"The Time I Lit My Basement on Fire" by Laok

I was about six years old when I lit my basement on fire. It all started when one day I was bored and alone downstairs in my basement. I was a creative child so I would try to make fun out of anything and everything. One particular item that I found interest in was a cardboard roll from when the toilet paper ran out. Gazing deeply at the paper roll and trying to figure out what to do with it, I scurried downstairs to the basement to try and find the roll some sort of use. The way my house was set up at the time was that the only fireplace we had was located in the basement away from the living room that was upstairs, so I was completely alone downstairs with the fireplace on. Me being the very intricate and peculiar child that I was, I had somehow come up with the idea that it would be a lot of fun to throw the cardboard paper roll into the fireplace. Well, bad idea. A ton of smoke started to form and the fire alarms started to sound. Before my mom could come downstairs and yell at me, I almost right away stuck my hand into the fire and took out the cardboard paper roll. I walked with the roll of cardboard (keep in mind it was STILL on fire) and threw it away in a trashcan. In the process of walking across the room to throw the cardboard away, a sofa had somehow caught on fire and at this point the whole trashcan was in flames. At this point my mom had finally made her way downstairs and was definitely not ready for what she saw. Half of our basement was on fire! I don’t really recall how the fire was put out, but after the fire had vanished I tried my hardest to blame it on my older brother. Yeah, they didn’t believe me one bit. After the incident I was grounded for basically half my life and, to this day, I am not allowed to touch the fireplace or even light a candle. Oops.

"The Battle of Good and Evil" by RaekwonThaChef

The battle of good evil is the classic tale told across every time period, from the middle ages and the time of the pyramids to the information age. Yet, the idea never seems to differ. The classic match of good and evil plagues every aspect of culture: movies, books, plays, everything. No matter through what medium, the battle of good and evil always seems to have a common hero and a common villain. These tales are probably so popular because it is such an everlasting battle. Every time good appears, an evil threatens it. And every time an evil rises, a resistance of good occurs as well. The battle of good and evil is what makes everyone special, for your future either lies a path to improve the world, or to watch It burn.

"Universe" by WhyCough

This is for the invisibles.

The boy with the world reflecting in the pools of his eyes,

and the ache to escape trembling in the pits of his chest.

The mother with rain trickling down her face

because of the purple bruises on her arm in the shape of a heart.

The ones who can’t get away

tied down to earth by a noose

tightening around their neck.

Sheltered from the sun and the moon and the starry skies

with no eyes dry

and the needing and wanting and yearning

to be anywhere else but there

where life is unfair and hope is bare

and people look at you like you’re from a different planet

just because you know how things are supposed to be.

And you think how much you’d rather live

on Jupiter or Saturn, encompassed by rings of gold

and little balls of stardust

reading books from the light of the moon.

Being so close to heaven you can feel the faith

on your cold, brittle skin.

The people who only want one thing,

one thing.

This is for them.

"Red in the Face" by Keyser Soze

When I found out I was going to be leaving, I thought about who I would tell and who I wouldn’t tell. Unfortunately, we don’t always get to decide who knows what. Some friends like to talk, and gossip is prevalent as teenagers struggle to keep secrets from those closest to them. Of course, those closest to them are their friends, while those closest to me are my dog and my journal. Eventually, I came to terms with moving- I can’t do anything about it, so I should just accept it and move on- and I came to terms with everyone knowing about it- secrets are hard to keep, and it’s not like this one is of national security. However, there is one thing I still haven’t come to terms with: the things people ask me. I’ve decided to take it respond to some of these comments and questions.

First, people often ask me, “isn’t it hard to move so often?” The answer is yes and no. It’s always hard to be uprooted from where you live. It takes so long to build a life somewhere, and it’s hard to leave a lasting impact on other people and the community. On the other hand, my dad being in the military has given me, despite all of the negatives, at least one gift: a fresh start. Every time I move, I have the opportunity to “edit” myself. I can make an effort to be happier and free of the influence of people’s opinions. I get to strip away all of the qualities that I have solely because I was afraid to stand up against people’s opinions, and what is left is the essence of me in its purest, rawest form. That purity doesn't always stay for long, but it gives me enough time to shape my life the way I wish it had been before. So, yes and no.

Next, people ask me about my previous moves. I try not to have to explain what life was like in Hawaii or Alaska because that only ends in people saying things that aren’t true, or asking ridiculous questions. It feels awkward to explain that moose are deadly and that Hawaii isn’t the paradise people believe it is. Sometimes, I’m called a liar, and I think that’s because we really only believe what we experience. For all I know, China and Russia are made up by the government, as I’ve never been there and can’t prove their existence. So whatever I’ve experienced, by going against what people know, is assumed to be a lie. I never slept in an igloo or rode a polar bear to school, and I know that people ask me that as a joke, but that doesn’t make it any less awkward. I’ve never understood why teenagers find it funny to say something that they know isn’t true, just because they can.

Worst of all, people ask me if there is anyone I’ll miss once I’m gone. That always makes me wonder if people truly believe that I am so far alienated from everyone else that I don’t have anyone I care about. I have friends, teachers, crushes, classmates, and neighbors that I care about, but I guess that moving so often has made it easier for me to put on a poker face and pretend that it isn’t awful to leave everyone you know behind and start a new life again. Of course, I will miss people- lots of people. That’s just the cold, hard truth. I guess I just wrote this to remind you that it’s really important to tell people when they matter to you because you never know if you are going to be saying goodbye to those very same people soon.

"The Graphite" by Beezus Quimby

My seven-year-old self had difficulty spelling the word "pumpkin," often forgetting the "p" coming after "m." When I was younger I found myself eager to learn and wanting to go through everything as fast as possible. I always struggled with spelling, but accomplished other tasks with ease- tasks which didn't call for correctness, just learning. At fifteen, molar calculations in chemistry were my demise. Somewhere along the way, I would convert wrong and the result would bring me back to the start. I find my forefinger and thumb maneuvering my pencil, flipping it upside down and moving the pink cylinder left to right, leaving faint marks of graphite on the paper which my pencil begins to correct over. A mistake.

My childhood was characterized by the ease by which I could fix something. Something careless. A lack of precision. The simplicity of redoing something- having a second chance. I had been with a pencil throughout primary and secondary school, having a hard time giving it up in high school (I've never been the type to carry whiteout, either). There was a part of me that didn't feel confident enough in myself to trust that I could do something right the first time, and my lack of certainty was often met by my older sister's confidence. A codependence developed: I looked for guidance, I needed approval. I couldn't "get it" the first time around. As I fumbled through fundamental math and science courses, my papers bore sloppy grey patches, graphite indentations, red x's, and were thrown into the trashcan. On the first day of sophomore year, my chemistry teacher advised the class to write only in pencil- lightly- and to expect mistakes.

My first essay for AP Lang had to be written in pen. I looked down at my paper and watched the black ink permanently mark the pages- my choice of words finite. These were ideas I couldn't shy away from. Dr.Hull called time and Justin turned around with his hand outstretched. I begrudgingly handed in my paper feeling sick, ashamed, and completely defeated. I didn't want my teacher reading my essay in fear that it would start the year off wrong- that this paper wasn't me- that I was capable of doing better work. It was the first time something had been taken away from me to be evaluated without my complete review.

Chaos of junior year ensued and I began to do more that I was unsure about. Yet, I found myself learning. I strayed from the stringent track I had set myself on: a track of looking for perfection. Yet, I discovered I was going to make mistakes. I couldn't help them. Mistakes were helping me learn and making me grow. The work I had so much anxiety over turned out to be fine, good, even, as did the rest of junior year. I loosened up. While aware of my mistakes, I decided being self conscious is normal. I stopped trying to be prepared for everything and to just be.

In growing up, there are rites of passage like driving a car, working, or turning eighteen. I don't feel completely grown up, but I've gotten out of childhood by deconstructing the self-doubt that I've amassed throughout the years. I'm not all the way there yet, but going to college is essential for me to keep growing. To bring me more in touch with myself—move me further into adulthood. As my actions become finalized, I'm losing a little bit of the control I have of the present. I feel vulnerable.

Pencils will always be there for me. They're light, smooth, and forgiving. I'll be able to gloss over some of life's mistakes, but my future will undoubtedly be permanently marked by minute failures and mess-ups. A permanent impermanence.

"Love Looks Like" by Aria M.

Love looks like reds, golds, fuchsias, and maroons

Love looks like vibrant hearts under the neon moon

Love looks like a patch of flowers growing in the sun

Or like the petals of a daisy, growing, blooming one by one

Love looks like a veil of mist upon a frozen lake

And like tinkling he's used to unlock a box it's secret they will take

Love looks like contentedness sitting neath the setting sun

Or like creators of world peace taking away all guns

Love looks like a once blind man opening his eyes to see

Truly, love is whatever you want it to be.