Works By (author’s name linked to their work)
Lina Colantuoni, Evelyn Danna, Flynn Dennehy, Mishka Katira,
Ava Richardson, Avery Shaughnessy, Olivia Watts, A Elizabeth,
Caroline Jenkins, Charlie Surniak, Liliana Garcia,
Natalie Alascia-Dittfurth, Peyton Emerson, Flynn Dennehy,
Leila Plummer, Phoebe Lander,Kayla Parker, Aisley Kligge,
Conrad Balghiti Myers, Lala Towson, Claire Dziwulski
Grandmother settled me on her knee, much to my surprise
“Now child,” she said to me, “don’t mourn my eyes.
I see the stars when you speak; the milky way is woven by your words.
I see tall trees and flowers covered in colorful birds.
I see you in the sky you paint in stories,
I see your face in the moon,
I see the deer in the forest,
Running away too soon.
So you see my darling; you are my eyes.
You are my forests, my skies.
I see paradise when you speak; I feel it when you’ re near.
So don’ t cry for me, my dear.”
I looked up at my grandmother, my face stained with tears.
“You are the best thing I have seen in years.”
The water dripping down my face,
A mix of rain and tears,
Thoughts running through my mind,
Coming true my greatest fears.
Someone close to me,
My greatest friend,
It really happened,
I’ve been left once again.
It’s something I fear,
But never expected,
We were so very close,
So incredibly connected.
I’m shaking but not from cold,
My heart close to breaking,
How could she do this to me,
Friends forever no longer in the making.
My fear of abandonment,
It has now come true,
I don’t think I’ll ever recover,
I’ll forever be blue.
Caroline Jenkins has always loved sharing stories. From asking unusual questions to conducting extensive research, she always wants to know the answers. She finds solace in reading and writing novels, and enjoys playing soccer and the flute for fun. She can’t wait for her ninth grade year at Centennial High School, and all the stories she’ll write next!
It’s cold.
Not the kind of cold that hurts, though.
Chills spread down my spine without having a jacket on,
But they turn to beads of sweat with a winter coat.
My jaw is stiff, Nose is running— just a bit,
Breathing is finally clear.
I sit cross-legged on a large rock,
Alone,
Separated from any evidence of Man.
A creek bed trickles smoothly around me;
So I hear the quiet sloshing,
Splashing water lands on my thighs curled beneath me, and
Feel the cold rock beneath my body.
It’s numbing.
As I relax into nature,
A calmness washes over me.
The birds quietly whisper new lyrics to their songs,
Leaves rustle as they brush hands in the wind,
Squirrels scurry back and forth between food and family.
So this is living…
Life begins to hit me;
I’m alive,
I’m breathing,
I am meant to be here.
Now my jaw begins to hurt,
Cold sinking through clothes to bone,
But I’d freeze out here—
Just to keep feeling at home.
Dear Miss Josephine March,
I regret to inform you that Mr. Zacharias is dead. Well, not dead in the usual sense of the word, but rather dead in the sense that he is non-existent. In fact, I must admit he never existed in the first place. For you this will matter immensely. As for me, I am rather relieved. By this you must think me cruel, but as I invented him in the first place, I have every right to dispose of him at my leisure. I must remind you I had very benign intentions in creating him, only wishing to see your rise to fame and my role in it.
You see, once those who know me discover my identity, they forget everything else they have supposed of me before. And though we were once close, time may have forced you into the same mold. Little Women has long since been a treasure of mine, yet it is difficult to navigate a world where everyone believes you to be an exact replica of the character on the page. It therefore is always a gamble as to whether I will be loved, or despised. I know you at least hate me, Jo. I don’t think it to be unreasonable, but misguided. You simply hate me for the wrong reasons. It’s not what you know that matters, but what you don’t.
I’ve hoped that you’d look past your hate, and find that the poor boy who left you is now a good man. One with a level of sincerity and self-awareness he didn’t have before. Because I’ve had a long time to think about it Jo. And as much as I tried to shrug off my boyish affections, it only hardened into a persistent love. I waited to tell you until you might accept me. I’ve hoped that you’d love me if I changed, I truly did. And maybe that is simply a fantasy, as I’m still not half-good enough, but I can’t help it. My eye is on you Jo, it always has been and always will be. I’ll keep staring you down until you look up, and see what’s right in front of you. Because I’m not ready to give you up. Not yet.
Love,
Teddy
Beth Laurence dropped the letter quickly as if it had burned her delicate fingers. For a moment she thought it might have done, but realized her blackened hand was not burnt, but covered in ink. Fresh, ink. Collapsing onto the desk chair, she stared at her father’s words expecting it to explode. Was it truly her father who had written those words? Her father, who had insisted that her mother was his one and only love? The tears she had been blinking away finally cascaded down her face – from anger or sadness she couldn’t tell. Her entire life seemed to be melting away while hot rivers scorched her pink cheeks. Father, unstable but firm. Mother, lost in faded memories only existing in the stories others told her. And Jo, someone she had always fostered a secret admiration for, but never in her wildest fantasies did she imagine her father was doing the same.
One, two, three, crunch. One, two, three, crunch. I count the familiar, endless beat of my steps against the gravel. I lift my gaze to look at the horizon, and I am not surprised to see that it hasn’t t changed. No matter how many hills I crest, or how long I walk, there is always a gleaming white hill ahead of me. I squint against the blinding rocks, but I never stop walking. I fear that if I do, I will never get home. That’s my destination, home. What I odd about this whole journey is neither where I’ m going nor where I’ m coming from, it’ s the reason I haven’ t gotten there yet. I’ve gone over the course of the day in my mind many times, but I still can’t see what went wrong. It was a normal school day; rush to get ready, rush to school, rush to class. Complete the slow dance of classes and get as much homework done as possible. Then, I left school and . . . well, maybe something unusual did happen. The memory is a bit fuzzy, but I remember a flash of yellow, pain lancing through my body, the world going dark for a moment. I opened my eyes, squinting against the light, and stood on shaky legs. I was surprised to find that instead of being in pain, I was numb all over. My only thought was I have to get home. In hindsight, the fact that I was numb should have been a red flag, but then why would I still be fine? I have been walking for goodness knows how long, and despite the fact that I am bone-tired, I haven’t lost control of my limbs or collapsed.
I had originally assumed that some student with a goldenrod backpack had crashed into me and I had hit my head on the concrete, but that could not be the case, because there was one other little detail I had overlooked; when I awoke, the bus loop was empty.
…
I was still walking, in the loosest sense of the word. Most would say that I am dragging my body over the sparkling white gravel path. I keep my eyes lowered, for if I look ahead, I will not only see the blinding rocks but the daunting, endless path. If I look to my left, I see empty fields radiating heat. But if I look to my right, I see the woods that stretch beside the path. When I had first begun to walk, I toyed with the idea of continuing my journey using a shortcut through the shade. After deciding that was the best choice, I walked on until I found a dirt path through which I could enter the woods. And I would have. The thought sends a shiver of fear down my spine, but I know that recalling this every now and then, when the woods seem tempting, is the only way I can stop myself from entering them.
I had heard a rustle in the undergrowth, and smelled something so foul I had to take a step back. Something tumbled out of the bushes. It looked like a large, dead animal at first, but to my horror, it began to stir. The creature crouched in the dirt and raised its face to look at me, its lips pulling back in a snarl. I stumbled back with a scream. It was a human, a girl like me from the looks of it, with long, matted brown hair. Half of her face had rotted away, leaving ugly red tissue behind. The rest of her was not much better. She looked like a zombie, not quite dead, but certainly not alive. I raced down the path, eager to get as far away from the horrid thing as possible.
I had seen more of them every now and then, snarling and clawing at trees like murderous beasts. Some of them just wandered the woods aimlessly, dimly searching for something. When I see those . . . people, I suppose, it both terrifies and saddens me. Even now, as I search for home, I cannot fathom what I would do without this path. Yes, it is terrible, endless, and blinding, but without it I would be as lost as they are.
As I walk, I do not encounter a single soul, save for an occasional sighting of the things in the woods. Now that I am listening, I notice that the birds do not sing, the wind does not blow, no insects buzz, and no squirrels run up and down the trees. I also notice that though I am stuck in a constant suffocating midday heat, I have not shed a drop of sweat. perhaps all my sweat evaporates instantly in this heat.
My mind flicks to home. I wonder what Mommy is making for dinner. I don’t know that I really want dinner, but maybe she will let me eat a large , cool bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream. It will be three whole scoops of mint chocolate chip, with whipped cream and a maraschino cherry on top. I must have been earned it by now, with how long I have been walking. How long have I been walking? Are my parents worried about me? Is my little sister worried about me?
Fear creeps into my head once more. I have been walking for a long time. Too long. There is not only the question of why I have reached the end of the path yet, but also why it is still the afternoon. The sun still beats down on me, the path still stretches out before me, and I still walk. A thought I had pushed to the back of my mind breaks free, freezing me where I stand. What if I never get home?
It hurts how much it makes sense. The only thing that keeps me walking, the only thing that stops me from giving up, is the promise of home. The reassuring knowledge that, no matter how long it takes, or how treacherous the journey, I will eventually get home.
But my conscience speaks out against my worry and my fear. In a clear, strong albeit small voice, it asks, what if you stay here?
And that is the truth that pushes my previously halted limbs, moving me toward the end of the road, no matter how far away it is. Because the truth is that if I stay, I stay on the scalding rocks. beneath the blistering heat of the sun, waiting to be snatched up by the things that lurk in the woods. If I stay, I will never get home. So I walk on.
I recall the faces of my family. They spur me on, feeding my limbs with determination as relentless as the heat of the sun. Memories flood in, bittersweet and laced with regret. All of the times I had disrespected my parents, fought with my sister, and hurt the people I loved most in the world weigh on me. Every time a joke had gone too far, words that had never been meant to be insulting had come out wrong, or even when my thoughts had become violent and twisted, weighs on me. With each regret, my backpack gets heavier. I stand alone, thirsty and unbearably hot, surrounded only by the dead, with my backpack on my shoulders instead an albatross around my neck.
. . .
I find my mind wandering back to my family, my regrets, and the path ahead. I can look back all I want, but it doesn’t change what is ahead; an endless white road. Well, that’s not completely true. There are clusters of dark gray stones in some places, sometimes just little splashes of them, and other times footprints. I laugh inwardly. It looks as though someone was dripping with something so dark it colored the stones they trod on. I don’t stop to see if my footprints are the same, but continue forward. If I could do things differently. I would, but I suppose all I can do now is learn from what choices I made and try not to repeat my mistakes. I dare to raise my eyes to the road ahead. If I have a future, it lies there. I keep my eyes on the road that rises in front of me, though I have to squint against the light of the stones. I nearly gasp at the world not far below. The divine colors of sunset swirl on the horizon, painting the sky with gold, pinks, and purples that contrast beautifully with the bright blue of the fading afternoon. The road continues a little ways on, pure white untouched by darkness. At the end of the road are gates. They are simple silver gates, but they shine like they are made of diamond. These were certainly not here before.
I’m so astonished that it takes me a moment to realize I have stopped walking. I walk slowly, taking in the sunset and cool evening air. After so long in the blistering sun, it is glorious. When I reach the gates, I notice a man leaning against them, wearing simple clothing, his hat hiding his face. A bird calls from beyond the gates. through them, I see a marvelous garden. I want to ask him if I am allowed inside, but to my dismay the words do not come. He is the first person I have seen since I began this journey, and it seems I have forgotten how to speak. All I manage to choke out is, “where am I?”
The man raises his face to look at me. He is not very old, maybe in his thirties, with short black hair and olive-toned skin. “This is a garden.”
Not a very helpful answer. “Who are you?”
He pushes off of the gate and comes towards me. “I am the groundskeeper.”
He seems to be studying me, and it feels as though he can see right through me. Eventually, he appears satisfied, and begins to speak. “You have had a long journey. Feel free to partake in the fruits of my garden, for they are the fruits of your journey.”
The gates swing open, beckoning me inside, but I make no move to enter the garden. “Will I ever see my family again?”
The groundskeeper’s eyes soften. “Someday, your family will come here, just as you have. Here,” he says, “let me take your bag. It has burdened you long enough.”
I let him remove my backpack, and the moment it is off my shoulders, I feel free. Happy, even. He sets it down and takes my hand, leading me inside as a parent does a lost child. I turn to him, ready to remove the final weights from my shoulders. “Who were those people in the woods?”
He looks at me sadly. “They are those who have chosen to hide from me, and themselves. I cannot force anyone to join me in my garden.”
The last question is one I hardly dare to ask. “What am I?”
The groundskeeper chuckles lightly against the sunset as the gates swing shut behind us. “Just one of us wandering spirits, who has finally found home.”