The poetry hall at the competition venue pulsed with anticipation. Walls of old wood and echoing high ceilings made the space feel like a cathedral for verse. Soft rain tapped against the windows. Inside, Langston's four students sat in separate corners of the practice lounge, each locked in their own quiet orbit.
It was the night before they took the stage.
Langston walked in slowly, glancing over them like a commander before battle. He cleared his throat. "Tonight we polish. Tomorrow we bleed. Each of you will recite your final piece for this room only. Honest feedback. Full fire. No mercy."
They nodded.
---
Kate went first.
She stood with calm composure, her voice low and steady. Her performance was subtle, deliberate. Not seeking to dazzle—only to cut with quiet truth.
"Inheritance"
I was raised on almosts—
Almost loved, almost chosen,
On stairwells where my mother cried
And silence held me tighter than arms.
I am the daughter of the overlooked,
Of tea left steeping too long,
Of hand-me-down dreams.
Of what's left after choices are made.
They taught me how to smile at corners,
How to never speak first,
How to wait for apologies that never came.
But I carry that silence like flint.
Watch me strike it.
Let it light my bones.
I will not ask to be chosen.
I will choose myself.
When she finished, there was a stillness. Langston exhaled like he'd been holding his breath.
"Solid structure. Authentic voice," he said. "Clean. Haunting."
---
Michael was next.
He stood with a swagger, shoulders loose, eyes sharp. But when he spoke, it wasn't performance—it was declaration.
"Scars Like Roadmaps"
I was born into fire—
Not the poetic kind. Real heat.
Mom throwing plates, dad slamming doors,
Me learning how to flinch without blinking.
They say scars tell stories.
Mine are a library.
This one on my wrist?
Learning how to hold a knife without cutting myself.
This one on my lip?
Learning not to talk back when truth hurt more than fists.
But I'm still here. Still inked.
Still spelling my name in capital bruises.
And when they ask if I'm okay,
I smile like a thief.
Because I've stolen every piece of peace I have.
And I don't owe it to anyone.
Langston nodded. "Rough-edged. Honest. Let it burn cleaner in the second stanza, but otherwise—strong."
Michael sat, exhaling sharply.
---
Emma stood third.
Her voice was soft but carried weight. She didn't gesture much—her tone did all the work.
"Portrait of a Girl in Autumn"
They paint girls in spring—
Petal-skinned, light-laughed,
Blooming for anyone who stops long enough to stare.
But I am not spring.
I am autumn—
Too bright, too burning, too brittle.
I fall in pieces.
In quiet October ways.
They try to gather me,
Call me fragile,
But I was never made for hands.
I was made for wind.
For distance.
For the ache of everything leaving.
And if I love, I love like dusk—
Soft, but certain.
A fading that leaves color in its wake.
There was a pause. Langston looked almost moved. "You found your voice. Don't whisper. Let them hear you."
Emma nodded.
---
Andrew went last.
He didn't look at anyone. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them slowly.
"The Chair Beside Me"
There's a chair beside me where you used to sit.
Not always in body, but always in weight.
I talk to it sometimes.
I tell it about the poems I write,
About the coffee I spilled last Tuesday,
About how the rain sounds like weeping
If you listen just right.
It never speaks back.
Neither did you, really.
Not to the things I meant.
You liked the parts of me that clapped quietly.
That held umbrellas over your storms
But never asked if I was drowning too.
You called me gentle like it was a flaw.
Like softness wasn't what held you up.
But I get it now.
Some people aren't looking for homes—
They're looking for fires.
And I?
I build doorways.
When he finished, there was silence. Kate blinked quickly. Emma looked away.
Langston cleared his throat. "That… is the one you perform. Don't touch a single word."
---
Before they dispersed for the night, Langston handed out a program list. There were other schools listed—rival names they'd only heard in rumors: Brambleton Arts, East Hollow Academy, Whitridge Conservatory.
Each school had its stars.
They skimmed through the bios. At the top of East Hollow's list: Mara Devine, twice published, known for tearing open audiences with elegies.
From Brambleton: Jericho Lane, a boy whose poem reportedly made two judges cry the previous year.
Whitmore sat back in his chair. "We're walking into a furnace."
Kate smiled. "Then we burn brighter."
---
Later That Night — Across Town
Mara Devine stood under a rusted theater balcony with her team, eyes half-lidded, cigarette unlit in her hand.
"Heard one of Langston's kids is something," she murmured. "The quiet one. Whitmore."
Her teammate scoffed. "Let him write sonnets. We bring hurricanes."
She smiled. "Then we blow him off the page."
---
Jericho Lane adjusted his velvet blazer, reading Andrew's name in the program.
"Chair poem," he said softly. "Sounds intimate. Let's see if he survives the echo."
His fingers ran over his own final stanza.
The morning of the competition dawned with a quiet drizzle, painting the windows in soft grey hues. The college auditorium where the event was hosted had the kind of solemnity reserved for cathedrals and funeral halls. Velvet curtains, high arching ceilings, and a stage that looked older than time itself. Rows of seats filled with curious students, judges in tailored suits, and professors holding clipboards with expectations heavy as stone.
Langston's team stood backstage, watching the early arrivals. Andrew adjusted his sleeves silently. Kate sipped warm tea from a thermos. Emma checked her notes for the third time. Michael paced like a wolf caged too long.
"I feel like we're walking into a battlefield," Kate whispered.
"We are," Andrew replied. "Only, the weapons are words."
Langston appeared beside them. "Keep your voices honest. Keep your pace clean. No performance survives on ego alone."
---
The first to perform came from Brambleton Arts — a boy named Jericho Lane.
He walked onstage like it belonged to him. Thin, tall, eyes heavy with intent.
"Ghosts in My Father's Jacket"
The pockets are still full—
Lint, rusted coins, the echo of a slap.
I wear it now, this jacket,
It doesn't fit, but neither did he.
He smelled of oil and whiskey,
A man with hands like cinderblocks
And a voice that broke windows.
He loved me, I think.
In the way hurricanes love shoreline—
Loud, brief, and leaving nothing behind.
I wear this jacket
Because I'm tired of asking for warmth
And getting the cold shoulder.
Let it carry me to the next room,
Let it carry me through this silence
That still calls me son.
Applause thundered. Even Langston nodded once.
---
Next came Leah Porter from Whitridge Conservatory, elegant and razor-sharp in tone.
"The Girl Who Learned to Vanish"
At eleven, I stopped taking up space.
Shrank myself into apology.
Walked hallways like shadows—
No voice, just eyes.
At thirteen, I dressed like smoke.
Invisible. Unburnable.
At sixteen, someone called me beautiful,
And I mistook it for kindness.
Now, I live between mirrors—
Learning to become the frame.
But I'm done.
Done being a secret.
Done being silence.
My voice is a matchstick.
And I will set the whole idea of pretty on fire.
A hush fell across the audience. The judges murmured.
Kate whispered to Andrew, "These people are unreal."
He nodded. "It's a war of scars."