Jessica Frank

A good writer feels her stories. A good writer relates to her stories. But most of all, a good writer uses her imagination. I guess you could say I’m a good writer. I feel my stories, I mean, the paper seems pretty smooth. I can relate to my stories, I mean, I have written stories with my Aunt’s name in them. As for my imagination, I try as hard as I can to avoid it.

Some say imagination is a wonderful gift, but it seems to be more like a curse. My imagination runs wild. The only way to keep it from being released is a prompt. If I would lose the safety of a prompt, my imagination would free itself. You see, once you have a prompt, your imagination is tied down to a concept. If I didn’t have a prompt, my imagination would come loose. Although now, I must face my imagination as the dreaded free write.

My imagination knows my innermost thoughts, my biggest fears, and my darkest secrets. For my imagination to be free, possibilities are endless. How do I possibly make it so that my imagination doesn’t take control? I could hide all the pencils in the house! What am I saying? My imagination can see everything I can. My imagination would know where I hid them. So how do I stop the force in my head? I could pretend to be sick! Then I wouldn’t have to turn in my paper tomorrow. That would at least buy me some time to come up with a new plan. So it’s settled, I’ll be “sick” tomorrow.

Morning, that time when……wait……..IT’S MORNING! It’s show time! Role of a sick person, and action. Even after I tried every trick in the book, I still am forced to go to school. This might be harder than I thought. One thing’s for sure; I can’t let my imagination free. I’ve gotta find a way to avoid it.

I need to convince my teacher to give us a prompt. No, Mrs. Smith is too stubborn for that. I can’t escape my imagination. There’s no way. The time had come for my third hour class, language arts. Mrs. Smith took attendance. Now it was time to share our stories aloud. Beverley went first, as always. She read a story about a girl named Ramona. Then, Mary shared her story about two kids and a time traveling tree house. After Mary went, a boy name Andrew read about a pen like I’d never heard before. Then it occurred to me, all of these stories were magnificent. They were a masterpiece made by their imagination. Imagination was nothing to be afraid of! An imagination is part of who you are. Imagination is everything beyond belief, and I wasn’t going to hide mine anymore.

When Mrs. Smith called my name, I was confident and ready. I got up and read my story with pride. I knew I was a true writer. I knew the world was my paper, and I couldn’t wait to grab a pencil and start my first draft. I stood up in front of the class and shared my imagination with the world. I haven’t held my imagination down since that day it lead me. I know now to let my imagination fly, and I haven’t let it touch the ground for a second.

 

Jessica Frank has always liked to write. It helps her to express her thoughts in a way not much else can. It allows her to use creativity, as well as knowledge, to make something worth sharing.

“Mom, can you buy me that shawl?” the thirteen-year-old girl pleads.

Her mother looks toward where the girl is pointing. An indigo shawl is hanging in a shop window. Red thread, gold thread, and black thread are all woven into perfection, creating elaborate designs across the rippling azure cloth.

“I don’t know,” she hesitates.

“It’s my birthday, Mom, please,” the girl begs.

Her mother enters the shop to examine it, and by the time they leave, the girl has her shawl.

 

She wears it everywhere. She drapes it across her shoulders and runs in skipping steps so that the tassels dangle flirtatiously. She wears it on her head, and when no one is looking, she unties it so her hair and the scarf are one with the breeze.

The girl is innocent, playful. She is mischievous, and mirthful. Everyone knows her laugh. Her parents call her silly—her brothers say she should be more dutiful.

She is in trouble more than she is not, but her pretty face and quick tongue often save her.

 

The girl puts on lipstick as she watches TV with her family, and as they murmur sounds of alarm, she is tying her scarf around her waist—See Mama, doesn’t it look pretty? The red thread matches my lipstick, Daddy.

But they don’t notice.

 

She leaves for school early in the mornings, before anyone has woken up.   Her scarf is swathed around her head, her bag of books slung over her shoulder. She skips like a bird, a little blue bird, with feathers dotted in red and gold. Her eyes are dancing as always, her feet in step with her thoughts. Her dancing feet echo on the silent street. It is so quiet today, she thinks. Why is it so quiet?

A blast from behind her is so loud, and so sudden that the girl nearly falls from surprise. She spins around to see a bomb exploding down the road. It is far away, but it sounds closer—feels closer. There is fire and brick and dust—it is shooting towards her, and the girl is running, a little blue bird down the black street. There are more explosions, further away. The girl sees smoke spiraling all around, and she knows she is caught.

She cannot go home, she can only go forward.

So she runs. The girl runs, her blue shawl flapping behind her. She runs through street after street. Sometimes she is aware of people around her—sometimes it is only a place where people used to be. As she runs, her shawl changes color. It gathers the black dust, and singes at the corners. It soaks up the girl’s tears, her innocence, and her playfulness. Still she runs, a child forever forsaken. She goes from town to town, sometimes with others like her, sometimes not. She only knows she must not stay still, or the terror might catch up with her.

Her scarf is still on her head. She vows she will never take it off.

When she stops to gather her bearings, she doesn’t really know who she is. She is a woman with a blue shawl, running from the fire. Sometimes they give her a number, but when she moves on, it changes. She is a bird, a child, a woman. As long as life powers those long legs, and air fills those patient lungs, the woman with the blue scarf will run.

 

 

Renessa Visser is a sixteen-year-old student who enjoys photography, playing the piano, and learning how to evoke emotion through her writing. Her writing has been recognized in the Noisy Island as well as regional writing contests such as Take Flight & Write Teen Writing Contest.

 

 

When she admitted that she was a lesbian, his whole dream of them being together- like in all the romance novels he read– popped like a balloon. He sat in silence for a moment, staring off at a random bookshelf.

Error, error. Cannot compute.

Comprehension finally swept through his mind, and his eyes flicked back at her, taking in her anxious expression.

“Oh…”

She bit her lip and tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear, nervously awaiting his reaction. He had honestly never even thought…It was okay though. He would be okay. Rose was nervous, and he needed to show her that he wasn’t some…homophobic jerk. He nodded decisively.

Input command. Enter.

“That’s okay,” he finally said, looking at her and then down into his coffee cup. It was cold. He took a breath.

“I’m not gonna lie. I’m disappointed. I… think I might need a few days to process this. After all, if we’re going to stay friends, then I need to get over this crush.”

He glanced up just in time to see a wobbly smile form on her lips. It reached her hazel eyes, he noted with relief. He had succeeded in alleviating whatever fears had been running through her mind.

“Oh thank god, I was so worried about your reaction. I didn’t- I didn’t want to hurt you or anything, you know that right?” She spoke slowly in an attempt to keep her voice even.

He nodded. “It’s okay, Rosie.”

She laughed and swatted at him. “Don’t call me that, Charles.”

He grinned before reverting back into a more serious expression. “Honestly,” he started, “we’ll probably be better friends now that that’s been resolved.”

“I hope so. It would suck to not have a book-buddy anymore,” Rose replied, pouting at the thought.

“And over a silly crush, too. My ego isn’t that fragile…to throw away our friendship over something that’s not your fault,” he said.

“Ugh! You’re getting all sappy! I think we’re getting too emotional today,” she complained, “Care to get fresh coffee instead, signore?”

He shook his head and laughed. “Only you- even though you’re an avid reader of romance novels- would complain about feelings.”

“Someone needs to with the way you were emoting,” she threw back, scooting away from the table.

“Get me another?” he asked.

“What’s the magic word?”

He rolled his eyes. “Please?”

She walked off without another word. After she was out of sight, he leaned back in his chair with a sigh. This was not going how he had envisioned it, and honestly, while he was disappointed…he was also sort of glad. The whole day leading up to his confession, thoughts of ruining their friendship ran through his head. It was probably why he had been so accepting of her rejection: he valued their friendship more than anything.

He didn’t regret asking her out though.

‘What’s that they say about weights and shoulders?’ Charlie thought.

 

 

Kayley Reininger is a young writer living in southern Illinois with her family. She is an active member of her school newspaper staff and is the Public Relations Officer in her local robotics team. In the future, she aims to complete a full-length novel and travel the world.