To commemorate America's 250th anniversary, Peekaboo Magazine partnered with the Bentonville West Writers to explore what America means to the next generation. Through poetry, essays, and personal reflections, these student writers examine our nation's history, challenges, hopes, and possibilities.

Their voices remind us that America's story is still being written.

Throughout this section, you'll also find images from America 250: Common Threads, the Crystal Bridges exhibition exploring the people, ideas, and experiences that connect us across generations.

By Eeshan Reddy Konda, Bentonville West Student
(inspired by Behind the Myth (II) - Jefferson by Titus Kaphar, on display at Crystal Bridges)

He stands alone beneath the sky,
A symbol raised for all to see.
He speaks of rights and liberty,
Of people living proud and free.

A walking stick rests in his hand,
His gaze looks far beyond the land.
He teaches courage, strength, and choice,
And millions listen to his voice.

Yet shadows linger by his side,
A truth that history cannot hide.
For while he praised independence loud,
He owned people, unfree and bowed.

How can a champion of freedom stand
While chains still existed across the land?
His words inspired a nation's birth,
Yet freedom was not given equal worth.

The painting shows both light and shade,
A hero's image, a flaw displayed.
It reminds us people can inspire and fail,
Leaving behind a complicated tale.

So here he stands, both praised and questioned,
His legacy, forever discussed and mentioned.
A figure of freedom, yet not complete,
Where ideals and contradictions meet.

By Hazel Clawson, Bentonville West Student

God bless the red, the white, the blue
The orange, yellow, violet, black, and green
Bless our beautiful, spacious skies
And each and every amber wave of grain

God bless the cherries, soft and sweet
The red of lipstick gracing Grandma's lips
And bless the blood of fallen men
Whose laughing cheeks never again will blush

God bless the light that breaks each night
Illuminating each sleepy morning
The snow-white blossoms in the trees
That break and travel through each passing breeze

God bless the blue of Mother's pen
The periwinkle note found in my lunch
The blue of eyes with tears inside
That scan the sky for bluebirds preaching hope

God bless the monarch butterfly
The worn treehouse with peeling faded paint
The vibrant sunsets every night
Bruised knees with marks of pain and lessons learned

God bless the red, the white, the blue
The orange, yellow, violet, black, and green
God bless the fight for liberty
The one we fight silent under the red
The white
The blue

Kylie Kirby, Bentonville West Student

Her hair falls in long golden waves. Her skin shifts with the seasons. Deep purples beneath twilight skies, rusty red across desert earth, sandy white on her peaceful coast. Her face is warm and loving, but weary lines are etched across it, telling stories of burdens carried for generations. Shadows linger beneath her eyes, from sleepless nights spent worrying over her children.

She loves each of them fiercely. She wants them to be safe. To prosper. To build, create, and dream. She opens her doors wide, offering rest and refuge to all who seek it. Yet her children quarrel. They divide themselves into camps and draw lines across the home she built for them. Each claims to know what their mother wants. Each insists they are acting for her good. In their certainty, they stop listening. In their anger, they wound one another.

They pull at her clothes until the red, white, and blue are stained and torn. They shout so loud that they cannot hear her weeping.

And America weeps, not because her children disagree, but because they have forgotten how to love one another through their disagreement. She weeps because they hate. Because they hurt. Because they see enemies where she sees family.

Kam Lafferty, Bentonville West Student

This country feels like a horror movie sometimes. Not because monsters hide under our beds, but because we've spent so long memorizing our lines that we've forgotten we can rewrite the script. We know our cues. We know our places. We know the best places to hide, but not how to fight, so I sharpen my voice like a kitchen knife. We don't live in haunted houses, but houses haunted by the fear of waking up each morning. We practice lockdown drills before we learn long division. We watch headlines scroll across our phones like opening credits. We learn which conversations to avoid at the dinner table the same way horror movies teach us which doors not to open. We keep acting like the monster is gone, even though the camera's still running and the credits haven't rolled. We're not paranoid, we're losing control. The script doesn't change, it just gets slicker. It isn't a happy ending when the killer's the victor. They masked up long before Halloween, the real horror's always been routine.

We're trapped in a sequel, the one we didn't survive the first time, dying in the same old, bloody chalk lines. Every law they pass is just a jump scare in disguise. It looks harmless till it drags another body off screen, its eyes red, its teeth sharp and grinning. They don't need a chainsaw when silence does the job. Just cut the funding, ending it all. They wear suits like it's skin, and smile like Jason behind a mask, cold, quiet, and always coming back with a bigger knife to do the task. Every town has an Elm Street now, and the American Dream is just Freddy's nightmare, hunting us in our sleep. Michael doesn't need to run; neither does progress. They both move slow and hunt the honest.

They told me to call 911, but the lines have been dead since the first act. Ghostface is on the other end, quoting laws like they're hashtags. This isn't Camp Crystal Lake, but there's still blood in the water, and they keep sending kids back like lambs to the slaughter. We all play the final girl now, running barefoot through systems built to bleed us, not save us. They don't chase us. They wait for us. Like a killer in the closet, knowing fear will make us open the door ourselves. This isn't survival. It's a horror loop. Where we screamed. We ran. We bled. They lock the exits. They leave the knife in the wound. No plot twist. No savior. Covered in blood they pretend not to see. They filmed our deaths like cold, broadcasted shows. But ghosts don't rest. They rise to expose.

And maybe that's the problem with horror movies. We act like the monster appears out of nowhere. We point to the mask, the knife, the latest headline. But every monster leaves a trail. Every haunting has a history. But the thing about ghosts is they don't belong to one house, one town, or one generation. And maybe that's what America has always been: a house full of ghosts. Two hundred and fifty years of voices rattling chains in the walls. The ghosts of promises made and promises broken. The ghosts of people written out of the script, only to force their way back into the story. The ghosts of workers who built roads they could never afford to travel, of dreamers who crossed oceans only to find new storms waiting on shore. The ghosts of movements, marches, strikes, sit-ins, and prayers. Ghosts who refused to stay buried.

Because every generation gets handed the same old screenplay. Different actors. Different costumes. The same question: Who gets to survive? And every generation tries to rewrite the ending. That's the strange thing about this country. For two hundred and fifty years, the monster keeps changing faces, but so do the people willing to stand against it. The story keeps breaking us apart, yet someone always picks up a pen. Someone always speaks. Someone always screams when everyone else is told to stay quiet.

Maybe that's why the credits never roll. Because America was never a finished film. It's a rough draft still being written. A screen flickering between nightmare and dream. A story arguing with itself. A country haunted not just by its failures, but by its possibilities. And maybe the real horror isn't that the monster exists. Maybe the real horror is how often we pretend it doesn't. How often we call the screams background noise. How often we mistake survival for freedom.

But ghosts have a habit of making themselves known. And voices have a habit of getting louder. So if this country is a horror movie, then let history record this: We were never just victims. We were witnesses. We were survivors. And we were the ones trying to rewrite the ending before the credits finally roll.