Cora Welker

Cora Welker is a freshmen at Lafayette Highschool and is extremely dedicated in the arts. She has been in the SCAPA program since 4th grade and is excited to continue her education at a new school.

At dusk, I listen to the clock of my mother’s
knife on the cutting board.
How it strikes
like an evening bell, remote yet tender,
the scene casted in chiaroscuro:
my mother’s dark, sloping arms against
the chalky walls. I study this while pretending
to read a novel where a woman never knows her son
chose a new name. How I think of love: in name only.
What I think of bliss: scallions bobbing like hollow beads,
my mother splaying the roots with metal, the present tense.
Soft breathing beyond the window’s torso.
How our kitchen cramps with light.

Mackenzie Duan is a high schooler from the Bay Area. Their work has been recognized by YoungArts, Princeton University, and The Poetry Society.

A crow
caws. Its cry has
signaled a new
night. In this
inky blackness,
a faceless grave
sits alone in the center
of a vast, abandoned field.
In the deafening silence, fireflies
float about in the emptiness as mice
navigate their way through the dense,
overgrown grass. The critters
lived within the trees and beneath
the dirt.
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They shied away from moonlight.
Yet, this night was a moonless one and these
shy creatures felt brave. Inch by inch, one by one, they
made their way to the gravestone. This once represented a
person. This person was someone who had lived, who had forged
relationships, and who was now dead. When it was first erected, people visited
and their tears watered the grass that surrounded it. But now, no one ever
visited. The wind and rain had worn it out, stripping the grave of its name,
making it faceless. Now, no one was left in the world to remember the skeleton
that lay beneath. But if its person was forgotten, then what purpose did the grave
serve? The gravestone contemplated, having no answer. Its skeleton hadn’t died
alone, so why was it about to? A lonesome existence. Reality had settled in for the
gravestone. The gravestone had been abandoned. And now, no one would weep for it,
clean it, or keep it company. Time took its toll. All living things eventually died. This
same fate would befall the gravestone. After being neglected for so long, cracks had
formed. It was alone. Its name was gone. Its purpose had faded. The tombstone was
overrun with moss. The moss thrived in the cracks, anchoring itself to them. It grew so much that the
tombstone’s surface could barely be seen now. The gravestone knew that it had little time. Once the moss took
over, it’d be the end. The crow cawed one final time. It mourned the death of the gravestone.

Linh Duong is a graduating high school senior, —she is excited about her future and traveling the world, especially in Spain and Vietnam. In her free time, she loves to binge-read Chinese novels and eat triple fudge ice cream. Her hobbies include drawing (dragons) and learning new languages. Linh is adventurous, outgoing, and a hard worker, enjoying quiet time by listening to music or practicing Chinese.

One scalding hot shower,
Two boiled eggs with instant noodles,
Three more boxes to stuff with our memories,
Grandma is coming over by four.

Aunty is five months pregnant,
Six cousins teary eyed, begging me not to leave,
Our priest comes over by seven,
We say our final goodbyes by eight.

Nine people sleeping in this house tonight,
Ten boxes lined up in a row,
By eleven, i’m still fast asleep in my anxiety,
It’s twelve,

And i’m awake,
Alone,
And never been more afraid to go.

Weyinmi Barrow is an aspiring novelist and poet. Born and raised in Abuja, Nigeria, and consequently moving to Trinidad and Tobago, she channels the feeling of everyday and extraordinary experiences into her writing. She is sixteen years old and loves reading in her spare time.

a line

brushes up

against my glove, abrading

the callouses through

the thin fabric. three clicks until the sail catches

the wind just right. my boot grazes the strap

as I slowly lean back and allow my face to feel the cool ocean spray after every

wave.

Sometimes I wish I could be her; not just in control of steering her.

Sometimes I wish I could be her; able to get up so easily. Head

strong through and against those tough waters.

Or even on the easy days. Take time to slow.

I aspire to be her. On any course.

Annie is a high school senior from New Jersey who is a varsity sailor on her high school team. With passionate creativity and an observant eye, Annie reflects on her own characteristics with her time spent on the water sailing as well as other aspects of her life. When off the water and out of the classroom, Annie enjoys sewing garments and accessories for herself and friends, as well as taking on hiking trips outdoors.

I can pull the sun from my pocket
You don’t believe me?
Watch

I can shine it on the end of my sleeve
We can crowd around it like children
We are children

I can open the sun from enfolded skin
Scrape it, expose its yellow core;
Yellow and red and sweet, you can smell it

There is orange peel under my fingernails
And citrus in our noses
We can pull apart segments
And listen to its heartbeat

We can eat the orange triangle
By shared thoughts
And taste something together
We are eating a kiss.
We are eating a hug
There is hand-holding in our stomachs

Miriam Thorp is a high school student who grew up in love with the postmodern surrealism of Norton Juster and down to earth, anecdotal humanity of Harper Lee. Alongside a love for debate, skateboarding and fashion, she listens for the sound of the words everywhere. Miriam loves writing and hopes she never runs out of stories.