2024 Regional Awards Recipients

Ode to Edward Hopper

By CHRISTOPHER MCCORD

Grade: 10
St. John's School
Teacher: Scott Johnson

Wechselfälle

By SHIRUIXUE FANG

Grade: 10
Bridgeland High School, Cypress-Fairbanks ISD
Teacher: Brad Conklin

"I'm Fine"

By ROY PINSON

Grade: 11
Blanson Career and Technical Education High School, Aldine ISD
Teacher: William Brink

Invasion of Privacy

By AIMEE WU

Grade: 10
Hanjie Arts Center
Teacher: Haicun Weng

Shundor Din

By ZAHRA HAQUE

Grade: 12
Westside High School, Houston ISD
Teacher: Susan Smith

The Stone of Perfidia

By PEARL ROBERTSON

Grade: 10
Tomball High School, Tomball ISD
Teacher: Bryce Gaskey

Gravel crunched beneath his polished shoes as he traversed the path, head hung low. Bulbous gray clouds canopied the natural vibrant blue of the sky, signaling the coming of rain. Callum could not find it in himself to care about the proposition of sullied clothes or drenched hair. He was here for one purpose.

He approached the headstone with reluctance, though his feet continued to guide him forward as if his desperate need for closure overruled his fear. Everything had happened so suddenly. The life of his father slipped away silently like a bandit into the night, leaving Callum with nothing but memories that felt too distant from the present. But as much as he wanted to bid his final farewell, it cemented his father’s death into the permanence of reality. 

It was an admittance. An acceptance. 

No matter how much Callum wished for it to be so, this wasn’t a cruel dream fabricated by his mind. It was an all too real experience, one that would haunt his conscience no matter how hard he tried to twist away from the grief. 

The mausoleum was a speckled brown granite with the words “HERE LIES KING ENAR” engraved into the stone. Emotion swelled in his throat as he reached out a trembling hand to trace the lettering. Tears sprung to his eyes, blurring his vision, and he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. As if a noose had been wrapped around his neck, cutting off his oxygen, it became difficult to breathe. The grief he’d been trying to conceal quickly broke down his facade, leaving him tearful and shaking like a little boy. 

“… I still do not understand it, Father,” he whispered as a gust of wind passed him. Out of his thick cerulean coat, he pulled out a rose. His fingers curled around the stem, clutching the flower to ground the sorrow that sat heavy in his heart.

“I thought when the time came, you’d realize you were wrong about my half-brother.” Callum shook his head gravely, his teeth grinding together. “But instead you go through with it, condemning us all to a dull future with an undeserving king. I want this! More than Oliver ever has, yet you blindly followed him? How could you?”

His jealousy swelled like that of a lava pit, bubbling with fierce passion until he was ready to erupt, maddened by the actions of a dead man. Practically since birth, his father had always taken more liking towards Oliver. He was responsible and educated, a skilled fighter. Not only that, Oliver was the product of “true love” with a servant whom his father snuck out to visit; not the loveless arranged marriage that brought Callum into the world. 

Despite all this, Callum never seemed to match up to Oliver. He was always slower, less experienced, and arrogant. But his loyalty towards his kingdom rivaled that of his half-brother to astronomical degrees. Oliver never held an interest in courting power. To him, being of royal lineage was more of a job than a blessing. How could their kingdom prosper under that kind of ruler? A ruler who felt no obligation to his duties?

 “I will not allow your favoritism to destroy our people!” Callum exclaimed, wiping stray tears from his eyes. 

He carefully placed the rose atop the granite, though his bitterness did not cease. He couldn’t come to understand what had caused a great man like his father to skew his judgment so greatly. 

It began to rain. It started with miniature droplets that landed faintly like dewdrops in his hair, on his shoulders, the backs of his hands. Then the droplets grew in size and intensity, plopping on his cheeks and forehead until it was a pounding downpour that beat unrelentingly against his skin; a testament to the grief that wracked his lungs, his heart, his entire being. Callum stood and bore it. 

“Take my word, Father,” Callum spoke aloud, eyes glued to the tomb as if it was the man standing there himself. “I will be crowned King. Even if I must lock away that bastard into the deepest dungeon to prove I am the worthy son.”
————
Despite the passage of time, Callum still clearly recalled the memories of being curled against his mother’s side, reading from a weathered hard copy in dim candlelight. Her presence brought the soothing aroma of lavender and vanilla, her voice a calming remedy that always managed to lull him to sleep. 

One of her favorite stories to tell was The Stone of Perfidia. The tale had been told to him countless times as a child, so much so that he could perfectly recount the story in his head: settled along the base of steep mountains was a small town named Logwin. In the town lived two brothers who were known to be inseparable. They were often referred to as the daredevils, considering their thirst for adventure and the townspeople's lack of desire to partake in such things. One day, out of sheer curiosity, the brothers decided to venture up the mountains.

It was a climb no one had ever attempted to make, seeing as many rumors floated around about the probable troubles that would come your way if you managed to reach the peak. Despite this, they embarked on the journey anyway. After all, rumors were not cemented, scientific facts. They were crafted under the pretense of fear to distract the mind from all the endless possibilities. 

The brothers set off on their mission at the crack of dawn and arrived at the peak just as the sun began to fall past the horizon. Satisfied with their newfound knowledge and the breathtaking sights, they decided to head back before the sun set completely. As they carefully traversed the grassy terrain, the younger brother’s eyes suddenly caught sight of a glistening purple among the lush green. Intrigued, the younger brother paused and approached the glow. He crouched down and brought his hand to grasp a raw obsidian stone. The moment he made contact, a powerful blast erupted from the stone and he found himself levitating midair, blessed with wondrous power no one had ever believed possible.

His brother, knocked over by the impact, hurriedly rose to his feet. Shock joined his feelings of distress as he witnessed his sibling hover above the ground, eyes a disturbing glow of purple. 

Frightened by the strange stone, the older brother suggested they leave it and venture back down. The same could not be said about the other. He simply scoffed at the other’s concern, blinded by the stone’s power and unable to understand his brother’s good intentions. 

In the end, only one lived to see another day.

In an act of betrayal, he blasted his brother’s body off the side of the mountain, never to be seen again. 

Following the brutal shove, not much history was recorded as to who else harbored the stone. All that is known is that the stone was passed along to many different men along the way until eventually, the kingdom they knew today was formed.

One thing was apparent, the gem caused all its holders to betray who they were and everything they loved. And for this, the people of Logwin named it The Stone of Perfida.

In present times, the gem was concealed in the secluded area of the West Wing, guarded by a specialized group of guards at all times. His father decided it was the best course of action considering the gruesome decisions people seem to make while in possession of the stone.

Despite the evident dangers of wielding such powerful magic, Callum knew the stone would be his only chance to claim the throne. Oliver would remain king until he passed or became too unwell to do so. But if Callum were to incapacitate him, Callum would automatically be declared king.

His plan was simple: when the time came, he’d run to the West Wings and inform the guards that his half-brother was engaged in battle; Callum had been sent away for his protection and to acquire assistance. With the recent death of King Enar, they wouldn’t question his word and would go off to protect Oliver. After all, Callum had never been anything but obedient and loyal. 

“Soon,” he assured himself as he peered out the window of his bedroom. The clouds had faded to reveal a red-blooded rouge. The sun was a glowing shade of gold, beaming down on the vast, grassy hills and the array of homes in the town beyond the castle walls. 

 “By the time they notice, it’ll be too late.”
——————
 It was a room Oliver had yet to explore. When his father was alive, no one was allowed to enter except his guards. The doubtful sovereign sighed deeply, basking in the irony of it all. This room was his in principle but belonged to a different man. A man whose role he did a shoddy job of fulfilling, like an incorrect puzzle piece in a grand picture.

Oliver's recently appointed role as King left him with dread and anxiety. On paper, the anxious autocrat was well prepared to carry out his duty. He endured grueling training with their most skilled knights and spent countless hours with tutors going through lessons on culture, the history of their kingdom, and his responsibilities. 

Yet, Oliver didn’t feel ready. 

Not when all one could think about was how inadequate one felt when compared to their father. That, and the incessant and contemptuous whispers about his impure royal lineage.

The young monarch’s eyes roamed the study idly, gazing upon the multitude of shelves, each one housing a wide array of books. Oliver reached for a random title, a grin spreading across his face as he realized what book this was. When they were younger, Callum was fascinated with fairytales, so Oliver procured a book which they shared. As he thumbed through, his eye caught the reflective glimmer of a photograph and paused, curious. It was of him and Callum, younger, and unshackled from the grief and despair of unrequited responsibility. Happy. 

Guilt washed over Oliver like the dredges of a tidepool as he rubbed its worn edges. What happened to them? To the afternoons of endless play as boys, fake sword fights with brooms. 

Perhaps it was his fault. 

After all, Oliver was the eldest, he should’ve done something to prevent this malaise, but he was always caught up. Always hobbling back to his princely quarters with a new wound and assignment in tow. But he couldn’t stop. Not when he couldn’t stand to see the eyes of his father be anything but beaming, not when he continued to hear whispers of doubt when he turned his back. But those are all excuses, aren’t they? 

Callum was alone and forced to watch as their father dedicated all his time to preparing Oliver for a role too large for him, but Oliver smiled charmingly and tried to disguise the uncertainty that sat on his shoulders. 

Oliver tore his eyes from the photograph, staring out the window as he thought. 

Maybe… maybe he could fix it. 

Just then, the doors were thrust ajar and Oliver turned to see a group of guards.

“King Oliver!” A guard stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the study and Oliver with confusion. “ Prince Callum alerted us that you were under attack.”

“Callum?” Oliver inquired, his eyebrows raising at the mention of his brother’s name. 

“Where were you previously stationed?” He questioned as he watched the eyes of the group shift to realization and then dread. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, a cold chill washing over his body as the leader responded: “The West Wing.” 
——————
The weight of the jagged gem in his palm was a comforting one as Callum sprinted away from the castle grounds, grass crunching beneath his feet as he ran.

His heart palpitated loudly in his ears, a rush of adrenaline that spiked his heart. In the past, this moment would’ve served as one of disobedience, another reason to add to the plentiful list of how Oliver was the better son. But now? Callum felt not even an ounce of regret from his thievery or his deception. He was tired of being less than satisfactory. 

From now on, he would be the better son - and in an hour - The King. 

He slowed from an outright sprint to a jog, chest heaving and legs aching as he brought himself to a stop. The sky had morphed from a kaleidoscope of warm hues to a dark navy dotted with stars-like freckles, the full moon shining brightly upon him. He stood there idly as he waited for the inevitable confrontation as he ran his thumb over the natural rigid edges of the obsidian stone. 

“Callum!” A familiar voice called, sending a shiver up his spine. Callum turned to face his brother standing a few feet away, steadily approaching with anger lacing his every movement. 

At just the sight of him, fire ignited in Callum’s chest. His fist tightened around the stone, teeth grinding together fiercely. He was so sick of Oliver. Sick of his overbearing perfection, sick of the sound of his name and the pitch of his voice. He despised everything about his half-brother, for there was no favorable trait he could mention. There was only one thing standing between him and his birthright.

Tonight, Callum would force his way into becoming an only child.
 
“I was beginning to get worried you wouldn’t show. ” Callum chuckled lowly, breaking his gaze away from the irritated irises that fixated on him to instead focus on the pulsing gem in his palm. 

“Missing something?” He taunted, a smirk curving his lips, unaware of how his eyes flashed a vibrant purple. 

Oliver’s face hardened with outrage, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I should’ve been able to smell your jealousy from a mile away. You reek of the stench!” He scoffed in disbelief, taking a couple of steps until they stood face to face. “I understand you're upset about what happened to Father. But grief does not justify theft; especially for something which you know is incredibly dangerous.” His voice shifted to a tone Callum had never heard before, something like… disgust. 

“Are you so self-centered that you would put everyone in danger to prove to a dead man that you're better than me?” 

Shame blossomed on Callum’s cheeks and he ducked his head away, jaw clenched as his body shook from the emotions that swelled in him. There was a war raging within him and suddenly, his internal battle came to an end.

“Fight me.” 

The tension melted away from Oliver’s face, leaving only confusion. Baffled, he faltered back a step, “What?”

“Fight me, Oliver,” Callum barked, his throat so tight he felt his vocal cords could snap from the strain. He craved this. The opportunity to make it clear he was the better son. “Since I’m such an atrocious person–”

A fist cracked against the side of Callum’s jaw, cutting off his words. Pain blossomed across his jaw and his head pounded from the impact. His hand migrated to his face as his eyes met his brother’s. They gazed back with regret, but managed to hold the authority they always did when they looked his way.

A sudden flash of neon struck from Callum’s fingertips, his hand a blur too quick for Oliver to perceive. A strangled yelp escaped Oliver’s throat as he was sent flying from the blow. 

The impact was a harsh one that left him disoriented, shaking to replace the air that had been knocked out of his lungs. A quiet groan escaped his lips as he flipped to his back on the grassy hill, staring up at the night sky. A levitating figure interrupted his view of the full moon, though it didn’t take long to distinguish his brother's face floating above him. A gasp escaped Oliver as he realized his brother’s eyes were now glowing a vibrant purple, completely void of the deep brown he’d come to know. “Callu-”

Callum directed the stone towards him with a righteous fury, unflinching as purple lightning shot from the gem and struck Oliver. 

A scream erupted from his throat and tears sprung to his eyes, an unspeakable, agonizing kind of torture that left him reeling. Each second of pain provided what felt like hours of agonizing torture. Abruptly, the horrible crackling stopped. Oliver lay breathless upon the grass, every nerve ending in his body vibrating with the residual energy still coursing through his veins. His throat constricted at the sight of Callum hovering above him, not an ounce of remorse in his expression.

“Is it because I’m…” Oliver uttered from dry lips, coughs rattling his chest. Every word brought forth more blood from his lips, the thin, steady stream of red flowing down his chin and neck. His brother did not return a word, just stared at him with that same indistinguishable ire. His silence was the only answer he needed.

 Oliver squeezed his eyes shut, tears welling in his eyes. All his life. There was no escape, was there?

When had his little brother transformed into a monster?

“It’ll never work. No matter what you do or what you destroy, you will never obtain Father’s love and respect. You will always be an afterthought.” Oliver spat with quivering lips, hatred bleeding out from his tongue. 

A quick zip of lightning had him lifeless on the ground.

Callum descended to earth, crouching down to observe his fallen sibling. The once vibrant gray of his eyes drained into a lifelessness no one could return from.

Callum floated to his feet, turning from the beaten corpse to the kingdom.

There was only one thing left to do.

Purple lightning crackled menacingly, a glowing hue taking over his figure as he rose into the sky and headed toward the awaiting castle.

52 Days

By FRIDA BUCK

Grade: 10
St. Agnes Academy
Teacher: Herman Sutter

CAST OF CHARACTERS 
AHMAD - Middle aged, caring, wealthy, Iranian man.
FAKHRI - Ahmad's wife, she is very strong and fierce. 
FARRAH - Ahmad's oldest daughter.
FARIDA - Also Ahmad's daughter, she is deathly ill.
MAN 1 and MAN 2 - members of the Mojahed political party.
AKHOUND - to clarify, an Akhound is a religious person/title. This Akhound is a judge.
AKHOUND #2 - An Akhound from Ahmad's hometown.
GUARD - Prison guard.

52 DAYS

INT. HOUSE PARTY - NIGHT
It’s 1980 in Iran. People are mingling in a warm room, the atmosphere is exciting and fun. There is music playing and good conversation. AHMAD (middle aged man, Iranian, put together) is speaking to some friends. His smile is inviting and he has a friendly presence. Suddenly, the fun stops and the atmosphere is shattered by pounding on the door. The HOST of the party carefully makes his way to the door and once he opens it three moral police burst into the room. They shove people and push as the party seeps into panic. They stop at Ahmad and immediately arrest him with no explanation. They take him out of the house and the door slams behind them. Outside of the house, they blindfold him and take him out of view. Inside the house, the room is silent. 

INT. JAIL CELL
Ahmad sits against the wall of his jail cell. It’s small and empty but most of all it’s dark. He stares, zoned out with a blank expression for several beats. There are some young men scattered in the cells next to him. They lean over the bars to get a good look at him before one of them speaks up.

MAN 1
Psst, hey.

Ahmad looks over. 

MAN 1
I know you. 

The young man leans closer, he’s as close to Ahmad as possible.

MAN 1
You own Tampela building. Don’t you?

Ahmad doesn’t flinch at the man's poisonous voice. He is apprehensive, but he replies.

AHMAD
Yes.

The young man laughs in a sinister way. Another one speaks up, he yells.

MAN 2
Why are you here?

His tone is mocking, as if he already knows the answer to his question. Ahmad looks up.

AHMAD
I don’t know.

He is immediately cut off by the first young man. 

MAN 1
I know! 

He yells with a boiling anger as if his voice is dripping with disdain.

MAN 1
You’re rich. A money hoarder! Parading that building around.
Ahmad doesn’t react to the mans speech because he knows it is not true. The young man begins to laugh darkly, he leans even closer.

MAN 1
You know, if the Mojahed were in charge.

He gestures to the young men around him, implying that they are the Mojahed group.

MAN 1
We’d kill you.

The other man shouts. Ahmad finally changes his expression. He looks at the men with pity in his eyes. 

MAN 2
You’re lucky you’re alive! 

The prison erupts in laughter, Ahmad sits there composed. Behind his calmness, there is a spark of fear in his eyes.

EXT. PRISON
Four girls and their mother are standing outside the bleak prison entrance. A tall man stands guard outside. FARRAH the oldest sister holds FARIDA’s hand as their mother FAKHRI speaks to the man.

FAKHRI
We are here to see my husband.

Her voice is firm but the man waves her off.

GUARD
No visitors.

The rage in Fakhri’s face is painfully evident, she opens her mouth to speak, but Farrah interrupts and answers the man instead.

FARRAH
Please sir, this is our father.

She thinks for a moment and then brings Farida forward. Farida is obviously ill.

FARRAH
Please, she’s sick. Don’t rid her of her dad, not in this state.

The man shows no emotion towards them. He shakes his head and the five are left defeated. They walk a few feet away from the entrance.

FARIDA
Why would they do this? Imprison him? For no reason?

Farrah looks grim and Fakhri looks like her rage has boiled over.

FAKHRI
This is the “new” Iran, Farida.

INT. JAIL CELL
It is a new day. Ahmad has stood up and he slowly paces in his cell, he is interrupted when the door swings open. Everyone looks towards the new man who has walked in. He starts to unlock the cell of Man 1. Man 1 looks at him with a twinge of hope, but then, as if he has some sort of revelation, he begins to yell.

MAN 1
NO! NO, PLEASE!

Man 1 is dragged out of his cell. The door slams shut. Ahmad sits down, slightly shaken, and puts his head in his hands.

EXT. PRISON
The days pass and every single day Farrah, Farida, and Fakhri wait outside the prison. Each day, they have no luck. Ahmad is not released. They wait and they wait and they wait restlessly, yet they are never shown remorse. They keep on waiting for him. 

INT. JAIL CELL
The cell next to Ahmad is empty now. He sits and thinks deeply, trying to decipher the precarious situation he is in. The door opens and the man walks in. He takes another young man out of his cell.

MAN 2
Please, please.

He drags him out and the door shuts.

Time passes like this, as each day goes by, another young man in the prison is executed and Farrah and Farida wait for their father outside. They do not miss a single day. They are desperate.

EXT. PRISON
Farrah, Farida, and Fakhri approach the prison once more. This time, it is apparent that Farida has grown more ill, that her sickness is consuming her.

FAKHRI 
My love, you should be on bed rest. You know that.

There is worry in Fakhri’s eyes, but there is also desperation. Farida is ten times more sick than she was before. 

FARIDA
I will come here every single day. I can’t give up. Not until I see baba again.

Farrah hugs her sister gently. They stand, looking at the prison walls. 

INT. JAIL CELL
Ahmad looks tired, he’s been in jail for more than several weeks. Yet he still clings on to a strand of hope. The door opens, this time the man opens Ahmad’s cell. There is fear in his eyes but he does not scream or beg. He stands and walks out with the man. They begin to walk down a dark hallway when the man speaks. 

GUARD
Come. 

Ahmad looks him in the eye but follows his orders. They stop walking and the man opens a door. 

INT. SMALL COURTROOM
Ahmad walks in with him and sees a small gaggle of people, some of which he recognizes. It appears to be some kind of courtroom. Ahmad sits at the front of the room. AKHOUND wearing a turban sits at the Judge’s Chair. 

AKHOUND
You are guilty of the murder of 6 moral police.

Ahmad freezes, there is pure confusion painted over his face but he knows better than to speak up.

AKHOUND
Ahmad, you owned the Tampela building. Your building was being used as a base for the Moral Police. A group of men belonging to the Mojahed political party killed 6 moral police there. You face execution for this crime.

Ahmad clenches his jaw. He looks around the room. His eyes land on AKHOUND #2 who is glaring at him. He turns to the AKHOUND.

AHMAD
I own the building but I have no relation with the Mojahed party. You have no evidence to prove that I was involved in those deaths.
The AKHOUND pauses.

AKHOUND
You face execution.

Ahmad’s face goes pale. 

AHMAD
May I see my family?

The AKHOUND looks at the guard and then back at Ahmad, he considers and then speaks.

AKHOUND
One member. 

Ahmad stands.

AHMAD
My daughter, Farrah.

The AKHOUND nods and Ahmad follows the guard out of the courtroom.

EXT. PRISON
This time, the entire family is there waiting for Ahmad. Four sisters and two brothers including Farida and Farrah. Fakhri is there too. A guard comes outside.

GUARD
Farrah?

Farrah quickly steps out from her family. The guard gestures to her to follow him and she goes inside the prison.

INT. HALLWAY
Ahmad sees Farrah and they very quickly embrace. He holds her arms and looks her directly in the eye, speaking strongly.

AHMAD
Listen to me. There is only one person in that room who can save me right now. He is an AKHOUND (#2) from my hometown, please Farrah, talk to him. He is the only man they’ll listen to. 

The guard places his hand on Ahmad’s arm, before he leaves, Ahmad kisses Farrah on the head. He is taken back inside. 

EXT. PRISON
It’s a bit after Ahmad’s trial, people are leaving the prison and his whole family is waiting outside. When the AKHOUND #2 comes out they stop him. 

FAKHRI
Wait, please.

The AKHOUND (#2) stops and looks at her.

FAKHRI
Ahmad told us that you could help him. Please, whatever you want tell me and we will give it to you. Anything to save his life.
The AKHOUND #2 thinks for a moment. There is no remorse in his expression.

AKHOUND #2
Give us 500,000 toman.

Fakhri hesitates but starts to nod, he interrupts her.

AKHOUND #2
And your home, and Tampela.

He thinks for a moment.

AKHOUND #2
And your car.

Fakhri nods.

FAKHRI
Yes, of course, yes. 

EXT. PRISON
It’s the next day. The sun is rising and Ahmad’s entire family is awaiting eagerly outside the prison. He walks out and they all embrace him. 

AHMAD (V.O.)
I worked so hard

EXT. CEMETERY
Now he is standing with his family in the same position, this time they are all wearing black. They are looking at a gravestone. Farida is not there. Ahmad buries his head in his hands and sobs. 

AHMAD (V.O.)
For everything I have

INT. OFFICE
Now he is standing alone in his office. He sits at his desk which is covered in books on law. 

AHMAD (V.O.)
And I’m not going to let anyone take it from me.

He opens a book. 

THE END.

The Wife I Searched For

By JAYLA VONGSY

Grade: 10
Cypress Woods High School, Cypress-Fairbanks ISD
Teacher: Joshua Lopez

“Dad, can you stop bringing the neighbors over? They’re really starting to smell.” Brie wrinkled her snout in disgust and pointed to the ravine behind the house before chuckling, “At least throw them out when you’re done.”

“What are you talking about, honey?” Bobbie Cheddar turned from his spot at the counter where he was cutting into a small raspberry, his thin tail draping gently on the floor. The morning bustle was beginning and the animal world was slowly awakening.

“The neighboring mice, Dad,” she said hesitantly, “The ones you’ve been introducing me to?”

“I’m sorry, dear; I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Brie cocked her head to the side, her whiskers fanning out across her face, “Dad? Are you joking right now?”

“Brie, who are you talking about? Listen, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. I’ll be right back,” Bobbie shook his head before leaving the cupboard cabinet that they called home. He walked to the edge of the counter that overlooked the Kitchen and sighed.

It had been five years since his wife was killed by the humans, and he had loathed them ever since. His pent up rage at their insistence on killing his family had long since settled into a simmering stew, yet he performed this ritual every morning.

Bobbie stood on his hind legs and surveyed the awakenings of the neighboring animals. The cockroach family under the sink were getting ready to take the baby nymphs to school; the ants from outside began to file into the House, readying for their daily pantry-raid heist; the spiders who lived in the ceiling corners began to twist in their delicately crafted webs. This was the beauty of the animal world. The cruel humans were always out to kill them. They barely thought of the families that they destroyed or the intricate life that they demolished when they sprayed their chemicals.

The morning sunlight was beginning to stream through the large kitchen windows, illuminating the space. Bobbie shielded his eyes with his paw and found who he was looking for: his next wife.

Emerging from the highest cupboard hole in the Kitchen was Clarisse. She truly was a specimen. Her tail was always nicely polished, and her coat of fur was the best kept of any of the mice in the town. She lifted her paw and waved at a neighboring family of silverfish, her incisors catching in the light radiantly.

Today was the day. Bobbie would finally bring her home and introduce her to his daughter, Brie. The Cheddar family would become whole once more. Never again would the humans make Bobbie feel insignificant and lonely.

“Dad?” A nasally voice rang out from his cupboard home, “Can you grab me some sugar from the Pantry?” Usually, Brie was out the door before Bobbie, working with her band in the Garage. Today, however, she had decided to take the day off to ease her bout of sickness. “The White Whiskers” were the best mice band in the entire House, going town to town performing their rock-pop music on weekends. Entertainment in the animal world was a growing industry that got more and more popular with the rise of the modern world. While they were influenced by humans in some of their work, Bobbie was still immensely proud of his daughter's band and how far she’d come since their families’ tragedy all those years ago.

Bobbie walked downstairs and beamed at her. Brie lay in an empty cookie tin, a small sock keeping her warm. Her snout was pinker than usual, and she sniffled slightly. Her mouth was downturned as she pouted.

“I have a huge band gig in a few days! I can’t afford this setback right now,” Brie huffed angrily and continued to stare at her dad, “Where did this wave of sickness spread from this time?”

“I’m not sure dear, but I’ll let you know when I come back with your sugar. Will you be okay when I’m gone?”

“Dad, I’m not a child anymore,” she scoffed, “God, I’m practically an adult mouse by now. Thanks for caring for me, but I’ll be fine.”

“Okay then, if you say so.”

Bobbie turned to exit the cupboard hole when his daughter’s voice squeaked, “Seriously though, Dad, no more mice. Stop bringing them to me—like a cat—and hurting them in our house. Dad, I hear their screams for help, and I don’t know if I can live with that anymore. I’m happy right now. I don’t need Mom anymore and neither do you.” She looked up from fiddling with the sock and said sternly, “It’s time to let go now.”

Bobbie stared at her. He didn’t move as he took in Brie’s words. After a few moments of silence, he nodded to himself, grunted a goodbye to his daughter, and left the home completely.

As he walked towards the pantry, Bobbie couldn’t help but think about what she had said. How did Brie know about his plans to introduce Clarisse to their family? Did he tell her previously or was his memory faulting him like it had been the past few weeks? Whatever the case, it was odd how Brie knew his next move.

Almost at his destination, Bobbie had to look twice when he saw Clarisse chatting with one of the Pantry ants. She was stunning, just like his wife. Her smile warmed the entire world whenever he glimpsed her way. She reminded him of home and the importance of repairing his family.

Bobbie put on his most charming smile, smoothed out his whiskers, and approached Clarisse. The ant, upon seeing him, immediately darted away.

“Good morning, Clarisse. How has the breezy wind treated you?” He winked at her and chuckled at her reddening snout.

“Bobbie, you are such a flirt!” she teased, batting him in the arm before turning away shyly. She was a few months younger than Bobbie and had recently moved into her own cupboard hole. Her father, a notorious underground dealer, was very influential within the rodent world. Clarisse had grown up comfortably and hadn’t needed to lift a paw when it came to hard work. In an effort to change the community’s limited viewpoints of her, she often came to talk to the locals. This was something that Bobbie deeply admired about her; she was determined to change for the better—maybe she was willing to do the same for Bobbie’s family.

“I was wondering if you’d like to come over for dinner,” Bobbie smiled, “My daughter, Brie, has been dying to meet you.”

“That sounds wonderful! I have nothing planned for tonight, so I’ll see you then,” Clarisse bowed her head and beamed before scurrying back to the line of worker ants.

 

~~~

 

It had been a few hours since Bobbie’s interaction with his future wife, and his cupboard home was finally ready. The surfaces were polished and the cookie tins were neatly tucked away. In order to properly cleanse the house, he had to send his sickly daughter outside for some fresh air. Brie was waiting on the top of the counter in front of their cabinet.

“Brie!” Bobbie called out to his daughter, “I’ve finished cleaning. You can come back inside now!”

When there was no reply, Bobbie headed to where Brie was and saw her sitting down with her head under her tail. She was clutching a single pearl. Her body shook gently as she cried into the marble countertop. The breeze from the air vent blew gently from how high up they were. The sun was starting to set in the Kitchen windows, casting a gentle glow on the world.

Bobbie approached his daughter and put a paw on her shoulder, “Honey, why are you upset? Is that your mother’s pearl?” Brie peered up from her tail and frowned.

“It is, but do you really not remember?” she whispered hoarsely, “Do you really not know what you’re doing?” She held the pearl closer to her chest. It glimmered in the setting sun.

Bobbie’s eyes furrowed as he tilted his head, “Is it because of the sugar? I can go back to the pantry and—”

“It’s not the sugar, Dad,” she interrupted. Brie disentangled herself from her tail before facing Bobbie completely. She wiped the remaining tears away and stared angrily.

“It was never the sugar or the new mice or the obsessive cleaning that upset me. It was your impossible goal to get your wife back. She’s gone, Dad,” she whispered, her voice croaking as more tears dropped from her eyes, “She’s gone.” The pearl that she held was his wife’s most prized possession. It had fallen from a piece of human jewelry during their first date and had since been a piece of their love. Bobbie had forgotten it existed since her death all those years ago.

Bobbie began to laugh confusedly as he watched his daughter, “I have no idea what you’re saying. She’s coming over for dinner soon. You have to be patient.”

“That is not Mom, Dad. Mom is dead,” Brie was shaking with rage as she spoke to him.

“I know that sweetie,” Bobbie sighed, glancing over his shoulder, “Clarisse will be here any minute now. Why don’t we go back inside and clean you up?”

“She isn’t coming, Dad!” Brie yelled, stalking toward him, “I told her not to come. I won’t have another death on my hands.”

Bobbie was tired of this back and forth nonsense. He looked beside him and saw the tall height from which they were standing. The evening was coming to an end as dark shadows emerged throughout the Kitchen. The air vent blew angrily as the sounds of the world fell away. Everything went still in Bobbie’s mind.

He grabbed Brie’s shoulders and said with an acute stillness, “I have done all this for you. I have been trying to find you a mother—one that is worthy for our family.” Brie shook her head, trying to pry herself from his tense grip. The pearl slid from her paws and rolled away as she fought.

“The mice that I have killed are dead because they are not the ones for us. Do not let sympathy get in the way of your pain. Feel the anger, and feel the rage deep inside. I know it's there.”

“It’s not, Dad,” Brie finally freed herself and pushed him away, “I’ve learned to deal with the pain, but not in this psychotic way. I’m leaving.” Brie marched towards the cupboard hole but was stopped by a raging Bobbie.

“You are not going anywhere,” he spat, backing Brie towards the ledge once more. His eyes were distant and cold as he herded her to the edge.

“Dad, what are you doing? Dad, stop. Dad!” She glanced behind her multiple times as the drop to below loomed closer. Brie grabbed her father’s shoulders and tried to shove him away, but it was no use. The dad that she had grown to love had morphed into a true monster. Foam started to drip from his mouth as he bellowed like a human, making him lose what little common sense he had left. He continued driving her backwards even as she sobbed and clawed at him to stop.

“You want to ruin our perfect family—fine. Ruin it when you’re elsewhere.” He pushed forcibly with his paws and watched as his daughter fell. Farther and farther she went. The darkness mauled her gentle face, and the air conditioning blew harshly. Her fur fluttered gently as gravity claimed her. Brie’s sobs echoed, the sound bouncing from the cabinets, until they stopped completely.

A lone pearl glistened on the countertop as the moonlight streamed into the Kitchen. It lay there for the rest of the night and well into the winter, only being found when a lone mouse was out searching for his wife.

 

Second Banana

By CHI PHAM

Grade: 12
Klein Forest High School, Klein ISD
Teacher: Danae Perez

As someone who has always feared rejection more than death, it feels like a curse how aspirations of Hollywood glamor have manifested itself front and center in my mind. I should've listened to my mother, who would've told me to do something mundane like waitressing at some déclassé restaurant a family friend owned in Chinatown, and honestly, I'm starting to give it some thought. While a monotonous life it would make, at the very least I wouldn't ever worry about coming second banana to another white actress at an audition again. Contrary to what my occupation, or more so desired occupation, may have you think, I reside in a small, worn-down apartment with loud neighbors, walls in need of several fresh coats of paint, and flooring so uneven that it nearly constitutes a hill range. I believe the term is "humble beginnings."

 

At the moment, I anxiously await a callback from one of the hundreds of auditions I've been to. My name is Bai, but please, call me Joanie. My mother would've hated that I go by Joanie nowadays, and if she was here, would tell me how beautiful the name Bai is. I hope she understands that it's necessary for business—who's ever heard of an actress with a Chinese first name in Hollywood? I try not to think about how disappointed my dead mother would be, but it feels like she's a cloud in my mind.

 

I hear a ring. Almost automatically, I shoot up from my stained sofa, reaching for the phone. The front side of my hands starts to butter. I position the phone with my ear against my shoulder and try to slow my breathing. Could it finally be happening? A voice forms on the other line.

 

"Hello, this is Amanda calling from Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer," the woman on the other side begins, "I'm speaking to Joanie Kwan, correct?" I nearly dropped the phone.

 

"Y-yes."

 

"Well, congratulations. The directors of Ms. Chinatown appreciated your audition as Yin Lang."

 

This time, I actually dropped the phone.

 

"However," she continues, "we are only considering you, among others. You understand what a callback is, yes?"

 

"Yes, of course," I responded, "when is this callback?".

 

"Tomorrow. Half past noon. Any other questions?"

 

"No."

 

Amanda hangs up.

 

I chose a solid red dress, a pair of matching heels, and a fascinator—an ensemble I'd see Ms. Chinatown herself wearing. I lift my feet up heel first as I exit my home towards the taxi to look the part of a Hollywood starlet. Just as my body reaches the car seat, I lay my head against the window and have my first moment of rest in days. All feels correct.

 

***

 

The next day, sitting in the lobby of MGM Studios, I study my possible competition. First, a teenage girl. I shouldn't underestimate anyone, but she's clearly no Ms. Chinatown. I looked over to the other woman in the room. It felt like dying. She was unbelievably stunning, both looking and dressing the part of a glitterati. I could see myself in that restaurant uniform already. Get a grip, Joanie. Think this through. She couldn't possibly be here for the role of a Chinese girl, right?

 

A lady holding a clipboard steps out of a door, clearing her throat.

 

"Joanie Kwan and Romy Dietrich?"

 

I stand up, as well as the mysterious woman.

 

"Here," Romy responds. She lifts her heel up just as I did before in her stride towards the door—the only difference is that it must come naturally to her.

 

"H-here,” I responded. I try to exude the same starlet energy walking towards the door, but I feel more like a waitress walking toward a table.

 

Romy smiles at me. I feel her looking into my soul.

 

"May the best actress win," Romy says.

 

As I step into the audition room, all nerves slowly shake off. The men from the audition before call Romy up first, directing me to sit in a plastic yellow chair. I hear her read the script in a slight accent I can only describe as faux-oriental, the way boys would mock me in elementary school.

 

"I love New York, but I miss—" she hesitates, "..Cha-awng-cuh-ching?" Chongqing. I couldn't help but feel grateful for her slip-up. She finishes her audition, strutting towards the seat next to mine and giving me a smile worthy of its own Academy Award.

 

The directors call my name. My stomach turns into cheese.

 

"Whenever you're ready," the one in the middle said. I take in as much oxygen as I can. Now as Ms. Chinatown, I begin to repeat my lines from memory.

 

"Well, I love New York," I notice the directors frowning, "but I miss Chongqing most of all."

 

"Sorry," the one on the left interjected, "you said the line fine, but we'd like for you to read the part of Hui Wei instead." They hand me a much thinner script and I try to hide my confusion and retain my composure. Hui Wei, the maid? I glanced through several pages before I began to open my lips, but it wasn't the lines I planned on saying.

 

"Was there any reason you didn't ask Dietrich to read this part as well?"

 

The man sitting on the left gives me a look—one I've received since elementary school when I know too much and don't hide it.

 

"It was because we'd think you'd be better suited for the role more than Ms. Dietrich," he began, "you should really take it as a compliment."

 

"Why couldn't you tell me this on the phone?"

 

The directors looked as if my words were lemons souring their ears.

 

"I'm sorry, are we having an issue?"

 

For a moment, I considered swallowing my pride just to finally get a role, but would my mother have wanted this?

 

"Congratulations, Romy."

 

I don't bother to hear what they have to say before I head toward the exit, with my eyes filled with the heat of summer. Well, there’s always next time.

 

recollection is a love song

By ISABEL CHUNG

Grade: 10
Pearland High School, Pearland ISD

exuvia

our 17th summer finds us caught on the edge of being, limbs trapped halfway in the still-chirping shell of emergence.

 

still two, three months left till either of our birthdays, but you press your hands to mine and the warmth feels like pulling a bow loose, unwrapping:

this year, we are going to see everything.

there is no before it’s all over but you won’t be the one to say it

and i always stutter my goodbyes.

 

sometimes you bring me to old parking lots to watch the sky drink itself into a sunset haze,

tell me to come closer, closer, until our knees knock together

and your shoulder bleeds salt onto mine. against our backs,

the stop sign our old selves scratched hearts into

stands above us even years later. we’re both young still–

only a few inches taller but chasing a sort of movie ending anyway,

hoping to reach the end credits and see our names scrolling up steadily

to a frank sinatra song neither of us can name.

in our wake, glittering:

the old shells we left behind, too heavy for a life in the limelight.

 

sunlight fades in the corner of my eyesight, a dulled radiance shaped like your laughter molded into cicada song.

it’s an image i can’t bear to lose. briefly, i press my palms to my eyes and watch the evening’s first stars dance there,

praying i can make a constellation out of them

shaped like the laughter beneath our tymbal-shake stomachs.

 

burnout

 

i’m told waiting is the hardest part, but it comes easy to me.

 

gives me a chance to slow down, count the moments in love me’s and love me not’s,

filling in the spaces the people on our old wallpapers have left.

 

it’s only been a few hours but yesterday already feels so far away.

we’ve got too much time in our hands–pointless when all of it spills through our fingers,

trickling down weary knuckles, pooling between us on old pavement, sherbet-sweet.

 

we’re bad at puzzles but try to complete each other anyway,

crushing pieces together when it doesn’t work and

crushing each other even,

new moon flesh bruising on the jagged edges.

 

look at the picture on the box: regret. so many late nights together we could’ve used

to become content with the distance, but

we get sick off caffeine instead, find acetaminophen in late-night conversations to soothe the worst aches.

 

press your fingers to where the pieces didn’t stick, trace the image of the final product on my throat. smile into my skin:

hurry, i think i’ll be all ashes soon.

hurry, i don’t know how many love me’s we have left.

 

fast lane

 

got bad eyes so when we run

everything blurs into downtown lights and my heartbeat goes

too fast to count, too

short to sight read.

 

no beat to our footfalls until i catch up to you and

it all gives way to a rush of concrete and

stilling shadow, polyrhythmic, finding a tempo

in the trembling sliver between our interlocked fingers,

a tritone backbone

in our shaky laughter.

 

you’ve always been faster–just crossed the finish line and

there’s already fountain soda dribbling down your thumb, two straws stuck in the plastic cover.

losers weepers, i’m used to losing to you, i already know

shorter one’s mine so i

seek out the bar line gap in the dark,

nails clipping your wrist when

you hand over the cup.

 

polystyrene squeaking under our fingers but

the momentum is too much for us to slow down now so we

trip over the cherry-flavored syllables and

almost say

gonna miss you

instead.

 

deep breathing

 

in / the moment i’ve got too much on my mind, worried it’ll burst out and embarrass me, but i smile anyway and link my arm in yours, praying closeness will instill a silence i’ve never known before. we’re both thinking too much tonight, and there’s unfamiliar emotion in the way you hold yourself together that has me all assumptions and needle-thin nerves, trembling, theorizing.

 

out / of my mind a year ago, i tried to memorize you in your entirety, so convinced that it would free me from having to forget. all for naught: tonight everything seems to slip away anyway, leaving me with the clementine residue, bittersweet. i can’t remember the details so i fill them in by hand, color by number, as if either of us still remembers how it felt to be five and free. reaching through the spectrometer for something physical: red where my side presses against yours, held endpoint to endpoint. under led lights your weight is a warm line, neon orange, heater in december type of comfort. goldenrod eye contact like back when we did our homework in the park side by side, took the same classes, braced ourselves against the wind, electrifying.

 

in / high school and it's just black and white, now. there’s nothing special about today but a warm song is playing somewhere in my throat and it’s grounding. my eyelids are heavy but i can’t fall asleep just yet, have to feel out every last moment–how long until we have diplomas in our hands, how long until we take diverging paths? will i find you in my textbooks? will the mundanity persist–knowledge of the whorls on your thumb hidden beside the chemical compositions of a dozen stars?

 

out / of practice but you're closer, suddenly

in / my universe, and there is no music, no fireworks, but braced against you i can count your lashes in the low light. i'm tracing the kaleidoscope patterns spiraling

out / in your eyes for anything i can hold onto, anything that won't break on a thousand-mile trip to a new world. leaning

in / but there is distance between our hands already, so i hold the memory of yours close to my chest, wrapped in cellophane so it won't break when i fade

out / past the houston skyline.

in, / steady. don't care if time's running

out, / just say something kind to me again. tell me an untruth; promise me your next breath will be for us.

 

Engrave

By Ruimeng Zhao

Grade: 8
Hanjie Arts Center
Teacher: Haicun Weng

Afternoons on the Lake with Nobody but the Summer Sun

By TIANRAN SHEN

Grade: 12
Bellaire High School, Houston ISD
Teacher: Kelly Quarles

Lord Knows I'm Tired

By MICHAEL NDUKWE

Grade: 12
DeBakey High School for Health Professions, Houston ISD
Teacher: Neda Khan

A Hobby to Get Hooked on: How a New Generation Has Caught on to the Joys of Crochet

By OLIVIA XU

Grade: 9
Clements High School, Fort Bend ISD

In the sweltering summer heat of the south, I sat in my air-conditioned room and searched for “Things to Do in the Summer” on Youtube. A video by the creator @adelalala appeared on the top of my feed. Among the eighty tips that she recommended–such as “declutter your phone” and “go to a cat cafe”–the activity that attracted me the most was crocheting: it appeared engrossing and aesthetically charming at the same time. I began poring over instructional videos online, and through watching videos dedicated to teaching crochet step-by-step, I was slowly pulled into the world of crocheting. Influenced by the adorable stuffed animals and straightforward patterns that resulted from the creators’ efforts, I bought bundles of yarn and a pack of crochet hooks/supplies to try my hand at the new hobby.

 

From stuffed animals to sweaters and scarves, the versatile craft of crochet has been experiencing a resurgence in the 2020s. Meg Novosad, Co-Founder and President of a local high school crochet club, first began crocheting during COVID. Novosad had mentioned that one of the reasons she had become interested in crochet was because it was “cool that you could make anything you wanted.” After returning to in-person learning in the 2020-2021 school year, she and a few of her friends established the Crochet Club, which currently counts 88 members who have joined according to the club’s online newsletter feeds. 

 

Much of the uptick in interest can be attributed to social media. In addition to YouTube, crochet videos on TikTok have amassed a total of over 15.5 billion views; in contrast, knitting videos–which have been experiencing their own renaissance of sorts, albeit paling in comparison to its more trendy cousin, crochet–have only been watched approximately 2.7 billion times. [1]

 

Crochet is often portrayed as a wholesome activity that requires time and a personal touch, in stark contrast to the SHEINs of the fast fashion world. Novosad concurs that one of the reasons she has continued to enjoy crocheting is because “it’s always fun to have handmade things.”

 

While crochet is often touted as a budget-conscious, slow-fashion method of making decorative and wearable items, the hobby is not completely without its faults. Like many other yarn related crafts, one of the most common yarns used for crocheting is acrylic yarn. Acrylic yarn is a synthetic fiber that is made of plastic and releases toxic gasses into the atmosphere when produced. Because it is an inorganic material, when decomposing, acrylic yarn takes much longer than natural materials and also expels harmful chemicals into the environment. [2]

 

Natural yarn fibers, such as cotton yarn, may cost more than their synthetic competitors because of the work put into their production processes. While acrylic yarn is composed of man-made poly compounds, growing cotton takes effort and experience to yield high quality harvests. [3] To turn the raw cotton into yarn, once the cotton is harvested, the seeds and the fiber must be separated in a process called ginning. Then, like acrylic, the cotton goes into spinning machines that turn it into yarn fibers. [4] Compared to acrylic, cotton products are much faster in decomposing, taking usually around 3 to 6 months. [5] On the other hand, acrylic yarn “can take up to 200 years to fully biodegrade.” [6]

 

Unfortunately, the more sustainable option is usually the pricier one as well. “I wish I knew that yarn is expensive,” Novosad said, “because now I have a yarn addiction.” A cursory search on Amazon shows that acrylic yarn costs about $7 for 100 grams and the same amount of cotton yarn goes for about $10. Although it is not always easy to find a similarly priced, eco-friendly replacement for acrylic yarn, people can help to be sustainable in other ways, like reducing the amount of yarn they dispose of.

 

Another consideration for active crocheters is the amount of wristwork involved. If not enough breaks are taken, crocheting can cause repetitive strain injuries on the hand and wrist areas. Like the name implies, a repetitive strain injury is caused by doing the same action multiple times for an extended period. [7] At first, crocheters may not pay much attention to the discomfort, but if not treated early, the injury may become permanent. [8] Muscle injuries in the hands or wrists can prevent many individuals from completing daily tasks, like typing, cooking, or driving. Taking an adequate amount of breaks to relax the used muscle can help the strain from becoming worse.

 

Speaking from my personal journey in crochet, I have become more patient and do not try to finish an entire project in one day. Although none of my projects are that large, I still force myself to take breaks in between so as to not injure my wrists. Forcing myself to rest takes self-control, as I often want to finish making my crochet plush animal as soon as I can to display and enjoy it. I have learned to respect and savor the process.

 

Crochet is time-consuming, mainly because it requires following patterns and having to implement a variety of stitches or skills. When following a pattern, one must understand how to execute all the stitches included in the pattern. Beginners usually start with chain stitches before moving on to single and double crochet stitches. No matter the level of an individual's crochet ability, research seems to back up the benefits that crochet offers to one’s mental health. According to a study published in The British Journal of Occupational Therapy, the authors found that crafting, including crocheting, improved the mood of “81% of respondents with depression.” [9] Researchers concluded that how often someone crafted also played a factor into how much they were “feeling calm and happy.” [10] Crocheting helps soothe depression and lower anxiety because it allows people to pass time productively. [11] “I feel calm and love when I crochet,” Novosad concurs.

 

The calm and happy emotions can likely be traced to the repetitive motions of crochet. Some health experts have posited that crochet can increase serotonin levels, the hormone that causes the “feel good” sensation, while reducing cortisol–the hormone associated with stress. [12] Teenagers who have become in tune with their mental health are rightfully seeking activities to balance the social and academic pressures they face. According to Dr. Claire McCarthy, a pediatrician, the aftershocks of Covid-19 are present in the “alarming amounts of anxiety and depression in our children and teens.” [13]

 

My friends and I discuss managing our stress often. With the weight of school and extracurricular assignments, I have less time to relax and unwind. When I need to take a break, picking up my yarn and hook takes my mind off the pressure to achieve. Novosad adds, “When I crochet . . . it just calms me down from the day or situation I’m in.” Because both of us had already been interested in other crafting hobbies, transitioning into crocheting felt natural.

 

As the current generation of teenagers starts to pick up soothing pastimes like crochet, they prove that a healthy mindset and trending fashions can overlap. Though there are downsides, crocheting benefits many parts of one’s lifestyle by providing a productive hobby that reduces anxiety in the brain. Although I sometimes still get frustrated when I insert my hook into the wrong stitch, I have found that crocheting has led me to become more patient. When younger audiences are introduced to crocheting, it results in a sustainable, lifelong activity that is able to produce heartwarming products.

 

Disconnection

By ELIZABETH LEI

Grade: 11
Home school

On the day Marie ate an orange, I killed her. I can still see the way she leaned into the countertop, still smell the sticky pulp and juices that stained her hands. Sometimes, I catch my fingers unconsciously peeling back the skin of a phantom orange, nails digging mindlessly into the air.

 

════ ✤ ════

It was on the cusp of autumn that we arrived as bright-eyed newlyweds. Marie’s cousin Liam and his wife had graciously invited us to stay with them for a few days, urging us to scope out the surrounding houses. They lived on a sprawling ranch overlooking fields of cows and hay bales, with only a small gravel road winding to the main road. It was an opportunity for us to unwind after the whirlwind of decisions that had consumed our lives before the wedding. Over a plate of steak and potatoes, we shook with laughter as Liam dramatically narrated their honeymoon story, leaping up now and then to re-enact a scene or impersonate a character.

 

After dinner, Liam led us to the patio chairs, his wife handing us each a mug of apple cider. I savored the steam that enveloped my face, a comfort from the cool night air. Out in the countryside, it seemed like nothing separated the ground from the sky – if I wanted to, I could reach out and collect the stars, one-by-one.

 

“So you like video games?” Liam asked me, propping his feet up.

 

I laughed. “I’m a video game developer. If I’m not developing a game, then I’m playing one. My doctor tells me I should probably find some other hobbies to fixate on.”

 

He nodded approvingly, then hesitated for a second, as if he was going to remark on something. Instead, his demeanor shifted and he began to sip at his cider meditatively. His wife glanced at him searchingly, then turned to me. “You probably can’t tell, but Liam’s been dying to meet you. He’s been working on something for the last year now, but he's quite anxious to hear your opinion. He thinks very highly of your games, you know.”

 

Liam grinned and scratched his beard. “I’ll come clean then. I am a big fan, have been ever since you released your Starship series. Didn’t want to geek out and scare you away.”

 

“You're an original follower, then,” I said, delighted. Liam didn’t strike me as a video game devotee – with his scraggly beard and dirt stained flannel, he fit the stereotype of the modern technology abstainer.

 

Beneath the shawl covering her shoulders, Marie piped up. “Tell us about your project, Liam.”

 

Something in his demeanor shifted, and he studied the ground thoughtfully. “Some might call it a virtual reality system, but it’s more than that. When you’re plugged in, it- well, your physical body is completely tied into the virtual environment.”

 

I leaned forward. “What do you mean plugged in?”

 

“The system is composed of tiny electrode wires. To put it simply, they send electrical signals deep within the tissue and change the way your unconscious mind perceives your surroundings. Nutrients are funneled in through the wires, so you don’t even have to unplug to eat or drink.” His eyes gleamed in the darkness as he set down his mug, fidgeting with the handle.

 

The silence was broken by my disbelief. “That’s physically impossible.”

 

“I’ve been in the system myself, for up to six weeks. No food, no water. Yet here I am, alive and kicking,” Liam gestured to himself, an urgency in the rapid movement. “You think it’s impossible now, but wait until you experience it yourself. The thrill of living in a simulation. Truly and completely living, I’m telling you, not some projections from a flimsy headset.”

 

You are a madman, I thought. A foolish, foolish madman. If Liam was telling the truth, then he was playing with fire. Pretending to be in a fantasy world with a video game controller clutched firmly in my hands was something safe and familiar. I had the power to turn it on and off. But to completely immerse oneself in another reality – mind and body controlled by wires – made me shudder in horror.

 

Marie laid a comforting hand on mine. I squeezed it tight.

 

“Just think about it,” Liam said. “I want you to be a part of this, I really do. With your brilliant mind, just imagine what we can create.”

 

I felt scalding spice on my tongue and Marie’s warm, smooth palm. “I’ll think about it.”

 

════ ✤ ════

After our brief stay at the ranch house, I was strangely relieved to be back in our apartment, leaky pipes and all. Marie must have sensed how uneasy I was from the conversation with Liam, so she didn’t bring up the topic. For that, I was grateful. We settled into a comfortable routine quickly, delegating tasks based on both of our schedules. With Marie working from home, I came home to the dinner table piled high with herb roasted chicken and stuffed mushrooms. Married life was treating us well. Life was perfect. That was, until the package came.

 

“Is that garlic I smell?” I called out, sighing in relief as I kicked off my dress shoes. Work was getting painfully monotonous, and I was in the deepest creative rut of my life. Walking toward the kitchen, I stopped abruptly when I saw Marie sitting at the table, cradling a small black box. “Honey? What is that?”

 

She looked up, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed. Drumming her fingers lightly against the box, she slowly lifted it up for me to see. “I know you’re going to be mad, but please just listen. The mailman brought a package this afternoon addressed to us, and I-”

 

I had seen the wires. In two long strides, I crossed to her side and ripped it from her hands, driven by the fear that had lingered in the back of my mind since our conversation with Liam. Multiple long, needle-thin strands protruded from the box. “Are you out of your mind? Why didn’t you throw this away immediately?”

 

“Listen, it’s not what you think,” she said hastily, fumbling over her words. “I just wanted to try it, just to see, and it works exactly like Liam said it would, and honestly you won’t believe how colorful and vibrant and perfect it is.”

 

I felt a horrible chill go up my spine. The world spun in my peripheral as I stared at Marie, stupefied. The uncanny glow in her eyes pierced through me, and I noticed in a daze that her behavior reminded me of something. Or someone.

 

I put the box down and turned away. I couldn’t look at her any longer or I would throw up.

 

“Why can’t you try and see how wonderful this is?” her shrill voice rang in my ears as I walked numbly toward the bedroom. “A few hours ago, I was the happiest I’ve ever been. Look, watch this.”

 

I heard her rustling around, and a few seconds later, a low humming sound filled the room. Dread sank into me, and jerking around, I ran swiftly to where she lay, slumped against the chair. Wires protruded haphazardly from her skin, pulsing periodically.

 

“Marie? Marie?” I shook her body frantically. Her head lolled back, saliva dribbling from the corners of her mouth. Pulling out my phone from my back pocket, my fingers trembled violently as I pressed 9-1-1. Before I could hit the call button, Marie jolted up, wide-eyed and awake. She ripped the electrodes from her body. “You see? I can control when I want to come out.”

 

I wasn’t listening. Picking up the box, I headed for the door. I would destroy the cursed thing with my bare hands. I would rip every wire apart before it would ever touch her again.

 

“Stop!” Marie cried, desperately tugging me back. “You can’t break it. I’m linked to it now. If it’s taken apart in any way, I will die. That’s what Liam told me on the other side.”

 

Liam. That bastard. Now, I was utterly helpless: he had taken my wife. I was sure he was determined to drag me next into his obsession.

 

════ ✤ ════

The couch became my refuge. Marie plugged herself in most weeks, staying in for days at a time. I pleaded with her, but she could not comprehend my terror. Every time emotion overtook her – most often anger and resentment – she retreated to the bedroom where the box sat on my pillow, wires strewn over the blanket covers. It was her escape from the pain of her failing marriage to an obstinate, unyielding man. Why couldn’t I be more understanding? Why didn’t I just try? Because of what it’s doing to you, I wanted to scream at her. But I stayed silent and took it, if it meant she stayed in this reality with me.

 

It was only a matter of time before I saw the markings on her skin and it all boiled over. That morning, Marie stood propped against the kitchen cabinets, slowly peeling a mandarin orange. She was stacking the peels one-by-one in a neat little pile on the countertop. When I walked in, she paused for a brief moment, then popped a piece into her mouth.

 

“You hate oranges,” I said.

 

“Do I?” she murmured. “I thought they were my favorite fruit.”

 

My eyes narrowed. She could never stand the pulpy texture of oranges; when we dated, she refused to even kiss me if I ate an orange that day, claiming the remnants lingered in my mouth. Now, she reached out toward me, offering a small piece. As she did so, her sleeve slipped down, revealing an arm covered with silver patches. They were reflective like metal, light glinting off in rays.

 

I tried to hide my visceral reaction, but I wasn’t quick enough. She saw the way I flinched, and something flickered across her face. Without another word, Marie shuffled toward the bedroom, orange juice dripping from her fingers into sticky puddles. I heard the familiar whirring sound, then a small thud as her arm fell onto the mattress.

 

Something rose in me, a choking sensation that blinded me with burning white light. My whole body trembled feverishly, and without thinking, I opened the kitchen drawer, pulling out a pair of shears. My feet moved stiffly, clumsily to the bedroom. I turned the knob ever so slightly and pushed the door open. There she lay, one hand draped off the bed, the other gripping the box. I went and stood by her side, looking at her pale, beautiful face. Oh, she was so beautiful.

 

With one hand, I touched her face tenderly. With the other, I cut the wires. As the shears snipped through, her eyes flew open, and I swore for a second, her eyes met mine in a fleeting moment of confused anguish. Then, she began convulsing and flailing for what seemed like an eternity. Through it all, I wept and held her hand gently until she stopped twitching. Rivulets of orange juice and blood had dripped from her silver wounds onto me, the nauseating smell of iron permeating the room.

 

Later in our bathroom, I washed my hands with scented soap, methodically scrubbing my hands underneath the flow of boiling water.

 

We All Wear Crowns

By ANA ALONSO

Grade: 10
Kinder High School for the Performing and Visual Arts, Houston ISD

Lily was a collector.

Well, she was many things: a poet, an extrovert, a hater of modern interior design, a constant contemplator of death…

But above all else, Lily was a collector.

Every note Katie passed to her in English class. Every bottle cap Theo gave her at the park. Every birthday card, no matter the mounds of glitter or excessively cheesy line. She stuffed each and every charcoal stained paper and sparkle strewn card-stock straight into her pockets. She didn’t care for the mess it made of her clothing. That must’ve been the one thing she didn’t care about, because that’s another thing Lily was.

Someone who cared.

 

Katie met her when she was twelve.

Lily was munching on a sandwich underneath a tree at lunch, quietly observing her classmates from afar. She wasn’t paying attention to the one above her.

Katie had always loved scaling trees, no matter how scraped her knees got or how tousled her hair. She wanted to taste the stars and live in the breeze.

But she could only hold on to this branch for so long, her hand trying to tighten its grip as her legs scrambled to find more tree to stand ontop of. Nothing.

Katie let go.

She landed in a way that wasn’t gracious, but didn’t hurt. Her legs put her in a squatting position, with her hands outward. She blew over-long bangs out of her face, glancing at the classmate suddenly next to her.

Lily was unphased, except for the grin that started from the left corner of her mouth. She had dimples.

“Nice to meet you,” Lily said. She didn’t know that in Houston, new friends grew from trees.

“I’m Lily.”

 

Theo met her shortly afterward.

They were in the same science class. Theo had noticed Lily from day one, because it was hard not to. Her hand jolted up at every question, unafraid of having a right answer, because she never had answers, only more questions. How rare was it that Earth could create life? Did other planets have the same phenomenon? Did other galaxies? Universes? Why create all this life, just to also invent death?

One class period, that had involved a rather active bout of questioning from Lily, particularly about the “inventing death” inquiry, Theo found himself approaching her after class.

“Newton’s third law.” He mumbled.

She was grabbing her things, squatting down, then turned up to look at him. Her eyes were big and green and embodied curiosity as well as she did. “What?”

“Newton’s law,” He said, fiddling with his backpack strap. “Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Push and pull. Jump and fall. Life and death.”

That’s what he used to make sense of it, anyway, after his mom had passed. Nothing anyone told him to comfort him about her death ever made sense, but this Issac guy seemed to know what he was doing.

Lily’s expression didn’t shift, she just blinked a little. She tilted her head, then turned back to her stuff.

Theo turned away, fiddling more with his backpack strap, and headed toward the hallway.

“First law of thermodynamics,” The voice he always heard chirped at him. He turned around.

“Energy can neither be created nor destroyed,” Lily recited. She had collected her stuff, and started walking with him. “So something must happen to us. Not just death.”

Theo lifted a brow. “Like the afterlife? Do you think our souls live on forever?”

She nearly laughed. “I don’t know what I believe in, but it’s definitely not forever,” she extended a hand, “I’m Lily.”

“I know.”

She smirked. “Because I never shut up?”

“Maybe.”

He shook her hand. An odd thing to do for a classmate, but it didn’t seem odd to Lily.

“Theo,” he said.

“I know,” she grinned.

He blinked. “How?”

She shrugged, “Not only do I never shut up,” She pulled her hand away. “I always listen.”

 

Years brushed by like wrinkled book pages. Seventh grade traded for Tenth grade.

Katie often came to Lily’s house, after exhausting conversations with her mother.

“It just frustrates me, with her,” Katie would ramble. “She treats me like the person she wishes I was instead of the person I am. Wear more dresses. Put on more pink. Climb less trees. Read more books. I don’t know who she thinks her daughter is, but it certainly isn’t me.”

Katie’s face got all red when she was angry. Then she lost every cent of energy, sinking to Lily’s floor, defeated and deflated. “It’s like I'm not the person I'm supposed to be, meanwhile I don’t even know who I even am,” she huffed, “is it my aspirations? Do those define me? Everything I wish I was? Everything I wish I wasn’t? How.. how am I supposed to know?”

Lily’s clear and crisp voice reached out. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to, though.” Katie fumbled a hand through her bangs. Still overlong. “How do you define yourself?”

Lily paused, then spoke. “I don’t know. I think the most important thing is that you choose how.”

“So how do you choose?”

She paused again. “I’m not sure.”

“Me neither,” Katie mumbled, then dropped her head in her hands. “I’m sorry you have to listen to me ranting.”

Lily sank down on the floor next to her. “It’s one of the grandest honors of my life, actually, so don’t apologize.” She nudged Katie’s elbow. “And whoever you are, know that I love her. You and Theo,” Lily made jazz hands, “My Katheo.”

Lily grinned. Katie smiled back a little, through a mess of choppy dark hair and fading anger.

“You’re ridiculous for that name,” she said. “And, yeah, I love you too.”

 

All of them often hung out at the park, in the fall. They had a spot, right next to the bayou. There, they’d lay their heads down, stare up at a Houston sky. They had a habit of tracing the clouds with their fingertips.

“I think I'm going to make a treasure,” Lily blurted one day.

The breeze blurred by, and Theo arched his brow. “What does that mean?

“Sort of like a time capsule,” She explained. “A little note, and maybe an item or two, for us to find together senior year.”

“But you’ll know where you hid it,” Katie had scaled the tree above them, dangling precariously over the bayou. (She had only fallen in once. Her mother had been furious.) Lily shrugged. “Maybe I’ll forget.” A leaf fell on Lily’s head. She put it in her pocket.

“Will the items be something you make?” Theo prompted.

She smirked. “That’s for me to know, and for you to find out.”

Lily sat up, staring at the bayou. She stood, and dipped a hand in the water. She pulled out a soaked plastic bottle. “But it’ll be something important, same with the note. Maybe something like answers.”

“Answers?” Katie inquired from above.

Lily put the plastic bottle in her pocket, staining her pants a darker shade. She had a twinkle in her eye. “For me to know, and for you to find out.”

 

Theo would visit Lily at his best and at his worst. The most notable time was one particular day, the anniversary of his mother’s death. He was stuck on an old video. His mother, with his smile and nose, cooking something with his father. The clip captured a snippet of her laughter. He played it over and over and over again, just to hear the sound. Just to memorize it. Just to know.

But just after the ringing song of her, the video ended.

It always ended.

The thought tasted like salt on his tongue.

Theo knocked on Lily’s door a half hour later.

The words spilled out of Theo as soon as the door opened.

“You don’t believe in forever, right?” He asked. She paused a little, confused.

“No, I don’t.”

“So then nothing good ever lasts?” His voice was an earthquake, breaking in on itself.

The following silence was glass that could cut.

“Theo.” She said it softly. She pulled him into her house, bringing him up plain stairs to a plain room. She sat him down on her bed. “Wait right here.”

She left, and he heard little muffles from another room, of Lily fighting with someone else.

There was a following bout of stomping up the stairs, and a breathless Lily made his way to him. “I told my Mom to call Katie.” She sat down on the bed next to him.

“Why?” He asked.

“Because she’s always there to support her friends,” Lily answered, “And she’s got the candy.”

Katie arrived swiftly, hugging Theo on arrival and showering him with month old halloween sweets. “I’m spoiling you because you deserve it,” she said.

“Are these expired?”

“Not if you don’t think about it,” Lily chimed.

Katie beamed, then pulled up her bag. “I brought my laptop, So that way we can watch terrible movies and laugh at them for their terribleness.” They couldn’t use Lily’s computer because she didn’t have one. Her parents didn’t let her online at all. Katie and Theo never asked why.

Katie dug into her belongings for her computer, while Theo turned to Lily.

“Seriously, do you believe that nothing good ever lasts?” Lily always had questions, but sometimes she had explanations. He needed one.

Lily paused. She let out a long sigh, slightly shaking her head. “Maybe?” She unwrapped a chocolate bar, then shrugged. “But right now I’m on my bed. I have endless amounts of potentially poisonous halloween candy, a trashy movie, and the people I love most,” She paused as Katie scooched in next to them, “So I'm not worried about forever, or lasting. I’m living,” she took a bite of the bar. “I think that’s enough. For right now.”

Theo let the words echo in his head, swallowed the thoughts on a salty tongue.

“It’s enough.” He repeated.

She nodded. She turned her head to the 2000’s pop-rock movie they were watching, a song with far too many “oohs” and “yeahs” playing in the background.

Theo stared at her a moment more, then thought of his mother’s laughter. It still rang in his head. She hadn’t lasted. Neither would he. Neither would anyone.

Everything would end. He wouldn’t forever be alive.

But right now, he was.

Was that enough?

“Can you hand me that wrapper?” Lily asked Katie. She gave it to her. They laughed at something on screen.

Theo smiled.

Yeah, for now, that could be enough.

 

It was like the closing of a book, when she left. A journey fit between pages, ended at a moment’s notice. Only there was no epilogue. It was early winter of sophomore year.

She told them right at dismissal. The day of.

“It’s in Dubai. New job, or something.” Lily’s clear crisp voice turned into little puddles of rain, unsure and quiet. “I, uh, I won’t have technology or anything, but I can try to write.”

Katie and Theo stood in silence.

“I’m, um. I’m sorry.”

Glass silence cut them up into pieces with the sharpest of edges.

“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” Katie was messing with her bangs as her voice broke.

Lily slowallowed. She shrugged. “I didn’t want my last days with Katheo to be spent with that knowing. That it was going to end,” Her stare flicked to Theo. “But I guess that’s everything, right?”

He had nothing. Nothing in his gaze, nothing in his stance, nothing all over.

He fiddled with his backpack strap.

“I’m really sorry guys.”

Lily’s Dad’s car pulled up, and she managed one last burning look at them.

Then she left, mounting the sienna colored vehicle. The car was gone in a flash.

That was it right? A flash. Of her smile, her eyes, her questions,

her.

Katie and Theo had nothing. Nothing in their gaze, nothing in their stance, nothing all over.

A flash. And she was gone.

You never truly have something until you lose it.

 

When Katie visited Theo’s house, it was a day afterward. He  heard a frantic knock at his door, far too late at night, and far too stormy outside. He opened his entrance to a soaked Katie, who looked like she’d been dipped in the bayou tenfold.

“The treasure,” she scrambled, holding up her phone. “I got a message from an unknown number that just says “TREASURE.” I think Lily found a way to break her technology rule, for just a bit.” She shook out her shoulders, cold. “She wants us to find it. And I think I know where.”

He wanted answers. So did she.

They wanted Lily.

It was far too late at night and he had school in the morning…

Theo made sure his father couldn’t hear him starting the car.

 

They shot toward the bayou after a half-hazardly parking job, throwing themselves in the direction of their old hang out. Half-submerged in muddy bayou were the beds of grass they used to lie on. The storm roared at them to hurry.

Kati paced around the water’s edge. Theo mimicked her, racing back and forth, and back and forth, until-

Theo tripped, headed face first into the currents. Katie caught the end of his hoodie just in time, reeling him back in.

“You’re really strong!” He called.

“Trees!” She screamed back.

Right as they were about to shoot in other directions, Theo caught a glance of what he tripped on.

“There!” He pointed.

The corner edge of a wooden box stood out from the rest of the dirt. They dug their hands into the soggy sediment to retrieve it.

Katie brought the box to the top of the bayou, then collapsed down next to a tree, body weighed by exhaustion.

“What do you think it is?” Theo shouted. Thunder threaded under his words.

“It has to explain some things,” Katie yelled, running her hands over the box, “We kept asking her questions. Maybe she figured them out.” It sounded more like a wish than anything else. Katie covered the box with her arms.

“I don’t want to wait, Theo.”

He paused, considering the storm.

Then he sat down next to her, trying to fit under the sliver of tree that covered them up.

“Me neither.”

They took a deep breath, synchronous with one another.

The last piece of Lily they’d get.

Katie opened the box.

 

My Dearest Katheo,

 

The only scenarios in which I would use the word “Arbitrary” are the following:

 

• I have to write a really boring english essay because my parents are threatening to take away my dinner, so I’m using fancy and lavish language to cover up the fact that I have zero interest nor care for the assignment.
• I’m telling a dad joke that has something to do with pirates.
• I’m talking about the concept of “forever.”

 

You guys know me better than anyone. You know how often I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, puzzling, trying to untangle the concept of  “forever.”

A strange idea to come into existence. To say that something could live forever. To say that something could be gone forever. With such contemplation, I find that “gone forever” rings in the back of my head, constantly.

When the noise is particularly shrill,  I look at my stuff. All of it.

The stray notes and bottle caps and and fragments of a life,

That I realize we, and all of these good things,

cannot be “gone forever.”

 

It’s as if we all wear crowns. Each one adorned with a different set of a million jewels.

My crown is set with the ruby of my mother’s hugs, the amethyst in Katie’s smile, the emerald of Theo’s laugh.

 Each and every good thing, good moment, good person I know,  is a gem I carry on my crown.

Creating a little patchwork of everything I love.

That’s how I choose to define myself.

With this crown, whose jewels I pass along. Katie’s waves to greet people in the halls. Theo’s resilience to stand up for those I love.

Our jewels are traded, passed on, passed down, generation after generation, into some semblance of forever.

A semblance of forever.

For as long as we all wear crowns.

And I hope you know, Katheo, that for however long my semblance of forever is, I will spend it in gratitude for the crown you carved for me. I will spread its shine and I will pass it down.

Because you’re the kind of good thing that deserves to last.

 

The items you’ll find are physical manifestations of said crowns. (I used the actual little pieces of you guys that I keep, along with some little notes along the way.) They are for you to have, as a reminder of the crowns you wear. Maybe you give them to the people who most shape you. Whatever you want. They’re your crowns.

 

Thank you for existing in my little universe. It has been the honor of a lifetime.

 

Lilly Devin Shannon

 

Lily was a collector.

Theo knew it. Katie knew it too.

Wherever she went, she saw and breathed and broke and leapt and fell and got back up again.

But above all that, wholly, Lily was a collector.

Theo and Katie stared at the items, paper crowns with their names in dry sharpie, made out of old notes and bottle caps and candy wrappers.

Katie grabbed hers, twisting it in between her fingers, trying to keep it in a spot where it wouldn’t get soaked. The things you love..

Katie put her crown on Theo’s head.

He turned to her, smiled, and laughed a little. Some semblance of forever..

He heard his mother in his laugh.

He grabbed his crown and placed it on Katie’s head.

 

They walked back to the car, heading home. They wore crowns shaped with bottle caps and candy wrappers,

Sort of smiling.

 

They would pass the jewels on, the stray patchwork,

Of someone who cared.