[Thalia Medrano 2017-18]

Thalia likes to write Surrealism and Short Fiction and has been a YAC member for 2 years. If writing were not an option, then tree hopping would be the most logical creative outlet for her.

Thalia Answers the YAC Peculiar Questionnaire

  1. Describe the most embarrassing picture of you as a baby that your parents use to blackmail you. It is genuinely so terrible I can’t describe it for your sake.
  2. What is your third least favorite color and what number do you associate with it Eggshell White. -3
  3. What’s your favorite mythical creature? Banshee
  4. What is the current bane of your existence? Adam
  5. What’s the most extreme action literature has ever provoked you to do? Self Haircut
  6. What game show would you want to be on? Why? Is Ellen a gameshow? Can it be?
  7. If you were a parrot, which Eastern European country would you travel to and why? Lituania
  8. Who is your B-list celebrity crush? (Famous but not that famous.) Jeff Goldbloom
  9. F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, “Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues.” What’s yours? Justice
  10. What is your favorite Cards Against Humanity card? Okay, if you’re not familiar with Cards Against Humanity, answer this. On a scale of 1-10, how much do you hate whales? A homoerotic volleyball montage
  11. If you were indicted tomorrow, what would the charges be? Loitering
  12. Please provide a weird stock photo that describes you personally.

stock photo_thalia


[Sonya Zakarian 2017-18]

Sonya likes to write science fiction and horror and has been a YAC member for 5 months. If writing were not an option, then reading would be the most logical creative outlet for her.

Sonya Answers the YAC Peculiar Questionnaire

Describe the most embarrassing picture of you as a baby that your parents use to blackmail you. The most embarrassing picture of me as a baby (that my parents have been kind enough not to blackmail me with) depicts a tale from back when I was two years old. I had woken up in the middle of the night, stealthily escaped from the clutches of my crib, tiptoed past my sleeping mother, and used my superhero sense of smell to detect a familiar aroma drifting from the kitchen, where I stumbled to next. Upon seeing a stack of crepes on the counter that my grandma had baked last night, I climbed up onto the counter, grabbed a handful of crepes, and began to stuff myself. By the time my mom had realized what was going on and burst into the kitchen, I had already wolfed down half the platter, and looked into the camera with evil red eyes and a half-eaten crepe hanging from my chin.

What is your third least favorite color and what number do you associate with it? My third least favorite color is pink and I associate the number 9 with it.

What’s your favorite mythical creature? My favorite mythical creature is Cerberus, the three-headed dog who guards the underworld in Greek mythology.

What is the current bane of your existence? The current bane of my existence is Pennywise the Clown.

What’s the most extreme action literature has ever provoked you to do? The most extreme action literature has ever provoked me to do is stop using my cell phone for three weeks (a byproduct of reading Fahrenheit 451).

What game show would you want to be on? Why? I would want to be on Chain Reaction because a) I would be good at it and b) MONEY!

If you were a parrot, which Eastern European country would you travel to and why? If I were a parrot, I would travel to Poland because Torun, a town I visited there last year on vacation, is the single most beautiful city I have ever seen in my life. I also was able to see Nicolaus Copernicus’s house and study room, a place I would revisit if I had the chance.

Who is your B-list celebrity crush? (Famous but not that famous.) Unfortunately, I don’t have a B-list celebrity crush…I’m more of an A-list type of gal.

F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, “Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues.” What’s yours? My cardinal virtue is justice because I have strong opinions about societal morality and am very passionate about issues in American society today; I am a tenacious feminist.

What is your favorite Cards Against Humanity card? Okay, if you’re not familiar with Cards Against Humanity, answer this. On a scale of 1-10, how much do you hate whales? A “5” would probably portray my feelings towards whales. Although I don’t hate them, their physicality and size terrifies me.

If you were indicted tomorrow, what would the charges be? If I were indicted tomorrow, the charges would be for not practicing the piano.

Please provide a weird stock photo that describes you personally.   


[An Exceptionally Short Story about Remembrance]

By Adam Dorsheimer

I lost my phone for 30 seconds and I just about had a heart attack. It slipped between the driver’s seat and the middle compartment thingy (the part with the cup holders and such). I noticed it fall, but I felt too preoccupied to retrieve it, and eventually I forgot where it went.

Isn’t it funny how we can forget the small stuff like that? We spend so much time focused on the big picture that we begin to neglect the details – the phones, the keys, the New Year’s Resolutions to reconnect with that childhood friend whose face we’ve ironically also forgotten – and then what? Then we have to deal with the ensuing panic, the fear that we’ve forgotten something essential that might have been a part of us. But it’s not as if this panic is infinite, no. Remembrance is a magnificent drug, so the panic doesn’t last. So I suppose that explains why, as I sat in the parking lot of some drab little cathedral, waiting for the appropriate moment to enter my childhood friend’s funeral service, I felt only a sense of relief (and my phone in my hand).


[What Do People’s Souls Look Like?]

By Lucy Earl

What do people’s souls look like? Because I don’t think they look like the bodies they reside in, that’s too easy. Do they look like other people? Faces we’ve only met in dreams but we still know exactly which reality to match them to? Perhaps mine is an old man, eyes lit up with the joy of his borderline craziness, or maybe he’s just really imaginative. Is there really a difference between a strong imagination and insanity? Maybe our souls are the forgottens we’ve left behind, lingering on objects or in smells like memories waiting to be picked up again. Maybe our souls are the smell of a childhood home or the sight of an old table. Maybe our souls are colors that don’t have names but make you think of a certain person and you can’t shake the feeling. Or maybe our souls are words, shifting around to form sentences, separating your life into constantly rearranging stanzas. Maybe our souls are the random thoughts we have while we lie awake at night, sticking to the ceiling above us like a mobile of existence hidden in foggy heads. Maybe our souls are soggy days, wet socks, the smell of rain, and the warm feeling in the pit of your stomach you get from laughing for too long. Or maybe they don’t exist in a way that you can hold in your hand. Maybe your soul doesn’t fit into a jar of trinkets collected by those whose minds like to wander. Maybe we can trap them in the words on our page, the ink sinking deeper into the paper as each second passes, like any moment we have, burying itself into the folds of your brain. Our souls, perhaps, are the residue of our existence,a moment trapped in the ribbon of time, fading as it pushes past us, but we still hold on just as tight, because it’s comforting to think that nothing disappears forever.



By Lucy Earl

Any various devices for producing light or sometimes heat.

An object of little to no importance to most people.

If I had known yesterday that the lamp would be moved, I wouldn’t have bothered to show up. I mean, it’s not just about the lamp. It’s the uneasy feeling that everything has changed. I left this room two months ago and I wanted it to stay exactly the same. I wanted to come back, have to slightly reposition my chair, and put my notebook on the table to my right. I wanted to watch the same crowd of people parade in, one after the other. But now the lamp is moved and everything else has changed with it.

A physical representation of the impact of change on one particular individual.

The thing about communities is that they need constant maintenance and a level of consistency in order to survive. But, if those communities are left unattended for too long, then new people come in and start messing with it. Suddenly, the table is on the wrong side, there is a clock counting out our fleeting time together, the arms of my chair are covered with a different fabric, and the lamp is in the wrong place. But still, I am here.

Our time here is forever frozen in a collection of words
The cold echos of past moments
Still reverberating around the room

They have left their ghosts here for me to discover
My other anchors across the room
Slipping away from my hands
Taking the living, breathing moments down with them

Symphonies of laughter still seem to bounce around the walls
Fading away with every second ticked off by the clock
Tables look empty without the collection of juice boxes
And gummy wrappers slowly building up as the hours go by
The room looks empty and cold without the overflow of chairs and lives

I moved the lamp back
Placed the clock out of sight
Hid the fabric covers
Put the table on the right side
And waited.

A word, like most, that begins to sound incorrect the more often you say it.


[YAC is…]

YAC is a group of slightly crazy teenagers, and I use that word fondly.

Laughter colors the walls of the room that we meet in, and I doubt that color will ever fully go away.

Every person brings their own skillsets, and somehow those skills create a conglomeration of incredible stories.

We are crazy, and nerdy and if you were a fly on the wall it might scare you a little bit, but we are YAC, and laughter fills our lungs. by Aiyana Spear


YAC is..
Blooming humanity
Refractured through
Rose-tinted prisms

YAC is…
(the cave)
Chewing the shadows
Cutting open words
And seeing
(the sun)

YAC is…
Cubed laughter
As building blocks
For your soul

YAC is…
Creating. the
From scratch.
by Abigail Munson 


YAC Young Authors Collective Spring 2017YAC is low-key a bunch of crazy high school students that get together on Wednesdays and talk about a lot of stuff, mostly writing, but sometimes weird stuff, like Adam’s irrational fear of a pea, or Lucy’s hue of purple or how Katy can’t spell, but none of us can spell, really, or form a complete sentence (like this one – it’s gone on way too long) but we still call ourselves writers, and that’s good and all because we’re all really good writers, but we all write different stuff, like Abigail who writes like a ton of poetry with all those really clever biblical allusions, and Madison who writes all this fantasy stuff that’s really cool, and always gets confused with Madeline, for some reason who always writes like way too much and can’t even finish this damn sentence, and Cassidy, who has like, a pretty weird sense of humor , but that’s cool and all, and Ellen usually writes about herself, but sometimes it’s about Hello Kitty instead  (and maybe Hello Kitty should be considered a member of YAC) and Aiyana writes descriptive essays, and Sierra writes a little bit of everything, and Thalia dresses like all darkly, which is weird because her writing is so bright, and I think that’s everyone, except for Jesaka, who has to be included, of course, and I’m not sure what she writes, but I’m sure it’s as good as the prompts she gives us, and that’s YAC,  🙂  by Madeline Dean


YAC is…
A place where I thought new things and mastered new thought. A room where lives were created. A group of great people I will carry with me forever. A space where anything is possible and magic can happen. A mindset where kindness and friendship are born. A home where new worlds are traveled and explored together. by Katy C McDonald


YAC is somewhere I’m understood 
YAC is splendiferous
YAC is where writers can be themselves
YAC is where friendships begin and creativity never has to end
YAC is like a convening of Powerful sorcerers
YAC is home
by Madison Hart


YAC is…
Land of misfit toys. But hey, we’re writers, what do you expect. Oddly enough, there’s very little writing involved, just a lot of inside jokes about writing. Or about the snack table. Or about each other. Mostly about each other.  by Thalia Medrano

There are two types of people in YAC… those who like linked stories and Cassidy. by Cassidy Nicks

YAC is…
A concept, a feeling.
It is not merely our group name,
It is green carpets, plush chairs.
It is laughter about nothing,
Laughter about everything.
It is Wednesdays and plot
holes and inside jokes.

We are YAC; YAC is within us
I know that sounds kinda
sappy, but the thing that
YAC is most, is the people.
Each year it changes,
because this people change.

At heart it is an
idea – and an idea
can go anywhere.
by Sierra Karas


[YAC Manifesto]

Once you’re a YAC, you always come back. 


[The Last Day]

by Lucy Earl

I don’t get to savor this

It’s too late.

No more arriving early

Or waiting for other people to get here

No more sunsets or snowy afternoons.

No more knots or rants about the weather.

I don’t get to savor this

No loud monologues or magic school buses

No more juice boxes or trying to figure out

How to hide the body.

I don’t get to savor this.

We will be back

But people leave

It will be wonderful

But a different wonderful.

No more seconds to tick away

No more…  this (I)

Our time here forever frozen in a collection

Of words.  

I no longer get to savor this.


[Last Prompt Ever]

By Thalia Medrano

I never saw Colorado skies until I walked out from the grotto of a beautiful old Denver Square house as the sun set orange and pink over the dingy low city skyline, where the frayed telephone wires cut dark black silhouettes just above the horizon. I had seen it before in a picture, taken somewhere else maybe, but the same view, and had always wished that the real world could look that way. And yet here I am, finding that picture come to life in the place I’d lived in long enough to grow bored of.

I never wanted to stay in Colorado. I still don’t want to stay in Colorado. But I’ll miss the sky. Maybe I’ll find skies somewhere else. Maybe I’ll find an ocean, a grey one in a drizzly little town somewhere where the sky isn’t as brilliant but it won’t matter because I’ll have the water for a sky. Maybe I’ll have a misty forest like the ones I found in Vermont.

I’ll miss the sky, but I’ll still leave, because I want a different ordinary. Someday, my ordinary will consist of:

  • Fire escapes
  • Acrylic paint
  • Lace curtains
  • A park with a good tree to climb
  • Open documents full of words that mean something
  • Worn in boots
  • Potted plants growing on the window sill
  • Pins
  • A room far off the ground
  • My new sky, be it a forest or ocean

But for the time being, a can appreciate my ordinary for the red walls, the dried flowers hanging from a string above the closet, the strange art from every corner of the world in every corner of our home, the blue, purple, and green trim, the creek behind my old elementary school, the bus on a rainy day, the large chair in the coffee shop, the parlor and the Denver Square house.


[Atari Game]

By Madeline Dean

Atari2600aAtari video games were once very popular—that’s for sure. But what will they be fifty, sixty years from now? Just a little black box, sitting in a junkyard. Assuming junkyards still exist fifty, sixty years from now. Maybe the world will become some kind of environmental utopia where everything is recycled, and the Atari game will broken into little tiny pieces, a part of everything but nothing itself.

 That can’t happen to writing. It can’t get broken up into little bits. Because, without choice or order, all writing becomes just words. A novel or a Shakespearean play becomes nothing but a dictionary.

So, that’s not to say dictionaries are nothing, but they are just a means to an end. And the end is the collection of all of those bits and pieces–English is a language of miscellany. Here’s a Latin word, and over there’s a Germanic one, and, together, they’re a symphony of emotion.