"This school has a long, long tradition of creative writing...of taking writing seriously," says Aaron Kerner, Commonwealth English teacher, introducing the 2025 Creative Writing Assembly. We often think of creative writing as purely a mode of self-expression, as if the self were "an orange you would squeeze for its juice or a washcloth being wrung out." But by sharing the works below with an audience of their good-willed peers, his Creative Writing Workshop students could experience their writing—and themselves—"as strangers, in a sense. That’s as important as putting words on the page, because stepping away from yourself allows you to see your own mind as the rest of the world might." Get to know just a few of these students and the inner workings of their minds via their poems and prose.

"four ways to say han," by Happy '26

dedicated to Han—the Chinese Girl I once left behind.

han: [v.] to regret

i wash mandarins in the kitchen basin, grasp at threads of a conversation
i used to know by heart.
once, my name was only
“Chinese Girl”.
mocking syllables echoed until ears bled numb.
i left my language behind with Chinese Girl for safekeeping
in a locked box with other precious things
like my dignity & love for mandarins.
i forget where i left the girl and the box.
now, i am only a chinese girl,
standing waist-deep
in a hundred square feet
of regret.

han: [v.] to shout, to call out for (a person)

my waipo and i talk through an egg timer
giggle over the sizzle of oil in heat
gossip over flour-covered fingers
fight over chopped spring onions
cry over broken pork rib bones
sing over sticky rice cakes
laugh over burnt scallion pancakes
wei? can you hear me?

han: [n.] an ocean (away)

at 320 washington street i close my eyes
let the words emitted from old chinese radio
melt like butter on my tongue
let the chatter of a language that no longer belongs to me
engulf my mouth like salt water
let everything stop, for just a second.
it almost feels like home again.

han: [v.] to hold onto (something precious)

捧在手心怕摔了,含在嘴里怕化了,看在眼里怕丢了
I fear it will break, if I hold it in my hand
I fear it will melt, if I hold it in my mouth
I fear it will be lost, if I search for it.

"Who Put the L in Love," by Sol '27

It was a real misfortune for Aileen to lose her mother four weeks ago. The recently deceased Ms. Yoon didn’t—or rather, couldn’t—leave anything behind for her children; no will, no property, no whatsoever. Even her bank account was depleted long ago from paying off medical debt. It was the same account Ms. Yoon first created in a strange land, using round English words carved and chiseled to match the accent of her native tongue. And the money lost to big corporate insurance? It was supposed to go towards Aileen’s college education.

How meaningless to lose your whole entire life to a stupid disease, Aileen thought. Now she’d have to pay off tens of thousands of dollars on her own, assuming she got into a college at all. Aileen knew she was doing badly; some people probably thought she was falling off the deep end. She had never been the best student ever in the first place, but now she was even worse. An irregular sleep schedule and the inability to study for tests had taken a noticeable toll on her grade report, something Aileen had neglected to preoccupy herself with for the past four weeks.

Aileen wondered for how long people would be willing to excuse her for her grief-induced behavior. After all, Aileen’s teachers seemed concerned about her. She knew her grown-up sister, Avery, received Aileen’s quarter grades as her caregiver. Avery didn’t say anything about them, of course, having spent too much time away from her to be comfortable enough to inquire about such matters. Nevertheless, Aileen knew Avery had inherited Ms. Yoon’s caring nature—surely she wanted to approach Aileen about them. Or perhaps Avery didn’t need to ask, maybe she just knew. Aileen hadn’t inherited enough nunchi, the ability to read between the lines, from Ms. Yoon to tell. And honestly, even if Aileen had, she couldn’t care less. She was too busy putting their faults on trial—hers and Ms. Yoon’s.

She was a loser. Aileen was a loser for missing her mother’s embrace. Ms. Yoon was a loser for leaving Aileen behind. And Aileen was an even bigger loser for calling her deceased mom a loser and all that. How mad Ms. Yoon would have been at Aileen if she were still here, Aileen thought bitterly. Though, on the inside, she quietly hoped Ms. Yoon would come back to life just for the sake of berating her for her disrespect.
Truthfully speaking, it was all just a complicated way of saying that Aileen loved her mother dearly.

The realization had hit her with a violent assault, sort of like the night Avery rushed Aileen to Ms. Yoon’s deathbed. The sisters’ mother had turned overwhelmingly gaunt over the past few months, and it was one of the few things Aileen wouldn’t be able to forget for a long, long time. The image haunted her in her dreams, hence the sleep schedule that had caused Aileen’s grades to suffer. But, as Aileen kept telling herself, she did not give a damn. No, it was all a lie. She did care. She cared way too much. Something about Aileen’s epiphany felt gravely wrong. Ms. Yoon had taught Aileen never to cry over a boy, yet here she was, crying over her mother even before she’d had her first relationship.

Another sleepless night was passing for Aileen; it was a night her friends would spend studying for the upcoming math test, another night without Ms. Yoon, another night on which Aileen tucked herself in bed and tried, in vain, to convince herself. Of what? She blindly wondered and realized a death grip was holding onto her throat. With a startled jolt, Aileen stumbled out of her bed and grabbed three pills of ten-milligram melatonin from her bedside table. It was definitely over the recommended dose, but Aileen ignored it anyway; this was one of those things that Aileen truly did not care about. She knew that pain, the damn pain was clouding her judgment. But what could Aileen do? All she could manage was to dump the handful of melatonin into her mouth and swallow them.

Aileen coughed out a breath of relief when she was finally able to calm her racing heart. She staggered and fell onto the bed, the soporific slowly working its way through her nerves. It exhausted her, feeling this way—not having her mother to guide her through all this mess. It was a real misfortune indeed. Aileen shut her eyes closed, synthetic drowsiness slowly overtaking her until everything went black.

"I could tell you (a series)," by Sarah '27 

1.

I could tell you about the cage, but I’ll tell you about the key. 
I’ll tell you that freedom does not lie outside these bars, just beyond
the reach 
of your 
finger
tips 
but right here. Right here.
And I’ll tell you that freedom is not a thing you can squeeze in your arms or hold clenched in your fists or bite into so that sweet juices dribble down your chin. I’ll tell you that freedom is not a free schedule or a shortened list of to dos. It’s not your driver's license in the mail or the car engine rumbling as it wakes. It’s not dancing alone beneath a sky full of stars or belting lyrics to an empty house. I’ll tell you freedom 
is a thought. One thought 
to snap chains, to melt locks, to crack glass, one thought 
that once thought will change
nothing
about the world. But do not look 
out there, darling. Look
in here and tell me.
Tell me what you feel.

2.

I could tell you about the night, but I’ll tell you about the stars.
I'll tell you that the key to living is to see light 
where others see none, and
i'll tell you not to see that endless sea of darkness but to count
those little bright lights between, and
i’ll tell you that 
it is so 
easy to drown
in these 
black waves, but 
the key to floating is to find the light within to braid a rope and 
to 
let 
it 
pull 
you

free

3.

I could tell you I can’t but I’ll tell you
I can
because what weight do the words
“I can’t”
hold but the whisperings of self-doubt?

4. 

I could tell you about weakness, but I’ll tell you about strength. 
I’ll tell you that strength is like a coin, one side
winking gold to carry groceries, to walk up stairs, to run running running running like the wind, to dance dancing dancing dancing away 
from me.
And the other side? The other side
is quiet, my dear,
so quiet
that it never makes a sound, and the other side 
is small, my dear,
so small
that you never realize it is there curled deep inside. Here. Right here
in every tear, in every attempt to smile, in every morning you roll out of bed and put your face on for another day. In your shaky steps, in your trembling legs, in your collapsing knees as you walk. In the hours of stress, in the hours of study, in the hours of homework. In
every prayer, every cry, every breath.

So I could tell you about weakness
but I do not know it.

"Sunlight and Small Things," (excerpt) by CJ '27

Sometimes I wonder if there is a force behind the small things. Like afternoon thunderstorms and new notebooks and having your keys in your back pocket. A force that brings pieces of light into your life and makes it look like chance. It’s a thought that makes me think of spring, of scattered sunlight in between budding trees, of small joys and slightly bigger possibilities. 

The first spring day I can remember is in Kindergarten, when I see a new boy, big for his age, playing with a bright green monster truck. He has the most fluffy orange hair. Puffing out my chest, I sit next to him in the middle of the classroom. I like his truck. He drops it immediately to look at me.

“Hey, wanna play?” He says, smiling, making an electric current to his eyes.

“Yeah, I guess I do. You must be the new kid” I say tentatively, pulling a small yellow car out of a nearby toy bin. He grins, wide and bright and full of sunshine and picks the truck up again. 

“Sure am! I just moved here from Chicago.”

We crash our cars into each other in the middle of the classroom, giggling together when the small truck breaks. There aren’t any other cars in the bin, so we share the green one.

“My name’s Asher!” He says after a while, waving his arms around enthusiastically. “Well, it’s really Asherton, but Asher is my nickname and it sounds so much cooler, doesn’t it?” He rolls the wheels of the monster truck fast and aggressively over the rug. The corners of my mouth lift in a smile.

“Let’s be friends.” 

“We weren’t friends before this?” He murmurs in a state of wonder. And so I have my first friend. Then I see the big picture for the first time.

Years pass after this, each stained orange and yellow and green, of orange fur and bleached blonde hair and dappled dark green leaves. Asher ages. He dyes his hair for a while, blue and green, and once, notably, pink then dyes it back because no color is brighter than his natural orange. He starts to play volleyball because he’s so tall; the gym teacher recommends him for the school team as a way to help him let out energy. I join too, but I keep on falling behind. Finally, the coach takes me aside and asks me why I play if I’m so small. I’m so embarrassed that I quit. 

Even though I quit, every spring since then has been volleyball season. I never actually  stopped showing up to practice, I just stopped practicing. The first day after I quit Asher called me in a state of sadness, asking me to show up even if I wasn’t going to play.

“It’s not the same without you.” He whined. For a reason I still can’t fathom, I agree, and instead of bringing volleyball shoes to practice the next day I bring my homework. 

It’s at one of these games where I meet Luke, the Sunday right before April break ends. I’m heading towards the sidelines of the court; I’m close enough to the team that I’m allowed on the bench to provide moral support during the game. I think nothing of it at first, just keep walking towards the players until I notice them following me with a purpose unlike most people at high school sporting events. They almost glide along the court, head slightly upturned, before stopping just short of the bench, hovering around the team as they begin their hitting exercises. 

“Hey, what’re you doing here?” I ask as they sit down on the bench next to me. 

“Oh, uh, an old friend on the team invited me, said I could sit over here.” My eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Okay damn, y’all must be close if you’re allowed to sit on the sidelines like this.” I say conversationally.” The kid’s shoulders deflate slightly, but a small, sneaky smile still sits on their lips. 

“Well, he didn’t exactly say I could sit here, but I just figured it was a rule I could break.” I laugh.

“Y’know what, fair enough. What’s your name again?” 

“Luke.” They turn their head towards me as they answer, and I see their face for the first time, beyond a halo of brown fluff. What strikes me most is their eyes. It’s like staring into the trunk of the tree in my backyard, deep and brown and soulful. I’m swept up into chestnut murk when I look at them. They catch me staring a little too long and their smile grows just a little bit wider. They have big dimples. They make my mouth part in a grin. 

“So, who’s the friend? I say, probing. 

“Name’s Asher. Big guy, orange hair, in the front over there.” My eyes widen in surprise as they point to the all too familiar set of green eyes.

“Hold up, really? He’s my best friend.” Luke’s eyes light up. They put their arm on my knee, a light, teasing touch. 

“Yo, that’s cool. Asher and I met at summer camp, volleyball sleepaway. Eighth grade, I think? I wanted to see his team since I just moved here.”

We end up watching the game together. Asher’s team wins in a two set victory. Luke and I exchange a look when he beams with pride after scoring the winning spike, our eyes meeting and melding into each other, almost, dark green mixing with bright brown. 

Then Asher comes off the court, doused in sweat and a lazy, familiar grin plastered on his face. 

“Luke! You came!” He runs to him with a small spark in his eyes that I’m jealous of. So jealous. 

“Sure did. Met your friend over here, too. Uh, what's your name again?” They smile abashedly, fingers twisting themselves into knots. 

“Christopher, but just call me Chris.” 

“Woah, you never let anyone call you Chris.” Asher says, clapping me on the back. I stumble forward a few paces. I never got used to his strength. 

“Well, they’re the exception that proves the rule.”

“Sure.” He says it sarcastically, but doesn’t probe further. 

Asher peppers Luke with questions, their conversation becoming louder and louder. I feel like an intruder, but as I turn to leave Asher lets out a loud whine and I’m pulled back into their orbit. I sneak myself into the conversation with embarrassing stories about Asher. 

The coach yells from behind Asher, something about post game strategy that I can’t quite catch. 

“I gotta run” Asher mumbles quickly before joining the team huddled on the other side of the court. By this time, most of the spectators have already cleared out, leaving me, Luke, and the smooth expanse of hardwood flooring. 

“If he’s gotta run, I should too.” Luke says quietly.

“Then I’ll go as well. Do you know how to get to your house from here?” 

“Not really, but it’s a short walk. I live next to the convenience store.” 

“I do too! We could walk home together.” 

“Yeah, I’d like that.” They stand up a little straighter, grin never leaving their lips, wide and bright and irreverent and so, so much like Asher. 

Explore English at Commonwealth