From "The Battle for Stephen," a memoir by Eleanor Miller

     "Who says so?" Then my father proceeded to make faces and noises at Stephen, all kinds of noises--like a duck quacks, like a pigeon coos, like a chicken clucks. Then he took his fingers on his left hand and stroked his lips, making a bub, bub noise. He moved his head to the right, then as he turned it to his left Stephen turned his head, watching the antics of his grandfather. He kept it up, and then Stephen gurgled and giggled--he loved the circus act my father had developed. He giggled and giggled. My mother came out of the kitchen hearing this too. Jack's face suddenly brightened into a smile of relief.
     "Don't tell me this kid won't be all right," and my father's confidence swept us all upward.

From "The Domb," creative non-fiction by Vanessa Shields

     After waltzing out of the "bad" side of town we start to hear the beat. I feel it in the core of me that we're approaching our destination. We skirt past a couple kids with skateboards and begin to trot toward the origin of this sound. Finally, we are skidding to a halt gasping for breath, gazing up at this warehouse of life. After almost being jumped and forced to walk through the seedy side of downtown, we are here. The Dome is spread before us like a pulsing beacon, drawing club kids in from every orifice. I am prepared for another wild night in a building that is alive with energy and youth.
     Three stories rise up out of the ground, dwarfed by the neighboring skyscrapers. Rows of crazy bopping youth line the sidewalks like the hairs on an angry dog's back. The red doors stand open and street lights shine in on the steep, tooth-like stairs. Two large men stand on either side of the door, looking like canker sores on the face of this alluring building. This is where my group and I thrive as little cells in the mass of a huge being. This building lives and breathes; it thrashes with every new pitch

From "Cheap Flip-flops," a story by Kathy Lynch

     I madly began to scribble down a note. The thought that the entire class would see my note as it was passed to Jeff began to chip away. I didn't feel sorry for him because they would see that he was being dumped, I just did not want them to think that I had sloppy handwriting. I crumpled that sheet up and another girl slapped down another piece of paper. There was a crowd of girls around my desk, and I panicked when I saw the crowd of boys around Jeff's. The teams began cheering, and my rush of adrenaline prevented my handwriting from becoming more legible. The cheering turned to rioting as pencils and wads of paper flew. No one in the class dared not to join their appropriate side and then Mrs. Stein entered the room. Before I could blink, I was alone at my desk, but still feverishly writing.