Emily Mickool

Stop calling me names

I know you think it’s okay
But “Smart” and “Intelligent” 
Are just as bad
As any insult you can conjure

You put pressures on me
And in return
I put pressures on myself

I feel like I’m not enough
That my grade isn’t good
Unless I get an A+
Because you called me names
And you said it was fine
Even though it wasn’t and isn’t and never will be

Because you said those words
I spend hours agonizing
Over things I thought that I didn’t care about

I say “I don’t care about grades”
To give those words less effect

I’m lying 
Yet the words still affect me
I wish people would stop

Stop calling me those bad words
They attack me

They attack from the inside
Where my emotions rest
They attack all that I am
Morph into me

And because of you
That is all I think I am

But it’s okay
Because it is a compliment

Poetry

In a KidSpirit poem. teen poet Emily Mickool shares a moving narrative about how labeling can redirect our lives.

Stop

Abraham Weitzman

I have one grandparent, my Papa Dan. He tells my family stories all the time. 

Most of his stories come from his decades of working construction in New York City. He worked on bridges and in tunnels. He worked on schools and hospitals. He put the lights on top of the Citicorp building. My Papa worked everywhere. He tells us about these experiences because the stories are entertaining. They also teach us about the kind of person he is, and the kind of people we should be. 

Stories connect us with family history. They show us our way home. They make us laugh until we cry. Papa's stories are how he exposes us to other worlds. We learned values by listening to him. His acceptance of people who were different from him is evident in all his stories. His family's importance and his sense of humor over propriety seem clear. Storytelling is often used to teach a lesson, like Aesop's fables with their morals at the end. Everyday people's stories have messages that are less explicit. Papa's stories are a collection, so their message is bigger than one single idea. They are a guide to living.

Papa worked at Goldwater Hospital on Welfare Island (now called Roosevelt Island). It was a hospital for people with chronic illnesses and severe disabilities. As the foreman, he supervised a crew of twelve men. Usually, construction workers take coffee in the morning around 10:00. This meal typically involves warm, sweetened beverages with one of the following: buttered roll, bagel with cream cheese, or bacon and egg on a roll. But at Goldwater, coffee break was different. The crew had a floating, somewhat sanctioned craps game in the corridors. Craps is a dice game where you bet on which numbers get rolled. The hospital staff looked the other way because the patients loved it. My Papa looked the other way because craps was faster than eating. He was the foreman, so the sooner the men got back to work, the better. We learned that being a gambler was okay as long as you included everyone and got your work done.

Papa wasn't always the foreman. At Citicorp he was just one of the workers. He has lots of stories from that job. They had a foreman nobody liked. He was a nasty grouch, and the guys were always looking for ways to mess with him. Lots of the pranks were pulled by an electrician, Harry. Harry cut off a tiny sliver of one leg of the foreman's chair every day. The chair was wobbling and slowly getting shorter, and the foreman knew it was Harry but could not prove it. Harry followed that with the cheese prank. Every day he hid a piece of limburger cheese somewhere behind a heater near the foreman's office. Harry did not get a whole lot of work done, but he was fun to have around. We learned many ways to get back at a rotten boss, and more importantly, we learned not to be the rotten boss.

My Papa spent many years building the Archer Avenue subway lines in Queens. Even though he retired many years ago, he stays in touch with friends he made on that job. He emails with Norman, who moved to Florida, and Fred, who went home to Ohio. He told us about when Fred came to New York. There was a recession in the early 1980s in America and lots of guys moved to the city for work. Fred left his wife and kids behind so he could work to support them. He lived with three other guys but he liked visiting my Papa's house. Fred stayed for two years, until he could get a job back in Dayton. We learned about the hard times that people experience in a bad economy.

Papa didn't always have a job. If he lost his job, he came home happy, with a bottle of wine. He liked being unemployed because he could spend more time with his family. He went to dance class with my grandma. He made origami with my mom. He went on class trips. Papa did not worry because he was a union man. He had health benefits and the B fund, an annuity he could use to augment his unemployment check. He knew the joint board would have a job for him soon enough. We learned to join the union and treasure time with family.

If Papa needed to, working off the books was always an option. He worked in the gay community. He worked on the baths in the Village and The Saint, a gay disco. This was before the AIDS epidemic, before gay superheros, before anyone thought about gender identity. Papa happily worked for and with men who loved men. He modeled an openness that many people could learn from today.

Papa is retired now, so his stories are less exciting. Some involve the post office or the Costco. Most are about his friends and comrades on the executive board of his community. Every story has a problem to be solved - someone who isn't paying their taxes, dams that may or may not need repairs. It does not matter what the story is about, I love listening to him. The community is small and many people have lived there since they were born in the 1950s. They do volunteer work for the lake, the barn, the water system and the newsletter. Papa is the secretary, so he takes the minutes at meetings. He says that he likes making sure they are done right and on time. He tells us about sales of houses. Often there are arguments over who has the right to buy a particular house. Sometimes someone sues the community and they have to go to court. No matter what happens, Papa stays calm. There is no point in getting all upset, he says. When things get heated, I try to stay calm, too, but he is naturally better at it.

The stories Papa tells do not have a moral at the end. They are centered around people and relationships. He tells them for our amusement or to share an experience. I listen to his stories because I love him. My love and admiration for him make his stories more meaningful. My connection to my Papa is strengthened with each story, now an unbreakable tether of life experiences. It is a lifetime of stories that I can think of when I miss him or I need some advice.

It is impossible to separate stories from the teller. We are initially drawn to stories because we are interested in the teller, who brings us into their world, intertwining it with our own. In this way we are all connected to each other.  Each person has stories about their family that help define them as part of the group. They represent a common framework of experiences and values that form their identity. In my family, Papa's stories are the structure identities are scaffolded on. We are hardworking, pro-union, family-loving, open-minded, and we savor a good story, all because of Papa.

In a KidSpirit Big Question response, teen writer Abraham Weitzman explores how his grandfather's stories impart lessons, offer timeless advice, and forge a connection to family and past generations.

Tell Me Your World: Why Are Humans Drawn to Stories?

Heer Cheema

David Mitchell is an author that has challenged and intrigued me as I have grown over the years. 

He builds worlds out of fantasy and science fiction that perturb and amuse those who dare venture in. As a young teen, I navigated my way through his lengthy masterpiece Bone Clocks and its much shorter counterpart, Slade House. Both novels layer the mysterious, the disconcerting, and the fantastical, while remaining grounded in reality. I was addicted instantly. However, I had yet to read Mitchell’s most renowned opus, Cloud Atlas. 

Mitchell takes on the role of not only author, but also architect when it comes to his writing; this was never more evident to me than when I did finally read Cloud Atlas. He constructs his novel in a swooping clockwise fashion, where the reader learns of six strangely interlinked stories, and then in an unfurling anticlockwise motion, where the reader sees these stories resolved in reverse order. Initially, Mitchell holds your hand, and walks you through the lives of each of his six main characters. You are introduced to Adam Ewing, an American notary in 1850; Robert Frobisher, an English musician in 1931; Luisa Rey, a headstrong journalist in California in 1975; Timothy Cavendish, a publisher in the modern age; Sonmi-451, a futuristic clone that has gained consciousness; and finally, Zachery, a tribesmen struggling to survive in a post-apocalyptic world. 

Meeting this many protagonists is made relatively easy by Mitchell’s commitment to their distinct voices and backgrounds. From Ewing’s old-world English to Sonmi-451’s futuristic jargon, the reader becomes immersed in each narration. Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the book is this versatility in narrative formats. On one hand readers sneak a glimpse into Ewing’s world through his journal entries, and on the other act as observers when Sonmi-451 relays her story in an interview. Mitchell also emphasizes the shift between narratives through his diction. Ewing’s entries are detailed, long, that of an adventurer of a bygone age, but Frobisher, our next culprit, is precise and modern in his use of language. 

However, this is where it gets tricky: just as you reach a crucial point within the lives of each of these characters, Mitchell abandons you and forces you to move on to the next story. 

Interesting, isn’t it? This is what I have come to identify as the “Mitchellian” narrative style. Having been familiar with previous works by the author, I instantly recognized his love for multiple narratives across time and space. However, he takes this one step further in Cloud Atlas. There is an inception-esque quality to Mitchell’s work; he builds narratives into other narratives, thus pulling readers in by keeping them aware of advancements within both current previous character plotlines. Frobisher discovers Ewing’s diary, Luisa tracks down Frobisher’s letters, Cavendish considers publishing Luisa’s book . . . and so on. 

David Mitchell creates a rabbit hole, and as a reader you must go down it. His technique keeps the readers asking questions in eager anticipation of that final “aha!” moment. Indeed, as we trek across this mesh of intense storytelling, we become acutely aware of the subtle connections between each story. A haunting comet-shaped birthmark found on each of our narrators, a musical composition named “The Cloud Atlas Sestet”- all small hints of something greater coming together. The genius of this kind of storytelling is that these connections are never forced, but the reader organically identifies them as the six stories unfold.             

At the heart of Mitchell’s intricate structure is a simple message about what it means to be human, as well as what it means to be humane. “Our lives are not our own. We are bound to others, past and present, and by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future.” Mitchell plays with the more fundamental aspects of our humanity: good and bad, brutality and gentleness, the need to conform and the need to rebel. Cloud Atlas’s layered plot, with its myriad characters, allows both the author and the reader to explore these themes in all their profundity. This means there is no end to the connections that can be made and the interpretations that can be drawn by those who dare embark on the journey that is Cloud Atlas. 

I rate this book 4.5 out of 5 stars. Though reading it was a transcendent experience, it is a book that requires patience, as it is initially slow to build. That being said, I believe the driving force behind the overwhelming positives of the book is the Mitchellian narrator himself. With his detailed characters, chiastic structure, and intriguing presentation of humanity, the Mitchellian narrator makes you think. 

In a KidSpirit Media review, teen writer Heer Cheema offers her take on David Mitchell's intriguingly narrated novel, Cloud Atlas. 

The Mitchellian Narrator

Zainab Umar

Almost as if it were part of the story itself, I can recall the day my mother told us the tale of Hazrat Musa like it happened just yesterday, instead of a decade ago.  

It was a typical Lahori summer night, soundless except for the droning symphony of mosquitoes. My little brother and I tossed around restlessly in our beds, fanning our flushed faces. A power line near our home had been damaged, plunging our street into darkness, and the wind from the rechargeable fan our father had positioned near our bed made a feeble attempt at cutting through the thick-as-custard air. Hearing our muttered complaints and huffs of exasperation, our mother entered the room. She knew it was impossible for us to sleep in this heat, so she told us to be patient, and began telling us a story which transported us from the humid streets of Lahore to the searing dunes of ancient Egypt, where a child called Musa (Moses) was born.

At the time of Musa’s birth, Egypt was ruled by a terrible and tyrannical Pharaoh, whose power and influence stretched across the land and kept an iron-grip over the lives of his people. It was a time of oppression and suffering, with the tribe of Bani Israel (to which Musa belonged) shunted to the bottom of the social ladder as slaves. The Pharaoh was power-crazy and obsessed with his own authority. In ancient Egypt, Pharaohs were worshipped as gods, which made him even more powerful. However, he remained preoccupied with the fear of losing his influence. 

Such was his insecurity that when he dreamt that his downfall would be caused by a son of Bani Israel, he commanded that all male children born in Egypt that year be killed, as this was the only way to prevent the prophecy from being fulfilled. All across the country, newborn boys were snatched from their mothers and ruthlessly murdered. Musa’s mother was pregnant with him at the time. She was horrified at the events surrounding her, and fearful for the fate of her unborn child, so she concealed her pregnancy from everyone except those closest to her. She was a pious woman, and she put all her faith in God to guide her and protect her child from harm.

Musa’s mother prayed to Allah to help their family. While pregnant, she had dreams that her son was destined to be the leader of his people and that she should cast him into the powerful, dangerous currents of the Nile River.  Musa’s mother identified her dream as a divine one, and realized it was not a nightmare but a set of instructions from Allah. She was stunned and worried about the impossibility of it — if indeed her son was meant to live and become the leader of his people, how could the raging currents of the Nile lead him to anything other than his death? But she tried to brush her fears aside and grasp onto her faith.

When Musa was born, his parents were overcome with joy and yet their hearts trembled with fear. The Pharaoh had grown increasingly fanatic, enlisting guards for espionage and regularly checking every home in the kingdom. It was only a matter of time before they would return to Musa’s home and discover him.

Acting quickly, Musa’s mother used some reeds and straw to weave a waterproof basket for her son. She swaddled him in white muslin and placed him in his little cradle. She took him to the banks of the river and, with a heart torn with grief, lowered him into the turbulent water. To her surprise, the river became serene and smooth, gently propelling the basket and its quiet inhabitant to an unknown destiny. Musa’s sister was instructed to stealthily follow her basket-ensconced brother along his unusual journey. 

One of the Nile’s tributaries flowed through the Pharaoh’s garden. Musa’s basket found its way there just as the Pharaoh’s wife, Asiya, was pruning some roses. Asiya, unlike her husband, was a kind and righteous woman. They were as unlikely a match as could be. Compared to his ruthless despotism, she had a gentle and sweet disposition. While her husband could order the massacre of an entire village and lose no sleep, she treated even the flowers in her garden with gentle and thoughtful care. 

Asiya retrieved the curious basket and, to her surprise and wonderment, found a newborn boy inside staring at her with wide, curious eyes that did not weep as other children’s did. Even Musa’s mother didn’t know the whole truth; not only was her son a born leader, he was also unique, for Musa would grow up to become a Prophet of God. Asiya, although perturbed at his serenity, did not realize this either. An ordinary child would have cried out of thirst, hunger, cold, or simply the absence of his mother, but not Musa. Asiya instantly fell in love with the bundle in her arms. She and her husband had no children of their own, and she had always wanted one to nurture and love, so she beseeched the Pharaoh to let her keep him. After some resistance, the Pharaoh finally relented, and Hazrat Musa’s incredible life began as the adopted son of the tyrant whom he would grow up to defeat. An equally compelling and mystifying story, but one my mother said would have to wait for another sleepless summer night.

Noticing the absence of a conclusive “the end,” I implored my mother to complete her story. She promised that she would, but said that the life of Prophet Musa was so incredibly layered and eventful, it would be morning by the time she finished. I would later listen, astonished, as she described Musa’s growth into manhood as the great Pharaoh’s adopted son. I was on the edge of my seat when she reached the turning point of the story and his life, the call to prophethood: when Allah, manifesting himself as a mighty, burning tree, spoke to Musa and told him to deliver His message to the people. Soon after this call, Musa staged a coup against the Pharaoh, and in the course of one incredible day, the Pharaoh and his guards drowned in the currents of the Nile as they pursued Musa, and the story came full circle.

The stories of Hazrat Musa, along with others my family would tell me, have formed an integral part of my childhood and helped me to identify with my faith more deeply. I tried to explain this strange correlation to myself, and I imagine it is similar to how diagrams help to understand an otherwise complex concept. In Islam, stories are a vital means of communication of key beliefs; the Quran itself is filled with stories of numerous Prophets, so that Muslims around the world and throughout history can absorb and learn from their experiences.

This little story, the first installment of an entire series following the remarkable life of Prophet Musa, has stayed with me all these years because of the profound impact it made upon me. I had read countless stories about brave protagonists in extraordinary situations, and the plot arc of an ordinary person with an unordinary destiny was not unknown to me. But the story of Musa was the most inspiring. I wondered at the impossible, astonishing probability of it; that out of a million newborn children in Egypt, Musa alone was destined to become a Prophet of God and a leader of his oppressed tribe. And how he, by a miraculous twist of fate, ended up in the home of the very enemy he would later defeat. It made me believe in a lot of things: in my mother’s exceptional storytelling, the power of destiny, and above all, in miracles.

In a KidSpirit Interfaith Connections article, teen writer Zainab Umar narrates the story of Prophet Musa, or Moses, and shares the tale's importance to her personal growth, her family, and the Islamic tradition.

A Basket on the River

Pie Rasor

I wasn’t thinking about slam poetry when I applied to the spring 2017 session of the Champlain Young Writers Conference. 

I was only thinking about a weekend of book recommendations, writing critiques, and classes full of useful tips for my short stories. If I got in, I’d be spending my days surrounded by hundreds of kids my age who loved words just as much as I did. A weekend with kids who wanted to be there, who wanted to spend all day analyzing books and writing. It sounded a world away from the people in my English class, who groaned every time we started reading a new book.

When I clicked "submit" on my application, I wasn’t thinking about slam poetry. Not at all.

I wasn’t thinking about poetry when I got my acceptance email, either. I was too busy dancing around the kitchen with my sister — who’d also been accepted — and dreaming of how great the weekend was going to be. Skimming over the schedule, I noticed “slam poetry session” listed as one activity, but quickly dismissed it.

I knew about poetry readings from my English class: 20 high schoolers sweating under fluorescent lights as they recited poorly memorized Robert Frost poems in monotone because they were either too bored or too self-conscious to put in much effort. Having to sit through one was annoying at best, excruciating at worst. I normally liked poetry, but I hated listening to it. What was the point, when there was no heart behind the words? Why listen when you could read the same poem and feel all the emotions yourself?

When I arrived at the conference, it was everything I’d been hoping for. It was filled with like-minded high schoolers all working on their next novel or poetry collection and willing to talk about it. I co-wrote a short story with my workshop, had an enthusiastic conversation about my favorite superhero novels, and attended a class about temporary art that ended in drawing weird sketches on sticky notes and putting them all over the building.

Also, the cafeteria let you have free ice cream for breakfast. It was pretty much my idea of heaven.

When the evening of the poetry slam arrived, I filed into the auditorium with everyone else and found a seat next to my sister with a good view of the stage. The college students who ran the workshops announced the beginning of the poetry slam to cheers and whistles of other people who were a lot more excited than I was. Then again, none of them had to suffer through three performances in a row of “The Road Not Taken” in their sophomore English class, so bland that the most interesting part had been someone mixing up the lines and swearing in front of the whole class.

One of the college students explained the rules of the slam: anyone could walk up and recite their original poetry. Then, three judges would give them scores between 1 and 10, and the poet with the highest score at the end would win.

As the first poet stepped up to the microphone, I settled into my seat and resigned myself to enduring an hour of emotionless voices and teenage angst disguised as metaphors. The poet flipped a few pages in her notebook, cleared her throat, and began.

It was nothing like I expected. It wasn’t emo or melodramatic. There were no ridiculous, flowery metaphors that made me roll my eyes. It was a short, intense poem about how she hadn’t always gotten along with her older sister but missed her now that she was away at college.

As she read, the auditorium was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. When she finished, the last words drifting out over the audience, the applause was deafening. I sat back thinking Wow. Somehow, over the last few years, high school had managed to make poetry boring and flat to me. The raw emotion and powerful words of the performance had ripped that illusion away from me. I started to remember why I’d liked poetry in the first place: the way you could use all those line breaks and twisty metaphors and unexpected word choices to tell a story in a different way than it was normally told.

The next poet stepped up, and it began again.

People stood in front of hundreds of strangers, reciting from their notebooks or straight from their memory. They performed funny poems about squishing clay between their fingers, or a night out with their friends. They performed heartfelt poems about how much they loved their parents, and brave poems about their constant battle with mental illness. They performed angry poems about being misgendered, or about the ex that cheated on them. As they spoke, they cried, they laughed, and they raged. 

The poets poured out their hearts to the audience, and we were there, waiting to collect their words and hold onto them tightly. When one performance concluded, I’d think to myself that the next one couldn’t possibly be as good. Then the next poet would step up, clutching a few wrinkled pages scrawled in pen, and I’d be proven wrong.

The poetry readings I’d seen at my high school were dry and dull, done by people who had no interest in the words they read. But these performances, done in front of strangers who were all going separate ways the next day: these performances had heart. They had guts. They had tears, and laughter, and everything in between.

I’d read poetry before then, but it wasn’t until that moment that I really understood why people performed it. Hearing the emotion and heart behind the performances made the words more real, somehow. They showed you that poetry wasn’t just weird line breaks and repetition; it was the best way to express yourself when plain words couldn’t do it. Poetry told a story differently than a novel, but it could still tell a story all the same.

I walked out of that auditorium at the end of the evening in a daze, feeling like I’d dunked my head in another universe. Throughout the rest of the conference, even when I was packing up my bags and heading home, I was still thinking about the poetry slam.

The words were in my head, and in my heart. Poetry had finally gotten under my skin.

My fondness for poetry had been trickling out of my life for the last few years, replaced by math tests and English essays. But after the slam, I felt reinvigorated, my love for poetry revived. When deciding what classes to take next year, I made sure to put to put down "Creative Writing: Poetry."

In a KidSpirit Awesome Moments article, teen writer Pie Rasor shares what she realized about the power of poetry during a life-changing writing conference.

The Weight of Words

Zeeshan Hassan-Andoh

We are the children on the riverbank this late afternoon,
Muddying ourselves in the ceremonial flow.
The mud surrounds us
Flesh and earth as one,
Where does my skin end
The earth begin?

I press my hands into the viscous ground
Ice in water.
Wading deeper in, the dirt lapping over the gently rolling hills of my body
Waist deep, upright,
I am the mud
I am the river
With all its yellow, blue, and green canoes
That cast long shadows on its clouded currents.

On you I can see the mud,
The dusty hue stands out.
Makrana marble marred by
Centuries of mottled brown feet.
Your reflection is as brilliant as the reddening disc above.
Where is my reflection?

And when I leave the river they say I am dirty,
Its drying tendrils beginning to crack 
Along the ridges of my back, hands, and stomach,
Clay enwrapping these wiry black strands in tight embrace,
Smoothed over the skin of my greyish forehead.

The turbid air is bathed in rose as the mud slips down to your feet, 
Undulating currents of filth sliding across your face and chest
The backs of your slender calves,
Pooling around your clavicle.
Night blooming jasmine,
A distant call of bells.

You are dirty,
They repeat.
But I am not dirty I am the dirt,
I am the river, I am the earth.

In a KidSpirit poem, teen poet Zeeshan Hassan-Andoh shares a powerful piece on humanity, authenticity, and how we see and understand each other.

Unidirectional Flow

Nargis Kachrumathur

What are stories?
Are they just words strung together?
Or are they a whole new world from the one we live in?
They could be both,
they could be one,
they could be neither.

Stories are different,
wherever we go.
One story could be told in a thousand different ways
by different people.

Sometimes stories are not make believe,
sometimes they're real.
In fact, 
if we all stop and look around us
just for a moment,
everybody will be doing something,
that affects others.

It could be grocery shopping
or watching a movie.
It could be busy women and men going to work
or maybe a plane taking off
with a baby wailing inside because it is her first flight.

All these things,
all these people,
are all part of a story.

Everyday, they wake up.
Some go to school
some go to work
some go to college
some beg on the streets
some go back to lifting heavy bricks under the harsh sun
some go back to work on their farm, sell their vegetables, 
but still earn next to nothing.

There are so many things people do
that we do not see.
Those are their hidden stories.
Those are their lives.

What are stories?
Are they just words strung together?
Or are they a whole new world, from the one we live in?
They could be both,
they could be one,
they could be neither.

Stories are different, ​
wherever we go.
One story could be told in a thousand different ways
by different people.

Stories are different
because everybody is living a different life.
Stories can be told in a thousand ways,
because a thousand different people may have the same job
or be the same age.

Stories aren't just words.
They aren't just different worlds.
They aren't fairies and mermaids,
knights and damsels,
or goblins and gnomes.
They aren’t half-blood children of greek gods,
secret wizards and witches who need to save their magic world.

All of these tales are shielding us from the real story in front of our eyes.
This story is the world.
It is our life.
It is what we do every single day.
It is the ecosystem 
that keeps building evolving and changing,
right in front of us.

What are stories?
Are they just words strung together?
or are they a whole new world, from the one we live in?
They could be both,
they could be one,
they could be neither.

Stories are different, ​
wherever we go.
One story could be told in a thousand different ways 
by different people.

In a KidSpirit poem, teen poet Nargis Mathur explores the many different stories of everyday life. 

The Story of Life

Lila Hazan

New York City feels drab in January. Even though the days are shorter, they seem to take longer to end. 

The sky is colorless and the streets are bereft from the lack of holiday excitement that had manifested in fairy lights strung across trees and utility posts only two weeks prior. The smell of the city has a suggestion of winter lingering in noses, a kind of chill that settles in your bones, and the wind whistles down sidewalks, peeking under skirts and flipping ties.

Ellis Martin likes people watching. He likes seeing the cogs and gears in their heads as they grind and rust over. So, every day he sits at the bus stop, observing the lives of those around him. 

The heat of the coffee clasped in his gloved hands permeates the frost. The avenue is gray. The city population shuffles through the chill, wrapped in black coats and swaddled in scarves.

Ellis often lies awake in bed in the middle of the night. An hour drenched in shadows. He calls it the witching hour, when the sky is a deep purple-black in color, leaving the city underneath dipped in a layer of darkness. A streetlamp gleams a pale yellow and presses its face against his window, shedding a circle of light onto the wooden floorboards of his room. The city hum pours like cement over his ears. His chest rises and falls with each breath, but it feels like he’s part of an audience, sitting in a cinema, or perhaps, a sort of ethereal being, peering down from above. The people still scurry beneath him, illuminated by the glare of headlights from passing cars.

He takes another shuddering breath now and clears away the cobwebs that have settled in his limbs, embracing the biting wind that tears across the back of his neck. It’s much easier to watch people during the day.

A man walks by. He cannot be older than 30, but at a glance he appears aged. Ellis thinks it’s the way he carries himself, curled in at the corners as if bracing for a blow. He has lines entrenched in his forehead, and his face is square, with a hard edge to his jaw that gives him a certain soberness. 

Ellis sees him often when he sits on this bench, notices how he seems to bear the weight of the world. Last week he had been walking with a small child, their gloved hands clasped tightly together. 

The man walks up to a woman before breaking into a smile, eyes wrinkling so that his face is a single crease.

“Thanks for waiting.” He scratches the back of his neck, fingers twitching. “Are you ready?”

Ellis imagines this is a first date. Pictures his sweaty hands and awkward grin, her flustered nod and the odd way they set off down the avenue. He can imagine exactly how the afternoon will pan out for them. At first it will be stilted conversation, but the two seem to have a natural affinity, even from that small moment.

He returns to observing, eyes focused on his fingers curled in his lap. He thinks that gestures are always the most important part of a person. A twitch of the hands displays everything there is to know about someone: personality, age, intentions.

An old woman sits down next to him on the bench and he looks up, surprised. No one ever takes the bus from this stop. She turns to look at him, and the first thing he notices is the color purple. It’s seared into his eyelids from the hue of her hair and the deep plum of her coat. She grins at him, violet gloves pulling off a pair of lavender ear muffs.

He chokes. As much as he likes to observe, he’s never been much good at conversation. Words always feel too heavy on his tongue, warped by indecision.

“I — uh, sorry, no.” He looks away quickly, focusing intently on a mailbox across the street, feeling a deep burn creep from the nape of his neck.

“I’ve been wearing purple for 50 years,” she grumbles sourly, “and for 50 years I’ve gotten people looking at me the way you do.” 

Ellis hears her words shallowly through the buzz in his ears, still replaying the glance he had given her. He flounders again, hearing his mother scolding him for being dismissive.

“Yes ma’am,” he says, still looking elsewhere, “but I quite like it.”

She jostles him in the shoulder and he jumps a little at the contact. “You look at people in the eyes when you talk to them.” She sniffs. “I quite like it, too.”

He can feel the tension charging the air and he likens it to that between the woman and the man from earlier — a conversation on the cusp of becoming something more. He searches for the right thing to say, paces the hallways of his mind to find the right words.

He discovers he doesn’t need to to say anything, for she starts again, “I was stuck in an office job 50 years ago, a nasty little company that dealt with the export of books. It was dreadful. There wasn’t much to do except for paperwork, and so that’s what I did. ” She pauses to make a disgusted sound from deep in her throat.

“I had brown hair back then. It was long and limp and it defined me—and my personality! No wonder I worked in the most awful company. I only ever wore neutral colors, anything else felt much too daunting. I never wanted to stand out back then.”

Ellis takes a moment to imagine her half a century ago. He comes up with a mousy woman, drowned in grays and browns, tucked into some cubicle in the back corner of an office building.

“But then one day,” Ellis turns back to observe her, and notices a passive smile. Her hands are completely still. He finds it unnerving. “I decided on a whim to change things up, and I’ve never looked back. Purple makes me happy.” 

He’s decidedly unimpressed. But as the bus pulls up and the purple lady gathers her purple things, he thinks that maybe he should begin to talk rather than observe.

In a KidSpirit fiction Feature story, teen writer Lila Hazan explores how narratives both spoken and unspoken shape our lives.

People Watching

Ayla Schultz

The kitchen looks worn. In the middle is a walnut table whose legs are slightly loose. There are four dark blue chairs around it made of painted wood, the varnish peeling off in sheets. In the middle of the table is a bowl filled with newly washed potatoes, beads of water sitting on the still dirty skin. Above the stove is a clock, its black hands slowly moving around the surface. There is the sound of a toilet flushing, and a faucet running. We hear a door open. 

John enters the kitchen and sits down with his back to us. He is a middle-aged man with messy auburn hair that is starting to grey in the back. He is wearing an oversized flannel shirt, and dark grey sweatpants. He is clean shaven, and we can see the ghost of a sunburn across his nose. His feet are bare. He gets up and opens a drawer next to the oven. He rustles around for a moment and pulls out a metal potato peeler. He walks over to the cabinet above the sink and pulls out a large ceramic bowl. He sits back down. John sighs, and starts peeling the potatoes, looking at the clock now and again. It is 10:32 p.m. The room is silent, except for the sound of the potato peeler.

The light fades in. We hear the sound of the front door opening, and keys being put down on a table. John blinks, and rubs his eyes. He has fallen asleep. He looks at the clock; it is 2:23 a.m. 

He stares bewildered at the potatoes scattered across the table, registering finally that he must have knocked them over while he was sleeping. 

William walks into the kitchen. He is wearing a camel brown trench coat and a pair of lightly scuffed sneakers. His hair is dirty blonde, his eyes an off-putting shade of grey. He has dark shadows under his eyes. John is putting the potatoes back into the bowl when William walks in. John freezes, his shoulders tense, and he pastes on a strained smile. 

                JOHN. Take off your shoes. I just cleaned the floor.

William makes no move to take off his sneakers. He walks over to the cabinet, pulls out a cup, and fills it up with tap water. John slowly stands up.

                JOHN. How was your night?

                WILLIAM. Good . . . I met David . . .

                JOHN. Where...? Why...? How... How is he?

                WILLIAM. Fine. William takes a dramatic sip of water. He is married and lives in Tampa. He has three kids and a border collie, he lives by the beach. He was at a — 

William throws his cup into the sink. A tense silence ensues. 

               WILLIAM. What are you making?

               JOHN. Why would you care? You won’t be here to eat it anyway. 

John walks around the table. I’m going to bed.

William opens the dishwasher and starts to unload it.

                JOHN. Good night . . . William.

John leaves the kitchen and stomps upstairs. William picks up a plate, holds it for a moment — staring at his reflection in the surface. He puts it in the cabinet with a sigh, and shuts the still full dishwasher’s door. 

INT. LIVING ROOM — EARLY THE NEXT MORNING

The light is just starting to flow in through the large front windows, casting shadows on the walnut floor. In the corner of the room is a vase filled with leaves, looming ominously over an upright Steinway piano. The piano looks old, in contrast to the rest for the room. This room presents a different vibe than the unkempt kitchen. There is a sofa at the opposite end, sitting below a photo of a Richard Serra sculpture. The sofa is covered with pale cool grey fabric, the arms and legs slanting outwards. Facing the sofa, to the left of the piano is a bookcase. An old style radio sits on the middle shelf, a Rachmaninoff record leaned up against it. Next to the bookcase are two Mies van der Rohe chairs made of black soft leather. Between them is a marble coffee table. A white orchid sits on top of it. John walks in, he is wearing an oversized T-shirt, wrinkled pajama pants, and a pair of brown fuzzy socks. His hair is sticking up from his head. He rubs his eyes, and looks around the room. He walks out. John re-enters a moment later with a cup of coffee. He sits down at the piano and thumbs through the sheets of music sitting on top of it. He puts down his mug on the piano and picks up a pencil. John opens the piano and stares vacantly at the keys for a moment. He takes a sip of coffee, and pulls out an unfinished sheet of music. He erases a few notes, and starts playing a melody. The music sounds unfinished, with gaping holes in some places. John plays for a little while, stopping now and again to fix problems that he finds. 

William is putting the last few dishes away. John comes in and goes to the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs and a box of smoked salmon. He pulls out a frying pan and a spatula. William sits down at the table with two plates. John scrambles four eggs in a bowl, and pours them into a pan. William gets up and goes over to a drawer, pulling out two forks and two knives. He sits back down. John places three slices of salmon on the omelette. 

                JOHN. Can you bring me the goat cheese?

William gets up, goes to the fridge and hands John the goat cheese. A moment later John brings a large omelette to the table. He gives William half, and slides the other half onto his own plate. 

                WILLIAM. I heard you playing earlier.  It’s good to see you back at it. It’s been too long.

John gets up, coming back with the pepper.

                WILLIAM. It sounded so. . . Angry? Is something wrong?

John starts grinding pepper onto his plate, missing the eggs.

                JOHN. I was thinking earlier.

A short pause, the air conditioner turns on.

                 WILLIAM. You have to let it go.

William puts his plate in the sink, and turns on the faucet. 

John is sitting at the piano. His shoulders are relaxed, and he is staring blankly at the wall. A Rachmaninoff piano concerto plays in the background, overlaid by the sound of a ticking clock. The front door opens and William walks in with a bag of groceries. He sets them down in the hallway, and slowly approaches John like an injured animal. With each step, the floorboards creak faintly. 

                WILLIAM. John, don’t be mad.

William steps a little closer to him. John stiffens, his back becoming straighter. 

                WILLIAM. John, when I saw your brother yesterday, he was in an antique shop.

                WILLIAM. David was selling your mother's watch.

A single tear slips from John’s left eye. 

                JOHN (getting angry). It’s funny how you can fight over something for so long. And one day, he could just throw it all away. If he doesn't want it, he could give it to me. But no he can't, he has to sell it, because he never wants me to win— 

                WILLIAM. He needs the money. 

                WILLIAM. Everything isn’t going so well.

                JOHN. Then why the hell did he come up here?

                WILLIAM. He foreclosed on his house a few days ago. I think he was hoping you could help him. It’s just a watch anyway.

                JOHN. It’s NOT just a watch. 

                WILLIAM. Your mother is dead, and her watch won’t bring her back.

John's hands relax back to his sides. William picks up a pencil, and scribbles on a scrap of paper.

                WILLIAM. That's the number of where he’s staying. Think about it.

William picks up the bag of groceries from the front hall and goes into the kitchen. John stares at the piece of paper. 

The light is fading, barely hitting the windows. The street lamp outside turns on, casting an eerie golden glow. Dead leaves scatter the ground, like brown, curled up fists. The air is distinctly fall, but it is not yet cool enough to turn off the air conditioner. John is sitting on the couch intently reading War and Peace. A bitten apple sits on a plate to his left — a phone sits to his right. Next to the phone is the scrap of paper that William gave him. It looks crumpled. William walks in. He is wearing his trench coat. 

                WILLIAM. I’m going out.

                WILLIAM. You sure you don’t want to come?

                JOHN. Don’t get back too late.

William walks out, locking the door behind him. John reads for a moment longer, then he puts in a bookmark and closes his book. He stares off into space, his eyes going blank and cloudy. He picks up the scrap of paper, and dials the phone number.

                JOHN. Hi .  A pause. Is David there? Another pause. John starts tapping his feet. Thank you. When will he be back? Another pause. You don’t know . . . Thank you anyway.

John hangs up the phone, his hands are shaking.

The clock is ticking in the background. John is back to reading on the couch. We hear the front door unlock, and William walks in accompanied by the wind and a few leaves. John looks up.

                WILLIAM. Good, the movie was great.

John closes his book, stands up and stretches.

                WILLIAM. You should come next time. 

                WILLIAM. Did you do anything special?

                JOHN. Nothing much... I tried calling David.

                JOHN. The people at the inn said that he wasn't there anymore. 

                WILLIAM. I just saw him yesterday . . . 

                JOHN (not hearing William). I tried.

John buries himself in the couch. William walks over and hugs him. 

The phone rings, the sharp noise echoing through the otherwise quiet house. William stumbles down the stairs. He is wearing a red bathrobe, his hair is ruffled — sticking up in the front. He rubs his eyes, and stares at the phone. After a moment, he picks it up.

                WILLIAM. Hi . . . Who is this?

                WILLIAM. Yes . . . What? 

A silence ensues, the dog outside stops barking. 

In a unique KidSpirit Feature piece, teen writer Ayla Schultz shares a short screenplay about relationships, family, and how everyday conversations can shape our lives. 

Stolen Time

In a breakout issue of KidSpirit, contributors venture into the land of stories both true and imaginary. Journey with them through fiction, drama, poetry, and personal reflection to explore how the tales we tell shape our inner and outer worlds.

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