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OTTOSON MIDDLE SCHOOL 63 ACTON STREET ARLINGTON MA 02476 JUNE 2015 2
Isabel Aaron
Sophie Krajewski
Fiza Amjad
Eleanora Leto
Haneen Abderrazzaq
Sarah Lindner
Lucie Bell
Felix Moisand
Julian Carpenter
Hanul Morgan
Olivia Carpenter
David Orians
Adriana Cavicchi
Honor O’Shaughnessy
Anna Chadwick
Aubrie-Mei Rubel
Christine Cogswell
Annie Schoonmaker
Darcy Coleman
Eliora Simring
Alana Colety
Audrey Skehan
Daniel Conlin
Jacqueline Smith
Catherine de Frondeville
Reese Stephen
Ellie Egan
Clara Tully
Elina Gorokhovsky
Maren Vail
Maggie Horgan
Lilah Vieweg
Miranda Johnston
Revati Vinayak
Brett Kahmann
Lucy Voges
Sarah Kam
Dara Wall
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Ottoson Middle School June 2015
The student literary and art works in this publication are the result of process writing and drawing in Ottoson Middle School classes. Each published selection represents individual creativity and critical editing by students and teachers through several revisions. The final choices for the magazine were made by a diligent group of seventh and eighth grade student editors. The selections therefore reflect themes that are of particular interest to middle-student students, as well as their stylistic evaluations of the written and artistic expressions. The authors’ personalities unfold in each work, and readers will enjoy satire, fantasy and realism as well as a glimpse into the lives of middle school students. The student editors and I congratulate all of our contributors for their achievement, and extend our sincere thanks to the many more who submitted work. We’d like to give special thanks to the Ottoson faculty, who promote excellence in writing and the visual arts. Sincerely, Mrs. Duke, Ottoson Literary Magazine Advisor
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CREATIVE WRITING If Life Were a Poem ...................................................................................................................................................... 12 By Audrey Jacobs ..................................................................................................................................................... 12 Pretend ........................................................................................................................................................................... 13 By Darcy Coleman .................................................................................................................................................... 13 Untitled........................................................................................................................................................................... 14 By Anonymous .......................................................................................................................................................... 14 Walk into a Room .......................................................................................................................................................... 16 By Lucy Voges........................................................................................................................................................... 16 The Edict ........................................................................................................................................................................ 17 By Isabella Dray ....................................................................................................................................................... 17 Why? .............................................................................................................................................................................. 18 By Fiza Amjad........................................................................................................................................................... 18 The Alone and Forgotten .............................................................................................................................................. 18 By Annie Schoonmaker ............................................................................................................................................ 18 My Mind is Like a Book ................................................................................................................................................ 19 By Anonymous .......................................................................................................................................................... 19 My Mind is an Art Room ............................................................................................................................................... 19 By Louisa Baldwin .................................................................................................................................................... 19 The Pain That Cannot be Felt ...................................................................................................................................... 20 By Mia Milstein......................................................................................................................................................... 20 Sadness........................................................................................................................................................................... 20 By Anonymous .......................................................................................................................................................... 20 The Fog .......................................................................................................................................................................... 21 By Molly O’Toole ...................................................................................................................................................... 21 Petrichor*................................................................................................................... .....................................................23 By Brett Kahmann .................................................................................................................................................... 23 Conversation With a Dandelion ................................................................................................................................... 23 By Chiara Ruberto ................................................................................................................................................... 23 Autumn Leaves ............................................................................................................................................................. 24 By Mia Milstein......................................................................................................................................................... 24 Rain ................................................................................................................................................................................ 24 By Audrey Jacobs ..................................................................................................................................................... 24 Raindrops ....................................................................................................................................................................... 24 By Sofia Westerhoff .................................................................................................................................................. 24 Winter............................................................................................................................................................................. 25 By Isabella LaSpina .................................................................................................................................................. 25 The Lake ........................................................................................................................................................................ 25 By Ella Simring......................................................................................................................................................... 25 Footprints ...................................................................................................................................................................... 26 By Sarah Kam ........................................................................................................................................................... 26 Seasons’ Dance .............................................................................................................................................................. 26 By Mia Milstein......................................................................................................................................................... 26 Life as a Book ................................................................................................................................................................ 28 By Sofia Westerhoff .................................................................................................................................................. 28 Midnight Walk ............................................................................................................................................................... 29 By Audrey Jacobs ..................................................................................................................................................... 29 Simply Brown ................................................................................................................................................................ 29 By Anonymous .......................................................................................................................................................... 29 Untitled........................................................................................................................................................................... 30 By Sarah Kam ........................................................................................................................................................... 30 Untitled........................................................................................................................................................................... 30 By Anonymous .......................................................................................................................................................... 30
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Untitled .......................................................................................................................................................................... 32 By Lucy Voges .......................................................................................................................................................... 32 Trust............................................................................................................................................................................... 33 By Gabriela Altamore ............................................................................................................................................... 33 I can’t believe you ......................................................................................................................................................... 33 By Anonymous.......................................................................................................................................................... 33 Not Alright ..................................................................................................................................................................... 34 By Juliette Stokes...................................................................................................................................................... 34 Just a Phase ................................................................................................................................................................... 35 By Anonymous.......................................................................................................................................................... 35 Social Media .................................................................................................................................................................. 36 By Lucy Voges .......................................................................................................................................................... 36 The Moments of Sadness .............................................................................................................................................. 38 By Fiza Amjad .......................................................................................................................................................... 38 Playground .................................................................................................................................................................... 38 By Ella Simring ........................................................................................................................................................ 38 Summer ......................................................................................................................................................................... 39 By Molly O’Toole ..................................................................................................................................................... 39 How It Is ........................................................................................................................................................................ 40 By Anonymous.......................................................................................................................................................... 40 Hemlines and Pockets ................................................................................................................................................... 41 By Anna Chadwick ................................................................................................................................................... 41 Stars ............................................................................................................................................................................... 43 By Darcy Coleman.................................................................................................................................................... 43 Silver Lining .................................................................................................................................................................. 43 By Maya Pockrose .................................................................................................................................................... 43 Creature ......................................................................................................................................................................... 44 By Catherine de Frondeville .................................................................................................................................... 44 A Split Second ............................................................................................................................................................... 45 By Maya Pockrose .................................................................................................................................................... 45 Untitled .......................................................................................................................................................................... 46 By Juliette Stokes...................................................................................................................................................... 46 The Doors ...................................................................................................................................................................... 47 By Theo Rosen .......................................................................................................................................................... 47 To R.J. Palacio .............................................................................................................................................................. 50 By Anonymous.......................................................................................................................................................... 50 To Nikki Grimes ............................................................................................................................................................ 51 By Destiny Phillips ................................................................................................................................................... 51 In The Shadow of Vesuvius .......................................................................................................................................... 54 By Alana Colety ........................................................................................................................................................ 54 Journal of a Young Man on a Crusade ........................................................................................................................ 55 By Nina Wang .......................................................................................................................................................... 55 Island of Storms ............................................................................................................................................................ 59 By Nina Wang .......................................................................................................................................................... 59 A Lonely Inn.................................................................................................................................................................. 59 By Felix Moisand ..................................................................................................................................................... 59 The Secret ...................................................................................................................................................................... 61 By Darcy Coleman.................................................................................................................................................... 61 Home ............................................................................................................................................................................. 63 By Olivia Carpenter .................................................................................................................................................. 63 Not So Great Gatsby ...................................................................................................................................................... 64 By Marina Goldman ................................................................................................................................................. 64 The Shadow ................................................................................................................................................................... 67 By Hazel Nichol ........................................................................................................................................................ 67 An Excerpt from “Nicole Tesla and the Wonders of Science” .................................................................................... 69 By Marina Goldman ................................................................................................................................................. 69 6
Creative Writing Prejudgments ................................................................................................................................................................. 72 By Isabella Dray ....................................................................................................................................................... 72 The Whippoorwill Forrest ............................................................................................................................................. 74 By Marina Goldman ................................................................................................................................................. 74 Potentia Vindicate (Long Live the King) ...................................................................................................................... 77 By Alexandra Tse ..................................................................................................................................................... 77 An Excerpt from “Penny Dreadful” ............................................................................................................................. 79 By Anonymous .......................................................................................................................................................... 79 Karma ............................................................................................................................................................................ 80 By Anonymous .......................................................................................................................................................... 80 The Wall ........................................................................................................................................................................ 82 By Sarah Lindner ..................................................................................................................................................... 82 Nevermore ..................................................................................................................................................................... 85 By Alana Colety ........................................................................................................................................................ 85 Bad Girls ........................................................................................................................................................................ 87 By Jacqueline Smith ................................................................................................................................................. 87 An Excerpt from “The Warehouse” ............................................................................................................................. 91 By Lillie Wiley-Powell .............................................................................................................................................. 91 Broken ........................................................................................................................................................................... 92 By Liam Barthelmy................................................................................................................................................... 92 When The Sky Turns Red ............................................................................................................................................. 95 By Brett Kahmann .................................................................................................................................................... 95 Jane’s Laugh ................................................................................................................................................................. 99 By Maren Vail .......................................................................................................................................................... 99
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ART
An Elephant Among Flowers………………………………………………………………………………………….11 By Honor O’Shaughnessy………………………………………………………………………….…………..…..11 Hand…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….12 By Anonymous……………………………………………………………………………………………………….12 Fandoms………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...13 By Grace Biondi…………………………………………………………………………………………………......13 A Dancer’s Dream………………………………………………………………………………………………………14 By Julia DaSilva……………………………………………………………………………………………………..14 Mark Edward Fischbach………………………………………………………………………………………………..15 By Megan Roels……………………………………………………………………………………………………...15 Dauntless………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...16 By Elina Gorokhovsky………………………...……………………………………………………………………...16 Flower Drawing………………………………………………………………………………………………………….17 By Henry Walters………………………………………………………………………………………………….…17 Carmilla……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….....18 By Anna Chadwick…………………………………………………………………………………………………...18 Escape………………………………………………………………………………..………………………………......20 By Tyler Stewart……………………………………………………………………………………………………...20 Dragon Staff………………………………………………………………………………………………………….….21 By David Orians………………………………………………………………………………………………….…..21 Butterfly……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….…22 By Miu Kikuchi………………………………………………………………………………………………………22 Red Panda……………………………………………………………………………………………………………..…25 By Megan Roels……………………………………………………………………………………………………....25 A Forest Scene…………………………………………………………………………………………………………. 26 By Lindsey Delbanco………………………………………………………………………………………………...26 The Hate of Others………………………………………………………………………………………...………….....27 By Revati Vinayak…………………………………………………………………………………………………….27 Forever…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..31 By Elina Gorokhovsky……………………………………………………………………………………………….31 Agenda Book Art………………………………………………………………………………………………………..36 By Reese Stephen…………………………………………………………………………………………………….36 Flower Girl……………………………………………………………………………………………………………...37 By Lilah Vieweg…………………………………………………………………..………..………………………..37
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Dragon…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..38 By Claire Grant…………………………………………………………………………………………………..….38 Bag O’ Chips…………………………………………………………………………………………….……………...39 By Nick Morrison………………………………………………………………………………………………..….39 Sherlock………………………………………………………………………………………………...………………42 By Megan Roels……………………………………………………………………………………………………..42 Wonder………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….43 By Olivia Carpenter…………………………………………………………………………………………………43 Parasite…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………44 By Julian Carpenter………………………………………………………………………………………………...44 Nine Lives……………………………………………………………………………………………………………....48 By Christine Cogswell…………………………………………………………………………………………...….48 Tool of the Trade…………………………………………………………………………………………………….....49 By David Peng;………………………………………………………………………………………………….…..49 On the Way to Repair…………………………………………………………………………………………………..52 By David Peng…………………………………………………………………………………………………...….52 Grumio and Clemens…………………………………………………………………………………………...………53 By Nina Wang……………………………………………………………………………………………………….53 Dragon Profile………………………………………………………………………………………………………….58 By Tyler Stewart…………………………………………………………………………………………………….58 Ferocious Beast………………………………………………………………………………………………………...62 By Sylvia Billingsley…………………………………………………………………………………………….…..62 Strix……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..76 By Alana Colety…………………………………………………………………………………………………..…76 Longbow………………………………………………………………………………………………………………...78 By Elina Gorokhovsky………………………………………………………………………………………………78 Big Miss Steak…………………………………………………………………………………………………………..80 By Sophie Krajewski………………………………………………………………………………………………...80 Shingeki no Kyojin……………………………………………………………………………………………………..84 By Julian Carpenter………………………………………………………………………………………………...84 Unfinished Sneaker………………………………………………………………………………………………….....86 By Henry Walters………………………………………………………………………………………………...…86
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A Note Regarding the Significance of the Name “Mirabile Scriptu” The word “scriptu” is a Latin supine in the ablative case, which is a very unusual Latin grammatical construction. The author who used this particular construction most prominently is Virgil, writer of many works including The Aeneid. The Aeneid is the story of a hero, Aeneas, who flees the destruction of Troy (in modern-day Turkey) and embarks on a journey full of adventures that eventually ends with the founding of Rome (in modern-day Italy). During this journey, Aeneas lands in North Africa and enters the court of the ruler of Carthage. It is at this point in the epic that Virgil writes the famous line “Infert se saeptus nebula mirabile dictu/ per medios, miscetque viris neque cerniter ulli,” or “He (Aeneas) had entered swathed in a cloud - strange to relate (or a wonder to tell) - among them, mingling with men, yet visible to none.” (Robert Fitzgerald, translator) “Mirabile scriptu,” or “a wonder to write,” is a direct reference to Virgil’s innovative use of the Latin language and his skill in crafting unique and memorable poetry. This phrase has been the name of the Ottoson’s literary magazine for at least forty years. We no longer know who originally selected the title, but the creative and informed reference is an apt reflection of the Ottoson’s long history of dedication to the nurturing of intellectual inquiry. (contributed by Ms. Rachel Kirtley, Ottoson Latin Teacher, and Ms. Amy Duke, Literary Magazine Advisor) 10
An Elephant among Flowers By Honor O’Shaughnessy 11
If Life Were a Poem By Audrey Jacobs
If life were a song, I would sing it for you. If life were a book, I would read it to you. If I could, I would do anything for you. Because if life were a poem, I would write it for you.
Hand By Anonymous
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Pretend By Darcy Coleman
I grab my toys From under the table As I have done before Suddenly the world changes From a small room to an amazing place Where anything could happen and would Unicorns graze in vibrant fields Dragons gather under a dark cave The sky changes to a fiery red As a volcano erupts Bringing a changing world A world where nothing is secret And nothing is safe My name is called And I walk out from The fields The dragons The danger Remembering
Fandoms By Grace Biondi 13
Untitled By Anonymous
Once upon a different dimension, where time and space unraveled, where streaks of color bounced everywhere and left glowing white blurs, there was a spirit. She was an inventor, combining strands of light and color into beautiful spiraled creations. One day, wondering what she could construct, a streak landed on her and laced into geometric patterns, flickering with luminescence. Inspired, she began to shape a story about a different dimension: where time and space were regulated, where colors stayed attached to one object, where light came from the sky instead of in luminous rays of lights. So she spun a story, wove it and trimmed it and swirled it and perfected it, and when she was done, it peeled off the page and created our universe.
A Dancer’s dream By Julia Da Sila
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Mark Edward Fischbach By Megan Roels 15
Walk into a Room By Lucy Voges
When you walk into a room, who do you want people to see? You want them to see the smart kid, or the class clown, or the sporty one, or the punk But does that ever change? Do you dress yourself up in an attempt to create a different person in people’s minds? Who are you really? Maybe you are different people You could ask the person who knows you best who you are But even to them, you have created a certain mask you put on when you see them, the mask of the person you want them to you think you are Who do you think you are?
Dauntless By Elina Gorokhovsky 16
The Edict By Isabella Dray We are all terrified of apathy; we stifle this feeling for we want no one to know our imperfections. The edict of our society is we must show no flaws, yet we glean nothing from hiding behind perfect masks. Our true self threatens to smite our disguise but never wins and we live our life under constant siege with our identity emaciated and fading. If you show your true self, you are atypical and labeled “weird� weird, now often used in conjunction with freak the number of individuals brave enough to be themselves receding. As we grow older we realize our true potential and show repentance for our wasted years behind masks. As you grow into your own unique person, you leave behind pieces of shrapnel from the life you once lived.
Flower drawing By Henry Walters 17
Carmilla By Anna Chadwick Why? By Fiza Amjad
I am a loose jigsaw piece Nothing has space for me I don’t fit anywhere Why is this me?
The Alone and Forgotten By Annie Schoonmaker
Face towards the ground
There is a light at the end of the tunnel
Making sure no one was around
That light is the thing we must follow
She was lost and could never be found
Letting us see the path we must let go
She was sitting down, Her eyes were darting
We need to realize Broken Mirrors are the special ones
And
And diamonds look better when rough
All she needed to hear was
No puzzle piece Fits perfectly
There is a light at the end of the tunnel
Nobody is a remake
That light is the thing we must follow
We were made to make mistakes
Letting us see the path that we must let go
Don’t they realize what's at stake?
Broken Mirrors are the special ones
Our individuality
And diamonds look better when rough
Is the key
No puzzle piece
Where would we be without it?
Fits perfectly
There’s no doubt about it
Nobody is a remake We were made to make mistakes
Broken Mirrors are the special ones And diamonds look better when rough
He never spoke
No puzzle piece
Just wrote in his book
Fits perfectly
Scribbling down words and thoughts that would never be seen
Nobody is a remake We were made to make mistakes
Believing that everything he wanted to do
Don’t they realize what's at stake?
Could never be achieved
Or are we just the alone and forgotten? 18
My Mind is Like a Book By Anonymous My mind is like a book. Creative, filled with ideas to try, giving them, borrowing them, changing them. Using them in stories, taking them from other stories, changing them, changing them back, undecided on which to use. My mind is like a book. Ask me a question, I will try to answer it. The answer may confuse you as much as it helps you. Just as in a mystery book, the answer brings more questions. My mind is like a book. Not always so straightforward. The answer may not be obvious at first. As books keep answers hidden, I do the same. My mind is like a book. New information is unorganized and messy, like the first draft of a book that has just begun. As my mind absorbs the information, it gets more organized, as a book goes through many drafts to get to the final product. My mind is like a book.
My Mind is an Art Room By Louisa Baldwin
Only showing themselves when someone takes them down to paint a picture.
My mind is like an art room,
My optimism
All the supplies coming together
is the will to push away from doubt and mistakes,
to make something interesting.
to move forward,
Imagination,
no matter if life isn’t turning out how you want your art to.
like art on the wall, no matter what it is a picture of,
And my friends:
accepted by me.
my inspiration,
My confidence
who keep me making my art.
is the bold paints sitting on the shelf 19
The Pain That Cannot be Felt By Mia Milstein A bleak empty feeling. Tears that are meant to be cried, Screams that are meant to be heard. All locked up inside the mind, Eating away at the soul, Demanding to be let free.
Sadness
The pain with an unknown cause.
By Anonymous
Like beating numb hands Against brick.
you smile, but you desperately want to cry
Hidden deep inside,
your eyes are like glass as
Lost from the mind.
you laugh, but you really want to collapse
Demands to be found.
your mouth is tight as
The pain that cannot be felt,
you smile, but you want to scream
But must.
at the top of your lungs while the room is empty all the space is for yourself while you are crying and collapsing everybody thinks that you are happy but nothing could make you more sad than you are inside.
Escape By Tyler Stewart 20
The Fog By Molly O’Toole
The fog came, and the town held its breath. The white blanket seemed awfully permanent when a fortnight went by without any budge in the mist. No one seemed sure of what to do- on the third day three young boys took a sailboat out and it took them hours to navigate their way back to the shore. Fog like this was unusual on the little island and everyone, even the snobbish town council members, was at a loss for words. Everyone, that is, except for the girl: the girl with quiet eyes and a petite frame, who could be found staring out her window into the latest hours of the night, watching the swirling abyss of light and possibility that was the stars. She would sit on the dock, unable to see even her pale dangling feet through the wall of mist, and wonder if there were sea monsters somewhere in the great ocean. Her only friends were the horses in the stable on the east side of the island, that whinnied when she brought them apples. The girl had a lot of big thoughts in her small body. People said perhaps it was she, the young revolutionary, who summoned the fog. Whispers fell at her feet like the leaves of autumn when she walked by, but she was oblivious. She believed in the biggest wonders and the tiniest miracles, she believed in magic and dragons and a life lived extraordinarily. And why wouldn’t she? Because when the fog came, she did not let it change her.
Dragon Staff By David Orians 21
Butterfly By Miu Kikuchi
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Petrichor* By Brett Kahmann
We sit in the luster of the stars Tasting raindrops on our tongues Like liquid memories To swim through thick clouds on a hot day And point at the ocean waves that dot the cerulean skies Look at the faces of the ones who know we’re crazy And laugh along in agreement These storms of stone expel their innards to the Earth Pelting us with their tears The skies are as dark as my soul I could use some sanity for a change But we wait for the eclipse of fake love and broken promises Until the first thrill of petrichor
(“Petrichor: a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.” Oxford Dictionary) Conversation With a Dandelion By Chiara Ruberto
What is a dandelion’s dream? To grant a wish and make a child smile. What are a dandelion’s hopes? To remain whole and young, to blow away in a single whisper. What is a dandelion’s fear? To be a victim of the thoughtless breeze, to be an imperfect sphere to be judged ‘ugly’ and be passed over forever waiting for the hand, the breath that will not come. What is a dandelion’s counsel? Sunshine and opening one’s arms to the beauty of life.
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Autumn Leaves By Mia Milstein They bring the wind Ushering us into The brisk cold As we brace ourselves, For the start of something new.
Rain By Audrey Jacobs Falling down on me.
Raindrops
Washing away my sorrow and guilt.
By Sofia Westerhoff
I am alone with the wind, and I am filled with joy.
Dripping down glass
There is now nothing to regret.
Wet and cold
Everything is okay,
Nearly frozen droplets
and eerily silent.
Hitting the ground
The pounding of the rain,
A sad sound,
against the rooftops.
But steady Outside A banished sun hides Fearful among angry clouds Water dripping off umbrellas Sorrowfully hitting the ground Trees sigh As water weighs them down Occasional gusts of wind Send drops everywhere Hair dampened with rain Frizzy and tangled 24
The Lake By Ella Simring Winter Ripples
By Isabella LaSpina
Circling outward, Spreading away
Snowflakes falling perfectly
As my toes touch
Down the windshields
The tranquil surface
Down the trees.
Of the liquid velvet
Flurries falling through the air,
Also known as water.
Through your hair,
A gingery-blond lock
It's winter.
Tickles my nose as
Whistling wind
Kissing fish tickle my feet.
Blowing through the trees
The breeze is gentle but persistent
Whistling wind, pulling leaves.
My happy yellow t-shirt and jean shorts
Going, going, through the air,
Only add to the feeling of
Pulling through
Serenity.
With not one care
With the boardwalk
It's winter.
Under me And the deep, celestial
Blowing candles
Blue sky
In the house
Above me
Slowly warming
I feel like I am
The little mouse. Off and on,
home.
Through the night Glowing, glowing, Oh so bright Guiding us When in sight, It's winter. Gently snowing, Gently blowing, Gently glowing, It's winter, It's winter, Red Panda
It's winter, It's here.
By Megan Roels 25
Footprints By Sarah Kam
A Forest Scene By Lindsey Delbanco
Yesterday, I trod through the white and behind me, there walked slushy gray footprints. today, I dance in the puddles glory! and behold the splashes of boot-marks I leave as I flit away soaking in the springtime.
Seasons’ Dance By Mia Milstein Winter begins the seasons’ dance, Bring the delicate snowflakes And the howling winds. Then next up comes Spring, Welcoming life back Giving the word color again. After that we have summer, With the shining sun giving us warmth And freedom. Finally up comes Autumn, The bright colored leaves floating down in the soft wind, letting us know it's the end. Then winter comes again to restart it all. 26
The Hate of Others By Revati Vinayak 27
Life as a Book By Sofia Westerhoff I write my own story Ever changing My own words Often deep and thoughtful But just as often bright and bubbly Sometimes wide open My pages standing proud Inviting you into my story Yet sometimes closed Fading ink Hidden on a shelf All I ask of you is... When you read me Please don’t tear out my pages And don’t cross out my thoughts, scribbling over my words Don’t slam me down, And run off to a magazine I may have a cover But on the inside I’m so much more
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Midnight Walk By Audrey Jacobs Walking along a twisting path, it’s just me and the wind, a bittersweet chill. It is so quiet, and so cold,
Simply Brown
but I am warm. Something,
By Anonymous
that I cannot put a name to, is there.
You hated your eye color
Alone, but not quite,
Called it dull and dirty brown
whenever I think of you,
Wished for the deep blue of an ocean
I’m okay.
Where admirers’ hearts would drown And it pained me when I realized You’d never see them like I do The way your eyes hint a story That I want to read right through They hold specks of stolen sunlight That you’d miss with just one glance And a depth of raw emotion That could freeze you in a trance They’re a fix of melted chocolate When I’m craving something sweet But hold a gaze that’s so unwavering That I find it hard to meet I fall right down the rabbit hole When I look into your eyes The brown of earth’s unfettered beauty That I yearn to memorize When I was tired of not belonging They made me feel like I’d been found And I hope you never say again That your eyes are simply brown.
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Untitled By Sarah Kam Once upon a time, there was a girl and a cello. the girl played the cello or did the cello play the girl? the girl and the cello improved as one experience and age freedom and passion united and alone, together and separate. until one day, the girl left the cello lonesome she graduated to another cello they never saw each other again.
Untitled By Anonymous I loved the way your smile stretched all the way across your face and how the edges of your moth twitched upward when you knew I was watching I loved the way your shoulders shook while you were laughing and how you rocked back and forth and threw your head to the sky I loved the way you looked at me so intensely and how I could get lost in the rivers of your eyes I loved the way your hands fit perfectly with mine and how you gripped onto me like i was the one keeping you alive I loved how your breath felt against the back of my neck at night and how safe I was with your strong arms wrapped around me I loved every little detail about you, because I loved you. Loved 30
Forever By Elina Gorokhovsky 31
Untitled By Lucy Voges I’ve always thought and I’ve always been taught that love is the strongest emotion You choose someone or you embrace someone while love crashes over you like an ocean You think of their voice everyday hoping one day you’ll hear them say ‘I love you’ But then fear creeps in What if they never build up enough courage to say it? What if they don’t feel it? you’ll never know You can’t trust anyone the only person you truly know is yourself But how well do you really know yourself?
Who are you? Who do people see when you walk into the room? Why are you here? Fear controls you fear unfolds you and all your deepest thoughts Fear takes over fear gives your perspective a makeover and you wonder, What have I really been taught?
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Trust By Gabriela Altamore Hope, expected they could keep it Shattered by even the one I call friend
I can’t believe you
Fear not the stranger, always Fear the friend who betrays The given trust, can be lost by
By Anonymous
Whom you least expect
I can’t believe you.
Choose wisely
I had (trusted) you
Whom you hand it to
(worshipped) you
Even the best of friends
(bowed) down to your feet in tears.
Can wear a mask of innocence
I can't believe you.
Fear not the stranger, always Fear the friend
you have (cut) me off
Who betrays
we are no longer (friends) yet I used to (think) that we were best friends (forever). I can't believe you. I had (covered) for you (praised) you took the (blame) for you and you did nothing in return. I can't believe you. you (lied) to me in order for me to (suffer) the punishments (you) deserve. you have (caught) me thrashing drowning In the (deep) end of the (pool) of life yet you (stayed) silent. 33
Not Alright By Juliet Stokes We fell in love
So did you
The good old fashioned way
Did you ever cry too
Two hearts one mind
We were running round in New York
Screaming color
City
Bright as day
And the ground fell through
And they'd mock That we were too young
So why
Two paper dolls in the big wide
Am I alone tonight
world
How did I ever agree to good-bye
Always get torn up
I got so tired
So when did you
Said there's not enough time
Start to believe it too
I lost sight
We were standing still in New York
Said I’d be fine
City
But baby I'm not alright
When the race caught up to you I miss you singing songs to me So why
Two AM you'd call me
Am I alone tonight
I'm still waiting
How did I ever agree to good-bye
I'm still waiting
I got so tired
On the phone to ring
Said there's not enough time
I miss your hand holding mine
I lost sight
Tell me did I miss the signs
Said I’d be fine
I'm still holding
But baby I'm not alright
I'm still holding
So we fell apart
Out for you
In the good old fashioned way One heart two minds
So why
Break in half
Am I alone tonight
The colors fade
How did I ever agree to good-bye
And they'd talk
I got so tired
That they knew it all along
Said there's not enough time
And I cried at home
I lost sight
Cause no one cared
Said I’d be fine
How this felt so wrong
But baby I'm not alright
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Just a Phase By Anonymous As I enter my house criticism meets me at the front door Why am I to receive all the enmity? This is when I decided my future who will I be The pressure seems to increase each day: two security cameras watching my every move I seem to cry at least two times a day Everything makes me mad I just can’t handle this anymore Mother and father ask me if I’m having friend problems I tell them no For they don’t know that it is they who make me feel this way They are the ones who constantly reprimand me Forcing me to live up to their expectations Anything I seem to do is wrong irresponsible immature One day I told my mother that I felt like everything I did was bad But she said It’s just a phase Is a phase something that makes you feel deep despair aching inside your heart wanting to let it out to someone but not having the courage? Your tears at night the only thing comforting you Your smile your disguise
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Social Media By Lucy Voges I had a friend who once complained to me about social media. They brought up the issue of youths in particular going to social media to talk about suicidal thoughts or depression or self- harm or anything they are dealing with. My friend then told me how annoying these people were. How they tried to ignore these people because they only wanted attention. Social media outlets are supposed to be places where you can reach anyone anytime anywhere in the world. A place where you can find help or encouragement whenever you need it. Today social media has become another platform for bullying. Another platform of ignorance and ignoring. The next time you read something anywhere on social media where someone is struggling and may need help, whether you know them or not, or respect them or not, please try and be there for them.
Agenda Book Art By Reese Stephen
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Flower Girl By Lilian Viewveg
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The Moments of Sadness By Fiza Amjad The moments of sadness are only here to show us how wonderful the good times are.
Playground By Ella Simring Laughter Softly, Happily The young, chubby hand Grabbing the older hand The older glances left, then right, as The younger bounds for the painted white lines “Wait!” A car whizzes by. Now the two pairs of feet— one in purple converse, one in yellow rubber boots— Cross the blackish-grayish pavement, taking care To only step on the white lines, since The black pavement is lava, with alligators and sharks You wouldn’t want to step in that, the older said. So they hop from line to line Until the structure over the hill crests Like a majestic castle The younger one bubbles over with excitement As the swings and slide Appear with all the happiness of Pumpkin Pie And lemonade The bright, bold colors of the playground Emanating youth, and the feeling of Finding your new best friend In 5 minutes, then— “Time to go!” but you are too busy Having more than enough fun Being a kid. 38
Dragon By Claire Grant
Summer By Molly O’Toole That summer seemed to last forever. A million days filled with running down cobblestone streets and eating ice cream by the pier, a million years of our laughter echoing in every corner of the city. We’d walk through the woods until we found the tiny stream we were awaiting, and then shriek when we put our feet in the water, feeling the cold spread all the way up to our heads. We spent each day feeling like we owned the world. I remember the time we drove all the way to the beach, blasting Green Day and rolling all the windows down, the strong breeze blowing into our souls. Sometimes you’d call me at one in the morning and we’d all gather in someone’s backyard, talking about our futures as the moonlight spilled down on our eager faces. We all promised that we’d love each other, and not turn into jerks once school started. But seasons change, and with them, so do people. By November we stopped texting each other, by February we barely acknowledged the others in the hallways. And like that, all the memories slipped away and shattered into a million pieces, one for each day spent carelessly running after the sun.
Bag O’ Chips By Nick Morrison 39
How It Is
By Anonymous
One year ago, everything was perfect.
who would help me come up with an answer
After homework was finished, the adventures began.
for why there was hardened sand, gravel and glue
Bathrobe pirates, spies, cops, robbers
trapping a spoon in one of Mr. Bartlett’s good cups?
With a little sidewalk chalk, we could be anything
(It was an attempt at making cement. Unfortunately, it worked.)
The world was ours
My parents told me no, sweetie, we can’t move to Florida too.
and we were the world Winter meant snow forts, sledding, and hot cocoa
I was losing my partner in crime, my plus one, my mostly companion.
school off, coats on
One day ago, the moving truck came.
Nintendo and The Disney Channel
Our grotto was emptied, our haven was drained
Counting our collection of VCR tapes in the front room
I couldn’t bring myself to step inside the bare house I once called home
then pretending to be soup in the backyard hot tub
There were no survivors
as we thawed our chilly bones from a fun day.
I was the only witness of this terrible crime
Summer meant no school, bare feet, lemonade and ice cream
Everything was taken away
playing outside ‘till the streetlights came on
Everything but the girl.
Eating lunch up in the strong arms of a tree,
Today, I held back tears as we said goodbye.
careful not to drop the dishes
I forced a smile
(It would have been okay, no one trusted us with anything but plastic.)
an awkward hug
Anything we could dream up was a reality
they loaded into the navy minivan
for small plastic men, of course.
driving two weeks south into Disney territory
We were more than just friends, we were ninjas!
the doors slammed shut.
Our friendship had no possible end
I blinked.
Catching frogs in street drains(I kissed a couple)
and with that, they were off.
bike riding among fallen trees after a hurricane
I knew he would forget me.
and sometimes a fight
He would make new friends, and they would be boys
erupting with the fury and destruction of Vesuvius
He would be the only one who knew what a basement was
slammed doors, toys taken back, words hollered across the empty street
He would be happy.
then settling like a layer of hot ash, resolved on the hour
I waved to the tinted backseat window.
Inseparable in our freedom for three whole months.
One year later, I’m running barefoot through soft, white Florida sands
I would be neighborless.
One month ago, I heard the news. I watched as my childhood was packed up into cardboard boxes.
chasing after a football
I watched as the strangers toured my fortress, oblivious to it’s ancient moors.
slinking around the side of his house with net in hand
We’re having milkshakes by his pool again
As free as the lizard we’re attempting to catch
My tear-stained face pressed against our living room window
I’m walking down Ft. Lauderdale boulevards
knowing Agent A and Scout would never again roam this sleepy neighborhood
Buying biscuits in Publix and playing baseball in his backyard
with Nerf guns and mini walkie-talkies
and realizing how it should be
in search of a treasure or a mystery.
how it was
We had never found one, and now never would.
how it wasn’t
I wondered who would help me dig up our time capsule
how it is.
who would help me meddle with grouchy old neighbors
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Hemlines and Pockets By Anna Chadwick
The air was silent and still if not for the beep of the machines the blinking red light the soft hum of the monitor
silky dresses and stiff suits brush by me.
I would not know if you were alive.
the dark fabrics leave no trace on my fragile and smooth skin.
For wires and tubes
although my vision is limited
intertwined like grapevines
to hemlines and pockets
in and around, encircling you
and black satin shoes
And hard plastic met your soft flesh,
even I can sense the anguish
feeding you oxygen
that lies heavily on the room
through clear tunnels upon your crinkled, but still smiling face
I look for you in the mass of black-clad people,
these tools aiding you
for your smiling eyes
in the one thing
for your frail, but still sturdy hands
you should have known
for the smell of cranberry walnut tarts, for your voice
But still, the next year
aged by stories told over baked apples
I am in a cozy home
I wait for you to show me
the walls are a soft muted green
your new art piece
the floors blanketed by a woolly rug
so I can graze my finger tips
there is the soft murmur of too many voices
along the rugged edges of the canvas
indistinct and distant. snowflakes fall outside a sealed window
and eventually I will find you
and a birch candle burns slowly
in a small vase next to a bouquet of lilies But you will also be in memories and moments in flowers and stars in tarts and baked fruit and in a birch candle that is just a bit shorter 41
Sherlock By Megan Roels
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Stars By Darcy Coleman Milky white in a dark bed A bed full of hope and wonder A place where worlds could meet A harbor for so many dreams A home for the mysterious A utopia
Silver Lining By Maya Pockrose
Life, death. Or death, and life? Isn’t it all the same? One moment: Innocent, perfect, young The next: Old, weathered, tired They say, Nothing gold can stay But doesn’t every cloud have a silver lining?
Wonder by Olivia Carpenter 43
Creature By Catherine de Frondeville Night falls The creature calls Waiting for you here. Down by the river You start to quiver The strange creature is near. You start to shake Tension breaks OUT the creature leaps No one knows Where the body goes When at night the creature creeps.
Parasite by Julian Carpenter 44
A Split Second By Maya Pockrose Streetlights and a single flame burn on and on keeping you alive through the cruel, unforgivingly cold night but just barely rain drops pit and pat upon the warm tar ground familiar and constant the only thing that is always there until they repave the court and the familiarity of it all cracks gone in a split second a split seconddoesn’t matter, right? what’s one baby born, one old man gone in the scheme of things? wrong. one split second is the difference between was and is will do and did peace and war freedom and being restrained innocence and guilt a two year-old and a three year-old and the past, the present, and the future one split secondchanges lives forever count each second and be thankful it was, is, and will be
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Untitled By Juliette Stokes You're welcome to feel Out of place in this old town They still cut edges Don't see the world going round You're welcome To put your name down On the list of the young and the free Pencil scratches that say you can't hold me They send us to climb knowing we'll be back in town Pat our backs when we tell them how we fell down Still the world It still goes round I took a number But I'm afraid I gotta cut in line I'm far too eager To see the other side They said I'm welcome I told them all goodbye I’m on the list of the young and the free Pencil scratches that say you can't hold me They send me to climb I don't think I'll be back in town They'll pat my back say don't be afraid to fall down But I wanna push and pull To make the world go round Here's to the names that no one’s seen for years The ones who gave it blood sweat and tears The ones make who make the world On the list of the young and the free Pencil scratches that say you can't hold me They send us to climb thinking we'll be back in town Pat our backs as they imagine how we fell down Still the world It still goes round 46
The Doors By Theo Rosen
My eyes flutter open, and dark spots flash before me as I stretch and try to get my bearings. This is not where I fell asleep. This is not my pink painted room, with the pink curtains and pink rug, and pink lampshades that fill the room with a warm, sleepy light. This is not my big house that has stood proudly on top of my street since before my Great-Grandmother was born. This place is unnatural, and I am totally, and utterly alone. I don’t have to look around to know that. I can feel it. The aloneness. It’s all-encompassing. I could scream like a banshee or roar like a lion, and no one would know, not because any people would be too far away to hear it, but because there are no people to hear it at all. I stand up slowly to fully observe my surroundings, and I find myself standing in a completely bare hallway. I look behind me to find another wall. Trapped. Nowhere to go but forward. I know I should feel scared. Every brain cell in my skull is telling me to be terrified, but I’m not. Because despite the unnaturalness I felt earlier, this place feels oddly familiar. Like I’ve been here before. And although I know I have never seen this hallway in my life, part of me feels like I’ve always been here. And the second I realize this, I know what I have to do. I have to go forward. So I take a deep breath and step. Again. Again. Slowly. Step. Step. Step. And then, running. Rushing forward, feeling the air push through me, my feet sprint easily down this hallway, like they’ve run down it a million times. I keep running until I can’t run anymore, but it’s okay, because I know, somehow, that I have reached the end. I look up, breathless. Two doors stand side by side. One of them, I know well. It’s the door to my house. It’s old and worn, red paint peeling, like thousands of hands have run over it again and again. It feels comfortable, warm, familiar. The other door could not be any different. Black and sleek, with a shiny silver doorknob. Untouched, brand new. I have never seen this door before. I immediately gravitate towards the one I recognize. It feels safer. I carefully turn the knob and step inside. It’s my house, but from years ago, before we repainted the walls. I stand there, confused, before I hear it. The screechy, out of tune chorus. “Happy Birthday to you” I run towards the sound, into the kitchen. “Happy Birthday to you” I see table of giggling seven year olds, and at the center of the cluster, IT’S ME! “Happy Birthday dear Liza” My 7th birthday! Oh, I remember that! It was the best day, all my friends were there, and we played games and ate cake! “Happy Birthday to you” A grin spreads across my face as I watch my seven year old self blow out the candles. I go to step forward, but before I can reach out, the scene dissolves. It reappears as the day I met my best friend, Rachel. Then getting my first A on a test. Then the day my little sister was born. More birthdays. First day of Summer camp. Family vacation to England. Soon the memories are spinning so fast I can’t see them anymore, but I can hear them. Bursts of laughter, squeals of delight, shouts of excitement. And I can feel them, radiating pure joy. The spinning continues, until finally, it settles down on one memory. I recognize it immediately, and I frantically will it to stop, to keep spinning, anything! I don’t need to relive this again! But my prayers go unanswered. And I can’t move. I just stand there and watch, as 11 year old me walks onstage, ready for her big solo, feeling very confident in herself. I try to yell. I need to warn her! Run onstage! Stop this! But my feet are glued down, and my lips are sewn shut. I can do nothing but watch, butterflies flapping wildly in my stomach. And it’s horrible, because I know what’s coming this time, but I can’t do anything to prevent it, because it’s already happened. I try to run one more time but I’m too late. She goes for the high note and I can feel it coming, *VOICE CRACK*. Silence. I watch my young face as it fills with horror and then, quickly, embarrassment. The butterflies have broken free of my stomach and are now flying all over my body. I don’t have to look up to see my little face filling up with tears onstage, or hear the thumps to know my little feet are bolting offstage. No, I don’t need any reminders. I know this one by heart. I stare down at my feet, refusing to look up until finally, my prayers are answered and this scene dissolves as well. Again, the spinning. But this time, the memories don’t radiate joy. They exude fear, embarrassment, and hatred. The snippets of sound I hear this time are screams of terror, yelps of pain, and tears hitting the tile of a cold bathroom sink. Visions of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, friends stabbing me in the back, feeling like a failure, being laughed at ruthlessly, all flash by as I remain frozen, useless against the tsunami of bad grades, salty tears, and voice cracks. There is nothing I can do to stop them because I have no control here. In this place, behind this door, I am nothing but a ghost. With every muscle in my body, and every fiber in my being, I push myself up, out of that room, out of the past, and throw myself back into the hallway. 47
The door slams behind me and I lie on the ground, shaking. I stay that way, taking deep breaths for God knows how long before I am able to stand up and face the second door. I know I have to go inside. I can’t run away now, or I’ll be just as useless as I was in there. No, I have to go in. Fear starts to take hold. This door isn’t familiar like the other one. I have definitely never been behind it before. I prepare myself for the worst, and push the door open. I scream and pull myself back just in time to avoid tumbling headfirst into the abyss that lies inside. I stare into the pit trying to make out anything at all, but it’s completely empty. Just pure black, swirling mist. It’s unfathomable, undecided. Completely undiscovered. Completely terrifying, and not at all comfortable. But in a way, it’s slightly refreshing. What I do here could have an impact. Whatever happens here is new, no pre-decided ending. After seeing this, feeling emptiness, true emptiness, I know I can’t possibly go back to the land of inevitable voice cracks. I know that this is where I need to be, this is where I can make an impact. This is where I can move on. So I jump into the void. The nothingness engulfs me completely, and I know I am in control.
Nine Lives By Christine Gogswell
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Tools of the Trade By David Peng
Letters About Literature Contest sponsored by Massachusetts Center for the Book State Semi-Finalist Level One (grades 4-6)
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To R.J. Palacio By Anonymous
Dear R. J. Palacio, There are some books that after reading you want the whole world to experience too. And there are others that you want no one else to read because you feel like they are yours. When I first read Wonder, I strongly believed that it was the latter. I felt this way because I see myself in Wonder’s pages. I understand what is happening to the characters because I have felt that too. I feel myself in Via. I was brought to tears reading about her because in 5th grade I struggled through a friendship not unlike Via and Miranda’s. Last year, my best friend started spending most of her time with someone who, in my opinion was totally stuck up and I couldn’t understand why she was doing it. She completely turned her back on me. I sat alone many times at lunch. At the times that I wasn’t, I sat with a group of friends that I didn’t even like. I sat with her and her new BFF about twice, but I was nearly reduced to tears the way they finished each other’s sentences. When Via took the train home that first day I was overcome with nostalgia as I remembered how I felt that first day that she said that she was going to “her new friend’s house” instead of mine. It made my stomach tie into a knot and my head drooped. A week after that, someone told me I just HAD to read Wonder, purely by coincidence. I know that other people have read Wonder and merely Auggie has impacted them. For me, of COURSE I felt bad for Auggie and felt for him as I read, but as I read through Via’s struggles, I turned every page eagerly, not daring to believe that someone had finally understood what mess I was in. The tears dripped off my nose faster than I could control them. When I finally finished the book, I realized that we were both Miranda, not just my best friend. I succeeded in shutting her out, when really she just wanted more friends. Of course it wasn’t smart of her to act the way that she did. There will always be that gap in our friendship, but just like Via and Miranda, we made up because we didn’t realize that the other one was feeling what they were. We both argued: “It was my fault!” “No it was mine!” We experienced laughing, and tears, and endless amounts of joy and sadness and being sorry. Wonder helped me to cope with that what-felt-like-forever struggle in my life. And I am grateful. Because without it, I don’t know what would’ve happened to us. I now firmly believe that Wonder is a book that everyone in the whole wide world should read, in as many different languages as it takes. It changed me and I want others to be changed by it too. So I thank you, R. J. Palacio because with your book, I now know how to deal with relationships that have somehow, someway fallen apart. And by knowing how to do that, maybe do a little more good in the world by rebuilding them. Sincerely, Anonymous Ottoson Middle School Grade 6
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To Nikki Grimes By Destiny Phillips Dear Nikki Grimes, I’ve always admired your writing and books. But this book in particular intrigued me because in the Road to Paris you practically described my life as an elementary-schooler. In the book you described how Paris couldn’t really call a place home, and how she held on to and trusted her older brother Malcolm until she was separated and she went to the Lincolns. I felt the same way but for longer, for six to seven years. Even though your story took place a long time ago, believe it or not, things like what happened to Paris are still happening today. I was in the foster care since I was two years old to nine years old and now I am twelve years old. I felt the same way that Paris felt -- don’t know who and who not to trust. I felt that way until I met the two best foster sisters of my life, Jaida and Victoria. It was like I am Paris, and Victoria is Jordan and Jaida is David. Paris and I share some of the same feelings. For instance, we both felt connected to our mothers and then they betrayed us and set us into the foster care system. The feeling of being betrayed is one of the worst feelings anyone can feel, and to know that someone else has felt that way and worse is devastating. We also share memories; Paris and I share the memory of being locked up in a closet. I also know that hard decision when you have to choose between the person who has betrayed you or the brand new foster family that has been nice to you. I had to choose at the age of five years old. Paris had to choose, between the best foster family she had ever known or going back to her mother who had betrayed her to give her a second chance. Paris chose to go back to give her mother a second chance, I chose to stay with my foster family who was really nice me. Even so, Paris and I we will always live in fear. It’s hard for any foster child not to live in fear. Even now that I am adopted I still live in fear, not just myself but my parents too. Paris and I have both learned to be ready to leave at all times. It’s also hard to call a place home. I still don’t call my house home and I have been adopted for four years. You can’t really call a place home unless you mean it. A house can be a house, but you can’t call a place home unless you sincerely mean it. Let me tell you right now, one thing never changes once you have been in foster care: you always remember everything that’s happened, especially the bad memories. When I was in foster care I was just like Paris, I didn’t let anyone touch me and never got too attached to anyone or anything. I was moved ten times in one month, other times twice a week. It’s a really hard life in foster care because you’re always alone and all the system cares about is that you’re in a home, you have food, and you are safe. The social workers don’t really care if you’re happy or if you like the people you’re staying with. That’s why Paris held on to her older brother Malcolm so much because he would make sacrifices for her and make sure she was safe and happy enough. If I were Paris I would do the same thing. In the foster care homes you almost always learn never to get in anyone else’s way because you would get slapped, spanked and sometimes without food for a couple of days. You would basically go around and act like everyone else and try not to stick out too much. Also, when you’re at the foster care houses, you have to run away sometimes, like Paris and Malcolm did. Rules rarely ever were broken at foster homes, not just mine but also with Paris. But in some foster homes you learned rules don’t matter; your feelings and whom you care about matters. That’s what both Paris and I learned in our last foster home. Going to the Lincolns changed her view of how people are in the world. In a way it makes you wonder if all people are mean, nice, mysterious, gentle, heart breaking and even considerate. So it’s hard to know who is actually on your side or not. So that is why we didn’t let anyone touch our stuff and never got attached to anyone or anything. I guess that is why we foster kids are so timid and shy around other people.
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Both Paris and I had to take a trip to church. We both found our own unique ways to worship God. Paris learned by singing to him, and I learned by speaking to him. We both used God to help us in different situations, but Paris used him when she needed someone to understand her grieving feelings. I used God to help me when I felt as if no one cared about me because I didn’t have two foster sisters all my life. Nikki Grimes, you’ve now imagined and read through my foster care story. You have now realized the story you wrote is real for some kids like me. Even if you were just making up a story to show what some kids have to deal with, it means a lot to not only me but also the children who are still in the foster care system. It shows foster care children that you really care about us to write a story about. It brings joy to know that someone who doesn’t even know us kids still cares enough to write something so thoughtful and special too. It also shows other children what some of us have to live with every day and how they should be grateful that they didn’t and don’t have to live that way, another thing it shows them is another perspective of life.
Sincerely, Destiny Phillips, Ottoson Middle School Grade 6
On the way to Repair By David Peng
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Grumio & Clemens (Characters in the Cambridge Latin Course Textbooks) By Nina Wang
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In The Shadow of Vesuvius By Alana Colety August 23, 79 C.E. My lungs scream for air and my legs beg me to stop, heart pounding and arms pumping through the fiery remains of what was once my home. Rubble burns everywhere and hot flames bite me as ash-ridden air contaminates my lungs, but I cannot stop. Somewhere in this once-familiar hell hole is my master and those who I’ve come to know and love, and it’s my duty to save them… save them or die trying. The crowd rushes around me mercilessly, pushing me back and back as I try to surge forward, the sound of screaming women and crying children pounding in my eardrums. My eyes are dry and stinging, but I’m able to make out my master’s villa. Coughing and aching, I only let myself pause for a second, however, before taking in the greatest breath I can and plunging into the house. The first thing I notice upon entering the once-grand villa is that everything is gone. No, not gone, but destroyed, either on the floor and in pieces. Busts of Caecilius’ ancestors lie in shatters, paintings that took the pictor hours to perfect, everything is fallen and shattered and in a mess. But there’s nothing I can do now but to find my master and get him out of here. I can only hope that his wife and prodigy son, Quintus, have already made it safely out of the city. “Caecilius! Caecilius?” I call, coughing in the smoky and ashy air. My heart jumps a little when at first I hear no response, but then I hear Cerberus bark. Cerberus, the mangy mutt. I never thought I would be capable of being glad to see him. Cerberus leads me through the atrium, past the culina and triclinium to Caecilius’ study, where I hear a groan of pain. “Cerberus… Cerberus…” It’s clearly Caecilius moaning in pain. “First my wife and son leave me, now not even the dog stays to my death…” “Caecilius!” I exclaim. My master appears to be stuck under some sort of heavy object. I walk closer and see through the haze that it’s parts of the study’s walls, fallen on his body and now covering him from the chest down. I run to get a cup of wine for him, then rush back and kneel by his side, raising his head to allow him to drink. He takes one sip carefully, and then another as he recovers his senses. “They’ve gone, Clemens. They’ve gone and left me and now I shall die alone, with only my slave and a filthy beast by my side. No glory, no sense of contentment, nothing. I shall never see my son grow old. Clemens, it is my wish to free you. Take this ring before I die, Clemens, for I know I am closer to death than ever before. Give it to Quintus. And send Metella what remains of my love. Give it all to her, freedman. Promise me you will.” Caecilius murmurs some more words, some of it inaudible to me. But as I sit, give my promise, and listen to the ramblings of a dying man, a million conflicted feelings weigh on my back. This man, my master for the greater part of my life, has of course led a life I cannot say I fully believe in, slaves and labor and such. Yet he has endowed freedom upon me, Caecilius and all his renown. I think he is a man I would have wanted to be friends with, had I been given the luck of being born a free Roman citizen. He was smart and talented, and above all had quite the mien. I wish greatly for him that he would’ve died among his family and friends, among all of his riches and spoils, but mostly surrounded by his ever- beloved wife and son. But, on the other hand I’m glad Metella and Quintus will not have to see his death, as Metella would most certainly fall into a depression, becoming even more of a recluse than her normal self. And Quintus… Well, who is to say what would happen to the boy? Caecilius finally falls limp in my arms, and I cannot successfully mask the cry that rises in my throat, the tears welling up in my stinging eyes as I lay down his body on the rubble and close his eyes. I’m forced to turn my back on him one last time, facing the very chaos that killed him, and will kill me if I’m not fast enough. “Cerberus. Come, now!” I call for the dog, not particularly because I enjoy his company, but because this isn’t a journey I wish to face alone. That, and there have been too many deaths today, and I wish to save any more lives that I can. He whines in response, and rests his long muzzle on the body of his now deceased master, the sadness and mourning of almost a human glinting in his eyes. Caecilius’, no, Quintus’ ring is heavy in my clenched fist, and I don’t ask for Cerberus to follow again. I’m walking out of the study and into the atrium when I hear it, the sound of rocks shifting and a muffled, “Clemens? Clemens, are you out there?” My heart soars with hope when I hear that familiar voice, the voice of the one and only Coquus, Grumio. I hurry over to the area the noises come from, forgetting my grief as I pull away at stones. 54
“Grumio, are you okay in there?” I hear muffled grunts in response as the rocks peel away to reveal a tired, scratched up but seemingly okay -looking Grumio. Despite all that is currently happening, his predominant eyes catch my own before he grasps me in a lung -crushing bear hug. I wrestle him off and allow myself a moment’s look to ensure he’s okay before we’re off, running into the still present chaos of the Gods. We trip and stumble and fall on our faces, but we’re together and we’re surviving and the flame of hope burns brightly. We fend off hot ash and rock, but we’re getting away from the city, leaving all that we know behind. My eyes skim the huge crowd of people fleeing Pompeii, looking for my ex-master’s son and his wife, when it occurs to me that we two, Grumio and I, could be in danger of a penal threat. Our master died alone in his villa with only the word of a slave to count on, and the Court’s never shy about unfair slave treatment. But, I reason with myself, these are rather wild circumstances and our chances of impunity are higher than the average. We do it. Grumio and I, we finally make it out of the city alive. I wonder what future awaits us. I hope that we will be reunited with what remains of our master’s family, though I suppose he isn’t my master any longer, and if we were to mysteriously disappear we would only be presumed dead. But I owe him, Caecilius, I owe him for my freedom and for the relatively easy life I’ve led under his command, at least it was a slave’s luxury. I owe it to him to make sure that Metella gets his final message to her, and that Quintus receives the ring. I owe it to him to ensure their safety for as long as time allows. And I’m not one to break a promise.
Journal of a Young Man on a Crusade By Nina Wang Something happened today in town that may change our lives forever. There was noise everywhere: the usual snippets of French and Latin, merchants advertising their wares and the braying of donkeys as their drivers urged them to go faster. I was slipping unnoticed through the crowd, managing to pinch a pear and a few coins that I stuffed into my cloak. Everyone knows how mouths talk around here, and for weeks I had been hearing whispered rumors that the Pope would be paying us citizens of Clermont a special visit. I don’t care that much about the Pope, but the rumors sure drew in a big crowd which meant lots of money being passed around. Sure enough, I spied a knot of people clustered together, and in their midst, Jacques’ shock of white-blond hair. I pushed my way over to him, tapping him on the elbow when I got close enough. He turned, a lopsided grin spreading across his face. “Come listen to the Pope!” he shouted, mouth close to my ear so I could hear him over the din of the crowd. “Why do I care what the Pope has to say?” I yelled back. “He might have something interesting to say. And besides,” he hollered. “You haven’t been very faithful to the Lord recently!” I rolled my eyes but stayed. I do wear the holy cross that my mother left me with, but it is really hard to be a good Christian man while living on the streets. Jacques tells me that if I pray every night someday I will be forgiven for my sins, so I try as best as I can to please the Lord. My thoughts were interrupted when the crowd suddenly surged up and Jacques elbowed me in the gut. I looked up to see a tall man draped from head to toe in white robes parting the sea of people like Moses. They reached their hands out to make contact with that fabric, and he in turn lifted his own hands to touch, if briefly, the dozens of grasping hands that were offered as he passed. Finally he reached the center of the Common where there stood a little podium for public speakers. A hush fell over the crowd and Jacques and I shared an excited look as the Pope began to speak. Looking out over the hundreds of people flooding the Common, I saw their reactions to his words as plain as if they were written out on their faces. I could see the sorrow at the destroyed Holy Land, and the anger towards the barbarians who caused it. As he talked, the excitement rose audibly. “Christians, hasten to help your brothers in the East, for they are being attacked. Arm for the rescue of Jerusalem under your captain Christ. Wear his cross as your badge. If you are killed your sins will be pardoned.” The mob erupted into cheers and I was swept away from where I stood. Jacques managed to catch my sleeve and pulled me into a calm corner in a shop. “Jules, we’ve got to go!” he exclaimed, his eyes bright and sparkling. “Us?” At first I thought he was joking, but after I got a look at his face I knew he was dead serious. 55
“Yes, don’t you see, Jules? This is our chance. We could be forgiven for all of this.” He stuck his hand in my cloak and pulled out a handful of coins. “We could get out of this coward’s life of thievery, get a little taste of adventure, and fight for the Lord Almighty all in one.” I admit I was skeptical. I’d grown up all my life here in Clermont, and I’d never fought or been anywhere else. I didn’t know if I would be ready to just drop everything and leave to go on what they are calling a crusade to fight for the Holy Land. Jacques has dropped the subject for now, but I have a feeling that he will not rest until he has convinced me to go with him to the Orient. I must go to sleep now, for if we do decide to go, we will have to depart from this lovely city as soon as possible. (Written in the day-booke of Jules Bonvalet, on the twenty and seventh day of November in the year 1095) My last meal was yesterday, and consisted of one slice of old rye bread and three grains of rice that I found in the folds of the blanket that belongs to the man that was sleeping next to me.. I am trying to ration out the food that I brought so I will not run out before the month is out, but things are looking dire. We have been traveling for less than one month, and already we are filthy and hungry. It will be a wonder if more than half of our men survive this dreadful peregrination. My feet are raw and blistered from hours upon hours of walking, so much that I can no longer take my shoes, or what is left of them, off properly. When the weather turns cold, I think that frost-bite will be impossible to avoid. I dread the day when we reach the snowy mountains, but I can see their white-covered crags looming over the horizon, growing closer and larger as the days pass. I believe we may have already started the ascent, for the air is noticeably more bleak today than it was yesterday. The men say that we will be reaching an outpost soon, where we can buy more provisions. If this is true, I will certainly purchase a new pair of boots, as well as a blanket. I have given mine to Jacques, which reminds me. I am very worried about my friend. Just these past few days he has fallen ill. He claims that he is fine, and whenever I offer to give him some of my food, he always declines and insists that I need it more than he does. But I can see his face getting sallow and gaunt as he refuses to eat, and these past few nights I have woken up in the dark to find him muttering in his sleep with his brow damp from sweat. Between the cold nights and the harsh journeying in the day, he is weakening by the hour; just earlier today he had a spell, and nearly toppled off the worn path. I had to catch him and sit down with him for a few moments for him to clear his head before we could continue. I fear that if he continues like this, he will not survive to claim his promised riches in the Holy Land. At least I know he is in the eye of God, and should he lose his life from this fever his soul will be be cleansed in Heaven. I pray to God every night for food and warmth on our perilous journey, and I know He is watching out for us. We travel as a large group, and, to the few countrymen we pass, we must be quite a sight to behold. A hundred men, each proudly armed with a blood-red cross, cresting the hills on horses and on foot. A hundred men, each with his own tongue, born miles away from one another yet traveling as brothers to reclaim the land that is ours. But if one were to look closely, they would not see this powerful army; one would see only men weary and haggard from days of travel with no food and no water, accompanied by fatigued, starving pack animals. I ask, God, for only two things: that you keep Jacques and me safe, and that this army of men reaches the Holy Land with enough strength to fight the barbarians. Written in the day-booke of Jules Bonvalet, on the thirtieth day of January in the year 1095 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I cannot write today. I am distraught with grief. The days that have passed since the battle have done nothing to dull the pain in my heart, and I don’t expect it will ever cease. I walk through the ruins that are our new kingdom with a black shroud over my soul, and I long for the day when I can join my best friend and our Lord in Heaven. Written in the day-booke of Jules Bonvalet, on the five and twentieth day of July in the year 1099 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Nearly a month has gone by since that fateful battle, but the images in my mind have done anything but fade. I am now two and twenty years old, and I remember that day so many seasons ago when Jacques and I left our home in Clermont. We thought it was an opportunity. We thought that it would be fun. We were mere children, I know now. Nothing could have prepared me for the horrors I have seen. I have come so close to losing my own life, and I’ve seen more than any man should ever want to see, including the brutal death of my own dearest friend. Jacques had been so much more than that, ever since I was a little lad running through the cobbled streets after my parents died. His loss is an eternal hole in my heart that I will carry with me for the rest of my life, made even deeper by the fact that I know he died because of me. At last, after years of grueling travel on the journey we have come to call the Crusade, our army reached our final destination: the Holy City. Prior to this, after seven months of diligent siege, we had managed to take the city called Nicea without too many losses, and I hadn’t even had to fight. 56
That was a good thing, for although I had been given a sword and a shield, I didn’t know how to use them and I had never killed a man before. But now we were faced with the ultimate challenge, and we had run out of wood from the previous battle. We had already lost over a third of our men to the hardships of our quest, so the army was considerably weakened before the battle has even begun. The barbarians had erected high walls all around the city. Since we were missing materials for proper siege weapons, the first couple of attacks on the city were in vain. The barbarians defended themselves with surprising force, and for three days and three nights we were ravaged by falling stones and flames. After these days of next to no progress, we got a tower up to the north wall and one of our men called Lethold managed to breach the wall to the city. Once this happened, the barbarians fled like mice from a cat. What followed was a gross massacre that I wish I could wipe from my memory. Our men swarmed into the city, sparing no one. We cut down men, women and children with our mighty swords, until their blood ran thick and red over the dirt and stones of the street. I didn’t know what to do. I was dazed and confused; every way I turned there was more slaughter. The air was filled with screams from both the barbarians and the attackers alike as men were murdered by the dozens. The ground was littered with corpses strewn up and down the streets in rivers of blood. In my panic, I noticed a few sporting that red cross, hardly distinguishable anymore from the dark red staining the rest of their clothes. Meanwhile, those who remained living continued on amidst the turmoil. I couldn’t recognize anybody; the few men I had made acquaintance with during the crossing were nowhere to be seen, and no matter how hard I looked, I could not find the bright head of hair that was my best friend. In my distraction, I had not seen that one of the barbarians, a rough-looking man with a long, scraggly beard, was quickly approaching behind me. Hearing his heavy breathing, I spun around, but it was too late. His sword was raised high above his head, pointing straight towards my throat. I think I must have screamed, and tried to bring up my heavy shield, but it seemed like I was moving through bread pudding. Somehow I thought to myself, ‘This is the end,’ as I saw my attacker’s scrawny arms strain from the effort of swinging his weapon. I am still unclear about what happened next. All I saw was a flash of golden-white as someone flung himself in front of me, pushing me to the ground moments before the villain’s sword plunged deep into his chest. Seconds later, the barbarian’s own blood was spilled onto the street as he was stabbed from behind by one of my own comrades. Within all the chaos, all of the killing that was happening all around us, Jacques had somehow managed to find me seconds away from certain death and take the sword that was meant for me in his own breast. Writing this down is making me positively ill, but I must finish the story, so I will continue. However, I am promising myself that I will not mention … him again, or I shall possibly vomit. After nary a barbaric soul was left standing, and the city had become a sea of corpses and blood, the battle was finally over. The few barbarians who were still alive gathered their numerous dead and disposed of the bodies outside of the city. We Crusaders picked through the once beautiful city that was now stained forever with the blood of tenthousands for treasure. We plundered, taking gold, silver, livestock, and all other kinds of loot we could find. We destroyed the domed golden building in the center of the town, tearing down countless of these little tiles that once adorned the walls. I took two little tiles, a blue one and a gold one, which I now carry in the pocket of my cloak. I know not what I will do now. One of the knights, a brave man named Godfrey, has been crowned king, and he seems to be a fair leader. I have been given a tiny bit of land, less than three furlong’s worth, which I suppose I must do something with before the winter. The other men do not like me, necessarily, but they tolerate my presence. I am more lonely than I have ever been, and it seems like God is my only friend. I ask for His guidance during these difficult times. Written in the day-booke of Jules Bonvalet, on the eighth day of August in the year 1099
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Dragon Profile By Tyler Stewart 58
Island of Storms By Nina Wang The bitter wind buffets my hair and rain flicks against my face like thousands of persistent fingers. It’s been like this for a while now, since the heavens split in the wee hours of the night. The sky is a turmoil of twisting black clouds, illuminated bleakly every now and again with a white flash of lightning. It feels like eons since I've been here last, and I already sense the storm’s power reverberating through me. I can feel it spreading through my body, its potency far surpassing that of any drug. Oh, have I missed this! Every rumble of thunder is in time to the beating of my heart, every crash of the waves beneath me in unison with my ragged breathing. The rain drips red off my body, mixed with the blood from the gashes across my skin and sinking immediately into the permeable ground. It tastes sweet and metallic in my mouth, and subconsciously I run my tongue over my chapped lips. The lighthouse, which hasn’t been attended to in at least six years, still tries to do its job. Its glaring beacon sends a solid-looking beam into the haze. Yet even so, I doubt it would do anything to actually help a weary fisherman that had the horrible misfortune of straying near the island. And indeed a misfortune it would be, for there is nothing on the island for such a traveler, not an ounce of fresh water nor a single loaf of bread, not even a sturdy roof to provide shelter from the rain. I myself require none of these trivialities. All I need is the storm, and as long as I have that I will be safe. On this island, just off the coast of the place most call Scotland, I feel perfectly at home. In fact, one-hundred and seven years ago it was my home. Until the man with the name that makes my blood curdle came and took it from me, or rather, me from it. I had wandered aimlessly for centuries, passing in between worlds unnoticed like a specter; no name, no one, no place to call home. And no matter where I was, no matter when I was, he was there, too, lurking in the shadows, dissolving into the dark whenever I turned around. I never saw him, but I felt him constantly, always watching, always waiting. Like a nagging memory in the back of my mind, he was there, waiting for me. But now I have returned. I am back to the very place he doesn’t want me to be, and I am ready to end this once and for all. The ocean churns below me, reflecting the turbulent skies overhead. A single, black cloud, the darkest and largest in the storm, discharges a blaze of blue flame. I throw my head back as it connects, the electricity coursing through me, but instead of hurting me, it is only strengthening me. I know what I have to do, and now I have the power to do it. I will reclaim what is rightfully mine.
A Lonely Inn By Felix Moisand A lonely inn clung to its foundation among rolling hills and green shrubbery. It was made of long, slender planks, and had a simple thatched roof. The windows were but thin slits between the roof and the walls. There was a long porch that went along either side of the door, like outstretched arms. Dusty crates were stacked like a monument to the gods, save for the fact that they were somewhat hidden from view. Crudely split logs were strewn about in a disorderly fashion around a chopping block nearby. The logs seemed to be waiting for the day when they would be used as firewood. Two grand elk antlers adorned the area above the door. Though the points of the antlers had long since weathered away, the antlers still had a majestic grace to them. Beside them, a sign flapped in the wind, with the words “Elk-Ear Inn” carved into the bright birch wood. Upon entering the inn, weary guests felt one thing immediately: rather than a cold wind sliding its tendrils across their face, they would instead welcome the heat of a brazen fire licking at them. The fire pit was a long thing, stretching across almost the entirety of the inn. It was cobbled together from many rough stones, which kept themselves mysteriously held together with a splash of plaster. Within the fire pit, blackened charcoal glowed red with embers that snuck across the surface of the charcoal like crisscrossing scars. The newer wood atop the charcoal burned with a bright flame that grasped tantalizingly towards the metal spit above. At that moment, the spit held a wild boar, which looked more asleep than dead on the spit. The waft from the boar filled the inn with a delightful scent. Past the fire pit, there were plenty of patrons chatting among their various tables. Two noblemen sat at a table with one short leg, the dents in the wood replicating the rolling hills outside. One wore a bright blue gambeson, with edges that were sewn with intricate patterns of cloth-of-gold. He had an amulet hanging down from his neck, which held several beads dyed a royal purple and a large iron pendant. 59
The iron pendant held a raised iron cross with a sapphire-carved face. This professed his grand belief in the river gods. He had a small goatee pointing out of his chin like a spear, but he only had some small tufts of hair atop his head. He held himself in a manner as though he was deep in thought, leaning his elbows on the table to support himself. Across from him, the obviously younger man of the two leaned back impatiently, drumming his hands on the table. He was clean-shaven and still had a vibrant brown head of hair. He wore a brilliant red gambeson, which was odd, since he also wore the amulet of the river gods, whose traditional color was blue. They were having some discussion of what treasures the future might hold. The older man warned the younger man against thinking he would make a fortune but the younger would have none of it. Meanwhile, near them, a band of grizzled old caravan guards sat along a long bench by a long table. They all had some patchwork of bits and pieces of leather armor. The pieces were, however, far too small for the bulging masses that were their muscles. They guzzled down plates and plates of food like a pack of wolves. They made small talk between mouthfuls of food, concerning themselves about the weather, or the roads, or other such petty things that concerned the simple men of their day. The waitress, standing a good distance from their table, was visibly concerned that the men weren’t going to be able to pay the bill. She became calmer when one of them noticed her and brought out a coin purse, which was ready to split its seams from the amount of coins it held. At the bar, a hunter and huntress grudgingly sat alone. They both hunched their backs over their drinks, as though someone was about to take them. Both sat on simple, three-legged stools. The one on the left, the hunter, wore hard-boiled leather that was, regardless, frayed at the edges. The large shoulder pad on the armor was big enough to mask his face from everyone but the barkeeper and the other hunter. A sword hung loosely from his belt. The other hunter was a little less forbidding. While she was still aloof from the people of the inn, her posture indicated she was a little less tense. She had a green cloak, which wasn’t quite dirty, but it wasn’t quite clean either. She kept her hood off of her head, so it was draped loosely on the back of her neck. She had a longbow slung on her shoulder. The places where it was whittled down were plain to see, white marks and a rough surface, so it was clear that she had made it on the go. In contrast, she had a fine leather quiver hanging on her lower back. Arrows grew out of the quiver like trees, and even had green feathers on their ends. Beside the hunter and huntress oaken kegs sat on the bar like guard dogs. They were finely crafted and bound by iron rings, which seemed almost like armor around the keg. The poor handle of the stopper was constantly pushed back and forth as the servers refilled the drinks of their guests. Behind the bar the innkeeper was rubbing a mug clean. He wore a simple linen shirt and rough spun trousers. On top of this, he wore an apron that was smudged from quite a bit of use. He was clever, and managed to make it look as though he was concentrating completely on removing a spot from the mug. However, to the trained eye, it was simple to see that he was really keeping an eye on the more unsavory patrons. It was likely that he was hoping a fight wouldn’t break out in the inn. It was a safe guess to assume he had a quarterstaff ready underneath the bar. On the other side of the inn, plenty of other people were enjoying their night. On a long bench, three people were betting on a game of Calaviel. The gamblers were obviously farmers, and probably hardly understood what was going on in the game. They jumped up and down, hooting when one player made a good move, and looking down sullenly when the other did not. The farmers wore simple roughspun clothes, with colorful vests atop. They also had loose wool caps atop their heads, sagging down from their precarious placement. What meager earnings they had from the past few weeks were in their hands, waiting to be put into the hands of the one lucky winner, whoever best guessed the score. Their hands waved up and down as they noisily cheered on their favorite. The two men playing were well-dressed merchants. One wore fine green linen clothes, which had intricate spirals laced around the edges in the style of the people of the Ugarnion Forest. He carefully eyed his pieces, and made no move without first hastily pulling back his hand from where he was initially planning to put his piece, always hesitating several times over. His opponent was much more aggressive. He wore fiery red clothes with embroidered orange flames. His eyes could not rest on one spot of the board longer than a short moment. So instead they darted around like hares from place to place. Whenever the man in blue made a move, the man in red quickly made his counter, as though he could see the future and knew what was coming. While the merchants played their game, some unsavory men in black robes whispered amongst themselves father over in the corner of the inn. Each wore long robes that covered all of their skin, with their faces the only part uncovered. Each had a rope going around his waist to act as a belt, and had a hood pulled over his head. One had a deep scar running down his face, from his eyebrow down to the edge of his jaw. He rarely spoke, and when he did, all that could be heard was a low rasping as if a kettle were boiling. The man next to him in the huddle was very tall. In fact, his shoulder was above the others’ eyes. He had greying hair under his hood, and grey eyes. He had short curly hair and a shorter beard, which stuck to his face. The third one was darker-skinned than the rest. He had deep brown eyes, with little streaks of hazel running through them. He didn’t speak much either, but rather had a look of intense listening.
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Some footsteps could be heard from the landing outside the inn’s door. All of a sudden, a short man with a stout build walked into the inn. He was carrying a sleek black case, shaped somewhat like the letter “P.” The man had long, blond hair hanging to his jaw, but the dirt in it from days of travel made it look brown. He wore a brown leather vest over a white and red striped shirt. His pants were striped blue and green, and were quite puffy. All of the people in the inn now looked in sudden silence at the man, gawking at his strange clothing. He walked over to the bar, showing no signs of worry as he strode in front of his little audience. He handed a stained old letter over to the innkeeper. The innkeeper looked it over twice, nodded, and casually put it back in the man’s hand. The man then once again passively walked across the room, oblivious to the questioning faces of the patrons. He finally reached the fire and set down his case. He opened two brass latches and pulled out a finely crafted, mahogany, seven-stringed lute. No one made a sound, only continued to watch with curiosity. The man picked up the lute and began to play: “Oh, there once was a hero named Olaf the Red….” By then everyone knew the song he was playing. One by one they all began to sing the song. Soon enough the inn was full of happiness, music and entertainment. The short fellow was a clever one, and knew how to keep the inn interested. He invented some new verses to tell of the mythical adventures of Olaf the Red. He put a little original touch on each bit of the music. This continued for quite a while until, soon enough, the moon rose over the lonely inn on the rolling hills.
The Secret By Darcy Coleman I looked at Liam closely. His blue striped shirt was clean and new, the sun hat around his head had no tears as mine had, and his hands were soft, not at all worn down by years of working on a farm. "Aren't you going to say hello to the amazing Liam?" he joked, giving a friendly smile. "Why do you have to come?" I sat back down on my bed and picked up the book I was reading. Liam looked out of place here at the farm. He was accustomed to the sounds of cars honking and people chatting, not to the fresh smell of new plants wafting through an open window or the low buzzing sound of a tractor. He wasn't in New York City. "I come here every year to your place!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up dramatically. "How can you forget?" "At least you're not wearing the fancy clothes you wore before." "You noticed?" "Of course I noticed!" I recalled his white T-shirt and new black jeans with ease. How could I forget? "Wow!" Liam truly sounded astonished. Suddenly, before I could reply to Liam's remark, the door flew open and in came my best friend, Sunset. Her short, black hair was in two pigtails and her brown eyes looked excitedly at me. "Sarah!” She strolled over to me cheerfully. "I was told to give this to you!" It was at that moment that I noticed the pink, flowery wreath in her hands. Sunset dropped it on my lap, smiling. "I think it's very pretty!" "Has someone died?" Liam asked, walking anxiously over, bending around a still smiling Sunset to see the wreath. "No, Liam," she replied, moving to stand in front the boy. "Hey, I recognize you. You said I was an annoying chitter-chatterer the last time I came!" "You are one," Sunset smiled playfully. "You talk way too much!" "I do not!" "Guys..." I warned them, touching my braid as I always do when I'm serious or upset. "Why do you always wear a braid?" Liam asked, peeking out from behind my best friend. "You've been wearing one since your mom disappeared!" I glared at him and turned to Sunset. "Who gave you the wreath?"
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"I'm not allowed to say." Her eyes looked nervously at her feet. "I can only say that there is a message hidden in it somewhere." "Where?" Even as annoyingly mysterious as the wreath was, I was interested to find out more. I picked up the wreath to see if there were any cards hidden among the strands of branches. "It's about the Secret, I'm sure." Sunset glanced up, wearing a serious face. "Everything is about the Secret." "What's the Secret?" Liam asked, curiously staring at the wreath. "I didn't know you had secrets!" "It's none of your business," I snapped, suddenly offended by Liam's comments. I unintentionally touched my braid again. "You're wearing the right clothing." Sunset looked approvingly at my baggy green shirt and blue pants. "Let's go!" "Go where?" Liam surveyed the room wearily. "Wherever we're going, I'm ready!" "Why does he have to be here?!" Sunset complained, blocking Liam's view once again. "I've been wondering the same thing!" ******* Around two in the afternoon Sunset and I headed out to the Path. The Path, created by my dad when he moved here, was a narrow trail through the wheat field to a private place where I could practice the Secret in peace. Only my dad, Sunset, and I knew about the Path, since it was so cleverly placed in the worst part of our land. Everybody else knows that the area the Path is in is the place my dad likes to work, so nobody disturbs it. "Where's Liam?" Sunset peered back at the house in the distance. "He's inside, probably taking a super long shower like he did last time." Sunset laughed. I smiled, remembering waiting outside the bathroom door for my turn for a cleaning. Clutching the wreath tightly we went along. Suddenly, as we continued, I saw a flash of blue in the wheat. I immediately told myself it was my imagination. Everyone knew not to go in this area. Nobody knows about the Secret except my dad and Sunset, I told myself firmly, walking a little faster. The wind was calm and peaceful, but the sky was dark. Some would say it was unnatural, but I'm used to things not being normal. "Do it quickly," Sunset whispered as we came to the end of the path. She took a few steps backwards into the wheat. "Maybe something will pop up!" I nodded. Thankful that I was wearing baggy clothing to help it be less painful, I stared at Sunset and a took a long, deep breath. "Sunset! Sarah!" Liam's voice came from a little behind me in the wheat. Too late! I had already started to shrink slowly. Closing my eyes tightly, I prepared myself for the most painful part. My whole face felt as if a very strong person had yanked it forwards. When I was younger I had shrieked at this part, but I had become slightly more used to the pain over the years. An itching sensation started all over my now small body as little hairs poked out from under my skin. Within a minute I had shape-shifted into a cat. With my new sharp hearing I could hear the sound of Sunset pushing Liam to the ground behind me and the poor boy screaming infright. The wind picked up and started to blow my fur in crazy circles. Embarrassed, I raced off in the opposite direction from where my friendswere, deeper into the field. Looking at the sky I silently apologized to Sunset and Liam. Then, reminding myself it was too late to fix anything, I ran faster. Inhaling deeply, I let myself into the calm chaos of the wind. 62
Ferocious Beast By Silvia Billingsley
Home By Olivia Carpenter Clarissa stood on the balcony, staring out at the luscious gardens below the ledge. Her hands were clenched in nervousness, her already pale knuckles turning pure white. Every person with functioning ears could hear her heart pounding viciously in her chest. Of course, no one was judging her. She had every reason to be nervous. Just days prior, a messenger by the name of Johnson had ridden into the village, bruised and bloodied to a pulp. He had been in the medical wing since and once he had relayed his messages, he had been whisked away, unable to answer Clarissa's questions. But everyone had heard that he bore good news. The war was over. They had won the war and the troops were coming home. Of course, the victory was not without loss. Thousands of men had suffered and died by the hands of the enemy and the their own leader, Strider, had been lost to an enemy blade. Everyone would grieve him, Clarissa included. He had been a mentor, a ruler, and a father to all and he would be greatly missed. That was not the only reason for Clarissa's grief, however. Because Johnson had been sent a few days ahead of the rest of them, there was no telling what had happened within the space of time. For all they knew, the whole company could have been killed or injured during the travels home. For all they knew, Clarissa's brother and the general of the army, Oliver, could be dying in a field somewhere. And this was why on a crisp, quiet, October evening, Clarissa was standing on the balcony, her mind and pulse racing. For what felt like hours, she waited for the sound of horns or hooves, anything that would tell her that someone was home. But she heard nothing. With a soft, heartfelt sigh, she retired to her bed. It had once been warm and comforting, with memories of sharing rooms and telling stories late into the night with her brother filling her mind. But ever since he had left, Clarissa had felt nothing but aching in her chest while she lay. Clarissa did not fall asleep that night. Her thoughts were occupied by bloody swords, cannon blasts, the pain- filled face of Oliver, and the falling figure of Strider. The next morning, as the sun rose above the sky-line, Clarissa was pleased to find that it was a bright yellow color, not red, a good omen. She dressed in one of her finest dresses. Perhaps they were just running late. That happened often in the unpredictable wilds. Perhaps they would arrive today. Clarissa was interrupted from her thoughts by a gentle knock on her door. Nessa, one of the healers assigned to Johnson stood there, and though her facial expression did not reveal anything, her eyes held a hidden delight. "Johnson's healing has made quick progress. You may speak to him today, Lady Clarissa," Nessa said, with a slight nod of her head in respect. Clarissa nodded back, hiking up her dress slightly so that she could walk quickly. She followed Nessa to the medical ward, a place that she had been many times. Whether it was by her own mischievous nature or Oliver's, Clarissa had found herself spending countless days in there. She rushed over to Johnson's bed, gazing at the young soldier's cut lip and closed shallow eyes. His arm sat lamely by his side, but those were the only remaining evidence of his troubles. "Johnson," Clarissa said softly. He gave a quiet groan but no other indication that he was alive. He didn't even twitch. Nessa put a hand on his arm. "Johnson, Lady Clarissa is here to speak with you. Can you speak with her for a moment, and then you can rest?" Nessa suggested. He opened one eye. Clarissa smiled at him. "Hello Johnson, wha-" Johnson cut her off. "Please excuse my rudeness Lady Clarissa, but I know what you're going to say. Oliver is fine and well and eager to see you," he said with a small smile. Clarissa felt a grin grow on the corners of her lips. He was alive! And he was coming home! Her heart swelled in her chest, but still holding her regal composure, she placed a hand on Johnson's forehead in a motherly fashion. "Thank you Johnson. You have done well. Rest now," she said softly and stood, giving Nessa a nod of thanks and walking out of the ward. She walked quickly, unable to hide the skip in her step. For three more restless days Clarissa waited. She at first tried to occupy her thoughts by catching up on school. But her teacher, Katherine, surprised she had been able to hold up this long, released her from her studies early. Clarissa protested profusely: she couldn't leave all the work to her. But Katherine was firm. Clarissa had not been able to concentrate anyways. Even reading could not distract her from her excitement. Clarissa would try to read, but eventually she would find herself repeating the same sentence over and over as thoughts of 63
Oliver's arrival filled her mind. Soon she gave up doing anything at all, and instead resorted to pacing barefoot in her room or out on the balcony where she could have a clear view of the entrance of their little city. On the fourth day they showed. Clarissa was shocked out of her pacing by the sound of hoofs on the earth and a horn in the wind. Her smile grew and she rushed out of her room, her mother at her side almost immediately. When they reached the square, she stopped, waiting patiently as the first soldiers, led by their general, entered. The sight of the injured almost made her mood drop. There were many of them, white bandages covering various limbs, or parts of their chests and some even with bandages wrapped around their heads. But the looks in their eyes hurt the most. There was pain and suffering and death in those eyes, but also happiness and relief and pure joy. They were home, with their families. They were alive. Soon the remaining soldiers filed into the square and the number of them was staggering. There were so few. But as women and children and fathers and mothers ran to their loved ones, a feeling of happiness filled the air and the ordered lines and ranks broke as soldiers greeted their families. Clarissa's gaze found her brother's soon after. She was pleased to see he was not injured, a couple of scratches and a small wound on his shoulder, but other than that unharmed. He broke their eye contact to lean down from his horse and talk to another soldier briefly. The soldier nodded and as Oliver dismounted his horse and gave the reins away, Clarissa felt tears of joy fill her eyes. Her mother placed a hand on her shoulder and gave her a comforting smile. She squeezed her shoulder gently as Oliver started to walk over. Clarissa let out a hicupped sob of joy and felt the tears start to fall as her brother drew closer, standing before her proud and alive. He smiled at her, his own tears welling up, but he didn't dare let them fall. "Clarissa," he said. "Oliver," she whispered, taking his hand in her own, tears still falling. "You're home," she said with a smile. He chuckled and smiled too. "I'm home," he repeated, pulling her in for a gentle but much needed hug. When they broke apart, he placed a hand on her shoulder, a single tear falling down his own. "It has been too long," he added. Clarissa's heart was bursting. She wanted to tell him everything: how she had missed him, how mother had cried for days when he had first left, how she had longed to run to the battlefield and fight herself, if only to find him, and of how she loved him so dearly. But all she could focus on was the bubbling excitement in her chest. She sobbed again, but it was a happy sob. A sob filled with relief and past sorrows and happiness. She couldn't seem to find the words to speak to him, so she blurted the first thing that came to her mind. "You look horrible," she said with a teary smile. He chuckled and ruffled her hair gently, joking, "Aye, you should have seen the enemy." She gave a watery giggle. "I missed you," she choked. His blue eyes shone with happiness and Clarissa mirrored his expression. "I missed you too," he said, wiping away one of her tears. Clarissa smiled, grabbing his coat and pulling him into her. She held him close to her, his arms going around her shoulders and she buried her face in his chest. He smelled foul, like blood and filth and dirt, but at the same time he smelled good: like him, like home. She inhaled his scent with a shaky breath and let out a laugh. He was back.
Not So Great Gatsby By Marina Goldman Here I stand, in the center of a magnificent foyer with worry overtaking my mind. I am pacing back and forth along the marble floors, trotting on my initials with each lap. Calm down, old sport, calm down. You'll feel much better as soon as the party begins. I believe I have prepared for all contingencies. This time, however, I wasn't too sure. I look at the countless decorations strewn about the room with disgust, for the joy they convey is completely fake. I anxiously glance at my white gold watch awaiting the hundreds that will come anon to demolish my palace. At least 400 of them will arrive from miles around; however none of them will be aware of my presence. The fractiousness of the party-goers seems habitual, because every time I turn my head someone will have either broken something or started a fight. My pacing intensifies as I ascertain the time. I don't even know why I throw these parties anymore. All these people who show up from God knows where aren't my friends. I pause for a moment and come to the realization that I have no real friends, and the people that pass as my friends are nothing more than pathetic liars. 64
Perturbed and left aghast by this thought, I force myself to put it out of my mind and prepare myself to open the main doors. The party is in full swing as I gaze at the sumptuous crowd. It consists of overly glamorous women wearing loud and sparkly dresses, gold diggers are gleaning over the men to determine which one has the most money. The men are rakish and rowdy, falling over vases and trays of wine glasses left and right. They're all exchanging gossip over who Gatsby is, or what war he fought in, which is then followed by howls of laughter and senseless drinking. I can't believe they'd think I'd do such things; people believe anything these days. I chuckle to myself. Especially when they are drunk. My smile quickly melts into a frown, because I have pity on all of these drunken idiots inhabiting my house. How naive they are; it makes me sick. How can they live a remotely happy life knowing that they have been lying to themselves their whole lives? Watching over the party-goers used to give me such joy, but the oppressiveness of my previous thought weighs me down. I used to laugh at their drunken yet magniloquent conversations, desperately trying to one up anyone they could. Now I cringe and turn away from the idiotic behavior as if I was responsible for them. I'm just as alone as I was before. My true sense of self has been trampled asunder by years of falsehoods. I'm the richest man alive, but I'm not happy in the slightest. I have everything going exactly my way, but I can't stand it any longer. I snap out of it as a young bleach-bottle blond teeters in my direction; smiling that drunken, swooning smile. I grin politely and present my hand for her to shake. I wonder how long it took her to get her hair that blinding color. A better question is how is she not dead from inhaling all of the fumes? Maybe that's why she's so woozy. She continues to stumble towards me, knocking a tray of my finest brandy onto my initials in the floor. I rush to help her up and ask her if she's all right. "Oh, I'm perfictly fine, thanks," she smiles, and stares at me with disturbing rapture as I hoist her onto her feet. She offers me a wobbly hand adorned in alarmingly large diamond rings. "Pleezd to make yur acquaintance, mister..." "Mr. Cogswelle. Benjamin Ruth Cogswelle," I lie through my teeth. We shake hands as she tells me her name. "Lilac Integrity Edward-Sanders," she says superciliously while smoothing her blindingly fuchsia dress. "That's quite a name you have there, Ms. Sanders." "Don't I know it?!?" Lilac responds frankly. "My mutha deemed me that with the highest intentions," she exclaims woozily pointing her finger to the diamond chandelier; currently entangled by a web of tinsel. "AND WELL, JUST LOOK WHAT HAPPENED!!!" She howls with laughter, attracting an irksome amount of attention. I laugh to be polite, realizing that this is what goes on at my parties: countless drunkards exchanging idiotic banter. I find it funny that she is inadvertently revealing her falseness, and laugh a bit more. I laugh even harder and louder when I realize that her initials spell the word “LIES.” When our laughter dies down, she struggles to speak once more. “I'd like to infrm you that my huzbind 'nd I will be leaving a 'lil early." "Oh, how disappointing. May I ask why?" I smirk imperceptibly at the thought of her leaving so as to not upset her, though she's probably too drunk to notice. "The old kill joy haz a stupid meeting in thuh mornin' and he can't get too drunk, if ya know what I'm saying. I wuz jusss wondering if you cud tell mister Gatsby uv our leeeve. I hope he won't be too upset." She pouts a little for dramatic effect, though I can easily see through it. "How considerate of you for telling me! You'd be surprised how many heathens just waltz in and out of Mr. Gatsby's mansion without so much as a how do you do." "Yeah, heathens, yeah..." she interjects with her voice slowly trailing off. "I'll go and tell him this instant. Have a good night, Lilac!" She melts away into the crowd and I sigh with relief. One more faker gone, thank God. I stare at the shattered glassware concealing my initials with disdain. The jade circle framing my initials looks as if someone has urinated on them. Who’s to say that someone didn’t? Never mind my initials; they're fake anyway. I changed my name from something that was perfectly acceptable, to an expensive-sounding name. I'm just as fake as these simpletons at my party. Yet again, my subconscious worsens my mood. “I think I need some air,” I announce to no one in particular. My countless servants have been cleaning away the rubbish and decorations for a while now; perhaps if I help them I’ll feel better? No no no. What you need is some time alone, old sport. It will do you good just to walk along the shores and be alone with your thoughts. I walk through the painstakingly detailed chiseled arbor to the beach, comforted by my own diplomatic advice. As soon as I reach the border between manicured grass and artificial sand, I slide my black leather dress shoes off and begin to walk aimlessly. The sky is a somber navy blue, and the teal waters are reflecting the brilliant light from the stars. I gaze upwards, amazed by how much time has passed since I’ve done this. 65
I remember the golden days of my youth, just before I ran away. I remember breaking a little section of roof from my ramshackle house, just so I could look at the stars every night. It’s amazing how the sky has never changed since then, although I have gone through so many changes myself, some good, most bad. I desperately restrain my tears from the nostalgic memories and continue forward. I traipse through the gardens, occasionally stopping in front of shrubbery or flowerbeds to remove streamers and cigarette buds. The cherry blossom trees are secreting a magnificently sweet yet light aroma that strips me of all my worries. All at once I feel an immeasurable surge of happiness sweep over me. I begin to dance around, leaping and twirling on the velvet green grass. I laugh in spite of my frivolity, realizing how stupid I look. What kind of a multimillionaire throws lavish parties and never reveals himself, only to be found dancing like an imbecile by himself in the garden the next hour? Me, that’s who. It has come to my attention that it is entirely possible to run away and start a new life. To travel the world freely with no regrets and a clean slate. I’d never look back if I left… But can I? No one’s holding me back… But should I? I mean, I’m leaving everything behind me: no more fortune, no more mansion, no more… terrible and lonely parties! No more boring lunches with aristocrats! No more hour-long golf games with people I could care LESS about! Why have I never thought of this before? I spring into action, my mind abuzz with how I can possibly pull this off. I don’t want the press to know I’m leaving, for I’ll never be able to start a new life then. Oh! I’ll write a letter of resignation! No, too obvious. That is quite literally telling them I'm leaving and that I’m still out there somewhere. I need to… I need to disappear somehow. I come to the conclusion that a suicide letter is my best option. But that’s so… dark! I don’t want people to cry over me. I ponder the repercussions of making people think I’m dead, and the only problem I can think of is people trying to make off with my fortune. Let them have it. I don’t need it that much anyway. I scavenge my pockets for a piece of paper. When at last I find one, I examine it, finding some lady’s phone number on it, and quickly scribble it out. I begin the letter thusly: Dearly beloved staff members, I do not wish to alarm you in any way, shape, or form, but I have killed myself. I laugh at how terribly dramatic this is sounding already as I continue. I bet you’re wondering why a man who has practically everything anyone could dream of ended his own life. Yet the answer is surprisingly simple. Life’s no fun without a little challenge, and not even a party with the richest people in the world can replace that. I don’t care who says that they're happy with being excruciatingly wealthy; they are all ignorant and immoral dunces with no taste. I don’t want any member of my staff slacking off, though, and it’s up to you, the recipient of this portentous letter, to take charge in place of me. I want every inconspicuous detail to be exactly how you would leave it as if I were still watching over you. Best, Mr. Gatsby I review my work, relatively happy with what I have produced at a moment’s notice. Then I add a postscript remark below my curly signature: PS: Never be afraid to follow your dreams. I drop my pen in my pocket and start to walk away to begin my new, adventurous life. Then I pause a moment and decide to leave my iconic cuff links and ring, to solidify the illusion that I have taken my own life. I’ve never taken those off, and even when I sleep I put them in my breast pocket. I feel a great weight has been taken off my shoulders as I walk out of the garden for the very last time. I begin to experiment with potential identities as I sneak out of the front yard. The lights to my mansion are still on, the staff is most likely siphoning up the last drop of my spirits. One of them will find out soon enough. In the meantime, I have to figure out who I am and where I’m headed. I stop walking. Actually, I’m just going to look up at the breathtaking night sky. I turn my head to the sky, smiling about the world of endless possibility I'm about to enter. I close my eyes, just for a second, and bask in the glorious light flooding down from the heavens. Then I press on. 66
The Shadow By Hazel Nichol It was a dark, stormy morning, and Emma could already tell that today would not be a good day. She stood up and got dressed. And then she noticed the crack. It was in the floor, between two floorboards. Her bedroom was on the top floor, and below was her mother’s bedroom. She had no problem with this. But now there was something definitely wrong. Her mother always, always had her reading light on in the mornings. Emma stared at the crack. Through it, she could see her mother’s bedroom, but it was twisted, contorted, as if it were full of. . . smoke. Thick, black smoke. And she could sense something malicious, watching her. Emma ran down the stairs. She burst into her mother’s bedroom, screaming. “Emma, what has gotten into you lately?” Mrs. Phlox, Emma’s mother, asked in a playful, teasing tone. That’s what Emma liked about her mother. She was always happy. “Nothing, Mom. Just another bad dream,” Emma replied with a forced smile. “ I’m just jumping at shadows, that’s all. How long have you been writing?” “Ever since five o’clock, honey. Why do you ask?” “Uh, no reason. I’m going to fix us some breakfast.” “Good idea. I’m famished.” “‘Bye, Mom.” “Goodbye.” Before leaving, Emma glanced up at her mother’s ceiling. There it was. The crack. So it did go all the way through to her mother’s room. Through the crack, she caught a glimpse of her dark bedroom. . . swirling with black smoke. ***** Emma dreamed again of the night her dad had left, so long ago now that all she could remember were slamming doors and angry voices. The last door to slam had been the front door as he left, never to return for the next seven years. Emma had been hiding in the coat closet, but she had still heard the entire thing. Of all the thoughts that had ran through her head when IT happened, all that was left was the dread and fear, but tonight the fear was much worse… ***** The next morning, when Emma slipped her feet out of bed, one of her toes slid into the large floorboard crack. It seared, ice cold. When she pulled it back out, it was a raw pink and it burned with an intense cold. She gave a muffled shriek of pain and squinted at the crack through alarmed but still bleary eyes. It was definitely larger, more like an inch wide now. Emma smiled, imagining her math teacher’s voice: “The crack in Emma’s floorboard was 0.45 inches wide on Wednesday. On Thursday it was 0.8 inches wide. Tell me, class, how much larger, as a fraction, did the crack grow? How much larger will it be in three days if it continues to grow at this rate?” The smile did not last long. What would happen if it got bigger at this same rate? In three days, her entire foot might be able to slip in. And if it did. . . Emma snatched a sheet of paper from her desk. Without thinking, she tore off a corner and dropped it through the crack. She ran quietly to her mother’s bedroom and stood in the middle of the floor, waiting. One minute. Two. Three. . . Eleven minutes. Something grey fluttered down from the identical crack in her mother’s ceiling. Emma caught it before it could touch the ground. It was a piece of ash…shaped exactly like her slip of paper. She turned it over. Written on one side in bloodred ink were the words 67
red ink were the words “Watch your toes…”
cold.
The blood drained from her face. Emma felt nauseous. She sat down on the floor. Ash. Fiery Smoke… *****
Emma got into her bed. It was late at night. She began to yawn, but stopped suddenly. The crack. A black, smoky mist was rising up out of it. It was noticeably larger than it was ten hours ago in the morning, much larger than 45% of what it was earlier. She ran down the stairs and bolted into her mother’s room. “Honey, what is it this time?” Emma’s mother grunted. She was curled up in her bed under a veritable mountain range of blankets. “That!” Emma pointed a shaking finger at the identical crack in her mother’s ceiling, also releasing the blackish smoke. “That’s nothing, Emma. It’s hardly even half a centimeter wide!” Emma stared at her mother in disbelief. “Seriously?” “Whatever do you mean by that? You’re just jumping at shadows, dear. You said so yourself, not too long ago!” “But this is different. This is real!” “Emma, please. I’m tired and it’s late. It’s just a crack! You’ll be just fine. Goodnight, Emma.” “Goodnight, Mom,” Emma said though she was not the least bit consoled. Emma trudged back up the stairs, feeling only dread. “Honey, wait!” her mother called. “You can sleep with me tonight, if you’d like!” Emma felt an immense surge of relief. “Thanks, Mom!” she called. ***** It was nearing midnight. Emma found herself drifting away on an ocean of nightmares. She heard a whispering voice call to her. Suddenly she was back in her own dark bedroom. The crack really was large enough to stick her foot into now. A figure rose from the black mist that was covering the floor. She was tall and beautiful, in a cold, dark way. She towered over Emma, her head nearly touching the nine foot ceiling. Her dark robes swirled around her, looking as if they were made of smoke. When Emma looked straight at her, she seemed almost to be made of shadow. Her eyes and her fangs were the only two things about her that were substantial. Emma wondered how a pair of eyes could burn with such hatred, yet feel as cold as. . .fire. The creature spoke again. Her words were incomprehensible, much like the rustle of feathers or the soft slither of scales, yet the meaning of each syllable pierced Emma’s mind like a red-hot nail. Here’s what Emma heard: ‘I am from a land called ‘Ikano,’ or ‘land of the shadows,’ as you might say. I am the empress of that land. I have conquered many other worlds. This world, however, I cannot conquer. I have been trying for centuries. Now that I found you, I will succeed at last!’ Emma backed up against the twilit wall, her heart pounding. She yelled as the smoky substance on the floor solidified, hardening into squirming tentacles. ‘Yours shall be the first death I have witnessed in centuries!’ The dark woman began to drift towards Emma, fangs bared. Emma remembered how the woman had risen from the mist like . . .like a genie from a lamp, and pictured the little glass bottle and a cork that she kept on her windowsill, one of the many oddments she collected. The thought would have made her laugh in any other circumstance. Emma lunged forwards, the sinister tendrils ensnaring her legs. The insubstantial tentacles snaked farther up her body. 68
She lunged for the bottle, but at the last moment, one of the hardened wisps snaked up her arm and the bottle fell to the floor. Intently, the desperate girl imagined the smoky apparition being funneled into the bottle as it rolled across the floor. If this is a dream, she thought, would it really be possible to... The flame in the murderous sovereign’s eyes flickered, and her face seemed to pale a bit, if you can imagine the face of an evil smoke creature drain slightly of color. She made a strangled hiss that Emma interpreted as a curse. However, the moment of weakness passed. The dark empress regained her composure, and the smoke tendrils continued to further restrain Emma. That’s it! Emma thought. Her weakness! She imagined the bottle scene happening once more, concentrating with every fiber of her being. The dark apparition screamed, an inhuman sound, like the cross between the eerie, concluding call of a wounded loon and the hair-raising screech of an executioner’s axe on the whetstone. She funneled into the bottle, with a sound like a tornado with asthma. The cork, which was teetering at the edge of Emma’s desk, seemed to be sucked towards it. With an almost comical popping sound, the cork flew into place. Emma picked up the bottle gingerly. The bottle trembled for a minute, then was still. Emma thought, for a moment, that she could hear a sad, desperate wail, but maybe it was only her imagination. . She looked into the floor crack. The crack on her mother’s side was already closing. She placed the bottle into the crevice, making sure her fingers stayed safely outside. She barely noticed how wide the crack had grown, due to shock. The bottle shimmered, then vanished, like the bottom of a pond becoming obscured when a rock is dropped into it. Emma hoped the bottle had gone back to the shadow land, back where it belonged. ***** “Emma, wake up!” Emma’s mother called. “Breakfast!” Emma smiled, ready to begin a new day.
An Excerpt from “Nicole Tesla and the Wonders of Science” By Marina Goldman The sky is an alarmingly bright robin's egg blue, with the occasional cloud lumbering by as if it has no care in the world. Which, scientifically speaking, is true; clouds do not have the physical, let alone mental, ability to perceive thought, so they are technically careless. They are composed of oxygen, water vapor, carbon dioxide, and dust particles, and are nothing more than inanimate objects that produce precipitation. But back to the setting I was creating before. Our car is rolling along the dark asphalt street in virtual silence, yet is receiving a lot of attention from the people going about their business throughout the somber, ash-grey neighborhood. This is most likely because of: A: our bright red Prius, whose license plate says "SCIENCE4EVR" in blue capital letters, and/or B: the fact that our peculiar little vehicle is following a massive spluttering moving truck. No one is smiling, either, so the most logical theory is that they are not happy about our arrival. "Just try to ignore them, Nicole" my older brother Ernie advises me. "This town is not acquainted with the almighty power that is Science." He smiles warmly, taking away some of the immeasurable amount of stress I'm feeling. "Well, obviously they aren't! What do you expect when you're living in a town called Edisonalia?" my younger brother Charles-Wallace squeals. You may be contemplating his presumptuous remark, but I can assure you he's right. Thomas Edison, the heathen this town was named after, is not the great scientist you think he is. He didn't even invent the light bulb; Nikola Tesla, one of our family's oldest ancestors, did. Tesla was a foreigner from Croatia and worked alongside Edison. Edison stole Tesla's light bulb invention, and robbed Tesla of all the profits that came from it. Edison was truly a despicable man. But Tesla didn't let Edison's immoral deeds get the best of him; he continued inventing and pioneering in the world of science right up until his death. Tesla deserves to be this town's namesake, not Edison. 69
Charles-Wallace is seated in the very back seat of the car with his raggedy teddy bear known as Eyemcee. Eyemcee (pronounced Eee-em-see) is named after Einstein's energy equivalence equation E= mc squared. Eyemcee is currently being forced to "wave" at the neighbors by Charles-Wallace. "At least he's happy," I think to myself as our car pulls into a gravelly driveway. I slam the car door behind me and stare up at the dull, sinister... thing I'm destined to live in from now on. It's not a house yet, for we haven't unpacked all the boxes, and it isn't remotely homey to be classified as "a home." I crane my neck to examine more of the deteriorating dusty-grey building as the rest of my family unload the boxes from the truck. Benjamin-Franklin, my nickname for the younger twins, race around the truck smiling and giggling. My older sister, Flora, takes a pinch of the dry, neglected soil and examines it in her olive hands. She is an aspiring botanist, which is curious considering her name is Flora. In a split second, she can determine things about dirt, like ph levels, just by touching it. From her disappointed expression, it looks like she won't be able to grow much of anything with this dirt. If I was a plant, I certainly wouldn't want to grow here, either. My dad is handing over a few wrinkly five- dollar bills to the moving truck driver, who smiles gratefully, revealing his dimples. He hoists himself back into the truck, and exclaims, "Good luck out there, Teslas!" in a benign manner. The truck springs to life and he drives off. My dad is still standing there, probably analyzing his remark as any neurobiologist would, and I think that he's arrived at the same theory that I have: We're not wanted here. Why would a truck driver, who's traveled through countless towns, cities, counties and the like, wish a large yet humble family "good luck out there"? He has to have known that this town doesn't take kindly to newcomers. I slap my forehead when I come to the realization. "That's why the neighbors were grimacing at us when we came by!" I run over to my dad, who is currently helping Ernie with a massive cardboard box. "Dad? What did the truck driver mean when he said 'good luck out there'?" He motions for Ernie to leave and they lower the huge box onto the light grey porch. Ernie enters the creaky and splintery door to where the rest of my siblings are waiting anxiously. My dad looks at me for a moment, a somber expression occupying his face, then he forces a cheerful grin and says, "Just wishing the Tesla family good luck, dear. Although luck isn't a legitimate theory or force on Earth, he just wanted us to feel welcomed." He smiles magnanimously and says, "You know we have nothing to worry about living here, right?" I consider this statement for a moment. He's most likely lying to make me feel less anxious. "Thank you for the clarification, Dad. It really calmed my nerves." I lie through my teeth. I've never understood that expression, for words aren't any type of substance that can pass through bone-like material, but my dad is fooled by my lie and walks through the door. I try to validate my immoral behavior as I stand alone on the porch. "It was a necessary evil," I think. "You had to lie to make Dad feel better, just as he did for you." Once I ratify my actions, I continue to think to myself, comforted by my own diplomatic advice. "I don't recall there ever being an antonym for the word 'homey'. I suppose I'll just have to make one up myself. Let's see..." I scrutinize the towering grey building once more, my brain whirring at every minor detail on it. "Death-trappy seems fitting," I decide as I grab the last of the boxes scattered about the lawn. "Death-trappy it is." "Now everyone," my father exclaims in the empty pencil-lead-grey foyer to my siblings and me. His deep, halcyon voice sends a chilling echo throughout the whole house. I use the term "house" loosely; it's still oozing with deathtrappyness. "We're going to have a friendly competition to unpack." He begins to unravel a snow white scroll, blindingly white against the slate grey linoleum floors. He motions for us to gather around the massive white sheet and kneels over it. The rest of my siblings and I do the same, and we almost form a perfect circle, save for the empty space in between my dad and me where my mom should be. Should be, but can't be; she died not even a month after the twins were born. "This," he says, matter-of-factly, "is a blueprint." He glances about the circle as if expecting us to say something. He slowly digs around in his bright poppy blazer while continuing to look at us. He grins almost imperceptibly and my siblings and I exchange confused glances. My father leans over the blueprint and uncaps a neon pink highlighter. He lightly presses the marker on a small rectangular region of the house, and slides it over a tiny black scribble. I lean closer, squinting my eyes as hard as they will go, and I see the word "BEDROOM." My father continues this peculiar process, occasionally switching one colored highlighter to another, until every region of the room has one pristine neon stripe in the center. Suddenly, he turns to me and holds out his massive fist. He uncurls his hand, and on his palm lies the seven highlighters he used, one in each color of the color spectrum. I refrain from using the word "rainbow" as it has been misconceived by the general public as a magical sheet of pure light. I suppose rainbows are composed of light, but there is no such thing as magic or miracles, only science and cold hard facts. I have been told this from a very young age so I am accustomed to a life without Santa or unicorns or the like. My dad smiles warmly and says "Pick one." 70
I confusedly choose the blue one, my favorite color. I like to associate blue with the beginning of all living organisms. The blue waters from which the earliest form of man stumbled from, gradually evolving into the fascinating creatures we are today. The bright blue sky that practically pours out liquid-life, without which we could not survive. After fantasizing about the color blue, I notice everyone is holding a highlighter and listening intently to our dad. Green for Flora, because of her love of plant life, I suppose. Benjamin is teasing Franklin with his lightning- yellow highlighter; Franklin is regretting his not-lightning purple highlighter. I'll have to tell him later that lightning can sometimes have a purplish glow; he will be positively ecstatic. Orange for Ernie, pink for Charles-Wallace, and bright red for my dad, matching his blazer perfectly. "Each color on the blueprint was colored with one of these 7 highlighters. The first person that finishes furnishing the rooms matching their highlighter..." We groan, realizing his roundabout way to get us to do work. My father raises his pointer finger and we silence our complaining. "...will get to choose what show we watch on the Science Network!" Immediately, we scramble to the mountains of boxes towering precariously about the room. That program has been a part of our lives since we were too young to form sentences. "1,2,3,GO!" My dad hollers with glee and boxes are snatched up in the blink of an eye. I laugh in spite of the clamorous chaos around me and get to work. I take three huge boxes and stumble up the glossy grey stairs to what will be my room. I push the door open with my knee cap and fling the boxes onto the stringy, drab carpet, ignoring the contents that spill out: there's only clothes and books in there anyway. However, one of the articles of clothing catches my eye, and not in a good way, either. They are dreadfully boring, dark grey with an even more boring white and navy trim. I've never seen them before, and my mind races to think up ways they got here. I separate the horrid outfit from the other clothes, and I suddenly realize that this is a school uniform. My school uniform. My school uniform that no one told me about before we moved. All at once I begin to cry, an idiosyncrasy I have and hate with a burning passion. My dad comes up from behind and gently puts his hands on my shoulders. "Shhh. It's alright now, Nicole. You'll do just fine in this school; I have no doubt about it." I furiously spin myself around, "Fine? FINE? You heard what Charles-Wallace said in the car, and you KNOW what that truck driver was implying. Even though you won't say it, we're not wanted here." "Evidently," he says frankly. My anger dies down as he continues. "It's not like I chose for my business to move. Plus, at least you have your own room now, right? I mean, sure, it could use a different color scheme..." I snort and add "along with the rest of this terrible neighborhood." "But even still," he glares at me for my comment, "I know things may seem difficult now; I get it. But life is going to get so much easier. You'll see. So please," he pauses a moment for dramatic effect. "Try to keep your chin up. Tomorrow will be a new day at a new school in a new, wonderful town." He emphasizes the word "wonderful" making me cringe that he could lie so many times in one day. "Well thank goodness for that! I NEVER want to relive this day; even if it was scientifically possible for a day to repeat itself, which it isn't, I'd hate for today to happen over again." I hadn't noticed he'd already left the room. He probably got frustrated with me and decided to leave. "Then again, I certainly don't want tomorrow to happen, either." I walk over and brace my arms against the windowsill in my room, peering at my new, not-wonderful looking school in the distance. The whole world seems to be smothered by a gray blanket, save for a single, turquoise house. "I wonder what sort of character lives there," I think to myself. "They're either physiologically disturbed in some way, painting their house such an alarming color..." I pause and think in a more optimistic way, "...or they're incredibly brave and independent people." I speedily theorize the likelihood of the second option, and am disappointed by my results. Actually, I'm disappointed by both the results and my naivetĂŠ; how could I possibly think this town has even a sliver of goodness? I succumb to the anxiety and frustration that's swallowing me whole. "Screw this!" I say to myself, proud that I uttered what was considered a swear-word by my parents for the very first time. I assume, however, that I'm going to learn a plethora of new swears and who knows what else by tomorrow. (to be continued)
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Prejudgments By Isabella Dray Mr. Cabe’s voice booms across the classroom as he continuously drones on about the geography of Africa for the third day in a row. At this point I’m just tuning him out because he said the same stuff yesterday AND the day before. “Now class...” he begins again. I space out, but catch the end of his statement: “...so I will be handing them back today.” My ears perk up at the words “handing back” and I quickly gather that Mr. Cabe is referring to the test we took last week on South America. My heart speeds up at the idea of receiving another good grade, then plummets when I remember what always follows. The test is returned to all of us, and my face burns with embarrassment as I struggle to choke out what should be pleasant words to the students sitting near me. “I. . . I got a 100%.” I quickly duck my head to avoid the envious stares. Our teachers supposedly have a “no grade sharing” policy, but that never stops anyone in my classes from asking. Then the obnoxious comments and longing looks begin. I can predict the words before they exit their mouths: “You’re so perfect!” “I wish I could be as smart as you!” “You are so lucky!” “Your life is perfect!” That word, again and again. “Perfect.” It rolls off their tongues so casually. But to me, I feel its force crash repetitively, like a tsunami intent on my destruction. That word tears away at my fragile self -confidence until I am wary to reveal my grades to anyone and everyone. Calvin’s voice always cuts the deepest. “How do you get such good grades? You are so darn perfect, Tess, it isn’t even fair.” He is always one of the first to ask after my grades. It is the only thing he will start a conversation about. He will pass me in the hall and instead of saying “Hey!” like a normal friend, he will call “What did you get on our basic skills quiz?” To him, all I am is a smart student who can help him on his school work. I know deep down he’s just envious of my good grades and work ethic, but that gives him no excuse to constantly harass me. As I quickly jot down answers to a worksheet on African culture the next day, I sense Cal’s eyes on my paper. I shift my arm slightly so it’s blocking his view. Immediately he begins asking for help. “I can’t find the answer to the next two questions,” he says casually. A quick scan of his desk reveals that his textbook isn’t even open. If he really needed help that would be one thing, but he hasn’t even tried. “Sorry, I haven't found the answer yet,” I mumble. “Oh, OK, let me know when you do!” He then proceeds to turn around in his chair and begins chatting with Talia. I brush the conversation off and continue working. I’m just putting down my pen when the bell rings. I sneak a peek at Cal’s worksheet; as I expected he has done nothing since we last talked twenty minutes ago. As I walk into Science next period, Grace joins me. “Hey, I hear we’re getting back our project grade today!” she exclaims. “I’m nervous,” I admit. “Don’t worry. I’m sure we did great.” We find our respective seats and sit down, still taunting each other about whose English poster will turn out better. “Okay class, I will be handing back your project grades today!” Ms. Reel announces. I twist in my chair to look at Grace and we exchange a nervous glance. I take a deep breath and wait to receive our grading rubric. I watch Ms. Reel hand Grace our fate with a smile. Hopefully that is good news. I quickly scurry over to Grace’s desk. “What’d we get?” I inquire. “A 98%” she replies giddily. I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding and savor the moment. We had worked so hard building our replica of a volcano, and I was ecstatic it had paid off. A week later, I dread 6th period all through English. I know we will be receiving our graded maps and I can't bear to entertain one more detestable remark about my grades from Cal- or anyone else for that matter. I anxiously wait to receive my grade and swiftly glance at it before setting the map face down on my desk. I let out a deep breath. Then a thought enters my mind that sends a new wave of anxiety through me: I will have to share my perfect grade. The chatter begins and I realize I only have a matter of minutes until the inquiries begin. I stand up and leave for the bathroom, hoping that when I come back, the class will have moved on. 72
To my dismay, when I return to class a few minutes later, my map is not on my desk. I look around the room and realize that Mr. Cabe is out, probably running an errand. With the peacemaker gone, I quickly scan the room. In the back, Cal holds my map in his hand and is showing it off to the class. “Of course she got a 100%” I hear. Cal notices me walk in and taunts “How do you always do it, Miss Perfect?” I hurry over and snatch the map from his hands, the damage already done. I bury the map in my folder and slid into my seat, hoping our interaction is over: wishful thinking. “How come you had it face down, huh?” Cal jeers, knowing fully well the reason. “I didn’t mean to,” I respond “Sureee,” Cal teases. “I think she just doesn't want to show anyone her grade because she thinks she is so much smarter than us.” The class laughs, but it does not mask the mumbles of agreement. Before I have a chance to defend myself, Mr. Cabe walks in. “Settle down, class!” he bellows. The next day in math everyone is anxious to receive their grades for our math quiz on quadratics. Ms. Barns begins distributing them and the normal chatter of the room falls to a hush. Cal happily announces to the class he got a B-. That’s good, I think to myself. Before I know it Ms. Tomson is standing in front of me with a unsatisfied look on her face. She hands the test to me face down; the back is covered in red pen. My stomach drops as I flip it over. To my dismay the top right corner has a big, red C on it. My first one ever. I hurriedly shove it into my folder. “ Hey Tess, how’d you do?” Cal calls. “Fine,” I respond, still dazed by my grade. I didn’t think I did perfectly, but I did expect a better score than a C! I knew the material, too! I’m anxious to see where I lost points, yet I don’t want to take it out and risk the humiliation of harassment. Next period in Science, Cal keeps bugging me about my math grade. “Come on Tess, why won't you tell me?” Silence on my part. He tries the guilt approach. “You know what I got, so it's only fair you tell me what you got!” “You announced it to the class!” I counter, laughing nervously. “You aren't going to leave me alone until I tell you, will you?” I groan. “Nope!” he replies. “Fine.” I mumble. “I got a C.” “ Ha ha! Very funny, Tess!” I look down at my shoes, at the ceiling, anywhere but at him. “Wait ...you’re serious!” he exclaims. “That means I got a better grade than you! I, Calvin Morse, got a better grade than Tess!” “Yeah," I agree, starting to regret telling him. Although, it is nice not to feel like it’s a secret anymore. I “I guess you aren't perfect,” he concludes. “No, I'm not!” I agree. A few days later when we receive our quizzes back in science, I received minimal hassle from Cal about my A+. It seems that after I received a C on my math test, he realized I'm not perfect and I too have to work hard for my grades.
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The Whippoorwill Forrest By Marina Goldman Gargantuan trees surround me on all sides. My fading lantern casts amorphous shadows on the dead grass; who’s to say if they belong to man or beast? Although it’s not providing much help, I clutch my rusting lantern like a security blanket, praying that it will miraculously burst to life again. The eerie night sky bears no stars to shed light on this dark and frightful evening. To make a long story short, I am lost. I am lost in the worst place one could be lost The Whippoorwill Forrest Gargantuan trees surround me on all sides. My fading lantern casts amorphous shadows on the dead grass; who’s to say if they belong to man or beast? Although it’s not providing much help, I clutch my rusting lantern like a security blanket, praying that it will miraculously burst to life again. The eerie night sky bears no stars to shed light on this dark and frightful evening. To make a long story short, I am lost. I am lost in the worst place one could be lost: The Whippoorwill Forest.
I was separated from my caravansary of friends, all of us on a horse- riding trip, some moments ago. I’ve been racking my brain to figure out where I went wrong and how to find my way again. “You’ve just taken a wrong turn!” I think to calm myself down. My frantic pacing slows after hearing these reassuring words, despite the fact that they’re my own thoughts. “All you need to do is ride on your horse until you can recognize the terrain. It’s as simple as that.” “Oh, but that will just get you even more lost!” I contradict myself. “I think you may have taken the wrong path. Just get on your horse and travel westward until you find the crossing again.” “No, no. You go east to get to the crossing, don’t you?” “West.” “No, east.” “It was west, wasn’t it?” “No, it was east.” “West.” I holler clamorously out of frustration; rather than comforting myself, I’m driving myself mad. I relinquish thinking about finding a way out of the forest, for it isn’t getting me any closer to safety. My horse, still tied to a nearby tree, is startled by my yelling. “He must be as frightened by the Whippoorwill Forest as I am.” For you see, while most people believe that crows are a symbol of death, we have whippoorwills. Rumor has it that if you are unlucky enough to come into contact with one of these portentous birds, well, you won’t have to worry about any rumors for long. I approach my horse calmly, and gently stroke his massive, jet-black flanks. They are extremely chafed after sprinting through the spiny bushes and shrubs. He is exhausted and thirsty because we have been out for so long. I fear that if I ride him much more he will collapse. I place a full sugar-hogshead in front of him for him to snack on. He immediately sticks his head in and guzzles down the grainy sugar. He flicks his tail and grunts out of sheer relief; he hasn’t eaten anything for much too long. Neither have I. He occasionally sticks his head out to chomp down on big clumps of sugar and then resumes his noisy eating. “It’s my fault that we’re lost in this death trap," I coo magnanimously. “I’ll find us a way out. You stay here.” He snaps his head out of the jug and stares at me a moment. His deep brown eyes are more effulgent than ever, even without the moon or the stars to shed light on them. His eyes are bulging out of his skull, their steely, piercing gaze is more unsettling than reaffirming. He’s never had a reaction like this before; I don’t know whether to be humbled or alarmed. He nuzzles his huge, heavy head into my shoulder and releases a great snort. I laugh in spite of myself and push his head off. I begin to walk away when he whinnies and neighs, desperately attempting to keep me near him. I turn and smile to make it clear that I’ll be back in a moment, though I’m not completely sure myself. I don’t think it helps him much, for now he’s neighing even louder. I shudder listening to his sorrowful cries. Though they don’t sound quite right; they sound more like a squawk. It’s been over an hour and I fear I’m losing my mind. I broke into a full-fledged sprint after I heard a whippoorwill’s screech a while back, and I have been running ever since. It’s more of a jittery stumble than a run, but it’s just as intense. 74
A thick fog has swept over the dead grass I’m trampling: the perfect cover for the unholy terrors that lurk in these woods. When I trip over protruding roots, I pick myself up as fast as I can and force myself to go faster. I’ve tumbled and darted my way out of head-on collisions with trees, however some dodges have been closer than others. Salty sweat trickles down my forehead and stings my eyes more than the tears that linger there. The tears are from both the frigid wind blasting in my face, and the fear of not being able to escape in one piece. The warmth and security from my lantern has long since burned out, so I might as well be running in circles. “Oh, I do wish I was back at the lodge with Boris! He seems to know the answer to everything.” All at once I feel long, frigid grass tickling my ankles, cooling some of the open wounds on my lower legs. The sky is navy blue and adorned with stunningly bright stars. I gaze around in awe when, lo and behold, my horse is suddenly standing right by my side! He gives me another squawk-like neigh and then snorts loudly. “Hey there! Happy to see you out of the Whippoorwill Forest,” I say endearingly. I tousle his shiny black mane and laugh in spite of the peculiarity of this evening. It feels so wonderful to laugh after this horrifying and nerve-racking escapade. “Just take it in, pal. It’s all over. We’re both safe and sound and out of the forest and…” I stop petting him abruptly. My hand slides down the side of his neck and drops lifelessly to my side. I stare at my horse in complete silence until I finally gather my unorganized and frantic thoughts. “How did you get out?” I say in a hushed whisper. “The ropes were the thickest I have; the thickest there are, in fact. And your teeth have been aching, so you can’t have chewed your way out, right?” He shakes his head almost to say “I don’t know” and flips his mane over to reveal his huge eyes. They’re not brown anymore, they’re deep RED. Deep red and shinier than they were before. I walk away slowly and stutter “That’s… That’s not... not right. That’s not right at all.” His blank, lifeless eyes follow my every move. He lumbers towards me so slowly it’s almost imperceptible as I inch backwards. All at once he throws himself at me, his bloodcurdling neigh piercing my ears like a blade. I collapse onto the ground and crawl backwards as fast as my hands and feet will carry me. I holler for help as loud as I can, though I fear it’s already too late. I brace my left arm on the ground and shield my face with my right. I squeeze my eyes shut knowing that these will be my last moments on Earth. The horse chomps down on my left shoulder, his yellowing teeth baring down on my shoulder blade. I scream from the unbearable, surging pain. I force my eyes open, just to get one last look before I surely die, but to my surprise he’s not there anymore. He’s vanished as if he had never been. I’m still gasping for breath after the nauseatingly painful attack I just suffered through. However, now that I take a moment to regroup, my shoulder feels fine. I gently press my right hand around my shoulder blade, yet there is no wound there at all; it’s almost as if it never happened. I speedily check for the other wounds I’ve gotten on this trip, but somehow they’ve disappeared, too. No poison ivy rashes on my calves, no bloodied knee-caps, no thorns or prickers in my arms, not even a twig in my hair. I feel fine! How peculiar. I gaze around to see if the horse is still lurking about when all at once I realize where I am. Lush, green grasses, rambunctious cricket chirps, massive oak trees: the Lodge must be right around here! I swing my miraculously healed legs around and gape at the magnificent, caramel-brown cabin just up the hill. There’s Boris standing right outside the doorway! I’m saved! “Boris! Boris!” I yell with glee. His pudgy silhouette is outlined by the sunny yellow light inside the doorway. What I wouldn’t give to be lounging on their burgundy velvet couch, downing ginger beer by the massive brick fireplace! Boris turns his head and gallops down the hill to me. He says jubilantly “Well, where’ve you been, stranger? Out having one too many good times?” A “good time” is Boris’ code word for a gin and tonic. I want to laugh along with Boris, but then I remember where I was just seconds ago. “Oh, no. I was actually lost in the Whippoorwill Forest and somehow or other ended up here. Strange, don’t you think?” Boris’s slap-happy grin snaps into a solemn frown as I utter the words “Whippoorwill Forest.” He remains silent for a moment. “You know you’re not supposed to go anywhere near that ungodly place, Benjamin,” he remarks sagely. Appearing to be angry with me, he stomps a few feet closer to the vast blockade of oak trees nearby and thrusts an angry, pointed finger at them. He’s looking right at me as he lectures, “The narrow group of people that have escaped from that forest were all ultimately driven to madness!” He emphasizes the word “madness” and I avert my eyes and look down, realizing what really happened to me in there. “I wasn’t trying to get lost in the deadliest forest in our region, Boris.” I look up at his disapproving gaze sheepishly. “I just got lost.” “SO WHAT?” His roar seems to silence the buzzing activity of nature going on around us. “Do you think it made a lick of difference to those now dead souls if they ’Got lost’?” He yells in a mocking tone. He’s still glaring down at me as he says “You could have been dead in an instant! What were you thinking?” 75
Boris’ four children trickle out of the lodge with smiles on their faces, calling “Daddy! Mommy wonders where you are, Daddy!” Boris loses his furious and perturbed stance and calls back “Be with you in a second, my lovelies!” sounding as happy as he was before I mentioned my journey. He directs his finger at me and in a hushed but angry whisper says “We’ll talk about this...” waving his hands in a circular motion at the trees, “...later. I hope you realize how disappointed I am with your extremely poor judgement.” I try to argue with him, hoping I can better explain what really happened, but he clearly wants no part of it. The children come running down the path and start to race around their dad, squealing and giggling with glee. Boris hoists his youngest daughter onto his shoulder and smiles at her. “Now, how did you get yourself into the… the scary place?” His sarcastic yet scornful tone of voice unnerves me. The “Scary Place” as he so bluntly exclaimed is clearly a euphemism for the Whippoorwill Forest now that there were young children in our midst. His second youngest son, Isaiah, gasps in surprise. “Wow,” he says in a mystified whisper “You went adventuring, Unca Ben?” “Uncle,” as Isaiah was trying to say, is a term that Boris and I use instead of saying “Dad’s closest friend,” though I don’t think that I will be his “uncle” after tonight’s events. He’s relatively young and still can’t pronounce some words right, but his naivety makes me grin. The other children begin to whisper and giggle to themselves at the thought of their “uncle” braving a mysterious chasm or deadly forest or the like. “Well, I must have gotten lost on our riding trip, Boris. I have no other explanation.” Boris drops his frustrated expression and stares at me for a moment in complete silence; his children do the same. After staring at their confused glances Boris finally says “Benjamin, we never went on a riding trip this evening. Are you feeling all right?” I give him a confused look, which he and his children give me right back. “Yes, we did. You, Howard, Richard, Nathaniel, Joseph, Patrick and I went riding together a few hours ago.” “Ben, I don’t know any of those people. Plus, you don’t have a horse.” “YES I DO!” I exclaim rather loudly. “He’s huge and black with friendly brown eyes, except they turned dark red right before he bit my left shoulder and then disappeared.” I describe my horse in one breath, and as I wait for him to reply his children break into boisterous, roaring laughter. Boris glares at his children, now collapsed on the ground holding their sore bellies; some of them are even crying from laughing so hard. “That’s enough!” he persists, “The lot of you go straight back to the lodge and into bed,” he orders. Jackson, the eldest, stifles back laughter and says “But Dad, we want to hear more of Uncle Benjamin’s funny story.” “IT’S NOT FUNNY!” I roar into the sky out of frustration and sheer irritation. The world seems dead quiet, apart from my deep and noisy breathing. I sound as if I had ran a marathon on the hottest day of the year as I stare at Jackson and the rest of the children. Struggling to hold back tears, I look at Boris and whimper, “My life almost ended in a split second, on multiple occasions, and there’s no one to blame but me. I don’t know how I got in there, nor do I know how I escaped. All I know is that I had a huge, black stallion with brown eyes, we escaped separately and ended up here, his eyes went blood red and he bit my left shoulder, and I’m so scared I could have a heart-attack any second.” My voice trembles as I list the events that took place this evening. Boris rushes towards me and hugs me so hard it hurts my rib cage. He sways back and forth a little, as if I were a child that just had a nightmare. Which, actually, is what I think this all was: a twisted, horrifyingly real nightmare. “Don’t you worry, Ben,.” he holds back tears, “you’re safe now.” His emotional reaction is somewhat excessive but I don’t mind; so long as he believes my story, I’ll take it. He glances at his undeniably terrified children only once, and they run up the hill to the cabin. “Ben, I think you need to sleep with us for a few nights.” Boris ushers me up the hill, and I reluctantly lead the way. “I’ll call a doctor in the morning, but for tonight…” his voice trails off and I turn around to see him staring at my shoulder with the widest eyes you’ve ever seen. “Ben?” his voice trembles, “Is that what I think it is?” I pat around my shoulder, praying the wounds haven’t returned somehow. I do feel something, though, something soft, light, and wispy. I pull it off and in my hand lies a whippoorwill feather. I'm done for. 76
Strix (Mythical ancient Greek Bird of Greek ill Omen By Alana Colety
Potentia Vindicate (Long Live the King) By Alexandra Tse The bees hum, the birds sing. They don’t remember their beautiful lost king. The adults sat down first. Carmen went to sit with them, as this was her fifteenth birthday. It was customary for any Ashworth aged fifteen and up to eat with the grown-ups. Being only thirteen, I hung back. Grandmother and Father took the first sips, before any of the children even sat down. Suddenly, Carmen was screaming and the two eldest royals in the House of Ashworth had their faces buried in their soup. “Nobody touch your food!” shrieked Carmen. The children dropped their utensils and jumped back from their seats. The chef was dragged out from the kitchen by Uncle Sebastian and his face thrust next to my father’s bowl. “What was this soup tainted with? Huh?” Father roared” Tell me!” The children flinched. It was Carmen’s turn to scare us. Using the cook’s first name, she addressed him quietly, cruelly, then stepped forward to whisper in his ear.“If you don’t tell us who contaminated this soup, you will be the one feeling the poison’s wrath, and also your wife and children.” “I was paid by Ianto of the House of Starin to dissolve a pill into the broth as I made the soup for tonight’s meal.” His voice quivered as he spoke. “Uncle Sebastian, please escort Mercy and the rest of the children to their rooms,” said Carmen, “Guards, have these bowls taken care of. I don’t want another drop of this poison left in this manor by twilight. Search the kitchen and have this cook questioned further. Tortured, if you must.” As we were ushered back to our sleeping quarters, I craned my neck to peer over the little heads around me to catch a glimpse of my sister crumpling to the ground, my mother consoling her. “On this day, May 16th, the House of Ashworth officially declares war on the House of Starin: nihil potest prohibere potentiam vindictae!” It was just a week later, after the end of the official mourning period. Jet black war paint was smeared down my cheeks. A spear was in my trembling fist. Carmen had officially been crowned king of the House of Ashworth. She was now our commander. From now on the orders would be given by her and only her, and we would obey. We looked to her with tremendous fear and admiration, as all the Ashworths twelve and older gathered before the podium she was stationed at. A war cry spilled from our mouths to the steam on our lips. Carmen took me aside as she descended from the podium. “Mercy, be careful.” I nodded and gave her a brief hug. Nobody needs to see the king’s sister being emotional before battle. “I will be,” I whispered. Historically, most feuds between the Starins and the Ashworths had ended in an Ashworth victory. But times had changed. The new king of the House of Starin was a fierce warrior. The Hefels in the east had been completely decimated by Ianto’s forces. Not a single member of the family was left. But there was something in the way Carmen chanted the last words of her speech, “Nihil potest prohibere potentiam vindictae: Nothing can stop the power of revenge.” It was something about her conviction that kept our army marching. She would see us through this battle. When we arrived at the Starin manor, the archers went first. They sent their flaming arrows over the stone walls like shooting stars through the night sky. The Starins retaliated with their own arrows, but ours had already set various sections of the manor ablaze. A weak spot in the wall was found and blown to bits by our catapult. “Forward!” our king cried as the light of the flames sparkled in her eyes. There was a hazy mess of flames, singed hair and burning flesh. Screams surrounded me but I couldn’t make out who they were from. Were they Starin screams, or Ashworth? For a brief second, I could see Carmen taking Ianto on alone. I sprinted towards her, swiping my spear at a boy in Starin armor. Suddenly, my foot caught on the armor of a fallen soldier. I broke my fall with the sweaty palms of my hands. I lifted my head to look at my sister and my father’s assassin, just in time to see Ianto thrust his sword through Carmen’s abdomen. 77
As he pulled his weapon back, I could see the red tint of my sister’s blood. The fires surrounding us danced in the reflection of the sword. “Carmen!” I howled. I gathered myself up from the ground and hurled my spear through her killer’s skull. His eyes glazed over and stared blankly at me. His face looked as if he were caught between surprise and fright. I ran and fell to my sister’s side, collecting her in my arms. “Hey...” Blood began to dribble from her mouth. “H-Hey, Mercy.” “Carm, we’re gonna get you help, okay?” I whispered with desperation. The scenery around us had become almost tranquil. Did we win? Were we dead? I didn’t dare look away from my sister. Her eyes were dark as the night as they gazed up at me. “Mercy…” “Yes?” I whimpered. “You will make... an amazing king.” She took a ragged breath and fell limp in my arms. I placed my hand on my chest to check if my heart was still beating. It was. We were alive. Or at least, I was. I closed my king’s eyes and gave her a kiss on her forehead. Carmen was the only fallen Ashworth that luminous night. We brought her home and after a week’s time, I was named king. After my coronation, I lifted my crown gingerly from my head. I closed my eyes, imagining the look of defeat on Ianto’s face in his last moments. I whispered to myself, Potentia vindictae. The power of revenge.
Longbow By Elina Gorokhovsky
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An Excerpt from “Penny Dreadful” By Anonymous
...I later found myself snuggled by the fire in the library with a cup of tea, wrapped in a cozy wool blanket. The flames gave off a delicate orange glow as I stared into them, trying to hatch a plan. The Knight of the Road sat open in my lap. Sure, “penny dreadfuls” like Knight are aimed at young, working class males more interested in action than complexity, but drivel like The Little One's Delight are probably doing me worse harm than a bit of fantastical bloodshed. Outside, snow fell like white confetti, settling elegantly on rooftops and sidewalks. Every now and then the fire crackled magnificently, and I'd prod at the wood. Father was reading on the sofa behind me, Mum was playing piano in the parlor downstairs, and Hugh was up in his room running over my wretched dolls with his new clockwork train (my idea). Mum’s playing floated up the stairs and worked its way into my mind, as I went over what I knew about the locket of Saint-Saens. The house was serene, except that every so often the flip of a page behind me would break the tranquility and disrupt my deep thought. I was stewing over facts when a furious knock on the door downstairs nearly scared me out of my knickers. Father looked up, surprised, then rose and left the room. I crept after him curiously. I watched Father open the door from the top of the stair. Standing awkwardly in the doorway was a snowcovered, worried-looking Mr. Montague and his wife, the owners of the pie shop next to ours. I was quite fond of Ms. Montague, who always snuck me a couple sweets whenever I came around to fetch dinner, or perhaps just to visit. Once, she taught me how to write in pigpen code. I especially loved to watch her make bread: her careful hands would knead the rough dough into a delicate, smooth ball, with her dark brown curls tracing her forehead, which would be creased in determination. Even as she labored over the hot stove, Ms. Montague was strikingly beautiful, and she had a personality to match. Her smile was the sun, and it shone often and infectiously. Sometimes, she’d let me help her with whatever she was making that day. I would do my best to imitate the flawless baked goods she created, but I could never get it as perfect as she could. Mr. Montague, however, was quite the opposite of his wife. He was distant and cold, and I never really understood why. I suppose that’s why he and Ms. Montague loved each other so much. He was charmed by her sweet and friendly nature, and she was happy to take on the challenge of loving him. I occasionally found myself staring at his oddly shaped face. I didn’t mean to, but I struggled not to gaze at his prominent cheekbones and rather large chin. He’d caught me a few times, which is probably why I’m not exactly the apple of his eye. Father invited them inside. Mr. Montague acknowledged me with a glance and a tip of his snow-dusted hat, which rested on his ruffled brown hair. Father led them into the parlor, and I followed and plopped myself next to Ms. Montague on the sofa. The adults commenced small talk. “Beast of a storm out there, isn't it?” “Yes, John, I'd say.” The maid brought in tea, and I promptly spilled a bit on myself. No one noticed but Ms. Montague, who gave me a sly smile and passed me a napkin. “So, Lawrence, I assume you’re wondering why we’re here,” Mr. Montague began. “I can’t help but wonder, though you’re welcome, of course,” Father replied. “Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m afraid there’s been a sort of break-in at your shop.” I gasped aloud, then shrunk behind Ms. Montague, embarrassed. Fortunately, my outburst went unnoticed, as my parents had similar responses. Hugh chose this moment to enter awkwardly and seat himself next to me on the sofa, squashing me into Ms. Montague. I apologized to her, then promptly gave him a resentful glare. He smiled innocently. “Please, John, do elaborate!” Father said worriedly. “When we were leaving our place today, I glanced over and noticed your shop’s window was shattered, and I mean, shattered. I walked over, concerned, and looked inside to see the place a mess.” Father rose to his feet. “If you don’t mind, John, I need to get to the shop. Is your growler handy?” he asked. “Absolutely. Right outside.” They hurried out the door.
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“May I go with them, Mother?” I asked, expecting my request to be in vain. “Me, too?” Hugh chimed in. Mum sighed. “A nose for trouble you’ve got there, both of you. But I suppose. As long as you’re back before dark,” Mum replied matter-of-factly. I stared at her in disbelief. She was letting us go? I had never dreamed she’d say yes. Still, I was out the door and in the growler before she could change her mind. Hugh was right behind me. Father and Mr. Montague were not so pleased by our presence, so we lay low in the back seat until we arrived. The shop was in even worse shape than I had expected. Shards of glass from the front window lay scattered like menacing diamonds. Father unlocked the door and stepped inside. I followed after him carefully. It seemed as if the interior had been shaken violently by an unknown storm, with cases opened, displays knocked over, and goods strewn everywhere. The destruction continued to the back room, where Hugh and I crept unnoticed. Father was trying to asses the damage. Something was trying to climb up my throat. As Father’s desk came into sight, the back of my neck grew dangerously hot. The desk was askew. The drawer was open. And the locket was gone. Hugh came up behind me. He immediately realized our predicament. “Blimey, Tillie, this is just like one of those penny dreadfuls you’ve been readin’!” he breathed. He was right. The first thing the detectives in the stories do is search for clues, and as I set to poking around I could hear Father and Mr. Montague conversing in the front of the shop. “Oddly enough, John, it seems nothing’s gone. Our most valuable necklace-right here!” “Just a random act by vandals, then, maybe? But who… ?” “I guess so… let’s notify the bobbies at once. “ It wasn’t an act of vandalism. I knew better than that. No, someone had a very specific purpose for breaking in here. And I was going to figure out who and why. (to be continued)
Big Miss Steak
Karma
By Sophie Krajewski
By Anonymous When I woke up on Saturday morning, I instantly knew something was wrong. My alarm clock was not where it usually was. Looking around in confusion, I suddenly found it perched on the window sill above my bedside table. However, that wasn’t the weird part. I squinted, looking closer to see that the little blue clock had seemingly sprouted tiny blue robotic arms overnight. I scoffed, shaking my head. “I must still be asleep,” I thought to myself, reaching out to put the clock back in its spot. I didn’t get far, though. As soon as my hand got close, the clock let out a sudden low groan. One of the arms flew out and whacked my hand. I jumped back, eyes wide in surprise. That certainly was not supposed to happen! I tried again, inching slower this time. Once again, the clock let out a whine and the little blue hand struck out, this time harder. I let out a yelp and pulled my hand back quickly. That was not supposed to hurt, not if I was still dreaming. Maybe I was hallucinating? Tripping out of bed, careful to not take my eyes off the clock, I stumbled my way out of my room and down the stairs to the kitchen where my mother was waiting, breakfast ready. The morning’s strange event was suddenly erased from my mind as the smell of bacon and toast filled my nose. My mother placed a plate in front of me filled with bacon, eggs, French toast and a little apple on the side. Like any other Saturday morning, I went for the apple first. Taking a large bite out of it, I chewed for a second, savoring the taste, before I suddenly bit into something hard. I spit it out onto my plate, thinking it was a seed. But as I looked closer, I found it was not a seed but a little pearly white triangle. It kind of reminded me of a vampire’s fang, or a dog’s sharp tooth. My eyebrows furrowed in confusion and I looked back at the apple in my hand. My eyes nearly popped out of my head as two sets of neat, white, sharp teeth slowly appeared where I had taken a bite. My breathing became labored. I was definitely hallucinating at this point. My apple was growing teeth. “Mom?” I said, not taking my eyes off the apple. 80
“Yes, honey?” she replied, turning to face me. “Look at this,” I said, and showed her the apple. She gave me a worried glance. “Look at what, dear?” she asked. I pointed at the little row of fangs. “That!” I said. Her smile faltered. “Sweetheart, it’s just an apple. Are you feeling all right?” she asked, putting her hand on my forehead and feeling for a temperature. I looked at her incredulously. How could she not see this? “I’m feeling fine mom,” I muttered and she turned back to the stove. I glared at her back, then looked at the apple again. Cautiously, I stuck my finger out and went to poke at the teeth. Maybe it was all fake and I was just seeing things. In an instant, I knew I was wrong. Suddenly the apple lashed out and took a bite out of my finger. I yelped and threw the apple down, clutching my bleeding finger. The cut was small and really not that big of a deal, but had that apple really just bit me? My mom turned as she heard me and rushed over. “Do you see it now, Mom? That apple just bit me!” I shouted. She gave me another worried look, handing me a Bandaid and wiping away the blood. “Nonsense, honey. You just cut yourself, that’s all. Maybe you should go back to bed, you seem to be coming down with a fever,” she said, once again going back to her now- burning omelet. I scoffed in disbelief. I was not going anywhere near that alarm clock again. Glancing once again at my uneaten plate, my stomach gave a lurch as I thought about the apple and I walked away, not eager to get sliced by my toast. I sat down in the living room and took out my homework. I was sure writing an essay wouldn’t hurt, I seriously doubted a paper would suddenly sprout arms or something. I got out a pencil and started to write. I was doing a paper on the fall of the Roman Empire. As I wrote down the four main causes, my arm started to feel itchy. I scratched absent-mindedly through my sweatshirt as I wrote about the Germanic Tribes of the North, but the itching didn’t go away. For a while I was able to ignore it. As I got halfway down the page, however, it became unbearable. As I pulled off my sweatshirt and raised my arm, I was met with a terrible sight. There, etched into my skin, red and bloody, was my essay on the Roman Empire! I let out a scream and my mother came crashing into the room. The blood streamed down and I jumped up, cradling my arm to my chest. “Cassandra! What did you do?” my mother asked, frantically trying to stop the blood with a paper napkin. “I didn’t do anything!” I shouted, following her into the bathroom. She put my arm under the sink and turned on the warm water, letting all the blood wash away to reveal neat, red cursive. When my mother came back with the bandages, she read the writing and her jaw nearly hit the floor. She sat there for a moment, opening and closing her mouth like a fish, then finally set her jaw and applied the bandages. When I was all cleaned up, she gave me a stern look. “Cassandra, what happened? Why did you do this?” she asked, her voice trembling to stay calm. “I didn’t do this, Mom!” I said, my eyes wide. “I swear, I was just writing my essay and suddenly it happened!” She gave me a hard look and sighed. “Sweetheart, if you’re feeling the need to hurt yourself, you should talk to me-” I cut her off. “I’m not mom! I swear it’s not me!” I said, frustration building up inside of me. Finally I stood up and stormed off to my room. Why wasn’t she seeing this? Why was it only happening to me? When I got to my bedroom, I stomped in, slamming the door hard behind me. The wall shook with the force of it and I winced. I started to walk towards my bed, but I didn’t get far before suddenly my door swung back open, hitting me with the force of an elephant. I was slammed to the ground, the wind knocked out of me. For a moment, I just lay there, thinking. Why was this happening? It wasn’t possible. Alarm clocks don’t suddenly sprout arms and apples don’t bite people. Writing doesn’t just suddenly appear on your skin, certainly not as an essay about Rome. And doors don’t slam people, people slam doors! Suddenly it hit me, almost as hard as the door had. Karma is a real jerk. 81
The Wall By Sarah Lindner
This is dedicated to anyone who thinks they are worthless or unloved. It definitely does not seem like it now, but you are loved and wanted by so many and it is not your fault that they are not brave enough to say so. You are an amazing individual. It has been a long day, as usual. The days have been dragging on and on, making me wait to travel to my nightly sanctuary in the woods where the stars lay their precious heads upon pine trees and the wide granite bridge stretches across a rushing river. I tiptoe to the middle, pull my journal out of that wretched black backpack of hell and start writing. Most of the time it’s simple things, like how the air feels or how my day went, but the passages become very sad and veer away from joyous thoughts very quickly. Most of my journal entries are rants about things that generally annoy me, until I am tearing the hair of my delicate scalp. It is dark outside now. The fall weather nips at my heels as I round the corner of 6:00. As I trudge further into the woods, the faint glimmer of street lights peters out behind me. I walk and walk, needing to reach that same place every time. Needing to reach my nightly goal. I raise my head from its usual position, which is staring at the ground, to gaze upon my wimpy bridge. Then my mind exposes itself to the world again and breaks out of its doldrums. This space was once an unencumbered stretch of land. Now it is littered here and there with cigarette butts and scraps of tissue. Not many come here, so finding a new piece of trash to add to the previously-memorized pattern is always exciting. The first time I walked here I was awed at the grandeur of the place. That was when my dad was around. He took me here when I was about five. Two weeks later he died in a car crash on his way home from work. When I found out, I cried for weeks and never found the confidence to sing out loud again, which had been my true extroverted passion in life. It was like a barrier began inside of me, and as the weeks after my dad’s death added up, the barrier was being built taller, each weighted brick blocking out one more feeling or blip of joy. Sometimes I worry it will grow too tall, and then crumble. I do not write this lightly, because I try to accept the world; it is just very hard. I have a feeling I may fail. I always just want to get away. Farther away than my secluded alone place. Much farther. I want to take a ride far, far away. Past everything. I wish I could just make that happen, travel to a place from which I could never come back. I know I can. I’ve known this for a very long time. Yet the heartache and the struggle of my mourning family would be too much for me to leave on their heavy shoulders, so I don’t. The psyche of the place does seem nice though. A place to leave behind the pain, a place to leave this wretch of a world I am forced to live in. The thing is, I am not forced, am I? It’s not like I need to go through with this horrid life. I have been thinking about this for a long time. Perhaps so long that I have warped my mind. Sometimes I think this way because of school. I have given up there, finally yielded in submission to the workload. Those restless nights where my OCD and perfectionism drove me to study science, arithmetic, write essays and read until my eyes dribbled out of their sockets at 2:00 AM. Sometimes I wish I was not like this. I wish I could be stupid, no matter how ridiculous that sounds. I want to be free of my stressful life. It is not like anyone takes notice of me, or cares that I am smart. No guy has ever liked me for who I am. I am nobody, and no one would notice if nobody was gone. Then the next morning I emerge through the doorway into school and get bombarded with questions: ‘Why are your eyes watering?’ ‘Why are you sniffling?’ ‘Was everything okay last night?’ Sometimes eighth graders are idiots. Seriously, can’t they make a guess and leave me alone, and not report me to Guidance? Unfortunately, Guidance doesn’t work for me. I have gotten progressively farther from my friends. After sixth grade I barely saw them anymore. When I invited someone over they acted as if I was crazy. My introverted personality caused me to never make new ones. I still sit with them at lunch, but what does that show? Sitting can't show very much love or acceptance. Today, I confronted my friend Marie and told her I wanted to hang out more. This was the boldest thing I have ever done since I stupidly asked a guy out in fifth grade, and you can guess how that went. She said she was hanging out with her new friend, Tracey, and invited me along too. “Whenever we all try to hang out together, all Tracey does is make fun of me behind your back and criticize my friendship with you. She makes me feel worthless inside,” I squealed feeling very foolish. I was really not one to be open about my feelings with others. “Well, she is my friend and I don’t care about what you think. I never invited you in the first place so you don’t get to make the rules,” she said back to me as my soul slowly dissolved. At that I gave a mighty reproach. I ran away from her, realizing she was my last friend and I have no more. 82
After I finished my homework, I came straight here to my spot on the bridge. I keep telling myself that there is nothing left for me out there. I used to be a straight A student, and now even my grades are faltering. I thought I would be able to change the world when I was younger. But I only hold the power to this one useless life. My power over this directly alludes to my social and school life. There is one thing that prevents me from taking that journey I can never come back from. There is this boy in my chorus class, Jayce. He is the only one in my life who hasn’t given me a weird look or a horrible feeling inside. He says ‘Hi!’ to me every time I see him, even if I feel like an unwanted loser. A few times he has put a smile on my face and prompted me to say a few humorous words. I am extremely funny, I just don’t let anyone know. I feel like he is the kind of person who would sit beside me on the bridge, and cozy up with a good book together. The kind of person who is smart, kind, humorous, and loving. The kind of person with their own special spot in the woods that can help them come to their senses about life. The only difference between us is that I only sing when I am completely and forever alone. He belts his rhythmic voice for the world to hear. Maybe he could get me to sing. I see his shaggy brunette hair in visions, reflecting those emerald eyes that I just can't help but stare at on his face. I am being ridiculous. How could it come to this? A boy influencing my decisions? Why should I wait for him? I am very foolish. He only exacerbates my situation. Another girl will swoop him right up and the world will show its hatred for me even more. I really should do the world a favor. I have never really thought of following through with my plight until now. I stand upon the bridge in front of the stone wall. I glance down and see the gorge with water white and furious, only fifty feet beyond my eyes. I plop down on the edge of the stone wall. For once, I cannot hear that cacophony of sounds coming from the water below. No wind whooshing, no water crashing, no birds cooing. I feel everything, though. I feel the world throwing horror and stress at me with each little situation. My feet dangle off the wall. Wind pushes the tight curls of my hair in front of my face so that my eyes are lined up like red streaks amongst the oaky color. My lips tremble, maybe trying to hum a comforting tone. Probably one my dad taught me. I am not watching this. This is not happening. I am alone. I am not even with myself. Tears fly down my cheeks faster than ever before. My chin is wet, my face is wet, my hands are wet. The stones chill my legs as I still sit upon them, a blubbering idiot. A coward who has not done what she is meant to. A big idiot. As the last wave of stress leaves me I prepare myself. Everything will be over and I can take that balloon ride up and away. “Jess!” A soft voice screams out my name. My full name is Jessica, only my friends call me Jess, and I have not heard anyone say Jess aloud in a very long time. Jayce is running towards the bridge at full speed with a book in his hands. There is fear on his face and his pace quickens with each step. He runs up to me, seemingly preparing for an embrace as I see his arms widen as he patters across the bridge. I am not alone, my bridge has a visitor! My thoughts swirl around in my head and I can’t help but sob at the thought of what my actions would have led to. The barrier breaks and my soul is free. What is trapped inside has just been let go. I look into his eyes and see a reflection of mine: wet, red, and most of all, deep inside I see a young boy trapped in a loving soul, screaming for help. Shielding itself with a bubbly attitude. There is no response. He just picks me up off of the wall, my wall, and holds me in a tight embrace. My mental wall is falling, and relief and freedom rushes through, seeping out of my skin. You think no one can pull you back, but then you receive a tug. My thoughts swirl around in my head and I can’t help but sob at the thought of what my actions would have led to. The barrier breaks and my soul is free. What is trapped inside has just been let go. I look into his eyes and see a reflection of mine: wet, red, and most of all, deep inside I see a young boy trapped in a loving soul, screaming for help. Shielding itself with a bubbly attitude. There is no response. He just picks me up off of the wall, my wall, and holds me in a tight embrace. My mental wall is falling, and relief and freedom rushes through, seeping out of my skin. You think no one can pull you back, but then you receive a tug. It’s so hard for me to look back at him, harder yet for me to look back on that day. Everything in that short moment, it all happened so fast, changed so much. It’s the worst thing that’s happened in this life I’ve led without contest, yet I already feel the details eroding. It hasn’t been that long, and I feel guilty when I realize that another part of that day has gone missing, another part of Raven’s memory lost forever. It terrifies me, the thought that one day I won’t be able to recall this memory, and, even worse, that one day I may forget his face. I don’t want to move on from him. This life we humans are living, it’s so fast and unforgiving. I want to remember Raven forever; I want to never have to leave him behind. But as much as I want everything to stop, the world just won’t stop spinning. We’re only talking about our week as we pace the platform, now, mindless ramblings about teachers and annoying peers and that sort of thing. A small sign tells us that our train should be here soon, in one minute or so. Raven’s reminded me of an old classmate of mine which I begin to tell him about when he stops walking and his features freeze. I stop and turn myself to face him, alarmed at his panic and my blood seems to heat up. “What is it? Raven?” I hear an unsteadiness in my voice. He doesn’t move and opens his mouth slowly before saying something in a voice I can’t ignore.
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“Travis?” It’s a question and nothing more, and I reach out to grab him. Before my hand reaches him, however, he falls to the ground. My throat tightens and my heart just about stops as I realize in that split- second moment that he’s going to fall onto the tracks. I tried to stop it from happening. I tried to grab him before he fell. In a way it was all just chance, the timing was just right. Or perfectly wrong, if that’s more fitting. “Raven!” I feel myself screaming it but don’t hear anything above the adrenaline -charged blood pounding like a drum in my ears. “Raven!” I’m ready to jump onto those train tracks, ready to try to bring him back, and I’m about to when I feel someone grab my arm. Someone stronger than me pulls me back and I think they’re saying something but my thoughts are racing and my heart is pounding and the world is spinning and the train is coming closer and closer and it’s going too fast and there’s nothing I can do and…
He was gone just like that. I lost him, the only thing I was living for. I don’t think I can remember much beyond that, nothing but the feeling of disbelief and just raw numbness. The world rushed around me and I was left sitting in my own little world without Raven. It was days before the entire event hit me. It was terrifying, being stuck away in my own grief- stricken horror. I lay in my room for days, sometimes not eating or sleeping for extended periods of time. It was like I had been hit by that train, which I sometimes think would have been easier than what I have to deal with now. He was all I thought about for weeks, maybe months. He was all I was for the time that I knew him, which didn’t extend beyond a year. But our relationship with each other, I don’t think its strength can be measured with time. We clicked, and without him I was lost in a black hole of tears and misery, lost in myself. I did nothing, and there was nothing that could be done for me. Raven was my everything, and the world was not right without him. He was such a piece of me, and now… gone. Everything that had once been was nothing. Oftentimes I would picture him as his name suggests, a raven flying away from the tracks just in time. It was no more than a mere fantasy, a coping strategy I suppose. As much as I try not to go on, I know the world will take me away one day. Away from the autumn afternoons we spent together, away from his laughter- tinted voice. That caring smile that could lift any sort of pain away, and the fantasies we confided in each other. He was my anchor, that Raven, and through everything I must live without. They say you die twice, my bird, once when you stop breathing and another time when your name is spoken for the last time. So goodbye, dear Raven, and may you live forever in this ink.
Shingeki no Kyojin (From a Japanese manga series written and illustrated by Hajime Isayama By Julian Carpenter
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Nevermore By Alana Colety It was all my fault. For months this is what I told myself, needing to blame his death on someone, anyone, and that someone ended up being me. In a way I still do think that if I hadn’t been present, then the whole thing would have never happened, and we two would be happily going on with our lives, never knowing this potential second outcome. Living in sweet, beautiful ignorance about how much we nearly lost. However, I do happen to be one of those believers in fate, that everything in our lives is already set up to happen. If he hadn’t died then, it would have happened eventually; it was simply destiny. My whole experience with this guilt, I think, has developed into more of a “forgive yourself” kind of journey, one of those many things that has never come easily to me. Yes, I still have days where I do little but lie in my bed or lock myself in my room, sobbing over the death of the one I loved most, mourning over what could have been. But the days pass, and as much as I hate to admit it, life does go on. “Travis, do you want to go to the library in Manchester with me on Saturday? I have some research to do, and it would be more fun with a friend. Only if you’re interested, of course.” Raven’s voice is highlighted by that small laugh he always speaks with, the simple free- spiritedness that I can hear even over the phone. “I’d love to. Do you have a time?” My answer requires no thought whatsoever. A day with Raven, even if spent researching, is bound to be a good one. “Well, it opens at 9:30, so how about 9ish? We can take the train in.” “Sounds brilliant. See you then.” I hang up on Raven and smile stupidly with dumb pleasure. He’s invited me to a day in Manchester, and now I am barely keeping myself under control with an excitement I don’t even know why it exists. But I’m beyond ecstatic that I’m the one he called when he needed someone to join him. “But…” my subconscious says, “...maybe he called all of his friends before you. Maybe you’re his last choice of companion.” I shrug at the thought; usually thoughts like this would get to me, but I’m much too animated to care. A whole day in Manchester with Raven. Could life be any better? He was easily the most amazing person I had ever known, that Raven. I remember vividly the day we met, an autumn’s evening by the river, astonishing colors spewed from the sun’s rays across the sky, glinting off the calm flow of water below. It was cold out and I was alone when he sat next to me, offering his black fleece. “You look cold. And lonely. Would you like my jacket?” His exact words. Every time I hear them in my mind I cannot help but feel an ache so strong in my heart, one I’ve had to become accustomed to. I’m not sure of my ability to express it through words, but it’s somewhat like going down a sudden drop in a roller coaster, yet also suffocating as a bookshelf falls upon your chest. My thoughts get muddled and it’s like I’m no longer a part of my own body: I can’t even feel myself. And this feeling, I can’t shake it. Every living moment I’m reminded of the one I lost, the one with the shiny black hair and strikingly blue eyes, the eyes so expressive they seemed to change colour with his moods. That boy, my Raven, with the slightly freckled face. I still can’t believe I’ve lost him forever. I try to convince myself he really isn’t gone, that I’ll wake up one day and he’ll be back for me. But every morning I wake disappointed. Subways are dank, damp, gross, and filthy, but with Raven I can’t seem to make myself mind them at all. Even with our mindless, annoying small talk I’m satisfied, but there’s a little part of me that warns that something about this experience is off. Something, I don’t know what, is not right, but I shake the feeling off to the best of my ability as we make our way through the station. It seems oddly empty today, but I don’t let it bother me as we walk along the platform. We talk what I feel is a little too loudly, our voices echoing off of concrete walls and columns. A few people are scattered around, but the place is eerily quiet. Still, I won’t trust my instincts. It’s no more than a trick of my mind. It’s so hard for me to look back at him, harder yet for me to look back on that day. Everything in that short moment, it all happened so fast, changed so much. It’s the worst thing that’s happened in this life I’ve led without contest, yet I already feel the details eroding. It hasn’t been that long, and I feel guilty when I realize that another part of that day has gone missing, another part of Raven’s memory lost forever. It terrifies me, the thought that one day I won’t be able to recall this memory, and, even worse, that one day I may forget his face. I don’t want to move on from him. This life we humans are living, it’s so fast and unforgiving. I want to remember Raven forever; I want to never have to leave him behind. But as much as I want everything to stop, the world just won’t stop spinning. We’re only talking about our week as we pace the platform, now, mindless ramblings about teachers and annoying peers and that sort of thing. A small sign tells us that our train should be here soon, in one minute or so. Raven’s reminded me of an old classmate of mine which I begin to tell him about when he stops walking and his fea85
tures freeze. I stop and turn myself to face him, alarmed at his panic and my blood seems to heat up. “What is it? Raven?” I hear an unsteadiness in my voice. He doesn’t move and opens his mouth slowly before saying something in a voice I can’t ignore. “Travis?” It’s a question and nothing more, and I reach out to grab him. Before my hand reaches him, however, he falls to the ground. My throat tightens and my heart just about stops as I realize in that split- second moment that he’s going to fall onto the tracks. I tried to stop it from happening. I tried to grab him before he fell. In a way it was all just chance, the timing was just right. Or perfectly wrong, if that’s more fitting. “Raven!” I feel myself screaming it but don’t hear anything above the adrenaline -charged blood pounding like a drum in my ears. “Raven!” I’m ready to jump onto those train tracks, ready to try to bring him back, and I’m about to when I feel someone grab my arm. Someone stronger than me pulls me back and I think they’re saying something but my thoughts are racing and my heart is pounding and the world is spinning and the train is coming closer and closer and it’s going too fast and there’s nothing I can do and…
He was gone just like that. I lost him, the only thing I was living for. I don’t think I can remember much beyond that, nothing but the feeling of disbelief and just raw numbness. The world rushed around me and I was left sitting in my own little world without Raven. It was days before the entire event hit me. It was terrifying, being stuck away in my own grief- stricken horror. I lay in my room for days, sometimes not eating or sleeping for extended periods of time. It was like I had been hit by that train, which I sometimes think would have been easier than what I have to deal with now. He was all I thought about for weeks, maybe months. He was all I was for the time that I knew him, which didn’t extend beyond a year. But our relationship with each other, I don’t think its strength can be measured with time. We clicked, and without him I was lost in a black hole of tears and misery, lost in myself. I did nothing, and there was nothing that could be done for me. Raven was my everything, and the world was not right without him. He was such a piece of me, and now… gone. Everything that had once been was nothing. Oftentimes I would picture him as his name suggests, a raven flying away from the tracks just in time. It was no more than a mere fantasy, a coping strategy I suppose. As much as I try not to go on, I know the world will take me away one day. Away from the autumn afternoons we spent together, away from his laughter- tinted voice. That caring smile that could lift any sort of pain away, and the fantasies we confided in each other. He was my anchor, that Raven, and through everything I must live without. They say you die twice, my bird, once when you stop breathing and another time when your name is spoken for the last time. So goodbye, dear Raven, and may you live forever in this ink. Unfinished Sneaker By Henry Walters
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Bad Girls By Jacqueline Smith Eighth grade Carly Current-day Carly
Introduction I had just walked into the cafeteria. It felt different. Everything did. She was gone. My best friend, halfway across the country. That was the first day of eighth grade. Same school, yet different place. Because she was gone. It was like starting over. Friendless, I scanned the room for somewhere to sit. Someone bumped into me from behind and I remember looking into piercing dark eyes surrounded by locks of jet-black hair. I can still feel how her stare cut through me, exposing my secrets. The voice whispered, “Come sit with us.” And a smug grin appeared on her face. I knew who they were. They were the school’s “bad girls”. And yet, I obediently followed and made a deal with the devil: I’d get friends, but in return I would need to become those friends. I sat. That was my biggest mistake.
Chapter 1: How It All Started So, I know what you’re thinking. What do you, mean your “biggest mistake”? Well, I’ll get to that later. First, let’s flash-back to the day my world turned completely upside-down: “You’re moving?!” My heart stopped. She had to be joking. She couldn’t just leave me. She wouldn’t just leave me. “Carly, I’m so sorry. I...I don’t want to leave either. I want to stay here, stay with you. But my dad found a job, and I don’t have a choice….” Her voice trailed off. She looked down at her feet, like she always did when she was nervous. Which wasn’t often. “But...but what about finishing high school together? What about your family here? What about me?” I demanded to have these questions answered. I had to understand why the person I thought I could always count on was leaving me forever. “I’ll finish school, don’t worry about that, I’m not moving to Antarctica. As for family, we have some out there and we are going to come back and visit sometimes. And you, Carly, I love you, and you know that. We have been best friends since kindergarten. Distance doesn’t have to break us apart. We can talk every week, or even every day! We can…” I cut her off, “But it’s not the same! I need you! Don’t you need me?” “Carly, I…” “Carly, sweetie, your mom’s here...” Great. I had to get out of here. “Bye,” I said before I turned around and half-sulked, half-stomped out of the house. Okay, yes, I know, so sad. But that’s why I was alone on the first day of the eighth grade. Now let’s fast-forward a little bit to the first lunch I had as an eighth-grader: I entered the cafeteria. The morning had flown by in a blur. All I knew was that history class was going to be a nightmare and my English teacher was out to get me. But I had bigger problems right now. Where was I going to sit? Not with the populars, that’s for sure. The geeks...I didn’t feel like learning how to hack into the Pentagon, to be honest. Then there were the nerds. Better than the geeks, but I would rather not engage in a conversation about how exciting it’s going to be when we start dissecting in biology next year. Ew. Just ew. Not sitting there. I had pretty much decided to sit alone by the window when someone shoved me from behind. “Hey! Watch where you’re…” I froze mid-sentence. Dark eyes peered out at me from under jet-black hair. “Come sit with us,” the girl whispered. Not just any girl. She was the head of a gang of bad girls in the school. But I had nowhere else to sit, so what could happen? I gave a curt nod and took a seat.
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Chapter 2: Gang Initiation So, that’s how my first day went. Yes, I made friends. But not exactly good ones. Their names were Lynn, Jennette, and Trish. Lynn was the leader. They all had jet-black hair and wore all black. They liked the goth-look. They thought it made them look “bad”, which helped their reputation. They failed pretty much every class and had detention at least once a week. They each had been suspended at least once and Lynn had been expelled from her last school. They were dangerous, no doubt about it. But I was friendless and about as desperate as they come. Not many people entered the eighth grade without any friends. They were nice enough, at the time, and they were willing to let me into their tight-knit clique. So I accepted. But that was before I knew about “gang initiation,” as Lynn called it. I pretty much closed my eyes and jumped off a cliff, metaphorically speaking. I could have either landed in a deep pool of water or on sharp rocks. I guess it depends on how you look at it, really. Okay, anyways, my first requirement for initiation required a trip to the mall: “Carly! Carly, come here! This is our favorite store!” I could see why. Every piece of clothing in it was black. That’s the price that came with the friendship, I guess. So in I went. I had barely even gotten through the door before my arms were filled with clothes and I was being dragged to the nearest dressing room. “Try them on! And let us see! Ooh I can’t wait to see you! You’re going to look so pretty and scary and…” “Jenny! Would you just shut up? This is part of our initiation. New wardrobe. Now stop being so...you.” That was Lynn, yelling at Jennette, as usual. She was really perky. I don’t even know why or how Jenny was still in the gang, but she was, and she drove Lynn crazy. It actually got sorta funny at times. “C’mon Carly, hurry up! Let us see!” called Trish. “Alright, alright, I’m ready.” And a fashion show began. I tried on black, short dresses, tight black jeans with a matching tank, a knee-length dress with little silver spikes around the collar, and even black leggings with a black shirt and blazer. They had very...unique taste. But, new friends, new me, right? Here we go. I looked horrifying. I don’t deny it now, but if anyone had told me that then, I might have punched them in the face. Who knows? Anyways, that wasn’t the worst part of our mall adventure. I passed step one with flying colors and the swipe of a credit card. But step two was going to be a little bit harder: We left the store. I was practically falling over from the weight of all the bags. I had a completely new look now. We were about to leave, so I guessed the initiation was done. I had passed, and now, voila: new friends! “Wait Carly. There’s one more thing. Come in here.” We ducked into a small, cute corner shop. They sold things like nail polish, makeup, jewelry, etc. I followed them to the back of the store. “What do you guys need in…?” I stopped at the sight of all three of them filling their purses and pockets with merchandise. “Um, guys, do you need money? ‘Cause I can lend you some if you need it.” I offered. “No, Carly. My God, you can be so stupid! I have money too, and that’s all just great. But this is fun. So join us. You want to be one of us, don’t you? Well, this is what we do,” Lynn said as she slipped a tube of mascara up her sleeve. “Don’t worry, Carly. There aren’t any security cameras back here,” Trish informed me. “Oh Carly! Take this one.” Jennette held up a black lipstick. I took a deep breath. I wanted friends, and if this was what I had to do to get them, fine. “Thanks,” I mumbled to Jennette as I grabbed it from her and stuck it in one of my other bags. “Now let’s get out of here. My mom’s expecting me.” I turned and hurried out.
Chapter 3: New Me That isn’t exactly a time I am proud of, but it happened and there is no point denying it. Anyways, now the initiation was really over, but I still had to work on my behavior. They had some high expectations, let me tell you. So, I kept up the act. But of course, my parents took notice, and they didn’t like what they saw. “Carly! What are you wearing?!” Busted by my mom. Great. “It’s a new look I’m trying.” I replied casually. “It’s a bit...well...honey, you’re wearing all black.” I spun around to face her. “And why is that a problem?” I shot back. “It’s not a problem, I just want to know why you have erased color from your wardrobe,” she answered. “It’s none of your business why I wear what I wear. I’m going to be late for school.” I turned and stalked out of the house. 88
That was one of the many times I had gotten caught for strange behavior or fashion. Looking back, I still question whether or not that was really me. I was like a totally different person. But, I’m back to normal now. That doesn’t mean I don’t wish I could rewind time and change my decisions, though. Change in style was the beginning of a long line of “improvements,” as Lynn called them, to myself. For example, my whole attitude towards things changed: “Mom! That’s not fair!” I screamed. This was ridiculous. Why didn’t they just let me do what I wanted to do? “It is 100% fair, Carly. Your mother will keep your cell phone for at least the next two weeks. If you need to contact us, ask a friend. Something has changed in you, and until we figure out what that is and how to stop it, get used to these new restrictions,” my dad said calmly. It angered me even more. “You don’t understand! I need my phone! How am I going to talk to my friends?!” I yelled. “Carly, I know you are upset, but we are not going to change our decision. You know very well that your curfew is 10 o’clock. It is unacceptable to be out at 2am and not even tell us where you are. Now go to your room and I want you to think about what you put us through. Goodnight, Carly.” With that, both my parents left the room. I stomped up the stairs and slammed my bedroom door angrily. They can’t keep me locked up in here forever. I’ll prove it. Okay, so here’s the problem with teenagers. When someone tells them not to do something, you will get one of two reactions. One, they will understand and listen to you or two, they will purposefully do the opposite of what you said just to prove they can. In this case, I was going with reaction number two. I was determined to go to whatever lengths to prove to my parents that no rule could keep me from doing what I wanted to do. Chapter 4: The Party “Hey guys, what’s up?” I said as I took my seat at our table. Lynn smiled, genuinely. Something was up, she never smiles like that. “Lynn, what is it?” Jennette exploded. “OMG CARLY YOU ARE GONNA LOVE THIS!” she shrieked. “Shhhh! Do you want to announce it to the whole school?!” hissed Trish. “Quiet, girls. Carly, have you ever been to a high school party?” Lynn inquired. “Um, no. Why?” I was scared for the response. Lynn flashed me a look of pure evil. “Because we are going to sneak into one. Tonight. What do you say?” I was not expecting that. This was much harder than a yes or no question. “Um, I don’t know. That doesn’t sound like a good idea…” I trailed off. Lynn rolled her eyes. “Carly, you wanted to be our friend. This is what we want to do. Are you in or are you out?” She wasn’t just asking if I wanted to go to the party. That was a hidden threat of being kicked out of the clique. Plus, what better way to show my parents I was my own person then by sneaking out? That just made my decision ten times simpler. “Yeah, sorry, I don’t know what got into me. I’m in, what time?” So there’s rebellious little Carly, ready to take a huge risk. Showing my parents that I was a “big girl” now. I was so clueless back then. Anyways, the party. We decided to meet at midnight. There used to be a huge tree right next to my window, and that’s how I got out. I opened the window, grabbed a branch, and climbed out. I remember Lynn’s older sister was in high school at the time and she said she’d drive us there, but we had to figure out how to get in. It wasn’t hard, I think we just joined a mob of teenage girls and slipped in, unnoticed. Here’s what happened: We walked into a huge room with amazing disco lights and blasting music. People were dancing everywhere and having fun. You could hear laughter over the music, and occasionally some playful shrieks. “Isn’t this awesome, Carl?!” squealed Jennette excitedly. “It will be, as soon as we start dancing!” I grabbed their hands and dragged them to the dance floor. We must have danced for 2 hours. It was a blast, but we were exhausted. We found a comfy couch in the corner and fell into it. “I’ll go get us drinks,” said Lynn as she dragged her body off the couch. She returned with four red solo cups and handed each of us one. She pointed to group of kids, laughing in the other corner. Smoking. “Those aren’t normal cigarettes. They smelled...funny.” said Lynn, making a face. 89
Oh God. I looked down at my drink. “Lynn, what is this?” I asked. “How should I know? They were all over the table, so I grabbed a few. Why?” I smelled it again. I wasn’t wrong. “Because, it contains alcohol.” And there, I had my epiphany. I was in way over my head. If you think I sat there and acted cool along with the rest of them, you couldn’t be more wrong. I was off that couch in seconds and sprinting outside: I ran out of the party like my life depended on it. I skidded to a halt by the door. Now what? I didn’t have my cell phone. I looked around in a panic and saw one lying on the table. No one will notice. I grabbed it, dialed, and waited. “Hello?” said a voice. “Mom?! I need you to come and pick me up, now. I’ll explain later.” I gave her the address and hung up before she started yelling at me. I just needed to get out. She was there in minutes. The ride home was silent. Chapter 5: Moving On I had finally come to my senses, but not soon enough. Damage was done, and my parents weren’t happy at all. My punishment fit the crime. As I remember it, I was grounded for a month, my mom was going to reconstruct my wardrobe, and my phone was to only be used to contact them. But I didn’t need a punishment to change my ways. Lynn, Jennette, Trish, and I didn’t talk after that. Jenny, I remember, would still smile or wave sometimes, but other than that I was a disgrace. That was easier than actually having to talk to them about “abandoning the gang”. So, here’s what happened one week after the incident: They treat me like a stranger now. Jennette doesn’t completely ignore me, but she still doesn’t say “hi” or anything. But I’m okay with it. I’ve learned it’s better to have no friends at all than to have friends that bring you down. So, I sit alone everyday in the corner. One day, I took my usual seat, but I wasn’t hungry. I was busy toying with my food when a soft, sweet voice asked, “Can we sit here?” I looked up into smiling faces. I had never seen them before. They were blond and had blue eyes and were, well, almost identical. “We’re new here, this is our first day. Are these seats taken?” I shook my head and said, “No no, go right ahead. I didn’t catch your names, I’m Carly…” And the conversation continued. Their names were Leah and Lily Thompson and they are the nicest people in the world. I have been friends with them for about 3 years now. We are in our junior year of high school and we do everything together. I did many stupid things in the eighth grade, but I would do it all again the exact same way to make sure we stayed friends. They are sweet, considerate, and caring and at the same time, hilarious, confident, and allaround amazing. I still miss Sophie sometimes. I miss the times we had together and I will keep those memories forever, but I’ve learned how to let go. We don’t talk much, but that’s okay. I can’t let one let-down tear me apart. I got back up, dusted myself off, and started over. And I couldn’t be happier. To this day I still carry with me a very important lesson. And I wish someone taught it to me before I let myself do it. No matter how desperate you are, always remember one thing: Never sit with the bad girls!
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An Excerpt from “The Warehouse” By Lillie Wiley-Powell Mrs. Watson arrived at the warehouse around 1:30 in the morning. She silently entered through the side doors and peered into the darkness. "Are you in here?" She called his name out, her voice echoing through the shelves. Another voice came from the break room. "In here, Ella," he said. She hurried through the halls on the cement floors as fast as her platform stilettos would carry her. At the sight of him she wrapped her arms around his warm body. They stood there, hugging each other for several minutes. She looked up into her lover’s gorgeous eyes and stepped back from his embrace. "We can’t do this anymore." She spoke quietly, half expecting him to blow up with anger like her husband always would. But instead, he just stood there in shock. Her eyes began to water because she knew what she would lose if anyone told. He pulled her back in, and she buried her face in his shoulder. Every once in a while there was a muffled cry, yet she didn't understand why she was crying. Several Hours Earlier… Mrs. Watson was an astonishingly beautiful woman. She was tall and slender, with lips full and always colored a deep red when out of the house. When she walked her hips swayed from side to side, and everyone refused to believe her when she told them where she worked. "In a warehouse?" they'd say. “You look like you should be on the cover of a magazine!” "I guess it isn’t the most glamorous job, huh?" she'd reply with a sneer. It bothered her how everyone focused only on her looks. Typically, women with faces as fair as hers would cause people to imagine them as rolling in credit cards and married to a gorgeous man with perfect looks. But not Ella Watson. Mr. Watson was no millionaire. In fact, he was a simple warehouse manager working beside his wife day in and day out. He was fat, and splotchy with red patches from drinking too much. When they first married, they were deeply in love, but at that time Mr. Watson had been a dashing groom. But with every new chin he gained, Mrs. Watson became more distasteful of him and his choices. One particular night, they got into a huge argument. "You're an out- of -control alcoholic!" Mrs. Watson shrieked at Mr. Watson. "I'm not the one throwing away all our money on ridiculous cosmetics!" he slurred back at her, trying to yell. Ella’s face hardened. She pressed her unpainted lips together until they turned white, and let out a sharp, angry sigh. With a quick turn on her heels, she stalked out of the room and stomped upstairs. After an hour or so, Ella tiptoed downstairs with her brown trench coat and deep red lipstick on. "I'm going out," she told her drunken husband bitterly, who was curled up in the maroon, coffee -stained recliner chair, cuddling a six pack. With quick strides she let herself out of house. Her heels clacked along the cement sidewalk as she walked towards their silver sedan. She elegantly slid into the driver's seat and began driving into the glistening darkness. The next morning, Mr. Watson awoke to find the spot next to him still cold and empty as it was the night before where he passed out. He rolled out of bed, feeling the hangover effects pound his brain. Slowly, he inched towards his dresser and pulled on his slacks and a button- down shirt. In the kitchen, he impatiently awaited the beeping of the microwave to signify his breakfast burrito was hot. Mr. Watson stepped outside and the brisk morning air hit his face as he ambled down the sidewalk. The fresh smell of cut grass wafted into his nose, making him pause and long for freedom from his job. Nearby, he heard teenagers mowing lawns, causing him to remember his days mowing lawns as a teen. He turned to walk to the driveway were his old, rusting pickup truck sat waiting for him in all its misery. He pulled out onto the street and began driving out of the high- class suburban neighborhoods. He passed through the middle -class suburbs and the apartments until the car was surrounded by gray, polluted air from factories and the city. He arrived at the warehouse early as usual, and leaned back into the driver’s chair where an everlasting indention of his rolled, fat back was carved into the worn plush. After around fifteen minutes, he urged himself to rise. Another hard day at work, he thought to himself and heaved his heavy body out of the truck. Mr. Watson trudged to the side door to let himself in. As he pulled his key out to unlock the door, he noticed it was ajar. In immediate panic, he rushed through the door and hurried into the familiar halls leading to the offices. He looked around and spotted the glass lamp, its stand shattered on the floor, the paper shade in tatters. He ran down the hallway to find the framed painting of the beach sunset lying far from its home on the wall; the frame was snapped into two and there was even more shattered glass strewn on the floor. 91
A woman lay sprawled in the center of an opening with deep gashes in her chest. Shallow breaths escaped from her mouth. Nearby, he noticed a brown trench coat streaked with blood. His chest tightened. With heavy breaths and a shaking a hand, he brushed the crazy, tangled, blond mess off her face, in hopes it wasn't who he thought it was. By 7:00 am, the warehouse was swarmed with reporters, policemen and onlookers. Mr. Watson had been discovered kneeling beside his wife, horror- stricken and shocked with 911 already dialed on his phone. The co-worker who had found him immediately responded by calling 911 on his own cell phone. Mr. Watson was taken in for questioning by the police. Two detectives sat in the interrogation room with him , and as soon as his butt hit the chair, he was pounded with questions and facts about the case. "OK Mr. Watson, what we know about this case is our victim, the lovely Ella Watson, your late wife was found in the warehouse that you manage, that you always enter first in the mornings. Oh and let's not forget that you were found inches from her bloodied corpse. Can you tell me exactly how you found your wife and why you didn't immediately call the emergency line?" "Detective, last night Ella and I had an argument and she stormed off, in her usual way. This morning she was still gone and I proceeded to get ready for work, assuming she had gone to work earlier and I would see her when I arrived. I wasn't worried because she has done this before. I drove to work and when I went to unlock the door, I found it already open. I ran in and saw broken lamps, framed paintings, and tables gone awry. And then I found... her. I didn't call 911 because I was... I am in shock." He fixed the last sentence with uncertainty. "You'll need to prove that, sir. We still have strong evidence to keep you here, and you have no strong alibi, so we will leave you here while we see if your alibi checks out." As soon as the heavy door shut and the two detectives found themselves in the hallway outside of the interrogation room, they began speaking about the Ella Watson case. "This man killed his wife, right?" the detective asked his partner. "It's obvious. Now we just have to prove it," she replied as they made their way to the morgue to hear the coroner's evaluation. Standing over the body, the coroner began his brief evaluation of the body. "Mrs. Watson, 6'3", 151 lbs. Cause of death, deep gashes to the chest. The gashes are jagged, making it appear they were not caused by any normal knife, but in fact they were caused by an animal’s claws..." (to be continued)
Broken By Liam Barthelmy Josh sat in his room, looking down at his violin with his music sitting up on the small black collapsible stand. He picked up the instrument and bow to continue practicing and admired them. They were practically the only thing he had left for himself, other than the plain room he was playing in and the tiny secret closet beneath his dresser that his dad still hadn’t found. That was his violin’s room. Josh’s mom had given him the originally oversized violin and bow when he was six, and it was his last connection to her, since she had gone away when he was eight. Four years ago. How long it seemed since he had been able to share his love of music. Hadn’t he always been stuck with his dad, who didn’t care for music, in this dreary place, hiding his true self under layers of bland cover-ups? Broken. That’s how he felt. He started playing to ease his worries. The notes cried out of Josh’s red-brown wooden instrument, in line with his tears inside. They were crying out for someone, someone to take them and cradle them and love their music. That was what he really needed. A reassuring voice in him told him that he was fine, that his violin was the only family he really needed. But he knew it wasn’t true. His finger slipped, and he snapped his thoughts back to the piece he was practicing, preparing for the solo he would play in two weeks. He prepared again for the phrase he had been practicing. How long had it been, anyway? He glanced up at the small black alarm clock poised on his dresser, and it stared back at him like a hawk. A wave of panic rushed through Josh. The clock read 7:30. His dad would come home any minute. He postponed the rest of his practicing for tomorrow, and quietly slipped his violin back into its case, like his feelings in himself, and hid it away. He knew there would come a time to reveal it. It just wasn’t now. Five minutes later, the door closed with a thud. Josh’s dad came up to Josh in his room, where Josh had just gotten a book out and was intently staring at it. “What are you doing?” he asked in a gruff voice. Oh, just finishing homework,” Josh cautiously replied. 92
“Sure give out a lot of homework these days, huh?” his dad said. He was getting a little suspicious, but Josh knew he wouldn’t take action until he had proof. Then he would get mad. “Well, I’ve got to finish some work myself. I’ll leave you alone for now.” His dad was always working, leaving for the office at 7:30 am, and returning at 7:30 pm only to sit down and work some more. In that way, Josh thought he may have gotten something from his dad, as different as they may be. His work ethic. Maybe these two hard workers were too engrossed in what they were doing to truly appreciate each other. But, then again, he doubted that. He and his father just had different interests, and that was that. Josh started in on the first problem of today’s homework assignment. It was going to be a long night. *****
Josh walked into his homeroom, along with his friends. They were talking about some event or party, chatting wildly. Josh wasn’t listening, though. He was thinking about last night, wondering if any of his friends knew about his real life away from school. Probably not, or at least not fully. He wondered if he should tell them something. No, he should just stay as he was, the friendly, musical, outgoing kid at school, the quiet lonely kid at home. But then again… “Josh! Josh? Hellooo? Come on!” Josh stopped thinking. His friends were calling him, dragging him out of his contemplative state. He was going to first period orchestra class, doing something – the only thing, it seemed – that he loved. He should be having fun. And so he did, turning to his friends, drifting off into his happy school world, and leaving his worries behind. *****
Days went by, and Josh found himself going through his routines normally, but sensing that something was becoming different. He worried that, if nothing changed, the feeling would get stronger and stronger, a growing danger, and take over. Something needed to change, in order for things to get better. He also feared that if he didn’t try to change, the change would happen to him. He didn’t want that. But he kept postponing the inevitable, waiting, going on normally, saying, “Come on in change, and fight me,” and so eventually, it did. It came just 5 days before the concert, while Josh was practicing at home. It floated through the door and penetrated Josh’s room, where everything had been the same. The air was different. Josh could sense it, but couldn’t stop it, and so as Josh picked up his violin to play again, change bumped his bow. It teetered on the bed and then fell with a soft crack. When Josh looked down, the bow was in two pieces. Broken, just like him. The bad side of change flew away admiring his work, a job well done. Its good side waited for an opportunity. Josh just sat there, head in his arms. Josh sullenly crept through the hallways of his school the next day, and as his friends noticed his expression, they rushed over. “What happened?” they all asked. Josh knew he had to tell them eventually. It was time to open up to his friends. But would they still like him if he told them everything? Or would they turn away? He decided to stall, even if he knew it wasn’t right. “Nothing,” he casually said, but with a note in his voice saying that it wasn’t true. “Come on, tell us!” they said in unison. They knew there was something wrong. Josh would never be this shy and protective otherwise. Josh still refused to tell them, and they walked away, disappointed. But all through the day, a dark cloud hung over him, and afterwards, he nervously walked up to them again. He slowly revealed not only the broken bow, but other secrets as well. Secrets that had been bound to him for years flowed out once he started talking, and the whole time, his friends listened, occasionally nodding sympathetically. By the end, nearly everything that no one else knew was out, and strangely, Josh felt better than he ever had before. A feeling of hope was in him. But it seemed, later, that his secrets had gotten too far. The next night, at 7:30, Josh was greeted by a huge swing of the door, a deliberate slam, and an explosion of fury. His dad was angrier than he had ever seen, and promptly started stomping and tearing apart the house. He had gotten proof. When he calmed down from his physical rage, Josh heard the painful truth. His father had heard about the bow, and the music that Josh had hidden for so long. He screamed that Josh had betrayed him, that he had been hiding everything from him, that music had no place in this house. A world of boring exactness, Josh thought. No place for beauty. The worst part though, was that two of his father’s statements were true. Josh set out to change the third. But as he went to bed that night, he thought that he could not. This house was not safe for his violin. And so that night, while his father was asleep, Josh spirited his violin away to the soon-to-be-locked school orchestra room. A safe place was a start, but it was not a free one. As Josh wearily rose from his bed after his Friday night adventure, he noted that his father wasn’t inside. Peeking out, he did not see him, either. Strange. What he did see was a package. The long thin box was addressed to him, but with no return address. He inspected it carefully, then brought it inside to his room and locked the door. Instead of ripping it open immediately, he turned it over and further looked at it. 93
‘Dear Josh, Have fun! I’ll see you at the concert!’ It was very concise. No name, no hint of what was inside. But what did the concert have to do with it? Why would there be no return address, nor a name on the note? Was it a joke? Josh waited for his mind to stop buzzing, and then started in on the layers of packaging. When they finally unraveled, underneath was a brand new violin bow, better than he had had before. Its dark wood seemed to shimmer under the dim ceiling light, and its appearance seemed miraculous, with the concert only two days away. But who had sent it? Probably a friend. He could thank them on Monday. Slowly, he smiled, and slipped off to unite the bow with its new violin. A Saturday at a school is very quiet. There are no students bustling in the hallways, no people, even, in sight. That is what Josh faced when heading into the school that day. A kind of silent, eerie feeling hung over the entire building, and once the bow was successfully in the case, thanks to a key provided by the lone janitor, he was eager to get away. He left the school quickly. As he approached his house, he could hear some loud chatter among neighbors. They seemed to be talking about him, and having an argument. But why? As he peeked around the corner, he saw his dad angrily talking to them. They told him everything he didn’t want to hear. Yes, he did still play, he was very good, and would be playing a solo in two days in the school concert. No, they did not know where he kept his violin and wouldn’t help him find it, considering his current rude treatment of them. Josh moved on, but the episode reminded him of other worries, and his mood shifted back to melancholy. The bow was just one of many problems. On Monday, Josh walked into school with a warm smile, but also with an air of determination. The day was spent asking suspects if they had given him the bow, with interludes of reflective thought. It flew by. With every ‘no’ answer, Josh became more and more determined to locate the person, but also more doubtful, either of them being in the school, or of his friends honesty. He wasn’t sure. Were they just playing a trick? He eventually decided to trust them. They were the ones who listened so carefully when he told them about himself. But then again, they had spread the message to his dad. But if they didn’t do it, then they probably also spread word to whoever did. And if the person indeed wasn’t here, then where should he look next? Josh left school dejected, but then decided to pick his head up. He had to stop asking these questions. The note, after all, said “I’ll see you at the concert,” didn’t it? Josh sure hoped he would. *****
Josh was nervous. Being about to step on stage, as a soloist, with an unknown person waiting for you in the stands tends to have that effect. His orchestra buddies and conductor tried to lighten his mood, but Josh was focused, and nothing could break his concentration except the thought of finally finding out who had given him the bow. He heard the voice of the conductor. “Ok, kids, time to get out there!” he said cheerfully. The walk to the stage seemed like an eternity. The whole time, Josh was thinking about the person out there. He knew he couldn’t ease his mind and focus on music until he found out who. Another thing crossed Josh’s mind, too. His dad. What if he was out there, ready to pounce? He knew where Josh was. Josh peeked out from behind the stage curtains, and was relieved to see that his dad was not there. He was troubled, though, to see that all of his friends were there, too. It could be any of them. *****
Finally standing at the front of the stage, the spotlight illuminating the area around him, Josh scanned the audience for anyone else as the orchestra fell in behind him. It was then that he saw another face, one that he had not seen in a long time. His mother was out there. Their eyes met, and she winked. He knew. He flashed a smile back, and the notes flowed out.
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When The Sky Turns Red By Brett Kahmann Sometimes I have dreams about what happened. My mind imagines wars racking our city, people bleeding out in the streets. I imagine a plague, wiping out millions upon millions. Or I imagine society simply crumbling. But no matter how many I think up, my mind simply keeps creating more. I trudge across the thick sod of the field. I’m trying to get the pictures of death out of my head, but they won’t leave. I’m looking around me, trying to concentrate on the scenery, but all I’m seeing are aftershocks of the darkness inside the depths of the mind. I became frantic. I’m trying to think about something nice, something pleasant, but all I see is death and disease and ruin. And then I see my mother and - “Latona!” I hear someone shout. I stop screaming- I hadn’t even realized I wasand turn around. “Latona!” the voice shouts again. I see someone jogging towards me. No, I don’t want to see or talk to anyone, but then I see who it is and- “I’m worried about you, Latona”, Vespera says to me as she runs up and embraces me. I push her away. “I’m fine,” I mutter, but she grabs my shoulders and turns me to her. “No, you aren’t. You aren’t fine. I’ve been seeing how you’ve been acting recently, Latona. And... I-I’m scared. I - uh, we need you. And I don’t think we could function without you, or your leadership,” she stammers, and looks as she is on the verge of tears. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I murmur to her. “I’m just going through some stress and whatnot. I’ll be fine, I promise.” I don’t think she believes me, but she begins to smile and takes her hands off my shoulders. “That-That’s good.” She grins. Her look lingers on mine. Noticing, she ducks her head and looks away. “Latona, we need to tell you something. We have a problem. Just come back with me to base. We’ll tell you there.” We hurry back, weaving around the buildings we call Die Basis. Ich weiß nicht warum. We climb up the stairs of Alpha, the building claimed as our center for the officials of our group to make decisions and whatnot. We finally reach the 6th floor, where several other officials and people of various ranks are seated. It seems as if they are waiting for us. I barely scan the faces- about half a dozen or so, all pretty familiar to me.I direct my attention to Marcus, who sits at the front of a large table as he begins to speak. “Hello, Latona, and hello again, Vespera,” he says. “Now, Vespera, have you said anything to her yet?” “No, Marcus,” Vespera replies, looking down at her lap. “Should… Should I have?” “Only if you wanted to. I’m glad you didn’t, however, as it would be good to discuss.” Marcus now looks at me. “Now, Latona, we’re putting this out as some BIG thing, but it really isn’t. We do have a problem, however. Our supplies are getting relatively low. Not just food, or whatever, but almost everything. I need your crew to help search for more. But also, Latona... Something’s different. I don’t know if you’ve felt it. It’s everywhere. Like... something’s going to happen. I’m not just crazy. We’ve all been feeling it. Now, your responsibility is to lead your crew - give or take a few - and try to get us more supplies. But also, try to look around. Try to see if you can find anything. I’ll be honest, I don’t really know how you would, but... I bet you’ll figure something out.” He leaned back in his chair, flexing his shoulders. I wait a moment before speaking. “Well, alright. Should we go out by tomorrow morning?” Marcus nods, so I continue. “How many in my crew? And what do you mean by ‘give or take a few’? My crew, my rules. You want a lesser group to do this? Fine by me. But we’re your best shot at anything you want to be done, Marcus. So if you want my crew to be altered in any way, you better be careful.” Marcus looks at me for a second, silent. He clears his throat. “It’ll be 15-20 people. You’ll get your whole crew, minus the ones who can’t go. That’s how it always is, anyways. Your group count fluctuates largely between missions, Latona, and this isn’t any different. You get your crew. The whole thing. But there will be a couple of people I’ll be choosing, who would be good additions. They don’t need to be members of your crew, Latona. You don’t need to have them be on every mission. This is a one-time deal, unless you decide otherwise. Alright? Alright.” I counter his icy stare back, but he begins to smile. I snicker. “Well, alright. Marcus, don’t act like you have so much power over me. Now. Who will you be adding to my crew?”
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“Just a couple people. Two are scouts: Colandus and Aspasia. Good kids. They seem to be a good fit for your crew someday anyhow. They spend most of their time outside terminus, so they know it like the back of their hands. They’ll help your crew around; that is, to know where certain places will be. I have a new healer, Althaea, too. She’s more of a... natural healer. Not, like, witch-doctor-voodoo crap, but herbal medicines and whatnot. Another healer can’t hurt, anyways. Plus maybe a couple others, not quite sure. But at least those three.” I think through his offer. “Okay.” “Good,” he says, smiling yet again. “You better get ready for tomorrow.” We meet together the next morning, at dawn. Vespera and I made our way to Gamma, the building claimed as a hospital, when the sun had barely risen. We step into the building, calling out, “Hello?” “Ssssh. Patients sleep too, you know.” We see Cass standing down the hall, glaring at us. “Hey, Cass. Are you ready?” I ask. “Eh, I guess. Aurelia’s making sure that the other healers and nurses know what to do right now. I’m just finishing packing up supplies. Medella’s coming too, right?” “Mmhmm,” I reply. “And another healer as well, Althaea. You know her?” Cass rubs his eyes. “Uhh... Yeah. I think. Not quite sure. But I think so.” Shortly after we leave Gamma and walk together, all six of us, to Point. The others start trickling in. I wait off to the side, avoiding all forms of conversation. When I saw everyone, plus the additions, I speak. “Hey,” I smirk. It’s like I’m making a speech. “So, yeah, we’re here. Give or take a few people. I notice a couple aren’t here, but everyone’s never here at the same time. But yeah, we got some new faces. We have a healer, Althaea. More natural, I hear?” I look at her. She looks down, smiles, and nods her head. She has long, umber hair that falls to her elbows, and a willowy stature. I go back to talking. “...Yeah, and I also know there are two scouts as well. Aspasia and Colandus are their nam...” A small voice interrupts mine. “Could... Could you call me Rev?” I look over and squint at the source, a boy who appears to be thirteen or fourteen. “Are you Colandus?” I inquire. “Uh, yeah. But I want you to call me Rev.” I squint even harder at him. He understands my extreme questioning. “Oh, yeah. Um, as a kid, my nickname was Reverend ‘cause I would- I would ‘preach’ a lot when talking... I was really strongly, ah, opinionated. My mom would always call me Rev for short.” He looked down. “Okay, Rev,” I say, shaking my head. “Any others?” I ask. Two others raised their hands. One was a fit, older boy, and the other was a fierce looking girl. “I’m Aquilo.” “I’m Bellona.” I wait a second to see if they will say anything else, which they don’t. “Are we ready to go?” I ask. I see people nodding in consent. “Let’s get past terminus now and see what the hell is going on.” We trek through the abandoned streets that used to be walked on by god-knows-how-many people. No one says much, though as we get closer to the border of the city people get a bit more chatty. I walk by Vespera, who tells me about our plan of where we’ll go for our various supplies. She shows me a list she made of all of the information for obtaining them. I zone out from what she’s saying and look around me. I make out Colandus and Aspasia talking together with a trapper, Lares, and some of the healers talking to Althaea about something healing related, maybe her technique. I just stare off into the distance. We finally get to terminus. A couple of scouts and guards stand by a small building used as their home. Spotting us, they amble over. “Mission?” one of them asks me. “Yeah.” I reply. They nod, and motion for us to continue. “Stay safe! None of you die,” another says to us. We smile, thinking of it only as a joke.
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We do as best we could to go around without being noticed. Throughout the day, we shift in and out of the border lands and other groups’ areas, sneaking around and looting what we need. We have our own staked out land- so did other people. If they found us on their territory, it would be bye-bye for us, so we have to be careful. As we turn a corner, we spot an old, rotting building that was probably a small store of some sort at one point. We rush in, weapons at the ready in case there was anyone in there. There wasn’t. With a place this close to boundaries, I wasn’t expecting anything. And, getting in there, it lived up to that expectation. Broken pieces of glass from the windows and bits of pots litter the floor. Rusting pieces of metal lie precariously. The sound of people kicking over mounts of decaying wood and dirt rings throughout. Why is there so much dirt and broken pottery everywhere? Why are most of the walls simply glass? I try remembering the books I had read when I was younger that were salvaged from libraries or houses, but nothing made sense. Why, it’s as if it was a garden. “Wait...”, I began to say, as I hear Callisto call out, “Guys? Please come over here. I found something.” We all huddle around her, as she stares at a hatch in the back of the old store. It is covered in rust and debris. Callisto pulls out a small hatchet and begins to hit away at the rust sealing the hatch, bits of orange and red metal flying at us and stinging our faces. She grabs the handle of the door and yanks upwards. As the door opens and sunlight from the broken windows stream in into the basement of the store, the only sound is of Aquilo’s voice: “Holy crap.” We cautiously creep down the stairs, gawking at the sights around us. It is almost like a safe house. Rusting tools are lined up against the walls, from axes to shovels. Shelves of packages of plant seeds are organized in one of the corners. Bags of fertilizers are piled on a portion of the floor as well. I guess we have found a gardening shop. Wow, that’s a first. We look around and grab bags upon bags of the seeds, stuffing them into our packs. We grab fertilizers and solutions, trowels and shears, and dozens of pairs of gloves. Vespera is elated. “This is it!” she exclaims. “With all of these gardening supplies, we can be able to grow even more of our food, so we won’t have to worry about food shortages as much. We- we can find places to grow it all, too, and we can have more people become gardeners and farmers. Oooh, zinnias! I’ve always wanted more flowers for Delta.” Vespera suddenly grabs me and hugs me tight around the waist, burying her head in my neck. For a second, we simply stand there. Vespera, however, abruptly pulls away, looking embarrassed. “Um- I’m sorry about that. Uh-” “I liked it,” I interrupt, smiling. At seeing my face, Vespera began beaming at me. “Uh, can I tell you something? Latona... I-” “Guys, I know we’ve already found like, A LOT of cool stuff, but please come over here,” Lares shouts. Vespera sighs, and we walk to where he and the others are. In one corner of the vast basement, there is what appeared to be a personal area, for possibly one of the employees from long ago. A desk covered in a thick layer of dust is littered with things like papers, pens, and books. A little blue stone sits on the edge of the desk. I quickly pocket it. “But look, guys. I was looking through these papers, and they’re all written on,” Lares explains. “Diagrams, notes, observations.” “On what?” Bellona asks. “Hmm...” Lares ponders, as he flips through the papers. “Something scientific, I’ll say that. I keep reading ‘serum’ and ‘administering’ and things like that. Let me try to figure- Is that a diary?” And it appears so. A small journal sits neatly under the mound of papers. I quickly grab it and start skimming through the scribbled handwriting. I read as fast as I can, dictating important pieces to the others. “... And so I started the development of a serum-like chemical that would be admixed with large holdings of waters, like holding tanks or reservoirs. This would help the body fight back from things like infection or some diseases, provide nutrients to the body if people are not able to get them otherwise, and even help the mental and physical condition of takers. We are not too far into the development, but I feel that with the help of this, many rural areas of the world can be safer and the people of these areas can live better. More updates to come soon.” I continued to read, skipping around, only seeing just enough so that I could understand what was going on. Over the months, this man had gotten more and more money and support for this chemical, or ‘serum’. It had been tested on many patients, and all had reacted positively to it. But the administering period had begun, and it was amalgamated with water supplies across the world. In almost all widely-populated areas, it was administered into the water, and as well as in most ‘third world countries’ in various ways. The chemical, which he had named Nerium, had become a success to society, which was now thriving more than ever. He was praised beyond belief, was given award after award. 97
“What I did not realize, however,” he had written, “Is that more often than not, something has an opposite effect.” Users of the serum had begun to grow sick from fevers with symptoms like vomiting and headaches. Rapidly, however, their health had declined in a way that is similar to the effects of various poisonous plants; patients had developed a weakening nervous system and muscular paralysis, with eventual paralysis of the respiratory muscles to the point that patients died of asphyxiation from not being able to breathe. “I write what I am writing right now because I feel that I have destroyed humanity. As not everyone was exposed to Nerium, and 15% of the population who did felt no negative effects, people will survive this. I beg of them, of you, to save humanity, and don’t let the works of this world go unneeded just because of my foolish actions. I fear for my death daily now. I know that it will come, so I have enclosed all of my studies for developing this drug on this said desk, where I had started my research. Also enclosed are various other studies that would be otherwise lost and forgotten, along with the most technological products and medicines at the time of the Destruction, as I have called it. My name is Astraeus Grey. I am sorry.” And it was done. The rest of the pages were simply blank. We were all silent. I stuffed the journal into my pack, along with the papers. I began taking everything that could be thought of as helpful from the desk. “Come on,” I snapped at the others. “We’ll need this. Move out in 2.” I ran around the basement, taking everything we would need. My mind was racing. I paced back to the desk, grabbing the satchel of technology provided. “Let’s go!” I barked. We sprinted up the stairs back into the garden shop, and departed as quickly as possible. We rushed back to Die Basis and our land. We had only stopped for a minute to catch our breath. I feel the wind rustle in my ears, and hear a whisper from nearby. I turn around to shout, just in time to watch a dozen aggressors ambush and attack us. Dozens more flood from the buildings and streets around us. We keep running towards Our City. We need to get home. We need to tell everyone what we found. But they are faster. They attack us, grab each one of us, and drag us into a nearby abandoned building. I watch as they take Pandarus, a hunter, torturing him simply to satisfy their boredom. He cries out in pain, tears muddling with blood. We do nothing but stare as they slowly bleed him out, letting him writhe on the floor. A girl with silvery blond hair grabs Medella from the group, slowly stabs her through the lower jaw, and tosses her aside. Tristan, Althaea, Petronius- I watch them be killed incomprehensibly. I watch Paidra be brutally assaulted as Cass sobs violently for their sister, knowing that if they did anything, they would be next. As I watch a man reach for Cass, everything is a blur. I hear Aquilo roar in fury and snap the man’s neck, stab another, and as the aggressors stood in surprise, holler at us to escape. He hands Cass a severely wounded Paidra before facing the aggressors. Bellona screams for him, knowing that she will never see him alive again. We stumble out, trying to get back to the City despite all being in shock. The sky almost appears red, like the air itself has caught aflame. We just want to be home, our bodies wail to one another. But, as we approach the City, we are too late. Buildings everywhere are on fire, and I can hear explosions peppering the surroundings. Everything is gone, except for the knowledge we have learned. But knowledge is permeable; it is distorted easily, and can be destroyed in seconds if needed. Blurred thoughts all meld into the same feeling: fear. We stagger off diagonally, off into the distance, away from our City. We find a tall building and quickly ascend up it, getting out onto the rooftop to see the last of what was home. As we all watch our City burn, I heard Aspasia and Rev crying to themselves, confused and injured, never knowing this could happen. Callisto shivers and whispers to herself, fiddling with a trinket from the desk, staring into nothing and everything. Aurelia helps Cass try to heal Paidra, trying to keep her from dying. Cass is in a place he had never been in before, a state of void. “All lives end. All hearts are broken,” I heard Bellona murmur to me, voice cracking. “Caring is not an advantage.” I watch the actions around me, not knowing what to do or say. I feel Vespera by my side, who is silent as well. I face and grab her, pulling her to me. I feel her body on mine as I listen to the sound of a dying city so close, but so far. Everything in the world feels like it jhas ust stopped. Sobbing into Vespera’s shoulder, I can only think of something my father once said to me: ‘When the sky turns red, it is either the birth of a day or the death of a people.’
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Jane’s Laugh By Maren Vail We will be landing shortly. Please remain seated and keep your seat belts on. Thank you. The intercom clicked off, and that dinging noise that airplanes use went on. Kate turned around and poked her little sister. “Jaaaaaaane. Wake up. Janey girl, come on.” Jane’s eyes finally flickered open. Her face only looked groggy for a moment and within seconds her usual bright -eyed face lit up. “Kate, are we there yet! Are we there!” Jane cried, bouncing excitedly in her seat. An old man across the aisle glared at the little girl before turning around and falling back asleep. “Almost. And keep your voice down!” Kate whispered. “Excuse, me, but please turn around in your seat,” a flight attendant said to Kate. The way she was talking, in that way- too -familiar slow voice that was almost sing- songy, suggested she thought Kate was about three years old. Kate sighed. She knew she was small for a thirteen year old, but somehow she got the feeling that the attendant wouldn't have been any different even if she were taller. So she mumbled an apology and turned around. Out the window she began to see land, surrounded by the bluest water she had ever seen. She was used to the ocean, as she came from a coastal town in Maine, but she felt like she was seeing it for the first time. The view took her breath away. From the plane’s height, she could see desert, but also green forests acting like an outline to the huge mass of land. She knew she would never forget her first sight of Australia. Twenty minutes later, the sisters were on the ground. Even in the airport, the air seemed different, buzzing with adventure. “Throw another shrimp on the barbie!” Jane said in a phony accent. Kate laughed. “I don’t think they actually say that, Janey girl,” Kate responded, still giggling. “Jennifer! Katelyn!” a loud voice called. Bump! Kate had the sudden sensation of being hit by a water bed. She turned to see a large woman with far too much makeup on. “Aunt Bertha?” Kate asked. “The one and only. And you must be Katelyn!” “ I prefer Kate. And this is Jane,” Kate corrected. “Nonsense!” Bertha bellowed. “Your parents gave you perfectly lovely names and I intend to use them!” Kate and Jane eyed each other warily. They hated it when people used their real names. But they made a silent agreement to let it go this time. After all, they were in Australia! Bertha could call them Cuckoo Bananas for all they cared. Their aunt led them through the airport to the baggage claim. Kate soon saw her purple suitcase and duffel bag. Jane was still looking for her suitcase and ladybug backpack. “There it is!” Jane suddenly cried, startling several people around them, as she grabbed her backpack. “And there’s my suitcase! No wait, it’s over there. No, um, there?” Around the loop came three suitcases that all looked like Jane’s. Kate grabbed one at random. Two other people grabbed the others and began to walk away. Kate inspected the tag. It said a strange foreign name she hadn't heard before. “Excuse me!” she called after the others with identical suitcases, ”I think you have one of ours!” The people didn’t turn around. Kate started to run after them. When she reached them she tried to explain, but they stared at her like they didn’t know English. Then Kate realized this was because they didn’t know English. So she showed them the tag.
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After a moment they seemed to understand and looked at their tags. Once they found the one with Jane’s name on it, they exchanged suitcases. Half an hour later, Kate and Jane were in a taxi with Bertha. All of them were crammed in the back, which Bertha took up most of, leaving the sisters squished against the windows. Kate couldn't see much, and was a little disappointed that what little she did see looked a little like Maine. But then they took an exit and she saw down into a valley, which eventually gave way to the ocean. The trees were different from any she had ever seen, and the ocean was even more fabulous up close than it had been from the plane. “Are we going to get to go to the beach? Will we a see kangaroos? How ‘bout a koala? What is your house like?” Jane was talking the ear off her unfortunate aunt, who answered with short, uninterested answers. “Yes, maybe and maybe, you’ll see…” Kate was used to her chatty little sister, but she always felt embarrassed when she acted like this in front of people they didn’t know very well. She gave the young energetic girl the stink eye, but Jane either didn’t see or didn’t care. About an hour later, the trees got further apart and the road turned to dirt. The grass was thinning out and giving way to sand. The driver turned up the air conditioner. A little bit later, the car pulled up to a large house that was painted a stunning red, looking out of place against the desert background. “Welcome to the Outback,” Bertha said proudly. They got out and were hit by a hot breeze. After getting their bags out of the trunk, Bertha tipped the driver and he drove away. Kate hurried up to the porch, which provided little shade. Bertha unlocked the front door, and the girls went inside. They stood in a long hallway, with a staircase going up and down to their left, a kitchen, living room, dining room, and bathroom to their right. “Mommy!” a little boy yelled and ran to Bertha. “ Are our cousins here yet?” “Hello, Davey,” Kate smiled. “I’m Kate.” “ I’m Jane. My favorite color is pink!” Davey scrunched his nose. “I don’t like pink. I like blue better!” Kate suppressed a laugh. These two were definitely related. “Where are the others?” she asked. “ Upstairs playing a stupid game,” Davey answered. “Jane, let me show you my room! I have lots of Legos!” Jane skipped after her new BFF. “Let me show you to your room,” Bertha said. Kate followed her upstairs, dragging her stuff behind her. “Mom, is that you?” a teenage girl asked, who Kate remembered was named Hannah, as she poked her head out a door. She had short brown hair and wore a light blue t-shirt with jeans. “ Heather, Sarah, and I are playing Ducko.” “Ducko?” Kate asked. “Oh, hi, Kate. Ducko is a game we play with special cards. It’s really fun. Want to join?” “Sure, but let me put my stuff down first” “Okay.” Hannah went back into the room. Bertha was now at the end of the hall. Kate followed her into a room with two beds, white carpeting, and light blue walls. There was a giant armchair in one corner and a night stand with a lamp in between the two beds. The only decoration was a painting of a small sailboat riding waves that were much bigger than it was. Kate put her bag on the bed by the window. She put Jane’s stuff on the other bed. Bertha headed downstairs to start dinner, and Kate went into the room Hannah had been in. It was a small room with a little couch, a desk, and a T.V. On the floor, Hannah, Heather, and Sarah were playing a game with brightly colored cards spread out in many piles. Even though Kate hadn't seen her cousins in close to six years, she remembered who was who. Heather was a little over a year younger than she, and Hannah a year older. That made them twelve (Heather’s birthday was in a week, so then she would be thirteen) and fifteen. Sarah was now twenty- two, and she held her month old baby, Eliza. Heather explained the rules to Kate, which were complicated and long, but Kate soon got a grasp of it. They played for a while (Sarah skipped a few rounds to feed Eliza) until Davey and Jane ran upstairs to announce dinner. 100
They all went downstairs, and had just said a prayer when Uncle Parker came home. He was the opposite of his wife, so thin that in his brown suit he reminded Kate of a twig. Following him was Sarah's husband, tall and tan. They all sat down to eat the best steak and salad ever imagined. After thirds, they had a dessert of ice cream and brownies. Kate ate way too much and spent the next hour lying down on the couch telling riddles to her cousins. Eventually, Sarah and her husband went home with Eliza to their apartment in a barn down the street. Everyone was tired of talking, and Heather turned on Doctor Who. Kate didn’t even remember going to bed, but the next morning she woke up in her bed. After crawling out from the sheets and getting dressed, she headed downstairs. Everyone was up except for Hannah, and already eating breakfast. While shoving her face full with waffles, Kate was told that they were going to the beach. Kate put her swimsuit on under her clothes and they all, even Sarah’s family, piled into a huge van. They were about to drive away when Hannah ran out, yelling. She was still pulling her t-shirt on over her bathing suit. When she got in she didn’t say a word. A few moments later, everyone burst out laughing. Even Hannah began to giggle. “Wake me up next time!” she declared, trying, and failing to sound mad. The drive took a couple of hours. When they got there, everyone was ready to get out, having been treated to a hour- long rendition of “One thousand seven hundred twenty nine (Davey’s favorite number.) bottles of pop on the wall,” which Davey and Jane had performed. It was a hot day and Kate ran into the water. It was refreshing, and much warmer than the frigid Maine sea she was used to. Several colorful fish darted around. Hannah challenged Heather and Kate to a boogie board contest, which Heather won by a mile - well, actually, seven feet. A perfect day: it seemed like nothing could go wrong. But then everything did. Kate was swimming calmly in the warm water when suddenly she screamed. It felt like she was on fire and thousands of knifes were cutting into her legs. She had never been in so much pain. white spots edged her vision, and it felt like she was watching from far away. She was vaguely aware of sinking through the waves, before everything went dark. Dark. Nothing. Silence. Actually, Kate could feel something. She wasn't sure what. Her arm? No, her tummy? Hmm… that wasn't it either. Her legs? Yes, it was definitely her legs. They hurt. Hurt… the word circled her brain looking for meaning. It bumped into pain. What was pain? Was it this strange feeling in her legs? Yes. Her legs had pain. A lot. Well, not exactly. She thought her legs hurt. But did they? All she knew was that she hurt in the area she had decided legs were. But something was wrong. As she thought, she noticed something. What was it? It wasn't something she felt. “Kate?” There it was again! It seemed familiar. It gave her comfort. “Kate?” Several words raced around her brain. They had trouble finding meaning. One was “mom. “ This brought images of blue eyes, and of chocolate. Mom meant something about chocolate. “Chocolate…” Kate mumbled. “She said something! I think… ‘chocolate’? What do you think that means?” Kate opened her eyes. She saw shapes above her, moving. And color. The shapes pulled together to form a familiar face. Her mom. Mom… she liked mom. She liked chocolate. She knew that. But what was she? Something about chocolate. “Chocolate,” Kate said, the word sounding strange and quiet. Her mom, whoever she was, bent over her. “Are you okay?” A tear slid down her mom’s cheek. Tear… that meant sad. “There, there, sad chocolate.” Kate wasn't really sure what this meant, but it seemed like the right thing to say. Then everything faded out again. Small moments like this would pop up, but each time, they faded back out as Kate slipped in and out of consciousness. There was almost always people there, usually the chocolate lady called mom. But sometimes she woke up in the dark, with only beeping noises around her. 101
Slowly the moments grew longer. She didn’t really remember them once they passed, but she knew they were there and that they were growing longer. One morning, she woke up, as she had done for so long. She stared up at white tiles. For the first time, she found she was able to move her head. She bent it to a fairly uncomfortable position, looking to her left. She saw a window, with lots of flowers in plastic vases around it. Out the window was a whole different world from her small, nearly colorless room. She could see out into a street, with shops and benches. She stared, unblinking. Words and images rushed at her, but she couldn't make sense of them. So she pushed them away and just looked, without really noticing. Some time later, maybe seconds, maybe hours, a person walked into her room. “Good morning, Kate. how are you?” “Good.” Kate barely noticed she said it, and immediately forgot she had. A small gasp came from the other side of the room. “Kate, can you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying?” Kate heard this noise from behind her. She wished it would stop. It was too fast and loud. She just wanted to look. “Kate, can you hear me?” Kate didn’t answer. After a moment, she heard footsteps going away. She looked some more. There was lots of color. And shapes. The footsteps came back. “I’m sure of it! I asked her how she was and she said ‘good’,” the voice from before said. “I believe you. Did she respond at all after that?” “Well, no. But she definitely responded to my question!” “Kate, can you look at me?” Kate didn’t budge. She thought she understood the words of this new, slow, deep voice, but decided to ignore it. “Kate? Please.” Kate didn’t want to. How could she show him? Her mind raced, really thinking for the first time in a long time. A simple answer finally came to her. It proved to be harder than she thought. Forming the word and saying it with meaning was different from the word “good” from earlier, which had been like a reflex that required no thinking. Her mouth finally formed the word. “No.” “Do you understand what I want?” the voice replied. There was a long pause. Then “Yes” came from the girl in the bed. Kate assumed the conversation was over. Then she felt hands prop her up onto a couple of pillows. She was forced to look at the two voices. Two people stood in her room. One was a man, in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck. The other was a lady in scrubs. The lady had identical designs on her shirt. Something familiar… “Tweety-Bird,” Kate muttered. “What?” the doctor asked. He turned around. “Oh, yes, she does have Tweety-Birds on her scrubs.” Kate turned her head back to the window. She refused to say another word. Minutes passed. “I’m going now, Kate.” Kate jumped. She had forgotten about the fact she wasn't alone. She waited as the footsteps left. She turned back to looking up at the ceiling. She had made the connection that the man was a doctor, and Tweety-Bird was a nurse. What did that mean? It meant she was in a hospital. 102
She struggled to remember what had happened. Something about a beach… and pain. Memories flooded her mind, crashing into her. She started to sob without realizing it, until she fell into a fitful sleep. Sometime later, Kate was woken up. A lady sat by her bed. She wore a white coat, so Kate decided she must be another doctor. The lady had a clipboard and a sharp nose. As soon as she saw Kate was awake, she smiled. “Hello. My name is Dr. Jones. I’m going to ask you a few questions, okay?” Kate nodded. “What is your name?” “Kate.” “What is your birthday?” “Umm… August ...12...2001?” “Very good. Who is in your family?” “My mom...my dad… our dog, Jake. And umm…” Kate’s voice trailed off. She knew there was someone else. But who? “is that all?” Dr. Jones asked. “Yes...I mean no… I don’t know!!!” Kate buried her face in her hands. “Hmm…” Dr. Jones frowned and wrote something down. “Does the name Jane ring a bell?” Kate looked up. She knew that name! But who? She started to cry again. The doctor looked at her sympathetically. “I’m going to bring in your family, okay?” she said in a clear, even tone. Kate nodded. Soon the doctor came back with Kate’s mom, dad, and a familiar looking girl. “Kate! You’re awake!” the girl said. “I’m so happy!” Kate just stared at her. “Jane, be quiet. Kate, are you okay? How do you feel?” her mom asked. “Mom,” Kate croaked, another tear going down her cheek. Her mom swooped in and wrapped her daughter in a warm, gentle hug. “I’m so sorry, Kate. I never should have let you two come here without us!” When Kate’s tears calmed down a bit, she asked “What happened?” Her dad looked down, then up, then finally his eyes locked into Kate's own. “You were swimming, and got tangled in a jelly fish.” Kate nodded, even though she didn’t really understand. “Momma… who is that?” Kate whispered, pointing to the girl. Her mom instantly looked concerned. “ It’s Jane, your sister. Don’t you remember her?” “Mabye? I, umm… know I know her. But who is she?” Everyone else froze. After a long moment, the girl whimpered. “Kate? You don’t remember me?” “Umm, uh, yes, I do,” Kate lied. But she could tell that the girl didn’t believe her. Kate looked at her mom, then her dad. She could read their disbelief in their faces. They couldn't seem to hide it. A little sob came from the girl. Kate suddenly felt guilty. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” she said, fresh tears erupting from her eyes. Her mother stared at her, before wiping away the stunned expression, and began stroking Kate’s hair. “It’s okay. You’ll remember her. Don’t worry,” her mom whispered softly, but she seemed to be reassuring herself more than Kate. Kate buried her head into her mom’s hair. “Momma, my legs feel funny.” “Well, that makes sense. Well, sort of. It’s, umm, complicated.” Kate pulled away. “What do you mean?”
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“Well, that jellyfish… Is got tangled around your legs. and, umm, it was a very bad jellyfish.” Her mom looked away. “Mom, what happened to my legs?!?” Kate screamed. She threw back the covers and stared. Stared at place her legs had been. Well, they were sort of still there. Or, at least, one and a half were still there. Her right leg had been cut off at the knee. What remained of her legs was… not exactly legs. They were dark brown and purple, shriveled looking, like two long raisins. Her mom didn’t meet her eyes. Kate began to scream. And scream, and scream. Then she woke up. Thank goodness, it was just a dream. But wait… she was still in the hospital. It was darker than before, though. And she was alone. She slowly looked down. Sure enough, there were her raisan-legs. It’s just a bad dream, she thought. It has to be. Just then a nurse walked in. “Oh, you’re awake. We had to sedate you earlier when you started to scream. We couldn't get you to calm down. How do you feel?” Kate didn’t answer. Only one thought occupied her mind. Not a dream. Kate didn’t sleep well that night. The next day, she refused to talk and wouldn't even try the pudding they offered. They said she was ready to come off the feeding tube, but she wouldn't open her mouth. She could hear whispering outside her door, mostly doctors who thought she couldn't hear. “I’m worried about her mental state.’ “She still won’t eat.” “Her family is worried.” She began to tune out the continuous whispers. She thought. A lot. One morning, Kate woke up facing the window. The warm light spread across her face. For the first time in forever, she felt calm. She turned over to the panel by her bed and pressed the nurse call button. Moments later, Tweety-Bird walked in. “Could I maybe have something to eat?” Kate asked in a small voice. “Of course, honey.” The nurse smiled warmly, then left, only to return quickly with a tray loaded with soft foods. “You don’t have to eat it all. I just wanted to give you a choice,” the nurse said in response to Kate’s surprised expression. They next few days were a series of gentle voices, smiles, and comfort. Her family visited her every day, and even her cousins found time to come. They didn’t usually talk much, but Kate felt better having them there. One day a doctor announced that Kate could go home during the day, but she would need to check into the hospital at night. A nurse rolled Kate in a wheelchair outside to a van, where they loaded Kate in like a baby into a special seat next to her sister. Her mom drove her “home,” technically to Bertha’s place. But while they were driving, Kate got hungry. “I can get you a burger from McDonald’s,” her mom said. “The doctor said you're ready for more solid foods.” Kate had a long-standing repulsion to McDonald’s that had lasted for years, but right now the idea of a greasy burger sounded like heaven. They pulled into a handicapped spot in the parking lot. Her mom helped her into a wheelchair and began to roll her in. “Mom, can I try myself?” Kate asked. “Okay, but be careful.” Kate started to roll herself, but it was harder than it looked to push the wheels. “Can I push you?” Jane asked. It was the first thing she had said since Kate had said she couldn't remember her. 104
“Okay,” Kate agreed. Jane began to push, slowly at first, but soon grew confident and ran up the ramp with her. Jane let out a laugh, having fun pushing her sister around. That laugh… Kate remembered! Years of playing dress up, lying on the ground looking up at stars, and teasing each other came flooding back. She remembered meeting her baby sister for the first time, and the time they went swimming in the creek. “Kate, are you okay? You're crying!” Jane said, obviously thinking she had somehow hurt her sister. “I’m great!” Kate said “And Janey-girl, I remember!” Jane started to cry with joy too. She accidentally let go and the wheelchair rolled backward down the ramp. Jane gasped and reached out to grab it, but it slipped through her fingers. Kate could feel herself going faster, faster… and slooooooowing down. She came to a stop at the bottom, unharmed. The sisters looked at each other for a moment. Then they burst out laughing. Kate sat in the handicapped booth, which had a spot for a wheelchair. People had stared at her as she came in. A little kid had pointed at her, who was immediately scolded by his embarrassed mother. Kate had smiled at him and told the mom it was fine. She would stare at herself, too! Out the window she could see cars rushing past on the highway. Some teenagers a little older than she were joking around outside. She knew life would never be easy. But Kate also knew that everything would be okay.
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