Read the Woods

The Dance of the Toads by Ariana M.

Below the canopy of oaks that stretched far into the clouds above, there was a fox. He lived alone, nestled between some stones and the most whittled tree of the forest, dwindling raggedly down with fat dead roots that spiraled out of the grassy floor. The fox had always been alone. With no company nor the sound of fellow animals to keep him entertained, he made do counting stones and snacking on berries from bushes that pricked his nose and feet, and nibbling on the grubs and foliage below him.

One day, just as the sun emerged and peaked a bright grin through the clouds, the fox was elated to hear the joyous sound of laughter from another being. A possible group of friends. Upon following the sound, The fox came across a group of five toads dancing atop a nest of twigs. Looking closer, he noticed the vast emptiness below them.

“Can I dance with you?” inquired the fox.

“No, you’re way too big! You’re better off being hunted!” The toads whined at once, all pausing their dance to send the fox a tight glare.

“This floor below our feet is a trap for big pests like you! We are just the perfect size, so we won’t fall in.”

The fox whimpered, looking to beg, but noticed the bitter scowls of the group in front of him. The fox turned away and once again curled up near his dead tree, solemnly counting the stones around his paws.

Days went by, and each day he’d hear the laughter from the toads’ dance circle grow larger. After a week, he was too curious to resist.

When the fox arrived at the dance circle, he was shocked to see far more than six toads. Now the mass of twigs carried six toads, twelve frogs, three bluebirds, a family of beetles, and a butterfly. The fox decided this meant the toads were finally accepting company.

“Can I dance with you now?” grinned the fox.

“Not ever!” the toads guffawed.

“No way, you're huge!” the frogs croaked.

“Get flayed!” chirped the birds.

The beetles and butterfly simply glared in response.

As the butterfly gestured for her dance partner, the dancing ensued. This continued until her partner, a butterfly with golden wings, landed on the final twig.

A loud groaning ripped from the chasm below the dancers. In seconds, the twigs snapped in two with a massive crunch. Six toads, twelve frogs, three bluebirds, a family of beetles, and two butterflies went barreling into the hole below with a sickening whir.

The fox looked into the now uncovered hole, shocked. Now there were twenty-one animals to keep the local hunters busy, and he was not one of them. So he danced among the now empty region of the lush forest, with a new tree to sleep on.

Here are the stories from the top ten authors in the second annual Arts Academy in the Woods Creative Writing 100 Word Story Contest. There were over a hundred entries this year. Author names were removed from the stories and the contest was judged by students in different classes. Please be aware some of the stories contain gore/intense imagery.

Waiting by Milo H.

(Milo had two stories that placed in the top ten.)

I’m sitting in a restaurant waiting for a girl who said she’d meet me an hour ago. I pour about twelve sugar packets onto the table and drag my finger through the grit in the shape of a dog. I laugh, he has a funny looking face. I think to myself, that girl will come barging through the front entrance any moment now, rain soaked and profusely apologizing. I’ll tell her not to worry and order her a drink. Maybe. I sneeze, and the sugar goes everywhere. I’m not laughing anymore. Fake dogs never sit. Fake girls never show up.

Butterflies by Milo H.

Butterflies swarm in my gut. Their wings are rough like sandpaper, peeling the lining off the inside of my stomach as they try to escape. I try to hold them down like I would a bad meal, but they’re much more violent than rotten leftovers. I can feel the blood bubbling up in my throat. It tastes like a final goodbye. You said that I was a garden as you let caterpillars creep between the gaps in my teeth. But there were no flowers for them to eat, so they fed on me instead. I swear that love is violence.

Ideas from these stories came from an attempt to delve into absurdity while still remaining realistic.

Old Memories by Peter A.

“Hey Iver!” an old friend says while running to catch up to me, “You doing alright?” 

I turn and look back into my friend’s deep brown eyes, thinking back to my childhood, days of baking in the kitchen with Mom, the magnificent scent of apples and cinnamon from the freshly opened oven, the sound of mom swearing because she touched the burner. The soft, yet crumbly feel of the chocolate caramel brownies I made. The messy but familiar kitchen, scattered baking tools everywhere, a spoon covered in batter, the flour spilled on the glossy counter.

I sigh, “Yeah, I’m okay”

Peter was inspired by memories of baking when he was younger.

July by Alyssa M.

I miss the heat of summer. When the sun would sit so close I could bring out a jar and catch its rays like fireflies. When we'd keep the AC off because even with it on the house would still feel like the inside of a volcano; ice cream that melted in seconds. I even miss the way the sun would reach down and kiss my checks, and place its warm hand on my back, leaving freckles and a bright red burn in its place. But what I miss most about the heat are the memories that came with it.

“July” was inspired by nostalgic hot, summer days that the author would spend with friends and family when she was younger.

Freight Trains by Penelope K.

The freight trains take all the baggage away. I walk down the tracks earnestly, hoping an empty boxcar would call out my name. I can see myself running towards my fate so clearly, all my belongings left behind; abandoned, lost maybe. Every cold, hopeless night I long for the day where I grow the courage to wait by the tracks and hop on when no one is looking. Because maybe if I can run away from this small town, I can somehow run away from myself, too. I’ll leave the ghosts of my past here to keep the tourists company.

"Freight Trains" is a representation of what Penelope thinks is a feeling everyone experiences from time to time -- a desire for a clean slate, the need for a new beginning.

Michelangelo's Perfection by Paige Z.

My beautiful masterpiece. Once so pure and full, now etched with my desire. For I am the great Michelangelo. Your stand still silence is my greatest challenge, it enticed me, I longed to carve into your being. My existence soaked into your cracks. My phantom touch haunting your design. Even though rivers flowed, it would polish your features so effortlessly. I will enable you to be rid of all your flaws. To finally rise to perfection of being my creation. My generosity embraces you my dearest, As beauty is the purgation of superfluities. For I am the great Michelangelo, forevermore.

This story was a retelling of a personal experience of mine through the eyes of the second party, I wanted this to be a voice for myself and possibly connect to others.

Eel Sauce by Mia G.

I experienced what death smells like today. I had closure in knowing that it doesn’t smell like whatever you fear most. It smells empty and dull. Death and decomposition are ugly, hungry and brutal forces that naturally take place, and although I wish I could; I cannot simply shun the inevitable. As I break my chopsticks, I stare at my sushi roll, notice that eel sauce has the same consistency as cold blood, and I take the moment to thank the fish my food came from because I hope that whatever eats me in the future will do the same.

Mia was torn between past and future events when this was written -- the piece represents a liminal space. A place between two events where time was stopped and you could just sit down and reflect before fully moving on with life.

Unexplainable by Sommer F.

I’ve only got a minute to explain all this, So I’ll be quick. Things aren’t going very well at headquarters. I’m not sure that this door can take much more abuse. And that stupid intercom screeching about how there has been a breach isn’t helping. Anyways, that isn’t why I’m sending this last message. There’s so much I wish I could say to you, but time is running out and you know that I type slower than a snail. You can’t come back here. I can’t die without knowing you’ll be safe or not. Don’t be my hero. Don’t come back.

Sommer says, “Honestly, I don’t really know what inspired “Unexplainable.” I love to free write -- I guess you can say this is some of my best work.”

Empty Landscape by Gabriel G.

TOP STORY BY A UNDERCLASSMEN

The tall grass seemed to fade away the further you walk, and so does everything else. Once the sky above you was dark and it faded until a paper white seemed to swallow you whole. After all that’s happening, the world is gone. Why are you still walking?! What are you waiting for, do you think the end is just going to appear for you? Well that’s not how life works. You can’t walk in blindly and get to the end, that’s not how it works! Yet you still walk. Fine, I warned you, I give up.

The main inspiration for “Empty Landscape” was a scene from Coraline where she and the cat walk around the world.

Monsters by Em

THIRD PLACE HONOR

Ghosts/goblins are what these creatures are called, but you need not fear for they just want to play. But do you know what frightens these supposed nightmares. It is not the children they are scared of, but scared for. They see our world and its cruel grip it has on people. They worry for the unborn that will soon be there. They cry for the children who have already seen its horrors. They hurt for the adults who are living it. And they pity the dead who died in it, even if those who did made peace with it.

“It was really fun to go back on some older works and just mess with them, “Monsters” was one of my favorite ones to work on again.”

The Existence of a Person’s Crown Does Not Break Your Own by Rosemarie K.

SECOND PLACE HONOR (Rosemarie had two stories that tied with the second highest scores.)

Autumn, with her striking colors and a cool relief from the hot-tempered Summer, was well loved. Winter, though, was thought to be aloof and envied the adoration Autumn received. The world did anything to shut Winter out; doors were firmly shut and the heat was blasted. Winter tried to give the world snow as a gift, but all she heard was the grumble of drivers. She never heard, though, the joyous cry of children on a snow day or the hopes for a white Christmas. Winter, busy thinking of all that Autumn was, never saw the adoration she had.

Flames Start Before Ash Is Seen by Rosemarie K.

SECOND PLACE HONOR

I burned the land because they refused to drain the moat and lower the bridge. I had known this castle; why was I not allowed in? My flames crumbled the already failing foundation, but my resentment lasted. One of the towers fell and a soldier begged for the end. Not to me, but I could read his lips while he mouthed a silent prayer. With horror, I gave my apologies. Occasionally, velvet curtains were pulled back and I could see inside. Now, I understood that my deed was one of many others. I wish I had the stone to rebuild.

Both of Rosemarie's stories were inspired by tarot cards.

Afterthought by Anna H.

FIRST PLACE STORY

Mother wailed in agony as she rested her wiry bones in the bath, soaking in filth and sadness. Her black ashtray sat upon the ledge of the tub, and inside the decaying corpses of cancer sticks. 

“Why me?” She whispered.

Her phone rang.

“Hey hun, where are you?” The crackling of flames roared in the background.

“John? Where are you?” 

“I can’t remember. Nobody here has a face. Help us.”

“…What?”

“The children are licking their lips over and over. We haven’t had food since you cooked us that nice casserole… What was your special ingredient, love, or rat poison?

Anna feels her writing teeters on the morbid side of things, but that it creates space to produce shocking and exciting pieces. She says “Afterthought” was written to send a chill down reader's spines.

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Learn more about Arts Academy in the Woods. We are a free, public middle school and high school located in Fraser, Michigan, in the Greater Detroit area.

Deep in Vogue

By Mia G.

Her hands are practiced, they work like waterfalls. They’re simple, heavy, assertive and consistent as she flows. They move on their own accord, painted at the nails in red, she lives through them.

They make angles, bent at the wrist, then at the elbow. Palms open and framing her face, grounding her to the earth that vibrates with bass under her feet. Her hands sway like flames, imaginary ribbons of light follow each movement, each bold step improvised but never messy, she is lost.

In a jungle where trees are only iron pillars of stability, land soaked with sweat and yells of life. In a desert where the sand is glitter and the pyramids are mass graves for the ones they've killed to be themselves, she reigns. A female pharaoh, a neon queen, a deserving royalty.

She is lost, a simple disease of dance will take her body for the rest of the night, a fungus of rhythm will home itself in her brain and settle at the base of her tired spine and move through her swinging hips, she will answer in nothing but dance. I'd like to see through her eyes, see the warehouse as a jungle, see the plane that she exists on. I'd like to live in dance, in movement instead of words.

So, when I ask her how to let go, she answers with sore muscles and a screaming dizziness, with whipped hair and shuffling feet. I do not know what she means, but I listen anyway. I do what I think she would probably tell me to.

I dance.

This piece was created using the Five Easy Pieces prompt from The Practice of Poetry:

1. Describe the person’s hands. 2. Describe something they are doing with the hands. 3. Use a metaphor to say something about some exotic place. 4. Mention what you want to ask this person in the context of 2 and 3 above. 5. The person looks up or toward you, notices you there, gives an answer that suggests they only get part of what was asked.

The Plight of the Unfortunate Miss Bayhew

By Hannah Akerley

Not so long ago, Mayor Bayhew lived in a beautiful manor on the hill, with his beautiful wife, seven sons, and daughter. For generations, the Bayhews had only sons, and Fiona was welcomed with great excitement and joy. She would read under the elm, swim in the pond, and water the tulips with such care it seemed they loved her as much as everyone else.

 The townspeople hosted lavish parties every night, flocking to Fiona, who welcomed them warmly. And every day, watched her under the elm, splashed her in the pond, and picked the tulips she cared for so dearly. They called for her in the moonlight, and, growing ever more tired, Fiona’s eyes grew dark as a rain cloud. 

Wherever she went, townspeople chased to be closer. Whenever she ate, her food was quickly covered in hair and hurried spit from eagerly-chattering heads. Whatever she did, she was never alone, until she leaped into the town’s well, which was so deep no one living had ever scraped the bottom with their bucket.

She plunged into the blue, green, grey, until the water grew so dark Fiona could no longer see her fingers. For a moment, Fiona smiled and listened to the nothingness. A faint whisper caught her attention, followed by a few more, until the thousand voices of the drowned pierced her beautiful head until she herself screamed. Each scream around her belonged to a skinless figure, some with hair, some with eyes, and others devoid of features entirely. She began to drink the well around her, with each gulp inching closer to the surface. She drank and screamed, from the dark, to the grey, green, and eventual blue.

Jumping from the well, Fiona hit her head on a bucket and rolled down the hill, empty of her soul. The townspeople screamed at the featureless thing they created.

Photo by Layla Brewer

Arts Academy Student Shares her Experience Canvasing at the Iowa Caucus 

By Ana Murad with reporting by Layla Brewer

One week before the Iowa Caucus, Arts Academy student Layla Brewer flew down to Des Moines, Iowa with many other students from different states to attend the Mikva challenge. She was honored with opportunity after winning an essay contest she heard about from Mr. Moss.  I sat down and spoke to her in depth about her time spent there.

Firstly, I asked her to explain exactly what the Mikva challenge is. She explained that, “the Mikva challenge is an event that happens every four years where students are flown to Iowa in order to learn about the Caucus, and to do canvasing and phone banking for one of their top three candidates.”

Now knowing exactly what the challenge is, we began to talking about what her experience in Iowa was like. I questioned her about how she believed being in such a serious political space during such a critical time on the campaign trail impacted her and she said, “It was impactful, everyone who attended came with an active interest in politics and the 2020 election. But it made you so much more informed, and reinforced that despite age we can impact the election.”

During her time in Iowa she explained she gained an in depth understanding of how a caucus is run, so we asked her how she felt about the outcome of it this year. Layla said “It was run a bit messily and I was somewhat disappointed given how much they talk it up prior to the event. I assumed and hoped it would be better run, however, it was still wonderful to watch it with a deeper understanding of how it works.”

Coming to the end of our conversation I wanted to know what her favorite part of the whole experience was. Layla said, “It was a tie between seeing candidate Pete Buttigieg speak and being able to see a potential future president speak live. I also greatly enjoyed being able to meet people and hear everyone’s stories and what inspired their interest in politics.”

The final question I asked her was overall how does she feel her experience in Iowa. She said, “It was immensely positive and changed my outlook on politics forever in a way I’m incredibly grateful for, it was fun, it was educational and I couldn’t be more pleased with the outcome.”

The Haunted Cookie: An AAW Student Shares Their Paranormal Story

By Layla Brewer

With October often comes the yearning for supernatural stories that cause us to sleep with the lights on. Lots of us turn to fiction, the works of Stephen King are always sure to do the trick, but when you take away the comfort of it being fiction the real fear is often found.

I sat down with an Arts Academy student and asked if they had any ghost stories they’d be willing to share with me. The student explained to me that she has asthma. She sees a doctor regularly due to it giving her a cough. Keeping this in mind, she went on to say that one day she went into work with her mother in order to spend a little extra time in each other’s company. Her mother had a task to finish at work, the task at hand only took a moment so they purchased a treat and made their way outside in order to enjoy the lovely day at hand.

Her and her mother sat down on a bench and bit into their cookies. The second time the student took a bite she heard a scream so painfully loud she spit out the bite of cookie and ran as fast as she could from the table. Her mother was stunned. She asked what she was doing and when she explained what had happened both got an unsettled feeling.

It turns out her doctor had started her on a new medication for her asthma and later the pill had made her feel sick. She later found out hallucinations are one of the side effects. She still wonders if it was something more – a haunted cookie?

The recent UAW rally attended by Bernie Sanders (Photo by Brandon Moss)

UAW Strike Affects AAW Families

By Truman Hudson III

Since the formation of the United Auto Workers (commonly referred to as UAW) in May of 1935, the families, including mine and thousands of other Metro Detroit natives have benefited both financially and in some cases socially from the blood, sweat, and gears the auto workers produced in order to advance the car industry for over eighty years. The diverse group of Ford, GM, and Chrysler workers were the bread winners and back bones to their local communities as the auto boom created more opportunities for those looking for success, like my grandfather who came from a small town in Arkansas in pursuits of a better life in the Motor City. This is only one of many past and present workers in whom have worked diligently for long hours to put the bacon on the table. UAW workers are and will always be the one of many blue collar workers that drive our economy. 

At the time of this writing, workers unionized under UAW are facing harsh financial repercussions as their strike pay is only 40% of their $1,200 average weekly paycheck. With their ambitious strike in an effort to create what some have described as an equitable workplace, families are coming together to fix the broken system.

Truman Hudson conversing with Mr. Moss 

Brandon Moss, AAW civics teacher and former president of the Michigan Association of Charter School Teachers, shared his experience regarding the rally he attended in which two-time presidential candidate and US Senator Bernie Sanders participated in support of striking members. “People are bringing democracy to the workplace...its about having a say in your workplace.” Moss explained that issues regarding equity amongst corporations and employees has broadened beyond the auto industry. Journalists and tech workers are unionizing every day. 

“I met Bernie fifteen years ago … He didn’t say anything new [at today’s rally], but he did mention workers breaking the tier system, bringing temp employees as full time employees, and making the UAW workplace more equitable,” said Moss, explaining his experience in response to the visit of 2020 Democratic Presidential Candidate Bernie Sanders at the UAW rally.

Polls indicate Senator Sanders is one of the most trusted democratic candidates. His attendance at the rally is a turning point in the upcoming election. As of the 2016 elections, Michigan was highlighted as one of 31 red states compared to years previous in which the majority was blue. As the president’s impeachment inquiry case arises, the trail to the 2020 elections, and the various debates on the horizon, the strike and the support of Sen. Bernie Sanders at the rally may shift the polls with Metro Detroit Residents who predominantly voted for the conservative party. Although the effects will surely be felt in the wallets of workers, a question that comes to mind quite frequently is: What about the children of UAW members?

“Having money problems in a house is a big factor especially in younger kids and teenagers...”

The truth is children, are THE future. The strike not only takes food away from the mouths of parents, but as AAW student Kacie explained, “Having money problems in a house is a big factor especially in younger kids and teenagers…  it affected me, but it helped to grow me into the person I am today. If there were any union problems, [my father] wouldn’t bring them home,” said Kacie, in regards to the emotional/developmental impact on children that deal with financial issues. 

Kacie in Advanced Creative Writing

Kacie’s father, a Ford worker for over twenty-five years has, from her perspective, done the best he could to shelter his family their periods such as now. Through the support of UAW Ford, for over twenty-five plus years, Kacie’s family’s ship has been able to stay afloat. When asked about what the community, including the school, could do to help out aiding the battle, Kacie’s mentioned emotional support seems to be our holy grail, our metaphorical yet literal meal ticket. 

With the strike now on its 4th week, unity looks to overshadow material as the fight for equity continues to burn for  the automotive, blue collar families that are in battle for a brighter future.

Anna, Ryver and Morgen had the first, second and third place pieces in this year’s 100 Word Story Contest. There were over 70 entries from writers from all five AAW Creative Writing classes. Names were removed from the stories and they were judged by students in different sections. 

Afraid By Anna 

Heart pulsing; beating with the rhythm of ten thousand drums. Blood drips from my brain and falls out of my mouth. White noise bounces back and forth in my ears like static on the tele. Pain ripples through my body, and my vision begins to blur. I can just barely make out the people towering over me. They move their mouths, but no sound comes out. They look like they’re yelling… why?

I try to move, but to no avail. I try again. My body feels so heavy. The ringing gets louder. The light begins to fade. I am afraid.

***

Where You Are By Ryver 

Unexpected and misperceived rivalries are known only between the rational mind and that which is subconscious.

A door nonexistent, except for within my thoughts. An entry I’ll take with my head held high whilst threats pour from fountains between my feet.

As the water grasps at my ankles, pulling me down, I’ll prevail. My heels will imprint in glossy soil with every cautious step towards that which would reside at the end of this hallway, as I walk onwards pensively and intrepid. A door which has led to this very corridor looms behind my neck.

Then I will truly be home.

***

The Pool By Morgen 

I extend my hand out to touch the magnificent turquoise water before me. Just before my fingertips touch the pool, however, the water seems to bend around my fingers. I instinctively pull my hand back, but as I do, some of the water comes with it.

I stumble to my feet and the water ripples as if battered by wind. My head feels light. I had to be dreaming. Once again I reach out my hand, only this time it’s trembling. The water crawls up my arm, wrapping around it like a sleeve. I breathe deeply. This isn’t a dream.

***

D’Naja, Holley and Jillian (as pictured from left to right) had the first, second and third place poems in this year’s Survey to Creative Writing Poetry Contest. Their pieces were chosen from over 50 poems submitted by Survey classes in a contest judged by Advanced Creative Writing students. Take a look at their winning work!

Lazureth by D’Naja

a place between heaven and hell has a place between it itself.

a place where runaway angels rest, after escaping the depths of hell, and where the lost souls of the dead have nowhere else to go, the come to Lazureth;

a paradise in oblivion, an Eden in purgatory, where the hurt can mourn the loss of their humility.  

Fixture of Hope  by Holley

You enclose the crazy that creeps from my soul as the stars shimmer softly in the night and the neighborhood nests in their happy houses.

Even when I'm on the street beneath a lamp that's bearly lit imagining our future to which I hold so dearly, hoping for the day you promise you'll stay, storing my love in a safe you keep locked in your chest.

Because you keep me stable when the chaos comes crawling in like unwanted cat off the streets.

The streets I once called home.

Because you can see through the stories I kept secret from the world but shared with only you.

You are my home now and I hope you hold that dearly as I hold your hand and we hide from reality, hearing your heart beat in your chest and hoping there's enough room for me.

I can't convince you are as classical as I claim you are because as I see a man to which I owe the world, you see a man that allows the world to walk all over him.

I wonder if we'll ever see eye to eye, you are my knight in shining stripper boots slaying the scary stories that slither from my skull.

To you I owe a world that's looked at through wide eyes and bright smiles but all I have to offer is my heart that has never experienced such a thing until now.

Take my heart and what sanity I have left too because with you being crazy is the last thing I have to convince myself I'm not.

Red Bloody Band-aids  by Jasper

Injuries are things you can get more often than you think, From simple paper cuts to severed limbs.

The world evolved this way, for us to pay more and more taxes, Money money money the envious green greed.

It watches you pay each bill into the world's bank, Slowly becoming nothing due to your inflation rates and demand.

You'll need to pay more and more to see a doctor, Pay more and more taxes to keep you breathing, running, talking.

Check your ranks because you aren't in the tops, You don't get everything for free, you don't ride across everyone's heads.

You don't shatter their skulls with haunting memories and fear, You don't allow them to control what you do.

You let them run over you. We let them run over us, Now we'll never be in control, and we'll continue to pay taxes.

For our injuries? We'll continue buying Band-aids. Let them get bloody whenever we're injured over again.

Injury, apply, repeat, round and round it goes. It's the daily cycle, repeating through and through.

Sorry, we have been neglecting this space again. We have been busy -- The Arts Academy in the Woods Slam Team WON Louder Than a Bomb this year! After that we were invited to appear on Michigan Radio’s Stateside program where members of the team were interviewed and performed. We’ll share some of the performances soon, but for now here are few photos.

After winning our first bout

After winning our second bout. : )

At the Grand Slam at Museum of Contemporary Art Detroit

At Michigan Radio

We were inspired by the filmed poems we saw on MotionPoems.org and decided to make our own video poem. “Blocked” is Luna’s meditation on writer’s block featuring our classroom’s collection of typewriters. Richard Polt, author of the book Typewriter Revolution and contributor to the recent California Typewriter documentary featuring Tom Hanks, shared this video with his Facebook group!

Time to catch up with our blog! We’ve been focused on our YouTube channel this semester and we haven’t been sharing our videos here. We made this tribute to our school in September. 

Alex J.’s story is inspired by the painting Silhouette (pictured above) by Hughie Lee-Smith.

Balloon for Sale

The wind blew gently through the tall grassy field, soft blue cornflowers and humble dandelions swaying like a slow song. A strange long haired man, dressed like he was from the far west, stood in the middle of the song, adding a few peppy notes to it as he began setting up his balloon stand. He held a joyous smile as he enjoyed the field just outside of town. He figured it best, considering city folk would walk right by something so childish.  Right now he only had one balloon, but it was a bright, shiny red one, full of good dreams and happy thoughts. Not like those other balloons with their dull color and odd, musty rubber smell. Something funny to note about this cowboy in particular; if you were to pop a balloon anywhere near him, he’d squeal like a little girl and hide under the nearest sofa.

A man approached him and offered to buy the balloon. The cowboy’s face lit up with delight as he prepared for his first ever sale. The man was dressed with lack of effort, and balding, definitely a man in need of a balloon.

“That’ll be one nigh’mare, Mister.” The odd cowboy smiled. The man stared in confusion as the cowboy began to set up his balloon stand; a large yellow plank on the front. 

“Oh, won’t you take cash? My son is waiting for me--” The man spoke quickly. The cowboy’s grin widened at the desperate man. He tied the ribbon of the balloon to the man’s wrist. The man held out a hand full of crumpled one dollar bills. The cowboy shook his head in refusal. The man shrugged and then hurried across the field, away from the cowboy’s quiet laughter.

On the yellow plank of the balloon stand, a man’s shadow began to form, despite the cowboy being nowhere near it. The shadow twisted and turned until it shifted into the shape of a small boy. Terrified, the man broke into a sprint across the field, the string beginning to burn his wrist. He ripped the ribbon off, letting the balloon free. There was a faded scream as the shadow quickly disappeared from the plank. The cowboy’s face sunk and he stopped laughing.

Dear New Planet

Dear Earth,

Let's get to the point here. No, I don't have a mouth and no, you don't need to be scared of me. So before you scream, hear me out.

As I have observed, you humans do things different than I, your alien overlord. While my kind may absorb nutrition through our skin you humans may use your mouths. This poses problems for both of us. My kind absorbs paper through our skin when we write and your kind gets bugs in your face holes when you ride bicycles. We both go through our trials and tribulations.

I am but a simple organism, I put my body cloth on one tentacle at a time. So with all the similarities we share, why must you still treat me as if I am an alien that just invaded your planet? I have heard many things about your planet, and was excited to be the one to invade it. Many stories since passed through my colony since I was an egg, about the amazing achievements the human creatures had achieved. About the buildings, the computers, the luxury spas!

But the moment my tentacle landed on the premise, I was ridiculed! Only because I had no mouth hole! I'm sure you creatures don't treat each other like that, persecuting them for things they cannot change. That is absolute madness!

The more I learn about this new planet I have invaded, the more I appreciate the progress my own colony has achieved. While we made emotional and technological strides, your planet has mostly remained the same. Was your species genius held back by the abysmal way you treat your peers? Or are you really just that stupid?

Many moons ago your planet was only lava and rock, so you creatures obviously have to adapting ability to change. So why must your social ways be caught in the stone ago? The variety of your creatures is so wide? So if you learn the simple concept of respect I believe your planet will run more smoothly, but until then you can keep it!

Read the Woods Readers, 

The Creative Writing Student Editorial Team would like to introduce to you our new advice column! We, the Editorial Team, have planted a mailbox inside of Mr. Campbell’s homeroom, where we have received and collected numerous questions and letters that are in need of advice. We have answered, so you shall receive… an answer! Without further ado, please feast eyes on the new and improved “Dear Jade…” advice column. Enjoy!

Frantic in Fraser: Will I ever find love?

Miss Jade: Yes, you will. Just give it some time. Love is something worth waiting for. Love can come in many different forms. It’s not something you search for but, it’s something that finds you. Love is an inevitable thing that can be a long, hard, and prosperous journey.  

Weepy in Warren: How do you deal with someone who overthinks everything?No matter how many times I tell them I care, they don’t get it. If I like them and they like me, how is everything so complicated? Is it because they don’t want to hurt my feelings?

If someone is draining you emotionally, it is never good to keep them in your life.

Miss Jade: If someone is draining you emotionally, it is never good to keep them in your life. You don’t want to carry or add extra baggage to your life. You have to go with the flow sometimes. You have to tune into their frequency. If it seems as if he doesn’t want a relationship, then you can question whether or not he is using you.

Forlorn in Fraser: There is a guy who likes me. We are going to hang out, but I don’t know how I feel about him. I don’t dislike him, that’s for sure, but I’m just not sure what I should do. Should I give him chance or just play it safe and be semi-comfortable on my own?

Miss Jade: If you are only semi-comfortable with being alone, why not give him a chance? You might like what you find instead of being alone. It never hurts to just give something a try. At the end of the day you will always have other options. I just all depends on how it goes when you hang out with him.

You come to school to learn and friends come along the way. Keep your grades up and just be yourself.

Dazed in Detroit: What do I do? A guy I really like is asking me for advice on how to ask his crush out. How do I get him to like me?

Miss Jade: Tell him the truth, the worst he can say is that he doesn’t want to be with you. If he’s truly your friend it won’t change anything. You can’t make someone like you. If they like you, they like you. If they don’t, they don’t. You can’t force them to like you. You can only hope for the best. Being there for him is the best thing you can do. What if the girl rejects him? He’ll know that you were there for him from the beginning. If he doesn’t share feelings for you, explore other options.

I’m a freshman and having a difficult time...

Flustered Freshman: I have a lot of questions. I’m a freshman and having a difficult time. How do I survive high school? How do I stop being invisible? No one sees me at school and no one cares. How do I get over writer’s block? Lastly, how do I deal with anxiety?

Miss Jade:  Just keep going. You’ll have those days where it’s hard but, it’s worth it in the end. There’s always someone there that sees and knows you. Keep yourself around people that you’re comfortable with. The truth is you don’t come to school to make friends. You come to school to learn and friends come along the way. Keep your grades up and just be yourself. Be sure to talk to a teacher, social worker or counselor if you are feeling down.

As for the writer’s block, I’m one of those people that suffer from this as well, I like to venture off into other things. Try a different genre of writing. Keep writing and don’t let your inner critic ruin the piece rather it makes sense or not. The inner critic will delay your creative process if you let it take over. Writing helps with anxiety as well. When you’re feeling anxiety, stop, breath, and talk to someone you feel comfortable with. This person has to be someone you trust. Make sure it isn’t a bias opinion or piece of advice and it’s only helpful.

How do I balance everything?

Manic in Macomb: I work 40 hours a week and come to school full time… How do I balance everything? What should I do?

Miss Jade: Money isn’t everything. Just remember that your grades are always more important. It’s a luxury to have your own money but, it isn’t a necessity to have your money. You can use this as practice for college. You’ll be working and taking classes as a full-time student most likely anyway. Remember to stay strong and know your limits. This is all preparation for being an adult who is also a college student.  

Broke and in Love: What are some cool inexpensive dates that my boyfriend and I can go on? Be reasonable.

Miss Jade: If you don’t have transportation, your best bet is a movie night. Movie nights are romantic. You can cook him food. If you can’t cook, take out is cool too. You could also do a game night. Chill at home and have a friendly competition playing your favorite games. If you have means of transportation. When It gets warmer you can always visit a park and have a romantic picnic. Use your resources. Visit the Detroit Historical Museum or the Detroit Institute of Arts. Admission is free for Oakland, Wayne and Macomb County residents.

Dear Count Basie

Dear Count Basie,

Or should I say James Basie, you have been a euphoric stimulation to jazz players everywhere. You learned piano at such a young age, Taught by your mother page by page. You began swingin’ and didn’t stop, people would stand in exaltation, dance with felicity, and other swing artists bow down to your solos, oh how they’re grand.

A rumble on Vine Street, your boogie, rhythm royalty jump at one o’clock oh you are atomic, especially when you met the Duke.

You spoke swing, you consumed, imbibed, and slept it, to the point you earned your title, hail to you, the king of swing.

The Count Basie Orchestra playing “Why Not” and Conlan’s favorite Basie number, “Vine Street Rumble”:

Red Planet Blues

She was from a place they called Planet Earth. She had fled long ago, when she was little more than a child, from the fire that swallowed Planet Earth whole. She had fled to this place, this cold place, Planet Mars. She had fled so that she would never feel the wretched kisses of an untamed flame upon her skin again in her lifetime. She had held on tight to her memories of home, and she told me many times how her home had been.

She never forgot to remember the rain. How she missed the rain, more than anything else. The rain simulators at the Agricultural Estates of Planet Mars, where she worked, were all too artificial to her, and too restricted. She adored and craved for the sounds of a summer storm. Our summers lasted no longer than a week, and even then, it never rained. From the Observatory of Planet Mars, she could sometimes see the scattered fragments of her heat-devoured home. As she had, they traveled through the abyss of space, but they never found a true home. As hers was, their home was lost.

I always did everything I could to console her. We had always been together, since she landed at the Northpoint Spaceport all those years ago until she left to find the rain. We were both raised in the orphanage until we were old enough for occupation assignment. My parents’ parents came from Planet Earth, but I never got to hear their stories, or the stories passed down from them to my parents before my parents left me on Planet Mars to find a new planet to colonize. Children couldn’t undergo the pressure changes in a shuttle the same as the grown martian-humans could.

So here I stayed, when everyone left. Here I stayed, remembering how she loved the rain, and how she would never love me or remember me in the same way as she loved something so simple as rain. Perhaps, sometimes, she made me feel like an orphan again -- left behind and lonely. We lived together after occupation assignment for many years, but there was always a look in her eyes whenever she stared at sun. Her eyes could hold so much more than I could in my hands. They held the weight of a lifetime of sadness and broken hopes. I knew those things only when I was left here on my own for the first and the second time.