Hale Asaf: Student Showcase

The Nursery, by Hale Asaf (Turkey) c. 1920s

Creative writing students at Arrowhead Union High School in Hartland, Wisconsin, recently engaged in a project centered on seven distinct works of art. Using these pieces as inspiration, students crafted original stories, bringing their unique visions to life. Each class participated in a rigorous peer-review process to read and critique 30 of the 86 student-authored submissions. Ultimately, the students took on the role of editors to select the most intriguing pieces for publication, celebrating the diverse literary talent within our writing community.

Terri Carnell, teacher

**

​Paint Job
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The parents of the little girl in the nursery cracked open the door, just enough so that they could admire their creation without waking her.  Their eyes took in the paint on the walls that were once in a can when they first found out her gender.  In the room stood a wooden rocking horse that the mother once filled her childhood afternoons with.  There was also a fuzzy white rug that felt like stepping on spring grass when walking on it.  A rug that once was as big as the crib that used to hold the small baby that was as delicate as a fall crisp leaf.  The parents caught each other with tears in their eyes while looking at their precious angel in the bed.  A little girl who was once so small is now turning five tomorrow. 

“What happened to the time?  I blinked my eyes, and now she's not a baby anymore,” the father whispered.

“I still remember the first night when she was able to sleep in this nursery, I hovered over the baby monitor to make sure she was okay,” the mother exclaimed. 

This was the parents' first baby, and she still is a little newborn in their hearts. Although time could never prepare them for the day when the little girl would change.  Change her mind that Elsa from Frozen is now cooler than the wooden rocking chair.  That she would rather have her room bright tropical teal like all of the other girls in her class, than musky, boring purple. Her parents held onto every sentimental item that held meaning because they never wanted to forget the days when she needed them. Little did they know they were the ones keeping her from growing up, from reaching the true potential of her years coming ahead.  They tried to grasp that their little girl is not a baby anymore, and it's time to enter into a new phase of her life. 

The father grabbed his wife's hand. 

“It’s time to let her grow up,” he quivered. 

She fell into his chest, hoping for some relief from the throbbing pain that love was causing inside her heart.  Their eyes glanced at her once more, and they wondered what was playing in her mind as she dreamed.  

In her mind, she dreamed about her new room.  Although later in her life it would occur to her that this was a place of great memories and realize why her parents didn’t want to change it.  It was the last time she would ever possess her childhood in the present, but tomorrow would take that from her fingertips.

How the parents dreamed of being in their nursery once more. A place of love, joy, and tears. They gently closed the door while smiling with a tear dripping down their faces, because they realized closing this one meant that it was time to open a new door of memories and laughter.  Letting the little girl go would only mean a bigger one gets to fall into their arms in the morning.  They walked to the kitchen, picked up a metal weight and a stick, and carried them back up the stairs. They placed the teal paint and paintbrush by her door for tomorrow–the day that held new beginnings.

Lexi Baugh

**

The Monsters

Every night I laid in bed, tucked into my blush coloured sheets. My freshly washed hair fell beside me, fragrant with roses and lilac. In my room, I felt protected from monsters who yelled and cursed while I tried to sleep. They couldn’t come in, but their words still slipped under my door, hissing in my ear. 
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Something about bills or budgeting made the monsters angry, because every night that was the topic of discussion. 

“We need to start working more and spending less,” one of the monsters yells.

“I’m barely home as is, and what else are we supposed to cut? We buy the basics, and that’s it,” the other screams back.

I push my ear into my pillow to try to dampen the noise, but it only helps a little.

Years pass, and it seems to be the same routine every single night. Doesn’t the topic ever get old? I light my candle, lavender scented, and try to sleep. My bed is getting small, my sheets are very old, but I can’t say anything or the monsters will get upset.

“We don’t have money right now to buy you a new bed,” the monsters tell me, “you know this.” I apologize and walk away.

That’s alright, I’ll just make my own money.

When I turned 16, I got a job at my town’s local coffee shop. Many late nights and long shifts meant less time I had to spend with the monsters. It didn’t pay much, but it was better than nothing. I saved every cent I made.

By the time I was 18 years old, I had enough money to buy a small apartment on the other side of town, all for myself. The monsters tried to help me move, but I refused. I wanted to take this big step on my own.

I packed all of my belongings into a few cardboard boxes and carried them to my hand-me-down car. 
 
My new home was freedom; The silence was liberating. I go to light my lavender-scented candle, but pause. The flowers scream and shriek, they yell about bills and budgets. I don’t light it. 

I decided to throw the candle out, my favorite candle. The monsters are gone, left behind. And now, I can finally breathe.

Lauren Eigner

**

Afterthoughts Of Childhood 
 
The room is almost unrecognizable. What used to be a colourful, bright, and playful room has turned into prison with all the life and imagination sucked out of it. The nursery is the only semblance of colour left, everything else including the walls and curtains are dingy and neutral. Apart from the occasional rug and potted plant, the room is minimalistic and bare. Toys are scattered everywhere around the room like the scene out of a battlefield. The beachball sits deflated. The rocking horse is frozen mid-gallop, its wooden eyes staring perpetually at a door that remains shut. Us rabbit plushes are littered haphazardly just waiting to be played with.
 
Our caretaker has left us, moved on from her childhood and chosen to neglect. We were once loved and cherished, but now we have been forgotten and caught in the business of life. Despite fiercely protecting her as she slept against monsters that went bump in the night and comforting her when she had nightmares, she has seemed to have forgotten all about us. There is a deafening silence in the space where laughter and whispered secrets once thrived. While the world outside continues to move at an unrelenting pace, the stillness here marks the end of a chapter. The novelty has worn off and now us stuffed animals seem like a silly remnant of her childhood. She’s all grown up now and is no longer in need of our protection. Our purpose has been relegated to mere decoration. We are an afterthought, a memory of an earlier time when she had not a care in the world. 
 
What compels someone to change, to no longer find interest in hobbies they once loved? Embarrassment? Does growing up mean abandoning your childhood? Does she look at my floppy ears and see only a childish crutch she’s proud to have kicked away? We have shown her nothing but kindness, and this is how we are treated? It’s heartbreaking to watch someone I loved outgrow our shared world, trading the joy of familiar hobbies for the cold pressure of 'age-appropriate' pursuits. While the stigma of childhood and her unrequited love breaks my stitched heart, I refuse to believe I am merely trash to be thrown away
 
Tonight, she sleeps. Her breathing is rhythmic, and heavy like the dust settled on the rocking horse’s mane. I watch her from the floor, my stitched-on smile feeling heavier than it did a decade ago. She shifted in her sleep just moments ago, her hand dangling off the edge of the mattress. For a second, I thought she might reach for me… that the muscle memory of a thousand games might wake her up. But her fingers remained still, curled in a palm. Surely, our caretaker just needs some time alone… Maybe she is just going through a phase and will remember the comfort of her old friends soon. But as the moon casts long, cold shadows across the room, I can’t help but wonder if the golden days are over. We gave our lives so she could find hers. If our purpose was to protect her until she no longer felt afraid... Did we do our jobs too well? 
 
Alex Loose

**

Fading Light 
 
I don’t remember when the room first became mine, but it always smelled like lavender soap and warm vanilla. In the mornings, light slipped through the thin curtains and settled across my blanket in the shape of a square. I used to press my hand into that light watching my fingers turn golden yellow. 
 
I was small then, but didn’t feel so small at the time. I felt like the center of something quiet and important. Mama would sit beside me–her presence felt like a second heartbeat in the room. 
 
Sometimes she hummed. Not songs I knew, but ones I would always remember. Honestly, I think sometimes she did it more for herself than for me. 
 
One afternoon, the light felt too bright. I was stacking small wooden blocks on the floor, trying to make them taller than yesterday. My finger slipped. The top block fell off, then another, then the whole tower fell. 
 
I stared at my hands. They trembled, but just a little. 
 
“Mama?” my voice mumbled.
 
She was beside me instantly. Her palm pressed against my forehead, cool and steady, but her breath caught.
 
“You feel hot,” she said as she laid her hand across my forehead. 
 
“I’m fine,” I tried to say, but the word broke in half. 
 
The room felt smaller, like the air had weight. Even the light seemed slower and dimmer that would slowly drag across the walls. 
            
Mama stayed close, wringing a damp cloth between her hands, placing it on my forehead, lifting it, and soaking it again. Over and over. 
 
“You’ll be better by the morning,” she said one night. 
 
But her voice remained the same, every time. 
 
The problem came quietly. 
 
I woke up, but couldn’t hear the chair. No creak. No needle. No soft hum.
 
“Mama? I cried.
 
No answer. 
 
The room felt wrong. Too still and empty. Panic fluttered in my chest, weak but sharp. I pushed the blankets off, my arms heavy as stone, and slid my feet onto the cold floor. The wood is touching my skin.
 
“Mama? 
 
I stumbled toward the door, the walls tilting as I moved. My fingers brushed the frame just as it swung open.
 
She stood there, breathless, a glass bottle clinking in her hand.
 
“You shouldn’t be up!” she said, rushing forward.
 
“I thought you left,” I whispered.
 
Her face changed–fear first, then something softer, something breaking.
 
“I would never leave you,” she said, pulling me against her.
            
That night, the fever burned higher. The light was gone, replaced by shadows that stretched and twisted around the room. Mama held my hand tightly, but I never pulled away.
 
“Mama,” I murmured, my voice barely there, “Am I ever going to get better?”
 
Her grip tightened.
 
“Oh honey, you will,” she said.
 
But this time she didn’t sound sure. 
 
By morning, the light returned. It spread slowly across the blanket just like it did before. 
 
Mama sat beside me, her head down, her fingers wrapped around mine.
 
The chair didn’t creak anymore. 
 
And the room, warm with vanilla and lavender, held its breath, waiting for something that did not come. 
 
Sarah Neubert