The New York State Summer Young Writers Institute

What you hold in your hands arethe poems and stories – true

and imagined – that the students ofthe New York State Summer YoungWriters Institute produced duringone crazily inventive week last July,interspersed with photos and studentcomments that help to chronicle thesights and emotions of our annualwriting residency.

For its tenth year, we moved theYoung Writers Institute from SilverBay on Lake George to SkidmoreCollege in Saratoga Springs, NY, sothat our students could takeadvantage of the New York StateSummer Writers Institute, directedby Robert Boyers, which convenes onthe Skidmore campus for the entiremonth. Having the opportunity towork on their own writing in threeclasses each day, hear accomplished

writers in late-afternoon craftsessions or at packed eveningreadings, and then try out their ownworks-in-progress during late-nightreading sessions in the residence hallmeant that our high school writerswere thoroughly immersed in thewriting life for every waking hour.And here’s what we have learned toexpect: they loved it.

These young writers are uniquein any number of disparate ways, butthey all share a devotion to writing.That common interest creates almostinstantaneous bonding when theymeet each other, but it alsoencourages them to revel in thewriting atmosphere of our intensive,week-long workshop. More than onehundred applicants from all regionsof New York State send originalwriting samples each April, and we

choose the thirty-six best writers toattend the Young Writers Institute.That ability to be selective pays offfor us. Year after year, we offer thesestudents respect and recognition forwhat they have already achieved, andin return we receive not only acommitted, attentive group ofstudents for a week but also thedramatic, funny, moving, troubling,and remarkable creative pieces in thisanthology. It was our pleasure towatch as these pieces unfolded, andit’s your pleasure to discover them here.

William Patrick

DirectorNew York State Summer Young Writers Institute

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Kathleen Aguero’s most recent book of poetry, Daughter Of, is published byCedar Hill Books. The author of two previous books of poetry and editor of threeanthologies of multicultural literature from the University of Georgia Press, she isa Professor of English at Pine Manor College in Chestnut Hill, MA, teaching intheir low-residency MFA and undergraduate programs.

Liza Frenette is an assistant editor at New York Teacher, the official membershipnewspaper published by New York State United Teachers (NYSUT). Author ofthree novels for children, including Soft Shoulders, Ms. Frenette has publishedarticles in Reader’s Digest and Adirondack Life, among other publications, and haswon first place feature and news writing awards from UPI and Associated Press.

Elaine Handley is a poet and fiction writer, as well as an Associate Professor ofWriting and Literature at Empire State College. Her poetry chapbooks, Notes fromthe Fire Tower and Glacial Erratica won the Adirondack Center for Writing Awardin Poetry in 2006 and 2007 respectively. She is currently completing Deep River, ahistorical novel about the Underground Railroad.

Richard Hoffman’s memoir, Half the House, first published in 1995 byHarcourt Brace, was recently reissued in a new and expanded edition. He is alsoauthor of the poetry collections Without Paradise and Gold Star Road, winner ofthe 2007 Barrow Street Press Poetry Prize. Writer-in-Residence at EmersonCollege, he also teaches in the Stonecoast MFA Program.

Bob Miner worked for Newsweek and has written for the New York Times,Washington Post, The Village Voice, and Esquire. He has published two novels—Exesand Mother’s Day—and is finishing up the third novel in this series, Father, Son andHoly Ghost, as well as writing nonfiction about Istanbul, Turkey. Since 1980 he hastaught writing for the University at Albany and Empire State College, as well as forSkidmore College, Syracuse University, Siena College, and the College of St. Rose.

William B. Patrick is the founder and director of the New York State SummerYoung Writers Institute. His latest book, Saving Troy, is a creative nonfictionchronicle of a year spent living and riding with professional firefighters andparamedics. He has also published a memoir, an award-winning novel, and twobooks of poetry with BOA Editions. Mr. Patrick teaches writing for the College ofSt. Rose and for the Stonecoast MFA Program.

Summer 2008 Faculty

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THE MOON WAS SETTING SWIFTLY AS

Baldor made his last patrol atop thewall. He was eager and impatient fora much needed sleep in thechambers below, for he had leeredtirelessly over the city and into thevastness beyond for many longhours. The day had been hot, andthe frigid sting of night waswelcome, even relished, in desertssuch as these. An endless expanse ofsand and rock yawned in everydirection, humbling the vain anddwarfing the powerful, intimidatingthe most seasoned travelers. Withinthe borders of this parched andempty land there sat a fortress, lowand broad and crafted from desertrock. Though only thrice the heightof a man, the walls were thick andstretched like wings from afar, theirends lost in the blazing heat as theybrushed one’s limits of sight.

Enemies were few of late, andsuch great armies as were oncemustered there were no longerneeded or maintained. The fortressand small settlements within it weredefended only by a small, well armedgarrison of perhaps eighty men,sparsely stationed along the length ofthe wall. And so Baldor crossed thefinal stretch of moonlit stone, theday’s weight making him limp andlean heavily on the spear he carried.

His shift of watch ended, Baldorcould finally return to the armory,surrender his arms to the guard, andreport his observations of thesurrounding territory. He had seennothing, as expected, and lookedonly to rid himself of his wet, stickyarmor. The night was peaceful, ifdeadly cold, and Baldor wasgladdened to see the moon adriftupon the dunes. Still, he sighed, longand mournfully. He felt exposed andunsafe atop the sandy walls, knowingthat their easy accessibility placedhim in great peril. For months hehad avoided the shady stairwaysleading from town over the walls

and ran past them when his dutiesrequired it. The lamps and torchesilluminating the walkway weregreatly spaced, giving too manyopportunities, he thought, for citydwellers to approach him at night.His insecurity kept him marchingalong, studying stairways with care.

A shadow flitted at Baldor’sback. He took quick note of it butdid not turn or slow in his hobblingrhythm, the steady, painful ploddingthat keeps an enemy confident. Heknew the shadow, and he knew whoit belonged to. Unfortunately, he didnot know her intentions. The nimblefigure, a grown child’s, perhaps,wove itself into the fabrics oftwilight, making it ripple slightlywhen approaching a lamp or torch.For some time it followed Baldor,keeping skillfully from lamplightand making not a sound. Baldorpaused at last; he knew how to playher games. The figure was trappedbeside a lamp post, locked in its haloof light. Baldorturned and facedher, poised like aserpent with hislong, steady spear.“Show yourself tome,” he whispered,“or I shall stab youlike a rat.”

“Already youhave done that,” awoman said,“already you havewounded my frail,soft heart. I havecome to do you thesame.” The shadowrose, Baldor’s pastwife, clutching adagger and hissingat him. Baldor wasready.

“Halt! Stayback! I’ve never wounded you!” Butforward she lunged, and Baldorstruck. The figure wailed and twisted

free, then leapt back into thedarkness whence it came. Baldorsolemnly removed his helmet andwatched over the wall as it leakedinto the seams of stone blocksbelow. He limped on again, this timewith reports from his wife and hishardly untimely resignation. �

Untitledby Conrad Baker

“I can’t rave enoughabout this program. Iloved the people —teachers and fellowstudents alike. They wereknowledgeable, helpful,friendly, and talented. Mywriting was stimulatedmore here than it hasbeen in months. I lovedevery minute of it.” — Sarah Karpovich

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EVERY DAY IS HARD. I STILL SEARCH FOR

you around every corner, halfexpecting you to reappear and openyour arms to me again. Eachmemory of you brings its own sting.When I open the windows to thebackyard, I wait to hear yourlaughter, but I am only shattered bysilence. I stare into the oncemanicured and vividly green lot, allfor you, but now left untouched. Hesays we should tidy, “We could host aBBQ, and invite some of the ol’friends. How about Sherri? You twogot along real well once.” He doesn’tknow how I despise Sherri with herplump, third-trimester belly. I, too,had found it cute and endearingwhen she bumped into tables. Butnow it registers to me as annoyingand flaunty.

He emerges from the bedroom,collared pale-blue polo, black tie,and nice slacks. I sip my morningcoffee, observing him bustle about,collecting files of clients from hiscomputer desk.

“Don’t worry so much,” he

whispers into my ear, then kisses myforehead, which I realize I’ve heldtense. I toss him a fake smile, andknow he will leave me alone. It’sbeen this way for the past fewmonths. I cannot stop blamingmyself for it. I let you slip throughmy fingers. If I had the chance, Iwould have told you to stay insidewhile Mommy answered the phone.I shouldn’t have told you that youcould run ahead into the front yard,that I would be right there. In thosefew minutes, I left you vulnerable tothe world. Whoever stole you fromme, I hope they watch you carefully,with loving hands. This is the onlyway to imagine it.

I pack my cart full of the week’sgroceries – chicken, avocados, milk. Ihear high-pitched laughter. Smiling,I look over, preparing to tell you thatas soon as we get home you can eatthe cookies, but only if you act like agood girl. I see you bending over abox of watermelons, your tiny armsstretching into the depths, hoping totouch one of the greenish orbs. Your

face, looking down, is mostly hiddento me, but your plumped cheeksreveal you are smiling. Leaving mycart to the side, I slide over to youand place my arm on your shoulder.I whisper into your ear about thecookies, hoping for you to turn tome, eyes aglow. Instead, you panic.This child is, of course, not you. Amother rushes over with frightenedeyes, staring at me. She snatches herchild away, as if afraid I might first.The mother scoops her child in herarms and whispers something aboutstranger danger. I crack open. Thegirl is too fragile, too innocent, toodifferent, yet everything like you. AsI bolt for the overcrowded checkoutlines, a lump swells in my throat. Onthe drive home everything blurs;road signs, trees, other cars. I runinside, throwing myself on theamber-colored couch. The sun sets,colors melting and mixing. I wish Icould show you, to set blaze to yourimagination and heart, the way youdid mine.

He gets home, hours after sunset.He finds me strewn across thecouch, heart pieces in a million

different places. Beingcarried to the bedroom, Ilay my head against hischest and inhale. He smellslike musky cologne, sweatfrom another stressful officeday, and maybe a touch ofcity traffic. But most of all,he smells like safety. Ibreathe him in, hoping tobecome drunk enough tofall quickly back into sleep.

He lays me into bed,tucks me in, and tells me itwill get better, someday. Inod sleepily, ignoring my heart crying.

Every day is hard. �

Watermelon by Beverly Bartkowski

“This week hasbuilt a communityfounded on thebeauty of words— words thatmade me fall offmy chair laughing,gave me chillsand nightmares,and inspired me.Thank you.”— Adah Hetko

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Donations: Right Here Please by Emily Beatty

YOU COULD HAVE BEEN ANYTHING YOU

wanted, and you constantly tortureyourself with this fact. You were agood student, a good enough person,and you suppose you could have hada pretty good future in some fieldlike English or guidance counseling.But you craved more than the penand paper; you craved performance,applause, audiences. You alwaysthrived on attention, and now youhave it. If they ignored you before,they go out of their way to hate younow. Congratulations.

It’s extremely cold out, and youare proportionately miserable. Youstand awkwardly next to your box o’things, tapping a beat on your legand looking around in vain. No one’seven out tonight, probably because itis really freaking cold. You might aswell give up and skedaddle. You pickup your Donations: RIGHT HEREPLEASE hat and take a peek inside.Oh no. That is NOT going to fly.You’re going to need a bit more thanthat before you can safely call itquits. Actually, a lot more would be aslightly more accurate statement, butyou’re not going to be picky aboutthe details.

The sudden sound of guffawinglaughter shatters the sleepy citysilence like glass, and you spin on thespot to get a look, almost slipping ona patch of ice beneath your feet.There’s a bunch of boys traipsingdown the street in your generaldirection. You pause, the instinct tobolt building in the corners of yourbrain, but you squash it down. You’retoo desperate for money to not tryand entertain these people and whoknows, you might get lucky. Maybethey won’t decide to pulverize yourhead on the empty, icy sidewalk.

By the time they spot you, you’vebeen hard at work making them aballoon weasel, which you offerforward as one would offer a veryhungry bear a piece of meat. Theystare at you. You pull another

balloon out, blow itup, and twist it into apassable cat’s head.And they betterappreciate it, cats weredamn hard to make. Ittook you ages to learnhow to do it.

They slide towardsyou, smooth and silent.Oh god, you think. Butyou aren’t going to giveup that easy. You gointo your standardroutine. You aretrapped in a box, andyou are confused,tapping the air withyour hands with yourhead cocked to the sidein bewilderment. Theboys have reached youby now, and are watching. You arenow walking an invisible dog in placeon an invisible leash. You over-exaggerate beaming and waving atthe solid mass of hulking shapes.They start laughing a soft, nudginglaughter, the kind you usually hear inplaces like doctor’s offices and whilewatching home videos of naturaldisasters. That laughter scares thecrap out of you, and you give up theroutine as the boys move slowly tocircle you. You back-pedal as fast asyou can while pointing franticallyupwards and saying a silent prayer atthe same time. You praise whatevergod is watching out for you when theboys look up, at the lens pointing atthem. They pause; momentarilyconfused at this unexpecteddifficulty, then some grumble andmurmur the standard curses. Theybegin to lumber off, and you sigh inrelief. You are very happy youdecided to buy that security camera amonth ago.

“Hey! HEY YOU!”You turn quizzically and a

snowball hits you hard in the face.You fall silently, repeating the

constant mantra don’t talk don’t talkdon’t talk you aren’t supposed totalk. The raucous cackle of the boysfinally begins to fade down thestreet. You sit up and wipe at yoursopping eyes, and when you takeyour hands away you realize youtook most of your white paint withit. You groan soundlessly and glanceback at your Donations: RIGHTHERE PLEASE hat, get up, and go tokick your box open. You riflethrough the contents, mostlyballoons, and finally reach yourtubes and cans of white paint. Yousquirt some on your palm, stare at itfor a second, and with a grumblesmoosh it all over your cheeks, noseand forehead. No need to be carefulwith the stuff this time at night.

You aren’t mad. You’re too usedto that kind of action to be pissed offabout it. You look up and around,glance at your watch, and yawn.Another half hour. Then you’ll give up.

You shouldn’t be mad anyway; you’re in showbiz,you’re a performer. Just like youalways wanted. �

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Untitledby Sarah Borodzik

I am the death of an autumn leafCracked and bruised with yellows and redsAnd falling from sicknessLike petals after a frost

This crisp air could tear me in twoBut the force behind an afternoon’s breath—Only blows me back into bed

I am left spiraling on the doorstep of your Grandmother’s porchWhere rain saturates me—And glues me to the wood

Pressed between pages of ancient textAnd scattered among the backyard pathWhere your mother died alone—As I plagued the grass in a beautiful death

“This week wasfantastic. Not only did Iimprove my writing, Ispent time with youngpoets, novelists, andmemoirists — peoplewho I’m sure will make abig impact on theliterary world. I lovedevery second of it andwould recommend it toanyone who evenremotely considersthemselves a writer.”— Liz Janetschek

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The Mind’s Jailerby Zak Breckenridge

LONG AGO, YOU BECAME FRUSTRATED

with your fellow humans. It hadstarted off as a nagging almost-thought in the back of youroverworked brain. It grew. It becamea regular thought, a constantthought, an obsession. You would layawake at nights, listing undefinedthings that you hated aboutmankind. Your job ceased to apply.You became unemployed, hungryand impoverished. You nevernoticed. Too many people weresuffering. There was too muchwrong with the world for you tonotice your own problems.

Death was not far off. Youbecame a mess of bones contained bytaut, colorless, rubbery skin, nearlyrobbed of life by your own brain.

One day it all stopped. The fogcleared. The self-induced cataractsmelted away. You were not happy.You knew you could never be happyagain, but you felt that there was toomuch pain in the world for you tosimply sit at home and feel sorry foryourself and others. You elected tofind the source of all evil and destroyit. With no more evil in the world, noone could ever suffer, and no onecould be as completely overwhelmedas you had been.

You traveled for weeks, months,years. You lost track of time quickly.In all of your travels andconversations, you never once foundanything that could help you achieveyour goal. There were dead and dyingpeople of all ages littering the streets,deserts, and tundra. You felt pity, butyou knew that to help one, or two, athousand, would not be doing justiceto the rest of them. So you passedthem by, in search of the thing thatcould help all of them... and help you.

One day, in the far north, at thevery center of a blizzard, you found acave in a snow-covered hillside, witha man patrolling in front of it. As youapproached, you saw that the manwas larger than average. He was

perhaps three meters tall, with a bigfur lined greatcoat, a big furry cap,steel-toed boots and an appropriatelysized rifle slung over his shoulder. Asyou approached, he leveled the gunat you. He said nothing. And nowyou stand in front of him, listening tothe harsh wind and trying to shrugoff the sharp snowflakes.

“Why are you here?” he asks, gunstill on you. His voice cuts throughthe whipping wind and resonatesthrough your entire body.

“I wish to cure the world of evil,”you shout, barely able to hearyourself. He lowers his gun and stepsaside, and gestures for you to enterthe cave. You start shouting questionsat him.

“Who are you? What is this?Where is this. . . ?”

He shows no intention torespond. You hesitate for a momentbefore entering the dark of the cave.

The world falls away around you.Light seems to be devoured away assoon as you enter, like an animalbeing skeletonized by carnivorousfish. All that is left is calm, clear,silent darkness. Despite the completelack of anything tangible, you seemto have remained standing on solidground. You take a careful stepforward in the abyss, and another.The solid ground remains. As youcontinue, the floor begins to slantdown. The slant increases as you gountil it seems almost vertical.

Eventually you begin to feel thefloor level out. You think that youmust be very far underground. Asyou go farther, a ghostly green lightsculpts a square corridor out of thegloom. You cast no shadow.

Vaguely rhythmic clacking,echoes down the grey-green corridor.It gets louder. The sound of decayingpercussion, played by a seniledrummer, underlain by the drone ofa quivering shaker. You shiver underyour skin. You take an unconsciousstep back. The light gets brighter. A

hunched, grey creature comes aroundthe corner. It wears a torn shirt,pants, cap and the remnants of shoes.With every step, the knees clacktogether, sending echoing percussivesounds towards you, always a little bitoff the beat. It gets closer, yellowedeyes bulging.

“Leave,” it croaks. “Go back.”You can’t move. You are

paralyzed with fear. It limps past, intothe shadows behind you. You want toleave, but you know that this couldbe your break-through. You press ondown the tunnel.

Around a corner, down anothercorridor, around more corners anddown more corridors. The light getsbrighter. Eventually you round acorner and see a door at the end,guarded by a man very much like theone outside of the cave, butsignificantly closer to your size. Hemay even be shorter. No sooner hashe spotted you than he aims his gunat you and orders you to stop. Youinstinctively obey. He tells you towalk up to him slowly, with yourhands on your head. Again, you obey.

“What do you seek?” he barks ina high, nasal voice.

“I wish to cure the world of evil,”you reply, shaking with nerves. Helaughs a cold, high, heartless laugh,stepping aside and opening the door.

“Go nuts!” he says through body-wracking guffaws.

Slightly unnerved, you continuethrough and onto the ledge. Thedoor slams behind you.

Below you is an elaborate prisoncomplex, or something like that. Onthe same level as you, but across theprison, you see a large palace, vividlycolorful in contrast with everythingyou have seen so far. Something inyour mind clicks at the sight of thatextravagant structure. Somethingyou’ve been looking for. It’s a thingthat can’t be described, only known.

continued on page 8

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You must get there. That youknow. With no other options insight, you descend a stone staircaseinto the prison. One side of yourpath is lined by cells containing moreof that same grayed, hunched beingyou had seen. They simply wander incircles and lines around theirclaustrophobic cages. On the otherside is row upon row of cagesimprisoning small, translucenthumanoids with large heads and labcoats. They hold chalk and doodleand write on their floors. You stopoutside of a cell containing one ofthe latter.

“Excuse me, sir. What is this place?”

It looks up from its sketches.“Evolution is fact, not a

hypothesis!” It screams. “Wake up!Wake up! We need to all wake upand see just how ignorant all of ouractions are!” It leaps to its feet, smallpale arms flailing above its head.“Religion is dissolving our societyfrom the inside out! Humans haverights! Rights, I say! These rightsdeserve observation by the tyrannicalleaders we select by process ofelimination for idiotic reasons!

“Life!“Liberty!“Happiness!“We deserve these things, what

they entail should not be dictated bythe religious and political fanaticsthat run our lives!”

You step back as it beginsrunning around in circles, armsflailing even more violently. Thewords get higher and faster, untilcompletely unintelligible. You muttera quiet “Nevermind,” before sidlingoff, towards the palace. The beingwas quite obviously insane. Was itthe product or the reason of hisimprisonment? You wonder toyourself. Perhaps both?

You get to the opposite end. Agated spiral staircase leads up a stonepillar that disappears into mist

above. You notice that the staircasegoes farther up than the palace, butthere is a bridge that seems toconnect the two. You hesitate for amoment at the gate, before reachingthrough the bars and lifting the basiclock. You have come too far to bestopped by a simple, unguarded gate.

The ascension is slightly dizzying,but not difficult, and you eventuallyget to the palace. You wonder what isabove the line of mist and if the pillarhas a top at all. Your perceptions havebeen severely thrown off by this day.You simply cannot imagine whatcould be up there.

However, you feel that thisblindingly colorful palace containssomething you have been seeking, soyou walk up to the crimson door andknock. In time, a tall, grey beardedman in a plaid bathrobe opens thedoor and wordlessly welcomes youinside. He motions for you to followhim into a cozy, colorful sittingroom. You both sit. He snaps hisfingers and a bald young man in asuit appears.

“Tea,” the bearded man says tothe bald. His voice is deep andresonating. The bald man bows andexits. The bearded man turns to you.

“Who are you?” he asks.“I wish to cure the world of evil,”

you reply.“I see...”“Who are you, and what is this

place?”“I am God.”“Really?”“Most certainly.”“Then this must be Heaven.”“You would think so, but no,

it’s not.”“Then what is this place?”“This is the collective human

consciousness. The self-created worldof the human psyche.”

The tea appears. God pours a cupfor the both of you. He sips hiscontemplatively. You ignore yours,allowing it to calmly steam in silence.

“Why are you here and not in Heaven?”

“I’ve always existed here. I can’tgo anywhere else. This is my job, andI’ve done it for thousands of years.”

“If you’re not in Heaven, whatexactly is your job?”

“I’m the jailer of the humanpsyche. Come with me.” God rises,still holding his tea, and walksoutside with you in tow. He walks tothe edge of the cliff that overlookshis prison. Cells stretch out foreverright and left.

“You see this? My job is toimprison these inhabitants oftheir minds.”

“What have they done?”“You see the sad, mostly-dead,

colorless creatures? They want to behere. They are my followers andalways will be. They have forgottenwhy they chose to step into the cells,but they have chosen to do so, andthey will never leave.”

God sips his tea.“The others: they are the

convicted inmates under my care.They are the reasonable parts of sovery many minds. All that I havetried and judged have been foundguilty. I am working towards tryingevery single one.”

You are surprised by his brutalhonesty, but as you think it over, itmakes sense. It makes sense that thiswould be God’s job. You grimace.

On God’s belt is a large wroughtiron key loop, with a single iron keyhanging from it. You snatch it. Godlooks at you calmly. The surpriseonly registers when you embrace himand leap off of the cliff. The onlysound is the whistling wind in yourears for a few moments before anabrupt, painful, and loud stop. Yourlast thought is that you have curedthe world of evil. The last sound youhear is the tinkling of breaking chinabeside you. �

continued from page 7

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WHEN I BECAME A NINTH GRADER, I WAS

charged with the task of finding a job.I failed, but managed to land avolunteer spot as a soccer referee withthe town. It had taken a few phonecalls, a couple forms, a trainingsession dominated by a saliva-spewingidiot, but by the end, whether I likedit or not, I had joined the professionalwork force of America.

For reasons stated, I rememberthe training session.

“Soccer refereeing is an art form,”my boss had screamed.

I had my misgivings—it seemedpretty straight forward. Kick. Pass.Kick. Pass. Tackle? You blow yourwhistle, smack the kid a little—justmake him cry, no permanentmarks—and resume play. Where’sthe room for artistic liberties?

My cousin’s a professional soccerplayer. No he’s not. He’s a winesalesman. But if he were, he’d disputethe fact. In a game which relies onacting, pussy-footing, and exotic paindances, refereeing is more guessing-game than empirical science. As Iwould painfully come to learn, it’snot about getting the call right—it’sabout making it look damn good.

The kid to my right looked boredto death; heck... I was bored to death.I offered a greeting and my hand. Wegot to talking between sessions, and Ilearned of his refereeing history. Thekid—I can’t quite call him a man—had been drunk while reffing a six-year-old soccer duel. Players hadcomplained the ref couldn’t seestraight, but the coach had dismissedthe claim as angry banter. When theref—my new found friend—collapsed in the goal during halftime,it took almost fifteen minutes and apair of wire cutters to untangle him.He didn’t go unpunished, and wassentenced to community service by a righteous judge. At the time, theonly available volunteer work wassoccer refereeing.

“I’m warning you, this job really

sucks,” my friend complained.I could tell he was biased.Training graduation was less of a

celebration than a nauseating reactionto fruit punch. I shook a couplehands, looking like an idiot, andreceived my certificate. I didn’t feelthat special. My mother showed upfor the event and sat, at my request,on the opposite side of the room (mybrother was watching TV, andcouldn’t make the ceremony). Theyread the names, and a few peopleclapped. Clap, clap, clap. Great. I wasready to ref... or so I thought.

I remembered a time when I hadplayed recreational soccer. My teamhad scored, and we were rolling ontop of each other, making out, like acouple of logs, when the refereecalled the play offsides.

“No goal,” he had screamed, witha flamboyant thrust of the arms.

Parents started yelling. Onethrew a frozen juice-box from theteam cooler. I was determined not torelive that situation.

I wasn’t told what to wear, so Ispent about a half-hour looking forshin guards in my attic—knees sore,shins covered in mice scat, coughingup dust—and it turns out I didn’tneed them. They also told me tobring a whistle, so I washed mythumb and middle finger before Ihitched a ride to the fields. I showedup with a red shirt, my recoveredshin guards, sweat pants, and a cellphone in my pocket. In the lot,moms ushered their kids out ofminivans, while others groomedtheir children by licking their fingersand fixing their hair. I imaginedbetraying my reffing powers. Might Itrip a kid? Mace a kid? I’d always

Rage on the Pitch: The Art of the Soccer Refereeby Daniel Claridge

“This experience haschanged my thoughtsabout writing as acareer. I was finallyable to speak with

people whoknew howwritersdevelopfrom small,aspiringyouths.”—ConradBaker

continued on page 10

Young Writers | 10

thought it’d be funny if one of thekindergartners, in the midst ofchasing a ball, spontaneously blewup. Not a land mine or anything—just too much apple juice at dinner.

“Where the hell’s your whistle?”my boss questioned.

It was rhetorical, but I didn’trealize, showing him my thumb andmiddle finger.

“Take mine,” he ordered, adisgusted look from a disgusting face.

Should I have thanked him forthe used whistle? Maybe.

“And here’s your uniform,”he added, “I hope you can take anextra large.”

The white t-shirt read: “Parks andRecreation: Town of________.”

I leave my town name blank, withthe hopes that you, my reader, mayfill in your personal residence. Then,however vicariously, you mightanswer my question: How was I to betaken seriously? Town parks andrecreation! The label evoked theimage of a counselor who made hiscampers toss a rubber chicken andscream their name. I was far fromsuch a man—I was a professional, asoccer referee, prepared to enter abattle of parental complaints andprickly children.

I had taken a ball to my assignedfield, and had prodded the teams toget in position. All was ready to go—I even had my fingers in mymouth—when my style-wary bosscalled out:

“You can’t wear a red shirt underyour uniform!”

Say it ain’t so. I stood, amidstparents, coaches, and young children,forced by awkward confrontation tostrip half-naked. That’s bad enoughfor the self esteem of a 14-year-old,but when you’re embarrassed aboutwhat your brother calls “caved innipples,” the prospect of doing soseems doubly harsh.

Kids stared at my naked form,unsure of an emotional response.

Standing there, bare chested, as if I’dconjured up an audience to watch mechange, I couldn’t help but crack agrin and shake my head. I looked likedimple-boy.

I blew the whistle to start thegame. Swarms of dirty little children,with dirty little fingernails, chasedafter the ball. The scene reminded meof the time my older brother hadgotten stoned with three of hisfriends, who then chased me aroundthe house for a piece of pizza.

In my nostalgia, I lost track of thegame. Damn Marijuana. My sensescame about as two kids— a cute girl,and an overgrown boy—collapsed infront of me. I blew my boss’s whistle,unaware I’d even put it in my mouth.

I spat. Play came slowly to a halt.One child, obviously confused,started rolling in the grass.

Crap. I hadn’t seen the play. Whathad they told me to do? Make aneducated guess? I pointed at the boy,and accused him of assaulting thelittle girl.

The coach exploded—I musthave guessed incorrectly.

The man stomped onto the field.Ten feet away, his moustache begantwitching violently. He towered aboveme, spitting saliva, rocking forward ina disgusting rage. I couldn’t keep myeyes off his moustache. It wasperfectly groomed—the sign ofmasked belligerence—and itmimicked every syllable that exited hismouth. Sweat and spit droplets hit myforehead, and his breath—acombination of meatloaf and maplesyrup—flowed into my mouth. Whenit hit the back of my throat, and beganto burn the nostrils, I lost it. I don’tthink I’ve ever found it since.

Blowing my whistle to his ear’sdismay, he shut up and cringed. Witha thrust of my middle finger, and afew choice words, I ordered the coachoff the field. Slowly tilting his head,he stared puzzled, chewing his gum,as if surprised by my violent

outburst, but refused to budge.“Thomas, come back,” his

wife pleaded.He was pissed. I was pissed.He ignored her, staring, while

she repeated.For reasons unknown even to

myself, I demanded she leave thepremises.

It was a chain reaction of sorts.Kids started complaining we werewasting time. I kicked a child out ofthe game for tossing a lump of grassin the air. By this time, my boss hadrealized the commotion, and wasyelling at me.

“Get over here now!” hedemanded.

“Shut up you grizzly prick,” Iresponded.

I was a professional, entrustedwith responsibility, and I wasattempting to control the situation.By undermining me, my boss wasundermining all soccer referees.It’d make a great case for their labor union.

A parent threatened to call thepolice, so I left the game. When lawenforcement gets involved, I tend todraw the line: those guys are realprofessionals.

It’s funny that I’d volunteered for this. I was working withoutpay—a benevolent citizen with goodintentions that had turned rotten.Jacked up on a mix of hormones and adrenaline, I walked off the fieldwhile smacking my butt and bending forward.

“Screw all of you,” I yelled up atthe sky.

“Mushy nipples!” shouted one ofthe first graders.

I can now understand where myfriend was coming from, the day hehad told of his embarrassing exploiton the soccer field. Reffing soccerwas not a job, nor a profession: itwas an art. And given the day’sevents, I had come to realize that Iwas not an artist. �

continued from page 9

Young Writers | 11

The Mosquitoby Laura Colaneri

I know, the second the soundevades capture by my

Venus flytrap ears,I am lost.

We were looking for a defining moment:this is it!

A day, concrete,when adulthood will have snatched me away

completely.

Suddenly, the annoying, impossibly high-pitchedfrequency

has almost become clear to me.

Unsympathetic scream, worthy of a horror film,you are one more secret

adulthood is itching to deprive me of.

Imagine:a sound only kids can hear! Like

the ringing of the silver sleigh bells ofSanta Claus.

Imagine:A thousand tiny fragment frequencies floating through the air that

escape usand keep traveling, carrying their mysterious messages

to some forsaken childhood ear.

Young Writers | 12

Ode To A Used Condomby Julia Conrad

Brave warriorWhat difficult journey has brought you to this sidewalk slate?

Triumphant, and happily exhaustedYour jobDone nobly at last

After unknown time waitingSeemingly endless time

Deep inside pockets, Boxes, Wallets Was the wait worth it, condom? The calm satisfaction of a job well done The knowledge of having saved at least two From the woes of a dreaded STD

Why do people blanche At your worn and tired body?

You are a proud veteran, Exhausted like a bumblebee after a sting Never to be used again, but glorious in memory Even the sound of your name Condom Causes such shifts in seats With eyebrows raised.

Happy latex slaveWho left you in this oblivion?Naked, crumpled, cold

Your pride apparent Little Trojan For certainly If others could introduce Such care and attention To duty Love and labor Would become one.

Young Writers | 13

A Memoirby Jordan Ferrin

“PUSH! PUSH! PUSH LISA PUSH!”Howard, my father, chanted. Mymother lay on the white hospitalbed, surrounded by the sterile,gleaming white tiles, the smell ofdisinfectant heavy in the air. Myfather stood at her side, urging heron like a crazed cheerleader at theSuperbowl. She had been in labor forhours, but had been unsuccessful.

“Puuuuuuuuuush!”“It looks like we are experiencing

some difficulty,” the hawkish doctorcommented. “Try to keep yourcontractions rhythmic.”

And so it went on for whatseemed forever to me, waiting, justwaiting, for the birth to finallyhappen. My mother panted like a

winded sprinter,“He... won’t... fit... too. .. damn...

big!” Her head collapsed back downon the pillow.

“Hmmm. Yes,” the doctor begannonchalantly, rubbing his beaklikenose with the shoulder of his whitecoat. “It appears that his head is toolarge to fit. I don’t think we will beable to have a natural birth. I’ll have todeliver the baby by Caesarean section.”

“Just... get it out!”The doctor soon returned with

the surgeon, who was armed with agleaming scalpel. The razor sharpblade reflected the fluorescent lightsfrom above, causing a circle of lightto dance around the wall. The groupof assistants prepared the spot of the

incision, and the surgeon moved inwith his blade. I couldn’t watch.

After the ruler straight incisionhad been made, a line of red acrossthe mountainous belly, the doctorwalked in to extract the baby. He wasquick about it, lifting it from itsfleshy cocoon, still covered in muck.The umbilical cord was quicklyclipped, and the nurses cleaned thebaby from head to toe. My motherwatched as the stitches in herstomach were tied off. She and myfather waited for the baby withbaited breath.

The nurses handed the baby toher, and I smiled as I looked uponmy mother for the first time. �

“The New York StateSummer Young WritersInstitute has been anawesome opportunity,not only to meet newpeople and become fastfriends, but also to workon our personal writingskills while getting greatfeedback on anythingyou’ve written. I’m soglad I’ve had the chanceto be part of theprogram this year, and Ifully intend to comeback next year as well.”— Isaac Handley-Miner

Young Writers | 14

The Chamber that Entrapped its Keeperby Meghan Flynn

KURT NONCHALANTLY STROLLED

through Buchenwald, feeling awinter chill surge through him. Itwas a Thursday afternoon, and hewas back on duty. Passing the gatesof the vast camp, he glanced at thewords engraved in the steel barrier—“Jedem das Seine—Everyone getswhat he deserves.” He silently agreedfor perhaps the thousandth time,and continued the short walk to hispost. The distinct sound of infantssobbing, followed by coos from theirmothers chirped persistently. Kurtspit, partly as a public display ofdisgust, but more so because themorning’s breakfast was God-awfuland the taste wouldn’t leave hismouth. He contemplated why theJews complained so fervently aboutstarving—the food could make oneabstain from eating anyway.

He was following the simple

routine he repeated nearly four timesa day, every day directing the bulkfrom the cattle car towards thecrematorium. Six months atAuschwitz had both trained andhardened him, now his job actuallyfelt enjoyable, especially since heworked at the same camp as hisfather. Though they didn’t worktogether—Mr. Veigzar was arespected lieutenant and Kurt, onlynineteen, merely a guard—occasionally his watchful father gavehim a nod displaying his approval.Each time this occurred Kurt nearlyburst with pride. Since his motherhad passed and his brotherestranged, they were really all eachother had.

The doors cracked open and atidal wave of people poured onto theplatform. An uproar of sobs andcries commenced, and Kurt bellowed

with a heavy tone of authority “Stopyour crying and head to the right.”Few obliged, so Kurt snatched theleash that held four canines fromArnold, a fellow guard who mannedthe entrance. If Arnold wasn’t goingto enforce discipline himself, Kurtdecided he’d have to take theinitiative. The vicious shepherdsmercilessly gnawed the skin of athin, middle-aged man, and thecrowd collectively gasped in horror.They will get used to it, he thought. . . if they live that long.

Each head was tilted downwardas the mass of people stumbledtowards the crematorium. The firstgroup was already headed inside,leaving three other groups anxiouslysitting, paralyzed by fear. Onewoman sat apart from the tight-knitcluster of people, and on her lap sat

continued on page 15

“The instruction was great. . . and unique. Advice wasindividualized, and we weretreated as writers, notstudents. The atmospherewas really encouraging,and the accommodationswere great. I really believethis program fostered thegrowth of my hiddenwriting talents.”— Julia Conrad

Young Writers | 15

a young boy. She rocked him as heglanced frantically at the still-newsurroundings. The woman wassomewhat pretty, though heavilyworn-down and showing signs ofemaciation. She looked familiar, andKurt racked his brain, trying to recall where he recognized thiswoman from.

The next group rose shakily whencalled. Smoke poured from the top ofthe crematorium, and Kurt gave asmall cough, something he tended todo when he accidentally inhaled it. Atleast the smell no longer botheredhim. All the while he continued toponder why that girl seemed so veryfamiliar. It was most curious; he had,after all, been separated from Jews allhis life. Rarely had he had anyinteraction with them, at least if hecould avoid it.

The mysterious woman, hethought to himself, looked almostreminiscent of a girl Margot—whomhis brother had fallen for a few yearsback. Their father, though, had madeit clear that to associate with Jewswas a sin. Ehren had stubbornlydisagreed, and the words he hadspoken the night he left had foreverstuck with Kurt. “What is religion,father, between lovers? Betweenfamily? We are all people. Shouldn’tthat be enough to let us liveharmoniously?” he had foolishlyquestioned. Though Kurt could seehow much Margot had meant toEhren, Kurt couldn’t possiblyimagine abandoning their father; toabandon him for a Jew was simplyunfathomable. His father hadrepeatedly insisted that they werebetter off without Ehren, but, evenstill, Kurt wondered what hadbecome of his beloved only brother.

Again, the smoke seeped into thesky, and the second to last groupcrept forward. They entered thechamber, some praying in theirnative tongue, others silent andemotionless. One younger man,

panicked and hysterical, struggled toescape, pushing furiously throughthe forlorn crowd. Kurt promptlygave him a sharp, forceful kick to hisabdomen. He tumbled onto theground, and lay still for a fewmoments. Then, after regainingconsciousness, he began to prayfuriously. Kurt responded bytaunting “Our father, who art inheaven. . . .” The Jew began to cry.Kurt hoisted him up and shoved himthrough the entrance, reuniting himwith his fellow group members. Hepatted the door as he locked it.Several yards away, Kurt’s fathernodded in his direction, as if by cue.

Kurt glanced at the final group,huddled together several feet away.Even the woman had joined themnow, protectively gripping the boyon her lap. Kurt now had a clearview of him, and he studied the boyas he had studied the mother. He,too, looked startlingly familiar andonce again Kurt was baffled. Withhair the color of a newborn chick’s,and eyes a crystal blue, he certainlylooked out of place. The child alsopossessed a curiosity about him thatkind of reminded Kurt of how hehimself had been as a boy.

Like they had three times before,the chamber doors swung open,welcoming the final group inside.The small, remaining mob stood and

began to file in, calmer than anygroup previous. When the woman,holding her small son’s hand, passedKurt, something struck him. As theirpleading eyes met his, memoriesrushed through his mind. Days ofexploring the woods with a youngEhren jolted him, along with thevision of his intense blue eyes, alwaysalert and mischievous. His kneesweakened as he replayed the firsttime he met Margot in his head,when he had been unaware of herreligion but enthralled by heraffectionate nature. Recollectionsarose of countless nights when hehad covered for Ehren as he snuckout to meet his forbidden love. All atonce the strong connection surfaced;his face paled as the realization hithim, and he nearly collapsed withhorror. Kurt vaguely heard a doorslam behind him, and suddenly theall-too familiar roar of a firesounded as he caught his fathernodding at him in the distance. �

continued from page 14

“This week hasbeen wonderful,both as an aid to allour creativeendeavors and as ameans by which tomeet kindredspirits.”— Ada O’Higgins

Young Writers | 16

Nicky’s Pizzeriaby Willa Granger

I.Quarter past ten and it is safe for the cooks at Nicky’s to smile in their greased whites no slam-crank register to muffle them now as they braid their arms atop their bellies and smile sagaciously smile at the kids in skin woven dense.

II.I am drunk outside of Nicky’s again but I’m told I’ve got Reserve and this is why I do not take to laps in those frothy pangs in those bitter drams but I want to so badly and I feel so tall and I feel so sinewy in the pocked light.

III. Here, here is where you look like the slow motion tumble of glassin the faulted physics of my eye— so thick in the feet and your head drizzling out.

IV. We spit on the granite but we do not carewedo this because we do not know the staccato and we do not know of ventures but stems spit ownerless grease and Nicky himself mops it up.

Young Writers | 17

To my fellow scientists:

I have not abandoned myexperiments. Although I do admitthat the experiments that wecollaborate on do consume a largeamount of our time, I must say thatthis is a burden and a pleasure thatwe scientists share. In the hopes ofrenewing your fervor forexperimentation I have decided toshare with you some of what I havelearned about the amusing creatureswith whom I co-exist.

Like most small mindedcreatures humans stand on only twolegs. It is clear to us large brainedmammals that this is not the mostlogical of standing positions as itdoes not appropriately distributeweight nor does it contribute tosuperior balance. Besides any matterof physical inadequacy the positionalso gives them the look of stretchedout featherless pigeons. Humanshave other weaknesses as well. Forexample they must encasethemselves in a second skin in orderto gain further protection from theelements. Even in places and timesin which protection is not needed

the people do not shed the secondskin while in the presence of others.

A human’s mental capacity doesseem to be large enough tounderstand and react to the basicsigns of affection and anger. UsingLassie’s A Study of the Human Psychefor reference, I have conductedvarious experiments on my people.When I snarl or snap at them theyseem to understand that these aresignals that I am about to attack.Likewise they respond to my lickingor nuzzling them in a positive way.Therefore it can be concluded thatthey have the ability to perceive myactions to be affectionate.

The modern person seems to beenslaved to glowing box shapedcreatures. I believe that these “boxes”are an invading species perhaps fromanother planet who enslaved theweakest species they found here onearth. I have extensively studied theworks of historians such as Fido andRex and have concluded from thesehistories that the invasion of theseboxes began sometime in the 1920s.They took over slowly and now itseems they have taken nearly every

person into slavery. The largest ofthese boxes in my people’s house isin the space known as the “livingroom.” The box is placed high mostlikely for worshipping. Most of thetime when my people enter theroom they are obliged to hear thebox speak and show them pictures.The words themselves areunintelligible. It is my theory thatthe boxes have created a languagethat combines visual and verbalimages that are simple enough forthe inadequate mind of a person.

My people are not free of theirmasters when they leave the livingroom. On the contrary it seems thatthey are never permitted to bewithout one. If they are not listeningto orders they are at the very leastproviding transport for one or moreof the smaller ones in their pockets.One particularly appalling onecontrols the person’s thoughts bygrabbing its ears with long thintentacles and feeding informationdirectly into his or her mind.

I believe that it is clear that dueto the relatively recent enslavementof humans our experiments of falseinferiority to humans have reached anew importance. We must study howan enslaved species reacts toenslaving and supposedly beingdominant to our species.

Dear friends, fellow scientists, Iurge you to continue yourexperiments and on a sentimentalnote always remember the words ofthe great philosopher Rover, “Atreasure is worth nothing unless you bury it.” So friends if youtreasure this letter don’t hesitate tobury it along with your bones andanything shiny you find.

Loyally yours,Max �

To My Fellow Scientistsby Maggie Guzman

Young Writers | 18

A MAN IN A POLICE UNIFORM SURVEYED

the house from a respectabledistance. The family has only beengone for a few minutes, he thoughtto himself, I’ll have more thanenough time. But still somethingkept him in check. It was this littlenagging in the back of his mind as ifhis subconsciousness was trying totell him something. He just had toget over it and go in. Come onBrian, just do it, he told himself.What the hell was keeping him fromdoing so?

After a few more minutes ofdawdling, he gathered up all hisspare courage and padded up to thefront door. Locked. Of course, it wasthe suburbs. He’d have to try thewindows. At least this family didn’thave a dog or an alarm system.

Damn! The windows werelocked too. He’d have to smash oneof them. Taking out his flashlight, heslammed the butt against the glass.CRASH! It shattered easily enough,but the noise reverberated throughthe whole neighborhood. He looked

around, making sure no one hadheard the deafening crash, andwithout a second glance slippedthrough the open window.

He’d root through the bedroomsfirst, people always kept theirvaluables there. The steps squeakedand squawked as he took them threeat a time. He twisted the doorknob ofthe nearest room and pulled open thedoor. He was taken aback by thebright pink wallpaper decorated withBarbies. There was a pile of disfiguredBarbies right beneath a patch of off-color wall paper. Clearly he was in thewrong room. There would be nothingworth his time in there.

Suddenly, the policeman’s headerupted in pain. It was as if he’d justhad a knife driven through his skull.He stumbled into a wall, groping hisforehead. Just as his vision wasgetting all fuzzy, the violent episodemiraculously faded away. He gotback to his feet shaken, but all right.

Alteredby Isaac Handley-Miner

continued on page 19

“This experience has been awesome. I reallyenjoyed it all. Somewhere between theclasses, writing, and memory-making, Ilearned about myself.”— Beverly Bartkowski

Young Writers | 19

He’d been having headaches latelylike that, but now they seemed to begetting worse. He’d also been havinga lot of memory loss, waking upsometimes not knowing where hewas or what he was doing. Each timewas marked by these terribleheadaches. Eventually he would endup passing out from the pain. He’dreally have to hurry now. He’d needto find some valuables and get thehell out of there before he passed out.

He flung open the next door.This one looked like the parents’room. He burrowed as fast as hecould through the drawers of thewardrobe on the right hand side ofthe room. Nothing. He upturned thenext wardrobe, causing all theshelves to spill their contents, andquickly searched through themiscellaneous items. Still nothing ofvalue. He threw a frantic glancearound the room.

The mahogany nightstandcaught his attention. It was his lastchance. He slid open the only drawerand found a small oak box,decorated with an engraved acornon the top. He popped open the lid.It was empty. But that couldn’t be, itwould be pointless not to putsomething in a box like this. Andwhere was the woman’s jewelry? Inan upscale place like this the wifealways had pearls or diamonds.

Just as he was about to give up infrantic rage, he noticed that the softvelvet lining wasn’t actually attachedto the edge of the box. He lifted itout, and there, etched into the oak,were three numbers: 20-12-31. It wasa combination. But then, where wasthe safe? He’d have to find it quickly.

He swiftly crammed the littlebox into his pocket and begantearing down all the paintings andshoving all the pieces of furnitureaway from the wall. But there wasstill no sign of the safe.

Then it occurred to him. That

one discolored patch of Barbiewallpaper. He sprinted to the littlegirl’s room, found the off-color spotand ripped the Barbies off the wall.Just as he had expected, there was alarge black safe secured in the wall.He then took out the little oak box,checked the combination andopened the safe. Inside was a smallstack of cash, pearls and some goldjewelry. He needed something tohold it all.

He scanned the room and founda little handbag with pink unicornson it. That would have to suffice.

As he opened the front door ofthe house, his head exploded intobright fireworks of agony. Hestaggered across the front lawn,barely able to see straight. He wasfeeling faint, his eyes wereswimming. . . the pain wasoverwhelming. When he reached hispolice car he could barely open thedoor. He managed to put thehandbag on the front seat and gethalfway into the car before he passed out.

***

He awoke to the sounds of a carpulling into the driveway. He jerkedup, hitting his head on the roof ofhis car. He looked around to take in

his surroundings as bolts of painflashed inside his skull. Where washe? This house didn’t even lookvaguely familiar.

Suddenly, shouts beganemanating from the home. Thepoliceman walked over to see whatthe problem was, clutching the backof his head. He knocked on the frontdoor. A woman quickly opened it.

“I’m Officer John Smith, is therea problem here?” he asked. “I heardshouting.”

“I think someone’s broken intoour house!” she shrieked.

The woman said it looked prettybad upstairs, so he headed therefirst. As he entered the first room hewas taken aback by the bright pinkof Barbies on the wall. They lookedcuriously familiar, must be deja vu.There was a black safe—the doorhung lazily open, and it was empty.What kind of lowlife filth wouldsteal from a family like this?

Shaking his head the policemanwalked back to his cruiser to retrievehis radio. Lying on the driver’s seatwas a little girl’s handbag withunicorns on it.

“What the hell is this?” he saidout loud.

He unzipped the bag and insidewas a small stack of bills, and acollection of gold jewelry. �

continued from page 18 “Through this program, I have met so manyincredible people who have enriched my life incountless ways. I know that my writing hasimproved immensely, and I have become moreconfident about my work and about myself. Ifeel like I am ready now to put my writing outthere and go for my dreams. My greatest hopenow, after my final incredible week here, is thatthe Young Writers Institute will live on to inspiremany, many other aspiring writers, the way ithas inspired and changed me.”— Emma Loy-Santelli

Young Writers | 20

I AM FROM MINT GREEN WALLS; MINT

green on every wall inside of ourdirty-white cape when we moved in.My first memories have greenbackgrounds, like the filled-in panelsin a Peanuts cartoon. My big brother,Eli and I happily shared a mintygreen room. But, Mom hated it.

When I was in second grade, andEli was in fourth, Dad builtbedrooms in the attic. He magickedme a room and magicked Eli aroom. Mom seized the opportunityto make more changes. “CarpeDiem!” she thought, and did awaywith the green of my babyhood. Wepainted all of the old rooms white.

White, like flat frosting.All that latex paint gave me an

allergic reaction. I had red bumpsover my face during most of therehearsals for Bought HillsElementary’s “Punxsutawney Phil,”in which I starred as Phil, thegroundhog. I’m sure it’s the onlyplay ever written for Groundhog’sDay, and the only productionfeaturing a singing, dancing rodentwith a strange allergic rash.

Despite all this I was excited.Mom said Eli and I could choosewhich colors to paint our bedrooms.I said pink, and he said blue, turningus from siblings into a sister and

brother. Actually, we didn’t have achoice. Mom picked out the weakestpossible pink and the palest possibleblue. The walls looked white anyway.

I liked the way my room wouldlook innocently white during theday, but in the afternoon would startto glow pink, like a secret under mytongue. Eli, on the other hand, gaveup the powder blue when he wassixteen. Led Zeppelin being his idealin everything, even, apparently,decorating, he chose Kashmir green.Green, green again. Not the sweettoothpaste green, but dark andforesty. But rich, and not white. �

Mint Green Wallsby Adah Hetko

“This was an excellentexperience. Idiscovered new thingsabout my writing, and Ilearned a lot of newwriting techniques. Theteachers were veryhelpful and funny. Thecampus is beautiful,and the wholeatmosphere was totallyinspirational andencouraging. I wish Iwasn’t too old to comeback here next year!”— Rose Silberman-Gorn

Young Writers | 21

I Amby Liz Janetschek

From shepherds tending their flock in County Cork two strangers staring across a square in Vienna the somber drone of bagpipes the bustling streets of Berlin two Belgian wooden clogs, tangled like lovers Flat plains of the Midwest, wheat swaying like gilded raindrops crowded suburbs full of throngs with thick accents, knotted tongues. Towheads and raven-haired beauties with rail-thin bodies and second, third, fourth helping figures both with oaken eyes thick with a child’s mischief that lasts long after the eyes are old. Ignorance, hatred, purity, intelligence and roses every Friday night. Smoky living rooms and immaculate kitchens. Naturalists with hands riddled with dirt and cracked by theEarth and agoraphobes darting out the front door in pink robes to get the paper hoping the neighbor’s blinds stay shut. Shattered glass and swaddled newborns. Children who ducked through holes in fences and those who sat in carefully pressed skirts. Suicide and addictions the Navy heroin and pot curling through veins and air. Starved hearts, brains, lungs, souls, bodies all before I hit puberty. Racism a father who grows weaker every day and a mother anchored to him, but swimming desperatelyupstream cigarettes, smoked in a chain thick as titanium. The thick scent of death and pine-sol that rolls throughhospital corridors late at night like sinister fog. Big soft dogs that everyone remembers right down to the bushy tails and clumsy paws. Colonels and dukes

farmhands and peasants tractors and cadillacstomato gardens rolling fields of sod first-edition books drive-thru theaters amusement parks chain supermarkets the caress of the dunes the bustling city jammed freeways permanent marker apple farms log cabins microscopes sculpture fishermen’s sweaters dissection ballet monkey bars pollywogs spilled cereal bee stings sweaty pencils lavender blow-dryers pearls Christmas bows canoes shopping malls tears. My present tries to embrace the bursting seams of my past but only succeeds in splitting threads.

Young Writers | 22

sunshowers make me think of you and how you always marvel at the paradox. something that doesn’t quite make sense, but you accept it.

like that heady smell and stained glass that makes me think ofyou and how you always sing hymns with your eyes closed. something that doesn’t quite make sense, yet you believe it.

and you’re always seeking rainbows.

so the sun came out today amid the rain and I looked for you.

Untitledby Sarah Karpovich

“It has been anexceptionalexperience whereI was able tobond with youngwriters likemyself, and whereI was able tofine-tune mywriting skills. Itwas dope.”— Alec Marchuk

Young Writers | 23

Having Brothersby Danya Kaufman

“HEY DANYA!” THEY CALL, SNAPPING

me out of my fantasies. “Where’syour doll?” My heart pounds. I lookaround my seat. Where is my doll? Isquint at them as maliciously as Ican, and then scan the areafrantically with my eyes and littlehands. She’s not on the seat. I benddown and lower my head, upsidedown and in-between my knees andsearch the dark world under the seat.I part an ocean of coloring books,magic markers, chewed apples andan empty apple juice container. Abalagan, I would say. What a mess.

With brothers like mine, a chick’sgot to be alert. Only now, protectedby years of distance and recovery(and the knowledge that I can suethem if I want to), do I see the long-term benefits of their actions. Theydid teach me a lot about life. Butonce—before the carefree days oftests and army and jobs and collegeand break-ups and family—I had todeal with some pretty serious shit:Having slippery zucchini forceddown my throat, not being able tobreathe (having been dunked in thepool), and most frequently, havingDolly kidnapped.

Frustrated, I take a stance. “Giveit!” I demand, in my whiny, six-yearold voice. They can hurt me, but Iwill not let them hurt Dolly. And ifthey do, I’ll, I’ll—I’ll tell on them!

They scoff at my feeble attemptto administer justice. “Why wouldanyone take your doll? She’s an uglymonkey!” They emphasize monkeyas if it’s a bad thing. A big grinspreads on both of their faces, asthey become a two-headed monsterguarding the gates behind whichDolly lies, suffering.

“Mom-my,” I call urgently to thefaraway land of The Front of TheCar. A muffled “One second Danya,I’m trying to read the map,” travelsback. My eyes burn as I glare out the window.

“She’s crying!” one face of thewicked head reports to the other,delighted. Aaaargh! Rrrr. Humph. Ikeep this all to myself.

“Why are you crying?”They have got to be kidding.

Why? “Because you T-TOOK myDOLL-EEEE!” I howl, the tearsgushing. The Front of The Car isunfazed. Am I alone in the world?

Unwilling to be their helplessvictim any longer, I extend my smallarm and pinch as hard as I possiblycan, squeezing and twisting theirskin violently.

To my bewilderment, they laugh.Laugh! “Are you tickling me?” heasks. And then one face to the other,“is she tickling me?”

And then, they tickle back.They tickle me in all of the very

tickly spots, and I’m a very ticklyperson, so it is going to beimpossible for me not to laugh. But Iwon’t, I solemnly swear. I shall savethe little dignity I have left, if it’s thelast thing I do. Their monster fingersare under my knees, under my neck,under my armpits. I hold it in as

hard as I can.I squeeze, looking like a tomato

in labor. But my squeezing doesn’twork like I want it to. A giggly snortand a loud, rumbling fart, like a clapof thunder tears out of me at once.The horror. The shame. How could Ihave? Worse though than mymortification, is seeing The Brothers’delight. Their faces light upelectrically, the way they would haveif a million marshmallows, baseballcards and bikinied blondes had justfallen into their laps.

I cover my face with my hands,unsure if I should cry or laugh, andterrified of the dire consequences ofdoing the two at once, and wish I’dhave been an only child.

Eventually, I guess, they matured.In their own way. The two-headedmonster underwent a strange formof mitosis and today they considerthemselves two separate entities.

They have learned to forgivethemselves for the wickedness oftheir youth, and they truly believethat I have, too. Let them. Myrevenge is yet to come. �

“This week has meant a lot to me. Theclasses were intense — I’ve never spentso much time writing, discussing, andreading every day. Now I think ofeverything in terms of writing: keeping alist of short story ideas, writing downoverhead snatches of conversation. I amso happy with what I have learned and soproud of the things I wrote while I washere. I feel like when I get home, writingwill be a much bigger part of my life.” — Tessa Kuster

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Asian Americaby Jiae Kim

ASIAN

IThe world’s perceptionOf an Asian person:Yellow-skinned, short,

and slant-eyed

IIMail-order bridesFill the newspaper ridden skies

IIIEastern mysticismOr perhaps, Western egotism

IVOriental peopleThere is no such humanBut the oriental rug, china, or cupThere is

VSo naturally smart, No, we just work hard

VIModel minority, people crowIt’s just filial piety we show

AMERICAN

VIIAmericaProsperousPowerfulAmericaLuxurious,Lovable

IIXEnglishSuch a pretty languageThe flow it showsCompared to my native one.

IXThe same childhood is sharedBy my blond friend and me

XBeds and couchesI prefer, overThe hardwood floor

XIGlorious land of libertyGlorious land of prosperity

XIIFrom the metropolitan slumsTo fried, fat-filled chipsI still seek a quiet refugeIn my home, sweet home, of diversity

XIIIDivided, I am

But why shouldn’t I care,If this indecision and uncertainty

I must bear?

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“DOMENICA,” MY MOTHER WARNED ME,“stai attento.”

“Si, mamma,” I answeredabsently as I stepped out the doorinto the hallway that smelled likecleaning fluid. The Hispanic cleaningwoman smiled at me as I passed herin the hallway. She was stout,motherly-looking. I smiled back andcontinued down to the elevator.Smiles were universal. I didn’t haveto search through my Italian-Englishdictionary for the right words whenI smiled.

I pressed the button for theelevator, and rode it down to the firstfloor. It had taken me severalinteresting elevator rides to acquaintmyself with American elevators. InAmerica, the first floor was actuallycalled the second floor, and theground floor was called the first floor.

Our hotel room was on the thirdfloor and on the outskirts of theUpper West Side, which I’d beenassured was very close to CentralPark. I had dreamed of visiting NewYork City ever since I was a little girl.We were staying in New York Cityfor three weeks, and I was excited tobegin exploring the city. I had beento Italian cities before, but never formore than a couple of hours, andalways under the watchful eye of myparents. Besides, I was sure le citteitaliani couldn’t compare to NewYork City.

I walked down the street towardsa falafel vendor I’d seen earlier. As Iwalked, I mused. If you lookedaround without glancing up at anyof the glaring advertisements andclosed your ears to the low roar ofconversation that filled the air, thecity could have almost been Roma orNapoli or Bologna. But it was NuovaYork Citta negli Stati Uniti. New YorkCity in the United States of America.The hard sounds of the wordsseemed to knock into each other,fighting for dominance. Englishlacked the beautiful, emotional flow

of Italian, but there was somethingcaptivating about it, something thatpromised to both reward anddisappoint.

At the end of the street I pressedthe button and waited for the littlegreen man to replace the red hand. Iturned left and then right, andabruptly stopped short in surpriseand shock. The falafel cart wasn’tthere anymore. My stomachrumbled in disappointment and myheart quickened with the unease ofuncertainty. I didn’t even know whata falafel was, but I wanted one. Witha sigh I turned around and startedback towards the hotel.

I had gone two blocks when Irealized I should have made a rightturn somewhere. At least, I thoughtit was right. I tried to retrace mypath in my head, but I wasn’t reallysure where I was now. Forcing my

heart down from my throat, I turnedaround and walked a block. I lookedboth ways, but the streets all lookedthe same. Finally, I turned andstarted walking in what I thoughtwas the right direction. By now, myheart was pounding. I didn’t evenknow the address of my building,and even if I did, I wasn’t sure Iknew how to ask for directions inEnglish.

Not knowing what else to do, Ikept walking, heart pounding, palmssweaty. Suddenly New York City nolonger seemed so exhilarating andnew. Now it was cold andforbidding, impassible. All at once,the noise overwhelmed me. Thepeople who hurried by on the streetsnever looked away from where theywere headed, their feet a chorus of

Untitledby Teresa Kline

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drums pounding incessantly. On theside of the street, vendors shoutedout their wares in loud, callousvoices, fighting to be the loudest, themost piercing, to better catch theattention of the people whorampaged by with single-mindeddetermination. A cacophony ofvoices and honks of car hornsweighed the air down withimpatience and frustration.

I began walking faster. I didn’tknow if I was going in the rightdirection or not, but I had to keepmoving. Moving meant I hadn’tadmitted defeat. Faster and faster Iwent, until I was flat out running,and the further I went, the fewerpeople in business suits I saw. WhenI finally stopped, I was panting andterrified. I had no idea where I was.Dove sono?

The street was narrow and dirty,and stank of sweaty bodies. Garbagelittered the ground, and I saw novendors selling food or purses orwatches. A dozen or so people weresprawled in various positions indoorways and on stairs. A few werelying flat on the sidewalk. Most hidtheir faces against their arms, curledup around themselves, but one man,unblinking, unmoving, stared up atthe sky. I shrank back from thepeople who passed me on the street,smelling of alcohol and somethingelse I couldn’t identify. Some of themswayed, some of them walked, someof them staggered. A woman laycurled beneath a shopping cart ladenwith clothes and empty plasticbottles, and a few yards away fromher an old man sat in a doorway,wearing several layers of clothes,staring at nothing, his hands claspedloosely together. Beside a nailed-upstorefront window three women inlow-cut shirts and tiny skirtslounged and smoldered at theunsavory men who passed by. Thenarrowness of the alley and the tall,

dilapidated apartment buildings hidthe sun, and turned the street into adim vista full of shadows. A youngman, surrounded by empty bottles,lay on the ground. He reached outwith one hand and implored andbegged the empty space in front ofhim. The stench of unwashed bodies,waste, and human refuse blendedtogether to create a shocking aromaof poverty, hopeless and undeniable.

My legs were shaking, and myfingers were cold and clammy. Myheart beat as though I was stillrunning. I turned around and beganhurrying in the opposite direction.My heart beat louder than a train,and I began to run. La polizia. Ishould find la polizia. I thought Iknew the English word for that. I ranpast a young man sitting next toalmost a dozen empty bottles andmumbling something. I ran past aman holding a cardboard sign thatsaid ‘Help. AIDS.’ I ran past morewomen in gaudy, revealing outfits,past an old woman relieving herselfin the middle of the sidewalk, past aman with his hand in his pants, pasta boarded-up store and the scorchedremains of a building and a tied-upbulldog that barked and snarled atme, his eyes glinting red.

I ran until I saw a man in auniform coming out of anapartment building. He was gettinginto a car that said ‘Police’ on theside. Frantic, I shouted, “Help!” usingone of my few English words beforehe could shut the car door behindhim. He turned around unhurriedlyand raised his eyes, looking tired andresigned. He said something inEnglish that I didn’t understand.“Non parlo inglese,” I sobbed,knowing full well he couldn’tunderstand a word I was saying, butunable to stop. “Mi sono perduta.” Irepeated myself almost fanatically,and he sighed. He spoke again,slower this time, and louder, asthough I was deaf.

Tears streaming down my face, Ifought to find the right words. “Misono perduta. No look home,” Imanaged, my tongue tripping overthe foreign syllables. I wasn’t sure ifthat was right or not. “Are you lost?”the policeman asked, very slowly,carefully enunciating each syllable. Ididn’t understand what the wordsmeant. I realized I was rubbing myarms in a fenzied, hysterical way, andI was shaking all over. The scent ofthe street closed in on me and myvision blurred, going dark aroundthe edges. My heart was hammeringas fast as a hummingbird inside mychest. I felt the policeman take myarms and put me in the back of hiscar. He got into the driver’s side,turned on the car, and began todrive, glancing at me in the mirrorevery once and a while. I criedsilently in the backseat.

I realized he was talking, stillslowly and loudly, as though heexpected me to suddenly understand.“It’s a rough neighborhood aroundhere.” I didn’t know what that meant.“Not exactly the place for a girl to bewandering around.” I didn’t knowwhat that meant either. “Don’t worry,though. We’ll get you home.” Likebefore, these words meant nothing tome, but the reassuring glance he gaveme in the mirror was all thetranslation I needed.

All I had wanted was to see thecity I had dreamed of for years. I hadwanted to taste the foreign food,watch the people, feel the pulse ofthe city’s life. Ho una esperienza. Ihad had no idea the city was a placewhere desperate people lived withouthope, hidden away in slums, out ofthe public eye, that the businessmenand women moving with single-minded determination were theglitter and feathers on an elaborateCarnivale mask that hid the city’strue face. The Big Apple was dippedin candy on the outside to hide itsrotten core. �

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Ode to an Umbrellaby Tessa Kuster

I.My father’s favorite color Is the sun shining Through a black umbrella.

II.An umbrella is a strange bird— Smooth feathers of cloth And far too many legs.

III.Umbrella, Do I always need you? Sometimes I want to feel the rain Fall directly on my face.

IV.We often look For an umbrella excuse: Something that can shield our sins From the rain of accusation.

V.Mushrooms shaped like bloomingumbrellas On feathery stalks of thin filament: What is sheltered underneath?

VI.Warning: Do Not OpenUmbrellasWhile Inside the BuildingYou will be Held AccountableFor Any Bad Luck that Follows

VII. Shared umbrellas are an excuse For huddling together, Electrically touching When the rain stops, The umbrella closes, reluctantly.

VIII. Panoply of umbrellas A sea of swimming color Bobbing gently With unexpected grace.

IX. How I want to leap Into empty air, And let my umbrella unfurl: I would be a parachutist With no strings attached.

X.We turn an umbrella over, Open and exposed. We climb into its shell It becomes our boat.

XI. A broken umbrella Handle torn off, Tears in the fabric. The rain leaks through Like tears.

XII. Girls walk together, Twirling umbrellas. Men let the rain fall. Pearls of water Collect in their hair.

XIII.So many ways To carry an umbrella: Forward, facing wind; Or leaning on the shoulder, Like a lover’s arm.

XIV.My umbrella Is an extension of myself: How often I hide Behind its bright leaves.

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I Saw The Minds Of My Generation Starving . . .by Malcolm Lasky

It pains me to see the impoverished wilt Of human flowers crumple to their knees Their greasy-haired heads bow to an Unforgiving world, and a bitchy Mother Nature. Shuffling along in caustically cold winds swaying numbly. They freeze to death at night and they’re cleaned up in the morning So we don’t have to look death in the face.

This is how it is in Chicago. Chicago, New York, Los Angeles and Berlin The cities with ugly underbellies can stomach The loss. Can the collective brain? Yes. It happens every winter. The homeless are gone with the wind, Out with a whimpering bang. The groans ring out, saturnine.

They’re dying...the flowers Strong winds let them flow Back and forth hiding low Under the buildings. Oh Once beauty, I say Welcome to speculation.

No the winds are ripping The flowers’ heads off with razor Winds that blind the human eye. ...Or so they say. Welcome to apathy.

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Down the Manholeby Emma Loy-Santelli

CHARON WAS NOT IN THE BEST OF

moods. Truth be told, he had neverbeen in the best of moods. A sunnydisposition just didn’t correspondwith the ferryman’s personality. Hehad met people with sunnydispositions, and had hated everyone of them. In fact, considering thathe had never left the Underworld, hehad encountered a surprisingly largenumber of sunny dispositions. Butthat was people for you. In terms ofmoods, however, he had been inbetter ones than the one thatgripped him now. He stared at theboy, sitting on a rock in the darknessand looking around him in interest.This show of interest annoyedCharon to no end, since he, Charon,the one who had to spend countlessmillennia there, found theUnderworld about as interesting asdirt, which there happened to be alot of.

“Can I go now?” asked the boy.Charon stared at him. He just didn’tget it, did he?

“I ain’t dead,” the boy continued.“Huh?”And now he had been

temporarily relieved of his ferrymanduties in order to interrogate somekid who had apparently managed tosneak past every single bit ofUnderworld security. By accident.Right, good story.

The boy started to humtunelessly. The sound seemed to stickin the flat air. Charon glared at him.

“I could have you thrown intoTartarus for this,” he snapped,hoping that this, at least, would get areaction. The boy shrugged.

“Cool.”Cool? What did that mean? It

wasn’t even a sentence.“There you would endure

unbearable torture for the rest ofeternity,” Charon continued. Hewaited expectantly.

The boy looked around him,seeming to find some sort of

entertainment in observing the drab,greyish brown wastes that made upmost of the final resting place of thesoul. This particular area of theUnderworld was pretty far out of theway, and mainly featured twistedblack trees and jagged black rocks.

“So can I go home, or what?” theboy asked finally.

“Of course not!” Charon snarled.“Tell me what you came for,or...you’ll regret it,” he finished,cursing to himself. It had been awhile since he had had to threatenanybody. The boy smirked.

“What’s the magic word?”Charon blinked at him.“Now?” he guessed.He got a grip on himself. “You let

me do the talking, you littledelinquent. What are you doinghere? Rescuing your girlfriend?”

“No.”“Trying to talk to your father?”“No.”“You have to complete a

challenge, is that it?”He shrugged. “I guess so.”Charon was thrilled. So that was

it, was it? Well, he certainly knewhow to deal with that.

“I got a dare,” the boy continued.Charon deflated.

“A dare.”“Yeah. To go down a manhole.”

The kid grinned. “I was gonna getfifty bucks for it. Now I think I’mgonna ask for a hundred. Above andbeyond, you know?”

Charon felt he had to ask, ifonly to try to understand theintricate complexities that were thehuman mind.

“Someone told you to go down amanhole... and you did?”

The boy shrugged. It seemed tobe how he started most sentences, asif to prepare the observer for theproclamation to follow.

“Hey, fifty bucks is fifty bucks.”Charon couldn’t argue with this

bit of wisdom. He knew quite well

that fifty dollars was, indeed, fiftydollars, if not more.

The boy glanced at his watch,rather pointedly.

“You know,” he said, “yoursecurity must be pretty lame. I mean,look at all the people who broke inhere. Orpheus, Odysseus, Aeneas,Heracles, me...,”

Charon blinked at this unexpectedspouting of classical trivia.

“Not to mention the fact thatHeracles actually stole Cerberus.”

“He didn’t steal Cerberus,”Charon shot back. “He hadpermission . . .”

“Seems pretty dumb to me,” saidthe boy.

“Not as dumb as going down amanhole,” snapped Charon, ratherdefensively. In his opinion the kidwas heading for a few thousand yearsas a weasel. Charon felt that hewould enjoy watching that. Staring atthe boy, he asked himself how havingkids could possibly be so popular.

There was a moment of silence.The boy began tapping his handagainst his knee. The sound was likea finger poking at Charon’s soul.

“It’s not like I even had to gothrough any of that, anyway.Cerberus, or anything. I mean, I gotdown the hole and Cerberus was,like, way back there.”

He waved vaguely into the bleakdistance. Charon studied the boy. Hehad to be lying. There was no waythat an entrance like that could havegone unnoticed. No way at all.

Silence stretched out again,broken only occasionally by the faintscreams that regularly emanatedfrom Tartarus which was, inappearance, a high-security prison,but with a greater emphasis onthumb screws and eternal torment.Charon let the silence drag on.Maybe the screams would freak thekid out, which would be highly

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amusing to watch. He waited.“Got any cards?”Charon stared at him. “Cards?”“Yeah. Anything. What do you do

for fun down here?”Charon stared at him some more.The boy glanced at his watch

again. “I should be home playingCall of Duty right now, you know.”He looked at Charon’s blankexpression. “You know, the videogame? Man, you are old.”

Charon was thinking, hard. Anytime a member of the living wascaught trespassing they were kickedright back out again. Not literallykicked, of course, though Charonwould have liked to take a boot to afew of them. But he just couldn’tsend the kid home yet. He was sogod damn relaxed. Yes, he was goingto put some fear of Charon into thiskid before sending him on his way. Itwas the first goal he had had in thelast...well, ever, probably. He cranked

up the force of his glare and aimed itat the kid. He had started hummingagain, tapping his foot absently. Heglanced at Charon.

“So, what’s up with you?”Charon stubbornly kept glaring.“I’ve been thinking,” the boy

continued. “Have you still got thesame boat?”

The glare, unbidden, dimmed a bit.

“I mean, have you ever consideredupgrading to, I dunno, a motorboat,or something? I drove one of thoseonce. It was pretty sweet.”

I will not respond, Charon toldhimself. I am just going to keepglaring until he damn well notices.

“You know, you could paint yourname on it, and stuff, and get a realjacked-up motor. You can go madfast on one of those things.” Hefrowned at Charon.

“Something up with your eyes?”The kid couldn’t get a hint if

it was hammered into his foot.Charon gave up, all motivation anddrive gone.

“Don’t you have a job you’resupposed to be doing?” the kidasked, glancing around.

“Yes,” said Charon throughclenched teeth. He did. A job thathad never before looked quite asappealing as it did now.

“How ’bout this?” said the boy.“You send me home, and forget yousaw me. Say you taught me a lesson.Say I promised never to come back.”

“Do you?” Charon demandedquickly, hope blooming in his mind.This was all he really needed fromthe kid, right? A promise that he’dnever come back? Sure. That woulddo it.

“Yeah, I won’t come back. Whywould I? This place is lousy.”

Charon agreed completely, butdidn’t feel like saying so. However, heknew that, with the boy gone, thingsfor him would suddenly be just alittle bit less lousy. He had a job todo, so it was about time he got backto it. Right now. Kick the kid out, ifnot literally, then at least figuratively.

And who knew? Hemight even get himself amotorboat.

The boy foundhimself lying in theroad. He slowly pushedhimself to his feet andglanced around. To hisleft was the openmanhole. Above, the skywas darkening. It wasalmost night time.Damn. He got to hisfeet. He hoped hisparents wouldn’t givehim too much hell forbeing gone so long. Heglanced around, noddedto himself, smirked atthe open manhole, andwandered off to collecthis fifty bucks. �

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“The best partabout theprogram wasbeing surroundedby people wholoved writing asmuch as I do,and wanted totalk about it andwork on it all day long.”— Teresa Kline

Young Writers | 31

CHIVAby Alec Marchuk

EVERYONE HAS THEIR HOBBIES. SOME

like camping. Others enjoy horsebackriding. Many are entertained bytheatre. Me, I shoot heroin.

Heroin and I have had a dazzlingrelationship. Unfortunately it’s timefor us to part ways. I made thisdecision this morning when I wokeup after a night of heavy drug use insome random person’s bed. I hadawoken suddenly in a room that stunkof mold and rolled over only to findmyself face to face with a man with athick black handlebar moustache. Ontop of that I soon discovered that allhe was wearing was a pair of asslesschaps. It opened my eyes to the factthat heroin can take me places I reallydon’t want to go.

Of course my separation fromheroin wasn’t going to be easy. Thisisn’t because I’ve been dealing andshooting smack for five years. And italso isn’t because I’ve experimentedwith everything from freebase,speedballs, hydromorphone,fentanyl, oxycodone, pethidine, andmorphine, to name just a few.

I’m not even worried about thesymptoms I will suffer fromwithdrawal, even though I probablyshould. No, I’m worried about twoof my biggest clients: my parents.

“Going clean? You? Ha!” mymother cackled. My mother wasquite peculiar looking, which isprobably due to the fact that she hasbeen a heroin addict for nearlythirty-five years. Her skin is quitesmooth and wrinkle free, eventhough she is in her early sixties. Thisis due to the heroin, which often hasthis effect on people. As she likes tosay, “Chiva is the best skin productout there bar none!” But her skinitself is scarred and covered in scabsand she has managed to acquire thesemassive jowls, which, when she islaughing like she is right now, seemto flap up and down like the pudgywings of a bird.

“Have you been smoking thereefer?” my father cut in. “Youshould stay away from crap like that,it kills brain cells!” My father wasalso far from the norm when it cameto his appearance. To be honest, helooks very similar to my mother;except he has his long gray hair tiedinto a ponytail and doesn’t have anyjiggling jowls.

“Now dad, really! You shouldknow better than to think that!” Isaid exasperated, “I don’t dabble insuch trivial activities! And besides,you mainline heroin!”

“Arty, if you go clean, how areyour father and I supposed to satisfyour heroin needs?”

“Oh well, let me think for amoment, hmmm, maybe you couldthink about getting clean yourselves,”I offered in a serious tone.

“Don’t be foolish!” my fathergrunted, “I’ve been shooting smackfor over half my life, and I’m perfectlyhappy, so why should I quit now?”

“Well that’s a dirty shame foryou I guess. . .”

“Now Arthur!” my mom pipedup again. “Think about this: if youquit dealing and we don’t have asource of free chiva, how can weafford to buy any from anyone elsewhen we still have to pay for themortgage, insurance, and groceriesamong other things?” My mom wastrying to play the guilt card that shehad played so many times before.

“I’m not budging on mydecision, I’m finished with drugs,” Istated again.

“Listen you selfish son of abitch,” my father growled, “we put aroof over your head, put hot mealson the table, I mean Jesus Christ!Look at you, you’re like what,twenty-seven, twenty-eight now, andyou still live with us!”

All of my patience justevaporated. “This is absolutelyludicrous!” I yelled in a rage, “I’mgoing clean whether you like it or not!

Personally, I don’t give a shit what youthink!” I stood up violently andknocked over the chair I was sittingin. Before I marched out of the room Isneered at my father, “Oh and by theway Dad, I’m only twenty-one!”

I made my way up the carpetedstairs to my bedroom and dived ontomy bed. The sheets reeked of variousodors due to the fact that theyprobably hadn’t been washed inmonths. It didn’t bother me though,and soon my eyelids twitched shut.

“Dinner!” my mom’s piercingscream shot through the house. Ilazily rolled off my bed andmeandered to the dining hall. Myparents were already seated and therewas an enormous crock-pot sittingin the middle of the table. I walkedover and removed the lid, ready toserve myself. I yanked the lid off andimmediately stumbled backwards.The crock-pot was filled withsyringes, all bobbing up and down inthe boiling water. I then witnessed inhorror as my parents each grabbed asyringe nonchalantly, as if it wassome sort of pork roast. They eachrolled up their sleeves revealing beltstightly wound around their upperarms. Gingerly picking up thesyringes they methodically jabbed theneedles into their bulging veins. . .

My eyes burst open and I shotupright and began breathing heavilyand rubbing my eyes trying to forgetthe dream. I grabbed the phonelaying on my nightstand and dialedup a man named Dupree. Dupreewas an old friend from high schoolwho also dealt heroin, but has whatis called a chicken shit habit, sincehe’s not really addicted and onlylikes to shoot up pineapple, which isheroin mixed with Ritalin. I figured Icould sell him my remaining stashand use the money to invest insomething legitimate, like a toplessbar. He was all for the deal and I

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promised to meet him the next day.I made a quick trip to the

bathroom and while I was washingmy hands, I took a long look at thereflection in the mirror. The facestaring back at me was grotesque. Itwas past the point of being gauntand was now more emaciated. Mycheeks had an almost concave look,and the dark bags underneath myeyes seemed to be sagging farther andfarther down. I couldn’t stand thesight of myself and spiraled into aviolent fit, repeatedly punching themirror until it was smashed to bits ofglass and my knuckles were bloodied.I stood there for a moment panting.In the beginning, heroin gave me apurpose, an identity, but now Irealize that all this time it has actuallybeen slowly giving me an identity Inever wanted. It has turned me intonothing more than a lowlife junkie.

I washed the blood off my handsand slapped some water on my faceand went to bed. That night I wastormented by recurring dreams andhallucinations involving syringes, myparents, and my own skeletal looks.At one point I hallucinated that JanisJoplin and Jim Morrison entered myroom carrying whiskey and drugs,ready to let the good times roll.

Finally at seven o’clock in themorning I passed out due to sheer

exhaustion, and didn’t come to untilnearly two in the afternoon. I had tomeet Dupree in twenty minutes, so Igrabbed my jacket and my stash ofsmack and bolted out the door,avoiding contact with my parents.

I met Dupree at a playgroundadjacent to an elementary school.Dupree was very skinny and verywhite, but if you ever told him so hewouldn’t believe you.

“Yo homes! What’s cracking! Soyou really are serious about this. Shitman, I thought you wasn’t gonnashow!” Dupree said excitedly as hegave me a high five followed by a fist pound.

“No man, I’m serious,” I repliedas I pulled five Zs of smack out ofmy duffel bag and placed them inthe trunk of Dupree’s car. “Are yousure this is the best place to do this?”

“Of course man! Them little kidsain’t gonna make a fuss about us. Ohshit! You wasn’t kidding when yousaid you had a shitload of scag!”Dupree said as he weighed theheroin on a small scale he kept in thetrunk of his rusted Chevrolet.

“Do you think you can make agood profit of it?” I asked curiouslywhile I watched what I presumed tobe third graders scamper about on aset of monkey bars.

“Hell yeah man! I can pimp thisshit easy! Oh and look at that, five Zsexactly!”

“So how much can I get for it?”I asked.

“I can probably throw ten Gsyour way,” Dupree answered.

“Come on now Dupree, I’m notbuying into that bullshit,” I said in acool voice.

“All right you caught me. HeyI’m just a business man, trying tomake a living in these hard times...”

“All right, I get it. How about wesettle for double,” I said and Dupreereluctantly nodded in agreement anddoled out twenty grand into a brownpaper bag.

“One love my brother,” Dupreereplied. I did another fist pound withhim and began my trek home. I wasfeeling high on life, for the moment.

During the walk home though,my condition transformed rapidly. Ithad been two days since I hadstopped using, and alreadywithdrawal was setting in intensely. Ibegan to suffer from chucks, orhunger pains caused by the lack ofheroin in my diet. I also beganshivering uncontrollably andsweating profusely, even though itwas November. I needed a hit. Justone more hit and then I could quitfor good.

When I reached my parents’house, I was in bad shape, but stillmanaged to sneak by my father, whowas watching a TV set that I hadstolen a few months earlier from anold folks’ home. I made my wayupstairs to my bedroom and grabbeda dime bag hidden in my drawer. Iwanted to throw it in the fireplace,but my desperation for a hitoverpowered me.

I collected all of my materialsand began to prepare for my lastinjection of smack. As I was cookingthe heroin, a gunshot ripped throughthe house. The dresser in front of mewas now painted with blood. Icollapsed to the floor and turned toface my assailant. The first thing myeyes focused on were a pair of jowls,those grotesque flapping jowlsbelonging to my mother. I shiftedmy focus to her entire face, whichwas void of emotion.

I tried to say something, but allthat spurted out of my mouth wasblood. My mom was still pointingthe gun at me, her hand kept steady.

The last thing I saw before myvision faded and eyelids claspedshut, was my mother reaching forthe half-mixed heroin, so she too,could get just one more hit. �

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“Here at theInstitute, Ilearned to stopwriting wordsand startplaying withthem instead.”— Anonymous

Young Writers | 33

I am the ooze of the 20th century

Bubbling in the heat – urban landscape

The playground across the street from the high rise

The river with more carcinogens than a pack of cigarettes

I am from competition

I threw elbows in basketball games when I was six

I am from a dad who enjoyed his Jewish milk

Until they sent him to rehab

I am from a mom who carries the scale of justice

Sometimes juggling me

I’ve passed through the parks where kids got high

I’ve attended the parties on the Upper East Side

Too early for regret

And simply bored of angst

I Amby Hayden Miller

“I had a great timeinteracting withteachers andpublished authors.Everyone wasaccomplished andtalented, but alsoeasy to approachand veryencouraging toyoung writers. I feelI improved becauseof the great faculty.”— Anonymous

Young Writers | 34

Mornings, we wake to your voice the way farmers wake to fowl crowing at the sun on the shoulders of a field.

We wake to your homage to the burners beneath you, your tribute to daylight, its teabags and cream.

Of your love affair with teacups, of your single, slender arm, of your broad haunches like a featherless hen’s, you sing.

Once, we forgot you and you boiled away all of our tea water, sat steaming in your nakedness like a woman empty-wombed.

We weren’t sorry enough and I hear it some sun-ups when I rise, when I find you singing Pie Jesu to an empty kitchen, to a glowing stove, to the nights you spend alone waiting to be filled.

Ode to the Teakettleby Maggie Millner

“This has been achallenging,adventure-filled week.Without a doubt mywriting has beenpushed and stretched,and I am leavingpositive that I havegrown not only as awriter but as anindividual as well. Inever knew what I wascapable of, but I amcloser to knowing now,as the staffencouraged me to tapinto the unknown anddip into the bizarre. Ithas been a trying andexciting week that Iwill surely carry withme wherever writingmay take me.”— Meghan Flynn

Young Writers | 35

What Mollies Doby Mollie O’Brien

“MOLLIE ROSE! WHAT IN GOD’S NAME

did you do to yourself?!” Even at agethree, I was well accustomed to thisreaction from my mother. I had thistendency to get myself into a bit ofmischief from time to time, no matterwhere I was. At two, I had painted mybabysitter’s vanity mirror crimsonwith the lipstick I’d found in herroom when I couldn’t sleep atnaptime. Most of my mischiefinvolved not sleeping at naptime, orstealing candy during variousholidays. But this was a little different.

I sat on the dark wooden floor ofthe spare bedroom in my housewhich was mostly used for arts n’crafts during the days of my youth. Ican’t recall what I was wearing thatfateful day, but there’s a pretty goodchance I had on my tan, fringedPocahontas dress, which I worethroughout a good portion of mychildhood. Anyway, my mom wascooking dinner, and I was left on myown to create something with therainbow-like array of brightlycolored paper spread out around me.

However, I soon grew bored anddecided that I needed somethingmore exciting to busy myself with. Ieyed my surroundings. A desk, a bed,paper littering the floor, glue sticks,my purple safety scissors thatcouldn’t even cut through paperwithout difficulty, and, yes – mymom’s “grownup” scissors sitting onthe desk, shining like a beacon,calling out to me.

I looked around to make sure noone was coming, and snatched thelong silver scissors from their restingplace, a devilish grin surely spreadacross my chubby face. I climbed uponto the bed, scissors in hand, andpulled the sheets over my head,trying to keep my secret operationunder wraps. There, in my littlehairdressing den, I grabbed a clumpof shiny brown hair and held it infront of my eyes. With my free hand,I began to snip. For several minutes I

proceeded like this, taking sectionsand snipping, until my mother’s voicerang out summoning me for dinner.My work wasn’t quite finished, butthe damage was surely done.

I set the scissors down and feltthe choppy pieces of hair that fellstiffly around my face. I smiled at myhandiwork. Head held high, Isauntered into the kitchen. With onelook of shock and confusion, mymom made it clear that she didn’tshare in my delight at the haircut Ihad just given myself.

The following day I was whiskedoff for an emergency visit to thehairdresser, who did her best to eventhings out, but who ultimatelydecided that we just had to wait it outfor my hair to re-grow. My motherwas horrified. I felt victorious.

“I can’t believe you did this,”she said sounding exasperated.“What on earth possessed you to cutyour own hair?”

The answer I gave seemed quiteobvious to me. I shrugged andreplied, “That’s just what Mollies do,”matter-of-factly. �

“This was oneof the mostamazing weeksof my life. I metso many peoplethat I hope tokeep in contactwith. It wasamazing tolearn from theexperiencedwriting staff,and I feel that Ihave learned somuch here. — Ariel Rehr

Young Writers | 36

EVER SINCE SAM WAS A CHILD HE WAS

unparalleled in the powers ofobservation. He knew which catsand dogs had fleas by the patterns intheir fur and which animals werebeginning to get sick by the state oftheir pupils. In his fourth-gradeEnglish class he astonished histeacher in an assignment aboutadjectives with a description of ablade of grass. Whereas moststudents wrote one or two words(green, pointy) Sam’s effortsproduced four pages. Butobservation can be dangerous; thereare some things best left unnoticed,facets of the world that are betterseen out of the corner of the eye.

It began with a simple enoughthing—a thin slice to the flesh at thetip of the index finger, at a diagonalto the faint lines of the print. Apaper cut. Sitting on his bed, Samdropped the offending book on the

floor and began to call for aid beforeremembering no one was home.Instead, he turned back to the cut.Staring at it, his face gave noindication of the sharp pain thatthreatened to burst out of the tinyincision. It came in waves, pushingat the doors of flesh periodically, intime with his heartbeat. Sam noticedthe oozings of blood, beginning atthe edges and welling into the gap atthe center, eventually overflowingand running down the side of hisfinger. It followed the contours of hisfingerprint. Then something newcaught his eye.

It was a dark shape, seenfleetingly at the edges of his vision,

but Sam turned his attention to itimmediately. At first it seemed to tryto elude him, fading away among theshadows on the wall. But Samconcentrated on it and began tonotice things. With each detail, theobject came into sharper focus.

First he noticed the faintwrinkles in the object, something ofcloth. Sure enough, he saw it to be adark cloak, hanging toward theground. The material had a similarquality to leather, which created aburnt appearance and odor. Yet insome places hair could still be seen;thin, coarse hairs not unlike thoseof...a human.

The cloak was made of humanskin.

Sam began to feelvery afraid. The painin his finger threwitself at the woundfaster and faster inconjunction with thebeating of his heartand as it did, theimage became clearer.His attention wasdrawn upward, andsuddenly everythingwas in perfect focus.

The cloak’s hoodwas pulled back,revealing an utterlyhairless head. Lashes,brows, all weremissing. The face waspure white except forthe blue veins crisscrossing in a chaoticfashion. Red lips satabove a sharp chin,

but they were cracked and bloodseeped from them. Sam, despite histerror, noticed that the bloodpumped in sync with the throbbingof his cut. And this was not all.Blood dripped at the same rate fromthe pits where ears, eyes, and a nose

The Pain of Perceptionby Liam O’Connor

continued on page 37

“Being here wasextremely helpful. Ithelped my dream ofbecoming a betterwriter turn into areality. All the peopleI’ve met here were sosupportive of writingand now I havememories to drawfrom for my writing.Thank you!”— Soniya Shah

Young Writers | 37

should have been.The phantom’s head had not

been facing Sam. But as he stared atit, gaping in soundless horror, itbegan to turn, ever so slowly. Samwatched as its attention becamefirmly placed on him.

Shutting his eyes tightly, hescreamed as loudly as he could,yelling until his throat grew coarseand raw from its effort. Sobbingquietly, Sam peeked through hisfingers for the apparition.

It was gone.He curled up on the mattress,

back placed firmly against the wall,his tears slowing until they finallystopped. The halt in his tears hadnothing to do with recovery fromthe incident; rather it was due to hisreaching an understanding. Thoughstill terrifying, everything was somuch more manageable afterfiguring out the cause behind it. AndSam, with his miraculousobservation skills, had reached aconclusion. The correspondencebetween the phantom’s blood andhis own pain suggested that it hadappeared in response to the cut.Perhaps the pain itself.

The avoidance of pain is a largepart of life. But for Sam, it becameall that mattered. His obsessivecaution and constant fear broke him.And barely a week after the incidenthe tripped and banged his kneedespite all attempts to avoid injury.

“No!” he yelled frantically. Hismother glared at him.

“Calm down, you’re making ascene.” She grabbed his wrist andhelped him up.

But Sam was staring blankly pasther, an expression of such terror onhis face that she herself felt nervous.

The phantom was back, provingSam’s theory. But he noticed that asthe pain faded away, so did thephantom. Rather than being acreature that responded to injuries, it

was a manifestation of his own pain.But for Sam, this simply meant hecould never escape it no matterwhere he hid. He collapsed in fearand despair, shaking onthe ground.

He became aware ofhis surroundings andfound himself in hisbedroom. He could hearthat his mother wasspeaking in hushed toneswith the doctor, but thecontent of theirconversation wasimpossible to discern. Itwasn’t much of a stretchto assume it centered onhim. Sam entered hisanti-phantom position,back to wall.

Sam’s terror onlygrew as time went on.His mother failed toconsole him and thedoctor was unable todetermine what waswrong. Neither of themcould persuade him toleave the comfort of his room. As faras Sam was concerned, the likelihoodof getting hurt while huddled in hisroom was fairly low, and he had nodesire to test the fates. Though hisroom was the site of the firstincident, it was the most comfortingof the environments available tohim.

Sam’s fear consumed him. Hegrew stunted and pale, his eyes wideand dulled from both the dimness ofhis room and perpetual terror. Samate nothing but soft foods and neverventured outdoors; a sharp edgecould gash his mouth and the sunwould surely burn his skin.

It was because of this excessivecaution that the phantom returnedone last time.

During a wind storm the treenext to Sam’s room was blowndown. It was an old and rotten elm,

ant and termite tunnels accumulatedby its many years of growthweakening it significantly. Blowndown by the tempest it crashedthrough Sam’s window, a straybranch skewering one leg.

Sam awoke instantly, thesensation of pain filling him. Hismind went into shock from theagony and the fear that accompaniedit. Sam twisted, agonized, desperatefor awareness, desperate to know ifthe phantom would come.

There it was, standingmotionlessly at the side of the bed. Itstared down at Sam, its horrid faceturned to him. Cold sweat poringdown his face, Sam tried to call forhelp, but no sound came. As thephantom reached, its white handsgrasping, Sam’s voice finally camefree, screaming for all he was worth.

Then all he knew was pain. �

continued from page 36

Young Writers | 38

A Lament to Savour:An Ode to Chewing Gum

by Ada O’Higgins

My father, exiled, somber and silky with old age

sits back and watches the sky turn pink abovethe sweet sexuality of his cigar.

Despite his tears longing to take him back, hechuckles:

“When I came to America, I found there isnothing as ugly as a beautiful woman chewinggum.”

Peppering the rugged sparkling asphalt

Like flattened globes you surrender to theelements,

To our depressed loafers, demeaning stilettos,dilapidated Converse

Thudding thundering stuttering tilting like a

toddler’s uneasy steps

Gotta make the meeting gotta make the reading

Gotta make a buck duck behind red lips andcollege degree.

damn you, clingy chewing gum, when youlatch on to our pillars

Why can’t you just let go? move on?Get a life?

Yeah, just grab it.

Discarded

In the trash, under the table, on the windowsill

You attack my slumbers

Slither into my ears, nostrils, sticking to

Film of my eyes

Impair my sense with your glue-like, malleabletouch

Did you mask the bitter taste of a kiss Today

Swirling mouths, pools of thick saliva

Did you enjoy it?

I think of you, sticky serum of sadness Solitary,humming blues and purples in the caverns ofmy belly, We chew eternally.

Did you ruin that dirty dress

Today dragging her wearer’s thighs through theconcrete

Today did you replace a cigarette in thoseleaf-like lips

Today, that little boy sacrificed his last dollar foryou

Gnawing, a solemn face, he chomps Heywatcha doin?

Cheap flavour

Why do I desire you

Discard you once you are bland and dry like atoo gnarled lover

Whoes mouth did you dwell in today?

Who gave you pleasure today with their experttongue unknowingly?

Who left you helpless stuck to the ceiling oftheir palate

Spit you disdainfully?

Immortal wanderer, the earth will not retrieveyou into its warm womb

You know you will outlast us all.

Ruminating cows in an abattoir, today

Behind a bench on the subway the rats scatterby you Just as We do.

Young Writers | 39

THE FIRST THING THAT STRUCK HER

when she opened her eyes was theblankness of the room. Where wereher curtains? Where were thephotographs her mother had taken?The bed felt off, uncomfortable. Shetried to speak but her vocal cordswere too dry to make sound. Thesmell of cheap cleaner and crampedair drifted under her nostrils. Wherewas she? The thought echoed, thenvanished, and faded away into herfoggy mind. She tried to bring itback, to even remember what shewas trying to remember, but it wasgone. She fell again into a hazyunconsciousness.

The sun came through thewindow and cast an unmovingshadow across the smooth floor.Everything was still and noiseless,until a group of interns led by aresident doctor walked briskly intothe room. Each person’s shoes madelight tapping noises against thelinoleum as they crowded around thewoman. The resident’s eyes flickedover the woman’s face before hewhipped around. “Can someone tellme her condition?” An intern in theback blinked, hesitating. Then heslowly raised his hand. “Yes?” theresident snapped. “It’s hemiplegia,”the intern responded. “She’sparalyzed.” The doctor turned backto the woman, and for a moment aglimmer of concern flashed acrosshis usually callous face. He stood,captivated by the woman’s tranquilglow that could only mean there wasstill life. She looked so young, sopure. She couldn’t have been morethan twenty. It made the doctor thinkof his daughter, away at college. Shedidn’t call much, didn’t email. Theyhadn’t exactly left on good termsafter his only child decided on art forher career path. What was shethinking? He had worked so hard,trying to provide her with a goodhome and a good upbringing. Howhard can you work if you’re an art

major? Drawing sketches andthrowing paint around? He couldn’ttake his eyes off the woman. “What awaste art is,” he thought to himself.“Especially when life is so short.” Butit was the second part that botheredhim. He closed his eyes, pushing thethought away. He’d call her when hegot home. An intern coughed andmade him jump. The movementmerged into his quick stride as he leftthe room.

On his way out he passed a nurse.He barked a sharp hello, but lookedaway quickly and continued on hisway. The nurse nodded inacknowledgement, letting wisps ofunkempt hair fall across her cheek.She entered the woman’s room torefill the cupboards with supplies.Mindlessly she stacked linens andbedpans onto the plain, white shelves.She turned to leave, but stopped atthe sight of the pale figure on thebed. Her seemingly lifeless bodymatched the rest of the room, butthere was something about the faintsmile resting on her face. She seemedcalm, unafraid. The nurse tilted herhead, and blinked her tired eyesthoughtfully. When she was that age,she had plans. She had ideas in mindfor what would happen and when.Sometimes, when she fell into therhythm of her work, she would thinkabout her dreams again, but only inthe nostalgic way that one rememberschildhood. They were distant,unattainable. Still these thoughtsmade her eyes smile when theycrossed her mind. The nursewondered what the woman’s dreamswere. Which ones were now ruinedbecause of the accident? The nursesighed. Even after ten years in thehospital, certain stories still struckher. She turned to leave the room, butlooked back once more at thewoman, her hand resting lightly onthe white frame of the door.

The second after the nursestepped out, a panicked girl burst

into the room. She was not muchyounger than the woman in the bed.When she saw her, her weight shiftedbackwards and she clutched herheart. The girl had the same definedcheekbones as the woman, whichsoon became stained with tears offear and uncertainty. She collapsedinto a chair, and buried her mouth inher hand. The girl’s soft crying andthe steady beat of the heart monitorfilled the room. Who was this person,lying there so calm and content?Where was the girl she grew up with?The one who, as a senior, begansinging “Endless Love” to heryounger sister in the middle of thecafeteria. She was loud, off-key, andgot even worse when everyone turnedto look. “I was welcoming you to thehigh school,” she said later, defendingherself. “You’d humiliate yourself as afreshman anyway, I was helping youget it out of the way!”

The girl waited in the hospitalroom, and searched for a quickglimpse of hope, the slightest signthat things would be okay. Butnothing happened, nothing changedexcept the lengths of the faintshadows across the floor. The girlgrew used to the beeping heartmonitor until it was almost soothing.Hours passed, the room darkened.The girl, curled up in the chair, beganto sleep.

Sometime in the early morning,the woman in the bed blinked heavilyand dragged herself to consciousness.The room wavered, still blurry. Thewoman blinked again. Soon thingswere sharp and recognizable. She sawcupboards and drawers, white andneatly arranged along two walls. Shenoticed the slender-armed girl asleepin the chair. The girl’s face was tight,and part of her long black hair clungto her neck, damp from sweat. “Iknew she would come,” the womanthought. She had trouble lifting thecorners of her mouth, but she felt thesmile nonetheless. �

The Woman in the Bedby Jackie Parker

Young Writers | 40

Gypsy>Divaby Ariel Rehr

THE LOBBY IS BUZZING WITH PEOPLE.With the same elegance andexcitement that was formerlyassociated with going to the theatre,the prospective audience waits earlyoutside the big wooden doors, soclean and waxed that they radiate theenergy of the room.

Elegant women in pearls cling totheir handsome male counterparts,holding their champagne glassesbetween manicured fingers.

The thrill of opening night isevident everywhere, except, this isnot opening night. The show hadbeen open for months, captivatingaudiences nearly every night. TheTony awards have been given out,naming three of its actors the best intheir field.

I enter the lobby minutes beforeeight, hurrying down the red velvetstairs and heading straight for thecommotion. The merchandise tableis crowded with people, all wishingto pre-order their copy of the yet-to-be released cast recording, withouteven entering the theatre.

The ushers take tickets, scanningthem with a beep that is becomingsoothing and exciting to me, thesmile across my face embarrassinglywide as I follow the usher who takesmy mother and me on our own upto the box by stage right. We sit inthe cushiony red velvet chairs, linedwith gold trimmings, and the entirescene is magical.

An orchestra sits on stage, dozensof dapper men holding theirpolished instruments that reflect thebright spotlights of the stage.

The lights fade away as theorchestra begins to play, a medley of tunes both familiar and new tome. I squeeze my mother’s hand; sheraises an eyebrow but smiles at mychildish excitement.

A thin screen covers theorchestra as they play their last notesof the overture, and new lightingreveals the set.

Once again surprising me, theshow plays as though it is openingnight. The cast seems at theirbrightest, their chemistryundeniable. Though anannouncement before the showrevealed that the lead had injuredher foot and would be wearingspecial shoes throughout theperformance, and though I noticeanother actress incorporating tissuesinto her act, the performance seemsotherwise flawless.

Near the end of the second act,the lead, the woman with theprotective slippers, sings a soliloquy.She imagines herself on a stage, infront of a huge and impressedaudience. At the end of the number,much of the audience, includingmyself, rises to give her a standingovation. Imagining that she isresponding to her own audience, thewoman is able to graciously thank usfor the applause, bowing andblowing kisses to the rising patronswho stand for a solid minutepraising her. She waves at me; I amsure of it because my mother and Iare the only ones in the box. Myheart skips a beat and I beam.

And with the beat of music, theshow continues on and what seemsto be the ending actually revealsanother half an hour ahead of us.Which is too bad for the oldercouple in the nearby mezzanine whoI see leave during the clapping.

At the actual ending of the show,the large cast comes on stage,running to the front for individualbows as they narrow down towardsthe stars. The three leads eventuallywalk off hand in hand, laughing andhugging each other, and visiblymouthing words of encouragementand praise. This family I see on stagein front of me makes me jealous andhappy all at once.

We return down the same redvelvet steps, into the main part of thetheatre and then out the doors that

lead to the metal barricades which Iquickly find a space behind. Rapidly,the space behind me fills up as moreand more people crowd for spotswhere they can give theircongratulations to the cast.

I hold my Sharpie marker andPlaybill tightly, handing it off to actorafter actor with a “Wow, that wasincredible” or “Amazingperformance!” They graciously thankme, leaving their signatures in blackmarker across the traditional booklet.

The diva, this former ‘gypsy’ nowthe Tony award-winning star herself,walks out the door. A black limowaits for her at the end of the shortsidewalk but she surprisingly pausesto listen to her eager fans and signfor each and every one. She comes tome and I manage to stutter an “Ohmy gosh, that was the most brilliantperformance I have ever seen.” Shequietly thanks me, signing the photoof herself on the cover of the Playbillin silver marker, and she moves on tothe next patient person. Soon, asquickly as she came out, she gets into the car and the crowd quicklyfades away. �

“Meeting andhanging out withother young writerswas a blast. Yourage, gender,interests,disinterests — noneof it mattered.Everyone got alongand made everyoneelse feelcomfortable.”— Jordan Ferrin

Young Writers | 41

Ode to the Mud Puddleby Adam Sax

The ground is puddled with rainWhich is how the oceansMust have begun:A beautiful messOf squishy cratersPolka-dotted between trees

Wee beasties swimIn these temporal tidal poolsGrowing and multiplyingMaking meiotic soupIn the notches of the lawnWhere frogs and feet can play

Splashes flood piecesOf the asphalt pathsMaking us danceTrying not to soakOur sandal clad feetIn the wet dirt and grass

But it is wonderful,The dance between puddlesHolding arms akimboSpinning, missingSplash! and you’re inToes cringing, cold and brown

“This week was somuch fun. Everyonewas awesome andthere was no one Ididn’t get alongwith. The feedbacksessions were donereally well; I feellike everyone wasso good atcommenting.”— Liam O’Connor

Young Writers | 42

Rainby Alex Scanlon

Birds, specksReally, soaring, gliding

But smallIn a pool of blue

Tears that fallLet me fly free

In water so pure It pours down.“This week was a

chance for me tofeel like a truewriter, I hadeverything I needed— inspiring classes,helpful tips, support,and wonderfulfriends. I loved it!”— Anonymous

Young Writers | 43

Goldby Soniya Shah

Nothing gold is forever

The time is passing, it has to go

As it lies there, time passing, slowly tarnishing

Ice comes, drastically cold

The warmth fades replaced by bitter decoration of a new world

Gold disappears, it doesn’t last and neither does snow.

The beauty is one belonging to the heavens

For angels and saints to wear

It doesn’t belong in our nasty, cruel yet magnificent world

And yet it still shines through, just bits at a time

There it is, next to a patch of shade

Seasons are changing, flowers are blooming

Life is back here

It shines as bright as eternity

Promising to stay on

Lighting up even the darkest places filling them up, up, up

Fighting for a place to call its own

Never ending, pushing to survive

Sweeping through corners, brushing the past, studying the future

Darkened by the terrible, lightened by the excellent

Hope.

“I really enjoyed being herebecause it has made me morecomfortable writing poems andshort stories. I have also madenew friends. It is over and I feellike I am just really getting to knoweveryone. I will miss it here, andmiss everyone I have met.” — Liam O’Connor

Young Writers | 44

Untitledby Rose Silberman-Gorn

I AM THE QUEEN OF CYNICISM, AND Ihave yet to be dethroned. That’s whatI’m thinking when my mom looks atme in confusion over the top of hernewspaper. I’ve just said somethingsarcastic, and she’s eyeing me like shedoesn’t understand who I am. Goright ahead and stare at me, Mom.But don’t you know that parents areresponsible for how their child turnsout? So, news flash, the way I am isyour fault. Of course, I don’t actuallysay this. If this were any other day, Iwould, but it isn’t any other day. Soinstead, I just say, “What? Why areyou looking at me like I’m amartian?” I try to sound neutral, butsome bitter resentment slips out.

“Honey, I just don’t understandwhy you’re so angry all the time. Didsomething happen? Something youwant to talk about?”

Now I’m the one to look at herstrangely. “I’m not angry. I’m cynical.There’s a difference, you know.”

“All right,” my mom says, smiling

so hesitantly it looks almost painful.“Finish getting ready for school. Youdon’t want to be late.”

“Actually, I really wouldn’t mind,”I say tonelessly. “Not at all. Not onebit.” My mom gives up her attempt ata smile, and her face seems tocollapse into itself with sadness. For asecond, I feel guilty that I can’t be thechild she wants me to be. Then, asalways, the moment passes.

After school, the event that I’vebeen looking forward to—and mindyou, it’s pretty rare that I lookforward to anything—comes. I walkto the diner quickly in anticipation.When I look in the third booth onthe right, there she is, looking almostexactly the same as the last time Isaw her, the day she moved awaythree years ago.

“Hey, what’s been shitty today?” Isay, sneaking up on her. It’ssomething we used to say to eachother back in junior high, when weate lunch together every day. Her

eyes widen in surprise at the soundof my voice, and she turns around.

“Sammy!” she cries out. “I’vemissed you so much!”

We don’t hug; we’re not whatanyone in their right mind wouldcall affectionate. Still, I can tell she’shappy to see me. We sit down acrossfrom each other in the sticky vinylbooth, and begin discussing oldmemories.

“Remember Miss Bell?” she asks.“Yeah, I remember. She was the

one who was always saying, ‘There’sno such thing as a stupid question.’ Ican’t stand when people say that.Isn’t it better to tell the brutal truththan to delude morons into thinkingwhat they say is actually valid?”

Claudia ignores my little rant. “Ijust ran into her on my way here.Apparently, she got married last July;can you believe it?”

I snort. Am I supposed to behappy about this? Let out a cheer, ahip hip hooray? I don’t think so.“You know how I feel aboutmarriage.”

“Yeah, I know. Butthis is our teacher. Weknow her. Can’t youjust give her thebenefit of the doubt?Maybe it’s a happyunion.”

I snort again. “No, Ican’t give her thebenefit of the doubt.Can you?”

She looks down atthe table. “Yes,” she saysquietly. “I can.”

Our conversationis somewhat stiltedafter that awkwardexchange, but it’s justlike old times when weget to the topic of ourhorrific classmates.

“The Young WritersInstitute reallyhelped me to improvemy writing and to bemore confident.Everyone here wasincredibly nice andthe teachers werevery generous withtheir time.”— Margaret Guzman

continued on page 45

Young Writers | 45

“Brett Williams is playingfootball, varsity, and he’s an evenbigger idiot than he used to be,” Iupdate Claudia.

She deadpans, “We reallyshouldn’t be making fun of footballplayers, you know. They help society.In their own way.”

“Yeah, I feel so sorry for them.They face so much opposition andprejudice. They are alienated fromthe world. It’s just a difficult life, thelife of a football player.” When Ifinish, she cracks up, abandoning herfaux-serious expression. It feels sogood to reminisce and make fun ofthe people who used to make fun ofus nonstop.

“Oh, whatever happened toWarner? You know, the shy guy inour history class? I always liked him,”she says.

I think for a second. “Ummm, Ithink he’s going out with somecheerleader,” I lie.

Claudia raises an eyebrowincredulously. “Really? He didn’tseem like the type to go over to thedark side.”

“He isn’t. I made that up. He’s ina bunch of A.P. classes, and he grew abeard. He looks like Paul Bunyan,and that’s on a good day.”

Claudia just looks at the tablethoughtfully, doesn’t laugh, nothing.I know it’s not one of my best jokes,but in the past she would’ve at leastgiggled a bit. Or maybe she’s justoffended that I insulted her formercrush. I’d probably be if she did thatto me.

We get on the topic of ourfamilies, a subject I’d really rather avoid.

“So, how’s your mom been doingsince the divorce?” she says.

I positively hate the “D” word. Iavoid it at all costs, and it practicallymakes me shudder to hear Claudiause it so casually. “Um, I don’t know.Okay, I guess,” I say.

“How’ve you been doing?” shesays this more cautiously, as if thewrong word could make me leapacross the table and attack her.

I shrug. “All right, I guess. Asgood as I possibly can be.”

Her gaze is serious andpenetrating. “Are you sure? I knowthis really good psychologist. He’s afamily friend. He can help you dealwith your feelings of anger and grief.”

My jaw drops open. “Are youkidding me? Since when did you turninto Oprah?” I spit angrily. “Andwhat would you know about my‘anger and grief?’ In case you needreminding, your parents have beentogether for 32 years. You have noclue what I went through.”

Claudia looks sad, in an almostpitying way. “I know it was horrible,what you went through, and I wish Icould’ve been there to help you. Butyou can’t just stay angry for the restof your life. There comes a timewhen it’s like, get over it already.”

I shake my head slowly,completely in shock. “What did youdo with Claudia?” I reach out andtap her skull with my pointer finger.“Is my cynical best friend fromjunior high in here at all?”

Claudia sighs slowly, the sounddragged out and wistful. “She grewup. I suggest you do the same.”

We sit there, just looking at eachother, and for some reason I feel likecrying, something I haven’t done in years.

After our emotionless goodbyes, Iwalk home slowly, my feet dragging,feeling like I’ve been beaten up. WhatI keep focusing on is the look she hadon her face while she was lecturingme about therapy. It was pity, fear,and confusion, all at once. It was theexact look my mother had given methis morning. I don’t think I everwant to see it again.

I somehow arrive home and goup to my room. My bright, cheery

red walls seem morose in the moodI’m in. I plop down on my bed, tooemotionally exhausted to even reachthe remote to the television. Whenthe conversation from the diner popsinto my mind, my tiredness shifts toanger, and I begin pacing around myroom. What was it she had said? Oh,yeah. “You can’t just stay angry for therest of your life. There comes a timewhen it’s like get over it already.”Gosh, what helpful advice that is. I’msoooo sad about my parents’ divorce.Whatever shall I do? I know! I’ll getover it! How simple.

Suddenly, I stop everything, andstand still in the middle of my floor.My pacing has turned to furiousstomping in my anger, my face isflushed, and I’m being bitter andsarcastic about someone who used tobe my best friend. Why am I likethis? It makes sense that I wascynical in junior high, when I washormonal and nearly friendless, witha face full of zits. Cynicism made mefeel like I had a morsel of control insuch a scary time of my life, andhelped me bond with Claudia. Butit’s probably not healthy to channelall my emotions about the “D” wordinto sarcasm. The problem is, if Istop depending on my crown, wheredo I go from there?

Feeling the strain on my soremuscles, I plod over to my woodencabinet, open it, and reach towardsthe back. I know it’s there, where Iput it years ago. It has to be.

Finally, I find what I’m lookingfor, and pull it out. It’s a note Claudiawrote me when she was bored inmath class, from 8th grade. It says:Cynicism is what would be created ifintelligence and rapier wit had a lovechild, after intelligence cheated onkindness. And really, who wouldn’t? Ichuckle darkly. That Claudia, she’squite a funny girl. I sit on my bed,staring at the note, allowing tears towell up in my eyes. �

continued from page 44

Young Writers | 46

The Trainby Erika Wolf

In a lonely corner of this new country, I wait for the train to arrive, my chance to go somewhere new and welcoming.

I wait patiently, for I have been waiting a long time. I wish for someone to perhaps coax me out of my mind and Into the world.

I need some familiarity to maybe teach me what to say to the people who inhabit this strange new place.

“This was a greatexperience, bothsocially and mentally.All the kids reallypulled together tohelp each other outand to make surethat we had anysupport we needed.”— Emily Beatty

Conrad BakerGrand Island

Beverly BartkowskiFarmington

Emily BeattyAlbany

Sarah BorodzikHamburg

Zak BreckenridgeEssex

Daniel ClaridgeNiskayuna

Laura ColaneriTroy

Julia ConradBrooklyn

Jordan FerrinDelmar

Meghan FlynnNorthport

Williamena GrangerMamaroneck

Margaret GuzmanHighland Mills

Isaac Handley-MinerMiddle Grove

Adah HetkoBoght Corners

Elizabeth JanetschekSyosset

Sarah KarpovichClifton Park

Danya KaufmanJamaica

Jiae KimFlushing

Teresa KlineHopewell Junction

Tessa KusterHudson Falls

Malcolm LaskyChatham

Emma Loy-SantelliDelmar

Alec MarchukLake Placid

Hayden MillerNew York

Maggie MillnerCherry Valley

Madeleine MossIthaca

Mollie O’BrienTroy

Liam O’ConnorRed Hook

Ada O’HigginsNew York

Jacqueline ParkerFayetteville

Ariel RehrEastchester

Adam SaxDelmar

Alexander ScanlonPatterson

Soniya ShahEast Amherst

Rose Silberman-GornLatham

Erika WolfCrown Point

New York State Summer Young Writers Institute Participants

Summer 2008

Young Writers | 47

The New York State Writers Institute is celebrating its25th Anniversary. Created in 1984 by the StateLegislature to draw attention to writing and the artisticimagination across the state, the Institute has emergedas one of the premier sites in the country forpresenting the literary arts. Over the course of three

decades the Institute has sponsored readings, lectures, panel discussions, symposia, and film events which have featuredappearances by over 900 artists—including six Nobel Prize winners, and 90 Pulitzer Prize winners—and has screened morethan 600 films, from rare early prints to sneak previews of current releases. The Institute is a major contributor to theeducational resources and cultural life at the University at Albany, where it is located, as well as the surroundingcommunity. It is also identified by the writing and publishing communities as a place dedicated to promoting seriousliterature, where writers and their work are held in high esteem, where being an invited guest is considered an honor, andwhere talking about books is celebrated as the best conversation in the world.

Further information about Writers Institute programs may be obtained from its website at: www.albany.edu/writers-inst.

Skidmore is an independent, four-year liberal arts collegelocated about one mile from historic downtown SaratogaSprings, NY. Skidmore extends its academic year emphasison experimentation and creativity across disciplines into thesummer months, through its numerous institutes in the

creative and performing arts; the college’s Summer Term; programs in the liberal and studio arts for pre-collegestudents; and by promoting a wide array of campus events including concerts, film screenings, lectures, readings, andart exhibits.

Young Writers | 48

New York State Writers Institute

William KennedyExecutive Director

Donald FaulknerDirector

Suzanne LanceAssistant Director

Mark KoplikProgram Fellow

Skidmore College

James ChanskyDirector, Summer Sessions

& Summer Special Programs

Christine MerrillProgram Coordinator

Danielle Gray-LobeErin McAvoy

DaeShawn HallResident Assistants

Administrative Staff

William PatrickDirector, New York State Summer Young Writers Institute