Lambent:

Original Student Writing

Lambent 2024 hits the presses!

Get your copy of Lambent 2024 at this link:

https://www.lulu.com/shop/brad-craddock/lambent-2024/paperback/product-nvwzd9n.html?q=lambent+2024&page=1&pageSize=4

Also, copies of Lambent 2023 are also available for purchase!

https://www.lulu.com/shop/brad-craddock/lambent-2023/paperback/product-dkmnme.html?q=lambent+2023&page=1&pageSize=4

Student Publications Online

Teen Ink:

Nicholas Cutaia: Short Story "The Girl Who Could Read Minds"

http://teenink.com/fiction/thriller_mystery/article/1162031/The-Girl-Who-Could-Read-Minds

Miriam Parnam: Creative Non Fiction "The Growth of a Sprout"

https://www.teenink.com/nonfiction/all/article/1162295/The-Growth-Of-A-Sprout

Grayce Peltz: Poem "Constellation"

https://www.teenink.com/poetry/free_verse/article/1162200/Constellation

SOKOL Writing Award Winners (2022):

Winners from SOTA's Creative Writing Department include: Elani Spencer, Aries Champion, Grayce Peltz

https://ffrpl.libraryweb.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/7/2018/05/Sokol-booklet-2022-with-comments-from-Judges.pdf

Lambent 2022 hits the presses!

Get your copy of Lambent 2022 at this link:

https://www.lulu.com/shop/brad-craddock/lambent-2022/paperback/product-zd89wz.html?q=lambent&page=1&pageSize=4

Past Copies of Lambent (our literary journal):

Lambent, 2017

Lambent, 2018

Lambent, 2019 (free to download)

https://www.lulu.com/search?page=1&q=lambent&pageSize=10&adult_audience_rating=00

Coffeehouse Reading Performances, 2021

Scholastic: Best Teen Writing of 2020

Congratulations Turon Parker on publication in this book of your poem "Accessory" (see page 87 of pdf).

Creative Writing Class of 2020 - Poetry

After Some Time by Raeona Hampton (1st Place, Gannon University High School Poetry Contest, 2020)

The bodega would still be burning

for days after we’re gone.

The milk at the store would grow

warm and chunky in its plastic jugs.

The mice would infiltrate the entirety of the house,

never again hiding between

the bread and crackers in the pantry.

Would the cockroaches still scatter at the hint of light?

A fine layer of dust would coat the countertops.

All those non-perishable items stockpiled--

for what?

The guns hidden under the floorboards,

or buried in the backyard by the garage would

rust with the flooding.

The neighbor’s wads of cash wrapped in rubber bands in their safe,

the gold locked in the antique cabinet

wouldn’t matter anymore. Invaluable, yet priceless.

No longer polluted by the lights of cities,

the stars would materialize with light brush strokes.

Like Van Gogh’s “Starry Night,” precious artifacts out of arm’s reach.

A murmuration of swallows would swirl in the sky,

the North Star peeking through their wings,

winking at the wild oak trees.

Dear Mom by Turon Parker
I wish things went differently.Summer nights where the house was cooler,and winter nights where the house was warmer.Stomachs always full and clothes always clean.I wish I didn’t have to lieabout why I couldn’t hang out with my friends after school. You always tried your hardest,I saw the calluses develop on your soft handsfrom working. I watched grey hair pokethrough your scalp and pepperingyour beautiful black mane.I watched the stress of raising two boys,become the stress of raising three then four,watched it wear down your vision and voice,and still, just when you finally began to break through,you would stop, break down with the prize just out of reach. I’ve witnessed how for the last half of my life,but you were my strength just as I was yours,and since I wasn’t strong enough,you ran out of energy while I could carry on. Maybe, just maybe,instead of being a background characterin my own movie, I should step outand become the hero in yours.
It Thundered on His Grave by Jesziah Vasquez
Grandpa,one night in Washington on my class trip,flashes of lightning reflectedoff the white stone walls and loud cracksof thunder echoed through (the room). The rain was so sudden.I remember walking down smooth stepswhen it started. The instant loss of heatas we ran back in the monument   slowed down by the weight of our drenched clothes.Our huddled bodies bending forwardtrying to pass the warmth between us,a sudden rush of peoplefinding themselves under the stone gazeof Lincoln’s eyes.  Yet today somehow,the rain pattering against quartz stone wallsof the church takes me back to that day--mourners sprinting in,light droplets adding weight to heavy souls.Your icy skin as I reach out to hold your hand one last time.
A Letter to My Sister by Akhiyar Abdi
You've learned how to roll over now. I watched you yesterday in fascination,as your heavy head tipped you on your sideand flipped the rest of your small body over. You sang your muffled cries in soft wavesand it rumbled through the plush blanket of delicate baby blue. Your hands were clenched in determinationbecause you struggled to hold up your bobbing headas if you were coming up for a gasp of airafter being submerged underwater for a while. When I lifted you up with my handsmy fingers circled around your rib cage,the tips of my thumbs, feeling the vibrations of the gentle beatingunder your chest, could almost meet at the center of your delicate torso. I’ve grown accustomed to the sound of your cries.Repeated wails, a wolf's crooning at a translucent silver moon,echoes slipping past wavering lips.You seem to grow twice as fast when the sun sets. But I want to remain here with youlistening to the sound of your hearty laughter,crystal trinkets clanging togethermomentarily stopping time.
Letter to my Friends by Isobel York
Early morning sunrises of orange and red,scarlet as the roses that bloom undercold raindrops, and late night sunsetsof blue and purple, as royal asgrapes that cling to vines. A blue pond full of rainbow fishand sunlight creeping throughragged branches of the trees, castinga golden shimmer over tiny waves. Glistening flakes of twisted designsfalling from the dark sky, coatinglights in a thin frost as they cast a dimglow over the empty streets. The sweet taste of chocolate melting inside of your mouth,a dark liquid staining your tongue. Thunder echoes throughout heavy gray clouds andhot white lightning crackles,cutting through the dark sky. A vibrant rainbow reflecting off of a puddleencrusted in a pothole the city couldn’t be bothered to fix. None of this exists without you.
For Nora by Pahz Cherelin
When crossed fingers brought us the Gulf of Tonkin,we followed them, too scared to look with our eyes,too scared to see singed clothes in jungles flooded with blood,too corrupt to hear the cries of the dying,too comfortable to harbor rage,until after the forests had been turned into swampy graves,too little too late. Two years before we gave this gift that kept on giving,we crushed democracy in the Cradle of the West,where the sun scorches ghostly sand,and, like a vulture who finds too much rotting flesh on the ground,we kept coming back, picking away,until all that was left was bone. You know our gift is ending stories:schools, filled with children learning and laughing,weddings, the happiest day of two sad lives,mosques, where one surrenders their being to sincere faith,hospitals, carefully holding the sick from the clutches of death,funerals, lined with tear-stained roses,reduced to ash--countless stories cut short,lost to the wind. So, when you consider Iran and ask about invasion,turn not to your military advisers;instead, if you need to ask anyone about the successof fighting fire with fire in the war on terror,ask Nora.      *Nawar “Nora” al-Awlaki, an 8-year-old American girl, was killed in a Yemen raid in early 2017.
To My Nephew by Jenna Le
To my nephew,beautiful mocha skin, almond eyes,hazelnut heart and cocoa lips,you will grow to be somebodyas strong as an oak tree,similar to your mother,earthquakes below your feet. I’ve never been around children.I don’t know how to hold you,but we will charge into this world together,your sienna hands leading the wayand I, your aunt, will carry you on my shoulders,the ferocity of a volcano with Earth’s serenity. I want to be someone you adore,someone you want to paint a brick house for you,making a mess on the canvas,holding up a drawing of you next to a hickory tree,the colors outside the lines.I want to pinch your paint-stained cheeks,caramel between my fingertips,and tell you I love you.
The Living by Kyla Carter
“Have you ever heard the earth breathe?” - Kate Chopin Have you listened whenour planet speaks, whisperingsecrets through the rustlings ofleaves, inhaling chilling breezes andexhaling forceful gusts of wind,blowing its words through the air? In the silent nightor miles from civilization, it listens to quiet crickets, croaking bullfrogs,water trickling over rocks down streams. It deeply breathesa briny and peculiarsandy sea, petrichor infusedsoggy dirt, smoke sweetenedby burning sticks. Have you thanked our globe, aftergiving you a warm embrace, wrappingitself around you, bestowingsticky summer days? Intertwined like ivy vines,within all of us it sees.through the people’s eyes;it faces reality—watching itself die fromintensifying heat,garbage filled seas,industrialization andoverpopulation. Do we listen whenthe earth speaks, murmuringthat it can hardly breathe?
We Live in the Flicker by Joshua Phonharath
We live in the flickerA small and random chanceIn the galaxyDark and hollowConstantly unfolding like a paper crane We live in the flickerLike a glowing cinderIn a put out fire.A match litIn the pitch. A sprout growing outOf black earth.Old leaves turn to soilAsh in the hearthGlass on the side of the road. We live in a bright roomIn a dark house.In the warm embrace of demonsAnd holy fire of seraphsRunning from night with a knife in your stomach. Summer is getting shorterThe tides pull in faster than usualShe turns water into bloodAnd sings songs that sound likeMemories. We live in the flickerA small and random chanceIn the galaxy.Bright and burning like a starAnd then nothing.  So Sweet by Kordae Graham-Mills
Dewdrops slowly slide down the currant-colored skinof a cherry freshly dipped in faucet water,sitting upon the clean, carrara marble counter.The sunset beams from the window panecaressing the cherry in multi-color.  A girl sits waiting to indulge nearby. Slowly, but surely she removes the stemand pops the fruit in her mouth.So sweet. So soft.
Cereal Killers by Alquasia Maye
What is a serial killer’s favorite cereal?Frosted Flakes, Lucky Charmsor Cinnamon Toast Crunch?Perhaps it’s all three. The serial killer loves to hunt,cereal killers to the core. After their hunt is finished,there’s nothing left.Nothing but crumbsand milk stains on the floor. Bowl after bowl,spoonful after spoonful,those pearly whites become a crime sceneof an early morning routine.
Gift Poem by Kemani White
I rip the pain away like a bandaid,and my healing process begins. Shadowed by dark clouds,a light finally breaks through,like the end of a storm. Trapped in the deep dark sea,gasping for air,reaching, hoping someone would pull me out. You pulled me out,and gave me air. I just wanted to say thank you.

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