The Writers' Block 2015 by The Writers' Block: Anderson High School Literary Magazine

The 2014 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; 2015

Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block Literary Magazine Anderson High School Austin, TX

An eclectic collection of original, thoughtful, and creative writings from the students of Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

Dearest Dear Reader, Welcome to this year’s Writers’ Block. I commend your choice of this magazine as the literary libation you have chosen to drink in with your eyes, for having drunk from these words myself over the course of the past several months, I’m now looking for a drinking buddy. In other words, I’m more than pleased to share the work of these talented and lovely students with you. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as they complained about writing it—sometimes. But seriously, the writing process is frequently difficult, and I’m impressed that many Anderson students attempt it with such dedication. Once in a while, a sudden and earth-shattering inspiration might sneak up your spine and down your arm into your penwielding fingers, but often, writing is hard work requiring dedication to the process. Here, then, are the results of some of that hard work. In these pages, you’ll read everything from the snarky to the sentimental and from the silly to the sublime. Please note that this is a high school publication intended for young adults and adults, so some of the word choices, themes, and imagery may not be suitable for younger readers. I’d recommend using discretion in sharing the contents of our magazine with impressionable young’uns. Thanks to those who have supported and made this collection possible: editors including Jack Cloudt, Josh Player, April Blackburn, Nayla Zylberberg, and Hollis Amberboy; Anderson’s ever-supportive principal, Donna Houser; all the teachers of the Anderson English Department; all Creative Writing students past and present; and many others. Thanks also to you, dearest dear reader, for supporting the efforts of the creative and talented students featured herein. Jason Farr Creative Writing Teacher Anderson High School 8403 Mesa Dr. Austin, TX 78759 jason.farr@austinisd.org

Anderson High School

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Table of Contents Author Joshua Player

Title Dauði

Page 4

Renee Shuman

Jacked (excerpt)

Hollis Amberboy

Funeral Flowers

Lexi Marie Romero

Not As Expected

Jack Cloudt

Sanctuary

Sabrina Entrekin

Rule Number One

Kayla McGee

About The Director

Youstina Abraham

Only Memories

Daniella DeGrazia

This Is Not a Love Story

Daniel Elizondo

Weihnachten Truce

Bridgette Abbott

Blind Suspicion

Nayla Zylberberg

Eye of the Beholder

Camryn Shepard

Be Better

Jonathan Mohammed

Operation Overlord

April Blackburn

This World Is an Overwhelming One

Elora Ronaldes

The Last Bell

Sean Fleming

The Man Without

Juliana Cohen

Memories of Vanessa

Tony Gamez

The Cosmic Beach (excerpt)

Romy Bernard

Press Enter to Begin

Michael Morran

Winning

Abriana Hoosier

About the Author

Simon Loseth

Flamingo Avenue (excerpt)

Maddie Townsend

Loss of a Meaning (excerpt)

Regan Shepard

Release

Emmy Robbins

Introduction

Hannah Henderson

Hoot

Ruth Najera

Last Kiss

Lee Whitehead

The Raconteur (And His Story)

Annika Strout

Fears

Bobi Huh

Limitless

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Gillian Turner

City Bones

Hollis Amberboy

Come On, Massive Influx of Dopamine…

Hannah-Joy Mach

Real Poetry

Carly Lacy

“You Have Eyes, My Dear…”

Lexi Atanasoff

Instead

Nayla Zylberberg

Clocks

Stephanie Battaglia

Hobbit (Ode)

Gabriel Blackburn

The Dude Abides

Donovan Steen

Look Both Ways

Sebastian Benavides

Happy Birthday

Camryn Shepard

Goodbye

Hannah Henderson

Success

Let’s begin our imaginative journey with this: A Demotivator by Maddie Townsend

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Dauði By Joshua Player He awoke with a thud as he fell out of his bed. The cold ground did not welcome his face kindly, and he shot up quickly to tend to his new bruise. He grabbed his drinking horn, filled it with mead, and splashed it on his face. The strong alcohol stung on the small scars across his face but he didn’t mind—it would get him awake. He had already slept in longer than usual so he would have to hurry through breakfast to make it to the village on time. He put on his trusty warm bearskin and headed out to find breakfast. As he opened the door, he felt an aching pain shoot up through his right leg. He winced back and looked down to find that, once again, the same kid goat had butted him just below the knee. Over the past few days it had turned into some sort of game for the animal. Before he could get mad, the small goat let out a high-pitched bleat and licked the spot it had bruised. “Oh,” he said as he pet it, “you’re lucky I don’t have you for breakfast.” He walked to his smokehouse near the edge of the cliff. He remembered when he built it many years ago, how his wife had complained that one day it would fall off into the fjord. But he liked where it was. It gave him a reason to watch the sunrise every morning as he got salmon, and the smoke every week let the village know they were still alive so high on the fjord. The sunrise this morning was particularly bright; since he had woken up late, it was nearly all the way over the fjord. Its beams rained down on the brackish water below turning it a brilliant baby blue with crisp white ripples lining it. He was greeted with a familiar decision as he entered the smokehouse: dried cod or smoked salmon? They had been the staple of his diet for many years yet never had he been able to distinguish his favorite. Most people simply liked the salmon better as it was softer and wasn’t as salty. But it was for its chewiness and saltiness that he loved the cod! It was a question he could spend the rest of his life pondering, but he did not possess such time. He made the quick decision to take salmon as it wouldn’t keep for long and headed out the door. He held the salmon in his left hand, taking small bites to savor the flavor. He grabbed his favorite axe which he kept dug into the side of his house. The axe was made of cheap iron and bronze, the wood was knackered, and it could likely use a sharpening, but he had never found an axe so well balanced to his right arm. It wasn’t so much a tool as an extension of him. This was the axe he used to build his home, to build his smokehouse and pastures, to teach his son to plow the field when he was knee-height, to cut frozen reindeer haunches in the cold winter when his wife was sick. It helped to cut down the Anderson High School

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trees to support her burial mound, to protect his son on his first raid. And to kill the man who killed his son. He grabbed his old friend and headed down the fjord’s path, continuing to finish his salmon as he did so. Although he made the journey often, the walk down in the summer never failed to stun him with its beauty. The homely village that sat at the very innermost part of the fjord would fade away as he descended into deep thickets of beautiful deep green trees only to pop out again as he entered the sun-soaked grass clearings. When he was younger, and could hold more air in his lungs, the trip could sometimes take him less than an hour. But now in the latter half of his life, it took him nearly two. Finally reaching the village near the end of midday, he could hear the center market place bustling with the moving of fish, farm animals, and gold. All manner of barters, trades, and (occasional) scams were in full swing and he knew that it was, once again, the perfect time. He walked a little ways downward and then climbed up on top of a large boulder, which gave him a good overlook of the village. He held up his axe and took a deep breath before starting his booming speech: “I, Brynjar the Bloodtaker, offer my land, animals, and half of my worldly possessions to any man who can take it! For those unaware, I own a large pasture that lies on top of the fjord hosting all manner of goats, sheep, cattle, and even a smokehouse to store their meat! All any man must do to claim this prize is defeat me in one-on-one combat, setting my soul free to drink and feast with Odin in his great hall of Valhalla! Not only will this man gain many riches, but he will forever hold the glory of being the man to kill the greatest warrior of his generation! So I ask: who will be the bravest, strongest, and most skillful of you? Who will gain the largest pasture this side of Scandinavia? Who will earn the glory of the greatest warrior of his time? Who will accept my challenge!” His final words echoed for a moment, but were quickly drowned out by the overwhelming noise of the crowd in the village. “Will no one accept my challenge?” Brynjar yelled. “Will no man stand above the rest?” He stared out across the many faces of the market. He looked for one, just one, to be facing his way. They all simply continued about their business, arguing over prices and lugging fish in from the dock. Brynjar let out a deep sigh and began to turn around to step off the boulder, when suddenly a memory shot through his mind. It was his son, and he was once again holding him in his arms. His breaths were heavy as blood filled his lungs and he stared up at the sky with half lit eyes. Brynjar shook him and yelled “Asmund! Asmund! Are you alright? Asmund!” Asmund coughed and Brynjar stopped shaking him. “Father…” he said, his voice barely audible from the sound of battle. “Do not worry… The Valkyries. I see them. They’re coming. They’re…” The light left his eyes and tension left his muscles as he slumped dead into Brynjar’s arms. Brynjar furrowed his eyebrows and frowned as he turned to face the village. “Do you really...” he began, until he realized that, still, no one in the village was listening to him. He took a deep breath and then shouted, louder than he ever had before, “SILENCE!” The word boomed throughout the village and swept out into the fjord. It continued to bounce off either cliffside creating a sound that could be heard all the way to the outlet. Every man, woman, and child in the village now had their eyes fixed on Brynjar. Even some men far off in their fishing boats stopped to look at the large man on the boulder. He held both his hands low, stuck out his chest, and began to speak again. “You know, many people in this village look to me as a hero, the

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boldest and bravest of my time. You all praise me as I pass by, send me food, even give me the largest plot of land in the hold! But don’t any of you realize I don’t want this?” Brynjar began to tear up as he spoke. “I am near the end of my life. I’ve sworn to the Allfather never to go on another raid. All that is left for me in this life is to die, and if you people, my people, wish to gift me for my deeds, then I beg you, grant me a warrior’s death so I may spend eternity in Valhalla. Will not one man, or even woman, face me on the battlefield? Will not one man grant me a merciful death?” He gazed out upon the crowd and saw many faces. Young men looked at the ground and shuffled their feet, women hugged their children close to them, older men simply stared at him with a sense of understanding, some even nodding at his speech. One man, however, seemed to make himself rise above the others and he began to speak. “Brynjar, I speak for all of us here when I say that we want nothing more than for you to go to Valhalla. But no man here is willing to die.” “No man here is willing to die? What do you mean?” Brynjar said. “You are not known as Brynjar the Bloodtaker for nothing. Hundreds of men have fallen to the axe you wield right now. No man is going to take the chance of leaving his family behind simply for land.” “Ah, and so it becomes clear as day. You’re cowards. All of you.” Brynjar paused for a few seconds to let it sink in. The man who had risen above the crowd slid back in again. “Have you any idea what I would’ve done if given a chance that I am giving you now? I suppose you don’t. You’ve all grown fat and weak off the riches my generation’s brought you. Many of you probably don’t even realize how small this village used to be. Maybe some of you think this is even a small village! Disgusting. You don’t know of the winters we starved, of the battles we fought.” He paused once again, scanning the crowd for reactions. “Look at you all. Not even the courage to defend yourselves. You are nothing but wretches, with no spines.” Brynjar turned away and moved his way back down to the ground. “Don’t bother sending any girls with milk,” he said. “I’m done with you people for today.” He left the crowd in silence as he faded into the thicket of trees, keeping his eyes faced downward at the ground the entire walk up in a mix of anger and self-pity. After a long tiresome trudge, he once again reached the top fjord and stood slumped by his home. He stared at the humble stack of mud and logs, remembering his family, his old life. For a moment, it calmed him. But thoughts of the old times were quickly accompanied by thoughts of how they had changed, and of the village. He slammed his axe into its resting spot, so hard that small cracks formed at the dried mud holding it together. He walked to the edge of the cliff overlooking the village. Even from up here he could hear them, busily going about their lives not seeming to have a single thought that their actions were damning him. He once again took a deep breath and shouted with the same force as he had before: “COWARDS!” He stormed back into his house and slammed the door behind him. Brynjar paced back and forth for a long time, until he decided any more thinking today would make him explode. He hung his bearskin in his usual spot and filled his drinking horn with mead. It was warm for a fire, but it lit the room nicely and made him feel calm. He sat on a

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chair he kept covered with an old reindeer skin, took a sip of his mead, and closed his eyes as he began to relax. But, for every man trying to relax, there is another who refuses to let that happen. Three, not loud, but quite distinctive knocks rang from Brynjar’s door. Brynjar grunted, rose, and then marched over to it. “I thought I said not to send milk today!” he shouted, expecting to see one of the Jarl’s handmaids with a bucket of milk. But instead he was greeted with a familiar pain in his right leg. “Damn goat!” he exclaimed as he looked down expecting to see a small mischievous kid goat, but he again had his expectations shattered as he instead saw a little girl. “I am no goat, old man! I am your undoing!” she screamed as she kicked him once again in his right leg. “Agh! Stop, girl!” He yelled, clutching his right knee. “Who are you? Why are you here?” “I am Ylva! And I accept your challenge! I will send your decrepit soul to Valhalla and claim your land for my own!” Ylva yelled, kicking him in the leg for a third time. “Agh! Damn you, girl! I said stop!” Brynjar roared. The girl backed away and put up her fists, looking ready for a fight. Brynjar calmed himself, sighed, and then looked around looking for parents or any adult near the girl but could find none. “Where are your parents?” he asked panting from the shock. “They are weak! Just like the rest of my village, but I am not! So go on, do your worst! But don’t expect an easy fight, I may be small but I am fierce as a raging wolf!” she shouted in response. Brynjar sighed, closed his eyes, and then started to giggle. The giggle slowly grew until he was heartily laughing and wiping tears from his eyes. “Ylva, why don’t you come inside? I don’t get many guests these days. We can talk this out and I can return you to your parents in the morning.” he said. “What is there to talk out? Didn’t you hear me? I accept your challenge! Let us fight to the death!” she yelled. “Hm, I suppose you're right, you have accepted my challenge so we must fight.” Brynjar said stroking his beard as he did so. “It’s just a shame that all these plums I have will go to waste.” Ylva looked at him quizzically. “Plums?” she said. “Yes, about half a basket of plums. They only have one more night left in them, and seeing as our battle will likely last all night, they’ll go bad before either of us is victorious. Unless we, I don’t know, ate the plums before we fought,” Brynjar said, sounding as genuinely sad as he could about plums. Ylva’s quizzical look persisted for a moment, but then she nodded. “That sounds like a good idea. For the sake of the plums,” she said, walking into the house followed by a smiling Brynjar. Ylva sat in the same chair Brynjar had before, her feet dangling off it not quite touching the floor. Brynjar came out from his cellar and set the promised plums in Ylva’s lap. She immediately began digging into them and Brynjar took a seat on his bed just across from her. He stayed quiet for a while just to savor the moment. He had always enjoyed children, so innocent and naive with their goals and thought processes. “You’re a brave girl. No grown man from the village would dare face me on the battlefield. But you would. I must ask, have you heard of who I am? Do you know my name?” he asked.

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“Of course, everyone knows your name. You’re Brynjar the Bloodtaker,” Ylva replied, munching on a plum. “So even knowing about everything I’ve done, you still have the courage to face me? Why?” he asked. “Well, you may have done a lot of stuff, but you look pretty old. I bet I can take you,” she answered. Brynjar let out a long hearty laugh. “I can’t argue with you,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I am certainly old, but I’ll have you know, I am still a skilled warrior.” “Really,” Ylva said, “prove it, then.” Brynjar looked around and grabbed an axe from one of his weapon racks. It was a large axe made of fine iron with a thick oak handle. He remembered grabbing it in his youth, on his third raid; he’d thought he would need a huge axe like this but later found it to be clunky and awkward to handle. His axe, although made of cheaper materials, was much better. Without having to exert too much effort, he bent the axe until it broke with a loud snapping sound that startled Ylva and caused her to drop her plum. “Is that enough proof for you?” Brynjar asked. “Yes…” Ylva said meekly, picking up her plum. “I’m sorry young one, but I’m afraid it would take a lot of training if you wanted to fight someone like me,” Brynjar said, picking up his drinking horn and taking a sip. “Yeah, it would…” she said, the sentence putting her deep in thought. After a short pause, she asked suddenly, “Why don’t you train me?” Brynjar furrowed his eyebrows at the question and then said “Well, it’s a little bit unconventional to teach a young girl to fight…” Ylva started to frown at Brynjar’s words. “But as I think about it, I suppose I don’t really have a problem with it. I’ll train you as long as you get your parents’ permission.” A smile lit up Ylva’s face, and she shouted in excitement. “For now, let’s get some sleep,” Brynjar said, standing up and setting down his drink. Brynjar tried to have Ylva sleep in the cot in the cellar that night, but after much protest, he ended sleeping in the cot with her in his bed. In the morning, Brynjar gave her a breakfast of dried cod and bread. He offered to accompany her down the fjord but she insisted on finding her own way down. When she left with the parting words “See you soon,” Brynjar did not take them seriously. While it was an interesting thought, he didn’t think there was any way her parents would allow her to be trained in how to fight. Yet that very day, after he had once again unsuccessfully relayed his challenge to the village, he saw the young girl running back up the fjord. “Back so soon?” Brynjar shouted as he waved to her. “Yes, and I’m ready for training!” Ylva said excitedly. Brynjar furrowed his eyebrows. “Really? You asked your parents if you could learn to fight and both of them are fine with it?” he asked. “Well, my father was a little nervous when I asked him, but my mother said it was the greatest idea she’d ever heard!” she answered. Brynjar laughed and said “Alright then, come inside and we’ll find an axe you can use.”

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That day they found a small wood chopping hatchet that she could hold easily. He let her swing it around and get a feel for its weight and how it moved when she swung. The next day, Brynjar spent the morning turning a large log into a training dummy. Ylva came that afternoon and made good progress in learning how to swing powerfully. She also carved a funny face into the log and wrote “Brynjar” underneath it. When Brynjar went to bed that night, he realized it had been the first day in many months he hadn’t gone down to the village. And over the next few weeks, his visits became less and less frequent. He was now spending most of his time coming up with practice methods for Ylva. He came up with a warm-up routine to get her arms and shoulders loose, along with basic swings she could practice to at home every day. It became routine for her to come every mid-afternoon and leave every evening, so he was quite concerned when she didn’t beat the Jarl’s handmaid to his door one day. “Have you seen Ylva?” he asked her. “No, it’s quite strange. I usually greet her on the fjord every day, but no trace of her today,” the girl answered. Brynjar took the milk and went back inside, slightly worried. If she didn’t show up again tomorrow, he’d go down to the village to look. Just as he was getting ready to go to bed, he heard a loud snap outside and marched out to investigate. Once outside he saw Ylva, holding his axe. No… half his axe, for it had snapped in two. “I’m really really really sorry, Brynjar! I just wanted to see if I could lift your axe,” Ylva said. Brynjar stared at the axe halves. This was the axe he used to build his home, to build his smokehouse and pastures, to teach his son to plow the field when he was knee-height, to cut frozen reindeer haunches in the cold winter when his wife was sick. He had used it to cut down the trees to support her burial mound, to protect his son on his first raid, to kill the man who killed his son. “Let go of it…” he said in a deep, menacing tone. “What…” Ylva said meekly, tears welling up in her eyes. “LET GO OF IT!” Brynjar shouted, charging to grab his axe. Ylva dropped the axe half and Brynjar grabbed it along with the half still in the side of his house. He fell to his knees, staring at the halves in each of his hands. “I’m so sorry, Brynj—” “SILENCE!” Brynjar shouted, interrupting Ylva. He looked at her; she was crying and could barely look at him. “It’s best if you go,” he said, looking back to his axe. Ylva hurriedly ran to the path but suddenly stopped as something in the fjord caught her attention. “Uh, Brynjar…” “I THOUGHT I SAID TO BE—” “COME HERE!” she shouted interrupting him. “There are a lot ships coming up the fjord.” Suddenly, deafening battle cries of warriors filled air and Brynjar could see an orange glow coming from the fjord. He rushed over to where Ylva was and saw an entire raiding party firing flaming arrows from their ships into the village. “Geats!” Brynjar shouted in anger. He rushed into his house, wrapped himself in his bearskin, and began to look for an axe. Wait! It may be broken, but he would use his axe. He rushed out and grabbed the two halves. He noticed the half that didn’t have the blade was very pointy, perfect. “Stay here!” Brynjar shouted at Ylva. “We’re being raided!” Brynjar sprinted down the fjord at a speed he hadn’t gone in years. As he ran, he realized, this was his chance! He could go to Valhalla while defending his village! This filled him with

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even more energy, and he began to run faster. When he finally reached the village, most of it was already on fire. He could see all the men fighting the Geats on the beach while women and children rushed by him. Brynjar ran straight through the burning village and onto the beach where he found a Geat about to strike down on a man on the ground that had dropped his weapon. Brynjar rushed his left side and cleaved his axe blade into his face, pushing him down and breaking his skull. He kicked the fallen villager and motioned for him to get up. The man did so, and once he realized who had saved him, he raised his axe into the air and shouted into the battlefield “THE BLOODTAKER HAS COME TO SAVE US!” His shout was met with the battle cries of every man there, reinvigorated by the coming of their hero. Brynjar rushed into the fray, cleaving more men than he could keep track of. He began to worry that no man would beat him down, but he became distracted when his bear skin fell off. As he took a moment to look for it, a Geat kicked him in the back and sent him to the ground. He lay splayed out on the sand slowly regaining his senses. This was it! Soon he would be with his son in Valhalla! They would drink, fight, and— “AHHHHHHH!” A high-pitched scream suddenly pulled him from his thoughts. He deliriously looked to where the scream came from to see Ylva trying to fend off a Geat with her small hatchet. He looked back at the man about to kill him. “I WILL KILL BRYNJAR THE BLOOD—aagh!” the Geat’s cry of glory was interrupted as Brynjar kicked him in his right leg and sprinted over to save Ylva. Brynjar had dropped the half of his axe that still had the blade, and was now left only with what was basically a pointy stick. The Geat was now on top of Ylva and was about to cleave her forehead in until Brynjar tackled him and they rolled over to the side of her. Both men lay in the sand for a few seconds until Brynjar started to get up. But as he did so, the Geat cut a gash through his left shin. Brynjar could no longer walk from the pain and rolled over onto his back. The Geat tried to jump up onto Brynjar but the Bloodtaker jabbed what was left of his axe into the left side of the Geat’s chest. The Geat jumped back from the pain, but it only fazed him momentarily. He lifted his axe above his head and said, “Nice try,” but just before he brought it down, a small hatchet struck the back of his head, cutting deep into his skull. The Geat fell, and Brynjar sat up. Ylva rushed over to Brynjar, and as she did, the men of the village all let out cries of victory; the battle had been won. The remaining Geats were either desperately trying to swim to their ships or were being executed by the successful warriors as Ylva kneeled down beside Brynjar. “Brynjar! Please don’t die. I know you want to, but please don’t! I don’t want you to!” she shouted. “Hush, young one. I’ve suffered worse, it will heal in time. However, I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk properly ever again,” Brynjar said. “Good, good…” she said, slowly calming down. But then she became flustered again and said “Oh, I’m being stupid. If you want to die, go ahead and die, it doesn’t matter what I think.” Brynjar laughed. “You’re always finding ways to make me laugh. Like I said, this isn’t going to kill me, I’ll just walk funny.” “But if you can barely walk, how will you fight? How will you make it to Valhalla?” Ylva said. Brynjar realized she was right, he could never die in battle if he couldn’t even walk. He

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thought back to his son, Asmund, how he had died like this, in the hands of one who loved him. It would be a fitting death. But then he looked at Ylva, who was crying, and she couldn’t even look him in the eye. She was breaking. Brynjar knew his son had gone too soon, and he did not want Ylva feeling the same way about him. Brynjar pulled her closer. They embraced. “Everything’s going to be alright,” he said. “We’re going to be alright. I may not be able to fight, but I can still train a great warrior.” Jacked (excerpt) By Renee Shuman James looked at the flash drive in his hand before almost slamming it down on the mahogany desk. “Oh, you don’t know, do you?” A sly smile curved across James’ face. “You see, Aryan, Liam—that information is directly related to me and my… ah, work within our organization. Everything I ever did is recorded on there. Everything I would need to expose the United States and its government for letting this particular caliber of heartless activity.” He paused, and clasped his hands behind his back. The silence seemed everlasting as James gazed out the windows, taking in the view and relishing in their terror. “The extent to which I have gone to retrieve my life’s work—well, I will not be relinquishing my hold upon it that easily. You don’t know what I have been through, what they have had me do. But, I must say, I don’t particularly regret any of it. In fact, there was some… experimentation that I quite enjoyed designing.” Aryan pulled against the strong arms holding her back, her face red with anger. “How could you do something like that? How can you even threaten it?” “I can and will. Why? Because I like to help people. And if I don’t expose these secrets to the public, well, many other people, animals, and environments will be destroyed, killed, decimated. Entire species just gone. I am a helpful person.” “Then why don’t you show us what’s on that chip?” Liam finally broke his silent protest. James replied, “My dear old friend, I’m never going to do that. You will see it when everyone else does. I can’t risk you escaping and telling my devious plan to the world.” “Yeah, why is it that the bad guys always reveal their schemes to the heroes? I mean, we could escape, and you’ve told us what you’re going to do. Just not what you have done. You do remember that as soon as you show the world, you’re condemning yourself as well, considering the fact that you were the one committing these heinous crimes. I am assuming they were crimes, were they not? Or were they just incredibly immoral, James? Would you go to jail for whatever is on that drive? Or would you just be cast from society yet again?” Liam’s words stung, hard, especially coming from someone James once called a friend. James was entirely stunned. “I can’t believe you—you would…ugh.” “Can’t believe someone would call you out on your terrible deeds? Can’t believe someone might not want to be around you after all that you’ve done? Let me tell you something,” Liam broke free from one of the men holding him back, “if you get out of here alive, if we don’t turn you in, I’ll kill you myself for everything you’ve done.”

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Funeral Flowers By Hollis Amberboy “Lord, we pray in Your Son’s name today that you welcome our dearly beloved and sadly departed Mary Jo Davis, with open, loving arms, as she so often did to those in her care, in her own home.” The reverend kept talking. It seemed like he wouldn’t stop. I turned to look at my cousin and squeezed her hand tighter. She squeezed back, and gave me a reassuring nod. We’d have to get up and speak later, even though we sat in the pews now, listening to the alternating voices of a family member, then the reverend, then a family member again. I listened, or at least I tried to. I listened, but didn’t really hear. Uncle Mike got up and talked about his childhood, I think. Aunt Annie and Aunt Sheryl shared a speech, but not for very long; they hadn’t made a minute thirty before dissolving into teary messes. Finally, it was my turn. I didn’t let go of my cousin’s hand until we reached the podium. “We have a few words we’d like to say. I’m Bryn, this is Ellie, and our grandma was one of the most important people to us,” Bryn started, a tear breaking loose already. “That’s right,” I said. My voice was much stronger than I was expecting it to be. “Our Grandma Mary was the kindest, most gentle woman I’d ever had the pleasure of knowing, aside from my own mother.” That earned a small chuckle from the crowd of mourners. “But what can I say, she helped my mom raise Will and me. She practically was a mother to us.” “To me as well.” It was Bryn’s turn. “She took care of all of us kids from a really young age, and we know we’ll miss her more than anything. Ellie and I used to stand in her kitchen, eating the cookie dough she was trying to put on the pan to bake and give to the rest of the family. She’d tell us to stop, trying to be disciplinary. But we didn’t want to listen—the cookies she made were too good to wait.” I felt a smile play at the corners of my mouth when she said that. “She’s right. I don’t think I’ll ever have better sugar cookies. But that’s just one thing I’ll miss. I keep thinking to myself now, ‘who’s going to have us over to build gingerbread houses? Where are we going to watch NASCAR? Who’s going to fund my burgeoning pickle habit?’” Another larger laugh came from our relatives. “We may not be so little anymore, but all of those things made up our childhood. They’ll carry on forever in our hearts, and I know things’ll be harder without one of my number one fans around.” “But this is our reality now. This is our new normal, and I’m sure Uncle Mike and Aunt Cathy would love to have us build gingerbread houses in their kitchens and eat all their cookie dough.” “So she might be gone…” “But she’s never going to be forgotten.” Our last bit we said in unison. “We love you, Grandma.” We walked down the altar steps hand in hand again. We sat down next to each other, and silently, the flood of tears finally rushed down my cheeks. A powerpoint of pictures played on a screen. A picture floated up, one of her and me when I was a baby, a gold Christmas bow on my head. At this a genuine sob escaped from my body, and I curled over onto Bryn’s shoulder. I sniffled and sighed, the pain slicing even deeper as I felt Bryn’s body shake under me. After what felt like an eternity, the service was finally over, and I was walking across the parking lot with Will, my little brother. My mom grabbed us after the service and wrapped her

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arms around us. “You know Birdie, you don’t have to come help us clean her stuff out. I don’t want it to be too hard on you.” “Trust me, Momma. Nothing could make this harder.” She squeezed me harder. “Well, you can go if you ever feel like you need to.” She pressed a kiss to my forehead and rustled my brother’s hair, then walked away to join my dad, linking her arm in his. She leaned her head over to his shoulder, and he turned to press his lips to her head. I looked away but tightened my grip on my five-year-old brother’s hand. He squeezed back. I thought that he was too young to have to endure something like this. It wasn’t fair. I was sixteen and could handle myself. Will was five. He would have a tough time remembering, but the experience as a whole would be too much for anyone. I sighed some tears away, and Will leaned against my leg. I rested my hand on his head and got ready to face some bitterly sweet memories. “Why did she own so much jewelry?” “I think a better question would be why did she own so much tacky jewelry?” “These are some lovely earrings. They would look good on you, Sheryl.” “No, Annie, her face is too round.” “Well you’re too tall for that skirt, Jill.” “Hey, I didn’t mean it like that. You have a beautifully round face.” They giggled. It was after the funeral. Lots of people were out in the living room, dressed in their most mournful black and grieving over cups of tea and slices of cake. I didn’t want to be out there, though. It didn’t seem right to be out there when there was so much more to do in here, in her bedroom. The cleaning out and organizing and division of personal belongings wasn’t what I wanted to do. But it felt wrong not to do anything, which was my alternative. Everything looked so plain, so bare. Her pictures were gone, boxed up and moved. I didn’t know how I should handle it. My mom and her sisters were cleaning out the dresser. They found a jewelry box, filled to the brim with gaudy, ostentatious golden chains and flowery brooches. I sat on the bed and watched, absentmindedly sorting clothes. I was done with my third stack, but I didn’t move to get a fourth. I stared down at the bedspread, a stark white quilt the background to sparse purple roses. I ran my hands over the bedspread, fingertips lingering over the seemingly too bright blooms as though if I touched them long enough, life would flow from my hands into them, and I’d have something of hers to hold on to. “Ellie, why don’t you have these earrings? They’d look real pretty on you.” I glanced up from my flower-tracing to see my Aunt Annie standing at the end of the bed, a teary-eyed, soft expression dancing across her face. In her thin fingers she held a cat-shaped pill box, but instead of pills, a pair of opal and gold earrings were inside. They were beautiful, I had to admit that. I’d seen my grandmother wear them before. They looked gorgeous on her, the opal causing the blue in her bright eyes to pop. I took them from my aunt gently, afraid that if I touched them too excitedly, they’d disintegrate and I’d be back to praying the flowers into a

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tangible existence. I carefully took the backs off the dime-sized studs and put them on my own ears. Brushing my hair back and moving to stand in front of the dresser’s mirror, I admired the look of the glimmering opals on my ears, and felt a pair of warm, gentle hands on my shoulders. I glanced behind me to see my momma, tears glinting in her heavy eyes. “You look just like her, El. Doesn’t she just…?” she asked her sisters, drawing a crowd around me. “She sure does,” Aunt Sheryl said, tucking my bangs behind my ear with a sad smile. I took in the scene reflected in the mirror. I saw three strong, beautiful women, fighting the same fight I was, but they seemed to possess this quiet grace, something resembling fearlessness and strength. I didn’t see that in me. I saw a weak, fearful little girl, with no idea what the future was going to hold without her grandma. I didn’t want to face that future yet. The prospect of that terrified me, and I felt the fear bubble up in my belly. I saw my chest start to rise and fall faster than it had been already, and suddenly everything was too close. I looked too much like my grandmother, and I felt like too big a disappointment to my family with the way I was handling it. I shook my head and mumbled something that had to do with needing fresh air, and I was gone, bursting my way down the hallway and into the living room, tripping over my own foot and landing in the arms of my Uncle Mike. “Whoa, easy there, graceful. Calm down, nothing’s chasing you,” he chuckled, righting me and smoothing the stray hair that had been ruffled when I smacked against his chest. “I have to get out of here.” I was hyperventilating, suddenly keenly aware of my family’s eyes all on me. They’d put down their coffees and left their cakes for a moment to wonder about their niece, their grandchild, their daughter as she melted down in front of everyone. I couldn’t stand to have them all see me like this. I was out the front door in a heartbeat, breathing heavily and hardly seeing what was in front of me. I sat down on the steps of the porch, and finally let the tears fall. It wasn’t important now that I was snotty and sniffling; I was alone. I could cry all I wanted. Getting back took me a minute. I was tearing myself down for just how shamefully immature I was being about this whole thing. I missed my grandma. She’d comfort me. She wouldn’t laugh and tell me to stop eating her cookie dough, she’d let me eat more. I cried harder. I had to stop thinking about her. I looked out at the yard, praying I could find anything that could distract me. I needed to be distracted. Can’t think about her. Not her, not her, not her. Wow this front yard was a mess. She had swings everywhere. Porch swings, playground swings, swings in the shape of airplanes. But her flora made up for it. She had ivy twirling around her porch, roses in a pot by the door, petunias everywhere else. The sight of this beauty around me calmed me down, and I breathed in the smell of potting soil that seemed to permeate every inch of her yard, even the garage on the far right side, something I was still afraid to go into. But I didn’t think about the garage. There was fear there, and I didn’t need any more of that, so I focused on the flowers. The flowers were so lovely. They swayed in the gentle breeze and shone bright in the spring sun. What would become of these flowers? I thought about their fate, and suddenly the sobs hit me all over again. It wasn’t pretty, the scene my little brother walked out to. Will came over and sat next to me, a single flower in his hand. “Gwamma wouldn’t want you to cry, El. It’s too pwetty today to cry. Gwamma liked days like dis one.” I smiled at my brother’s slightly rough speech. He was getting better, just slowly. “I know, Little Man. But sometimes it’s hard, y’know?”

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“I know, Mister.” “Will, I’m not a mister.” “Okay, Mister.” “Okay, Will,” I giggled, tickling him as he fell on my lap. I thought about what he’d said as we sat in silence, watching the flowers. Grandma wouldn’t have wanted me to cry. She was jubilant, a cheerful woman, always there to encourage whoever needed encouraging or hug whoever needed a hug or put rollers on the head of whoever needed rolled hair. She rolled my hair a lot. I smiled at the memory, seeing my young, giggling face as she smiled at me and told me to sit still so she wouldn’t hurt my head. I never lasted longer than ten minutes in those things—they were so uncomfortable. But she still tried with me. She still exercised as much patience as she could with fidgety, nine-year-old me. She was patient with everyone. I didn’t know how she did it, but Will was right. I should think of her today, not of myself. So I picked up the flower, and picked up my brother. “Let’s go back in, Little Man. We should be with family today.” “Okay, Sissy. I like your eawwings. They make you look like Gwamma.” I smiled sadly at him. I realized I should be proud of that. That shouldn’t make me sad; I couldn’t be prouder to be compared to such a wonderful person. “Thanks, Little Man.” “I miss her, too,” he said. “I know. It’ll be okay.” Realizing just how right I was, I breathed the biggest sigh of relief. It’ll be okay.

Not As Expected By Lexi Marie Romero I don’t even like parties. The ever-raving crowd of people dancing in a large room, the overwhelming sour stench of alcohol filling the rooms, the impulsive and sometimes stupid actions committed. It’s just an unwinding pathway that inevitably leads to certain disaster, whether it’s the sudden sirens wailing, or an unexpected fight breaking out, or even the unforeseen homecoming of parents. Yet, my mother had forced me to go because, God forbid, I don’t get out enough. Don’t be quick to make judgments. I’m not even a good girl; I hardly listen to my mom, and the only reason I was there was because she suggested that I go. She didn’t need to tell me not to get drunk nor get high, because she knew I had no interest in either of the two. So you’re thinking, Oh, so you’re antisocial? I don’t mean to shoot down another one of your guesses, but I know how to talk to people. In fact, I have plenty of friends; I just don’t like

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parties. They’re pointless and a waste of my time. It’s worse when I’m not even in the mood to go anywhere. The moment my mother pulled up in front of the house, I was already internally groaning. I had told her, multiple times, that the person who was throwing the party was an entitled bastard. The one that people pretend to like, but secretly hate and talk about behind his back. Yet, she ignored my complaints about the host of it all. My attention parted from the scene on the other side of the window and trailed over to my mom. I sent her one last pout of the lips, hoping she’d give in, but she just shook her head and removed my seatbelt on her own. “Please don’t make me go—the place and the idiots there are already trashed!” I whined, letting my head fall back against my seat. “Charlie, be a little more optimistic.” “I’m not an optimist, mother,” I scoffed, crossing my arms over my chest. “Yes, yes, I know you’re a pessimist. I raised you, I know how you work, but please just at least try to have fun. I’m not saying you have to drink—I wouldn’t like that—but talk to people. I guarantee that not everyone there is drunk.” “Okay, fine. God, this is what I get for having a young mom.” “I was young and dumb, now stop sulking and go have fun. If you end up wanting to leave just text me and we can go rent a movie.” I cocked an eyebrow at her idea. I would’ve much rather stayed at home and stuffed my face with food as I watched a movie, but I knew I couldn’t suggest doing that now. That was her deal. Try to socialize; if you don’t like it, then you can come home. “Alright. Just promise you won’t get any of our favorite movies without me,” I said as I pushed the car door open. “I promise.” “Good. Love you.” I planted a quick kiss to her cheek before shutting the door behind me and took another step towards the massive house. Pfft. Rich kids. I inhaled a deep breath then began to push my way through the small crowd of people outside. The inevitable shutdown of all social skills was already taking place. I knew no one there, except maybe a few of my friends, but I didn’t even know if they came or not. When I got inside, I was displeased with what was in front of me. On the couch, there was girl—who was probably drunk—making out with the asshole who planned this dumb party in the first place. I just shook my head and kept walking until I reached the kitchen. Of course, all the kids had was beer, but I knew the house itself would have more than just that. So, I went straight for the fridge. I didn’t even care if I was taking something else besides alcohol, it’s not like that guy would notice. After snagging a glass of lemonade, I made my way upstairs, hoping for a little more peace and quiet. It was much quieter, without a doubt, but I wasn’t surprised by the sickening sounds radiating from behind the closed doors I passed. If I stayed any longer, I probably would’ve thrown up. Going up another small staircase, the noise was soon muffled, bringing me relief. All the doors on the floor were open—thank God. I was about to go into one of the random rooms, but I caught sight of a glass door leading out to a balcony. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one looking to be alone, because a boy was already out there. His red-dyed hair hung over his forehead as he looked intently down at the notepad in his hands. Usually, I would’ve ignored it and gone elsewhere, but I recognized this boy from school.

Anderson High School

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2014-2015

I recalled him being in one of my classes. He never seemed to be talkative, but it was easy to tell that he was perfectly capable of conversing. I knew he wasn’t necessarily an I-hate-everything loner, nor a shy one, but I thought he was the loner that knew everything. He was the eyes and ears of the whole school. He noticed everything and heard everything. Even though he rarely spoke, everyone knew him because they always turned to him for the facts. If you want a living tabloid, then Michael Clifford is your guy. I slowly, pried the door open and stepped outside. His head instantly turned, gaze fixated on me. “Sorry, don’t mean to interrupt anything,” I said quickly. He looked up at me, contemplating before diverting his attention to the tiny notepad. He quickly wrote something on it then handed it to me. Why are you at a party if you’re upset? “I’m not upset.” I furrowed my eyebrows at him. He emitted a heavy sigh and began to write again. You’re lying to yourself. “You know if you’re going to make assumptions, why don’t you actually speak instead of wasting my time by writing them down,” I snapped. He scoffed then abruptly stood up, taking a step towards me. “They aren’t assumptions, Charlie.” “Yes, because you know everything.” I rolled my eyes, not even caring how close he was to me. “I don’t, but I know you’re masking your feelings. It isn’t hard for me to notice, I see it in your eyes,” Michael stated, taking a step back to lean against the railing of the balcony. I normally would’ve blown up at anyone who tried to argue with me, but I couldn’t deny he was right. I oddly brought my temper back down, my frustration unexpectedly transitioning into curiosity. I should’ve known that he could notice little things; all he does is observe everything and everyone around him, after all. “So tell me, what’s eating at you tonight?” “Why should I tell you?” I looked over at him questioningly, being completely cautious of telling him anything. “Because we’ve got time on our side, and… I don’t know, it never hurts to talk to someone about things that are bothering you,” he replied, sitting back down on the floor. He had a point. I had yet to even speak of what happened a couple of days ago, but it had been bothering me for days. Plus, I didn’t see anything wrong with telling him the truth. “I suppose…” I sighed, sitting down in front of him. His green eyes still remained on me, waiting to hear what I was inevitably going to say. “…It’s that my dad left without saying goodbye.” “So you’re mad at him?” Michael tilted his head at me. “Sort of, mainly just sad that he didn’t even explain why he was leaving. He was just gone.” “That’s terrible…my mom left when I was three.” “What about your dad?” I asked. “Never met him.” I opened my mouth to say something, but he quickly cut me off, knowing what I was going to ask. “—I live with my older brother.” “Oh.” “It’s not bad, really, but this isn’t about me. Look on the bright side, you and your mum are still great.”

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“How did you know?” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Oh right, you see everything.” I waved my hands exaggeratingly, while laughing softly. “I’m also guessing you don’t like parties much.” “Not really,” he said. “And your mum forced you to come, yeah?” “Indeed, she did.” “Hmm. What do you say we leave this unentertaining party and instead go get something to eat?” He got to his feet, extending his hand out to me. I was rather skeptical about going somewhere else, especially with someone I didn’t know well. But he wasn’t like most people. The dyed hair and leather jacket were deceiving; he was just normal guy—nicer than most, too. “Sounds inviting.” I smiled as he helped pull me up. “This talk stays between us, though.” “Your personal life will not be shared with anyone else, I swear to it.” He flashed me a reassuring smile before leading me out. Trading my bitterness for a new friend was probably the only positive outcome of going to the party. There was no use in me being resentful towards everything just because I was upset about something. I suppose I had to thank my mom for making me go to the party and Michael for relieving me of my bad mood and making the night better than expected.

Sanctuary By Jack Cloudt The first time I had gone to church was for a funeral. My suit was tight and the sanctuary was stuffy. The body was starting to stink, too. The priest told us that God was with us, but I could only see three other people, not counting me, the priest, and the body, and none of those three people looked particularly like God. I looked up at the balcony to see if He was sitting up there, but He wasn’t. Maybe the priest was blind. One of the men, who wasn’t God, was invited up to the podium to speak. I tried to listen but I was too busy hoping somebody would get rid of the stink. The man at the podium may not have been God, but he certainly liked to talk about Him. Or maybe he didn’t. I assumed he was crying because of the body, but now that I think about it, maybe he was crying because he had to talk about God. By the time the man was done talking, two dark puddles had formed around my armpits. I wondered why nobody else looked as uncomfortable as me. Maybe they were used to coming to

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funerals. Maybe they’d learned how to transfer all the water from their armpits to their eyes. I wish I could do that. It felt like hours as the other two men also talked, and cried, about God. One of them said that God has a plan for everyone; I wish I had a plan for myself. Finally, the priest reclaimed his former place at the podium. He raised his arms above his head and his voice echoed throughout the hallowed sanctuary, something about a father and a kingdom and temptation and evil, and just then I was tempted to fling myself onto the open casket and slam the lid closed, to seal off the smell of expired existence that only I seemed to be able to smell. I hadn’t known the body in the casket. It had merely been here when I’d shown up. Because of this, I wasn’t asked to help carry the casket out of the sanctuary and to the cemetery outside. The three men who weren’t God lifted a corner of the casket, and the priest helped, heaving the front right end. He was a skinny man, and his face burned red and the purple veins of his neck bulged as he strained under the weight. The other men didn’t notice. I didn’t follow the other men out of the sanctuary. I stayed in my pew, staring up at the large golden cross that hung on the wall behind the podium, and wondering if God still had the scars. I decided to wait and see for myself. This is God’s house after all, or so I’ve been told, so I figure He’ll show up sooner or later. My hands are folded on my lap as I sit here patiently waiting, the echoes having faded and the sanctuary odorless.

Rule Number One By Sabrina Entrekin As I was reading my book, a hand obscured the lines I was in the process of reading. Whose hand was on my book? If they did not move their hand from my book in the next thirty seconds they were going to lose it. “Hello there.” I looked up to see dark brown hair and green eyes belonging to the human whose hand was currently covering my book page, preventing me from seeing Maven’s reaction to his bitch of a mother. With my sweetest smile I turned my charm, and ultimately my Texas accent, on high. “Hi there.” “Hello, I was just wondering if I could ask you a question?” By his flirty tone, I could tell he was one of those players. Well, we’d see how this little flirt-fest turned out. “Well that’s perfectly fine, if I could only ask you one first?” I asked. “Fire away.” My question seemed to amuse him greatly and the smirk he was sporting looked way too comfortable on his face.

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“I was just wondering if you come from a place where it is considered alright to just place your hand on another person’s book?” This did not seem to amuse him at all, and I couldn’t help but gloat inside to myself while keeping my sweetest smile on my face. “Because where I come from, it is considered incredibly rude, and I especially find it very aggravating, not to mention the fact that you may have picked the worst possible time to do so. Now, if you could please remove your hand?” He stared blankly at me before seeming to recover and turning the charm back on. “Well, I was just trying to get your—” “Five.” “—attention, you were so caught up in your book—” “Four.” “—and I tried tapping you on the shoulder but—” “Three.” “—why on Earth are you counting?” I looked pointedly down at his hand before continuing, “Two.” This seemed to drive the point home. He quickly moved his hand away from my book and I looked down once again, continuing where I had left off. “If I could just—” I held up my hand, signaling him to wait and hearing the a little bit of chuckling coming from the table near mine. Must be a dare, I thought. Well, I better give them something to laugh at. “That asshole.” I muttered, barely loud enough for the flirt to hear. “Excuse me?” “Oh, not you,” I closed the book and gestured for him to sit down, which he did eagerly, the smirk reappearing. “A character in the book. Now what was the question?” He seemed to be much more comfortable now and leaned forward on the table. “I was wondering if you would like to go out with me sometime?” “That depends,” I leaned forward too so that our arms were almost touching. “Did you ask me because your friends over there dared you to, or are you just really attracted to girls that have their heads stuck in a book?” This seemed to completely throw him. “There isn’t a right answer to that one is there?” “Not really.” He seemed to understand that there was no way this was going to end well for him. I leaned closer and crooked my finger, asking him to come closer until our foreheads were almost touching. “Do you want to know my answer?” This question and my closeness seemed to draw the smirk back onto his face, and I silently wondered if he would ever learn. I was tempted to test the possibility. “Sooo?” he said. I used my arms to push out of my seat and moved my mouth to his ear before whispering, “Rule number one: never touch a fangirl’s book, especially when she is reading and you cannot get her attention. That means that she should not be disturbed.” I leaned back and picked up my bag, coffee, and book before winking at him and starting to walk out of the coffee shop.

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It was when I got to where his friends were sitting that I decided what my answer should be. They were laughing too much at him for me to resist, and he looked so much like a kicked puppy. He had already stood up and was making his way back to them when I turned around and walked back to him, giving him a quick kiss on the mouth before heading back to the door. I leaned my back against it for a moment while I called back to his stunned face. “512-771-2738, and remember the rule.” I held my book up and waved it gently before winking and walking out the door, loving the jingle of the bell that always greeted me on the way in and out of that door. Now, that was fun. If only Maven wasn’t such a jerk.

About The Director By Kayla McGee Kayla McGhee, New York’s finest director, playwright, novelist, poet, songwriter, and basically every other possible occupation that requires creativity, has won four Oscars for her recent film, I’m Basically God. McGhee discovered in her early teens that her demeanor was a bit haughtier than others’. McGhee’s one true passion aside from pompous sarcasm is music. The dazzling director once said, “Music is my boyfriend, and we’re getting married soon.” Her earlier works such as Bow Down and I’m So Fetch—Signed, Gretchen Wieners, contain musically cultured characters with a lofty sense of narcissism. McGhee believes that everybody should be uplifted, even if it means uplifting themselves. One of her most famous statements is “Why not joke about loving yourself until you actually do?” The inspiring, beautiful, talented director attended school at NYU. She was enrolled in the Tisch program with her best friend, and pop icon Erick Echols. McGhee worked as a songwriter for Sony Records for five years prior to her first film, Get On My Level. Her family life is stable as of now. She is currently married to her third husband, Ryan Reynolds. She chooses to ignore the media’s comments on the awkward age difference (she’s 26 and he’s 47), and is now focusing on her upcoming film, Haters Gon’ Hate. You can contact this five-star director by email at KaylaMcBoss.ImSoFancy@gmail.com.

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2014-2015

Only Memories By Youstina Abraham The powerful winter gale sent a cool breeze through the busted windows of the dark, silent room. A sting ran through my arms, and I secured the blanket tighter around my body, but I pushed myself up to cover his prostrate form. I hurriedly shut the frames, raced to his bed, and ran the white blanket up from his arms to his chin, making sure to secure it under him in every place. Regardless of the wild uproar, he did not shift, but lay perfectly still. Outside, the day had migrated and the night had fallen. A waning moon was the only source of light in the room, shining brightly, straight at his broken face. He lay still, his lips slightly parted in a fixed position. His breathing was slow and steady against the powerful winds whistling through the cold night. I carefully placed my hands over his head. Despite the frigid chill still lingering in the room, what shook my hands and nerves was not temperature, but fear. Fear was not a feeling I was unaccustomed to. It was a friend. An enemy. A frienemy. It has been by my side ever since big butterflies started scattering in my stomach. It was a feeling that came with other feelings, never on its own. You could fear rejection because you feel insecure, fear the future because you feel anxious. You could fear loss because you feel love. When I first felt love for Braden, fear implanted itself into my heart. It was a monster I knew was always there; always ready to breathe fire and attack—just waiting to pounce—but it was usually under my control. Until that one night that triggered all the fear buried somewhere deep in my body. My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I came back to the fragile figure sprawled weakly in front of me. Oxygen tubes were connected to each nostril, a needle connected to an IV pump was sticking to the back of his right hand, and half of his body was wrapped up in bandages and casts. The heart monitor was beeping periodically; I held my breath with every time it beeped. I kept my right hand over his feverish head and tugged the phone out of my pocket with the other. The lit screen displayed a photo of me and Braden in our caps and gowns right after our high school graduation four years ago. That day was our first anniversary of being friends. By the time our sophomore year was coming to an end, we’d grown so much closer than the day we’ve met. “How are you?” The first three words he said to me when I was lying in the hospital bed after a car crash. I had only broken my ankle under the pressure of the impulse and scarred my left arm with a massive cut from the broken glass. He was the first to check on me. Until that day, I was never sure he really existed; I barely knew his name. “I think I’m fine, thank you...uh..?” “Braden. Braden Collins,” he smiled in a friendly way. We talked a lot that night; he kept me from dying of boredom in the tedious hospital room and brought me flowers while my parents were on their way from a trip out-of-state. That night, he stayed in the lobby for the whole night to make sure I was completely fine before he returned home. A warmer hand—much warmer—touched my hand and brought me back to the dreaded present. He was still lying motionless except for his fingers twitching unconsciously from the edge of the blanket, which hinted he might be feeling pain, but I was completely helpless now.

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The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

The doctors asking me not to interact with his body much to keep things steady and “in the safe zone” wasn’t necessary; I felt too useless and impotent to even try. I thought back to the day I tripped over my own foot and fell when I was running away from pure anger and sadness—at myself and at the world. The day I felt useless in life because everything was going wrong. The day that came to a happy ending because he assured me everything will be alright and that he’ll always be by my side. He was there to help me up. He was there to help me heal. He was there when I scraped my knee and he was there to ease the pain. He was always there; he kept his word. He took care of things and knew exactly what to do and when to do it—always. He never hesitated to do what’s right. He asked me to prom senior year, after we had been friends for almost two years, and he’d been mine ever since. He was mine all along. He made me forget the world and who I am. I never felt bad about myself when I was with him; I felt as though I was a princess and he was my prince—simply put, a beautiful fantasy. Prom night was a beautiful night, but our wedding night was the beginning of our forever. It was the night we were officially one, when it was official that even death couldn’t separate us. It was the night I recognized the feeling of love linger through my emotions—the kind of love I’ve always heard about—but also the night fear dug itself deeper into my heart. And rooted. “Ja—Jade?” Braden’s low whisper fell out of his mouth, stopping in the middle to catch his breath as he called my name. His hazel eyes glinted flawlessly under the moonlight, and even though everything in him was weak and frail, his eyes were full of life and hope. His pale dry lips slightly curled upward and I smiled at the beautiful sight. “Yes?” My voice transitioned from a whisper to a high pitch, the tears betraying me as they escaped and landed on the snow-white pillow underneath me. I had some hope; he was up, and he was speaking. The heart monitor was still beeping quietly in the background, and it was still intimidating me. “How are you?” “I’m fine, I think… I love you,” he tried to grip my hand a little tighter as he whispered before he closed his eyes and loosened his clutch. “Braden!?” I breathed and immediately turned to the monitor that was still beeping calmly. I glanced at Braden who grimaced painfully, and I let out a breath. At least he was still alive, here, with me. My fearful thoughts then went back to the night that changed my life, the night that embedded me with fear, made us one. Braden had left work and it was raining perpetually with thunderstorms shaking the ground and lightning filling up the night sky. He was late, and I was getting worried, pacing back and forth in the living room. After calling three times, I decided to go look for him, fear getting the best of me. On my way, I thought I saw his car—just seconds before the crash. I saw it all happen right before my eyes. I was on one side of the traffic light and he was on the other. The light was broken and a truck driver crossed the intersection, oblivious to Braden’s fragile car. I can still hear the horn and Braden’s scream echoing in my head until this second. Just then, chaos in the present life got me off my feet in panic. The heart monitor was beeping frantically, and the doctors rushed in, screaming at me to get out. It sounded one long

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

beep and they brought in the defibrillator to start the procedure. I watched in awe, standing a few feet back, unable to comprehend the abrupt change in the environment. Braden was getting launched a few inches off the bed by shocking pads and sent right back down rhythmically. I was too shocked, too appalled at the sight to do anything but lament and glare. The nurses were soon by my side to aid with my evacuation. The doctors insisted I leave the room, and I fell to my knees to get the closest I possibly could to protesting. I crawled to the bed and clung onto one of the bed’s legs. One nurse unlatched my hands while the others forcefully tugged at me, pulling my body away into the long, lonely hall. The last thing I heard before the door was shut and locked was, “Mrs. Collins, you’re making it harder for him and for us.” After a few minutes of sobbing on the cold marble floor and coughing, my wails turned into silent tears and short sniffles. I shuffled through our pictures on my dying phone until they opened the door to let a nurse out, possibly to get more equipment. I balanced myself on my feet as fast as I could and ran inside, pushing through the nurses. I ran as close to Braden as I could, careful not to interfere with anyone working on keeping him alive. A few seconds after a nurse yelled, “ ’think we’re losing him!” We lost him. The heart monitor beeped loudly and longer one last time before everything went silent. The whole world disappeared from around me as I glared at the heart monitor and the flat green line. My eyes were wide, and so was my mouth. The tears continued to race down my face, but I made no sound. Seconds later, I whimpered. I fell to my knees and stared at his face. Pale, cold, and lifeless. I slowly ran my right hand over my left arm. The scar was what reminded me of us every time I looked at it. And now there was no us. Just me. Braden was gone, but strangely enough, so was fear. I was not afraid to lose anymore, because I’d already lost. The doctor who was doing most of the work whispered something—probably an apology—but I couldn’t hear a thing except the last noises of the monitor echoing in my head, along with the memory of the truck’s horn. The doctors walked out silently, defeated, and I stayed on my knees, afraid to look away. Afraid he’d disappear if I looked away. I did not want to believe he was gone, I couldn’t. I had lost everything within the blink of an eye, everything except love. I will always be his, and he will always be mine, but we will never be together anymore. “Forever” is only meant for the soul. The sky was completely darkened by heavy clouds. My fingers traced the scar on my arm one more time before I laid my hands on his head that was now cold. He was always there for me to let the pain go away, but now I was completely helpless. My phone vibrated on the nightstand as it died out, flashing our wedding picture one last time. The heart monitor was now silent,too; I released a breath I’d been holding for so long. I let out another short sob, held onto his cold hand, and closed my eyes, desperate to fall asleep next to him one last night. Because all the times we’ve shared are now only memories.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

This Is Not A Love Story By Daniella DeGrazia They were both eighteen. They both felt filled, but with different emotions. What he didn’t quite understand yet was that they had different lives, different minds. He was optimistic. He was persistent, always refusing to give up. She was discouraged easily, and was trying a lot harder than he thought she was. On one morning of their Christmas break, he woke up an hour and a half earlier than he usually did. He woke up wanting to kiss her. He rolled out of bed to turn off his alarm clock. It read: 7:30 A.M., Saturday, December 21st. He didn’t care how early it was, he didn’t have time to think about that. His mind was already becoming flooded with visions and thoughts of her. Lacey Cummings. The girl who had him convinced that love did exist. He was very happy, and she had him assured that she was, too. Before leaving, he left his parents a note. He grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and scribbled “gone 2 lacey’s. be back later” and walked out his front door. As soon as he stepped out, the cold December weather seemed to swallow him. It reminded him of her, the way he absorbed every part of her being, the way his body seemed to absorb the cold air. He became engulfed in her. Everything reminded him of her. Everything. The almost fourteen months they had been together took everything from him, and he didn’t mind. It took his soul and replaced it with love and adulation. His heart was like a deflated balloon. He had given her everything he could, but he hadn’t yet realized that it wasn’t enough. He got to Lacey’s house at 7:48 that morning. He pulled into her driveway, making sure her parents weren’t home like she said. He started to get anxious, but not the kind of anxious you get before tests, or the kind of anxious you get while you’re sitting in the waiting room of the doctor’s office. It was the kind of anxious you got when you were six and you had to wait for your parents to wake up before you opened your gifts on Christmas morning. It was the kind of anxious you get during the last ten minutes of a seven-hour road trip. Even though the last time he saw her was Wednesday night and he was there on a Friday morning, he couldn’t wait to see her. He felt like his heart couldn’t wait. He felt like his ribs would explode if he took a deep breath. However, at this time he didn’t know that he was swimming an ocean for a girl who didn’t want to get her hair wet. He had memorized the number of steps it took to get from the end of her driveway to her front door. He was carrying a bouquet of white roses and a stomach full of angst. When the number in his head reached seventeen, he stopped in front of her glass door and rang the doorbell. He felt guilty for creating the noise that caused her to wake up so early, but the thought of him being the first person she saw when she woke up was comforting to him. She opened the door and he swore he could hear his own heartbeat. She was standing the way he had pictured she would be; her dark hair was messy and she was wearing one of her father’s old t-shirts. She looked beautiful to him, but he noticed something different. There was a look in her eyes that made her seem uncertain; she looked like she was in pain. But he tried his hardest to disregard it for the time being. He said what he’d been waiting to for a month. He handed her the bouquet of white roses and half-whispered, “Happy fourteen months. I love you, Lacey.”

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

Seconds after he let those seven words escape his mouth, he knew that something wasn’t right. It took Lacey an unusual amount of time to respond to what he said. As soon as he began to feel nervous, Lacey gave an odd reply. She looked at the flowers, then back at him. “Yeah. You, too. Come inside,” she sighed. He hoped the sigh was out of tiredness and not dissatisfaction. He thought to himself, was white not the color I should have gotten? Is it fifteen months, not fourteen? He followed her into her house, closing the door behind him. She led him into her kitchen and put the roses on the edge of a counter and didn’t bother to put them in water. He hoped he wasn’t being a burden. He began to regret waking her up early, maybe she was just tired. She motioned for him to sit in a chair and got out a box of cereal, one spoon and one bowl. “None for me?” he teased, trying to lighten the mood. Everything seemed grey. Her green eyes seemed darker than usual. The lights in the house were dimmed; the color seemed to be drained from Lacey’s face. Maybe she’s sick, he thought. Maybe that’s why she seems distant. “What,” she uttered. The emotion in her soft voice was gone. He assumed that she didn’t understand that he was trying to be humorous. He always tried to be optimistic, especially with Lacey. But he decided that something was wrong. Something clicked in his mind that forced him to realize that maybe Lacey was upset. “I was just ki— never mind.” He took a deep breath before asking, “Is something wrong, babe?” He hated asking that question. It developed an opportunity for the answer to be yes. That’s why he rarely asked it, he figured that maybe if he didn’t ask, there wouldn’t be a chance for anything to be wrong. But this time was different, he wanted to help. “Don’t call me that.” Those four words. There was something about those four words that made him feel exhausted, even with the nine hours of sleep he’d gotten the night before. He didn’t know what to say, his mind was too busy thinking of what he could’ve done wrong, to think of words to say. Lacey avoided the question for what seemed like ages. He had already been beginning to miss the sound of her voice when she sighed again and said, “Listen, we need to talk. Well, I do. I just want you to listen.” There wasn’t much for him to say, and this time he chose to keep his jumbled thoughts to himself. There was no way for him to brace himself for what Lacey was about to say. He didn’t know what to do; he didn’t know what to say. He was worried, but he forced himself to stop thinking. He pushed all of his thoughts out of his head to make room for Lacey’s words. By this time, he was beginning to shake and Lacey’s eyes were beginning to water. They were sitting in front of each other at her kitchen table. Lacey knew that there is a difference between not being ready and being afraid. She knew that she was ready, but she was weary of hurting him, and she knew that as soon as she said what she needed to, he would be broken. Finally, a tear fell down her cheek and she whispered, “I don’t love you anymore.” The words entered his ears like knives. He felt broken. The words absorbed into his mind, he swore they were poison. His stomach dropped, and he began to feel empty. Now, Lacey felt exhausted as well. She was proud of herself, and she knew she couldn’t take it back, but she caused a war inside his mind. To his surprise, she continued, “But, I want you to know that I did.” He was drained. He was empty, but he pushed the words out of his throat: “But, Lacey. I love you.” The worst part to him was that she seemed okay. This was the only time that he found himself wanting her to be upset, and she didn’t seem like she was. If anything, she seemed

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2014-2015

relieved, and it made him wonder how long she’d kept those four words in her mind. “I know you do,” she reassured him, even though it didn’t make much of a difference. “I’ve never doubted that, and I don’t want you to blame yourself for this.” For him, it was too late. He could barely hear her voice over his thoughts and disbelief. He wanted to believe that he had power over her love, because that meant he could change in order to make her love him again. He asked himself why he couldn’t be what she wanted him to. He felt numb. He tried telling himself that there was nothing he could do, but he didn’t want to give up so easily. After what seemed like hours, he looked up from his shaking hands and gathered the courage to ask, “Why?” The word escaped his mouth. Part of him was ready to rip his skin open to receive the answer and the rest of him immediately regretted asking. He felt as if he was staring at a stranger, he didn’t recognize her eyes. Lacey couldn’t look at him anymore. She never told him, either. She never answered as to why. She felt guilty, but she knew that if she had told him, she’d feel even more regretful. Her heart was already beginning to hurt. The weight that was lifted off of her shoulders was transferred onto his. They sat in silence until Lacey started crying. He didn’t look up, he couldn’t. A lot of him was lost in her and he felt as if her tears were the parts of him escaping her being. Every “I love you,” every secret, every piece of him was spilling out of her onto her kitchen table, and he didn’t want it back. He gave it to her, and he wanted her to keep it. She wanted to move on, but the weight of him was holding her back. He decided what he wanted the last thing he said to her to be. He looked up and saw a girl who used to have him convinced that she loved him, and said, “Thank you, Lacey. I’m not sure how long you’ve had me fooled, but for the time you did, I was happy. And I don’t know if you knew that for sure, but I was.” He gave Lacey time to respond, but she didn’t. She looked at him, crossed her arms on the kitchen table and put her head down. He asked himself what he wanted, and he came to the conclusion that he wanted her to be happy. He was broken, and she felt brand new, but there was nothing left to say. There were no words that could fill the fresh cracks of his broken heart. With that, he left her house with a bouquet of white roses, a bruised heart, and wondering how emptiness could feel so heavy.

Weihnachten Truce By Daniel Elizondo The snow hardens under crystallized skin, torn limbs, and cold-blooded welts that found their bed in the in-between. Untouched and poisoned, protected by killers in the plane that blankets no one’s home. The flurries fall, the rats skitter their paws on the flakes; filed incisors crunch frozen flesh, chew and squeak over the abundance, slurp and swallow the evolved material. Rips in friend and foe form, revealing the swarm of rodents stringing the insides of the

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

iced-rubber bodies in their bony mouths. Scurrying nails trail through the snow, printing themselves over steps that stay and have stopped. The flurries fall quietly, placing themselves on those left exposed. Chattering, but no speaking. Vibration, but no movement. Death, and all boredom. The stitched pieces of the Western Front spread through Europe on the dawn of Christmas Day. Sown through the strings of barbed wire, the negative space of No Man’s Land separates sides. The victory of claiming that-which-can’t-be tugs that way or the other every day, but always the finite in-between repels both poles; they are attracted to the same goal of standing where others can’t. The trails of blood-dried flakes lead back to the lines of packed life in rows behind the wire, buried. A spark brings light onto a broken and curled hand. It pinches the base of the flame and brings the only heat to the end of a stick of crinkled tobacco. The light of the embers grows louder and cracks of fire become brighter as I pull in the momentary comfort. I blow the smoke out with a long exhale. “Ooohhh… Thank God.” I look into the end of the cigarette; I can feel it on my face against the cold. God, I hate this county. Maybe in the summer it could be nice. Mostly the Huns need to go, but no matter. I’m not planning on coming back with Mary-Lovely on a holiday. Thank God it’s Christmas. I can hear boots slushing through the mud. “Merry Christmas, Private,” I say to the passing Tommy. “Merry Christmas, Officer Hall.” “Good weather for it.” We both look up into the star-spotted sky, overlapped by gray, early morning clouds. No snowfall. “At least it’s not raining hate.” “Right-o. Happy birthday, dear Jesus, I say. Care for a gasper?” “Oh, of course, Officer. Thank you very much.” Tommy dips his head in appreciation as his eyes track the movement of the new cigarette I’ve pulled out. His mouth quivers as I touch the ends of both cigarettes, transferring that small heat. I hold out my hand to him. “Thank you very much, Officer Hall,” he says as he pinches the cigarette and brings it to his mouth, pulling in the smoke. He blows out frozen breath and burned air. “Thank you again, Sir.” “Welcome. Where’re you off to?” “To the base. Usual rounds.” “Very good. When you are finished, report back to the main camp.” “Yes, Officer Hall.” I watch Tommy walk away with a stream of vapor, slushing again through mud. The ground sticks to his boots, trying to suck the bottom of his soles deeper underneath. I look around the narrow alley of the trench; men sleep in blankets, furnished by ice and mud with pillows of steel battle bowlers. Some grip bottles with their lips, unconscious from the poison liquid, and thankfully not the air—yet the end result doesn’t look much different. I step through the soldier-lined hallway. The fire pops through the night. Soldiers circle the heat. “I heard James got a blighty one. He’s goin’ back.” “Good luck to him.”

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

“He’ll need it. Basket case, you see. Had to collect his pieces me-self. He lost his legs and an arm from a football landing right next to him. Saw it all, blew them all a clean couple meters. Under fire, but I still got all of poor James in an ol’ barrow. Organized him nice and neat.” The men laugh. “Surprised he lived, honestly.” The men nod their heads as they look back down into their half-empty bottles, cigarette boxes, and into the falling fire. I take my canteen of rum from my cache and raise it. “To James, then.” The men look at me. “To James,” they say. Some take a swig, some pull from their cigarettes. Those that exhale push the fire further into the wood. I empty the rest of my canteen into it and we all feel the fire jump. “What a terrible invention.” *** “Stille Nacht,” “Heil'ge Nacht.” “Alles schläft; einsam wacht.” “What’s that?” “Nur das traute hoch heilige Paar.” “Are the Huns singin’?” “Holder Knab' im lockigen Haar,” “Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh.” “Join in, boys.” “Sleep in heavenly peace,” I sing with released ice. “Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh.” “Silent Night,” “Stille Nacht,” “Holy Night.” “Heil'ge Nacht.” “Son of God, love’s pure light.” “Gottes Sohn, o wie lacht,” “Radiant beams from thy holy face,” “Lieb' aus deinem göttlichen Mund,” “With the dawn of redeeming grace.” “Da uns schlägt die rettende Stund.” “Jesus, Lord, at thy birth.” “Jesus in deiner Geburt.” “Jesus, Lord, at thy birth.” “Jesus in deiner Geburt.” The sun breaks its rays over the white ground, heating and replacing warmth; shining on symmetrical smoke from dying fires that continue to rise. Bodies stench the air and rummaging animals begin to poke their heads over the top of the Eastern side. A finger touches the still surface from below, with a rising helmet until a line of blue eyes reflects the snow. Over there, someone asks, “Where are you going, Rutherford?” I say nothing for a moment, then turn. “I think I will be fine. It is Christmas.” I raise my face above the bunker, slowly elevating my hand into the air. I stand still like a startled deer, but I’m calm and frozen there. Others freeze alongside me. I take my helmet off and wave it. I can see specks of heads posted over the edge with gazes focused on us. I take a step and make a crunch. I step again. Both my feet are on the ground again, and I am surrounded by empty space. I raise both of my hands, helmet in one and nakedness in the other. I take another step. “Officer Hall, what do we do?” I pause and look around at mud-caked faces. I stare at the Hun advancing slowly on the

Anderson High School

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2014-2015

other side. I lift myself over the edge again. I face the man far away. I turn my back and face my men. “Over the top again, then.” I turn back and see that horizon of spikes, I turn again and see a Tommy on the land. I wave to him. He waves back. I hear boots displacing the snow behind me as I’m being joined. New tracks follow my feet. All shivering, we stand parallel to the trenches and spread along the unreal space. “Hallo.” “Ahh… Gutantag.” “It is a good try.” “What is your name?” “Ernst Rutherford. Und yours?” “Jeremy Hall. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” We shake hands. “It is a nice day.” They both look up into the transparent sky, with faint spots of light still shining through the smoked blue. The lines meet each other. Hands raise and arms extended, bare in the freezing cold. “Hello.” “Gutentag.” “Hallo, Tommy Boy.” “How’re you, Hun?” “Are you the one that got, James?” “It is a nice day.” “Yes it is.” A projectile arcs over the pack; it falls slowly to the ground as it bounces patiently to the feet of a German. “Es ist ein footbal!” “Fancy a match?” “I like football. I am good.” “Let’s see how fast the Germans can run.” “Lassen Sie treten diese tommy Esel!” Four corners spot the in-between, with the heat of moving bodies crushing the snow, revealing the undergrowth. I sit on the side with Ernst. We watch the people shift back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. “What do you think of this game, Ernst?” “I like it. Do you like it?” “Sometimes. Seems sort of silly at points, though.” “Oh… why?” “It can be boring. Look, not a single goal has been scored and it’s been an hour.” “But someone is going to win. At the end, yes?” “Yes. But it takes forever.” “Yes. A very long time.”

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

I twist my foot in the snow, lean down, and pick the grass. I hold it between my thumbs and make it whistle. “How did you do that?” I pick a blade for him and put it in his hand. “You put it against your lips and blow; got to try a couple times to get it right.” I press the new grass against my lips and blow. The blade flies out of my hands and onto the ground. He picks it up and gives it to me. “Danke.” I try again. Still nothing. I press it harder in my hands and against my lips. I try again. A whistle comes out. The world shakes. All the men turn to the sound of the world stopping and stand still. Another shake and another scream of a mortar far away rebounds through the bodies. “God!” “Gott!” Scurrying boots print through the snow, collecting shared treasures, removing themselves, and replacing duty. “Goodbye.” “Auf Wiedersehen.” “Cherrio.” “Happy hunting.” “We will see you soon, Tommy Boys.” “Expect it, Kaisers.” I look at my momentary companion. Both blades fall. We collect our cigarettes and bottles and fill our hands again. “Goodbye.” “Auf Wiedersehen.” We shift our belongings and shake hands again. I follow my people back into the earth, with spiked helmets shining sharp reflections as beacons of where to go. We trudge through the slush and mud, the abandoned field, emptying it once again. Leaving it again to be with no man. At the edge of their trench, I turn around. I, too, lead my soldiers back to their home. I pull my coat more snuggly against the wind. We pass through the field and the battlefield and the desert and the playground. We search back to the fire. I do not turn around. Another vibration shakes the world.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

Blind Suspicion By Bridgette Abbott Gary It was strange at first. I didn’t know what was happening. I thought I was dead, I really did. I realized that I was in a coma in a hospital. While driving home from my anniversary dinner with my wife, Linda, I had been in a car accident. Then, one day I became aware of being able to hear things. Yes, hear. I realized that I could hear what people were saying, what they were doing… Every day the nurses would come in and take my vitals; it was very routine. The first time they came, I was still quite disorientated and confused with the whole idea of being able to hear people. “No you do it today--I just can’t,” one nurse said. I wondered what they were talking about. Checking my blood pressure? Taking my temperature? “Fine! I’ll do it,” the other nurse grunted. I was just expecting them to, at worst, stick me with another needle, but that wasn’t the case. I realized the nurses had begun to take my clothes off. What were they doing to me? It wasn’t like I could do anything, though. “I’ll get the sponges, then I’m leaving,” the first nurse said, uninterested. Did she say... sponges? After a couple of days of sponge baths, getting fed through a tube, and realizing that I was able to hear people, I was moved to a different room. My regular nurses pushed me down the hallway in my bed, but suddenly they stopped. “Oh my god,” one said. “What? I don’t see--OH MY GOD.” the other nurse said. What was it? Was there a fire? Well, if there was then I hoped that they wouldn’t just stand there, I wanted them to keep pushing me out! “He’s so attractive...we should talk to him.” Excuse me? What was she talking about? “But he’s such a hot shot doctor...we can’t just go up and talk to him.” “Come on!” I could hear the nurse running away in her tennis shoes. The other nurse was still with me, though. I begged for her not to leave--in my mind, of course. I could tell she was deciding between me and the hot doctor. She decided on the doctor. Don't they always? So there I was, left in the hallway, just minding my own coma-business, when suddenly I heard the strangest thing. A woman had stopped right around the corner behind me, not knowing I was there. She was giggling and talking on the phone. “I love you too…. No, I love you!” Oh, young love...I missed my wife. Hearing that woman made me think of her. I listened more closely to her. Wait a second...was that her?! “Oh, I’m just out at the grocery store.” Okay so I was either in a hospital or in a grocery store, but I had a feeling I wasn’t canned vegetables. Why would she say she was in a grocery store? Why was she lying to someone? But most importantly--did she just say she loved him? “Okay I’ll talk to you later, baby. Stay sexy…” She used to say that to me. This was definitely her. She quickly rounded the corner, passing me, and then everything was silent. I

Anderson High School

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just laid there thinking about what she had just said. Was this a thing before I was in the accident? Was a not a good enough man for her? Who was the other guy? I wondered if there were teardrops dripping down from my face. Not like I could ever tell. “Ugh,” I suddenly heard from my right ear. “We only got a glimpse of him.” The nurses were back. “But we got one from behind!” The other one added with hope. They continued pushing me into my new room. After many left turns and right turns, the bed I was in stopped and they moved me to a different one. It was much comfier than the last one. Did that mean that it was supposed to be permanent? I heard the nurses leave, still gossiping about the doctor. While I was wondering what the room that I was in could have looked like, I heard a noise from the corner of the room. What was it? Someone began stroking my hair. “I know you can’t hear me,” It was Linda. “but I want you to know that I really am sorry. I didn’t think that it would end up like this.” It was at the moment I wanted to say something the most. I wanted to ask her how many times she had lied to me. How many times she told me she was just at the grocery store. “I didn’t know what else to do. John told me he loved me and I had realized that I loved him, too. This seems like the right thing to do.” Did...did Linda try to kill me? It made complete sense. She was cheating on me and the best way to get rid of me was to just end my life. I thought back to the accident and remembered Linda turning the wheel as we were driving. I thought she was trying to avoid the crash. I tried to scream as loudly as I could, over and over, but nothing came out. Everything was silent. Linda must have felt so happy right then. So happy to have been released from the horrible thing that stopped her from living her life: me. Well, she did it. She did worse. Linda never came back to see me again. I didn’t know how many days, weeks, months, or years it had been, but one day, I woke up. The room was exactly how I had imagined it: sand-colored walls, a white chair next to a table in the corner, and a big window with a rose bush outside of it. I struggled to remove the many tubes that were connected to my body and then ripped off my bed sheets and gradually planted my feet on the floor. The floor was so cold...everything felt so wrong. I managed to stand up and held onto the bed for balance. “Mr. Harter--you’re awake!” A nurse rushed into my room, taking my hand. I quickly pulled my hand away from her grip. “What’s the date?” She said nothing, looking afraid. “What’s the damn date?!” I demanded. “M-March the second! Twenty-sixteen!” the nurse stammered. “You need to sit down, sir! It’s not safe to be walking about this soon!” It had only been a couple of months since our anniversary dinner. Linda could have already been anywhere by then, living with John. I reached out for the phone next to the bed, my fingers trembling like mad. I picked up the phone and dialed my home phone number. Linda, pickup. Ring. Ring. Come on. Ring. Ring. Why won’t she pick up? Ring. Ring. What’s happening...I...I can’t see. Ring. Ring. I...can’t breathe...w-what isI dropped the phone and fell onto my knees. Soon I was completely sprawled out on the ground. My heart was pumping so rapidly I felt like it was going to pump right out of my chest. My vision was gone again. I tried to call for help but only slurred. Incomprehensible words were coming out of my mouth along with stray saliva. That was it, and I knew it. As I was

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

savoring my very last moments, I heard someone pick up. The phone was right next to my ear. “Hello? Hello? This is John. I can’t hear you...can you, can you hear me?” Linda I remember, on our anniversary night, riding in the car with Gary. He seemed unhappy. I knew I was unhappy. Our marriage was a sham, and we both knew it. Anniversaries were just like big kicks in the face. This is what you get for settling, Linda. You knew who you wanted to marry since high school, but you just had to settle. While we were driving, everything was silent. Even the radio wasn’t on. Sometimes I think that he just liked to listen, but not to speak. As the silence was dragging on, suddenly Gary started sliding off of the road. I grabbed on to the seat. “Gary! Be more careful!” I shouted at him. Silence. After a couple of minutes, I thought that we were good, but then he did it again. “Gary!” I shouted, and then reached over and turned the wheel to prevent us from crashing into another car, but it was too late. It was a heart attack. His doctor said that he was prone to getting them, so I had been weary ever since. We were both taken to the hospital. I had a sprained wrist and some cuts and bruises, but nothing more than that. However, Gary wasn’t so lucky. He landed in a coma. I know I may come off a tad bit harsh, but I loved Gary. Gary was...he was really nice to me. We were in love in the beginning, but then something just began to fade away. The passion disappeared, which led me back to John, my high school sweetheart. He promised to marry me one day. I mean, we were just kids back then so I thought that our relationship couldn’t have been true, but I now realize that the relationship that I had in high school was the most real and satisfying one I’ve ever had in my whole life. I was unhappy with Gary because I knew I still loved John. I started seeing John again after I ran into him at a coffee shop. What a coincidence, right? I remember he would always follow me around after school. Every time I turned around, he would be there. Such a sweet guy. A couple of days after the accident, they let me see Gary in the hospital. John had just called me, asking where I was. I told him I was at the grocery store because he didn’t know that I was actually married. I didn’t want him to know yet, or maybe ever. I talked to Gary while he was lying in bed. He was so quiet...just as always, but it was nice. I told him that it was best for me to just never come back, that it was the right thing to do. I had betrayed him and he deserved better than that. After my visit with Gary, I walked outside of the hospital and saw John. I had no clue how he found me, but all he said was, “Everything will be fine. It’s okay. I understand.” I love John so much. He seemed to just always know how to deal with things. It’s been a few weeks since then, but today I went out shopping with a couple of friends just like I used to always do on Fridays, and it helped get my mind off of things. When I came back, John was on the phone asking if the other person could hear him—must have been a bad connection. But he and I seem to have a perfect connection. I ran into his arms, knowing that I would always be safe with him there. Whenever I’m with John, I know that I don’t have to worry. Ever. John Linda is such a beauty. Her skin, her eyes, her smell. I thought I had lost her forever. In high school, we dated for all four years. We were even nominated for Prom King and Prom Queen. Linda was my life, Linda is my life. After high school, she broke up with me because we were both going to different colleges. It was hard, but I learned how to deal with it. I went Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

to Duke University’s medical school. Yeah, I’m pretty smart. Over the years, I learned how to get what I want, if you know what I mean. I got my PHD in Pharmacy, so I know about a lot of drugs and I make a fair amount of money. I dated many different women after Linda, during and after college, but I was never able to forget her. One day I looked up her address in the White Pages. My curiosity took control, some would say, and I drove to her house. It was just like I had imagined. I peered through her window and saw her...with another man. I then went onto Facebook and searched for Linda’s profile and who her spouse was. “Gary Harter” was his name. So that was my competition. I followed him around for a while until I finally got used to his routine. I “accidentally” bumped into him while he was at the gym he always went to. I started a conversation with him, asking why he went to the gym. He said he had a heart condition and working out seemed to help cope with it. I started going to the gym regularly so I could really get to know Gary. I never told him my name, of course. It was a shame because I had really started to like that guy. We trained together almost every day. One day, while we were working out together, Gary went to go use the bathroom. I had my chance. Knowing that Gary had a heart condition made it really easy. There are a lot of different drugs that can do the trick when someone has a heart condition like he does. I didn’t want to waste time or risk finding drugs from my work, so I just dug into my own supply and slipped something into his water bottle. Man, once he drank that water, he was so revved up that he just wouldn't stop talking about his anniversary dinner with Linda planned for later that night. I almost killed him right then and there. Later that night, I got a call from Linda. “I’m in the hospital. I-I was in an accident, but I’m okay.” She sounded so scared. “Can you come pick me up, please?” Was that even a question? Of course I would pick her up. I assumed that Gary was dead, but I assumed wrong. Linda wasn’t at home a couple of days after the accident, so I called her asking where she was. She told me she was at the grocery store, but I could tell she was lying to me. I searched all over town for Linda until I finally found her at the hospital. I decided to wait outside and hope that she didn’t ask any questions. So Gary wasn’t dead. Linda never went back to see Gary again, but I just wanted to make sure that he wouldn’t be a problem anymore. After a couple of weeks of finding the right time to pull off my act, I finally went to do it. I walked into the hospital with my scrubs on to disguise myself. I had one shot of adrenaline in my pocket. All I needed to do was to jab it right into his heart and he would be dead. Once I got to his room, I saw him lying in his bed. There were multiple machines that were attached to his body. I unbuttoned the top of Gary’s hospital gown to reveal his motionless, vulnerable chest--then I did it. I stabbed him right in his chest with the adrenaline shot, pushed the liquid into his body, and then ran. I sprinted until I got to my car and then I drove to Linda’s house as fast as I could. Right as I opened the door, the home phone was ringing. I picked it up, but no one was there. It shook me a little, but Linda came home right that moment, right on schedule. Linda put down her purse and took off her jacket. She slowly drifted towards me and

Anderson High School

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2014-2015

then wrapped her arms around my neck and smiled. “So what’s for dinner, baby?” I put down the phone and embraced her. I never knew who it was for sure that called that night.

Eye of the Beholder By Nayla Zylberberg They’re sitting on the tracks, silent but for the slow breeze pushing itself through the thick trees and into the little clearing. These tracks were designed for the sole purpose of material movement and the plights of wandering, lonely souls. He wears a blood red hoodie, arms wrapping loosely around his bunched up knees covered by dark jeans. He’s too tall for these tracks. She wears a simple, Sunday church dress adorned with pale, off-white flowers. She sits with her knees close together, balancing herself on the thin rail, and rocks herself slowly back and forth, closing her eyes and breathing the forest deep into her lungs as the moon filters through the fog. “When do you think the train is coming?” he asks, voice gliding through the still space between their bodies and seeping into the aging wood. “Dunno,” she responds. “Hopefully soon, though.” She picks up a handful of loose gravel, letting the jagged rocks slip though her fingers in slow motion. They ricochet off the dirt beneath them, settling into the silence. He watches her, entranced. The fog around them shifts, obscuring his view of the forest surrounding the cleared-off path to nowhere. All he can see are the desolate tracks, a thin layer of undisturbed dust gently lying on the surface of the cool metal. “I don’t understand,” he says suddenly, quietly, not wanting to disturb this strange peace around them. “Why are we here?” “Dunno,” she repeats, and continues to play with the rocks beneath her feet. After a few uneven breaths, she looks at him. She has a smile on her face: a dreamy, barely lucid thing that ghosts onto her features before disappearing back into her pale skin. “To see what happens, I guess.” “What happens when?” He asks her, voice equal parts awe and trepidation. She looks deep into his eyes then, causing the back of his neck to prickle. He exhales slowly and draws in another deep breath, trying to rid his body of the weird feeling. He’s suddenly transported back to all of those weeks ago, late at night when he was wandering in the forest. He was slightly drunk and had been walking to clear his head. A few minutes into his walk he’d encountered the girl, his girl, by herself and carrying a small round pebble. He doesn’t remember what color it was, maybe a light brown. It didn’t matter much at that moment, however, because she approached him, gliding to him and staring him down with those big, beautiful eyes. After that he couldn’t get her out of his head and started meeting her every day, always at night, always alone together, always searching; for what, he didn’t know. She was unapproachably beautiful, floating along life without a care in the world, eyes somber and joyous at the same time, lips always knowing what to say next. Then it’s over, and his memory fades into the present. She’s looking down to rub circles into the upturned earth using her dirty, supposed-to-be-white-but-aren’t-quite-white-anymore sneakers. Everything about her seems off-white, somehow. “When things stop,” she says, causing him to look back up at her. “When things stop, you

Anderson High School

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2014-2015

know? When they stop because there’s nothing else you can do. You can’t move, you can’t think, so you don’t. You’re stuck in the best possible way; you’re free from decision. Because everything screeches to a halt, and suddenly things make sense.” “I don’t understand.” She looks back up, thinking for a moment before speaking again. “They say,” she says slowly, “they say your life flashes before your eyes.” “When do they say that?” he whispers, casual posture in sharp contrast with the apprehension creeping through his skin and into his veins. “When you die.” “Don’t say that!” he shouts. The change in volume doesn’t seem to have an effect on her, with her wide eyes darting back and forth between his eyes and something behind him. He looks back, but sees nothing. When he turns back around, he sees her holding another rock, more of a pebble. This pebble is slightly gray like all the others, but also has a hint of blue in it. “I saw this. Reminds me of your eyes,” she says, giving no acknowledgement to his earlier outburst. Her eyes seem to glow brighter than before. “Just as pretty. I’ve never taken one of these before.” They say nothing for several minutes as she observes the rock, weaving it between her fingers in graceful arcs. “I still think,” she starts up again as if the conversation hadn’t lulled, “that it takes time to find the right kind of rock; the right shape and texture, you know? But when you do find it, it’s much more satisfying. No one wants to be stuck with a less than perfect memory. And I think this one’s just perfect, yeah?” “Sure,” he responds, trying to understand what she’s talking about. She smiles another ghostly smile and looks up, behind him. This time he doesn’t bother looking back. “So…you wanna figure out stuff about, like, death and stuff?” he asks. “I guess. I feel like it would be a good experience.” “Be your last experience,” he mutters, and lifts himself off of the rails, dusting himself off as he stretches his legs. “C’mon, you wanna go do something else, like get ice cream or something?” “Nah, can we just stay here?” she picks up the rock again and holds it loosely in her palm. “Sure.” “Can we do it together?” “Do what together?” “This. Stopping. With me. Please?” she pleads. He tries to form his words carefully as ice starts to flow freely through his veins, but the only thing that comes out is “um.” “Please, baby,” she continues, standing up and getting close. They’re both breathing the same air now, and he can see the specks of green in her grey eyes. “Do this for me. I know you think I’m alright, but I’m not. Please, I don’t want to do this alone.”

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2014-2015

“Do what alone?” he responds, automatically putting his arms around her middle. He holds her tight against him, her presence both grounding and dazing him. She puts her hand on his chest, right over his fast beating heart. “Right here,” she whispers into his neck. “This. I just want it to stop.” “We shouldn’t,” he says back, and grips her even tighter. “I’ll do this with or without you,” she fires back, those steel words cutting into him. “I will. I just thought it would be… I don’t know, romantic, or something.” “It doesn’t change the fact that it’s wrong.” “Don’t give me your ‘it gets better’ bullshit, okay? All I know is that I feel like shit now, and I just wanted this to be us, just us together, and we could end this together and be with each other always. But you can just leave, I don’t care. You won’t change my mind. It’s almost over. I’ve almost stopped completely.” “Baby, okay, look,” he starts, “I just don’t think this is what we should do to make you feel better.” He stops for a second, holding his breath. “Am… am I the… reason? For this? What you want to do?” He can’t breathe, he’s freaking out because what they have is wonderful, like love at first sight and it’s only getting stronger, so why would she try to crush that now? “No, of course not! That’s why I want to do this with you, because you’re the only one I can trust to go through this with me. Will you?” Just as he’s about to say no again, he looks down at her face. She’s staring back at him; foggy speckled eyes glistening with unshed tears. They are mesmerizing, ethereal beauties, reaching out to him from the darkness of her thoughts. At that moment, the “no” gets stuck in the back of his throat and he can’t quite make it come out. Instead, all he hears from his mouth is a weak “yes” and all but feels the waves of satisfaction emanate from the girl in h is arms. He can’t take it back—a voice in the back of his mind readily insists that he doesn’t really want to—and he’s suddenly irrevocably, mind-numbingly terrified. “Thanks, baby,” she responds and starts to untangle herself from his arms. She then turns and grabs his hand firmly with cold fingers, and he’s being pulled into the middle of the train tracks. He is powerless to stop her, his mind seemingly on autopilot as he stands there, blood rushing through his body but finding no outlet for the adrenaline. “Now you just stand there, okay? I’ll be here on the side.” What? Wait what are you doing, what is this? His mind is thinking, but his lips aren’t speaking. His legs are pulsing, but his feet aren’t moving. “Don’t worry, baby. It’s really not that bad,” she tries to reassure him, letting go of his hand and stepping safely on the other side of the tracks. He can’t follow her. He can’t do anything. “It’ll all be over soon. Trust me. Don’t you trust me?” He wants to say “no,” but his lips form around a faint yes, I trust you. He can’t even hear himself speak. “Good,” she replies. “Now we’ve got a couple of minutes. I just wanted to tell you that I really enjoyed my time with you. You make me happy. Happier than I was before, anyways.” Then why are you doing this? Why can’t I move, and why aren’t you joining me? He wants to ask. There are so many questions swirling through his head he can hardly think. “So thank you,” she says. She looks so sincere, pale eyes open and trustworthy. No please, I’ll do anything! Just get me out of here, I’ll do anything, he tries to beg with his eyes. Why are you doing this? Please, answer my questions. Please. “Well, since you asked so nicely,” she answers out loud, startling him. He wasn’t aware that she could hear him. Maybe he’s speaking out loud after all?

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

“You’re not, but I’m going to answer your questions anyway because you’re a genuinely nice guy.” Her continued sincerity sickens him a little, but he only manages minutely to tighten the muscles in his arms. “This had to end eventually. We couldn’t be… this, whatever we were, forever. You know that, right?” His limbs are starting to shake. He feels the air shift, and with the movement he sees the metal railings on the track begin to vibrate. “I appreciate you doing this for me, I really do. When I found you, I just couldn’t let you go.” She walks up beside him and rolls the pebble in her palm, the blue one she’d found. Had it really been less than fifteen minutes since then? “And now I’ve got another rock to join my collection. This one isn’t my favorite, but it’s pretty close.” So you’ve done this before? e asks in his mind, knowing she’ll answer. “Oh yeah, many times.” she smiles as she stares at the blue pebble and holds it against his face. “See what I told you? Perfect. And totally worth it.” The tracks are vibrating steadily now. There’s a steady stream of please please please please running through his mind, but she does nothing, just watches on. “You’ll thank me for this, you’ll see,” she says, but he can barely hear her over the chugchugging of the train quickly making its way towards him. She steps away, eyes glued to his face. The train is close. It’s so close and he can’t think, he’s so nervous and his still palms are sweating and he can barely breathe, feels his chest constricting from the lack of oxygen going down his throat due to panic, sees the train coming closer and closer and closer and he can see the details of the front it’s so close and the light is blinding and he can faintly hear a sigh accompanied by a shrill horn and he could stick his tongue out and touch the hot metal— And then everything stops. That one moment, suspended in the swishing air of the clearing. The coming of the train had spun the fog, bringing to his vision the thick masses of trees surrounding the tracks, the darkness of the sky. I guess she was right about this, he thinks, everything does stop. And it doesn’t feel half bad. He sees the sun rise steadily in the east, knowing it’s a trick of the moment and that the sunrise is still hours away but feels the warmth of the new sun just the same. He feels his body take a few deep breaths, hears her firm I told you so being whispered into his ear and the wind shifting and changing, swirling all around him and he opens the eyes he had closed, and sees— Fog. Metal. His own reflection, face twisted in horror, then nothing. There’s nothing else. She stays in the clearing long after the train has left. She looks at the pebble again, entranced by its color, how deep it is, how emotional. “Never mind, this one is definitely my favorite,” she states to the open air. She then reaches into the folds of her dress and pulls out four more pebbles: one dark brown, two similar forest greens and a light, greenish hazel one. Putting the blue one in her palm with the others, she organizes them from light to dark, then according to intensity. There’s a rustle in the trees and she looks up, ready to pretend to be startled and lost. Instead of an adult, however, she sees a boy wearing a bland sweater and holding a phone close to his face, texting. He doesn’t notice her until he reaches the edge of the metal railing. “Oh, h-hello,” he says, caught off guard by her presence. He quickly silences his phone and puts it in his pocket. “Hi,” she responds, catching his gaze as it wanders nervously down her body, then quickly back up again, capturing her eyes. They’re a radiant, almost glittering blue. Mesmerizing.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

“Um, I’m sorry. I didn’t — I never meant to—I can see you’re busy, or um, not, um…” The boy finishes his rambling and looks back down again, looking as if he’s trying to melt into the scenery behind him. “It’s alright,” she reassures him, stepping over the cooling tracks and settling comfortably beside him. “I feel like some company on such a dreary morning is welcome. I was wondering whether or not I’d be able to enjoy it, but maybe seeing it through another pair of eyes might help.”

Be Better By Camryn Shepard Walking into our apartment, I see clothes strewn across the rug-covered floor. The items that had once been placed on the desk now inhabit the area below. Has someone robbed the place? Nothing seems to be missing, so what kind of burglar would do this? It couldn’t possibly have been Jordan. Still, she had been getting worse ever since she lost her job. If this was her, at least she wasn’t taking it out on herself. “Jordan?” I shout through the hallway. “Are you here?” Seconds tick by, and no voice replies. I stroll into the hallway, pass the bathroom, and cautiously push the door to our bedroom open. No one. I retrace my steps and peer into the bathroom. No one. I search throughout the house. No one. She isn’t here. Maybe she went to a job interview like I’ve been telling her to do for weeks on end. Hope is the only thing that is carrying me now. Hope for her to get better and hope that my life will get better. I need to get better, for her. A few hours pass by, and still no one. I get up and journey into the kitchen so that when she comes home she would at least have something to eat: macaroni and cheese. I start eating without her there, keeping my gaze on the front door. I stay awake until my eyes tell me it’s time to stop. Falling asleep without her next to me feels strange. Maybe I should’ve searched for her or at least tried to call. Oh well, too late now… As I open my eyes from a long rest, she is there. Standing over me is a ragged-looking Jordan; she almost looks crazed. I jump out of our bed and spring away from her, searching for a safe place. “Were you even worried? I didn’t come home last night, Aidan. Did you even think about me? And where I was? I bet you liked me gone. You’re an untrustworthy waste of space; why am I with you?” Jordan spits out her venom-filled words. I’m as far away as I can get from her, but her words still hit me and the acid soaks into my skin. This isn’t the first time she’s gotten angry with me like this. She’s always angry at me. She wouldn’t be if it weren’t for my countless mistakes. I need to be better for her. “I’m sorry. I just figured you could take care of yourself. Last time you got angry at me, it was because I was smothering you. I’m trying to fix things.” Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

“When’re you going to wake up? No matter what you do there’s always going to be a problem. You are the problem. Next time I don’t come home, you should care. I could have been dead. How would you have known?” “I was wrong. I’m trying. I’m trying.” “YOU HAVE TO DO MORE THAN TRY! YOU HAVE TO DO THESE THINGS! WE’VE BEEN TOGETHER FOR A YEAR, AIDAN! YOU HAVEN’T FIXED ANYTHING!” “I know—” “—YOU KNOW BUT YOU STILL DON’T DO ANYTHING! I SHOULD JUST LEAVE YOU! YOU MEAN NOTHING TO ME ANYMORE!” “No, please don’t leave me. I wouldn’t be able to handle it. I love you, Jordan.” I reach towards her, in hope of calming her down. She lunges forward and crashes her clenched fist into my jaw. I stumble back onto the bed. Her lips purse upwards as she looks down on the mess she’s created. “I’m going to run some errands; you better be gone for the night once I come back,” Jordan snaps. “Oh, and I won’t call to check up on you,” she adds. She leaves the room with a cold, hellish feeling hanging in the air. I feel numb. She’s left me. I wasn’t better. Why wasn’t I better for her? I make the trip over to Matt’s apartment. Matt’s been my greatest friend since we were sophomores in college. He’s had to house me before; Jordan has a way of repeating her actions. Matt says she’s crazy, but I think she’s just uniquely her. When I get to his apartment door, I use the key he made for me and walk straight in. It never crosses my mind to call beforehand, but now it definitely looks like I should have. It seems he is having a semi-formal dinner party at his house, which is completely out of character. Everyone who is sitting at the table looks up when they hear the door open. I can see them analyzing my appearance and it makes me incredibly self-conscious. “Hey, Aidan. What are you doing here?” he says through a forced smile. Matt walks over to me and awaits my response. “Uh, sorry to barge in. Jordan sort of kicked me out again, and—” “—and you need a place to stay for the night?” “Yeah, would that be okay? I don’t want to intrude on your dinner.” “It’s fine. Just go to the guest room. When my guests are gone, you can tell me what happened.” “Ok, no problem. Thank you so much. I owe you, man.” *** It’s nine by the time everybody leaves and I’m starving. I emerge from my hiding place, go out into the kitchen, and eat the leftovers. “So, you going to tell me what happened this time?” Matt asks. “Uh, yeah. So, she didn’t come home last night and she got angry I didn’t call her. Then she yelled at me, and...” “...And what?” “Well, you know how Jordan is. She lost her temper and she just sort of hit me,” I say. “What? Did I just hear you right?” There are now flames in Matt’s eyes. “Yeah, you did. Don’t worry, though, she didn’t hit me too hard. It’s nothing I can’t handle.” Anderson High School

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2014-2015

“Aidan, wake up. She’s bad news. She always has been. How many times in the past year have you had to stay here because she kicked you out? How can you keep going back to her? She’s poisoning you slowly, and one day that same poison will kill you.” “I deserved all of those things. Jordan was right to kick me out! I am nothing compared to her. I make so many mistakes when it comes to her. I know Jordan, and she would never do anything to hurt me.” “What are you saying?! Why do you think you’re here right now? She hit you, Aidan. She’s been hurting you for more than a year. You’re blind to everything she’s done to you.” “I’m not; you just can’t understand. She loves me and I love her, it’s as simple as that.” “Aidan, listen to yourself. She has crawled her way inside your head and set up camp to abuse and manipulate you.” “You don’t know her. Stop acting like you do.” “I know how she treats you, and that’s enough for me. I’m just looking out for you. You know I wouldn’t do anything to upset you.” “You’re just focusing on all the bad! What about when she stayed home from work because I was sick and she wanted to take care of me? What about that time she lent you money to get you out of your funk?” I ask. “I’m not going to argue that she hasn’t done decent things, but in this situation she’s done more harm than good.” “I can’t believe this. I need to go.” “What? Where are you going to stay?” he asks. “I don’t know, a hotel maybe? I’ll figure it out when I get out.” “I can’t do anything to stop you, but you can always come back and stay as long as you want.” “I just…Okay, thanks. I’ll see you later.” As soon as I feel the cold air brush against my skin, I feel relief. Matt can’t understand and I don’t blame him for that. How can he know what Jordan’s like with me? Matt doesn’t understand why she yells at me. She does it because she cares, like he does. Jordan has kicked me out, sure, but she’s always let me come back. That shows she still loves me, right? I know she does, and I’ll prove it. I need to see if she’ll take me back no matter what. I set off for our apartment. Surely she’ll be home by now. I can’t wait to see her. She’s probably thought it over and is going to apologize. Everything will be okay when I walk in that door. She’ll love me again, and I’ll never make that same mistake. I will be better. When I walk in the door, the same scene plays out as before. I’m so quiet you could hear a pin hit the ground. Walking through the house, everything is how it was left. I walk to our room with my heels never touching the floor. Jordan is there, sleeping. She looks so blissful and relaxed. I have always thought she’s most beautiful when she’s asleep. I crawl onto my side of the bed and bring the sheets over both of us. This is how it’s supposed to be. Jordan stirs in the bed to face me. Her eyes flicker open and lock onto my face. What flashes on her face is the joy I’m hoping for. She puts on the smile that I see every time I close my eyes. That smile she gives me every day, even if it’s there just for a second. “You’re home.” “Yeah, I am. How’re you doing?” I say with slight caution.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

She rubs the fog out of her eyes and looks at me. Her eyes widen as if she’s just now realizing who I am. “Wait, why are you here?” “What do you mean? We live together, in this apartment.” “I told you to leave, get out.” “I thought you would have forgiven me by now. Aren’t you happy to see me?” “Happy to see you? Why would I be anything close to happy? I am repulsed that you ever thought you could come back here. I told you to leave, and I won’t say it again.” “Why are you doing this, Jordan?” “Why am I doing this? Why are you? Why can’t you just disappear? I’ve told you to leave but you always come crawling back to me. Then I send you off again. Can’t you take a hint?” “You always said for the night. I don’t understand. Do you not want me to come back?” “Of course I don’t. Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve been saying? Let me spell it out for you, just in case. I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOUR FACE EVER AGAIN; unless of course it’s to gather up your stuff to go.” “Okay, I’ll go. If that what you want, I’ll do it for you.” “Finally.” “Really? That’s what I get after fixing myself for you, for an entire year?” “That’s all that you deserve.” “I…I…don’t believe you. Matt doesn’t think so, and now I’m starting not to.” “Just leave already; you’re wasting your breath.” “Fine, I will, but you should know I’m doing this for me. Even though there were some points of this relationship that were enjoyable, you disintegrated all of them. All you’ve done for us is driving us apart. You tore me apart. Matt was right this entire time, I was just blinded by the love I thought I felt for you. I was wrong. You are wrong for me. I feel sorry for the next person who’s going to be in a relationship with you, because they’re going to be as miserable as I was.” “Excuse me?” “I know you heard me. Guess what, Jordan? You’re the one who needs to get better, not me. I’m going to leave now. I’ll come pick my stuff up tomorrow. Oh, and don’t ever try to contact me again, or I’ll call the police and tell them how you’ve abused me for the last year.” “The police will never believe a guy being abused by a woman. Good luck.” “Save it for your next boyfriend.” Walking out of the door lifts her poison from me. “Free” is the only word that I will use to describe the feeling I’m having right now. All of the days spent with that monster of a person are over. No more worrying about how I can fix myself. I realize now that she is the one who needed the fixing. Not me.

Anderson High School

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2014-2015

Operation Overlord - 6 Jun 1944, 2323 hrs. By Jonathan Mohammed My father was an officer in the Marines on the Western Front; I guess I follow after him pretty accurately. My father’s father was killed at Gettysburg at the ripe age of twenty-seven, not for what he believed in, but for what the south believed in. Dad used to fall flat on the ground every time a door slammed. He shook for minutes afterwards; could never keep his damn hand from shaking at the dinner table. I never understood it really. But after that mess back there, I feel like I’m in those trenches with him right now, listening to the Kaiser fire mortar rounds at our heads. I didn’t have a say in that thing we barely pulled off down there, that’s above my pay grade. The colonels all knew they would be cut down before they even touched ground. I can’t stop seeing it. I doubt those men, those kids all decomposing on that beach, knew they would be living sandbags for the officers in the back of those Higgins boats. One private of mine, fresh out of basic, was so damn excited for some action. As soon as he saw his buddies dropping in the water around them, he ducked right under. I told him to keep pushing on but he just couldn’t, and started crying. I had to move, but the poor bastard ain’t here, so I don’t know if he lived or not. I can only hope he regrouped with another company. After all that down there, we’re just supposed to carry on down the line, killing more people, witnessing one another get blown apart for the sake of a nation that ain’t ours. That’s just what we signed up for. But for some of you, those who got pulled out your beds and forced into these boots, I especially pity your circumstances. Just remember one important detail: Our names, names of the infantry and armor and whatever division you got patched from; these names won't go down in history. General Eisenhower's will. Patton's will. But ours won't. And I couldn’t give a damn less. To hell if we need our name in our grandkid's textbook, we’ll sure as hell remember each other! And I for goddamn sure will let my boy know about the brave men that covered my ass back in France, knocking on Hitler’s bunker door with thousands of other forgotten names. We must carry on, till the snow falls through the forests and the Russians push through the East. We must not allow the deaths of innocent and brave men to be in vain, while Hitler sleeps peacefully in his bunker, dreaming of imminent victory. We must carry on for our brothers in the Pacific, we must share their conquests. For our fathers, lost in time in this very country, we must share their conquests. And for all of our fallen companions who gave their lives for us, we must continue on to victory.

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2014-2015

This World Is an Overwhelming One By April Blackburn The bench was cypress. I don’t know what kind of finish it had on it, but man oh man! That wood sure had this sort of baby’s-butt finesse to it that was just too soft to ignore. I ran my hands all over that bad boy— so slow at first. The wind would pick up and leaves kept smacking me in the face, so I’d get annoyed and rub that bench even more aggressively than before. Oh boy… If benches were a thing I could hang out with all of the time… I would have, too, but I stopped, because out of nowhere, the world was quiet. I looked up. There was a long path of gray masonry that ran horizontal to me, as far as the eye could see on either side. I had forgotten which way I had come. There were few people around. A man stared up at the skies in awe, though the tree’s coverage was thick and hid most of the blue. A girl, and who I assumed to be her brother, ran around a tree, giggling the day away. An orange-haired woman walked her dog, oblivious to the space ship hovering above the park. I was taken aback. Above me, a space ship shook back and forth a bit, tingling in the air. The trees had thick leaves that rustled a bit more quickly with an unseen force emitted from the ship; you could sense it. It hadn’t really dawned on me how close-knit these damn trees were—how crowded the whole park was in general. Before it had meant nothing to me. It was an empty space with empty room for empty people who need to walk dogs and rub benches. But with a space ship hovering above it, the whole place was so much more than empty. It was too much, in fact. The trees populated the place in this overabundant manner that really made my skin crawl. The bench became this pillow under my touch that was so, so soft…The park became truly exhausting when a voice from the ship spoke. It grumbled, “Hi.”

The Last Bell By Elora Ronaldes When he got to the high school, he checked in at the front desk. Looking around, he started to notice students filling the hallways. He tried to pick her out of the crowd. Where is she, where is she? Trying to contain himself, he got his classroom number, the materials needed for the day, and walked down the familiar hallways. The memories flooded back: the fear in her eyes and the shaking of his hands. The first time will always be his favorite, his greatest adventure. As the students started filing in, the only thing he was focused on was finding her. That’s

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what he came here to do. To find her, to find out the missing pieces of her story, the pieces necessary to make the plan work. There. That smell. It flew into the room on the backs of butterfly wings, light. It curled around him, filling up every ounce of his body, until the only air he was breathing was hers. Of course, he already knew that scent, but this time it was almost too much. Spinning his head around, he locked eyes with her, breathing out a breath too heavy for his liking. She gave him her signature smile, making him shudder. It would be hard to contain himself. Just a few more hours. Then we can have her. “Okay class,” he said. “I’m Mr. Harceleur, and today I’ll be subbing for your teacher. Forgive me, I’m new to this stuff, but I will try my best to make you feel right at home.” He looked at her with a pointed grin, hoping she was truly listening to what he was really saying. “Let’s see what kind of torture she has in store for you children today.” He heard the class titter nervously, satisfied that at least some students got the joke. Can’t please everyone. As he looked down at the paper, he caught her eye, and couldn’t help but give her a little smile. She crinkled her eyebrows, looking confused, but he didn’t care. He was so close to her. This was always his favorite part, when he could feel how close he was, how close she was, how close they would be. All he had to do now was be patient. Over the course of a few days, he moved in closer and closer, until he was able to hold small conversations with her. He had to come up with excuses to talk to her, but when he did, he was able to hold out the conversations, making sure to relish in the moment. She used to be really uncomfortable, but he noticed she was starting to become more open to talking to him, sharing the small details. It took weeks, but he finally felt like the time was right. He walked into the school, anxious to see her. Being able to breathe her in and soak her in every day was starting to become habit. As he walked to the classroom, he could feel the effects of last night. Gathering up all the rope and tying it in the correct places, moving the bed away from the window, and making sure everything was secure was hard on his knees, back, and hands. He wasn’t complaining, though; rather, he was explaining how much hard work goes into this type of adventure. The waiting, the planning, the watching, the listening all led up to this point. Everything was ready. Everything was good to go. All he had to do was watch, see what classes she went to, and wait. Wait for the perfect time. The hardest thing to do. He followed her with his eyes, followed the sway of the skirt, remembering how she looked in one for later purposes. He followed her up the stairs, searching for a place to blend into. Just like high school all over again. If you don’t stop, you’ll lose sight of her. You can think about your pathetic past life l at er. All day long he followed her, keeping tabs on where she was at each moment. Nothing was going to go wrong if he did. This one meant the most to him; she was his best subject so far. He couldn’t lose her. When the last bell rang, he followed the crowd, never taking his eyes off her back. He followed her as she walked down the street, heading to her house. She always walked to her house on Friday. So did he. Right behind her. Nearing her house, he started to speed up. He felt her quicken her pace, heard her feet hit

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the ground a little harder. He started to get excited. She knew. She turned around, wisps of hair framing her bulging eyes, her gaping mouth. She knew, and she knew he was bad. He stared at her, felt the curve of a smile lift up his cheeks. But wait. Those eyes. They aren’t right. Her eyes slightly curve up at the end, not down. And the hair. It wasn’t gleaming; it was dirty, unwashed and greasy with flakes of something. And the freckles, or should he say the absence of. This, this isn’t her. Where is she? What happened? After all these months of meticulous planning, you lost her?! Defeated, he felt himself crumple to the ground, felt his limbs strike the pavement, and heard the crash. How did this happen?

The Man Without By Sean Fleming Have you ever seen a man without arms try to use a swing? Have you ever seen a turtle with no shell? Have you ever seen the most delicious looking banana only to turn it over and find a bruise? The feeling you feel…that’s true sadness… And that was the life of the AllState man before he became THE Allstate man. A man of dreams, a man whose voice children wish for when they blow out their candles for their 13th birthday party as the voice cracks begin and hope seems lost. It all began when he was but a young boy, only the age of 12. Sean showed promise. His voice had already begun to show the signs of smooth chocolate that seductively would woo any woman he desired. Then it all came crashing down as he fell in love with Jaquisha Johnson. She was a new student at Murchitraz Middle School, and the moment she stepped into class and flipped her dark brown hair into the wind and winked at him, he was hooked. But try and try as he might, she never paid any attention to him, so he decided to write her a love poem that was sure to knock her off her feet! For hours, he would write and write and write and finally finished only to come down with a terrible case of bronchitis. Nobody got time for that, but God played a cruel joke on him. Eventually he recovered, but not fully; his voice was raspy and he always coughed, so he could never read her the poem as he sat hopeless with other men crowding his future wife. One day, an old man came to the edge of the fence and waved him over so he followed. The old man hunched over and whispered “I’ve watched you, boy, seen you struggle and know the pain you’re facing, but there’s a cure to your voice. There is a place where dreams do exist: the Fountain of Manhood. Yes, the legends are true… Deep in the Himalayas, past the caves and the cannibal tribes of Trundelaria, is the entrance to the Fountain of Manhood. Legend says that one sip can change a mute to a man whose words taste like honey and rainbows.” And with that, the old man ran into the bushes and disappeared. Confused but intrigued, Sean escaped school and hopped on a plane to the Himalayas and traded his backpack for a machete, for he knew he would need it when the cannibals were close. He met a man named Achoo who gave him a worried look when he explained where he was going. But Achoo nodded and gave him a Anderson High School

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map to the Fountain and accompanied him to the edge of the forest, but would go no further. Sean was worried, but he remembered the old man’s words and all the possibilities that he could unlock. Sean took pride in knowing that he could cut in burrito lines without an argument, he could establish world peace, and he could win the love of Jaquisha! But most importantly, he could cut in burrito lines! Determined, he sprinted into the forest without thinking about what would be in his way because nothing could stop him…except the rock that tripped him. But other than that he was invincible! He had run about 300-400 feet when fatigue hit him. He had to sit down and drink from the wild coconuts and fruit fish he caught in the pond (which were rather delicious, but tasted too much like cherries). When he was rested, he stood up but stepped right into a trap! Suddenly, he was yanked into the air, caught inside of a net. Tribals jumped out of the bushes and poked him with their spears, chanting about eating him, making him squirm because he knew he was golden brown and most likely delicious and they didn’t deserve him. I mean if Oprah was eating him, that’d be ok, but tribals? Not today! Today is Tuesday, a.k.a. not-getting-eaten-by-guys-in-loincloths day. He reached behind himself and pulled out a pistol from his emergency supply stash—the one he kept in case he went to jail—and began firing at the men closest to him. He jerked up, fired 2 shots into the rope holding him up, and fell to the ground. The tribals scattered, probably because they’d never seen a gun before, but were gone in seconds, leaving Sean panting, firing wildly into the air. The sun was setting, and he knew he wouldn’t last long in the wilderness, so he searched frantically until the last beam of light shone upon the one thing he needed to survive. A miracle of God. A large rock. He sprinted for it, colliding heavily with it and falling down laughing as he remembered his dad telling him stories about how the pilgrims used to ride these things for miles! Sean climbed on top and poured a pack of pop rocks into a small hole as a sacrifice to the rock to take him to the entrance of the Fountain of Manhood. Speeding along through the night, Sean saw many predators creeping, and a pack of wolves howled on the hills. A panther was creeping in the trees, and a naked old man wearing only pants made of leaves giggled and followed them for almost the entire trip until he tired out. They came to a clearing surrounded by old bones scattered near an entrance to the cave. A large sign was posted next to it that read, “BEWARE YOUNG ADVENTURER, FOR HERE LIES THE CAVE TO THE FOUNTAIN OF MANHOOD.” It also read “GIFT SHOP 2 MILES EAST.” Sean wasn’t scared. He knew he couldn’t stop now; Jaquisha was waiting for him, he hoped. Steeling himself, he ran into the cave and gasped as the door behind him closed. He fumbled around until he found a torch, and it lit instantly in his hand, illuminating his surroundings to show a book sitting on a pedestal in the middle of the room. Inside the book, it told him of the three stages he would have to face. The first challenge was one he had never heard of. He was supposed to fight a pair of small dwarf girls of the age of 8 who were not afraid to hit under the belt. The second seemed easier: he was supposed to sing karaoke against a random opponent of his choice. But the third was one that was covered in blood with writing next to it warning him to turn back now for only three men in history had ever passed it. Discouraged, he walked forward and saw two doors, one labeled “the easy way” and the other “the hard way.” Knowing there was a trap, Sean went “the hard way,” which was probably the easy way. Well… he was wrong. Sean looked across the field to his right and saw that the “easy way” was

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a field of daisies and the only obstacle he could see was a hula hoop you had to jump through. Still determined, Sean ran forward to a fighting ring with a large door next to it. Sean put on the boxing gloves he found there and rang the bell expecting the twin fighters to come out of the door, but nothing happened. Then out of nowhere, fear struck him, as the twins landed on his head, pulling his hair and biting his ears. He managed to throw them off, but then one hit him where no man should be hit—the nether regions, the cash crop, family jewels, below the belt. Sean was gasping for air and felt the world go dark as he could no longer feel his legs, but an idea struck him! He grabbed them both by the hair and quickly tied it into a knot, trapping them together. Sean ran all over the ring, weaving in and out of the pillars with the twins right behind him, and just when he thought he couldn’t run on numb legs any longer, the twins hair snapped back and flung them to the ground. Triumphant, Sean trotted over to the squirming twins and had mercy on them. He kicked them both in the throat for payback and ran through the exit door to the next challenge he had to face. A large karaoke bar flashed brightly and lifted his spirits because he knew he could crush anyone in karaoke. The bartender saw him and immediately hushed the crowd, pointing at Sean. “So! You have defeated the twins in your quest for the legendary Fountain and come for the next challenge!” The bartender said in a gravelly voice that hurt to hear. “Well boy, the time has come for your second challenge; choose your opponent in the 69 th annual karaoke smackdown!!!” Sean looked over to the stage and saw 3 opponents: Michael Jackson, Hanna Montana (before she was crazy), and worst of all, Justin Bieber. He knew he had no chance against Hanna Montana or Michael Jackson, but he thought he could take Justin Bieber until he surveyed the crowd and noticed how many teenage girls were there that would always rule in favor of JB. He sighed, but another idea came to him. “I can choose whomever I want to face?” Sean asked the bartender. “Of course, but choose wisely because this may be your last song, boy,” he replied with a series of coughs. Looking smugly at the opponents, Sean whipped around and pointed at the bartender with a menacing finger and said smoothly, “I choose to face you.” A roar went up from the crowd as the bartender rose and walked over to Sean and said quietly, “You chose poorly,” handing him a drink that burned like lava down his throat, making it dreadfully sore. The bartender stood to his full height and announced in a smooth golden voice that shook the walls with power, “The boy has chosen his opponent and has drunk the drink of 1000 voice cracks, as is customary for this rare occasion. Let it begin!” He tore off his cloak and pulled off a mask to reveal the opponent that filled Sean with such dread that he become instantly hopeless…Mr. Farr. Sean trudged up the stairs to the platform and tried to warm up, but every note was one voice crack after another. He stared horrified as he knew what the challenge of 1000 voice cracks meant as Mr. Farr drank from the cup and began singing with the same pain, but it seemed to hurt him less. He faced Sean with a smile and told him this challenge wasn’t about who could

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sing better, but who could sing longer. Polka music blared from the speakers and words flashed by as Sean and Mr. Farr began to sing at a wild pace, sending pain shooting down their throats, but they had to continue. After five grueling hours of singing, they both sat panting on the stage, clutching their throats as the audience cheered them on. Sean couldn’t hold out much longer, especially when the rap music started, and Mr. Farr was spitting out rhymes like it was no challenge at all. But Sean had an idea. He started singing 2 octaves higher than normal, raising him to a soprano that hushed the crowd as the angelic voice came out, seeming to heal his throat. Even Mr. Farr dropped his microphone as he stared at Sean till the song was over. Then, everyone stood on their feet throwing roses, and Sean crowd surfed through the exit gate to the last challenge. He entered the moist meadow which was empty of everything except a small table accompanied by two wooden stools with a man occupying one beckoning him over. Sean rested his hand on the smooth oaken surface and fell into the seat, exhausted. Looking up, he stared at the face of God whose eyes looked like a swirling vortex of time and space. Countless generations had passed before those deep, sunken eyes, eyes that showed no pity or sadness. Then it hit him like a ton of bricks: there, sitting in front of him…was Morgan Freeman. “So, child, you have come this far, and as the last challenge, it is the hardest. What is your name and why do you want to drink from my Fountain?” he asked coldly. “Many men have come this far and only a handful were allowed to drink. If you answer wrong, I will kill you. Sorry, not sorry, as you kids say nowadays. Now, answer my question.” Sean was quiet but sipped the tea and mumbled, “My name is Sean, and I need to drink from the Fountain to get a girl at school to like me…” Morgan Freeman spat his tea out of his mouth and all over the table, gaping at Sean for what he just said. “You want to drink from the Fountain to pick up chicks?! Son, that’s the….That’s the best reason I have ever heard in my whole life! Of course, you may drink from the Fountain of Manhood. Go ahead, and make me proud,” said Morgan Freeman with a tear in his eye. It slid down his cheek and transformed into a diamond because, well, it’s Morgan Freeman. Sean smiled and ran to the Fountain and read the sign that said to only drink once. Sean, however, snuck in two large gulps. Liquid fire burned through his body. Dark chocolate flowed through his veins as he was filled with so much testosterone that he grew three feet, a broad chest, and chest hair that made Chuck Norris flinch. He turned to Morgan to thank Him and was surprised to hear his voice. Morgan touched Sean on the shoulder and transported him back to Austin, Texas. He ran straight to Jaquisha’s class and burst down the door. He filled his lungs and released the voice that makes angels jealous and said what he wanted to say to Jaquisha for three years now: “Gurl, yo booty is fiiiine!” Y’all know what happened after that.

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Memories of Vanessa By Juliana Cohen Ricardo sipped his coffee. It had been three hours since Vanessa was supposed to show up. Three hours he’d been drinking coffee, trying to act natural. Trying to act as if he hadn’t been stood up. “Another?” asked Gunther. Ricardo nodded. Gunther picked up the empty cup and went to the back to get some more. Ricardo eyed around the coffee shop one more time. He tried to come up with excuses for why she was late. She could’ve been in a car wreck. Maybe there was a family emergency. Surely she would show, she just was running late. Gunther was back with another iced mocha. He handed it to Ricardo. “I’ll just put it on your tab,” he said. Ricardo took a sip. It occurred to him that drinking coffee for three hours had greatly affected his bladder. But he couldn’t leave his seat. Not if Vanessa was coming. What if she came while he was in the bathroom? She would assume that he didn’t show and would leave and when Ricardo came back, he would continue to wait all day. No, he was not going to risk it. Not with Vanessa on the line. But soon three hours turned to four, and four turned to four and a half. Where was Vanessa? “We’re gonna have to close up soon.” said Gunther. Ricardo nodded. It was over and he knew it. Gunther picked up his empty cup. Right as he went to go throw it away, a goat ran into Central Perk! Ricardo jumped up from his seat in surprise. But then he knew instantly. “Vanessa!” he cheered. “You’re here! And I thought you wouldn’t show!” Vanessa baaahed to Ricardo. “You really had me worried there, Vanessa.” He pet her soft goat hair. Gunther walked up to them. “This is Vanessa?” he asked. “Yes! She came! I knew I wasn’t a loser, she came!” Vanessa licked Ricardo’s cheeks. “Wait until we’re in private,” he whispered in her ear. “Alright then,” said Gunther. “Should I get another coffee for you two?” “That would be wonderful.” Ricardo took Vanessa to their table. “You see, my sweet, I knew you would come. Although I’ll admit you did have me worried. But I had faith. And faith is what brought us together!” “Stop right there!” A woman shouted, running through the door. “Can we help you?” Asked Ricardo. “That is my goat, sir. Now unhand her!” The woman furiously charged at Ricardo. “Your goat? Miss, this is my date, Vanessa. Who are you?” “I’m Isabella, Vanessa’s caretaker. She ran away from me. I didn’t know it was for a date. But if I had known…oh we would not be here right now, I will tell you that!” Isabella then shouted at Vanessa, “Young lady, you should not be out this late! Your mother is going to have a fit!” Isabella grabbed Vanessa’s hoof. “You’re coming with me.”

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She led Vanessa towards the door, Vanessa gloomily following her orders. “Excuse you, but you are interrupting our date. I have been here since 3 o’clock waiting for Vanessa, so I will not have her taken away from me now!” Ricardo grabbed Vanessa’s back and pulled her toward their table. Isabella angrily followed.“Do you know who you’re dealing with here? If that goat isn’t home in ten minutes I’m going to lose my job!” Isabella put her hand on Vanessa. “Now let’s go!” “Isabella, you cannot take her away from me. I have been looking forward to this date for so long. I haven’t been on a date in years, and you’re trying to ruin my happiness!” “How old are you, sir?” “Forty-two. And my name is Ricardo, not Sir.” he scoffed. Vanessa baahed at Isabella. “You are much too old for my Vanessa. She needs someone who is at her maturity level.” “I am!” “No….you are under!” Ricardo gasped. “You take that back!” “Never, sir. Good day!” Isabella pulled out her leash and attached it to Vanessa’s collar. Ricardo ran to the door and blocked it. “Just give me a little time with her, please. Five minutes.” He looked to Vanessa, who looked up longingly to Isabella, who looked at her and then back at Ricardo. “Fine.” Isabella decided. “Five minutes, and that’s it!” She led Vanessa back to the table where they all took a seat. Ricardo looked confused. “Are you joining us?” he asked. Isabella nodded. “I will not have any funny business going on while I’m here. And if you two ever decide to have children, you better name your daughter after me.” Ricardo rolled his eyes. “Fine.” And so began the greatest five minutes of Ricardo’s life. Vanessa was perfect. She was funny, cute, and feisty. In Ricardo’s eyes, she was perfect. But five minutes flew by quicker than he thought it would, and soon it was time for her to go. “Perhaps I have misjudged you,” said Isabella. “You and Vanessa work pretty well together. “Thank you,” Ricardo smiled. “Does this mean we may have another date?” Vanessa baahed to Isabella. “Oh, alright! But you better take good care of her.” “I will. Thank you, Isabella.” “You’re welcome.” Isabella grabbed Vanessa’s leash, and they walked out of the coffee shop. Ricardo waved to them. “Goodbye Isabella! Goodbye Vanessa!” *** “I think I heard him say something,” the little girl tugged on her mommy’s dress. “Daddy?” she yelled into Ricardo’s ear. “Daddy? Say it again!” Ricardo didn’t move. His eyes stayed closed, and his mouth didn’t even twitch. “I think that’s enough for today,” said her mother. “Let’s go home. Maybe Daddy will wake up tomorrow.” She pulled the little girl aside.

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“No! Mommy, I heard him say your name. I heard him say ‘Vanessa’!” Vanessa gasped. The nurse walked in, concerned with the little girl. “It’s the coffee,” said Vanessa. “My daughter’s been drinking too much coffee. She must be hearing things.” She turned to her daughter. “Isabella, it’s time to go now.” “No!” Isabella stomped. “He said it. I know he did!” “Why has she been drinking coffee?” asked the nurse. “It was Ricardo’s and my first date. We met at a coffee shop. Central Perk, I think it was called. Ever since we told her that story and how she got her name, she’s been obsessed with drinking it. I think it’s making her go crazy.” “I’m not crazy!” cried Isabella. Vanessa sighed and looked to the nurse helplessly. The nurse bent down to Isabella. “Alright, sweetie. I believe you. Sometimes people in comas do say some things, but it doesn’t mean that they’re waking up. I promise you that when he wakes up, we will call you right away.” She wiped Isabella’s tears. “Pinky swear?” Isabella held out her pinky. “Pinky swear.” The nurse and Isabella embraced. “Let’s go now,” called Vanessa. “Alright, Mommy.” Isabella waddled over to her mother’s side. “Maybe Daddy will wake up tomorrow,” Vanessa comforted her. “Okay, maybe. I just wish he never got kicked in the head by that stupid goat.” “Me too, sweetie. Me too.” The Cosmic Beach (excerpt) By Tony Gamez “Do you know why I pulled you over?” The officer began to question. Ellis, without thinking what he was saying, blurted out, “’Cause I’m black?” The officer began to look irritated. “Look, boy, I am not in the mood for your idiot games.” Ellis replied with, “Oh, so now you’re pulling me over because I am black, and because I am black you think I’m stupid,” Ellis said, anger in his voice. “Listen, you ran over a pregnant cat, broke a 4-year-old’s leg, and worst of all you ran over my donut box that I dropped,” the officer tried to explain to Ellis. “That’s nothing compared to the pain I am feeling, officer. Anyway, it’s their fault for not looking both ways,” Ellis rebutted. “Wait…are you crying?” the officer questioned. “The Undertaker lost! Now the record is 21 and 1. Why did the streak have to end? What’s my purpose in life anymore?” Ellis began to sob harder. “Who the hell is the Undertaker?” asked the confused officer.

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Press Enter to Begin By Romy Bernard There is a man. A man of great wonders. He knows all. he conquers all. There is a boy. He isn’t anything out of the ordinary, maybe a little poor, but that’s common in this world. He has no parents. They both died in a factory explosion. He has to kill Jang Yin, the man of the world. “God, I hate these damn introductions.” “You wouldn’t have to deal with them, Jim, if you would just stop playing your game for once. Maybe you could even do your own laundry for a change.” “Oh, hop off, Elma. We all know you’d rather do the laundry than have me do it. Hell, the whole world knows. Jang Yin knows,” Jim said as he chuckled at himself. “You’re worthless,” scoffed Elma as she picked up the sea of dirty clothes. Your first mission is to defeat the bird fetus. “Piece of cake. That sounds good actually… Hey, hun!” “What?” “Can you go to the store and pick up some cake?” “Are you joking?” “No. Why would I joke about cake?” “I’m not going to the store for a cake. Besides, all it’s going to do is go straight to your stomach and you’re always complaining about your weight.” “I’m hungry! I haven’t eaten today, and I need breakfast!” “So why don’t you eat some fruit, or a smoothie, or something healthy, for God’s sake!” screamed Elma. “Why are you getting all pissy about what I eat? You’ve never said anything before about it, so you don’t have the right to be so angry.” Elma walked out of the room. “Wait! Elma!” Elma walked back in. “You weren’t serious about not going to the store right? You’re still going?” “You’ve got to be freakin kidding me. I was never going in the first place.” “Where am I going to get my cake then?” “Get it your own damn self.” Jim stood there. You have lost connection. Jim looked at the television. He walked over and pushed the power button. Welcome back Jim is the bomb dot com. Press start when you’re ready. “Shut up! Just shut up!” Jim screamed at his Xbox. He frantically went to the outlet, and unplugged it. The screen went black. “I guess I’ll have to get my cake my own damn self. Freakin sucks,” Jim murmured under his breath. “Well, would you look at that. You actually moved,” said Elma. “Where are the keys?” Jim asked. “Where they always are.”

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“I don’t know where that is.” Elma walked over to the little basket with loose change, a pen or two, and the keys. She tossed them over at Jim.” Jim walked over to the garage door. He opened it. As he was walking out as Elma questioned, “You going to the store?” “I have no other choice.” “While you’re there, would you pick up some eggs? We’re out and I want to make an omelet.” “Get it your own damn self.” Jim slammed the garage door on his way out. It was the first time Jim went on an errand that wasn’t the game store. He had forgotten to shower. He reeked of sweat. It seemed that he hadn’t brushed his teeth in days, but it was probably just a lack of actual cleaning. While he was at the store, he could see eyes drift his way. You see, Jim was a bit of a video game addict. It was what he always thought about, aside from his next meal. They’re all staring at me, he thought. Why are they staring at me? They don’t have a reason to. Unless…they are spies of Jang Yin. He sent them to watch me, but how did he know I would be at the store? Duh, he knows all. Wow. I guess the introduction is a bit important. He was right, people were staring, but not because they were spies, but because of his lack of hygiene. His addiction was at its peak right then. He walked through the dairy section, passing the eggs. It sparked a memory. I was supposed to do something with eggs. I was supposed to defeat the bird fetus in the egg! Shit! I have to do it now! From an outside perspective, Jim looked mad—both kinds of mad. What man goes to a store to break every single egg? From an inside view, Jim looked mighty. He was on mission to save the world. “Excuse me sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave the store,” stated the manager. “I can’t! I have to complete this mission to get to level two, so I can save the world!” “Sir you need to leave now, or I will have to force you out.” “NO! I know you’re trying to get me to leave so I can’t defeat Jang Yin, but I’ll defeat you, too!” The manager reached for his radio. “NO!” Jim screamed as he pushed the manager to the floor. Jim ran through the store. He went through the home improvement section, the clothes, the office supplies, everything. You see, Jim wasn’t just in a grocery store, he was in a Walmart. Then he ran through the weaponry section, knocking down boxes of bullets as he went. Wait, I can shoot them all with the guns! He jumped over the counter, grabbing a gun, but because it was in a store, it was unloaded. To Jim, though, it was loaded since that’s how it works in games. He ran everywhere,

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terrorizing everybody as he went. “Drop the gun!” yelled a man in a uniform with several other men in uniform behind him. “Sir, I repeat, drop the gun!” “NO! I have to defeat Jang Yin!” He took a step. “Don’t move and drop the gun! NOW!” Jim started to run, but raised the gun. The gunfire was loud. Extremely loud, but the silence was even louder after that. The silence of Jim’s body on the floor. Some may say that the worst part of it was the terror of the guns, but Jim wasn’t afraid. No, because to Jim it was how he was going to save the world. He wasn’t afraid because it was all just a game to him.

Winning By Michael Morran

He woke up ready to win. The summer breeze gently stroked his hair as he peered over the pristine ocean that rippled with mountains. It was a perfect day: the winds were blowing 30 miles per hour; as the sun pushed through the layer of puffy clouds above, it warmed him. He lived for days like this. He could die happily on days like these. “Michael! What are you doing? You just gonna keep daydreaming or are you gonna come help me rig?” his sister called from over near the competitors’ boats. Michael charged over, slightly embarrassed at his lack of focus. He needed to remember why they were there to win. He felt a sense of intensity in the air around him. However, Michael wasn’t afraid. He knew that on the water, he was a force to be reckoned with. “Sorry about that,” Michael said, having rushed to the boat, “just looking at the conditions.” Michael made himself busy with the routine of setting up the boat. Having spent many strenuous hours perfecting the boat, he knew it from top to bottom. The motions of attaching sails were imbedded in his mind. He could rig the boat blindfolded. “Okay, we’re practically done rigging up the boat,” Meredith said happily. “When is the no-launch lifted?” “I think they take it down at 12:00,” he replied looking at his watch. “Great, we have twenty minutes. Do you want to go get dressed?” “Sure.” They headed over to the clubhouse. It was a big rectangular thing, not much like the extravagant palaces that movies depicted yacht clubs to be. As they walked up the cobblestone steps, Michael began to wonder why a ratty building had been hosting such a prestigious event for so long. The boat storage was a little cramped, and he had heard that the food they serve is “more poison than potato.” However, once Michael walked through the doors, all of his doubts were erased. Inside was the most beautiful yacht club he had ever seen. The floors were laid with regal carpet that led to an atrium with a marble fountain sitting perfect ly in the middle.

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“Hey, dude, check this out!” said one of the Californian competitors. “When you stand at that side of the fountain and talk, and I stand here, it sounds like you’re standing right behind me.” “RADICAL!” replied his surfer-haired companion. They then proceeded into separate locker rooms to get changed. Michael squeezed himself into his tight wet suit. He hated how pinchy it was, but he figured it was worth the price of victory. It’s weird to think that some people have gone out on the water and never come back. He reassured himself with a message that all those years of pain and sweat had branded into his skull: today is the day we will win. Meredith met him outside the locker room and they began walking back to the boat. “Weren’t those the nicest bathrooms you’ve ever see?” she asked, clearly as surprised by the interior of that building as Michael was. “Yeah, at the sink they had hand towels and a bottle of scotch,” he replied. Michael then looked over his shoulder at that rectangular building from which they had just emerged. “It’s weird to think that a place that ugly on the outside is so awesome on the inside.” “I know, it looks a lot like our school.” Returning to the boat, they heard the horn go off as the hold-ashore flag was lowered on the towering pole. Michael looked at Meredith. She always impressed him so muc h; he couldn’t believe how much she had put into this. She had been sailing long before he had. He remembered her first few regattas. She would get home from a long weekend of racing and Michael would ask how it went. She would just shake her head. He was very surprised that she stuck with it. “Let’s get going,” she said to him. “Let’s kill it today,” Michael proclaimed while pulling her in for a hug. He could always tell when she was nervous. This was her last summer to race in the youth circuit; she was really hoping to make it count. Together, they had been through thousands of ups and downs. Michael knew this race meant the world to her. He slid their boat into the chilly waters and began the sail out. They zigzagged through all of the moorings, and headed for the opening where the channel meets the bay. When they hit the open water, the wind filled their sails with its full strength. The boat jerked onto its side abruptly, but they quickly compensated. They knew how the boat would lean even before it happened. Once they reached the racecourse, Michael trained his mind into racing mode. Having finished their warm ups, he stood on the side of the boat to examine the wind. Finding where the wind was going was the key to success. “What side do you think the wind is blowing stronger on?” Meredith asked while staring out over the water. Michael could see in her eyes that she was focused. Her thoughts could be seen in those blue orbs. “I honestly think we need to go right,” he replied. “I think that the sun is going to trick everyone into thinking that the left looks better. The right is going to be the better place. ” “I completely agree.” It always surprised him how intense she would get. Michael was always the one who would joke around between races to keep things light, but she would be the one who would keep them precise and focused. The postponement flag went up, another boat had just flipped. The wind had rammed their sails so hard that it dragged them into the water. Michael knew all too well the dangers of capsizing. The cold waters could sap energy in minutes. Hypothermia was certainly a danger

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today. Before the race, Michael thought about his fears. The greatest fear in his life was losing Meredith. He remembered the stories of people being knocked out by hitting their heads on parts of the boat and drowning. It always seemed like a horrible death to him. He shivered at the thought of not being able to pull her from the tide, watching, as she would be dragged down into the cold depths while he could do nothing. His body shuddered at the mental image. “NO!” he told himself. He had to stay focused. He remembered what his father said: in sailing, if you doubt yourself, you die. “Bad luck for those guys,” he said to Meredith. The boys who had flipped had been pulled from the water, but their mast was broken. They wouldn’t be able to race. While they were dragged back into the channel, the race directors passed out lunches. Michael always loved lunches during racing. They made him feel powerful, as though sustenance would bring him to the top level of racing. Every bite he took of his sandwich lit him up with power. He let out an enormous belch. Meredith laughed. “Nice one!” “Thanks, skippy!” he jokingly replied. The postponement flag was lowered, and the countdown to the start began. Michael felt his heart beat with the rush of adrenaline. Meredith, who was steering the boat, began to work out her starting strategy. At 3 minutes to the start, she said, “It seems you were right. All of the boats are piling up on the left side of the starting line. Do you think we’ll be okay?” This was do-or-die time; the start was the most important part to their race. “I think we should go with our instinct and stay away from the pack,” Michael proclaimed with certainty. 2 minutes. He began to sponge all of the water that they had accumulated out of the boat. Meredith began to put them into position about a football field away from the furthest right part of the starting line. 1 minute. They were full focus. Michael’s heart was pounding with the force of a jumping elephant. Ready to go, they began to creep forward toward the line, pulling on the ropes that angle the sails to catch the wind. 30 seconds. They were full speed now, racing toward the line. Michael attached himself to a line that would suspend him over the water. He then stepped outside the boat, plac ing his feet against the side of the boat. He had impeccable form, parallel to the water now. Skimming the surface. Inches between life and death. His body attached to the boat through his feet and a thin wire. Go! They crossed the line with speed and power; a great start. They raced, full focus on technique. They were focusing every bit of energy into the speed required to win. That was when Michael’s throat started to itch. Michael couldn’t tell why he was coughing so much. He couldn’t comprehend why this was happening. He thought about previous encounters with this sensation. He realized that he had only experienced this as an allergic reaction after eating peanuts. This was bad. Fear penetrated his focus, but he didn’t want to ruin their chance for glory. They were rocketing up the right side of the course, clearly ahead of everyone else. But that was when his eyes started to swell shut.

Anderson High School

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2014-2015

“Michael, where should we go?” Meredith hollered over the swirling winds. Michael tried to reply, but his tongue had swollen to fill his whole mouth. “I duh oh,” he mumbled through a puffy mouth. “Michael, are you okay?” Meredith asked. Michael could only give a thumbs up. It was pure survival for him now. He summoned the will to go on. But he wondered what could have done this? The sandwich had tasted fine; the chips were probably good. That only left the cookie. It had tasted like cucumbers, but he did remember there being a faint hint of that sweet thick taste in there. It must have been the cook ie. It didn’t matter now; his body had already begun to react. Through his blurred eyes, Michael could see his sister look up at him. Those orbs once filled with confidence were now filled with concern. “Michael? What’s wrong?” Again, all he could do was give a thumbs up. Michael’s mind was focused on finishing the race. He wasn’t about to let some stupid allergy stop him. He gasped for air, his lungs swelling shut. His last clear thought was the truth that had stuck with him for most of his life : die doing something you love. When his legs collapsed beneath him, Michael knew it was over. He hit the water with a surreal feeling of tranquility. Dying, for those experiencing it, is peaceful. His body had left him; it was only his senses now. The pain of suffocating was one of the only feelings that haunted him. The other was Meredith. When he had left the boat, it flipped almost instantly. Meredith was thrown into the ocean that converged on her like hounds on a hog. When she managed to surface, he could faintly hear her calling his name. His ears were filled with only the sensation of dying. “MICHAEL! MICHAEL WHERE ARE YOU?!?” she wailed helplessly. Michael could hear her splashing around, desperately trying to find her little brother. “MICHAEL! PLEASE! WHERE ARE YOU! PLEASE SAY SOMETHING!” But it was too late. The little passage of his throat that wasn’t sealed by the reaction was filled with water now. “MICHAEL!” she wailed. She scrambled for her whistle. After ripping it from the inner pocket of her lifejacket, she blew until her own throat was hoarse. She blew with all of her might, but all the sounds were drowned out by the screaming wind. Michael wanted to tell her it was okay. That it was too late for him. He wanted t o yell to her to save herself. He knew it was impossible, but he wanted to see her get to shore. She kept trying. Despite the power of the waves and current, she battled with nature. Searching through the water, she helplessly continued to wail. It was over. But she searched until she was taken out of the water by the rescue boat. They held her back while she screamed for him.

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2014-2015

About The Author By Abriana Hoosier Abriana Hoosier, author of Everlasting Darkness, Roses Are Red, and Shifter has a doctorate in creative writing, but currently works as a professional surgeon in Seoul, South Korea. The majority of her writings involve romance, but can often contain science-fiction, adventure, fantasy, and much more. She’s won multiple awards for how “heartfelt” and “breathtaking” her novels are. She’s even had one novel turned into a major motion picture called Red, based off of one of her most famous works, Roses Are Red. In addition to writing and practicing medicine, she loves classic black-and-white films like Sabrina and It’s a Wonderful Life and goes rock climbing each week in the mountains. She lives in a mansion with her husband who is one of the most famous actors in Asia, and with their three beautiful children. Oh! And don’t forget their cat, TaeYang, a beautiful orange tabby.

Flamingo Avenue (excerpt) By Simon Loseth Little known are the facts of how horrible this addiction really is. Statistics and medical records show nothing more than reflections of reality, heavily gilded in delight. Every addict knows this, how every butterfly inflicts deep, bloody gashes of love—leaving their mark, changing who you are. You take a piece of it, and it takes a piece of you. Now stop imagining. Because you simply can’t, and it’s not the point; imagination leads to expectations, and expectations are bad, really bad. Be open to interpretation, because it is whatever you want it to be. But don’t imagine. On Flamingo Avenue, there are no rules of affection. No limit between the two worlds. You share a reality, like no other. You will get lost, enslaved, a gagged hostage. But that’s not even the worst part; this addiction will alter your state of mind. I promise you, you don’t want salvation. Once it has its jagged claws deep into your personality, there is nothing that can deliver you from it. But as all things, it comes to an end, and from it, reincarnation. I was working night shifts at the Flamingo, oh the Flamingo: a hotspot for sailors. It wasn’t without reason it got called the Flamingo. Standing proud off the shore, this nightclub was the hottest of them all, and the busiest. The Flamingo was mainly a place for men with charm and money, but as our nation prepared itself for war, more and more of the Navy’s men started hanging around. With them came the women. They would shake and twist till their feet gave out, then they’d accompany each other to the bunks were they’d twist some more. It was undeniably… pleasant business. Sometimes it would get real wild…

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

Loss of a Meaning (excerpt) By Maddie Townsend Her smile is what I miss, her long golden blonde hair cascading down her back in small curly locks, the curiosity that gleamed in those deep dark blue eyes of hers that I will always love. I even miss our petty bickering; when she’d tell me she hated me, I would always counteracting with an “I love you, too.” It’s the little things we used to do that cause the most pain for me to remember. It hurts even to think about her, let alone speak her name. Juliet. If she truly was a Juliet, I would have been her poor lovesick Romeo ready to take poison for her once she passed. Alas, I couldn’t even do that for her. Like the coward I am, I now lie unmoving in my bed, my dark and dull eyes staring blankly at the plain, white color of the walls, tears that had once fallen already dried up long ago. A misery is what I’m living now, behaving like nothing but a sad shell of the former hellhound I was. My head moves slightly to the side as I faintly hear the pounding of someone’s fist on my door. I ignore it, seeing as how I’m too wrapped up in my own selfhatred; and with much difficulty, I tune out the soft gentle tone of my younger sister Lucia’s voice. Chuckling dryly, I think how ironic it is. She shouldn’t be trying to cheer me up; it’s my role as her older brother to be the one who is strong, her unbreakable and unmoving rock. I slowly turn my flimsy body in the bed, messy ginger bangs falling into my face as I move. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to talk to anyone. Can’t they just leave me in here to rot in my abyss of sorrow? Juliet was my meaning in life. The only reason I’d get up in the daytime was to see her smiling face…

Release By Regan Shepard It’s now or never. Roman opened his car door and took a step outside. The frozen air pulled and tugged at his clothes, slowly seeping in and settling on his skin. The air had found him and made him cold again. Roman barely walked for three seconds into his school when the whispers began. Look who’s at school again. His shoes tapped on the tiled floor. Tap, tap, tap. I can’t believe he came back after only a week All eyes were on him. There was no escape from the looks. He brought his scarf over his

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mouth. Shouldn’t he still be at home with his brother? Tap, tap, tap. Then he was sitting in English class, waiting for the first bells to ring. Struggling to open his backpack, he brought out his makeup work and walked to the front of the class to turn it in to Ms. Steinman. He could already feel her pitying glance as he stepped up to her desk. “I did all the work that I missed,” Roman stated as he handed the papers to her. Stop looking at me like a wounded animal, Roman wanted to yell. “Thank you for taking the time out of your schedule to do this, Roman. If you ever need to talk to anyone, I’m always here.” “Thanks, Ms. Steinman.” Roman turned around and walked back to his seat. I wonder how many times that’s been said to me these past two weeks, Roman thought. The rest of the school day went painfully slow. Roman reluctantly accepted people’s condolences, avoided his friends, and anyone else who would try and talk to him about his mother. He was going through the motions, barely acknowledging the world around him. During chemistry, however, his flow was disrupted. He had received a note to go to his counselor, Ms. Wilmer. He walked down a flight of stairs only noticing the tap tap tap of walking. Reaching Ms. Wilmer’s office, he knocked lightly on her door. “Come in!” called a raspy voice. Ms. Wilmer was sitting at her desk looking intently at her computer screen. Roman took a seat on the chair in front of her desk. It’s warm in here, he thought. However, he kept on his coat and scarf. After a full minute of silence between the two, where the only noise was Ms. Wilmer typing away on her computer, She finally looked up at him. “So, Roman. How are you feeling?” Nothing. “I’m feeling good. A little tired, but good,” he lied through his teeth. The previous night his grandmother came over and tried to talk him out of his future plans. She wanted to become Danny’s guardian. She thought he didn’t understand his new responsibility well enough, but he knew. He knew he wouldn’t be able to go to college anymore, he knew he might have to drop out of his senior year of high school. He knew he had to take care of Danny from now on. He knew all of the things she was trying to hammer into his head. He didn’t sleep last night. “That’s good considering what you’ve been through. So, what are your plans for the future now? Have they changed since your mother passed? You are an A/B student and your teachers believe you have so much potential.” Roman looked up at the ceiling and sighed. I’m so tired of these questions, he thought. Roman recited the words that he had been forced to say for the last two weeks. “I’m going to finish high school. My grandmother is going to help me take care of Danny when I ask her to. I will become Danny’s legal guardian. I doubt I will be able to go to a real college anymore, maybe I’ll do a college online…” He trailed off. “Are you sure you want to take on the responsibility of taking care of your brother? Why aren’t you allowing your grandmother to take care of him?” “Like hell I would let that happen,” Roman tore his eyes from the ceiling and gave Ms. Wilmer a challenging look. “She’s practically a stranger to us. I won’t let her take custody of him.” Their only grandmother was on their mothers’ side. They hadn’t seen or heard from her until after their mother’s death. She came to them crying, and begging them to forgive her and

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allow her to become their guardian. Roman had never been more angry in his life. To think that she could come here after all this time, asking them for something so ridiculous. Both Roman and Danny rejected her offer, but allowed her to stay at their house until after the funeral. “And there is no one on your father's side who will be willing to take custody of the both of you?” “Our father skipped out on us before Danny was even born. Please Ms. Wilmer, I know this is going to be tough,” Roman’s eyes trailed off, looking anywhere but her eyes, “But there is no other choice for us. Besides, Danny is only 5 years younger than me. It’s not like he’s useless.” Ms. Wilmer didn’t have much to say after that. As Roman was walking out the door she repeated the words Roman came to hate. If you need to talk to anyone, I’m always here. If you need to talk to anyone, I’m always here. If you need to talk to someone I’m always here. I’m so sick of those words. Roman drove six loops around his neighborhood before parking in front of his house. Going home was no longer a relief as it once had been. Now it’s only a reminder of what happened. What he lost. What we lost, Roman reminded himself, as he noticed Danny’s bike against the garage door. After a few minutes, Roman finally got out of his car, going through the a few seconds of fierce cold, and finally making it to his door. He paused for a moment before finally reaching for the doorknob and opening the door calling, “I’m home, Danny!” “Hey,” called Danny from what sounded like the kitchen. Roman walked into the kitchen to see Danny making himself dinner. Danny was only 13, but he looked as if he had aged three years in the past couple of weeks. I guess we’re all tired right now, Roman thought. “How was your day?” Roman asked. Danny had stayed home from school again today. He told Roman he wasn’t ready to go back to school. “I slept mostly,” said Danny with an annoyed tone. Roman stared sadly at the back of Danny’s head. He had been like this since their mother had died. He wouldn’t talk much to Roman—or anyone, for that matter. He cried several times a day; one second he will be sitting watching TV, and the next he was collapsing in on himself, his harsh sobs heard throughout the house. His mourning process was the opposite of Roman’s. “So do you think you’ll be able to go back to school soon?” asked Roman warily. “I don’t know,” replied Danny shortly as he began to take out two bowls from the pantry, slowly filling them with three scoops of macaroni and cheese. Silently, Danny gave his brother a bowl and both sat at their kitchen table. “Thanks for making dinner,” said Roman, trying to relieve the deafening silence between the two. “Yeah,” replied Danny, denying the attempt at a conversation. And just like that, the silence was preserved. Minutes passed until the next word was said, right before they were both finished with dinner. “So I was thinking,” said Roman fiddling with is hands, “that the sooner you go back to school, the better. I understand that you don’t feel ready, but neither did I. I won’t push you to go back tomorrow, or even—” “Stop. Stop it,” Danny demanded sharply. “Look, I know you don’t want to go,” he said, slightly taken aback by Danny’s outburst, “but it really could screw you over if you keep staying home from school like this.”

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“No. That’s not what I meant, Roman. I meant stop trying to be Mom!” Danny stood up. And just like that, the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Roman clenched his jaw; they were both fuming. He just doesn’t understand at all. Danny turned and began to walk away, but Roman lunged after him grabbing his shoulder and turning him around. “And if I’m not, who will be?” demanded Roman, looking down at his younger brother. “Nobody asked you to try and be her! You could never be like her!” Danny’s eyes were already getting teary, “You’ve only cared about yourself since mom died!” he snapped. “I’m here for you, and you won’t even talk to me!” Roman winced. “That’s not true. I have been so busy, Danny! It’s not that I don’t care, it’s that I’ve had to do all these things! I had to put together Mom’s funeral, I’ve had to talk to Grandma, I’ve had to decide my entire future, I had to identify her body, Danny !”Roman paused to recollect himself, “You don’t understand what Mom’s death has been putting me through.” “Yeah, well her death obviously hasn’t affected you emotionally,” Danny spat. “All you do nowadays is chores, errands, and school work. It’s like you’ve been sleepwalking this whole time! You haven’t even cried since mom died! How could anyone think you even care—” A loud smack rang through the room. Danny fell backwards, holding his face. Seconds went by as Danny touched his fingers to his swollen lip. He turned to look up at his brother, harsh words at the tip of his tongue, until he saw Roman. His body was shaking. his fists pressed tightly to his sides. He was looking at his feet unable to meet his brother’s eyes. “Roman…” whispered Danny as he began to stand up. “I’m sorry,” Roman’s voice cracked. “I’m so sorry for everything.” “It’s fine, Roman. I’m fine.” “No, it’s not. I’ve been avoiding you. I-I couldn’t let you see me like this.” Roman finally looked up to meet his brother’s eyes, and Danny understood what he meant. Hot tears were quietly running down Roman’s face as he did everything he could to make them stop. But upon looking at his brother and his swollen lip, every wall he’d built since his mother’s death had come crumbling down around him. His body shook as he sobbed, sitting down at the kitchen table. His face was contorted, matching the pain he was feeling. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid, Roman thought. The pain of mourning… I thought I could escape. The feeling of mourning a loved one is far more painful than anything else in this world. The pain sticks with you for the rest of your life. Danny put his arm around Roman, whispering to him, “It’s going to be ok, Roman. We’re going to get through this. We’re going to be ok. Shh.” And that’s how they sat. Danny comforting his broken brother, and Roman, after holding back everything he had felt, purged his emotions. And strangely enough, things didn’t seem so scary anymore. Roman realized he didn’t have to suffer alone and in silence. He still had his brother, and as long that was true, he knew he would be ok.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

Introduction By Emmy Robbins It’s the annoying string you find hanging off your jeans The college kids next door who start the party at 3 a.m. It’s the homework you get that’s due on a Friday night The box of “10 chicken nuggets” that only has nine It’s the tiny opening you find in your sock, halfway through your day The waking up at 7 a.m. before you realize that you have two more hours to sleep It’s the juice that explodes in your face when you open a fruit cup The little pieces of paper left on the side when you try to tear off a whole piece It’s the last five minutes you have to get ready before the bus comes The whole five minutes you have to spend bumping into people in the hallways It’s the stares you get when you walk into a room The stares you get when you’re the last to walk into a room It’s the tear that manages to make its way down your cheek when you’re sitting at lunch The fact that you know that no one will see it or ask why it’s there It’s the constant worry that the person next to you thinks you smell bad The worry that everyone you talked to that day thinks you smell bad It’s the days and days and days of school you missed from being sick The first day back when you have no clue what’s going on and you don’t know if you ever will It’s the noises you hear when you’re home alone The way your heart beats when you’re alone It’s staring you in the face saying, “Hi, I’m Anxiety.”

Hoot By Hannah Henderson Why every time when I crawl out of my hole in the wall must I be subjected To owls who live not only at night, Lurking in the trees with only their yellow eyes popping out, Their eyes that don’t move, Their heads that turn and follow and prey at my body, Their hoots that taunt me, They’re telling me they want to make a meal out of me, I have to get back to the safety of my home again Or they might follow me and attack me there Or I could find safety in numbers But why do I have to go through this Every time I crawl out of my hole?

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Last Kiss By Ruth Najera “I can’t … I can’t remember our last kiss. You know, the last time we were truly happy and together And… I can’t remember it. But I want to. I want to be able to remember that,” I blurt out. He turned to look at me. “It was a Wednesday morning. You were wearing that dress that I love and that you look so good in, The bright blue one… with all the little folds.” “Pleats,” I corrected He smiled and nodded. “Yes that one. You had just finished getting ready for work and you had just washed your hair And it smelled like some kind of… fruit. I told you that I had to go because I had been paged for surgery on the little girl Who had been having the spasms in her leg. You said that you would come see me later for lunch maybe, And so you leaned in, put a hand on my shoulder, and kissed me. Soft. Quick. It was out of habit, almost. Like something we had both gotten so used to, Like we would end up doing it for the rest of our lives. And you went over to the kitchen to get your coffee, And I went to work. And that was it. That was the last time we kissed.” He was quiet, and after giving me a hard smile and a nod, he turned to leave. I was quiet, then said, “Peaches. It was…my hair smelled like peaches. From my conditioner.” He turned back and smiled. “Peaches.” And he walked out the door.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

The Raconteur (And His Story) By Lee Whitehead Hello my friends, no introduction; you will forget my name I’m sure You only need to know me by the title, “Raconteur” I have many a tale to tell, and then I must be on my way The purists have been on my ass for years; they aren’t getting me today Here is the story: The hunter was sitting in the woods one day He was about to give up, full of dismay Suddenly a goose flew straight overhead The hunter took aim and shot the damned thing dead But after he had unloaded his round, He couldn’t tell where the goose had hit the ground. Following the trail to a fence, his palm hit his head For on the other side of this fence, his prized goose lay there dead The hunter then made a plan, though he wasn’t sure of himself He would try to sneak across the fence and take the goose with stealth He jumped the fence and grabbed the goose, but before he could run He turned around and saw a farmer there with a sawed-off shotgun “You better put that goose down boy. Yous on my property Anything here, son, therefore belongs entirely to me” The hunter replied, “Screw you, sir, or release me if you will I shot this thing myself. It is therefore my kill.” On they argued, until they chose A way to settle it : an exchange of blows They would trade punches and kicks until one would falter and lose In which case the victor would be declared and take home the goose The hunter let the farmer hit first, since the farmer was old The hunter figured he could take a hit , then he’d knock the farmer out cold The farmer immediately kicked him hard and square in the balls The hunter doubled over in pain, feeling dizzy and about to fall After a few minutes the hunter finally stood For the old man had kick ed his balls pretty good No longer caring about the goose, he yelled “Alright, my turn, you old deuce!” The farmer was already walking away, but turned and said “Keep the goose.” That is the story, the theme always true: DO UNTO OTHERS BEFORE THEY CAN DO UNTO YOU

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

Fears By Annika Strout You’ve seen tears and sadness. You deny it, but I know you You’ve seen love walk away, and burn you and show you That maybe you’re not good enough, not good enough to love You’ve had friends turn their back and give you a shove Into darkness and loneliness when you needed them more Than to be by yourself, when you’re scared to the core That lonely is your forever, and the only other person you’ll see is your reflection The fear, it spreads through you and feeds the infection Only it’s not like you’re looking at yourself in the mirror But you don’t know that, you think it couldn’t be clearer That the bruised, beaten girl, she has no excuse You think it’s your fault and deserve the abuse So you hide behind a smile, or so you appear But that smile you fake barely holds back the tears Till you can go home, and release all your fears But your hate ridden outburst doesn’t come anywhere near To relieving the hate that you hold in your heart You’re so wound up and needy, you don’t know where to start So you think up new ways to cure the lonely And you find men who tell you you’re their one and only But a thousand men singing you’re perfect and loved Can’t even come close to pulling you above The tears that drown you, and eat you alive So you stumble and trip, breaking the stride That has kept your heart beating up until now And bleeding is the only way to show you’re alive So you reach for a knife or anything to prove That to yourself, you have nothing to lose But listen to me now, you have so much to see To conquer, to become, you have so much to be Because me, myself, I have been in your place, And you are so much more than a reflected face There are so many like you, and we all give support To the girl in the mirror who might resort To a life of sadness, and bruising and hurt So listen to me before you cut yourself short You are beautiful and vibrant, more than some girl at the bar Cause the words that they spit at you don’t shape who you are. So show them you’re worthy of a brand new tomorrow And relinquish the sadness and hatred and sorrow Until you have nothing left to beg or borrow

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

And one day love is all you’ll feel And you’ll look back on the day they almost made you kneel With all of the wonders of upcoming years And you’ll be happy you never bowed down to your fears.

Limitless By Bobi Huh Inspired by “Call It What You Want” by Foster The People Much to their chagrin You won’t give in They try to change you But that doesn’t faze you You won’t conform to their ways So you turn and run the other way You just keep running and hiding The line between the two of you dividing You don’t label everything like they do It’s futile and stupid and you know, too Don’t get tricked by that superficial smile You know it’s just part of their fake style You don’t limit yourself like they do They can’t think like you are able to That’s good; continue to surprise them Because all they do is condemn Realize what you have is valuable You aren’t empty, but full They can’t buy what you hold Because what you have is gold Take your judgments and your words And don’t let anyone ever change them You are your own person Keep yourself free

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

City Bones By Gillian Turner There are ghosts that haunt your bones, and the fog in your mind has finally lifted But you still creak and pop every time you move Your head doesn't hurt as often And you’ve stopped letting your mind rain every night, and you finally think you're okay Until you start running And suddenly you can feel your knees hurt And your ankles give out And you think you’re dying, and it’s worse than before But it's okay It's okay because the city in your mind that the hurricane destroyed Has finally been rebuilt And even though your bones are sometimes ice and you can’t move You can think You can think And breathe Now that the water line has gone down And you have something to stand on You can finally rely on the ground you’ve built To keep you standing And it’s working. It's working because you’ve worked, you’ve worked for years to re-build the fallen city That took up every corner of your brain

Come On, Massive Influx of Dopamine with Less Than 12% Body Fat By Hollis Amberboy I never thought I could feel like this, It didn’t seem like it was logical. But hey, screw logic. My love for you is more than astrological…ly describable, Because yes, our star signs are compatible, this is true. But you have a heart of rose gold, And I’m drawn in on every magnetic level. Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

I love you. I think I love you with so much of my heart the blood doesn’t even have a place to go anymore. Like I could go on for hours, but I don’t think I have the lung capacity to keep going at this speed. But don’t get me wrong, I’d try for you. My Merkel cells really like your fingers, Especially when you touch my ante-brachial zone. It’s such a kind gesture, even though it tickles sometimes… And it’s nice to know I’m not alone. My palms get sweaty when you flash me one of those smiles, You make the cortisol and adrenaline in my bloodstream increase. I could walk with you for miles upon miles… I mean, eventually my asthma would kick in and I’d need my inhaler… but I wouldn’t falter, because you mean more to me than any anatomically correct modular skeletal system complete with organs and musculature. Are you made of copper and tellurium? Because you’re CuTe. I’m sorry that was so nerdy, But what do you expect? I play the flute. …Don’t judge me for that one, I’m a much better writer than that. I just needed a rhyme. Also I don’t play the flute. I’m confused when it comes to you. Because you make me feel things I didn’t know couldn’t be explained scientifically, And I’ll be honest, that scares me. All the way down to my small intestine. But I feel all of them anyway, and if you were anyone else I wouldn’t know what to do. But this is you, and feeling the inexplicable feelings for you is more than okay with me. I don’t know if you feel like I do, and that’s okay. I haven’t known the entirely pathological feeling of what’s called “heartbreak,” But I know I’d be honored if you’re what made me feel it. You might not see past these glasses, which is ironic because the purpose of glasses is to help one see, but I thought aorta tell you: I love you.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

Real Poetry By Hannah-Joy Mach Real poetry isn’t supposed to be boring, perplexing, Lengthy, Idiotic. You know, like this one. True poetry is supposed to be meaningful, Alluring, Descriptive, Well done. You know, unlike this. Poetry sometimes rhymes Personally I think it’s a crime, The words getting marred. Geez, rhyming is hard. But usually poetry just seems to fall flat, Gathering dust among ancient friends, Unable to pass on the wisdom weathered between the pages. Wonderful poetry isn’t a task, Problem, Bore, Complication. You know, how you’re feeling right now. Perhaps poetry of the greats germinates from moments of ecstatic emotion, Instances of inspiration, Troubling times, heroic Happenings, idiotic Individuals, or dull Days. Amazing poetry may be structured Haikus are awesome For those who like short and sweet You know, unlike this. Maybe amazing poetry is freeform and the sentences run on away from the reader leaving footprints in the sand and creating the feeling of anxiety and yearning for a comma or a period or perhaps a question mark please just write some damn punctuation

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

Poetry Often Even Tells Real Yearnings and emotions unable to be conveyed through conversation. You know, unlike this. But none of this matters Unless there is someone to appreciate good poetry. Because authentic poetry is supposed to be Read, Spoken, Nurtured, Edited, Transformed, Adored, Shouted, Whispered, Cried, Loved. You know, unlike this one. “you have eyes, my dear, but you cannot see” By Carly Lacy All may seem well You may feel swell But see on the news Stuff that causes the blues Oil fracking making people ill But it’s not you, so what should you feel? Flip the channel, only to find A terrorist attack leaving orphaned kids behind But it’s not you, or a friend So why bother to defend? You turn off the TV, switch to your phone Only to see something happening everywhere but home It’s not you, family, friends, or hometown So why not let the media tear it down? You have eyes They see lies You cannot see If you flee from it, My dear

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

Instead By Lexi Atanasoff Inspired by the song “Flaws” by Bastille Instead of being self-conscious, be… Confident Outgoing Brave Instead of wondering why you’re different, ask why… You’re fun to be around You’re an amazing person You’re not afraid to be something more Instead of picking out your flaws, pick out the things that make you beautiful like… Your freckles Your laugh Your kindness Instead of comparing yourself to models in magazines, try… Rosa Parks Amelia Earhart Mother Teresa Instead of wishing to be someone else, be… Appreciative Thankful Joyful Instead of conforming to society’s social standards, be… Unique Wonderful You

Clocks By Nayla Zylberberg A clock for a life, is what they say You hang it like a coat in a plate-glass display And you stare it down through the washed-out reflection Hoping it will lead you in the right direction But the dead-life blinks back as its thread root unfurls While the rods and the gears keep on spinning in circles. They go nowhere, but you feel that they must For the time to take time to think time into dust Would blind you of the minutes of hours of days

Anderson High School

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block

2014-2015

And cause you to notice the error of your ways In the thoughts of the sun and moon rising east Of the solid oak doors and the faux leather seats And the furious ticking brought by the master Racing us into our time it is after. The monochrome shine and the metallic hues Prevent you from seeing vivid blacks and blues And it filters the cries that you get as a greeting As you stumble and rush on the way to the meeting. And your life gathers dust in the cage of decision While you carry on spinning in the heat of your mission Invisible roots dig into your mind And cannot let go, should you leave them behind So you drift with heart beating to faint mississippis And do not yet notice when it has stopped ticking. So you search for the eyes that could see and beseech To the life rooted down that your soul cannot reach And the darkness awaits for those naĂŻve of the cost For the clock is the price of the life that you lost.

Hobbit (Ode) By Stephanie Battaglia To the one that broke my heart, I loved more than I thought I could. To the one from whom I could never part, You moved me more than others would. To the one that shattered my life, Now I only know feelings of regret. To the only one who could have no strife, Because to you I am in debt. To the one ring that started this thing, You are forever my king.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2014-2015

The Dude Abides By Gabriel Blackburn The One who resides in a place, the City of Angels The Man, with the self-implied name of ‘The Dude’ Once ’pon yonder, two men of Treehorn obtrude A hostile swirly, and piss on a rug, left by two strangers Thrown into a story of stolen wives, white russians, and danger “Suck the f**k up, Donnie” says Walter, being rude “Well, like, that’s your opinion,” saith The Dude And so is the starteth of this prolonged fable Gets mixed up with a Mr. Lebowski, faking money, asking for bunny A man who goes by the name of Jesus, dressed like a lavender fool With threats of castration, Three Nihilist are the masterminds, Higheth be the tides, a lugubrious demise, Donnie Dies A conclusion of false bribery, only ends with a duel The bowling tournament starts tonight, words of comfort arrive: The Dude Abides

Look Both Ways (a Nursery Rhyme) By Donovan Steen Always look both ways before you cross the street, Or else you will end up like ground meat. So listen to what your mom said Because if you don’t, you will be dead. Look to the left, Look to the right, If there are no cars, you will be alright. Even if there is a car, No matter how far, Don’t walk if there’s a car in sight.

Anderson High School

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block

2014-2015

A Demotivator by Sebastian Benavides

A Demotivator by Camryn Shepard

Anderson High School

Thanks for Reading Anderson High School’s

The Writers’ Block Literary Magazine 2014 – 2015