So Write Local Teens Share Their Creative Skills
The Inland Northwest’s teen poets and storytellers had something on their collective mind this year - individuality. You know - being different, striking out on your own, not letting cliques, parents or “society” dictate who or what you are.
That thread wove through many of the 155 contributions to Our Generation’s Creative Writing Page - including the story we’ve chosen for our cover. Ben Carlson, a junior at Northport High School, wrote an allegorical tale about bucking the tide and being yourself.
Of course, the topics ran the gamut, from wrenching poems about depression, lost love and death to more cheerful work about basketball stars, dating follies and a crush on a third-grade teacher.
We’ve chosen a variety, but only a fraction of the best. You’ll find a complete list of the contributors on Page 2, along with more poems and stories. Thanks to everyone for their entries. We’ll continue to publish others as space allows, so keep watching.
In the meantime, keep sending your work to Our Generation’s poetry corner, Writers’ Block, 999 W. Riverside, Spokane, WA 99210.
POETRY
My Feelings Are Real
By Amy O’Rourke
Eastern Washington University
I am not about a pop-rock song
or
The X-generation theory.
My life is not a series of
Time-Life photos…
And my face will never be plastered on the front of
“People” or “Cosmo.”
My experiences have not been captured
in a French film
or
Some trendy beer commercial.
I cannot be summed up
in a catchy one-line jingle
or
Some generic greeting card.
The person I have and will become
Does not fluctuate with passing trends
or
Go in and out of style.
I am real…
I am you.
comfort
By Anna Raddatz
Cheney High School
I wake to discover the same
constant hunger
In my inarticulate eyes.
I bite my nails
made of glass;
Silence
- though heaven sent -
is evil.
Am I really buried?
My skin crawls with jealous
envy and disgust
At the words of dear friends.
I dream that in water and air
I am hated by all
And seen as a cat.
A blue chocolate ice
cracks under my tongue
As invisible shadows,
the only eternal threads
of non-existence,
Dance
Between sunstreaks and moonbeams;
A goddess of blossoms
and raindrops
and tiptoeing breaths
Hovers over life
- but not yours
because you despise
black
and hate
words.
Life and Choices
By Sandra Rehn
North Central High School
Laughing, playing,
Never saw him;
Working, crying,
Never heard him;
Fighting, flirting
Never listened,
When they told me
He was there.
I lived my life
Always reaching
Never finding,
Trying harder.
When they told me
I refused it
Death was better…
But then I knew.
My life over
Now I see Him;
I wish, I wish
That I had known,
He was ready,
There to love me
My chance is gone,
I didn’t choose.
My Family
By Carissa Adams
Havermale
My brother is a vampire mosquito, buzzing
around annoying people while he’s sucking the blood out of them.
My sister is a grasshopper, hopping away
from love and trying to find her own secluded place.
My father is a volcano, spewing and spitting while waiting for the eruption.
My mother is a cross between popcorn and a firecracker, big and fluffy, and waiting to be set off.
And I am a needle and thread trying to hold a family together that’s ripped apart at the seams.
Age
By Ben Sanders
Lewis and Clark
When I was younger
and restricted by the bars of youth
I was in love with my third grade teacher.
I couldn’t express
how I felt about her
for I was much too young to be considered
The extent of what
I could do was to slyly
get in trouble, so I could have recess detention.
In case you don’t recall
love was taboo in third grade
and a girl by any standards had cooties
and was to be avoided at all times.
Yet, your third grade teacher
was so much more than a girl and
those nervous, love-like, butterfly feelings
could not be avoided at all times.
Age was such a source of frustration
when you were in love with your third grade teacher.
He Hovers Over My Shoulders
By Joy A. Jung
Falls Christian Academy
Mister Homework is not my friend.
Straight as a board that never bends.
He’s with me every day and night,
Creeping on me just way too tight.
Every weekend he never fails.
Home from school, behind me he trails.
I cry and weep, “Please go away!
Let me have this weekend to play!”
Every time my family goes out,
“Don’t follow me!” I want to shout.
Like a ball and chain he will come:
a real spoilsport and not much fun.
I am so tired, Oh woe is me,
What can I do to be set free?
Please hear my cry, oh God above:
SHORT STORY
Our River
By Ben Carlson
Northport High School
Another whirlpool touched me today, though that is not a big thing upon this river I travel. That’s not to say it didn’t faze me, they always do, it’s just that I’ve grown used to them. It’s the people’s stares that get me the most, their amazement at seeing me going the wrong way on this river. Most hate me. Some look at me strangely; many more just shake their heads and go on their mindless way. Occasionally, though, I meet one who will soak up even the strangest colored waters. And when that happens, my friend, I always tell them my story.
I’ve been on this river for as long as I can remember. My first memory, I believe, is of the waters rushing past my head as I lay sick with the fever. I’m not sure, of course. Just like all memories of when one is young, this could be just someone talking of my sickness and it was somehow incorporated into my memory. Anyway, we’ve been rushing along on our self-created boats, passing others, being passed, hating those who passed us, hating those we left behind as well.
I never gave it a second thought, this life we lead. Not until the day I found the boat. I was venturing farther into the river and the rope that fastened me to my mother and father was growing longer and, of course, I stretched it as far as it could go.
The boat was among the reeds, small and grungy, old and weathered. I hated it on sight. I went over to it, to destroy it, to rend and tear and obliterate it forever.
I climbed aboard and drew back my foot to kick it apart. That was when I noticed the carving on one of the chairs. It was of the most beautiful forest. Squirrels skittered across it. I could almost see the deer cropping the tender blades of grass. Before I realized what was happening, I touched a wolf that sat stately on its haunches. With a cry, I pulled my finger back, wiping it on my pant leg.
I was angry, shaken, not understanding these strange seeds that were newly planted in a soil I never knew existed. I fled back to the safety of my parents.
Later that day, we passed a pair of people drowning. We laughed at their misfortune, laughed at our good fortune, feeling the power that came with it. I never really thought about why it was so great to leave these people behind, why we must pass them, to win a prize no one has ever seen.
Anyway, I began to think of the boat, of the beautiful carvings. I told my parents about it. They drew back in fear. “Never touch that thing, that freak,” they hissed. “Show it to us so we might destroy it.”
Now, let me explain something. Around all people are whirlpools, strongest around those I care about, that suck me towards them and make me run in their direction. I hated the boat then, hated the ugliness and cheapness of it. I became one with my parents’ need to sink it, destroy it, make it bleed.
But for some strange reason, perhaps the thought of that delicate deer being devoured by the flames of hatred, I could not tell them where it was. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I can’t remember where it is.” They looked at each other, then at me. “Just stay away from it. Don’t ever think of it again.”
I really didn’t think about it for a while and was carefree in my further and further explorations of our river. But one day, as I was looking around, I began to think of that chair, its finely carved ornamentation, and there is was - by the bank, far from the parts where I usually go. The boat had somehow drifted here. I felt as though it followed me.
With a slight push, I went to the boat. It really wasn’t hard to get on, much easier than I first suspected. I felt revulsion as I stepped aboard, but went to the chair and stood by it, fingering the bears and wolves and deer that lived together on this wooden chair in perfect harmony.
From here, the boat really didn’t look too bad. I mean, it was no masterpiece, but the boards weren’t quite as weathered as I first thought. The paint wasn’t peeling as badly as my first impression assumed. “You know,” I thought, “with a little work …”
I stood up suddenly and jumped out, pushing myself as far as I could from that little boat, back to the center of things, back to the mainstream.
My parents just looked at me when I returned. I could tell they knew. I’ll never know how, perhaps it was the look in my eye, the same look that God saw in Adam’s eye after he ate the forbidden fruit.
They reeled me in pretty tight after that. I road gloomily along in a world that had lost a little of the shine, a little of the buffing it once had. Some more time passed and, although my parents were letting more and more line out, the rope was strangling me. I guess I knew it was all going to come to a head, but it surprised me all the same when it happened.
We were sweeping by a drowning young man, feeling the strange surge of power that somehow fulfilled us when something strange happened. I reached out my hand.
The man started at it, not comprehending, floundering, dying. My parents shook their heads and pulled. I saw the boat in my mind, the peeling paint and beautiful chair and would not budge. The man had drowned by now, but I stayed still.
My parents grew angry, nagging, yanking, even cursing me. They were pulling me into their whirlpool and I fought it. I fought it with all the wild strength I had.
I no longer knew which way the river was flowing, no longer knew who the winner of this unthinking race was. Perhaps the man who drowned, I thought, perhaps we are all the losers.
The thing which kept me afloat was suddenly gone. I felt the frigid waters close around my head, a swirling vortex of every dream, every thought, every soul that men had ever had. I struggled furiously, blood pounding in my ears, fear lacing my every thought.
For some strange reason, I thought of that boat, the old decrepit one, that I found in the reeds such a log time ago, when my dreams were still innocent. And then I saw it, blazing toward me like a chariot sent from heaven. The people moved out of its way, not daring to touch it. My parents screamed when they realized it came for me. They beat upon it, spat upon it, but it came anyway.
I put a hand on it and hauled myself up, realizing that this was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The rope around me snapped and we began to sail. The wrong way.
So that’s all I say to those who wish to know, and then they usually rush away in disgust, following a dream that they know nothing of. Do the weathered boards and peeling disgust them still, or does the gold shining from the portal blind their eyes? And as you must have guessed by now - if you’re still listening, that is - I’m not going to tell you the answer …
River
By Journee Zielger
Mead
The girl sat on a rock near the river. When she sat very quietly, with great patience, she could watch the animals play and eat. The girl wore her long, shiny, dark brown hair hanging loose. When you looked into her deep brown, nearly black eyes, there seemed to be something very mysterious about her.
She only spoke when she had to. Everyone in the village wondered about her thoughts. She was 15 and never played or talked with anyone her own age. The girl spoke with the wise elders of the tribe and she listened to their stories. As she sat on the rock, she pondered the story of creation she had heard from her old friend Manipo.
“Sypou!” her mother interrupted as she called from the other side of the river. “I have looked all over for you. You must not leave the village and not tell me where you are going!”
“Sorry Mother,” she said with a sigh. Sypou went to a shallow place in the river and walked across. Her mother waited impatiently for her.
“You know it is not safe to be out here by yourself. There are many Towhawks nearby who are waiting to take a beautiful girl like you back to their village. You could end up the wife of one of those killers!”
They walked back to the village and Sypou said nothing. She knew when she wandered away from the village there was always the risk of danger, but she didn’t care. She could not be forced to stay in the village. Sypou was a strong believer in her god, Lexhom. She believed he was protecting her.
When Sypou and her mother returned to the village, people were preparing to leave in a frenzy. Sypou asked an old man, “What is happening?”
“The Towhawks have killed eight hunters. We must move away from the river,” said the old man.
Sypou did not want to move. She loved the river. She made up her mind she was going to stay behind. The village was going to be ready to go at dawn tomorrow. As Sypou helped her mother pack, she did not mention her decision to stay at the river. She loved her mother, but she did not belong with a tribe. She was full of desire to please Lexhom, her god. She would devote her life to him.
When the tribe began to leave, she started with them. As they walked together out of the village, Sypou told her mother she loved her, but she could not go with the tribe. Her mother pleaded and cried with anger and grief. But she soon realized that Sypou was strong in her decision. Sypou cried with her mother. She promised when she had learned all she could from Lexhom, she would find the tribe again and share her knowledge with them.
She went back to the river and made herself a hut near it. She wove blankets and hunted and fished for food. She had everything she needed to live. For part of each day, she sat by the river talking to Lexhom. Lexhom taught her to speak to the animals. He taught her to move things with her mind. She stayed at the river for 46 years. Finally, Lexhom told her it was time to leave the river and share her knowledge with other tribes.
Sypou set off on a journey to spread the truths she had gained. Sypou reminded her people, “You cannot gain anything without losing something. You must be brave. When you listen to your god and follow your heart, what you will gain will be more valuable than what you lost.”
Though Sypou stopped at many villages and told them about Lexhom, she never found her home tribe. She felt good that she had accomplished her mission, and she knew she had pleased Lexhom, but there was still a sad place in her heart for her mother.