2011 Anthology WNYWP Good

7/31/2019 2011 Anthology WNYWP Good

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JoelWenttoDisneyand allwegotwas this lousy

title(HopefullyBefore

October!)


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Quantum Physics and the Power of ThoughtJoel went to Disney and all we got was this lousy title (hopefully before October).

An anthology of the

Western New York Writing Project

Teen Writing Workshop

http://www.facebook.com/Wnywpteens
http://www.facebook.com/Wnywpteenshttp://www.facebook.com/Wnywpteens


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Quantum Physics and the Power of Thought(Joel went to Disney and all we got was this lousy title (hopefully before October).

Anthology of Poetry and Prose

Volume XX

Western New York Writing Project

Writing Workshop for Teens

July 11th to July 22nd, 2011

Queen...............................................................................Suzanne Borowicz

The Queens Hand......................................................Genevieve Federick

Grand Maester.............................................................Joel Malley

Lord of the Nights Watch........................................Franklin Aqualina

Head Executioner........................................................Nicole Lesinski

Mops and Buckets.......................................................Matt Pavlovich

* * * * * * * * * *

Published by The Western New York Writing Project

at Canisius College in Buffalo, NY.

For more information about the WNY Writing Project, enrichment opportunities for

students, and professional development for teachers, call (716) 888-3134 or go to

www.canisius.edu/wnywp. See our community at http://www.facebook.com/Wnywpteens

Copyright 2011 by Western New York Writing Project. All rights reserved. Individual authorsand artists retain all ownership rights to their respective works. We are fairly confident this

anthology has been printed in the United States of America.

Anthology layout and design of the people, by the people, and for the people. Cover art by

Kelcie Adams. Individual page layout by the individual writers. Finally, be it remembered

that individual proofreading responsibilities lie with the individual writer (READ: NOT

JOELs FAULT).
http://www.facebook.com/Wnywpteenshttp://www.facebook.com/Wnywpteenshttp://www.canisius.edu/wnywphttp://www.canisius.edu/wnywp


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A ride at Disney doesn't start when you reach the end

of the line and step into the car. It doesn't start when

you begin the deep ascent to the top of the peak,

anxiety building in your sternum as you begin to

anticipate a death defying drop. A ride at Disney starts

when you first step into line and cross the threshold

onto a ride.

I mean, and you know this, Disney is as much about

the waiting as it is about the delivery. An actual ride

lasts somewhere around 120 seconds yet people

consistently wait in lines for rides such as Space

Mountain and Toy Story Mania for as much as two hours.

The last thing an entertainment company wants is for

its patrons to be bored, so ride designers start building

the narrative of the ride from the moment you enter

that line.

In an average line, the furthest ahead you can see is ten

yards. In that ten yards your senses are treated a wide

assortment of stimuli. TakeJungle Cruise at The Magic

Kingdom, for instance. You enter into a thatched roof

building and begin weaving your way through what

looks like a isolated way station somewhere in the

middle of Zimbabwe. You pick your way into a section

and contemplate the tongue in cheek signs warning of

head shrinking natives. When you turn a corner you

are confronted by a box claiming to contain a man

eating tarantula and a chalkboard sign listing missing

inhabitants with names like Ilene Dover and AnnaFellen. As you get closer to boarding you get to hear

the numerous oft repeated jokes of the dock workers.

(Here's a taste -- Those of you adventurers entering the world-

famous Jungle Cruise, please notice there are two lines, one on the

right and the other on the left. If you'd like to keep your family

together, please stay in the same line. However, if there is someone

in your family you'd like to get rid of, just put them in the

opposite line and you'll never see them again.)

The same goes for every ride. Descending into the

depths of the Spanish fort Castillo Del Morro inPirates

of the Caribbean. Standing by while three quarters of theelevator recites theHaunted Mansion narrator's spiel

verbatim. Relishing in C-3PO and flight videos on Star

Tours. The experience starts at the threshold.

This year, I missed the first three days of the Western

New York Writing Project Teen Writing Workshop as I was

busy hustling my wife and children through Disney.

When I returned, the residue of the trip colored my

entire workshop experience. I couldn't help but draw a

comparison between the queue of a Disney ride and

writing. Reading and writing are not only about the

thrill of the climax or the poignant last bit of irony atthe end of a short story. It's not about the thematic

payload in the final couplet of a Shakespearian sonnet.

Writing is about the building. The sequencing of

images and powerful words -- those tiny rooms which

place the reader inside a sensory experience. Whether

it is a line, tercet, paragraph, stanza or chapter, these

are spaces that are vital to good writing.

At this writing workshop, it is our job to help influence

our students to create vivid rooms. This year we

packed a lot of stimuli into our two weeks to help this

process. Meredith Jones, a former teen participant and

current SUNY Purchase creative writing student,

revisited the camp to lead a workshop in writing

microfiction. Karen Lewis, local poet, photographer,

and teacher pushed writers out of their comfort zones

and asked that they write to music and translate the

Hawaiian song Kauanoeanuhea. We took our yearly

field trips to the Albright Knox Art Gallery and to

Forest Lawn Cemetery. We also changed the format

slightly this year during the first week and offered

choice based workshops on cliffhangers, creative

nonfiction and writing for the stage rather than relysolely on age based writing groups. And, much like a

Disney attraction builds to the exciting climax or gut

wrenching drop, we built towards sharing our pieces at

our final reception and laying out our works in this

final anthology of the rooms we created together.

What follows is a collection of those tiny rooms. We

hope you enjoy and, as always, have a magical day!

Foreward


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9/63

SnowCorpseIn the tundra they will find a

mass grave of myself,

A pale frozen creature with frost-

covered lashes, blue nails,

Lips bruised black from the cold.

And when they crack my body

open

They shall find me crystallized

With my soul in every particle ofwater,

One last thought, or perhaps the

culmination of my thoughts

Etched inside me, my final poem

in sculpted ice.

It will be wordless and speak

endlessly to how I ended

With love or with fear

One drop of water will tell my

story better than I,

Unweighted with the biting

complexities of sentience

It sees me and reports my soul as

a mere fact to the universe,

Making me either a snow angel

or snow monster,

Finally settling the question.

IAmI am the rhythm of the rainstorm and a fall

thats not high enough to kill you. I am the

wing of the raven that left and will not

return. I am myself. I am everyone else.Im pretentious and poetic, questioning and

unquestioning. Im the lamp-post light at

dusk; Im the classical music played in the

subway. I am hands and feet and heart; I

am fingernails and eyebrows and teeth. Im

here. Im not interested in lampshades or

conformity. Im carrying James K. Polk in

my pocket. Im the hands that cook your

food. Im in the company of habits and the

savior of earthworms trapped on the

sidewalk after a thunderstorm. Im a

rejoicer in little moments. Im going away;

now Im coming back. Im sick of all theseIm statements. I know who I am. Im

learning.

HomingPoemOn a rooftop overlooking a Fluorescent

City

The Queen of Porcelain stands

With a thousand covered baskets

Listening for tired cries, desperate hearts,

Peaceful minds basking in buttery sunlight.

Hearing one she smiles; in a smooth arcReleases a cooing poem

And throws her arms to the sky.

It flaps, all rhapsody and anticipation,

Disappearing to deliver its message

Over serengeti, solar system, and epoch,

I will find a home somewhere.

Through non-linear time itself the poem

flies and then

Instinctively banks into a sleepers mind

Only to be bowled over by the irrefutable

earliness of the morning.

Gathering momentum in its flight the poem

Knocks on the roof of a car in LA traffic

And is promptly told to beat it.

Sighing, it wings its way down South to

Virginia

And chases Ruth Stone all the way to her

typewriter

Missing her by a second,

Finally cannon-balling into me

Compelling the images of its flight to rise

As it dies in my arms,

I will find a home somewhere.

WorryBeadsHold them close,

Draped around my index finger

Are these fifteen black beads.

Unified in chain, they shine with the oil of

Many fingerprints;

Clearly I am not the first to seek their

solace.I feel prayers rising in me as I bring them

to my lips,

Close but not touching

And know, in some instinct of the spirit

That they are trustworthy,

That I can bury my secrets in their

spherical hearts

And they will not say a word, they will no

try to save me.

Smelling of smoke they warm up in my

hand

Im reluctant to let go

My skins not too tight today

But I need something to hold on to,

And I can trust in the love of these beads

Like I can trust in the freedom of the sky

And the joie de vivre of the wind.

It is easier to be loved by inanimate objec

than by people,

And I float in the affection of these beads

A mere bagatelle,

They may save my life today.

Victoria Licata will be a

freshman at Ohio

Wesleyan University next

year. This is regrettablyher lasttime in "Narnia"and she will miss everyone

next summer. In themeantime, she enjoyseating Tootsie Rolls,

getting dollar coins as

change instead of bills,

and watching black and

white movies. ShedoesNOT enjoy missingthe bus, sushi, or kids who

shoot her in the face with

straws at work.JaneAusten is and always will

be her homegirl.


10/63

A DreamBy Hassan Shah

Velvet air rushing towards me.

The Lion, within me, ready too strike.

A magical crown stands before me.

King of the world,

King of the galaxy,

King of the Universe.

Joy before millions and billions.

Awesomeness

and

Bravery.Then I wake up too find,

that nothing has happened.

Just my dream.


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Close To Me

By Paul Rehac

Let's live life

In simile and

metaphor,

Step back and see

What beauty a

comparison

May bring.I'm tired of

The unique and

disconnected.

Because, love,

You're my

everything.

You're in all

The good I see.

Warm like

propinquity,

Bright like hope,Pure like love,

Forever like us.

These are the

things

I see

When you lie down

Close to me.

Imagining

By Paul Rehac

Sometimes I imagine

Myself writing

Words I dont

Completely understand

In a hand

About as familiar to me

As compassion is to you.

I write of things

That could be,

That will be,

That have been.

I write about

The girl in the photograph.

This time

Not as a memory,

But as a presence

Always there,Inviting and warm

Like home or hearth.

And as I write

In this dream of mine

I begin to understand

The foreign script.

A song of love;

A word I could only ever spell.

A story of comfort;

A concept I only lied about.

I begin to seeWhat these words mean.

I begin to need

These things I read.

And I yearn to see

You beside me.

Paul J. Rehac

Paul is a young, aspiring dinosaur. Hewrites often in his spare time, though herarely ever finishes the projects hestarts. His interests include, but are notlimited to, writing, thinking, watchingshows written for children, climbinganything more than a few feet tallerthan himself, and spending hours doing

nothing at all.He enjoys long walks on the beach, so

long as there is no sand on said beach,

and romantic candle-lit dinners, as long

as the candles arent the only thing

lighting the table.

A never-ending source of witty

commentary and pointless statements,

Paul is generally the one to go to for

amusing, albeit unproductive,

conversation. He is always willing to

waste time with friends and strangers

alike.

This picture was taken byJon

Herb, known as Jah32 on Flickr.This picture was awarded a Nikon-flickr-Award.

11:11

By Paul Rehac

Its 11:11

And youve found and eyelash.

The candles are burning down,

The knifes ready to be

Pulled out.

Shooting stars

Follow closelyBehind the first star

You see tonight.

So dont blink,

Love,

Dont think,

Dear.

Just murmur

Your wish,

Nice and soft,

So only fate may hear.

Youve earned this one,Running scared for

Far too long.

Out of breath,

Out of sight,

Out of mind.

Heres the place

Where you can put your faith

In a star, a flame, a knife,

A wish.


13/63

Musings of a PoetBy Paul Rehac

I want to write stories,

Not thoughts or poems.

I want to show you

The beauty of

A bird flying free,

Not through the use

Of simile and symbolism

Or rhythm and rhyme,

But through the use

Of a narrative

Ten pages long,

Filled from margin

To margin

With eloquence

In prose.

Im not sure why

I feel like

This comes more readily,

Flow more steadily,

Reads more appealingly.

I dont know why,

I cant write confidently,

Line by line,

The story in my mind.

We live in prose,

As a whole.

So am I just

Abnormal?

Should it always be,

That because

I live in poetry

That I cant

Indulge in a comfortOf a fireside story.

It makes no sense to me,

But its the way it has to be.

S for now,

Ill embrace A haiku,

sonnet, or free form

And be pleased

With the gift

Of living in poetry.

Not Bitter

By Paul Rehac

Zelda playing

On and on

Like a record

Spinning backward

In my head.

Play it in reverse,

Hear the devil sing

And find your salvation

Readily.

Lets pray,

Bow down

And swear fealty

In exchange

For false promises

Like the ones

Your mother made,

Looking in the mirror

And seeing who she used to be.

Dont we all wish

We could be

Who she sees?

I bet she thinks so.Identifying with a crowd

She wouldnt know,

Who turned their backs

Long ago.

While she grew fat

One the lies she told

You and herself

And anyone in earshot.

When did things

Get so complicated?

When did the puzzleStop fitting?

God cut a piece again,

Thwarting his subjects

Like the King he is.

Im not bitter, no.

I just wish things

Were simpler again.

Above picture, A Bird In Motion taken by VladimirAgafonkin, also known as Mourner on Flickr.

Picture below, Duke Chapel taken by Ivy Dawned.


14/63

Water

ByCarlyKnaszakWater. I always loved being under water.

Pure silence surrounds me. My vision is

blurry and I can't see anything around me

clearly. I use my imagination to make the

shapes and figures to make more sense. My

body is floating. No limits to how I can

move or where I can move. My voice has

no meaning, only murmurs. My breath is

held in my body, waiting for my lungs to

burst into life again. This perfect world

leaves when my body forces to reach the

top and races for the air. My head peaks

out from the water. My heart is pounding.

My lungs feed off the air. But one thing

didn't change. I'm still floating. The feeling

of no gravity drowns me when I look at

you.

GoingDownIsTheOnlyWayByCarlyKnaszakI remember when I was

five years old and my

dad was teaching me

how to ride a bike. Of course I was that little girl who would

be so scared that I wouldn't be able to peddle the bike. My

dad took me on top of the hill. Our backyard was forty acres

of land which in my mind looked like a jungle. I looked up

at my dad with confused eyes when he told me to get on the

bike. For a moment I didn't respond. I took a couple of

glances back and forth. My eyes fell to the bike that was on

the tip of the hill and then my eyes moved down to the

bottom of the hill. The only way I was going to get off that

hill was to go down it. I collected my nerves and straddled

the seat and put my hands on the handles. My palms sweat

against them. I heard my dad's voice behind me as he said

he was going to push me, lightly. All I had to do was peddle

and hold on. As soon as he pushed and the wheels moved. I

felt like I was flying and in a few short moments I was flying,

literally. My body crashed landed with the ground and Iremembered I cried. Not tears of pain but tears that I didn't

stay on. My dad picked up my frustrated body and

whispered to me that wewill call it quits for the day. Thosewords didn't please me. I jumped out from his arms and took

the bike and made it to the top of the hill, again. To shorten

things up my stubbornness came with bruises,blood and

tears. In the outcome of it all, I finally grew my wings and

peddled down that hill and landed,safely.

This is Carly's first year at the

Western New York Teen

Writing Workshop.She is

seventeen and is going to be a

senior at Hamburg High

School. She enjoys being

creative and mostly writes

about emotions and or eventsin her life. Music is her life.

She enjoys rock music and

alternative music. Her

favorite bands are The

Beatles and 30 seconds to

mars. She is pretty sure she

was meant to be born in the

60's. She enjoys going to

concerts over the summer.

She finds writing muse from

people around her, events ormusic. She plans to studyatFredonia for communications.


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19/63

Izzet

ByJessicaH.ZabronMy eyes flashed open. The imprint

of the dream weighing heavily on my

mind. The beast that had been created

by it seemed to stand before me. His

large feline head, delicate bat-like wings,

too small for flight, and a thick, silvery

white pelt covering all but his back feet,which were almost dinosaur-like, thick

scaly skin covering raptor claws, stood

beside me. His body, lion-like in nature,

was massive and muscular, but barely

visible under his thick coat. He seemed

to hover over me, even standing on the

floor. He was roughly the size of a small

car. The tip of his feline tail twitched

back and forth as he grinned a Cheshire

smile at me, his breath, hot and sulfur

scented, filled the room. He took a step towardme, his heavy front paws made no sound

Leaning forward, he stared at me with

unnatural blue eyes. He looked like a

demon from hell, but he seemed kind

with a dash of insanity. I dared to blink

and he was gone. But the sulfur scent

and the heat of his breath remained,

along with a name that loomed in the

depths of my subconscious. Izzet.

Murmured WarningsByJessicaH.Zabron

A thin black horse trots along the river

bank, his master sitting quietly on his

saddle. Hunched over, the man hides his

face from cold winter wind, shielding

himself from reality with furs. The harsh

winter has left his world a barren wasteland

of empty trees and starving wildlife. But he

remains hidden in his thick animal skins.

Separate from the cold realm.

The horse suddenly stops. Its head

high in the air and its ears alert to every

sound. The wind whistles past, bringing

with it the smell of a careless cougar. The

horse snorts and stomps its feet, trying to

turn around unsuccessfully.

NO! His master commands,

ignoring the horses warning. Forward!

You stupid animal! He whips the horse

back into a steady trot, cursing its

existence.

Ahead of them, the river turns sharply

and the forest become denser. The horses

eyes widen in fear. It knows what is around

the next bend. It stops again, rearing. Its

last attempt to warn its master.

What is wrong with you!? The man

snarls. Ignoring the horses warning.

Forward! Dont stop! Move you stupid

animal! With another lash of the whip,

they trot around a thick tree. The battle cry

of famished lion echoes among the snow

covered trees. Screams follow seconds later,

only to be sudden cut off.

Hoof beats fill the deadly silence. A

thin black horse gallops frantically along a

river bank. Blood stains his saddle. His

master is gone. The river slowly turns red.

Jessica Zabron is an artist innearly every aspect of her life.Her biggest passions, besideswriting, include drawing,editing videos, and show/training dogs. She enjoyswatching horror movie andcheesy SyFy movies. She is

going to be a senior atHamburg High School in thefall and has plans to major inFilm and/or Creative Writingin college. Jess, also, does notenjoy writing about herself orhaving her picture taken.

Flikr user Bichuas (E. Carton)


20/63

I am a warrior, a soldier

fighting an endless battle

against the army of my mind.

Im constantly under attack,

dodging swords dipped in

potent pessimism, machine

guns loaded with doubt and

assumption, and

argumentative arrows flying

through air currents of

confusion.

Although I have flown a

white flag for years, my pleas

to return to the shores of

thoughtless surrender rem

ignored.

The war rages beneath

calm exterior, peacefully

pieced together down to t

dove whose delicate wings

a soft smile across my face

But inside, I am imme

in battle. Inside, I am a

prisoner of my own war.

Inside, I am a warrior.

Overpowered.

Over thought.

Defeated.Their lanterns are

set ablaze by the

setting sun, tickling our

senses with a common

curiosity. We desire to

capture and contain

them, although aware

of the terms of their

mortality.

Often, we pause

activity to announcetheir arrival, hushed

by a moment of

inexplicable

fascination.

Were hypnotized

by their peppering of

illumination as they

whiz past, winking

cheekily on the otherside of fast cars and

fast lives.

Though we try to

blot out the dark with

our own commotion of

light, in the end we

always seem to submit

our attention to

fireflies: the unsung

heroes of the night life.

OliviaMozeis a seventeen year old seniorat Akron Central whose hair is often mistaken forfire. If shes not buying anchor-related jewelry orbelting out a Broadway tune, you can find herwreaking havoc in her home town accompanied byher equally idiosyncratic friends. These friends

describe Olivia as funny, awesome, swagical

and outgoing...whenshesnottired. She tendsto agree with them... when shes not tired. In case

you were wondering, shes a Ravenclaw.

Warrior

Night Life


21/63

FlyingHighI am up in the air

Flying high in the breeze

Very high up you are

Up above all the trees


And the world lies below


What a show, what a show

I am flying with flair

Feel the brisk autumn breeze


Up above all the trees

You are flying so high

And the world lies below

Flying high like a star

What a show, what a show

Even lighter than air

I fly over the seas

Though it may sound bizarre

There, I always feel free

I ignore former scars

And I fly very low

Powerful as a Czar

Hence, my heart is aglow

Megan Morris is fifteen and

attends Williamsville South

High School. She has a

variety of passions that

border on obsessive

including, but not limited to

Torchwood, Vlogbrothers,

and her laptop. Please dont

take away her laptop. Ithink she might go into

shock without it. Megan

has a wardrobe the size of a

small country and a library

to rival that of Congress.

She is a writer, a reader, a

traveler, and a friend to

many. She has two cats:

Jack who thinks hes a

person and Alice the

conspiracy theorist.

PhotobyFlickruserjjjj56cp

TrickleTrickle

Im the drip drip drip from the leaky faucet

One drip in each measure: 4/4 time, mezzo-piano

Im the morning coffee filling the pot

A brown splat on the bottom, slowly growing

Im the puddle below the icicle as spring grows closer

Warmth gives me freedom from cold winter

I am snow on city roofs, melting

Pure water, clean and fresh, but never appreciated

I am rainwater, freshly fallen

Seeping into plants roots

I am even some people

Afraid to move too quickly lest something important pass us by

IntheParkatChateauNoirTrunks thin, yet strong

Each holding three tiers

Of bright green leaves

At least

Moss creeps up the rocks

Of the steep cliff s face

Smiling at me

Holding tight, never letting goPebbles and cobbles in piles on the ground

Too weak to keep their place

At the top

Here I sit on the sun-warmed earth

Smells of love, warm baking

Far enough

And close enough to the house to feel safe

Safe between two veeing tree trunks

Safe leaning against a bed of moss

Safe listening to critters burrowing

Around me and hawks flying overhead

Rays of sun warm my face

Against cool spring air

Bark bore into my back as

A nail into a board

I turn to leave

But I spend next days

Wishing, wanting, waiting

To go back to

The place where I can be myself


22/63


23/63

WhoAreWeAsaCivilization?ByConnorSonnenberger

We as a civilization, the

human race, are considered by

many of our own kind as

destroyers. Our planet has been

turned into an industrial sprawl

and in our greed for natural

resources, we fail to realize that if

we dont change then there will

be dire consequences. Now if we

are to change sometime in the

immediate future, we have a

chance. If we are able to set up

miles of solar panels in one of

our deserts than that will supply

enough energy to power the

entire united states. If we can

convert to cleaner energy such as

hydro power, geothermal, or wind

power than we can give our planet

the chance to repair itself from

the damage that it has already

been inflicted. We have a chance

to save our soon to be doomed

planet if we are to just band

together and make a collaborative

effort to try and reduce the

dangerous levels of Co2 and

methane emissions than we will

have a much greater chance to

save our only chance at survival.

*Disclaimer: I have no

intention of forcing my own

opinions upon others but i am

trying to bring to view a serious

matter in todays world

~Connor Sonnenberger

Wes

ternNewYorkWritingProjectJuly21,

2011

This is Connor. He iscurrently 15 and isattending East AuroraHigh School. Things thathe likes to do includewriting, gaming, andchopping down the

occasional tree. Thethree things that he lovesmost though are hisdrum kit, his books, andhis favorite place:Germany! He continuesto slowly work on hisshort stories and plans toget a journalism degree.Though before movingonto college, he intends

to enlist in the UnitedStates Navy. After hesserved for a tour, hewants to attend CanisiusCollege to earn a degreein both journalism andcivil engineering. He alsois a environmentalprotection supporter.


24/63

The MonksThe night was calm, as it always

was; for three generations the stars

had burned undisturbed in a blue-

black sky. Below them a city slept.

As the hours progressed,

candlelight faded from the

windows until only moonlight

remained, glittering over roof tiles

and peaceful cobblestone roads.

Looming above the city was a

castle, its high, armored walls

patrolled by pacing guards. They

talked quietly under the stars, the

only ones awake to witness the

moonlit transformation of the

buildings below. They called it the

Watchmens Blessing.

Their spears leaned against the

parapet, within easy reach, but

otherwise ignored. For three

generations there had been no

need for weapons. To the guards it

seemed like a needless ceremony,

more for traditions sake than

practicality.

Behind them the castle grounds were

quiet. No one would stir until the

dark hours just before dawn as

servants began their long days work.

They didnt mind the hours; they,

like everyone else, had been content

with their life for three generations.

Inside the keep the king, queen, and

all their royal court slept peacefully

in wide feather beds. When morning

came they would rise and preparefor a day of noble duties until the

sun began to sink; then, they would

change into fabulous colors for the

evenings frivolities. Every night

there was a dance or feast for all who

cared to attend.

Peace had reigned over the city for

three generations, for it was then

that an order known only as the

Monks was formed. It was their

careful meditation that kept the city

safe and content. They spent their

years blanketing the city in peaceful

thoughts, projecting warmth and

calm so that the citizens could enjoy

a life without war. For threegenerations they had kept the city

safe without thanks or reprieve, but

even peace has a price.

SouvenirRough paint, the mark of a souvenir

made to be a souvenir,

a bright and simple memory cheap

and light enough to take home

where others would burst overstuffed

carryon bags,

always more chaotic on the way

home. Its impossible to fit

an escape -monuments and tours

and exotic foods- into a suitcase

but everything has a place on the

painted yellow tram,

cheap porcelain magnet. The charm

is in the lack of cost, the

imperfections imagined and true; ar

made to fit a tourists attraction

is no less than art made for gallery

walls. Maybe more:

simplicity speaks in a language all

can understand and share.

1 oclock BluesGrowling chainsaw

outside,interrupting peacefulinner thoughts

abizarresoundtrack to the quietscribbling of pens

until it stops

and suddenly the room feels empty,

too

silent

to

stand.

Emily Schutte

Emily is 18 and going to be a

freshmen at ECC in the fall.

As a former homeschooler,

the prospect of even a small

campus is somewhatmortifying. When she isnt

fretting about the big bad

adult world she enjoys

spending too much time on

her laptop, writing (duh), and

dancing in an Irish manner.

Even after years of writing

bios for WNYWP

anthologies she is never quite

sure how to end them, so

please pardon the abruptstop.


25/63

thebeastthe beast stands in the hall -- its poison

blood, its sloth like claws. when night

falls no dreamer is safe from its

demonic images. its claws give terror

to all. but when day raises it goes

back to whenst it came.

THEBEAST Axel Sack was

born in TucsonArizona. Hewants to visitNorth KoreaPyongyang. Hisfavorite animal is

crocodile. Helikes old movies.His favoritecountry is japan.


26/63

SilentScreamerByJasmineBrown

You cant tell how i really feel

cause i hide it with a smile.

You cant tell if im hopelessly

crying because my head stay

nervously down.Silently i scream

but can you hear me?

Deep down in my thoughts, I

am all alone drowning

Silently i scream but can you

hear me?

As the taste of blood washes

around my mouth

Bruises and cuts are on the

outside trying to peek out and yet

and stillI DONT SAY A THING!!!!

Silently i scream

But can you hear me?

thoughts of love run through my

mind.

hopefully it comes to a reality

But instead love is barricaded in

a dark misty world thats out of my

reach

Yet and still

I SILENTLY SCREAM!!!!

I am a silent screamer

even threw all the things you see

yourself painting a portrait of me

Yet and still

my soul,my heart,& mind

is CONSTANTLY

SCREAMING!!!!!!!!!!!

And can you here me???

well MAYBE......

if you listen close andSILENTLY!!!!

This beautiful young lady Jasmineenjoys life. When she has sparetime, she spends it listening toR&B music and writing poemsthat aspires her. She graduatedat Hamlin Park school # 74 andshe will be a freshmen atMcKinley high this coming schoolyear. Her favorite hobbies include

writing, singing of coarse when

no one is looking & dancing.Jasmine started writing when shewas only 10 years old ,writing herfirst poem ever called Rain.She is a very inspiring person &she hopes for others to aspire heras much as she does others.She was born jan 5 1997 and like

the cold month of her birthday

she loves getting caught in the

freezing snow.

Writing is her life & just like

many others it helps her let out

emotions thats hard for most of

us to contain.


27/63

I had barely been in New Zealand for a day, and already things

werent going well. Following my early morning departure from

the Buffalo Niagara International Airport, I had gone through

Chicago and L.A. and finally landed in Auckland, only to be

herded onto a coach for the long drive to Rotorua. As we left

the city and passed through miles of astonishingly hilly

farmland, our driver made full use of the coachs intercom

system, telling us, quite enthusiastically, all about New

Zealands wide range of agricultural exports.

As I began to nod off, one of the delegation leaders took

the microphone from the driver and informed us of their plans

for the next day. We were to start our second day in New

Zealand at the Rotorua City Council to learn about the local

government, then we would go to a large luge track on the

mountain above town for a bit of fun after the lecture wed

receive. Wed eat lunch at the restaurant next to the track, and

then we would proceed to another building called theAgrodome to watch a bearded man in a dirty wife-beater shout

at us while shearing sheep. Later that afternoon, our delegation

would arrive at Whakarewarewa, a small Maori village where

we would be given a short tour and dinner. We would also be

staying there for the night, in the towns Marae.

The leader who was addressing us, a middle-aged woman

named Elizabeth, had to explain to us the cultural significance

of our stay there. A Marae is the center of a Maori village,

she said, reading out of a pamphlet she was holding in her

hand. It serves primarily as a meeting house, but is also a

sacred place to the Maori. Shoes cannot be worn inside of the

Marae as it is considered disrespectful. She also added, after

putting away the pamphlet, that we would have to choose a

chief to represent our delegation. It is the custom for the

chief of a visiting group of people to greet those who are

welcoming him in a ceremony.

No big deal.

That evening, when we arrived at the hotel, I ate a small

dinner and retired early to my room. Ive never been able to fall

asleep on planes, and having spent 13 hours watching episodes

of Curb Your Enthusiasm and The Office en route to Auckland, I

was exhausted. I fell asleep fairly quickly, but was woken up

about an hour later, when Jonathan and Dave, the two students

I had to share the room with, arrived.

Because we werent all from the same school, or even thesame school district, very few of the students on the trip knew

one another when we set out from Buffalo. However, because

we were all unfamiliar with one another, it forced us to interact.

Most of us knew wed need friends to get through the 18-day

trip. For this reason, I had made an effort to speak to a few

people on the bus ride to Rotorua, and I had already met both

Jonathan and Dave. One of them told me that we were

expected in the hotel lobby. It was time to choose a chief.

When we got down there, I was surprised to see that the

rest of the delegation had already assembled. Most of them

were sitting cross-legged on the floor. The clerk at the hote

desk seemed more than a little disturbed by this, but had

apparently decided to let it go. Elizabeth, the delegation

manager, perked up when she saw the three of us enter the

room. Ah! Youre here! We were about to begin.

She turned away from us so that she could address the

entire delegation again. As I told you earlier, and as you al

know, we have to choose a chief to represent us when we visit

the Whakarewarewa Marae. Now, in case I havent made the

job description clear enough, whoever is made chief mus

participate in a welcoming ceremony. A Maori warrior will test

your bravery by shouting loudly at you and waving a woodenstick at your head. Your test is to remain as still as possible

Dont move. Try not to flinch. Dont speak or make any noise

Just remain calm. If they decide that you have conducted

yourself bravely, they will admit your people, us, into their

Marae. Any questions?

This was followed by silence. Nobody wanted to know any

more about what was required of the chief. I think most of us

wanted to know less. Alright. Any volunteers?

TheChiefByNiallGribbins

THEC

HIEFNiallGribbins


28/63

Still, no one spoke. I was still half-asleep and was violently

rubbing my eyes with my shirt sleeve when I realized that

almost everyone in the room was staring at me, including

Elizabeth. I turned around and looked at Jonathan and Dave,

who had been standing behind me. They both had large, evil-

looking grins on their faces. It was a very frightening moment.

Guys? I said.

Niall, I think that your friends have selected you to be

chief. Elizabeth said. Her tone, normally so warm and

pleasant, was ice cold as she said it. I felt like Julius Caesar,realizing, in the last few moments of his life, that he was being

conspired against by his former allies. It was all over for me. I

was going to be killed by a Maori warrior.

I didnt say anything for a few seconds. I was thinking.

During my first day in New Zealand, I had already acquired an

odd reputation. I was typically very nervous when first meeting

people, and had been making a fool of myself all day. I think

most of the people I spoke to could sense this, and went easy

on me because of it. However, at the end of the day, when the

opportunity came for a joke at my expense, there were very few

people who werent willing to jump on it.

Eventually, I spoke. No. Cant do it.

A girl groaned from a far corner of the crowd. Come on.You can do it.

No.

Just do it. Its not that hard. Be the chief!

That was when they began chanting. Someone in the

middle of the group started it, and then people started joining

in, one by one. CHIEF! CHIEF! CHIEF!

No. I said, for the third time.

CHIEF! CHIEF! CHIEF! CHIEF! CHIEF! CHIEF!

They were cut off by a voice from across the room. It was

the hotel clerk, who had decided that, although she could

tolerate a large group of people sitting cross-legged on the floor

of the lobby, she would draw the line at the same number ofpeople loudly chanting the word chief. HEY! she shouted,

KNOCK IT OFF OR YOURE OUT OF HERE!

The group quieted down and one of the delegation

leaders, who had been chanting along with everyone else only a

moment before, went over to the desk to apologize to the clerk

on behalf of the students.

If he says no, we cant make him be chief, Elizabeth said

to the group. Then she turned to face me. Are you sure you

dont want to be chief, Niall?

I stood there and thought for a moment, aware that the

entire room was watching me, with the exception of the clerk,

who was watching the defeated-looking delegation leader with

a look of utter contempt. I thought about it a bit more. Thiscould be a big moment for me. I could be the chief. Who knows? I could be

a really awesome chief. I can be brave sometimes. Then I thought of a

Maori warrior, screaming and flailing his staff, right in my face.

No. I said, for the last time. Thanks, though.

The other students groaned. They were upset because now

it had to be one of them. Elizabeth looked at me a few

moments longer. Her expression seemed somewhat

disappointed. I shrugged and she turned away again to face the

unruly group of teenagers.

Alright, she said, Whos it going to be?

The room was silent once more.

The next day, I got up early and had a large breakfast to

make up for my lack of appetite the night before. In the

evening, after we had gone to the City Council and the luge

track and Agrodome, when we were walking through the large

stone gateway to enter Whakarewarewa Village, I felt oddly

disappointed. Part of it was the look I had gotten from

Elizabeth. Another part of it was that being a chief could have

been something Id look back on years from then. Something

that would fill me with pride, remembering the time when Istood up against a fearsome Maori warrior.

Our Maori guides led us into a large cabin with one room

It was the hall where they received visitors before taking them

to the Marae. They performed a few traditional songs and the

elaborate dances that went with them, and then an elderly

woman dressed in some sort of grass skirt stood before us and

gave a brief speech, welcoming us to Whakarewarewa. She

recited something in the Maori language and gave the women

the opportunity to learn one of the dances they had performed

After this, the males were brought up and taught, step-by-step

how to do a Haka, another traditional Maori dance.

At the very end of the festivities, our chief was called up. A

student named Daryl had volunteered, being one of the largestand strongest members of our delegation. This was the

moment everyone had been waiting for. This was when wed

get to watch, with grim fascination, as a hulking Maori warrior

faced off against a high school student. Daryl walked up to the

Maori welcoming party and they led him through a chant

which he had to recite back to them. Then they let him sit back

down and the old woman came up front again and said shed

take us to the Marae.

As everyone started filing out of the cabin, I sat there

stunned. Thats it? What the hell? I could have done that! Then I

stood up and joined the others. It wasnt even something worth

getting upset over. I hadnt missed out on anything. I got aboutas much out of that experience as Daryl did, and without the

burden of worrying about a Maori warrior all day.

Now that Ive had time to think about it, I doubt there

even are Maori warriors anymore. Maori office workers

maybe. The days of warriors are long gone in New Zealand

and many of the Maori peoples warrior-based rituals have

become obsolete as a result.

I followed the last of my delegation out into the night. As

we were being led across the village to the place where wed

spend the night, I thought about why I had turned down the

position of chief. I was afraid. I thought Id flinch. And even

though I really hadnt missed out on anything by not accepting

the position, I still felt like I had. I was made aware of mylimitations. As I took off my shoes to enter the Marae, I vowed

that I wouldnt show this weakness again.

Next time, Id be the chief.

ANTHOLOGYSUBMIS

SIONJuly20,

2011


29/63

NiallGribbinsdoesnthavemuchtosayabouthimself.

ANTHOLOGYSUBMIS

SIONJuly20,

2011


30/63

Muses are the things of creativity, the lit match

to the spark of ingenuity. They are like faeries

mischievous and crafty the way they do their

bidding then evaporate like mist into the wind

Their skin is wrapped and bound tightly to

nimble skeletons that are hollow like birds. It pale and smooth, and luminous in moonlight.

Muses do not reflect the sun but the world

around them, collecting stray rays of thought

that are the product of childrens daydreams o

restless night visions. They gather them and

beam them back toward earth, toward anothe

mind that could use these views. Their hair, so

and luxurious, dances freely, not bound by the

constraints of gravity. And the eyes of a Muse

their eyes are like nothing you have ever seen,

nor will see unless they deem you worthy. The

color is like liquid diamonds, flashing, swirling

rainbows, a sea of color. There is a lack of

pupils for they know everything there is to kno

and have seen everything there is to see, being

here from the dawn of time to the twilight.

In their immortal existence, they still need to b

entertained. Like sprites they prance on slende

feet over the land at night, creating dreams no

understandable and sometimes even too

outlandish to remember. But sometimes a Mu

will choose a long-term relationship with a

human, granting them the clay of an idea to

mold as they wish, and the Muse will watch tosee how it is shaped and decorated, and what

emerges from the fiery kiln to be displayed for

the world to see.

Muse

Kelcie is a seventeen years young Amherst High student who has a love for all things creative.

She finds beauty in the simple things; objects ant activities that are often overlooked in day-to-day

life. Obviously she has at least a slight interest in writing, but for those who know her it is more

than just slight. Kelcie has entered NaNoWriMo for the past three years National Novel Writing

Month in November in case you didnt know. She also loves art, having dabbled in photography

and painting but is more comfortable with mediums like graphite. Kelcie plans on getting a double

major in psychology and creative writing.

And she has a rabbit that growls.

KELCIEADAMS

What it is to break,

to be wholly broken.

Boulders tied to your lungs

and

dropped.

No longer able tofind relief in air and breath.

To be stuck in time,

tired and drained

sitting in the chair

waiting

watching

waiting

for the doom to come.

Its coming. You can see it.

And still have no will that compels

you to escape.

Not hung by noose but

pierced heart is the true demise.And black depths are no longer feared

because

it is not this writhing

middle ground.

Too far from light to grab it,

but it would only burn your hands anyway.

Its dark, but still not dark enough

to sleep. Eternal sleep

in peace, perhaps,

if such a thing exists.

Poem for the hanging figure


31/63

WhatGoesAroundByLuigiR.Tomani

In words I can not describe the

horrible situation that has happened earlier

today

none of us would have ever thought

that the harmless, weak, Maxel Brittle,

could have such dark powers with in him

that he was dyeing to use on the kids who

troubled him, unfortunately I was one of

those kids.

It began on the playground over by the

old school house that was shut down about

twenty years ago.

Maxel was flipping through that pages

that I have seen him read over and over

again . Me and the rest of the click where

sitting on the monkey bars o the other side

of the playground, Justin couldn't stop

glaring at him .Jump him Ricky. He said

still glaring at Maxel.

Justin was what you could call the

leader of our small group. he had long

brown hair, blood shot looking eyes, and

skin so pale you would think he is the

walking dead.

Ricky, you hear me?

Yeah. I replied.

Then go jump him

Ishook my head, I really wasn't in the mood

to do anything like that.

Fine P***y, be a good christian.

he sharply looked over at Andrew who

was the Slave of our group, as in, what

ever we say he does.

How bout Andrew ...do you got the

Ba**s? Justin asked silently .

all though andrew was are slave he still

was as tough and brutal as the rest of us.

Yeah, no sh** . andrew said , almost

sneering.

Andrew jumped, down, off themonkey bars and began to walk towards

Maxel, with his hands in his pockets.

Finally when Andrew reached Maxel

he laughed at him and said something me

and Justin couldn't hear, but although we

couldn't hear him we could perfectly see

what he was doing.

Maxel said something to Andrew, and

he frowned.

He grabbed Maxel by the neck, and

lifted him in the air with only one hand,

and through him to the ground, causingJustin to laugh.

That a good boy Andy.

Maxels book was lying on the ground

with bent pages and dirt stains,

Andrew picked it up, said a few words

and through it into a puddle that was

bought by the harsh rain last night.

Andrew picked Maxel up again, this

time with more force, screaming something

about giving him money.

Maxel escaped Andrew by kicking him

in the shin, and that made Andrew steam

with fury.

He trough Maxel to the ground cussin

out loud and rubbing his knee. his now red

eyes, shot at Maxel, and he reached into h

pocket, and pulled out his recently

sharpened butterflied knife and pinnedMaxel down to the ground.

Andrew then cut a long thin scar acro

Maxels , and then cut two scars on both h

arms, and finally cut many scars on his no

bloody chest.

But Maxel didnt scream, he didn't

even move ans.... I think I saw a small smil

appear on his face.

Andrew walked back towards us with

smile on his face, looking like he just did

some good deed.

Well sh** Andy- Justin began, but

could not finish.

There was a loud slash sound, and the

smell of blood filled the air .

Out of no where there was a long cut

spread across Andrews face, blood drippin

down from the deep scar.

Andrew held his had to it and let out a

huge scream that became a loud cry.

After that , out of no where 2 cuts

appeared on both arms as if an invisible

man cut them with an invisible knife.

soon random cuts appeared every

where, on his chest causing him to dripblood on the dirt of the playground.

Finally the cuts stopped appearing on

on his body. He fell to the ground, in pain

screaming to the top of his lungs.

Me and Justin Looked at each other,

we had no idea what just happened.

Until I looked over to where Maxel

was, and there stood Maxel grimly

smiling...with not a scratch on him.

Louie R. Tomani grewup in Buffalo his wholelife and has alwaysbeen into the darkerside of things, he is ascreenwriter anddirector and is

planning on sending inone of his screenplaysto 14 different filmcompanies.


32/63

Mystrangeadventuretothecemetery

ByAliciaMendozaCome on, its not scary! I shouted

over my shoulder to my friends. But

Celia, theres a bunch of dead people are

here! Bryan, my best friend, whined like a

little kid. Even though Bryan was over six

feet tall and loved to watch scary movies,he had a huge fear of dead people. I was

adventurous and a total dare devil,

whereas he was always cautious and afraid.

Oh, man up Bryan, theyre dead!

What could they possibly do? Steven, my

other best friend, asked. They could rise

up outta the ground and eat me... Bryan

muttered. I rolled my eyes at him and kept

walking.

Steven was way ahead of us,

examining a grave. Hey guys, come check

this one out! Steven called from afar,

waving his flashlight around. Bryan wasabout to complain and act all scared, but

before he could I took his arm and began

dragging him to the grave, whether he liked

it or not.

When we reached Steven, he was

standing in front of a grave that looked a

lot like a coffin, but it was made of stone.

There was a crack between the base and

the lid of the grave, that Steven was peering

into. Here, look through the crack and Ill

shine my flashlight in. Hopefully well see

something cool! Steven exclaimed. He

pulled his flashlight from his belt and

dropped it, the light going out. Steven

swore and picked it up, smacking the

flashlight against a tree near the grave.

Within a few minutes he luckily managed

to revive it and shined it through the crack.

Steven was so annoying sometimes. He

wasnt the brightest star in the sky, and

sometimes it wasnt for the better.

We all walked up to the grave, looking

through the crack while Steven adjusted the

flashlight. Dude, theres nothing in here. I

said, somewhat disappointed. ThankGod. Bryan added, relieved. Are you

sure? Steven questioned, pressing his face

closer to the grave. Yes Im sure, look. I

turned back to the crack in the grave an

looked through it again. See, I told- I

stopped short when a bony hand shot up

from the darkness, mere inches my face.

Bryan beat me at screaming like a little girl,

his scream was way more high pitched than

mine. The three of us jumped back,

crashing into the gigantic oak tree behind

us.

Did you see that? Bryan asked, his

voice shaky. Yeah, what was that? Steven

inquired, giving a quick glance at the grave.

I shrugged, unsure and Bryan stated Who

knows, who cares, I am not sticking around

to find out. He then got up and brushed

himself off. Bryan, dont go, please? Lets

find out what that was! Please, for me? Igave him the puppy dog look as I said that,

knowing he would give in, which he did.

I beamed at him, then crawled towards

the grave again. When I got close enough

to touch it, a loud moan escaped from the

grave, shaking the lid violently. My eyes

widened and I suddenly filled with fear, but

didnt move. The grave shook again, more

viciously than the first time, almost

knocking the lid off the base. I knew I

shouldve moved away from the grave,

should have ran to safety, but I was frozen.

Another moan was released from the graveand the lid shook even more powerfully

than it did the first two times. And finally,

the lid fell.

The guys grabbed me an pulled me

back the second the saw the lid fall, saving

me from being crushed by it. I attempted to

the thank them, but I couldnt utter a word.

The bony hand emerged from the now

open grave, and rested on the edge of the

base. The creatures other hand shot up and

it struggled to get up. We sat there,

completely paralyzed and filled with terror

as we watched the ugly thing rise from the

dead.

The undead creature was horrifying.

Its flesh was peeling off, exposing its shock

white bones. Beetles crawled over its

deformed face with sulking eyes and silts fo

a nose. The zombie opened its bug infested

mouth and moaned again. It started

crawling toward us, and I felt myself pale.That was enough for Bryan, for he

once again screamed shrilly as he jumped

up, grabbing both Steven and my wrists in

with an iron hard grip. He ran towards the

entrance of cemetery, which was about the

length of a football field away. Steven and I

stumbled behind him as he sprinted, still

screaming.

I thought we were going to be okay

until I saw the other graves. They each had

limbs of the deceased poking out of them,

most of them were moving.

We were only about halfway to theentrance when the zombies began to

surround us. They came closer and closer

until all three of us were back to back. I

knew it, we were going to die. They kept

coming closer, all of us screaming when

they got close enough to eat us.

Aside from writing, Alicia Mendoza loves

her phone. She is a text addict, who needs

one of those help circles for her texting

problem. It is extremely rare to see her

without her phone, as she guards it with

her life and never lets anyone else touch

it. She must be doing only an okay job

though; her phone has more dents and

scratches then there are stars in the night

sky. Another thing shes really into is

singing and playing her electric guitar.

When she was younger, she dreamed of

being a rock star until she grew up and

realized that fame and popularity seemed

a lot worse than how most think of it. And

she was never a very good poet, she thinks

all poetry much rhyme, but she cannot

rhyme for her life. In the end, Alicia is

passionate about everything she does, and

hopes to become a better writer.


33/63

Summary

Pieces of life, a summary,

The obscure, the expected

The emptying of mind and pockets.

The remnants of a culture on the brink

of nonexistence.

We search our daily lives for things that

are exceptionalFor things that stand out

And are repeated in our dreams.

We hunger for beautiful things.

We cling to the pieces

And the memories that they contain

Things

Newspaper clippings and wooden

craft show bowls

And when we finally fade

Our fingerprints remain on them still-

Even when our houses,

Rooms upon rooms of accumulated

Things,

Are emptied, our summaries proofrea

And our families ponder

what did they keep this for?

As the mouths of

thick black garbage bags

Open hungrily to devour

Our objects once prizedLooked fondly upon as they sat

Resting in boxes

Marked for eras of our previous selv

Pieces of life, a summary of us,

Movie night and architecture,

Branches and numbers

And keys that fit all of the locks.

A page of drawings in pen, and wors

that is one more thing

This thing a collection of more thing

And will perhaps be resurfaced in som

future collection

When a young boy empties his pocke

Sarah Pozzuto

Sarah is sixteen, looks

approximately twelve, and acts

anywhere from three to forty-

six. She attends West Seneca

West Senior high school, whereshe frequently humiliates herself

by being both socially awkward

and athletically challenged.

However, Sarah fancies herself

to be pretty darn cool. She has

played piano for twelve years

and viola for six, is an active

percussionist in marching band,

and is the student council

president. Her favorite color is

orange, she hates socks, and sheis currently researching the

possibility of living in a

lighthouse.

In Motion

What are we

If we capture life in stills?

How many shades of gray are we?

Hands in pockets we reflect

On lives that are not ours,

Lives that sprawl across textbook pages

And rest, a finale, in heroic statues.

Our own lives are composed

Of paychecks and car keys

Instant, both coffee and messaging

And like artists

They are the medium we select.

Life in motion, the caption reads

And our portraits are blurred.

We are painted on the sides of trains,

Dashing, consistently in danger

Of being late.Forgetting where we have been

As we pull through stop after stop.

Life is fast

And so are our words,

Life is not careful

And neither are we.

We do not stop long enough to be painted,

But find comfort in paintings of others

Trying to live fully, experience everything.

But art hasnt the mobility

To experience us.


34/63

Untitled

Eyes closed, I see the world

In my own twisted sort of comprehension,

The warped version that only a sad person sees

And sure enough

In the cave of space that is my chest

I am empty.

Eyes closed, I fumble awkwardly through life

Thriving on people, places, words

That make no sense, but seem to.

I am held captive by a dream,Bound by ropes of braided subconscious.

She forces me to watch through my own eyes

As some unsettling version of my life

Unfolds.

She is pleased with herself for having woven the tale,

Having lulled me to sleep

And replacing my eyelids with blank canvases

Painting onto them everything that I am

Or ever was.

She is flowing, gliding,

Walking like a waterfall with pale white hair.

Everything about her is light,

As though she is made of small shards of sunLike the ones that cascade through summer windows

As though her skin were made

Of everything beautiful about the world

Stitched together, a quilt.

She is a personification

Of laughter, the sort that bubbles in your throat

If you hold it in

And I have a vision of her beginning as just that.

A laugh.

When I have finished viewing myself

Jumping off of balconies, sitting alone in a crowd

She returns, pale bare feet moving with easeHeel toe heel toe

And whispers wake up,

Her voice like sailboats and gold.

I nod gratefully as she cuts me loose

And my eyelids flutter open;

I cannot remember her

And sure enough

In the cave of space that is my chest

I am empty.


35/63

The First StepBy Travis Wolf

The countdown

begins 10 , 9, 8, 7,

We rattle and rumble

and shake.

The countdown

continues 6, 5, 4,

We hear cheering for

us.

3, 2, 1, blast off !

We hear beeping and

buzzing,

as we burst of the

ground,

flames leaping

behind us.

We head straight for

the sky,

straight for the stars,straight for the

moon.

Tiny lights twinkle,

as we soar past them.

Its Like they are

putting on a show,

just for us.

As gravity lessens,

we rise of the floor.

No words can

describe the feeling.

Our stomachs growlin aching hunger.

We garb our food

packets, and just add

water.

With our bellies full,

we suit up and

prepare for our mission,

so dangerous, so

daring.

helmets on and

ready to go,

we leap out and floatthrough the stars,

extending our legs

toward earths brother.

I touch down with

both of my feet,

everything becomes

still and silent.

I reach with my foot,

and take the first

step.

TravisWolfisastudentatOrchardParkMiddleSchool. Hehasonebrotherandonedog.Heenjoyswriting,readingwatchingmovies,listeningtomusic,spendingtimewith

his

friends,

and

manyotherthings. HisfavoritebooksaretheHarryPotterseries,byJ.K.Rowling,andtheHungerGamesseriesby,SuzanneCollins.Hisfavoritemoviesinclude:TheWizardOfOz,Inception,ToyStory3,andtheHarryPottermovies. HisfavoriteschoolsubjectsareSpanishand

English.

He

enjoys

towriteshortstories,novels,andpoetry.ThisishissecondyearintheWesternNewYorkWritingProjectSummerCamp,butthisishisfirstyearintheTeenWritingWorkshop.

ClosingBy Travis Wolf

White lights blind the man,

reaching for the R.

The boxes now empty and bare.

The lights the write CINEMA,

slowly disappear.

Another interest has displaced his center of work.

He pulls off the last letter,

and the lights shut down.

The cinema is closing.

Excerpt from,

The Tomb of

SoulsBy Travis Wolf

Cobwebs cascade

from the ceiling, spiders

crawling in and out ofeach strand. Dust flies

through the air like a

swarm of mosquitos.

The hot, musty

atmosphere makes my

heart race. A single noise

flattens me against the

stone wall. A rat runs

past me, its tail waving as

if to say, Scared you!

The cracked

cobblestone floor feels as

though it is crumblingbeneath my feet after

each step. A blast of cool

air startles me for a

moment. A freezing chill

runs up my spine.

Something lurks in the

dark tunnel waiting to

pounce. I wave my dying

torch, losing the fight

over darkness.

Each time my feet hit

the floor a soft echo fills

the tunnel. Ripped strips

of linen hide in the

corners of the tunnel,

moving ever so slightly in

the warm breeze. The

place reeks of decaying

matter and moth balls.

Mold cover the walls like

a coat of paint. Moss

grows between the

smooth stones. The walls

are damp and water drips

over my head. Sand

covers the floor like a

carpet. I reassure myself

that I will be alright.

Crunching rattles

through my ears and I

bend down to view what

is producing the sound.

Bones. Human or not, I

shiver. Whatever awaitsme is dangerous and

deadly. On accident I

drop my light supple and

instantly plunge into

darkness. My breathing

slows and I guide myself

forward using the walls. I

reach the entrance to the

tomb, and step in.


36/63

25ThingsaboutMike1. He doesnt like it when people

steal things from Facebook.

2. He doesnt know why anybody

would steal something from

Facebook.

3. Mark Zuckerburg seems like a

[insert words of hatred here].

4. Thats was not actually about

him.

5. This list will not get to 25.

6. It doesnt matter.

7. He is the dragon.

8. Anybody who gets that

reference should patthemselves on the back.

9. He thinks that pictures of

Jesus are bad.

10.He thinks that all pictures of

Jesus were stolen from

Facebook.

11.He knows this because he is

obviously Jesus.

12.So therefore he is the Jesusdragon.

13.The square root of 25 is 5.

14.Refrigerator

15.He is a communist.

16.Bam! Didnt expect that one.

17.He thinks Joe Stalin was pretty

bad though.

18.Trotsky was the cool one.

19.Trotsky probably got all the

ladies.

20.He knows nothing.

21.The first rule about knowing

nothing is to not speak about

knowing nothing.

22.Lets end this while its still

ahead.

23.On a prime number.

AGameforMikesupcomingnovelBy Mike MontoroAristocrats and Pigs

Play the game

A simple game

That can never truly be

won

Won in spirit

But never won in truth

Because by the time the

endgame arises

There is none left to fight

with

No battles to be won

No men to kill

No wars to be fought

Just two wrought old men

Staring at each other

Across the board

With a king in their hand

And fatality in their

back pocket

Mike

MontoroThe

Dragon,First of His

Name,

Hand of the

King


37/63

Lebronviaastreamofconsciousness

By Mike Montoro

555335

Numbers

And here we go again

Lebron James

With a

335

JP, JR, and all the rest

Like Barney and Friends

A man in the mirror

And Dany

Looking onto uns self

Self looks to selfin a great stream of consciousness

Thoughts fly over the sands of

Arabia

And revolutionaries call for their

savior

Fingers of death

Oh psycho, how are you today?

Well, you reply

Pain is worse than death

335

Is perhaps

Lebron James

DeathWeathermen of it

Find themselves on a bagel

With cream cheese,

Hold the bacon

Please,

To rhyme

For the king of basketball

Lebron James

For a 335

Three numbers

For a 3

A three three five that isWhy is there five letters in three?

And four in five?

And four in two?

Which there is none

For one

One king

Lebron James

At least I may release

The king

Lebron James

Off my chest

And into the rest of the world

To the side

Out of the box

Victoria shines forever

Not Licata

Not to say that she doesnt shine

Restless one

Of moral boundaries

Not unfolding

Find oneself557

755

Ruby Tuesdays jig

Of eternity

Not unlike a dance

Not of eternity

Or Ruby Tuesday

Or Lebron James

I wish he were French

Headaches are good

2255

44557575345

878

No

876

No numbers

For Lerbo Jamisison

Jamison I mean

Or Jamisison

Find yourself look unto

Onesisisisisisis

Du Du DadaDu Du

Game of Thrones Theme

EscaperRaiders

God that movie was really bad

Skirts into stream of consciousness

Cant spell

A line

A line

A line

Write it on a page

On the backs of angels

And demons

And Dan Brown

Who is not Dan Brown

But Dan Brown

And Lebron

Flying monkeys?

Like World of Warcraft?

Laaaaaa

Octave!

Prisons

On death

Not of death?

You ask me wearily

Well

We got it off the truck

And it fell down

Double seeing double

Trouble?

NO!

Why is it always no?

Why cant it be yes

Like suspended animation

444

1!One king

Lebron Jamisison

He actually did terrible

In the finals

Like a boss!

NO!

Like an executive

Of death

And immortality

Du Du Du Du

Bah!

Like a sheep executiveEn

Did

Facepalm.

Whoa


38/63

Besides shopping, Ari enjoys traveling around the world. She

goes to the Lancaster Middle School and is currently in the

8th grade. Some of her hobbies include: horse-back-riding,

hanging out with her friends, and reading. She is obsessedwith Harry Potter and Pretty Little Liars and her favorite

food is sushi. Her favorite movie is Water for Elephants and

her favorite song is the show goes on by Lupe Fiasco. She

enjoys shopping at her favorite store, Pink, and she loves cats

and her favorite actor is Taylor Lautner. ( Its a wolf thing.)

Arianna is very friendly and if she gets to know you she can

be a great friend that you can rely on.

Rebel,acatthatlivesinmymemories.

By: Arianna Dugan

When I close my eyes, I think

about him. The sweetest cat to

walk this earth, and I never had

the chance to say goodbye to him.

When my father had dropped me

off at my grandparents, my small

seven-year old hands were still

clutched onto the cage. I knew

something was wrong. Rebel had

been sick for a long time, but I

assumed that he was going to go

to the vet to get better. When it

was time to say goodbye, I had

kissed his furry head and said I

love you Rebel, see you soon.

When my father had returned, I

ran over to see Rebel and to hug

him, but my fathers eyes were red

and watery. Confused, I opened

the car door and reached for the

cat carrier. It was empty. A

blackness overtook my heart and

when I got home, I ran past my

mother and ran to my room, when

I hid under the bed crying. After

many years, I started to grow up

and live my life until I was 10

and I found a picture of the two of

us snuggling. It shattered my

heart, and I ran upstairs hugging

the picture to my chest. I finally

fell asleep and when I opened my

eyes, I was in a large field with

beautiful butterflies floating above

my head. In the middle of the

field, Rebel was standing there.

His reddish gold fur gleamed and

his brown eyes sparkled. My eyes

instantly filled with tears and we

ran towards each other. He

jumped into my arms, purring

loudly as I stroked his beautiful

fur. He licked my cheek with his

sandpaper tongue and I kissed his

sweet smelling fur. He suddenly

jumped down from my arms ad

started to run, beckoning me to

follow him. I chased after him,

laughing as we ran past cream

colored daises and vibrant red

tulips and splashed past small

creeks with the most beautiful

crystal clear water and little fish

that nibbled at my bare feet. We

climbed over large smooth rocks

and pranced through soft grass.

Rebel skillfully caught a squirrel

and I plucked a ripe apple from

one of the trees. We finally

collapsed on the grass, and he lay

next to me. I stroked his side and

pulled him close. We lay there for

a while, soaking in each others

presence, sometimes dozing off,

until I finally felt the tugging

feeling that my dream was starting

to fade. He must have sensed it

too, because he jumped up and

looked at me. He jumped into my

arms one last time, and I held him

close, kissed his nose as he licked

mine. I gently placed him on the

ground, where he ran to the edge

of the forest his tail waving good-

bye. I slowly allow myself to wake,

but not before I whisper, I love you

Rebel, see you soon.

Blueberries

smallsoft,round.theyfitperfectlyinmyhand.squishsquash,gulp.Theyslidepeacefullydownmythroat.

Blueberries


39/63

THEDEADLYWARByHIBBAHMOJAWALLA

Houses destroyed, children taken, and parents

burned, to the ground.

There is no safe haven and no horses to mound.

The wounds go deep and memory is to keepBlood everywhere, shot in the arm, or a blade in

the head.

Filled with screaming and moaning the hospital

has no more beds

Day turns to night, and dusk turns to dawn.But

the war goes on.

People have gotten tired, but the war wont get

expired.

For the anger and hatred has come in the midst.

The children dont want to see any more threatsor fists.

So, they do what they think is right.

Together with all their bravery and might, they

go to the highest mountain as it starts to rain.

They see blood stains wash away and see the

beginning of a new day.

Then before their fathers start fighting, they

come running and said Oh, father, with all your

loving and caring

towards us. PleaseStop! In return their

fathers took out their

swords, as the

children all prayed to

their Lord.

Then the children

closed their eyes as

their life was taken

away.

Hibbah likes to write poemsan addition to writingnovellas. Her favorite sportsare Soccer, Basketball, andSwimming. She is currentlyon a travel soccer team,

playing for the BuffaloTigers. Hibbah is homeschooled by her father, andwants to stay home schooleduntil she enters high school.

Hibbah Mojawalla


40/63

Hidden

In the crowd of the same.

Not one different or unique.

A golden individual stands, different from the rest.A different view, different perspective.

Not noticed, seen or acknowledged by the shades of gray.

Hidden behind and unable to shine.

Cannot break free from the indifferent.

Hidden from the world.

Perfect

Perfection. The absurdity of it all. A simple word used

to describe someone, yet is it even possible? What do we

even have to compare perfect to? Do we even understand

it? Sure, your parents tell you your perfect just the way

you are. and im not saying you are a horrible person or

anything. But, we are human beings. We have flaws. We

are not perfect. In fact, were far from it.

Natalia Trigilio is a writer whois starting high school atWilliamsville South this year.She is an average student(average being she is nobrainiac).She is a swimmer and lovesplaying tennis. She has astrange dog who WILL eatanything. Anything.She loves writing, reading,singing and drawing (or whather math teacher callsobnoxious doodling). Sheloves eating pixie stix with herfriends and baking cookies onrandom occasions.

NataliaTrigilio


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48/63

Carly Linsner is a creative teen who goes to

school at West Seneca West middle. When

she's not writing you'll find her cheerleading,

reading or spending time with her friends

and family. She loves to make people laugh

and would give anything to be on the beach.

The two words that best describe her are

clever and optimistic. She dreams of seeing

one of her own books in a bookstore one

day.

Simple Emerald Zipper

Life is a complex journey, but life is also a simple emerald zipper,Stretching all lengths of an unnoticed aqua pencil pouch.Plastic zipper, brand new, swiftly moving back and forth oncommand.Never- ending zipper, winding around school necessity,Taking twists and turns along the way.Open to new ideas, closing tight on precious memories,Storing them safely in pouch forever.

Time passes, zipper goes on.Open to try new things, closing off all evil that threatens.Time passes, zipper goes on.Open to unlimited opportunities, closed off to unlimitedfreedom.Zippering smoothly, effortlessly often,But getting stuck once in a while.Needing patient, gentle fingers as an aid to pry ocean blue, meshfrom its mouth.Time passes, zipper goes on, but slowing slightly.Open to new love, closing all fear inside.Zippering smoothly, effortlessly often,But once in a while refusing to budge,Forced in one spot, trapped in fear.

Again tender, caring fingers come to assistance,To free it from vibrant material, to help keep zipper going.Time passes, zipper goes on but struggling, sluggishly moving.Opening up to others with comforting words, closing one lasttime.Time passes, zipper slows to a complete stop.Not even kind, warm fingers can get stuck, hopeless zippermoving again.Open forever, no different than a statue, closed to ideas of regretand sorrow.I Am MeOne tiny drop of vibrant paint adding to magnificent, growingportrait of giant world.One soft voice being lost in overpowering chorus ofunimaginable universe.One blade of emerald in forever going field of grass.But I am much more than meets the eyeI am the drop of paint that changes the whole picture.I am the courageous voice that leads the whole chorus.I am the single golden blade of grass that dares to be different.I am creative, I am witty, I am fun- loving, I am unique.I am me.

UntitledGentle breeze bringing peace to thousands living calmly inserene cemetery.Gentle breeze carrying regret, words unspoken, lives unlived.Gentle breeze comforting visitors, cooling residents fromsweltering July heat.Gentle breeze giving hope, showing love, bringing faith as a vividbutterfly floats by.Gentle breeze telling stories of those who rest in forest lawn.


49/63

The Almost Poet

A small boy stepped up to the mike. But just because hes small doesnt mean hes

young. He was just kind of short. He stumbled a bit on his way up, panicked and

looked to see if anyone caught that. But they didnt so he moved on. He got to the

center of the stage and franticly checked his pockets for the piece of paper containing

his so called genius writing. He freaked out and the sweat started coming even

though he hasnt said a word yet. Finally he yanked out a small sheet of lose leaf

paper and began to unfold. You could see the coffee stains near the top when he fell

asleep writing at night and spilled it everywhere.

But he moved on and glanced at it one more time.

At the last second he realized that he used the

wrong version of the word their but whose

gunna know right? Well anyways he cleared his

throat and began to read the first line. So far so

good. As he reached the middle he stumbled on a

wew fords. I mean a few words! He tried to crack

a joke and began chuckling to himself only to

realize that half the audience was asleep and half

was just not laughing. So he panicked, sighed and

moved on. His voice boomed with each word

even though almost everyone could care less

about how he is a lonely tree in a forest or the

neglected speck on a window. Everyone was too

busy texting and wondering why its 100 degrees.

He reached his ending line and a great deal of

relief was lifted from his shoulders. He put down

the paper and looked out at the crowd to expect

looks of excitement and wonder but instead gets

dead looks of boredom and a few pity claps. He

walked off and his friends told him how he did

a good job and his mother hugged him but yes,

he knew he blew it. But at least now he knows

how NOT to write a poem. And sometimes

thats a better lesson than getting lucky on the

first try.

Daniel has been interested in writing

for quite a long time. Ever since

about middle school he would write

short stories just for fun. Some he

would share, and others hed keep to

himself. And over time he developed

a feel for what writing was all about.Expression and creation. Over the

years hes had fantastic English

teachers to help him further expand

his horizons as far as a young writer

can. Dan has written many other

short stories and just recently wrote

and directed a one act school play.

He looks forward to the future and

maybe a possible career in writing

Or professional wrestling.

A Dream

A dream is me, its Martin Luther, Susan Boil, and a guy named Gandhi,

its a declaration of independence, a bible, and a book on how to

understand quantum physics (for dummies) a dream is crossing a finish line,getting the 1,2,3, and shooting the p

Documents

2011 Anthology WNYWP Good