Joel Went to Disney and all we got was this lousy title (Hopefully Before October!

Quantum Physics and the Power of Thought

Joel 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

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

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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 authors and 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).

Foreward
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 rst 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. Take Jungle 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 Anna Fellen. 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 worldfamous 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 in Pirates of the Caribbean. Standing by while three quarters of the elevator recites the Haunted Mansion narrator's spiel verbatim. Relishing in C-3PO and ight videos on Star Tours. The experience starts at the threshold. This year, I missed the rst 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 at the end of a short story. It's not about the thematic payload in the nal 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 inuence 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 microction. 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 eld trips to the Albright Knox Art Gallery and to Forest Lawn Cemetery. We also changed the format slightly this year during the rst week and offered choice based workshops on cliffhangers, creative nonction and writing for the stage rather than rely solely 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 nal reception and laying out our works in this nal 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!

Snow Corpse
In the tundra they will nd a mass grave of myself, A pale frozen creature with frostcovered lashes, blue nails, Lips bruised black from the cold. And when they crack my body open They shall nd me crystallized With my soul in every particle of water, One last thought, or perhaps the culmination of my thoughts Etched inside me, my nal 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.

Victoria Licata will be a freshman at Ohio Wesleyan University next year. This is regrettably her lasttime in "Narnia" and she will miss everyone next summer. In the meantime, she enjoys eating Tootsie Rolls, getting dollar coins as change instead of bills, and watching black and white movies. She doesNOT enjoy missing the bus, sushi, or kids who shoot her in the face with straws at work. Jane Austen is and always will be her homegirl.

Homing Poem
On 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 arc Releases a cooing poem And throws her arms to the sky. It aps, all rhapsody and anticipation, Disappearing to deliver its message Over serengeti, solar system, and epoch, I will nd a home somewhere. Through non-linear time itself the poem ies and then Instinctively banks into a sleepers mind Only to be bowled over by the irrefutable earliness of the morning. Gathering momentum in its ight the poem Knocks on the roof of a car in LA trafc 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 ight to rise As it dies in my arms, I will nd a home somewhere.

Worry Beads
Hold them close, Draped around my index nger Are these fteen black beads. Unied in chain, they shine with the oil of Many ngerprints; Clearly I am not the rst 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 not 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 objects than by people, And I oat in the affection of these beads. A mere bagatelle, They may save my life today.

I Am
I 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 ngernails 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 these Im statements. I know who I am. Im learning.

A Dream
By 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 nd, that nothing has happened. Just my dream.

photograph by Megan Morris

Imagining
By Paul Rehac

Paul J. Rehac Paul is a young, aspiring dinosaur. He writes often in his spare time, though he rarely ever nishes the projects he starts. His interests include, but are not limited to, writing, thinking, watching shows written for children, climbing anything more than a few feet taller than 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.

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 see What these words mean. I begin to need These things I read. And I yearn to see You beside me.

11:11
By Paul Rehac

Close To Me
By Paul Rehac

This picture was taken by Jon Herb, known as Jah32 on Flickr. This picture was awarded a Nikonickr-Award.

Its 11:11 And youve found and eyelash. The candles are burning down, The knifes ready to be Pulled out. Shooting stars Follow closely Behind the rst 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 ame, a knife, A wish.

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.

Musings of a Poet
By Paul Rehac

Not Bitter
By Paul Rehac

Above picture, A Bird In Motion taken by Vladimir Agafonkin, also known as Mourner on Flickr. Picture below, Duke Chapel taken by Ivy Dawned.

I want to write stories, Not thoughts or poems. I want to show you The beauty of A bird ying 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 condently, 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 comfort Of a reside 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.

Zelda playing On and on Like a record Spinning backward In my head. Play it in reverse, Hear the devil sing And nd 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 puzzle Stop tting? God cut a piece again, Thwarting his subjects Like the King he is. Im not bitter, no. I just wish things Were simpler again.

Water
By Carly Knaszak

Water. 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 gures to make more sense. My body is oating. 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 oating. The feeling of no gravity drowns me when I look at you.

Going Down Is The Only Way

By Carly Knaszak

This is Carly's rst 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 events in 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 nds writing muse from people around her, events or music. She plans to studyat Fredonia for communications.

I remember when I was ve 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 ying and in a few short moments I was ying, literally. My body crashed landed with the ground and I remembered 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 we will call it quits for the day. Those words 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 nally grew my wings and peddled down that hill and landed,safely.

Murmured Warnings
By Jessica H. Zabron

Flikr user Bichuas (E. Carton)

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 ll 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.

Izzet
By Jessica H. Zabron

Jessica Zabron is an artist in nearly every aspect of her life. Her biggest passions, besides writing, include drawing, editing videos, and show/ training dogs. She enjoys watching horror movie and cheesy SyFy movies. She is going to be a senior at Hamburg High School in the fall and has plans to major in Film and/or Creative Writing in college. Jess, also, does not enjoy writing about herself or having her picture taken.

My eyes ashed 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 ight, 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 oor. 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, lled the room. He took a step towards me, 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.

Warrior
I am a warrior, a soldier ghting 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 ying through air currents of confusion. Although I have own a white ag for years, my pleas to return to the shores of
Olivia Moze is a seventeen year old senior at Akron Central whose hair is often mistaken for re. If shes not buying anchor-related jewelry or belting out a Broadway tune, you can nd her wreaking havoc in her home town accompanied by her equally idiosyncratic friends. These friends describe Olivia as funny, awesome, swagical and outgoing... when shes not tired. She tends to agree with them... when shes not tired. In case you were wondering, shes a Ravenclaw.

Night Life
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 announce their arrival, hushed by a moment of inexplicable fascination. Were hypnotized by their peppering of illumination as they whiz past, winking cheekily on the other side 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 reies: the unsung heroes of the night life.

thoughtless surrender remain ignored. The war rages beneath a calm exterior, peacefully pieced together down to the dove whose delicate wings beat a soft smile across my face. But inside, I am immersed in battle. Inside, I am a prisoner of my own war. Inside, I am a warrior. Overpowered. Over thought. Defeated.

In the Park at Chateau Noir

Trunks 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 go Pebbles 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 ying 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

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. I think 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.

Trickle
Trickle Im the drip drip drip from the leaky faucet One drip in each measure: 4/4 time, mezzo-piano Im the morning coffee lling 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

Flying High
I am up in the air Flying high in the breeze Very high up you are Up above all the trees Very high up you are And the world lies below Very high up you are What a show, what a show I am ying with air Feel the brisk autumn breeze Very high up you are Up above all the trees You are ying so high And the world lies below Flying high like a star What a show, what a show Even lighter than air I y over the seas Though it may sound bizarre There, I always feel free I ignore former scars And I y very low Powerful as a Czar Hence, my heart is aglow

Photo by Flickr user jjjj56cp

photograph by Megan Morris

Western New York Writing Project July 21, 2011

Who Are We As a Civilization?

By Connor Sonnenberger 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 inicted. 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

This is Connor. He is currently 15 and is attending East Aurora High School. Things that he likes to do include writing, gaming, and chopping down the occasional tree. The three things that he loves most though are his drum kit, his books, and his favorite place: Germany! He continues to slowly work on his short stories and plans to get a journalism degree. Though before moving onto college, he intends to enlist in the United States Navy. After hes served for a tour, he wants to attend Canisius College to earn a degree in both journalism and civil engineering. He also is a environmental protection supporter.

Quantum Physics - Elliott Hoth

The Monks
The night was calm, as it always was; for three generations the stars had burned undisturbed in a blueblack 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.

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 somewhat mortifying. 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 abrupt stop.

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 Behind them the castle grounds were a life without war. For three quiet. No one would stir until the generations they had kept the city dark hours just before dawn as safe without thanks or reprieve, but servants began their long days work. even peace has a price. They didnt mind the hours; they, like everyone else, had been content with their life for three generations. Souvenir Rough paint, the mark of a souvenir Inside the keep the king, queen, and made to be a souvenir, a bright and simple memory cheap all their royal court slept peacefully in wide feather beds. When morning and light enough to take home where others would burst overstuffed came they would rise and prepare carryon bags, for a day of noble duties until the sun began to sink; then, they would always more chaotic on the way home. Its impossible to t change into fabulous colors for the an escape -monuments and tours evenings frivolities. Every night there was a dance or feast for all who and exotic foods- into a suitcase but everything has a place on the cared to attend. painted yellow tram, cheap porcelain magnet. The charm Peace had reigned over the city for is in the lack of cost, the three generations, for it was then that an order known only as the

imperfections imagined and true; art made to t 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 Blues

Growling chainsaw outside,interrupting peaceful inner thoughts abizarresoundtrack to the quiet scribbling of pens until it stops and suddenly the room feels empty, too silent to stand.

the beast
THE BEAST
the 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.

Axel Sack was born in Tucson Arizona. He wants to visit North Korea Pyongyang. His favorite animal is crocodile. He likes old movies. His favorite country is japan.

Book Worm - Axel Sack

Silent Screamer By Jasmine Brown 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 still I 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 and SILENTLY!!!!

This beautiful young lady Jasmine enjoys life. When she has spare time, she spends it listening to R&B music and writing poems that aspires her. She graduated at Hamlin Park school # 74 and she will be a freshmen at McKinley high this coming school year. Her favorite hobbies include writing, singing of coarse when no one is looking & dancing. Jasmine started writing when she was only 10 years old ,writing her rst poem ever called Rain. She is a very inspiring person & she hopes for others to aspire her as 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.

THE CHIEF Niall Gribbins

The Chief
By Niall Gribbins

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 nally 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 the Agrodome 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 signicance 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 Ofce 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 the same 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 oor. The clerk at the hotel 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 all 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 must participate in a welcoming ceremony. A Maori warrior will test your bravery by shouting loudly at you and waving a wooden stick at your head. Your test is to remain as still as possible. Dont move. Try not to inch. 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?

ANTHOLOGYSUBMISSION July 20, 2011

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, evillooking 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 rst day in New Zealand, I had already acquired an odd reputation. I was typically very nervous when rst 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 oor of the lobby, she would draw the line at the same number of people 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. This could 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 ailing 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 ll me with pride, remembering the time when I stood 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 largest and 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 ling 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 about as 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 ofce 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 inch. 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 my limitations. 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.

ANTHOLOGYSUBMISSION July 20, 2011

Niall Gribbins
doesnt have much to say about himself.

KELCIEADAMS

Poem for the hanging figure

What it is to break, to be wholly broken. Boulders tied to your lungs and dropped. No longer able to nd 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.

Muse
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 is pale and smooth, and luminous in moonlight. Muses do not reect the sun but the world around them, collecting stray rays of thought that are the product of childrens daydreams or restless night visions. They gather them and beam them back toward earth, toward another mind that could use these views. Their hair, soft 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, ashing, swirling rainbows, a sea of color. There is a lack of pupils for they know everything there is to know 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 be entertained. Like sprites they prance on slender feet over the land at night, creating dreams not understandable and sometimes even too outlandish to remember. But sometimes a Muse 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 to see how it is shaped and decorated, and what emerges from the ery kiln to be displayed for the world to see.

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

Louie R. Tomani grew up in Buffalo his whole life and has always been into the darker side of things, he is a screenwriter and director and is planning on sending in one of his screenplays to 14 different film companies.

What Goes Around

By Luigi R. 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 ipping 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

I shook 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 the monkey 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, causing Justin 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 cussing out loud and rubbing his knee. his now red eyes, shot at Maxel, and he reached into his pocket, and pulled out his recently sharpened butteried knife and pinned Maxel down to the ground. Andrew then cut a long thin scar across Maxels , and then cut two scars on both his arms, and nally cut many scars on his now bloody chest. But Maxel didnt scream, he didn't even move ans.... I think I saw a small smile appear on his face. Andrew walked back towards us with a smile on his face, looking like he just did some good deed. Well sh** Andy- Justin began, but could not nish. There was a loud slash sound, and the smell of blood lled the air . Out of no where there was a long cut spread across Andrews face, blood dripping 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 drip blood 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.

My strange adventure to the cemetery By Alicia Mendoza Come 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 ashlight around. Bryan was about 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 cofn, 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 ashlight in. Hopefully well see something cool! Steven exclaimed. He pulled his ashlight from his belt and dropped it, the light going out. Steven swore and picked it up, smacking the ashlight 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 ashlight. Dude, theres nothing in here. I said, somewhat disappointed. Thank God. 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,

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.

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 nd out. He then got up and brushed himself off. Bryan, dont go, please? Lets nd out what that was! Please, for me? I gave 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 lled with fear, but didnt move. The grave shook again, more viciously than the rst 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 grave and the lid shook even more powerfully than it did the rst two times. And nally, 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 lled with terror as we watched the ugly thing rise from the dead. The undead creature was horrifying. Its esh was peeling off, exposing its shock white bones. Beetles crawled over its deformed face with sulking eyes and silts for 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 eld 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 the entrance 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.

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 exceptional For 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 stillEven when our houses, Rooms upon rooms of accumulated Things, Are emptied, our summaries proofread 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 prized Looked fondly upon as they sat Resting in boxes Marked for eras of our previous selves. 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 worse, that is one more thing This thing a collection of more things And will perhaps be resurfaced in some future collection When a young boy empties his pockets.

Sarah Pozzuto
In Motion
Sarah is sixteen, looks approximately twelve, and acts anywhere from three to fortysix. She attends West Seneca West Senior high school, where she 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 she is currently researching the possibility of living in a lighthouse.
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.

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 sun Like 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 ease Heel 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.

Excerpt from, The Tomb of Souls

By Travis Wolf Cobwebs cascade from the ceiling, spiders crawling in and out of each strand. Dust ies through the air like a swarm of mosquitos. The hot, musty atmosphere makes my heart race. A single noise attens me against the stone wall. A rat runs past me, its tail waving as if to say, Scared you! The cracked cobblestone oor feels as though it is crumbling beneath 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 ght over darkness. Each time my feet hit the oor a soft echo lls

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 oor 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 awaits me 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.

The First Step

By 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, ames 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 oor. No words can describe the feeling. Our stomachs growl in 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 oat through 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 rst step.

Travis Wolf is a student at Orchard Park Middle School. He has one brother and one dog. He enjoys writing, reading watching movies, listening to music, spending time with his friends, and many other things. His favorite books are the Harry Potter series, by J.K. Rowling, and the Hunger Games series by, Suzanne Collins. His favorite movies include: The Wizard Of Oz, Inception, Toy Story 3, and the Harry Potter movies. His favorite school subjects are Spanish and English. He enjoys to write short stories, novels, and poetry. This is his second year in the Western New York Writing Project Summer Camp, but this is his rst year in the Teen Writing Workshop.

Closing
By 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.

25 Things about Mike 1. 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 pat themselves 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 Jesus dragon. 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 rst rule about knowing nothing is to not speak about knowing nothing. 22.Lets end this while its still ahead. 23.On a prime number.

Mike Montoro
The Dragon, First of His Name, Hand of the King

A Game

for Mikes upcoming novel

By Mike Montoro

Aristocrats 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 ght 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

Lebron via a stream of

By Mike Montoro

consciousness
555 335 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 self in a great stream of consciousness Thoughts y 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 Death Weathermen 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 ve that is Why is there ve letters in three? And four in ve? 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 oneself 557 755 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 44 557575345 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 Escaper Raiders 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 nals Like a boss! NO! Like an executive Of death And immortality Du Du Du Du Bah! Like a sheep executive En Did Facepalm. Whoa

started to run, beckoning me to follow him. I chased after him, laughing as we ran past cream By: Arianna Dugan colored daises and vibrant red tulips and splashed past small When I close my eyes, I think creeks with the most beautiful about him. The sweetest cat to crystal clear water and little sh walk this earth, and I never had that nibbled at my bare feet. We the chance to say goodbye to him. climbed over large smooth rocks When my father had dropped me and pranced through soft grass. off at my grandparents, my small Rebel skillfully caught a squirrel seven-year old hands were still and live my life until I was 10 and I plucked a ripe apple from clutched onto the cage. I knew and I found a picture of the two of one of the trees. We nally something was wrong. Rebel had us snuggling. It shattered my collapsed on the grass, and he lay been sick for a long time, but I heart, and I ran upstairs hugging next to me. I stroked his side and assumed that he was going to go the picture to my chest. I nally pulled him close. We lay there for to the vet to get better. When it fell asleep and when I opened my a while, soaking in each others was time to say goodbye, I had eyes, I was in a large eld with presence, sometimes dozing off, kissed his furry head and said I beautiful butteries oating above until I nally felt the tugging love you Rebel, see you soon. my head. In the middle of the feeling that my dream was starting When my father had returned, I eld, Rebel was standing there. to fade. He must have sensed it ran over to see Rebel and to hug His reddish gold fur gleamed and too, because he jumped up and him, but my fathers eyes were red his brown eyes sparkled. My eyes looked at me. He jumped into my and watery. Confused, I opened instantly lled with tears and we arms one last time, and I held him the car door and reached for the ran towards each other. He close, kissed his nose as he licked cat carrier. It was empty. A jumped into my arms, purring mine. I gently placed him on the blackness overtook my heart and loudly as I stroked his beautiful ground, where he ran to the edge when I got home, I ran past my fur. He licked my cheek with his of the forest his tail waving goodmother and ran to my room, when sandpaper tongue and I kissed his bye. I slowly allow myself to wake, I hid under the bed crying. After sweet smelling fur. He suddenly but not before I whisper, I love you many years, I started to grow up jumped down from my arms ad Rebel, see you soon.

Rebel, a cat that lives in my memories.

Blueberries small soft, round. they t perfectly in my hand. squish squash, gulp. They slide peacefully down my throat. Blueberries

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 obsessed with 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.

THE DEADLY WAR By HIBBAH MOJAWALLA 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 keep Blood 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 threats or sts. 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 ghting, they come running and said Oh, father, with all your loving and caring towards us. Please Stop! 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 poems an addition to writing novellas. Her favorite sports are Soccer, Basketball, and Swimming. She is currently on a travel soccer team, playing for the Buffalo Tigers. Hibbah is home schooled by her father, and wants to stay home schooled until she enters high school.
Hibbah Mojawalla

NataliaTrigilio
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 aws. We are not perfect. In fact, were far from it.

Natalia Trigilio is a writer who is starting high school at Williamsville South this year. She is an average student (average being she is no brainiac). She is a swimmer and loves playing tennis. She has a strange dog who WILL eat anything. Anything. She loves writing, reading, singing and drawing (or what her math teacher calls obnoxious doodling). She loves eating pixie stix with her friends and baking cookies on random occasions.

Art and Writing

Sometimes I feel like art trumps writing without even trying. That idea sort of upsets me. Why can a thoughtless ick of the wrist sometimes equate to more than a developed story? Why is it that dumping cans of paint on a blank canvas can mean more to some people than dumping your thoughts and soul out onto a blank sheet of paper? Is art just a more effective medium in getting thoughts across? Maybe. But theres no way art could replicate the whining and complaining Im doing right now. You couldnt capture those exact feelings and its context with art. Thats why Im glad to be a writer. I can moan and groan all I want, and people at least have an idea of what Im moaning and groaning about.

SEAN DELLES

Sean Delles. Some people call him a hero; others a villain. People bicker when his name is even brought up. There is no perception on this man that is truly objective. Historians have yet to come to a consensus on his true intentions when living. But they all agree on one thing. He is a legend. And he will forever stay a legend because of his quick, gun-slinging hands and creative, short passages. And his ego.

Reection

The business man grazes his hastily-cut cheek with a lazy nger He looks off into the clustered horizon on his ofce chair Steel monuments struggle for prominence over each other Something stops his dreaming and jars him to consciousness A foreign face is reected off the gleaming window pane The overworked and listless face mimics his movement The man realizes this face is his own; not a guise caused by his imagination Suddenly a thought emerges Im not happy The man quits his job and buys tickets to a baseball game

It is written, "he who makes the best egg salad shall rule over heaven and earth." Don't ask me why egg salad - I've got enough

Random, thought-provoking box

aggravation.

by Tim Pearce

The Impact of First Names

Im not sure if anyone else does it, but I know I do. My brain likes to generalize a person by their rst name. It groups up same-named people and gives them made-up stereotypes and characteristics. For example, when somebody asks me if I know Spencer, my mind takes over. Thousands of faces cycle through my head like one of those databases investigators use in television. The only difference is all the faces belong to nerds. Sure, each Spencer differs in the severity of nerdiness, but in my head theyre all still nerds. Big glasses, oversized braces, whiteheads, blackheads. These fabricated stereotypes are all common among the Spencers I imagine. So even though I dont know Spencer, inside I convince myself I do. Oh, and Im sorry someone reading this is a Spencer. Its nothing personal.

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 on command. 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 unlimited freedom. Zippering smoothly, effortlessly often, But getting stuck once in a while. Needing patient, gentle ngers as an aid to pry ocean blue, mesh from 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 ngers 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 last time. Time passes, zipper slows to a complete stop. Not even kind, warm ngers can get stuck, hopeless zipper moving again. Open forever, no different than a statue, closed to ideas of regret and sorrow.

Carly Linsner is a creative teen who goes to school at West Seneca West middle. When she's not writing you'll nd 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.

I Am Me

One tiny drop of vibrant paint adding to magnicent, growing portrait of giant world. One soft voice being lost in overpowering chorus of unimaginable universe. One blade of emerald in forever going eld of grass. But I am much more than meets the eye I 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.

Untitled

Gentle breeze bringing peace to thousands living calmly in serene cemetery. Gentle breeze carrying regret, words unspoken, lives unlived. Gentle breeze comforting visitors, cooling residents from sweltering July heat. Gentle breeze giving hope, showing love, bringing faith as a vivid buttery oats by. Gentle breeze telling stories of those who rest in forest lawn.

The Almost Poet A small boy stepped up to the mike. But just because hes small doesnt mean hes Daniel has been interested in writing young. He was just kind of short. He stumbled a bit on his way up, panicked and for quite a long time. Ever since 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 about middle school he would write his so called genius writing. He freaked out and the sweat started coming even short stories just for fun. Some he though he hasnt said a word yet. Finally he yanked out a small sheet of lose leaf would share, and others hed keep to paper and began to unfold. You could see the coffee stains near the top when he fell himself. And over time he developed asleep writing at night and spilled it everywhere. a feel for what writing was all about. But he moved on and glanced at it one more time. Expression and creation. Over the At the last second he realized that he used the wrong version of the word their but whose years hes had fantastic English gunna know right? Well anyways he cleared his teachers to help him further expand throat and began to read the rst line. So far so his horizons as far as a young writer good. As he reached the middle he stumbled on a can. Dan has written many other wew fords. I mean a few words! He tried to crack short stories and just recently wrote a joke and began chuckling to himself only to realize that half the audience was asleep and half and directed a one act school play. was just not laughing. So he panicked, sighed and He looks forward to the future and moved on. His voice boomed with each word maybe a possible career in writing even though almost everyone could care less Or professional wrestling. 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 A Dream walked off and his friends told him how he did a good job and his mother hugged him but yes, A dream is me, its Martin Luther, Susan Boil, and a guy named Gandhi, he knew he blew it. But at least now he knows its a declaration of independence, a bible, and a book on how to how NOT to write a poem. And sometimes understand quantum physics (for dummies) a dream is crossing a nish line, thats a better lesson than getting lucky on the getting the 1,2,3, and shooting the puck against a goalie, a screaming rst try.

crowd and an announcer who does believe in miracles. A dream is knowledge, a cure, and a victory in war. A dream is a rabbit hole, an alien, and someplace that isnt Kansas anymore. A dream is anything that weaker people tell themselves they cant do. Its in my head and wont come out, theyll tell you. But its the strong and determined who are able to turn their minds inside out and produce absolute magic in everything they do. Everything they accomplish, and everything theyre remembered for.

Media-The Force
We push ourselves to meet the star, the star thats through the glass. But every time we meet the start the star moves on and time has passed. Every time we hear that song in our hearts, our souls, our minds. We question then we realize why our bodies were left behind. Why do they shine so brightly? And why do I bleed without glowing? But hope beyond the horizon lies, as a solution through minds is owing. Imitation, reection, a living breathing clone. Soon like the great bright star I see it is I who will have soared and own. And all this work and strive and struggle, all my time and copied face. Yet the star is still so out of sight, but just beyond the square glass case.

photo to the left by ikr user Oscar E. photo below by ikr user hashmil photo above by Joel Malley

He Promised
By Emily Shelton
He promised. Two years ago, I was just a sophomore in high school, full of life and energy. He was a senior, and was ready to graduate and head out into the world. A world that seemed intent on tearing us apart. He promised, the day before he left for college, he would be back. Two years from that day, he would be back. That he would meet me underneath the old oak tree in the park, at the place we had our rst kiss. He said he would come back, that our parting wouldn't be forever. He promised. I promised I would be there. And here I was. We hadnt wanted to part. But he had to go to a college where he could get a scholarship, and I had to stay here in high school. We would be on opposite sides of the country. It was going to be hell as it was, so we decided to make it a clean break. No contact till I graduated, that was the deal. Less heartache on both ends if we did it this way. It took massive amounts of will power, but it happened. Maybe it was better this way, but I still couldnt wait to see him again. To be near him again. The blissful half a year we spent together was the best time in my life. We knew we shouldnt have parted. We should have stayed together through anything. But we didnt. We separated, swearing to meet again here, in this place where we rst kissed. That was two years ago. And here I was, graduated and free, waiting for him. Underneath the oak tree, waiting. Waiting for him to return to me. Noon passed. I ate lunch from the snack stand. It was only noon, I was sure he would be here. He promised. The sun beat down, but the tree sheltered me. I

reread an old favorite, relaxing in the shade. Watched the parking lot like a hawk I searched for his familiar face. Waiting for him to pull in, and walk towards me wearing his beautiful smile. Smiling just for me. I would run to him and he would hug me. He would come, he promised. It was dinner time, and the park was emptying. Had I got the date wrong? That wasn't possible. It couldnt be possible. No, I had the right date. But the park remained empty. I couldnt eat, where was he? I swore to be here, as did he. I lounged on my blanket, worrying. He promised me. Night fell, and I couldnt breathe. He wasnt here. I felt sick. Maybe he had forgotten, or even worse, had chosen not to come. Separating for two years had been a horrible mistake, I knew that the minute he left. But we promised to stay apart, and we had. We hadnt talked since that day. We had both promised. But he wouldnt forget, I told myself desperately. What we had was too special for forgetting. I knew that, and he did too. There was still time. Still time for him to drive up and take me in his arms again. He promised. 12:01 Here I was, underneath our tree. I had kept my end of the bargain. Where was he? He couldnt have forgotten. Wouldnt have forgotten. He swore he would be back, then kissed me and left. But I was alone. He had broken his promise. The tears came hard and fast, streaking my face. My heart was breaking. The pieces I had barely been able to put back together after he left the rst time fell apart again. Something inside of me told me it would be much harder to x up my heart this time. A bit of me had died when he left, and still more died now. I feel asleep there, underneath our tree, waiting for him to come back to me. I could barely comprehend it. He had promised. The sun woke me, shining its comforting warmth on my face. My tears were dry now, and I had no more left to shed. I sat up groggily, stretching. The pain in my chest was duller now, but still very much there. I was still in the park, underneath our tree. I glanced around, and my heart skipped a beat. Parked all alone in the lot was a worn, battered jeep. A very familiar jeep, one I had ridden in countless time. I jumped up,

glancing around wildly. It was his jeep. He had come back. At rst I didnt see him. Where was he? It was his jeep, that much I was sure. Then I saw him walking down the sidewalk towards me. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest when I saw him. He was taller now, more grown up. But that didnt change a thing. All of the memories from two years ago came rushing back, breaking the dam behind which I had held them for so long, and I ran to him. He caught me as I hugged him, wrapping an arm around me. It felt so good, so right, to be with him again. Hey careful, watch the coffee. I jumped back, feeling myself blushing even as my heart jumped at hearing his voice again. In my excitement at seeing him I had missed the two Tim Hortons coffees he was carrying. Sorry I looked at the ground, embarrassed. I wondered if he hadnt been holding the coffee if he would have picked me up and swung me around like he used to. Or had things changed? Doubt came creeping back even as he kept an arm around wrapped around my shoulders as we walked. Sorry Im late Sunshine, the high way was closed because of a huge accident. Youre lucky I saw you sleeping under the tree, I was on my way to your house. You should have gone home. He handed me my coffee and I sipped it, not knowing what to say.

He wished you hadnt been there the little voice in the back of my head whispered. Then why did he stop, I asked myself, trying to squash that voice. He could have driven right by, you were asleep you wouldnt have known. But he stopped, he even got you coffee. Thinking about the coffee, I realized it was a Cafe Mocha. The same thing I had been drinking for the past four years. He had remembered my coffee order, and that little detail gave me the strength to speak. I thought you werent coming. I thought you had forgotten. I said it in a small voice, desperately wanting him to tell me I was wrong, that he would never forget. But I also didnt want him to say anything. I didnt want him to say he had only come to tell me he had moved on, that he was leaving again. That he had only come back to say goodbye. Of course not! The highway was closed. I drove all night to get here. I promised, remember? I opened my mouth to respond, what I was going to say I had no idea, but he didnt let me. He leaned down and kissed me, making me truly believe he hadnt forgotten. Had never forgotten. Any doubt I had was wiped away as I suddenly remembered why we had sworn to meet again. Why I had waited for his return, not giving up. Because we were meant to be, soul mates, perfectly matched. The night he left, he said he loved me, promising he always would. And in the end, he always kept his promises.

Emily Shelton Emily is going to be a sophomore at Williamsville South High School. She spends most of her time writing and whatever time is left over to plan her next novel. This past year she participated in and won NaNoWriMo. She is currently attempting Camp NaNoWriMo and mourning the end of Harry Potter. Emily believes that everyone should have at least three adventures every day and that a little insanity is good for ones health. If you could see it, her brain would look like a tangled mass of boondoggle.

B r e a k i n g N e w s

By Rebecca Kulp
She glanced behind her twice before turning onto the intersection. This town was like all the rest she had seen in Arizona: dusty, vulnerable, looking for trouble. One stupid street was so dark you could barely see a few feet behind you. A hotel sat not far off to the left, no other lights but the 50s-style name sign. Jerrys Fine Suites. No one would see me from there . . . She slammed on the brakes, pulling into the dust-lled parking lot. One other car was close-by. Other than that: empty. Good. Her ngers slipped on the door handle. Wheres my purse? No, no could it have . . .? There was the slippery, metallic feel of her cellphone, keys jingling under her hand. But . . . but where was . . .? Oh, god . . . But then a glint! Her hands crawled over; it was long and thin, sliding across her palm. Walls of leather brushed against skin. Yes, yes, yes! There it was, just where shed left it. The oor was far too easy to loose things! Grappling with the strap, she set off. *** A bell ared at the automatic door, her heels clacking with the beating of her heart. Excuse me? The receptionist stared at her. Yes? Breathe in, breathe out . . . I-Id like a room, please.

Thatll be $50 mam. His eyes wandered to her purse. That all? It seemed heavier now than when shed left. Yes. *** Mr. Johnson sat down at his TV set, hands splayed across his belly. What breaking news do they have for tonight? He sighed. The reporter was just turning the broadcast over to a stout man in Arizona. Last night a woman was found dead in a hotel room outside Phoenix, a loaded gun lying next to her on the bed. Poor girl. Thats certainly tragic. A yawn crawled its way into his throat. Well, big day tomorrow . . .

Rebecca Kulp is a Senior at Orchard Park High School. Besides obsessing over Spanish, (her favorite subject), Rebeccas passion is writing. She has written numerous works that have been included in books, and won the Top Ten in a poetry-writing contest in fourth grade. Other than writing and teaching herself Spanish in her spare time, Rebecca enjoys fencing, swimming, and just hanging out with friends. She hopes someday to become a writer, but if it doesnt happen any time soon, she knows theres still time. After all, you only get out of something what you put into it. Wow . . . . writing a bio of yourself in the third person is awkward :)

Jodie is a very busy girl who will be going into 11th grade in the fall. She is so busy that sometimes she wonders how she has time to write. She loves music, acting, art, singing and dancing. She has a little poodle named Lily who is the queen of the house. Jodie plans for some big career in acting one day. She does not know what collage is going to be best for her she knows the collage is deantly in her future.

To Anyone Date: Unknown

*read forwards and backwards Here I am.....Am I here Here I am then why..... alive... yes human... yes breathing... yes hidden reason the answer lost the remaining question the lasting question why... am I here? I am now writing my last connection to this constantly moving world; a world that will not care or even notice if it loses one of its passengers. As I write quickly feeling my heart beating inside my chest as if it is going beat right out onto the oor and leave me alone and afraid as so many people have left me throughout my unhappy life, I wonder why I even bother to write this letter. No one I know would care whether I am breathing or buried. No one I know would feel bad for me or feel sorry for me but for an unexplainable reason I can not stop my hand from moving across the paper. Now as my time is shriving up like a grape left in the sun to long, I must say goodbye for I know I will never see the light of day again. I have not done the good I had planned to do in this world and I am sorry for the bad things I have done. I can only hope He will have pity on me in the next life. Please pray for me as I will be praying for you.

Please favor me and remember me as I was and I ask that you do not look back to the past and morn me for I will be long gone and nally free. I promise you that when I meet Him I will be strong for you. I will not cower in fear or try to hide; I will accept the wrong I have done and I will be truly sorry. In my nal hours I will be looking to the skies and only the skies even when I take my rst and only step. Just as the last grains of sand end their journey at the bottom of the hourglass, I too will end the journey called life. Please look up and nd me in the clouds for that is where I will be, basking in all my glory. I know it will be sad to see me lying there dead and cold in my cofn; a lifeless body that once ew but fell short of its destination, but I know what I must to do. I have no I choice after being tormented by the only thing that has been here for me my entire short life, a piece of me that was supposed to teach me, help me, but all it can do is hurt me and torture me. This thing, this part of me is my mind. As you read this you may be thinking about how insane I am or what drew me to this nal and horrible decision, but I can not give you an answer because the answer sounds insane and I am and will be remembered as a sane human being. I only know that I have been controlled by my mind and by my mind only. I have been driven to perform this gruesome scene all because of my mind. I am never going to stop loving all of the people I have ever known, even the people who hated and despised me. I will be forever watching over you from above the world gazing and guiding you all. Please dont go looking for me for by that time I will be dead. I thank you for the things I have and have had but I am afraid these things are no more and I will soon be no more. I am only a poor soul lost in an unending tunnel of darkness while alive. Please do not cry for me because I will soon feel the true sense of happiness (something I could never possibly feel while living) for the rst time in my life. Now as I leave you to perform my nal Act, I wish you well. Goodbye.....

I am the rain, I am the snow, I am a weeping willow tree, I am the clouds, I am the wind, I am the sunsets that you see, I am alive, I am at peace, I was once tortured, But now, I am free.

The Temple
By: Rachael Krajna
The sluggishly eroding walls of the temple were made of mud, sand and stone fused together to form bricks. Still, the open ceiling gave way to the glory of the gods, each and every one of them. Bright sunlight shone through the thin walls, lling each chamber with endless light. Reality and truth sang side by side in harmony, creating warmth and love in the heart of those that dared to enter it. It was a solemn place and yet a place lled with joy. There were no doubt old bones buried deep within the walls and ceiling, living proof of how quickly the past could disintegrate into the sand. Though there was pure silence as the glory of the gods slowly crawled on top of the distant desert horizon, the guardians entered swiftly though the archways that served as the entrance of the temple. Each strode in, single le, ever silent. The thin, frail gures, both men and women that were chosen to bear the burden of both sides, donned their white robes, hoods and belts of white silk that had to be tied around the waist separately, dressed only in silence. Before they nished dressing, they headed to the front of the temple and dropped to their knees, as if begging each god and goddess for gracious mercy, as if each of them were attuned to the pain and wrong-doings that dwelled on the vast surface of this earth. Each waited to kneel in front of the large pool that sat adjacent to the front altars of the temple. A guardian dressed in withered gray robes stood and lled the pool with sacred

Rachael enjoys writing and reading very much. She also tends to love watching zombie movies, her favorites being Dawn of the Dead (2004) and Resident Evil movies. Shes procrastinating on getting her license because shes terried of driving since the last time she tried; she crashed her little Ford Escort into the side of an Orvilles building (and laughs about it to this day.) She has a very strange and mixed humor that you can either hate or love. She plans on going to Hilbert College in the fall semester to take English courses. She would love to become an English teacher maybe!

water from the nearby river that streamed le, he slowly smiled. He knew each and outside, only steps away. He slowly lled every one would pass the test, otherwise, the pool to its full capacity, not wasting a they wouldnt have been chosen. drop of water. He held the most beautiful pot fashioned of earth-colored clay, though the handle was slowly breaking away from the rest of the pot, fragile cracks forming along the fragile seams of the earthen pot. Soon, everyone kneeled and washed their hands in the cool water, preserving the silence all throughout the daily practice. No one was ever truly prepared to serve the gods and goddesses, especially not on a daily basis as the guardians did. Each one by one were ready to serve the fates, as their calling demanded. The head guardian sighed as he watched them prepare and as they marched off single

The Labyrinth
By: Rachael Krajna The Labyrinth is a dark dungeon that only a few human eyes have seen. Usually there is only darkness, only corpses and the occasional scream of the damned. Their horrid cries echo off the thick, ancient agstone walls that only creatures known by the gods built centuries beforehand. Blood splatters the oor, the walls, the doors fashioned of skulls and bones from multiple creatures, both human and non-human. Still, there is the sporadic silence that falls, even among the deepest corridors. This is no place to wander freely or to ponder ones place in the world. This is the maze of the damned, known only to those that deserve to know of it. This is the maze of the damned, where creatures of only the most twisted minds can imagine wander the endless twists of brick and stone. This is the maze of the damned where no mind can sleep. This is the maze of the damned, where only the most ancient souls can survive. This is the damned place where only the most heartless humans can dwell and still live years later. Only the most cold can thrive and not only live. Windows of multi-colored glass line the walls, very similar to those in a small, forbidden chapel. The outside world is shielded

The Labyrinth is a right brain activity that takes much pondering.

from view by the wooden planks that were nailed outside the windows to keep those imprisoned inside from viewing hope or nding even a shard within themselves. Minuscule cracks of light from the sun outside the Labyrinth manage to cascade in through the wooden planks and windows, casting a very small source of light that blinds the prisoners inside.

By:Emma Cummings- Witter Dream soft now dear See that star above It shines for you Always and forever Whether you know it Or not Dream slow now love Dont rush the things That need your time And comfort Wish well my darling For you never know If things could favor you Or change your life Forever and always A wish can mean anything Love, fear, or happiness But this wish is for you And for you alone Throw the wish to the sky And let it soar and y Dont try to catch it Unless it lingers by We wish on the same star Shining in the same sky Always and forever For you

Emma is going into her junior year at Lockport High School. She loves to write(obviously) and read(especially Harry Potter). She also loves to draw, dance, and play the piano. Emma loves her dog and Converse sneakers. She has never broken a bone, is afraid of heights, and wants to see a musical on Broadway. Despite her love of writing, Emma tends to never finish stories that she starts. As a result of this, there is a poor, lonely box full of half written in notebooks. This is her first, and certainly not last year at the writing workshop.

Keep an eye on our Facebook stream for announcements about the publication of our audio anthology as iTunes podcasts. Well be rolling out stories and poems from current and former students somewhere in the fall of 2011. Get your headphones ready.

Remember to stay current with our Facebook page. Mike (with no hat) has promised to provide Monday stimuli for entire year until we meet again. If you have friends who like to write, tell them to like our page as well. Ill be sharing things from time to time as well and will announce our audio anthology once it has been published. Remember, you are the strength, the vibrancy, and the vitality of the program. http://www.facebook.com/Wnywpteens

photo by Emily Schutte

A big thanks to Victoria Licata, Rachel Krajna and Emily Schutte, three writers who have been with us for many, many years. Thank you for all of your words.