"Pen, not Pencil" by James Archer

For as long as I could remember, a pencil was my trusty weapon while conquering the great plains of lined paper and the valleys of words. It was a default option. I never really questioned it. Then, like a mighty sandcastle overthrown by the rioting sea wielding swords, I rewrote the government of my perspective. I edited out my notion of the pencil, replacing it with the might of the pen. Instead of writing out words in a pasty gray color, I now adorned the shades of the rainbow ready to convey my thoughts.

"Ha Ha! Serial Killers!" by Patrick Oh Brien

To say they’re inseparable after ‘The Accident’ is a bit of an understatement. They don’t stray more than six feet from each other, which, incidentally, is the length of both of their arms twined at the fingers.

They people they used to know were too kind and too full of pity to say anything about how the brother and sister’s sudden proximity made them uncomfortable, so they just doted, brought them peach cobblers and whispered, “I’m sorry for your loss,” on repeat like it was going to scrub their brains clean or bring their parents back.  

They went to see one therapist after it happened, sitting together on the couch in a wide room in the middle of New York City, because neither of them were ever going anywhere remotely rural ever again. 

The therapist had said it was unhealthy; their developed codependency, Clay’s aggressive, protective nature, Whitney’s sociopathic void of emotion toward anything that wasn’t her brother. He said that they should really consider committing themselves to a hospital to recuperate from the trauma of watching their parents being brutally murdered. He said, “Oh god! Please no! I can’t breathe! Help, somebody, please help me!” 

They don’t go back to see him again. 

Clay tosses one leg over his motorcycle, revs the engine, feels Whitney press up against his back, thin arms twining around his stomach and they put New York in their rear view mirror. Neither one of them wear helmets and Clay obeys about a fourth of the traffic laws. 

-

His name is Tom and Whitney doesn’t like him. He’s got a bright, vapid smile and dead eyes and when he approaches them in a bar in Houston, says, “Nice bike,” and rolls his eyes over the two of them Whitney tugs at Clay’s sleeve and whispers, “Let’s go.” 

But something about Tom catches Clay’s eye. The old crinkled leather of his jacket, maybe. The ring of dried blood under his fingernails or the sandpaper rough cultivation of tawny stubble dotting across his jaw, Whitney doesn’t know.

Clay curls his hand around Whitney’s hip and tucks her behind him, but he doesn’t hit Tom for stepping too close, for breathing on his sister. He doesn’t hold him down and choke the soul out of him and Whitney wishes he would.

“Yeah, thanks,” Clay squints at Tom like maybe he’ll be able to see whatever it is keeping Tom alive right now in more clarity if he just stares longer. 

Tom smiles again, eyes sharp, teeth sharper. “Wittaker,” he introduces, extending a hand. “Tom.”

“Clay.” Clay takes his hand and they shake, all gripping hands and white knuckles. “And this is my sister, Whitney.” 

Whitney digs her nails into the small of his back and cuts a glare at him when he glances over his shoulder at her. They talked about this. They talked about never letting anyone else in again. They talked about how it was just them. 

Clay shoots her a small, apologetic smile. His eyes go soft for her and she knows it’s only for her.  

-

“Sorry about this,” Tom doesn’t sound all that apologetic and Whitney would call him on it if his hands weren’t wrapped around her throat. 

Clay, she mouths, fingernails rasping against the textured wallpaper of the motel room as she claws against it. Clay. 

“He’s just not realizing his full potential with you around,” Tom intones, like he’s being completely reasonable. “He could be so much more. We could be great, but you’re keeping him soft, you’re dragging him down.” 

He hushes her gently when the lights start to fade and the world starts to blur, assures her that he’ll take care of her brother, that he’ll make him into a new monster.

-

Clay’s devastated. Tom makes it work. 

"I Remember" by Katniss

I remember the first time someone left; my dad departed our home in Mexico to America, but not before he promised that everything was going to be ok. In the years that he was gone I felt like it was my fault he left. My sorrow turned to anger and I thought, "who would do that to someone?" I remember seeing my dad after three years and running into his open arms; it was the first time I ever saw my dad cry. Later, I had trouble letting the neighborhood dog leave my house; he was a stray and when my mom discovered him hidden in our barn she sent him away.  After that I only saw him once in awhile, then not at all; I wasn’t surprised because he didn’t stay in the same place for too long. I remember when my grandpa left on a road trip and never came back; he had pulled over on his way home to rest and at the same time was hit by a drunk driver. My mom never drank; I remember her lecturing my sister and me for countless hours that alcohol was a crime in itself. Eventually, I made a promise that I wouldn’t leave anyone because letting them feel abandoned was something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemies. However, I was not able to keep my promise. I remember having to constantly move from place to place, never staying long enough to learn my classmates' last names. My framed photographs would stay in their boxes because we did not stay long enough to call a house a home, so it never felt right to put them up. I remember my elementary school friends and our naïve conversations; we made up our own language thinking we were so slick. We made up games that had no rules and made no sense. Sooner or later I knew I would lose them and I did, but I learned that every end has a new beginning. In my new school and all that followed I made new friends, but I couldn’t help missing my old ones.  I remember hearing that you never really lose something because it stays with you. Still, I feel like it’s not the same compared to being physically with you.

"My Sport" by Bartholomew Stewart

There is something special about every sport I play, but Wrestling is unique. Honestly, there is no sport that is tougher than Wrestling. Each and every day, it kicks my butt. But I continue on. Hard work in Wrestling has the largest benefit, and leads directly to success. Wrestling is proof to me that hard work pays off, and because of my hard work, I am fourth in the Concorde District at 145 lbs. Wrestling is the most difficult sport, not because you have to cut weight, but because I can only rely on myself on the mat, and I cannot rely on my teammates. The best feeling on Earth, is winning a hard match, having the referee lift up my arm over the kid that I just beat, and looking into the stands to see my father, and how happy, and proud he is. That is the best reward for anything I have ever done.  Wrestling is competition on a completely different level. In order to win, I have to out muscle my opponent, out work him, out think him, and outsmart him. The only thing I regret is that there are only 72 practices in a season, and I only have two seasons before I graduate, and move onto college. Wrestling has also showed to me how time slows down, and how it also speeds back up. During practice, when I have to do suicides, or sandbags. During conditioning, seconds drag on, mocking me as I struggle to continue. Minute by minute, I fight on, until the clock runs out. Coach Gonz would then say: “Good work guys, break it down.” Then we would come together someone would say: “Hornets on three, one, two, three,” and we would all say “Hornets!” When I wrestle, I fight for my school, for my family, and for my town. People play sports because they are fun, but they also play to represent their town, and to help give their town a name. I also play to give respect to my name: Vedova. When a person gets first place at Districts, or places at Regionals, or States, their name is painted on the wall in the Wrestling room. Those people are then immortalized as part of Herndon’s history. Getting my name up on that wall is the greatest achievement, and honor that any wrestler could get. One day I will get there, but for now, the seconds just tick by.

"Spring Time" by October Sky

It is spring time in Herndon and flowers are blooming,

The sunshine is bright and the allergies are looming.

Watery eyes above a nose red and stuffy,

It’s hard to breathe through sinuses so puffy!

Bumble bees a buzzing and people a sneezing,

Inhalers are needed when people are wheezing.

Zyrtek, Allegra, Claritin D,

So glad to have you so that I can see!

Oh how the sunshine and green grass is callin’

But when I walk out, I breathe in the pollen.

During this season Kleenex is my friend,

Boxes and boxes come to an end.

Outdoor fun in spring is mandatory,

As long as I take my anti- inflammatory.

Sudafed and Nyquil help me to sleep,

My swollen sinuses make it hard to count sheep.

Spring time, oh spring time how beautiful you are,

I wish I could enjoy it with my windows ajar.

But this misery is a small price for me to pay,

Because spring time comes in a beautiful way.

The flowers bloom and the sunshine is bright,

Even with my allergies I’m sure I’ll be alright!

"Big Lessons in the Big City" by Calvin Wintertown

           Rain makes it’s way down the window pane of the city bus. It pitter-patters in abstract patterns creating a melted, tie-dye distortion of the images beyond the glass. New York City traffic has never been bearable on even the best of days, but today in the steady rain, I’d be better off walking to the subway station. The risk of being hit by cars seems to be significantly diminished as everything has gone to a near standstill. At the next stop, I pry my umbrella from underneath the seat after donning my cold, dampened trench coat, and proceed to disembark from the wheezing, metal beast and step onto the sidewalk. As I make my way down the street, those who rush past me splash water onto my trousers, but I continue to stomp on in my soaked wool socks. No time for petty things now, I’ll be late for my business meeting. The grey and gloomy tint to everything around keeps me thinking about how much my life currently sucks: Cubicle job, awful hours (albeit decent pay), and a lingering, incessant awareness of how stuck I am here in this towering metropolis filled with people who came here because they were lost, like me; looking for success in the one place where it seemed guaranteed. The vicious cycle of the city has taken me captive, and I’ll be eagerly awaiting for the day that it ends. I’m about two blocks from the station when I’m stopped by the harsh sound of jingling pocket change. Beyond the white noise of people talking and clamoring on the sidewalk, I hear the calling of a man about 30 feet away. He’s obviously homeless, as you tend to see here. You pass them with only a glance, if even that, so often that after awhile they all look the same: Grey beard, tattered jacket, working boots, maybe a knit hat, or a circa-1996 baseball cap with the fingerless cycling gloves for that extra touch.

          As I approach him he asks if I’d like to spare any change. Usually, my time obsessive nature would never allow even a second’s delay on the way to work, time is money. However, I could use a boost of my karma today of all days, it hadn’t been going so well at all so helping out this poor guy ought to earn me some brownie points from the universe and whatnot. He thanks me and sends me a nice “God Bless.” As I’m about to continue toward the station, he stops me. Well great, as if I hadn’t wasted enough time already; he probably wants more change. I reach for my wallet to toss change into his coffee cup once again, not intending to stay.  Before I get out my change he makes a comment about my footwear, asking something about whether or not my socks get  wet while while I walk in the rain. Well, I mean yes, they do, but I’m more concerned about the leather of my good italian shoes. He chuckles and suggests that maybe I should wear some more “proper” footwear for days like this. Well, pardon me for not tramping around in old work boots that cover my ankles. I mean, I gave this guy change and he makes fun of my shoes in return? Homelessness is no excuse for classlessness in my book. As I’m about to give him a piece of my mind, he holds out a balled up pair of socks to me, surprisingly white and pristine for a pair thats been in a homeless guy’s pocket. I ask what he’s doing and he tells me that he’s offering me a new pair of socks. I ask why and the man says that I look like I’m having a bad day, and my socks must feel awfully uncomfortable in the soaking wet rain. To my amusement, he tells me not to worry, the socks are brand new and he stole them from a convenience store just the other day. I reminded him that he might need them but he matter-of-factly stated that he only really needs the pair he has, he can wash them in a restroom sink somewhere if need be. The extra pair was just a luxury he took on a whim.

          A 2nd pair of socks being a luxury?

        I didn’t know whether to laugh or feel like a selfish idiot. God knows how many socks I’ve owned in my lifetime. Hundreds? Thousands? Hell, I wouldn't be surprised. I’ve bought a pair of socks for every drop of rain that fallen on the city, most likely. He urges me to take the socks and I do, the train being in the back of my mind, and he chuckles one last time saying that I have no reason to frown today for two reasons: 1. I just got a free pair of socks, 2. I’m not him.

          Well, isn’t that fantastic, instead of getting rewarded by the gods of karma for my good deed, I end up getting guilt tripped by the one random homeless guy I’ve stopped on the street for.          Should've taken the bus.

          Thankfully despite all of that nonsense, I make it to my meeting on time. Soaking wet, but on time. The meeting is dull and uninteresting as my life tends to be; I can't even remember what’s being discussed: Bonds? Stocks? My attention is set on that man I met on the sidewalk, I have his socks in my bag and I can remember the street he was sitting on. Beyond all better judgement, I go to the store and pick up a little something and find my way to that area of the sidewalk on Broadway. Who even knows if he’s still there? These people tend to move around like termites in a floorboard. But luckily, I spy those workbooks on crossed legs on the sidewalk. I walk up to him and he greets me immediately, smile and all. He strikes up a conversation with me asking if I made the meeting; I have nowhere to be at the moment so I oblige. We chat for a good 20 minutes, or maybe 40, before he stands and says he needs to get to the shelter for dinner. He wishes me a good evening and props up his tiny luggage case. Before he can even take a step I apologize, I don’t know what for exactly; most likely for coming off as a rude, selfish, business clown who takes everything for granted. I tell him that I appreciate his kindness, and I hand him the parcel I grabbed from the store: 8 Pairs of warm, wool socks. He gives his trademark chuckle and waves his hand in denial.               

           I’m in shock. Why would he deny something he obviously needs? It’s clear to me that the man only now has 1 pair of socks, and the rain has been going on for 2 or so days now. He claims that he really meant it when he said the one pair was fine. He says that if it makes me feel better, the extra pairs would take up space in his bag. He tells me that he doesn't mind his appearance, his possessions (or lack thereof), and his life for that matter. As unglamorous as it is, it’s usually stress free, he gets his meal from the shelter if he gets in line early enough, and he can usually find enough scraps of paper to jot down poetry or notes in his spare time. If not, he has all the time in the world to think, reflect, and contemplate the beauty around him. He asks me if I’ve ever been to central park. There’s a huge rock on the east side, according to his description, that’s on the water and perfect for looking past the bush and at the city. Come to think of it, the park has always been out of my way, it’s not on the way to work, therefore there’s no reason to visit despite the years I've been here. He suggests that I make a visit once the rain lets up, and he gives me a final “Good evening” before he departs for dinner. Standing there with a pack of socks in my hand and another pair in my pocket, I watch the man I’ve become acquainted with disappear down the sidewalk. After that episode, I head to my apartment. I sit at the dinner table, sipping some old coffee and staring at the pack of socks. I can’t help but wonder where or if I’d see that man, but if I do I’d make him take the dumb things. I can’t look at them without being riddled with guilt and concern and overall self-criticism. Today,  I met a man with a pure zest and and passion for life in its purest form. The simple act of survival every day this far is considered a success for him. He has some god-given ability to remain content with being at the bottom of the social ladder, a place where money and dignity are nonexistent. To him, finding some scraps of paper to write on and getting at least one hot meal is considered a good day. Well don’t I feel blessed; I get grumpy when I have to wait in line for too long for my brunch time coffee. All I can do is feel ashamed of what my life has consisted of so far: Regard for myself and zero for others.  I can’t even remember the last time i purchased a birthday present for someone let alone a stupid card! All this time I’ve been here, I’ve wanted to move up, be the boss, make something of myself;  but people can be successful if they aren’t respected or appreciative of the little things in life,  suppose.Well that’s surely  something to think about. My angst doesn’t last much longer as my phone rings. It’s a coworker asking if I could come in for a conference on Saturday. I decline to his dismay, suddenly having something more important to do that day.

       The freezing rain stopped Friday morning, and by Saturday the sun broke free from it’s shield of grey. The day’s weather had taken a pleasant turn since that rainy day a while back. Despite the fact that I’ve abandoned commuting by bus, I still haven’t seen the man since. But it seems as though my good deed has been rewarded. I learned a lot from that homeless guy, and now I tend to enjoy the little things more, and just life as a whole. If he can be happy where he is in life, then I may as well have a giant smile plastered on my face all the time.  So instead of saturday afternoon conferences, I tend to spend my time like I am now; Sitting  by the water on a rock in eastern central park, notepad in one hand, pen in the other, wearing a pair of durable and rugged work boots with a pair of pristine, white socks. 

"I Remember" by Victoria Lemmings

I remember playing hide and seek when I was only five years old. I would always hide behind the white curtains in my dining room, and in my mind I was pretty much invisible. My dad would walk past me numerous times in his search and pretend he was absolutely dismayed by what a “great hider” I was. Looking back, I know now that he was lying, but at the time, it made me feel like a pro. I remember eating breakfast with my mom right before my first day of kindergarten, starting at a brand new school. I had eggs and a bagel, which I almost threw up out of nervousness. I remember when my cat died when I was eight years old and I cried all day. I didn’t understand why pets should be allowed to leave and it was so unfair that I didn’t get so say goodbye. I remember playing outside as a kid when fall had just started and the leaves had begun to fall. My dad and I raked up every leave in my spacious yard, and I could have sworn that our leaf pile was a mile wide. I would propel myself off our old rope swing and dive into the mounds upon mounds of yellow and brown leaves. It was always the highlight of my autumns. I remember once I was messing around with my brothers while standing on a plastic red wagon in our kitchen. Before I had time to react the wheels had slipped, and I found myself crying on my cold kitchen floor. Sharp jolts of pain jolted up my arm, and it was probably the worst agony I had felt in my life up to that point. My nine year old self sobbed all the way to the doctors. I was wearing my new Franklin the Turtle pajamas. They were pink. I remember in fourth grade I had a massive crush on this boy in my class and I whispered about him at recess to my BFF. I remember I became good friends with this boy in sixth grade and then I thought it was gross that I had ever liked him in the first place. Silly fourth grader me! I remember on the first day of middle school, I came home and cried because I didn’t have any friends in any of my classes. I remember on the last day of middle school, I came home and cried because I was going to miss all my numbers of friends over the long summer months. I remember starting high school and being a dorky freshman. Once a senior ran into me in the hallway, and it was just about the scariest thing that’s ever happened. I remember getting my first D on a test and thinking that my life was over, and I shouldn’t even try in school anymore. Stupid biology. I was actually so upset over that grade, but looking back, I deserved it considering I honestly did not study one bit. I remember having painful fallouts with a number of my friends because of dumb fights over dumb things. I remember making a whole new set of nicer friends and accepting that things don’t always stay the same. Over time, I have changed so much, but I’m happy with how I’ve turned out. I remember all these things that may have been positive or negative at the time, but in reflection, define who I am and who I’ve grown up to be. And I think I’ve turned out okay.