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Sample Pieces
Here is a small selection of the more than 120 pieces of teen writing, artwork and photography featured in the first Teen Ink book. Get a taste of what's inside by reading the openings of these selected pieces:
Losing Tyler by Lisa Gauches
Granted by Andrew Hammer
Holding On by Kaidi Stroud
Just Like a Movie by Erik Bernstein
Kayla fiction by Christopher Scinta
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Losing Tyler by Lisa Gauches
To the observer, we appear to be two average high school students. He pores over a college guide, and I write my college application essay. Chewing on the end of my number-two pencil, I'm trying to think of words to live by. That's my topic.
My mind wanders away from the blank page, and so does my gaze. I watch Tyler. His forehead creases slightly, and I know in a few seconds he'll snap his head slightly to the side to get his hair out of his face. Counting down - three, two, one... His head tosses back slightly to the left. It's mere habit now, since he cut his hair short months ago.
I also predict in a few seconds he'll swear in Gaelic. He does, and I laugh. It's one of those situations where you know the other person better than you know yourself. And lately, I have found myself observing him more and more...
As I watch him, he coughs, and I worry. I almost ask him if he wants to go outside for some fresh air, but it was his idea to go to the library, so I say nothing. At first glance, he looks fine, perhaps a little tired. But I see the circles under his eyes, and the holes he has punched in his belt because of the weight he's lost. That's the third new hole this month. Without looking up, he says, "Stop staring at me"...
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* * *
by Jessica Mazonson
* * *
Granted by Andrew Hammer
"I wish she was dead," I said quietly to my cousin as we stood in his living room watching our mothers talk one late fall day freshmen year. My mom and Aunt Sharon spoke of nothing in particular, simply enjoying each other's company. My mother often embarrassed me, and that day was no exception. I was embarrassed by how she dressed, with her dorky Christmas socks and shirt tucked in all the time. Then there was the way she acted: always so joyful, not realizing what it was like being seen with her. The things she said (and firmly believed) also bothered me, such as "Parents don't expect enough of their children," and "The day I say boys will be boys, you may as well just shoot me."
This was not the first time I felt a strong dislike toward my mother, but it was one of the last. That evening I went home unaware of how much influence my mother had in my life. Nearly a week later, I found out. My parents were disappointed with me and my older brother, Peter. They felt we were making typical teen mistakes and didn't like our choice of hangouts, our clothing that didn't fit and, sometimes, our friends. Most of all they hated our music with its loud banging and screaming...
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* * *
Holding On by Kaidi Stroud
We loaded the car to visit every summer -
four animated girls were enough to leave you out of breath.
You won me with a Mickey Mouse ice-cream pop.
I won you with a mug made of Carolina red clay.
We cut out construction paper hearts,
and sent them to you with our love.
You cherished them all
because you knew that things would change.
Things would grow older.
When I got older we drove down for a brief visit.
I noticed your hands shaking as you cut your meat,
your voice trembling as you quietly spoke.
You still had pink construction paper piled in your drawers.
But I didn't have time for paper hearts anymore.
You bought me a Mickey Mouse ice-cream pop.
But I didn't eat ice cream anymore.
But now, Granddaddy, if you could only buy me one more pop,
I'd eat it just for you,
to pretend that things hadn't changed
the way you knew they would,
and to love you as I did then, and as I do now -
both at once...
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* * *
by Doug Mahegan
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Just Like a Movie by Erik Bernstein
One morning four years ago my mother came into my room to wake me for school. She asked if I had opened a door that was ajar. I was really tired and had no idea what she was talking about. Suddenly I heard my father's voice. It felt like slow motion and seemed like I was in a movie when he said, "We have a home invasion." It didn't register, but then I saw an unfamiliar man holding a gun to my brother's head. I felt sick. The man must have been six feet tall, and looked very strong. He wore a red bandana around his face, and plastic gloves.
Before I knew it, he threw my brother out of the way and pointed the gun at me. He demanded, with anger in his voice, that I come to him. I did what he said. He put his left arm around my neck and pressed the gun against my right temple. I felt the coldness of the metal against my head and, from his trembling, his fear.
Looking into my mother's eyes, I knew she was no longer in control of my life, or hers. He told us if we did not give him money and jewelry he would shoot me. I had $300 in my wallet from my bar mitzvah. Without hesitation, I gave it to him. Time slowed. I didn't want this to be reality. I waited to wake up. We watched him trash our house looking for more jewelry and money. He took a number of valuable items that had always been in our family...
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* * *
Kayla fiction by Christopher Scinta
I will refer to her as Kayla because that's what she liked to be called. Her given name was Maggie Kayla Strausser. Everybody called her Maggie - except me. I met her twelve years ago at summer camp when we were barely seven years old. The day we met, I immediately showed her what a charming young man I was by pulling her hair and mocking what I thought was a strange name. She had always hated her name. Needless to say, I was not her favorite campmate. Oddly enough, Kayla and I became friends in spite of our first encounter.
Kayla was very plain with a gawky, insecure nature. She was short with a round face and long, stringy brown hair. She wasn't what you would call attractive, if that term can be applied to a seven-year-old. She was not much of a conversationalist, except when she talked to me. We clicked. She would always complain about how she was homely - ugly even. I couldn't help but wonder who was feeding her these thoughts, but I would just laugh it off and tell her how beautiful her eyes were. She'd try to hide her tiny smile, but I knew that it meant something to her.
We grew up together on the same street in a small town in northern Wisconsin. The summers were warm, and the winters cold, and our playful activities adapted accordingly with snowball fights in winter and tree jumping in summer. In autumn we'd gather leaves and then wrestle in them; in the spring we picked flowers...
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