"Jasper the Ghost" by Ani Terzian

"Hey, what are you doing over there?!" Bill asked.

Jasper was quietly sitting in front of the television, waching Ghostbusters for the millionth time, his pale fingers covered with crumbs. The enormous plate full of cookies was now empty. He put the movie on mute. "Nothing!" he called.

"Are you coming with us or not?"

Jasper looked over at the direction Bill's voice was coming from. There was nothing there.

"No, I think I'll just sit this one out again," he said dully.

Bill huffed. Jasper could imagine the annoyed glare his brother was giving him, even though he couldn't see Bill -- or indeed any members of his family.

"You've been so boring ever since the accident, Jasper. You're a ghost, you can't just sit around all day at home with all these helpless humans running around." A few moments later Jasper heard the door slam.

Jasper had a problem. Everyone called it a curse. He was starting to believe them. Unlike the rest of his family, he wasn't invisible. If he went outside, people would see him. This kept him from fulfilling his destiny as a ghost -- to scare people.

But as the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man appearaed in front of him in his silent house, Jasper decided was tired of being teased by all the neighborhood ghosts. He was finally going to get out and engage in some ghostly business.

He put on his hat and coat, a weak attempt for a disguise, and left the apartment. Walking down the alley, he suddenly heard footsteps. It was the first sign of life he had seen in weeks (his technically dead family didn't count): a tall man dressed in thick clothes, slowly walking towards him.

The man's shiny leather boots caught Jasper's eye. Clickety clack. Clickety clack. The winter snow was still on the ground; there was no way to get around secretly. As the man came closer to him, Jasper jumped out of the corner.

"Gaaaaah!"

The man fell over. He was trembling and hyperventilating. "Who are you? What do you want?"

Jasper hesitated. It had been a long time since he scared a person. It didn't feel good the way it used to. But his feet were freezing from walking out in the cold. So he told the man, "I want your boots."

The man took them off and gave them to Jasper. Jasper put them on, left his own shoes for the man, and continued walking down the cold alley. He didn't feel like being a ghost anymore.

From a workshop about ???? (I'm not sure), Glendale, CA, June 2011. - Ned

"Goliath" by Breanna Tucker

It's always weird when someone has the exact same schedule as you at school. It's like you've been selected at random to be best friends. I didn't really like this guy Johnny, but since we had all the same classes, we would see each other everywhere, and one day during third period I noticed him kept peeking over from behind his textbook.

"What?" I hissed.

"This is boring."

"Duh."

"Well," he said, "let's do something."

"Do what?" I questioned.

He had a look on his face like he was wondering if he should say what he was going to say. He glanced at Mrs. Richardson. "Let's ditch."

I considered it. Here we were, ambitious teenagers sitting in a pointless class, knowing that absolutely nothing significant was going to happen for the rest of the day. Probably the rest of the week.

"Okay." I smiled and I saw the excitement overtake him.

"Follow me." He got up out of his seat and walked out the door. I obediently followed, wondering why no one noticed.

* * *

Apparently his plan was to go to Magic Mountain, which he had two tickets to. It being a weekday, we got onto every ride in less than 10 minutes. We spun in teacups until we were nauseated; we ate disgusting, over-priced chicken strips; and we got soaking wet on a ride called "Tidal Wave." We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves -- and he even won a pink teddy bear for me. Actually he bribed the worker, but I'll say he won for his sake.

The sun had gone down, so we decided to go on just one more ride before completing our perfect, well-spent day.

"Which one?" he asked.

"Hmm..." I thought about it. "How about Goliath?"

Goliath had the steepest incline of any coaster in the United States.

No one was in line, so we picked the two front seats. As the coaster cranked up into the night sky, we saw the city light up below us.

"Today was fun," he said and smiled.

"Yeah," I replied pleasantly. When we reached the peak of the coaster, we heard a loud thump below us and our cart shifted to the right. Curious, I peeked over the side. The two front wheels were not aligned with the track.

Gravity started to bring us downward.

From the Feb. 2012 workshop on "The Cliffhanger" in Glendale, CA.

"Conflagration" by Caleb Zachary

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday Grant had woken me up by kicking the door of my room in as he passed by in the hallway. Thursday he kicked it open and tossed a bag of CliffsNotes onto my bed, aiming as close to my head as he could without looking like he was trying. Friday Dad left early, so Grant celebrated his freedom to torture me by blasting Rebecca Black from the kitchen while he had his cereal.

Grant is my cousin, older than me by one grade, who moved in with my father and I for an indefinite period of time. He and Dad got along famously, trading witticisms and abstract trivia while also taking every opportunity to goad me, knowing I was born to be a comedy straight man.

While I've been going to a small private school since middle school, Grant enrolled at the local public school and he hates it with a passion. He had another week before his school got out, while I had started summer break two weeks before, thus his surplus resentment. I crawled out of bed and pulled on a shirt, bumping my way drearily into the kitchen to pull the plug on the "Friday"-blasting speaker. Grant didn't even look up, only pushed the cereal box toward me and mumbled a mouthful--something about clean spoons.

I wandered toward the wide window and yanked open the curtain, feeling a bit vengeful. I heard Grant groan as light flooded in onto the gleaming tile counters. I gazed out over the residential high-rises a few blocks away right above Grant's school, mirror images of the ones we lived in. (My father joked that if we lived in one of the other high-rises, Grant could rappel from our balcony onto the baseball field.) I left the curtain open, even though the brightness made me squint.

"What time do you get out of school today?" I asked.

"2:30," he said, "but I'll be staying a bit late to talk to Lena."

Lena was Grant's math teacher, who he had developed what I considered an unhealthy crush upon.

"If I'm not too busy partying it up, do you want me to meet you when you're done?" I asked.

"I'll be partying with Lena," Grant mumbled, knowing that I had absolutely no plans. "Meet me at Starbucks at three."

I grunted affirmation, trying to calculate just how late he'd be, and headed back to my room. While Grant might have to wake up at 7:15, I could sleep as late as I wanted.

* * *

I thought I was still dreaming when I rolled out of bed to the screeching, until the room shook and my eardrums popped, filling my ears with a dull whining sound. My head throbbed, and as I stood up the building shook again and glass broke somewhere in the apartment. My clock, jolted from its wall mounting to crack on the floor, was frozen at 11:28.

I stepped over the shards of plastic into the hallway, where paintings and pictures scattered the floor. The kitchen was where the destruction began. The window was shattered across the white tile, glittering in the sunlight that still streamed through the frame. Pots and pans littered the counter after falling from the hanging rack.

A cloud of smoke was rising to shroud my view from the window, but the remnants of the adjacent high rises were still barely visible, even as they crumbled to the ground across the school below. 

Across the road, buried in the third floor of the closest high rise, hung a wrecked passenger airplane.

"An Unusual Lunch" by Estefania Zavala

The screeches woke her up as they did every morning. They were screams of purest fear and abject terror. Her little brother, Henry, was having a tough time adjusting to kindergarten.

She scurried out of bed, hoping against hope that a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios swimming with orange juice (his favorite) would quiet him down. For once, the endeavor was successful and she helped her harried mother mangle him into a car seat.

She arrived at school early, tripping on the bike rack -- as she always did. The cut on her knee re-opened and she cursed/limped all the way to the office where she obtained a band-aid that was very grudgingly given.

She thought about the stinginess of the office aides and composed cutting speeches aimed at them for the rest of the morning.

For lunch, she chose the same kind of grilled cheese sandwich as always and thought the same kind of thoughts as always: she considered dyeing her hair; she dismissed the idea.

There was a silence within the cafeteria. The lull caused her to look up.

It was the most bizarre thing she had ever seen. It was some sort of a man, as near as she could tell. He was walking on his hind legs, at least. He appeared to have the head of a cat -- and the body of a bear. But he was a soft shade of purple. He had two giant black discs for eyes and no other facial features.

As extraordinary as this creature, however, was what he cradled in his giant lavender arms. Her little brother, Henry.

"Hello, Natalie," said her brother with imperial coolness not usually displayed by five-year-olds.

"Hello," she replied faintly.

"Please inform Mother that I won't be home for dinner tonight," he said. Natalie wondered where his lisp had gone. "I won't be home for quite some time, in fact. I enjoy your company and Honey Nut Cheerios but I have found the indignities of kindergarten too foul to suffer."

She nodded -- as though this was the sort of thing her brother said all the time. The monster's black discs glittered curiously.

"Well, I'm afraid Mr. Garrison and I must be leaving," Henry said. She realized "Mr. Garrison" was the monster clutching him. With a swift command from her brother, he began to lumber out of the cafeteria.

Her brother turned back to see all the panicking people and sent her a look of utmost pity. "I'll come back for you when I can," he said.

"Wanted"

by Molly Buffington

The town was just like every other in the West: tumbleweeds, a saloon with a couple drunks staggering around a barmaid, a poorly guarded bank, horses, a sheriff nailing "Wanted" signs to a board, women in bonnets buying groceries... the works. None of them saw what the man surveying the town did.

Women turned their heads and batted their eyelashes at him. He seemed to walk aimlessly, just a clean-cut cowhand, still retaining some youth, with swaying light red hair and icy blue eyes. The sheriff nodded his head to him.

"Howdy, stranger."

The man, a little surprised, tipped his stetson. "Howdy."

He tried to walk on but the sheriff, an older man with gristle-y, grey-tinged hair, grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"You new to the Lone Star State?"

"Yes sir," the man lied.

"I'm Lawrence, local law enforcement."

"Joseph Robertson, sir. Here on business with my family's farm. Be gone in a few days."

That seemed to satisfy the sheriff. "Enjoy your stay, son," he said, smacking Joseph a little too hard on the back as he walked on.

Joseph wiped his brow. There was no way this Lawrence could have seen through him. No, it just wasn't possible. He continued walking and reached the board with the "Wanted" signs.

"Fast Jack," a man in his mid-40s with jet black hair and a gold tooth. Wanted for battery and defying law enforcement, $50 reward.

"Quick-Draw Stevens," white-blond with a crooked nose, train robbery and horse thieving. $150 reward.

And how could he not notice? "Billy The Kid," a cocky choice for an alias, brown-haired, baby-faced, wanted from the Grand Canyon to the Mississippi for everything from cattle rustling to armed robbery to murder. $500 reward, dead or alive.

Joseph's eyes grew wide at the last charge. "I didn't commit murder," he mumbled.

The town looked like a good enough place to settle down. He had money, freedom, power. A great deal of power. He would always have that.

He looked behind his shoulder to see if anyone spotted him staring at the posters and then shook off the fear, swaggering over to the saloon. He subconsciously checked his gun: still there, still loaded. He pushed the door and glanced around. Friendly barmaid, a few poker games, several ladies dolled up for business. He nodded to himself. He liked it here.

He sat at the bar and stared at himself in the mirror. Over his ear, a tuft of his hair was brown instead of red. How had he missed that? He concentrated, digging deep into his guts and willing himself to change. Shifting was never easy, always painful. Anyone passing by would think he had terrible indigestion. It took a good 30 seconds of focusing and chanting under his breath. But when he looked up his hair was all red, his eyes were all blue, and he looked nothing like the man in the poster.

"Turkey and Me"

by Sara Anis

I don't usually throw up. But the one time I did, wow that was crazy.

It was Thanksgiving night. I was seven. My mother and I were planning on taking a trip to Chandler, AZ right after dinner with the family.

Now, my family is from the Middle East, we aren't really know for cooking the best turkey in town. My seven-year-old stomach would agree on that one. That night, well... I don't know what it was. Probaby nasty for one. Anyways!

My mother and I get on the Greyhound planning to have a smooth ride to Chandler and then BOOM! -- the twists and turns start acting up. I really wanted it to be a good trip, I really did. Too bad the turkey had it in for me.

So there I am, about to throw up, when I notice everyone on the bus watching me. Now being the proper young lady I am, I turn around, gently snatch my mother's cashmere sweater, and let it out.

Gross... maybe. But I actually thought I was being pretty polite. That trip was a bummer, and I can honestly say that turkey and me have never been the best of friends since.

Sorry Mom.

"Chick Chick"

by Oscar Guerrero

I ate some questionable fried chicken from a questionable restaurant, in a questionable street in a questionable area east of LAX. My uncle is a steward at the airport, or something along those lines, so we picked him up from Terminal 20. He greeted us with a "Look how big you've gotten?" and a "Did you lose weight?" and the question we were all waiting for, "Are you hunrgy?"

He stuffed us in the car, took the wheel, and jammed his foot on the pedal until we were going 40 in a 15. "I know a place!"

Before we knew it, it was past nine and we had driven for two hours. "I think we missed it. It was supposed to me fifteen minutes from the airport." We gazed at him but bit our tongues, as we couldn't refuse his hospitality for offering to pay.

Then we spied a place: "Chicky Chicky," with bright flickering neon lights that, as Simon & Garfunkel put it, "split the night."

The menu varied from fried chicked to spicy fried chicken. Everyone ordered the spicy fried chicken but I, being the weakest of stomach of the family, couldn't help but be weak and submissive so as to stand out and get the chicken that was lacking in the spicy area.

So the cashier, this plump Hispanic woman with a Jennifer Aniston haircut and too many rings to count, followed our commands. In a matter of seconds, the food was ready. We had drinks, the chicken of spicy and non-spicy variety, and a little container overflowing with ranch sauce.

I ever-so-cautiously clenched my teeth on the ever-so-salty chicken. I chewed slowly. Save for a few bones it wasn't bad. The feast had officially begun, as everyone was grabbing for a leg, or a nugget, or a wing, and chewing, and savoring, and swallowing, and gulping, and of course digesting.

We finished the meal, payed a surprisingly large bill, and got in the car to say, "This wasn't so bad."

My dad drove tmie, going 25mph under the speed limit. But even at that speed, I felt a pressure in the center of my torso, building up, slowly, but surely.

Then there was rumbling, and sweating, and the next thing I knew, my mouth was erupting white chunks of legs, nuggets, wings and other body parts of the fowl type.

And it was everywhere.

My shoes, my jeans, my Revolver shirt (which I had so carefully and lovingly preserved), and even my mother's dress (which she had carefully and lovingly preserved)... Not to mention two car seats, a bit of the window, and even some of the steering wheel.

Everyone gave me the stare they had previously given my uncle, but they bit their tongues, and kept driving, and driving and driving, and just ignoring the smell.

"Chapter 1—I am Born"

by Cassy Sarnell

Jennifer Louise Boyle was born on September 27, 1992. She had stunning blue eyes and little ringlet curls. Her mother, Karen Celia Boyle, had been at the hospital for 6 hours, counting the hour of doctors sticking needles in her to numb the pain. Her father, Matthew Louis Boyle, didn’t see either the mother or the child for exactly 24 hours after the baby’s birth, at which point he exclaimed, “Well thank god all the right parts are in all the right places,” which I resent.

It never occurred to a young Jennifer that there was anything wrong with her. She was not especially “girly,” but not especially “tomboyish,” a term I resent.

The first clue she had that she was less-than-perfect was while watching Motocrossed with her now-ex-best friend. She was sitting there, watching, when I spoke up for the first time.

“I want to marry her.”

Jennifer, not one to keep anything to herself, shared this with her now-ex-best friend: “I want to marry her.”

“Ew. Are you gay?”

Neither of us knew what the term meant, so Jennifer looked it up.

“I’m straight,” I told her.

“I know… Are you my imaginary friend?”

“No.”

“Are you… me?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“What?”

“Well, I thought I was Jennifer. But you’re me. So whatever your name is is also my name.”

I thought about it. “James. I’m James.”

I was born 8 years later, on June 15, 2008. James Louis Boyle. I had hair cut too short to form ringlets, and dreary blue eyes. My mother, Karen Celia Boyle, wouldn’t look at me. My father, Matthew Louis Boyle, wavered between joking that now he had the son he’d always wanted, and staring at me with a look that said, "How did this get so wrong? How did you get so wrong?”

"Thumbs Down, Bro"

by Christina McCarthy



The line went on for hours. Hundreds of children lined up side by side as their skin boiled from the summer sun.

Anthony was getting anxious as they approached the top of the mount. Super Speed. The most outrageous water slide in the state of Arizona. It took you down faster than any loopy slide in the park, with the sharpest turns and steepest drops.

"Hey, Chubbs, relax," Greg said to Anthony.

"I can't help it; we've been waiting all week for this, and it's so hot I want to be in the pool already," Anthony said.

"I am actually a bit nervous about it."

"Why? You're retarded. It's going to be sick."

"Well, hate to be the one to share this with you, but I am quite a bit more aerodynamic than you," said Greg. Anthony rolled his eyes and moved ahead in line.

Greg continued, "Maybe I will just wait until you go and when you land in the water you can give me a thumbs up or down so I can decide if I want to go through with it."

"Yeah, okay, whatever you want."

Before long, Anthony was next up. Greg gave him a quick reminder to give him a signal before Anthony jumped into the tube slide head-first. Greg took a few moments to look around. He hadn't realized how high up he was. The view unnerved him.

"Holy shit!" he heard a girl scream from below. He leaned over the rail to see the pool filling with blood and he went into panic mode. He ran down the metal spiral staircase past the crowded line feeling nauseous from the speed and fear. His heart was beating in his throat and he thought he was going to puke. Ever since he was little he was known to be a nervous vomiter.

When he finally go to the pool, Anthony had been taken out but there was a crowd around him filled with panic. He must have hit his head on the bottom. The paramedics tended to him and Greg couldn't see his body. The entire water park seemed to freeze around the scene. Once you drowned out the shaky voices crying for help, the park was silent.

The seconds seemed like hours. A voice yelled out, "He's breathing!" Then there was a loud splash in the bloody pool. Greg looked over to see... Anthony, naked, bringing his head out from under the red pool water.

"What the fuck!" Anthony yelled. "First my trunks get stuck on base bolt in a turn, now the water is like toxic?"

Anthony climbed out of the pool, reaching for a towel, as Greg's stomach turned in shock at the red and relief at his friend. Anthony wrapped the towel around himself.

"Thumbs down bro, all the way."

"The Pansies"

by anonymous

It was a hot, sticky day. David and Montgomery lounged on the tan couch. Every three minutes, David shifted ."If I ever get out of here, I will never get a leather couch," David thought.

Montgomery looked more comfortable, presumably because he was thinking about his own couch, at home, which was not made from a cow and always covered by a clean cotton sheet.

Both boys felt suctioned into the cushions. They faced a choice: shift their weight and learn that they had cemented to the sofa, or remain where they were forever, never to know. Meanwhile, the contestants on TV sizzled, sliced and diced their way to personal salvation in “Kitchen Stadium”. There was a new mystery ingredient, one that had thrown the Japanese and Indian chef considerably: leeks. Too easy, thought Montgomery.

Ugh. "Iron Chef is not conducive to thought," thought David. Conducive? Conductive? Whatever. As the gracious host, David had allowed Monty to choose the program, something he was currently in deep regret about. After flipping at considerable length, Monty had settled on the food channel. So what if it was a Monday in august? There had to be something better on, like Nickelodeon. Or Wii. David stretched his hand towards the remote, customs be damned.

Down in the much cooler basement, David’s sister Rose was having a similar bout with temptation. The basement walls were stark navy, and there was a furry maroon carpet on the floor. Rose, a girl of unpleasant skinniness with short ink-black hair, was sitting watching Pretty in Pink.

There was a bare light on in the hall, where unfinished pine steps led up into the room of the leather couch. That was where David sat stiffly and Montgomery lounged sexily. Or so it seemed to Rose. She didn’t know what idiot inside her had prompted her to tie her hair back (it was really too short, half had come out, while the other half jutted out of her head like a blunt spike), or made her think seriously of shaving her legs for the second time that week. They were stubbly where her denim shorts ended. She looked at the sea glass vase on the low table. There was a rose in it. Surely one petal wouldn’t hurt. And it would taste so good. It was dislodged, chewed and swallowed, in rapid succession. Rose was on her third petal, chomping away, when she heard the doorknob.

“Hey,” said Monty. “Can we please go downstairs? it’s so hot.”

“Umm…” David had wanted to go down to the basement for a while, but back in Kitchen Stadium they were getting into judging (which was really more like tasting) and he just didn’t want Monty staring at Rose. Ick. David had his father’s golden wavy hair and his mother’s separated eyebrows, but no guy, much less Monty, ever looked at him. What a colossal joke.

The boys reached the basement and entered the room just in time to see the couple on screen kiss.

"Eww, it’s The Breakfast Club all over again," thought David.

"What makes her think she can be a ginger?" Montgomery asked. He mouthed the word ginger as he looked at the screen. Then he looked at David’s cute sister. And what makes her think she can have dark hair with those eyebrows?

In her mind, Rose was giggling cheekily. I think he’s into me! Her cognitive squeals and slight flush drew David’s attention to Montgomery, who was watching Roses ridiculous ponytail like he wanted to grab it.

"Here we go," he thought.

"The Great Four Guardians"

by Christopher K.

[Circa 2009. End punctuation by Christopher K. -- ed. ]

Everyone thinks gods are a myth but...

They would be wrong.

When God created the World via the Big Bang Effect and the first Act of Evil took place, with Adam and Eve eating the Forbidden Fruit placed by a Fallen Angel named Lucifer who wanted all the power to himself: God created men known as Guardians.

Crafted to assist him in the defeat of Lucifer, they each carried one of the elements that made God who He was: Earth, Air, Fire, Water, Light, Darkness, Chaos, Twilight, Balance, Nature, Existence, Cosmos, and Ultima.

Each person had a mate to reproduce with so with every new child the element would pass to the kid as well. What was the point? To keep Lucifer and his minions in check and the world safe. Back to the main issue...

These four kids were children of Guardians and soon figured out they were needed to carry on their father's work: Zane Eison Hatake of Fire, Blaze Eison Hatake of Fire, Alister Rizon of Light, and Getsu Fuhuma of Existence.

These four would one day be known as The Great Four. In 1583 they discovered that they each had a symbolic relationship with one another. The great war in Japan in the early Edo period took place in the year 1611 and ended in 1614.

The Great Four fought in that war to prevent an evil Warlord named Kazwki Ino-moto and his 10,000 troops from taking over Kyoto. The Great Four only had 500 in total to help the cause. Even though outnumbered severely.... They still had their powers which they mastered but unfortunatly the Warlord also had a gift. Power of Darkness he had.

The result? Total destruction... of the Warlord's men!!! As for the Great Four against Kaz.. A dead draw.

But legend says Guardians permanently never die.. will they return? If so, is this still a myth?! or True? you choose! end?

[300 film is released in 2007; Last Airbender film is released in 2010. -- ed.]

"Graffiti BS"

by Yossi Halpernin

The Smith-9th St. station is deserted at night the tracks clear of workers and the platform free of cops. This makes it a great place to go tagging. The trains come every twenty five minutes you time it right you got four minutes to find a spot twenty minutes to tag one to get away.

We are in the first four minutes looking for an empty space to tag. I don’t want to buff someone else’s tag so I find an empty space. I do an outline of my tag SCOPE and fill it in. I look at my friend David he’s almost done with his tag SPIKE.

“You're done Dom?”

“Almost Randy.”

“Hey.”

“Hey you.”

I turn around and a man who looks like he’s homeless approaches us he then pulls out a badge.

“What were you doing on the tracks?”

Before I can say a word or even think of what to say David opens his mouth.

“We weren’t doing graffiti.”

“How do you know I’m stopping you for graffiti?”

“Are you psychic?”

“That’s why you are stopping us.”

“Right.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I stopped you because you were on the tracks. Why were you on the tracks?”

We are both speechless. Time seems to slow down and drift away.

“So you were doing graffiti.”

“No” we say.

“So why were you on the tracks?”

“We were crossing to get to the Manhattan side.”

“This is the Brooklyn side.”

“I mean Brooklyn side.”

“Brooklyn or Manhattan side.”

“Brooklyn.”

“Ok.”

“If you were just crossing why were you walking on the tracks?”

“We needed to get to the front car.”

“Well this is actually the back.”

“Ow.”

“Well we thought it was the Manhattan side and that would have (would of) made it the front.”

“I thought you wanted the Brooklyn side.”

“Ya.”

“Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn Manhattan uptown downtown front back you're confusing me.”

“What’s confusing?”

“You should know were you are going.”

“Ya.”

“We needed to go further into Brooklyn and went to the Manhattan platform by mistake and we need to get the front car but accidentally went to the back car.”

“Ok. Just one thing. I saw you climb down onto the tracks and then twenty-four minutes later climb back out again before a train came. Are you telling me you weren’t doing graffiti?”

“We weren’t.”

“Then what were you doing?

“We were trying to get to the next station since we missed the train.”

“So why did you turn around and come back?”

“We realized that the station was too far and closed.”

“Closed or too far?”

“Which.”

“Too far.”

“Closed.”

“Which one?”

“Closed.”

“We reached the station and it was closed. So we turned around and came back.”

“Which station?”

“Not sure.”

“The one over there,” David says, pointing.

“Ok. I have news for you kids. Stations don’t close. They're open twenty-four seven.”

“Well it was empty so we assumed it was closed.”

“Actually we never made it to the station. Half way there we turned around and went back.”

“Because it was too far.”

“Too far? Or closed.”

“Too far.”

“Ya too far.”

“Ok let me see IDs.”

“For what officer?”

“We weren’t doing graffiti.”

“Sure you weren’t. Why were you on the tracks?”

“Because we didn’t want to break the law.”

“You didn’t want to break the law.”

“Ya.”

“We went on the tracks to smoke.”

“Smoke what.”

“Cigarettes.”

“Because it’s illegal to smoke on the platform.”

“What brand?”

“Marlboro.”

“Newport I mean Marlboro.”

“Marlboro or Newport.”

“Marlboro.”

“I was thinking Marlboro but I said Newport.”

“You sure? Or were you smoking Newport and he was smoking Marlboro?”

“Ya.”

“I had Newport he had Marlboro.”

“Ok. Let me get this straight. He was smoking Newport you were smoking Marlboro and when I asked you, you said Newport but meant Marlboro. And this whole time down there you were doing graffiti."

“Ya.”

“I mean no.”

“You're confusing me. Let me see the packs.”

We look at each other and pretend to look through our pockets.

“Where are the cigarettes?”

“Oh we must have (must of) left them on the train tracks.”

“Better go get them.”

“No, you're not going any where. No more games. IDs both of you.”

“But why?”

“We weren’t doing graffiti.”

“Sure you weren’t. IDs.”

We both reach into our pockets and find our IDs and are about to hand them to the officer.

“Why are your hands like that?”

“Huh?”

“Like what officer?”

I look at my hands then at Dom’s hands and realize that our hands are almost completely covered in paint. I guess we forgot to wipe the paint off.

“Show me your hands. What’s that on your hands?”

“Not sure.”

“Looks like paint.”

“How did it get there?”

“Huh.”

“Finger painting.”

“Finger painting. Aren’t you boys a bit old for finger painting?”

“The teacher made us do it at school.”

“School. It’s Sunday.”

“You have school on Sunday.”

“Ya.”

“Sunday school.”

“Really? So what did you paint?”

“Christmas trees.”

“It’s July.”

“So.”

“You're painting Christmas trees in July.”

“Ya.”

“And you.”

“Painting trees too.”

“No.”

“Santa.”

“So you were in Sunday school this morning painting black Christmas trees and blue Santas in the middle of July.”

“Can’t bullshit a bullshitter sir.”

“It’s from graffiti.”

“Ok.”

“It’s from graffiti.”

“But.”

“We were not doing graffiti.”

“Ya.”

“We went to go look at graffiti.”

“You went to look at graffiti? Then how did it get on your hands?”

“We accidentally touched it and it happened to be wet.”

“Ya we touched it to have a better connection with it.”

“You know how tactile contact can connect a person to an object?”

“Ok so let me get this straight. First you told me that you were crossing the tracks to get to the Manhattan side then you change it to the Brooklyn side. Then you tell me you needed the front car then the back car. Then you tell me you need to get to the other station but the station was closed and then it was too far. Then you went on the tracks to smoke a cigarette but neither of you know what brand. Now you're telling me you went to look at graffiti and accidentally touched it and also touched it to feel a tactile connection to it."

“I think it’s obvious that we were doing graffiti.”

“I think that’s obvious too.”

“How old are you two?”

“14.”

“16.”

“Do your parents know you're out this late?”

“Well sort of.”

“He’s sleeping at my house and I’m sleeping at his house.”

“Yes or No?”

“No.”

“No.”

“I'm taking you in and having a long talk with your parents about graffiti and sneaking out.”

Yossi Halpernin can be reached at Xskateboy12X [at] aol [dot] com.

"Dugie's Teeth"

by Lucy Snyder

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and reached far -- for the snooze button. I touched down to lay flat on the bed and stretched every muscle. I opened up my eyes really wide, smiled big and moved my eyebrows up and down. Finally I had the energy to swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand up.

I walked to the bathroom, examined my tired face in the mirror, and filled the sink up with cold water. I opened the cabinet door, grabbed the face wash, and squeezed the soap-smelling solution into my hand. Then, as I was applying the stuff to my face, I remembered something. I remembered yesterday afternoon.

I was lying in that uncomfortable chain covered in uncomfortable plastic. The air conditioner was blasting in an uncomfortable way. The way they kept my mouth propped open with pieces of plastic was so uncomfortable. But it was all worth it because I was going to look so good.

It had been about 16 hours since they finished. I slowly washed the scrub off my face, keeping myself in suspense. It was a Friday morning and I hadn't checked the clock. I assume I was running late. I put the tube back into the cabinet and pulled out my same old Crest "Vivid White" toothpaste --


-- that toothpaste with false claims. I had been using that toothpaste ever since that day five years ago that I had realized that my brushing habits had left my teeth a great amazing yellow color under my braces. I would look in the mirror and smile every night before I stuck the toothbrush in my mouth and think horrible things. My yellow teeth were disgusting, unattractive, horrible, gross, unattractive and repulsive.


No one said one word to me about them but I knew what they thought in their heads. At every checkup, Dr. Moskowitz would say, "These teeth are beautiful! Beautiful, Dugie!" But they weren't. Five years of whitening toothpaste and nothing was different. Until today.

I looked at that clean face in the mirror and smiled at it. My lips were still touching and my heart was beating fast. I looked down into the sink. I smiled more, more, so that my teeth could meet the air. Breathing faster and faster and faster. I looked up and I was beautiful.

I had almost expected one of those trite moments from cartoons when a rock star smiles and the audience is blinded. But no, this was much different. I was no sleazy long-haired celebrity who only wanted fame and fortune. I had a pretty face and I was a nice girl. But now I was someone new. When I parted those lips, I didn't just have a new confidence, I had the confidence of someone else. I didn't look different. I looked amazing.

I wasn't going to eat breakfast so I put the toothbrush away. I put on one of my favorite outfits and complementary makeup. I could not wait to get to school. I hated school. My best friends weren't from school; they were from the neighborhood. I did have many acquaintances at school and these were the people I guess I wanted to see. I just wanted to see people. I just wanted people to see me. "The new me."

"4:00pm Date"

by Marilyn Carlin

I call her my 4:00pm date.

It's the perfect relationship -- I'm walking my dog, she's kicking up dust on her way home from school, all shiny black pigtails of irony and scuffed Docs.

Always pigtails. Always Docs. Always that Barney-purple backpack stamped with the initials "JMR." That was as much of her name as I knew.

At first, we would just walk past each other, heads turned, eyes down, protecting our egos. But we couldn't help noticing each other -- I coughed; she sidestepped. Acknowledgments of each other's presence. Teenager speak.

After a few weeks, she started asking to pet Beauregard. Her voice was rasped, lower than the voice you'd think she would have. It fit. We got to talking about school. I started calling her Punky Brewster, you know, because of the pigtails. I mean, also because she had these giant gazoombas, for her size at least -- a lot of people don't know this, but that chick who played Punky's were so big she had to get them removed partially.

My sister Amy really liked Punky -- the real one I'm talking about, not JMR who I started calling Punky. I didn't mind watching it when I was growing up because I wanted to hang out with her; that's how it is when you're younger. Meanwhile, Punky/JMR started calling me "Mike," even though my name's not Mike. She said I looked like a "Mike."

If she were a dude I would punch her for aligning me with the name of the kid who stole my markers and my lunch money every day in elementary school, but it was okay because she was a chick, plus with her the name had a different feel. It got to the point where I would wait by the front door, leash in hand, head turned, until I saw her coming up the grass-lined suburban beige cement path. I timed it perfectly so that I wouldn't miss her. Miss our date.

The other day I saw her talking with a friend, waiting for the bus. She saw me and smiled and waved and her friend tapped her shoulder (too hard!) and squawked something about me and called her Jen. Jen. Jennifer. I needed to know if it was her real name.

* * *

So now it's 4:00pm, Bo's scratching at the door and the leash is in my hand. I don't see her so I wait. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. Now Bo is lying down, whining, and my homework is remaining undone and I'm about to leave anyway when I catch a glimpse of shining dark pigtails and a flash of purple. She's here and everything makes sense. I clip Bo's leash on and push out the door.

I would run, but I don't want to seem to eager. Nobody likes an eager beaver. I catch up to her two houses down.

She waves, smiles, and throws a dazzlingly mundane: "Hey Mike, what's kickin'?"

The atmosphere is charged with hormonal goop.

"Hey Jen," I smile as she bends down to pet Bo, who is already nuzzling his nose into the denim at her knee.

"Jen?"

"I thought we could try real names for once. Like, 'Hi, I'm Jake Harper, and you're Jen Something-or-Other--'"

"Jen isn't my name."

I stare down at the hand I've extended, in mock jest, ready to shake just like I'd been taught in the "Professionalism in the Workplace" seminar my mom had made me go to when I got my first job at Subway.

"But the initials on your backpack, you know, 'JMR?' It fits."

She stares at me, squinting at the sun. She suddenly looks very tiny, like she's going to break.

"JMR: 'Joseph Mitchell Ryan.'"

I mull it over -- I mean, I've heard of gender-androgyny but this is kind of ridiculous.

"Your name is Joseph?"

"He was my brother. He was killed. Car accident. It was three years ago. Some asshole driver plowed into the side of my mom's minivan going ninety-five in a thirty-five."

She stars crying. I don't know what to do. Punky Brewster never cried.

"We walked away with cuts and bruises. He died on impact."

She's inches away from me. I can smell her strawberry lip-gloss and shampoo and all I can think about is the awkwardness radiating off of me in big, Barney-colored waves. I put my hand on her shoulder.

We stand like that for a few seconds. I whisper an apology, knowing it changes nothing but hoping that it'll make everything better anyway. Like my "sorry," my words, will un-kill her brother and un-drunk the driver like a magic trick.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" I try.

She hedges: "Yeah, yeah, oh, definitely, yeah."

"Same time same place?"

She half-nods and walks away. My 4:00pm date, over.

"Hey, wait!" I call out. "If it's not Jen, what is your name?"

"Punky Brewster," she smirks, tossing a pigtail over her shoulder.

"Alright, Punky. Cool!" I yell, my attempt to save face failing.

Punky freaking Brewster. What have I gotten myself into?

"Ridiculous Hero Journeys"

by Julia Rittenberg

Sam crinkled her nose as they walked.

"I still don't see why you like butterscotch."

"Come on, Sammie, I never say anything about that Zac Efron you love so much," chided Dave.

"Shut up! I dont even like his movies. Just him. I can just tell that he's a good person."

"Whatever you say, vanilla-eater."

"That's not even an insult."

"It could be."

They sat down at their curb. After a few minutes, an obnoxious SUV drove up. "Say hi to your boyfriend. I won't mind," assured Dave.

Sam hurried to her young love; Dave noticed a slight limp. He stored it for later.

When Sam returned, aglow with teenage hormones, he had decided on his opening question.

"So what is the redeeming qualify of the latest model?"

"He likes that I wear the same pants everyday. American Eagle is also his favorite store."

"What a winner."

"I will disregad the sarcasm and instead agree with you."

"Has he made you conservative, or something? Where the hell did you get that sweater?" Dave pulled at the neckline and saw a flash of discolored shoulder.

Sam pulled it up quickly, hoping to bypass the possible revelation. "I borrowed it from Mom. I didn't want to get cold."

"Why are you bruised?" The normal laughter in Dave's voice was replaced with concern. "Your skin is tougher than Mom's oatmeal cookies. What happened?"

"Nothing. Matthew's dog is a little too friendly sometimes. He jumped on me kind of violently."

"You're such a liar. There's no dog."

"Yes there is!"

"There might be, but it's not the dog."

"Yes it was."

He poked her shoulder. Sam winced. "Right. A dog did that. It was Matthew, wasn't it? Did that bastard rape you?"

Sam knew the look in her brother's eyes. If she didn't tell him the truth, Dave would concoct one of his ridiculous hero journeys.

"I'll tell you! Just don't interrupt. She braced herself. Why hadn't she called the police? Or told their parents?

"On our date last week, Matthew took me to the park where we first met to be romantic. It was really cute, don't you think?"

Dave looked furious.

"Moving on. Some guys came up and tried to mug us. When they found we had no money, they were all like, 'Oh, we'll just get our money's worth some other way,' looking me up and down all creepy-like. I guess instinct took over or something when they tried to grab me, because I totally freaked and beat the crap out of them. Obviously, one cannot leave battle without some scars, so I have a shoulder bruise and my foot hurts, so I'm limping."

They sat in silence.

"Are you mad?"

"I can't say I'm not a little incredulous, but awesome job! I'm really proud of you. Mom and Dad would be too."

"You don't think it was stupid?"

"Of course it was, but you held your own and came out great. This also makes me think better of Matthew. He's not intimidated by your bad-assery?"

"No. He said it was an excellent fight." She sighed. "I think I'll tell Mom and Dad tonight."

"Great. We'll put on some Sinatra to calm 'em down, and they'll be telling this at cocktail parties withing a month."

They got up from the curb and started walking.

Sam crinkled her nose. "I hate Sinatra."

"I love him. Tolerate it." He bumped her shoulder.

"Ouch!" she complained. "I may have skin as tough as bricks, but I am a dainty child."

"I said Mom's oatmeal cookies."

"Same thing, really."

"Tech Support"

by Grace Rittenberg

"...In the auditorium, Mr. Jobs stood onstage in that powerful stance of his..."

"Damn it."

I hit and cursed my work computer. Violence toward technology didn't help, of course, but it made me feel a lot better.

"What's wrong?" Nick asked.

"It's still not really working."

"Did you call the tech person?"

"Yeah, I don't know where he is." Secretly I believed that the tech person was late so he could pretend he was busy.

"Well," Nick said, "he is pretty busy."

***

Nick is one of those Steve-Jobs-worshipping Apple employees. I took this job because there wasn't anything else I could do -- and it pays well. You can make more money at Apple than anywhere else since Bill Gates died.

"You called?" said a male voice. Oh, great.

"Yeah, I'm having some problems with -- "

"Move!" he cut me off. The tech guy was thin and he instantly annoyed me. "Now, what are you having problems with?"

"Well, I don't know what printer to send this to, and I keep having to restart it because it freezes when I open Safari."

He let out an exasperated breath. "You're not supposed to use Safari."

"Then why is it there?"

"The printer on this floor is Z52720-Second-Floor. I don't know why your colleagues -- " he glared at Nick " -- didn't tell you. Please, only call me for important things."

This job has taught me one thing -- I hate tech people.

"Auditorium now, auditorium now," said a voice over the speaker system. "Director Jobs has an announcement. Auditorium now."

"If it's another new iPod, I'm going to be gutted, because I just got the new one," Nick said.


***
In the auditorium, Mr. Jobs stood onstage in that powerful stance of his.

When everybody sat down, he held something up and said, "This, everyone, is the first ever iPod!"

It was something we'd all seen before. It was pretty ancient -- only about 2 gigs, no touch screen, and it was huge.

"And these," he continued, "are all the iPods ever!"

He clicked his fingers and a curtain came down, uncovering a wall of iPods.

"I have called you all here today to tell you the news. Drum roll, please!"

He clicked his fingers again, and a drum roll started.

"Apple is the most powerful, influential, expensive and profitable company in the world!"

Everyone applauded. I joined in, because I'm pretty sure it was mandatory. But it made me wonder -- what would people ever do without technology? It could all crash in a second.

"And that is why!" Jobs said, "We are now entering... phase two."

The lights dimmed. A spotlight under his face turned on and lengthened his features. And then things started getting very evil...

"Morning News"

by Katie Waldron

Of course I had no idea. Plenty of people sit like that in this heat. Swinging your legs makes you slightly less hot, and any little bit is good… Her leg swinging did get faster and faster, but all I thought was: ‘Man, that girl has really fast legs.’"

I couldn’t see her whole face, but she was pretty--even from the side. I stared at her on the bench while everyone else stared at the empty train tracks.

A forced, comforting voice said, "The next--F--train has been delayed due to traffic ahead of us. Please be patient."

A voice in my head said, “Forget that message. You don't have much time. Talk to her."

After that, things got a little unruly and perverse in my brain and groin. I hate summer, but I like the look of it, and she wasn’t wearing much. I slid over to her so we could be on the same car at least.

Some suit looked at his watch. One would think the voice in my head telling me to talk would let me speak!

I plugged myself into some distracting music next to her and decided to look for the train, since I wouldn’t be able to hear it. It was the longest I’ve ever waited for a train.

When it finally came, she leaped up, rushed to the tracks, and jumped in front of it.


* * *

Later on, an MTA worker asked me, "Did you try to help?"

“No! I didn't even see her move! Then I looked, and…”

“Thank you for your assistance.”

I did have an instant with her, though. She did glance at me when I put my headphones in. And she was pretty. I wish I could say I saw the “light leave her eyes."

But she was alive, and then she wasn’t. She just became something else. They’d have to clean off the tracks.

Another woman, an old one who was trying to show that she was wise, said, “You’ll hear a follow up on the news.”

She was right. She was on the next morning.

It was the longest I’ve ever waited for the news.

"The Phlegm-Spitter"

by Miranda von Salis

What is with this kid? I think. I stand, freezing my ass off, on the train platform. It's filling up with people watching for the train, but I'm transfixed by the boy to my left.

You get to know the people who catch the same train as you. I have a number of people to watch, so what is he doing disrupting my morning schedule? He leans over and -- PHOO -- spits down. I will name him "The Phlegm-Spitter."


*
I always like putting my feet up on the seat next to me even though every person who walks by shoots me a horrible look. It's kind of funny to see people's reactions.

I sit behind him instead of in my normal seat. I think I'll just ride until he gets off; I want to see where he's going. There isn't anything worth doing in history class anyway.

He has his iPod on way too loud and he's gonna go deaf. I want to tell him but I know I won't. I don't want to hear his voice and plus --

It ruins the fun of it if they know you're there.


*
I look out the window and see his reflection. He's staring at the trees rolling past. He looks kind of wistful and I have decided it is because his parents just told him that they are getting a divorce.

Maybe he's running away -- his backpack does look really full. Yes, he's running away because his parents fight all the time. Now I have to see where he's getting off.

He taps his leg to the music -- not well. So I know he's not a musician. He doesn't look like a musician; well, maybe a piano player, but everyone plays piano. My parents tried to make me play it but they got sick of paying the teacher when I didn't show up.


*
"NEXT STOP: TANTOWN"

Oh, wait, he's getting up. ("Tantown.") There is absolutely nothing in ("Tantown"). Where does he think he's going?

He is such a disappointment. I hope he knows it, too. Maybe he found something in Tantown. Maybe he's going to go and live in an abandoned warehouse and run a puppy mill.

"WATCH FOR THE CLOSING DOORS."

He's gone. I can see him walk past the windows. Where is he going?

In a second, I get up and the doors close behind me. I can see his head moving away. I shoulder my backpack. I wasn't going to learn anything at school anyway.

"Cake!"

by Zackary Kruskal

If your friend's birthday sucks, there is always a backup plan, a reason to say until the end, a purpose as you swing randomly in the air hoping to bring an animal hung up from the rafters of the cold barn. A cake!

It always repairs any situation. Weddings, parties, or even a solitary night at home can be enjoyed with the presence of cake. You don't need a specific utensil (or any utensil at all) to breach the icing and indulge in the sugary goodness beneath the surface.

Of course not all cake is good. In fact, cake is a very hyped-up affair. Just saying "cake" sets the bar pretty high. When it fails to deliver, however well the party was going beforehand won't matter, because after the cake, there is talk, and if everyone has just had a piece of tough rubbery plastic instead of the lush red velvet they were promised, what are you going to talk about: the weather? Or how, out of politeness, you ladled piece after piece into your protesting mouth?

Bad cake is social depression and no one will want to come over to your house anymore.

However, a good cake might just fix that slow-moving bat mitzvah or remedy a bad relation with that aunt who makes the sweaters. Forget home-baked muffins; a cake is way beyond anyone's expectations and will break the ice no matter how thick it is.

"She is Such a..."

by Fatima Said

I stood outside the front door, glaring at her. She stared right back at me. I intensified my gaze but it did no good. She refused to go away. I decided to ignore her, thinking that eventually she would get tired and leave me alone.

She didn't. I walked up the front steps, went into the house, and slammed the door. She stared at me through the window. After twenty minutes of trying to wish her away, I finally snapped.

I barged outside.

"You! Here you are, new in town, and you're already trying to get your paws all over David! You just can't resist trying to steal him, can you?! And now you get all stalkerish, standing outside of my house for hours!"

She sniffed at me.

"Oh-- Oh yeah?" I shouted. "Well you can't have him, you, you, you FEMALE DOG!"

I stomped back inside and slammed the door. I gave her another long glare from my window, and finally, the little wench of wenchiness turned and started back toward her house. She reached her door, turned, looked back at me, and wagged her tail.

Then she disappeared into the doggy door.

I turned to see David standing at the doorway, staring at me. I smiled at him.

"It's just me and you, hon."

We both walked into the living room and curled up on the couch in front of the TV.

I let out a sigh. It was just me and my dog again, alone at last. That's the way I had always thought it would be until she came along.

Betsy had moved in across the street with the new neighbors. She was a golden retriever, like David. On the second day, I found her in my back yard, cuddling up to David on the grass. I kicked her out, but almost every day after that, for two weeks, I found her somewhere on my property. She was either in my yard or she had somehow managed to end up INSIDE my house. After the two weeks I started to suspect she was trying to steal David. You want to know why?

BECAUSE I FOUND THEM IN MY BEDROOM!

That's right, my bedroom. This is apparently what female dogs do.