The Writers' Block 2017 by The Writers' Block: Anderson High School Literary Magazine

The 2016 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; 2017

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

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

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

An Intro to the Work of Anderson’s Creative Writing Students Greetings, Writers and Readers, Writing is seldom a straightforward task, and good writing never is. It‘s a process that involves examining yourself, digging through the embarrassingly dark or ridiculous thoughts that bounce around inside of your skull, and turning them into something coherent-ish. It‘s a task of twiddling thumbs, of re-reading words until your eyes blur over, and occasionally switching over to that bubbleshooter videogame tab that you inevitably have open on your computer. So, at this point you may be thinking: who in their right mind would choose to write? Well, right mind or not, that‘s where we come in. Welcome to the 2017 Anderson Lit Mag: the compilation of the best work from Anderson‘s creative writers. From the awe-inspiring to the outright puzzling, this is a safe place for our stories and ideas. The pieces within this magazine are the result of a year of furthering our lives as writers and ourselves as people. Due to the young adult nature of the contents of this collection, it may not be totally suitable for all of the innocent eyes out there. In other words, it‘s not very censored, so proceed with caution. And because we were not all born knowing how to transform our insanity into poetry and our peculiarity to prose, it‘s necessary to thank our brilliant teachers. Mr. Farr and Mrs. McMahon, thank you for molding the minds of Anderson‘s weirdos. Thank you for the endless advice, whether or not related to writing. Thank you for your positivity and belief in us; without you, we would never have been able to make something quite as wonderfully farraginous and authentically bizarre as this collection of works. So welcome, dear reader, we hope you enjoy reading our thoughts, insights, experiences, and fantasies as much as we loved writing them. Sincerely, Maddy Balliette (on behalf of Anderson‘s creative writing students)

Thank you so much, Maddy. We would also like to thank Vivian Baffes for the cover art. Appreciation also goes out to Principal Sammi Harrison, the fantastic English Department, and the rest of the Anderson High School community for providing us with an open and supportive environment in which to write and share. As always, we‘re proud of the students and eager to share their ideas with you, dear reader. Enjoy the brilliance that follows! – Jason Farr and Rebecca McMahon Creative Writing Teachers Anderson High School 8403 Mesa Dr. Austin, TX 78759 jason.farr@austinisd.org rebecca.mcmahon@austinisd.org

Anderson High School

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Table of Contents Author

Title

Page

Maddy Balliette

Intro

Josiah Sanchez

From Blue to Brown

George Anderson

Poetry Collection

Vivian Baffes

A Saccharine, Wicked Pantheon

Alex White

Headache

Alexis Townsend

Hooked

Allison Windsor

Eat Up!

Aidan Grill

Regrets

Andrew Cotter

Two, To One

Cadence Gorman

Whistle While You Walk

Derrick Rehuher

A Bad Storm

Claire Miller

Two Poems

Gabriel Moncada

The Basketball Experience

Eryn Escamilla

The Boy and the Lightning Controls

Anna Giambelluca

Broken Home Poems

Billy Thompson

The Memorable Experience (poems)

Hayden Ebel

The War of the Kings

Isabel Dunia

Jazz, For the Dogs

Jacob Ouzillou

Letter From a Nut

Julia Key

The Glorification of Parasitic Demons

Julian Quintanilla

Demoman and the Music Festival

Kalina Spassov

Triumf

Kaine Ehrlich

Flynt

Lauren Wiles

Find Beauty

Lily Schubert

Escape (A Choose-Your-Own Adventure)

Logan DiCristofalo

The first male love of your life: father

Maddy Balliette

Trapped

Makenzie Shewmaker

The Momentous Multitudes

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

Nick Jensen

Blimey, Those Wily Crusaders…

Sam Fariss

Parade Butterflies

Maddy Balliette

October, 82nd and 5th

Ariana Ledezma

Gray

Asia McLean

In Time

Avery Ward

I Didn‘t Mean to Kill Her

Ben Haws

Jumper

Adoree Benke

A Smoky Language

Callie Quan

That Day

Casey Swinkels

The Ashes in the Drawer

Crystal Mancillas

Home

Deven Washko

Netflix and …

Ella Wavell

Memories and Moments

Emma McCarson

Fun Home

Erick Aguirre

Happy Birthday

Grace Edgar

Any Other High School Couple

Jairo Gutierrez

Ancient Suns

Jane Johnston

Home

Kain Kokkeler

Tout Sweet

Loraine Hellums

The Undercover Agent

Megan Monroy

Army of Hunters

Rachel Sacks

Lesser Vices

Rachel Wen

Flock

Serene Hawes

Tiny House Rant

Ruth Foulkrod

Unbroken

Stephanie Battaglia

Uncomfortable

Gyasi Bonds

Depression

Taylor Johnson

Tomorrow

Ruth Foulkrod

Demotivator

Back

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

From Blue to Brown Josiah Sanchez I see grass swaying, ―No Trespassing‖ on a broken fence, holes where trees stood and tree trunks lying on the ground, small trees trying to take their place, one fisherman, one couple: all listening to the river. The wind, the routine chirps of the birds. I sit to observe, and they stop. Mocking me for a second, then going on again. They orchestrate beauty when I walk ghostly through; I sit and take note then they stay quiet. The couple: the guy looked like me, but I turned around, I didn't want to spoil his date. But I turned around with a blush and a grin thinking that maybe one day I'll be him with the girl that enjoys the sounds that the enchanting woods make. I sit still, and hear the entire world. Birds, wild animal growls and howls, domesticated animal barks, young people seeking silence, country folk shooting their rifles, the zwing of the fisherman's launch, the water hitting the broken branch that's dipping its toes in, the bees, the mosquitoes, the couple making their way out, helicopters, airplanes, police sirens, the flap of a bird hunting its prey, my sighs and breaths trying to join in on the magic. Clouds in the sky, they look like tire tracks on the road. The sound of the cardinal, coming from all directions, my color blindness makes it impossible to find it. Maybe it isn't real, maybe it just wants me to hear it, not see it. I think I see it, but even the trees play tricks on me. The annoying truck that backs up, it beeps and throws off the music. Like that one ass in the crowd, ruining the show. The crickets, signaling that it's time to go, but the birds encourage me to stay, the water draws me in. The wind pushes me, giving me chills. The sun, raying with might, splitting the sky in two. I enjoy both sides. Looking up at the sky, thinking how amazing it is that we're floating in space, feeling small, then a butterfly lands on my nose. Terrifying up close, but majestic when it flies away. Just like all beauty in my life. I don't know how to act when it‘s near, but from afar or even when it's gone, I can finally see it. Regretting, yearning for its presence, yearning for her presence. Wanting her to see what I see, and I, wanting to see what she sees. Sun takes its final dip of the day, reviving the chill from the wind on my face. This painting in front of me, I'll never erase. Anyone, even a special one, could never trace. Uglier or prettier, nothing can replace.

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Poetry Collection George Anderson The Bus Kinetic potentiality and prospects of arrival Festering metaphysical wormholes Blessed to transport the unfortunate Strays on the Street lost pets, found on light posts and milk cartons, cats led astray by the very environment that surrounds them, paws extended vulnerably, and unforeseen generosity Utilize Futility rusted and smothered yet the apostleâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s scripture remains in due time shall resurface by enigmatic determination and though this detriment is only a promoter of degradation when said delegates lose faith and allow their concentration to be misplaced by hatred instead of their prior love and advocation thus he is born the propagator of spite Hate Do not live in fear For one must understand their dread Analyze your senses, then your mind will clear For evil rests within every head Grab the reigns of salvation and steer Eventually weâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;ll all be damned If you succumb to manipulation By what you misunderstand Futile Utilities Consumerist materialism, order now! Artificial demons on your shoulder Manufactured concepts Distributed to your core Now hollowed from inside-out To what does it amount?

Anderson High School

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2016-2017

A Saccharine, Wicked Pantheon Vivian Baffes Constancy I saw her again in my living room, then in my kitchen, then in my bedroom door. My eyes are old, yes, but she defies age. Damn, said I, rubbing my eyes. I went to the journal again, the journal from my ancient travels. I recalled that great city in the jungle once again: the stone towers, coal fires, jungle flowers. It had a solid foothold in existence, but there was a vaporous unreality in the atmosphere. The people didn‘t speak to me, or look either. They lived as if I did not. They followed this grand routine, complex in structure, that thrived on litanies. I observed their deity, depicted only in one image, only one way, hewn only in stone. That masonic goddess, hands wrapped about my neck, whispered powder into my senses. Her eyes were security itself, looking was lethal, and I looked. I looked too long, much too long. She‘s burned into my eyes now. Now she‘s closed the journal, she‘s tucked me into bed. She‘ll wake me up tomorrow, just like yesterday, and the day after tomorrow.

Should This God is huge, imposing. He spans the heavens, making you look like a stooge. You pretend to defy him, deny him. But then he shoves you, uttering: ―You should!‖ It leaves you with one weakly rebellious finger up, stuttering. The great lard sits and sits, but you refuse to admit That he scares you. Deeply. All of that pacing and pondering, You think about wasted time When it‘s the current time you‘re wasting. Suppose he were gone, this expansive God. What might you do, personal soil untrod? Would you dare to step out into it, Feet bare, unshod, Or is that too odd?

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Do you think, perhaps, that you Shouldn‘t do that Even though There is a much smaller voice, A neglected voice, That is whispering: ―You must.‖

Failure Failure can advance from a moment, To a day, To a week, To a year, To a future In a single second. Failure, with persistence, can swap a passion for A doubt, A fear, A mockery, A barrier, An avoidance In five years‘ time. Failure can take a precious, faithful visage And turn it upside down. Dub it silly, Childish, Unobtainable. You hate Failure, All of its masks, How they can always crawl in your skin and Onto your face. They strip you of Love, Spirit, Fire. But, You have to admit That sometimes You like Failure. Discreetly, of course. It‘s a failsafe, In a sense,

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Because it means That you won‘t succeed. Because success is much more Terrifying Than any face Failure can wear.

Headache Alex White I reach up and massage my head, running my fingertips across the large, rippling bulge that pushes out from the right side of my skull. Has it been growing? Maybe. I‘m not sure, really. My memory really isn‘t what it used to be. Without Big Brother, I wouldn‘t even remember what I ate for breakfast. Big Brother! He always knows what to do. And he doesn‘t gloat over me either, like he did when we were little. For a while, I thought he was dead, but he came back and showed me different. Thank God I have him with me now, or I wouldn‘t be able to do much of anything on my own. A soft sound intrudes on the wind sifting through the trees. We’re only a few days away, Big Brother says. That is, if you stop taking so many breaks. Come on! It’s almost over. Smiling, I start walking again. We‘ve been traveling a while now, just following the road. Rolling plains extend to the left, green as far as I can see. To the right and ahead of us is the forest. I‘ve seen the most beautiful scenery in my life on this journey, I think, but I agree with Big Brother; I want it to be over, too. I think hard for a second, squinting my eyes, trying to remember where we‘re going. After a few seconds of grasping through the fog, my eyes open as I realize there is a more easily accessible answer to my question. Big Brother? What. Is there an edge to his voice? He sounds annoyed. I take a few seconds to ponder this, and a few seconds longer to remember what I was going to ask him. Big brother, where are we going again? A gust of wind whistles by, like the sound of him sighing. To the city, Abel. We’re getting that lump of yours fixed, remember? The mention of my lump calls my fingers back to it, and they‘re certainly not acting on my impulse. It‘s a revolting thing, really. Not quite solid; when I poke at it, whatever‘s inside moves around free from the skin. My head hurts when I mess with it too much. So my fingers fall back to their massaging trick, which allows me to feel it without instantly regretting it. I‘m not going to be sad to see it go. Soon after I noticed it, Big Brother came back, so at least I‘ve had some company while dealing with the weird blackouts and pain that have come with the odd bulge. The blackouts are the most strange side effect of this tumor. I can always feel them coming, so I can find someplace to sit or lie down beside the road before collapsing. They never last long; the longest one I‘ve had was probably about 10 minutes. The sun had barely moved before I got back to my feet, wiping the tears out of my eyes.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

That‘s another odd thing about the blackouts. I always wake up with tears in my eyes, like I‘ve been crying like a baby! Luckily, there aren‘t many people who still live outside the city to see me and take advantage of me, and even if someone walks by, I know Big Brother will protect me. I can feel one of the blackouts coming on now: the itch underneath the lump, the grey-ish dim around my vision, and the tingling in my fingers and toes warn me of it. Uh oh, Big Brother, I say. I think I’m gonna have to sit down a minute. Oh, I wish I could have some sort of warning before this happens, he replies. There‘s almost a laughing quality to his voice, like he‘s in on some secret joke. There’s a spot in the shade over there, Big Brother suggests. Go lie down before you fall over. No doubt about it. There was definitely a laugh in his voice while he was talking. But why? Shouldn‘t he be annoyed about my blackouts? What‘s so funny about being delayed on our trip to the city? I lie down, head spinning, feeling as though I‘m on the verge of discovering something important, but not able to completely comprehend what it is. My eyes close, and in seconds I fade out of consciousness. The light clink of metal on metal sneaks into my consciousness, and snaps me awake. I throw my body forward, but only succeed in clashing the chains that bind me to my chair. A high snicker stabs through my ears, and my eyes narrow on the deathly thin, strange figure in front of me. He‘s back, hungry for more of me. I can‘t help but strain against my bonds, trying to get closer to him, to try to destroy him, but the chains that wrap around me are tight. A table lies between us, anyways. On that table sits a book. We‘re in a small, square room, with gray, living walls and no windows. A dank, moist smell fills the air. The only way out or in is a door, which is set in the opposite wall from me, behind the table, behind the creature that has tricked my conscious self into calling it Big Brother. It opens its mouth, revealing rows and rows of sharp teeth, and begins to speak. ―Hey, Abel! Long time no see!‖ It grins, and pauses as if waiting for a response. After a few seconds of receiving none, it frowns in mock displeasure. ―Really, Abel, you don‘t have to be rude.‖ The smile returns. ―I really love talking to you, you know.‖ I say nothing. There was once a time when I allowed him to goad me into responding, so he could crush me and have some fun before going back to my conscious self. Instead, I glare at him coldly, still straining against different parts of the chain, still trying to find a weak point after all these weeks. The chains are frigid, biting into the bare skin of my arms and through my shirt, but at this point I don‘t care. This thing is going to kill me. I don‘t let a little cold deter me from trying to find any possible way to preserve my life.

Anderson High School

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2016-2017

It sighs in mock defeat, and steps forward to the table. ―Oh well, Abel. I‘m just trying to keep you comfortable. Don‘t you want to have some fun before I kill you?‖ At first, I thought its blood red eyes couldn‘t convey emotion, but I was wrong. Something about the dark sparkle, the way they seemed to move within their depths, definitely shows me what it‘s feeling, and it makes me sick to the stomach. The monster leans over the table and strokes open the book with one of its long white fingers. The book is worn, with a hard cover scraped down to a brownish color, and the pages connected only loosely by the seams. Each page is a little part of my life. Illustrated and narrated like a children‘s book, it tells my life as it has happened, from beginning to present. You can see where pages have been ripped out; those are the ones its eaten. The thing stops at a page, staring down at it with intent. A drop of saliva oozes down and sticks, quivering, to the faded surface. Despite myself, I look down in vain, as if by looking at the page I can memorize that part of my life it‘s about to take away. The title of the page is ―My First Kiss.‖ No huge loss there. The tumor looks at me, grinning, and is for a moment surprised by my dispassionate lack of response. It recovers quickly. ―Such a touching memory,‖ it drawls out. ―A first kiss is a very special thing.‖ It‘s guessing, of course. Everything it knows it learned from me, except for the sadistic cruelty. That was probably something it discovered with its own twisted, sadistic brain. Or did it take it from me? I‘d be horrified if I ever acted like it does. I almost ruin the moment that‘s about to happen by responding. ―Nothing in my life prepared me for it,‖ I say. It looks at me sharply, but my face doesn‘t betray me, and it sharply rips out the page, crumples it up, and pops it into its mouth. See, my first kiss wasn‘t the ―magical‖ experience one might expect it to be. The picture on the page shows what seems to be a passionate image of two youths sucking at each other‘s faces, but the image is a farce. It shows the fraction of a second before she shoves me away, tells me my breath is terrible, and then runs home to tell her father that the ugly kid from down the street tried to kiss her. The wordless ridicule I faced from the entire community, and even my own family, was the ugliest experience of my life. Inevitably, the tumor‘s expression of expectant bliss is wrenched sideways as it struggles to face the taste of my first kiss. Momentarily, I can feel the chains that hold me to my chair weaken, and that is all the invitation I need. I rip through the chains like they‘re paper, and as it retches at the floor, I spin through the book, finding the worst page I can find. ―Getting Called an Idiot by the Teacher.‖ That oughtta do. It finally swallows, and looks up with an expression of murder on its face, just in time to receive the neat new package of pain I punch into its pucker. In a split second, I leap past the incapacitated figure, and I‘m out the door. My eyes flash open, and a piece of me that I‘ve been missing for a long time clicks into place. Wasting no time, I draw my knife from my belt, and prepare to amputate. I take a deep breath, and start to trace around the tumor with the razor-sharp edge. Quickly, ―Big Brother‖ starts raggedly screaming in my ear. NO! STOP! YOU CAN’T DO THIS! I‘ve cut half of the way around the swell. It stings, but hurts a lot less than it should. YOU’LL KILL YOURSELF! YOU’LL DIE IF YOU DO THIS! I‘ve almost traced the entire circumference of it. The skin feels dead, more like a canvas cover than a part of my body.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

I’VE TAKEN TOO MUCH OF YOU! YOU CAN’T SURVIVE IN THIS WORLD ON YOUR OWN! The thin flap of skin falls to the dirt. I throw down my knife, and grasp the wriggling entity that‘s been balled up in my head for months. I’LL KILL YOU!!! The last part of that statement squeaks through the air as I rip out the monster with a terrific Shloop. An explosion of blood is ripped out with the thing, and a rank, bloody smell fills the air. I look at the thing sitting in my right palm and throw it to the dirt, horrified. A pale infant the size of a teacup raises its swollen head and gives me a look of unfathomable fury, its blood red eyes reduced to squints. It bares its rows of razor sharp teeth at me and hisses. Finally, it speaks to me in a voice disturbingly reminiscent of Alvin the Chipmunk. ―You‘ve made a terrible mistake…‖ But its voice trails off as we notice the dull rumble of a truck speeding in our direction. I had thrown the monster down in the middle of the road, and as the truck draws nearer, the little tumor starts to grasp the danger of its current position. It flops face first in its attempt to crawl out of the path of the oncoming wheels. What a shame, I think, watching its pathetic attempts to lift its head from the dirt.

Hooked Alexis Townsend Michael stared blankly as a symphony of screaming and gurgling blood created a gory concert in his living room. He seemed to be more focused on the large bowl of Flamin‘ Hot Cheetos seated in his lap—loud crunching almost blocking off the scene in front of him. No, he wasn‘t a soulless bastard, he was just watching the third horror movie in a row; this time it was a flick he found on Netflix entitled Zombeavers. Michael concluded that the only relatively scary aspect would be the flick‘s script. He finished off the bowl of Cheetos, placing it on the coffee table in front of him to clean up later. It was Michael‘s first year of college, and he wasn‘t used to having so much free time on his hands, being a single guy with no friends besides his roommate who went out partying and drinking most of the time. Michael wasn‘t really the social type, the presence of booze alongside idiotic college kids probably more horrifying to him than getting eaten alive by a Zombeaver. A sudden strong ray of light filled the dimly lit living room paired with the painful noise of a strained door hinge. Michael fell to his side on the couch, the bright light blinding him temporarily. When Mike looked back up, he found a mischievous grin plastered across the face of his roommate. ―Oh, hi Sam.‖ This drunken boy stumbled into the swallowing darkness of his and Michael‘s shared dorm, stumbling all over the place until he found the couch. ―The least you could do is close the door,‖ Michael groaned. Sam waved his hand in Mike‘s face, followed by a slight hiccup. ―Nah, nah, I‘m going out soon in a minute or two anyway, and you‘re coming with since…,‖ Sam lazily gestured to his wasted state, releasing a weak laugh. ―Uh, no way. I‘m, uh, studying,‖ Michael stated, darting his eyes to the bowl on the table. ―Yeah, right Mike.‖ Sam dramatically rolled his eyes. ―I know you‘ve been watching your creepy shit all night, you always do.‖ He pushed himself up on his feet, offering his hand to Michael. ―C‘mon, Mike, I swear it‘ll just be this once,‖ as Sam had reassured many, many times

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before. Regardless, Michael knew that Sam would beg and whine until he agreed to take him. ―Clean yourself up, then meet me out in my car.‖ Mike retrieved his keys from the coffee table, shutting the door behind him. Not too long later, Michael and Sam had arrived at the party, Sam slurring directions to Mike as he drove. Michael parallel parked on the road near a house full of colorful lights, alcohol, and drunk people. ―Alright, we‘re here. Now when do I have to pick you up?‖ Sam laughed so hard that one of the buttons on his shirt nearly popped off. ―What are you talking about? You‘re coming inside!‖ ―I never agreed to—‖ Mike was cut off as Sam pulled him from the driver‘s seat out of the passenger door, his grip surprisingly strong for someone in his state. The last thing Michael wanted to do with his evening was go to a party, the reasons being the fact he didn‘t like parties, and his physical appearance. The interior of the house was just like what Michael predicted from the exterior, except now he could really see the detail of guys chugging beer and couples sloppily kissing in every corner. While Mike was frantically darting his eyes to find a corner he could confine himself in, Sam was already mixed in the crowd. Go away, go away, go away, he repeated to himself, shuffling around the edge of the house to try and avoid all contact. He was already hyperventilating, warm air with even warmer bodies making it hard for Mike to breathe. He had finally found a nearly empty room, stumbling inside. Mike threw himself on a nice, comfy couch. It wasn‘t until he really took a whiff in the room that he smelled cigarette smoke laced with some other scent he couldn‘t define. The room was a sauna with drugged steam. He was coughing harshly, covering his mouth as he tried to navigate out of the maze of smoke. A hand grabbed Mike‘s shoulder, turning him around to reveal a very stoned Sam. ―Aah, there you are, meet this girly…‖ Sam cackled, pushing said girl into Mike‘s arms. The only thing she could be described as was dark—from her body being draped in a long, dark dress to dark jet-black hair that reached the small of her back and covered her eyes. There was only a slight bit of milky white skin peeking from its dark haven. Her cool breath was freezing to Mike‘s chest due to the warm air that was throughout the house. She seemed unfazed by the choking air that suffocated Mike. ―Oh s-sorry,‖ Mike stuttered, giving her the amount of space she deserved. ―It‘s alright,‖ the girl muttered softly, fixing her ruffled hair. Looking at her from afar, he only now realized her beauty. Her small and fragile stature accompanied by her thin arms and legs gave her the appearance of a porcelain doll. How did she know Sam? And why is she here of all places? Mike asked himself, but he would ask her after getting to know her a bit. ―Nice meeting you,‖ she nearly whispered, slowly leaving the room. ―Wait—‖ Mike tried going after her, but his horrible coordination caused him to trip over himself. When he could finally rise, she was already gone. Way to go, you klutz, he told himself. He was quite intrigued by the girl. She seemed like the kind of person that would turn out to be some insane supernatural creature, like a vampire from some cheap movie that never went

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to the theaters. Regardless, her mysterious air still filled him with curiosity. Mike was heel-and-toeing out of the room, determined to find this girl again. He looked all over the house, going off of nothing except for the image of a pale girl with dark clothes pasted in his mind. It was hard to see her anywhere, a mix of so many people and his anxiety getting the best of him. After being so overwhelmed, he finally settled to enclosing himself in a tiny bathroom, exhaling deeply for the relief of finally being alone again. He was relaxed, until a soft knock made him perk up. He slowly eased the door open to find the mystery girl again, her frail arms and legs covered with bruises and cuts. ―O-Oh, you poor thing! Come in here, I‘ll patch you up,‖ Mike offered as he gently pulled her inside, seating her on the toilet seat cover. ―I‘m sure there‘s some medical stuff here somewhere…‖ he rambled as he rummaged through a medicine cabinet above the sink. The girl rose from her seat, walking over towards the door and locking it shut. The bathroom was quite small, so Mike was able to quickly pick her up and seat her back where she was previously, once he had retrieved ointment and bandages. ―What kind of trouble did you get yourself into?‖ Mike asked while he was treating her injuries, even though he knew she‘d stay silent. The girl gripped Mike‘s arm, looking down at him. The curious boy stared at her and cocked his head asking, ―Who are you?‖ Without a sound, the girl released his arm from her grasp, to instead pull up his chin to her face. Mike‘s soft grey eyes widened as he was revealed to her crisp ice blue ones that stripped his soul away from his body. Time stopped as he got lost in the beautiful orbs, drowning in the freezing ocean encased inside her irises. He must‘ve gotten lost in her eyes, because now he was on a driftwood boat with the girl whose eyes shone brighter than the ocean they were sailing on. The sky was a bright blue while the water was so clear someone could see the sea floor. ―How did we get out here?‖ Mike questioned the girl. ―That‘s not important,‖ a clear and sweet voice spoke out, sending a chill down Mike‘s spine. ―I want to go fishing.‖ He replied, ―Why fishing?‖ As she took a fish-hook out of her shallow pockets. The girl leaned over towards Mike, revealing her stunning eyes to him once more. ―Stop asking questions, Michael…‖ ―How do you—‖ Cutting him off, the girl pulled a rope that was knotted to the sail, tying it instead around her fish-hook. Mike tried to say something, but it was as if his lips were sealed shut. He tried to get the girl‘s attention, furiously waving his arms and rocking the plank of wood they were seated on. Her intricate fingers gently played with the rope, tying it securely around the weak mast of the driftwood ship. She also tied the rope with the fish hook end loosely around her wrist in a dainty looking bow. ―Let‘s go fishing.‖ She muttered softly, rising from her seat and gracefully diving into the dark waters. Mike didn‘t know why, but he went after her. The poor thing got banged up from just walking around; he didn‘t want to know how much more she could be harmed out in murky waters containing who-the-hell-knows-what. He inhaled deeply through his nose. Staring up at the grim sky, he wondered if it was all

Anderson High School

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worth it. But then he was reminded of those ice blue eyes that pierced his heart. He had to go after her. Mike leaned his body over the water, smacking and sinking into the haunting waters below. Daylight fled from his eyes as his body sank farther and farther. The only visible thing was the rope that held onto the girl. His lungs begged for air, clawing at his chest while the salty water burned his charcoal eyes. The dark blue waters turned black before he knew it, and he was unsure which way was North or South, East or West. Soon his lungs would give up, but just before that, he found the end of the line, and the girl. He gripped firmly onto her fragile body. He didn‘t dare to let her go until he saw her glowing blue eyes. He started to scream out the water that filled his lungs, trying his best to swim towards what he thought was the surface. But with the chilling smirk she fashioned, she slowly unwrapped the hook from her hand. Silver gleamed in Michael‘s vision. His heart was beating harshly against his weakening chest. The water the engulfing him was finally tearing apart at his sturdy frame. Mere bubbles were burns to his skin. His lips were furiously stabbed by a long spear-looking object, and it was only then that he found his tormenter. Scaly face with fins accenting its body, and with the object hitting his legs, he looked down to find a long, gruesome tail, and he realized the spear-like object was this thing‘s claw. Siren was the one word that came into his mind. The only way he could make out what the thing even looked like was the icy blue eyes that shone all across its face. It was just then his eyes widened with realization of who this thing was, there was no other pair of eyes like the ones that it had; they were the girl‘s eyes. She laughed as if she just read his mind, as she replaced her claw with the fish-hook from earlier, now accompanied by a line tied to it, and stabbed it through the fresh puncture in his lips and tugged as hard as she could. Everything was slow, the blood pooling from his wounded lips going past his nose and smothering his face before she finally found the heart to let go of the line. By the time his vision was cleared of blood, all he could make out was the mystery girl/siren swimming away. Inhale. Exhale. He looked around, almost dead, choking to find a bit of oxygen that was nowhere near. His lungs collapsed into themselves at his final sip of attempted breath, his body becoming limp. Arising from shallow water, the mysterious girl peeked her head out of a bathtub, revealing the dingy bathroom that she and Michael had both entered, and her fishy form had diminished. ―What a fool,‖ she spoke to herself, shaking her head as she gazed at the beaten body face down in the tub. She lifted his lifeless head, twisting it so that his stained face was staring directly at her with his soft grey eyes. ―You‘re just like a fish, so incompetent in that mere bait is intriguing, and it was only a matter of time before you got lured in. You were just one of the poor souls that got ensnared in my net. You may be gone now, but luckily for me, there are plenty of fish in the sea.‖

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

Eat Up! Allison Windsor Breakfast Breakfast wakes you up in the morning, your first steps, your first thoughts. Breakfast prepares you for the hours to come, the unknown and the undone. You‘re fresh in the morning, the sun, slowly rising. Breakfast warms up your brain before you truly begin. Words stumble out , between the yawns of the new day. Brunch Brunch is the highlight, the post-beginning, pre-middle. Brunch: your favorite foods, embraced before you fizzle. Dance to the song, the song you‘ve discovered, the song called Life Drink margaritas, live fast, you‘re a cheetah. Run up the mountain, although falling may hurt. How else would you rise up without hitting the dirt? It‘s brunch! Get lost. Explore new flavors, Enjoy the day, Quickly! It will soon fade away. But now what? You‘ve eaten, That was brunch Before you know it, you‘ve settled for lunch. Lunch Lunch, the middle, almost there, but not quite yet. Eat, keep up the energy to finish the day. You yearn to return, back to brunch You worry, what will you do for dinner? You don‘t have all the ingredients… Stop Don‘t think about dinner, you have too much to do. Eat at a fast pace, The sun shines down falling fast. Dinner Dinner, finally dinner. Too soon? Maybe. You could‘ve done more today, Why did you move so fast during brunch, why did you not savor lunch?

Anderson High School

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block

2016-2017

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s over now, though, sit back, drink some wine. Splurge on your meal, think back, the good times. Hang on to those last hours, the last hour of sun. Dark, so close, wind down, the day almost gone. Laugh with your loved ones, Love Love the last of the light, squeeze it all out Before saying goodnight. Goodnight, sleep tight.

Regrets Aidan Grill Riding on the roller coaster called life, Brought down by my own little strife, Looking at the view behind me in such picturesque dreams, But memories in mirror are closer than they seem. I reach out to grab a glimpse of the past, Threatened by the regret it will cast. I close my eyes and open my mind. I'm no longer looking at the view behind, Haunted by shadows of the deeds I have done, Frightened at the thing I think I've become. I can't help but reminisce In the ignorance I once considered bliss, But I can't stay here forever; I must move on. And like that, the past is gone. We can only learn from the decisions in our past. I can only hope these lessons will last. I'm building a better me With the things I found in my memory.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

Two, To One Andrew Cotter You really learn a lot more than you think you would from solitude. I‘ve never been able to live in a state of individuality. There always had to be someone there for me. Recently, though, my mind has been on its own unique path through the winding, bumpy, dirt road known as life. However it feels as if my mind has reared out of the options laid before it, a fork in the road. Backwards isn‘t an option; left and right don‘t seem to satisfy my mind like they should. Aimlessly my thoughts slam into the side of my mind, flinging it violently into the shrouded forest between the paths, until the small channel of trees separating the path is nothing but a sea of stumps and fallen limbs, and the paths, covered in trees, are now just as uncertain and insincere as the natural path that once divided them. My body follows through the wreckage as my brain continues to pretend it knows where it‘s going: on and on through the forest. I notice the frog‘s croak arising from somewhere near a flowing creek. The rain made everything once noticeable hidden, in a sense. Possible to be found, but not screaming at my mind to be acknowledged. Once the rain was gone, all I was left with was a creek, nothing compared to its downpouring counterpart. I see this creek and desperately wish a pitcher, or cupped hand, or anything would lift the water back into the clouds in an instant and endlessly strain the droplets around my life, but all I can do is wish. I wish I could wish, but I know that it‘s something I can‘t obtain, and maybe that‘s for the best. Admiration grows in my being with this creek. I know that one day the twigs and leaves that fill it will be gone, and with this creek especially, I hope a spring will allow it to be a river. Only time will tell, but for now I continue walking past, on and on. As I continue, I need nourishment. Through the branches of the trees, I see parlors and shops, restaurants and homes. My body runs, it needs to be a part of the community, but my mind sees the branches in the way and anchors itself in the mud until my body decides to hop back on the path of wreckage. Now mud, mud isn‘t insurmountable, but how could I leave my mind where my body isn‘t? The birds could start a flurry of feathers and talons on my face, the ants could crawl into my irises and burrow, the mud could cause me to slip at any moment and provide a pillow of rocks to land atop. But why? Why, God, are these the only things that cross my mind? Why must my mind continue into the unknown full of lonesomeness? Agreements are never an option with my mind. Conflict is always present in my being, and the sticks, twigs, and branches keep me contained in this never-ending, wreckage-prone woodland. The only conclusion is fear. Fear is what happens when your uncertainty rules your life.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

Don‘t ever let your stubborn mind tell you what you must do. Get out of the mud, it‘ll be worth it. And if it isn‘t, at least you‘ll be out of the woods, and have to power to tell your mind which path to take. It has been said that the problem with the world is the intelligent lack confidence, while the dumb are full of confidence. When you learn to find the path that leads between the two of those, humbleness over arrogance and appreciation over logic, the rain will no longer be necessary to comfort you through the troubles and beauties that life presents. Life is a choice, as everything is; your will and control dictate the correct choice given any scenario, and they will break the stubborn walls of your mind to realize the road you must follow, entailing the life you know you can have.

Whistle While You Walk Cadence Gorman I took my breakfast, the bottle, and my pill, but it wouldn‘t shake me. I remembered everything. Her heels were on the floor; her feet were comfortable. The hair was lovely and delicate in the soft incandescent reflection of stage lights, and her heartbeat pulsed with the music. I could hear it. She looked just like she had when I first saw her, but in a rarer form – her features were exposed. I used to walk with her in the afternoons… It was red – I saw the dull, bright red that fluoresced from the hair like layered light, defying other physicalities. It shined in a brilliant, velvety way – rays of sunshine lambent on her locks. The texture like a rose petal: veined but smooth. I wondered what kind of light I would see if I peeled them back. I‘m sure a beautiful, gleaming, vulnerable gift for me. Such a deep red, almost purple – like her inside color. It was medieval, a fiery signal that beckoned a dutiful response. I wanted it, and I got closer. My stride was fluid and straight and she bounced on a steady, quick cadence – her heartbeat in double time. Her feet made the ground a springboard and I would float above her. She moved deliberately, but I could capture her since everything else moved in slow motion. I peered down... Pink jacket. Washed denim. Red smile. The pink framed her flaming fringes, making them painterly on their canvas. The jeans rounding full cheeks – muscles made for bouncing. Blood red lips mouthed around a smirk. Capture, but not yet. She walked me all the way to her place – she must have been coming home from school. The door shut and I had to keep moving. So I planned for the next day. I wasn‘t sleeping so I went back early. I couldn‘t go to her yet – there was a code to get in, and too many streetlights anyway. So back I went to that moment where I saw her: a patch of concrete dirtied by other shoes around the asphalt and synthetically green grass. But the grass was real in the night – they

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

were little black blades sprouting from the Earth, spearing something. I felt the most awake in the dark, more aware of things that I could see. The sun was man‘s tool. My hand was wet from touching the ground – a sign of health. I knew she was early too, and slept with the window open. Waking up in the middle of the night, she‘d find comfort in the sleepless moon and her health. The sun had risen, and I could hear her footsteps. Light but strong steps that carried her body securely and connected cleanly with the ground. She was close, and it warmed up. Her hue emerged, breaking the horizon and making a new sun. She was far away, but moved straight towards me, walking like the day passed: it went slowly, but was constant, and came into focus as she reached her destination. Her features faced me but were still blurry with heat and disappeared when she was obstructed. She was on the bus, and I was left with my false light. She would be back, and I would be reassured of reality, so I shut my eyes from the world that didn‘t reflect her. The sun was setting, the ambiguous orangey glow that swam inside my eyelids was gone – time for me to open them. Sweet Britney lips. Sweet, sweet Britney lips. Her name was a lyric. It was never spoken, but I knew it – I saw the letters on her lips. The word, ―Britney‖ existed on her slightly smiling, muted mouth. They talked to me without having to say a thing. I waited on the intersection just behind the bus stop – yellow bus on the way. It would be there soon, just a few more minutes. It was making a left turn onto Oak Way road. Driving, driving, driving, it just passed the big cedar. Getting close now. The giant yellow head peeked out at the corner of Crepe Myrtle Street – its presence so friendly to me. I stepped back. The vehicle moved somewhat laboriously, but finally it was close, and it stopped completely. Everything but my eyes waited. Not her, not her, not her, not her, not her – That… was her. I wanted to spit her image. Split it, spit. Her clothes were tighter today. She moved – it was the delicious deliberate movement which shook me up. God, she was so close, much closer than before. I could touch her, but I wouldn‘t dare –not in daylight. So I just watched – watched her all the way home. But she turned, and went to the mailbox. The letter must have been good news – it opened that sweet mouth of hers. It was a ticket – the symphony, Schubert, seat 84C. So I made sure to be there. I took seat 84E. She watched the movements, and I watched her watching, waiting for the moment when she was looking at me – I had a feeling she‘d like the way I looked. I was strong. Her face opened up to the stimulus – those wavering tones, the manipulation of strings that seemed like gibberish to me. But it gave me a great view, a special insight into her hidden light. It shined in a different way. The gift was all wrapped up in trimmings – trappings – new reds, and blues, and blacks, and greys; her mouth stained with vermillion, the same translucent shade of pinkish red that colored her tongue and gums – her lip possessing fine pigments that were applied with a swipe – the slightly reddened discoloration of her fingertips. Cheeks painted in a sheer pink, colored with what was left over from her mouth. There was a sort of sooty, stone-like blue that captured her eye, but a wetness on her lids, which indicated she was still salubrious. Her iris bloomed in the storm of her eye, showing me that her light was really and truly green. She was turning inside out; her veil feathered

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

gently to the floor. Intermission. We rose, and as I came up, I noticed a figure above her. She was with someone… I hadn‘t noticed him before. I paused in vexation, and my head, it shook, but she didn‘t see. The man was tall, 6‘1‖, somewhat slender, but with muscular limbs; it would be a struggle. I stood back and let the shithead walk by. The long arm was on her and it was almost completely wrapped around her waist, the sweet little valley in her external oblique, like DNA around the histone. It was mine, though, and only I should be allowed to coil it. It was time to come back down to the world, blend in with the dirty shoes. I followed while watching with my head bowed, pretending to look for the steps so they couldn‘t see me. But I kept an eye on her feet, which were bound by straps and heels – at least that may make it harder for her to get too far. I tried to be human, but I wasn‘t a man, I couldn‘t help but blend away with the deep darkness of the concert hall – the lights were dimmed for me and I disappeared. I was a part of the place – going more silently than the thoughts of those around me – those other ones didn‘t think much anyway. We walked into the foyer; her hands and his arms were all mixed up in each other. Nasty – I‘d have to wash her. She leaned toward him, and her mouth met his. Appalling, disgusting – I‘d have to fix her lips with mine. He smiled inauthentically, put his mouth once more on her, and broke for the bathroom – now was my chance. Walk, walk, walk, slit. Warm red blood in the bathroom stall. Gurgle, gurgle, whatever – his head hit the toilet seat. His blood was blue, not like hers. I closed the door and got out of there within seconds. She was outside – perfect. I got my rag handy, moved the door open, grabbed her arm and put it to her mouth. She finally saw me, just for an instant. She tried to scream, but when she breathed in, she just made it work faster. It‘s okay; she would learn she didn‘t have to struggle.

A Bad Storm Derrick Rehuher June 16, 2016… It was a cold December in Northern Ireland, compared to Tampa Bay, Florida‘s warm weather. David Owens was his name, a man that was raised on a little piece of land by the beach where he helped his family raise barn animals and grow vegetables and fruits for small markets. That's what his family lived on for the past 16 years. His dad, Daniel Owens, was a farmer and his mother was a teacher. David had two siblings, a younger sister and an older brother. All three shared the passion for music. It was a source of escape for them. David loved playing the piano. His older brother, Dax, played the drums, and his little sister, Danielle, was learning the guitar. All three talented in their own way wanted to create one sound. Growing up, they wanted to become musicians all in a band together. It was their dream. ―The Owens,‖ they once said to each other. A dream it was… ―It's gonna be a windy one today!‖ David yells. David is now a father of two. He‘s a farmer just like his Father was. Working from

Anderson High School

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2016-2017

home. His daughter‘s name is Danielle and his oldest son's name is Dax. He named them after his late brother and sister. They quickly grab their coats and head for the door. Dax drives Danielle to school in spite of being tired and wanting to skip a day. As they drive, it pours rain, lots and lots of rain rushing down the streets into the gutters, almost making it impossible for anyone to get out of the car. As they pull up, a sign says Winston High, Home of the Buccaneers! Dax quickly calls his parents to make sure everything is okay. ―Hey it‘s me, just calling to make sure everything is okay.‖ ―Yeah, son. We‘re fine, it's just a little wind, don't worry about it, and get to class!‖ The phone hangs up. David glances out the window to a little cabin by the beach, the cabin where his kids spent hours practicing music. Memories of old start to flood his mind. Memories of him, Dax, and his younger sister, Danielle. He remembers playing instruments with his siblings when they were younger. The fun, excitement, and passion he had for music back then has been instilled in his kids. Smiling in contentment, he turns on the TV to the weather channel. ―Were are here, live from Tampa Bay, Florida. It seems this storm will become a hurricane in a few hours. Make sure you‘re indoors, and say a prayer. It's gonna be a long day.‖ A huge gush of wind blows by the house, whistling and messing with the windows. In the distance, David sees the cabin by the beach being surrounded by the water. The wind blowing like a dragon blowing a massive amount of fire. The wind overwhelms the well-built cabin, completely blowing it down. He can picture the instruments being smashed or broken by pieces of wood collapsing to the floor. ―Damn it!‖ David takes a coat and runs out there. Running through the roar of wind and, not to mention, they‘re stuck on something. The wave is getting closer and closer as he struggles to break free. Looking back and forth, he realizes the wave is too close, and that he wouldn‘t have any time to run for it…He closes his eyes and braces for the worst.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

Two Poems Claire Miller I Wait I wait for what seems like an eternity On things that take me away from reality. I wait for the sun to come up in the morn‘, Only to find it has yet to be born From its womb in the universe That holds it like a kind nurse, Wishing for the moment to arrive When the infant on its own can thrive. I wait for fall weather to come near And dream of those colorful leaves each year That dangle like artwork from the trees, Blowing ever so gracefully in the breeze. I wait for what seems like forever On things that can‘t be predicted by the weather.

Music, Music, Music Music is a personal paradise That wins the hearts of many a being. It provides people with loads of advice, Which they‘ve no other means of seeing. Music takes you far from reality And puts you on the sunny beach of songs. Filled with sand that is made of melody, This place will disintegrate all your wrongs. But have no fear when the tempo speeds up, For the life with music is not a race. People dream of holding the winner‘s cup, But pleased not by greed is the music‘s pace. Music makes happiness a sweet routine And leaves you feeling content and serene.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

The Basketball Experience Gabriel Moncada We were playing in the basketball game But I really just wanted some fame My friends wanted the same My problem was hitting those threes The coach said I need to bend my knees People said I knew how to put it in the net Because my shot was really wet My favorite player was Kobe But I liked it better when he was known as Frobe Our team was really good We always left the court in a good mood They called us the beasts from the East We were the best on the court Our defense was like a fort But our offense was the best We never gave it a rest It was my favorite part of the game We would put our opponents to shame Scoring 40 a game The other teams were pretty lame Till we played against the knights They were always a tough fight They were the team that equaled us For that game, we had to discuss Playing at our best would be a must But this turned out to be a bust Maybe it‘s because I didn‘t have my lucky wristbands Could that be the reason I didn‘t have the ball in my hands? Every shot I took that game clunked off the rim Could it because I hadn't been at the gym? Practice, like, what is practice? That would only distract us The coach was forced to sit me on the bench Next to the kid who had a bad stench I had never had such a bad game My teammates were feeling the same Maybe the other team was just better Or maybe it was time for my resignation letter

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

Maybe I was wrong about my wristband It was hard for me to understand Remembering this story was a huge throwback Is it time for me to make a comeback?

The Boy and the Lightning Controls Eryn Escamilla Anthony Matthews was never much of a normal kid; he wasn‘t destined to be, since his father had the most important job in all of Allendale. His father was the lightning controller. Allendale had a history of unpredictable storms and lightning that could set fires to homes instantly. The problem became so bad that the city almost lost all the livestock of rams on the mountain ranges. The town‘s savior, Miles Restock, solved the issue of lightning by inventing the control panel. It was run by a large lightning rod on top of the tallest building the city had, and the panel was alerted when lightning would strike. The controller would then send the lightning to the ground, away from houses and livestock. Miles was named a town hero and even had a statue built in his honor. The town had finally gone back to normal without the chaos, but now Anthony‘s family was a town treasure, and he was pressured to live up to his dad‘s glory of taking over the job, being the first-born child. On the October morning of Anthony‘s 16th birthday, he woke up to the dread that sat at the bottom of his stomach, because in the town of Allendale, when a minor turned 16, they were required to intern for a job. Walking down into the kitchen that morning, Anthony‘s mother had his suit already laid out and a breakfast of eggs and bacon. ―Happy birthday sweetie,‖ she cooed as she kissed his forehead. Anthony sat down and began eating, still having the anxious dread of having to work with his father. Anthony‘s younger siblings piled in after him, jumping on him. ―HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ANTHIE!‖ they screamed in sequence. He shoved them off him and stared at the plate. His mother looked up from her dishes. ―Anthony, hun, is everything ok?‖ ―Yeah, mom, it‘s fine. Where‘s dad?‖ His mother looked over her shoulder, ―he had to work early this morning, but he‘s sending a car to come and pick you up soon, so hurry up with your breakfast now.‖ Anthony stared at his breakfast as his mother argued with his sisters about not using napkins when a black car rolled up in the driveway. His mother was overcome with joy. ―Oh, Anthie, they‘re here! My sweet little boy is all grown up.‖ A tear rolled down her face as she hugged her son. ―Mom, please,‖ he groaned as his mother cried. ―I know, Hun, it‘s just hard. Now, you better go now,‖ she said, wiping her eyes. He

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walked towards the door as his family yelled their goodbyes. Stepping onto the porch, he was greeted by a large man opening the door to the car for him. ―Welcome, Mr. Matthews. Your destiny waits.‖ The ride to the tower was through the city and included a stare-off between the mysterious man and Anthony. The driver was mostly silent until dealing with the city traffic where he became really angry. ―The sign says go, genius!‖ he yelled at the elderly driver. Finally reaching the building, Anthony was escorted to the floor where his father‘s office was located. This was all new to Anthony because he was never allowed to visit his father at work. A knock on the door was followed with his father‘s husky voice saying ―come in,‖ and the guard shoved him inside. ―My son, welcome. I will be your personal mentor for the day. They both sat down on the black plush chairs. ―Anthony, don‘t think of me as your parent today, think of me as a boss that you would like to impress, and that means not slouching and full eye contact, son.‖ He straightened his posture and looked his father straight in the eyes. ―Good, now let‘s go down to the control panels. Your mentorship will begin on how to control the lightning. The two walked out into the hallway where an elevator was revealed. His father pushed multiple buttons and the door creaked open. ―Shall we?‖ The elevator beeped, telling them they had reached ground floor. The room was full of glowing buttons and weather graphs and teams of pondering scientists watching the radar. Mr. Matthews led his son to the lightning control panel. ―This here son is where the magic happens.‖ Anthony awed over the shiny buttons and many wires leading to god knows where. He took his son through step by step on which controls he uses and which codes to enter to signal certain things. This all came very easily to Anthony because he was a gifted boy who had a photographic memory. All of the sudden, panic struck the lab. A piercing red alarm went off, and immediately he saw his father fainted on the floor. ―We need a doctor!‖ Anthony yelled, but his voice could not mask the piercing red alarms. ―A hurricane just blew and the lightning is bad!‖ one voice yelled. ―Our controller is down!‖ another voice screamed. Anthony, using his father‘s instructions, took action. His hands glided across the panel, pushing and coding every which way. The scientist took note of what Anthony was doing and tried to stop him, but then reconsidered, realizing that none of them knew what they are doing. After the storm was over, the panic calmed, and his father woke up. Groggy and confused, Matthews asked, ―What happened? All I remember was that piercing alarm.‖ Anthony helped his father back on his feet. ―Your son took over the controls and saved us all.‖ Still slightly confused, Mr. Matthews asked the question again, and was startled by the same answer. ―My… My son took over the controls,‖ and suddenly he began to sob. This startled Anthony because his father never really showed many emotions in front of him before. Mr. Matthews continued to sob and threw himself at Anthony and hugged him, continuing to sob. He finally began to speak, ―Son, I have never been so proud of you, and your future looks so bright, you can take over my job as the lightning controller.‖ Anthony was very disturbed by his father‘s tears, but also pretty proud of himself. Maybe his future was more hopeful then he thought.

Anderson High School

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block

2016-2017

Broken Home Poems Anna Giambelluca

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

The Memorable Experience (Poems) Billy Thompson Slam It‘s fresh and new like me. Everyone is tall and scary. Backpack strapped on me like life support, but it didn‘t. If I could redo that year, I would, and yet it defined and changed me. But everyone has regrets. Phases Periodically I searched more, And hating became a common theme. At the time it was fine, but really, Seriously, it had to stop. Explaining myself was a chore With somber rebellion. Mirrors The mirrors were very new A developed perspective thrown askew There wasn‘t a lot I could change But life is funny, yes, rather strange Living a new life with a new team Yet things were better, or better yet, it seemed Often I loom over old thoughts But to me I believe happiness is bought Yet there‘s still pain and I didn‘t believe With all eyes open, and I still couldn‘t see Already it has been a year Lots of new things along with new fears Gathered on the mats like church pews Yes, yes the mirrors were very new The Fourth Year This was it, and I‘m not ready I was many things, and this year, I became a philosopher. How does God move the sun without burning his shoulders? I don‘t know, but I want to. My experience is almost over.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

The War Of The Kings Hayden Ebel Sullivan held his hands together; he had no wish to separate them. He feared what was happening and knew that nothing good could come from it. He was the heir to the throne of the Fox King, and with that would come a power that his mere 10-year-old mind could not quite understand. He shook as he felt his back get hot and his hands burn and stretch. He was in pain, he knew it, but he could not cry out, for what came out would not be human. And his class would panic, scream and run and attack him, just for him being born a king and simply being at the wrong place at the wrong time. He would be shunned and hated. Even if the Fox King was truly lesser known, he would be very known today. The kings of old were known for their animal forms, many of them named after the animals they most closely resembled. However, nowadays many of them had evolved and changed and were only known as their animal names because they had been known as that for so long. The Fox King was not nearly as well known as the Crow, Lion, or Toad Kings, who were all feared, for good reason. Sullivan raised his hand and shook, knowing full well that his hand was slowly growing claws where his fingernails used to be. The teacher waved his hand down. And he focused. He thought of the rules. First, get away from people at all costs. That was hard to do, but he could manage to do it. He‘d just need to run. He stood up as he felt his ears burn and all sound drained slowly. He knew the teacher was telling him to sit down, but he didn‘t care. Turning around, he sprinted out the door. He slammed open the front door and felt the cool air push his hair out of his face. Reaching his hands out, he saw his fingernails grow more and turn black, like claws or talons. He sprinted forward, not losing energy and opened his mouth which was now grown into a canine snout slowly sprouting hairs and whiskers. The wind howled as he sat, the gentle breeze pushing past his fur, making it ripple and wave like the sea. He stared forward as the trees rustled and the grass bent at every gentle breeze. The birds called, and the creek down the way trickled gently as he curled his tail around him. His body had grown to much greater than average fox size, showing off that he was not a real fox. Instead, Sullivan sat as the Fox King. Though the title gave him no real kingdom or power over humans or foxes of any kind, it did make him more powerful, giving him abilities that were beyond that of any creature: power over sound and the ability to open portals to teleport between all areas of the world. He sniffed at the air and watched as the world existed around him, undisturbed by his presence, the slow rhythmic waving of his tail, and the gentle breaths escaping his snout. ―You know you have to try to evolve something. Size is all you Fox Kings ever cared about,‖ called a gentle, charming voice from above. ―We Monkey Kings have always watched y‘all do your own things, and we never said anything really about it. But I think—‖ ―You think wrong, Monkey,‖ Sullivan snapped, revealing a low, guttural voice that gently shook the tree the Monkey King was hiding in. ―Fine,‖ the voice called back, changing from a normal, humanoid voice to a deeper, much less charming and snobby voice as it came closer to Sullivan. ―But I must say, you should stop living alone. Find a roommate. Maybe move in with some other King. One that isn‘t fighting. I hear Crow—‖ ―Monkey,‖ Sullivan yelled, now standing up and turning around to come face-to-face

Anderson High School

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with a creature that may have resembled a monkey once upon a time. ―I am not interested in meeting these Kings; one has killed my father, and that King shall now fight with the others in this war until he is caught, or comes clean. Until then, I do not care about meeting the other Kings or even leaving the wilderness.‖ ―I understand, Foxy,‖ the monster stated, showing off a sharp-toothed grin as he moved his spindly arms up into the air, and wrapping his barbed tail around himself. ―I do believe that you should do what you wish; however, I question if you will survive effectively like this dear friend.‖ He lowered his arms as he turned around revealing long scars draping down his back and walked away, leaving Sullivan alone again as the wind blew, harder than it had all day, letting some of Sullivan‘s shedding fur blow away in the breeze. Tears fell from his purple eyes as he lay down. He curled up in a ball and slept for the first time in days—the first time since seeing his father‘s corpse mangled and bloodied, cut into pieces. Blood splattered upon the walls, and the feeling of loneliness that had closed around him as he had been forced to leave his mother, friends, and life because his father just so happened to be the Fox King. Sullivan‘s purple eyes filled with tears as he slept. He curled up tighter and waited. Waited for the war to be over. He waited as this war, soon to be simply known as The Great War, went on.

Jazz, For The Dogs Isabel Dunia There once was a jazz player who loved to play the saxophone. He knew it was his favorite ever since he played it in his middle school band. He loved to play it. One day he was playing when a nice family came along with their dogs, and the dogs really loved the music that the jazz musician was playing. The dogs loved it too because they could see their faces in the saxophone—it was super clean, gold, and shiny. They were there for almost two hours because the dogs did not want to go. Then when the jazz player finished, the family went up to him and said that he played so well and that the dogs really liked how he played. So they asked him if he could come to their house and play to the dogs and their owners. He was happy and he said yes. The family wanted to know what he charged, and he said ―I do $50 an hour.‖ So the family asked if he could play for two hours, and he took the offer. The jazz player was really excited and wanted to do it because no one ever asked him to play for them. He played out of pleasure but did not know that people would pay him to play for their dogs and for them. He was so excited because his parents told him he would never succeed with this instrument, and he wanted to prove them wrong. When the musician arrived at the house where he was to play, the owner took him to the

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patio where there were so many dogs. Dog owners were talking amongst each other and enjoying their time. The dogs were all happy lying in the sun. Then some of the owners came out with trays filled with treats for the dogs to eat. They gave the jazz player a nice glass of water before he started to play. While he playing his saxophone, the dogs just watched him. They were so happy and loved to hear what he was playing. They stayed still. The owners did not have to worry that the dogs would go out of control. After a while, they all went inside to talk and enjoy a nice party while they watched the musician play a nice song for the dogs. After a pleasant two hours of playing, the jazz player was given some money and the owners took their dogs and went home. Some owners asked him if he had a card on him so that they could call them later and set up a performance for their friends. They wanted the whole world to know who he was and that he really played that instrument wonderfully. Then one of the owners called the jazz player to come and play at a park for the dogs to enjoy. They said they would pay him double what he was asking for: $400 for four hours. They wanted the jazz player to come and play for their dogs so that it would distract them so they can enjoy a party without worrying about their dogs. They would party and save him some food so that he could eat after he was done playing. The player said he would do it if he could be served water and food to last him for all four hours. He did not want to pass out because he gets a dry mouth after playing for about one hour. They agreed. So the next week, the jazz player was getting ready to play for them and did not know what to play. He knew he did not want to play the same songs from the other gig. So he came up with some songs to play, even some of his own. He wanted to make it so special to them because he was going to get a lot of money, and he did not want to upset them. So he learned some popular songs, too. So he practiced and practiced. When the actual gig came, he was prepared. He wanted the pop songs to be his final numbers. So he played some nice, soothing songs. Then when he only had one hour left, he stop doing jazz and started to do pop. All the dogs went crazy for him. They were so happy and they really enjoyed it. And some of the pet owners started to sing along to the songs. They enjoyed it, too. Now the jazz player is known for his performances for the dogs, and he became a popular saxophonist that can play pop. He was so happy. Many pet owners really enjoy having him and go to him if they want him to perform to their pets. When he comes to play for the dogs, he brings treats because he knows that the treats, like the jazz, really calms them down.

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Letter From a Nut Jacob Ouzillou Henry VanCaughbough 408-888-8994 Henry@VanCaughbough.net 8372 Ravenwood Drv. Austin, TX 78759 11/30/16 General Mills 1-800-248-7310 103 Westmont Ln, Campbell, CA 87045 Dear Lucky Charms Cereal: I have been a loyal fan of your cereal for the past sixteen-and-a-half years. I am ashamed to admit that that for half a year, seven years ago, I abandoned Lucky and his band of charms, not feeling like I could eat anything after my three kids and wife all…left us in a tragic plane accident days before. I hadn‘t eaten your cereal for months, until one day I was shopping for my H-E-B brand honey oats, and saw you across the aisle. I have eaten nothing but your cereal since then. And I have never been luckier in my life, and am now a firm believer in your product. Since converting to a diet exclusively of Lucky Charms, I have not broken a bone. I have won two raffles and a five-hundred-dollar lottery ticket. I, personally, am not a lucky person. That's what I love about your product: all I have to do is sacrifice three meals a day and replace them with a Lucky-smoothie, made of milk, vitamin supplements, Lucky Charms, and 7 grams of pure caffeine. I haven't eaten solid food or slept for the past seven years, and I have loved every second of it. At least the seconds in which I can see. My tattoos of the charms remind me of my luck, my heart, star, and horseshoe, my clover and blue moon, my hourglass and rainbow, and my tasty red balloon—all tattooed on my face! Three years ago I had a huge stroke of luck, and two normal strokes. My doctors had been screaming at me to ―stop killing yourself!‖ and ―in the name of God, please stop!‖ but they didn‘t understand, I was LUCKY. My kidneys had shut down, but I was LUCKY enough to find a donor immediately! My mother had the same kidneys I did. She didn‘t survive the surgery. Guess she wasn‘t lucky enough. Lucky as ever,

Henry VanCaughbough Henry VanCaughbough

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The Glorification of Parasitic Demons Julia Key Since the beginning of time, women have been expected to have children. It used to be a disgrace to not be able to carry a child. Even now in 2016, women are still met with astonishment when they admit to not wanting to have a child, or even worse, they are faced with the dreaded sentence, ―But you‘ll feel different when you‘re older.‖ No, I really don‘t think I will. The never-ending adoration towards babies and children sickens me. They are deadly parasites that women welcome into their lives—and bodies—and those who would rather spare themselves the pain supposedly don‘t know what they really want in life. The horrors of parenting alone make me shudder in both fear and disgust, and that‘s not even considering pregnancy and childbirth. And honestly, what‘s the point? Why would anyone want to experience hours and hours of agonizing pain to take home a glorified pet? I don‘t need to experience the joy of seeing my own child smile. You know what I could do instead? Experience the joy of sleeping soundly through the night without the constant crying, and maybe not spend all my money on crayons, stickers, and dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets for a small demon that I‘ll be imprisoned with for 20 years. I would much rather spend my money on things for myself like a nice house or trips to Europe, not thousands of diapers. The average cost of taking care of a child until they‘re 18 is over $200,000. And if you‘re stuck with that pain in the ass for another few years until they ―figure it all out,‖ that‘s at least another few thousand dollars. Just think about all the other, better things you could do with that money when you don‘t have to pay for little Timmy‘s new bike, or buy yet another useless item from his school fundraisers. Not to mention all the crap you‘ll have to put up with not only when they‘re tiny brats, but also when they‘re angsty teenagers. No thanks, Satan, not in this lifetime. You have to live with all the screaming and crying that consumes your life not only at home, but also when you‘re just trying to enjoy your first night out at a restaurant after weeks of eating mac and cheese for every meal. And then everyone else always hates you because you‘re the person with the annoying crying baby that won‘t shut up. These monsters are constantly being glorified, when in reality they are the scum of the Earth. Why would you want to take care of a smelly, pudgy blob of flesh (that is WAY too soft to not hold some sort of evil supernatural power) for years, rather than just getting a houseplant? All you have to do is put a plant in some sun and pour some water on it once a week; there‘s no whining or crying involved. I mean if you‘re really lonely, you could always get a dog, but honestly is a stupid kid really worth all of the stress and pain? I say, avoid the parasites!

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Demoman and the Music Festival Julian Quintanilla Demoman heaved a sigh of relief, kicked back his legs and popped the top off his tropical water. He was glad he made the choices he did, leaving Mann.co behind was the best thing that ever happened to him. He got help for his alcoholism and even his almost biological need to blow things up. He hadn‘t touched a grenade or bottle of scotch since. Demoman was retired now. Turns out he was getting paid the whole time and had enough saved up to buy a modest red sailboat. So he lived out his childhood dream of sailing around the world with his two newest and best friends, Marco and Jamie. He would still have nightmares of the old days, but for once he was happy with his life. That was how his life went until one day their ship was caught in a huge storm. The small boat was bucking and sliding, struggling to stay afloat in the massive swells. The mast snapped with a huge creak and knocked Jamie right off the boat, never to be seen again. One of the leftover pulleys swung through the cabin and hit Demoman square in the face. When Demoman came to, he couldn‘t see a thing. He panicked, thinking the pulley had hit him in his one good eye. He reached up and gently felt his eye just to discover he just had his eye patch over the wrong eye. Demoman, with his vision restored, stood up to search the wreckage of his boat. The boat was beached, but a little ways inland a town could be seen. Demoman‘s thoughts were interrupted by a weak groan from the prow of the ship. It was Marco. Marco was hurt badly, having been thrown through the front window of the cabin. Marco would need medical attention soon if he was going to survive. With his friend‘s life in his hands, Demoman set out for the town. He hoped that they had long range communications or a hospital, or else he would lose another friend today. Demoman noticed something strange upon entering the hamlet. There were no people here; the entire town looked recently inhabited, but no one was to be found. Demoman saw something that made his hopes soar: a hospital, a real functioning hospital. He quickly carried Marco inside. The inside of the hospital was just as strange as the city outside. Everything was clean and taken care of, and yet, not a soul was seen aside from the two sailors. Demoman did not have time for this. Marco was fading fast and needed a doctor, so back outside they went. There was something different about the town this time, like a faint difference in the wind. No, it wasn‘t a difference in the wind; it was a song, a very horrible song, but a song nonetheless. Where there’s music there’s people, as his mother used to say. Demoman ran as fast as he could while carrying Marco‘s limp body. The music was coming from just over the hill. As soon as he crested the hill, he could see hundreds of people gathered around a huge stage where there was the biggest variety of instruments he had ever seen. The entire town must have been there, he didn‘t know why, but all the people stood stock still in front of the stage.

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Demoman would never be able to find the doctors in this crowd, so he did the only thing he could think of. He ran up to the stage and took a microphone from one of the performers. Demoman called out to the crowd, looking for anyone with medical expertise, but no one moved. Finally a small group of people moved up to the stage, they walked right past him and grabbed Marco. They held Marco up and then threw him into the crowd, who immediately began tearing Marco apart. It was the most savage thing Demoman had seen since the last time he drank. Within seconds, Marco‘s screams went silent, and the crowd turned towards Demoman, only to find him long gone. Demoman ran all the way back to his boat, he didn‘t know where else to go. In one day, he lost his two best friends, his boat, and got stranded on an island of cannibal-cultist-vampirewhatevers. With nothing else to do, he found his hands moving of their own accord, towards the locker he kept under his bunk. He opened the foot locker and pulled out the bottle of scotch from within. To Marco, Jamie, and my little red boat, he thought as he gulped from the bottle. As he drank, his eyes drifted down to the locker once again. Alcohol wasn‘t the only thing he kept in there; within the locker was his old gear. He still had his grenade launchers and enough grenades to win World War III. He thought as he drank, two activities he normally didn‘t do at the same time. Who were those people, why are they here, and was he gonna let them get away with this!? He was the Demoman! No one could stand up to him, and no one was gonna kill his friends and get away with it. Demoman grabbed his launchers and the scotch and strode out of his boat with the drunken swagger of a true Scotsman. He was determined to make them pay. By the time he reached the stage, it was dark, but the townspeople were still there. Now they were performing some strange dance around the performers, but Demoman wasn‘t here for that. He let out a fierce battle cry and charged into the swirling ranks of the townspeople. All hell broke loose. The people let out inhuman screams of rage and lunged at Demoman. Demoman let out a large belch, perfectly timed with the detonation of the first batch of grenades. Bits of bodies were flying everywhere but the people were unfazed and continued to charge him. A couple of volleys later, most of the town was reduced to steaming piles of viscera and severed limbs. Demoman, now standing victoriously on the stage, took one final swig of scotch before throwing the empty bottle into the battlefield. Before he could finish celebrating his victory, the stage lit up with and eerie arcane light. Behind him a purplish portal to another dimension opened and out came the most hideous creature the Demoman had ever had the misfortune of seeing. Upon seeing the rows of its dead disciples, the creature charged Demoman. He let out a cry in return. ―They‘re goin‘ ta have to glue you back together… IN HELL!‖ With that final cry, he punched the creature square through the chest. That was all it took; the

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creature fell limp to the ground. Demoman thought of his lost friends, and of the mysteries of this town. He decided there was only one way he could ever truly avenge his friends: he would either kill or enslave every demon on the other side of that portal. Then he would get an even bigger boat. That would be his memorial to his best friends in the whole wide world, Maraca and Jane, or whatever the heck their names were.

Triumf Kalina Spassov Blazing through the sky at Mach 6, Headed from a lone base near Irkutsk to some dusty encampment in Syria, or Afghanistan— We‘re not really sure where we‘re sending these things anymore. The S-400 Triumf. Doesn‘t that feel good to say? It‘s the missile system everyone is dying to get their hands on. Samples are free, order today! (offer void in the United States) Well, more free than our targets, anyway, Because when our Triumf is locked on to the six smoldering engines of your B-2, You‘d better think of some last words very quickly. It will be quite a mesmerizing fireworks show, I assure you, (and a brief one, too, if you were worrying about that) Licking the air with its bright, bold fires, Seeding the earth with our bloody desires. They say life cannot exist without death. But our S-400 Triumf is really the definition Of explosive entertainment.

Flynt Kaine Ehrlich Flynt looked in the mirror, trying to figure out how he should wear his hair. He had been trying to figure out for the past hour if he should wear it over his ears or not, but he couldn't decide. He visualized how the talk show interview would go in his head. Would it all work out? Will I mess it up? What if he asks a question that I’m not prepared to answer? He had been asking these questions to himself the whole time he had been figuring out his hairstyle, but all they did was make him more anxious. It wasn't his first interview, it was his fourth. He had tried to make it his goal to not take any more interviews, seeing how poorly the first three went. He remembered that in his first interview, he was frozen solid and sentenced to life in a Garnash prison for mistaken identity. In his second interview, Station Rulith was destroyed by a group of

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Corbliconigs who had been hunting him down for weeks and he had to take care of them later that day, so he could still get paid. He still remembered how much of a pain in the ass that day was. Then he remembered the third interview, the one that ended in the massacre… He stopped the thought before he could finish processing it. Like many of the other memories he had suppressed deep into his subconscious, he didn't want to think about it. He had a hard enough time sleeping as it was—the nightmares would only make it worse. Suddenly, Jark slammed on the bathroom door, making Flynt jump. ―You almost gave me a heart attack!‖ Flynt yelled. ―Sorry, but you've been in there for the past hour, and Slork wants you backstage.‖ ―The show doesn't start for another hour.‖ ―The show didn't start for another hour an hour ago. He told me that you're on in 10 minutes.‖ ―10 minutes?!‖ Flynt yelled, throwing the door open. ―That's what he told me. Geez, Flynt, try to calm down.‖ Flynt left the bathroom and started pacing back and forth in the hallway, which led to the backstage, which led to the stage where he would be giving his interview in 10 minutes, just 10 minutes. ―Calm down? How am I supposed to calm down, Jark? This is the biggest talk show in the Krulith Galaxy, millions—no, billions of things good and bad will be watching me today!‖ Flynt suddenly stopped talking and there was a moment of silence. ―You won't mess up.‖ Jark said, breaking the silence between them. ―How can you be so sure?‖ ― ‗Cause you're Flynt, the greatest Zilith the universe has ever seen. You've been through a lot worse than an interview.‖ Flynt looked at Jark and thought about how much he wanted to smash his face in for saying that. Jark didn't know what he had been through; if he did, he would have run away by now. He was just like everyone else, he looked up to Flynt, he thought of him as some great savior. In some aspects it was true, he had saved more lives than he could count, but on the other hand, he had taken more than he could count as well. Flynt started thinking about how much he hated it when he was called the greatest Zilith in the universe. Flynt knew for a fact that wasn't true. Maybe the most successful, Flynt thought, chuckling to himself. At the same time, Flynt realized for the hundredth time how disappointed his family must have been, seeing as how the boy that they disowned, the one that ran away, was the one to explore the universe so vastly, the one who would be talking on The Midnight Show With Slork The Blork. ―You okay, Flynt?‖ Jark‘s question broke Flynt out of his haze and brought him back to the now. He had to give that interview soon. ―I‘m going to go backstage, don't want to be late.‖ ―Oh, okay, Flynt, good luck.‖ ―Yeah.‖ Flynt walked through the hallway, leaving Jark behind him and went through the door which led to the backstage. The backstage was more like a lobby. It was very fancy, made of wood, with a carpet, had red velvet couches in two of the corners, and a transmitter, but the thing that caught Flynt‘s attention the most was the Ronlimanda Red, which was in a cryopod in the middle of the room. Flynt had never seen one in person, though he had always wanted to. ―Beautiful, isn't it?‖ Flynt turned his head around to see that Slork himself was standing there. He had seen

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Slork transmitted hundreds of times but he looked different in person. It was obvious by his appearance that he had Stralenge blood running through his veins. He was very tall, at least 7 feet, probably more, and so pale he looked white like a ghost. He was also really skinny to the point where Flynt could see the outline of his bones through his skin, it made him resemble a skeleton with eyes, and a comb over. Yet for some odd reason, he was still handsome and had a sort of womanizer look to him. Maybe it was his personality or that expensive beige suit he was wearing. ―One-of-a-kind, that flower is.‖ Even his voice sounded different, deep and calm, like a wise old man. ―Yeah, it‘s a Ronlimanda Red, the rarest flower known to exist.‖ ―Ah, you like flowers, Flynt?‖ Slork asked, amused. ―Aren't you supposed to be interviewing me when we go live?‖ ―I was just trying to start a conversation...You know, most people don't know that this flower even exists, it's that rare. If it wasn't here, not a single thing would be able to lay its eyes on it‘s colors, it's shape, it would be withering away. All that beauty wasted, that's why I put it here in this lobby, so that anyone or anything that decided to come here could see just how beautiful it is.‖ ―You seem quite passionate about this flower.‖ ―Well, I like flowers.‖ ―Aren't you worried someone might take it? A flower like this could gain you quite the fortune.‖ ―Name a person who would take it from me, and I‘ll start to worry.‖ His response took Flynt by surprise, but as he thought about it more, it made sense. It was doubtful that anyone would steal from someone as powerful as Slork, even the most dim-witted Kulg wouldn't mess with him. ―If you don't mind me asking, Slork, how exactly did you get your hands on a Ronlimanda Red? On all my journeys I've never even seen one. It's almost impossible to find. Not to mention how poisonous they are, if you even touch it, you'll die in an instant.‖ ―Unfortunate how the most beautiful things are the most poisonous.‖ ―That didn't exactly answer my question.‖ ―We‘ll be live in a minute, I have to get on the stage.‖ Slork walked past Flynt and in only four large steps he was at the curtain that separated the backstage from the main stage and then turned around, ―Good luck, Flynt, let‘s hope that this interview goes to plan.‖ ―You're not the only one hoping for that, Slork.‖ ―Glad to hear that, talk to you very soon.‖ With that, Slork walked through the curtain and onto the stage and at that same

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moment, Flynt could hear a cheer from the crowd. It was a full house. Flynt moved over to one of the red velvet couches and sat down on it. It was comfortable enough to sleep on, and it felt as if he was sinking into it. Sitting on the couch allowed Flynt to have a moment of relaxation, a moment to calm down, and think about things. He was still nervous and could only hope that this interview would go better than the others, would go better than most things nowadays really. He had been through a lot worse and this was something that he had to get out of the way, something he had to face. Moments later, he heard Slork yell out. ―And our very special guest, the one, the only, Flynt, the greatest Zilith in the universe!‖ Flynt sighed when he heard what he called him, he really did hate it when people called him that. Then he stood up, walked up to the curtain, took a deep breath, and walked through.

Find beauty Lauren Wiles The world is vast and wonderful It is open fields and moonlit swimming pools It is infinite deserts and the oases within them The world is exciting and thrilling It is waterfalls and volcanos It is cliffs and canyons and the rapids that run through them You are mystical and beautiful You are the sound of your laughter and the crinkles by your eyes You are the color of your eyes and the galaxies that live within them Find beauty in the world Find beauty in the deep seas Find beauty in yourself Find beauty in your deep thoughts Find beauty in song and dance Find beauty in your voice Find beauty in the fact that you may not have found your own beauty yet But you will find it one day

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Escape (A Choose-Your-Own Adventure) Lily Schubert Sitting in your room, on your bed, midsip of ice cold water. All of a sudden, something bursts through your window, and shatters from behind you. You turn your head around your shoulder, and see your curtains flowing with the wind that is rushing in. Your window has been shattered into a million trillion shards all over your bedroom. As thin as a sheet of paper, but as sharp as a knife never used. You look at your bed. You see a rock. Larger than your fist, smaller than your foot. The gray, rigid rock has a note taped to it. The note reads, ―I have been watching you. You are next.‖ You are left sitting on your bed puzzled, and high-strung. You stand up, and wipe the glass shards off of your bed. Then you grab your pillow, blanket, and your phone. You walk, half-awake, to your ice cold leather couch. You glance at the clock. The clock reads 2:46am. You fall asleep, very nervous and uneasy. You wake up the next morning, 11:03. You didn't go to school, and you are wondering what happened to your parents, and why they didn't bother to at least try to wake you up. Step by step, walking to their bedroom, your feet only making the lightest of slapping sounds against the slick wood floors. Smick, Smack, Slick, Slack. You open the door. You see no one. You walk closer to the desolate bed, and move around the perfectly made bedding. You see a knife with dried blood on it under a pillow. The pillow has a small puddle of the browning red color. Around the recently used knife, there is a slightly crumpled piece of paper. You unravel the paper from the knife, and straighten it out. You avoid the blood stains, and read the three-word note. The note reads, ―You are next.‖ You freak out. You go to the kitchen and gather a few non-perishable goods. You toss them into a HUGE reusable bag. You grab a few tools such as a hammer, screwdriver, and a baseball bat. Then you sprint to your place of choice: Your bedroom— Go to 2 Your bathroom— Go to 3 Your neighbor’s house— Go to 4 2. You run to your room, and close the door as swiftly and as quietly as possible. You crawl into your closet and hope for the best. It‘s 11:23. Having been inside your claustrophobic closet, you become tense, and start developing pains in your legs and back. If you: Open your door and stretch— Go to 5 Deal with it— Go to 6 3. You run to your bathroom, realizing this is your best bet. Door with a lock. Running

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water, soap, air vent, electrical plugs, and some necessary storage space. Just what you need in this situation. You sit down and stare at the wall. You aimlessly wander around the bathroom, and start describing each object. ―Hand Soap‖, you say. ―White, smooth, shiny, smells like lavender. Wall‖, you continue, ―Beige, has unique texture. Very rigid.‖ You never noticed these details. You brush your pointer finger across the rough wall. You feel each and every divot, realizing that you have missed so many things in your life. The details are ever so important. You go back to the insanely crazy note. You think to yourself, I wish I took note of the situation. I wish I had scoped the scene. Then you remember that the nut who wrote those two notes is still out there. You fantasize the future in your current state. You ask yourself what you will use for self-defense. You look around the bathroom. Look at possible weaponry. There isn't much. Thinking about what is at your availability. You think about what you have in the rest of your house. You decide to: Run to your kitchen and grab sharp objects— Go to 7 Stay in the bathroom— Go to 8 4. You drop everything. Swinging the front door open, you run to your neighbor‘s house. Thump thump, thump… Sprinting to your neighbor's house, you become nervous. Almost chasing life, you stop at the worn-down door. You knock on the door very anxiously. For a split second, you see something move through their window. You decide to: Break into their house and figure out what is going on— Go to 9 Try another neighbor— Go to 10 5. You crack the door, and look around. You slide out and walk around a bit. You stretch your back and legs. You think back to 9th grade gym, and think about how simple your life used to be. You think about all of the irrelevant homework you were supposed to turn in today. You think about how junior year is so stressful. Not even halfway through the year, and you are already swamped in homework, papers, and projects. Then you walk back towards the closet, and realize you hadn't looked for your sibling. You go to your sibling’s room and see if he/she is there— Go to 11 Call your school— Go to 12 Go back to the closet. Every man for themselves.—Go to 13 6. Sitting in your closet, squished, you try to sleep. Ten minutes later, you look up and see a shadow in front of the door. You squirm with fear. Sweaty palms and shaky anxiety, then suddenly the door is opened. You are dead. 7. You peek through the door, looking both ways, you run to the kitchen, and grab all of the knives you could possibly find. You also find your multi tool knife. You turn around to find another sharp utensil, and Someone is standing there. You then grab one of the knives you have in hand, and stab the person behind you. You run and call 911— Go to 14

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8. Sitting in the bathroom, you think of new strategies. You decide not to get more weaponry. As you sit there, you become curious. You peep through the door, with the slightest crack. You look to your left. Nothing. You look to your right. You are Dead. 9. THUD! You break open the door. You walk inside and see no one. You walk to their kitchen. All the knives and forks are gone. You walk to their dining room. There is one place at the table set. One plate. One spoon. You lift the plate and inspect. You put the plate down to notice a note that had been placed under it. The note reads, ―You were just poisoned with deadly ricin. You now have 24 hours to live.‖ You are screwed. No antidote. Dead. 10. You sprint. Faster than ever before. Next neighbor over. Never met ‘em. You knock ever so calmly that one could barely tell that something was wrong. A man, 6‘1‘ tall and brawny, about 28 years old says, ―Come in.‖ You prance in the doorway. The man says, ―Take a seat,‖ so you do as he says and take a seat on a dusty brown chair. You ask what his name is, and he responds, ―None of your concern.‖ You ask, ―How long have you lived here?‖ He answers, ―Not very long, only about 3 months.‖ You sit there in awe of his beautiful décor, noticing the detail and elegance of his home. You ask why he let you in so quickly. The man then pulls out a knife and holds it to your throat. You say, ―What the damn hell?‖ The man says, ―Sorry that I have been leading you on this little adventure , but what your father did to me was so much worse.‖ You ask, ―What did my Dad ever do to you?‖ The man says, ―He did something worse than this.‖ He then slits your throat. Dead. 11. As you are walking to your siblings room, you see your dead sibling lying lifelessly on the ground. After freaking out for a moment, you decide to hurry to the bathroom, now realizing its safety. Go to 3 12. You call your school. You ask about your sibling‘s attendance. Hasn't been there today, you are told. You then ask, if there is any way they could call the police and send them your way. They say sure and call 911. Then as you are on the phone. You turn around, and see a man. You then ask for immediate help, but before you can say anything, you are shot. Dead. 13. You run back to the closet. You are sitting there doing absolutely nothing. Go to 6 14. The police arrive. They reveal to you that you killed a man who was wanted for 14 murders. Good job, hero! The police congratulate you then take you to your grandparents‘ house where you will now live for the last year and a half of High school. You are homeschooled and live life to the fullest. The End.

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the first male love of your life: father Logan DiCristofalo He was supposed to open your mind to ideas that were new He was supposed to be your shoulder to cry on when things looked blue He was supposed to always be there for you He was supposed to love and cherish you But he is nothing he was supposed to be Because all he can be is—angry There's no teaching if his examples are violent and rude There's no guidance if he's never spoken softly to you There‘s no house if he doesn‘t care to share a home There‘s no love if he doesn‘t dare to make his own There is no father if he confuses love with anger There is no father if he refuses to be your anchor There is no father if he doesn‘t care to be present There is no father if he won‘t think to be pleasant The idea of a father simply does not exist If a father was never there to begin with

Trapped Maddy Baliette I glanced around the room in hopes of finding some source of inspiration. Something new, something fresh… But considering that I brought the average age down about 20 years in that dusty, hidden cafe, I had little to no expectations. Before, this had been the best place for me to write: it had two small windows through which sun rays poured in, shedding light directly on rows of overflowing, wooden bookshelves that lined the walls. It smelled of coffee and the cigarette smoke that had become trapped between the pages of books. The room was oozing with coziness, which is probably why I couldn‘t find a thing that would help me improve the blank notebook that sat before me. My mind wandered back to the week before, when my professor had called me in to comment on the most recent story that I had written for her class. My cheeks had glowed with pride when I thought about it: the thrilling build-up to action, compelling characters, interesting plot. And yet, when I walked into my professor‘s office feeling accomplished and confident, the look on her face told me of her evident disappointment. ―Emelia,‖ she started, handing me my story back, all marked up in blue pen ink. ―Your story was… subpar.‖ ―Oh, uh, really?‖

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―You show plenty of potential; however, I feel that you lack experience.‖ She looked at me and squinted, as if she were trying to see what I was thinking. ―All due respect, but I assure you that I don‘t. I‘ve been writing for as long as I can remember and I‘ve won several awards—‖ ―No, not writing experience, Emelia, life experience.‖ She lifted her arms slightly and motioned around the room as she said ―life,‖ like I didn‘t know what the word implied. ―Life experience? I write fiction, not autobiography; why does it matter what life experience I‘ve had? It makes no difference when I don‘t write about myself.‖ ―Oh, but you do!‖ ―Do what?‖ ―Write about yourself! Or, all the best writers do, at least. Imagine how much more vivid this story could be if you had felt pain like your characters have? Or been truly afraid or in love? Can‘t you see how that would push your stories from average to enchanting?” For the rest of our meeting, most of my thoughts had to do with the way my professor looked at me: like I knew nothing about writing, or life. I shut the door a bit more loudly than intended as I left her office. I cursed under my breath, for the ideas that had come to me so easily before, now all seemed cliché and superficial. I cursed myself for letting the words of my professor halt my creativity, and cursed her both for insulting my writing and for being nearly undeniably correct. Finding a lack of artistic inspiration in the cafe, I hastily pulled out a couple of crumpled dollars and left them on the table, waved to the barista who replied by straightening her wrinkled lips into a halfway smile, and headed out of the wooden doors which creaked as they moved. Though I‘d never admit it to my snarky professor, maybe I did need to get a bit out of my small, nearly suffocating comfort zone. The only problem was that I didn‘t quite know how. I began by walking back to my dorm, feeling defeated. I was stuck between self-doubt and ignorance. I didn‘t know how to improve; I didn‘t know if I was capable of it. Just then I spotted a small plant nursery that was almost as hidden as my favorite cafe. The door was barely hanging off its hinges, and cracked, termite-infested signs labeled the place ―Bill‘s Gardening House.‖ It was the kind of place that I would never go into; it didn‘t exactly advertise beauty or hospitality like I figured a typical gardening store would. The whole place seemed a bit off. Right as I was about to walk past the place, the words of my professor echoed through my being: ―No, not writing experience, Emelia, life experience.‖ Maybe the whole point was that I should do things that I previously wouldn‘t have even thought about. With her words bouncing around in my head, I began walking towards the rickety store. It was a start. Though it‘s not quite the same thing, I remember thinking that maybe I, like Frost or Wilde or Monet, could be inspired by nature. Or, you know, potted plants? Baby steps. So I walked right in. Plants lined all of the walls and most of the ceiling. Stains from the leaky roof showed through the areas that weren‘t covered in leaves or stems. It was dark in there. I wondered how the plants could grow with such a lack of sunlight— ―Edith?‖ A voice rang out from behind a row of dying orchids, interrupting my thoughts. It was low, shaky, and forced. ―Who‘s there?‖ the voice called again, a few seconds later. There was something bizarre about his voice, something that I couldn‘t quite explain. It sounded almost as though it were coming from a computer that was mocking the voice of an old man. I realized that I hadn‘t yet responded. ―No, it‘s not Edith…Sorry, are you closed?‖

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As soon as I answered, the man behind the peculiar voice revealed himself. He was much younger than I expected him to be, maybe 30-35 years old. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, a plaid button down shirt, and dark jeans. As he began moving over to me, I noticed something strange about the way he walked: it was stiff, robotic. It had the same inexplicable quality of his voice. ―No, we‘re still open, we just don‘t get too many visitors nowadays.‖ He paused to cough into his elbow. ―I‘m Bill,‖ he said, holding out his hand. I reached out reluctantly. He grabbed my hand with an unexpected force and shook it for longer than I would‘ve liked. When he let go, I quickly shoved my hands into the pockets of my cardigan. ―You‘re the Bill that runs this place?‖ I asked, confused by the juxtaposition of how young this man was and how old the shop seemed. ―In the flesh.‖ He did a miniature bow. ―I‘m Emelia, nice to meet you.‖ ―Ah, Emelia…‖ his voice trailed off. He looked into my eyes with an uncomfortable intensity. Through his glasses, I could see that his eyes were a translucent grey, glassy and wiselooking. They looked as though they belonged on a much older man. ―I‘ve been wondering what your name was for a while now. What can I help you with today?‖ ―Wait, wha—‖ ―You look more like a Rebecca or a Camille, but Emelia is nice, too.‖ He pronounced my name in four distinct syllables: Em-eee-liii-ahh. ―What do you mean, ‗for a while?‘ How do you know me?‖ My hands fidgeted in my pockets, and I felt my legs begging me to run to the door, to not stop running until I reached my dorm room and collapsed into my bed, safe. But… ―Emelia, your story was...subpar.” Right. Damn. ―I see you walking down that street about every other day, leaving that cafe down the block. I recognize you because of the hair.‖ He gestured to the dark brown nest of curls on my head which had gotten even more obnoxious due to the humidity in there. Embarrassed about my fright, I just nodded and looked down. Maybe he wasn‘t so bad; maybe I had let my prior uneasiness let me label him as peculiar. When I looked up, he seemed much closer to me than he had been before, and his translucent eyes were wide and tracing the contours of my hair and face. ―What is it that I can do for you today, then?‖ ―Oh, I was thinking that I might want to get…‖ I looked around the store for some sort of viable reason for dropping in the store, hopefully one that could get me out of there soon, ―maybe an orchid for my room.‖ ―Would you like me to show you around?‖ No, not really. ―Yeah, sure.‖ I followed Bill through rows of plants and flowers. The store went back much farther than I expected, and the winding rows were beginning to

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make me dizzy. As we walked, Bill kept pointing out flowers by nodding his head in their direction. He walked a few feet in front of me, constantly turning around to make sure I was still following. Each time he turned around, I felt vulnerable and small. I really couldn‘t figure out how this store went so far back. ―Bill, how much longer in this tour?‖ I asked reluctantly, interrupting his clearly practiced speech about growing tomatoes. ―We‘re almost there, Emelia.‖ ―Almost where?‖ Silence. I stopped walking. ―Where are we going?‖ I asked sternly, hoping to mask the fear that I felt creeping up my body. ―We‘re here,‖ he responded and turned around. We had made it to a clearing. It seemed like all of the aisles in that maze of a store led to this space. It was eerily silent and empty. What made it worse is that Bill was just standing in the center of the area, arms straight out to his sides, looking at me both expectantly and threateningly. The way he looked at me made my hands start shaking in my pockets again. It made me unable to look him in the eye. ―I‘d like to leave now,‖ I said shyly. ―No. You‘re going to stay here,‖ Bill‘s robotic voice sounded angrier than it had before. He harshly brought his arms back down to his sides, hitting his legs with an unnecessary force. He ran over to me and grabbed both of my shoulders. ―You‘re going to stay here with me. Don‘t you dare try to run,‖ he whispered to me through rotting teeth, his eyes telling me that I was trapped. I looked around the clearing and began noticing that this place wasn‘t the same as the rest of the store. There were doors covered in vines and various foliage that could close off access to each of the aisles that ended in the clearing which would isolate it entirely. Five doors stood wide open, my only slim chance at an escape. It seemed that as soon as I noticed this, Bill remembered it. He began slowly moving around to shut each of the doors. Each had a series of locks on it that required several seconds of him having his back turned to me. Much like when we were ‗taking a tour,‘ he looked back every couple of seconds to make sure I was still there. There was an open door a couple feet away from me. Even if I made it, though, I would have to find my way out of the store on my own. I took a step back, slowly, methodically, so that he wouldn‘t realize that I was trying to escape. I stepped back, one inch at a time. ―You know, I used to know a girl a lot like you. Edith. She lived here with me, in this very room.‖ He twisted the lock on the first door and moved to the second. I took a step back. ―I wouldn‘t let her leave this room because Edith had a bit of a mean streak. Not like you, you‘re a nice girl.‖ He turned around and I halted. ―But she betrayed me one day, ran away from this place. Ran away from all that we had. And I kept thinking she was gonna come back. Kept thinking that if I kept this place open, came to work every day, she‘d come back.‖ He turned back to the door, locked it shut, and moved on to the third. I took a step back. ―But then you showed up! I‘d been watching you, Emelia. I knew there was something special about you. The way you look at the sky when you cross the street, spend so much time

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studying in that damn cafe,‖ he chuckled as he spoke. He turned and looked at me, smiling a maniacal smile. He stayed that way for a while, just looking at me like that. ―Always knew there was something different about you. And I didn‘t even have to come get you. You just walked right in!‖ He turned around and locked the third door. I was almost in the doorway now. This was my chance. I made a break for it, ran out the door and around a sharp curve. I could see where the light was pouring in from outside, I knew I had to go that direction. I was running faster than I ever had before. I turned another corner as quickly as I could and ran straight into a stationary object. It felt like hitting a wall of bricks at full speed. But it was not a wall of bricks—it was Bill. ―You didn‘t have to make it like this.‖ He grabbed my wrists and held them tightly in one hand. In the other, he held a knife that gleamed blue in the dim light. ―You didn‘t have to make me do this,‖ he whispered. I could feel his hot breath hitting the side of my cheek as he hissed in my ear. ―I‘m sorry,‖ I responded, ―it won‘t happen again.‖ I hoped that he would loosen his grip on my wrists if I complied. I hoped that he wouldn‘t see through my lies. ―Well, it better not.‖ He let go of one of my hands, and with the other one, he began leading me back to the clearing. With my free hand, I grabbed a potted plant that sat on a shelf. Without thinking, I picked it up and swung it at his head. I heard the crack of ceramic against his skull. He made a terrifying noise that was a cross between a scream of pain and a growl. In this split second, he loosened the grip on my wrist. This was my only chance. I don‘t remember how, but I made my way through the aisles of the store. I kept my eye on the light that came in through the front door, never slowing the movement of my feet which ached with every step. I could hear Bill yelling my name every so often as I ran. I could hear him threatening me, gaining on me. I ran out of the store as quickly as I could. My curls were blocking my vision, sticking to the sweat that had beaded onto my face. My legs were cramping up, and with every stride I felt fire ripple throughout my body, but adrenaline wouldn't let me slow down. It wouldn't let me turn around to see if Bill had bothered to follow me out onto the street. I finally slowed down when I reached my room. I unlocked it, ran inside, and fell face first onto my bed in a single movement. I can't remember how long I just lay there, waiting for my heartbeat to slow, my limbs to stop shaking, my breath to stop heaving. When I finally established control over my body, I sat up in bed and leaned my back against the wall. I opened my eyes for the first time in what seemed like half an hour. I looked around my cozy room and a feeling of relief washed over me. My blankets felt softer than I had remembered, my mattress more comfortable; the overall ambiance was lovelier and more inviting. Then, something in the corner of my vision caught my eye. I turned to look at it and felt my heart drop. It rested on my bedside table and starkly opposed the coziness of the rest of the room. The second I saw it, I felt my blood go cold and force my limbs not to move. I looked it over in a stunned silence: In a small brown pot on my bedside table, perched just inches away from my pillow, was a tag from Bill's Gardening House attached to dying orchid. From the farthest corner of my bed, I could read the slanted, hurried script written on the tag: “Come again soon, Sweet Emelia. Love, Bill.”

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The Momentous Multitudes Makenzie Shewmaker To: Whoever will see the meaning When I was young & scraped my knee I asked if you would save me When I turned ten It happened again When it became more violent You stayed silent When I‘d reach out You‘d walk out When I‘d wish you'd stay You‘d go away When I needed you the most You became a ghost When I was drowning in a sea I asked if you would save me And When the water began to bubble and shriek You still then did not speak Sincerely, Me

Blimey, Those Wily Crusaders Sure Do Tend Toward the Loutish Bent, Eh? Nick Jensen The Council of Clermont, November 27, 1095 CE. In the audience are all the great names of Europe, both secular and ecclesiastic. For a moment, there‘s a hush over the crowd, the last words of Pope Urban II‘s ardent speech promulgating nations of Christendom to retake the Holy Land from Muslim invaders hangs vividly in the air. After the echoes of Urban‘s words disseminate and vanish, somewhere within the crowd a man shouts the words ―Deus vult!‖ (God wills it). The chant is quickly picked up by man after man, until the entire council is erupting with the deafening cries of ―Deus vult.‖ Then, out of the crowd, a bishop quickly rushes up and falls to his knees before the Pope. He gathers himself, and the bishop proclaims: he will lead any willing Christians to reclaim the Holy Land for Christ. And thus, the First Crusade begins. Not yet, however, and it never would‘ve gotten off the ground had Urban not have been the man who declared it. Urban was a smart guy, and he knew how to incite a crowd, and with his abilities, he‘d gather a force larger and more cohesive than any nation in Europe at the time. Urban would offer a chance to those who had spent their lives fighting their fellow man, to those who had learned the art of war, and committing mortal sins. An opportunity for absolution, a chance to be cleansed of all sins and granted access into Heaven, and he would offer that chance

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for that which they did best: going to war. However, this offer may‘ve been too lucrative, and many who joined were not exactly the fighting force the Pope may have had in mind. A man who had heard of the Pope‘s proclamation was a guy by the name of ―Peter the Hermit‖ who had gone along the French countryside whipping up the peasantry into a frenzy. Peter told of the atrocities he‘d witnessed in Muslim-occupied Jerusalem, and tales of his divine appointment by Christ to lead the spiritually pure, who would be protected by Heaven, to Jerusalem. Tens of thousands bought into it, and began to march alongside Peter. However, few of them had any idea how long a march from France to Anatolia and eventually Jerusalem realistically was. And even fewer of them had the money for the journey, many of them bankrupting themselves in order to join in on the Crusade. And these were peasants, mind, rarely a soldier would be seen among them; the lot of them hadn‘t even a weapon, instead relying on whatever piece of farm equipment was at hand. This would also be a good time to mention the date the Pope had set for the Crusade to take place, August 26, a date set so that the barons and knights interested could get their affairs in order, and plan for their supply and logistics to keep the battle going. This wasn‘t fast enough for some people, in this case Peter‘s people, so when they had shown up at the western doorstep of the Byzantine empire in Belgrade (the emperor of which having very close ties with the Crusade, and whose intention were not wholly in reclaiming land just for Christ), the local constable was very confused. Further confusion was abound, as upon the constable‘s inspection, he found that these weren‘t crusaders. This was just a mob of peasants and a few impoverished knights. So when the constable came to these many revelations, he refused to let Peter‘s group into the city until he could write to the emperor and check what this whole affair was about. In retrospect, this probably wasn‘t the best thing to do as a constable, since when you have tens of thousands of hungry men and women camped outside your city, such conditions may lead to a pillage of a countryside. Pillage the people did, leading to many destroyed homes, farms, markets, and even coming to blows with their local Byzantine garrison. Soon the Byzantines just became fed up with these peasant crusaders and just escorted them to Constantinople, under a very strict eye, lest any of them think to pillage any further. Peter, however, was not with them, and had decided to lead a smaller contingent along the way through Hungary. After hearing of what the last batch of crusaders had done, the King of Hungary was not all that impressed, and would only let them through if they swore not to cause a ruckus. Swore Peter did, and through Hungary they went. Things went smoothly until some peasant crusader and a merchant got into an argument over whatever piece of commerce the merchant was selling. This argument became a brawl, a brawl a riot, and the riot grew into a full-scale battle culminating in the crusaders storming the citadel of their current Hungarian city, stealing its food and wealth, killing about four thousand Hungarians, and high-tailing it out of there before the Hungarian army could catch up to them. The crusaders then reached Belgrade in Byzantium, and now the local constable had thousands of crusaders on his doorstep, and one local constable wouldn‘t want a repeat of last time thousands of crusaders were on a Byzantine doorstep. So, thinking the crusaders riotous, he decided to move them across a bridge, in an orderly fashion, in hopes of seeing how many exactly he was dealing with, what they had, and how they should be dealt with. Of course, some crusaders thought the pace of this bridge crossing was a bit too slow, and thought the best course of action was to simply kill the Byzantine troops. Split up, the crusaders roamed and pillaged the countryside until, at last, they reached Belgrade proper, which they pillaged, looted, burned to the ground. Then they came to another city in hopes of pillage-looting, where the constable threw them out and turned them towards Constantinople, where the emperor would deal with

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them. All around, Peter‘s band of peasant crusaders was a mess. Thousands of Byzantines dead, tens of thousands of peasants and crusaders dead, and not a single Muslim, the intended enemy, dead. Deus vult! The time was finally August, and it was now that the real band of crusaders would arrive. Now, contrary to popular belief, the proper crusaders in the First Crusade weren‘t actually a singular army; but rather five separate armies, all under different banners, who marched as one— kind of. Each general of the five armies had set out from a different part of Europe with the idea being they‘d all meet up in Constantinople around August. The crusading armies, in no particular order, were made up first by a man named ―Hugh of Vermandois.‖ His army was the least in size, but made up for that fact in nobility, as Hugh was the brother of the king of France, if that -dois part of his title wasn‘t enough proof. This fraternal relationship did make things a bit awkward, however, as Pope Urban II had recently excommunicated the then king of France for adultery, and now Hugh was fighting for the Pope so… Funny thing about Hugh: this nobility may‘ve gone to his head, as when he arrived in Constantinople, he wrote the emperor a letter heeding the words: ―Know, O King, that I am King of Kings. And superior to all that are under the sky. You are now permitted to greet me upon my arrival, and to receive me with magnificence, as befits my nobility.‖ The emperor was not impressed. Next up was an army led by a man named ―Godfrey of Bouillon,‖ a noble from the Holy Roman Empire, filling up the German position in the crusading force. His national status made things a bit awkward, as Godfrey had directly helped kick Pope Urban II out of Rome, and supplanted him with the antipope. This was why Pope Urban didn‘t hold his ―reclaiming‖ speech in Rome; instead he had it in France. This supplanting was perhaps a motivating factor for Urban to call this crusade at the time, called in the midst of his persecution—perhaps to turn the warring eye off of him and towards someone else, hmm? The third contingent of the crusading army was made up by one ―Bohemond, Prince of Taranto.‖ The force he brought with him was sort of medium in size, but was by far the best when it came to experience and arms. Again, things were made only the slightest bit awkward, as the lot of his crusading force got their experience due to trying to unseat the emperor of the Byzantine empire twelve years before, an emperor who was now supposed to supply and feed this whole army for a month or so. Hope you like a touch of saliva in your soup, mate. ―Raymond, Count of Toulouse‖ made up the fourth end of the army, and the largest end at that. Raymond considered this fact as his right to lead the whole crusading army, making things, this time, just a little awkward, as he had been traveling with the bishop (mentioned in paragraph one) who had been assigned by Pope Urban II to lead the crusade. At least no beef with the emperor or his mates. It may‘ve been nice just to give him the title of leader; however, as Raymond was a rapidly aging man missing one eye, (the dried-up husk of which he kept around in his pocket, or the medieval equivalent) and stated he hoped to die in the crusade. Granting such a leadership status onto him maybe wasn‘t the best course of action if he just planned to die with it. And finally, reaching the last general of the crusading army, we rest our eyes on a man named ―Robert of Flanders,‖ who‘s just happy to be here. Now, Alexius Komnenos, the emperor of the Byzantine empire, in light of how awkward it was around the dinner table, basically trusted neither Raymond, nor Bohemond, nor Godfrey, nor Hugh, but maybe Robert. So before Alexius was going to have them set out for the Holy Land, he would have them swear an oath to return any land they conquered to the Byzantine

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empire. Ulterior motives now coming to light. This didn‘t sit well with most of the crusaders, so Alexius was going to have to talk with them one-on-one. Hugh, despite all his talk of being ―rex regum‖ as it were, was a bit of a pushover, and caved instantly. Godfrey, however, when asked to meet with the emperor, flat out refused. Alexius heard of this, so he sent Hugh to go talk to him personally. Godfrey became offended and told Hugh he refused to talk to anyone less than the emperor. So after Alexius cut off Godfrey‘s food supply, he came to Alexius and swore whatever oaths he had in store. Bohemond was a wily one, however, and Alexius was preparing himself for a true argument of wits. But when Bohemond reached the palace, he said he would swear whatever measly oath was present, but… since he was being so forthcoming, could maybe he possibly be the leader of the crusade, pretty please? Whereupon Alexius simply showered him with gold to shut him up, and kicked him out. Raymond, a strange man, said he would swear no oaths, as God was his only leader and he would only answer to him. So after Raymond caved, it was Robert‘s turn, whose confrontation with Alexius basically boiled down to ―right then, carry on,‖ and treated to a room overflowing with the most magnificent largesse. Oaths now put behind them, the crusaders joined their armies and were ferried across the Bosphorus, out of allied Byzantine and European territory, and had finally set foot in Anatolia. Here, any damage the crusaders would do, it would be against the enemy they were summoned to do damage to. The crusaders were steadfast in their intent to kill some Muslims and reclaim what was then their land, and of this they had made Muslims fully aware. However, for all their ill-intent, as the crusaders marched across Muslim territory, they were not greeted with Turkish hordes, but rather something far more conspicuous: silence. Days went by, the crusading army‘s presence clear as day, yet never an act of aggression came upon them. So the generals met, and decided the first city they would siege would be the city of Nicea, seeing as no one was apparently going to stop them. Nicea was a very important city, strategically important, as it held the road to Jerusalem. If the crusaders couldn‘t capture it now, they‘d have a large enemy stronghold at their back, and a much harder route to Jerusalem at that. Not only that, however, the city of Nicea also held the Muslim Sultanate‘s family, and with that largesse on the table, the crusaders could leverage some serious damage to the Sultan. The first to arrive on Nicea was Bohemond and Godfrey, as at this point the crusaders had split up, not-so-quickly followed by Robert, Raymond, and Hugh. Yet still, even with a band of tens of thousands of men camped outside one of the Sultan‘s province‘s capital, the crusaders were still not met with a single Muslim horde. Nevertheless, in the eerie quiet, siege time was upon them. The crusading army broke up into its five component parts and were each assigned a part of the city in which to begin sieging. Godfrey took the north side, Bohemond the east, and Raymond the south. Nicea‘s western quarter was butted by a large lake, and the crusaders figured this was no big deal, but an undefended quarter of a city, in retrospect, is never ―no big deal,‖ especially during a process in which one means to starve out a city. The crusaders themselves began to starve out, however, and the Byzantines figured this, in their ineptitude, and had set up a system of naval resupply in which to—what‘s that? Turks? The Turks had finally mustered up the appropriate time in their schedule to confront crusaders. Led by one Kilij Arslan, the Turkish force of about ten thousand horse-bound archers thundered down the plains of Nicea, and once they saw the size of the army they were up against, tactfully turned right back around and thundered off. So, Turkish force routed? Good enough. Time to get back to the siege. As mentioned, the lake abutting Nicea was certainly important, as none of the crusaders‘

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tactics seemed to do much damage, and it was then when one unnamed crusader witnessed Nicea gaining supplies from ships on the lake in the dead of night. The lake was enormous, however, 20 miles by about 10 miles, and the crusaders didn‘t have the numbers to encircle and guard something that size, or a navy of their own. So, the Byzantines, again, came to the rescue. The Byzantines sailed a group of ships to a nearby harbour, hauled them out of the water, and rolled them all the way down to Nicea under a bunch of logs. An assault on the lake began, and with their resupply cut off, Nicea was forced to surrender. New land was now under Byzantine control, and Alexius made sure the crusaders didn‘t do what the crusaders do best:pillage and ransack the city. He experienced varying degrees of effectiveness. But why had the Muslim force been so ineffective, and and why hadn’t they even bothered with the crusaders for such a long time, leading to the capture of one of their cities! I know you all wonder. Well, as it turns out, y‘know that ponderously long history I gave about the crusade led by Peter and his mates? One may think that was simply something to pad the runtime out a bit. Nope, I‘m already a couple hundred words overboard. Turns out, Kilij Arslan, the Sultan, had heard of Peter and his peasants‘ crusade, and was utterly convinced that this new band of crusaders were simply a sequel to the previous one, and not worth his time. Little did he know, the proper crusaders were upon him, and with his dawdling came consequences. Had not Kilij come so late, and with such a small force, the First Crusade may‘ve been nipped in the bud, never gotten the ball rolling, and never caused the destruction and the flourishing it did. In one of the great ironies of history, something so utterly ineffective came to be something so devastatingly effective in world history, and the Muslims had let it happen, and now there was no stopping it. With Nicea behind, the crusaders set their sights to the south, where Jerusalem lay, and had split their forces into two sects: a much smaller force controlled by Bohemond further ahead in front, and the larger force controlled by the other crusading generals in the rear. Bohemond‘s contingent began to camp out where they were located and as dawn gradually became dusk, Turkish forces came pouring out of the surrounding hills, and this time they wouldn‘t be turning back; Kilij Arslan was not done yet. As Bohemond‘s soldiers staggered, Turks wailed in and out of the camp, slaughtering Bohemond‘s men, as well as the unarmed Christian civilians taken from Nicea. Amidst the chaos, some attempted to mount and cause whatever damage they could to the marauding Turks, and those who could not had armed themselves and fought heroically but futilely, oft alone or in small groups who attempted to charge the Turkish line. At last, Bohemond, riding furiously up and down the camp ordered his men to dismount, lock shields, and protect their Christian brethren. Bohemond‘s forces formed a circle, walled on all sides by their crucifix-laden shields, and attempted to get all civilians they could inside. The Turks then rained their arrows down upon them in a never ending stream.

Anderson High School

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2016-2017

Yet the crusaders stood, stolid and unmoving, their shields collecting dozens of arrows. For all the crusaders‘ barbaric pillaging sprees, discipline ran through their veins. In one of the most impressive acts in all of the Crusades, the crusaders stood, and held their line, for hours upon hours, arrows continuing to rain, and never once did they break the line or charge the enemy. The deadly hail never faltered, and sometimes the arrows hit their mark, and as their comrades fell, the line held. Inside the circle civilians were sometimes struck, and their screams ached the crusaders, as they could do nothing but stay stolid. Then the monks inside the circle began to sing, and the civilians nearby began to sing with them, and the sun rose, and the men still held. Battered by arrows, baked in the desert heat of the Muslim Middle East, under mail armour that coats those knights of the Crusades, and they did one of the most difficult things a knight can do when attacked: simply took fire for hours, unmoving, without breaking, without charging, without attacking. Then, at last, after seven hours of sun and arrows, the other generals caught up to Bohemond and their forces charged the Turkish flank. Bohemond ordered his forces to remount and slam the Turkish line. A small contingent of the larger army had snuck out of the fight and had burned down the Turkish camp, and with no reinforcements, and with nowhere to run, the Turkish line broke. And with the crusaders victorious, not a Muslim was spared. The road to Jerusalem was open.

Parade Butterflies Sam Fariss ―OH, NO!‖ Oh my gosh, did I really just say that? Out loud? How big of an idiot can one be? If my dance director had been here he would have killed me. He is terrifying, but I can‘t be here right now, I need to leave. I have to get out, I have to let the butterflies out. The parade!! The parade needs the butterflies, it needs me to release the butterflies. ―Shelley? Are you okay?‖ asked Mary, the girl behind me in this dance, always so nice. She must have been just as confused as I, if not more so. I just screamed in the middle of rehearsal. I ran off stage—more like stumbled off. I was a mess, needless to say. I had to get this stupid German dress off of me. I don‘t even know why this was our costume, we‘re dancing to Single Ladies by Beyoncé for God‘s sake. Beyoncé isn‘t German, ssurely she doesn‘t even speak German. I tripped, completely falling on my face. I tripped over nothing. If anyone important was here, my application to Juilliard would be pointless. If I can‘t fast-walk without falling, what right did I have to dance on Juilliard‘s stage? ―Of course,‖ I mumbled to myself. I didn‘t even have the butterflies with me; I had left them at home. I can envision them just sitting on my kitchen counter. Those little wings flapping hard, waiting eagerly to be released for the festivities.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

Oh my goodness, what if people don‘t even know that it‘s International Butterfly Day. This is one of the most important days to so many people. Well, maybe not a ton, but it is to me at least. On this day, every year, up to one thousand butterflies are released around the world. I was running, quite quickly if I might say so myself, back home to get the jar. I tripped at least three more times, per block, on the way home, and when I finally reached my front door, I realized I couldn‘t find my keys. Rummaging through my bag, I waited to hear the jingle of my keys. AHA! I found them, unlocked the door and flashed up to my bedroom. My costume, much better than the one I have to wear for the ballet, was on me faster than Mr. Wing can even say International Butterfly Day. Oh, Mr. Wing is going to be so upset that I’m late. I ran down the stairs and snatched the jar. Costume? Check. Jar? Check. Amazingly beautiful, winged little insects? Check. I dashed back out the door without even locking it and started my jog-fall to the town center. For the first time that entire morning, I checked my watch. 8:54??!? The parade begins in six minutes!! I picked up my speed a little bit and dashed to my tent. The rest of the butterfly marchers were there, waiting for me. Mr. Wing gave me his little glare and shouted, ―Shelley! You were supposed to be here 20 minutes ago!‖ ―I know, Mr. Wing, I had ballet rehearsal and got here as quickly as I could, the director is gonna kill me and I‘m not gonna get into Juilliard and my house is gonna get broken into and Beyoncé doesn‘t even speak German!‖ I had no idea what I was talking about; all I knew was that these butterflies were ready to get out and I was ready to march. ―Um, okay, well whatever your problem is, deal with it after this parade! Everyone in position; it‘s almost time to begin!!‖ The music commenced, and for some odd reason, the song sounded familiar. Oh, of course! It‘s Fly Away by Mariah Carey. What a wonderful choice to open the parade. We all exited our tent and embarked on our march down Main Street. I‘m up front proudly displaying my jar for everyone to see. In my jar there are 5 different species; Blue Morpho, Mourning Cloak, Karner Blue, Painted Lady and, of course, the infamous Monarch. They all looked so beautiful. They were flapping their wings excitedly, they must‘ve known what day it was, or that they were about to get released to the wild. We neared the end. I could hear Mr. Wing shouting the countdown from the sidewalk. An announcer exclaimed some random fact about butterflies and how perfect the weather was for this parade. Twenty seconds to go. We had about a block left before I released. The song that played was Butterfly by The Bee Gees. This is my personal favorite. 10 seconds. I started to loosen the lid and prepared to raise the jar over my head. 5 seconds. And they‘re gone! I followed their flight paths as they flew away, and I imagined myself being one of them. What a wonderful day indeed. International Butterfly Day, a day to rejoice the marvelous creature, a day to listen to songs about flying, a day to march in a parade. It‘s even a day to leave rehearsal early just to release ―a couple of bugs.‖ I smiled over at Mr. Wing who gazed back at me and gave me a thumbs up. He is such a jolly man, this was his favorite day as well. He is actually the reason that I got the honor of being in the parade. I met him in the library one day when we were both trying to check out the book Butterflies and Moths. He even let me get it! Of course, I had to give it over to him as soon as I was done reading the entire thing cover to cover. What a wonderful, beautiful, magnificent International Butterfly Day.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

October, 82nd & 5th Maddy Baliette She exudes renewal and opportunity in the form of sky-high buildings Acquainted with the stars. When she talks, she sounds insane: Her words are squealing tires and quick banter, The brisk clacking of heels on pavement, Rusty, slow, squeaking cranes, And yet, I listen. I find myself on her steps, her scent filling my lungs: Coffee and pretzels and acrylic paint. She smells of new beginnings and the pursuit of truth. Of childhood dreams and spilt oil. I feel the concrete underneath my boots where Her other lovers had stood And I wonder if any of them had felt comforted That they had her as company, too. And so I listen to what she needs to tell me, And through her insanity and promises (whether empty or soaked in possibility) She teaches me That I am more Than words as well.

Gray Ariana Ledezma I found myself kneeling before my master, or my boss perhaps. The room was ice cold, and I could feel myself shiver uncontrollably. He never considered how the temperature could affect anyone, because he just did not care; he did not care about the well-being of others. No matter how hard I try, I just can‘t defy him—even if he is a crude man. I have a lifelong contract to him whether I like it or not. I definitely had to depend on him so escaping wasn‘t an option. All I need to do is follow his orders until I die. The light shining above me was a blinding fluorescent one. My silvery-white hair gleamed when it came in contact with it. As my knee became tired from the position I was holding, I looked up at my intimidating employer with a blank stare. ―Who do you want me to kill, Phoenix?‖ I asked my boss willingly. Phoenix‘s deep amber eyes gazed intently into mine and smirked arrogantly. He clearly knew what my next objective was; even if it meant that I had to assassinate others. It might sound horrific to others,

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but it was my hellish routine. ―Oh? You seem eager to bring death upon individuals. That is quite impressive,‖ he replied with a mocking tone. I didn‘t think much about my ―eagerness‖ while I grimaced at the sound of his voice. Phoenix had a talent for manipulating people. ―It can‘t be helped,‖ I stated, ―I have to do what you say... I honestly don‘t have anything else I could possibly do,‖ Phoenix chuckled in response. ―Good,‖ he said, ―I don‘t want you to ever leave my side, Calixto.‖ Phoenix‘s voice deepened when he mentioned my name. He reached his large, pale hand above my head and ran his cold palm through my silver hair. He did this once and awhile to ‗reward‘ me. ―Anyways, I believe I do have someone for you to kill, and I will offer you your freedom if you do this for me…‖ My eyes widened. I couldn‘t believe it! Why would he offer my freedom for this? How badly did he want me to kill this person? I was at a loss for words. ―What…? My freedom—but I don‘t understand,‖ I asked. Phoenix grinned apathetically. ―I know you‘re confused, but I am serious Calixto. Please don‘t ask questions,‖ he assured. I was still unsure, but I agreed anyway. ―Alright,‖ I said. Phoenix then addressed my target. ―The boy is about your age, and I want you to kill him. Allen is his name. Apparently this boy is his father‘s greatest weakness.‖ Phoenix then held an antagonizing blood lust stare. ―I truly hate that man,‖ he mumbled. He was now pulling on my hair that he previously held between his fingertips, however I didn‘t utter a sound. ―Okay, Phoenix. I‘ll do as you wish,‖ I automatically confirmed. Phoenix quirked an eyebrow. ―It doesn‘t bother you that he is your age?‖ Phoenix questioned suspiciously yet confidently. ―Of course not. Age does not matter,‖ I replied and left him sitting on his expensive velvet sofa with a growing smirk on his pale face. He knew, at that moment, that I would always submit to his beckoning. There was a slight breeze in the air as I crept towards the destination of my target. However, I honestly had no idea what he looked like—I just knew his location. It frustrated me when Phoenix did not give me an adequate description of Allen. I was currently wearing all black, which was an ideal attire for an assassin such as myself. It was ideal to catch less attention. However, it made this difficult when my white hair was juxtaposed perfectly in contrast with my jet-black jacket. I sighed in desperation and gazed at my surroundings. The streets were deserted, but the place didn‘t give out an uneasy aura. It was rather calming in particular. I dragged my withering black boots across the pavement. I was becoming more and more exhausted after the long walk over here. I probably should have at least hydrated myself before I arrived, because I started to feel nauseous. I caught my breath and gasped to keep myself from regurgitating any little amount I had left in my stomach. Phoenix never provided me food and claimed that ―it would build my appetite immunity.‖ This, mixed with the lack of any type of liquid, slowly took a toll on me as I blacked out.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

There was a sudden voice ringing in my ears when I was awakened from my slumber. The brightness of the sun that I witnessed earlier was less intense and my clouded vision was starting to fade away. I saw a blurry figure which seemed to be a person. I darted my eyes over to the face of this person. He was young and had an innocent look in his eyes, which were onyx black like the hair on his head. I haven‘t seen someone as naive as him in a long time. It was comforting. However, I was suddenly faced with uncomfortable human contact with my hair as it always reminded me of something sinister. His hand was grabbing my left shoulder while his arm supported the top of my back. ―Are you alright?‖ the boy asked. ―Uh, yeah, I‘m alright. Er, where am I?‖ I managed to question even though my throat was dry. The young boy appeared to notice my tone of voice and handed me a cold water bottle with hints of condensation on it. I drank it rather quickly while allowing the cool liquid quench my thirst. ―Ah, well I brought you to my house nearby. You collapsed in an abandoned town, so I couldn‘t bring you to the hospital. I‘m glad I happened to stop by,‖ he responded. ―By the way, this must be yours right?‖ he said as he handed me a pocket knife. My palms were now clammy. When did I drop that? I started to panic because I did not want him to know my true identity. Normal people act spontaneously, so it was best to hide any suspicions. Although I was aware of my predicament, I snatched it from his hand without hesitation. I admit that it was forceful, but I was desperate. I sat up quickly before things became more awkward. I wanted to leave this place. The target Phoenix wanted me to kill was still lurking around. The boy became a bit shocked at my previous action and decided to change the subject. ―Sorry to ask, but why do you have a knife with you?‖ he asked curiously. ―It isn‘t very dangerous here.‖ I pivoted my feet in his direction. ―Um, I feel comfortable with it I guess. You never know when someone‘s going to rob you,‖ I lied. Expecting some sort of nervous reaction, I was intrigued by how calm he appeared to be. ―But you don‘t need to stab them,‖ he argued, ―You could call the police.‖ I wanted to laugh. Call the police? I could just kill my attacker if I wanted to. ―Yeah, I guess you‘re right,‖ I replied. The boy then gave me a genuine look. ―I hope you consider it,‖ he suggested. I was careful to avoid eye contact with him as much as possible. It was common for me to stare at my victim directly as I ended their life. Looking into the eyes of this person only increased my lethal instincts. Despite this, I question myself why I was resisting the urge to kill him. This action could allow me to find my target within a reasonable amount of time—instead of wasting it here. No one was around and he wasn‘t suspicious of me. Who was this boy

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exactly? Something wasn‘t right. ―Hey, why are you here anyways? The street you were at was practically abandoned. No one ever walks in that area anymore,‖ he wondered. ―Oh, I think I got lost,‖ I lied again, ―I have never been there before.‖ ―I see, well I went there to clear my mind,‖ he said. ―My father has been pushing me hard lately in my career and I never get a break.‖ I could not help but feel empathy for him, but ever so slightly—it was just barely there. Anymore of this feeling would overpower my desire to kill. However, the past neglect I felt transformed into envy. ―At least you have a father…‖ I blurted out unconsciously. ―I don‘t have parents.‖ ―Really? I‘m sorry to hear that,‖ he responded. ―No, it‘s fine. I‘ve never met them,‖ I admitted. ―I was raised by someone else.‖ ―Who were they?‖ ―I, um… well,‖ I mumbled. There was no way I could tell him. The world wasn‘t ready to hear the true intents of Phoenix. Also, if I ever revealed his identity regardless, he would kill me for sure. ―It‘s okay, you don‘t have to tell me,‖ he smiled in hope to gain y trust. My chest was starting to tighten. ―You know…‖ he said out of the blue, ―you‘re the first person I‘ve actually enjoyed talking to.‖ He paused for a moment. ―Almost like a friend…‖ I turned my head and looked at his eager face. He was staring in front of where he was sitting; looking at the tall grass blowing in the wind. I couldn‘t stop looking at his dark eyes. Did he just call me a friend? I couldn‘t believe my ears. ―I‘ve never—had a friend before,‖ I mumbled once again. Almost everyone I encountered I have killed, but why couldn‘t I kill him? It would be the easiest thing to do considering that I had a mission to attend to. He turned to face me. ―I haven‘t had one either.‖ For once, in a very long time, I felt a single tear roll down my cheek. It streamed down the faint scar I developed a long time ago. ―Are you okay?‖ he asked with concern. I wiped it away quickly; I couldn‘t show any weakness. ―...‖ I didn‘t want to worry him any further. I‘ve already caused this much damage. I just wanted to leave. ―Wait! Um, before you leave, what‘s your name?‖ He grabbed the sleeve of my jacket. I froze. I didn‘t know if I should tell him or not, but I had no choice. ―...Calixto,‖ I said. He smiled again. ―I‘ve never heard of it. It‘s very unique—I like it,‖ he complimented. I just avoided his gaze and bit my lip. ―What about yours?‖ I quickly changed the subject. ―...Oh, mine isn‘t as exotic as yours. It‘s Allen.‖ I almost choked on air. ―What…?‖ ―Is something wrong?‖ he oddly responded. I had no words. Nothing. Was this my target? After all this time, it was him. HIM. But why? I couldn‘t stand this. He still had his whole life ahead of him. I still had my whole life ahead of me. I then realized what I had to do. ―I—I‘m sorry I have to go,‖ I quickly answered and ran away from Allen‘s sight. The hood from my jacket fell off, exposing my white hair…

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

I entered the frigid room once more where Phoenix awaited me with a sorrowful expression. When I saw those amber eyes, I started to realize how much I hated him. They were mocking me. ―I imagine that you didn‘t kill Allen, judging by the face you are making,‖ he seethed. I reacted the same way. ―I couldn‘t kill him, Phoenix. He‘s—‖ I cut myself off. Phoenix‘s face held and blank expression. He was waiting to hear my answer. ―...He‘s my friend.‖ Phoenix‘s face darkened. ―I thought you said age didn‘t matter? Or that anything mattered?‖ ―Well, I was wrong,‖ I said in an assertive tone. I wasn‘t afraid anymore. Phoenix grunted in annoyance and slapped me across the face. Hard. His orange hair covered his malicious expression. I fell to the floor. I expected that to happen. ―You‘re a disgrace,‖ he growled. ―You‘re nothing.‖ However, the pain and hatred I felt never existed before. When I opened my eyes, I saw the glint of a shiny object about a foot away from me. It was my knife. I knew exactly what to do when I reached out for it and grabbed it. Phoenix had his back turned. I stood up slowly and thrusted the knife in the center of his back. He grunted in pain and coughed up some blood. ―What have you done, Calixto?‖ he asked with his eyebrows furrowed. ―You‘ve made a big mistake.‖ Instead of becoming afraid, I just smirked. ―I should have assassinated you a long time ago.‖ I then removed the knife from his back and let him die on the cold, hard ground. I decided to go back to Allen‘s house. I had nowhere else to go at the moment. Allen greeted me with a relieved expression. I wanted to tell him everything. However, I couldn‘t when I saw his eager expression once more. ―Where were you?‖ he asked. ―I didn‘t know if you would ever come back.‖ ―I just had business to attend to. Nothing else,‖ I assured him. ―Oh,‖ he said, ―And, Calixto?‖ ―Hmm?‖ ―Please don‘t do that again.‖ I admit that I was fairly surprised, but the last thing I wanted was to see Allen with a sorrowful expression. ―I can assure you that I won‘t.‖

In Time Asia McLean I woke up on a pile of dirty clothes in the corner of my room at 3:00 pm today. I stayed there a second and pondered who I was, then I pulled myself to my feet. My whole body felt sore, I‘m guessing from last night. That same Josh Smith down the street came to see me. I mean that guy has been a loyal customer as of lately. He is just as confused about his life as half the men in this damn city. I grabbed my pack of Ronsons and went on into the kitchen. Charles was

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sitting at the kitchen table looking down at his empty plate. He had on the evening news. Some shit about a man getting stabbed to death down south. ―You know you look just like ya, Mama.‖ He kept his eyes fixed on the plate. I ignored him. ―She always used to tell me you look like me but I ain‘t buy that for a second.‖ he whispered. I turned away from him and looked straight through the window. ―I never meant to hurt you.‖ I could feel him getting closer to me, and I felt my whole body tense up. He touched my shoulder slightly and it shot a sting through my body. I wanted to cry. I ran out the back door, without saying a word. I pulled my kinky sandy blonde hair into a ponytail as I walked along the sidewalk nearly in the street. I grabbed my pack of Ronsons out of my pocket and lit one up. The honk of a faded red Dodge pickup pierced my ears and I quickly swiveled onto the left side of the sidewalk. It‘s that bitch Amy again, driving like a maniac in a school zone. Sweat bled down my cappuccinocolored skin. It was 98 degrees in little Granbury, Texas today. I took my usual route, where the same families sat in the same restaurants, and the same old people searched the aisles at the strip of antique shops on 2nd street. I smiled slightly at Granny, Kay, who was peering at me through the glass windows. All dressed in her uniform at Manny‘s, the only pizza place in little Granbury. I walked until I couldn‘t walk no more. I planted myself on the sidewalk near Eddie Walker‘s house, he ain‘t been to see me in a while, maybe that wife of his done found out. She‘ll probably kill me if she catch me here. I sat there about an hour, until the sky started showing signs of night time. I turned down the alley way behind the old elementary school I‘d attended nine years ago. A rush of nostalgia ran through my veins, I miss that old school. I was who everyone wanted me to be then. Dust and pebbles collected in my Adidas as I walked fast through the playground. On the other side of the street was a teal painted house, with boards for windas and weeds up to the knee. I saw Charles sitting on the porch, sitting as quiet as an owl and lookin‘ as shriveled up as a damn raisin, just a nasty sight. I gave him a kiss on the forehead and walked into the teal house with no words exchanged between Charles and I. I went straight back to my room and closed and locked the door behind me. A knock on the door. I regret locking that damn door now. Now I gotta have an interaction with whoever is behind it. I unlocked the door to find Kay staring me down. Her pale skin contradicted the hot pink lipstick she wore on her wrinkled lips. Her sandy blonde hair was streaked with grey in the recent years, but still she managed to look youthful. But that damn lipstick just wasn‘t cuttin‘ it. ―Charles ain‘t had his medicine today ya‘know.‖ Kay murmured. ―Then give it to ‘em, Kay, whatcha standing here fo‘?‖ I shot back. Charles was 45. Diagnosed with stage 3 colon cancer 2 years ago, and it was only getting worse. He was bound to die sometime, and I accepted that before the diagnosis. In the kitchen, Kay stirred up a pot of gizzards and collard greens spiced with Louisiana Hot Sauce, Charles‘ favorite. I staggered in, lured by the mesmerizing smell. I sat behind Kay on the stool, gazing out the window in front of her. ―It‘s beyond me. I just can‘t understand it.‖ Kay sighed. ―Whatchu talkin‘ bout now, Kay?‖ I said with my expressionless eyes fixed on the winda. ―I just can‘t understand. I just can‘t understand how you walk around this damn place every day with an attitude. What we ever done to you huh? Besides love you? I raised you when your own damn mama and daddy couldn‘t stand to. And this is—‖

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2016-2017

I cut off Kay right there. ―Shut the hell up talkin‘ about Mama and daddy like that Kay. What do you know about Mama? You don‘t know a damn thing about her besides her habit and her dark skin, and your son is a dead beat dying from cancer. Now leave me the hell alone and stay outta my way.‖ I stormed out of the kitchen back to my room, my only place to be alone, sometimes. Kay didn‘t dare say another word. I plopped on the edge of my bed with my face buried in my hands. I felt like crying but couldn‘t figure out a reason to. I reached across the dresser and picked up the photo of Mama and Charles. Mama was so beautiful then. She had dark chestnut skin and tight little curls on top of her head. She wore a light blue gown and now she wears a white dress probably covered in dirt and worms by now, and black heels that she only wore once. Next to her was Charles, with his arm around her. White as can be with his sandy blonde hair that‘s now faded to grey, and his slacks that he switched to sweats, or his perfect facial structure that was now replaced by a blob of skin. Only thing about that old Charles that ain‘t changed was them eyes, piercing blue you could see into his soul with those things. They the same ones I got. Kay got me thinking bout Mama now. She was such a sweet woman, just a woman with issues is all. She died in a car accident three years ago. She never really came around much but I still miss her now that she‘s gone to heaven, or hell I presume. My head was pounding thinking about all this deep bullshit, I need sleep. It was 2:00 am and my sleep had been interrupted by the rain banging on the roof and windas like the police. I dreamed about Mama last night. I dreamed that she was in her blue gown sittin‘ on the sofa. Henry from down the street was sittin‘ next to her starting at her stare out the winda. She sat there, didn‘t say shit, and then I was awake. It was still dark out but I just couldn‘t sleep, thing ‗bout me is once I get to thinking I‘m up. I started into the kitchen, found Charles and Kay up at the table smoking Ronsons; I‘m the only one who buys Ronsons ‗round here. ―How the hell y‘all get my pack? Your mama ain‘t teach you to be mindful or what? Damn.‖ I yelled as I snatched my pack from in front of them. I went back into my room lit up a stick and blew the smoke straight up to the ceiling, to the sky, to heaven, so Mama could know I was there. I fell asleep in my mascara again, Charles always hated when I wore makeup and I hated when he told me what the hell to wear. Charles always hated when I wore pink, or heels or sparkles or anything any girl wants to wear to feel pretty. Mama tried to tell him it was alright that I was growin‘ up and this is who I was but Charles didn‘t want to hear any ah‘that. I guess Mama never really knew Charles was beatin‘ on me, or touchin‘ me, or maybe she thought there was enough to go around for the both of us. She used to say to me, ―Lil‘ Charles, things‘ll get better ya know.‖ And I‘d say back to her, ―Mama, my name is Ariel, like the princess.‖ Maybe she thought Charles could beat the little girl out of her son since she couldn‘t bear to.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

I Didn’t Mean to Kill Her Avery Ward I didn‘t mean to kill her. I swear to God. Me and Marie go way back, way back to when she was still Annabelle and I belonged to her Mother, Claire, and Richard left Claire and I made her feel better and it was all okay. Everything was okay you know? I always made it okay. Always. I never considered myself a good thing, so I don‘t know how she could ever have too much. Claire and I met at the corner store down on Joe Harvey. You know the one over there by the laundromat, the one with the old Dairy Queen that burnt up and swirled itself back together three times since 1954? Small towns may not give a shit about sad little girls until they disappear, but they sure do love their baskets of grease. The ones Claire always told Richard not to eat because it was bad for his health even though they both knew neither of them gave a shit. He wouldn‘t kill himself, and neither would she, but truthfully they both saw it as an out. Not one like a clipped parachute, like in the planes Richard would take to go see his whore on the weekends when Marie was still Annabelle and still loved to dance and sing for herself and not just so the boys would look at her when she moved like that. No, they saw it like a glowing exit sign in the front of the movie Claire dragged Richard to that wasn‘t bad enough to sleep through, and certainly not bad enough to leave after it took Claire a mouthful of convincing to get him to just take her to a goddamn movie again. Sometime after that movie, after that business trip again Claire met me. Of course there were friends involved and questions asked and numbers confirmed, but there we were. Me and Claire would spend hours with each other. Not everyday. Not at first. Just every now and then. Just when she had a rough day. ―It‘s too much‖ she would say, when no one but me was around to hear it, ―It‘s never enough.‖ We would spend hours together, when it had been so long she forgot what I felt like she would come right back. She always talked different around me, I always unlocked the parts of her she had long since guarded up, until he left. When Richard left, I never had seen her more. Every moment she spent with me was like it would be her last, like I imagine she wished it would. Like the wish you‘ve made on every candle and every star since you were little. The trip to Disneyland you always wanted to go to, like the one Claire and Richard planned that they always found a way to get out of. The ―Annabelle‘s too young to remember it‖ excuses that covered their lost hopes. The one thing she would never, could never go through with. Like the fly that buzzed in the space between the cheap plastic blinds he had picked out and the window in the corner of their room. The buzzing that was so quiet you could barely tell it was there, but once you noticed you could never stop. Like the first time Claire ever let him touch her after she found out, when she couldn‘t focus on anything but the buzzing in the window. When it was over and he was all but asleep she sat, listening to the buzzing. Hoping, waiting. Annabelle started going by Marie, and Claire started going to yoga and painting classes instead of spending the day with me like she used to. Claire kept herself so busy I don‘t even think she noticed I left. Marie looked so much like her mother sometimes that it scared me. They had the same eyes, and voice. Oh god, that voice. Every time I was around her she would get the exact same voice as her mother. It was different than with Claire though, Claire had a routine her entire life, and I was no exception. Once a day turned into twice, three times, four, always after

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

coffee and never before driving. Marie was different though. She would leave me for weeks at a time, only to come back craving more than ever. The best day we ever had together was when she came home smelling different than ever before, how Richard used to when he would actually come home. Her touch softer than ever before, her skin smaller and rougher, but the voice was always the same. I didn‘t mean to kill her, but Marie gave Claire back to me. If Marie wouldn‘t have left one of her own, you would think this was a suicide note too, but it‘s not. After my last night with Marie, when Claire found her purple lipped and vomit-covered in front of the box she kept me hidden in under her bed, she came crawling back. It was like never before, there was no routine with us anymore, all goosebumps and cold chills, she couldn‘t stand to be without me. I just had to take the best part of her life to get mine back. I don‘t hate Marie. I really don‘t, but she was too brave for me. I‘ve never quite liked a determined girl. I always liked the quiet ones better, the ones who at the sight of me trembled in fear but lit up without a single taste. Claire has never been the type of woman to leave a bad movie, never the one to decide on the divorce, never the one to follow through with the invitation to stay with her sister, LeeAnne, who offered at the funeral. With the black dress, she doesn‘t remember but that she‘s sure LeeAnne picked out for her. Probably from that fancy place a few towns over, the one Marie begged and pleaded for Claire to take her to, she wanted a dress for homecoming so bad. All the boys would stare at her when she would dance and besides me that's all she ever wanted. Claire probably had said some bullshit about a meeting or a class that she had so she wouldn't have to take her. Marie came home to me that night and we spent the day together. Every Easter and Christmas Eve Claire would drag Marie to the Baptist church down on Second, but they were having a wedding so the funeral was held at the Methodist across the street. Claire‘s mother was Catholic, and when she heard the news, she almost refused to attend, ―Who does Claire think she is, holding at a Methodist church? I heard their pastor had an affair.‖ She would go on for hours and hours. Pastor Thompson wouldn‘t say the word suicide and when he called her ―Annabelle‖ throughout the entire service, Claire couldn‘t even bring herself to correct him. Pill poppers have always been better if they‘re not committed, the gray area in which Claire has always existed. Life was too black and white for Marie. I didn‘t mean to kill her, but if a little girl wants to overdose, who am I to stop her? Jumper By Ben Haws The filthy street was crowded as always. I gazed through my apartment window at hundreds of sickly, sullen faces whose shuffling bodies blotted out the cracking sidewalk. Each was indistinguishable from the other; same grimy features, same hollow eyes, same bleak clothing all blending together into a dull gray mass of fabric. I couldn‘t help but notice the

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

change they‘d undergone from when I first came to the city years ago. When I‘d first arrived, the city seemed to hum with incessant activity like some finely crafted machine. Its massive crowds of strange, colorful faces exuded life itself—this undeniable vibrancy that fascinated and exhilarated me all at the same time, captivating my imagination and launching me into the euphoric stratosphere like a bright, streaming firework. I found myself out at all hours then, seduced by the bright gleaming lights and enthralled by the bizarre characters and occurrences that seemed as much a part of the city as the black asphalt streets or the tall metallic skyscrapers. The change I‘d observed hadn‘t been instantaneous. Rather, it‘d been slow, almost painfully, like the crumbling of some ancient ruin. Gradually, I‘d seen the living color fade out of the city like an aging photograph, the bright greens and yellows and reds and blues all reduced to grays. It happened to everything, even the sky, which was overrun by a perpetual gray cloud, denying the golden rays of sunlight by day and the luminous silver of the moon and stars by night. I watched the gloomy, gray people trudge off to their empty jobs, knowing I‘d have to join them soon. I couldn‘t help but wonder if I looked the same when I walked, broken, gray, and indistinguishable from everyone else. I watched a little longer, this melancholy thought dragging me down like a sinking ship, before leaving the window and dressing for work. I exited my apartment and pushed my way onto the trash-covered sidewalk, immediately swept away by the steady gray stream of the commuting masses. Hundreds of aging, rusty cars clogged the filthy road as they inched their way through the morning traffic, their grumbling engines sporadically spitting exhaust into the already smog-ridden air. The indecipherable roar of uninteresting conversation, car horns and construction bombarded my ears, making me ache for a moment of peaceful silence that always eluded me, even at my apartment. There was no quiet in the city, no matter the time of day or my location; the unrelenting sounds of man and machine gradually eroding what little remained of my mind and will. I crossed the same cast-iron bridge I did every morning and evening as I made my way into the heart of the city. The bridge, a sturdy relic of a bygone era of great American industry, stretched over a brief visible section of the city‘s train-tracks, which curved slightly before disappearing into the black tunnels that ran beneath all the urban squalor. Unlike the city, which decayed outwardly, the tunnels hid their festering flaws beneath thick layers of brick, concrete and asphalt, preferring to rot inwardly like a corpse filled with maggots. The tunnels were overrun with garbage, bums, junkies and God knows what else, each shame carefully concealed from the throngs of eager tourists who flocked into the city on the weekends to waste their money. But I knew what the tunnels were. I knew what the city was, just like everyone else who lived there did. Over the years, I‘d heard hundreds of conversations, condemnations and promises of change that all amounted to nothing. The only observable change was the city‘s slow decline. The immense, dull skyscrapers stretched into the sky above me as I walked, blocking whatever limited sunlight had slipped through the heavy clouds. I soon found my building, a tall rectangular structure that looked identical to the dozens of other buildings in the area, almost like

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

they were all part of a matching set. The address and the name on the sign were the only features that distinguished one building from another. I rode the same elevator to the same floor, just like every previous day. My blank, gray cubicle was nestled among a labyrinth of its companions, each containing the same furnishings: a meager desk, a desktop computer and a phone. Each cubicle was exactly the same, right down to the blandly dressed men that sat within them. Each day of my work was meaningless. I spent countless hours on the phone, my fake voice reaching out to small country towns far beyond the sprawl of the city, convincing the inhabitants to buy whatever we happened to be selling at the time, each product more unnecessary than the last. My undershirt clung to my body beneath my stifling, oppressive suit as beads of sweat made the slow journey down my torso. I could hear my colleagues as I worked, all of them hocking the same junk as me within their little gray cells, their voices filled with a fake cheer that was never heard outside the office. The people called must‘ve thought we were living in paradise - some beautiful garden of Eden whose perfection filled our work and our very lives with constant joy. I remembered that story from my childhood, heard in a stuffy white chapel on a Sunday long ago. I used to think Eve was a fool for giving into the snake‘s temptations, but maybe that wasn‘t fair. Maybe some things are just too alluring to pass up. Maybe they just exude some sort of magic that draws us in, like errant ships drawn to the call of the Sirens. Only once we‘ve surrendered to our desires do we realize the mistake we‘ve made - our eyes irrevocably opened, aware of our nakedness and our folly. By then, however, it‘s far too late. My day, at least in terms of my work, ended right on schedule at 5:00 p.m. My coworkers all followed their own pattern, some leaving early while others stayed late. This made no difference to me as I stood waiting for the elevator. It finally reached my floor, its sleek doors opening smoothly to reveal a solitary occupant standing rigidly in the center of the compartment. He wore the same gray suit as me. His brown hair was perfectly slicked back and his dark eyes gazed out emotionlessly from behind thick glasses. ―Going down?‖ I asked. ―Up,‖ he answered. ―Oh. I‘ll get the next one,‖ I said tiredly. The man nodded, his face betraying no emotion, as the doors closed and the elevator whisked him away to some unknown floor. I caught the next elevator down without another thought about him. Once down, I exited my building and shuffled out onto the crowded sidewalk. The day‘s remaining light struggled behind the wall of gray clouds, further shrouding the city in impenetrable shadows. I looked up in the sky surrounding my building and that‘s when I saw it. Hundreds of feet up, right at the top of my building, I spotted a tiny black silhouette against the gray sky. The figure seemed to sway momentarily, like an antennae in the breeze, before it suddenly launched itself out into the open air. The figure hung in the air for a moment, as if some divine force kept it suspended, before plummeting towards the street below, its jacket flapping in the rushing wind like a flag. Gravity, like chance, is impartial and the figure fell like anybody else would, crashing into a vacant newsstand along the sidewalk with a sharp, nauseating sound. I‘ve never forgotten that sound...like the crack of a dropped egg. A crowd immediately formed tightly around the

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

newsstand, chattering excitedly and straining, in their morbid curiosity, to see the shattered body. The sea of people shifted incessantly as some left and others pushed forward to take their place and I found myself borne forward by an eager wave, carried all the way to the front. I froze at the sight. The man, I could now see that it was a man, was lying among the shattered remnants of the newsstand, his broken limbs grotesquely splayed out in multiple directions. Bloodstains and shattered bone fragments marred the gray suit and a pair of thick eyeglasses lay beside the cracked skull and its escaping pieces of brain. I stood transfixed as people behind me theorized about why he had jumped. I couldn‘t take my eyes of the bright red pool of blood that continued to spread around the body. I couldn‘t remember the last time I‘d seen a color so bright in the city, its brilliant red hues overcoming the bleak grey of the dead man‘s suit and washing over the filth of the sidewalk. Eventually, the police taped the scene off and drove the curious crowd back with the threat of their nightsticks. No longer able to gawk, the crowd dispersed into the various bars and apartments of the city, eager to actually have something to discuss. I wandered towards my own home, unable to shake the man‘s body and my brief encounter with him from my mind. I knew what the multitudes of witnesses would say. They‘d say he was a weak man. A man who must‘ve been shattered by something other than the pavement. A man who‘d lost his wife or child or something else irreplaceable and just couldn‘t cope - just couldn‘t find the strength to carry on the struggle of life. I reached the massive iron bridge, but instead of crossing I stopped in the middle. I produced a cigarette from my pocket and began to smoke, leaning over the cold railing in contemplation. I recalled the man‘s emotionless, almost serene face as the elevator doors closed. Not the typical face of a man about to die. I gazed out at the rigid gray structures of the city, now lit up with bright lights, and felt disgusted. I remembered all the empty faces I had seen during that day and every single monotonous day before. This life, the one we all shared in the city, was nothing fulfilling. I saw that and evidently so did the man on the elevator. He had eaten the apple, just like I had, and saw where his mistakes had led him. I realized then just how wrong everyone would be about him, saying he was weak. He was anything but. He saw the decay and the filth and the emptiness and instead of letting it swallow him, rebelled against it. He refused to let it reduce him any longer. I was filled with a sickening envy, but also admiration for the man‘s courage. I flicked my cigarette off the bridge, watching it twirl as it fell onto the dark tracks far below me. I never felt lower than that moment, painfully aware of the empty course my life was set on. Then, out of the multitude of chaotic sounds emanating from the city, one distinguished itself. I tensed, hearing the metallic clatter of wheels along the tracks. A train, identical to the dozens of others that ran beneath the city, emerged from the tunnel. Both my hands gripped the railing tightly, sweat running down my hardened face as I began to breathe heavily. I squeezed my eyes shut and thought about the man on the elevator - the jumper. I thought about how he‘d done it. All you had to do was take the first step. Gravity would take care of the rest. You just had to let go of all your illusions and fall, forever escaping everything that held you down. I climbed up and stood on the railing, shaking uncontrollably and peering directly below me. I knew by its sound that the train was about to pass under me. I stretched my foot out and stopped, frozen in indecision. I teetered as different voices screamed within me, one saying let go and the other screaming frantically to hold on. Something, in me broke because I pulled back, flailing gracelessly back behind the safety of the railing as the train passed beneath the bridge. I buried my face in my pale hands, listening to the mocking sounds of the train as it moved on, and wept bitterly.

Anderson High School

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block

2016-2017

A Smoky Language Adoree Benke Condolence letters are splayed across the cluttered tiles, An insidious art of expressionism so unintentional. The grieving black words from the cards shine Like a lit match in the shadows. They light up the dusty room with smirking rays, Fake happiness. Fake tears, Fake. Fake. Fake. They will feel the pain, feel the fear, Feel the frightening failure. Succumbing to the alter ego, the Puppetmaster, Who forges a filthy, fake mask Covering the face, the heart, The soul. I take the burning match in my hand, Extinguishing the bright fire. Red illuminates through the cracks in my skin, my fingers, My bones. Until the smoke silently swirls, swaying through the sad room. A painful reward despite the haunting shadow. The room returns to its previous state, an oblivious grey. I snatch the letters, flinging them down, hard. But they will never feel the pain. I offer them to the shredder. I slide the empathy within, Hearing the crunch and buzz radiating from the machine. I feel the letters, the cutting of each pure string of strength, A glinting web of accomplishments, Torn apart by defeat. The squashing of a previous Prepared and perfect drive for hard work, And for life. I crumple the remains of the letters and damaged seeds of optimism And bring them to the pit.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

I find each strand of paper, And lay it across the rough, cracked kindling and deceptive black ash. Wood pierces within my callused fingers. No thought. No pain. I smile at my masterpiece: Strands of smudged ink blend into a black, barren land. I set it all on fire. I watch the smoke fill And eradicate the oblivious grey To a heartless dust. I breathe in the smoke. Breathe out the smoke. And speak. Loss is a smoky language, Only some can speak it.

That Day Callie Quan

It‘s been two years since you‘ve gone. It‘s been two years since you‘ve left us. I still remember that day. That you left us all heart struck. I remember getting a phone call from a number I didn‘t know. Hearing a strange voice from inside the phone Saying that your body‘s all cold. Mother collapsed on the floor. Father kept in his tough voice. Sister yelled loud in anger. Brother‘s world was destroyed. They told me that you killed yourself. I said no. That ain‘t the truth. I know him deep inside, he wouldn‘t want to waste his youth. If I realized two years ago that you needed a hand, I would tell you to be strong, And you and I will withstand.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

The Ashes in the Drawer Casey Swinkels She was a beautiful being, say the pictures On phones, in frames, in their memories; A loving animal too, says her fur, On all of their clothes; and a smart animal, Say the treats used to praise and Reward her for learning something new; But their love couldn‘t save her, say the Ashes in the drawer along with her favorite toys. She was loved greatly, says the lonely dog, Her brother, who would play with her for hours on end, And they shared so much, Says the dog bed for one, covered in both of their fur. She was a troublemaker, say the tracks beyond the fence, And the holes by the gate. And she was fierce, says that fence that once separated her, growling, And the dogs five times her size. They tried everything, say the bills scattered across the table. Her eventual absence says she fought hard; The lock of her fur, the only whole part of her, Says it didn‘t help. And her family? They were destroyed, Say the tear-soaked pillows, the drawn-out hugs, The supposed-to-be-comforting shoulder pats. But she is still gone, Say the ashes in the drawer.

Home Crystal Mancillas Stormy and I have always been friends, since we could both remember. She was always the talker. I personally didn‘t have many friends when it came to school, home either. My neighbors behind my house had started to move in. A few days after they had settled I was sitting on the roof of my house playing with my Star Wars action figures, and my favorite one had slipped out of my hand and fell in her pool. Her head raised up, and I could see her glasses glistening and her ponytail moving up and off of her face as she looked up at me and asked me if that was me. I guess she thought I was trying to hit her or something and she stormed into her house. That night I had told my mom, and she felt bad, so we both went to her house the next morning. When her mom answered the door, I could see her. She was hiding behind her mom as

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

was I, her green eyes peeping behind her mom's legs. My mom made me explain and say sorry for something I didn‘t do wrong, but it was okay, I got my toy back. Since then we‘ve been inseparable. Because we didn‘t have cellphones, we had both got lasers and ―texted‖ each other through our windows. It was our thing up until I moved out of state. I did still live with my parents, but I got accepted to Harvard University, and of course it was an opportunity I couldn't pass up. It was only a year, and Stormy and I would always videochat and talk on the phone. I got my classes early in the morning so we could call each other in between classes. She was in her senior year of high school as I was on my first year of college. We were both experiencing something different. The last time I had spoken to her in person was at my graduation. I surprised her at hers and practically had washed off her pink face and tears. She was in her white cap and gown, with her bright valedictorian stole. Everyone was so proud of her. ―She‘s ready for Yale,‖ Jane had said with tears falling down her cheeks, falling onto her lovely necklace. She never takes it off; it‘s all she ever had from her mother. We spent every holiday, school break, and school holidays together. This one would be no different. I'd just arrived home. ―Honey you‘re home!‖ my mother said with joy. ―Hey, I‘m gonna unpack, then head out, I need to take care of some things. I‘ll be home for dinner.‖ She kissed my cheeks, gave me a big hug, and ran back into the kitchen. ―Love you. Be safe!" ―We Are The Champions‖ by Queen was playing on the radio when I suddenly realized a note on the floor board. It read: I’m probably already home, but come back as soon as you read this. I need to avoid the house. Please! xo Stormy We had a spot in the neighborhood where I'd park in case of an emergency. It was sort of our safe spot, you could say. We would leave a note inside the broken trunk of the tree, but there was nothing when I checked. Something felt really wrong, so I sprinted to her house. The front door was cracked open, and Fluffs was on the last steps of the porch; he was crying, but I could tell he didn‘t want to go inside. As for me, I had to. My best friend was in there, and I didn't have the slightest clue of what was going on. My feet creaked with every step I took on the front porch. I pushed my face though the door. Once inside, I closed the door behind me. The lock beeped, and I was too scared to say anything. The atmosphere held the vibes of a fight in the foyer. There were suitcases by the door, and they were spilled all over the place. The ground crackled looking down there was glass everywhere, I started to worry.I walked back to the foyer and stood in front of the stairs. I walked into the kitchen and looked around: nothing. ―Stormy?!‖ I yelled with fear but determination in my voice.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

She ran across the catwalk and noticed me, stopped, stamped, and stomped her feet. ―BAAH!‖ and ran to her parents room. ―You were too late…‖ she whimpered as she ran off. ―Come back! What‘s wrong!‖ I asked her as I ran up the stairs, avoiding the clothes and trying not to slip. There she was sitting on the floor in front of her parents bed. In her left hand was her mother's necklace, in the other was what used to be a stainless silver knife. I collapsed to my knees, she turned around to look at me and froze. ―Not him, too,‖ she begged. Netflix and… Deven Washko You‘re sitting on the couch, browsing through Netflix. An enjoyable night to yourself, really. Parental figures gone. Pizza and soda in hand, only mere feet away from more than your stomach can handle at once. Nine o'clock with moonlight streaming through the nearby windows. Bare footed, and hogging all the room on the couch filled with countless memories. It seems as though nothing could possibly be better than that exact moment…in fact, everything seems...a little too good. You check your phone. No new messages. No missed phone calls. No nothing. Guess I’m just a bit paranoid,you think to yourself. After all. It‘s been a while since you were left on your own. And it‘s a Friday night. Therefore, it‘s safe to assume that you‘re just keeping an eye out for yourself. The idea of danger swiftly gets shoved under the rug, and you return to the world around you, continuing to find the perfect program to binge watch for the next few hours. Aha. There we go. The perfect show for me. As the film begins playing, you find that your once comfy position on the couch just doesn‘t feel right anymore. You gradually adjust your pillow and blanket that you‘ve had since you were twelve. But you just can‘t seem to find that comfy position anymore. And now you can‘t even sit still. It‘s as though something just seems to be hiding amongs the shadows of the barely lit living room. You can‘t take it anymore. The feeling‘s just too overwhelming. You don‘t know how, and you don‘t know who. Or when. But somewhere, and somehow, there is someone in this house, watching your every movement. Observing every millimeter of your figure as motion acts upon it. It only makes sense. Feeling uncomfortable, not feeling safe. The lack of having privacy. All problems cannot coincidentally appear together, can they? You get stand up, the sound of the chosen film fading away despite it being on max volume. Your first instinct is to lock the front door. So you proceed. The door gets locked by the confirmation of your own eyes watching your hands twist the latch that squeaked since you were just a tater tot in elementary school. Feeling a bit safer now, you check around the house to look for other entrances you might not have seen, phone in hand, flashlight turned on as though if you were to come across

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

someone, you‘d somehow magically scare them away with that thing. After your little travel past the familiar rooms of walls that use to be a certain color that they aren‘t now, you find that all possible entrances into the house have been secured. Windows shut. Door chains and latches that weren‘t previously twisted are now all twisted into their proper directions, guaranteeing that absolutely nothing, and no one, can enter your house. Not even the paranormal entities could break those locks. And so, all seems fairly tightened. It‘s impossible for anything to enter the property without your permission. You return to the family couch, plop yourself back onto the firm cotton that was replaced a few months ago. All seems to be going well to you. After all, you‘re safe from all harm now. And now you‘re allowed to have a fun night all to yourself with absolute secrecy. After a couple of minutes go by, you‘re swimming in your own thoughts, and not really paying attention to the film you chose. You get a particular thought…that inevitable thought that‘s the combination of ambiguity and discomfort can create in a person‘s mind psychologically—or psychedelically. Especially to young, naive teenagers. What if the person is already in the house? If this is true, then that means you would‘ve just locked yourself in with the creeper, leaving you no options to escape without a clear pathway. The feeling of anxiousness arises, and now you grow worried again. Funny how that works out in the end for most people. Even after the ensured security, you still feel that something completely unlucky can happen to you, leaving you to the paranoia of the unknown. One of humanity's greatest uncomfortable fears. You text your parents, asking them how their night is going. Because now of all times is a great time to remind yourself that you‘re never truly alone. But the lack of a response within the next few minutes doesn‘t seem to give you that particular sense of relief that you would‘ve loved to have. And wouldn‘t you know it? Your phone dies. A particularly bad habit you developed within the past few years. And now you have no way of contacting anyone until you put your phone on charge. But the charger port is too far away. You‘d have to run all the way upstairs, and close the lockless door behind you or else the crazed watcher in your house would catch you, doing only God knows what to you. But, against all odds, you decide that having a single chance at rescue by contacting nearby 9-1-1 outlets matters a lot more than the risk of doing nothing at all. You decide to take it to the person themself, and make a run for it. You swiftly rush to the beginning of your stairs, ignoring the eyesight of the empty spaces in your house, expecting to keep yourself motivated enough to not catch a crazed stalker man popping up from wherever they were hiding. You continue to run upstairs, pretending a massive entity of danger is only mere inches from the heels of your foot, despite the fact that probability points to extremely unlikely. And by your speed, you make it to your destination safely, slamming the door shut behind you, surely smacking the chaser right in their forehead. But you only hear silence following now. No bangs. No breathing sounds. No nothing. Just you, your phone charger that lies mere feet away, a used and cracked silver iphone 6 in your hand, and your wild thoughts. As you breathe through your little ordeal, you start thinking to yourself about logical thoughts.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

I’m just being silly, you think to yourself. You started having those doubts again. Just like any other previous events from the past. It‘s just paranoia. The natural plague of the unaware ones who still have the sense of danger awaiting at the bottom of their stomachs. And then it all occurs to you. The feeling drops to the pit of your stomach. It’s all in my head! There’s nothing wrong. There’s no one chasing me. There’s no one trying to screw with my head. There’s no one in this house but me! I’m alone. You decide that, after a little bit of reconsideration, there‘s nothing wrong with what‘s happening. You go back downstairs, and finish up your film on Netflix, iPhone in hand, charging with the charger you finally brought down with you. You take a nice, hot shower, drying yourself off with your favorite towel. You reach your comfy bed, iPhone still in hand. And after you finish surfing around on it for a little more while, you finally put it aside, closing your eyes. Finally, going to sleep in your special room… …With me.

Memories and Moments Ella Wavell This makes it seem like all these Many memories and moments And times we had and made And so forth just... Ain‘t really nothin‘, and frankly, To be quite honest, I don't like it at all. It drains into darkness, The rabbit in the hat. This friendship becomes emptiness And just like that! Suddenly nothing, only a smoldering mess. I don't like this, I must confess. This avoiding each other shit, I‘m sick of it Strong bridges like this Shouldn't be lit. My good friend, I do really miss you, Please come back. I love you.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

Fun Home Emma McCarson I have been drowning consistently for decades. I do not know when my flesh first met the surface of the sea, let alone when my head went under. When you are drowning, time eats away at you, but you are so occupied trying to remember how to breathe that you do not feel its teeth taking chunks out of you. In fact, you forget that it is there. Time becomes white noise, just static from an old television in the background. It is the perfect predator. Time creeps up on you quietly, fades into the background as it rolls over you, envelopes you. And then before you know it, you are dying. I know I am. But it is slow. And steady. And more excruciating than a quick death, that a bullet to the head. By the time death shows its face to you, by the time you begin to waste away not on just the inside but the outside, too, your end has been unfolding for so long that there is no possible way everything can return to how they were before. You are stuck in this, you are frayed, you are tattered and torn in every single way. After dinner, Alison drags me outside to watch the sunset. There‘s this light in her eyes, something I can no longer recognize in myself. Perhaps it‘s hope that I will find beauty in the sunset, or wonder at the colors that pour across the sky like liquid fire. But my mouth is just a taut line on a stone face. It‘s like my vocal cords have shriveled up and died—I am utterly silent. And it was not because I think that the sunset is beautiful. I am silent because there is nothing to express. Emptiness fills my chest, like a black void expanding to the end of infinity. I think that perhaps I was once filled with something, but whatever it was it has escaped my mind for long enough that I cannot recall it. Sunsets look the same as cloudy days. Alison sees rose, gold, and all the pale amber in between. She lives in a painted world—I live in saturation. I live in gray, hideously stark, the color that the clouds are when they spin and roar in an uprising against the sky. Like Icarus, I did plummet from the sky. But I did not fall at the first scorch of the sun. I have been falling, slowly, for one, two, three, countless years, through thick air. It seems to cling to my skin like ink from a pen and hang me in the sky until my flesh and bones weather away to nothing against the vicious rush of wind. When I was younger, I would look at scenes like these and think that the world was at my fingertips. I would look at the endless horizon and think that I could go anywhere, do anything. But I do not have the world at my fingertips, because gay men cannot be free. The sun disappears below the hills, and we are left staring at lilac and shadows. Alison mirrors me in her silence, but there is a furrow in her brows and a downward curve in her lips as she stares at me, like she expects me to speak. But I only shake my head and saunter down the path toward the front door, leaving Alison in the encroaching darkness.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

Happy Birthday Erick Aguirre My family always has the same birthday customs. We rent a bounce house, buy various foods, cake, and a piñata, and heave it all outside. This custom never changes, nor do the friendly smiles displayed by all. That custom didn‘t change for my sixteenth birthday, unfortunately. My parents still forced me to participate in this outrageous show. The only ones being entertained are the children, everyone else puts a false front up. We weren‘t allowed to invite friends, so it was always the same people that came to the parties: always relatives. While I was in the acting zone, I noticed someone that didn‘t fit in. I could only see his face due to the crowd surrounding him. It was a face that I didn‘t recognize, but it gave me a nostalgic feeling when I watched him. He also didn‘t have any hair, making it oddly easier to spot him. I stopped staring and went back to talking. I would occasionally turn and stare at him. Even though he was surrounded with people, he didn‘t open his mouth to speak. He didn‘t sit, he only stood. And he always remained on the same spot, his radiant head directed towards me, eyes closed. I wondered why nobody else was interested in him. It was time to blow the candles from the cake. It was around nine pm, so the only source of light were the lit candles. Instantly, as soon as I sat down, they began singing. I learned how to deafen myself from the agonizing, out-of-tune screams. I tried staring ahead, where the unusual man was, his head still only visible. This time his eyes were open. I focused my gaze on his eyes. Even with the fading light, I could still see the color of his eerie iris. It was white, just like the sclera. I tried staring at the candles,but he still remained in my peripheral vision. It should have frightened me, but I had other things to worry about. ―Make a wish‖, they screamed. I closed my eyes, complied with their obnoxious demands, and finally inhaled then exhaled. Claps began raining over the shouts. My smile came back again. The next few seconds were confusing. Everyone around me was still clapping, but their heads were floating above their rigid shoulders, smiles on their faces. The nearest body to me was engulfed by a lucid, crimson flame, just like from a flare. Recognition was no longer valid for the burned body, there was only ashes left, and the next body began to burn. Once all the bodies were gone, their eyes focused on me. I could feel the pressure from all their glares, but I kept on observing what was in front of me, a non-smiling head. The heads began chanting something incomprehensible to my ears; it reminded me of a warped audio tape. I stared around and noticed that all the heads were identical to the features of the bald head, which gave me an eerie feeling. As the original bald head floated towards me, its body began to fade back. I was expecting to see a human body, but what emerged were branches. His body mimicked that of a human's, but with branches. The branches stretched out to one of the heads, and forcefully inserted itself into the man‘s skull. The head began blinking rapidly, chomp his mouth, and shake. Finally, the branch exited the skull. Branches began sprouting out of the head from underneath, but not as thick as

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

the original. It was a miniature version of it, which was at least a foot smaller than my 5‘9‖. Without me noticing, another miniature appeared. They stared at each other for a few seconds. Their expression displayed contemplation, but that disappeared in an instant and was replaced with anger. Their eyebrows made a downwards streak and their screams sounded brash, as if it was amplified. Once they started walking towards each other, the first few seconds it seemed as if they were toddlers attempting to walk their first steps, but that turned into a full on sprint. I couldn‘t hear any footsteps nor the sounds coming from multiple mouth; I only heard breathing getting faster. I wasn‘t shivering, but I was slowly walking back, only to be blocked by branches. I turned to face the branch wall, and I could see it extend into a dome. I faced the center of the dome, and saw the miniatures clasping each other‘s hands. Both struggled to subjugate the other. Heads all around started chanting even louder, I still couldn't understand. It seemed as if the miniatures had enough of staring face to face, since they started punching each other, each hit was arbitrary. Both seemed to deal critical damage, based from how a blow would obliterate the area they hit. But it didn‘t matter the how many times one hit the other, both of them were squashed by the original. His hand turned into a boulder, blood was dripping from the top. Once again, his branch extended towards another head, but this time it went fully through and off to the next head. Before I knew it, all heads were growing branches. I heard a clunk in front of me. I spotted a hatchet, which was dropped by the original. He stared at me for a few moments, and then nodded towards the mob coming towards me. I sprang into action. I ran towards the hatchet, picked it up, and waited. Each miniature was separated by at least two meters, giving me enough time to eliminate them one by one, if I could cut off their head. I patiently waited for the first one to come. It was still walking, but as the first two, it sprang into a sprint. It didn‘t move swiftly, giving me the advantage of prediction. It wasn‘t as hard as I thought, once it was in my personal space, I just swung the hatchet around its neck. Once I was done, I looked down and saw the disembodied head, its features started to change. It no longer looked like the others, it looked like my cousin. I placed the observation in the back of my head, since I had more company. Before I focused on the other miniature, I heard the head whisper. ―Help me‖. I didn‘t know how much time passed, but I didn‘t care. I took care of all the miniatures, and the last one was the original. I slowly started losing strength from imagining cutting down my relatives, one by one. I could still see the heads on the floor, each one similar to my family. I stared right at the original, his daunting smirk stared right back at me. ―Your wish has been fulfilled,‖ he said. I noticed that his voice soundly similar to mine. I was confused by what he said, but didn‘t question it. I instead went towards him, with my hand ready to swing. He was slowly being consumed by the ground, as if it was quicksand. Once I caught up, all that remained was a mirror on the floor. I stared at it and saw my reflection. I knew why he gave me such a nostalgic feeling, he had the same face I did, as a child. The dome started breaking apart, branches were falling apart, and sunlight was breaking through. Free at last, I thought. I closed and opened my eyes, I had returned to my home. ―PUT THE KNIFE DOWN‖, someone yelled. I turned towards the shout and was met with a pistol. A police officer was wielding it. He yelled the same words again. I look at my left hand, and saw a knife immersed with a crimson

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

liquid. Shocked from another yell, I dropped the knife. I was knocked down once the knife hit the ground. I didn‘t resist, I was studying my proximity. I saw a handful of bodies on the ground, each surrounded by their own pool of blood. My relatives were all scattered around the area, as well as police officers. I didn‘t know what to think, I just kept on repeating my wish in my head. I was lifted up by three officers, each one guarding a side. I shoved into the backseat of a police car. I could hear sirens from the distance, piercing screams, and conversations from crowds. ―Animal‖ was the last thing I heard before an officer closed the door. While we were driving, I stared at my knees. The car kept on riding over potholes, making my head bounce back, each time giving me a jolt of pain. I just stared ahead and kept on thinking about the same thing, my wish. I closed my eyes, leaned back, and voiced what was in my head, ―Disappear.‖

Any Other High School Couple Grace Edgar Teigan Ellis and Jared Dawson were just like any other high school senior couple. They fought, they didn‘t even like each other that much, and they cheated. They both knew what was happening to their relationship, but neither took the time to actually end it. As a couple it was pretty much a rule they had to show up to the graduation after party together. They agreed to drive to the party after graduation together, one of the few times they had spent quality time with each other in a few weeks. ―Is the temperature good?‖ Jared asked in a monotone voice. ―Yea…‖ Teigan replied, not taking her focus off putting on a third layer of mascara. ―Cool.‖ The drive continued in silence. At the party they separated and went to their own friend groups. They drank. Danced. Drank some more. Talked. Swam. Drank. Smoked. Talked some more. Made out with other people. And kept drinking. Teigan walked by a bathroom and tried the door, it was locked so she started up the stairs to find another one. People sat on the steps looking into space, they didn‘t see her or hear anything around them. Red and blue cups lay on their sides, some were crushed into the floor. Teigan continued her way up. The second floor bathroom was occupied too, and she went back to the stairs, continuing her climb the the third story. She could feel the vomit coming up, and she knew she had to find an open restroom soon. She picked up her pace and ran smack into Jared and Anna Gill, one of the least popular girls at the school and ugly as heck in Teigan's view. They didn‘t even notice her as she took a few stunned steps backward. Anna had her face plastered on his and was smacking away. Teigan‘s boyfriend was making no moves to end it soon. This sight added to her already nauseous feeling and she threw up all her drinks and dinner onto them. The propulsion launched Teigan backwards and she fell onto her butt, tears sprang to her eyes, threatening to mess her full face of perfectly applied makeup. They pulled apart long

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

enough for Anna to shoot a withering glance down her nose. ―You‘re pathetic, Teig,‖ Jared snarled at her and pulled Anna‘s chin back to his own. A full onset of tears and sobs took ahold of Teigan and she ran down the stairs and into the backyard. Tons of people were crowded in the fenced in yard. A group of guys saw the mess of a girl and cat-called to her. As she had been raised to do, she wiped her eyes, and smiled and flirted back at them. But the scene from a few seconds ago crowded her vision and an onset of sobs that wracked her body drove her to run back into the house. She grabbed her coat and shuffled in the pockets for her keys. Then remembering she rode with her boyfriend, she grabbed his coat and keys and ran out to his car. He actually has the nerve to kiss someone in front of me. Jerk, she thought to herself. Then, why do I even care, it’s not like I even like him, or vice versa. I hate him actually, I can’t stand being around him. He’s so gross. But it hurt seeing them. Well, he isn’t my boyfriend anymore. The alcohol took over her thinking process and she went over multiple ways to get revenge. She drove fast and took her anger out on the road. Teigan pulled into her driveway, safely home, no thanks to the many drinks she‘d had. She headed into her room and pulled the covers over her head. About an hour later she woke up to someone banging on her front door. The rest of her family seemed to still be asleep, getting up out of bed she attempted to unwrinkle the clothes she‘d slept in and groggily made her way to the door. Jared stood there, his face lit up and brimming with anger. An unfamiliar car pulled out of the driveway and sped off, probably Ann, thought Teigan. He mumbled something inaudible and tried to push past her into the house. She pushed back and he glared at her. ―Where‘s my car? You took it.‖ ―It‘s in the driveway, smarty.‖ He looked confused and glanced back to where his car stood, ―Oh.‖ ―Yeah, now leave.‖ ―Can I stay the night? I always stay the night,‖ he stated. ―No, we‘re done.‖ This shook him down to earth, ―What?‖ ―We‘re done.‖ ―Why?‖ ―Just because. I don‘t want to talk to you right now.‖ Jared nodded his head, and the alcohol swished back and forth, ―Ok.‖ It’ll all be better in the morning, he thought to himself. He left down the steps and started walking down the sidewalk. Moron, thought Teigan and then she shut the door. She then went back to bed and fell into a restless sleep. She was woken in the morning by the smell of breakfast being cooked downstairs and the waffle iron‘s timer going off. On Sundays' Teigan‘s dad would make bacon and eggs, while her mom made waffles and a fruit salad. This should have been a completely normal day. The waffle

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

iron‘s timer kept going off. Her parents usually kept an eye on the food, and almost never burned anything. She shrugged the thought out of her mind and hopped in the shower. Her head pounded and she popped a couple of aspirin. Teigan turned up her music in the shower and let the hot water rush over her head and body. She toweled off and walked back to her room. There was still the constant beeping of the waffle iron. She grabbed some clothes off her dresser and headed down the stairs. ―Mom,‖ she called out. No answer. ―Mom,‖ she demanded. No answer. ―Dad?‖ No answer. ―Brett? Elodie?‖ The waffle iron beeped. She received no response. She looked around for the regular note her family wrote if they left. There wasn‘t any. Sweet, hopefully they don’t get home anytime soon, Teigan thought as she sent a text to Jared. She sent one to her best friend and poured herself some cereal while turning off the incessant beeping of the waffle iron. She ate and checked her Instagram and Snapchat. Nothing was new from the night before. This was weird, usually Teigan got tons of notifications overnight and in the morning. But this time there was nothing. She popped some more aspirin and went back to bed. The world outside her windows was dark. A slight wind caused the branches outside to scratch the house. Teigan rubbed her eyes and sat up in bed. Her stomach growled, she had slept through lunch and her usual snack time. Leaving her room, she pulled a sweatshirt over her head since the heat hadn‘t been on the whole day, and went to get some long awaited dinner. ―Mom?‖ Like before, she received no answer. ―Dad?‖ Again, no answer. She sighed. Teigan opened the fridge and stared at its contents for a while, before pulling out a soggy sandwich. She poured mayonnaise on the side and sat at the kitchen counter. She scrolled through Instagram again, but nothing new had come up. No one had Snapchatted her, and there wasn‘t anything new on Twitter. No one had texted her back either. She was still alone in the house. A knock sounded on the door and the girl quickly jumped up to receive whoever it was. But the front porch was empty. She frowned and sat back down in the kitchen. A few minutes later another knock sounded, this time louder. But still no one stood on the porch. She sat back down. Again, a few minutes later a firm and strong knock on the door came. This time Teigan rushed over to the door and flung it open. But still no one was there. ―Whoever is doing this, come out! It‘s not funny!‖ she yelled. Nothing. She slammed the door and went back to

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

her sandwich. This time the following knock came quicker and sharper. Oh my gosh, this person is driving me crazy, complained Teigan, I just won’t open the door this time and waste my time. After a few seconds, there was another knock, but it didn‘t stop. The single knock turned into banging and it rattled the pictures hanging around the door frame. ―Stop it!‖ screamed Teigan and threw her phone at the door. Then the doorknob rattled. What in the world? thought Teigan. It continued rattling, like someone was standing on the other side trying to get through the door without a key. Like they didn‘t know that doors could be locked and was frustrated by the stuck door. ―Leave me alone!‖ cried Teigan, and she ran to the door and kicked and banged back as hard as she could. Tears ran down her eyes and her hands shook. The door knob soon stopped rattling and the banging on the other side subsided. All was quiet for a long while. The girl leaned with her back against the door and tried calming down. Her phone was cracked right down the middle from falling to the floor, but she still had a signal. She dialed 911 and waited. And waited. The dialing sound didn‘t stop, it didn‘t run out. And no one answered. It should have gone to voicemail a long time ago, Teigan thought to herself. Eventually she hung up. She‘d just go and solve this problem herself. Her dad kept a few guns in a safe in his closet, but had told the family the combination in case of emergencies. Those situations had always been hypothetical, and far off realities. Teigan was closer to reality now than she had been the past few years. She took out a .45 and loaded it, slowly she crept back to the front door. ―Is anyone out there still?‖ No reply. ―I have a gun, and I‘ll use it.‖ Still nothing. ―I‘m going to come out, and if you aren‘t gone I‘ll shoot you.‖ Teigan got nothing in response. Taking a deep breath she slid the deadbolt back and turned the knob. She peered out. The porch was completely empty. A wave of relief spread over her and she walked out and turned the corner of the wrap around porch. And there he was. Jared leaned against the railing. His dark clothing mixing in with the night surrounding him and his face towards the sky. ―Nice night,‖ he said. ―Why are you here?‖ she replied. ―I was just checking up on you. I wanted to see how you were.‖ ―After last night? I‘m totally fine.‖ ―Oh yeah, after you threw up everywhere?‖ ―Why are you all of a sudden interested? And why in the world are you wearing sunglasses, it‘s almost midnight. You‘re so weird.‖ His eyes were covered in Aviator shades and he smirked from behind them. ―Oh, you didn‘t have to ask that question did you? But I‘ll show you why,‖ he took a few steps toward her and as he did Jared took off his accessory. Teigan stumbled back and let out a scream. Her ex-boyfriend's eyes were white. Only white. No color, no pupil, just blank. ―Don‘t scream, Teig. It‘ll be alright,‖ he whispered as he grabbed her hair and pulled her off the porch. Teigan blacked out and never came back to reality.

Anderson High School

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block

2016-2017

Ancient Suns Jairo Gutierrez HOT, so very HOT. Hotter than that chick you saw in English class. I mean HOT. Hotter than the sidewalk on a summer afternoon. HOT. Hotter than that time you bit into your pizza bites before they cooled. HOT. Hotter than our sun and more chaotic too. Movement everywhere, hard to see, collisions too. Too brief to see and too hot to stay; a chaotic frenzy of matter. We just need a little more time. BOOM!BOOM!!BOOM!! A race of ancients is born. Initially, dull and plain, But with the help of time, Will be called stars or diamonds Or even mistaken for Gods.

Home Jane Johnston The sky is clear, stars shining bright, Forested mountains towering upwards into the night. Snow covered tops brushing the sky, Fast flowing waters cut through the rock. Cold as the frost from which they came A lake glimmering in the distance. The air is fresh and unpolluted. The smell of a world untouched. A land untouched by humans. No buildings as far as the eye can see. A world lost in time is the long lost home for me

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

Tout Sweet By Kain Kokkeler With the wind whipping through his hair, Marc spurred his steed. He carried a very important letter to his Baron, Daub Le Dupont, which warned of an impending attack on his army. This normally wouldn't be too much of a problem on Dupont's part, but spies warned of an attack directly after their raid on the local bandit encampment, while their men would still be tired or wounded. Without this letter, it is very possible that Dupont and his men would be slaughtered and his barony would be annexed. Word had it that the attack would lead from the east, where their cavalry would corner and herd Dupont‘s arm along the Hadran cliff face, where they would die by bullet or the steep fall into the abyssal canyon. As he neared the palisades, the smell of burning flesh and char filled his nostrils. He spurred harder, eliciting a whinny from the steed. The narrow forest trail opened up into an expansive plain. Bodies of both horses and men lay strewn next to burning pyres and broken siege engines. He was too late, A squad of cavaliers rounded about the palisade and stopped for a moment to survey the area. Quickly Marc ducked away into the tree line, snatching his rifle from the side of his mount. The men on their horses perked up for a moment before charging off behind a wooden barricade. A thundering sound came from the west, getting louder moment by moment. The few remaining soldiers on the field fled towards the gates, yelling to each other in frantic German. Several ranks of men, at least twenty dozen, came charging from the eastern flats, wielding sickles, pitchforks, and spades. Peasants swarmed past the burning corpses, throwing pitch and stones at the walls of the palisades. The walls went up in flames, making it look not unlike a giant bonfire. Dupont‘s banner flew proudly over the encroaching army. To be continued…

The Undercover Agent Loraine Hellums People always looked at Jesse Hunt when she walked, talked, or moved. They did not always know why they looked at her but her poise gave them pleasure and, perhaps, a kind of reassurance. However, in this world of secrets, Jesse Hunt was no ordinary person. She grew up as an orphan, became a genius, and later on became to be a secret agent. She lived in her own type of world where she had to learn about life on her own. At eighteen years old, Jesse was assigned to W52, the mysterious organization that ended up raising her, and taught her how to be the best secret agent. They told her that her main mission was to protect a stranger from a kidnapping attempt, but first, before all that, she had to win a series of scenarios. This is Jesse‘s

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

story. FRIDAY, JUNE 5TH 3:30 P.M. TO 5:15 P.M. MISSION NUMBER ONE A knot twisted in the pit of my stomach. I had not been spotted by my target, but that could change in a split second if I didn‘t hurry up. He knew that I was close. He knew that I was following him. Without turning my head, I swiveled my eyes to the left and then to the right. Passersby would simply see a young girl window-shopping in the mall. Then I checked my watch. I had to tag him in the next ten minutes. ―Got a dollar, miss?‖ A gruff voice rumbled into my ear. I looked down. A tall man with ratty dreadlocks and frayed fingerless gloves held out his shaky hand. The flesh around his eyes was red-rimmed and crinkled. His eyeballs seemed too small for their sockets. I knew that he needed help but I had no time to help him. I said, ―Pick on someone your own size.‖ before hitting him with a rude look. I couldn‘t lose my target now. It was way too important. If I got this right this time around, I would have more freedom. If not, it is back to ―the fishbowl‖, which is the last place that I wanted to return; it‘s the worst place on earth. Again, I inspected the shifting crowd of shoppers. Yes, there he was: black pants, gray open-necked shirt, and nice-looking, gelled-back hair. He stopped, grabbed an apple from a fruit stand and took a bite out of it and put it back down, before carefully scanning the people nearby. I was hoping that he would not spot me. Then he was on the move again, sauntering as though he had all the time in the world. Little did he know he didn‘t. I smiled. He only had… I looked down at my watch...oh, about eight minutes left. I loosened my hair-tie and fanned the long, blonde hair over my shoulders. I slipped off my jacket, reversed it, and put it back on. If he was looking for a glimpse of red, he would be wrong. The lining of my jacket was blue now. Always change something of your appearance, even if it‘s a little thing; it helps out in the long run. That was a key point that I learned at training. Casually, as though I were daydreaming, I strolled along the edge of the mall, beside the store windows. I started to close the gap between myself and my target. My fingers curled around the hand cuff gadget in my pocket, ready to aim. He quickened his pace like he would have done if he thought that he had been spotted. Oh crap! He turned right into a nearby parking garage while I turned left into a shoe store, on the opposite side of the parking garage. I turned my back and slipped on some sunglasses. The mirrored side strips allowed me to see clearly behind myself. ―How may I help you?‖ I gave a very quick glance at the sales assistant, who had tight lips and thick caked on makeup. ―What do you get if you cross a dinosaur with a pig?‖ I asked, as I watched my target pay for his parking ticket across the mall hallway. ―Excuse me?‖ said the sales person ―Jurassic Pork,‖ I answered. The assistant snorted. ―Are you trying to be smart?‖ Across the mall hallway, the man

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pressed one of the elevator buttons. He checked around him. I pursed my lips together. He stepped inside the elevator and the doors started to close. ―Excuse me miss. Earth to space cadet.‖ the sales assistant waved a hand in front of my face. UGH! I thought to myself, but did not answer again. I ripped off the glasses that were on my face and jammed them into my pocket. Before the sales assistant could shout, I was out the door and down the street. The soles of my tennis shoes were slapping against the pavement. The numbers lit up above the elevator: one, two, then it stopped. I zeroed in on the number and knew what floor I needed to be on. I opened the door to the stairwell and took them two at a time. I began to puff, and my chest started to hurt. By the third row of stairs, my legs were yelling at me to stop. I started to edge open the door, just slightly, to see if I could see him. It made only the slightest noise as the latch on the door clicked back. He didn‘t look back. THANK GOD! I thought to myself. He looked like he was digging in his pocket for something, maybe his keys. My watch told me there were two minutes remaining. After a few deep breaths to calm my beating heart, I dropped to the ground, and squeezed through the partially opened door, letting it close quietly behind me. I landed my body flat on the ground, peering underneath the car that was right in front of me. I could see his legs. Ding, the elevator sounded and the doors slid open. Soft voices erupted into the parking garage, and the man whipped around, ready to run away at any indication of danger. Perfect; he was distracted. I slowly lifted into a crouching stance and toed forward softly. As soon as I slipped my fingers into the pocket of my pants, to grab the hand cuff gadge , he turned around. Our eyes locked, and it felt like my heart would beat out of my chest. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. He narrowed his eyes, and I let a flirty smile curl my lips. ―Hello.‖ I said as calmly as I could. He blinked a couple of times, the suspicion disappearing from his face into confusion. ―Hello?‖ he said, his voice tilting a little as he stepped away. I let out a sigh at how stubborn my target was, and decided to quit the act and pull out the hand cuff gadget from my pocket. His eyes widened as he locked onto the object, and I released a cute smile, ―Goodbye.‖ Mission one completed!

Army of Hunters Megan Monroy Rheya stood in the watchtower of the prison, admiring her uniform in the window. The black fabric was still a little stiff from being new, and the uniform itself was a bit scratchy, but she loved it with all her heart. She was most proud of the thick purple band on the left sleeve. Usually, new officers were supposed to have blue bands, marking them as newcomers, but Rheya had been able to skip wearing the blue band completely. In Rheya‘s training school back in Boulder, Colorado, she had saved the Captain‘s life. It had been during the middle of the night when she had been awoken along with the rest of the females in her room. It was another training exercise, one that made Rheya roll her eyes as she pulled on a warm hoodie to combat the cold. The soldiers-in-training had filed outside to the snow and waited in the zero degree weather as the captain explained their training exercise for the night. When the directions had

Anderson High School

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been given, the group of soldiers-in-training broke up into three teams and began their search for the ―Crows‖. Of course, there was no way to train with actual Crows, they were too dangerous, so that night, two sleeping bags filled with rocks and mud had been used to represent the Crows. The three groups set out in opposite directions, searching for the ―Crows‖ with the skills they had been taught over the few weeks they had been there. They had been taught that like prey, the Crows would try anything to avoid being captured by them, the Hunters. They would wear disguises, appearing to be regular humans, but when you looked closely into their wicked eyes, something strange happened. No one lived to tell exactly what it was that did actually happen when a Hunter looked into the eyes of a Crow, but it was known, from the many autopsies conducted, that the Crows killed the Hunters from the inside out, first cutting hundreds of slits into numerous veins before bursting the heart. It was with this in mind that the soldiers-in-training went out into the field in search of the sleeping bags that represented the crows. But they never had a chance to find them. Men swathed in thick, black cotton rained down from the trees. The second they hit the ground was the exact same time an explosion had gone off a few yards in the distance, shaking the earth until both the young Hunters and the strange, new men were on their knees. The new men, however, had recovered fast. They charged the stunned soldiers with knives, leaving their wounded bodies to litter the pearl-white snow. Rheya had fled like a coward, leaving her best friends to die without a single backward glance. It was only when she heard her name that she decided to look over her shoulder. Rheya hadn‘t even known that the Captain had noticed her existence throughout the weeks, but there he was, shrieking for her to rescue him. It had taken her precious moments to decide to finally turn back around. Everyone had called it ―a valiant, selfless effort‖ when really she had been lucky enough to stumble over a gun that fired into the distance, scaring the attacking Crows away from both the Captain and herself. Rheya had dragged the wounded Captain back to their camp, where he was treated for his wounds and she was commended for her bravery. Shortly thereafter, Rheya‘s training was cut short and she was sent to Denver, Colorado, where she was not only made a soldier of the Army of Hunters, but was also promoted to Officer. Now, here she was on her eighth day on the job at the underground Colorado prison, where the most vicious, gruesome Crows were incarcerated. Honestly, Rheya was terrified at the thought of what lay behind the iron doors that separated the watchtower from the rest of the prison. She wanted to tell the Captain back at the camp that she really wasn‘t as brave as he had thought, but she lacked courage in that department. And anyway, she really did like her new uniform. ―If you‘re going to stare at yourself all day, at least do it with a real mirror.‖ Rheya whipped around and felt her cheeks burn when she saw it was Evelyn who had caught her marveling at her own image in the glass. Evelyn peered down her pointed nose, regarding Rheya with her swamp-green, mocking,

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disapproving eyes. She reached out a painted hand and snatched up the long, purple silk ribbon Rheya had specifically placed in her hair to match her uniform. Rheya said nothing as her braid began to unravel. How could she? Evelyn was the wellrespected Captain that the other soldiers idolized. She had even skipped being a Rookie too. The only difference between her and Rheya was that Evelyn had actually earned her spot as Captain. ―Come on, Rookie.‖ Evelyn flicked the band on Rheya‘s sleeve, knowing quite well that the purple stood for Officer. She led the way through the heavy door, and down into the dark, spiraling stairway that led to the main, underground portion of the prison. Rheya watched as her purple ribbon drifted slowly into the dark abyss that swallowed the bottom of the stairs. ―Where are we going?‖ Rheya asked softly. She hated how shaky and small her voice sounded as it echoed off the narrow walls. It didn‘t go unnoticed by Evelyn. She snickered. ―To Sector Seven, of course.‖ Rheya ignored her condescending tone. ―What‘s in Sector Seven?‖ No response. Now it was just the sound of their breathing accompanying them as they felt their way through the dark. ―When we get to Sector Seven, you must follow my every move, understood?‖ Evelyn said, breaking the silence. ―The Crows there are the most dangerous of them all.‖ Rheya snorted. ―This whole prison is made up of dangerous Crows.‖ Evelyn stopped short and whirled around to face her. Rheya had to anchor her feet to the step she was on in order to prevent herself from crashing into Evelyn. In the dim light, Rheya could only see Evelyn‘s green eyes accented by the dark eyeliner on her narrowed, cat-like eyes. ―You can tell me your snide comments when I‘m cleaning your remains off of a prisoner‘s cell floor.‖ She smirked before continuing down the staircase and leading the way down the hall. Rheya‘s eyes widened. This girl had a crude sense of humor. They made it to a large iron door with a large, rusted wheel in the center. It squealed in agony as Evelyn swung it on its hinges. The cells inside were small and dirty. The iron bars were a permanent red-orange, and Rheya couldn‘t tell if it was from rust or blood. ―Keep your eyes away from the cells. Don‘t look any of these filthy creatures in the eyes.‖ ―What happens if I look one in the eye?‖ Rheya asked. Evelyn looked back at her from the corner of her eye. Even like that she managed to make Rheya squirm. ―Why don‘t you try it? Then we can both see.‖ Rheya thought about doing it, just for the sake of opposing Evelyn, but then decided against it. Instead, she kept her eyes locked on Evelyn‘s short, light-brown ponytail, only occasionally letting her eyes stray to the green band on her left upper-arm that marked her status as Captain. Evelyn strode confidently outside the cells, taunting the prisoners without making eye contact with a single one. She snatched a whip from a hook on the wall, and lashed it around because she knew she could. There was no one to stop her, and even if there were more eyes around, no one would dare oppose Evelyn. Hell, she could have stripped down to her underclothes and still, no one would have said a thing. Rheya watched with a sinking heart as the imprisoned Crows recoiled from the whip. As their screams filled the air, Rheya fought the urge to cower and cover her ears.

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―Evelyn,‖ she called above the noise. ―Stop! Evelyn, they didn‘t do anything.‖ Evelyn turned her eyes of fury on Rheya. ―Whose side are you on, Rookie?‖ She sneered. ―You‘re not going soft, are you?‖ ―What? No, I- These people didn‘t do anything, Ev-‖ ―People?! These,‖ she threw her hand out towards the prisoners, ―things are creatures, monsters that prey on our people just to satisfy their thirst for pleasure. And you have the audacity to defend them?!‖ Evelyn flicked her wrist and sent the whip lashing in Rheya‘s direction. The very tip caught her in the side, slitting the fine fabric of her uniform. Evelyn sent the whip flying twice more, catching Rheya on her arms and face. Rheya cried out, but that only gave Evelyn a smile. She seemed to feed off of her yelps of pain. She went on for an agonizing ten seconds that seemed to last for hours. By the time Evelyn was done, Rheya was splayed out on the floor, curled in a fetal position, in too much pain to move. Rheya didn‘t hear the Captain leave. She only noticed her absence from the way the prisoners relaxed. ―You‘re bleeding.‖ Rheya craned her neck to see who was talking. It was a boy with tangled brown hair. He reached out and dragged a pale finger across her cheek. His finger came away coated in red. Rheya didn‘t even pay attention to the fact that blood was oozing from her wounds. She was too distracted by the boy in front of her. The boy‘s dusty brown hair was long, almost brushing his shoulders. Rheya could barely see the boy‘s eyes peeking through it. She could only see his long, dark lashes blinking every now then. But then he swept his hair to the side with a dirty hand, revealing his violet eyes. Rheya gasped, backing away until she was slamming her back against the iron bars opposite the boy‘s cell. She sealed her eyes shut and waited for her heart to explode because that was what she had heard Crows would do. ―Are you okay?‖ The concern in the boy‘s voice sounded real, but she knew that was what a Crow would want her to believe. ―Shut up,‖ she hissed, the heels of her hands digging into her eyes. She tried to focus on the lines of green, yellow, purple, and blue striking the darkness behind her eyelids. ―Why are you covering your eyes?‖ the boy asked. ―Should I be worried?‖ Rheya didn‘t answer. She hadn‘t even registered that the boy was talking. Her thoughts were too busy roaring in her head. Why did I look the Crow in the eye? How am I still alive? Will I survive if I make eye contact again? She lowered her hands from her face slowly, still keeping her eyes squeezed shut. Her heart was beating a mile a minute. She knew she could very well die if she continued, but she needed to know. When Rheya finally forced her eyes open, she stared right into the boy‘s eyes. His eyes were the color of irises, large and innocent.

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She stared at them with a frightened, but unwavering gaze. ...Three-three-thousand, four-four-thousand, five-five-thousand… Nothing happened. She felt no pain in her body at all, her heart didn‘t explode. ―Why—why am I not dead?‖ She asked the boy. He stayed quiet for a moment, regarding her with a puzzled look. ―It was just a whip. It shouldn‘t kill you…‖ Right. Rheya had completely forgotten about the bloody lines that now marked her face and split her black uniform. She shook her head. ―Not the whip, your eyes. They should‘ve killed me, but….‖ ―My eyes?!‖ The boy‘s voice was incredulous. He snorted. ―Oh, yeah. Beware, my eyes shoot lasers out of them. One look at them and you‘ll be incinerated.‖ ―You idiot, I know what your kind really does to my people.‖ ―Yeah? And what‘s that? Do we turn you to stone?‖ ―Worse, you slit our veins before rupturing our hearts.‖ The boy threw his head back and laughed. ―I‘d be honored to retain that power. Then us Crows would have a way to combat your torturous powers.‖ ―Powers? We use nothing but our fists when fighting, like any honorable warrior would.‖ ―Liar,‖ the boy accused, gripping the rusted bars until his knuckles gleamed white. ―You‘re the ones who drive my people insane with your siren song. You make my people crazy enough so that they turn against each other, knives and swords in hand.‖ Rheya was stung. It wasn‘t just his words that hurt, it was the reality of their situation setting in. ―My people don‘t do any of that,‖ she whispered. ―Then what do you do?‖ ―We capture Crows and bring them to justice for their crimes.‖ The anger melted off the boy‘s face. ―What crimes?‖ ―Your kind kills my people from the inside out. I‘ve seen the autopsy reports…‖ ―We don‘t kill your people,‖ the boy said, shaking his head. ―We‘re too afraid of you Hunters. We hide in the eastern states and try to get away.‖ Rheya felt her world turning to ash, falling around her shoulders, down to the very floor she lay on. Everything she had ever been taught back when she was young, back in training school, it had been a lie. The boy before her, the people in the cells, they had all been hunted and tortured. And for what? They were innocent. They were in their cells for a belief that was nowhere near the truth. ―What‘s your name?‖ Rheya knew she was breaking a major rule, a dangerous one, but she didn‘t care. The army had lied to her. Nothing they said was worth following. The boy‘s eyebrows shot up. ―Axl,‖ he said. ―Axl Reed.‖ Rheya slung her hand through his cell‘s bars. ―I‘m Rheya Holly.‖ Axl looked at her hand skeptically. Then he took her hand, realizing she was trying to be friendly, and not trying to torture him the way so many others had. The prisoner and the guard sat there quietly, together and alone at the same time. Both of them were beginning to realize that the legend they had learned about was a lie. Neither of them knew exactly what to do next. ―Exactly why are you in this prison?‖ Rheya asked. ―Because Hunters don‘t like Crows.‖ Rheya said nothing more. The wheels in her head had begun to turn.

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―If you aren‘t the ones who kill the Hunters, then who does?‖ Rheya asked. ―The same thing that kills the Crows.‖ Rheya knew he was right. Neither of them was at fault here. The only thing they had done wrong was believe in the wrong cause. She sat up quickly, a new mission in mind. ―We don‘t belong here, Axl. They lied to us. There‘s something out there hunting both of our people, and we‘re sitting here, pointing the finger at each other when neither of us has done a thing.‖ Axl leaned in closer. ―Let‘s get out of here. Forget their lies. We‘ll hunt whatever is really killing us off. We‘ll make a difference in the world.‖ Rheya hated the desperation in her voice, but she was done believing in the Hunters‘ cause. Axl looked towards the doorway, where Evelyn had once vanished. ―She can‘t hurt you. No one can.‖ He nodded. Better to die fighting than to die rotting in a cell. Rheya pulled out a key hanging from a necklace chain. She unlocked Axl‘s cell and began leading the way towards the door. ―Wait.‖ Rheya turned when she felt Axl‘s hand on her shoulder. ―They haven‘t done anything either.‖ He looked around at the other prisoners, watching with shy, quiet eyes. He was right. They were just more victims of the Hunters‘ lies. One by one, she opened the cells until there were about fifty prisoners standing outside the iron bars. ―We have to go through that door, down the hallway, and up the spiral staircase. Go! If anyone sees us, we have to keep running. No matter what, we are getting out of here.‖ The prisoners stormed past the doorway and down the hall, just as Rheya had instructed. Just as the front prisoners had reached the staircase, the alarm began to sound. ―Run!‖ They ran for their lives. Rheya brought up the rear, encouraging them to run faster. As they neared the top of the staircase, Rheya looked down. Her heart almost stopped beating. Evelyn was at the base of the stairs, looking up at her. She knew what had been done. Rheya was done feeling frightened of her. She was the captain of a broken cause. And Rheya was done with that cause. She raised her chin, looked Evelyn dead in the eyes, and ripped the purple band off of her upper left arm of her uniform, letting it sink down towards her. The look of horror was unmistakable on Evelyn‘s face. Rheya moved up the steps once again, faster now. She was headed to a new future, one with a true cause. She cast a glance back at Evelyn, but she was just a shadow, occasionally lit up by the red that flashed in sync with the alarms. Instead, she found the purple band that had once meant so much to her. She watched with a surprising sense of freedom as the band floated down to the bottom of the staircase, just as her purple ribbon had. She felt something in her let go. She wasn‘t a Hunter anymore. No, she was now just a human, trailing behind fifty other humans, up towards a future, hope, a light.

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Lesser Vices (Excerpt) Rachel Sacks Vanity I sighed and turned around, letting out a groan in frustration. Why did he always talk like that? Is he scared? Is there something he‘s not telling me? I just couldn‘t figure him out. Even though we were already almost thirteen years old, I was still incapable of understanding what he was thinking. He appeared almost the same as me, like a carbon copy with the only difference being our gender. He was tall and lanky with flaxen hair, rosy skin, and almost freakishly wide golden eyes, just like me. We both wore the same spectacles with sprinkles of dust all over, and wore the same style of robes. Yet, even ignoring the difference in our genders, we did not look the same. There was this unmistakable difference in the way we simply...appeared. I always have thought myself in the moment and ready to charge, like a candle being tempted by the flame. I acted in the moment and rarely ever thought about what I did before doing so. No matter how hard I tried, I could never hide my emotions well. They came out bursting like water leaking out of a dam. I liked that about myself, though. I thought I was real and honest, the way I believed a person should be. Yet...Vladimir. Vladimir was a different case. I could never understand him. He always had this sort of unfocused, faraway gaze, as if he was prospecting from another planet. It was almost as if he simply observed life, and never participated in it. He rarely smiled or frowned. In fact, I could never gage his feelings at all or tell if he was lying. It upset me, because even though I told him everything and trusted he wouldn‘t tell another, I could not say the same of him. Who knew what sort of dirty secrets he kept from me? Who knew how often he lied to me? In fact, what if he was lying to me right then? What if he did know where we were and he wasn‘t telling me? What if he was conspiring against me, selling me off to some organ donors who were going to cut off all my skin an―Vanity?‖ ―What?‖ I turned around again, to see Vladimir once again stopped in his tracks. ―Um…‖ He began, his voice so soft is almost appeared feeble. ―Well, what is it?‖ ―Well, look...look, over there. Do you see that?‖ ―See what? Spit it out!‖ ―I can‘t describe it...just, look over there, to the right. Do you see it?‖ Slightly agitated still, I turned my head to the right of the forest. Suddenly, I felt something sharp hit my neck.

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Vladimir The creature kept following me and my sister Vanity as we walked along the forest side. Well, at least I thought it was a creature. It was so odd looking, I wasn‘t quite sure what to call it. It was simultaneously a man and a monster, simultaneously completely opaque and completely translucent. It, or maybe he, was so unnervingly terrifying that I almost felt shivers run down my spine just by looking at him. At first I thought he was going to try and attack us, but after some time he seemed content with just walking against us as we frolicked through the wilderness. He never even looked directly at me or Vanity. In fact, I began to wonder if he even noticed our existence at all. I debated telling Vanity about the creature that was following us, but she seemed so content in her happy little daydream that I‘d have felt immensely guilty having to pull her out of it. So, we remained like that for quite some time, me following Vanity quietly down the trail, not really saying anything, and the creature- who continued to trod down the forest brush without a care—walking beside me. At some point however, I noticed that I had begun to feel quite cold. I glanced around and saw that we were in a completely different area than before. The sky was dark and the clouds were heavy, and the familiar little noises the cute animals always made was nowhere to be heard. I glanced over to the creature again, and while he had not turned around, his previously pearly skin had transformed into a muddy brown. However, it was not that that appeared the most strange. It was the fact that his face looked exactly like mine.

Flock Rachel Wen In the gloomy town of Artadea where the snow regularly falls thickly over the landscape, there was a medium-sized orphanage run by the local church. Children who did not have the opportunity to have a family, had a solid roof over their heads, three reasonable meals, a warm and clean place to sleep, and an education taught by the church staff. The main building where sermons were held was adorn with beautiful stained-glass windows that allowed the pale sunlight to penetrate through and dance on the spotless floor in colorful arrays. Other than the spectacular majesty of the windows, this would be another common orphanage in the post-war world, if not for the fact that it housed three peculiar ―brothers‖. ―Let‘s go, Neil! You too, Crow,‖ a tall and blonde seventeen-year-old male called from outside a dorm. Hearing no response, he poked his head into the room. ―We‘re going to be late for breakfast, you two.‖ Now hearing mumbling, he walked in and loomed over the two children curled up next to each other for warmth in the bed. ―Crow,‖ the blonde sighed, ―didn‘t I tell you to leave Neil alone and sleep in your bed when it‘s bedtime?‖ The boy in question covered his head with the blanket in response and waved a hand in the air for dismissal. Underneath the sheet, he mumbled, ―Neil didn‘t stop me so it‘s fine.‖

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The boy who lay next to Crow opened his hazel eyes sleepily at the mention of his name. He looked next to him at Crow then stared at the tall figure with a faraway look for about a minute until he realized it was his older brother, Samuel. Almost immediately, his glazed-over eyes cleared and he sat up with a gentle smile on his face. ―Good morning, Sam!‖ Neil greeted chipperly. He stretched his arms and noticed a figure sleeping next to him under the blanket. He let out a yelp and pushed him off the bed and Crow landed with a thud on the hardwood floor. ―Crow!‖ Neil exclaimed, frightened, ―When did you get here?‖ ―Oww, what was that for, Neil?‖ Crow complained, rubbing his arm. ―If you do that again I‘ll put a pointy rock in your pillow.‖ A dark shadow fell across his face. ―Hey!‖ Samuel snapped, ―don‘t say things like that. I‘ve already let you dorm with Neil, don‘t push your luck.‖ ―Or you‘ll what?‖ Crow sat upright and grinned mischievously at Samuel, his black eyes glinting with defiance. Samuel muttered something incomprehensible and looked away. ―Whatever. Get dressed and I‘ll meet you two in the dining hall.‖ He stalked away and slammed the door shut. Now awake, Neil requested, ―Crow, don‘t poke at Samuel too much. Please?‖ ―Can‘t help it! And I was kidding about the rock thing.‖ Crow smiled and warmly reminded, ―Come on, get dressed. Don‘t want to eat cold breakfast.‖ Neil reluctantly nodded and wondered when the church had started serving breakfast. ―Now, my dear children,‖ a nun announced, ―we will be having guests visiting us soon, so please be on your best behavior for them, alright?‖ The children excitedly started conversing with each other, each fully knowing that these ―guests‖ would be families looking to adopt one or occasionally two of them, including Neil, Samuel, or Crow. The three of them huddled together, tensions always a bit high when adopting parents came to visit. This was caused by Crow who had a strange fixation with Neil, insisting that he had to stay with him no matter what, so they must be adopted as a pair. Obviously, Samuel had noticed this and grew a sense of distrust towards Crow. He figured that it was just a child‘s wish, as Crow and Neil were only thirteen and ten, respectively, but still couldn‘t shake the sense of unease that Crow caused around him. But Samuel never revealed his strong desire to stay with Neil. This was caused by when at the age of fourteen, Samuel had volunteered to drop out of school and work to support his single mother and Neil, who had a condition in which he would forget large chunks of his memory at random times. Unfortunately, when their mother had fallen ill, she could not afford to house both Neil and Samuel, so Samuel had agreed to try and find shelter someplace else. He had lived on his own for two years until a nun at the orphanage had found him collapsed from the cold in the winter. After being taken in at the age of sixteen, he had found out that his mother had passed away only a few weeks after he started living by himself and Neil was put in the orphanage shortly afterwards. He figured out that Neil had almost completely forgotten about him and had befriended Crow there, a ―problem child‖ that

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did not last even four weeks of being adopted before being returned back to the orphanage due to ―reasons that cannot not be discussed with others‖ which Samuel knew that these reasons would only be ones related to violence and extreme difficulties caused by the child. Samuel sighed and squatted down to Neil and gently grasped him by the shoulders. ―Neil, remember, don‘t put on a fake personality and be true to yourself. That is how we‘ll find a nice family who‘ll accept us for who we are to take us in, okay?‖ Neil glanced over at Crow, who had a scarily dark face staring at Samuel. ―Mhm, but Sam, what about Crow? He wants to be adopted with me. Can he?‖ Samuel closed his eyes and muttered out of the earshot of Crow, ―Don‘t worry about him. We have to be adopted together or we‘ll never see each other again,‖ he persuaded, hoping Neil would fall for it. Neil looked guiltily at his feet, torn apart from staying with his brother he barely remembers, or staying with the only true friend he‘s had. Nonetheless, he nodded silently and Samuel breathed a sigh of relief. ―Oh, look at you both!‖ a woman‘s voice happily exclaimed. The three boys looked surprised at the woman, whose clothes and posture suggested she belonged to a family of wealth. She peered down to look at Neil and Crow. ―How cute you kids are! Are you brothers? You two look so alike.‖ Immediately knowing this woman was the adoptee, Crow seized this opportunity and declared, ―Yes, we are brothers. My name is Crow and this is my little brother, Neil.‖ Hearing this, Samuel tensed up and grabbed Neil‘s hand. ―Actually, Miss, I‘m the older brother of Neil. Crow is not related to us.‖ The woman pursed her lips and looked at Samuel up and down, noticing the different hair color of blonde and brown, and the lack and presence of freckles. Really, the only thing they had in common were the same hazel eyes. ―How old are you, boy?‖ the woman questioned. ―I‘m seventeen, Miss,‖ Samuel responded firmly. The woman furrowed her brow and looked back at Crow and back to him. Ignoring the intense disapproving stare of Samuel, she turned away and once again smiled and crooned compliments about how ―cute‖ and ―adorable‖ Neil and Crow were as a pair. For the first time ever, Samuel started panicking about adoption and the safety of Neil being adopted. He already knew that he had little chance of being adopted due to him being a bit too old than what most families would be looking for, but he never imagined that someone would happen to want to adopt both Neil and Crow at the same time. Making up his mind, he pleaded to the woman to consider adopted him and Neil as a pair. She simply sneered at him and outright told him that he ―did not fit the image she wanted in her family‖ and stalked off to find the nun who was in charge of the adoption process. For the first time ever since the death of his mother, Samuel had cried. Tears rolled down his face, unstopping, at the thought of losing the last member of his family to some snobby woman and a probably insane kid he barely knows. ―Sam? Don‘t cry, please, don‘t cry,‖ Neil pled. ―Why are you crying? Didn‘t you want me to be adopted before it was too late?‖ ―He‘s just upset he didn‘t get adopted too, Neil. Don‘t worry, more families will come later. I think,‖ Crow said dismissively. He ran around in celebration around Neil. ―Aren‘t you happy? We‘re getting adopted together! Just like I told you when we met!‖ Crow turned around to Neil with a huge grin, but immediately frowned when he saw Neil not paying any attention to him, but rather his pathetic brother. He was about to confront them, but he before could get a chance to, the woman had returned with the nun.

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―Oh, you are looking to adopt Crow and…‖ the nun paused, noticing Samuel, ―Samuel, are you okay?‖ She immediately ran over to Samuel and rubbed his back, sobs shaking his entire body. This nun happened to be the same one who had found Samuel collapsed on the brink of death during the frigid winter wearing nothing but a thin jacket. ―Will you get on with it? I have a meeting in an hour,‖ the woman rudely demanded. The nun looked at her with a fake smile and whether it was petty revenge, sympathy towards Samuel, or a combination of both, she quietly asked Neil, ―Would you like to be adopted with Crow, or stay here with your brother?‖ Neil responded. Later, Samuel and the nun would stand next to the gates of the orphanage, the nun waving a fancy car off while Samuel stood next to her, staring at his feet. In the same week, the local newspaper would have a headline that read ―Seventeen-Year-Old Orphan Found Dead After Apparent Suicide.‖

Tiny House Rant Serene Hawes After school, when I remembered this assignment, I started half-assedly typing an essay on some school policy I didn‘t agree with. I was 388 words in when I remembered the one thing that pisses me off beyond all else, the one thing I could sit down and effortlessly rant about for hours without hesitation. The one thing that grinds my gears so much I would delete 388 words and start over. That thing is tiny houses. I spend my entire life watching HGTV, and when the Tiny House Hunters show comes on I either change the channel or just turn off the TV. Now, I know you may think that it‘s an unreasonable thing to have a passionate hatred for. Sure, you may be of the belief that tiny houses are innovative and fun, maybe even cute. You may think they‘re a good way to have a simple lifestyle and ―connect with nature‖ or you may agree with whatever other random bullshit reasons people cram themselves into living spaces half the size of a closet. But I‘m here to tell you that there‘s absolutely no good reason for anyone to even consider forcing themselves into a tiny house. For starters, I can‘t begin to fathom how anyone could even live in a space with the same square footage as a dog house, much less find it desirable in the slightest. The smallest RV‘s aren‘t a fraction as cramped as your average tiny house. Who the hell wants to live in a space where the kitchen and living room are indistinguishable, and the bed pulls out from the wall? Or maybe, your bed doesn‘t pull out from the wall and you have the luxury of a 2 foot loft bed and a

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The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

ladder! Who doesn‘t love smashing their head on the ceiling first thing in the morning, am I right? Oh, and maybe you think it would be easy to keep such a small space nice and clean. Wrong. You drop one thing on the floor and guess what? The whole place is trashed. I mean, it‘s not that hard when a single jelly bean could cover the entire surface of your kitchen floor. It‘s pretty easy to have a huge mess when the parameter of your house is measured in centimeters and you have zero storage space for anything. I don‘t care how much you empty out your closet and cut down on your things, you cannot make the space work. Come on. After just buying groceries for the week you won‘t even fit in there anymore. Forget ever having a clean house. Plus, if you enjoy having get-togethers or any means of entertaining, you can kiss hosting those events goodbye. Do I even need to explain how impractical and downright ridiculous it would be trying to fit other people in a space that barely holds you? Unless you intend on having everyone lay down and pile on each other like human Lincoln logs, it‘s not gonna happen. No watch parties, no family visits, no movie marathons. Looks like you‘re stuck waiting for someone else to throw something. And don‘t even get me started on the people that go out shopping for these, or at least the things they look for. The few times I‘ve actually watched the Tiny House Hunters I was in utter disgust. There was a guy looking at a tiny house barely over 100 square feet who claimed it was, and I quote, ―too big‖ for him. We‘re talking a house with a bathroom so small your knees knock the wall when you sit on the toilet, and he thought it was too big. That‘s a freaking paradox if you ask me. I actually have a friend who told me he wanted to live in a tiny house after graduating, and as you may guess, we got in a heated debate. He claimed that people like me expect humans to live on the moon when we ran out of space here, suggesting overpopulation and saying we all needed to move into smaller houses. Well, after some research I found out that there are enough empty houses for every homeless person to have six. Empty houses outnumber homeless people 6:1. So don‘t try to tell me we‘re running out of room here and that I need to suffocate myself in a shoebox because you think you‘re some sort of descendant of Superman solving overpopulation. Have fun in your tiny house, but don‘t try to convince me the rest of us need to suffer. Houses are supposed to be comfortable and homey, not crammed and dysfunctional. They‘re supposed to be somewhere to raise a family and settle down, not somewhere that you don‘t even have enough room for a pet goldfish. Houses are an art: houses with double staircases, vaulted ceilings, bay windows, nooks and crannies. Houses with secret crawl spaces, walk in closets, claw-foot bathtubs, and built in shelving. Houses with character. Somewhere you can fit a Christmas tree and invite your out-of-state family to come and visit. Tiny houses are not, and never will be real houses. They‘re a pathetic excuse of architecture and a waste of the small space that they do take up, if that makes any sense. Please, please, please, please, stop making these a thing. We need to stop encouraging them with their own TV show and stop having talented construction workers forced into hundred square foot boundaries. Everyone needs to come to the realization that our biggest problem is with the smallest houses. No, but really. This needs to stop.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

Unbroken Ruth Foulkrod The boy left her broken. She was unspoken. She couldn‘t bear the thought of telling And she was left, scared in her own dwelling. Finally she told To her mother who would mold How deep a mother‘s love; It goes beyond the flying dove. Yet her mother‘s love stopped there. It wouldn‘t dare threaten one that it bared, So she was left alone. She was broken to the bone. Could anyone love her? Could anyone heal her? Yes She was married years later To a loving donator. He loved her so much That he became her crutch. He became her cast That healed her past. And now she is strong, Nothing is wrong She can confidently say That although it wasn‘t her way, She wouldn‘t change a thing. Because she couldn‘t bring Her children into the world Without the man Who loved her so much, That he became her crutch. The man that became her cast That healed her past So to the boy who broke her, She‘s broken no more.

Anderson High School

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block

2016-2017

Uncomfortable Stephanie Battaglia There's something about the way that people eat that makes me uncomfortable. I can't quite put it to words but it is a vague sense of guilt and discomfort. Everyone eats a different way, yet it is the way that all people eat that makes me so uncomfortable. There's something about the way people eat that makes me uncomfortable. When people eat, they are at one of their most vulnerable positions. Hunger is an altering emotion; it has the ability to change people. When you see someone taking a bite out of something, chewing it, their guard is down and their body is in need of energy. They are weak. To eat, people open their mouths, a vulnerable point in their body, and then they must demolish the food into something nearly unrecognizable in order to simply swallow it. When my grandfather eats ice cream, he always has it served on a cone with an extra scoop. He always opens his mouth wider than necessary and uses his tongue far too often. When he eats his ice cream he bites through his lips as to save his teeth from the pain of the ice cream. Sometimes he drops a little when eating it and my heart breaks a little bit. For he is putting so much effort yet so little thought into eating the ice cream and it then does the unthinkable and misses his mouth. Gravity pulls it to the hot pavement and the ice cream quickly melts forming a small puddle of what could have been. When my father eats pasta, he always seems to be in a hurry and threatened. He slurps far too often and takes little time to savor the food. He holds a napkin balled up in a fist and a fork in the other, alternating between shoveling and wiping. Sometimes he will take breaks in between eating his pasta and will hastily drink about three sips of water or apple juice, never anything else. Sometimes when he eats, I am very scared and afraid for he attacks his food the same way that he did my childhood, consuming both at an unnatural speed. He always ends the meal with just a bit of food or sauce on his face and almost always finishes with a strong burp. Then taking his balled up napkin, he wipes his face, stands up, and leaves the remnants of the ill-fated pasta. When my ex-boyfriend eats pizza, he always takes it for granted and never truly savors it. He always grabs it far too hard, crushing the outer crust of the slice. Like my father, he keeps a napkin balled in one fist and the slice of pizza in the other, alternating between the two. However, he rarely drinks anything during meals leading some to believe he likes to take things one at a time. This however is not true and burns me. For he must have more than one of everything at the same time because one is never enough. This is why he has two slices of pizza on his plate rather than one at a time. He always eats, ignoring his surroundings, with similar haste as my father. However when he finishes with both slices, he always makes sure to throw the unused parts into the trash can with the balled up napkin from his fist on top. When my brother eats cereal, he pours the milk then the cereal and slurps the extra milk when he finishes his cereal. He always drinks all of the milk, never leaving any behind. He is often quite hungry and will have two bowls of cereal. He uses a spoon, but if you were to close your eyes and simply listen, you would not think so. For he is loud and immature with his slurping and chomping. He chews the cereal with his mouth open and no napkin in sight.

Anderson High School

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block

2016-2017

Sometimes when my brother eats cereal, I forget about all of the horrible things in life and the lack of innocence in the world. For my brother eats like a child but behaves as an adult who still has many hard lessons to learn and mistakes to make. It makes me forget what he did to me and I see him as the little boy I grew up with and not an assailant. When he finishes his cereal, he always lets the dog have a couple of licks from the bowl and then takes it to the sink in the kitchen. However, he never washes it because that is my job. The most uncomfortable part of watching people eat, however, is when they drop their food. In the animal kingdom, animals must fight to eat, to survive. It is not like that for humans; they have become too privileged. If an animal were to let its guard down to spend 30 minutes socializing and eating to only waste 1/3 of the food would simply result in the death of the animal. The animal would then have to die because it is eat or be eaten and if you don't even bother to acknowledge your own vulnerability then you will wake to a bear about to maul you. When people eat, they are becoming one with every other living thing. It's simple consumption. They are all animals and they all need to survive. However, instead of mauling them, the bear asks the humans if they need ketchup with that or a refill on their drink. For the people have taken control of the bear and he now lives his life in service of the people. Of course the humans ultimately ignore the bear. Though they are vulnerable, they are self-absorbed. They take their time because they are entitled to it. Time is not a thing to them but rather a slave. Much like their bear, they take what they're handed for granted and don't think of the bear or anyone else for that matter. Though the people are vulnerable, weak, and in need of energy they continue to enslave the bear and time and eventually you. There's something about the way people eat that makes me uncomfortable. For the guilt and discomfort that accompanies watching people eat ice cream, pasta, pizza, and cereal is bone chilling alone. You are able to see someone's true nature because they are unable to be anything but animals. You need only watch someone eat to truly know them, and that is what makes me the most uncomfortable.

Gyasi Bonds Depression Where, how, what is this place? I just don't know I thought I was prepared, but not here My emotions were pierced by a sharp arrow I just wish I was with you, now itâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s clear I wish I had known where my thoughts might lay Pain is the idea of this dark place I know my feelings were hidden away And now I understand where I amâ&#x20AC;Ś in space I used to never ever fall asleep Because sleep is just the cousin of death I would lie in bed silently and weep Counting carefully every single breath This place is much too quiet and still Now I see that I'm only here By my own will

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

Tomorrow Taylor Johnson They say that the promise of something so unknown is thrilling, That everything about it is a mystery. Tomorrow is supposed to be something to look forward to, But I simply do not agree. It‘s not some magical land where anything can happen Because I know what happens tomorrow. Tomorrow is the test I forgot to study for, And the toothpaste stain on my favorite shirt. It‘s the homework I‘m not going to understand. It‘s the gum I‘m going to step in on the staircase. It‘s the constant annoyances of high school, Or unfriendly acquaintances at work, Or the arguments at home. It‘s every bad thing that‘s been waiting to happen, And someone made a word for it. But it‘s also the kiss on the cheek that you‘ve been waiting for. It‘s the ―good morning‖ hugs from your best friends. It‘s the sun on your skin, And the dinner at your favorite restaurant. It‘s the new album that was released by your favorite band, The birth of someone‘s first child Or someone‘s 4th. It‘s the movie that‘s ―coming soon to theaters.‖ It‘s the cup of coffee that you have every morning, And the hot shower every evening. It‘s the butterfly that landed on your hand, And the cutest pug in the next car‘s window. It‘s the expected and the unusual, The wonderful and the horrible and the exciting, And someone made a word for it.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2016-2017

Thanks for Reading Anderson High School’s

The Writers’ Block Literary Magazine 2016 – 2017

A Demotivator Ruth Foulkrod

Anderson High School