Tears

Tears fell.
....One drop.
........Then two…
............and three.

We were all commiserating over our loss. His loss. Their loss. A room filled with family, friends, people he touched, all convinced that he shouldn’t have left. He was sick. He was in pain, fighting for so many years. He’s in a better place, they said. He’s not in any more pain, they said.

He shouldn’t have been hurting in the first place.
He didn’t deserve it.

I can still hear his voice, talking about the football game. Virginia Tech is gonna pull through. I can feel it, he said. I can still see the walks on the beach, colloquial conversation, on a cold winter day. It’s gonna be a beautiful day, I can feel it, he said. We’re gonna have a great year, I can feel it, he said. A girl without a dad, a wife without a husband, a boy without his brother. I can still feel my heart breaking for them. He made us strong and taught us what it meant to fight. We never saw him that January; he didn’t make it. No ice skating, no lunch, no football. And that’s why we were here, to meet at this juncture. To say good-bye.

It was a beautiful day, Uncle Sean. I could feel it too.

~ Anna H.

A Night in the Jungle

You lied. It wasn’t what you said at all. Private Jones’ words pierce my ears as I suddenly turn around. Who do you think you’re talking to, maggot? I say. He stares me down. I am in my command tent, ready for bed. The only light I have is a kerosene lamp that casts eerie shadows across the tent. Somehow he has survived. I know why Private Jones asks this question. Why did you lie?! The impertinent swine’s words ring out. His voice is steady, but I can hear the anger behind it. I try to cover it up. I don’t know what you are talking about, I say. He glares at me in hate. You lied, he says through clenched teeth, you lied to them. All of them are dead for all we know. My heart sinks; he knows. I furiously try to abstain from jumping up and stomping his guts out until he coughs blood. Now listen here, Private. If you say one word about this I will have you shipped back to the lousy, flea-ridden town where you came from! You signed up to fight! To obey! Not to snitch! My words fail to make him back off. I know he does not condone my actions, nor would any soldier under my command. Instead, he pulls out something from his uniform and tosses it to me. It’s a note from Private George. No, not a note. It's a diary entry, and it looks like it has been ripped straight out of a journal. George’s journal. I slowly skim it, my eyes widening in horror as I realize what has happened.

August 9th, 1962.
I’ve run off and am making it back to the main camp in Ho Chi Minh. I am bleeding my guts out and spilling them all over the jungle floor. Why would the captain do this? So many dead... so many...

His writing is cut off, because the rest of the page is splattered in blood. My plan has failed. Private George survived. I ball up the paper quickly and reach under my desk to pull out my glossy black hand gun. It’s always loaded. I treat it like an actual human being, unlike the grunts in my camp. Quickly turning around, I aim at Private Jones... except, he’s not there. No footprints in the mud. Nothing. I run outside into the balmy summer night in Vietnam. The whole camp is quiet. Too quiet. My eyes focus on the scene and I realize everything has been destroyed. Tents are ripped and bodies are everywhere. Flies buzz. A chopper sounds in the distance. My platoon has been dead this whole time. Private Jones’ body lies nearby, with a gaping bloody hole in his chest. Was he a ghost? I may never know. Now I know that only Private George has survived. The chopper is closer now. Then I remember. It hits me like a train. I was responsible for all this. I caused all this suffering. I remember the recoil of my M16 rifle as I stared into their eyes full of fear. Ratatatatat! The rattle of gunfire from a single weapon echoing throughout the jungle. Now my own eyes are open in fear. I make a quick survey of the area, and lo and behold, Private George cannot be seen. The last thing I hear is the sound of an American chopper sounding overhead. The last thing I smell is the humid Vietnam jungle, and the stench of rotting flesh. The last thing I see are the blinding searchlights, and the lone pair of bloody footprints, no doubt George’s, heading away from camp, towards his salvation. 

~ Justin J.

Author's note: This story tells more about the psychological side rather than the physical side of the Vietnam War. If they didn’t die, many U.S. soldiers would often come back with severe injuries or PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder). In the story, the captain is driven crazy and slaughters his platoon (if you didn't figure that out already). Soldiers were under fire and shelling daily, and that did not help with the fact that they were isolated deep in the jungles and mountains of Vietnam. It was really a combination of isolation and threat that ultimately drove the soldiers, or in this case the captain, crazy. It goes to show just how much war can affect a person, mentally and physically.

Keeping a Rhythm

I knew that 5th grade was the first year for actual instruments and not recorders, songs, and mallets. 5th grade was when I would have real concerts with an actual band with various instruments. It was probably the most exciting thing to me. But the most important thing was what instrument I would play. That was the trumpet. At least that was what I thought I wanted to play. We had to play a few instruments for the band conductors so that they could tell if you were better at a certain instrument. I played the trumpet. FAIL. I played the clarinet. FAIL. I played a snare drum… If you’re thinking fail then you are way off from being right. I repeated what the conductor played. Every time I succeeded, the next pattern was always harder. But I played each one of them exactly the way the conductor played it. It just felt like a rush. The beat flowing through my veins. Going to my brain, my wrist and hands, my heart, my eyes, my ears. That rush connected with the drumsticks, and I just played. It was like the drumsticks and my hands were creating the perfect combo. The conductor made an injunction that because I played each pattern flawlessly, I was fit to play percussion. My aptitude for percussion grew over the years.

Fast forwarding to now, I am playing the hardest parts on each song. If I’m not playing the hardest piece, I either ask for the hardest piece for any instrument, or I ask if there is a harder piece for the instrument that I’m playing. I love percussion. I am sure that I will be able to make a career out of my percussion skills by getting better. I’ve gone through years of people telling me that I am amazing at percussion. All I can do is use my manners and say thank you. But sometimes I have thoughts to myself. I ask myself, “Do you think that when people say that I am amazing, they really mean that?” They probably do, but they might not. I have heard from my conductors that I am one of the best percussionists that they have ever taught and seen. The thing is, percussion to me is like feet to shoes. It is natural. Percussion comes from my dad. He is one of the best drummers I have ever seen, but because of decisions that he made in his college years, his skills were significantly reduced.

My entire family tells me that I have shown signs of drumming since I was a baby. I would keep the beat of a song by hitting the floor with a pair of old drum sticks my dad would have. I even see signs of drumming in my youngest brother, Koda. He can cry for hours, but as soon as he gets a hand on even one drum stick, a smile rises upon his face like the sun rises to let everyone know that he is there. The sun, my brother, and drumming all give me this warm feeling. As if I’m sitting next to a fireplace. When you think of percussion, what is the first thing you think about it? Rhythm right? If not, you don’t know music well. If so, your musical future is bright. I love percussion. But what I love most about percussion is keeping a rhythm. That’s my job. To keep the rhythm. I’m Michael Johnson, and this is my story of keeping the rhythm of life. This is the rhythm of MY life.

~ Michael J.

Cheer

She loved it. It was all fun and games. Big sparkly bows. Flashing lights. Excessive makeup that she honestly loved. She walked on stage and couldn’t stop smiling. Hearing the music start and not knowing what the outcome was going to be but it was okay because she knew that she wouldn’t love it any less. Getting there unnecessarily early just so they could sit there for hours extremely tired. Wishing for the time to come that they could go backstage and get pumped up. She was never nervous. When she saw the crowd it was like time stopped and in that moment she knew everything was going to be okay. Maybe it was the absence of sound. That split second before they press play so the music will start. Everyone was silent. There was absolutely no sound. But when they pressed play it was like every tough practice was worth it.

She did it because she loved it, not because she was forced.

Now she has to force herself to smile. Or she just doesn’t smile at all. The fun of getting up in the morning and knowing that she was going to see her second family is gone.

She can’t take it anymore. The constant screaming and punishment for their mistakes. Astringent criticism from the team. (These are the people that are supposed to be her best friends.) Constantly coming home with bruises and cuts from being hit over and over. Though they never ask her if she is alright. They are only concerned about the person who hit her. They tell her that she is second priority. She just has to stand there and take it. No exceptions. She is always coming home crying just because the stress of it all is starting to take over. She hates it. The big sparkly bows that she no longer wears. The flashing lights that give her a headache. Excessive make up that she does not care about anymore. The feeling like she does not matter. Like she has no part of the team that she worked so hard to be on. She is desperately trying to abstain from quitting. Just because she hopes the happy feelings she used to have will come back. But inside she knows that it is never going to happen. The impertinent people really make it hard for her to love it again.

Most of the time she just wishes she does not cheer at all...

~ Olivia K.

I Remember

I remember...
My whole body would burn. I wondered if my toes would fall off.
I needed to stop. I couldn’t. I had to go on.
My arms ached. My head would spin. My feet cramped up.
I couldn’t put my arms down; she would yell.
I couldn’t stop turning; she would scream.
I couldn’t stop pointing my feet; she would shout.
I couldn’t keep up; she didn’t notice.

Slowly I realized where I was. My mind wandered as I peered through the windows to stare at the pointe class warm up. I watched them do frappes on pointe. I watched their feet beat back and forth as they did petit battement at the bar. I slowly looked away. My eyes flicked back and forth from the girls, stringent in their pointe shoes and buns, to the 11 of us―black leotards, black tights, bare feet, pony tails flowing freely, laughing without a care.

As the 11 of us walked from the most commodious studio to the least, I realized how lucky I am. I had been tenaciously holding onto a dream of getting back on pointe. I had ignored everything else.

I smiled as I felt a weight lift off my shoulders.

In the back of my mind I still wish...
I wish to be sugarplum fairy. I wish to wear a tutu and fly across the stage.
I wish to perform at the opera house of The Kennedy Center...
I will get there someday. Not on pointe but with my bare feet. I won’t fly. I will soar.
I will be free. I will not look back.

Ballet will be there for me; maybe one day I’ll go back.
But for now I will remember.

~ Jodie K.

Eyes

She met him at a dance. His crystal blue eyes danced around the room, and his back was leaning against the wall as if he didn’t care that his suit might get ruined by the dirty gym furnishings, but she had seen him clean off the wall before casually finding a position. He kept looking around, as if he were expecting someone, but she could tell no one was coming. The dance had started hours ago, and he’d been sitting there for the whole of it. If the roles were switched maybe he would have come over and talked to her, but she just couldn’t bring herself to stare into those blue eyes without completely melting into a pile of socially inept goo.

She’d never seen him before, and it’s not like there were that many people in their class. Only 64 to be exact. Or 65…? No, she would’ve seen him at least once. She looked back over to him, and found that his eyes weren’t dancing anymore. They were simply fixed on her. She took a deep breath in, and tried to stay calm. She glanced back up at him to see his gaze was tenaciously holding onto her, and she knew he’d seen her staring at him.

She was surprised it had taken so long considering she’d been playing this game for about an hour or so. Staring at him, turning away when his gaze got a little close, and then turning back as soon as his eyes turned in another direction. But she was caught now, and she had about two options. She could of course go talk to him like any normal human being would, or she could leave. And no, she couldn’t just leave her spot, she’d have to leave the party to avoid some kind of social disaster, or at least that’s what the anxious part of herself said.

Her friends would understand. They’d ditched her hours ago to dance; they wouldn’t be in the mood to condone her social anxieties. So, in an attempt to seem as if she hadn’t noticed the boy’s gaze, she pulled her soft black hoodie over the red dress that she’d borrowed from her mom, and tried to casually walk towards the exit. Somehow the anxious part of her brain took over and she ended up speed walking, no, running out of the dance. She had never felt more like Cinderella. With a lack of social aptitude.

Her eyes flashed back to boy, and she could’ve sworn a smirk was playing on his lips. That wouldn’t be the last she would be seeing him, and deep down, she knew it.

~ Jacqueline M.

Pressure

You enter the court, not knowing anything about your opponent. You have fifteen minutes to warm up, and learn about your opponent across the net. Whether he likes to place the ball crosscourt or down the line; whether he likes to put spin on the ball or if he slices it. Before you realize it fifteen minutes is over, and you are ready to endure the long match. The pressure is on.

The only thing blocking you from victory is the net. It’s the first serve and you prepare yourself for an arduous match. You try to preserve your tenacity by forcefully hitting the ball back across the net. Not so hard that the ball will go out, but with enough spin and force to set your opponent off course. One ball to the net, and you are done. The pressure is on.

It’s halfway into the match, and your muscles ache. You think you’re getting into a rhythm, until your opponent hits a drop shot, and throws you off balance. The score is equal. You have won one close set, and your opponent another close set. You receive an injunction from your coach, not to let your guard down, and to keep fighting. You feel the last burst of energy rushing through your veins, you are ready to win the set, and be victorious. The pressure is on.

The last set arrives. You have had enough, and you want to win. You have proved your aptitude to your opponent. Everything is going for you. You have just won five straight games. You only need to win one more game to win the set. It is match point, and it is your serve. You blast the serve with so much power your opponent’s racket does not make contact with the ball. You stand there in awe. It’s finally over. As you rush over to shake the hand of your opponent you are ecstatic, it’s finally over, and you have won. The pressure is gone.

~ Lysander M.

Both for War

It was an old house―one story, brick exterior, paint peeling off the walls. There was nothing quite remarkable about it―people drove past it every day without ever thinking that something would happen there.

The owner was never around. The house was almost always deserted. It was perfect for the man in the grey suit.

The man was tall, had a dusky complexion and silvery grey hair. His arms bulged. He didn’t look like he belonged in the grey suit, rather in a tee-shirt or climbing a mountain. His advisors were hardly typical either. They wore conservative suits, each with a little flair to them: yellow handkerchief, white socks, odd hat.

At a table they sat―papers shuffling, keys being hit at breakneck pace. Click-clack, click-clack, clickety-clack. The man kept dictating the speech. His advisors were tired, stunned. What had made their boss in the grey suit so confident to write like this? Never before had he displayed such an aptitude for words. Click-clack, click-clack, clickety-clack. It was just an announcement of a candidacy. He was talking so fast that he was almost incoherent. Click-clack, click-clack, clickety-clack. The speech was done, printed, prepared. The man’s characteristic pertinacity shone through in every line.

As they were leaving, the man slipped away and threw a scrap of paper into the fire; it was never to be seen. The source of the words that had shocked his advisors would be lost forever.

The man in the grey suit whom the passerbys had not noticed would soon be surrounded by an entirely different complement dressed in black. And people would only need to see the head of the motorcade to know who was coming. No one knew what was written on the scrap of paper that had started it. Those three words, so simple, that started a hurricane. Three words. “Both for war.”

And the old house, the one which nobody ever noticed, would soon belong in the Smithsonian.

~ Rohit N.

Summer Paradise

It was the first month of summer, and we had just flown to Turkey. It was the perfect afternoon―the sun shining, a slight warm breeze, and not a cloud in the sky. I thought it was the perfect time for a swim, while others thought it was a great time to relax by the poolside. I jumped into the pool, letting the crystal clear water surround me. In the meantime, my father and uncle were enjoying a bottle of wine by the poolside. I was living in a summer paradise. Then, a single cloud came and covered the sun, spoiling the perfect picture.

I decided to get out of the pool as the lack of sun caused the weather to become rather chilly. As I was getting out I did not notice that my uncle had placed his wine glass on the deck, but it was too late. I felt something against my shin, and watched as the the glass shattered to the floor. The next few minutes were a blur. I felt no pain, but I could feel something dripping down my leg rapidly. I saw people run towards me: my mom, dad, and grandmother. There were others but I could not make them out because the world was swimming in and out of focus. Someone wrapped a blanket around my leg, the only astringent they could find, and took me to the car. The pain started to kick in and the dizziness got worse. Soon the blanket was soaked in red.

We got to the hospital and I was wheeled to the emergency room. The doctor got a numbing needle the size of small football, and forced it in my leg. The pain slowly began to subside as my leg became numb, and the world finally came into focus again. After the doctor was done I had 30 stitches in my leg, and was inept at walking. Once we got home, I limped to the couch with help from my dad, and my family tried to commiserate about the accident. It was not effective; my summer was ruined. The sun was no longer shining, the warm breeze gone, and the sky dotted with clouds. Summer paradise was long gone.

~ Evrim O.

Golden

She met him at a dance. A tri-school prom dance. He was standing in the corner of the gym, his head above the crowd. His ice blue eyes followed the dancers. She was sitting on the bleachers, her gold necklace resting at her throat. She felt herself walk in his direction, heard her voice say hello. He turned to her and said hi back. He asked for her name. She said Christina. He said Jacob. Somehow, through her pernicious belief that love was a trap, all of her heart trusted him. And she liked him. He was nice, had a calm demeanor, made her forget her social ineptitude. As they talked, she thumbed her necklace. They talked for minutes, but it felt like seconds, and he asked her to dance. She said yes, so they danced. He twirled her around the dance floor, showing his natural aptitude for dancing and his self-confidence. As they spun around the dance floor, she felt at ease. She loved Jacob, wanted to fly with him forever. Eventually, the songs quieted, and he said goodbye. She was sad to see him disappear into the crowd, and she subconsciously reached up to thumb her necklace. Her fingers felt nothing. Looking down, she could not see her necklace. It was gone, and so was he. The boy she thought she loved was a fraud.

~ Sofie S.

Stuck

based on the novel The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Stuck. I've worked so hard just to get where I am, and now I'm stuck. After he died I tried my best to make more friends and stop being so sad all the time, but I couldn't. Not really. He was my best friend.

When he left. It reminded me so much of her. I loved her so much. And she loved me too. But she just had to drive out to go get me a second birthday present that I didn't even need. She had already gotten me one present just like everyone else, but she couldn't be just like everyone else. She couldn't just get me one present. Now she's dead. And now he's dead too. And now I'm stuck at this juncture where they won't get out.

Memories.

They won't leave me alone. They just keep running through my brain, showing me all of the things I did with them. Like when she let me stay up late and watch TV when Mommy and Daddy weren't home. And how he told me all of his secrets and I told him all of mine. And how he made me feel like I always had someone to talk to when no one else would listen. And how they were my friends at a time when no one else was. When no one else cared. No matter how much I scream and cry and beg them to leave. They won't. Instead they continue running through my brain with such intense tenacity that I am stuck. Stuck in a constant nightmare where I consistently refuse to condone her decision to go to get me a second present. Where I regret being friends with him. Where I hate her for getting me a second present. Where I imagine what life would be like if I just didn't care. Maybe I wouldn't be stuck. Maybe I would even be happy.

Maybe.

Because of them I want to go far away. I want to leave so I can see her again and tell her how much I love her and thank her for my present that I didn't need. I want to leave so I can tell him that I care about him even though he thinks I don't. Even though he thinks that no one cares. My best friend. I want to leave so they will leave me alone. And I would have really left, but I met Samantha (Sam) and her step-brother Patrick. We had lots of fun together. We went to parties, shared our dreams and desires, talked about our futures. We were friends. They were my first real friends since he died. But then I fell in love, and Sam said she was too old for me because she was a senior and I was a freshman, and that I didn’t know what love was, and that no one could love her. She accepts the love she thinks she deserves.

Now I am all alone because Aunt Helen just had to go get me a second present, and Michael didn't think anyone cared, and Patrick told me to stay away from his sister. I hate that every day I have to live through life feeling only guilt and depression. I want to be dead so my memories will stop running through my head reminding me of everything that I've lost and will never see again.

~ Khaya Y.

Grandma, Loudly

Grandma, sitting next to me in the fourth row of a packed theater, as the house lights dim and the leading lady appears under the spotlight. The actress is poised, dignified; the audience silent, awaiting the first line of the play. Grandma, loudly: “That is a very heavy-set woman!”

Grandma, sitting next to me in a small coffeehouse, as the rock performer finishes his set of mediocre three-chord songs. The singer eagerly recites into the microphone his invitation that if we liked his music, we can purchase his CD at the table in the back of the room. Grandma, loudly: “Who’d want to do that?”

Grandma, sitting next to me in a Chinese restaurant, surrounded by family, including her Taiwanese grandson-in-law. The conversation turns to the intricacies of the Mandarin Chinese language. Grandma, loudly: “Well, it all just sounds like myeh-myeh-myeh to me.”

As an old woman, Grandma has earned the right to be a bit too honest, a bit too biting, a bit too loud. The feelings of the actress, the rock singer, her grandson-in-law? Simply roadkill on the endless highway that is Grandma speaking her mind.

But Grandma speaking her mind can also be a wonderful thing.

Grandma, on the phone with my parents, the morning after their teenage son has told them, through tears, that he is gay. They are shaken, frightened, angry, confused. Grandma, loudly: “You know what? You’re his parents. You love him no matter what.”

~ Mr. Fishback