Home » Zach Powers

A Writer’s Journey

By Miriam Chernick

If not for the attack on the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, I probably would not have become a writer. When the first plane hit at 8:46 a.m., I was home on maternity leave with my third child, just a month old. We lived in Battery Park City, a residential community across from the WTC in a light-filled apartment. I loved our place for its view of the Twin Towers, whose fall I witnessed that morning.

My family was uninjured, but our apartment was damaged and the neighborhood evacuated, so we moved to a hotel for five months. Within the year, we’d left our beloved Battery Park City and relocated to Maryland to be closer to family and to work through our trauma.

The change for me was sudden and drastic; I’d quit my full-time job, moved to a house with a yard, learned the rules of baseball and soccer, and was driving a minivan every day and everywhere. Another change, a delightful one, was a new daytime schedule featuring the kids: eating, playing, and reading books. Also changing diapers, doing laundry, and…did I mention driving?

Fancying myself a creative type, I started to make up stories, which I’d share with “the sleepy three,” all under the age of five, at bedtime. Though they listened attentively, kids being kids, their responses were honest—brutally so. “That makes no sense,” one declared. “What kind of an end is that?” another asked. Alas, their one-star reviews screamed, “You can’t tell a story!” And they were right.

Humbled, I was determined to do better. A quick search led to the perfect opportunity — a workshop on writing for children taught by Mary Quattlebaum at The Writer’s Center. My story about a girl who rescues an injured pigeon in New York City elicited kind and encouraging comments. I was inspired. I was hooked.

I committed to honing my craft by attending other workshops, joining writing groups, and traveling to conferences. A large file cabinet took up residence in my small office and was soon full of notes and poems and research and manuscripts. Many, many manuscripts. A few pieces made their way to publication, but what I really wanted was to publish a novel, so I went back to school for an MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults at the Vermont College of Fine Arts. After graduating in January 2020, confident in my storytelling, I looked forward to polishing my thesis submission and sending it out. It was time to publish a book.

But in March of that year, another traumatic event — the Covid-19 pandemic — intervened. The kids, now young adults I called “the nocturnal three,” returned home. My older brother, born with a rare disease called Prader-Willi syndrome and designated high-risk for Covid, also came to live with us. Quite suddenly, I was busy shopping, cooking, caring for my family and worrying they’d catch Covid, all of which impeded my creative process and plans. I stopped writing. I couldn’t focus. I deeply despaired over being thrust into a new role parenting a disabled sibling. My life, like that of so many others, had turned upside down.

Though I could not concentrate on my YA novel, I resolved to at least write something. Reminiscing with my brother helped me fill a journal with memories from childhood. Talking with him for hours each day had me scribbling scenes from life in lockdown. Then, in December 2020, to escape the cold winter, my husband and I drove my brother to Los Angeles. During that intense forty hours, cozy in our car, a storyline took shape. With my brother’s distinctive voice playing in my head like an earworm, I crafted a teenage character who loves baseball, using my brother’s words and turns of phrase. Then I added a younger sister who loves animals like I do. Both voices came out in first-person point of view.

Writing this new story was therapeutic. It was a way to understand my role as caregiver to my brother. A way to manage the fear of him catching Covid before he could be vaccinated. A way through the cycle of worry that his life was in my hands. Unexpectedly, while my circumstances during the pandemic initially impeded my writing, in the end they inspired a novel told in alternating voices, The Zuzu Secret, out in May 2025 with Charlesbridge Publishing.

In hindsight, I realize that two tragic events helped me become a storyteller, revealing a strong writer’s voice. Tragedy inspired my dream to publish just one book before I die.

Now that my dream is coming true, I’m feeling greedy. Time for another book.

A Discussion with Lauren Francis-Sharma

By Zach Powers

Lauren Francis-Sharma’s new novel, Casualties of Truth, is both thrilling and thoughtful. I’d also call it timely — but as an author myself, I know that by the time a book reaches the public, it can have already existed, in some form, for years. Still, some of the book’s themes, rooted in South Africa in 1996, remain resonant. So maybe instead of timely, the right word is timeless. Lauren was kind enough to talk with me about how this entertaining and enlightening book came to be.

ZP: I think it’s always interesting to discuss why writers choose to write what we do. Approaching this from a writer’s perspective, what was the origin of this book? Why this topic and these characters, why now, and why this instead of something else?

 

LFS: If there was any gift that Covid offered, it was the gift of time. I spent many hours dreaming of leaving my home and one of the ways I coped with being in lockdown, was forcing myself to remember the places I’d visited in my life and the stories I’d accumulated in my travels. Recently, I heard Alexander Chee in an interview where he was encouraging nonfiction writers to focus on writing the stories that they often repeat at cocktail parties. While listening to Alex it occurred to me that my law school internship in South Africa, when I was 24 years old, had become my very unsuccessful cocktail party story. I say “unsuccessful” because I never quite figured out what the experience of being there meant to me, and so the story always felt incomplete when I told it. During Covid, I had time to think deeply about that particular story, think about what it meant to bear witness to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s Amnesty Hearings and for people to actively seek a way past immense pain. My main character, Prudence, like me, interned in South Africa just as the hearings were beginning. When we meet her she has run into a man, Matshediso, whom she knew from her time in Johannesburg. He turns up at an intimate dinner, quite unexpectedly, and Prudence finds herself in the most challenging situation of her life. Prudence embodies all the uncertainties and hopes of a post-Apartheid South Africa, and she must reckon with the fallout from that period too.

 

The first part of the book is told in alternating timeframes. I’m always fascinated by how parallel narratives work, and how the separate storylines work together to achieve something that one or the other might not on its own. First, how do you approach writing parallel narratives — do you bounce back and forth or do you draft each independently? Second, how did each of these sections a¤ect the other? Is there anything that you discovered because of their juxtaposition?

 

First, let me say that employing alternating timeframes is far simpler than employing alternating timeframes coupled with multiple POVs! I used that structure in my last novel, Book of the Little Axe and would not recommend it! And yet, I’m drawn to narrative jumps in time because this is how the human brain seems to work. Think about how I answered your previous question — there I was, living my Covid lockdown life, but also living in South Africa as a younger woman, reliving my first safari, my first white-water rafting trip in Zimbabwe, and sitting in the balcony of the City Hall building, listening to accounts of Apartheid horrors. So, of course, it felt natural for my character Prudence to experience this same mode of thinking. Perhaps the reason I’m so drawn to history, and maybe even to writing itself, is that I need time to process what I see in the world, to formulate my questions. When Prudence meets Matshediso again, it frightens her to feel her past and her present converge, and immediately she is thrust back to Johannesburg, thinking of the experiences she and Matshediso shared. Of course, she can’t stay in this state of reverie during the entire dinner, so she has to be pulled out when the present moment requires it. So, yes, I bounce back and forth, but what’s essential is that for the ins and outs of this remembrance to work, it must be triggered by something, and the execution of this transition must feel like a natural extension of the present story. These transitions certainly allow Prudence (and me) to see just how much her time in South Africa changed her and just how similar the experience of being in South Africa is to being in America, in good ways and in not so good ways.

 

The novel draws from your experience witnessing South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Hearings, and I assume a fair bit of research on top of that. What’s your process for turning the bare facts into an interesting, gripping narrative? Conversely, how do you prevent the narrative from becoming fact-heavy or didactic? How do you achieve that balance?

 

I mentioned earlier that I started thinking about my time in South Africa during lockdown, but what I didn’t mention is that I went into my basement searching for notes that I had taken during the Amnesty Hearings. What makes someone keep notepads filled with transcribed testimony for nearly thirty years? The answer is the stories. I couldn’t throw away the stories of people who had lived through the terror of Apartheid. My cocktail party story always included the group of boys who had been lured to their death by a Black, undercover, South African Police operative. Their parents were in the audience while I was there, and it was the first time they’d heard the account of what had happened to their children. It was horrifying and gripping, and I’m not sure I could ever properly convey what it felt like to be in that room, listening to former police agents speak about murdering children, but I tried to do so through Prudence. I put her there so she could absorb the bare facts into her personal narrative and show how witnessing something like that changes the entire way someone sees the world and sometimes the very trajectory of a life if that someone allows themselves to be changed by the stories of others.

 

I’d call this novel a literary page turner. What advice do you have for writers about keeping the prose robust while maintaining narrative forward motion?

 

I certainly wanted to write this so you wouldn’t want to put it down, so I’ll happily accept “literary page turner” as the description for this novel! Thank you! But I also love long sentences and I love forcing my characters to take note of the natural landscape around them. If you’ve read my previous books, you know I strive for vivid scenes and I’m not afraid of long sentences. With this book, I had to ensure that every one of those scenes and sentences was earned. In the opening of Casualties of Truth, a South African police officer leaves his house when it is still dark. He realizes his tires have been slashed and as he walks along his driveway, buffalo thorn tree buds fall and he crunches them beneath his boots. I don’t pause long enough to describe the tree hanging over the driveway, but because he’s stepping on buds, the hope is that the reader visualizes the tree. I had to be more economical in this book, but I also tried to deliver the same vividness that I have always delivered.

 

This is book number three. I wonder if you’re able now to look back and see things you’ve learned along the way? What processes and techniques did you discover writing the first two books that informed writing this one? In the opposite direction, what parts of the process have been new each time?

 

Many other writers have said this, but the thing you learn when you get to book three is that you can actually write a novel. Ha! With that said, I failed at writing the novel I started just after Til the Well Runs Dry. I thought I could figure it out and I still think I can, but I’ve concluded that it is simply not the right moment for that book. There are times when the story or something about the character comes easy to the writer, so that you can feel the energy of it in your fingertips, feel ideas unfolding before you as you write or even as you think about the story while doing something mundane like washing dishes. That, of course, doesn’t mean you don’t have long moments of uncertainty or digression, it just means that more often than not, you hit the flow. I’ve learned to trust that flow. But even with this said, every time I begin, I think about how I cannot believe this doesn’t get any easier! I am stunned when I start a new book as I realize once again that there is simply no way around spending months or years in the same chair trying to reveal something important about the world to strangers. It is magic. And it is also hard.

 

As Assistant Director of Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, I bet you get to experience a lot of amazing writers talking about the cra£ of writing. Since we last interviewed you in 2020, do you have any new or particularly interesting writing advice you’d like to share?

 

I have the incredible luck to spend ten days every summer with the most amazing writers who come to a mountain in Vermont to teach and learn about the craft of writing. Many of our lectures and readings are free online, accessible to those who want to listen. This summer, Garth Greenwell was with us and he did a lecture on James Baldwin, where he said something like, “We live in the irreparable. We need art to help us live in the irreparable.” That has stayed with me. The art gets us through the worst of our days. The music, the movies, the books, the art of humans, and the art of nature, make each day bearable and sometimes even injects it with joy. My novel is so much about confronting the irreparable and in it there are moments of joy too. I hope one day it may be viewed as a piece of art that helps us see and cope with the irreparable.

A Conversation with Novelist Samuel Ashworth

By Zach Powers

Sam Ashworth is one of the first writers I met when I moved to the DMV in 2017. Since then, he’s been one of the people I talk with most about the writing life. He’s published magazine features and essays, ghostwritten bestsellers, and now I’m excited to add “novelist” to his list of accomplishments. He was kind enough to share his thoughts on the craft of writing, and how The Death and Life of August Sweeney came to be.

Get the book from your local independent bookseller or online from Bookshop.org »

ZP: This novel is told, in part, through the autopsy of one of its main characters. First, how did this premise come to you? Second, what does this mode of storytelling open up for you that might not have been available in a “default” narrative form?

 

SA: The book actually began with the premise. I was sitting in a bar in Boston in 2011, talking to someone about dead bodies. Very normal, very regular bar conversation. But out of my mouth fell the words, “it would be interesting to tell a person’s life story by dissecting their body.” And then I stared into the middle distance for what felt, at least, like whole minutes. Because the entire book assembled itself in that instant. Not the characters and the drama and sex scenes, but the book itself – the work it would take, the learning I’d have to do, the pull of the story. It all cohered in that moment. Then the person I was with told me about Mary Roach’s Stiff, which is all about “the curious lives of human cadavers,” and that was pretty much it.

For the next 10 or so years it took to write it, I never deviated from that premise. The only question was who the dead body was, and who was telling his story by dissecting him. The big decision that happened—and really made the book possible—was that initially the plan was to have the dissector be a first-year med student in Gross Anatomy, so the cadaver they’re dissecting is pretty long-dead and preserved. But when I really started writing I realized a medical student didn’t have the knowledge that I needed to tell the story. So she became a proper doctor, which meant the body changed. Now he’s a man who died the night before. And in the end, the book took the form of an autopsy report.

If anything, I have learned I can’t really write without a premise like this—something to legitimize the delusional act of writing a whole book about something that never happened.

 

You spent time in both restaurant kitchens and autopsy rooms to research the novel. Can you you share a bit about your research process, especially these more immersive types of research? And how do you integrate the facts discovered through research into the story?

 

I profoundly envy movie actors who get to prep for roles by getting paid to go to a five-week fencing bootcamps or train in tap dance or sew a ball gown or whatever. As a novelist, I see my job as a less-subsidized version of that.

My hero on this was Ian McEwan. When he was writing Saturday, he spent two years shadowing neurosurgeons. At one point, he was observing a surgery, when two young residents mistook him for a doctor and asked him to explain what was happening. To his astonishment, he could. That was the level I felt I had to hit with Maya Zhu. I had to make her not only knowledgeable, I had to make her brilliant.

But I didn’t have two years, I had the summer of 2017. Fortunately, I was still a graduate student, and people are a lot more willing to let grad students observe them than journalists. Also, I didn’t have kids yet. That summer, my friend Nick was doing his residency in pathology at Pitt, and he happened to be doing his autopsy rotation under basically the one guy in America who was cool with letting some shmuck spend two weeks in his lab, observing and even helping out. (They didn’t let me cut anything, which was for the best.) I had actually written a few chapters of the pathologist’s story, and within ten minutes in the lab I knew I’d have to throw every word of it out. If I hadn’t had that experience, I’d never have finished the book. I’d been basing my imagination of an autopsy lab on what I’d seen on TV. You might as well base a novel about astronauts on Star Trek.

For the cooking side, I’d worked in restaurants and bars since I was 18, but always in the front of house. I knew the world much better, but had little concept of what it was like to work a line. I was given a grant by the Alan Cheuse International Writers Center at George Mason University to go be a stagiaire, or trainee, at a Michelin-starred restaurant in a little town in the south of France. I’ve written about this experience at some length, but the short version is that it was invaluable to the book, and I’d also take the dead bodies any day of the week. I still don’t know how to work a line. I can concasse the shit out of some tomatoes, though.

However you do it, the real trouble with research isn’t doing or organizing it, it’s deploying it. Early versions of the book (maybe even the final version, I don’t know) suffered from Maya Zhu going into such detail on human anatomy and physiology that it overwhelmed the reader. When you write characters who are experts in something, you have to remember that expertise manifests not in knowing all the things, but in being able to immediately extract the thing that actually matters to them in that moment.

 

The novel is told in alternating sections: flashbacks to August’s life and scenes in the autopsy room with Maya. How do you manage the two narrative threads so that they communicate with each other across the chapter break? In other words, what makes two threads one story?

 

The thing that makes the two threads one story is that they’ve been laid out, printed, bound, shipped, and sold as one story. Publication does amazing things for an author’s credibility. The reader assumes that because they bought this book with money I must know what I’m doing. Therefore they trust subconsciously that somehow these two disconnected stories will cohere into one—and if, in the end, they don’t, they will want to punch me.

Fortunately, they do cohere (and it doesn’t even take that long). The structure is simply that the book covers August’s entire life, plus one day. The point being that there is still life left in the body, as long as we know how to look for it. Maya’s story begins right where August’s ends, and it’s her job to give him that ending. What I like most about the interlaced structure is that it allows me to mix up the time signature of the book. Maya’s story takes one day, but is paced slowly, with the scenes building to a crescendo; August’s story covers 52 years, so decades can happen at a gallop.

 

You’re a bestselling ghostwriter and you’ve had pieces in top-tier publications, but this is your first novel. How are the various aspects of your writing life connected? What from your other experiences influenced the novel? Conversely, have you found anything to be unique to novel-writing?

 

What’s funny (not ha-ha) about this is that the novel was finished before most of those other things. Which is another way of saying I am very tired.

The answer is that as a writer I’m remarkably boring: the thing that gets me out of bed in the morning is solving writing problems. I think a lot of writers are motivated by a love of storytelling, which, sure, but what I love specifically is figuring out how to give that story the kind of galvanic jolt that will make it jump off the page. And I don’t really give a hoot whether that story is mine or someone else’s. As a journalist or ghostwriter, I get to take really interesting stories and figure out how to apply that voltage to it, while subtracting all the anxieties that most authors feel about publication, reception, and sales. That last thing matters, to be clear. I consider writing my own work to be my job. If you want to take me away from that work, you have to pay me enough money to make that hiatus worth it. Because when I’m ghostwriting, I’m not just giving the client my time, I’m also renting them all my creative energy for a few months. And I think writers should put a serious price tag on that.

The other thing I like is that journalism and ghostwriting expose me to worlds I might not ever explore otherwise, like politics, business, and PTSD recovery. I see my job as a novelist similarly. I am not ever going to be the kind of person who writes intimate relationship dramas, or generational sagas, or (God forbid) novels about writers. I’m just not emotionally interesting enough for that. I like to write about work. I like to write about people who do extraordinary things for so long that those things have become routine, and then the book begins on the day that it ceases to be routine. Ghostwriting allows me to plunge in my clients’ worlds, which (if they’re of a stature that justifies hiring a ghost) are usually pretty rad.

I’m being completely serious when I say that I think one of the great American books is Andre Agassi’s Open, by JR Moehringer (who also wrote Prince Harry’s Spare). It can go toe-to-toe with any literary memoir out there. I want to write that kind of book every bit as much as I want to write fancy fiction. I desperately want to write the memoir of a baseball player, or a member of the USWNT. I could have gotten a goddamn masterpiece out of, like, Snooki

 

When we host author Q&As at the Center, we almost always get a question about an author’s process: how and where and when they write. You and I just chatted about this category of question the other day, and you had some interesting thoughts. Would you care to share?

 

I understand the process question, I really do. The problem is that it’s worthless.

There is an old George Price New Yorker cartoon that my father used to keep in his office. It was a painter in his garret, impoverished-looking, with his harried wife behind him. And the painter says, “I haven’t suffered enough. Why don’t you go whip up some of your curried pork balls and refried rice for dinner?” I feel like the process question is really asking “how much did you suffer to make this book?”, as if a book’s quality is proportional to its Suffering Quotient. (If it helps sales, I suffered plenty for this one. You try deep-cleaning a walk-in fridge while it’s still running.)

The problem is, writers love to talk about their process, since it’s often the one element of the writing life over which we have any real control. Most of our lives are about enabling ourselves to have and maintain any semblance of consistency. Despite the fact that there is a pretty colossal industry devoted to marketing writer’s processes as if they were dietary supplements, learning how one writer writes so will never be of any value to anyone else. Knowing that Balzac drank enough coffee to kill God every day, or that  Haruki Murakami runs a daily 10k, or that Lauren Groff writes everything longhand, does nothing but make us feel bad about ourselves. Because there are no answers out there. The only answers are [taps chest] in here. There is no Joe Manganiello’s Workout Regimen for writers; there are no efficiency hacks or Jedi mind tricks. A writer’s process consists of whatever it takes to make ourselves do the only three things writing requires: sitting, typing, and deleting. Sitzfleisch and words on the page. The rest is commentary.

People want to know how the writer pulled it off in the same way they want to know how the magician got out of those handcuffs. They imagine that the question will give them some kind of deeper insight into the text. It won’t, because writing is such a black box—even to the writer. The difference between a writer and a magician is that the magician could tell you how they got out of the handcuffs, but they won’t, while a writer would love to tell you how they wrote the book, but they can’t. My book feels like mine, but it also feels like it was written by someone else. And I have no idea how that guy did it.

 

Finally, what’s one piece of advice you’d give to an author just starting out?

 

There are so many more ways to be a writer than you think. I grew up imagining that to be a writer meant you wrote a book, sold a book, then wrote another book, then sold that, and so on until you died. I knew that not all books were bestsellers so I would have to teach, too. That was what I thought I was supposed to do.

Today, I am a novelist, a screenwriter, a ghostwriter, a journalist, an essayist, an editor, and a professor. My job is words and stories and I make pretty good money doing it. But the thing I’m most proud of in my career is that I’ve reached a point where when an opportunity arises to do something I’ve never done before, I never say, “I don’t know how to do that.” I say yes, the picture of confidence, and then as soon as the other person is out of earshot I call a friend and say, “Oh, God, help me.”

Adult Poetry Contest – 1st Place

Chinatown
By May-Mei Lee – Alexandria, Virginia

On 7th street,
before the fire,
there was a restaurant,
the one with the roast pork in the window
next to the Walgreens that used to be a CVS that used to be a Peoples Drug that used to be
the knick-knack store that displayed the musical pencil case I coveted,
where the cooks knew my parents, 
so tossed in extra pineapple buns.

The Chinese sign tells me it will be Owl Restaurant.
Hooters – intentionally lost in translation.

Adult Poetry Contest – 2nd Place

The Mothers
By Taylor Franson Thiel – Springfield, Virginia

Of whom we know nothing.[1]
Of whom we do not even know the birthplace.[2]
Of whom we know almost nothing. 56 years, one town.[3]
Of whom we know almost nothing. Outlived her husband.[4]
Of whom we know very little. Outlived her daughter.[5]
Of whom we know very little. Witnessed two centuries from one town.[6]
Of whom we know even less. Daughter of Peder. Strong Dane Kvinde.[7]
All we know of her: shaved headed mohawk woman. Lost her baby on the boat to America.[8]
A midwife against the dangers of long dresses. Tripping hazard. Harder to run.[9]
A way her obituary betrayed her: a name like Birdie, yet they called her Mrs. John.[10]
Hair like her beehive state. Honey-stunning. The first time I’ve ever loved my nose.[11]
Called abuser, called angel. Called, most importantly quiltmaker. Steady hands regardless.[12]
A teacher, seeking pianohands in every crowd. Refused to hit her children. Cyclestopper.[13]
She wants only for you to know she loves me.[14]

[1] Inger (1610-1664)
[2] Maren (1634-1700)
[3] Ane (1674-1720)
[4] Anna (1710-1788)
[5] Marie (1740-1831)
[6] Johanne (1770-1830)
[7] Marie (1793-1866)
[8] Karen Johanne (1831-1853)
[9] Ane Cecilie (1858-1955)
[10] Carrie Birdie (1884-1958)
[11] Laura (1908-1992)
[12] Emma VerNae (1931-2021)
[13] Susan (1952-)
[14] Jenny (1975-)

Adult Poetry Contest – 3rd Place

Spring Comes to the Iowa River
By Gary Stein – Silver Spring, Maryland

In early March
ice moans
as a boy skids and skates
testing the surface.

An old man stands
in ruffled grass
on the last edge
of winter wondering

if the mud sucking
his shoes means ice
may soon surrender
its secret to sunlight.

How many hours, how
much heat can it bear
before cracking starts,
before white sheets shoot

the air? Should he yell
the boy in? Must he belly
crawl out with a long stick
to pull the young fool,

numb as a fish,
from the cold, wet maw
of the world? Or trust
and just go home to warmth

and let the lone boy
melt into the thin ice
of memory, laughing
at the wind’s punch

while the river moans
like a humpback whale
or a mourning mother,
washing over them both.

Adult Poetry Contest – Honorable Mention

Grief in Diptych: A Golden Shovel after Emily Dickinson
By Emma Berver – Arlington, Virginia

This golden shovel uses the line “I measure every grief I meet” from the poem with the same name by Emily Dickinson. Each line ends with a word in this phrase.

my chest, flung open like a locket, thrums and I
feel you — still beating like hummingbird wings. each measure
I take to quiet you breathes weightlessly, a hollow bone. every
pang comes to me as a diptych, a two-fold grief:
the birds, perching hungrily on empty feeders, while I
deal double solitaire out of habit, the card’s edges refusing to meet.

Adult Poetry Contest – Honorable Mention

Sproutling
By Susie Chen – Potomac, Maryland

Wee little seed.
Tiny
miracle.
Tucked in a blanket of water.
A head has formed,
reaching for the sky.
Only wanting to thrive.
Give it
Nourishment,
Warmth,
Love,
and Hope
it grows up
Healthy,
Strong,
Resilient,
Happy.
Watching, caring, waiting, nurturing
for its simple
Blossom.

Adult Poetry Contest – Honorable Mention

I come from  .  .  .
By Kyi May Kaung – Chevy Chase, Maryland

I come from – dried chilies and dust

I come from stupas gilded with real gold.

I come from – people shot on the street.

I come from – child soldiers.

I come from – rape as a weapon of war.

I come from – nothing but fish paste and broken rice to eat.

I come from crows and sparrows shot and netted for food.

I come from dengue hemorrhagic fever

I come from all my friends and relatives — dead.

 All my students – disappeared.

 My professors – lost.

 I come from – everything – state-owned.

I come from – soldiers — everywhere.

 I come from —  no more —  universities.

 I come from elephantiasis

Money not worth the paper — it’s printed on.

 I come from her six foot son come home in a five foot coffin.

 I come from – hello goodbye

 Arnahdé — or feeling bad to say – No.

 But in life it is necessary to say — No – often.

Adult Poetry Contest – Honorable Mention

Dora the Explorer is the visionary and role model we all need and I’m dying on that hill or at least going over it to get to the river and treasure chest.
By Maggie Rosen – Silver Spring, Maryland

She is always ready to go somewhere and do something. She doesn’t care
If her companion is a monkey with only boots on. She is fine talking to
a know-it-all mansplaining map.
She will codeswitch when needed. She looks ahead but not

Consistently. Sometimes she just looks you in the eye and remembers
that the connection is what is most important–
Do you see a mountain?–
even if it means
she will lose her way.

She was born thinking ahead (she has a catchphrase for anticipated theft)
and she is ready to mediate
a way out of any awkward situations.
Witch stole the prince? Bunch of rowdy pirate pigs? Give her fifteen minutes.

My favorite part:
She thinks in threes, gaming the process so that once you have two things done
you are more than half way through. Really it’s genius. I want all things
to come at me in threes now.

Sticks the landing, then celebrates. Always.

For more information on the Local Writer’s Showcase, please visit https://www.bethesda.org/bethesda/localwriters

High School Short Story Contest – 1st Place

The Coffee Shop
By Abigail Ott

Kendra checked her phone again. She had already been waiting 15 minutes for her date to show up, but he hadn’t even texted to say he was going to be late. She tried not to judge him. After all, he might have had an emergency at work and not had a chance to text her. She knew she dealt with emergencies often enough, though she always tried to text her dates when she was going to be late. She fiddled with her necklace. She had to remind herself why she was doing this. She needed to find someone who could support her as she fought for her people. She knew she needed someone ordinary to show people that Unalans could be loved and appreciated, not just feared and despised. She didn’t meet a lot of ordinary people in her day-to-day life, so she had gone on dating apps to find someone.

Kendra got up, restless, and went into the bathroom to check her makeup in the mirror. She looked pretty today. Her honey-colored skin glowed in the sunlight. Her glossy black hair was pulled back into a loose twist, but some shorter pieces had come out and framed her face nicely. Her eyes, which were naturally a red-orange color so bold they looked like they were aflame, were hidden under dark brown contact lenses, specially designed by a friend so that she could scan for U-rays, which were emitted by all Unalans, including herself. They weren’t always scanning, or she would be able to distinguish very little when she was with her friends, but by looking right at someone and doing a specific sequence of blinks, she could see whether or not they were Unalan. It was handy for days like today, when she wanted to get a read on someone without giving away her own position.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and went back out. Sitting down again, she took another sip of her coffee and glanced out the window, then back down at her phone. Still nothing. One of the baristas came out to give her a refill. “He stand you up, Kendra?”

“I’m going to give him a bit longer. Maybe he had an emergency or something. Thanks, though, Annie.”

Annie shook her head. “Always wanting to believe the best of people. I like that about you. How ’bout this: Every cup of coffee from now until he shows up or you leave is free.”

“But then I’ll never want to leave.”

Annie put her hand on her hip and looked down at Kendra. “Well, we close at 10, as you know, so you’ll have to be gone by then.”

“If I’m right, he’ll have shown up or texted me long before then.”

“We’ll see.” Annie shook her head again and moved off to another table.

Kendra smiled. She had been coming here for years, so she knew all the baristas and many of the regulars personally. She had had almost all of her first dates here, from the ones who had never shown up to the ones who had broken up with her after a few months because she “just didn’t prioritize their relationship” or she “worked too much” or they “felt like she was holding part of herself back” or something like that. A small portion of the regulars were guys who had fallen in love with the coffee shop when she had introduced it to them and kept going there even after they had broken up with her. She didn’t hold a grudge; she knew her job was demanding and had known from the beginning how hard it would be to find someone willing to put up with it. So far, she hadn’t been able to find that person, but she just kept swiping right and trying again.

She had finished her coffee and gotten a third cup before the bell on top of the shop door rang to announce Jered’s entrance. He was rather handsome: a tall white man with dirty blond hair and pale green eyes. As he spotted her and strode over, she scanned him for U-rays, but with a negative result.

“Kendra Mayfire?” he asked.

“That’s me,” she replied. “Jered Peters?”

He nodded and sat down. She expected him to apologize for being so late, or at least offer an explanation, but he didn’t even mention it. Not a good sign.

As they started conversing, she fiddled with her necklace—apparently unconsciously—drawing his eyes down to the amethyst pendant, but he didn’t react to it. Not a Friend, then, either.

She slowly and expertly guided the conversation, as she had done so many times before, until she could work in how something “reminded her of Janet.”

He naturally asked who Janet was.

“Oh, just a girl I knew in middle school,” she replied casually. “She was actually Unalan.”

The effect was immediate. His face darkened. His mouth twisted up in disgust. “Unalans.” He said it like a curse word. “They’re evil. Demon spawn come to terrorize us with their twisted forms and unnatural powers.”

Kendra went still. “You think so?” she asked, her voice icy cold.

“You want to know what I think? I think they should all be hunted down and killed like the monsters they are.”

Kendra had heard enough. This privileged, bloated white man was condoning the centuries of torment and fear that her people had gone through, championing the Midnight Massacre that had decimated their numbers and traumatized so many, spitting on the graves of brave heroes like Amethyst, Malcolm, her father, and so many others who had sacrificed their lives for their fellow Unalans. It was disgusting.

The fire inside of her flared, tingling invisibly just beneath her skin, as she started in a falsely calm voice, “Did you know that most Unalans don’t look that different from ordinary people?”

“What do you mean?”

“Most Unalans just have tiny differences: an odd hair color, sparkling skin, something that can easily be disguised with cosmetics or another little fix. They’re all around us, just living their lives.”

He was silent: half-confused, half-stunned. She smirked.

“In fact, you probably know at least one already. And they’re not trying to—how did you put it—‘terrorize you with their unnatural powers.’ Most of them are just trying to survive. And hunting them down? That’s already been tried. Multiple times.” She was standing now. “But it’s never going to work. You know why? Because there’s always going to be someone willing to stand up for their people, to fight back against the murderers.” She leaned forward, blinking twice quickly to turn off the tinting on her contact lenses and allow the fire in her eyes to shine through. “Someday, we’re going to have our own haven, a safe place for anyone in danger, where we don’t have to hide who we are. But until then, I, Kendra Mayfire, chief of the Unalans, am responsible for keeping my people safe from idiots like you, Jered, who want to hurt them.” She held her fist up, the back of her hand facing him so he could see some of the scars on it, and shot a spurt of fire out of the knuckle on her middle finger, which formed into the shape of a bird as it flared up. Then, she turned and marched out of the coffee shop.

+

The next day, Kendra returned to the coffee shop, a hood pulled low over her face so she wouldn’t be recognized. She had been practically yelling by the end of her rant yesterday, and she knew every eye in the coffee shop had been on her when she had stormed out. She had no idea what the reaction had been, so she needed to test the waters to see if she could keep going there. She was especially nervous because this place was so close to her heart and she didn’t want to lose it.

She paused outside the shop. They had drawn some new art on the window, which wasn’t very unusual as they changed it up regularly, but this art was different. It was a coffee cup with steam rising out of it, which wasn’t unexpected, but the steam seemed to be in the form of a phoenix, like the one she had formed with her flame yesterday. It was a good sign, but even better was the chalkboard set up outside the shop. It was always there, but since yesterday, someone had added some stick-on rhinestones in a little pattern on the top. It wouldn’t have been significant, but all the jewels were purple, like the amethysts all Unalans and their supporters, known as “Friends,” wore. It made her slightly hopeful, but it wasn’t enough to keep her from covering her face as much as possible when she walked in.

The moment the bell on the door rang, everyone in the shop looked up. It was more crowded than usual, as if all the regulars had decided that particular day and time to stop by. Most were wearing something purple, some more subtle than others, but all purposeful. As she went to the counter, they all went back to what they had been doing, but a lot of them nodded and smiled at her as she passed.

When she got to the counter to order, she noticed that two of the drink names had been changed. A cold drink made with blueberries that had been called the Ambrosia Berry Cooler Drink was now called the Amethyst Berry Cooler Drink, and a coffee drink with chile powder, the Warm Heart Spicy Latte, her personal favorite, was now the Phoenix Fire Latte.

“One of your usual?” the barista, Annie, asked, smiling.

“Yes, please,” Kendra got out her wallet to pay.

Annie shook her head. “It’s on us. Least we could do after your horrible date yesterday.”

Kendra noticed that her name tag was decorated with purple rhinestones. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “It’s nice to see this much support.”

“Of course! Now go sit down, and we’ll bring your drink to you.” Annie nodded over to Kendra’s usual table, which, despite the unusual crowd of people, was free.

As she walked to her table, more people smiled and nodded at her. She was almost tearing up by now at the incredible show of support from this community. When the barista brought her coffee with a note of support signed by all the other employees of the shop, tears actually welled in her eyes. She had never expected this much solidarity from everyone. It was incredible.

+

A few months later, the coffee shop had changed even more. A lot of the decor was now in various shades of purple, and most of the drinks had been renamed things that had hidden meanings for Unalans. Even the coffee shop itself had gone through a rebranding. Where before it had been The Cozy Coffee Corner, it was now Rebirth Coffee, a change outsiders assumed was an effort to stay “cool” and “hip,” but was really an allusion to the phoenix rising from the ashes, which was how many Unalans viewed their people under Kendra’s leadership. The sign was even a phoenix made of steam rising out of a coffee cup.

The culture of the shop had changed as well. At Kendra’s suggestion, they had hired a new barista who could sense Unalans’ powers, and more Unalans felt safe coming to the shop because of her. Those regulars who didn’t approve of Unalans gradually came to feel that they were not wanted, so they found other shops to visit. The shop didn’t suffer from their loss, however, as many Unalans and Friends saw it on the internet, or just noticed it as they walked by, and, correctly interpreting the hints, realized that this shop was welcoming to those like them and started to visit regularly.

Kendra herself got coffee there every day, and the shop gave her hope. There would always be people like Jered in the world, people who hated and feared Unalans, but there would also be places like this, where Unalans could gather without fear, where they could come together in an actual community. She started to believe even more that her dream would one day come true. Maybe Unalans could get their own territory someday; maybe, eventually, people would stop hating them. But even if that didn’t happen in her lifetime, there would still be havens like this, where people could come together to love and support one another, and where Unalans could truly be free.

High School Short Story Contest – 2nd Place

A City Storm
By Syndey Tamashasky

The humid air consumed the city, smothering the skyscrapers in an oppressive heat. An angry breeze wrapped itself around the city blocks, causing trees to whistle and dogs to howl. Clouds crammed together in the sky, and the ground underneath darkened. Footsteps quickened, a new sense of urgency filling the streets.

Max watched out the townhouse windows as his father hurried home. Head down, pace quick. He watched others doing the same, their only concern reaching shelter. Averting his eyes from the sidewalk, he noticed the white-throated sparrow perched in a nearby crepe myrtle. Its eyes darted back and forth nervously as it fluffed its gray feathers. It hopped along the myrtle’s branches and watched the people rush by. Suddenly, the door burst open, snapping Max back to attention.

“Max? Linda?” called his father. “Anyone home?”

Max rushed to the front door to greet his father. “I’m home! Hi, Dad.”

“Hey, buddy!” His father ruffled his hair. “I’m glad you’re home, seems like it’s gonna storm real bad.”

Max’s eyes drifted back to the window and fixed on the desolate street.

“So, is your mother home?”

“She’s upstairs.”

The sound of his father’s footsteps echoed through the house before fading. Max scanned the branches of the crepe myrtle, but couldn’t pinpoint where the sparrow had gone. A strong gust of wind swept through the street, shaking the trees with such strength that the pink and orange leaves tumbled out, getting caught in the breeze and carried to the ground.

A young girl jogged down the street, her school bag slung over one shoulder and her jacket lifted over her head. The first drops of rain began to fall. Softly at first, then larger, and more frequent. With a loud crack of thunder, the clouds opened up and rain came crashing to the ground. The girl disappeared around the corner.

“Sounds like it’s started!” Max’s mother said as she and her husband walked into the kitchen.

Max’s gaze remained set outside. He watched in fright as the rain thudded onto the ground, flooding the street. The wind blew stronger and out of the crepe myrtle tumbled a small, soaking-wet sparrow. Max gasped. “Mom! Dad! Look!”

His parents glanced out the window.

“Looks nasty out there,” remarked his father.

Max stayed silent for a minute, watching the little bird try to stand. But the rain cascaded down, imprisoning the sparrow and knocking it to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the neighborhood stray, Yoshi, darting down the strip of grass next to the sidewalk. Yoshi’s paws landed in the dirt, coating him in a brown paste. He skidded to a halt under the sparrow’s tree, his fur dripping from the rain and mud.

The sky lit up as a bolt of lightning struck the ground. Thunder followed, a deep roar in the sky. The plants drooped with the weight of the rain. A loud crash sounded from the top of the street. Max turned to see the neighbor’s trash cans knocked over, with garbage spilling out and being swept into the gushing water.

“What are you doing, kiddo?” Max heard his mother ask.

“Can’t we go help? There’s trash everywhere and it’s terrible out there!”

His mother shook her head in dismissal. “No, we shouldn’t go outside. Besides, it’s not our problem. People will take care of it.”

“But who?”

“The trash collectors, fire department, whoever,” she said, just as a telephone wire detached from its pole, splitting the wood. It dangled in the air, tossed in every direction by the wind.

Max’s mother left the room. From the kitchen came his parents’ muffled voices.

“What’s up with Max?” asked his father.

“He’s just worried about the storm. Thinks we should do something,” replied his mother.

“Aren’t there people who take care of these things?”

“That’s what I told him.”

They shrugged it off. But Max watched as the clouds began to lighten. As they separated, a rainbow revealed itself. Max tugged on his sneakers and called, “Be right back!” to his parents.

He ran out the door, surveying the damage. He began to make his way to the tree, cautiously, so as not to slip. The door to the brick townhouse across the street opened, and Susie, a girl in his year, came out.

“Max!” she called.

He waved in response, his face scrunched in concentration.

Susie walked over to him and gasped. “Yoshi!” She scooped the cat up and ran her palm over his head until he began to purr. “I’m going to get him clean,” she stated, before turning to go back to her house.

Max lifted his head and realized that all the children on his street had begun to come out. Up the street, the twins were collecting the trash. The girl with the backpack joined them, trash bag in hand. An older boy was on the phone with the electrical repair company, and Susie was now on her doormat with Yoshi, drying him with a soft pink towel. Max smiled to himself and knelt in the mud. He found the sparrow chirping under a clump of wet leaves, cupped it in his hands, and lifted it up. He wiped the dirt off its wings and carried it over to his steps to dry.  

The door cracked open and his parents stood there. “What’s going on out here?” they asked.

“It looks better!” remarked his father. He paused. “We would’ve helped if we’d known we could, you know?”

Max just shrugged and smiled at him. He looked over his shoulder at the children who had stepped up. Then he turned back to his parents. “We’ve got this.”

High School Short Story Contest – 3rd Place

The Arm-Wrestling Match
By Noah Grosberg

It was a very big day for the Birmingham Elementary third graders. Today was the day that Archie Wood𑁋a strong and pale boy, who was by far the most popular in the grade𑁋and Kirin Acharya𑁋a flimsy lad of Pakistani descent, who was quite shy, to say the least, have the famed arm wrestle that all of the children in the third grade had been waiting for, for over a week.

Last Tuesday, during lunch hours, all of the third grade (which was only 43 students) participated in an arm-wrestling tournament led by none other than the strawberry-blond, Archie Wood. The tournament had lasted for two days, with Archie Wood winning and winning and winning. Archie would prance around the linoleum floors of the cafeteria, flexing his biceps in triumph after each victory. Many of the other boys, and a couple of girls, would follow Archie from table to table, marveling at Archie’s brute strength and pulsating purple vein in his right bicep.

If you could not tell already, Archie was a very proud boy. He was proud of his strength. He was proud of his height, for he was the tallest in the grade, if only by half an inch. And he was proud of his golden curls which he said resembled those of Aquaman’s hair perfectly.

An arm-wrestling tournament was an event nothing out of the ordinary for the third graders of Birmingham Elementary, or any third graders for that matter. I’m sure you remember a time in your adolescence when everything was about seeing who was the fastest, the strongest, the tallest, and the smartest. This was no different for Archie and his classmates. Just a month before the arm wrestling, the third graders had raced from the football net to the jungle gym, again created by Archie and won by him. Although some whispered behind Archie’s back claiming he was too boastful and perhaps a little conceited, they could not deny the boy’s strength and brilliant ideas of fun.

So, Archie continued to win and continued to move on from one child to the next. However, Kirin Acharya was the only one who refused to participate in the tournament, but nobody really cared because he was so unpopular. That was at least until Archie had beaten 41 of the 42 other students.

On Thursday, Archie had strutted across the cafeteria, with his little gang of admirers following at his heels, asking who he had beaten in the arm wrestling. Of course, Archie knew, but it was just another way to assert his glory and show off to the girls. He was a king, a pioneer, an emperor, and Archie had just conquered the grade, at least he thought.

 Archie went to every table and asked every child until he came to Kirin who was sitting by himself, eating a turkey and cheese sandwich on whole wheat bread, and reading a comic book about Spider-Man, a character he admired dearly.

Now, you must understand that Archie was not a nasty boy at heart. He just liked to get what he wanted. Pompous and overbearing, yes. Unpleasant at times, but Archie was not mean and nasty, at least not most of the time. This time, however, Archie may have crossed the line.

“Kirin, have I beaten you in an arm wrestle yet?” Archie said in an obnoxious tone as he tapped Kirin on the shoulder

Kirin, who was very surprised to be spoken to by Archie, just mumbled and stuttered. Kirin couldn’t think of the last time Archie had spoken to him. Why was he speaking to him now? Now, many of the other kids in the grade, in addition to Arhcie’s little gang, had gathered around Kirin’s table, watching him with scrutiny.

Kirin finally said quietly, “Uh..uh. I-I don’t know.”

“What d’ya mean you don’t know? We either wrestled or we didn’t,” Archie hissed, now starting to get annoyed. Archie didn’t have time to argue with someone so irrelevant and unimportant as Kirin.

Kirin just sat there and took a bite of his sandwich. Unfortunately for him, a bit of mustard had smeared onto his chin, and the other children snickered.

“Kirin, mate, have ‘ya lost your marbles? I think he has.” Archie jeered to no one in particular. Archie was a crowd-pleaser and his followers laughed at this.

“Answer the question, man,” Oliver, Archie’s best friend, shouted.

Kirin began to quiver and his almond-brown eyes started to water. Finally, Kirin looked up and said shyly, “I don’t think I have, but I really don’t want to. ”

“Bloody hell mate. Ya don’t have an option. I want to be the arm wrestling champion of the grade, and that means I must beat everyone in the grade, so ya must wrestle,” Archie roared.

“I said I don’t wanna. You’ve beaten everyone else. Isn’t that enough?” Kirin whispered. He looked up to meet Archie’s cold blue eyes. That look was as an answer as any.

“You must arm wrestle,” all of the children shouted in excitement.

A small tear grew at the bottom of his right eye. Kirin was about to lift his arm to wrestle when a voice rang over the intercom, calling Kirin to the office. Kirin was relieved to remember that he had a dentist appointment that afternoon.

Kirin quickly rushed from the cafeteria, but not before Archie yelled, “We wrestle after school, in the back alley next Friday. Ya better be there.”

When Archie got into his sister’s Ford Puma, he began to cry. It was only Maya’s second day back home from University for the winter holidays, and now her younger brother who had been so cheerful, since she arrived, was crying in her backseat. Maya asked Kirin what was going and Kirin told her the whole story. He knew he could always count on his sister to know what to do in difficult situations like this one.

“That conceited bastard,” Maya said aloud when Kirin had finished telling her the story. “Archie Wood…his brother was in my grade, Trenton Wood. Also a conceited and pompous bastard. He always pranced around in a turtleneck, boasting about his A-Level results.”

Archie had stopped crying by this point and laughed a little. He loved how his sister was not afraid to express her opinion about anything to anyone. He trusted her advice the most out of everyone, except maybe his parents.

“You know what you have to do, Kirin? You just gotta not arm wrestle him. Don’t give him the satisfaction of victory.”

“Hey!” Archie said defensively, “What makes you think I can’t win?”

Maya laughed. “You look like a stick, Kir. I’m not trying to be mean. It’s just a fact, but you’ll get bigger. You just gotta give it time,” she said not in a mean way, but rather lovingly.

Kirin hung his head dejectedly but knew it was true.

“I guess so,” Kirin said, “But then everyone will just make fun of me for wimping out. I don’t know if I can not do the arm wrestle.”

“It won’t matter in the long run. Nobody’s gonna remember this in a couple of weeks. Just trust me. Don’t give in. Don’t give that little bastard the satisfaction.”

Archie nodded but wasn’t so sure about what his sister had said. That kind of humiliation of backing down would certainly last a lifetime, he thought.

That night, Kirin decided to not take his sister’s advice. The embarrassment of not participating would be too much to bear. Anyway, he was the underdog. If he lost, no one would be surprised. He had nothing to lose.

Kirin spent the next week preparing for the match. He found his dad’s old resistance bands in the closet and did curls with them. He locked the door to his room and did pushups and situps on the carpet while listening to “Eye of the Tiger.” Kirin envisioned a victory and the shocked faces of his classmates when he pinned Archie’s hand to the table. Maybe, just maybe, Kirin could pull off the unthinkable.

It was now Friday, the fateful day of the arm wrestling match.  A little wooden table was set outside in the grubby back alley, in the middle of two scraped stools. Soon, the bell rang, marking the school day’s end and the third graders dashed to the alley to watch the arm wrestling match. It had just rained only 30 minutes ago, so puddles filled the alley, but none of the children cared. Although their trainers would get wet, and although the alley smelled faintly of vomit, all of the third graders were there to watch the much-anticipated match.

Archie walked through the crowd of children grinning rather cockily. He had rolled up the sleeves of his uniform to his elbows, and now took off his tie and handed it to one of his friends. Kirin ambled about 10 feet behind Archie, eyes fixed on the wet asphalt. He had trained for a whole week for this moment but did not feel ready.

The boys took their spots on each side of the table, Archie with triumph already bright in his eyes and Kirin wearing a timid frown. Right behind the table, Oliver stood and procured a whistle, ready to referee the match.

Everyone leaned in with great eagerness, even though they knew that Archie was going to win. It was undeniable. Victory for Archie was inevitable. Bets were placed, and a few hopefuls placed a couple of pounds on the underdog, hoping to win big. But there was just no way that Kirin would win.

However, every person, whether they’re British or Scottish or Welsh, or even American, has a bit of resilience and internal strength that can be someone else’s physical strength. That was what Kirin was thinking at the very second before the match began. Kirin had read David vs. Goliath just the night before and envisioned himself as David fighting Archie. It could be a Cinderella story, like Luton beating Man City, Kirin thought as Oliver’s whistle pierced the air. He could do this.

Kirin and Archie gripped hands, biceps straining, and tried to force the other boy’s arm to the table. Each boy’s knuckles whitened in the strain of the moment. 

“I can do this,” Kirin yelled in his mind. In a way, he felt he had won just being there.  

This, however, is no fairy tale, and certainly not a Cinderella story. There was a brief struggle and Archie pinned Kirin’s arm to the table. The spectators cheered, and Archie stood up victorious. Kirin had been defeated to no one’s surprise.

High School Short Story Contest – Honorable Mention

Hydrangeas
By Juniper Sohn

I grew a sunflower in kindergarten for a class project. It grew and it grew and it grew in my backyard garden until it was taller than my parents. It loomed over my head until it was gone one morning. I rushed to my mother, swearing that someone must’ve stolen it. She took my hand in hers, and gently showed me its fallen corpse, buried in a flurry of tall grass. I couldn’t see it until she lifted up the head against the light coloring of my house.

I watched lavenders in my middle school gardens grow during classes. I loved when the rooms were right above them, especially if my seat was by the windows. As I spectated the small budded flowers spread throughout the grass, they slowly faded. By my second graduation, I had to sit by the edges of the wooden fence to see them. I don’t think anyone watered them enough.

I passed by the same bunch of flowers when I went to high school every morning. They were tulips. I could tell by the shape of their petals and how they fell around each other. Sometimes it was hard to tell how many there were. I saw four when I began high school. There were only two when I graduated. I found out there were actually six before I left for university. I never saw the others wither.  Maybe they blended into the sidewalk.

I decided to grow an orchid when I went to college. It stayed perched on top of my dorm desk. I watered it every day and tried my best to take care of it. I liked orchids because they don’t blend in with everything else. They stand alone. My roommate and I were close then. Sophomore year, she knocked the orchid over while making out with her boyfriend. I couldn’t find it from the dirt it was lying in for a minute too long. I don’t like them anymore—the flower or my roommate.

In my second year of college, I decided to study art. My subjects were almost never people; they were predominantly flowers. Sketching was easy enough—just outline the shapes I’ve noticed since I could comprehend sight. Pointed ovals for the petals, thin skeleton-like cylinders for stems, and varying oval or circle shapes for leaves depending on the species. Painting was another thing entirely. The tones become muddy if I blend too much, the lines unsalvageable, colors sporadic and nonsensical. For some reason, this matured nicely into my signature, my style. A sort of abstract wonderland of colors that didn’t make any sense with the objects they were paired with. Suddenly, my paintings boomed, catching the attention of an art professor and his network. I wasn’t sure if this was a blessing or a curse, but I suppose, as long as I could earn good money, it didn’t matter.

I had earned enough after an especially successful exhibit when I moved out from home for the last two years of college and a few years after that. I bought a lot of plants and flowers for my new apartment. They took up half of the living room, next to my sliding glass door that led to a balcony of even more greenery. It was my own household museum. I was the curator. Dark, light, mid-toned, dark, light, mid-toned, dark. As long as this pattern wasn’t interrupted, I could see them. Each and every one. I painted them from a variety of angles and arrangements to later be displayed in my public exhibits.

I started seeing her three years after I started publishing my art. We met at one of my exhibitions of a collection that I’d personally attended—I enjoyed after graduation freed my schedule of rigorous school projects and exams. She loved my work, asking about where I got my inspiration. I told her the truth: my plants. I had seen other people before, of course, but they had gotten tired of my obsessions with flowers, my obsession with work. But she—she was obsessed too. The first night together I watched her skin contrast with the roses covering my bedroom wall. She was beautiful. She told me I was too, as her eyes stared into my soul. Did I love her? I forgot about the roses that night.

She moved in a year later. The boxes overcrowded the living room, fighting with my plants for territory. I felt shy about them for the first time then. I apologized for the cramped space. I was ready to throw the lilies out of my balcony. She pet my head, making my tidied hair into a stringy mess. I didn’t mind. She told me it was alright. She told me she liked it. She told me she loved me.

I told her I loved her the next Valentine’s Day. We had gotten rid of some of the plants. Not all of them, not even the majority. Just a few, to make room for our dancing at night, with the best records, spinning on our turntable, lights off, the moon shining like a disco ball. We went out for a dinner date. But it rained and we didn’t bring an umbrella, and the restaurant we wanted to go to needed a reservation and we didn’t know. It was a disaster. I told her I was sorry, probably a million times, but she only laughed, took my hand, and led me to the nearest floral shop. She told me to pick out a flower, any flower. I stood there for a while, taking in the various shapes and sizes, until I picked a potted lipstick plant. It looked whimsical—like her. After we bought it, we ran like madmen through the rain and to our apartment. She helped take care of it.

She asked me to marry her two and a half years later. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, but it was close enough. I suppose if you’ve been with someone that long, you’d know if they’re planning an engagement. She took me to my favorite floral shop the week before, and asked for my favorite plant. Hydrangeas. The colors change based on the soil’s pH. Purple and pink and blue, mixing like confetti and paint. They’re supposed to be beautiful, and when I explained this to her I told her that I wanted nothing else but to be able to see it. She looked at me sadly, then. So sad it was almost endearing. So, she bought me a hydrangea, and coincidentally, there was a jewelry shop on the way home from the shop. She begged me to go in with her. We looked through the rows and rows of rings. She was so fixated on them, I found it hilarious how serious she was taking it. I told her I liked one ring, with the metal brought up and shaped like petals around a small gem. She nodded vigorously. The next week she proposed to me in our living room as the sun was setting, bathing us in a vivid curtain of light. She opened the ring box and revealed the ring I picked out. I kissed her, smiling ever so softly. She pulled back, asking what my answer was. I noted a hint of panic in her tone, and laughed. Yes.

She gave me the glasses a year after we eloped. We got married in the local courthouse. After it was over, I asked her if it was really okay not to hold a wedding with a ceremony and a reception and months of planning. She said she was saving for something, and we could have the wedding later. What could have been so important to buy? It’s an investment, she said. Looking back, I feel a bit bad, but she knew what she was doing. I can’t really blame her. I can’t even blame myself. I can only blame the hydrangeas. She handed them to me in a box during sunset again, in the living room again, surrounded by flowers again. I asked if this was another proposal, and she laughed, telling me to just open it. I examined the shiny black leather, the gold letters that spelled “OSMO.” When I lifted the latch, I was confused. I already have reading glasses. I already have sunglasses. I looked up, and her hands were clasped under her chin, excitement exuding from her expression. She told me to put them on. Slowly, she cautioned. Hurry, she urged.

I saw her for the first time then. I saw her coral lips, peach skin, tan eyes with blue and green frilled around the edges, brown hair dyed a dark red with the roots grown in. I saw it all. Look around, she said. As I turned my head slowly, I took in the shades of green covering a fourth of the room, the bright yellow fading into a gradient of orange and pink and red scrambling through the window, the varying purples, blues, browns, yellows, reds, pinks, white, black. The shapes and sizes were suddenly unimportant, mushing together into a magnificent watercolor painting in my eyes as tears streamed down my face. She put her hands around my face to be parallel to hers. It’s overwhelming, I know. She was crying too. You’re beautiful, I whispered. We kissed and wept and loved each other; and when I woke up the next morning, I left her in the bedsheets to put on the glasses and face my hydrangeas on the balcony. One was green in the center and purple around the edges. The other transcended from swirls of light blue to deep shades of pink.

We held the ceremony six months after that. The venue was held outside in a fairytale-like garden, with bunches of varied flowers hung in an arch shape over the altar and stringed soft yellow lights following our guests and us from the thin, unpredictable ivy-green and walnut branches of the trees surrounding it. She went first with her father at the cue of the music, and as I prepared for my entry, I could feel my chest warm from the friction of my rapid heartbeat. I took a deep breath and pushed up my ironically black glasses to fit better over my eyes. I had to see all of this. I walked down a couple minutes after, by myself, over the stone path, never departing my eyes from my wife. God, she’s beautiful. Her ivory dress framed her in such a glorious manner, everything else ebbed away into the background as I got closer. I clutched my bouquet of vibrant, red-orange lipstick flowers, dripping tears while we read our vows and put our rings on each other’s fingers. When we kissed, she threw her bouquet, pulled my waist to hers, and met my lips with such colorful magic I knew then that I had surely been enchanted by her. As we prepared for reception, we walked back up the aisle, fingers intertwined. On the red carpet behind us, hydrangeas remained.

High School Short Story Contest – Honorable Mention

Protocol 7
By Kalina Peterson

An alarm blared across Creya’s consciousness, and she stirred, knowing what the sound meant, but not quite ready to acknowledge it.

“Time to wake up Creya,” whispered a slightly motherly voice, right in her ear.

Creya let out a small moan and stretched. “Ugh Lexie, why?”

“Umm, school? Remember?”

“Oh.” Creya promptly turned around and face-planted into her pillow.

“Creya,” Lexie said warningly. “Do I have to initiate Protocol 7?”

“NO! No, no no. I’m up, I’m up.” Creya thrust aside her covers and hopped out of bed. “See?”

Lexie laughed. “That’s what I thought.”

Creya glanced at the tiny device in her ear, which held her personal AI Lexie. She wondered how she’d gotten to the point in her life where a tiny AI got her out of bed and wide awake at the mere mention of Protocol 7. She had only experienced it twice since she’d gotten her iPro, and it was not something she wanted to relive anytime soon. Protocol 7 was an override program installed by the government, where the AI could take any measures necessary to have citizens keep the law. And since citizens were forbidden to remove the AI, Protocol 7 could get pretty ugly, pretty fast.

Sighing, Creya quickly made her bed in the military style her dad had taught her. Stomping over to her dresser, she plucked out a pair of black cargo pants and a gray T-shirt. Then she grabbed her green camo jacket, gaze lingering on the worn cuffs and slightly faded colors. 

The jacket had once been her brother’s before he had been drafted for the war. He had given it to Creya when he had to trade it in for his military uniform. Creya hadn’t seen him ever since. She shrugged it on and sat on the edge of her bed, pulling on some socks.

Standing up, Creya walked down the stairs, grinning as she caught her first glimpse of the kitchen. It was decorated with pink and red streamers, and a banner that read “Happy Birthday Lia” was strewn across the wall. Two birthday presents sat under a triage of balloons, and a stack of pancakes sat right next to it.

Lia, Creya’s now 6-year-old sister, sat at the table gobbling down some pancakes.

“Happy birthday!” Creya said, sitting beside her sister and pulling up a chair.

“Thanks!” Lia said through her breakfast.

Their dad, Lieutenant Venten, strode into the room, his uniform immaculately pressed and clean. “Lia! Happy birthday.”

“Daddy!” Lia ran towards him. He caught her and spun her around, laughing. She giggled and he set her down, squatting down so he was at her eye level.

“Are you excited?” he exclaimed.

“Super excited. I’m one of the first kindergarteners to get their iPro!”

“I’ll bet you are. So, do you have any idea what—” He cut off and looked straight ahead, standing up. “Incoming call,” he muttered. “sorry.”

He brought a hand to his black iPro and switched on his mike. “Yes, sir.” He paused to listen to whoever was on the other side. Creya and Lia shared a glance. “I’m moving to a discreet location now, sir.”

He gave his daughters a quick wave before stalking off down the hallway towards his office.

​Creya boarded the school bus, choosing a seat near the front. She set down her backpack and, out of reflex, reached for the seatbelt, but then realized that it wasn’t there. After self-driving automobiles came out, the government made it mandatory for all vehicles to be self-driving. So, seatbelts weren’t needed anymore because car crashes became a thing of the past.

The bus started up and Creya gazed out the window, watching as apartment buildings sped by. Occasionally, she’d see a tree or two on the street, but nowadays, most gardens were on the roofs of the apartment buildings. As they sped by, Creya glimpsed multiple ads for the latest iPro model. War advertisements littered the streets, each one motivating young men to join the army and fight for their country. Occasionally, Creya would spot a Wanted poster for Alan Cypher, the most dangerous criminal in the nation.

From what the wanted ad claimed, he was an abolitionist, and he had been terrorizing the country for more than four years. He  was the leader of a group of rebels that had been fighting the government for years. The attacks had gotten worse as he grew up, making him smarter, stronger, and faster. The government tried to cover up the damage that had ensued from his attacks, but some were harder to hide than others. One time, Cypher had blown up an entire fleet of military jets and got away clean. The government was still scrambling to figure out how he did it.

His wanted poster seemed like some sort of joke. The picture of what he looked like was just an extremely blurred photo of him running. Nobody had been able to make out any of his features, so the probability of citizens identifying him was pretty low. The reward for information about him varied, depending on how useful the information was, but the reward for bringing him in was enough to feed any citizen for a lifetime.

Creya leaned away from the window and sighed. Hopefully, Cypher would be caught soon.

Hours later, Creya sat on a bench at the bus stop after school, waiting for the bus that wouldn’t come for at least another twenty minutes. Lexie was quizzing her so she could study for the history test on Friday.

“What did the 53rd Amendment do?”

“It made self-driving cars mandatory.”

“Good,” said Lexie approvingly. “How did President Miachels solve the American housing problem?”

“He signed the Vertical Housing Act, which required all buildings to be at least three stories high and have a basement. It also cleared out a lot of rural land and replaced it with apartment buildings.”

“And?” Lexie prodded. “What else?”

Creya bit her lip. “Uh… it moved many farms onto rooftops?”

“Nope.” Lexie corrected crisply. “President Micheals ordered all of the—”

Lexie cut off abruptly.

Creya paused, waiting for the AI to finish her sentence. No audio came.

“Lexie?” She asked cautiously, tapping her iPro. No response. “Lexie, are you there?”

Nothing.

Creya’s brow furrowed. This had never happened before. The AIs never faltered. Confused, she tapped her iPro again. It couldn’t be broken, could it? And it couldn’t be an internet crash, all iPro’s ran on the government’s server. But why would the AI not respond? Creya couldn’t think of any plausible reason for Lexie’s disappearance.

Fear clutched at Creya’s throat. What if the government thought she had purposely disabled her AI? She could be thrown in prison!

“Lexie?” Creya asked frantically. “Where are you? What’s going on?”

Again, nothing. Creya racked her brain trying to figure out what she could do to get her AI back online. She didn’t dare take it out and inspect it, then she would certainly be breaking the law. The iPro didn’t come with a reset button, mainly because the government didn’t want people tampering with the device.

Creya glanced around hoping nobody else would realize that her AI was offline. But when she looked up, she was shocked. Time had seemed to stop. Everyone that had been walking purposefully to go about their business had stalled. Many stood still with confused and terrified expressions clear on their faces. And almost every voice seemed to be saying their AI’s name.

“Emma?”

“Mike?”

“Daniel?”

“Hunter?”

“What’s going on?”

“Layla?”

“Is this a prank?”

“Susan? Where are you?”

It slowly dawned on Creya that not only had her AI stopped working, but everyone’s iPro had seemed to crash. Nobody seemed sure what to do. The government had explained that, in an emergency, the AIs would explain what to do, or relay government messages to the public, so everyone was safe in an emergency. But the government had never explained what to do if the AIs crashed.

Creya swallowed nervously. What should she do? She couldn’t contact her dad, she couldn’t call for help, she wasn’t sure where the nearest safe location was, she didn’t know how to get home, she wasn’t even sure if the school was open so she could ask a teacher.

Looking around, Creya spotted yet another impossibility. The cars and trucks speeding on the road in front of her slowed, then stopped.

Every. Single. One.

Creya stood up to look at the road further ahead. Again, all the auto cars slowed, then stopped. The occupants seemed shocked. Automobiles never stopped unless they were at the desired location. Creya whipped her head around and stared at the street behind her. All the auto cars there had stopped too.

People slowly began filing out of the cars and buses, unsure what had happened. From the bewildered and panicked looks on their faces, Creya could tell that their AI had stopped working too.

Something flickered in the corner of her vision, and Creya turned, finding that all the TV screens showing ads were flickering. Some cut out into static. Others flicked back and forth from the ad, to a blank screen. A couple of gasps and shouts started. People pointed and whispered at the flickering screens, marveling at yet a third impossibility. Since when did TV screens all cut out at once? Then, suddenly all the billboards, all the TVs.

A teenage boy, probably a couple of years Creya’s senior, stood in front of the camera. He had dark brown hair and caramel eyes. His face was bloody and bruised, his nose crooked from what looked like a punch. He wore a black jacket with a singular white stripe on the sleeve. But most frightening of all, he had no iPro in his ear. Creya gasped as she realized who the young man must be.

Alan Cypher.

“Citizens of the US!” he cried. “My name is Alan Cypher, and, though many of you know me as a criminal, I want you to see that what our rebellion is doing is right! The government has been controlling you! The AIs, friends you trusted, monitor your every move, your every choice! You have no freedom. Your life is being controlled by a robot!”

“Your privacy has been stripped away the moment you first put on your iPro. The government has access to all of your legal and personal information. Our lead scientist investigated the device you all wear right now. It records every word you have ever said and sends it to the government. People of the US, stand with us! Realize that what the government has done is wrong and fight against it.

“This used to be a country of freedom and choice, where citizens had the right to privacy. Let’s make it that way again.”

Alan raised a hand, in it lay a black iPro.

“This used to control my life,” he said. Then he curled his fingers into a fist and smashed it, the CRUNCH of a broken iPro echoing across the streets. He looked straight into the camera. “Don’t let it control yours too.”

The feed cut out, leaving all the ad screens black.

The crowd stood in stunned silence.

Nobody seemed sure quite what to do. No one near Creya seemed brave enough to take the first step. Everyone either stared at the black screens in shock or glanced at the people around them, unsure how they would react if they decided to remove the convoluted device.

Creya’s mind was racing. Had it all really been a trick? Lexie had acted like her friend, but all along she had been sending everything to the government. Every message she sent, every call she made, every conversation, every minute of her life had been shown to people she didn’t know.

Creya felt like she could see clearly for the first time. How could she not have seen this? She had no control over life, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, the reason was a device she had willingly kept in her ear for eight years. Creya felt more afraid than she ever had in her life, yet somehow she knew that the decision she was about to make was the right one.

The lack of movement and sound seemed suffocating.

Her hand shaking, Creya slowly reached toward her iPro. Then it all went wrong.

Then the pain started. Pain she had only felt twice before.

Protocol 7.

It came in waves, each one more powerful than the one before. Creya cried out and tried to identify where the pain was coming from. She was tingling all over, like her entire body had fallen asleep. Each wave of pain was like an electrical shock. Then it began to fade, first in her head. Then her neck. shoulders, elbows, hands, hips, knees, feet. It was all gone. She was numb. She couldn’t move. The ground rushed up towards her and seconds later she realized she was lying sideways on the sidewalk.

She hadn’t felt the impact.

The noise sounded in her ear, loud enough to make her want to cry. Gunshots, train horns, doors slamming, trumpets playing sour notes, sirens wailing. Her head throbbed painfully. Tears filled her vision. She tried to blink it away, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t feel anything. Blobs lay on the ground beside her. Creya panicked as she realized they were the people who had been with her at the bus stop.

Protocol 7 had been initiated for everyone.

​Creya tried to cry out for help, but she couldn’t move her lips. She couldn’t feel them. Trying to stem her rising panic, Creya began counting the seconds.​ Seven hundred fifty-three seconds had passed when Creya heard a strange sound. Jet engines. Faintly, she heard a hatch opening and footsteps approaching. Ears straining, Creya tried once more to cry out for help, but it was in vain.

​The footsteps stopped a good distance away and someone sighed. “A shame, I know. But it had to be done.” the voice said. It sounded male.

​“Sir? What should we do with the bodies?”

​Creya felt a surge of hope. That was her dad’s voice! He’d see her and take her home. Relief washed over her, it felt like the first thing good that had happened in hours.

​“Send battalions to return citizens to their homes. Tech support is working on sending out a nationwide memory wipe, by the time the numbness wears off, no one will remember Cypher’s message.”

​“Yes, sir.”

​“Thankfully, we were able to trace the feed from the rebels. I’ve sent out troops to scour that area, they should be reporting back soon. Once I get that report, I want you to head to the area and see if you can find anything.”

​“Yes, sir.”

​“Good.” A sigh came again. “Truly a shame. But it had to be done, for the good of the country.” the man said.

​“Yes, sir.”

High School Short Story Contest – Honorable Mention

The Knight
By Naomi Bortnick

A bench. Black swirly armrests, long wooden braces holding up a man and his chess set. His name is Jason. He went to the park to play, with whom he didn’t know. Yet.

The sparrows sing; kites dot the clear blue sky; the flowers slowly open up to the start of spring. The pigeons peck at the crust of the sandwich that the children forget to eat. People laugh, people grieve, people live.

That’s what happens at the park.

He comes here every day, his place to think. To watch. To reflect. To learn. He’s at the age where there are regrets, but he doesn’t dwell. Life’s too short for that.

He brings the chess set, hoping someone will sit down and play. Like how he did when he was a child.

Like when he met Lance. The closest friend he’s ever made in his life.

But then he moved his rook too fast and lost him. Forever.

The old man closes his eyes, reaching for the familiar memory. Lance’s smile, a glowing rainbow on a rainy day. His freckles, dotting his nose and rosy cheeks. The old man remembers brushing each one, and with each touch, Lance would reward with a bubble of laughter.           

He opens his eyes. A child is learning how to ride a bike in the park, her father running after her as she practices leaving the security of the training wheels. He is with her the whole time, won’t allow anything to happen to her. The old man remembers learning how to ride a bike for the first time. His father was also running with him, down the neighborhood road. He fell, scraped up his knee, tears spilling down his face. His father comforted him that day, absorbed some of the pain. Why did that have to change? His father wasn’t there for him later, not when he confessed.

Lance, his deep brown skin, wavy curls falling over his eyes. The man Jason loved, but didn’t disobey his father for. The man Jason kissed many times, but pushed away when his father pushed back.

The man Jason thought he was protecting.

They were in Jason’s room, talking. Playing chess. Laughing. One of Lance’s brown curls fell over his eyes, and Jason took it between his fingers and tucked it behind his ear. He kept his hand there for a moment, cupping Lance’s face, tracing his thumb over Lance’s dimple that appeared whenever he smiled.

Jason’s bedroom door opens. His dad barges in.

“Jason, I need you to–” Jason jerks his hand away from Lance’s face, but Jason’s father had already seen enough. Lance’s dimple disappears. Jason’s stomach drops; his heart rate accelerates.

“Get the hell out of my house.” Jason’s father’s firm, quiet voice rings loudly in Jason’s ears. Lance stands up and walks out, head lowered. Jason peers up at his father’s icy stare, his bottom lip trembling.

He shakes his head, jaw clenched. What his father whispers next stabs Jason like a sword.

“Disgrace.”

Jason curls up on his bed. His body won’t stop shaking, his mind won’t stop racing, his tears won’t stop pouring. He squeezes his eyes shut as his emotions swarm him like bees.

Each a painful, lasting sting that Jason will always remember.

A couple is sitting on the bench next to the old man. Their dog is running around, chasing after the sticks they throw. Lance had a dog. A big gray husky, icy blue eyes, always hyper. They used to walk her every morning before school started, even when they were forced to wake up before the sun rose. But after that day, Jason didn’t meet Lance outside his house anymore. Jason ignored the smile Lance gave when they passed each other. Jason would only steal a glance when no one was looking.

The old man sits on the bench, staring mournfully at his chess set. Someone else joins him. A hand moves a pawn up two squares. The old man looks up, and gasps. A familiar face, bright brown eyes, gray curls falling onto his forehead. Freckles dotting his nose and cheeks. Brown skin containing the wrinkles of old age, a bright smile.

“Your move, Jason.”

For more information on the Local Writer’s Showcase, please visit https://www.bethesda.org/bethesda/localwriters