The Writers' Block 2011 by The Writers' Block: Anderson High School Literary Magazine

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011

The

Writers’ Block Selections from 2010 – 2011

A collection of rather amazing literary creations from the students of Anderson High School

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011

The

Writers’ Block Dear Readers, Congratulations for having the insight to realize that this here magazine is well worth your hard-earned money, and will soon be the best thing you have ever read. Even though your life up until this point has been an utter disappointment, you are not destined to dwell in melancholic angst. Your life is about to change. The power of the toner spat upon this paper—not to mention the ideas which inspired the little black lines to be printed in the patterns you see before you—is about to transform your deepest foundational beliefs and cause the neurons in your brain to bustle with ecstatic vitality. If you don’t currently tweet, you will want to log on and create an account with a name such as WRITERSBLOCKISGOD or something equally laudatory, so that you can shout your praise for this edition of The Writers’ Block from here to the heavens. This is the third year I have been fortunate enough to teach the creative writers at Anderson High School. I am thrilled once again to share their work with you. Since this is a high school publication intended for young adults and adults, 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 readers— otherwise they could turn out to be as strange as the writers contained within these pages. My heartfelt thanks goes out to those who have supported and made this collection possible: our principal, Donna Houser; the teachers of the English Department, especially Nikki Northcutt and Heather Schulman; student editors Jen Barras, Aaron Davis, Camille Currey, Jasmine Gulick; the Writers’ Club of Anderson HS; Creative Writing students past and present; Crissie Ballard; and the people I’m forgetting.

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

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011

TABLE OF CONTENTS Author

Title

Page

Various Students

Why Creative Writing?

Evie Ladyman

Big

Kailey Davis

Cousins

Jake Horak

Whoo Are You?

Katie Shultz

The House on Lovage Drive

Samuel Chapman

The End of Oakmont

Kailey Davis

Promise Me

Mark Carrion

The Heat of the Moment

David BLT Russell

The Hospital

Anne Urban

Intolerance

Henry Graham

Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World Review

Jackson Ng

The Bet

Gerard Arden

The Dubstep Discovery

Hanna Tyson

Limbs & Branches

Glenna Nelson

Wolf

Anne Urban

Say It

Bell Nasamran

Play Me, I’m Yours

Anna Krouse

Drawn

Amber Baade

The Interview You Wish Your

Interview Could Smell Like Elizabeth McLean

Sunrise

Maddie Fisher

The New/Old Girlfriend

Nahome Teshome

Goodbye, My Love

Rachel Douglas

Marriage Counseling is So My Thing

Samantha DeLine

The Dress

Ilan Buzzetti

On a Nice Afternoon Stroll

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Hanna Tyson

Puppets

Kendra Smith

Déjà Vu

Mellisa Chen

Of Darkness, Of Light

Lauren McNamara

Break Down

Aaron Davis

The Archangel’s Gift

Jen Barras

Moma Marie

Hanna Tyson

Clocking

Sarah Panico

The Rules

Jasmine Gulick

Whisper

Samuel Chapman

History: A Book Review

Let the good times in this year‘s Writers‘ Block begin with this Demotivator by Henry Graham:

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Why are YOU in Creative Writing? Anne Urban Why am I here…? Well, that‘s a pretty good question. First of all, let‘s be honest. This class is taught by Mr. Farr. This class is where there other classes come for sing-alongs. This is the fun class. Honestly, I‘m here because high school is high school and you‘ve got to express yourself in one way or another. And I don‘t think tattoos, piercings, or political t-shirts are really my thing. The whole high school experience is like a car wash. You get stuck on the little rolling things that pull you through the crazy bubbles, the really hard-spraying, sting-your-eyes soap streams, the hot wax, and finally the more relaxing rinse cycle. You‘re really excited at the beginning to see the little bubbles being sprayed at the window; by the middle of the wash cycle, the soap has covered your windows and it‘s starting to remind you of that scary movie where they‘re in a car wash and they look in a back seat only to find an axe murderer and they can‘t escape; and by the end you‘re starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel, and you‘re finished—all shiny, clean, and perfect. At the end you are the graduate. Yeah, too bad I‘m not there yet. I‘m the girl sitting in her car with the movie-perfect, just-saw-a-creepy-man-with-anaxe-in-my-back-seat scream. And some days it just starts to feel like that stranger has got the knife up next to my neck and is mumbling algebra problems and vocabulary words in my head just to make my death a little more painful. And then I realize that these metaphorical axe murderers whispering exotic languages into our ears as we drown in soap are OUR TEACHERS. These are the people who ARE OUR TEACHERS. Just kidding… No really, I am! So far I‘ve actually enjoyed Anderson High School. And the teachers are really neat. I‘m actually quite good friends with some of them and I will openly admit that the theater and practice rooms are my safe spots. I guess what I mean to say is—creative writing class is an emergency exit for when things get to be too much in teenage life. This is a class that a person can come to and write about anything she wants to without being judged, rejected, over-analyzed, categorized, and all that fun stuff that comes with high school. I guess it‘s about time to add this class to my safe spot list. William Parsley I joined Creative Writing this year because I want to be a writer when I get older and will need money to buy food. I feel like this is a good way for me to work out my writing chops so that when I start writing (in order to make money to buy food) I won‘t have to stoop to an office job to make up the difference. It‘s also because I actually enjoy the writing process. Though I get bored easily with long projects, I can usually muster up the attention span to write well-sized short stories. And though I do enjoy the actual creation of a story with words, the part that I enjoy most is the expression of the ideas I am trying to articulate. The excitement of storytelling is the ability for me to get what I am trying to say across with a format and style of my choosing. Ultimately, my goal is to get published—maybe not soon, but at some point in my life. I feel like it would be a waste of my time not to publish something. Sometimes I word things in an awkward manner, or make my writing hard to read by using long and pompous words. Also, did you notice that I used the word ―word‖ twice in that sentence and it got repetitive and unpleasant for the reader? I sure did. It was sort of unavoidable though. 4

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Sarah Paulos First, I want to say that I‘m rather excited about this class. My enthusiasm knows no bounds (except in cases of sleep deprivation, or cases in which I might be called upon to speak in front of people, or cases in which I am forced to submit my writing for review by my peers, also known as total random strangers). I‘m in this class because I want to be in a group of people who really care about writing, being taught by someone who really knows about writing. I‘m a big fan of Mr. Farr‘s ―rainbow clouds being nuzzled by unicorns‖ idea—the vision he has for the class‘s atmosphere. I‘m also in this class because I just like writing. A fish swims, and a writer writes, right? Now if only I could learn to work all 365 days of the year instead of when that stupid elusive muse decides to work for me. Then I‘d actually get somewhere. Until then, I have to just take every chance I can find to see if there‘s some way I can improve, or some new method that‘s worth giving a try. Jennifer Finney I‘ve enjoyed writing ever since I was in the second grade. I remember myself making up all kinds of stories just for fun. I thought that I was going to get them published and become the first second grader to be an author (needless to say, things didn‘t exactly work out that way). I‘ve got a lot bottled up inside me, a lot of images and places that only exist inside my mind. I want to be able to let those things flow out onto the paper. Hopefully, people will get a better understanding of me, and that‘s another thing. I think creative writing is about learning more about yourself and other people through writing. Lawrence Martinez Writing over the years has become an escape for me. It allows me to sort through the mess of my thoughts to make sense of things. I write because it allows me to express myself in a way that my own spoken words sometimes fail to convey. Though I may not be the best public speaker, I know that my ability to write can get me out of or into any situation. With explosive ideas and honest assessments, I strive to give each verse, each line, each sentence a piece of life and a little truth. I can make reality a dream and a fairytale a tragedy. I write because my heart tells me to. I write to be heard. I write to be understood. I write because I was born an author. I write because I have a story to tell. I write because I was written.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Big By Evie Ladyman This is my story. It is about a Polar Bear. The Polar Bear‘s name was Big. This is because he was a Big Bear. He would come down out of the sky and take me flying over the big hills and the big trees. He was the only Polar Bear in the whole wide world that could fly. My Mommy says he never did this, I only dreamed it, but I know he did because I remember it. I remember that he would come in my window, he only just fit, he was so big. He would say, ―Do you want to come soaring across oceans and valleys and see the Pink Forest with me?‖ And I would say ―Yes.‖ So he would pick me up by his teeth, just my pajamas so it didn‘t hurt, and he would put me on his big furry back so I could just see over his ears. And then he would jump out the window, which he would make Magic so I could fit out too, without bumping my head. And then we would fly. *** One day, because it‘s always daytime in the Pink Forest, we were sitting under a fluffy tree. Big looked lonely, so I asked him if he was sad. ―Yes, child, I am sad,‖ he said. ―Why are you sad?‖ I asked. ―Is it because you ate too many fruits from the Pink Tree?‖ Big always ate many more fruits than I did. He could eat the fruits off a whole tree. Maybe that was why he was sad. ―No, it is not because I ate too many fruits.‖ ―Is it because you‘re tired from flying all the way over here from my window?‖ It was a very long way from my bedroom, across lots of waters and grasses and trees. Maybe that was why he was sad. ―No, it is not because I am tired.‖ ―Then why are you sad?‖ ―I am sad because I am lonely.‖ Big had a big sigh. It made his fur poof out and made a big whoosh that whooshed the leaves on all the Pink Trees. He sighed his big sigh. ―But why are you lonely, Big? You have me here! I‘ll sit with you so you can be happy again.‖ We sat some. After a bit, Big sighed again, whooshing all the leaves. ―I am not lonely because I am alone. I am lonely because I am the only polar bear in all of this world.‖ I thought about this for a minute. ―But you can‘t be the only bear. I‘ve seen other ones, at the zoo. They were big and white, too, but not as big. Only mostly as big.‖ Big shook his head, still sad. ―But those bears are not the same as I am. They turn away when I speak to them.‖ He looked at me, and his eyes were all sad, too, like the rest of him. Big and sad. ―There is a place where there are other bears, bears that are like I am. But I do not know how to get there.‖ ―Oh, Big! We should go find that place! I will help you find it, because you showed me how to get the fruits off the Pink Trees and because I love you.‖ Big smiled, and I think it was the first time I ever seen him smile in a very long time. ―I would like that,‖ he said. I smiled back. *** ―Honey, do you want to go to the park after lunch?‖ 6

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 I shaked my head. ―No, Mommy, I‘m busy making maps.‖ Mommy was always trying to make me go to the park, but there were scary fuzzy squirrels there. They stole my ice cream stick once. I was gonna use it to dig a house for the ants but they stole it when I was playing on the swings. Mommy sighed, but her sigh wasn‘t as whooshy as Big‘s. ―Sam, you‘ve been making maps all day. Don‘t you want to play outside some?‖ ―No! I‘ve gotta find Bear Land!‖ I kept telling her and telling her, but she didn‘t understand. Big needed his home, and I needed to find it for him. ―How about you make a map to the park instead?‖ asked Mommy. ―Then we can go find the playground.‖ I shaked my head at her again. ―But I need to help Big! He‘s lost and he needs to go home.‖ I put my sandwich back on my Thomas the Tank Engine plate. I ran real quick to my Coloring Table, so I could make more maps and maybe make the right one this time. I made a lot of maps, but I had to get rid of the ones I forgot to draw on the paper ‘cause Mommy doesn‘t like it when I color on the table. I colored and colored till my blue crayon ran out, and then I got a new box of crayons and colored some more. *** I bounced up and down on my bed, excited, ‘cause I had a map. A special map. The map to Bear Land! I couldn‘t wait till Big got here and I could show it to him. Then he could go back to the other bears, and he would be happy again! I‘d been making maps for a long, long time, but they always went someplace else. None of them went to Bear Land. They all went to places like Outer Space and Jellyfish Island and Mrs. Sandy, who I visited before and she was nice. She gave me candy shaped like hearts that changed colors when you sucked on them for lots of minutes and then she let me play with a stuffed puppy. But then I had a good idea! Of course we couldn‘t get to Bear Land from my house, ‘cause that‘s where we got to the Pink Forest from. We had to start at the Pink Forest and then go to Bear Land. So I drew some Pink Trees with my pink crayon, and then I drew a big mountain, but that wasn‘t right, so I drew some orange grasses in between, which made it right again. Then came a really really tall river, which was so tall it fell off the edge, like the ones I saw in the pictures at Mrs. Sandy‘s house. Only it wasn‘t just like them, ‘cause it also had skittles in it, the ones with the funny colors on the inside that taste like shampoo, only good. And then came Bear Land! Only then I thought a bad thought. What if Big wanted to stay in Bear Land? What if I wasn‘t allowed inside? Then I wouldn‘t be Big‘s friend anymore, ‘cause he would be all the way over in Bear Land and I would be all alone over here, on my bed. I had to do something, fast. I had to hide the map! Quick quick, I ripped it in half and put it behind my Lego spaceship. Now Big couldn‘t leave for forever. Then my window went all wobbly, and Big squeezed through like always. He sat on my floor and looked at me. Then he said, ―Have you found my home yet, child?‖ My heart went all thuddy and I hurt in my tummy. ―No, I don‘t know where it is,‖ I said, even though I was lying, which was a bad thing so I didn‘t want to think about it. ―I don‘t think I can. Maybe you should stay here. Mommy can make you lots of sandwiches and oatmeal with raisins, and you can play with my toys.‖

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Big frowned. ―I do not wish to eat sandwiches and oatmeal with raisins,‖ he said. ―I wish to find the bears.‖ Oh no, Big. Oh no, are you going to go away and leave me? Don‘t you want to stay here with me? ―But Big, don‘t you want to play with my toys? We can take them to the Pink Forest and play Let‘s Go Fishing in a Pink Tree.‖ Big thought some. Then he said, ―All right, let us go play the fishing game. I know that you are coloring lots of maps for me, and you will color the right one soon. For now, we shall have fun.‖ Then I picked up my Let‘s Go Fishing game, and we flied over the waters and grasses and trees to the Pink Forest. When we got there, I climbed all the way to the top of the tallest Pink Tree so we could play Fishing. Big tried to climb up too, but one branch he climbed on went CRACK and fell to the ground. So we decided to play on the grass. After a little bit, I wasn‘t having fun. My tummy was still squeamy from ripping Big‘s map. I put my little red stick into a fish‘s mouth and pulled it out of the spinny board. ―Ha, see, I caught a fish!‖ I said, ‘cause then maybe Big wouldn‘t see that anything was wrong. Big smiled a little bit. ―Well done, child,‖ he said. He still hadn‘t caught any fishes, probly ‘cause his paw was too big for his little yellow stick. He kept dropping all the fishes he caught, so they didn‘t count. But that only made me feel worse. I put my stick down and put my arms around my tummy. Now my eyes were feeling sad, too. ―What is wrong?‖ asked Big. ―My tummy hurts,‖ I told him. Big looked at my sad eyes for a long time and sniffed my tummy with his big sniffy nose, then he picked me up real careful and put me on his back and we flied to my room. He sniffed on my pajamas again. ―Get some rest, child. Rest helps clear your head.‖ Then he left. *** Mommy said, ―If you could come over that would be great, Sandy. He‘s been in bed all day today. I‘m concerned.‖ ―Mommy?‖ ―Oh, he‘s out of bed. Talk to you later.‖ I stood on my very tallest toes so I could see up on the counter. There was lots of fruits and some milk. ―Mommy? Whatcha doing?‖ Mommy reached down and felt the top of my face. ―I‘m making you a smoothie.‖ She pulled open a kitchen drawer and took out a knife and started chopping up a banana. ―Do you want strawberries or blueberries in it?‖ I scrunched my shoulders up real tall and then back down again, like Mommy when she doesn‘t know. I didn‘t like blueberries, ‘cause they were all funny and pointy on top, but they wouldn‘t be pointy in a smoothie. Mommy put in some strawberries and blueberries. They made ploppy noises when they fell in. ―I‘m about to turn the blender on,‖ Mommy warned. I ran to the table on the way other side of the room, ‘cause I don‘t like the blender. It makes whirry screamy noises that hurts my ears. The blender screamed at me, and then Mommy poured the smoothies into my special cups that change colors when they‘re cold, only green and purple. ―How are you feeling now?‖ 8

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 I slurped on my smoothie, ‘cause I didn‘t know. I was still sick inside from the map. ―Do you want Mrs. Sandy to come visit you today? She‘s been asking about you. I told her you were sick.‖ I went boing in my seat, ‘cause Mrs. Sandy was coming! Maybe she would bring her stuffed puppy. Or maybe a hat, ‘cause she did lots of hats for me with stripes and puffies on top. They felt like sheep on my ears, all soft and fluffy. The front door made a buzzy noise. ―Oh, she‘s here,‖ said Mommy. She got up and walked quick to the door. ―I‘m coming,‖ she called. She pulled the door open and smiled at Mrs. Sandy. ―Mrs. Sandy!‖ I runned up to her and hugged her legs real tight. ―I heard you weren‘t well, child, so I brought you a present.‖ Mrs. Sandy reached into the flowerdey bag she keeps her yarn and other hat stuff in and pulled out a small hippo with a hole going all the way down his big mouth and out his tail. ―This is a Get-Well Hippo,‖ she told me. She slid the hippo onto my straw. ―Now you‘ll get better.‖ I grinned happy at her, ‘cause now I could get better. She smiled back. But then I remembered how sad Big was, and I got sad too. ―I‘ll try,‖ I told her. *** Big squeezed himself through my window again, like always. He sniffed at me and said, ―Are you feeling better, child?‖ I shook my head. ―I didn‘t make any maps today,‖ I told him. ―That‘s all right. I know you are not well.‖ I twisted around my rocket ship pajamas. ―I don‘t want you to go, Big.‖ Big looked sad at me like before. ―I don‘t want to leave you, either. But I must go to the other bears.‖ My stomach did a twist like my pajamas. Then I couldn‘t keep it in anymore. ―Big, I have a Secret. I had your map. But I didn‘t want you to go, so I ripped it.‖ My eyes went wet, and then spilled on my face. I was afraid Big would be angry at me, and he would leave for forever and never come back. Maybe he wouldn‘t want to talk to me, and then he wouldn‘t even say goodbye. Something big and warm and furry went on my head. I looked up, and Big looked back at me. ―Do not cry, child.‖ But he looked sad too, and took his paw off my head. I went over to my Lego spaceship and picked up the pieces of his map. ―Here, Big,‖ I said. ―I don‘t know how to fix it.‖ Big took the pieces of map from me. Then he smiled a little. ―Child, this is not broken,‖ he said. ―Only torn. It can be fixed.‖ Then he made Magic, and the pieces of map did what he told them to and zoomed together into only one map. Big looked at me again. ―Would you like to come with me to Bear Land?‖ he asked. I nodded. So he picked me up by the back of my pajamas and put me on his back. Then he made the window Magic so I wouldn‘t bump my head and we flied out. We flied over waters and grasses and trees to the Pink Forest. Then we flied over that, over orange grasses and a big mountain and the big tall falling river with skittles. And then we were at Bear Land. Big landed on the edge of the forest of Bear Land. There were bears everywhere: brown bears and black bears and white bears like Big. ―Would you like to come inside with me?‖ Big asked. 9

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 ―Yes!‖ I said, happy. Big looked straight at me. ―But you cannot just walk inside,‖ he warned me. ―You must be a bear to be inside Bear Land. Now, I can make you a bear, with my Magic. But then you can‘t go back to your home. You need to decide.‖ I sat down on the orange grass and thought about it hard. I thought about Big and the games we played and the fruits we ate and about being a bear. And I thought about Mommy, and the pictures we colored and the smoothies she made and the park and Mrs. Sandy with all her hats and my Get-Well Hippo. And I almost wished that the map was still torn. ―I can‘t be a bear,‖ I finally told Big. ―I have to go home.‖ And I gave Big a big hug around his neck and he hugged me back and pulled me into his fur. ―Goodbye, child,‖ he said. ―Goodbye, Big. I love you for forever and ever.‖ Then I flied back home, over all the grasses and rivers and mountains and trees, back into my window. And then Mommy came into my room to feel the top of my face and she gave me a smoothie and a kiss. Maybe tomorrow we can go to the park.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Cousins By Kailey Davis The door thudded shut. Will and I exchanged glances of relief. ―At last, all the annoying relatives gone,‖ I sighed. ―Only the real cousins are left,‖ he agreed. Both of us flopped on the couches and cradled pillows to our chests, him sprawled so as to take up the most room possible, and me propping myself up against the arm of the couch with my chin resting on the pillow. The real cousins. It‘s funny how we consider ourselves as the only two real cousins. We live 2 minutes away from each other. We‘ve gone to the same middle and high school. We see each other for every special occasion—Father‘s Day, anniversary, birthday, welcome home dinner—and those other cousins, those fake ones, only for the big holidays, if those. For Thanksgiving, we set up carpools. For Christmas, there‘s the Christmas Day big party… But it‘s the one on Christmas Eve I look forward to. The dinner where it‘s just us real cousins. We two come from broken families. I never knew my parents, while his were divorced. His dad lived far away, and then died when Will entered high school. His mom was forced to raise him alone on a teacher‘s salary. But he wasn‘t really alone. I was always there, his annoying little female shadow. He hated me back then. Then, somewhere in the muddy years where I still loved him to death but had other things to do than follow him, a switch flipped. He decided he didn‘t want anyone other than himself to pick on me, and in a weird way, it made us closer. He watched out for me. Those other cousins? We were lucky if we got through the day without somebody crying. Those other cousins were the fake ones. They were aliens. They came from a bizarre land filled with expensive trips to Mexico or skiing resorts, strange rules about games that tied into something foreign they called ‗home school,‘ odd foods without meat because the mom was a vegetarian, no added sugar because it was bad for you, no active games because we wouldn‘t go easy so the baby could play, no fun because it violated some rule. ―It‘s weird how the house is so quiet now,‖ I mumbled. He grunted. ―Fina-freakin‘-ly,‖ he grumbled. He buried his face into the pillow and groaned. I chuckled and settled back into the couch, closing my eyes due to the hour and the strain from putting up with the invaders, also known as our other relatives. It‘s nice to know that he‘s real. He‘s my cousin, unlike those other fakers. It makes me feel lighter than a feather knowing that he‘s got my back—and, of course, I have his. Even if the little bastard rats me out for eating the last cookie.

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block 2010 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; 2011 Whoo Are You? An Interview with Mr. Owl from the Tootsie Pop Commercials By Jake Horak Me: Hello, Mr. Owl. Before we get started, I wanted to ask one thing. How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop? Mr. Owl: Hoot. Hoot. Hoot! I haven't completed my research on that yet, but as soon as I find out I will tell you. Me: Back to the commercial real quick: did you mean to disappoint the little boy that just wanted help learning how many licks it took? Because you did eat his Tootsie Pop. Mr. Owl: Knowledge comes at a price. But no, I didn't try to hurt his feelings. I simply wanted to test the experiment, but I lost my patience after three licks. Everyone knows you can't find out how many licks it takes because that kind of willpower doesn't seem to exist. Me: So, how long have you spent on the experiment of the Tootsie Pop and what sorts of problems have you run into? Mr. Owl: Hoot! Hoot! Hoot! I have spent countless hours with some of the top researchers to find out how long it would take to finish a Tootsie Pop and the number of licks required. It's just the Tootsie Pop always wins this never-ending battle due to its amazing flavor. Me: Any other problems that you have run into while researching or doing experiments? Mr. Owl: One time I was in charge of finding out how to split an atom, but I had to fly out for migration at the last minute. I had to leave the experiment to inexperienced researchers that ended up blowing apart the nuclear reactor in Chernobyl. It led to a radiation outbreak in most of Eastern Europe. But it happens. Me: So you would risk making the biggest mistake of your life and harming lots of people, by leaving for warm weather? Mr. Owl: I cannot live in cold weather, so if that means risking a very important project so that I could live, I'm fine with that decision. Yes, it sounds horrible, but I would have frozen to death and the project would have failed either way. Me: Fascinating. Thank you for your time, Mr. Owl. Keep me updated on the Tootsie Pop project. Mr. Owl: Thank you for having me and as soon as I find out about the Tootsie Pops, you will be the first person that I inform.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 The House on Lovage Drive By Katie Shultz ―Daddy got laid off.‖ Mama says that like I know what it means. ―What does that mean?‖ She‘s a good mom, but a lot of her words I don‘t understand. ―It means that Daddy doesn‘t have a job anymore.‖ Her words are tired, and so is her face. What she‘s saying isn‘t good, but I still don‘t know what she‘s trying to tell me. ―Okay,‖ I say cheerily. To make the situation not so heavy. Her head drops forward and she takes a breath. Alex starts crying in the other room. I‘m used to that now; it‘s been two years. But Mama sighs all heavy and tired again and puts her warm hand on my shoulder, like she needs support. ―Katie, sweetie, I know you don‘t really understand, but this makes life a little harder for our family and I need you to help.‖ The air seems tight, closing in and trapping my five-year-old self in a singular moment of hardship. I have never known hardship. All I know is that other people have it better and others have it worse, and I don‘t want to be one of the others who has it worse than anyone else. ―Okay, Mama.‖ This time my voice comes out soft and solemn. I want this conversation to stop so I can go play with the Mermaid Barbie I got for Christmas, but the only way to do that is to respond as if I understand. Mama took me out of private school and I went to a public elementary. I didn‘t mind; my teacher wasn‘t mean anymore, and now I didn‘t have to get up so early. This was me helping and I was okay with it. I wasn‘t okay with not eating out, but that was part of me helping, so I only complained a little. Daddy didn‘t have a job for a while. Then he worked in Phoenix, which is in Arizona, which is two states away from Texas (I had to explain that to the other kids in the class; they didn‘t know where the states were). That meant he was gone a lot and Mama had to take care of two kids by herself, but I don‘t really remember that. Like I said, I only complained a little.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 The End of Oakmont By Sam Chapman The room looks like an afterthought. It‘s as if when they built the house some contractor decided that putting in half an attic here was slightly less expensive than filling it with spackle. We cluster into it because it has a window overlooking the driveway, and we figure it will be nice to yell our goodbyes instead of just copping out and saying them. We take positions, some of us on a bed, most of us on the floor or leaning against the walls, and wait to be eliminated one by one, like lusty teens in a horror movie. Oakmont doesn‘t fold that year. It‘s actually the year afterwards that my middle school closes its doors due to a lack of funds. I learn about it after the fact, from an old friend I run into at Chuy‘s; as we part, I feel wistful and proud. Proud that my school in the church basement— itself as much a scrappy misfit as the students who inhabited it—stood for as long as it had; wistful that it can no longer. I‘m not sad then because Oakmont died for me in that room above our headmistress‘s house after eighth grade. We‘ve congregated here for a celebration of the end—the middle school of the K-12 system is graduating its largest class ever, ten students, and we‘ve had as much of a party as we can afford. It‘s supposed to be happy, but I know I‘m not the only one who‘s not coming back. Things are going to change next year; the geopolitical landscape of Oakmont will be altered. So the atmosphere is more like a drum circle to celebrate the death of the 60s. People‘s moms soon begin arriving as we wait, just like any other day after school, but we know it‘s not. We may see each other again, but we‘ll never again be a unit, facing down the world together. Looking at my friends‘ faces I can see it: our story together is not resolved. As each person is called, they make their way to the two steps that mark the tiny room‘s threshold, and look back at us to acknowledge that here is a whole mountain of things undone and unsaid. They say ―well, bye!‖ or something equally jaunty and incongruous; a minute goes by and then they‘re under the window, and then we‘re yelling, and then they‘re gone. And then it‘s my turn. I pause for way longer than I should, thinking about how to make my exit. I want to spontaneously kiss one of the girls, but I never deduced exactly which one of them had a crush on me. I want to tell the guys that if I can devour life with half the gusto they do I‘ll have lived well. I want tell everyone they‘ve taught me to be an outsider. But we‘re in eighth grade, and eighth-graders don‘t say those things. So I just say bye. And I walk under the window and say hi to my mom, and I turn away as I hear them yelling at me, so they won‘t see me crying the requisite tears.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Promise Me By Kailey Davis I‘m staring at the wood paneling of our living room floor. There is one wall between me and them, so I can hear everything. I‘m sitting in the shadows, knees to my chest, examining the line of light cutting across the floor that is coming from the family room. The room they‘re in. ―Why can‘t you quit?‖ my grandmother cries in frustration. ―I don‘t understand why you need that stuff.‖ She doesn‘t curse, but from way she says stuff, she might as well. I‘m counting the little squares that run from the wall I‘m sitting against to the carpet, wishing that this was a dream. ―Mom, you don‘t understand.‖ ―Obviously not! I don‘t know why you keep your girlfriend around either. She tempts you. If she wasn‘t here, you‘d be sober, and we wouldn‘t even have to talk about this.‖ I‘m standing now, but I‘m not quite sure how I got there. I‘m moving, walking forward, stepping into the light—but I‘m not consciously thinking about this. It‘s like I‘m a separate entity, watching myself walk into the next room. I see everyone go quiet, shocked that I‘m awake. ―What are you doing up?‖ My grandma‘s voice seems too loud this late at night, so I opt not to say anything. Instead, I shrug and sit on an unoccupied chair. There‘s an awkward silence as they all look at me. I can see the red rings around my grandma‘s eyes that she always gets before she cries, see the hard crease in my grandpa‘s forehead from frowning too much, see my uncle‘s defensively crossed arms. I put my hands in my lap and fold them, focusing on the fingernail of my thumb and staring at the edge of my cuticle as though if I stared at it long enough, I‘d be somewhere else when I looked up. ―I heard y‘all fighting,‖ I whispered. My volume was more appropriate for the silence, but it still felt weird to interrupt. ―Oh,‖ Grandma said. As she turned from me to my uncle, she frowned, and it transformed her entire face. Her eyebrows tilted in, creating an angry glint in her eyes and creasing her forehead with tension lines. Her cheeks became even redder, and her shoulders hunched up like she was bracing herself to get into a fistfight. Maybe I should‘ve stayed in my room. ―See? This is affecting everyone. Your filthy habit has to stop!‖ she screeched. ―Promise her. Promise her you‘ll stop drinking. Here, we‘ll get a piece of paper—‖ I definitely should‘ve stayed in my room. ―—and you‘ll sign it. You understand you can‘t break this, right? You‘re swearing to the person you claim to love most in this world, and you‘re swearing to it on paper. Here,‖ she hands my uncle a piece of paper that she wrote his promise on. ―Sign on the line, and then say it to her.‖ This moment is even more surreal than my walk out here. My uncle signs his name, but that doesn‘t mean anything. Not yet. He straightens his body on the couch so he can properly look at me. His eyes lock on mine. I hold my breath. ―I promise you, I‘ll stop drinking alcohol. It isn‘t good for my mind or my body, so for you, I‘ll stop.‖ ―Really?‖ I say breathlessly. 15

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 ―Yes.‖ ―Good.‖ The disbelief that floods my body is enormous, but it can‘t hide the spark of hope that he has created in me. *** These white walls are closing in on me, and the sterile stench makes me want to puke. Everything is so clean, except for the patients, who stink of sickness. I hate hospitals. My grandparents wanted to visit him, despite the fact that all he‘s doing is sleeping. He almost died a few days ago, and that‘s not something you just get over. I sigh and stare out at the parking lot below me. The ICU is on the third floor, so the window of my uncle‘s room is giving me a pretty good view. The colors of the cars shine brilliantly at me, mocking me. They‘re outside in the fresh air, and I‘m cooped up here with the blinding whiteness and sickness and broken promises. My uncle is hooked up to all sorts of machines, some with lights and others that beep and some that do both. He looks so weak and fragile. His intensely tan skin has turned pale, and he looks older than I ever remember. It makes me sick. Of all things, he had to have some kind of breakdown and disappear until he shows up almost dead at the emergency room. I wasn‘t told of all the junk he had in his system, but all of that doesn‘t matter to me. The drugs were just icing on top of his alcohol-cake. ―Are we done?‖ I ask wearily. ―Give your grandma a little more time,‖ my grandpa says gently. I shrug my shoulders and turn back to the cars in the parking lot, examining the curve of the circle drive and the neat rows of cars. ―I‘ll be ready when you are,‖ I mutter. But I know I won‘t be ready. They couldn‘t see past the little boy they had raised, the cute little boy who just made a few mistakes in life. I wasn‘t alive then, so all I‘m left with is this image of a broken man holding a broken promise who doesn‘t care about the pain he causes other people, people like me. They‘re ready to forgive him, but I‘m not sure I‘ll ever be ready. The jerk swore that he‘d stop. I curl up and stare more fixedly at the cars in the parking lot, their brilliant colors blurring as the tears well up. I wish the tears would stop, but that only makes them roll down my cheeks, reminding me that I don‘t have the power to stop them. I don‘t have the power to stop anyone. The effects of all the late nights and the promises and the yelling and fighting and now the regular trips to the hospital crash in on me, making me feel helpless. All these things, and I thought I could make a difference. Maybe if I said something or did something, it would be different. I‘m such a sucker. Maybe I‘ll just close my eyes and see if that works any better at shutting out all the things I can‘t control.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 The Heat of the Moment By Mark Carrion August heat in Texas is the worst, and when your car has an all-black interior—well, you‘re cooking alright. Puns aside, I was driving my sleek sports car around my neighborhood that day, having a grand time. No destination. Sun roof up…or is it open? The button for that feature shares my ambiguous feelings as well, since it just reads ―Roof.‖ Anyway, everything was going great until my path, the road, my Funnel to Destiny, my LIFELINE…led to a stoplight on a hill. Now, let me tell you about driving a standard car. Don‘t do it. It‘s tedious, precise work that seldom leaves room for error, or redemption. You let out the clutch too fast? You stall. Too slow on your left foot there, Dale Earnhardt, Jr.? You stall. You blink too fast or check the dashboard clock? Inevitably, somehow, you will stall. On hills, this problem is magnified. The car starts to slide back, and you have to catch it with your feet moving like paddles against the clutch, brake, and accelerator. Now, I had learned to drive my car only about a couple of months before when this happened, so I was still very ―green,‖ or ―rough around the edges‖ with operating that sucker. I came to a screeching stop on that hill, nervousness coming in through the open sunroof and pouring down me like some relentless rain. I glanced quickly, hopelessly at the red light, begging with my eyes for it to glow green before cars started forming an impatient ant line behind me. This did not happen, and for 37 seconds I watched dejectedly as one by one, all the cars in Northwest Austin pulled up behind me. Scowling, dark faces of drivers through their sunglasses, waiting with base expectation for the light to turn green and the kid in front to go ahead and drive the damned thing up the hill already. The light turned green all of a sudden, so I inhaled sharply and, concentrating all my feeling into my feet, quickly but precisely let out the brake and clutch and…stalled. The car came to a horrifying halt, the radio stopped its chatter, and a dozen lights came up on the dashboard. Hot shame. My face began to burn with the unforeseen glares of the drivers of Northwest Austin. As I reached to turn the key to restart the car, I pictured them behind me, flipping their hands impatiently up from the wheel, shaking their heads, mouths in slight disbelieving smiles that come from finding humor in another‘s unfortunate circumstances. I could hear their voices in my head, thoughts beginning to swim around dizzily: ―What is this kid doing?‖ ―What‘s goin on up there?‖ ―The hell is this about…?‖ My frantic mind unfortunately still retained the thought process to conjure up an image of what I thought was my stereotypical critic. A bald man, in his mid-twenties, wearing hardcore Schwarzenegger-can‘t-break-these Oakley sunglasses with a black jacket and designer jeans and military-grade hiking boots that have probably stomped all over places like Kosovo, Lebanon, Somalia, Iraq, and like, Mongolia or something like that; and he is also wearing a dark, menacing grin and an aggressive personality. He stomps those invader boots against the floor of his BMW M7 Series, probably custom-ordered from the Deutschland itself where his father is the CEO of 17

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 some oil-cranking powerhouse, and the demanding attitude of his family carries down to this moment. I timidly try to restart the car, and the heat and sky and trees and all of the road and cars fall away until it‘s just me, the shifter, pedals, and a thousand eyes and scornful smiles behind me. The rain of shame that pours in through the sunroof comes up as sweat, all over me and making everything too slippery and too difficult. I restart the car and jam on the accelerator, emerging from the middle of a circus arena with mocking smiles, a million by now, following me as I peel out, tires screeching against the pavement to join in the laughter against me. I speed away from that spot, from myself, and I aim to never go back to that stoplight on a hill. Even now, I see myself trapped in my own car, endlessly and hopelessly trying to maneuver my car up that hill. And the August heat mixed with the shame is almost too much.

The Hospital By David BLT Russell Time freezes when you‘re in an upside-down car in midair. Rather than seeing life as a progression of movement, you are temporarily able to see things as a still image, the way that they are actually displayed. The normal human eye cannot perceive this way, but in the right circumstances, a visual image can briefly turn photographic. Air bags. Car seats. A black blur rushing outside the windows. All I saw. When you‘re in a hospital for five days, there‘s not a whole lot to do other than eat jello and contemplate life. Since a healing ruptured small intestine can only handle so much jello, not to mention after the first day it turns from gooey delight to liquefied crap (the jello of course, not the small intestine), one is left with a lot of time to think. Visitors are the absolute best part of being in the hospital. Knowing that someone cares enough about you to go out of their way and set aside time to come visit you in your small white room, and talk to you for hours while you lay in bed, hooked up to an IV with nurses coming in and out to check your blood pressure and heart rate—it‘s absolutely amazing. Over the course of five days, my space transformed from an empty hospital room to one filled with balloons and chocolate and cookies from Tiff‘s Treats (God, those cookies were good). Friends and family, friends of family, and even family of friends came to visit me and see how I was doing. This was excellent for my morale as it left me with no alternative but to post a big smile on my face and say everything was fine and that I was doing great. And you know what I learned? When you keep on smiling and saying everything‘s great, after a while you actually start to believe it. And I did! It started to sink in how lucky I was to have my life after what had happened. Not everybody who flips a car at 120 miles per hour lives. Suddenly my perspective on everything began to change. Liquefied crap began to taste like gooey delight again and then Heaven. I looked at the hospital walls and didn‘t see them as confining, rather as a shell that I would soon hatch from to go immerse myself in the world and life. I was thankful for everything I loved and hated and felt neutral about—like Chinese food, modern mainstream radio, and the color grey, respectively. Life was opportunity. It‘s funny how it can take a near death experience to learn just how awesome life is, and just how much potential I have. It‘s pretty exciting. 18

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Intolerance By Anne Urban ―I mean… yeah, why shouldn‘t they be able to get married? Just because they‘re sexually attracted to the same sex doesn‘t mean they can‘t be in love…‖ I grabbed the bag of pretzels and fell backwards onto the hotel bed. Emily reached into her suitcase and threw my phone charger at me. ―Found it.‖ I untangled myself from the cord. ―Thanks.‖ ―But that‘s not the way God made us.‖ Sarah threw her two cents into the debate. ―Well, what if—‖ She dumped her clothes out onto the other bed and began sorting through them, looking for her pajamas. The shower turned off in the bathroom, which meant Heather would be out here soon to help back me up. I could see where this debate was going. ―Yeah. I just think it‘s wrong.‖ I turned my head and pretended to cough just so I could have the satisfaction of rolling my eyes. ―So you don‘t think they were born homosexual then? You think it‘s a choice?‖ ―I think—‖ ―I mean,‖ I interrupted, trying to avoid creating total conflict, ―if that‘s what you think I don‘t mean to be—‖ ―No, I get it.‖ I shut my mouth. Emily was sitting on the floor, watching the two of us intently. ―I just don‘t think that‘s the way God made people.‖ ―Ahh.‖ Emily‘s face showed it all. She knew how close Sarah and I were, and she had seen how Sarah and I had grown… not apart, but different over the years. While I watched the news, Sarah was a die-hard Glee fan. While I practically existed in jeans and t-shirts, Sarah lived in Anthropologie. While I told her my feelings for my boyfriend of 6 months, she told me high school relationships were nothing to get emotionally invested in. I became somewhat of an advocate for individualism and unique self-expression; Sarah couldn‘t wait to join her sisters at Delta Gamma. Yet, through all of this, we stayed close friends. We were just different. ―What?‖ ―What?‖ ―That face…‖ I have an expressive face, and it had deceived me again. I attempted to laugh it off. ―Sorry, didn‘t mean to make a weird face.‖ I rubbed my hands together and awkwardness rung in the room, almost louder than the hotel room‘s heater. ―So did y‘all see the bachelor the other night?‖ Sarah obviously hadn‘t noticed the tension. She hadn‘t noticed a lot of things. ―No.‖ ―I think Jane is gonna get kicked off.‖ Emily laughed and set into an impression of a ditzy, crying woman. Something felt off. ―Did y‘all hear about what Hosni Mubarak did?‖ It was almost a test…of our friendship. ―Who?‖ Emily asked. ―Never mind…‖ My thoughts were drowned out by meaningless reality show gossip. Something had changed, many things had changed.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World – One of the Best in 2010 By Henry Graham In a decade noted by Hollywood‘s increasing reliance on sequels and reboots, the most original blockbuster a viewer can hope for takes elements from art of the past. Ironically, the most original film I saw last summer was not only composed of things we‘ve seen (also heard and played) before, but felt entirely new in the process: like a delicious salad made from simple leftovers. This film was a stylized action-fantasy-comedy extravaganza called Scott Pilgrim vs. The World. Scott Pilgrim is a six-part graphic novel turned film about a bachelor/slacker in his early twenties. Scott is a bassist for a Canadian indie band called Sex Bob-Omb (yes, as in the Mario enemy), and the film immediately blasts you with one of their pulsating, dirty, pretentiously bass-oriented songs designed to reflect Scott‘s narcissistic nature. Afterwards, the audience quickly realizes from the superfluous visuals that accompany most actions and sounds, that the nature of Scott‘s universe is a form of magical realism, much like the stylized cartoon world of a comic book. One also gets the impression that the bubbly feel of Scott‘s world might just be his own perception of it and his problems. Michael Cera‘s actually playing a character, for once. When I first met Scott on screen, I felt utter contempt for his foolish, egocentric, sensitive-seeming self. Scott mooches, takes his friends for granted, acts lazy, and utilizes his façade of vulnerability to trick women into falling for him. His wandering interest floats from woman to woman, and finally lands on a femme fatale by the name of Ramona Flowers. I felt as if I wanted to jump into his quirky world and beat some sense into his hipster body. Thankfully, after the introduction of mysterious Ramona, and Scott‘s disregard for the warning signs that came with her, someone did just that. The film‘s major external conflict, or plotline, involves Scott being required to defeat Ramona‘s seven evil ex-lovers. This is accomplished through vibrant Mortal Combat-style character battles in which, more often than not, Scott has the stuffing beaten out of him like a skinny punching bag with shaggy hair. And, unpredictably, we start to feel compassion for Scott as his tangible commitment (or death sentence) grows with the difficulty level. Even though the storyline is somewhat predictable, what keeps the movie advancing like a freight train is the promise of seven completely original and unique fight scenes. Every exlover of Ramona has an actor/actress playing the part with grace and hilarity, and while they‘re each not given much screen time or character depth, they really do pummel in and steal the show for the minutes they have. Finally, what makes Scott Pilgrim different from other films is its reliance on the audience‘s knowledge of gratuitous pop culture references. The film mixes elements of comics, movies, animation, and of course, video games. The director, Edgar Wright (Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz), has stated that the film was designed to ―feel like a thirteen-year-old‘s head exploding,‖ and it shines like a firework here. The direction is fast with perfect timing, and the special effects are unbelievable. While the film itself is fast and fleeting fun with barely any time to breathe, it resonates in one‘s mind as an interesting commentary on my attention-deficit, video-game-addicted generation. Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World will surely be remembered by the youth as a defining showcase of the true art of a mash-up. 20

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 The Bet By Jackson Ng It was the summer of 2010 and I, unlike so many teens in America, reconciled with the reality that I had no life. Yes, it was true, boredom struck me like a level 80 Paladin trying to take down a dragon that breathed thunder instead of the ever-so-cliché fire. It was the 20th of July when I made the bet with my friend. ―Hey, I bet I could last 6 months without meat,‖ I randomly spouted out. ―Ha-ha.‖ That laugh he would sarcastically choke out of his mouth came then. ―Sure, why not? Are we betting the usual taco?‖ he asked. ―But of course,‖ I answered. Yes, being a vegetarian did indeed kill the boredom. Gummy bears, ramen, marshmallows, skittles and obviously meat were off of my food-chain. Considering I was already 20 pounds underweight it was possibly not the smartest move I had ever made. The first week or two were pretty tough, but because I‘m so special, I enjoyed this new kind of torture; I would like to call this a subtle form of masochism. Is it not poetic for me to want something that I couldn‘t have? It was my forbidden fruit. It was like I was Romeo and meat was my Juliet, but this wonderful sonnet would soon come to an end. And when this torture subsided, I was left with the fear that, once the bet had ended, I may one day throw-up from eating meat. The 20th of December was my day of reckoning. The bet for me to become a vegetarian had ended. It may have been a little anti-climactic to let a $7 bowl of ramen take me down, but that‘s how it went. Oddly enough, something so common like eating meat became fairly difficult. For me, it had become a question of morals to either continue or end things right then and there. I think it‘s very clear on how this turned out; surely I hinted it enough. Yes, I ingested the meat. I felt like Anakin when he joined the Galactic Empire or like John Lennon when he chose Yoko over the Beatles. In the end, I felt like I ditched a good friend that had bequeathed to me ever-lasting memories. But meat was too powerful a force to refuse. So if you ever feel bored and you want to do some good for humanity and yourself, become a vegetarian; it‘s quite the experience while it lasts.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 The Dubstep Discovery By Gerard Arden It all happened one day in my algebra class. A girl I shared music with from time to time came up to me and said in an extremely hurried voice, ―Stick these in your ears and enjoy.‖ So I sat in my chair and stuck the ear buds in. Checking to see if they were secure, I gave the girl the thumbs up, indicating I was ready for her to show me this supposedly wonderful sound. As I sat there not knowing what to expect, I let the sound consume me as if it was light shining through a window into a dark room. The song started out slow and steady, but the bass climbed and climbed, and at that moment when it was at its peak, it finally dropped into the deepest chasm known to mankind. The wobbly bass throbbed through the cheap and horrifying apple headphones, yet it filled my ears. And then the bass suddenly stopped and the chorus kicked in; I thought the song was over, but I was very, very wrong. An even steeper bass drop sounded. This drop mesmerized me like I was a little boy on his birthday going to the best toy store in town. After a while, the song finally ended and the girl asked me how I liked it. I thought about it for a second and responded, ―The only way I can explain what just happened to me is… my eyes have been opened, and I have been reborn.‖ She laughed, and then we went back to our business in class. But ever since that day in algebra, Dubstep has been a very important genre to me, an important part of my world, and I still listen to it every day.

Limbs & Branches: An Ode to ee cummings By Hanna Tyson these limbs that hold me do no justice to what should be in their place yet, i love them—they feel solid i tangle myself and i climb higher; with each branch gripped, my hand holds your wrist so higher I climbed (not short of a mountain) i will never forget you did leave s fall to the ground with them goes a part of my sanity it worriedly waits for the crunch of nearby boots

closer. close. clos clo cl c . … and yet. the leave (leaf) comes back and it (my sanity) is restored? or completely lost as i am in a tangled mess of branches and limbs waiting for the leaves to climb back UP.

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block 2010 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; 2011 Wolf By Glenna Nelson You are the boy who cried wolf. When the people turn away, tired of your games, And the sheep disappear, And all that's left are yellow eyes staring you down, Tell me... They are the people who listened to your games. You smile when they come running, And the attentive smile drips with greed. Dear boy, don't bother crying out, For they know your voice. I am the wolf. I hear your cries. Dear boy, I am the one who comes running when you call. I have sat obediently, acting as the dog in your village. But I am the wolf. Your foolishness has brought this out. You call out for the people whom you look towards For attention, But I am the wolf. The undesired one who you receive. You are the boy who cried wolf. I am the wolf. Tell me... What will you do now, dear boy?

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Say It By Anne Urban My heart thumped. Once, in theater, I was taught that distance creates tension onstage. Well, I was beginning to learn the truth of that fact. Ricky and I sat on the curb a good three feet away from each other and stared straight ahead. It was all a little contradictory: the closed body language, the lack of eye contact, the space between us…one would have thought we were fighting, yet it was almost the exact opposite. He turned to look at me, and I caught his gaze and then looked quickly away. ―You know, I meant everything I told you in that letter.‖ ―Mm-hmm.‖ Silence. ―I know. It was,‖ I took a deep breath, ―very sweet.‖ The minute he pursed his lips and nodded, I knew those were the wrong words. Not the ones he wanted to hear. ―I mean you don‘t have to say it—‖ ―No, I will.‖ I raised my eyebrows, more irritated with myself than I was with him. I wrung my hands together and shivered. It was cold, but not freezing; night, but not too dark; windy, but not stormy. It was like everything was preparing for something. Funny part was, all these things were better prepared for what was about to happen than I was. I kept taking breaths, big ones, but nothing happened. I could feel him waiting; he had that look on his face—the one you get when you're trying to look occupied and eavesdrop at the same time. I just couldn't say it. It's not that I didn't want to say it; it's just that those breaths seemed to fill my lungs and then get swallowed and then I didn't have any air to speak with. ―Well, this is pathetic,‖ he mumbled. I clenched my fists against the curb where we sat. I hadn‘t said what I wanted to say yet. ―No, it's not!‖ I laid my hand on his back. ―Yes, actually it is.‖ Now the air was coming too fast. In and out of my lungs as if I were stuck in a vacuum, gasping the last of the air I had left. ―No—‖ ―Just don't—‖ I took four breaths in the time it took him to say two words. ―Really—‖ ―Stop and think—‖ ―You don't—‖ I couldn‘t get a word in edgewise. ―Please—‖ ―Ricky!!‖ He stopped talking and rubbed his palms against the knees of his jeans. The sun had finally set, and I could almost feel the dark in-between us shaking with tension. ―I—,‖ I took a deep breath and exhaled three words, ―love you too.‖ I could feel my face turn bright red in the dark. Ricky stopped mid-sentence and smiled, staring out at the street. Then he looked straight at me. ―Yeah?‖ he whispered. ―Yeah,‖ I whispered.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Play me, I’m yours* By Bell Nasamran Art Alliance of Austin has placed several pianos around downtown Austin. There is one at City Hall Plaza, another at the Long Center, and others all scattered around. But the one that captivates me the most is the piano at Butler Park. It doesn‘t have good acoustics like the ones at the Long Center or other places, but it has character. The piano is there at the park, which is the place where families get together on the weekend, where friends bike around to strengthen their relationships, and where lovers spend time together and fall in love all over again. But this piano is a lonely one. It‘s sitting on a hill of Butler park by itself. The piano leads a solitary life out in the open, withstanding the harsh breeze, enduring the piercing rain, burning up from the blazing sun. It‘s a lonely piano that‘s bound to the ground to wait. Wait for a curious kid to play with its keys, wait for a sentimental adult to relive their old memories of childhood piano lessons. This piano is lonely by itself, and so am I. My meeting with the lonely piano is a nostalgic one. I haven‘t played an upright piano for many years. But then I set my hands on the keyboard and started to play and so went the loneliness, gone. The weight of the keys is just right. It may be a bit out of tune, but even if you‘re bad at singing, should that keep you from the joy of letting it out? No. It‘s all of those imperfections that make you who you are. And it‘s the old keys and the slightly cacophonous sound that makes this piano extraordinary. And so I play the lonely piano and softly sing to the melodies. Such a calming experience, right in the middle of the busy city. But the experience is also loving as well. For it isn‘t just me and the piano on top of that hill; Mark is also there. We have so many wonderful memories between us even before the piano: the Kite Festival, several concerts, late night talks, and just being together. And now we have another memory to be cherished. As Mark plays the piano on that hill, my lips curl into a smile. He looks up for a moment and catches a glimpse of that smile. And like typical lovers at a park, we fall in love all over again.

* ―Play me, I‘m yours‖ is written on all the pianos set up downtown for the public to play

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Drawn By Anna Krouse I could have kissed Professor Hampton that day for allowing David to pass into our inner sanctum of learning. I had missed last class, so it was a total surprise to me. This beautiful creature was standing in front of me, and it felt as if I was looking at a dream sprung to life. This magnificent being, this veritable God, this beautiful, beautiful man had been sent down from the heavens above to be drawn by our unskilled hands. His head of lush golden curls; his lips made of soft pink flower petals that pulled back to reveal a bright, friendly smile; his vast wonderland of muscle that rippled beneath his skin—all were open for us to gaze upon and sketch freely. It felt like Christmas and my birthday had come on the same day that year. And when his eyes flickered up to meet mine in class that one fateful day, it was like I was looking straight into the eyes of Michelangelo‘s ―David‖ sprung to life. I didn‘t even realize he was looking at me until he walked forward and held out his hand for me to shake. ―I‘m Dave,‖ he greeted me with a smooth voice. I offered him a somewhat slack-jawed grin, shaking his hand limply as I gazed into his endless blue eyes. ―I‘m, um…Adeline,‖ I mumbled, speaking to the beautiful dips and curves of his beautiful, beautiful face. ―Nice to meet you, Adeline.‖ Oh dear God, he was so incredibly nice. ―You too,‖ I mumbled, and before the pool of saliva on my tongue could turn into dribbles on my chin, escaped to my seat. My friend Jordan grinned at me when I sat down next to her. She had a pixie cut died about a million different colors and was about the tiniest person I had ever met. And judging by the amount of cigarettes she smoked you‘d think she‘d be a fifty year old truck driver named Bud. If my parents knew I was friends with her they‘d beat me with a belt. But she was funny, and a good listener. ―Can you believe our model?‖ she said with a wicked grin. Her eyes were ravenous. ―I know, right?‖ I grinned, ―Best class ever...‖ We clapped a high-five just as Mrs. Hampton waddled into the room. Mrs. Hampton was a rotund woman with short gray hair and a mug full of green tea that she had with her so often it was like part of her hand. ―Alright, guys. So as I told you last class, we‘ll be having a model with us for the next few weeks. His name is Dave. Let‘s all say our hellos and get to work.‖ There was a collective mumble of ―Hi, Dave‖ to which he smiled and waved back. ―Alright Dave, I suppose we‘re going to get started now.‖ Dave nodded and stepped up onto the platform in the middle of the room. He began to untie the knot around his robe. I was confused. What was he doing? Then his robe fell around his ankles. I must have squeaked or omitted some other kind of noise of surprise because in an instant all the eyes in the classroom were on me, and I could feel the heat rising in my face. I probably sounded like I had choked on my own spit. I clapped my hand over my mouth and ducked my head down, praying to just sink into the floor and dissolve into a million invisible particles. Anything would be better than sitting in the middle of class with everyone staring at me—including the teacher. It‘s like I could feel their hard eyes boring into my soul, the dull lifeless voices in their minds droning in an endless chant of ―judge, judge, judge…‖ ―Is there a problem, Adeline?‖ Mrs. Hampton asked, raising a single thin eyebrow. 26

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 I struggled for words, staring down at my knees and refusing to look up. ―N-no, I‘m fine,‖ I gasped. ―What‘s your problem?‖ hissed Jordan, ―haven‘t you ever seen a naked man before? Besides she told us we‘d be using a nude model last class.‖ ―I was sick! Remember?‖ ―Oh, Right…Well damn, sucks for you.‖ I hunched over in my seat, warily glancing at the other students who drew Dave without any sign of discomfort. I chanced a glance up at him, adjusting my easel so it hid all of his…parts. This could work. His face was turned so we could see the profile of his face. It wasn‘t quite so terrifying when he wasn‘t facing me. I could do this. I drew a circle to outline his head, a vertical line for his neck, and a horizontal one for his shoulders. Then I drew a triangle for his torso, and two more lines for his arms…baby steps… I went back to fill in the details of my outline, only to realize the little progress I had made looked like a four-year old had drawn it—with her foot. ―You are such a little virgin,‖ Jordan whispered, exasperated. My mouth fell open indignantly and I shoved her lightly in retaliation, which earned a cackle from her in return. I returned to my drawing, and began to straighten out the wobbly lines. I felt like there was a giant elephant in the room that no one else could see but me. And by elephant, I mean naked man—a very tall, muscular, kind of cute (but still very naked) man. ―Just chill,‖ she whispered, ―it‘s just a regular guy but without his clothes on. He knew what he was doing when he signed up.‖ She had a point. I peeked up at him, and noticed something: he looked pretty relaxed up there. He didn‘t look like he was bothered at all by the way people studied his body while they sketched. I felt my muscles slowly start to unwind. It was just a naked guy. It was okay. I returned to my drawing, my mind beginning to clear. I breathed a deep sigh and slowly continued with my sketch. There was no way in hell I was going to move my easel, though; at least not today. The time started to pass by quickly, and I found the outlining becoming much easier to bear. I even got in some shading around his arms and chest. By the time she called for the end of class, I was a bit surprised. ―Alright everyone, nice work today. Dave should be with us for at least a few more weeks.‖ I packed up my things slowly, trying to give him time to dress before I looked up. Jordan rolled her eyes at my meticulous slowness, but made no comment. I appreciated that. I picked up my bag, peeking through my hair to make sure it was safe to look. Jordan had left without me, leaving me alone in the room with Dave. He had thrown on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt while I was packing, and was currently tying his shoes. He looked up at me. For some reason, he seemed much less intimidating than before. It was probably because I had seen him (mostly) naked. What a surprisingly good ice breaker, I mused. ―Hey, how‘d you do?‖ he asked with a big smile. I laughed. ―Well, not so great at first…but I think I managed something decent.‖ ―Great,‖ he said. He had straightened up, and was looking straight at me, still smiling. I chanced a tiny smile in return. ―I take this class on Wednesdays,‖ he said. ―I know how you feel. The first time we did this, I spent the entire class drawing the model‘s hand.‖ 27

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 My eyebrows flipped upwards in surprise. ―You go here?‖ ―I do. But I‘m only a sophomore.‖ We stood in silence, looking down at the floor. ―What do you have next?‖ he asked. ―I have a break, so I was just thinking about heading to lunch.‖ ―Hey, me too—do you wanna…‖ he stopped, swallowed, and looked down at his feet. ―Do you wanna, like, get lunch or something?‖ I stared at him, utterly bewildered. Finally, I answered, ―Yeah. Okay.‖ A big smile lit up his face, and we walked out together. I thought about the shocked looks I would get from Jordan or my parents if they found out I was going to go hang out with a nude model. I would be judged beyond belief. But oddly enough, in that moment, I was okay with that…

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011

The Interview You Wish Your Interview Could Smell Like: Transcription of an Interview with The Old Spice Guy By Amber Baade Mr. Journalist Guy: In an exclusive interview, we have the Old Spice Guy joining us. With this being your first interview, why did you choose us here at The Writers‘ Block? Old Spice Guy: Look at your company name, now look back at me. My manliness will add fame and fortune to your company. It is my favor to you. [He smiles elegantly, causing several of the female staff members to swoon.] Journalist: Alright, then. Now, why did you choose the role of Old Spice Guy? Old Spice Guy: I did so well at everything else I did in life, so I decided that I should stick to one career, and one that shows me the meaning of life. Journalist: So, Old Spice is the meaning of your life? Old Spice Guy: Not entirely. The meaning to my life is giving women the right to have a man that smells as wonderful as I. Journalist: I see. Have you been able to accomplish that so far? Old Spice Guy: [He smiles once again, the brightness of his white teeth blinding everyone on the set for a few moments until he closes his mouth again.] The sales have been going beautifully. [He pulls a chart out of thin air which displays the sales of the product.] See? The slope points upward, the only possible way it could go after I began advertising it. But of course—everything I do is impressive. Journalist: What was your life like as a child? Old Spice Guy: It was beautiful, much like me. I was able to provide for myself from a young age, doing modeling work and the like. Journalist: How exciting! Where did you go to school? Old Spice Guy: I went to the Institute of Manliness, which is located in Michigan, where I double-majored, as any man of my caliber would, in Manliness and Astrophysics. [He smiles, once again showing off his pearl-white teeth.] Journalist: What do you like to do in your free time? Old Spice Guy: I like riding horses backwards. Journalist: Why do you do that? Old Spice Guy: It gives me a different perspective than riding a horse the average way. There is a feeling of being free that only a man who rides horses backwards and uses Old Spice can achieve. Journalist: What does that freedom feel like?

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Old Spice Guy: I could help you achieve that sort of freedom by giving you a free sample of Old Spice. [Suddenly there is a small container of the lovely fragrance in his sculpted hand. He holds it out elegantly to the Journalist.] Journalist: [The Journalist takes the can.] I‘ll make sure to use this later. [He sets the can down on the ground next to his chair, and flips through several pages of questions on his notepad.] All right… Where do you think you will be in ten years? Old Spice Guy: In ten years… [He places his thumb and index finger gracefully onto his perfect chin as he ponders the question thoughtfully.] I should still be promoting the manliest scent in the world, but if I am not, I will be sailing around the world on my boat. Journalist: Really? For how long do you plan to sail around the world? Old Spice Guy: Probably for a few years. I know that I will at least visit Greece and Italy, if not the rest of the world. Journalist: Oh, that‘s great. Making sure that women have a man that smells as great as you do is the most important thing to you, isn‘t it? Old Spice Guy: It is. After all, what else should a man as manly as I be doing with his life? Journalist: You know, I can‘t think of anything. [He flips through his notepad, searching for topics to go back to.] Now… about your horse. How were you able to train it so that it would let you ride it backwards? Old Spice Guy: My horse knew that a man such as I would be riding it backwards, so he prepared beforehand and trained himself for it. As you are able to tell by now, my horse is almost as manly as I am. Journalist: Hmm… I can‘t see you having a horse that isn‘t manly. [He flips through his questions again.] So, what was it like majoring in Manliness? Old Spice Guy: I had to take very difficult higher-level courses such as The History of Manliness and How to Make Women Swoon 101. I do not recommend these courses for the faint of heart; they are very difficult and only the manliest of men are able to do well in them. Journalist: Well, it looks like the time for our interview is coming to a close. Is there anything else you would like to say to everyone out there? Old Spice Guy: [He thinks pointedly for a moment.] I would like to tell men to buy Old Spice so that they may smell as manly as I do for their women. Journalist: What a great way to end the interview! Old Spice Guy: Thank you. I could think of no other way. [He shakes the Journalist‘s hand.] Now, let me do you a small favor. [He takes the notepad into his own hands.] This interview is now diamonds.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Sunrise By Elizabeth McLean He wandered. The shimmering field danced in front of him, throwing off shafts of light in every color of the rainbow. He marveled at the delicacy of the tall, graceful stalks of grass and the droplets of morning dew that clung to them. The landscape seemed to beg the young man to join it in its revelry. A butterfly with wings of sunshine flitted over his head, and he followed it into the emerald sea, lost in its beauty. He swam through the grass for a time, enjoying the way each stalk seemed to reach out and caress his skin before gently brushing past him. The eager energy of the earth reached up from the ground and permeated his body, coursing joyfully through his youthful veins. At the same time, the air around him thrummed with the invisible but electrifying energy of life. It sank into his very soul and invigorated him, and he laughed out loud in wonder. A few feet in front of him, there was a movement in response to his sudden outburst. It was then that he saw her. A waterfall of blazing bronze whirled around and came to rest as a fiery frame for an angelic face. Below the face, a sapphire sheath hugged full, youthful curves and tapered off to reveal long, smooth legs capped with scarlet slippers. Her eyes were deep pools of molten gold, absorbing the light of the rising sun and casting it back into the world intensified a hundredfold. Upon her flushed face was the most beautifully innocent expression of bewilderment. Overwhelmed by the light he felt emanating from her, he sank to his knees babbling: he couldn‘t form coherent words in the presence of such a goddess. She opened her mouth and let out a small noise of surprise. Words dropped from her full, crimson lips like fruit at the height of sweetness falling from a tree. Her voice was like a symphony floating on the breeze, each word and inflection an essential part of the melody that flowed out of her. He told her how beautiful she was, tried to express the way that she was affecting him. But that wasn‘t enough. The words didn‘t even begin to describe her radiance. He felt stupid for trying to reduce her to such base terms. She seemed to be confused. Her lovely brow twisted itself into an exquisite frown as her crystalline eyes caught his and seemed to pierce the depths of his very soul. Without really knowing what he was doing, he floated to his feet and closed the distance between them. Reverently, he clasped her soft, cool hand and pressed it to his lips, murmuring to her again. He couldn‘t resist lifting a hand and running it through the river of her silky hair. Holding a handful up to the sun, he watched it glitter in an intricate web of light and then let it gently drift back down to rest at her shoulders. All the iridescent colors of the rainbow whirled in the morning light around them, but they were nothing compared to the mesmerizing hues that made up her divine form. Somewhere in all of his awestruck wonder his mouth moved to softly embrace hers. It met with no resistance, only a soft, inviting compliance. She tasted faintly of honey; a universal, delicate sweetness that he could not place. Softness. She seemed to be composed entirely of some welcoming, downy substance. His hands traveled down to her supple waist and back up the smooth expanse of her back. He wanted to keep her pressed against him forever, to never relinquish the warm joy of her touch. Her velvety arms were wrapped around his neck as he realized that they lay intertwined in the shelter of the tall, swaying grass. He gazed down at her angelic visage and once again marveled at the brilliant tinctures that colored it. Not only was she beautiful, but her golden eyes radiated compassion as well. With one hand, he smoothed her shimmering hair back from her face and 31

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 caressed the soft skin of her face. He kissed her forehead and then gently pulled her closer to him once again. Closing his eyes, he burrowed his face into the hollow of her neck and breathed in her alluring scent. It mingled with the aroma of the awakening world in a perfectly-tuned harmony of life and love. ******* Seren cracked open the front door and slipped out quietly. She needed room to think. Leaving the dirty compound behind, she headed for the open grass that seemed to stretch to the edge of the world. As she walked, she noted the way her too-large feet scraped the dirt. Their bulky clumsiness was emphasized by the bright red shoes she wore -- unfortunately, the only ones she had. When she reached the tall grass, she stepped inside and allowed the swaying stalks to swallow her. She ventured through the grass without thinking, trying to lose herself. She was a Reject: she had not been among the ones in her nurturing pod to be selected to join Society. She had been informed that her genes were inferior, and so her offspring could be of no use to the Leader. Consequently, she and the other Rejects had been cast aside to this compound on the fringes of the earth. Their basic needs were provided for -- the Leader wasn‘t cruel -- but that was all. They were supposed to spend their days performing various menial tasks, -- such as screwing the caps onto plastic bottles -- but there was nobody around to make them do it. Besides, the smarter ones realized that the work served no purpose: plastic water bottles, for example, had been rendered obsolete many years before. Their lives had no meaning, and the compound was a joyless place. It was painfully obvious to Seren why she had been sent here after the Examination --only a week earlier. Personally, she doubted that the Council was capable of performing meaningful genetic tests, but her looks alone were enough to relegate her to Reject status. Her nose was too big and her jaw was too square. The dirt-brown hair that fell to her shoulders was neither straight nor wavy, and her hands and feet were rather larger than was desirable for a female. To top it all off, she was chubby and awkwardly proportioned. No one would want her as their mate, and any children she ever had would likely be just as ugly as her. Seren stumbled occasionally as she drifted through the grass: lost in thought, she stared in front of her without seeing. A laugh exploded out of nowhere and shattered her dream-like state. Startled, she spun around and searched for the source. Her eyes fell upon a youth who appeared to be somewhere around her own age. He was tall and wiry, with a shock of raven hair and friendly blue eyes. A euphoric expression was painted on his lean, vaguely stubbly face. She stared at him in puzzlement as he fell to the ground, still grinning. ―Beautiful...‖ His speech was slurred, and as Seren stepped toward him and peered more closely at his eyes, she thought she knew why. The inky dots of his pupils were much larger than a normal person‘s would be. That, combined with his loopiness, was enough to convince Seren that he‘d been chewing ithrin. The mind-altering weed grew wild all around the compound, and many of the Rejects had a habit of using it to escape from the maddening reality around them. She gasped as he lurched to his feet and grabbed her hand. ―Beautiful,‖ he mumbled again, and kissed it clumsily. Seren couldn‘t help but notice that his hands, while rough and most likely dirty, were warm and strong. She found that she didn‘t mind at all when he ran one through her hair and stared at the dull brown strands in childlike wonder. At least he didn‘t seem to find her 32

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 repulsive. And if he was high, then so be it. She allowed his mouth to envelop hers, enjoying the feeling of being wanted. His hands traveled down to her waist and explored all of her flabbiness, but he didn‘t seem to mind it. She was tense for a while, expecting him to find something unpleasing with her and recoil in disgust, but as the minutes passed without any such occurrence, she unconsciously relaxed into the warmth of his chest. He lost his balance and she followed, flinging them both onto a welcoming cushion of grass. Seren felt secure with his comforting weight on top of her. Briefly, she wondered if her current conduct would land her in trouble with her Nurture Leader. A moment later, she remembered the reality of her situation and nearly laughed out loud in hysterical amusement. None of that mattered anymore. More importantly, she had utterly ceased to care. ******* Sunlight hurtled through the vast emptiness and then into the dense curtain that concealed his destination. Breaking through, he rejoiced in the cool air and darted between delicate wisps of early-morning cloud, illuminating them with only gentle nudge. Sunlight had no desire to visit the surface of the planet just yet, so he dallied in the sky for as long as possible. He pursued the early birds and shimmered on their feathers. Sunlight took notice even of the insects, joyfully bouncing off of their shining shells as they buzzed through the air. He pounced upon pollen pieces caught in the wind and made them glitter like a golden haze. Eventually, though, he resigned himself to continuing his work at the lower levels. Sunlight danced about on the wind just a moment longer, then caught a breeze down to the lowest level of the atmosphere. Immediately, he realized that he had found what might have been the worst possible place to land. There was no beauty here, only harsh material and dull colors. He screamed in pain as he made contact with a one piece of cold metal after another until he could take it no longer and sought refuge in the nearest window. At first, Sunlight thought that he might have found a bright spot on the planet‘s surface. In the room he had entered was a family sitting around their kitchen table: a man, a woman, and a small boy. Sunlight remembered that he had visited families in the past and found happiness there, so he looked for the love that he was sure must be in the room. After a few moments of frantic searching, Sunlight was horrified to discover that the room was dead. There was breath in the bodies of the people, to be sure, but their eyes were empty and cold, just like the city they lived in. Sunlight fled. The city was just too much - too much cold, too much pain, too many dead spirits. Sunlight hurried from the settlement and out into the wilderness beyond. This was much better, although there were still some things that made Sunlight sad. The trees were beautiful: he loved to stop and play in their twining branches. But there weren‘t as many of them as there used to be. Instead, some places where the trees had once made their homes had been filled with coldness and transformed into more of the cities that Sunlight hated. He shirked his duties and avoided these blemishes. After traveling for a while, Sunlight came upon something strange. It seemed to be like one of the cities that he hated, but there was something different about it. Sunlight steeled himself and went to satisfy his curiosity. When Sunlight reached the city, he realized what was different. The city was of metal like the others, but it had fallen into disrepair. There were people on the disorderly streets, and there was something strange about them too. Sunlight felt little happiness emanating from them, but he did feel something. They were not dead like the others, he realized.

The Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Block 2010 â&#x20AC;&#x201C; 2011 Suddenly, Sunlight sensed something that he had not come across in a very long time. Excited, he darted through the area until he found the source of this unusual feeling. Sunlight soared over a field of tall grass and then stopped short as he found what he was looking for. In the grass, two young people, a girl and a boy, were embracing each other. From them poured an amount of love that Sunlight had not experienced for a very long time. Determined to soak up as much as possible, he dropped down and folded himself over the pair, gliding over every inch of their bodies and illuminating them in the manner that he felt was appropriate. As Sunlight rested, content at last, he marveled that he could have found such a thing where he did. The people in the cold cities had what they wanted, he mused, but they were cold and dead like the place they lived. Yet out here, where the people had been forgotten and pushed away by their fellows, life and love could survive and flourish. Those thoughts came to Sunlight, but his spirit couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;t keep track of them for long. Instead, Sunlight returned to draping himself over the humans and rejoicing in their happiness.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 The New/Old Girlfriend By Maddie Fisher ―Lacey, now that you‘re gonna be staying with me, I want you to meet someone,‖ her father said. Lacey‘s parents are divorced and she had been living with her mother ever since. She just celebrated her twelfth birthday and legally that meant she could choose which parent she wanted to live with. Her mother lived in Colorado, and her father was in the process of moving to California, so she figured it would be the perfect opportunity to move with him. ―Oh yeah. Well who is it?‖ Lacey responded with a snarky tone. ―Ummm… My girlfriend,‖ he said nonchalantly, hoping for a casual response from Lacey. ―What? Your girlfriend? What the hell, you have a girlfriend?‖ ―Yes. I have a girlfriend. And I would appreciate if you didn‘t speak in that tone or use that kind of language!‖ ―YOU TELL ME YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND AND YOU‘RE SURPRISED BY MY TONE?‖ ―I don‘t care what I told you! Don‘t talk to me like that, Ok?‖ Of course: he tells me he has a girlfriend and feels guilty so he takes it out on me. Ugh, whatever. I bet she‘s a total skank too. He always goes for the stripper type. I bet she has his new place in California all done up. Well at least I know I won‘t be bored. I‘ll be able to observe a real live skank in action! Ha-ha, I make myself laugh. ―I – I‘d like you to meet her tonight.‖ ―TONIGHT?‖ ―Uhh, tone.‖ ―Ok. Tonight. I‘m excited.‖ ―Well good. I think you‘ll like her.‖ This ought to be interesting. I bet she‘s young too. My dad, great man but he cannot pick women worth a damn. It‘s like, after mom he just went brain dead in that department. ―Ok, Lacey are you ready? Tina should be over any minute.‖ ―Yeah. I‘m ready.‖ Well at least they don‘t live together. ―Hey, Lacey, have I shown you mine and Tina‘s room? It‘s real nice. I think you‘ll like it.‖ But of course. ―K. I‘ll come look at it in a minute.‖ Lacey was sitting in the middle of her floor staring at all the unopened boxes in her new freshly painted room. Although she was not looking forward to all the upcoming drama with her dad‘s new girlfriend, she was excited about living in her/their new house. It was two huge stories, with rooms she has yet to explore. ―So. What do you think?‖ ―It actually looks Ok. Who decorated it?‖ ―We did it together.‖ Oh, so you‘re one of those couples. Great. That‘s annoying. ―I like it.‖ Lacey continued with her fake smile until she was out of their room completely and back in her own. ―Hey. Is everyone here?‖ Tina had just blown in. ―Yeah, honey. We‘re in the living room.‖

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Lacey could hear Tina‘s high heel shoes clanking toward her. Oh great, the young – Oh my gosh! She‘s old! She has to be at least 50. She‘s a good looking 50-year-old, but still 50! What the hell! My dad went from dating young loose women to gold-digging cougars? ―Lacey, I‘d like you to meet Tina.‖ ―Hi. Tina.‖ Holy crap, she has wrinkles. ―Well, I‘m going to go make drinks for everyone. Tina, you sit and relax, Lacey why don‘t you come and help me in the kitchen.‖ Oh my god. He wants to know— ―So, what do you think of her?‖ ―I knew you were going to ask me that.‖ ―And…‖ ―Well, Dad. Honestly…. SHE‘S OLD!‖ ―Shhhh! Quieter opinion, please.‖ ―Well she is. She may be classier than most of the women you date, but good lord – she‘s old as dirt! She has to be, what, 50?‖ ―If you have to know, she‘s 54.‖ ―See!‖ ―And we have both agreed that our slight age difference shouldn‘t bother either of us. So I‘d like it if you didn‘t say anything to her, she‘s a little…sensitive.‖ ―Yeah, I would be too if I were 54.‖ ―SHHH!‖ ―Sorry.‖ ―Look. The least you could do is try to like her. Ok? She wanted to take you out sometime this week so just say yes and be nice.‖ Lacey‘s father looked at her with stern eyes; she knew this meant he was serious. Lacey nodded at him while rolling her eyes and followed him back into the living room. ―So Lacey…Your father has told me so much about you.‖ I‘m sure he has. ―He told me you enjoy photography. And you‘re very fashion forward, which I figured out from hanging up some of your clothes that were mailed here last week. You have very good taste,‖ Tina smiled at Lacey. Lovely. You‘ve been through my stuff. ―Yeah, that‘s all true.‖ ―Good. Because tomorrow I thought it would be fun for the two of us to go out. You know, go shopping, get our hair and make-up done. The whole nine-yards. What do you say? How cute. You think I like you. ―Yeah, that sounds like fun…. Uhhh, I‘m gonna go to my room; I have a lot of unpacking to do. But I‘ll see you in the morning.‖ ―K. Night Lace,‖ Dad said ―Night, Lacey. Nice meeting you, and be up early tomorrow so we can have a full day.‖ Yup. Whatever. THE NEXT DAY. ―Wakie Wakie.‖ Oh good God, cougar, shut up! ―Hey, Tina. Should I start getting ready?‖ ―Yeah. I‘ve already gotten a shower, so can you be ready in about an hour?‖ ―Yeah, that sounds Ok.‖ Well at least she gives reasonable time frames… ―You buckled? Ok, where to first? Your father told me you like Gallerias. I know where there‘s a really nice one, does that sound Ok?‖ 36

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 ―Yeah, whatev.‖ After miles of silence, and nothing talking but the radio, Tina finally decided break the silence. ―So uhh, I know your mom and dad have been divorced for a while.‖ Lacey nodded. ―How would you feel if one of them got married?‖ ―Uhh… I guess I‘d be Ok with it.‖ Great now she‘s thinking of marrying him. Yeah, I‘d be Ok if he got married, but not if it were to you. Go find someone your own age, you old bat. Seriously, were all the men in your own age group taken or something? ―Good, because your father and I are going to get married!‖ Tina said with a huge grin. Oh my god! ―Oh you are? When did you decide this?‖ And when the hell was my father planning on telling me? ―Your father was planning on telling you tonight. But I thought since we were getting along so well, why not tell you now! And then we could have a fun mother-daughter day. Right?‖ Tina could see the anger and frustration on Lacey‘s face. ―…Or not. Look, Lacey I know we just met, and I probably came off a little strong with the whole shopping trip and all, but I really wanted us to hit it off. And I know there is a bit of an age difference between your father and myself—‖ No really? ―But I hope that doesn‘t bother you too much, and I hope you realize that I really do love your father very much.‖ You do act like it. ―Sorry I just sprung this on you. I didn‘t mean to surprise you or anything. I guess I was so excited I figured you would be too.‖ Yeah, guessed that one wrong, didn‘t ya? ―I‘m sorry. You just come off very mature; I just figured you‘re so well adjusted it wouldn‘t bother you, nor surprise you too much.‖ There was a long silence and the air began to relax. ―You are very mature though. I was a little surprised when I first met you.‖ Yesterday? Yeah I am pretty friggin mature. Uhhh… Maybe I should give the old bat a chance, she did compliment me. And a mature twelve-year-old would not be so petty. A mature twelve-year-old would realize how selfish getting angry at her divorced parent for remarrying really is. Maybe she‘s not so bad; she is taking me shopping. I bet my Christmases will be way better! Yeah, maybe this whole second mom thing won‘t be so bad. And I won‘t have to worry about my dad bugging me all the time. Yeah maybe it will all be ok. She is trying really hard… And is still sitting there in silence—―I‘m happy for the two of you.‖ ―Well, thank you. I think we‘ll have fun together. The three of us.‖ Yeah…Me too.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Goodbye, My Love By Nahome Teshome The alarm clock, otherwise known as my archenemy, daily interrupts me in my sweet, sweet sleep. I valued sleep above all else on these days, the days when I had to wake up way before the slightest crack of dawn. With closed eyes, I grabbed the little sucker and shut it up. I was up because I had to be, yet I imagined my annoying alarm basking in its silence. Its job was done: catching me off guard, and then slapping me right out of beautiful, gorgeous sleep. I pulled the covers off, finally kissing sleep goodbye. She begged me not to go, caressing my body with sleepiness, leading me into temptation. ―No, no!‖ I told her. ―I must go; it is my duty! Till then, I bid you farewell, my love!‖ I threw the rest of the covers off my legs and stormed out of bed. I envied bed; he doesn‘t have to go anywhere. He gets the privilege that every adolescent wishes for so dearly, to stay there and reside with sweet, sweet sleep forever. Ugh, I thought to myself, early track practice. I arrived with no motivation whatsoever. I glanced at the faces of my teammates; it was obvious that they missed their loved one, too. Their bodies were adorned with flaring hair, slipping eyelids, and clumsy walks. It was as if the deprivation of their love drove them to their absolute worst. The sky was nothing but a dispersion of hard-to-see stars. Hard to believe that the sun would soon wake up with its golden flames, painting the sky a beautiful blue, and releasing our poor souls from this spell. It would happen soon enough. Our coach suddenly appeared. He was wide awake and unaffected by sleep. How? I would always ask myself. Where does such immunity come from? His wedding ring shone in the moonlight, as if it were being exemplified as the answer. I laughed at my sleepinduced reason: coach already had a lover—and she was not sleep. An affair with sleep would not be an acceptable alternative to love. And if I were to find motivation for these mornings, I would have to end my illicit affair with my beloved sleep.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Marriage Counseling Is So My Thing By: Rachel Douglas ―Hello. Testing, testing. This is Christina Love, professional life coach, specializing in married couples. The date is September 13, 2010, and the time is, um, let me check. 3:45?? I should be off of work already! This is such a drag! Well, this was my last case today, so I guess I‘ll just be quick, and then I‘ll be off to meet Andrew! He‘s, like, this super hot guy that I met on match.com—it‘s not just for older people trying to find the love of their life or something. He‘s got a great smile, a nice tan, and his profile looks really interesting, and— ―Oh, I should probably talk about my case, shouldn‘t I? That‘s why I got this voice recorder—it makes me look, um, idk, professional and stuff. It makes people think that I‘m actually doing something, for one; and for another thing, I suppose it is somewhat helpful when I diagnose, like, my cases and stuff. Oh, oops, I shouldn‘t say, like, ‗idk‘ or ‗omg‘… Or, like, ‗like‘! That doesn‘t sound professional at all… ―Ok, anyway, so I, Christina Love, professional life coach, talked to the wife first. I knew from what I had on the form that she was the ‗big problem,‘ though usually that‘s just a cover for couples, trying to pin the blame. But in this case, I think it was right on target. Grace Thompson has, like, issues. Sex issues. I mean, sure, sex is fun, but she looks like she wants to eat someone when she talks about it—she‘s a little too passionate, ok? It‘s overbearing and just plain scary! That‘s definitely an issue we‘ll have to talk about in our future sessions. ―Another big one I noticed with her is no regret at all. Her cute little hubby was so totally sad about losing her. It was so romantic! But she just doesn‘t seem to care at all. I think she was just thinking about her Spanish lover, Salvador, or whatever his name is, the whole time. I guess that explains her slightly hungry look. That‘s even creepier—ewwwww! I didn‘t like her. And her outfit was just ugly. She‘s got this little pencil skirt that she‘s trying to get to hug her nonexistent hips, and a tweed vest. I mean, seriously, what is this, a funeral? She could have at least worn something cuter, and definitely not tweed. I have something in my closet that might have worked perfectly for that… ―Ahh, I‘m not focusing again! Ok, so Donald Thompson is such a cute little man, but he‘s got such low self-esteem that he was just so hard to talk to. I mean, can you say Debbie Downer? Or maybe Donald Downer, hee hee hee! He‘s poetic though, which was kinda cute, when it wasn‘t like a big storm cloud. He was very honest, and was very open to trying to fix things with Grace, so I think there‘s hope for their relationship—even if it‘s all one-sided. Tee hee, I guess it‘s kind of funny that I have more to say about the woman I hated rather than the sweet husband, but she just creeps me out and makes me mad at the same time. Weird, huh? ―So, my overall opinion: poor little sucker. Oh never mind, that‘s so negative, let me rephrase that. If we could address Grace‘s lust and overall creepiness, and maybe her terrible fashion sense, we could fix some issues. I wouldn‘t mind trying to fix Donnie‘s selfesteem issues, either, ‗cause he‘d be just such a cutie if he wasn‘t such a downer all the friggin‘ time. Anyway, that‘s all I got from this session, so that‘s all I‘m going to say for now, though I think I‘ll have a lot more to work on with these crazies—er, I mean, clients! ―But now it‘s time for my date. Oh, joy!‖

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 The Dress By Sam DeLine In the police station: Cinderella: I just don‘t know why I‘m here, officer. I didn‘t do anything terribly illegal, did I? [short pause] Yes officer, I understand, but believe me, that was the last thing I intended… Oh she‘s hurt, is she…? [pause] Well that‘s just… terrible… Oh no, certainly not! I didn‘t mean for that to happen, goodness me, I was only trying to, well, convey a message to her… Hmm… Well, I‘m just all shookened up now. That‘s just dreadful… Poor little Ariel: B*#$%! That stupid b*#$%! I want her arrested! Now! I don‘t want to fill out a stupid form; I want that skank thrown in jail! [pause] Does it look like I care?! No! I— [cut off, pause] It doesn‘t matter if I retaliated, she started it! I wouldn‘t have had to retaliate if she hadn‘t been such a Belle: Innocent bystander, officer, honest. I was just watching, witnessing this awful event happening. I can‘t believe those girls were so mean to each other! And over a dress! It‘s just too ridiculous; all of those girls were fighting over that one dress. That one [dreamily] white, Vera Wang, beaded wedding dress with a cream sash… [pause] Oh yes, of course, you know what it looks like. Yes, anyway, I was just sitting on the couch in the men‘s section… Oh, because I was waiting for my husband to get fitted for a suit. We have to go to special places for that, you know; he‘s so big. And he was getting all fussy with the tailors because it was ―taking too long‖ and they were ―sticking him with pins,‖ so I moved to the couch in the women‘s section, because I never like when he gets all mad like that. He can be such a Ariel: Beast! That fat, trashy, fake beast! [pause] Don‘t tell me to calm down! Look at this! My hair is ruined! Have you ever seen a mermaid—err—I mean a girl with a half bald head on her wedding day?! It‘s going to be a Cinderella: Disaster. This whole scuffle was just awful. I‘m so sorry officer, but if you don‘t have any more questions, I really must be—[pause] Oh no, of course I‘m not fleeing the scene of an accident… No, no I don‘t have anything to hide, of course not. Yes, of course I‘ll stay and figure this out. Not that there‘s anything to figure out, everything that happened was as clear as Ariel: Mud! Look at this, she got mud on my clothes! These are imported from Atlantis—er— Atlanta. Georgia. [pause] Yes, they have very fashionable clothes there! Like you would even know. I don‘t appreciate you doubting my every word, officer. It‘s quite insulting. I don‘t even— [pause] Okay, okay! I‘ll tell you what happened. Yes, I know lying to a police officer is a crime, just let me tell my story, okay? So, I was just shopping for my Cinderella: Wedding dress [shows ring] I know, isn‘t it just marvelous! I never saw it coming. Charming just asked one night and I couldn‘t believe it. We had just had dinner, and—[pause] Oh, yes of course. What happened. Yes, so I went with my best friends Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. And we were going through dress after dress and none of them would do, until I saw the most perfect dress I have ever seen! It had glass beads, and of course they matched my 40

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 shoes awesomely! So I walked over, put my hand on the dress and I hear this girl yell Belle: A very rude word. I won‘t repeat it, officer, before you ask. It is not something you would say in front of your mother, let me leave it at that. So the red-haired girl started Ariel: Putting her grubby hands all over my dress! My friends and I were there first, and she knew it. Jasmine, Mulan, and I had been there for an hour! That dress was Cinderella: Mine. Mine, mineminemine. MINE! I saw it first! [pause] Excuse me? [pause] She said she saw it first? Excuse me? Exactly what else did she say about me officer? [long pause] Oh hell no. That little ginger thinks she can just take my dress and then call me names? Hell no! [pause, ruckus] Get off me, rent-a-cop! I‘m gonna kill that little b*#$%, don‘t try and stop me! [pause, scuffle] Get of me! I‘m gonna Ariel: Tell you what officer, I‘ll tell you the rest of what happened if you if you let me know who it was that took the dress, eh? [pause] What do you mean, it‘s ―classified‖ information? This isn‘t even a real case! That‘s so Cinderella: Unnecessary, officer, I assure you. These handcuffs are not needed, I‘m calm now and ready to tell you what happened. [pause] I didn‘t mean I was actually going to kill her, officer, of course not. I was just angered that someone could lie so seriously. It makes me sad that this is the world we live in, where Belle: Two girls get in a nasty fight over a dress. Really? I still can‘t believe it. So anyway, the red-head grabbed the dress and said Ariel: Excuse me, but this is mine. Belle: I mean she didn‘t say it rudely, but it didn‘t sound like honeysuckle either. And the blonde one goes Cinderella: I‘m sorry dear, but you must be mistaken. This is my dress. I saw it clear across the store. Belle: Now for starters, that‘s bull. There‘s no way she saw that dress when she came in, she was bumming around for half an hour before she stumbled over to that display with her ditzy friends. I mean Ariel: Honestly, I don‘t know how she could be so oblivious to the fact that there were three girls standing next to it when she walked up. So I said ―No dear, I think you‘re mistaken, I‘ve been here for an hour.‖ And before the blonde bimbo could say anything Jasmine said Cinderella: ―Dis dress do not belong to you, eet iz my freend Areeal dress.‖ Number one, learn English or just drop the bomb and go home already. Number two, it is not ―you freend Areeal dress,‖ it is my dress, and she needed to back off before

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Belle: Things got too out of hand. They were screaming well before they starting throwing punches. I don‘t find it reassuring that it took a girl being thrown into a mannequin by her hair to catch the attention of one of the cops in the area. [Pause] Yes, I know it‘s a big mall, but really, the safety of the other shoppers was… [Pause] Yes, yes, okay. I‘ll continue. So the blonde had this other blonde girl in her little posse, kind of a queasy, sickly-looking girl. She kept dozing off during the whole fight. Weirdest thing, really. Anyway, she said Cinderella: ―Back off, we saw it first!‖ Sleeping Beauty always has my back. She‘s my BFF. And then that awful Asian girl with the stupid ginger said the meanest thing to my best friend! She Ariel: May have mentioned that she still hasn‘t gotten enough beauty sleep, so she should just head back to her bed and do the rest of the world a favor and sleep for another century. She didn‘t say it to be mean or anything… [Smiles] I mean, she really seemed like a Cinderella: Awful person. Who says that to someone, officer?! Who could say such awful things? And her friends were laughing right along with her, just awful… [Pause] Oh, what did S.B. say back? Oh, um… You know… a very nice, polite Belle: Stereotypical, racist comment. Something about rice, you know. The girl didn‘t take it too well. She tried to hit the dark headed, pale girl with the blonde. Very sickly looking… Anyway, the pale girl calls the Asian Ariel: A whore. Get that. The chick shacking up with seven men is calling Mulan a whore. Priceless. So I may have… possibly… called her out on it. And little miss Malibu Barbie didn‘t take too kindly to that, she started Cinderella: Talking rationally and levelheadedly to her. Honestly officer, I tried my best to remain calm and just talk to the girl. But… she just. She went there. Ariel: Oh yeah. I went there. Belle: I can‘t believe she went there. Cinderella: She had the nerve. To call me…FAT. Belle: All hell broke loose. They starting swinging and scratching and slapping and pulling. They were like animals. It also didn‘t help that the pale girl kept calling in all sorts of forest animals in to join in the ruckus, and the Asian had this lizard sort of thing, and there was a tiger and fish flopping around and mice and a dog. It literally turned into a zoo. And then all of a sudden Cinderella: The dress was gone. Ariel: It had vanished. We all stopped mid punch. That‘s when you guys swooped in. You had us cuffed before we could even digest what had just happened, and 42

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011

Cinderella: Where the dress could have possibly gone. But officer, don‘t lie to me. I know you know where it is. One of you had to have Ariel: Picked it up during the fight? [Pause] No? Okay fine, don‘t tell me. I don‘t need this crap anyway. Cinderella: This is stupid. I‘m done dealing with you peasants. If you‘re not going to charge me with anything I suggest you release me. Belle: Is that all you need from me officers? [Pause] Yes, of course, anything I can do to help. Now if you‘ll excuse me, I need to go meet my wedding planner. I just found the perfect dress and I simply must show it to her.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 On A Nice Afternoon Stroll: A Sonnet By Ilan Buzzetti Love once caught my eye on a nice afternoon stroll, Enchanted me with its sweet fragrant scent. Little did I know the cost of the toll, Of that blushing apple, so down I bent. I picked it up with no hesitation. At my home, I dumped it on a lone shelf, Forgot despite brief infatuation And back I went to be my own lone self. But as time waned, it grew all the more dead. Oh, how I should have cherished time we shared On earth whilst it still lived and did blush red. Alas, but with handling love, I was scared. From fine summer day of which it was wrought, Upon a shelf, neglected, left to rot.

Puppets By Hanna Tyson Puppets – they‘re only as strong as their puppeteer, Which couldn‘t make it more clear, That we‘re all tools in their corporate game. Hide it all; they all have shame. Dragging us down in their rule, We‘re really led by the King of Fools. Yet, here we sit, standing by, Idly waiting for some guy, Somewhere to do something, To—oh please, please save us from our cultish ring, Of ignorance, no bliss intact. We‘re puppets here and that‘s a fact. Cut the string; break it off. Burn it, burn it, Romanov! Stay tied and you‘ll never live again, A prisoner, jailed in an animal‘s pen. They‘ll get to you, plant in your head. Brainwash you until you‘re dead. Change your mind and switch it up! We must escape—must stay. What? Shout loud, scream out, jump up and break. Everyone together, we have to shake… This government and rules and facts. We‘re puppets here…What‘s wrong with that? 44

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Déjà vu By Kendra Smith Zach was dead. I knew it. I knew before the nurse gently touched my shoulder, shook her head, and left the room. I knew before the once steady beeping slowed into a shrill monotonous cry. I knew before his hands went cold and his eyes stared beyond the ceiling, beyond the hospital itself, into the nothingness he was now a part of. He believed in God. The almighty savior? Look where he's left you. I laughed; short-lived and bitter. I clenched my hands around my throat to stop any more of this wicked, hateful laughter from escaping. What's wrong with me? I couldn't breathe, but I didn't dare take my hands away. The room started spinning. No, maybe it was just me. My lungs were screaming, protesting for air. My head felt like it was about to explode. I fell to the floor. Everything was distorted, as if it were all moving at different paces. I closed my eyes slowly; it hurt to see. And then I felt my own hands being torn away by someone else's. I drew breath in a manic jumble of gasps interrupted by spurts of crazed laughter. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I rolled off my side onto my back to see who had spoken to me. I looked and immediately retreated as far away from it as the confinement of the cramped room would allow me. "Who... What are you?" I asked. I could feel my voice trembling. "I just saved your life and you have the audacity to insult me?" "Well, excuse me. You walk in here in a cape—" I started, my voice no longer trembling with fear, but with anger. "A 'cape'? How old are you, twelve? This is a cloak! Superman, Batman, Robin: they wear capes. This," it said once more, gathering handfuls of the flowing velvet that veiled its corpse, "is a cloak." I glanced from Zach's now lifeless body to the hooded figure, trying to make some sort of connection. The black cloak, the dead body. "Are you… Death?" I asked stupidly. "Why yes, yes I am." it said smugly. It seemed to be standing a little taller now, its chest protruding a little too far out. "So... Um where's your scythe?" "Oh my!" it spat dryly, "how clever and insightful of you. Only an intelligent mortal like yourself could have come up with such a noteworthy observation. Well, let me go off to the underworld, in which I uphold residency, and retrieve my scythe. How could I have been so foolish? I obviously haven't a clue how to perform a task which I‘ve executed since the beginning of time!‖ "Okay" I retreated " I get it. I—it was stupid. Okay?" "Oh, no. Don't blame yourself; you‘re only a mere mortal. It‘s more of his fault, really," it said, more to itself than anything, with an annoyed glance upward. "Y-you mean God?" I stuttered. "Yes, of course I mean God, who else would I be speaking of?" "No, it's just. I didn't think... well..." "Oh, don't tell me you're an," it paused there for a dramatic effect, clearly amused, "atheist?"

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Taking my silence as an affirmation, he walked slowly to the bed where Zach‘s now lifeless body lay. Gently, as if not wanting to disturb a sleeping child, Death examined the body closely, being extremely careful not to touch it. "So," it asked after a long silence, "why'd you kill him?" I sat up quickly. "I didn't... I would never..." "Relax, child," it interrupted. "What do you think I‘m going to do? Stroll into the nearest police department and file a complaint? I couldn't care less who did it. I‘m much more interested in the why." With that, it looked over at me. Even though its face was covered, I felt the intensity of the gaze, as if it were looking straight through me to get its answer. "My brother and his friends… They didn‘t like Zach. They… They kept saying how they didn‘t ‗need‘ him anymore, that their lives would be better off with him ‗not around.‘ Things just got out of hand." I stopped there and looked up from the ground. It was still watching me. Waiting. "It was all about drugs." I continued, head buried in my palms, still unable to make any sort of eye contact. "Coke. They were selling it—‖ I point to Zach— ―him and my brother, at our high school, and things just started getting out of hand, with the money and… I didn‘t know, I just… there was nothing I could—" "Bull***t!" it spat angrily. "What?" I asked, the fear returning. "Your little sob story, that's what. You, like most mortals, are absolutely incapable of taking responsibility for your actions." "But I didn't do anything!" I started. "Exactly! You didn't do anything. You‘re brother and this moron—‖it jerked its head toward Zach— ―are selling coke, and you don't think enough of it to stop it. Then things start 'getting out of hand' as you put it, and you just sit back and watch the show. As far as I‘m concerned you‘re as guilty as any of them." Blinking back tears, I shook my head furiously, unwilling to speak. ―But luckily for you,‖ it said once again in an annoyed voice, ―I‘m no longer allowed to speak at Judgment Day.‖ ―Thank God,‖ I sighed sarcastically. ―Hmm. I thought you didn‘t believe in him?‖ it mocked. A long and harsh silence descended upon the room. I looked away, intently staring at the wall, hoping it would just leave. And then I remembered why it came in the first place. I look back toward the bed where Death had resumed examining the corpse. ―What are you going to do to him?‖ ―To him? Nothing, nothing at all,‖ it muttered softly, as if it didn‘t want me to hear. ―What do you mean nothing? You‘re Death—‖ ―I know who I am,‖ it interrupted. ―Well… Then why are you here?‖ I asked trembling, unconsciously backing away. ―Time,‖ it replied simply. ―Is-is it m-my time?‖ I stammered quietly, wrapping my arms around myself. ―No, not your time. But time itself,‖ it said, reaching into its pocket, still looking over at Zach. ―Three days ago, somebody shot this boy. I‘m not sure who, or why—although your ‗explanation‘ did shed some light on what happened—but now he‘s dead. And now you‘re going to fix it.‖ ―What?‖ I asked, my eyes widening. ―How?‖ 46

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 ―With this,‖ it responded, handing me a small wooden object. I looked down at it. It was an hourglass. ―I don‘t understand. What am I supposed to do with this?‖ ―You‘re going to go home, and you‘re going to go to sleep and when you wake up tomorrow… Well, let‘s just say you‘re going to have a very strange feeling. What‘s that you mortals call it? Déjà vu?‖ I turned the hourglass over and over again in my hand, thinking. ―So, I‘m going back in time?‖ ―Yes, I guess you could call it that.‖ ―And then, I‘m going to?‖ I asked cautiously, still not making a connection. ―You‘re going to save Zach‘s life.‖ ―What! How the hell am I going to do that?‖ ―Well, how am I supposed to know?‖ it said slyly, walking toward the door. ―You can jump in front of the bullet for all I care.‖ It opened the door and began to walk out. ―Wait‖ I yelled after it. It stuck its head back in the door. ―Yes?‖ ―Well… What if I don‘t… I mean, what if I can‘t save him, and he dies all over again?‖ It turned and walked back out the door. ―Then I guess I‘ll see you again in 3 days.‖ It chuckled, its voice still echoing in the room as the door closed.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Of Darkness, Of Light By Mellisa Chen I used to believe…that Light and Dark could exist alongside one another. From within a palace made of dark stone, as the sun began to cut through the darkness of night on the horizon, a winged boy shot out, with an air of uncertainty hanging thickly over him. He seemed to be no older than fifteen, frowning as he darted into the dense forest surrounding the palace as fast as he could. Silvery wings glinted in the day‘s new light through the gaps of the forest; in the distance, brightly towering through the sky, stood a palace made of white marble. The forest was thick with growth and rich in life. The songs of birds could be heard from all corners of the forest. After a long while, the Angel came up to the border between the Kingdoms of Light and Dark, stopping just before a vast, beautiful garden full of warmth and sunshine, surrounded by a wall of stone. For a moment, he stared into the garden. He knew its name to be the Garden of Radiance, a place where both creatures of Light and creatures of Dark could come without fear of reprisal, a symbol of the unity that the two Kingdoms shared. He stared into the open gate of the Garden, knowing the precious treasures concealed within. That I could step into the Light, and be warmly welcomed there. The Angel pressed on, taking a detour around the Garden rather than going inside. Reminding himself of what he had just helped achieve, he knew that he no longer had a right to step even a foot into the Garden. The grim reality hung heavily over him, but he could see no other way than this. It had to end. He ventured into yet another forest, moving as fast as his legs would carry him, as if fearing that if he did not complete his task quickly he would change his mind. The thick, towering white stone wall that surrounded the Palace of Light soon came into view. He stared up at palace as it pierced through the brightening blue sky. Birds of various colors and species flew round its towers, free from harm or hardship. A startled bird flapped its wings frantically, lifting into the warmth of the sun, a few feathers shedding from its small body. The boy reached a hand out, a white feather floating down to his hand. The Angel stared at it, and then looked back at his own silvery wings. Though from afar they appeared to be perfect and glorious, just like an angel‘s should be, in reality they were damaged and mutilated, as if someone, or several someones, had torn at their feathers, snatching away any hopes of ever flying again. The Angel dropped the feather, watching quietly as it lifelessly descended to the grassy floor, his resolve now renewed. Wallowing in the pain and confusion caused by that day never changed anything. This was the only way. Trying not to think any more, the Angel swiftly scaled the wall, easily landing within one of the palace‘s many courtyards. At the center were several white stone tables and seats surrounded by trees. The Angel hid under the shadows of a tree, peering around its wide trunk. He had expected some sort of resistance, yet there wasn‘t a guard in sight. Cautiously, the Angel crept forward, glancing here and there. When he was sure there really weren‘t any guards, he silently entered the wide castle hall. It was eerily quiet, as there seemed to be no one within the palace at all. The Angel shook away his uncertainty, practically gliding across the stone floor as he searched for the grand double doors that would lead him into the throne room. The doors were made from only the best quality wood, smoothed and polished to near perfection. Elegant silver ornaments studded with black and white opals decorated them. Staring at his hands, he placed them upon the doors, his heart heavy with the task he must complete this morning. 48

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Reality can be so very different from what we believe. The Angel threw the doors open, the heavy doors clatteringly loudly against the stone walls. The hall was huge, and like the palace, grand in appearance and height. The room was held up by large, silvery pillars. Windows accented the sides, even larger windows adorning the wall behind the throne standing nearly fifty feet away. Light spilled in from the windows, illuminating a single figure standing before the throne, her back facing him. She stared at the stained glass windows high above them, which depicted a black creature and a white creature standing before one another, each flanked by their subjects. In peace, they held out their arms, grasping the other warmly and welcomingly. The girl turned slowly and gracefully, the flowing white dress she wore swirling along with her. She looked no older than thirteen, her long hair like a curtain of white gold silk, a black cat with white rings around its ankles in her arms. Her large purple eyes were bright with innocence and life, her face adorned by a kind and gentle smile. The Angel was stricken with shock, unable to move from his position in the doorway, even as she began to speak. ―Hello, Angel.‖ Angel, mouth agape, attempted to form a sentence, but sound refused to leave his throat. The black cat suddenly leapt from the girl‘s arms, transforming in a blinding, golden light into a black panther large enough to carry three grown men on her back. Cautiously, she stepped forward, her pearly white fangs bared, as she prowled Angel in the doorway. Angel watched the panther carefully, alert in every way, eyes following every movement of her muscles. Just as the panther was about to leap upon him, the girl spoke once again. ―That‘s enough, Azra. We are among friends here.‖ ―But Princess,‖ the panther protested, her blue eyes directed towards the girl. ―Thank you for always protecting me, Azra,‖ the girl said, ―but please, leave us.‖ The panther turned, shocked by the girl‘s response, but backed away nonetheless. ―Yes, Princess, as you wish.‖ Azra glared at the boy for a moment longer, still suspicious of him. As the panther returned to her smaller form, Azra slinked away, disappearing through a side door. The girl turned back to Angel, ―Now, where were we?‖ Angel frowned, turning around and slamming the heavy wooden doors shut once again. His hand remained on the doors as he continued to face them, his breathing quick and shallow, his heart heavy with the task he had been assigned. He stared at the doors with his wide eyes, feeling his resolve beginning to crumble, afraid of what he was to do if he turned back around. Could he really do this? Was he really going to do this? But what else was he supposed to do? ―What is it?‖ she questioned softly. ―What‘s wrong? Why did you come here?‖ Angel whipped around to face her, blocking out his feelings, refusing to allow them to take form, less they decay his resolve more. He had to do this. No matter what, there was no other choice. Angel took a step forward, his resolve falsely strong, his form trembling as he said, ―Princess Lior of Light Kingdom! I have come to take—‖ ―I know why Prince Allen sent you,‖ Lior interrupted him, her soft smile dropping, ―But I asked why you came here.‖ Her lips frowned, her eyes growing bright with held back tears, ―Why, Angel? Why did you kill King Damian?‖ ―I—I didn‘t kill him!‖ Angel protested, his mission forgotten once again. ―Prince Allen did.‖

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Lior shook her head, her large purple eyes growing sad, ―You were there, Angel, and you did nothing to stop him. You stood there and watched the Prince of Dark Kingdom kill his own father. You stood there and watched Prince Allen seal his soul away. Why?‖ Angel was frozen with shock. These events had transpired only that morning. Not even the citizens of the Dark Kingdom knew that their king was gone, replaced by their own prince. How could she possibly have known? How could she…? ―Despite what many believe, light and darkness are connected,‖ Lior explained, as if she had somehow heard his questions, ―They are not separate entities, but two halves of a much greater whole. One cannot exist without the other. There isn‘t much that transpires in our separate kingdoms that I do not know of. The moment King Damian‘s life was stolen from him, I knew of his son‘s betrayal.‖ ―Then you know it‘s pointless to resist,‖ Angel insisted, hoping this would end the conversation. ―Then you know why I‘m here. Just give me the Orb of Light, Princess, and this will all end soon.‖ ―But this will not end it.‖ She shook her head, ―Why did you side with Prince Allen? Did King Damian do something wrong?‖ ―N—No…‖ He responded, unable to resist the urge to answer under the scrutiny of those pure, purple eyes. ―Was King Damian a bad king?‖ ―No…He‘s a good king…‖ ―Did he hurt his people?‖ ―No, he‘s…his people loved him—‖ ―Then why?‖ Lior asked in anger, shocking Angel, her voice filled with grief, ―Why did you do this? What do you hope to accomplish? Do you wish to harm the People and Ancients of Light?‖ ―No,‖ Angel said, desperate for her to understand him, ―I…I…‖ ―This world cannot exist without King Damian, who holds the Orb of Darkness,‖ Lior stated. ―The Orb is the reason why we have shadows, why the crops do not shrivel up from too much sun, the reason we are able to rest.‖ ―Wait…! Just let me…!‖ ―Why do you fight, Angel? Why did you seal King Damian‘s soul away?‖ ―Stop asking questions!‖ He shouted, clutching his head as he attempted to keep her voice out, the last of his resolve dwindling. ―Are you willing to do the same to me? Are you so willing to follow Prince Allen that you would cause so much pain to others?‖ Light and dark…can never exist together. ―Shut up!‖ Angel shouted as rage exploded from his heart, a new and different sort of resolve igniting within him. His hand began to shine a golden color, and soon a golden sword made from light formed in the palm of his hand. He charged forward, sword raised, thrusting it forward before he could realize what he was doing, before Lior‘s heart, a mixture of silver and gold energy, began to swirl together, eventually forming into a spherical ball of light, preventing the sword from piercing her heart, protecting her. The Orb of Light shone with purity and innocence, and all the power of Light that existed in the world, shone brightly upon both Lior and Angel. Energy released from both the sword in Angel‘s hand and the Orb of Light as they pushed back and forth, the sword trying to pierce the Orb, and the Orb trying to protect Lior. I used to believe…that Light and Dark could exist alongside one another. 50

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 ―What would a LightWalker like you know about pain?!‖ Angel continued to shout, tears beginning to form in his eyes, all the pain and the abuse and neglect he had felt for so long rising to the surface. ―King Damian couldn‘t even begin to comprehend just how deeply this pain runs! Prince Allen, he understood how heavy this burden was, how much weight we of the Dark had to endure. I have witnessed that suffering first hand. Your People would never understand that!‖ That I could step into the Light, and be warmly welcomed there. Angel stared upon the pure girl, his eyes wide with shock, his heart dropping, shocked at himself for what he had just done. Having lost his resolve, the sword made of golden light in the palm of his hand dissolved into nothingness. Suddenly, nothing mattered, not the mission, not the coup, not even the heavy pain in his heart. Princess Lior gave him a soft, understanding smile, just as a crack crept across the Orb‘s surface. The Orb shattered, shimmering like fairy dust in the morning light, falling away like shards of broken glass in a million pieces, dissolving into nothingness. Princess Lior began to sink backwards. Angel reached out to catch her, her body feeling much too light in his grasp. Angel shook his head as he stared at her, horrified. This wasn‘t what he wanted. He never wanted this! Tears rolled down his pale cheeks as the brightness of her eyes faded away. The vitality there he admired so much draining away right before his eyes. A white light seized her, and Angel blinked, for her entire body seemed to melt into that light. ―Lior…?‖ Angel said, breathing heavily, panic seizing his heart as he desperately tried to grasp the only person who truly cared for him, ―Lior?…No…No! Please! Lior!‖ I wanted to believe that Light and Dark could exist together. I wanted to believe that if I stepped into the light I would be warmly welcomed there. I wanted to believe, but I was wrong.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Break Down By Lauren McNamara

Speak, Speak. I will not hear your screeching metal. Dig, dig. You won‘t burrow under my skin. I feel the smile boiling beneath my lips. Don‘t tell me I won‘t have a leg to stand on. Don‘t tell me about your cobalt mind. The acid foaming around your mouth And the splinters in your eyes are nothing but laughable now. It‘s building, ringing through every synapse of my body. I stand, no longer fooled by your smoke and lights. I embrace you, poor child of ashes. Your sad story is tiring me out. I laugh, and golden sparkling pools sweep in around my feet. Heightening tension, ready to ignite the planet. Bubbling out through seams. BREAK DOWN! Tidal waves of the glimmering liquid crashing in from all sides. Run, run, run with my hollowed liberation! Let it shred my parachute to pieces! And run, by God, run! Until my feet leave the ground, until I‘ve jumped on the rushing jet stream, until I write my name in the milky stardust of the galaxy! Shot out into the beautiful emptiness of space. You can‘t stop me now.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 The Archangel’s Gift By Aaron Davis ―Give me faith,‖ I whispered. I was crying again. I must‘ve been an odd sight to see on such a beautiful day – a young man sitting underneath one of the trees of the park, with his arms around his knees, his head bowed over. Surrounded by the laughing children and happy couples, I was the odd one out, as always. I had been kicked out of the hospital a couple hours ago. Since we weren‘t technically married, and I wasn‘t family, I couldn‘t be there outside of visiting hours. So stupid, I thought. I love him as much as his family, and he loves me the same. It wasn‘t our fault we couldn‘t legally marry. He was getting worse, though. I could tell by the way the nurses and doctors talked around me. He was dying, and I couldn‘t even be by him. ―Give me faith,‖ I whispered again. I wanted to believe; I really did. I wanted to believe so badly. But how could I? What if God really did hate people like me? What if this was the punishment? ―No,‖ an unfamiliar voice spoke the word, and I looked up to see who it was. A man was standing in front of me. He looked a couple of years older than me and seemed to be physically perfect: honey-blond hair, stormy gray eyes, broad shoulders, slim waist. Everything was perfect about him. He walked over and sat beside me, and an odd feeling came over me. I still felt my grief, but it wasn‘t as strong. A warm feeling went through my body, as if a miniature sun had been lit in my heart. ―Who— Who are you?‖ I asked as I watched him in confusion. The man watched me for a moment before he said anything. In that moment, I felt as if he knew everything about me. ―My name is Cambriel,‖ he told me. He continued watching me. ―Cambriel?‖ I asked. Such an odd name for these times. If anything, it seemed almost biblical. I pulled my knees closer to my body. His gaze, while kind and gentle, was a bit uncomfortable to endure. ―And what are you doing here?‖ Cambriel smiled a bit at me. ―Yes, that is my name. And you know what I‘m doing here— yes, you do,‖ he added as I began to shake my head. But truly, I had no idea who he was, much less what he was here for. ―You know it here,‖ he said, tapping my chest. ―I‘m here to help you.‖ I laughed bitterly. ―To help me? Unless you‘re an angel sent by God, I doubt you could help me.‖ Cambriel‘s smile widened and he inclined his head the slightest bit. A nod? Was that even possible? ―Anything is possible,‖ he told me. My brain froze for a moment, and I tried to sort out my thoughts. An angel? Finally, I said, ―No.‖ There was no way that this man could be an angel. He just couldn‘t be. ―Of course I could be,‖ he said. My breath caught. I hadn‘t said that out loud. How could he know what I was thinking? ―I already told you. You know the truth; you just have to trust yourself.‖ I stared at him trying to see if he was serious. It - it made sense, but if it was true, then what did that mean? ―It means that I am here to help you with your faith. It means that I am here to answer your prayers.‖ He stood up and held his hand out to help me up as well. I stared at his hand, 53

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 then looked up at his face. He was looking at me with such a loving gaze that I couldn‘t make myself be distrustful of him. I took his hand, which was surprisingly warm, and pulled myself up. And then I was falling. That was the only way I could describe the feeling. It felt like whenever I got vertigo, for I no longer had any sense of direction. Up was down, and then up again. Left was right, and the world had turned into a globe spinning wildly around me. And then as quickly as it had started, it was gone, and I found myself in an odd place. There was no light, and it was neither cool nor warm. I felt as if I was standing but I could not feel any floor. ―What is this place?‖ I tried to ask, but I found I could not speak. It was then that I heard Cambriel‘s voice in my head. Sound does not travel here. To talk with me, all you need to do is think it, and I will hear you. As for your question, I have brought you here to explain. I figured it would be best to start here. This place is Eternity. It is from here that all was made, and it is here that all will return. This is the edge of the Creator‘s power. It is impossible for me to truly explain what this place is, because it is simply too vast to understand. To us, it appears as nothing. The perfect balance between all things. This is the beginning of the Void. ―So this is where we go when we die?‖ I asked. ―No!‖ Cambriel quickly replied. ―A soul without a guide would be lost forever here. A soul cannot survive without the Creator‘s Light. And I could not take you to the place you will go. That place is a vacuum of life. If I took you there, I would not be able to bring you back.‖ ―What is it like there?‖ Cambriel didn‘t respond right away, and when he did, there seemed to be a tone of longing in his voice. ―It is absolute rapture, for you are finally with the Creator. You have returned to Him, and you know with every fiber of your being that He loves you.‖ ―You say ‗he‘. Is the Creator a man?‖ Cambriel sighed. ―One moment,‖ he said. I felt the warmth of his arms wrap around my waist, and then I was falling again. When we stopped, it was horribly bright. But when my eyes adjusted, I saw that we were standing in a church. After a moment of looking around though, I realized that this was not just a church. Every inch of the walls and ceiling were painted in biblical scenes. ―The Sistine Chapel?‖ I asked in disbelief. We sat on an empty pew in the back of the building to avoid attention. Cambriel nodded once. He looked up, and when I followed suit, I realized that we were sitting beneath one of the scenes of Creation. ―It is beautiful, but it is false. The Creator, God, if you will, is not a man, nor a woman. I use ‗he‘ for simplicity‘s sake, but I could just as easily use ‗she‘ or even ‗it‘.‖ He moved off the pew and kneeled in front of me, and put his hands on my shoulders. ―Daniel, this is possibly the most important thing that I will tell you of our Creator. The Creator, to us, appears to be a contradiction. He is both of everything, but neither. Like Eternity, He cannot be defined in terms of humanity. But unlike Eternity, which appears as a balance between extremes, the Creator is both sides, and is balanced in this way. The only extreme that He is not is hate. He cannot hate, for He is the essence of love. It is because of these opposites that there are so many different beliefs. Humanity is trying to define something that in its very existence is indefinable.‖ 54

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Cambriel‘s eye‘s shone with a certain light now, as if he was excited to be explaining this to someone who could follow what he was saying. I nodded to him. What he said made sense to me, even if it was a very broad concept to grasp. ―All this,‖ he continued, gesturing around the church ―- all this is a lie, a lie to its very core, but because of the Creator‘s nature, it is in some ways true. ―That is the answer to your prayer, Daniel! The very thing you fear is the one thing that your Creator is incapable of!‖ I nodded, but I was frowning. Another thought had already struck me. ―If He loves us all, then why does he allow suffering?‖ Cambriel frowned himself before answering. ―The answer to that is a combination of two problems. The first is the issue of free will. You have the ability to choose your life. It is the core of humanity, your ability to choose, to create. Unfortunately, this limits what the Creator can do. To banish suffering, to get rid of one of your choices, would defeat the purpose of free will. ―The second problem is the nature of your world. For some reason, for something to exist in this world it must have an opposite. For life to exist here, there must be a balance. For there to be joy, there must be pain.‖ ―So do angels have a balance?‖ I asked. Cambriel laughed outright at that, and it was the sound of silver bells. ―You mean, are there demons? No. Angels are not of this realm, and where we reside such balance is not required. We reside in a place where things are neutral, like Eternity.‖ ―And where is that?‖ Cambriel stood, and I did the same. He took a step forward and embraced me once again. When the sensation of falling stopped, we were standing on a beach. Kneeling in the sand, Cambriel started drawing a symbol. The first to be drawn was a circle, then a square within it, each of the corners touching the edge of the circle. After the square was another circle, the edges of it barely touching the sides of the square. Finally came an eight-pointed star, every other point going through the corners of the square. All of the points ended the same distance outside of the larger circle. Finished, Cambriel looked up at me. ―This is all of existence,‖ he said simply. ―The inner circle represents your world. It is just barely connected to the square, which represents the border of the Afterlife. The last circle is the border of Eternity. The star represents the Creator and his Light, which flows through all. ―The angels,‖ he continued, ―reside here.‖ He pointed to the areas between the inner circle and the square.‖ ―So what all do angels do?‖ I felt bad for making him explain all of this to me, but how many times did one have this kind of opportunity? Cambriel, however, didn‘t show any impatience. ―Angels are the guardians. There are different orders, each with a different purpose. There are the Archangels, who guard the boundary between your world and the Afterlife. There are the Cherubim, who guard the borders of the Void. We are there to keep the souls were they are meant to be. And then there are the Seraphim, who travel between all three. The Seraphim act as a conduit for the Creator‘s Light. They ensure that the Light reaches the various realms. I am an Archangel.‖ I was confused. ―So why are you here, with me?‖ Cambriel gave me a smile that was filled with various emotions: relief, anguish, pain and joy. ―The boundaries are not physical, but spiritual.‖ His words took a moment to compute. ―You mean that I was close to dying?‖ 55

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Cambriel pursed his lips. ―Your soul was. It is possible to live without your soul, you know. A soul dies when someone renounces their faith in the Creator. I‘m here because you were close to losing faith. I‘m happy to say that you are no longer at that risk.‖ He was smiling again, and I was once again aware of the feeling that I had while he was near me, the feeling of that miniature sun. The feeling had grown, and was now spread throughout my body, making me indescribably happy. I threw my arms around him, hugging him tightly. ―You‘re right. I have my faith now.‖ I was aware of that falling sensation once again, and when it stopped, we were back at the hospital. It was dark out, and a clock down the hallway said it was just past midnight. I looked at him in surprise. ―You should go to him,‖ he told me. ―Your journey with me is at its end. Now it‘s time for your journey with him.‖ I nodded, and grinned at him like a little kid. I gave him one last squeeze in thanks, then went through the door. When I say my lover though, I gasped. My boyfriend, the one who had been comatose the past week, was sitting up in the bed as if he had just woken up. ―Michael?‖ I asked shakily. He looked over to me and a warm smile lit up his face. I walked to his bedside in amazement. ―Hey there,‖ he said, his voice a little raspy from disuse. He reached his arms around my waist and pulled me into the bed with him. Hugging me, he asked, ―What happened?‖ Before I answered, I spotted a card on the table next to us. It was white and gold with an angel on the front. In a cursive script beneath it, it said, A gift from me. I was certain that it hadn‘t been there earlier today. I picked it up and read the inside. In the same font were the words, Always Believe. I laughed once at it, tears coming to my eyes. Michael was frowning. ―Care to explain why that card is so funny?‖ he asked me. I smiled at him. ―Someday,‖ I told him, before leaning in to kiss him. *The idea of the eight-pointed star is an adaptation from Terry Goodkind‘s creation, the Grace.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Moma Marie By Jen Barras ―I never said I didn‘t like grandma; I just said I don‘t want to visit her all the time,‖ Marc complained to his mother after his latest talking to. ―She just wants to spend time with you. It‘s hard for her, not having anyone to come and visit. She used to throw parties all the time. She loves spending time around people, it‘s just hard because she—― ―Isn‘t all there?‖ Marc‘s dad rapped him on the back of the head. ―What? Am I wrong? You see her. All she does is drool and look off into space. You say she likes to spend time with people, but I don‘t think she knows I‘m even there!‖ ―Marcus! Stop. She is your grandmother and you are going to visit her,‖ his mother spat. Marc opened his mouth to say something but his mom cut him off. ―And you will be nice to her when you do.‖ ―Yes ma‘am,‖ he muttered as he slugged up to his room, pouty face intact and his head hung. ―Nice try, Marc,‖ his dad said. He patted his son on the back and slipped him a 20 dollar bill. ―Do this for me, ok?‖ he muttered. ―It‘ll make your mom happy.‖ Marc sighed and tucked his money in his jacket pocket. Maybe seeing his Gram wouldn‘t be too bad… And maybe I‘ll be able to fly to school once I go through puberty. She stared off into his direction. She clearly saw who it was, her great-grandson, the spitting image of his father too. His mouth was moving. He was talking about something he was passionate about, or at least she thought he was by the way his hands moved with his words, and he was bouncing up and down. This was good. So often she knew she bored him. She had felt her family's resentment grow for her each time they made the pilgrimage to see her at this nice prison for the elderly. She wasn‘t herself here. There was no one to entertain for, the inmates couldn‘t cook for each other, and they rarely had visiting time that was worthwhile with all of the Alzheimer‘s patients. It seemed her entire life was turned on its head when she was put here. They still came to call though, whether they wanted to or not. Her great-grandson seemed to dislike it the most. He was so young, so full of energy. That meant she could only look at him as he sat there. Even then he seemed to be moving all the time. Too bad she couldn't really see him. So often her old eyes looked without seeing, as if they got tired just being opened so they couldn't focus. She felt the drool going down her chin and saw the nurse wipe it from her mouth. Marcus made a face then, as if it disgusted him - as if she had disgusted him. Her old body felt like it was constantly being dragged down to the earth below it. Nothing worked as it used to. Hell, some of it didn't work at all. Her bones creaked with the effort of rolling over as she slept; her tired eyes longed to see realities instead of the fantasies her old memories had become. "What was it like, Moma?" he asked then. He had addressed her personally! "What, child?" "Life when you were..." "Younger, child? When my body did what I told it to instead of what it wanted?"

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 "Yeah... I guess. Mom says you used to have parties. I just wanted to know what they were like." She sighed. Her focus came and went again, as if an indecisive in-law. "It was wonderful child. My house was always filled with people, children and adults, laughing. There was always something wonderful-smelling cooking. It was something close to heaven for me." "Was I one of the kids?" "You were my first great-grandbaby. You were so much younger than everyone else. I... I can't seem to recall that much, child. I'm sorry." He shrugged. "It's okay" No it wasn't. He had wanted to know something, and she couldn't tell him. Damn this age! Again it had made her a disappointment to her family. That's why they put her here. They didn't want the world to see their decrepit old grandma — "Moma?" She shook herself back. "Yes, child?" "Are you ok?" She sighed then laughed. "What a strange question, child. You can see me with those young eyes of yours, right?" He nodded, eyeing her warily. ―Does someone that looks like she‘s melting from her bones look ‗ok‘ to you?‖ He didn‘t say anything, instead looking around to find the nurse. "That‘s right. I see the way you look at your moma. You don't like me very much do you?" "No moma-" "See? There it is. How you really feel about me. You don't like how old I am. It makes you want to be sick sometimes. I can see it in your face, child." "Moma, that's not true." She blinked at him. "You sure, child?" ―Yes I‘m sure.‖ ―You don‘t sound sure, child.‖ He looked down, hoping for this episode to end so he could talk to her like a normal person again. She gave him a look to show that wasn‘t forthcoming. She wanted to know, or at least she thought she did. "Well... I mean not all the time." "But some of the time? That's not too reassuring, child." "No no, it's not that. What I'm trying to say is I don't hate you, moma. I'm... I'm just a kid." "Meaning?" "Meaning sometimes I'd rather be with my friends than my drooling great-grandma. Meaning I want to play, but you can‘t do that because you might break a hip or something!" He slapped his hand over his mouth, as if to keep the slew of hurtful words from running out any more than they already had. She hung her head. A disappointment - that's all she was to him – a boring, old, breakable disappointment. "Well, child," she said beckoning to the nurse nearby. "I guess you'd better go. You probably got homework and your friends are probably waiting to play." 58

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 She almost cried as the nurse wheeled her away. She was a changed woman. She would‘ve never cried in front of her family in her house. Not unless she was happy. She was so far from that now, so far from anything she had known. Her family used to love visiting. "Moma," she saw him stand up. Then he hung his head too. "I love you, Moma." She motioned for the nurse to stop. She turned to him, still standing at the table. ―Next time you see me child, you‘ll be above the ground, and I‘ll be in it.‖ He just stared. He walked over to her and kissed her on the forehead. ―Don‘t say that, Moma. I‘ll be back soon.‖ He gave her a sad, guilty smile. A clipping from the Baton Rouge Gazette: Marie Aimee Berceaux died early this morning in the assisted living facility she had been admitted to from an apparent medication overdose. Known throughout her family and friends as the hostess of some terrific parties, Marie always had a smile on her face and laughter in her home. There will be a memorial for her at the St Aloysius Catholic Church and will then be laid to rest in the St. Louis cemetery # 1. May her soul find rest there. She will be missed.

Clocking By Hanna Tyson

Dim the lights and set back the clocks. They‘re leaving now in droves and flocks. A net can‘t catch them – cage them in! The places we‘ve gone and seen with them, Get faded out and so do they. And yet I don‘t forget their names. What slips my mind is something more: The feelings I had for them before. And when they‘re gone, we shrug it off. Just part of life; uneasy cough. The memories, they still remain. Open the window and end the game, That is called Pain And Life And Change. Perhaps it was necessary to rearrange…

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 The Rules By Sarah Panico When I was ten, my mother was eaten by a bear. At the time my parents were visiting Glacier National Park in Montana for their 14th wedding anniversary. It was what they thought of as romantic vacation (if you consider being violently dragged from your tent and mauled by a distraught brown bear a romantic getaway.) Being killed by a bear is rare, but being eaten by a bear is ever rarer which is why my mother‘s death and consumption was such a shock in the nature loving community. My father, who was also there, was knocked head first into a tree as he tried to rescue my mother from the angry bear, has been comatose in the H. P. Johnson City Hospital ever since. Now I‘m fourteen and am permanently living with my eccentric grandmother. Her antics and odd behavior have often gotten us in trouble in many stores and public places because she sometimes doesn‘t understand what‘s socially acceptable. Don‘t get me wrong; I love my grandma with all my heart, but the seventy-nine-year-old bingo pro smells like baby powder and fish oil. Which I guess you get used to after a while, but it isn‘t exactly the greatest aroma to greet your friends and potential love interests with. Remember, I‘m fourteen: it‘s very important. So here‘s the deal, I was walking down to my science class and BAM I walked straight into the dreamy chest of Jason Taylor1 the quarter back for the varsity football team and the cutest guy in school. *Swoon* Now I know what you‘re thinking: a small innocent little freshman, like me, is falling for a hunky junior who probably doesn‘t know she exists. It‘ll never work out, but that‘s where you‘re wrong, my friends. During a football game he‘ll gaze into the stands, our eyes will meet and the song ―Can You Feel the Love Tonight‖ will begin to play out of the stadium speakers. He‘ll smile at me before he goes off to score the winning touchdown. After he celebrates with his team I‘ll run up to the rail and he‘ll kiss me softly at first, because we‘re in public, but soon he‘ll forget and kiss me with a passion as hot as the sun. True story. Where was I? Oh right, so I walked straight into him. ―Oh, my. I‘m sorry, Jason.‖ He sort of grunted a sorry as he hurried to catch up with his friends. Maybe he was nervous. Or maybe he barely realized I was there. I turned away, head down and continued to walk to class. That night the house smelled like bacon2. Grandma must‘ve seen that I was sad about something and decided to make me my favorite food. ―Why so glum, Sugar?‖ she asked. ―It‘s nothing.‖ How was my seventy-nine-year-old grandma supposed to understand the trials and tribulations of high school? Grandma just shook her head though and went to the kitchen. When she returned she was wearing her obnoxious ―listening hat.‖ My mom had gotten it for her when I was two to remind her to listen to other people and not just shout out her opinions all the time. 1

I don‘t think I can quite explain the abdominals on this boy. Abs I‘d want to run my fingers down when we…dance at homecoming. And his warm green eyes that make me wish it was St. Patrick‘s Day everyday just so I could be surrounded by the color. 2 I‘ve been trying to tell my grandmother just how bad bacon is for her health. But she says it makes me feel better which I suppose it does. A puppy would do the same thing, but Grandma says if we got a puppy I‘d be responsible for cleaning up when it tinkles on the kitchen floor. No Thanks.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 ―I‘m all ears sweet-cheeks; tell Grandma what‘s got you down.‖ I sighed. I guess there‘s no way I‘m going to get around this. ―It‘s just a boy at school, Grandma.‖ ―Well he‘s a dumbass.‖ ―Um, I‘m sorry, what did you say, Grandma?‖ ―He‘s a dumbass.‖ At this point Grandma took off the hat, and I knew I was about to get an earful. She seemed to be watching me across the table. ―Now what is that face for?‖ ―Grandma, it‘s just I don‘t think you understand high school today, how love is nowadays.‖ She smiled. ―Hon, your Grandma was hip once. I was quite saucy3 in my youth.‖ I held back my shudder and looked at her. ―Fine Grandma, what is your advice?‖ ―Just follow the rules.‖ She smiled briefly and then returned to her dinner like everything was solved, like I was supposed to understand what ‗Just follow the rules‘ meant. ―Um, Grandma, what rules?‖ ―The Vagina Rules,‖ she said like everyone around knew what they were. ―Grandma, what are the… the Vagina Rules4?‖ ―The Vagina Rules are list of guidelines that will help empower and lead the everyday woman to live the fullest life possible.‖ ―Well, what are the rules?‖ ―What are what rules?‖ she asked. ―The Vagina Rules Grandma, what are the Vagina Rules?‖ ―I can‘t tell you.‖ ―How am I supposed to follow them if I don‘t know what they are?‖ She couldn‘t argue with my logic, so she nodded, smiling and got up from the table. When she returned she was holding the biggest binder I‘d ever seen. Then she dropped it on the table, causing the legs to wobble, and I was afraid for a moment that the table was going to collapse. ―Are these the Vagina Rules?‖ I asked. ―No, but these are the records of every event that inspired a rule. These pages are filled with stories; everything from jellyfish stings, to camping in the mountains, but you know, the basic idea of every rule is the same.‖ ―What do you mean?‖ I asked. ―Live for today, for this moment, treasure the times when you‘re happy and when you‘re sad. Embrace your emotions when you fall in love, and struggle through the grief of the loss of a loved one. Take moments to look at the details. Lay in the grass and let the wind rush through your hair. Don‘t rush, and don‘t worry. Everything is going to be okay.‖ Then, for one moment, my hormonally unbalanced teenage brain reached some level of enlightenment. I smiled. ―You‘re right, Grandma; everything is going to be just fine.‖ 3

Saucy: the old people word for being a slut. Ex: Elise was so saucy; she would show anyone her ankles. A list of rules I‘m almost positive my Grandma totally made up from her past experiences to further protect her posterity. Nice try, Grandma, but your daughter was eaten by a bear. 4

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 Whisper By Jasmine Gulick It started with ‗silence,‘ as it was later known, since no such thing as a name, or even a word, had yet been invented. The silence was everything and it was nothing. It was the absence of color, the absence of the senses, and the absence of life. The silence stayed static for many years (though it did not keep time as we do), until it eventually began to move, flowing within itself and the space, as it came to be called, all around it. The absence, at some point as it was exploring, came across a being that encompassed it in something it didn‘t understand. The absence was curious, the first feeling ever expressed, and so it began to form its ideas, its new thoughts, into words. The first language of the universe began in a soft whisper. From then on, that is what the absence was called: Whisper. Whisper flowed around its strange new finding, which it named Energy, for it flowed with what Whisper called life. Energy did not have the gift of language, but it did have the senses. It could hear Whisper, and so it flowed to Whisper and through feelings, it taught Whisper how to hear as well, and how to see and taste and smell. Whisper, who had, up until this point, only known touch, responded to the new commodities (which it named its senses) with delight, and it and Energy spent many more years together. Eventually, the feeling known as curiosity took hold of Whisper again, and so it nudged Energy along. They explored the universe together. As they explored, Energy made things for Whisper. Whenever Whisper was cold, Energy would make what Whisper called a sun, and at a distance it called them stars, for they lit up space. When Whisper wanted a place to sleep, Energy made planets, and so the planets would not be lonely, for Whisper knew that emotion was not a desirable one, Energy made moons to stay with the planets. As Whisper and Energy traveled, Energy filled the universe with things for Whisper, for Whisper was its dear friend. It was while staying on a planet Whisper had named Earth that Energy asked Whisper, in feelings for it still could not speak, if Whisper wanted a being to talk to. Whisper was excited, and Energy hid its sadness, for it knew that by granting Whisper this one wish, Whisper would leave, and Energy would be alone again. But Energy loved Whisper more than anything else, and so it knew it had to give Whisper the most happiness possible. The planet, Earth, had water and great sections of land that Whisper called continents, and so Energy concentrated first to make trees, and flowers, and other plants upon which color could be seen. Then Energy made small life, single-celled organisms for both the water Whisper named ocean and the land. These were known as plankton and bacteria, and Whisper delighted in talking with them, but they could not hear or respond to it. So Energy worked harder to create more complicated life. Reptiles and birds. Small mammals and insects. Mammals of larger size and more intelligence. Energy worked and worked, making new creatures for Whisper to try to talk to. It took Energy many years, until it created a creature Whisper called human. The first humans listened to the whisper around them and whispered back. Whisper was ecstatic and whispered more and more. The humans picked up the words quickly and soon Whisper was helping them to grow, build living areas and educate them about the universe and life. The humans became Whisper‘s dear friends and Energy smiled sadly, though internally since it had no such thing as a mouth, and finally it left without saying goodbye. Whisper barely noticed the loss of its first friend, as it was so caught up in its new friends. The humans were growing very fast, and dying fast as well, at least to Whisper, but it 62

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 mourned each one with them all and rejoiced in each new birth. Soon the humans were teaching Whisper new words. Whisper liked learning, and it did not care that the humans grew louder and louder with each word they created. Whisper just kept whispering, happy and content. It was many years later, when the humans were so big and spread around Earth, that Whisper realized that they no longer responded to it. It tried to talk to one, a tribe leader, but he ignored it. It tried again, this time with a small girl. She appeared not even to notice. Whisper grew frantic, it traveled among all the humans of Earth, whispering its pleas, but none heard it. Whisper turned to ask Energy what was wrong, and it was then that it realized its first friend had deserted it. Whisper cried great tears, and the humans felt the pain of its suffering in great storms and high tides. Many years later, Whisper calmed and began to observe the humans. It grew angry at how the humans were destroying the creations made by its dear first friend. Then it grew saddened as Earth itself was stripped down, destroyed by the selfishness of the ones it had considered friends. Whisper missed Energy, and it wanted nothing more than to leave the despondent planet and travel to find its friend. But it knew Energy would be disappointed to find its dear creation so dead. Whisper was determined to fix Earth, and so it set out once more. It talked to each and every human, starting with the newest of babes. Some seemed to notice it, but soon they forgot. Whisper searched harder, waiting for one who would understand it, to help it, to show the rest of the humans what happened. Whisper knew it must find that human, for then it could save the planet Energy had worked so hard on. And once Earth was saved, Whisper would rejoin Energy and they would travel together again. Yes, Whisper would continue searching for the right human, because after all Energy had done for it, Whisper longed to return the favor. Whisper searched.

History: A Book Review By Samuel Chapman I‘ll be upfront about it: when I cracked the binding on History, I was expecting a lot more. History is the new book by the human race, the acclaimed authors of Philosophy, Religion, and the Pulitzer-prize winning Science; unfortunately, it fails miserably to live up to expectations. The book is, in fact, so mediocre that you wonder how the humans ever wrote their other achievements when they‘re capable of a travesty like this. History starts out promisingly: the plot sets up characters in several different locations, from Mesopotamia to India to China, and begins to develop them. I was excited to see what would happen when these people began to interact, and where this would take the story. However, it takes a turn for the worse almost immediately. The first time two Fertile Crescent 63

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011 city-states come into contact, they start to fight. Soon enough, it seems the only relationship the authors understand is mindless conflict. This gets old very fast, and the opening section left me cold. From there, it only gets worse. An entire segment of the book is devoted to the completely unappealing character of the Roman Empire. It‘s never more obvious that the authors are out of touch with their readers than here. They clearly want me to like this guy, seeing as he drives a huge chunk of the action, but whether it‘s his overpowering arrogance or his brutal subjugation of everyone who crosses his path, he just makes me angry whenever he shows up onstage. The supporting character of Greece is much more appealing; he steals every page he‘s on with his unconventional wit, but of course he‘s barely been introduced before he is pointlessly killed off by his own bad luck and poor judgment. I thought I‘d prefer anything when I slogged into the next act of the story, but little did I know that History was about to prove me wrong yet again. For hundreds of pages, humanity gives up even trying to have engaging ideas and allows its characters to stagnate almost as much as its writing style. Sure, they still fight, but that wore out its welcome at the beginning, and I was beyond caring about it now. The only moment that piqued my interest in the slightest is a widespread plague that does nothing but kill off the protagonists even faster—this was what I had been reduced to appreciating. Mercifully, the ―Renaissance‖ chapter begins to speed things up again, and I allowed myself to wonder if the authors hadn‘t had some grand design for their previous failings that I would not appreciate until I turned the final page. Alas, this did not end up being the case. This turn of events, and the ones that come after, fail to have any noticeable effect on the main characters‘ stultifying and one-dimensional rage, and as the book winds down I find myself predicting plot points before they happen: a new continent is discovered and I know its inhabitants will be immediately massacred. Reformers try to challenge the corrupt church and I correctly foresee more bloodshed. By the time the protagonists, whipped by their cruel author into a murderous and terminally childish frenzy, pull out highly advanced weapons and mow each other down like cattle twice in the span of thirty pages, I‘m reminiscing about the Roman chapter. And yet even this might have been palatable had it not been for the atrocious ending. After 2,010 pages, when the surviving characters have been fragmented into dozens of different storylines and face a whole new set of problems, the book abruptly ends. I‘ve never seen a more blatant setup for a sequel: earthquakes, snowstorms, a tragic American president, an enormous atom smasher, the obligatory ten or so different wars, and even some TV disputes are left dangling and unresolved. It seems odd for me to complain that I wish there had been more when I just spent so much space railing against what there was, but after I stuck with humanity through that whole mess, the least they could offer me was resolution. I adamantly refuse to read another of their books unless they start taking their work more seriously.

The Writers’ Block 2010 – 2011

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The Writers’ Block A Literary Magazine of Creative Writing from Anderson High School Students ―Wish I coulda read ‘em…sounds like they were entertaining!‖