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  I feel something firm touch my foot. I open my eyes to a small money-green-colored turtle. It’s not moving; neither am I. Neither is the wind, nor is the water, for a split-second. I scoot toward the turtle and spin it around, noticing the twisted beer can plastic around its neck and little floppy turtle arm. My eyes moisten and my back stiffens looking at the poor thing. I dig around in my pocket and take out my pocketknife, tangled in my headphones, the query “Not so different?” ringing in my mind. I slide out the knife, each click, click, click hitting my ear gently, reminding me of a time I hope to forget. Carefully, I cut away at the plastic, making sure not to hurt Tommy. Tommy? Yes, I’ve named him Tommy the Turtle. I manage to get all the plastic off and Tommy starts to fidget and squirm. I gently place him down and he scurries off into the water, disappearing in an instant. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

  I feel a presence behind me and turn to see Kris, who’s been watching me. “Good job saving that turtle …” I see Kris around here a lot, drinking beers with his friends instead of being in class. I’ve even joined in a few times, but I never talk to him. His presence makes me feel so … sick. I look out to the sea, my mouth imagines the saltiness of the water. “Did I really save him?” I ask, my stomach spinning. Kris walks up next to me, I can see through the corner of my eye that he too has found himself in the sea. “I think you did …” I don’t think so. “I just gave him another chance to get stuck …” “Then someone else will be here to save him.” As if! “He wouldn’t need saving if it weren’t for people like you!” He looks down at me and puts a hand on my arm. “I have been trying to change, okay? I haven’t littered all week, you know this!” “Ugh, that’s not what I meant!”

  I bring my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them in annoyance. Kris steps next to me and sits down gently, trying his best not to look at me. His face is softened, the orange hues of the sunset bouncing off of his cheeks. This is the first real conversation we’ve ever had. Maybe it’s the first real conversation I’ve ever had at all? “I’m sorry, Kris.” I tilt my head up to see him, a slight grin on his face, before looking back to the sea. Atlantic? Pacific? I wouldn’t know, I failed geography. I slightly lean on Kris’s arm. The warmth is nice. The squawks of the seagulls complement the subtle distant crashing of waves. “Do you think we should go back to cleaning … before the patrol says something?” I ask, breaking a comfortable silence. “If you will, so will I.” I hear a slight break in his voice, it’s kind of soothing. I’ll be fine, I think, as I take a deep, clear breath.

  Fear Beyond the Future

  SARAH CUSTEN

  This piece is inspired by, and dedicated to, all those who struggle with depression and anxiety, particularly while navigating the turbulent waters of adolescence. Remember: You are in control of your journey.

  Doubt caught up with me once I’d cleared the Eastern foothills, anxiety alternately squeezing and releasing me in her warm, electric embrace. Was it really so recently that I’d sat tucked up at home, cross-legged on the braided rag rug in my room? A tiny box suspended in space, framed on all sides by a blue-gray autumn, rain drumming faithfully against the windows.

  I was happy there, but was I content? I must not have been, because one day, the bottom fell out of my life, like a trapdoor opening, and everything slid so far down and away. The box closed in, swelling around my head, trapping me inside my own red-hot mind. Everything was an onslaught: rain pummeling the windows with its futile pleas; the wind a plaintive, insatiable howl. Everything needing, wanting, wailing, whining, gnashing, burning, melting, weeping.

  Except nobody else seemed to notice. No one could see the difference; just me, as I slowly slipped into a lonesome hollow, beyond a place that words could describe.

  Remembering this, I turned my back to the jagged, looming, cobalt peaks, looking out over the town whose edges had been softened by a lush blanket of snow; windows glowed in golden, caramel hues. Already I felt so far away, so far removed from that snow-wrapped town and its people, nestled sweetly inside.

  Was I really doing this? What kind of person would leave all that behind, abandoning family and friends—without warning, no less—to go off in search of … what? Something as yet unnamed, some unseen force, some voice whispering sweet and sinister secrets in my ears, assuring me that I’m different; I am made for something, for some place, else.

  And what could I say? That voice resonated inside my rib cage, recognizing some unsung part of me and tugging at my sternum, propelling me onward, tempting me away from (or was it toward?) obscurity. Tempting me with my deepest, guiltiest pleasure: the belief that I am special.

  I knew that’s what Taylor would say, if they were here. Taylor, who is always so pragmatic, who keeps a running list of their outfits—what they wore on which days to which classes—to avoid duplication. “Overexposure,” they called it. I think they would’ve called my departure “indulgent,” or maybe just “rash.”

  But Taylor’s not here. Taylor’s gone, and they’re not coming back.

  On the slope, wind scraped at the naked air, a stark white silence troubled with shadows, weaving itself into my hair and the layers of my clothes. I forced myself to turn my gaze away from where I’d come, spinning around to find a carnation-red bird observing me, its little head cocked just so.

  He seemed to want to tell me something, eyeing me quizzically, imploringly, as he hopped down off his perch on a pale, bare stump, where he’d watched me for who knows how long.

  “What is it?” I asked, as he peeped his way toward me, leaving delicate, starlike footprints in the snow. “What do you have to say?” I bent at the knees, crouching slowly, as the distance between us shrank. I stretched out my arm, willing him to alight on my gray woolen mitten, but he froze, as though terrified, looking just past me. Then he fluttered and bustled away.

  I sighed as I rose to standing, dusting snow off my coat, and turned back toward my path. That’s when I realized I wasn’t alone. That’s when I first saw the Silent Man.

  NYLAH HARRIS

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 2

  GRADE: Junior

  HIGH SCHOOL: Medgar Evers College Preparatory School

  BORN: Queens, NY

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Award: Honorable Mention

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: This year, Kathleen has been helping me with my personal essay for college. We’ve been doing Q&As to help me feel more confident and bold as I get ready to apply to college. The preparation bolsters my confidence to apply to any college of my choosing. I am taking control, which is never easy, especially with your voice and what you want to say, but with Kathleen, I’ve made it through.

  KATHLEEN SCHEINER

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 8

  OCCUPATION: Editor and Proofreader

  BORN: Biloxi, MS

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: A New York State of Fright: Horror Stories from the Empire State (Bram Stoker Award finalist), Cemetery Dance

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: While sorting through all the writing Nylah has done in the last year, preparing her entries for the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, she forgot the variety and risks she took with many of her pieces. With very little revision, Nylah’s choices ended up paying off, since she won recognition for one of her more daring works. It reminds me that I need to take a moment and look at all that I have done—and celebrate that.

  Daniel

  NYLAH HARRIS

  I wanted to write a story about how sometimes boldness isn’t easy and needs to be learned—in ways we didn’t expect at first.

  Daniel never liked his father. They had all of three significant conversations that he remembered in his sixteen years of life, and he couldn’t recall one word that was spoken in them. But standing there in the foyer of his house, his chest constricted with all the words he should’ve spoken. His mom excused herself to her room to grieve silently and alone, but Daniel felt as if the wind was
knocked out of him. Too fast, too fast, too fast were the only words his mind could produce after his dad’s death. He couldn’t speak because what right did he have talking about the man he loved out of obligation. What words could he possibly say to his mom who always pleaded with him to make it work with his dad. To his mom who lost the love of her life for almost twenty years. What right did he have?

  The hatred for himself came almost instantly after his mom picked him up from school that morning. He knew something was wrong because she never picked him up. There was no in-between. Her eyes were so dim. There were no emotions on her face and her voice sounded as if she had been screaming. Clothes disheveled and her hair a beautiful mess, she calmly said, “Your father’s been in an accident,” and walked away, as if knowing he would follow.

  He trailed behind her, feeling his heartbeat was drowning his senses because he knew his dad had died. She didn’t say anything as they walked into the hospital room, every step heavier than the last, seeing him disconnected from the tubes and wires that failed to keep him breathing. The doctor just kept saying sorry to his mom who stayed silent and signed all the paperwork she had to. It wasn’t until they were driving home when she screamed out, her chest heaving and her tears getting heavier and heavier, and he knew this was real. When he knew he wasted time on hating a man who never did anything but love Daniel.

  His father was a man obsessed with computers. He worked as a local maintenance man, but his specialty was computers. He took so many apart and put them back together again just so he could understand the inner workings. His motto was to always live life as if he was Ctrl + B.

  As a child, Daniel grew jealous of the computers and secretly poured water in the circuit boards. He grew convinced his dad loved those machines more than him, so he resented computers. But as time went on, Daniel’s resentment was retargeted toward his dad. He knew it wasn’t fair, but he also thought that one day he would try with Dad as his dad always tried with him. Daniel’s dad knew he wasn’t into two-hour-long seminars about how to code a computer, but that never stopped him from asking his son every Saturday if he wanted to attend one with him. He still made a sandwich every day for his son to take with him for lunch with a little Post-it note that said, “Live Ctrl + B –Love Dad.” He knew the lunch would be left on the table, but that never stopped him.

  Shaking his head to keep his mind from racing with the memories of his dad, Daniel walked into his dad’s office. It was a little messy and hard to find his way through, but he finally made his way to the stack of laptops kept in a surprisingly neat corner of the room. Makes sense he would keep this one part clean, he thought to himself. Picking the very first one on the top, Daniel opened it, hoping to find some kind of closure with his dad. After an hour of seeing nothing but gibberish that only his dad could explain, Daniel felt defeated. Why am I doing this again? he wondered to himself. About to close the laptop, Daniel noticed a tab open to Microsoft Word. Curious, he clicked on the tab to see the typed words “To My Son.”

  His heart beating faster with anticipation, he scrolled further down to see it went for another thirty-three pages. What in the hell? What is this? he thought to himself. Deciding to scan the first page, Daniel read the opening lines: “To my son, a recounting of his life through a proud dad’s eyes. When I finally get the courage to give this to you, I hope you find it in your heart to give this a chance. I love you, and remember, even when your spirit is crushed and you feel down, never forget to live Ctrl + B.”

  With his heart feeling heavy, Daniel walked into the kitchen to make the sandwich he never ate. Approaching the fridge, he saw one of the Post-it notes his dad left him and picked it up with a heaving sigh. Rubbing his aching chest, he took the Post-it note into his hand and into his heart.

  The Beast

  KATHLEEN SCHEINER

  I’ve been playing with the idea of woman as beast this year; with this work in progress, my character boldly faces a she-creature, trying to maintain control.

  My fingers glance off the fur, and suddenly the fur has bones and teeth, and it’s moving. I see liquid black eyes look back into mine and something like a snout pokes out in front of them, baring fangs like nothing I’ve ever seen.

  I back away, waddling. “Good dog—” I hold my hands up. “It’s all right. I know you’re scared,” I say, trying to use a calm voice. The animal stays in its crouch on the bottom shelf, and all I can see are its glittering eyes and sharp needle teeth. I’ve no idea how big it might be.

  My body responds without me having to tell it what to do. My perspective shifts as I draw myself up from my crouch, I move my head left and my body follows, and then I find myself running. The shelves pass by in a blur, and my footsteps are as soft and quiet as I can make them.

  And then I come to the heavy gray metal door, which is shut. My tote bag holding all my things lays at the side, cast off, but I don’t care about that now. Both my hands are on the doorknob, twisting and pulling, but it won’t budge. I’m locked in.

  I hammer on the door with my fists. “Let me out,” I scream. “I’m locked in.”

  Nothing at first, but then behind me, I hear something—a soft whicka, whicka, whicka of fur and a thump as something animal, feline, jumps. Paws pad on the concrete floor and deep sniffs and snorts as the animal scents and begins tracking me.

  I redouble my efforts to open the door, but my sweaty palms slip off the doorknob. Fine, I think. With steely nerve, I turn around to face my fate, and I almost want it to happen. It would make everything so much easier. There’s nothing at first. I look around and laugh at myself. I’ve imagined the whole thing. Silly me.

  Then something pounces from the top of the island of shelves closest to me, and I’m covered by blackness. I feel snapping at my throat and smell terrible carrion breath. Raising my hands to fight the thing off, I grab coarse, wiry hair and pull as hard as I can. I turn around trying to free myself, and the weight on my shoulders, head, and torso pulls me off balance, causing me to collide into the gray shelves so they topple over onto me. Darkness covers me, smothering me like a dirty blanket.

  LOLA HART

  YEARS AS MENTEE: 1

  GRADE: Junior

  HIGH SCHOOL: Queens High School of Teaching, Liberal Arts, and the Sciences

  BORN: Queens, NY

  LIVES: Queens, NY

  MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I remember coming to the first Girls Write Now workshop incredibly shy. Many things were going through my mind that day: What if my mentor and I aren’t compatible? What if I don’t gain anything from this program? My mind was just all over the place. However, it was better than I had expected. Everyone there was so kind and welcoming. It was such an amazing environment. I’m so grateful for my mentor. I couldn’t have wished for a better one. I can honestly say this program and my mentor push me to become a better writer than I was before.

  DONNA HILL

  YEARS AS MENTOR: 1

  OCCUPATION: Assistant Professor of Professional Writing at Medgar Evers College

  BORN: Brooklyn, NY

  LIVES: Brooklyn, NY

  PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: A House Divided, When I’m with You, “Who Moved My Budweiser”

  MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Lola loves books, reading, and movies, but the one thing that she can’t live without is her phone! (My twin.) Outside of her love for books and film, Lola’s other passions are running track for her school and playing soccer. And of all the amazing things she has done and the stories she’s read, the thing that she is most proud of is that she is truly happy. Adding to her happiness is sharing her writing with the world. I am blessed to have her as my mentee. Lola rocks!

  The Inheritance

  LOLA HART

  This story was inspired by my first Girls Write Now workshop. We were told to pick out an element to spark our stories. Mine was the basement. This is about two brothers. One killed their mom for their inheritance.

  I’ve been hooked up to machines for years now. I’m a cancer patient in my
own home. I went from the late-night emergency hospital runs to refill my bag of air for my lungs, and my son driving thirty minutes daily for me to get treatments, to now being locked in my own basement lying on my deathbed. The cancer took everything from me, even my voice. I’ve been unable to speak for years.

  My son Jamin, the nicer twin, checks up on me occasionally, although his brother, Keith, doesn’t like the idea. Jamin comes down about three times a day to check up on me. Keith, I barely ever see.

  A few weeks ago, when Jamin came down to see me, I heard Keith yell at him. “Why the hell are you going down there? Leave her down there. She deserves to be alone.”

  I felt my heart instantly shatter. My own kid saying those words ruined me. I never really understood why he hated me so much. Ever since he was a kid, around thirteen, he’d been so cold-hearted and distant toward me, always making slick side comments and barely wanting to be around me. He’d especially gotten worse since I told them I was diagnosed with cancer a few years ago. Their father died when they were both twelve and they didn’t take it lightly, but Keith definitely took it harder. Now I am soon going to die and my inheritance will be left with them. I planned to go half and half. Half to Jamin and half to Keith.

  The clock hanging up beside my hospital bed reads 11:37 p.m. It’s usually around this time that Jamin comes to check in on me. At least I have that to look forward to.

  A couple minutes passed and I heard creaks on the steps. Someone was coming down. By the sound I instantly knew it was Jamin. Those were definitely Jamin’s footsteps. I started to smile. Seeing Jamin makes me happy.

  The steps began to speed up. The door slowly cracked open but the room remained pitch black. I heard the shoes step halfway into the entry room and they stop. So did my heart. The footsteps were coming toward me. Heavy boots. It wasn’t Jamin!

  Today is the day I kill her and claim my inheritance for me and my brother. My brother knows nothing about this. Growing up, my brother and I were very close with our mother. My mother was always good to us and I will always be appreciative of that. Her time is ending soon so why not make it end now and get something out of it? I’ve been planning this for months now. The time reads 12:43. I’ve been waiting all day for this and it was finally time. I grabbed my ski mask off my dresser and rushed out of my room. I opened the door to the entrance of the basement steps. I looked down the dusty, wooden staircase. I took my first steps down. I gripped the hand rail that was worn down from being used so many times before. It was comforting to hold on to, similar to an old blanket. I took another shaky step down. The cloth of my sock slid forward in my boots. I sucked in a deep breath. This would be easy, I told myself. Killing her would be easy. I never thought I’d be so nervous. The stairs creaked and moaned under my feet. I think I picked the wrong shoes to wear. The boots were weighing down my feet, making my steps sound loud. I was finally down the steps. I turned the gold steel doorknob, slowly. Trying not to make a sound. I pushed in the door while still holding the knob. I took one step into the basement. It was pitch black. This is it. I’m finally going to kill her. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but it felt so right. I walked in steady and slow. I couldn’t see where I was going, but I hoped I was going the right way. I started to feel what was around me. A brick pole. I was just a few steps away from the bed. I took a few more steps and bumped into the bed.