Student’s Writings

Change for Good by Ruth Rivas

Change For Good by Jordan Smith

CHANGED FOR GOOD…The students were asked to reflect on a relationship that has affected their life for the better.

JORDAN…introduces us to someone outside her family, but deeply inside her heart.

Change For Good

The first person that comes to mind for this prompt is Ms. Wickless, also known as my TCS sponsor. I met her in my 8th grade year at Sisters Academy of Baltimore. There were three teachers in charge of the Graduate Support program. Ms. Fortson, Ms. Evans, and finally Ms. Wickless. My class had about 14 students and we were split into groups based on how much help we needed with picking a high school.

 Ms. Fortson took students that needed the most help, which was half of the class. Ms. Evans took students that were somewhere in the middle. Ms. Wickless took students that didn’t need as much help as the other two groups. Surprisingly, I was in her group with two other students. We sat down in a quiet room and got to know each other better. It was a little awkward because this was the first time we’ve actually met this lady. The first impression I got from her is that she was very friendly and easy to talk to. That made it easy for me because I have trouble talking to people I don’t know.

During the half an hour we spent together, I took notes. I didn’t just jot down a couple words, I actually wrote enough to fill up at least a full side of my notepad. I may not be a good conversationalist, but I’m a really good note taker. Little did I know, that was my first impression on Ms. Wickless. She noticed that I didn’t just write down the bare minimum, but I took time to gather all the information I needed. I was doing what came naturally to me, and that made her want to invest in my future.

Throughout that entire year, we’ve just been two peas in a pod. I would stop by the Graduate Support office every chance I got, even if that meant lying to my teachers about going to the bathroom or getting water. I would mainly use that excuse for my ELA teacher, simply because he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, and I absolutely hated going to his class every day. I would talk to my three favorite ladies about everything, and I mean everything. 

Like times where the school milk had a mysterious, funky smell, or when I’d find a hair in my lunch. Maybe I’d even complain about teachers I didn’t like. Perhaps I would talk about the deteriorating relationship with my mom and how it would weigh on my mind all day. Possibly the times in 7th grade when I wouldn’t know how I was getting home that day because the guy who picked me up and dropped me off died, and my mom couldn’t afford to Uber/Lift me all week. I shared a lot with them, especially Ms. Wickless because I felt that we had a strong bond.

Fast forward to the present day, I still keep in touch with them. Ms. Wickless left her part-time job at Sisters Academy to pursue her own goals. During the time she was unemployed, I went to her house almost every week. Around her, I can truly be myself. I can blast whatever kind of music I want in her car, no matter how loud or aggressive it is. My family wouldn’t accept me for the kind of music I like, the fact that I don’t identify as a super religious Christian, and that I won’t agree with everything they say just because I’m a kid. I’ve never met someone as understanding and caring as Ms. Wickless. 

She’s more than just a mentor, but a parental figure. I talk to her about stuff I would never, and I mean NEVER even mention to my mom. She doesn’t yell at me or say hurtful things to my face when I share my honest opinion. She never made me feel like I should make my voice quieter to let someone have power over me, even when they’re dead wrong. She accepted me for me from the first day we met. I hope to strengthen our bond over the years, and maybe even visit her in PA sometime.

Jordan Smith

11/7/25

Better Change for the Good by Tallulah Cord

CHANGED FOR GOOD…The students were asked to reflect on a relationship that has affected their life for the better.

MINGO…relates how a young man named Bird has changed her for good.

Better Change for the Good

There are a lot of people that I can write about; within friends, family, and teachers, there are more than a few people that have changed me for the better. 

In my family, my dad, mom, and younger brother have had quite the impact on me. I will dedicate this section to my younger brother. As much as I want this to be a heartful piece I can’t guarantee it. My brother’s name is Bird. That’s a story in itself. You might be asking me; why is your brother named Bird? Although he will never admit it, I’m pretty sure when I got my nickname ‘Mingo’ he looked up to me, and wanted a nickname as well. He was into birds at the time (we all were!), hence the name: Bird. 

Bird and I differ more often than not. We don’t have a lot in common, but the things we do have in common are: reading, talking, watching movies/series (yep! That’s about it). My brother was born in 2013 which means that he is Gen Alpha. The 67 jokes in my household stem mainly from him (and my dad surprisingly). So the question remains: How do you interact with a member of Gen Alpha? Sometimes, I will just be minding my business, doing my homework, cleaning my room and then I hear it. Bird will come into our shared room and start talking about something along the lines of Tralalero Tralala, Bombombini Gusini, and Tung Tung Tung Sahur or some internet reference. It’s a hard life to live. I usually just reply with some equally brainroted word. That works for the time. Okay but all jokes aside, they are a tolerable person, and occasionally fun to be around. When that time comes we talk about books. I take great pride in the fact that I got him into reading. That right, I turned an Ipad, brainroted, Skibidi loving, sigma into an occasional book read. Yeah, I did that. All me. The book series that I urged him to pick up was a mystery and thriller type of genre. After the first chapter of that book, they were hooked. I didn’t even have to ask him to read the next book in the series. He yearned for it. The discussion that followed after reading all three books was no short of amazing. The thing is, he only read in school when there was nothing else to do. Anytime we would take a road trip I would beg him, “Please read your book. Just a couple more chapters.” and he would reply by saying the phone is more important. I would watch as the child’s face was bathed in ghoulish blue light from a small rectangle. 

How has Bird changed me for the good? I would, without joking, say I have more patience and tolerance for people, because having to put up with that all day has strengthened me. Another thing would be trust. I think that out of everyone in the whole world, I trust him the most. I’m quite certain we know everything about each other, I tell him everything.  He is a good person. I like talking about TV series and books with him as well as the occasional 67 joke.

After having written this I feel like I have mostly slandered his name, so take this as a disclaimer. I love my brother. He is a cool, talented, and funny person. I like talking with him about anything and everything, we switch topics in conversation without warning, nobody knows what will be said next. In conclusion, I love my brother.

Mingo Cord

11/07/2025

Playhouse 25 by Ruth Rivas

PLAYHOUSE 25…On their way to see a movie, the students hear a gunshot and see a figure running up the alley behind the theatre. They foolishly follow the action.

RUTH…turns the tide on a gunman intent on robbing her of a paper clip, two rusty pennies and some gum.

Playhouse 25

There I stood, standing face to gun. I was actually going to die. I was going to die as a broke and single college student. That was the worst of it all. I couldn’t see whose face was holding the gun until all the lights flashed on. It was actually a stranger. I thought this would be some dramatic reunion with someone who hated me, but no, it wasn’t. He had long grayish-white hair and a lot of wrinkles. Once I got a stench in my nose, I could assume he was homeless or was definitely going through something. Is this really how I will die? From a stinky person pointing a gun at me.

“Give me your money,” he said.

“No,” I responded.

“I don’t think you heard me correctly. I said, Give me your money,” He repeats.

And I repeat, “no.”

“Do you not see me point a gun at you? Do you even want to live?” he asked. 

Of course, I wanted to live, but I would rather get hurt than get robbed by a homeless man holding a gun. Just imagine how that would look in the news. Young Teenage Girl gets shot by a Homeless Man during a Robbery Gone Wrong. Absolutely not, but I still don’t want to die just yet. I know I would be missed, because literally, who wouldn’t miss me?

“I’m not playing around! Give me your money or else…” He raises his raspy voice. He gets the gun closer to my forehead, and I can’t help but feel bad for the guy. He could’ve chosen anyone else, but he landed on me.

“I can’t.” – Me

“Why not?” – Old Man

I don’t respond, feeling embarrassed about what I’m going to say. Instead, I shut my mouth and shake my head. The man sees this, and he gets more agitated than he already was.

“That’s enough! Give me what you have. NOW!” He yells as he extends his free arm towards me.

“If you say so…” I say as I shrug and reach into my pockets. I pull out what I have and open my fist to reveal my belongings. A paper clip, wrapped up gum that had already been chewed, a ripped dollar, and two rusty pennies. I look up to see the man’s expression, and he looks so sad.

“I warned you that you didn’t want to rob me.” – Me

“This is just pitiful. How can you be poorer than me? I’m homeless, but I still have a five-dollar bill. You, on the other hand, have barely anything.” – Old Man

“Listen, man, I spent my remaining money on a Wendy’s Biggie Bag.” – Me

“Ew, gross, why would you choose to eat at Wendy’s?” – Old Man

“Yo, chill out. The Wendy’s Biggie Bags are actually the best $5 meals. They were the originals, not McDonald’s, AND their burgers are better. No one is better than the original!” – Me

“That’s so sad. Listen, kid, go live your life to the fullest. You’re still young and have a lot of life ahead of you. You know what, here, take this.” The old man says as he lowers his gun and reaches into his pocket. He hands me his own five-dollar bill.

“Treat yourself to something nice.” – Old Man

“Thank you. I appreciate it, even though you were threatening to take my life just now.” – Me

“Yeah, no problem, I see being homeless may be better sometimes. Anyway, go on now. I have other people to start threatening for money.” – Old Man

And so, I left. I was able to walk away with my life. Imagine that. You were getting jumped by a homeless man, but he ends up giving you money because you’re the broke one, ironic. That’s just sad.

Ruth Rivas

October 17, 2025

Playhouse 25 by Mohamed Cisse

PLAYHOUSE 25…On their way to see a movie, the students hear a gunshot and see a figure running up the alley behind the theatre. They foolishly follow the action.

MOHAMED…ducks into the rear door of the theatre and ends up being part of the show.

Playhouse 25

Surprised by the sudden flash of light, George and I froze. We looked around and saw three cars to our left, right, and behind. The engines cut simultaneously. In the sudden, heavy silence, car doors opened, the small interior lights flickering. We were met with the gun that we so wanted to chase. Cornered in this situation, our only options were to find a way to escape or stay to find out our fate. What seemed to be two men and a woman, started approaching us. Looking around, I noticed a red painted stage door- the back exit of Playhouse 25. That was our chance but in fear George ran and left me alone. I could just stay there so I ran toward the stage door. Luckily it was unlocked so I went in.

The door slammed shut, throwing me into near total darkness. The noises outside were suddenly muted, replaced by silence that seemed to soak up all sound. My breath came in split gasps as I leaned against the door, my body shaking with adrenaline. Slowly, as my eyes adjusted, a light from a distant exit sign gave me a slight outline of my surroundings. I was standing on a dusty, narrow floor. A short flight of stairs led down into the main part of the theater, while another set went up. The air was thick with the scent of old wood. A faint light flickered below—the stage lights, maybe? Cautiously, I eased my weight off the door and took a step down. The floorboard creaked loudly, and I froze. Had they heard it? I held my breath, listening intently, but all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart. I crept down the remaining stairs, guided by the red glow. I found myself in a corridor lined with faded posters of long-forgotten productions. I could hear music now, low tunes, and the sound of voices. It wasn’t the police, or my pursuers. It was a play. I was in a live show. 

I peeked through a small, curtained window in the door that led into the auditorium. The theater was dimly lit, the stage was  in a soft, blue light. An actress in a flowing, white dress was delivering a dramatic monologue to an audience of about fifty people, all completely focused on the performance.

A wave of relief washed over me, quickly followed by a new kind of panic. Someone who’d just been in a filthy alley, about to crash a live play. I turned back toward the staircase, my mind racing for another escape route, when a hand clamped down on my shoulder.

“You’re late, Thomas,” a voice whispered in my ear. I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat.

It was a small, older man dressed in a sharp black tuxedo, his eyes narrow and his expression unimpressed. The theater manager. He gestured toward a side door labeled “Stage Left.”

“The cue was five minutes ago,” he hissed, pushing me toward the door. “Get on stage, the show must go on.”

I didn’t have time to correct his mistakes. The hand on my shoulder was surprisingly strong, and I was moved forward. The door swung open, and I stumbled onto the stage, the sudden brightness of the spotlights blinding me.

The actress stopped mid-sentence, her eyes wide with shock. The audience gasped. A hundred eyes fixed on me.

I froze, the center of attention in a play I didn’t even know I was in. The music stoped. I looked at the actress, then at the audience, my mind racing. The men outside were still out there, but here, I was safe… at least for now. I had to improvise.

Mohamed Cisse

10/17/25

Playhouse 25 by Mingo Cord

PLAYHOUSE 25…On their way to see a movie, the students hear a gunshot and see a figure running up the alley behind the theatre. They foolishly follow the action.

MINGO…spins a tale of intrigue and danger, only to find herself on an episode of “What Would You Do?”

Playhouse 25

The gunman stands 15 meters in front of the streetlight; his figure is outlined by the luminous glow.  My friend and I stare into the barrel of a gun. I am hesitant to take my eye off the killer, but I need to see my friend’s face. Without turning my head, my right eye gazes at Rylee. I wonder what she is thinking right now. Heck I wonder what I’m thinking. Should we flee? Will he shoot? Do we stay and hope he leaves? A shadow casts over his face, the light that originates from the lamppost illuminates his body and reflects off his shirt. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a purer white than his shirt. As my eyes adjust to the situation, I am able to see the blood on his side. Not his blood, the pattern looks to be mist. That indicates that the shooter was in close range with the victim when he was struck. The victim’s blood showered the gunman with very small droplets of red. 

Rylee, just like me, is remaining calm. We have always been diffusers of conflict, undisturbed in the face of dispute. I think back to the times when we solved our friends’ quarrels. And then I think of how stupid it was for us to pursue the man. The circumstances of gunshots and a man running seemed like an adventure, we couldn’t ignore. We should have been in the theater by now, dual wielding sodas and striped popcorn buckets. But now, it looks like this is the end. What will they say on our gravestone? Gone too soon? I didn’t think fourteen was all I’d ever see. I wanted to be more, to do more. I want to see my younger sibling grow up. I don’t want to be fourteen forever. 

My thoughts give me a reason to speak. I begin to plead with the man. I tell him we won’t say a thing. Nobody needs to know. Although I am unable to see his face, the arm that holds his gun slumps ever so slightly. What I said could be getting through to him. 

“We don’t want trouble!” Rylee utters.

“Please let us leave! We are only fourteen, you are more likely to escape if you leave us! Think of the headlines, ‘Manhunt for shooter of two teenage girls’.” (I pray he has morals.)

Slowly cars from both sides of the alley close in. The headlights blind us. This is the end, I think to myself. The gunman has probably summoned for backup. And they will leave no witnesses. I turn my head to Rlyee. Tears hang in her eyes, as do mine. I shut my eyes hard, I don’t want to see death.

Why am I not dead? It should have happened by now. It’s been, what? One minute? Two? I squint my left eye open, and then my right. When I sense the danger is gone, I open them fully.

There are huge cameras in our faces.

“My name is John Quiñones and this is ‘What Would You Do?’

Mingo Cord

10/22/2025