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.