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Untitled by Ellie Zhao, Class of 2023 |
The hunted creature ran through the thick forest and screamed as the thorns cut into his skin. The gunshots became louder, just at his tail. A bullet flew towards his head, but he just barely dodged it as it skimmed his ear. It burned, but he chose to ignore it. They were getting close, and he was coming to a dead end. The dead-end was the thick wall of thorn bushes at the very end of the forest. No one dared to go past them as they were strong enough to take down the largest animal. His heartbeat quickened, pounding in his ears, not knowing what to do. He was running out of breath, but he had to run through it. It seemed like the only escape from the monsters that hunted. Taking the risk, he ran straight into the thick bramble. The thorns dug into his thick layer of fur, causing him to get stuck where he was. They dug into his skin, blood dripping from each piercing. He yelped at the bee-sting like thorns on both sides of his body. He struggled to get free from the thorns and every time he did, they would dig deeper, not wanting to let go. Another five gunshots were heard, and he suddenly lunged forward, escaping the grasp, but the thorns that caught him won. They tore tufts of fur as well as patches of skin, blood seeping through his injuries, and he shrieked from the pain, collapsing on the other side of the bushes.
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Once Upon a Time In...
by Stanley Chavre, Class of 2020 |
Once upon a time, there lived an average black man. His name is Jamal. He is “average” by his own definition of living as a black person in a land called America, but not too different from others living his experience. Most people in this country typically do not have to consider the racial obstacles that people like Jamal face on a day to day basis: If he wears his natural hair he is afraid that jobs will turn him down. If he considers dating outside his race, he wonders if the person he is interested in is open to dating black people or whether others will stare in judgement. How he suddenly becomes the voice of all black people in a room, forced to answer stereotypical questions relating to race and all aspects of black culture.Why he is being treated as though he received an opportunity because of affirmative action. Having to Google “How are black people treated?” in whatever country he is planning on traveling to. Reconsidering purchasing from a store where a worker is constantly following him, treating him like a criminal for just shopping. Worried about speaking up and being seen as “the angry black person” at work if he is subjected to racial bias. Questioning if he is the token black friend. Wondering why he hasn’t learned anything in school about his people’s history before slavery. And wondering if it will do harm to his life if he calls the police for help in a time of desperate need. For some, "America" is how they spell home. For an average black man named Jamal, every single day, in a thousand different ways, it's "Amerikkka."
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Daniella Williams, Class of 2020
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A Gift from God by Gabe Miller-Trabold, Class of 2020 |
Three quick raps against an oak door cut through the room, piercing valued and long awaited silence and immediately replacing it with the shrill wails of infants. Jerked from a sleep she knew she would not again achieve that night, the nun could not help cursing as she approached the door. As she swung it open, panting after hurrying through the storm of cries, she stared daggers at whoever had knocked at this time of night but saw no one there. Turning irritably to go back inside, her eyes glanced at the ground and stopped, met by another pair gazing softly up from a tenderly wrapped blanket. As she stared, the blanket gently rose and fell with calm breaths. The pastel pink cheeks of the baby boy at her feet reminded her of a lily; or maybe it was the fact that he appeared to be floating through the water that now filled her eyes. He held her tearful gaze, sucking a knotted piece of fabric sweetened with honey. The nun failed to notice her panting begin to slow and synchronize with the tranquil rhythm of the infant’s breathing, focused more on the pressure in her chest; a bubbling, the type that is felt before one begins to laugh or sob.
(Author’s Note: My great grandfather on my dad’s side came from Italy, and his name was Matteo Giglio. However, he wasn’t born with this name; he was left on a doorstep and found by nuns! They gave him his name, Matteo meaning “gift from god” and Giglio, meaning “lily”. It sounded like something from a movie! I was trying to think of the profound feeling that must come with discovering a human baby on your doorstep, and I tried to capture it in writing. The title is based on his first name, and the comparison with the lily is how I imagined they came up with his last name, even though this definitely isn’t how it actually happened--we don’t know anything other than “he was found by nuns.” |
Bus Stop
by Olivia Carson, Class of 2020
by Olivia Carson, Class of 2020
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The late-night bus pulled up to the stop. Waiting there, in the pool of street lamp illumination, sat a woman with fractured eyes. The doors squeaked open, deafening in the deafening silence. The woman stood and paid her fare.
“Where to?” asked the bus driver. “I don’t know,” the woman answered. The bus driver leaned forward to look for the patterns in the fractals of her eyes. Then he leaned back and took the wheel and said, “Don’t worry, I do.” The woman sat down and the bus doors closed and the engine whined and whirred. The bus set off into the night, following the map in the shards of her eyes. |
The Nature of Unfairness
by Mati Yablon, Class of 2023
by Mati Yablon, Class of 2023
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He painstakingly sewed the last thread; sweat dripping from his fatigued head. The urge to lose focus and rush the end was strong, but he resisted it and continued to meticulously poor himself into his work. His beautiful embroidery put a meager smile on his face, but it was short lived. He held up his work to the judges, and he saw his opponent leaning back in a chair, yawning with a silly excuse of a work before her—she who hardly put in any effort. The timer dinged. Thinking he had it in the bag, he couldn’t believe it when the judges pronounced the dismal work of his opponent to be superior to his.
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Phantom Night
by Chloe Yung, Class of 2020
The Shack
by Matthew Shore, Class of 2023
by Matthew Shore, Class of 2023
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The car brakes whined as they came to a stop in front of a worn-down building, paint peeling from the outer walls. "The Shack" was what the red light-up sign on the top of the roof said, the letters "e" and "c" unlit. The door locks clicked open and they got out of the car and walked in. The air was musty, humid, and filled with the smell of cooking food. The interior walls were peeling as well, and the lighting was horrible. They sat down at a sticky, wooden table, and ordered their food. Rushing to eat it, shoveling food into their mouths to get out of that sketchy restaurant, they all got the hiccups from eating too fast. They paid and left as quickly as possible, the fresh air from outside rejuvenating their lungs, and got on their way. Half a mile from The Shack, a deafening screeching noise enveloped their ears. It seemed to come from the engine and tires. They pulled over and shut down the car to stop the horrible noises that were killing their ears. The father decided to walk back to The Shack to ask for some help, a decision he was unsure about, but would soon see if it was the right one. As he approached the restaurant, he heard a familiar sound, the whining of his car's brakes. Standing there looking for his car behind him, he looked forward at the restaurant, and watched him and his family getting out of the car, and walking into The Shack, exactly as he had just an hour before.
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Breakdown
by Penny Rabatsky, Class of 2021
by Penny Rabatsky, Class of 2021
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He needed to finish the research before construction. They expected it to be. It had to be done by Wednesday. So he took a walk. He read about endangered species. He went out for drinks. All the while, he muttered about the project. It crept up his neck, bled out his ears, made his vision blur.
It ate him alive, the fear, anxiety. But he couldn’t begin. He couldn’t look at it. His skin crawled at the thought of it. Wednesday drew nearer. So he took up running. He took up baking. He took up swimming. His hands vibrated when the thought began screaming. He wanted someone to force him to work. To tell him it would be okay. To push him through. But there was only a reflection. So he watched TV. He worked on the yard. He cleaned out his garage. The day before, he had tried. He had read. And reread. And reread, with no comprehension. The words and letters were mere scribbles, sketches. Hours went by. Still nothing. He tried the construction. But it didn’t make sense. The parts didn’t fit together. The screws were misplaced. The blueprint was incomplete. So he dazed into space. He bought groceries. He caught up on news. He forgot how to sleep. The project loomed over his head like an old pine’s silhouette. When Wednesday finally came, he crumbled. |
Future
by Eyal Pery, Class of 2020
The One-Way Railroad
by India-Mae Fraser, Class of 2023
by India-Mae Fraser, Class of 2023
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The One-Way Railroad ran one way: into the camp. No one left once the train cars crashed in. That was just how it was. Sarah remembered coming in. She remembered her sister and mother disappearing into the showers and never returning. She remembered sobbing, realizing God had abandoned her here. She remembered becoming numb. But as she hobbled beside the traintracks that led into Auschwitz-Birkenau decades later, on the eve of Yom Hashoah, she recalled the words her mother used to repeat every night. God is never gone. Sarah turned away with a smile, and began walking in the opposite direction. Going two ways on the One-Way Railroad.
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