Hallways & Headlines

By Adam Ouali, 9th grade 

My name is Adam, 

echoing through hallways that smell like

dry erase markers and stress. 

Backpack slung low, 

phone buzzing like it knows more about my life than I do, 

I walk past lockers that slam like 

punctuation marks

every period, every comma, 

every moment I wish I could rewrite. 

First period feels too early for dreams, 

but somehow that’s where they start

half awake ideas scribbled in margins, 

teachers talking, 

me pretending I’ve got it all figured out. 

There’s always that one class

where time moves like it’s stuck, 

and another where it disappears too fast

like laughter with friends

you didn’t know you needed.

I think about everything at once:

grades, girls, group projects, 

whether I said the right thing

or nothing at all. 

Some days I feel like the main character, 

walking through campus like it’s a movie

music in my head, 

confidence in my step.

Other days, I’m just trying to make it to lunch. 

Lunch is loud

a mix of jokes, rumors, and random 

arguments

that don’t matter tomorrow, 

but somehow feel huge today.

That’s where I learn the most, 

not from books,

but from people. 

After school, 

the day doesn’t really end

it just changes shape.

Homework waits like a reminder

that growing up isn’t optional. 

Still, there’s something about it all 

the chaos, the pressure, the memories forming

without asking permission. 

Because one day, 

these hallways won’t echo my name anymore. 

And I’ll miss the noise, 

the stress, 

the moments I didn’t realize were everything. 

For now, I’m just Adam

somewhere between who I was 

and who I’m trying to be, 

walking these halls

like they’re leading me somewhere

I can’t see yet… 

but I know I’ll get there. 

POKER FACE
By Ma’Niy McFarland, 10th grade 

I grew up in a place where sirens sang lullabies,

Where the walls knew every argument by heart,

And the stairs creaked like it was tired of holding up broken dreams.

Section 8 wasn’t just an address,

It was a label people wore on your name before they even met you,

Like they could see the chipped paint in your voice, 

Or the hunger tucked behind your smile,

Low income meant learning early,

How to want less,

How to make “i’m okay” sound believable,

Even when your stomach and mind said otherwise.

Moms stretched dollars like prayers,

Turned struggle into survival,

And survival into something that looked like strength.

Depression didn’t announce itself,

Because depression doesn’t always look like tears,

Sometimes its silent sitting next to you at school,

I learned how to carry it silently, 

How to tuck it so nobody ask questions i didn’t have the answer to,

And that’s where the poker face came in,

A mask so still,

So calm and kind always smiling.

Then came the day everything cracked away Jayda Mabrey.

We were just kids running through the Willie Mays halls,

Running through streets that didn’t promise us tomorrow,

You were there through all of it,

Same streets,

Same struggles,

Gunshots don’t echo the same when they take someone you love,

It doesn’t ask if you’re ready,

It doesn’t care about memories or unfinished conversations,

One minute you’re here the next you're a name on a shirt,

But grief doesn’t come with instructions it just sits heavy in your chest and make your throat tight,

And i still carry you with me in every memory, in every step i try to keep my head up,

Cause i know you’d tell me the same thing, My childhood friend since 2nd grade rest up.

The crows

by Mira Saltiel, 11th grade

in the end,

the final breath,

the crows will be my only witness

they will not crowd and jeer,

merely existing in the presence of my despair

they will perch on the crown of my head,

on my shoulder,

on my leg,

and wait patiently for my body to cease its movement

only then will they act;

crying out in sorrow for a life cut short

they will circle my corpse in a dance of all existence

‘look here’, they weep, ‘look and ponder what could have been’

yet though they know–

have always known,

will always know–

this hazy fate of mine,

they will never interfere

they are watchers

worshippers,

the all knowing audience to my life,

forced to witness my demise firsthand

The Morning Knight

By Stella Van Ness, 12th grade

This morning, I awoke to dragon’s fire.

(Through window panes, harsh sunlight burned my eyes.)

The deaf’ning scorch enticed me from my spire.

(The coffee grinder roared, and rose, did I.)

When I drew my blade from holster, prepped to swing,

(When I held oatmilk o’er my morning joe,)

The beast sighed, and to me held out its wing.

(Hesitation struck me; should oat I stow?)

It grumbled to me in a timid voice,

(I eyed the bitt’rest beverage with distaste,)

“Should we be friends instead, I would rejoice!”

(“O, please,” it said, “It’s an acquired taste!”)

And so the mighty reptile’s wing I scaled.

(And just this once, black coffee did prevail.)

Bubble Bath

By Sophie Ng, 12th grade

Last night I dreamt of my Body

Clean and untouched and pure

She hadn’t decayed from her original face

She was nourished; glowing

The girl into the bathtub submerged in bubbles

She tosses a red heart into the ocean and watches

Watches it melt in between the white froth

Paints water light crimson with a splash!

Nobody else was there to see it

Couldn’t see the unidealized

Wouldn’t see the innate Me

When my bones weren’t carved into my skin

Is beauty the product of self-affliction?

Foam caresses the inside of her thighs

– If she even cares about that

She looked as the Universe intended her

If she sank under we wouldn’t

even

see

her

Face.

I shouldn’t seared her Face into my memory.

I was face-to-face with my Body before she died

When I woke up she’d been whittled away

I couldn’t even see her