Madeline is a junior at Georgia Southern University. She is pursuing a degree in Studio Art as well as Creative Writing.
Literary Journal for Young Writers
By Maddie O'Neill
Madeline is a junior at Georgia Southern University. She is pursuing a degree in Studio Art as well as Creative Writing.
By Sanskriti Singh
This gripping novel is by far one of the most chilling reads I’ve ever come across. Picture this: someone incredibly important to you suddenly passes away, leaving you in a state of utter despair. How would you handle such a heartbreaking situation?
The heart of Stephen King’s Pet Sematary lies in exploring the mysteries of life and death.
The narrative begins with the Creed Family – Louis, Rachel, their daughter Ellie, their toddler son Gage, and their cat Church. The Creeds have just relocated to a small town in rural Maine, as Louis has accepted the job as the head doctor at the University of Maine.
Upon settling in, their elderly neighbour, Jud Crandall, promptly becomes their friend. Jud is a sociable old man and Louis and Jud begin to regularly spend time together.
Louis, along with Jud, uncovers a hidden pet cemetery, where the pets of the town’s children had been buried for generations. Unbeknownst to them, this cemetery holds a dark secret that will soon come to light.
The Pet Sematary is rumoured to possess a mysterious force that brings the dead back to life, and that’s exactly what occurs.
At first, I found the beginning a bit dull, but as you get further into the book, it becomes more and more mysterious. It’s a classic horror novel, and King really knows how to make it spine-chilling.
Pet Sematary is more than just a scary story – it delves deep into the darker side of human nature, exploring themes of grief, loss, and the consequences of tampering with the natural order. Stephen King’s unique blend of the ordinary and the eerie makes this novel a must-read for horror fans.
Stephen King’s unique mix of the mundane and the macabre elevates this novel to a true horror tale.
I hope you enjoy reading this book- have a great day!
Sanskriti is an avid reader, programmer, and author. Her writing typically focuses on science and nonfiction. She has been published as a writer, with a science article appearing in Bookosmia magazine. Additionally, she serves as the head of her school’s editing department, as a writer for The Teen Magazine, — and has a strong passion for stargazing. |
By Yifei Kevin Niu
My friends have turned it into a game: how badly will the substitute teacher butcher my name? So far, “Qianqi” has been mangled into Kyankey, Chonky, and Jonjee, as the most egregious errors. The actual pronunciation in Mandarin Chinese is “chian-chi,” but I usually spare them from further embarrassment and tell them to call me Roger instead.
Roger is my middle name. It fits my background as someone born in Nashville, Tennessee, and spent his entire life in the United States. Qianqi fits my face, even though I spent years wishing it didn’t. My unpronounceable name seemed to flag me as a foreigner whenever people tripped over the consonants. Among the Steves and Kates at my school, I was the odd one out.
Some people might have embraced their cultures more out of defiance, but I was uncomfortable about sticking out from the crowd. Since my town had a large Jewish population, I ended up knowing the dates for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur better than Chinese New Year or the Mid-Autumn Festival. I attended my friends’ b’nai mitzvah ceremonies, all while refusing to bring any home-cooked meals that might have smelled weird to lunch. Although I could carefully control many aspects of my life, one thing troubled me the most: my name.
Finally, I went to talk with my parents about legally changing my name. The mispronunciations, misspellings, and stereotypes associated with having an Asian name had created a constant feeling of isolation as if I hadn’t lived in this country all my life. I felt that my own name was stripping away my American identity, leaving only the narrow perception of my Chinese ethnicity, a part of me I had grown to be ashamed of.
To my surprise, my parents were not upset; instead, they patiently spoke about their intention behind giving me a unique name like Qianqi. They had hoped it would shape my individuality and encourage me to carve out my own path in life. “We know you are American,” they told me, “and you should be proud. But you are also blessed with a rich Chinese heritage. We take you to weekend Chinese classes so that you can learn the language of your ancestors. We teach you Chinese history so that you can understand where you came from. We immerse you in Chinese traditions so that your life can be enriched by another culture. We hope all these elements will set you apart, just like your name.”
At that moment, I began to see “Qianqi” in a new light. Rather than striving to fit in as one of 425,514 Rogers in the United States, it is more meaningful to be myself as Qianqi.
The newfound appreciation of my name took me on a journey to not only embrace my heritage but also celebrate it. Once I accepted Qianqi, I started to fall in love with the name. I began to learn the meaning of the two Chinese characters that make up my name. Qian, the first character, means “one thousand,” while Qi means “wonders.” “When you put Qian and Qi together, it represents many wonders,” my mom tells me with great pride, claiming that it suits me perfectly, because it reflects the worth and potential she sees in me. I learned to write the two Chinese characters stroke by stroke in their block-like structure. Dating back thousands of years, Chinese characters are logographic, meaning each character has its unique stroke order. Now whenever someone tries to pronounce my name, I would welcome the chance to teach them how to say “q” in Chinese: it is a soft “ch.” It’s that simple.
Instead of hiding my name, I took it as an invitation to look deeper into my heritage, starting with my family name, Ye. My dad told me that it was actually a shortened form of Yehenala, a bloodline that can be traced back to Aisin Gioro Nurhaci, whose successors completed the Manchu conquest of China that led to the Qing Dynasty in 1636. Under the Qing Dynasty, the Yehenala clan held the highest positions in the imperial court and produced several of China’s most extraordinary emperors. The discovery blindsided me, since my last name only ever came up in endless terrible puns for “yeah.” But my last name had history to it. It had an entire dynasty behind it. And it was linked to another culture as well.
In the past, Chinese American youth considered themselves Americans, only to be called “others” when they ventured outside home. Am I an “other” still, if only within my own mind?
I have struggled with this sense of in-betweenness for as long as I can remember. Just as Qianqi and Ye both carry ties to my background, so does Roger. As first-generation immigrants, my parents hope to pass on the traditional Chinese values and philosophy that have lasted for over five thousand years. But I was born in Nashville and grew up in New York City – American youth culture is the only one I have been exposed to. Within me lies a combination of the influences from my Chinese family with all its strengths and flaws, my personal perspective shaped by the individuality and rebellion inherent to American teenagers, and the broader world with all the assumptions people make when they see my name and face. The richness of American and Chinese cultures has contributed in incredible ways to the Qianqi Roger Ye that I am today. Rather than seeing the struggle as a betrayal, I now see that the process exists in every generation and in everyone. Born Chinese by heritage and raised American by culture, I carry both the legacy of my ancestors and the opportunities of this great nation. In balancing the two cultures, I will keep looking for my equilibrium.
Just as I am typing these last words, a call comes in from my best friend Srijit.
“Do I look too Muslim?” Srijit asks, voice shaking.
My heart sinks. I know why he is asking the question: he’s been attacked, again. Since the Israel war began on October 7, Srijit has been called a Hamas supporter and spat at. I also know how he is feeling: confused and afraid, just like how I felt after COVID-19 fueled anti-Asian racism and xenophobia. His question cuts straight to the core of my being, because I, too, used to tell my parents I hated my narrow eyes and pushed-in nose, features that make me look too Asian.
The Islamophobia ignited by the Israel-Hamas war is all-too-familiar to me in the wake of COVID-19, with the onslaught of anti-Asian hatred. My face has made me a target for racists and fearmongers. People who look like me were in the national news because they were harassed, beaten, killed. Asian Americans were portrayed as threats, even as we became the victims. It doesn’t matter that I was born in Nashville and lived my entire life in the United States. It doesn’t matter that I love American football and English literature. My eyes and my name mark me as an outsider.
Srijit’s family is from Bangladesh. His appearance should be something he takes pride in. Instead, he wants to cover himself up so he can feel safe. So he can live his normal life.
The reality that Srijit and I, in the 21st century, find ourselves wishing to dissociate from our background because we don’t want to live in fear isn’t tragic – it’s enraging. I am angry, really angry. It’s a primal rage that questions the very fabric of progress and challenges the facade of acceptance in our society. It’s a collective frustration, a cry for change in a world that clings to stereotypes and biases.
Do I cover my face and accept the label of “other?” Do I remove Qianqi and pretend to be Roger?
If that’s the price for belonging in America, then it isn’t the America I’m interested in belonging to. Writer and poet Audre Lorde writes, “It is not our differences that divide us. It is our inability to recognize, accept, and celebrate those differences.” To heal a divided world, we need to acknowledge our individual and collective differences. Acceptance is always our choice to make, after all. And I hope we choose to see people as they are. Before judging the hijab, let’s face the fear of the unknown that makes us uneasy. Before dismissing the accent, let’s confront the subconscious biases that make us speak differently. Before silencing the voice, let’s challenge the assumptions that make us ignorant.
For me, acceptance begins within. The people who hate us for how we look and where our families came from want us to turn away from our background. So instead of rejecting mine, I choose to celebrate. I celebrate my parents’ accents, my face, my unpronounceable name.
I’m Qianqi and Roger. I am not either-or, I am both.
Yifei K. Niu is a Junior at Phillips Academy in Andover, Massachusetts, where he founded a sports newspaper called The GOAT and captains the varsity tennis team. He is heavily involved with sports journalism and loves to report on topics that deserve more recognition in the world.
By Eden Harrison
Several of my friends, peers, and I experienced a sudden school lockdown because of a misunderstanding where a student was suspected of carrying a gun on school property.Though no one ended up getting hurt, it was a disturbing wake up call for all of us involved. In the aftermath, I recalled every detail I could of those long fifteen minutes we spent locked in that dark, quiet room and tried to reflect on how it made me feel, how the situation said something significant about the way firearms and school shootings are currently handled in our country, and what it was all for. One question specifically, has been rattling around in my head since that day: “That was all because…of what?”
We sit here in the corner
all because
of the alarm that rang for a few seconds longer than usual and because afterward, the voice did not say “Please remain calm, this is only a drill.”
We’ve stopped laughing
all because
it’s not a joke this time; this time there won’t be any afterward for some of us.
We’ve scurried to hide in the darkness
all because
we know that if we do not become one with the shadows of the room, then we will not be walking out of it.
My friends, the people that I know best and cherish most, and more than a dozen others huddle in this blanket of silence and shadows(I think the world is quiet here, but, then again, if anyone shifts in their seat or breathes wrong we all flinch because those tiny sounds are mistaken for footsteps or firing or fleeting moments).
all because
as children, we were taught to huddle and hide before we were taught addition or subtraction or how to write our names.
My teachers hold several students a few feet away from me, and I see their hands gripping keys and chair legs, eyes narrowed at the loosely locked door, but I also see them shaking as they try to hush the sobbers: “It’s alright,” “It’ll be over soon,” “Don’t be scared,” and other sweet nothings(I can’t tell who they’re trying to convince: us or themselves)
all because
they know for every one of their students who does not emerge from this building, they will have to add another funeral, another memorial, another speech, another weight of guilt to their shoulders.
A girl I’ve never particularly gotten along with is having her tears dried and her cries muffled by her friend and a boy I’ve never spoken to is crouched frozen, wide-eyed, praying
all because
they’ve only read headlines, only heard stories, only made jokes about the ‘monsters’ like the one supposedly roaming our halls at this very moment.
I turn over my shoulder to see my ex, someone who in another life I’m sure would be my friend, shuddering against the shoulder of his friend; I think our eyes meet for a moment through the mist of darkness and I think maybe we’re all sorry for a moment, maybe we have more to say,
all because
finding yourself on death’s doorstep makes you realize how much of life you missed out on while you were busy holding grudges.
My best friend is curled up, trying not to gasp too loudly for air through the knot in her stomach, wondering what she did to deserve her fate,
all because
bullets don’t think or choose the way words could and should.
I’m kneeling down, holding her tightly as if I fear she might float away if I don’t anchor her to this cold, tile, Earth, letting her clutch my hand, and making sure my body is ready to move between
her and the door,
all because
I’d rather she go to college, start a family, chase her dreams, and live her life than I. At least that is the decision I make in this split second I’ve been given.
I’ve watched everyone, observed denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance all scattered about this one small corner, and now I sit and wonder how long it has been,
all because
my heartbeat is reminiscent of a round of shots getting faster and faster and because we feel like we’re living on borrowed time, trying to stretch our last seconds into hours, days, years, lives.
We hear footsteps and my eyes dart from face to face- they know it too- and suddenly, I wish I had more hands because some people don’t have any to hold right now and what they don’t tell you in the articles and news stories is how the scariest part is the silence because in the silence all meaningless noise gains new, deadly definition and just as we realize all the things we mean to say to each other the silence muzzles us but we’re begging:
not yet-
please, I’m not done-
I need to tell him-
I need to be there for her-
I need to call my mom-
I need to make sure my sister knows-
I can’t-
I’m not ready-
But those words never escape our mouths,
all because…what?
All because of a prop? All because of a toy? All because someone misspoke, mis-saw? All because a boy cried ‘gun’. But there never was.
“What luck!” a teacher exclaims.
I wonder how many times we’ll be ‘lucky’ before the boy is right.
Eden, a student who plans on continuing her studies in the humanities and arts into college and her career, has always had a passion and respect for storytelling, and the importance of relaying of innate emotions, experiences, and lessons around the globe and across generations through these stories. She continues to write and publish her work not only for her own betterment, but in the hopes that one day her work will inspire someone else like her to do the same. She believes that tales told through writing, music, art, and all other mediums have truly saved lives, made significant changes in the world and will always do so.
By Mary Russell
My mother was dead, and I had been driving in a cold dark night for what seemed like eternity.
The sign for a motel glowed neon in the dark as I drove into town. I pulled into the parking lot as the sky shrugged on the navy-blue night like a threadbare jacket. The motel parking lot was dark and deserted—it could have been abandoned, but for the lemon-yellow light glowing in one of the windows.
I parked, crossing the lot and stepping into the lobby. The door banged shut behind me. Standing on the threshold, I took off my earmuffs—it was a frigid night, and my car’s heating had broken two months ago.
The motel wasn’t a welcoming place. The carpet was faded and frayed, and the overhead lights were broken. This forced the clerk to resort to a sun-yellow desk lamp. Even she had something of the dead and discarded about her. Blue circles were smudged under her eyes and her thin hair was pulled into a fraying ponytail; I guessed she was fifty. I could see her skull beneath her skin, drawn in indigo shadows. A cigarette dangled from her lips.
I asked for a room. She stretched out a hand to hand me the key to Room 4 and asked, “What brings you to town?”
I fumbled the key as she handed it to me, and dropped it. I crouched to retrieve it and rose to answer, “Funeral.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. My husband died two months ago.” Those bruises under her eyes must have come from the kind of sleepless nights I was familiar with. She frowned and sighed and said as if to herself, “Sometimes I wonder how people keep living.”
“My mother thought it was God.”
“I don’t know about that. My husband is dead.” The clerk stubbed out her cigarette. “Good luck, anyway.”
I followed her directions to a slightly derelict room. Turning the key in the lock, I dropped my suitcase on the floor. I did not bother to turn on the light before I fell into bed.
I checked out that morning with a different clerk. I left. I went to my mother’s funeral, and I never saw the bruised-eyed clerk again. But sometimes I still dream about that old motel. And occasionally when I wake up I will remember how the motel sign glowed in the dark like a lighthouse, and how it was I and a stranger in an unremembered town had at our core the same deep corrupting fear: that there was no point, that they had died for no reason. I still don’t know the answer to her question, but there is a strange comfort in knowing I am not the only one asking it.
Mary Russell is an avid writer (and reader) of fiction, mostly fantasy but occasionally realistic. She was published as a winner of the 2021 “It’s All Write” regional contest at aadl.org. When she isn’t writing or being a high schooler, she enjoys reading, painting, and playing the violin.
By Conner Wood
Someone told me the other day the world was ending, and I laughed because I was too drowsy for such a sweeping proposition. I supposed however there was no reason to disagree, and in that way it was a small question, obvious even. It all seems so small, newscasts coughing up phrases like “global boiling,” “permafrost collapse,” “atmospheric clogging.” A picture of a fishing boat caught in an oil current. A line to take a selfie with the last oak tree. Grandpa still says the term “global warming,” and I’m not sure if he’s stuck in the past or if he’s sugarcoating. I always decide it’s best to let it be.
When I come home I flick on only the stove light, too late for the sheerness of the ceiling fixture. I light the stove, crack an egg over a pan. Fill a cup of instant ramen with water, stir in chopped mushrooms, scallions, and into the microwave for three and a half minutes.
I flip to channel R-2 on the television and a newscast runs. On the screen is a little white speck flying with the stars and the deep black, something about scientists fleeing the planet.
Soft pops ease onto the pan and I cut off the heat. The yolk wobbles intact to a perfect orange as the microwave rings. I pour the ramen into a bowl, mix in oyster sauce and arrange the egg on top of the broth. Leaning against the counter watching the newscast, I mix the yolk and let it cool.
It is unknown where the scientists plan to go, some sources say they will attempt to reboot the colonization of Mars, a project untouched by any nation since the 2088 disappearance of the Athens 72, thirty years ago.
I used to walk outside with a respirator mask just to feel the sun, a dim glow through the pastel smog hanging in the sky. Sometimes I think the smog might disperse, but it only swells back, dust pebbles raining in its wake. I remember a speck puncturing a man’s windshield on the corner of 33rd. He got out, said, “somethin’ tells me it’s better a’ stay where the air’s thick, you know what ‘a mean?” We both laughed, and strung our masks a little tighter.
Other sources expect the scientists to land on Jupiter’s moon Europa, whose surface has still thawed just thirteen percent, is, as far as we know, uninhabitable.
Uninhabitable, I whisper back to myself.
Out my window my street’s fresh-air turbine lay dismantled on the ground, and pilfered bits; bolts, plating, shafts, are left behind and scattered between every intersection. Only 32nd Street is left clean, where a mural of Peter Pan is preserved in the center. Passerby pause; some to cry some to titter, but all frail and fixated on the gouache foliage of Neverland Jungle, the glass water of Mermaid Lagoon. I walk near them but not beside. Neighborhood moms complain they’re turning into ghosts, but I think they’re only considering it.
The International Department of Astrogeology believes they’ve discovered three impending earth fissures, or tears in the earth, only at about several hundreds times anything we’ve seen before. The first is set to open in one day’s time on Feb 24.
A map of the Western Hemisphere appears on the screen. The first fissure is expected to stretch from Ottawa, Canada, to Matanzas, Cuba. A red line crawls between the two cities, it passes right below my feet. The other two fissures will intersect at Ngari Prefecture, Tibet, and span an even larger area at -fzzt. I cut the newscast.
I open my door and DC is floating, half dead half living. Screams choke the air, out of dread, out of anguish, or maybe just to be heard. Broken glass on either side of storefronts, punctured windshields stained not with dust but blood, and shivering backs hunched in corners, praying. On the yellow lines dividing 33rd Street, a man screams with his eyes closed. “End of the world and we’re here prayin’ to different people, tellin’ one another he’s prayin’ wrong!” I look up and down the street and decide he must be right. It’s too dangerous to appear in a car, too distracted to care for another ghost floating before the mural. As I drift away from the chaos and down 32nd Street I notice the breeze ripping across my jeans. They’re decidedly too baggy and do nothing for the cold, but I cherish them for the grass stains around the knees.
By 35th Street the mania of the fissure is nearly inaudible, save for a few stray shrieks echoing overhead. Instead it’s replaced by droning newscasts left running in empty houses. They sound through broken windows and up and down streets. I need to know, but I wish I wouldn’t have to so soon.
Sources suggest -fzzt- fissure will come much faster than expected -fzzt- eight hours at most.
Researchers in Beijing believe the fissure will -fzzt- swallow much greater an area than -fzzt- expected.
In the last six hours communications went blank. I try to call my parents but nothing, only a beep and a message.
Sorry, Verizon internet services have been shut down for the foreseeable future. Stay safe!
Similar messages are posted on Google, Facebook, sad smiley faces and “stay safes” at the end of the world. I too drop to a corner, and feel my eyes burn and face melt against the wall, collapsed.
I spend the last few hours in the Natural History Museum. It’s silent but the lights are all on. It’s incomplete, turnstiles frozen in place and ‘did you know?’ plaques hanging unviewed. I feel the bustle of visitors in the museum walls, distant like the face of someone you used to recognize. In the surface of a gemstone, emerald jade, I study my reflection. It’s hazy and multiplied but if I squint hard enough, I can see my eyes hang. I laugh, trudging aimlessly through the city and exhausted like a fool. Beside a fossil of a Barosaurus lentus I choose a bench with a cushion. It’s meager and weathered, but I wipe my eyes and know it’s perfect. With my coat spread flat I turn to my side, smiling, too content to be pensive. I only close my eyes and wait to hear the fossils rattle. I’d bet they’re tired too, I’d bet they’re smiling.
Conner Wood is a junior at New Providence High School. When he’s not writing, he may be found singing, studying, or eating at his favorite bagel shop.