Literary Journal for Young Writers
By Alexa Bunn
why is there a stairway to heaven,
and a highway to hell.
my asthma doesn’t like stairs that much,
and i can’t drive on my own.
is there anywhere for me?
Alexa Bunn is a high school senior in Selkirk, Manitoba, She has had two poems previously published in her high school literary magazine ‘Mercy Street’. Alexa identifies with her traditional Ojibway heritage as indigenous in Canada.
By Elle Park
Dear Dog, I suppose I should’ve said it earlier. There was
No time when I saw myself in you more than the time we
Pulled that sled down a snow-covered peak. Flecks of white
Scattering into my peripheral vision and into your fur; ice
Slicing through the sled and breaking frost underneath our feet.
Dog, I need to ask you something—it’s been digging incessantly at
My chest since you left me. Did you love me? Because
I loved you. Wholeheartedly. Like a sunrise kissing the
Edge of an ocean & a waterfall cascading down to the ground.
Dog, that day we slid down the hill, plummeting faster than an
Apple plunges toward the ground. We were so eager, anxious and
Ready to fall down. No, please. I wasn’t ready for you to
Tumble down Fate’s red string so quick. You did it so effortlessly.
Guess it’s too late, Dog. I hope you look down from Heaven
And glance down at our measly human lives. Maybe you will find
Some value, some happiness—maybe a sanctuary—in our lost love affair.
Elle Park is a student from Southern California. Her writing has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and Writopia Lab’s Worldwide Plays Festival. She enjoys reading a variety of books and writing, and she hopes to one day become a published novelist. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Eunoia Review and *82 Review, among others.
By Jenna Kurtzweil
said birdsong to the night wind,
gather me up in your arms
and carry my colors on your daily sojourn
from the mountains on down to the gullies and fields,
and set me loose in summer grasses.
and the old wind replied,
it would be an honor.
Jenna Kurtzweil is twenty one years old and hails from Palatine, IL. Along with her responsibilities as a student at the University of Illinois, Jenna is always looking for new opportunities to experience life through travel, literature, music, and all forms of storytelling. Jenna has also been published in The Noisy Island, and Forest for the Trees.
By Vivian Lu
A body wilts
over time. If aging is a catalyst
and death a point of collision,
we constantly react,
desperately resisting forces of nature.
Our bending limbs must snap someday.
We’ll weather
whether we want to or not. (Fade with me,
into uncertainty, into a sunset that never ends.
A room with sharp edges and no windows.)
We can no longer deny age
when our fathers decay to gum, no teeth,
welts on their foreheads
like death’s branding label, marking what
is his, what has always
been his. We know collisions
with too little energy
do not create a reaction. Why does
it surprise us now
when our cells produce less
bone marrow, our skin refuses to cling
to our skeletons, like it
once did? Our children will have children
and these human beings
will come into contact with absolute orientation.
Time spills
through the gaps of our fingers, like silica,
harbingers of the end.
And when we reach the point of collision,
all we can do is hope
that the remnants of our reaction
yield something sublime,
something untouchable by time itself.
Vivian Lu is a junior at Cherry Hill High School East and the Editor-in-Chief of Bitter Melon Magazine. Her work appears or is forthcoming in National Poetry Quarterly, deLuge, Eunoia Review, and elsewhere. Her writing has been honored by the National Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, the Live Poets Society of NJ, and the Walt Whitman Birthplace Association. Beyond writing, she is the Founder and Executive Director of The Axon Project, a nonprofit organization that seeks to increase accessibility to neuroscience education for high school students.
By Alizaya Doyle
I am five.
My mom and grandma rush to get me to my first day of preschool. We are about to go out the door when my mom shouts, “Wait! Ali your hair!”
“Do we have to brush it out?” I complain. I hate brushing my hair because I twist it into intricate little knots that are later impossible to brush out. I know that it will hurt.
“Yes,” says my mom, mimicking my whiny tone. “Let’s go.”
“Fine!” I say. We walk to the bathroom, and I hop on the counter. She holds the black handle of the brush and starts to untangle the knots. One by one, she unties each of them ever so carefully, trying to be gentle.
“Ouch!” I yelp.
“Sorry,” mom says unconvincingly. “Beauty is pain, darling, get used to it.” I ponder this statement as she braids my dark brown hair down my back.
“Ready to go?” she asks me.
“Yeah” I say.
I get to school just in time before everyone goes down to the preschool room.
“I love you, sweetheart,” mom says.
“I love you too”, I say back. She stands there staring at me lovingly,
but all I say is, “You can go now, you know.”
“Oh, sorry. Ok bye.” she says with a smile. I watch her leave, turning quickly just before her tears spill over her eyes. She waves me goodbye again, blows a kiss and gets in the car with my grandma.
I am six.
I hop in the car with my younger sister and my mom, excited that she is picking us up for once.
“Look what I got!” mom says in a singsong tone.
“What?” I ask.
“A stepping stone we can paint ourselves!” she answers. I stare at the bright yellow and blue box and the picture of the contents. I love to do crafts with my mom. I am so excited to get home and paint.
“Yay!” I say cheerfully.
We pull into the driveway and I jump out of the car. I race my sister to the door, swing it open, and fling my backpack on the couch. We walk to my little bedroom, sit on the bed, and open the box. Inside are the instructions, paint, and a plain white stone begging to have color. The stone has a butterfly, a flower, and a ladybug carved in it.
“Can I paint the ladybug? Please—,”I beg.
“Okay, I’ll paint the butterfly,” my mom says.
“I’ll paint the flower!” my sister says, trying to be part of the project. I paint the ladybug very carefully, making sure I don’t mess up. I decide on a red body with purple spots. My mom’s butterfly looks amazing, as always and, well, I can’t say the same about my sister’s flower. But, it is our creation, and it is perfect to us. When we finish painting, we let it dry, flip it over, and sign our names.
“This looks great girls. Let’s go put it outside” Mom suggests.
“Okay,” my sister and I say together. We walk outside in the dark and place our little creation gently beside the sidewalk in the grass.
“Good job, girls, it’s beautiful,” my mom says.
I am seven.
I walk outside in the damp grass. It is 9:00 A.M., way too early for me. I crawl into the car and buckle up. The leather of the seat is freezing, and I am trying my best not to make contact with it, which is failing miserably. I finally give up and slump down in my seat.
“I’m cold and tired!” I complain.
“I know. You can go back to sleep when we get back from the store,” mom says.
“Ugh!” I moan. We sit in silence for about five minutes until my mom asks me to put a disc in the slot. I do and it starts to play. She sings along with the words of the music perfectly. I sit there staring at her. I start to hum the tune and then I’m singing with her. When the song ends, we laugh and play the disc again and again until we make it to the store.
I am eight.
My sister, grandma, and I stand in the doorway of the living room waiting for my mom to say goodbye to us before school. She comes in and we hug. “Have a great day girls. I love you two,” she says.
“Love you too,” we say. “Goodbye”
“See you tonight” she says, but we don’t see her that night or ever again. That is our last goodbye. My mother dies that afternoon. She is only twenty-eight years old.
I am thirteen now.
Our perfect little creation lays outside, weathered and in shambles, a mirror of my heart. A few weeks ago, my dad tells me to go clean up the mess in the yard. I walk outside under the night sky, thinking of the words my grandma said to me five years ago, “God wanted another star to be put in the sky to make the night more beautiful. God chose your mom to be that star.” I look up at you, shining brightly and I can only think of three words: I miss you.
Alizaya Doyle is thriteen years old and in 7th grade. She goes to St. Patrick School in Rolla, Mo. She wants to dedicate this memoir to her wonderful teacher who taught her how to write a great memoir.
By Sofia Scarlat
my muse and your desperation is the introspection I begin after brunch when I find myself in a world of unknown. I’ve always enjoyed my travels and exploring but the crowded streets of the City and the unattended baby blue limousines have forever surpassed my ability to endure. it is all too much. my soul is perturbed. I do not wish to be here for a day longer but deep down inside I know there is no escape. there are parties to attend and there are shops to raid. there are guests to mingle with and there are swimming pools to disturb. there are colleges to pay off and there are diplomas to frame. there are contracts to sign and there are frauds to commit. there are cocktails to drink and there are husbands to divorce. there are lives to live and there are none for us. we are trapped. I am trapped. the shadow of fortune and reputation lie as heavy as the crown and I am the heir to the throne, but if I am to take a seat I feel my back would break.
Sofia Scarlat is a fifteen-year-old short story and poetry writer, book author, traveler, movie and Chinese food enthusiast who finds making pancakes therapeutic and feels most at home in NYC. You can find her work in Whiteteethmag, Voices of Youth, The Paragon Journal and arts & culture Romanian magazine.