UHS Honorable Mention: The Storm - Anna Nichols

I am Anna Nichols, a senior at Academy of the Holy Names. I enjoy writing in many ways but especially creative writing in my Topics in Literature class.

***

Drapes blow in stormy breeze like butterflies in spring air

Anger joins, increasing rapidity of the aggressive, pounding rain

Restless, raging rain beats the windows, unable to enter

Barricade shell, block and protect, lock out the world

Fear keeps the rain at bay

Fear protects from the screaming storm

Closed off in a bubble

Walls keep out storms of others

Stay quiet, never let a storm in

Silence is preferred

My own storm rages

UHS Award Winner - Jasmine Polanco

Jasmine Polanco was born and raised in Queens, New York and is a Junior from Williamsburg High School for Arts and Technology. Jasmine uses the arts as a form of Expression. WHSAT encourages students to write and learn to love poetry as a creative outlet.  Jasmine uses both poetry and art as creative outlets to map out their thoughts in their free time.

***

Falling softly from the sky onto a cold pavement as birds walk by

With each step it leaves behind a memory of its skin

Entwined with life just as it is to fly

A crow perched on a small tin.

Birds of all different colors, breeds, stories made of words

Fledgling, Owletts, Finches, Toucans

All their own birds

But that crow stays perched on small tin cans.

Call him a corvid, a raven, a rook, a magpie

He is still a black bird

Sitting on a tin can oh so high

His feathers drop to the floor entwined and scattered.

His skin is entwined in his spot he's stayed his whole life

Watching others spread their wings

As he sits on that tin can.

A weird bird on his tin can for birds to scowl and squawk, glare and grimace

He has seen murder with no murder, windchimes with no chimes, scolded with no scolds and squabbles without a squabble.

He's seen museums and parliaments, pats from pats and parcels from linnets. But his mural is not ornate.

A flight of birds seemingly came to a standstill

From its bustling crowd stood comedically captivating corvids

Ravens, rooks, magpies…black birds.

There from his tin can they passed and watch

They stood and stared with no scowls and no squawks, no glares and no grimaces

He’s just a black bird

Opening to him with their feathers falling flat on foundation.

His feathers fly farther than its forsaken facility

Of his tin can.

The Shields McIlwaine Award Winner: movie pitches by the bitter black woman - Caylah Graham

pitch i: the media

let’s make a movie

he says –

so she strips and walks and turns and fucks and sits and barks and

lets him do it

because he is white male and everything that she is not.

the media wants to see her on her knees

begging.

panting.

this is how the black women is seen in each scene:

identified as your plaything,

a toy to break

glue

repeat

reuse

attention!

the tickets have sold.

credits:

we praise

the effortless acting

of the dark-skinned

woman who has sold

herself to the highest

bidder

pitch ii: motherhood

let’s make a movie

they say.

less nudity,

more empowering –

the single mother with five kids from different seeds

who struggles and fights and in the end she wins...

something.

the gift of silver pins that strike down her kin

a dime of green to feed her kids

she gets it out the mud

right?

she’s strong so she can do it

with her village

of wet dirt and grass and everything and nothing and no one

she doesn’t want to struggle but

there is no elegy

for the single black mother.

mama doesn’t get the love

ebony men saved

to rescue the

peaches of the world

attention!

the tickets have sold.

credits:

a special thanks

to the white damsel

stealing the obsidian

to create

the perfect stone

pitch iii: the black girl

let’s make a movie

about the black girl.

intelligent, beautiful, and dark skin

we won’t treat her like we did Aunt Viv.

she is not here to be loud and obnoxious,

used as comedic relief to make you smile

she is not your black poster child

this little girl is thick with hips,

she is cute wide eyed and chunky

scarred by baby phat

no slim-thique wavy hair and yellow bone

she is not somebody’s mama

or somebody’s slave or somebody’s best friend

or somebody’s somebody

she is the black girl –

my black child who gets to be a child,

wonder in her eye,

who doesn’t worry about wondering eyes.

attention!

the tickets are not selling.

credits:

to the little black girls

that still choose

the blonde dolls.

and to the directors

who have Zendaya on speed dial.

let’s watch a movie.

the following preview has been approved for

the appropriate audiences by the black

motion picture association of black people

everywhere.

The film advertised has been rated

B (black)

disclaimer this movie does not include

slavery, drugs, guns, violence, racism,

prisons, abandonment, jim crow and

affirmative action.

the show will now begin...

rolling opening credits

it fades to black

it fades to black

it fades to black

it fades to black

it fades to black

it fades to black

The Leah Lovenheim Award Winner: I Smoked A Pack Of Senecas While Breaking Up With My Boyfriend In A Denny’s Parking Lot - Victoria Zickas

My name is Victoria (Tori) Zickas and I started taking writing seriously in my freshmen year of college. I usually write poetry, but sometimes I write short stories too. I started off as a criminal justice major here at UAlbany and switched to an English major all because of one creative writing class. Anything is possible :)

***

Sitting in a Denny’s really makes me question diner food, along with questioning why I am here and why did I bring you to a place that only held happy memories for me. Why would I bring you to the only childhood restaurant that my Grandpa would eat at.

We walked out and I pulled out the first cigarette in the pack, Seneca branded of course, because I stole it out of my grandpa’s office, like a bum, after he forced our family to watch him perish. We sat in my car after sharing a cold, soggy breakfast-for-dinner date.

He would always request a clean coffee mug, getting angry when he was handed one that had a small blotch of dish soap residue on the Denny’s logo, not willing to clean it himself just like you aren’t willing to change, even though you say you want to but you still blame my feelings on me after I found out that you were still talking to your ex on a vacation where you wanted to treat me the way I deserve to be treated.

Every positive thing you ever did for me replayed in my mind as I tried to think of the nicest way to rip your heart out. I light another cig, blowing the smoke out all onto my dashboard. Then, after 2 seconds everything bad you did played and I stopped feeling bad about making you upset because, in all honesty, I have never cried harder for a man on a monthly basis just to run back to him to jerk off his flaccid ego.

My grandpa and you share stubbornness, that stubbornness within your body caused you to tear apart everything you love just because y’all can’t seem to realize your misplaced pride just because you suffer from mommy issues. Congratulations, you’re not the first man I have dated who has had that issue.

In the back corner of Denny’s, my family sat in a booth and my grandpa wouldn’t stop complaining. Of course, his mug yet again had “dirt” on it. But, a little fly buzzed around the booth, causing mental anguish to him, to the point that when the fly landed on his menu, he slapped it closed, instantly murdering it.

What he didn’t realize was that the fly was just living its tiny fly life, and that fly had a voice too. Of course, no one bothered to listen to it or cared about it because of how small and minuscule it was. To him, it was a hindrance because nothing could live around him unless he gave it permission to. Have you ever killed a fly too?

I realize that I am somehow halfway through my pack of my Senecas and I also realize that this is my last stolen pack and I am way too embarrassed to get more on my own because what 20-year-old buys Seneca brand cigarettes? Senecas are smoked by 80-year-old war veterans named Benedetto who like to eat liver and spam and watch Judge Judy on full blast and black-bar, white-lettering captions because he lost his hearing in the Korean War.

I pull out another stick and waft the smoke into my nose for some comfort because I know this conversation will go straight through your ears, kind of like how you blow straight through your weekly paycheck, spending it on 200-dollar colognes and studio time to make your unoriginal-sounding, Juice Wrld copy-cat, sad boy, I’m depressed and I’m a loner and no one understands me kind of music but you couldn’t even get me non-wilted flowers for Valentine’s Day even though you said you went to 3 different stores.

One of my favorite memories from eating at Denny’s with my grandpa was him shooting little straw wrapper balls out of his straw and into my ear, like how you shot vomit out of your mouth into the parking lot next to my car when I said I can’t imagine sticking your dick in my mouth anymore, I can’t imagine being your wife and washing your dishes and cleaning your house, carrying and birthing your kids.

Because the one time I tried to wash your dishes on your day off, you lectured me about how I am not allowed to touch your dishes and that I am not your mom, even though they were the same dishes from the week before. After that, I never thought about being your wife.

One other thing I would like to add is the one time I brought up how I felt like you were using my body because instead of greeting me with a hello, you would walk up to me, hug me, grab my ass then walk away without a word. All you ever did was try to touch or grope me and the one time I told you it made me uncomfortable, you turned away from me in bed, threw a toddler-style temper tantrum, and watched Instagram reels of car crashes, ignoring everything I said after.

Or that time when I first came to your house, you got drunk and explicitly described to me how your ex’s body looked when you were fucking her, and you had nothing nice to say except for her nice dick-sucking lips. And when I brought that up, you told me I was insecure and that was the past and I need to get over it and you were drunk... so, you know... it was okay.

You waited until the very last second to apologize for treating me like literal garbage after telling me last April that you’re not gonna be like other guys and you won’t treat me like my ex did, just to do exactly what every man does and do worse things to me than my ex did. That includes my grandpa, because he treated my mom like shit for his entire life until he was bedridden, blind, and practically deaf.

I notice only have two cigarettes left, and I better make them good. The second-to-last one is lit and barely hanging from my teeth and there were so many things that I wanted to say to you. I kept that cigarette in my mouth to stop myself from completely losing my mind and getting in your face and scream about every single mistake you’ve made while we were together. I kept that cigarette in my mouth, grinding the end of between my teeth just so I wouldn’t slip it out and jab it into your face because thats what I really wanted to do. I wanted to twist the burning ashes through your skin, especially after you continued to defend yourself when I brought up how you protected another woman’s feelings over mine.

My grandpa, lying on his death bed, called for my mom and apologized for not going to her wedding, and berating her as a child, even going so far as to admit that he left the house on her wedding day, not letting anyone know where he went, just to see her and my dad walk out of St. Rose Church from his car. Using his own death as a way to beg for forgiveness so maybe he could get into Heaven.

And while you used your last seconds to shove your body out of my car and puke onto the white line right outside of my car door, I pulled out my last cigarette, lighting it as I stepped out of my car, just to hear your vomit hit the ground and feel the weight lift off of my chest so I could get into Heaven too.