Student Work

Leave me to this gore. Leave me to my pain. Leave my broken, shattered bones to be cleansed by acid rain. You won’t cut my sickly hair. You won't tear away my limbs. You won’t invoke your will on anything that I possess within. You are not my savior. You are not my end. You are one more attempt to break me when I will only bend. Cut away my dreams. Scrape away my peace. The earth will take my screams and turn them into trees. Stay away from my remains. Avoid my twisted fate

As October turns around the corner, the leaves turn red like i turn liquid. And i have discovered sterile school hallways characterize my smiles; my small talk has become second nature as my mind ponders rants I’ve categorized myself within. As October turns around the corner, the leaves turn orange like i turn liquid. the slope of my nose shines like my mother's. the crevices of my heels, cracked, like my father’s. that girl, from grade 2, who shared favorite songs with me

In a corner of the world, far away from both you and me, a small village woke up to a strange truth: their eyes were gone. The news spread quickly past the dry mountains that had long concealed their hunger and thirst. Every news outlet reported on it. Breaking news: A VILLAGE OF PEOPLE WITH NO EYES News like this is bound to cause polarization between believer and doubter. Comments ranged from “How bizarre, how tragic” to “How exaggerated is this?” And the conversation muta

Life doesn’t always go the way we want, but somehow, it always leads us to where we’re meant to be. At first, we think kindness is enough, and that good intentions can save every bond. Then we learn— not everyone will understand our heart, and sometimes, distance is a form of peace. Life doesn’t apologize when it hurts us, nor explain when it changes us. It simply moves on, leaving quiet scars that remind us of who we used to be. We break to understand, we lose to appreciate,

peering in through frosted glass as you sit in a graveyard of cedar thrones chins held high, hammering a plastic gavel with fisted hand below you, The Table shakes is your highchair tall enough? if you could only see the angle I view you when I crane my neck up to look I am six feet under your gavel, facing the brunt of an unworldly violence I may not be able to see much past the window’s glare, but I can still see straight through you I can see how The Table, stilted, c

The rain hadn’t stopped for days. The world outside my window looked washed out — streets glistening with puddles, trees bending under the water’s weight, the sky heavy with gray. My room smelled faintly of damp air and water, the hum of the radiator competing with the steady rhythm of my breath. I sat at the edge of my bed, watching water droplets race down the glass, counting the seconds between droplets of water. It was here, in this small, dim corner of the world, that I

HEY BLACK CHILD DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE WHO YOU REALLY ARE Black child wonders does black child really know who black child really is she lives in a world that forgets her all the time that has reduced her to a mere story black child just wants to be noticed to be accepted black child does not understand why the world hates black child black child is scared to leave the comfort of home black child wants to live in safety but black child knows she is not the same but she want

You there! Don’t let anyone from the grapevine crew know I’m here! I’m stuck in here and I was wondering if you could help me escape. You see, on thanksgiving last year I started writing a story. I was simply sad, I felt disconnected and misunderstood, but when I looked closely at the letters I could see something on the other side, not just black colored letters. In fact, I can see you right now, just barely through these letters, it’s like looking at your freedom from sidew