Category: Creative Writing

Vicky Shi (9) | STAFF REPORTER

If one is so lost

Why bother finding a way out

If all is already gone?

Nevermind what the old man said read more

Elizabeth Rossi (11) | STAFF REPORTER

Town population: 6,918.

Non-human population: Unknown. 

Rowan adjusted the wire frames atop his nose bridge, pencil flicking to and fro between his fingers within the other hand as he stared down at the newly scribbled statement front and center of his journal. He pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, feeling the gap between as he sunk further into thought. The diner was humming with the clattering of dishes and utensils scrapping the contents off of them, a sound that he didn’t mind but Kirsty seemed to feel differently. The dark-haired girl’s lips were pulled down, brows drawn together in a scowl that seemed to be permanent as she glared at nothing in particular. Her hands were fidgeting with one of the many braids trailing over her shoulder as a few had come undone from their earlier hunt. Even Mila was uncharacteristically quiet considering the ecstatic thrum she would normally have about her, half asleep against the pane of the window. The blonde’s ringlets were partially uncurled but still, somehow, retained enough shape to practically cushion her lolled head. She had felt sick from the start of the evening up until now, nauseous and unwilling to nurse any drinks or food. Mila had told them that the house they’d visited reeked so profusely it hurt her head but the others hadn’t smelled anything.  read more

Paria Shahir (9) | STAFF REPORTER

He was headed for downtown. 

As the old man stepped out of the bus, he placed his hat back on his head, adjusted his coat, and set off down the simmering pavement with his leather loafers. After a few minutes of walking through the overwhelming commotion of the streets, he arrived at the art store. He opened the door to chime the bell hung from the ceiling, and entered the dim shop redolent of wood and paint.  read more

Elizabeth Rossi (11) | STAFF REPORTER

Deadbolts, check. Door chains, check. Peephole covered, check.

The buzz of a rerun Tuesday night sitcom filled the dank living room with a cyclical laugh track. In the dingy kitchen, painted by the acidic yellowed bulb of the ceiling light was a kettle upon the stove. The gaseous flames, indigo and abstract, licked wildly as they sparked beneath the griddle but hardly bathed the iron in heat, seemingly taking their time with the matter. Pinned against the decoloured wallpaper, its peels having curled forward from age, stood the grandfather clock, rigid and familiar. It’d been a week since the last incident when their security cameras had stopped working. Then the time before that, their garage doors had opened while they were away at work.  read more

Elaine Chang (11) | Staff Reporter

Matthias knew he made a mistake the moment the guard’s iron-plated knee crammed itself into his back. He tumbled forward, landing face-first against the craggy ground of the ore mine as a singular, lambent ore rolled from his open fist. read more

Luana Wu (9) | STAFF REPORTER

It was one of those days. By “those days,” I meant the days when the prince would come gallivanting down the streets, with a whole parade of horses and men behind him. The soldiers were waving banners of the country’s flag on them, while the prince was throwing coins into the crowd. Much to my annoyance, people pushed and shoved to get them. There was nothing better than free money, but maybe if the crown took better care of its citizens, then maybe everyone wouldn’t be so desperate for some coins.  read more

Elaine Chang (11) | Staff Reporter

“Why don’t you go up and clean the attic?” My mother suggests after another stream of my insistent complaints. “You might find something you like.” read more

Luana Wu (9) | STAFF REPORTER

A man was leaning against a lamppost. He held a burning cigar between his fingers, and a hat pulled low over his face. He was dressed all in black: black pants, black shirt, and a black jacket. He casually stood with one ankle crossed over the other. He looked like trouble, as if his attire wasn’t a good enough hint.  read more

Paria Shahir (9) | STAFF REPORTER

I strolled down a pathway of leaves, hand in hand with the wind. This valley, secluded from the rest of the world, is formed from opposite rows of trees, standing as fleets moored to the earth and unshaken against the herald of battle ushered in by the breeze. As I drifted down carelessly, a gust of frenzied wind sprung from behind. The wind, once my companion, snaked its way out of my hand, and right then, whispered the news of a distant deluge approaching from above. read more

Raha Rejali (12) | STAFF REPORTER

My dearest Alex,

From the way you smile, to the way your gaze softens when I laugh, there is something about you that is not quite like anything I’ve ever seen. When you hold my hand, it feels like the threads of all my wounds are pulled shut. Every nerve in me lights up, just like your eyes do when you talk about what excites you. read more