Photo courtesy of Paolo Avila (flickr.com)

Well, we always knew the work we published was award-winning caliber.  But now we have outside verification.  Stephen Eoannou’s short story “Swiming Naked,” published in January 2012, just won an SCBWI Magazine Merit Honor for Fiction!

This prestigious award regularly highlights the best of what’s being published in the children’s writing community, and we are honored to be mentioned alongside publications like Cicada, Highlights, and Cricket.  Congrats to the other winners.

Stephen’s story stood out from the submissions inbox with strong recommendations from two readers, and when Kerri read it, she knew YARN had to have it.  It is the gripping story of a teen boy who must decide what he will do as he watches a peer get bullied by peers and teachers alike because he refuses to swim naked like everyone else, as instructed by his phys ed teacher.  It’s a true test of character, and it’s a testament to Stephen’s skills as a writer that the story is told without moralizing or sentimentality.

More than a year later, it continues to be one of YARN’s most-read pieces (just look at the comments!).  It’s worth a re-read, and if you haven’t read it already, we hope you will now.

Thanks to SCBWI for this honor, and to Stephen for submitting.  And to all of you for reading!

So.  What’s your YARN?

And now . . . we are thrilled to share with you Ned’s latest, “Strike a Chord”—a YARN exclusive short story! Here it is!

Strike a Chord

By Ned Vizzini

Mary is a light sleeper, and I make a lot of noise at night. Never mind the fact that we’re not even supposed to be in the same building complex. She got into college and I didn’t—or I did, but I wanted to do other things—and when I visit her, I’m supposed to be out by 10:00 p.m. But what I do is sign out and then double back outside the front doors and go up the back stairs, which are mostly used by pizza delivery guys and people having tortured phone conversations with their boyfriends and girlfriends back home. I knock on her door and she lets me in while glancing back and forth down the hall. The lock clicks, and then I get a sharp lovely spike in my abdomen because it’s sex time. I think she likes the secrecy better than anything.

“Dorm Room” courtesy of aldenhg (flickr.com)

She never wants me to leave without holding her, like we used to in high school, so I end up sleeping over, but I don’t sleep really. Nights are very active for me. I stay up and do random things on the internet, eat whatever food I can find, and write songs. I know that’s rude but it’s the best time. Mary’s dad gives the college money so she got herself a single with a closet and she has a guitar in there. Once she’s asleep, I stuff myself in there and put a towel under the door like you’re supposed to during a fire.

Mary has her first class at eight tomorrow because she’s crazy. I have this interview at ten tomorrow because—honestly, I don’t know why. I know the circumstances that led up to it: last week when I visited Mary, I woke up in the morning in this very closet and I couldn’t move because the sweat was so bad on my face and I wanted to die so badly, and she told me I should try and get a summer job.

“Your band is doing great and you should be so proud, but I see what this is doing to you. Living with your parents, asking them for money . . . you’re a very independent person. If you don’t find something soon to feel good about myself, you’re going to end up . . .  I don’t know. Addicted to drugs, or dead.”

She always puts those two things together like they’re automatically related.

Image courtesy of Bombardier (flickr.com)

She told me her father could get me a job at one of his cafes, where I could interact with lots of people every day. Like that’s an advantage. I’ve been with Mary since I was fifteen. You could give a lot of different reasons for it, but the real reason is that I got hit by the sex truck and I’ve never been brave enough to try it with anyone else.

So now, at 1:47 a.m., while I’m playing guitar in her closet, she opens the door to check on me.

“Mm,” she says.

“Hey.”

“Come to bed.”

I sigh and put down my guitar and follow her. Like a twin in a dorm room even counts as a “bed.” When I do sleep, I end up sleeping wedged between her and the wall with the draft from the window falling over me like a waterfall. But that’s not happening tonight.

Tonight, the song is really good. I mean I was onto something there in the closet. It’s starting to have lyrics and everything. I’ve been reading on the internet about the artistic method and how you’re destined to fail until something strikes you and if you don’t grab it then, it’s your own fault.

“Mary,” I say.

“Please. Tomorrow. I have my early class. Please.”

She bundles me around her, shutting me out. I think about Keith Richards, how he recorded “Satisfaction” when it struck him. He didn’t have a girlfriend probably.

After ten minutes, Mary’s breathing becomes regular and deep. I move myself away from her. She has a little piece of snot in her nose that pops like a bubble when she exhales.

                      Hey, I guess I’m in love / Don’t you know I know it’s true

Those are the lyrics.

                     Hey, I guess I’m in love / I’m too weak to speak these words to you

Those are the bad lyrics. What words are you too weak to speak when you’re in love? “I love you?” That’s too easy. What to do, what to do. After I count forty of Mary’s breaths, I ease up in her bed.

She moves.

I lie back down.

She rustles and mumbles.

I climb over her. She turns around, faces the window. I hold totally still. Count forty more breaths. I start to slip out of her bed an inch at a time.

She stirs.

I crawl to the door. I’m moving so slow I’m practically going backward. I always wanted to be a ninja as a kid. I pretend I’m getting ready to assassinate someone. I hear the RA pass outside the dorm room, walking down the hall like a Nazi guard. I have to worry about her too. I take twenty minutes to reach the closet in a way that doesn’t wake Mary up. If you ever have to do this yourself on dorm-room carpet, here are the rules—

1. Move on your flat palms rather than your stretched-out fingers; it’s quieter.
2. Crawl on your knees with your feet held up, ankles crossed.
3. Wait five breaths between movements to pace yourself.

I inch the closet door open with my finger. I’m still messing with the lyrics:

If I ever get the chance with you

When I’m done I can’t pretend with you

I’m a real fine punk with a lot to lose

When I was a kid, you know, I spent a good hour trying to figure out a single chord to a hit song in my room. (I’m not going to mention the song’s name because who cares.) I knew there was a chord change, but I couldn’t figure out which note it went to.

After trying all the notes, it turned out that the song stayed on the same note, just played it twice.

I’m crawling toward my guitar when she catches me—

“What are you doing?”

My butt is facing her. “Art.”

“What’s wrong with you? Come to sleep!”

The next morning, I try to put on a tie for this job interview at 10:00 a.m. Mary’s getting ready for class, putting her pants on. It feels like we’re married, like we’re in a scene in a movie where the husband is brushing his teeth and the wife is putting on her earrings. If you type “How” on the internet the first thing that comes up is “How to tie a tie” and that’s what I’m looking at, trying to remember the song. All I can remember is “love.”

Mary kisses me on the cheek before I open her window. “Good luck, you’re going to do great.”

I sneak out her window; this is always how I leave her. The air is cold and flinty. I can’t feel her lips on my cheek. I used to be able to feel them whenever she kissed me. She has soft lips that look like they have lipstick on them even when they don’t. That’s tough to deny. People say there are lots of fish in the sea; however, not many of them have good lips. I guess when you’re in love you can—wait.

I guess I’m in love / Don’t you know I know it’s true

I guess I’m in love / I’m too weak to speak these words to you

It’s coming back! The whole thing, from the first note through the chorus!  . . . And all a song needs now is a verse and chorus. That’s all they play on TV.

Hey, I guess I’m in love / I’m too weak to speak these words to you

And which words are those? Not “I love you.”

Because I’m gone

I’m gone

I’m gone

You know the bad thing about music? As soon as you hear a song—or maybe this is just me but who else am I supposed to speak for—you can imagine yourself writing a song, and as soon as you imagine yourself writing a song, you can imagine it being a hit, and as soon as you can imagine it being a hit, you can imagine it being the biggest hit in the world. It takes absolutely nothing to get you started thinking about earth-shattering worldwide success. Whereas actually accomplishing that is not possible. It’s like the brain should know better than to be able to think that big. One of the philosophy things I remember from high school (that I would probably be learning again if I were in college) is Rousseau or someone saying, “Since we cannot make the world infinite, let us limit our imagination.” And I really believe that. Because it’s dangerous to have a big imagination.

I walk quickly across the campus with my hoodie over my head and my tie flapping. I never got it right; it’s going out behind me like a streamer at a used car lot. The campus security people are all drinking their coffee and reading newspapers; they’re the last people who read newspapers, in their little golf carts. They don’t notice me. I open the gate and leave Mary’s school and get in my car. The window is all frosted up.

Image courtesy of katerw (flickr.com)

I’m still thinking about art—and the great thing about it, the thing I forget about until moments like this, is that all it takes is one good idea. All it takes is the smallest kernel of a notion to believe that you can have what you need, that you don’t need to take any crap, that you are gone, you are gone into your head where no one can tell you it’s wrong, and all anyone can do is sit back and watch your exhaust trail burn them a new nostril and send their hair and nails reeling, I’m gone.

And you know what else? This is my car! It’s Mary’s school, Mary’s dorm, Mary’s bed, Mary’s guitar that she keeps in that closet for me, but this is my car, and I’ve got other guitars.

I start up and drive the hell away and loosen my tie and head for something that, statistically, is certain to fail.

Ned Vizzini is the New York Times bestselling author of young-adult books The Other Normals, It’s Kind of a Funny Story (also a major motion picture), Be More Chill, and Teen Angst? Naaah…. In television, he has written for ABC’s Last Resort and MTV’s Teen Wolf. His essays and criticism have appeared in the New York Times, the Daily Beast, and Salon. He is the co-author, with Chris Columbus, of the fantasy-adventure series House of Secrets. His work has been translated into ten languages. He lives in Los Angeles.

E. Lockhart (@elockhart), author of “The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks,” the Ruby Oliver Series, and other books for children and young adults, tweeted about the article, which garnered so much feedback that Lockhart eventually created a hashtag for the conversation: #yaromance. I contributed to the Twitter conversation with, “Some authors seem to think that teens won’t buy their books if there isn’t a romance plot. This is not the case!” E. Lockhart retweeted this comment, inviting her followers to discuss what I had said. I wanted to further explain my comment, but I couldn’t fit my thoughts in 140 characters, so I figured a blog for YARN (@YAReviewNet) would be the perfect place to share my thoughts on the article.

I like romance. Some of my favorite YA novels focus almost entirely on romance.

“My Life Next Door” by Huntley Fitzpatrick (@HuntleyFitz) is, first and foremost, a romance novel. Samantha Reed has spent years of her life watching the Garretts from her roof, but she has never spoken to any of them. That is, not until Jase Garrett climbs right up and sits down next to her. Once that happens, it doesn’t take long for a relationship to start between Samantha and Jase. All of the other events in the novel are driven by Samantha’s relationship with Jase. Samantha’s friendship with Nan. Samantha’s mother’s candidacy for mayor. Jase’s father’s life. If Samantha and Jase were not together—if I was not waiting for their first date, their first kiss, their first time—I would not have liked “My Life Next Door” anywhere near as much as I did. But “My Life Next Door” is possibly my favorite contemporary young adult novel because Samantha and Jase’s relationship does exist. I kept reading for Samantha and Jase.

I like a good romance plot, but that doesn’t mean every novel I read has to have romance in it.

I am also a HUGE fan of dystopian and sci-fi YA. These books keep me glued to the page like no others.

I recently devoured “MILA 2.0” by Debra Driza (@DebraDriza) (and gave it a 5 star review over at Boekie’s Book Reviews). “MILA 2.0” is not a romance novel; it’s a science fiction novel about a girl—a robot—who was built in a computer science lab and programmed to do things real people would never do. I could not tear myself away from “MILA 2.0” because of my desire for Mila to survive. When Mila was on the run with her mother, I could not wait to read of their escape from the man who created Mila and the men who want to steal her. When Mila learns of MILA 1.0 and MILA 3.0, I could not believe the torture the three girls were put through. I kept reading for Mila.

I would have read “MILA 2.0” with just as much urgency if it did not have a love plot, but it does have a love plot. Before Mila learns of her true identity, she attends high school in Minnesota, where she quickly falls for Hunter. Despite Hunter’s absence for the most of the novel, Mila thinks of him frequently, believing that her feelings for Hunter prove that she is human. Driza develops the relationship between Mila and Hunter to the point where it adds to her main plot, proving that it is possible—but not at all necessary—to write romantic subplots into main plots.

But what was it that I tweeted again? Oh yeah, I would buy a young adult novel with no romantic plot. But I just counted my young adult novels, and there are 262 of them, not counting the books in the closet or my eBooks. All those books, and I CANNOT think of one that doesn’t have any romance in it. Authors, please stop being afraid that teens won’t buy your books if there isn’t romance in them! We don’t need romance. We need characters that we can’t get out of our heads. We need fast-paced plots that keep us turning those pages. We need settings that make us feel like we are in the world of the book. But romance—with all its drama and insecurity, its insta-love or heartbreak? We can live without that sometimes.

Huntley Fitzpatrick would not have a novel without Samantha and Jase’s love. But Debra Driza would still have a story without Hunter. And it is possible, if not entirely uncommon, to write a young adult novel without any romantic aspects to it at all. So to all of the writers out there, next time you’re sitting down to write a romantic scene, ask yourself, “Do I have a story without this romance?”  If the answer is yes, take the romance out! You may be surprised by just how powerful a story you will have written.

The Pakro family lived on Nejat Street, among a small community of veterans from the Iran-Iraq War. The father, Omid Pakro, had lost both of his legs under a tank in Khoramshahr, near the border. That was not the worst part. The tank belonged to the Islamic Republic, his own side. Tragic blunder.

Simin was Mr. Pakro’s wife. An indefatigable woman, she cared for her husband and son daily and kept the house tidy. Her guests always complimented her on how everything in the house sparkled with cleanliness. If only she heard most of those generous words spoken about her. Mrs. Pakro could never relax and enjoy someone’s company because she was always occupied in the kitchen, the yard, or Iman Pakro’s “messy” room.

“Iman! Iman! Pesaram, put the stack of books in your bookshelf!” she yelled from downstairs with a wooden spoon in her right hand.

“Okay, chashm,” the frail reply would arrive.

Half awake, Iman sluggishly turned in his bed and stared at the pile of books on the floor across the room. He sat upright, scratched his stubble, and looked at the ticking clock. It was half past five. His afternoon naps usually took an hour; this time his nap had consumed an extra hour. Perfectly understandable for a studious young man. He had inherited his mother’s tirelessness, but that didn’t mean a Friday’s rest should be taken for granted.

“Let the Quran Speak” courtesy of umar nasir (flickr.com)

“Besmellah,” he mumbled and started sorting the ragged books assigned by the madrasa on the shelf. Brave New Muslim. Check. Crime and Punishment in Islam. Check. The Great Prophet. Check. The Baha’i in Disguise. Check. There was also a brief history book about the last and the greatest of all religions, an Arabic-Persian dictionary, and the book of all books itself, the Holy Quran.

His father had argued against the madrasa. “Why won’t you show interest in medicine instead? People die every second! Go help them out,” he had shouted when Iman’s future intentions were revealed.

“Baba, kare khoda chi? What about God’s work?”

“Let your Arabic teacher do God’s work. I don’t approve of your plans.”

“God does. And so does Moth…”

“I am the head of the house!” Mr. Pakro had yelled across the room. “If I say you sleep, you sleep! If I say you eat, you eat! If I say you die, you die! Gomsho! Get lost!”

Now, two weeks later, the memory of the dispute still made Iman anxious. Standing idly by his bookshelf, Iman’s heart sank when, from downstairs, Mr. Pakro called his name. A name that neither of his parents had intended at first. “Nima” was the name Mr. and Mrs. Pakro had culled from the numerous suggestions by the relatives. But the name on the birth certificate read “Iman” because the government was full of “illiterate morons” (as Mr. Pakro had remarked). Mrs. Pakro would not have it changed afterwards.

“Iman!” Mr. Pakro called again.

Iman rushed down the stairs thinking there were minutes left to his life on earth.

He saw his father adjusting his wheelchair. Mr. Pakro said, “Salam. Have some sholezard.”

Mrs. Pakro put silver spoons into the cold bowls of sholezard as Iman took a seat. She turned on the water to wash the dishes while Mr. Pakro carefully fished for the right words to say to his son. “Not very sweet, na?” he commented.

Iman shrugged and thought, why does the first thing he utters have to be a complaint?

“Things shouldn’t be kept in the refrigerator too long. They lose taste, don’t they?” Mr. Pakro went on.

Iman nodded.

“Why do you nod that big head of yours? How come people nod their heads when you ask them something?” Mr. Pakro assumed a moment of sophistication. “Is it easier to move a two-kilo head or to reply with a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’? Ask your mullah friends sometime.”

Mrs. Pakro’s lips quivered.. “Iman, we’re invited to Mr. Parvin’s house for tomorrow night.”

The statement turned Iman’s thoughts away from his father. “Really? How come?”

“I made him a meal last week after his wife left for Mashhad. Poor lonely man. Now that his sister’s family is coming to Qom, he’s repaying us with a dinner.”

Iman remembered how sometimes Mr. Parvin joined him in the line at the bakery, always arriving later than him. All eyes in the line turned when they saw the ectomorphic man of fifty years power-walk towards them, shining a wide radiant smile.

Mr. Pakro turned to his son. “Why haven’t you shaved? You’re beginning to look like a basiji. Or maybe you want to join Hezbollah.”

Mr. Pakro’s sardonic tone angered Iman. Why couldn’t he be treated like an adult? He could no longer withstand the pain his father’s comments had caused him for so long. Iman landed his fist on the table. The spoons jumped in the bowls. “Areh!

“Yes, I do!”

Mrs. Pakro turned pale and remained speechless. The running water kept the kitchen from total silence.

Iman’s father quickly moved his head from side to side, as if looking for something to hurl at Iman.

Iman shouted once again. This time, his words carried a mocking tone. “You’re faithless and godless!”

“Iman!” Mrs. Pakro shouted.

“There you have it! Dashte bash!” Mr. Pakro exclaimed to his wife. He then locked his eyes with his son’s. “Bebeen, you’re still too young to tell me what I am or what I’m not. Come back when you see the things I’ve seen, when you see hopes shattered and prayers unanswered.”

As Iman was aware, he could not say much in response to Mr. Pakro’s acerbic words. But it ailed him that Mr. Pakro could not understand his religious commitment. Many people his age, Iman knew, did not concern themselves with religious matters. Yet here he was, in Iran’s holiest city, at the heart of the clergy, with a dream. The Dream of all Dreams, he often reminded himself.

“Let me tell you again,” Mr. Pakro continued. “If you want to become one of those lying clerics who stole this country’s seat of power, by all means do so. But don’t delude yourself into thinking that I’ll be proud of you. Mifahmi? And if I could, I would smack you in the head for your insolence.” He sighed. “You’re inexperienced. Inexperienced.”

Iman lowered his head, biting his lips and playing with his nails.  He thanked his mother for breakfast, walked into his room, and hopped into bed.
 

“Khosh amadin! Welcome! Welcome! The flowers are for me? Merci! Merci!” Mr. Parvin seemed delighted.

One by one they took off their shoes and entered. Iman and his father shook hands with Mr. Parvin, who kindly took control of the wheelchair and led his guests to the living room.

Mrs. Pakro wore her chador, fixed in place under her left arm and tightly held at her teeth. Prior to leaving the house, she had asked her husband about her looks. His candid response: “Like a crow!”

Mr. Pakro was clad in a maroon coat, pants, glistening shoes, and his old bow tie, giving him a prim appearance on his silver wheelchair.

Holding a bouquet of roses, Iman stood in his scruffy shoes, black pants and white shirt. Even rags wouldn’t change his looks. He looked handsome regardless.

Mr. Parvin’s house seemed a bit peculiar to Iman. The door opened to a small dining room, which led to a wide hallway, which in turn led to the living room on the left and one of the bedrooms on the right. The walls were a kaleidoscope of paintings and calligraphies, like those at the museums of Isfahan and Shiraz. Among others, a quatrain from the poet Omar Khayyam was framed next to a water-colored image of a woman wearing a pink robe and playing a small harp on her lap. Her head was uncovered. Iman glanced away at other artworks until he noticed the dazzling light of the living room projecting unto the wall ahead. There are other guests present, he thought.  A silhouette appeared on the wall. The voluptuous figure was putting on a scarf. She grew bigger, bigger, and bigger until Iman saw Parastoo Samadi peeping from the living room.

“My sister Farah and her family are here tonight,” said Mr. Parvin “Befarmain, please go in. There you are.” Mr. Parvintook the flowers from Iman and handed them to Parastoo. She greeted the Pakros warmly and turned away.

A little time went by. In the living room, Mr. Pakro, Mr. Parvin and Mr. Samadi (Parastoo’s father, a muscular man with a thick black mustache) guffawed tirelessly, mouths stuffed with fruits and biscuits. The three women were preparing the meal, but Parastoo soon returned to the living room.

Parastoo sank into a sofa. Iman’s heart pounded faster.

Mr. Pakro had been speaking. “I remember back during the Shah’s reign, our passport, the Iranian passport, had international respect. I once read about a student who travelled to America.” His eyes widened. “Except he showed them the modern passport at the airport. They chucked it at him without delay!”

Mr. Parvin concurred. “Baleh, baleh, that’s how it is nowadays. Thirty-six years ago, one of my friends decided to apply for an American visa. So he shows up at the embassy in his flip-flops and pajamas. They stamped the passport before he could tell them why he wanted to leave. Now they won’t even look at you even if you change your name to Jack and sing their national anthem.”

“Our national anthem was better too,” Mr. Samadi giggled.

“Shahanshahe ma zendeh ba . . .” Mr. Pakro broke out loudly, but he was stopped by a gesture from Mr. Parvin.

“The next door neighbor plans on running for majlis,” Mr. Parvin whispered, pointing to the right with his thumb.

Parastoo started laughing. She and Iman exchanged a glance. Beautiful eyes, Iman thought.

Dinner was served.

Image courtesy of sweetbeetandgreenbean (flickr.com)

Afterwards, Mr. Parvin led the other two men around the house and began explaining the artistic significance of his paintings. And since their mothers were washing the dishes, Parastoo and Iman sat alone in the living room. The cracking pistachios in Iman’s hands filled the void between the two until they heard  awkwardly loud laughter from the men, causing Iman to flush and chew faster.

“Bebakhshid.” Parastoo cleared her throat. “Your dad, pedeare shoma, did he fight in the War?”

He admired the question. After considering how to word it appropriately, he looked up and explained. “Y-yes. My father fought for our nation and religion.”

She bit her lip and carefully asked her next question, “Vali . . . but . . . he doesn’t seem to be honored by his service. Chera?”

Iman began to feel as frightened as a person whose unutterable secret had just been revealed. He did not want his appearance marred by Mr. Pakro’s demeanor. Sitting upright, moving his eyes, he searched for words. “He .  . .  is . . . ”

“My father is the same. At one point in the War, he discovered how vain it all really was. Tells me about that moment of realization every time we talk seriously about life. He felt like ‘everything around and within him turned to stone and then crumbled.’”

Since Iman remained speechless, Parastoo continued. “Sometimes I feel the same, especially now that I cannot continue my studies.”

“How is that so?” Iman hoped to change the direction of the conversation. Away from his father.

“Mage nashnidi? You haven’t heard?” Her tone turned a bit aggressive. “Aghayoon in Majlis don’t see females fit to choose their own field of interest. And now they’re also processing another bill, which would require single women to obtain permission from their parents if they want a passport. Permission!”

As she moved her head and barked the last word, her green scarf receded. Iman noticed her glossy black hair. He bit his lips and started playing with his fingernails.

Parastoo smirked and responded, “Why are you looking down?”

“Your . . . scarf is . . . ” He felt his face getting warmer and warmer after uttering each word.

Parastoo’s smirk grew even bigger. She reached up with her right hand and pulled her scarf off, a decision that made Iman jump up to his feet. “This,” she said clasping it before Iman, “is a symbol. Did you know? It’s not fashion. It’s not to keep us warm during winter. It’s not to protect us from summer’s blazing sun.”

He interrupted her, “Bebakhshid khanoom, I have to go.”

Somebody might walk in and draw the wrong conclusions, Iman feared. He and Parastoo were not mahram, meaning he could not legally look upon most of her body.

“Koja? Where? Here, hold my scarf first.”

He hesitantly walked to her chair and robotically obeyed.

Image courtesy of Melanie O (flickr.com)

“You take one step out of this room, be khoda, I swear, I’ll scream and tell them you snatched away my head covering!”

Startled and irritated, Iman stepped back and opened his mouth in indignation. “Eh! Who would the court believe? A woman? Or a seminarian, the son of a veteran?”

Parastoo’s smirk returned triumphantly. She gently took back the cloth and placed it loosely over her head. “Precisely.”

“Khodavanda. My God . . . ” Iman sighed, turned back, and dropped into his seat.

Parastoo’s little comedic act was over. “So. Based on what I heard, you’re studying theology?”

“Yes,” Iman replied with a frown. “Under a very revered and refulgent mullah,” he added.

Another embarrassing roar of laughter from the three men disrupted the conversation for a couple seconds.

“How interesting . . . huh, che jaleb. There’s a question that’s been lingering in my mind for a while. Could you resolve it?”

“Perhaps.”

She rested her chin on her palm. “Suppose there is a wounded man, a dying soldier to make it more identifiable, alone in the middle of a desolate region near the border. He is thirsty. He is famished. The sun is blazing down on him. A young woman passes by. Seeing that there is no one around who would rescue the man, she hauls him home, puts him on her bed, and washes with her soft hands the cuts on his face, chest, abdomen, and thighs.” Parastoo paused to think for a few second as Iman raised his eyebrows. She continued, “After regaining consciousness, she takes care of the soldier’s other needs and allows him to stay for several days. Now, my question to you is this: is her action considered sin in God’s eyes? Keep in mind that the two were total strangers. Gonahe ya na?”

Iman put one foot over the other. “Khob, there’s obviously a big problem in her conduct.”

“Chi?”

“Bare hands.”

“But is that a sin?”

“Certainly. She would have had to wear gloves.”

“Gloves? She should worry about wearing gloves before rescuing his life?” Parastoo spoke the last words behind a snarl.

Then Iman said, “Khanoom, I see you hold no regards for faith.”

“I held the highest regards for faith,” she interrupted. “Until it didn’t work anymore, if that makes any sense. I’m like a person who’s no longer fooled by mundane magic tricks, Iman. Look at our miserable country: the population is up, poverty is high, illiteracy is rampant. And we can’t do anything, you see.  Offending the government is considered an insult not only to the clerics, but also to God. If the idea of a God was compelling, offending him might be unwise. But if he’s an illusion, we are slowly committing suicide with our apathy. That’s why we must search. We must read. Except, we aren’t fond of books. Soothsayers are our best friends. Gossiping is our hobby. First we have to wake up, the sooner the better. Only then can we till the ground.”

Iman was at a loss. He did not expect Parastoo to say anything his father might say. “What do you mean ‘if the idea of a God was compelling?!’”

“You know what I mean.”

“Sister, you have to repent. Tobeh! That’s blasphemy,” Iman ran his hands through his hair.

“Let blasphemers blaspheme and worshippers worship.”

He sighed, “That would be like leaving a black stain on a white shirt.”

“Which white shirt? Its bloodstains are far more conspicuous.”

Frustration. Frustration. Frustration.

Why is she so obdurate?

Dangerous things to say.

Bloodstains?

He was at first reluctant to leave for home when Mr. Pakro shouted his name. More things had to be discussed and explained. The Pakros, the Samadis, and Mr. Parvin crowded at the door. Mr. Parvin patted Mr. Pakro’s back and said, “Bazam tashrif biyarin. Wonderful night. And remember, Omid khan, to never trust a Turk as a business partner. Ha ha ha!”

Mr. Pakro chortled and added, “Or as a teacher!”

The dissonant sound of everyone saying goodbye turned the heads of the passersby.

Iman stepped out last, glanced at Parastoo’s smiling eyes, and then caught up to his father’s shaking wheelchair on the uneven asphalt.

He stood and watched. Watched and enjoyed. Enjoyed the flowers roundabout the white, white river. The wind blew from all sides at once. The flowers bowed, adored, worshipped the river. Suddenly, they sank and became one with the ground. Two-dimensional. In the blink of an eye, the whole landscape turned into a rug. A smooth, beautifully patterned Persian rug beneath his feet. But . . .

Rushhhhhhhhhh . . . Rushhhhhhhhhh . . . The river still sang.

He rambled around, until a piercing scream trapped his attention. The woman stood nearby, it seemed. But he was mistaken. Down the river, he spotted her hands flapping against the current. “Ko-mak! Kom-ak! Help!” Her uniquely black garment was luminescent, radiating a black halo, almost like a crown. He ran, ran, ran and dove. “Hold my shoulder!” She refused. She resisted. She argued. He clutched her arm and pulled. She felt lighter . . .  lighter . . .  lighter . . . as he pulled . . . pulled . . . pulled, until she was nothing but clothes. Gone. Vanished. She is not here, for she is not here, he thought. Rose petals started floating past him. One petal here   . . . three there . . . then twenty . . . until the white river could be renamed. He tried swimming towards the land. Epochs passed. Exhausted, he could not swim anymore. The patient waterfall pulled . . . pulled . . .  pulled . . . until he fell and was no more.

He awoke with a sudden jerk, his collar drenched in sweat. At that sleepy point, if anybody told Iman that he’d been fished out of a river, he’d readily believe, because the dream felt real, and he shivered. He sat up and thought about the two skewers of kabob he’d devoured at Mr. Parvin’s house. Then he remembered the woman in the dream. Next, the conversation with Parastoo came to mind. She had expressed herself with great temerity. He had felt challenged. The defense of his God had been incomplete. He could not, however, deny that he liked Parastoo’s character, no matter how misguided he believed her to be.

It was five-thirty in the morning. He staggered downstairs to quench his thirst and perform the Morning Prayer when he heard Mrs. Pakro’s murmurs in the dark of the living room. She had already started the namaz. Did Parastoo ever consider the beauty of prayer, he wondered. Did she experience the consolation, the tranquility? Of course not, he concluded, she just blabbered. Iman rushed back to his room to pray. He would take refuge in Allah the Qadir, the able, and offer his supplication to him. He would plead with God to give Parastoo the same spiritual peace he has. He will hear, he will hear, Iman repeated in his mind.

Image courtesy of basheem (flickr.com)

Afterwards, Iman, overcome with ecstasy, overcome with hope, overcome with triumph, ran off to buy fresh bread for breakfast. Back when he was little, his mother never tired of telling him, “Bread is one of the holiest things on earth.” In the early light of the day, the sweet smell of barbari and taftoon usually lured in the taxi drivers and janitors and retired veterans, but mostly taxi drivers; everybody drove a cab nowadays. Surprisingly, the queue at the bakery was small. As if the bread was devoid of magic that day. As if that day was unlike any other.

He noticed Parastoo. Two persons away. I won’t see Mr. Parvin then, he assumed. Beside the same transparent scarf, she wore a tight manteau with rolled- up blue jeans. Should he say hello and ask her to wait since they’ll walk in the same direction? No. He’d wait and keep a distance from her.

By the time the baker handed him the bread, Parastoo was thirty meters or so away. Slowly, he began walking home, but could not resist the beauty in front of him. She was as fresh, as youthful, as comforting as the sunrise. She glowed in the all-embracing rays of life’s star.

Suddenly, a policeman spoke with Parastoo. Iman didn’t know where he’d come from, but he was there, tall, broad-shouldered, unshaven. Policemen frequently patrolled the area. Parastoo did not halt, nor did she look at the officer in the eyes. Iman’s intuition alarmed him, and he wished he’d asked her to wait. Too late. “Scarf . . . jeans . . . short . . . ” The policeman, walking backwards in front of Parastoo, was barely audible, but Iman read his lips. Do what he says, tamana mikonam, I beg you, do it, Iman pleaded in his mind.

She stopped, looked at the policeman, and started wagging her head and talking. Wag wag wag. Word word word. For a minute . . . or a decade. Then she made her way forward, passing the officer. The contortions on the policeman’s face twisted Iman’s bowels. Nausea overtook. The urge to yell sprang up. The words, where were they?

The cop adjusted his sunglasses and turned towards Parastoo. He looked horribly offended.

The cop’s baton rose. The baton fell. Intolerance rose. Innocence fell . . .

The words flew out of Iman’s face as sparrows disperse into the sky after a gunshot: “Parastoo! Parastoo! Parvaz kon! Fly!”

When the officer began kicking, Iman felt responsible to rescue her, to make a move, but hesitated. For now, he trembled at the edge of Belief, at the border between deen and tardid, faith and doubt.

Upon noticing the heads peeking out of the apartment windows, the officer stopped and strode towards his motorcycle.

Plunged into desperation, plunged into helplessness, plunged into Nothingness, Iman held the barbari bread over his head and smashed it down to the ground.

He ran towards her body. Now you move little coward, he scolded himself. The freshly baked cookies she’d bought were scattered around. Her bright green scarf danced away with the wind. Her dark hair covered her face. Iman rested his pale cold hand on her cheek and whispered in-between loud sobs, “Man behet goftam . . . I told you  . . . Why? . . . Why didn’t you fly? Ama alan… tanham nazar… Don’t leave now. You…” Moving aside her hair, he stared into her lifeless eyes, picked her up, and staggered forward.

Bloodstains . . . Bloodstains . . . Bloodstains, he repeated under his breath.
 

Amir

Image courtesy of alicia photographs (flickr.com)

I Could Drown You

I could drown you
with each word dribbling
from the leaky faucet in the basement bathroom.
You’d be the glass jar
underneath the drain.
And you’d store it behind the pickles
in the refrigerator of a stranger’s home,
mistaken for rainwater
of an April afternoon.

The navy tiles
match my grandfather’s eyes,
and the black cracks
like his wrinkles
when he’s burying the roots of peonies
in the wormy soils of the garden.
And in the yawning pipes
I hear his stories of lost pirates and islands,
the ones he told me in the rocking chair
after Sunday dinner.

I long for that ceramic tap
like teeth chattering,
and the turn of the brass knob
curving with the moon
in a midnight blanket
above this creaky house
of cold furniture
Deserted words,
dry on these chapped lips,
hidden in the pantry
beside the salt.

Cameron MacDonald is a young, aspiring writer and musician attending Ryerson University for English and Literature Studies. He utilizes his creative outlets to express the complexities of experience, pulchritude, and emotion through the dangling lightbulb of modernity. He has recently been published in The Claremont Review and The Continuist for his poetry and collaborative works.  Follow him on Facebook.

Image courtesy of Simnatic (flickr.com)

Monday, April 29 – Tuesday April 30

1. (29) Write a poem in 24 lines, two words per line.
2. (30) Invent a game.  Tell me how I play, how I win, and what happens if I lose.
3. BONUS: Ask a question and then answer it in five different ways—five different answers.

These are some sparks to get you writing.  If you feel you want to wander off the topic, that’s totally fine.  The idea is to write one poem each day of National Poetry Month.  Prompts are compliments of YARN Poetry Editor Kate Burak.

We want you to Tumbl, Tweet, and/or Facebook your poems in response to these prompts.  You can also use the Comments below to post your poems!  Like our successful summer Blockbuster-Free Reading Exchange, these prompts are meant to get you thinking in fun, communal ways about writing!

Be sure to TAG your Tumblr and Twitter posts with the hashtag #NPMYARN if you want to join our party!  For Facebook, tag YARN! Other ideas:  Team up with friends and swap the poems you write.  Use Tumblr or Twitter to write collaborative poems in response to the poems below.

Who knows? Maybe you’ll be so proud of some of the poetry you write, you’ll end up submitting it to YARN!

Image courtesy of Jo Jakeman

there is plaster peeling
off from her pale skin, dusty
circles where she used to be
touched. her spine is crumbling, frail
yet rock hard, and each day she wonders
how that is so.
when she speaks, all they ever
hear is a deadly anthem for the restless
dead, and shirk from her ghostly touch.
come back, she wants to say, but they
are already too far away to
listen.
she tries to dance to the music of
the moon and stars, but it is
hard to listen to the lonely’s tune.
they see the empty cavity of her
chest and think there was none to
begin with, but what they do not know is
that his hand
is a fist where her heart
used to be.

spelling out eternity

Image courtesy of LensAlive (flickr.com)

everyone asks me what my favorite
book is, my favorite movie, my favorite
food pastime hobby restaurant.
no one really asks me what my
favorite fairy tale is, but i tell
them anyway. the snow queen, i say.
why’s that, they ask, bored, uninterested.
i shrug my shoulders and say it is a
pretty little tale.
but in truth
it’s because whenever i think about how
the snow queen swept innocent
kay to her palace and told him to piece
broken ice together to form the word
eternity
in exchange for his freedom,
i am reminded of the shivering touch
of your fingers deciphering the
message of my ribs, your nails
digging deep into my skin and pulling it apart.
you don’t say anything, but
i see the hope flare in your eyes when you
crack open my ribs
and
the quiet disappointment afterwards when
you see the dead rosebuds and
scattered letters. the truth is, darling,
it was a whole lot easier to
shut the windows against the sun and
leave the roses there to die and pretend
i was still yours.

Shirley Kuo is currently a tenth-grader residing in California, and has always aspired to be a poet and author. She delights in rare mockingbird sightings in her backyard and reading bountiful stacks of books as a pastime.

Image courtesy of Kimli (flickr.com)

Monday, April 22 – Sunday, April 28

1.  (22) Write about a change, a transformation, a decision, a new beginning in a haiku.
2. (23) Start a poem with a line from something technical or scientific.
3. (24) Make rules for something—how to love someone, how to be a good sister, how not to look at an eclipse, how not to be a stalker.
4. (25) The neglected senses: Write about eight sounds in one poem. Write another poem with eight scents.
5. (26) Make an excuse for not writing a poem.
6. (27) Startle your readers with an alarming opening image, then move on to comfort them.
7. (28) Start at the end of something and work your way back to how it began.

These are some sparks to get you writing.  If you feel you want to wander off the topic, that’s totally fine.  The idea is to write one poem each day of National Poetry Month.  Prompts are compliments of YARN Poetry Editor Kate Burak.

We want you to Tumbl, Tweet, and/or Facebook your poems in response to these prompts.  You can also use the Comments below to post your poems!  Like our successful summer Blockbuster-Free Reading Exchange, these prompts are meant to get you thinking in fun, communal ways about writing!

Be sure to TAG your Tumblr and Twitter posts with the hashtag #NPMYARN if you want to join our party!  For Facebook, tag YARN! Other ideas:  Team up with friends and swap the poems you write.  Use Tumblr or Twitter to write collaborative poems in response to the poems below.

Who knows? Maybe you’ll be so proud of some of the poetry you write, you’ll end up submitting it to YARN!

Writing Process

YARN: Did “Love and Leftovers” start as a novel in verse?

ST: Yes. When I started writing from my main character’s point of view, her voice came out in poems. I’m a huge fan of verse novels and I was on the lookout for a story idea that fit the format, so I ran with it.

YARN: You say on your website that your two degrees in graphic design help with formatting poetry on the page. Can you say a little more about how your visual background influences and informs your writing process?

ST: Graphic design is about organizing information on a page or a screen and making it accessible to the reader. One part of design is breaking ideas (such as headlines) into two or three logical thoughts instead of one long, rambling idea. My poetry uses “thought breaks” in a similar fashion, grouping and organizing ideas on the page.

A large part of graphic design is white space (think paper). The same goes for verse novels, open one and you’ll see a lot of white space. This white space is part of the poetry and careful choices about how it’s used can add structure to the poem, aid reader comprehension, and add meaning.

YARN: What does your writing process consist of, from the idea to publication?  Do you outline, draft, revise?  What is your favorite part it?  Your least favorite?

ST: I am a seat-of-my-pants writer, so I don’t outline. Although, I do formulate the big-picture idea for a piece of writing before I start. For “Love and Leftovers,” I started with an overarching idea—that my main character would make a mistake—and a list of bad things that happen to her. With the idea and list, I started writing poems. I wrote the poems in no particular order. Then I put each poem on a 3 x 5 card and arranged them so that they formed the plot. After that, I filled in the blank spots in the story arc and began my revisions.

My favorite part is writing the poems and digging up all the emotions that went with them.

My least favorite step of “Love and Leftovers” was editing the poems in the final layout. (Gasp! The graphic design part.) The poems looked great in Microsoft Word, but looked horrible on the smaller book-sized pages. (My ARCs were printed with the words scattered willy-nilly on the pages.) I did a lot of rewriting at this stage to make lines fit and not wrap to a second line.

YARN:  Have you ever felt “stuck” in your writing?  What advice can you give teens who might be struggling with writing assignments and need to get unstuck before the due date?

ST: I get stuck all the time. Sometimes I have to put a manuscript in the other room and shut the door for a few days. Taking a break helps me clear my head. When I come back to it, I find I can approach it again. Authors, like students, have due dates and sometimes you may only have time to put it away for an hour or two, but it’s worth a shot. A walk around the block helps, too.

I also do free writing when I get stuck. I’ll write to a prompt (like a song or poem) and let myself write whatever comes to mind—even if it doesn’t fit in the project I’m working on. Writing about something else often helps me get my brain back in writing gear.

Your Books

YARN: The poems in “Love and Leftovers” are very spare.  They say a lot with a few words. Like William Carlos Williams, you cut back to a minimum.  Why did you choose this type of poetry?

ST: The spare poems were part Marcie’s voice and part my writing influences. On Marcie’s half, she is writing poems in her journal for herself, so she knows what happened that day and doesn’t need to include every little detail. On my half, I enjoy reading verse novels because of their economy of words. It feels like each word has been chosen with purpose and diligence and that you are reading the essence of the story.

YARN: Obviously, one of the differences between conventional novels and novels in verse is the line breaks.  How do you use line breaks?

ST: Like I mentioned earlier, I use line breaks to organize my thoughts for the reader, but I also use them for emphasis. A word surrounded by white space is so much more important than one buried in a stanza. Occasionally, I’ll use a line break to build a concrete poem or to create a play on words, like if you read one line by itself it will mean one thing, but if you keep reading to the next line it will mean something else.

YARN: You use the metaphor of a series of dominoes that knock each other down in a chain reaction to show what has happened to Marcie’s parents’ marriage. What was it like writing about Marcie’s struggle to understand her father’s decisions?

ST: I hadn’t experienced anything like this in my own life—my parents are happily married—so I had to put on Marcie’s shoes and see where they took me. They walked me into a mud puddle of emotions, including doubt, confusion, hurt, and anger, but also love. (Marcie is a Daddy’s girl.) I wrote poems about each of these feelings, wading through times in my past where I had felt the way, or if I was having a bad day, I’d use it to my advantage and channel it into an angry poem in Marcie’s voice.

YARN: Verse novelists often talk about how difficult it is to include dialogue in their work. You use dialogue throughout “Love and Leftovers” and it seems very natural.  But was it difficult to incorporate a very traditional non-poetic device in poetry?  Are there other parts of telling Marcie’s story that were difficult because of the limitations of verse?

ST: For me, poetry literally has a voice—a sound and rhythm that is heard when it is read out loud—so maybe it was my naiveté, but the dialog in “Love and Leftovers” felt like just another part of the poems. For it, too, was meant to be said out loud.

Logistics, like where and when an event in the story takes place, are often a challenge when writing in verse. They can make a poem clunky. Readers will see that I often snuck the details into the titles of the poems, like “Saturday at the Laundromat” or “Today at the Bus Stop.”

On YA and Other Books/Stuff

Image courtesy of Christop Brooks-Booth (flickr.com)

YARN: Woah! You were raised with no TV.  How does that background color the way you view YA as a category of literature, with so many books being translated to big and small screens?

ST: My TV-less upbringing left me with books as my only form of entertainment in the house (playing Monopoly with my older brother wasn’t fun) so I have always been very thankful for YA literature—I’m not sure I would have made it to adulthood without it. I love a good teen story in both print and on the screen, although there’s nothing like a good book where you can be inside the character’s head and know exactly what they are thinking.

YARN:  There aren’t many novels in verse for adults.  What about novels in verse is especially suited to the Young Adult readers–or, for that matter, to telling stories about teens?

ST: Novels in verse find homes on YA bookshelves because they tap into characters’ emotions in short bursts and focus on one moment at a time. They’re like fiction without the fat—you won’t be reading about our hero’s eyes or our best friend’s perfect figure for the next 750 words like you might in prose. You’ll be reading the heart of the story, the heartbeat of the characters’ emotions, the pulse of the action. And isn’t that what we love about YA, anyway?

YARN: Do you predict the novels-in-verse trend will continue?

ST: Storytelling in verse has been around since Homer, so I think we’ve got the ball rolling. I’ve seen a few ebbs and flows over the years, but with talented debut authors tackling the format and established authors continuing to write in verse, I see the trend lasting a long time. After all, novels in verse have made the New York Times bestseller list (Ellen Hopkins), won both the Newbery (Karen Hesse) and the National Book Award (Thanhha Lai).

Verse novels are a perfect for poetic souls and wonderful option for reluctant readers and readers who are reading in a second language, so teachers and librarians play a big part in keeping the trend alive every time they help a reader find that perfect book. Thanks!

YARN:  Thanks so much, Sarah!  We can’t wait for the next one…

Sarah Tregay, in her own words: Raised without television, I started writing my own middle grade novels after I had read all of the ones in the library. I later discovered YA books, but never did make it to the adult section. When I’m not jotting down poems at stoplights, I can be found hanging out with my “little sister” from Big Brothers Big Sisters. I live in Eagle, Idaho with my husband, two Boston Terriers, and an appaloosa named Mr. Pots.

My debut novel, LOVE AND LEFTOVERS, is ALA 2013 Best Fiction for Young Adults pick and an Eliot Rosewater Indiana High School Book Award 2013-14 nominee.

Image courtesy of juliejordanscott (flickr.com)

Monday April 15 – Sunday, April 21

1. (15) Write a response to something you have read (a cereal box, a children’s book, a note posted on a telephone pole). Address your poem to the person who sent the message.
2. (16) Hide something in a poem.  You can actually hide a word or idea—or write about the act of hiding something.
3. (17) Write a poem about a place you know well that other people do not.  Leave a distinct emotional impression of that place.  Your readers won’t be able to forget it, but will they want to return?
4. (18) Be snarky.  Write directly to someone who has it coming.
5. (19) Be grateful.  Mean it.
6. (20) Ask for help.
7. (21) Write a prose poem (a poem in sentences that looks like a paragraph) about finding something.

Remember–these are some sparks to get you writing.  If you feel you want to wander off the topic, that’s totally fine.  The idea is to write one poem each day of National Poetry Month.  Prompts are compliments of YARN Poetry Editor Kate Burak.

We want you to Tumbl, Tweet, and/or Facebook your poems in response to these prompts.  You can also use the Comments below to post your poems!  Like our successful summer Blockbuster-Free Reading Exchange, these prompts are meant to get you thinking in fun, communal ways about writing!

Be sure to TAG your Tumblr and Twitter posts with the hashtag #NPMYARN if you want to join our party!  For Facebook, tag YARN! Other ideas:  Team up with friends and swap the poems you write.  Use Tumblr or Twitter to write collaborative poems in response to the poems below.

Who knows? Maybe you’ll be so proud of some of the poetry you write, you’ll end up submitting it to YARN!