Thawing by Liz H., Corning-Painted Post Middle School, Fiction.

There is a small fire dancing in front of me, and she is sitting on the opposite side, but her features are difficult to see. I can see light gathering on her cheekbones and on her nose and forehead and glinting in her dark hair—but the rest is shadow, the same forbidding darkness heavy in the air around us.
“Oh,” she exhales. “You’re shivering.” She stands, leaving me to wonder why I hadn’t noticed that I was shivering and if her eyes actually were amber, or if it was a trick of the light.
Cool hands touch my neck, soft fingertips resting in the hollows of my collarbones. After a moment of hesitation, she sits behind me and her palms rest on my shoulder blades. In spite of her cool hands, her body is warm, and her presence fills me with an incredible thawing sensation that I had forgotten could be conjured.
Her arms snake around my neck and she relaxes, lays her cheek on the back of my neck, skin on skin. Shadows flicker on the wall like a test pattern and if I tilt my head just right, I can see a sprinkle of stars in a royal navy sky, spilled salt on a diner table.
“I’ve been thinking,” she starts.
“I should hope so.”
There is a sigh in the darkness and I can feel her exasperated breath on the underside of my jaw. “Yeah, I was thinking about just how much I love it when dogs lick my toes.”
“I’m sorry. Please share.”
“Okay, so life is kinda like stone.” One arm slides off of my neck and meanders its way down my back. “There are boulders and there is gravel. Boulders can be turned into gravel but gravel cannot be turned into boulders. If you look at trust like a big rock, if you screw up, it’s like you chipped the rock. The rock no longer has as much weight, but it’s still there. But if you were to bulldoze El Capitan, per se, you could not restore it to its former glory.”

“I think it’d be awful hard to demolish El Capitan with just a bulldozer.”
“I think it’d be awful hard for you to shut up.”
I bit my tongue until she started talking again.
“You can additionally look at your life like a rock. Every second another bit is chipped off, and the size gets smaller and smaller until your existence is smashed into oblivion and nothing regarding your existence is viable.”
I couldn’t stop myself. “Cheery.”
“Don’t make me smash your rock.”
I move my hand up to my neck to touch hers. “A rocky situation indeed.”
She buries her face in my neck. “Have I mentioned what an absolute pleasure it is to spend time with you?”
I squeeze her hand. “It’s completely normal to—“
“Shut up,” she murmurs, muffled. “You rock. Now, be quiet.”
I love her. I want to say it. But I have been silenced.

Everything by Seika D., Corning-Painted Post Middle School, Nonfiction.

Sometimes I just like running past life. People say that I’m going to miss out on life this way, but I don’t think of it as missing out, I think it’s a whole new way of living. A whole new way of seeing. When seeing things from afar, you can finally see everything as everything. A poet named Wallace Stevens wrote a poem called Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.
He says,
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
I was never philosophical, but in moments of clarity, I see Stevens explaining the interconnectedness between a human and a human, a human and a bird. That we are a whole, that we are everything.
I see everyone, everything together while I’m beside them, not with them. There’s a sort of exhilaration when you’re on the outside. You run past everyone and hear them shout their calls to follow their ways. It’s beautiful. It’s tempting. But I always felt more alive-no, I felt a different kind of alive. It’s almost like I’m in space, drifting around this planet. I can breathe where there’s no air, I can watch from where others can’t or neglect to see. It’s like there are thirteen ways of looking at everything.
One is to see everything as everything. Everything as one singular soul beating. Seeing the pond not just the water.
Two is to see detail in everything. Watch where the first line ends and the second line begins. Seeing where the cracks are widening and where it has been filled, by looking closely.
Three is to see love in everything. The simple hug, the passionate kiss, the way two hands swing while holding one another.
Four is to see hatred in everything. To see when an argument is bursting, and how pain can be inflicted and cause a swelling of loathing and rage.
Five is to see fear in everything. Looking at the way fist are colliding with an innocent, and to be scared by how truly terrifying everything is.
Six is to see the repetition in everything. Watching the constant repeat of things, seeing the same patterns being made, the same circle being drawn.
Seven is to see endlessness in everything. Watching the limitless infinity, the everlasting continuum.
Eight is to see limitations in everything. To see where everything ends, where the edge finally meets, blocking the path onward.
Nine is to see beauty in everything. To constantly watch the beautiful girl and her sun-kissed hair and illuminating eyes.
Ten is to see ugliness in everything. Looking in a mirror and feeling unsatisfied, looking at others and feeling distaste.
Eleven is to see slowness in everything. To see the lagging and sluggishness in everything, making everything more crawling then walking.
Twelve is to see hurriedness in everything. Seeing that even the fast,
isn’t fast enough.
And thirteen is to see everything from the outside. By watching everything from beside them, not with them.

I Regret by Sailor O, Corning-Painted Post High School, Fiction.

It was a cold afternoon. Gray clouds covered the sky and they cast a gloomy feeling over the city. Despite the cold, there were still plenty of people in the market place. Suzan stood outside the shop where her husband worked; he should be coming out soon, and then they could go home. The chilly weather bit through her shawl and she tugged it tighter around her. In spite of the miserable weather, she enjoyed watching the marketplace. There was always that hum of the people as they went about their errands, accompanied by the sound and sights of wares trading hands and animals making noises.
And there was that one small girl, huddled next to the bakery. She had copper colored hair that was covered with an oily rag. Her little shawl and shift were nothing but rags and her face was covered in grime. As people walked by her, she held out her thin hands, in hope of receiving something from them. Some people put a coin or two into her hands, and others gave her crumb of bread or other, while others walked by without a second glance.
Suzan had given the girl a small piece of bread the other day. She wished that she could do something more to help the girl, but as matters were, she and Marcus could hardly support themselves. Suzan wondered if she was actually helping the girl. Was it worth it to eat something that would keep you alive for one more miserable day?
She was startled out of her reverie by her husband. “Are you ready to go?” Marcus had a had appeared and was pulling on his woolen gloves. Suzan nodded. He shivered. “I could really go for some hot soup tonight,” he said looking at her. “There’s nothing like warm soup on a cold day.” “That could be arranged,” Suzan replied with a smile. Her smile faded as she took one last glance at the girl and then followed Marcus back home.

“Suzan dear, did you hear what happened?” Suzan turned to face Mrs. Grady, their elderly neighbor. “No, what happened?” she replied as she hung up the last of the wash on their small balcony; Mrs. Grady leaned on the railing of her own balcony. “A small girl was found in front of the bakery. Looked like she was trying to warm herself next to the grates, but the chill was too much. Froze right through, the poor thing.” Suzan paused. “What did she look like?” “According to Mr. Allen across the hall, she had copper hair and was about 8 years of age.” Suzan stopped hearing Mrs. Grady. It must’ve been that little girl she had seen so often. I will never be able to help her, never be able to give her a better life. I had the power to do so and didn’t use it. She sighed. She could feel the guilt resting upon her. I regret…

My Only Regret by Anonymous, Horseheads High School, Fiction.

Staring blankly at the dark gray walls, I pulled my hair back into a sleek ponytail. I shifted in my chair, noticing how cold the metal felt against my skin. A hardened looking man entered the room. As the door shut, the light flickered. He sat down, took out a notepad, and clicked his pen.
“Now, tell me everything.”
Growing up, my family was in a constant state of dysfunction. My sister, Sam, used to run away to a friend’s house to escape. I remember wishing she would take me with her. When she turned eighteen, she moved into an apartment with her boyfriend, John. I had always hated John. He was charismatic, but selfish, irresponsible, and impulsive. He would hit Sam, verbally abuse her, and she informed me that he had pushed her down a flight of stairs three winters ago. He soon turned to controlling her and holding her back from advancing in life. He didn’t allow her to attend college after her high school graduation. I later found that he had been cheating on her as well.
Sam was admitted to an Adult Psychiatric Unit soon after. They said she was a risk to herself. She was kept, locked away, for a month. When she was released, it was under one circumstance. She had to return home to her family. However, her return was not received with open arms. There were many conflicts around the house. Sam and I got along every so often, but she constantly felt as if I had betrayed her. Perhaps she was right.
After having months to get used to the audible fighting around the house, I was taken by surprise, one day after returning home, to find a blood soaked piano room. My brother, James, had locked himself in the bathroom, while Sam was screaming at my mother. I could barely make out her face, through all of the blood and swelling.
From the piano room, my mother called my father. She shuffled around with bloody tissues and her car keys, pushing Sam towards the door. She called my father again, telling him to drive James to the hospital in the other car after they leave. I tried asking questions but I received nothing. Then, I tried my luck in joining them in her car, but Sam refused to go if I joined. I remember watching her face as my mother drove away.
I walked back inside, careful not to hurt my bare feet on the ground as I padded back up the long, black driveway. From the second my toes crossed the threshold of the house, I was knocked to the ground by my father rushing past. He leaped off the porch, disregarding the few steps underneath him. A distant weeping tore me away from observing the car. I hurried to the bathroom.

There, I found James sitting on the edge of the toilet. He had multiple groups of three bloody lines covering his face, neck, and chest. From behind his ear to his clavicle, four lines bled down to his shirt.
I asked him what happened and he inhaled deeply before answering. Between words, James croaked out apologies. He had said that it started over a minute conflict but it turned into him expelling all of his anger on her. He had broken Sam’s nose and cheek bone, but James left with only scratches on his face. It was clear that he was the attacker.
Quickly following his weeping, my father ushered us to the car before speeding to the emergency room. On the way, James lashed and yelled, calling Sam a drug addict and an alcoholic. My father and I kept our heads forward, not showing any emotions while James thrashed around in the back seat.
I don’t remember much the emergency room, but I remember Sam refusing to look at me. Besides that, I don’t remember much other than Sam refusing to press charges on James. Three days later, Sam committed suicide, leaving me with nothing for an explanation. I know now it was because of John and James.
“So, that’s why you killed your brother and Sam’s Boyfriend?”
“My only regret, Officer, is that I didn’t do it sooner.”

Code Red by Serena V., Horseheads High School, Fiction.

This wasn’t my choice. The only reason we’re here is because Camille said so. Did she know what Lionel was capable of? Did she understand the weight of our suicidal alliance? If only she would listen for once. But reason was far behind as we marched to the locked gates and towering walls of the Sector Coterie. We stopped abruptly, and darted behind a sand dune to gather our large group.
“Do we all remember the plan?” whispered Lionel. He stared at the circle.
“Okay, I totally do, but just in case anyone else doesn’t, you should tell us again,” replied Lennex.
Lionel explained, “Virgos, Sagittarius and Scorpios. You’re our defense. Secure the main entrances and don’t let anyone past. The rest of us-”
“Whoa no way am I staying at the gates,” I interrupted. “I’m coming with you! This is just as much about me as you.”
“Keaton!” hissed Camille. “Keep your voice down.” Her gaze adjusted to the guards.
“Thanks, Camille,” said Lionel. Camille looked at him only for a moment before her eyes fixed on the ground. Her face reddened and I looked away.
“He is the only one who understands the code,” voiced Rider.
“I guess a Sagittarius is coming with the rest of us, who are on the offense.”
We double checked our weapons and made sure we all knew to meet back at the North West tower. After that, we started. Getting in was easy. Getting into the top-of-the-line high security programing room was more difficult. Once we left the Virgos and Scorpios, our guns came out. The Aries were at the front of our phalanx happily maiming anything that moved. I was more reluctant.
Little by little, our crowd became smaller. A few Gemini and Capricorns split down the winding halls. Soon it was Rider, Camille, Lionel and I.
“This is it.” Rider breathed as we arrived to the teleporter that would take Lionel and I to the programming room.
“Are you ready?” Lionel asked me. My mouth went dry. Before I could answer, Camille stepped inside the teleporter with Rider.
“See you up there”
“You’re coming?” I asked.
“Why wouldn’t we Keaton?” Rider managed to say before they were gone.
Lionel and I arrived at the final floor, alone. I ducked around a corner to see where Rider and Camille were hiding. When they weren’t, I looked at Lionel with surprise. That’s when we knew what happened. Because just then, the deafening cry of an alarm sounded. Lionel and I bolted down the maze of hallways, looking for the programming room.
“Here!” I yelled. I opened the door and we both shot into the office. I slammed the door shut and faced Lionel. But Lionel wasn’t alone.
“Keaton!” Camille screamed through the hand that was silencing her. Rider, struggling in the corner, attempted to loosen the guards grip on him. Lionel looked at me displaying the handgun I gave him.
“The Code?”

2015 Writing Competition Winners

A number of extremely talented students sent in writing submissions from all over the area.  In the next few weeks, many of these submissions will be posted online, here on our site and on our various social media sites.  I am so proud of these students and their work; it takes true courage and commitment to your art to submit in a contest like this one. The Leaders After Hours Guest Editors and myself thoroughly enjoyed reading all of the submissions.  Due to limited space in Hawk Talk 2015, we were not able to offer publishing to all of our writers and artists, despite the fact that we were incredibly impressed with everyone’s work.  The authors we chose for our May 8 publication are featured here, and we look forward to seeing more submissions to future contests!

-Megan Cole, Educational Coordinator, The Leader.

#Charlie by Alex L., Corning-Painted Post High School

Charlie,
Takes to twitter to tweet and tell her thoughts.
Misunderstood girl captured in an internet frenzy.
Uses the hashtag to repel the hate and heal the holes left in her heart.
Wants to be wanted and not left alone to her own thinking.
There was a kinking in her childhood, upbringing the desire to help to helpless and care for all who are seen undesirable.
“The animals,” Charlie states, “they all need homes, and I have seen it written. These creatures must not be bitten and left in the cold.”
Plastering her morals throughout social media,
she dreams that one day her beliefs will be published in a worldwide newspaper.
Although Charlie is lost in her teenage years, age will beautify her exceptional soul.

#Charlie by Clara D., Corning-Painted Post High School

A Day in the Life of Charlie White

6:20 am; last time at the grindstone this week. I dragged myself out of bed, wishing that it was 5:00 pm and I was speeding down the highway away from the Los Angeles Times. Throwing my tank top and shorts on the mountain of laundry on the floor, I pulled on my journalist uniform: black dress pants, a white blouse, and my blazer from private school. Who needs to eat or put on shoes? I walked out to my building’s garage and hopped into my Mercedes-Benz SL. Disregarding all of the road signs, I sped down CA-110 from Pasadena at 80 mph with the convertible top down, letting my black hair fly like the dust under the wheels. Why is it that everyone obeys the speed limit when driving fast is so exhilarating?

After grabbing my high heels out of the trunk, I went to my cube and logged into Twitter. Ten new followers for me, a hundred new followers of the LA Times, and the hashtag #LATimesNow is trending; I’m doing my job correctly. It’s not easy to keep the newspaper on the grid of the digital age; I have to constantly scroll through Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, and any other social media and make sure we’re trending/being followed. Wait, our top story is about how milk may not be beneficial for teens? Today is a slow news day.

“Why can’t teens drink milk?” It’s Jonathan, peering over my cube wall and reading my tweets. If he weren’t my best friend, we would probably be office rivals and I wouldn’t follow all of his social media platforms. “Is Miss White going to spend all night working, or is Charlie going dancing later with me?” He did have a point; I’ve been busy writing as much as I can. I graduated from UCLA last year, and there’s no job security for many recent graduates like Jon and myself. However, I know that my boss is pleased with both of our work, so I wouldn’t imagine that either of us would be fired.

“I think that someone is lonely,” I said, “and needs a friend to go chase boys with. Fine; we’ll go dancing tonight.” Jon acted as though I had offended him with my jab at his love life, but I knew that he was happy about not going to the club alone. Now that I was kind of excited for our night on the town, every feed that I scrolled through seemed to drag on; the tweets were more boring and Tumblr was less entertaining than usual. By the time 5:00 rolled around and I was driving back to Pasadena, I had gone through nine cups of coffee and flipped through five magazines.

A drop of water splashed on my face. I woke up in my leaking apartment in the slums of Los Angeles and knew that I am not Charlotte White. I detached myself from that part of my existence long ago.

#Charlie by Sarah K., Horseheads High School

He sits on my window sill. I started growing him when my boyfriend and I broke up. Of course, it wasn’t easy. I had to go find a nice pot, then had to get the soil. I’m not one to get dirty, so when I felt the dirt in the crevices of my fingers and the smell stung my nose, I decided maybe this wasn’t for me. I can barely take care of myself, how am I supposed to take care of him? After a couple hours of lying in bed and thinking about everything, I went ahead and tried again. I padded the soil into the decorative pot. It was made from clay and was glazed in this emerald green color. I couldn’t imagine the work the artist had gone through to make it.
The soil was almost filled to the top. I grabbed the seed and it was smaller than the eraser of a pencil. It wasn’t as smooth as I had expected. It had little bumps all over it. I kind of admired it. This little seed would turn into some beautiful flower, that is, if I was able to keep it alive.
I placed the seed into the pot and set it on the window sill. Luckily, I have a window that gets direct sunlight, so the plant could grow a little bit faster.
A couple days later, after sulking in my apartment because of my breakup, I went and checked on my plant. My heart jumped when I saw the little green stem growing. Petals had started blooming. It’s not much, and it’ll take a couple more days to grow but I know exactly what I was going to do in this moment. It may be weird to most people to name a plant, but I knew in my heart that this plant is like a companion. Companions need names. Charlie. Charlie the plant.

#Charlie by Ian S., Horseheads High School

She sat on the indoor bench of the hospital, the corridor as narrow as a subway train with an ineffable odor and blinking lights. Charlie was her name, her label, what they would shout once her time came. A cold draft she could feel waft under the flap of her floral bandana across her bald scalp. She had sunk into the chair, into the floor, her tears weighing her head, though they could not escape; puddling in her eyes like rainwater in a leaf. Like night enveloping the day, she crunched her black jacket into her blue undershirt.
Around her strangers chattered, ghost that had not realized their death. They talked of birthdays, weddings, family dinners. All the dead memories that had lived vicariously, long ago. Before, the posthumous talk of a woman who once was. One of the strangers arms around Charlie’s shoulder, muttering “Honey, it’s okay,” though his words were whispers underwater.
Across from her a teenage girl sat with her legs crossed, chewing on gum like a cow munching hay. Big blue eyes like earth from a distance popped behind lens-less glasses. Her long blonde hair seared through her cloudy white beanie like sunbreak. To herself and to her friends she babbled.
“You know,” she said. “I think love is like a cancer.”
With a slow movement, Charlie raised her head as the girls gaped in awe at the girl’s comment.
“It starts off small, sometimes it’s benign, sometimes it’s malignant; it spreads all over your body and in the end it kills you.” Charlie began to laugh with a low chortle of a motor before her voice echoed down the halls as tear trickled down her cheeks.
“What are you laughing at?” The girl asked.
“Nothing.” Charlie said. “Just nothing.”
“Well you’re laughing at me.” The girl said. “What’s so funny?” She cleared her throat as she set up in her seat. The lifeless arm of the stranger rising with her.
“Okay, I don’t know what juvenile love drama you’re going through but you have no right to compare that to my disease.”
“Lady my problems are my own,” she scoffed. “Everyone dies.”
“Because you really know that?” She asked. “So have your grandparents died yet? Have your parents died or are you dying?”
“Everyone is dying,” she said shrinking back.
“NO.” She said. “Not everyone is dying. I am dying; I have less than a month to live. You have the rest of your life. You do not understand, you don’t even know what life is and I’ve figured out the meaning of life. Do you know what it is?!” she yelled?
“Well I’ve learned that people die, I learned first my grandparents die, my parents die, and now I’m dying. There’s your meaning, there’s your love. And all of that doesn’t matter anyway, all the memories I had all my life will be gone. No more dead. There are two kinds of people in this world. There’s me, and there’s everyone else and when I go, they go.”
She then slammed her back to the chair in silence. The entire room in a deafening silence. The girl had cried.
“I have ovarian cancer.”