By Chamidae Ford It was Tuesday. It was raining, it was always raining. The damp air clung to the walls, dripping, warping the Robins egg blue. A man who had jowls and sticky white hair matted on his scalp was yelling at me.  “Well you know I come every day, why couldn’t you save me … Read More

By Nicole Pasia I opened my eyes and saw blood. Bright, crimson ribbons, so fresh it made the skin underneath seem translucent. It wasn’t my blood. No, my blood was rushing through my veins, spurred on by adrenaline as my body fought for homeostasis. I tried to look around me, but the hard, unforgiving walls … Read More

By Natalie Robinson It’s eighty degrees. I’m sweaty, holding a frosty margarita to my forehead, perched on the back  of a golf cart that has Phil Mickelson’s name engraved on the back.   “Nick, you didn’t tell me your friend was such a good-looking blonde.”   Good looking blonde. What a notion. As a five year old, … Read More

By Tiana Cole Stark my reflection stood, gazing back at me boldly. My hair did not look like the other little girls. Fragile to the touch, too much handling could harm it, sucking the moisture right out. I tried to contain this puff that poked out of my head in all directions. It was as … Read More

By Chloe Cook Winter 2020 Kaplan Award Winner Darkness is the first thing I see when I think of Jackie’s house. Dankness, darkness and dust pervades my thoughts as I bring my mind’s eye back into my ten year old body. As I watch myself entering this house of grief, a pit emerges in my … Read More

By Sarah Shapiro Winter 2020 Kaplan Award Winner Tomato sandwiches.   Tomatoes bursting with juice, peak ripeness of the summer season.  Picked fresh from the garden of the salmon colored house.  Sliced and smothered between two slices of bread, smeared with butter and salt.  I can picture my grandmother Helen assembling the sandwich, beads of sweat … Read More

By Sarah Shapiro Winter 2020 Kaplan Award Winner The hallway was still, the murmur of medical machines the only sound to be heard.  I followed my father through the intensive care unit, feet squeaking on the freshly scrubbed floors with each step.  Rooms lined the hallway, patients tucked in the curtain’s shadows.  Everything felt foreign … Read More

By Ragini Gupta Winter 2020 Kaplan Award Winner I was thirteen when I realized that I was a murderer. I was born into a home that housed my parents, sister and my father’s mother, Ma. Ma was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer when I was twelve years old. A few months before her death sentence, I … Read More

By Hannah Krieg Winter 2020 Kaplan Award Winner His bedroom is smaller than mine. I don’t have the square footage for reference, but my best judgement tells me his bedroom is smaller than mine. Then again, my best judgement would have kept me from ever seeing his bedroom in the first place. On second thought, … Read More

By Camille Bishop Winter 2020 Kaplan Award Winner Outside of Elma, Washington, there are two grey cylinders that tower above the trees. They can be seen on clear days from the road, two distinctive concrete mountains, green all around. When you drive that highway, traveling between Olympia and Aberdeen, there isn’t much to catch your eye. … Read More