Friday, February 23, 2024 Meet the Youth Ambassador: Angelina
Angelina is a senior in high school and a versatile writer with a passion for reaching people with her work. She writes with the intention of reflecting complex emotions on the page through prose and poetry alike. She also enjoys journalism, exploring both commentaries and hard news as Editor in Chief of her school newspaper. She enjoys painting with her vivid prose and exploring topics like dreams and reality.
Check out an excerpt of Angelina’s short story version of Autumn Flowers, a novella which she wrote when awarded JBWC’s 2023 Youth Fellowship.
Excerpt from Autumn Flowers
When skin splits, red petals fall out. Qiūhuā has learned this well.
I am made of flowers. She cannot identify the species, cannot remember the shape of their petals; she is not permitted to see them again, the big storks covered in chrysanthemums tell her, their blossoms just a shade off-white to bother her. Not that she has asked, nor have the words left their tongues, but she has thought the notion loud as she can every time they come around. Surely, they would’ve heard; they seem to know everything else she thinks. Her name, her dislikes, her favorite things.
The root loose in her skull, the one causing all these problems—they’ve been trying to trim it, haven’t they? Maybe they truly want to help her.
The sparrow comes by today, takes her out of bed and gets her to bathe, the water like an old rash blooming across her body. She doesn’t like showers much, not the seeded light and the hose like a roar, loud enough to cover the little deaths all down her spine, squashing the wildflowers underfoot.
And she’s taken down the hall by the sparrow in her little white dress, something akin to oriental funeral wear. There is a sea of people in the cafeteria; some are eating and some are waiting, but all of their heads are overgrown chrysanthemums. I don’t want to eat today. Take me to the ship instead. The sparrow seems not to understand as she guides her to the line.
But Qiūhuā is a good girl. She will bloom when she is watered even as her roots drown and rot; she will dance when her body is dug out and fertilized; she will pick up the tray and carry out the motions and accept the warm porridge and little pink pills she is given. She will take it to the table by the window that is covered in dark ivy and sit down across from Jade, human in face but blooming yellow roses up her protruding ribs.
“Qiūhuā!” Sweet girl gets the inflection right. Chinatown is a rainy place. Have you been home before? “You look good today. Oh, you showered! Good for you.” Qiūhuā does not have to speak or feel ashamed of her silence, not when she’s with her. It makes her happy, watching the little buttercups sprout upon the ivy, withering and falling before they can bloom. Jade has eyeshadow on, mauve lips and earring studs like stars. You look good today too. “They’re letting me go shopping later, with Brandy and that one really tall nurse, the one nobody knows the name of—today’s a good day for both of us, I think! Pretty cool, huh?”
She keeps talking, picking at her porridge with a shuddering grimace while Qiūhuā slips spoonfuls of it past her teeth, quickly, little by little. She likes Jade’s voice. It sounds like rain on the moon, and she’s the only one who can make her smile just a little bit, tightly close-lipped so as to not let the flowers out.
Qiūhuā watches the garden blooming on her ceiling.
What awful colors today. I want to eat. Playgrounds were not fun for me. The Black-eyed Susans are wilting and hot pink, the Sweet Williams a moldy orange. Unnatural. Reversed. Reuniting lovers, the old tale of a woman with eyes blackened by tears finding her missing darling. Qiūhuā has someone she wants to see again, too. Why won’t they let her go looking?