They knew me, then, Paula and Jason did, as Luca.
NYLAH HARRIS
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Sophomore
HIGH SCHOOL: Medgar Evers College Preparatory School
BORN: Jamaica, NY
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: In our pair sessions, Kathleen and I give each other prompts, but with one in particular, I thought it would be a good idea to start off a story and then switch after ten minutes and continue each other’s ideas. That’s the most creatively challenged I’ve been, and I loved every minute of it. We bonded over the fact that even though we started our stories one way, we loved how we each steered into a different direction just as exciting. It’s one of the many great pair sessions we had but also a turning point for later ones.
KATHLEEN SCHEINER
YEARS AS MENTOR: 7
OCCUPATION: Freelance Writer and Editor
BORN: Biloxi, MS
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: Nylah and I both share a love of true crime, and the stories we write together tend to be pretty dark. But I remember being knocked out during one of our first exercises, where the prompt was to rewrite a story we’ve read from the male point into one told by a female. Nylah had a hard time with this exercise, telling me, “I only read stories about females.” This was such a refreshing problem to have, and one of many surprises Nylah’s had for me being part of Generation F.
Hear My Voice
NYLAH HARRIS
I wanted to write a piece about society’s expectations and standards. It took me some time, but I feel it discusses some of the hardships that people fail to realize I experience as a young girl, part of Generation F.
I am a girl
Living in the roar of society.
Can you hear me?
I am submerged in the lights of the man.
They drown me with their controversies and outlooks.
I am beautiful.
No, you are cocky and arrogant.
I am ugly.
No, you are my damsel and I will rescue you.
I am expected to blow, suck, and swallow what society brings to me.
But I didn’t ask for that.
Why didn’t I get a second to figure out what I want?
Fear has change by the throat and man won’t lift a finger.
I am a girl
Learning to be a woman.
Do you see me?
Why won’t you see me?
Drowning in the future society wants for me.
Black is the solitude in which I choose to shame the cruelties.
The Quarry
KATHLEEN SCHEINER
This is part of a work in progress, in which my protagonist has an accident that coincides with the beginning of her psychic talent. She’s part of Generation F, brave, and refusing to abandon her friend.
She couldn’t leave her friend down there alone. Though everything in her head said no, Cassidy took off her top and unbuckled her belt. She stepped out of her shoes and made a neat pile of her clothes, then stopped when she noticed somebody standing off in the tree line. It was Travis, propped up against a tree trunk like he might faint, pushing his thick glasses up his sweaty nose. “You shouldn’t be swimming in the quarry,” he said in a prissy voice. “It’s dangerous. There’s junked cars down there, and slate at the edges so sharp it could cut you.”
“I have to,” Cassidy said. “My friend’s down there. But do me a favor? Would you call somebody? I think something bad’s going to happen.”
He stared at her, then turned his back and went into the woods.
She walked up to the cliff edge and heard Jacey frantically call, “Come down, Cassidy. It’s really nice.” Cassidy shielded her eyes from the sun and could see how worried Jacey was.
Cassidy closed her eyes and willed her flip-flopping stomach to stop. One, two, three, she counted off in her head, then added, Help me, God, before jumping off the cliff, feeling the hair lift off the back of her neck as she plummeted into the water.
She went down deep, the water getting colder as she descended. Then Cassidy felt something grasp her ankle, keeping her rooted to the depths. She was scared to look, but when she opened her eyes, she saw that her foot was lodged between an old mossy window and a rusted car door. She looked up and could see wavering sunlight at the surface of the water, along with the churning legs of Jacey and the boys as they treaded water. Then she felt something else touch her leg.
Cassidy thought maybe her contacts had slipped out in the water because she couldn’t believe what she was seeing—a hand snaked out from the open window of the car with green mold or algae on it. The thumb grazed her shin and that digit felt colder than the water, causing all the air to bubble out of her lungs as she silently screamed. She took in a lungful of brackish water and her vision was starting to go dark when she saw a face she recognized—Chuck.
STEPHANIE HASKELL
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Senior
HIGH SCHOOL: Curtis High School
BORN: Staten Island, NY
LIVES: Staten Island, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: I liked doing a “show vs. tell” exercise using elements and characters from the novel I am working on. It helps me do more with my writing and bring the characters alive. In general, Emily has been supportive by encouraging me with what I’m good at but also pushing me to grow with constructive criticism. It makes me more confident in my writing and I’ve learned a lot about myself and how/what I like to write in the process.
EMILY MORRIS
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Planner, Zeno Group
BORN: Stamford, CT
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: I am so inspired by Stephanie’s pure love of writing and it reminds me of what I love about the form—that all you need is dedication and keys to type on to be able to call yourself a writer. Recently I’ve been joining her while she does writing prompts during our sessions, and effectively making myself more disciplined in the process. It’s been so fun to exchange our ideas and to see how those short, informal bouts of writing open both of us up to new and unexpected possibilities.
Abnorminials
STEPHANIE HASKELL
This is an excerpt of a bigger story about a kid named Robert who is misunderstood in the world he lives in, even if that world involves people with special abilities.
Outside held a gloomy fate. It was pouring outside, and I heard police sirens blare in the background. The buildings by me were run-down and grotesque, paint peeling from worn brick walls. In the corner of an alleyway I saw a lumpy form on the ground that oddly resembled a body.
The fluorescent lights flickered as I climbed the stairs. I stopped at door 207, turned the key in the keyhole, and went inside.
This house was not as good as my last one, but it’s the one my aunt Lucy owned when she took me in, and I love her deeply for that. The place was dark as I creaked open the door. It was pretty late, so Lucy must have been asleep. I placed my bag down, took off my jacket, and placed it down as delicately as I could. All of a sudden the lights flickered to life, dousing me in brightness.
Aunt Lucy glared at me with her dark eyes. It turned out she hadn’t been sleeping at all, because she still had a neatly tied bun in the back of her head from work.
“I’ve been waiting for you to come,” she confirmed.
“Well, honey, I’m home!” I answered, which automatically got me a pillow chucked at my face.
“You’ve been drinking again.” Sheer disappointment anointed her face. “You’re sixteen years old! Why don’t you do normal sixteen-year-old things?”
“Because I’m not normal!” I snapped back.
This marking on my upper arm was nothing more than a symbol of a curse. I was just nine years old when this weird marking changed my life forever. It resembled a DNA strand, but closed into a circle, like something you would see in a kid’s s
cience experiment. I didn’t have a clue why this symbol appeared and gave certain people abilities as a child, or why this even had to be the symbol to represent all of us abnorminials in the first place. Mine happened to be a light blue, which was unbearably fitting for my ability.
If I were normal I wouldn’t be living here now.
Aunt Lucy looked me directly in the eyes, her brown irises softening for a moment. She took my hand as I resisted the urge to squirm away.
“You’re right, you’re not. But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”
She didn’t have the mark of an abnorminial, she didn’t know the heartache it brings. But other abnorminials felt pride from their abilities, so I guess it was just me. There are some of us who use them all the time. Once I happened to pass by a construction site. They were going about their job and this abnorminial man used his power of super-strength to lift up a massive iron bar over to where he wanted. He treated the compacted metal as if it were a small twig he’d picked up off the ground.
There are other cases where people use it for fame. Kohl Nickelson thought he was a big shot because he happened to use his powers—laser eyes and teleportation—at the right place at the right time. Just another basic middle-schooler until one day we were on a school trip walking across the Brooklyn Bridge. We all stopped in our tracks when a helicopter hurtled toward us. One of the propellers was bent at an odd angle and losing altitude pretty rapidly. Most of us kids were screaming, but Kohl stood completely still. I watched as his eyes glowed red, slicing the copter in half. A handful of people fell out, but before they could plummet into the water they all appeared in front of us, safe from harm. One of the passengers rushed over to him, thanking him profusely for saving their lives. She turned out to be a reporter, and asked Kohl to tell his story on camera. Ever since then he has claimed himself a hero.
Power changes people. Funny thing is it seems to always be a negative.
But Aunt Lucy wouldn’t be able to comprehend my full resentment. My shoulders loosened up and I gave her the answer she wanted.
“No, I suppose not.”
That strict sneer turned into a loving smile, and she embraced me in a warm hug. She tensed and tilted her head to the side.
“Ugh, you smell like martinis, go to bed!”
She shoved me off and tossed another pillow my way. It missed me by a foot but I got the message. I picked the pillow up gently and placed it back on the couch.
In my room I left the lights turned off. When are you going to stop this? a voice called to me in my mind. I heaved out a sigh, running a hand through my hair. Is that even an option for me? I looked back at the door longingly. I was tempted to open it and at least wish my aunt a good night. But instead I threw myself in bed, and looked up at the ceiling until I finally dozed off.
Girls’ Trip Sestina
EMILY MORRIS
Written during our Poetry workshop. I don’t normally write poetry, but I like puzzles, and sestinas are like a puzzle. Generation F is about the power of femininity and its untapped potential that has yet to be expressed in its full range of possibility. With that in mind, I aimed to capture a few feelings: the tune of the ocean, the malleability of time, and the pleasure of female friendship.
Traveling a winding road in the company of women
Will always lead to a wistful surf
We disrobe in the middle of the night
Together, unself-conscious in the tradition of girls.
Even in winter we will find a way to swim,
Warmed by spirits and the spontaneous drive
That spurred us on in the first place to get in the car and drive,
Our bags packed with comforts because we are women
It is always necessary to bring a suit for swim
As necessary as the lapping surf
That awaits us friends, us girls
Who have uttered secrets in every season at night
It is easier to speak straight, forward into the night
Whether looking out upon waves or still on the drive
Illuminated by traffic lights in the backseat as if girls,
Speaking officiously to their families, practicing to become women.
We screech and shout, our voices dissipating into the frothing surf—
It receives us as we dunk our heads and decide to swim.
Every time I’ve felt God has been during a swim
Or after, at dusk, as golden hour seeps into night
The black-haired girls drag silently from the sea toward the surf
And try not to think of when we’ll need to drive
Home, soon, away from this respite of women
A steady moving stream of sex and death and birth. Girls,
All the concerns of girls
Contemplating them with closed eyes as we swim
And float, we contemplate if we are yet women
Or if when we are them we’ll still tell the truth at night
Will we be resculpted by a different route or drive
Will we still dare in the cold to run directly to the surf
Or will we no longer hear the surf’s metronome
Will we have no time to remind ourselves that we are girls
Untouched by the idea of hustle, obligation, or drive
Dedicating our bodies to the virtue of swim
And the places we go together at night
And the divinity of women buoyed by women
Girls become women like the slap of a dive
Blue swims remind us of what we are at night
LILY HE
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Senior
HIGH SCHOOL: Millennium Brooklyn High School
BORN: Brooklyn, NY
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: No words can describe the moments of reflection, exploration, fun and jokes, and understanding that I’ve had with Lenna this year. When Girls Write Now started, I told Lenna that I wanted to try to write more memoirs this year, and although physically I haven’t written down much, emotionally I have shared so many stories of my life with her that I haven’t shared with anyone else. By talking to her, I am continuously learning and realizing new things about myself. She distracted me from the flaws of my story and instead taught me to focus on the strengths.
LENNA STITES
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Subsidiary Rights Coordinator, Taylor and Francis
BORN: Torrance, CA
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: It was inspiring to see how quickly Lily was willing to open up and share her writing with me. She really hasn’t shied away from letting me get to know her, which in turn paved a path for us to figure out more about ourselves, and the city we live in. I think Girls Write Now is the type of program that I needed growing up but would have been too timid for, as it really forces you to come out of your shell. I hope Lily continues to be fearless as she goes on into college and beyond.
What Happened to a Little Chinese Girl One Morning
LILY HE
Inspired by the hardships of everyday life, but also by the limitless fun that our generation today has, I wanted to bring out a small story that is easily looked past, and bring out the beauty and giggles behind it.
Beep beep beep beep beep.
I felt around my pillow for my phone and tapped the screen to snooze the alarm. I groaned in relief when the annoying sound finally ceased. Wait—no, I didn’t have a phone back then. Then what was it that woke me up in the morning?
“Lily! Get up, you’ll be late for school!” my mom called from the kitchen. I blinked my eyes open. Oh yeah, adults. They sure were useful back then. They are probably boiling mad now because cell phones took one of their main jobs away: waking their children.
I pulled myself up from my fluffy bed with all of my willpower and motivation for the day. To an outsider, I probably just look like I’m in bed, constipated. I looked at the clock on the wall, it w
as still a whole hour before school would start, since my school was just a five-minute walk away. Mom, you call that late? Ugh, adults are such liars.
I rubbed my eyes sleepily as I drunk-walked my way to the bathroom. Drunk from the rice wine that my parents cooked with for dinner, of course. I closed the bathroom door and turned on the faucet. I grabbed my toothbrush from my cup and placed it under the running sink for thirty seconds before plopping it right back into the cup. I stood in the bathroom, stared at the white tiled walls, and counted the seconds in my head. If I was going to fake it, I was going to do it right. I walked out of the bathroom like a champion because for the fifth day in a row, I escaped the whole “brushing my teeth” ordeal without my mom catching me.
But wait.
I tilted my face up so that my nose was aimed at the ceiling and I took in a deep breath. Fried eggs and soy sauce! I ran to the kitchen, which was three steps from the bathroom, and snatched a fried egg from the plate in the center and grabbed the huge bottle of soy sauce. I drizzled half a bottle of soy sauce on my egg and then proceeded to shove the whole piece in my mouth.
“Eat slower or you’re going to cho—” my sister-in-law started to say before I broke out into a cough. Then another. And all the coughs in the world suddenly came at me.
“What did I say,” she grumbled, as she patted my back to pull me from the brink of dying. Close call. The headlines for the newspaper almost read: EIGHT-YEAR-OLD GIRL DIES FROM EGGS AND SOY SAUCE.
“Thanks,” I mumbled bashfully and gulped down a cup of water.
Evading death, I made my way to my room to get ready for school. I pulled on a pair of jeans that flare out wide on the bottom and a mustard-yellow sweater with a bear sewn on the front. I once got a compliment from my teacher about that sweater, and since then have worn it one too many times. The way that I dressed was so bad that I told others my mom dressed me just so that I could put the blame on her. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
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