 Eka, 10th - United States
Everywhere - all around me, within me - there’s a cold incentive. A relentless force that seems to believe nothing is impossible. A force I never asked for. I feel as though I am fighting against the laws of gravity. Higher and higher above, I try to grasp this nameless force, but it slips like water through my fingers. For as long as I can remember, I’ve carried this certainty about my future. Not unachievable dreams, no grand plans - just certainty. I’ve never been in need of guidance on where or how to start, I’d just dive in deep, head first, body slowly sinking after. Please do not be mistaken. I do not exceed at school by any means, I do not utilize my potential. I never ask the right questions or apply the theories we learn to real life. I am not failing school either, I’m smart but never the smartest. I am floating somewhere in the middle, like a fish in a pond, circling, circling. Never out. Never free. No one has truly understood me. Maybe that’s normal. Perhaps no on ever really understands anyone. But what I think hurts the most, isn’t that nobody gets me, it’s that no one even tries to. I suppose I am easily forgotten; in a crowded room, I’d never be the first glance. I am always the backup but never the first choice. I love everyone so much so that they could literally be a killer who’s on the loose and I’d still do anything for them. But somehow, this unconditionality of love doesn’t work both ways. People come to me for advice but for some god foreseen reason I can’t be the one who receives it. I am always a star, never the sun. Always a participant never first place. Always the funny friend, never the pretty one. Always an angel, never a God.  Ariella, 11th - New York, NY
Geraldine wakes before the sun. The small alarm clock on her nightstand glows 4:50 a.m, and the chill in her small apartment sinks into her bones like memory. She wraps her scarf around her hair, as she whispers a short prayer in Kreyol “Bondye, ba mwen fos pou jodi a. Pa kite mwen kraze.”(God, give me strength for today. Don’t let me fall apart.) She slips into her worn out beige sneakers and steps out into the biting morning. Half of Brooklyn is still asleep, the streetlights flicker dimly, yellow, and weary. Casting shadows across the cracked sidewalk. Geraldine will soon step into the house where the lights are never tired. Where the ceiling lights glow, bright and clean. On the subway, she listens to a voice note from her eldest son in Fond-Verrettes: “Maman, yo tire sou lari anko, Nou pa soti depi twa jou. Manje ap fini.” (Mom, they shot in the street again, We haven’t gone out in three days. Food is running low) She closes her eyes. Her hands tighten around the cold metal pole as the train shudders forward. She sees their facades, her two children, through the glass of her mind. Small hands. Hungry eyes. Left behind in a country swallowed by violence and fear. At 7:00 a.m, she unlocks the brownstone door on the Upper West Side. She is immediately swallowed by the bright light. Not sunlight, but the white glow of carefully curated warmth: lamps, scented candles, and overhead fixtures that blur every hard edge of reality. It’s a different world there. Little Charlotte is already fussing. “Shhh, ti cheri,”( shhh my darling) Geraldine whispers, lifting the small child into her arms, instantly the girl molds into Geraldine’s embrace. Every day at seven on the dot once she arrives Charlotte is inseparable from her. Nobody can pry the child away from her beloved nanny. She reaches out for her, calls for her, and seeks her eyes first when she wakes up from a nap. It's Geraldine who knows which cry means hunger and which means fear. Sometimes she catches the mother watching. A look of conflictedness and unease flash across her face like a shadow. Maybe she knows. Maybe she resents it. That her own daughter reaches for the arms of her nanny before her. But Geraldine doesn’t hold pride in it. Only sadness because the bond formed comes with a price, two years from now Geraldine will get let go by the family and the child will forget about her, and she’ll care for a new child , it's all part of the cycle. She changes diapers, folds laundry still warm from the dyer, and prepares the baby’s food as instructed. Each spoonful she feeds Charlotte reminds her of her own, thousands of miles away, eating plain rice from a shared tin plate. The baby coos, smiles and falls asleep in her arms. The smell of cocoa butter and jasmine oil comforts little Charlotte as she drifts off to sleep. These are scents from home Geraldine refuses to give up. She wonders how her children are sleeping without the sweet scent of her smell to lull them off to sleep. When Charlotte is teething, it is Geraldine who rocks her through the pain. When she is sick, it is Geraldine who stays late, whispering prayers while wiping her runny nose. And when Charlotte's parents return home, exhausted from meetings and luncheons, Geraldine steps back and becomes invisible again. By 6:00 pm, she’s putting on her coat. Charlotte cries as Geraldine gets ready to leave. Sometimes even clinging to her leg. The mother and father try to distract the child, but the wail continues as the door clicks shut behind her. On the subway, her reflection stares back from the darkened window, brown eyes lined with fatigue and sorrow, scarf slipping, heart full of two worlds. “Mwen pap bilye nou. Maman ap travay pou nou.” (I won’t forget you. Mama is working hard for you.) And tomorrow, she will do it again. Under the white lights. In that white house. Holding someone else’s baby while her children are oceans away, calling her name into the dark.  Raj Rani, 10th - Gurugram, India
Corpses plague me and Reaper lingers around each curve a shadow to me once beknownst, every glance struck me as white hurt. The Red Sea doesn’t part soon enough staff echoing on bed, puzzled, the fish who’ll never grasp a heart of life bereft. And the coral- they sway, the audacity streams curling around breath i’d once held a heart beating, never mine, never truly left. Corpses lull old ballads i once sang and wed with each letter in each song spelling the name of the newly dead. Crossed I those moonlit roads, houses that’ll bar me soon i cried all the way there, For an end’s coming for a fool. Walked beneath the ladder, called Upon myself the fall, The corpses glanced back In decaying eyes, a taunt. Oh nerve- forgive the lover, blind! Corpses, have you held my heart? It was ablaze in days gone, And burned and burned and burned and charred. My Lucy, I pray, you’ve spun my name once these past days in chambers of your mind. My Lucy, I search, for the worth of these words, when the pigeon’s view blurred and couldn’t cross those high tides.  Emily Y, 8th - California
Long ago, the Jade Emperor decided to hold a great race across the wide river. The first twelve animals in the kingdom to finish would forever have a year named after them. i. Because there was nothing for me. Because I’m haunted by the bitter taste of betrayal, the sting of being out-slyed. When the children read the legends, they’ll find the confident reason why “Never again will Cat and Rat race side by side.” ii. Bright red banners line the city, proclaiming “The Jade Emperor’s Zodiac Race.” We cover the whispering streets, yearning for a spot among the twelve. There are things in this world that can promise full stomachs for life: coins earned by a family each week, a last name etched in the emperor’s golden scroll, and a medal around your neck at the end of this race. Instead of watching below, fighting for the scraps nobody else wanted, Rat and I share a dream of one day eating first. iii. The long river glimmers ahead, glory peeking behind the layered mountains. Rat and I step forward, two of many that line the starting point. The emperor waves his flag, and everyone sets off. We run and run, past mountains of evergreen trees and fields of dewy grass. Three hours later, we reach the long, raging river. The waves roar like hungry lions, ready to devour those too little to cross. iv. Years ago, I was almost eaten by a rabid bear. In the water, my wet fur dragged me down As I faced rows of teeth, dirty with half-eaten fish. His ballistic eyes pinned me still as I submerged deeper into the rocks below. I tell Rat, don’t swim, the waters are starving. Just as our hope fades, the mighty ox strolls by like a thousand dumplings presented to a ravenous man. Some call tricking a gullible boat cheating, but we call it getting a ride. Steady and strong on the ox’s back, a full stomach will soon be my future. v. I smell victory. I feel victory. I—SPLASH! vi. I p l u n g e into the s h i v e r i n g river The cold water drenches my whiskers and paws. Steam fills my ears, Embarrassment fills my eyes, And hatred fills my heart. iv. I’ve always believed that it’s never too late to finish what’s started. But today, even though I sprinted and sprinted like never before, the race shattered in my hands like a once-broken vase. My paw floats just one centimeter from the line. BANG! The gates slam shut. The twelve victors are called: Rat, Ox, Tiger, Rabbit, Dragon, Snake, Horse, Goat, Monkey, Rooster, Dog, and Pig. When children read the legends, they’ll find the confident reason why “Never again will Cat and Rat race side by side.”  Victor M. 11th - South Africa
We're strangers in each other's eyes, with multiple versions of ourselves existing in every mind. To some, I'm loud and vibrant, while others see me as quiet and reserved. Perspectives clash, yet all are true, reflecting fragments of my being. But who am I, really? The truth lies within. I'm not one person, but many - a mosaic of moments, emotions, and thoughts. Others see shining glimpses, but only I hold the full, intricate light. My identity is a kaleidoscope of selves, forever evolving. In this tapestry of human sight, lies the beauty of complex, multifaceted existence.  Evvi, 12th - France
you stitched me from the prettiest pieces, only the ones you wanted to see-- the way I laugh when I’m tired, the softness in my apologies, the parts of me that looked easy to love. you never saw the jagged hours, the shaking hands, the dark corners I didn’t know how to light. you built a girl out of daydreams and asked her to be me. I stayed still for you. folded into shapes you liked. shrunk myself quieter, prettier, more patient, less real-- until even I forgot what I sounded like. you loved the paper doll you made. you never asked if I was bleeding under the seams.  E Spellman, 12th - Oakland, CA
For years, all I wanted was a baby sister. I’d heard somewhere as a child that if you looked at a star and clenched your eyes shut while thinking about something you wished for, it would come true. So every star became a wish for a baby sister. When Chanukah came around, I had the clever and endearing idea to erase every single item from my wish list and replace it with one thing: Baby Sister. Mama rubbed my back knowingly, with a quiet sadness I couldn’t understand back then. “I know, love. I know you want that,” she said, tracing soft circles on my back. Then came the yard sale, on a foggy afternoon. I sat on the porch, my long legs swinging off the top step. The air smelled like cardboard and old plastic boxes. I saw piles of old jeans, forgotten toys, things that hadn’t mattered in years. A woman with short black hair sifted through a box of sweaters. Her toddler son was toddling across our lawn, crumbs stuck to his mouth. She held up a red sweater. A maternity sweater with a gaping looseness in the belly. PREGNANCY, the box read. The box that had been tucked away, half used, in the basement. “This is too cute for Christmas when I’m pregnant again!” she said to another woman beside her, laughing. I stared at the red sweater for a long time. I knew then — Mama wasn’t going to be pregnant again. I felt something inside me drop, slow and heavy. It felt like a dream had died in that moment — like I stepped into something heavy, something I wasn’t ready to feel. I didn’t cry or say anything. I just watched the woman, her little son, and felt my dream shift from my reality and into the little boy’s. The memory etched itself into me. Even now, years later, I can still close my eyes and see that red sweater in the black-haired woman’s hands. The way the material hung loose at the middle. The weight of the realization that I wouldn’t ever get a baby sister - no matter how many stars I wished on. That realization lived in me. I carried it with me before I could even process what it meant or why I remembered that moment so well. I’m sixteen now. I’m in a striped tank top and old jeans, crouched on the bed of my new room in Mexico, wet hair dripping onto the bedspread. Everything feels different and unfamiliar, with a rhythm separate from the one I was used to. The separation made me look back at my life, my childhood, my memories from a wider lens. And the sweater moment came back to me. The dream that slipped quietly from my world into someone else’s. And I felt the feeling fully, consuming me like a cloud I couldn’t escape. It was rooted so deeply in me that feeling it again shifted something in my whole being. I cried big, full tears splashing onto the sheets. I leaned over a white spiral notebook and let it spill out, pressing my pen hard into the page as tear drops blurred my fresh sentences. Mama wasn’t there to trace circles on my back. I was grown now. I had to wipe my own tears, to tuck my own hair behind my ears. I know everything happens for a reason. But I don’t know why God thought I could hold this, my mind echoed. I closed my eyes and let the tears sting my cheeks. This is it. So I have to come to terms with it. There had been a spit sample I sent to a lab when I was in middle school — something I’d completely forgotten about. And then one random night in high school, I checked my DNA test account out of curiosity. And I got the notification that I had a sister. A sister. All that time since the red sweater — she had existed. She was real. With my same hair. Same eyebrows. Living in another city. All those stars I’d wished on as a kid - I was wishing for someone who already existed.  Daniel, 11th - New York, NY
The water flowed over my face as I opened my eyes. I looked up and saw the great river roar over me as though I was a rock in a stream. The sun's beautiful rays fanned out around me like a many-armed angel. I felt the currents drag at my clothes. They seemed to whisper to me, “Come down Nathan, down into the depths.” I shivered, What's going on here I thought. The water felt more insistent now: “Come down Nathan,” it said again. Just then, a leaf dropped onto the river. I watched as it landed above me, sending ripples across the water. It flowed down the stream gently rocking from side to side. Such a nice leaf I thought. “Be like the leaf, Nathan. Come to us.” The voice seemed to emanate from everywhere– “What is this? Why am I underwater and who the f*** is Nathan?” I pushed up from the river bed, but it was as if it didn't want to let me go. “Stay Nathan,” it whispered into my ear. “My name’s not Nathan,” I screamed, trying to rip myself free from the silt. “No, stay with us Nathan, stay and be one.” I am not dying to some creepy river voice, I thought, as the silt started closing over me like a coffin. “Come join us,” the voice said as if slithering into my ear. It was getting hard to think now. NO NO NO I wanted to say, but it was like my mouth was sewn shut by a million little needles. The water pressed down on me, the pressure feeling like I was trying to move a mountain: “Yes Nathan, come down.” The silt closed over my head and the world went black as I was dragged into the dark abyss. “Thank you, Nathan.”  Crow, 12th- Oakland, CA
I don’t dream of growing old But I do dream of a kitchen That is all mine It will have cracking linoleum floors An oven that moves in the night of old age And a rumbling fridge And I will feel the sunlight when it is cold I will totter through the cramped room in my underwear Because it is all mine The assortment of spices The pot and the pan And the teapot All observe my life move on The refrigerator will make indents in the floor From the weight of memories  Evvi, 12th - France
You put your hands inside my ribs and didn’t flinch. You found the parts others left cracked and bruised, those who turned away at the sight of the damage, yet you held them steady, never asking for explanations, never demanding to know who left me in ruin, you simply gathered the fragments and shaped them into something whole. Your fingers traced scars no one else saw, or cared to acknowledge, and somehow you knew how to heal wounds you didn’t create, how to stitch up what others tore open while digging for answers to questions I didn't even know existed. You never forced me to answer why my heart stumbled, why my chest felt like a war zone, or why everyone left when they saw blood. You just knelt in the wreckage, dug deep into the wounds, to the places that bled too long and held onto me. You didn’t flinch when the weight of me was too much, when my heart pounded, aching in your hands. you only pressed closer, silently bearing what was never yours to carry. You put your hands inside my ribs and didn’t flinch, whispering “I’ll love you even when it feels like no one else does.” |