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Young Writer's Society

“Aurora Borealis” by Za’Niyah A.

If it were a human, the term “beautiful” would be worn out, a word forever lingering in her ears.

Something that would have us all stunned and shocked. The sight of her flowing, purple and blue hair curling as it went down her back, her eyes a deep, sexy, forget-me-never blue. Heads would turn as she strutted down the sidewalk, her face struck with lighting, her body curved like a smooth granite. Even though she felt safe, her face screamed with a soft red, from her nose to her ears, and she ran, her heels going ‘clap, clap, clap’ against the floor.

The Starbucks bell chimes, announcing ‘The princess is here! The princess is here!’ and only then, everyone would turn and look at a queen, emerging through the door. “Who is this chick? Who is she? She wants to steal attention from us, Jamil and Brittany.”

And they’d snarl and huff, all full of their stuff, while a simple science project looked out of place. “I don’t understand, I’m just really new?” she said, blinking and thinking. “I don’t understand this body, and I don’t understand you.”

“I’m from the sky, from the stars, and I’m down here for a visit is all.” She said, pointing up at the sky. “You’re being mean, but it’s okay! Aurora will be here for another 3 days!” And with that, she turned and marched out, gone from their sights. But everyone remember, Aurora was there.

Anthology: Andres del Castillo

Andres Del Castillo

Agua & Unu

Bolivia sleeps in thirst for water

   A land-locked country scarred by its mirage:

      Her scars found in a colonized story,

         Where only mountains and deserts exist.

                         The Spanish conquistador yells agua.

                The thirsty Inca whispers unu.




                  These two words are the reason I exist,

                     And why my ancestors still yell agua,

                        But below the skin whisper unu.

                   To be mestizo isn’t a rare story,

                      Nor is the cause (which produced the mirage),

                         But pain from 1524 festered—thirsty for water.



                                                     An ancestor long ago whispered unu,

                        But was ravished before she could yell agua.

                             Her anguish is the reason I exist;

                          Birthed from her invasive, harmful story,

                       Is my culture and its thirst for water.

                                       Birthed from her woe, is B’livia’s mirage,    



                   And its lack to heal wounds ‘tween unu,

               Bolivia’s inland state, and Spanish agua.

           The families born of this same story,

                       Heal through quelling the story by mirage.

             But only one element can exist,

                 That has the talent to heal wounds. Water



       Can break the mirage, and mend unu’s

                  Colonization. Then the drought will end.

       Bolivia is stuck in a mirage,

          Hankering, craving, coveting water.

              In a land-locked country, this can’t exist.

                 Within the mirage lies the true story.



                  In a peninsula of agua,

                     I grew to look past the pain that exists,

                 And use my wealth of water for unu

                           And agua. I’m the sixth gen’ration

                              Of mestizo B’livia, and water 

                           Has healed my wounds.


1 Agua (Ah-gwah): translates to water in the Spanish language

2 Unu (oo-noo):  translates to water in the indigenous Incan language of Quechua 

3 Mestizo: A historically Spanish term for a person of both Indigenous and Spanish descent

4 1524: historical year the Spanish Empire first arrived in South America


Young Writer's Society

“My Strange but Beautiful Hair” by Janya

Janya D

My Strange But Beautiful Hair

I have to take out the knots that tangle in my hair. 

Feeling miserable every time.


My hair never finds peace, 

even when I let it breathe. 


My mom braiding my hair tightly, 

barely getting freedom to move my eyebrows or turn my head. 


Dead locks of hair fall off 

while she combs half of my hair. 


Some gets in my face all of the time. 

And I sometimes be simply annoyed. 


She braids very fastly, but steady.

The tears that was in the corners of my eyes start to find a way to come out. 


It hurts but it’s okay, 

because in the end I feel the opposite when I look in the mirror. 

Young Writer's Society

“Leaping for a Dream” by Sofia Darquea

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Young Writer's Society

“And So it Begins” by Dynie Mesoneuvre

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Young Writer's Society

“Worms” by J. Crowder

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Young Writer's Society

“The Ballad of Him & His Brain” by Justina Ruiz

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