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1YOUNG VOICES

The New York State Summer Young Writers Institute

W hat you hold in your hands are the poems and stories – true and imagined – that thestudents of the New York State Summer Young Writers Institute produced during one

crazily inventive week last July, interspersed with photos and student comments that help tochronicle the sights and emotions of our annual writing residency.

In its fifteenth year, the Young Writers Institute is heldat Skidmore College in Saratoga Springs, NY, so thatour students can take advantage of the New York StateSummer Writers Institute, directed by Robert Boyers,which convenes on the Skidmore campus for theentire month. Having the opportunity to work ontheir own writing in three classes each day, hearaccomplished writers in late-afternoon craft sessionsor at packed evening readings, and then try out theirown works-in-progress during late-night reading ses-sions in the residence hall means that our high schoolwriters are thoroughly immersed in the writing life forevery waking hour. And here’s what we have learned toexpect: they love it.

These young writers are unique in any number of dis-parate ways, but they all share a devotion to writing.That common interest creates almost instantaneousbonding when they meet each other, but it alsoencourages them to revel in the writing atmosphere of

our intensive, week-long workshop. More than one hundred applicants send original writingsamples each April, and we choose the thirty-six best writers to attend the Young WritersInstitute. That ability to be selective pays off for us. Year after year, we offer these studentsrespect and recognition for what they have already achieved, and in return we receive not onlya committed, attentive group of students for a week but also the dramatic, funny, moving,troubling, and remarkable creative pieces in this anthology. It was our pleasure to watch asthese pieces unfolded during our Summer 2012 Workshop, and it’s your pleasure to discoverthem here.

William Patrick

DirectorNew York State Summer Young Writers Institute

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2 YOUNG VOICES

KATHLEEN AGUERO is the author of four books of poetry including, mostrecently, Investigations: The Mystery of the Girl Sleuth and Daughter Of. She isalso the editor of three anthologies of multicultural literature. A recipient ofgrants from the Massachusetts Council on the Arts and a former fellow at theVirginia Center for the Creative Arts, she is a Professor of English at PineManor College in Chestnut Hill, MA, teaching in their low-residency MFA andundergraduate programs.

LIZA FRENETTE is an assistant editor at NYSUT United, 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, andhas won first place feature and news writing awards from UPI and AssociatedPress.

ELAINE HANDLEY is a poet and fiction writer. She is an Associate Professor ofWriting and Literature at Empire State College, SUNY, and received theChancellor’s Award for Excellence in Teaching in 2011. Her poetry chapbooks,Notes from the Fire Tower and Glacial Erratica won the Adirondack Center forWriting Award in Poetry in 2006 and 2007 respectively. She is currently com-pleting Deep River, a historical novel about the Underground Railroad.

RICHARD HOFFMAN is the author of the poetry collections Emblem, WithoutParadise and Gold Star Road, winner of the 2007 Barrow Street Press PoetryPrize, and the short story collection Interference & Other Stories. His memoir,Half the House, first published in 1995, was recently reissued in a new andexpanded edition. Writer-in-Residence at Emerson College, he also serves asChair of PEN/New England.

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—Exes and Mother’s Day—and is finishing up the third novel in this series, Father,Son and Holy Ghost, as well as writing nonfiction about Istanbul, Turkey. Since1980 he has taught writing for the University at Albany and Empire StateCollege, as well as for Skidmore College, Syracuse University, Siena College, andthe 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, andtwo books of poetry with BOA Editions. Mr. Patrick teaches writing for theCollege of St. Rose and for the Fairfield University MFA Program and servesas acquisitions editor at Excelsior College Press.

Summer 2012 Faculty

“The New York State Summer Young Writers Institute gave me achance to listen – to writers, people, words. It felt rightto always be listening.”

— Anna Jacquinot

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3YOUNG VOICES

I t’s like a dream sometimes...”Isabella trailed off as she real-

ized the man she was talking to,the man across from her on thetrain, hadn’t been listening.

Jean-Claude looked awayfrom the window and redirectedhis attention to Isabella. He loos-ened his black tie and leaned for-ward. “I’m sorry, I got distracted.Please, continue.”

“I said it’s like a dream some-times—all of this. When I was a girlI would have never imagined thatthis would be my life.” She ran herfingers through her thick brunettehair as she spoke. Her hazel eyeswere unfocused, as if she werelooking at something far away orsomething extremely close.

“How did you imagine yourlife when you were younger?” Jean-Claude settled back into the con-versation. He took his off-brownblazer off of his lap and placed iton the empty seat beside him.

“I imagined I would get mar-ried to the puppeteer that alwayscame to our village to performshows for the children.” Sheleaned against the glass windowof the train. Tiny spots of waterfrom the outside slid down theglass so close to her that it gavethe illusion of tears sliding downher flawless, almost-golden skin.“My goodness, I was so in lovewith that man. But I forgot hisname.” She sighed and sat back inher seat.

“Would you say the puppeteerhas any impact on your life now?”Jean-Claude asked.

“He made me who I am,”Isabella answered without skip-ping a beat. Jean-Claude raised adark eyebrow, a signal of his con-fusion. She took this cue toexplain herself further. “I mean,myself when I was human.”

“You are human.” Jean-Claudesmiled slightly, giving off just aglimmer of his perfect teeth.

“Hardly. I don’t even need tosleep anymore. If I can’t sleep thenI can’t dream.” Isabella sat up andlooked at the rain whipping thecold window. “If I can’t dream theneverything just starts to becomeone big memory. There’s no analy-sis or interpretation anymore, justcountless experiences laced withpointless thoughts.” As she contin-ued to stroke her hair, the collec-tion of gold and diamond bangleson her left arm struck each otherlike wind chimes.

“It’s like a film that neverends.” Jean-Claudequoted an earlierstatement Isabellahad made prior tothem boardingtheir train toLondon.

Isabella noddedgently and thensmiled. “SometimesI feel like all I everwas is what I am

now. I feel like there was no onebefore. I feel like I have no past.”

“That’s the price we pay forimmortality. Gold and immortal-ity. That’s all humans ever reallywant. They want it more thanfood or water. Or love.” He smiledagain, his cold blue eyes twin-kling. “And the irony of the uni-verse is that once people like usactually get it, we lose what itmeans to be human,” Jean-Claudepointed out.

She nodded her head slowlyand then closed her eyes for amoment. “Sometimes I feel likethere’s no point. Riches and famemean nothing if you can’t enjoywhat it means to feel alive. That’swhy...”

“Why what?” Jean-Claude’slook of confusion came over himonce again.

“That’s why I feel like it’s all adream sometimes.” Isabellaopened her eyes as the train cameto a slow stop. n

Train to LondonBy ADAM ALBAARI

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4

C hange your clothes. Why youbeing bashful? Don’t be

bashful; I’m your grandmother.”These simple words rang out clear.It was true, she was my grand-mother, but yet I felt like a com-plete stranger standing there in thatroom with her. I don’t know what itwas about my grandparents’ housethat I disliked so much. Maybe itwas the lack of television and com-puter that made the idea of spend-ing time at that house so unbear-able, or something else superficiallike that. It wasn’t that I didn’t lovemy grandma; I just didn’t knowher. My grandparents lived in asmall house on Long Island; thehouse my father grew up in. I oftenpassed the time I spent there tryingto imagine what it would’ve beenlike back then. My dad and hisbrother might’ve wrestled in thevery living room I was sitting in,my grandmother slaving away inthe kitchen. My late aunt might’velistened to music in her bedroom,the same room I stayed in the onetime I spent the night. I remembermy grandmother sitting in theroom with me that night, as I gotready for bed. I was hesitant tochange into my pajamas in front ofher. She sensed that and said,

“Change your clothes. Why youbeing bashful? Don’t be bashful;I’m your grandmother.”

***My grandmother’s death came

unexpectedly. It took me years totruly understand that she wasgone. She had been in the hospitalfor a couple of weeks prior to herdeath and even though I wasn’treally sure what was wrong withher, I never dreamed that it wouldbe the cause of her death. Maybemy parents or other relatives sawit coming, maybe they had knownthe intensity of the illness. But ifthey had, they certainly didn’t tellme. I knew in my mind that thisday would come eventually; I justdidn’t want to accept it. Mygrandmother would say to meover and over, “Come spend thenight sometime,” and I’d beg mydad not to make me go. He’d tellme, “Your grandparents aren’tgoing to be around forever, youknow,” and I’d brush it off like amosquito buzzing on my arm.Now I realize exactly what myfather meant.

***It was unreal lying on the floor

of my living room curled up in aball by the fireplaceafter I heard the news.It was February, I wascold, and I didn’tknow what else to do.Watching my fathercompletely lose con-trol, tears streamingrapidly down hischeeks, was thestrangest part of all. Ihad never seen myfather cry before, andI found myself cryingnow merely becausehe was crying. It wasunreal sitting in thathospital room, hours

after her death, asking my parentsif I could go with them to themorgue and having them say no.It was unreal sitting in my Auntand Uncle’s living room writingthe obituary together, calling uprelatives to fill in the blanks of herlife that none of us knew. It wasunreal staring at my grandmoth-er’s familiar face in the open cas-ket at the funeral, trying to con-vince myself that I knew her. Ididn’t know her.

***Maybe if I hadn’t been so

opposed to spending time with mygrandmother, I would’ve knownher. At the funeral, I heard count-less relatives and family friendsrelive times of hardship that mygrandmother helped themthrough. To many, my grandmoth-er had been a confidant, someonethey ran to when things got tough.They would call her up and pourout their hearts. Maybe my grand-mother and I could’ve had a rela-tionship like that. But I never calledmy grandmother nor did I confidein her. She would ask me howthings were—school, friends,etc.—and I’d always reply with anunenthusiastic, “Good.” I didn’tunderstand why I acted this way. Iwas bashful, and I didn’t know why.That was what I regretted the most.

***It was the time lost that I

missed the most. I mourned thegrandmother I never knew. I pon-dered where the time had gone,only I knew full well that I hadpushed her away on purpose, Ihad wasted the time we hadtogether like it didn’t matter at all.Remorse and regret wear heavyon my frame as my grandmotherslept. “Don’t be bashful, Angela,I’m your grandmother,” I hear hersay. Maybe if I had listened, thingswouldn’t be this way. n

Don’t Be BashfulBy ANGELA ARZU

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YOUNG VOICES

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5YOUNG VOICES

Broken GlassBy SARAH BAILEY

She was warnedThe warning fell on deaf ears

Regrets over ignoranceYou handed her lies

Such fragile liesSpider webs

Strong but not strong enoughShe turned a blind eye

But knew all alongYour lies became weaker

BrittleBroken glass

Today she leavesTomorrow she will forget

“The town, the road, the campus, the lobby, the IDs, the dorms, thedorm mates, the food, the late nights, the classes, the teachers, thewriting, the readings, the books, the Q and As, the fireworks, thefriendship, the fun, the passion – Skidmore and the New York StateSummer Young Writers Institute provided all of this and more. Livingwith people who shared your interests and appreciated your talents wasan amazing experience. I’ll never forget my time here.”

— Nicole Sanchez

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6 YOUNG VOICES

Two RoomsBy ERIN BESSE

Mom moved out and I went too.Every weekend that I go back

is a reminder of what’s been left and lost.Everything I’ve left behind, something precious...

My room at Dad’s is pale sky blue.A brother – I don’t know which – was the one to choose.

The hardwood floor is scuffed and scratched.There are tennis balls on the wooden chairs,(but the table shakes and rocks too much).

The old black desk that I once graffiti-edhas gaping mouths for drawers. I’ve forgotten

all inside: except the two towers made from straws. grief?On the shelves are shells from Florida,

(sand dollars, cats’ paws, conches too) andaluminum foil sculptures, trophies, old books.

All my least favorite stuffed animalsare jammed in a box, tumbled together,

and hidden beneath the blue-green, too large, queen bed.There’s three hundred thirty-nine paper craneshanging from the evil, lady-bug killing lamp.

A thousand cranes was long ago a goal... not now(not anymore). The electric typewriter rules the table,

but it really never worked at all.Not grief. Remembrance: because there’s beauty in the old, forgotten things.

My mom moved out and I went too.Thing was, I originally didn’t have a room.

So we made do with this and that...We tore off wallpaper and painted it tan,

Darker tan sponge paint was splashed all around.Mom did the painting, but the handprint on the ceiling is mine.

The striped comforter and shaggy carpet we boughtspecifically for the almost doll size room.

A twin bed. A beanbag chair. An attic door.A heater for winter. A fan for summer.

A mahogany lamp. Everything matches.Forty-three books on the two little shelves (I know them all by touch).

A collection of keys, twenty-eight pens,a bucket of colored pencil shavings,

three rolls of duct tape, even more books,and an array of figurine hedgehogs all perch

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7YOUNG VOICES

Two Rooms (continued)

amongst the clutter of things I need for school;it’s not a mess, but rather a limited version of things I like best.

There’s a picture, some letters from friends,a chain of Möbius strips stuck up on the wall.

A poster says “chocolate is all the food groups.”It’s a small room (a closet at first) kept clean.

Clean and boring and dull but all mine.Remembrance? No. The future, I think. There’s a beauty in things

new and unused.

Mom moved out and I went too (it hurt).I hated her for a good long while.

Perhaps I’ve grown out of that (but it hurt a lot)I’ve got two bedrooms: two beds and two lives.One is cluttered and dirty and nearly forgotten.Two is neat and ordered and not what I love.

Yet between the lives and the rooms and the beds each night (always different)

there’s a lot in common...It ties both of my lives together.

Both rooms have slanted ceilings...and no curtain ties

(there’s a story to tell there, but not at this time).I’m always a writer...

and I’ll always have lies.

“This week at the New York State SummerYoung Writers Institute inspired me towrite more on my own. I learned so manynew techniques and I was exposed towriting styles and genres that I foundreally interesting.”

— Clementine Morse

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8 YOUNG VOICES

Quail SailingBy MICHAELA BRAWN

Somewhere downstairs a doorcreaked open and then

slammed shut again, pulling mefrom my sleep. I rubbed my eyesand shimmied from beneath thecovers and out of bed. A windowshattered.

I heard my mom draw in asharp breath from her bedroom,“What was that?”

I ran down the stairs andlooked around frantically. Thewindow beside the front door hada small, odd-shaped hole in it, andI could already feel the cold aircreeping in. My mother joined meon the staircase looking dazed andstill half-asleep. We peered out thefrosted window at my father whowas standing on the small stonepath leading toward the driveway.His long pajama pants weretucked into his snow boots, andhis hands were jammed into thepockets of his flannel-lined jeanjacket. My dad was craning hisneck around, trying to see whichwindow had broken, before glanc-ing up at the small, old tree thatstood in our front yard. As heheaded back towards the house, Inoticed it.

Lying delicately on the check-

ered kitchen floor was a quail, itsstunning, royal blue feathers allpuffed out as if it were preening.My mother gasped and rantoward the bird. She reached herhands out, but then pulled themback and up to her face.

“Oh no,” she whispered, shak-ing her head, her salt and pepperhair falling into her face, seeingthe mangled body more closely.

My father came back in, stomping his boots, then stoppedshort.

“Is it hurt?”“Broken neck,” she said quiet-

ly, tucking her hair back behindher ears.

I walked over and stood besidemy mother, fiddling with my paja-mas, unsure of what to do. I staredat the bird intently searching forsigns of life. Its small body swelledand receded slowly, and thenagain with even more difficulty. Asit heaved out small and strenuousbreaths, I could see that its bellywas covered with black and whitefeathers as well. The small plumeatop its head bowed pathetically.The poor bird’s frame, once soregal and proud, lay quivering andvulnerable. We all watched in awe,

wanting to help,but knowing therewas nothing wecould do. I glancedup at both of my

parents, and their expressionswere identical: resigned and tautwith wide eyes.

Once the bird had shudderedits last breath, my father gentlyslid his fingers beneath each of itssides and carefully lifted it. He car-ried it to the front porch and soft-ly set the bird down once more.

“Joyce, can you hand me thatshoebox?”

“Sure,” my mother answeredreaching for the box.

She returned the shoes to therack as my father tenderly placedthe fragile bird in the box. “Doyou want to feel how soft thefeathers are, Mickey?”

I nodded and reached out, justbarely touching my fingers to thesilky, almost velvety wing of thequail. I thought about the timeour bird laid eggs and had chicksjust a few years ago when I wasfive or six. The quail’s cobaltfeathers were like satin comparedto the sticky down of the babies.

“We should say a few words,” I said.

I knew people did that atfunerals, though I had never reallybeen to one. I had some vaguememory of sitting alone on mygrandmother’s carpeted staircase,watching a caravan of older peoplemake their way through the house,all dressed in black with their eyesrespectfully directed at their feet.

“It was a great experience to be amongother writers who were eager to sharetheir work and listen to my pieces. Thefeedback and the pointers I got fromother kids this week were just a s help-ful as the ones from the teachers.”

— Julia Randall

(continued on page 9)

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9YOUNG VOICES

Quail Sailing (continued)

When I had asked my motherabout it a few years later, sheexplained to me that it had beenher father’s funeral and because ofIrish tradition, it had been held inthe house. She said no more thanthat though. When my othergrandfather died, I was onlymonths old, and as a baby whonever stopped crying, I was leftwith a sitter.

I understood that the death ofa quail was not nearly as devastat-ing as the passing of a person, butat the same time, it wasn’t all thatdifferent. A life was still ending.Something was still being lost. Wespend our whole lives trying to dosomething, and then we just stop.Sometimes, like this one, a lifeends unexpectedly and withoutreason. I wondered what hap-pened then. Did everything justgo dark and fade to black? It

couldn’t just be over, right?Otherwise, what’s the point?

My chest tightened up, and Iwanted to jump out of my skin.My mother put her hand on myshoulder, sensing something waswrong. She always knew, and shealways had a solution. With herreassuring touch, the knots beganuntangling within my rib cage.Her warm, gentle hand sweptacross my shoulders, smoothingout my shirt, a reminder of herever-present love.

“I’m so sorry that I startledyou at such an early hour thismorning. We didn’t know youlived in our tree,” my father said.

We bowed our heads for amoment, and then my fatherpicked up the box.

“The ground is too frozen tobury the bird, but there is stillflowing water in the stream,” he

said as my mother opened thefront door for him.

She stepped into her snowboots still clad only in her night-gown. I did the same, and weparaded down the front stepstoward the stream, like a trail ofblack cars following a hearse to thecemetery. My father eased his waydown the snowy bank and placedthe box on the water. The mild cur-rent gradually carried the motion-less bird off, swaying the box to andfro, but never allowing it to bumpthe rocks that decorated thestream’s edge. The barren branchesof trees stretched out over thewater, subdued, paying their respectto the creature. I shivered watchingas the box floated down the stream.With the naivety of a nine year old,I hoped I would never have toattend a funeral. n

“Honestly, what could be bad about being with a bunch of people exact-ly like you, in a college dorm, with amazing food, informative and chillclasses, famous authors – and staying up late. Oh yeah: NOTHING! Ilearned a lot from this writing camp. It REALLY inspired me to write,and it taught me to do it better.”

— Emily Honen

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10 YOUNG VOICES

The MorgueBy MEENAKSHI (MEENA) CHAKRABORT Y

A collection of freezers for thedeceased—that’s what the

hospital’s morgue is, really, coldcabinets to which people are con-fined after their hearts stop beating.My grandfather flatlined at 8:55a.m., April 20th, 2010, in a white-washed hospital in Delhi, India.His body was placed in a long,frozen file cabinet, stored awaylike an item in a drawer.

My paternal grandmother hadtragically and suddenly passedaway only a few months before Iwas born. Heartbroken and inshock, my grandfather moved tothe States to live with my parents. Itstarted as a six-months-a-yeararrangement, but as the yearspassed, it grew to seven and theneight months. He visited India onlyonce a year, for a three or four-month period, to get away from thewinter cold, especially after wemoved to Massachusetts. Ironically,pneumonia was his eventual killer.

As a result, my grandfatherbecame like a third parent to me.My father was “Daddy” and mygrandfather was “Dada,” an infantname that stuck. He was someone Icould go to when I couldn’t go toanyone else. When I was mad at myparents, for any reason at all, Iwould appear in his bedroom, cry-ing. Somehow, he would alwaysmanage to comfort me. He playedso many roles in my life—the sib-ling I never had, someone to fightwith, a shoulder to cry on.

When he died, nobody wantedme to go to the morgue—besidesmyself, of course. My father wantedto go—but by himself; he stressed,not with me. Everyone was setagainst this trip: my parents, myaunts, my uncles, my cousins.

I was the only child of the fam-ily even willing to go. At twelve, Iwas apparently too innocent, tooyoung to bear the pain of seeing mygrandfather lying still, lifeless,

caked with the ice of his slot. Itwould be a trying experience, and Iaccepted that. But I would do it, forhis sake and for my sake—I wastrying to prove to myself that I hadsome level of emotional strength.

***I felt numb during the drive to

the hospital and descending thestairs to the morgue. But seeing thebright lettering – M O R G U E –painted on a white sign evoked aphysical response. I felt a queasinesssettle in the pit of my stomach.

The doctor—or nurse, whoev-er it was, I don’t even remember—handed the death certificate to myfather and pulled out a tiny silverkey. The key to my grandfather’sbody—the words felt strange asthey pulsed through my head. Astranger had the key, and I couldonly unlock the door with herpermission.

We entered an icy room with agray door, and immediately, I shiv-ered with cold. My father saw theunsettled expression on my faceand automatically assumed I wasuncomfortable with what I wasgoing to see. “Don’t worry,” heassured me, “if you don’t want tosee this, you don’t have to.”

But I did, I did! It was my duty,my responsibility, to prove I wasstrong: to my family, to myself, andto my grandfather.

I saw stacks and rows of whatappeared to be silver drawers, eachwith a number. In the front of theroom, there were six drawers.Each drawer contained some-body’s loved one, lying unmovingand expressionless in wintry cap-tivity. The lady approached #6with her key. It made a high-pitched screeching noise as ittwisted in the lock.

I trembled as she slowly pulledout the body of my grandfather.First, I saw the gray hairs of hishead, then the rough tan of his face.

He was covered in a sheet, the hos-pital kind, fresh and white to makeup for the disease and death thatwere its hallmarks.

I didn’t even cry. I just stoodthere, motionless, staring at theman who had promised, just a fewweeks ago, that he would take me tothe best sweets shop in India. Thesports enthusiast who, in summer2008, had spent his nights watchingthe Olympics with me, staying upuntil midnight or 1 a.m. even whenyawns stretched across his face.

Five seconds and it was time togo. The nurse saw the expression onmy face, and quickly closed up thecabinet. As she led us out of theroom, her voice was soothing. “Hecan see you from above,” she said,“and he will always be proud ofyou. He will always love you.”

I did not respond. The wordswent in one ear and out the other.Perhaps I was not holding up aswell as I had thought. My numb-ness had started to fade. No tearswelled in my eyes—yet—but myheartbeat quickened. The roomlooked fuzzy. I felt sick.

I am not strong. The thoughtflicked through my brain. I feel likea disappointment.

***“Are you ok?” My father whis-

pered in my ear as we walkedtowards our car, which was parkedin the crowded hospital lot. “Youdid a good job. I’m proud of youfor holding up like that.”

Dead. Dead. Dead. He’s gone.These words circulated in my

mind, over and over and over, afrenzy of phrases that I didn’t wantto acknowledge.

He said he’s proud. And I’mstrong. I’m strong

I pushed the conflicting voicesout of my head and managed a lit-tle smile. “I’m fine,” I replied. “Let’sgo home.” n

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11YOUNG VOICES

UntitledBy TARA CICIC

I am here because my great-grandfather tied his shoelace. It

was World War I and he was inFrance, fighting for the Americanseven though he was fromMontenegro. He had arrived in theUnited States at the age of eighteenand, when his brother died in amining accident, joined the army.In a grisly battle, as they all were, hebent down to tie his shoelace. Thesoldiers running beside him lefthim behind and while he tightenedthe knots they were blown topieces. He survived unscathed.

Years later, when he wasalready married to my great-grandmother and had his ownchildren, he was dragged awayfrom home by communist guer-rillas. They broke into theirmountainside home and searchedfor documents to burn while mygreat-grandmother urged him toput on his new shoes. He didn’t.Nobody knows where he isburied, or what happened to him.We pretend that motifs only existin love poems, sonatas, and nov-els, but they are in fact what makeup our lives. It’s a collection ofmoving parts that we don’t see.For him it was a simple shoe.

He never kept his documents

at home because he was afraidthat, should the communistscome for him, they would takethem and destroy them. My great-grandmother, Baba Zlatana, leftwith a brood of children in thecountryside, did not have muchopportunity to make money. Yearsafter his kidnapping, she dreamedof her husband. He pointed out toher a collection of rocks behindtheir home, which is still there,shattered by an earthquake, goatsgrazing in its overgrown grasses.In the morning she found thedocuments that allowed her to getthe American pension that sheneeded to make ends meet.Decades later, his son, at 73learned he was an American citi-zen. I was already here before thatbut citizenship, there’s a perma-nence to that.

I have always said that I amnot a part of them, that I was notborn from the soil that they tilledand that I do not know the sweettaste of nationalism burning hotand red on my tongue. My rootstrail solemnlybehind me andthey do not knowthe comfort ofbeing firmly plant-

ed in the ground. I am not lonelyand I am not alone, but I do notbelong to them and they are cer-tainly not mine.

Serbia and Montenegro aretragic countries and althoughthey are the birthplaces of myfather and mother, they are notour home. We are a nuclear fami-ly. Yes, there are long branches ofcousins, brothers, sisters, grand-parents, aunts, but we do notattend their weddings or funerals.

“You’ll marry a man fromMontenegro,” my grandfather oftenjests. This joking prophecy pro-duces in me a quiver of frustrationthat I understand is not called for.But why? Why do I laugh at the hotblooded Balkans, poke spiteful funat their love for lounging aboutcafes and speaking of philosophy?Is it really so silly the way that theydrink their coffee so bitter thatAmericans cannot stand it andthen turn their tiny cups on saucersand wait for the remains to tellthem their fortune?

But those shoes. n

“I loved being here at Skidmore. The abil-ity to be surrounded by peers and teach-ers who live and breathe writing wassweet. I learned a lot about myself as awriter and made exceptional friends whostayed up with me into the wee hours ofthe night, writing and laughing. It was anamazing opportunity to be able to workwith published writers and hear them cri-tique my work. This truly has been a life-changing experience.”

— Angela Arzu

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Henry’s DaughterBy SAMANTHA CLARK

H enry Mathews is a flickeringshadow in my memory, a

blurry figure of a man joking hap-pily with his children and build-ing fire pits under the smatteringof stars so easily visible from thelong swaths of beach along theelbow of Cape Cod where ourfamilies spent our summers. Hisghost follows me through wornphoto albums collecting dust inan armoire in my living room andrests beside me as HistoryChannel documentaries depictpassenger jets demolishing sky-scrapers and with them thousandsof lives.

Henry’s wife had grown upwith my mother, a result of theirown mothers’ strong friendshipthat lasts still to this day. Due tothis companionship I was des-tined from birth to develop a sim-ilar relationship with Henry’s eld-est daughter, Julia, a tiny blondegirl only three months older thanI with whom I tottered acrosslarge green lawns and watchedScooby-Doo.

The year that I entered kinder-garten their family was living in abeautiful Connecticut town. Juliaand her sister had just started

school and Henry was commutingdaily to New York City where heworked for Euro Brokers, Inc. Hewas attending a meeting on the84th floor of the South Tower ofthe World Trade Center onSeptember 11, 2001. That was theday that Henry Mathews died.

I’m not sure quite how longafter September 11th the funeralwas held, but the events surround-ing it remain clear to me despite themore than a decade of time that haspassed since they occurred.

We arrived at the home of theMathews family in the evening tofind it filled with people. Childrenand dogs wove between the legs ofadults laughing hollowly at storiesof safer and more comfortabletimes over glasses of wine andcans of Budweiser.

On the long drive from ourhome in Rhode Island toConnecticut along a highwaythick with trees, my mother care-fully explained to me how Ishould speak to Julia regardingher father’s death. I recall a sharpirritation at my mother’s assump-tion that I couldn’t handle com-munication with my friend. Iinsisted that I understood, able to

grasp even in kinder-garten that tactwould indeed have tobe utilized whenbroaching the subjectof her father. Iassured my motherthat I would talk toJulia exactly as shehad suggested.

Upon arrival Ihurried straight toJulia’s room, uninter-ested in cheese platesand adults with sor-rowful eyes who pat-ted me on the shoul-

der in an attempt to comfort mefor grief that I wasn’t feeling,unable at the moment to trulygrasp what it meant that myfriend’s daddy was dead.

Julia’s room was crowded andmessy, filled with the types ofthings that little girls love. Juliastood by her bed, her head cockedto the side as if observing me forthe first time.

“We can talk about your dad ifyou want, but if you don’t want to,that’s okay too,” I said earnestly,attempting a reassuring smile as Irecited precisely what my motherhad told me to.

Julia rolled her eyes at me andscowled.

“Oh my gosh, just stop talking.Just stop,” she said coldly, her darkeyes hard.

I stared at her, my lips partedslightly, feeling a bit like I hadbeen punched.

That was the start.Over the following years our

relationship deteriorated, as didJulia’s ability to communicatepeaceably with people.

She refused to discuss herfather with anyone and peoplequickly learned to stop asking.Few could imagine the terribletrauma she had experienced atsuch a young age, and the event’sunrelenting presence in all facetsof our society in the followingyears must have served as a con-stant reminder of the life she hadlost. Barely able to get through thechapter on 9/11 in my sixth gradehistory textbook without breakingdown into tears myself, I couldn’teven begin to fathom how she wasable to handle it.

We continued to spend oursummers together, surrounded bythe other members of our thirdgeneration friendships. The fol-

continued on page 13

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lowing summer the transition wasmade from building sand castlesand climbing dunes together toirritated glances and icy silences.

By age ten Julia had growninto a near spitting image, albeithighly feminized, of her father,and I had become used to the ideaof being told to shut up every timethat I opened my mouth.

“Nobody cares. Nobody likesyou. Just leave.”

I learned to stay quiet and notto protest or else everyone wouldjoin in with her. I remained insilent confusion as to what I evercould have done to warrant suchthick hatred.

By age twelve I had developeda strong group of friends at my school.

Julia had none.But summertime, my favorite

time, had become her kingdom.Games of pretend turned violent,leaving bruises both physical andemotional that lasted weeks if notmore. I stayed silent at the beach,at the movies, walking into town. Iwas reluctant to make a joke forfear of verbal assault. She had atalent for making me feel smalland unimportant, fearful toexpress myself in my favoriteplace in the world with peoplewhom I had known since birth.

My mother felt unable to doanything about it, acknowledgingthe fact that the “little bitch” hadsuffered more in thirteen yearsthan most adults did in a lifetime.She suggested that the root of herrelentless attacks was jealousybrought on by my closeness to mycousin, Maddie, who was also inour age group. The bond of bloodwas stronger than any that could

be forged even through childhoodfriendship, placing a permanentwedge between Julia and her bestfriend. That wedge was me.

By age fourteen I was donemaking excuses for her. When shetried to insult me, I laughed it off.If she excluded me, I shruggedand went and did something else.Slowly but steadily, her vicious-ness towards me began to ebb.

The summer before my fresh-man year in high school, JuliaMathews apologized.

We were sitting on a friend’sdock, gazing up at the spatter ofstars plastered across the velvetsky, the sound of crickets andsmall waves lapping at the shorebreaking the nighttime silence.

“I know I was awful to you,and I’m really sorry. I wouldn’tblame you if you never wanted totalk to any of us again, but honest-ly, the summer just wouldn’t bethe same without you.”

A few days after that, I heard herdiscuss her father for the first time.

***The events of September 11,

2001 reverberate through time.Widows still sit in their bed-

rooms at night alone and cryingwhen they thinknobody can hearthem. They cradle urnsin their hands wherethe ashen remnants ofa collarbone or ringfinger are all thatremain of a thousandmoments and memo-ries and smashedhopes and brokendreams.

Stone plaques still

sit in gardens, fighting to ensurethat the names of the stolen arenever forgotten, surrounded bysmall stones in the shapes of hearts.

Little girls with barely a mem-ory of their fathers struggle tofind a place in a world that forcedthem to understand the crueltyand unfairness of its reality far tooyoung. They find themselves lash-ing out in unexpected places andat unassuming people.

Some things can never be fullyunderstood.

It is sometimes nearly impos-sible to say for certain whatmoment, if any individually, trig-gers deep-seeded aggression oranger in another one of the com-plex creatures known to us ashuman beings.

I do believe that sometimesyou can guess at it. Perhaps itbegins in a cluttered bedroomfilled with the things that littlegirls love, or maybe on the 84thfloor of Tower Two of the WorldTrade Center on a bright autumnmorning, where by evil the seedsof a thousand things infinitelymore important than an irrationalchildhood feud are sown in heart-break and loss. n

Henry’s Daughter (continued)

“I adored meeting funny, smart peoplewho are just as passionate about writ-ing as I am.”

— Alison McDonald

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Never DieBy TJ DAIGLER

E very day brings a new chal-lenge, a new obstacle, a new

opportunity to express ourselves asindividuals. Sometimes the chal-lenges turn out great, like when ajob interview turns into a job, butother times, things don’t work outas well. On November 25th, 2011,just one day after Thanksgiving,my Uncle Doug, the strongest, fun-niest, and sweetest person I knowwas diagnosed with throat cancer.It was a vast change from the daybefore. On Thanksgiving my fami-ly and my Uncle’s family gottogether, sitting around the table,covered in Turkey, stuffing, breadrolls, cranberry sauce, squash,mashed potatoes, pies, and cookies,and had an unforgettable dinner.We ate, talked, and laughed, lovingevery moment, never thinking thatsuch a deafening blow was justaround the corner.

That night as my family drovehome, we talked about how itseemed that Uncle Doug’s voicehad changed. It was weird, wethought, but didn’t think too farinto it. The next day after cominghome from school I found my dadsitting outside, head in hands,tears streaming down his face.

Obviously I knew something wasdrastically wrong. I’d never seenmy dad like this, teary eyed,unable to talk without chokingup, in a state of complete shock.He sat there, grabbing his hair,hunched over, elbows on knees,crying. It was a hard thing to see,my dad in such a state of shock, inso much pain. Later I found outhe had just gotten off the phonewith his brother, my Uncle Doug,and had been told about the can-cerous cells growing aroundDoug’s throat. Those cells arewhat had altered his voice.

As the months have passed,Uncle Doug has had several suc-cessful chemotherapy operations,but the cancer always returns. Myfamily and I head down to Bostonto see him every once in a while,something we all enjoy and appre-ciate. It is amazing what an out-standing attitude he has retained,despite all the setbacks. That is thething I have found most amazingabout him. His optimistic attitudeis a wonder to us all. It has taughtme how precious life is, howunpredictable it is.

Recently we received somereally terrible news. A doctor at

Massachusetts GeneralHospital told Dougthat he would havebetween six and twelvemonths left to live.They decided to puthim on an experimen-tal medicine, some-thing fresh and newout of the lab. All that Iheard, however, wasthat within the next

year the world would lose one of itsbest people. I took this hard. Eventhough I only see him once everymonth or two, I still feel really closeto him. I love his outgoing ways, hisoptimistic attitude, his ability tomake everybody laugh and smile,his appreciation for the simplethings in life, and, above all, his wayof loving everyone. Even though heis sick, he still wears his “fashion-able” clothes. By fashionable Imean neon green hats, crazy col-ored flannels, and jackets in everycolor under the sun.

Just a couple weekends ago,Doug’s company held a dance tobenefit Doug. Hundreds of peo-ple, from across the countryturned out to support this amaz-ing man. The dance alone raisedapproximately $10,000, which justgoes to show the magnitude of theimpact this man has had on somany people. The money wasraised in several ways, from a liveauction, to a silent auction, todonations, to raffles, and every-thing in between. One auction inparticular was a Dance withDoug. One lady bid up to $325,just for one last dance with Doug.

Doug is an amazing man. Hestares death straight in the faceday in and day out, yet alwaysremains happy, joyful, goofy,strong, and optimistic that a mir-acle will happen. In the words ofDoug, “I’m shooting for at leastfive to ten years.” We love this atti-tude, this never die mentality. Soeven though the cancer may bekilling his body, it will never killhis soul. n

“I appreciated being surrounded by otheryoung writers who shared the same love ofwriting that I do.”

— Louisa Oreskes

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The NewsBy CHRISTOPHER DELARA

S he turned on the TV, saw the news, and packed her bags. She frantically threwher clothes in a floral-patterned suitcase and pulled a steel grey briefcase out

from under her bed. After closing all the blinds and shutting off the lights, shebriskly walked out the door and locked it behind her. The frigid Decemberweather made the leather seats of her car cold to the touch, and she began toshiver in her cargo pants and brown leather jacket. She sped down the highway,and she began to rummage through her handbag. About a dozen passports fellfrom her bag, all from different countries, and she picked one from the pile andgripped it hard in her hand. It was an American passport stating she was fromHoboken, New Jersey. Her black sedan slowed to a stop at the end of a dirt roadunder a large steel bridge. She walked into a field of foxtails that were blowing inthe wind, and came out with a large brown drape. She covered the car with thebrown blanket, allowing her car to blend in with the landscape. The trunkpopped open, she grabbed her suitcase as well as the steel briefcase, and began towalk toward the highway, following the signs to the airport. n

“It was amazing how I could meet someone in the elevator and strike upa conversation immediately. It was surreal to be surrounded by peoplewho were exactly like me. We were asked to produce three pieces by adeadline, but it didn’t feel like work. Between the fun social inter-actions and the good atmosphere, it was a great experience overall.Sitting on the windowsill in my dorm room, writing, was a relaxing wayto unwind and end the night.”

— Meenakshi Chakraborty

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OliverBy MARIE ISABELLE DOYLE

No one knows where the smallsad pieces come from. They

drift like lazy clouds inside our-selves, assembling a puzzle of sor-row and enjoying the warm curls ofan adolescent heart.

Have you ever woken up andfelt as if the whole world hadturned gray and old overnight?That was how my brother felt themorning after Oliver died six yearsago. It scared the living hell out ofhim, because he felt gray as well.

My brother used to say thatwhen he grew up he’d live in a bigsunny city and every morning he’dgo outside for an hour saying helloto everyone he met. It was a prettyidea. Now all he does is weep.

Oliver. He moved in down thestreet from us last May. Came trot-ting down the narrow road to ourhouse, denim pockets jangling withwhat we’d later learn were paintedbottle caps. He was wearing bowl-ing shoes, I remember, and a brightred T-shirt.

Red was my brother’s favoritecolor. Red, my brother said, was thecolor of alive. That was Oliver.Deep-sea lips and an open look inhis eyes, skin like the earth after itrains. He came into our front yardwhere my brother was reading abook with his back against theapple tree and I was playing withtoy trucks on the driveway.

Oliver, sweet perfect Oliver,sauntered up to me and pluckedmy nine-year-old hand as if it werea flower. Never taking his eyes off ofmine, he kissed it and gave me anextravagant bow. Then he turned tomy brother and stuck out his slen-der, graceful hand to shake.“Oliver,” he said with his sunrisesmile, and my brother smiled too.

“Just moved in yesterdaydown at #17, and all this unpack-ing has made me hun-ga-ry!” Iremember his deep creamy voice.It felt like honey was being poured

into my ears.“There’s a shop two neighbor-

hoods over,” my brother told him.My brother’s eyes were sticking toOliver like crazy glue.

“Cool beans!” Oliver said. “Whydon’t y’all join me? My treat.”

“Yes!” I yelled, tossing my truckto the side and leaping up. Iwatched my brother close his thick,old book. I remember that was themoment I knew for sure how spe-cial Oliver was—Oliver was some-body my brother would close hisbooks for.

Over enormous bowls of soft-serve chocolate, my brother andOliver emptied out their heads toeach other, laughing loudly at allthe same moments. I’d never seenmy brother open up so quickly—but maybe that was Oliver. Oliverwith his deep, wonderful laugh;Oliver with his alive eyes.

My brother fell in love withOliver that summer, in every kindof way. And Oliver felt the same. Iremember they’d go on bike ridestogether to the tops of mountainsand hold hands and whisper toeach other. My brother told meOliver was a lavender envelopefilled with bright, magnificentsecrets, and I believed him.

Sometimes my brother andOliver would take me along withthem. One day we went for a hikeand Oliver made me a crown ofwildflowers, rumpling up my hairwith his gossamer hands and call-ing me a princess. I loved Oliver. Iloved his soft, easy grin and thenoisy, starry way he loved my brother.

I remember that I ached thatsummer. I saw the sweet greenthing my brother and Oliver heldbetween their together hands and Icraved it. To fit another humanbeing with such perfect grace; Icould not imagine what simple joyit would be.

Oliver died in the fall, theautumn time, along with the birdsand flowers and the apple treewhere we first met him. I could tellyou he fell down the library stepsand cracked his head. I could tellyou all about the bleeding in hisbrain and the coma he was in forthree hours and twenty-seven min-utes before his end. But it doesn’tmatter, none of it matters. Whatmatters is that Oliver was the mostbeautiful boy I’d ever met, and mybrother loved him, and he loved mybrother. What matters is that Oliverwas the truth.

I think about how my brotherwould tell me all the little thingsabout Oliver that made up his love.How my brother would look at pic-tures of Oliver before he went tosleep; how my brother’s thin, palehands looked like cream againstOliver’s deep brown fingers. Howwhen Oliver and my brother met itwas like the lights went out and allthey saw were each other’s souls. Iremember when they’d leave to goon one of their adventures, to try tofind butterflies in the city or vol-umes of poetry in second-handbookstores, leaving me at homewith my toy trucks and sidewalkchalk. Sometimes it made me feelalone. I was happy, you know, formy brother, though he faded as acharacter in my life that summer.But now I find myself coveting thatlove. I even find myself begrudgingmy brother’s happiness, thoughOliver is over.

Oliver isn’t the small sad piecein my heart. It is the aching when Isaw him with my brother. It is theloss of my brother, and now that Iam fifteen it is the longing for thatOliver kind of love. The yearning isthe small sad piece.

Have you ever felt stranded onthe shore of other people’s love?

Tell the truth. n

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Heart on my SleeveBy NICOLE DUSANEK

T he pads of my fingers slowlypull at the edge of my left

wrist. They pause as they comeacross the risen skin right belowthe length of my thumb. My indexfinger begins to trace the smallscar-like fixture permanentlyetched on the canvas of my body.This miniscule mark has impact-ed my life as if a boulder had fall-en from a peak and landed direct-ly in my path of choices, leavingonly a single trail left for me totravel. It left me stranded on adead end.

I’ve had it forever. My parentslove to tell me the story of when Iwas born, how the doctor held mein his arms and my parents sawhis eyes widen at the sound of mycry. They said that they had neverheard a baby cry like I did, that mytears were musical and filled withactual emotion—emotions thatthey didn’t know a baby couldcomprehend. I would laugh atthat part in their narrative; howcould they tell so much from thesound of crying? But they wouldinsist that they did. I guess thedoctor did too, because after I hadpaused in my wails to take abreath, his eyes glanced towardmy wrist.

“You’re going to have to becareful with this one, she is goingto be fragile,” the doctor said tomy mother as he handed me toher. They never told me, but I amsure the doctor’s eyes filled withrelief at the fact that I was not his

and he no longer had responsibil-ity for me. My mother then lookedtoward my wrist before lookingtoward my father. I always won-dered what they thought afterthey saw my deformity.

My earliest memory would bewhen I was in my crib. My fatherstood above me with two of hisfriends at both of his sides. One ofthem said to him, “She’ll be sensi-tive,” and the other said, “You’llhave to watch every word.” My dadjust stood there silently, and shookhis head only letting a small sighescape his lips. One of his buddiespatted him on the shoulder.

My dad doesn’t know Iremember this. I don’t want himto feel bad. Maybe he wouldn’t,people just don’t feel like I do.

I have never had any friends.It’s too difficult to make friendswhen you cry at the sunsetbecause it is the death of day, andwhen you can’t go to the beachbecause, when you watch thewaves claim each footprint left inthe sand, you can’t help but sobfor the loss. I had to be homeschooled. I didn’t act like the otherkids or react to certain momentslike the other kids did.

My parents triedto put me in pre-school. It took metwo hours to calmdown after mymother left. Then atrecess, I had a break-down because one of

the bubbles I blew popped. I neverwent to school after that.

So now as I am looking at thissmall shape on my skin, onlyslightly larger than a freckle, Ican’t help but think life would bebetter without it. It would onlytake a second. What is a second ofpain compared to a lifetime of it?

I am twiddling a sleek knifebetween my pointer-finger andthumb. I guess now is the time Ishould be grateful that I am righthanded. One, two, three; quicklyso that I do not have the opportu-nity to back out, I slice the fixtureaway from my wrist.

I feel a sharp pain and thennothing. By nothing, I honestlymean nothing. My emotions evap-orate as if they had never existed. Ithink I am empty. I wonder how Ifeel about that? Taking the thinpiece of skin with my heart on it, Iplace it in a box. It’s gone. I shouldfeel relief, but I don’t.

I pull my sleeve down to covermy wrist. I’m not bleeding.

“Mom, Dad?” I call from myroom.

They come upstairs, and I ask

“My two summers here have been soimportant to me as a person, and asa writer. I’ve made amazing friendswho I know will always support mycreative work.”

— Michelle Waters

continued on page 18

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them if I can go to school. Momworries at first, “Oh honey, are yousure? You don’t have to.”

Dad is excited. He hides itthough, and tries to act like a caringfather. “Why the change of heart?”

I convince them I can workthrough my emotions. They believeme. I’m starting school on Monday.

From there on, things are pret-ty good. People seem to like some-one who doesn’t have any emo-tions. I wonder why? I think it’sbecause nothing is there to tie medown. I don’t worry about gettingembarrassed, nothing makes mesad, I am carefree. This means Imake a lot of friends. My parentsnever ask me why I wear longsleeves in the summer. I think theyknow, and if they don’t ask, thenthey don’t have to admit anythingto themselves.

I forgot where the box withmy heart in it is. Oh well.

It’s Friday, and I don’t want tobe at school. Everyone overthinksthings at school, and I don’t wantto think. I decide to go to the

beach. The ghost of an emotion istied to my memories of the beach.I think it is called “calm,” but whatdo I know?

I find a shady spot just below apier. I lean against a post, and lookout toward the waves. I watch thefootprints wash away with thetide. This time, I don’t have anurge to sob.

But I hear a sob. Startled, Ilook around, and my eyes land ona boy my age just a few feet awayfrom me. There are tears on hischeek as he watches the waveswhisk away the sand. I can’t helpbut stare, and before I realize whatis happening his eyes meet mine.

I am frozen in place. His eyeson mine plant a seed that sproutsand roots grow through my feetand anchor me to the sand. Hestands up and begins to walktoward me. As he nears my side Ican’t help but glance at his wrist.

And there it is, a heart on his sleeve.

He tells me hello, and I say hiback. And days go on, and we con-

tinue to meet in the same place onthe beach. When I’m with him, Ifeel what I haven’t felt in years. Heis kind, and I am cold. But hebegins to melt the ice crystalsaround my skin.

Finally, we meet again on thebeach, and when I look at his wristI notice familiar scars that I carrywith me. I look up in horror, for Ihave finally understood howempty I have become, and do notwish the same fate onto him.

“Relax,” he whispered, puttinghis scarred hand onto mine.

Then he hands me a box thatholds his heart, and tells me thathe wants me to have it. I feel a sad-ness that I haven’t felt in years, foras I search my thoughts I cannotpossibly remember where the boxwith my heart in it is. I have noth-ing to give to him in return.

I looked up into his eyes, andsaid, “But I don’t know where myheart is, I have nothing to give you.”

To which he responds with asmile and says, “Don’t worry, I’vehad it all along.” n

“I came here for the writing, but as theweek went on I learned so much more. Thepeople I met I will never forget. On thevery first day, everyone was welcoming.The faculty was very outgoing and got toknow us all almost immediately. The RAswere down to earth and allowed us thefreedom we deserved. They even broughtus to see fireworks. It is an experienceI will never forget.”

— Nicole Dusanek

Heart on my Sleeve (continued)

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Phase ShiftBy ANDREW FEDOROV

M oscow was gray—its sky,perpetually sooty; its build-

ings, the gray homogenousdepression blocks of the Soviet erawith a few sharp glass structures ofthe modern era. This was a worldwhere the ruthless lust for thegrand cash riches of life, denied bythe Soviet government for so long,ruled the minds of the “liberated”populace. From the minds of thelargest new oligarchs to those of thesmallest shop owners attempting toget rid of competitors, a singlemoney grubbing need festered. Inthis world journalists were killedfor the simple maintenance ofpower, a large percentage of peoplein jail had been put there by theirbusiness competitors, and myfather was selling medical equip-ment for that invasive species, theAmerican company. They thoughtonly of material riches and appliedto life a perverted, extremist formof capitalism.

Yet in this cut-throat post-Soviet Russia my life was bright, incontrast to the dim post-Sovietgrays and crimsons. It was theshort lived sepia of childhood,broken only by the occasional raysof light escaping past the ironclouds and piercing my smilingeyes. I went to sadiik, or a sort ofpre-kindergarten program wheremy main memory is the routinebreak in schooling for lunch. Wewould have borscht and tea on redflowery table cloths creating aquaint old Russian feel.

Despite what seemed like sta-bility in my daily routine, theworld around me was morphingbeyond what it had ever been.This seemingly idyllic period wassnipped and transposed when Iwas five. My parents had beentraveling abroad at the time and Iwas lost in curtains of confusion

at my grandparents’ apartmentwhenever they were gone.

It turned out, as I know now,that my parents were finding ahouse in a city, which meansnothing but a blip on the news toNew Yorkers and news junkiesand nothing at all to most people.And so we moved from the dirt-dusted downtown to theAmerican suburbia.

I was all right with it as far aslanguage went. I’d been bilingualsince I’d been able to speak becausemy mother spoke English to meand my father and nanny spoke tome in Russian. But no child wantsto move. Milan Kundera says some-where that by instinct humans findhappiness in routine and habit andchildren are clearly the humansmost influenced by instinct becauseof their lack of cultural condition-ing. Senile people react similarlybecause of their loss of culturalconditioning. So for a child to havesuch a drastic change in routine isdisconcerting to say the least.

My last day at the sadiik theother children presented me witha flower made of paper. It was asort of origami but innatelyRussian in construction and therough texture of paper. The chil-dren, though I was friendly withmany of them, presented it with-out true sentiment and only as amatter of course, as children do.

We celebrated my last birthdayin Russia at our apartment beforewe left. I was turning five. I accepted the wishes of my familywhile sitting on the life-sizestuffed tiger while hearing but notreally listening.

We boarded the plane and flewover Europe and the deep blueAtlantic. Upon landing at JFK thefirst memory I have of this coun-try was seeing my grandfather,

who along with my grandmother,uncle and mother had beenreleased by the Soviets in the 70s,though my mom went back in the90s. He was leaning against hiswhite minivan with the gruffimpatient look that usually inhab-its his face.

We took the long journeyalong the quiet highways.Slumping against the window, Iwatched the light tape on thepoles by the highway blend into asimple mellifluous stream of lightas the headlights hit them. Wetraveled on to Albany and the sub-urb where the house lay—Guilderland.

I took my first stroll about theyard, not seeing anything in thenight’s total dark. I believed it was a land of infinite stretches of emptiness.

I gave up the search for sub-stance in this land of naught andsuccumbed to the exhaustion thatrose from out the flight and ride. Icrawled up the stairs with a leadfrom my parents and into my newroom which remained dark. I col-lapsed on the bed in my new bed-room with the same soft bed-clothes that I had in the oldMoscow apartment.

When I awoke I was in a roomthat I had never seen before, withfurniture that was new. I put onnew clothes and walked outside.The new world arose around mewith the sun and all was illuminat-ed. The material was of a differentsort, but I knew the world was atleast material. As the sun dusted mynew home I gazed out on theplethora of new things that inhab-ited the place and decided it cer-tainly wasn’t nothing. It was aworld ripe for exploration, a worldfit to savor, a brave new world. n

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20 YOUNG VOICES

One JobBy EMILY HONEN

N ikki, we’re all going to die.”“Ian. A.J. Meena. Guys. Pull

yourselves together.” Nikki clicks offthe speaker and hangs up the tele-phone, their harbinger of doom,and locks the door. She wipes herhands on her skirt, then beginsscanning the room with an eeriecalmness.

“Nikki, we’re all going to fuck-ing die!” Ian repeats it, his headfalling into his hands, gripping hishair. “Oh my God, my God myGod! This isn’t real! Security is tracking a serial killer in our dorm?!”

“Shut up, Ian. I have a plan.”“What plan?” A.J. shrieks

through her tears.“A plan to stop this asshole,

and you guys need to pull togeth-er and help me. Please.” She putsher hands on A.J.’s quiveringshoulders and Nikki can feel her-self change from smooth and eeri-ly calm to pleading and comfort-ing. “You need to help us not die.”

“How?” Meena squeaks fromher hiding place in the closet.

“Everyone gets a job. One job.If you all do your job and do itright, I promise you, we are goingto live.”

Nikki stands at the uselesslylocked door of the dorm roomand looks around with quick,darting motions for potentialweapons. She spots things thatmost people would find mun-dane—a towel, some pencils, zipties. But to her, they are like guns,flamethrowers, and chloroform.

She knows she has to do thisquick, quick, quick, quick, beforeher or any of her hyperventilatingfriends begin to hear the heavyfootsteps of the killer making hisway up to their locked-downroom on the top floor. Then it willbe too late to reason, and she willnot be able to plan. As long as shedoesn’t hear him, she can con-vince herself that everything isokay, and she will be able to plan.

“Okay. Ian, you take this towel.You go first. When I give the sig-nal, jump down from the topbunk and wrap it around his eyes.That’s all. Meena, Sarah, you guystake these pencils. All you have todo is jam them into his legs. Like,repeatedly. Annoy him.’’

“How—” Sarah raises herhands, mouth widening quickly.

“No questions. It’s to distracthim, like, so he won’t just be hit-

ting one or two ofus. Trust me, Sarah,it’s gonna work. Iwatched it on a T.V.show once,” Nikkilies easily, falsewords floating offof her tongue.Going into the pre-law-school pro-gram was a goodchoice for her.

“A.J., I knowyou’re scared, soyou can havethese.” As if giving

her some candy, Nikki hands A.J. apair of scissors. “You don’t have touse them. All you have to do ishold the guy’s other arm while Igrab his gun. Comprendes?”

“Uh, yeah... I guess.”She can hear the footsteps.“Remember. One job and

we’re going to live.”They’re getting closer. Nikki

fiddles with her hair, twists herfingers like she is tying a knot.Jitters jitters jitters.

“Everybody hide. Ian, topbunk. Sarah, bookshelf. Meena,closet. A.J., behind the door withme. Okay. Okay, okay, okay.”

She can’t bring herself tocheck the keyhole, the footstepsare too close.

Ian scrambles up, clutching histowel as though it alone can savehis life. Meena scuttles over to thecloset while Sarah cowers behindthe bookshelf.

Oh, closer. Closer, closer, he isdefinitely on their floor, runningfrom the police, needing to kill,desperate to kill.

Nikki grasps the zip ties, hermakeshift handcuffs, tightly. Theroom holds its breath.

There are many things thatcan go wrong. Anyone couldfreeze, fuck-up their one job. Hemay be carrying a chainsaw or aknife instead of a gun. He willalmost certainly overpower abunch of young teenagers armedwith pencils and a towel.

But Nikki knows that there aretwo eventual outcomes.

Either they live, or they die.She doesn’t know which one.And judging by the heavy

breathing she can hear just out-side the door, Nikki knows thatshe is about to find out. n

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21YOUNG VOICES

Anxiety is a Corruption of the Mind: A Villanelle Poem

By MADISON HUGHES

Anxiety is a corruption of the sincere mindA parasite invasion

Purging thoughts that are kind

Anxiety is here to blindPrisoners from reality

Anxiety is a corruption of the sincere mind

Fears of people, pain, and pressure unwindThey rampage on this restless night

Purging thoughts that are kind

I struggle for a remedy to findTo leech out the intruder

Anxiety is a corruption of the sincere mind

Serenity is the savior for which we have pinedInterfering are the infinite insecurities

Purging thoughts that are kind

We labor over our thoughts uncouthRather than confront the trident of our troubled truth

Anxiety is a corruption of the sincere mindPurging thoughts that are kind.

“Everything I learned and did this weekhas been absolutely amazing. This weekforced me to write and forced me outsidemy comfort zone when it comes to writ-ing. The whole week was beneficial and,if I weren’t a senior, I’d come back ina heartbeat.”

— Erin Besse

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22 YOUNG VOICES

Baghdad, Iraq, 2002By ANNA JACQUINOT

His worn leather boots are filling with sand. Through the abandoned soles and fraying strings

Clamor gruesome tales of a distant land Of spears and knives cut through delicate wings.

As the angels fall and the devil reigns, The torches set fire to their last glowing light.

Only a silk strung last message remains For a mourning girl who watches the night.

His cold lips are pursed, and grey eyes are closed. He sinks deeper into bottomless dunes.

His opened buttons leave his wounds exposed As Arabic sands veil corpses and ruins. The soldier’s last letter was never read.

They take only his shoes and leave the dead.

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23YOUNG VOICES

UntitledBy LAUREN JOLY

I love a cloud when it gets lonely and meshes with the others Though I hate sudden rain

as it excites younger brothers

I hate when one can’t hold a conversation I love to be the one with that power

Yet sometimes I hate caring so much like I’m tending to a wilting flower

I love the way they smile and I hate the way they smile

because I want that as my own

But just like with the clouds, the rain, the talk I love and hate alone

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24 YOUNG VOICES

Death From the AfarBy MAX KLEINER

W hen my parents hadn’tcome home, one day in my

freshman year of high school, Iknew something was up. Theygenerally came home by 6:30, andif they were going to be later than9:00, they told me. But today wasdifferent; I hadn’t heard fromeither of them all day, and by 9:05,I’ll admit I was getting nervous.The phone rang.

“Hey Max, it’s Steph, your Dadasked me to tell you that he andKatie are dealing with some stuffin Jersey, and will be cominghome late.”

“Thanks Steph.”I hung up the phone quietly.

Late night ‘stuff to do’ in NewJersey on a weeknight? ‘Stuff todo’ that they couldn’t tell meabout themselves? I don’t knowhow I knew my uncle was dead,maybe it was just a lucky guess.

When my parents came home,I waited downstairs for them, pre-tending that I was simply prepar-ing a snack as they walked in thedoor. It was my mom’s day to setup the coffee machine for the fol-lowing morning, so I stayeddownstairs with her while myfather went upstairs to take off hissocks and lie down.

“Did Randy die?” I asked.She turned her back to me as

she poured coffee beans into afunnel, but I knew it was so. Icouldn’t see her face as she let outa weak “yes.”

My stomach dropped. I wasn’tupset because I knew my unclewas dead, or even that my momwas crying over the coffee maker. Iwas upset that the only thing I feltwas the satisfaction that camewith accurately predicting whathappened to Randy.

My mom had no blood rela-tion to Randy; he was my father’sbrother, and they never seemed to

be particularly close. I couldn’tunderstand why she was moreupset than I was.

***The funeral didn’t make me feel

better. My grandfather couldn’t bein the same room as Randy’s body;my grandmother cried as sheplaced some of Randy’s favoritethings, concert ticket stubs, a blueNew York Knicks blanket, and pic-tures of his children, into his coffin.I just looked at the man withunblinking eyes. I was interested inhis cheeks; they were sagging downbecause there was no more life inthem to fight gravity.

The only other people at thefuneral who didn’t seem upsetwere Randy’s children. At the timethey were young; I believe Davidwas eight and Emily was six. Mydad said it was better this way, eas-ier. They were too young to fullyunderstand the implications oftheir father’s death. Too young toknow that the man who was sup-posed to teach David to be a manwas never coming back. That theman who was supposed to carryEmily on his shoulders while sheate an ice cream was gone. Iunderstood what was happening,I even expected it to happen, but Icouldn’t feel it happen.

A couple of days before thefuneral, I had told my historyteacher that I was going to beabsent and needed an extensionon my term paper because of all ofthe family obligations that werecoming up over the next week.“I’m sorry to hear that Max, it’sbeen a tough year for you.” Thiswas the third day of school that Iwas going to miss this yearbecause of funerals. I wanted tosay, “Don’t worry about it, I don’teven really care,” but I didn’t. Ithanked him for his condolences.

The first two funerals I went tothat year I only attended to givemoral support. My best friend’sgrandparents had both died thatyear, first his grandmother, then, afew months later, his grandfather.I stayed by my best friend’s sidethe entire time at both events,silently accepting condolencesfrom guests with him. I felt hon-ored when he and his family invit-ed me to ride with them in theprocession to the graveyard out inLong Island. The Rabbi began say-ing prayers. The coffin went deep-er and deeper into the ground. Inoticed a tear trickle down myfriend’s face. I hadn’t seen him cryin years.

***I never felt bad about being

unaffected by my friend’s grand-parents’ death. Those days hadnothing to do with me. I was thereto be by my friend’s side while wewere stuck in traffic, starving, onthe way back from Long Island tosit Shiva at his house. But now,when my friend was there to sup-port me, I didn’t need it. I didn’teven cry.

I would have felt better if Ihadn’t known Randy, but I did. Iremember the time he explainedthe New World Order and StoneMason conspiracies to me, andwhen he gave me a T-shirt from aSnoop Dogg and Fifty-Cent con-cert. We were never close, but thefact that we were family shouldhave meant something.

He was my father’s brother,and, standing over his open cas-ket, I couldn’t help but thinkabout how little he looked like aman who had been hit by a train.I stared into his closed eyelids.Maybe, I thought, if I stare longenough, something will change. n

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25YOUNG VOICES

Strong MaterialsBy JULIANNA LEICHTMAN

The plastic rib sits hard beneath my ownand rubs to raw the heavy flesh above

this slab of cartilage and weakened bone.

The math is done,the work was clearly shown,

the x-rays laying plain each crooked cove.The plastic rib sits hard beneath my own.

They will not look at all the seeds they’ve sownand tell me sourly that I should lovethis slab of cartilage and ugly bone.

But look at me! See how my body groansbelow the weight of theories I can’t prove!The plastic rib sits hard beneath my own

uncertainty, a smooth but heavy stoneso gently placed atop the molding gravethat holds this slab of cartilage and bone.

And see, my heart pumps slowly to postponethe foul collapse it knows is on the way.This plastic rib sits hard beneath my own

unlovely slab of cartilage and bone.

“This was a once-in-a-lifetime, life-changing experience for me. I have neverlearned more or met better people than Ihave here.”

— Hannah Levin

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26 YOUNG VOICES

Not SadBy HANNAH LEVIN

I wasn’t sad. I should have beensad. I should have been shocked,

or sobbing, or at least scared. But Ifelt absolutely nothing.

My mom, my sister and I werein the bagel store when the newscame. My mom hadn’t been in agood mood that day even beforethis had happened. I forget why.The ringing of her cell phone did-n’t help the situation. She feltaround in her black hole of apurse until she found it, and thena look of dread crossed her face asshe read the caller ID.

“Your grandpa’s calling. Ishould take this.” We knew whatwas coming as soon as she saidthose words.

She took the call, leaving mysister and me standing alone. Inthat moment my mother was notacross the bagel store, but insteadin another dimension, far awayfrom us. After she hung up it tookher a minute to take the journeyback. She looked mournful as shereturned to us.

“Uncle Irv is dead.”Uncle Irv. Dead. He’d been

sick for a while, and I hadn’t beenclose to him. He was always pres-ent at family gatherings, but he

didn’t speak to me or my sister orour cousins. Instead he talked tothe adults and ate the sugar-freecake I always hated buying. We gotit for him. He was diabetic. Thatwas the sum total of my knowl-edge of him.

We weren’t close. I knew that. Ihad from the moment he’d gottensick. But I hadn’t expected to havethe reaction to his death that I did:namely, none. I should have feltsomething driving to his funeral. Ishould have felt something watch-ing my family mourn. I shouldhave felt something throwing theshovelful of dirt onto his coffin. Ishould have felt something whenthe realization set in that he wastruly gone from this world forev-er. But I didn’t. Only guilt.

***I listened to all the speeches

about him. How smart he was, howhe’d spend hours at the library, howquickly he did puzzles, how headored movies, how he could com-plete the Sunday crossword in halfan hour. Things I hadn’t known. Iwondered what it would have beenlike if I knew him. If I’d done puz-zles with him or talked to him

about school. If I’dknown him for any-thing other thanbeing the reason Iwas forced to eatbad cake. Would Ihave been hisfriend? Would hehave lent me books?Would he have rec-ommended movies?

Would I have visited at the hospitalwhen he was sick? Would I bemourning now rather than simplyfeeling guilt?

My mother brought us to ourgrandparents’ house after that.Being surrounded by mournerswas not helpful to my emotionalturmoil. I remember that I kepttrying to muster some sadness, ortrying to cry. Maybe if I couldappear sad, that would makethings better somehow. And I did.I cried. I cried because my unclewas a person and he was dead, andthat was sad, but beyond that Istill felt nothing, and I couldn’tstand it. I couldn’t take watchingmy grandparents, mother, andaunt so upset, and not having aclue how to sympathize.

I am a horrible person. Thatthought kept running through myhead. My uncle is dead and I do notcare. My family is crying. I shouldbe crying. Why am I not crying?Because I am a horrible person.

It echoed through my headdriving home, and the next fewdays I could not get it out of mymind. Everything I did, a voicenagged in the back of my head:Your uncle is dead, it hissed. He isdead and you are completelyunaffected. You are a soulless,heartless, horrible person.

It’s only looking back that Irealize that maybe I’m not a horri-ble person. Maybe some thingssimply don’t affect certain people.Maybe you’re not supposed tomourn someone you didn’t ever know.

Maybe I’m just human. n

“This is a very unique experience, andeveryone is extremely friendly. From thefirst day I came here, I felt welcomed.”

– Lynn Wang

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27YOUNG VOICES

love poemBy ANJIE LIU

how to write a love poemhaving never kissed your eyelids, my lower lip bitten

by your eyelashes colorless to me at this present moment,having never tasted the salts of your neckor heard the crinkles of your lips unwrap,

smooth as you smile to me,having never heard the groans

of your turning ankles, your sighing hips,although I have already done all that years ahead;

I can only recount the outlines of your face, your torso,the weight of your name on my tongue, your lettered thoughts

or at least the ones you share with me (half of whichI will keep for myself), all plucked from the hands of yesterday

and the moment we just left

where between our quick past and unspoken future,I meet your soul, or whatever you have to love me,

above the tangible messes of cities and oceans between usso that one day (I’m sure) when we fall down,

my fingers in yours,we’ll have everything

so until then, I wait, satisfyingly impatient, for the dayI see the world through the tilt of your chest,

rising and fallingat the mathematically perfect angle,

the Golden Ratio of my universe.

“The week here has shown me that thereare other teenagers like myself who gen-uinely love to write. It was shocking tome to be around other kids who reallyliked sharing what they wrote and gettingfeedback. I have never before stayed upuntil 1 a.m. doing an impromptu poetryreading.”

— Marie Isabelle Doyle

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28 YOUNG VOICES

Lavender MountainBy IAN MCCLURE

T yler Grayson had been fol-lowed for years, haunted and

hunted by someone or somethingthat refused to give up. He didn’tknow what it wanted, or evenwhat it really looked like. Mostpeople now treated Tyler likesome estranged elder relative whowas broken and delusional butstill held some place in theirhearts. They didn’t understandthat he hadn’t made this choicefor himself, or that he didn’t wantto seem like some crazy bastardwho couldn’t trust anyone.Staying around his friends andfamily who gave him looks ofhelpless condolence whenever hedescribed his lurking omen wastoo much to handle. So Tyler left.

Now, thousands of miles awayfrom his old life in Arizona, thewind was berating his helmet andtearing at his clothes as he beganto descend down a steep andsnaking mountain slope on an oldEuropean motorcycle. The deepblue waters of the DalmatianCoast looked calm and soothing,almost like an invitation to seejust how far this thing would go tofollow him. He didn’t even knowhow to speak to the Croatianlocals around him. At this pointthere had been too many coun-tries, languages, and cultures thatwere all failed attempts to blend inand escape. No matter where Tylerwent, he was followed.

In China, he had heard scut-tling feet in his hotel room andproceeded to search for it forhours to no avail. The outdoormarket in Bangladesh was wheresomething had kept incessantlypulling at his clothes and then dis-appearing the moment he turnedaround. It had been like this inevery new country. Tyler wouldconstantly catch glimpses of hispursuer darting around corners,or maybe he just felt it. But there

was something, a shadow or blurof movement, when he wouldturn around quickly to catch it.The most recent encounter withhis unwanted acolyte had been inan Italian taxicab. The driver wastaking his client, the very jumpyMr. Grayson, to a new hotel out-side of Rome so that he could getaway from the crowded city.

Tyler, as always, was lookingout the windows and checking therear view mirror for any chance tosee it. Cities were exhausting dueto the fact that there were almostan infinite number of places thatit could hide and retreat to when-ever he noticed its presence. Atthis point, he could almost feel itwhen it was close by. Or maybe hesmelled it, or tasted it in the air.This ceaseless stalker had infiltrat-ed all of his senses and conqueredhis consciousness. In the cab, hecould feel every part of his bodycovered in a cold, static sweat. Andfor a brief flash, it was there.Although the cab driver denied it,Tyler swore he could see its eyes.Maybe it was for a split second. Henever saw a body, or even a face.Just a pair of deep green eyes star-ing back at him in the rear viewmirror for a split second.

As the trees and strange rockformations flashed by on his waydown the mountain, Tyler won-dered over and over again if hehad really seen those eyes. Hecould smell the lavender still,coming from the plantation onthe top of the mountain that wasrun by an old lady who had spo-ken no English. While on top ofthe hill, he told her everythingabout the thing that was followinghim. She sat there the whole timelistening while her son packed hisbike full of lavender soaps andincense and all sorts of uselessthings. At the end of his story, shesmiled warmly and said, “Ako

vjerujete da vjerujem.”Unfortunately, Tyler never had achance to find out what she saidto him.

He tore around the cornerdown the perilous slopes, andbefore he knew what to do withhimself, it was there. Right beforethe next turn, not even twenty feetaway, he could see it. It wasn’tmore than four feet tall, and itsskin was a sickly shade of pinkishyellow. It didn’t look real, andTyler wasn’t even sure if it was. Hejust saw the thin arms and legs,protruding rib cage, sharp teeth,and intensely green eyes. He bare-ly had time to take in its gaunt andhorrifying features before he wasupon it. Instead of hitting thebreaks, he just kept going. Hedrove straight through it—all theway through and right off the sideof the lavender mountain.

Tyler saw the majestic bluewater of the Adriatic below him. Itlooked calm and soothing, almostlike an invitation to see just howfar this thing would go to followhim. Moments before he hit thewaves and headed to the last placehe would ever go to escape, hethought to himself, “I was right.”

The other drivers that sawTyler Grayson’s incident wereinterviewed and questioned. Noneof them said anything about ashort, sickly creature with greeneyes. They just remember seeing aforeign man riding without a hel-met and a grin on his face as hewent over the edge. Somereporters drove all the way to thetop of the mountain, where theyfound an old woman who smelledlike lavender. She told them abouther visitor and what she said tohim right before he left. “Akovjerujete da vjerujem.” “If youbelieve, I believe.” n

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29YOUNG VOICES

The Beautiful PeopleBy ALISON MCDONALD

These girls are everywhere,like field mice in weather-beaten bungalows.

They live in shiny bubbles,smelling like fake vanilla deodorant and hard candy.

They live their lip-glossy lives with their best friendssticking knives in their sides,piercing ears and hearts.

No one else exists beyond their vacuum-sealed airtight airhead galaxywhere the sky is dotted with movie stars.

They will grow up somedayand become their bottle-blond minivan mothers

washed out from too much laundry.Maybe a few will be those cool moms

who let them do anything,get punch drunk on the spiked punch.

Seventy, eighty years from now,they will lie dying beneath musty floral bedspreads,

as their lives flash before their eyes.

“This week has helped me discover whatit is about my personal life that I canwrite about. I’ve never consideredmyself somebody who is good at or enjoyswriting nonfiction but this week hashelped me realize how much I truly loveit. I’ve discovered a new passion andlove for writing that I didn’t feel sostrongly before. I now know not onlythat I want to write, but I know what Iwant to write.”

— Tara Cicic

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30 YOUNG VOICES

The Men Who Sold the WorldBy CLEMENTINE MORSE

In their bald heads anxiety curledHe licks the sweat off his face

They are the men who sold the world

They accuse themselves of lies unfurledThe salty bead of sugar they tasteIn their bald heads anxiety curled

The swill and soot in a timetable swirledBy each other they are chased

They are the men who sold the world

Their teacup dancers mourned and twirledAway with arms wide to a worse placeAnd in their bald heads anxiety curled

A glass football is repeatedly hurledAt their suits, slick with mace

They are the men who sold the world

Born to rags already gnarledThe lock is betrayed by its case

In their balding heads anxiety curledThey are the men who sold the world

“The New York State Summer YoungWriters Institute has been anabsolutely amazing opportunity. I metawesome people with similar inter-ests. We all became friends instant-ly. My writing skills and areas ofinterest have expanded greatly duringmy time here. This was a valuableexperience that I will carry with mefor a very long time.”

— Samantha Clark

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31YOUNG VOICES

State of ConfusionBy BRIGID NEUMANN

M y head felt like it was underenormous pressure. If the

pressure became any higher, itwould explode. My palms werefrigid, but sweat swam out of them.I could feel my heart pounding ineven my pinky toe. My legs andarms shook as I tried to force outthe words I’d held back for so long.

I couldn’t find my tongue, nomatter how hard I searched for it.And my mouth was dry, as if I’deaten a spoonful of cinnamon.Thankfully, my desk chair kept mefrom collapsing.

Haru was sitting on my bed withan impatient stare, as I tried to getthe words out. But how could I tellhim, and would our friendship everbe the same?

“Spit it out,” he says, flustered.This woke me from my trance-like state.

“Haru, I think, I might possiblybe just a little somewhat, slightly, a teeny-weeny bit,” I paused,“partly gay.”

I felt my bloodless face gainsome color in embarrassment,hoping to God he’s ok with it. Iexpected everything from horror,surprise, disgust, emptiness, anger,disbelief, maybe even happiness.But he did the one thing I nevereven dreamed of. Never even con-sidered a possibility.

He kissed me.I can’t say it was pleasant, because

I was still freaking out with theshakes. He kissed me and I’dexpected him to ditch and run.

I watched him pull back. Thecloset gay, the guy with the cultur-ally correct girlfriend. The leader ofdebate club. Captain of the tennisteam. My best friend was gay, or atleast questioning, or bi.

I could not understand what washappening. I knew I was gay, Icould feel it in my core, but to tellpeople that? There’s no chance togo back. Once words are said, you

cannot change them, no matterhow hard you try.

“Don’t tell anyone!” he saidangrily, and I didn’t know if it waswith me or himself.

“Don’t worry, I won’t. But I amgoing to tell other people that I’m...gay...” His eyebrows pulled togetherand his cheeks turned down.

“Do you think they’ll suspectanything?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said casu-ally, but it hit me like a train. Whatif Haru was too ashamed to be myfriend now? Sure, I have otherfriends to fall back on, but they’renot Haru. I remember endlesslonely days when Haru was theonly one around. We told eachother all our secrets; I guess it’s onlyfit we know this secret.

Haru stepped away from me andmy eyes followed his footstepstoward the door.

“If you value our friendship youwon’t tell anyone about what hap-pened,” he said, leaving me sittingalone in my bedroom.

The next day, l walked down thehallway. How was I going to tellpeople? Actually, did I even haveanyone to tell?

My eyes traveled upward to seeHaru and his girlfriend, Emily,walking down the hallway. Harudiverted his brown eyes, but Emilyhad no such aversions.

“Hey Rian!” she called to mefrom across the hall.

I cringed, “Hey Em.”“So, me and Haru are going on a

date Saturday, and you shoulddefinitely get a girl and come with us.”

“Um...yeah...” I trailed. Emily andI were never really close. Haru onlydated her because his father wantshim with a respectable Asian girl. Ipersonally think she doesn’t havemuch personality.

“What, no one you’re interestedin?” she raised an eyebrow in an

attempt to look sly.“Yeah, no girls. Listen... I’ve got to

get to class, catch you later.” Myfootsteps dragged behind me as Itrudged away. Haru hadn’t even somuch as look at me. What had Iexpected? Him to run into my armsand proclaim to the world he wasgay? I haven’t even come out yetand I can’t see him out before me.

When lunch rolled around, Iavoided the crowded cafeteria. Ijust sat in the library, reading abook and starving. Eating wasn’tallowed, but I just couldn’t faceHaru in the cafeteria.

Maybe it’d be better to talk aboutwhat happened. I could imagine it.

“Hey, you realize you kissed meright?” I’d say.

“Of course, I was there! Do yourealize I kissed you?” he’d respond.He’d try to play it cool, but I’dknow he didn’t want to talk aboutit. He would try to avoid the subjectforever if he could.

After school I walked back homedejectedly. I’d planned on comingout today, but who was there totell? Who but Haru? And Haruwas too stubborn.

“Rian! Rian!”I turned at the sound of my name

being called, only to see Harustumbling over his feet and strug-gling to catch up with me.

“I need to tell you that I had noidea what I was doing yesterday. I’msorry, I just have no idea what’shappening to me.”

“It’s ok, Haru. You can alwayscount on me to help you figurethings out.”

Once again, he kissed me, andthis time I kissed back. We weren’tafraid of someone seeing us,although we should have been. Wealmost didn’t think of the fact thatwe were both boys, that Haru’sdad wanted him with an Asiangirl. We almost even didn’t thinkof Emily. Almost. n

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BenBy LOUISA ORESKES

I remember the day my olderbrother came home crying in

the days leading up to his highschool graduation. It’s funny tome, the idea of him vulnerable,and my big brother. The one whotook care of me for half of my life.The one who taught me how to throw a baseball and who Ialways looked up to. I could hearthrough the thick wall the soundsof him crying.

My room was so neat, which israre if you know me at all. I sat onmy tightly made bed with my feetpaved to my hardwood floor. Myposture was at a ninety-degreeangle opposed to my naturallyslouched stature.

“Buddy, I’m right here next toyou, every morning, every night,and playing Xbox is the alternateto us talking.” I said these words inmy head as if I were speaking rightto Ben. As if there was no wall sep-aration between my room and myparent’s room, where he was mostlikely in my mom’s arms, letting itall go. He can only do this when hefeels absolutely hopeless and thosemoments are always scary to me. Iknew why he was crying though. Iwish I hadn’t. I wish sometimesmy parents had shielded me fromthe realities of the world I wasgrowing up in. I knew from theget-go that when we moved backfrom Paris, after living there forthree and a half years, me as asixth grader, Ben an incomingsophomore in high school, hisadjustment was going to be farfrom easy.

I had been exposed to art, cul-ture, and kids from all around theworld. Both Ben and I had amaturity that came with the pack-age deal of being at an interna-tional school, having journalistparents, and living in one of themost beautiful cities in the world.When we came back we both went

to the same private school inManhattan where Ben wouldinevitably finish out high schooland I would end up finishing mid-dle school, but moving on to a big-ger, specialized public high school.

Living there forced the two ofus, Ben and me, along with mymom, to form a unit. We were alleach other had, and we became bestfriends. However, when we re-entered the culture of the New YorkCity world, he had to push meaway. After all, he was a teenager,and I wasn’t. The friends he madewere far from the smart and world-ly kids we had met at the AmericanSchool of Paris. They were mean,rich, and self-centered.

The reason Ben was crying thatday was not beyond me. It was veryclearly due to the environment inwhich Ben had to fight for survivaland acceptance in a group of kidswho had known each other sincebirth in this small, private schoolworld. Ben became mean. He wascruel to me and our relationshipwent down a dark path followed byhis grudges against my father formaking us move and my mom fornot solving the instability in ourlives that created collisions in hishappiness. Since I was theyoungest, I went from beingthought of as a capable younghuman being worthy of talkingwith to having to just accept theissues my brother now faced.

My mom told me later thatBen had been sitting at a SuperBowl party with a group of his so-called “friends”. My least favoriteof his friends, let’s call him John,had made a snide comment toBen saying something like, “Pshh,Ben you don’t belong here, we’veall known each other forever,you’re just the new kid!” All of hisother “friends” had laughed atthis, presumably nodding andagreeing. Yet what killed my mom

and me the most is that the par-ents around at the time had madecomments agreeing with theimmature teenagers who at thispoint were simply torturing Ben because now all he was, andall he ever felt he would be, was anoutsider.

My mom walked out of thebedroom. The crying had stoppedand I could hear the creak of herdoorframe followed by the soundsof her footsteps getting louder.She appeared at my door. Her eyeswere puffy but intensely focused,like she hadn’t slept in days. LaterI would learn she had cried due tothe unbearable thought of otherparents being mean to her son, herbaby. She had always treated ourfriends with the utmost love, as ifthey were her children too.

“Your room, it’s so clean,good, very good. I didn’t want tohave to make you clean, but youdid it yourself,” she said.

“Mom...” She interrupted me.“No honey, not yet, give it time

and get your shoes on honey,we’re going out to dinner,” shesaid to me.

I was the little sister who wasincapable of helping my brother.The brother I loved so dearly. Thebrother with whom I had sharedeverything during our years inParis. We had laughed in theChamp de Mars playing soccerbeneath the Eiffel Tower with theother French boys, we had scooter-raced to the bus every morningpanting to catch our breath whilesimultaneously laughing. He wasbeyond my reach now because hecouldn’t see me as his equal.Because that would deny all thethings that I tried to make himfeel normal. I had to let him bemiserable and reach states of sad-ness that scared me but were nec-essary. n

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33YOUNG VOICES

BoomBy JULIA RANDALL

F ingers tapped and headsbobbed to the rolling gait of

the rickety subway car on thetracks. The car was quiet exceptfor the thumping beat from aboy’s earphones and the occasion-al rustle of a newspaper. Suddenly,there was a loud boom and thethree passengers in the car weresent flying.

The passengers awoke to thechilling sound of the emergencyalarm. The car was wrecked,turned on its side with a deep dentdown the middle nearly slicing itin half. The passengers groaned,and looked around slowly.

“Is everyone all right?” said aman dressed in a ruffled thoughwell-tailored business suit. Hestood up and brushed the dust offhis pants. “Is anyone hurt?”

“My head fucking hurts likehell,” grunted the teenage boy withhis earphones still jammed in hisears. “Guess I’m alright though.”

“What the hell was that?” fran-tically asked a woman in her earlyforties. She climbed out fromunder her seat and looked downto where she stood on a window.“What turned the car over?”

“How the fuck would I know?”the boy said irritably, narrowing hiseyes. “It was so fast, I don’t knowwhat the fuck happened.”

“Well what do we do? Isn’tsomeone going to help us get outof here?” The woman’s voice rose

to a tone of panic. She beganwringing her hands.

The man sighed. “For now let’sjust stay calm. At least none of uswas seriously hurt. We might beable to walk along the tracks untilwe get to a station.”

“Are you crazy? We could behit by a train! What if there areterrorists? Besides, the tracks aretoo narrow!”

“Hey, lady, if you’ve got a bet-ter idea, I’m all ears,” spouted theboy, getting to his feet. “I just wantto get out of here... alive.” Helooked away.

“Then we should stay in hereand wait for help! And don’t youcall me ‘lady,’ my name is Clare.”

“Anthony.”“I’m Steve,” said the business-

man. “Before we start panicking, Ithink we should at least take alook outside, see if people in theother cars are all right.”

He pushed open the emer-gency window and hopped outbefore Clare could protest. Hecrouched on top of the over-turned car, coughing in the densecloud of smoke. The fluorescentsquares lining the tunnel providedminimal light, but he could seethat the other carshad been reduced totwisted hunks ofmetal and that por-tions of the ceilinghad fallen in.

The dent in the middle of thesole surviving car was created by acolumn which had presumablyfallen over in the commotion,and, Steve noticed, was the onlything keeping the ceiling fromcaving in on them.

“Guys, you should really take alook at this.” The other twoclimbed out and crouched along-side him, following his gaze.

Clare gasped and lookedaround at the wreckage on eitherside of them. “A-Are we the only ones?”

“Who cares, we’ve gotta getout now before that ceiling caves!”Anthony said, fear in his voice.

“There’s a railing on the otherside, we can follow it out of here.”

“No, we’d be safer inside thecar! I mean, the ceiling wouldn’tdamage the car, would it?”

“See for yourself,” saidAnthony gravely. Clare reluctantlyglanced down at the othercrushed cars and her face contort-ed into a pained expression.

“We might as well go.”They each slid down the side

of the car onto the tiny walkway.The fluorescent lights blinkedominously.

“This week was great for meetingpeople who like writing just asI do. The one-on-one meetingswere really helpful and I’llcontinue to remember the adviceI’ve been given.”

– Sarah Bailey

(continued on page 34)

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“Which way do we go?” askedAnthony. Both directions lookedequally unfavorable.

“Left.” Steve grabbed the metalrailing and led them down thenarrow path into the cloud ofsmoke and fumes. They walkedpast the wreckage, trying not tothink about all of the people whohad perished.

“Is anyone out there?” yelledSteve. “Anyone?” There was onlysilence.

After a few minutes of walk-ing, Steve squinted and sucked inhis breath sharply. He stoppeddead and reached out in front ofhim. He was met with a solid wallof rubble.

“Maybe we’ll have more luck inthe other direction.” They turnedaround and headed the other way,Anthony leading them. As theyapproached the car they were inoriginally, Anthony paused.

“Is it just me, or is that column

lower than it was before?” Clareand Steve exchanged worried looks.

“We have to hurry!” Clareshrieked. The blood had drainedfrom her face. They continueddown the path, quicker this time.Within thirty seconds, Anthonygroaned in frustration.

“This side is blocked off too.”Clare leaned around him for abetter look. She sank down withher back to the wall and dissolvedinto tears. Steve put his hand onher shoulder.

“Help will come,” he said.“You’ll see.”

“What if they don’t get to us intime? What if the ceiling caves?We’re going to die!” Clare threwup her hands hysterically, cryingeven harder now.

“Come on, let’s stay rational,we’re not going to die,” Steve said,trying to comfort her.

“There’s no use in crying, any-way,” Anthony said hollowly.

There was dread in his voice.Clare continued sobbing convul-sively, transitioning into a full-onmental breakdown.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye tomy kids, m-my parents!” Sheexhaled deeply and was silent for along time. “So that’s it then. It’sjust... over.”

“Over,” Anthony repeated softly.The car creaked under the

weight of the pillar, and the three ofthem looked up at the crumblingceiling. Steve began running hisfingers through his greying hair.“No... No. It’s not supposed to belike this. No.” Anthony put his ear-phones back in and closed his eyes,head swaying to the music.

There was a low rumble abovethem and pieces of the ceilingbegan to fall down around them.Clare shut her eyes and her handsclenched into fists. Anthony tiltedback his head and his lips twistedinto a wide smile. n

Boom (continued)

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UntitledBy AJ RIO-GLICK

Why are we still awake?An iridescence burns in your eyes and

You have a physical effect.

Little moments survive,flitting up and away

In this hour we wear no disguise soWhy are we still awake?

Creating endless body bywaysNothing we do can be unwise

You have a physical effect

The world turns from night to dayAnd we are as up as the sunrise

Why are we still awake?

Let our hearts dance for there’s no debt to payIt’s all a musical reprise

You have a physical effect

I listen to the way we sayI will, I want, I wish, no lies. Why are we still awake?

Because you have a physical effect.

“I’ve just filled a week of mysummer with continuous interactionwith people who can actively andknowledgeably discuss the highestand lowest aspects of the worldaround us. It’s been wonderful.”

— Andrew Fedorov

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The Black DeathBy NICOLE SANCHEZ

The death is coming;from all sides, the black consumes.

Shrouded by the dark lit night

the doctor arrives in his herbed bird mask.The man lies there, the bleeding resumes--

the death is coming--

The priest enters, holy water in his flask,granting absolution, ridding demons with fumes.

Shrouded by the dark lit night,

the man listens to the hollow echoes and follows the tracksof those who’ve crossed the path of unknown glooms.

The death is coming...

The gravedigger comes, completes his task.The wife pales, the children wail, the future looms,

shrouded by the dark lit night.

The plague spreads, hysteria ensues unasked.Repent, repent, avoid your several dooms;

Death is coming,shrouded by the dark lit night.

“This week, I was completely surround-ed by writers, which is incrediblyrare. There were people constantlyavailable to bounce ideas off, to tradeliterary opinions with, and to readpieces out loud to. I felt at home withthe other writers here, even when weweren’t in class.”

— Julianna Leichtman

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The JumpBy MICHAEL SHELDON

M an, how’d you do it?”Grant Pearson pushed

open the double glass door, hishand trembling as he reached intohis pocket for a cigarette. “Whatdo you mean?”

“I mean how’d you talk himdown?” The voice of Chris Jensen,his colleague, was rife with excite-ment. “He looked just about readyto jump.”

“Well, y’know. I just talked tohim,” Grant replied dismissively.

“Oh, come on! You must have—”

Grant interrupted: “Youwanna go get some coffee?”

Chris chattered on about howsad it was that someone could taketheir own life, how strange thehuman mind was, how nice it wasthat this story had ended happily.The proclamations and clichesblended into mush in Grant’smind. He didn’t want to talk aboutthese things. He just wanted hisiced Americano, and then a nap.

* * * Grant was on the office bal-

cony again. Wind whippedaround, rain flew sideways. Theman was standing at the edge.Grant tried to move to him, buthis legs were sluggish and feltmelded to the concrete platformbeneath him. He screamed,“Stop!” but the exclamation wasswept away like a feather in a hur-ricane. Grant heard a flutteringbehind him and turned his head,but there was nothing there. Helooked back up, and in the man’splace stood his mother, pale andsickly in her hospital robe.

“You think you saved me? You

think you saved me?” Her voicegrew from a whisper to a full-blown yowl. “You gave me tor-ment. That’s all there is.” He knewwhat came next. He reached hisarms out and screamed, but heknew he was too late. She jumped.As he watched her fall, his view ofthe street obscured by the rain,piercing beeps faded into hisawareness, and he awoke to hisalarm clock. “Shit,” he muttered. Ittook him about another twentyminutes to get up and out of bed.

* * * Grant sat with his red pen in

hand, puzzling over a resolutionbetween two parties he wasn’tallowed to talk about. He grabbedhis plain black mug and took along sip of coffee, and when heput it down he saw Chris Jensenstanding in the doorway to hisoffice.

“Hey Pearson,” he said bright-ly. Grant inclined his head slightlyin response. “I was wondering ifyou’d be willing to talk aboutMonday now.”

“Why? It happened. It’s over.”“Well, I emailed some guys at

the Times, and they loved thestory. They’re asking for—”

Grant sprang to his feet, slam-ming down his documents.“DAMN IT, CHRIS!”

“I’m trying to help you, Grant!You could be a fucking hero!”

“Shut up, Chris! Just shut up!”The secretary from across the

hall came in through Grant’sdoor, which was still ajar. “Iseverything okay in here?”

“Yeah, we’re fine,” said Chris ina measured tone. He left the room,

and after giving Grant a concernedlook, the secretary followed.

Grant sighed, swirling his cof-fee as he willed his heartbeat toeven out. Just as he re-gathered hisdocuments and picked up his redpen, the phone rang. Grant shut itout and let it ring, drawing linesacross faulty clauses and notatinghis corrections as he waited forthe secretary to pick it up instead.About ten seconds after it stoppedringing, she came back into hisoffice. “Grant, it’s the hospital. Itold them you were busy, but theysay it’s about your mother.”Grant’s stomach turned to stone.“Thanks,” he managed. When thesecretary left, he lifted and thenimmediately hung up the receiver.He stepped out onto his office’sbalcony, quivering as he drew outa cigarette. “Hey,” he heard. Heturned around, and it was Chris.

“Look, Pearson. I wanted toapologize. I guess I just didn’trealize—”

“I said shut up, Chris.”Grant heard a fluttering

behind him. He turned and saw asheet of paper falling from above.He traced its path, back up intothe sky. He saw the man fromMonday, standing a few storieshigher. He looked back at thepaper. He saw the word “torment,”emblazoned on it in red pen.

His cell phone buzzed in hispocket. He pulled it out. “Mom,”read the caller ID. He looked backup at the Monday man on his bal-cony. He heard the wind pick up.

“Stop!” Chris shouted.And they jumped. n

“

“This week has really breathed new life into my writing. I feel as thoughthe editing sessions, and the new work I have started here, have beenimmensely beneficial to my journey as a writer.”

— Adam Albaari

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The Two TowersBy DOUGLAS SOLOMON

W hen I was five years old Iloved building things with

blocks. I had just started kinder-garten, and building was our firstproject as a class. Before evenlearning the ABC’s we began tobuild. We built all types of things,like large buildings, castles, roads,and basically anything else thatcame to the imagination of a fiveyear old. A couple of friends and Istarted to build our final project,our last piece of art. We decided tobuild two large towers (based onour love for the “Lord of TheRings” movies). We quickly got towork one morning. There wereabout four of us working on theproject. I was basically the headarchitect. I decided what blockswent where, and how the towerswere to be designed.

After three long days of build-ing, our masterpiece was com-

plete. In the back corner of ourkindergarten class stood a mag-nificent five-foot structure. Thetwo towers were sturdy and welldesigned with thick bases leadingto somewhat narrow tips. Thetowers were taller than our teach-ers, and luckily, were wider thanthem too.

The next week, after the towershad been up for some time, Imade an executive decision thatthey needed to come down. Theboys agreed because they toowanted to work on other projects.In the morning, before we startedclass that day, I knocked the tow-ers down. I put all my force intothem, and they came crumblingdown. After the blocks were scat-tered all over the floor I felt sad,like I had lost something special. Itwas my real first project as an ele-mentary student.

After we cleaned the blocks,and put them back in their bins,something strange happened.Something that hadn’t happenedsince last year, when I was in pre-school. Parents came to pick theirkids up from school while we werein class. As kids left one by one, Iwent on with my class day. I didsome finger painting and color-ing. Later that morning, my momcame to pick me up as well. Whenwe got home, she turned on thenews. I didn’t know what wasgoing on. She looked at me veryconcerned and told me that theWorld Trade Center was attacked.At the time I wasn’t very intriguedby what she was saying. I didn’tunderstand. While watching thecoverage on the news, all I couldpicture were the two towers in mykindergarten class. n

“The New York State Summer Young Writers Institute here was a greatexperience. There is something truly inspiring about being in a groupof writers who are passionate about their work and can challenge youto become better yourself.”

— Avantika Tankala

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UntitledBy AVANTIKA TANKALA

T he loud whistle of the trainechoes loudly through the

station over the hustle and bustleof the early morning work rush. Iwatch the people come and go.There is a woman standing in thecorner, not boarding any trains atall. She looks up, and I see her faceis lined with worry.

“How may I help you?” saysthe young woman behind thedesk, leaning back lazily in herchair and obnoxiously chewing awad of gum. The lady clears herthroat softly. “I... well, I... I havethis photograph of my son. Hedisappeared two months ago. Iwas just wondering if you’d seenhim.” Her eyes now dart uncom-fortably between the desk,woman, and the floor.

The woman behind the desksits up, interested suddenly. Icould now make out her blondehair, which is tied into a bunabove a forest green visor. She hada matching green polo shirt,where I could see a nametag thatread, “Abby.” “Isn’t that the kid onthe news who went missing? Wentto a friend’s house and never cameback?” Abby says eagerly, quicklygrabbing the photo of the boy outof the woman’s surprised hands.

Awkwardly, the mother standsthere, as Abby stares fascinated bythe boy in the photo. She onlylooks up when another train pullsloudly into the station. “Right,so... um...what do you want me todo about it?” she asks, still notmeeting the other woman’s gaze.

“Well, I was hoping that you

could put up posters, or just askaround to see if anyone has seenhim, or…” She looks up at Abby,her eyes glistening. “Please.”

Abby’s eyes soften. “Okay,” shesays quietly. “We can put them inthe trains and around the station.”She hesitates for a second andthen adds, “I hope you find yourson.” The woman smiles wearily,and heads toward the trains.

Suddenly, she stops, turnsaround and runs toward thecrowd of people clogging up thestairs. “Hunter!” she calls. Shelooks frantically at someone in thecrowd. “Hunter!” She elbows herway through the crowd, until shereaches a young boy, five or sixyears old, with the same mousybrown hair but with shining blueeyes. Grabbing his shoulder sheturns him around, holding up herphoto next to his face. The boy inthe photo and the real one in thestation look almost identical.Their brown hair is cut short andbrushed back neatly. They havethe same toothy white smile, andpudgy cheeks. They even seem tobe wearing similar clothes. Theonly difference between the two isthat the boy in the photo hasbright green eyes,while this boy’s aresky blue. But theworried motherdoesn’t seem to bethinking about that.

“Hunter, is thatyou?” she saysbreathlessly, staringat the boy in won-

der. The little boy looks aroundnervously and doesn’t answer.“Hunter?” The boy stares down athis feet.

“Mommy says I’m not sup-posed to talk to strangers,” he saysquietly. The woman’s face fallsslightly. “I just wanted to know ifyour name was Hunter,” she says soquietly it could barely be heard overthe loud sounds of the station.

“I’m not Hunter,” the boyreplies eventually. “I’m Charlie.”

“Oh” The woman trembleswith disappointment and hugsher arms around her chest. Sheturns to leave when she hearssomeone call Charlie’s name. Shewatches as Charlie’s mother liftshim up into her arms and scoldshim for running off. Charlie sayssomething to her and the womanturns away again, when he pointsin her direction. Charlie and hismother talk that way in the mid-dle of the station until he hopsdown and they both walk hand inhand to one of the platforms. Thelone woman standing in the cor-ner glances back at them one lasttime before turning away andwalking out of the station withoutboarding any trains at all. n

“This week has inspired me and encour-aged me to explore future opportunitiesin writing. I feel that I now have adeeper understanding of being a writer.”

— Anjie Liu

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Love Poem to Someone By CLAIRE TOBIN

You, graveyardYou, smooth things

You, pulse risingYou, full to bursting

You, killerYou, breatherYou, holderYou, Mecca

You, throat clenchYou, jazz song

Part of my brain where I throw my holy thoughts, beautiful things.The skillet of you, burning and running, caramel in my teeth.

You always hold my fingertips, shallow and unforgiving, burying me beneath your feet.I open my window for you and let your breezes blow in, lavender, sunshine,

patting my shoulders, and shaking my hair.And I follow you, all the heartache of me.

“I loved being a part of The New York State Summer Young WritersInstitute. Being at Skidmore provided beautiful serenity, perfect forwriting. The classes were helpful but never too much. As the teachersgave their advice and suggestions, they were always kind and helpfuland never overbearing. I appreciated the activities we did during our

workshops because they provided us withguidelines but never with strict rules thatwould obstruct our creativity. I liked beinggiven ways of coming up with ideas. It wasgreat to be able to take classes in themorning because the instructors, using won-derful examples for inspiration, gave usactivities that got our juices flowing.Since our classes ended pretty early, therewas always plenty of time to work on ourwriting before the next day. I loved beingable to share my work and hear the pieceswritten by my peers. Overall, I had a won-derful time here, and I feel as though mywriting definitely improved.”

— Michaela Brawn

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Wedding CrasherBy KRISTIN VON OHLSEN

I do.” The two simple words wereall that Natalie needed to

change her life for the better. Shehad yearned to say them since shewas a little girl, and although sheimagined it differently, she knewthat she needed to do it now. Ifonly he hadn’t stuck his nose in it.

Before it happened, the wed-ding was moving along well andplans were carried out with preci-sion. Natalie’s dress was stunning,a Vera Wang that looked striking-ly similar to the style KateMiddleton had worn at the royalwedding the month before. It wasnot surprising her dress had a$50,000 price tag, as her husband-to-be, John, would spare noexpense for the woman of hiswildest dreams. Her spray tanlooked flawless, as if she had beenliving in Martha’s Vineyard formany months and her blond hairwas falling perfectly on her smallshoulders in large ringlets. Thegroom looked dashing in a crisptuxedo, equally luxurious andexpensive as the bride’s gown.Their families were all in atten-dance at the Oceanside altar in thevineyard where the two werescheduled to wed. The grooms-men and bridesmaids looked likeperfect dominoes lined up next tothe pair. The breeze blew justenough to ruffle everyone’s hairslightly and give them a beachylook. The thermometer read aperfect 74 degrees and the sunshined with glee. And, best of all,Natalie did not feel as greedy and

insincere as she imagined whenshe walked down the aisle, clutch-ing her father’s arm, looking outat an expansive and beautifulocean of endless possibilities.

Natalie was expecting to feelguilty in the deep corners of herheart. She didn’t love her fiancee,and that was that. Her lastboyfriend was Charles, whom shedated for several years. He hadbroken up with her a week beforeshe went on her first date withJohn, her rebound. As soon astheir first date, she knew he wasnot right for her, and that sheshould chase after Charles. Butshe continued to court Johnbecause she was lured in by theperks of dating a millionaire. Thesurprise trips to Rome, the pent-house apartment he agreed to payfor. Flying first class and sippingexpensive champagne at elitegatherings. The extravagant yachtcruises and, over all these things,the shopping she was able to dowith the credit card he paid for.After being born and raised in asuburban upper middle-classneighborhood, Natalie was usedto being comfortable, but neverthis level of comfortable.

There was noth-ing wrong withJohn, no, not at all.He was handsomeenough and good toher. But there wereno sparks, and theygot along too well.No problems ever

came up, signaling something toostable. Their relationship was notthe real love you expect to havewhen you get married. AlthoughNatalie was not crazy about John,he was head-over-heels for herand would do anything to makeher his wife. For Natalie, it camedown to the money. So when heproposed while they were vaca-tioning in Florence to celebratetheir six-month anniversary,Natalie’s fashion-sense andlifestyle told her to scream yes,even though her gut said no.

Natalie told her parents andthe rest of her family the lie thatshe was in love with John andwanted to be with him forever,and they believed her. Everyonebut Natalie’s twin sister Kim wason board with the wedding.

Inquisitively, Kim saw rightthrough the faulty plan and knewNatalie’s true intentions. She wasnot pleased with the greedy andwrong decision Natalie was plan-ning to make. And after a ratherintense argument a week prior,Natalie had revoked Kim’s privi-lege as maid of honor and substi-tuted her with her snobby friendMandi from college. They had not

“

“Interesting you want? Yoda grammaryou get. But in all seriousness, thisreminded me how much I like to write.At home, you forget sometimes, butbeing around other supportive writersmakes you remember.”

— Max Kleiner

(continued on page 42)

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spoken the week leading up to thewedding, but strangely, Kim stillmade the decision to attend.

Fully expecting to go throughwith the marriage, Natalie walkeddown the aisle with confidence.She went through the motionsand said her fake vows with con-vincing emotion.

Suffice it to say, she was dumb-founded when her five-year oldnephew Jamie did what he did.When the priest addressed thepeople in the audience asking ifanyone had any objections andtold them to speak now or foreverhold their peace, Jamie mountedhis white folding chair and clearedhis throat, preparing for anannouncement.

He made a cup with hands,surrounded his mouth with themand declared, “I don’t want AuntieNatalie to get married to John!”with ferocity. He stomped his footon the chair and tried to keep hispudgy baby-like face solid andbusinesslike.

Nervous laughs and horrifiedglances echoed throughout the airas Kim, who was sitting beside heroutgoing son, looked on as if shesuddenly needed to focus on the

ocean. Her indifference annoyedNatalie who screamed from thealtar, “KIM! Get him to sit down!Now!” John looked stunned as hisface went white, and Natalieexceedingly anxious.

“She won’t love him forever!”Jamie continued to bellow. “Sheshould be with Charles, from highschool! She should have stayed withhim! But John has more money!Honest everyone, I heard mymommy say it to her last week onthe phone and my mommy isalways, always, always right!” headdressed the bewildered guests.Most of the guests looked confusedand horrified. “Also, he is stinky...he wears too much cologne!”

Although Kim now appearedto be attempting to contain theboy, she burst out laughing. At thispoint, the crowd was chatteringloudly in an uproar.

Natalie gave John a sorrowfullook mixed with a small laughthat failed at lightening the mood.He avoided her gaze and started toleave the beach. As he about-faced, he whimpered to the crowdof his family and friends, “I’ll beright back everyone.” He tookshort, choppy steps towards the

parking lot. Kim’sheart ached for him,and Natalie’s heartsank as she saw her

fortune walk out of the picture.Natalie stormed up to her sis-

ter and screamed “How could youlet him say that?! I thought youwouldn’t tell anyone that stuff!”She was clearly enraged.

She bent herself at her waist toget down to Jamie’s level andwagged her finger in his face. “Andyou, mister... that was very veryvery inappropriate... that is notwhat polite little boys do,” she toldhim with a sneer. She turned awayfrom her family in embarrassmentand put her head in her hands.Mandi tried to console her, butNatalie just shoved her away witha surprising amount of force.

Natalie began to weep a pitifulweep, but Kim did not comforther. Instead she tried her hardestnot to laugh at the bizarre natureof the situation as her face held astrange half-smile. Kim wasn’thappy her sister was in distress,she just could not help herself. Shelooked down at Jamie andwinked.

“Nice work, sweetie,” she whis-pered and gave him a high-five.

“You’ll thank me one day,” Kimtold Natalie as she walked awayfrom the crazy scene, a smilingJamie in her arms. He was satisfiedthat he had carried out his mission,just as he was instructed. n

“I am so thankful I had the opportunityto attend The New York State Summer YoungWriters Institute this year. I learned alot, and I met some great people. Theskills I acquired can help me throughoutthe rest of my writing career, and I amvery excited about this.”

— Kristin Von Ohlsen

Wedding Crasher (continued)

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43YOUNG VOICES

DavidBy LYNN WANG

Y ou’re stupid,” I yelled across the hall.“Well you’re ugly,” my brother

yelled back.I honestly can’t recall a day when

my brother and I weren’t fighting.On the day I was born, the houselost all peace. Don’t get me wrong,I’m perfectly fine with not gettingalong. I mean, who would want tobe friends with an idiotic, imma-ture, condescending brat like him?What’s worse, our childhood logicreally wasn’t logical at all and hewon all his arguments with a simple,“I’m older.” Soon I discovered myown bratty way to get back at him:crying and yelling hysterically, andthen telling my mom it was all hisfault. I would immediately get sym-pathy from my mom while mybrother would be glaring at me,mumbling about his revenge plot.One of our most common argu-ments was about TV time.

“Give it back, it’s my turn!” Iyelled, lunging at the remote.

“Your show is on commercial.Just let me watch,” he protested. Heheld the remote up high in the airknowing it would be impossiblefor me to reach.

“Fine, I’m telling.” I knew I was acomplete tattletale but that waswhat he deserved. I ran downstairsto my mother who was doing thelaundry. “Mom, he won’t let mewatch TV, even though it’s my turn,”I whined, stomping my foot andcrossing my arms.

“Lynn,” my mom sighed. “I’mbusy. Just tell him I said he has tolet you watch.” She had heard thisargument several times before anddidn’t even bother to get involvedanymore.

“She says you have to stop watch-ing,” I yelled, running up the stairs.But of course, it was never that easy.We would fuss for another half anhour or so, throwing insults left andright. My family would ignore us, as

usual, leaving us to figure it out our-selves. By the time we calmed downand resolved the issue, both of ourshows would be over.

One November day, my brotherand I went to my mom’s office.Bored out of our minds, we decidedto run around the office, disturbingeveryone by saying hello. We weavedaround the cubicles and lost track ofwhere we were. We were definitelylost but my stubborn brother insist-ed that he knew exactly which wayto go. In my eyes, the place was hugeand we seemed light years awayfrom my mom’s office (which, inreality, was really just a few cubiclesdown). We wandered around theoffice when, all of a sudden, a largeringing sound filled my ears.

“What is that?” I quickly coveredmy ears and began yelling to matchthe sound of the bell. I ran off tofind shelter from the deafeningsound. When I found an emptycubicle, I immediately crawledunder the table, still with my handsover my ears. I looked around andrealized that I had lost my brotherand was completely alone. Still, Iwasn’t scared—more startled—because I had no idea what thesound of the bell was. My brothercame running not long after, pant-ing and fuming.

“There you are. Are you stupid?That’s a fire alarm, get up!” mybrother said, sounding frantic. It wasa fire alarm? There was a fire in thebuilding? Was I going to die in here,with my stupid brother? I had seenthese tragedies on TV before, wherethe firemen couldn’t find everyone.We could be left in the building.Would I ever see my mom again?My pulse quickened and my breath-ing got heavier. I started to shake infear, worrying for my life. My broth-er got irritated and pulled me up.We ran out of the cubicle and metthe tons of other people shufflingtowards the stairs. That’s when my

mother came running.I quickly latched onto my mother

and let her lead me out of the build-ing, following a crowd of other peo-ple. Outside, the autumn chill greet-ed us. I saw the people that we hadsaid hello to not long before, chat-ting together calmly. After I shiveredfor 20 minutes, the firemen told us itwas okay to go back up. Later Ifound out that there was never anyreal danger. There was no fire, justsmoke that set off the deafeningalarm. I asked my mom what hadhappened, to which she replied,“Burnt popcorn.”

Sometimes I wonder how mybrother found me so quickly. Howdid he even know I wasn’t alreadyout of the building? I could’vealready been outside, safe andsound, while he would be runningaround looking for me. After thatincident, I knew that he cared for meand he would actually go out of hisway to help me. I admire my broth-er a lot more now, knowing he has agood side to him. It’s reassuring toknow that I can count on him(although I’d never tell him that).But don’t worry, I’m not going to tellyou some sappy ending about howwe became best friends, or that westopped arguing with each other. Westill don’t get along. We still neverget each other gifts for Christmas orour birthdays. We still pretend wedon’t know each other when we arewith our friends, or when we seeeach other in the halls. And we aremost certainly still arguing.

One thing did change betweenthen and now, though. Our argu-ments are even worse. We spendhours debating who’s uglier, orwho’s stupider, or who needs to goon a diet (all of which are him). Sothat’s all I have to tell you about myimmature, senseless brother. Oh, hisname? Well I call him lazy, ugly,stinky, and pain in the ass, but youcan call him David. n

“

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The FarmhouseBy MICHELLE WATERS

I t’s a fitting way for someonenamed Bridget to die: jumping

off of a bridge. Today I walkeddown to the Golden Gate because Icouldn’t think of a reason not toanymore.

I’ve seen thirty-two years ofsoggy, foggy mornings in San Fran,and this was another. I stood on thebridge and looked not out, as I usu-ally did, but down—down at thewater that would be my means ofescape. I’m sure it’s not this way foreveryone, but it’s like my half-memory of being rushed to thehospital with appendicitis when Iwas seven years old: lying in theback of the ambulance, I feverishlychanted, “No pain, no pain. Nomore.” And so I killed myself.

Not long after I took the leapthat ended my life, I became awareof myself again. Something was dif-ferent about that self, though. It wasas if someone had taken my souland cleaved away the pain. I hadn’tfelt this light since college. I wiggledmy toes.

Before me stood a shaggycreature. It was chewing grass in aslow and sardonic way that mademe feel judged.

“Where are we?” I asked.“Peru,” said the creature, its

mouth full. I hate it when peopletalk with food in their mouths.

“Peru?”“Yes,” it said.I looked around. We appeared

to be on a hill at the foot of a largerhill, or maybe a small mountain.The shaggy thing—a llama, maybe,I thought—was standing on theother side of a fence in a pasturefilled with sparse brown grass.

“I’m an alpaca,” the alpacaadded.

“What is this place?” I asked.The alpaca appeared to ignore me.He walked over to another patch ofgrass and began to eat it.

I felt, suddenly, a strange, sicksensation in my stomach. “I want togo home,” I said without meaningit, but then I started to.

“This is your home now,” saidthe alpaca. “Peru is your heaven.”

“But why Peru?” I said. I hadnever been to Peru, nor har-bored any wish to go there. Ihave no Peruvian loved ones (ohGod, my loved ones—Tara,Mary, Jonathan—what have Idone?). It had always upset mewhen people were angry at thosewho killed themselves. Who werethey to say that the suicidal wereselfish? But now I understood:they would never see me again.

“You may not ever have been toPeru, but it has always been insideof you,” the alpaca said. “In myexperience, once you’ve thoughtabout it a little more, you’ll figure itout. Peru could’ve been in your eye,or in your arm. I really don’t know.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.“Your death has always been

with you,” said the alpaca. “Youhumans don’t see the big picture.You think that death is somethingexternal that, someday, is just goingto happen. But you’re wrong: it’sinternal, a part of you that will sur-face when your time comes. Ofcourse, in your case, you made thechoice to die. That’s a little differentfrom most.”

I sat down on the ground, stillfeeling weightless, and thought fora while about what he had said. Itried to locate my death. Had itbeen in my arm the first time Ithrew a softball? And the time I saton my glasses—had it been in mycornea then? I considered my mostimportant childhood memories.

“You should also consider theleast important ones,” the alpacacalled from across the pasture.

I thought back to a perfectlyordinary day. It was a few months

after my appendix was removed inthe middle of the night. I recalledwaking up, getting dressed, going toschool. And then I had it: Peru hadbeen in the sole of my foot. I hadbeen stepping on my death everyday without knowing it, and everystep had brought me closer to theday I was to die, which was notdetermined by anyone else—as thealpaca had said, dying had been mychoice. That’s the thing about sui-cide: you die.

“That’s interesting. The sole ofyour foot,” that alpaca said, “I’venever heard that one before.”

“You know, that’s gettingannoying.”

“What, me reading your mind?Sorry. Can’t help it. It’s in analpaca’s nature.”

“Whatever,” I sighed.The alpaca took another lap

around the pasture. I noticed thathe had a bell tied around his neckwith a red ribbon. It tinkled softlywith each step and movement.

“But why Peru?” I asked.“You’ve always known that it

existed,” said the alpaca, “but younever understood it. Just like yourdeath.”

I got up from my spot on theground and surveyed the area fur-ther. On the other side of the pas-ture was the small, densely woodedmountain. Turning around, I saw afarmhouse at the bottom of the hillthat appeared to be seconds awayfrom collapse. Beyond that was adirt road.

“That’s the farmer’s house,” saidthe alpaca.

“The farmer?”“Otherwise known as God.”So I began to walk toward the

farmhouse and the road and God,full of wonder. I am opening the door. n

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45YOUNG VOICES

ADAM ALBAARIColumbia, MD

ANGELA ARZUWappinger’s Falls, NY

SARAH BAILEYAlbany, NY

ERIN BESSEDelmar, NY

MICHAELA BRAWNBrooklyn, NY

MEENAKSHI CHAKRABORT YLexington, MA

TARA CICICBrooklyn, NY

SAMANTHA CLARKBarrington, RI

TIMOTHY DAIGLERGorham, ME

CHRISTOPHER DELARA Mountain Lakes, NJ

MARIE ISABELLE DOYLESlingerlands, NY

NICOLE DUSANEKCave Creek, AZ

ANDREW FEDOROVAlbany, NY

EMILY HONENSlingerlands, NY

MADISON HUGHESMenlo Park, CA

ANNA JACQUINOTSchenectady, NY

LAUREN GARRETT JOLYBrooklyn, NY

MAX KLEINERBrooklyn, NY

JULIANNA LEICHTMANLexington, MA

HANNAH LEVINNew City, NY

ANJIE LIUNew Hartford, NY

IAN MCCLUREAustin, TX

ALISON MCDONALDNorthbrook, IL

CLEMENTINE MORSEBrooklyn, NY

BRIGID NEUMANNAlbany, NY

LOUISA ORESKESNew York, NY

JULIA RANDALLAlbany, NY

ALEXANDRA RIO-GLICKAlbany, NY

NICOLE SANCHEZElmhurst, NY

MICHAEL SHELDONBrooklyn, NY

DOUGLAS SOLOMONNew York, NY

AVANTIKA TANKALASouth Windsor, CT

CLAIRE TOBINAnn Arbor, MI

KRISTIN VON OHLSENRidgefield, CT

LYNN WANGBayside, NY

MICHELLE WATERSShort Hills, NJ

New York State Summer Young Writers Institute2012 Participants

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Since its creation in 1984 by the state legislature to promote writing and the artistic imag-ination across the state, the New York State Writers Institute has emerged as one of thepremier sites in the country for presenting the literary arts. Over the course of threedecades the Institute has sponsored readings, lectures, panel discussions, symposia, andfilm events which have featured appearances by more than 1,000 artists—including sixNobel Prize winners, and 90 Pulitzer Prize winners—and has screened more than 600films, from rare early prints to sneak previews of current releases. The Institute is a majorcontributor to the educational resources and cultural life at the University at Albany,where it is located, as well as the surrounding community. It is also identified by the writ-ing and publishing communities as a place dedicated to promoting serious literature,where writers and their work are held in high esteem, where being an invited guest is con-sidered an honor, and where talking about books is celebrated as the best conversation inthe world.

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

Skidmore is an independent, four-year liberal arts college located about one mile fromhistoric downtown Saratoga Springs, NY. Skidmore extends its academic year emphasis onexperimentation and creativity across disciplines into the summer months, through itsnumerous institutes in the creative and performing arts; the college’s Summer Term; pro-grams in the liberal and studio arts for pre-college students; and by promoting a widearray of campus events including concerts, film screenings, lectures, readings, and artexhibits.

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-LOBEDAESHAWN HALLResident Assistants

Administrative Staff

WILLIAM PATRICKDirector, New York State Summer Young Writers Institute