“Chicken. It’s easy. All you gotta do is not flinch when the time comes.” “Just don’t flinch? Right. Except that we’re in cars going 50 miles per hour straight at each other.” Cameron was cool. “Right. No big deal. Whoever swerves to avoid crashing is the loser.” “Right.” Kip’s hands were sweating. His mouth was dry. “So what happens if neither of us swerves?” “Ha! Never happens. Okay…. I’ve never seen it, but I heard of one once. They said it was grisley. Two body bags. But they were crispy. Too far from the city. No cops. No EMTs. No way to stop the fire.” Cameron was straight faced. Then, he grinned. “But that won’t happen to us. You’ll swerve. Bwack. Bwack.” “I’m not chicken!” “Whatever you say, Kip. Whatever you say.” Kip got into his car. It was a beater. And old sedan. Everybody called it the Boat. And everybody knew Kip was chicken. He walked away from every fight. People thought that he would walk away from Chicken too. But here he was. He tried to swallow, but there was no saliva in his mouth. Kip watched as Cameron got into his old muscle car. It had a bit of rust here and there, but the engine sounded top notch. Kip figured Cameron would flinch. He loved his car too much. But Kip did not know whether Cameron loved it more than he loved picking on Kip. The two drivers started their engines and put them into gear. They turned and went a quarter mile in opposite directions from each other. It was broad daylight, but they both had their headlights on. It would be easier to see when they were getting close. And it would help them judge speeds. Somebody in the middle of the road dropped her arm, then rushed off the road. It was an old dirt road, so when Kip hit the gas, he spun his tires and saw a cloud of dust behind him in the rear view mirror. He saw a similar plume of dust half a mile in front of him. Kip gripped his steering wheel hard. He was, as they say, white knuckling it. He was leaning forward not paying attention to his speed. He was watching Cameron’s car get bigger in his windshield. He was getting bigger and bigger and bigger. Kip saw Cameron’s face, and he knew. Cameron’s mouth had been opened wide. Probably saying some profanity that Kip would never hear. Kip saw Cameron’s car spin out after he swerved to avoid the collision. The last thing Kip saw in the rear view mirror was Cameron standing by his open door. The dust cloud following Kip swallowed up the view. Kip kept on driving. [Author’s note: Do NOT try this at home. Street racing and chicken are dangerous and I would not want people to think that a story like this condones either.]

I tried soccer when I was ten And have since vowed never again I wasn't too quick on my feet I gave up fast in summer heat They put me on defensive line And during practice, I did fine But when it came time for the game The field no longer looked the same They kick the ball towards my face I shield my head and quickly brace I've saved myself from getting hurt Though if I put in more effort We might have won once in a while I'm sure that would have made them smile Instead the team all hated me For sabotaging constantly It's not my fault I'd rather loose Than end up with a scrape or bruise That's why I prefer poetry It's safer…at least physically

The tension that surrounds the mud-colored Pit is so thick that even if I had the sharpest knife in the drawer, I’d never be able to slice through. We’re all waiting. We’re all watching. We’re all desperately hoping that the deceivingly soft-looking, cream-colored ball would somehow end up in our arms, and one of us would gain the opportunity to battle frighteningly fiercely for the glory of our grade. I’m standing where I have the Pit in front of me, and the weathered, gray fence behind. The trees above my light-brown hair are sunlit and emerald, and the ground beneath my sketchers is hard and tan, thankfully not muddy and wet. Munching on my Sunkist tuna, for now I’m causally observing the Freshmen, Eighth and Seventh graders battling to earn a place of great respect and honor in their own Grade. A dark shadow passes over my figure, and I frown as I watch one of the Freshmen,Tony, target his unsuspecting, undeserving victims with merciless velocity and ferocity. He mostly targets either the Middle schoolers or the young women of his own grade, which I think is immensely immature and idiotic, but there’s unfortunately nothing I can do except allowing my thoughts to scold him throughly. As I’m fuming at this lack of fairness, a angelic freshman, Luca, sweeps into my field of vision. When I’m observing and totally not staring at him, he flings his light-brown, flowing hair out of his countenance and gently chest bumps the ball away from himself. My chest claps my heart tightly as a friend would to my arm if she were excited. My heart, clearly not minding if it was caught in a clasp, starts fluttering as if it were a dove trying to fly to land on Luca’s arm. But before I can process, this round is over with, and a new one is just beginning. I set my tuna on the ground beside the fence, and after hopping over the Pit’s wall, I walk over to my friend, Daisy, who’s leaning against the sunny side of the wall. “Hello.” She acknowledges me with a polite greeting. “Hi!” I exclaim cheerfully back. “Ga…ga…ball!” Everyone inside the Pit exclaims. I turn my full attention onto the game. The ball’s being hit back and forth, to and fro, from person to person. The more aggressive of the group dive towards the middle of the Pit, while the more reserved stay near the edges. Tony, of course, is right in the middle of everything, absolutely smacking the poor ball with his hand left and right, hitting every Middle schooler and Freshman lady that he is able. Everyone who is touched by the ball, no matter how soft or hard, below the thighs are out until the next round. As usual, I’m able to stay in the game by sticking to my usual strategy of watching the ball as a falcon to her prey, and by staying mostly close to the edges of the Pit’s walls. Daisy, on the other hand, is leaping and dodging the ball with the agility and grace of an antelope as others try to get her out without any success. Frustrated and probably slightly embarrassed, Tony chucks the ball straight for her calf, and with a triumphantly sinister grin calls, “Daisy, your out!” Daisy only shrugs and with the same incredible ability, leaps out to the other side of the wall and stands on the sunny side of the Pit to watch the rest of the round. As the game continues, I’m able to withstand any of the attacks that come my way, which aren’t many. But finally, everyone else has been beaten and only Tony and I are left. As we circle each other, his cold, icy-blue eyes sinisterly grin at my sky-blue ones. Even though I’m nervous, I notice Daisy smiling and giving me a thumbs-up, while Luca…is actually smiling shyly at me! As I see that adorable grin, I know I can’t let them down. I sprint towards the ball, but Tony’s too swift, and he smashes it to me, but I dodge and smack it…right towards his calf! He lets out a yelp and bends down to hold it for a sec, frowns deeply at me, then walks away. As I’m still processing what happened, Daisy and Luca surround me, along with others, to congratulate me, as I had won!

Selander peeked over the lip of the roof as fast as he could. The grey of the street below was nothing but a blur. It was inconsequential … a fleeting thought … and tremendously solid. Gulping down the sudden urge to vomit, Selander staggered backwards, his spine colliding with the chimney stack and dislodging a cloud of soot. He wanted to do this. He wanted to do this. He had to do this. It wasn’t enough, conquering the city’s underground. He must have its skies. And given the number of airships the government were deploying at the moment, it just made sense. Think of the supplies he could steal right out from under them! Think of the distances he could travel if he weren’t limited by the laughable geometry of the streets. He could move without obstacle, without pause, if only he could summon the courage to jump. ‘Take a leap of faith,’ he’d said, when he’d told Oswin what he planned to do that morning. ‘This city isn’t done with us yet.’ Now he wished that he could travel back in time and slap himself in the face. Slowly, he crept towards the edge of the roof. The police station wasn’t a tremendously large building - he had some common sense - but granting himself the perspective of an additional two storeys suddenly seemed terrifying. And falling here would only land him in a cramped, cold, cell. ‘Focus, damnit,’ Selander told himself, ‘you’re clever. You know you’re clever. So work it out.’ With that, he took a steadying breath and got to work. There was a drainpipe to the left of the building opposite that looked sturdy enough at first glance but Selander could see rust flaking from its bolts. If he tried swinging from that he’d meet the cobblestones far sooner than he wanted. On the right, however, was a ladder. With a fresh coat of black paint, it was firmly bolted to the ledge of the roof opposite and in a perfect position for Selander to grab it. The problem - the only problem, really - was that it was less than a metre in length. Twisted points of iron pointed marked where rust had started to eat away at the metal. So someone had removed the bottom half before the rest rotted. That gave Selander the smallest window of opportunity to not paint the street with strawberry jam. So before he could overthink it, Selander got to work. Step one was donning his leather gloves. They had much better grip than his hands which were so sweaty he felt like a melted candle. Step two was stretching. Selander hated to admit it m, but running an underground criminal empire gave him very little opportunity to exercise and the last thing he needed right now was cramps. And then finally, step three. The run up. This was it. No going back. Now or never. His legs carried him to the edge of the roof, extending to their full length to compensate for what Selander was suddenly realising was a very wide gap. Then the copper-coloured bricks of the building opposite came rushing up to meet him and he realised it was no distance at all. His gloved hands struck out, scraping stone before snagging on the final ladder rung. For a moment, Selander hung there, his heart in his throat, his breathing laboured before - ‘Step four!’ he huffed. ‘Climb the ladder.’

Playing the sport football Is a sport that you can smell The heat that you can emit Smells like the fires of hell Playing the sport football Is a sport you can hear The crowd and players Make it severe to the ear Playing the sport football Is a sport you can taste It’s hot dog and burger smells Are not a waste Playing the sport football Is a sport you can see The lights, players and ball Are the best three Playing the sport football Is a sport you can touch The football, other players They are a bunch

They say that as long as you dive straight into the water you’ll be fine. That as long as you go hands first in a dive, the impact won’t kill you. I’m more skeptical. There can’t be any way that you can jump straight 30 feet down into a dangerous ocean and survive. But this is my culture. If I don’t make the jump and swim back to shore, I’m as good as dead. At the most they’ll let me live for one more meal before they throw me out into the wide grassy plains with no food and water for days walks. At least making this jump, so have a chance of surviving. Everybody in our tribe over the age of 14 has done this, so obviously the odds aren’t impossible. But they still feel bad. I sigh. Close my eyes. Sigh again. And leap off the edge, hoping for the best.

Most people believe that mental illness is rare and can barely happen to the people around them, which is not the case. It is often characterized by unusual thoughts, feelings, perceptions, behavior and relationships with other people. “Mental illness is very common and is often not recognized because of its different manifestations” (Weir, 2012). There is also barely enough awareness about mental illness and its side effects both in the US and in the world.

Most people believe that mental illness is rare and can barely happen to the people around them, which is not the case. It is often characterized by unusual thoughts, feelings, perceptions, behavior and relationships with other people. “Mental illness is very common and is often not recognized because of its different manifestations” (Weir, 2012). There is also barely enough awareness about mental illness and its side effects both in the US and in the world.

I can feel the adrenaline pulsing through them all. Mine is too, but it’s fueled by fear and I can feel that theirs is something more primal. They are ready for the whistle, sticks crack on the ice, the intensity rising. I want to run, but that will never happen on these blades. I can barely walk, definitely can’t skate. How did I get myself stuck in this chaos of a sport? I gag at the mere mention of blood. This is not going to end well for me.

WhyWhyWhyWhyWhy, Why did I do this? Sure revenge is important, but did it really cost my life? I look out over the stadium and wonder once again, why? It’s a game of dare. It’s a game of those who are fearless. It’s a game of who jumps first. I was doing it because I wanted the emperor to trust me. I wanted my revenge. And no ones gonna stop me. So thats what I thought of when I jumped. When I heard the crowd roaring. In one second I opened my eyes. I wasn’t even close to the ground but I could see the remains of a fallen competitor. I could see the others falling next to me. I could see the mats moving to decide who would survive and who would die. My eyes closed. Everything I wanted this for flashed before my eyes. I opened my eyes again when I heard a scream. I saw the mat beneath me. Even though the mat was under me the scream through me off. I turned and I hit the ground. That was the game I guess. The ultimate mental game. It was called a game of mentality for a reason.