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To Be or Not to Be… Me

Written by Christian Fisher. Posted in Student Section.

Second Place Winner in the 2026 Novus Literary Arts Journal High School Creative Writing Contest

“Who are you when no one is looking?” Just the thought of the question brought a lump to my throat. How can you be sure of who you are when you’re posing as everyone else? When you watch coming-of-age movies, the cliques are clear: popular kids, athletes, art kids, and quiet kids. I was in every group, yet didn’t fit neatly into any of them. Like a meal with too much seasoning, I didn’t know what to be.

Identity is a strange thing because when you first think about who you are, there isn’t a question about it. However, while everyone else turned off their lights and drifted to sleep, I lay awake debating who to be the next day. I picked up the habit of studying people’s personalities and recycling their traits to make a “better” version of myself. Growing up, I found it difficult to make friends because I didn’t “fit in” with the other kids. Whether it was because of race, culture, beliefs, or even interests, people always came up with a way to stereotype me. So, the easiest escape was to become someone else.

I was never an outgoing kid, so in 2nd grade, when my mom told us that we were moving, I was thrilled. I thought the switch would be easy. “Maybe I can finally make some friends.” Who was going to tell an eight-year-old that Georgia was nothing like Michigan? My first culture shock came in my 3rd grade classroom when the first thing I heard was the grit of a strong country accent. We definitely weren’t in Holland anymore. Even as a little Wasian kid, I stood out more than anything else in that classroom. I wanted to jump into a conversation, but I couldn’t relate to these kids at all. They grew up feeding chickens and going to the lake; I grew up wondering how many jackets I would need before playing outside. I spent the next few weeks observing. What do these kids like? How can I be their friend? By week three, I finally had the guts to walk up to the group of softball girls I’d been eyeing.

“What do you like to do for fun?”

“Oh, I like running.”

Lie number one: I don’t do cardio. I only said that because I had seen them all playing tag a few days earlier. They asked if I wanted to join the school’s running club, and I obediently said yes. It was either running with them or against them, and right now, they were the only people who stuck by me.

It’s not like I didn’t try to be myself. I’d occasionally drop my interests into conversations, but I either got ignored or made fun of. One day, I brought some of my favorite Lao dishes that my mom had packed the night before. Food is a big deal in a Laotian household; it’s what brings people and communities together. So I thought, surely, it would bring my friends closer to me. Boy, was I wrong. “Why does it smell so gross?” “It looks weird.” “Do you seriously like that?” From that day forward, I begged my mom to pack me a “normal” lunch. My parents tried to brush it off, saying that they were just never exposed to things like that. “They’re just jealous, Kiki.” I don’t want them to be jealous; I want them to be my friends.

I come from a big family, and growing up, our customs never felt “different”; they just felt like home. Until we moved. Suddenly, I realized that I would never truly look or be like any of the girls I was friends with. Sure, I could dress the same, eat the same, even talk the same as them, but I would never have their pale skin, blonde hair, or blue eyes. I kept this mentality even in 7th grade when we moved again: New school, new me. This time, the school was crawling with popular athletes, so I became one. I joined the school’s cheer team, hoping it would help me blend in, but I still didn’t quite fit. I was the only one with glasses, so I got contacts. Everyone had either blonde or highlighted hair, so I booked a hair appointment.

By the time I was halfway through my freshman year, my family decided to flee to Tennessee. But this move was different. There were too many groups to choose from, too many versions of myself that I could be. While my teacher was busy praising Shakespeare, I sat there asking myself, “Who do I want to be?”

“To be or not to be”-that really was the question.

I had spent my whole life trying to piece myself into everyone else’s puzzle but my own. I couldn’t even begin to describe my interests to someone because I didn’t know what they were. How can I start living for me?

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose. By any other name would smell as sweet.” Change my name and I might as well be anyone else. Then it clicked: theatre.

The Jungle Book Jr.: Kalia Busick-Elephant. In 5th grade, I got cast in my first musical. Admittedly, I only auditioned because my friends did, but looking back, it was the most fun I had while being a follower. How ironic. The twisted truth of it was that acting gave me the thrill of becoming someone else without having to face their problems or confront my own. At first, I wondered if it was the right decision; however, as soon as I set foot in the theater, I knew I belonged. Belonging. That was something I never felt before. I marched into the theatre class with my fists clenched and my breath short. “We’ve been waiting for someone like you.” My shoulders dropped, my heartbeat steadied, and a smile crept onto my face. Not the fake smile that I wear so people would let me sit beside them, but a real grin. True happiness. Mr. Ragland sat me down and somehow managed to hear more about me than I even knew about myself. It could have been the people, the feeling of the spotlight, maybe even the costumes, but I think it was the experience as a whole. The acceptance. For once, I could be whoever I wanted to be without judgment.

As the curtain closed on my final play of junior year, I had an epiphany: I had never been so grateful for an experience in my life. “We are going to look back and miss this,” I looked at my best friend, knowing that this cast, this director, and the theatre as a whole changed my life. For the first time, I formed my own identity without borrowed scraps. Theatre didn’t just give me a voice, it helped me use it. These people showed me that offstage, I didn’t need to perform; I could be myself, and that was enough.

As I reflect on my past years, I realized that trying so hard to fit in everywhere made me feel like I belonged nowhere. By accepting myself, I was accepting the fact that I didn’t need to mold myself into a certain group. I brought diversity into rooms that had never had to think about having it. If I had embraced my differences sooner, maybe I wouldn’t have felt the loneliness and need to conform. Moving forward, I now know that perfection in pleasing others is impossible, but authenticity isn’t.

A Compass to Lead You Home

Written by Sandee Gertz. Posted in Student Section.

“Why can’t leaves stay alive all year long?” Collin’s favorite place to ask questions was at the dinner table.

         “Well,” I could see the wheels turning in my mother’s head, “for one, when it gets real cold out, the leaves can’t survive the extreme temperatures, so they die,” Collin began to fiddle with his compass for a moment, rather than asking another question. Then he quickly reached for another scoop of green beans, which resulted in his right sleeve drowning in the bowl of gravy that sat in front of him.

I hate compasses.

         Collin Hill was ten years old, and he always carried a compass. It was small, small enough for him to wear around his skinny, pale neck. He claimed that “if Christopher Coloumbus had a compass, then so must I,” – a childish dream, which drove him to his adventures.

         Collin was six when he was given his treasured compass. I remember seeing him put it around his neck for the first time and thinking that he would take it off within a day or two. Collin read geography books and studied atlases for fun. He would write down everything he observed in red or blue covered college ruled notebooks. At night, he would memorize different constellations, and then he would proceed to sleep under an army green tarp, which he had secured between his two favorite trees. They were Maple trees. All the while, his trusty compass stayed securely around his neck. The casing was metal, which made me believe that it would be cold against his chest, but he most often wore it outside of his shirt.

         Collin knew many people, but he didn’t hang out with very many. He thought that they thought that his hobbies were strange, but I think it’s just because he would dip his French fries in mayonnaise. Collin had a habit of drawing faces. He used his compass, which was a perfect circle, and traced an outline for the faces he drew. He never drew his faces in his college ruled notebooks though, he had a sketchbook for those. And he never drew the same face twice.

         As Collin’s older sister, I was able to observe, and suffer through, his many intriguing conspiracies. For as long as I could remember, Collin was the smartest in the house, but not because he had all the answers, but because he asked all the questions. We had lived in an old, red brick house off Poppy Meadow Rd. There were never any Poppies or meadows, in fact we had six acres of dense “wooded freedom”, as Collin called it, behind our house. And behind those six acres, there were thirty-five more acres of towering trees, patchy grassy areas, and little streams, which led to a large creek.

         On one particular Saturday, Collin had double knotted his worn out Merrel hiking boots. They were grey, with black laces, and they had the beginning of a tear on his right pinky toe, exposing his white Fruit of the Loom socks. He threw an extra water bottle into his backpack and then asked me to go with him on his afternoon adventure.

         “I can’t, I’ve got homework to do,” I responded, “and besides, Amy is coming over later,”

         “Whatever,” Collin paused and began to fidget with his compass, turning it over his scrawny fingers. He was contemplating his next words, “I’m going to the creek,”

         “I’ll have to go next time,” I shook my head. Collin sighed and then picked up his backpack off the floor and slung it over his shoulder. His compass, which was four years old at that point, was beginning to show signs of age. There was a dent over the E and a crusty substance had become quite comfortable around the edge of it.

         “Bye, Mom!” I heard Collin yell as the screen door slammed shut behind him.

         “Collin, there’s a storm coming. You better be back before dinner this time!” My mom responded to him. I’m not sure if he heard her. I watched him through the back window as headed toward the tree line. He would always stop before he entered the woods and take a second to kiss his compass. I never understood why he did this, but I never brought it up to him because I didn’t want him to know that I noticed it. But on that day, he didn’t do that. In fact, he didn’t pause at all. He simply walked straight into the woods.

         The storm came rolling into our town within the hour. The sky turned dark gray and the wind became harsh. Collin had been stuck out in storms before, but that storm was different. The leaves were ripped off his favorite Maple trees, and his army green tarp blew away. Collin never made it home that day. The police told us that he was swept away in a flash flood. Authorities argued about where he had been beside the creek, or if he even made it to the creek, before the flood came, but they never knew for sure. Officials blamed the storm, my mother blamed herself, but I blame that stupid compass.

         I live in the city now. No trees. No stars. No sense of direction.

Piano Gospel

Written by Sandee Gertz. Posted in Student Section. 

She sat on her rickety, wooden bench,
Face to face with her piano.
Her bony, wrinkled fingers
Refuse to play a tune.
Breakfast sat on the kitchen table.
Steaming grits
Blanketed by hammy-down China
Would stay forever untouched.
The floral tablecloth
No more to be disturbed.
The footprints in the
Faded, blue carpet
Would always stay imprinted.
Hymnal books older
Then her great grandchildren
Snuggled around her feet.
A harp in the corner
And a doll
Whose expression never changed.
Loose photos lay on every corner
And every dusty shelf.
Her fine, white hair
Swirled neatly together on her head,
Secured by a singular pin.
A pair of marble hands
Sit alone as they pray.
A cross over the doorway
And a Bible on her nightstand.
All of her songs have been sung.



There was a time

Written by Leonydes  Matis. Posted in Student Section. 

Today I checked the weather and it called for a light drizzle
I peered out the window to watch
As the sky shed gentle tears
Washing away the hope
Of a straight hair and sandals

I used to dance in the rain

Even though I can’t dance at all
Jumping around with my arms stretched to the sky
Never minding the twisted gaze of a stranger driving by
Performing barefoot pirouettes in puddles
While my clothes clung to my skin

I used to dance in the rain

Today I put on my rain boots, grabbed my umbrella, and ran to the car as fast as I could
I sidestepped mini ponds as I made my way into the office
My hair fell flat from the humidity and my clothes were damp all morning
I complained to my coworker about the weather all day
Which was weird

Because I used to dance in the rain

Bottom of the Ninth

Written by Christian Fisher. Posted in Student Section.

3rd Place Winner of the 2026 Novus Literary Arts Journal High School Creative Writing Contest

For the first time in a while, I felt something, not quite nervous but as if this moment mattered more. I wanted to win; it was what was expected of us; it was why we were there.

I arrived at the field around 8:00. It was a cool Sunday morning in July. The turf was damp from the early morning due. An unspoken tension filled the stadium, but on the outside my teammates and I appeared to have a light-hearted approach to the game. As we stretched and warmed up, we made small banter. Some of the guys with girlfriends filled each other in on the latest Love Island episode, while others talked about how sore they were from the days prior. Regardless, it was almost time to get serious.

The days leading up to the championship were less than eventful. We played well in order to get there, ruling two teams in the process.

However the games weren’t really being taken seriously by us, as there wasn’t any doubt as to what the outcome of the games would be.

It’s simple, we win.

This game however was going to be different. We were going up against our own program. The game had more meaning to it than just being some championship. It showed who the best coaches and players in the program were.

As I stretched I looked across the field and saw former teammates. Guys I knew were solid. But today that didn’t matter. All that mattered was beating the players standing on the other side of the field.

Ten minutes to game time coach Alfonso called us over, “Boys, I’m gonna be honest with you, I didn’t sleep last night. All I could think about was this game. Right here, right now. You’ve done it all summer, compete; it’s no different today. For the next 90 some minutes, leave it all on the field. That’s all I can ask.” He followed with, “Lineups posited. Lets get ready to hit.”

Top of the first.

I was hitting two hole, playing center. Their pitcher Logan, a kid I had played with before, was on the bump. He was an upper 80’s arm with a good breaking ball.

We go three up, three down with three groundouts to start the game. And now it was time to take the field. I ran out to center and yelled out to Jaxen, my left fielder, “Well we got ourselves a game today.” A tone of mockery in Jaxen’s voice was apparent when he replied with, “Ya, they’re better than I expected.” “Balls in” rings out from the infield and we take our positions.

On the mound we had a small crafty southpaw. Not being able to throw very hard, he lived off of his command and offspeed. This meant he relied heavily on his defense to have success. And he didn’t take long to put us to use. The first pitch . . .

Crack!

The ball flew up into the air. I opened with my eyes fixed on the ball. My body glided back as I tracked it. No feeling, no thoughts, just reaction.

There are many reasons to why I believe baseball is the greatest sport to exist, but that’s

probably number one. The more you think, the more you can mess up. The game allows, almost forces you to let your thoughts go and just play.

Just play.

No overthinking, no stress, no crying over spilled milk. Only controlling what you can control and then moving onto the next thing.

Pop! The ball hit my glove and we had one down.

The next few innings flew by. We scored first and they answered.

After five innings the game was tied at one to one. We were back up to the plate. Jaxen led off the inning with a triple. Mira, our shortstop, and the next batter, drew a walk. Two pitches later he was caught stealing second. They got one.

Stranding runners on base is one of the worst things you can do in baseball. Especially when you have a guy on with nobody out because you can bunt, squeeze, hit a back side ground ball. There’s so many options to get the runner in.

None of which we had done. Instead, Jaxen tagged up on a shallow fly ball to center and got hosed at the plate.

Just like that, three outs, and we were back in the field. That’s how quick the game can shift. To go from one of the best possible starts to an inning, to the worst possible outcome.

And why?

It wasn’t because they outplayed us in the inning, or because their arm on the mound was too dominant. We outplayed ourselves. We got too greedy and the game humbled us.

After some more missed opportunities, our sleep deprived coach addressed the dugout just before the start of the ninth inning, “Boys, I apologize. The anticipation of this game has

gotten to me and I have cost us I don’t even know how many runs. But the game will still go on, and it’s going to be up to y’all to finish it. We got one inning left, let’s go win a ball game.”

The ninth inning started, and our dugout was filled with chatter, as we were hitting once again.

“Come on now four.”

“Here you go kiiiiid.”

“Hum babe.”

The pitch . . . Crack! The balls laced towards short and caught. Great swing, still out.

The next guy up was Dawson, our first baseman. He watched a few, and then he got his pitch. The ball sailed toward the right field wall. Caught short at the track. Two great swings and nothing to show for it.

Our third hitter entered the box. First pitch, “Strike one.” Second pitch, ”Strike two.” Third pitch swinging, and the ball, weakly struck, floated just over the infield, and dropped into the right-center gap. We had a chance. I stepped into the box. The first pitch was a passed ball. It was the top of the ninth, tied ball game, and we had a runner on second with two outs. It was now or never. I gripped the bat loosely, no thinking, no feeling, just like the fly ball from before, just reaction.

The pitch came in. He hung a breaking ball middle, middle, and I drove it into left. My teammate on second read it down and flew around third scoring easily.

Our next hitter grounded out and our time for scoring had ended, but we had the lead, 2-1

All we had to do now was hold them. Three outs and we win. That’s it, three outs and we were champions. It all came down to this, every pitch, every hit, every out. The moment of that

inning is why we play the game. Will you rise to the occasion or crumble to the pressure? Will you be able to overcome the challenges or fall back into the security of excuses? Only one will take you to success, to your goals, to a champion.

Bottom of the ninth . . .

Reflections on Grief

Written by Sandee Gertz. Posted in Student Section.

When I first met Grief he was angry at me, and I at him. We screamed nonsense at each other for days, weeks, until my voice gave out. Then he began to claw at my chest and my eyes and my throat. He swallowed me whole and ripped me to pieces. My fingers were bloodied and my joints displaced. He was relentless, pointing and laughing and jeering, “GONE. GONE. GONE.” I ran from him, yet he always pursued. He terrorized my house, lurking in every corner. Corners that soon became untouched and dusty in an effort to avoid him. At some point, slowly and all at once I convinced him to grant me a bit of distance, just outside the walls.

He lingered outside, peering through the windows and beating on the doors and taunting me from the porch as I came and went. He became a wallflower. A terrible thing, but a terrible thing I knew. I almost never noticed the thumping on the walls or the shadow on the sidewalk. I did my best to ignore him and he was courteous enough to turn his taunts into whispers. One day I came home to him sitting on the porch swing, and he waved. He didn’t spit or yell or point or laugh. It was a short wave with the ghost of a smile, a shaving off an olive branch. Something possessed me to invite Grief in and offer him tea. There we sat, Grief and I, drinking jasmine green and peeling oranges in silence. There was an uncomfortable, unfamiliar kindness in his eyes.

So it began; the tea and the silence took the place of the screaming and the malice. Silent sitting turned into dusting off the corners of my home and my heart that Grief forced me to abandon. He helped me get boxes off the shelves I couldn’t reach and sort pictures into piles. He watched reverently as I read letters and hugged sweaters close to my chest. At my kitchen table I told Grief my name, and the names of the people who brought him to me, and he became my friend. He told me stories of all those he has tormented and befriended. Now he keeps me company often; we play blackjack and he lets me win. Sometimes he brings his brothers, Love and Rage, and we all sit together. I cry. They wait. I’d like to think they enjoy my presence as much as I’ve grown to enjoy theirs. Because somehow the same Grief that used to jeer and claw and rip and ruin now holds my hand. He takes too much milk and sugar in his tea and he cheats at cards; but he holds my hand and does not scoff at my tears. Grief is a better friend than enemy, and I’m glad I invited him in.