Jess: “Oh, come on, I’m sure you’ll find someone …”
Barb gives all the guys in the room her death (yet still-ready-to-mingle) stare.
Barb: “You know what, I’m outta here!”
She pushes her chair and walks toward the exit when she bumps into someone.
Barb: “Hey! Watch where you’re g …”
She trails off when she looks up to see a tall guy with dark hair and beautiful hazel eyes.
Guy: “I’m so sorry, are you okay?”
His British accent was like music to her ears. She looked to Jess for approval, who was watching this interaction from afar.
Jess must’ve noticed, because she slowly mouthed, “He’s gay.”
Guy: “Hello?”
He said as another guy—just as beautiful, if not more—approached him and grabbed his hand.
Guy 2: “Our table is ready …”
He looked at both him and Barb.
Guy 2: “Is everything okay?”
Barb: “Oh, fuck off … you … fucking … beautiful people …”
She said, clearly pissed that she couldn’t come up with an insult, which made her even more pissed off.
Barb: “And fuck you, too!”
Barb looked at the ceiling as she said this, seeing as someone had to be responsible for her ill-fated love life.
A Vision in Red
LAUREN KIEL
In her writing, Saony mixes dark topics with humor and levity in a unique way. I’ve never been a writer or reader of horror and suspense, but working with her has inspired me to explore these genres for the first time.
As I swipe my card through the subway turnstile, the empty platform has me second-guessing my decision to take the train this late. I take the stairs two at a time down to the express train, hoping my carriage will be there waiting to whisk me home.
I glance up at the countdown clock, mentally crossing my fingers. Five minutes. Okay. Not terrible.
I bury my left hand in my pocket and eyes back in my phone. The screen blurs in front of my eyes. My thumb flicks mindlessly through a sea of images that barely hold my attention.
I’m startled back to consciousness by the graze across my elbow. A wave of brown hair dances before my face. The woman’s bright red jacket trails her like a cape as she races down the platform. Her movements are quick but jagged as she quickly traverses the empty platform.
I’m suddenly aware of another person on the platform, a man in a nondescript black coat. His features are so average, they hadn’t registered my concern or interest. He’s too far down the platform for me to make out the expression on his face, but I can tell he’s facing our way. He teeters close to the edge of platform, the tips of his black shoes grazing the yellow bumps that warn him to move back.
But he remains statuesque as the woman in red races closer. I squint at her, convinced she’ll halt at any moment. Instead, she runs directly into him at full speed, and the two quickly tumble to the ground. Her red coat catches my eye again as it parachutes her fall onto the tracks.
I can’t hear my shriek over the sound of the train roaring into the station. Three long honks steal my attention, and I’m trapped by the headlights of the barreling train. “NO PASSENGERS,” and no chance to react.
As the honks echo from the tunnel ahead, I run to the end of the platform, pausing when I reach the man lying unstirred on the platform edge. I wince before looking down onto the tracks, steeling myself for what I’m about to see. I peek beyond the edge.
There’s no one there.
GENESIS CESPEDES MORA
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: University Heights High School
BORN: Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic
LIVES: Bronx, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: My mentor, Katy, and I meet each other every week and free-write for a bit about anything, even if it’s a fictional story that surges out of nowhere. But there was a day when we started writing and felt too lazy to keep writing, so we just decided to talk and play games like twelve-year-olds. That day, I realized that writing can be a desire that comes to you randomly, and if you don’t feel like writing in the moment, it’s okay to let loose instead!
KATERINA ALLEN-KEFALINOS
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Sales Associate, Housing Works Bookstore
BORN: Miami, FL
LIVES: New York, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Performer on Tampons, Tears, and Triumphs
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: In October, Girls Write Now hosted a Poetry workshop. Genesis and I caught up before it started, and she mentioned that she hadn’t written much poetry before and that she was nervous. As we started getting into activities and heard poetry from the guest speaker, Genesis started to feel more comfortable. Anytime a speaker would pose a question to the group, Genesis’s hand would shoot up; she was so confident responding, which can be hard to do in a room of strangers! She was asked to write a blog post about the workshop afterward and I was so proud!
Our Super Power
GENESIS CESPEDES-MORA
This year, I’ve been thinking about how powerful humans are and what every one of us is capable of achieving. This poem is inspired by that power—both good and bad.
The power of the brain
throws me here,
throws me there.
Like it’s competing for a belt.
Like it might hit me with a chair.
It lets me study people,
each one a book I’ve never read.
It’s culpable of evoking love.
But picks me up if I fall,
then throws me, like a magician with a dove.
It makes me crave what I’ve never had,
a desire that never fades,
an all-out internal war.
The power of the brain is as dangerous as a gun.
It paralyzes my body with fear, as if nothing can be done.
Then it takes me for rides on its time travel machine,
to that special day I thought would someday leave.
The sensation of the moment, it becomes real.
“Wow,” I think.
“I never realized that’s how I feel.”
The power of the brain brings back pictures of smiles,
celebrations of life and family.
I remember the sounds of love and laughter,
then I’m back in the present,
where everything is shattered.
The mind, full of divine thoughts,
but not a word comes out.
Just standing there, wishing I was as free as a cloud.
I want to tell the world what I’m thinking, but
sometimes the brain can be too loud.
Even so,
it gives me the strength to keep moving forward on the track,
even when I’m walking,
even if I keep looking back.
Cuba I
KATERINA ALLEN-KEFALINOS
I read Genesis’s poem about the power of the brain and thought about my family’s tradition of passing down stories from Cuba. This is a poem based on remembering those stories.
I remembered something that never happened
it was both of them, the only ones left,
and they were riding low and easy
on roads built by their father.
The top down, the smell of the ocean,
the gun in the glove box.
Beads of sweat running down their temples,
as they caught each other’s eyes and smiled.
Everything would be okay or
over or,
okay.
I remember something that did happen
something about a door floating on a river
over houses with families inside.
Or was it a piano bench?
And the girl who was tied to the top with a rope
Floating.
Surviving.
Their only hope at their story being told,
while they clutched each other in the blue
and hoped she would remember:
En Cuba, había alguien con quien tomar café a cualquier hora.
Alguien conocido.
And she did.
JORDAN CHE
YEARS AS MENTEE: 2
GRADE: Junior
HIGH SCHOOL: Hunter College High School
BORN: Queens, NY
LIVES: Queens, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Awards: Silver Key, Silver Key and Honorable Mention; New York State Summer Young Writers Institute Anthology
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Although our schedules don’t align as well as they did last year, the rarity of my pair sessions with Maria only makes me treasure them more. Whether in a café in Koreatown or in a busy food court, our meetings are filled with laughter, catching up, and new ideas. I couldn’t ask for a better mentor to put up with my constant need to twist a story around—our mutual love for unnatural appendages makes us the perfect match. Our time spent together this year has allowed us to cross the line from assigned pair to true friends.
MARIA WHELAN
YEARS AS MENTOR: 2
OCCUPATION: Literary Agent, InkWell Management
BORN: Dublin, Ireland
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: I love the Girls Write Now community, but Jordan, my fabulous mentee, made me most excited to kick off another year. Whether we’re writing or chatting, Jordan and I always have something to laugh about. She amazes me with her ability to weave a smart and intricate story with some sort of wacky twist. Over some sort of dessert and writing exercise, the sessions fly by with Jordan! I feel incredibly lucky to have Jordan as a mentee, and, dare I say it—a real friend!
Insignificance in Numbers
JORDAN CHE
No matter how small and meaningless something might seem, its impact on the world can be bold in surprising ways—we just have to keep our eyes open.
the drumming of a million soldiers
wakes you up faster than your alarm
with one glance at the tear-speckled sky
you wordlessly open your umbrella
endless streaks roll off the window panes
collecting in a puddle underneath
you step over it with ease
keeping your head held high and your socks still dry
storm clouds blend in with murky skies
wisps of ink on watercolor canvas
it doesn’t make a difference
you see the world in black and white anyway
a leaking gas pump still neglected on the sidewalk
spills trickles of black magic
snaking down sloped streets
and into ponds of water blossoms
glassy fins join with viscous gold
and pull away with iridescent emotion
rainbow ripples through an obsidian mirror
butterfly printed and pinned against stone
you rush through the neighborhood in your Chevy
eyes fixed on traffic lights and not what stains the streets
a tiger stripe grows along its tires, nature’s complimentary paint job
maybe now you’ll pay attention.
Wicked and Bold
MARIA WHELAN
Sometimes it can be nerve-racking and isolating to stand up for what you believe in. Being Ctrl + B is about comporting yourself in a way that feels right, and not being afraid to do so.
Five wicked women stood
on a weather-walloped shore
Discussing who had seen the worst,
and who could stomach more
Each in turn boasted and bragged
about the cruelties of the earth
One admitted to killing a child
Another wept, softly
for she could not give birth
One incessantly complained about aging,
Another talked about the drudgery of family life,
Having accepted a man’s hand in marriage
Now forever she must be his wife
In their cluster, they went in circles,
Spinning tall and troubling tales,
Fighting about who had the worst bunions,
Revealing tired eyes under their tattered veils
This conjuring happened weekly,
To keep their vanity at bay.
They never questioned the ritual,
Until the day Veritas had something to say
The bold and battered beauty
began to have her fill.
“I’ve had enough” she said,
And everyone grew still
“In order to be respected,
We shouldn’t focus on our strife.
Can’t we bask in our triumphs
And marvel at the goodness of life?”
and was hailed for being brave.
The wicked women reveled in exhilaration
And ceased being so glum and grave.
JAYLI MILAN CHRISTOPHER
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Freshman
HIGH SCHOOL: Homeschooled
BORN: Brooklyn, NY
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: “Whitney Blackmon: Fitting a Mold of Her Own” (Girls Write Now blog); Scholastic Art & Writing Award: Gold Key
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I’ll never forget when Mary Kate scored us tickets to see “Michelle Obama: Becoming.” During the talk, Michelle Obama touched on the topic of mentoring young girls, and, as anyone would expect, we both left the show inspired and enlightened. On the way home, I realized that without Girls Write Now and my mentor, I would not have been able to experience that, nor would I have been in a room surrounded with so many girls and women invested in the thing I love… writing.
MARY KATE FRANK
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Editorial Director for a hotel development firm
BORN: Wood-Ridge, NJ
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Published in The New York Times, Martha Stewart Living, Parents, Us Weekly, Health, HGTV Magazine, and more
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Jayli and I had so much fun hearing Michelle Obama speak at the Barclays Center. We posed for photos with Michelle’s cardboard cutout, worked our way through a massive tub of popcorn, and screamed along with a stadium full of women. Such a special night, but I’ve most enjoyed our regular Saturday meetings at the Brooklyn Museum. Those quiet afternoons—working together and catching up—have been a welcome constant for me, and I hope for Jayli, too.
Tip Tap Tips
JAYLI MILAN CHRISTOPHER
An ode to one of the most illuminating, most inspirational, and boldest things in my life.
I feel like I can conquer the world
Like I have the power of the fates
The power to weave destiny
My infinity gauntlets
Ten mini masterpieces
A small big bang,
A manicure.
Adorning the dead cells that grow from my fingertips,
Nails.
Amplifying my every gesture,
My scribbles are a dance featuring my fingers, pen and paper,
Drawings are grand ceremonies
Typing, bright paint and glitter flash as my fingers stomp out
the flamenco on my keyboard
A skip in my step, dancing to my own rhythm.
That is what my manicure is to me.
In Memory Of
MARY KATE FRANK
There was a moment when I thought it very bold to not care, or at least to pretend to not care. This piece is about realizing the opposite is true: Caring is the boldest act.
We’d struck Thanksgiving from the calendar without a thought, but not gathering for Christmas felt grave—a dark preview of a future in which we no longer saw
one another at all.
“Stay together,” my father had told me. He was dead now, our steady quartet reduced to a wobbly trio. But it was Christmas. We would try.
Trying meant buying presents, but what to give? And how could we bear to give one another things knowing that we, too, would die—maybe soon, maybe before next Christmas—and leave behind piles of things, so many things, things that some unlucky someone would someday have to bag up and cart off to the places where everyone’s things go to form bigger piles of things that sit unremembered for all time.
The T-shirt understood that, the pointlessness of it all. I saw it as I clicked through a gift guide, a simple black muscle tank with white lettering that spelled out In Memory of When I Cared. The words In Memory of formed a curve, like the top of a tombstone. When I Cared lay beneath, a punch line.
A British supermodel had worn it, and now the T-shirt was selling like crazy. No one, it seemed, cared. And everyone wanted the world to know.
I bought two.
When my sister unwrapped the shirt on Christmas, we laughed. “I got one for myself, too,” I said. My mother shook her head. (I gave her earrings.)
I wore the shirt often. I loved to watch people read it as I passed, their eyes falling on the In Memory of and then scanning down for a name, a tribute, and seeing When I Cared instead. The inevitable smirk.
“You got it right,” strangers told me. Or “I need to get one of those.” One older man high-fived me.
When exactly did I realize the idiocy of caring enough to wear a shirt that proclaimed me to not care? Or the carelessness of putting that message into the world? I only know that at some point, I felt embarrassed. And years later, when I saw the First Lady wearing a jacket with I Really Don’t Care. Do U? written on the back, I thought of my father, how hard he’d tried to stay alive. I put the T-shirt on again, but inside out and backward, a reverse spell.
BRIANNA CLARKE-ARIAS
YEARS AS MENTEE: 2
GRADE: Sophomore
HIGH SCHOOL: Hunter College High School
BORN: New York, NY
LIVES: Bronx, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Scholastic Art & Writing Award: Silver Key
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: Normally, Rachel and I sit across from each other at a café as we recount our week apart and our creative struggles, small and large. Rachel is the explorer who pushes my ideas forward with a magnifying lens. The presence of a person who has figured out how you write and relate to the world to help you grow, instead of fit a mold, is both empowering and inspiring. Beyond a writing mentor, Rachel is a person who I can be honest with because we can be genuine with each other.