RYTE Magazine

RY T E

Magazine

Featured Poet Shannon McCray Two new serial stories: Sleepwalker & The Land Five original stories written by students of Lancaster High School Original poetry by Kevin Cook and Daja Pollard

The RYTE publication at the RYTE time...

RYTE Magazine

Hello, my name is Nicholas D. Johnson and I am a writer with a dream. As a writer, I have grown to appreciate the many works and talents of our gracious student body and want to recognize their creative abilities by publishing RYTE Magazine.

This publication will act as a stepping stone for the future writers of a nation.

It will showcase the writing abilities of our exceptional students whose talents go unnoticed. Creative writing, for many students, is an outlet and a way to connect with others. It creates a fantasy world that co-exists with reality and tells a story that captivates the mind. These students tell stories that should be heard and it is our job to encourage them to live their dreams.

I am asking that you, along with other willing contributors participate in life through words. Asking that you encourage yourself and students alike to create short stories and poetry, that could be published and allow your vision to be shared by the world because you might have an “Inspirational Gift”!

Write…a five letter word that conquers all. One that knows no boundaries. Whether it be the darkest skin color compared to its pale counterpart, a lack of worldly knowledge that allows you to see pass mother’s fabrications, or even the exploration of the ideas that you left behind in the sand box when mother called you in for dinner…the embellishment of thoughts on paper is the gift that will forever keep giving…

An endowment that is rarely obtained by the most influential of speakers, leaders, and knowledge seekers but to some, the gift has been placed deep within their minds, tucked away like little toy soldiers awaiting a battle or crime to solve and conquer…

Washing out the mind’s eye and explore infinite possibilities like “what if dogs could really talk” and “what if United States could finally mind its own business.” And maybe even create the utopias that loom in the imagination to share with others like our brothers that stay locked in holes with no windows or doors praying that their “nine to five” shift will end…

After many years of gathering the untold stories that were trapped in the subconscious like an old Shaman, medicine man, spitting the healing legends of his people to into the minds of the up and coming. Hoping that his message will sink in deep enough to penetrate the dark souls they were born with. And may-be they’ll place those tales on paper for others to see…

A way to discover a new world, a way of life that brings depth to a society of rancid humans too dead inside or full pride to live for the future generations…

Like many people who have sheltered their children away from television screens and fiction film fantasies but have finally let the world’s literature slip through the cracks of their eternal walls, allowing their children to explore worlds beyond the box they’re kept in…

Much like humanity, writing is an outlet that helps express the pain, hurt, sorrow, joy, fear, anger, sadness, disgust, trust, anticipation, surprise, and envy that humans experience on a day to day basis like without pain pleasure wouldn’t exist…

Because through black symbols on white papyrus I can speak my mind, through fantasy fiction I can live my dreams, and through research I can tell it like it is!

Writing is not only the gift that keeps giving; it is an eternal fire that will never die out in the hearts of true writers. Even when our time is done, it will continue to live on and inspire the uninspired.

-N.D. Johnson

Mother Monster

by Jabreal Arrington

What

happened to you? I asked my mother. She was once stunning according to the old pictures I looked at. Now she stares at the reflection of a pink mutilated monster.

I do not like bringing her around my friends; I never act up in school just so my teachers wouldn’t have to look at my monster mother. When we go out, whether it’s to a mall, or the grocery store, I stray somewhere else just so I won’t have to be associated with her.

I can’t stand to look at her. It looks like she got caught in a radioactive power plant that exploded. I know it may sound sinister but what else can I do about it? She has been offered surgery by some of the best doctors in this state, yet she refuses to go. She wears that hideous mask with unfathomable pride, and I just don’t understand why.

I’d rather her try not to be so involved in my life. Asking me about my friends and my teachers. This beast that talks to me is not the woman that birthed me.

I do not know how my father could look at her every day. She is not the woman she used once was. She used to be a beauty. The talk of the town, and now, she still is the talk of the town, just not in a good way. I can hear the hushed whispers from the victims of Medusa’s stare. They analyze every scar and every inch of skin that isn’t her natural color.

It kills me on the inside. You can never reverse the emotional damage having an ugly mother brings. I have to wake up every morning and look at her; it makes me sick to my stomach. I call her Mother

Monster behind her back, because that is exactly what she is.

My daughter will never understand how much I want things to change. How much I want to be the woman on the pictures she always compares me to. But I will never be able to reverse the damage that has been done.

I never remember my mother being beautiful. I just remember realizing that the way she looks is considered wrong to society.

My daughter hates me. She detests my very existence, because I am not beautiful. She calls me Mother Monster when she gets mad. She knows people give me strange looks but they do not know. No one knows.

My mother cannot be seen in public.

She cannot be my mother. I curse God every day because he messed her up just to humiliate me. I hate my life. And my mother.

My daughter does not understand the pain and suffering I have been through for her. The emotional scars I have from picking up the pieces of a damaged past and it’s all her fault.

No one asked her to be beautiful.

The hostility between me and my mother is so thick it can be cut with a knife. I have fallen thorough a true depression and I cannot get myself out of it. I truly love my mother, but her “external situation” blocks me from getting too close.

We got into the worst argument today.

She was crying so hard she couldn’t breathe and dad shot me looks of pure

hatred and disgust. One of my teachers called my mother about this essay I had written. The subject was beauty. I decided to pour out my feelings on this processed tree about how much I hate this human being that I call mother. About how she is the exact opposite of beautiful. And that was the turning point.

That was the last straw. My daughter had put me through hell, physically and emotionally and it was time I let her know about this grotesque scar that had buried my happiness under mixture of pain and fear.

“When you were a kid...” I started off. I had to make sure she understood every word I was about to utter out of my disfigured soul.

“When you were a young child you had a good life. A loving father, a beautiful mother. We both had good jobs. Your father and I gave you everything you ever needed to ensure you stayed happy. Your father and I had a loving relationship.

Never once did he beat me or never once did we argue. We had a perfect life. Or so I thought. I gave your father everything I could, but I guess that wasn’t enough. We had different shifts at work. He would work nights and I would work days to make sure we could spend time together as a family. We promised each other that we would experience every piece of your childhood. We were happy. But I guess I wasn’t enough for him.”

There are certain ways a mother can deliver bad news to her children. They can be rough and abrasive about it or they can be gentle.

“I didn’t start recognizing the signs just yet. I was young and stupid.

I remember the day like it was just this morning. It was time for your checkup.

Your father told me constantly that you didn’t need one because you had never gotten sick, but something told me to take you anyway. Everything seemed fine until the doctor asked me to step inside his office. He told me he was going to do a full police investigation. I didn’t

understand. What was wrong with my perfect daughter? She showed no signs of physical abuse. Why do you need to call the cops? The doctor looked me in the eye.....”

I didn’t want to hear what was next, but every inch of me was dying to know.

I was breathless.

As I told the story I observed her every facial expression. I tried to connect my words better. “......he had told me that you were sexually assaulted several times. I begged him not to call the police just yet. I told him I could get us out of here in less than a heartbeat. I was ready to leave. When I got home I couldn’t even look your father in the eyes. I was abhorred by him.

I guess he had figured out that I knew about his dirty little secret. He reacted immediately by grabbing my arms and slamming the door. He had nothing to say, but the look in his eyes said all of the unspoken words that drowned the room with their ominous presence.”

She hasn’t told me what happened to her face, but I had a feeling that man was the reason why my mother spent most of her life suffering.

“I wasn’t driving fast enough.... He caught up somehow and he tried to open the door, I was so focused on him getting to you that I crashed into a tree.

I locked the doors and your father stood there. I looked into his eyes for the first time that day and I did not see the man that I had fallen in love with. I saw this human being that turned into some type of putrid creature that had replaced my spouse. I wasn’t going to get out

I looked at my mother for the first time in years. I observed the pain in her eyes, the scar that cuts from her cheek to her forehead and through her nose. For this first time ever I got up from the chair and walked over to my mother. I touched her scar. I tried to imagine the pain she has been through because of me. She is no longer beautiful. Because of me.

It’s not that I didn’t want to hear what my mother was saying; I just couldn’t process it at the time.

“He had sexually assaulted his child.

I had to get out of there. I attempted to pack our bags, but he had hit me so hard I could feel every inch of gravity begging my body to make a bloody fate with the ground. I couldn’t let him do this to you anymore. I grabbed the lamp off the dresser and hit him. Luckily the force was great enough to knock him unconscious. I reacted immediately by grabbing a suitcase, some clothes and all the money I could find including your dads credit card. We had gotten to the car but by fate it wouldn’t start. By the time it started he was already up, I remember looking in the rear view mirror and he was running for his life towards the car.

He knew that if I escaped everybody would know about his sick pleasure with his own daughter, and I knew it would ruin his life....”

My mother was firm. Her eyes were set past my head, staring at some spot on the wall. Her memory of this went scene by scene, emotion by emotion. I then comprehended where her American horror story was going. “..... At that moment he looked at me with the cold eyes of a killer. He flicked the lighter on the car. It automatically caught fire. When we crashed into the tree the gas tank had leaked, making us vulnerable to a fiery death. As the flames consumed the vehicle I grabbed you and immediately opened the door. I threw you out of the car as hard as I could; I had to make sure you didn’t get hurt.

As soon as you hit the ground the car blew up. The only thing I remember is looking into your young, innocent eyes.

I woke up in the hospital with bandages on my face. I couldn’t see out of my left eye and I had this ugly scar. But I will never take back what I did for you. You are my daughter and I would do it again if I had the choice.”

of the car. He knew that. He walked towards the window but I couldn’t hear him because you were screaming so hard. I understood why. Even though you were only a child you seemed to have understood that your father was the definition of evil. That raged him.

Second by second I tried to plan out what I was going to do. I couldn’t go outside and face him by myself. He was too strong. I examined the wrecked car from the inside out, while he tried to bust out the windows. He stood there for what seemed like the longest moment of my life. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. He smoked for fifteen seconds and looked me in the eye......”

My daughter finally understands what a mother would do for her children.

I do not know what happened to my real father. She never told me how she got in the hospital and how I ended in there as well, but I do know that wherever that man is that did this to me and my mother would suffer. One way or another.

Although she is not the model she used to be, I know my mother is beautiful on the insides. She is outstanding in character and virtue. I am disgusted with myself for judging and hating my mother because she didn’t fit my standard of beauty. Maybe I am the ugly one? The one with a distorted soul. The one who

She

ODE TO SONGBIRD

sat in the backseat as we roared down the interstate, going ninety in the fast lane. Strangely quiet, intrigued by the outside world, she simply stared out the windows, alternating between the left and right. The rest of the car was filled with boxes, food, water, etc. for her, so that we could accommodate her more easily. My wife had been against it from the beginning, saying that it would ruin the serenity of our house with noise, saying that it would be too expensive—I only saw need and desire for a home, and that was all that mattered.

I pulled into the driveway, shut off the car, and sat in silence for a while. The silence was intermittently punctured by her little noises, but the holes would simply mend themselves and it was as if nothing had even happened.

Finally, I regained sentience, and decided that we had best get in to the warmth. I grabbed her and carried her inside, then went back out to get all the stuff. Four trips in all, back and forth through the deepening snow. I wish we had an attached garage—that would make more sense here—but no, the garage and the house were separated by a short, but inconvenient walk. By the time I shut the house door for the final time, the path I had taken through the snow was so worn that individual footprints were extinct, and only the designs left by layers upon layers of weight could be seen.

by Austin Mordahl

I had set her upon the when I brought her in, and it was there that she stayed until I had finished assembly. We bought her a roomy cage to reside in, which would be placed on a stand in the corner of the living room, opposite the television so she would watch with my wife and I. There was a feeling of satisfaction in opening the cage door and letting her climb in, only amplified by her obvious contentedness with the new home.

Her name was Jayne (what a unique spelling—I loved it), and she was the most beautiful creature I had ever set my eyes upon. She seemed to glow in the light, reflecting back beautiful shades of pale yellow and brown.

Her eyes were black—not brown, but black—and she would never make a sound. Just climb around the cage, looking at the environment, admiring our commitment to her.

What made my wife ecstatic disappointed me: Jayne never sang for me. Perhaps had it been that she never sang at all, my sentiments would have been different, but it was only me that would never hear her songs. When my wife was alone in the house while I went to the store, or to work, she would complain constantly to me afterwards about how Jayne would not shut up. My wife would yell at Jayne, threaten to take away her food, but nothing worked. Apparently, Jayne was quite the little songbird while I was away— when I was present, though, nothing would happen; she would only sit in the cage, staring at me with her dark, When I got in, my wife was at the beautiful eyes, silent as death. piano, playing some new pop song I have heard on the radio but could At first, I didn’t believe my wife. I put neither a face nor a name to. I loved Jayne far more than she, and recognized the tune, though, and it seemed that it should be obvious accidentally began to hum along. to Jayne to sing to her caregiver, not

the disgusting woman who just sits around and reads magazines. We argued, and I even had to spend many a night on the couch over this, until, for the first time, I learned that the woman was right.

I was in the garage, getting ready to change the oil in the car.

There were no sounds except for the occasional clicking and clanking of the mountains of useless tools I had to move around to find the stuff I needed. It was a very warm day for February, so much so that the living room windows were open. I looked through the screen and saw some fat, ugly woman—my wife, I soon discovered—lying on the couch, of course, reading some trashy magazine she had stolen from a gas station.

Suddenly, I heard the iridescent mind of God. Stupid little Jayne thought I had gone, and so, in her shroud of false security, began to sing. My wife got up and banged on the cage with the magazine, screaming obscene phrases and nearly crying, while I simply stood still and listened.

The song was beautiful, a creation of Mother Nature herself, tailored specifically for me, and only me.

I didn’t speak to my wife after that, for I couldn’t stand to be around somebody who could not appreciate true beauty (although how could she appreciate something she had lived for so long without, and yearned for so dearly?) She left about a week later, and although I was relieved, I realized shortly after that I would never hear Jayne sing again without my wife present. Despite my best efforts, Jayne’s voice avoided me like river waters flowing around a boulder, slowly eroding away at my being.

I couldn’t stand the silence, the pure, infinite soundlessness of my home. I would try to sing to myself, perhaps subconsciously hoping that Jayne would follow along, but she would, as always, only look at me, and never open her mouth.

I realized I needed my wife back. I didn’t know how to do this, because after our first phone discussion after the split, I had exhausted all of my plans of action.

“Hello?”

“Please come back.”

“No.” I threw Gatsbian dinner parties, I sent out cordial, formal invitations, I even wrote her heartfelt letters. But, alas, she never consented, and thus, Jayne stayed silent. Failure would not suffice—I needed Jayne’s song.

Then, the perfect plan struck me.

I knew my wife would have taken residence at her mother’s house, so I just needed to find a time when she would be there alone. There were three people there: my wife’s mother, my wife’s sister, and, of course, my wife. My wife’s sister worked as a veterinarian’s assistant, and so it would not be hard to get her out of the house. My mother-in-law was the problem, though. She was recently retired, and so, tried to leave the house as seldom as possible. All grocery shopping, all appointments were kept by my sister-in-law, while my mother-in-law and darling wife would stay home and enjoy midday talk shows and infomercials.

unnatural obsession with fish. She had ten aquariums in her house, all upwards of fifty gallons, in which she housed a wide assortment of marine creatures from turtles to koi to cowfish. It was also known to me that her favorite pet, a single blue gourami, was housed in a tank right below her bedroom window. The piece of information that tied these two tidbits together was that due to an incident a few years ago involving a large bird, along with the fact that my wife’s mother was notoriously lazy on matters not involving her pets, led to there not being a screen over the window into her bedroom.

It was all a matter of reaching my hand in and pouring ammonia into the water. I went outside, to my car, and drove home. Sure enough, on my return the next day (I had been periodically parking across the street for hours, collecting data), an old woman was standing outside of her home, yelling with a disillusioned hearse driver. After an entertaining quarter hour, the hearse and its short procession departed the house, leaving one person inside.

I had her.

Duct tape, check. Probably not necessary, but always better to be prepared. One of the benefits—alas, the only benefit—of having a sisterin-law with access to a veterinary firm that deals with all sorts of animals is the access to drugs. Ketamine for immobilization, valium for relaxation.

Open the door. Look inside. Hear music and voices. Damn—there are two people here. Thank God I brought the duct tape. Walk lightly to avoid making footsteps, although During my brief stay at that house, I I could afford to be noisy in this knew that my mother-in-law had an environment. Get closer to voices—

one is my wife’s, the other is a man. would be extensive, I’m sure, but all Probably her secret lover.

I needed was for it to be usable. It was. The walls gave in easily, and so, They were whispering, and I heard with resolution, I slowly made a new sniffling. She was crying, and he was window into the backyard through holding her in her arms (the latter my darling mother-in-law’s bedroom was just a guess, but turned out to be and loaded two people into my trunk. a good one). I stood in the doorway One ended up accidentally falling to plan out my attack. Once it had off of a viaduct onto some railroad been triple-checked by my mind, I tracks, his neck breaking his fall. The executed. other came back home with me, and was propped up on the couch, in Open door, walk in. plain view of Jayne. The blinds went down, never to go up again. Not that She screams, he jumps up, starts it would be necessary to, anyway; the screaming as well. sun was simply a vestige of a time without electricity, but now it was I bring my hand down to my hip, to a nuisance, a friend for spiders and grab my pistol. nosy neighbors.

He panics, hands fly up into the air.

I showed my wife my bare hip, just to tease her, and then went outside “Turn around.” with a cup of cocoa, propped my feet up onto the edge of the seldom-used “Kneel down.” grill, and listened to the beautiful symphony of muscle contractions Rip, rip. Bind ankles, hands, wrap and flowing air that I had killed and around mouth. kidnapped for. It was decadent, and never was I so happy as to have I had a scary realization. How was adopted my only child, my ecstasy, I supposed to get them out of the my sweet songbird, Jayne. house? I was not an especially strong man—I couldn’t carry them out. And even if I could, I think that carrying people bound in duct tape would arouse the suspicions of a few soonto-be enemies. No, that wouldn’t work.

I looked around. I had already killed the woman’s fish, broken into her home, and was currently kidnapping her daughter and her lover. The house needed remodeling anyway.

I drove around back, into the alleyway that ran like a vein behind the houses, put my car into reverse, and slowly, carefully, backed into the house. The damage to my car

My Reality Am I alone Or has life put me in a symmetric illusion where I only see what my eyes want me to see My perception is diluted My purpose has gained its fatality My mind is plugged by the misconception of life Has grass gotten greener or am I still on the other side of the fence hoping the color has gotten darker Believing that there is another way to find my true destiny To expose my reality Will life take its place and relieve me from my shadow that has been shielding me from the world of sin Freedom is what life sings to me Freedom is my destiny But where do I stand in the world of mine -Daja Pollard

Sleepwalker A serial story to be continued in every issue

My

name. I guess that’s what you want to know. Well, I don’t have a name, at least not here.

In here, I have a number, 16-34. The day and year I was tagged and taken. There was a point in time when I did indeed have a name, when I was called by Maxim, but that time is over.

I have now grown accustomed to my new life here in “The Ground”. I am now fond of the pale walls thrown around me and the bare cement that makes for a cold night’s sleep. But life here in The Ground isn’t as bad as it might seem. Considering that I shower everyday, get four hot meals plus snacks, and have plenty of others to socialize with, I would say that my new life is substantially better than the old one I used to droop through.

In my old life, I had no friends; no one to talk to about my problems; no one ever there to give me any problems to talk about. To say the least, I was dead.

Before I was here, walls caving in around me, I sought answers that still have yet to be uncovered. Not even my therapist could help me. ...

session you ask the same questions! you’re sleep, he might be able to help No Dr. Gregory, I didn’t sleep well you. Maybe run a few test and oblast night! serve your sleep patterns.”

I NEVER SLEEP WELL.

I was never one keen for test.

Every night I climb into bed, close my eyes, and drift off, but every time I wake up, I feel like I haven’t been to sleep at all! Does that answer question Doctor?”

“I am only therapist. I deal with your emotions and behavior. He will be able to help you a lot more than I will.” She took out her note pad used for prescriptions and wrote the address, date, and time I should be at the facility. She handed it to me with a smile, patted me on the back as I rose to shake her hand, and closed the door in my face.

It’s not like she couldn’t have expected that I would blow up eventually. I have been coming to her for months now, looking for answers as to how I can have amazingly vivid dreams but feel like I’ve never been to sleep. “I I couldn’t help but wonder if her am beginning to doubt that you can friend could really help me. I myself am a skeptic by nature and didn’t help me Doc.” know if the answers I sought would “Well”, she began, “maybe I’m not finally be mine. On the other hand, the right person for this particular I haven’t slept, peacefully at least, in job,” I poised myself to leave, “but over seven months. Maybe I should I do have a friend over at Rich Tech pay Dr. Gregory’s friend a visit.

Facilities that might be able to help When I looked down at the note, she wrote in fine print that Professor you in ways I never could.”

Ronny Elkson would be expecting “What makes your friend so special”, me. But would I be expecting what I ask, not sure if I really want an an- would come next? swer.

To be continued...

“Well he’s a sleep study specialist.”

“So how did you sleep last night?”

“A what?”

“I didn’t.” I responded cold and direct. “I have been coming to you for “Look, if your problem seems to months seeking answers and each stem from your subconscious, while

Featured Poet

Shannon McCray

Sapphire Nights Sapphire night skies Kissed by the leaves That melodically dance Teasing the Moon and Stars Sapphire night skies Clear as Springs Cooling the thirst of a Marathon Runner.

Sapphire night skies Magnify the outstretched branches of the trees Allowing a voice to the breeze Quiet as the night Darling turn down your light ‘cause the artificial can be blinding - not able to see the Forest for the Trees that cause these natural Conversations Celestrial Mingling A Network, if you will.

Sapphire Night Skies And finally near twenty-five I realize why some say as tall as the Georgia Pines Now I can’t shake this Addiction ‘Cause Georgia’s constantly on my mind And these Sapphire night skies Kissed by the leaves Teasing the moon Baby, ‘cause I got a love sweet Darling, Love Sweet Love A Celestrial kinship from Above.

Growing up in Dallas, Texas, Shannon McCray was the born on September 9 as the youngest of three children. She enjoyed expressing herself through poetry and writing her emotions on the page. After attending T.W.U., Amberton University, and Capella University, Shannon stationed herself in Lancaster, Texas where she now lives, works, and raises two beautiful children. Eventually, Mrs. McCray plans to travel the United States and other countries, gaining new inspiration for her poetry.

As Angel’s Cry Unborn thoughts, no time to mature Undying fears that dwell within the sound.

Caustic mistakes, leading to doubt The World says one thing.

The Word another.

Worries and Doubt fade away, Thoughts reborn, and now matured.

Mistakes ratified and baptized.

All of this happened when I heard the Heavens open, The Horns sound and An Angel’s cry Last Man Standing A crowded room of busy bodies buzzing of business that’s nobody’s.

Heads bobbing, nodding and shaking. Hands slapping fives- giving dap. Swaying from left to right, trying to find the truth that is out there, somewhere...but nowhere to be found. Folks walking, dashing and running towards something but not quite sure why.

Many burn out, get tired, lie down and die - and even cry. But, who will be remaining? Who won’t give up? Will it be you or me? Them over there?

The last man standing. That’s who.

Austin Mordahl, born in March of 1996 in Yemen, located in the Middle East, moved to Wyoming at the age of two where he became a young man beginning to hone his craft. He then moved to Lancaster, Texas after his mother remarried and took root in the local high school winning literary competitions. His parents instilled a passion for literature in him at an early age. By Fifteen, Austin had begun to write journeys of his own; discovering an urge to capture humanity, if only for a brief moment. He wishes to inspire man years after he has passed with surreal, modernistic literature, hoping to allow them to visualize the world through his stories and ideas as he did. He hopes to that his literature will live on long after his day has come. Although, he does plan to leave other legacies behind by becoming an English Professor after he completes his studies at UC Berkley in California and has published timeless novels that speak to the mind’s eye.

Olive Kinga, born November 11, 1996, was a gift to what she calls “the best family to occupy my surroundings”; making her feel well deserved of their love and affection.

Recognizing herself as a non-fiction writer, Olive is inspired by thought and questioning the world she lives in, digging deep within to explore reality and discover more. She plans to accompany this passion as a surgeon or philosopher after studying at Cambridge University and devoting all of her hard work to “making it.”

Rachaud Smith was born April of 1996. He spent the first nine years of his life in New Orleans experiencing the annual Mardi Gras festivals and parades. Growing up, he’d always loved to read, which lead him to a decision that would change his life. He figured that if he loved to read so many novels, it only made sense to write one of his own; and so began his journey the summer of his eight grade year. Rachaud

discovered that he prefers to write stories of Drama and Horror, reaching in to evoke emotion and thrills. He looks forward to his novels landing him in the Nation’s limelight on the best sellers list. Mr. Smith also plans to attend the University of Southern California to make his dream into his reality and eventually writing books and working on Television series and Movies as a writer/ director; living the dream.

Kevin Cook was born November 26, 1995 into a home of singing and praise. These rhythmic tunes of passion eventually led him to the door poetry, a gateway to express his innermost being. Life itself is what inspires him to write and the stringing of words together creates a rhythm within him that moves his internal flame.

Without limiting himself to a specific genre, Kevin is free to express his thoughts how ever he chooses through black symbols on white paper. He plans to attend Texas Tech or the University of North Texas to pursue his first love, music. After gaining a deeper appreciation for his craft, Mr. Cook will be immersed in his music as a producer and also pursuing another love of being a marine biologist.

Born Daja Pollard, in Cleburne, Texas on September 3, she was the newest addition to the Pollard household.

Daja grew up in what some might call a strict family unit and being the only child, she was always given undivided attention. Nevertheless, she grew into a beautiful young lady who attends Lancaster High School and writes poetry. She seems to have a knack for the poetry of the love filled, emotional variety. She says “I use poetry as a therapy tool to solve my problems” and hopes that others find as good a use of it as she does. Daja’s future seems bright as she plans to study Psychology at the University of Houston to pursue her dream of becoming a Clinical Psychologist. She wants to be known as Dr. Pollard, with a P.H.D. in Psychology and Human Behavior.

Jabreal Arrington was born April 4thto a loving suburban family of four and ever since she was little,she loved to write.

She would finish her class work early just to create stories of majestic marriages between kings and queens and the heirs to the throne. Of course, as she matured, her writing style did as well. Depending on her “mood”, Ms. Arrington would write stories ranging from romance to mystery, and everything in between. When asked what inspires her to write, she simply said “boredom”. Nothing seems to wake up her inner artist more than a blank slate. Yet, like many artist, she holds various passions, which include the Military.

Upon her Graduation from Lancaster High School, Jabreal plans to attend West Point Military Academy and pursue a career as an Officer in the U.S. Armed Forces; writing her own adventure along the way.

Ketsia Amenyinu, better known as Autumn, took root in the world December 11, 1995. As a child she was hooked on Anime and would compete with others to see who could come up with the drawings. She drew her inspiration from Japanese animation films after growing bored with children cartoons which eventually lead her to realistic drawings. She now has a passion for portraits and plans to attend Seoul University and go on creating monsters and anime novels.

If Walls Could Talk

by Olive Kinga

anger and hate would be released on us. Secondly because they order for walls to talk one would think of the lonely moments must first understand the they experienced without us even important roles walls play in our consoling with them for comfort. lives. Fundamentally, this role becomes a b u n d a n t l y unacknowledged and overshadowed by the pieces that hang on it, which in turn develops a questionable matter as to how walls feel.

In

If walls could talk it would be a miraculous privilege for them to expose all of which humans are made. First, in order to understand walls, we need to personify them as living objects with feelings and emotions, and then compare ourselves to them as one big kingdom.

Look at the wall it is unique, beautiful and elegant. Now look at yourself are you unique, beautiful and elegant? If so why have you focused more on yourself than on the things that make your life a lot easier to live? The truth is, we tend to ignore our surroundings and focus on what does not matter at the moment. If we were to be walls and walls were us, how do you think they will treat us? You hope good but I think badly, first because their inner

And they would think of the times they enclosed you in a room and you shared your hard felt feelings, they would also of the times when you separated yourself from one place to another. All this, they did for you but, you were too good of a person to even acknowledge them for what they do for you.

Now that you are a wall, how does it feel? I figure it is not so good of a place to be, knowing that no one really sees you for who you are, and not having the opportunity to express yourself, feelings, and ideas, that would probably kill you in just an hour of being a wall, because you are use to talking, initiating ideas, and expressing yourself and now that is taken away from you and knowing humans, thy are eager to give up when they know that something better is out there waiting rather than stay in one place.

Now do you feel what walls feel like? Having lived for so long without even being acknowledged, it would be depressing for a human to even survive the art of silence in which walls endure for eternity.

What do you think walls would say if they could talk just like we humans do? I hope next time when you hit or kick a wall when you are unhappy you would consider that it has emotions too.

"Excuse me ma'am.

I have to ask, are they related?"

by Renita Williams

I will never forget that old frail Caucasian lady the day on the bus that she forced my eyes to realize I was different. Before then when I looked in the mirror I always seen the strong resemblance to Serenity. My hair was a little shorter, and my curl pattern was tighter. But other then those two small differences. Me and Serenity were basically the same.

I seen it when I looked at myself that night. I was the grotesque color of dirt with hair that resembled shag carpet. Serenity had the most beautiful light golden yellow skin.

You could see her almost glowing in the sunlight. Her hair was down to the back of her knees. She could get anyone to bend to her will. All she had to do was flash her bright smile and continue to be the poster child for “Perfection.com” Serenity and her friends used to tell me I’m adopted because I’m a darker complexion. “Hey you, Crispy Critter!” They would terrorize me with nicknames to remind me I was “left in the sun to long.” Beauty doesn’t exist if your darker than a latté, and it’s been made known I am the FARTHEST thing from beauty.

I could never love this horrible

exoskeleton that was accidentally rolled in mud that never washes off. Because even though I’m “kind of cute for a dark skinned chick,” I’m still not hideously beautiful.

Derrick thought otherwise. Brighter than Serenity, he was a transfer student from Africa. He knew exactly how I felt, although his situation was a little more complex.

“African people have rich, dark, coffee complexions. They are beautiful souls, made to withstand anything.”

That’s how he describes his people, exotically breathtaking. Derrick, with pure African blood is a bright,almost fainted yellow, color.

His family moved here because his tribe threatened to kill him. Being his family’s only child they had to take action. Derrick was one of three surviving children born during a plague. All three children were of light complexion. Although the plague ended, 64 children died that year and all of them were dark skinned. The tribe leaders came to a council and decided that all that did not resemble the deep, loving color of the earth had to die.

As time went on, word spread across the tribe forcing Derrick and his family to escape under night fall.

Insisting he was the devil, his tribal members chased him for two years across the deep, African plains.

“One day it all stopped. We had no where else to go. The tribe chasers were getting dangerously close to finding us. A guy approached my dad about flying to the Americas and we thought he was a gift from

God. The night we were set to fly off, they found us. Screaming ‘DEVIL CHILD!! DIE LITTLE DEVIL DIE!!’

I can only remember the loud popping noises that screeched through the barrels of their guns. Each with my name written across it in gold ink. She jumped to protect me, she covered me and her body embraced each bullet as if it belonged there.

She didn’t scream, she only held in me and told me to be quiet. To not move until they went away. My dad fought them off, and came back to find me wading in a puddle of blood.

She laid there lifeless and yet peaceful, until the last ounce of existence drained into my lap. She was gone, and gave her life to protect me.”

“You remind me of her, strong willed, tall and radiant. You remind me of her beauty- exotic and courageousness. I can’t say I hate you... because only love fills my soul.

RYTE Poetry Homicide Hairy in most cases, many with different faces, spinners of silk laces, miss, they’ll run races; Some appear to fly, some pretend to die, defenses make you cry, some nest up high; Be that it may, it wanted to paly, hide and seek it did, all night and all day; Door opened on the wall it hung, lucky was it, the phone had rung;

Give a Chance “Give someone a chance!”

For the little boy who didn’t know any other way to make money so he turned to illegal activity to pay bills for his single mother who recently lost her job because the CEO of the company flet that he wasn’t making enough.

Maybe a “chance” is not a superstar landing a big role after being thrown into rehab. For the average Joes of the world, a chance might be allowing a man, wrongfully conviced, to walk free and helping him to sustain free life.

Possibly, a chance is hiring a woman for her dream job, but because of her silky complexion, preference of a woman over a man, or because she has braces, the company cannot have someone like her be its face.

Brushed with britles, it cried and it plead, hit the floor covered in red;

If this world, for one day, opened its greedy, selfish heart and allowed itself to give at least a piece of itself, how drastically things would change.

Swept under the rug, a coiled up bug;

If an employer called the recently laid off mother and offered her a job to feed her children; a judge gave her son a slap on the wrist instead of ‘5-9’; the CEO of the multimillion dollar corporation offered the silky complexioned lesbian with braces her dream job and looked past her imperfections, the world would not be what it is today.

dead it later, no longer it played; was whit I did right?

No more dreams of fright, nigh nightmare’s finally over, I bid you goodnight.

- Kevin Cook

Maybe one day I will be able to climb a mount top with a megaphone and scream to the world: “Give Someone A Chance” and maybe, just maybe, they’ll listen.

The Land A serial story to be continued in every issue

The

day strikes noon and the only person aliveis me. The rest of my fellow mates had been quiet snack to the rabid creatures that roam the area…I got luckily.

it…was gone; falling prey to what I assume to be a biochemical disease that took hold within six years. Six years? It didn’t seem that long when I was conducting my life’s work and now mankind is gone?

Me. The last person left in this God forsaken world.

There is still a small portion of humanity lays inside of me while the rest of my existence remains untamed beast. One that is free to roam the grounds as it chooses.

The only one left.

When I surfaced, the Australian shores were riddled with corps and the mangled remains of what the wild life decided not to devour. One glance around the beach had my colleagues spewing their stomachs on the delicate unformed glass.

My race, the human race, at least what little of it that’s left in me, always enjoyed the company of another’s hand in the dead of winter when snow covered mother earth with blankets to keep frost bite from setting in on her delicate frame. We- I- always enjoyed the warm caress of another’s skin to mine; the skin that has now been distorted and written as diseased. I am now lonely, without a companion.

I fell to my knees. What has happened to my wife and child?

How did the world I once knew become so contorted into what I now refer to as “The Land”, with its desolate air and baking flares and consumptions of night? Why am I the last one? Why is death not so kind as to take me to her throne and lay me at her feet to live my bereavement in peace? Why must I suffer alone? A companion is all I want. …

I was a biological researcher studying the patterns of different algae colonies off the coast of Australia.

Queensland, Australia to be exact. Besides the fact of Queensland being one of the biggest tourist attractions in Australia, it also housed the largest colony of green algae formations in the Indian Ocean. Spending the rest of my life uncovering and sampling these marvelous micro-organisms would have been a dream. But sadly, my dream was not my reality.

While studying the organisms deep beneath earth’s mirror with my fellow researchers, the world as I knew

Recomposing myself, I asked a fellow researcher to accompany me back to the Red Drone, a military base where I’d trusted my most prize possession; my son.

Sadly enough, not even the military could fend off such a chemical. It reminded me of Napalm used in war, only the after affects we extremely different. Where as Napalm would destroy, this chemical…only silenced.

It seems almost reminiscent of my earlier work. Of course everyone has a dark past. As a chemist working at the Lux Station, an underground facility, I was one of three men assigned to create a biochemical weapon known as Syrex the Virus. It was created as an alternative to bombing; meant to be used in cases when “less is more”. After completing the virus, but never orchestrating a cure, I and the other men stored it away in vault, hoping it would never be accessed. We all agreed to take it to the grave and parted to continue our separate journeys.

To be continued...

My

name is Alice when I’m nice, but Adrianna when you like me.

Guardian Angel

It is my skin, my eyes. When the mirror bears down on me, it is my face staring back at me, my red locks

by Rachaud Smith gracing my shoulder. But, when mom calls from the bottom of the stairs, to remind me that the bus won’t wait if I’m not punctual, I can’t go. I shrink My hot pink wall filled my vision into myself. while I held the ice pack on my cheek, which was beat red.

Adrianna wakes up.

The sting of dad’s hand usually left The mirror shows her my body, a my in peace after a couple of hours. bland one that she makes sexy as hell. The print would always stay longer, With a smirk only Satan could defeat, though, usually a day or two. The she heads out. worst “show of love and affection” had lasted a whole week. That was “Coming, Mother!” Adrianna, or the week I fell down the marble flight Ade, as she prefers, embraces my life of forty stairs at Grandma’s. like a mother would her child, guiding and nurturing it to be the fittest for About an hour after the last tear survival. My Guardian Angel. had died away, the sound of Mrs. Tuberman’s Doberman barking the Ade compliments the halls of next street over was interrupted by a McKinley High like the puzzle piece voice nearly identical to my own, but that’s impossible to lose. for a pinch of something more that I’ll just call sass.

In all actuality, the halls, with their stench of the teen age lingering if “He hurt you.” you’re there to long, were seemingly constructed without the idea of I turned over to face the speaker, life-sized humans being in them. only to find myself alone.

Somehow, though, when Ade struts her stuff toward her, or maybe my, “He hurt you/” locker, our fellow members of the student body clear an inexistent It was the same voice, but once again, runway. there was no source.

Boys, the jocks and the nerds, stare in amazement at one of the wonders of the world. Slaps echo the sound of gunshots as cheerleaders forbid their significant others even a quick glance at true beauty.

“Let me out. Let me help.”

There it was again, the faceless voice.

And then it occurred to me. In my eleven year-old mind, there was only one explanation. Only one reason existed for why an invisible being was Ade was born on a really cold night calling for me to “let them out.” in June five years ago.

Getting out of bed, I sat the ice pack on the nightstand. Gradually, I mustered enough courage for a squeak to escape my lips.

“Ar-Are you a ghost?” I asked, my fear bolder than the mark on my face. “Are you going to do bad things to me?”

An extremely girly chuckle, one that I most definitely could never manage, came from the voice. “Hurt you? Of course not, Sweetie. I’m here to help you.”

“H-How?’ I didn’t care at this point whether the voice emanated from a ghost or not. If something from the beyond was coming to help me, maybe the Lord was real after all.

“Ya gotta let me take over first. Let me out, Sweetie, and all your problems will go bye-bye.” Her voice had changed so that it no longer resembled mine at all, a fact that I knew not whether to fear or embrace.

“Wh-Wh-Who are you?”

“I am you, Ali. I am your other half and I wanna help you, but you gotta let me out.”

When I didn’t answer after a few moments, the voice, or ghost, or me, who- or what-ever, broke the silence.

“He hurt you. Remember? He keeps hurting you. Let me make him stop.”

More silence on my part.

“You do want him to stop, don’t you?”

I nodded almost violently, assuming “it” could see me. “Well, then let me help.”

“O-Okay.”

you let me out, which you have so graciously done.” The voice was so calm, like a wise grandparent explaining to you how the world works. It was like it didn’t know that what was going on wasn’t the norm, at least not in this universe.

without asking, and to never touch the grown-up knife.”

However, there was one question It was as if I was looking at the begging to be asked most of all. world through a tunnel, everything “Where did you come from?” seemingly years away, despite my There was a moment of silence close proximity to it. In that moment, terror wasn’t a feeling, but an embodiment.

After closing the drawer, without putting the knife back in its place, it directed my body in the last direction I wanted to go, my parents’ room.

Mom was still at work for the next hour, so Daddy was in there alone, probably sleeping.

“Good.” For a moment, it sounded as if someone was inhaling and exhaling, like the breathing exercises we did in gym. “Now, close your eyes, take a deep breath in, then let it out.”

I did as instructed. “Now, open.”

When I opened my eyes, everything had changed, only it hadn’t.

But then it became nightmarish.

My body began to move. Slowly at first, but then normally… but not at my command.

Though I made no attempt to walk, one at a time my feet went forward at a leisurely pace.

My attempts to halt were useless, as my legs still moved. Panic began to take form. What was going on? If I didn’t have control of my body, who did?

When I tried to speak, noise came, but my lips made no movement.

“SOMEBODY! SOMEBODY, before it answered. “Your head, HELP!” dear.” Questions buzzed around, but before I could ask any, it said, “Hush, child.” That time, it was “Look. I got work to do. I’ll explain my voice, and my lips moved, but everything later.” it wasn’t me. “You said you wanted help, but you complain when you get Work? I noticed that we’d made our it. What kind of customer are you?” way to the kitchen. My body went over and opened the drawer right “What’s happening? How is this under the sink, the one with the happening?” I was full of questions. knives.

That went beyond paranormal. It was psychotic.

As it picked up the biggest knife in the drawer, the ‘grown-up” knife as “You’re not in control anymore, mom called it, and began to admire Sweetie. Like I told you beforehand, it, I had to speak up. “Mommy and the only way I could help you is if Daddy said to never touch a knife

It chuckled. “Ha. Well, kid, I got news for ya. Your Mommy and Daddy are stupid. You don’t have to listen to them. I sure won’t.”

In what seemed like too short a time span, my body was in front of the entrance to an assured beating. It wasted no time.

The door to the bedroom smacked the wall with disgust as it burst into the room.

“What the-“ Daddy didn’t even finish his sentence before the knife was in his stomach. Over and over again it stabbed and stabbed and stabbed.

I was going crazy. “STOP! STOP! YOUR KILLING HIM! STOP IT PLEASE!!!”

After what seemed like an eternity, Daddy’s stab-ridden body dropped to the floor. “That was kinda the point.”

Before the police or Mommy came, the evidence was disposed of. I was never suspected of anything. It took a few months to get of the trauma of seeing my father butchered to death, but now I’m over it.

And as for my guardian angel, well, she continues to watch over me.

Children of the sun MAN The world is filled with the children of the sun; ordained to be the chosen ones, and yet we sit idol. We shuck and jive now, dressing up our inadequacies with anything money can buy now, right now. Its time to make a change, revert back to the olden ways because…

(Man’s spotlight turns red as another white spotlight appears to the furthest right of the male spoken word artist. To the right of him is a young female artist continuing the poem.)

GIRL

This is our time; to rise up and bring down the oppression. Please let this be a lesson…cause Lil’ Wayne, Two Chains, and Tamar, will have you missing your blessing. Don’t understand? Seek clarity! Find the values that will make you whole, complete, because…

(Girl’s spotlight turns yellow as another white spotlight appears to the furthest left of the male spoken word artist. To the left of him is an older female artist continuing the poem.)

WOMAN We have built monuments, a testament to the soul’s binge, The Pyramids, Monhejo Daro, our legacy, Stonehenge. Don’t be afraid to seek out your heritage, it is yours own. Don’t fall for deception, seek the truths untold. Beware of the deaf and dumb, don’t let the blind lead you; because…

(Woman’s spotlight turns green as another white spotlight appears in between the young female artist and the male spoken word artist. In between the male and young female artist is a young male artist continuing the poem.)

BOY The blind leading the blind most definitely can deceive you. Don’t play the fool, for the world is made up of mockery. Understand your tragedy but imagine who you wish to be. When you look in the mirror wink one eye and tell yourself you’re too smart not to try. Scholars, artist, masters of the world, a birthright people wish they could buy…

(All spotlights returns white and the artists speak in unity except when designated in part.)

ALL So join the fight, and stand proud in your skin…

MAN Understand there is a power that lies within…

GIRL Don’t be afraid to discover how deep your roots grow…

WOMAN Learn of your heritage, for yourself you will know…

BOY Understand that there is a light in the shadows and in the dark‌ ALL Because the mind is like a weapon, a beautiful work of art; so come to BANKOLE and discover who you are!

MAN Hotep!

WOMAN Peace!

GIRL Unity!

BOY Because we are stars!

MAN Bankole yall!

(Everyone raises their fist in power.)

by Leland Morrow

A LETTER TO........

28th, May 1915 Dear Josephine,

My darling wife, I miss you all so much. It has been months since I have seen your warm face and even longer since I have heard the voices of my family. I do wonder how you feel about my joining the war, but it is too late to turn back now. My summons has proven to be more of a dilemma then a solution to our country’s problem.

I do not enjoy this war one bit. I wish I could curl up to you near the fire of our home instead of in the dirt of this field. Many of the other men that lay beside me feel the same as I do. We hate this war. We dig pointless trenches that serve as slumber dirt coffin for the fallen. We sleep with the dead and dying and only fall prey to enemy if we are told to cross lines.

Bombs and land fields full of death- no man’s land. Some soldiers are brave enough to venture out into it, but they always return in chunks. And even though we are meant o fight his war for the greater good of our family, I can only wonder if the greater id really good. The living conditions in this mud hole are causing our soldiers to kill themselves. We live in urine and feces and the only clean drinking water supply is on the other side of the field.

If possible, I will try to make it home after my duties in this pointless war are complete. But if I fail to live, please know that I love you.

Dear Comic People,

When asked which superhero or villain I would want to change places with for a day, my answer is simple. Cat-Woman. Now many people may be surprised that a male would chose a female as his favorite when Batman and Superman exist, but Cat-Woman marches to her own beat and consequently people view her as a villain when in truth she is simply a person finding her way in the world like many of us.

She straddles between the super heroes and villains of the world simply because she chooses to not categorize herself and for that I admire her. Many individuals living in this society are constantly bogged with the opinion of others and are constantly pressured to conform, but I, like Cat-Woman will do as I please.

Your loving husband, She’s not a villain because she does not commit heinous crimes against

Johnathan S. Whispers humanity for a laugh, it is merely for survival. She is simply a human trying to live without restraints, much like many of us. However, she is not a superhero either. She does not fight for the “great or good” to Dear Five, have citizens praise her name. She just is. I would love to be Cat-WomMaybe people have overlooked you but if the world understood your true value like I do, an for a day, that way I wouldn’t have to worry about what society then they would stop just for a minute and marvel at the mere sight of you. With your curve and straight lined nature you make it possible for us to live. For instance, if you did thinks of me. I’d live on roof tops not exist anymore we’d have to live with Four’s impossible ego and Three’s unruly nature; and lurk in alleyways and occanot to forget One and Two’s creepy love connection. You are the glue that holds the other sionally rendezvous with Batman.

As Cat-Woman, I would finally be numbers together and without you six, seven, eight, nine, and ten would just be weirdos pleased to live my life as I chose with five-shaped holes in their hearts. See Five, you are important, so stop listening to and straddle that fine line between Four rant about how he’s the only number that matters. Truthfully, maybe Four should Good and Evil.

be the one to crawl under a rock. By the way, please don’t tell him I wrote that, I would hate to have another fiasco like last Christmas. Who would have thought that six was cheating on Three with Nine? Poor Three, she was so heart broken, give her my condolences, yet another thing you do best. Unlike some of the other numbers in this world, you are passionate and have a knack for making others feel better, which is why I can’t wait till summer vacation to come see you and the rest of the gang, but until then I love you and keep believing in yourself, I know I do!

Your Favorite Number,

11

With hope, Mr. Walk on the Wild side

Dear Self,

Confidence does not come in a pretty little package with a bow wrapped gently around it…and it is certainly not delivered to the front door of your life by the UPS man. Oh no! It lurks behind the bullies and hatred filled statues people like to call your peers. My skin has never been the easiest piece of clothing to wear but I have gained my confidence by letting society tear me down and brick up my flesh with tainted lies.

From the bright, early stages of my life I was tormented by my family…friends… enemies…”frienemies” and even people that never stopped to glance in my direction but still judged me. From the constant questions of the way I walked or talked to the notorious name calling that plagued my dreams, I developed a tough skin. Skin…like asphalt; rough and cracked on the surface and hard as rock without a hole to penetrate it. This is now the new texture of what once was the beautiful, delicate structure of my skin. I created myself a barrier to shield my thoughts and emotions from the flaming arrows that were flung from the “in crowd”. They seemed set depression ablaze once they’ve breached my walls. I have learned to stomp out the fires of melancholy and relax in the cool serene waters of confidence to sooth my aching burns of social acceptance.

My skin has become this concrete material because of all the mental, emotional, and verbal abuse that has been thrust upon me like sharp spears that hack through my flesh. These slices are no longer skin deep, instead they reach deep into the caves of my soul and slash away at will. They tear me limb from limb, but my concrete flesh glues me back together. It is the rock hard confidence that remains within and blocks out the deep and shallow cuts that taunt me.

My hard, rough, dry shell will always protect me from the pressures of this world.

Much like my newly formed casing, asphalt can withstand unspeakable amounts of anxiety and somehow it continues to stay firm and persistently hard. It continues to uphold all of the worries and emotions and pain that collapse on me like boulders at the end of a mudslide. Yet, because of my concrete flesh, I am liberated from the demands of this damnation to be socially accepted or shunned, but my confidence will not allow my tissue to smolder.

Skin burns like an eternal flame from the bones of the rotten carcass of past tortures but my asphalt skin remains intact. Society’s words are like rapid flames being launched into your ear and it sizzles on contact and now I realize….it is my asphalt skin that has smothered me into denial of myself self. Much like my tough exterior of concrete, I crack and fall apart and erode away my emotions until there are none.

I stay underneath and hidden in the shadows of cowardly fronts and put on brave faces to shun my own shame. My asphalt skin is only a product of the abuse I have allowed to happen and my confidence is but a mirror image of my rock skin. Overbearing confidence.

Unrealistic fronts. Sheltered pain.

I have allowed society to create a new layer of marbled flesh and it has hardened me into one of the bully, hatred filled statues that I so feared. My skin is like asphalt and the concrete has hardened, and now its to late to break free.

Sincerely,

A trapped Soul...

As the Chief Clinical Officer of the Plum Island Institute for the criminally insane,I felt it necessary to allow the world a glimpse into the mind of Henry Terrence Smithson. He suffers from Multiple Personality Dis-associative Disorder. The letters above were written by very different people that happen to live in the same body.

THE “Go, go, go!” Bombs crashed down around them exploding at every point, Land mines arose from the sandy floors like bears awaking from a deep hibernation.

BOOM, BOOM!!

Missiles were attacking at every angle and enemies flocked to them like a swarm of bees to a fresh flower patch. A mission gone wrong left five soldiers’ lives hanging in the balance and as the enemy approached them, signals were given to surrender their fire arms and release their patriotism.

“Surrender your weapons and drop to your knees.”

Guns were pointed at them from all angles with trigger happy fingers at their core. “Surrender your weapons!!!” their leader shouted out with rage. “Surrender your weapons or you…will…die!” The Shadow Unit slowly lowered their guns and fell to their knees with hatred in their heart and ice in their veins.

They’d never surrendered to any one who opposed them before, so why now.

Why surrender to a bunch of dessert thugs with guns pointed at their foreheads? Their eyes lowered and their fingers tingled with delight.

ROGUE

SOLDIER

Captains eyes were stunned in disbelief. How could his team be The men picked up their weapons ambushed and killed by a horde of and began to fire at will, spraying faced covered plagues? everything within an eighty yard “Sir were out numbered, we can’t perimeter, but when did a simple take them all,” yelled Corporal mission to extract information from Hicks. an Egyptian spy become a shoot out with the Dessert Fox Clan? No one was supposed to know about “We have to retreat; all of our men this mission; all the details were are dead and we’re loosing ammo. classified. It must have been a set up We have to go,” and as he spoke all along. those last words and turned to run the other direction; he stepped on A sniper sitting at the top of a watch a land mine and was blown into a tower aimed his rifle and began sand dune. “Noooo, Hicks!!” Tate’s to blast. First taking out Sergeant hand clenched around his gun as Lewis with three shot to his back he began to fire with out mercy; and blood splattered everywhere. trying to destroy everything in his Bloody exit wounds grew into his path. He managed to murder 63 of torso and his life was spent. The the 105 men that opposed him, but sniper then reared his vision towards it was not enough. They struck him Staff Sergeant Martinez and struck down with all their power and blew him down with a bullet to the head. holes in his body. His corps lay there lifeless and his face mangled.

As Martinez fell to the ground and slide into the sand the captain of The Dessert Fox Clan showed no the Shadow Unit quickly turned to mercy. see who was firing the bullets that penetrated his men. As a young Corporal Hicks survived the rebel from the Fox Clan drew his explosion and kept quiet under the gun from its holster and fired upon enemy’s surveillance. He waited for Captain Tate, he dropped to his the perfect moment to make his knee and shot one bullet between escape without him being noticed. the boy’s eyes and the young man Night fall came and his moment had could not have been more than ten arrived. He slipped from the sand years old. dune that covered his tattered body and made his way to an out post that More clan members ran to the battle was on the north side of the camp. and slaughtered Lieutenant Jackson Hidden from the Fox Clan like a with their broad knives. Though thief in the night, he slowly crept he put up a strong fight, there were towards a guard, snapped his neck, just too many men to counter. They and stole his gun from the holster. descended upon him like a pack of wolves to a fresh carcass; slashing The jet that brought them to their and mutilating his remains. The

destination of doom was on the west end of the camp and about 20 miles from the base.

Around corners and dunes he snuck; tucked away from enemy eyes like the wind that whistled through the air. Hicks snaked his way under a window where he overheard the commander of the Fox Clan speaking of how the U.S. General him self, sent the Shadow Unit to be murdered in cold blood.

“It suicide mission that the General had been planning for months to rid himself of the Shadow Unit!” the commander said with laughter.

“Once they were out of the picture, he could proceed with his plans of exporting over twenty thousand nuclear weapons to all of the major terrorist groups in the Middle East.”

“What my father. Why would he do such a thing? I have to stop him!”

Hicks exclaimed.

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing; they were set up by his own father to die in the dessert because of some scheme to rid the world of America. The general was snake with power at his finger tips.

The Corporal moved away from the window and accidentally tripped into a weapons arcade.

“What was that?” The commander slowly moves for his gun and sticks his head out of the window. In that moment, Hicks pressed his pistol into the side of the commander’s head and squeezed the trigger. His brains splattered on the wall and his body fell limp against the window seal.

The other gentlemen in the room was stunned in fear and did his best to back out of the room screaming, “Oh My God! What the…” his eyes

opened twice their size and his heart rattle in his chest like a cage that had been struck with a hammer. Hicks reared the corner and blasted three shots. Two into the man’s chest and one into his head; the man fell to the floor lifeless with a look of terror on his face. Hicks’ gun barrel smoked with delight as he made his way around another mountain of sand.

He’d finally reached the west side of the rebels’ camp and hid behind a tent. He wanted to wait for the moment when all the lights were shut off and all the guards were tucked away on shelves like little toy soldiers. But he couldn’t; it wouldn’t take long for some one to realize that their commander was dead, so he had to act fast.

As the Corporal darted towards his only haven for safety, he hears the distant screams of rebel men; their war cry.

finalist, and the one son that the General Hanson deserved.

Hicks wiped his tears and knew what he had to do; he had to kill the General.

The rebels’ army drew close as Hicks took off in flight with his newly found vendetta towards General Hanson. A heat seeking missile shot from a rocket launcher by one of the Fox Clan members flew through the air in target of the jet.

Hicks had to dodge the missile to keep from being blown into chunks of scrap metal and flesh while the answer to his dilemma was right in front of him. A pyramid that had to have been over six hundred years old with cracks in its side and a foundation that was ready to collapse was the perfect solution.

Hicks drew the jet closer to the pyramid and at the moment when the tip of his airliner touched it, he Hicks crossed over sand mounds ejected out of his seat and it crashed and leaped over gaps like a track right along with the soaring missile. star. He reached the jet just in time to avoid being tortured by the men The pyramid collapsed to the sandy of the leader he has murdered. floors falling on top of a group of He jumps into the jet; ignites the camel herders and crushed them engine and just sits there; thinking into paste. about the men he’d lost in battle and His parachute flung out of its pack how the general set them up to be and into the air with enough force slaughtered like pigs. to yank him away from the blast just A single tear fell from his cheek in time. As he looked down at the and landed in his hand as he kept explosion, he noticed an abandoned thinking about his brother and jeep about ten yards from the his father. All the time they spent detonation site. He guided him self together and how this could be the down into the roof and released the last time he would ever see them chute from his back; zoomed off into both. the freezing dessert on a mission to murder the man who tried to He and his step brother Patrick murder him. would always hang out, yet sometimes Patrick felt like he never A score had to be settled and a price quite measured up to Gerald. He had to be paid. Hanson deserved always wanted to be the one who everything that is coming his way was loved the most. He wanted to and more. Hicks wanted him to pay be the over achiever, the first place with his life; to beg for his soul right

before it’s sent to hell. He wants Hanson to feel the pain he felt; and experience the terror in his eyes as he takes his final breathe.

Ring, ring, ring! “Yes, what’s the update on my men?” a mysterious voice asked over the phone.

“Uumm….well, they’re all dead;” they reassured him; “except one.”

The commander’s son voice was shaky.

“WHATTT!!! You let one of them escape you stupid…!”

“Well it’s the Corporal, he dodged the heat seeker and drove away in an old jeep, but I know where he’s going, so I can get him for you.”

“Then why are you still, ON MY PHONE!!”

“Sorry sir, I’ll take care of the problem.”

Hicks finally made it to the Airport gates and walked up to the front desk where an ugly concierge with a crooked tooth sat putting on make up. His tattered body slumped on its side as he pulled out a crumbled piece of paper that had the address of a warehouse in the U.S. “Hi, how may I help you?” she asked.

“I need a flight to United States right now.”

His voice was shaky, he could barely stand on his own and now the Rebels had reached his destination.

“I need a ticket now!”

The concierge nearly jumped from her skin when Corporal Hicks screamed at her. She was just about to price him a ticket when he heard a loud voice in the distance. Hicks quickly turned to look and saw the commander’s son of the Fox Clan with his finger pointed in his direction. The Corporal had no time to wait for a plane ticket, he had to work fast. Hicks dipped under the desk and stole the concierge’s ID

card to gain access to the inventory room where he would create a distraction.

He made his way to the landing strip as flames engulfed the airport lobby with torment like the fires of hell The rebels spread apart in search of had spilled over into the room.

Hicks, but by the time they reached On the outside of the airport, Hicks the front desk, the supply closet recognized a private jet that was door was closing behind him. owned by the ambassador of Egypt, “Find him! He’s around here but there was no time to waste. He somewhere!” couldn’t risk being caught by the rebels and slaughtered like his fellow Hicks did his best to close the door country men. silently and lock it tight until he was ready. As he looked around His only way to escape the gruesome the closet for a diversion, he saw torture that would soon be upon an industrial bottle of bleach, a him would be to steal. He ran up shelf full of disinfectant spray, and the stairs of the jet and followed a bucket to mix his ingredients. the velvety smooth carpet into the After he emptied the bottle of all its cockpit. Hicks ignited the engine of substance, he quickly turned to the the plane and drew back the wheel shelf to grab one of the spray cans in flight. and implemented Soaring above the clouds and it into his little distraction. He drew looking below at all of the green his knife from its holster and took a that flourished upon earth’s bullet from its magazine to set them rocky physique, he began to plan into his plan of action. He deposited the murder of General Hanson. the gun power in a line that led Thinking of all the ways he would to the door after he made a small destroy him; contemplating on his hole in the bucket leaking out the death. All the tools he needed to mixture leading towards the rest of complete the job would be at the the spray cans. mercy of an old friend named James “Why haven’t you Idiots found him who worked for the CIA Operations yet?”

Unit. Blueprints, security routes, daily schedules, and weapons galore.

“We’re trying boss,” one of the rebel men said stupidly. The commander’s The only way he could make son drew his pistol and planted one contact with his friend was through right between the boy’s eyes. submitting a signal from his central “Does anyone else have something computer at the warehouse.

SMART TO SAY!?”

The plane finally arrived at the stockyard were it took a bit of a rough In the mean-time, the rebels were landing. The Corporal climbed from still probing the airport from top to the pilot’s chair and exited the jet bottom. It was now time to cause the with a mind for warfare. distraction. He lit the gun powder and it ignited with flare. Running After he entered his haven for down a narrow hall way, he was safety, he quickly jumped onto the doing his best to escape the flames computer and sent his associate a that followed. transmitted signal with details of

the required information. James quickly replied with questions about the blueprints he needed, but was more than happy to lend his friend a helping hand.

Although Hicks never told James what his purposes for the documents were, it was safe to say that he had a plan.

Hicks quickly printed off the blueprints to the general’s mansion using a new type of software and a deluxe industrial printer 8000. He must now come up with a way to get close to the general at the charity benefit that’s held at the white house every year. And since Hanson loved women, what better way to get close to him than to pose as one.

He always went for the dumb chick with an IQ lower than her shoe size.

Cheating his wife was like a hobby of his.

In the middle of his preparation, he received a phone call from James with the latest updates on Hanson’s whereabouts.

“Hello Hicks, the general’s at the Four Suites Hotel and Resort in Washington. I heard he was only going to be there for the next three days, so you might want to act fast.”

“No,” Hicks said, “I have him just where I want him. See if you can get some security photos and what ever else you can dig up.”

“Okay Hicks…69 out.”

Ideas raced through his head like an emergency super highway on a mission.

He quickly through himself back into his work and devised a scaled replica of a woman based off an old fling the general used to see.

Everything was up to par on the woman’s physique. She had long, dark pretty hair, green eyes that

could make a man cry, and tan skin that was silkier than butter and more lethal than a switch blade. She was powered by a battery pack that was housed in her left calf muscle and a console switch that enable Hicks to control her every move.

He finished with tan goddess just in time for the charity benefit where she wore a tightly laced corset gown with 4 inch pumps that could stab a hole in the wall. Hicks kept surveillance through the woman’s eyes and could see everything she saw. He swiftly located Hanson talking to the Secretary of state and approached him with enough joie de vivre to stop them both in their tracks and send their jaws to the floor.

“Hi, General Hanson right. I’m Melinda Jones.” She extended her hand to him in a friendly fashion and batted her eyelashes so hard that she almost blew up a windstorm.

His hands were shaking and his eyes big.

“Umm, yeah, I’m Hannn…son; G-general Hanson.” He stuttered.

“Well general, do you wanna make this a private conversation.

There’s an empty room down the hall, so uh, meet me there in about three minutes. I’ll be waiting,” she said seductively.

“Umm Secretary, will you excuse me for the next ten minutes,” General Hanson said with ease.

He followed the dark haired beauty into a closed room where an awaiting son sat. Hicks creped his way into the building through the ventilation systems and lowered his body into the room. He armed him self with a vile and a syringe to inject his father with a truth serum to gain answers.

“Hello father, please come in and shut the door behind you.” Hanson was afraid to enter but the robotic woman pushed him into the room where he tripped and tumbled onto the floor. Hicks quickly moved from his seat and injected the truth serum into his father’s neck.

“What-w-what did you put in me?” the general said in a mournful tone.

“It’s a truth serum, you’ll be a groggy for a few hours, but you’ll give me all the answers I need to know.”

“Why were you trying to kill me?

I’m your son and you sent me to massacre like pigs! Why father, whyy-y?” he said sorrowful.

“I never tried to kill you,” his father said. “I would ne-ver.”

“Then who would?” Hicks asked.

“It was me!” a voice in the hallway said.

“Patrick! What the…” Hicks’ heart sank to his knees. His own brother was the one who set him up. All this time he thought it was his father and it was really the man that wanted him out of the way since they were three.

“I need you dead Gerald! You’ve always been in the way of me and father’s relationship. You’ve always been the “over achiever,” the “perfect son,” but now it’s my turn.

“What’s going on,” Hanson asked, but he was sorry drugged up that he couldn’t even see straight. Patrick pulled a gun from his back and aimed the pistol at Hicks’ chest.

“It’s time for you to die!”

“Not quite,” Hicks exclaimed.

He grabbed the barrel of the gun that was aimed at his chest and pointed it upward as Patrick squeezed the trigger.

Gun shots were fired and the white was evacuated; people ran screaming as the Secret Servicemen tried to protect the President with their own bodies.

No one actually knew where the shots were coming from and now it was a life or death situation.

They wrestled over the pistol until their father stood from his slump position and BAM!!! The gun was fired for the last time. Their father’s dull body fell slowly to the velvety carpet and blood ran from lips.

His last dying words were, “Patrick, you were always my favorite,” as he drift away from reality.

Through the pause of the moment, Hicks knocked Patrick unconscious. He tied him to a post in the room as cried for his father.

“Father!!! Father!!!” he exclaimed as he walked from the room with his father in arms.

Three years past since that dread full night at the charity benefit. Life moved on and Hicks retired from his position to stay home to watch over the children that spawned from him. He did his best to kill the rivalry between his two beautiful children Micah and Joseph.

His brother Patrick was never found that night. All that was left was an empty gun, an untied rope, and an open vent that led outside. And a strand of hair that was untraceable.

A lot can happen over time.

DING-DONG! “Honey can you get that, I’m with the kids.”

“Sure,” Hicks said calmly. He walked to the front door and opened the thresh-hold to an ever psychotic Patrick with a gun pointed between his eyes.

BAM! BAM! BAM! “I told you, I was time for you to DIE!”

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