Young Writers Award
Winners
Charleston Literary Festival Young Writer Awards recognize students with exceptional talent while promoting the transformative power of literature and encouraging creative growth.
Charleston Literary Festival’s Young Writers Awards program is committed to reflecting the broad range of voices and experiences of the tri-county public school community. Submitted works are adjudicated by a panel of literary professionals and are selected for recognition based on three criteria: originality, skill, and emergence of a personal voice.
Three works are selected for each of the three categories of Poetry, Journalism, and Short Story for a total of nine awards. The selected young authors will receive a cash prize, be invited to present their work at a Literary Festival event, and their work will be published on the festival’s website. Teachers of award-winning students will receive tickets to a select number of Festival events.
2025 Young Writers Awards Winners
Poetry
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Grade: Senior
School: Cross High School (Berkeley)
Supporting Teacher: Katherine PerrittThe Price of Beathing
In the slums, morning tastes of metal.
Children cough up smoke before breakfast,
their bellies learning the patience of emptiness.
Mothers stretch rice like it were gold leaf,
fathers come home with hands
already buried in tomorrow’s debts.
Across the city,
another morning means heated floors,
fruit flown in from countries
where the pickers earn less in a year
than the shoes on the marble doorstep.
The fridge hums like a quiet servant.
No one speaks of hunger here—
it’s an ancient word,
retired, almost quaint.
Somewhere in between,
people grind their teeth through traffic,
their calendars choked with meetings,
dreaming of vacations they cannot afford,
smoothing the edges of exhaustion
with caffeine and fluorescent light.
And then there are the few
at the top of the glass towers,
who count their wealth in oceans,
who live in houses so vast
they echo with their loneliness.
Even their dogs eat better
than half the world’s children.
We are all born with the same
naked, bloody cry.
But from the moment air
enters our lungs,
life begins its sorting—
into hunger or abundance,
into dust or into silk.
Politics drips into our mouths
before we can speak,
lines drawn on maps we never drew
deciding which bodies will be counted,
which will vanish like smoke in the dark.
Some governments build walls,
others build cages,
and always it is the poor
who are told their hunger is their fault.
Violence is older than language.
It hides in uniforms,
in flags, in hymns sung too loud,
in hands that strike because
they were struck before.
Some boys learn love as a fist,
some girls learn silence as a prayer.
Still, the cycle turns,
blood teaching blood how to fall.
Race is a shadow cast at birth—
skin that tells a story
before the mouth opens.
Some are born already guilty,
some already forgiven.
Centuries of chains don’t dissolve;
they stain the air,
they weigh on the bones of children
who never asked to carry them.
Religion promises heaven
but often builds prisons.
Some kneel for peace,
others kneel to sharpen their knives.
In one temple a hymn heals,
in another the same hymn
becomes a weapon.
God’s name, spoken in a thousand tongues,
has silenced millions.
Sexuality blooms in secret,
pressed down like grass beneath boots.
Two boys hold hands in a back alley
and pray not to be seen.
A woman loves a woman
and loses her family.
Desire itself becomes dangerous,
a war between the heart’s fire
and the world’s cold law.
Gender, too—
a cage disguised as destiny.
Some are born with wings
but are told to crawl.
Others are crowned before birth,
their crowns becoming shackles.
And those who refuse the script
are hunted in the open,
their very breath considered rebellion.
We bury too many.
Names scratched into walls,
faces lost to headlines,
lives reduced to numbers
on the lips of officials
who never walked their streets.
The grief is endless,
an ocean without a shore.
But grief alone is not enough.
We are not only mourners—
we are teeth against the steel bars,
we are fists slamming tables,
we are throats that will not close.
There is a fury here,
born of centuries stolen,
born of daughters burned,
born of sons erased.
Racism, sexism, borders, guns—
the world wields them like gods,
but gods are made of fear.
And fear can bleed.
And fear can die.
We demand a reckoning:
that no child starve
while banquets rot in towers,
that no woman be silence’s hostage,
that no man be measured by his cage,
that no body be broken
for daring to love,
for daring to live
in its own skin.
Yes, we are fragile—
skin, bone, breath,
all so easily unmade.
But fragility is not weakness;
it is the reason we must rise,
the reason we must rage.
To live is to resist the hand
that writes us into dust.
To live is to cry out—
not as victims,
but as witnesses,
as builders,
as fire.
So mourn the dead,
but do not kneel forever.
Lift them into your chest,
carry them like coals.
Let their absence ignite
what their presence was denied.
This is our inheritance:
not silence,
not despair,
but a voice sharpened by grief,
a hope sharpened by rage.
We are the unfinished song,
the drum that will not stop,
the riot of blood insisting:
we are here.
We are here.
We are still here.
And after all the borders,
after the cages,
after the fists and the fire and the flags,
what remains is this:
You are human.
I am human.
No matter the skin, the prayer,
the hunger, the wealth,
the love whispered in secret,
the body you call home—
we are the same fragile miracle,
bones wrapped in trembling flesh,
hearts pumping thunder in the dark.
See past the hatred that blinds you.
See past the walls you’ve been taught to raise.
Strip away the uniforms, the creeds, the crowns,
and what’s left is only breath—
the sacred proof we share the same sky.
Do not forget:
every face you fear,
every hand you scorn,
every stranger you call enemy
has wept as you have wept,
has dreamed as you have dreamed,
has bled as you will bleed.
We are not gods.
We are not monsters.
We are only human—
brief sparks on the same vast night,
each one burning
for a chance
to be seen.
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Grade: Freshman
School: Charleston County School of the Arts (Charleston)
Supporting Teacher: Danielle DeTiberusGrammy, I wish the words didn’t get stuck
Your house is quiet now.
A jumble of letters on your still tongue.
Your life, diminished to photos hung on the wall
Just say my name, try the first letter.
A jumble of letters on your still tongue.
Me and my sisters are replaced
The first letter stuck to your lips,
Unable to work the way they always had
Me and my sisters are replaced
Turned into nothing but a hesitant pause
Unable to understand the way I always had
I shudder as my mother lies to you with a silent nod
Turned into nothing but the slow sound of consonants
Bread, B-R-E-T-D, scribbled in your notebooks
I shudder as my mother lies to you with a silent nod
And I fold in on myself as you look to me for understanding
Zoey, Z-I-E-L, scribbled in your notebook
Through your long drawls about the thumb-sized woman sitting in the armchair,
I fold in on myself as you look to me for confirmation
We don’t talk about the disease
Through my long drawls about nothing in particular
You furrow your brow in confusion and write it off as your personality
We don’t talk about the disease
It just creeps in like mold on a window
You furrow your brow in confusion at
What the doctor said,
It just creeps in like mold on a window
Primary Progressive Aphasia
When the doctor said,
Hollow words in a blank white room
Primary Progressive Aphasia
Ripping you away from me
Hollow words in your blank white house
Doctors appointments on sticky notes
Ripping you away from me.
I rummage through your drawers.
Doctors appointments on sticky notes
Thumbtacked to the TV, static running in the background
I rummage through your drawers
Searching for a moment when everything was fine.
Your life, diminished to photos hung on the wall
Thumbtacked to the ceiling, tape peeling off the cracks
I still search for a moment when everything was fine.
Your house is quiet now.
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Grade: Sophomore
School: Fort Dorchester High School (Dorchester)
Supporting Teacher: Chelsea Hackelmanlost baggage
The Moroccan heat, a tangible, golden blur,
Settles on the mosaic tiles where shadows demur.
My grandmother sits, her mind a leisurely retreat,
A clock without hands, skipping every beat.
She offers the mint tea, the glass to my grip,
Then floats out the question from her gentle lip:
" Habibti," she'll murmur, "Benti," so kind,
My proper name is the one she can't find.
I used to chase it, that one-syllable grace,
The sound that once lit up her loving face.
The beautiful name that means light,
Remains dark in her mind
She'd offer apologies, her voice light and low,
For the sickness she carried, the love she couldn't show.
I saw it as burden, a choice she could drop,
A silent farewell where the memories stop.
I drove past the feeling,
Refusing to acknowledge the end that would last.
I needed my name, the clear, sharp decree,
To unknot the tangle of unsettling disappointment, which was brewing in me,
I sought my old grandmother, the one who’s tales would spin,
But found the Alzheimer’s had already won within.
Then I paused in the summer, the bright, dusty air,
And saw the acceptance that quieted my care.
She is not choosing, the fact is now clear,
The name is lost baggage; the sickness is here.
The grief is a wave I finally let roll,
Washing the stubborn resistance from my soul.
The sound of my name is a whisper she lost,
And the quiet inside me no longer counts the cost.
This slow, muted current she offers as love
Is the deep, grounding rhythm I finally move
Within. I am simply hers, title undefined,
A steady warmth against her calming mind.
Short Story
(Fiction)
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Grade: Senior
School: Philip Simmons High School (Berkeley)
Supporting Teacher: Laura GarnerUnder the Velvet Vine
The honeysuckles bloomed in June, as they always did—their amber tongues curling around porch beams and power poles—too restless to stay rooted. There was no warning before their arrival; they came in clusters, flushed and fragrant, trailing their sweetness behind them like a train of silk, filling the air until it dripped gold. They took and took—and they looked lovely doing it.
That summer, I was ten: freckled, barefoot, painted pink by the sun. My grandmother taught me how to pluck them—pinch the stem, pull the filament, sip the nectar. It wasn’t about the taste, no, the taste was fleeting. It was about the gesture, the ritual. The moment something opened in your hand and offered up its sweetness without a sound. I knew they weren’t supposed to be here, that they’d come from elsewhere and overstayed, that they grew too fast and too much and strangled what couldn’t outrun them. But God, they were beautiful.
My grandmother and I watched the bewitching flowers from the porch swing, the heat glazing our skin like syrup, cicadas buzzing with an electric whir. She didn’t like them—not really. Said they were invasive, said they choked the roots of better things, said they looked too lovely to be trusted. But still, she taught me how to pluck them. We sat in silence most evenings,
our legs sticking to the plastic lawn chairs, the waves in my hair frizzed into a knotty cloud of mousy brown. Anything but quiet felt too loud in that kind of haze. But we shared the silence gratefully, passing it back and forth between the vines and the gnats and the swelling dusk. Once, she let me climb onto her lap while she braided my hair with tiny ribbons we’d found in a drawer, humming a tune she had learned as a girl, and I remember thinking that nothing in the world could be sweeter than that moment, the sunlight catching the strands and her hands moving so carefully.
By midsummer, the honeysuckles had crept further. They bloomed from the cracks in Grandpa’s shed, curled into gutters, pressed their thin green wrists through the lattice beneath the house. Tools rusted where vines had brushed them. The fence bowed under their weight. Grandma began to mutter when she walked the yard. She slapped blossoms from her ankles, cursed under her breath in ways that made me blush. At supper, she chewed slowly,
glancing toward the windows as though expecting to see them peering in. I laughed once, said “they’re just flowers,” and she gave me a look that froze the breath in my lungs.
“They’re not,” she snarled.
Some nights, I swore I saw them stir. Not growing—moving. Blossoms slithering toward the windows, vines reaching across the shutters like fingertips. When the wind died, I still heard them rustling, a whisper too soft to be leaves alone. Sometimes, in the thickest heat, the air itself seemed braided with perfume, so heavy you could choke on it. I woke one night with the taste of nectar on my tongue though I hadn’t plucked a flower in days.
Grandmother stopped coming to the porch altogether by late July. She sat inside with her fan rattling in the window, her chair angled so she could watch the yard. I joined her sometimes, but the air in the house felt just as thick, swollen with sweetness. The vines had pressed through the cracks in the siding, slipped behind the wallpaper, curled in places where we couldn’t see the roots but heard the boards groan beneath them.
By August, the cicadas had gone quiet. The yard was too still, too watchful. I thought of the vines as listeners, as patient mouths waiting to be fed. My grandmother’s Bible stayed open on the kitchen table, but I never saw her read it. Sometimes, she pressed her palm flat against the gilded pages and then pulled away, leaving them trembling in the draft from the fan. She smelled of honeysuckle now, faint but constant, as though the flowers had pressed themselves into her skin. I felt a strange mix of awe and unease, realizing she was shrinking from the porch, from the sun, from speaking; the stillness of the house—her silence—pressed into me with the same
sweetness and weight as the flowers themselves.
Then came the night the air refused to move. Not a breath of wind, not a sound of wings. I woke to silence so absolute I could hear my heart pounding in it. The whole house was dark except for the faint silver wash of the moon through my curtains. I crept out of bed, bare feet cold on the boards, and padded toward the porch.
The honeysuckles were everywhere. They had billowed across the floorboards, flowers glowing pale in the moonlight. They clung to the ceiling, the rails, the doorframe. And there, in my grandmother’s chair, I saw the vines had braided themselves into the arms, blossoms resting where her hands should’ve been. I called for her. The flowers answered, their mouths opening soundless, dew glinting at their throats.
I didn’t step closer. I couldn’t. The scent was thick enough to drown in.
In the morning, the chair was empty. My grandmother’s room was empty too, the fan still running, her Bible closed. I asked my grandfather where she had gone, but he only stared at the shed, at the lattice, at the fence bowing lower each day. He did not answer me. He never did.
The petals browned and fell soon after, littering the porch like flakes of ash. I swept them away myself. The vines, of course, remained—coiled behind the walls, humming against the wood.
Now, when the sky hums low and the air thickens, I remember that summer. Honeysuckle and hunger. Sugar and rot. When the nights are hot and the air drips gold, I still taste nectar on my tongue—sharp and sweet, as though plucked from a blossom that has already grown under my ribs. -
Grade: Junior
School: Charleston County School of the Arts (Charleston)
Supporting Teacher: Frances HammisExcerpt from – Sharing Tamales
The door creaks open with a nudge of my knee at the right time to open the lock correctly. As I walk into the living room, leaving my suitcase by the first door, the smell of cheap Walmart candles with AI-generated Jesus on the side and slow-cooking pork surrounds me in the choking way only a childhood memory can. I walk into the kitchen, see the short woman with hair a bit grayer than the last time I saw her, tied up into a tight bun, and tap her shoulder. “Abuela!”
She turns around and smiles, red lipstick parting to reveal uneven teeth, and she kisses me on the cheek before hugging me tightly. I can smell her signature perfume, a mixture of orange blossom and bergamot that’s cloying in a sentimental way.***
I think I was six this particular time when my mother had another night shift and dropped me off at Abuela’s house to spend the night, although it was a Friday, so we all knew it would turn into a weekend.
We were eating dinner, leftover tamales from the night before, and we sat in front of her small, grainy TV to watch her show. It was a show called Persiguiendo una Estrella, Chasing a Star, about a woman named Estrella on the run from her abusive husband, who leaves her life behind to start fresh and meets a mysterious stranger. It had all the usual plot twists of secret twins and people dying and coming back from the dead; really just a cookie-cutter telenovela, but it was her favorite. She was braiding my hair, longer then, down to my waist. As she worked, slowly coiling my hair, she asked me about school and how my friends were, and we talked about the elementary school drama.
She sighed, pointing to the male love interest on screen, confessing his love without knowing it was really the twin sister of the main character. “He looks just like your Abuelo when he was younger. All the other girls at my school had, eh- what’s the word?
“Crushes?”
“Ah, si crushes on him, but I was the one who eh- gané?
“You won?”
“That’s it, I won, and we got married when we were nineteen.”
“What happened?”
“Well, I got pregnant with your Mamá, and we wanted her to grow up here. It was, eh- bad in Mexico when she was born.”
“And?”
“I had a cousin who got me a job here so I could get my green card, and your Abuelo was going to come over once he found a job. I was going to wait there with him, but I wanted to give birth to your Mamá in the US. ”
“So when did he come here?”
She didn’t respond, just focused harder on braiding my hair, grasping tight ringlets that pinched my scalp. After a few minutes, she tied off the braid and looked back at the man on screen, now confessing his love to the right sister.
“Someday you’ll marry a nice man like that, Eva. Only he’ll be richer. Don’t you settle for a man who can’t buy you what you deserve. That’s what I came here for. So you and your Mamá could be happier than I was. And marry a rich guy.”
I giggled. “Abuela! I’m not getting married to a guy like that, boys are gross anyway.”
She laughed, “I’m sure you’ll change your mind about that.”
***
I stand in the kitchen helping Abuela make dinner, mincing garlic.
“So, how is the college? Did you make friends? Did you find a boyfriend yet?”
I laugh. “It’s good so far. Lots of time doing math, but when I have a break, my roommate and I hang out. I think her friends are becoming my friends.”
She smiles. “And?”
“And?” I ask.
“And the boyfriend?”
“I don’t have one, actually, I-” The oven timer goes off, stopping me before I can explain how that question will disappoint her.
Abuela goes and pokes at a few pots sizzling on the stovetop, and calls over her shoulder
“Dinner in 10 minutes. Go put your suitcase away.”
When I get back into the kitchen, I see that Abuela has turned on the TV in the living room to another telenovela. She hands me a plate of tamales and gestures towards the table. The table sits about four feet from the wall, and when I was ten, I would run circles around it in the summer when it was too hot to play outside. We sit and start talking about how everyone at home is. She tells me about her friend Ruth, who hustles people at bingo at the community center, and how she’s added another family to her garden gnome collection, then switched the topic to me.
“So, tell me about these girls you're friends with.”
“Oh! Uh- they’re nice, mostly science majors. We have a group of five, usually. There’s the twins, Victoria and Nicole, and they go by Vic and Nic, although I don’t know why. My roommate is Clara, and she introduced me to the rest of the group. And there’s Emmy. She’s uh-. She’s my girlfriend.”
“Aren’t they all your girlfriends?”
“No, no, not like that. I mean, we’re like- dating. You could meet her.”
She looks like she didn’t hear me for a second, her warm brown eyes tilting up at me in confusion, her painted red lips, slightly smudged, hanging down in the corners. Then it’s gone, and with a little shake of her head, she looks back down at her plate, peeling the husk off of her second tamale, which releases a cloud of steam into the air. Red seeps out of the corners, bleeding over into the masa. We eat the rest of dinner in silence, only the faint words of the people on TV making a sound, their grand confessions of love and melodramatic murder scenes filling the air between us. -
Grade: Sophomore
School: Military Magnet High School (Charleston)
Supporting Teacher: Kirk ZaroThe Weight of Stars
In the heart of Barranco, a lively district in Lima, Peru, where the streets twist like the threads of an unwritten story, lived a young woman named Rosalia. Her cozy little apartment overlooked the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean, but it often felt like a cramped prison, weighed down by the burden of hardship and unfulfilled dreams. Each evening, as the sun slipped below the horizon, Rosa watched the waves roll in and swirl around like joyful spirits, their laughter drowned by the gritty sounds of a city grappling with deep-rooted inequality. For Rosa, the ocean was both a muse and a reminder of the freedom she yearned for. Rosa was an artist, but not in the conventional sense. She didn’t just paint on canvas; she breathed life into the very walls of her city. Her murals exploded with color and energy, telling the stories of people whose voices had been silenced by oppression—those marginalized and forgotten in the shadow of progress. Every time she dipped her brush into colors as bold as her ambitions, the air around her shimmered with possibility. In those moments, the paint seemed to whisper secrets, urging her to continue voicing the truth, even when it felt like shouting into the void. Mornings found Rosa waking up before dawn, the soft light casting playful shadows that danced around her small room. Her neighbors, a diverse tapestry of lives, included families struggling to make ends meet, elderly couples reminiscing about better days, and young men ensnared in violence and crime. With every brushstroke, Rosa infused her work with their stories; she painted the anger of the overlooked, the sorrow of the forgotten, and the relentless hope that sparkled like distant stars in a dark sky. One bright morning, while wandering through the vibrant streets with paint-covered hands, Rosa spotted a man setting up an art stand at the corner of the plaza.
He had dark eyes filled with warmth and determination, and a soft smile that could brighten even the gloomiest of days. His name was Mateo, an aspiring muralist like her. Though he had only just begun to find his footing among the city's rhythm, it was clear that he was driven by the same passion that pulsed through Rosa's veins. When their eyes met, a spark ignited between them—a connection that was both startling and familiar. As they exchanged words about their artistic dreams and aspirations, Rosa found herself captivated by Mateo’s enthusiasm. He shared stories of his childhood in the mountains, where he learned to see the world through the lens of creativity, transforming everyday moments into art. They engaged in animated conversations about their favorite artists, the social issues that fueled their creativity, and the importance of giving a voice to the silenced. With each passing day, their connection blossomed, filled with laughter and mutual inspiration, like colors merging on a vibrant canvas. One afternoon, while strolling through the bustling streets together, Rosa stumbled upon a lively gathering in the plaza. A group of fierce, determined women held colorful banners, demanding justice for those who had suffered under corrupt leaders and hidden agendas. Their visionary chants filled the air, resonating with a call for a world in which every person mattered and where the past wouldn’t dictate the future. Rosa felt a powerful urge pull her toward the crowd—an electric connection to something larger than herself, pulsating in harmony with her own heartbeat.
With Mateo standing beside her, she grasped his hand, feeling his support surge through her like a current. As they joined the chanting crowd, their hearts raced with every powerful word uttered. Each voice blended into a resounding message that transcended the harshness of their surroundings, creating a moment of unity that shielded them from the world's injustices. The air shimmered with possibilities, imbued with the kind of magic that seemed to connect them to the weight of the stars above. It was as if the universe had aligned just for them, showing them a path toward change. Inspired by the fervor of the moment, Rosa and Mateo decided to capture the spirit of that day. That night, under the dim glow of a single bulb in Rosa’s studio, they poured their hearts into a mural that intertwined the energy of her neighbors with the bravery of the women they had witnessed in the plaza. As they worked, laughter echoed off the walls, mingling with the fragrance of paint and dreams. Just when they thought they were finished, Mateo leaned in closer to Rosa, a mischievous grin lighting up his face. "What if we painted ourselves into the mural?" he suggested, his dark eyes twinkling with excitement. Rosa laughed, feeling a flutter in her chest. "I don’t know if I want to immortalize myself alongside these incredible women," she replied, smiling. But Mateo’s playful persistence was infectious. After a brief pause, Rosa felt a flicker of excitement at the idea. "Okay, but just a small, abstract version of us. Hidden within the mural. A secret." They agreed, each inspired by their shared vision. In a flurry of creativity, they painted themselves into the vibrant scene—a small homage to their own journey and contributions, adding a poignant layer to the tapestry of their community. When dawn broke, their wall stood tall and proud—a vivid explosion of hope, resilience, and defiance. The mural depicted women breaking free from chains, men lifting each other out of despair, and children dancing joyfully, untouched by circumstance.
Amidst all that life and color, hidden in the background, were Rosa and Mateo, a symbol of solidarity and love nestled within the collective narrative of their city. As the first rays of sunlight kissed the paint, the colors sprang to life, reflecting the morning not merely as a new day but as a chance for transformation. To Rosa's awe, she gazed at the mural, feeling it breathe alongside her. Figures seemed to shimmer and move, the energy of the space vibrating with purpose. In that moment, she realized the weight of their creation—their commitment to their community, their art, and the voices of those who had been silenced. From that day forward, the mural became a beacon of connection. People would stop and stare, learning from the stories it told. The women they had painted joined in solidarity, their chants echoing through the streets, blending with the vibrant pulse of Barranco. Rosa and Mateo found themselves at the heart of it all—a collaboration of dreams intertwined, transforming their city one brushstroke at a time. Together, they learned not just to carry the weight of their stars but to let them shine brightly, illuminating pathways toward change and unity. As they painted, they whispered to each other, "Believe in the beauty of what we can create together." And in their hearts, they knew they were just getting started.
Journalism
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Grade: Junior
School: Charleston County School of the Arts (Charleston)
Supporting Teacher: Danielle DeTiberusThe Future of Federally Funded Arts Programs under the Trump Administration
When I was selected as a semi-finalist in the National Student Poets Program (NSPP), the nation’s highest writing honor for tenth and eleventh graders, on February 10th, 2024, I was asked to submit a video introduction of why I thought poetry was so important for human expression. I wrote that “[Poetry] pushes you outside of your comfort zone, without you realizing it, letting you use figurative language and form all while inching you closer to the real you. The you that isn’t worried about what others think, the you that does things even though they’re scary, and the you that is more than your hardships.” Out of the students who won a Gold Key for poetry submitted to the annual Scholastic competition, fifty can be chosen as semi finalists in the NSPP. From there, they are asked to submit another application which should include another two to five poems, a short biography, a reading of the poem(s) submitted, and a video introduction of who the student is, what they appreciate about poetry, and why they believe it is an important medium for human expression and communication.
Only five students are chosen as finalists, one from each region of the U.S. As winners, they receive a cash reward and are taken to a conference in Washington D.C. to meet the other finalists, as well as the president. The year afterwards, they fulfill the responsibility of being their region’s youth poetry ambassador. As an ambassador, they are tasked with spreading poetry to their community through individual service projects like readings and workshops. Suffice to say, being a finalist in the NSPP is a big deal, especially for a high schooler. On November 18th, 2023, Kallan McKinney, a student poet from Oklahoma told Gaylord News after reading their poems at the White House, “(Poetry) means so much to me...Sometimes I have trouble saying what I mean, and poetry is a way to have conversations. For everything to mean what I want it to mean and to share with other people, and to listen to people. And I think that’s so important. And I want everyone to feel like that. I want people to feel seen.”
When I got the email from the NSPP, I was more confused than anything. I didn’t remember submitting to this, though upon reading up on it, it was clearly an excellent opportunity. I only had until March 24th to submit, so I immediately got to work revising my two strongest poems and writing my video introduction. A month later, through much rehearsal and work at home, the application was submitted, and now all I had to do was wait. In that time, I imagined all of the workshops I could help hold, all the good I could so easily spread through my poetry and voice, to help other people, just like previous student poets had done.
I got a response sooner than I expected. On April 2nd, I was emailed again and they had some bad news. It wasn’t that I had not been selected as a finalist, it was that the NSPP’s future was uncertain. Ever since Donald Trump’s second presidential campaign, above all, he had promised to make big changes to America. We’d all come to find that this was certainly true. He said that he would make budget cuts to health and education services, though this would take some time.
On March 31, 2025, NPR Journalist, Andrew Limbong details the situation, “The Institute of Museum and Library Services has placed its entire staff on administrative leave. This month, President Trump named Keith E. Sonderling — the deputy secretary of labor — the new acting director of IMLS. This followed Trump's previous executive order shrinking seven federal agencies, including the Institute of Museum and Library Services.”
The long standing partner of the NSPP, the IMLS had solely funded the program for years, so the firing of multiple IMLS workers put the program on an indefinite hold. In regards to funding and the control of arts and history, only recently, on August 19th, 2025, did Trump make any official statements. He said on his Truth Social Platform, that the Smithsonian Institution, among other museums, are “the last remaining segment of 'WOKE'...I have instructed my attorneys to go through the Museums, and start the exact same process that has been done with Colleges and Universities." He added, “Everything discussed [in the museums] is how horrible our Country is, how bad Slavery was, and how unaccomplished the downtrodden have been.”
In America right now, so often we see news of Trump trying to get a new law passed or trying to defund a service or program he deems "unnecessary," but rarely people see the true effects of these attempted laws and defundings. The people at the IMLS were told almost immediately to leave their offices, for at most ninety days, and the fact that sixty two percent of the Smithsonian’s funding comes from the federal government means that the people working there might be next.
Thankfully, as of September 15th, 2025, the NSPP has secured funding again, though this was never a guarantee. For around five months, the future of the program was still unknown, and this period of unstable income could have easily lasted longer. By the looks of how the administration is progressing, this instability could come back, and hit the employees even harder, and the next time, there’s no way of knowing if they will be successful again.
All this to say, if these arts programs are being defunded and hurt, what will be the fate of more crucial programs such as Medicaid and the Department of Education? Budget cuts to those institutions have been threatened, and if that happens, the lives of Americans will only get worse. One thing is for certain though— I, along with my fellow writers, young or old, will not allow these decisions to go unchallenged, and as long as we have that, the struggle is not over. -
Grade: Junior
School: Charleston County School of the Arts (Charleston)
Supporting Teacher: Danielle DeTiberusBateaux Building for Freedom ~ In Memory of Sam Moultrie
Bateaux Building for Freedom ~ In Memory of Sam Moultrie
Sam walks out to the lobby of Samaritan Baptist Church after Sunday service. He finds himself looking at the Church’s bulletin, particularly one ad containing a bateau and a hatchet.
While Sam couldn’t read, he knew what a hatchet looked like, and he knew he could build boats using it.
His brother calls out, ruining his thought, “Come on, Sam, let’s go!”
Sam counters back, “I’m comin’. Just hold on a second!” He backs up, drawing a picture of the ad in his mind to remember it later.***
Later that day, while his family was in prayer together, he started in worship but couldn’t get the ad out of his mind, almost taking over. So, instead of his usual love prayer, he started one about guidance.
God, I pray that you help me find my way in life, especially as I try to show these different people my skills. I pray that you stand with me and find faith instead of fear. Help me prove myself to this new group of people I have to make happy.
“Amen!” Sam says aloud out of excitement, disrupting his still-praying family as they turn their heads toward him.***
The next day, he shows up at the Maggioni Oyster Factory. After his sister read the ad posted at the church, she could tell him where to go.
Sam walks in to see the crowd of hatchet-hand white men working away at their craft. The loud cacophony of offbeat hammers roars as he weaves through the crowd to the seeming front desk.
“Good day, sir,” Sam says almost as a question to the man at the front desk.
The man responds aggressively, “What do you want?”
Sam holds his stick in his right hand, covered in measurements of the different boat types only he could ever understand.
“I’m here for the bateaux job.”
“You gotta leave, boy. We don’t want you making our boats,” the man responds, looking him up and down.
Another man approaches him from behind. “You know, actually, Let’s see you try to make one. That’ll be your test, and if you can do it, then you can take all of the contracts the old Bateaux builder had. I’m Mr. Heyward,” speaking with a doubtful tone.
“Alright.” Sam accepts the challenge, picking up a hatchet from the selection as he begins to slice the wood into long strands for a shrimp boat.
The smells from the shrimp boiling across the way seep through his veins, giving him extra steam to show them up.
Eventually, he starts hammering, hammering with a rhythm. No one else had that beat like he had, nor the stick covered in unique lengths. That’s what made him so quick at his craft.
And so when his Bateaux was finished, and when all the wood had been perfectly sealed with screws over crossed from each other, and the triangular tip had been bent and wilted to one, all the white men gathered to watch him flip it over since these boats were built upside down.
Sam gathers up his last bits of strength and takes the bottom side, inverting it to the top. The crowd pushes in closer, inspecting it, as Mr. Heyward pleads for them to scoot back and allow him to examine himself.
Mr. Heyward prances around, trying to spot one thing wrong, but comes up with nothing. He replies to his promise and offers his hand to shake. “Alright, man. Don’t screw this up.”
I thank the International African American Museum’s staff for informing me about Sam Moultrie’s legacy. In addition to Mary Ellen Thompson’s interview, I found upon research. -
Grade: Senior
School: Charleston County School of the Arts (Charleston)
Supporting Teacher: John CusatisSOA vs. Academic Magnet: Perceptions from the Student Body
Like the recent election has proven, sometimes the greatest entertainment comes not from an outcome, but from the road traveled to get there. Though all the campaigns and debates between Vice President Kamala Harris and President-Elect Donald Trump gave us many moments worthy of their own article, the rivalry being explored in this issue is one much closer to home: Academic Magnet vs. School of the Arts (SOA). Though both schools provide the nation’s highest regarded educational experience and efficacious academic focus, the student opinions are much more idiosyncratic and competitive.
When I said that the road traveled to get to an outcome is more important than the outcome itself, I meant this in both a metaphorical and literal sense. Academic Magnet and SOA have both had their fair share of car troubles. However, when asked which students were the better drivers, the result was a tie, so to figure out the ultimate winner, some research was necessary.
In a 2022 issue of The Talon, Magnet’s newspaper, guest SOA writer, Ryan Hinske, collected some data to answer this question. He stood at the three-way-stop connecting the parking lot to the exit line and counted how many cars didn’t wait their turn to merge and cut off another driver. His results: 2 unmarked cars, 3 SOA cars, and 6 Magnet Cars. Hinske used his AP Statistics knowledge to give some reasons for Magnet’s “aggressive” way of the road. He considered that Magnet drivers may cut off double the amount of cars than SOA drivers because the observed three-way-stop (located in front of the middle school building) is a much greater distance from their parking space which is the other end of the campus. Not only do they have to run from their building to their spot, but by the time they get to their car, a line of SOA students has already caused a long line. Therefore, the longing to push ahead of the merge could be a result from the greater distance.
However, though I didn’t take AP Statistics, I do feel I have some experience in the realm of patience. As someone whose biggest pet peeve is walking behind slow people in the hallways, I have learned that waiting is still possible in moments of frustration. Rather than risk a conflict with the slow walker in front of me by calling them out or pushing in front of them, I just take deep breaths and complain in my next class.
Obviously walking and driving are NOT the same thing, but this idea of patience should still apply. I don’t want to be late to my next class. Drivers don’t want to get caught in after school traffic. However, ignoring the rules of the road and cutting off other cars just to get somewhere faster is not the way to go. It’s endangering yourself and those around you. While Hinske may say Magnet’s aggressive driving can be excused by their frustration and timing, I’d argue that I’m not the only one who has learned the value of patience from simple hallway traffic. And if that’s the case, why couldn’t that same patience be applied when leaving the school parking lot?
This idea of patience is just one of the many words not used to describe either school. However, there were some more colorful answers. The top three words Magnet described SOA as were artistic, relaxed, and gay. SOA students predicted these descriptions would be gay, weird, and all furries, so there’s one match. And SOA’s descriptions of Magnet were intense, competitive, and challenging with Magnet students predicting they would be challenging, extreme, and all nerds.
These descriptions go hand-in-hand with the misconceptions students hear about their respective schools. Most Magnet students answered that they don’t only study in their free time and one went as far as saying that while a few are “booksmart,” there’s a lack of “street smarts” among the student body. They said if they could change one thing about Magnet, it would be the amount of fun school activities and programs like school dances and art classes, because though they may not be as studious outside of class, there is a heavy emphasis on work and high performance when in school.
Now, SOA descriptions, misconceptions, and stories from both Magnet and SOA students, though hilarious, cannot be told in their entirety in the school paper. One of these was that all of the students were gay. But one SOA student said that, though this may not be true, they took pride in going to a school that's accepting and kind. And another answered that it was like a family.
Each school both acknowledged that the social environment was fitting for the people in it, but it’s a little different when describing the physical environment. Though we share a campus, the answers about the elements of the school themselves were contrasting. SOA’s cleanliness and bathrooms received two stars when rated by the students while Magnet student’s average rating was three and a half.
It’s fair to say that both schools have different qualities that make them unique, but it’s the opinions surrounding these qualities that makes them significant. There are certain stereotypes that surround both schools and their extreme variety proves that one shared campus offers many contrasting opinions. However, though SOA and Magnet may always be rivals, it’s important to understand that each one offers one of the highest-rated educational experiences a student can get. No matter which school you attend, you are being prepared for life beyond the boundaries of the SOA parking lot, and sometimes, waiting in traffic offers a valuable time to observe and appreciate the Bonds-Wilson Campus and the students that bring it to life. Of course, a few would rather cut people off and skip the view.
2024 Young Writers Awards Winners
Poetry
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Grade: Freshman
School: Charleston School of the Arts
Supporting Teacher: Danielle DeTiberusA Poem for the Fellow Vultures
You circle the sky
With your wings in
Slow, lazy, tracings
As you scout for the less fortunate
Your feathers fill my head,
My pen in hand
Searching for any straggling letters
Leftover scraps on the skeleton of a poem
You hover over the remains of what was once alive–
A corpse stripped of any value
Your beak clacking like computer keys
Against brittle starch-white bones
I pile my poems
From the rib cages of rough drafts
The spine of the metaphor holding up
The little details that flow through the sticky blood
Of my words
You scrap and struggle
For what remains of your reputation
As we poets do–
But we got opposite ends of the issue
I suppose.
And here I sit,
Picking the words from the bones
Of my writing
Trying to unknot
The shoelace tangle of ideas
You have left in my brain
When really
All I am
Is a vulture,
Doing my best
Though it may be hidden
Under the flesh of fancy words
To recycle the messy drafts of roadkill
And allow my poems to grow. let us
do the world’s dirty work let you
circle
and I write
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Grade: Senior
School: Lucy Beckam High School
Supporting Teacher: Sarah HooverRoadside Crypts
I drove home from a party
With the sky as black as the road,
Passing two deer
At the edge of their home.
They looked so still, so at peace
Near the grave of their friends,
How can you graze
Next to your kin’s end?
I saw a possum lying
dead in the road
Who’d leave it bleeding, and torn
its insides all exposed?
The ride back I shut the music off
its own silent funeral
But my insides screams of self-condemnation
It's shouting, so visceral.
I have second hand guilt
Just seeing them there.
When a classmate died
I didn’t cry at all.
So, why do I feel sick
When there’s dead in the road?
Blinded by the street lights
My eyes see through whites and grays
But I ignore my gut and drive on As blood on my tires is all that remains.
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Grade: Freshman
School: Charleston School of the Arts
Supporting Teacher: Danielle DeTiberusBrisbane Drive
1. Bellyache
I think I will walk forever or until my body becomes what it needs to be. It is
easier to starve than look in the mirror. It is easier
than kneeling and confessing
that I have sinned. I must drive past Brisbane
to get to church. Please don’t make me look.
2. Potential
The robin egg
a Jordan almond of a thing, so sweet and
small I can cup one, two, three in my hands
to pour down my throat. I think of you as you were –
whole, warmed by your siblings’ teal shells, so close
to hatching you were already dreaming of flight.
I see you as you are, a mess of life spread out
upon Brisbane Drive. You might have become something
beautiful, but what do you symbolize
now? Overhead, a mother cries for her child.
3. Youngest
When you drive away
and turn past Brisbane,
leaving home
I will be truly alone. I have not joked
about taking your bedroom as my
own in a long time. I don’t think you
going is funny anymore.
Short Story
(Fiction)
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Grade: Freshman
School: Charleston School of the Arts
Supporting Teacher: Danielle DeTiberusWalking with My Shadow
She tiptoed into her grandmother's room, the warped wooden floorboards groaning beneath her. Yvonne huddled up next to her grandmother, covering herself with the quilt that lay on the bed. She pressed her head against her grandmother’s shoulder. Breathing in, she could smell the scent of peppermint tea sticking to her grandmother’s clothes. Every night her grandmother would brew it to help with her digestion, using mint leaves she plucked from her garden of various herbs. Yvonne remembered when she was little, pretending to make potions with her grandmother, mixing rosemary and thyme with scoops of mud.
“Hi, Hunny.” Her grandmother’s voice was crackly like radio static and her heartbeat matched the slow clicking of a pen.
She handed Yvonne a piece of paper folded neatly into a square. Yvonne placed it on her lap, giving her attention only to her grandmother, who began to speak slowly, as if it pained her. “In our culture, people don’t just die. Our bodies simply rest so that our spirits have enough energy to escape. Then, we take the place of our loved one’s shadow to continue guiding them, until we know that they will be okay without us.” She cupped a wrinkled hand around Yvonne’s glistening cheek. “Try not to step on me, okay?” Her grandmother laughed, making Yvonne smile at the sound.
That night, as the stars caved in and the new moon left a hole in the sky, she sat in her grandmother's now empty bed. She stared at old photographs hanging from the bone-white walls that surrounded her, the antique dresser that had dust creeping up against the flower etchings on the cabinet doors, and the medication that had failed her. She grabbed a bottle, gripping it so tensely that the tips of her fingers lost color. She threw it across the room, listening to the bang as it crashed into the wall, followed by pills rolling around loudly as if someone was playing with marbles inside the container.
As she stood, the slip of paper fell onto the ground, drifting away like a memory. She picked it up, carefully unfolding and reading over the bold ink words written in neat cursive. It was the same cursive handwriting that signed birthday cards and wrote down items on the grocery list
every Saturday. She traced the letters with a chewed nail, reading the recipe her grandmother had left her. It was one of her grandmother’s favorite things to make over the holidays, and one of Yvonne’s favorite things to eat: Angel cake.
As she looked over the little side notes of how to make the cake extra fluffy and how long to stir the batter, she thought about the first time her grandmother made it. She recalled the sweet, almost fruity taste and sneezing because of all the flour that was floating through the air. There were still spots of the white powder on the kitchen counter a couple days after because of how much the recipe called for. Yvonne kept going over the instructions, not noticing how the shadow of her hand would linger on some words longer than Yvonne herself, not quite mirroring her the way a real shadow might. Yvonne fell asleep in her grandmother's bed underneath the whirring beige fan blades and popcorn ceiling. When she woke up the next morning, the silence was like a tsunami washing everything out. She didn’t expect loud, but she didn’t know it was possible to
be so unprepared for the quiet. Her footsteps echoed as she passed by the small circular dining room table with two chairs placed on either side. She stopped in front of pictures of her and her grandmother, wishing she could crawl through the glass and enter the photo as her younger self.
It wasn’t until she was in the living room, standing in front of the reading chair, that she noticed her shadow. Back and forth the seat rocked, the scratchy pillow behind the transparent shadow pressed down, as if someone’s body was weighing on it. The silhouette sat comfortably, waiting patiently for Yvonne to do something.
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Grade: Junior
School: Academic Academy
Supporting Teacher: Monique CollinsTabernacle
Alone the elderly carpenter shaved another long strip off the former log. He with a deep breath, inhaled the smell of the dusty workshop.
Slowly he creaked forward. Looking ahead he glimpsed the worn rifle that had hung there for many years. Would he see them again? His leathery hands gingerly lifted the carved log, and he began to move again.
The man pushed open the door to his workshop and momentarily watched the rain. Stepping forward carefully his boots touched the slick cobblestone road. He started to the only lit house on the street. He again paused at the door to his house to watch a small moth orbiting the lantern. She was somewhere watching him.
Reassured, he climbed into the house. Setting down his piece he looked at the lightly glowing fireplace. He remembered showing his daughter how to re-light a fire from embers. A little sawdust and some kindling and a roaring blaze could be reborn. His wife was upstairs rummaging around for some incense to burn at dinner. How eager Bella would be to ignite the fragrant sticks. His little moth.
Wandering through the forlorn house he wicked a line of dust off a rickety little rocking chair. He had helped her hold the chisel in her small hand to carve the simple designs on the back. The hoary man started up the stairs. He clung to the railing to support his weary body. He entered his bedroom and began searching. He knew they were somewhere. First the nightstand, there was nothing in the drawer a couple of pennies. Then in his dresser, he only finds the same old clothes with sporadic holes in the fabric. Finally, he found the string of wooden beads.
His wife made them for him when they moved out to follow that good pastor they liked listening to so much. He was different, had new ideas, and was an innovator. A whole community had formed around him, around his church.
The carpenter remembered crafting the supports for his church. How much time he had put into assuring that they could hold the weight of the steeple.
The beads were made from pine and were the one piece of wood in the house his hands had not carved. He then made his way down the stairs and back into the main room. He quickly shoved the beads into the pocket of his coat and picked up the ornate wooden vessel.
Stepping back onto the cobblestones, he walked past the houses of the apostates. He recalled their meetings in the basement of the church. How the blasphemous man they let in. Who stole their families with a silver tongue coated in poison. The baleful pastor they let take the reins after the good pastor died. A mistake that created these desolate roads. So they concocted a plot to get back what they once had.
His face creased at the memory. Now upon the chapel, the elderly carpenter. The seniors of his community were dead and gone, and those he could only remember who were young had left for further West.
Pushing into the foyer of the church he could taste the stink of the similar blasphemous church
his cohort had entered twenty years prior. The stench of mothballs and rot hung in the air. As did hundreds of blowflies in the rafters and pews. All lined up resting like sandbags mouths ajar were the practitioners. Each one had its own shade of grey-brown and black eyes. One of the company, a practiced doctor called out to the rest, “They drank hemlock, all of them.”
As the carpenter stood up, he too saw the noxious white flower springing from the floorboards. Searching the sea of decay, he saw a small group of pine beads clutched tightly by one palm of the corpse. On the other was a smaller set of remains.
Salt crept its way from his eyes and down his cheek. How could? When? Why? He racked his mind. Glancing once more at the sickening sight he watched from thousands of corpse fauna as a lone moth drifted toward his lantern.
As the memories flashed before his eyes, he knew what was to be done. He was the guardian of the cremation. His brethren left to mourn what was lost as he remained to gaze into the roaring flame. Come morning the smell of charcoal could not leave the man no matter the ablution he did.
Stepping into the unsullied church he placed his tabernacle on the altar and wrapped the pine beads around his hands and softly he prayed for reconciliation.
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Grade: Senior
School: Military Magnet High School
Supporting Teacher: Kirk ZaroThe Echoes of Aeloria
In the heart of the vast desert, where the sun touches the horizon with shades of crimson and gold, lay the remnants of Aeloria, an ancient civilization once vibrant and flourishing. Time had swallowed its grandeur, leaving only falling temples and whispering sands. Yet beneath the weight of many centuries, the echoes of Aeloria spirit lingered, waiting for a wandering soul to uncover its secrets.
Ilyas was a scholar, driven by an insatiable thirst for knowledge. He was raised on the tales of Aeloria’s wisdom, he ventured into the desert, armed with scrolls and a heart full of dreams. As he weaved through the shifting dunes, he visioned packed markets, the laughter of children, and the symphonies of artisans at work. His journey was one not merely for discovery: it was a quest to understand the essence of a civilization that had reached the zenith before fading into myth. After many days of wandering, Ilyas stumbled upon a grand archway, halfway buried in the sand. Intrigued, he cleared the entrance, revealing a pathway adorned with intricate carvings that depicted stories of gods and heroes. With each step, he felt a pulse, a connection to the past, as if the stones beneath his feet breathed life into the ancient tales.
As he delved deeper into the ruins, Ilyas discovered a vast library, its shelves lined with scrolls, though many were decayed by time. He ran his fingers over the fragile parchment, deciphering the fading ink. The writings spoke of a civilization that revered knowledge and harmony, where
scholars and artisans collaborated to create art that transcended mere beauty. The people of Aeloria believed that wisdom was a sacred gift, and they celebrated it with festivals that lit the night sky with fire and laughter.
However, the scrolls also hinted at a darker truth. Aeloria had thrived for centuries, but an insatiable hunger for power had festered among its leaders. Distrust grew like a shadow, and the very knowledge that had once united the people became a weapon wielded for dominance. Aeloria fell into a spiral of greed, splintering the bonds of the community. The echoes of its once-unified spirit began to fade, overshadowed by ambition and betrayal.
Haunted by the duality of Aeloria's legacy, Ilyas ventured further into the heart of the ruins. In the central courtyard, he discovered a large stone tablet inscribed with a single phrase, etched in the ancient script: “In knowledge, we thrive; in ambition, we fall.” It resonated within him, a profound warning that transcended time.
As he pondered the inscription, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the courtyard. The air shifted, and for a fleeting moment, he felt the presence of the Aelorians, their voices intertwining with the rustle of the wind. They spoke of their dreams, their hopes, and ultimately, their regrets. Ilyas understood then that their fate was not simply an echo of the past; it was a reflection of humanity itself.
With newfound clarity, Ilyas returned to the library, determined to preserve Aeloria’s story. He meticulously documented the scrolls, weaving the tales of triumph and failure into a narrative that would serve as a beacon for future generations. His hands trembled with the weight of
responsibility: he was not just a scholar but a guardian of wisdom, tasked with sharing the lessons learned from a civilization that had once touched the stars.
As he prepared to leave the ruins, Ilyas glanced back at the ancient archway, now shimmering in the moonlight. He felt a connection that transcended time, a bond with those who had come before him. Aeloria had taught him that knowledge is not merely to be sought but shared, cherished, and protected. He carried their story in his heart, a living testament to the fragile balance between ambition and unity.
Years later, Ilyas would become a revered figure in his land, a storyteller who traveled from village to village, sharing the lessons of Aeloria. He spoke of the importance of community, nurturing the bonds that connect humanity, and the eternal pursuit of knowledge tempered with humility.
As he recounted the tale of Aeloria, the echoes of that ancient civilization resonated through time, reminding all who listened that in the dance of knowledge and ambition, it is the heart that must guide the hand.
As Ilyas traveled, he met Layla, a passionate storyteller devoted to preserving her ancestors’ traditions. Together, they organized vibrant festivals, celebrating knowledge through art and music. Each gathering breathed new life into Aeloria’s legacy, uniting people from far and wide. With laughter and shared wisdom, they transformed their community, forging a future where ambition complemented unity. In those flickering lantern lights, Ilyas and Layla knew they were not just recalling the past, but building a brighter tomorrow.
Personal Essay
(Non-Fiction)
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Grade: Sophomore
School: Wando High School
Supporting Teacher: Jeannie FoxHow To Exhale
Most kids would say their biggest fears are the deep end of a pool or the kitchen at night when it is dark, and the floorboards creak a little louder than usual. However, mine could not be consoled by closing my eyes and plugging my nose before jumping in or tiptoeing into my parent's bed, flashlight in hand. My biggest fear has always been change.
I stared at my wall, which once held colorful photographs and streaky light purple paint, now covered by large cardboard boxes stamped with hideous red lettering saying, “fragile! Handle with care!" Because of my dad's job, I knew that moving again was inevitable. Molly, my neighbor and best friend knew it was inevitable too, but she still cried as the moving van pulled out of my driveway. I cried too as I stepped out of her front door the morning after our last sleepover, but my tears were filled with calamitous irony. Truthfully, I hated Tennessee, and deep down I wanted to run away from that suffocating town as fast as my legs would take me. Despite that, I would much rather have stayed in a place where I was lonely and unhappy than get a chance to change everything. My tears were not out of sadness, they were out of fear.
Starting fresh in South Carolina was an exhale that got stuck in my lungs. Air that would go stale, a breath I would choke on for months after. My new room was nice, but I missed my old streaky paint and the huge bay windows. I peeled off the tape that sealed the souvenirs of my old life, all nestled into dusty brown boxes. The change was quick, I started school only two weeks later. By the end of February, I had a whole group of new friends and by March I even scored myself a boyfriend. Things were genuinely looking up for me and I had hope, although it was over just as fast as it came. By May, my friends were gone, and by mid-August, my boyfriend vanished too. All I had left by the end of the summer was a broken heart and a severe case of whiplash.
I found myself staring at my wall again, realizing that I had been abandoned by or forced to abandon every friendship I had ever made. So, I developed the mindset that if I let go of everything I had, nothing else could be ripped away from me. I disconnected from the few
straggling friendships I had left and stopped letting people try to get close to me. My whole freshman year was monotonous, without change. I struggled hard in most of my classes and often got no sleep at all. The days practically melted into the next, but that's what I wanted. My fear of change had proliferated, but I insisted on calling it peace.
The air was still warm and lively when I visited Molly at the end of that summer. The bumps in the road felt warm and familiar as my mom’s car drove down my old cul-de-sac. Being there was like I had just stepped through a time machine. Her room looked the same as it always has. Photo booth strips from the fourth-grade school fair were still pinned to her bulletin board and the blankets we used for our forts were still neatly draped over her bed. We went swimming, made smoothies, and went shopping during the day. At night we would watch nostalgic movies and stuff our faces with popcorn. What Molly does not know is that after she fell asleep, I would sneak off and cry in her bathroom. I thought that I was just overwhelmed or homesick. Though looking back at it now, it is clear to me that my stomach was swollen from regret.
All at once, memories from the continuous years when I felt nothing, but pain and emptiness
surrounded me, sucking me through a time warp and crushing my lungs. I was ten years old again, crying on my tire swing because the girls who lived behind me told me I wasn’t skinny or popular enough to be friends with them anymore. I was twelve again, crying in a bathroom stall because I felt like I didn’t belong and people in my class kept making fun of me. I was thirteen again, staring at a social media post, where a group of girls laughed about how they were happy I was moving, saying that nobody liked me anyway. That’s when I realized that because of change, I am not that girl anymore. Moving let me learn what happiness feels like and how to love myself. The changes that had taken shape in my life since moving to South Carolina had smoothed the edges I would cut myself on over and over again. All it took was a trip to the past, to realize that I like the future more.
Two weeks later, I started my sophomore year and vowed to stop self-sabotaging my friendships, to go out and experience new things, and to stop letting my fear of change hinder me from finding my place in the world. Through all of that, I not only found the difference between truly living and simply surviving, but I also got over my biggest fear.
When you breathe in air, the oxygen moves into your blood. The bad stuff though, the carbon dioxide, gets filtered and sent straight to your lungs, where you then exhale it all back out. This happens subconsciously of course, but it is a basic function of life. In my opinion, change is a lot like that process; learning how to deal with it is like learning how to exhale. Even if I do find my bedroom walls covered up with cardboard boxes again, I think I would be okay. I wouldn’t be leaving my whole life behind me, I’d be taking it with me.
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Grade: Junior
School: Charleston School of the Arts
Supporting Teacher: Danielle DeTiberusThrough Our Eyes
Main Street was Aiken’s sad attempt at a downtown. There was one restaurant, one bar, one store, and one salon–which is where my mom was, getting her hair done. She had forced me to get out of the house, I hadn’t left it for something other than school in weeks. The Vintage Mall was exactly what it sounds like. An old building, with red neon signs outside spelling its name–most of which aren’t lit anymore. The beige paint is peeling off the sides, revealing its brick foundation. There are posters on the outside, which I presume didn’t always look so faded.
I didn’t recognize myself in the glass reflection of the front door. My greasy hair sat flat around my pale, bare face. I had acne for the first time, all across my forehead and cheeks. I wore my brother’s clothes, which sagged and drooped in all the wrong places. I couldn’t remember the last time I looked in the mirror, and I made no effort to fix my appearance, I had accepted defeat.
I was fairly certain that the store was closed, as the lights were off and no one was inside, but the doors were unlocked, so, I let myself in. I dragged my feet down the aisles; guns and hunting knives were displayed along the glass shelves. The carpet was green and lined with red flowers; it smelled like rotten milk–or maybe that was my sweatshirt. While surveying the vintage tea sets, a lens caught my eye in the corner of the store. Shuffled behind Coca-Cola merchandise from the 60s and Vietnam War propaganda was a Sony A7CII. As I blew the dust off of it a faint voice spoke behind me.
“You’ve got a good eye,” it said. Before I could think I reached for the pepper spray in my pocket and swung around.
“Calm down there, Lara Croft,” the dark figure lets out a wheeze. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust and make out the body a few feet away from me. It’s an old man, probably in his 80s, wearing a cowboy hat and boots. Underneath the hat peeks out bits of grey hair, which frame his sagging face. He’s hunched over a walker, which seems to be more of an extension of his frail arms than a tool to help him move. I put the pepper spray back in my pocket and mumble something along the lines of sorry.
“Do you want some candy?” He asks. I make him repeat the question to make sure I hear him right. I do.
“You know you really have to work on your kidnapping skills,” he chuckles and hobbles away. Both my lack of self-preservation and fervent curiosity lead me to follow him. I bring the camera with. He takes me across the store, through a small doorway into what I presume to be his office. There’s a wooden desk that takes up most of the room. An oil lamp lights the space, casting shadows of our bodies along the wallpaper. He reaches for something in his drawer and hands me a lolly-pop. I put it in my pocket, he seems to understand why.
“That belonged to my pops,” the old man nods his head to the camera in my hands. Each word is drawn out with a slow cadence. He takes a seat in the chair behind his desk, I stay standing, by the door.
“He brought it to Germany, never made it back though. His brother, my uncle, brought the camera home and shuffled it into the back of the store. I forgot we had it,” his accent dances with the lilt of the deep South.
“Do you want to hold it?” I surprise myself by speaking. I cringe at the way I talk. The old man doesn’t seem to notice. His face changes when I ask the question. His eyes look into mine, and I can finally see him. His pupils are milky and glazed over, like an old dog. The old man seems to know what my question is before I get the chance to ask it.
“I’ve owned this store for sixty years, just because I’m blind doesn’t mean I’m stupid,” he pauses, “and I’ve never held a camera before, I don’t want to break it--"
“Here,” I crouch next to him and put the camera strap around his neck. I teach him how to focus a picture, adjust the aperture, and stabilize a shot. His fingers glide over the buttons, he’s gentle, careful not to press anything too hard, always asking if he’s doing the right thing. After a few test shots, he asks a question.
“Do you mind if I take a picture of you? I want to remember this.” I let out an awkward teenage chuckle to ease the tension.
“I would love that,” I reply. I move a few steps backward, creating distance between him and I. He struggles a bit at first remembering where each button is. I offer to help, but he’s persistent on figuring it out alone. It’s during this intermediate passing time, his and my mutual struggle, when I realize who we are. We are two strangers, separated by decades of life in age, birth, sex, brought together by a piece of machinery. A piece of machinery built by people with their own lives, their own struggles, and fortunes. And somehow it has ended up in the hands of a fourteen-year-old, and a blind eighty-year-old. In that small, forgotten corner of the world, I had
found not only a camera but a man, with a story. It’s not that his world was this small office while my world was everything else, no, we shared it, we lived in it together.
I watch as he positions the shot and aims the scope at his target. He closes one eye, positions the other one down the barrel, and pulls the trigger. I close my eyes and smile.
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Grade: Sophomore
School: Academic Magnet Academy
Supporting Teacher: Monique CollinsLast First Day
Camp Rim Rock is situated in the West Virginian mountains, two hours away from the nation’s capital. My grandmother called its forests and slamming screen doors home sixty years ago, and I’ve called its gravel paths and ramshackle cabins the same for six summers. Whether it was at age six, first stepping into the Chippewa unit with a stack of books waiting to be read; or, when I was fourteen, returning after a three-year hiatus with a beaten-up CD player and The Essential Bob Dylan. Every year the walk from car to cabin was the same: shirt stuck to your back, the nauseating yet nostalgic smell emanating from the barn, and that ephemeral haze unique to the camp’s grounds. Rim Rock had been a reprieve from teenage angst and parental guidelines for generations, but that summer its promise of friendship bracelets tied on tanned wrists was plagued by a sense of dread. I was fifteen, and it was my last first day at camp.
Saying goodbye to my dad at the foot of Choctaw Hill, I stood to watch counselors and campers hike up and down the seventy-five-degree incline. It must have been close to the thousandth time I’d seen that hill, but something made me stop and look. The pale green forestry filtered sunlight on the gravel, painting shapes of pure and clean light. The painstakingly steep summit enabled fifteen-year-old girls like myself to plan pranks on Sioux unit and gossip as loud as possible during unlimited flashlight time. Each stone at the edge of the path had seen the yearly fleets of first years clinging to their parents and last years excitedly catching up with their friends about the past school year’s drama. That hill had seen over sixty years of girls forming lifelong friendships under the guise of summer shenanigans.
I began trudging up the hill, thinking about the upcoming two weeks. This hill never gets easier I swear. Are Joni and I bunkmates this year? Is Choctaw going to win Singdown? Will all my friends in other cabins come to cabin four during flashlight time? What horse will I get? If I get Royal again and she bites another hole in my favorite shirt I will flip out.
That may have been my last summer, but everything felt the same. The tiny campers were still shepherded to and from units by their counselors, the drama pavilion was still adorned with its fading red curtains, and cabin four was still my favorite in all of Choctaw. At the top of the incline, one of my oldest friends launched herself at me, almost sending me rolling down the hill.
“Melanie! Guess who you’re sharing cabin four with this summer!” Laura said, her knuckles white from the vice grip around my shoulders. Her voice sent me back to Chippewa when we first met and through the summers since evading sports counselors and lounging by the pool.
I shrugged her off and laughed before dropping my bag at the foot of the cabin. The three uneven stairs greeted me, almost beckoning campers to give the shack back the life it missed so badly during winter. “If it’s anything like the past six summers, I’m guessing Joni and Andrea?” I said, my tone sarcastic and playful.
“Just like every year,” Laura said, the crack in her smile betraying the same feelings of a fleeting childhood and the need to make this summer the best one yet.
“I can’t believe this is our last first day as campers. It just feels so surreal, y’know?” I said, already over the awkward introduction phase that weighs on the first day.
“Oh, I know, and this year is gonna be crazy. I heard that only half the showers work and there’s
no hot water,” Laura said, nodding her head towards the tiny house that served as our unit’s bathrooms. As I shifted my gaze around the Choctaw’s main fire circle, Andrea caught my eye through the screen windows of cabin four. I shot her a quick wave and grabbed my trunk before walking towards the door. As I entered cabin four, I knew it was home for the summer.
***
The only thing that chirped louder than the crickets on that humid summer night were the nine girls crowded into cabin four. Hours were spent recounting horrible dates, messy friendships, and a boundless game of truth or dare. After Joni’s watch beeped midnight, the flashlight that illuminated excited eyes belonging to my friends from visiting cabins finally went out. The silence that followed their departure was deafening. I crawled back to the top bunk I claimed earlier that day and looked for a reprieve from the continuous loop of thoughts plaguing my mind. The CD player I’d brought was too tempting to pass up, and Sufjan Stevens’ Carrie & Lowell was the soundtrack to my nightly reflections. Today was the last time I’d ever have to do a swim evaluation. I can’t believe Joni got back with her boyfriend, that’s the human equivalent of a paper plate. Only twelve more nights sleeping on mattresses thinner than a sheet of paper. Less than eight hours until day two. God, I’m going to miss this place.
Though it may have been the last time I’d have the rush of a first day at camp, the memories and friendships formed during those six sessions sandwiched between the Blue Ridge Mountains will follow me forever. Laura still calls to update me on her latest flings, Andrea still sends me new music she finds, and Joni and I still call once a week to debrief on each other’s lives. We may not be enclosed by rotted wood and suffocated by Joni’s Bath and Body Works collection, but the camaraderie crafted by fire pits and secrets swapped will always remain a constant in my life. I may have left Camp Rim Rock in the past, but a part of me will forever be stuck wandering its beaten-down paths.
2023 Young Writers Awards Winners
Short Story
(Fiction)
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Grade: Sophmore
School: Wando High School
Supporting Teacher: N. Audrey MooreThe Serpents of Eve
The well-renowned story of Eve has been told for many generations. In it, the serpent is known as Eve’s temptation. A being of cunning and greed, there to lead her astray from God’s righteous path. The Serpent is rumored to represent many things, the most infamous being the devil Satan. What if I told you that for hundreds of years, the story that was being told of her was tainted with inaccuracy.? How would your brain comprehend it? Could you even wrap your head around the fact that it’s wrong? Though you may answer yes, my doubt of you is extraordinary. Be that as it may, perhaps you might prove me wrong.
“The Garden of Eve” is a story made out to have occurred thousands of years ago, but the reality is something far more recent and modern. In fact, Eve’s story is happening right at this moment. Right as I speak these very words to you, Eve is struggling with her serpents. Yes, indeed, the very beings said to be the envoys of Satan himself. Eve is just a normal adolescent in this story. A student attending high school, who is just trying to make it to the end of the week. Ah...I knew you would be disconcerted. I can see the confusion in your gaze as clear as day, and practically hear the unspoken questions just hanging off the edge of your tongue. Remain patient, listener, for all will be answered in due time.
Now listen closely, and observe rigorously. Heed her story well, for you may re-learn a thing or two. Eve went through her day as usual. Every day was the same, repetitive thing. Like a marionette whose strings were pulled into a set routine. I suppose that leaves no room for unpleasant surprises she’d repeat to herself each day, even though the internal longing for any change - good or bad - grew more and more. For some reason today felt different. Almost as if something new would happen, and it excited Eve beyond compare. “You go on ahead without me Adam, I’ll see you at home.”
She said to him, before kneeling down to fetch something from her bag. As she stood, her gaze fell upon two boys, each with smoke coming from their lips.
“Doesn’t it get so tiring?” the boy on her right asked. She furrowed her brow in confusion and answered, “Doesn’t what get tiring?”
The boy on her left spoke this time, “Doing the same thing over and over again, every day.” Eve flinched, for no one could ever know just how badly she yearned to experience something new. “And what would make you think that?”
Her tone rose in a defensive manner that caused the boys to chuckle. Unfortunately for our young Eve, those weren’t just any boys, but the Serpents of Eve. And they were here to lure her away from the path of light.
In her mind's eye, she could see a clear warning. A sign telling her not to trust a word the Serpents said, and not to take “the forbidden fruit,” for that would be a sin and have dire consequences. In this story, though, there is no forbidden apple. Rather instead something far worse, and far more damaging. Our young Eve politely declined the Serpents’ offering, feeling slightly deflated at the loss of a change in pace. She’d continue her day, though, just the same as the rest of the ones before. Unsurprisingly the next day rolled around, and Eve felt that rush of anticipation yet again. Surely this time something new will happen? But nothing did. At the end of the day, Adam left Eve to tidy her things, and upon standing up, the two boys from the previous day had approached her. The boys - serpents - came offering the same thing, the forbidden fruit.
As you already know… in this telling there is no apple, but a thing that consumes teenagers by the dozen. Weed, vapes, all of these things plague humanity and destroy lives. And Eve was just so tempted by the rush. She decidedly caved to the influence of the Serpents, and took that dreaded puff of smoke. At that moment her reality turned over, flipped upside down, inside out, and nothing seemed the same. Even though she could feel that artificial happiness, even through feeling giddy, she saw just how damaging drugs were. She saw the pain, the sadness, and was filled with remorse.
This story of Eve is one of all humankind. Do you ignore the signs of destroying yourself? Do you choose to go down the path of pain just for a temporary rush? The true demons are your own selfish desires, so tread carefully, listener, for evil cannot influence the unwilling. Learn from our young Eve.
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Grade: Junior
School: Charleston County School of the Arts
Supporting Teacher: Danielle DetiberusProspective Apartment
Jack walked into the prospective apartment we’d be leasing, and I followed skeptically, letting his broad frame act as a shield between me and the empty rooms. “A change of scenery,” he’d said. “might be all we need to start moving on.”
I wasn’t overly compelled to agree. Change was something I’d become weary of; it left too many variables undefined, too many risks slip into the realm of what was possible. “How many bedrooms does it have again?”
“Three,” he said, eyeing the view outside the hallway window before peeking his head into the kitchen. “I thought we could turn one of them into a study and use the other for some type of pet for you. Rabbits are supposed to help with anxiety. Do you want a room full of rabbits?” I didn’t rush to reply, instead noting the large red stain on the carpet between the kitchen door and the entrance to the living room. “Do we have any idea what kind of people lived here before?”
“The landlord said they were Italians, loud ones from the sound of it,” Jack turned to face me when I pulled on his shirt sleeve to get his attention. “What?”
I motioned down at the stain without a word, weaving my fingers through his in a failed attempt to ground myself in reality.
“We would get the carpeting replaced,” he promised, his brow soft and eyes kind. “And it’s too bright a red to be blood. Blood would be more browned by now.”
I nodded, stepping around the stain anyway to lean against his shoulder. “What do you figure it is, then?”
“Tomato sauce,” he quipped before doing the worst Italian accent he could manage. “Imagine ze’ poor Italians dropping zer spaghetti and zer un meatballs on ze’ carpet.”
I smiled weakly and let out a sigh that I hoped would be interpreted as a chuckle or scoff before turning to look into the kitchen. It was a good size, comfortable, not small enough to make me feel trapped and not big enough to leave me exposed. I could believe a man cooked there, used his mother’s recipes while his wife poured the wine.
Maybe that’s what made the stain. It wasn’t necessarily a brutal encounter, someone desperately trying to escape the apartment, making it all the way to the front door only to be caught at the very last moment, stabbed in the stomach or back probably, to leave a stain that size and shape, feel hot blood spread out on the carpet beneath their trembling body as they took their last breaths. No. It was probably wine, red wine spilled by a woman with a loud and obnoxious laugh and an accent that sounded more like she was from Jersey than Europe or whatever cartoon Jack had gotten his impression from.
The living room was so empty it had an echo, like a clean white cave too bright for bats to sleep in, and the bathroom was non-threatening enough that I could picture myself standing in front of it’s mirror every morning, splashing my face with water from the faucet and trying not to remember what I dreamed about.
We were close to done with the tour and I was about ready to give Jack my unenthusiastic consent to sign the lease papers and start shopping for rabbit toys and hay online when we entered the second spare bedroom.
There were hooks drilled into the ceiling, heavy duty ones, strong enough to suspend a person from. I tried to imagine why someone would need hooks like that, a rope dancer maybe? Or a child who really wanted a hammock? But I had a one-track mind, forged for me by trauma shears cutting away at reason and a concrete buggy driven by the boogie man, a mind that skipped from hooks to chains, from chains to the woman shackled to them, suspended by sore wrists, dangling like a pendulum and praying for death to come save her.
“Maybe, we should wait for something to open up closer to your work,” I said quietly, even quieter than I had intended. It came out as little more than a whisper.
Even still, Jack heard me and wrapped his arm around my shoulder with a sigh. “Yeah, we can do that. But we need to work on being a bit more proactive, okay? A change needs to be made somewhere.”
I gave the hooks one last glance before following him back to the hallway, back around the stain and out of the apartment, leaving the woman to dangle in the bedroom until someone else with a mind as twisted as mine could find her mangled body. “I’m open to the idea of rabbits.”
-
Grade: Junior
School: Wando High School
Supporting Teacher: N. Audrey MooreToo Unimportant to Die
The girl took a breath. Down it traveled, down her throat, down through her windpipe and in through her body like it was the first she’d ever taken. And with that breath…that first fucking breath, the girl realized a thing she hadn’t even considered until now.
She didn’t want to do this.
She didn’t want to jump over this ledge, and spiral down to the waters far, far below like a sack of ruddy potatoes. But she wouldn’t be here if she didn’t want to… right? She’d thought about this…yes, yes, over and over, every which way. She’d planned this. She knew she had.
So why didn’t she want to do it?
The girl moved her foot forward, dragging with it a pebble no bigger than a Fruit Pastille. The closer her foot dragged to that terrible finish line, the further the pebble dragged too, until she crossed it, and the pebble lost its ground, and plummeted down to the wretched waters below.
It took 6.4 seconds for the pebble (which she’d named Geoffrey) to reach the black waves. She didn’t hear the sound it made. It probably wasn’t pleasant. But she did hear her heart drop in her chest, and sink in the pit of her stomach with a salty plunk.
The girl was an Irish lass. She’d grown up small – small home, small school, small farm…a small life. It was all she ever knew. That and potatoes.
The day she’d moved to the big city when things had really stopped being small. When she trudged down Wall Street with frost on her upper lip and saw all the big, big buildings, and the people in the big coats talking about their big, big jobs. It was that moment when the Irish lass realized the life, she’d been living just wouldn’t cut it anymore.
A Ford passed the lassie on her right, swerved, and its horn came blaring like a megaphone. Grabbing a steel counterbracing which was at her eye level, the lass turned, a doe caught in headlights, and she just managed to catch it in the corner of her eye: the bird. Thrown up by some perfectly manicured hand wrapped in the dead-ends of silver-blonde extensions which were being thrown in the wind like silk. The lass ignored the lady, turned back to the ledge, and inched forward.
February. Two months gone, two rents due, too many nights spent wondering, Why’d I leave Belfast? Why are the girls here so fucking pretty…
February was a tough month. And the lass had known that paying the bills in the city would be difficult from the get-go. They had told her that, her mam, her da. They had told her it would be harder paying rent for that apartment than finding an empty pub on St Paddy’s, and yet, she’d blown them off. Course she had.
The lass’s chin quivered as she gazed over the river. The bridge, she’d found it hardly an hour ago. It had looked tall enough online, but in person… Truly, she knew that not even the tallest bridge would seem high enough. No height could make her want to jump.
April – four months wasted, and four days living in the alley between Barrow and Bedford where the lass had watched those homeless blokes roast moist pastries over open-fire metal bins. Where she now roasted moist pastries over open-fire metal bins.
April had been awful.
Lips closed, her entire body shaking, the lass stepped as close as she could.
She had yet to take another. Breath. Breaths were for people who wanted to live…and…
Before she even knew it, the lass collapsed. Not forward to the ledge, nor sideways onto a pillar, but backwards all on the asphalt.
Her throat was dry and tasted stale, yet she didn’t feel the need to moisten it. Moist throats were for people who took breaths. And people who took breaths were people who wanted to…
Bawling now, the lass was. Big tears, not small tears. Not her usual tears. No, these were terrible, unfamiliar tears, huge, globular, thick ones, ones which ran down her face easily and left a red mark.
The tears were still going when she heard the tires. They were coming fast.
Make it quick… came the voice in her head.
But the lass didn’t want to die.
She sat up straight, still bawling, her vision blurred – she could barely see the blonde extensions whip in front of her face, could hardly feel the manicured hands on her cheeks.
But she could hear her own voice, croaky and disgusting.
“I was just ‘bout to kill myself…”
The lady said nothing at first. Then she laughed. And, wiping a tear from the lass’s face, and wiping one from her own, she said:
“Me too.”
Personal Essay
(Non-Fiction)
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Grade: Senior
School: Lucy Beckham High School
Supporting Teacher: Brooke CaspersonPerseverance and Evolution
My life has been a never-ending lesson of perseverance. I was almost 10. I hadn't lost all my baby teeth yet; I had just bobbed my brown hair right under my ears. Then my mom made the decision to move her, me, and my sister away from my hometown, friends, my father, and my childhood home. We only lived two hours away, but for me, we had crossed mountains and oceans to get to my new home. This was the catalyst, the start of my journey. I felt like my world was ending, which was a feeling I’d get a lot more comfortable with going forward.
I gave up on school; the concept of homework was lost to my poor memory. My mom was too busy keeping a roof over our heads to notice me struggling with my, at the time, undiagnosed ADHD and its side effects. Being twelve and dealing with chronic depression and anxiety plus being in middle school figuring out who I was, wasn't fun.
Covid hit at the end of my 8th grade year. But my life changed when I was a freshman. I fell into a nearly inescapable depression towards the end of 2020. Everything accumulated on a night 5 days before my 15th birthday, but first, I need to introduce Charlie.
For years, my little sister, Gabby, begged for a kitten. We had a cat, but she was always outside, and Gabby wanted a kitten of her own. So, we got Charlie for Gabby’s 11th birthday. He is the most incredible cat I’ve ever had. His little smile, his love for cuddles, and his heart full of love brought new life to our family. But I was still trapped. That night in December, I felt like a failure. I wasn’t good enough, I was too weird, annoying, untalented, and worthless. My brain was broken. Every single time I tried climbing out of the void I was in; some new darkness would pull me down. Clouds of negativity swirled around in my mind as I reached for a pill bottle, crying, but I shook the bottle a little too loudly. I heard a gentle mew and turned to see I had woken Charlie up. Just seeing me made him so happy, his purrs traveled across the room and punctured my weak little heart. I paused, looked at the bottle, looked back at him, his purrs increasing in volume. I looked at the bottle again, my eyes swelling with tears, and I put the bottle back. I curled up to him, his sweet purrs, like a lullaby, soothed my mind long enough to put me to sleep.
February 18, 2021, I woke up in a great mood, went to school unusually cheerful, and was greeted by my best friend surprising me with a little stuffed frog, which made me giddy all day. I think that was the best day of school I ever had. I got home, did a little of the online equivalent of window shopping, and actually got started on my schoolwork. And then the fire alarm went off. I rolled my eyes, thinking my sister triggered it with her mediocre cooking skills, until I saw her and my mom running into my mom’s room. I followed in curiosity and immediately panicked at the sight of my mother's closet spontaneously on fire.
I ran full speed outside to the apartment's fire extinguisher, waiting for help and for someone to call 911. I handed the extinguisher to my mother. It was dead. I ran back outside. Our neighbor came with his extinguisher to help. I hobbled on the beat-up road, barefoot, to get another one. Our neighbor’s extinguisher was dead too, and by the time I got back, it was too late. My mom’s room was filled with demonic fog, I dashed to grab my bookbag and caught a breath of that soul sucking smoke. I pulled my sister out of our room in a blind panic. She was trying to get Charlie. I screamed for the fire department to save him. I kept rationalizing that he was a cat, he’d be fine, everything would be fine.
5 years in that apartment, it was a crappy apartment, but my mom spent so much time and money making it home, and now, it was all gone. Charlie was 9 months old. He died hiding under my bed, scared, and alone, and it was all my fault.
My mind went into autopilot in an effort to protect myself from myself. I had no feeling, but the most basic emotions and reacted completely on impulse. I used to feel like I was consumed by a void, but now I had become it.
Sophomore year starts and I get quarantined for a whole month, my mom almost dies on Gabby’s birthday and the husk that I had become pushed all of my friends away. But things were looking up. I fell in love with acting and got into our school's first musical. I co-founded our school's colour guard and fell in love with that. Starting my Junior year, I even helped create the Rocketry Club! Most importantly, I broke free from the autopilot. It took two years and a failed relationship, but... I woke up. I’m alive again.
There’s an important part of my story I saved for last. At about 1:00 in the morning, February 19th, 2021, a litter of kittens were born. After a series of events, which I refuse to believe were coincidences, we ended up adopting two brothers: Bobby and Loki, and my healing journey wouldn’t be what it was if not for them. We recently got a new kitten too, Athena!!
As much as the fire was destructive it was crucial to my evolution and growth as a person. I’m now a Senior, I’m growing out my now auburn hair, I’m turning in assignments on time, I reconnected with my old friends and I’m healing, finally, after so much pain, I’m healing.
-
Grade: Junior
School: Charleston County School of the Arts
Supporting Teacher: Danielle DeTiberusSummer Days
From the age of five onwards, my parents sent me off to my grandparents’ house during the summer, to spend a couple weeks exploring the woods and helping my grandpa with his farm. Those days are defined in my memory by my grandmother’s unending attempts to convert me to Christianity. She would read aloud from the bible when I was in the room, and the TV was constantly playing grainy recordings of Tammy Faye Messner—at least until my grandmother, Edith, found out that Tammy supported LGBT rights. Then Ms. Messner was never seen again.
I was raised atheist by my parents, and my mother had forbidden Edith from taking me to church, but Edith just got around that by sending me to Sunday school.
The teacher, James, had a strange fascination with Hell. He spent hours describing the tortures that souls underwent there, making funny noises that were meant to replicate the sounds of screams and bones breaking.
Edith told him about my atheism in a whisper, like it was some dirty secret, with one handheld up to her face, sheltering her words from prying eyes, and the other holding my hand.
The next Sunday, he called me up to the front of the class, standing at the front of the room with his arms crossed while the five or so other children in the room stared at me.
Edith never called him by his name, he was just “a man of God.” That’s what he was, for sure, a man of God, with a real sense for justice, so he put his hands on my shoulders and told the class that I was already damned.
“She’s going to be flayed,” James said, not looking at me.
He pressed his fingers into my arm, hard enough to hurt. “They’re going to peel her skin like an onion.”
He pointed straight up. “Right?”
The class mumbled an affirmative; he wasn’t satisfied with that.
“Right?” James said, louder, nodding when he got a chorus of agreements.
He let go of me, pushed me back towards my seat, then clapped his hands together in front of my face. “All your bones crushed just like that.” He said it quietly, just for me.
I went back to Edith’s house that day and told her that I changed my mind, I believed in God, just so long as I didn’t have to go back. I’d be a good Christian girl, I’d be whatever she wanted me to be.
I came out to Edith as bisexual when I was fifteen.
“What?” she peered over her reading glasses.
“You know,” I said, shifting uncomfortably. “I… play for both teams.” At that point, the Sunday school incident had faded into distant memory, and I was holding onto the faint hope that Edith would take the news well.
“Come here,” Edith said after a moment, gesturing imperiously at me like a queen at court, confident that she would get her way as she always did.
She led me into the hallway, then pointed at the carpeted floor. “Get on your knees and pray,” she said, her voice as hard and immutable as it had always been. Edith was not someone who was ever refused.
“Absolutely not,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. I didn’t move.
“Get down on your knees and pray,” she said again, and it wasn’t a request.
I got down on my knees and prayed, God rest my soul. Edith covered my eyes with her palms, her skin dry and flaking, our breathing the only sound.
Last Thanksgiving, my cousins and Edith rented a house by the beach, a hulking thing with chipped blue paint on the ceiling and a porch that sagged towards the ocean. When the food was finished, we all went out to play soccer with a deflated ball that made a noise like a scream whenever we kicked it.
I could tell that Edith was declining. The cancer that she barely survived, the pneumonia that left her lungs weakened, her weak bones that fracture when she’s hugged too hard, it was all coming back with interest. The shifting of the sand made it too unstable for her to walk on, so she hobbled down the boardwalk that led to the start of the pier with the help of my shoulder and her cane. Edith sat at the end of the wood with a megaphone that she’d stolen from the neighbor and called out rule violations and the winner of each game, smiling along with the rest of us.
She braided my hair when we got back inside, with a hard-bristled brush that she’d owned for two decades. She detangled it carefully, with patience and some sort of lotion from a tiny red bottle that smelled like pomegranates. Despite the tremors that shook her hands, Edith was gentler than I had ever known her to be. All her energy was spent on staying alive, and she had nothing left to hate me with.
Christmas Eve was the coldest day of that year, the fountain in front of the church frozen in movement and icicles hanging from the trees. I spent it in church with Edith. I was given a candle to light, and I warmed my hands over the flame while the low hum of a hundred people praying became a litany in the air. The streets were deserted by the time we walked home, and Edith gripped my scorched hand with all the strength that her brittle bones could muster.
“I’m so glad you’re finally on the path of God,” she said, utterly sincere. “I love you.”
She had a habit of talking like a priest and meaning every word, with her old-blood Spartanburg accent drawing out her vowels in long lines.
“Love you too,” I said, and it might have even been true.
-
Grade: Sophomore
School: Burke High School
Supporting Teacher: Cassie KeenePalmetto
I was out of school for a whole month in a facility that surprisingly wasn’t as far as the cops drove me. This facility is called “Palmetto”...
Although my mom made the ‘crazy’ house seem bad, it was actually quite fun and the food was better than her cooking. They also respected my vegan diet and gave me fake eggs and not real ones. They may taste like plastic, but I rather that and not a baby bird…
Enough on eggs, more on the experience.
The first time I got there it looked like a desert, or a plain… But with grass? I did see the city bridge and some houses but they were over the alligator infested waters. Once I got an okay look outside, I got inside this small building and I didn’t really a good look, but I thought it was a prison or dog shelter from the way the plastic panel separated the officer and me with a counter under it. They told me to place my belongings on the tray and so I did. I went into the waiting room which looked a little… Fancy… pane glass windows, white walls, two sorted bathrooms with black doors, marbled flooring and a small cactus plant named Nemo on the table where another teenager sat down drawing…
That's when my name was called even before I sat down.
“Xania Zan?”
I hate when they don’t say my name right… XOLA XAN... That is my name. I sat down in a chair in the small gray room. Honestly I didn’t like the room - the small window, a bookshelf to my right that was off center and no books at all. The floor was covered with a rug. I don’t think it was ACTUALLY yarn. And it was probably this lady’s hopes and dreams. That was all in her room besides that computer every doctor has… She was also rude.
She scoffed at me when I asked, “how many months?” She can’t really get mad, she was pregnant. She told the other person, but got mad when I asked. Oh well.
After she took my picture and literally ‘shooed’ me out of her room with her hands I was back in the clean room where I WANTED to be instead. Then before I could talk to the other girl I was being dragged to the new ‘house’ that I was staying in for two weeks. Once I got inside, I liked it better. It looked a lot like my old room in West Ashley! Brown wooden polished flooring, beige creamy walls, and a random wooden pillar which I didn't have back then but I always wanted one. The eating room was visible and looked the same as the ‘living room’ but it had a tv and crayons, markers too! No pencils though… I was then greeted with a small empty book with “XXan” on it and a little black girl who looked like little O from “Odd Squad.” Honestly, she wasn't a good person before she left but I’ll skip that.
The front desk lady told me we were having broccoli which is my favorite! It's like they knew! Then the girl that was in the same waiting room as me appeared. She really was nice and very stable. She told me how she got here and honestly; I would have slammed my door too if someone broke my phone for forgetting to charge the dang controllers! It's stupid…
I came here ‘cause my stepbrother was nagging me at church. I kept pleading with him to leave me be. I told my stepdad. I told my mom. I EVEN TOLD THE PASTOR AND THE DOG! No one told him to stop, but they told me to move away… I did that… He follows… So, I snapped and cursed out a whole tornado. That's when everyone yelled at me but never told him to stop pestering me… So, I ran across the street, nearly getting hit by a truck, “I don’t care!” is what I said before going to the mental hospital. I had to stay here for a few weeks and surprisingly I wanted to stay.
The food was breathtaking… in the morning: eggs, bacon, pancakes or waffles in the afternoon: Ribs, broccoli, smashed potatoes, and corn. Then at night it was a big treat! I don’t even wanna tell anyone what it was! This didn’t seem like a mental facility! This was a break from humanity! They even had therapy for everyone including me. It was relaxing, especially with the nice smell of lavender alone in my room.
The frogs chirping and the fireflies I caught outside, eating their leaves and glowing in the glass bottle that looked like an ‘old timey’ honey jar.
I closed my eyes as my wind chime sang outside my window next to everyone else’s.