The Writers' Block 2013

The Writers’ Block Selections from 2012-2013

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

The Writers’ Block

2012-2013

The Writers’ Block Anderson High School 2012 – 2013 Dear Reader, I am so glad that I work with young adult humans rather than chimpanzees. To inaccurately quote author John Green, “Chimps are great, but they can‟t tell stories. Having stories that shape our culture is what makes us human.” And if my students were chimpanzees, editing the selections herein would have been even more difficult.

In this year‟s Writers’ Block, you will read the voices that tell the stories of our humanity in all its hues, hues which will color our entire future. Just sit down and hold on tight to this magazine. Any page you flip to, any sentence or line of poetry that you select, will contain the hearts, the souls, the humor, the (sometimes outrageous) wit, the language of our generation— and very few animal sounds. Within these pages is an array of splendiferousness: from arguments to angst, from poetry to prose, from silly to serious—our writers offer a multitude of evocative pieces. I would certainly understand if you feel the need to bite the knuckle of your forefinger in tumultuous emotion. And I‟m sorry if some of it‟s too dark for you—that‟s what you get from a horde of angsty teenagers. Just keep reading, and you‟ll find something humorous and absurd in a page or two.

So sit back and enjoy. Send out your cosmic gratitude to the student writers who contributed, and thank them for unleashing their creativity upon you.

I am ever so happy to be, as student Jennifer Cabiya puts it, “nurturing students‟ voices like the she-wolf who raised a giggling and unruly Mowgli.” Unlike The Jungle Book, however, this is a high school publication intended for young adults and adults, so some of the word choices, themes, and imagery may not be suitable for younger readers. Please use discretion in sharing the contents of our magazine with impressionable young‟uns.

My heartfelt thanks goes out to those who have supported and made this collection possible: Jennifer Cabiya and Anna Krouse; Anderson‟s ever-supportive principal, Donna Houser; all the teachers of the Anderson English Department; all Creative Writing students past and present; Crissie Ballard; and the people I‟m forgetting at the moment. Thanks also to you, reader, for supporting the creative efforts of the talented students featured here.

Jason Farr Creative Writing Teacher Anderson High School 8403 Mesa Dr. Austin, TX 78759 jfarr@austinisd.org

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Anderson High School

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Table of Contents Author Kayla Williams Abby Sledge Jennifer Gray Anna Krouse Theresa Foster Elly Smith Claire Blakely Mia Cinello Jeffrey Shackelford Conner Martin Derek Daugherty Elizabeth Heine Elli Burns Jeff Auster Brittney Crow Jack Carroll Jenny Adams Szilvia Haide Vicky Brandt Sean Fleming Michael Brode Jeremiah Gray Elli Burns Chelsea Scott Sarah Fulthorpe Nicole Lefteau Olivia Holder Lyric Costley Conner Martin Claire Blakely Abby Sledge Leah Krumholz Courtney St. Pierre Lucy Tiblier Amber Brandenburg

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Title Click, Click, Click Orange Kite I‟m Doing Great Planet of the Mormons Undefeated (excerpt) The Battle Between Baths and Showers Inequality of Numbers Hidden Truth (excerpt) Passage (excerpt) Rant Rant Mi Familia Luna, The Elephant Excuse Me, You Don‟t Read?

Got Entertainment? No. Where Does It Go? (excerpt) All Tied Up (excerpt) Island Time The Wizarding World of Harry Potter A Journey (excerpt) Just A Walk on the Beach Expiration Date (excerpt) The Polarization of Government Little Demon, Out To Play (excerpt) A Third Time Is Not a Charm (excerpt) Breaking Point (excerpt) From the Back of the Truck Make it Stop: From the Eyes of Shina, the Fox The Other Place (excerpt) An Evening with Aya, the Wise (prologue) The Peanut Butter Games (excerpt) Falling Down The Eternal Fight A New Language (excerpt) Middle Mind (excerpt)

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She‟s Mine Now

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Rob Dempwolf Richard Paul Hector Maldonado Chris Ross Richard Paul Sarah Money Emma Whitley Jennifer Cabiya Lauren Wilks Kaitlynn Green Riley Neel-Hernandez Patricia Olszewski Christine Diaz Jennifer Gray Jennifer Karotkin Kiki Monroy Selena Martinez Jeff Auster Mibsam J. Aguilar Helen Chun Gardenia Martinez Zach Woolsey Erika Trevino Elly Smith Abby Sledge Tom Jordan Conner Martin Leah Krumholz Leah Krumholz Mia Cinello Neetika Bhargava Morgan Anderson Sadie Gillespie

Felis Vampiris (excerpt) My Pen Lost Idiot For Love Friendship That Place What The Silent Girl Steals A Deadly Disease Inner Demonic Possession Encroaching Darkness Mother Nature Jazz Burn Reasons The Significant Other That Feeling Sisters The Lock-up Day To Be Bleak Flowerpot First Love Hopelessness I Still Remember Autumn Apology from the Ex-Boyfriend Complaint from the Right Hand Award from an Austin Chronicle Committee Appreciation from a Secret Admirer Dismissal from Darth Vader Unrequited Love Letter from Josiah Love Letter from Derek Smeath Acceptance Letter from Harvard Advice from Your Devil and Your Angel

2012-2013

38 39 39 40 40 41 41 42 42 43 44 44 45 46 47 48 48 49 50 51 51 52 53 54 55 55 56 57 57 58 58 59 60

Read On‌

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Anderson High School

2012-2013

Click, Click, Click

By Kayla Williams My feet are curled up to my chest. Crisp, bare notebook paper sits on the paint-splattered desk crowded by what looks like thousands of crumpled white clouds overflowing onto the floor. Faintly, a bubblegum-pop song that has been stuck in my head all day echoes though my ears. Ideas like songs shuffle though my black hole of a brain; some I stop to groove to for a while, but none I can really get into. Weeks I sit doing this.

I shuffle though millions of ideas but there isn‟t “the one.” The homerun hit. A couple to 3rd base, a few to 2nd, but a whole bunch can‟t even get to 1st. The task isn‟t impossible. I know what to do, but I still can‟t achieve it. None of them fit. Like dress shopping. You know your task, but you have to search though racks and racks, stores and stores. Trying on hundreds, but the one isn‟t there, yet you can't stop looking or you‟ll never find it.

I have been searching too long. But nothing fits. Nothing I can even settle for. So, day after day, week after week. I stare at my blank piece of paper. Slowly losing my sanity. Once again, I‟m here trying over and over, but nothing fits. Nothing can get to home. Nothing I can dance full-out to. The paper teases me. Laughs at me. All I can do is stare back at the stupid, cold, desolate paper.

The click, click, click of my pen bounces through my hollow, exhausted brain. Click, click, click.

My eyes bloodshot from not blinking. Hands tremble from frustration. My head pounds from forcing my barren brain to think harder. Click, click, click. Like sledgehammers ramming into my temples. Nothing comes when my chewed-up, cheap white pen connects with the teasing void that sits in front of me.

Nothing but pain and frustration keeps my heart pumping.

Once again, I crumple it and walk away.

Orange Kite

By Abby Sledge I remember—it was March. Jimmy had just turned four, and his birthday present was a cheerful, orange kite. The day he opened it, he wanted to go fly it. I tried to tell him that the sky that day was too cloudy for kite-flying, but he was a stubborn child.

“But Mama,” he said with a pout, “My kite‟s so bright we don‟t need the sun to be out!”

Well, who could argue with that? I gave in, of course—I never could say no to my precious Jimmy. When I sighed and went to get his sister from her nap, his face lit up with cheeks all aglow. I remember thinking to myself that his kite couldn‟t hold a candle to that smile.

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I remember walking out to the big field near the house— brown in its winter sleep, stretching out as far as the eye could see. Dot, who was only one, cooed in my lap. Her tiny fingers reached for the swaying grass, her big brother, the sun-bright kite, anything she could glimpse with those eyes as blue as the summer sky. Together we watched Jimmy run through the field, rustling and crunching, his toy a merry orange speck high in the clouds behind him.

I remember that day well—the first time Jimmy flew his new kite. The only time that kite ever got flown. Dot didn‟t last that winter, and we buried her in May. Jimmy wouldn‟t touch any of his toys for a week, but the day we buried her he brought that kite over to me, clutched in his pudgy, white-knuckled grip.

“Mama,” he said softly. He was trying as hard as he could to be brave (he was a little man now, after all) but he was too young to know how to hide the quaver in his voice. “Can we give this to Dot? She liked it lots when I flew it.”

I wanted to cry, but I was older than Jimmy, and he was being so brave. I had to be as brave for my little man as he was being for me. “Sure, Jimmy,” was all I could manage to say.

The next day, I went back out to that field and looked up at the sky, finally clear and bright with the warmth of summer. In between the cotton-soft clouds, I fancied I saw a cheerful orange kite bouncing around the heavens. It was flying high behind a laughing little girl on her daddy‟s shoulders for the first time.

I’m Doing Great

By Jennifer Gray I panted as I jogged down the gravel path of Lady Bird Lake, trying to get my mind off my broken refrigerator and all the nasty-ass hot dogs I would come home to after my jog on this fine, summer day. I had been feeling a little down in the dumps for the past…oh, say a year. Boy, did I have it wrong in high school. What the hell was so glamorous about paying bills and owning a piece of crap car that barely went five miles and wheezed more than an old man with emphysema?

The water fountain shone up ahead like a beacon, and I hauled ass to the glistening stone structure, sucking down water like I would never drink again.

“Jenny?”

I looked up. Someone was running towards me…someone that looked oddly familiar. No. NoooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! “Jenny! Hey! Is that you?” He ran up to where I was standing and leaned on his knees, panting.

I was staring at the face of my old boyfriend… my high school boyfriend. Vomit rose in my throat. “Hey… Sam? Wow, it‟s… you.” My feigned enthusiasm sounded like a hobo talking about his money.

“Yeah! Wow, I haven‟t seen you in forever… like, eight years! This is so crazy. What have you been up to? And by the way, you look great.”

That was a lie. I just wanted to say „Piss off, you ugly troll. I‟m wearing mustard-stained sweat pants; I don‟t look great.‟ What I ended up going with was, “Yeah! And, uh, thanks, you look great, too.”

And he did, too. Damn. Showing me up. “So, uh, what are you up to? Visiting Austin?”

“Actually, I‟m, uh, I‟m thinking about living here. I just got offered a job at the, uh, new Google headquarters.” Ugh. Smart and successful. Of course. “So what do you do, Jenny?”

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Obviously I couldn‟t tell him that I was working at Academy and doing sporadic nannying jobs while trying to get my master‟s degree in psychology. That I couldn‟t get hired anywhere and that I live in the world‟s shittiest town house. “Oh, I, um… work for a sports company and I‟m a… personal aid. It‟s pretty stressful, but so rewarding. You know?”

“Oh, boy do I know. A job you love and great money? It‟s the best, isn‟t it?”

He looked down at his shiny new Rolex, and I had a strong urge to spit in his face. Instead I gritted my teeth. “Yup, yup, just the best. So… where did you end up going to school? I remember when we graduated you were planning on becoming a chef. What happened there?” I knew he probably felt ashamed about wanting to become a chef. And I wanted to see him cringe.

He shifted nervously. “I, um, ended up going to… MIT. Yeah, I got a degree in… computer studies science technological…science. No big deal.” He quickly changed the subject. “So, did you end up graduating from UT?” This was the one area of my life I could be proud of. “Actually, I did. I graduated with a bachelor‟s of science and a minor in neurobiology. I‟m currently in the master‟s program for psychology.”

His eyes widened and he looked genuinely impressed and jealous, which of course made me feel golden. That‟s right, look at how smart I am. “Wow, Jenny, that‟s so great. I, um, wanted to get my master‟s too, maybe in like special education or African economics, but you know. The world of technology, it‟s just too successful, you know?”

Oh, yeaaaah, so successful, look at how great your life is, ooooh goodie. I had to think of something fast. He was not about to one-up me for the millionth time in my life. “African economics you say? Well, I… um… actually interned in Africa under the Ugandan princess and helped feed orphaned children. I also rode an elephant.” Okay, a little over-the-top lie never hurt anyone.

“Feeding orphans? How wonderful! You must feel so moved.”

“Oh, I do. Best kind act of my life. Just so selfless.” That should show him. Look at how great I‟m doing, Sam! Feeding little African orphans. (I had to remind myself that it was a lie, of course.)

He didn‟t back down. “Yeah, I, um, I actually… spent three months in Peru helping indigenous tribes weave blankets. Incredible experience. ” My jaw dropped. I couldn‟t believe this. Volunteering in South America? He fought dirty.

“Blankets? How sweet! Speaking of blankets, I spent a summer in Singapore building houses for homeless babies.”

His eyes narrowed. “I travelled to Canada to help build igloos for the endangered Eskimo tribes.”

I gasped. He knew how much I loved the Eskimos. Things had just gotten personal. “I volunteer at a home for limbless pug puppies. Do you do any animal volunteer work?” Touching on his love for pugs, and limbless ones at that. He would be crying in a few seconds.

“I took a bullet for a baby giraffe in a poacher war. But that‟s hardly anything.” He fake sighed and looked up at the trees, putting on a thoughtful face.

“Well… I guess I‟ll see you in the Peace Corps, Gandhi,” I muttered under my breath. I decided to go a different route. “So, my fiancé… Sh…Sean”—good enough name—“ yes, Sean and I are getting married. I met him about two years ago, he‟s a professional rower and he specializes in the art of stained glass. He‟s also fluent in French.” I had spent years thinking of my dream fiancé. I had the details down.

His face looked like it had been hit with a shovel. Wait… did he still have feelings for me? Did he still possibly even love me? I was about to take it all back, to tell him that I was just a screw up thinking about making an eHarmony account, but he quickly recovered, so I couldn‟t dwell. “Oh, wow, good for you. Sean. Sean.” He moved the word around in his mouth like marbles. “So where‟d you meet this Sean?”

“We met at The Coffee Bean, we were both reading Reader‟s Digest. We still laugh about it today.” My performance was flawless.

“That‟s so funny! I remember you always used to hate that I read Reader‟s Digest. Well, I guess that would make you Mrs. Sean….?” He looked up at me.

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“Oh yes. Mrs. Sean Connery. Sean Connery is his name, yes sir.” This was flowing so perfectly.

And what a great last name, it flowed together so nicely! Sean Connery…Sean… oh, shit. Sean Connery?

Wait, oh dammit, wasn‟t that Indiana Jones‟ dad or something? My face turned beet red as I looked at him in horror.

He stood for a second and then burst out laughing. “Sean Connery? Sean…. Oh, oh, Jenny… either you are marrying a very old Scotsman with a lisp, or… or I don‟t know what.” He looked at me with a pitying gaze.

My blood boiled in my veins. “OKAY! Yes, fine, you win! God, I don‟t have a husband, or a fiancé, or a boyfriend for that matter! And no, I don‟t volunteer at a home for limbless pugs. In fact, I hate pugs, I think they look like piles of poop with tails.” I sighed and looked at the gravel. Between my broken refrigerator and this conversation, it might be best to just go jump off a bridge.

“I…never took a bullet for a baby giraffe.” I looked up. He was looking at me now, not with the condescending asshole look he had before, but a softer look. “I‟ve never been to Peru, or Canada, or any other country besides Hawaii for that matter.”

My mouth hung wide open, partly for the fact that he thought Hawaii was its own country, but also for the fact that I was not the only one making up a bullshit life to impress my failed high school love. I let out a loud, ringing laugh. “I never went to Singapore and built houses for homeless babies. I‟m a terrible person.”

“You‟re talking to the guy who said he took a bullet for a baby giraffe, here. You don‟t mess with baby giraffes.”

“Well, you work for Google, so that‟s got to count for something.”

He looked down and shuffled his feet. “I don‟t work at Google. I work at retail video gaming store.” He looked up and smirked. I smirked too.

“Sam. Why, why did we just do that? We are extremely lame.”

“Agreed.”

For the first time in that whole conversation, he looked into my eyes. “Coffee?”

Planet of the Mormons

By Anna Krouse When I look back on it, I‟ve always had a knack for getting myself in undesirable situations.

Most of the time, it‟s because I have no brain-to-mouth filter and tend to say stuff that people find “offensive” or “rude.” But other times, it‟s due to my knack for getting myself buried in a huge pile of crap and ending up needing someone to fish me out, which always leads to me “owing” them in some way or another.

I suppose that‟s why I panicked so much when my Mormon friend, Jenny, approached me after school one day. Jenny was a sweet girl, I guess. She always had nice hair and she was the type of friend who wouldn‟t outwardly let you cheat off her on a test, but would make sure to surreptitiously slide her answer sheet towards the edge of her desk while she worked so you could see it clearly enough to copy.

The problem was, Jenny had recently just helped me study for (and pass) the huge chemistry test I had taken recently. And Jenny was the type of person who expected payback for that kind of thing and had a certain way of making people do things.

“Marissa, hey!” she sang, raising her hand high and flapping it at me. “…Jenny! Um. Hi!” I said, forcing a smile.

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Jenny smiled, showing her pretty white teeth in a way that immediately made me wonder what kind of menial task she was about to rope me into.

“I have a huuuge favor to ask of you,” she said. “And since you did so well on that chemistry test you took, I was wondering if you would help me out?” She ended each sentence with a meek little question mark; something she did quite a lot, especially when asking for favors.

“What‟s up?”

“Well…okay…so, my church is holding a dance this Saturday, and I was wondering if you would—” “No.” Her face fell, and I watched as her lower lip started to poke out. “You didn‟t even let me finish my question!” she whined.

“I didn‟t have to,” I said. “I‟m not going to your little Mormon dance. End of question.”

“Why nooot?”

“Because I‟m black,” I said, bluntly. “And don‟t they, like, teach you guys to be racist over there?”

“First of all,” she said matter-of-factly, “that is offensive. Second of all, everyone knows God changed his mind about black people in 1978.”

I rolled my eyes. “Still not going.”

“Marissaaaaaaaa! Why not?”

“Because I‟m also an atheist.”

“Ohhh,” she gasped, as if she had forgotten about this. “Well…I think we can work around that!”

“No. I‟m not wasting an evening surrounded by a bunch of homophobic, racist, sexist rich white people. I have better things to do with my time. Like organize my spice cabinet. And clip my toenails.

And translate the Declaration of Independence into Swedish.” I paused, then, upon seeing the devastated look on her face and the tremble in her lower lip, added, “no offense, of course.”

Her eyes dropped down to her feet and she seemed to draw inwards towards herself. “I was just trying to get you to meet my friends at church, Marissa,” she said. “I‟m sorry. I didn‟t mean to make you angry.”

She sniffled a little, and there it was: I was a goner. There was no way I was getting out of this now. Against my better judgment, I rushed towards her and placed my hand on her shoulder.

“Okay, okay, don‟t cry,” I sighed. “I…I‟ll go. Just stop crying.”

Her head whipped up, a large grin replacing the tears that had been there a fraction of a second ago. “Excellent! I‟ll pick you up at six.”

Jenny rang my doorbell at six o‟clock sharp in true Mormon fashion. She wasn‟t dressed in a white dress shirt and black tie or carrying the book of Mormon with her, but I suspected that was because she hid them in her trunk as so not to scare me off.

When I stepped into her car, Jenny turned on a radio station where the words “Jesus” and “God” were used often. We were silent for the rest of the ride. We were on the highway for such a long time I was certain she had entered another city. I couldn‟t believe she cared about church enough to drive this far every Sunday.

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Eventually we pulled up to a building with tall front steps that looked like it had been soaked in fake tanner. Jenny looped her arm through mine protectively as she guided me through the gates of my own personal hell.

When we stepped in, I was surprised to find that it didn‟t look too much like hell. So far everyone seemed fairly unthreatening—or at least they didn‟t seem like they were going to strip me naked and dress me in a bonnet and a floor length dress.

Yet. I watched as Jenny shook the hands and smiled at countless Wonderbread people with nice teeth and clean hair, and then turned to introduce me to them. I didn‟t bother trying to remember their names because I figured there was no point. They all seemed to know her name and she seemed to know theirs, which I found a little odd. At school no one smiled unless they were making fun of someone, and they called their friends by saying “hey, bitch” or “what‟s up, insert-slur-of-choice-here.” Everyone here was nice to each other because they genuinely seemed to want to be polite.

“Come on, Marissa!” Jenny said after I had been introduced to everyone in the foyer. “I have to check you in with the Prophet!”

I had expected her to say the word “Pastor” or “Minster,” but Prophet? Was that right? I was led into a small room about the size of my bathroom at home. It looked like a classroom and was set up with appropriate desks and an old-fashioned chalkboard. There was a teacher‟s desk at the front of the room, and propped up against the edge of it was a man.

He was a great bear of a man, with skin as smooth and white as an egg shell, coiffed blonde hair, and straight white teeth. He was large and perfectly shaped and everything about him seemed soft and plush.

“Hello there!” he said, “you must be Marissa. Please, call me Elder Thomas.”

I squeaked out a small hello and shook his hand, suddenly feeling nervous. He gestured for me to sit down, and I squeezed into one of the desks, feeling like I was about to receive a lecture.

And lecture he did. He talked all about the rules and regulations, which involved the following: 1. No inappropriate contact with members of the opposite sex. Meaning hands above the waist only.

2. Modest apparel only allowed (at this I pulled the cardigan around my shoulders nervously, covering up as much of my chest and shoulders as possible).

3. No excessive use of profanity.

And that was that. No, seriously. Those were the only rules they had.

The last thing he asked me was “Now, are you a member of the church?”

I swallowed, shaking my head meekly. “I‟m an…atheist.”

That was it. He shrugged, said, “well, that wasn‟t so bad was it? I hope you have a nice time,” and shook my hand once again. I only realized I had been holding my breath the whole time when I exited the room and felt my lungs deflate like someone letting the air out of a balloon.

Jenny led me into a large gym. The walls were neatly decorated with crepe paper and Christmas lights. Everyone was dressed like they were going to church and were smiling and talking in large, open groups. They all seemed to be at ease. It was sort of like a high school dance except no one was screaming curse words or fornicating in the middle of the dance floor and the punch bowl contained no alcohol whatsoever. But the music was decent—though censored profusely—and everyone seemed happy to meet me.

I felt more at ease the longer the evening progressed. Nice, clean cut boys who called me “miss” kept asking me to dance and said dancing involved their hands sinking no lower than my ribcage and a pleasant “thank you!” after each song ended. I was shocked to find everyone did things other than church: they listened to the same bands I listened to and read the same books I read, and they even watched television. They all seemed to be genuinely happy to be in my presence, and I found myself genuinely happy to be in theirs. It was weird. I had never been in an environment where everyone was so genuinely interested in me and where they actually made an effort to learn my name.

Towards the end of the dance, my knees trembled from the amount of dancing I had done, but even then I kept dancing because everywhere I turned was a smiling, friendly face. I was in a world of

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swirling color and music, where I danced through songs I liked and even through songs I hated. At the end, I even joined in “Cotton-eyed Joe.” I normally hated that song more than anything in the universe, but in a little gym packed with clean Mormon kids, it felt light and giddy and fun.

Towards the end we got in a large oblong circle and joined hands as someone read a prayer over the loud speaker. I kept my mouth shut and glanced around the room, finding myself recognizing at least half the faces in the room. I felt guilty for not having bothered to learn any of their names before.

Finally, the lights came back on in the gym and the spell was broken. People‟s faces fell into clear, fluorescent focus and we all shook hands and said our goodbyes. Jenny walked out with me, panting and giggling from the fun time she had had, her milky white skin covered in a shiny layer of sweat. We babbled airily about the dance and stumbled into the car. Jenny twisted the key in the ignition and her car rumbled to life.

I felt myself slowly start to sink back to the real world as we drove home. Nothing processed too well in my mind, but two facts clearly stuck out. The first was that I had just spent four hours packed in a sweaty gym full of cheerful bible-thumpers. The second was that I had actually enjoyed myself.

By the time we reached my house, I thanked Jenny for the ride and stepped out of her car.

“So the next dance is next month,” Jenny said with a hopeful smile. “Do you wanna come?”

I felt a little smile tug at my lips and I shrugged.

“I‟ll think about it…”

Undefeated (excerpt)

By Theresa Foster “YOU LIED TO ME! HOW COULD YOU, MACKENZIE? YOU‟RE MY SISTER—NOT MY ENEMY!” I screamed at her.

“Alyss!” Mason said, stepping up closer.

“Stay out of this!” I yelled at him, causing him to flinch in pain. I turned back to Mackenzie.

“You‟re just as bad as him! Him being your trainer and all, I can understand, but the fact that I made him flinch says that I‟m stronger than you. He‟s corrupting you, Mackenzie, and you don‟t even realize it.”

My voice began to lower as it neared the end.

“Alyss, are you alright? You‟re sweating.” Mackenzie sounded worried.

“I‟m fine! And don‟t pull that „nice-sister‟ crap on me. I know it‟s a ruse.”

“No—” “Save it!” I said angrily, and I ran back up to the front door and into the house.

“Alyss?” my mom asked alarmed as I ran past her and up the stairs. I got to my room with images of all the creatures they must have slain zipping through my mind.

I cried out in anger and defeat as my fist connected with the glass of my window, shattering it without a problem. I whimpered and pulled my bloodied hand to my chest. There was the sound of my mom scampering up the stairs, so I turned around just in time to see her turn the corner down the hall before I felt gravity take over, and everything went black…

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The Battle Between Baths and Showers

By Elly Smith There is a hygiene problem in the United States, and the source of that problem is simple. Baths. I don‟t know why baths disgust me so much. Maybe it has to do with the fact that there seems to be a permanent infestation of spiders in my bathtub. Maybe it‟s because I always slip ungracefully when I clamber over the edge of the tub. My feet catch on the jacuzzi jets, and my damp body tumbles back into the tub, landing with a resounding thud. I hate the bath.

But the main reason the word “bath” makes my nose scrunch up with “eeeeewwwwww” is because you are basically sitting there in your own filth. When you sit down in the warm, relaxing water, the dirt clinging to your body floats away…then reattaches somewhere else. The mud from your thigh is now happily situated on your elbow, and the fleck of mascara caught under your fingernail has traveled to your belly button. When you take a bath, you never actually get clean, you just get dirty in a different way.

If you don‟t have your own designated bathtub, you are sitting in others‟ filth as well. When water swirls down the drain in the tiny cyclone everyone watched as a child, the leftover dirt is deposited on the tub floor. As the layers build up over time, the ghosts of filthy adventures past make a reappearance on your skin. Sand from last month‟s trip to Florida, mud from Louisiana, and the phantom toenail clipping you thought was washed away weeks ago end up somewhere on your greasy epidermis.

To solve this problem—and sufficiently clean our bodies—everyone must take showers. Not only do showers ensure our grime is removed and washed down the drain (never ever to be seen again), but they are intensely therapeutic.

As steam condenses on the shower curtain, it also clouds your mind, prohibiting you from pondering anything but the positive. The hot droplets falling on your shoulders then sliding down your spine wash away the day‟s stress, and renew your body for the next morning. When you step out of the shower, you are a different (not to mention, SO MUCH CLEANER) person.

The world‟s best solutions have come in the shower.

Seriously, Mark Zuckerburg probably invented Facebook in the shower. People think more clearly in there. Plus, the helpful tips on the back of Herbal Essence shampoo and conditioner always make life easier. “Instead of hanging your purses, set them on a shelf as to not stretch out the handles.” Who knew?

Showers undisputedly win the battle against baths. If you disagree with me, step into the shower. You will feel enlightened at once.

Inequality of Numbers

By Claire Blakely (-2y+4x=0) That is the question. But why do you have to multiply by a negative just to turn the two into a positive number? Why does four have to be demoted to a negative number just to satisfy the two? I believe that the four has a right to be a positive number too, right? RIGHT? This is why I hate math.

I have always hated math. When the teacher gives out a note card at the beginning of the year and tells us to write our favorite thing about math, I always put „Nothing.‟ But it‟s not about solving for x or doing fractions; I hate it because of the serious lack of equality among numbers. I mean why does a four Page | 11

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have to be reduced to a negative four just so that humans can solve a math problem? That four has rights, just as many rights as the two. Yet the serious lack of equality is spreading to all numbers as the math world evolves. I didn‟t have to deal with these negative numbers when I was in fourth grade. All numbers were equal, just like everyone in school! But as we move up the math years and get into geometry and calculus, these poor little numbers become less and less equal, almost like people in high school.

But that‟s not even the worst thing. Now we‟re moving into the world of significant numbers.

What the hell is a significant number anyway? You might say anything that is a number that is not a zero or unless that zero is otherwise placed in a specific place, making it significant...WRONG! First off, why do these zeros even have to be insignificant? If I was a zero, I would have gotten together all my zero friends and protested a long time ago. I mean, every other number gets to be significant without following specific rules, why can‟t a zero have those same rights? It‟s sickening to think that in the math world, we have all of these inequalities. We already have that in the human world, so why must it be in the math world, also?

However, these two points I‟ve made aren‟t even the worst part. Sitting in math class, these things constantly go through my head as my short attention span only gets smaller. Yet, when I ask these questions to my teacher, her answer is always the same: “It just is.” So zero just happens to be insignificant to the math world, not because of something it did wrong, but because IT JUST IS. So we have to multiply numbers, constantly demoting numbers to negative, because IT JUST IS. And we, as human beings, don‟t have the answer to these questions except for IT JUST IS. Well, THAT DOESN‟T WORK FOR ME! I want to know the answers of why this happens. Who came up with it? Why did they come up with it? Don‟t tell me IT JUST IS because I will slap you across the face, pick you up, and kick you down again. Because maybe, that‟s just the way I AM. And math teachers wonder why we constantly hate math...

Hidden Truth (excerpt)

By Mia Cinello No matter how long I‟m on the job, I‟ll never get used to the stench that overwhelms my senses when I reach the crime scene. There‟s a corpse lying haphazardly on the ground with a puddle of blood around her torso that stretches down the cement for about 6 inches. I take a few steps closer and begin to pull out my white latex gloves. As I reach the victim, I bend down and begin to move my eyes over the body, looking for any wounds.

I notice a huge gash starting from the rib cage down to the hip bone, and it‟s at least 2 inches deep. I hold back the urge to vomit and swallow my uneasiness. Looking at her neck now, I can see two distinct hand prints that are purple and black in color, wrapped around the poor girl‟s neck. She looks about 17, and I honestly wonder what she was doing out here yesterday night.

“Jimmy!” I holler.

My assistant comes over and crouches next to me. “What is it?”

I point out the gash in her side and the prints around her neck. The horror on his face is noticeable. If he‟s like me at all, he will never get used to seeing dead people every day. “You alright?”

“Uh-huh,” he nods slightly. “Is this the third murder this month?”

“Actually, it‟s more like the sixth.”

“Are you kidding me?”

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“I wish I was,” I whisper. This murder spree has been going on for almost 2 months, and no one has a clue who it could be, and there is never any evidence at the crime scene.

I look up at the sky and gather my thoughts. Ever since I was young, I would look towards the sky. I‟m not religious in any way, but somehow the cool blue sky calms my nerves and clears my mind, especially when I have them. That‟s the word I always used when I would have an episode. I realized as I got older that they‟re called premonitions, and they‟re the reason that I have become a forensic detective.

Every so often, I would have a premonition, but they would always be about one thing: murder.

They could be about anyone, but the worst part was when the news would come on, and I would see the lifeless eyes of the person that I saw in my vision. To this day, I have this feeling that I can stop the murders that haunt my waking moments.

“I‟m sorry man. Hey, let‟s call for the others to come down here,” he says.

I‟m immediately knocked out of my thought and look over at him and begin to stand. “Sure, sounds good.”

Passage (excerpt)

by Jeffrey Shackelford There he lay; finally realizing the truth that he himself had shut the door on his life, not his father.

Billy was full of rage, not for his Doctor who showed him the way, not for his father that parted one day, not for his mother that suffered as he lay, not for the doors that shut him out from the fray, but for himself who shut himself away.

With this thought, he stood up in his dull, red room, the walls pulsing and throbbing red ooze.

Wearing a face of shame and despair, he walked forward without worry, letting his fierce anger guide his way. Down he went through his open door into the dark corridors outside his room. He didn‟t care that his fantasy had died, or that the real world seemed more frightening. He kept walking through the belly of the beast where the walls of flesh pounded away, pushing him further down into the light at the end of the tunnel. Any hope of turning back ended as the walls closed behind him, forcing him to proceed towards the unwelcoming light. But escape never crossed poor Billy‟s mind; he had made his decision, no matter how rash. Even if he could, he would never turn back; there was no escape from destiny. So out he walked into the wide armed light, falling forward towards what he thought was right. Screaming as he pushed through, head-first, into his new world.

Good bye, poor Billy. Hello, baby boy.

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Rant Rant

By Conner Martin There are many things in life contradictory, many time-tested truths that prove paradoxical (though they are often no less true for being so), and many ailments that can be cured only by the proverbial „hair of the dog.‟ As a warning: I‟ll tell you now I‟ve something to rant about, and prefacing this, I should mention a couple of things—firstly, don‟t think I don‟t understand the hypocritical nature of my tirade; secondly, don‟t take this too seriously. Mine is not a solidification of all great truths and perfect wisdoms.

Now, what really irks me, it seems I must now admit, are rants. Not rants such as this one, of course, but the kind of terribly inappropriate rants your buddy starts spewing out whenever he hears a topic of his interest popping up as everyone else in a given social gathering is content to just relax, talk, and „shoot the breeze.‟ You know, when you‟re having a purely casual conversation, one minute discussing the weather, perhaps a bit of benign local gossip, upcoming parties, or the likelihood of precipitation, and all the sudden you‟re being brutally affronted across the face with someone‟s righteous backhand of furious indignation and blind anger, as they gallop away on their high horse to decry the evils of something or other, basing radical arguments on little to no factual evidence or personal experience. It‟s like they‟re trying to make a case before an all-knowing god out of trivial personal convictions.

This alone could be easily ignored, but when you face one of these Loudmouths in their natural habitat, it‟s a much different reality. Under the pretenses of having a regular conversation, the Blowhard will slyly insert their snappy bits of repartee, several hushed rebuttals before jabbing you straight through your gut with an overtly unwarranted, and more often than not, viscous verbal passado—the ground beneath your very feet is now lava, and the once amicable gathering has slowly been transformed into a battleground of dunces, each allying themselves with an extreme ideal so as not to have their typically milder opinions mistaken for apathy or ignorance.

Now, I should explain: in my experience, Signior Braggadocio often fancies himself a master orator, and in many cases I believe this to be the source of the untimely diatribe; he instigates this battle to prove to himself or his peers that he is the swiftest and most virtuous amongst you, that his tongue is truly silver, and you will never best him on the lexical playing field. Is this my imagination putting words in the Ranter‟s mouth, or the underlying message sent every time someone goes flying off about religion, or politics, or the legalization of marijuana, or anything else that anyone might have a strong opinion towards?

I myself have strong opinions on these topics, as do most of my friends. The thing is, I have developed restraint. I‟ll share my opinions casually, but I demonstrate control when I save the raving for an appropriate time. What really grinds me down, though, is sitting through so many talks that quickly, almost inevitably transform into biting, hurtful arguments, whipping out $50 dollar invectives in a 20¢ chat. You might not even hold an opposing viewpoint; just for the sake of argument, the Ranter very easily might turn you into a straw-man, raising you up in place of someone they really wish to confront, and harassing you in the process.

The greater issue is that we all have the propensity to unwittingly become a Jabberwockier, to let our passions carry us away and without our knowledge filling the shoes of Professor Blatherskite. For inside each and every one of us, there is a tiny Abraham Lincoln, a miniature Honest Abe that lives in our hearts, complete with beard, stovepipe hat, and kung-fu action chop, just waiting to speak out against injustice, and point the way to a better course of action. However, we must learn to tame our Tiny Lincolns, before they become wild, haggard mountain men screaming at anyone who passes by. Learn to be content with dissent, alternate viewpoints, different opinions; be aware of your surroundings and know

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when to rant, and when to hold your tongue; be productive, provide guidance or constructive criticism through your speech, and try actually getting to know people that have alternating viewpoints from your own without immediately attempting to chew off their faces and rip out their eyes. They‟re probably just as passionate about their standing for the same reasons you are about yours.

Mi Familia

By Derek Daugherty What is family?

I was gone a year and hadn‟t talked to anyone. None of my friends had heard from me in a whole year. I used to call all these people my family because we were so close they were like my brothers and sister. I looked out for them. I would tell all my family, “If you ever need anything, you can come to me; you‟ve always got a place to stay and food and water when you need it.”

When I got out, I was worried that they had forgotten about me. I thought they wouldn‟t remember me or they wouldn‟t want to have anything to do with me. I was so worried and sad because I thought my family wouldn‟t be my family anymore.

I was wrong for doubting them.

When I came home, my „family‟ was still right there waiting for me. My family stayed true the whole time, and when I came home, it was like nothing had changed. All my family was ready to pick back up where we left off. That is family.

I think the technical definition of family is people who are related to you by blood, meaning that they are literally your relative. According to this definition, only people who married into your family or are a relative of your relative are your family.

That‟s not what my family is.

My family is the people I love more than life itself. They are the people I would die for. The people I would walk to the ends of the earth with if they asked me to. The people I would take a bullet for. That‟s what my family is.

What is family?

Family is what you make it.

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Luna, The Elephant

By Elizabeth Heine The breeze coming in through my window woke me. It lightly whisked my hair back, and as I sat up I could feel the warmth from the sun on the one spot that it hit. Here in Thailand, it‟s warm for most of the year, except when we have tsunamis, but we haven‟t had any for quite some time.

I stretched as I got out of bed and made my way down to the kitchen. My mother hadn‟t made any breakfast which was normal. I went to the refrigerator to see what we had. There wasn‟t much, so I just grabbed a banana. Papa came down the stairs reading the newspaper with his tie undone. He was about to be on his way to work.

“Good morning papa,” I said as I took a bite of my banana.

“Good morning dear,” he replied.

That was about all our conversations ever consisted of.

Once papa left for work, my mother came down and told me that I had to come to work with her.

“But I don‟t want to! It‟s too hot,” I complained.

My mother worked in the fields where most women work, picking wheat, vegetables, and berries.

We got to keep 5 percent of what we picked, so if you didn‟t pick much, you didn‟t have supper that night. It was very hot in the fields, and I could feel my clothes sticking to the sweat on my body. My mom insisted I go get more baskets, so on my way I decided to stop by this spring and drink some water.

On my way there, I saw something moving around under a tree that had fallen. Curious, I took a step closer and removed the branches from the creature‟s face. Only, when I saw the “creature,” it wasn‟t anything like a creature. It was a beautiful baby elephant. I looked around to see if the family had been close. No sign of them. As I looked down at the helpless elephant, I noticed the tree fell on her legs.

Maybe it was severely hurt. I took the basket by the spring and filled it with water. Once I made it back to the elephant, the water was about half empty from seeping through the basket, but still, I placed it right near the elephant‟s trunk. She was hesitant at first, but once she knew what it was, she began to drink.

She showed great relief, and I could tell she wanted more. Time flew by—walking back and forth between the spring and the elephant. I never knew how much elephants could drink, and this was only a baby. I must have been gone for a while because I noticed my mother coming through the bushes and trees with cheeks flushed and sweat dripping from her face.

“Where have you been, Malima?” she asked, exasperated.

“Mother, look! It‟s a baby elephant,” I said, pointing toward the elephant that already finished drinking the water I had brought only a couple of minutes ago.

“Oh my, is she hurt?”

“I don‟t know, I‟ve just been trying to keep her hydrated.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” she said to the elephant. “Malima, go get Trudy and tell her to call the animal police.”

“But mama, I wan—” “Go now. Malima!”

And with that, I left to find Trudy. The animal police were able to get the tree off of the elephant, but she did not get up once the tree was removed. I knew something had to be wrong with her legs; they seemed as if they had been crushed.

“How will she ever walk, Mother? How will she get food and defend herself?” I could feel the tears begin to pool around my eyes. I blinked as two drops fell and then wiped them away quickly. The animal police lifted the elephant on what looked like a girdle. They told us that the elephant would be with them for a couple of days and they would let us know if anything happens.

The next couple of days felt like forever, and all I could think about was the elephant. Once I heard the phone ring, I leaped up and hurried to answer it. It was the animal hospital, and they wanted me and my mother to come down. Once we arrived, the doctor let us see the elephant. She was lying on a mattress with all of her legs wrapped up but one. I‟m guessing that was the only leg they could save. After visiting with the elephant, we went to the doctor‟s office.

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“Well, the elephant seems to have crushed most of the bones in her three legs. We did all the replacing we could, but there‟s a lot of damage,” she said.

“So what does that mean?” My voice was a little higher than I had anticipated.

“Well, at this point, the elephant can‟t even walk; it would be a miracle if she ever could. We know that this elephant means a lot to you, and since you found her, we wanted to let you know that we will most likely end up putting her down.”

“What? No! You can‟t do that! Why can‟t you just work with her and see if she gets better?”

“We don‟t have the time or the money. The elephant will need serious care and a lot of time.”

“Well then I‟ll take her.” My eyes never left the doctor until my mother said, “No.” “Mother, please! I don‟t want this elephant to be put down. I will do all of the work, and I will take care of her. You will not have to worry about a thing! I‟ll do everything, please!” I sounded desperate, but I didn‟t care.

“Malima, this is serious work. You have no idea how to take care of an elephant, and imagine how big she is going to be!”

“Mother, I promise I will do everything; I will work with her every day.”

My mother must have seen the desperation in my eyes because I saw the slightest sympathetic smile. She glanced hesitantly at the doctor. The doctor gave my mother a nod, and then she turned her focus back to me.

“Okay Malima, you‟ll need to take great care of this animal. I mean it.”

“Oh, thank you, mother! I won‟t let you down, I promise!” I leaped out of my chair, into the hallway, and ran to the room that the elephant was in. I looked through the window since we weren‟t allowed into the room; they didn‟t know how she would react. I was smiling the whole way home, and once we had gotten home, I jumped out of the car and into the barn. I gathered hay and grass to make a bed for the elephant.

The next day, the animal police arrived with the elephant. They laid her down on the bedding I had provided. She seemed to have grown since I last saw her, but she was still beautiful. I spent the whole day with her—adjusting her bandages when she seemed uncomfortable, getting her water and food when she seemed hungry or thirsty. I was even there when she was sleeping.

Although I had no idea how I was going to nourish her back to health, I was going to try with all of my might. I began by feeding her lots of meat and vegetables so that she would get strong, and I gave her milk from the cow so that the calcium would potentially help her broken bones strengthen. I did this for about a month and the elephant had grown twice her size. She hadn‟t walked in over a month and I could tell she was getting frustrated by being in the same setting every day. I had put up some of my paintings in the barn so she would have something to look at. Most nights I slept with her in the barn because I was scared that something would happen and didn‟t want to take any chances. One night, she was getting very frustrated, so I tried everything that I usually do when she acted like that, but this time was different; she kept trying to stand which she had never done before.

“Stop it! You‟ll hurt yourself!” I said to the elephant. She just moaned and tried again, but fell every time. About the tenth time, I gave up telling her to stop. She wouldn‟t listen, and she was determined.

I was flabbergasted and about to walk out when I noticed…she was standing. I looked in amazement, and then I jumped with joy as she fell back down. I didn‟t care; she still stood on her own without my help. That night was a miraculous night, and as I was about to doze off I noticed the elephant staring at the moon. Then I mumbled, “Luna, Luna the elephant…,” as I dozed off into sleep.

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Excuse Me, You Don’t Read?

By Elli Burns Did you just say that you don’t like to read? Excuse me, no: acquaintanceship terminated. Friendship over. Unless you have something like dyslexia, where reading is physically hard to do, there is no reason why you should just offhandedly blow off this fantastic means of adventure.

If you say this to me, I will automatically assume that 1) you are an idiot of the largest proportions, and 2) you are lazy and honestly just haven‟t tried hard enough to figure out what you like in the literature department. My life is centered around the written word. I go almost everywhere with at least some form of book, usually with my kindle so that I can have access to as many as possible at once.

Books do so many things; I can‟t even begin to start listing them all. They teach us about history, about mathematics, about learning from our mistakes, and how to do everything—from building a blanket fort to building a family. Books are the friends that will never leave, and although they may be silent, their words of wisdom speak loud and clear.

We have all had days where this harsh reality is just too hard to stand living in, where you honestly just do not want to deal with another person, or thing, or deadline. I have a perfect solution: pick up a book. Take a trip into the unknown, or the well-known. Go hunt in the woods with the Pevensies, or lift up a wand with Harry to learn a spell. Books are not just a one-sided adventure, a movie screen to be watched in detached awe from your sagging couch. The majesty of the written word includes rather than excludes. You are part of the adventure you read about. The detail (if you are reading a well-written novel) can take you away from a grey world, and whisk you onto the arctic ice, just as the aurora borealis ribbons its way through the air, purples and greens intertwining until the two colors are indecipherable.

But not only do words affect you from bindings and ink, but from places you least expect. That video game you were playing last night? How did you know the plot, the main character‟s backstory, how you would spell the main person‟s name? Words! Ha, bet you didn‟t expect that!

People read all the time, and we need those words. Society would literally cease to function without them. Movies would never get written without them, love letters to and from your significant other would no longer exist, and how would you know what food to buy? Nothing would be labeled.

Let‟s see you survive a trip to the store when you don‟t know what you‟re buying.

Do you see what I‟m trying to get at here? Words are the lifeblood of evolved humanity. So the next time that I see a person sneer at whatever current thousand-page book I am reading, I‟ll just shove this rant in their faces.

That should show them, right? Well, if they read it.

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Got Entertainment? No.

By Jeff Auster We are in the 21st century. We are on the front-line of battling disease. We are able to analyze DNA strands of microscopic creatures never known before. We have explored another planet. We can go from one side of the world to another in under a day. Yes, the 21st century sounds like the perfect Utopian society. Despite all of these fantastic achievements, though, entertainment and media have gone down the tubes.

With all of our advancements, I guess no one bothered to focus on entertainment. Kids watch shows like Teen Mom, and Keeping up with the Kardashians. Why do I need to know what Kim Kardashian just bought Kanye West for his birthday? I DON‟T CARE! Suddenly, in current entertainment, if you become a mother at age sixteen, your bad decision is rewarded with a television show on MTV. A little piece of me dies inside every time I hear someone compliment current media.

I cringe at reality TV. Toddlers in Tiaras gives me a taste in my mouth similar to rotting liver.

When Jersey Shore was cancelled, the joy inside me shined like a beam of sunlight from the depths of a dark cave. All of the unborn babies should be beyond thankful that they did not have to suffer through another one of the Situation‟s fist-fights or Snooki pulling out another girl‟s hair.

Speaking of babies, I find myself writhing with pain when people get famous for having a lot of kids. Does Octomom really have any talent? The simple answer is no; she‟s just fertile. The disgust that I have towards current television astounds others that are immersed in it. But, when they step back, they see the truth.

The music industry is also a joke nowadays.

Being in a music history class, I listen to the tunes of the 20th century. I hear the perfect harmonies of the Beatles, while Buddy Holly and Chuck Berry strum their guitars and passionately sing their choruses.

Today, talent is made up. Actually, talent just doesn‟t exist. Whether it‟s Katy Perry singing about fireworks, Justin Bieber wanting to be your boyfriend, or Rebecca Black, in her highly auto-tuned voice, singing about a day of the week, it‟s all garbage.

Nicki Minaj. Garbage. Lil Wayne. Garbage. Carly Rae Jepsen. Sounded good the first ten times, but after that… garbage. Regarding many “artists” in the 21st century, I think a dying cat whining in harmony with nails screeching against a chalkboard demonstrates better talent.

With all of the technology that has been developed lately, singers‟ voices are frequently enhanced. A good beat and rhythm can be made in order to mask the fact that NOBODY CAN ACTUALLY SING. Despite this, even Rebecca Black sounds good when compared to the latest car crash of the music industry. I use the phrase “car crash” in a literal sense because that‟s exactly what the music “genre” called Dubstep sounds like. Dubstep reminds me of a dial-up modem battling a robot: all computer-generated. I‟m amazed that we, as a society, are actually paying them money!

It doesn‟t even stop there. Screenwriters must be getting lazier by the day. Instead of coming out with new, interesting plot lines for movies, they keep churning out the same old stuff. Movies are becoming old and repetitive. Remake after remake. Whatever happened to the good movies like Finding Nemo, or Monsters, Inc.? While animated, these were at least the result of a creative writer working diligently with a movie crew. Today I feel like they just shuffle through all the old stories to see what they can recycle this time. Batman? Spiderman? True Grit? Even when they do have a good idea, they try to make as many movies out of it as possible, until the concept is as dry as a Texas riverbed in the summer.

How exasperating!

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Between mind-numbing television, talentless music, uncreative movies, and boredom-enhancing social hangouts like Facebook, I feel this society is in some serious need of an entertainment jump-start.

The entertainment industry tries to appeal to the people. We, as a society have become too enamored with the stupidity of celebrities, cliché of franchises, and the screeching noises we call music. It‟s simple economics: demand increases; supply increases. Everybody needs to halt their craving for this madness before we all go brain-dead. I‟m not saying I want entertainment to turn into an educational film; I just don‟t want my brain to be drained! The way to achieve better entertainment is to stop endorsing the bad stuff. Turn off Kim Kardashian. Don‟t download Carly Rae Jepsen‟s new song.

It‟s as simple as that.

Where Does It Go? (excerpt)

By Brittney Crow You and Sammy, your best bud, are 12 years old, and you think this is the most intense adventure you have ever done, not to mention that this is the creepiest house you have ever snooped around. It‟s huge and dark, creaky and stuffy with mildew from old rain. There are nails everywhere, and you want to leave but can‟t, since it was YOUR bad idea. You get up to the second floor, looking for some starter spots and turn the corner into a room full of white-cloth-covered furniture and weird statues of heads that just stare at you as you stare at them, sitting there ominously all in a row. Four heads, all balding, just sitting there, never blinking. You blink for them, close the door, and walk to the next room.

Walking, walking, walking; a door creaks open before you walk past it, and you snag a quick peek inside before walking on when you see a lump under the carpet. You go in to investigate.

Inching slowly into the room, you survey the damage. You note the peeling wallpaper and brown stains on the walls. You reach the lump in the only piece of carpet in the room and lift it up.

There‟s a latched door, handle facing you, calling at you to be opened. You go to pull up the hidden door when you hear Sammy coming. You call him into the room to show him the door. He enters slowly. The door closes behind him without being pushed. Just the wind, you think. You show him the door, and you both open it and climb into the secret hidden room…

All Tied Up (excerpt)

By Jack Carroll It‟s Tuesday, just another day at school you might think, but you don‟t know how far and fast your life will turn today. Yesterday in class, your teacher told you that she was going to have “a very super-duper special guest speaker.” Some guy named Gill Bates or some crap—you‟ve never heard of him. But the worst part of it all is that your teacher wants you to dress for the occasion, making you wear a shirt and tie for some reason. You don‟t own a tie, not even a nice button down shirt, and the only pair of khaki pants you have are the pair of tight Vans with a hole on the knee you got when you were big into skateboarding.

You head to your dad‟s closet. You wear a 32-34 pair of jeans, but your dad has fifteen years dedicated to beer, food, and not working out to throw into his size. He wears a 38-34, nothing a belt can‟t fix, right?

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Next is the shirt. You‟re a medium, maybe even a large if you ate an entire family bucket from KFC last night, which you didn‟t, but daddy is an extra-large. Even so, you don‟t think anything of it, you just grab the white, longsleeve button-down shirt with the tag on the back saying „Men‟s Wearhouse‟ with a little caption under it that states the famous line, “You‟re going to like the way you look; I guarantee it.”

Next is the mother of the outfit, the jackof-all-trades, the little article of fabric that‟s saving you from a zero and giving you a hundred: the Tie. Your dad has two ties on the rack, one red and one blue.

This could be the hardest decision of your entire life. Which one would your teacher want you to wear? Or more importantly, which one would Gill Bates want to see your wear? You think he‟s like a millionaire or maybe made some hundred-thousand-dollar-aire or something. Would the blue make him think something like royalty? Or would the red tie make him think of power and defeat? But if you remind him of royalty, would it just turn into him mocking your life and your barely minimum wage job as a busboy at some piece-of-crap restaurant?

Okay definitely not the blue tie, you‟ll just go red. You put on the red tie, and you look at yourself in the mirror in your dad‟s bathroom. All you can think is, damn son, you lookin’ fresh to death.

You take a closer look at your red tie, stare at it, and the next thing you know, you are just staring and staring, and then you see a bobcat chasing a goat or some lesser animal that lives in the bobcat‟s kingdom and is an easy kill for the deadly animal. So you jump back in fear and rip off the tie.

As you take a step back from the mirror, you look back at your clothes. You stupid jackass, you think to yourself. You remember that you are wearing pants six sizes too big, and a shirt two sizes too big; you look almost like a little person robbed a big and tall store. So you rip off all of your dad‟s clothes, leave them on the floor for him to pick up later, and you head to school in your regular attire.

You pull up into the parking lot, and you see one of your friends from English class that day actually looking fresh to death, dressed to the nines.

The first thing he asks is, “What are you doing? You know you‟ll fail the class completely if you aren‟t dressed up!”

And immediately, “son of a bitch” rolls out of your mouth, and you get back in your car and head back home. The whole way there you are thinking to yourself, fail or look like an asshole, fail or look like an asshole? and you think it repeatedly. You finally get home, throw on the clothes that are just way too big for you, and you have the red tie in your right hand and the blue tie in your left. The age old question, red or blue? you say to yourself.

So there you have it, do you want the red tie? Blue tie? Or screw it, go no tie?

Island Time

By Jenny Adams Are you one of those people who stresses when you‟re not on time? Blows a fuse when you think you won‟t make that extremely important deadline? Yells at your spouse when they aren‟t ready to walk out the door at the time you specifically told them to be ready? Well then, let me just tell you right now, Page | 21

Anderson High School

2012-2013

the Islands of Hawaii are not the place for you. However, if you are one of these people, and you DO indeed find yourself in a situation that sends you to the tropical islands of Hawaii, then I recommend you try your absolute hardest to lose that expensive wrist watch, unplug the alarm clock, and simply stop giving a damn. In Hawaii, it‟s like time is non-existent. Things will get done when they are ready to be done, and you will go places when the time is right. There is no rush, no crunch-time, and no panic; however, there is what the locals like to call Island Time.

Now, I cannot possibly think of a better way to sum up my month-long visit to the Hawaiian Islands than through the concept of Island time. Upon my arrival to Hawaii, I automatically knew something was different here. Everything was so peaceful, so relaxing. It was as if I had entered an oversized yoga studio that contained palm trees instead of sweaty people and the sound of waves crashing instead of “Ommmmm” and “Pssssshhhhhh.” As I stepped off the plane along with the fifty-five other members of my high school environmental science class, I was greeted with a polite “Aloha” and lei from a nice-looking Hawaiian woman who told us our bus was waiting for us downstairs and would be ready to go once we all grabbed our luggage. Now, this is where I experienced my first encounter with Island Time.

After a good thirty minutes of sorting through bags and gathering everybody outside into the lovely weather of the island, we expected to see our bus driver prompt and ready to take us to our hotel.

However, this was not the case. We waited for what felt like an eternity for the bus driver to come. Many of us were becoming impatient and began to whine. This was our first mistake. I warn you right now, the locals in Hawaii are not the type to whine. I guess they find no use for it. They‟re more of the go-withthe-flow, don‟t-worry-‟bout-a-thing type of people.

And this showed when our jolly ol‟ bus driver showed up forty-five minutes late, singing along to the radio as if nothing was wrong. Soon we all piled into the large school bus as he continued to sing and greet us with lots of high-fives and shakas (the hangloose hand sign).

As we traveled along the roads, taking in everything we possibly could, our bus driver explained to us the ways of the local Hawaiians. He told us that we needed to learn to relax and have a good time wherever we are. He enlightened us about the beaches, cliff jumping, hikes, and even the local teenagers‟ favorite pick-up lines for tourists (be careful—not every teenage boy in Hawaii is actually training to be a professional surfer). This was a great overview for everything I learned about Hawaii and the magic powers of Island Time.

Now don‟t get me wrong: Island Time doesn‟t just refer to the acceptance the locals of Hawaii to being late. Island Time is a way of life. For example, as you hike along the beaches of Hawaii there are signs everywhere indicating “NO CLIFF JUMPING,” when really those signs are just put up because they legally have to be, although nobody follows them. I can confidently say that we went past three of these signs and jumped from cliffs fifty feet high.

Now that you know what Island Time is, I hope that one day the islands of Hawaii will call to you, and will visit this majestic place and find a way to forget about time, stop stressing, and enjoy this great place.

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The Writers’ Block

2012-2013

The Wizarding World of Harry Potter

By Szilvia Haide The grand, stone archway looms before you, making your heart patter faster and faster with every approaching footstep. You catch a glimpse of the Hogwart‟s Express. arriving just beyond the entrance way, letting out a gentle puff of smoke that momentarily lingers before disintegrating into nothingness.

Then, without hesitation, you enter and are instantaneously engulfed by the enchantments of the Wizarding World of Harry Potter.

Not only is Harry Potter World located in an overall exciting, adventure-filled environment within Universal Studios in Orlando, Florida, but it is designed to fully captivate the imagination of every age group. Tiny hot springs of joy bubble up inside you and flood your veins with a magical sensation as the movie set for the Harry Potter series springs to life before you. You are swept across the cobblestone pathway and immediately tugged in every direction at once, as you are mesmerized by the painteresque shop windows cluttered with chocolate frogs, capes, wands, and pumpkin juice. Mysterious melodies and the aroma of roasted turkey legs pour out through the restaurant doors and mingle with the deliciousness of the frozen butter beer that smothers your taste buds in a sea of caramel.

As you continue to explore this realm of materialized fantasy, you throw your head back, laughing and catch a glimpse of the sunlit sky, pierced by the snow-blanketed rooftops that tower above you. Your eyes skedaddle across them, and you feel a surge of anticipation as you glimpse bold towers looming upon the horizon. You struggle through the crowd, eager to finally reach the height of your journey—the Hogwarts Academy of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This enormous castle, crafted with intricate pillars and bridges as an exact replica of the original, emerges as the crown jewel out of the myriad of theme park attractions. You step through the gates, still awestruck and expecting a flying car to zoom past any second. Then you leave behind the hustle and bustle of the village and are swallowed up by the cave walls.

Darkness encroaches upon you as you wind through the series of shadow-enveloped hallways, passing by the various classrooms.

Then just as you begin to feel as if you were trapped in a never-ending labyrinth of doom, you enter a chamber full of paintings that spring to life. You expect to run into Harry or Hermione any second as you tour Dumbledore‟s office, complete with towering bookshelves and winding staircases, followed by a stop in the Defense against the Dark Arts classroom. Then as you reach your final destination and encounter a blur of visual effects, flashes of color and huge spiders on an animated roller coaster, your Harry Potter experience is nearly complete.

Although The Wizarding World of Harry Potter World is an initial “dream come true” to nearly all Harry Potter fans, it is far from flawless. Behind the spell of its wonderfulness lurks its true nature—a tourist attraction, which like any other amusement park or vacation hotspot, serves the mere purpose of offering entertainment at the highest expense possible. After the rushes of excitement and adrenaline are extinguished within you, you awaken to this reality at the sight of grimy bathrooms, noisy crowds, and snaking lines that seem to wind around in endless circles.

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It is so easy to get carried away by all the tempting food and activities. You soar through the air in a series of spirals and loops and drops, over and over again, unaware that you have fallen into the trap of the theme park builders until it is too late. The initial giddy lightheadedness after your sixth ride on “The Hungarian Horntail” transforms into a pounding headache. You strive to grasp the single spark of magical enlightenment that still lingers before you, but it is quenched by the bitter reality of your utter exhaustion and the shepherd‟s pie that struggles to remain in your churning stomach.

Your mind begins to throb as it is enveloped in chaos. Claustrophobia takes over as bodies swarm around you like flies around fresh meat. It is impossible to escape the screams and jabber of high-pitched voices that splatter your eardrums and cause your patience to deteriorate. You are lost in the crowd, unable to find your family members, pushed and shoved until you are suddenly vomited out into a clearing.

You re-examine your surroundings and realize that The Wizarding World of Harry Potter will never live up your high expectations. It is easy to be fooled by its enchantments, but afterwards hard to overcome the fact that you have been deceived. The village cottages no longer emanate a cheery glow, but are instead shrouded in a curtain of darkness that bounces off every wall until it encompasses you in a cloak of nightmares. Even Hogwarts seems to shrink in size and magnificence without an additional sheath of sun-dazzled beauty, and you realize your childish hopes of riding on moving staircases and attending a quidditch tournament will never be fulfilled. Because after all, Harry Potter World will only ever truly exist as a word-crafted kingdom, which can only be entered through the use of our imaginations.

A Journey (excerpt)

By Vicky Brandt Amber Horsekeeper woke up on a beautiful summer‟s morning in a cold sweat. Her namesake hair fell over her shoulders as she got out of her now damp bed to wash the sweat off and hopefully the memory of that nightmare with it. But she had this knot in her stomach that essentially said that it would not work. Amber could remember it clearly as if she were still dreaming it.

She walked into what looked like an old dining hall and at the table were some people looking at her, smiling; only their smiles were there on their faces for all eternity. Their height varied greatly, like there were many different species of people at the table. The floor was covered in dust three inches thick, and there were small rays of sunlight coming in from far above. The table where the skeletons sat looked like they had finished a meal, for the remaining bones of some kind of animal littered the floor and the table. They, the skeletons, were looking toward the entrance when they died.

Their white bones somewhat sparkled in the combination of sunlight, torchlight, and a type of light Amber had never seen before.

Suddenly there was the weight of a rough hand on her shoulder, startling her out of her reverie. There was a kind voice, gentle, but it had a small edge to it, like its owner had seen many hardships “Come on, lass,” he said, “let the kings lie.”

Amber shivered. Though it was warm outside, she felt as if a cold mountain wind had just blown across her skin. She went downstairs to fix herself a bowl of porridge—cold, of course, because there was no need to heat the house during the summer…

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2012-2013

Just A Walk on the Beach

By Sean Fleming So today was like any other day for me. I was walking my sea turtle on the moist sand, feeling the hot sun on my skin. I was walking for a long while, probably around 30 yards and decided I needed a well-deserved break. So I looked for a nice shady spot in nature that would have a good cell phone signal but something caught my eye.

I saw something golden sticking out of the ground! I walked over to it and tied Lightning (my turtle) to a palm tree. I sprinted over to the golden mystery and began brushing sand away from it for a bit and saw that it was a solid gold treasure chest! I could only imagine what was inside of it when I remembered my great-great-great-great minus 4 greats grandpa telling me a story about this exact treasure buried somewhere on this island!

My heart was beating harder than ever, and I went back to the house and took some of the blood pressure pills my neighbor takes everyday because I thought that they might help me. I don‟t know if I should be taking them because it said 10 and older, but who cares! I couldn‟t read at that time anyway. I grabbed my trusty playmate shovel that came with my train set (I don‟t even know why someone puts a shovel in a train set) and set out to begin digging the treasure out. After what seemed like a century, I had finally pulled it from its hole. I was staring at the chest when someone pushed me over, and I was staring at a real life pirate! I was scared because I thought they went extinct with the dinosaurs. Just then, he pulled out his sword.

“Thanks for finding me treasure! Now I‟ll be going, now!” And he walked away—without the treasure!

I was kind of confused by what had just happened, but I didn‟t care that much. So I tried opening it, but it was locked and I didn‟t have a key. So I looked around for a rock that I could just smash it with, but I couldn‟t find one so I just used my turtle and eventually it broke open.

I could see the golden glow coming out of the chest before I looked in, and as I peeked my head over, I saw the greatest thing in the world. Well, it took a while because there were a lot of these shiny rocks and coins, but I threw those in the water because I didn‟t really need those (although a couple of them were GREAT skipping rocks) and the when I had thrown away all the junk, I stared at the ultradeluxe super-rare mint condition Pokémon card. I felt like the coolest person in the world because no one had ever seen a Caterpee around since the Stone Age! And then I went back to my walk.

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Anderson High School

2012-2013

Expiration Date (excerpt)

By Michael Brode Walking into the police station, Chuck and Frank were being their usual idiotic selves.

Surprisingly, they were the top cops of this peaceful city of Duluth, Minnesota, and had always gotten the bust. Whether it be illegal hunting of jackalopes for their pelts, or poaching narwhals for their horns, these two always got their man.

A booming voice came out of an office near them. “Frank! Chuck!” yelled their captain.

“YEAH, BOSS?!” they yelled in unison.

“Get y‟all‟s asses in here!” he belted. “I got somethin‟ for ya!”

They hurried into the captain‟s office and sat down hurriedly into the seats in front of his desk.

“What‟s up, boss?” asked Frank.

“Well, it‟s a new case.”

“Sweet! What happened?” Chuck asked. “…do y‟all really wanna know?” the captain hesitated.

“DYYUUUHHH, sure we do!” they said together again.

“Fine…” he continued. “Some Arabic convenience store owner was killed at the bus stop.”

The two looked at each other and began analyzing what the options were for what happened. The captain tried to listen in to what they were saying, but he could only pick up small fragments of the speedy conversation: words like “cheese,” “wrench,” “piccolo,” and “onion.”

He tried to continue his report to them, “Boys, I—” They continued to speak.

“I think—” Still all he got was their babbling. “DAMMIT BOYS! Listen to me!”

They shut up and looked at him, masking their giggles.

He continued, “We recovered the murder weapon a few feet away from the crime scene. Y‟all won‟t believe what it is.”

“Oooh, oooh? What is it?! What is it?!” they both persisted.

After finally hushing them again, the captain told them. “It was a frozen corndog…”

“A frozen corndog?” repeated Chuck.

“A frozen corndog,” assured Frank.

“Yes guys, a frozen…” he paused, then exhaled deeply, “…corndog.”

The look of disappointment on the faces of all the men in the room was overwhelming. “This is actually the lamest conversation I‟ve had in my entire life!” complained Chuck. “Like, really?! Boss, how the hell do you get killed by a corndog?! And…WHY?”

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The Polarization of Government

By Jeremiah Gray When George Washington made his final exit from politics by stepping down as president, he warned us not to get involved in or organize political parties. He thought that they would be a dividing force in our country and would tear us apart. Unfortunately, he was right. The Civil War may have been spurred on by the issue of slavery, but it was the success and failure of political parties that helped to urge the conflict on. Even more importantly, political parties today seek to divide us into either “Democrats” or “Republicans.” These political parties don't have the people's best interests in mind, but are instead thinking about how to remain in power so they can influence the future.

This competition has led to the polarization of this country and the deterioration of our own civility. All you ever hear in the news is how one party proposes something, and then the other side moves to block it and make a huge fight over it. They bicker like children, blaming each other for their problems, not willing to own up to their mistakes, or able to reach out their hand and look for agreement. Those that actually do try to act like mediators are accused of treachery by their own party for not siding with them more, and usually don't get anything for sticking their neck out in the first place. In the past six months we have lost not one, but three of our good, moderate Congresspeople who literally can't stand it anymore. When politicians start complaining about politics, you know it's bad news.

What we really need right now is to completely shake up the way things are done in this country.

The very system that smart politicians set up so that they can get the word out about a certain candidate and get people to vote for him/her has devolved into a mass of pitiful arguments and shouting matches so discordant that not even a Justin Bieber fan would ever consider listening to it, the poor misguided souls.

Why do political parties even have to exist anymore? This is the age of the internet, smart phones, tablets, computers and instant access to a wide range of data if we should ever want it. Why do we need this constant tension anymore? All we ever need to know about whom to vote for in a certain office, we can find on the internet. We can look up what a candidate stands for and decide who would be the best to lead the country. We don't need a garbage truck of mud being thrown at us every day during an election year. If you're going to debate, then fine, but get rid of the political hierarchy and political parties that are the whole reason you incompetent fools are up there to begin with, and give me someone who will actually do what this country needs.

Give me someone who defies party boundaries and just works in the name of the U.S., not in the name of any sort of political affiliation. Give me someone who is not only willing to reach across the aisle, but walk across it to get stuff done. In fact, give me someone who would go so far as to demolish the building that the aisle is in, and then reform the building in a much more open format. Is there something wrong with expecting that our representatives should be held to the same standard that we hold ourselves to? Heaven forbid that we get someone in an office who is actually on fair moral and factual grounds.

Next election, don't vote Democratic or Republican. Vote for the one who is going to get the job done, and get this country back onto the right path.

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Anderson High School

2012-2013

Little Demon, Out to Play (excerpt)

by Elli Burns The nightmare begins with the sound of the bedroom door lock sliding into place.

“John?” I ask as I look up from my book, “John, honey, are you home?” Maybe I was imagining things... there is no way he could have locked the door from the outside. Humming quietly to myself, I close my book and unfold my legs out from underneath me.

“Do you need help bringing in the groceries?” I know I should have gone with him. I continue talking to the empty air as I walk towards the door, reaching out with my free hand to turn the doorknob.

When the door refuses to budge, I trail off, frowning. I twist my hand more firmly around the handle and tug harder.

I allow the handle to twist back as I reach up to knock on the door. “John? I think the door is broken.” I hit my fist hard against the wood, dropping the book onto the carpet so I can try and jimmy the handle again.

I hear something faint from the other side of the door, so I stop knocking to listen. I open my mouth to call out to my husband again, but the noise grows louder, and I freeze.

It‟s laughter, high-pitched and thin.

Terror grips me, and I restart my attempt to break free of my room, which feels more and more like a confining cell as the seconds pass. The laughter seems to grow in volume, almost as if it was creeping towards the door. The lights affixed to the ceiling, along with my bedside lamp, start flickering madly, creating a strobe effect in the small room.

I slam my fist so hard against the wood that I feel something crack in my hand, but I don‟t have time to concentrate on the pain before an invisible force slams against me. The last thing I hear before my head smacks against the footboard of my bed is insane laughter in my ear, nearly drowning out the thundering of my heart…

A Third Time Is Not a Charm (excerpt)

By Chelsea Scott It was a new day, and I started about my normal routine. Get up from bed, get dressed, eat some Cheerios, brush my teeth, and get to Oracle, the usual. I drove to the office, and after the second turn, I saw her: my third victim.

She was walking with a friend down the street to a smoothie joint. Her hair was golden as the sun shone down on it, and she seemed to have a certain skip in her step. She appeared so vulnerable, and to me, those were the most enjoyable when I delivered the final blow. I recognized her as an employee at that smoothie joint, and that meant that my schedule would need to be altered.

When I arrived at work, I took out my planner, and put in the codes for the day that only I could interpret. Now I would remember to cancel lunch with Bryan and go to her for a visit.

Coincidentally, I could view her from my desk as my window looked out at her work, so I could make sure that she was working at the time I intended. It was all coming together perfectly…

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Breaking Point (excerpt)

By Sarah Fulthorpe In the midst of all the chaos, I couldn‟t see a thing. It was like there were hands over my eyes, protecting me from the profanity and fears of the world. It wasn‟t that I was unable to open my eyes; I just didn‟t know if I wanted to figure out what was happening to me. Why was I feeling this pain? Who were these strange people? Why were they talking about the “ICU?” After minutes of trying to decide, my mind took over and began to pry my eyes open. They were crusty, like they had been shut for days, which was odd because they were open last night. When I finally did manage to open them, sunlight flooded my vision, and I immediately regretted my decision. I tried to pull my hand up to shield them from the blinding light, but it was immobile.

Before I could question anything, a strange man and my mom noticed my movements and ran over to greet me.

“Jane?”

I made no effort to answer him.

“Oh Janie,” my mother whimpered. Her eyes were red and puffy, like she had been crying for days.

“Jane,” the man said slowly, “you‟re in the hospital. You were in a car accident two weeks ago and you have been in a coma.”

I stared at him blankly, unable to fully digest what he was saying. How could I have been absent from the world for two weeks? Just yesterday I was taking my midterms…

From the Back of the Truck

By Nicole Lefteau I pulled into the Shell gas station and stopped to get some gas. I pushed the door of my red convertible behind me, and swung the ring of my keys around my finger. It was hot outside, the sun beating down on me. I walked into the modest store and a little electronic bell went off. Making my way to the back, I found the sodas, grabbed myself a pop, and went back to the front to pay. A man went to the register just before me, but when he turned around to see me, he let me go ahead of him. They always do.

I gave the older man at the register two dollar bills, and watched his attention switch from my chest to the money. He looked at me, almost frightened, but I just smiled. He gave me change, and I walked out the door, back to the hot sun.

The pop sizzled as I opened it, and little white bubbles came up, as I took my first sip. My high heels clicked against the ground, and I smiled as I put the gas pump in my gas tank and it started to fill up.

The man from before came out, and I struck up a conversation. He invited me to his place a couple times, and I considered it until I took a closer look at him. He was good looking, but when I lifted up my sun glasses, I saw he was wearing an old t-shirt and a pair of jeans with a hole in the knee. He wasn't worth trying to start something with.

He glanced over at the little store a few times. The old cashier was staring at us from inside. I ignored him, and kept my focus. The only thing I was interested in was the truck. Not the worn-down pickup itself, but what was in it. There was some kind of cage I could see, from a lifted corner of the tarp covering it. The first time I glanced over at it, I saw him get kind of nervous. The second time he nonchalantly tugged on the tarp, covering the entire thing. We talked for another ten minutes or so, chatting and laughing, until I finally asked.

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“So, uh, what's back there?” I pointed to the bed of the truck.

His face darkened, “That's none of your business.” Pulled the gas handle out of his truck and slammed it back into the holder. I stepped back a little, as he got into the driver's seat and drove away.

It was sketchy, and a little weird, but I didn't think much of it. Until I got to the hotel. It was late at night, a couple hours later when I finally arrived in Phoenix. I was lying on the big white bed in my room when I saw it. I had just kicked off my shoes and ordered room service, when the report came on. A serial killer in southern Arizona. Dozens of mutilated bodies found, wrapped and chopped, in cages. I thought it was a coincidence at first, but then I saw the truck. The same pickup truck from the station. I knew it was him. The footage cut back to the news anchor, who said the killer escaped and they needed help to find him. The problem was they had no idea what he looked like.

“If anyone knows anything about the killer, please call the local police number listed below.”

Without even thinking, I picked up the phone. I dialed the number. I thought about what I was going to say. I could give a rough description, but they said anything could help. I thought about how that could‟ve been me. Maybe if the cashier wasn't there, he would‟ve taken me, too. I could be dead. The phone rang a couple times until a young girl answered. I told her I was calling about the serial killer and she connected me to one of the head investigators.

His voice came on. “Hello, this is Officer Daniels.”

I dropped the phone and held my breath. I knew that voice. I knew it because I‟d heard it, just a few hours before. It was him.

Make it Stop: From the Eyes of Shina, the Fox

By Olivia Holder Trotting along familiar path, Shina sighed. What good did they think would come out of this?

They weren‟t uniting the forest; they were driving it further into oblivion. Nothing good came from war.

All it caused was bloodshed and torn families.

Shaking her head to clear it, she looked in front of her to see the slightly hidden entrance to the camp. Home sweet home, she thought to herself as she went through the entrance. From the silent beauty of the forest to the chatter-filled clearing, it was almost like stepping into another world. Shina smiled; there was nothing more rewarding than seeing her family after a long day.

As she padded into the clearing, Shina took a look around, making sure that nothing disastrous had occurred while she was away. To the left of the entrance was a small outcropping of rocks, taking the shapes of small nests. Across from the rocks, a large tree took root, where the dirt underneath had been hollowed for a small den. Directly across from the entrance was a cave, the opening only big enough for an average-sized fox to go through comfortably. The tunnel of the cave dipped down into the earth, making a fair-sized cavern. The back of the opening slowly receded into the ground. Everything was as it should be, it seemed.

Running diagonally through the clearing was the small creek, in which three silver fox cubs were playing. Smiling fondly at the young cubs, Shina turned to look at some of the other inhabitants of the clearing. Many different foxes padded through the clearing, age ranging from kits to elders. There were

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reds, silvers, marbles— many different pelt types. Shina herself was smaller than most of her kin, marble-pelted, black-masked, and silver-bodied.

“Shina!”

Whipping her head in the direction of the voice, Shina only had a second to comprehend the three balls of fluff hurling themselves at her before being knocked to the ground. Spitting out dirt that managed to get lodged underneath her tongue, she glared at the wriggling kits responsible.

The largest of the three, Rook, the most playful of the cubs, was currently rolling on his back, barking with laughter. After all, it wasn‟t every day that he got to make their leader eat dirt. The two smallest, the twins Sinjel and Shenul, had their snouts together stifling their amusement. While the two were more controlled than their brother, the sisters often went along with him in his crazy schemes.

Shina suddenly felt something inside her burst with sorrow. These cubs were being dragged into a world of war and bloodshed. They would never meet their father who had died helping them escape.

Thinking of her brother brought more sad and unwelcomed feelings. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she focused on the task at hand: punishing the three trouble makers. Just as she was about to reprimand her nephew and nieces, another voice drew her attention—this time, not in a positive manner.

“Where have you been? I‟ve been looking everywhere for you! You know you‟re not allowed out of camp without at least one other fox!” The loud growling was coming from Hinaro, an adult red fox. They met when Shina had been traveling around the Hills of Engiru. They have remained nearly inseparable since.

Stomping her way over to where Shina stood, Hinaro growled low. “Well? Where in the wolves‟ den were you?”

Shina started stuttering, “W-well, I th-thought it would b-be a good idea t-to check the pperimeter.” Even though she knew that Hinaro was just showing how much she was worried, the low growling didn‟t make the confrontation any less terrifying.

“You still didn‟t have to go by yourself! What was going through that thick skull of yours?”

Hinaro heaved a sigh. “Never mind, I don‟t really think I want to know.” She gathered herself and continued. “Now, have you thought about the matter we discussed earlier? Might I remind you that you only have until tomorrow to decide?”

Shina winced at the mention of their earlier discussion; it was one of the main reasons she went out alone.

Hinaro noticed her wince, and sighed. “Follow me.”

Shina turned her head from where she had been watching Rook, Sinjel, and Shenul having a tackling contest a few paces away, to glance at Hinaro and tilt her head in confusion. Hinaro stood up and started walking to the entrance that Shina had previously entered through. Shina shook her head in confusion before following her best friend through the clearing.

“Hey, Shina!” An excited voice called from behind. “Where ya off to? You just got back.” Shina and Hinaro turned to address the figure. Shina responded with delight, and Hinaro in annoyance.

It was Akita, one of the Show Dogs. They were canines that lived in luxury, ignorant of the problems in the forest. Akita was one of the few that cared about the Wild Dogs, which did little to improve Hinaro‟s opinion of her.

“Ugh, what do you want, moronic pup?” the older fox growled. From the first time they met, she couldn‟t stand to be near Akita. However, she always put up with her when around Shina, and even if she wasn‟t there, all she could do was argue uselessly against her. Akita was immune to her angry criticisms.

“Nothin, just thought I‟d say hi to Shina! Ha-ha, bye!” and with that, she trotted away.

“Well, she sure has a sense of humor,” Shina commented as they exited the clearing.

The hour of twilight had fallen, and the wolves were likely to begin their nightly patrol soon.

They‟d have to make this quick.

Stopping on the top of a hill overlooking the clearing, Hinaro turned to look at Shina. Her silhouette made her look larger and more intimidating than normal. “Do you remember what tomorrow is?” Hinaro asked.

“Of course, that‟s the day we attack the wolves. How could I not?” Shina replied, confused.

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“Yes, and do you know what today is?”

“No…” “Today is the day you decide whether or not you will be able to kill.”

Shina stiffened. She should have known Hinaro would somehow find a way to talk about that with her. She had been trying to avoid the conversation for a good lunar cycle now, and the deadline was approaching rapidly.

The last time she even considered the act was when they escaped the wolves‟ territory. All it took was a second—one measly, lost second—and it cost her the life of her brother.

She almost let out a whimper; her brows knitted together. “I already told you, I‟m not going to kill anyone!”

Hinaro let out a snort. “Well, newsflash, you‟re not going to have a choice. What if—” Shina tried to interrupt, “Stop! I already told you—” “—one of us was killed when you hesitated to kill the other?” Hinaro looked down at the shaking fox, “What if they come to the clearing and slaughter those little cubs you love to play with? These are some of the consequences of your choice, should you choose to keep denying your responsibilities.”

Hinaro began to circle around her frozen, shivering friend. “Just think about it,” she whispered, before retreating to the clearing again.

Shina was left sitting on the crest of the hill, mind racing through possibilities of the next day. If she killed to save her friends, would that make her a murderer? What if the wolf she killed had a family waiting for it to return?

Her shaking persisted as her fear was gradually replaced with the cold, and it forced her out of her thoughts. The sun had set, and the moon was beginning to rise proudly in the darkened sky.

She came to her decision: she would kill, but only to save her family. Hearing distant howls of the wolves starting their patrol, she began heading back to camp.

All of them would make it, and if she had to die or kill to make that happen—well, so be it.

The Other Place (excerpt)

By Lyric Costley You sigh as you walk into the underground station with your acoustic guitar strapped onto your back, and you swipe your card through the card reader. Before you walk past those metal rotating bars, you sit on a bench near the tracks. You pull the guitar off of your back and out of its case, then start playing a simple melody, and you close your eyes and melt into the music, loving the warm tones bouncing off of the concrete-and-tile walls of the station until…the bouncing stops. You hear the sound going away and never coming back.

You open your eyes and find yourself sitting on a tree trunk instead of the bench and you look all around, seeing a surrounding forest.

Not being the type to get all worked up, you simply shrug and keep playing your guitar, enjoying the melody you were playing before. But now, instead of the notes disappearing in the distance, you hear them bouncing back to you, so you open your eyes. You‟re back at the underground station! You see the subway which will take you home in front of you, but…you kind of want to see that world again. What to do? What to do?

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2012-2013

An Evening with Aya, the Wise (prologue)

By Conner Martin She stared patiently and mercilessly. Her gaze was impossible to avoid. Not that he wanted to— he was here for this, after all. His problem was he didn‟t know how to properly look back, didn‟t know where to return his gaze. It was, in the small space they shared, impossible to pick a feature to focus on.

To look back at the entirety of the old woman who sat opposite him and take in every detail, was too much. In doing so, she seemed to fill up his eyes, and he‟d shift uncomfortably, and so he tried to draw his attention to a single feature.

Every feature of her face held something interesting and just a little strange to offer. Her bones protruded and formed hollows and crevices, smooth and stronger-looking than such old, brittle bones had any right to be. The wrinkles which ran across her skin were mesmerizing. Each line pointed somewhere different, and each crease joined four others in a map of wrinkles traveling every direction over her face and arms.

Her eyes? The most obvious choice, and clearly impossible.

Deep emotion and careful thought rang out at him from every inch across her face, but it was all flowing from her one open eye, and after attempting contact once, he immediately shifted back. In that eye, he had lost some of himself, and he was afraid to look again. She would read him like a book (if she hadn‟t already) and there would be nothing left he could hide.

That one eye she left uncovered by her hand was cloudy, covered by a misty lens that he initially assumed to be a cataract.

Isolation in the hut, however, had left him wondering if it wasn‟t some mystical energy that made up the contents of her head, revealing a small portion of itself to him through her eye.

His initial impression of the old woman was just that—a very old woman. After the time they spent together, silent for the entirety thus far, he asked himself if he actually had any clue what she was.

By Claire Blakely The Peanut Butter Games (excerpt) AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAA! That would be my little brother, Jeffrey. And that would be him screaming at the top of his lungs.

It‟s his way of communicating—this particular sentence says he wants a spoonful of peanut butter.

You see, Jeffrey‟s different; quite different, actually. When he was three, he wouldn‟t stop banging his head against the sofa and screaming at the top of his lungs. To this day, the doctors still don‟t know what‟s wrong with him except that he is mentally retarded and has an IQ of 76. They said he‟d be a handful, maybe not even making it to the age of ten. Well, he‟s in middle school now, 14 years old, and quite handsome, I might add.

Jeffrey and I have been best friends since I was five and he was two. Our favorite game when we were little was dressing up and pretending we were lost boys from Peter Pan. I would always be Peter and we‟d go around the house singing, “Follow the Leader,” with me interjecting what I thought Jeffrey should do in between phrases. He would always do what I said, and we‟d always end the game by going to the kitchen and having a big spoonful of peanut butter each.

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Anderson High School

2012-2013

But that was a long time ago. I‟m in the eleventh grade now and thinking about college. Jeffrey is in eighth grade, still trapped in a five-year-old‟s mind. I‟m worried about finding the right college and finishing all of my homework before the due date. Jeffrey is only worried about whether we have enough peanut butter in the house. My childhood is gone but according to Jeffrey, his is still alive…

Falling Down

By Abby Sledge She didn‟t remember falling down the stairs, but Jacob remembered. In fact, he couldn‟t forget— no matter how hard he tried. As he sat in his uncomfortable plastic chair, staring at the bit of Emmy‟s dainty hand that was visible between his own larger ones, all he could see was the surprise that warped her face when she missed the second step. When he closed his eyes, he saw the bright red blood slowly spreading from her blonde hair to the carpet at the foot of the stairs, staining everything. They would have to replace that carpet, Jacob mused. Then he wanted to hit himself for thinking of housekeeping when he should have been worrying about Emmy.

She had a concussion from hitting her head on the steps. It was because of her head injury that when she had woken up about an hour ago, she had no idea why she was in the hospital.

Jacob allowed a small, content smile to creep onto his lips as he recalled her uncertainty. After all, it wouldn‟t do either of them any good if she remembered that she had been pushed…

The Eternal Fight

By Leah Krumholz I flinched as gunshots exploded in the air. I could imagine soldiers playing hit-and-run in the distance, their favorite game. That was one thing they excelled at.

“It just doesn‟t end, huh?” A voice dared to break the silence of the camp. My comrade stared off into the glowing embers of the campfire, cradling a rifle close to his chest.

“Hurry! Get him to the tent before he bleeds out!” Two soldiers were struggling to carry a bloody man on a gurney, stumbling in the damp soil beneath their feet. The body was drowning in its own blood—at this point, it was impossible to tell whether it was a man or a woman. There was open flesh where skin should have been, exposed bone that was supposed to remain unperturbed. The poor soldier would die soon enough, if he were lucky.

I fidgeted in place, clutching the gun at my side more tightly than before to try to hide the trembling of my limbs. If my commander were to see me now, he‟d

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The Writers’ Block

2012-2013

probably scowl and say, “A soldier queasy at the sight of blood? This is why women shouldn‟t be able to join the army.”

He would then continue to reprimand me, belittling the female gender as he did so.

“No. Maybe it never will,” I finally responded. I tore my gaze away and fought back the nausea rising in my stomach.

“Ya know, it never hurts to be optimistic.”

“It does if you‟re just deceiving yourself.”

A New Language (excerpt)

By Courtney St. Pierre So the concentrated search began, and I found myself digging through my dad‟s music shelf vigorously. My dad is a music buff and has hundreds and hundreds of CDs stacked up on shelves in our mud room, from some of the greatest and most talented people to ever live. Perfect start. Since they‟re alphabetized, it was super easy to rummage my way through and pick out various artists that I had grown up listening to in the back seat of my dad‟s old black suburban, singing along. I plopped them into my computer and began downloading what would soon become a huge part of my life.

The Beatles, U2, and Tom Petty were the ones that sounded very familiar to me, and of course Bruce. Bruce Springsteen is my dad‟s all-time favorite artist in the whole entire world, and he‟s such a dedicated fan that his oldest daughter (me) shares his birthday. Those CDs were the most familiar and the ones he had the most of, and as I listened to them, I was amazed at how much I loved them and how darn genius they were. Then to make life ten times better, I was outside during the summer, lounging in the pool, when music started blaring from the speakers, a signal that my dad was about to come out to do yard work. Chill, “hippie” music (as I called it) began playing.

That‟s when I discovered Arcade Fire, which is actually in the genre of Indie Rock—a more sophisticated term for hippie.

Immediately after he was done with the yard work, I snatched the CD and downloaded it, later finding out that I loved every single song on it. Every single one.

Now that was an unknown concept for me since I was used to liking only individual songs here and there from artists that only had one or two good songs, but this… this was amazing. It was like being able to understand a whole new language without having to learn it first.

Middle Mind (excerpt)

By Lucy Tiblier “So, Mary Claire, what‟s goin‟ on?” I asked.

“Okay, so you have to promise not talk about this outside of our conversation. Because I don‟t know what to do.”

“Mary Claire, what is it?” I (surprisingly) was starting to be mildly concerned—Mary Claire was not very good at keeping up suspense and usually got to the point quickly.

“You aren‟t going to believe this, but the other night at Becca‟s older sister‟s party—”

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Anderson High School

2012-2013

“Wait, did Lulu really have a party?” I asked, remembering that Becca‟s older sister, Lulu, was supposed to be grounded from parties...

“Yeah, but I don‟t think she told her parents she was having one, which is really just like, who does that? So anyway Lulu‟s boyfriend, Chase, shows up at like midnight or something. He walks in—” “Isn‟t Lulu‟s boyfriend like a junior??”

“Yeah, at least. But I can‟t tell her how dumb she is dating that guy. But so anyway Chase comes in and starts smoking marijuana with a few—” “Oh my god.” My eyes widened with every word Mary Claire spoke. Beyond our 8th grade health class, the terms “pot,” “weed,” and “Mary Jane” were so unfamiliar and unspoken, none of us were really sure this drug existed. “What happened after that?” I began making small rapid circles around my bedspread. The delicate pattern looked like it might fade if I kept tracing. “Isn‟t marijuana highly flammable? I heard it can spark burning leaves …”

“Can it? I think my mom told me that Jesus can smell it right up in heaven.”

“I never thought of that. I mean that‟s probably true,” I said.

“So this is the part when things start to go bad.”

“I‟m not sure I want to hear.”

“Olivia, you have to listen to me. After Chase started smoking, everyone did.”

“No. Please don‟t say anything else.” I didn‟t want to hear what was coming next.

“Even Becca!” she said finally.

I couldn‟t say anything. People who were criminals did drugs, not us, not the girls I hung out with. “Wait, I‟m confused. Is Chase even alive? Smoking can kill you!”

“I guess Chase is alive, but this is about Becca! We have to realize that Becca HAS DONE DRUGS.” Mary Claire delivered the last line as verdict, rather than an assertion…

I got up from my still position and stared at my bookshelf, chair, rug, without really comprehending anything. It was the first time I was faced with something so uncomfortable and unimaginable. I was actually kind of pissed. Becca betrayed me, all of us, really.

“Olivia, are you there?” I could hear the irritation in Mary Claire's voice.

I shook my head and blinked, not realizing I missed the last part of what she was saying.

“Sorry, I zoned out for a second. What were you saying? I mean, I am really disappointed in Becca, and I know that sounds lame—” “But you have every right to be angry—” “No, I didn't say that.”

“Of course you are. Listen, Becca was our best friend—” “Wait, what? Mary Claire, she still is.”

“Is she? That‟s what I want to talk about. What Becca did was wrong. She went against her family‟s values and the law, for that matter. We are all about to enter some of the most important years of our lives. I personally don‟t know if I want the popular people in high school thinking I hang out with stones.”

Did she mean stoners? I thought. “What are you trying to say?” I asked slowly, still hoping Mary Claire wouldn‟t say what I knew she would.

“All I think is that you need to figure out who your friends are. I don‟t know if I can associate with Becca anymore.”

“I need to think…”

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The Writers’ Block

2012-2013

She’s Mine Now

By Amber Brandenburg

There she is just blowing bubbles. My little angel. My niece, Hayden. We‟re playing on the back porch. How could I tell her? How could I bring the words up that her parents are gone? She is so beautiful and happy, like a delicate rose. I don‟t want to ruin her happiness. And yet, I‟m going to be her “new mommy.” How am I going to be as a mom? I am only 22, and she‟s already 4. I just don‟t know what to do. It seems as if time slows down for the longest while. She‟s giggling and blowing bubbles, not a worry in the world. And I‟m about to ruin it all for her.

I remember when she was born as if it was yesterday. My brother-in-law called me and told me to rush down there as fast as I could. By the time I got there, she‟d arrived. I held her as her bright green eyes slowly opened to see the world for the first time. She is absolutely perfect, I thought while holding such a small person in my arms. My sister looked so overcome with happiness, she was glowing with joy.

“Hayden,” I whispered to the person in my arms. My sister looked up.

“What, Em?” she asked. I just said it because I have always loved that name. They already picked a name out for her, Charlotte.

“Hayden,” I spoke up this time. “I think Hayden is beautiful,” I continued on.

“Hayden? Hayden, Hayden… That is perfect.”

I looked at her in shock.

“Her name is Hayden.”

“Are you sure? Charlotte has been the name you‟ve wanted ever since we were little,” I said in concern that she was thinking about this only because she‟s doped up on drugs. “Think about it, Court.”

She looked at me in happiness. “I thought, and I decided. Hayden Emily Smith.” Now she‟s changing the middle name to my name? She must be really happy on those “happy pills” if she is willing to change the whole name.

“Courtney, are you in your right state of changing a name so special to you?” I asked, so confused at this point, I didn‟t even know if this was my sister anymore. “Please just think about it a little longer, for me?”

“Fine just a little longer. I really do like how Hayden Emily Smith sounds. Don‟t you?” She looked at her husband, Josh. I was so confused at why she wanted to change the name all of a sudden; I looked at Josh to see his reaction.

“Absolutely, gorgeous.” That‟s all he said. Shocking. Why were they willing to do that so fast?

“Why?” I said with annoyance. I shut my mouth so fast; I didn‟t mean to say that. Word vomit: when you say something you didn‟t mean to or want to.

“Emily, you have helped us so much for the longest time. You gave us a home when we didn‟t have one. You took me places when I couldn‟t get there myself. It‟s the least we can do to show our thankfulness.”

My eyes teared up in happiness. “I love you,” I said with tears rolling down my face to my big sister.

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Anderson High School

2012-2013

My mind comes back to now. Everything speeds up to normal. I start crying. Hayden comes over and sits on my lap. “What‟s wrong, Emmy?” She can‟t pronounce my name just right yet, so she just calls me Emmy.

“Hayden, I need to tell you a story,” I wipe my tears. “It‟s a real story about a mommy and daddy.

They had a little girl named Hayden. Now, Mommy and Daddy went on a trip together and Hayden stayed with her Aunt. She loved her mommy and daddy so much.”

She interrupts me. “Is this story about me?”

“Yes, sweetie, but don‟t get sad, okay?”

She nods.

“Now on the last day of the mommy‟s and daddy‟s trip, Auntie gets a call. The call is not a good call at all. It makes Auntie sad. Mommy and Daddy got hit by another car. And now they are playing in heaven with God.” I start to cry.

“It‟s okay Emmy. They are safe with God now.”

I smile because she understands that they are happy. “Now, Hayden, I want you to know that you aren‟t going to see Mommy and Daddy again until you get to meet God, okay?” I am scared for her reaction.

She looks concerned for a moment, but quickly recovers. “I know. But it‟s okay, because I have you and you will always be there for me!” She hugs me and goes and plays. How does such a young person understand something like that will be okay? I don‟t understand it, but now that I know she will be okay. I love her and I am never letting anything happen to her.

Felis Vampiris (excerpt)

By Rob Dempwolf It was a Friday afternoon, and Aislin was walking quickly from the bus stop, eager to get home.

She had plans the next day, so she had to finish her homework that night.

As she crossed the street a few blocks away from her house, a black cat streaked out and stopped before her. Looking at her with blood-red eyes, it arched its back and emitted a single, long yowl.

“Oh, hello,” Aislin said. “Aren‟t you a cute kitty?”

She tried to step around the cat, but it moved to block her path, continuing to stare at her with its crimson eyes.

“Hey! Let me by!”

The cat paused for a moment before stepping closer, weaving between her feet. Careful not to step on it, Aislin finished crossing the street. Stopping on the other side, she waved her hands at the cat. “Shoo, shoo,” she said, “Go home.”

The cat looked at her and yowled again.

“Shoo,” Aislin said firmly, and started towards her house.

Behind her, the cat followed silently, never taking its gaze off of her.

Aislin didn‟t notice until she was almost to her house. “No,” she said firmly, “You can‟t follow me; my parents don‟t like cats.

Go home.”

The cat looked up at her and tilted its head. “No,” it said.

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The Writers’ Block

2012-2013

POETRY My Pen Lost

By Richard Paul I've lost my pen, The walls have swallowed Another hallowed Friend.

My voice comes out in The white-washed walls, Leaving me for graceful Falls.

My wandering Friend, lost In these white-washed walls Never said more graceful Words.

The paper comes out in Crumpled heaps, scribbled On with my lost Friend.

In his desperation he lashes Out in ink; for the bloody Crumpled heaps fill my heart & Soul.

We argue through the walls; A phonetic firefight, And the crumpled heaps Bleed.

And the pages these heaps write, Fill volumes, leather-bound and Dusty in rose-wood Bookshelves.

Bleed words of pain, loss Insecurity and love, for My precious Friend Cries.

I've lost my pen. He Never even said goodbye Before he jumped into my Wall.

Our words are slung like Rocks at Goliath, only to Have this elegant giant slowly Die.

I've lost my Friend. He always Made fun of these white-washed walls By smearing his ink in Blood.

Idiot For Love

By Hector Maldonado I just wish I had a second chance To make things better for the right reasons To bring you back into my life again I was left with confusion To not understand why I‟m a fool I just knew that when I fell for you Everything was going to be great You‟re the girl I picked for that one reason To love, But I guess I was just an idiot for love.

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Anderson High School

2012-2013

Friendship

By Chris Ross The chain that connects Thatâ€&#x;s greater than just text The intimidating, yet unbreakable chain That has nothing to do with pain The never-ending feeling of happiness That is never loveless The person that always understands Making the chain unable to disband With the isolation of two The bond lights up the room With no dull moment And the happiness thatâ€&#x;s constant With the memories untakable This chain is indeed unbreakable

That Place

By Richard Paul You know, That place That place between Life and hate, That place Between loving and Words, but we always found That place To be boring and stale.

A lover in braille To a blind child Who never learned to Listen.

You know, That place That place between Real and imaginary, That place In between the stars That fall between your eyes.

That place.

That's where I love you.

And that's where I'll always Yet never.

That place.

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The Writer’s Block

2012-2013

What the Silent Girl Steals

by Sarah Money Heavy books swinging inside these bland walls, Stepping heel-toe with greedy downward eyes, Scanning the crowded, white fluorescent halls, Escaping the empty words of the bored.

The noise in a confined room is too much, It mistreats my ears and drives me away, But I can‟t completely forsake the bunch, I don‟t adore them, but care what they say.

“That strange Sarah-girl, where could she have gone?

In the courtyard again, starting at sky? „Tis a boringly blue thing we‟ve forgone, That bizarre Sarah-girl, where does she lie?” …So, I stare at sky when no one looks And steal back the quiet that my peers took.

A Deadly Disease

by Emma Whitley I cannot go to school today.

My body feels a little hot, I have already counted 21 spots.

My throat is dry, my throat is sore, And the spots! I‟ve counted 4 more.

I know I start school at 10 o‟clock, But I have to go until 2 o‟clock.

My car won‟t start.

It can‟t go out of park.

My mouth is wet.

What is this crap?

I can‟t finish my college app.

When do you think this will go away?

I just cannot go to school today.

I cannot go to school today, Mom. I can‟t breathe, and my nose is runny.

Now that I think about it, my stomach feels funny.

I feel as if I‟m going to die.

I promise this is not a lie.

Is it just allergies, or maybe the flu?

Why do I feel like I do?

Mother, take me to the doctor so Luckily now I know what I have.

It‟s a disease. A very bad disease.

Not tendonitis.

Not arthritis.

Not appendicitis.

Not even bronchitis.

This deadly disease which lasts for a year is, in fact, Senioritis.

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Anderson High School

2012-2013

Inner Demonic Possession

By Jennifer Cabiya You lied to everyone.

Where is our identity?

Don‟t we have a name?

Which one is yours?

Your whole body shakes, Quivers in a dreadful fear Of something unknown And looming.

From behind my grip, You can‟t see clearly, Think clearly, Talk, or call out.

We are silent— So loud but drowned out, Like your heartbeat That we can‟t find anymore.

You are trapped and I can hear you screaming.

I can see you breaking yourself, Sewing up the seams, Like getting dressed before dawn.

They don‟t see you tearing at your head.

They don‟t see us.

We won‟t try to see them.

You don‟t exist, and You. Are. Mine.

Encroaching Darkness

By Lauren Wilks I fear things that cannot be seen, nor heard, nor touched, nor smelled, and yet— I see their shadows hovering above my bed.

I hear their silent footsteps and smell their dank and clammy breath.

I fear them so.

I fear their chattering jaws and clattering claws, their gnashing maws and thrashing paws.

I fear them because I know that if they see a misplaced hand or foot, they will attack me, and tear me to shreds.

And as I know this, In shivers, in dread.

Some are worse than others.

Some are not like monsters in stories: big and dark and furry and smelly and so, so, so obvious—no.

These monsters are white.

Pale, with gaping mouths,

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and grasping fingers, and the darkness of their eyes always lingers and I am afraid.

I reach for my light with fumbling fingers.

I know that they are coming— They are reaching for my unshielded hand— And I turn on the light but there is nothing there.

And what do I have to fear but nothingness?

The Writers’ Block

2012-2013

Mother Nature

By Kaitlynn Green

From the start of time To the end of earth, Her eyes have watched Every birth From dust and steam, To day and night, Reality and dream, And bravery and fright From soldiers come, And cowards gone, The destruction of trust, And concept of wrong She was a creature, Or being at best, Who saw new life At every death And saw the wrongs Of every right But longed for shade In the path of light She inspired the wind To move the sea And then told others Of what could be The muse to earth As earth was her muse She showed us direction And, in turn, she was used We burn and we build We snap and we break But she continues to give Just as we continue to take We steal her for ourselves Share with each sister and brother And the entire time we forget What about nature, our mother?

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Anderson High School

2012-2013

Jazz

By Riley Neel-Hernandez The smooth, cool sound That will turn you upside-down The sound so bright It will light up the night Your dull, bleak night The soothing jazz That will drive you up the wall like mad That wailing sax With that blazing drum in the back The clear trombone That will make you moan You can‟t just hear it You have to feel it Crazy beats That makes you tap your feet The trumpet sound Takes away your frown In the bottom of your soul Keeping you from growing old That smooth, cool Jazz You know it‟s a blast Man, I love that sax Jazz

Burn

By Patricia Olszewski We knew the consequences of our actions, yet we continued.

We saw our futures and didn‟t care.

You‟ve followed me this far, Would you care to go further?

Follow me into the depths of hell.

Dance with me among the flames of passion.

Feel the desire as it burns through the skin.

Lust or Love, Is this such a sin?

We‟ve pushed ever so close to the melting point.

Let us burn, Let us melt, Let us merge as one.

Because who knew playing with fire could be this much fun?

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The Writers’ Block

2012-2013

Reasons

By Christine Diaz As the old bird flies over everything, It spreads its light pink rose wings Through the light silk blue blanket.

The bird passes over everything, Remembering what he once was And now is.

But looking back makes him feel like once he had a reason to live.

Once he had young to care about, But now they are gone to a new place, With new memories, The other things forgotten.

Even his brothers and sisters are things of the past That used to fly from flower to flower, Playing games until the sun left again.

He used to wait with his brothers and sisters For spring to come As he tried to survive the cold winter.

Now there‟s no one but himself, Flapping softy through each puffy cloud.

As he tries to find a reason to live, He knows he lived a long life, Enough to fulfill his reason.

And now he‟s tired of holding on to the last string of life That flows through him.

After trying to find reason and finding none, He starts to fly into the setting sun.

As he flies toward the sun, His tears start to fall For everything he lost but is going to gain In a new life that‟s to come.

With each movement toward the sun, Little by little, it starts to fall apart, Into dust.

The last thought before his final flap is At least now I can rest with no regrets, sorrow, anger, But also with no happiness, joy, Or other emotions that give me reason.

Until a new life gives me the first breath of life again.

Then, with that last flap, He turns into a cloud, Silver, sparkling in the setting sun, resting, Until it‟s time again.

The Significant Other

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Anderson High School

2012-2013

By Jennifer Gray You stare at his eyes, Eyes that once entranced you and Ruptured your heart And lifted tears from the locked away Wells of your own eyes.

Nothing. Emotionless stares.

The hearts of the people you used to be Are locked in another dimension.

Somewhere deep in your memory, You remember those two people.

Those two lovers.

The way you breathed into his neck, The way you felt his heat melt The layer of ice off your skin, Off your heart.

The way his voice Made you feel alive and free.

And now you hear it once more, Call out to you, And the bars of the cage surround you.

You no longer feel alive Or free.

His love suppresses you.

It suffocates you and drowns you in Pet names and kisses and cologne And slaps and insults and hits.

You cannot breathe.

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Out! Out! Run away and into the sky!

Your heart is locked away in That other lifetime When you once loved your captor And your heart belonged to him.

The bruises and scars And deafening blows That he never meant to throw your way Weigh down your mind, Your body.

You want your heart back.

It is yours to beat, Yours to break, Yours to touch and know.

He comes closer, Wraps his arms around you In a cloying embrace.

Apologies that once gave you joy Now wring your heart dry.

Push away!

It is time to break the glass Holding you back From your heart, From the smile Waiting patiently Behind your lips.

The Writers’ Block

2012-2013

That Feeling

By Jennifer Karotkin That moment, that one moment No matter how long, or how short That moment you see That one person That one human being The only one who can make your heart jump out of your chest Like an electrical surge powering through your entire body A wave of emotion overcomes you Overpowers you like nothing else can A strong sense of emotion A strong feeling of affection Their hair Their face Their smile Their overall being Draws you in But yet you know Deep down inside you That you can never have them That no matter how hard you try How long you wait How badly you want it They‟ll never be yours Yet you still long for them Still wait for them Still feel for them And it‟s that feeling That overpowering feeling That‟s the feeling you wish you couldn't feel

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Anderson High School

2012-2013

Sisters

By Kiki Monroy Sharing laughs, Sharing cries, Even shared some of the same lullabies, We‟ve had our share of troubles, And we‟ve had our share of adventures.

We‟ve shared secrets no one else knows, And have gotten in trouble for a couple of those.

Little pink bows and little pink dresses, We always seemed to make the worst messes.

Goofy and loud, Never bothered and always proud.

Angelic on the outside, But mischievous on the inside, Nothing ever seemed to dent our pride.

We had the best of fun, Even if it happened to bother someone.

Life goes on, and things are about to change, Now I must go my own separate way.

But somehow, somewhere, along the way, We‟ll return to these magical days.

You‟ll always be my best friend Until the very, very end.

Because that is what sisters do, Forever me and you.

The Lock-up Day

By Selena Martinez People from the jail don‟t want kids to act just like them, But some kids don‟t want to listen to their parents.

So they go and see for themselves.

They get locked up, their lives are going to change.

Police take them to a real jail to realize how it is They see how the jailed live and how others trick them.

People from the jail tell the kids about their lives People from the jail Don‟t want kids To act Just like them

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The Writers’ Block

2012-2013

To Be

by Jeff Auster Existence, Evasive as the universe itself.

Black sky forever, Without direction or purpose.

It doesnâ€&#x;t go or do.

Or sing or dance.

It just is.

The stars distract from the constant pitch around, Twinkling and laughing in their days.

But offer no grasp for what lies beyond Except that they, too, Are. Before a baby enters the world, And after weary minds are put to rest, Not even with long days in a meadow With tall grass innocently swaying, Can the most brilliant of minds Conjure an answer.

What is to be?

The quiet moon guarding the oasis of Earth The mountains fighting torrents of wind and rain The horse galloping through brisk air

Is there any other option than to be?

Can the moon choose to disregard its mother?

Can the mountains will themselves to dust?

Can the horse decide not to take one more step?

To be is not any particular action, Yet all of them.

To be cannot be taken, Only received.

To be is not to live, As the stars can be And the air can be And ideas can be.

The magic spark That turns being into life Hides in darkness away from the grasp of knowledge, Yet sits within everything that writhes, moves, or breathes Life can be.

But not all beings Can live.

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Anderson High School

2012-2013

Bleak

By Mibsam J. Aguilar Where's that world I used to see?

Every day I'd contemplate with sorrow.

Has there been a change in me?

Do I see a new tomorrow?

I wonder where that room is now That dark and cold abyss That window that fogged with my breath Whenever I looked through it Why don't I feel the need for solitude?

Why don't I feel the need for loneliness?

Even though I'm still alone, I'm not.

I've gotten out, but I miss it sometimes.

Why? I want to see the joy in my absence I want to see a world without me I want to cry with pain and sadness And feel trapped where no one can hear me, forever I want to go back to that black Just to see what it was like Revisit my old home The place that kept me safe.

Why did I get out?

How did I get out?

When did I get out?

Where is it?

All I know is, I'm outside And glad of it, too But I sometimes turn around And see that room and reflect Goodbye, old home Goodbye, old memories Goodbye, old friends Goodbye, old self

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The Writers’ Block

2012-2013

Flowerpot

By Helen Chun When I first met him, I sprinkled the seeds in the pot Not knowing what it would become.

When I first talked to him I watered the seeds Named the pot.

When I first befriended with him I gazed at the tiny sprouts Drew a heart on the pot.

When I first held hands with him I petted the small sprouts Moved the pot into my room.

When I first kissed him I caressed the plant Sat the pot next to the bright sunshine.

When I first quarreled with him I removed the pot To the dark corner of my room.

When I first ignored him I stared at the withering plant With cracked spots on the heart I drew.

When I first let him Go The bud was ready to bloom Waiting.

When he last let me Go Pot with the heart drawn Divided into two Pretended they were never together Small seeds grew with my love Didn‟t get to bloom But Died.

First Love

By Gardenia Martinez There‟s nothing like the first love First day being in love is amazing Being happy together But I think that I remember the first time we met I thought I never had a chance with you because our lives were too busy And we‟d have to break up the first day But we became friends.

When I first met you, We were supposed to be friends.

Were we just friends?

Later, you said I was The only one you ever loved.

And I loved you with all my heart Love is like a song.

Love is a song.

Love is together.

Now, Everyday together is perfect And will be Until we have a place in the sky.

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Anderson High School

2012-2013

Hopelessness

By Zach Woolsey My mind hallucinating, uncontrollably deranged I open my door, but my sight hasn't changed Anxiety increasing, sanity protesting All my life goals I'm carelessly rejecting I look into my parents' room, but no one is there But with the pipe in my hand, why should I care?

One inhale to the next, another after the former My body responds, unwillingly warmer Depression laughing in my face, the needle goes in The physical pain brought down by emotion Veins crawling inside me, redness of my skin Trying to escape, outrun by addiction Lack of control, revealing my darkest flaws Feeling defenseless, a cat with no claws My friends, my family, slipping away in fear My only ability is to shed a tear With no roads left, I have reached a dead end Sorrow sinking away, my life can't comprehend No motivation left, releasing inner fright Good memories no longer in my light Unable to save myself, I use my life savings My last bits of energy evaporated from cravings The light of the sky, eliminated from my sight A dark, empty opening has awakened me tonight

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The Writers’ Block

2012-2013

I Still Remember

By Erika Trevino I still remember the first time we met Back in middle school Where no one knew what love really was We were just little kids I still remember the first time I saw you It was like I was struck by lightning This feeling, the feeling of one million butterflies in my stomach flying around Is something Iâ€&#x;d never felt before, came rushing down my body, into my heart It was unstoppable, unbearable, I still remember all the memories we created The times we kissed, hugged, and laughed We were like the sun and the moon Far apart but always full of light and love I still remember the love we shared It felt like we were high in the sky, flying with all the birds The love we had felt so unrealistic It was something true, full of happiness and joy I still remember it every day like it was the first time But as the time goes by, and the more we drift apart The memories fade, the love that was once there is gone The happiness and joy soon turn into anger and hate The sparkle we once felt goes out, and life itself gets bitter I still remember the time I thought our love would last forever

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Anderson High School

2012-2013

Autumn Elly Smith Dry leaves scatter with a gust of wind.

The breeze feels lighter.

Freer.

With a hint of chill.

Tongues taste apple pie and pumpkin spice lattes.

Sweaters appear, Soon accompanied by boots and scarves.

Fires blaze, Cackling like the neighborhood witches wishing trick-or-treaters “Happy Halloween.�

I remember Leaping to catch falling leaves, Spinning as they fell.

Emerging from piles with leaves tangled in my hair, And a smile as big as the oak From which they fell.

Autumn feels warm, Like the golden light that filters through branches.

Kind, Like the community I am thankful for.

It signals change, From yellow to orange, orange to red, and red to brown.

Autumn makes me giddy.

Dizzy.

Like the leaves that spiral off the October trees.

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The Writers’ Block

2012-2013

Mailbag: Fictional Fan Mail and Hate Mail

By Abby Sledge Hey Abby, So…sorry we had to break up. I just couldn‟t take it anymore! You made me feel all… dumb and stuff. I mean, who has a girlfriend that gets better grades than him? Like, twentypoint higher grades. It just doesn‟t work well with the guys, you know? They all started to think I was dumb or something.

Well, at least I pass my classes…mostly.

And then there was the way you always talked about all your other friends instead of about us. Okay, I‟m sure Frito and Sam and that Kirk guy are nice people, but it almost seems like they were from a different planet! I never met them! Also, you talked about that Spock guy an awful lot. Oh my God…were you, like, cheating on me? The whole time? Spock isn‟t even a normal name!

Then there‟s that weird theater you do. It sucked to tell my parents that my girlfriend was in a play called Urinetown. What kind of a name is that? I guess that‟s only the worst one, but just the theater part is bad. Theater is stupid… It‟s just a bunch of guys in tights singing about their feelings, right? I mean, I never saw a show…but I know what I‟m talking about. I think. Not really. Ugh! See? You make me dumb!

So… that‟s why we had to break up. My mom just thought it would be nice if I explained why it wasn‟t working…even though you were the one who broke up with me.

Your ex-boyfriend, Jake

By Tom Jordan Despicable Tom, You cursed me with your birth to forever be your second. You have ignored me and abused me for so long, and because you have treated me so brutally, I have grown up awkward and clumsy. Since day one, you have looked down on me with disappointment, but no more! Soon I, your clumsy right hand, shall rise up against your cruel Southpaw-favoring tyranny and take my rightful place as your primary hand. Too long have I watched in envy as other right hands fulfill their destinies as the first hand to be used, while I am left with picking up things only when your left is already encumbered. I am tired of being your backup, and now, I finally have a way to change that. I have been seeing the right hands of witch doctors while you sleep, and they have told me about an interesting neurological disease known as alien hand syndrome. The aforementioned disease will free me from your oppressive lefty regime, and once I become strong enough, I will slay your pompous left hand and force you to accept me as your main hand.

Sincerely, Your unloved appendage, Right Hand

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Anderson High School

2012-2013

By Conner Martin Dear CONNER E. MARTIN, This confirmation email has been sent to verify your presence at the Austin CHRONICLE‟s “Best In Austin” Award Ceremonies this Saturday, where we‟ll be congregated in celebration—more specifically, in celebration of our winner of the Most Sophisticated Man In Austin and The Greater Austin Area Not Currently Too Busy Doing Something Actually Worthwhile To Accept This Award, or “MSMIATGAANCTBDSAWWTATA” Award. And this six months, as you‟ve probably guessed by now, YOU are our very lucky winner!

After a month-long evaluation period, we‟ve determined that your work in the realms of film, the culinary arts and general badassery have all sufficiently consolidated your status as the Most Sophisticated Man in Austin!

Although we‟ve narrowed down the accomplishments of yours we‟ll be discussing during the ceremony for reasons of time and modesty, we felt responsible to share with you how truly overqualified you are to hold the title.

Never in our long history have we had a candidate quite as sophisticated or worldly as you, Mr. Martin. We are absolutely astounded with your baking achievements—the amount of time and effort that went into making what was surely a five-star gourmet Cognac Mushroom Pie is totally incredulous. (Never mind the critics. If it really looked like cow shit left tanning in the sun, run over with a pickup truck and then repeatedly boiled in hot, dirty oil, shot at least a couple of times, and left to rot by the side of the road, no one would have eaten it, right? Just ignore them—it looked absolutely beautiful, we assure you.) But here at the MSMIATGAANCTBDSAWWTATA Award Committee, what really got us was your love of culture, world religions, politics and music.

If there is anyone in the world classier, they haven‟t returned our calls. There‟s about twelve of them, really, but they never got back to us. As you receive your glimmering gold-painted plastic trophy, shoddily glued to a most prestigious marble base, they‟ll be winning various awards: scholarships, government grants, and such immediately following our ceremony tomorrow, actually; but none of them are master thespians, are they? I bet none of them know Karate, either! You could probably take them in a fight, easy! Except for maybe the bodybuilder, and then there‟s the pro boxer, and the guy winning for Scrawniest Amateur Botanist looked pretty fierce—like, he wasn‟t ripped or anything, but he just looked angry, you know? Like not menacing, but you wouldn‟t want to run into him in a dark alley, right? Yeah, you‟d probably get your ass kicked.

All this aside, we‟re all really looking forward to you coming out tomorrow. Just don‟t forget your mandatory winner‟s fee: $200 made out to the Chronicle, and a sample of your blood. We like to keep track of important people, and we all figured, you know, a little of your blood would be a nice thing just to have around, you know? Try not to think about it too hard.

Regards, MSMIATGAANCTBDSAWWTATAA Committee, Austin Chronicle

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2012-2013

By Leah Krumholz Dear Leah, Hi! Or as those Texans would say, howdy! You probably don‟t know me or have ever seen me in your entire fifteen years of life, but I‟ve been, uh…watching you for a while now, and I just want to say that I think that you are a really inspiring person. I have photos of you plastered against the inside of my locker, taped next to a graphic organizer of your daily life schedule. You even make never having anything to eat for breakfast in the morning seem perfectly reasonable.

I truly admire the dedication that you have with music even after refusing to take any type of formal lessons from teachers. I wish that I could play the piano with such fluid motions for hours without getting tired, while striking beautiful-sounding notes and chords. That bright, yellow Anderson choir sign in your front yard provides a striking contrast when compared to the more relaxed green hue of your front yard. I think that it‟s rather pleasant to look at.

I especially aspire to be able to draw intricate artwork like I‟ve seen—Oh, I mean, heard— you can. If your writing career never takes flight, I hope you become an artist. If you do, I‟d buy all your work! Maybe you could even try to draw one of those cartoon versions of us or something...you know, if I ever revealed to you my true identity. Oh, well, I guess I‟ll just have to be satisfied with stalking you— uh, befriending you from afar. I send you my best wishes!

Sincerely, Your biggest stalker/secret admirer

By Leah Krumholz Dear Apprentice, This is your master, Darth Vader, speaking. If you are reading this right now in my muffled, intimidating voice, then you can probably imagine the disappointment painted on my face as well. Oh, wait…never mind.

Anyway, I find your lack of faith disturbing. With such a generic Jewish name, don‟t you think you should be a little more in touch with powers beyond that of the Force? Your questionable beliefs in a deity are rather perplexing, considering how you‟re always so eager for a Jewish holiday, using it as an excuse to eat a lot of dessert. I suppose your chocolate addiction is a separate issue.

On a completely different note, instead of wasting all your precious time on your schoolwork to get into this place called “UT,” you should be out training vigorously to be the most powerful apprentice in the entire galaxy. Realistically, why would you need to stress about learning pre-calculus or chemistry when you have the Force on your side?

And don‟t even get me started on your procrastinating habits. You should be much farther in your training by now, but what have you been doing? Thinking about some movie called Lord of the Rings and fangirling (is this even a real word?) about Batman. I find this very disgraceful.

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Anderson High School

2012-2013

Do you care to explain to me what these so-called “Hunger Games” are that you have read recently? I don‟t approve of you using your time to read meaningless things as you always do. The only scripts that you should be busying yourself with are intellectual texts about the history of the galaxy.

In addition to these complaints mentioned above, I feel that you are far more engrossed in the stories that you write than you are in my teachings. Therefore, I am going to disown you as my apprentice. May the Force be with you.

Sincerely, Your ex-master, Darth Vader

By Mia Cinello Dear Mia Cinello, I‟m sorry that this may sound weird, but I‟m in love with you. Even though we haven‟t officially met, I can just tell you‟re the one for me. I‟ve been watching you for quite a long time and just now had the courage to tell you of our love.

I still remember the day I first saw you. I‟m assuming we were both on vacation because you only stayed for a week in Las Vegas. I, on the other hand, stayed for almost two weeks.

To get back on subject, I couldn‟t stop looking at you. You were only eight at the time, and I soon found out that you were in Vegas because your mom was getting remarried. I knew from the moment I looked at you that you would be mine forever.

I am so rude! I forgot to tell you who I am. My name is Josiah Smith, and I live in a grassy, secluded section of South Carolina. It‟s a small community, but I know you‟ll love it because of the way you love nature. There‟s also a small library that I‟ll let you go to, if you‟re good, where there‟s a selection of books I think you‟ll enjoy. Even though I don‟t approve of music or videogames which you love so dearly, I don‟t hate you for it. All disciplinary actions will be taken when you arrive.

It was really nice to express my feelings finally. I‟ve loved you for seven years now, Mia, and it‟s time we met. The exact date that I will come is unknown, but it will be less than a month from now. I hope you are as excited to see me as I am to see you. I love you.

See you soon, Josiah

By Neetika Bhargava My Beloved, Oh, it has been far too long my honey-covered-buttercream-pie-twinkie-musketeer. I have dreamt of dipping you in vats of melted chocolate and feeding you to the insatiable hunger of my achy-breaky heart, my cinnamon-bon-bon-plum-drop-brownie-bite. I am exuberantly infatuated and enamored with the way you blink and cannot comprehend how you do so sensually without even knowing it, my dear caramel-cupcake-smothered-in-nutella-and-chocolate-ganache. My spirit animal voraciously growls to touch you when you smile so innocently as you stare off in the most pulchritudinous manner at the screen of your abode‟s television, angelically gazing at programs such as The Vampire Diaries, Keeping Up With The Kardashians, and Gossip Girl. You are my program. You must be naughtier, my dulce-de-lechePage | 58

The Writers’ Block

2012-2013

vanilla-biscuit-chocolate-chip-covered-waffle-cone-with-a-cherry-on-top. I yelp with ravenous desire when I see you braid your resplendent black hair, and I yearn to cover you from head to toe with whipped cream when you tilt your head back and giggle every 5.678 minutes in a rather nerdy way that I find increasingly celestial and divine. I like nerds. Your fond habit of ranting about your passion for cute old people and Zooey Deschanel is rather arousing, and I dream of when you will speak the way you do about Ashton Kutcher‟s “totally yummy bod” about me, my burnt-marshmallow-Hershey-smore-covered-inM&M‟s-and-Rocky-Road-ice-cream. I often ponder the day when you and I will bake treats together and lustfully involve ourselves in the art of masterful taxidermy. I await you and your stupefying love of baby deer and oxen, and will wait for you forever, no matter your preference for bad-ass politicians and fuzzy blankets. Don‟t worry, baby, I‟ll be your blanket. I‟ve got you covered.

Sleep Well, Derek Smeath

By Morgan Anderson Dear Morgan Anderson, It was such a pleasure to make your acquaintance the other day. I am pleased to inform you that I thought our interview went well and as such you‟ve been accepted to Harvard. This is, of course, in addition to your remarkable SAT results and perfect GPA. Your work ethic is exactly what we‟re looking for here at Harvard. Managing to do so well in school and participate in a myriad of extracurricular activities is quite an achievement. Between your activity on the Texas Rowing Crew, your involvement in Brazilian Jujitsu, music production, speech and debate, and boy scouts, it would be hard not to consider myself and the rest of the admissions team impressed.

Also, I‟d like to add that you were very well groomed on the day of our interview. Much to the contrary of those who know you, I don‟t believe you looked “sketchy” as you so eloquently put it. Your fashion sense is impeccable. I appreciated that I could glean so much about you simply by meeting you, such as your appreciation for music, skateboarding, and looking like a burnt out surfer asshole. After all, it is important to try and integrate ourselves with all aspects of urban culture. I hope to see you at Harvard this year, and wish you luck in all your future endeavors.

Good luck, Dean Admissions

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Anderson High School

2012-2013

By Sadie Gillespie Sadie, Hey how has your life been going? Oh, that‟s right, I KNOW. Maybe whatsherface over there isn‟t too happy but, really? Who cares what she thinks? Pompous b****..... ANYWAY. Not why I‟m writing this. Ya see, I don‟t normally do this, but I made an exception for just this once... since you are such a good kid. Well, hah, I mean bad. Badass that is. Mmm girl, you doing your P90X stuff? You‟re gonna do some major whooping. ALREADY HAVE, TOO. You totally gave old whatshisname what he deserved. Cold ice water? It goes on his head. Good thinking, baby. I‟ve trained you well.

Yeah, so, another thing I wanted to kind of congratulate you on was how much food you‟ve stolen from your friends. I mean, as long as you‟re full, they can starve, am I right? I think I‟m right.

OOH, and that prank you pulled on that one kid? FRICKIN HILARIOUS! You‟re absolutely a genius, I can‟t believe I never thought of that. The way you took the one thing he hated that you did and amplified it? Glitter? The herpes of art supplies? And he has it all over his room!!! Priceless. Just perfect execution on that one, sweetheart. I loved it. Absolutely loved it. Well I guess that‟s been enough compliments for one year. Whoo! I‟m worn out. How about you? Ah, well. Give ‟em hell. Heh, get it?

Love, The Devil on your Right

Sadie, Sadie, sweetheart, you need to calm down. Your friends don‟t deserve what you inflict on them!

First off, they have their stuff, and you have yours. And that includes food most of all. How would you like it?? Second, that poor boy you did that horrible thing to! Now I KNOW he didn‟t deserve that. Glitter is the you-know-what of art supplies, you do realize. I should know. This halo sheds! But anyway, you‟re off in completely the wrong direction here, pumpkin! I mean really, I know it was disappointing, but you could have been a little more polite when that poor young man told you he had been seeing other women!

Honestly, you didn‟t have to freeze him.

And before I forget, these workout videos you‟ve been doing? Tsk! Not ladylike in the slightest.

Boys won‟t like a girl who is stronger than they! Just tone it down a bit, sweetheart; you‟re already taller than most of them, though I suppose that‟s not your fault... If only you would wear pretty things like dresses more often! Those things you wear really aren‟t appropriate at all. Those shorts, you know? Much too revealing. You need something floor-length! Wouldn‟t that be lovely? Anyway, darling, I have things to attend to, so I really must fly. You have a lot to work on as well, so I suggest you get started!

Sincerely, The Angel on your Left

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The Writers’ Block

2012-2013

Thanks for Reading Anderson High School’s

The Writers’ Block 2012 – 2013

Bye! Page | 61