grip the heavens Scare away the stars And night never falls Because the beast is in control The moon’s been chased away And the sky’s been turned to gold Gone
Paikea Houston The shadows grow, creeping like ivy along the walls. They slip past the wrappers and bills that litter your floor. You laugh with pride, As you type out a sentence to kill. The artificial light casts a blue, Dead glow upon your twisted face. So immersed, So oblivious, So weak. Your phone in your hand, thumb on send. A message filled with Secrets, that weren’t yours to tell. You barely know her, and yet so quickly you Tear down her confidence. Replies flood in your inbox, from the anonymous that always have something to say. She doesn’t know who Attacks so Viciously. It doesn’t matter in the end, She still swallows the pills. Quietly, each footstep muted, each breath silent, the Shadows arrive. A strip of steel flashes blue, The cranking, desperate cry from your broken radiator drowns out the wet, gurgling Scream. Flashpaper Paikea Houston Spinning and twirling, dress fanning out like a flower, face pointed right at the sky. Laughing, for the joy of being alive, for the freedom to dance and sing. Wild, untamable- a raging fire. Devouring, consuming all the oxygen around. Bounding, weightless, over the grey, lifeless desert. With every leap, I’m sure She might fly. Taking my hands, pulling me with her. With each touch, I could burn. Flare up and turn to ash. Razing my body to the bone. As if that could stop me from chasing the taste of her wild flame. For she breathes life. For she breathes destruction. For I enjoy that pain. So I say, While I step in the embers of her footprint, Let me burn. You Are Enough
Ava Bouley I will never be enough, So it is a lie to say I am smart, I am talented, I am beautiful inside and out. But I know that I am flawed. Like every other teenager, I have dreams. I know that is foolish. People say dreams are for the ones that can’t handle reality, And it’s inevitable. Life throws curveballs at us, Yes, sometimes You need to give up. So I will never let someone tell me My future is bright, And I embrace that. I’m crazy, I’m annoying, I’m weird, And no one wants it. I acted different, To be accepted, And it works. I tell myself I am beautiful to gain confidence, But I get nothing from lying to myself. People said I was worthless and I believed it Because I am. I am not beautiful, I am not caring, So don't ever say I am enough. (Now read bottom to top) Nice to Meet You, I’m Singularity
Anushri Mohan Simply selected by a singular sister older than myself by seven years. With so much responsibility, she simply selected my whole identity. My singular name, Anushri. Nice to meet you, I’m Anushri. (go on, try and pronounce it) Yes that’s right, Anushri. Thanks, I know you think it’s pretty. I know you’ve never heard it before. I know you all say the same thing. Over and over, my name prompts a singular response. I’m flattered by all the compliments, but still unnervingly uncomfortable at the same time. Maybe you could say I’m a psychic, because I can recite the whole way my introduction goes before it happens. Maybe my introduction would be a whole lot easier if I was just an Emma or an Ava. But this hard work of introduction is my singular specialty. And no, I don’t have a nickname. I’ve thought about that, but I just don’t fit with any singular shortened form. It’s like jamming your legs into the wrong size pants. So, sorry if it’s hard for you. Deal with it. In the ancient Indian language of Sanskrit, my name means “beautiful” “pretty” What we all want to be, I’m sure. My name reflects the Indian culture. Not only is that my origin, but it is my singular connection. When I was younger, I longed to change it to something more common. But there’s a whole lot of identity perched on top of the singular branch of identity itself. And all these singular pieces combine to form my singular identity of singularity. Nice to meet you, I’m Anushri. Nostalgia
Ava Jaslowich My home is a dog barking endlessly like the background hum of the world. My home is the smell of dryer sheets in a cold, damp basement. It’s the warm, yellow lighting of inside that cascades onto snow. It’s skinned knees made better with a kiss and a Hello Kitty bandaid. It’s “Mama’s home!” and a long hug after work. It’s the making of Christmas cookies and the flickering of lights on an evergreen. It’s Alvin and the Chipmunks cartoons in pastel colors on an old computer. It’s dress up parties with the frilliest of skirts and plastic pink jewels in tiaras. It’s old stuffed animals with matted fur and the familiar floor creaks, hums and bumps of the house with chipping grey paint. It’s Barbies with matted hair and and bitten off legs, the sand of noon time and chasing seagulls, hands sticky and left multicolored from arts and crafts, finding the first flowers of spring, a dot of purple in green. A messy minivan, nightly study sessions for spelling tests, never finding four leaf clovers, and the wooden feel of grandma’s house. People laughing, jungle gyms, the pages of a favorite book, and car rides home after dark, after long nights of laughter. Home is built in childhood But relied on when grown. It disappears and reappears in life Through a familiar smell, through old pictures, through people. Three Small Letters
Ben Bonczek B-E-N, Just three small letters, A one syllable word, But a syllable that means so much more. B-E-N, Given the name from my amazing parents, Mom, a beacon of emotional strength, And Dad, the hero who goes out each night to protect us. B-E-N, What my brothers have yelled across the house, Or call out while playing sports in the backyard, The name my lazy dogs will only hear but never understand. B-E-N, An important piece of my friend’s life as they are of mine, My laughter the cure for their sorrow, And my leadership the ultimate responsibility. B-E-N, A resident of Holden, Massachusetts, All of those late night bike rides, The secret pit that only the close ones will ever experience. B-E-N, From a home built on trust, Tightly packed with the love for one another, But a home that I would want no bigger. B-E-N, Whose heart belongs to the sand, The sunshine of those beach days, And the bright lights of the boardwalk nights. B-E-N, Always holding a football, Whether watching or playing, Even when my little hands could barely fit around one. B-E-N, Lover of food, From sweet, to salty, to sour, There is nothing that will be turned down. B-E-N, Who will not always make the right choices, Just trying to find the best path, In the crazy world we live in. B-E-N, No shortage of conflict, Stress acting like a monster, Bogging down the depressing days. B-E-N, Terrible losses creating peaks and valleys, From cousins, to dogs, to grandparents, The sticks and stones breaking so many bones. B-E-N, A strict perfectionist, A blessing when it comes to a final product, But a curse during the journey there. B-E-N, Supported by so many, So when life knocks everything down, It is effortless to get right back up. B-E-N, Built on family, Built on friendship, Built on flaws. B-E-N, Remember the name, The name with just three small letters, A one syllable word. Because the person behind it, Eventually will become what Nobody ever imagined. And mean so much more. |
Where I’m From
Christine Boadu I am from a place where the sun shines more than it rains turning our skins golden brown to withstand the rays of the sun Here in this magical place everyone looks like me I am like every other person walking down the sunbaked streets where the soil is stained bright red from the blood of our ancestors who fought for our freedom I am from the western side of Africa where the air reeks of smoked wood, gasoline, and of the earth. Where the air is so humid that you can slice with a knife I am from a place where the stories of our struggles are told in folksongs and dances. A place where poverty walks side by side with plenty Where children have to work hard for their next meal Losing days of their childhood in endless toil And yet mansions litter the streets the next block over I’m from a place where the food is organic by default Where you can taste the richness of the earth’s bounty From Banku & okra to Jollof To fish from the Atlantic and grass cutter from the jungle Where the food is as rich as the culture A place where the sun falls slowly asleep across the land Turning the sky into a deep bright red Resting underneath the African sky The howls of the street dogs and songs of the Sunbirds Split throughout the silence of the night And calls out to all souls To say: “That a new day is on the horizon filled with hope” Girl:Unsteady
(inspired by Polygraph Eyes by YUNGBLUD) Ali Garofoli it was her best mate she was drunk on cheap wine the milkyway was in the sky so bright it lit up her blue eyes they were just a teenage cliche there was so much pressure and this girl could feel his eyes undress her as she stumbles his hand out to catch her his nails digging in they scratched her she begs him leave me alone mate we all know what happens next he has his fun, leaving her with regret daylight wakes her up the next morning and the hangover hits but not as hard as the words “thanks love for last night” and when she tried to explain to those around how the words had slurred as she spoke how she couldn't even talk but they couldn't even understand in their minds she got what she deserved she started shouting at them for hours don't leave me here you're the ones that i love and now this girl she can't even run no she can't even hide from the pain she feels inside but she knows he’ll never have polygraph eyes My Name Is
Elly Hume Link: See Elly perform "My Name Is" Elly. My name is E-l-l-y. Not spelled E-l-l-i-e, no, spelled E-l-l-y. I used to pride myself on being the only Elly in my school, my grade. It was like a badge of honor for having a unique name. I wasn’t another Abby, or Ella, no, I was Elly. The peculiar thing about my name is that it doesn’t have a defined meaning. I’ve looked it up. There are some guesses for what my name means, in old German, old Greek, maybe even Latin; but it’s never the meaning of my name, nice and straightforward. It’s always Ella, or Elenor, or Elizabeth, or maybe a derivative of any of those names to reach mine. I could have been an Emily, or Sarah, or Rose. Maybe an Eliza, or an Evelyn. But instead, My name is Elly, E-l-l-y. People are always surprised when I tell them I have a real name, an “official” one. Like, my nickname, my name to them, was my identity and they couldn’t imagine me as anything else. Is that a compliment? Couldn’t imagine me as anything, anyone, else? When I tell people my name is Elyssa, E-l-y-s-s-a, there are a small handful of reactions; each reaction dependent on the generation of names they come from. “Oh, really?” “That’s such a lovely name.” “I didn’t know that!” Thanks...I guess. Why do we associate names with adjectives? Is the name itself not enough? Is a name too plain in and of itself that is has to be given a word to describe it with? Or is it the opposite? That a name has an unquantifiable amount of meaning and power that is has to be reduced, simplified, to fit the person? Is the act of designating the name with a descriptor, that bounds the name to a chain of feeling that it is nothing more than a name? Is it possible, to find a way to portray a name, to tell a name, to share a name, to have a name, to be a name, in such a way that it has no responsibility to, or detriments on the person? Will it ever be possible to forge your way through the forest of letters and syllables that make up our titles; to escape the crushing weight of people choking on our very names as they struggle to say them out loud? I read a book once about a girl who saw colors along with the names. A girl who felt lost because she saw colors with the numbers and names. I wonder what it would be like if we saw words along with the letters that make up our names. Would the words fit who we are? who we think we are? who we wish we were? Or would they be completely different than what we thought? More of a “nah, that’s not right” or “no, that’s not me.” Would names have less to do with what we look like, and more with who we are if they weren’t given the capacity to determine who we want to be? If they weren’t given the ability to shape our future? Think about it. You walk into a job interview and the first thing they read on your resume is your name. Not your attributes, not your skill level, not your qualifications. They don’t assess your personality without a name being attached. So they can compare and contrast you later to everyone else on the long list of names who signed up for the same position you did. Your name is the top of the paper. Your name is at the top of their mind. Your name hovers above your head like a floating street sign telling the passerby when to stop and say hello or when to yield and keep on walking. Shakespeare once wrote: “What’s in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” It’s a nice sentiment, but is it really true? Back then it might have been, when people’s first impression of someone was a title his Majesty, her Highness, my Lord, my Lady. In today’s world, your first impression is based more on your skin color, your style, your clothes, the number of followers you have on a tiny little screen that we can’t tear ourselves away from. It’s like our worth is based more on who people think we are or who we should be, our lives a collection of memories we choose to post online, as we spend our time aspiring to be anyone but ourselves. There is more power in a name than a speech of a thousand words, more power than an artist with millions of fans, more power than the strongest bond between nature and life itself. Because a name is not just a name, not just a certificate of life that you were given at birth. Your name is an identity, a specification of where you belong in this world, where you fit into the timeline. Your name is all the other people before you, as you live on another day to tell their stories. Your name is a legacy, an epithet of who you were, who you are, and who you have yet to be. Your name is you, you want to be remembered and passed on to next soul who claims your name as their own, who begins their journey and carries on what you left forsaken. Your name is you. So I’ll tell you once again, my name is Elly. A crowdsourced “Where I Am From” poem
authored by Mrs. Zingarella and the willing poets from her English 10 classes WE are from hot burning suns and demon, sucking flies eating pickles on the front lawn. We are from candles, sawdust, and dryer sheets endust and wire nuts. We are from boardwalks and beaches, the sun and the sand. The xbox and tv, the distraction of cellphones in our hands. We are from dog toys and excessive acorns the whirl of baseball card motorcycles. We are from a creepy shack in the woods “Smile! You’re on Camera!” The “Live, Laugh, Love” plastered around. The hikes and adventures. The shots we took, wet like a book. We are from “nothing is impossible” and “Whatever it takes” We are from “you have to work hard” and “work hard in school” “be happy” “love your brother” and - IDK. I am from
Anonymous I am from a town that resembles morning dew and gray haze Where houses dot the hills in an un-uniform pattern From town fairs on autumn nights and little league street parades I am from comforting light blue walls, And cracked windows from deflated basketballs I am from Western Redbud trees Whose heart-shaped red leaves stained my hands I am from sliding down the stairs in plaid sleeping bags From hiding behind rock walls in my side yard While playing manhunt after dark I am from frequent family holiday get-togethers From forced family photos in front of the house Then smashing pumpkins after Halloween night, And sitting at the kid’s table during Thanksgiving dinner I am from disappointing Christmas swaps in the cramped living room From dying Easter eggs on an aging plastic table cover, And going to bed instantly after the ball drops on New Year's Eve I am from endless summer nights in lake water From extended hours in the car on road trips And smoke filling my eyes near the campfire The smoke that remained on my clothes and in my hair for days to come I am from worrying about wasting my summer freedom, The childhood summer freedom I will never feel again. I am from reading folded softcover books in my LED-lit room From listening to Frank Ocean on repeat And finishing assignments at late hours of the night While my eyes ache from the glowing rectangle in front of me As I chew wads of watermelon gum, Rain accompanies me by pounding against my windows I am from waking up before the sun From using my phone’s flashlight to walk to the bus stop And leaning against the window on freezing vinyl bus seats While the sun comes up over fields of lush emerald green grass I am from daydreaming on the school bus about the years to come And wondering what moments and places will add to who I am. Where I'm From
Maddie Graham I am from paintings in the stairwell of the basement from holding hands with Mama in the supermarket, from hand soap that smelled like flowers I am from warm scented candles and Mama singing along with the radio softly. I am from toads and salamanders whose legs are always cold in the summer I am from stuffed animals and pancakes from gramma Robin and great grandma Grace I am from baking more than needed and squabbling over small things from not liking pumpkin pie and from brown hair and blue eyes as far as the eye can see I am from the Lord’s Prayer at bedtime at my grandparents' house, singing in the pews at church I am from Cora Mae Lillian and Patrick Charles from spice cookies and corn beef hash from immigrating from Ireland and from moving to Worcester From messy, dirty knees and tap dancing in the basement I am from apple tree and memories from hugs and cookies from cancer and heartbreak, persevering through trials I am from paintings in the stairwell of the basement Walt Whitman, A Cosmic Inquiry
Emily Tonning Do you have a map of the stars? What did you use, Uncle Walt, All those years ago? What gave you the strength, Uncle Walt, To shamelessly walk against the scornful edges of this planet, Despite the chance that your clothes would catch Or that your skin would get cut up? How were you so brave, Uncle Walt? So sure of yourself, and so proud, Amidst a world where your kind wasn’t allowed? What constellations gave you the strength? Maybe it was as if the stars were inside of you the whole time. |
Here's to America
Aurora Morgan
Here’s to America.
Here’s to the auto mechanic that couldn't afford college. Here’s to the single mom of 2 kids working 2 jobs. Here’s to the 21 million people out of a job that provide hot meals and hot dogs. Here’s to the family who is homeless because of growing inflation. Here’s to the “rich” America that has roads filled with tents. Here’s to the beautiful mountains that stand tall with pride, almost as tall as growing tides. Here’s to the men who lost their homes to 89 mph winds and the eye of the storm. Here’s to the polar bears completing the food chain as their homes melt underneath their feet. Here’s to the captivating red trees that don’t compare to the hot blaze that burns their roots. Here’s to the Mexican family that crossed the border with high hopes for opportunities, just to find a man in black gear with the words ICE across his chest. Here’s to the Muslim family that books a flight to America to practice their religion, only to be rejected by the “land of the free.” Here’s to a society where if you're not the color of sand, you're a criminal with a darker background. Here’s to a divided country, against good and evil, where when you kneel for what you believe, you are a “disgrace.” Here’s to the land of freedom of speech. Here’s to the land of opportunities. Here’s to the land of the free.
Here’s to America.
Aurora Morgan
Here’s to America.
Here’s to the auto mechanic that couldn't afford college. Here’s to the single mom of 2 kids working 2 jobs. Here’s to the 21 million people out of a job that provide hot meals and hot dogs. Here’s to the family who is homeless because of growing inflation. Here’s to the “rich” America that has roads filled with tents. Here’s to the beautiful mountains that stand tall with pride, almost as tall as growing tides. Here’s to the men who lost their homes to 89 mph winds and the eye of the storm. Here’s to the polar bears completing the food chain as their homes melt underneath their feet. Here’s to the captivating red trees that don’t compare to the hot blaze that burns their roots. Here’s to the Mexican family that crossed the border with high hopes for opportunities, just to find a man in black gear with the words ICE across his chest. Here’s to the Muslim family that books a flight to America to practice their religion, only to be rejected by the “land of the free.” Here’s to a society where if you're not the color of sand, you're a criminal with a darker background. Here’s to a divided country, against good and evil, where when you kneel for what you believe, you are a “disgrace.” Here’s to the land of freedom of speech. Here’s to the land of opportunities. Here’s to the land of the free.
Here’s to America.
Prose
NeverLand
Michaella Namiotka
It was approximately four o’ clock when Cristina had texted in the group chat, inviting us all to her house for a sleepover that Saturday night. My mom had been okay with it, I had gotten all of my homework done, had the night off from work, and no other family plans. I checked with mom, she was okay with it, so I was quick to respond, yes! Super excited for a night with my girls I immediately started packing my bag. Sleepovers with the gang were always filled with laughter and pure joy, it was almost like we had escaped from reality for the night. Six o’ clock finally came around centuries later. Once mom had dropped me off, I noticed that I was the first one there per usual. I waited in the car for a few minutes just until more of my friends arrived, as soon as they showed, we all headed inside together.
Cristina had the living room all set up for us to sleep in, along with some yummy snacks. She had planned for us to watch a movie and play some games. Although, something about tonight’s sleepover felt a little strange. Cristina had been acting in an unusual way, almost as if she had been nervous about something, but I tried my best to ignore it, hence no one else receiving the same vibe. Near nine o’ clock, Cristina had left the room, and hadn’t returned for almost half an hour. Not to mention that she didn’t even say why she was leaving. Oddly enough, no one even seemed to care or notice. I decided to examine the scene outside of the living room premises, and possibly figure out what was wrong with Cristina. Maybe I was overthinking the matter, but was proven to not be when I entered the kitchen to notice broken dishes scattered throughout the entire kitchen counter and floor. I suddenly became quite confused, and frankly a bit frightened. I began to scan the kitchen, looking for any evidence as to what might have happened, but then it suddenly hit me later than it should have, where was Cristina? Shocked, I began to stand in one place and circle my head around as if I was hiding from a murderer, looking for any sight of an open door or window, or the sound of any rustling or footsteps. The only sounds that I could hear were the oblivious girls continuing to party in the other room. I didn’t notice any open doors or windows, but I did suddenly notice an open dishwasher. Had someone taken the dishes out and thrown them around the kitchen? Obviously, but why? I walked over to the dishwasher, as if that would result in some sort of conclusion, and surprisingly, it did lead to an extravagant sight. The racks that are usually in your typical dishwasher were torn out, and inside of the dishwasher had been the entrance to a new room. The dishwasher had been connected to the kitchen counter, which was mid-waist level high, but upon entering the dishwasher, the ceiling rose to a normalized room height. I had to be imagining this, unless Cristina kept this secret room of hers a secret. The entire room had been filled with white furniture, as if I had entered into some future dimension. A very small room, similar to the waiting room at the dentist. It was very unusual. The room was very quiet and still. No new sounds to be heard. I no longer even heard the other girls, and that is because once I had turned back to crawl out, I noticed that the dishwasher door had been closed shut. I aggressively began to push on it in massive frustration and anxiousness. No effect. The only option was to find an alternate escape.
I was still trying to comprehend what was going on, and began to think that something dangerous was going on. Cristina must be in here somewhere. But where? No other entrances or exits were readily available to the eye, and neither was she. I continued to examine closely, every corner of the room, for a vent or hole. I turned back to the dishwasher in confusion, to notice that the dishwasher door had been replaced by a small circular door. Upon opening it, I stared into what seemed like the black hole. Continuous, but invisible in what was ahead. The only option had been for me to crawl inside, and I forced myself to take that risk.
It was as if I became blind, all around me was dark. A few feet in, my head suddenly hit what seemed like a metal bar. The fact that I had no knowledge of what this could possibly lead to caused the hit to hurt more. I became even more frustrated and frightened. As I reached my hand out, I noticed that in front of me was a ladder. I looked up, but still no light. Behind me had been completely dark as well, the entrance I had come in through disappeared. I was trapped in an abyss. I had no choice but to either die in here, or climb this ladder in hope of escape. I began to climb the ladder. Halfway up the ladder, it suddenly hit me how high up I had been. The belief that I had been high up was the only frightening part, since I had no proof that I was even climbing up a ladder. I could be climbing human bones for all I know. With a few more steps up the ladder, I noticed a small hole that signified that I had reached the ‘top.’ Looking through the hole, I could barely see much, but the scent of salt air gave it all away. Running my fingers along the entire platform in front of me, my hand pushed through the wall, or what I soon discovered, with light, to be a door. Light had never felt like this much of a blessing. Although, what I had now discovered was out of this world. Literally. I crawled out through the narrow doorway, and began to rock back and forth struggling to find balance to stand up. I realized that I had been on a boat. The sound of pirates chanting, and the ocean waves crashing made this feel like more of a dream. Looking behind me, the door was still there, but when I opened it, it seemed to have become a storage closet for boat gear.
My mind was jumping back and forth, I sat there with an open mouth staring all around me searching for any answer. The sound of feet approaching frightened me that I instinctively hid myself in my arms, like a small child playing hide and seek, as if I thought I could disappear doing that. I could feel the essence of a person standing above me staring at me in confusion. Slowly peeking out of my arms, I noticed a tall man, with an unusually cut mustache, dressed all in red, a beard, a large blue hat that matched the blue on the buttons on his jacket. He wore a golden belt that signified his leadership role on this boat. The captain. Suddenly, I noticed the hook on his hand. I really was on a pirate ship. He then spoke to me intimidatingly gesturing his hook towards me. “Who are you and what are you doing on my ship?” I had no idea how to answer. All that I could stutter was, “I don’t know where I am.” “What is your name?” he asked me. “Mila,” I mumbled. My inner parts had been shaking with fear, assuming the worst... that I would be forced to soon walk the plank. Unexpectedly, this man gently helped me up. I suddenly felt a little more comfortable, but not completely, thinking that his sudden nurturing persona could have been a trick. Now standing, I noticed a large ship full of pirates, performing their own individual duties. There must have been hundreds of them. Examining beyond the ship, ocean water was all that was visible, until I noticed a small island in the distance. “That’s where we’re headed!” the man yelled confidently. “Who are you and where am I?” is what I timidly questioned next. “Well dear, my name is Hook, and that piece of sacred land that we are sailing towards is of the name NeverLand.”
Michaella Namiotka
It was approximately four o’ clock when Cristina had texted in the group chat, inviting us all to her house for a sleepover that Saturday night. My mom had been okay with it, I had gotten all of my homework done, had the night off from work, and no other family plans. I checked with mom, she was okay with it, so I was quick to respond, yes! Super excited for a night with my girls I immediately started packing my bag. Sleepovers with the gang were always filled with laughter and pure joy, it was almost like we had escaped from reality for the night. Six o’ clock finally came around centuries later. Once mom had dropped me off, I noticed that I was the first one there per usual. I waited in the car for a few minutes just until more of my friends arrived, as soon as they showed, we all headed inside together.
Cristina had the living room all set up for us to sleep in, along with some yummy snacks. She had planned for us to watch a movie and play some games. Although, something about tonight’s sleepover felt a little strange. Cristina had been acting in an unusual way, almost as if she had been nervous about something, but I tried my best to ignore it, hence no one else receiving the same vibe. Near nine o’ clock, Cristina had left the room, and hadn’t returned for almost half an hour. Not to mention that she didn’t even say why she was leaving. Oddly enough, no one even seemed to care or notice. I decided to examine the scene outside of the living room premises, and possibly figure out what was wrong with Cristina. Maybe I was overthinking the matter, but was proven to not be when I entered the kitchen to notice broken dishes scattered throughout the entire kitchen counter and floor. I suddenly became quite confused, and frankly a bit frightened. I began to scan the kitchen, looking for any evidence as to what might have happened, but then it suddenly hit me later than it should have, where was Cristina? Shocked, I began to stand in one place and circle my head around as if I was hiding from a murderer, looking for any sight of an open door or window, or the sound of any rustling or footsteps. The only sounds that I could hear were the oblivious girls continuing to party in the other room. I didn’t notice any open doors or windows, but I did suddenly notice an open dishwasher. Had someone taken the dishes out and thrown them around the kitchen? Obviously, but why? I walked over to the dishwasher, as if that would result in some sort of conclusion, and surprisingly, it did lead to an extravagant sight. The racks that are usually in your typical dishwasher were torn out, and inside of the dishwasher had been the entrance to a new room. The dishwasher had been connected to the kitchen counter, which was mid-waist level high, but upon entering the dishwasher, the ceiling rose to a normalized room height. I had to be imagining this, unless Cristina kept this secret room of hers a secret. The entire room had been filled with white furniture, as if I had entered into some future dimension. A very small room, similar to the waiting room at the dentist. It was very unusual. The room was very quiet and still. No new sounds to be heard. I no longer even heard the other girls, and that is because once I had turned back to crawl out, I noticed that the dishwasher door had been closed shut. I aggressively began to push on it in massive frustration and anxiousness. No effect. The only option was to find an alternate escape.
I was still trying to comprehend what was going on, and began to think that something dangerous was going on. Cristina must be in here somewhere. But where? No other entrances or exits were readily available to the eye, and neither was she. I continued to examine closely, every corner of the room, for a vent or hole. I turned back to the dishwasher in confusion, to notice that the dishwasher door had been replaced by a small circular door. Upon opening it, I stared into what seemed like the black hole. Continuous, but invisible in what was ahead. The only option had been for me to crawl inside, and I forced myself to take that risk.
It was as if I became blind, all around me was dark. A few feet in, my head suddenly hit what seemed like a metal bar. The fact that I had no knowledge of what this could possibly lead to caused the hit to hurt more. I became even more frustrated and frightened. As I reached my hand out, I noticed that in front of me was a ladder. I looked up, but still no light. Behind me had been completely dark as well, the entrance I had come in through disappeared. I was trapped in an abyss. I had no choice but to either die in here, or climb this ladder in hope of escape. I began to climb the ladder. Halfway up the ladder, it suddenly hit me how high up I had been. The belief that I had been high up was the only frightening part, since I had no proof that I was even climbing up a ladder. I could be climbing human bones for all I know. With a few more steps up the ladder, I noticed a small hole that signified that I had reached the ‘top.’ Looking through the hole, I could barely see much, but the scent of salt air gave it all away. Running my fingers along the entire platform in front of me, my hand pushed through the wall, or what I soon discovered, with light, to be a door. Light had never felt like this much of a blessing. Although, what I had now discovered was out of this world. Literally. I crawled out through the narrow doorway, and began to rock back and forth struggling to find balance to stand up. I realized that I had been on a boat. The sound of pirates chanting, and the ocean waves crashing made this feel like more of a dream. Looking behind me, the door was still there, but when I opened it, it seemed to have become a storage closet for boat gear.
My mind was jumping back and forth, I sat there with an open mouth staring all around me searching for any answer. The sound of feet approaching frightened me that I instinctively hid myself in my arms, like a small child playing hide and seek, as if I thought I could disappear doing that. I could feel the essence of a person standing above me staring at me in confusion. Slowly peeking out of my arms, I noticed a tall man, with an unusually cut mustache, dressed all in red, a beard, a large blue hat that matched the blue on the buttons on his jacket. He wore a golden belt that signified his leadership role on this boat. The captain. Suddenly, I noticed the hook on his hand. I really was on a pirate ship. He then spoke to me intimidatingly gesturing his hook towards me. “Who are you and what are you doing on my ship?” I had no idea how to answer. All that I could stutter was, “I don’t know where I am.” “What is your name?” he asked me. “Mila,” I mumbled. My inner parts had been shaking with fear, assuming the worst... that I would be forced to soon walk the plank. Unexpectedly, this man gently helped me up. I suddenly felt a little more comfortable, but not completely, thinking that his sudden nurturing persona could have been a trick. Now standing, I noticed a large ship full of pirates, performing their own individual duties. There must have been hundreds of them. Examining beyond the ship, ocean water was all that was visible, until I noticed a small island in the distance. “That’s where we’re headed!” the man yelled confidently. “Who are you and where am I?” is what I timidly questioned next. “Well dear, my name is Hook, and that piece of sacred land that we are sailing towards is of the name NeverLand.”
The Great Journey of Self-Discovery
Max Smith
I was born and raised in Holden, where I still currently reside. I love Holden, and I love my house, but it is not really where I grew up, where my identity was created. My identity was created somewhere far more peaceful, somewhere far more remote.
The back door slams behind me as I dart outside, past the backyard and into the woods behind my grandparents’ house, with my grandmother’s shouts of caution trailing behind me. The cool air whips around my face and the branches of outstretched tree limbs tug on my clothes, begging me to stop and chat for a while. I pay them no heed, for my heart is set on course for a different destination, one of beauty, one that even the most well traveled people would gasp at in astonishment. My tattered sneakers leave the hard-packed dirt and land upon soft and lush grass, and I stop to catch my breath. Forty foot trees tower over me, not menacingly, but in a protective sort of way, reassuring me that I am in a safe place, the branches extending over the opening in the woods. Their leaves are now a multitude of vibrant colors, ranging from chocolatey-brown to fiery-orange. A few of them twirl down from their tree parents and land on the soft grass below, ready to start an adventure on their own now. I head over to the center of the clearing where a small stream leads into a small pond. What the pond lacks in size, it makes up for in diversity. Seemingly hundreds of various creatures and forms of life swim around and exist underneath the water. The water glistens in the mid-afternoon sunlight, and as much as I would love to cool down in the shimmering water, I dare not disturb the beautiful creatures. I lay down next to the pond and gaze at the blue sky above me. Clouds are dispersed across the sky, yet they are soft clouds, not thunderous clouds that promise rain. I think about how the clouds resemble large marshmallows that are floating in a sea of blue hot chocolate. I think about the schoolwork that I am required to finish for my second grade class by tomorrow. I think about my friends, and wonder how they are currently spending their time. I think about everything, but at the same time nothing at all. I come to this clearing every time I come over to my grandparents’ house in order to think and to get away from everything stressing me out in my young life. Each time I do, I realize how silly everything I worry about is. Being out in the wilderness, left alone with only nature and my own thoughts, I realize how small I really am. This is not horrifying to me, but it makes me feel selfish. I am worrying about my own problems when there are so many things that are bigger than me in this world, so many other things that need to be loved and cared for. I am just one child, but I can still spread my care and attention to so many more things in the world than to just myself. I lay there in the soft grass, examining every little detail of the forest and clearing around me and looking for how I can in some way help it. The rock that is crushing one of the last remaining summer flowers, I can move it off of the flower to let it live for a little while longer. The fish in the pond that look famished, I can give them some of the smushed up peanut butter and jelly sandwich that I had stored in my pocket for later. The clumps of dirt that block some of the water stream, I can smooth them out in order to help the stream flow more smoothly. The sun begins to set as I look around at my work. It is not much, but it forges a grin onto my face that is so wide I am afraid it may tear my cheeks apart. I feel proud of myself. The smell of my grandmother’s signature pumpkin pie wafts its way under my nose, and makes my stomach rumble. As much as I enjoy being a good samaritan, I enjoy my grandmother’s pie even more. I race back through the woods and toward my grandparents house, where my grandparents, my parents, and I will all sit down to a large feast, one that we try to have every month. The love and care that I feel I have bestowed upon the clearing in the woods will now be bestowed upon me, by the people who have nurtured me and loved me for my entire life. I will go to sleep dreaming of the next time I can return to the clearing, and try to make that small part of the world a better place.
My life in Holden has always been very busy. With school, sports, friends, family obligations, and other activities that are there to occupy me, my time for reflecting on myself and my values has always been limited. It was only when I could get away from all the buzz and hustle that I could finally take the time to figure out what was important to me. I come from a family that has preached moral values, and finding your own personality. In the clearing behind my grandparents’ house, I discovered my passion for helping and caring for others, and I learned to take some of my time and focus it on bigger things and projects in life, other than myself. Even to this day, whenever I feel stressed out or confused, I return to the clearing to sort everything out, and to reassure myself that everything will be okay. For I come from a family, one that loves me. I come from a place, a quiet and beautiful one. I come from me, and the experiences, thoughts, and actions that have helped me lead the life that I currently do today. Yet no matter how my life turns out, and no matter what will occur in my future, that gorgeous oasis in the middle of the woods will always be the place where I come from, the place where my identity blossomed into something I am proud of to this day.
Max Smith
I was born and raised in Holden, where I still currently reside. I love Holden, and I love my house, but it is not really where I grew up, where my identity was created. My identity was created somewhere far more peaceful, somewhere far more remote.
The back door slams behind me as I dart outside, past the backyard and into the woods behind my grandparents’ house, with my grandmother’s shouts of caution trailing behind me. The cool air whips around my face and the branches of outstretched tree limbs tug on my clothes, begging me to stop and chat for a while. I pay them no heed, for my heart is set on course for a different destination, one of beauty, one that even the most well traveled people would gasp at in astonishment. My tattered sneakers leave the hard-packed dirt and land upon soft and lush grass, and I stop to catch my breath. Forty foot trees tower over me, not menacingly, but in a protective sort of way, reassuring me that I am in a safe place, the branches extending over the opening in the woods. Their leaves are now a multitude of vibrant colors, ranging from chocolatey-brown to fiery-orange. A few of them twirl down from their tree parents and land on the soft grass below, ready to start an adventure on their own now. I head over to the center of the clearing where a small stream leads into a small pond. What the pond lacks in size, it makes up for in diversity. Seemingly hundreds of various creatures and forms of life swim around and exist underneath the water. The water glistens in the mid-afternoon sunlight, and as much as I would love to cool down in the shimmering water, I dare not disturb the beautiful creatures. I lay down next to the pond and gaze at the blue sky above me. Clouds are dispersed across the sky, yet they are soft clouds, not thunderous clouds that promise rain. I think about how the clouds resemble large marshmallows that are floating in a sea of blue hot chocolate. I think about the schoolwork that I am required to finish for my second grade class by tomorrow. I think about my friends, and wonder how they are currently spending their time. I think about everything, but at the same time nothing at all. I come to this clearing every time I come over to my grandparents’ house in order to think and to get away from everything stressing me out in my young life. Each time I do, I realize how silly everything I worry about is. Being out in the wilderness, left alone with only nature and my own thoughts, I realize how small I really am. This is not horrifying to me, but it makes me feel selfish. I am worrying about my own problems when there are so many things that are bigger than me in this world, so many other things that need to be loved and cared for. I am just one child, but I can still spread my care and attention to so many more things in the world than to just myself. I lay there in the soft grass, examining every little detail of the forest and clearing around me and looking for how I can in some way help it. The rock that is crushing one of the last remaining summer flowers, I can move it off of the flower to let it live for a little while longer. The fish in the pond that look famished, I can give them some of the smushed up peanut butter and jelly sandwich that I had stored in my pocket for later. The clumps of dirt that block some of the water stream, I can smooth them out in order to help the stream flow more smoothly. The sun begins to set as I look around at my work. It is not much, but it forges a grin onto my face that is so wide I am afraid it may tear my cheeks apart. I feel proud of myself. The smell of my grandmother’s signature pumpkin pie wafts its way under my nose, and makes my stomach rumble. As much as I enjoy being a good samaritan, I enjoy my grandmother’s pie even more. I race back through the woods and toward my grandparents house, where my grandparents, my parents, and I will all sit down to a large feast, one that we try to have every month. The love and care that I feel I have bestowed upon the clearing in the woods will now be bestowed upon me, by the people who have nurtured me and loved me for my entire life. I will go to sleep dreaming of the next time I can return to the clearing, and try to make that small part of the world a better place.
My life in Holden has always been very busy. With school, sports, friends, family obligations, and other activities that are there to occupy me, my time for reflecting on myself and my values has always been limited. It was only when I could get away from all the buzz and hustle that I could finally take the time to figure out what was important to me. I come from a family that has preached moral values, and finding your own personality. In the clearing behind my grandparents’ house, I discovered my passion for helping and caring for others, and I learned to take some of my time and focus it on bigger things and projects in life, other than myself. Even to this day, whenever I feel stressed out or confused, I return to the clearing to sort everything out, and to reassure myself that everything will be okay. For I come from a family, one that loves me. I come from a place, a quiet and beautiful one. I come from me, and the experiences, thoughts, and actions that have helped me lead the life that I currently do today. Yet no matter how my life turns out, and no matter what will occur in my future, that gorgeous oasis in the middle of the woods will always be the place where I come from, the place where my identity blossomed into something I am proud of to this day.