Maybe Flowers aren’t that Lovely After all

Paria Shahir (9) | STAFF REPORTER

She climbed up the hill alone. During her ascent, her eyes roamed in search of the white poppies. She plucked each one she found by its delicate sprig, as others flailed with the breeze around her. Once she had gathered a basket full of pearl-white flowers, she sat down under the flourishing cherry tree on top of the hill, from where the entire town with all its vibrancy was visible.
She settled under the shade and began to write, addressing her love, who was entangled in the chaos of the battlefield somewhere remote. She wrote of love, of the longing to cry in his arms. She rendered her heart in words, speaking of the town news, the apple pie that had filled the house with its scent that morning, and of spring. read more

Ruin Incarnate Wears Ribbons in her Hair

Elizabeth Rossi (11) | STAFF REPORTER

Francis couldn’t remember the last time she’d lived; truly and most unapologetically lived. It didn’t feel real, her days more empirical than whole experiences themselves. One more day simmered beneath the scorch of her own hatred. One more night of deserving nothing short of the next day. Her good eye, hazel unlike the dulled grey of her left, tracked the alcohol’s curl within the small glass in her gloved hand. She never liked drinking; didn’t do much except hurt her head but the burn of it was grounding. The straw-haired girl pressed the rim to her lips chewed with cuts and the past’s brandings, downing the sharp liquid at a paced rate. read more