Sarah Barringer

School: New Milford High School
Grade: Sophomore
# of years at YWI: one
I like that, here at YWI, I can spend time and get constructive advice from people who share the same talent as me. I learned what I need to watch out for (namely, using too many adjectives!) so I can write better on my free time.

The empty spaces between the stars
Soft blackness coalesces to stop you
And the fiery eyes of screeching owls
Warn you to not move an inch farther—
Maybe the bramble blacks the pass
Or whippoorwills cry in your ear with the moon’s journey
Sleepless night awaits you yet
Dreams of nothing and vacant minds
Crowd you out of your fervent roaming—

Never here or never there

The crow cackles at you as the bloody dawn breaks.

Snarky

Wes Ainslee bounced a ball nonchalantly against the smooth concrete of the abandoned store. He sat, slumped against a rusty, chain link fence. The shade was a relief to Wes, it helped to escape the broiling heat. Summer was his least favorite season—the heat caused sweat to congeal on his brow and upper lip, and his pale, glowing skin broke out in painful blisters under the relentless sun. Even in the shade, the viscous air clung heavily to his lungs.

The ball hit a crack in the wall and bounced out of his reach. Wes sighed, and looked at it disparagingly.

“I’m not going to get it,” he stated out loud. He pushed his purple hair off his damp forehead.

“Well, I’m not either! You’re just lazy.” said an annoyed voice from above Wes. He looked up to see a crow cocking his head and bobbing, clearly amused at Wes’ situation. He looked back down at the ball.

“You’re way too easily amused, you stupid bird,” Wes said, irked.

“Why aren’t you flitting around like the other human boys? You know, that thing the play with the ball and then they try to kill each other…?” Sebastian swept down onto the dirt in front of Wes and ruffled his iridescent black wings. Any person could look at a crow and count it ordinary, but Wes thought Bas—as annoying and egotistical as he was—beautiful.

“Football, idiot? Anyways, you know I can’t stand the heat. And they’re strange, stupid beasts.”

“I suppose.” sighed Sebastian dramatically. “Well, at least you have good choice in company.” He ruffled his feathers again.

“You?” Wes laughed. “That’s funny.” Sebastian pecked him hard on his bare shin. Rubbing it, he asked, “So, what’s happening, Bas?”

“Oh, nothing much, just what’s-his-name again. Remember, Wes? The one you got in the scuffle with outside of Fudhae City.” Wes did remember.

“Little freak. Bala.”

“Yeah, him. Seems he’s gotten wrapped up in the wrong crowd. Again.”

“He’s a gullible kid. Easy to follow unobtainable ideas. Horribly misled, I think.” Sebastian nodded—a human behavior he had picked up from Wes. Sebastian jumped up onto his knee, peering into Wes’s face.

“This means you have to leave, you know.” Wes stared at a blade of dying grass. He had wished for this day since winter—the time he had come to this tiresome, dull, analytical town. It was a farming town in upstate New York—the school was mediocre and Wes found himself reading ahead in his text books, teaching himself everything.

But now… Wes realized he had gotten used to the place. It was home, after all; or as much home as he could have. His parents had decided that country air would do him good.

Ha, good… they think I’m just moody and need to be isolated from bad people. They didn’t know the truth. They would probably never know. The rift his… career… had driven between him and his parents hurt. It felt like they were some strangers he shared a house with, not the people who raised him. They used to laugh, and do things together… he shoved it away quickly—he felt the buds of tears tingling, unbidden at the corner of his eyes. Bas’s keen eyesight, however, caught the emotion.

“Wes…” Sebastian gently climbed his arm and perched on his shoulder. He groomed Wes’s vibrantly purple hair. It tickled, and, before long, Wes allowed a small smile to crack on his face. He hadn’t chosen this, Sebastian knew it. And to Wes, Bas was his only true family. The only one who knew. The only one who didn’t hurt him, even though they thought they were helping. Wes reached up and stroked Bas’s smooth feathers.

“Yeah, Bas, I’ll go.”

Memoir

My aunt owns a cottage on Kueka Lake. That’s in central upstate New York, and it’s one of the Finger Lakes, so it’s glacial. It’s cold most of the time because it’s so deep--- we’re situated at the fork, the widest and deepest part of the lake. A mile long, as a matter of fact.

The cottage itself is an old Victorian, a cheery butter yellow with white and burgundy trim. The trim, by the way, is not lacy, as are most Victorians, but solid and beautiful, more like carved stone. It’s overlooking Kueka Lake on top of a hill, stately and elegant, emanating from the mass of bright flowers that are it’s gown. Lovely, you would think… if not for the Stairs of Death.

We counted once, but I forgot how many there are. Thirty? Fifty? Two thousand? Who knows, I just know there are too many. To go back to the house from the waterfront, you climb one rickety set of stairs. Be careful of Josiah, he may slither across your path as you tread in anguish and pant heavily. Just as you think it’s over, bam. Another set of stairs across the driveway. You stumble up these—at least they’re stable, made of slate and concrete. You collapse at the top on one of the plastic lawn chairs, exhausted…

God help you if you need to go to your bedroom.

Many adventures have been undertaken on the arduous journey to the cottage. The most spectacular one to date has been the most recent—the Epic Battle of Pennsylvania and Flooding.

So, the Epic Battle of Pennsylvania and Flooding begins thusly:

We trundle along, Erika sitting in the back with me, my mother in the passenger seat, and my dad driving. We had been traveling for three hours without much hassle, but according to the First Natural Law of the Cottage, whatever damage and destruction can be done, will be done when at or journeying to the cottage. (There is a Second Natural Law of the Cottage, which states that where ever there’s carnage involving fire, Jaime and Jim are the cause of it.)

We ended up going three hours out of our way. We ended up going through central Pennsylvania and veering back north. YUCK.

We hit stalk-still traffic rounds about Wilkes-Barre. Later, we found out why. They were conducting an emergency evacuation of the city, and we were right in the middle of it.

It also happened that, right where we were stopped in congestion, the river was right up to the side of the road. You couldn’t even tell where the river was supposed to be—it looked like one wide, muddy, fast-moving lake.

We saw a beautiful cobblestone house flooded up to its second story, along with it’s barns. Vans and motor homes were floating around or shoved against some strong tree. Large logs—obviously for sizeable trees—were being torn downstream. I’ve absolutely never seen anything like that, and certainly hope I never do again.

Have you ever had the experience of an extended family’s obnoxious extended family? If no: you’re one lucky ducky. If yes: I feel for you. Very deeply, powerfully so.

Is it so hard to ask to go out on the tube for at least once? Do they always have to shanghai the boat for every winking, waking moment of the day? Do they always have to make your towels and lifejackets magically disappear then reappear mysteriously soaking wet? Do they always have to bring the most disgusting, nutritionally vacant—well, you can’t even call it food…

They rival the Stairs of Death.

They rival the Epic Battle of Pennsylvania and Flooding.

And why to we put up with them? ‘Cause we get to see my unobnoxious extended family, and have fun with them. Ah, well. They give me good stories to tell when we get back.

The Third Natural Law of the Cottage states that mayhem will incur itself in the manner of personal injury at any Blain family venture to the Cottage. The Second Clause of the Third Natural Law of the Cottage says that injuries are not limited to any Blain Family relative, but anyone who dares associate themselves with the Blain Family. Oh, the temerity.

A demonstration of this important law in action took place during the first year we brought my friend, Erika, to the cottage. Let’s just say Brad is not a very good boat driver—aren’t you supposed to be looking ahead for large waves and things like that? Isn’t watching behind at Jaime to see if he’s off yet the spotter’s job? Apparently, in Brad’s world, you don’t have to watch ahead.

Well, suffice it to say, we hit a big wave. I clearly remember flying out of my seat and bruising my arm. At least we didn’t go flying out of the boat.

Erika split open her knee—it was rather intriguing, you could see her knee cap and the fat poking out. I thought the fat looked like sour milk that started to curdle, but it was tinted red. We still don’t know where the heck she slapped that knee, but it was a good inch and a half long. (Not enough blood, though to have the desired effect, in my opinion.)

So rocketing to Soldiers & Sailors Hospital went we to have Dr. Kevorkian stitch it up. Dr. Kevorkian (I don’t even remember his real name) stabbed poor Erika with that needle so many times I was surprised her knee cap wasn’t perforated. I did my duty as a friend and kept Erika entertained and her mind off the exquisite war wound. I also drove my parents crazy, so, in essence, it was a good deal.

Did I tell you my mother almost fainted?

She was watching Dr. Kevorkian do his work and almost fainted. Erika says she recalled that the best, as well as me translating health pamphlets from Spanish to English in the waiting room.

So, what did we gather from out venture to the hospital?

Spinny-chairs are lots of fun and keep victims entertained!