Girls' School of Austin Spring 2015

This spring was my first semester leading workshops at the Girls School of Austin. What a beautiful campus and what talented young writers! They wrote ghost stories, explored metaphors and created poems out of their own names.

These are preternaturally gifted young women and I can't wait to see what they produce in the future.

Dreams Are

by Evan Allbritton

Dreams are stringy like a little kid putting a puzzle together. Dreams are twisty like trying to figure out the plot to a book. Dreams are murky like a thief trying to break into your house to get your most beloved, magenta necklace. Dreams are muted in a strange, confusing way that makes you want to wake with a gong.

Four Lines To Make Them Go

by Evan Allbritton

You are the ripping paper in my heart.

I hate you as much as stringy earthworms in the backyard.

You are the darkness in a solar eclipse.

I hate you as much as switching the salt with the sugar on April Fool’s.

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Grandmamma's House

By Grace Meinzer

When I walk through the door of my grand mother's house I smell a mix of the cookies she is making and her perfume. The two aromas tango around each other, swirling and flipping in the air, finding their ways to our noses. I see her eyes light up as she smiles in a "ta da" fashion. My brothers barely stop to say Hi before they sprint off to play action figures in the toy room. My dad walks in after us and asks if she has any cookies, though he already knows the answer, as he rummages through the candy bowl on top of the fridge. I set my bags on the navy leather couch. Soft Elvis music plays in the background. I already have taken off my shoes. I take one step up into the kitchen, pausing to let the ball of my foot balance on the ledge. I grasp the column on one side and the wall on the other, making sure I won't fall. Daddy has two cookies in his mouth, while Grandmamma is telling him he needs to fix the T.V. again.

Later I soak in the tub looking up at the skylight. I remember spending all of my time here, with my cousins, brothers and me, all begging for Grandmamma to read us yet another story. We made Santa Beards and played with the boat load of bath toys she had.

When the water turns cold, I drain the bath, and wrap one of the plush aqua towels around me. I get dressed and head into the kitchen, where Grandmamma is making all of our favorite things for dinner. She is making fried catfish, cornbread and mac' n' cheese. We all choose to have chocolate milk with dinner. I set the table, I love picking out the placemats and napkins. I call the boys from the mess they are making in the toy room. After we finish eating, we watch a Disney Classic movie. After, we fall asleep in her bed, softly fighting over the covers.

In the morning, Grandmamma is sipping coffee on the porch, watching the birds. We come outside to say good morning, and we sit, still getting accustomed to the morning. Then we make pancakes. They are thick and fluffy. They are so perfect. Soon after breakfast, Daddy comes to pick us up. We wave goodbye to Grandmamma until we can't see her any more.

My Name

By, Grace Meinzer

My name is plain and simple, quite boring really. Grace. When you say it, it tastes like bread. Bread tastes good, but it is so plain. It's the same with my name. It is short and sweet and nobody can mispronounce it. My middle name however, Cecile, is beautiful. Lacy and strong, but soft in the middle, like the perfect cookie. It smells like flowers and springtime, but the color is a deep purple. Cecile sounds like the cold, hard truth, but then it slips and your destiny is now unknown. It looks like curls and swirls, similar to my so-called "cursive" that I wrote when I was little to look more sophisticated.

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What Does a Star Sound Like?

by Lilly Quinn

A star sounds like the twinkling of water against a glass surface.

A circle smells like crisp paper that’s being crumpled right near your nose.

A baby’s cry is the color black which is all the colors combined.

White moves quietly and swiftly like a thought or a dream.

A whisper looks like a small basket that barely carries the sound.

Mischief smells like the earth and the dirt.

A new idea feels like a machine waiting to be tested.

A howl tastes like sharp spices that pierce through your tongue.

The Harp Talks