Nonfiction

It’s 6 AM at the end of September, and Vermont's trees are transitioning into their autumn beauty. The mornings are my favorite: the quiet, peacefulness, and calm of the world are one of a kind.

When I was younger, summer meant going swimming, getting ice cream, and taking trips to the Montshire Museum. Now, although some of those things still apply, I experience them differently than I used to.

It all began with a dare. It was a hot summer day. I practically dragged myself from the school bus back to my house, convinced I’d die of heatstroke.

This is just kind of random bits of information in unedited paragraphs.

Why do I care?

One day before the test, and my nerves start to fizzle.

I need to study all I can to make up for the days that I was never in class and never learned anything; Make up for my stupidity and procrastination.

I gripped his shoulders as the motorbike sputtered to life, coughing smoke into the humid air. He drove along a dirt path, passing flooded paddy fields and slender palm trees.

There is a man on the corner of 87th and Amsterdam. I do not know him, and he does not know me. He wears a red T-shirt with red sweatpants. He wears a red coat with red shoes. He wears a red ski mask on his face.

Book banning is a growing problem in our modern world. Many argue that banning books is a good thing because it prevents children from viewing books that are considered “harmful”.

As I sped down the mountain, the wind sliced across my face like a dagger. It hooted at me as if to warn me of the danger ahead. If I had known what was to happen that day; I would have listened to the wind.

I’ll say it: I hate our president

All my life, people have written me off as

“different”

“possessed” and

“antisocial”

And while yes

I am different

I am not possessed

I am disabled

Turning away from an old life

Tricky and sometimes with strife

It’s full of things you think you want

Sometimes it will dare to taunt

Why must the things we want be of danger

Where does your hope lie?

Is it in the gentle pelt of rain?

Where does your hope lie?

In something solid that remains?

Where does your hope lie?

Is it in the food you eat

Or the cloud-free sky