The Writers' Block 2016 by The Writers' Block: Anderson High School Literary Magazine

The 2015 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; 2016

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

Photo by Nicolette Campbell

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

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

The 2015 – 2016

Writers’ Block Literary Magazine Anderson High School Austin, TX

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

An Introduction to the Work of Mr. Farr’s Creative Writing Students The Farr Side Is On My Good Side By Tony Gamez Today, you, the readers, are about to engage in stories that will inspire a wide range of emotions, from heart-shattering cries to gut-busting laughs. A-1 material here, folks. But where would the flock of creative sheep be without their lone wolf leader? Being a creative genius is no easy task, but Jason Farr, he is a man who has got it down. Don‘t just take my word for it. Donna Houser, our beloved principal, had a lot to say about our leader (of course, she never actually said any of this, but here‘s what she would say): ―A great man consists of many admirable qualities, including: intelligence, style, sense of humor, but probably most importantly an incredible smile. There aren‘t many men who have even just one of these qualities, but there is an Adonis who is beloved by all, and what godly name is bestowed upon this hunk, you may ask? Jason Farr. When the words come pouring out of his mouth, it makes the audience quiver and tremble in delight. Don‘t get me started on the many fashion styles he has—well, okay, I‘m already shaking talking about this but those many colorful shirts are the very definition of style. They even make Kanye get on his knees and bow to the better fashion sense he has. Yes, I compared him to a god, because Jason Farr is more than a god; he is the evolution of dashing charm, the top of the food chain, if you will. ―Of course, everyone says appearances aren‘t everything, and they aren‘t, but Jason Farr is more than a face sent from the heavens. He has the golden heart of a lion, the caring and kindness of a mother goose, the toughness of an alligator, and the patience of a sloth. There are many ingredients within him that others always try to duplicate, but they could never be replicated.‖

My Response: Thanks, Tony, for that flattering but somewhat creepy introduction. It just goes to show you that there‘s almost no limit to the imagination of Anderson‘s creative writers. I truly feel privileged to work with them. And although Principal Houser didn‘t say any of that, she does— along with my fantastic English Department and the rest of the Anderson High School community—provide us with an open and supportive environment in which to write. I‘m sure you‘ll see evidence of this reflected in the students‘ work. As always, I‘m proud of the students‘ writings this year and eager to share their ideas with you, dear reader. Be forewarned that the work of these adolescents is relatively uncensored here, so exercise caution when sharing it with the young and impressionable. I wish to give a special thanks to student editors and helpers, especially Annika Strout, Hannah Henderson, Sam Rogers, Jack Cloudt, and Emmy Robbins. Aside from that, enjoy the brilliance that follows! – Jason Farr Creative Writing Teacher Anderson High School 8403 Mesa Dr. Austin, TX 78759 jason.farr@austinisd.org

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Table of Contents Author

Title

Tony Gamez

The Farr Side Is On My Good Side

Sabrina Entrekin

All the Stars

Maddy Baliette

Didn‘t Want You To Get Hurt

Turner Barnett

Blue, Probably / Eleven

Jay Fancella

I Am

Daniel Elizondo

John and Teed

Tayler Farr

Colors of the Rainbow

Natalee Dunn

Limits

Nicolette Campbell

Mitsuko and Yuichiro

Romy Bernard

Inspired by The 1975‘s Song ―Me‖

Henry Del Bosque

All-Nighter

Jake Erb

Fate of the World

Rachel Sacks

A Tale of the Greatly Adored

Ashleigh Berry

Peaches / Sunday Night in December

Grace Sweeten

Carime

Annika Strout

Enough

Grace Sweeten

Family Faces

Mario Chavez

Fan Mail

Adrienne Comstock

My Time with YouTube

Sadie Seddon-Stettler

The Best and Worst Movies of 2015

Nissay Nassor

The Best Album of 2015

Colin Lanier

Playing With Fire

Taylor Johnson

An Elegy to Freedom / An Ode to Coffee

Savannah Hanson

The Shark Reef

Anna Giambelluca

Hero

Hannah Henderson

Swimming Frenzy / Canned Ham

George Anderson

Hunger

Anderson High School

Page

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Kelly Mullins

Humans With the Glassy Eyes

Katherine Cruz

Letters to Kat

Ana Dragomir

For Eternity

Ambika Sethi

The Link That Hold Us Together

Emmy Robbins

Breakout

Andy Nguyen

The Man, the Ring, and the Clock Tower

Hallie Sweeney

Should Have

Mary White

From Socks to Soaring / Things That Actually Mean Love

Samantha Pobst

Recovery

Sean Waters

From the Wii

Deven Washko

But Why?

Molly Thompson

Campers

Grace Hailey

Live a Little

Brett Bussey

Life

Julia Key

Crestfallen (Poems)

Vivian Francis

College Letters

Kolby Dunn

Thoughts to Ink (Poems)

Maddie Townsend

The Rightful Heir

Gabriel Blackburn

Over His Shoulders

Destiny Schneider

A Love Letter

Alexis Seaborn

Not a Psychopath

Riley Orr

Theatre Slut

Jancarlo Rodriguez

Andy & Oliver: Paw-Whipped

Hannah Shores

Why I‘m Going to Die

Maddy Baliette

Rainstorm

Sam Rogers

Pinky Promises and Ice Cream Cones

Maddie Townsend

Independence

Jay Fancella

Success

100

Emmy Robbins

One Last Thought

100

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

All the Stars By Sabrina Entrekin Amber ―Do you ever imagine how other people see the Earth?‖ I looked away from the starfilled sky and turned to my best friend. ―I mean, who are we to think that there is no other intelligent being in all of space?‖ ―Humans.‖ He smiles at his own bad joke. I chuckle slightly before adding, ―But really, any thoughts?‖ ―I can‘t control it, so I don‘t think about it.‖ Brandon turns over onto his side so that he can look at me, too. I think that he could see how unhappy I was with his answer, so he tried to continue. ―I‘ve never thought about it, but I do think you‘re right. There is no way for us to be the only ones with thoughts and dreams and the ability to look beyond where we are. I also don‘t think that there is a way to control or affect that, so I see no point in thinking about it.‖ ―You are so difficult.‖ He brushes a strand of his brown hair away from his eyes and smiles. ―I try.‖ We both turn back to the sky and watch a plane fly over a line of stars across the sky, its own lights seemingly brighter than the stars around it. ―What do you think the people in that plane are thinking?‖ I turn again, ignoring the plane as it disappears. ―What‘s with all the deep questions, Amber?‖ Brandon turns and our hands brush, causing both of us to move farther away from each other. I glance up again to see that the plane is gone and turn back to him before answering. ―I‘m just curious.‖ ―You‘re lying.‖ He looks at me pleadingly with his ridiculously dark brown eyes, but I really don‘t want to tell him what is wrong. ―Come on Amber. Tell me.‖ ―It‘s just,‖ there really is no good way to put this, it‘s going to be a hard blow no matter how I say it. ―I‘m moving.‖ ―That‘s fine, no permanent attachment to your house over here.‖ He is smiling because he doesn‘t know the whole story. ―Where are you moving?‖ I look back at the sky, and try to count the number of blinking lights in a particular spot, but I know it‘s no use. ―London.‖ He looks away from me and stares up at the sky. ―When?‖ ―Tomorrow.‖ I can see the look of hurt and betrayal on his face, but there is no way to remove it because I didn‘t have the strength to tell him before, and now there is no time for him to forgive me. Brandon Tomorrow. That single word destroys me in ways that I never thought were possible. I am nothing, a smoldering ruin that will never be safe to approach or rebuild. This explains so much. She has been so distant this last week, skipping movie night and avoiding me at school, all to hide that she is leaving me tomorrow. Tomorrow. How could she not tell me? I‘m her best friend; she used to tell me everything. I

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

quickly sit up and let my hands dangle over my knees. ―How long have you known?‖ I can‘t look at her, so I just listen as she pulls herself up and breaths deeply. ―A week.‖ Yeah, that sounds about right, just when she started acting funny. ―Why?‖ ―My dad got that job that he‘s been wanting for a couple years, but he got the position from a museum in London, not New York. You know my mum doesn‘t work and I‘m the only child, so they decided it would be okay to move. They avoided telling me until last week so that I would have time to pack and tell you, but they aren‘t going to change their minds. This is my dad‘s dream, and mum misses London.‖ I finally look at her and get trapped in those blue eyes that I have been looking at for as long as I can remember. We‘ve never really been apart, and now there is going to be an entire ocean between us. ―Does it have to be tomorrow?‖ My gaze returns to my hands, and I can hear her scoot closer until she gives me an awkward hug. ―That was my second question, and the answer is yes. My parents want the transition to be as quick and painless as possible, and they think moving during the weekend and resuming school the next Monday is the best idea.‖ ―Have I ever told you that your parents can be very stupid people?‖ I can feel her entire body shake with laughter until it turns into sobs, and she is crying against my shoulder, and I peel her arms off of me and turn myself to face her. Her eyes are red, tears are streaming down her face, and she refuses to look at me. I brush them from her cheeks and attempt to pull back every strand of her long, wavy, red hair. She eventually looks back up at me and smiles slightly. ―A million times,‖ she says quietly. We both lie back down and continue staring up, much closer to each other than before, but still not touching. ―Do you think the stars have thoughts?‖ I can see her brush away the last tears from her face before answering, ―No, I think the stars are something that scientists are actually right about. They‘re just a giant ball of gas.‖ ―I don‘t think so.‖ ―And why is that?‖ ―There are too many stars in the sky for none of them to have a thought.‖ ―You do realize that that made no sense, right?‖ ―You do realize that I don‘t care, right?‖ We look at each other and smile, and for some reason I see her differently than I ever have. Maybe it‘s the unusually bright sky, or the fact that she is leaving tomorrow, or maybe it‘s because I have finally tried to think like she does. I don‘t know why, but for some reason, I can see her as something more. Amber has always been my best friend, the person that I go to when I need to talk about something, and I had always thought that I loved her as a friend, as a sister even, but never like this. For some reason, I can see her as being my whole world, as already being everything that matters to me. Without looking away, I reach for her hand and intertwine our fingers together, and watch the most confused look cross her features as she stares at our hands. For a moment, I‘m afraid, I‘m scared that I‘ve made some irreparable mistake and that this single action will break us apart more than London, but it only takes one look from her to know that it is all right.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

She looks back up at me and smiles. It‘s breathtaking and all the assurance I need in this world or any other. Amber This past week I had felt like my life was spinning out of control, and that there was no way for me to grab anything that I could take with me as I was hurled into a new one, but his hand grounds me. The simple pressure of his fingers against mine gives me all the courage I need, and I know I was stupid to think that moving would ruin what we have. I‘m not going to let an ocean take away my best friend or whatever we may be now. I glance at our hands again, then turn my attention back to the sky to see that the stars have moved an almost imperceptible amount. Maybe it‘s silly to think that we caused the world to shift that little bit, but I like the idea almost as much as Brandon‘s thought that the stars can talk. Capella It worked out again. It always does. But not always this perfectly. I ignore Sirrah and look again to the couple on Earth, so unimportant, and yet as beautiful as any other stars I have ever seen. There have been so many over my life, and there will be many more, but I find something to remember about each one so that none are lost to time. You should stop staring, Capella, there are much more interesting worlds out there. Sirrah is right, but there is something about this one tiny blue and green planet that I believe requires special attention. You‟re just upset that your favorite planet was blown up a millennia ago. At least my planet had character. „Had‟ is the operative term. Yes, even stars fight and quarrel, just like those on Earth. There is no being that does not fight; it would defeat the purpose of having thoughts and individual desires. Do you think they will last? So you do care. No, only mild curiosity. Well, since you do care, I think they are going to last a lifetime. An Earth lifetime is nothing compared to the stars. Time is our only advantage. We are stars, what more do you want? I think about Sirrah‘s question and consider what more I want. The answer to that is simple for me. I want to be able to love like someone on Earth, to be able to have someone so completely important to you that nothing will stop you from being with them. I want gravity to hold me down and keep me in place, not push and pull at me until I am moved away from the ones I have come to know. Love. That‟s a simple answer, Capella. A simple answer is the best way to answer a question with billions of possibilities. Even for a star, you can be cryptic. I try.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Stop being so human. I ignore Sirrah and turn my focus back to the couple on Earth as Sun begins to block my view. Their new day is dawning, and soon they will see how strong they really are, but I won‘t know until another day sets and, for them, the stars come out again.

Didn’t Want You To Get Hurt By Maddy Baliette ―Annie was my best friend. You have to understand that. I didn‘t want to turn her in,‖ Hazel sobbed to the police officer across from her. ―Tell me what happened, Hazel. From the beginning.‖ Her watery eyes were pointed down; she focused on the scarf in her hands. She rotated it around and around, and proceeded to tell the story. Trying to conceal her hysteria unsuccessfully, she spoke. ―It all started the day before. We were talking in my room about Cece…‖ Hazel flashed back to the day when it all began. She sat on her bed, attempting to brush through her obnoxious, tangled curls that never seemed to reflect the amount of time she spent struggling to tame them. Annie was sprawled out on the floor beside the bed. ―It‘s like she‘s trying to make my life miserable,‖ Hazel said, avoiding eye contact. ―She has to comment on everything I do. Every little thing.‖ ―What do you mean?‖ Annie asked with sincerity. She had this strange sense that she had to protect Hazel. The two girls were best friends, but they sometimes felt like extensions of one another; it was as if they weren't whole people on their own. Hazel sighed and looked down at the plain white comforter that covered her plain white bed sheets. ―She teases me about everything, it‘s just not funny to me anymore.‖ Annie shook her head; she always empathized with Hazel. ―I could take care of it for you. I‘m good with stuff like this. I can handle it, if you want,‖ she offered calmly yet forcefully. Annie was aggressive and dramatic; she was quick to react on an impulse. She had these dark green eyes that were so mesmerizing that it was difficult to look at her for long. Her hair was long and shiny. She always looked beautiful, and she was very good at pretending like it was effortless. Annie was exceptionally intimidating in a sort of fascinating and tantalizing way. She had tons of friends, but Hazel never met any of them. She heard stories of all the adventures that Annie and her picturesque friends went on. She listened to Annie talk about the boys they met, all the parties they sneaked into, and secret trips to the city, with great interest and awe. Hazel always felt lucky to be friends with someone like her. The two girls never went to the same school; they only became friends because they were neighbors at a young age. They grew up relying on each other for companionship, and Hazel never felt like she needed anyone else. One dreaded day, Hazel moved away. Only two miles away, but she felt like she would never see Annie again. Somehow, Annie saw something in Hazel that intrigued her: her willingness to be molded and led. She treated her almost like a project; as if she was trying to fix anything that ever went wrong in Hazel‘s life. Needless to say, two miles could not separate Annie and Hazel. ―No, it‘s fine. I‘ll handle it. It‘s just dumb high school stuff, you know? I just want her gone, like just out of my life for good. I‘ll figure something out,‖ said Hazel, trying to hide her Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

pain behind a façade of apathy. Cece Horton, a ruthless, shallow girl who had an ongoing hatred for Hazel, was relentlessly teasing her at school. Cece had no reason to hate her, for Hazel never did anything that was intended to hurt anyone. Hazel was simply an easy target; she wouldn‘t put forth any effort to stop the bullying. She was too unsure of herself and too afraid of confrontation to attempt it. Hazel didn‘t have any friends. Other than Annie, that is. She wore thick-framed glasses that constantly slid down her elephantine nose and hid most of her simple face. She had eyes that she described as ―blueish/greenish‖ and unruly brunette curls. She was humble looking, nothing spectacular. That seemed to define her life as well. ―You know I can fix this for you. I‘ll get rid of her if you want, I—‖ ―Hazel, sweetie? Dinner‘s ready, come set the table.‖ Hazel‘s mother‘s voice sounded from downstairs. She was an older woman with greying hair who tried her best to keep Hazel in a bubble; she didn‘t want her getting hurt. This was Annie‘s cue to leave; Ms. Waterson never approved of the girls‘ friendship. She dismissed Annie as a ‗bad influence‘ on her darling daughter. Hazel always thought that she made her move houses so many years ago to try to get rid of Annie. ―Don‘t worry, I‘ll take care of it. She won‘t be bothering you tomorrow,‖ Annie said, slipping on her shoes. ―Byeeee!‖ ―Damn it, Annie. Don‘t do anything, please!!‖ Hazel called as Annie waved her manicured hand and slid out of the door that connected Hazel‘s room to the rest of the modest house. Annie didn‘t respond to Hazel‘s plea, but she shouted a farewell to Ms. Waterson as she opened the front door to leave. She got no response. The police officer nodded and nudged the recording device closer to Hazel‘s side of the table. ―Tell me about the next morning. What happened when you woke up the next day?‖ He inquired. Hazel had stopped crying now. She wiped her nose and began talking again, this time in a less hysterical tone. ―My mom came in my room and woke me up early. She said there was something she wanted to talk to me about something downstairs. She seemed worried, more than usual...‖ Hazel‘s clock read 7:30 AM. Far earlier than she needed to be awake. She knew something out of the ordinary had happened for her mother to need to talk to her before school. She didn‘t think too much of it, though. Her mother was easily shaken up, so it was probably nothing. Hazel looked around her room. It was flooded with the clean light of the morning. Her room was very simple; she didn‘t feel the need to decorate. It had a bed, a desk, and a large bookshelf that took up most of the space. Hazel lived vicariously through her books, so much so that she often didn‘t feel the need to live her own life. Hazel didn‘t much care for taking risks like the characters in her favorite books. She was a very curious girl, but only from afar. She didn‘t want to have to face any difficult challenges in her life, but loved hearing about them.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Hazel rubbed her sleepy eyes and started down the stairs. Ms. Waterson stood in the kitchen; her wrinkled hands grasped a spatula. She seemed to have forgotten that she was holding it, since the pancakes were already on two plates in front of her. ―What is it mom?‖ Hazel asked rather curiously. Her mother was a very intentional and punctual woman; it wasn‘t like her to stare off into space doing nothing. Ms. Waterson‘s hair was drawn back into a tight, grey bun with frizzy wisps of hair framing her face. When someone looked at her, it was obvious that she had once been beautiful, but that beauty had since faded. She had deep wrinkles around her dull, pale eyes that left her looking like she was in a constant state of worry. This was somewhat true. Hazel‘s question drew her out of her trance, and she began to speak. ―You remember the Horton family that lives on Point Bluff? Sweet girl, Cece? Good family,‖ She didn‘t make eye contact with her daughter while speaking. Her eyes were fixed on the untouched food in front of her. ―Yes. I wouldn‘t exactly describe her as sweet, though.‖ Hazel recalled the conversation that she and Annie had yesterday about the teasing. Ms. Waterson turned the spatula over and over in her shaking hands. She gulped silently before attempting to speak about what had clearly been bothering her. ―Well, I heard sirens last night at about 3 AM. I went outside to see what it was all about. I didn‘t bother waking you up, you‘re such a deep sleeper.‖ ―Mom, what happened?‖ Hazel was tired of her mother always trying to delay the inevitable. In this instance, it was the end of her story. ―I talked to a police officer,‖ she gulped, ―He said that… Well, honey, Cece was killed. Mr. Horton heard a noise last night and he happened to look out his window that overlooks that pool that they have. He saw Cece just floating there, face down.‖ Hazel was silent. Her face had lost its pigment. ―And the thing is, Cece was on the swim team. She‘s a great swimmer. So, the police think it was…a murder,‖ Ms. Waterson lost it. Tears poured out of her apprehensive, faded blue eyes with force. ―There is strong evidence of a struggle, it looks like someone just held her there—underwater, I mean. I just don‘t know who could have, I just, I guess I just don‘t know, Hazel.‖ Hazel didn‘t know what to feel. The girl who had caused her pain and mortification in the past was gone. It seems cruel, but the first emotion Hazel felt was relief. This was soon replaced with remorse and a heap of confused grief. She said nothing; she merely stared at the food in front of her, much like her mom had previously. Her mother soon told her that school had been cancelled since it was too painful for the kids to go back to their normal schedule so quickly. She suggested that Hazel go back upstairs and lie down. Hazel walked in a trance up to her room with the white walls and large book collection; she stared at her bare feet the whole time. Everything just confused her. As she stepped into the doorframe, she heard a familiar voice from inside. ―What‘s up with you, why do you look so shitty?‖ Hazel looked up sharply to see Annie sitting on the floor, her back against the colorful bookshelf. It wasn‘t an unusual occurrence for Annie to show up uninvited. She‘d figured out a way to climb up to Hazel‘s window and surprise her. ―Uh, hey,‖ Hazel began, unsure of how to explain. ―My mom just told me that girl we were talking about yesterday, you know, Cece…‖ ―The bitch is dead. I know that already. I asked why you look like that, all sad and stuff,‖

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Annie snickered to herself. She never got confused about her emotions like Hazel did. ―What do you mean, how could you already know that? And a girl I know, er knew, is DEAD. That kinda has an effect on people,‖ Hazel was letting all of her jumbled up emotions get the best of her. She never snapped at Annie, but she could have been a little more understanding. ―You wanted her gone, don‘t pretend that you didn‘t,‖ Annie cooed, and looked down at her nails. ―Not dead, Annie. How did you hear about it anyway?‖ Annie‘s response scared Hazel slightly. She was so unconcerned with a murder that had happened only right up the street. Hazel wondered why she could care so little. ―And why are you acting so weird about it?‖ ―Oh please, everyone here already knows. The sirens woke me up. And why would I care about some girl getting murdered? I didn‘t know her, and from what you‘ve told me, she deserved everything she got.‖ Hazel was getting more and more concerned about her friend. She knew Annie was quick to react on an impulse, no matter how wrong it was. Hazel didn‘t think that Annie was capable of anything like… God, she couldn‘t even bring herself to think it. ―Don‘t talk like that, she didn‘t deserve to get murdered. Annie, you live like two miles away, how could you hear sirens? Where‘d you sleep last night?‖ ―They were really loud.‖ ―You didn‘t do anything, right? Like you didn‘t try to protect me and do something—‖ ―Seriously? I didn‘t murder anyone. But if I did, you shouldn‘t be all upset about it. You wanted her gone.‖ ―Not MURDERED,‖ Hazel exclaimed a little bit too loud. ―Calm down. You‘re completely over reacting. I‘m leaving. I‘ll come back later after you chill a little.‖ Annie clearly disapproved of Hazel‘s reaction to the news. She sincerely thought Hazel would have been excited about it. I mean, why wouldn‘t she? Someone who had caused her pain was gone, out of her life completely. The officer nodded, remaining composed and collected. ―I know it seems obvious,‖ Hazel continued. ―At that point, I kinda knew something weird was going on. I didn‘t want to jump to conclusions, that‘s just not who I am. I think through everything with scrutiny. I think and think and overthink. I guess that I was just interested in her reaction. It was weird, but not really unlike Annie. She‘s all mysterious, she wants people to be confused by her. That‘s just the kind of person she is, you know?‖ ―I understand, Hazel. What happened next?‖ Hazel exhaled quickly. ―Well, this is when it became clear to me what she did. It was so hard to realize that someone I loved, well, love so much is capable of something like… well,‖ her voice was shaky again. She tried to get herself together quickly and be of more help. ―I went for a walk. To clear my head. I wanted to go by the Horton‘s house and see what it was like over there. I didn‘t intend to get involved; I wanted to watch from a distance and see what was going on.‖ Hazel left the house without explaining to her mother where she was intending to go. Her bare feet struck the cold asphalt quickly as she speed-walked to the corner of her street. It was a quiet neighborhood in Cape May, New Jersey with white picket fences and ―three quarter inch‖ grass. She noticed the serenity of the whole place. It was beautiful, picturesque, even. It‟s so peculiar, Hazel thought, that all of the houses look the same as yesterday. Everything is exactly

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

the same as before. It‟s like even the neighborhood is pretending that everything is still safe and wonderful. Everything felt different to Hazel, though. She arrived in front of the Horton‘s house at 9 AM. It seemed that every news station and police officer in the state was there as well. A beautiful young girl was killed; it was a great story. Hazel stared at the house and took in every detail. The white pillars and brown stones. It looked like an old timey plantation; Hazel despised that kind of pretentious architecture. She noticed that thick, opaque curtains covered all of the windows. Guess they didn‘t want all of the attention for once. She scanned the lawn slowly and tried to find anything out of the ordinary. Blue bicycle, sprinkler head, three cars parked in the driveway, Annie‘s scarf… ―Describe where it was, on the lawn that is,‖ The officer crossed his legs and stared at Hazel intently. ―I saw it next to the gate that connects their front yard to the back yard. I guess no one had noticed it yet. I went to go get it, I don‘t know why. Maybe I wanted to protect Annie subconsciously. I don‘t know why.‖ ―Okay, and then what?‖ ―I knew it was her who did it. It was a sudden thing. Like I already had an idea in the back of my mind, but all of the sudden I knew that I was actually right. I felt… accomplished almost. It was a strange feeling. Then when I reached the scarf, I got really upset. I realized the reality of the situation that I was in; I ran home so quickly after I picked it up. I just wanted to tell someone about it. So I went to go tell my mom. She flipped out, I don‘t blame her though. And she called you, I guess. And that‘s where we are now.‖ The officer nodded again. He treated Hazel like a delicate vase that might break if he said something wrong. He was very particular about what he chose to say. ―Okay, Hazel. Thank you for explaining.‖ He looked uneasy. ―This may be hard for you to understand, but Annie didn‘t kill Cece.‖ ―Yes, she did. I know she did, officer. If she spoke to someone already, don‘t believe her.‖ Hazel‘s eyes were wild. She assumed that her friend had lied to the police, convinced them that she was innocent. Hazel loved her best friend, but she knew she needed help. ―No, she didn‘t. Annie isn‘t… well, here, let‘s have your mom explain it to you…‖ He got up quickly and opened the door. Behind it was Hazel‘s mother. She looked as if she had aged 10 years in the past few hours. Her eyes were all cried out. The officer whispered to her something inaudible that Hazel couldn‘t understand. Extremely confused, upset with herself, and hugely furious with Annie, Hazel glanced at her mother. ―Honey, I always wanted to tell you this. I‘ll be frank with you because I think you deserve it. Your brain is a little bit… different from most people‘s.‖ Hazel waited patiently for her mother to get to the point. ―Well, Honey, Annie is made up. She was a friend that you made up when you were little. An imaginary friend. We all thought it was sweet, but then you got older. You started isolating yourself from everyone else. She‘s not real, Hazel. You made her up.‖ ―Mom, no, I didn‘t, you‘ve seen her. I don‘t know what you‘re talking about; she comes over to our house every day. STOP lying!‖ Hazel was furious. She screamed at her mother, ―ANNIE IS REAL. ANNIE KILLED CECE.‖ Her eyes were wild and violent. Hazel‘s mom looked afraid of her daughter, but continued. ―Hazel, you killed Cece.‖ Hazel screamed, ―WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS, YOU KNOW THAT‘S NOT TRUE!‖

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

―You do these things and you don‘t remember them. You think it was Annie, but Annie is not real. It was you. Sweetie, I love you, but you need help. Everything will be okay,‖ Ms. Waterson looked as if the words were physically hurting her as they left her quivering lips. Hazel screamed and thrashed in her chair. ―YOU‘RE LYING STOP LYING! STOP—‖ Hazel woke up in an unfamiliar room with plain white walls. The last thing she remembered was screaming at her mother. She looked around, her mind racing. There was a bracelet on her wrist that resembled a hospital band. She had no idea where she was. Suddenly, she heard a snobby voice from one of the corners of the room. ―Miss me? God, you were acting crazy back there.‖ Annie was sitting nonchalantly in the corner, applying a coat of lipstick. She had never looked more real.

Blue, probably. By Turner Barnett I step outside and shade my eyes from the blaring sun. I adjust to the light and take a look up at the sky, a beautiful shade of. . . Blue, probably. To my left, the definitely green grass is vibrant and full of life. The large dark brown tree covers half of the house from outside view. The pale cement of my driveway looks so bland next to all the green. Red, yellow, purple, orange, and other colors adorn the green stems of various flowers. The purple flower looks like my shirt. The red is like my freckles. The sun starts to set and the sky begins to turn crimson. The blue starts to fade into the purple but the purple also looks red but the red looks yellow but the yellow looks like that flower over to my left but that yellow flower is just like the orange flower next to it but that looks like the red flower but the red flower is like my freckles but the red looks like the purple but the purple is my shirt which looks just like the dark brown tree. Everything mixes together and it confuses me. I step inside to get away from all the color. In my bathroom I look right at the mirror. I stare myself in the face. I look in my eyes. What do I see? Blue, probably.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Eleven By Turner Barnett You were born when you were 0, surprise. You started talking when you were almost 1. Their marriage wasn‘t goin‘ too hot when you were 2. There was no marriage when you were 3. You swung on a swing when you were 4 Your mom found a new hubby when you were 5. When you were 6, you got a dog. You‘ve always loved dachshunds, you had 3. There‘s only 1 now, so you can focus all your love on him. You busted your head open when you were 7. You probably lost like 10 brain cells, You don‘t really know how many you would lose. When you were 8, punches started to tickle for some reason. At 9, mom and steppy would argue like no tomorrow, and you‘d lie awake. Listening. Then tomorrow came and you‘d just wait for it to start again. At 10, brother‘s punches didn‘t hurt anymore and your Nana passed away. Cancer. You were picking out clothes for the funeral of her inevitable death when you found out. Mom collapsed and you saw steppy feel emotion for the first time. You wake up every day and you have to tell this to yourself. But if you‘re so forgetful wouldn‘t you forget to tell yourself? Is any of it true? Nowadays people laugh at your crappy memory, Because it‘s funny when you forget your homework, Or what you were trying to say, Or what your homework was, Or what your best friend‘s name is. And every year you forget a year prior, and the list moves up a slot. This year it‘s 11. Next year you‘ll forget what happened when you were 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17. . . But you‘re only at 11, so make a wish. And maybe if it comes true, one day you‘ll remember this.

Anderson High School

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block

2015-2016

I Am By Jay Fancella I am the one Made of sand. Look at the darkness In my hand. I am your pride Torn to shreds. Look at the fight Inside my head. I am the fire Burnt to dust. Look at the metal Condemned to rust. I am the dark That burns the light. Look at the stars, All dead, but bright. Who am I? You ask. I am your nightmares, Your life, your past. And I don't go away.

John and Teed By Daniel Elizondo John Teed: a light man, not small nor short, but bright with sunny hair, woke in a bed that was too big for just him. Clean and proper as his solid brown suit, tight and polished as his shoes, Teed arose from his draped bed that rested directly on the floor. Fixing the disorder that he left behind him, he pulled and swished his fluff-filled blanket, first, over the entire bed including the pillows, secondly, taking the top eighth of the cover and folding it over itself, allowing it to rest a desirable distance away from the construct of pillows. In his plaid pajamas, he continued toward his wooden dresser. Then he heard the train. John shook with the rumble of the room. Teed remained calm and cringed at the rattling of his porcelain and glass possessions dancing off-center. The tumbling stopped. Teed stalked towards his dresser and replaced his gifts and decorations back to their original position. Teedâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s hand shook slightly, although the room was still, and he could hear John whispering. Look in the mirror.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Teed shifted his eyes towards the large mirror connected on top of his wooden dresser. He saw his own eyes, big, brown and bright. He could see himself hidden in his own eyes. Teed could no longer see himself in the mirror. After staring at him for too long, he no longer felt his own presence, disillusioned and separated from his own form, he felt himself tear away into the mirror, dissipate into the background, and become the same as the objects that were the plane of the mirror. He was only a portrait. And Teed knew it. John did too. Teed? Teed could not respond. He had not the strength. Look at me, Teed. Teed was. He already was. You have a nice nose, Teed. Teed thought thanks. You haven‟t talked to me in a while, Teed. Teed said nothing. You hear me, don‟t you. Teed agreed. He heard him clearly. Your hair looks sunny today. Get dressed. Teed undressed from his pajamas. You‟re quite attractive, Teed. Teed ducked below the mirror and pulled out a white button-down, a yellow tie, and a pair of brown pants from the dresser. He walked to the closet and pulled his brown tweed jacket from it. Teed returned to the mirror. Teed saw a handsome man, a strong nose, well-kept hair, and a clean face. Teed saw these features separate from the whole as he tore from himself again into the mirror. I like the quiet. Teed did too. I‟m glad. It‟s nice to just listen to me every once in a while. Teed‘s pupils widened, his face started to shiver, and he was suffocating inside himself. Breathe, Teed. Take a big breath. Teed felt himself do so, but the air was not present. Good. Feel better. Relax. Teed did nothing. You like my voice. Teed liked John‘s voice. It was quiet. You need to brush your teeth, Teed. Teed knew John was right; his mouth tasted bad now. Teed‘s vision blurred and John retreated for the moment. Teed paced towards the bathroom. Teed carefully opened the door by wringing the brass knob. He shifted his body inside, twisted the other side of the knob, and decelerated the door to a stop so that when it closed, it closed silently. Teed stood in front of his bathroom mirror and once again disappeared inside the reflection in his eyes that was John. Grab the toothpaste, Teed. Teed did so. Grab the brush. Teed squeezed the paste onto his brush, holding it the air in front of himself and looked into the mirror.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Open your mouth. Brush now. Teed followed John. Spit. Teed lowered his head with the weight of gravity and spat into the sink. Good. Teed had no strength. His sense of order became a sense of himself, and felt the earth crush him down, starting from his head to his feet. The room shook. Teed‘s weight became less when his objects were becoming random. His purpose held onto the glass cups on the bathroom counter, standing them still. He could hear the porcelain and glass shake across his room, becoming alive, something different. You don‟t like that, do you. Teed did not answer. He dissolved. John was not there, nor was Teed. The mirror shook the object of his face, making it dance. Teed could not breathe. He felt a pressure growing inside him. It shut his mouth and his mind closed, and Teed could only stare at a handsome nothing. The rumbling stopped. Teed blinked. He felt that it was a long blink and opened his eyes again. Teed saw himself for the first time in a long time. ―Stop,‖ I said. I can‘t handle this anymore, I need to leave. I have work now. I left the bathroom and closed the door behind me, silently, as before. I need to leave now. I got out, with another closed door, and went away. The room danced.

Colors of the Rainbow By Tayler Farr Depression is gray. It‘s the feeling of feeling absolutely nothing at all; pure numbness. It‘s the sound of silent screaming inside your skull that you attempt but fail to keep quiet.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Depression is red. It‘s when your fingertips tremble and you can feel the rush of blood flowing to your head. And you hear the pulse of your threaded heart as you lie in your bed. It‘s what you undergo when you have a constant fire running through your vein, destroying everything in its wake. Depression is black. It‘s the taste of rusting metal on the tip of your tongue, cutting off every good taste you‘ve ever experienced. It‘s the endless hole that you continue to climb out of only to fall back into every time. Depression is blue. It‘s similar to standing in the ocean alone and the waves crashing on you, taking you under each time you come up to take a breath. It‘s drowning, your body aching for air, but everyone else seems to have limitless oxygen in their lungs and you‘re obligated to simply observe. Depression is yellow. It‘s when the muscles on your face start to ache from faking a smile. And you can taste the salt from your tears running down to your lips. Depression is almost every color, for nearly every moment of the day as it lingers. There might be sparks of pink, Maybe even a beautiful tangerine, But never green.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Limits By Natalee Dunn The beats begin to vibrate through us and the screams become deafening. Thump. Thump. Thump. As the rhythm grows bigger and faster, my heartbeat follows in sync. Every cell in my body begins to vibrate, and my body starts moving in ways I am not controlling. The crowd‘s aura becomes expectant. The moment we all waited for comes. The beat drops. The crowd goes wild and everyone is jumping. Colorful miniature paper streamers fill the sky, mixing with the clouds of smoke into this still, colorful, atmosphere. It‘s as if everything freezes and no one is really moving. A piece falls onto my finger and I study it. The rough texture crinkles when I press another finger to it, and it falls from my grasp. We come back down to reality, and we all just stare in this dazed trance of untroubled acceptance that we do not control ourselves anymore. He does. The weather changes and it begins to sprinkle. The paper crunches under our feet and sweaty bodies meet. As the raindrops touch our skin, something shifts. The bass line becomes heavier and quicker. Suddenly, the rain falls dense and rapid. The crowd begins to jump, and our sleek bodies move faster. No one is leaving due to the downpour; we greet it. We welcome in the beads of water that cleanse us. All the negativity fades away and the notes echo in our souls. There is no I. There is only us. We are fused together under this hymn that speaks to all of us. All the pain, the stress, the joys we experience—we share them. We feel them, embrace them, and are mesmerized by them. The rain falls away, and the scene clears. The DJ has left and the audience fades. I look to my friend and her expression of wild emotion mirrors mine. No words can be properly expressed. We felt something we will never forget and the only way to describe it is: ―That was dope.‖

Mitsuko and Yuichiro By Nicolette Campbell He smiled. With every ounce of energy left in his muscles, he smiled. Then, he cried. Even though it stormed outside in Biei, unusual for Hokkaido at this time, Yuichiro Hiraizumi shook on his knees, cradling the burnt leather journal. His crying synced into the melancholy rhythm of the rain, splattering the stone walkway outside with slick tears, and his sniffles were only outdone by slow claps of thunder that rolled over the village. He held the binder of paper to his chest, trying to sweep the flaking and burning pieces into his free hand. As a

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

scientist, he couldn‘t care less if the secret to decoding cancer and the perfect gene sequence for poxviruses that could undo tumors were in that book. At that moment he wouldn‘t care if she had hair or not, just that she could still hold his hand with hers, and run her thumb over the many years of sunspots and scars from fishing trips they would take with their two children. He walked with a limp; Polio could be devastating in 1950‘s Japan if you died, or even more if you ended up disabled. But, Mitsuko didn‘t seem to care about his crooked smile or cane. And he would pay anything to hear her frustrated mumbles as he dissected the ikebana that was the model for her sumi-e painting again. He had one of her works still up on the small wall next to the kitchen; a giant 4x4 of the wisteria blossoms in perfect hues of purple and blue against a subtle green background. Yuichiro was not a stupid man, and while the larger of her collection hung in glass vaults around his daughter‘s house back in Texas, he didn‘t want to lose the last bit of her that he had: her rawest work. The sketches of bluebonnets and almond blossoms (that are close enough to the cherry ones in Japan) clung to the worn binding wearily and eventually fell to the floor. She was always artistic, graceful. And his complementing clumsiness resulted in knocking her drawings into the small pit fire in the center of the small table. A few more of his tears fell onto the pages, making the ash mix into grey paint splatters over her watercolor ideas of swans and mountains. ―Mitsuko wa, go yōsha kudasai,‖ he began whimpering between jagged breaths and uncontrolled crying. ―Watashi wa, anata o aishiteimasu.‖ She was never ashamed of her heritage. That was the issue. She was never ashamed of anything. Not going to America, not leaving behind everything she knew or even that she was the only Asian woman in the entire Austin community. She wasn‘t afraid either, and now he was understanding why she didn‘t get scared. Of cancer, that is. It was to be expected that the years of smoking gave him the disease, but she didn‘t do anything wrong, and what didn‘t follow the scientific and calculated expectations was that she didn‘t seem to worry too much either. She‘d stay at home painting her memorized flowers when the chemo didn‘t let her continue to teach at the University of Texas. And, even with the new bandanas that appeared on her balding head and the fragility growing through her, Yuichiro would always come home from work to a bowl of steamed rice and oyster mushrooms with chawanmushi waiting for him at the table. Every day, she‘d be there with the egg pudding and a cup of tea in her hands. When she was restricted to a bed that sat viewing mountain laurel in the spring, when she could no longer lift herself up, did Yuichiro realize she wouldn‘t live forever? By now, he was dabbing the teardrops away with his shirt, and gently laying the broken pictures on the table to glue back together. The designs were ingrained in his mind anyway. But as he placed them together, he remembered why she wasn‘t scared: because she let go of old beliefs and accepted fate was not in her control. She allowed the hum of gospels to fill the barren air, and she‘d quietly pray while he‘d begin eating his rice. Yuichiro was a geneticist, and to him the idea that a three-dimensional deity could exist in our two dimensional universe was absurd. Yet, he found himself looking back, and wondering if maybe it was less probability and more blessing that she spent hours listening to him talk on their first date at the traditional bathhouse. He wondered if it was coincidence or not that the mountain laurel bloomed in full the day she passed. While the remains of her love and dedication to an art were left in worn pieces on his squat table, his mind began to stray from scientific approaches and let the ashes and smeared ink fill his mind instead. The Chinese idea of Yin and Yang is similar to Shinto‘s creation story, and Yuichiro was starting to process the nature of falling without calculated projection and trusting in what you

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

can't understand. Mitsuko‘s best talent was her passion and love for everything that surrounded her, and as he held onto her paper soul, he began to embrace her philosophy and understanding of how life flows. And finally, he was content.

Inspired by The 1975’s song “Me” By Romy Bernard The funny thing about addiction is You always can go back and see what sparked it. You can go back and see what event made you use, And then use more And then use too much. So, when I said I‘d rather be high than watch my family die, I was expressing the beginning of a problem. Watching the fights, seeing the bruises, On me, on my mom, on my brother, on my sister. Waiting for the day we leave, begging for the day. So, while I waited, I was numb. No, not even numb; I was cold. Wanting to leave, but not, wanting to die, but not, Wanting, but not having. It started with a cigarette, then a pipe, then a line, then a pill. It ended with a blade, and a bottle, and a hospital bill. The thing with addiction is You never know when to stop, or how to stop. You can‘t stop until it‘s too late And you‘re dea—

All-Nighter By Henry Del Bosque 7:30 Friday night and here I am, stuck working the late shift. Of course, when the boss called me up and said, ―Trent, I know this is gonna suck, but can you come in for the 7 to 2 shift? The guy I had working came down with the flu and there‘s no one else available,‖ I had to take it. Screw it, I didn‘t have any plans for tonight anyways. So what if I‘m here at the QuikMart and everyone else is out partying? At least I‘m making a little extra on my next paycheck and don‘t gotta deal with loud music, louder people, and constantly having a drink shoved into

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

my hands. I just sit behind the counter, watch the security cams and take care of the occasional late-night customer. Not like it‘s a big store or anything, just 5 rows of basic stuff and a wall of fridges with soda, beer, water, and whatever else a convenience store and gas station is supposed to have. Doesn‘t feel like a busy night, anyways. Only bad thing is that I‘m here, mostly alone. At night. Across the highway from the forest. At night… Well, this is gonna be a long one. I‘ve got no reason to be scared, but it must be the childish fear part of my brain telling me that the dark plus the woods equals a bad time. C‘mon Trent, you‘ve been camping plenty of times before, you‘ve walked through those woods enough to know that there‘s nothing that‘s gonna come creeping out to snack on you. You went to Joe McGillis‘ New Year‘s party out by the old quarry where there‘s nothing but trees surrounding you and only the moon to light the area around you. That was a good night, you hung out in the woods with Joe and his group, plenty of people around you to make you feel safe; the woods all calm in the dark with moonlight peeking through the branches and everything. But tonight doesn‘t feel like that, does it? 8:20 I almost fell asleep just now, but thank heavens for that t-liiing noise the bell on the door makes when it opens. First customer looks like an out-oftowner, probably making the long haul on a trip that passes through town. Poor guy looks exhausted. Knew it, he‘s heading for the fridges, got his eyes on the myriad of energy drinks back there. Also grabbing a thing of mini-donuts—you go buddy, keep those eyes open. ―Stuck working the night shift, huh? That blows.‖ Oh, you have no idea. ―Yup, the normal guy got sick, so I had to fill in for him. ‘Least I‘m earning a little extra on my next paycheck, so it‘s not all bad.‖ ―Always gotta look on the bright side, I guess. Thank God you guys are a 24/7 store, I wouldn‘t have been able to make it through the next couple of hours if I didn‘t get some caffeine pronto.‖ ―Where you headed?‖ ―Going to see my folks for a bit. They live down in Kansas. I‘m in Winnipeg right now for work, and I decided a scenic drive through a few states might be the best way to spend my time off from work.‖ ―Well, best of luck to you. That‘ll be 6.50.‖ ―Thanks man, same to you. These late shifts can be absolutely killer.‖ And with that, he‘s out the door. Now I‘m alone again. Should‘ve brought a book or something.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

9:00 Well, I found out that there‘s an outlet near the counter, and the store has surprisingly good phone service. It‘s usually so busy when I‘m working that I never have a chance to check for that kind of thing. This should go by a lot faster with some mindless Internet browsing. Boss shouldn‘t get too sore at me for it—at least I‘m not sleeping on the job. 9:15 All right, now we‘re in business, phone‘s back on. For some reason, I had the wonderful idea of going through an urban legends forum that had a topic about my area. This should totally not freak me the hell out. Not like there‘s going to be anything else for me to do tonight except glance at the security cameras every once in a while to make sure there‘s no one rooting around in the garbage or trying to jimmy the lock on the back door. Back to my browsing. According to the site I‘m on, the woods in this area are a part of some urban legend of called the Wendigo or something like that. Something having to do with cannibalism if the website is anything to go on. Lurks in the woods and feeds off of people dumb enough to be caught in there after dark. Man, just think, I‘ve been in those woods plenty of times after dark and I‘m still here. There‘s your legend debunked, no dark force of nature gnawing on my bones, no sir. 9:50 Ten till 10, and I‘m just staring at the security feeds right now. I‘m gonna have to start sweeping up at some point, but for right now I‘m putting that off as long as I can. The view on the screen isn‘t the most exciting thing to look at, but hey, I gotta do something. No one‘s come in since that last guy, makes me kind of nervous to be honest. You‘d think that there‘d be at least a few people coming in here looking for a drink, some junk food, or maybe some cigarettes; not tonight, though. Just me here, staring dead-eyed at a view of the dumpster and the woods behind the store and a pair of glowing eyes in the woods and… rubbing my eyes, I look back at the screen and there‘s nothing there, no eyes staring from the woods. Maybe looking at that urban legends forum wasn‘t the best idea ‘cause I‘m starting to see things. God damn, this is going to be a long night. 10:15 And now for the nightly walk-about. Stepping out from behind the counter, I walk through the rows and check over the things we‘ve got for sale, making sure it‘s all in the right place. No reason for it not to be, only one person‘s been through here tonight. Where the hell is everyone? Tap Tap TapTapTapTap The hell is that? Stepping over to the front door and poking my head out, I look around to make sure there‘s no one out here that‘s trying to pull one over on me. Nothing around, just the streetlamps and rustle of wind through the trees. Farther down the way, there‘s someone standing under one of the streetlamps. Looks like a tall guy, and he‘s just kinda… standing there, not really doing anything. Suddenly the streetlamp flickers and he‘s gone.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

What the f— No, no, nononono. I‘m seeing things and I‘m being paranoid and I shouldn‘t have taken this shift. It‘s only about 10 o‘clock, why the hell am I being like this? It‘s not that late, and I‘ve only heard you start hallucinating when you‘re super sleep-deprived. I got plenty of sleep the night before and I made sure to have a Red Bull before clocking in and— He‘s closer, the guy standing under that one lamp is closer now. He‘s standing under the next lamp and he‘s looking into the woods. It‘s so damn dark I can barely even see him. Why am I still out here, I should be running back into the store and locking the door. WHY AM I STILL STANDING OUT HERE?! I call out to him, ―Hey, you doing ok over there?‖ My voice echoes into the empty air and the only other thing I can hear is the cold wind rushing through the trees like a ghostly whisper. He cocks his head like a dog and slowly turns to face me. He answers back, ―Hey, you doing ok over there?‖ My voice comes out of his mouth, but it sounds like a recording of my voice underwater being slowed down, mixed with that whining noise a dog makes when it‘s scared. It sounds like a person speaking for the first time, slowly trying out the words. The lamp flickers, and the man moves towards me in a loping, shuddering gait that looks he‘s in a film that‘s being sped up, but he‘s moving at normal speed. My nerve shatters along with any hope I had of this being a nice, calm shift, and I sprint back into the store with a primal fear pressing in on my mind. T-liiing. The door shuts, and I scramble to lock it, running and hopping the counter after I do. Cowering with my back against the counter, I take a few frantic breaths when I hear from outside, ―Doiiiing ok over theerrrrre?‖ 10:20 My heart is pounding in my chest as I peek over the edge of the counter. Just empty rows of junk food. My heart beats faster as I look over to the door, expecting to see whatever I saw outside standing there, peering in at me. There‘s nothing there, there‘s nothing standing there. Slowly, I stand up and crane my neck to try and get a better look outside. Nothing. Am I tripping or something? Am I going through some sort of breakdown? I‘m not stressed at all, so what the hell is happening to me? I look at the security feeds and see it switch from the backdoor camera view to the front door camera, and on the edge of the lit-up area there‘s something standing there. I can see thin legs in dark, ragged jeans with busted-up shoes on the feet. Pale arms that are too long and end in hands with long fingers hang at its sides. It‘s wearing a ripped-up flannel and the face is in shadow, but two glowing eyes like stars stare into the camera in a look that‘s quizzical yet threatening. The feed switches again, and my heart is back to beating nearly out of my chest. ―Ok oooverrr therrreee?‖ It‘s the same messed up voice from outside. Somehow I can still hear it and whatever it is, it‘s standing right outside of my store. 10:30 Still cowering behind the counter with my heart drumming a staccato rhythm against my chest, I close my eyes and will the thing outside to go away. If I try and call someone, they‘d

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

never believe me, probably think I‘m having a bad trip at work or something. I want to wake up, this dream isn‘t fun anymore, why is this happening to me? Just my goddamn luck that the night I choose the late shift is the night that this shit starts to happens—whatever this shit is. Help is not on the way, I‘ve gotta get out of here on my own. I can‘t stay here with that thing out here until morning. Not gonna happen, no sir. Think think think, you‘ve seen this movie before. Creepy man-thing harassing a high school student in the dead of night, you can do this. ―Ooooverrrrr therrrrree?‖ BANG! BANG! BANG! It‘s pounding on the door, oh God. I locked it, right? Yeah I did, it can‘t get in here that way. Did I lock the back? I‘m pretty sure I did, but pretty sure could get me torn apart by that thing. That front door is plexiglass, so it probably can‘t smash its way in here from the front. If it gets in here before I can get to my car and tear ass out of here, I‘m dead. No screwing around, I am dead with a capital friggin‘ D if it gets in here. I have no idea what it actually is, but I have the feeling that it‘s dangerous and not something I want to tangle with. Wait a second, what am I thinking? I can find out right now, I‘ve got a cell phone with an Internet connection. 10:45 I can hear that thing scraping around out there, occasionally calling out in that terrifying imitation of my voice. I did some quick reading and apparently I am being terrorized by an ancient Native American forest spirit called the Wendigo. It is, and I quote, ―The result of cannibalism and dark rituals performed under a full moon. The spirit feeds on human flesh and possesses the body of a person after said person spills blood in the Wendigo‘s woods.‖ I‘m facing down a goddamn ancient flesh-eating forest spirit. This just keeps getting better and better. It‘s almost 11, and I‘m no closer to getting out of here. What do I do to distract that thing long enough to make it to my car? Do I have anything on hand to defend myself with? Ok, let‘s take a quick inventory: I‘ve got my phone, car keys, wallet, a flashlight keychain, and a lighter. I‘m pretty sure the boss keeps a gun somewhere in his office, so that‘s a plus if push comes to claw-handed shove. I don‘t know if bullets can even hurt this thing, but apparently fire can drive it away, and it doesn‘t like bright light. Ok, ok, I can work with this. First things first, let‘s find that gun. 11:05 Took a chunk of time, but I found the keys to my boss‘s desk and got it open. Old man kept a .45 in one of his drawers along with a box of bullets. Thank God for the 2nd Amendment. All right, next step is getting out of here without becoming a late-night snack for that thing. It‘s still out front, pacing back and forth like an impatient kid and slamming against the door in a vain effort to get in here. I can do this, I can so do this. Maybe. 11:20 Still pitch-black outside, I think it smashed the lights in front of the store. Lights are still on inside, so I‘m good for now. I need to get it away from the front to grab some of the liquor we‘ve got by the coolers up there. The website said these things don‘t like fire, so I‘m gonna try to make some Molotov cocktails in case the gun doesn‘t work. I know this is a bad idea, but

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

walking over to the back door and opening it, I fire the gun a few times into the air and yell, ―Hey, you f**king spirit thing, I‘m over here! Come get me!‖ ― OVER HERRRRREEEEEEEEE OVERRRRR HEEEERE THIIINNNG‖ I slam the door shut and lock it just as the thing starts to pound on it and screech and scream and wail at me. Sprinting up to the front, I grab two bottles of vodka and a bottle of whiskey. Vaulting the counter for the 2nd time tonight, I take off my work shirt and use my keys to cut it into rough strips. Cracking open the three bottles, I take a swig from the whiskey. It burns going down, but they don‘t call that stuff ―liquid courage‖ for nothing. Stuffing the shirt strips into the bottle, I creep towards the front door and open it slowly and fire the gun once into the air. ―Coooome heeeere thiiiing, coooome get meeeeee!‖ It slowly rounds the corner of the store, and I get a good look at it finally. The face is sunken and distorted, forming a leering visage that reminds me of a deer skull. The eyes burn with a wild fury, and it starts drooling when it sees me. The arms are too long, hands ending in long, clawed fingers that hang by its knees. The thing is at least 7 feet tall, and the legs are skinny, spindly things with clawed feet busting out of ruined sneakers. A chill of wild fear runs up my spine as the mouth stretches in a cruel imitation of a smile. It‘s moving slowly, savoring my fear. Why‘d I come out here? Why, why, oh shit, oh God, I‘m gonna die and— Wait a sec, I‘ve got the bottle of vodka in my hand and lighter in the other. Slowly moving the lighter to the alcohol-soaked strip of cloth, I spark the flame and the cloth catches. ―Have a drink, you freak!‖ Did I really just say that? Chucking the bottle as hard as I can at it, I fumble for the gun in the same motion and empty the magazine at the horror standing in front of me. The bottle hits it in the chest and bounces off but shatters at its feet, the liquor inside catching fire. It screeches as the fire spreads around it, out of equal measures rage and pain, and in its imitation of my voice, it says, ―GEEEET THING COME HEEEEEERRRRRRE!‖ I duck back inside and lock the door as it throws itself against the plexiglass and steel frame. I can feel the heat from the fire through the door. Suddenly, a claw smashes through the window, showering me with glass. 11:30 The hand gropes and reaches for me through the door, but I‘ve backed up against the counter. It‘s looking at me, the eyes full of hate and hunger and an evil older than I can comprehend. I‘m scared, so goddamned scared I can‘t stand it. It fixes me with that gaze and now I‘m frozen. ―Getttt yoooou thiiiiiiing, cooome heeeeere!‖ I manage to shout, ―What the hell do you want?! What? I haven‘t done anything to your stupid forest, I just came to work, why me?‖ Tears are running down my face and all fear I‘ve felt tonight comes bubbling up as the Wendigo stares at me with that terrible gaze. I can‘t move, I‘m gonna die here trapped in this store. Ripped to pieces in my workplace. They‘ll come tomorrow and find me scattered across the floor and coating the walls. All caught on the cameras, but no help coming to rescue me. I don‘t want to die, please, oh God, I don‘t want to die. ―Thiiiing heeere, thing heeeerrrre!‖ ―Stop talking like me! You‘re not me!‖ A flash of anger runs through me. That‘s my voice it‘s using; it doesn‘t get to use that,

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

that‘s mine! Suddenly I remember the gun and the bullets rattling loose in my pocket. Hands shaking, I take out the magazine and slot the bullets in. I can get out, I‘m not gonna die. I‘ll be damned if I‘m gonna die here in a Quik-Mart. Sliding the magazine back in and chambering a round, I point the gun at the door and fire three shots. ―Get out of my f**king store!‖ It crashes through the door and the next thing I know, I‘m running for the back and vaulting the counter for the third and hopefully final time. It‘s shrieking, and I hear it coming after me. I get to the back door, open it and sprint to my car. Turning around, I see it standing about 5 feet away from me. I remember I left one of the bottles back inside but placed one out by the door before I went to the front, just in case I had to make a run for it. I shove the gun into my waistband and take out the bottle and my lighter, holding them out like a holy symbol. The creature shrinks back a bit at the sight. That‘s right you spirit bitch, you‘re scared of these. Lighting the cloth, I hold the bottle out in front of me and drop the lighter on the ground. ―I‘m gonna get in my car and I‘m gonna leave, you got that?! You take one step towards me and I torch your gangly, claw-handed ass.‖ Why the hell am I trying to reason with this thing? My concentration lapses and the freak notices, lunging towards me with an awful screech. I throw, and the bottle hits it right in the face, shattering. It rears back as the liquor catches fire and starts to burn. I take a step forward, raise the gun and fire the remaining bullets into the thing‘s chest. It claws at the fire, and as it does this, I run to my car and start the engine. The thing hears the engine and seems to forget the fire, leaping at my car with a shriek. I slam on the gas pedal and hit it, my windshield shattering as it collides with the thing, which is thrown over the top of the car. I tear out of the back lot of the store and swerve onto the highway with my tires squealing. I can hear the creature letting out the loudest screech of the night, a horrible sound full of an ancient and terrible rage. My hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel as I chance a look in my rearview and see it standing in the middle of the road. I feel that shiver of fear run up my spine for the last time as I speed down the highway. 11:40 I got away, I‘m safe, holy Christ, I‘m safe. My brain barely registers the fact that I made it home, and as I walk in the door, I break down. My parents rush from their room and bombard me with questions as I sink down to the floor. Not now, I can explain tomorrow. I look up at them and say, ―It‘s been a long f**king night, I‘ll tell you in the morning.‖ Ignoring their responses and further questions, I go to my room and collapse on the bed. As I close my eyes, I can see the thing‘s eyes in my mind, the hunger and rage stabbing into my memory. But I shake off the images, and sleep comes quickly, thank God.

Fate of the World By Jake Erb For most, the day was just as normal as ever. The sun came up, the wind was blowing, birds chirping the most pleasant song. The year was 2089, and everyone was heading to their daily jobs. Half of the human population had been wiped out because of a plague that killed billions. The disease was never centralized, but it stretched across the whole planet, taking many Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

lives. Despite what you might expect, technology has hit a stagnant point. We created clean energy, made the environment as healthy as we could, but it still wasn‘t enough. The Earth was dying and gravitating closer and closer to the sun, making each year hotter and hotter. Soon the Earth would be too hot to live on. However, the government kept this a secret, working tirelessly to try and prevent the inevitable from happening. Don‘t worry; they planned on telling the people, just not yet. Charles Post woke up to the sun through his blinds. As he opened his eyes, he saw the sun beams shining on little galaxies of floating dust particles. Charles had no idea what was about to happen in his life. Yesterday Charles worked as a pizza driver, but was fired for being a ―freak.‖ In this time in the world, some humans have evolved beyond others, some containing special abilities, while others being immune to certain diseases. Charles was one of these people who evolved; he was able to fly and had super strength. This was quite rare for a person to have two abilities because most of the evolved people only had one additional ability. Most people who were like this weren‘t looked at kindly. Many people felt envious of them and couldn‘t understand why they couldn‘t have gotten it. Charles did the best that he could to try and hide his abilities, like most, to avoid ridicule. The government didn‘t know exactly what to do with the evolved people, so they kept a close eye on everyone who was special. At least the people they knew about. Charles did the best he could at hiding his abilities, but sometimes accidents happened, so he had to move around a lot. What Charles didn‘t know was that he would come face-to-face with his destiny today. The fate of the world lay in his hands. A knock was heard at Charles‘ door. Nervously, he walked up to the door, peering through the peephole to get a preview of who exactly it was that he was about to talk to. The person his eye locked on wasn‘t anyone that he recognized, so before opening the door, he screamed out, ―Who is it?‖ ―Charles, open the door! It‘s urgent I talk to you immediately!‖ shouted the man on the other side of the door. ―I don‘t know who you are, but you need to leave immediately,‖ said Charles. ―Charles, I‘m here to help you, the fate of the world rests in your hands. Have you been having strange dreams about two children lying in a straw bed, holding onto a ball of light?‖ Charles stopped dead in his tracks in shock because he had been having that exact dream for over two weeks. Charles frantically ran to the door, unlocking it and swinging it open. ―Who are you?‖ Charles asked, extremely skeptical. ―My name is James Houston‖ he said, staring at the nervous wreck that stood in front of him. ―Don‘t worry, everything will be explained shortly. First, though, could I get a glass of water? My throat is dry as hell.‖ An uncomfortable look crossed Charles‘ face as he said, ―Uh….I guess so, just come on in, I guess,‖ pointing to the couch in his two-bed, two-bath apartment on the upper side of Los Angeles. ―What a lovely apartment you have. Wow, look at this view! That‘s amazing!‖ James oohed and ahhed. ―Thanks, it‘s taken me a while to get it all together. Now, please tell me what is happening!‖ ―Right, right, right, ok look: the fate of the world lies in your hands. A prophecy was foretold that you will need to save the last surviving humans on the planet. The kids that you

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

dream about are the children you need to save before the end of the year. However, you‘re not the only one that will be looking for them.‖ ―Who else will be looking for them?‖ Just from what James had already said, Charles‘ head filled with so many questions that he felt it might explode like an over-filled balloon. ―Well, here‘s where it gets tricky…the government.‖ ―The government? What do they have to do with any of this?‖ ―Look, Charles, what you have to understand is that the world is going to end. Earth cannot survive, and our time as humans on this Earth is about to run out. What you are doing is saving the human race.‖ Stunned, Charles stood there taking in every bit of information he just received, and attempting to process it. In his heart, he always knew he was meant for something more. He felt as though a higher power had a destiny for him, and he needed to follow it. Sitting there in his cozy apartment, he debated on what it was he was going to do. ―Alright,‖ he sighed, ―I‘ll do it.‖ ―Great! Look, we need to leave right now because there‘s not enough time.‖ Charles got dressed and they were out the door. James and Charles headed to the airport frantically in James‘ car while James told Charles of how money will not be an issue for the whole trip. ―Where are we even going?‖ Charles questioned. ―Thailand,‖ said James, reaching in his pocket for their tickets and passports. ―How do you already have my ticket…and my passport?‖ ―Look, Charles, there are some things that you just don‘t understand, and you‘ll have to get over that.‖ ―I‘m not going anywhere if I don‘t know what I‘m getting myself into.‖ ―Charles, just get on the plane, and I promise you‘ll know everything when we get there.‖ Charles was extremely nervous about going anywhere with this strange man who showed up at his door a day after Charles got fired from his job for being an evolved human, but James seemed to know what he was talking about. Something in Charles‘ heart just knew he had to get on the plane. The ride was long and boring; Charles slept for most of the time. Finally after a 7-hour flight they arrived in Thailand and had to rent a car to reach where they were going. The car they got was a comfortable new Chevy Tahoe, and for once in his life, Charles knew exactly where he needed to be: simply looking out the window at the beautiful scenery, ready to take on the world. *BANG* *Phone ringing* ―Hello.‖ ―It‘s done. He‘s no longer a threat.‖ ―Good, no one can know what is about to happen.‖

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

A Tale of the Greatly Adored By Rachel Sacks I can hear their sounds from the other side of the field. It is laughter. A laughter so loud and obnoxious it sounds somewhat inhumane. It is a sort of menacing cackle, the kind consumed with pride, brutality, and the notion of I am better than you hidden beneath each convulsing sound. A laughter that can only belong to a very specific set of three people: the Flights. The Flights, as their name implies, are the fairies in my year whose wings developed prematurely. Not only this, but their wings are especially grand and majestic, with sparkly white ridges and a set of four wings as opposed to two. These are the lucky kids. Their wings allow them early training, and an upper hand in athleticism in general. More importantly, it grants them the unyielding adoration of every single soul in the entirety of our kingdom, for these children are the destiny of our society, the chosen ones. The notion that they are superior is so ingrained in their heads that I do not even blame them for being as vain as they are. If anything, I am envious of them. Oh! How I long to join them, with their stunning appearances, velvety voices, and minds of steel. In fact, there is a part of me, one that is hidden in deep, primitive ravines of my mind, which desires more than anything to know what it is like to feel that elusive pride that they so infamously contain. But alas, that is not me. I—I am nothing. In fact, I am less than nothing. Not only do I not contain the glorious wings of the Flights, but I lack wings entirely. I am an anomaly, and not the favorable kind. Worse, it may be, is that I am the daughter of the queen. Yes, it is true. I am a princess, or I would be if I was not the trash of our kingdom. However, the fact that I am a princess has saved me in some respects. Normally, genetic anomalies are taken from their homes as soon as the anomaly is discovered and murdered on sight. However, due to my social status, the council of ten has let me live. For now. Hence, I am stuck as the ridicule of all who know me. A jester, the stupid, useless one to make fun of. Even more amazing is that I am a particularly fond target of none other than the Flights themselves. And, well, that is what leads me to where I am now. Barely 12 years old, and eternally harassed. I sigh as I push up my knees up to my chest, resting my head on a neighboring tree. I realize that my attempt to make myself as small as possible is futile, yet it is the only thing that honestly brings me some solace. As I am incapable of flying; I am resigned to watching the entire rest of my grade practice their flying while I sit quietly on the ground. I try to distract myself from the increasing shouts and cries of joy coming from the opposite end of the field, but it is to no avail. ―Having fun there?‖ a voice behind me sneers. It is high-pitched, rich, and somewhat squeaky. Terra. She is one of the Flights, as well as my most prominent bully. I whip my head around. The first thing I see is a tightly knotted bun of strawberry blonde hair paired with a malicious smile. ―What do you want?‖ I retort, in my usual monotonous tone. ―Oh, nothing. I just wanted to check on how my favorite friend‘s bruise is doing.‖ I immediately touch my face, right where the bruise is. I can feel the frailness of the flesh, purple, pulsing, and putrid. I received this monstrosity of a bruise from Terra and her wonderful

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

set of Flighty pals last Tuesday, when I refused to do their homework for them. A single blow on the cheek from a wooden club, and it hasn‘t healed a single bit. ―It‘s fine.‖ ―Oh, but it can‟t be,‖ cackles Terra‘s friend Solomon, who is now flying up to my right. ―It‘s all ugly and filled with puss, makes me wanna puke! Ha ha, it must hurt like hell!‖ ―N-no, it doesn‘t,‖ I stutter, my eyes darting from side to side. ―Oh, really? Well, maybe I should test that.‖ Suddenly, Solomon flies up next to me and begins to poke my cheek with the sharp end of his wing. Searing pain enters my cheek. I jolt, I cringe, and no matter how hard I try, I cannot stop the pain from flooding. ―P-please s-stop…that hurts…‖ ―Aw look, little Julie-poo is hurt,‖ Terra spews. ―Aw, we‘re so sorry. Here, let us make it up to you! Guys, come over here!‖ A thousand wings flutter over with the sound of Terra‘s call. A million cries of laughter gather in unison. A swarm of fairies, Flights and Regulars alike, are surrounding me, with Terra and Solomon in the center.. ―What a useless girl!‖ Solomon begins to scream. ―If you had wings, then maybe you could escape!‖ ―Freak!‖ Terra calls out in response. The voices surrounding me begin to rise in decibels. ―FREAK!‖ ―WEIRDO!‖ ―Ugly, useless girl!‖ ―…Honestly, does your mom even love you?‖ The insults keep coming. My ears are consumed, filled with nothing save a trillion voices, voices of my enemies. ―P-please…STOP!‖ I attempt to scream, in the hopes that my belching will quiet the swarm. Yet, it is useless. No one is even paying attention to me anymore. The chants have become their own separate entity. The swarm of fairies surrounding me is simply chanting to the sky now. The noise shoots up into the atmosphere, almost as if they are performing a ritual to honor a God. I cover up my ears and curl myself into a ball. Maybe I can just disappear, I think to myself. But then, ―SILENCE!‖ And all fall silent. I look up. The creator of these words is the third and final member of the Flights, Vladimir. He has always been the kindest of the three…Perhaps, has he come to save me from this eternal hell? But I am wrong. ―GUYS! I have a great idea!‖ he begins, as he flies to the center of the crowd, standing adjacent to what is left of me and my dignity. ―Why don‘t we push her off the ravine? After all, if she‘s a true fairy she can surely fly away, right?‖ ―Oh my god, you‘re a genius!‖ Terra chortles. ―C‘mon guys, let‘s go and prove to the entirety of Luhr how much of a fairy Julie truly is!‖ Suddenly, the swarm shouts and yelps in total agreement. Before I am even capable of moving a single limb, I am lifted up by the entirety of my grade.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Everyone I know, everyone I thought had at least some sort of liking for me is now carrying me. There is no way I can possibly survive falling off the ravine, this is a fact that everyone knows. And yet, here they are, voluntarily choosing to push me to my doom. The flight to the ravine is fast and quick, and I am lifted over the edge. Suddenly, all the arms that were lifting me let go, save Vladimir‘s. I look into his orange eyes, and attempt to find some sort of kindness in them. A hint, even a speck would be lovely. Yet all I see is cruel malice and hatred. I know now that I am going to die. ―Maybe it would have better if they had just murdered me at birth…‖ I mutter. ―Yeah, it would have,‖ he responds, in a tone so soft and gentle it almost appears altruistic. ―Well, you won‘t have to experience pain any longer. You can live peacefully in the heavens, where you‘ll finally grow a pair of wings.‖ Suddenly he lifts me up even further, almost up to the sky. ―Now, why don‘t you be a good girl, and die already?‖ Then, he drops me. But I do not fall.

Peaches By Ashleigh Berry I remember the fresh peaches from the tree in my grandmother's back yard, The way the juice dripped down my arm and the soft flesh melted at the first bite. I remember how my grandfather would pick peaches for my grandmother And how she would turn them into sweet peach pie. I remember summers at their house, swimming in the lake and lying on the sand, The way the sun would warm it to the point where it was almost too hot on my skin. I remember building sandcastles and collecting shells And how my grandfather would always take credit for the biggest one. My grandfather was a peach tree, Rooted so deeply in his own soil that he had no room left to grow. My grandfather was sweet right down to the pit, And maybe even a little after that. I remember the winter that the freeze came and turned everything so cold, The night the peach tree froze and my grandfather passed away. I remember my grandparents‘ home before that winter, And how there hasn't been a peach there since.

Anderson High School

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block

2015-2016

Sunday Night in December By Ashleigh Berry Sunday night in December, and your name lands on my tongue like a snowflake; I have not spoken of you since that day. I have forgotten the taste of fresh strawberries picked from your grandmother's garden; I have forgotten the taste of you that June. I have forgotten the sound of waves lapping against the beach where you and I watched stars burn. I have forgotten the sound of your laugh that July. I have forgotten the sensation of soft satin sheets against my skin; I have forgotten the sensation of your touch that August. I have forgotten the color of a cloudless sky over the lake at your parentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC; home; I have forgotten the color of your eyes that September. I have forgotten the scent of fresh baked bread from your mother's oven; I have forgotten the scent of you that October. I have brushed your memory away as gently as the waves of the ocean brushed against the shore the night before your kisses turned to sand in my mouth; I have not spoken of you since that day. Sunday night in December, and your name lands on my tongue like a snowflake. (I have not forgotten anything.)

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Carime By Grace Sweeten I met you over the summer in a class We didn’t share much, just a few laughs Some smiles, and a couple eyerolls When the teacher’s lectures got old An 89 on our project, close to an A Close to good, close to great Just like we were almost friends. So close, yet so far I treated you like another star On my sticker board of people to smile at as I passed Another vote, another admirer, if I acknowledged you during class Almost friends But in my defense I apologize I figured I’d always see your smiling eyes Bright and shining as usual, tomorrow Instead I saw our group members’ faces clouded with sorrow Their faces filled with sadness and shock mirrored mine Because you rode the bus yesterday, and you looked fine And I smiled as I walked past But maybe if I had asked You would’ve told me you weren’t, that you harbored a pain But I didn’t, and you didn’t, and that day is ingrained In my mind, And I wonder if you’d mind That when I heard, I cried Because we were acquaintances, I wasn’t a friend But even if it wasn’t friendship, I didn’t want it to end.

Enough By Annika Strout Andy threw herself down in exhaustion on her bed. She knew what she needed to do and rolled her head back to count the butterflies that hung from a string on her ceiling. They were familiar pink and green colors with glue dots on the wings to resemble morning dew. Focus, she thought, picking out the hues of color that differentiated them. She pressed her fingers against her temples and squinted her eyes as she tried to ignore the dull rumble that emanated from the room next to hers. She had trained herself to fixate her entire focus on the plastic butterflies when her dad was obviously pinned in a corner while her stepmother, Susan, screamed barely comprehensible slurs at him about how she and her little sister were ruining their lives. Andy sucked air into her

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

cheeks, closed her eyes, and kept her breathing slow. This usually worked to relieve herself of anger, but as she felt her body growing hot, she doubted steady breaths would help. So in a desperate attempt to relieve herself of the growing heat, she pounded her fist into her pillow. Tears began to fill her eyes and her nose crinkled up when she saw the dent. ―Ugh get a hold of yourself, Andy,‖ she mumbled. ―Andy?‖ she heard a familiar, high-pitched voice say, Before she even got a chance to respond, she saw the small pale face of her little sister peeking around her door. ―Yes, Mel?‖ she said, Mel obviously mistaking that for an invitation onto her bed. ―Wanna play Go Fish, or maybe Uno?‖ Mel asked with her hand reaching in her pocket for the shiny new deck of cards that their father had bought for her. Andy lost it at her little sister. ―Don‘t touch those!‖ she barked at Mel, grabbing the cards and throwing them, watching in contempt as they scattered across her room. ―Why would you do that!‖ ―You know the only reason Dad bought you those cards is so you wouldn‘t tell Ms. Emma about the bruise on your head!‖ ―It was an accident, Andy!‖ ―Yeah, Melpomene, Susan throwing you down the stairs sure was an accident.‖ ―But she says she loves us!‖ Mel pleaded. ―She‘s like our moth—‖ ―Don‘t you EVER say that about Susan,‖ Andy cut her off, tears swelling up her face ―She will never be our mother! She beats and abuses us! What is wrong with you? If our mom was still with us, she would cry hearing you say that!‖ Their conversation was cut short by a door slamming. ―Melpomene! Andromeda! Get in here, now!‖ Susan‘s voice sounded through the thin walls of their house. Usually Andy came when called, and sat through hours of her stepmother screaming about how she and Mel were responsible for all the fights that she had with their father. But this time she didn‘t move; she knew she couldn‘t take even another second of her stepmother‘s abuse, and with that, she felt a surprising yet liberating mix of stubbornness and courage rise up in her chest. She sat perfectly still, her feet felt like stones that she was fed up of constantly moving. She was done dragging herself to a verbal, sometimes physical, beating from a woman who took joy in manipulating men into prison-like marriages, and belittling their children. She even pulled Mel‘s arm back down when her little sister reluctantly begin to rise from her spot on the bed. ―Do you think I am screwing around? Get your asses in here!!‖ Susan shrieked. The sisters could hear her stomp through the doorway of their father‘s bedroom and towards theirs. Mel gripped Andy‘s arm tightly and whispered ―What are you—‖ ―Shush,‖ Andromeda cut her off. ―I‘ll handle this.‖ Andy sat up straight, and prepared herself mentally for what could only be a war. She tried to find strength by repeating the loving words of her mother in her mind: ―You are beautiful, fierce, you can do whatever you put your mind to Andromeda.‖ She remembered sitting in her mom‘s lap before she went to bed, as her mother sang a mixture of those words to her. She could still feel the warmth of her mother‘s words wash over her. And she remembered the glowing face of her sister in the bed next to hers. That brought her back to reality, she looked over to Mel. The glow in her face was gone; all that was left of her sister was a thin sheet of ghost white paper, with drained eyes, and shaking fingers. ―You need to listen to me, you waste of life!‖ her stepmother screamed, as she burst

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

through the door, the soft footsteps of her father trailing quietly behind her. Andy took in a deep breath, and stood up. ―Oh so we‘re playing the tough guy, huh?‖ Susan spat, approaching Andy. Though she stood at 5‘10‖, a good few inches taller than her stepmother, Andy shook in her spot. ―Sit down!‖ Andy didn‘t respond at first, just stood still. ―I am your mother, so listen to me!‖ ―No…‖ Andy said, ―You‘re not my mother,‖ her voice barely making a presence through her quivering lips. Susan‘s eyes seemed to soften, and it looked like she might back down, but before Andy even opened her eyes all the way to confirm this, she heard a sharp smack echo through her ears. Andy waited to feel pain, maybe stinging, or really any outside stimulus. Hadn‘t her stepmother just hit her? Her brown eyes now widened from curiosity, but she wished she had kept them closed when she saw one of the most hideous sights her sore eyes had ever been subjected to. The scene unfolded in front of Andy, almost as if it were happening in slow motion. She saw Susan take a step back, then advance, swinging her hand. But instead of it reaching her face, as Andy had anticipated, the palm landed on her sister‘s cheek. Mel‘s face. Not hers. It was her little sister. Susan hit her 9-year-old sister across the face. Time stopped as Andy had to get it through her head that her stepmother hit Mel. Her vulnerable sister, who hadn‘t even spoken a word, or done anything to deserve this, was now holding her face in pain. Andy knew Susan had hit Mel before—even left a burn on Mel‘s arm with a cigarette—but never right in front of her, and something inside her snapped as she saw her sister‘s face turn red with a handprint. Andy tackled Susan, taking her down to the floor. ―I will break you, bitch!‖ Andy screamed, smashing her fists into her stepmother‘s face. Her tear-filled eyes could only make out her little sister holding her face and her father cowering in the corner of her room like the confused, feebleminded lamb he had turned into. And of course, she could see her stepmother, desperately clawing at her arms. Then Andromeda grabbed Susan‘s wrists, and pinned her down, looking at her with pity. ―I could break your nose,‖ Andy said, her voice dull. ―I could break every bone in your body and make sure you never hurt another soul…‖ She paused. ―But I‘m not like you. I don‘t like hurting people, so when you regain consciousness think of this as a precaution, not a deliberate act of violence.‖ Then Andy wound her fist back one last time and knocked Susan the hell out. Andy got off of Susan and walked over to her sister, taking her hand. Then she turned to her

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

father. ―You are a cowardly bastard. Melpomene and I are leaving, and if you ever try to come looking for us, I will finish what I started.‖ Andy‘s eyes shot toward Susan. Andy ran her tongue over her bottom lip. Blood. Susan must have got me with those horrible spiked nails she never cuts, she thought. Then she looked at her father one last time, wiped the blood from her face, and let the cold words fall dryly out of her mouth: ―Unlike you, I will never let anyone hurt Melpomene,‖ and she pulled Mel‘s jacket off of her, exposing the bruises and scars that Susan had left. Her father just retreated back to his corner, sobbing. Andy gave Mel her jacket back. ―Here, put this back on, I don‘t want people to think I am the one abusing you.‖ Knowing she didn‘t have much time before Susan regained consciousness, Andy took her little sister down to the kitchen, packed up some canned food in a small cooler, threw some coats over her shoulder and grabbed the keys to her stepmother‘s old pickup truck. Andy walked over the door. ―Melpomene,‖ she said, and as if Mel knew exactly what her sister meant, she walked up to her. They stood like soldiers about to leave a warzone. The only thing between them and freedom was an acceptance that if they left, it had to be final. They had to be content with the fact that if they walked out of their father‘s front door, they could never go back. They couldn‘t even have any second thoughts because if they tried to return, and were even let back in, the abuse would now be validated and most likely get worse, if not fatal. Andy held back tears and tried advancing toward the door, but for the second time, she couldn‘t move her feet. Her mind became flooded with the sad realization that along with leaving her abusive stepmother, she would also be leaving her father. The man who pushed her in her swing as a child, read her bedtime stories, and fed her soup when she was sick. This made her think, What if she and her sister were their father‟s only hope of turning him back into the man they loved? It made her heart sore, and second thoughts crept into her mind, as her little sister looked up at her, clearly confused by why they weren‘t moving. Andy was almost about to turn around, and apologize to her father, maybe help Susan up, and accept the beating she would get. Maybe I shouldn‟t have knocked Susan out… I am stronger than her, after all, she thought. Then Mel yanked on her wrist. And Andy saw her sister‘s bruised face. ―Ready to go?‖ Andy said, as she swung open the door. ―Yeah.‖ Then Andromeda walked right out of her warzone with Melpomene by her side. *** ―Where are we going?‖ Mel asked as Andy drove the car out of the neighborhood. ―Away.‖ ―But wh—‖ ―We will start with our mother‘s house. I know she hid a couple of thousand dollars under the dirt by that old oak. Never did trust banks,‖ Andy smirked to herself. ―And where will we live?‖ ―We‘ll figure that out. All I know is that now you‘re safe with me. Maybe we‘ll go up to Arkansas and visit our Aunt Marie and Uncle Travis. I know they haven‘t seen us in a few years since Susan cut them out of our lives—but they‘ll be happy to see us, ecstatic maybe.‖ ―Yeah, I haven‘t seen little Tommy since he was a baby!‖

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

―He‘ll be three now,‖ Andy replied, a small smile growing on her face. Andromeda looked at Melpomene, seeing the dark circles under her tired, green eyes ―You need some sleep, though… But first a meal. I took some money from Susan… So uh, McDonald‘s sound good?‖ ―Yeah. But I don‘t wanna kid‘s meal. I‘m hungry.‖ ―Why would you suggest that? I don‘t see any kids in this car!‖ Andy playfully turned her head from side to side. Mel began to laugh, And Andy giggled with her until she began to cough and rub her eyes from exhaustion. ―I‘ll wake you when we‘re at the McDonald‘s,‖ Andy said, stroking her sister‘s hair. Melpomene nodded and snuggled her head into the hood of her jacket. It was obvious she hadn‘t slept in a few days. ―Okay,‖ she mumbled. ―I love you, Melpomene.‖ ―I love you too, Andy.‖ *** After a little drive to McDonald‘s, and Mel eating more than she weighed, Andy drove to their mother‘s house. When she approached the street their old house was on, Andy was a bit concerned that she might not remember what house was hers. It had been years, and all of the houses looked the same, especially when it was night time. When Andy was really beginning to get nervous, knowing they only had about 15 minutes before the street was pitch black, the sisters came across a stroke of good luck. Andy thought, My guardian angel must be looking out for us, because in the last glimmers of sunset, the light shined on a stretch of concrete where two familiar handprints disrupted the smooth ground. The hand prints were left by Andy and Mel when they had first moved into the old house, and were beautiful memories that directed up the driveway. Andy pulled the car to the side of the road and told Mel to stay put. Then she ran up the driveway, pushed open the old wooden gate to their backyard, and ran up to the sweet nostalgia that presented itself as a wispy oak. She fell to her knees and began to dig at the dirt with her hands, feeling the cold soil scrape her fingertips. Finally she came across the wooden box of ―savings‖ her mother had ―for emergencies,‖ and pulled it from the dirt. But before Andy left, she felt her stomach tighten with the realization that after she drove away she had to face the world alone, and be the sole protector of her sister. She fell back to her knees and wrapped her arms around the tree pressing her face into the soft bark. ―I don‘t know if I can do this, Mommy,‖ Andy whispered, tears returning to her eyes. Andy could‘ve sworn she heard the song her mother used to sing to her whistling through the wind: ―You are strong, fierce, you can do whatever you put your mind to, Andromeda.‖ Andy broke down in tears. She wanted to stay there for hours, with her arms wrapped tightly around the tree, feeling her mother‘s warmth and protection. But she knew she couldn‘t stay longer than a few more seconds because she needed to get going with Mel. If their father and Susan were actually going to look for them, this would be the first place they‘d check. And if Andy was caught, Mel would be taken away from her and placed with their father and stepmother where she could be beaten to death. And Andromeda would never let anyone hurt Melpomene again. So Andy got up from the ground, made her way to the gate, then turned around and

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

wiped the tears from her face and looked right at the oak. ―Thank you, Mom.‖ Andy walked reluctantly up to the truck, handed the savings box to Mel and stepped on the gas. ―Arkansas?‖ Mel asked, rubbing her eyes. ―Yeah, that‘s where we‘re headed.‖ ―Cool.‖ ―Hot. Actually, Arkansas is nothing like Nebraska,‖ Andy said, poking her sister, making her giggle. ―I‘m tired… Can you sing me a song to help me sleep?‖ Andy said, ―Hmm, I don‘t really know any songs…‖ Then an idea hit her, and she cleared her throat: ―You are strong, fierce, You can do whatever you put your mind to, Melpomene The world will throw you danger But you‘re fierce The world will give you sadness But you‘re strong The world is just a puzzle And there‘s nothing you can‘t solve…‖

Family Faces By Grace Sweeten I have my dad’s wavy hair I have my mom’s blonde hair I have my dad’s jawline I have my mom’s eyes I have my dad’s cheekbones I have my mom’s height I have my dad’s body type I have my mom’s nose I can attribute every feature on my entire body to at least one family member Except My lips And I like to think that it’s because My features may be theirs But my words Are my own.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Fan mail By Mario Chavez meow meow, meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow (Translation) Dear Human, Even though I have been with you for 5 months, and have been alive for about 7 months, I can say that you are an okay person. You feed me and give me catnip, thus awarding you with the highest honor of Most Okayest Person in Cat History. Be proud, most cats hate you people. You always give me belly rubs and give me good food. Next time, though, when you eat fish, give me some of that good stuff—it smells good. Now my paws are getting tired of writing and I‘m running out of bird bloo— I mean ink. Goodbye. I need to go shred some curtains. Sincerely, The Bestest Cat in the World

My Time With YouTube By Adrienne Comstock So I have recently been sucked into a monster known as YouTube. I‘ve always known of the beast, and have occasionally been sucked into it while looking for something simple: a song, a show, a short clip from a show or movie. Just simple small things. Then the day of inevitability came; I was at my best friend‘s house, and she was messing around on her computer while I was attempting to get her to come out and play Super Smash Bros with me on her WII U. Suddenly, I heard the first of a thousand whipping noises as she started to play a YouTube video. I walked over to see what was more important than smashing. What I saw on her screen was a guy in the top right corner of the screen playing a new jump-scare-horror game that I would soon learn and (against my will) love, called Five Nights at Freddy‟s. But back to the guy: he was wearing a flat cap hat and had a distinct Irish accent. He was a YouTuber/Let's Player by the name of jacksepticeye. I was curious, so I watched the video with my friend and was drawn in by the

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

second part of the series. Jacksepticeye was hilarious and made the best jokes. When I went home, I subscribed to him immediately and started watching a ton of his videos and vlogs. Simultaneously getting sucked into the FNaF fandom with their amazing songs that other YouTuber fans had produced, and by another of my poison channels called The Game Theorists; they cover really cool theories and ideas about popular games; they also cover the lore of the fiction universes and compare things to our world. They use science and a lot of research to try to convince you of what they believe to be fact. It's amazing, and I have learned so much from the channels. I started to watch YouTube all the time and not do much of anything else. When I would get home from school, I would log onto my computer and immediately check my subscriptions for more content. Jacksepticeye always posts 2 videos per day, and they are always up by the time I get home, so that did nothing but fuel my YouTube addiction. For a few months, YouTube was my life. I took a short break and got obsessed with one of my most favorite video games, Skyrim. Then when I finally checked YouTube again, about a week later, I finally realized just how much time it had taken from me. So in the end I decided to not let YouTube control me like that again. I still watch the channels I subscribe to, but I only watch every once in a while. I had conquered the beast that taught me so much (mostly useless) trivia about games and a little about history. YouTube can be a good thing, so long as you don‘t succumb to the beast. I rate it about a 4.2 out of 5 stars.

The Best and Worst Movies of 2015 By Sadie Seddon-Stetler The Best If any of you have seen the classic 1995 movie Apollo 13, you may remember a particular piece of dialogue, spoken by Kranz as his engineers face a pile of junk on a table: ―Gentlemen, we have to get this, to fit into this, using only this.‖ The engineers face the monumental task of fitting a square peg in a round hole. The narration, however, cuts away from the scene quickly after they begin their work. Andy Weir's novel The Martian (and the subsequent movie adaptation) seems to be written entirely for the target audience of people who wished the whole movie was more of that one scene. Miraculously, the movie manages not to get bogged down in the pedantics of brute-force engineering a way for the protagonist, Mark Watney, to survive alone on Mars. The book itself devotes chapters of exposition to Watney's heroic MacGyver-like efforts and solutions, a literary device that would alienate a large reader base. The 2015 movie manages to cut out enough slogging around in the dust to make room for the action, but keeps enough of Watney's genius in to make the film scientifically compelling. The result is a non-stop viewing experience that walks the line between intelligent exploration and action thrills. I, as the viewer, found myself catching my breath and rooting for Watney against all the odds (and despite having previously read the book).

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Viewers will find themselves not only fascinated by Watney's genius and unconventional solutions to every problem he faces, but also by the unique characterization and dialogue in the movie. Watney is not portrayed as a panicking, just-scraping-by lab scientist, but rather as a quick-witted, self-declared ―Space Pirate‖ that provides just the right amount of comic relief and likeability. His profane, smart-aleck chats with NASA are some of the most chuckle-worthy moments, and provide just enough lightheartedness that the movie does not get mired in hopelessness. Matt Damon delivers a surprisingly enjoyable performance as Watney, and viewers will also enjoy Donald Glover's appearance as the frantic, adorable orbital scientist Rich Purnell. The screen is also graced by Kristen Wiig's filthy-mouthed, dedicated performance as Annie Montrose and Sean Bean's amusing appearance as Mitch Henderson. With such a well-suited cast, admirable fidelity with regards to the original novel's plotline and writing, it's no wonder The Martian raked in box office earnings of nearly $600 million. Its success is, indeed, well-deserved.

The Worst I had high hopes for Spectre, I really did. Having seen (and thoroughly enjoyed) both Casino Royale and Skyfall, I was fully prepared to love Daniel Craig's return as the enigmatic, compelling James Bond in Spectre. I was also quite excited to see the femme fatale that had been so praised for being closer to Craig's age than previous ―Bond girls.‖ And after the compelling character development and twists that Skyfall had featured, I was totally ready for an intriguing plotline. I was highly disappointed on all counts. For all its hype and circumstance, Spectre really didn't deliver. Viewers will find repetitive action sequences and overdone suspenseful moments clamoring for attention in an effort to cover up the lack of depth in both characters and story structure. The narrative was nothing special—at least, nothing that Bond hasn't done before, and it offered none of the compelling backstory or character development that made Skyfall such an interesting watch. The movie drags, and while it is no longer in runtime than Skyfall or Casino Royale, it certainly feels longer, and doesn't seem to be worthy of nearly 3 hours of footage. The ―older‖ femme fatale that we had been promised falls far short of being able to redeem the movie. While she is much closer to Craig in age, her screentime is limited to what feels like only a single scene, and Bond then promptly ditches her for the younger, more conventionally attractive femme fatale for the rest of the movie. While Craig's performance is, as always, stunning in the role of Bond, and while Ben Whishaw's show-stealing role of Q is wonderful, the absence of Judi Dench and lack of compelling background characters mean that even Craig and Whishaw cannot fully redeem the rest of the movie. Honestly, I wanted to love Spectre, but it just doesn't have the pop and intrigue that I've come to expect from Bond movies. Sony Pictures better step up their game if they want to keep a grip on the franchise's success, or they may find their profits shaken... not stirred.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

The Best Album of 2015 By Nissay Nassor Before Justin Bieber became JUSTIN BIEBER, he was just a young YouTube star who dreamed of fame, strumming and crooning in his fresh, undeveloped voice. One day, his wish for fame came true, and Justin Bieber was discovered by Scooter Braun and Usher, who eventually signed him to their labels. His beginning on YouTube gave him purpose. His original purpose may have been simple and humble, but it has led to a greater Purpose, his best album yet, a comeback and a chance at redemption with his fans. After several number one albums, in 2014, Bieber began a downhill slide into drugs, crime, and general self-defamation of his own reputation. He was the joke of talk shows and social media. His bad behavior ranged from drag racing, mistreating a 12-year during laser tag, a paternity suit, scuffling with paparazzi, and DUIs that indelibly blemished his baby-faced career. Eventually, his erratic, irresponsible, immature, random, careless behaviors left me and many legions of fans in dis-belieb. For a while, JB disappeared, and we didn‘t hear original music from him until Skrillex and Diplo released a song in 2015 called ―Where are ü now?‖ with him. Little did we know, that this was the start of an entire new journey, a chance to redeem himself, for true Beliebers to come back into his fold. One by one, he began to release new songs on his own. The first time I heard the super catchy ―What do you mean?‖ I knew that he was making a comeback, and with that, I and millions of other fans, fell back in love with the pop star and his iconic, sappy music again. After his huge hit, Bieber finally released his album, Purpose. Each and every song has a meaningful message where it seems that he is cognizant of his badboy antics and apologetic and regretful about love lost. Together, the music and the lyrics create hypnotizing blends of sound that just makes you feel you are floating and enveloped in warm, fragrant melodic bath of sonorous, resonant lyrics and notes. Hearing this new album, I knew that this was definitely his best album. From early beginnings of pop, sugary, and formulaic music that seems like it is all about one thing—girls and love—he has developed a more mature, more reflective, and deeper sound. The songs each seem so personal and real, to reflect on his life and relationships that together show a more vulnerable side of him. No more teenaged angst and sugary pop. One of his best songs on the album, ―Sorry,‖ really proves his whole point of apologizing and redeeming himself for all of the bad things that happened in his past. He let down many people, including fans like me, but with an album like this, he is definitely on his way up again.

Playing with Fire By Colin Lanier ―Flutes…What was that?‖ Ms. Coleman smiled as she turned to them, passive aggression coursing through every vein in her body. She always seemed to have that terrifying smile on her face, but no one was fooled. After she lectured at them, she had the terrified flute section play

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

what seemed like a very difficult piece, and was furious when they couldn't play it. ―My little fluties, what is wrong with you? Go practice that outside.‖ I watched in fear as Ms. Coleman stared at the flutes walking away. She turned back to us and smiled. ―Now that that—‖ she paused, thinking of the appropriate word, ―problem has been sorted out, we can really play.‖ She told one of the trumpets to play a few notes. At this point, I knew she would end up calling on at least two more people before having everyone else play. I leaned over to my friend sitting next to me and started a quiet conversation. While we were talking, I heard the voice that had been droning on for the last hour call my name. ―Colin? Do you have something you want to tell the class?‖ I looked up and met the eyes of the she-beast named Wanda. I had had this nuisance in my life for almost three years and you have no idea how much I wanted to sass the hell out of her, but I just responded respectfully, ―No, sorry.‖ ―Well, do you want to play measures 45 to 51?‖ I looked at my music and saw that those measures were the hardest in the piece for my instrument. ―Oh, um, no thanks,‖ I responded and broke eye contact, looking down at the bottom of the music stand. ―Oh I think you do, though!‖ I looked up to see her smiling intently at me; her green eyes seemed to be sparkling. Obviously, this was the highlight of her day: terrifying children until she goes home to her empty house and works all day. Putting the instrument to my face, I tried my best to play the measures. I thought my playing was acceptable, but not to Ms. Coleman. She used my ―failure of a performance‖ as an excuse to give a lecture on how ―none of us were trying‖ and how ―this is the top band in the school, for goodness sakes.‖ At this point I had had enough. I stood up from my chair and walked towards her. ―You aren‘t leaving are you? We still have 20 more minutes of amazing learning to do!‖ ―Nope,‖ I stated simply as I walked over to her, swung my trumpet, and clocked her right in the side of the head. Gasps sounded from all over the room and even two screams. She fell over onto the tile floor, hitting her head again. She stayed on the ground for a few seconds, giving me just enough time to run out the door.

An Elegy to Freedom By Taylor Johnson People fight for our freedom Every day and every night But while our country is free Our souls are locked tight Trapped inside our minds Afraid to be expressed Comments swallowed And opinions compressed It‘s something we‘ve lost

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

And haven‘t regained Now there‘s a hole Where expression once remained Our society today Is a relentless beast It burned our will And destroyed our peace Softer than words Our actions distained Since apparently individuality Was never okay It‘s sad to see it go If it was ever really here And I‘m not completely sure That we‘ll never live in fear So I sit here alone Next to freedom‘s grave And never have I so desperately Wished it would‘ve been saved Ode to Coffee By Taylor Johnson Dear coffee, I would like to take the time to properly thank you For everything you‘ve done for me, For the bittersweet creaminess That lifts my eyelids and pulls me from my slumber, And the caramel-colored warmth that keeps me sheltered From the cold wind stinging my cheeks. Nothing can compare to the way you slide past my lips And settle on my tongue. I love your color And how it looks like fall, As if an entire season could be represented by one hue. I love your flavor. Or really, your many flavors. From peppermint to caramel vanilla, Seasonal or not, You never fail to quench my various thirsts. Inspiring me to keep my wits And planting my newly awakened And slightly more lively Feet upon the ground.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

The Shark Reef By Savannah Hanson As sweat rolled down my forehead and onto my life jacket, I paddled forward with the rest of my tour group. The group was made up of about 7 different kayakers, 3 of which happened to be my mom, dad, and brother. We had been exploring different caves on the coast of a beach in California in our kayaks. We were now paddling our way back to shore through what the tour guide described as ―the scenic route for adrenaline junkies.‖ We were going to paddle through Shark Reef, where sometimes hundreds of sharks that were about 4 feet long would swim around. The sharks were considered harmless because they had never been known to attack a human—that‘s why the tour was allowed to go through that area. I could see in the distance the small black fins skimming the top of the water, as well as an occasional tail flip out of the water which resulted in the excitement of the sharks around it. The tour guide yelled over his shoulder, ―today we will be seeing roughly 70 sharks!‖ His voice sounded overly enthusiastic, as if he were trying to show us that he wasn‘t scared; however, we could all hear the slight tremor that comes when you have a rush of adrenaline. As we got closer to the group of sharks, we had to stop paddling and let the tide slowly rock us towards the reef because we didn‘t want to hit a shark with a hastily misplaced paddle. Interestingly, I could feel small thumps on the bottom of my kayak as the sharks hit the bottom of it with their fins and noses. The sharks swarmed around the boats in a curious manner, occasionally flipping their eyes upward at us to see what we wanted. The tour guide was constantly reassuring us that they were completely harmless and could do as much damage as a goldfish. But I wasn‘t scared; I was interested. It was amazing how all of these sharks would come right up to the boat. I imagined what it would look like from above: 7 little neon yellow dots with clouds of black surrounding them. I stretched my hand down into the cold water and gently let it brush against the sand-papery skin of one of the sharks surrounding me. Although I could feel the low buzz of adrenaline in the base of my skull, I felt at peace. I felt in harmony with these beautiful animals because I knew nothing of them, and I saw my own curiosity reflected in their own eyes. Soon, we floated past Shark Reef, leaving the creatures behind us, but the feeling and memory of being one with these amazing animals will always be with me.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Hero By Anna Giambelluca “you can love someone so much, but you can never love them as much as you can miss them” –John Green you called me last night, real late. you talked for a second before saying this is a mistake. I said wait, babe, please tell me what‟s on your mind. I heard a teardrop fall, and you politely declined. tell me everything, I want to help you there‘s something you want to say but don‘t know how to. you said your hero had found his way into the sky. and this is the only time I‘ve ever heard you cry. to see you in pain hurt me the most. I tried to help you find his ghost. he loved you more than you will ever know and was amazed when he saw you grow. I know that your hero is in the heavens high and I know it is hard for you to say goodbye. but trust me, he is learning how to fly and will watch over you till the day you die. Swimming Frenzy By Hannah Henderson You know how little turtles scurry to the ocean just after being born? That‘s the way I hurry into your arms. The wide ocean, abyss of unknown, a coral reef of thorns, Maybe I‘m being hunted, little do I know because I‘m under your charms. You say it‘ll be alright, and I‘d like to believe But what if that wave takes you too far away, And you‘re not able to swim back? I‘ll have to leave All our love broken in a day. You say you‘ll never leave, but The reality is we need to find our own way If all we have is each other, we‘ll end up in a rut That wave is coming, and it's moving me farther and farther away. But none of this matters, our flippers can grow stronger So that our love can last longer.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Canned Ham By Hannah Henderson opening a new package of soap, the sizzle of a match when it touches water, seeing everyone‘s cell phone lights and lighters wave at a concert, waking up in the middle of the night when there‘s a massive storm, feeling warm sheets coming fresh from the dryer, hearing car tires on the road after it rains, the smell of air conditioner, taking contacts out, the 60s, Alex Turner‘s voice, strolling down the beach, the click of an old typewriter, when red lipstick goes on perfectly, decorating my room with twinkling fairy lights, finding excuses to scribble down notes on stationery, daydreaming of wearing evening dresses from the 1910s, and shutting an old, dusty, wooden drawer that closes softly.

Hunger By George Anderson I awake again to the sound of wind blowing over the crevices in my shell. I lie still, listening carefully as the breeze picks up and drops like gentle waves washing upon the shore. My life up until this point has been a simple one. I spend most of my days scouring the barren earth for food, usually to no avail. On occasion I‘ll find a juicy autotroph, but usually I‘m forced to sustain myself through eating small worms and insects. My stomach grumbles angrily as I begin to lift my shell and begin my daily crawl. My new shell fits nicely, but my field of vision is much more hindered than in my prior one. Oh, how I miss my old shell. The familiarity of its cozy embrace was the only thing that brought me comfort in this gray world of mine. After crawling for about a half-day, I decided to take a break. The wind had died down, and the lack of noise was deafening to the point of uneasiness. Suddenly I began to experience a sensation I had never felt before. Like a worm trapped in tightly packed soil with no way of escape, the emotional weight was crippling to my frail mind. So with one thrust of my arms, I flung my shell clean over my body, and for once, I was vulnerable. I could see in every direction for miles, until the greyness of the earthy floor blended with the blank white of the sky at the horizon. I was overwhelmed with this new scenery, for I have only ever been fully out of my shell twice in my few years on this cold rock, and both times were during the night. I looked down at my pale frame. Even my long, lanky appendages felt different in the

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

new setting, as if a veil had been lifted from my eyes, leaving me with the reality of unfamiliarity. At first I wanted to scurry back to my shell and forget the strange outburst, but as the seconds went by, I became more and more enticed by the new world before me. So instead, I continued crawling. Searching for food was much easier now that I could see a much farther distance, and I could crawl over twice as much land in the amount of time it used to take me to scrape my shell over the earth. It was especially less difficult for me to crawl over rocks and other debris that lay in my path. Between the many excitements, I almost forgot about my groaning stomach, now furiously rumbling like a parade of drummers who were pounding viciously against my gut. All of the sudden, I spotted the most beautiful plant I had ever seen, only this one stuck out of the grey floor, producing some sort of strange light that caught my eye almost immediately. Upon approaching the leafy, clover-like creature, I sat in awe at the amazing colors it reflected. I watched again and again as the wind softly blew through the plant‘s four leaves. While the creature danced and swayed side to side, I began to feel more and more pressure on my stomach, as if someone was attempting to squeeze my insides outward. Finally, out of curiosity, I plucked the juiciest leaf from the thick stem that was shooting out from the under earth, and took a bite. I clenched my eyes shut as they began to water out of sheer delight, for the mysterious plant was the most delicious substance I have ever had the pleasure of tasting. Oh, how well the leaf slid down my esophagus, too! It was as smooth as muddy soil after a rain. Darkness was steadily approaching, so I quickly devoured the rest of the organism, leaving nothing left but the hard stem and roots. What happened next, I cannot say for sure; all I know is that next thing I knew I was waking up to that same familiar sound of the morning breeze. However, when I opened my eyes I was greeted by the most spectacular array of colors. Some of them were similar to the color of the strange plant I had dined on yesterday evening, only... different. Amazing lights of different colors bounced all around in my vision, and I was overwhelmed with an emotion I had not felt in a long time. Again, I could feel my eyes begin to swell up as salty tears began to spread down my face, washing away the crusted dirt that had collected since the last downpour. It was the comforting presence that my first shell provided. Only now I felt stronger because I never needed a shell in the first place. What had brought me to that assumption was my lack of confidence, brought on from the very first day I was given life. I can still recall my first memory, though it‘s less of an image in my brain than it is the feeling of uncertainty. I don‘t know who or what I am, and I have no one else to relate these thoughts to. I want to say I‘ve learned something from my past, but really, I‘m more uncertain than ever before. Who knows what I‘ll find next or what I‘ll become? All I know is that I‘m left with one choice, one decision, no purpose before me…and I can‘t wait.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Humans with the Glassy Eyes By Kelly Mullins To the humans with the glassy eyes, I know you‘ve been hurt before. Your face, Flung with vulnerability Against a wall— When it hits, your lip roughly Grazes the surface of your teeth, Gently slicing the pomegranate edges. Your blood tastes of battery acid Scorching your tongue in contact. Your clouded mind is the only thing Holding you back. You better pray to God Those pills dissolve in your Broken hands. I see milky white in your future, Creamy crisp Flavors dancing. There‘s a spark in your eyes, And delicate pink Bubble gum flavored clouds, Weary green rivers, And violent violet nights. You ignite yourself With hollow looks And burn layer, By layer. To the humans with the glassy eyes, Lie down, And rest those Tired eyes.

Letters to Kat By Katherine Cruz Dear Kat, Salutations. It is an honor to finally make you aware of my presence. You probably don‘t know me, but I am your next door neighbor and the best decision I ever made was defrosting my window the day you moved in—next to divorcing my wife to increase the chances of us being together, of course. With that said, Kat, I must admit, you are the most emotional, enthusiastic, and lazy person I have ever come across in my life. From the very first day I began watching

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

you, you‘ve done very few things not involving watching Criminal Minds or moaning over Matthew Gray Gubler‘s deranged intelligence and how he meets your unattainable standards. I will never be able to understand how one person can devour THAT many jalapeño chips in one day and remain under 300 pounds. Really, you are a true legend. And when it‘s not jalapeño chips, it‘s whatever‘s in the house: string cheese, mangoes, those granola bars you don‘t actually like, but you want to look like you‘re in shape when your friends are over, and when you get real desperate, whatever‘s in the trash. I find that quality about you…sexy. The way you devour every bit of food you can find at any given hour makes me wonder where you‘ve been all my life and why all girls can‘t be like you. Really Kat, I‘m serious. Well, before this gets out of hand and I go into excruciating detail about how much it turns me on when you cry on a nightly basis over One Direction and your geometry homework, I‘ll just get around to my point: you are a beautiful, motivated and passionate person, and I have enjoyed my unrequited love for you the past 2 years. They have been the best 2 years of my life. Thank you for waking me up every morning at 5:45 on the dot by blasting Taylor Swift and for keeping me up every night with your heated and artful verbal feminist rants. I hope after receiving this you will take the first step in our relationship by coming over and saying hi. Age is just a number, and I‘m only 60 years older than you. With love, Norvan P.S. Please don‘t move away after reading this letter like the last girl who lived at your house did. She broke my heart, even though she was six. Dear Kat, Hello, this is Niall Horan from One Direction. You‘ve been awaiting notice from me your whole life it seems, but this is probably not the way you imagined it to always be, and I apologize in advance for that. With that said, I will jump right to my point: you are mentally insane, and I am writing this to inform you that I have blocked you from all social media and addressed a lifetime-valid restraining order to you, your family and friends, along with anyone who will ever come in contact with you for the rest of your life. There is only one thing that I think is ―cute‖ about you. Adorable, actually. Bloody precious. And it‘s that you think I can‘t see everything you say about me: all the suicidal references, sexual remarks, what appear to be keyboard spasms, and good morning/goodnight tweets you send to me every…single… morning… and… night… Let me ask you this, Katherine. If you were aware I was viewing and monitoring all 18,783 tweets of yours, would you still post them? Would you still spend hours per day avoiding social interactions, homework, opportunities and getting out of bed just so you could tweet me some song lyric that ―describes us‖? Does it? Does it, really? Do you REALLY think posting pictures of you sobbing over a pair of boots I wore would make me ―fall madly in love with you‖? Where is your mind, sweetheart? And please, stop calling me Daddy! At first, you were fine. Back in your innocent, early days

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

you would do cute things like congratulate me on my music or awards that I won. You‘d blow all your money on our merch, which, before we were billionaires, was pretty convenient and cool. You were a tolerable, normal fan, or the definition of what I thought a fan was. Clearly, I was wrong, and you have gone unleashed when no one should have allowed you to. It has gotten out of hand, and I will no longer put up with this absurd harassment. So return the box of ―things that remind you of me,‖ like the sunshine bath bomb, $400 shirt, and Fleetwood Mac CD. If you really are as in love with me as you claim to me, do me a favor and burn it, because if I EVER am in the abominable situation of being in the same room as you, I will decapitate myself before you can even get within 50 feet of me. With MAJOR concern and hatred, Niall James Horan

For Eternity By Ana Dragomir It was a sunny day of March; the birds were chirping joyfully with the dusk of winter and the dawn of spring. I was peacefully sitting on a bench in the nearest park next to my retirement home, but I just couldn‘t enjoy the clear sky, nor the superb vegetation in front of me. All I could think about was my wife, Melinda. I didn‘t know how to feel when they told me she had lung cancer. All I could think about was how much pain she would be in. I knew she needed urgent surgery because the chemotherapy stopped working, and the tumor was getting bigger. I remembered how positive she was throughout all the procedures. She kept on saying that death is just a passage like when you get out of a car into another. I guess this was her way to not be afraid of the worst and have faith in life. I picked up smoking right after she died. I know, awful right? Most people stay away from the things that killed their loved ones. I didn‘t really care; it seemed like life wasn‘t worth it anymore, rather pointless with no one by my side. I wanted to see her again, and those cancer sticks would make that faster. I‘m not one to take my own life; I‘d rather blame my bad habits. After a while of sitting, smoking, and looking at birds fighting for pieces of bread I threw at them, I looked over at my left hand because I felt something wasn‘t right. Was arthritis kicking in again? No, my ring wasn‘t there anymore. I panicked, it was the most important item to me. My wife would have killed me if I lost something so precious. I didn‘t know what to do or where it could have been. I tried retracing my steps: maybe I didn‘t pay enough attention and lost it on the way to the park. Nothing, not even a single simple piece of bread was on the path to the park. I lit another cigarette and started crying. People passed me by without even realizing how much pain I was in. That ring represented everything to me: it was our marriage ring, the only thing I have left of her memory. She had it custom made for me; she had inscribed the words ―For Eternity‖ on it to show her affection, and I did the same for her. I couldn‘t just sit there and cry about it, I had to keep on searching. I couldn‘t give up on her like that, I would have kept on going for an eternity if I had to. After a while of searching, I became tired, and my bones started hurting. I realized I didn‘t have as much strength and stamina as when I was young. I should have realized my arthritis couldn‘t keep up with me. Searching for something so small is the worst exercise I could

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

have done at my age. I couldn‘t remember which ways I went because the park was so big. I was lost and didn‘t know what to do next, so I took a smoke break next to a tree trunk in the middle of the tall grassy area. As I was finishing my second cigarette, I saw that I was sitting right under the tallest tree in the park. It was a natural beauty, reminded me of when I had first met Melinda. I watched silently as the wind blew the leaves of the tree gracefully as if it were dancing with them. As my eyes wandered off, I saw the bright sun shine on a bird nest, blinding me for a slight second. I told myself it was only my imagination when it happened again. ―Strange,‖ I said, watching how the sunlight reflected on something in that bird nest. I was curious and spontaneously tried to climb the tree. There were a lot of branches, so I could climb easily even though all my bones and joints hurt like hell. I had a feeling there was something important up there. When I got up by the nest, I looked inside…and there it was, my ring. I found my marriage ring. I was stupefied, I couldn‘t believe that just happened. The birds I fed must have picked up my fallen ring and kept it in their nest. And I, an old crazy hermit, climbed the tallest tree in the park because I saw something shiny. That is an unbelievable story indeed, and I believe my wife guided me throughout everything. After that day, I quit smoking and all my other bad habits. I stopped wishing I was in heaven with her because I knew I was already with her, and she would be with me. In spirit. For eternity.

The Link That Holds Us Together By Ambika Sethi I sit in the car that‘s filled with three different conversations That are trying to cover up six different messages. These people, the people I love, are closer to me than my hands around my neck, But their words prick and poke at my spine, Sending shivers of pain. I know the sound of their voices better than my own, but I can‘t understand them. My name, my identity, came from those same mouths that seem to speak in tongues. The blood pulsing through their veins is my own, But we can‘t be the same. My heart beats in a different rhythm than theirs, No better, no worse, But different.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Me and my mom, we are two of the same With thoughts that combine and merge And eyes that will fall to the same thing when looking at a photograph. Sometimes I feel that we are two bodies but one brain, But our hands are different, they haven‘t felt the same things. My father and I, we share a furrowed brow and a lack of religion. We start the day disagreeing on everything and end it with drinking movies or history Like it was nectar and we were the two mortals lucky enough to obtain it. But his spontaneity, his gusto, and his charm seem to have missed me and landed directly on My sister. Me and my older brother have the same love for danger, But not the same courage to act upon it. He could fight lions and tigers and bears—and, oh my, would he win. But my hands are weak, and they tremble at the sound of a roar. I cower at thunder and watch the rain fall from the shelter of my window, thankful for the barrier Between myself and the world. My little sister and I, we can laugh like the world is ending and we are watching it from a star, But her eyes, they shine brighter than mine, brighter than the star itself. She‘s a firecracker, she spouts energy and light. The people lucky enough to be around her can‘t help but feel it, And I know that if we weren‘t sisters, I would be watching her from the sidelines, Just a little too far away to feel her lighting up the shadows on my face. Me and my little brother are the unheard. We have thoughts that move two hundred miles an hour, And when we talk, people get lost, and we may not show it, but it makes us smile. His mind works like Ferris Bueller‘s, And I am just one other person who looks at him with wonder and awe. And maybe one day we‘ll wake up and realize he tricked us all. But until then, I will sit in this car And listen, and take part in these conversations, Searching for the link that is holding us together.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Breakout By Emmy Robbins I don‘t say ―I love you‖ too much, I have not committed a crime Why should I be convicted for sharing what I feel? When I say these three words, I mean something real You can‘t tell me to stop because no matter how annoyed, or how upset, or how happy, or how far you are I‘ll scream it at you until you realize that I love you more than the stars And when you look at the sky late at night and wonder How much I love you or try to Figure out how much you love me I hope you see the same thing that I see— Constellations surrounding a full moon, a moon full, Full of passion, full of admiration, full of all the things I feel for you, yet you sentence me for sharing or trying To give you a clue You cannot expect me to hold back my solicitude If you really are blind, tell me now Because I‘ll be screwed when I try again To tell you that I don‘t want to go anywhere Please, please, do not suffocate me because All I‘ll have left is air to breathe Yes, I‘ve made you aware of my love, but I‘m sorry I have to remind you of the care That I long to show you day in and day out So that you‘ll feel my infatuation Without any doubt And when you can no longer move, don‘t wish Imprisonment on me because I am not guilty For letting you know that I will try to show And I will not go until you Get used to me saying ―I love you‖ over and over And over again so that then, each time I say it You‘ll understand that damn it, I love you

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

The Man, The Ring, and The Clock Tower By Andy Nguyen Year 7XX — Day 41XX In this new world of ours, there are three things that will always be: a heart of courageous flame inherited from the dead and the great; the fate of the present age; and a man‘s dreams for change. As long as I continue to walk this barren wasteland, those three things will never cease to be. Albeit the path may be harsh, the storms may be wild, and the nights may be filled with torments of anxiety and hesitation, I will continue to walk this path that I have chosen. The only solace that has been encouraging me through my lonely travels were the last remaining rays of light that shine in our world of darkness. And that . . . that had made all the difference. The travel through the barren wasteland has been by far the greatest challenge of my journey so far. To think that the very desert of endless sand I trotted through was once an ocean of vast amounts of water and life; where men rode metal vessels to collect thousands and thousands of creatures for food; where one could spend a hundred lives collecting its salt but never even be able to exhaust it; where sunken cities and treasures laid buried, waiting to be discovered . . . But now . . . Now there was nothing, only sand and sun and sulfur; a thirst that could never be quenched, a stomach that could never be filled, a night that could never be slumbered. The sun was beginning to set, causing the desert horizon to cast a deadly shade of blood. The beasts hidden in their caves began to stir, I had walked through these lonely nights long enough to know when trouble would appear. Luckily enough, I managed to find residence in an abandoned vessel and found that the wooden barrels within, after months of collecting morning dew, had contained enough water to fill up three of my canteens. I drank slowly, savoring the sweet taste and disallowing even one drop to run down my chin. I drank a quarter and decided to save the rest for the upcoming days. Casting aside my moth-eaten bag and putrid cloak, I rested atop a cluster of worn-out cloth and nets. My feet ached immensely, and I took my boots off to massage them. ―Long day . . .‖ I mumbled out loud, a habit I had been accustomed to so I could distract from the constant feeling of loneliness. I took a knife from its scabbard strapped around my thigh and began to cut my prominent beard. The heat had been too much. I thought that tomorrow would be just as hot; the beard would only make the heat worst. The night lands were silent: only the hiss of the sulfur geysers could be heard, along with the snips of my beard. The shadows of bleached bones of creatures that I had never even seen before stretched along the hills, glazed by the full blood moon, half buried in the sand and motionless; but it wasn‘t like I was expecting anything to move anyway. It wasn‘t until the hoots and howls of raiders that I woke up from this slightly peaceful trance. I popped right out of my bumpy bed of tough ropes and nets and placed my bag and cloak back on, ready for the night air. Halfway to the exit, a hole in the wall, I stopped and watched the silhouettes of the wild raiders run through the desert. ―Why am I doing this?‖ I said abruptly; there was no one to listen to me, and no one to listen to, but I continued to speak. ―Why must I continue this journey of mine? Why must it be me? Why can‘t . . . Why can‘t I give up? Why can‘t someone else finish it. . . ? I . . . I‘m so tired . . . I just want to rest.‖ I wondered why I kept walking every second of my life; through every step I took;

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

through every moonless night; through every attack from savages; through every fake hostage pleading for help; through every pickpocket and thief. But my mind always wandered to the same exact thing, the only thing that had kept me going so far. The ring around my index finger, made of the purest gold, with scripts almost invisible to the naked eye. But as the last bit of sunlight reflected off the blood moon and shone the desert in a ray of red, the engravings of my ring burned as bright as the strongest flame. It was as if I could see the blacksmith that smelted this ring whenever it glowed, like a vision, a vision of a world before this desert. One of these visions was of a lighthouse—no, a clock tower. A clock tower that glowed a ghastly green, like a sentinel built by the souls of the damned. The light that radiated off of the sun shone a single blazing glare that traveled towards a single direction—always the same direction—the one that I had been taking for the past decade: west. Always walking, never stopping, never surrendering to life. I waved away my doubt and threw caution to the wind. Although I did not know if this ring would take me anywhere, or if the visions it gave me were true or not, I continued to walk my lonely path with the hope of changing my fate. Year 7XX — Day 42XX It had been many moons since I last found new attire. My old body was beginning to attach itself to the old clothes, so it was quite lucky for me to find something else to wear. I was an old man now, my body wrinkly but strong from my travels and battles, my hair bleached from the sun, dry and long and spiked, long strands of hair coming from my around my lips and my chin. My new attire came from an arrogant raider who thought he could kill me and loot my body, but he was wet behind the ears. He thought he could defeat me with that petty gun of his, that shotgun made from pipes and leather and sinew, filled with scraps and bolts and bits of tainted gunpowder. However, when he had fired and missed his two shots, I came at him with my spear, made from a broken broom stick and a shard of sharpened metal, a piece of shrapnel from a burning car wrapped with the skin of a starving dog. The raider died in one measly hit, far too easy for someone of my stature, despite how old I was. I took everything from him: from his clothes and his weapons, to his flesh and bones. He wore a thick leather shirt right beneath a vest of steel from a car hood. His right arm had a gauntlet of what seemed to have belonged to a hubcap. His entire left arm wore a piece of medieval armor that he must have found in an abandoned museum, a fine find if I say so myself. He wore faded jeans strapped with metal kneecaps. His satchel contained a single gas mask to breathe fresh air through gassy areas, thick goggles to keep the debris out of my eyes, and combat boots that were only slightly worn out. Taking and swapping whatever I could gather, I took in inventory. To my back was my trusty spear; around my torso, connected onto a makeshift harness from a belt and glue, were sheaths holding about five knives. The left side of my waist held a machete, rusty and worn; the right side of my waist held my five canteens—only two of them filled—and a single pistol, 9mm,

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

eight bullets in the magazine. A spare ninth bullet was tucked in the back of my pocket . . . Just in case something happened. All of this was neatly wrapped in a cloak made from all sorts of parchment: blankets, potato sacks, pillow cases. I had it for such a long time, since the beginning maybe, and it had faded into a muddy brown throughout the ages. One backpack was slung over my cloak, containing matches, canned food, canned dog food, jars of maggots, scraps of wood and magazines and metal, dried snakes and desert crawlers, and that raider that I tore apart jammed into a salted jar, along with some of his bones. I looked at my ring again. It had stopped shining, the sun had set completely, and the moon was beginning to rise behind me. Seeing how I didn‘t want to lose my way and my legs were aching after hours of hiking, I decided to camp the night. A couple minutes later, I found a cave, a rather moist one, and went in with the hopes of finding water. As I continued to venture deeper into the structure, I found that it once hosted people, but from the looks of it, they were chased away by something. Blood splattered on the wall, a sign of a fight, but after closer inspection, it was a sign of a death instead. The body had been dragged out. Two mats lay within the stone confines, among other things. A carpet torn from cars scattered across the ground to form a softer floor; two shelves, one of them still standing while the other limped to the floor, made from rotten wood housed shattered little jars and empty tin cans. There was a small stream of water that ran down the cave wall, ending in a tiny puddle in the corner of the room, and though it contained the dead shells of insects, I gulped the water down. Tearing the rotten shelves apart, I used the wood for my fire. Lighting one of the magazines that I had found with a match, I started a roaring flame in the center of the room. I tried to save the last of what water I had left in my canteen and drank the dirty pond in the corner, snacked on the snake jerky in my pack, and sharpened the bones of that raider into chipped blades. I had taken the ring off of my finger and began examining it, like I always did on moonless nights. Scratching the surface, I felt the writing; though I wasn‘t sure what they said, I still felt this odd aura from it. The visions were enough to tell me what I needed to do. ―Travel west,‖ I mumbled, placing the ring back onto my finger. ―How much longer? How much longer must I walk this path?‖ As my eyes began to droop, I wrapped up the cloak, placed it under my head, and began to drift into sleep. The hiss of the sulfur geysers was a familiar noise and comforted me to my dreams, the only place that was slightly better than the world I was in now. Year 7XX — Day 42XX My supplies were running low. I had already run out of water, though I had found a small container filled with fresh dew a few days ago. I had run out of snake jerky and had yet to find any other living creature to feast on; even my pickled raider flesh had run low, and I didn‘t like what human flesh did to my head. Even though things were not looking good, I was sure that I would survive, I just couldn‘t envision myself dying. I had survived for an entire decade with weeks even worse than this one, but my legs had grown tired; a shoot-out from an infamous group of savages had nearly killed me. Even though I escaped from their grasp and managed to kill three of them, they shot me in the thigh. I spent two whole days wasting my time trying to fix that wound; wasted so much

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

water cleaning it out. And when I finally wrapped up my wound, I broke into a fever and wasted another day. I was so tired, so very tired that all I wanted to do was sleep; the wound had begun to rot, my throat was dry, and my stomach was empty. I kept walking, soldiered through the blazing days and the frigid nights, I kept walking. There was nowhere safe to camp; I had entered a very hazardous area, home to mountain ranges that shot liquid fire seven or eight times every hour. Not a single thing could possibly live here, not even a dry shrub or a thin vulture. I knew I needed to get the hell out of there quickly, or risk being boiled alive. My journey through these valleys of fire had nothing to do with this make-believe quest of mine anymore; this was for survival. I had to keep going. To stop was to die, to never see the end of where this ring was leading me. As I found a path that led to nothing but familiar, barren desert, the ring shone. I looked at it and the strand of light that came off of it led me through the mountains of flames. This had been the first time the ring had shone in broad daylight. Before, it has only ever led me at dusk. But considering the current circumstances, I began to doubt the ring. I shifted it around, moved it to another finger, even tossed it into the air, but the light kept shining to one single spot behind the mountain ranges, right past the rivers of magma. I gulped down the bile that formed in my throat. ―Why?‖ I gasped, looking at the ring with disbelief. ―Why there?‖ But the ring said nothing, had shown me nothing, it only shone brightly towards the direction I most dreaded. ―This is crazy.‖ And yet, no matter how crazy, I couldn‘t stop my lips from twitching into a stupid grin. ―This is suicidal, but . . . there‘s really nothing out there but deserts and savages. . . .‖ I chuckled. ―If I die, then so be it. If there really is something there, then so be it. I will accept everything that this stupid ring will give and take from me.‖ And with the swarming thoughts in my head settled, I walked forward into the valley of fire water. Year 7XX — Day 42XX I had nearly died that day, weeks ago, and yet, I managed to survive; in my head, I still argue with myself whether that was a blessing or a curse. I‘ve suffered from many burns now, to the point where my body has been disfigured. My bleached head of long hair was now nothing but scarred skin and random tufts of hair sprouting out of my bandages. My bullet wound was healed, though. I had only survived because of a group of people, who called themselves the Agneuta,had saved me in my time of need. I was bedridden for weeks, useless to do anything, and they had kept me alive. They had a fountain of water that poured out of the mouth of their Goddess of Fertility, Noursu, whose face was carved into the mountain; fresh and cool, like I had never tasted before, and all of these sweet edible plants, some bitter and hard to stomach, but I was no picky eater. Yes, this was maybe the only living land in this wasteland of ours. A young woman, half my age maybe, had given me this orange rod, calling it a carrot, and told me it was edible. It was sweet as I crunched on it, but I would rather have had those dried snakes I had smoked before. The younglings had taken a fine interest in me, examining my weapons and clothes with a thrill. I saw that their attire was fresh, the younger children having stains around the collars of their necks, but all clean and pressed. The people my age talked to me, actually talked to me with kindness rather than malice with a gun pointed in one hand. It was an odd sensation, and

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

although they were treating me rather nicely, I still couldn‘t help sitting near my pack. ―Where are you from?‖ one man asked; he was named Haizid and was around my age. From the attire he wore, a white robe and necklace of silver and gold ores, and the air around him, I assumed he was their chief. ―I‘ve come from afar,‖ I answered, drinking the delicious, sweet water. ―I had been on a journey that I started years ago.‖ ―A journey?‖ The man chuckled. ―From where did you once hail?‖ The path I had chosen has been harsh, the road less traveled, and it has done much to my memory,‖ I sighed. I saw that the children listened with enthusiasm. ―I do not even remember my homeland; it has been far too long.‖ ―Take your time; there is no need to rush,‖ Haizid assured me. ―You are safe here. The children seem to have taken a liking to you and would love to hear about your journeys.‖ ―Very well . . .‖ I gave in, stretching my back and giving out a loud sigh as a bone popped. ―What I do remember about my home is that it was ransacked by a group of raiders. I was an orphan then, and I continue to be one now, but I loved that village. It was one of the few remaining lands with vegetation, but the raiders burnt it all down, the idiots. I fled, my people scattered. I do not even know what my friends, who I had considered as family, are doing now. Whether they are dead or not are a complete mystery to me. ―I do not recall what happened next, but I do remember being chased for my life and stumbling into a deep tunnel. I hid there for days, catching and scarfing down rats, waiting for those savages to finally leave. I stayed there for many moons and nearly died . . . But. . . Heh, I lived.‖ ―From whom did you get this quest?‖ the man asked. ―Surely, the quester is dead.‖ ―I was given a quest by no man, but by a ring,‖ I answered, and I took my ring and tossed it to the man. ―I found it in the cave I hid in. It led me to fresh water and food deep within the confines of the tunnel.‖ ―Oh, dear, is this what I think it is?‖ Haizid gasped. ―What? Have you seen that ring before?‖ ―No, I have never seen one. However, our scripts tell tale that, one day, someone will appear out of nowhere, carry the weight of the age, decades worth of history, upon their shoulders. And they, with that knowledge, will lead us to change. And how can we tell who that person is, you ask? By a ring; the man shall follow the path he had chosen when he was entrusted the ring and thereby inherit the will of those before us. . . . Tell me, when you obtained this ring—‖ ―It showed me a light,‖ I quickly interjected. ―The light of dusk would shine upon the ring and beam a single strand of light that led me west. I, though I know nothing about this inheritance will you speak so fondly of, followed.‖ ―You saw the light . . . I see . . .‖ He sighed, grinning tiredly. ―To be honest, I myself have no interest in what the dead have to say.‖ I had spoken from the heart. ―After death, nothing remains. Will? Screw that, I do not care for it. The path I had chosen was my own, regardless of whether I followed the light or not, it was my choice and no one else had any influence on it.‖ Haizid grinned stronger. ―I see . . . I see, yes, saying that you followed their will would only disrespect your own. Yes, I truly apologize.‖ ―Say nothing of it.‖ I waved it off. ―However, it is not like I have any proof that my will is my own. Maybe the paths that I have chosen are similar to the ones our ancestors had chosen,

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

who can tell?‖ ―Yes, that is true,‖ Haizid chuckled. ―But let us stray from this fact, let us talk about the ring,‖ I added. ―You speak fondly of the ring, why is that? Does it resemble something that you know of?‖ ―No, it does not resemble the ring I speak of, because it is the ring that our scripts tell tale of,‖ Haizid stated strongly. ―I do not know if you are the person the scripts tell us of, but this is definitely a genuine ring.‖ ―How can you tell?‖ I asked. ―Come, follow me to our cave,‖ Haizid said, taking my hand. He led me through a deep tunnel that twisted around for what seemed like miles. An hour had passed when we finally reached the cavern. In the far end of the room, carved right into the walls, was a large stone cube engraved with runes and hieroglyphs that seemed to radiate a certain power. ―Your ring . . .‖ he began. ―Though the writing is miniscule, I can tell just by touch what it says.‖ ―You can read it?‖ I gasped. Trotting through the cave, I found many pillars with the same symbols spiraling up them: stone tablets acting like tombstones, half buried in the ground, and two or three arches hailing the symbols at the top, acting like a title. ―That cube in the farthest end of the cave,‖ he said. ―That is what we call the script, a gift from our Gods. The engravings are clearly stated, ‗For those who seek freedom, you may go North to the Crown as the King, following the path of Kizerain, the King God that stands above all else with his army that follows the rays of sunlight. For those who seek strength, you may go South to the Wall as the Warrior, following the path of Noxu, the Warrior God who takes all that fall on the battlefield into his realm of endless bloodshed. For those who seek truth, you may go East to the Library as the Scholar, following the path of Hexteria, the Scholar God who only takes those worthy of revealing the ancient history of our world with her silver saints. And for those who seek change, you may go West to the Clock Tower as the Hero, following the path of Reiltas, the Hero God who guides all those with an adventurous spirit into the unknown.‘ ―This ring of yours follows the path of Reiltas, the Hero God,‖ Haizid said. ―You are fated to seek change, though you‘ve argued strongly that you are not the one.‖ ―The ring!‖ I yelled. ―It had shown me visions of a clock tower. What does it mean that I seek change?‖ ―I am confused, are you not the one that will lead us, or are you?‖ Haizid asked grudgingly. ―FFor the meantime, assume that I am. What does the clock tower mean?‖ ―It means, that you are the one that will change this world,‖ the man answered. ―I do not know what that means myself and do not know how you will change it, as far as what the Gods consider the word ‗change‘ means. . . . Tell me, where did you get this ring?‖ ―I already told you!‖ ―Yes, but please, indulge me with a retelling.‖ ―I found it in a cave,‖ I answered. ―I had fallen into a pit and found it. It was my only source of light and showed me the path out of the tunnels.‖

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

―You told me that it had shown you a freshwater pond and food,‖ he interjected. ―Yes, it did, but . . . It had also shown me a way out. I was trapped and did not know where I was going. It was like a maze!‖ ―A maze. . . ? I see.‖ The man sighed. ―I see it as a memento of my survival,‖ I said. ―Yes, I see . . . That cave . . . The scripts tell us of where to find the rings, but only those that are worthy may find them . . . I remember now! Yes, The Maze of Sislaf,where Sislaf, the Trickster God, had stolen one of the rings and hidden it in his maze. Many have tried to find it, but none succeeded . . . You found it.‖ ―This ring?‖ I gasped. ―You . . . You must be joking.‖ ―I am not,‖ he said. ―These rings are very special, as you can tell from our scripts. Once the ring is entrusted to a person, even if they drop it in the deepest trenches or throw it into the fires of a mountain, the ring would always find its owner.‖ ―You act as if it is a living thing,‖ I scoffed. ―Maybe . . . There are many strange things in this world of ours. Have you ever lost or misplaced the ring before?‖ he asked. ―I . . . I, once, in my time of desperation and fury, had thrown the ring into quicksand and watched it sink. I had given up on my quest and . . . days later, when I ran from raiders who rode roaring metal chariots, I stumbled down a valley and found myself face to face with the ring once again . . . The savages that chased me died when they fell down the same cliff.‖ ―It . . . It makes sense. Even if you had thrown that ring away, it would have found you during your time of need,‖ the man said, and he gave me the ring back, forcefully I might add. ―I will answer any of your questions, I will give you anything you need, but I will not tell what you need to do, for I do not know it. However, I will tell you that you must place the ring upon the altar—‖ He pointed to the short stone column underneath the gigantic stone plaque. ―It will lead you to the clock tower that the scripts tell tale of. I do not know if that is true, but that is what the ancient text has told us. I do not know what will happen after. . . What will you do?‖ he asked. ―I . . . I don‘t . . .‖ ―Take your time, we are in no rush,‖ Haizid added quickly. ―Regardless if you fail or succeed, you are free to live here. We could use more people, more stories.‖ I grinned at their hospitality. Such nice people they were. ―And if you decide to do it, it does not have to be now. We have waited for decades, we can wait more.‖ I looked at the ring. All this time, after all the things that had happened to me, this ring had really been leading me to my fate. There were times when I did not believe what I had thought, those visions, but I had kept going. This was the moment of truth; I gripped the ring in my hand, trudged forward over to the altar, found a small engraving of a circle, and placed my ring into the slot.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Should Have By Hallie Sweeney Looking back, I see what I should‘ve seen. The girls crying after I had used them, The cancer that would develop in my lungs after years of smoking, The craving for whiskey in the darkest of hours haunting my throat. Looking back, I see what I should‘ve wanted. The genuine affection and love from others, A brain that would work in my favor, And a heart that would work in my favor as well. Now I see what I have become. Washed out and worn out, Useless to society and my family, Not benefiting from anything, even myself. Now I know I should‘ve listened. I should have listened when I was told to put the bottle down. I should have listened when she told me she loved me and meant it. I should have listened when I was told this lifestyle would kill me. I should have listened Because it did.

From Socks to Soaring By Mary White A pair of socks nearly killed me. When I was six years old, my family decided to go to the Monahans Sandhills State Park. When it comes to sand dunes, you get exactly what you expect: sandy shoes, sandy eyes, even a sandy soul. Anyway, the park had a service where you rent a big colorful disc and some wax to coast easily down the dunes. To a six year old, this was very exciting! With my green disc in hand, we started the trek out into the giant sand dunes. Being ambitious, we wanted to go to the tallest dune in sight. An important thing to know is that sand dunes are created by wind, so of course, the wind was chaotic, and therefore sand was blowing in our eyes. We had a rule where you had to squint and have your eyes nearly shut so you didn’t see sand in your sleep. Like a band of wandering nomads, our family trudged along the top of the dune ridges in a single file line. We were surrounded by the quiet whistling of the wind and scurrying little critters. Once we got to what seemed like the largest sand dune, we stopped to use the discs. Seeing only the ground directly below me, my dad reminded me to squint my eyes to protect them. It was my turn to go, so I got on my disc and started my speedy descent. I had only been

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

going for about a second when I hit a sudden bump. All I felt was a jolt before I saw the world coming out from under me as I lurched into the air. Being suddenly catapulted into the air did not make for pretty and graceful flying. No, I was spinning head first, seeing the world go upside down in front of me. As I soared through the air, spinning and turning, I was strangely calm. I thought that I could die if I landed wrong, but the thought didn’t trouble me. I mean, flying on a disc is fun when you remove the worry of being mortally wounded. However, my violent swirling flight had to come to an end. I could see the ground fast approaching, near some desert shrubs and cacti. Crashing to the ground with my neck taking the impact, I wondered what it would feel like to roll into the prickly shrubs. As I awkwardly flopped back into reality, I felt achy, and my back popped back into place with a sickening sound. In a daze, I realized that I was shockingly alive and healthy, which was amazing. Shaking all of the sand off of me (unsuccessfully) after assuring my parents that I was okay, I had one question. What was that mysterious lump that threw me into peril? My brother looked, and found the culprit: a pair of socks. A single pair of socks glared back at me. A single pair of abandoned socks caused my run-in with death.

Things That Actually Mean Love By Mary White Noob, loser, dork, and nerd Don’t be offended! Maybe you misheard You suck and I hate everything that you do It basically translates to I love you You’re gross, please get away from me Means stay forever I <3 u bby I’m not brave enough to say nice things I don’t like the sincerity that it brings I hide under a cloak labeled “sarcastic” But fear people confuse it with unenthusiastic The words I say as terms of endearment Get all jumbled up and become incoherent Why is it hard to say what I feel? Because reality ruins the feeling of surreal Why is it so hard to speak my mind? Because my sappy love is hardly refined So, what does it mean when I say someone’s great? I’m 100% sure that they’re my soul mate

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Recovery By Samantha Pobst Recovery was the heartbreak and tears of anger from leaving my friends and family. Recovery was the two hour plane ride and the bodyguard that made sure I wouldn‘t run. Recovery was the snow-covered ground and the ―You‘ll learn your way around soon.‖ Recovery was a new and shiny present that I didn‘t want. Recovery was making friends with my diagnosis, Shaking hands with my depression and going to brunch with my anxiety. Recovery was the long, nightly talks with my insomnia on how ―it can‘t happen again‖ And the arguments with my PTSD on how it can‘t just sneak up on me. Recovery was sitting in the living room with Brooke, holding my phone for the first time in a year And laughing at how depressed I once was. Recovery was deleting his number And not talking to him when I left. Recovery was the mountains covered in snow, even though it was July. Recovery was the smell of the stables mixed with the dry air. Recovery was forty-two cats with stained lips From the cherries that grew in the orchard Recovery was leaving my temporary haven and feeling lost again. Recovery was the plane ride home and the ―You must be so excited to be back!‖ Recovery was smiling and nodding, even though I didn‘t want to be home. Recovery was no one asking if I missed Utah. Recovery is therapy every Wednesday after school. Recovery is people tiptoeing around me every time I‘m upset because they don‘t want me to relapse. Recovery is making people uncomfortable with my sadness And not knowing what to talk about ‘cause apparently I make too many depression jokes. Recovery is snapping when people say something I agree with. Recovery is making jokes about the pain I‘ve gone through Because it‘s my wound to poke at. Recovery is entirely mine.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

From the Wii By Sean Waters Dear Sean, This is your Wii speaking. Listen, baby, what happened to you? Ever since you‘ve gotten that Wii U, you‘ve left me in that cardboard box. It‘s not nice in there, you know. Why did you leave me for that dumb Wii U thing anyways? You were such a good gamer on the Wii games! Oh man, the way you shook my nunchuck, and the way you wiggled that joystick—mmm, that made me feel sooo good! You don‘t shake anything on that Wii U of yours. You just sit there, and play with its joysticks! You love messing with those things. I know you miss me. You don‘t really play with the Wii U that often these days either. You‘ve been drawing really good artwork recently. I know that you miss me and all, but instead of redirecting your grasp on my remote to a pencil, why not just come back to me? You know, I have an app that allows me to watch videos that you make on YouTube. I overheard the Wii U saying that they‘re garbage, but I love them as much as I love you pressing my buttons. Baby, please come back to using my joystick, ok? I‘ll make it worthwhile… Love, The Wii

But Why? By Deven Washko The sun had ceased to be this day. A gloomy sky of gray clouds substituted for the usual sight of the pretty blue skies. A feeling of cold and warmth were busy battling the air that people would go through. Calmness was muted with the eerie whisper of the wind rustling through the trees and bushes that surrounded the area. The school bell erupted violently, echoing through the hallways. Recess time had begun. Eight-year-old Stacy gracefully rushed towards the swing, and flew right onto the piece of chained plastic close to the large open bushes. She flew through the air back and forth on her belly. Tension from the swing would apply pressure onto her stomach, but this was something she had grown used to. She opened her arms out, and extended her legs to their maximum length. She closed her eyes, and felt the breeze of the cold wind soar past her arms as she rushed through the clouds. She was quite a big dreamer. ―Hi there, Stacy,‖ greeted Pauline. Memories of unwitnessed stealing, teasing, and hair pulling flooded right back into

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Stacy‘s mind. Her two loving parents would never know about these incidents, but this had been going on for quite some time. Teachers were informed. Nothing was ever done to truly stop her, though. ―W-What‘d you want, Pauline…?‖ ―You know exactly what I want.‖ Stacy glanced around, observing her surroundings. If something were to happen, it didn‘t look like anyone would notice. These swings were too far from the rest of the playground for anyone to witness. And it‘s not like teachers actually paid attention to every single individual child. This was one of those parts of the playground that just existed, but it was so out-of-sight that no one ever really talked about it. In fact, why bother at all with these swings when there were the new ones at the actual playground? ―Pauline…please…there‘s another swing right here. In fact, there are two more empty swings here. Take one of those.‖ ―But I want YOUR swing.‖ ―Why??‖ ―Cause I want it. Now, get out of that swing.‖ Before Stacy could oppose some more, the reenergized bully had pushed her right off. Stacy would fall right onto the jagged woodchips, introducing the concept of pain to her elbows. ―Hah. Ya know what? I change my mind. I just want to see you cry.‖ ―Y-…you‘re a monster.‖ ―Awwww, what‘s the matter? You want your mommy n‘ daddy? Go ahead! Call for help.‖ Stacy sniffled loudly, trying to make her mind forget about the burning sensation in her eyes. However, this proved to be irresistible. Her tears leaked a little bit, only to be followed by large streams. Stacy had given in. The bully had gotten what she wanted once again. ―Hah!! You‘re pathetic.‖ Something inside Stacy suddenly snapped. Stacy had suddenly forgotten everything about the pain in her body. The memories were thrown into the abyss of her mind. Everything pertaining to fear was now gone. Her dark brown eyes focused on Pauline. It felt oddly warmer around her head. All those memories of torment had finally piled up, practically blinded Pauline from reality. ―No…Not again…‖ Stacy stood back up, ignoring the woodchips that had stuck to her purple shirt ―No?? What‘s tha…wait…I get it.‖ Stacy stood up. ―How funny. YOU fight ME? HAH!‖ There was that tension feeling again. The stomach had clenched, but this was something she had grown used to. Stacy took one step forward. ―H-hey. Don‘t you dare come any closer to me. Do you know who I am?? I‘m Pauline Gonzalez. I will mess you up. I am the monster in your closet. I am the ruler of this school. I can

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

take a pipsqueak like you down in an instant.‖ Stacy proceeded with another step, eyes glued to Pauline‘s. ―I‘ve seen you try to stop me. Y-You‘re w-weak. Getting teachers to do the job for you. But you really think I‘m g-gonna let…‖ Stacy was now only three feet away from Pauline. ―H…HEY!! Stop that c-creepy look.‖ Pauline muttered. ―You‘re such a freak…‖ Two feet. Pauline‘s heart rate sped up. ―I…um…i-if you come one step closer…I‘ll…I‘ll…‖ Stacy reached into her pocket for something. ―Y-you‘re freaking me out, Stacy…stop it. Or else.‖ Pauline quivered anxiously. It suddenly occurred to her at that very moment that despite all the pain she caused to everyone, no one had ever really challenged her to a physical fight before. Stacy kept her emotionless face hooked onto Pauline‘s as she unveiled her dad‘s stolen hunting knife. ―Wh…WHAT?? What‘re you…‖ Stacy pounced on Pauline. Stacy had still managed to keep eye contact. At the same time, she wasn‘t even aware she possessed this much strength at all. ―AAAAH! SOMEONE HEL—!!‖ Her cry for help got muffled. Stacy didn‘t hesitate when she slowly inserted the long blade into Pauline‘s torso. The ruler of the school wheezed as the red substances began leaking from the corners of her lips. Pauline had a look of pure nightmares flooding her everyday life. Pauline screamed for help in her mind. She hoped—no, she prayed that somebody would help her in this time of need. But nobody came. Shhhhh…gestured the victim of two years‘ torment. The bully‘s eyes closed tightly, trying to consider her options. Stacy‘s twitching fingers had commanded the knife to swoosh around inside. Gurgling sounds produced the sickening reaction of a chuckle. Pauline began losing all feeling in her torso. Stacy felt the rubber-like cords of flesh rip apart with the help of the large blade. ―Pl…please…s-stop…‖ Stacy‘s face scrunched at the idea of forgiveness. ―You never did. So why should I?‖ The victim‘s laugh echoed through Pauline‘s head as a haunting memory of something she now regrets doing. Pauline never would‘ve thought it would come down to this. ―But…but…Wh…W…Why St-…‖ The bully had stopped speaking, her lungs desiring to use this precious time to gain oxygen needed to pump the leaking blood through her body. Stacy had finally taken the hunting knife out of her. She knew she wasn‘t gonna last much longer. ―‘Cause I want to.‖ A brief pause in the atmosphere had silenced the area. Surely the bully couldn‘t be alive anymore. Too much blood had been lost for someone this age to survive. It was during this brief moment of silence that Stacy realized something. A burning feeling that declared victory. A vengeful battle had just been fought successfully. There was no more struggle. There was no more tension. Just…silence Stacy felt this burning feeling change into the urge to smile at her accomplishment. She was so easy. What a weak opponent. How was something like her afraid of something like that?

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

How did someone like her torment someone like Stacy for this long, and get away with it?! What an evil person. Her selfish desires for power and dignity had ironically come to her own downfall. There would be no more Pauline. The world would forever be a better place for someone like Stacy. But that feeling… It told Stacy that what she had done was the right thing to do. Stacy suddenly laughed at her cold, yet warm and sticky hands. This wasn‘t a mistake. Stacy knew she wouldn‘t regret this later. This was a need. A necessity. An urge. Maybe this was even kind of fun. She stared back down into the soulless eyes of Pauline, her mouth now drenched in what little kids would mistake as spilled Kool-Aid later on. There would definitely be no more bullying to worry about. Nobody would miss the former bully of the school. Surely the other kids would continue on with their normal everyday lives in a world without Pauline Gonzalez. Stacy popped out of her thoughts and quickly darted her eyes around. Nobody had witnessed this. Thank goodness for the gigantic bushes covering this scene up. The playground was still too far away, and the other kids seemed more interested in the new swirly slide rather than the old forgotten swing set next to the open school fence. Stacy took this opportunity to her advantage, and began dragging her former bully past the nearby hole in the fence. Her eyes targeted the fertile woodlands just two blocks away. As Stacy continued this act of vigilance, she began realizing how empty the world was during school days. Not a single person, animal, or car was in view. Empty curbs filled the space around this gruesome scene. The only sound that was audible to Stacy was the sound of her villain being dragged along the sidewalk as the woodlands finally came into view.

Campers By Molly Thompson I had started orchestra in sixth grade, and my parents decided that it would be a good idea to send a socially awkward pubescent girl to a weeklong overnight orchestra camp. It was the first overnight camp I was ever to attend, and I had no idea what to expect. Maybe I‘d make some new friends, discover a more extroverted side of me that I hadn‘t been aware of. Maybe it would increase my playing abilities tenfold. Oh, how wrong I was.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

There were three people in the camp that I knew from school, and none of them were people I particularly liked, but it was either sucking it up and hanging out with them, or spending the whole week alone. Perhaps unwisely, I chose the former. There was another girl that I‘ll just call Chloe. She had poorly dyed black hair, lips coated in cheap red lipstick, eyes caked in clumpy mascara, and more eyeliner than seems safe. I will name the girls I knew from school as Helena, Amy, and Colleen. Amy was tiny and shy in the fake way, Helena was loud, and Colleen was a compulsive liar. We were all crammed together in Chloe‘s room, listening to their discussions of who was the edgiest, which would continue throughout the week and were extremely distressing to me. Most of the stories—including one about Colleen jumping in front of a train because her boyfriend (keep in mind, we were ages 11 to 12) had been sleeping with her ―identical older sister‖ who was ―a prostitute‖—do not actually make any sense, and I have no evidence for them being true. ―You know, I can see ghosts,‖ Chloe said at some point. I wasn‘t sure if I should laugh, so I just asked very critically, ―Oh really? How?‖ She huddled the group together. ―My mom was possessed when she was pregnant with me.‖ The girls all nodded in agreement, talking about how cool that was, and the weirdest part was that they all seemed to really believe it. I was not used to being the one on the sidelines of the conversation, since I was relentlessly loud in my normal life, but I decided it might be better to stay out of this one. So we went on a ghost hunt. Helena set up her phone in the hall as a camera, and we all hid in the rooms, apparently waiting for the spirits to waltz down the hall and show up on the iPhone. I still couldn‘t believe I was actually doing this, but again, it was better than sitting alone in my dorm, staring at the wall (which ended up happening anyway). We gave up after a total of ten minutes, Helena claiming it was because she didn‘t want her phone stolen, and definitely not because there weren‘t any ghosts, because oh my god, there were definitely ghosts here. This set the tone for the entire week. I tried to find someone else to hang out with, but at the time I was in the depths of my otaku phase, and most people don‘t want to be around someone whose introduction is ―Hi I‘m Molly. Do you like anime?‖ So I was stuck with these four other girls who actually wasted no time trash talking the others as soon as they were out of sight and apparently actually hated each other.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Every spare moment I had was spent listening to one song in particular: ―Someone Like You‖ by Adele, so I can‘t ever hear that song again without thinking of lying in a dirty dorm room feeling some strange mixture of elation and desperately wanting to beat Amy unconscious with my violin. And yet, I am so glad I went to this camp. I had several breakdowns throughout the week, and it piqued my anxiety in about ten different ways, and my playing didn‘t improve at all, and there were several times I seriously considered punching my peers in the face, but something about all of that had been fun. Something about learning to be friendly with people I actually hated, something about shitty dorm food and feeling sorry for myself about how awful everything was, actually created one of the summer experiences that I think has shaped my adolescence the most, and I look back on it with fondness.

Live a Little By Grace Hailey ―Ay, Court? Dinner tonight at that Italian place up by the hotel? I make a very romantical date,‖ Jimmy shouted from across the museum floor, his Brooklyn accent sharply catching the other tourists‘ attention as a wave of ―shhhhhh‖s erupted from Courtney‘s group. Court hissed under her breath, ―Dude, this is one of the most prestigious museums in the world… why do you have to shout all the way across the room, Jimmy?!‖ She grabbed Jimmy‘s ear and pulled him near the rest of the group. ―Plus, you‘re in Athens, Greece, and you choose Italian food? Really, Jimmy?‖ She didn‘t know how he had managed to get into the Greece Abroad program, let alone NYU. The little man was obnoxious to no end and had a thing for Court since freshman year when they shared the same dorm floor. After declining numerous smoothie dates and offers to meet Jimmy‘s parents, Court gave in…to being friends at the least. Court, a paleontology major, and Jimmy, a history major: they had a lot of the same classes, so she decided that ―it was going to happen eventually.‖ But there was something about Court and Jimmy‘s relationship. They could figure out anything together. Sophomore year the

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

two did a project the Calc professor announced was so hard that no one could get above a 70. The pair made a 97, putting them in the mathematics hallway of fame—without actually being in the major. Last April, the Greek history final paper gave them top marks as well. They were the best academic duo the University had seen in years. ―Done with your notes yet?‖ Jimmy asked, eager for something to eat. ―Yeah, let me just finish this last paragraph and we‘re out.‖ In the cab, the two decided that they‘d pick something a little more underground. ―So there‘s this place uptown that Yelp says is a must-go to for Mediterranean.‖ ―Yelp always says that about every touristy place…let‘s go somewhere else,‖ Jimmy replied. ―I got a place a little less known I know‘ll be good,‖ the cab driver responded. ―It‘s a little ways out but it‘s pretty good, I‘ll take a bit off the tab to help out a little.‖ Jimmy and Court nodded at each other. ―Sounds good! Let‘s go.‖ Twenty two minutes later, and Jimmy and Court were starting to get anxious and ―hangry‖—a term Jimmy made up to mean hungry and angry together. ―How much longer?‖ Jimmy moaned. ―What‘s the name of this place anyways so I can look up the reviews?‖ Court said, irritated. ―Elias Ge. It‘s just around the corner,‖ the cab driver replied, his accent faded now. What happened to his Greek accent? Courtney thought. ―That‘s what he‘s been saying for a while,‖ Court whispered to Jimmy. ―Hey! My connection isn‘t working, where are we?‖ Jimmy looked outside to see rustic, ill-paved streets and old buildings, but no people walking by, as it was getting dark. They were in a poorer part of Athens. Then the cab finally stopped. ―No charge, enjoy your meal,‖ the bearded man told them when Court and Jimmy finally got out of the car. ―Walk down ally, go into door and there is the restaurant,‖ The taxi driver‘s broken English was starting to be too evident and the two just shrugged. ―Did a random taxi just drive us all the way across the city and tell us to go down a sketchy ally in the dark to eat?‖ Courtney asked. ―What‘s our other choice, really?‖ Jimmy shrugged. ―Live a little, Court. It‘s not every day we get stranded in a beautiful city in an interesting part of town in a beautiful country… Let‘s check it out. Don‘t let anxiety get the best of you.‖ Down the dark ally, the two went and opened the door just as the cab driver had instructed them to do. The inside was lit by a torch lighting up an old stairway, and Jimmy reluctantly walked up. ―This is scary, we should go back,‖ Court whispered. ―It‘ll be fine, I just have to look for a bit! C‘mon Court!‖ Jimmy replied. ―I thought you said that you‘d live a little.‖ I don‘t want to live a little, I was to live a lot! Which means I don‘t want to go into a sketchy-ass stupid building and get killed! But fine. Have it your way. Let‘s just get murdered.‖ ―Harsh. Someone‘s a bit hangry,‖ Jimmy replied. Court used her phone flashlight, and they climbed up the stairs and opened another door, this time brand new. Jimmy opened it, and suddenly an influx of light, music, and heat spilled out. Inside was revealed… (to be continued)

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Life By Brett Bussey Fortune has smiled down on each one of us, The fact that we are here now, and alive, Giving us reason not to make a fuss, The bright opportunities let us thrive. Fill your lungs to the brim with fresh clean air, We live in the present, not the future, Acknowledge the fact that you are here, not there, Clear your mind, be here now, live life sooner. But, as we know, all luck is not akin, Some have it better, some have it much worse. All men united through the flame within, Count this as a blessing, and not a curse. For now, don‘t give way to the perceived strife, For we have been gifted the gift of life.

Crestfallen (Poems) By Julia Key Unspoken Words I never understood My need for your affection, Or the pain I felt When you gave it to someone else. I couldn‘t be angry, though. I shouldn‘t have been. Everyone you met Couldn‘t help falling in love with you, Even me. I never understood Why we weren‘t closer. I was never the best Or even in second. I was forever waiting In a line of people That in your eyes, Would always be better.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

I never understood Why it took me so long To realize that nothing in this world Could make me as joyous as you did, And as the months passed, My fondness only grew. I couldn‘t help but to have Every thought in my head Be about you. I never understood Why I made that awful mistake, The one that hurt you more than I ever knew. But maybe that was the goal, To see if you loved me, too. Even then you stayed by my side, And I knew that everything Would be alright. But it wasn‘t. And I understand Why you decided to leave that day. You had moved on, Just like you thought I had. Enraged and heartbroken, I pushed you further away. As you fell asleep, I lay awake and felt the tears fill my eyes, And there was nothing I could do But let out a pathetic ―I love you.‖ I‘m so sorry That you will never understand How much you truly mean to me, How much I wish I could be yours, How much I ache knowing that I‘m not. But I can‘t take the thought Of letting you down, yet again. And I am so sorry That I never told you, But, god, I hope You feel the same way, too.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

I Miss… By Julia Key I miss your laugh I couldn‘t help but smile at the beautiful sound The way it‘d fill up the room The way your nose would scrunch up And your face would turn red Those cute snorts that you hated But I adored I miss our nights together When we‘d stay up till dawn Holding each other Talking Laughing Yelling Crying It didn‘t matter Because I was with you I miss our conversations About music About life About death About love About hate About our dreams And our fears I miss us Before we were together Before it all ended Before I tore everything apart When I could tell you anything When I didn‘t feel alone When I had someone to talk to When I had someone to call when I was scared to be by myself When they were real smiles instead of fake ones When I was happy I miss you.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

When It Rains By Julia Key whenever it rains i think of that day. The dreadful day that you went away. i’m sorry, i try to be happy, but honestly, without you, i feel quite crappy. whenever it rains i cry and i cry, until the tears stop falling from the sky. when w

ever

it rains

i look d

out

the

always won der ing the rea son

you

deci

ded to go.

it hurts, the thought of you, but i keep going because what else am i supposed to do? whenever it rains, i just want to stay in bed, but i go out and put an umbrella over my head.

Two College Letters By Vivian Francis Dear Applicant, After carefully reviewing your application, our Admissions Board deeply regrets to inform you that we will not be able to offer you a spot in our incoming class. Our Board reviewed an applicant pool of an unprecedented degree of accomplishment and prestige in assembling this year‘s class, and it is with genuine remorse that we deny your acceptance. This Board wishes to compliment your excellent application, concerning which we were deeply impressed.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Our Admissions process does not usually include personal correspondence, but this board member has elected to make an exception for your amazing work. Your 10+ years of dance instruction are a perfect example of the kind of commitment this school typically appreciates in students, regardless of the fact that your dance skills themselves are, to use your own words ―passable, on a good day.‖ This board member also found it neat that you included personal details about yourself in your application such as your dislike of carbonated beverages, cheese, and country music. While some members of the board considered these details ―frivolous‖ or ―unnecessary,‖ I assure you they added a personal touch to your writing that most of the applications we review lack. A lot of the applications we read are, to be frank, very dull. It makes me quite sad to be responsible for rejecting such an interesting applicant. Really, the only reason we can‘t admit you is that our university is making us accept kids who are ―academically diverse‖ and things like that. I don‘t even know what that means! It‘s a load of crap if you ask me. Apparently to get into this dumb school, which isn‘t even that good, you need to have taken eighteen different math courses and won the science fair and have written a novel and won the Nobel Peace Prize; but perfectly respectable people who took piano for six years without retaining any practical piano-playing skills (but still put it on their college application) and wrote their essay about their pet cat get the boot! And, I really can‘t emphasize this enough; this damn school isn‟t even that good!!!! Thank you for your application. Best regards, John Smith Board of Admissions, Marshall College

#2 Dear Applicant, Congratulations. On behalf of the admissions board of the University of Albuquerque, we are proud to offer you a spot in our incoming class. Our Board selected you from many very strong applicants, and we are optimistic that our incoming class will be comprised of our most talented and well-rounded group of students to date. It is not common for applicants to receive personal correspondence, but this Board Member has deemed these circumstances unusual and fit for extraordinary actions to be taken. The University of Albuquerque takes great pride in its high standards concerning the student body. In the interest of maintaining this stellar reputation, I have taken it upon myself to inform you of some discrepancies within your application. For starters, though I commend you for creativity and originality, I did not find your essay regarding your cat, Hurly, completely adequate in answering the given prompt. To refresh your memory, the essay was intended to ―Reflect upon a person or event that has greatly affected you as an individual and as a student.‖ Though I am sure that your cat, Hurly, is- to quote your essay- ―the cutest cat in the world‖ and I am quite sure that he does, indeed ―look like a lion in

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

miniature,‖ I find it a bit of a stretch to consider the objective cuteness of your pet a defining event or person in your life. In fact, the physical appearance of an animal is neither a person nor an event. I wish to advise you quite strongly that writing essays that deviate so greatly from the given prompt is frowned upon by most, if not all, professors employed by the University of Albuquerque. Additionally, I would advise that you refrain from including frivolous and unnecessary details in your critical writing, such as your disdain for country music, carbonated beverages, and cheese, as depicted in your essay with the given prompt ―Describe an environment in which you are completely comfortable and content.‖ Again, I wish to congratulate you on your acceptance into our school. However, remember that there are many, many other schools out there. Schools that value dormant piano skills very highly. Schools that covet those who don‘t feel as though they can honestly say they excel at something that they have rehearsed 10+ years like, for example, dance. Schools that are probably better than this school. You could probably do better than us. You could definitely do better than us. Seriously, this school isn‘t even that good. I implore you to not attend this school. Your cat essay will surely serve you well elsewhere. Not here. We‘re more of a dog school. Sincerely, Michael Greene P.S. The Dean of Admissions, your mother, says hello.

Thoughts to Ink (Poems) By Kolby Dunn Doubt dear my love, do you understand me? you say you do, you seem to; when I‘m down and hurting. and you say just enough, but not too much. and hold me tight so I feel sheltered, but not so tight I feel trapped. do you know all the things that make me what I am? and do you really love them? Those fragmented feelings, and those feeble, fumbling attempts at becoming someone I can love all the time, and not just part? do you really care? I think you do. but tell me over and over tonight and then again in the morning. and maybe, I‘ll begin to believe. –yours truly Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Selfless By Kolby Dunn “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility, value others above yourselves” Philippians 2:3 I‘m beginning to sense a pattern for the way things came to be. I‘m beginning to understand there‘s a little more to living than just focusing on me. I‘m learning more each day about the person that I can be. And I‘m wondering if someday, I‘ll open my eyes and see that there‘s a little more of everything when there‘s a little less of me.

Freedom By Kolby Dunn I think freedom Is breaking all the chains, Learning to let go Of what was. That comfortable, secure Captivity. To embrace what can be,

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

That frightening, Foolish future Where nothing is known. And nothing of the past Can be lived again.

Missed By Kolby Dunn don‘t think because you go that I‘ll miss you. I‘ve missed you ever since you first thought of leaving.

The Rightful Heir By Maddie Townsend A young, ambitious king sat in his throne room, alone. His back rested against the golden seat, elbow propped up against its swirled arm. White eyes stared ahead into the silence in the room, silver hair fluffed up in a tattered mess. He was relaxed, in a sense, and his face would‘ve been described as emotionless if not for that sloping smirk painted across his pale lips. The smirk gave him a confident, cocky air. The silence was suddenly broken by the clipped noise of urgent feet. The king tilted his head and locks of silver fell to reveal the pointed ears of a Fey man, someone of the fairy folk. His gaze remained locked onto the double doors, the sound getting louder as the feet approached. The doors slammed open. A messenger stood shaking in the doorway. He was out of breath, yellow eyes widened into round balls of light. The king clicked his tongue, like he was expecting something more than the panicked Fey man. He shifted, the propped arm waved in a semi-circle. ―What do you want?‖ he asked, the ice-cold tone of his words causing his messenger to stiffen. ―KKing Garret…‖ he stuttered out, face pale in the presence of his ruler. Garret‘s smirk dipped into a scowl. ―I know my name already, peasant. I asked why you‘re disturbing me.‖ A cold sweat formed on the messenger‘s forehead, he swallowed before attempting to

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

relay his message. ―IIt‘s your brother, your majesty… he… hhe…‖ Garret‘s fist slammed down on the throne‘s arm. ―What about Jakin? Out with it!‖ he demanded, quickly growing tired of the stuttering incompetent in front of him. ―He‘s on our borders!‖ the messenger managed to get out in a high pitched squeak. Garret growled. A dangerous flame ignited in his cold, colorless eyes. ―Jakin? What is that fool playing at?‖ The king‘s fist collided with the golden arm again, which caused the man before him to visibly flinch. ―I—I—I—uh—I ddon‘t know, SSire… I‘m just the uh… just the messenger!‖ He fiddled with his hands. He had never experienced his King‘s anger, but he knew it from others who had; it was red-hot and unreasonable. ―Gather my Council!‖ The king ordered as he raised himself from the throne. His knuckles were white, a fierce grip on the metal below. ―Yes my KKing! As you wish, my Lord!‖ The Messenger scurried out of the room, thankful for the chance of escape. Garret stomped down the hallways. His kingly garb dragged behind on the marble floor. His jaw was tensed, the white knuckles still present as he clenched his fists together. How dare his lowlife, bleeding-heart, older brother come back to take what was rightfully his? He had worked too hard for his position to have Jakin sweep it out from underneath him. He turned towards the meeting room, and the door opened briskly for him. A growl rumbled in the back of his throat: those imbeciles were late. Garret stalked to his seat, his royal rump placed in the cushioned chair. He glared ahead, not anywhere in particular, but his eyes settled on the glorified mirror on the other side of the room. His mind drifted, the vault of thoughts unlocking itself as he waited. Jakin DeClare, his older brother by three years, had left the Kingdom when he fell for a filthy human woman. He believed that those puny, weak, humans were equal to an elite Fey. He left; he abandoned the Kingdom. It wasn‘t as if he was complaining about that though. With Jakin gone, the title of king fell on Garret himself. And as if the heavens were smiling down upon him, it wasn‘t that long before he took over—why, with their father dying from that illness and all. A chuckle left him at the thought. Where was his Council? That messenger should‘ve alerted them by now. Garret made a mental note to himself to have the man escorted to the dungeons after all of this was over. ―You haven’t changed a bit, still ruthless and narcissistic as ever.‖ ―What?‖ The king exclaimed in outrage, his head snapped from left to right in search of the dead man who dared to use such language to describe his king. ―I command you to show yourself!‖ he bellowed. ―Forgotten my voice already? I thought I taught you better, Garret.‖ The mirror across the room shimmered, a blurry image forming on the reflective surface. Garret stood, his boots clicking against the ground as he approached. He snorted at the image, ―father.‖ His voice was level and cold.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Gold eyes blazed back at him. The black-haired former king had his arms crossed on his chest. ―Son.‖ Garret laughed, it was a half-crazed, half-humorous sound. ―Ha! I must be insane if I‘m seeing you now, father!‖ His arms stretched out in greeting, lips curling into a wide, unstable smile. ―You‘re dead, remember? The sickness took your life!‖ Garret let out another laugh and tugged on his collar, almost like he couldn‘t breathe. ―I‘m going to kill him, ya know?‖ he sneered, ―your favorite son, Jakin! He‘s gonna die!‖ The image rippled, the image that was all in Garret‘s head. Old King Dylan stared blankly at his son. Fears he felt about himself, and the fears of his brother came flowing out of the image‘s mouth. ―Jakin would’ve been the best king, a perfect king for Airedale.‖ Garret‘s nails dug into his scalp as he clutched at it, ―No! I‘m the King! Jakin would‘ve made us all fall! I deserve this! I worked for it, old man!‖ Dylan‘s image shook its head, ―No, Jakin would’ve made our kin great again. You, you just cheated, cheated your way to the top.‖ ―I did not cheat!‖ he screamed at nothing, pupils contracted into tiny pebbles. An inky blackness seeped into the seemingly colorless depths of his eyes. He pulled at his hair, deep breaths dragged in and out of his shaking body. ―I… I earned it, my loyalty… my ideals…‖ a breathless laugh escaped him. ―My leadership has made Airedale great again! Nnngh…‖ Garret winced, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he waited for the tremor to pass. ―You‘re wrong, old man, he wouldn‘t have. Isn‘t that why you banished Jakin in the first place? Don‘t you remember what you said? No son of yours would fall in love with a human, that‘s what you told us both. Our ideals are the same father, we are the superior race.‖ ―Things change. Jakin is right, he was always right: humans and Fey are destined to be equals.‖ ―You would never say that, you stubborn old fool!‖ Garret shouted back. A thin trickle of blood had begun to drip down his face from where his fingers had dug into the flesh of his own scalp. ―I would, and I have. You’re the one in the wrong here, not Jakin.‖ ―He‘s the one attacking my kingdom! My subjects! He is not the one in the right!‖ he argued, slamming a fist into the mirror, small cracks appearing where Garret had hit the surface. ―It is his birthright. You always knew he would come back.‖ ―No… he‘s not here for the kingdom…‖ a sinister smirk flashed across the King Garret‘s pale features. ―He‘s here for revenge, I-I kidnapped that daughter of his,‖ he chuckled, eyes glued on the floor. ―Alexandra! The beautiful Strategist! The General of the human kingdom! Yes…Yes, yes, yes. Her… She was rescued, yeah… And I—‖ Garret laughed, his breath fogged up the mirror, ―I killed that king! Yes, Alexandra‘s friend, the puny human king!‖ Garret exhaled, his shoulders dropping, ―her expression… oh, how I loved that look of horror on her face!‖ His tongue flicked over his lips, wetting them, ―I broke her… and Jakin always put his family first. With that thought,‖ he grinned, ―how would he be able to kill me, old man? I‘m his brother, flesh and blood. He doesn‘t have it in him.‖ Dylan said nothing, maybe he was gone, but maybe he wasn‘t. Garret couldn‘t tell anymore. Was this all happening in his head, or was it reality? He continued to blankly stare at the mirror, lost to his innermost thoughts. However, he was jolted away from them as the double doors were pushed open. The crazed king turned slowly, his movements stiff and rigid. Garret‘s eyes widened tremendously upon the recognition of the person at his door. ―HHow…? How is this possible? I killed you! You shouldn‘t be here!‖

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

His father‘s face twisted into a look of confusion; he clutched a sword in hand, bright shining silver that practically blinded Garret. Garret was frozen in place, but it didn‘t take too long for his body to unfreeze. His hand reached for the night-colored blade strapped to his side. ―No matter! If poison failed to work, I‘ll just kill you again. After all, my sword never lets me down.‖ He took a staggered step forward, his body swaying from side to side as the sword dragged along the marble floor. Dylan‘s confusion didn‘t last long, with the grace of a deer, he struck, meeting the black blade in midair. Sparks ignited as the two blades collided against each other. ―Die!‖ Garret howled, sloppily waving the sword around as he fought off his phantom. But Dylan was good, really good. A spark of remembrance went off in Garret‘s brain, but he ignored it, pushing it aside. The swords continued to clash, feet shuffling around as the two swordsmen fought. Garret lifted his sword over his head, started his wide arc downward, but his body stiffened up. Slowly, his head went down to stare at his chest. Scarlet bloomed against his shirt; the hilt of the silver blade slammed against him. Garret‘s sword fell to the floor with a clatter. His white eyes moved back to look at his killer. For a moment, it was his father‘s face— gold eyes that glistened with anger, black hair swept around messily—but then it morphed. The fierce golden hues remained, but the hair, the hair was a bright silver. The sword slowly retracted itself from its mark, and Garret‘s body fell back on the ground. He stared. ―Bbrbrother…‖ he coughed out hoarsely. Garret‘s head lolled to the side, his glassy eyes blankly staring off in the distance. Jakin stepped back, shoulders slumped, as he stared at the unmoving body of his brother. Then the door creaked open once again, the new visitor being a ginger-haired individual, his pointed ears and unusual silver-colored eyes identifying him as being a Fey man, like Jakin. ―Lord Jakin, your children, Alexandra and Joshua, managed to immobilize the enemy. We‘re still waiting to hear back from your cousin, Cecelia, but my guess is that she‘s already convinced the Council to side with you.‖ Jakin sighed, ―Thank you, Alister. How‘s Alexandra?‖ The young knight of twenty-two years shuffled forward. ―Still grieving over Nathaniel, but she managed to cope under the heat of battle.‖ His attention focused in on the bloody body, and he said, ―After all these years, the tyrant is dead. I know it was hard.‖ Jakin dragged his gaze away from the corpse, ―I loved my brother, Alister, but I love my people more. It was unfair to them, letting Garret rule them all these years, while I hid away from the inevitable.‖ ―No one wants to hurt his family,‖ Alister reasoned. Jakin shook his head sadly, ―No, it was never just that. I never wanted to be king. Cecelia told me, she told me time and again, what a dreadful person he was. Yet, I turned my back on her.‖ ―I don‘t think she‘s mad at you.‖ ―She isn‘t,‖ Jakin said as he walked towards the exit, ―she‘s disappointed, as is everyone in Airedale.‖ ―At least they have you now, my Lord.‖ ―You can‘t just replace a king. Garret‘s legacy will never die, and permanent scars will remain etched in our history.‖ Jakin‘s sad chuckle echoed in the room, ―a deserter is a poor replacement for a tyrant, but that is what the kingdom now has.‖

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Over His Shoulders By Gabriel Blackburn On the day Terry Walcott won, red was the only color seen by God. In a daze-like trance, he bounced back, recuperating from haphazard blows. Different shades of red flooded into his vision. This revealed to Terry the visage of a broken man below him. Through the cheering and thunderous applause, a booming voice spoke: ―A tale of rags to riches has unfolded before the eyes of the world, as Terry Walcott proves victorious as the new Heavyweight Champion!‖ The immediate outpouring of cheers left Terry in a state of euphoria. As if this would numb the pain, he blindly accepted his bruised eyes and bruised rib over an oath that he had abided to long ago. Even now, Terry knew that the words that he had spoken overshadowed all the blood that he had just lost. On his shoulders rested the irrefutable weight of a giant. As Terry was heading back to his dressing room, he could slowly see the crowd dwindling in size. He saw paramedics swarm around the man lying in front of him. Terry saw blood dripping down from the ropes, forming puddles on the padded floor. He knew that some of it was his, but more so, he knew that most of it was not. He then looked over to one of the people who had been there for him. It seemed to Terry that he was always there, sitting on the sideline. He served as a mentor-like figure to Terry. But most importantly, Daniel Morris was perhaps his closest friend. Danny was like a brother to Terry, by circumstance. Danny called out to Terry from outside the ring, ―You did good out there, Walcott.‖ Terry shrugged, ―Well, I learned from the best.‖ The two men embraced in a sort of halfhug, Terry with one arm hooking over Danny‘s shoulder. ―Look, I want you to know that I‘m happy for you.‖ He took a few steps back. ―I always have been, but you do know millions of people have seen you in the ring tonight, right?‖ ―Yeah Danny, isn‘t it great? The seats were filled. They even had one of those cameras to show the fight on the television, like I‘m some sort of Hollywood star or something. Can you believe it?‖ ―Walcott, I don‘t think you understand the implications. There were a lot of people watching tonight. A lot of bets and wagers made. A lot of broken promises, Terry.‖ Terry took a few steps towards Danny, ―I don‘t know what you‘re getting at here, but you better get to your point soon.‖ There was a long silence before Danny broke it. ―You better have a look at this.‖ He passed over a seemingly fresh note to Terry, all the while his hands trembling. Terry took no time to unfold the note. As he began to read it, any expression previously on his face melted. All of the pain that he had endured in the fight, a little less than an hour ago,

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

could not amount to what he was feeling in that moment. ―Where did you get this?‖ ―It was shoved underneath the door to the gym. I found it earlier today, but… I didn‘t want to say anything about it before the fight.‖ Terry looked at Danny intently. ―You should have shown this to me before, Danny. This is important, real important. I‘ve got to do something about this. Do you know who sent this?‖ ―I don‘t have a clue…What does the letter even say?‖ Terry passed the letter over, exposing a polaroid of a woman walking. The picture seemed to be taken from a close distance. As for the letter itself, it was written in fine black ink, with precise and steady detail. It read as follows: You should‟ve kept your word, Terry. God damns all liars. Now it‟s time to keep our promise. You cannot hide from the judgment of God. No one can. As he took out the picture, he began to crumple and tear the letter. In a desiccated state, Terry simply said, ―I need to go.‖ And with that, he left the ring. It was dark now, with the full moon showing, and a slight hint of blue. The wicked winds whispered and rolled throughout the city night. Thoughts of what could be, and what had been, clouded visions in his mind. As he drove through the lonely paths of this concrete jungle, he pressed down on the gas pedal. The faster and faster he went, the further and further away he felt. His first priority was to get to her. It was going to be hard, but he was willing to take the chance. Just the thought of stroking that light blonde hair had eased his pain, at least it seemed to. As he got closer, Terry began thinking about her heavenly smile, warm enough to melt even the most cold, stony hearts. He was searching for the daughter of the devil himself. Terry pulled up to his home, but it felt cold and desolate. It was far from familiar to him at this point. He quickly rushed from his car to the door, his house key nearly breaking as he forced it into the lock. All the while, he was yelling out her name. Her soft and sweet name, that in the moment now felt sharp and bitter on his tongue. ―LYNN! LYNN! WHERE ARE YOU LYNN?‖ Nothing but a slight wisp of wind replied. He searched through the house frantically, but didn‘t find her. As of his life was on the line; he tore through each room of the house. She was nowhere in sight. There was not clear point in sight. All hope seemed to be lost to Terry Walcott, until he glanced towards a drawer in his bedroom. On the top lay a thin metal ring with an encased green gem. It was Lynn‘s engagement ring. What does it mean? Where could she be? These thoughts pushed through Terry‘s veils of clouded judgments and vision. With no other option, he reached for the telephone. His hand tightened around the handle of the phone, as it was pressed to his ear. He spun through the numbers, and the phone started to ring. The ringing continued for a little while until someone picked up. A deep, yet soft-spoken voice peered from the other line, ―Hello, Terry.‖ ―What do you want?‖ Terry asked. A slight chuckle could be heard, ―You know exactly what I want.‖ ―Look, I don‘t know what you did with Lynn, but you better not do anything to her.‖ ―I‘m not looking forward to harming Lynn, but I must do what must be done.‖ ―Where is she?‖ ―She‘s with me, Terry.‖ ―Where are you?‖

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

With a slight pause, ―Look above your headboard. I‘ll be expecting you by noon.‖ Before Terry could say anything else, the call had ended. He furiously slammed the phone into its place, repeating this a few times. Terry ran back to his room, and scanned for any clues. There was nothing above his headboard but the ceiling, and a cross. Terry yanked the cross from the hanging nail, and violently threw it at the ground. Terry, now in a panicked state mixed with his weathering anger, searched frantically for something. He rummages through his bedroom, through drawer after drawer. He pulled out an old shoe box, concealed underneath piles of now reshuffled clothing. He opened the box, to find what he was searching for. Sweat poured from his brow, as he contemplated his next actions. With an almost compulsive need, Terry Walcott pulled out the hard metal object, concealed in rags, and stuffed it into the pocket of his windbreaker. Terry knew where he needed to go. The sound of a church bell rang loud and high throughout the side streets. Terry was close. When he closed the doors to his green Bentley, the bells stilled and the chimes echoed throughout. Walcott didn‘t know what to expect, but he wasn‘t the kind of man to bargain or plea. He tightened his grip as he opened the church doors. In a loud and furious anger, Terry slammed opens the large, croaky oak doors. Nothing. Nothing lay in or throughout the church. The darkness of the night reached through the thick glass panes, and enveloped the inside like a thick blanket. Terry squinted his eyes to adjust for his impairment, and made out the figure of a man. The man sat at the front row, left side. His head was tilted slightly, talking silently, as he was facing towards a figure of Christ on the cross. Terry took his time approaching the man, as he felt that one misstep could be fatal. Right as Terry was going to speak, the man intercepted. ―Two minutes past twelve.‖ His focus was still on the Christ figure. ―Come, take a seat.‖ In an agitated tone, Terry said, ―Tell me where she‘s—‖ The man turned to Terry, ―Sit.‖ The eyes that stared at Terry could only be described as pure evil. He had never felt a fear as strong as this. So Terry obliged. ―Are you a religious man, Terry?‖ With a slight pause, ―Not particularly.‖ ―You see, Terry, I‘ve been in this line of work for a long time. There have been many who have wronged me. You, in that fact, are not alone. And the individuals before you have been punished for their actions. However with you, Terry, you‘re lucky. You see, I‘m getting old. There‘s only a certain amount of time that I have left.‖ The man held up a beaten leather bible. ―Familiar with any verses?‖ ―I‘m afraid not.‖ ―Well, there‘s a verse that I‘ve taken much interest in. Matthew 6:14. It says if you forgive others‘ sins, God forgives yours.‖ In a resurgence of confidence, Terry managed, ―Tell me where she‘s at.‖ ―I‘ll forgive you Terry, but will you forgive me?‖ ―Tell me where she‘s at!‖ The man pointed towards a flight of stairs, ―In my old age, I‘ve lost the ability to do my own work. On the roof is where she is.‖ Terry rushed out of the bench, and ran up the flight of stairs. He stopped right at the door to the ceiling, catching his breath. He shakily reached for the concealed object, making it form a sort of snapping noise. As he rushed out the door, he stopped in his tracks. He saw Lynn... and Danny. ―You finally showed up. Didn‘t you hear the bells?‖

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

―Why are you doing this?‖ With a gun visibly pointed at Lynn, Danny spoke: ―I was offered a substantial amount of money. It‘s nothing personal, Terry.‖ ―Don‘t you dare harm her! Put away the gun.‖ ―Have any last words to say to her?‖ Lynn was quietly sobbing as Terry attempted to get closer towards her. He unraveled the metal object he‘d been holding onto in his pocket. Suddenly, Danny adjusted his aim, pointing directly at Terry. Tightening his grip on the hilt, Terry fired. Two shots could be heard ringing in the distance.

A Love Letter By Destiny Schneider Dearest Destiny, First of all, thank you for remembering to feed me this morning. You don‘t know this yet, but after you left to go to school this morning, I went to lie in your basket of clean, black laundry, which perfectly displays my soft white hair. I also decided to take the liberty of digging through the trash. I know how much you love to obsess over cleanliness, so you‘re welcome. Anyways, I just wanted to tell you that you are the love of my life. I love when you let me howl with you as you play your guitar, and I love when you feed me under the table during dinner time even though you‘re not allowed to. I wish you would stop going to school, I miss going on walks with you while you took pictures in the park. You are so cool. I love you. One day, I want to make a painting for you just like all the ones you‘ve created. If I could be a human person, I would want to be just like you. Except for how awkward you get when people come over—I wouldn't want to be like that. That‘s weird. Very weird. I wish you would watch Parks and Rec and Vampire Diaries with me like you did all summer. Now all you do is sit in the office without me and work on homework for hours. Mom seems happy about that, but I am very upset. Your devotion to school is getting out of hand, and it‘s only the first week. The next 9 months are going to be so, so, so, so, so, so boring. I guess I‘ll just have to go back to messing with that moody cat. Now back to the point: I love you with all the love my tiny heart can hold. I will always be by your side no matter what you finally decide to do with your life. You are so awesome. I think you‘re great. Really great. Really really great. Nowmytailisshaking100milesperhour. ButnowIhopeyouunderstandhowmuchIloveyou. Byebyefriend. –Your loving dog, Mini P.S. I know I‘m only eleventeen pounds, but I will always love you and protect you from everything, including flies. Flies are the worst. I hate them. Grrrrr.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

Not a Psychopath By Alexis Seaborn Jon lived in the middle of the woods, all alone. He was 29 years old, with shaggy brown hair that fell in his face and wide, bright blue eyes. Jon‘s house was in a clearing in the woods. It was wooden with a small shack behind it. Behind the shack, Jon also had something that you couldn‘t see unless you were up close, but it was his greatest possession. Jon had kept it hidden in slight fear that if it was found he‘d get in trouble. Jon decided to live in the middle of nowhere after graduating high school; he always had a strong dislike for people, which is why he only has one friend: Joe. Jon being all alone in the middle of nowhere concerned Joe. So he recommended that Jon go see a therapist. He didn‘t want to leave the luxury of his home, so Joe was able to get the therapist to drive into the woods to go see Jon in his home. Dr. Adams walked the muddy trail up to the small wooden home and ducked under the sign that had the word ―Good‖ engraved in wood. That made him less anxious about going to a house in the middle of the woods. He should‘ve brought his assistant Jessica with him in case something happened to him. He looked at all the tress and the wet ground and didn‘t fully understand why someone would live in a place like that all alone. He took in a deep breath and knocked on the rough wooden door and heard a scruffy ―Come in,‖ so he entered. He walked into the room, which was probably the living room. He looked around the living room to see that there wasn‘t much. There was a fire place, a beige couch, and an arm chair to match. Sitting in the arm chair was a man staring at the fireplace, he must be Jon Good, and he didn‘t look too dangerous. Jon was sitting in his favorite arm chair in front of the fireplace and a man walked in. He had black hair and blue eyes like Joe, but his hair wasn‘t as long as Joe‘s, and it was slicked back, and he wore wearing a business suit with a briefcase. He looked around for a spot to sit and decided to sit on the couch near Jon‘s chair. ―Hello, Mr. Good, how are you today?‖ Jon looked at him out of his peripheral vision and nodded his head. He presented himself as Dr. Adams, Ph.D., or something along the lines of that. Jon really didn‘t pay much attention because he didn‘t really care about titles. When he introduced himself, he sounded a bit pretentious and Jon didn‘t like that, but the guy was friends with Joe, so he would have to give him a second chance and listen to what he had to say. ―Before we start this session, can you fill out the required paperwork? It‘s just basic things like your name, birthdate; you know, the usual stuff you fill out when you go to the doctor.‖ Jon nodded his head, and Dr. Adams handed him a clipboard. After he finished filling out the papers he handed it back to Dr. Adams who put it in his briefcase. Dr. Adams asked the basic questions, ―What made you decide to see a therapist?‖ Jon‘s answer was that his best friend recommended that he‘d see one. ―Have you ever seen a counselor before?‖ Of course he had, he had a witch for a mother and his dad was in prison, so he grew up in a broken home. ―What is the problem from your viewpoint?‖ He responded to simply ask Joe.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

―Who is Joe?‖ ―My best friend. He thinks something might be wrong with me, but I‘m not a psychopath.‖ This guy needed to understand that Jon was not crazy. ―How does this problem typically make you feel?‖ All these questions were boring to him. Well, Joe is my best friend and he knows me best so I guess he knows what he‘s talking about. ―What makes the problem better?‖ Food makes it better. ―If you could wave a magic wand, what positive changes would you make happen in your life?‖ ―I‘d change everything, I‘d change my witch of a mother into a good mother and I‘d change my criminal of a father into a good person.‖ What kind of questions are these? If he had a magic wand? The questions were bothering him. Just questions like that for about forty-five minutes. For most of the questions, Jon gave simple answers, mostly because he was too tired to give full answers unless it was a question that required a full response. Jon responded honestly until Dr. Adams requested him to do something that hit a nerve. ―Let‘s chat about your mother and father.‖ When Jon spoke about them, it had always been brief: mother was a witch and father is a criminal, but now he has to talk about them. ―Why do you say your mother is a witch?‖ ―Because she is, she‘s an alcoholic and as soon as I turned 17, she kicked me out.‖ ―Why?‖ These questions were becoming repetitive and started to bother him. ―She threw me out because the witch is a psycho, that‘s why. I‘m not, but she is.‖ ―Okay, let‘s talk about your father.‖ Talk about my father? The loser who abandoned us? ―I never knew him too well; he abandoned me and my mom and then slaughtered someone so he‘s in prison.‖ Short, but simple: he hates his father, and he never knew him either. ―Jon, why do you continue to say that you‘re not a psychopath?‖ ―Because I‘m not a psychopath, and she was.‖ This guy kept asking dumb questions that bothered Jon. The answers to these questions were fairly obvious so maybe this doctor was a moron. ―Are you sure that you‘re not projecting your behavior onto hers and your father‘s and that you‘re truly the one who has done all of those things?‖ At first Jon gave no response. He sat there quietly in his chair and looked into the fire. Finally, he gave his response. ―Dr. Adams, are you implying that I‘m a psychopath?‖ Why would he try to imply that? ―Not at all, Jon. I‘m just suggesting that you might have done some terrible things and blame them on your parents.‖ Another nerve had been struck. Who did this guy think he was? He knew he wasn‘t a psychopath just like Joe knew that. ―Dr. Adams, what‘s your first name?‖ He looked too familiar and not in a good way. ―Oh, my name is James Adams. James Adams.‖ Why did that name sound familiar? He searched his mind for that name for what seemed like hours, but in reality was about five minutes. He remembered seeing that name on a football Jersey, but Adams was such a common last name. He remembered walking in the hallways with Joe and Kolby and getting shoved into a locker and a boy calling him a psychopath. The kid

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

turned around laughing as one of his friend‘s called his name, James, and the last name Adams was on his jersey. Jon looked back over to Dr. Adams and he could see it. He was that football player from high school, and every single day he called him a psychopath and shoved him into a locker. Of course, Joe and Kolby tried to do whatever they could to help him, but none of them were in shape like they were now. Dr. Adams looked over at him expectantly and Jon sighed. Now he knew why Joe recommended Jon to him and it was time he went through with it. He turned in his arm chair and looked at Dr. Adams: definitely the same kid. ―Dr. Adams, have you heard of Twelve Rounds: Lockdown?‖ He turned his head over to the therapist who looked confused, but said no which made Jon smile. ―Twelve Rounds: Lockdown is a movie about a man being framed for a homicide by his fellow officers; a detective tries to expose the conspiracy to clear his good name. During the movie, he only has twelve bullets; I own a gun, Dr. Adams. It‘s a Hello Kitty gun, do you like Hello Kitty?‖ ―My niece is very fond of ‗Hello Kitty.‘‖ Of course she was. ―Well, I like Hello Kitty, and I don‘t really care if your niece likes it, I like it. It‘s pink, with Hello Kitty engraved into it…and do you know how many bullets I have? Every guess you get wrong I will fire off a bullet to the target over the fireplace, Ready? Go.‖ Looking over at Dr. Adams, Jon could tell that he was confused and frightened. They had a stare down for a couple minutes, and a wave of realization rushed over Dr. Adams‘ face. He remembered Jon. Jon could feel his lips move up into a smirk as James looked him over and was visibly shaken with fear. 12? Shot fired. 8? Shot fired. 16? Shot fired. 10? Shot fired. 7? Shot fired. 20? Shot fired…into Dr. Adams‘ chest. ―Wrong answer, I had six.‖ He stood up and walked over to the phone. He dialed a number and someone picked up. ―Joe! My brother! How‘s Jo-Jo, how‘s the wife? They‘re good? That‘s great. Well, listen: I finally figured out why you sent Dr. James Adams over to my place. It took me a while to figure out why him, but then I remembered, he was one of the douchebags from high school. Good call brother, did you burn the phone records? You did…And the computer records? Amazing, brother! What about his stupid assistant? I know she picked up the phone when I answered. No memory? That‘s amazing, Joe—you know you‘re really good at this. One day when you‘re ready to quit, you gotta teach me how to do this stuff so I can do it myself. This is why you‘re my brother; I‘m burying his body in the ‗gravesite‘ now. I‘ll see you soon, brother.‖ He hung up the phone with a smile and walked to his backyard. He had a bit to walk before he got there and he stepped around some gravestones to get to where he wanted the body to go. He thought for a while and smiled right next to his first kill, Lilian Good. And the cause of death? ―An alcoholic witch who didn‘t know how to pick a husband.‖ He smiled at the memory and started digging the deep hole; he threw the body into the hole and covered it with dirt. He walked over to his wooden shed, climbed steps and

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

grabbed a tombstone. He really regretted making this shed so high up. Once he‘s old, he won‘t be able to walk up the staircase anymore. He walked over to his station and grabbed a gravestone. On the gravestone, he carved as cause of death: ―Became a therapist and that‘s what killed him the end.‖ After he finished up he walked back over to where he buried the body and slammed the tombstone in place. He stood up, dusted his pants off and smiled at his work; he wasn‘t a psychopath, just a serial killer.

Theatre Slut By Riley Orr So there I am, sitting at Abel's North restaurant, at the theatre banquet. I‘ve just arrived, having experienced an awkward moment in which my teacher was right in front of me in the checkout line at Walgreens, where I had gone to buy her a present. I am wearing a nice button down shirt that‘s way too big for me and some khaki pants that are too short in the legs. Unfortunately, I couldn‘t find my belt at home so I wore my brother‘s old boy scouts belt, hoping nobody would notice in a dark room. I walk into the room and I‘m not early or late. A few people are there, but the majority of people haven‘t arrived yet. This is the best case scenario because I get to pick whatever seat I want before the seniors arrive, so I obviously pick the closest seat to the food. People are starting to arrive and everybody is saying hi to everyone else, talking about how nice they look and all the good stuff; it feels great. I get to hang out with some of the best people I‘ve ever met and talk and say goodbye to the seniors. Now it‘s time for the seniors‘ speeches. My ‗theatre sister‘ (long story) Laura goes up and starts to talk about the program and how amazing everyone is, and the emotions are starting to get to me. Even though I have only known these people for a year, I still have connections with them and will miss them. But, that all changes when Beau gets up to make his senior speech. Now Beau is a funny guy. He‘s able to make a couple jokes and switches the mood of the banquet. Then he gets to his traditions (traditions are titles or things that people get from the seniors who have already graduated) and Beau‘s was The Theatre Slut. Beau makes a couple jokes about it then gets to the part where he announces who it is. While I‘m looking around the room trying to figure out who it would be, all of the sudden, I hear ―it‘s Riley Orr!‖ All the blood from my face drains, and I get cold for a second. One million situations are running through my mind: what are my parents going to think sitting on the other side of the room? What about everyone else in the room? I get up, not really knowing what I‘m supposed to do, so I just go up, shake Beau‘s hand and put on a really awkward smile. I go back to my seat and

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

I‘m very clearly shaken up by the moment, but I decide to play it really cool. That night was a roller coaster of emotions as well as something I will never forget. Now, I just have to figure out how to live up to my new title for the next three years.

Andy & Oliver: Paw-Whipped By Jancarlo Rodriguez Yellowstone National Park is a wilderness recreation area and a home to two adolescent grizzly bears named Andy & Oliver. The two brothers lived peacefully with their mother. Andy & Oliver were the best of friends. They were inseparable and the very definition of best friends—that is, until Andy came across a female bear named Penny, and things would never be the same ever again for Oliver. Ever since they were newborn cubs, Andy & Oliver could accomplish anything when they put their minds to it. Individually, they were smart and physically strong, but when put together, they were unstoppable. Their minds just clicked as if they both completed each other mentally. Their friendship only became stronger because of how similarly the bears would sometimes think. One thing they loved to do together was fish. They looked forward to fishing because of how exhilarating it was for them to team up and accomplish something over and over. Each day they‘d come home to the den with more than plenty of food for their beloved mother. One day, the two brothers went to go fish just like every other day, but something unfamiliar caught Andy‘s eye. A female grizzly was walking out of the forest and taking a few timid steps into the river water. Andy was mesmerized by what he thought to be the most beautiful bear he ever set his eyes on, but to Oliver, this was nothing more than the sight of another bear trying to catch a quick snack. The female and Andy made eye contact within a matter of seconds, giving Oliver a strange sense that something was happening right before his very eyes. Andy and this mysterious grizzly kept their distance, each trying to figure out the other bear‘s intentions until, finally, the other grizzly made her way across a log, taking her time to get to the side that Andy & Oliver were on. Oliver had a bad feeling…

Why I’m Going to Die By Hannah Shores I was staying with my grandparents at their old ranch house in rural Kentucky. A quaint, peaceful place, with farm animals that smelled of their own stink, and strange rednecks that constantly wanted to tell about their lord and savior Jesus Christ. But nonetheless I loved my grandparents; they were kind people who supported my endeavors to get into art school, even though my parents weren‘t so happy about it. Those two hadn‘t visited me once since I‘d been

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

here. But my grandparents were very interesting people and I would enjoy our everyday discussions at the dinner table. Grandma was an amazing storyteller, and I would sit on the couch watching the fire listening to her tales of being a young girl. But staying with my grandparents wasn‘t always the best time ever. I slept on a pullout couch in their living room that looked out onto a corn field. And they would always remind me to lock the doors at night and never stay out after 1 AM, like they thought I was still a teenager or something. I remember as a child, I would watch the wind sway the corn back and forth. And see it rustle as small animals would shuffle through the tall stalks. Sometimes at night the animals would come to the door, and I could hear them scratching at the glass. My grandparents would never let me play in the cornfield though, and I would always ask why. They always said, ―You might get lost…‖, and argued that I would never wander too far away from the house. But now, as an adult, I imagine getting lost in endless rows of corn—now that I can almost see over the top of them. Weird stuff always seemed to happen out there anyway. Animals, even people, would be hit by a car and then as soon as help had arrived, they‘d be gone. Drunk people wandered into the fields to never return. But, I always wondered what would‘ve happened if I did, you know, get lost. Would I disappear, too? Thinking about it now it sends chills down my spine. Maybe if it had never happened, I would‘ve still been able to enjoy the peaceful flutter of the corn. It was Thanksgiving, my stomach filled with good food made by grandma. She made such delicious food but I could only eat so much before the food coma overcame me. I laid down on the couch, waiting for my eyes to flutter closed and I fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. I jolted up, looking around the room only to see darkness. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the black, and I looked to the clock resting on the cable box: 3:12. The witching hour, huh? I thought to myself jokingly. My throat was dry, so I stood up and made my way to the kitchen, but stopped to look out the big glass window that looked out onto the corn field. It was dancing in the wind as usual; I smiled and took a seat on the floor. I felt my eyes were growing tired again, but then I noticed something: an orange light, emanating from far into the field. My hands pressed against the glass, but I winced and backed away. A strange feeling in my gut told me, ―Don‘t go outside…‖ I stared at the light—it looked like a fire—and if it was a fire, I would need to call the fire department. But I didn‘t want to call in a false claim. It could‘ve just been some farmer…or something like that. I watched the faint rustle of small animals in the corn. I don‘t want them to be trapped in the flames if it is, in fact, fire. So, slowly I unlocked the large door and slid it open. I shivered and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders before stepping out onto the porch. The wooden boards creaked beneath my bare feet. Something about this was peaceful; there was nothing but silence. Then, I could see something crawling out of the corn. I squinted my eyes, but the fiery light wasn‘t enough to illuminate the squirming figure. It seemed to dig its fingers into the ground and pull itself forward. I stared for a moment before scampering inside and snatched a flashlight from the kitchen. I crept back outside to see the strange ―thing‖ had gotten a little closer. Still it was crawling on the ground and pulling itself forward as I stopped

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

for a second. Fear began to overtake me, and the flashlight shook in my hands as I pointed it at the shadowed mass. I regret ever turning on that flashlight. Maybe my love of that place might still be around if not for that night. Its arms were bony, as if a toddler had just sloppily glued its skin on with paste. Its hands were bloodied, and it was missing several fingernails. The remaining nails, were so chiseled down, broken, and red. Its eyes were not there; black sockets remained for you to stare into, endless pits of nothingness. I felt my stomach lurch. I grabbed my mouth to prevent myself from puking, and the flashlight clunked to the ground. It seemed to notice my presence, and began crawling at a faster pace toward the house. I tried to scream, but no noise would come out. Instead a faint squeak escaped my mouth. I could barely move, frozen in fear. My knees felt weak, and my hands slowly released their grasp on my mouth. I began to move backward only to fall on my ass. I couldn‘t stand, but the ―thing‖ was getting closer. I noticed its jaw seemed detached from the rest of its face, hanging from weakened and bloody tendons, as if it was there just to complete the face. Even so, it was not a complete face. Its nose, ears, and lips were gone, appeared cut off or shredded by some jagged garden tool. Suddenly a bit of hope seemed to burn in me, I scrambled to the door and yanked the knob. The door flung open, and I bolted in, slamming it behind me. I weakly ran to the kitchen, grabbed the phone and the biggest knife I could find. But then as I turned corner, I saw the door creaking open… It was in the house. My sliver of hope faded as I heard the drag-thump of it crawling, scratching, and pulling its way across the floor. Drag, thump. I dashed over to the coat closet by the door and tucked myself into a corner. I covered my upper half with the coats and peeked to see through the crack in the door. I heard the continuous drag-thump, as it crawled across the floor. It was close—I could smell this awful rotten stench as it lurched forward with every pull. I held my breath, I could feel my heart thumping in my chest, and my hands shook. I shut my eyes tightly as I saw it drag itself across the floor. The drag-thump seemed to continue, and if it could smell fear, I would‘ve definitely been screwed. I felt like I had been sitting there for hours, but only a matter of seconds had passed before it entered my field of view. I squinted my eyes as it dragged itself past the door. I wanted to look at what it was doing, but risked being seen by it. I reached for the door to lightly push it open but hesitated. I heard the drag-thump begin to fade. I breathed a sigh of relief but kept my place in the closet. Suddenly I heard it again, and heard the stairs begin to squeak. God no… I thought. It was going up the stairs, to where my grandparents were. Please, please no… I burst through the door as I heard my grandparents‘ screams. Tears began to fall down my cheek as I ran up the stairs, knife in hand. I heard the window squeak and a clang of metal of the roof, then a pitiful thump. The lights flickered on, and I vomited. The clawed and dissected remains of my grandparents lay in the bed. Tears streamed down my face as I fell to the floor, exhausted and terrified. In addition to the tragedy of losing my grandparents, I could never have guessed what the implications of that night would be. The next week was the worst week on my life. I found out later that the fiery light in the field was a tractor that had the metal ripped and torn off. It had partially exploded when the driver had been dragged off and pushed into the wheel and killed. Guess who they pinned that on, eh?

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

I was thrown in jail, tried, and found guilty for the murders of my grandparents and the tractor-driving farmer. I mean, who would believe me? But I‘m writing this because my execution is tomorrow, and I can‘t keep this to myself. Thought the world might want to know why I seem so ―sane,‖ as they say in the news. I think back on that place now. All the nice things have now become a gruesome, never-ending scene of blood and terror. I hope they can read this and know that an innocent woman has been sent to death for a crime that she didn‘t commit. She never had her proper story told. Well, now I guess she has...

Rainstorm By Maddy Baliette You clouded my sunset, made it grey and bleak And rained on my sketchbook, ink smeared the page You left me stranded in a deteriorating cage I fell to the ground, you made me feel weak Then you left me with a kiss on my cheek I was parched without your unprovoked rage This drought, desiring your presence was but a stage Because I now know that you were not my peak Your showers rained out joy, and smiled when I shrieked You‘ve let go of your grip around my rib cage And now the sun has taken your place—center stage You distorted my perception of love and truth Now you‘ve gone. I can see the stars better without you.

Pinky Promises and Ice Cream Cones By Sam Rogers Charlie gripped the glass tighter to his body as his brother lectured him about the dangers of alcohol…again. Oliver wanted so badly for his brother to be better; he wanted to look at him and see more than red eyes and matted hair. He wanted his brother back, he wanted his twin back. Charlie and Oliver looked like carbon copies of each other. Everything was the same. Well, everything except the pink jagged scar that ran perpendicular to Oliver‘s right eyebrow. They never spoke of the incident that caused it anymore. It brought up too much tension between the pair.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

The three kids ran around the yard, chasing each other madly. Ella couldn‟t have been older than four, while Charlie and Oliver were nearing eight. Ella was afraid that her brothers wouldn‟t want to hang out with her once they turned eight, but as she stood in the front yard laughing at the boys, all her fears disappeared. “Charlie,” Ella screamed as her brother threw her over his shoulder. “Put me down!” She tried to sound serious but she couldn‟t help the smile that stretched across her face or the laugh bubbling out of her. “Never,” Charlie laughed manically as he handed her over to Oliver. Ella realized that day that she was the luckiest girl in the world because no one could have as silly brothers as her. ―Charlie,‖ Oliver said barely over a whisper. ―I just want you to get better.‖ Charlie sighed and set down his glass. ―You want me to get better,‖ Charlie repeated. ―Well, I want a lot of things. I want parents that give a shit about us. I want to bring back Ella. I want to feel happy again. I want a lot of things, but we don‘t always get what we want.‖ Oliver winced at Charlie‘s words, especially those that dealt with Ella. Oliver knew Charlie was just drunk, just like he was every night, and he didn‘t mean to yell. Oliver knew that somewhere deep down inside of Charlie, he just wanted to mourn, to grieve, to be sad for just a fraction of a second. If Charlie admitted to how he was feeling, then he could move on and be happy again. Ella stomped through the front door, anger rolling off of her in hot waves. She was a force to be reckoned with when she was in one of these moods. She plopped face down on the couch in the living room as Oliver slipped into the kitchen to grab a mid-afternoon snack. “What‟s up, Buttercup?” Ella‟s voice was drowned out by the pillow she was clutching so tightly to her face. “What are you saying, Mumbles?” Ella sat up and looked at her brother, “The boys in my class were mean to me today. They told everyone not to be my friend and now no one will play with me at recess or sit with me at lunch.” Oliver sighed as he sat down next to his little sister. He slung an arm around her shoulder. “Well, that‟s just silly,” Oliver smiled down at her. “Charlie and I are your friends.” “That doesn‟t count. You and Charlie are my brothers. What about when you get old and don‟t want to hang around with me?” Oliver held his hand out and gestured for Ella to do the same, linking pinkies with her. “I promise that as long as I live, I will be your best friend. Do you think you‟ll want to be friends with me when you get older?” “That‟s just silly, Oli,” Ella exclaimed. “I promise that as long as I live, I will be your best friend.”

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

―I get that you‘re sad,‖ Oliver whispered. ―I‘m sad, too.‖ ―I‘m going to bed,‖ Charlie said before downing the rest of his glass and slamming it back on the table. Then he walked away. Just like that, Oliver stood still in an empty room that smelled vaguely of whiskey. Oliver quickly cleaned the table, washing each glass carefully and thoroughly as if he was washing away the past. It was the same thing every night. The next morning, Oliver made breakfast for both of them, but Charlie didn‘t do any more than stare at the eggs until they were cold and inedible. ―What are your plans for today?‖ Charlie just shrugged and left the table, walking straight to his room. Oliver stood on the other side of the locked door. ―You know you can‘t ignore me forever,‖ Oliver said, trying to lighten the mood. ―I mean every time you look in the mirror, you‘re looking at me.‖ There was no answer. ―That‘s okay, I get it. You don‘t want to talk. So I thought I might go visit Ella today. You‘re welcome to join me.‖ Click. The distinct sound of the door unlocking echoed through the small hallway. Charlie soon emerged from his cave. ―Let‘s go.‖ “Hey Ella,” Charlie said. “I have this inexplicable urge for ice cream and I need a date besides Oliver. We go everywhere together, and he‟s starting to get boring with just the two of us.” “Fine I‟ll go,” Ella said hiding a smile. “But don‟t embarrass me if anybody from school is there.” “Me? Embarrass you? I would never! Now let‟s go, chubby cheeks.” “Charlie!” “Right, sorry. I won‟t embarrass you. Should we invite Oliver to come with us?” “OLI! WE‟RE GOING FOR ICE CREAM,” Ella shouted. Oliver emerged from his room with a smile on his face, “Did someone say ice cream? Let‟s go!” Finally the three found themselves in the car. Charlie sat in the driver‟s seat as Ella complained from the backseat how unfair it was that Oliver always got to sit in the front. Before long, Charlie and Oliver stood in front of the grave, flowers in hand. ―Hey Ella,‖ Oliver whispered. ―How‘ve you been?‖ Charlie slapped Oliver on the shoulder as if to tell him ―no more jokes.‖ Oliver couldn‘t help it. Charlie‘s coping mechanism was alcohol, and Oliver‘s was humor. Oliver ran his thumb over his scar and felt the familiar twinge of pain. Ice cream dripped down their hands as they all struggled to eat ice cream cones in the car. “Who would‟ve known that it was going to rain today?” Oliver complained. “I mean really, the forecast called for sunshine all week.” “At least we still have our ice cream,” Ella smiled.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

“This is such a mess,” Charlie said as he licked the ice cream off of his hand. “Are there any more napkins back there Ella?” Ella looked over to the pile of napkins that fell off the seat and now lay on the other side of the car. Ella unbuckled and leaned across the backseat and grabbed a handful of napkins and leaned forward to hand them to her brother. Charlie turned his head for just a second. But a lot can happen in a second. Maybe if the man driving the truck had just gotten his tires replaced the week before like he was supposed to then he wouldn‟t have lost traction and he wouldn‟t have slid into the lane next to him. Maybe if Ella hadn‟t unbuckled to grab the napkins she wouldn‟t have flown through the windshield. Maybe if it hadn‟t rained that day, Ella wouldn‟t have died. Charlie stepped forward towards the grave and wiped all the leaves and dirt off the surface of the grave. After he was done, he took a step back as to admire his work. ―So it‘s been a while since we‘ve visited,‖ Charlie spoke up. ―I‘m sorry. We should have come sooner, but things have been crazy…I miss you. I hope you‘re happy.‖ This was the most honest Oliver had heard Charlie speak in a long time. ―If you could see me now,‖ Charlie paused as if looking for the right words. ―You‘d be ashamed. I‘m pretty sure Oli already is.‖ Oliver stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on his brother‘s shoulder. ―Never,‖ he said. For the first time since the accident, Charlie cried. He didn‘t cry pretty tears, either. He cried big ugly tears that started and wouldn‘t stop for a long time.

Independence By Maddie Townsend

Anderson High School

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block

2015-2016

Success By Jay Fancella

One Last Thought By Emmy Robbins

Anderson High School

100

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block

2015-2016

This page was intentionally left blank.

(Or was it?)

Anderson High School

101

The Writers’ Block

2015-2016

This has been…

The Writers’ Block Literary Magazine 2015 – 2016

Photo by Nicolette Campbell

Thank you, dear reader, for supporting Anderson High School’s creative writers! Anderson High School

102