The Writers' Block 2018 by The Writers' Block: Anderson High School Literary Magazine

The 2017 – 2018

Writers’ Block

Art by Chloe DaMommio

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

2017-2018

Dear Readers, Welcome to this diverse smattering of works from Anderson’s 2017 – 2018 creative writers. Within these pages, you will find a panoply of topics, a plethora of tones, and a panorama of tangents that come straight out of the minds of some extraordinarily interesting students. One thing to note, though: while our creative writing classes are places of intense imagination and intense play, they are not places of intense censorship. Therefore, some of the word choices, themes, and imagery may not be suitable for younger audiences. In other words, this is a high school publication intended for adolescents, young adults, and adults, so you have been warned—or perhaps titillated. In any case, we hope you enjoy the efforts of our students this year! Literally Yours, Jason Farr and Rebecca McMahon

Special thanks go 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. And of course, thank you to all the students who have contributed and given their time and energy to improving their writing this year. 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

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

Table of Contents Author

Title

Page

Karina Peña

Awi and the Bicycle

Jacob Singer

Humanity

Forest Fero

Barbarossa

Adoree Benke

Sterile and Pure

Jadin Leon

The Shack in the Wheat Field

Gwyneth Yeager

Poetry Collection: Texas

Diana Um

Pop Red Beans

Rafael Serrano

The Vatican Vape

Abby Ketchum

Break-Up Letter

Van Pelt Collamer

Seriously? You’re Gonna Hate on Rap Music?

Genesis Gonzalez

Negative People

Elexia Perkins

Trouble at Weiner World

Elise Hailey

Lights

Brenna Siebert

A Toy on Your Shelf

Chris Livaudais

A Slide Down Memory Lane

Mike McLean

Elegy for Chester Bennington

Lucy Taylor

How to Feel

Daniel Rios

Sweaty Mouth (Ode to Tacos)

Rachel Orellana

A Key to the Heart

Lauren Kinzy

A Conversation: Part II

Daniel Rosales

Ready for War

Erin Jordan

Letter from a Nut

Avery Ward

There is a Tweet for Everything (found poem)

Emma McCarson

Bedtime Stories

Derrick Rehuher

Need a Lift?

Lauren Hodges

Imagine This…

Serene Hawes

Why I Didn’t Get My Own Room

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

Chloe Hightower

Always With You

Aidan Trulove

Imaginary

Yehuda Brock

The Adventures of Yehuda

Logan DiCristofalo

Poetry Collection: Growth

Delia Lopez

Cry

Analisa Lugo Cisneros

Home

Luca Decamillo

Dear Dad

Jack Jones

Dazed and Un-amazed

Chris Garana

Grandfather

Sophie Shields

Embers and the Unexplained

Ian Harris

Death Row

Jane Johnston

Artist’s Revenge

Gabriela Abundis

Losing Faith

Annali Jackson

Crabs

Gabe Palomares

Dialing

Chloe DaMommio

You Ask Me

Vanessa Ugarte

Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream

Holden Clarkson

Sister + Supernatural = Bullet in My Brain

Ryan Orr

Cozumel

Sara Valentine

Ocean Love

Ally Soltero

The Puppeteer (excerpt)

Hannah Shores

Midnight Hour

Molly Thompson

Terranaut

Chap Newton

Icon of a Midnight Daydream

India Roddy

Guilt

Amaya Leon

The Old Queen

Anabelle Gilliam

Stained Glass Carnival

Read On …

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

Awi and the Bicycle Karina Peña Standing in the open garage, I stared at the bicycle. I remembered picking it out when I was seven, almost three years ago. All the bicycles we looked at that day were pink, with glistening streamers on the handles and covered in a lot of flowers. They were too “girly,” so I picked one of the boy bikes. The bicycle I picked out was gray with black. I loved it, and my parents bought me a blue whale to put on the handle and it squeaked when I pressed it. I looked really quick down to the dent on the side of the bike from the time I rode it into the lake a few years ago. It still had training wheels then. Mom dragged it out of the water and Dad calmed me down. I remember scraping my knee and using his shirt to wipe my tears. Ever since then, I haven’t really ridden my bike. Now the bike in front of me did not have training wheels for the first time ever. The memories made me think about what I still had to do. My mom’s words echoed in my head: Well, you can either learn to ride a bike or carpool with the Hendersons. I remember looking at her in horror. The Hendersons?! I can’t stand them! Don’t even get me started on their younger sister! On Halloween they had a party and tied donuts to a string, then dangled the donuts from one of the trees in our front yard. Our yard! They didn’t even ask for permission! When me and Dad came home from school, I saw a weird look on Dad’s face. If it was me that did that, I would be banned from staying up to watch Disney channel for a long time. Why were they allowed to just do that without asking? AND they put a bouncy house in our driveway in front of our garage! I looked back at the bicycle, really determined. I’d rather walk to school than ride with the Hendersons. But I can’t do that because then I’d be sweaty and Grayson Serio would see! So, I have to learn. I scrunched up my face like that one time my dad tricked me into eating a lemon candy. He laughed, I didn’t. “Are you just going to stand there o ponte las pilas?” I heard a voice from behind me and turned around. Awi, my grandmother, was leaning up against the door. She always spoke mostly in Spanish and only sometimes English. Mami and Papi called it Spanglish. “Eh?” She moved from her position against the garage entrance to walk over to me. As she reached me, I immediately wrapped my arms around her stomach and as always, she was warm. She was still waiting for me to say something and ran her hand through my hair. I knew I could let her know how I really feel. I looked back at the bicycle before mumbling, “I’m scared.” “Hmm?” she asked. I tilted my head to look up at her and said again, “I’m scared.” I felt my eyes get watery, but not because I was sad. Earlier this school year we had a “bike rodeo” and I was one of the only fourth graders that used training wheels. “Kari, mija, don’t be scared.” “But why can’t Mami and Papi just use the car to pick me up?” I asked, frustrated. I didn’t understand what was wrong with using our car. A look crossed her face for a moment. It was the type of face that she made when she was trying not to look sorry for someone and it

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made crinkles appear near her eyes and forehead. It was gone a second later. She smiled at me, “Mami and Papi have to use the car to get to work.” I was still confused, “Why can’t we just get another car?” Awi sighed. “It takes a lot of money to get a car. A car costs thousands of dollars.” “Really?” That’s a lot of money. How do you even get that much money? Awi nodded her head. I thought about the car we have now and how we use it to do everything. In the mornings, Papi drops Mami off at work. She works in a big bank in downtown. Then Papi comes back, takes me to school, and is with Sabrina the rest of the day. But that was when he wasn’t working and next year, he’ll have to take Sabri to school too. I hope we have another car by then. He can’t pick me up like he used to, so I have to learn to ride a bike. Awi sighed and pulled away, “Ven, Grab your helmet. The bike isn’t going to ride itself.” I nodded. I turned away and walked to the wall with our helmets. As I got to mine, my silhouette cast a shadow over it, turning the light blue color into a dark gray. The silver on the sides reflected the light before my shadow blocked it, mocking me. Taunting me in the voices of snobby fourth graders. My hand wobbled for a second. I imagined my mom telling me, “Or ride with the Hendersons,” those words casting a dark shadow over me. I imagined the twins, laughing and pointing at my training wheels with gold crowns on their heads, #1 on the front of the crowns. Myself, uncontrollably crashing into the lake, everyone watching like a slow-motion movie. I saw my parents, as I lost control of the pedals, yelling, “NO!!!” “Karina?” I blinked and remembered where I was, standing in front of the cursed helmet. Grabbing the helmet, I turned around and walked over to her to help me with the straps. She had parked it in the middle of our driveway and as she helped me with the straps, I stared at the devil bike. From the side, it looked like a metal monster with eyes too big and pupils too small. She stepped back and I looked up at her with terror in my eyes. She gently pushed me over to the bicycle, “Ay, Kari, no seas tan dramatica.” I wasn’t being that dramatic. Awi helped me get on the bike and then put the kickstand back in its place. “Lista?” she asked me, her hands on the back of the seat, ready to push me to my death. I brought my hands up to grasp the handles and put my feet on the pedals. I pushed down all my fear and thought about the future. Everyone would be able to see that I could ride my bicycle without the training wheels, even Grayson Serio. I nodded my head. “Ok, I won’t be holding onto you the whole time. When I push, start pedaling and keep pedaling. Move the handles like this to control where you go.” She showed me how to steer. “Ok, on three. 1, 2...3!!!!” Awi started pushing me and I did as she said. Slowly, then faster, I started pedaling. I felt excited and hopeful. I’m doing it! She let go and I kept pedaling, but I forgot how to steer and yelled as I crashed into the pole of the fence. I hit my shoulder and fell off the bike. Awi said something I didn’t understand and ran over to me to see if I was alright. Shame. My face felt hot and I could feel tears starting to form. Awi saw it coming and pulled me up, fixing my clothes. “Ah, ah, ah. It’s okay. That’s the only way you’ll learn. Vamos. Let’s do it again.” What? Again? I looked up at her ready to complain, but she put her hand on her hip and gave me a look. I knew she wouldn’t just let me walk away. There was no arguing with her, so I

Anderson High School

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let her take my bicycle and wheel it back to start again. Again and again, I failed. I didn’t get past the fence without wobbling then stopping. After the first time I fell, I was afraid of going too fast. I don’t know how much time had passed, but Awi kept telling me, “Come on, shake it off. Otra vez.” And I thought Papi was stubborn. I was ready to give up, my stomach was starting to growl, and the sky was starting to get dark when Awi said, “Ok. One last time then we can go inside and eat dinner.” Finally! I was so excited to eat and so ready to be done that I immediately got on the bike with my hands on the handles and my feet on the pedals. “...Go!” Awi pushed on the back of my seat and I started pedaling and remembering to steer this time. After a few seconds, I didn’t feel her hands on my seat anymore. I didn’t want to turn around because then I would crash, so I kept going. As I neared the street I froze up for a moment. Then I thought about the Hendersons and everyone else. I imagined my parents, all the kids at school, and Awi when they see me, Karina Peña, riding her bike without training wheels. Before I rode into the street, I turned the handles. I was in the very front of my house when I stopped. I could feel my heart beating in my ears. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. I heard Awi running up and turned to her, my eyes wide. I can’t believe I just rode my bicycle for the first time ever without training wheels! I jumped up from my seat, leaving my bicycle on the sidewalk and ran to her. “I DID IT!” I yelled and ran into her arms laughing. I feel so free! Is this what being an adult feels like? I don’t need anyone to push me along ever again! Awi smiled widely and kissed the top of my head, “I know. Yo sé.”

Humanity Jacob Singer For the things that I have done I should be sentenced for life; And I think about it every day. Once I was asked by a dear friend of mine, “Are you okay?” And all I said was “yes” But on the inside, I was thinking No On the inside, I was telling them to look me in the eyes and tell me what they saw It all starts with the eyes And my eyes are imperfect My right eye was ravaged by disease, nothing more than the common cold It doesn’t see well anymore But I like it My world has now become twisted and warped I get both a picture of perfection from my perfect left eye

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And a half-world void of color from my right It suits me, it defines me well I tell my friend I, Romeo Smit, have seen too much And it has shown me what is wrong with the world around me I can see what others don't I know more than they will ever dream I have the power to fix the world, I can save the future. I know I can. â&#x20AC;&#x201D;But I also have the power to end it all.

I stay stationary in my life, everyday fighting inside of myself I can both save and destroy the world But I do neither I am stuck I cannot decide what to do I could save the world and go down in history, be incredibly famous, be praised for all that I have done Or I could be called worse than Jack the Ripper, worse than Hitler, worse than all the terrors that have ever plagued humanity It all comes down to a choice about what I want to do with the knowledge that I have Or I could end up in jail I could do small acts of charity everyday I could get shot by the FBI whilst climbing the stairs of my future All that I have to say could end up on deaf ears and in blank minds And I could live an ordinary life, like most other people do I would never be known I would never be remembered I would never have lived a meaningful life And all because of an impossible choice No one would know that I could have been the greatest catalyst in all of history.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

Barbarossa Forest Fero All aboard, we’re heading east A strike at the heart, charging ahead Marching into the den of the beast A holy crusade, on hard ground we tread Easy going, at first we feast Piercing through, slinging lead Cold sets in, our wheels must go ungreased Our progress slows, the battle has come to a head The bodies pile as more men become deceased Our supplies dwindle, another night lacking bread We pray for an end, but there is no priest Crawling back, our fingers bled We’re back home, enemies advancing from the east Frozen, missing eyes and broken limbs, craving a warm bed But there is no respite from the beast We are slain, onto our soil they tread

Sterile and Pure Adoree Benke The Hospital This sterile room is the bane of my existence. An object of my essence. A place everyone fears, but a place of relief too. Clumsy faded white curtains droop from the pole on top of the window. Some enjoy the company of shadows. Some don't. The thing is: shadows demand to be seen. Felt. So, when the overwhelming guilt of a relative shades the tired eyes of the patient, a shadow crowds around with this opportunity. Now, the patient doesn’t see the sympathetic eyes of the relative, but instead, the cool air and dark face. You see, I did this very same thing, as most do. I leaned down, my body titled over like a dolphin jumping out of the water. Except, when I look down, I don’t see the happiness of my relative, but a vanished presence. A dark ocean with no bottom. Too shallow to swim, too deep to survive. Living with a sickness is not all morphine drips and frequent hospital visits, but learning how to cope with the impending death. Soon enough the price will become too much, and the debt grows like medical bills on the kitchen counter. The only way to clear this obligation is sacrifice. Sacrificing mostly love, not life. Tick-tock These days are the hardest for me. The way the wind blows, almost as if it is trying to scatter the pieces of my essences that conform to my identity. The way the sun scatters from the school windows, avoiding touching me with its purity. I have found that relying on people to ignite happiness within a dusty fireplace is not effective. People. They will not always be there for yourself. At the end of the day, when the sun sets, and the creatures of the world rest their

Anderson High School

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eyes into bliss, into personal surrender, all you have is yourself. Your essence. Your existence. See. I have, for too long, relied on others to produce contentment and happiness for me, so when the screeching sounds of ambulances became my night-time soundtrack, the happiness died. The dedication to invest in personal relationships was washed away with the loss, from tears, cleaning my dirty face. A face of too much pressure. A mind of too much anxiety. These pages are not what cut me, but instead, the expectations embroidered on them like a customary letterman jacket. These days are the days when the only words that letters form is Silence. How can I expect myself to speak, when my voice is the pitch of the sirens that blared in the nighttime ocean of darkness? A wave of regret. Sand of sin. Footprints of a lost soul. All overcome by death. Sickness I cannot remember when he wasn’t sick. When his eyes where only a mere reflection of doomsday. A clock ticking. Time is running out. Love is running out. Happiness is running out. You see, these three things are the only ones that cannot be bought by money. They have no price. I was sitting in English class, watching the second hand circle. A road with no beginning and no ending. One of no exit. A cycle of pain, lagging on like a too-crowded wifi. In English we were analyzing a science report article addressing aspects and properties of dreams. It was by Sigmund Freud. Usually, I would be in the mood to analyze his complicated report, but all I could think about was time. What time was it? Well, it never can exactly be a certain time because time is ever-changing. What time would it be when that would happen? Only God would know. As I was shifting around in my seat, I couldn't help but wonder what was life? Now, I am not asking for a Webster's Dictionary definition, but rather the metaphorical assumption regarding this. Life can be addressed in whatever context chosen. It is so versatile that one size does fit all. The whole day, I formulated what life really was. Scouring my brain for a sentence that would explain it all. That would fix everything. Except there would never be only one word or one sentence that could truly encompass and describe life as it really was. Yes, I am making the accusation that Webster’s definition for life can be countered, just like most scenarios. Growing Old I should be excited, but I am not. My birthday was in two days. A celebration. But for what? Celebrating my year closer to death? Closer to the end? Yes, we would be celebrating all that I have accomplished, not much, but how could that be deemed as more important that the impending doom? Time. Time is my enemy. It takes all that is good and evaporates it. A tea once soothing and warm, now cold and bitter. It has taken me a while to remember a positive lively memory of his existence. His life. His death.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

His Scent I still remember the moments when I walked into my grandparents’ house. He would always be sitting in his rocker reading or dozing off in front of the TV. My knees cracked as I crouched near him. “Papa?” A single word with a blur of a lifetime of memories. By this point, if no response prevailed, I would reach my arm out like an unspoken song and brush it against his navy cotton dress. A smile would rise on his wrinkled face like the sun shining over the horizon lighting the Golden Gate Bridge into thousands of colors. “Hi, my love,” he would say, giving me a kiss on my cheek. Every time that I step back into my grandparents’ house, it is not the essence and the objects inside the house that bring me back to the times with my grandpa, but rather the smell. It is almost as if his scent has been deeply rooted under the structure of this house. Fermenting within the ruffled carpet. The plaster walls and hundreds of fragrance packets scattered around every corner are no match for his spirit. The day after the death of my grandpa, I sat in the car for ten minutes staring at the front of the house. I did not want to walk the path to the door. A path of acceptance. He is dead. He is gone. Unanswered Questions Guilt traps me in its cage at night, replaying all the moments when all that surrounded me was annoyance and stress from my grandpa. My grandfather was not one to let questions go unanswered. A plan made was a plan followed. If something new was added or something was redacted, my grandfather would probe questions after questions. Some of which were: What is the travel time? When do we need to leave? What is the route? Where is the printed map? What is the traffic like? Where are we going after? So you see, when he started losing his memory, more questions would be asked. I tried my best to keep composure but every relapse back into the same question or a variation of the same question, pricked me. I started asking questions of myself. Questions I could not answer, but, “should” worry about. What will happen when he dies? How will I cope? What really does my future hold? The questions he could not help but ask were constant reminders that nothing can be ensured. Nothing can be controlled. Life is unpredictable. My grandpa would die. My grandpa did die. Some think that happiness is a forever lit candle, but, truly, it is not. Heavy expectations and disapproval blow out the flame even with the smallest ripple of wind. For me at least, I constantly have to remind myself to be happy. It is a place that needs to always to be re-reached. A place that fades away into a world of gray after time. A thought, action, song, or even word that reflects a depressive past memory shatters the home I reside in for safety. Candles lit around my hunched body. Dreams Under Dreams The time I realized my grandfather was losing his memory was a sudden jolt through my body. My world faded away to dream state. I was on a prairie of land. Fields of grass were the only things that surrounded me. Flowers were scattered around the land. It was a pleasant sight,

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for the first few minutes. Nice until the reality sunk in that I was alone. I was suddenly running. My bare feet smashing flowers and hitting twigs. Blood oozed over the bottoms of my feet adding another layer of protection between this hated land and my stricken self. No thought. No pain. I ran until I could run no more. I turned around to only see land. Not a distance of success or travel, but just space. Too much space. The dead flowers behind me were remains of desires and hopes that never had a chance to fully grow. Crushed from the top under the pressure of its own self. The sky above my sweaty head was growing darker. The sun was setting. The light was setting. Darkness was coming out from the shadows to take full form. The light is leaving. Time was almost up. I made no progress. There was no future among cold winds and a black land. As the last sliver of light retreated and my eyes filled with black, I was brought back to the present. To a place in time that marked a distance traveled, success made, but, still, an unpredictable future. The End My memories of my grandfather’s life are pieces of my puzzle, one not yet complete. Not whole. I am still searching for things to complete me. Moments to make me whole. The times with my grandfather and my memories with him are different worlds. Different places. My mind a messy jambalaya soup. Pieces that need to be there and pieces that don’t. My grandfather died on July 26, 2017 at 9:32 pm. Eight days after my birthday. Those numbers that define his lifetime are ones I will never forget. Never let slip away. My grandfather is dead, but I still think of him in present tense like he will come home. Dying is not the same as leaving. And I am still trying to remember that.

The Shack in the Wheat Field Jadin Leon July 16th, 1998 “I got you a flower!” Jason extended his arm out towards me, offering me a small dandelion. I smiled in return, taking the flower from his grasp and placing it in my long blonde hair. The green of the stem complemented my green top nicely. And the white of the dandelion puffs matched with my little white flats. “Wow, Jasey, thanks!” I announced. “Heh...” I noticed his cheeks flush a bright crimson red before he turned away, wandering through the wheat fields back towards his house. I followed behind him, my stubby, little seven-year-old kid legs making it difficult to

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keep up with him. He was only a year older than me, but was taller and much quicker when it came to walking or running. “Hey, Jasey?” I called out, lightly tapping him on the shoulder. “Hmm?” “Why do you live all by yourself out here?” It was a question I had been wondering since I had gone home with him one Friday afternoon last year. “Why don’t you live all by yourself?” He reversed the question onto me defensively as we both entered the small wooden shack. Inside, there was nothing but a makeshift straw bed, three wooden chairs, and a furnace. No sink, no sofa, no tables, no parents. “Because my mom and dad wouldn’t let me live all by myself. Hey! I have an idea, maybe you can stay with me and my parents! That way you wouldn’t live all by yourself. And you could eat food—” “No. I like living on my own. And I eat food regularly...” Jason cut me off, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Does anyone else know that you live on your own?” I frowned. “No. And I want to keep it like that. Okay? I only told you because I trust you, Jenna.” His gray eyes reflected my own hazel ones as he brushed a strand of his light brown hair from his lightly freckled face. “Okay. I won’t tell anyone. But if you need help, just let me know, and I can help you,” I assured him. He nodded once in response, and that was the end of that conversation.

June 7th, 2008 “Don’t laugh... Jason! I told you not to laugh!” I kept my hands over his eyes as I led him through the field towards his home. “This is ridiculous. Jenna, what are you doing?” He smirked, every once in a while, tripping over something until we eventually stumbled into the shack. I uncovered his eyes, throwing my arms out dramatically as I let out a loud “Ta da!” Within his usually bland and boring shack was a painted white table with a small lopsided birthday cake on it. Clearly, homemade. Around the room were fairy lights and colorful balloons. I stepped back, proud of my hard work. It had taken all day to set up. I peered over my shoulder at Jason. His eyes were widened, yet soft. I noticed his lip curl upwards ever so slightly into a smile. And at seeing that, I let out a small sigh of relief. Mission accomplished! “Happy birthday!” I announced. “It’s nice,” he grinned, knocking his hand against the small table. “‘Nice’? What?! That’s it?” I complained, nudging his shoulder in utter disbelief at his nonchalant reaction. He scoffed, patting me sympathetically on my head. “It’s wonderful. Wow, I’m in amazement! Absolutely stunning decorations! What you’ve done with the interior... Mmm, straight out of a homeowner’s magazine.” I laughed, once again, nudging him in the shoulder. “Okay, no need to be sarcastic there, mister!” He wrapped one arm around my shoulder, and with his other arm, pulled a chair away from the table, gesturing for me to sit down. “After you.”

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I took a seat as he pushed in my chair for me and moved to sit across from me. “I was thinking that we could maybe watch a movie tonight. Hang out at my place for a little while—” I started. “I can’t do anything tonight... Actually... Right after we eat the cake, you’re going to have to leave. I’m busy,” Jason interrupted as he began to cut the cake with a plastic knife I had supplied. “Oh? But you said yesterday that you wouldn’t be busy tonight. And I even picked out your favorite movie! My parents are out of town tonight, so we’d have the movie room all to ourselves if you wanted to watch it—” “I was probably tired when I told you I wasn’t busy. I have a lot going on tonight. Y’know, cleaning this stuff up and uh... Other things after that…?” “Well, I can help you clean up! I’m the one that hung the decorations after all!” “No! No need. I’ve got it.” “C’mon Jason! It’s your birthday. I won’t make you clean on your birthday! And it’s only, what—” I paused, glancing down at my flip phone. “Seven thirty! The night is still young!” I could see that Jason was weary of the situation, but defeated; he let out a small sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, okay. Just—you’ve gotta leave by eight, okay?” “Alright! Well we’d better start popping balloons then!” I smiled. Jason let out a small groan as he stood from his seat, the two of us beginning our quest to clean up the many decorations I had strung up. Though as the minutes passed, and the night progressed, I noticed Jason was growing increasingly uncomfortable. His eyes constantly flicking between me and his watch. This sort of thing had happened before in the past. Back when I was twelve and Jason was thirteen. The two of us had been hanging out near the stream by his house, completely losing track of time. And once the sun had set over the horizon, Jason just got the most panicked look on his face. He was absolutely horrified. He got up, told me to leave, and sprinted home. The exact same scenario happened only a year later. And again, a few months after that. And I won’t lie, I was completely suspicious and curious. Who wouldn’t be?! Best friend seemingly hiding a million things from you. Where were his parents? Why did he live by himself? Why was I the only person who knew that he lived by himself? What was he hiding? How could he afford food or clothes or anything for that matter?! I had never gotten a single answer to any of those questions! And for some reason, that realization had just struck me like a bag of bricks. “Eight o’clock! Alright, time for you to go!” Jason stated, practically dragging me outside of the house before offering me a small wave and slamming the door. “Okay, Jason Rivers... What are you hiding?” I muttered under my breath as I crept around the back of his house, peering in through one of the many small, eye-sized holes. I think I might have stayed there for a full hour before something eventually happened. But good grief, that hour was long and tedious. I was about to give up after watching Jason pace back and forth in the room for so long. But just as I stepped away from the exterior of the house, I heard a loud, blood-curdling scream that caused me to jump backwards, barely catching myself. I raced to the front of the house, placing a hand on the handle of the front door. But of course, it was locked. I backed up, ramming the full weight of my body against it. The wooden door shuttered and creaked, but didn’t budge even a little bit. I again backed up, then slammed into the door. This time, however, the door rattled, letting out an eerie errrreeek. “Who’s—gah! Out there..!?” I heard Jason call out with a slight strain in his voice.

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The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

Clearly he was in pain. Third time was a charm. I rammed myself against the door, causing it to burst open. Inside of the house, Jason was backed up into a corner, his eyes were bloodshot, and his face held a pained expression. I approached him quickly, instinctively placing a hand on his forehead. Though the moment I reached out for him, Jason shoved me backwards. “Get out! Do you have a death wish?!” He roared. “Jason! Shit, you’re burning up! What the hell happened?! Let me help you!” “I don’t need your help, Jenna! Get the hell—” He keeled over in pain, clutching his stomach as he dropped to his knees. I again approached him with a vast amount of worry plaguing my mind. My lip quivered in fear as I kneeled down next to him, just about ready to pull out my phone and dial 9-1-1. And I would have, if there was any cell service out where we were. But it was the middle of nowhere after all. “What’s going on!? How can I help you?” “Leave!” He yelled, briefly gesturing to the door. I couldn’t leave my friend! Especially not like that! I placed a hand on his cheek, doing my best to calm him as I surveyed him for any injuries. Though without hesitation, he swatted it away, letting out a loud scream in pain. A gruesome crack came from his neck without warning. He crumpled over, his limbs twisting and churning into odd shapes. I scooted backwards, my eyes locking onto his as I watched him transform into some sort of monstrous alien being. I felt my heart racing as the urge to pass out crept through my head. I pinched my arm at least five times as this monster shook the entire house as it stood up. Was I dreaming? Was this just a nightmare? The pieces to the puzzle suddenly fit. Some nights he didn’t want me around. Was it because of this? Or why he lived alone?! Why he had no parents? How he got his food?! I felt my breathing grow heavy as I struggled to my feet. “J- Jason?” I huffed, taking a small step towards the door. In response, the being let out a loud, high-pitched, alien-like screech, and bolted directly at me. I screamed, racing outside of the house and out into the open field. The wheat constantly whipping my face as I sprinted through the open field. I didn’t know where I was going, where I was heading towards. But in the end, it didn’t matter. Whatever that thing was, it was faster than me. It caught up to me within a matter of seconds, knocking me forward with a loud thud. I flipped over, onto my back as I watched the monster loom over me. Hot tears slipped down my cheeks. The thought of death had never crossed my mind. Certainly not that day, and certainly not by my own friend. “Jasey... H- Hold on a moment. I- I don’t know if you can hear me... But if you can... Please! It’s me, It- It’s me! Jenna! It’s Jenna, your friend! We’re best friends, remember? We care about each other! Please Jason,” I stammered. There was a long hesitation from the monster. It tilted its head to the side, seemingly pondering my words. And for a second, I thought maybe Jason had understood me. But the exact moment I had let my guard down, and let out a shaky sigh of relief, the being bared its teeth and opened its mouth to engulf me. Sounds of screaming rang throughout the darkness of the night. And then all was quiet for the rest of the night except for the only sounds that could be heard: the noises of the monster, feeding on its prey, just outside the shack in the middle of the wheat field.

Anderson High School

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block

2017-2018

Poetry Collection Gwyneth Yeager The Many Faces of Texas

(text: hot cold big old nice friendly hip trendy natural wondrous beautiful luscious creative diverse widespread dispersed quirky good-brew passionate true)

To You, My Home Cherished memory, My home for now and always: Please donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t forget me.

Anderson High School

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2017-2018

Tiny Blue Dot People say Austin’s a tiny blue dot, Floating alone in our endless red sea. They say that we’re different—that we stand alone, And the rest of the state is just hating away. But those people are wrong, They’ve just never known; But all Texans are different, Each and every one. There are the conservatives, With great power to sway; They create our whole image, That is, one and the same. They’re what first come to mind, When you hear “Texas,” y’all think “blind”; But with your news and your knowledge, You still don’t know who’s really out there. This one party is vast, I’ll give that one truth, But it’s really not that much bigger, Than all of the rest. And then come the liberals, Viewed as few in the slightest; They form a great number, But to outsiders they’re nothing. They appear from all over, Spreading fast wall-to-wall; Their limits know no bounds, As they burst through tear after tear. They sure do look like the least, With all those numbers and figures; But if all Texans were truly able to vote, The whole world would see that we’ve been greatly looked-over. Composed of every minority, Some with more and some with less; Our people aren’t seen nor heard by most Who can’t bear witness first hand.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

But even through this strengthened, Far-right governmental domination, The Texan leftists still manage to thrive, And to fight for the right to be heard. So, to all those non-Texans Who don’t know any better, This is the wisdom I'll share: Down here in Texas, Where ideals don't run dry, We ain't got no blue dots, We’re a damn purple ocean!

Texas Is… Texas is kind, Texas is sweet Texas is friendly, and Texas is neat Texas is big, Texas is proud Texas is people’s opinions said loud Texas is rural, Texas is urban Texas is full of elders with bourbon Texas is hot and shines like an ember Texas is kids wearing shorts in December Texas is red, Texas is blue Texas is purple for the rest of you Texas is frustrating, and Texas is hard, but Texas is never too bad for too long Texas is hot, and Texas is cold Texas is tacos too spicy to hold Texas is quirky and quaint like a gnome Texas is mine to truly call home

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

Pop Red Beans Diana Um “Hurry up, Hannah, or we’re going to be late!” Greg said. “What do you mean? It’s only five in the morning.” Hannah stated in a grumpy mood. “You know what I mean. Hurry up, and let’s get going!” Once they hit the road to the amusement park, they decided to talk about how they were looking forward to the warm breeze in the air and which rides they wanted to go on. “I’m so looking forward to this summer, like you have no idea.” Hannah said. “Of course I know. I just failed all of my finals, but it’s senior year. Let’s enjoy it while it lasts.” Greg was driving. Once they arrived two hours later, they parked near the back of the lot, and Greg saw the line just through the corner of his eye, how tremendously long it was. “What the heck, Hannah. I told you we were going to be late and you still were putting on pounds of makeup on your face,” Greg complained. “Well, it’s not my fault for wanting to—” As Hannah was about to finish her sentence, she caught sight of something. A rusty window at the edge of the amusement park. A window that seemed as if it was once in perfect shape; however, it gave off a much more gruesome overtone. “Greg. . . do you see that?” Hannah pointed to the far end of the amusement park. “See what?” Greg tip-toed, trying to get a hold of what Hannah was pointing at. “The moldy window with purple flowers on it.” “Oh! Yeah, what about it?” “Wouldn’t you want to get in with a shortcut instead of waiting this long line?” “Are you implying that we should break in? Why would we do that?” “Oh, come on. You always told me to ‘live on the edge’ and how I should take more risks in my life. It’s senior year, come on! How bad can this turn out anyways?” Greg simply nodded his head and they both decided to walk towards it. As they got closer and closer, step by step, breath by breath, they could see how corrupted this window was. Hannah decided to wipe her finger on it and it was as if a new layer of skin formed on her finger made of nothing but dust. When Greg decided to look inside, the windows automatically decided to creak. A creak that would send goosebumps everywhere in your body. “I don’t know why, but I have a bad feeling about this, Hannah.” “Come on, it can’t be that bad. Here look… ” Hannah suggested while pushing the window even farther to open it. “Nothing happened, and nothing will happen. Hey look! I see something in there. Let’s go look!” Hannah said while climbing through the window. “I swear, if we die, I’m never forgiving you!” Greg stated while climbing in. Hannah rolled her eyes, but then she felt a presence. Not a presence of an animal, but rather evil itself. She received bad feelings from this place. Right when all these feelings rushed into her like a wind, the windows shut. Closing up on them. Locking them inside. Whoever the person was keeping them imprisoned. “Who’s there!” Hannah screamed. As for Greg, he decided to bang the window and yell to see if anyone could hear them. Out of all the chaos, they heard a faint voice: “If you want to leave, you have to play.” Both Greg and Hannah turned and looked at each other, not knowing what to do. They both seemed to even forget how to breathe and their consciousness. Hannah started to give Greg the look of what to do. Thankfully, they both took sign language in high school and decided to

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communicate that way. They drew the conclusion that either way if they were to be “freed” or to play the game, they were screwed. “Fine! We’ll play your game. What is it?” Hannah yelled. The voice began to creep in, saying, “You make it sound easy. In order for you to escape, there are three different puzzle pieces you have to match up together. Once you have completed the puzzle, it will tell you how to escape. If you don’t complete it, come back and you will face your. . . punishments.” “Could you at least give us a hint?” Hannah pleaded. “Pop Red Beans” “What the heck? Poop red beans? What did he say?” Greg complained. “So if we find all puzzle pieces, you’ll for sure leave us alone?” Hannah pleaded. After this statement, it drew complete silence. The kind of silence that makes you feel out of place or confused as to your environment. The windows started to open up again. “Alright. I see how it is. We answered all your questions, but you won’t even answer hers. Doofus!” Greg yelled. “What the heck, Greg! You don’t just call a person ‘doofus’ who has the capability to kill us all in one second!” Hannah screamed. “Okay, well, you know what? Let’s just find those dumb puzzle pieces and get out of here.” Greg stated. “Fine. Let’s hurry up. It’s already nine am and the park closes at five pm.” They sprinted off to the park and decided where to look first. “Okay. Pop… What pops in an amusement park?” Hannah questioned. “Uh what about popcorn?” Greg asked. “That seems a bit too easy, but let’s go and see.” They decided to run off to the popcorn stand and found a sketchy male working there. “What are you really here for?” The old male questioned. “Oh just popcorn sir!” Greg stated. “Is that all?” The male stated. “Well we actually needed. . .” “Here take it and hurry up. Or you won’t have time to finish the game.” He stated with a concerned expression giving the puzzle piece as if he wanted to get rid of it. “What do you mean? . . . I think we’re off to a great start.” Greg positively stated. “That’s what everyone says,” The man said. “Woah… what do you mean by ‘everyone’?” and then they were abruptly interrupted by the couple behind them. “Hey could you guys like I don’t know… hurry up?” The woman stated. “Fine. Thank you for the popcorn.” Hannah smiled and winked. “Okay, so now what is red?” Hannah asked. “I mean what if it’s not something red, but rather a thing that starts with the letter R?” Greg asked. “Okay what starts with R?” “Root beer, rabbits, ring, robot, roller coasters, roses…” “Wait. That’s it! Roller coasters! Let’s go!” Hannah said.

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They sprinted off. They found another man in a green suit with a beard and a slight smirk on his face. “Hello old man! Could you tell us where the puzzle piece is?” Greg asked. “Greg! Not everyone knows what a puzzle piece is.” “Oh, come on… the freakin popcorn weirdo knew what it was, how could he not—” “Oh. I know what it is, but honestly. I don’t feel like giving it to you.” He smirked. “Well…why not?” Hannah asked, irritated. “Cause it’s not something worth trying for. Just accept your fate,” he said. “Well, you not helping us isn’t going to do anything about it. If I die, I want to at least know that I died trying, not as a complete loser,” Hannah stated. Greg responded, “But you are already a—” “Okay please just give us the puzzle piece,” Hannah said while cutting off Greg’s statement. “Look, this has been a thing for 10 years. Do you really think you can beat him at his own game?” the man questioned. “Look here, kind sir. Although your looks may say otherwise, you seem like a very nice man that is willing to give us his puzzle piece. So… what do you say?” Greg begged. “Fine, it won’t even make a difference. You can’t beat him.” he replied, giving Greg the puzzle piece. “Who’s ‘him’ and how do you know we can’t beat him?” Hannah asked. “I was once like you. I managed to escape somehow. But every time I try to forget about this, it’s as if my heart and my brain are being controlled. He has the capability to control everything you do and what he wants to do with you. Everyone that gives you a puzzle piece is like me, giving tickets. They can only give so many and will eventually will run out. But once you complete this game, we will all be free,” he said. “What if you run out of tickets?” Hannah asked. “Everyone dies.” he simply stated. “Wow… what a story… 11/10. Now hurry up, Hannah, let’s go before this dude controls our brains.” Greg stated. “Fine, but what’s the next clue. Beans?” Hannah asked. “Beans… Jelly beans? Or… Pinto beans? Black Beans?” “Come on Greg, let’s be serious. Could it be the same like last time where it started with a B?” “Fine… bees, ball, baseball, basketball, bumper cars....” “Let’s go try basketball.” Hannah stated. They both ran and came across a clock. It read four pm. “Holy smoked brisket. We’re running out of time.” Greg exclaimed. “No crap, Sherlock. Now let’s go hurry up and finish this game.” Hannah said, and they both ran to the nearest basketball court. They saw another strange-looking man there. “Look, another man!” Greg yelled. This drew complete silence and stares from everyone around them. Questioning if this was Greg’s first time seeing a man. “No guys, I’ve seen a man. Just look at me.” Greg smirked. “I thought you were a girl!” Someone shouted from the crowd. This drew laughter and Hannah decided to use that as a distraction and to go the man. “Hello, sir, do you perhaps. . .”

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

“No. I don’t. Now leave me alone and don’t come back ever again.” “I mean you obviously know what we’re here for and, trust us, we’re trying to help you. We also want to get released so. . .” “No, you don’t understand.” “Yeah you’re right. We don’t understand,” Greg stated while walking towards them. “You see, this is my last puzzle piece. I was the first person to ever meet the man. I was the reason why the man turned out to how he is today. He and I were best friends and decided to go the amusement park. However, I saw this girl and instantly thought I fell in love with her. Yes, I know. Love at first sight is complete and utter nonsense. But I was a young teenage boy. What else do you expect from me? I decided to leave my friend alone at our hangout just to get the attention of this girl. That’s when he met loneliness. He said how he was okay and was accompanied by ‘something.’ I don’t know what that something was, but it totally ruined him and I’d never seen this darker side of him. Since I was the first one here to be kept imprisoned, I gave so many puzzle pieces away to the point where I’ve only had one left for a while.” “Well, why not just give it to us. I promise we’ll solve this.” Hannah pleaded. “But, if I give this to you, I’m supposed to be dead within four minutes after I give my last one away.” “Look, we’re just trying to help out everyone escape this misery and no offense, but this was kinda your fault. Leaving a friend for a girl you barely even knew. I mean, sure you were a teenager, but you left your best friend for a girl you don’t even know. I’m a teenage boy, too, but I wouldn’t even do that to Hannah,” Greg said with a smile. “Aw… Greg that’s probably the smartest thing you’ve ever said.” Hannah smiled. “Okay, you’re right. I was wrong and I’m being selfish for keeping other people here with me to this day. I want to do something right and if that means giving you my last puzzle piece. That’s the right way to die.” He stated. As he handed over the last puzzle piece, he started to cough. As if he just gave his heart away to a couple of teenagers. Hannah hugged the man and decided to assemble to puzzle pieces with Greg. “Wait… This doesn’t make sense. This wasn’t part of his game.” “What does it say?” The man asked. “It says that someone has to kill their love at first sight in order to complete the game,” Hannah said, drawing Greg into a complete an utter silence. “Hey, Greg… do you know anyone with a…” Hannah began to ask. Then, she looked Greg in the eyes and saw him start tearing up in front of her. For the first time ever. “Hannah, I know I never told you this, but…when we met…I…I…” The two knew then that they had lost the game.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

The Vatican Vape Rafael Serrano Gerald was more tired than usual. It was another Sunday mass, just like the others. The priest was droning on and on with the same tired metaphor about Jesus, just with different words. God is like a transformer, God is like dabbing on the haters, God is like a fidget spinner; he had heard it all before. The droning choir echoed in the stone chamber, ringing in the ears of equally enthused crowds, who lied so much to others that they had wanted to be here, they were convinced of it themselves. One of those people was Gerald’s mother. She was a mostly nice woman, raised as a devout Catholic as her family had been for generations. She had never really felt God per se, but it never really mattered. As long as going to mass made her parents proud, she’d do it so they’d stop lecturing her. That’s all it was, really. A series of men and women going because it had been mashed in their heads that they needed to, rarely out of a genuine passion. Gerald had realized that one day when he asked his mother that very question. She stood there, still as a stone, before responding that same tried and true response: Because God wants us to do it. What God wants us to do? Who are we to question what God wants us to do? The dude hasn’t appeared in more than a millennium, and all we have of him are a series of highly debated and scrutinized stories that have caused millions of deaths. I mean, if we really consider what God did in the Bible, then we probably wouldn’t be such dickheads to each other. Or we would turn cities into salt and flood the entire earth. God did a lot of curious stuff in the Bible. Gerald had endured it all, though, because he wanted to make his mother happy. He went through all the motions. He drank the wine, he ate the bread, and he bent the knee. But there was never any feeling behind it. Gerald believed in God, but he had always felt there was something missing. A crucial detail left behind that had caused all this strife and greed, that if found, could end the crises in the world forever. Suddenly he felt a firm grip on his shoulders waking him from his train of thought. His mother motioned him to the altar aggressively. Suddenly, he remembered today was Reading Day. Every month, his mother signed him up for readings in hopes of impressing the other mothers, with how devout and holy her son was. But as he walked up the stone steps, he realized he had never felt less connected to God in his entire life. He stood over the procession, watching over the crowd looking over at him expectantly. All he read to do was another verse, another psalm. But he couldn’t fail them now. “This church,” he said,” is complete shit.” The entire crowd gasped in shock. Perhaps they were astonished that something new actually happened in this church. Gerald stared at his mother, and she was burning a hole in the back of his head. His mother was a nice woman, but threaten her status, and she becomes a… to put it gently, a psycho bitch. She hadn’t moved, not yet, giving Gerald about 30 seconds to say what he needed to say, before his mother realized it’d look better for her to beat her son rather than let him babble him. That was fine by him. That’s all the time he needed. “You know, back in the Middle Ages, churches used to rob the common people out of

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2017-2018

their money with “indulgences.” The idea that your sins can be forgiven goes against literally everything the Bible teaches, and the church was called out for it. But oddly enough, that crap’s still happening today! When I look out into the crowd, I see the exact same people being guilt tripped and harassed into “donating,” lest they get sent to hell. The church has become a machine for profit, rather than a force of good. I mean, look at Father Larry, the man has a Mercedes. A FRIGGIN’ Mercedes. What type of priest owns a Mercedes? Another manipulator of the system, and all of you just indulge it. We don’t really know what Jesus wanted, but surely it wasn’t this shit.” Gerald felt a sense of finality with his words. He was tired of the church guilt tripping and manipulating others for their own self-gain. He had no regrets. At least, that is, until he saw his mother. She may believe in God, but in that moment, she looked more like she was channeling the devil himself. Surrounded by crowds of angry Catholic lads, often the most dangerous type, Gerald did what seemed like the safest option at the time. He ran. … Gerald scrambled into the woods as fast as he could. He could already hear the angry screams of the approaching mobs in the distance. As he continued to run, he suddenly smashed into the fence lining the perimeter. It seemed there was no way out. He needed an escape, and he was truly desperate for anything at that point. Gerald heard the sound of gushing water in the distance, and looked for a stream or something to hide in. It was not a stream. It was the sewers. But with his mother fast approaching, he had no choice but to descend deeper in. He wiggled through the crawlspaces and proceeded to land in the horrid sewage stream. “Well, now my dress pants are screwed up, too. No turning back now.” As he slumped onto the dark, cold wall, Gerald wondered what his next step was. For all intents and purposes, he was a refugee. No way he was getting his ass whooped by his mom, not while he was still alive. Gerald’s train of thought is derailed when he heard a creak from down the corridor. He jumped instinctively and investigated the shadows. “Hello...?” A hand grabbed his shoulder from behind. “Have no fear, my child.” “YeEk!” Gerald grabbed the hand and pushed him back. A sliver of light crept in from the drain, and Gerald finally got a clear view of the mystery man. “Father Childs?” … Years ago, Father Childs had been the pastor for the parish. Gerald was too young, so he can’t remember much. But he did remember that Father Childs was respected by a lot of people in the town, even the non-religious. Then he just dropped off the face of the earth. Poof, just like that. It had become an urban legend that Childs was still wandering the woods to this day as a modern-day Boogeyman, but Gerald never imagined it to be real. He just thought he went on vacation in the Seychelles or something. Whatever the case, Father Childs was certainly looking the worse for wear. He was still

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wearing his priestly robes, which had to have lasted years unwashed at this point. His face was obscured in a scraggly beard, surprising Gerald that he had even recognized him at all. And his eyes… what had once been the sign of stability was now filled with mania. “F-father Childs, right? Do you remember me, Gerald Lawrence? I served in your parish,” whispered Gerald, addressing Childs as if he was a sort of dog. Father Childs ran his fingers through his beard, “Yes... Lawrence, I remember you well. Can’t be mere coincidence you were brought to this holy place, my son. You must be a sign from God. He’s sent you here, yes… To help me fulfill the prophecy.” “The prophecy?” The priest rolled his eyes as if he was speaking to a baby, “Yes, my child, the prophecy. The missing scripture that has been prophesied for thousands of years!” “Ok, ok, ok. But what the hell are you talking about?” “It’s the Book of Fat Clouds. The hidden detail in God’s narrative, which in its absence led to countless deaths across the world, is, well, that Jesus was a massive vape lord.” Gerald was mortified. He felt the only way this was going was to end was with him getting stabbed by a crazy homeless priest, so he just decided to keep the inevitable at bay as long as possible. “Um, so how do you know?” “Oh, yes, yes. You haven’t been enlightened yet. Well, I have just the thing.” Father Childs dug in his pocket and fished out a golden-encrusted Juul, inscribed with words, ‘Praise the Lord.’ It had finally become a little too batshit crazy for Gerald to handle. “A vape. You’re telling me a vape will awaken my spirituality with Jesus. Alright, this has gone too—” “JUST TAKE A FAT HIT, YOU LITTLE SHIT!” Without warning, the priest shoved the jewel into the mouth of the young boy and held him down. With no likelihood of being let go willingly, Gerald took the hit. A thick puff of smoke covered the tunnel. For his first hit, Gerald had been rather effective at hotboxing his surroundings. Gerald closed his eyes, waiting for anything, anything at all, to happen and change his life forever. He waited about ten seconds. “Nothing is happening, Father.” “Just wait a sec, my guy. Takes a little while, but you’ll be boofed soon enough.” “Oh really? Sounds like some friggin’ bullsh—" At once, the force of a thousand fat clouds erupted throughout Gerald’s body. Overwhelmed by the sheer force of vape, his body began to give out, and he stumbled to the floor. … When he awoke, he found himself enveloped in a cloud of smoke so thick, he couldn’t even see what he was standing on. “W-where am I?” A mysterious figure limped out of the smoke. The man, seeming rather boofed and out of it, clasped a hand on Gerald’s shoulder. “Hello, my child. I must say, that was nice first hit. We’ll make a vape lord out of you yet. And haven’t you realized where you are? This…is heaven.” Gerald sniffed the air, “Is that… strawberry e-juice?”

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

“Well I mean, it’s heaven,” the man said, as if it was immediately obvious. “And if this is heaven, then aren’t you…?” “That’s right, my guy. It’s Me, Jesus. I’ve chosen you to be my new modern-day prophet, and to spread my most important mission yet: to hotbox the entire world.” “What the fu—” “Look, the church has been messing with my shiz for like, two thousand years, man! Like, when did I ever say gay people were bad? I don’t think I did, right? I honestly can’t remember.” Gerald couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The all-powerful Jesus, that was crucified to save ourselves from eternal damnation, is some bitch-ass vaper? “I see what you’re thinking, Gerald, and I totally agree with you, my brotha. That crucifixion story is, like, doctored, dude. The Romans and I just took a hit together, and we were chill. And Judas? I mean, the asswipe sold my Juul for 30 silver pieces, but we’re all good now.” Jesus turned around, “All right, but serious, bruh. I’m gonna need your help on this one.” “Alright, this is friggin’ crazy, but I literally have no home at this point. What do you need me to do?” Jesus grinned coyly,” Simple. First, I’m going to need you to break into the Vatican…”

Break-Up Letter Abby Ketcham Luk Carl, I luv u sm. Will at lest I think I do. I meen I am only 10 and 6 many months old and I’m tryna to get my hampster julie to run around in her wheel. Ive tried everything but shes so effing stupid. I know my mum told me to not to use those nasty language but its just so frustufrating. I’m srry if i br8k ur . I cannot not lunger b w u anymre. Agan i am so srry. I nead to focuse on gettin julie 2 spin the weel b4 she dies. Also u needs to get a tooth brush and tooth paste bc ur breath skank. When u tried to kiss me i almost threw up. Also if u want to be w/ me u have to stop trading ur lunch w jessica. I know she forever will always hv the best snax but i have gushers and cocolate milk evry day. It aint me, its you Carl. that juul does not make u cuul. I can not be with u anymore, goodnight Carl. ill c u in music tmr i hope u dont h8 me for enternity Best wish, Jane C ya

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

Seriously? You’re Gonna Hate on Rap Music? Van Pelt Collamer Country, Pop, Rock, Dubstep, etc. These are all genres of music that people enjoy listening to. They like that certain type of music, and that’s fine. But how come rap receives all of this extra hate compared to the other genres? I like rap music, and if you happen to possess an extraordinary hatred for rap like many other people do, PLEASE refrain from telling me about it. From the bottom of my heart, I really, honestly, don’t care. Country music usually all sounds the same to me. The lyrics might be about some truck, maybe a hot girl, or maybe the ranch that the artist grew up on. But I’m probably completely wrong! I don’t listen to country so I wouldn’t know! This is the case with just about every person that has ever told me why they hate rap. They have no clue what the hell they’re talking about, yet they still attempt to educate me about why they hate rap music SO much! Absolutely aggravating. Just because there was one rap song that you heard the other night that was about drugs or something, doesn’t mean that the ENTIRE genre of rap is INFECTING the world with its HORRIBLE lyrics. People seem to hate on rap in the first place because they find joy and power when they get that sense in an argument. But the truth is, I’m not even arguing with you! All of these irrelevant opinions that you are reciting off to me doesn’t make me think of you as a higher person. These people who hate on rap have no idea what rap is actually about. Rap artists often write about their past or their struggles. You probably have no idea that this exists, because you don’t ACTUALLY pay attention to the lyrics in a rap song. Please STOP! So what if the rap song that I am listening to actually is about sex, money, and drugs? Well there are several possible reasons for this horrible sin that I have so wrongfully committed (because listening to music I like is just horrible). All I have to say to that is, “hype.” The adrenaline that a good hype rap song gives me is so amazing. Before any type of exercise or sporting event, hype rap helps me so much. It makes me feel unstoppable. So if you catch me listening to that type of rap song don’t bash me, I have a good reason to be listening to it. So please, if you are about to walk up to me and hate on my preference of music, think twice about what you’re doing. There are plenty of reasons that you don’t know about as to why I’m listening to this type of music. And so what if I like it? Don’t let it bother you, and PLEASE don’t bother me.

Negative People Genesis Gonzalez I know at some point in everyone’s life, you create a negative thought out of the thinnest of air. I’m often one for getting a bit too easily annoyed at people, but I still maintain a positive atmosphere in my life. Yet I absolutely despise the people who assume the worst in almost every event in their “crappy” life. They don’t know what the word “positivity” means. It’s nowhere near their vocabulary. They just know the simple terms: no, never, can’t, won’t, and impossible. These are the people who reply to their friend or loved one, and they wait for a message

Anderson High School

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back. They then go on about their task, and a few minutes after replying to the person they just messaged, they start to think too much. They even exaggerate at times. Why are they taking so long? Are they ignoring me? What’s so important? They are taking forever! They don’t know what it means to be understanding and to put themselves in the other person's shoes. They don’t see different points of view. Another example of negative people is when they think something so much that it immediately becomes their reality, and when it becomes their reality, they whimper and whine over how bad their life is. Now let me give you an image. You’re about to take a test, and this person starts to say things such as, “I’m going to fail, I already know it. I’m never going to pass this stupid class. Ugh, why me?” After they get their bad test score back, they just don’t know how to learn from it. They give up, and continue to whine about why things don’t go right. It isn’t bad to express your negative side sometimes, but instead of giving in to it or making the people around you want to be as depressed and miserable as you portray your life to be, think about why you’re so negative. Do everyone a favor and yourself, and try to see how you can change the specific thing that drives your critical personality. Don’t give up just because it’s hard. It may be hard, but it’s not impossible.

Trouble at Weiner World Elexia Perkins I was working the night shift, a problem-free night shift, when a customer decided to screw all that up. My tag team partners included my manager John, my right-hand man Neveah, and Michael, the cook. It was chill, didn’t have any customers lined up at the front counter or piled outside at drive-thru, so we were all just talking and laughing. But a dark, malevolent force crept up to the box....in a red minivan. “Thank you for choosing Wienerschnitzel, how can I help you today?” Said she needed a minute. “Just let me know whenever you’re ready.” Drive-thru was Nevaeh's territory, but she was dealing with a customer at the front counter, so I stepped up to the plate, ready to knock the ball out of the park. But the pitcher turned out to be a tricky bastard. Eventually, she says she’s ready. “What can we get started for you?” She goes on giving me this long list, being complicated on a few items. I kept repeating the order making sure everything was right, and she said it was. “Your total is going to be $32.43.” We’ll call her Susan, because despite the fact that she gave me her credit card and flashed her military ID to get a few dollars knocked off the price, I didn’t get her name. I give her back her card along with the receipt. I fixed the drinks and lined them up along the minimal counter space granted by the cash register. Pushed the window to the side and then BAM! “Um, I only wanted one corn dog kid’s meal, you charged me for two. I’ve got my sisters’ kids…blah blah blah (no one gives a flying flip). “Okay, one minute. JOHN!” While he cancels the transaction and starts over, I hand out her food, including the extra kid’s meal that she was charged for as a courtesy. She drives away and I can finally relax. PSYCH.

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About 2 minutes later she comes back in with a “messed up” hot dog and the extra food we gave her. Fixed the hot dog even though, due to the complexity of her order, the right hot dog could’ve just been placed in the other bag, but whateva. BUT WHO GIVES BACK FRESH, FREE FOOD? “Oh I didn’t want that, they won’t eat all that.” Girl, just take the damn food, put it up for later and when they’re hungry, throw that bitch in the microwave. She left again. We were seething. But it gets even better! Another few minutes pass and while I’m turned around, adjusting the bags, I hear someone at the counter. I see a short, pasty, raven-haired, baby faced kid with the voice of a 14-year-old yelling at Nevaeh. He slammed the wrapped processed meat on the counter. “This has onion, she won’t eat that.” Nevaeh calls back to Michael that she needs another chili cheese dog and she throws the unnecessarily defiled one into the trash can underneath the counter. The little pain-in-the-ass gets his new hot dog, but then guess who comes in? Susan, running over to get straws, laughing and saying, “You forgot to give us straws, ha ha ha.” The two crumbsnatchers belonged to her, of course—made sense why the boy was acting that way, he obviously has positive influence in his life and knows how to respect other human beings. You learn so much about human nature at this job. P.S. I wouldn’t have forgotten the straws if you weren’t being so difficult at the window...but whateva.

Lights Elise Hailey So soft Full of a million colors Cold days Open blinds Birds fly through you Coming out with bursts of brightness Rays of joy So soft, so innocent You change forms every evening Never still, always moving Transforming into something new Changing the world day by day Reflecting upon the world below you Shining through the clouds Never failing to illuminate your true colors Time is running out Blinds will be open tomorrow See you later, dear friend

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A Toy on Your Shelf Brenna Siebert I’ve watched you struggle, I’ve seen you cry, I’ve helped you through everything, And I swear that’s no lie. You boss me, You blame me, You cast me aside. You push me away, no matter how hard I try. I stay up late in the darkness of night, Hoping to see my phone’s bright light. I swear I saw your name on the screen, But it must’ve just been some hopeful dream. I know you don’t mean it And I know you mean well, But I’m tired of being A toy on your shelf. I told you I loved you, But you didn’t care. You just walked away, Like I wasn’t even there. So I’m done with forgiving, And forgetting, And loving, And you.

A Slide Down Memory Lane Chris Livaudais He sat on the bench at that old park from which he had so many memories so many years ago. Mr. Petersen had lived in this neighborhood for a so many decades, and yet no one really knew all that much about him. Many just knew him as the lonely old man down the block. He never said much. Some empathized with him, though some he made uncomfortable. A few neighbors walked by and smiled, and a few walked their kids as far away from him as possible and went to the polar opposite end of the park. He may have been saddened by this, but he wasn’t mentally present. People couldn’t see into his head. He looked around the park. So much of it had changed here. All but one thing: the old metal slide. Now it was riddled with rust, but he remembered racing down it, and skinning his

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knees at the bottom, or the hot sunny days where you would avoid it because it felt like the surface of the sun. All of the memories of this slide seemed to involve physical pain, now that he thought about it, and yet they were all happy memories nonetheless. In the library of memories within his mind, one in particular came into his mind: the autumn season of 1937. In his head, he watched all of the rust recede, and all of the old monkey bars and rickety swings and jungle gyms come back from beyond. He raced across the park with young Sally Sheppard, who, best he could tell from the perspective of a 9-year-old, was the love of his life. He lived out in the country, and his only opportunity to see her was once a week after church for an hour. His parents never much liked the church by his house and stopped going there after they got an African-American priest. At first he had been annoyed by the hour long drive every Sunday, but then he had met her and he stopped complaining. Although their time might have been brief, he always valued it. She thought it was funny how he lived on an apple orchard and ceaselessly teased him for it. He always liked it. Come to think of it, all of his memories from this place were seemingly unpleasant, yet happy. He wondered what that said about him and better yet, why it took him that long to figure that out about himself. He supposed he had always liked Sally because she was a challenge. She never quite bought the apple orchard thing so she kept asking him to bring her an apple. He always intended to, but a week was a long time, and he never remembered. This was the first time he had remembered. His mom would have thought it was weird that he was bringing an apple to church, so he just stuck it in his jacket pocket. He sat with it there for the entire service, and when he finally got to the park, she said ever so nicely, “Well, where is it?” At first he smiled smugly, and reached into his pocket. What he felt caused a jump. Instead of the smooth and hard skin of an apple, he felt a wet mush. His stomach dropped. “Uh oh. The apple must have gotten crushed in my pocket!” He could either play it off or give her what he had, and he wasn’t exactly the smoothest 4th grader around. He pulled the apple from his jacket and handed it to her. She looked at it and did that thing where she lifted only one eyebrow. It always impressed him, because he couldn’t do it himself. “That’s it?” He had no comment. Sally picked it up, “Why is it so squishy?” “I-it was in my pocket.” “Absolutely brilliant,” she added. “It’ll still taste good. T-try the part of it on the other side that isn’t… crushed.” His sentence drifted off at the end. She raised an eyebrow again and skeptically took a bite. “Hmm! Not bad!” Sally looked back down at the apple. “Race you to the slide!” she said, hurling the rest of the apple right at his forehead. Startled and stunned for a second, he eventually started running, grin stretching from ear to ear. He could easily outrun her but he generally liked to let her win, unless she got too smug about it. Today, he decided he was gonna run his hardest. He caught up with her relatively quickly. That stretch of park seemed way bigger back then. He was about to make it to the slide when he tripped on a stone and went down. He went down hard and hit his head on the side of the slide. “Petey! Are you okay?” she yelled at him.

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“Y-y-yeah I think, maybe.” He always had good ideas of what to say in his head, but it never came out the way he had intended, and he was sure the sudden head trauma didn’t help. “Is it bad?” “It isn’t bleeding, at least. Probably gonna bruise. It actually looks kinda cool on you.” He didn’t really have anything to say but the comment definitely made him smile. Despite being across the park, his mom somehow detected that he was hurt and was over there in less time than should be humanly possible. The rest was kind of a blur. He remembered saying goodbye and being dragged out of there by his mom. Mr. Peterson’s reverie was lost by a sudden, “Hey, neighbor!” It was Mr. Clyde, a very nice man, but also fairly annoying. He was interrupting his thinking time, “I’m sorry to hear about your wife, Louis. Wonderful lady.” Mr. Peterson didn’t mind talking to him, but he would prefer to be left alone right now, so he did what he always did when he wanted someone to go away: bombard them with his life story Forest-Gump style. “Yep, that she was. We met in this park right here, years and years ago…” He kept talking and telling stories until Mr. Clyde excused himself. Then, he tried to slip back into his thoughts, but couldn’t. He decided there was nothing left for him in this park today and got up from the bench, took a bite from his apple. Mr. Peterson walked down the street to his lonely house.

Elegy for Chester Bennington Mike McLean Six months have passed since you died On the 20th of July A day when tears filled our eyes As we mourned the loss of a great life Your music was loved by millions More than you will ever know Your sheer artistic brilliance Was on display in every show You spoke up about your battle with depression Fighting the demons inside your head Your lyrics infused with passion and aggression They live on even though you are dead

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How to Feel Lucy Taylor bliss, elation, euphoria things you’re supposed to feel when wishful thinking becomes reality, the unattainable suddenly attained exultation comes when awkward and forced become comfortable and natural and you’re falling no crash when you land, a bounce instead and you’re soaring thoughts of the eventual, inevitable crash have found a home in the back of your mind but all the perfect moments, crowded in the forefront of every thought, make the crash easy to forget

Sweaty Mouth (Ode to Tacos) Daniel Rios My mouth feels dry and I need something grilled, prepared, spicy, and high To make the ocean flow through my eyes The hubris mucus pouring down my nose so freaking ruthless The meat is sleeping in between my teeth I have to a get toothpick to stab it out even if I bleed I pour hot water to take the spice out—yes, hot water, try it Just spit it out and ‘flame out’ I feel rewarded and thankful when I eat this Because most of the time, my mom creates this Her hard work makes me feel proud For a mom so up and never down No spoons or fork required, just your hands Make your own Feel inspired

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A Key to the Heart Rachel Orellana A small box is out With some doubt An unknown light Comes in shining bright It reflects the sunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rays While he was thinking about it for days Her eyes glared And she was scared He was on one knee Ready to give her the key She had stolen his heart And they couldn't be apart But a simple yes Turned into difficult stress

A Conversation: Part II Lauren Kinzy Dear Daughter, You truly are A gift from above, My baby, my star, My little dove. You may not come from God, Or His angels or His heaven, Your seed may be sod, Or your life not determined, No enormity Is of any matter, For you will eternally Be my daughter.

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Ready For War Daniel Rosales “Man, it is blazin’ hot out here!” Jake complained. “I’m doin’ just fine out here, man!” I said. Jake had always been the fragile kind, if you look at him wrong he’d probably shatter into pieces. Not me though, I was ready for this. “Remind me again why you chose to join the military. I know it definitely wasn’t to whine, right?” I said. “Shut up!” We both laughed. “Terry! Jake! Cut the chatter unless you two rookies feel like contributing to the kill count of the snipers out here!” Sergeant Paul commanded. “There’s snipers out here!?” Jake said, concerned. “Sarge, it’s a stretch of desert with nothin in sight but us, I don’t think there’d be any—” “Exactly! Nothing in sight but us, the enemies could be hiding under blankets 100 yards out for all we know.” “I think they’d die of a heat stroke before they spot us, especially with blankets covering them!” Jake said. At that moment, I never considered that remark Jake made would become his final words… CRACK! Jake hit the sand like a bag of rocks. My first reaction was to hit the deck and Sergeant Paul and the rest of our team did the same. We lay in the sand for 10 seconds trying to blend in as best as we could. I was worried about Jake, I needed to see if he was still alive. I looked back slowly and saw it. His helmet was launched 4 feet away from his body and nearly split in half, and a blood trail followed it. Jake, my best friend that graduated straight out of high school with me and joined the military, had just been killed in action. “Jake!” I yelled. I got up and bolted as fast as I could to his body, and then I heard another crack from a rifle. I threw myself over his body to make it look like I got hit, and my team thought the same. He looked a lot worse up close, the left side of his forehead had a hole I could see into. I pushed the image out of my head and reached to his neck to take his dog tags. I snatched them from around his neck and put them in my pocket on my vest. Meanwhile, my team located the snipers’ position and I heard the Sarge. “Damn those rookies! FIRE!” he shouted as loud as he could. I got up and looked back, and my team had gotten up and started laying down suppressive fire as they ran and hid behind some old, beat up cars. I sprinted to the nearest car and threw myself against it. I could barely hear the Sarge’s orders over all of the weapons firing. I peeked up to see where they were shooting and suddenly a tank and about a dozen enemies were moving in on us. I panicked at the thought of being pinned down by all of the bullets and dying, or being taken as a P.O.W. I took a few quick breaths and gripped my M16 assault rifle and burst up from my cover and began shooting at the enemies. Sergeant Paul saw me and was surprised to see I was alive. Just as my gun clicked because of the empty clip, the tank stopped sideways to provide cover for the enemies, and the whole top and barrel rotated towards us. I could hear both the enemies and Sergeant Paul shouting orders at their men. The shooting subsided so I used that small window of time and broke out in another sprint towards the rest of my team. I joined the team and listened to the Sarge’s plan. “Henderson! You’ve got the LMG. I want you to lay down some more suppressive fire

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and we’ll flank around to the tank. Terry, you go with him, you too…” He pointed at Scott and Davis. “Follow me!” Sarge commanded. Just as we were prepared to put the plan into action, a force knocked us all back. The tank launched a mortar at us and hit our cover and blew it up and threw us away from each other. Henderson had been blown apart, from upper torso and lower and Sergeant Paul lost both of his men. I saw him get back up to his feet and book it towards the tank, so I ran to Henderson’s upper torso, took his LMG, and took cover behind the first car I’d hidden at before. I pulled the tripod out from underneath the weapon and positioned it on the hood of the car and started laying down suppressive fire like the Sarge said. We were the only ones left of the team. I sprayed bullets all over the tank for 12 seconds and pinned down the enemies behind it long enough for Sergeant Paul to flank them. I saw him put his weapon up and start shooting and then I lost him behind the tank. I didn’t have any clips for Henderson’s LMG, so I threw it to the side and brought my gun back up and ran out of the tank’s sights. Just then, I saw the hatch open from the top of the tank, and an enemy came out and got ready to shred me with the mounted gun. I tripped, and my whole life flashed before my eyes. I was about to be torn apart by that mounted gun, I was going to die along with the rest of my team: Henderson, Scott, Davis, Sergeant Paul and Jake. As I lay there waiting to be riddled with rounds, a few seconds passed and nothing happened. Slowly, I looked up at the tank, and Sarge was standing on top with his pistol emptied, aiming in the tank through the hatch. He took a deep breath and looked at me and shouted, “Clear!”

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Letter From a Nut Erin Jordan December 1, 2017 Miranda L. Bluefield 101 Andrews Circle Manhattan, NY 12512 Good Morning America 47 West 66th Street New York, NY 10023 Dear Good Morning America, I have a request. It’s not a crazy one, by any means (I imagine you get plenty of those each day). It’s a simple question, and a desire of mine, if you will. I am a musician. Some people like to call me a musical genius, and I humbly accept that compliment. But I am not just any average musician… I make mixtapes. Mixtapes of aaaaall types and variations. While I am only 23 years old, I have YEARS of experience in the music business. I mean, I dropped out of college after three semesters in order to pursue a career pertaining to my mixtapes (yes, I am that dedicated to my craft). So, I assume you get what I am trying to emphasize… I am extremely talented. So my question is: when would I be able to play one of my mixtapes, live, on Good Morning America? I know that you all at GMA must be interested in having me on the show. Sure, you have not heard any of my home-made compilations of music, however I can assure you that I am (again) very, very, very talented. Good Morning America is my favorite live talk show, and this is certainly an incredible opportunity to make it big(ger) in the music business. And do not fret— I have a HUGE assortment of mix tapes that GMA is able to select from. Might I suggest that since it is the holiday season, my “Christmas Trap Music” would be an excellent choice! Let me know what day would be best for me to appear on the show, and please decide which mixtape you would like me to play. I do take specific requests.

Sincerely, Miranda L. Bluefield, Mixtapeologist

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There is a Tweet for Everything (a found poem of Donald Trump tweets) Avery Ward America

talk denuclearization mental stability

went down in flames he is weak

a fraud

lost so badly An embarrassment to our country

join me

nasty woman so much to do

today

represent me

abandoned big

voluminous

concept

it won’t happen

a woman with real character

not on my watch

immigrants making america great again ancestors pathetic

cowards absolute power

so sad do something stupid to show manhood violent crime

thoughts and prayers

go where there is no deterrent

crooked woman almost all school shootings are in gun free zones

our country is doing great never better we

lie under oath

an open invitation to enter violent crime dishonest groups crumbling infrastructure wonderful

jobs

it won’t happen not on my watch

The electoral college is a disaster for a democracy

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Bedtime Stories Emma McCarson Sofia Maria Velazquez’s grandmother is her given namesake (though she goes by her middle name, Maria), but she has never believed that she is anything like her. Not only is her grandmother old and withered as a prune, but she is also ridiculously superstitious and clings relentlessly to her absurd religious beliefs. Maria is a Catholic like her grandmother, but nowhere near as intense. When Maria was a child, she and her parents lived with Grandma Sofia in San Antonio, Texas. She remembers very clearly the bedtime stories Grandma Sofia would spin at night when she tucked Maria in for bed, and how Maria would gasp or cower in terror. “Do you ever wonder why humans are naturally afraid of the dark?” her grandmother asked. “Why?” Maria chirped naively. “My mother used to say it is because children see things for what they really are. Adults tend to be delusional because they have been taught what to believe. Children see the truth.” “The truth?” inquired Maria. “Night is the most dangerous time of the day. Although it’s true that crime is more likely to happen, night time is the only time that demons are allowed to emerge in our world.” “What’s a demon? Like a monster?” “Yes, like a monster,” her grandmother nodded. “Now, there isn’t much we can do to protect ourselves, but it’s important to remain aware. You never know when someone else has a demon inside of them, and if they are truly acting based on their own will or on something else’s . . . something much more vile and evil.” “You mean a demon can take someone over? How?” “I don’t know how. But I’ve seen it with my own eyes—long ago, it happened to my uncle, my mother’s brother. He went absolutely mad in a matter of days . . . he began to speak strangely, violently, and he lashed out at those around him. I had never seen him act this way; no one was expecting it. It was absolutely out of the blue. Uncle Esteban had never been a malevolent person.” “What happened then?” Maria asked, on the edge of her bed now, clutching the quilted covers in her hands. “He murdered his wife and his son. It is the biggest family tragedy in our history . . . I remember my mother and I knocked on the door one morning, and no one answered. It was unlocked, and my mother opened it, and I remember seeing so much blood in the hallways, glistening crimson, coating nearly everything. I had never seen or imagined anything like it in my life. And after seventy years of life, I still have never seen something more horrific, and that would have been nearly sixty years ago.” Maria burst into tears, shaken with terror at her grandmother’s story. She buried her face in her covers and began cry even harder, the sobs racking her body. Her grandmother patted her head. “It’s okay, Maria. But this is an important life lesson that you need to keep with you so you can be aware of the world.”

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“Isn’t there a way to stop the demons?” she asked. “There’s always a way to stop the bad guys in stories.” “In Spain, my family had weapons—talismans and rituals and the sort—that they said could ward off or expel, and sometimes even destroy, demons who possessed a human body. After Esteban, they took measures to protect themselves.” Maria did not sleep well that night, even when her grandmother soothed her and tucked her in. During the time that Maria lived with Grandma Sofia, she told her horrific bedtime stories each night, most of which were from the Bible or other tales of demons that had been passed down through generations. Maria never got used to it, and to this day, she hates horror movies. In middle and high school, she was always the one friend who would never watch one on Halloween, even when her friends begged her to. Grandma Sofia died four years ago, soon after Maria finished graduate school. But those memories are still strong in Maria’s mind, and she has still never forgotten some of her bedtime stories. Sometimes, on nights like these, when she is driving home from dinner with her friends, her eyes will wander in the shadows that cling to the fringes of the forest along the road and think about the creatures her grandmother taught her about. None of it was real, but the scared child Maria once was still lives inside of her. She turns into the road to her neighborhood. Her husband should have come home from his meeting by now, but he would likely be taking a nap on the couch. His work at the law firm always seems to tire him when he has to go to his late night meetings; Maria has met his boss, and he is certainly demanding. By the time Maria pulls into her driveway, she begins to notice that all of the lights in her house are still on. That is odd; it is midnight now, and her husband, Jared, is always asleep by now after his meetings. He’s never been a night owl. She turns her car off in the driveway and gets out, her heels clicking on the concrete. When Maria turns the key to her house and opens the door, she finds that Jared is sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the television. He’s holding something small in his hand, but Maria can’t see what it is from where she stands. “Jared?” Maria says. “What are you doing?” He turns his head to her, expressionless. There is something about the way he looks at her that chills her to the bone. His eyes are so blank, so empty—Maria knows her husband’s eyes, and they are usually so bright and blue and full of life. When he doesn’t answer, Maria repeats herself. “Jared? Honey?” Rather than answering, Jared just stands and turns to her, averting his eyes from the television and focusing his blank stare on her instead. His movements are so wooden, so stiff. She can see what is in his hand now: a knife. A kitchen knife. Had he been waiting for her to arrive? But why… why with a knife? For what reason would Jared ever want to hurt her? “Jared?” Maria takes a step back, even more uneasy now. “What —” He shakes his head. “No,” he says. Jared raises the knife in his hand so that it reflects in the light for Maria to see. “N-no?” she staggers backwards even more. “What do you mean?” Her bottom lip is trembling now; she doesn’t know how to explain it into a concrete, coherent thought, but every fiber of her being is screaming at her that the man standing before her is not her husband.

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“I was wondering when I would find another Velazquez,” Jared says. “I knew your greatgreat uncle, Esteban. Your grandmother, too. I believe you had just finished with school when I did away with her.” “What do you mean—Esteban? And my grandmother died of—of old age,” Maria shakes her head in disbelief. Her grandmother's stories echo through her mind, so many that she could never possibly forget them all. But monsters, demons—they do not exist. It’s impossible. Perhaps Jared is just playing some sick joke on her; he does have quite an odd sense of humor. “Jared, if this is a joke…” says Maria, hoping that he will burst out laughing and shout, “You got me!” “You never were a believer,” Jared comments. “Not like your grandmother. She knew exactly what I was when I found her.” “Jared, please…” her eyes are beginning to water now, and her heart swells with desperation. “I’m not Jared,” he snaps. “Are you stupid? You really think your husband’s still in there?” “Why him? Why did you choose him?” Maria shakes her head frantically, moving slowly towards the door. “Why not just take me instead?” “How adorable,” jeers Jared—or the thing controlling him. “You want to save your husband? You can’t. I chose him because it was the easiest—and the most entertaining—way to kill you. You’re not as old and frail as your grandmother was.” “You keep saying… what did you do to her?” demands Maria, her fists clenching at her sides as her entire body shakes with the pressure of withheld tears. Jared raises an eyebrow. “That’s not really important when your life is the one at stake, now, is it?” “Why my family? Why Esteban, why my grandmother… why me?” asks Maria. “It’s not like the Velazquezes are special,” snarks Jared. “I always target families. Take them all out one by one… though I slacked a little bit with yours—I got a bit side-tracked with an especially long line of Whitmores. But now I’m back to collect.” Maria reaches behind her back, where the bolt on the door is. If she can just turn it, when she opens the door and runs out to her car, the door will be locked, which should give her just enough time to escape… And if she fails, well, Maria was going to die anyway. It is a shot in the dark, but she has to do it. Maybe she could get far enough so that she could find someone to help Jared, to help her. But she will find a way to make it through this, even if she can’t save Jared. The bolt clicks almost silently into place, and Maria stays pressed against the door. Her heart is hammering wildly in her chest as she prepares herself to take one shot at life. “No,” she breathes. “You’re not going to get me.” “Oh?” Jared laughs, holding up the knife again. “Really?” Before he can say or do anything more, Maria opens the door and bolts out, slamming it behind her. She doesn’t look back to see if Jared is trying to break through; she can hear him pounding on the door and screaming and howling with rage, making noises that could not possibly be human. She nearly jumps into her car and starts it, and backs out quickly from her driveway. Maria speeds out into the neighborhood road, going about thirty miles over the speed limit. Her grandmother taught her about monsters and demons, but she didn’t leave Maria defenseless. In Spain, where the remnants of her grandmother’s family is, there are people who she said know things, who can help. A side of her family that she has never met; Grandma Sofia

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once said that they had weapons against possession. It was a long shot, but Maria could drive to the airport right now and head to Spain. Even if no one could help her, at least she would be in Europe, far from Texas, where Jared and the thing inside of him, could not reach. It is the only way, Maria knows. As she speeds into the darkness of night, all she can think of is Jared’s empty eyes, how utterly terrified she is of what might happen to her, and how she is going to get even. She might die trying, but all Maria can do now is fight. And fight she would—for herself, for Jared, and for Grandma Sofia.

Need a Lift? Derrick Rehuher “Hey Justin, turn up the music. This is Uzi’s new album right?” Devin asks curiously. “Yeah, it's dope right?” Justin answers. “Yeah! Little pregame hype before we get lit for reals,” Devin answers. Devin and his best friend, Justin, are taking a trip from Houston to Arizona to watch a football game between the Texans and the Cardinals. Devin is a football fanatic. He loves his Texans and his city. Justin, on the other hand, is a Cardinals fan because he is an Arizona native. In 2012, he moved to Houston where he met Devin. They met on the football team, and the rest was history. Now they’re here, on their way to the University of Phoenix stadium. They are currently in the desert countryside of Arizona on Highway 15 going 75 mph. Devin and Justin continue their road trip, jamming to hits on the radio. One of these hits is “Castle on the Hill” by the amazing Ed Sheeran. Yes, Ed Sheeran. Isn’t their song of choice but they have a good time either way. As their little sing-a-long continues, they spot a person walking on the side of the road. The traveler is carrying a bag and is wearing a sombrero. Dev and Justin think he’s just a hitchhiker. They start slowing down as they get closer, thinking he would throw out a thumbs up or a sign of needed transportation. Dev and Justin start asking themselves if they should give him a ride. I mean who would pick up a complete stranger off the side of the road? They would. Justin points at the guy walking. “Hey, look he needs a ride, Dev, pull up!” Devin scratches his head. “I don't know, I mean, he’s a complete stranger, Justin. Haven’t you seen a thriller film before?” “Oh, stop being a wuss. You're just gonna let him walk? Look around. We’re in the middle of nowhere!” Devin grips the wheel. “That's not our problem.” “Dude, what the hell is your problem? Come on!” Justin hits his shoulder. “Fine, just shut up already! If he is a serial killer, I don’t wanna hear you crying when he holds us hostage!” Justin faces the door. “Whatever, you can buy me a hotdog at the game when you’re wrong!” Justin smirks as he rolls down the window to get the man’s attention. “Hey, you need a lift? We don’t mind!” Justin speaks politely.

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Justin looks closely and sees the man's clothes. He is wearing a baggy white shirt and a pair of khaki pants that don’t fit him. He’s oddly holding his right foot. Like it hurts. The man leans at the window. “What's up with your foot?” Dev asks. “Yeah, you good?” Justin says while looking down at his ankles. The man unrolls his pant legs. Devin asks for his name. “I’m Ricardo.” He says. “Well Ricardo, you're an interesting looking fella. Hop in!” Justin says cheerfully. After picking up Ricardo the ride is very silent. A little music in the car, but Devin and Justin are keeping it down because of the guest in the backseat. Devin feels uneasy about Ricardo. He thinks something's off about the guy. Justin, on the other hand, is living in the moment, jamming in the passenger seat, thinking he did his good deed for the day. As for Ricardo, he is quiet. Very quiet. Justin being his giddy self wants to spark conversation in this awkward ride. “So, Ric, why were you walking in the sun? In arguably the hottest state in the U.S.?” “My car broke down, and I didn’t have a phone to contact help,” Ricardo answers. Devin glances at the rearview mirror. “So, you walked in the heat for a while?” “Yep, I-I did,” Ricardo stutters. “For how long?” “A few hours, maybe 3 hours,” Ricardo replies. Devin doesn’t feel Ricardo’s story is making sense. He glances at Justin, both making eye contact. Who would walk three hours in the heat? All that time he didn’t flag anyone down? Devin looks at the dashboard. He realizes they need to stop and fill up at a nearby gas station soon. Coincidently, a few moments ahead, there’s a sign of a gas station about three miles away. Justin also needs a stop to use the restroom. Ricardo sits quietly throughout the whole ride there. After driving three miles they reach the gas station. Justin hops out and runs inside to use the restroom. Devin gets out and starts filling the car. On the other side is a cop car. A deputy’s car, maybe. The door of his car is open, and his radio is on. “Ten-four, Suspect was reported to have abandoned his vehicle and ran on foot. Last seen four hours ago.” There follows a description that matches Ricardo exactly. Devin starts to think about Ricardo’s story. He then realizes that Ricardo is the suspect he hears about on the radio. Devin turns around to see if Justin is still inside. He sees the cop checking out at the front. Justin suddenly walks out of the gas station with some snacks in his hand, completely oblivious of about the situation. Ricardo was inside the car unable to hear anything from outside. Devin tries to tell him what's going on. “Hey Justin! Bring me some chips,” Devin yells. Justin smiles at Devin. “I got you, Dev, I got your favorite.” Then his tone shifts. “Shut up. Ricardo is a criminal. The cop car behind us said there was a suspect walking on foot about three hours ago!” “What how do you know if it’s Ricardo?” Justin shrugs his shoulders. “He fits the description of the situation!” Devin yells. Justin looks in the car and looks back at Devin. “What should we do, ask him?” “No, you idiot! We need that cop inside to see him inside the car!”

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Both of them turn around as the deputy walks outside. The cop sees them and continues to walk forward to his car. Passing by them both. Justin and Devin stand in silence. The deputy behind them walks over towards them. He pulls out a picture. “Have you seen man? He was reported to have stolen a car about four hours from here?” “I told you!” Devin yelled. Devin pointed to his car. “He’s in the car, sir!” The car starts all of a sudden. Ricardo has taken over the driver's seat. Before the cop can make a move, he takes off. The sounds of tires hitting against the concrete as he's peeling out. The cop pulls out his gun and shoots at the car’s tires but misses. The cop jumps into his car. “I’m going after him! I’ll send someone for you guys.” “What? No, we're coming with!” Devin yells. “Well, then, come on! He's getting away.” Devin and Justin quickly make their way to the car. The cop hits it into gear and takes off. All of the sudden, Devin and Justin felt like they were in The Fast and the Furious. Tailing Ricardo, Devin turns around and tell Justin this was all his fault. Tells him this was worse than the time Justin Crashed his mom’s car into a tree. “We're not gonna make the game!” Devin shouts. “You’re worried about the game? Dude we’re in pursuit of a criminal that stole your car! Justin yells. “Como on, Devin, pull up. What's your problem?” he mocks Justin. “Sounds familiar!” Devin yells. “Okay, I deserved that one. We couldn’t have known this, Dev.” Devin looks at Justin. “Yes, we could, you idiot. Haven’t you seen a thriller movie before?” The cop, getting irritated as Devin and Justin feud over whose fault it was, grips the wheel. “Shut up, both of you. I don’t need this right now.” He picks up his radio. “Dispatch, can you hear me? We are in pursuit of the thief. He was picked up by two strangers and has taken their car. The suspect is on the run. I repeat, the suspect is on the run.” The cop has an idea. He plans on shooting the tires of the vehicle in hopes to slow it down. “Hey kid. Grab the wheel!” The cop shouts. “What? …Okay.” Devin says nervously. As Devin takes control of the wheel, the cop grabs his gun. He rolls down the window and points the gun at the car. Tells Devin to hold it steady. Gun fire starts. After a few shots he finally hits them. He hit both of the back tires. You can see the car slowly losing speed and coming to a stop. What they don't know is that Ricardo has a firearm. He’s been carrying it since way before Devin and Justin picked him up. Ricardo walks out, shouting “I surrender!”

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The cop walks out and points a gun at him. “Hands behind your head.” Ricardo slowly puts his hand behind his head to throw off the cop. He pulls the gun from his back, but before he can shoot, the cop fires. Sounds of the gunfire echo across the desert. Devin and Justin cower in the car completely blank on what just happened in the past few seconds. “I guess you don’t owe me a hotdog,” Justin says. Dev doesn’t answer. Nothing but silence as they stare at the cop walking back. Still in shock.

Imagine This... Lauren Hodges I woke up to the sun shining through my window, I felt the gentle heat on my face as I opened my eyes to meet its cheerful glow. I lay in my bed for a few minutes before getting up, just letting my mind wander. I could go anywhere I wanted in my mind, not stuck in this town. I could be in a castle in Europe, wearing a big ball gown, meeting important people and sipping tea from the finest tea cup. However, I had to come back down to reality. I forced my mind to put all those fantasies away, but promised I would revisit them later in the day. The sheets in my bed clung to me like honey on a comb. With all my strength, I was able to rise from the cool quilt on my small bed in the corner of my room. It was too small of a bed for the room, but I loved that bed. It was made of old cedar and smelled like the woods after a fresh downpour. It had scratches and dents in the sides, but those imperfections made it perfect. Its wood matched the vanity, bookcase and the dresser that stood in the opposite corners of the room. The one window I had was above the bed so I could look out at the morning sun shining on the dew the night left on the grass. And at night, I could look out in the cold light of the moon and the stars dancing across the sky. On the windowsill, I had some dainty flowers I picked in a small glass vase and the origami deer my grandpa made for me a long time ago. He died shortly after I was born, but Dad said he loved me and made me the deer because he said it symbolized my gentleness. The dresser was tall and looked so elegant with two large doors that open like French doors in a rich man’s summer house. In it were all my summer dresses; it was warm out this time of year, so my winter clothes slept under my bed until they were woken when the sun set early in the day. I grabbed my pale pink dress that reminded me of the roses that grew in the front of the house in the spring after a month of rain. I wrapped my worn down apron around my cotton dress and tied it in a tight bow in the back. The apron didn’t make a great accessory but did its job to keep my hands clean and dry when I watered and picked the garden, and attended to the animals in the barn. I put on my small flats that were the newest item in the room. I had to replace them last month after one of the puppies chewed a hole in the sole. They were the same as the last ones, thin brown felt that clung tightly to my feet. I wore them under my work boots because Mama didn’t like us tracking mud in the house, so I take them off and walk around the house in my flats. Mama didn’t like me working all day, but I think it gave her slight relief that someone was out there watching over the land since Benjamin left. Benjamin is my brother, but he doesn’t

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live with us anymore since he got a job offer in the city to be an accountant. He’s real smart like that, with numbers and money, I’m smarter in reading and writing. My book case was filled with old books I’d already read and journals full of short stories I wrote. I get a new book every year for my birthday. If I’m lucky, the neighbors will give me one of their old books when they go to town to sell their old things. I love to read, even if it is a book I’ve already read once or twice. Books never get old to me; you can always imagine the character looking differently or acting differently, and it turns into a completely new story. I love to read, but I like to write too. I write about the dreams I have at night and turn them into a story with characters that fit well. I write about the characters in the books I read, too. Dad likes my writing and Mama does too, but she can’t read them herself. I usually read them to her, but it doesn’t have the same effect. I usually read to Mama after breakfast before I go do my chores, but this morning I didn’t have anything to read to her. I went down for breakfast empty handed. Mama was laying out the eggs, bacon, and biscuits as I walked down the creaky old stairs. They creak like an old person's bones do when they get up from sitting in a deep chair for too long. That’s what Granny used to say her bones did when she got up. Granny lived with us before she died from the whooping cough a couple years ago. She would always tell me stories about when she was younger, she used to get in so much trouble from sneaking out and messing with her neighbor’s yard. Mama doesn’t like to talk about Granny too much, I think she still misses her and not talking about her helps her forget her pain. Mama sat down for breakfast and called Dad down. I sat next to her at the square table, it had a blue-green table cloth on it and three white plates with pale green cloth napkins on top. Once Dad got down, we prayed before we started eating. We usually ate in silence, everyone is too busy eating, and speaking with your mouth full is impolite. I always finish my food first so I can go out to write before I have to start my chores. I quickly washed off my plate and threw my napkin in the basket by the washboard. I ran up the creaky stairs, grabbed my notebook and pen, and rushed back downstairs. I threw on my boots that lived under the bench next to the back door. I opened up the screen door and carefully closed it, because Mama doesn’t like it when we slam things. I ran out to the path behind the barn that I made after walking on it so many times. Once I got past the bushes I began walking slowly, looking at everything around me. I had to cross the old creek that was never full. Sometimes the water was flowing but it usually stood still until the sun soaked it all up. It was my favorite place to go after a fresh rain, cause the water was cool and clean. Benjamin used to go down there with me in the summer, and we would take a lunch and spend all afternoon there. The rocks reminded me of Ben and how he’d hold my hand while we crossed. I missed having him there to play in the creek with me, it wasn’t the same without him. The day was still nice though; there were birds chirped their morning songs, all a different tune, but went together so nicely to make that morning’s melody. Bees rushed from flower to flower before returning to their hive to please their queen with the pollen they collected on the back of their hind legs. I walked up to the hill that had longer grass than anywhere else on the property, since no one ever came out to cut it. I liked it that way, though. It brushed against my legs when I walked by, making them wet from the dew. Sometimes Mama would get mad in the winter when I came home with the bottoms of my pants wet. It was hot out that day though, so I didn’t have to worry about coming home with wet pants. After walking up the hill I reached the top where a single tree stood. It had a big, bumpy

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trunk that help the branched that I climbed up. When I sat in the secure limbs I could see the house, and the barn, and even the tin roof of the neighbor’s house. This was my favorite spot to write, I went here every morning after breakfast. I got out my journal and wrote stories, usually short ones. But sometimes in the spring when there is nothing to be done around the land cause all the crops are busy growing, I would come here and write all day. My dad liked it when I wrote because he said it made me smarter, but my mom told me it was a waste of time and that I needed to focus on real life things. I think she secretly liked my writing cause she got to sit down and relax when I read it to her. Mama never went to school, so she doesn’t talk about book stuff like and me and Dad. That’s okay though, she does her best to keep up and stay in the conversation. I once asked her if she wanted me to teach her to read, but she said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I find that hard to believe cause we’re always learning, and I guess even dogs learn. Dad told me you learn something new every day, so I told Mama I could teach her the new thing she learned that day. She wouldn’t have it. She told me to forget about it and go do my chores. I didn’t mind doing chores around the land, cause then I could mind-write. That’s when you’re not actually writing, but you’re still making up stories in your head. The only problem with mind-writing is I would forget the story before I could write it down. That’s why I carried around a small notebook in my apron, just so I could jot down the idea of the story so I could come back to it later. The rest of the day I was out doing my chores. Once the sun got low, and the sky turned the color of a rich woman’s rouge, that’s when I’d go inside for supper. Mama had it all laid out for us when Dad got home. He’d say the prayer and we’d eat. Mostly we had a beef and vegetable stew that Mama started in the afternoon and it cooked all day. It had potatoes, celery, and carrots that we grew, and Dad got the beef from the market. Mama would also make cornbread in a black iron skillet that was as old as the house. I one time told Mama she needed a new skillet, and she told me you only need to buy one iron skillet your whole life. That they never go bad. It’s true I guess, the cornbread always came out perfect and I never argued with her about it again. After supper, I went to my room and showered off cause I was dirty from working all afternoon. I had mud on legs from tending to the animals, dirt under my nails from picking the crops. The rest of my body was sticky from the sweat that dripped after standing in the blistering sun all day. I washed my hair in the sink and wiped my body down with a wet rag before climbing into bed. After a long day of work I could return to dreams from the night before and greet the light of the moon with heavy eyes as the images of a large castle and me in a ball gown danced around in my head.

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Why I Didn’t Get My Own Room Serene Hawes There she was. The reason I wasn’t getting my own room. Wobbling on over with that big, stupid smile on her face. If I close my eyes, I can see it all over again. I didn’t know why everyone was so excited to see her. I sure wasn’t. This had to have been the worst day of my life. Ever since I could remember, I had looked forward to getting my own room, and it was looking like everything would work out perfectly. That is, until she came around. A big, beautiful, empty room lay across the hall from mine, and my parents decided to give it to her instead of me, the obvious choice. According to everyone else it was just fine and dandy to leave me stuck in the tiny, overcrowded bedroom I was forced to share with my brother, Teddy. His half of the room was always a mess. Candy wrappers scattered the floor, his dirty clothes never made it to the hamper, and I’m pretty sure he had never made his bed a day in his life. Teddy never seemed to understand the concept of staying on his side of the room, and always transferred his mess onto mine too. And of course, when he did this it was my responsibility to clean it up because “Johnny, he’s only four,” and “don’t get so upset with him, be the bigger person.” So it’s obvious why I was thrilled to see my sister’s things packed into boxes, and her room slowly empty out. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. A huge empty room all for me. A room that wouldn’t have sticky messes on every surface. Sure, I would miss my sister, but taking her room was vital to my existence at this point. However, none of that mattered to Grandma. She was happy to come around and crush all my dreams. She stole the glorious room from right under me, and my parents allowed it all to happen! Then, she had the audacity to try and talk to me all squinty-eyed and smiling. “Oh, Johnny! You’re so big! And how handsome!” I didn’t know what she was trying to do. Butter me up with her compliments, like it was that easy? I was on to her, and I could see right past her smile. “Thanks, Grandma.” I muttered back to her. That night I fell asleep to the sounds of my brother kicking his bedframe. Over and over and over. I was seething with fury. How could this have happened to me? This was supposed to be my first night in my brand new room, but instead was just another night of pure torment. The next day, I would get my revenge. Grandma had to go. However, the next morning I don’t remember waking up seething. In fact, I woke up pretty excited. The entire house smelled like fresh baked cookies, and how could anyone be seething waking up to that? I sprinted into the kitchen at just about full speed. And there I saw Grandma, with two oven mitts on, pulling cookies out of the oven. Wow. This lady was good. She told me I was handsome, and now cookies? She really wanted on my good side. I wasn’t going to cave, though. “Good morning, Johnny! Would you like a cookie? Oatmeal chocolate chip!” She smiled her squinty-eyed smile at me. “Just promise you’ll still eat breakfast,” she added,

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holding out a tray of delicious gooey, cookies. The chocolate chips had melted and they were the perfect combination of not too chewy, not too crisp. “Yeah, I promise.” I said to her as I picked out the biggest cookie I could and took a bite. It tasted exactly like how my mom made them, maybe even better. “Hey, how’d you get mom’s cookie recipe?” I remember asking her. “Oh, you think it’s hers?” chuckled Grandma. “Ever wonder who she got it from?” She winked at me in a way that made it impossible to hate her. So, it turns out Grandma’s not so bad. I was too proud to give in so soon though, so I kept a grudge on her for a while after that. The cookies were definitely a good call. However, cookies fade, and bedrooms are forever. I wouldn’t let it be that easy, even though she was definitely growing on me. I needed to confide my feelings into someone trusted. Obviously, Teddy was a terrible choice, and my parents were already on Grandma’s side. I had pleaded with them plenty already and it got nowhere, so I decided to go to the only reasonable person in the household. My sister. She had the right idea with the whole moving out thing. Sadly, after explaining the entire situation to her, I learned that she too, was useless. “It’s alright, Johnny,” she laughed after hearing my complaints, “I’m not going to have my own room anymore either. I’ll be sharing a dorm with two other girls.” “You don’t get it.” I put my head in my hands, “It’s not just about sharing a room.” I shook my hands at her, “It’s about who I have to share with! Have you met Teddy?” She laughed some more. “Johnny don’t be ridiculous, he’s only four!” I didn’t see why Teddy’s age was so important. It was the only argument people used for him. Sometimes age was all anyone wanted to talk about, but other times they didn’t. Like if I ever tried to talk about it, it was all of a sudden bad. Grandma had to be at least a hundred but if I said it, I got in trouble. So what did Teddy’s age matter? Stuff like that was always confusing me. Grownups always said things like, “don’t lie Johnny,” but then right after, “don’t say rude things! I don’t care if it’s true.” If there’s one thing I learned when Grandma moved in, it’s that regular adults are confusing, and old people aren’t. Adults will always confuse the heck out of you. You think you’ll get it when you’re older, but you never do. When you’re an adult, you’ll only confuse yourself too. Also, I learned that my family is a bunch of traitors. Also, that I didn’t really hate Grandma. I actually kind of liked her. See, the way that adults confuse you, old people don’t. The elderly and little kids are the only ones who really have it figured out. They say what they mean. Not what they’re supposed to say, or what anyone else wants them to say. What they really mean. Things like that made me not hate Grandma. She was funny and open, and wouldn’t listen to stuff she thought was stupid. She couldn’t even get in trouble for it either, because she was older than everyone else. I learned this about Grandma really quick. It was on the day when I officially lost any hard feelings against her. It all went down at a parent teacher conference. See, my actual parents couldn’t make it, so they sent Grandma to meet with my teacher instead. Since Grandma didn’t think like a regular adult, she didn’t respond the same way my mom would have to any of the things my teacher told her. Instead of “Yes, I’ll talk to him about that,” Grandma said, “what does that matter?” When mom would have said, “I’ll work on that with him,” Grandma said, “I’m 87 and never

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used that a day in my life.” Then afterwards Grandma even promised not to tell my parents about my failing history grade because “who cares sweetie, they’re all dead anyways?” She really was impossible to hate. Living with Grandma turned out to be pretty great, actually. She had lots of stories, the best baking skills, she was always humming softly, and sometimes when I was about to get in trouble, she would stick up for me. Turns out she was my mom’s mom and that was pretty useful. Also, grandmas don’t have jobs, so she was always around the house and made great company. It’s funny how much your mind can change sometimes. How you can wish someone never came around, but then you start to wish they’d never leave. I wish Grandma never left. Having your own room isn’t as nice as having a grandma. I wish I could have known that sooner.

Always With You Chloe Hightower Joseph fled from Anastasia's house, hoping the veil of darkness would hide him well. Sweat dribbled down his forehead, not only because of the previous acts with his Grecian lover, but also because he knew what he was doing was sinful. “God forgive me, the demon sent to tempt me has overtaken my bod—” Joseph had paused his prayer to monitor to the world around him. Trying to decipher what the noise was, he came to a conclusion: footsteps, hard and heavy, coming his way. Footsteps. His body grew hot, his pace quickened, his heart pounded; then, he was forced to a stop. A cold hand rested itself on his shoulder. “Pastor? Pastor Philant?” The voice sounded winded and inquisitive. Quivering, Joseph, or Pastor Philant to most, turned his body to face the man that had caught him wandering the wet streets at five in the morning. “Uh—yes. A-and you are?” “Oh, right. The name’s Rick. I go to Sacred Stone on Sundays with my wife, so I recognized you.” “Well uh, nice to-nice to meet you, Rick.” Even in the darkness, Joseph could see the confusion on the man's face. He braced himself for the upcoming question, digging around in his mind for a believable lie to tell. “So, uh, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you out at this hour? I’m on my morning run. I usually don't see any other runners this early, especially in this rain.” “Well, Rick. I’m- I got into a little spat with my wife, and uh, I just had to take a walk.” “Oh, well, sorry to hear, Pastor. You know, my wife and I go at it too sometimes. I know you’re the pastor and all, and I doubt you need help on relationships, but are you sure you’re alright? I’ll let you continue, if you’re okay, but I could help in some way.” “Well, you know, that’s quite alright, Rick. I’ll- I’ll be fine.” The weight of the awkward situation was lifted as Rick jogged off and disappeared into the early morning mist. At this point, Pastor Philant wished that his lie was true. He wished that he and Josie, his wife, had gotten into a dispute and now he was just taking a walk to let off steam. However, this wasn’t the case. Although it was wet and cold, the pastor had left his wife in the middle of the night to satisfy the lust throughout his body.

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For weeks after Joseph’s encounter with Rick, he had continuously visited Anastasia, careful now, however, to take a modified route through the woods, ensuring that he wouldn’t have to meet and greet with any more morning runners. He had fallen into a routine: spend a moment with Anastasia, regret everything and repent, go home to Josie, hold her, and then fall in lust with the thought of Anastasia once more. After Joseph could take no more, he resorted to a final walk through the woods, hoping it would rekindle the connection between him and God. “Lord, we all sin. Romans 3:23; ‘For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.’ I’m no stranger to sin. Even as a teenager I was labeled a promiscuous and a two-timing bed hopper. But I thought I had outgrown my ways. I’ve repented, I’ve tried to leave Anastasia, but I just can’t Lord!” A passing deer leaped at the inflection in Joseph’s tone. Tears streamed down his eyes and onto his quivering lips. Joseph took a moment to collect himself, listening to the cooing birds and whistling wind, and then he continued to converse with his God. “I have failed you! A sheep, made from your flesh, the blood of your blood! I am a Pastor, Lord! Why must you withhold from me the strength to banish my demons? When I left Avin County I became a changed man! And now, I’ve resorted back to my ways! Oh God! Hear my plea!” Pastor Philant screamed these words into the darkness and noticed a wolf, scowling at him, in the distance. Deadened by fear, Joseph was unable to move. The only motion the pastor could muster was to bend down on his knees, resorting to his daily prayer. “O-our fa-father, who art in heaven, hallowed be your name.” The wolf snarled and inched forward. “L-lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil—” “Joseph—” A familiar, yet earth-shaking voice ripped Joseph from his prayers. He looked up to find that the wolf had disappeared, and in its place was Rick, the kind and soft-spoken man that had stopped him that one morning. “Rise and greet me.” Joseph, shaking, rose from his crouched position to obey the orders he was given. The longer Joseph studied “Rick’s” face, he noticed that it had a blinding radiance; in fact, it began to not look like Rick at all. “Who-who are you? Rick?” “Rick, Angel, Messenger, I have many names, Joseph.” “Wait. Angel? Is-is that what you really said?” “I believe so. You haven’t spoken to our kingdom in a while, but I would’ve thought you’d know an angel when you saw one. Never mind that, my name is Gabriel. I intervene with those who have strayed from Go—” “Oh no. No, no, no. I died! That wolf has probably eaten my guts by now! I’m dead!” “Jos—” “Oh poor, poor Josie! I cheated on her and then died before I could apologize!” “Joseph!” The whistling from the wind stopped, the birds went silent, all at the elevation of Gabriel’s tone. “I am not here for long. God has told me about you, Joseph. You and the Kingdom used to be so close, but now, we watch your actions with despair.” Gabriel walked towards the crying pastor and placed his glowing hand over Joseph’s eyes. Joseph felt his body going numb. First his feet, then knees, then thighs. “Help! What are you doing!? Where are you going?” Gabriel faded from Joseph’s view.

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Only his voice was decipherable. “Your past is where your troubles began. Re-watch your mistakes and re-learn the lesson God taught you so many years ago…” Suddenly, Joseph found himself in the passenger seat of the 1972 Corvette Stingray his dad had given him before he left his hometown, Avin. “I remember thi—” He froze. To his left was his younger self, one hand on the wheel and the other outside the window. Guns N’ Roses booming, cigar smoke overtaking the air, and the beer bottles scattered on the floor all made what day it was clear to Joseph: July 25, 1989. The day Joseph went through the trial that ended his ways of promiscuousness and had made him devoted his life to preaching the gospel. Gabriel had taken Joseph back in time. The angel had made him a spirit, forced to watch the life-changing, terrifying moment Joseph’s juvenile self went through; and there was no way of changing fate. His adolescent self began to speak, unable to see his older self floating in the passenger seat mouthing the words he was predestined to say. “Man I hate this town! Ugh, you sleep with tha pastor’s daughters a few times—then allofasudden you’re a menace! Those bozos should be thankin’ me!” Older Joseph watched the speedometer on the Stingray: 60 mph, 80 mph, 120 mph. “All the guys in town couldn’t be paid to sleep with those chicken heads. They’re real lucky their tits were big—” Everything went into slow motion as older Joseph watched. He had seen the No Entry sign pass by, and the reflectors on the 12-foot wall ahead glowing, as if they were the eyes of the devil himself. The blue Corvette smashed into the wall, and the younger version of Joseph jolted forward in slow-motion. He could hear the leather seat-belt tearing through the flesh on his shoulder, he could see the blood dripping from his forehead as he hit the dashboard. The older version of Joseph ascended up into the sky, then hurriedly crashed down into a dark box-like room. “I’m back, Joseph. I doubt you remember this moment, but, God was with you. He made you survive this crash.” “Gabriel! Where are you! Take me back to the woods! Please!” “I know this past is hard to swallow, but it will help you overcome your demon.” “Gabriel! Come back! Please!” Gabriel’s voice never answered Joseph. The sensation from the woods came back to him and suddenly he was in the hospital two days after his crash. “Oh Lord, why?’’ Joseph remembered that he couldn’t shake this day out of his head for three months. He watched his sleeping young self and shed a tear. “I’m sorry. I made a promise on this day. I promised I would change my ways an-and, I broke my promise. God forgive me. I could’ve died. You saved my life, and I broke our pact. I'm-I'm so sorry” With Joseph’s heartfelt apology, the room turned to sand and blew away in wind. “Hello?” Joseph called out, hoping he was still in the company of Gabriel despite the fact that the room he was in was pitch black, not even Gabriel could be seen.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

“You know I’m with you Joseph, and He, the Father, is with you always.” Gabriel’s voice echoed through the darkness. “I’ve learned my lesson, I’ll never do it again.” “Your kind is destined to sin, Joseph. Though you may never commit adultery again, you will commit more sins.” “Can’t you tell me the secret to curbing my cravings towards sin?” There was a slight pause, Joseph squirmed in the eerie darkness. “Jesus has risen for you. Ask for forgiveness and continue to spread the gospel. There are no secrets in the Kingdom that we angels abide by.” Gabriel took a step away from Joseph and turned his back, his skin beginning to glow again, lighting up the dark space the two were in. “My time here is up, Joseph. Thank you for repenting. Your sins have already been accounted for, though.” “Well, if that’s not why I’m here then wh—” “Why are you here you ask? Because you had forgotten that God takes care of and loves you no matter what you say, do, or even think.” “I guess I did start to doubt Him. You’ve enlightened me and I’ve repented, thank you… And thanks again, now I don’t have to debate about what Sunday’s sermon will be about.” Joseph chuckled and while Gabriel let out a soft chuckle giggles, beams of light emitted from his body. “I love you, Joseph. We all do. Good-bye now. Do not forget my visit.” Before Pastor Philant could respond, he was on the stage at Sacred Stone, dressed in his Sunday suit, awkwardly staring at his audience. His eyes widened and a smile crept onto his face as he scanned the aisles and saw his beautiful wife, giving him a confused look like the rest of his congregation. “God. God is so good. Through my struggles, I lost sight of Him, and when I was at my lowest, He sent an angel down to realign my path. I was taken back to the nightmare that sparked my faith. And after reliving a treacherous past, I came to further realize that His love and patience are both everlasting! Everyone …” Pastor Philant paused once more. There, in the back row, was Rick, glowing and smiling in the distance. He bent down to grab his hat and then walked out of the church's doors, as Pastor Philant continued.

Imaginary Aidan Trulove Margaret Turnstone believed in discipline. Everything about her screamed authority, from her tight bun of wispy grey hair to her pearl earrings worn daily despite the fact that she was retired and could have worn anything she wanted. Her three boys were grown up with families of their own. They had steady jobs, loving spouses and, best of all, had provided her with grandchildren with whom she could share her wisdom about how the world should work. Her oldest son, Tanner, had a little son named Maximilian who was a soccer player. There was also her second child, James, whose wife was seven months along with their first baby, a little girl they’d decided to name Shelby. The problem, of course, was with the granddaughter belonging to her youngest son, Harry. When Charlotte came to visit while her parents went on a “date night,” she would spend the entire time moving the chess pieces around and ruining her grandmother’s game, while whispering quietly to herself in a corner. Any attempts to get her to bathe or eat were in vain and

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often dissolved into a screaming, kicking tantrum, that had on a few occasions ended in Margaret needing new glasses. Worst of all, as she verged on age six, Charlotte had committed the worst crime of all: having an imaginary friend. Or, at least, it had started as only one friend. Soon enough she’d crafted an army of odd, destructive creatures that apparently roamed her grandmother’s house when Charlotte came over. Charlotte hadn’t eaten her grandmother’s flowers—Geoffry the wood bear had. She couldn’t be blamed for coloring on the wall, because it was clearly the mischievous house sprites who were angry at Margaret for moving their favorite mirror. Charlotte wouldn’t even claim responsibility for smashing the jack-o-lantern her grandmother had graciously purchased for her on Halloween, and had blamed it on a new entity called Feyo who had squashed the pumpkin after mistaking it for a large orange cushion. So, on a late Saturday night when Harry’s headlights shone through the curtains as he pulled into the driveway, Margaret was prepared. She had a pre-cooked dinner waiting to be warmed in the oven. All the houseplants had been removed to the garage. As she laid a blanket down in the corner Charlotte would probably end up in, whispering her secrets to things that didn’t exist, there was a hard knock at the door. Margaret finished setting the blanket, then shuffled over to let Harry in, her house slippers sliding slightly on the tile. “Hey, Mom,” said Harry as she opened the door, throwing his arms wide and enveloping her in a large hug. “How ya doing?” “Oh, I’m fine,” said Margaret, laughing as he released her. As much of a troublemaker Harry could be when he wanted to, he was still the baby of the family. “Thanks again for doing this,” he said, leaning on the door frame and looking back at the car. “Charlie and I haven’t had a night out in so long. We’re going to a little sushi place downtown, it’s supposed to be great. Charlotte, say hi to Grandma.” Margaret looked down. There, wrapped around her father’s leg like a vice, her fluffy dark hair flying in all directions, was Charlotte. With a caramel complexion and large brown eyes, Harry’s adopted daughter looked almost nothing like her pale red-headed father, nor did she resemble her other father, whose dark skin reflected the headlights of their car as he waved from the driver’s seat. Charlotte said nothing, simply walking past her grandmother into the house, pausing momentarily to kiss her father’s hand goodbye. Harry shook his head. “Sorry about that, Mom. She talks to Charlie and me about you for hours when she comes home, really.” Margaret resisted the temptation to raise an eyebrow. “I must admit, that surprises me a little.” Harry shrugged. “That’s just the way she is.” He glanced down at his watch. “Shoot, we’re gonna be late. Love you.” Harry kissed his mother on the cheek and jogged back out to the car. As he and Charlie drove off toward downtown, blaring AC/DC out of their open windows, Margaret turned back to Charlotte. Surprisingly, Charlotte wasn’t in her corner. She was standing directly behind Margaret, her dark eyes blinking up at her like some strange owl. Margaret nearly jumped. “Charlotte,” she said, rubbing her hip, “you can’t sneak up on Grandma. I’m too old for that.” Charlotte tugged lightly at her grandmother’s sleeve. “Is it time for dinner yet?” Margaret blinked. It had been so long since Charlotte had spoken to her that Margaret almost thought the tiny voice had come from nowhere at all. “What was that, hun?”

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

“Is it almost time for dinner?” Charlotte’s small, thin voice was surprisingly steady for someone her age, almost if she considered each word for half a moment before carefully losing it to the air. Margaret realized she was staring. “Yes, dear. I’ve got it warming up in the oven.” Charlotte smiled sweetly, balling her chubby fists around the edges of her dress. “Grandma, guess what Feyo did today.” Margaret gritted her teeth. They were back to imaginary friends after only a few minutes in. Steadying herself, Margaret walked into the kitchen, her granddaughter trailing behind. Deciding it was easier than arguing, Margaret said “I don’t know. What did Feyo do today?” Charlotte giggled, swinging herself up onto the kitchen counter as her grandmother bent over the oven. “Feyo said he can meet you tonight, but only if I behave and eat my dinner. He’s worried about me eating enough,” said Charlotte, watching as Margaret dusted off her hands on her apron. “That’s good. You really should be eating a little more at your age—” “Didn’t you hear what I said?” asked Charlotte, hopping down from the counter. “You finally get to meet Feyo! And Geoffry and Tina and Martl and—” “Yes dear, I heard you.” “But, aren’t you excited?’ Charlotte’s eyes were wide, her nose crinkling up like a piece of tinfoil. Margaret sighed deeply. This was against her values. That tended to happen a lot with Charlotte. But, Margaret decided on a few words of mercy that would save her a tantrum. “Yes, Charlotte. I’m very excited to meet your friends.” Charlotte beamed, and Margaret couldn’t help smiling back a little. After making her way through an entire slice of the steaming lasagna her grandmother had prepared (without waiting for it to cool first), Charlotte wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Are you ready, Grandma?” she asked, hopping out of her seat and again tugging at her grandmother’s sleeve. “You need to use a napkin,” said Margaret, setting her fork down slowly. At last, they’d arrived back at the heart of the matter. Charlotte rolled her eyes, picking up her napkin and quickly smearing it across her mouth. “There,” she said, throwing it back down onto her plate. “Now can you come see my friends?” “I suppose so,” muttered Margaret, pulling herself up slowly from her seat. “I’ll come meet them, but then you have to take a bath.” Charlotte nodded, her hair bouncing up and down with surprising force. “Yeah. I’m going to need one, too. Feyo is so messy.” Margaret winced. What exactly did Charlotte have planned? Was she going to dump dish soap on the rug, or maybe smear the last bits of lasagna on the wall, only to blame it on some mysterious entity she had made up? Margaret followed Charlotte into the living room, where her granddaughter directed her to the couch. “I’m ready, dear. What are you going to show me?” said, Margaret, sinking into the cushions. “You have to close your eyes first!” Charlotte squeaked. Margaret put her hands over her eyes. “We really need to get you in the bath—”

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

“You can look now! Grandma, this is Feyo.” Margarette let her hands fall. She almost couldn’t process what she was seeing. Before her, standing just behind her granddaughter was a hulking, dirty...thing. It was almost human, except for that it was eight feet tall and had to duck so its mass of bright yellow didn’t hit the ceiling. There was also the fact that the creature was dark blue and had an extra arm on either side of its body. The thing shuffled its feet, looking at her expectantly, as if waiting for her to say something. So, naturally, Margaret started to scream. She had no idea she could make that sound. It came pouring out of her throat, hot and shrill, a sound that more resembled a wounded bear than a frantic old woman. Charlotte tilted her head. “What, Grandma? This is Feyo. What did you think he looked like? I’ve drawn pictures of him for you a bazillion times.” Feyo groaned, laying one set of hands over his ears. “What, I’m…,” gasped Margaret, a hand over her chest. Had she forgotten to take her medications? No, she always laid them out, she always took them at eight, washing them down with the same bowl of oatmeal she had every morning. Was she dreaming? Had she fallen asleep thinking about Charlotte coming over and ruining her house? Feyo was placing his second set of hands over his ears. Margaret realized she was still yelling. “Grandma, stop!” shouted Charlotte, running over and slamming a hand over her grandmother’s mouth, her chubby fingers colliding hard with Margaret’s lips. “Feyo’s ears hurt!” Feyo, who had been squeezing his eyes shut opened them slowly, lowering his arms. “Is it over?” he asked, looking timidly at Charlotte. For such a large creature, Feyo’s voice was high, almost as if he were stuck in a constant state of whispering. Charlotte nodded. “I think she’s alright, Feyo. Right, Grandma?” Margaret nodded slowly. Feyo smiled shyly. “I’m sorry if I scared you,” he said, sitting down with a quiet thump on the carpet. “You have a very nice house.” Charlotte removed her hand from her grandmother’s mouth. “What do you say, Grandma?” she said, moving away to stand by Feyo. Margaret shook her head. Even shock couldn’t disarm her of her ideas of courtesy. “Thank you...I’m glad you like it,” Margaret managed. Charlotte nodded in satisfaction, before turning back to the giant. “It’s alright, everyone. I think she’s warmed up to Feyo, and the rest of you are a lot smaller. You can come out now.” “What—” Margaret nearly fell off the sofa. The wall behind Charlotte started to warp and bend as if it were liquid. The wallpaper bulged, the wood churned, as something started to pull itself free. At the other side of the room near the entrance to the kitchen, her vase began to twitch. The carpet below her moved as a group of small somethings pushed against it like a stream. Suddenly from the wall burst a large green thing coated in a thick layer of fur. Something small and sleek shot out of the vase and landed on Charlotte’s shoulder. The things in the floor bust free sending tiny bullet-shaped holes through her rug. “Grandma, this is Geoffry, and that’s Tina, and those are Martl.” Geoffry, the green thing, was the first to rise. With a snout and mouth of a bear but a body that resembled dense shrubbery, Geoffry raised a twig where his paw should have been. Tina, the sleek creature who resembled a large spider but with only two legs and one gigantic eye crawled down from

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Charlotte’s shoulder. And, not to be outdone, the small lights that made up Martl swooped down around Margaret’s head, undoing her tight knot of hair. Margaret scrambled to the other side of the sofa, breathing hard. Charlotte was gazing around happily. “Grandma, meet everyone! Everyone, please be nice to Grandma, she’s a little scared of you. You are weird, even though I love you.” Charlotte finished her speech with a flourish, throwing her hands in the air. No one moved. Geoffry was the first to speak. “Well,” he grumbled, in a low, deep voice that resembled the sound of a large tree creaking in the wind. “This is good. It is very nice to meet you, madam.” Margaret nodded. “After all this time, that is,” chirped Tina, leaning against Charlotte so she could wave her free leg in a quick hello. “Of course, we’ve been watching, but—” Martl's lights grew brighter. Tina rolled her eye. “Oh fine, alright. Sorry, that probably freaks you out a little.” Margaret nodded, recovering herself. “Charlotte,” she said, getting up slowly. “I am so sorry.” Charlotte tilted her head. “For what, grandma?” “I didn’t think they all were—I mean, I didn’t know you were telling the truth—” “It’s alright,” Charlotte laughed. “I know you didn’t.” “You knew? I was trying to—” “Look, lady,” said Tina, jumping up onto the sofa, propelling herself next to Margaret. “You need to take it a little easier. Relax a little, ya know? Also, from one stylish lady to another, that haircut needs a major adjustment.” Margaret brushed the remnants of her bun away from her eyes. Geoffry nodded in agreement. “With all respect intended,” he said, rolling up onto his hind legs. “She is correct. Charlotte is the first one to have seen us in many years. It is by her will that we may appear to you.” Geoffry paused slightly, shifting uncomfortably. “If you do not mind me saying, Madam, you seem quite unhappy. We all have sensed a certain…” Geoffry glanced at Tina. “Unrest, boredom, lackluster,” she finished. “Take your pick. Personally, I see it as all of the above.” “I am perfectly…” Margaret trailed off, rubbing the inside of her hand. Martl glowed softly. “Grandma?” asked Charlotte, laying a hand on her grandmother’s shoulder. “Are you alright?” Margaret looked up. Around her were insane, colorful beings. Among them stood her tiny granddaughter. All of them stared at her, waiting. Margaret put her head in her hands. “Yes and no, Charlotte,” she said. “I don’t know, dear.” Margaret felt Charlotte’s hand move to her face, touching her with a slow, delicate hand. Margaret opened her eyes. Charlotte smiled up at her. “I think you’re okay,” she said, tugging on her grandmother’s sleeve. Margaret stared at the little girl in front of her, the little girl she had lamented over for being too wild, the girl she’d been unable to understand and hadn’t wanted to, her granddaughter

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who had been so excited to show Margaret something wonderful but had been shot down time and time again. Margaret looked down at Charlotte’s dark glittering eyes, her mane of hair, at the small smile touching the corners of her small lips. She looked around the living room, which now seemed almost crowded, and at each and every one of the creatures her granddaughter had loved and cared for. They were gazing at her nervously, almost expectantly. Margaret adjusted in her seat, pulling herself up off the couch, looking around at the faces before her. Then, with a small breath to steady herself, she said, “Well, I suppose I haven’t been very polite, have I?” She stuck out her hand to Feyo, who all the while had been sitting quietly behind Charlotte, watching everything unfold. “I’m Margaret. Pleased to meet you.” Feyo rose, reaching forward with one of his bright blue arms. “Nice to meet you, too.”

The Adventures of Yehuda Yehuda Brock Our story is about Yehuda and how he became what he is today. Yehuda was out walking down the sidewalk, just going on with his life, when suddenly a bottle hit him in the face. “Ow!” said Yehuda. He looked around to see who threw the bottle, maybe just a homeless person digging through the trash, but there was no one around. Yehuda bent down to pick up the bottle. The bottle seemed both light and heavy at the same time. “Geez! Who throws bottles at people?!” exclaimed Yehuda. He looked at the bottle again and then started to dust it off. As he dusted it, smoke began to pour out of the bottle and a genie popped out. “I am the great and powerful genie. Who has freed me from my tomb?” asked the genie. “I did,” Yehuda replied. “For freeing me from my bottle, I will grant you two wishes,” said the genie. Yehuda thought about this and immediately knew what he wanted. “I want to be a hero,” Yehuda said simply. “Really?” questioned the genie. “You don’t want all the money or to rule the world?” “No thanks,” said Yehuda. “Just power and stuff like Spiderman.” The genie quickly granted Yehuda his wish and evaporated. Yehuda was filled with superpowers and became what he is today.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

Poetry Collection Logan DiCristofalo My Family is from the Sea We come from salty waters and the buzzing of bees We come from sandy hands and scraped knees Fresh fruit that melts on your tongue Climbing the trees where it once had hung Earth underneath our fingernails Hair blowing beneath mighty sails I was blossomed from the beauty of the tides I can see it in the reflection of my father’s eyes Warm as the sun and blue as the sea I can see the home where my grandparents used to be And when he speaks of the ocean, I find myself falling in love Warm waves, thick air, sun shining from above Palermo gently calls my name I know my father feels the same

Growing Pains The world has been so hard on you That you’ve forgotten how to be soft Please remember that being sharp as blades Will end up cutting you, too

Bloom I’ve been trying to grow into a person that you can call your love And while I am not yet a flower but a bud And my temper is as short as my stem And I still cannot comprehend your kindness When I bloom, I will be so sickeningly sweet So vibrantly blue And so damn tall That I will become the envy of the garden It is then when you will be able to say That I am your favorite flower

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

You Are Mother Nature took her time on you Carving every detail of your smile Making it so perfect that people couldn’t help but stare She perfumed you with the Earth The scent of mud and herbs forever imprinted in your skin Your eyes as wide and green as lily pads I can hear the wind speak your name It has grown fond of you I can tell by the way it licks your skin The sun showers you with love each morning Your skin kissed by the radiant heat Cheeks pink from the embarrassment It seems that you are the Earth’s favorite Mother Nature’s special creation As if sprouted from the soil beneath your feet I cannot comprehend you How you can feel so much like home And yet you are not meant for me to live in You are hiding in the trees, disguised by the foliage You are soaring in the stars, forever shining You are wading in the water, gently streaming You are everything, and you are everywhere You are inescapable.

Cry Delia Lopez I want to cry. I want to cry and cry until I can't cry anymore. I can’t hold it in anymore. I want to let it all out. I have to let it all out. I just want to cry. I want to break down and let it all out. I want to scream. Scream until my throat goes sore .Scream until I can't talk anymore. I want to scream so loud it echoes out and everyone hears. They will hear my screams. My cries. My pain. I’ve kept it all in. EVERYTHING. And it’s driving me crazy. I’m the living embodiment of a bomb. I tick and tick and tick. And one day, the ticking will stop. There will be a loud BOOM and everyone will go running. The same way the people of Pompeii ran from the

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volcano. They will go save themselves and get as far away as possible from the volcano. Go ahead. I’m sorry for exploding. I just want to cry. I want to cry until my head hurts. I want to cry until my eyes are swollen. But I can’t. Something is stopping me. I can't cry because I know they will see. I know that they will judge and assume the worse. “Stop being dramatic and pull yourself together,” I can almost hear them say. I can't cry because I’m scared of what they'll think. I want to cry but I can't. I can't cry because that'll show weakness. Am I weak for wanting to cry? No. I'm not weak. I want to cry because I’ve been strong for far too long. I want to cry and cry and cry. I want to cry until there are no more tears to cry. I feel like I'm drowning. I’m drowning and everyone around me is breathing normally. I'm drowning and they’re telling me to learn how to swim.

Home Analisa Lugo Cisneros The sparkle in her eyes as she looks at my glistening, blue ruffles. She is in another world says the smile forming on her; the wind brushing her hair, her body losing tension. She is family say the baby palmas twenty feet tall, as they feel her roots start to tangle within theirs. She is safe say the old, well-built with concrete walls around her. Her widening eyes, and big smile as the shutters bang against one another say she loves the thrill, the rush of excitement. Her blistered raw feet say she is one with the land, her feet sinking in the ground as the growing roots get bigger. The creaking bamboo around her as she walks down the steep mountain say she is not scared, for there is nothing to be scared of. Her emotions the jolting car she rides. Drops start to fall on paradise. The stiff year-old shoes on her feet say she hardly ever wears them. Today must be a special day. Waves pound against the shore just like the girl’s anger. The dark clouds say, today is a sad day for the girl, and as they start to crack so does the girl. The roaring plane engine—her anger. The isla starts to moan as the girl breaks even more. The girl’s blank face says she is imagining another world—the pain is still there. The plane begins to move. The girl feels a tug right in the middle. The isla rages. The plane’s wheels are in the air and the palmas fall, for the girls’ roots have been removed and no longer keep them up. The girl is crying say the clouds, their guts coming out. The girl is like us say the fish thrown on a shore. Home is a distant place, say the photos of another world.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

Dear Dad Luca Decamillo Dear Dad, Thank you for the life you have given me, The many accomplishments I couldn’t have gotten without you, And, most importantly, Dear Dad, thank you for my gift of faking a smile. Thanks to you I can talk, and laugh, And smile, And have everyone believe I’m actually happy. Thanks to you I can get through even the toughest days Filled with stress, and boredom, and fear, and worries Bottled up, wanting to be set free, I push them away and thank you. You taught me Unintentionally, disrespectfully, and That in order to succeed I need to be able to hide what I am feeling. Because if people can see That I too am a Human, Then I have already showed them my weakness. While most young girls are taught how to Braid hair, share their toys, and sing. I was taught how to Hide my feelings, to a point that I’m Uncomfortable If asked to share how I feel later on. But I take comfortable silence for granted So, Dear Dad, Thank you.

Dazed and Un-amused Jack Jones Matthew McConaughey stood perched against a wall with his three other friends. White shirt with rolled up sleeves, pink pants tucked into his clean boots and bleach blonde hair flowing in the wind of the everlasting first night of summer. Discussing the new pool of incoming freshman with his buds. Eventually, he stands up from the wall and speaks words of wisdom that will soon be remembered by most modern-day Americans. “That’s what I like about these high school girls.” Michael and Josh began to jump up and down in their seats. “That’s it man,” Josh yelled, “That’s the Quote, that’s what makes the movie!”

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2017-2018

Michael and Josh continue bouncing up and down, high fiving, and letting out the occasional “whoop” of joy. “Ahh, man, what a birthday. Nothing better than cake and McConaughey,” Josh said, for some reason continuing to bounce up and down. Mid bounce, right before Matthew McConaughey could finish his sentence, the T.V. shut off. The bounces stopped and the joy flushed from Michael and Josh’s faces. Michael turned around, and what he had feared had come true. His mother had interfered. “Michael, it’s your birthday, turn the T.V. off and go do something.” The screechy highpitched mom voice of Vicky O'Donohue, mother of Michael O’Donohue, rang throughout the newly silent room, lacking the smooth and suave voice of 1990’s Matthew McConaughey with bleach blonde hair. There was something about the lack of 1990’s Matthew McConaughey’s voice that made the situation hit Michael and Josh harder than it should have. Michael felt a tear well up in his eye and turned to look at Vicky. “It’s my birthday, Vicky! Why won’t you let me watch Matthew in arguably his greatest performance ever?!” Michael screamed, and by the end of his brief tirade he was panting with a bead of sweat, up on his forehead, like he just gave Mel Gibson’s inspirational speech in Braveheart. Michael was about to continue his rant but Josh intervened. “Hey wait, why don’t we just go everywhere they went in the movie, that could be fun,” Josh suggested, deciding it was better to have the option to do something else than have Michael stuck in his room, grounded the rest of the night. “Yeah Mikey, your friend has a good idea,” Vicky said. “Don’t patronize me, Vicky, I’m eighteen, I’m capable of my own opinions.” Michael turns back to Josh. “Yeah, that works, we should go before it gets late.” The duo moved to Michael’s car, onward to the next location: The Moon Tower. The two got in the car, Michael set to drive, and Josh set to navigate. The fact that Michael was a notoriously a bad driver was momentarily overlooked because the last time Michael was chosen to navigate, what was a simple trip to Applebee’s, turned into an accidental trip to San Antonio. Michael’s “good enough to pass” driving abilities would have to do for now. “Alright,” Michael said, “Location 1, The Moon Tower, where is that at?” “West Enfield Park,” Josh said, after looking it up on his phone. “Ok then, lead the way, Josh.” Michael pulled the car out from the driveway and followed Josh’s directions to the park. One very frightening and jittery car ride later, Josh and Michael arrived at the park. The two made their way to the entrance, only to be disappointed to find a locked gate, realizing that the park closed at 9pm. “Dammit, it’s 10!” Michael said, “Another birthday ruined by frickin’ Vicky.” “Hey, no, it’s fine,” Josh said in an effort to cheer up Michael. “It’s only a low wire fence, we can just climb it, it’s not like they have a security guard or something.” Michael looked up and down the fence to assess how difficult it might be for him to scale it. “Umm, Josh, I’m not very athletic.” “Oh yeah, Coach Thompson almost failed you in P.E.” For a brief moment the two forgot about the task at hand and briefly re-lived a much simpler time of middle school P.E. “Never mind that, let’s just climb the damn fence.” Michael wanted to get as much McConaughey in as little time so he could make home before his 1 o’clock curfew. Josh went first, with very little problem at all, he made it over. Michael followed Josh, and very unskillfully scaled the chain link. “Hey! What are you boys doing?” A voice from the other side of the fence rang out. “Crap,” Michael said under his breath.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

A man with a flashlight and flimsy metal badge approached the fence, his shirt reading “Park Security.” “What the frick, Josh, what happened to ‘no security guard’?” Michael was temporarily paralyzed due to never having been in any sort of trouble with anyone besides his mom, and the thought of being in trouble a government employee was enough to make him faint. “Michael, just run away,” Josh suggested, he obviously knew that due to the security guard’s heavyset nature, an approximately 10 second head start would be given to the two due to the chain link obstacle in between the two parties. “No, that’s illegal.” Michael didn’t want any trouble with the law. “What’s illegal is Matthew McConaughey smoking pot in Dazed and Confused, but that doesn’t stop him from doing it or us from obsessing over the movie, does it?” Josh was growing impatient now. “You’re right, let’s go.” The duo began to run as the security guard yelled and tried to scale the fence. “You kids can’t be in here, the park’s closed.” He continued trying to scale the fence but each time his shirt would get caught, and he would have to jump back down. At this point Michael, in the rush of the moment let out a war cry very different to the one he gave to his mom earlier that night. This time, he quoted one of the brilliant lines existing within the pair’s favorite movie, “Hey guard! Wipe that face off your head, bitch!” Josh and Michael kept running. “See, Mike, now you’re having fun,” Josh said, now almost out of breath as they reached farther and farther away from the park guard. As the pair decided they were out of the guard’s sight, they came to a stop in front of a very out of place public pool. “Man, this must be what it’s like to be in the movie,” Michael said. “Yeah I bet.” As Josh replied, he looked up at the out of place pool and came to realize that the public place for whole communities to come wade in each other’s dirt had not been there in the movie. As he looked around some more, Josh noticed more and more out of place things. Swing sets, slides, tennis courts, all things that had not been there at the time of the movie’s filming. They must have missed it all due to the adrenaline that came from running away from the guard. “Wait a minute,” Michael said, “The Moon Tower isn’t even here anymore, my whole life is a lie.” Michael turned back to face the general direction of where the security guard was at the fence, spread out his arms, and looked to the sky. “Take me away, I deserve it.” Josh, out of nowhere, slapped Michael in the face. “Hey, we are not going to let this one thing ruin the rest of your birthday. Top Notch is still open, if we hurry, we can make it in time.” The two got back in the car and Michael began to drive away. “Alright, to Top Notch.” Josh said. “To Top Notch!” Michael responded, and sped away to land of drive through wonders, mellow yellow, flame broiled burgers, and most importantly, Matthew McConaughey’s best film by far.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

Grandfather Chris Garana Thirteen years. It’s been Thirteen years since the disaster. Since my parents died. Since Grandfather fled with me into the deep emerald woods. I’ve grown since then; I’m not the weak kid I was when we fled our home. I’m 13 now, a stocky young girl, too. Eight years of hard work has done that to me. We live in a cabin on a tall hill, overlooking the forest. It is a quaint place, nothing like what Grandfather said the old world was like, but we have heat, and food, and we are safe. Every morning Grandfather gets up and leaves to chop wood and hunt and fish. I take care of the chores at home, but Grandfather has promised that I will be able to help him soon. I hope so, he’s getting older, he was 50 when we left the city and he hasn’t stopped getting older. I woke up this morning, the same as ever. I got dressed, and walked out of my room, a small area with my bed and my closet. On one wall, a window allowed the morning sun to stream through. I walked into our living room and sat down on the couch, across from the unlit fireplace. I heard Grandfather shuffle out of his room and greet me. “Hello,” he said, in his old wise voice. “Hello.” I replied cheerfully. He walked over to the kitchen area and began cooking meat. I watched him make a succulent platter of eggs and deer bacon and helped him set the table with two plates. He sat down and as I took my seat and began to eat, he tuned the old radio that squatted on the shelf to the local chatter. “In other news, the Freedonian military has advanced into Toronto in a bid to seize land from the Republic of Quebec. President Gary Burnett has issued a statement encouraging expansion into the unpopulated and devastated Great Plains region...” Grandfather turned off the radio. He sighed and stood up, picking up his batted yellow cap from the hat rack and unlocked the door. I got out of my seat, having finished my food, and followed him to the door. He looked at me and said, “Come on, it’s time for you to learn the way we live.” I excitedly followed him out of the cabin, pausing briefly to breathe in the wet, fresh air and look at the green leaves, towering trees and dewy grass. I followed Grandfather to the road that lead down from the cabin and into the city, and began to walk alongside him, the gravel crunching beneath my feet. As we walked down the road I gazed at the barbed wire fences and rotting abandoned houses that dotted the landscape, thunder rumbled overhead and the sky grew dark with beautiful grey clouds. I shrunk a little, I was scared. This was my first voyage into the great unknown and I didn't know what I’d find. Wild animals? Bears? Bandits and killers? I held Grandfather’s arm a bit tighter. He smiled at me, his calming face reassured me. He was always a calming presence, his warm face holding his calm blue eyes. There probably wasn't anyone out here anymore, all the people probably fled east to Freedonia or lived in loose tribes or died. We came across one of Grandfather’s favorite fishing spots, a small pond in the backyard of a rotting yellow farmhouse. We walked through the entrance to the property, I glanced at the

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

rusty mailbox. Grandfather stood around the back to the pond and said, “I’ll set up here, wait here.” I couldn’t stay still, and I walked up to the porch of the house. I touched the wall of it gently, paint chipping off in my fingers. I inhaled the musty smell of wet wood and pushed the screen door of the building open. I stepped into the house and looked around at the furniture and small debris, flung everywhere in ancient panic. I stepped forwards and jumped as thunder crashed overhead. I heard Grandfather call my name, “Alice, Where are you?” I rushed out to the pond and walked up to him, I tugged at his sleeve and he turned around to see me. He chuckled in surprise. “Off exploring?” He asked, I nodded “It’s interesting here.” I said, “I’ve never seen any place outside of the cabin.” He sat down by the pond and threw in his fishing rod. I sat next to him and watched earnestly. His sharp features and concentrated look contrasted to the soft and dreamy clouds behind him. An hour had seemed to pass, and we were still sitting there, looking at the murky grey water of the pond and watching the cattails sway in the wind. The sky had gotten darker and it had begun to sprinkle rain. Grandfather pulled on his yellow raincoat over his dull brown clothes, I chuckled a little; he looked like a caricature of a lighthouse keeper. I pulled my red jacket on and walked to the back porch, content to watch from the relative safety of the leaky roof. I turned my head back and saw something through the shattered windows of the house. I squinted, it looked like three black figures stalking through the rain towards us. I turned to Grandfather. “Come see this,” I said, my voice trembling, I was a bit nervous at these new arrivals. Grandfather got up and walked over to my side. His kind features were now twisted into an alert grimace. I saw him reach into his pocket and clutch his old Mauser pistol, a trophy from the war. I turned my attention back to the figures, they were closer now and I could barely make out their faces. “Stay here,” He said, as he pushed open the door and walked out onto the front porch, crossing the front room determinedly. I nodded silently, frozen in fear. As the figures stepped on the front porch, I heard Grandfather greet the men, and invite them into the house. I heard their wet feet step on the ground and heard them flip the moldy couch over and sit down on it with a sickening wet noise. I gasped at the sound, disgusted. The men immediately jumped up, and drew their weapons, I heard the clicking of safeties, and the yelling of angry voices. “Luger!” one of the men yelled in a German-accented voice. “You lying old man, you said that there was no one but you here.” “It’s just my granddaughter,” Grandfather yelled “Don’t hurt her” “Granddaughter?” The German paused “Assal, go get her” I heard the backdoor slam open, and a man covered in black clothes and a black rain coat, grabbed me with a strong grip. He pulled me by my arm and dragged me into the dirty room, throwing me on the floor in front of the other men. I looked up and saw their, leader, the German, sitting on the couch. His comrades, a broad-shouldered Arab man and a blonde-haired man stood behind him. I looked around at Grandfather and saw that the blonde man was standing over him. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I have a plan.” “I hope so,” I replied. The German sneered. “Stand up,” he said. “How old are you?” “Thir-thirteen,” I said, my voice trembling.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

“Very nice,” He growled “Weak too, like your old man” “I’m not weak,” I said, my voice trembling. He laughed, “I’ll fix that” He raised his hand, both me and Grandfather yelled “No!” Gunfire. I winced, but it wasn’t from the Arab, or the blonde, it was from Grandfather. He held his gun, his face looked calm but, his eyes burned angrily. The German fell off the couch, a hole bored perfectly in his head. His face still had his sneer, but his dead eyes betrayed his surprise. The other two men drew their guns and began to fire wildly. I hid behind the relative safety of the coach and peeked around at Grandfather. I gasped, he did not look like the kind old man I had grown up with. His face was determined and hard, he seemed to have lost years and returned to the young war hero he had told me about. His eyes burned in terrifying wrath, in the moment he did not look like a man, but more like an angel of hell. I heard him fire, two times. The two bandits fell down, stone dead, I trembled as he approached me, frightened by what I had just seen. But when I saw him, he was an old man again, and looked like a strong breeze could knock him over. He kneeled and held me, saying “I won't let anyone hurt you”

Embers and the Unexplained Sophie Shields In hindsight, going into the woods at 10:00 PM on a chilly Saturday probably wasn’t the best idea Isaac had ever come up with. Then again, the screeching owl that had swooped by his apartment was just begging to be photographed, and he had nothing to lose. It wasn’t his fault that he had accidentally interrupted a cult meeting filled with mask-wearing, wannabe-witches and accidentally called one of them a punk-ass clown. And it certainly wasn’t his fault that he had accidentally threatened to call the police and ended up running for his life with dozens of cultists after him. Nope, not at all. The day started off normally enough. He’d overloaded his computer with photos of birds and flowers and couples that had no right to be that happy (not that he was jealous or anything). It started getting a bit strange after his computer had stopped dying and the evening had shifted to night. Isaac had nearly gone to sleep when he was suddenly awoken by a large smash against his window and the sounds of a disgruntled animal. Drawing back his curtains, he was surprised to see a screeching owl lying flat on its back and cooing wearily at the window. He slid it open slightly, causing the owl to hop back onto its feet and screech angrily at him. He quickly slammed it shut and reached for the camera lying on his bedside table. The owl apparently had no intention of sticking around, and promptly shot off towards the woods. He sighed and lowered his camera, but the owl didn’t disappear completely from sight. Instead, it landed on a streetlight across the road from the heavily forested area. Isaac checked his watch. It was almost 10, and he had an early shift in the morning, but he figured he might as well try to get a decent shot while it was nearby. He hastily stuffed his camera and phone into a bag before shoving his window open. He pulled his way through, dropping to the ground and jogging over to the light. Before he could set any shots up, the owl let out a screech and dove towards him. He veered out of the way, dropping his bag and falling to the ground. The owl must have had some crazy genetic mutation because it lifted the bag with ease and plunged into the foliage across the street. Isaac groaned and sprinted after it. Despite how large the owl seemed to appear, there was no sign of it in the dark trees. Isaac huffed and slowed

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The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

to a stop. “Shit,” he said, peering into the woods. A sudden boom almost made him fall on his ass for the second time that evening. Isaac jolted backward and squinted at the trees. Was that… smoke? He looked around, then back at the trees. Yeah, definitely smoke. It looked like there was some light shining in the distance. He felt around in his pockets for his phone. He didn’t know who he was supposed to call for this, but as far as he knew it was illegal to light a fire in the woods so close to a residential area. “Oh, Goddamnit,” he said, when his search proved fruitless. The one time he’d ever stuck his phone into a bag was when some stupid owl had to come by and steal it. The sound of cheering broke through shortly after, making him jump again. “What the hell?” he wondered out loud, beginning to step into the bushes. He sighed in resignation before trudging into the woods. If he was going to die in some forest fire, he was going to die trying to find his most prized possessions. He would gladly throttle that owl if it meant that he could get his shit back. He shoved branches out of his way and the noise and source of light gradually grew bigger and brighter. Isaac weaved through a few more trees until he came upon his bag hanging from a small branch. He shrugged it over his shoulder before turning to get back to the safety of his cheap apartment and truckloads of student loans. Then he paused. Whatever was happening deeper in the woods was probably illegal, and he’d rather not die because a bunch of idiots decided to set the woods on fire near his house. With a phone ready to dial 911 in hand, he stumbled toward the light before coming to a stop at the edge of a clearing. The light was almost piercing this close, and it took a second for his eyes to adjust to the unnatural brightness. Once they had, he almost gasped, and he absentmindedly stuffed the forgotten phone into his pocket. “What the fu—?” In the middle of the clearing was a bonfire. Specifically, it was made out of what seemed to be metal beams facing different directions. The strange part wasn’t how large the fire was. Or how rhythmically dozens of masked people in robes were moving around it. Or how they all seemed to be chanting something similar to archaic Latin. No, the strange part was that the base of the fire was floating a solid three feet above the metal itself, and it looked like there was a skull floating in the middle of it. Fortunately for Isaac, they seemed to be busy with... whatever it was they were doing with the fire skull and hadn’t noticed him yet. He ducked down even further, peering through a gap in a shrub. The chanting came to a halt and the clearing fell silent. That was when the skull began to move .It clattered up and down, seeming immune to the fire that was still burning around it. The cult members let out a collective gasp, and Isaac assumed it was communicating with them. The cheering began again, and Isaac pulled out his camera. If he was going to die today, he was going to at least try to get some of these dudes arrested in the process. He snapped a few pictures through the shrub and adjusted his position. Looking at his screen, he frowned. The fire and people were still there, but the metal had turned into wood and the skull had all but vanished. That wasn’t possible (as far as he knew), but then again neither was a floating skull that spoke different languages.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

Death Row Ian Harris Humming, fluorescent lights lined the ceiling on both sides, pouring unnaturally white light into small, vertically-barred windows on the gritty steel doors that lined the hallways. One light at the far end of the hallway flickered inconsistently. The flickering changed the constant hum of the lights to a staccato buzz that dropped in and out of audibility. The sporadic light illuminated the sign painted on the door reading, “Cell 5E.” That’s where I met my granddaughter. At eleven years old, she is the youngest death row inmate in the history of the country. Five months of lawyers listing off the names of all the children from her school and the charges that accompanied each name, the once tear-provoking talk became utter monotony. There was no arguing the facts: she had gotten the guns from her father’s safe, walked to school that day, and shot 61 of her classmates. Her defense argued that her being bullied every day had driven her to insanity, the bearded lawyer had cried during his closing argument. At that moment, though, the only person in the room not crying was Jessica. She sat motionless as her fate was being decided. Eyes down and hands in her lap, she seemed to have been frozen in space for the whole ordeal. During the trial, she was held at the jail in the back of the courthouse, only able to be visited by her parents and her lawyer. The trial ended with an easily guessed verdict of guilty on all of the 61 1st degree murder accusations. The minimum sentence was life in prison even as a child because of the severity of the crime, but it was up to the judge to determine if the death penalty should be used. No appeals were granted, and her execution was set for July 14th, 2022; three years, two months, and twelve days from the sentencing. It was two weeks before we were allowed to visit her. She couldn’t leave her cell, but as family we were able to come into her cell and visit with her as often as we liked. For a while there was not a moment in time when the two visitor limit was not being filled. We clogged her room and the waiting room area with family members from across the country. But as the days went by, they all had to return to their lives, and she became a mere dinner table talking point for them. Her mother, my daughter, visited at least once a week, but her father couldn’t take it and had to stop visiting after the first time he went to see her. No matter who visited, though, she wouldn’t speak, she stared blankly off into space showing no real recognition that we were even in the room. My daughter would often wrap Jessica up in her arms and hug her close and cry. I had retired from my job in England to come and comfort my daughter and Jessica, and was living out of the hotel near the prison. So I visited every day, but just like with everyone else, she wouldn’t speak a word to me, so I spent my days reading to her. I read her children’s books at first, small stories about silly mysteries or fun adventures, but she never seemed interested. The books I read quickly started to annoy me, they had no point, they droned on about easy-to-understand subjects that they thought would bring in kids. I decided that if she wasn’t listening anyway then I might as well read books that I liked. Pulling out the copy of Anna Karenina I keep in my backpack, I began to read. “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” The first line seemed

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

fitting, and not only to me. For the first time in weeks, Jessica looked up from her hands, revealing her bloodshot eyes and bruised eyelids from where her hands pressed into her eyes trying to push the tears back into them. The red of her eyes contrasted brilliantly against the crystal blue of her iris. She didn’t speak, just looked at me; her gaze burned my skin making it tingle. We sat there for a moment just staring at each other. Her head began to dip back down and in a panic I began to read again. As I read, I stole glances at her over the worn paper cover. She was watching me intently, her eyes distant, you could almost see the white Russian winter playing in her head. Artist’s Revenge Jane Johnston I slammed the door shut, scowling. Jake was a waste of time anyways, not worth it. However, we were a thing and he cheated, so I had every reason to be angry. It’s not like it was our anniversary of three years, or I had been planning on proposing to him. No, nothing like that. He also couldn’t have known she was my rival, oh wait, he knew. The jerk. I stalked into my office that also doubled as my artist’s studio. I needed to work on something, anything. I grabbed a large chunk of clay, dropping it onto the table. I didn’t know what to make, but that was okay. I let my anger work for me. Hours were spent pulling, shaping, and twisting the clay into shape. At some point I had grabbed a bit of white clay to use. The result was a human bust, looking a bit like Jake. It had his bald-by-choice head, small irritating smile, and ‘iconic’ sunglasses he never took off. I wanted to punch it in the face. I was about to do just that, when I got an idea. Jake always hated art, said my job was just a dream. Wonder how he’d react to this being at an art showcase. The piece was named, “Soulless,” after him. All I had to do now was find an art venue. It seemed fate was on my side because I got a call from a gallery. They wanted my art to show for two weeks, and on opening night to talk about some of the pieces beyond their blurb. I agreed, but asked if I could have two tickets to give to some people I really wanted to be there. I was given the tickets when I brought the art over to set up. Paintings on walls, statues on pedestals, costumes on mannequins; it was perfect. I left Soulless covered by a sheet, promising to reveal it opening night. Jake and Lily got their tickets in an unmarked envelope. I really wanted them to come. Revenge was a dish best served publicly. The opening night came quickly, and I was ready. I wore my non-paint splattered leather jacket, and slicked my short hair back with gel. The doors opened, and people began to enter. Fancy art snobs, art critics, artists covered in evidence of their craft, and there in the middle of them all Jake and Lily. Perfect. The lights dimmed, and I clicked on my over the ear mic. “Hello,” I greeted the crowd, “and welcome to my art showcase. I’m going to tell you about some of my works, ending with my newest piece.” I pointed to the sheet covered bust, “Anyone has a piece they wanna know more about?” “I personally would like to know more about this piece here,” an art snob pointed at my Windseeker costume. “Ah the Windseeker costume,” I said fondly, “I made that for a contest. Make a costume depicting a cryptid, real or original. Most people went with humanoid cryptids or made ‘if so and so was human’ costumes. I created this original creature. The Windseeker is a large creature, who lives in forest far from cities. They are harmless sunless provoked. Be wary though, they are

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

easily startled. Should you be lost in the wood and hear the wind while the trees are still; take care and tread lightly.” The crowd clapped, and Lily stepped forward. “What about that one,” she pointed at another of my costumes. “That was also make for something,” I smiled, “costume artist were sent an address and a playing card, they had to make a costume for their card and wear it to the masquerade ball. I got the king of spades, and decided to go for a simple but elegant. I do have designs drawn for all of the other cards including jokers. This went on for at least half an hour, people pointing out pieces and then clapping and laughing at my stories behind them. I decided it was finally time to unveil “Soulless”. “I believe it is time for me to show off my latest work,” I walked over to the bust and pulled off the sheet. “Soulless, named after the man who inspired this work. We were a thing for many years, until the day of our anniversary I found out he had been cheating on me for months, well this ruined my plans to propose. Hence, the promise ring I bought for him, being used as an earring on the bust.” I began to walk around the room, “The statue actually looks a bit like him, so I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to sue me. He and his ‘new’ girl are in attendance right now actually.” I turned to look at Lily, “Did you know that up until about a week ago you were the side piece?” She whipped around to look at James. “I was What?” “Now sweetheart,” James looked very nervous, “I was planning to break it off with her but she is really intimidating.” “Says the man that on the regular got into arguments with me that I needed a real job,” I added helpfully, “that being an artist was a useless dream.” “I’m a model and costume artist James,” Lily hissed, “What about my ‘fake’ job?” “W-well, uh,” James was beginning to stutter. “So you had no clue he was dating me,” I asked Lily, she nodded, “perfect, that means I have no hard feelings towards you, only him. He knew.” “Thank you,” she gave me a small side hug, “You have really good work.” “So do you,” I laughed. “I now lightheartedly think of you as my rival.” “So, Lily,” James tried to step in. “Leave,” she cut him off, “we are done. Goodbye.” He was about to say something else when security lead him out. “I’d love to have you as a purely for fun rival,” she smiled, “I’d also love to collab sometime.” “That sounds great,” I gave her my phone number, “Text me.” The rest of the night went smoothly, and my revenge was far sweeter than I could have ever hoped.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

Losing Faith Gabriela Abundis Dec.13 I’ve made my final decision. It’s a hard one too. As you know, I’m raised by a religious family, but I don’t get why they praise God so much if they rarely even go to church. Anyways, my life has been going downhill. Everyone seems to hate me, hate my presence. Wherever I go or whatever I do, there’s always an issue. I’ve heard more than enough lectures from my family and I’m tired of it. I can’t get along with anyone in this family and it hurts me. A lot. “You’re full of sins that’s why you’re no good.” That one said by my mom stuck to me. But then I came into thought. If I’m such a disgrace, why should I even be a child of God or whatever? Why should I put effort into any of this religious shit? It’s not real. Think about it, parents telling their kids the good from bad all based off of God. ANYONE COULD HAVE WRITTEN THE BIBLE. What makes the bible so powerful and controlling of our lives? I think it’s bull. I’ve come to the part when I just give up. I give up on this. I’ve tried continuously praying, but if God really listened to me, I would’ve gotten my stuff together and turn my life around. But I’ve been praying for such a long time now that it just feels like I’m talking to my wall. Praying just to receive nothing, but more negativity. I’m done. I don’t know if I’ll regret this, but so far believing that God isn’t real has taken a lot of pressure off of me. Dec.18 Before I go, I have to write about my dream from last night. I randomly felt cold, so I opened my eyes to grab my blanket. I couldn't see anything except pure darkness. I moved my hand everywhere, desperately trying to find my glasses because I was scared. I grasped them, immediately putting them on. Again, darkness. Something felt very off. My body felt out of place. My head began to throb. Suddenly, something caught my eye. A blinding light burst through the corner of my room. It slowly formed into something unbelievable. A silhouette. A bunch of emotions started building up in my body, I wanted to scream. As I opened my mouth for a split second, a pressure closed it shut. “Why did you stop?” I heard the silhouette ask me. I shivered. I’m out of my mind, I thought to myself. “Why?” I wasn’t out of my mind. Afraid, I asked, “What do you want?” The stillness of the silhouette made me uncomfortable. “How come you stopped believing? No one told you to stop. Why are you scared?” I stuttered, “What do you mean?” At a moment, I became colder; as if the silhouette was coming closer towards me. “What do you want?” I asked impatiently. “I don’t want you to give up. God doesn’t want you to give up either, it’s not fair.” “Who the hell are you? -I” “-DON’T USE THAT UGLY WORD”

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

Instantly, I knew who the silhouette was. His voice made me breathless. I broke down. Never have I ever thought that I would come back to crying over a relative. My cousin Alejandro was communicating with me. My dead cousin Alejandro was talking to me. I stopped myself from streaming rainfalls from my eyes and took a deep breath. “Alejandro, what’s going on?” The surroundings became silent. Finally, he said something that gave me the chills, “I know God took me early, but that doesn’t mean you need to forget about him. Trust me, the whole family still believed in him when I died. I remember I heard my mom saying she couldn’t believe in him anymore. Then she saw me and she believed in him again. It’s okay Alexis. Don’t give up on him. He’s God.” “Alejandro, it’s not just about you. It’s about everything and I’m sorry. I believe in you, I do. I don’t know if I should in God, he hasn’t help with anything except take care of you-” It hit me. “-And send you here. Alejandro, I’m so sorry. I really should’ve known better. And I-” “-God doesn’t like what you’re doing. If you keep on doing it Alexis, you won’t get any better. Fix yourself before you get worse. Then you’ll get confused all over again.” I comprehended every word he said. “Please don’t mess up,” he said. “Alexis don’t-” Suddenly, his silhouette began to shrink. I cried for him to come back, “Alejandro wait!” He was gone. He was really gone again.

Crabs Annali Jackson You know what I have a problem with? CRABS! The most disgusting creature ever created. Before I start this rant, let me clarify, I’m talking about the crustacean not the pubic hair louse. Living in Austin, I don’t have to deal with crabs on a normal basis because we are 215.4 miles away from the closest coast (Galveston), but my mom owns a beach house down in Huatulco, Mexico, where crabs are a more normal creature. AND YOU KNOW WHAT THEY LOVE TO DO??? They love to crawl up from the beach and sneak into my mother's open air house and SOMEHOW they ALWAYS seem to be able to get into my room. Once when visiting, 5 CRABS ENDED UP IN MY ROOM ON DIFFERENT OCCASIONS WHEN I WAS ONLY THERE FOR A WEEK. Why do I hate crabs so much you ask? BECAUSE THEY ARE SO CREEPY AND DISGUSTING. If I could insert a clip of what they sound like when they are walking on tile I would. ~Clip clip clip clop clip hiss clip~ that's basically what they sound like. My mom says, “They're more scared of you than you are of them,” BUT THAT'S A LIE. THEY ARE AFTER ME, I KNOW THEY ARE. And here’s how I know:

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

Once on that terrible trip to Mexico (you know the one with the 5 crabs), I heard the clipclopping all night long but I had looked everywhere and I COULD NOT FIND THIS CRAB. After a long Facetime call with my best friend, where she convinced me I was just being paranoid, I went to sleep. When I awoke from my peaceful slumber, I decided to take a shower. On the way to the shower I accidently stepped on something sharp… A red and pokey crab claw. And you would think I, being the crab-terrified girl I am, would look for the crab and/or call for help but NO, I WAS STUPID AND SLEEP DEPRIVED SO I JUST DECIDED TO TAKE A SHOWER ANYWAYS. After my slightly paranoid shower, I stepped out onto to the towel I placed next to the shower because of the lack of bath mat and I don't want to slip, fall and die naked. SURE ENOUGH, I LOOK DOWN AND THERE'S A CRAB ON THE TOWEL RIGHT NEXT TO ME. And guess what he’s missing? A red and pokey claw. Anyways, I scream bloody murder and run back to my bed, huddling my slightly-damp self on my nice dry bed. My mom runs in and I just stutter “c-c-crab!” By now my mom’s really annoyed by my fear of crabs, which is understandable because I’ve made her check my room every night for them and woken her up at 2 am to get one out of my room. My point is, there’s NO WAY that crab was scared of me, when I screamed that crab DIDN’T EVEN FLINCH, SO NO! CRABS ARE NOT “MORE SCARED OF ME THAN I AM OF THEM.” The crabs are out to get me. What I propose we do about this crab problem, KILL ALL THE CRABS. I googled it and the only things that crabs do is eat dead things but we have so many other animals who do that too so it wouldn’t be that big of a deal if we got rid of them. Listen, I’m an animal lover and I would never ask to make a whole species extinct unless it was for a good cause. THIS IS A GOOD CAUSE, MY TRIPS TO MEXICO WOULD BE SO MUCH MORE ENJOYABLE AND LESS ANXIETY RIDDEN. I know we could just kill the crabs in my area but THEY WOULD COME BACK AND GET ME. THE CRABS ARE OUT FOR ME, so the best way to deal with them is to just get rid of ALL of them once and for all. And I do mean all of them, grandad crabs, mom crabs, baby crabs, dog crabs, ALL OF THEM! Crabs have caused me so much misery, it’s time to get rid of them, once and for all!

Dialing Gabe Palomares I call myself a follower, but God, I think I'm falling. Everything about me is broken, but I'm still calling. With phone to my ear and hands to the sky, I'm stalling. Trying to piece together words to make sentences, I'm bawling, Knowing that she's dead, and that I'll never see her again. I wish she could've just said some prayer and become perfect back then. Why couldn't I make her believe? Why couldn't I make her see? God, why did she have to go?! Now I'm sitting with silence in my ears, and tears in my eyes, Knowing that tomorrow Teresa will not rise.

Anderson High School

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block

2017-2018

You Ask Me Chloe DaMommio

Anderson High School

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block

Anderson High School

2017-2018

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block

2017-2018

Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream Vanessa Ugarte

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

Sister + Supernatural = Bullet in My Brain Holden Clarkson It was one or two years ago when my sister discovered this well-known show called Supernatural. The show basically consists of two brothers who hunt demons and go on these crazy, “supernatural” adventures. My problem with this show isn’t the program itself, but instead my sister’s obnoxious obsession with it. Words cannot describe how much I hate that show now. She brings it up constantly. I’ll be talking to my mom about a vacation and my sister will chime in and say, “I want to go to St Louis because Misha Collins will be there in November,” and this isn’t even the worst part. It has come to the point that my family can’t go through daily activities without my sister involving Supernatural in some way. A great example of this is almost every time we go out (Jared Padalecki lives in Austin; this is important for the next part). My mom will ask us, “Where do you want to go to eat,” and my sister’s response is “We should go to (insert random restaurant here) because Jared Padalecki was there last week.” JUST BECAUSE HE WAS THERE LAST WEEK DOESN’T MEAN HE’S GOING TO BE THERE A WEEK LATER. We never go to the places she suggests, but still it is annoying to hear such an idiotic suggestion, and then suddenly these suggestions stack up, and next thing you know I’ve wasted an entire year listening to these mind bogglingly stupid suggestions. Still, the suggestions fail in comparison to the cutout, which has caused me immense psychological damage. Last Christmas, my sister got this life size cutout of Castiel (this angel guy in the show) and she has him standing in the corner of her room. The major problem with this cutout standing in the corner of the room is IT SCARES THE LIVING HELL OUT OF ME! This cutout just stands there, and when I’m walking downstairs and no one is home, I just see it standing there with that cream trench coat and blue eyes which are slowly absorbing my soul until I, too, am a cardboard cutout. This show she loves so much does nothing but cause me pain, scare me, and has put me into a deep depression. Supernatural is ruining my life. As I look for ways to solve my problem, I find myself staring at a brick wall. My sister loves the show too much to stop watching it, and I love my sister too much to take the cutout and rip his head off and then start BEATING IT WITH A BROOM. Therefore, I see the only real resolution for my problem is to wait for my sister to mature. As she grows, she will lose her love for Supernatural and move on to some other obnoxious show that I will then have to deal with. I just pray the next year doesn’t manufacture cutouts of the main characters. Oh God, how I pray!

Cozumel Ryan Orr It was early April of 1943 on the island of Cozumel. The new and amazing scuba suit was retailed all over the island. This was because Emile Gagnan had just invented the scuba tank. The Frenchman had made it possible for divers all across the earth to be under the surface for just

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over thirty minutes. And in that early month of April, a loving couple, Stephan and Christina Turk, were newlyweds. The boat bounced up and down, smashing each wave with a wondrous whirl of water as it came back. The clouds were separating, shining beams of light on the flat island of Cozumel. Stephan had his arm around Christina, holding her tight, as she had always been afraid of water. Stephan, on the other hand, was fascinated by the ocean and its unexplored depths. “Should be just 45 minutes till paradise!” shouted the captain. Stephan responded with a thumbs up. “So you scuba dive? Yeah?” asked Captain. “Yeah, it’s always been a dream of mine,” Stephan responded. “And the lady?” The couple smiled, both shaking their heads. “Oh, I see, not an ocean person. A beach person!” Captain exclaimed. “Yes very much so,” said Christina, as she gazed into the blue sea…

Ocean Love Sara Valentine I walked out into the ocean Felt the water rising past my ankles, my hips, my chest. Wave after wave, Furiously beating down On my back. The salt water stings, But I open my mouth and tell her (the ocean) Tales of you anyway. And after I have finished confessing, The salt in her body turns to sugar.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

The Puppeteer (excerpt) Ally Soltero “So you wanna know how I did it? How I almost got away with killing her?” Graham’s laugh reverberated against the dull stone walls. “Oh come on, I know she’s alive.” The officer looked taken back, surprised by his statement. “Trust me, I wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t.” The smirk on his face was growing. “If she were dead, you wouldn’t have found her, just like the others.” “The others?” “You’d be stupid to think she’s the first. How else do you think I didn’t get caught till now?” He had a type, he knew he did. Tall, slim, brunette hair and amber eyes. This next kill needed to be different. If the police were smart enough to pay attention to missing persons posters, they’ll notice the trend, build a profile. He needed new, fresh. Grabbing his coat, he left the hideout and went to search for his next victim. After a few hours, Graham was about to give up, no one that he saw matched his vision. That was until he saw her: Natalie. Her hair was blonde and long, eyes greener than the trees, she was shorter and had a curvier body. The complete opposite of what he normally went for. She was walking alone, which was good for him, and with the sky quickly getting darker, he had his opportunity right in front of him. He followed her, his steps slow but fast enough to keep up with her. A patch of leaves crunched under his footsteps, and he noticed her steps quickened; he needed to take his chance now. Quickening his pace, he caught up quickly and wrapped his cloth-covered hand around her breathing points. Once her body relaxed in his arms, he was able to carry her back to the car and take her to the hideout. As he waited for her to wake, he sketched ideas for how he wanted her to look. It took a few hours, but he soon noticed she was awake when there was a soft thud heard from the corner of the room. “Oh good, you’re finally awake.” … Midnight Hour Hannah Shores This room seemed so familiar to me. Like an old childhood memory that had at one point escaped me. This melodic tune of this grand piano could lull even the most troublesome child into a deep slumber. I was entranced, hypnotized, and unable to feel my own legs as they stood on the marble checkered floor. I stood, dazed, and breathing heavily as I felt tears well up in my eyes. The pianist’s hands glided from key to key with a haunting grace. His crimson velvet suit jacket creased and folded with each move his hands made. The rims of his rounded glasses glinted gold. Every bat of his eyelashes, every twitch of his lip, and the humming of his soothing voice made chills crawl down my spine. I could feel myself slowly moving towards him, but not of my own free will. My legs trembled and buckled, yet I felt magnetized by him and his piano. I

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stood beside the piano, hands clasped against my chest. The song came to an end as he rested his hands calmly on the keys. As the song ended, I could feel my entranced state beginning to dwindle as I returned to reality. He turned to me with a soft smile, but his eyes did not match the happy expression his face had masked itself with. “Did you enjoy that song, Sirene?” he asked, getting up from red piano stool. “V-very much sir.” I glanced into his eyes. Stars that light the darkest sky couldn’t compare to the shimmer in his eyes. Sapphire gemstones, the deepest, bluest, ocean. I felt my mind was set adrift by his gaze. Silence filled the room as I realized how long I had been staring. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to stare, Mr. Harrington,” I apologized, biting my thumb. His eyes widened as he began to chuckle. “Don’t worry, my dear, it’s just human nature to be intrigued by the features of one’s face.” He patted my shoulder. I nodded softly. “Yes, I guess you’re right about that,” I said, smiling nervously, shaking off my previous flustered state. Mr. Harrington began to shut the velvet curtains on each stained glass window in the large foyer. “Is there something you wanted to ask me, Miss Sirene?” I remembered why I had come back to the museum and retrieved the folded piece of paper from my coat pocket. He quickly walked over to take the paper. He peered at the top of the paper, and his big blue eyes once again widened. “A job application? Do you really want to work at the museum, Miss Sirene?” he asked, surprised. “Yes, Sir. I would like to learn more about what you do, a-and so I can practice my skills in a place that fills me with inspiration. If you don’t mind taking the time to review my appli—” Mr. Harrington put a finger to my lips. “That’s all I need to hear. You’re hired.” He smiled at me and patted my shoulder. My heart fluttered as I bowed to Mr. Harrington. “Thank you so much for the opportunity Sir! You won’t regret it!” I thanked him. “You’ll start tomorrow morning, I have a lot to show you, Miss Sirene.” He folded up my application and placed it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Of course, Sir!” I said before turning to walk towards the door to retrieve my scarf. “Oh, and call me Joseph, Miss Sirene, no need to be so formal,” he said, opening the large door to what I would assume was his office. “Ok, Si—I mean Joseph.” It felt weird to call him by his first name, even though I assumed he was only a couple years older than me. His youthful face seemed crafted out of porcelain, not a single flaw. He was well built, but slender, and had such delicate looking hands. He reminded me of the male cardinals I used to see outside my parents’ home during the wintertime. A beautiful red bird, though small in size. Whenever one happened to grace my family with its presence, it seemed like the king of the bird feeder. The large blue jays, and plump doves would wait peacefully for the cardinal to finish eating and fly away before returning to their normal bickering. Mr. Harrington could silence a whole room of noisy art school students with his presence alone. One might assume he was of a more flamboyant nature at first glance. But the closer I got to him the more masculine, yet refined, his features were. As I thought about Mr. Harrington, I wrapped my scarf around my neck and fumbled to take my mittens out of my coat pocket, I

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accidentally dropped one on the floor. I reached down to pick it up, but swiftly another hand snatched it off the floor. I jolted in surprise and I realized who was next to me. Mr. Harrington stood looking down at me, with my pink glove in his hand. “Be safe out there, Miss Sirene, such icy winds could sweep you away if you’re not careful.” He cupped the back of my hand in his and placed the glove on my palm. His hand was cold, but soft and comforting. I slowly closed my hand on the glove as his touch left my frozen state. “O-of course!” I felt myself blush as I put on the glove and opened the front door. As I was walking down the concrete steps I turned back to wave goodbye. He smiled, opening his mouth slightly to let a single breath escape, and create a small cloud of warm air. I pulled out my phone as I began to walk towards the bus stop. The time shone brightly in my face, as I squinted at the screen, 7:45 pm. The sun was almost completely gone and the street lamps illuminated my path. I could see the bus station across the street as I quickly walked from one lamp to another. The darkness around me seemed to coalesce into shapes and figures that worried my mind. I broke into a swift trot as I got closer to the bus stop. I heard the whispers of the winds chase me as I caught my breath at the stop light. I vigorously pushed the big metal button and waited for several cars to pass. As soon as the walk signal came on and I stepped into the street I felt a strong hand on my arm. I quickly spun around to shake the person’s hand off and cuss him out for scaring a woman like that, but I froze. He was tall, way too tall. He towered over my head and his piercing eyes shot chills up my spine in such a way where I once again froze in my place. All I could see was his eyes, the rest of body was covered by a large black coat and a black hat. I couldn’t speak, nothing but a small squeak escaped my mouth as I stumbled on the sidewalk and fell into the street. The man snickered, ominously stepping closer to me, reaching out a hand for me. I swatted his hand away and quickly got up off the asphalt. I ran to the other side of the street. It seemed close, but then the sound of something roaring and screeching swooshed through my ears. A bright light shone into the left side of my face. Then, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. All I could hear was ringing. I let my mind wander, as I eased into this state. Those blue eyes, how heavenly they looked.

Terranaut Molly Thompson There’s no word for the feeling of standing on the surface of another planet. Skin prickling and sloughing off in favor of a new atmosphere, Ears tuned to Babel instead of babble. There’s no word for the feeling of fish out of water where instead The fish grows legs and lungs and longing, Taking gulps of air it didn’t know it could breathe, Until there are no aliens anymore. No word for knowing how long it takes to get there and back again, That void of cramped spaces, too-hot-too-cold, shifting, of shuffling papers, shuffling people, of touching clouds, the Milky Way, while half-asleep, half-awake, of dark,

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of time treated like taffy. No word for having your feet on terra firma again, Waiting for your own flesh to grow back. And no word for the feeling of missing that familiarly-unfamiliar earth and air. The tug at your heartstrings and stone in your stomach, Drawing you in with the crushing force of a singularity and a voice in your head that says— Screams— “By God, there’s life on Mars!” To want that bizarre distance so much, those lightyears, You try to cast yourself back through sheer power of will. Through lying in bed still with the lights off and eyes closed with precious songs, your spacesuit, that let you sort shards; snapshots; green mountains framed in white cement poles just past a track that almost felt normal at some point. Burning smells of sulfur and scalding water that made you soft again on days where it was hard to breathe. Unfamiliar faces that all got mixed in your head (a shame). Pride so fierce it burns your throat like steaming hot soup and noodles (umami tossed around like a beanbag back here with your feet on the ground) gulped too fast on a rainy day at the mall. And that damned pit in your gut left by it all. All filed away, stuffed in a locked drawer, a lockbox—jewels: jade, rubies, opals graphite dirt— because they’re yours and if words did them justice you’d never stop talking. Tingle in your fingers, seeing rocket streaks in the skies. Pressure behind eyes that sting— Not like bees; These tears sting like… Well, they sting like stardust.

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

Icon of a Broken Midnight Daydream Chap Newton The high noon moon ran streaks through the sky as the Riding Queen ran her horse like a dream, prancing around the stadium. Hoots, hollers, and a multitude of shrieking sounds were thrown out by the crowd as they were overwhelmed by the glorious display before their eyes. None had seen such a beautiful act of horsemanship in their lives, most would not even see one so amazing in death. God cried as the Queen strutted her horse like Django did at the end of the movie Django: Unchained (2012) directed by Quentin Tarantino. Speaking of Quentin Tarantino, he was in the audience as well. But don’t worry, security had already been called and he was in the process of being removed from the area. He kicked and screamed with all his might and vigor, but the security guards had dealt with this kind of shit before, and they were prepared to take him downtown to the ground below the ground if they had to. The guards managed to drag him out of the grandstands like a cat being dragged into a bath or my soul being dragged into hell, but on his way out he slapped a bottle of red wine out of a man’s hand and it spilled all over his brand new suit he bought at the local Sears just for this special occasion because he supports small business and wants to shop local like a good member of the community. The red wine fell deep into the suit, tainting the individual fibers of white purity with their red heresy. The man was flabbergasted at the sight, completely awestruck at the horrific and cruel mutilation of his precious white suit. The crowd cheered as the Riding Queen performed her final trick of the night, thanked the crowd, and disappeared into a tunnel. They all stood up, stretched for a bit until their limbs were limber, then flew off into the sky to go about their day; all except for the one man with the metaphorical spilt milk and the literal spilt glass of red wine on his suit. That man just sat in the stands and waited with the patience of a statue. His consistency in space-time radiated, causing light to bend around him like cosmic gelatin from Mars. Spiders crawled out from his eyes and between his bones. His skeleton jumped straight out of his body and danced to the tune of “Yankee-Doodle Dandy” while an airliner came crashing into his never-ending void of sweet, sensual love. He moved his head, his eyes creaked as they shifted their attention to the tunnel where the Riding Queen was last seen. His eyes narrowed as he thought of his next move in this cosmic chess game we foolishly refer to as life. I am the White Duke. The White Duke frantically opened his bottomless wallet and reached inside; his hand met the gooey pulp with a warm handshake. He felt around for the mind-control device he knew was buried somewhere deep inside the dank crevices. Forty minutes flew by like a bullet-train out of a Tokyo station bound for Osaka. He placed his hand on the device and managed to slip it out of the wallet with relative ease. The device, the collective human brain connected to puppet strings, took years to understand, however, the White Duke had been around the block a few times and knew exactly which way the cookie crumbles. He finessed his fragile fingers around the strings and manipulated the brain like dough. He slipped inside the Riding Queen’s mind through the cracks

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of the backdoor that had been left wide open. She was getting high off her own supply in her dressing room when the mind-control took effect. She immediately sprang into action, leaping twelve feet onto the back of her trusty steed and breaking through the glass on her way out of the trailer. They galloped at Mach three, blowing past each stoplight and intersection as if they were dandelions in the wind. They made it to the house in record time with minutes to spare like a strike at the bowling alley down on 5th. The house seemed calm, emanated a peaceful subtlety that neither disturbed nor intruded upon their presence. Its many Christmas decorations lit up the night like a cosmic rave hosted by none other than God Himself. She yanked back on the reins of her trusty steed and the steed charged forward, leaping down the chimney of the house. Once inside the duo snatched every single Christmas themed decoration from the fortyfoot piles that plagued the seemingly endless maze of rooms and hallways. With all the decorations in a cube they leapt back out of the chimney and zoomed back to the White Duke who was still manipulating the Riding Queen’s brain. Once in the Duke’s presence, she and her trusty steed knelt with vigorous passion. “You have done well, my child,” spoke the Duke with a silky-soft voice like a feather on a windy daydream. “You have done all that I asked of you, now rest.” And with that he placed one finger on her forehead and another on the forehead of her trusty steed. They both dissolved into plasma signifying the end of their struggle in this mortal realm. The Duke giggled, then cried. He knew how the story ends, and the end is never really the end for the White Duke.

Guilt India Roddy Cancer came to live with us on a rainy day sometime in November before my 10th birthday. My mother greeted him at the door as if he was an old friend and maybe he was, known to her from past lives or childhood traumas. “Oh please, please, come in and take a seat. I haven't seen you for a while!” she had exclaimed in an overly sweet manner. “How have you been, where has life taken you?” All the types of questions a person would ask when trying to small talk another. “I’ve been around,” he had said as he took off his hat. “You know how it is when duty calls.” As a nine-year-old, I knew little of the world but when I looked at this man from around the corner of the living room door, I knew I would never again see someone like him. His body looked as if it were a tree, long and willowy but with great strength. His black hair combed back nicely in a classy manner, and as he looked over to my mother with a little bit of a smile on his lips others could say he was a perfect gentlemen. But something about his eyes could not deceive me. They were two darkened voids masked as brown eyes. I stared longer than I should have, no longer paying attention to my surroundings, so when his body shifted over to me, I became frightened. “Cassie, dear, come out behind that corner immediately and introduce yourself,” my

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mother reprimanded. So I shuffled over to her side like I would if I had been caught taking a cookie out of the jar before dinner. “Yes, Ma,” I meekly said. “I would like you to meet someone, sweets, this is Cancer and he will be living with us for…” Before she finished her sentence she looked over to him. I know now she was trying to gage the time frame of his visit, wishing it would not be long. However, something in his face told her nothing of what she hoped. “For a long while,” he finished for her.

The Old Queen Amaya Leon “Airabella, come closer,” the Queen whispers in the large Queen’s suite. It is huge, and my governess says it is full of history; each queen has added more to the room when she took the throne. Mami added the mural on the wall around the door. It was the ocean, deep blue waves with whitecaps bleeding across the door into sand so soft your toes could become buried, rock cliffs higher than the castle walls are on the far end. The sea cliffs turn into towering trees that grow from the greenest grass, flowers and mushrooms growing at the base of each tree. The wall to the right of the forest is the one that holds the windows that go almost to the floor and to the ceiling. Mountains are painted around the window. When you look out the windows from the door of the room, you can see that the mural lines up perfectly with the mountains beyond the capital. The wall behind the queen’s bed has the names of all who had come before. When Mami dies, her name will be added. Then I will add something to the room. The ceiling is a blank canvas; I want to add the sky. Stars merging into clouds, the sun and moon looking down on the occupants. My grandmother’s ill. At first the physician thought it would pass, but when she got worse instead of better, we all knew she would pass soon. It is still hard for me to believe that I will soon be ruling an entire nation. I have been training for it my whole life, but I only turned 14 years of age this summer. I am too young to rule; I’m not even allowed to decide what I wear every day. My advisor picks my clothing. “What is it, Mami? Do you need more water?” “No, I need to tell you something that will help you when I’m not here for you,” she says before she goes into a coughing fit. The court physician comes and gives her a concoction that he says will help with the coughing. When Mami finishes drinking the potion she speaks again. “Make sure no one tries to take Zerran from you. The council will tell you that you are too young and inexperienced to rule. They said the same things to me when I took the throne. Don’t let them belittle you. You are stronger than they realize.” “Mami, you need to rest. Don’t think about these things. I will be fine. And I have

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Samantha if I need help. ” “No girl, you will listen to me, you can’t always fall back on your adviser. Don’t let those men pull you around by your hair—lead them around by their balls.” “Grandmother, you shouldn’t speak like that,” my little sister Lily says. She and Mami don’t get along well. I know it got worse after Lily turned 13. I’ve asked both of them what happened, but neither will tell me. “I’m dying, Lily. If I don’t say it now, when will I? You should be taking my words to heart as well. You will now be next in line until your sister has children.” Mami stops talking to cough into a napkin. When she pulls it away from her mouth, it has spots of blood in it. I hear the physician say that it is getting worse and that Mami will pass within the hour. “Mami I haven’t reached marriageable age yet, and I won’t be having any children for a while.” “You say that now, but the council will have you married and expecting a child within a few years of taking the throne. But you must remember: you are Queen, not them. You tell them what to do—not the other way around.” Mami lies back into her fluffy cream colored pillows with a sigh. Talking so much has clearly taken a lot out of her. “Mami, I can handle a couple of old men.” I want Mami to pass in peace, not with a lot of worries on her chest. Lily is standing against the wall near the door with a glare on her face. We are only year apart, but the way that she acts sometimes makes her seem so much younger. I’m not even supposed to be the next Queen, my mother was, but our parents were banished years ago when Mami’s mother was Queen. No one really knows why and Mami says it’s too hard for her to talk about. I was only one, and Lily was only a few months old. Since we are a family of only females now, lords and other kingdoms think we are weak and foolish. They underestimate us, then try to take the Kingdom from us, but Mami has pushed them back and made them run home with their heads hung in shame. All my life, noblemen’s’ sons have told me that girls shouldn’t rule and that they themselves are better suited to rule than I am. When I would tell Mami this, she would say, “What are you going to do about it? I can’t fight your battles for you. Pick up your sword and show them that you are better than them because you are a girl.” And I did just that. Any time Mami would let me participate in a court debate, I would make the noblemen’s’ sons look like fools in front of their fathers. “My girls, you must look out for each other when I’m no longer here. I know that you are not the best of friends, but please try to help each other. You live in a world of snakes. Don’t let them strangle you.” Mami speaks so softly that I would not have heard it if the words did not echo off of the walls in the dark room with heavy drapes blocking out the sun. Mami then breathes in heavily—it sounds wet and harsh—she then breathes out and doesn’t draw another breath. The physician walks over to the bed and takes Mami’s pulse, then opens the door and calls out for a stretcher and a few men to carry it. Lily seems unfazed, but I have silent tears rolling down my cheeks. Four people dressed in guard uniforms come into the room, two of them holding the stretcher to carry my grandmother out on. The two other guards are Lily’s and my private guards. Now that I’m queen, I will have more guards than just Ally. Most guards aren’t girls, but Ally’s dad is the head guard of the palace and wanted his daughter to know how to fight. She is only 18, but has already fought her way through the ranks to become my guard. Lily’s guard is the second son of a wealthy lord. His name is Renald, and he has a stick shoved so far up his butt, it’s coming out of his mouth. Ally and I just call him Pig, because when he eats he looks like a pig

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eating slop. The other guards lift Mami off the bed and onto the stretcher and carry her out of the room, Ally and Renald stay in the room with us. I don’t know where they will take her, but I know the funeral will be soon. My eyes turn into waterfalls, and my head turns into a rain cloud, my throat turns into the desert, and my shoulders slump down under the weight of my grief. In Zerran, we burn our dead. Because Mami was a queen, she will have a very large pyre, and most of the people in the city will come to hold a burning rose and lay it on the ashes. The big bells in the clock tower ring, not the bright silver ones that chime on the hour, but the large black one that rings when a royal member dies. It will ring 68 times, that is—was Mami’s age. Black drapes will be hung from every window in the castle. “So, I guess you are the queen now,” Lily says unhappily “I guess I am. And you are now the heir,” I respond, my head clouded with grief. It feels like it’s stuffed full of cloth; it felt like this when I fell down the stairs last winter. One of Mami’s advisors has come into the room and is talking, I only see his lips moving. Everyone turns to look at me and Lily’s lips start moving, but I still hear nothing. The room starts to spin and go fuzzy, and the last thing I see is the ceiling before everything goes black. My eyes are crusted shut. I try to open them, but they still won’t open. Maybe if I don’t open my eyes I will not have to be queen. If I don’t open my eyes, Mami will still be queen, and Queen Airabella will just be a far-off dream. “Bella, I know that you are awake. You can’t sleep forever. You need to make your Grandmother proud,” my advisor Samantha says. “Mami is not here to be proud of me anymore,” I say as I roll over and bury my head in a pillow to hide my tears. I feel numb. I don’t feel sad or scared or angry, all I feel are the tears running down my face into the pillow. “Bella, your grandmother was one of my oldest friends. Please get up. You’re being crowned today, you need to be brave for the people. They are uncertain that you should rule because you are so young, so, my Bella, show them that you will stand tall like a tree and grow towards the sky. Get up, we need you to be ready in a few hours.” “Fine.” The covers slide off the bed and onto the floor as I stand up. My head feels worse as I stand up, it is like that time Ally and I snuck into the cellar after Ally’s mom died, and she drank an entire bottle of wine. I follow Sam over to my huge walk-in closet which is on the right of my bed, the bathing room is to the left of my bed. On the wall across from my bed are the windows that look down on the same garden that the queen’s suite looks down on. “We have two dresses for you to choose from. Which would you like?” Sam asks. “The one on the right.” The dress in Sam’s hand looks like a river turned silver. The sleeves will come mid-way down my forearms and hang just off my shoulders. It’s fitted until it gets to my waist and then flares out into a ball gown. It is simple, yet beautiful. It also reminds me of Mami. Her hair was a silver color, although it used to be the color of wheat. When the sun catches it, it shines like her eyes did when she told a joke. It reminds me of the locket she always wore that her mother gave her. When I am crowned, I want to be as close to Mami as possible. Sam helps me into the dress and pulls up half of my black hair that goes almost to my waist. She then puts a silver locket around my neck. “Where did you get this?” I ask with tears in my eyes. “She gave it to me to give to you. She wanted you to have it for today.” I turn to look into the mirror and see my eyes shiny with tears.

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2017-2018

“Thank you,” I say to her. My feet almost glide across the four hundred year-old rug that leads to the throne on the dais. Every important person in Zerran and in the surrounding kingdoms has come to see me crowned. I have finally reached the dais and kneel before the high priest and place my hand on the holy book. “Do you, Airabella Drina Etel Kaspersen, swear to be just and fair?” “I do.” “Do you swear to do what is just and right for the kingdom of Zerran?” “I do.” “Do you swear to serve Zerran until your last breath?” “I do.” “Then, by the power vested in me, I make you Queen Airabella Drina Etel Kaspersen of Zerran.” The priest places the crown of Zerran on my head, and I stand and turn around to face my subjects. They all get down on one knee and say: “Long live Queen Airabella of Zerran.”

Stained Glass Carnival Anabelle Gilliam They watch me from the edge of the stage. The planks are cold under my feet. I wiggle my toes, trying to get some feeling back into ‘em. Hopefully they don’t freeze. Marla says I can’t wear shoes onstage because they take up room in the box. I remember her telling me, too. “Marla, why can’t I wear my new pink shoes?” She ashed her cigarette into her red top hat and looked at me like she really didn’t want to talk to me right now. I know that look, it means, “Odette, f**k off,” which she says I’m not allowed to say. I don’t get what it means. Or why she’s allowed to say it and I’m not. We’re all scared of Marla, that’s kind of how she keeps anyone from doing what they’re not supposed to. Like wearing shoes onstage. So, I force my feet to move, like I’m learning to walk again, forward, into the crowd. This is always the scariest part: the making your way towards the audience. I like people looking at me, but not this many. This many people always triggers what Marla often calls one of my fits. I get fits when I fall over and my whole body shakes sometimes. Marla’ll always run over to me and hold me because when I ‘come to’ she’ll always be there, but I never really know what exactly happens during a fit. Marla says it’s just one of my struggles that I gotta get past in life just like everyone else. I don’t mind ‘em, but sometimes my head gets banged up a little bit. That’s why I wore my favorite leotard tonight, the cotton-candy blue one with the purple swirls that look like they’re melted into the blue, like ice cream from the concession stand. I wear my favorite ones on matinees, they always bring in the most people. The most eyes. The

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pretty, bright colors give me comfort in a world of red and black and white. Some in the audience have decided ‘hey, let’s dress up as clowns,’ which I thought was funny. The rainbow wigs and red noses and everything. The clowns are my friends, I usually eat lunch with Richard every day when we’re on the road. He’s a clown, but only on Friday shows. Carlos’s scared of clowns. He never likes to perform on Saturday nights because it’s always the shows when people dressed as clowns stumble around and yell “Boo!” and “Freak!” at us. I’m always relieved when the two strong guys we have handy remove them from the audience. I ask Marla what’s wrong with them sometimes and she usually just says, “They’re just a couple of guys pissed as a newt. They’ve got balls to be showing up to my show like that,” and then mumbles something or other including words I’m not ‘apposed to say. I don’t know what a newt is, and I’ve never seen one piss, so this isn’t really any help to me. I step one foot in front of the other real careful, my little painted toes pointed “like a lady” as Marla calls it, and approach the box. It’s the same one every show. Little clear box, bout as big as a school desk—or at least the ones I’ve seen in movies—and perfect just for my size. Marla stands up on that pedestal of hers, calling, “And nOOOOoooow, ladies and gentlemen, we have Miss Odette, the Unbelievable, showing you her special superhuman talent!” I stand in fifth position and wave my hand like a princess, like I’m the queen of this stage. Or, as Marla tells me, “You own the stage when you perform, but all the other time, I do. So there ain’t gonna be no mussin’ and scratchin’ it up with those damn pink shoes.” I step into the box, and in no time, I’ve pulled my legs in to take up space as the bottom layer. I crouch and contort, flattening my back and sucking myself in to conform to the strict shape of the glass. Marla closes the lid with her foot and I become the box. I’ve learned to hold my breath for two minutes and fifty-six seconds, and my little ribs are so small I don’t even have to take up that much space holding it. In this position I can’t crane my neck to see the faces of the crowd, but I can hear their shrill cheers through my box. They like me! We’ve got a good crowd tonight. About two minutes have passed of Marla asking for a round of applause for me and the crowd obliging. She opens the lid and I rise out of the box, doing my princess wave again. She gestures to me, and I take in the screams of the faceless audience. I walk offstage quickly to meet the others. I meet Carlos in the back who gives me a high five. Carlos has his bricks and balls, preparing for his balancing act. I always ask him how he does it, stacks all those things on top of each other and stands on ‘em. He tells me “I just look at the wall, it doesn’t move. So I don’t.” Carlos is real sweet. Sweet enough to be my boyfriend, even. Excepting he’s almost 11, a whole 3 years older than me. I hope he does ok out there, he gets nervous easy. Marla says he’s a puss. When the show finishes and we take our final bows, I head to the dressing room to put regular clothes and my new shoes on. We always head back to the stage after the last few stragglers have left and filled the bleachers of the Big Top with popcorn and spilled pop. The band we have is putting up their instruments and getting ready to go sleep in their tent. They let me play the harpsichord sometimes, but warn me not to break anything. I head to sit next to Carlos. Marla stands on her pedestal (I think she likes it up there) and speaks to us as a whole. “Well, you didn’t f**k up the ending this time.” A rousing chorus of whoops and yeahs fills the room. Marla’s approval is sought every show, and this is pretty much as close to approval as we’ve gotten all week. Everyone else retreats to their tents and I head to do the same. I’m a little sore from today’s show. Something in me feels wrong. Like I’m floating, like there are too many of me and each of them are rising out of my body. I look down at my pink shoes, to make sure they’re still there. My head hurts real

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2017-2018

bad. As I look down, I no longer have two feet, but four. They go in and out of vision, things swim in front of my eyes. I fall. When I open my eyes, I am in bed. Not my own, in the middle of a large room. There are soft, colored lights everywhere. Two figures stand above me. One I’d know anywhere—blond hair, bright blue eyeshadow, sallow, drawn cheeks—it’s Marla. One more I do not recognize. It is an old, grey man, and he’s in a habit like he’s ready to go to church. Or teach church. I suddenly realize I’m in one. I’m in a bed, in a church, with fancy stained glass windows and probably two thousand lit candles around me. I’ve only been to church once in my whole life, when I was baptized. Marla baptized me soon as I showed up on the door to her circus tent, barely six months old, ‘cause she wanted me to grow up accepted by other folks. Richard likes to laugh about how she put up a big fuss ‘bout getting me baptized in the first place, sayin’ “Odette doesn’t need no make-believe old man in the sky to tell her how to live her life. She’s gonna live it her own way and that’s that.” Richard said she eventually gave in when he convinced her that in this day and age, people’d be mean to me and parents wouldn’t let their kids play with me, seein’ I wasn’t raised Christian. When Marla took me with the circus when I was about four, I didn’t have that problem anyway. The strange man comes into focus once my eyes decide to cooperate and stop being all fuzzy. “Good morning, Odette. I’m Father Crouch. How are you feeling?” “Huh?” I manage, my mouth and my brain aren’t agreeing on how to talk. He makes a chortley-laugh sound, turns to Marla and whispers something I can’t understand. Marla doesn’t say anything back, she looks like she just seen something real scary. I never seen Marla so scared. She speaks up. “Odette, we tried to take you to a doctor, but they didn’t know what to do. They said it was a job for Father, here.” “Am I gonna die?” I ask. I’m not being what Marla likes to call a “drama queen,” I’m just curious. “No, sugar, you’re—” “We don’t know much yet.” Father Crouch says, interrupting Marla. Marla’d threaten to give me a spanking if I ever interrupted her. “What we do know,” Father Crouch continues, “is that the Lord is on our side. You, my dear, are afflicted with the devil’s sickness. He wants to cripple you with this affliction of seizing, but don’t you worry. We will make you well.” He smiles a smile that is warm, but doesn't quite leave me convinced. I feel restraints close around my wrists and ankles, not letting me move from the bed. I feel my throat get tighter. What’s going on? Father Crouch begins to say some words I don’t understand. “Marla?” I say, sounding real scared. “I’m sorry, Odette, I want you to get better,” she doesn’t sound too sure of herself, which is really un-Marla of her. She looks like she wants to say something else, but instead walks out of the room. Father Crouch turns to me and starts saying more words I don’t understand. He turns to

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2017-2018

his left and pours some water all over me. “Hey!” I sputter, pulling on the restraints. Father Crouch speaks louder, raising his hands to the air like he’s about to catch something, eyes closed. I’m getting real nervous, and Marla isn’t here. “Out, spirit! Leave this child!” I struggle against the restraints, I need to get out of here. I can barely move my head to see my pink shoes on my feet stretched out in front of me. I hear the circus music in my head, the dark chords of the calliopes at the carnival. Something’s burning, something’s burning. I can smell it. I try to say so, but all that comes out is a choked cough as Father Crouch pours more water on me. He continues to yell about demons and hell and sin, and I can’t feel. I know I’m having an episode when my senses get all muddled up and I start seeing sounds and hearing colors. Red noise and black noise and stained glass vibrate in my brain like rocks knocking against each other. No, stop. Stop! I tell my body, but it doesn’t listen. I lose control and consciousness as every sense goes black once again. There is a light. No, not a light. A color. Just white, everywhere I look. I can see now? Am I dead? I try to sit up and realize I am suspended in air, looking down at a girl in a bed in a church with stained-glass windows. She has pigtails in her hair, a little white dress and pink slippers. She’s me. I see a man in habit, a priest, talking to an aging woman with thin, strawcolored hair and pink lipstick. She is dressed in red and is yelling angrily at the priest, who looks scared. Marla’s features are pinched and drawn, spitting fiery words I can’t hear, only read her lips. “You killed her! You killed her, you mustard!” Or maybe she said bastard? Yeah, that sounds more like her. I am still suspended in air, floating above the scene and looking down at my own body. I should really do my hair like that more often. I need to return. I need to tell her that I’m not dead, that I’m right here. I’m right here, Marla. “Marla!” I scream, but no noise comes out. I try again, louder. “Marla!” She says nothing, but stops mid-word talking to Father Crouch. It’s working. “Marla! I’m here! I’m here!” She slowly turns her head to look at my body, then, painstakingly slowly, looks up at me. How does she see me? Her eyes widen with horror as I fall. I fall from the rafters of the church back into the bed. When I make contact with my body, air is forced from my lungs and I gasp deeply as my eyes open wide. Father Crouch backs away slowly from Marla and me, and we both look at him, searching for an explanation. He gulps. “This might be a job for the psychiatric ward.” He runs away to the dial desk telephone. All of a sudden, Marla says, “Alright sugar. We’re getting you out of here.” She unlocks the restraints on my wrists and ankles, and we grab hands and run out the grand doors of the sanctuary. She’s surprisingly good at running, y’know, being an old lady and all. I’d tell her, but she’d spank me. We jump in her car on the side of the road and drive. We just drive anywhere. I ask Marla, “But what about the circus? We have to go back! I have to say goodbye to Carlos and Richard and—” “The circus isn’t safe anymore for you, Odette. It’s the first place they’d look.” She doesn’t take her eyes off the road. “They?” “The men. If they find out where you are, we’ll never see you again. You’d be locked up in a looney bin where they’d run all sorts of tests on you and never set you free.” “How do you know this?” She’s quiet for a minute. “I just know, okay? Don’t question my ‘thority. I’m a grown-

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2017-2018

up.” “Oh. Okay.” I didn’t know how I knew, but I had a feeling Marla had seen one of those places before. “When your momma dropped you on the doorstep of my traveling show, I was so happy to have a child of my own. I was gonna raise you to be the best acrobat this show’s ever seen. And I did, didn’t I?” She laughs a little. I’ve never really seen Marla laugh. “There’s no way I was gonna let them take you. No way in hell.” “Marla, what’s hell?” She glanced at me and was silent for a moment. “Hell is a place you never wanna go. It’s not under the ground, all fire and brimstone. It’s on earth, and we’re driving away from it right now.” “What about the circus, Marla? What’s gonna happen to it?” I was so confused, I just wanted to have some prediction about what our lives were going to be like after this. “Richard will take over. I’ve always told him if I ever left that place, it was for good reason. He’s been groomed to be the next ringleader since the day he joined, no older than 18,” she chuckled. “Won’t you miss it?” I asked, twiddling my thumbs. “Oh, I’m getting too old for that place anyway. Now, I’m focusing on something much more important.” “What’s that, ma’am?” “Keeping you alive.” After a moment, I asked, “How did you see me when I was...up there?” She gripped the steering wheel tightly. “That’s nothing you should worry about.” “But Marla…” “No ‘but’s. I’m just gifted like you, is all,” “You think I’m gifted?” “I know you are, Odette. There ain’t no question.” She smiles slightly. “People are always gonna misunderstand us. The fact is, most can see what’s right in front of them, what’s around them. But you and I, we can see above and below, too. We can use our senses in more than one...place.” Marla refocuses on the road and I wonder what this means for us. I wonder where we’re going. I ask her, and she responds, “A little house I have up in Salem. I bought it when I joined the circus for this exact reason. I knew it’d only be a matter of time until I was found out for possessing this...gift.” “I’ve got one more question, Marla,” “Go ‘head,” “Am I going to hell?” She smiled, almost sad, but not. Soft. “No, sugar. You’re coming from it.”

Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block

2017-2018

Thanks for Reading

Anderson High School’s

The Writers’ Block Literary Magazine 2017 – 2018

Until Next Year …

Anderson High School