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You were right
for holding onto me so tight.

Wouldn’t let me leave

unless I had long sleeves

You cooked me food
and made sure I ate good

Told me about my sister’s past
Since I am the last

You were right
for holding onto me so tight.

Told me about the boys

who treat girls like toys

Didn’t want me to do bad in school

so I won’t be a fool

You’ve done your job well
I’ve grown up to be swell

You were right

for holding onto me so tight.


Everything you told me 

at first I didn’t believe

Now that I’ve grown 

I should have known


You yelled at me when I did wrong
Your lectures were very long

You were right 

for holding onto me so tight.

You watched me grow every day,
and listened when I had something to say.

I know I’m not the best,
but trust me, I try harder than the rest.

You are a part
of my big heart.


And you were right
for holding onto me so tight


You’re so bold
and worth more than gold.

I’m sorry for any pain I’ve caused
Let’s just put that on pause

You’re the best mother ever
even though your moods are like weather

Oh mother, you were so right

for holding onto me so tight.

The scars—
What are they?
Don’t worry,
I’ll be fine

The scars—
What are they?
Something I
Left behind

The scars—
What are they?
A dark secret
Of mine

The scars—
What are they?
They’ll go away
With time

The scars—
What are they?
A war within
My mind

Blue and white
Flimsy plastic lines
Woven together, grated
Down in a row
Foldout chairs on the
Asphalt, yellow and dotted
Line of Main St.
Small town Mayville, NY.
July Fourth, it is a Monday
This year, not the last
When chapel bells rang
Rhythms conflicting
Brass bells clanging
With the toots of the
Sirens ready for the Parade.
Small town not lacking
Conviviality, when the
Shriners spin by motors
Churning humming red
Race strips running 13
To the American flag.
The sky blue as ever
Our national ceiling
Air crisp with excitement
Clears itself for the day.
My uncle’s throaty
Cackle erupts beside me-
Aunt Judy giggles and
They laugh it all off.
My eyes aren’t as glassy
As they were years before
The festivities aging-
The ostentation unappealing-
No longer the best country
No longer top of the world.

Laura Haskin is a senior at Friends Select School in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Her creative nonfiction and poetry has been published in Philadelphia Stories and The Bell Literary Magazine. In her spare time, she enjoys cooking and functions as the founder of a food and travel blog, The Cedar Kitchenette.

There is a Polaroid image
Vintage- yellowed and crisped
Corners folded, labeled in
Smeared sharpie with those
Curves of your letters
I knew them so well
Two faces pale yet
Flushed by the summertime
Sun beaming down
Spotlight to our embrace
Father, I remember
Fragments of those stories
Like fairy tales recited
Again and again
For you I would tell them
Re-spin those journeys
My own words molded
To the melody pulsing
Through the blood in our
Veins- slowing like our
Heartbeats-synced
In remembrance
A thousand times over
I’d replay it again.

Laura Haskin is a senior at Friends Select School in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Her creative nonfiction and poetry has been published in Philadelphia Stories and The Bell Literary Magazine. In her spare time, she enjoys cooking and functions as the founder of a food and travel blog, The Cedar Kitchenette.

Sometimes I sit in my room
and I feel like my walls are closing in
But this makes me feel like a hack,
because everyone and their grandmother has said this
I don’t know, maybe I am a hack

Sometimes I choke on the words
that I wish I could muster the courage to say
And sometimes I say them anyway
Only to apologize for how I feel
Just to spare others

Sometimes I think about punching somebody
I don’t mean that I want to punch somebody
I just think about a specific instance
When he pushed me too far
And I couldn’t help myself

Sometimes I try to rationalize this
By saying that I’m not a violent person
And maybe he had it coming
But then, when I really think about it
Maybe I’m the bad one, and I have something coming

Ian Greenleaf is in the tenth grade at Pennsylvania Leadership Charter School. He was inspired to write by a few of the poems included in our last issue, specifically “My Rain.” He loves reading experimental fiction, and writing both prose and poetry.

He rode on a bicycle in the middle of August with a sunflower between his teeth.
He ran through a field and sang to the stars, and I swear, they heard him.
He looked like an angel, that is for certain.
He smelled like the aftermath of rain.
He decided to love me with all of his might.
He then said that it wasn’t a choice.
He was scared of the world, the one that I faced.
So he guarded me with his collection of books.
Kept me safe with his never ending stories.
Locked me away with his brilliant smile.
He picked me up in a Beetle at the end of November with a smile on his lips.
He loved me deeply.
Spring came and so did we.
Summer came and so did we.
Fall came and so did we.
Winter froze and so did we.
And then it was painful and heartwrenching.
Then it was too long and too cold for me.
Then he loved me shallowly.
Then there was an inch.
Millimeter.
Gone.
And then Summer came and I wept.
Fall came and I wept.
Winter came and my tears froze.
Spring came with him.
He showed up on my porch wearing a tie and holding a vase.
I unraveled.
He smiled.
I kicked him.
He laughed.
And then he dived right into twelve feet of water.
And he didn’t even hit his head.
He waded in and out for an eternity.
Leaving with a letter, appearing with a grin.
I could tell it was wrong.
I loved him so.
He always knew when to give me a sunflower.
He’d always keep them between his teeth.
To him, it was always August.
To me, it was always him.

Darci Gold is a sixteen-year-old student of Haverford High. She has loved literature from a very young age, and frequents old bookstores to find hidden treasures. Darci loves writing poetry, short stories, as well as longer pieces to express herself and engage with others.

6:30 am: Coffee is my lover. She protects me, wrapping me in her steaming arms. She swims in my stomach and widens my eyes, exciting me. She stirs my fears into her muddy hues and sends me on my way.

6:30 pm: Depression is my lover. As the sun creeps behind the horizon, his claws wrap around my spine, tying me to my mattress. He convinces me with frozen kisses to abandon books, worksheets, and white walls, if only for a day.

10:00 am: Coffee is my lover. She pulls me from the sheets when my limbs are still heavy with his weight. She bounces my knee, burns my lips and roils my mind.

10:00 pm: Depression is my lover. He quiets me, silencing the noise and shuts my eyes.

3:00 pm: Coffee is my lover. She has come for me, reprimanding me with her bitter twinge. I swallow her with my sins. She empowers me with sugar-laced lips.

3:00 am: Depression is my lover. He spends the night, making love to me with suicidal ideation. He plants fatal kisses on sullen skin, whispering his sweet poison.

6:30 am: Coffee is my lover. She is the antidote no matter her form. She brushes across my lips and saves me.

Amanda Trautmann is a senior at Lower Merion High School. She enjoys writing short fiction and poetry. At her school, Amanda founded and runs Second Stage, a program which offers a variety of workshops led by local artists, writers, directors and actors. She also takes part in the school’s literary magazine, yearbook and newspaper all while maintaining a part time job at Children’s Book World.

We can see the discipline in her—it absorbs

Morphs into her legs, crawls up her thighs to her torso

Spreads across her brow and out to her temples

Coils itself tight on her head

With every sudden movement.

 

Her mind, her body is awoken by the music

Operates as one in proportional contortions.

The calm façade disguises hidden manic

A stable precision echoes through her bones

With every sudden movement.

 

We are enamoured of the crisp, the clean, the controlled,

Seeing things that are stark

While looking down on the chaos that daunts us.

 

She makes art with her emotions, painting her feelings

Across the floor and into the air.

The atmosphere saturated and heavy

With her innermost truths released.

Her movements are her language.

 

She uses her body to tell us her story.

With each careful glance of her eyes, we read a new page

We feel a climax as her movements sharpen

A warm reassurance as they soften.

Every movement changes us.

 

One thing is now quite clear—this is not just a dance.

It is a true expression of things she cannot say.

 

It is letting go of anger. It is accepting pain. It is feeling beautiful joy.

 

It is being consumed by love, sharing it with the world

Without feeling shame or judgement that she is not strong.

 

It is feeling vulnerable. It is honest passion. It is true sensitivity.

 

This is her outlet, where she can be a woman

Stripped down to her most exposed self

She shows us real beauty.

With every movement.

 

 

Olivia Hunt is in eleventh grade at Downingtown East High School. She is an avid writer and aspires to study screenwriting. Her dream is to write her own television sitcom, or to become a writer on Saturday Night Live. Olivia loves live music and concerts, going to the coffee shop down the street to write, and soaking up every beautiful moment of life.

Cramped and crowded, hot and dirty.

Train doors slide open. Light.

I’m just a lonely Jew

Alone with no family.

Stepping off the train,

The first breath of fresh air

Coaxes my mouth open.

I try taking my first full breath in hours

Like a parched man finding an oasis.

My throat burns, hot and dry.

A strange smell attacks me.

It is not the same, sweet air from home.

Home smells familiar and kind.

Here, it is rotten, a vapor

Of horrific terror, unforgiving.

 

Smoke, a raging bull approaches

Horns facing me, threatening to puncture my lungs

Like a scared child I hold my breath.

Hoping fear and the beast cannot find me

But the beast is a skilled predator, a bloodhound.

Walking, shuffling, muttering prayers.

“Beast, stay away from me.” I whimper

The smoke, I come to realize,

Is not My Greatest Fear.

My Greatest Fear greets me

With open arms in an open flame.

My dreams catch fire first,

The dreams of family and school

The dreams of laughter and happiness

All reduced to smoke and ash

This pit is where the Beast laughs in triumph.

It sizzles with the fuel of flesh,

Giggles from the beast itself, happy.

Another nameless, faceless victim is I.

The beast consumes me

In a pit of screams and terror.

 

Madeline Hickey is a junior at Downingtown East High School. She has spent most of her free time this year writing for her creative writing class, reading her growing collection of books, and participating in her theatre department’s programs. She hopes to someday be a professional writer.

Nobody sits alone on the Seine,

A fact that’s unfortunately true

Of the twos and the threes and the fours and the tens,

And then me, who’s alone, but with you

 

You crouch beneath benches that I sit upon

You swim through the waters I paint

As I walk through the streets, you don’t stay for long

But by river, your form lies in wait

 

I remember, one time, when we came to the Seine,

I, nineteen, you, twenty and bold,

We looked like a painting that I bought that day

When the air didn’t feel quite so cold

 

But now I am here and your ghost is beside

The shoulder that still wears your coat,

If I look close enough, then I think I can find

The heart and initials we wrote

 

Yes, nobody sits alone on the Seine

I am watching the twos and the threes

Then I look to the river and whisper to you

“Bonjour, tu me manques, mon ami”

Emma Paolini is from Medford, New Jersey and attends Merion Mercy Academy. She enjoys reading, writing, and edits for her school’s literary magazine.