TWINS

Characters: 

Dad: 40-41

Mom: 37-38

Julia: 16-17

Lily: 16-17

Macey: 10-11

Rose: 10-11

Cashier: 23

Scene One: High School/Pool – afternoon

We see a giant high school hallway with open lockers, gossiping girls, and boys. 

Macey: Julia! Lily! What have you been doing? You’re supposed to be taking us to swimming.

Julia: What…. are….. you….. thinking??

Macey: Me and Rose need you guys to take us to swimming!

Lily: Ugh! Rose! Macey! I told you not to come here!

Rose: Sorry, we can’t walk to swimming!

Lily: Why not?!?

Macey: I don’t know? Could you walk five miles in those stilettos in the rain?

Julia: Fine, get in the car. But you’re dead meat if we’re late to Zach’s party!

Rose: You guys are gonna be walking everywhere when Mom finds out you two forgot to take us to swimming. She got you that car for a reason.

Lily: Don’t you dare tell mom!

Macey: $25 for each of us – and your dessert tonight.

Lily: Fine!

They arrive at the pool, Rose & Lily disappear into the locker rooms.

Scene Two: Party/fight – late afternoon

We see the party, with drinks and dancing. 

Knock! Pound! Knock! 

Mom: Julia Jasmine Roberts & Lily Morgan Roberts, GET IN THE CAR RIGHT NOW!!!!

Julia: What the heck mom?

Lily: Yeah, you totally embarrassed us!

Mom: Oh, please I’m sure everyone’s parents have done that. But let’s cut to the chase. Do you think you might have forgotten something?

Lily: Tsh, no! 

Mom: Take a guess, how long do you think you have been at this party?

Julia: I don’t know, like an hour? 

Mom: NOT EVEN CLOSE AT ALL! You guys stayed here for FOUR HOURS! And guess what arrived two hours ago, soaking wet, chilled-to-the- bone at my doorstep an hour ago?

Lily: Oh, s**t.

Julia: Dang it!

Mom: You two are grounded. No parties, no car, no hangouts, nothing social, no boys, no phones, and no dessert for a month! Also, tomorrow you have to take care of your sisters because they have to stay home from school. Do you know why? Because they have a serious cold! Also, a little bird told me that you had forgotten to pick them up and drive them to swimming in the first place, so you guys owe me $50 for almost having them miss swimming and me having to pay for a lesson that they didn’t go to!

We see them, arriving at the house, handing in all their electronics. Then, we see Macey & Rose on the couch, watching TV with hot chocolate. Transition to night. 

Scene three: Home/ Morning-late afternoon. 

Julia makes macaroni and cheese, hands it to the girls, washes the dishes, and heads up to her room.

Ring! Ring! 

Macey & Rose: Oh, servant! Where are our cookies?

Julia: Don’t even think about calling me that or I’ll dye them green and poison them!

Rose: And what do you think Mom will think then?

Lily makes the cookies, and glances down at her phone. She starts scrolling, and types something in.  

Lily: Here are your cookies. I’m leaving for Dean’s party. I’ll be back before mom gets home. Don’t even think about telling her. 

Time passes. Lily gets home. Mom comes home, checks on the girls, takes their temperature, and makes dinner.

Rose: Hey, mom! What’s for dinner?

Mom: I thought I’d make your guys’ favorite chicken noodle soup because you aren’t feeling well. Please don’t holler across the house like that, it’s not good for your voice. Your throat is sore enough.

Mom: Lily, darling, will you please come set the table?

Lily: I don’t want to!

Mom: It’s not an option!

We see Lily set the table, and mom is busy in the kitchen. Time passes. 

Mom: Dinner time!

Everybody sits at a rectangular table and starts to eat. 

Macey & Rose: Dinner! Yay!

Lily: Uhh…dinner?

Mom: Why? You guys love this dish too! 

Lily: I’m stuffed.

Mom: How could you be stuffed?

Lily: We had a big lunch, right Julia, right Macey & Rose?

Rose: No, we had macaroni and cheese, you left after Julia made it for us.

Mom: Oh. You left did you? I thought my instructions were very clear. Take care of your sisters, and don’t leave the house. Also, remember you’re grounded.

Macey: Lily told us not to tell you, because she was going to Dean’s party.

Rose: She found out on Instagram, I saw her checking it while she was making our cookies. She also threatened to dye them green and poison them. Also, Julia’s innocent. You should half her groundment, and double Lily’s.

Mom: You know what? That’s a terrific idea! I hereby half Julia’s groundment, and double Lily’s!

We see Lily pull Julia aside and whisper in her ear. 

Lily: How much did you pay them?

Julia: I didn’t.

Lily: Never in a thousand years would they do that. 

Julia: Maybe you’re just jealous that they like me more.

Lily: We both know that’s not true.

Macey: Hey mom, when’s Daddy coming home?

Mom: He won’t be home for another week, remember he’s doing that fashion show in Milan.

Julia: Mom, can we get a cat?

Rose: Yeah!

Macey: Yeah, mom please!

Lily: Please!

Mom: Well, I’ll think about it. We’ll have to talk with your dad about it.

Julia: Why? He’s never around, it’s not like he’ll object when he’s never even here. 

Mom: He’ll be back soon. I’ll tell you what – I’ll talk to him tonight. You girls definitely deserve it though. And I mean my little girls – not my big girls.

We see the girls disappear into their bedrooms, and their mom sits on the couch and calls dad. 

Scene Four: Phone Fight – Night

Mom: Hey honey.

Dad: Hi sweetheart. How are you holding up?

Mom: Good. Listen – the girls wanted to get a cat and I was wondering if you were okay with it.

Dad: (sighs) Well, I think we should. One cat for Julia & Lily, another for Rose & Macey.

Mom: I’m sure they’ll be overjoyed.

Dad: I’m sorry, I just have some much work to do. I have to stay in Milan for a couple more weeks, they want me to do more outfits for their shows.

Mom: George! How long is this going to keep going? First it was days, now its weeks! We need you too! The girls need you! You’ve already been there for a month now, and Macey & Rose are entering middle school soon. Julia & Lily have already started to sneak out to parties. Please come home.

Dad: I know, I’m trying. Stay strong, I love you, bye.

Mom: Bye.

We see mom slam the phone on the counter, and storm away. 

Scene Five: Animal Shelter – Late Morning

It’s morning and we see them walk into a pet shelter. 

Mom: Okay girls, Julia & Lily you guys find a cat that you want, and you have to agree – no bribing! Same with you two.

Rose: Look at this beige one, it’s so cute!

Macey: I like that one too!

Rose & Macey: MOOOOOM! We found one!

Mom: Okay honey! Your sister found one too!

Macey: We got a British Shorthair!

Julia: We got a tuxedo cat!

Lily: We named him Cooper.

Rose: Ours is named Cous-Cous!

Mom: Well, I’m glad you guys are happy.

Macey: What’s wrong mom?

Mom: Your dad’s not coming home for a couple more weeks.

Rose: But mom! Graduation’s in two weeks!

Mom: I know, I know.

Macey & Rose start to cry, and hug their cats. Their crying turns to sobbing, and we see Julia & Lily attempt to calm them down and comfort them, but to no avail. 

Scene six: Graduation day – late morning/ early afternoon

Macey is wearing a white dress with yellow flowers, and Rose is wearing a blue dress with a bow. They look happy, but disappointed because their dad isn’t there. 

Principal: Would the twins Macey & Rose Roberts please come to the stage?

Applause. We see them make a speech, get handed awards, and leave with their sisters & Mother. 

Mom: Rose, honey, I’m so proud of you for winning the best attendance award!

Rose: Thanks, Mom.

Mom: Oh, and my darling Macey won the best grade award! I’m so proud of you both!

Macey: Thanks, mom, it means a lot.

Mom: Both my two girls won awards, and you guys each had better than average attendance & Grades! I wish you could tell how proud I am of you guys!

Rose: Mom, stop. You’re making us blush!

Mom: Oh my gosh.

We see their father enter the room, as they are leaving it. Their mom almost faints. 

Macey: Dad what are you doing here?

Rose: Well, it doesn’t matter you missed it anyway.

Dad: Hey, hey, at least I made it!

Rose: Honestly, we don’t want to talk to you.

Intermission. / ½ way through the movie. 

Scene Seven: Sister talk/ huge fight. – night. 

We see everybody enter the house, and walk up to the rooms for bed. 

Macey: Hey Julia, can we talk to you for a moment.

Julia: Yeah, sure of course.

Rose: We really need our big sister right now.

We see Lily walk past, looking sad, and jealous. Julia, Macey & Rose enter into their room. They sit on the bed. 

Rose: Why is dad always away? He’s never here for us. Him coming here late just reminded us of that feeling. I feel like he’s more of like a close family friend.

Macey: Yeah. He’s never here for our birthdays, or graduations, or concerts, and he’s leaving AGAIN, in the morning. He doesn’t even have time to play a game with us. Let alone, tuck us into bed, kiss us goodnight, or do anything a father should do. He was barely even around when we were little!

Rose: “It sort of hurts deep down. Like a big cut. Like he’s neglecting us. The Kardashian kids get more attention from their dad than we do, and Kanye West is like 100 times more famous!” 

Julia: I know how it feels, before dad was famous he was the best. I remember playing with him when me and Lily were five years old. He wasn’t here for our middle school graduation, and that hurt too. I have on video, when he promised he would be there. But, he never showed up. It broke my heart.

Julia sniffles a little bit and they all form one big hug. The girls join in the crying, and we see Lily standing at the doorway. She comes in and hugs them too. We move downstairs to where mom & dad sit on the couch. Mom sighs. 

Dad: Look Grace, I’m sorry. Hey, at least I tried. But, I get back to Milan tomorrow morning. 

Mom: George that made it worse! If you were going to be late, just don’t come at all!

Dad: Well, now they know that I remembered!

Mom: They don’t care!

Dad: How do you know? 

Mom: Because they’re my kids!

Dad: And, they aren’t mine?

Mom: Barely, you’ve missed so many milestones in their life, it’s like you were barely present. Macey & Rose hardly know you at all.

Dad: Come on, they understand, I’m the money maker in this family, I leave to make money, I leave them so they can have a roof over their head, so they can have toys to play with.

Mom: No, George. No excuses, we’re rich, you don’t have to work! We don’t have to worry about money! If we lost half our money, or even 75% We still wouldn’t have to work! This is about the kids, not you. Why are you so selfish?. They’re growing up without a dad. Did you ever think about how they feel? What impact this might be making on them? Huh? Have ever bought them a birthday present? Or sang happy birthday with me and them and their friends? No! You haven’t! You’ve kissed them through the ipad in Milan, more times than you’ve actually kissed them in real life! What is wrong with you? You could buy them a mansion. You could buy them all the toys in the world, but they wouldn’t care! They wouldn’t care George! Because one theres only one thing they want from you, and you can’t but it.

Dad: Me. They want me.

Mom: Yes George, they want you. Not me, not Lily, not cats, you. They only wanted cats because that means that you would actually talk to them about getting a cat, and actually approve something they want. So you could actually talk to them.

Dad sighs.

Mom: It’s like you don’t even exist.

Dad: I know, I know.

Dad shakes his head. 

Mom: I have one more thing.

Dad: Fine, I’m ready.

Mom: I’m pregnant.

Dad: (groaning) Do they know?

Mom: No, I’m telling them tomorrow. Make a choice, be there for them and this kid, or not be a part of their lives at all. Choose. 

Dad: Are you suggesting a divorce?

Mom: Choose.

Dad: I choose…………

Scene eight: The announcement – morning 

Mom: Girls! Wake up! I have a graduation present for you!

We see mom in a robe, and a small blue bag with yellow tissue paper inside, and a red bow on top. 

Macey & Rose: YAY!!!! WOOHOO! SUMMER! PRESENT! YAY!!!

Mom: Open it!

Julia & Lily come down, to watch the present opening. 

Mom: It’s for you guys too! Come on!

They throw out the tissue paper and look in the bag. Inside is a positive pregnancy test. 

Julia, Lily, Macey, & Rose all gasp. 

Macey & Rose: EEeeeeeeeeee!!!

Julia: Oh my gosh, Oh my gosh, Oh my gosh!!!!!!!!

Lily: No! 

Mom: Yes!

We see them form a huge hug. 

Mom: I also have some sad news. Your father and I…

Julia: Yes?

Lily: Mom?

Macey: Mommy tell us!

Rose: Yeah mom, come on!

Mom: Your father and I are getting a divorce.

Rose: Mommy, will you have to get a job? What will happen to the car and the house, and our money?

Macey: Mommy, are we gonna be okay? 

Mom: Oh, honey of course we are! We will hire a good lawyer, and he will defend our case. And, if we win, we will get most of the money, the house, & the car.

Lily: Dad never was around anyways.

Julia: Hey mom, do we have to spend time with him in Milan? Do we have to do school in Milan? I don’t want to leave here.

Mom: Oh, no honey. There’s no doubt about it that were staying here. F**k Milan. Sorry girls didn’t mean to cuss.

Rose: It’s okay.

They all hug. 

Mom: Lets get donuts, spend all day in our Pjs and binge watch Glee!

Macey & Rose: Yeah!

Lily: Woohoo!

Julia: Alright! 

Scene nine: Donut shop/home – late morning 

They arrive at the donut shop, wearing their pajamas. Macey & Rose are wearing matching pastel pink, with white & Blue dot pajamas. Lily is wearing a blue night dress, with small white flowers. Julia is wearing a coral sweatshirt & Sea foam sweatpants. Mom is wearing a white nightgown, with a pretty off-white pattern. They enter the shop. In the shop is a whole selection of donuts ranging from rainbow & unicorn to matcha & ube. 

Macey: WOW! Mom, look they have a unicorn one! I’m getting that!

Rose: Mommy! Check it out they have a glazed rainbow one! Can I get that one?

Mom: You guys can each get one donut & one drink.

Lily: That strawberry shortcake one looks goooood!

Julia: I’m gonna get the confetti-cinnamon-sugar one!

Mom: Has everyone decided on which donut & which drink they’re going to get? 

Macey: Yup!

Julia: I know!

Lily: I’ve decided.

Rose: It was a hard choice, but yes!

Mom: Okay, may I please have one unicorn, one glazed rainbow donut, one strawberry shortcake, one confett-cinnamon-sugar, & one match donut please? Also could I have two hot chocolates, one caramel macchiato, one thai iced tea, and one match latte please.

Cashier: That will be $29.75 please.

Mom: Here you go. Now, everyone grab your donut, and your drink. Don’t eat or drink in the car. You know the rules.

They get home and plop on the couch, turn on the tv, and watch & eat. 

Scene Ten: home/ – early afternoon, time passes: About 1 month. 

Time passes, about 1 month. 

Mom: Lily, Julia, come on! We have to be at the court in three hours! It takes two and a half to get there!

Lily: Coming Mom!

Julia: Just putting on my shoes!

Rose: Mom, remind me what we’re supposed to do?

Mom: I left some money on the counter. You can go shopping, bake, cook, or shop for your baby sister.

Macey: $400?!? 

Rose: Awesome! Why couldn’t dad file for a divorce sooner?

Mom: Honey, I filed the divoroce. I asked him to choose us or his job.

Julia: And he chose his job.

Mom: We might be gone a while. Don’t spend it all in one place.

Macey & Rose: Bye mom!

Julia, Lily, & Mom leave the house, and drive away in the car. 

Rose: Where should we go first?

Macey: First we need to get food, I’m starving! 

Scene eleven: The mall. – late afternoon 

We see Macey & Rose walk into the park lot, and look at a sign. 

Rose: OOOOOOOH, they have a Panda Express here!

Macey: Mm, mm, mh, mn, mm!

Transition to Panda Express.

Rose: Can I please have a kids meal with orange chicken & chow mein, a kids meal with Beijing beef and white rice, and two small sodas?

Cashier: Sure, that’ll be $19.50.

Macey: Here you go!

We see them sit at a table, inaudible chatting and eating. They wipe their hands & mouth on napkins, throw their plates away, and walk out the door. 

Macey: Where should we go next?

Rose: I think we should get baby stuff.

Macey: Okay, let’s plan this out. We have $380.50. Let’s use $80.50 at the baby store.

Rose: That brings us to $300, I think we should get some new clothes for ourselves.

Macey: Okay, so let’s say like $50 for each of us?

Rose: Alright, then we’ll have $200, lets get some makeup for ourselves, Mom, Lily, & Julia.

Macey: Okay, so like $75 on makeup?

Rose: Eh, that’s a little much.

Macey: Well, it’s for all five of us.

Rose: Hm, true. That’s $15 for each of us, so it’s $125 left. Let’s give $25 to each of us for toys, and take fifty for each of us, and save it for meals.

Macey: Okay, let’s go! 

Transition to baby store. 

Rose: “All this stuff is so cute!” 

Macey: Lets get some onesies!

Rose: Okay, this set of three onesies is $20! 

Macey: Okay, put it in the shopping cart!

Rose: This is so fun!! Lets get some toys!

Macey: Okay, I got some toys, our total is $50. 

Rose: Okay, binkies and bottles!

Macey: Got them!

Rose: We have $10 dollars left.

Macey: $5 dollars. Because we have to -$5 because of tax.

Rose: I already got a swaddle blanket. 

Macey: Okay, let’s check out.

Cashier: That’ll be $74.67.

Macey & Rose: Oh, my god.

We see them go out, and then come back in, and come out again with a stack of bags.

Rose: Oh my gosh! That was so fun! I can’t wait to do your nails!

Macey: Yeah, the baby stuff we got is so cute!

Time passses. 

Macey: You’re so good at doing nails! I think we should bake a cake for mom! 

Rose: A happy divorce cake?

Macey: No, silly! A happy baby cake! With some divorce aspects.

Rose: You were totally going to do a divorce cake!

Macey: Was not!

Rose: Was too! 

Macey: Okay, fine, you got me. 

They start to bake a cake.

Rose: How should we decorate it?

Macey: Well, we know it’s a girl, so maybe like pink with white dots?

Rose: Sure!

Scene twelve: home/ – evening 

Mom: We’re home!

Macey & Rose: How’d it go??

Lily: We WON!!!!

Macey & Rose: EEEEEE!

Julia: You have to explain to them what we won.

Mom: Well, we got the house, 56% of the money, the car, and most importantly I got you guys, so no Milan. 

Macey & Rose: No Milan! No Milan! No Milan! Yay!

Mom: I thought we could brainstorm baby names tonight. 

Macey, Rose, Lily, & Julia: Okay! 

Mom: I was thinking…….. Isabelle or Ava. 

Macey: I like Ava!

Julia: What about Harper or Evelyn? 

Lily: Nah. I like Ava.

Rose: Yeah, Ava! 

Mom: Okay, Okay. Ava it is.

Scene thirteen: Welcome home! – late morning! Eight months later. 

We see mom enter the room, with bags under her eyes, carrying a baby girl. 

Rose: She’s so cute!

Macey: She looks just like you!

Mom: She looks like all of you guys. 

Lily: She’s adorable!

Julia: I’m so excited! 

Mom: Meet your new baby sister, Ava Lily Roberts. 

Lily: You chose me? As the middle name? Why?

Mom winks at Lily. Ava opens her eyes, makes a gesture with her hand, and they all huddle around her. 

The end. 

A Prisoner to War

There was a prisoner lying on the wet ground, covered in mud from the battlefield so that their uniform was indistinguishable from the surroundings. Standing there in my own uniform, spattered with mud myself as one of the victors preparing for the punishment, I could not even make out the telltale signs that would show that he was from the opposing side. He was a prisoner, I told myself. That was how war worked. Thousands of lives could be lost in one day, one battle, lives that were indistinguishable from one another in the face of death, with all their separate memories and stories blending into one consciousness. War was good versus bad, each side convincing themselves that the others were subhuman and evil, justifying the slaughter and cruelty. But man was a single race, with only petty distinctions of appearance, separated into the categories of nationality and physicality. It was human nature to want to distinguish, I thought, as I saw the lesser officials march up under the gray sky and wrench the pitiful man to his feet. Was he even human in their view, a prisoner who was soaking and half-dead? Was this how they were going to justify his death at their hands? A feeling of horror rose in my chest and crept into every corner of my brain. How could this be routine? What had his life been like before the war? I imagined his wife and children standing in front of their house, waiting for his return that would never come. Did such deaths even mean anything in the grand scope of the war? I watched the proceedings continue with mounting dread. When the gun went off, I felt like I had been shot myself, and although I stood straight and showed no emotion as I marched away, my insides felt like they were melting away from me. I knew that I could not remain as I had been before.

A Loving Banishment

The man had seen many different worlds in his time, and knew a song from all of them. He walked across the mountain peaks singing one of them. He plucked the banjo with the edges of his koi colored hand guard. His hands were weathered, strong, and had the agility of a wild rabbit. He had bright green eyes that looked a little bloodshot. Though he may have seemed a little tired, his smile shined brighter than the light overhead. 

The coins in his pocket clattered against each other. He knew that the shop was only a little ways down the path. The sky was a beautiful seafoam green with clouds that bobbed and weaved through the air. A good place that the man would want to go to again in better circumstances. 

His backpack weighed down his walking. Each mile felt like the man was sinking deeper and deeper into the earth. Pots dangled off the side of the large pack. The small potted tree may have not been a good idea to bring along, but the man worked a while to trim that bonzai. It gave him comfort of some kind while braving each new planet. 

The two moons had their eyes open during the reign of the day. Standing perfectly still in the sky, trying not to be seen by the sun. The man hoped that they enjoyed his music, because he was essentially playing for no one. The sky was his audience and he was the only musician in the world. 

The man’s tune came from several worlds back. One that sang of contentment. The song was a little repetitive, but the way it flowed was beautiful. It felt like a song that a beast that could ride the clouds would hum on its treacherous journey. The man tried to add some spins in his walk to keep his spirits high. How much this worked was up to interpretation. 

His brass shoes kept his walk at a steady pace. Only a few more miles until he got to the home of his next supplier. 

The rocks and sand that adorned the warm mountain tops shifted slightly as a creature burrowed out of them. It was a small gopher. Massive black eyes that looked like goggles strapped to the squat animals face. His brown fur seemed to blend into the rocks surrounding him. The man stopped his march for a second only to look at the little creature. It nodded at the man, and dove back into the earth. It let out a little screech as it did so. 

The man chuckled slightly as he continued on. Trying to move past small roots and boulders, but after a bit of time deciding to just walk over them. His strumming grew louder as his song came to the final chorus. His voice was soft and melancholic, but he expanded it to heartbreaking and intense only for the final verse. The song could have been seen as one talking about how good life is, but with his voice he changed it to missing what was once barely in our grasp. 

The small silver ring on his finger shifted slightly, the pearl now facing the ground. He quickly put his thumb to the end of it and spun it around. It was subconscious at this point. The ring wasn’t exactly designed to fit his finger. The engraving on the inside expressed this as such. 

After around an hour, he got to the broken shack. The dark oak wood had termites decades back. Green mold lined the outside of the wood, sitting like an ornament of its side. The shack was leaning to the side. Resting on the grounds beneath it. The shack, though old, had a malicious aura gently resting in the air around it. A putrid smell gently glided out of it, daring the man to walk inside. Only come to me if you think you can come out alive, young traveler. 

The man took a small breath, placed down his bag on the rocky ground, and walked in. 

The room was duly lit. Dying candles lined the edges of the hut, giving off only the slightest bit of glow. The only other things the room had was a counter and the massive old woman sitting behind it. Her purple robes hid the top half of her face, leaving only a nose and mouth to peer out of the hood. Her broken-in neck and her boney skeleton outlined the side of the cloak. Her leathery skin was pulled across her unnaturally long fingers. Her face seemed to only have a small layer of the skin, making her face unholy in its angularity. Her yellow teeth were crooked and overlapping. She spoke in a small crackly voice to address the comparitally little man. 

“Well hello, young traveler,” the old woman said, leaning forward from her desk. 

“Hi,” the man said curtly. “I’m going to skip the formalities here. I need a couple things. I have over 3000 gold in my pocket, and I’m willing to pay for all of it up front.”

“Gold?” the woman chuckled. She wrapped her fingers on the edge of the counter. “I have gold already.”

She got increasingly closer to the man’s face. 

“I would need something for trade. Something important. Something valuable,” she said, dragging out each word. The man could see her bottom eye lids from how close she was. Her potent breath wafted over him, sending a shiver down his spine. She lowered her head to face the ring hanging off of his finger. 

“I-I’m sure I can get you something,” he said, yanking his hand to a position behind his back. He could feel his heart in his neck.“Just, not that.”

The old woman cackled slowly and leaned back. Her curved spine scraping the wood behind her.

“First, what would you like to buy,” the woman said, her arms motioning to the entire room.

“Um, I heard from a bunch of different people that you can sell me these things,” the man held up a small scrap of paper, his hand shaking as he tried to show her. It read; two marble earrings, a rabbit’s foot, and a box of baby teeth.

The woman laughed a dangerously high pitch howl. 

“I know exactly what you need those things for,” she said, drawing out her words to taunt the man. “Now, why would a young man need to summon an angry spirit.”

“That’s for this young man to deal with,” he said. “Now, what do you need for those things?”

“Let me see your bag. The one you put outside to hide from me,” the old woman said, extending a mangled finger to her wall, as if she could see through the thick oak. 

The man tensed up and quickly walked outside, grabbed his bag, and hurried inside. He plopped his bag on the counter, adrenaline rushed through his body.

The woman took her long, leathery hands and opened the bag up. She smiled and pulled out a little bonsai tree. She rotated the small pot, and eyed it like a predator eyeing its prey.

“This would do ever so nicely,” she said, running her deep purple tongue along her yellow teeth. “Won’t you give it to an old woman?”

“Well…”

“I’m so lonely. So lonely. Living on the tops of mountains. I haven’t had another living creature here in ages. Won’t you please give it to me?”

The man sat still. Trying to think of a way to keep the one thing he really cared about. He needed those components. The woman’s grin grew larger and larger.

“You have a deal,” the man said, extending his hand.

“Good.” The woman put the plant on the side of the counter. She never even looked at the man’s hand. She merely closed her hand and opened it. From where there was nothing, layed a rabbit’s foot, two marble earrings, and a box containing the pearly white teeth of a baby. She gingerly placed the items on the counter, and picked up the plant. She gently placed it under her desk.

She turned to the man.

“Now go,” the woman said. “You only have two more deals you can make with me, child.”

The man grabbed his bag, and slowly walked out of the room. As he opened the door and left the threshold of the house, he ran. Sprinted for around a mile, until he was panting on the side of a mountain. No terrifying house in sight. 

***

The man pulled out red chalk from a pouch from his bag and smeared it along his forefinger. He traced a circle in the air, where the essence and dust of the chalk stayed floating. He made a quick motion with his hand to create the ancient runes he had been using for years. With another cut of his hand, the sigil was complete. It glowed a bright orange and green as colors swirled around the floating chalk marks. 

The mark hovered waiting for the man to step in. He took a deep sigh and jumped into the undulating cloud of magic. The world changed around him. 

Everything went dark for a moment, and he landed in bright blue dirt. This was the world he was accustomed to. The two suns sat in the air. Ornaments that hung in the bright red sky. The blue soil held up the purple sprouts that protrude from its earth. He took a deep breath, taking in the air which he hadn’t felt in lifetimes. 

He ran his hand through his curly orange hair. This place was familiar, in what felt like the worst ways. The ruins of buildings still sat like corpses of a bygone era. The bones of the town he lived in buried into the forgotten earth. The mountains surrounding the town looked on in silent anguish. They had to watch something horrible. 

The valley town laid dead before the man. A horrid painting that he had to bear witness to. Only for one night. That was some form of consolation. 

He pulled out his banjo. The tune he started to pluck on the dragon haired strings was a way to calm him down. It worked like it was supposed to. The tune was a slow melody, very little plucking was needed. Just let the banjo do all of the work. 

The man swallowed a well of spit that started to build up in his dry throat. When he was fully calm, he pulled out his sundial. The lack of shadow present told the man that he had to wait around nine hours until he could finally do the ritual. 

He walked through the alleys of the broken buildings, taking deep breaths while he did so. He kept his head down. Choosing to only look at his feet may make this a little easier. He had to only walk a short distance before he got to the center of town. Burnt cobblestone ground showed the scars of an old design. Celestial beings stretch across the floor, a depiction of the universe being made. Their forges created the galaxies that lined the tapestry of the universe. The fountain that used to know celebrations and good harvests, layed a skeleton of its former self. The burnt marble seemed to cry out in pain as it sat motionless. 

The smell of ash and sulfur flew into the man’s senses. The roaring winds had something to do with that nonsense. He coughed like a seal and almost fell to his knees as the winds carried hazardous material into his lungs. 

He took a seat, still coughing, on the ground. The dead buildings and shops looking down on him. Watching his every movement. He had nine hours. He put his bag in front of him, taking out a small book and a globe. He placed the globe directly in front of him and the book in his lap. For nine hours he practiced the incantation and phrasing of the ritual. The hand motions needed to be perfect, and he needed to be ready for what came after. 

The suns set below the mountain peaks, letting the eye of night flap open. The pale green moon lay patient in the sky. It could see what was about to happen. 

The man placed the altar that weighed down his bag onto the cobblestone ground. The baby teeth, rabbit’s foot, globe, and earrings were held by the small wooden altar. He took a deep breath as he fulfilled the last component needed to begin the ritual. An item from the person being summoned. The man gently laid the wedding ring in front of the altar. 

He brought up his hands, copying the motions he needed to know to complete the final steps of the ritual. He muttered something in an incomprehensible language, bargaining his soul. He completed the ritual, and stood up. His banjo began to morph as he summoned the sword. The strings seemed to disappear and the entire shape changed. The banjo became a long samurai sword of sorts. The curved blade reflected the moon above as it was created. 

The winds stopped for but a moment and picked up again stronger than before, circling around the altar. The man tapped his blade twice against the ground, preparing for battle. 

An ethereal cloak started to form in the sky. It was long and flowing and surrounded a materializing man. He had long hair that reached his shoulders and flowed off his ghostly face. His eyes had the fury of hell behind them. The winds picked up more as the man drew his own blade. A curved jade sword that reached his feet. 

The spirit’s eyes lost a little bit of fury when he noticed who was standing on the ground. 

“Why,” the man said, looking up at his dead husband.

“You know I couldn’t change my nature, Remir,” the ghost said, the fury returning.

“Well by hell did I try,” Remir said, yelling. “We were happy. You were happy. You didn’t need to do all of this!” Remir motioned to the entire town. It’s charred remains didn’t even draw the attention of the swordsman. “You did this on our wedding day, no less,” Remir screamed, tears starting to stream down his face. 

“You wanted to love a demon,” the ghost yelled back. 

“You’re not a demon!” Remir stabbed his sword into the ground. “You’re a man. A man who did some things wrong. You control your nature, dammit!”

The spirit started to float back, putting his sword in a neutral fighting stance. 

Remir did the same, his tears not drying up just yet. “I can’t let you live, Mal,” Remir said lowly. “You just showed how you’ve stayed the same.”

The wind howled its unholy song as the swords began to clash. 

Mal threw up his left arm. A pillar of ghostly fire erupted from the now torn earth. Remir barely dodged this. He spun back to a position where he could actually fight. The ghost charged at Remir now, their ethereal sword cutting the air. Remir only had to shoot his hand in front of his face to block the blow. The sword effortlessly guarded him against the spiritual force trying to impale him. 

Their dance of deadly blades was one to behold. They pushed each other into buildings. Remir had to jump off of the fountain to try to get a good hit on Mal. Stone was broken, steel was shattered, and their blades kept clashing against each other. The wind turned to rain as they continued. The sonata their blades created only made more music to the entire valley. The fight raged on for hours. Each one not getting the upper hand on the other. 

Remir’s blade found a comfortable home in Mal’s ghostly chest. Mal’s breathing sputtered as he fell to the ground. Remir looked at his ethereal husband, and cried. Mal said his final goodbye. An apology, and a smile. As he faded from reality, the objects placed on the altar went with him. Including the ring. The memories faded with the spirit. 

“Fight against monsters, even if they are inside,” Remir read the inscription as he picked up the ring. 

Remir sat in the ground of his old town, not knowing why he was crying. 

Smile and Nod

Georgie’s friend Elliott’s mom, Clarice, opened the door of their large, pastel-blue house and waved at Georgie. She was still in her robe, and her hair was piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She looked as if she had just gotten out of bed. She was on the phone, so she pulled it away from her ear slightly and whispered to Georgie,

“Elliott’s in the basement.”

He smiled and nodded, something his mother had taught him to do at his dad’s funeral. Many of the guests were people Georgie didn’t know, so to avoid calling them by the wrong name, he just nodded and smiled sadly. The funeral had been seared into Georgie’s memory, the colors and sounds as vivid as a movie.

The funeral was located in a small town in southern Italy. Georgie’s father had always talked about it – he described it as the most magical place in the world. Georgie’s mother believed it would be where he wanted his funeral to take place. It was also the first time Georgie had been out of the USA. The plane ride had gone by in a blur of sleeping and crying and leaning into his mother’s sleeves which were stained with salty tears. When they arrived in Naples, the taxi ride to the funeral location consisted of mostly the same things as the plane ride, although Georgie distinctly remembered his mom screaming and ripping out grass on the side of the road at one point.

When he and his mother finally arrived at the hotel, his mom had crept into the bed and didn’t get out of it for the entire next day. Georgie felt obliged to stay and watch over her, so he missed out on viewing the beautiful countryside of southern Italy. He had snatched glances at it on the way to the hotel. It truly seemed magical, just like his father had always said. The ocean was bright blue. The rolling hills shone a vibrant green and the cliffs of clay houses reminded Georgie of something from a fairytale. It seemed like a dream compared to the bleak colors of Kansas City and the poverty stricken streets of his neighborhood.

Two days after Georgie and his mother arrived was the day of the funeral. They had been the first ones there, and the bright sun and cloudless sky were starkly different to the midnight black suit that Georgie was wearing and the black lace that adorned his mother’s even darker dress. Guests had trickled in after he and his mother had arrived, their faces somber. 

Then came the casket.

As the dark brown coffin was carried in by his father’s two eldest brothers, a wave of strange anger came over Georgie. How could his father have betrayed him and his mother? he wondered. His eyes welled up with tears and they spilled out in waterfalls of sadness. He gasped for the air that seemed like it was avoiding him. This was the only part of the funeral that was not clear as glass. Georgie thought he remembered shrieking, the ghastly noise making some of the guests jump. He remembered clawing at his head, as if there was some sort of costume over his body and he was really all happy and cheerful underneath. His mother’s arms tried to wrap around him, but he remembers them dropping and his mother’s sobs combined with his screaming drowning out the rest of the world.

Georgie flickered back into reality and noticed that he was standing frozen in the middle of Elliott’s living room, a single tear dripping down his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and ran down to the basement. He rubbed his eyes once more before meeting up with Elliott and the rest of his friends who were seated at a round, low-to-the-ground table. Elliott was practicing a new handshake with Georgie’s other friend, Jacob, while another friend named Oliver sat at the far side of the table playing on a Nintendo Switch. Georgie tried to pull his face into a smile, despite the memories that had just resurfaced in his mind.

Dear America

Dear America,

We sure have come full circle. 

Even in this day and age, seen as 2020, a year where we really open our eyes to society and see it for what it is, the killing continues, despite all efforts.

Racism strikes again. Another unarmed black man, we all know as George Floyd, died because of a police officer’s racism. A good man minding his own business wiped from the earth from the say of a few men. No. Not men, monsters. Who were they to decide the fate of George Floyd?

And what does the president do about this? Does he try to stop it? No! Instead he supports this. What a surprise. He also said that the New York police:

“must be allowed to do their job!” What demon would allow this?

Police are there to protect, not to attack. To help, and not to hurt. Can just a badge protect someone from being charged with murder? Everything seems upside down in this messed up world of ours.

We can raise awareness from the safety of our homes. Use social media, put signs on your windows, write your feelings down for your family to see even if it is only one person that reads it, or donate to a black lives matter charity (I know I will), and so on. We will forge together to become strong, to create a safe community that respects all, to finally be at peace.

#StepUpAmerica

Stronger together,

Sadie

The Smile of an Idol: Another Story

At our 99th performance in Akihabara, a scout found us. He noticed our performance and approached us for a deal. He invited us to the Akihabara School Idol Company Audition Session. Various school idols from all around the globe will be auditioning for a chance with us, he said. We think you’ll do wonderfully, he said. One condition, he said, only Karin. 

H-huh? What? Has my hearing gone bad or something? I glanced to my side, only to see Karin’s eyes filled with hope and determination. Her eyes were the complete opposite of mine, filled with despair and malice. I looked forward once again, trying to find the trace of a joke on the scout’s face. All I could see was joyful seriousness.

“Wait… REALLY?!” 

Karin started jumping up and down like a bouncy ball. Up and down. She was so animated, I could almost see the sparkles in her eyes. 

“Lynn, this is wonderful! C’mon, let’s go tell Mom!”

I didn’t respond with my usual submissive “alright” or even a simple “okay.” For once in my life, I stayed silent. 

I didn’t even notice that Karin had already left me behind. I was far too busy burning the scout’s business card. I know he gave one to each of us, so it wouldn’t really do anything in the long run, but defiance is defiance. The main lesson I learned from this experience: lighters are surprisingly easy to find on the street. All I had to do was ask some old guy if I could borrow his. He was surprisingly chill about it, but we ended up in a far-too-long conversation about boats. Well, more like he roped me into a far-too-long conversation about boats. 

After burning the scout’s business card, I felt a rush of energy. Is this what defiance feels like? Is this what a rebellion feels like? I never understood what the point of a rebellion was if everything was moderately okay until this point in time. If I were to describe the feeling of rebellion at this point, I would say it’s addicting. Almost like an invisible version of cocaine. And unfortunately, this mental drug has a very long effective time.

That night was the time I had ever not been in the small apartment I shared with my parents and Karin. I left the performance setup in the pouring rain, hoping that it wouldn’t work the next morning. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the despair and malice had consumed me whole. I was somehow drowning in a dream that wasn’t mine to begin with. I never even wanted to be an idol in the first place, it was Karin’s idea, so why was I so angry? I somehow managed to sleep through the pounding rain, even in a dirty city alley. Sometimes crying and kicking makes it easier to fall asleep. It seems like it would be counterintuitive, but somehow it always worked like a charm. 

After a week of the same ol’ defiance, I wandered back home. I was reluctant at first, but I figured I had to. I can’t just keep living off of snacks and cheap coffee. My already-small amount of pocket change was running out, and I wasn’t particularly fond of having to starve in some alleyway. 

I sprinted through the pouring rain for 3 miles until I reached our apartment block. I dashed up the creaking stairs, careful to avoid any loose steps. I was at the doorstep, huffing and puffing, even with all of the dance practice. I shakily pulled my index finger up to the doorbell.  My dread and anxiousness were growing along with the movement of my finger. My shaky finger hovered over the doorbell for at least a minute, hoping that no one would notice me at the door. My finger shakily hovered for a few more seconds before it dropped back down to my side. I can’t do this. But before I could selfishly run away, a third party intervened. The door nearly hit me in the face, the already broken hinges almost snapping off. A fairly short girl who looked about my age answered the door. She had navy blue-dyed, short, choppy hair with long bangs covering her eyebrows. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she looked like she hadn’t slept in days. She looked exactly like Karin, but her mannerisms were completely different than usual. She spoke in a quiet, slightly lethargic voice, 

“… Lynn, that you?”

“…”

It was understandable why she might have had second thoughts on who I was. I mean, I looked quite different than before. My clear, porcelain-like skin was covered with dirt and bruises and my long hair that used to match Karin’s was now messy and uneven.

“Yeah… it’s me-”

Before I could get a chance to finish my sentence, Karin shoved me into a tight embrace. I could feel her tears on my shoulder and my eyes widened. I thought she would’ve wanted nothing to do with me by now. It was a while before I brought myself to reciprocate her embrace. But eventually, I gently brought my hands up and returned her hug. I buried my head into her shoulder and soon, we were both sobbing. By now, all of the neighbors and even my parents were staring at us, but we didn’t care. Neither of us even realized how much we missed each other. 

After what felt like hours of sobbing, we finally parted. Karin smirked at me teasingly. She gently shoved me into the apartment. 

“WHOA!” 

I nearly tripped and fell over the little step next to our apartment door. “Nee-hee-hee! That’s what you get for leaving me for a week!” Karin said playfully. 

“Fine, fine! I deserved that.”

“Damn straight!”

“…”

We were both silent for at least a minute until we both bursted out laughing. 

“Who actually says ‘damn straight’ anymore?!” 

“I dunno! Maybe me!”

We were laughing together as if nothing ever happened. The scout never came, I never ran away, and Karin was the same as ever. She was a loud and annoying sister for sure, but she was my loud and annoying sister. I moved my head up and brushed my long hair out of my face. I looked at Karin.

“What did you do to your hair?”

Her cheeks flushed red and she looked flustered for a second. 

“Oh, uh-”

“Not that I don’t like it! Blue suits you well, and I think you look great with short hair!”

“Oh, thank you! Yeah, I felt like I needed something new, hee-hee.”

“It’s a little choppy, though.”

Karin went from fluster to worried in the blink of an eye. 

“Well, I-”

“… Did you cut your hair with craft scissors?”

“Ummmm… maybe?” Karin shrugged. 

I laughed.

“Of course you did. Good to know that you’re still Karin!”

Her worried expression changed to one of joy and happiness, and we smiled together for the first time in years. A real smile. 

Twenty-20 Come Again

It was 15 years ago when the coronavirus pandemic hit the world. It is now 2035 and the world has almost healed. Most people have returned to work like my mom. I am now almost 18. The vaccine was finally crafted on January 17th, 2021. While it wasn’t available to the general public until February 8th, the world began to return to what my mom says was “normal.” I was only 3 when the virus hit so I don’t remember much from before everything changed. I  don’t remember the virus too well either. The human brain doesn’t start making memories until you’re almost four so I only remembered a few moments from the end. When the vaccine was accessible to most average people all over the world, I remember sitting on the cloud with my family watching the window monitor. The people were dancing and cheering outside embracing their long-awaited freedom. They celebrated all night in the streets, rejoicing over the thought of being free. They thought it was over. They thought that was the end.

I sometimes think of the person who began this tragedy. Did they know they would change the world forever? I often think of people who do things without thinking. I was never like that. I like to think of myself as a person of few actions but many thoughts; always wondering how what I do affects the world around me. Sometimes it’s a blessing and sometimes a curse. 

I find myself stopping my life to think of others. I once was walking across the street which at the time was made of glass of course, and there was a person on their wireless monitor. I saw a car ahead of me skidding on the glass, which is why we now switched to a form of metal. I thought to myself, seamlessly without thinking, of the person ahead that could be killed by the car. I didn’t notice though that the person had already made it safely to the other side. I, on the other hand, was standing directly in the path of the car. I stopped thinking completely as I watched the car get closer and closer. All I could think of was the person walking away wherever they had to go. My brain froze. I stopped. Everything slowed. My sight blurred. Not moving anything. Just standing on the clear glass looking ahead but not at anything. The car progressed until I forced myself away to the side of the road. The car gained control and slowed to a stop about 20 feet ahead of me. The driver was my first thought and I forgot about my near-death experience. 

This was only one example of how my constant thoughts of others and my actions affected my life and almost ended it. Although this instance definitely doesn’t show the blessings of this trait, there are many instances where having constant thoughts is helpful. I won’t go into that right now though. 

From the Corona pandemic, I have memories of being with my mom and dad a lot. These didn’t really mean anything much to me since I loved everything about it. I got to spend all day long annoying my parents and it seemed like there was an excuse for it. They sat on the cloud or at the smart table working all day long or watching the window monitor play the news feed of the pandemic. I remember, even for my young small brain, how exhausting it was to hear about everything going on in the world and not understand why. I never understood how someone started something like this, something that would change the world entirely, and not even care. I can’t even imagine being the person who started the coronavirus. Someone who didn’t think. That was the opposite of everything that I am. This person changed everything. 

I sometimes wonder what my life would be like if that one person made a right turn instead of a left. Or their child got sick and had to be picked up from school. Would the world ever be the same? 

I like to think that the pandemic had a positive effect on the world as well. Whether it did or didn’t, it helps me keep faith in our species and move forward even when I want to stop. I try to think to myself that my dad just stopped. He didn’t give in. He wasn’t taken. He just stopped. He knew what was best because he was a very smart man. I trusted him and his decision any day and I always will. He battled and pushed for over a month and then after we said goodbye, he stopped. They let us say goodbye but they warned us that we could get it too. I think it was one of the best decisions we had ever made. Without it, we would have never seen him go. We had the antibodies which scientists had researched more. They found that the antibodies meant more than most people thought.

When dad stopped, mom had a period of slowed everything. She moved slower, she worked slower, she ate slower. This was worrying for me because losing both of them wasn’t an option. She promised me that everything would be okay and I believed her. This was another good decision by me, but it took me some time to realize it. As always, she was right and we overcame his death together. I, as an only child, took this really hard. This was the loss of the only male figure in my family. Both my grandpas died before I was born and my mom had no siblings. My dad had one sister and she had a baby girl. She never remarried after she divorced her second husband and she was happy the way life was. Her daughter, my cousin, who was 7, was like a sister to me. When we had to quarantine, we did it together. This made everything much easier. We had dance parties every night and sang at the tops of our lungs. Then when dad died these routines shifted. Everyone was just slightly more calm and mournful. Again, I was 3, so it isn’t as clear to me as it could have been but I definitely remember. 

My mom previously worked as an essential worker but she quit once corona began. She was too worried about dad since he had an existing condition. She didn’t want to be the reason that he got sick. Unfortunately, she was too late. Dad had already gotten sick before she quit. We think he got sick from his work since his office stayed open longer than others. After he got sick, he quarantined himself for about 1 week and then went to the hospital. He was there for 3 more weeks before he stopped. 

I still remember the last time I saw him. So weak and pale. Barely moving. Even though it was so long ago, I still remember the strong smell of the hospital room and the beeping of machines around me. The heavy feeling of my steps as I walked out of there, knowing I would never see him again. The warm touch of my mom’s arm around my shoulders as she wept quietly. I could feel it when he stopped. We were home sitting on the cloud which was called a couch back then but I just knew. I felt it inside, like a piece of me just stopped. 

After he passed and mom started a new job working in an office, things started to feel slightly more normal. Although nothing was exactly the same, it began to return to what life was like before. It was really hard for us to go back to normal without dad though. I kept thinking I saw him or thought I heard him. When I would come home from school I would walk through the door thinking of the things I wanted to tell him. I then reminded myself that I couldn’t think like that. 

One day mom and I were sitting on the couch watching the window monitor and the news came on. It showed footage of a police officer kneeling on a man’s neck. They later showed that the man had said “I can’t breathe” but the officer didn’t care. After that, he was pronounced dead and so many people were extremely angry. There were protests all over the country. Some were peaceful and some were not. Burning buildings, robbing stores, trashing police cars. All over the news was people fighting for their rights and the rights of others. I thought to myself every once in a while when I would see these violent acts, what is this doing for our community? This isn’t showing a strong and powerful side. This is going against all the peaceful protests that will change the world and this is getting more and more people arrested. It was infuriating to watch all these innocent people be pushed down by the people who should keep us safe. I tried to think that they were just doing their job but it was so hard when there was so much hate. Between the tear gas and violent officers pushing peaceful protesters around, I couldn’t believe this was the world we had put so much trust into. I couldn’t believe this was the reality of our country and what we did just for our jobs. It was hard to watch just sitting on the couch observing the cruelty around me. 

Whenever we walked outside to go to the store or just to take a walk, all the stores were boarded up with cardboard planks to prevent robberies. I saw one day a store near our house that had been smashed open. Most of the products inside were taken. The glass smashed to bits. Then I saw the people come to replace the planks. That’s what reset my view of our country. Not the smashed glass and stolen objects but the people who came to fix it. Maybe it was just because they were told to but because they came to do it. We were in the middle of a deathly pandemic and these people came to fix the panel on a store. It’s astonishing to me the different types of people in this world. The people who would break the windows and the people who would fix them. This brings me back to myself and the person I am – how I’m sometimes too aware of how my actions affect others. I think back to the person who started the coronavirus and then I think about the people who were protesting for their rights, and the people that were helping others keep their stores safe, and the essential workers who were saving lives. They were thinking like I do every day and were saving our world. I found that really amazing. 

After both violent and peaceful protests, police training was much more selective. They added new tests and questioning to prevent this same tragedy again which helped greatly. There were also new laws forcing police officers to complete this training and current police officers had to be tested again. They made all officers be tested every 5 years like a driver’s license to make sure they still followed all the rules. In the beginning of these new rules, there was an increase in crime since the police spent a lot of their time completing the tests and less time doing their job. Eventually, this evened out and things went back to normal with the police doing what they should do. These laws enforced police officers to not make racist decisions or comments and if they did they would be arrested. Nothing like the George Floyd disaster had happened since and everyone was much happier and felt much safer. 

By 2030 almost everything was back to normal. All restaurants were open and the economy had returned. On public transportation, some people still wore masks and gloves but most people didn’t. People most at risk just stayed inside and their work and food delivery services were adjusted. There were some new laws that helped older people or people at risk stay safe and healthy. Herd immunity took place so most people in small communities had the antibodies. This helped greatly by preventing more cases from spreading. 

Almost everyone had had the antibody test which had become more and more advanced since the outbreak. They were very reliable and scientists had found that you couldn’t get the virus again. The vaccine obviously also helped with this as it was crafted pretty early on. Almost everyone across the world had access to it and got it as soon as possible. There had been some questioning of how reliable it is, but I believed it worked well. Scientists were still working to advance the vaccine more and more so it was even more reliable. 

**

At school, more and more people were telling me that their family members were getting sick. My friend Ella was one of the first people to tell me that her dad got sick and was staying at home. Then my friend Nick, whose mom was sick and staying home. This worried me because what if some other virus was taking over the world again. This was the last thing I need because I can’t lose anyone else important to me. I didn’t tell anyone about this until almost half my class was not there due to some sickness. While my teachers thought this was just the flu since it is flu season, I thought it was something more. I don’t know why but I can just feel it. Something is not right. Not at all. 

I will speak to mom when I get home tonight and I will tell her because now I am getting nervous. The symptoms seem somehow familiar from what I have heard. I did some research after school and looked at all the news broadcasting websites and stations I could find. They said nothing about any new virus which made me feel slightly better. I decided to wait to tell mom because I could tell how stressed she was. She has been working so hard at her new job and I know she is tired. I don’t want to worry her any more than she already is.

She talked to me after dinner today and surprisingly she brought up the sickness that I had been talking about. She said that a lot of people at her work were out sick and she asked me if I had heard anything about it. I was shocked that she had heard about it too. This meant that it was more than just the flu. I went to bed thinking about what this could be. What would happen if this was another pandemic that would ruin our lives all over again? 

It started to come up on the news a few days later and that worried me all over again. I heard that once again it started in Wuhan just like the coronavirus and it is spreading all over Asia once again. Just then as I was watching the news, my eyes blurred. My brain felt like it was spinning in my head. I suddenly thought back to when corona was spreading. I remembered sitting on the couch watching the news. I felt the pain again of seeing so many people die and I remembered the helpless thoughts that I felt so long ago. 

This new virus that was spreading around the world had very similar symptoms to the coronavirus so scientists were working really hard to determine what it was. My school was closed and they forced us inside with curfews and masks wherever we went. They are not exactly sure how this new virus spreads and they don’t know how to control the cases. Unlike corona, this outbreak happened all at once all over the world. It’s like something caused it everywhere all at the same time. This was much worse than corona because there was no way to flatten the curve. Everyone just got sick all at once. I heard on the news of one woman who was in the hospital for 2 weeks before going back home. I also heard of a man in Hong Kong who was in the hospital for 4 weeks before dying but the doctors still don’t know from what. 

It’s now a few weeks later and more and more people are getting sick and the deaths are going up rapidly. Scientists now think this is some form or part of the original coronavirus because the symptoms are really similar. Shortness of breath, exhaustion, cough, etc. This scares me more than anything because knowing that my dad died from this gives it an extra frightening spin. Mom was back working from home and I have been doing robotic school since the first few cases. The reason my school closed so proactively is because so many people were getting sick in school and they had such a fear of it spreading. Since in the beginning, they thought it was just the flu, they were really worried about it already spreading to the grandparents and parents of these kids. Whatever this virus is also strongly affects older people and people with weakened immune systems like corona. I sign onto my robot every day now and I control the robot as it walks to school and sits down at my desk. Then I have headphones and I listen to all my classes which are taught by my teachers also through robots. When corona happened and we all had to be quarantined for almost a year; they hadn’t come up with this technology yet. We had to go on a computer and sign in to a website called zoom. Then we would listen to our classes which our teachers taught through the screen. This has been so much better because I feel like I have a normal routine. I still have to wake up at the same time and it takes the same amount of time for me to get to school as if I was walking. The scientists have also figured out how to make this technology so it doesn’t feel like we are on screen all day. It feels like we are sitting in a normal class. It is really amazing.

Since our new form of school, I have been having the same flashbacks as when we first heard about this new virus. They are becoming more and more frequent. Some are repeated and some new ones every day. They vary from just getting a little dizzy and then having a strange memory and some are violent spinning and my brain is completely transported to a different world. One that I have had many times is whenever I put a mask on I remember the first time I ever had to. I remember my mom forcing it on my face because we had to go into the store. It was right after dad died so we were all really frustrated and I wouldn’t have it. She kept holding on my face and wrapping it around my head. I knew she wasn’t trying to hurt me but I felt it inside. I felt the tightness of the elastic around my head and the pain of the compression on my ears. Every time I put a mask on now I feel that all over again. 

The newest data about this new virus or part of the old virus is that it has something to do with the vaccine that they thought worked so well. They think the vaccine wasn’t tested for the proper length of time before it was given to the public. They didn’t have the time to test if it worked for extended periods of time. They are finding that the people who have already had the virus are much safer than the people who have gotten the vaccine. The antibodies for this virus are seeming to be much stronger than the vaccine they have crafted. This is why herd immunity is extremely important if the world is going to heal. The authorities are encouraging people to go outside and return to normal life unless they are at risk or are sick. They say this is the only way for the world to return to normal.

I really hope my mom goes back to work and starts to go back into a normal routine. She has been so stressed and she needs that sense of knowing what will happen next. It is taking a toll on all of us. Not having a steady routine to wake up to and not knowing what will come next. Living each day to the fullest and trying not to think about tomorrow or the next day to come. We are trying really hard, Mom, Hazel, Ashley, and I. We have been spending more time together and we help each other with the loss of dad still to this day. It means a lot to mom and me to have them there and I think it means a lot to them too. 

We have been trying to spend all the time together that we can and we try to enjoy the moments we have together. We have dinner together every Friday night and we talk about our lives during the past week. I especially have been trying to not take for granted my school experience even though it isn’t ideal. It has been really hard recently with the new adjustments but I try to understand that everyone is trying their very best. Oh, it’s also my birthday today, December 31st. The date Corona started but just 3 years earlier. The day that one person made a choice that changed the world forever. More tomorrow.

Sincerely,

Amber

Cheers or Tears

“Oh my gosh! I can’t believe we’re going here!” Danika squealed as she clutched her twin sister, Tamara’s arm. Tamara smiled and eased out of Danika’s strong grasp.

“This is the place you said you wanted to go if you ran for captain of the cheer squad,” Tamara said as she saw her sister eyeball the luxury restaurant. 

“I know I said that,” Danika said and smiled as she took out her phone to take a selfie. 

“So are you captain?” Tamara asked, waiting to hear if the whole gift was too bizarre. 

Danika just shrugged her off and said, “I will be. There are only two other girls running and they both wear their skirts too long. I just know everyone will vote for me.”

Tamara sighed as she looked at her twin. “So you might not even be captain?” Tamara said, thinking about how she had spent three months worth of allowance money on getting a table at the most famous Chinese restaurant in town. 

“Are you seriously doubting me, Tam? Of course I’m going to be cheer captain. I’m the best one on the team!” Danika gave her twin a snarky glare before rushing out of the taxi to get a better angle to post on her instagram. 

Tamara groaned and hurried out to join her sister. “How about we take a picture together and you can post it on your social media account,” Tamara asked, thinking about how her parents would think it was so cute to have a picture of them together. 

Danika wrinkled her nose with distaste. “Ew, no. My followers would freak if they saw a picture of me and my nerdy sister. It’s best for them to think I came alone. And besides, this lighting makes my face look really good, and your face will just dull it out.” Tamara blushed at her sister’s harsh words, but stepped aside as her sister went up to the sign and took some more pictures.

Tamara walked up to the man up front and said, “We have a reservation, under the last name Holden. Tamara and Danika?” The man nodded and beckoned for them to follow, Danika squealing every other second. They sat down at a fancy round table, with linen cloth and shiny silverware. “I can’t believe you did this all for me! You’re the best, Tam! Of course, second best to me!” Those were possibly the nicest words Danika had ever said to her, minus the forced, “I love you” as a child. Danika immediately started texting her friends, probably bragging and telling them about the restaurant. 

A waiter came by to take their drinks, and Tamara ordered a glass of Diet Pepsi while Danika scoffed and told the waiter to bring her a Shirley Temple and to make it snappy. The waiter scurried off and Tamara shot her sister a warning look, which Danika slyly ignored. When the waiter came back to ask them what they wanted to eat, Tamara looked at Danika. “I have a budget, so don’t go crazy and get anything too expensive.” Danika merely looked at her twin before turning to the waiter and ordered a steak with chow mein and crab. Tamara blinked at her sister, her mouth open. Had Danika not heard anything she had just said?

“I assume we’re sharing?” Tamara said, still gaping at the amount of food her sister had ordered.

Danika scoffed and said, “This is my big night. They announce the result on TV and I just know it will be me. So I’m ordering whatever I like. You can get soup or something, but nothing from me.” Tamara stared at her sister before sighing and ordering simple spring rolls. Then, she sipped her Diet Pepsi as she waited for the food.

The food was so good, though Tamara was still shocked at the amount of food that Danika ate. Afterwards, they sat back and waited for the check. When the waiter came with the check, Danika grabbed her arm, stopping the whimpering waiter.

“Hey miss. Turn on Channel 3! They are announcing the cheer captains for Ridgemont High and I know it will be me. Quick! It’s starting!” The waiter hurried off to oblige Danika’s demands. 

Tamara glared at her sister and said, “That was really rude. You should apologize.” 

Danika laughed and said, “Tam, she’s a waiter. Her whole purpose is to serve us. Besides, someday, that will likely be you, serving my whole cheer squad. If you’re lucky.” 

Tamara just shook her head and looked at the bill. Her eyes practically bulged out of her head. “That’s a lot of zeros,” she whispered to herself. She didn’t know if she could pay for it all. “Hey Dani. Can you help pay for the meal? Your steak and crab cost a lot of money.” 

Danika snorted and grabbed the bill from Tamara’s hand. “How about I make you a deal,” Tamara countered as Danika hastily threw the check back at Tamara’s face. Danika stared at her. “If you become cheer captain, I will give you 20 dollars to go get ice cream at the really expensive French place, Le Creme.” Tamara did not miss how Danika’s eyes glinted when she mentioned her not getting captain, but hurriedly smiled at the mention of Le Creme. “But if you don’t become cheer captain, then you have to pay for dinner and give me 20 dollars to get those jeans I wanted the other day. Do we have a deal?” 

Danika snorted, something very unlike her, and shook Tamara’s outstretched hand. “You should just give me the 20 dollars now, Tam, because I’m practically the captain. Mmm, I can already taste the mint chip ice cream.” Tamara rolled her eyes and turned her attention towards the TV which now was turned on to channel 3. The cameraman was zoomed in on a tall girl with glossy brown hair that was tied into a bun at the top of her head. A beaming reporter stood next to her. 

“HEY!” Danika yelled, causing many people to stare at her with disgust. The same shivering waitress came forward, looking so pale that Tamara almost asked if she was sick. “Turn up the volume! I want everyone to hear when Magnolia announces that I am the new cheer captain!” Danika promptly shoved the quivering waitress towards the TV, almost knocking over a man carrying a tray of soup. Tamara put a hand on Danika’s arm, a warning to stop all her bossiness, but Danika flicked her off and returned to typing furiously on her phone, although her gaze was intent on the screen.

The TV reporter was standing next to who Tamara assumed was Magnolia. She had the microphone pressed to her shivering lips and she forced a smile at the camera through purple lips. “And now, on channel 3, we have here Magnolia Harp, captain of the Ridgemont High cheer squad, though soon to be former. Magnolia, what do you have to say about the runners before you announce who will become cheer captain for Ridgemont High 2020?” The reporter turned to Magnolia, who sent a stunning smile towards the camera, angling her right side to the cameraman, not a hint of shivering shown although she was in her cheer mini skirt and crop top. 

“Well, Wanda, I just want to say that all the runners are very qualified people, but we could only choose one captain. Of course, they may be a downgrade from me, but at least they are the best of the worst.” Magnolia laughed as though she had said something funny and flicked her hair. Tamara noticed how fake she was and how much of a similarity she was to Danika. She turned her head towards Danika to see if she had heard what Magnolia said about being a downgrade, but Danika was picking at her nails and muttering to herself about what a great captain she would be. 

Tamara fixed her attention back to the TV where Magnolia had positioned herself in front of Wanda, the reporter. The restaurant had gone quiet. A lot of people were staring at Danika, as if waiting for her reaction. Tamara turned to her sister, who was looking between the TV and her phone. “What are you doing? They are about to announce who the captain will be. Why are you on your phone?” Tamara asked as she watched her twin’s pink manicured hand type furiously on her phone. 

“I’m sending the cheer squad pictures of the uniform design that will be for the cheer this year. Isn’t it so nice?” Danika shoved the phone in Tamara’s face, but Tamara was too blinded by the pink and glitter to even see the whole uniform.

“Um, Dani, what are you doing? You’re not even captain. Don’t tell me you paid for those already?” Tamara put her hand on her forehead. Danika scoffed and glared at her sister. 

“I’m seriously offended, Tam. For this whole dinner all you’ve been doing is questioning if I’m going to be captain. Let me spell it out for you. Actually, let me cheer it out for you.” To Tamara’s horror, Danika stepped on to the table, dirtying the white cloth with mud prints from her pink heels. Some people gasped and put hands to their chests. Others threw down their napkins and demanded for a bill so they could leave. Tamara jumped up, her fury almost to the point of boiling over. But before the manager could shove her way through the crowd, Danika stomped down on the table hard. Silence rang throughout the once laughing restaurant.

“D-A-N-I-K-A! What does that spell? DANIKA!

I’m your captain, yes I am.

I have spirit, I can dance!

If your skirt goes past your knees

Run so far before I SCREAM!” 

Tamara covered her ears to block out her sister’s ratchet screaming. Many people were hurrying to get out of the building. Danika fluffed her hair and sat down on her seat before the manager made it to their table. She looked furious.

“If you don’t get out of my rest-” Danika silenced her by putting her finger to her lips. The manager gasped, looking shocked.

Tamara looked at her sister who merely shrugged before saying, “Shut up! Magnolia is announcing it now! Oh, and yes, I already paid for twenty pinkalicious uniforms. Thanks for your credit card, Tam.” Tamara angrily glared at the back of Danika’s blonde head as she had turned to face the TV.

Magnolia had taken out an envelope, as if she were announcing the winner of a reality TV show instead of the cheer captain for a small town in Texas. Magnolia beamed at the camera before glancing down at the paper. Whoever’s name was on it didn’t seem to surprise her. “Our runners included Susan Maple, Danika Holden, and Tabitha White. This was a very close race, but one person got the majority of them votes, becoming our next cheer captain. Give it up for SUSAN MAPLE!” The people on the TV started clapping and Magnolia blew a kiss at the screen. 

Tamara slowly turned toward Danika, who had suddenly gone quiet. Everyone who was still in the restaurant turned to see Danika’s reaction. Tamara even heard someone ask if there was popcorn. Danika’s face was white with held back fury. Her mouth contorted into an ugly snarl, and she stood up so abruptly that she knocked over a waiter carrying a bunch of dishes. They all shattered around her and she screamed. Tamara had never seen her sister so mad. People actually started running out of the restaurant, but Tamara knew she couldn’t escape Danika’s wrath.

Danika swung her chair and hit the table, causing their plates and silverware to shatter and fly across the room. Tamara watched as her fork was flung into the fish tank and only barely missed stabbing the cute little goldfish, which now swam to seek refuge under a rock. Danika had tears of bitter anger running down her face, as she turned and stalked towards the door. Tamara couldn’t help but overhear the manager call the police. Within five minutes, Danika was surrounded by cops. Sirens blared and people rushed to the crime scene. Tamara gazed ahead, horrified, as she watched Danika get handcuffed and put into the back of a police car. She was screaming at the top of her lungs. 

“TAM! TELL THEM YOU KNOW ME! I’M HER SISTER! STOP! YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME! TAM, IF YOU DON’T TELL THEM, SO HELP ME, I WILL END YOU!”

A police officer with curly white hair stepped towards Tamara. “Ma’am, do you know this young lady?” Tamara stared at the officer before shifting her gaze to her sister. Danika had stopped struggling, and now sat limply in the back seat, glaring at Tamara, her blond hair disheveled and her mouth pulled back into a silent snarl.

“No,” Tamara whispered. Then more confidently, she said, “No. Officer, take her away. She needs help.” The officer nodded before saying something into his walkie talkie. Danika had started thrashing again, screaming Tamara’s name, but Tamara turned her back to her sister.

She called a cab and was whisked off into the night, leaving her sister for her parents to deal with. The next morning, Tamara woke up with a throbbing headache. The events of the night before suddenly rushed back to her and she groaned. She called her mother, and told her she was going to visit Danika at the police station, and possibly take her out. Her mother said that she had talked to the officers, but only Tamara was allowed to take her out. Tamara sighed and started her long journey to the station, scared of what Danika might do once she got out. When she arrived, Tamara signed some papers and showed her ID. Then she was led to a holding cell in which she saw Danika sitting in. Tamara couldn’t help but gasp. Danika looked horrible.

Her normally neat blonde hair was knotted and looked more dirty blonde. Mascara streamed down her cheeks in black lines. Her eyes were puffy and red, her skin was pale. Her clothes looked like they could use one or 500 cleanings. And the smell. Tamara gagged. Danika looked up, her eyes glassy. When they narrowed on Tamara’s face, the depressed look was gone, followed by a low growl. Tamara took a step back, so that Danika couldn’t somehow grab her through the bars. Then Danika let out a low laugh.

“Somehow, even being in this cell for a night, I look better than you,” Danika rasped as she threw her head back and laughed. Tamara’s eyes narrowed to slits as she watched her ungrateful twin trudge back to the bench and lay down. This was it, Tamara thought. Danika has finally broken. Tamara shook her head and asked the officer to hold on opening the cell. She walked up to the bars and calmly said, “You still need to pay for dinner. Also, the jeans I wanted are on sale, so you only have to give me 18 dollars.” Then she nodded to the officer who unlocked the cell.

Danika scowled at Tamara but didn’t make any move to attack her. In fact, she was so calm, smoothing her hair and smiling, that Tamara almost asked if there was a doctor in the station. She warily followed her twin out of the station and started walking home. It was quiet for a while, until she heard a soft noise. Frightened that Danika might be saying or doing something rash, Tamara coughed to get her attention. Danika merely looked at her and plastered on the fakest smile Tamara had ever seen. Danika was humming. This should have been calming, but it unnerved Tamara so much she almost screamed.

When they arrived home, Danika hurriedly went into the restroom and locked herself in. Tamara heard drawers frantically being pulled open and knew that Danika was putting on makeup. Tamara sighed and went back to her room. Her sister was crazy. She knew that her sister not becoming cheer captain was bad, but she didn’t expect all of this. First her sister got arrested and now she was eerily calm. Tamara couldn’t help but blame herself. If she had only waited to take Danika out, then maybe none of this would have happened. She would still have her three months worth of allowance money, a happy stomach, and a mostly normal sister.

She heard the bathroom lock click and then the door being swung open. Tamara hopped to her feet so she could talk to Danika. Danika’s back was to her and she couldn’t see what Danika was looking at on her phone. She hesitated and then touched Danika’s arm. She felt her sister stiffen.

“Dani, what’s wrong? I know what I did yesterday was awful but you are acting weirder than normal.” 

Danika let her blonde head tip back as she rumbled a laugh. “Oh Tam. When will you ever learn? I’m perfectly happy right now. Did you really think I lost becoming cheer captain? It’s only a matter of time before the position is mine.” Tamara watched in horror as her sister applied a thick layer of red lip gloss before blowing an air kiss her way. Then she pranced out the door.

Tamara knew that whatever was going to happen next was bad. What did Danika mean when she said that the cheer captain position would be hers? Did she imagine the whole fight the day before? Tamara quickly looked to see what Danika had been doing while her back was to her. On the coffee table, a 100 dollar bill sat on the table with 18 ones next to it. In Danika’s elegant pink script, the note next to the money said, “To pay for dinner and your jeans. BTW, those jeans don’t really go well with any color but it did look good on you when you tried it on. Xoxo, Danika aka soon to be cheer captain.”

Tamara held the note numbly in her hand. She was shocked. Normal Danika would never pay her back, let alone tell her that her jeans were a nice pick. Crazy Danika would pay her back, tell her that her jeans looked good, and then do something probably illegal. Tamara stared hard at the note, trying to wrap her head around how Danika had written that she would “soon to be cheer captain.” She had said those words earlier.

Didn’t Danika hear Magnolia say that Susan Maple was the cheer captain? Tamara sighed and trudged back up to her room, still insanely confused about the note and Danika’s sudden leave. She climbed into bed and went back to sleep. When she awoke a few hours later, she heard the front door slam shut and Danika’s high pitched squeals.

“Turn on the TV! Channel 3! Hurry! TAM! Come down here!”

Tamara groaned and ran down the stairs, nearly tripping over her own feet. “What?” She asked, although it sounded more like a growl. Danika was smiling so brightly and this time, Tamara could tell it wasn’t fake. 

“Turn on channel 3. Magnolia is making an announcement! Hurry! I don’t have all day! TAMARA! I will not demand you one more time!”

Good, Tamara thought, but she turned on the TV for her lazy twin anyway.

“Why do you even want to hear this announcement? You’re not even cheer captain,” Tamara said, not even remotely interested in seeing her sister throw another temper tantrum like a psycho two year old. Danika rolled her eyes and chuckled and fear gripped Tamara’s heart. This could not be good for anyone on the cheer squad except Danika. “What did you do?” Tamara whispered, too terrified to even say it any louder.

“Just watch,” Danika said and shifted her head back towards the television.

Magnolia stood on TV, next to Wanda and a red headed girl whom Tamara recognized as Susan Maple, the new cheer captain. Susan had twin streaks of mascara running down her face, and in the lighting, her fake tan made her look more orange. Magnolia had an angry scowl twisting her mouth and she kept shooting glares at Susan before smiling at the camera with her dazzling fake princess smile.

“We’re back on channel 3. I’m Wanda, you’re reporter, and today I have for you some very sad news. Magnolia?”

Magnolia practically shoved Wanda out of the way as she stomped forward. 

“Thank you Wanda,” Magnolia started, although Tamara could see the annoyance written clearly on Magnolia’s coal black eyes. “It has been very unfortunate that Susan Maple has decided to step down from her position as cheer captain. Susan, why have you come to make this sad *cough stupid cough* decision?” Susan stepped forward as Magnolia backed away, but not before subtly putting her foot out and tripping the poor girl. Susan stumbled but regained composure as she smoothed out her hair and pulled up her already short skirt higher, so much, that it looked like a belt. Tamara had a gut sinking feeling that Danika was the reason why she had made the quote of quote “sad *cough stupid cough* decision.” 

Susan looked up at the camera and Tamara didn’t know if it was all acting when her clear blue eyes filled with tears. “I have decided to step down from this position because of a secret that would be exposed if I did become cheer captain. Now this secret isn’t that bad or anything but…” Tamara could see the guilt written across the fake tanned girl’s face. This was a bad secret. She turned to see Danika’s smug smile as she leaned back into the reclining couch cushion.

“What did you do?” Tamara hissed, her horror stepping up a notch. Danika ignored her and kept her eyes glued intently to the screen. 

They had missed the rest of Susan’s resignation speech and Magnolia was now smiling back at the camera with her “If you cross my path again, I will end you” smile. Tamara watched Danika warily as she sat forward with anticipation. Magnolia was now smoothing her hair and her mouth was still twisted in her feline smile, though Tamara didn’t miss the shadow of a scowl on her face.

“Since Susan has decided to step down from her position as cheer captain, I have to give the captain position to the runner up. So, Congratulations to—” The TV screen fizzled out and went black and fuzzy. Danika screamed and looked like she was going to pull her hair out.

From upstairs their father yelled, “WiFi’s down throughout town girlies!” 

“SHUT UP!” Danika yelled and started furiously pacing. “Magnolia was just about to announce me captain. I know it. How come God decided now was the perfect time for a blackout?” 

“Maybe because God thinks this whole thing is stupid,” Tamara muttered, her voice barely audible over Danika’s impatient stomping. 

Danika whirled on her and pointed an accusing finger. “This is all your fault! If you hadn’t taken me to that restaurant, none of this would have happened!” Tamara stepped forward, feeling bolder by the second as she watched her sister’s quivering fingered point accusingly at her.

“MY FAULT? You’re such a stuck up snob that no one wants you on the cheer squad? Do you realize that no one voted for you? Susan won and you blackmailed her into stepping down. I bet the person Magnolia was going to announce was that other girl running, Tabitha White. But I don’t know! All you cheer girls are the same! Fake tans, fake personalities, fake smiles, YOU’RE ALL FAKE! Danika, no one WANTS you to be cheer captain!” The moment those words left Tamara’s mouth she stepped back. Danika stepped back, her face blank with shock. Time seemed to stop. The house was deathly quiet.

Then Danika stepped forward and threw the remote control at the TV. It hit the glass screen with a thud and the screen cracked. Then Danika started crying, tears running down her face. “Daddy!” She wailed. “Look what Tamara did!” She pointed a finger at the cracked 500 dollar screen as her father’s feet pounded down the staircase.

“I did not do that!” Tamara yelled, shaking with anger.

Her father’s face was pale with anger as he looked between the girls. “You two have only been yelling at each other all day! Tamara Grace Holden. Come with me this instant!” Tamara gaped and pointed her finger at Danika. “But I didn’t even do it! Danika did it!” Her dad angrily looked between them and yelled, “FINE! I’ll just check the cameras!”

Danika’s face contorted and spat, “What cameras?” Tamara gave her a satisfied smirk.

Their father rubbed a hand down his face with exhaustion. “Danika, what do you have to say for yourself?” Danika gaped and sputtered and she looked between her dad and Tamara. Then she furiously shoved Tamara out of the way and stomped towards her room, the door slamming in her wake. Tamara looked up to see her dad dialing something into his phone.

“Who are you calling?” SHe asked, almost not really wanting to know.

“The Dallas Anger Management Association. Otherwise known as DAMA. I think your sister is going to need it.”

Her father put the phone on speaker as a woman’s voice rang out. “Dallas Anger Management Association, how can I help you?”

Tamara watched her dad’s face and saw many flickers of emotions, one of them being guilt. She knew he was rethinking if this was the right way to go. Tamara put a hand on his arm and gestured towards the glitching TV. Her dad nodded and spoke into the phone,

“Hi, my name is Ethan Holden and I would like to take my daughter to these classes. Her name is Danika Lyla Holden. Age 16. She has had a lot of recent outbursts and temper tantrums that will need some serious help immediately.” Tamara listened as her dad and the lady on the line talked for a couple of minutes before hanging up and turning to Tamara.

“Get your sister. We’re going to the DAMA now.” Tamara couldn;t hide the shock from her face. She had always known her sister had problems when she didn’t get what she wanted but she had never expected it to get this bad. Especially over something so stupid. Like, was Danika going to pride herself when she was 40 over being cheer captain in high school over a team that hadn’t ever won any cheer competitions and was for a school in the middle of nowhere Texas? Then again, Danika prides herself when she does anything that makes her look more superior than others. Her motto was, “I can only be on the top if I have people holding my designer heeled feet from the bottom.”

Tamara had to bribe her sister with money to get her into the car and the whole way Danika was a crying mess. They hadn’t yet told her where they were taking her. Tamara was fidgeting restlessly in the passenger seat as she kept stealing glances at Danika’s wrecked face through the mirror. Danika hadn’t said anything besides demanding to know where they were taking her. Of course, they didn’t answer with the fear that she would open the door and just get out of the car on the freeway. When they finally pulled into the parking lot of DAMA an hour later, Danika looked up and her expression froze.

“Anger Management?” She snarled looking between her sister and her father. “Daddy! You can’t let Tamara manipulate you! I didn’t;t do anything wrong! Please daddy! Let’s go home!” Tamara’s father’s face flashed with sadness and for a brief second, Tamara was scared that her father would pile them back into the car.

But he grabbed Danika by the arm and hauled her out of the car. Danika started thrashing and screaming and soon brought a lot of attention toward themselves. People with white lab coats started running towards them from inside the building as Danika tried to fight off the grip they had on her. She was screaming at the top of her lungs and Tamara had to cover her ears before her eardrums exploded. A man with a while lab coat and frizzy black hair came forward and injected something into Danika’s still flailing arms. For a moment, everything was still. Then Danika’s body went limp and a collective sigh came from the crowd that had formed around them. Tamara couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness as she watched her sister get lifted and carried inside of the building. But she knew it was for a greater good. And she hoped that after a couple months of management, she would have her old twin back.

THE END.

Anti Gravity

California, USA

It was 12:37 AM when I first felt it. I know because as soon as my body was pulled up out of my bed and my nose touched the low ceiling, I looked at the clock on my bedside table. This was my way of mentally collecting details to make this story more believable when I tell my parents. At first, I thought the force pulling me closer and closer to my ceiling was part of some elaborate fever dream, or a cruel prank. So I pinched my arm, and closed my eyes real tight. When I opened them again, I was still floating above my bed, with my covers hanging off of me like a dress I forgot to zip up in the back. I tried to carefully flip my body over, and I looked down at my room from a terrifying new perspective.  

My light pink bed, my tall bookshelf, and my soft, shaggy rug were all still there. Except, they were floating too. My bed and bookshelf were only an inch or two off the ground, but my rug was already on the ceiling right next to my feet. The shock and indifference was just starting to wear off and my breathing had started to quicken when I heard a gasp through the thin walls of my house. Soon, I heard a panicked voice through the same wall. 

“Matt, what’s going on?”

“How the hell would I know?!”

Wow. Typical of them. Even at the strangest times, they were constantly bickering. I bitterly noted that neither of them seemed at all concerned with my safety. I was their only daughter now after all, and this had been a really difficult year for me. They weren’t the only people affected by Sarah’s disappearance. I guess I finally know who was the favorite daughter. I shook myself back to reality and looked at the clock again, trying to figure out why I wasn’t losing my mind, or at least getting a little freaked out like my parents seemed to be. I’m usually a very jumpy, anxious person, but something about floating in the air felt sort of nice. I got to leave all my family and life problems down on land. It was… peaceful.

Paris, France

Me and my little brother Frankie were sitting at the table eating a warm, tasty breakfast of buttery croissants from the bakery under our apartment when the plates and silverware started to levitate over the kitchen table. Before I even noticed, I heard Frankie scream. A plate was hovering right over his head. In a moment of impulse, I jumped over to him and grabbed the plate, saving both my brother’s skull and my grandmother’s china. What I didn’t expect was me not crashing down onto our uncarpeted floor. I just stayed up in the air, and a moment later, Frankie joined me. His little 6-year-old body swam through the air to the tall lamp next to the fridge. After the car crash three years ago, I had been sent back home from college to take care of Frankie. When Mémé left my brother in my care, she gave me three warnings. 

“Take care of him and don’t let him get hurt. Make sure he is well fed, healthy, and goes to school. And, don’t you dare let him touch my furniture.”

So, I air swam my way to Frankie until my body was right next to his, but about twice as long. Then, I grabbed the fridge and put myself right in front of the lamp, blocking him from it. My parents always used to say that I was cool and collected, and they were right on the surface, but inside I was screaming. My baby brother was all I had left, and I didn’t know what was happening. For all I knew, this strange floating could be some sort of dark magic, like the kind that Mémé used to tell me stories about when I was no older than Frankie. Or it could be some kind of chemical reaction that made this happen. I was never a good science student in school, so I wouldn’t be the one to figure this mystery out. I lunged toward Frankie, and he grabbed onto my arm. We swam our way through the thick, buttery smelling air, and made it to the space between our counter and cabinets. A safe shelter. Frankie pulled me close, and I sang him an old French lullaby like my mom used to sing to us when we were little.

Une chanson douce, que me chantait ma maman, en suçant mon pouce, j’écoutais en m’endormant, cette chanson douce, je veux la chanter pour toi, car ta peau est douce…

I looked down at Frankie to ask if he wanted me to keep singing, but he was already fast asleep.

***

Kyoto, Japan

Late afternoon is my favorite time of the day. Business in the restaurant is slowing down after the lunch time rush, and I can take a break from rolling dough and cooking rice to sit by the front window and watch people walk by. People watching is all the more entertaining in such a beautiful city. The telephone wires line the sidewalks, a rustic frame for each street, and a safe place to rest for tired birds. People stroll by the restaurant, taking pictures and pointing. This restaurant has been in my family for over 150 years. The food is well known for being the best in Kyoto. Tourists from all over the world eat here everyday. People come to Japan to sit in these seats and stare out the windows, and yet, I do not want to be here. I want to be studying medicine in America, but I don’t want to leave my father again. He has put his faith and trust in me, and what kind of daughter would I be if I abandoned my family? My thoughts were interrupted from a clash on plates in the kitchen. I walked over to the kitchen, my steps strangely light. I looked down to see that my feet were suspended in the air, bringing me nowhere. My first thought was Jikai. Where could he be? Was he in danger? I grabbed onto chairs and tables, pushing against them to propel myself forward, but accidentally bringing them in the air with me. 

“Where is my husband?!” I screamed. “Someone help me! I need to find him!”

Panic pulsed through my blood. I couldn’t lose him. He was the one thing in Kyoto that made me even remotely happy. What was happening? Why was my body suspended over the ground? I had always wanted to fly, and it had been a recurring dream of mine since I was a child. This didn’t feel like a dream though, I was too scared. This didn’t feel good either. It felt like some kind of involuntary punishment. I cried up at the ceiling.

“What did I do? What did I do to deserve this…” I trailed off, as my voice faded into the echoey walls. 

I curled my body into a ball and let the edges of my skirt dry my eyes. If the world is going to punish me, maybe I should just stop punishing myself.

Prague, Czech Republic

This vacation was supposed to be fun. My parents hauled me and my sister to the airport, and told us that we would be surprised by the “enchanting beauty of this culture-filled city.” Her words, not mine. The flight was a whopping 7 hours, and we arrived at our quaint, smokey smelling hotel, jetlagged and exhausted. In the morning, or what my body thought was the morning, I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, and wandered to the little balcony to see if the sun was up. Surprisingly, it was, and I grabbed a book from my suitcase and sat outside. The air was warm, with a chilly breeze that felt almost… ominous. I flipped aimlessly through my book, not fully comprehending the words on the page. I’m used to going on big trips to faraway places, but that doesn’t mean I like it. My dad works for the government, which seems to require uprooting our lives every few years. Prague seems nice, but I don’t want to live here. I closed my book on my lap, and let my eyelids rest over my eyes. My book started to feel lighter and lighter on my lap, and I put my hand over it to make sure it was still there. The book kept rising, and brought my arm with it. My eyes fluttered open, and I jumped off of my chair. I opened the balcony door to yell for my parents, but remembered that I had argued for my own hotel room and my guilty parents had reluctantly given in. My book was still hovering in the air, rising slowly. I hopped up and down to catch it, but after one of two jumps, my feet no longer touched the ground. I grabbed onto the windows and bars of other people’s balconies, screaming for help, and possibly waking up the entirety of Prague. I screamed louder every time my fingers scraped painfully against the bricks of a building. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a window. My hair was unkempt and messy, and my eyes looked bloodshot and crazed. This isn’t the way a wealthy aristocrat’s daughter should look, bullied a voice in the back of my head. I frantically combed my sweaty, knotted hair with my filthy hands, leaving traces of dirt and blood into my golden blonde locks. I made it worse. My body kept floating higher and higher until there were no buildings to hold onto, no windows to look into. As I got closer and closer to the clouds, the air became thinner, and I couldn’t breathe without coughing and hyperventilating. I saw a bird, and a rush of hope went through my body, but it faded just as quickly when I realized that the bird could do nothing for me. I followed the bird with my wet, irritated eyes when I saw them. A group of people, floating just like me, less than a hundred feet away. I made my way through the air towards them, noting that it was a group of teens around my age, I called to them, and a girl with tears in her eyes turned towards me, and smiled, her eyes desperate. She was saying words in Czech that I didn’t understand. 

“What? I only speak English. I’m sorry.”

Her face contorted into disappointment, but a boy next to her spoke to me in fluent English.

“She wants to know if you understand what is happening here. We are all so scared.” 

His accent was thick, but easily understandable for someone who had lived just about everywhere.

“I don’t know either. I’m so scared. I can’t find my family.” 

The boy translated my words to his group, and the girl who had spoken first reached her hand out to me. I hesitated, but grabbed it. They pulled me into their huddle, and we all floated to our deaths together.

Together

For hours, there was a quilt of people floating in the air all around the world, blocking the sun. Policemen in cement shoes set up nets for when everyone eventually, hopefully, came back down to Earth. People were commanded to stay in the enclosed safety of their homes, and turn on the news for updates. After 3 hours of hovering, everyone suddenly came falling back to the ground, the pull of gravity restored. Scientists researched and researched, and came to the unlikely but possible conclusion that it was some kind of chemical fluke that wouldn’t happen again. Religious leaders disagreed with the scientific conclusion, as they sometimes do, and hypothesized that it was some kind of message or sign, reminding people that life is fragile and finite, and even huge problems in someone’s life can seem small in a life or death situation. It is true, that when everyone came back to the Earth, that they had never been happier and more thankful for their family and even their problems, because as hard as being alive is, it is more rewarding than being nothing at all.

Carousel Never Stops Turning

4/16/20

Thirty-four days ago, I left school excited for the time off. Thirty-four days ago, I was oblivious to what was happening in the world, the loved ones that were lost, the dangers of this pandemic. Thirty-four days ago, my life changed forever. Since then, my days have been a cycle of sleeping, eating, going on walks, FaceTiming friends, doing online school, and most of all, watching TV. After watching all sixteen seasons of Grey’s Anatomy, one quote, said by Ellis Grey in season two episode five, has really captured how quarantine has felt for me. She said, “But the carousel never stops turning.”

The days go from one pair of sweatpants to the next. Clicking the “next episode” button over, and over again. Walking the same loop in my neighborhood, so I get the one hour of fresh air I need each day. My once too busy life has become a carousel spinning slowly, but never stopping. All I want is to go back to life before the ride slowed down, the carousel ride I once complained about moving too fast. I’m now fully experiencing the meaning of the expression, “the grass is always greener.” I once longed for a slow ride: less work, less drama, what I thought would be easier. But I was wrong; it isn’t easier.

I miss the busy mornings, not wanting to get out of bed and ready for school. Always complaining that it was too early. I miss the loud hallways in between classes, getting jostled around and trying to look over everyone’s heads for where it clears up. I miss the feeling when class was over for the week, hanging around in the hallways after school, dreading the return on Monday. But now, I am ready to return.

It is hard to feel sane now, with this new lifestyle. Thinking back to September, I never in a million years would have thought this would happen. TV characters have replaced people. Google Classroom has replaced teachers. Texting has replaced conversations. There is a new norm, and I am forced to adjust. It’s not easy and I don’t like it, but it’s out of my control. Olaf said it best in Frozen 2: “We’re calling this ‘controlling what you can when things feel out of control.’” I have to focus on the little things I can control, like in what order I’m going to do my classes, or what activity I am going to do next to schedule my day.

Life is a carousel that never stops turning. In these thirty-four days it has slowed down, changing our life. I look forward to the day that it speeds back up again.

We

Blurred lines between walls.

Impenetrable existence.

Hands cracked with soap stains, thoughts of a deadline escaping isolation.

Extending infinitely.

Walls are thick ink, when stepped on, shatter, taking form through unbreathable masks,

Withstanding the divide that already stood.

Differences dissolve, thicken on sides unimaginable. 

We are surrounded by clouds of dust. They gray our vision, stain our straightly cut clothing.

Scarring memories of evolution.

The walls between worlds sprout growth; show similarity. 

Grounding similarity.

Six feet apart, is this what brings us together?

Differences, flaws, all intertwine through a blurred connection.

We are, and always will be, humanity.

A Message

To the present,

There is no doubt this is an unfamiliar and terrible time. It is so easy to be negative about the deaths occurring every second, the sick who cannot be visited by loved ones, and the fact that the world is in a recession. Due to this urgent situation, we must all work together to put an end to this horrific phenomenon. Although staying away from each other is the best way to stop the virus we still must spread hope and positivity, even if it has to be six feet apart, during this hard time. This situation is more serious than I ever could have imagined just a couple of weeks ago, and I am sure many of you feel the same way. Living in a suburb of New York City, a major COVID-19 hotspot, multiple crucial precautions and rules have been set in place to prevent the spread of this pandemic. Through my life drastically changing in just days, I have learned how urgent this situation is becoming. Even though the virus may not be a major concern in your town, at the rate that COVID-19 is spreading, the disease will reach you soon. For instance, my dad works in Russia and just a couple of weeks ago he went to a soccer game in a stadium with around sixty-eight thousand people. My dad was cautious during this game, acknowledging the risks of his situation, yet his friends thought he was a fixated germaphobe since at the time there were very few cases in Russia. However now the entire country is on complete lockdown and anyone who goes out of their house who is not going to the grocery store or pharmacy gets arrested. This shows how quickly the situation can escalate, although it is slightly different in Russia since Putin can make extreme decisions more easily and quickly. The fact that the virus is extremely serious is paralleled in the US. 

To posterity,

When I first learned about COVID-19, I did not think it was going to be a big deal. I heard that schools might be closed for about two weeks and was super excited to get to spend that time with my friends. When some of my family members, particularly my uncle, started to buy extra toilet paper and food in early February, I thought he was crazy. This is going to blow over in a month, I thought, just like the flu comes around every winter. But boy was I wrong. I never could have imagined going to online school every day and being deprived of my last trimester in middle school, let alone the seniors who will most likely not get the experience of graduating that, in some cases, they have waited fourteen years to do. Being in quarantine is unlike anything I have ever experienced. We have to stay inside all day except for the occasional outing during which masks are required. All of the public places like parks and school grounds are closed, except for necessary facilities like grocery stores and pharmacies. Even there, everyone is expected to wear masks and gloves; the aisles are one way so that no one passes by each other and the lines at the registers are marked with tape so that everyone stands away from each other. It truly feels like an altered reality that even our parents have not experienced. This is new ground for everyone and requires adaptation to this temporary new way of life until a vaccine is created, which scientists predict will not be for another eighteen months. Doctors, scientists, and first responders have been true heroes. They have risked their health for ours and are saving many lives without much recognition for it. However, they are very overworked and hospital resources are decreasing. Doctors have to make the heartbreaking decisions, like if a dwindling 80-year-old with lung conditions or a previously healthy 60-year-old with younger kids and grandkids should get the hospital’s last ventilator. Overall, life, as we knew and as you know, is completely altered, completely unfamiliar, and completely unpredictable.

Canceled

Trig functions still echoing in my head from my math test minutes ago, I dashed towards the library and slipped into the school meeting from the back door. I gave our dorm director a lopsided smile, hoping it would compensate for my hoarse gasps and disheveled locks. But his eyes were dark and solemn, a shadow of the man who smiled at every student he passed.

I stiffened. Scanning the library, I felt like a clown who had walked into a funeral. Girls who normally joked and cheered were silent, eyes upturned with uncanny focus. I followed their gaze to our principal, and saw her petite hands shaking.

“In times like this, we will abide by our motto to function in disaster and finish in style.”

Everything suddenly clicked. I tried to claw it out of my mind, hoping that I was just confused. It couldn’t be true. It mustn’t be. Please. But it was too late, like a Jenga tower that had already started to topple.

We were dismissed. Like a river, students flowed out and away. I was the rock in the middle of the current as they parted around me, streaming past, voices laced with sorrow, confusion, anger.

“School’s canceled. It’s all canceled.”

I staggered, leaning on a bookshelf as if it could stop reality from crumbling. The conversations around me tumbled and crashed until they faded, leaving only a dozen or so people in the library. As I lurched towards the exit, I felt as if I was underwater—sounds muffled, limbs light. I stared at the faint stains on the carpet blurring below my shuffling feet. I was looking, but not seeing.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned in surprise, breaking to the surface. It was my freshman neighbor.

“Hey, are you going to be okay? Do you have a place to go?” she asked. I smiled faintly, surprised that someone had reached out, shining a thin beam of light into this storm. I replied and asked her the same question.

“I… I was supposed to go to Connecticut for a spring camp, but it got canceled,” she responded, with a voice that grew meeker as she spoke. She had no plans, and only one night to figure everything out. I felt selfish. I had been worrying about the luggage I needed to pack, the goodbyes I wouldn’t get to say—but at least I had somewhere to go. She was not as lucky, yet she was there to comfort me.

I am not a hugger, but at that moment I wrapped her up, told her it was going to be okay even though I didn’t believe it myself. Before I knew it, she was crying. Then everything I was holding back bubbled to the surface. Friends. Teachers. Roommate. Dorm. Classes. Internships. The simple routines of school life—all gone.

I shattered.

We cried on each other’s shoulders between the double doors of the library, trying to calm ourselves down, until another pair of arms wrapped themselves around us. Her best friend’s. She didn’t say a word as she handed us each a tissue from the Spiderman-themed packet she kept faithfully in the front pocket of her backpack. I smiled despite my tears. Another beam of light.

My two favorite English teachers saw us, and immediately walked over. They asked if we had somewhere to go, whether we were holding up okay. They shared their own feelings, but also words of encouragement: we would get through this together and come out even stronger.

“We’re always here for you if you want to talk.”

My smile grew again despite my tears. They had no obligation to be our therapists, yet they were willing to help unravel the mess of tangled threads I had become. Suddenly I felt like the storm had begun to clear, transforming into a tranquil night.

As I stepped outside the library, the clear blue sky and bright sun starkly contradicted the invisible cloud hanging over the campus. The quad that was usually filled with laughter was now a field of tears, hugs, and goodbyes. It was heartbreaking to see everyone so downtrodden, yet at the same time uplifting to see everyone’s support for each other. I trained my eyes on the brick path, hoping no one would notice my tears, but in the one second I happened to look up, my eyes locked with a classmate’s. Her expression softened in an instant.

“Aww, come here,” she said, arms outstretched. I did. She held me and told me it was going to be okay. I had always known she was friendly, someone that I wanted to know better even though we weren’t close. But on a day like this, no one cared about friend groups or high school circles.

As I continued walking to my dorm, tears slowly drying, I ran into one of my day student friends. She told me if there was anything I needed, she would be happy to help, even offering to let me stay at her house if I had nowhere to go. I almost cried again, this time from appreciation.

As I kept walking, more and more people comforted me with hugs, words, or even just their gaze. It felt like each person was lighting a lantern, its individual glow merging with all the rest to light up my sky and vanquish the darkness.

On the last day of school, the seniors wore white—white like graduation dresses, like new beginnings. In a circle, arms on each other’s shoulders, they cried out in unison. I looked upon the sea of white with wistfulness, but also hope, because I knew it was not just my lanterns flying into the sky, not just the lanterns of hundreds of others at my school. It was millions of people in this state, and billions of others around this world. Luminous, effulgent lights of care, love, community, and unity.

In times of darkness—together—we will shine.

We’re Stronger Together, A Poem

I was out there in a world,

That had no restrictions

To where I could go.

Until this monster arrived,

And it made me feel

Like I’m incarcerated,

That we are all incarcerated.

Nowhere for me to go,

Nothing for me to explore,

But that doesn’t matter,

Because some of us are risking their lives

To combat this.

We should thank them, because

Those who put their lives at stake,

Just to protect us,

Are doing something

That most of us may refuse to do.

Let this be something that inspires our posterity.

We will show that we were strong,

Even during the worst of times.

We’re stronger as a community.

We will get through this.

The more people who work to defeat this,

Then the stronger we will be.

A battle.

We must win this battle,

And defeat this monster,

Because if we work together,

Then we will be able to win,

And victory will be ours.

Peace

There is a new sound in the air,

It’s faint, but regardless it is there,

But what?

A new smell is in the air,

The perfume of the mother 

who has given us health and care,

But who?

There is a new taste in the air,

A refreshingly sweet candy to consume,

Its soothing resolution is colorful against this darkness,

But where?

The first petals of Spring have arrived,

but no one dares to admire their glory,

enveloped in television stories,

But if we listen to our senses

in these times of trouble,

we can find–

Peace.

Here is peace.

A Covid-19 Personal Essay

COVID-19 has been a scourge to our community, nation, and world. It has brought much pain and suffering to millions and in America alone has killed over 40,000 citizens. My own experiences with the shutdown have been difficult to deal with and adjust to like in most other countries around the world. This essay will take a look at how that process affected me and the differences it made in my life.

I am a junior in High School from the state of Ohio, both the aviation and presidents state, and I am fortunate that I live in a region of the state that does not have a lot of people in it. That region is in the Southeastern part of the state, also known as Appalachia. Prior to the closure by COVID-19, my school had experienced closures due to a flu outbreak; and my AP Government class had to cancel their trip to the state Supreme court. Of course both of these events were only harbingers for what was to come. For some reason the early talk about COVID-19 originated in my Hon. Chemistry class in early March. Some days these talks would take up most of the class period with the kids expressing their concern and the teacher working to help reason out my classmates’ fears. Even as this was going on my classmates and I continued to perform our work and assignments as usual. It was on Thursday, March 12 that all of that changed. My parents received alerts on their phones that my school would close for three weeks by issue of the governor, Mike DeWine. The next day, Friday, was a crazy day with all that went on. My AP Government teacher reminded our class that this was going to be remembered in the history books, something I had thought as well. During lunch that day the student body, of which there were only a few hundred, were divided into the cafeteria, gym, and outdoors in groups of 100ish. We were dismissed from school that day with packets and work online, but unsure of what was to come.

Things only got worse after school let out. The original groups of 100 turned to 10 rather quickly. In no time the now well known 6-foot rule came into practice. Governors and the President both had daily briefings about the virus and how they were working to fight it. The Sunday after I was let out of school, March 15, all restaurants in the state were closed and only allowed to accept drive-thru orders. Additionally, the State cancelled their primary election that was supposed to take place Tuesday the 17. This detail was of primary upset to me due to the fact that, in the state of Ohio, if you are 17, but will be 18 by the general election, you are eligible to vote in the primaries. I happened to fit into this category. That night, the 17th of March, I wrote the following reflection on the recent state of things: “This is a rather interestingly boring time right now with the outbreak of COVID-19. I call it interesting because of the entire world’s reaction to it, boring because of how it impacts people. At least three weeks until we go back to school. A time when only ten people are supposed to be in one place at a single time. All of these circumstances only allow so much to be done. I have a good deal of school work to do over break and I will not enjoy it. I was supposed to vote in the primary election too, but it was rescheduled due to the virus. I hope all of this does not go on longer than it has to, because I don’t like it.” Perhaps at the time I was being a little upset at the way things had changed, and to be honest I still am. 

Speaking of the school work that I had to do at the time, it was, and has been, an interesting process. Seeing as I am a student who likes to take challenges, I am enrolled in either all honors or AP classes. Of these classes, as previously mentioned, I received both packets and online work. For the purposes I would like to display here, I will briefly discuss my work in English, though History is my favorite subject. Much of the work that I did online stemmed from a book called Hillbilly Elegy that is based in Appalachia. I would read a certain amount of the book at a time and later record my thoughts on it in an essay format. Doing this and work for my other classes proved to be a challenge for me. Setting times to work and time to play became difficult tasks. Eventually my father stepped in and helped by establishing a more structured work plan that has worked quite well. During this time I also did small work around the house and helped to stain my parents’ porch with help from my brother.

It was announced this past Monday, the 20th of April, that school would be cancelled through the end of the year. This was a rather disheartening, but not surprising, event to me. My teachers had had online chats, but I was looking forward to seeing my classmates again this year. The faculty has informed students that they hope to have events for this year’s seniors, but I do not feel that it will be the same. COVID-19 has taken out much of the excitement involved with the end of the year as well as the summer. As I look to becoming a senior in high school next year I hope that all of the hard work that has been put into defeating this dreaded killer is fruitful and all of us will see a brighter future tomorrow.

The Diaries of Privilege

March 10, 2020: Bergen County Technical Schools closed – possibly the best news of my junior year experience.

I was scheduled to have my tonsils removed March 12. Missing the last two weeks of the marking period due to recovery would not have done any good for my critical junior year GPA. From my point of view, this Coronavirus saved me.

March 11, 2020: Bergen County Technical Schools were still behind on building an online curriculum. 2 days off for students.

I felt that God was answering my prayers: putting an end to a hellish junior year, allowing me to go into surgery stress free. The universe was finally on my side. I went out for burgers with my mom and boyfriend to celebrate our break from school. How inappropriate this celebration was, we had yet to realize.

March 12, 2020: Tonsil removal surgery date. Also the second day of plummeting stocks and President Trump’s European travel ban.

What an easy day it was going to be. Fall asleep with tonsils, wake up with them gone. With no piled-up work to complete after surgery, I knew I was going to be treated like an absolute princess. I was in my maximum state of emotional comfort, with nothing to worry about. I think something was happening with the market or whatever that day too. I saw it on the TV in the waiting room, but I don’t know. My operation, of course, was my priority.

March 17, 2020: Most painful day of the tonsillectomy recovery process. Millions under lockdown in Europe. Thirty seven U.S. states close their public schools. 

I swear I felt like the universe had turned its back on me again. I was in more pain than I could have imagined. I could barely swallow my own saliva, and the pressure in my throat made my ears throb as if I was sitting at the bottom of the ocean. I wish my parents would stop watching the news and pay attention to my pain. I get it, Coronavirus is getting serious, but I’m in pain too.

March 26, 2020: Fully recovered from the tonsillectomy. 3.3 million jobless claims. One-third of the world is living under coronavirus restrictions. New York City is now the epicenter for U.S. coronavirus cases. 

With the pain drawing to an end, I was finally able to enjoy my “Corona-cation.” My introverted self frankly enjoyed the restricted movement. It was so nice to see my parents able to have more quality time together, as well as with the whole family. My friends kept complaining on social media about how staying with their families stressed them out. I wished they would stop taking things for granted.

I loved the company of my bed most. I’d forgotten how nice it was to have a solid eight hours of sleep. I’ve got to switch out my pillows soon though; they’re giving me neck pain. I wonder how the homeless are doing.

I ate all three meals at home now, of course. Was my mom’s cooking always this good? I wonder if those jobless people are finding enough to eat. 

I was living my best life. How could I possibly ask for more? I hoped nothing would change. Is that too ignorant of me to ask for?

April 1, 2020: Neighboring schools start cancelling school events. The U.S. has more confirmed cases than any other country. 100,000 to 240,000 Americans could die in the next few weeks.

Junior proms were the main talk of my social media. My friends from neighboring towns were both sad and angry about having wasted money on dresses.

I envisioned the cancellation of my prom in the near future. At least I hadn’t ordered my dress yet. I was so thankful I had nothing to worry about, but I also hoped all those sick people on the news were okay. This Coronavirus thing is starting to be a little scary. Junior prom potentially being cancelled still sucks though. 

April 6, 2020: 1.27 million infected and 69,000 killed worldwide from COVID-19. The U.S. surgeon general said this week would be “the hardest and saddest,” and a “9/11” moment.

I was growing sick of this quarantine lifestyle. Without anywhere to go, anyone to see, anything to do, life was becoming a bland cycle. With all this extra time, I started to complain. All anyone had to talk about was COVID-19 and I was bored of hearing about the same thing. Coronavirus is spreading. Stay at home. Healthcare workers are running out of masks. Hospitals are short on ventilators. The number of unemployed has reached a historic peak. Those vulnerable to domestic abuse have no escape. People are dying. But I’m bored and I have every right to complain.

The sad reality is that it took a global pandemic and the changed lives of millions for me to fully love the many things I take for granted. My ignorant self sought joy through satisfying my greed and selfish desires. I initially chose to overlook the millions of people around the globe who are suffering from COVID-19, whether directly or indirectly. Instead, I chose to reflect on myself, and all the things that I didn’t have. I chose to complain about all that was wrong with my warm home, full refrigerator, comforting bed, internet access, access to education, and my employed and forgiving parents.

Yet still, even during this global pandemic are those who remain discontented, complaining about the things they don’t have. Despite the daily reminder of those who are losing everything to the rapid spread of COVID-19, we choose to seclude ourselves from the tragedies of the real world and look for reasons to justify our discomfort in the midst of all our blessings. We choose to take, we choose to only satisfy ourselves, and we choose to keep the world revolving around us, when really our world is suffering because we choose to spoil ourselves with ignorance.

Carrying On in the Dark and Lonely Hour

Last year, I had many plans. My mom and I had planned to go to Japan sometime during spring break this year, and my excitement was as large as the island nation itself. There would be so many attractions there: sights which cause curiosity to bloom amongst the country’s cherry blossoms; food with delicious scents and tastes that dance into the nose and mouth; and a vibrant culture which awakens even the saddest person with pure felicity. By January, though, COVID-19 had already terrorized multiple countries that included Japan, so my mom was forced to put this destination in the backburner. We thought of other destinations, too—from far-away South America to nearby Boston. But as the demon of a virus spread farther around the globe, one by one these plans were no longer a possibility. Sure, I was sad, but there wasn’t a flood of sorrow in my soul; I still had things I could do around here in my little home in the DMV. Little did I know, however, that COVID-19 would continue to spread its torture across the United States, hurling me into a dust storm of anxiety, sorrow, and insanity.

The reality of this pandemic didn’t hit me until my sister, Jess, made me stay at home. Originally, only my mom and grandma—whose health conditions and ages made them vulnerable to the illness—were forced to stay put, but the fact that I could spread COVID-19 to them forced me to go into lockdown in my own home. I always loved the apartment I lived in since I was born, despite the ice-cold marble floors and germ-infested kitchen that I hated. But the fact that I couldn’t go outside—not even for a simple five-minute walk—soon led my happiness to go into hiding. At some point during isolation, the flood of sorrow that hadn’t been in my body before was now there, and my mind was sinking within it faster than I could say my own name. I couldn’t even bear looking at my beautiful caramel-colored chihuahua, Maisie, who my family and I took home in July 2019. I was with Maisie every single day, and the fact that I was being imprisoned in a jail cell and was falling deeper into sadness made me not love her anymore.

But the sadness wasn’t the worst of this storm. I had anxiety stemming from school pressure long before this pandemic, and the fact that we were trapped in a frightening new era left me in the No-Man’s Land of emotional vulnerability, therefore worsening my condition. The vulnerability came about whenever I heard or thought about the tragedies of this pandemic, such as people dying, hospitals being overwhelmed, and grocery store shelves running empty. That was when the crying fits came. Just the stress of school and hearing pandemic-related things—like not being able to leave the apartment—caused me to shed so many tears, I could have created a raging river in my home. At one point during isolation, I cried once—maybe even twice—a day for a whole week. It was an emotional relief whenever I cried, but at the same time a giant tree breaking from the impact of this storm was at the brink of crushing me. Sometimes, things seemed so hopeless that I considered suicide. The thoughts weren’t new, but the fact that the world was a non-stop raging hurricane just because of a virus made it difficult for me to control myself emotionally, and I believed that the rain would never stop to reveal a beautiful rainbow. And I wasn’t only concerned about my own life. I worried about the people I loved getting COVID-19, such as my mom, who literally saved me from suicide and comforted me in my darkest days; my grandma, who always made me laugh with her Puerto Rican grandma antics and silly jokes; and especially Jess, who’s currently on the front lines caring for COVID-19 patients even as her stress grows exponentially. 

However, as the days went by, the sky began to clear up a bit. Doing things such as listening to music, focusing on personal writing projects—including this essay—and even schoolwork and playing with Maisie (who I’m starting to love again) has brought me some sense of stability. In fact, just cutting out the news from my life has made a huge, positive difference. I am thankful to say that even though I still have my worries, I don’t cry as often now, and the anxiety, sadness, and suicidal thoughts have decreased substantially.

As things continue to improve for me, I have hope for the days ahead. Maybe society will change for the better; love for all will filter the polluted air, and we will appreciate more than ever those who are currently doing so much for us storm-weary people. There will be a day when this virus will reduce to a microscopic minimum, and life will slowly become normal again. I don’t want to give up on life just yet, because I want to be here to experience that day. So until then, I will continue to stay as strong as I can up to the day this storm passes and beyond. And besides, we all have to go through rainy days in life, don’t we?

And You Feel Like a Child

Stay home, they say, stay home.

And you think that they sound

like reprimanding parents,

and you feel like a child

as you look outside your window

and nod.

And you remember, staring beyond the window panes,

how they told you that

the sky was your limit.

But you look up now and see that your sky is the ceiling,

painted white.

Your world has a ceiling,

and your far away plans

become necessities, because your ceiling

is your sky, and Now

becomes engulfing

as you stare

and look

and nod

out your window,

like a child.

A New Normal

Imagine being able to control time and press pause on everything. That’s what life is like now. Sports, school, activites, events, all cancelled, postponed, or done online.

One day we went to school with all of our friends laughing, talking, and then we found out that we wouldn’t be going back until… an undetermined time. At first we thought it would be fun but you never know how good something is until it’s gone. There is so much less interaction without school. Even if it’s not fun at least school is entertaining. Also, although school is online now, it is extremely hard to learn without watching a teacher. We have to work even harder to get our education. It’s also very stressful having to manage everything yourself and step up to the responsibility. 

You would think that being off from school would be fun right? Well, that’s because normally on breaks you get to do fun things. However, our entire state is a ghost town. No going out to eat, bowling, going to movies, or parties. After the first few days, the excitement wears off and it’s just pure boredom. No highs or lows, just a long, long straight line. 

Unfortunately, this outbreak has canceled many different events. Sporting events, concerts, dances, parties. Anything and everything is either postponed or just straight up cancelled! The poor class of 2020 will most likely not get a proper graduation or prom. All sorts of activities that we have been looking forward to for the longest time are all gone.

Households are chaotic. Parents are trying to work from home, while children are doing remote learning. Nevermind how impossible it is to take care of toddlers and babies! Spending time 24/7 with only your family makes you argue with them more often. You might think that working or going to school from home might be easier but it actually comes with a lot of complications.

Resources are almost impossible to find! For some reason toilet paper and hand sanitizer seem to be disappearing from every store. If they’re still in stock, then their price will be absolutely ridiculous. Even getting food for your family is hard because stores are filled with germs but orders online are booked. Plus, if you get an online order you still have to sanitize it once it arrives. Especially less fortunate people who don’t have the money to pay for resources are in a very hard position now more than ever, families who can’t acces food or don’t have the technology for online schooling. 

Thank you to all of the doctors, nurses, and scientists who are helping us find a vaccine for the coronavirus and treat those infected with it. Also, to the essential workers like delivery people, grocery store workers, and many others who are keeping the world running during these times of crisis.

Everyday people like you and me can also do our part to end this soon and go back to normal life. Please, please, please practice social distancing and stay inside if you can! Going out will spread the disease, making this last longer and endangering other people’s lives. Another thing you can do is donate to foundations that support scientists looking to develop a vaccine or donate money to help essential workers. Do your part and we will get through this together!

How to Help the Helpers

Put food into a sack,

That they may lack.

Do it for a nurse, or a med,

Cheese, chocolate, water, or bread.

It matters not,

Whatever you bought,

It need not be a lot,

It is not necessary, 

But it would be a kind thing to do.  

They will appreciate anything,

So, it need not have bling,

Or be fit for a king.

They work day and night,

There is no end in sight,

So, help the helpers!

Be kind,

And keep in mind

How fortunate you are.

There shall not be a doubt

That you are not lucky in every way.

No matter what your story or situation is,

Do not forget to say

Thank you to those who help us,

And discuss the things we are fortunate for more.

Do your part,

And add an item or two to the cart,

for the helpers.

In tough times,

Always remember what is most of significance is that you are kind,

So, help the helpers!

The Future

Our future, it’s uncertain. We’re on a path to self destruction, but almost no one seems to care. Right now, the future of humanity is in a plane with no pilot, dropping out of the sky. Every single passenger can fly the plane, but no one wants to risk unstrapping their seatbelt and walking into the cockpit. That would be dangerous. So when I think of a future, two scenarios come to mind.

In the first scenario, no one stands up, and the plane crashes. It’s a time and place where water is scarce, trees seldom stand, and food is a luxury. Where the once lush Earth is now bleak, barren, and brutally hot. Where our skin gets burned when we step outside, where we need to wear oxygen masks to survive, where everyone is the enemy. Where we go extinct. We’ll look back in anguish and wonder where it all went wrong.

We burned too much fossil fuels. Wouldn’t stop. Bred too much livestock. Wouldn’t stop. Cleared too many trees. Wouldn’t stop. Wasted too much stuff. Wouldn’t stop.

And we’ll think, Why didn’t we do something? Why didn’t we stop when we knew we should’ve? We’ll think, and think, and think some more, our oxygen mask clamped against our red, searing, sweltering face. We’ll think with our stomach rumbling in the background, our tongues cracking, lips chapped. We’ll think and think and think and think, until we can’t think anymore. We’ll probably come up with lots of excuses. Excuses like, it would have been impossible to stop or lots of people would suffer if we tried to do something. This is what we’ll tell our kids, our grandkids. We’ll try to explain to them, try to make them see it from our point of view. But they will never forgive us. Because no excuses will ever excuse the fact that we knowingly did this to ourselves. That we did it, hoping with almost no hope that the data was faulty, that the predictions wouldn’t come true. That the scientists, the activists, that they were wrong, all wrong. But they weren’t.

But there’s another way. We can take off our seatbelts. We can stand up. We can fly the plane, and save ourselves.

When the coronavirus struck, we took action. Schools were closed. Countries locked down. We didn’t pretend it wasn’t real. We searched for solutions. The world united and took action. This kind of leadership, it’s what we need right now. It’s what we need if we want future generations to even have a future.

The coronavirus, it’s awful. Hundreds of thousands have died, and more will certainly follow. But if there’s one positive to this disease, one lesson to be learned, it’s that we can work together to accomplish a common goal, no matter the size. Once we accept this, we can solve our most daunting challenge ever: climate change.

We can do it. The solution, it’s right in front of us. It’s been there for years. We just need to take action. And once we do, it’ll be great. It’ll be historic. Our kids, our grandkids, they’ll listen in awe as we tell them how the great world leaders of the 2020s turned it all around. And then they’ll ask, “but how did you do it?” And we’ll look back and remember how we changed our fate. We’ll tell them all the details.

We burned too much fossil fuels. But we stopped. Bred too much livestock. But we stopped. Cleared too many trees. But we stopped. Wasted too much stuff. But we stopped.

They’ll learn about how we stopped doing what was easy, and started doing what was right. They’ll learn about how we knew that the data wasn’t faulty, that the predictions would come true if nothing changed. They’ll learn about how we stopped hoping that the scientists, the activists, that they were wrong, all wrong. Because they were right.

COVID-19 Through the Eyes of a Teen

COVID-19 was, at first, a dream come true. A whole month home from school! But then, things started to go downhill. The city closed down, slowly. First were the schools, and then went Micheals, AMC theaters, and then, the final blow to New York, Broadway. Broadway is the center of New York. It is a dream that is not even a fantasy that could have been imagined. 

To kids in New York, it begins with the outdoors. To venture outdoors is sometimes a risk not worth taking. Every child needs fresh air, and that necessity now is being snatched away. To be outside could be getting you or someone else sick. Now, kids everywhere are being forced to stay inside, with only a computer and some other activities for comfort. Going outside means exercise, and that is a necessity. A dream come true at the beginning, and then a nightmare at the end. 

Online school as well is disrupting learning. Being on a computer for a long time every day, five days a week is going to hurt children and adults alike. Also, everyone needing the computer is going to strain relationships and cause arguments between children. The arguments will worsen even more as people cannot leave the house and get away from each other. Computers have always been a tool, but now they have become a necessity that is needed in every household in order to function. Computers are a necessity in the world of today and tomorrow, but until the pandemic is over and even afterwards, computers may have a boom in usage in the average American household. Computers have helped, but they also hurt your eyes, and your life. 

Coronavirus may be showing the world a full scale pandemic and how bad the world is getting. This world scale pandemic may destroy half of the world’s population, and plunge the economy into a depression from which we may never recover. The mask and ventilator companies are getting a lot more money, and Walgreens and all other stores that sell necessities are getting a lot more people visiting. Now, the stores have to limit the amount of people inside and have to ensure the safety of their employees. Spiderman sums up the coronavirus effects with this famous quote: “With great power comes great responsibility.”

COVID-19 has been hurting the world more than helping it. To kids all around the world, they all have to stay at home with limited ways to exercise and get their energy out. COVID-19 has been hurting this planet mentally and physically, and has helped corporations while humbling them by making them help employees and allowing only a few people at a time. The COVID-19 virus may last for one more month to another whole year. The future is uncertain: we don’t know how many people will die, we don’t know what will happen next, and most importantly, we don’t know the effects of COVID-19 on the world. One thing is for certain. There will be a lot of changes to the world hierarchy, whether in schools or in jobs. There will also be a lot of changes to the economy. Everything in this moment is constantly changing, and to the kids of today this will affect the world of tomorrow. On the bright side though, all those kids who have lived through this time will have ideas about how to deal with a pandemic if it does happen in the next generation. 

Beyond the Walls

Stuck in a surreal painting 

Beyond these walls, clocks melting 

Sluggish time, present and future lost

Humility, life lessons at steep cost. 

Desperate for restful sleep 

Beyond these walls, disconnect so deep 

Guilty privilege, food, shelter and more 

Paralyzing fear, parents at work or at the store.

Expect to discover a muse 

Beyond these walls, dashed hopes and deadly news 

There’s no end to this storm 

Still, rush to do, to create, to perform.

Pause, embrace the authentic 

Beyond these walls, not all catastrophic 

Let me be, won’t be fragile for long

Will step up, will be strong.

And So The Sun

It’s been honking all morning

The highway is filled with cars

Of people trying to make it someplace different than where they are

Trying not to be late

But the traffic’s making them wait.

The cars pass by a school

They pass by some stores and shops

They pass by some restaurants and salons

All working non-stop

The day had only begun

And there’s so much to be done

Today’s a morning

Just like any other morning

Of human civilization under the sun.

And so the sun

When looking down

Thought, “What would happen

If things changed around?

The world is just like a sun

That will not set

When will the world

Ever rest?

What if these cars had no place to be?

What if these stores and shops closed

And people were to forced to focus only on the things they really need?

What if people were forced to spend time with themselves?

Forced to reflect and focus on their health?

And I’m not talking about just one town

What if the whole world changed around?

Everyone together

All connected

All going through the same thing

All equally affected.

What if instead of putting them to waste

People appreciated the resources they had?

Not constantly taking for granted

What’s in their grocery bag?

What if all this pollution started declining?

With the highways mostly empty

And fewer planes flying?

What if families were forced to bond

Whether or not they got along?

And the glitter and glamour of a celebrity life

What if you took away all the hype?

And forced everyone to live the same way

Forced to see they’re all alike.

And what if parents watched their kids learn and grow?

Not sending them away each day

But keeping them at home?

What if people were forced to connect

In a place where countries don’t have boundaries

Called ‘the internet.’

What if there was a deeper feeling of unity?

With more people being aware of their communities?

What if people had to redefine

The things that they find fun

Without being able to go to parties and clubs?

What if an extroverted society

Had to find a way to do things more quietly?

Just for a while

What if there was a collective pause?

So the upcoming mornings

Wouldn’t move so fast

And people could reevaluate

The way they were living in the past?”

And so the sun

When looking down

Thought, “What would happen

If things changed around?

Wonder how this would shake things up?”

I guess we’ll find out in a couple of months.

If I Had Known

If I had known that 

when I flipped my roommate off

with a smug smile instead 

of a hug before spring break

that I wouldn’t ever hug her again,

I would’ve told her that I was proud of her

and that she showed me 

the safest place I had ever had

that I had run to her and she kept me loved

and hidden

and learning

I would’ve breathed deeper into the ramen crusted air and her dirty

laundry clad shoulder because the dryer broke three 

days before we left 

to go home 

home? 

was / left / was kicked out of / lost / was robbed of

home.

I would’ve learned to knit with my 

grandmother instead of tugging

on my mom’s sleeve and begging

to leave because I was bored of old, old 

couches and clothes and music and clouds of minds left

in the years before me

memories of wars and people I’ve never known

I would’ve taken

a moment to learn their names to tell

them to the kids I might never have a chance to have

I would’ve written down her red sauce recipe 

even though I never liked it

I would’ve run free and 

breathed.

without a beast taking time from 

seniors,

ours and the kids who

will never get the chance to be 

one again. 

I like to think that

I would’ve.

Who knows.

A Collection of My Quarantine Feelings

My old life wastes away, carried by the same wind that carries the virus that ruined my senior year. I used to run and jump. I felt the deep burn of fatigue run up my legs, punch my thighs, and sit on my chest. I always hated that feeling in the moment. My mind was often unwilling to let my body continue suffering through the symptoms of athletics. In my bed, I can feel myself disintegrating. My mind and body left without exercise, floating into nothingness. My bones slowly lose density as I am untethered in deep space, with nothing to latch on too. The concept of doing bicep curls in my basement disgusts me, as all I want is to slam my chest barbarically, lock eyes with my opponent, and see him find out that I am and will always be better. I know now that that feeling may never return.

The streets are different to me. Barren and fallow, I traverse a ghost town in a car that nobody cares I have now. The lights are always green. My drives aren’t the same. I am late to everything, ask anyone who has known me for more than a year. Whenever I say that I’ll be somewhere in five minutes, they call it the David Five, which usually means closer to fifteen or twenty. That was before. I drive aimlessly now, accelerating out of desire not need. The same traffic lights that caused me irritation once now leave me wanting more. They are boring. They give me what I want. Now I realize that I don’t even want that.

I broke up with my girlfriend over the phone. I cried for the first time since my basketball season ended. I know she cried a lot that week. She was amazing. She was the best friend anyone could ever ask for. Hopefully I can change that was to is soon. Her laugh is unmatched, especially the ugly one. She snorts sometimes if you get her really good. Her nose is slopped like the tips of my skis. Her eyes are like diamonds, her lips are like pillows, and her cheeks look like they are being held up with strings. I am really bad at communication and since the year started I never told her any of this. I don’t know why. I wish it hadn’t burned out. A star that once shone so bright slowly collapses in on itself, leaving nothing but a black abyss behind. I felt like everytime we talked I fell deeper into that abyss. I wish I knew why. We dated for two and a half years and now it’s over.

Silver Linings of Self Quarantine

When people from the US heard about the virus in China, some of us thought it would never spread so worldwide. We looked at it like it was barely our business, yet here Covid 19 is, affecting all our lives. The virus doesn’t discriminate or single out who it infects. No one is immune to the virus. Everyone and anyone could get it, because we are all under the same sky, the same humanity, with the same weaknesses. This pandemic shined a light on the fact that we are so similar. Of course our own souls and personalities are different, but I can see how the way we all spend our quarantine has been very similar.

In quarantine, many teens are doing the same things: scrolling through social media, doing the same TikTok dances, playing Animal Crossing, having the goal to “glow up” before we return back to school (even though we barely have the commitment), and complaining about how bored we are and how there is “nothing to do.”

This quarantine keeps being seen in such a pessimistic view. And I know we can all agree this pandemic is awful and it’s truly terrifying to think about how contagious the virus is and how easy it is to lose a loved one in these times. But there are so many silver linings to our situation. This event is unifying us, we are coming together and talking about things more and more as a worldwide community. We join forces, using so many of our similarities to try to overcome this adversity we all have. 

Many people reacted to the virus, understandably, in panic. Many people started hoarding supplies at home as a comfort mechanism because it made them feel safe. It was like an every man for himself type act. As many of us were able to see the results, that caused more panic because the people who actually did desperately need the supplies weren’t able to get any because everything was bought out by the hoarders. 

The best way to keep everyone safe and healthy is for us to be mindful of others and try to work together because of how limited things are. When we try our best to stay hopeful in these crazy times, it will help us realize the best ways to make the most of our situation.

The little golden pieces I’ve found since this quarantine began are that people are actually calling eachother again. This normal phone call used to seem old fashioned to many, but now we are all communicating and connecting to each other much more freely over the phone with our extra time. Some of the biggest complaints I hear from teens are that you “can’t be with your friends.” I never realized how much everyone relied on each other for happiness until now. But the positive is, you really can be with your friends and family more often now, even if it isn’t physically. If you’re a student, you may have thought it was easier to connect to your friends while at school, but now that you’re home you realize you have all the technology around you. You could have virtual parties and sleepovers every single day if you wanted to, rather than your school telling you when you are and not allowed to speak to your friends.

Along with having more time to connect to friends and family, the quarantine time offers many opportunities for everyone to pursue what they truly care about. Back before anyone knew this type of chaos could happen, I would always complain to my mom that “if I didn’t have to go to school every day, I could get much more important things done at home.” I bet many other kids have said the same things to their parents as well; and I understand school provides a safe environment for everyone to meet, interact, and grow with a schedule and planned activities, but for some very motivated kids, the school shut down feels like an answer to a wish! The situation provides a chance for more challenge, creativity, and strength for more targeted interests. Students have more opportunities to dig deeper into something that they want to learn more about that isn’t strictly math or english. There are many online enrichment platforms that many of us get to have access and be exposed to to learn and grow.

Along with being able to work on yourself during quarantine, you may learn and grow to enjoy some simple “me time.” Quiet alone time is something some people consider extremely lonely. But being alone isn’t always a bad thing, and spending time with yourself can be more refreshing and enriching than partying with friends. The truth is, we will all be forced to find new different ways to enjoy and be happy with ourselves without needing friends directly by our sides. Newfound joys in hobbies will probably be erupting throughout the social distancing phase. I believe everyone will come out of quarantine with a better sense of self.

Everyone can grow and benefit from this time to ourselves and with family. This social distancing time gives everyone more time to organise, reflect, and spend time with themselves and stay connected to everyone they love and care about. We can all also become more thankful for the things we already have and maybe take for granted. Many of us and our family members are lucky enough to be healthy. While stuck inside, many of us get the luxury to have clean water and fresh food, as well as eating together! We should be grateful for whatever we can have. Everyone can find new angles and positive ways to look at this “Coronacation,” as many people call it. Us collaborating is the best way to help us find the lightness in this heavy situation. Although quarantine is meant to separate us, it is really bringing us more together than we thought.

The Small Branches on the Oak Tree

The-Coronavirus began as a sprout in the ground, wriggling its way to sunlight. It began to enlarge, growing big, unwieldy branches. But tucked by the sides of those leaning boughs are thin, unseen twigs. Every branch represents one aspect of change, but those twigs represent the things that have changed that are given barely enough attention. Uncertainty about what “normal life” looks like in the future is one of those twigs.

In just two months, I’m supposed to be packing up half-broken fans, too many batteries, and a green-and-white uniform stained with clay to head to sleep away camp. Camp has always seemed like some faraway, magical castle with golden turrets, but even more so now, just because at camp there’s fresh air and connection to real live people. To think that in two and a half months I could be laughing on the beach at the lake with my friends seems unreal. That’s probably because there is a great chance that it is unreal.

Every day there is constant uncertainty. People are uncertain about where to get food. People are uncertain about their paychecks. People are uncertain about how much longer quarantine could go on for. Some days, my parents suggest that we still go shopping for new camp gadgets, or try and email new campers about what to expect. Other days, they discuss the newly discovered “camp insurance,” a company to help you regain money that was paid for camp. All of a sudden, camp insurance is a necessity. Outrageous, some might say, outrageous to spend seven weeks living in the same room as ten other girls, sharing bathrooms and dining rooms and bunk beds.

I like to think of the two months looming between me and my golden-turreted castle as a rubber band. While the coronavirus persists, the rubber band of time stretches until it’s long and worn, but the second I’m back at school, the rubber band will snap back to normal shape and all of a sudden I’ll be at camp. 

But everyone’s been wondering about whether or not those days will ever seem normal, whether or not the rubber band will go back to shape after being stretched so far and for so long. I’m wondering whether I have seventy days until camp or four hundred thirty-five days.

Uncertainty aside, we all know what we want to happen. Undeniably, we all want life to go back to what it was before. We all wanted to celebrate recent holidays together, and we all want to celebrate upcoming ones together.

We would all be able to hug each other without worrying about infecting our loved ones. We could bring over crackers and appetizers without trying to keep them as clean as possible. Of course, this is what we want to happen. But we’re uncertain. What will probably happen is a virtual July 4th zoom with virtual backgrounds that portray fireworks. 

I saw a post on social media of a teenager predicting how quarantine and the Coronavirus will progress. They said that by June, it should all be cleared up. The post had a decent pile of likes. The main reason for people to like that post is because they agree, right? Or maybe it’s what they all want to happen.

The wood in our houses is weary of being knocked, and our fingers weary of being crossed. There’s not much we can do except hope that what happens is what we want to happen, and to stay away from the rest of the world.

We’re not supposed to go near anyone. We’re not supposed to enter public spaces without a mask. Kids aren’t even supposed to enter anywhere except their homes. The people of New York State have been quarantined for about four weeks now. It’s hard to remember what “normal” is.

Before now, normal for most kids would be going to the bus and heading off to school, going over to a friend’s house, doing homework, coming home to a family dinner. Is that how we picture normal now, though?

Because kids have been missing out on interactions outside of our families, we can only imagine the future being filled with interactions like hugging and high-fiving. Back to the rubber-band question—it’s improbable that the future holds these things. I will have, and maybe others will have, developed a need to restrain ourselves from going too close to other people or using public objects or facilities. Chances are that the second we get out of quarantine, we’ll be nervous to hug and constantly hold hands. Avoiding another outbreak will be crucial. 

Few people notice this, so it is a small branch tucked between two larger boughs of “normal life” and “human interaction.” The end of quarantine might not be what we expect it to be.

Quarantine makes us think about the uncertain future. It gives us many minutes a day to dwell on what we wish would happen. It activates our brains to exaggerate what the past was- and place that exaggeration into the future.

Will life ever be back to “normal”? Will what we want to happen come to life? Will we be able to immediately see our friends and distant family?

These twigs, these questions, will continue to grow in number and size. They will wave around quietly on the oak tree, waiting until the day we learn the answers. 

Waiting for a Bounce

You spend your whole life running. You barely pay attention to the honking horns, the blaring sirens. That’s all white noise to you. You don’t observe your surroundings. Your morning commute on the bus? If someone asked you who was the man in the fedora who always sneezed every time the bus stopped, you wouldn’t be able to tell them anything. You didn’t even know that man existed… you were too busy looking at your phone, or stressing about what school would bring, trying to make it before the first bell. You never noticed anything. Life was a speeding train with no intention of stopping.

And then, suddenly, someone pulled the brakes. Stores were closing, school closed indefinitely. Your family packs up and moves you all out to your house in the country, away from the only city you’ve called home.

At first, it’s not that bad. You can actually hear the birds outside, cheeping. You were never able to hear them before. At night, you don’t hear the horns honking, the ambulances blaring. Every night is a peaceful one, the only sound being the wind outside and the clock ticking in your room. The air is cleaner, and for once your nose isn’t always assaulted with the memorable smells of piss and car exhaust. 

You get to spend more time with your family, which was hard to do with your life moving so fast. You’re even learning how to drive (you haven’t broken anything, thank God). 

Then one night, snuggled in a blanket on the couch with your family, you see this movie. It’s one of those romantic ones with those big dramatic kissing scenes, like when the main character seizes their love interest by the waist and passionately kisses them on the top of a building. There’s music, the wind is pulling at their hair, the camera is going around them, a swoon-worthy scene in every aspect. Anyways, as you’re watching one of these scenes (this time the kiss happens in the middle of a staircase, not on top of a building), you wonder what it feels like to be kissed like that or kissed at all, because you, at the ripe age of 17, have never been kissed before. 

And with that realization comes a sinking feeling in your stomach, because, when public health safety precautions dictate you must social distance and stay six feet away from everyone, it may be awhile before you, a virgin in terms of kissing, will be kissed, and that really depresses you, for whatever reason.

Kissing is such a small concern, and you know that, but this realization becomes a catalyst, and suddenly, you realize you miss so many other things.

You miss your favorite bakery that sells the best croissants ever.

You miss being able to easily hug people.

You miss your friends. You miss seeing them in person, instead of through the grainy images of FaceTime, or Zoom, or whatever you use, depending on the type of phone your friend has.

You miss a city where the lights are never off, where there’s always something open at 2:00am in the morning, and though you are rarely out and about at that hour, the knowledge of that always comforted you when you would fall asleep at night, the neon lights of distant buildings shining through your bedroom window.

You miss your home.

You miss your life.

You do a lot of missing these days.

You miss the anticipation you felt before your summer program was cancelled. You miss a world before a pandemic, and just to comfort yourself, you watch anything filmed before the pandemic. You feel an ache in your chest of seeing people freely interacting, of people not subconsciously keeping more than an arms’ length radius from each other. You miss a world where people weren’t scared to touch… or at least, not more than they should be.

Quarantine makes you awfully philosophical. It is in one of these philosophical hazes, you stroll down a dirt path outside your house, the spring air rushing through your hair. It’s a reminder of how lucky you are: you still get to go outside. You close your eyes, taking in the scents of trees, of flowers, of wet dirt (it had just rained). Your house is by the sea, so the air has a slight tang that only salt and brine can bring. 

As you are taking all this in, you open your eyes, and stare at the tops of the trees, the distant blue strip of ocean hovering in the distance. And thoughts start meandering into your head, slow and lazy like maple syrup. 

You wonder when all this will end, if there is an end.

You wonder when people will stop dying.

You wonder if all of us are somehow dying, not just the very sick. It’s a very morbid thought. You give yourself time to work through why on earth you would think such a thing. 

You wonder if a small part of someone dies when they lose a loved one. 

You wonder if the life you’re living right now, lacking all the little and big things that make life wonderful, is a life at all.

You wonder if that’s at the core of every issue arising from the pandemic. Loss. You turn the word over and over in your head. In the afternoon sunlight, on that dirt path, you turn, ready to head home, when an epiphany comes to you. And it catches you completely by surprise.

You say the epiphany, not out loud, but in your head, over and over and over like the ringtone of your phone. Do you want to know what you thought at that moment? I’ll tell you.

You thought that the reason why everyone is slowly dying because of this pandemic, is because everyone has lost something.

And you wondered when everyone would begin to get something back instead.

Hello Coronavirus

Hello Coronavirus.

I see you over there in China.

Lotta crazy stuff you’re doing.

Well, have fun.

Oh shoot. You’re in America.

I’m actually surprised you made it this far.

I guess I’ll have to take you more seriously

The government has ordered us all to stay home till you leave.

Shouldn’t take long.

What? You’ve conquered New York City?

The infection rate is still climbing?

Morgues are overflowing!

Edward’s entire family is infected!

COVID-19, You’re scaring me!

How do I comprehend this chaos?

Sensei, COVID. If I were to die tomorrow,

What would I gain?

What would I lose?

Pandemics and Poker

It’s hard enough to play at the table of global powers.

Already keeping what’s most valuable to oneself 

Defended by distance. 

Then the chips go down.

Separation becomes isolation

The few feet of space now a void of unknown.

Within this solitude we think about what we keep

Instead of what we lose:

Our partners in the game.

We play to bolster our agendas

But we don’t win with empty seats.

Separate, Together

Raging through communities

A small, microscopic being

Sends full-grown humans into hiding –

What power it holds

Something we must control

Controlling us

We are overworked

Overtired, overburdened 

Underpaid

Jobless, helpless, foodless 

Doubtful 

Lucky families like mine

View lockdown as an adventure

We say we see when we don’t

Our nation divided

But look closer: 

For the overworked, recognition

For the jobless, hope

For the lucky, gratitude

For everyone 

Solidarity.

Separate, together.

Step into another’s shoes

Even if the shoes seem too small.

Perhaps the distance that keeps us apart

Will finally unite us.

Your Voice

In the dismal darkness, there is

someone drifting among floating

papers. Staring above.

Hoping for a light. Hoping for someone to

pull them out. Out of the darkness and into

the light.

Suddenly, a light illuminates the stars,

shining through the darkness.

And a voice says, “Write. Make your voice be

heard. Pull yourself out of the darkness and into

the light so you can walk towards a brighter future.”

So he writes about the stars and about the

wings of freedom shining through the murky

darkness so he can rise into the light.

Silver Linings

I am quarantined with my mom, my dad, and my triplet little sisters. Sounds a bit chaotic, doesn’t it? Two adults and four girls stuck all day in a not very big house. I used to think the universe was plotting against me by giving me triplet younger sisters. Why me? The odds of triplets are about 1 in 9000 and I was the one who ended up being their older sister. But although I haven’t always realized it, my sisters were the best thing that ever happened to me. Over the past few years, I forgot how lucky I was to be that 1 in 9000. It took being quarantined with them to make me realize once again how lucky I am to have them. Sometimes it takes going through hard times to realize how lucky you are. If the pandemic and staying home have taught me one thing, it’s that nothing is all bad. Everything has a silver lining. Although I lost some things when we were quarantined and my day to day life was put on hold, I gained so much more. I’ve gotten to spend more time with my family and now have a deeper appreciation for family and for sisterhood. With my sisters, I could never be alone, even in isolation.

When we were in elementary school, my sisters and I were inseparable. We went to the same school, and sometimes they would escape the kindergarteners’ area and sneak over to the big play structure so they could play with me and my friends. Every day I was in charge of walking them home from school. They were wanderers, so I would tell them to get in a line, hold hands, and follow me. It was like I was the mother goose and they were my little chicklings. When we got home, we would play pretend school. I would set up a fake classroom with our dolls and our chalkboard and pretend to be their teacher. We also had a play kitchen my grandpa made us out of wood. We would bake fake cakes and have pretend tea parties. We drew flowers and fairies with chalk on the sidewalk in front of our house.  We played hide and seek and we played games in our backyard.

But then we got older. One day we no longer went to the same school. I went off to middle school and left them behind. Every day I went to school and then after school I would go to soccer practice and do homework. I no longer walked my sisters home from school. We no longer played together after school. We no longer had tea parties or drew with chalk on the sidewalk in front of our house. With every day, with every month, with every year that passed by, our lives grew further and further apart. As my sisters grew into annoying tweens, I began to see my triplet sisters as more of a curse than a blessing. 

So when the quarantine began, I dreaded the coming months. I saw staying at home with just my parents and my sisters as a nightmare. But it turned out to not be such a nightmare, despite the things that were canceled and everything I lost, I gained so much. We gained a stronger sense of family togetherness. Spending this past month with my sisters has made me realize how lucky I am to have them. Often family and sisterhood are things that are just taken for granted, and with our busy lives, we often don’t stop to enjoy and appreciate these things. 

Now that our schools are closed, I feel like we’re little kids playing school once again. Every day I teach them math and help them with their homework, I am their pretend teacher once again. We bake often, this time for real, not in our wooden play kitchen. We make cakes and muffins and we even made ice cream. We play soccer in our backyard. We have picnics that remind me of the pretend tea parties we would have as small children. 

When you’re in quarantine, everyday life is more simple, the days seem to sort of just blend together. To many, that might sound like a bad and boring way of life. And I saw it that way at first, too. But then I realized that with my sisters, even quarantine has its bright sides. Even the plainest of days are fun with them. My new day to day life is much different than it was before, but I’ve found happiness and joy within this new way of life. I feel like a little kid again. My days are filled with pretend school, baking, tea parties, picnics, playing games, painting the sidewalk with chalk, laying in the grass, and long walks. This life is plain and child-like, yes, but happy nonetheless. You can find joy in even the worst situations. 

I’m not going to say our quarantine is all sunsets and daisies. My sisters and I have our fights. Fights that usually end up in sixteen flailing arms and legs and some bruises. Always about the stupidest things like who gets the last scoop of ice cream left in the bin. There’s no doubt about it; my triplet sisters are triple the chaos. But I have learned to love the chaos. And in the end, despite our conflicts, they will always be there for me and I will always be there for them. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love my sisters, and I couldn’t survive quarantine, or the rest of my life, without them. 

Beautiful Fragility

The world surged into surreality just as I turned fifteen. On March 12th, the stay-at-home order was put in place; five days prior, I’d been straightening my hair, meticulously glossing my lips, and ready to celebrate with my closest friends. I had an inkling of what was to come, thanks to my father’s mathematical predictions. I’d chosen to ignore it and have one relaxed evening, burying myself in the petty issues that come with being a teenage girl. So when the events began to unravel so quickly and suddenly, the threat of global havoc finally making itself clear in my muddled mind, it was hard to comprehend.

Looking back, week one’s events are hazy. I was happy that school canceled, as there were local cases and the thought of being around that many people began to terrify me. Other than that, I followed the news, lounged on the couch, and attempted to cook. I relished waking up late. It’s nice to think of it as a break, a relaxed suspension as those in charge scramble to fix this drastic change. As the days dragged on, the redundancy eventually got to me. My screwed-up sleep schedule and loud surroundings didn’t help either.

I decided to read and write, two activities I barely got to do when school is in session, yet even that got boring. I wanted to find some new talents, but it turns out baking isn’t for me. The cake—more like ‘unintentional incense’—sucked. I was reminded of my birthday party and the huge dessert we’d shared. We had been stupidly happy, bracing for the storm but not really. It was more like ‘I see that big wave, but I’m comfortably relaxing on my beach towel,’ and we moved on. My panic worsened, and I didn’t want to bombard my mother with these feelings, for she’s more paranoid than me.

To lessen my anxiousness, I stopped tuning into CNN. So when I eventually checked the data, I was surprised to see how 700,000 cases jumped to 1,000,000 in just three days. Then Boris Johnson was diagnosed—not a surprise, considering he did brag about shaking hands with COVID-19 patients—and any security I felt shattered. I’m not sure why; I barely know anything about him, just that he’s the Prime Minister of England. I suppose the invisible lines in my mind—those who are safe and those who aren’t—blurred. 

I tried to be prudent when I was younger, parroting the words of Carl Sagan: “Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe. . .” Yet it’s just begun to resonate with me. We are not invincible; not as a nation, not as a planet. We go about our lives, ignoring the threat when it’s China, relaxing when it hasn’t reached our state, and then feeling shocked when it’s right in front of us. It takes one respiratory illness to flip the world upside down; any normalcy we’ve ever known put aside for the time being.

Of course, our knowledge will pull through. Science will pull through, vaccines and hydroxychloroquine and whatnot. Still, our vulnerability began to frighten me; who is really in charge? Who’s our protector, from viruses like COVID-19 or any other mass destructors? I could not find solace in spirituality, so I thought of my grandmother, who, if she had not passed away last November, would be confined to the house and writing poetry. She would’ve penned something personal, as I am right now. Perhaps everybody has philosophical tendencies during a pandemic.

So I broadened my mind. I centered my late-night thoughts not just around my concurrent experiences, but also around health-care employees and grocers and those deemed essential workers. Around the millions who have found themselves jobless in the midst of this unprecedented confusion. And of course, around the truly vulnerable ones to this virus: people with compromised immune systems, whether it be due to age or illness.

When I thought of them, the randomness of my privilege was clear in my mind. I’m lucky to stay at home with my family, for there are many that cannot. While my situation is extremely different from many people’s, we have all been thrust into this together. Our fragility is universal, and the connection is both frightening and beautiful. We are each other’s protectors. 

To honor those who are risking their lives for us every day, I’ll continue to stay home. And I’ll continue to find beauty in the fragility, as Carl Sagan also said: “For small creatures such as we, the vastness is only bearable through love.” I believe that. 

I’ll also continue to bake. I have time to master the art.

What I Hope I Sound Like Through a Gramophone

it was a time of prosperity

in heart and in gold

my neighbor had just bought a new cat

that didn’t like to eat cat food

         the irony did not slither past me

we shared an ice cream, by the shore

and then i found that i much preferred

your presence only in pictures

         and i used to chat every week on the phone

with a raspberry plate at my hip

and the words seemed to come easily

water off a duck’s back, i shake my head

         i preferred to build my bridges out of marble

the only problem was

that it made all of my guest’s feet cold

and it’s listlessness, it’s unfocused, it’s unforgiving

in this lighting

         the ugliest become lily of the valley

it’s become an unheard-of desire

to have a better valve of color between my creators

i take some hope, i must confess, from all of the cinema

i’ve devoured

         and the romanticism is infectious and surreal

in the capturing of the twitch of the man’s lips

against the bare oak of the outside tree

but i hold my tongue, i close my eyes

         one more night of silence won’t harm anyone

least of all my ailing suitors, who moved in to the floor below me

to retire into a stream of green

and allow myself to affect you

i don’t hope for much

         but i would be content to know that a piece of me

has situated itself as one of the many ribbons

in your soul.

Letter to a Future Generation

There were a lot of ways to look at the pandemic. It was every introvert’s dream come true and every extrovert’s worst nightmare. Kids were out of school all day long, while parents and hard-working adults were losing their jobs (and their minds, too). Sports were cancelled, prom, too, not to mention school plays and even graduation. I was in my eighth grade year, graduating middle school-seems so small and mundane now, but it felt huge then. 

First we were told to bring all our school supplies home during break, just in case. Then we were quarantined, then one week of distance learning, then two. Eventually there were cancelled plans and plane rides to France. Not to mention our final year together, gone. It felt like it was ripped away from us, like these experiences were now just gone. It felt like they had vanished in a blink of an eye. 

At first no one was worried; in fact, we were making fun of it, calling it anything from boomer remover to WWIII –  it was our only way of coping. We were coping with the idea that maybe our entire childhood and the people we love could be taken away from us in a way we couldn’t control. Taken away from us in a way that felt like five seconds fading away uncontrollably. Who knew what would happen? “Maybe we will be back to school and our regular lives next week.” or “What if this virus takes away our next two years?” or “What if this is how I die?” Every possible scenario was running through our minds, both good and bad. None of us knew what to expect. 

At least we spent more time with our family. At least we learned from home. At least we had next season. At least now we have time to watch that one tv show. But it wasn’t enough. 2020 was supposed to be our year – how could it have gotten so bad so soon? And I was only affected by quarantine and social distancing, I can’t imagine what it was like for those who had the virus.

We were scared for our lives. Would my trip to the grocery store be the moment when I start the end of my life? We had no idea what was to come. With all the misinformation spread through news, what were we to believe? Would it be gone by April? June? August? We were lucky enough to survive. The death levels rose, and our global confidence sank. It felt like a scene out of a movie. It didn’t feel real. 

Eventually reality set back in. A cure was found, ironically from a bat. Everything was back to normal, but still everything had changed. We as a planet were more conscious of our actions, and tried hard to not eat any more bats. At the end of the day, we cured ourselves. Not to be the devil’s advocate, but there was some good that came out of the virus. We grew stronger and steadier. And we did it together. 

Light in the Darkness

To some, darkness is exploding,

to others, fear is closing in,

to many, sickness is taking hold,

and to all, life is changing. 

But there’s more than chaos here. 

We can find laughter in the silence,

light in the darkness, 

smiles through the tears,  

and beauty in the ashes. 

There is an opportunity before us,

and we can use this time to change. 

To change our outlook,

to change our priorities,

and to realize the peace of simplicity. 

For some, laughter is breaking through, 

for others, lights are illuminating the darkness,

for many, smiles are shining through tears,

and for all, beauty is being discovered.

How COVID-19 Has Affected My Life: A Reflection on How It’s Going

Over the last month, I’ve been under a stay at home order, as has much of the rest of the world. There have been bad times along with the good ones, and I just want to share briefly how it has been for me as a kid, cooped up in the same house as my family day after day.

There are pros and cons. While my family has always emphasized time together, we are spending more time together now than ever, largely due to the fact that there are no extracurricular activities. I am a dancer, and that used to take up a large part of my afternoon and evening, five days a week. My older brother also does his fair share of extracurriculars (saxophone, tennis, piano). But now, as we are not allowed to go anywhere or be near anyone not in our family, our days are much more open, allowing more family time. 

Because of this new routine (or rather, lack of it), we have started to take daily walks. The trail behind our house is closed, about which we are all very sad. It has multiple loops that can mean a very long walk, and the trail is full of Dark-eyed Juncos, Black Phoebes, and White-tailed Kites, along with cotton-tail rabbits and jackrabbits, plentiful deer, and small rodents among the beautiful wildflowers and plants. I have always looked forward to taking a walk with the wind blowing in my hair and having fresh air fill my lungs, and it was such a shame to go up to the gate to the trail only to find it locked. It made me realize what a blessing the trail truly is.

However, we have managed to craft a route that is about four miles long, just by going along the streets behind our house. It is not the same as going along the trail, but seeing people’s nice yards that have been landscaped with a mix of pebbles, bark, various succulents, and other native plants blooming is a welcome sight from a computer screen and desk. The streets extend very far behind our house, and when you get to the top of some streets you can see all of the San Francisco Bay, from sparkling blue waters to the bright lights of cities across the bay. Somewhat surprisingly, the streets are steeper than the trail, giving our legs a nice challenge. One of the best things about our walks is that we have many meaningful conversations. For example, we talk about board games and how school is going, and my brother often has lengthy conversations about a board game he likes, called X-Wing (it is based on Star Wars). My older brother also sometimes skateboards along, providing entertainment and a change of scenery from our normal walks with mishaps from everything to falling off his skateboard to near collisions with lampposts.

These walks are now becoming a necessity. Being on a screen doing work all day is never someone’s idea of fun, and when you have four people in the same house on screens all day every day, that is not good news. We take walks to clear our minds and refresh them, and it helps very much.

A negative change that has occurred in my life is the greatly increased amount of time I am spending on a screen. My family never had many screens in our lives before the pandemic, so being on screens for remote learning/teaching/working is newer and our minds get easily tired, as well as our eyes. School was never focused on screens. But now, if I have to do something like a worksheet, I’ll upload it to a digital app and write on it with my Apple Pencil instead of doing it with pencil on paper. Tests are on the computer. Work is on the computer.  Everything, it seems, is on the computer. There is just so much screen time, and it has caused me to be crabbier than usual because I am not used to it. I used to have next to no time at all on a screen. Now, I can be on a screen for hours at a time. I’m not very happy about that turn of events, and neither is anyone else in my family, as they too suffer from this change.

I grew up without a TV in my house, and I have always relied on books as my main source of entertainment. I still do now, even though my family just recently got a television, and we use it about once a week for a movie or an episode of Fawlty Towers. Because I have not had screens in my life, I am simply not accustomed to being on a screen so much. It is just not part of my daily life as it is with a lot of kids across the world. I do not play video games, either. 

Another thing that relates to screens are the constant Zoom meetings. I have different teachers for every class, and each of those teachers meets with me three to five times a week. Some meetings can be highly productive and useful, while others prove to be a waste of time. If it weren’t for the class meets on Zoom, I could get my school work done much earlier. I don’t want to have a habit that takes me to Zoom as a default mode of communication right now, and I feel that my school has not thought about this fact. 

I am glad, however, to have the privilege of staying home comfortably, with good food every day, a comfortable bed, and enough resources to still be learning at home. While there are things I’d like to have changed, I’m still grateful that I lead a relatively normal life in these times. There are countless more things that I could complain about or praise, but that would take a lot of pages. 

Every day, I wish that the Coronavirus will end. Of course, I know that it won’t be granted, but each day I put out a little bit of my hope that this crisis will not be continuing much longer. I am hopeful as well as disappointed. I think about the ways that my life has changed. And then I realize, “You know, maybe this isn’t so bad after all.”

Thoughts and Conceptions: COVID 19

Chaos and history. 

There is perhaps no other incident, in my little bubble of a life, that I suppose will be so feverishly illustrated in the scripts, texts, or future chronicles. 

“A Global Pandemic Hits the 21st Century, Leaving Metropolises Bare” 

How exactly are we living in these ensuing stories? How are we internalizing, how are we struggling to live through a virus as our archenemy? From the suburbs to urban centers, who are the people being affected by this invasion? In essence, all of us are. We’re facing this as both a current issue and one that seemingly shifts in 24-hour cycles, an infiltrator that we can not see but we surely know is there. Perhaps that’s the scariest part of it all. There is no face, but some abstract micro-rendition that’s hard to comprehend.

Many of my fellow Gen-Zers have not lived to see such a virus, let alone one that halts the gears in the machine of everyday life. I find that anecdotes can be a pleasing way to not only comfort but connect, especially in a time where we’re separated by self instated 6-foot bubbles. So let me delve a bit into my rather ordinary experience.

My community is located about an hour’s train ride from New York City, the current epicenter of the nation’s panic. Fortunately, it doesn’t feel like the outskirts of a warzone, but that doesn’t cover the fact of how terrifying this conflict is. We have growing deaths, ill-equipped soldiers, and faulty information. My aunt, who works at a rather large regional hospital has been pulled from her normal sector and into the danger zone, doing her best, but seemingly without our best. We have major discrepancies that will forever cause ripples and changes once these shadows pass. 

Furthermore, I find there are a myriad of questions that I have for not only our leadership but the public. Why has x happened when we had y? Or why has x happened when we thought we had y? How do we fix the supposed safety nets that may have existed but did not function? Being that, as I write this piece, COVID-19 remains in a whirl, I have yet to review and see this issue with hindsight. I know, like such other turbulences, there will be consequential modifications to our systems. Our lives may not be the status quo we have known prior. While this is partly a natural phenomenon, it is one of the most colossal cultural and systematic rattlers that I have ever lived through. 

In the beginning, my emotions seemed much rawer, but possibly as the result of coping, I’ve found myself subconsciously rationalizing reality. Never did I think within weeks, swaths of the world would be sheltered into their own corners, nor did I expect a headline breaking pandemic in the first place. Intuition tells me that I’ll be more shocked after the most severe side effects subdue and I can examine these events without present interference. I remain hopeful that a net positive will be created out of a seemingly overwhelming austere situation. Either way, no matter how equipped or ready we are, the ride has begun. 

A scary and monumental episode in human experience, our stories, set to unwrap at a price we do not yet know. 

Waiting for the Dawn

The world is holding its breath,

Stiller than e’er before

We’re all waiting,

Waiting for something

Like the breath before dawn

When e’en birds stop their chatter

Hushed, they wait in silence

Waiting for the sun

I’ll join them in their vigil

Waiting for the dawn

Praying for this night to end

Needing to move on

A Teenager Living Through the COVID-19 Pandemic

The Novel Coronavirus has definitely affected many of us in negative ways, but it’s also affected the world in many positive ways. I have been limited to staying inside all day and working on schoolwork. As an introvert, this is my dream scenario, where I’m ordered to stay inside and listen to music while I relax, without repercussions. After a while it may seem boring, but I like to think optimistically during these uncertain times. The Coronavirus is enough to worry about, so it’s best if we take this newfound time and do something productive with it.

For the first time since summer, I am finally able to get enough rest every night and start the day refreshed. This is an underrated benefit because students are finally allowed to get enough rest every night without being sleep deprived. Many students throughout the school year are always tired and groggy in the mornings after getting six hours of sleep. Another huge benefit for students is that they’re in the comfort of their home. This allows students to perform at a high level while being safe and relaxed. During this time, I have found more time to discover interests and personality traits I hadn’t known before. For example, I decided to take a certified personality assessment to figure out more about myself. It was an eye-opening experience because I found out I had the rarest personality type out of all the sixteen personalities. I was classified as an INFJ which stands for Introvert, Intuitive, Feeling, and Judging. The results were no surprise to me but it was interesting to finally know what personality I identified with. 

Throughout the COVID-19 break, I was able to discover part of my identity because I finally had time to sit down and look at my computer. Another positive to take out of this pandemic is that I now have all day to prepare for the college process. This includes studying for the SAT and ACT, writing college essays, and reviewing colleges to visit. As a junior, I feel relieved to have days committed to doing all of these processes. During the school year, I felt bombarded with countless assignments that were just there to fill up my time. This would ultimately take away precious time for doing more important things. Many days, I would have no motivation to look into these colleges and their requirements because of dreadfully boring days at school. Now, I’m able to review several colleges that I have interest in and start preparing for the college process.

Obviously, COVID-19 has taken a major toll on many of our daily lives. It has affected millions in the United States by making them file for unemployment. We currently have the highest death toll recorded but that should not break down our spirit. Many people around the world are working collectively as a whole to find a vaccine to this terrible virus. I think we should highlight the efforts being made to help return our world to normalcy. Furthermore, students around the world are being given a once-in-a-lifetime experience and we need to take this situation and turn it into a positive. Soon enough, we will be preparing for the next pandemic and I think it’s time Millennials and Generation Z take initiative for the future. It’s time for us to restructure Earth to better suit future generations to come. This is our chance to impact the future for the better and I cannot wait until the day we see how we positively affected the generations that will come after us.

5,000 Miles 10,000 Words

Two writers, two sides of the same story. 

Dakota Jones and Eloise Monet were alike in more ways than they would ever know. Despite living across the world from each other, they both had very similar goals and personality traits which prevented them from giving up on what they truly wanted in life

Dakota’s side-

Houston, Texas is where Dakota lived. She was balancing helping her mom pay the lease for their apartment, taking care of her younger siblings, and working as an underpaid diner waitress, all while attending her last year at a university. It seemed as if everyone in her class at college knew what they wanted to do in the future, and she just felt stuck. Stuck in a routine, stuck in her tiny house, stuck in every aspect of her life. She felt as though she worked hard for everything, and somehow it still was never enough. And there was Sal. Her best friend in the entire world, the only person she knew who was there for her in her worst moments. But she knew he would never come close to understanding how exhausting her life was. Late one Tuesday night, Dakota checked her email as she always did. But there she found a lengthy, condescending email from her professor listing some writing programs and job opportunities he strongly encouraged her to try. Most of them looked boring, and like a similar variation of the same, dull class she was taking. But there was one job opportunity for young students like her to become published authors, right in her hometown. But it required a written submission.

Eloise’s side-

Prim, proper, and perfect were how Eloise Monet’s mother wanted her to behave. Straight A’s, the head of every club, and captain of the polo team were what her life mainly consisted of. Since primary school in her native London, her life had been planned for her by her overbearing and over achieving mother. But by now she was used to it, the fits her mom had over a B she once received and the feeling of never really amounting to what her mother wanted her to be. But she kept those feelings hidden. Tomorrow, she started her first day at her mother’s prestigious publishing company in London.

Dakota’s side- 

Dakota wanted the writing position in her hometown. She could pay rent for her own place with that salary, and finally she had something she was motivated to do. Day by day, week by week, she worked on her submission for the job—a story she could showcase at her job interview. Sal read it and said it was her best work of all. Even her mom read it the night before the interview. She felt proud of what she wrote. The next morning, she walked into that glass skyscraper and imagined herself working there: dressing every day like the other people in the office—in fancy clothes, blown out hair, and expensive jewelry. She imagined clicking high-priced heels on the white tiled floors. She was ready. So when she went into the office and presented her story, she didn’t give them a fake smile. She told them exactly why she would be more perfect than anyone for this job. And two weeks later, when she got the letter offering her the job and complimenting her short story, she was practically shaking. 

Eloise’s side- 

Eloise had a deadline. Her first one this month. She had only been writing a few poems and short stories at her mom’s publishing company and her mother was not impressed to say the least. Her mom compared her work to other girls who wrote for her company, and was the opposite of supportive. Eloise needed a killer story to impress her mom, and keep her job since, like her parents, she loved writing. Day by day, week by week, she worked on her story until she had finally crafted one hopefully living up to her mother’s expectations. 

Dakota’s side-

The feeling of doing something right for once, was the best thing for Dakota Jones. It was extremely rare that she felt proud of herself. And about one week later, she found herself walking straight into that skyscraper once again. She arrived on time, attempting to make a good impression. She sat down with one of the CEOs of the company and they discussed her piece. Her inspiration for the story, how she thought of the characters, and if she wrote often. They said that they were looking for a few stories to be in their monthly issue of work by young authors. She felt on top of the world. And the best part is if she kept up the good work of writing stories, she would get the high-paying salary she always dreamed of. Weeks went by and her story was edited, ready for the issue. But she knew the dedication that went into that story, and she knew people would like it . 

Eloise’s side- 

Cheryl Monet liked the story. Her own mom liked the story. This was a first for Eloise. Her whole life she would try to satisfy and prove herself to her mother, but finally after hard work and about three weeks of editing, she did it. Her mom was even proud, she showed it off to colleagues, and Eloise just felt content at last. And at family dinner one night, her mom said she wanted to publish it. The next weeks were hard. From picking cover art to sitting down with editors, and showing people her story. Exposure of her writing was the best thing for a young author, like herself. 

One month later.

After one month of living their greatest lives, something was quickly discovered. 

Dakota’s side- 

When you apply for a job, they didn’t tell Dakota that she was going to be slammed in the news, when you apply for a job, they didn’t tell Dakota that she would be questioned for something illegal done. Waking up on the first day of her story being published, she hoped, she dreamed, she wanted for it to be a perfect day, a day where she finally fit in somewhere. But what occurred was quite the opposite. She received many, many urgent emails to come down to work as soon as possible, so she did just that. She didn’t even have time to change, arriving in gray sweatpants and a stained shirt. She got some stares once in the building, but she did not even know what reason they were for. She opened the door to her boss’s generously sized office. 

“Did you do it?” her boss frustratedly asked. “Did you plagiarize your story, copy it from someone else?”

“No I swear, I would never, I-” Dakota tried to respond reassuringly.

“A similar piece, with your same idea was published just a few days ago, giving it a month to be edited, Dakota it is very, very possible for you to have copied this story. You threatened the reputation of this company greatly, and for that we have to let you go,” her boss said firmly. 

Dakota was not prepared for this. It was not fair. It was not fair at all. She worked all day and night to create that story, how was she losing her job for this. She wanted this position so bad, and now she was fired, on her record too. No. This of all things in her life she was going to fight for. It was her piece. 

“No, you cannot do that. Please I promise you I did not do this. Please reconsider,” Dakota begged.

“You are making this harder on yourself right now, please gather your things,” her boss said for the final time. 

This is the point where this got “bad.” Due to Dakota’s strong belief, knowing it was not her who did this, she was going to fight for what she wanted, literally. Kicking and screaming, Dakota was escorted out by security. Not only would she never EVER get another job in the writing field again for this. She could definitely expect to land another position in that building. She had made a very, very large scene. 

When she got home, she was mad. She yelled at her younger siblings for being a pain to take care of, she screamed at her mom for never doing anything, and she called up Sal, to tell him that he lied, that she had what it took to work at this job. She wanted to cry out of confusion. She wanted to beg, and beg for her job back, But she just couldn’t. And that was the worst part. 

 Eloise side-

Grounded. Punished. Fired. Yelled at. This was only an understatement of what went on in her household that very night. You could just see in her mother’s eyes how disappointed she was. And knowing how proud she was just a few days ago had made it worse.

“You will start a boarding school. And a writing intensive camp, academic program, and a-”

“No, I will be absolutely nothing of the sort. I don’t want this life. I don’t want this life controlled by you where you don’t even listen to me right now. I wanted that job, and you fired me. You saw how happy I was there, and you just, you wouldn’t even hear me out.”

And even at their worst point, where they felt the most defeated, the people who really cared stuck by their side. The people who supported and cared, the mothers, the siblings, the friends, everyone one took a minute to hear the full sides of the story. And although it may seem like it couldn’t, everyone helped to make everything work out just fine. 

The end.

The Better Side

Lucy

Some people would not know who I was if someone mentioned my name. Or, some people would recognize me (I hope) but I wouldn’t mean anything to them. I feel like I am nothing. And this is the way I have felt all my life. Since day one in kindergarten, I have felt like nobody cared about me and nobody wanted to be friends with me. Today is the first day of high school and I am COMPLETELY TERRIFIED. Not only because I am scared about high school, because I am sure most people are, but I am scared that this year is going to be the same as every other year. And I am going to be looked at the same as I was looked at for the past eight years. A ghost. 

Jordan, who is my brother, drives me to school every morning because his college is right around the corner from school. This is lucky for me because if my brother had to go to college far away, I don’t know what I would do with myself. He is basically my best friend, and because nobody talked to me at my school, I could at least talk to him because he actually understands me. We were parked outside of school and I had my blue backpack on my lap, not wanting to go inside. I knew it would be the same as it always was. I would walk into the hallways and not one person would hug me or say, “Hi Lucy! How was your summer?” Because that’s just how it was. 

Alexander

Today is the first day of high school and I have been looking forward to this moment my whole life. I feel like high school is thought of as a trainwreck of four years, but I feel like these four years are going to be awesome. My girlfriend, Jessica and I have walked to school together for the past two years. Her house is two houses down from mine and we have been dating since 6th grade. She screams, “Alex!!!” from all the way down the block. I have not seen her all summer because I go to sleepaway camp in Maine and she goes to sleepaway camp in Texas. We began the short walk to school together and Jessica would not stop talking. 

“How was your summer? Mine was great! I made all of these new friends at camp. Did you? I missed you! Not excited for school though. I hope we have the same homeroom! What did you have for breakfast? I had waffles.”

She did not even give me a chance to answer anything! I tried my best by saying, “My summer was good. I made friends at camp. Missed you too. I also hope we have the same homeroom. I had fruit and water.”

That is basically how our relationship goes. She asks and I answer. There is no need for me to ask anything, because she will always make sure it has been said. Once we got inside the doors, I was tackled by all of the boys on the basketball team. 

I would say that I am pretty liked by my whole grade, but I have definitely earned that considering I have tried and tried and tried to just fit in. My family is not the type of family that I would call “normal.” Not one member of my family cares about their reputation or my reputation at all. They are completely EMBARRASSING!!!! Which is why I walk with Jessica to school every morning. 

I couldn’t believe it was finally here, the moment that I have been waiting for all my life. Somehow, I was not at all nervous to walk into homeroom and I don’t understand how some people are.

Lucy

I’m so nervous to walk into homeroom! I am watching some kids like Alex Brown just walk into that classroom with a handful of friends around him and then there is me. Alex Brown has brown hair and brown eyes and I don’t think he has once had to worry about not having friends. I have had a crush on Alex Brown since the first grade and I bet that he has never heard the name Lucy Goldberg once in his life. If only I had at least one class with him!! Then I could maybe try talking to him. I don’t even know what I am thinking, considering I am me and he’s Alex Brown. We don’t need to talk about how he has a girlfriend. 

My homeroom is room 207 which is of course the longest walk from the entrance. This walk is basically going to be the walk of shame for me considering I know that I am walking to a room that is not going to notice me or care about me. It’s basically just a pointless walk to nowhere. I wish I were homeschooled. That would be waaaaaayyyyyyy easier. I began the long walk to room 207 as I watched all of the friend groups reunite, wishing I were a part of one. One friend is all I need and I don’t even have that. At least I have my brother. I don’t know why I can’t make friends. When someone like Jordan really gets to know me, they will know I don’t become shy at all when I am around them. I think it’s just scary having to make friends. 

As I continue to walk, thoughts rush through my head. What if when I walk into the classroom there will be people that might actually notice me? What if some of these people want to be my friends? I finally get outside of room 207,  I grab my books and take the step in. This was it. The moment I have been dreading my whole life. 

Alexander

 My homeroom was in room 210, pretty far from the entrance so I was happy once I finally got there. Mr. Goldberg, my teacher, seemed pretty nice, at least as nice as a teacher could get. I somehow recognize the name Goldberg, but I don’t know from where. I sat down at my desk in the front of the room (how fun), but luckily Jake and Connor were next to me. We played the same introduction game that we play every single year. I thought it would stop once we at least got to middle school, but it didn’t. And then high school is here, and we are still playing it! There isn’t even a new kid in my class. I have known these kids since I was 6 years old and you would think I would know their names. 

After homeroom, I went to find my locker. I put my bag inside and took my books for my next class, math. I suck at math and I always have. My parents have tried everything, tutors, study groups, special help from my teachers, literally they once tried teaching me. I just can’t get it. As I grabbed my graph paper notebooks and my pencil case, a girl ran into me. She seemed pretty familiar but I didn’t know her name. “Watch where you’re going!” I said. 

She replied, “Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh I’m so sorry.” 

Lucy

Math! My favorite class. In math I feel as if the rest of the world doesn’t matter and it is just me, a whiteboard, a pencil, and numbers. I don’t need to worry about being more social or making friends. I was on the way and I was very late. I HATE BEING LATE! So I ran. I was running and bumped into Alex Brown.

“Frick!” I thought to myself. He snapped at me.

“Watch where you’re going!” he said. Even though these were the first words he has ever said to me, I was so happy. He noticed me! He probably already forgot this moment but I will remember it forever. 

I got to math and sat down at my desk which was thankfully in the back. I looked around and to my surprise I saw Alex. I wonder if he likes math. Sadly Alex’s head was facing me so I couldn’t see him fully, and he couldn’t see me. I bet he will never know I am in this class. Math was only the second period of the day and I already had so many thoughts. Would Alex talk to me more this year now that I have a class with him? I really hope my parents aren’t going to flood me with questions about today when I get home. Should I join a sports team? No I should not, I can’t play sports for the life of me. Maybe I will write a book. What will happen if I just start talking to people more? Do I not have friends because I am shy or because nobody wants to be friends with me? 

All of these thoughts were going through my head when I realized that I had to start paying attention, there was already a whole board filled with do-now problems that I did not know how to solve. Shoot. 

Alexander

Math did not go well. At all. Now I need to meet with my teacher after school and I do not want to. I don’t know why, but it is awkward when I am alone with teachers. 

Lucy

After math class, I had to go up to our teacher Mrs. Corrine, and ask for a meeting time after school because I “didn’t understand the concept.” She said that I could come but she already had a student coming so we would have to meet the three of us. I was fine with that because it makes it less awkward being alone with a teacher. 

Next I had a free period, where most kids go hang out with their friends or get work done. If I really really really wanted too, I would go over to where some of the girls in my grade were sitting and maybe talk to them, maybe. But, I would rather journal in my notebook. I like making lists and today my list was about what I wanted to accomplish by the end of freshman year.

Lucy’s Bucket List for Freshman Year 🙂

By Lucy Goldberg 😀

  • Get at least one friend
  • Join a team or club of any kind
  • Talk to Alex Brown a lot more
  • During free periods do more than journal
  • Be more confident
  • Matter 

Alexander

The rest of the day was the usual except for the fact that I knew I had to meet with Mrs. Corrine after school because I can’t do math. Once it was the end of the day, I felt like I was moving in slow motion. I moved as slow as possible, one step every 3 seconds down the hallway to grab my things out of my locker. Mrs. Corrine’s classroom was sadly only two classrooms down from my locker so I wasn’t even that late (sadly). I put my bag around my shoulders and walked inside the classroom, and I saw the girl who ran into me in the hallway. I have never been in a room pretty much alone with either of them before, so this would not be fun. 

Lucy

WHAT IS HE DOING HERE. I can’t focus when he is around me. I know myself and I know that I am going to only be worried about how I look and if I am doing the problems right, instead of actually paying attention because that’s what I am here for. “Lucy focus. You don’t want to come back a second time and explain to Mrs. Corrine why I had to come back for a second time to re-re-learn it.” I told myself. I have to focus. I have to. 

The hour in this classroom is going by so slowly and Alex doesn’t seem very good at math so that is making it even slower. I glanced up at the clock on the ceiling in front of me. 4:15. 4:18. 4:22. 4:29 and 55 seconds. Finally after the clock hit 4:30, I ran out of the classroom and I regret that decision already. I could have at least been respectful to Mrs. Corrine and even talked to Alex. I need to really get better at talking to other people.

My brother was waiting outside in the car perfectly on schedule like always. I’m not one of those kids who have to wait for their parents to come get me 2 hours late, because I have Jordan. 

“How was school today?” Jordan asked. 

“Okay,” I said. “I had to meet with my teacher after school which is why I am late, sorry.”

“Why? What happened?” he asked. 

“Remember Alex Brown?” 

“Yeah.”

“Well, he is in my math class and I keep getting distracted and I ended up missing the 

whole math lesson and had to meet with my teacher after school and then, get this. Alex was in my lesson with Mrs. Corrine after school because he doesn’t understand anything,” I told him. 

“I’m so sorry Luc. Just try to focus and know that math is your best subject so don’t let 

anyone else get in the way of that,” Jordan told me. 

The rest of the car ride we listened to music very loudly and drove home without talking to each other, not because we were upset, but maybe because we both had bad days and were sick of talking. 

Alexander

Luckly, I have basketball tryouts now so I don’t have to go home. Somehow I’m not at all nervous for these tryouts and I think it is because I already got my math meeting over with, which is what I had been dreading all day. I walked into the gym and right away saw Jake and Connor, who are two of my best friends. They are in my homeroom and we have been playing basketball together since forever. Our coach, Coach Wessel, blew his whistle and explained how the tryouts were going to go. I went and changed into my basketball clothes and the tryouts began.

Besides me getting a nosebleed halfway through the tryout because I got hit in the nose with a basketball, I think I played very well.

“The teams will be posted tomorrow via email,” Coach Wessel said. “It is very hard for freshmen to make varsity, so freshmen keep that in mind, but I hope to see most of you on our JV team!” 

Just like that, the tryouts were over and it was time for me to wait for my parents, and it normally takes them two hours, because those are the types of parents that they are. 

Lucy

The next day at school, it was the same deal, except I had some hope. My main goal for the day was to talk to someone besides a teacher, and talk to them, not because I will run into them like yesterday. I love Tuesdays because there is still room to make the week the way you want it to because it is only the beginning. If you make a mistake on Monday and need to fix it to make your week still amazing, Tuesday is the day to do it. After homeroom, it was again time for math and I was excited. Mrs. Corinne let us choose partners for the in-class problems. I always hate choosing partners because people run to their friends right away and I never have anyone to go to. 

Everyone started scrambling around and trying to follow my goal, I went to the one girl who I recognized that did not have a partner. Her name was Lizzy and we had gone to school together since kindergarten. 

“Hey,” I said. “Want to be partners?” 

“Sure! What’s your name again?” she asked. 

“Lucy.” 

I wasn’t that thrilled that she didn’t know my name, but I was beyond excited that I asked if she wanted to be partners with me and she said yes! I did it. Right when we started to work, Ms. Queller, the head of school, came to our desk and patted me on the shoulder and told me to come to the hallway. Right when I think I am making a friend, this happens, and this NEVER happens. 

“What is it?” I asked.

“Well, honey, your brother has had an accident.” 

Alexander

It was time to find out what basketball team I made, if I made any of them. I wasn’t expecting varsity, but it would be awesome if I was on it. I saw the list, it was maybe 30 feet away so the names were just a blur. I could see as I was taking steps forward that the list was in a T-chart, one half was JV, one half was varsity. This was all of the high school boys on both teams so I was most definitely on JV. But, what if I was on varsity? I got super close to the list, I closed my eyes and hoped that I was on a team with at least Jake, Connor, or both of them. I opened my eyes and I went straight to the varsity list. I saw Jake and Connor at the top of the list! Now I really hope I am on varsity. I scrolled down with my finger, name after name after name and finally, there I was! I made varsity! Best. Day. Ever. 

Lucy

“What do you mean, an accident?” I asked Ms. Queller in a concerned tone. 

“He is right now in the hospital with your mom and dad. I can drive you over there now. He was in a pretty severe car crash but that is all I know.” 

So we got in her car and it was a silent car ride. I was completely hysterical. I needed my brother to be okay. I didn’t have anyone else. Without him I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to and have nobody to listen to me. Even worse, I would be picked up from school late! I prayed he would be okay and I tried to stay calm and breathe, but I couldn’t. Once we got to the hospital after 15 minutes in the car with the head of school, I was able to find my parents. Normally, it would be so so so so so awkward being in a car with Ms. Queller, but today, it wasn’t because we both knew it was very important. My mom was crying. My dad was yelling at the nurses to try to get some information out of them because they hadn’t heard anything. Ms. Queller was still there and I was completely clueless. It was chaos. 

After about an hour, a doctor named Dr. Julie came and spoke with my parents and me. She told us, “Jordan has many severe injuries but for right now we think he is going to be alright. He will have to get spinal surgery because he broke a bone in his back and has broken his right leg. As well as this, he is going to be put in a neck cast but for now we don’t think he needs neck surgery. You should all be so thankful that he is still alive. In a few moments, if you would like you may come and see him.” Dr. Julie walked away and we all sat in silence. Silence. It is often a trend with me and with my family, especially Jordan. Silence is what we refer to when we don’t know what to say or when something is hard to process and talk about. It helps me regroup my feelings and be at peace with myself. 

Lucy

I went to visit Jordan in the hospital room, and I asked if I could go in alone. I took a few deep breaths and slowly walked in to see Jordan lying down on a hospital bed with lots of machinery around him. Jordan’s blond hair was all stuck to his face and he had scrapes and was bleeding everywhere. His blue eyes looked up at me almost as a cry for help. I was scared. I knew he was the same brother he was before this happened, but hospitals really gave me the creeps and I did not like seeing Jordan like this. 

“Jordan?” I asked very quietly to get him to notice me.

“Hey Lucy” he replied in a whisper.

“Um, uhhh, are you going to be okay?”

“I will be completely fine. Don’t be scared about me. I need to sleep though,” he replied. 

I walked out of the room quietly and in shock and ran straight to my parents. I started crying and couldn’t stop. I just sat there, while my parents went into Jordan, and I cried. I feel like waiting rooms hold a lot of different feelings and energies. Sometimes, people find out great news from doctors and scream with joy. Sometimes people are stressed, because they don’t know what is happening to their loved ones. Sometimes they are in severe pain and are waiting in to see the doctor. And sometimes, people are very sad and cry because their loved ones are hurt, like me right now. 

3 months later (Lucy)

For the past three months, I haven’t worried about anything but Jordan. But finally, after three months of recovery, medicine, surgeries, doctors, and hospital rooms, Jordan was completely okay! The day that Jordan got out of the hospital, I walked into the doors of school the same way I did for the past three months when Jordan was in the hospital, but there was something to be happy about. I walked in with better posture and in my head I just felt happier in general. I was sick of not being noticed and this incident with Jordan opened my eyes up more to see that I can change not being noticed. I walked up to the school bulletin board and saw many club and sports teams. One stuck out to me more than any of the others. On a bright blue sheet of paper, it said, “School Soccer Team. No Experience Needed.” Without even thinking about it, I put my name down and when it came time for practice, I went over to the fields. 

For once, I was super excited especially when I saw Lizzy was there as well and she gave me a smile and wave. Practice continued for the rest of the school year and by the end, I had made friends with almost every girl on the team!

Next Year (Alexander)

I already feel like sophomore year is going to be my year. I again saw a sheet of paper on the bulletin board that said our homerooms and I started having deja vu from last year when I walked over to see what basketball team I was on. I found that I was in homeroom 310 so I walked up the stairs to the third floor and found my seat, only to see the girl who I kept running into last year sitting at the desk next to me. 

Lucy

“Hi!” I said to Alex AS HE SAT NEXT TO ME! 

“Hey,” he replied, being shy.

I thought to myself that this year was going to be way better than last year. I think I found the better side of high school. The side where I actually had friends and I was able to speak to people without being nervous. I finally felt like I wasn’t a ghost. Like I mattered.

The End

The Land of Cards

This is no ordinary deck of cards. What makes it special is that when the cards are put in the correct order, it opens a door to a world of unimaginable magic. A world where you can do whatever you want just by thinking of it. It’s a world where your wildest fantasies can come true. A world where creatures beyond the human scope are everywhere. It is the Land of Cards. And when put in the exact reverse order, it will send you back to The Above. Essentially, the deck of cards acts as a portal between worlds. Currently, the deck is inside a vault in the most prestigious bank in the Land of Cards. There is an offsite secret prison in the Land of Cards. This prison acts as a capture for the worst of villains. One of these evil entities is the Zero of Diamonds (who goes by Zero). He is unknown to just as many people as he is powerful. With the deck of cards, he plans to travel back to The Above and retrieve a very important object. The Zero of Diamonds has a plan where he and the other villains will break out of the prison and steal the Deck of Cards. There is only one man who can stop them: the Ace of Spades (who goes by Ace). He figured out their plan through an underground network that includes the prison. The Ace of Spades is known for being one of the most special cards in the deck. This is also true in the Land of Cards. The Ace of Spades has the contrasting power to the Zero of Diamonds. Zero has all the dark power, but the Ace of Spades has an equal amount of pure power. Ace was a detective and policeman in his old life, but after being shot in the heart, going through many surgeries, and needing a heart transplant from an unknown donor, he gained surreal powers by controlling pure energy. It is not known where Zero accumulated his powers. 

Ace tries to formulate a plan to stop Zero, but he’s too late. Ace looks at the TV.

(Reporter on the News) “This just in! A group of convicts just broke out of maximum-security prison this morning and are on the run. This group includes the Zero of Spades, the Joker Twins, and the Invisible Card.” 

Zero first got captured because he shut down all the power in the Land of Cards with his dark energy and assassinated the King of Hearts. When the power went off, his daughter got into a car crash and died. In a moment of weakness, he gave himself over to the police. The Joker twins, one black and white, one in color, are the best and most deadly bank robbers ever. The went on multiple bank heists killing hundreds of people and accumulating trillions of dollars. The police anticipated their next move and captured them. The Invisible Card, also known as Blank, was with his son and they both got hit by an electrical surge. The son passed away but Blank became invisible. He was previously the Four of Spades. He used his power to kill all the people responsible for his son’s death. He was captured because one of his crimes was witnessed by a nearby policewoman and he was quickly arrested.

“I’m too late,” says Ace. “I have to get to the bank before they do.”

Ace makes his way towards the bank and gets there just in the nick of time. He sees the group of villains coming. They are one mile north and are all in an armored van they stole from the prison.

“Call the police, we are going into full lockdown mode!” yells Ace to the bank manager. 

The bank manager nods, and the cops arrive a few minutes later. 

“Okay. Here is what we need to do. Jack of Clubs, (a natural leader and Captain of the Police Force) you and your team will escort the people to safety! And take me to the vault!” Ace tells the bank manager.

Ace and the bank manager head to the vault. The bank manager does three steps to open the vault. He first enters an 8-digit code that changes every day, then he scans his palm, and lastly scans his eye.

The Deck of Cards sits right in the center of the vault – but there is also something else. Hundreds (maybe thousands) of instruction manuals are scattered around the room. The bank manager is right behind him. He wonders why there are so many instruction manuals. Is something else going on here?

Ace walks inside the vault. He takes a peek at one of the instruction manuals.

Land of Cards Maximum-Security Penitentiary Layout Plans

“Hey, why do you need the plans for the priso…” WHACK! 

Ace wakes up, half-conscious. He cannot see anything, but he feels the distinct crisp of the air. He remembers the feeling from when he was a child, but he does not remember where it’s from. However, he is certain he is still in the Land of Cards. He also feels a bag over his head.

“Whe…Where am I?” asks Ace.

“What’s the order of the cards to get to The Above?” asks a deep voice.

“Who are you? What happened to the bank manager? Is he okay?” replies Ace.

“I’m not going to ask again, so one last time. What is the order?” says the deep voice.

“I don’t know!” responds Ace.

“How did you know it acted as a portal?” says the voice.

“My father told me. He said it was an urban legend and that his grandfather or my great-grandfather used it once and that he found a note with the code but that it disappeared over time.”

Ace feels the bag being removed from his head. He sees Zero, The Joker Twins, a slight silhouette that he assumes is the invisible man, and…

“No, it can’t be… the bank manager?! Why… why would you do this?” says Ace.

“Zero is my brother. You never asked me for my real name. I am the Zero of Clubs. Well, now you know. You can call me… Null.”

“Well, Null, I promise you that I will stop all of you and make sure you guys go right back to prison. You guys don’t even know the combination. Why do you guys even want to go to The Above?”

“Hahaha. I am glad you asked. In The Above, there is this item called The Device. It is locked up in a military base. It will let me alter particles in a time span and allow me to jump to that time. I plan to go back and make sure my daughter doesn’t die,” says Zero.

“Why do the rest of you want to do it?” replies Ace.

“Same reason I am. They all either lost someone or did something they want to undo. We just want to start a new life,” says Zero.

Ace sighs. “Ok, if I help you, you have to promise – I mean really promise – that you won’t commit any more crimes ever again. And if you do, I will come for you and I will not give you another chance,” says Ace.

“We promise,” says everybody else in unison.

“Okay. My great-grandfather had a box of his belongings and left it with me. It should be in a mystic box (an invisible box in a random location of your choosing that can only be opened with a certain phrase of your choosing) downtown. I will get that. You guys try and find some history behind the deck. We’ll meet up at the Sully Bar in 2 hours.”

Everyone nods and heads their separate ways. Ace heads downtown to where his mystic box is. He hid his under the bridge in a local park. 

“To the angel of light!”

A silhouette of a box starts to become more and more distinct until it becomes completely visible. Inside that is a cardboard box with some stuff that belonged to Ace’s great-grandfather. At the top of the box there are some books, a compass, a magazine, and some movie posters that Ace has never heard of. He can’t see what’s under those items. Meanwhile, Zero and his crew are at the library looking for history behind the deck. The library is fairly small. There are approximately 3 other people there not including the librarian.

“Why are we working with Ace on this, Zero? All of us dislike him,” says Blank.

“Don’t worry,” says Zero. “He believed the story I told. Everyone knows you can’t save lives with Time Travel. As soon as we get the time machine, we’re leaving him in The Above and using the machine to go back to early Land of Cards and make it ours. We could be rulers for our whole lives.”

They make a plan of how they are going to leave Ace when they get there and go back to the Land of Cards. About an hour later, everyone meets up at the bar. They are all in the corner booth.

‘What did you guys find?” asks Ace.

“A. O Russel created the deck,” says one of the Joker Twins.

“In 1870,” says the other.

“Did you find anything?” Zero asks. 

“Take a look,” Ace says while bringing out the box he found.

He removes the compass, the books, the magazines, and the movie posters from the top. Underneath is tin tupperware of sorts that’s not much bigger than Ace’s hand. Ace opens the tin box and inside it is a piece of paper. From the slight tears all along the sides to the crumbly way it felt in his hand, Ace can tell it is very old – likely older than his great-grandfather.

To get to the treasure that you seek, use all four directions, and something that makes it unique.

“All four directions…” Zero whispers quietly.

Blank, hearing Zero, says “That must be North, East, South, West.”

“The Compass!” says Ace. “Now what makes it unique?”

“It’s the S,” says Zero. “It’s upside down. All the other letters are facing outward except for the S, which is facing inward.”

“That’s it. Now something on the compass must contain the order,” says one of the Joker twins.

Ace flips the compass upside down. He notices some inscriptions on the back of it. They’re in another language that Ace thinks is ancient or possibly even alien.

“I have a friend who is an archaeologist. I’ll send it to him and see if he can identify it,” Ace tells the group.

[2 Hours Later]

“I got it, I got it, I got it! We got the results back,” Ace says to the rest of the group. “Write this down, the order is A♥, 2♠, 8♦, J♣, 7♠, 9♦, e.t.c.”

“Well Ace, I guess this is goodbye,” says Zero.

“Nah nah nah, I’m coming with you guys and then coming right back,” Ace responds.

“Ok, I guess,” says Zero with a menacing grin on his face.

Zero slowly starts putting the cards in the right order. Five minutes later, he’s almost finished. 

“Last card, 4♣. Put your hand on the deck everyone.”

As everyone has their hands on the deck, Zero puts the last card at the end. Then everything goes white. All they see is a bright light in front of them.

[Apache Junction, Arizona, 2023]

“We’re one mile east according to my research,” says one of the Joker Twins.

“Once we get there, Blank will go in and steal it. It is not highly protected and since you are invisible, it shouldn’t be that hard,” explains Zero.

After walking for some time, they finally get to the base. There are a few armed guards in front of it, but other than that, there’s no outside security. Blank goes in through the side door. Once inside the base, he heads to the corner where The Device is located. He sneakily takes it and exits the base quickly.

Once outside, Zero starts putting the cards in reverse order. Soon, he is only a few cards away. “I’m sorry I have to do this to you again,” he says. 

Ace responds, “Do what?” WHACK!

Zero puts the rest of the cards in order. Zero and his group go back to the Land of Cards while Ace is stuck in The Above. Zero and his group use The Device to travel to the early days of the Land of Cards. It wasn’t as sophisticated, but it was still highly functional. There was an election for who could run for ruler of the land and anybody could run. Using future technology, Zero killed off the other candidates with his powers so he would win by default. He stayed ruler up until his death from old age. In the back of his mind he always felt bad for Ace, but it was too late now. Then, he remembered The Device.

 The End

Uncomfortable Situations

My parents didn’t allow me to travel anywhere on my own until the day I turned sixteen. They said it was too dangerous for someone as unaware as I was, always with headphones on or watching a championship match. I have always had soccer. My parents didn’t even think I really cared about my social life until I wanted one. I guess I always put sports first, and my parents thought that was enough. The people I met at soccer when I was younger were never usually my age, and if they were, their personalities were usually a lot more competitive than mine. When I started playing with kids who actually cared about the sport, I found that having a life outside of activities might be moderately important. That’s saying a lot. I even had to force myself to stop mentioning football as soccer, because no one here ever says that. It’s only when you watch American commentary day in and day out that the word becomes ingrained in your head, just as tourists can get into some embarrassing situations by referring to pants when clothes shopping. Currently, I am walking along the streets near my house, clogged up blocks crowded with people. This city is full of shopping malls with sports stores, where high top sneakers are the hub for people spending money they don’t have, and girls practically getting drunk on new styles of lipstick.

My friend invited me to her boyfriend’s eighteenth birthday party in a bar within the heart of the city. My guess is that I look quite dysfunctional, no makeup, messy bun, Barcelona jersey (No it does not have the name Messi on the back), dirty white sneakers, and jeans. I’ve never been to this particular bar before, but no one ever cares if I’m not old enough to enter, as long as I don’t start a fight. I smile crookedly as I walk, sitting in the opposite corner of the room to my supposed friends. I take the time to watch as Kika Littlebrook is whispering to Maggie Stilton about this cute boy’s outfit (which I have to admit, is pretty cool). I see them pointing, and that’s enough to tell me about their petty conversations. What really catches my attention, however, is their mouths hovering over each other’s ears, talking to one another about how ugly the girl is that he took to the party. I don’t even need to hear what they are saying to see it in their eyes, to watch their expression grow all sharp and soft at the same time as he looks over his shoulder and winks. Art Jacobs is his name, I remember he was the first person to publicly kiss a girl in eighth grade. Ophelia Janson sits across the table from Magnus Reid. Staring at her nails as he starts talking about rugby statistics compared to football. The only reason she even came was because he invited her. The only reason he was invited was because he’s good at sports. What I’ve figured out is how that somehow ups the level of status of the person hosting this party.

“Viki.” Evelyn McNair is rolling her eyes at me from across the room, smirking as I slump over.

“Hey Ev.” Evelyn has gone to school with me practically since I could walk. We were even on the same soccer team for a while, before I got too good for her on-field dramatics. It’s her boyfriend’s birthday today, Romy James. He somehow rented out an entire bar for the occasion. God only knows the strings this guy’s parents pulled. He is also a Barcelona fan, though I don’t think he has watched a women’s soccer game in his life. I even had a crush on the jerk in fifth grade, though he made it known that that was never going to work out. He’s the type of boy that’s just dating Evelyn because of her pretty little sister, mind you Angelina’s only fourteen.

“Viktoria!” He yells, pulling me into a tight, mostly uncomfortable hug. My watch starts buzzing, telling me I have an hour to be out of this bar, and done with the whole thing. Romy’s hugs always make me feel like I should run away, that something is just wrong with the way he holds you. His arms always squeeze a bit too tight and his hands grip the top of your pants, no matter how low waisted they are. Tonight his breath smells distinctly of alcohol, his eyes glossy and his shirt color sweaty against my forehead.

“Don’t hug her like that!” Evelyn scolds. I feel Romy’s grip loosening, moving around to hug Evelyn from the back. “I’m your girlfriend, not her.” The way she says the sentence makes me tense all over again. It’s not even like Evelyn cares about my own well being. It was different when we were little, apparently, she would stand up for me. I didn’t usually even talk to her, let alone care what she thought. I guess she just felt obliged to be a nice person, though I never needed her help. When I got older, I signed with a semi-pro soccer team in the area. In a few years, I hope to play internationally. If not a dynamic personality, at least I have that.

“Ev!” Romy practically drags Evelyn out of the barstool she is sitting on. “My birthday, my choice of who to dance with!” Evelyn’s face goes from slightly uncomfortable, to genuinely excited. I hate watching her like this. Everything that defines her had now turned into the devil’s opinion of her naive soul. She twirls and dips, spinning into dizzying circles not bothered by the way Romy greedily stares at her silver necklace, or little sister when Evelyn is anywhere but a party setting.

As the night drags on further, the dancing gets more and more uncomfortable to watch. Romy has now set up his own girlfriend with another guy. Surprisingly, he doesn’t look like he’s had many drinks, standing by the barstool fidgeting with his car keys. I see him pulling up Barcelona statistics on his phone. The bright blue background of the screen flashing the familiar colors into his eyes. By the time the watch on my alarm sounds, I am the only one not dancing who is still sober. The smells of smoke and alcohol numbs all feelings in my nose. The familiar buzz of my phone vibrating makes me want to scream. I just wasted an hour of my time, in a place I hated, with people I don’t even like, for something I felt obliged to attend. Why did I feel I needed to attend? I honestly think that I just wanted someone to see that I cared. I really don’t care. I only cared about the kid who thought about other people other than herself and that stupid, immoral disaster of a boyfriend. I care about having friends who actually are nice to others, and not just me because I seem to help them out in some way. She’s the girl who plays soccer, she’s the girl with a high GPA. My emotions feel like they are about to go on overload like they sometimes do when I have an exam I haven’t studied for at 1:00 am on test day.

 “Viki!” Evelyn yells at me when I start walking into the cold night air. The dark night wind flushes the redness and embarrassment into my face. I almost forgot I even heard her. “Viki!” Evelyn continues to run towards me, telling me things that were never true. She says that I hate her and that’s the reason I’m leaving.

“I don’t hate you!” I yell back through the bar door because I really don’t hate her. I just don’t want to deal with her. I don’t want to watch her melt further and further into someone she never was. I’m not due home for another hour, I just decided an hour was enough time not to seem like a bad friend. It wasn’t even her birthday party anyways, just some guy who pretends to love her.

“Viki!”

What do you want!” I snap. I feel my hair whip around into my face, making my mouth fill with strange, distasteful bile. 

“Whoa, hold on there.” Romy looks plain. I never thought I would use that description of any person living in my city, but Romy, of all people, looks plain. His usual cocky expressive features have flattened into a straight line. His leather jacket has been taken off revealing a plain white t-shirt and jeans, and his previously gelled hair has been pushed down into a wet mop.

“S-sorry,” I don’t really know what else to say. I mean, I did yell at the wrong person, but even he knows he deserved it.

“You leaving already?”

“Yeah,” I say, my back facing his bland outfit. I have no idea where I want to walk, all I know is that I have to look convincing for him to let me be.

“Mind if I walk with you?” Leave it to eighteen-year-old boys to not understand anything relating to body language.

“Actually, yes.”

“Well, too bad.” I grind my teeth to stop me from hitting him squarely in the jaw. We walk in silence for a minute or so. I try to lose him, walking into large, crowded groups of people and slinking into hidden alleys. Romy’s never been a threat to my existence. I can handle him if I need too, that’s not my issue. What I really am nervous about is the fact that it’s always the girl’s issue when she hits a guy, even if he could be tried for stalking me. That’s the only reason I’m running right now. Well, that and the fact that I need a good reputation for anything I want to try when I get older. I even try climbing an emergency ladder. I feel my phone bounce in my zipped pocket as I climb. If I need it, my phone has a GPS as well as numerous calling mechanisms. No, this is not one of those stories where I suddenly have no WiFi. I have a data plan anyway. I finish climbing the ladder to an abandoned fourth story window, and sure enough, he’s right behind me. The cool night air makes my cheeks pink with cold, and red with annoyance. I sit down on the fence ledge, to make sure he doesn’t even get near me. My fists are clenched like claws across the outside metal bars. I don’t have a fear of heights.

“What is wrong with you!” I stop, frustration clouding my eyes with anger. I really just want to leave. Why won’t he let me leave? “You of all people, have decided to follow me, an antisocial, slightly reckless person, who would have given anything not to even be invited to your eighteenth birthday party!”

“Why did you even come?”

“I-”

“Just stop talking. I know you, and you are going to start a sentence right now, that is not going to end for a solid thirty seconds, yet will still have no clear reasoning.” I wasn’t very good at words in the first place. This has just turned my tongue upside down in my mouth. It does not help matters when I suddenly realized that I am sitting on the ledge of a fire escape ladder, with a four-story drop below me, and a creepy guy in front of me.

“I guess I wasn’t as smart as I thought when I sat on a fence that is there for a reason, with a freaky dude in front of me who just chased me up a ladder.”

He smirks.

“Wipe that stupid smile off your stupid face or I will forcefully push you off this stupid balcony.”

“No.”

“Then get out of my space!” I practically leap off of the fence to land right in front of him, making him stumble backward and grip the railing.

“I have nowhere to go either Viki. No place important anyways.”

“Either! I just attended your birthday party. You just left to follow me out of your birthday party. Apparently no one has decided to care enough to search for you at your birthday party. WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE AT-”

“Viki, I get it. But think about it, do you really have anywhere to go? Do you really want to go home by yourself?”

I bite my lip to stop myself from yelling again. I don’t know why I yelled. I don’t usually unless I get into fights with my parents. It’s hard to know what to say to that. I was planning on texting my parents that I was going to walk around for a bit after maybe doing some math homework. Nah, there was no way I was ever going to do homework. Or maybe… I’ve never been the person to plan out what I am going to do. I know what I don’t want and that’s that. But right now, it doesn’t matter. I don’t understand enough about my own head right now to determine what I want. All I know is that I don’t want to know if I care or if I don’t.

“Why did you leave your party? I mean, I understand why I left but you-”

“I wasn’t enjoying it.”

My mouth forms a million questions all at once.

“Stop. Don’t ask me anything. I know what I look like and what vibe I give off and what my girlfriend loves me for, and what my friends care about. I’m not stupid.”

I raise my eyebrows. He has to know what he sounds like, some intelect who has just robbed a bank with no getaway car. Better yet, a forward by the name of Lionel Messi who thinks he’s the best player in the world when Lieke Martens exists.“You sure about that?”

His face looks solemn. A sad smile stretching across his face. I feel no pity whatsoever.

“You still haven’t answered my question. Forget that question! Why did you start chasing a girl out of your birthday party when you already have a girlfriend? Why did you make your girlfriend dance with Jackson Quinn?”

“I didn’t want to deal with it.”

“Okay Romy James. You have-”

“Okay fine! I don’t know what I’m doing here! I just wanted to talk to someone who I thought would understand.”

I don’t really know what he means by that. I know there is a lot I understand about the world in my own way, that most people really don’t get. I understand what it means to hurt, to cry, to feel deeply. I know what it means to live, and to feel failure wash away like a hurricane. There are no particular experiences that have even hinted to why I can comprehend the things I do at my age, it’s just who I am, and who I will be for my entire lifetime. I know who I am but for some reason, who I am doesn’t always feel right, and what I do with my time doesn’t always feel worthwhile.

“Okay,” I count to ten before speaking again, a trick from my third grade teacher who noticed I was good with words, but had so much to say it came out all at once. “Let’s start with the first part of your comments. What are we doing here?”

“I don’t really know, that’s why I asked you.” I was asking Romy to try and process his emotional outburst, but his brain seems to be running like a mouse on a hamster wheel.

“I’ll answer first and then we’ll see if you can follow the example.” I take a deep breath and make sure he is making eye contact before I begin. “On a basic level, I came here to run away from you. I wasn’t worried originally about heights, as I have no fear of heights. But, I realized when I climbed up here that maybe it wasn’t the best idea as you seem quite misogynistic, and similar to a stalker, not to mention your ability to shove me off the roof.”

“As I told you before, I know what people think of me.”

“One, you really don’t. And two, no interjections while the instructor is speaking please. Why do I have no fear of heights though? Why do I crave high places? I don’t like people a whole lot Romy, I hope your little brain would at least know that. I guess to me, it’s easier to try and understand others better, than for anyone else to understand me. High places allow me to escape, observe others, and feel at one with the world and city around me.” I make sure my expression challenges him to have a follow up.

“Well that was a mouthful.” He pauses uncertainly, biting his nails. “This isn’t going to come out the way my brain wants it to. Okay, I know that at least to you I’m a jerk. I was horrible to you in fifth grade, I made fun of you loads as we were growing up, and I just chased you out of my own party. Why you though? I guess you intrigue me in some ways. You always just seem so solitary, and… figured out. I know this is going to sound stupid but you always seem to have your head filled with thoughts of the future while for me, it hangs over like a black cloud ready to soak my present day body to the bone.”

I nod, looking him in the eye to make sure he understands I listened. The city noise rattles in the background of our conversation. I can still hear the bars and concert hubs down the street. It is always busy here, though the music of it is ringing in my ears no matter where I go. “I don’t think you need to understand everything yet. You don’t have to have it all planned out.”

“But I feel like I do. You know you do. You’re that girl who has it all, smart, sports phenom, pretty, and doesn’t need anyone aside from herself.”

“I guess I do, but what about after sports? After all of my passions have been lived out?”

“Then you’ll find new ones. That’s just who you are.”

I smile, and automatically feel embarrassed about it. “I am pretty distinct, aren’t I?” I look at him for a moment, and wonder how this weird, oddly sentimental, guy is having this sort of conversation with me. Me, Viktoria de Leon, the girl with shoulder length, dyed blonde hair and dark roots. The girl who looks like she has her life figured out and quite frankly does, in a different sense.

“It’s not so much figuring out your life, and more what you love. Figure out what you are passionate about, what makes you happy.” I can tell he is thinking about something only he knows after I stop talking. His face is diving into the deep late night light, to ponder my words. “For me, it’s different. I know what I love and what makes me happy, though I need to learn to love myself.” The words come out more of a whisper to me than anyone else. I don’t even think he’s listening anymore, staring out at the street lamps and down the block to the bar. I say it because I need to say it to someone. I need to have my words make sense to me in their own right. 

We waited there for a minute or so, looking out at the blocks and feeling the night air across the back of our necks, enjoying the sounds of other people shouting, and other kids drinking the night away.

“I should go. You have pointed out to me numerous times throughout this conversation how strange I am for leaving my own party.”

“My opinion still stands.” I don’t leave my seat on the railing as Romy climbs down the ladders and onto the street.

“I like your Martens jersey!” He shouts from the ground. I let myself chuckle and wave back before hopping off the railing to take a seat on the floor and look through the metal bars. I have a feeling those are the last nice things he will say to me in a long while. It’s not like he’ll ever be mean again after this, but we are different people. It is more likely he will tell me nothing at all. We live different lives, and he has different friends and interests than I do. That’s just how it is, and I know it’s how it will always be. I do know one thing we have in common however, and that is our ability to persevere and grow along with the coming nights.

Loose Brick

On the last Saturday of August,

an ambulance sirened past Valley Forge.

Your red Toyota was our caboose.

The cyclists who found me, squashed,

waved and went on.

Above me, a clean-shaven man in white smiled. 

He told me I was brave. 

Your electric toothbrush 

vanished from Mom’s medicine cabinet.

My kitsch cast was claustrophobic with sharpie.

The maple trees out my window turned red.

How did the Continental soldiers survive

six months of wind whipped backs?

Were chalk blue fingers

suffering as usual?

Maybe if there was no Days Inn

no road trip  no grasshopper girl

no garden wall  no loose brick     

no tumble   no pavement  

no falling   no crumple

no left arm, cracked in two

maybe you would have stayed.

Why Couldn’t They Just Watch Shrek?

My name is Tate. I’m five years old. I have a big sister named Talia. She’s fourteen years old. Last night, Talia had a sleepover with her friends Ellie and Nat. I like Ellie and Nat. I think they probably like me more than Talia, because she’s boring and mean. I think they probably only had a sleepover with Talia so they could hang out with me.

I decided to be nice to Ellie and Nat. I was going to ask them to stop watching their scary movie with Talia and watch Shrek with me instead. So, I went into Talia’s room.

“Hi, Ellie! Hi, Nat!” I said.

“Go away, Tate,” Talia said. See? I told you Talia was boring and mean.

“What are you watching? Are you watching Shrek?” I asked.

“No. We’re watching this thing about zombies,” Nat said.

“What’s zombies?” I asked.

“It’s like when somebody dies, but then they come back to life. And they’re all bloody and gross and have arms falling off of them and want to eat your brains!” Talia said, trying to scare me.

I snuck a peek at the screen. There was scary music and a hand coming out of the ground.

What I did next was not my proudest moment. I screamed and ran away.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want a zombie to eat my brains. I wanted Mommy and Daddy. But Talia and her friends were still watching scary movies in the living room, and if I went to get Mommy and Daddy, they would see, and Talia would make fun of me.

I decided to scream as loud as I could instead. Mommy and Daddy would run in, and Talia would probably think I was dying. She would be sorry she had been so mean to me.

So I screamed.

Somebody shadowy and big ran into my room fast. It was Daddy. Probably. It was hard to tell.

The big shadowy thing dropped something. The thing was long and thin. It was an arm! Talia had said that zombies had arms falling off of them!

“Tate, honey, are you okay?” That was Daddy’s voice. Daddy had arms falling off of him! Daddy was a zombie!

Then he turned on the light. I was confused for a second, because he still had both arms. I looked at the floor to see what he had dropped. It was a little too long and a little too thin to be an arm. It was the broom that sat on the other side of my door.

“Yes, Daddy, I’m okay,” I said.

“Why did you scream like that?” Daddy asked. “You scared me!”

“No reason,” I said.

“Okay, Tate-bug. Don’t do that again, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, and then I went to sleep.

The Temple of the Lost

The sun beat down on Francis’ back as he slashed through the underbrush with his machete. He moved silent as a mouse, as enemies and predators could be anywhere.

Derrick rolled down the small hill they had scaled, crushing the contents of his pack and various undiscovered species of small mammals. He screamed, but finally came to a stop at the bottom, covered in dirt and plant bits. 

Francis pulled him out of the dirt and brushed him off. Derrick had become somewhat of a challenge in the adventuring archaeology community. Members would be challenged to bring this imbecile of a man on an important journey. Rumor has it that multiple career-making discoveries had been foiled by the sheer stupidity of this man. Francis, however, was the best of the best, and he thought he could handle him. Now he was unsure, having actually spent time with the man.

“You fool!” Francis hissed. “We are nearing the temple of the lost! There could be traps and dangerous animals anywhere! Do you even know why we’re here?”

“I really don’t and I am just fine with that.” 

Francis rubbed his temples and let out the sigh of a man who was on the verge of collapse.

“We are here to retrieve the docunlitous contigous berry. Rumor has it that one of the last few berries is in the temple– ”

A spark of intelligence lit up in Derrick’s eyes like a tiny match behind seven layers of lead.

“I remember now! The dornkus berry! It makes you not get all wrinkly and stuff!”

“Actually it halts your aging — ahh, close enough. Just stay quiet!”

For the first time on the six-month expedition, Derrick moved quietly and stealthily. Francis was amazed that this creature was capable of this, but he had other things to focus on. 

The temple rose above them. It was around twenty feet tall. Smaller than Francis had hoped, but as long as it held his prize, it could be four feet tall for all he cared.

“Who could have made such a temple?” Francis wondered aloud.

“Jo mama.”

“Shut up Derrick! This is serious.”

Francis handed Derrick his pack and rolled up his sleeves.

“I will disable any traps inside. Wait here.”

Francis returned several hours later with considerably more cuts, bruises, and spider bites than before.

“You look like crap!” Derrick remarked.

“Let’s just go inside.”

The pair nervously trudged across the hallway, finally reaching a golden case at the end of the room. Francis carefully opened the case to reveal a small purple berry. Rather unremarkable, if you didn’t know it’s history.

Francis stared at it in almost-holy reverence as Derrick plucked it out of the jar and accidentally squished it between his oafish fingers. He watched as it dripped onto the ground.

Francis stood in shock for two breaths.

Then his face contorted into a mask of anger, his body trembling in rage as he let out a primal shout. Months of putting up with this man’s unending stupidity, his mockery of the work Francis considered so sacred, and his stupid quips and ruining of equipment just ended in the destruction of what Francis had been searching for his entire life. This man… THIS MAN would pay.

He leapt across the room, his hands contorting into fists as he began a furious assault on this oaf. His fists fell like meteors and his scream was deafening, assaulting the man in his soul and his body. He screamed and screamed and screamed, until some hours later both of the men collapsed, the tension between the duo exhausted. They fell asleep, both dreading what would come in the morning.

Taxi!

It is hot. Very hot. I can feel my legs sticking together under the tight, unbearably itchy skirt I bought at a vintage shop for four dollars. I feel beads of sweat in my hairline about to make its grand appearance. The faint rumbling in the distance brings my hope up for a second, when I realize it is the R. The one positive thing about missing the train to the biggest job interview of your life so far in 97 degree weather is the gratifying gust of warm air from the wrong train. I fan myself with my hands, like that’s going to do anything. In that moment I make a decision. I’m taking a cab.

As I walk up to street level the loud sound of honking of New York makes me want to break down and cry. Can you just stop honking for one second? Sometimes I just wish that everything would just freeze. That way I could get to my interview and everything would be fine and dandy. But that’s not how life works.

I stand on the curb and flail my hand rapidly. Thankfully, a cab pulls over. I hop in so fast, you could mistake me for the flash if you squinted. I pull out my black heels and slide them on in replacement of my sneakers. I yell at the driver to take me to my location.

“Broadway and 50th please!” The man gives me a thumbs up.

Once I’m in the car and buckled up I feel a sense of relief. Lucky for me, there is air conditioning and mild traffic, so I’ll probably be there on time. I sit back and take a few breaths. In and out. Ok, game time. I pull out my laptop and open the website for the graphic art company, Art Touch NYC. I watch the company’s introductory video for the 100th time. At this point I basically have the 45 second video memorized. Next, I open YouTube to a video titled “how to ace that interview! Tips from a pro”

I’m about to watch it when I hear a voice coming from the front of the cab. 

“So why so stressed sweetheart?” the man says.

“Job interview,” I say and do that smile that you do to strangers on the street that is also used to signal that you don’t want to make a conversation with the creepy old taxi driver that just called you sweetheart. Gross.

Instead of taking my signal of the fake smile and me starting my job interview video again, he keeps talking.

“What kinda position?” 

“I’m interviewing for a graphic design job. My job will be an assistant client agent. At least that’s what the job title is called. I will basically assist and learn from the head of that branch,” I say in a quick and monotone voice. That was a sort of close ended answer, so I’m really hoping he stops talking and lets me touch up my makeup.

“Is this your first job? I’ve always had a sense for when people are stressed out. Or maybe it’s because your face is all twisted and you are so extremely frustrated with the task of untangling your ear buds,” he says, looking in the rear view mirror. He chuckles. 

There is something sort of therapeutic about his voice, but I was not in the mental state to be having small talk with my taxi driver. 

“I’m Eddie by the way”

“Isabel,” I respond. 

“Oh Isabel! What a beautiful name. You know, that’s my granddaughter’s name. She’s the sweetest girl. I think you would love her. She’s 16.”

“Cool. My younger sister is 16 also. Her name is Rebecca,” I say, almost forgetting about the interview for a moment. “I haven’t seen my family since Christmas.”

“Wow, what a coincidence! I haven’t seen my beautiful girl in a little over a year. Her mother…” he trails off and bows his head. The car pulls to a stop at a red light. “Actually, I have a picture!”

I close my laptop and look at the small picture he pulled out of his wallet. She has black hair and brown eyes. He smiles and carefully outs the picture in his wallet.

I smile. “She looks like a nice girl. What does she like to do?”

“She plays volleyball. I went to one of her junior varsity games a few years ago. She’s really good.” He chuckles and says, “I sound like I’m promoting her.”

I look out the window and stare at my surroundings. The tall building, different shops, hot dog carts, and confused tourists. The hot NYC air has become cool fast wind as the car moves down the street. I stick my head out the window like a dog. 

“I have some advice for you, Isabel. Don’t stress about the little things in life, because you won’t be young, in New York, and following your dreams for the first time forever. Now go get your job!” he says, pulling up to the building. I look at him as I’m unbuckling my seatbelt.

“Thank you.” I take my card out of my wallet. I’m about to swipe when his hand stops me. I smile at him and get out of the car. He drives off. I turn on my heel and open the door into the cold office building. It’s go time.

A Breakfast Call

1.

Friday is always the best, I have art class in school and a longer lunch. Although today it will be devoted to 7th grade geometry. I always study last minute for tests. Breakfast as usual will be cereal. My mom has already left for work and took Katie to kindergarten. I sit at our four seat table that is squished between a staircase and the oven. Our small NYC apartment can only hold us three.

My bag is already standing by the door and my shoes are on. I quickly gulp down the extra milk and am interrupted by a bring bring. The phone never rings. We aren’t very social people. Katie’s birthday party consists of us and her two other friends. Mine are just me and Mia, but we’ve been friends since we were three years old. I bring my hand up to my ear. 

“Hello?” I squeak. My voice is shaky but I don’t know why I’m nervous.

“Ms. Williams?” A deep voice says. “I am from the local police station. Are you the daughter of Sarah Williams?”

“Yes.” My hands start getting clammy. Now I know why my breath is shaky.

“She and Katie got into an accident. They are at the D.C.R Hospital, come immediately.”

I don’t know what I should do but I know for sure that I will be missing art class and our longer lunch. My only solution is to take the subway and I know that will take at least an hour. “Sir, Mr., um, officer, I can be there in an hour minimum?”

“We have to do x-rays now.”

“Oh um… how bad are they hurt?” I say but notice he hung up. My mind starts racing through everything that has happened. How? Why? Where? I run down the street, through the places I have grown up. My strides reach over two steps as I run down the stairs into the train station. As I get into the station I see a train, the R train. Just the one I need. As I run up to it, the door closes in my face and the wind rushes through my hair. The air almost feels damp and I can feel the dirt. 

“20 minutes till the next R train.”

The station is almost empty so I let myself slip down into a ball on the floor. Thankfully the twenty minutes is only 7 and I’m headed in the right direction. I tell myself not to think about what could happen but my mind finds every way to think about it. I wonder if they will get back to normal or how hurt they are. I get off a stop early and decide to run the rest of the way there, telling myself it will be quicker.

They said there was an accident and so there would be traffic. I try not to think who was in that accident. Rain splatters the street and dampens my hair as I run through the crowded streets but I don’t care. Cars zoom past me and I look away, knowing that my sister might never ride in her car seat again.

The one other time I’d been to the hospital was when we were all playing frisbee. I fell and had to get stitches. I cried the whole way there and back. I remembered the same white hallways and plastic chairs. I remembered the smell of medicine and cleaning spray and it whacks me in the face now as I rush through the double doors. Everybody looks so calm but I am scared and way more than nervous. My hands are shaking and clammy. I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“Are you looking for anybody?” a nurse asks me.

“My mom and sister were brought here about two hours ago. I… I need to see them.”

She wraps her arms around me and leads me farther into the white. I am met by another woman dressed in the same white robe. She leads me down a white hallway and stops in front of a white door. It has a paper on it that says “Williams.” I look up at the nurse’s face and she nods towards the door.

Inside is a white bed with white pillows and white walls with a white chair. The doctor greets me and I feel relieved. Katie is in the bed and I don’t want to overwhelm her so I take her 6-year-old hand. Her eyes are closed and she has a tube attached to her wrist. I haven’t noticed that the doctor has been talking to me so I tune in.

“Basically, Katie is going to heal in the next two days.”

“What about my mom?” I cautiously ask.

“Well, she is in a worse state.” He looks down to his clipboard and starts writing again. 

“How bad?” I ask.

He glances up at me through his glasses. I hear him gulp and he turns and walks out of the door. If I wasn’t as shy, I would walk up to him and demand to know. But I just walk back over to Katie and take her hand.

The doctor knows Mom is in a bad state but I just wonder if maybe it could be worse than “a bad state.” As I’m thinking, I notice Katie’s eyes open.

“Katie!” I say. She looks at me through her glazed eyes. Her hair is thrown around her and her lips are dry and scratched. 

“Ella?”

“Oh my god, are you okay? Does anything hurt?”

“Mmm. No,” she mumbles. I can tell from her voice that she doesn’t have much in her so I don’t say more just let her drift into sleep. 

2.

I wake up to find the sun screaming at me through the dusty windows, and the walls seeming so much brighter than they were yesterday. A nurse is already writing something down in her notebook and Katie is sitting up in bed with a glass of water in her hand.

“She should be able to leave tonight,” the nurse tells me.

I nod happily but once the nod is over, everything starts to fill my head. Where should we go? Back home? To Dad? We only call him once a month. He doesn’t have a family yet and he does not have a stable life. He leaves where he lives every month or so and his apartment is always bare. Our only other option would be Aunt Suzy, but her crazy house and 7 dogs make it unlivable. 

By three, I’m stuffed with hospital food and apple juice. Katie is finishing up on x-rays and then we can leave. I haven’t seen Mom yet but the nurse tells me she will be here for a long time so I take her out of the picture. I tell Dad to pick us up at three which for him means four. The one thing Mom always tells us is how late he is.

By the time Katie gets out, it’s 3:30. By the time we start getting bored, it’s 4:00.

4:30 comes quickly and 5:00 passes slowly. When 6:00 comes, there’s no hope left. Katie falls asleep on my shoulder and by 7:00, I’m asleep too. I wake up at 4 in the morning to find a car swerving onto the driveway. It is very old and I can see the once black paint has now turned into a mess of scratches. I scramble up and shake Katie until she is up and yelling at me. 

“He’s here!” I tell her and thrust my finger in the direction of the car.

“Oh my god, oh my god!” she screams and runs towards the driveway. 

I pull her away for a second.

“We don’t know what he is going to be like so take it easy and try not to be too beggy or anything,” I say. She looks up at me and gives me her pouty face. But before she can say anything, he comes up to us.

“Hey girls!” he says. Katie distracts him with her cute remarks and endless hugs, which gives me enough time to look over him. His voice is deep and his beard reaches just below his chin. I can tell his jacket has been through a lot and his shoes are one step away from falling apart. His car growls and puffs. 

“Well, I guess we should get going, is this all you have?” He glances at our bags neatly placed by the bench.

“Yep.” Katie squeals and runs over to them. 

“Oh, I got it, sweety,” he says and takes it from her small hand. He tries to grab mine but I quickly clench my fist around it. His eyes meet mine and they are black, and scary.

3.

When we get to his apartment, it is already seven in the morning. Katie and I fall asleep but I wake up as our car shakes as we run over a pothole. I know as soon as I open my eyes that this is the rundown part of town. The houses are missing shingles and lawns are dry. Windows are duck taped together and clothes are put on racks outside to dry. I look up to find Dad with one hand on the wheel and the other one holding a beer. 

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Taking you kids home,” he says. 

“I know this is my fault, but you at least could have tried to help.”

“Honey, I’m doing my best.”

“Well, showing up at four in the morning with a battered car seems like you didn’t try at all,” I yell, but try to keep my voice down. 

Katie starts to stir and I quickly shut my mouth.

“Monrin’,” Dad tells her. She yawns and stretches out her arms. “We’re here guys.”

The car slowly pulls to a stop in front of a ten story building. The once white paint has been chipped off of more than half of the building and the part that is left has now turned to a matted grey and I can tell that it is not right, that some windows are missing. I find Katie’s hand and grasp it. She looks up at me through her big eyes and I know I should have kept her more safe. Dad throws his beer can in the nearest trash. He’s never gonna change is he? Why did I trust him? Why did I think that for once he could be a Dad? Our Dad.

Godzilla

When I ask you to think about a big movie monster, most of you would think of Godzilla. Many of you would think that Godzilla has one two or three movies, but he actually has a huge amount of movies. There are people who think he is from another world, other people think that he is a prehistoric sea creature, more of that later. Now a lot of people would think that all that Godzilla does is kill destroy destroy destroy, but he has a much more deeper history that has become clearer as more movies come out over time.

Godzilla first hit the big screen in 1954 at a height of 50 metres, which is 164 feet. His length was 122 metres, or 400 feet, and he weighed 30,000 tons. Its original name was gojira which is japanese for Godzilla. He remained that height until 1984, when he became 80 metres or 262 feet, and his length was 190 metres or 623 feet, and weighed 50,000 tons. What a lot of people don’t know is that they made a Godzilla vs King Kong movie in 1962. They even made movies where he had a child! There are 33 Godzilla movies and one tv show. They are making a new one in 2019. He remained that height and length, then in 1991, he became 100 metres and stayed that way until 1993. In 1994, they released Burning Godzilla. He was still 100 metres though. Then in 1998, they made a movie called Zilla. He looked like a t-rex except he was 60 metres tall. 

Then in 2000, Godzilla was 55 metres, and in 2001, he was 60 metres. Then in 2001-2003, Godzilla was 55 metres, and in 2004’s Godzilla Final Wars, he was 100 metres. In Godzilla Legendary in 2014, he was a 108 metres and weighed 90,000 tons. In Godzilla Resurgence 2016, Godzilla shin was 118 metres tall weighing 92,000 tons, then in the tv show, (SPOILER ALERT) there were two Godzillas. One of them was named Godzilla filius and was 5 meters tall and weighed 10,000 tons, and the other was named Godzilla earth. He was 300 meters tall and weighed 100,000 tons. He was a little shorter than the Eiffel tower.

Godzilla is such a beast! But there is more to it. All the other kaiju king ghidorah mothra battra rodan so on and so forth come from the same large family tree with way waaaay larger monsters. King Kong is probably from the same family tree. Anyway, all those kaiju are called the titans in Godzilla King of the Monsters. They probably ruled the world before us. There are even caveman drawings of the kaiju, which is evidence of  my point. Most of the kaiju have something special. For example, Godzilla has atomic breath, Rodan has supersonic flight so he destroys buildings under him when he’s flying. The other kaiju are King Ghidorah, Mothra, Battra, and Ebirah. 

Godzilla could have come from another world or he was a sea creature exposed to nuclear waste, but I think it was both. I think he was alien-looking, very different from Godzilla, then his ship crashed, and there was some nuclear waste or some kind of chemical mixture that he was exposed to that made him the all powerful beast …..Godzilla. 

Now a lot of people would think that there is a lot of destruction in his history, but there is actually some peace in it too. I have a very likely theory that Godzilla and the other kaiju ruled their own parts of the world, so there was peace until we came along. We took the world from them so it will be just a matter of time before they take it back.

I think that the kaiju all had their own territory. It was peaceful, but the cave drawings show that they fight sometimes.  And then when the world split up into different continents, Godzilla went to the ocean and King Ghidorah ended up being frozen in a giant block of ice. I have no idea what happened to the rest of them. I think that Godzilla’s part of the world started shifting to form a continent. Godzilla fell into the ocean, and King Ghidorah’s continent shifted. It formed into the Arctic and he was frozen into a huge block of ice.

I think this is important because the new Godzilla movie is coming out. I think it would be important if more people knew about him so when the movie comes out people will be ready.  I think it is important for people to know that he is more than just a monster because there a lot of stereotypes of Godzilla going around. These movies have given more information on him, slowly revealing his past.

SOURCES

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DbFILj44OX0


Eggward: The Hatchening

Chapter 1

How do you join a cult? Do you need a resume or something? How do you write a resume? These are all things that Greg was thinking. Greg had always had a gaping hole in his life and maybe temporarily joining a cult could help. Greg had an unlikable personality. Shoot, I’m late for work, Greg thought. He got up from his computer and walked over to the door. He walked down the long hallway and pressed “LOBBY” on the elevator. 

When he arrived at the lobby he stumbled out of the elevator door. Some kids pointed at him and giggled. Greg glared at them and they ran away laughing. 

Greg walked to his car. He loved his 2010 PT Cruiser. It was an awful car but it was his prized possession. Greg opened his door then drove off. 

When Greg arrived at his call center, he took off his coat and draped it on his chair. Greg looked at his clipboard which had all the phone numbers that he had to call by the end of the day. Having a clipboard seemed kind of useless considering he had a desk. He put on his headset and made his first call. He dialed the numbers on his sheet. “Hello Sir, how would you like to lose ten pounds in less than five minutes.” *beeeeep* Most of the time, people don’t even    answer the phone, so this was a good way to start the day. Greg was vexed by this. He went to his boss to complain about how no one would listen to him and ask how he could improve his telemarketing skills. Telemarketing is an artform. But his boss wasn’t in his office. That’s weird, Greg thought, his boss was never late. Greg went back to his desk and made more calls. His boss didn’t even come to work that day, he was probably just sick. 

The next day his boss still wasn’t there. 

When Greg got home, he plopped down on his couch and tuned his tv to the news. “15 people have gone missing in the past few days.” All of a sudden the TV volume went silent. Greg stood up to see if he was sitting on the remote, but no, the remote was on the coffee table. Greg blinked, but when he opened his eyes, it was still all black. His room started to smell like dead animals. He couldn’t think clearly, he was panicking, screaming for help… Greg fell on the floor, banged his head on something, then was out cold. 

Chapter 2

Greg woke up. Greg was in a dark, moist room that smelled of roadkill. He heard a chant that kept repeating itself but he couldn’t quite make out what it said. Greg was still a little dizzy from when he was hit in the head. When he tried to get up, his wrists burned. There was an old rope tying him to the chair. The more he struggled, the tighter it got. The chanting got louder and louder. 

A man wearing a dark hood came up to Greg. “Greg.” the voice boomed.

“What do you want from me?” Greg pleaded. “ you have the wrong guy” cried Greg.

“Do you want to see him again?” the voice said.

“I don’t know who you are talking about” Greg cried

“Your Father” boomed the voice

Greg’s father died many years ago when Greg was only 8. 

“My father died years ago in a car crash when I was a boy.”

“He is here” 

Greg was crying

“Where is he then?” Greg cried sarcastically. Another man in a hood came up to Greg. He pulled off his hood. It was Greg’s father.

Chapter 3

Greg’s eyes started watering, he didn’t know what to say. “I-I-how could you?” Greg stuttered. “You ruined my life!” 

“I think you two have a lot to catch up on so uh… im just gonna… ya know, he he leave…” awkwardly said the other guy in the hood as he slowly backed away.

 “What is this place.” demanded Greg. 

“we are the Men of the Night” 

“That’s a stupid name.”

“This is why I never loved you. You ruin everything son” Now you can see why greg has an unlikable personality. 

“Can I leave now?”

“No.”

“Ok.” Suddenly, Greg felt a sharp pain in his neck. Greg felt woozy. Everything went black. “Sleep sleep my child” Greg’s dad whispered into Greg’s ear as he lightly stroked his head. 

Chapter 4

Greg was woken up by the same chant that he had heard earlier, only this time, he could hear it. Ohmah Eggward, Ohmah Eggward, Ohmah Eggward, Ohmah Eggward, Ohmah Eggward. He was tied to another chair. In front of him was one bath tub with the water turned on. The bath tub was full of blood, in the tub, was only one, single, rubber duck. The duck’s beady blue eyes stared into Greg’s. To the left of the bathtub, a pile of marshmallows. The bathtub started to overflow. The marshmallows were now soggy and wet. Greg was sad, not because he knew this was the place he would die, but because some perfectly good marshmallows gone to waste. But no, this was not the place he would die. Greg kept struggling. He twisted his hands, ignoring the extreme pain he felt from the rope on his wrist. His wrist started bleeding. It hurt so badly. But eventually the rope snapped. He was free! He ran around wherever he was frantically trying to find a door or window. He ran around a corner and crashed into someone. It was his father. Greg scrambled up and sprinted in the opposite direction.

“You can’t ruuuuuun,” called Greg’s father. Greg ignored him.

Greg saw a boarded up window. The wood was old, and could break easily. He didn’t hesitate. He jumped into the boards and luckily they broke. He fell down one story on to the ground right in front of the front door. He landed face first. He started crawling away. The front door the building opened. Out came 15 people all dressed in robes but none of them wore the hood. He didn’t recognize any of them. He took a closer look. Greg’s boss was one of them. Some of them dual wielded knives. Two of them carried ropes. All of a sudden, the building started shaking.

“He is here,” all of them whispered. The building started shaking more and more. The front wall of the building crumbled. Inside, was a giant turtle.

“Its Eggward,” whispered Greg’s father

The Dark World

Editor’s Note: Content Warning for Violence and Suicide.

My name is Rex. It is currently 1948, or I am led to believe that by Stalin. I am the best looking person in the Soviet Union. This landed me in a stinky jail cell with my sister and both my parents dead. You see, with my black hair and midnight blue eyes, I got another boy at my school in a rich family jealous of me, so he got his parents to throw me into this cell with my twin sister, Hazel, who has icy blue eyes and blond hair. We plan to make it out of jail. Every day we collect the grease from our bacon, take all the olive oil from our salad, and I sell my poetry to all the other prisoners for their olive oil. My most recent poem is,

I Am Sad, 

Now I Am Glad,

Life Is Bad,

Now I Am Sad. 

Everyone takes my poems super emotionally. Today, I am going to the lunch room again. One of the other prisoners, Mr. Forkle, an old wrinkly guy, gives me a piece of chocolate.

“Thank you,” I say.

I walk a few feet.

“Hey, Rex,” says Jimm, a huge obese guy at another table.

Hazel is sitting next to him. I nod at her, and she passes a note to big Jimm.

He looks at me after reading it and says, “Sorry… I, I can’t.”

I make my way to the largest man in the room, who just so happens to be guarded by five guards, so I talk to the guards and convince them to go and eat their food.

“Hey, Hektor.”

He looks down and says go away. I hand him the note big Jimm denied.

He reads it, and then he gets very quiet and says, “Yes, I will help you get out. Just give me the go.”

I respond, “Thank you.”

The next day, I put all the oil in a jar and shout. I hear the sound of metal ripping, then the tower in the room falls over. I know Hektor did it. He created a distraction. I burn the jar with oil, and I blow a hole in the wall. Hazel and I jump out and run towards the woods, and then the sound of bombs going off and bullets come from behind us. Hazel cries and shouts. I cover her mouth and run. Then we hear shouts from cops. 

“Where are Tam and Sophie?” I ask. 

“Running for the woods.”

Then there is gun fire, and next to me, a bullet hits the ground. I sprint to the woods, and once I get to the woods, I see a car with a key in it. I jump in. On the wheel it says Bugatti, and Sophie jumps in on the other side. I am shivering, and Hazel is sweating. I hit the speed pedal, and in a moment, the car goes from parked to 200 miles per hour. I am tearing through the woods, and dust is flying. Then bombs blow on either side of the car, and a buzzing sound comes from above us.

“Shit,” Hazel whispers.

Then she looks back and sees a machine gun.

Hazel

I look back and see a machine gun.

I shout, “Rex, open the sunroof!”

The small Bugatti window scrolls open. I stick the heavy machine gun out the roof and aim and pull the trigger. Ka-boom is the only way I could describe the fate of one of those five helicopters. Then Rex seeds up the car, and the machine gun misses its aim. I only meant to take down one helicopter. Well, let’s say there were none after that. I feel cold. This is my first time with a gun. Then Rex closes the sunroof, and I sit down, and five minutes later, we show up in a new town, where Tam slows down and parks. On the street in front of us there is bad traffic, so we get out and we ask someone passing by, who looks just like Mr. Forkle.

“Where are we?”

They respond saying Stalingrad. Then I ask why there is so much traffic, and they say Stalin is visiting the city, and Rex asks where he is, and they say in the Capitol Building, and then I say thank you. Then Rex says to me let’s murder him, and I say no stop being so violent then I think if we murder him we will have temporary border laws that make life easier, so we can get out so I say okay yes, lets roll. 

Once we get the car to the Capitol Building, we get out the gun, and Tam blows the crap out of the building. We jump back in the car, and Rex hits the speed pedal, and like a drag racer, drives to the highway. He drives as fast as he can towards the border of the Soviet Union.

Rex

When we reach the border, I let Hazel drive while I shoot all the guards. Then I get out and pick up their smaller guns. The lighting strikes a nearby tree, so I run to the car, and on the way, boom, all I can feel is heat. Then the world goes black.

Hazel

I run out, pick up Rex’s limp body, and drag it into the car. I am crying and shivering and sweating at the same time. I feel his pulse, and it is there but fading, so I drive to the nearest hospital where the doctors start to work right away. One of the doctors looks oddly like Mr. Forkle. Rex’s normally beautiful face is pale and messed up. The nurse brings me to the waiting room where I take a nap. Five hours later, the nurse calls me up. They are going to wake up Rex, and the nurse wants me to be there. They wake him up, and immediately I know something is wrong.

Rex 

My eyes fly open, and immediately I hear talking, all the doctors saying what they have to do next and Hazel saying something is wrong.

“Stop shouting,” I whisper.

Then Hazel shouts is he okay, but her lips are not moving.

All the doctors start talking but more quietly, and for the first time I see them talking with their lips.

Then I say, “Hazel, help.”

She gives me a sad glare, and I hear her say I wish I could, but her lips are not moving. Then I rage. I have had enough shouting.

Stop!” 

Then they stop moving their lips, but the other voice gets louder to the point where they are all saying, “Is he sane?”

Then I play cool and say I am fine and can I go now, so Hazel takes me to the car, and she sits behind the wheel, and all I can hear is her thoughts. Then it hits me. I can read minds. I tell Hazel.

Then she says, “Tell me what I am thinking.”

And I say, “Are you sane?”

And she says I got it. I then think of poetry and now I look around and can almost see the world in a whole new way now. I can feel what I see as a poet, right then I hear gunfire and I shout “drive” but it is too late. Her body jerks up, then she goes limp, and there is blood pouring out of her on to the floor. I immediately grab the machine gun and shoot at the other man with a gun. Then I aim the gun at my head and pull the trigger, and the gun clicks, and I realize, damn it is out of ammo, and I grab one of the smaller guns and pull the trigger, and then I feel blood pouring down my forehead but no pain. Then I see the gun is a water gun, and then I grab one of the larger AK-15s and pull that trigger and hold it down. Then I feel many sharp pains just pouring into my brain, and then a red liquid pours into my eyes and then the world goes black and I stop breathing.

The Mess at Home

Prologue

Skyline, who was a current king remembered when he was a little kitten, when his father, King Storm would play videogames in the bathroom and blast the camp with the noise. It was kinda funny as well as inappropriate to King Skyline when he thought about it. Or he’d watch The Lion King and sing along to the songs…

King Skyline was dreaming about the time when Storm called a meeting…

“Cats of Eastern Rome!” Sky’s father announced. “I have a special announcement. I’m going to be a mighty king when I get older!!”

“What?” one of the soldiers, whose name was Thunder, asked. “Your majesty, you are a king!”

“Yeah I know. But in The Lion King, Simba sings, “I just can’t wait to be King!!!’”

“You should really grow up,” Thunder muttered. “Kitten.”

Skyline was sitting beside his sister Violet. Violet was staring intently into her father’s eyes. Skyline, on the other paw, felt miserable.

Skyline’s and Violet’s mother Saltwater was instructed by King Storm to watch their kittens so that they wouldn’t goof off at the meeting.

“Whoop!” Storm squealed. “I think I broke a sweat!”

Thunder let out a grunt of laughter. “Isn’t there a meeting?”

“Yep,” King Storm answered. “The meeting of Sky and Violet’s apprenticeship. Come on up kitties!”

Violet rushed up, but Skyline felt his fur prickling at the thought of being watched. His sister, Violet, was usually excited to be announced in front of all the watching soldiers, but Skyline, on the other paw, would rather be deep in a hole than in front of everyone.

“Go on, Skyline.” Saltwater gave her son a few licks behind the ears. “You can do it. I believe in you sweety.”

Skyline stood on his hind legs and nuzzled her. I don’t want to leave your side!

“Presenting: Skyline’s and Violet’s apprenticeship!” Storm continued. “Hey, what’s the holdup, Salty?”

“Sky’s being shy again,” Saltwater answered honestly. “Kinda funny eh?”

Storm shook his head. “Remember when I was too shy to even leave my parent’s side? That wasn’t funny. Just come up here with him if that makes him feel any better.”

It probably won’t, Skyline thought. I can’t do this! He covered his eyes with his paws. It’s too scary!

Saltwater picked him up by the scruff and carried him to his sister. “Here you are, Sky.” She set him down beside Violet.

“Shy pants,” Violet teased.

Skyline ignored her and looked up at his father. “W-what’s happening?”

“Your promotion,” the King answered. “Thunder, since you’re one of my trusted friends, I trust you to show Skyline the way of the soldier. Well done, Prince Skyline.”

Thunder looked at King Storm in shock. “What?”
“You heard me, lazy! Get up!” King Storm playfully commanded. “Nah, I’m joking. Just stay where you are.”

“No, I’m coming.” Thunder wearly dragged himself up beside the King. “I’ll do the honor.”

“I’m honored,” King Storm purred. “Honolulu?! You up for training Violet to be your successor?”

“Definitely!” The healer, Honolulu stretched herself out. “I’ll do it.”

“Good,” King Storm murmured. “I’m trusting you with my gifted daughter. Don’t let anything happen to her.”

“You can count on me!” Honolulu vowed.

Chapter One

King Skyline jolted himself awake. No! Father and mother are gone! He turned over and wept into his pillow, feeling like a kitten.

“Skyline! Come out and have breakfast with us!” one of Skyline’s soldiers called.

Many have died over the years, including Honolulu, leaving Violet as a lone healer. King Skyline’s soldiers were now: Alanna, who was his mate, Sofia, who was his daughter (aka the next cat in line for the throne), Shadow, who was Sofia’s sister, Thunder, who was still barely alive along with his mate, Glittery, and these new cats that Skyline had never heard of that just joined the other day, named Rosa and Specter.

“King Skyline!” Alanna called again. “Breakfast is ready!”

King Skyline wearly dragged himself out of bed, remembering to groom his silvery fur. He had the exact same silvery fur and blue eyes as his mother did and his sister, Violet, was the spitting image of their father Storm, with sleek black fur and blue eyes.

“Don’t make me come in there and drag you!” Alanna growled. “We don’t have all day! Sofia and Shadow are itching to play with you!”

If only I could wrestle with my father again, King Skyline thought miserably. I’d give all I have for that. He had watched The Lion King the other night to remind him of his father, but he ended up crying the entire time. I’m not doing that again! Never would I ever cry in front of the soldiers!

Alanna was suddenly right beside him. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Still grieving,” King Skyline said with a sigh. “It’s so hard to lose my mom and then my dad less than a year later.” His mother had died from a deadly disease, then it passed to King Storm, who was forced to retire because of it. Luckily he had gotten better, but he left to go somewhere to heal so Violet wouldn’t catch it. He survived there for a little while, but then he died because it got worse and worse until he was dead all together. One of the cats there was named Aldwyn and brought him the devastating news that his father was dead.

Alanna gave him a few licks on the cheek. “Have you forgotten about being a king?”

King Skyline shook his head. He made announcements like a king would normally do, but sometimes he got stage fright and would freeze in place with his fur sticking all over the place. Alanna and Violet would carry him to the royal tent (which was where he slept) immediately, before he could faint. One time he actually did faint. It was his first announcement when he became King and found out when his father passed away. He had tried speaking to the soldiers but he just got so scared that he froze. Everyone stared at him but then after a few minutes, he just fainted. King Skyline knew he would never forget that moment.

Alanna murmured the lyrics to Hakuna Matata in his ear.

King Skyline joined in. King Skyline went under the bed, trying to control his grief. My father used to sing that song in the shower. Even though it was gross, I loved it. I would listen every day when Thunder trained me to listen to my ears and what I was hearing from them.

“I just can’t wait to be King!” Alanna murmured. “Remember that one?”

King Skyline growled, coming out from under the bed and beginning to dance to the words. “I remember humming that to myself when I was little. I was too shy to sing that aloud. Geezus man, father would sing that song better than I could.”

“Aww shucks, Sky. You have a great voice,” Alanna purred. “Well, I’ve never seen a king of beasts with quite so little hair.”

King Skyline sang the song and demonstrated a long meow, trying to make it into a roar.

“Aww, you’re a kitten,” Alanna purred. “You can’t even roar.”

“Aww stop!” King Skyline headbutted her affectionately. “I’m a lion and I’m trying to roar!” He tried to roar, but it came out as a strangled kitten meow.

“Haha,” Alanna teased. “Lion cub. Can’t even roar.”

“I’m a cat.” King Skyline was beginning to forget about being a king, which he was enjoying. The sooner I forget about my grief, the happier I’ll feel.

“Do you like The Lion King because your father did?” Alanna asked quietly.

Skyline winced. “Uh, I like it because it best describes my life. Simba’s adorable!”

“Cuter than Sofia and Shadow?” Alanna pressed.

“Stop! I don’t like comparing Sofia and Shadow to Simba.” King Skyline threw his paws over his head.

“Get your crown on, lazy. We need to make sure Sofia and Shadow don’t get into trouble.”

“I lost it remember?” King Skyline looked at her miserably. “Oh and I still want to try to roar like Simba!” He tried once again to roar but it came out as a small kitten meow.

“Sky, stop showing off,” Alanna growled, “it’s time to be serious now. I know you want to forget your grief, but that’s not how life works. You still will have a trickle of memories with your parents no matter what. Are you sure you want to forget about them?”

King Skyline looked at his paws. “I don’t know anymore!” He stormed out of the tent and into the clearing where everyone was waiting for him. He could hear their tummies growling. We took that long singing?

“Daddy!” Shadow immediately hugged her dad. “What took so long? Were you moping and doping with mother?”

“We were singing,” King Skyline murmured. He felt a rush of love towards his daughter. “Where’s Sofia?”

“Staring at us as if we’re outta place,” Shadow answered. She let him go and went off to eat.

Sofia stared at her sister as she went. “Father, you’re late again.” Sofia was a distant cat from everyone, the opposite of her sister who befriended about everyone. Sofia was sometimes a hissy and mean cat, but most of the time she was a distant and shy cat. Skyline was also distant and shy when he was little and he still was that way now.

“Yeah I know.” King Skyline looked at her pretty sleek fur. Sofia and Shadow were both black cats with yellow eyes which was unusual because neither Skyline nor Alanna (not even Violet) had yellow eyes. Skyline had blue eyes, so did Violet, and Alanna had green eyes.

“Why so glum?” Sofia asked absentmindedly, meaning she didn’t care for an answer or care in general.

King Skyline didn’t answer. He didn’t want Sofia knowing that he was so attached to his parents even though he was too shy to come out of the bushes. His sister on the other paw would seize that opportunity to make King Storm and Saltwater purr so hard that they’d cry. Skyline, when he was little, used to get so frustrated that he’d go to his bed and cry. Thunder would reassure him that Violet would eventually have to go back to training. He would also advise him to be less shy if he wanted to beat his sister to their parents.

“Well I’m going to hang out by myself!” Sofia told her father in a high pitched voice. “Oh and I can’t wait to be queen.”

Oh boy. Not this again. What a mess ever since the thing that father used to always watch got out into the soldier’s thoughts. Everyone’s been saying, “I just can’t wait to be King!” or “I just can’t wait to be Queen!” but the problem with the song is that if someone says that aloud that means that they just can’t wait for the King to die because he sucks or “I just can’t wait for the Queen to die because she’s trash!” It’s just so mean! I should totally ban this! “Sofia…”

“What?!” Sofia backed away into the bushes with her ears flat. “Oh yeah, you’re the King. I should’ve kept quiet.” Sofia had taken over the throne for a couple of days because of Sky’s recent sickness. It had been so deadly that he had to retire for a short amount of time. Luckily, it wasn’t as bad as King Storm’s sickness.

Just then Shadow raced back. “Hi!”

Sofia glared at her sister, but she quickly went into the bush to hide.

“Father, do you still like The Lion King?” Shadow asked.

“Yep for sure!” King Skyline felt this hollow feeling in his belly when he remembered watching it with his father on his first birthday. Saltwater had been away on vacation, but Storm was still enjoyable to watch the movie with.

“Do you like being king?” Shadow chattered. “I think you should be quite lucky because you make the decisions and boss everyone around. You also get to have your way.”

That’s true, King Skyline silently agreed, but if I could get my way, my way would be to have mom and dad to myself and have Violet be too busy to check in upon them.

Just then Violet passed by. “King Skyline, you have work to do. Stop sitting there like an apprentice who doesn’t know what he’s doing!”

“Stop bullying him all the time!” Shadow spat. “That isn’t very nice at all!”

King Skyline had to admire his daughter’s defense for him. It’s like she’s one of the guards for Simba in The Lion King, except that she’s my own cute little mini guard.

Violet looked at Shadow with affection in her eyes. “You should be lucky to have your daughter in your defense. You should never take anything for granted no matter what.” She walked out of the camp to probably restock the camp’s medicine, like she always did.

Siblings, King Skyline thought in disgust, always attempting to ruin their sibling’s life! Luckily Shadow and Sofia don’t do that to each other, yet. Though I think Shadow’s embarrassing to Sofia. I can see it in her eyes when Shadow goes up to random cats and talks to them, how Sofia looks away and races off.

“Skyline!” Alanna growled. “Eat something or you’ll be starving for the rest of today!”

King Skyline wearly picked at a piece of meat.

“Come on!” Alanna moaned. “You’re going to be cranky!”

King Skyline ignored her and went back to the royal tent. He went under his bed and thought of how his parents used to tell him mysterious stories. If only father would’ve met my kittens. He could’ve taught me the stories that would suit them.

“King Skyline, you would if you search their mind. Don’t be afraid of being a mind reader.”

“King Storm?” King Skyline tried to blink the emotion out of his eyes. “H-how are you here? How’s heaven?”

“I found out your taste in stories from reading your thoughts about your imaginative characters. Remember those imaginary characters you used to have?”  King Storm asked, completely ignoring him.

King Skyline winced. He suddenly remembered his character whose name was Asteroid. He was a mighty lion Skyline made up when he was a tiny kitten. He had almost forgotten about his imaginary friend. I love you Asteroid. I’d make you real if I could.

“Enough of that Sky. Now you should find out what Sofia and Shadow really like so you can tell them a story.”

“B-but I can’t tell stories!” King Skyline wailed in distress. “I-”

“There is no such thing as ‘I can’t’ my little wildebeest.”

“When will I be less miserable?” King Skyline moaned.

“You call singing and playing with Alanna miserable? Come on son, is having a mate and kittens miserable to you?!”

King Skyline looked at his matress unhappily. “I meant not having you and mom is miserable.”

“And if you die now, you might miss out if one of your kittens has kittens in a few years, if they do decide to have them. Are you sure you want to die now?”

“Can you make me die?”

There was silence. “Daddy?” King Skyline clenched his teeth together. “Dad!?”

There was still no answer. He’s gone! Skyline felt frustration course through him. He went onto his bed and buried his face in his pillow. And I just blew the conversation when I asked if he could make me die!

Alanna unexpectedly came in. “Sky?”

King Skyline didn’t bother answering.

“Your majesty.” Alanna bowed to him. “I’m sorry if I forced you out of your tent. You seemed so happy when we were singing the songs from The Lion King together.”

The King finally looked at her and saw her kneeling down. Awkward. “Rise.”

Alanna stood up. “Thanks. I was very uncomfortable.”

I’m uncomfortable too. Maybe I should’ve left you like that so you could see how I feel. Nope, not gonna work. I can already see that idea going horribly wrong.

“Shadow wants you to tell a story to her,” Alanna confessed uncomfortably. “I thought you could tell her one.”

“What does she want one about?” King Skyline asked. I want her thought to be private. I’m sorry Dad, but I just can’t invade my daughter’s mind. Maybe it was easier for you to read my mind than it is for me to think about reading Sofia’s or Shadow’s. He half expected an answer, but there was none. It was as if his father didn’t come down from heaven to visit him.

“Did you ever have any imaginary characters?” Alanna asked.

“Yes.” King Skyline suddenly felt all the memories of his kitty life flowing back to him. “Asteroid, who’s a powerful lion! He was a hero! He saved everyone’s lives!”

“Now that sounds like the movie Hercules,” Alanna growled.

“He’s a lion!” King Skyline spat. “My favorite!” he began purring as he imagined Asteroid saving someone’s life. “And his companion Belkie who’s a mighty tiger!”

“King Skyline!” Alanna gasped. “You’re being such a…”

“Such a what?!” King Skyline growled.

“No wait. I was thinking. Tell a story about Belkie and Asteroid and make them do what Shadow wants.”

“I don’t know,” King Skyline began, “I’m trying to keep them a secret.”

“Just tell them a story. They’ll never know you looked up to them your entire life.”

King Skyline remembered Belkie murmuring to him when his father died to take his place with honor just like Simba took Mufasa’s place in the movie The Lion King with honor even though he didn’t want to. Same with me. I didn’t want to become King either.

“Who do you like more? Belkie or Asteroid?” Alanna asked curiously.

King Skyline flinched. He had always thought of Belkie as a companion and Asteroid as a hero. He had always liked lions because they looked so beautiful with their mane versus tigers, who looked scary to him. When his mother used to tell him about tigers, he would hide behind her and cry. He loved it when she comforted him. Violet, on the other paw, would tease Skyline of how scared he used to be. She had said something like “tigers aren’t real, scaredy cat!”

“Skyline?” Alanna murmured. “Did I get too far?”

King Skyline shook his head. “No.” Why must I mention who I like more? I’ve never thought of this before at all in my kitty life or adult life!

“Are you sure?” Alanna pressed.

Skyline sighed. Please stop!

“Sky, I think we should have a one on one meeting,” Alanna hissed. “What do you say?”

King Skyline didn’t like meetings really. “Can it wait or is it important?”

“It’s important!”

Chapter Two

“So you want to talk about the time when I left because of my sickness?” King Skyline asked uncomfortably.

“Yes,” Alanna answered.

“What’s up then?” King Skyline got himself comfortable.

“Did you find your crown? It’s important that kings have their crowns.”

“No! Why? It isn’t that important! At least I survived!” King Skyline growled. No! I meant to say when I nearly “drowned.” I lost my crown in the river. I was peacefully walking to stretch in the sunlight when I tripped over a root and fell into the river. There he had nearly drowned, but Alanna rescued him. Unfortunately, he couldn’t go back and get his crown because it was too deep in the river. “Is that what we’re talking about?”

“No.”

“Then what are we talking about?”

“I want to talk to you about the mess we have here. We need to fix it. Cats have been dying here because they caught your sickness before you left. We only started noticing it after you left.” Alanna looked the other way.

“So what do you want me to do?” King Skyline asked, feeling useless.

“I want you to try to keep yourself healthy and not go off exploring everywhere anymore.”

King Skyline felt a surge of anger. He had always liked exploring beyond the camp, ever since he was little. The reason why was because he knew one day he’d be King so he wanted to get to know the world outside of the camp better. He’d heard that past kings were too busy ruling to get to know the world beyond the camp so when they would just peek at it, they would lose themselves. They had to literally wail to get everyone’s attention and they’d have to search for their king who had stupidly lost himself somewhere. It had actually happened to King Storm, but only once.

And I lost my father’s beautiful crown, King Skyline thought sadly. It was all my fault for not paying attention to my surroundings! I’ve lost almost everything he owned besides his silly spa bath he never used. King Skyline glared at the bathroom where his father would just soak his fur in mud. Totally eww! Who wants to get their beautiful fur messed up?!

“King Skyline, our home has been a mess since you left,” Alanna growled. “We’ve lost almost all our soldiers, if you haven’t noticed!”

King Skyline felt a jolt of realization. “So that’s why I only saw four soldiers outside?!”

“No! There’s still very few left. Here, I’ll give you the names: Thunder, Glittery, me, you, Sofia, Shadow, Rosa, and Specter.”

“What?! So Starlight, Sunlight and Atlantis… died?”

“Yep.” Starlight and Sunlight had been pretty annoying soldiers. They had been assigned to permanent guard duty because they were so annoying. Atlantis was Thunder’s sister who mostly stuck to herself.

“Who’s guarding the camp then?!” King Skyline demanded.

“You tell me. You’re the King.”

“And you might be Queen one day!” King Skyline snapped, “that is if I die and Sofia and Shadow aren’t old enough… ”

“Storm took over when he was ten months old so I don’t want to hear it,” Alanna interrupted.

King Skyline continued, ignoring the interruption, “or if I decide to bring marriage back and marry you, which ain’t happening!”

Alanna let out a purr of amusement. “If you take your shyness down a notch, anything could happen. You have crazy ideas in your mind, your majesty.”

How does she know everything about me? Can she sense it? The King shook himself out. She can’t even read minds! But she does know me a little too well.

“Sorry Sky, I didn’t know that unsettled you.” Alanna shifted her weight from paw to paw.

“Just stop talking for a sec,” Skyline murmured. “I need time to think over what you said about the shortage of soldiers. We could fall apart less than two years after Western Rome fell apart.” The current soldiers all lived and have lived in Eastern Rome which was where King Skyline and his soldiers had lived for countless years. Western Rome had crumbled because the leader of Eastern Rome before King Storm who was Queen Annabella led her soldiers into a battle which had startled Western Rome so much that they lost. Though King Storm told his son that his parents, who would be Violet’s and King Skyline’s grandparents, had been killed in that very battle. King Storm never told his son nor daughter the names of his parents though.

“I really am sorry,” Alanna repeated. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. But then again, it’s just us. No one else is here.”

“Sofia likes to overhear conversations,” King Skyline hissed. “Remember when she talked loudly to us saying, ‘why do you have to leave? You can just have your sister heal you!’? It really did scare me ,Alanna.”

“You get scared easily,” Alanna said simply. “By the way, never underestimate our daughters. Sofia may be shy and all, but she knows more than she should.”

“What do you mean?” King Skyline felt fear make his fur stick up. “She should be minding her own business.”

“That’s what’s expected of her. But no, she intrudes on a lot of things. For example, I told you that we might have a date late last night and Sofia told the soldiers to keep us in the camp so we couldn’t go outside the camp and hang out one on one,” Alanna growled. “Remember how much I yelled at her that night and how much you were clawing up your bed?”

“Yeah.” King Skyline had liked the satisfaction of blaming his problems on his bed by clawing it as well as hissing at it.

“Shadow isn’t nosy though for some reason,” Alanna said uneasily. “Well she doesn’t make it obvious if she does overhear our conversations.”

“She doesn’t!” Skyline blurted. “She gives us our space.”

“How do you know?!”

“I uh… ” Well I didn’t find it in her mind, but she doesn’t ask us any suspicious questions and the soldiers don’t say anything. But I could be wrong and she could be overhearing our conversations.

“Exactly!” Alanna growled. “You don’t know for sure, unless you ask her.”

“Nope! I ain’t doing this!” King Skyline said immediately.

“I never said you had to ask her. I don’t know if I want to ask her either. I think it’s best if we just-” Alanna began.

Just then Shadow darted in. “Sofia’s spying on you guys!” she gasped. “I came to warn you to keep your voices down!”

“Did you overhear our conversation?” Alanna growled.

“No!” Shadow gasped. “I’m always honest.”

“I believe her,” Skyline said quietly.

“Oh Skyline! You must think before speaking!”

The King ignored her. “Shadow, can you tell Sofia to mind her own business?”

“I told her to leave you guys alone, but she hissed at me!” Shadow wailed. “What should I do?”

King Skyline felt uncomfortable. “Alanna, can you ask her?”

“She won’t listen to me either. Maybe she would obey if you asked her yourself. After all, you are the King.”
King Skyline nodded and tracked his daughter by her scent. Asteroid, if you were real, what would you say?

He heard a hiss coming from behind a statue of the first king who was King Rome. No one really liked him because he was a spoiled brat but someone was probably forced to build that statue of him.

“Oh hi father, I didn’t know you were here.” Sofia came out of hiding. “I just thought I heard voices.”

“That was mine and your mother’s,” King Skyline growled. “I’ve come to find you to ask you something.”

“What is it?” Sofia asked, “and I’m not going anywhere near Shadow.”

King Skyline ignored the last part of what she said. “Can you stop spying on me and your mother?”

“B-but, I like knowing your plans-” Sofia began.

“Do I have to post guards just because you won’t give me and your mother alone time?” King Skyline pressed. I don’t even have enough soldiers to do this! Sofia, you better not be difficult!

Sofia shook her head. She looked at her paws in shame. “Sorry.”

“Good. If I hear anything about you spying on us, then I’ll have to post guards. Understood?”

“Yes father.” Sofia left the royal tent miserably.

Is this the power of a lion? King Skyline wondered as he went back over to join Alanna, and having a tiger companion?

“Well done Skyline. You’ve become a great king in my place.”  King Storm’s voice surprised him.

King Skyline looked around, but didn’t spot him. “Was it Asteroid and Belkie?”

King Skyline could’ve sworn he heard his father purring with amusement but he wasn’t sure. “No son, it was all you. Those silly made up characters had nothing to do with you putting a stop to your daughter spying on your’s and Alanna’s conversation.”

Skyline brightened. But we have a shortage of soldiers. He felt his happiness fade.

“Be patient. More will come over the years.”

“What do you mean by that?” King Skyline asked, feeling startled.

There was no answer yet again. Darn!

“Who are you talking to?” Alanna asked.

King Skyline prefered not to say anything. “One of my imaginary characters.”

Alanna let out a purr of amusement. “Which one?”

“Asteroid.”

“Did he help you at all?”

“Not really. He’s too proud, just like Scar is from The Lion King.”

“So Asteroid’s a villain?”

“Not exactly,” King Skyline said uncomfortably. “Well maybe in middle.”

“And what is Belkie?”

“Asteroid’s girlfriend.”

“Is she on the good side or the bad side?”

“Same as Asteroid.”

“So they’re both evil and not evil at the same time?”

King Skyline let out an impatient sigh. “Were you even listening to me?”

“You keep talking too fast that it’s impossible to actually catch anything you say.”

King Skyline gave her a weird look. “That makes no sense. You would’ve heard if they were neither on the good nor the bad side.”

“Okay, I was joking. I was just clarifying it to make sure I was picturing the right thing.”

King Skyline and Alanna both purred at the joke. “Neat,” King Skyline commented.

“That’s all you’re going to say?”

“Why? You want me to say more?”

“Not if you feel uncomfortable…”

“Oh I’m getting you for this!” King Skyline playfully launched himself on top of her and the two cats rolled around wrestling for at least five minutes.

Alanna finally untangled herself from her mate. “Man you’re heavy!”

“You are too!” King Skyline retorted.

“Well, since I’m tired I’m going to take a water break. Care to join me?”

“Count me in!” Together they dashed to the river to take a drink of water.

My Silent Resistance

“Taz, the psychologist from the adoption agency is here. She’d like to ask you a few questions,” Dad says to me. This happens every year. I run out of my room and into the living room, where I see a tall young woman standing in front of me.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tazu,” she says. I wave shyly in the corner and get out my phone to talk to her.

I am autistic, what most would consider “lower functioning,” and I can’t speak with my mouth parts, so I use a text-to-speech app to communicate. “Pleasure to meet you too. Now what is it that you would like to ask me?”

I pray that even though she now knows I’m non-speaking, she will assume competence and not condescend to me or treat me as subhuman, in a way. That is a stigma that many nonverbal autistics such as I know all too well. That’s why I hate labels like high-functioning and low-functioning: low-functioning means your capabilities are ignored, your humanity brushed aside, and high-functioning means your deficiencies are ignored and you can’t get the support you need; basically either way it sucks, and you often have to go through life alone.

Fortunately, she treats me normally. “All right, first question: are you happy here?” she asks. I nod my head. I am so happy with my dads, though the trauma of my past still haunts me.

“I’m glad to hear that, Tazu. Next question: Do you feel safe here?”

This is a tricky question. It appears to be analyzing two variables: immediate, actual safety and perceived safety. I assume that for this evaluation, what she really wants to know about is actual safety, and I don’t want to give anyone the impression that I feel unsafe with my dads. 

I decide to be honest. “To be honest, occasionally not so much. I mean, my dads treat me well and I feel very safe in their care. But sometimes I get these irrational fears that my dads are secretly planning to turn on me. Or that one of them could do… what my mom did to me. But it’s completely unreasonable. I know they would never do that. So yes, I occasionally worry about my safety, but I know those worries are not rational.”

“Thank you for being honest with me. Final question: my results tell me you’ll be able to hold a job someday. Is that something you are considering?”

I frown and hesitate for a second. “I highly doubt I will ever be able to hold down a job. Who would hire an autistic girl who can’t talk?” 

I walk out of the room, feeling utterly hopeless. My dad sees me and walks over to check on me. “Hi Taz, you look sad. What happened? Did the evaluator talk about anything upsetting?” 

“Yes,” I type. “She thinks I can get a job.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand why that would upset you.”

“I can’t get a job. No one would hire me.”

“What do you mean?” my dad asks. “You’re smart, funny, and a brilliant writer. I’d hire you.”

I roll my eyes. He just doesn’t get it.  According to the latest statistics, 85 percent of autistic adults are unemployed, and for nonverbal people, the statistics are even higher. It is statistically very unlikely that I’d ever be able to hold a job. I’m just thinking realistically and long-term here. 

“You KNOW me, Dad. Employers don’t. They’ll just see a weird, too short girl who can’t talk. Autistics don’t get hired.”

“Sure they do,” my dad replies. “What about Einstein? Newton? Dickinson? Heck, there are even rumors of Hitler being autistic, and look how successful he was! I mean, I’m not saying you should become Hitler, but you get the point.”

“First of all, I don’t want to be associated with Hitler. You do know he KILLED autistics along with countless other people, right? Besides, those were the exceptional people. I’m not exceptional.” 

Dad giggles. “First of all, I don’t promote Hitler. Second of all, you’re exceptional to me”, Dad replies. “But you’re right. Employers don’t know you like I do. I’ll tell you what. There’s an autism resource fair next Sunday. Why don’t we find out what your options are?”

I sigh. “All right, let’s go. But if I don’t like it, you owe me a trip to the ice cream place.”

Dad laughs. “It’s a deal,” he says. 

ONE WEEK LATER

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. A too-short Japanese/Korean-American teen with long wavy hair and wide eyelashes stares back. 

Fun fact: 15-20% of autistic people are nonspeaking. Another fun fact: only less than 2% of them get jobs. Final fun fact: I am one of those 15-20%. 

It’s really hard to believe, at age sixteen, that I’m still alive. When I was trapped in the misery of my childhood, I never thought I would make it this far. For years I had expected, and later hoped, to die. Then it happened, and for a while I thought I had my wish. But then my dads rescued me and life started to seem worth living. 

Could I have actually died, probably? Died briefly and been reborn? Nah, I don’t think being reborn as the exact same person is a thing. When I was a little girl and hospitalized, no one would tell me what was going on. They didn’t think I’d understand, because then I didn’t have any method of communicating. 

On to much lighter things! I’m going to an autism resource fair! For a future I thought I’d never survive to see! Wow, I’m really bad at changing the subject. Alright, let’s think about cats. And the color purple. Purple cats? 

I put on a purple shirt, one I’ve worn every other day for the past year. Wearing purple makes me happy—so why not be happy every single day? 

I brush my teeth and hair, put on deodorant and chapstick. With my poor motor skills, chapstick is about as good as it gets. Best to play it safe.

I’m all ready! I bounce up and down, read a few poems, and play quiet classical music while my dads are still asleep. 

Dad drives me to the fair when he wakes up. Dad points to a display board advertising a new initiative called “Hiring Neurodiversity.” “See, Tazu, this agency will help you get hired without an interview!” he says excitedly. 

“And how long will that job last once they find out I can’t talk?’

“You don’t know. Don’t assume the worst.” 

Just then, a tall, thin man walks up to us. He has blonde hair, hazel eyes, and a big blue “Autism Speaks” t-shirt with a puzzle piece logo. 

“Hello, sir,” he says to my dad. “Are you finding any helpful resources?’

“Yep, lots of great information,” Dad replies.

For an alternative definition of great. Most of this stuff is for newly diagnosed toddlers. Do they expect us to magically poof out of existence at age 18? 

“I’m so glad to hear that! My name is Jackson and I work for Autism Speaks. We’re working on fundraising and finding a prenatal test and cure for autism. We have a budget chart if you would like to see it. Now who’s this little girl?”

I take a glance at his budget chart. It seems like they make a lot of money, and only 4% of it goes to helping actual autistics. The rest go to research, which I assume means finding a way to wipe us out of the gene pool and preventing us from ever being born. Yeah, so much for Hitler being autistic. Might as well be named Auschwitz for Autism. How is autism “speaking” if you’re trying to eradicate the people who have it in the first place? 

“This is my daughter Tazu.”

“How nice! Can she hear us?”

“Yes,” I promptly reply. I am autistic, not deaf.

“Oh, she types. How… nice,” Jackson replies, looking displeased.

 “Anyhow, Tazu loves to write,” Dad says.

I share a nature poem I have recently wrote with Jackson. 

“You have a very talented child,” he says to Dad. “Autism Speaks is working on an anthology about autism and the strain it has on families. Would she like to write for us?”

Wow. I never dreamed this could happen. Somebody in the real world thinks I’m good and wants to publish my writing. Screw my first assumptions about this group. A eugenicist wouldn’t want to publish my writing. Sure, he has some questionable viewpoints, and he talks about me like I’m not there, but at least he’s offering me opportunities.

“YESYESYESYES!” I type. 

Jackson smiles. “A personal story would be great. Something that could reassure and inspire parents of kids with this devastating disorder.”

Wait… parents? Like my mom? I wanted to write for fellow autistic people, not the people who did what they did to me… this isn’t… this doesn’t really…

“She’s tired, isn’t she? I’ll send you an info packet about our next autism support meeting. I think it would be helpful for you both, especially Tazu who needs to understand what parents go through. It’s so hard when your child lacks empathy and love is a one-way street, isn’t it?” 

Wow. Now I REALLY hate him. I try to forget and instead see this as an opportunity to share my voice and combat what seems to be the COMPLETE LACK of actual autistic input in this organization. 

A bit later, Dad drives me to the ice cream place as he promised. “Whew, that was HOT!” he comments. “And the drive here was so long! I’m all worn out for the day.”

“We would have gotten here sooner if you didn’t blab on to EVERY SINGLE PERSON YOU MET,” I type. “You’re like a dog sniffing the butts of other dogs.”

I smile. It doesn’t matter that the fair was hot and boring. It doesn’t matter how hurt I was by Jackson wanting to “cure” me of who I am. None of that matters. Because publish publish PUBLISH! 

I turn to my dad for a second. “It’s just—it was a little strange how that man was talking to you about me when I was right there. Also how he’s all into cure and prevention and stuff.”

“Yeah, I didn’t love that either,” he replies. It just felt a bit off.”

“But it’s not important. More important is that I COULD GET FLIPPING PUBLISHED!” 

Dad smiles. “I’m so happy for you too! But to be honest, the way that man talked worried me a bit. Like he didn’t see you as a full person. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“I think I can handle it.” I reply.

“That’s good.” Dad checks his phone. “Hey, I just got an email from Jackson about the autism group. It’s in two weeks. Do you want to come?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ve always wanted to meet some more of my fellow Autistics.” 

                                                  …..

I pace back and forth, the light shining brightly in my room. I can’t believe I’m going to an autism support group later today. What if they don’t like me? What if they want to get rid of me? But what if they’re really nice? I don’t want to miss out on a great opportunity!

It is 4:30 in the morning. I get up and wake my other dad up, whom I call Pop.

“Hi Taz! You’re up early. What’s up?’

“Hi, soft drink,” I playfully type.

“No, I’m Pop!”

“Hi, champagne. Icky!”

“Your dad and I love that you hate the taste of alcohol.”

“No, icky you!”

Careful, Taz. Insult me too much and I’ll have to disown you!’

My smile fades. The flashbacks from my old past come flurrying into my head, no matter how many times I try to get them out.

“Oh no, Tazu, not for real…” Pop says. “I only meant to tease you like you teased me. Not make you sad. I would never really… do that. Other teens say ‘I hate you’ to their dads. If ‘icky’ is the worst thing you call me, I think I’m good. Plus… you’ve smelled me after going to the gym. Given how stinky I get, I’m lucky YOU still love ME!”

I hug Pop tightly. Of course I will always love my crazy old Pop. 

I fall back asleep. At a fairly more reasonable time in the morning, I do my daily routine and prepare for the group. 

I walk into a large penthouse, filled with mostly adult parents who as far as I can tell are not autistic. Most don’t have kids with them. Some wear blue puzzle-piece t-shirts with slogans like “AUTISM SPEAKS: IT”S TIME TO LISTEN” and “MY CHILD IS PART OF THE EPIDEMIC BUT THE EPIDEMIC IS NOT PART OF MY CHILD!” I only see one kid, a blonde-haired little girl. 

“Ouch! Daddy, get it out! It hurts, it hurts!” the girl screams. 

“Cassandra, just suck it up. It’s just a tag. Don’t bother me,” her dad says. He’s wearing a shirt that says “VAXXED: SOUNDING THE ALARM FOR MY VACCINE INJURED CHILD.” I know how uncomfortable tags scratching against my back can feel. Non-autistics don’t seem to notice, but my dads have always been sensitive. I’d offer to help, but I don’t want to make a bad impression on the group. A young teenager, wearing a sweatshirt that says “Autistic pride worldwide,” escorts the girl to a small room, where I see a bunch of other kids.

Then, the support group starts, and I follow Dad to the group. 

“This group has been lifesaving for me,” the orange-haired mother of the young teenager exclaims with a smile. ‘It’s been a bit tough ever since my daughter first told me she might be autistic. She discovered it through Tumblr or something. We always thought of her as shy, introverted, maybe even a genius. We denied her diagnosis for a while, but she persisted! Now we’re looking for a professional evaluation.”

Another mom speaks up. “How wonderful! We’ve been helping prepare my son for adulthood. Just found out he has moderate to severe developmental delays in regards to self-care. I hadn’t noticed. I love this group too, though the negativity can sometimes overwhelm me, if I’m being honest.”

“I agree. So much focus on the cure and the missing piece of the puzzle. If you asked my daughter, she’d tell you that her autism is a culture, and only a disability because of society.”

My first impression was completely wrong. These supportive parents, listening to their children and their views on being autistic.

“We, um, appreciate your concerns,” Jackson replies. “However, our group is based in Autism Speaks’ mission statement, which is to find treatment, prevention and a possible cure for autism. Also, autism can be soul-crushingly devastating at times, and it’s important not to whitewash it. However, we understand how it is so easy for those of us with… higher-functioning kiddos to forget what it’s like for other parents.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose that’s true,” the second mother says. “Anyways, our son just had a neuropsych and was diagnosed with moderate to severe developmental delays. His motor skills… his disorganization… his ability to do chores… I always thought that he just couldn’t care less about learning to drive, but now there are cognitive problems holding him back!”

I consider this for a moment, then type to give my insights. “Well, when you’re autistic, development is not linear. For example, some people think I can’t understand them because of my ability to speak.” I glance at Jackson for a second giving him an evil eye. “But I’m rather deep thinker and have good cognitive abilities. Dad has tried teaching me how to drive a car, and it usually ends in confusion and sensory overload. So a smart boy who struggles with household tasks is totally normal for autism.”

The two parents nod appreciatively, while the other parents in the group scoff at me. One man turns to his wife and whispers “I don’t believe she really has severe autism. She’s nothing like my child.” 

“Tazu, you’re here to listen, not comment,” Jackson scoffs, then turns to the group and says “self-absorption is a symptom of autism. This is why we must fundraise for a cure.” 

“Anyways, how have everyone’s weeks been?” Jackson redirects the conversation.

“Mine was awesome! My daughter said her first word! Just like a normal child,” one dad says.

“That’s great!” Jackson replies. “She is on her way to functioning like a child without autism.” 

“Horrible. Cassandra made another mess. Paints all over,” the dad of the little girl with the itchy tag says. 

“My daughter used to do that. She said she was going to be an artist. I just told her that if she makes a mess, she cleans it up! I had the most lovely artwork, though,” the mother of the teen girl says.

“Well, you have a very high functioning daughter,” Cassandra’s dad says. “Cassandra’s results could never be called art. It’s just a mess. Cassandra is low functioning. She’ll never fit into society. We’ve been implementing behavioral interventions but I really don’t see the benefits. All the shrieking! And the bizarre motions with her hands! At this point, sure, I don’t expect total compliance, but at this point I’m fed up. This intensive therapy is just not working. I want my money back.” He sighs. “All this because of a measles vaccine.”

I shudder. Intensive therapy….

Four years ago….

Torture. Torment. Terror. Treachery. Nope, when you’re autistic, it’s just treatment. And that’s what I was subjected to, for forty hours a week. A therapist would come over and do drills with me, 6 hours a day, every day. “Touch green.” “Look at me.” “Say ‘I love you’ now.”  “Good girl.” “Do what I say or you’re a bad girl.” “Let’s see if you’ll behave.” 

I didn’t know it then, but there was a word for this: ABA-based behavioral therapy, with aversives, the only scientifically proven treatment for kids like me.

“You need to look at me, Tazu,” the tall, intimidating, slightly overweight therapist Becca, says. Oh no, not this again, I can’t do it. It hurts too much. 

“Do as I say or you’re a bad girl.”

 I immediately look up. It immediately sends my thoughts scattered in a million directions, and it’s almost as if she can read into my soul. My eyes start watering and burning and I can hardly focus. Spears of hot pain rush through my eyes and and and

I look away and start rocking back and forth to calm myself. 

“BAD GIRL!” Becca yells at me, and spanks me. She reaches for her bottle and sprays vinegar into my mouth. I am miserable, but I can’t resist. Being a “bad girl” will only make it worse. 

                                                       …..

Intensive therapy. Behavioral intervention. Total compliance.

That’s what Cassandra’s dad wants done to her. The same kind of nightmare I lived. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. 

I can hear Dad’s voice. “Tazu! Tazu, look at me!”

“EYE!” I shout. “No eyes,” Dad says. “No eye contact. Just Dad. You’re with me now. You’re safe.” I hug him tightly. He’s right. Aversive therapy is in the past. If a therapist ever hurt me, my dads would fire them. No more forced eye contact. No more punishments. I’m safe.

“Can you smell my shampoo?” Dad asks.

I reach for my phone. “I also smell your B.O,” I type. 

I hear the voice of the orange-haired mother. “Maybe you guys would like to step out, go to the kids’ room for a minute?”

“I’m fine,” I say. “Jackson said I’m supposed to be, um, learning what parents go through. I can’t do that in the kids’ room.” 

I begin rocking back and forth to put out the internal fire happening in my head.

“That’s the same thing that Cassandra does! Her father lets her do it in public? Negligent! She’ll never go anywhere if she acts this strangely,” Cassandra’s dad says. 

Dad sighs. “Tazu, you might not need a break, but I definitely do. Will you come with me?” 

I nod and follow him to the kids’ room. I can hear Cassandra’s dad in the background. “I don’t know how that man puts up with that daughter,” he says. “If I had a child who didn’t talk and acted like that…”

“That went much worse than I was expecting,” Dad says. “Some of those parents were so judgmental about their kids. I’m so sorry I exposed you to that.”

Just then, the young teenager with the “Autistic Pride” shirt comes up to me. “My name is Stella. What’s your name?”

I reach for my keyboard. “My name is Tazu. I’m 16 years old.”

“Really?” she asks. “You’re so small! I read that anxiety can cause stunted growth in girls. That study wasn’t specific though. It only said ‘girls.’ Like do trans girls count? What about trans guys and non-binary folks? Is it based on gender identity or sex assigned at birth? They really should have specified.”

“Yeah, they should have,” I agree. As a pansexual cis girl, I also dislike cisnormativity. 

“Yeah,” Stella says. “Wait, what were we talking about before?”

“We were discussing the mystery of why I am tiny,” I type.

“Well whatever you are, tiny is cute!”

I blush. “Thank you,” I reply. 

And then a little girl gallops into the room. She has messy blonde hair and blue eyes. She looks about 7 years old, 8 maybe. “I’m Cassandra! Or Casey if you forget.”

“Nice to meet you! This is Tazu, and I’m her dad,” Dad says.

Casey wiggles anxiously. “Are you friends with my dad?”

Not in a million years, Dad silently mouths to me. “No.” 

Casey relaxes. “Why didn’t you stop Tazu from wiggling?”

“Because I think people can wiggle if they want to,” says Dad.

“Wow,” Casey says admiringly. “You’re awesome. Tazu, I got an idea. Can you abobt me too?”

“Do you mean ADOPT you?” Dad says.

“Yeah! Dad wouldn’t mind. He wants to send me away. He thinks I’m annoying. He thinks I’m, um, hurt by a vaccine or something.”

Just then, her dad comes in. “Cassandra! There you are! Sorry about my daughter. She has no sense of boundaries.”

“Oh, okay. Well, see you next week for the next meeting?” Casey asks. 

Yes, it was a bad meeting. Yes, it triggered me. But I can’t help myself. This little girl, mistreated by her father… I can almost see my past self in her.

“Of course I will see you next week,” I say. “We are friends now.”

DAD POV

Casey reluctantly trudges back to her dad’s car as I stare in shock.

Tazu just agreed to go to another meeting.

To return to the place that set her off.

To expose herself to people who could remind her of her past.

How can I protect her? How can I protect her from the PTSD, the nightmares, the distrust of anyone around her?

It took so long to get her to trust us. I don’t want to risk that progress. I take a deep breath. Maybe I’m just being an overprotective father. “Tazu, I get that you feel bad for Casey, but I want you to think about yourself too. You screamed at that meeting. It looked like you had a flashback.”

Tazu nods her head. She gets it.

TAZU POV

“I understand,” I type. “Casey’s dad is a jerk, so is that other man, and Jackson didn’t stop them. Plus the fact he thinks autism was caused by vaccines—if I ran a group that alone would be a reason to expel someone. But that’s why we SHOULD be there. To give that girl a bit of light in her life.” 

This is a dilemma. A conundrum.

I like that word, conundrum. If I could talk, which I can’t, I would say the word out loud over and over, just to taste the crispiness of it. 

Jackson walks over. “Hello! Now I know Tazu had unreasonable behavior at the meeting, but I hope she’ll come to next week’s.  It’s good for her to think about her audience and not let her low-functioning autism get in the way.” 

I nod. This seems to make Jackson happy. 

Just then, Stella’s mom enters the room. “So sorry about that meeting,” she says. “That man has an attitude problem. Do you want to come to the beach with us? We’ll be talking about boring grownup stuff like mortgages and parenting, but our daughter Stella will be there.”

I nod. 

I am at the beach with Stella and her best friend, Jeffery, who is also autistic. We have a nice conversation about art, the world, movies, and cat videos, which Stella loves.

Stella and Jeffery are very cute. Especially—especially Stella. I have been noticing… things. “Are you a couple?” I ask. They both start laughing maniacally. “Boys aren’t my type,” Stella says. “And gay girls aren’t my type,” says Jeffery. “We’re best friends.” 

I switch the subject, embarrassed. “Anyways, Jackson from Autism Speaks asked me to contribute an essay—”

Stella and Jeffery exchange a concerned glance at each other.

Later, I work up the nerve to ask Stella out. A grin spreads across her face and she starts rocking excitedly. I assume that’s a yes. A big silence surrounds us until she finally says “I could tell when I first met you that you… swing that way. I may be socially delayed, but I have a very fine-tuned gaydar.”

I laugh. 

A few days later:

Me and Pop walk into a large office, with blue puzzle pieces all over it. Jackson is right there, wanting to discuss my opportunities.

“I’m so glad you guys could make it here,” he says. We discuss the essay. I’m getting paid a lot! “Besides the essay, I’d like to offer you two amazing opportunities. One, my coworker is making a documentary about autism and its effect on families. She invited you to speak for it. Two, a reality TV show would like to interview you.”

“YES YES YES YES YES!” I type. I’m going to be TV famous! Hooray!

“Glad to hear it,” Jackson says. “Your name will bring us so much publicity.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Hi guys, thanks for reading! I wanted to include a little guide for how to best interact with autistics. Yes, I am Autistic myself, though verbal. 

  1. Respectful language: Most autistic people prefer using “identity first” language (“autistic people” or “autistics”), rather than “people with autism.” This is because autism is integral to our identities and isn’t a disease that can be separate from us. As well, we prefer not to use terms like “suffering” or “struggling” with autism because it’s just who we are, not a burden. As you read the story, pay attention to who uses what language.
  2. Charities: Organizations like Autism Speaks have been criticized for lack of autistic input and negativity. Instead, support organizations like the Autistic Self Advocacy Network, the National Autistic Society, or the Autism Women’s And Nonbinary Network. Some red flags for a bad charity are: the use of puzzle pieces or the color blue, promotion of a cure, lack of autistic board members, and promotion of abusive or damaging “autism conversion therapies” such as the behavioral treatment Tazu was subjected to. In part two, you will see an example of a good charity.
  3. Help us out socially, but respect our boundaries and don’t force us to socialize. (Yes, disabled people have boundaries too). 
  4. Let us flap, bounce, rock, etc. This is called stimming and it is actually organizing for autistic brains. As well, don’t force us to make eye contact.
  5. Eliminate the word “retarded” from your vocabulary and don’t use “autistic” as an insult.
  6. Always assume that we’re capable: If someone can’t speak, talk to them anyway. Chances are, they’re just as bright as Tazu.
  7. Amplify the voices of actual autistic people.

My Silent Resistance PART 2: 

Pop takes me to a small office to be interviewed for the documentary. I’m so excited! Ready to change the world, influence the national conversation about autism, spread the word to make sure that what happened to me and the abuse Casey is living through doesn’t happen again. I want to save all my fellow autistics, or at least make a difference to some of them. I know it can’t happen in a day, but at least this interview is a good step. It’s support group day today, and I’m thrilled about missing this one, though I was hoping to see Casey again. Jackson gives me a blue puzzle piece shirt to borrow for the interview.

I wait for what feels like an hour, maybe two. I’m so bored! I hide behind a plant and rub my hands against it. I throw off the Autism Speaks shirt. Writing for this company is okay, but I don’t think it quite deserves me publicly advertising it. Just then, a young woman, wearing an Autism Speaks shirt, walks up to me. “Hello, Tazu,” she says in a coo-like voice, as if she’s talking to a puppy. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” 

“Sure, ask away,” I say. 

“When did you learn that you had autism?” she asks. 

“Um, I kinda always knew. I mean, it was kinda obvious. My parents thought I couldn’t hear them, so they talked about it all the time in front of me and how much of a burden it was. They whispered ‘autism’ like it was a dirty word. I was diagnosed early, I think?”

“And how do your parents feel about it?” she asks.

Dads. Focus on dads. “My dads love me for my true authentic autistic self.  They try to accommodate me the best as possible. They take me to respectful therapies that don’t try to change who I am, but make my life easier as an autistic person. The therapies they take me to help maximize me rather than normalize me. Trauma and fear still get in the way sometimes, and I still have occasional meltdowns, but with their support and love, I’ve grown into a somewhat well-accomplished autistic person.” 

Not well-accomplished enough to be able to hold a job outside of an autism organization, though, or even hold myself together in a job that is in one. Not well-accomplished enough to get over the fear, the pain, the flashbacks, the inner ghosts from my old life. 

I sigh. Probably won’t share that with the interviewer. The stereotype is that autistic people have no feelings besides desperation and self-hatred, and I don’t want to give way to that stereotype. 

“Um, we use Person First language here. You’re not ‘autistic’, you’re a person WITH autism. Anyways… what about your REAL parents?”

My… “real” parents….

When I was little, my parents never bothered to teach me to communicate. I was always trying to please them, but it never worked. They never talked to me, but in my dealings with them (or perhaps as they would put it, their dealings with me) I discovered three things.

1. That my parents didn’t like me. They spoke of having another child, a “normal” one, to alleviate their suffering, but also expressed concern that the next kid would also “turn out wrong” (i.e, autistic.) When they did have another kid, they quickly changed their mind and aborted the baby because “imagine how hard her life would be, growing up with a sister like that!”  Whether I got a sibling or not, the point was this: In their eyes, I was a Worst-Case-Scenario, a Tragic Outcome, a Defective Factory Product, a baby they’d have aborted if they only knew what it would become. I was a failure.

2. The reason why I was a Failure, a Not-Quite-Human-Person, and not “normal” like the people I looked up to, was because I “had autism.” No one ever talked directly to me about this (“she’s too incompetent to understand her affliction”) but my parents spit it out in front of me like it was a dirty word.

 “All this because of.. autism.”
 

“You really should go easier on Tazu. Her defectivity, her…. autism.. she’s not the one who cursed us with it. It was Jesus. Jesus Christ wronged us and made our life hell… made our daughter hell.”

 “Autism prevents my daughter from ever being fully lovable and us from ever gaining our sanity. Why do all these self-righteous social justice warriors tell us it’s a gift, a ‘neurodiversity’, a hidden joy? There is no joy in this child.” 

“I want out of this… autism. I want out of this monster. I want out of this child”. 

I never really knew what “autism” meant, but all I knew was that I had it, it was a monster, and therefore I was a monster, could never be lovable, was a curse from Jesus. When I really came to understand myself was when I later discovered the autistic community online, who were probably the “self-righteous social justice warriors” my parents tried to shield me from. Before I met them I saw the world in two groups: Failures and Normals. When I found this community, my world was changed- more than changed. A whole new world, populated by people like me. (Some of them also said that Autism Speaks was a hate group, and I’m starting to see that from my time here, but… who cares? Probably just a vocal minority). To my parents however, autism was far from a culture. I learned that if I stopped having autism, Mommy and Daddy would like me, and I’d stop being a Failure. I’d become a sacred Normal, like Mommy and Daddy and Becca were. 

3. Because I had autism and was a Failure, I was never safe. Therapists would scream and pin me down and lock me in the dark, all in the name of compliance training, applied behavior analysis (ABA), hard work, “tough love.” People say ABA is like dog training for kids… I couldn’t disagree more. No reasonable dog trainer would treat a dog that way. My mom tortured me too at the therapist’s recommendation. My dad was the more sympathetic one. He was the one who made the comment about autism not being my fault but being Jesus’s fault instead when my mom yelled about how much I had robbed her of. (He was a very devout Christian who also happened to believe being gay was a sin). He was the one who called the police when it happened so I wouldn’t die. He didn’t hurt me or anything, didn’t abuse me, didn’t hit or punish me. He always said “I love the child but hate the autism” while my mom was more like “hate the child because of the autism.” But for all the abuse it caused me, being on the spectrum with parents like mine gave me a unique (dis)advantage.

Non-autistics are always so discreet. There’s a meme I saw on the Internet: a smiling zombie going look at me I’m a neurotypical, I give weird hints about things instead of just telling people! So much confusion, so much fuss over not being rude or offending people, and it’s like, just tell me already! But because my parents assumed I couldn’t understand them, and they hated me so much that they had every intention of being rude to me, they said exactly what they thought of me right to my face. They gave me suggestions for how to make them like me, and I didn’t even have to ask: don’t be so loud, stop those bizarre motions with your hands, start speaking, make eye contact. Because of this direct advice, I lived to appease them: but it never worked. 

My.. real parents….

I want to speak. About my experiences with abuse and self-hatred, about the trauma that came along with living with parents who hated me and my brain, even about it. But something in this woman tells me it’s not safe. I want to speak so badly. Want to resist, but I can only resist through actions, not words. And if my resistance is silent, it’s pretty much useless, right? 

I kick my leg up. “NOOOOOO!” I scream. The fire starts up in my brain again. I’m so ashamed. I’m having a meltdown—on live TV! 

I can hear the interviewer saying “Defiance is a symptom of autism. Individuals afflicted with the condition may have tantrums for no reason. You can see how this must feel for parents.”

How this must feel for parents…. how would my mom feel?

 i hate her i hate her she’s ruining my life

gotta get rid of her we must get rid of her now

burden strain crisis epidemic 

I start crying, then bang my head against the wall as hard as I can to make the pain more physical than emotional (in the background, the interviewer says, “self-injurious behavior is a symptom of autism”). I type “TURN OFF CAMERAS” mid-meltdown, but she doesn’t listen. 

I’ve just proven myself unworthy of dignity. The public is going to see my meltdown and think that’s what autistics look like, all we’re capable of. I’ve let down the community I promised to serve.

To avoid further humiliation, I dash out of the building. (I’m preparing for the interviewer to say, “elopement is a symptom of autism” any minute now.) I text Pop to come get me, and tell him about the interview and what a disaster it was. He texts back, “I’m sorry to hear about what a PITA that woman was. Can you hold on for a few minutes? Still at the support group. Parents are being PITAs there too. I was just about to call them out on it and give an angry speech on how au-some we are before you texted!” (PITA is text talk for pain in the ass). He texts again, “Love you my fellow Autie. Stay strong. I should be there in another hour or so.” (Pop is also on the spectrum, though verbal and neurotypical-passing).

“See you in an hour, champaign!” I text back, completely recovered from the meltdown. 

That gives me an hour to hang out with Jeffrey and Stella. I text them and they meet me next to the Autism Speaks building. 

I tell them about the interview, how annoying that woman was, how she publicly humiliated me and it’s going on a documentary. “Utterly disgusting,” Stella types. “Has she ever even met an autistic person, or is she just going off Autism Doesn’t Speak For Sh*t and a whiny parents complaining group chat?”

We all laugh. 

I start questioning myself. This is the only organization that’s been actively criticized by the people they claim to support. No one says the Cancer Foundation doesn’t speak for them, or the NAACP is a racist hate group. It’s not even just that it’s focused on parents either—no LGBTQ person says Parents and Families of Lesbians And Gays doesn’t speak for them either. If Autism Speaks is so bad, why am I working for them? Because I’m pathetic and can’t survive in any other jobs? Which matters more—selfish survival or giving back to my people, my community? The community that taught me not to hate myself, that helped me realize that I actually was a person worthy of respect, not a Worst-Case-Scenario or Defective Factory Product, the community that raised me since the day my dads took me in—is that really worth losing for a so-called “job” where I won’t even be listened to? 

We go out for ice cream. I try an oddly satisfying new flavor-maple with pieces of bacon in it. We have a nice conversation, and Stella and I plan our date. 

We return to the building, and Pop is there waiting for me, along with Stella’s mom and Jeffrey’s mom. 

“Hey guys!”, Pop says. “Stella’s mom was just telling us about an autism positivity group they go every week and thought you guys might want to tag along. It starts in two hours.”

“I guess it sounds fun,” I type. “I’m a bit skeptical of autism groups now though.”

“Don’t worry,” Stella says. “It’s a different kind of group… a better one. The moderator is autistic along with everyone else. People are free to be and move as they want. There are even free fidget toys! And NOBODY treats us as subnormal, like we’re foreign creatures. No negativity. I promise!” 

“There’s a parent group too,” Stella’s mom says.

“I’m not a big fan of those,” Pop says.

“Ours is different. Mostly autistic parents with autistic kids. No negativity there either. And I can assure you, they’re very dedicated to speaking out against Autism Speaks.”

“I don’t know about it. What do you think, Tazu?”

I consider it for a while. “Sounds AU-some!” I finally type. “Let’s go!”

A few hours later

We walk into a huge, loud building with lots of people. A woman hands me, Stella, Jeffery, and our parents tiny pamphlets. “Welcome to the Autistic Self Advocacy Network!” she says. “Our goal is to empower, accept, embrace, support, and give resources to autistics worldwide. So, are you guys here for the support groups?”

Stella and her mom were right. This seems like a much better type of group already. There is a box of fidget toys, many kids and adults of all ages bouncing and flapping freely, everyone is wearing shirts and pins like “AU-TASTIC” and “GOD CREATED AUTISM TO DECREASE THE ASTONISHINGLY HIGH NUMBER OF BORING PEOPLE ON THIS EARTH,” and there are posters on the wall like “you are welcome here,” and “your brain is not broken.” That noise though! I cover my ears, and the chaotic drilling in my eardrums softens. (It’s not as loud as the Autism Speaks penthouse though. Why is it even called a penthouse? Just sounds like rich people apartments to me. Then again, rich people apartments sounds like an oxymoron.)

“There are noise cancelling headphones in the back if you need them,” the woman calls out. “We try to keep ASAN as sensory-friendly as possible. So sorry about all the noise.”

I get my headphones. The woman escorts us and our parents to our support groups. As I’m following her, I notice a huge drawing. On the top of it, it says, “NeuroQueer: Supporting transgender and gender nonconforming autistic people since the beginning of time.” A thousand people have drawn photos of themselves. 

Transgender Bathroom Policy

Transgender individuals should be able to use the bathroom that corresponds to their gender identity, or the bathroom that they are most comfortable using. Many states have policies that a person should use a private facility that matches their biological sex. Many people are uncomfortable with that, and that doesn’t just include transgender individuals.

People who are transgender identify differently than what their biological sex is, and may feel comfortable in using the bathroom that people of their gender identity go to. There is a big difference between biological sex and gender identity. Biological sex is the assigned sex a person was given at birth, and gender identity can correlate with assigned sex at birth, or can differ from it. Numerous transgender students feel discriminated against or self-conscious using the bathroom that aligns with their gender identity. Title IX of the 1965 Civil Rights Act protects transgender people from discrimination because of their sex in schools. It states, “No person in the U.S will be discriminated against because of their sex in an education program.” This applies to when a transgender person goes to a bathroom of their gender identity and people discriminate against them because their sex does not match their gender identity. Therefore, it is illegal to discriminate against transgender people and impose what bathrrom they should go to. 

When there is a policy that all people should go to restrooms that are made for people’s sex at birth, people who are not transgender may feel uncomfortable with a transgender person in the bathroom because they look like the gender they identify as. A person should be comfortable in the bathroom that helps them fit in with people who have the same gender identity as them, even if the transgender person doesn’t totally look like the gender they’re transitioning to yet. Using appropriate bathrooms helps an individual with transitioning. A scientific study was taken by Jody L. Herman, the Williams Institute Manager of Transgender Research, and it was found that 70% of transgender and gender noncomforming respondents experienced issues in gender-specific restrooms in Washington, D.C., with people of color and people who have not medically transitioned yet often faring worse than others. 54% of people reported health effects from trying to avoid public bathrooms such as dehydration, kidney infections, and urinary tract infections. In Doe v. Regional School Unit, the Maine Supreme Court held that a transgender girl had a right to use the women’s restroom at school because her psychological well-being and education depended on her transition. The school, which had denied her access to use the women’s restroom, had treated her differently than other students solely because she was a transgender girl. Discrimination lowers a transgender person’s well-being and health, which affects their self-esteem.

Other than gender-specific bathrooms, there are gender-neutral bathrooms; in other words, unisex. Usually, gender-neutral bathrooms are for any gender and are also beneficial for someone of one gender to help someone with a disability who is a different gender. Nonbinary/gender nonconforming people may feel comfortable using a unisex bathroom, so they don’t feel uncomfortable or face discrimination. Although, not all places have a gender-neutral bathroom, which is problematic for many people. If a state doesn’t allow transgender people to use the bathrooms that align with their gender identity, and that person feels uncomfortable going to the bathroom that includes people of their biological sex, they may be able to use a gender-neutral bathroom. Overall, gender-neutral bathrooms are beneficial for many different people.

It may take a while for all states to allow transgender people to go into the bathroom of their choice, but with enough education on the topic, people’s thoughts may change. The issue that transgender people are discriminated against for using the bathrooms of their gender identity is a worldwide crisis and is a big problem in the world.

Works Cited :

Davis, Masen. “Transgender People Need Safe Restrooms.” HuffPost, 24 June 2019, www.huffpost.com/entry/transgender-people-need-safe-restrooms_b_3492067

Ehrenhalt, Jay. “Trans Rights and Bathroom Access Laws: A History Explained.” Teaching Tolerance, 16 October 2018, https://www.tolerance.org/magazine/transgender-bathroom-laws-history

College debt…is it worth it?

What’s full of new experiences, ups your education, and puts millions of kids in debt? College. What started out as a way to receive more knowledge is now leaving over 44 million Americans in debt. This is why so many young Americans are fighting for a different system. Most of the time, college leaves you with debt, and the only way to pay it off is through suspicious student loan organizations. Other times, you can apply for student forgiveness, but the odds are next to none. Others argue that loans can help establish and build your credit score. Here, I will be telling you why you should reconsider before taking out a student loan.

Most days, it’s common for students to take out loans for college, which leaves them in debt. The problem with taking money from the student loan organizations is that some organizations try to scam you. There are numerous lenders that abuse their power, giving little information out to students and scamming them. According to the New York Times, in recent months, the student loan giant Navient, which was spun off from Sallie Mae in 2014 and has retained nearly all of the company’s loan portfolio, has come under fire for aggressive and sloppy loan collection practices, which have led to a set of lawsuit governments filed in January. A specific example is when a woman (Ms. Hardin) who was taking out a loan for college realized that her company never told her that “she had taken out high-risk private loans in pursuit of a low-paying career. But her lender, SLM Corporation, better known as Sallie Mae, knew all of that” (Loans ‘Designed to Fail’: States Say Navient Preyed on NYT, Stacy Cowley and Jessica Silver-Greenberg, 9/4/17), Ms.Hardin is not the only student who felt like this. Many students feel like student loan organizations are preying on young Americans who are unsure with how much they’re paying.

 College debt should be an easy solution to fix, but sometimes it can get the best of students. Many Americans are now turning to student forgiveness programs. Student loan forgiveness allows the student to postpone the payment as long as they perform a service for the community (public service). If the student also has all the requirements done with, then he or she will be eligible to have the chance to have an income-driven replacement plan. This income replacement plan will help out the monthly student loan payment at a more reasonable price corresponding to the person’s current income situation. Or, if you have been constantly paying on time payment for 20 years, you get the rest of your student loans forgiven completely. The problem with this is that 99.5% of people who applied for public service loan forgiveness have been rejected. According to CNBC News, about 30,000 people applied for student loans forgiveness, but only 96 people got accepted. Instead of wasting your time of trying to be accepted in student forgiveness, many should consider a grant or applying for a scholarship. Your chances are 19%… always better than the less than 1% you get from student loan forgiveness. Grants and scholarships are financial aid that don’t have to be repaid unlike student loans.

While college debt can be damaging and scary for the future of the new generation and millennials, many people argue that student loans are helpful to students who just want an education, and that they help you take education more seriously since it comes at such a high cost. They state student loan forgiveness can also help. Kevin Maler was one of these fortunate 96 people that got accepted. He mentions how lucky he feels being a part of the less than one percent to get accepted. He had to have at least 10 years of on-time payments to qualify. Most people are stunned when they hear this small percentage of people who get accepted. People like Shannon Insler, who also had to deal with student loans, had a different point of view than most. She argued that college was an investment. Even while stating this, she said, “I’d be lying if I said I enjoy paying for my student loans. I’m facing a $50,000 price tag and a 20-year repayment plan. It hurts to think about other things I could do with $50,000.’’ This just goes to prove how the cons outweigh the pros. Other students like Miranda Mariquit already had a scholarship, but chose to use student loans for some extra money. According to Student Loan Hero, Miranda referred to using loans even though she had a scholarship as her biggest mistake, saying that it ruined her cash flow and it made her debt-to-income ratio look sketchy.

In conclusion, if you don’t want to end up like the 70% of college kids who are in debt right now, you should make sure to really consider applying for grants and scholarships. You’ll have a higher chance than working in public service and having 10 years on income payments just to play for a loan forgiveness that only 1% of people get accepted into.

https://www.npr.org/2019/07/18/739451168/i-m-drowning-those-hit-hardest-by-student-loan-debt-never-finished-college

https://bigthink.com/politics-current-affairs/predatory-student-loans?rebelltitem=3#rebelltitem3

https://loans.usnews.com/what-is-a-predatory-loan

https://www.thenation.com/article/who-is-most-affected-by-student-debt-women/

https://www.forbes.com/sites/oracle/2019/08/27/how-a-geek-dad-is-helping-his-daughter-manage-her-diabetes/#31cfb273eb2a

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/student-loan-relief-for-public-servants-many-apply-few-are-accepted/

https://www.cnbc.com/2018/09/21/the-education-department-data-shows-how-rare-loan-forgiveness-is.html

https://www.forbes.com/sites/zackfriedman/2019/01/03/student-loan-forgiveness-data/#734b760268d0

Sentenced

I open my eyes. Fluorescent lights above, voices chattering, desks scraping. I sit on a hard wooden seat while a tall figure looms over me. It waits until the talking ceases, the tables settle, and then it speaks. A low, gravelly voice, sending chills up and down my spine. The voice is shrouded by itself, but not unintelligible. 

“Where is your paper, Wilson?” Here he pauses, and it seems like my math teacher is rising in size. “Taylor? Davis?” 

The kids next to me, also jammed in desks, seem to shrink in their seats as the monster turns to each of us. All the other students have left, leaving three of their peers to face the wrath of this beast. I wonder about those other students. They’ll be at recess now, laughing, playing, knowing that they’re not in trouble and they won’t suffer in the least. I remember when I was one of those kids. Bouncing carefreely out the door, straight As, never in trouble. Of course, that doesn’t appeal to me now. Ever since–

“I announced it three times yesterday,” the voice jolts me back. With a whimper, the kid on my right, Jordan Davis, begins to speak, but is silenced by the creature’s next words. “Three times, Davis. Close your mouth.” The figure turns away in disgust. “You will see me after school. Three thirty. Do. Not. Be. Late.” His words, though not loud, leave our ears ringing as we murmur our consent, rise from our seats, and quietly file out of the room. 

“Bro, Grossman’s a beast!” Prince Taylor, my best friend, says. 

“Yeah man, you don’t mess with the Grossmonster,” I say, punching him back lightly on the shoulder. “I thought Jordie was gonna pee himself!” Prince cracks up, playfully nudging our timid friend on the shoulder. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Jordie’s pale skin flushes, and he brushes his blond hair out of his earth-colored eyes. He used to be a teacher’s pet, but hasn’t fully conformed to our system. 

“Man, you need a haircut!” I say, grinning. 

The kid’s eyes roll again. “At least I don’t look like some military-school dropout!” 

We all laugh at this. Before my mom got depressed, she tried to send me to some hardcore “Academy for Troubled Teens” or something. Prior to leaving, she shaved my head, but then she couldn’t make me leave the house after that. My hair is still growing back, leaving me looking like a small, hazel-eyed Justin Timberlake.  

“After all that trouble, I don’t think I want to endure the lunch monitor screaming at me for no apparent reason,” I say, smirking. “Wanna skip?” 

“Sorry, man, we got English next period, and you know Mrs. Jones calls parents,” Jordie says, and Prince nods.

 “Alright, see you in detention.” I stroll down the hall nonchalantly towards the back entrance of M.S. 13. 

Suddenly, someone comes out of the classroom on my left so quickly that I have no time to react. She plows into me, knocking me to the floor. 

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” I look up from my spot on the floor to see a girl with long, black hair and deep, olive eyes. She’s wearing faded jeans, orange Converse, and a Penn State sweatshirt. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, embarrassed, hurrying to my feet. I try to step past her outside, but she moves, blocking my only way out. 

“Where are you going?” she asks me suspiciously. 

“I, uh, think I left my water bottle outside.” For some reason, I’m thrown off by this girl’s sharpness. Mostly, the hall monitors let me pass, but she’s different. 

“I think you’re lying.” She says this definitively, no doubts about her statement. 

Relax, D. I think. She’s just another seventh-grade student who probably won’t care too much if I sneak off. After all, it doesn’t affect her in the least. Why should she worry? 

Offering her a lazy smile, I begin to continue past her down the hallway. 

As I’m about to open the door, I hear a whisper. 

“If you do that, I’ll tell Mrs. Jones,” The girl stage-whispers, turning the heads of some students working on laptops in the hallway. 

I sigh. There’s no reason to argue with this girl. What’s the point? I would just get in more trouble. 

D, maybe there’s no point in skipping. You’re broke and will get caught by the security guard anyway. There’s nothing to do without Jordie and Prince, so lay off it. 

I cast the girl a glare, and march off towards the cafeteria. 

******************************************************************************

“Dude, we thought you had chickened out on skipping or something!” Prince says. “So this girl stops you?”  

“That’s right, man,” I respond. We stop in front of Grossman’s classroom. Jordie knocks, and approximately fifteen slow seconds tick by until the daunting man opens his door. He grins, and leads us to three desks in the middle of the room. “You will sit here in silence for half an hour. If one of you talks, ten minutes will be added to your sentence.” 

Sentence. The last time I heard that word was in a courtroom. My dad stood in the middle, head bowed, hands shackled behind his back. The judge banged his gavel. “Mr. Wilson, you have been sentenced to four years in federal prison for breaking and entering, theft, and the injury of other citizens.” 

Next to me, my mother burst into tears. “Why, Frank, why?” I heard her mumble through her grief. My father’s lawyer, Bill, turned to me. He looked angry. He opened his mouth to speak, but what comes out is Mr. Grossman’s voice. 

“Wilson, if you want to stay, by all means, be my guest. Your friends would be disappointed though, I’m sure.” 

I jerk awake, and look up to see my evil teacher towering above me. I grab my bag and race out the door as fast as my legs can carry me, beating my friends outside by ten whole seconds. We joke around for a couple minutes, but soon we have to go. 

As Jordie, Prince, and I part ways, I sit on a bench in front of the bus stop, staring down at the floor. I hate detention, but I hate my father even more for being in jail and doing all those stupid things. I dig around in my pocket for the unfinished math homework, checking the bus schedule as I pull it out. While I was stuck in detention, the bus came and went, so I have half an hour to wait. Shrugging and checking around for any classmates that may catch me doing work, I begin on the algebraic equations. They’re actually not that boring, and by the time the bus comes, I’m almost finished with the paper. Smiling to myself, I complete the last two problems on the short bus ride to my house. 

******************************************************************************

When I get home, I find Mom crashed on the couch, bottle of wine more than half empty next to her on the floor. Previous stains are located on other places of the old green rug that Dad gave to Mom when they got married. I don’t bother hiding them under old newspapers anymore, they’ve basically become a part of the shaggy piece of cloth. Mom’s still in her waitress uniform when I cover her with a blanket, the soft corners falling over her sleeping form. Her breath wafts up to me, the alcohol heavy, as I kiss my mother on her pale, overworked cheek. Turning away, I lug my schoolbag down the hallway to my room, not one thing out of place. Everything is tidy and neat, unlike the rest of the apartment. I fall asleep twisted in sheets that offer no comfort to my dreams that night.  

I’m standing in the middle of my math classroom. The Grossmonster is standing there with that annoying girl from the hallway. The teacher sneers. Your father’s in prison? Detention, see me at three thirty. I start to protest, and then I hear laughing. I turn around to find Adam and Jordie laughing their heads off. What happened? I cry out, and suddenly the whole school–Hannah from Biology, Toby from History, Alex from English–they’re all there, surrounding me, laughing their heads off. It’s maniacal laughter, their heads thrown back and fingers pointing. I look down at myself, and realize that I’m not wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants anymore. My outfit has changed drastically. I’m dressed in a gray jumpsuit, no pockets and a number tacked to my chest. The walls of the classroom begin to transform, forming a cell, but my classmates are with me, closing in…

I wake up covered in sweat and shaking. It was just a dream, I tell myself. I get up and shuffle around in complete darkness, my hand shaking as I grope around for my cell phone. It’s 5:24 AM, so I do what I always do after a nightmare–I search up my father’s case. 

Wednesday, November 16, 2010-–Marcus Wilson, with a history of federal offences and warnings, has finally been convicted of theft. The crime occurred earlier this year, when two armed, masked figures stormed a jewelry store and stole two diamond necklaces, one sapphire stone ring, and three pairs of pure gold earrings, three inches in length. One employee was injured in the process, receiving a broken wrist after being roughly shoved into a glass cabinet and falling to the floor. The other workers survived with minor injuries. Marcus Wilson and Anthony Johnson both pled guilty and were sentenced to four years in federal prison. Marcus has a wife and child, and Anthony has no family members that we were able to contact. The suspects and their families were not available for comment. 

I shut off my phone and walk to the living room, where my mother is watching the local news. 

“Morning, Mom,” I say, rubbing the last bits of sleep from my eyes. “You’re feeling better?” 

She gives me a watery smile. “I love you, Dashiell. You are your father’s son…”  Her half-lidded eyes return to the TV, and I nod to please her, now pondering the thought of what my dad was like as a young man. When he wasn’t involved with drugs, gangs, crime… I plop down next to her and put my head in my hands, unable to get the thoughts about my father out of my head.

“Hey Mom, how long has it been since we’ve visited Dad?” I know the answer. The last time we visited, I got really angry at him. We got into a yelling fight, and the visit was canceled early. It’s been over nine months. 

“Honey, I don’t know. Sometimes things go by in a blur, or they drag out slowly…” Her words are beginning to slur, so I take the bottle of wine from her hand and set it aside. We watch TV until I realize I’m going to be late for school. 

“Bye, Mom!” I shove last night’s paper into my schoolbag and run to catch the bus. 

I decide that after school, I’m going to do something that I haven’t done in nine months.

******************************************************************************

I square my shoulders and walk into my dad’s temporary home. The guards pat me down, I sign some papers, and since I’m thirteen, I don’t need a parent or guardian here with me. The big security guy leads me through the familiar hallways, down the metal stairs, and into the basement, where Block C is located. We pass a couple doors, I read the numbers. J-9873. M-4277. O-3858.  I wonder how all these men got here. What did they do? Do they have families that visit, or do they just waste away in their cells for fifteen years? Are they actually guilty, or were they framed for a crime? I realize all the questions and words buzzing around in my head are making my hands sweat and my mouth dry. I lick my lips and take a deep breath. We stop outside a door that reads W-8309. I know that number very, very well. 

“Wilson, you got a visitor!” The guard yells at the door. I can hear shuffling inside the cell, and there’s an awkward silence. 

“He’s being pretty good. He could be out soon.” The guard continues. I nod, and then two hands are placed gently through the gap in the middle of the door. I stare at my dad’s hands. They look pretty normal, no scabs or scratches. That’s good, I tell myself reassuringly. The guard cuffs Dad’s hands quickly, expertly, and they withdraw. The door is opened. 

My father stands, head down, hands cuffed in front of me. He’s wearing a gray jumpsuit like the one I had in my dream. My father raises his head, and I look him in the eye for the first time in months. His face is hollowed and gaunt, his eyes sunken and his cheekbones quite prominent. 

“Dad?” I ask, my eyes already filling with tears. He’s unable to speak, I see his eyes light up with shock and sadness, and I can’t help but rush to him, hugging, loving, wanting. We stay like that for a long time, until I pull away. 

“You’ve grown so much, Dashiell. I haven’t seen you for such a long time…” He says, voice hoarse. His shaggy brown hair falls into his face, and he wipes it away, along with a stray tear. 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. 

He looks at me for the longest time. Finally he whispers, “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Dashiell. I should never have gotten involved with Anthony and those guys. I’m sorry for being hard on you. Will you forgive me?” 

Without hesitation, I hug him again. “Yes, yes, yes,” I say. We end up moving to a table inside my father’s cell. He asks about Mom, and I tell him she’s a bit of a mess. He gets up, takes something from under his pillows, and returns. He gives it to me. I examine the bundle. It’s a stack of letters, bound by a piece of twine. 

“I wrote these to your mother,” Dad says softly. “I’ve decided to work on the better me. When I get out of here, I won’t look at the gangs and my old buddies again. I’m going to be a new man, Dashiell. A new man.” He seems delighted with himself, so I smile as well. We chat for a little more, and of course we reach the inevitable subject–school. I spill everything; skipping school, the trouble my friends have got into. When the guard signals that our two hours are almost up, my father takes my hand. 

Looking me in the eye, he says, “Son, you may not be the most well behaved kid at school. Actually, it sounds like you and your buddies are the troublemakers. And it sounds cool at the time, but you’ll start getting into serious trouble. You’re definitely going to regret what you did, and there’ll be consequences. That’s exactly what happened to me, and I beg you not to go down that path. Please, son, choose what’s right and be the better person. Stay away from people who lead you down a dangerous path. Remember, I love you, and your mother loves you too, so please avoid situations that are.” 

He squeezes my hand, and the guard escorts me out of the room. As the door closes, I wave and say just loud enough for him to hear; “I love you too, Dad.”

******************************************************************************

Epilogue

When D got home, his mom was snoozing on the couch. He gently shook her awake.
“Hey, Mom. I… visited Dad today.” Feeling tired, he left the letters next to her bottle of Bud Light and retired to his room early. When he woke up and strolled down the hall the next day, the smell of eggs and bacon reached his nose. Rubbing his eyes hard, D saw his mother making breakfast in the kitchen, a pile of open letters on the counter. As he got closer, he saw the letters contained his dad’s handwriting. 

“How much bacon, D?” his mother asked. 

D went back to school that day. He walked in with Katie and a smile on his face. Looking the feared math teacher in the eye, he held out a neat, fully completed homework assignment. When Prince started making cat noises during the lesson, D didn’t join in. Jordie and Prince came up to him later that day.

“What’s up with you, man?” Jordie looked concerned, but Prince had a menacing look on his face as he stood defiantly behind Jordie, arms crossed. 

  “I… don’t want to do this anymore. I’m sick of playing around, getting in trouble, and never taking anything seriously. We’ll get into bigger trouble, you know.” 

Both his friends’ expressions hardened. 

“I thought we were real friends, Dashiell,” Prince spat at him. They walked away, wanting nothing to do with him anymore. 

It was sad to watch his old friends ignore him, but Dashiell started hanging out with other kids after that, grades improving as well as his various relationships. 

 A few months after D’s visit, his father went on trial for the last time and the judge let him go. D’s life was finally piecing back together, especially since his father came back. 


The Flower of Night

A sustained shriek rips through the raven-dark air. A young boy emerges from a building, his eyes alight with fear. He takes a step into the night, slowly at first, and then sprints. He reaches the opposite sidewalk and disappears into another building. 

Shoes. Thousands of shoes. In every color, shape, and size. Here, near the street lamp, there’s a pair of black leather pumps, stomping up and down in a frenzy. Across the block, a pair of well-worn, mud-caked hiking shoes performs a tapdance. Over there, down by the red brick townhouse is a collection of neon sneakers. All of them dance around this angry Sun-on-Earth. It cackles and dances and glints. It plays and spreads and reaps the block of its population. 

A young woman clutches her shawl, tears wetting the soft cloth. She is the source of the scream. Her mouth is open, her sound lighting the thousands of ears grouped around the fearsome fire. 

A man in a navy-blue pinstripe suit holds onto his briefcase for his life. His daughter is gone. His watch shines with the reflection. She’s disappeared into the mass, yet to appear. Which mass?

The people scream, but the young boy is deaf. All he knows is that his mother descended into the street thirty minutes ago and he hasn’t had dinner yet. He treads to the floor-length window and screeches a sound he cannot hear.

They lick the street and eat the sidewalk without a moment of consideration. Buildings are devoured in a matter of seconds. It advances. The brave knights who hold the hoses and those too desperate to try to salvage their own lives are the only ones who remain near this beast. It growls and laughs at the few helpless and stupid enough to tease it. It pounces and engulfs them. 

A second sun emerges. It tears the sky heavy with tears into a dreadful begonia. The stars fall, one by one. 

The person in only a purple Peanuts t-shirt advances into the flower, ready to be eaten.

This is a flower of night. It fades and crumples and grays as another one takes its place, ravaging the sky. 

The fire was beautiful. It was the color of wheat in harvest season. It smelled of cinnamon and campfires. It glinted like a million mirrors and faded like a tired firefly. It kissed the earth with passion, love almost. 

No one will remember this. They will remember only the old man who limped and leaned on his old wife. They all limp. Every single one of them limps, whether their limbs be lithe and lean or wizened and broken. They are oldened, every one of them: wrinkles line their faces like old war-paint; their eyes are sunken and flighty. They will remember the picture released in the press, the following day, a lifeless representation of the arid desert lacking everything of the city’s breath. An urban tundra, frozen over, for none to survive.

The flower has faded.


I Don’t Know What To Call This – A Poem

Puncture me, words of bleeding ink.

Rip through my veins, I’m possessed by you, like a puppet on a string. 

You own me in chains. Cold, hard steel. Break me, break my bones. Shatter my spirit of writer’s block. 

I don’t know what I’m saying. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I’m bad at this. Bad at life. Cut my throat of blood and ice. Rip my spine, use it for your books.

My flesh will be the cover, my blood you will write with. I am a slave, now and forever, to the spirit that is writing. It owns me, and I love it. It hurts me, but I embrace it.

You can call it abuse, but to me it’s just tough love. You can try to fight it, but it latches on, like a snake around your throat, the words burrow into your skin, like spiders, your flesh will crawl and slither, ache to escape, but your mind lusts for it. 

That savagery, that greed, that need to write, fingers a slave to the notebook, the pen, the keyboard. Even my skeleton will write. I am here, a slave to this spirit for a thousand lifetimes.

I can turn to dust, my bones will crack and dry up, my fingers withered, my eye sockets turned long ago to voids of emptiness, but I will keep going. I have to. Because it is all I have left. 


Miriam’s Song

Some time ago, 11 members of the Jewish community were killed,

Shot down, erased from the face of the planet.

Killed by a man whose hatred for those who differ from him outweighed the cost of taking their lives.

And as he raised the barrel of his gun, he shot through the 

Maccabees who fought so valiantly to have their right to pray,

He shot through Esther as she saved the Jews from being annihilated,

He shot through Moses as he pushed through the Red Sea towards freedom,

He shot through Elijah as he fought to keep the Jewish religion grounded, 

And he shot through Zelophehad’s daughters as they fought for their human right to live.

His gunshot was heard around the world, ringing in the ears of all people.

And as they fall, we rise up, taking our place and doubling our strength as one people.

We snatch up that gun and throw it behind us, 

We take our timbrels and dance like Miriam,

Because we are the Chosen People, 

The ones who survived.

And survivors are not defeated, pushed down, or shot.

We sing, we shout, for we are done keeping quiet.

Our time of being pushed out is over.

So we talk,

To our friends,

Our family,

And to people who aren’t our friends and family.

We tell them who we are.

First, people. Second, Jewish.

Here to spread the love of those around us,

Not to kill.

Here to help people that don’t have as much as we do,

Not to hurt.

Here to tell people that they are not alone in this big, scary world,

Not to hate.

Because when it’s Rosh Hashana,

I want to eat my apples and honey and taste no sadness,

Just the rich sweetness of the food and my family.

And when it’s finally time for Passover,

I want to dip my herbs in the bitter water and know that it actually signifies hardships of the past,

Not the present.


Timmy’s Golf Club

“And then he said, ‘I’m bloodthirsty!’ Haha!” said the vampire comedian. 

Timmy shook his head. He slowly walked out of the auditorium filled with fans of these alien vampire comedians who had descended from God-knows-where and had taken over the comedy industry, forcing Timmy, a pure-blood human, out of his job as a full-time stand-up comedian. Timmy knew the world was ending. He could smell it in the air. 

On his way home, he ducked into an alley that was a shortcut. He saw a black cloak sweep around a corner. He smelled dried blood. Something glinted in a corner of the alley. At first glance, it looked like a fancy golf club. Then as he got closer, he realized it had spikes on it. This could kill a person with a flick of his wrist. As his hand touched it and picked it up, a thought echoed through his mind. I’m going to kill them, he thought. Every last one of them

The very next night, he crouched in a corner of an alley, waiting. He saw a dark cloak, the telltale sign of a vampire. He leaped on the blurry shape with golf club in hand. Timmy stood and looked at the heap on the ground. He had done it! Timmy had gotten his first kill, and he was proud of himself. The smell of death and blood surrounded him, and it smelled good. There was blood oozing out of the vampire’s face, and his ribs were exposed. His blood was pooling on the ground, and his clothes were drenched in blood. All over the town of Ithaca, New York, the first sanctuary to vampires, the white snow was starting to turn red.

John Miller

The policeman was doing his nightly patrol when he came across the body. John Miller noticed many things about the body, but the thing that really stood out to him was the golf club-like print across the dead man’s face. He immediately brought it back to the forensic research team, who determined that the man had been dead for over a day, and also confirmed that he was, in fact, a vampire, who were no different than immigrants and had every right to Ithaca. They also found fingerprints that led them to one man: Timmy Hawkins. 

Timmy

The police came to his house and arrested him at 4:30 AM on Saturday morning for the murder of one innocent vampire. He knew what he did was horrible, but vampires were ending the world slowly but surely by sucking people’s blood until it ran dry. Timmy’s job wasn’t done. There were 49 vampires left.

“No! NO! LET ME GO!!!” Timmy screamed at the police arresting him. They thought he was crazy, but he wasn’t. The police must have forgotten how many people died because of vampires. The total death count was 39. And how many vampires had been murdered? One! This was unjust! Timmy got put in a cell with a man named Jarell. As Timmy was thrown into the cell by the guards, Jarell looked at him.

“What’d you do?” Jarell asked. 

“Murdered a vampire. How ‘bout you?”

“Nothing. I did nothing. I was arrested for murder as well, but I commited no crime. I was framed. I’ve had many people pass through this room, but they’ve all gone after a short time. How, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you how to escape too. But for a price. Gimme your cookie today at lunch. Then I’ll show you how to get out of this place.”

“Sure!” said Timmy.

That night, Jarell looked down the hallway for guards. 

“Climb on my shoulders,” he said to Timmy.

“Um…” Timmy was hesitant. 

“Just do it!” Jarell burst out. Timmy jumped onto Jarell’s shoulders and pulled out a vent from the ceiling. He climbed through the ventilation pipes and found another opening, which was on the side of the building. This was the only way out. Timmy would have to risk it. He climbed down the building and landed on the soft ground. 

He went home, only to find his golf club had been confiscated. He would have to improvise. He went to his local sports store and bought a golf club. Then he went to the hardware store and bought some barbed wire, nails, and a hammer, and continued his rampage.

There was one left. One vampire left to kill, the kingpin of all vampires. He lived in an underground lair with the best security in the world and was surrounded by bodyguards at all times. Timmy’s first stop was the gun store. When he looked at the aisles and aisles of guns, he chose five. An RPG, two waist pistols, a shotgun, and a laser blaster. With all this and his golf club, he was ready to fight Trankio, the head vampire.

 He then proceeded to look for the undisclosed location of Trankio’s vampire lair. He looked in the train tracks, but there was no hideout. He looked in various basements. He even looked in the bottom of trash cans. He was tired and dirty, so he stopped in the bathroom of a Subway sandwich shop to wash up, and when he leaned back on a certain part of the wall, it opened up to reveal a long set of spiral stairs. He quickly pulled out his guns and golf club, and tucked them into the proper holsters. He was ready. As he walked down the stairs, he tripped on a wire. The last thing Timmy Hawkins felt was a bullet go through his brain.

John Miller

As John lay in bed, he looked out the window and saw Ithaca falling apart. The streets were drenched with blood. Corpses lay in the abandoned square, and there were only a couple people left. Everyone was wrong, including him. Vampires needed to die. He heard his bedroom door open, and then everything went black.

News Anchor

“Today, the vampires have declared Ithaca theirs. They have killed over 500, and we have found out there are almost a thousand vampires living in Trankio’s lair,” said the news anchor. 

“Police have shifted their view about vampires from ‘Welcome to Ithaca!’ to ‘Definitely not welcome in Ithaca!’ They are trying to arrest all the vampires and have even brought the military in. Ahh! My neck! My neck!” 

Those were the last words the news anchor said before vampires took over the TV station, and the rest of the world with it.

The Gauntlet

Ryan Collins was your average thirteen year old kid in the year 2045. He spent his entire weekends playing on the Portal, a virtual reality simulation. On the Portal, you could do anything from playing virtual laser tag, to virtual NASCAR driving. 

It is November 3rd, and the Gauntlet is 1 week away. The Gauntlet is a competition in the Portal. All of the greatest players of the Portal are selected by an A.I. to enter the Gauntlet. The competitors are placed in a maze, and they all have to survive until the end. The Gauntlet ends when all of the players virtual avatars, except for the winner, have been killed by the maze, or killed by other players. Eliminating another player doesn’t give you any perks except for confidence, which is key in the Gauntlet. Of course, if you die in the portal, you don’t actually die in the real world, but it still sucks. The prize for winning the Gauntlet is not only winning fifty million, but eternal fame across the globe.

Ryan was great at the Portal, and he was really hoping to be picked for the Gauntlet. The gamers that are entering the Gauntlet will be chosen today. In fact, they were starting right now. Ryan hurried over to his TV, and listened for the names. “There will be 50 people entering the Gauntlet,” the guy on the news said, “please listen for your name.” about 30 names were said before the news anchor said, “Ryan Collins.” Ryan’s mouth dropped, he would get a chance to compete! 

Ryan was about to run over to his parents, but then he remembered they were on vacation in a place called Collark, what used to be called Hawhii. Ryan’s parents both had big jobs at the Portal. Ryan lived in a huge house and was mostly alone, since he was an only child. Ryan texted his parents, and his friend Michael. Michael instantly wrote back. “I know, I was watching! That’s so cool! I really hope you win.”

Gauntlet Day

The day had finally come. Ryan put on his senso gloves, his chest sensor, and his VR goggles. When he logged into the Portal, he was instantly put into a waiting room with all the other players. He looked in a mirror at his avatar that he had personally designed. His avatar was a normal human body with camo pants and a sweatshirt, but his avatar’s head was a head of a monster from a really old movie called Godzilla. It was from the 2010’s. The head looked like a T-rex head with purple armor. 

When he looked around at the competition, everyone seemed uneasy. Nobody was even talking to each other. Some gamers were pacing, some were sitting, and some were staring off into nothingness. After about thirty minutes, an automated voice spoke into the waiting room. It said, “all players, please choose two weapons for your survival.” A wide selection of weapons hovered on Ryan’s screen. He chose a plasma blaster and a standard sniper rifle. Once he was equipped with the weapons his avatar disappeared, and when it reappeared, he was in the maze.

The first thing that Ryan did was find a hiding spot where no one would find him. His strategy was to wait for a while and watch until there were less people left. If anyone came, Ryan could take them out without them even seeing. 

A couple minutes later, he heard the sounds of battle echoing through the maze. The voice from the waiting room said, “two competitors have been eliminated. There are forty-eight players remaining.” Just then, two competitors came into Ryan’s view. He quickly ducked behind a wall to hide. He was breathing heavily back in his rig at home. He readied his blaster and took aim at the two avatars. He fired three shots at the avatars. Only one of them hit and eliminated one of the players. “One competitor eliminated,” the voice said, “forty-seven players remaining.” The other player had an RPG and he fired it at Ryan, and destroyed the wall Ryan was hiding behind. Ryan turned and ran, In no particular direction except for away from his attacker.

After minutes of running Ryan finally stopped and looked behind him. No one was in sight. The voice said, “forty-one players remaining. In the real world it was 6:57 p.m. and the Gauntlet ended at 7:00 p.m. It would resume at 7:00 a.m. the next day, with everyone just where they left off. The screen faded and Ryan took off his gear. It was a decent day for Ryan, since he was still in the game and 18% of the competition had been eliminated. 

Day 2

Ryan woke up the next morning, brushed his teeth, ate breakfast, and logged into his portal account. It was 6:58 a.m. and in two minutes, The Gauntlet would resume. Ryan stretched for about a minute, and then his screen transported him just where he left off in the maze.

After an hour of waiting and watching, Ryan heard the voice say, “eight competitors have been eliminated, thirty-three players remaining.” Ryan had made to the last thirty-three players. He was expecting to be eliminated sooner, especially after his attack on day one of the Gauntlet. Ryan made his way towards where he thought he heard the sounds of battle. He was planning on watching everything play out until he could comfortably fight. Then Ryan saw an avatar walking by. He quietly pulled out his sniper, and fired. He hit him! Ryan had gotten his second elimination! “Thirty-two players left,” Said the voice. Ryan quickly climbed up to a perch where nobody would notice him, looked through the scope of the sniper, and surveyed the area. Nobody came into sight for about forty-five minutes. Then another avatar came into view, but this time the avatar saw Ryan and fired at him. None of the shots hit but one whistled right by his left ear. Ryan fired back at the avatar. None of the shots hit, but Ryan still had the high ground, so he fired another round at the avatar, and the shots hit. Ryan now had three eliminations. The voice said, “thirty players left.” Another player must have been eliminated. Ryan was on a roll. Then he heard the grinding of metal. The maze was closing in! Ryan jumped down from his perch and ran for his life. “Twenty-seven players remaining,” the voice said. The maze must have killed three players. Then spikes rained down from the ceiling. Ryan barely dodged the first round, but then he tripped on an uneven bit of floor. This was actually very lucky, since if he tripped any further, his avatar would have been impaled by a spike. Ryan got up and looked behind him, to see a raging fire chasing him. He once again ran for his life as the fire came closer and closer. It finally stopped after a few minutes of running, just as Ryan ran out of breath. The voice made its usual announcement. “Nine competitors have been eliminated. Eighteen players remaining.” Only eighteen players left, Ryan thought to himself. The maze is really starting to hate me. Ryan sat down in a tunnel and rested for a bit. By the time he woke up, it was 4:36 p.m. Still a while before the Gauntlet ended for today. With all of the excitement of today, Ryan had forgotten about how thirsty he was. He couldn’t risk getting a drink in the real world, just in case someone came. Ryan would have to forget about his thirst for a while, as he set out to go hunting for any unsuspecting avatars. He walked for about thirty-five minutes this way and that until he found a big red illuminated X on the wall. In Ryan’s mind, this could have meant some kind of treasure, or it could have meant danger. Apparently, the maze picked danger as the X shot out a laser, and Ryan barely dodged it like Neo dodging a bullet from a really old movie called the Matrix. Not only did the maze hate Ryan, but Ryan was really starting to hate the maze. The Gauntlet was so much harder than Ryan could have ever imagined.

Jack Miller

Jack Miller was a fifteen year old kid from St. Paul, Minnesota. He was chosen to enter the Gauntlet, and now he is still in with eighteen players remaining. Now seventeen according to the bodiless voice. Jack was really excited to have gotten this far in the contest, and he was currently planning on buying a twenty million dollar home in Beverly Hills if he won. Jack was also really proud of his avatar, which was a tiger head and tiger claws for hands, and the avatar wore a black and orange striped Under Armour shirt. It looked really cool, and a bit frightening if you heard it roar.

Jack decided to go exploring, maybe get his first elimination. It would be pretty cool if Jack could get an elimination in the Gauntlet. Maybe he could even place top ten, or even, just possibly win the entire Gauntlet. A couple of minutes later, Jack heard footsteps, and prepared for a fight.

Ryan Collins

Ryan was walking along the maze when he heard a blast. He quickly jumped out of the way to see an avatar with a tiger head. Tiger head fired again, but badly missed. Ryan jumped up to get the high ground, but tiger head grenaded the area around Ryan and sent him against the wall. Ryan picked up his blaster and fired at tiger head, who dodged it, fired at Ryan, And nearly missed him. Ryan saw his opportunity as tiger head reloaded, shot, and hit tiger head in the arm. This wasn’t enough to eliminate Mr. tiger, but he was certainly at low health. Ryan advanced towards tiger head, but tiger head fired and hit Ryan in the leg. Now they were both at low health, and if either one of them got hit, they were out. Ryan charged at tiger head, slid to dodge his shot, and fired and hit tiger head, finally eliminating him. 

After that close encounter with tiger head, Ryan checked the time. Thirty minutes until the Gauntlet ends for the day. Then, he saw three players walking together. They were teaming! Ryan quickly calculated two options, run, or take on all three of them on at once. He chose the first and ran once again for his virtual life. By the time he had lost the teamers, the day was just about over which he was glad about, but he was sure he would have to encounter the teamers again.

When Ryan finished taking off his gear, he texted his parents, who still ignored him. His parents had never been there for Ryan, so he texted Michael about his adventures. Ryan said, “I made it to the final eighteen players! I fought with this tiger head guy and just barely eliminated him.” 

Michael wrote back, “cool. I wonder how many people will be left by the end of tomorrow?” 

Ryan replied, “we’ll see.” Ryan tried to call his parents again, but they still didn’t pick up. Ryan was rarely with his parents. They were always at work, or on vacation, or just any place that wasn’t home. Ryan took care of himself all the time. Tomorrow is Monday, but Ryan can skip school because of the Gauntlet. This wasn’t technically a law, but Ryan decided it for himself. He ate a bad frozen pizza for dinner, and figured that he should probably get some sleep, considering the big day ahead of him.

Jack Miller

Jack learned one thing after he was eliminated from the Gauntlet. It sucked. When he was in the Gauntlet, he was so confident that he could get really far into the contest, and then the next thing you know, you get eliminated. Jack kind of hoped that the player that eliminated him won, just because if he won, he would at least have been eliminated by the winner. 

Day 3

When Ryan woke the next morning, he knew what was coming. Today was day three of the Gauntlet, and the teamers were coming for Ryan. Deep down, Ryan knew that the only way he could survive against the teamers was to outsmart them, and that was what he was going to do. 

When Ryan logged into the game, he was transported to the spot he left off at as usual, and began his plan to beat the teamers. But to do that, Ryan needed a decoy, and he knew just how to do it. Ryan climbed up the maze walls to a viewing deck, which looked a little out of place in an illuminated stone corridor. Now he could take his plan into action. He could barely see the teamers through his scope. He picked up a grenade launcher off the floor from a competitor that had previously been eliminated, and fired past the teamers. Then, he quickly pulled out his sniper, took aim and sniped the grenade. He missed. So much suspense, and he missed. He tried again, although his moment of triumph had been ruined. He fired the grenade again, then pulled out his sniper, and finally hit the grenade. This set off an explosion right in front of the teamers. Now Ryan could attack them from behind. Ryan reloaded his sniper and eliminated all three of the teamers with perfect headshots now that they were distracted.  The voice said, “three competitors eliminated, fourteen players remaining.” In the first day of the Gauntlet, Ryan had not been a dangerous player, merely practice for the others. But now, Ryan actually had a shot at winning this thing. Sadly, the maze continued its streak of dislike towards Ryan, as it once again started closing in. This time, instead of fire, the maze chose to send a virtual avalanche to chase down Ryan. Ryan ran away from the avalanche for about five minutes until it finally subsided. Ryan could now see the other side of the maze. That meant one thing, more players to deal with.

Ryan fired his plasma blaster at the opposing players. He counted about five in sight, but there were definitely others hiding somewhere or other. The shot missed but a player hiding behind another avatar eliminated him. Thirteen players left. He picked up a minigun off the floor from the player that just got eliminated, and he rapidly fired it into the direction of the other players, and eliminated one. Then, he used the same tactic he used to beat the teamers. He threw the minigun near an opposing player, and fired at making a huge explosion that eliminated two players. Eight players left, now that two others just got grenaded. 

The maze started closing in again. Now, the players had to fight on the run. Ryan avoided the main battle as he ran towards a wall far enough away from the edges of the maze so that he wouldn’t have to worry about the maze closing in. Five players left now! The look on Ryan’s face said it all

 He pulled out his sniper and looked through the scope, but everyone was moving so much, that Ryan couldn’t get a clean shot off. He took out his blaster and decided to eyeball it. Ryan fired at one of the remaining avatars and hit her in the shoulder, but it didn’t eliminate her. He fired again at her, but the shot missed. Now that he had her attention, she didn’t notice how another avatar was firing at her. “Three players left,” the voice said.

 The maze was so small now that Ryan could easily see the other end. Ryan fired again at both of the remaining avatars. One of the avatars hid behind a wall, and one fired back. His shots were amazingly accurate. Ryan ducked behind a wall to avoid the avatars shots. The avatar switched to targeting the other avatar, and after five shots, the player being targeted was eliminated. It was the final two people! For about two minutes, Ryan and the other avatar traded shots. The other avatar was really good. All of the shots from the avatar were alarmingly accurate. Ryan couldn’t do anything about it. If he came out of his hiding place, the other avatar would have easily eliminated him. 

The next two minutes were a bit uneventful, as neither avatar wanted to give up their position. Then, Ryan heard a whirring sound, and the next thing he knew, a pillar of lava shot right at the place Ryan was previously standing. This forced both Ryan and the other avatar to move, which made the both exposed to each others shots. Ryan could only get two shots off before the ground started crumbling. Random chunks of the ground were now missing.  Ryan was running away from a crumbling piece of floor until he slipped. He nearly fell through the hole in the ground, but at the last second, he grabbed the edge, and hung there, trying to pull himself up. A flare of terror erupted in his chest. He finally found the strength within him and pulled himself up. The other avatar seemed to be having similar troubles. Ryan could have just ended the contest right then and there, but he didn’t want to win like that. He waited for the other avatar to get up before Ryan started firing at him. The ground had at least stopped moving, and Ryan could tell that someone was about to be eliminated.

Jack Miller

As Jack watched the final two competitors fight on TV, he felt jealousy like he had never felt before.The feeling that the person you are watching on TV could have been you, but wasn’t, was indescribable. Jack knew that he maybe could have gotten this far, if he had just been more careful. It was devastating watching the final two players of the competition that he was in. Jack couldn’t bare it. He turned the TV off. He would watch the news about who won the Gauntlet later. He would do anything for another chance to compete,

Ryan Collins

Ryan dodged three shots before going on the offensive. He took his time for his next shots. He looked, fired, and boom. It was over. Ryan had won the Gauntlet. Ryan’s avatar was lifted up and up until he was looking from above upon the maze that he had just conquered. The voice spoke for the final time. “Congratulations! You have won the Gauntlet. This is an incredible feat, and your name will go down in the history books. Do you accept the prize of fifty million dollars?” 

“I do,” Ryan replied.

“Very well,” the voice said. “You now have fifty million dollars in your bank account,”

“Thank you,” Ryan said.

The Next Day

It was a good twenty-three hours until Ryan woke up. He was exhausted. Michael had been waiting for him. “Dude, you won!” Michael exclaimed.

“I guess I did.” Ryan replied.

“What are you gonna do with the money?” Michael asked.

“I think I have an idea,” Ryan answered.

Five Years Later

After Ryan turned eighteen, and was able to move into his new home, (without his parents.) The first thing he did was make an announcement on the very same news channel that he first heard his name on for the Gauntlet.

 “Five years ago,” he said. “I heard my name on this channel, informing me that I would participate in the Gauntlet. Little did I know, I would end up winning it. Many great things have happened to me since then, and I would like for many more people to feel the way in which I did. Because I loved the Gauntlet so much, I will be personally running and funding the Gauntlet II.”

The Gauntlet Will Return…


Guinea Pigs

“Guinea pigs are perfectly suited for the urban household…” (Aarti R). Guinea pigs are a species of rodent that has been domesticated for pet uses. According to many people, they are very loyal and cuddly (Hess). Guinea pigs have an interesting history, and are perfectly suited to an urban domestic lifestyle (Aarti R).

Guinea pigs originated in South America, where they normally live in the wild (Aarti R). Most people breed them for food, or give them as gifts (Aarti R). But in Peru, they have a festival where they dress guinea pigs in clothes, and hold contests for the fastest, biggest, and cutest. Later, they are fried and eaten (Kaushik). Their history is rich, but even in this festival, guinea pigs are appreciated.

In addition, guinea pigs are also easy to take care of pets for city children (Hess). They are very hardy and less fragile than rabbits or other animals. They are also medium-sized rodents, not too big, but not extremely small. Guinea pigs come in many colors and their size ranges from 10-15 inches (Aarti R). Also, their cages have to be 7.5 sq. ft, but this could be easily put underneath a desk or table. They can purr and make chittering noises, but only if you are with them. Guinea pigs in the wild are nocturnal, but in a human household they are diurnal (Aarti R).

Finally, guinea pigs are very sociable animals that love their owners and help them with their mental health. Most guinea pigs are shy at first, but once they recognize their owner, can develop a fierce loyalty for them (Hess). Once they know their owners, they will squeal when they see you. Also, when you open the refrigerator, they will turn towards the fridge in case treats are on the way (Hess). When you pet them, they will purr. Also, guinea pigs offer health benefits as well. When you own a pet, your blood pressure goes down and stress is reduced (Reader’s Digest). This is important for kids who have to take important tests. These are some of the benefits of having a pet.

In conclusion, guinea pigs are pets with a long history. Pets for a city life are very hard to find. If a snake escapes, it can freak out the neighbors. A dog will whine when you leave, and smaller animals like chinchillas will get scared when you get close to them. Guinea pigs fit the bill perfectly and are some of the most loyal urban pets on the planet.

“5 Surprising Health Benefits of Owning a Pet.” Reader’s Digest, 2019, www.readersdigest.ca/home-garden/pets/5-surprising-health-benefits-owning-pet/.

DVM, Laurie Hess. “10 Reasons Why Guinea Pigs Make Great Pets.” Hess, 20 Mar. 2014, www.Vetsreet.com/our-pet-experts/10-reasons-why-guinea-pigs-make-great-pets?page=1.

Kaushik. “Unexpected Turn of Events at The Guinea Pig Festival.” Amusing Planet, Amusing Planet, 2010, www.amusingplanet.com/2010/06/unexpected-turn-of-events-at-guinea-pig.html.

R, Aarti. “Incredibly Stunning Facts About Guinea Pigs.” PetPonder, PetPonder, 20 Apr. 2018, petponder.com/guinea-pig-facts.

A Wind Filled Island

None of us had ever seen, wait no, imagined what was happening that frigid day in October. The sky went from a golden sunrise to a seemingly clear, cloudless blue, and then suddenly it went dark. Every time the lighting came, the sky would resemble a beaten-up face.  Purpled with bruises. 

After a few hours, the thunder began to ring in our ears, bringing us to our knees, sobbing as we saw our world ripped out from beneath us… and above us, and from every which way, as the wind blew like a ferocious lion. But somehow, the ocean that completely surrounded our little spit of land was like a fox. It would slyly run around, jumping up when you never would have expected. 

15-foot giants crashing down every few minutes. But it wasn’t the size that terrified us. It was that they never seemed to want to stop. They weren’t frequent. No, quite the opposite. When we thought they’d come, they didn’t, and when they did, they rattled us, like a plain hurricane would rip away palm trees on some Hawaiian island. Ha! A Hawaiian island sounds nice right now. 

It seems funny that I would like a Hawaiian island after growing up loving Auklet. The pine trees that used to grow in clusters along the sand and tall grasses. The small seabirds that the island was named after several hundred years ago. The days when you could truly feel a steaming summer air turn into the crisp autumn breeze that all the old locals would notice when you walked by.  “It’s a breezy ‘un, isn’t it?” they’d call out. 

But everything quickly changed. The trees would be no more, as well as the grass, until only the ground was left, but turned upon itself, so the golden carpet we’d once walked on became a ravaged landscape of dirt and rocks. And the only talk of a breeze for the next few months was the whistling wind itself that came without the shelter of the trees. But the wind wasn’t just whistling during the storm. It was screaming. The grey-shingled cottages shuddered and shivered, but they wouldn’t give in, not yet at least. The docks that stretched from the sandy beaches were gone before you knew they were there. After a few hours, the mid-island houses turned to beachfront, and the beachfront turned to dark, bottomless ocean. At a certain point, in the middle of the storm, it turned sunny.  

It was like some sort of surreal form of torture, for as we islanders looked up from our shivering shelters, we saw the destruction that the storm had given our home. This, however, was not the worst of it. The true torture was when the lights turned off again, and we were engulfed into the crippling winds.

***

When I walked out from the tattered wooden structure, I felt like rushing back in. 

But I knew I couldn’t. Although it seemed like there was nothing left on the island, I could hear the faint calls for help from beneath the rocks and sand. I began to pick out the voices of my childhood friends and even the kind shop clerk, George. “Is there anyone up there?” he voiced shakily.  

I rushed over to the few planks, still showing above the ground and began to dig frantically.  Suddenly, the ground fell beneath me, and I found myself lying next to George, his arms around his children. 

“Fin!” he cried. “Help us!” I climbed out from the planks and George lifted out his two little girls. He climbed out with shaking limbs and immediately asked, “Where are the rest?” 

George had always been like the father of our island. He always brought the locals together when we needed each other. I didn’t respond, but quickly ran up to the next pile of grey cedar planks and dug until the local doctor, Maria, climbed out. George let out a sigh of relief as he saw the doctor. 

“We can’t waste any more time,” he said as he dropped down over a third ripped-down home and began digging until his fingernails were hanging on by strings. It took six more hours, but eventually we had found about three-quarters of the entire island. Of course, this was only about 35 people, but it brought some of us a sense of relief. George had sadly found the old hermit lying under the few planks that constituted his shack, without a pulse. He was surprisingly unscathed, but no one was asking questions. He had little connection to the rest of the islanders, but his death still brought much grief. Many who lived outside of town were still searching for family members, but most everyone was eventually accounted for. All except the island’s blacksmith, Conan. He and George had grown up together, and had been on Auklet longer than anyone else that was still living.  

“We can’t jus’ leave ‘im out there!” Abbot, a friend of my father said.

Many of the older locals were worried about Conan, but George calmed them and said we would continue the search tomorrow.  

As George walked away, into the darkness that surrounded us all, I saw the look of sorrow in his eyes.  

No one slept that night.  On top of the trauma we’d just experienced, we hadn’t eaten in over 36 hours. The schoolteacher, Keeley, took it upon herself to entertain the children with stories of fire-breathing dragons, princesses, and knights in shining armor. As she spoke, magical worlds began to form. Fairy tales and mystery lurked in her voice, and my mind wandered into the past. 

A question I frequently asked myself pushed its way to the front of my thoughts: How did we get here? Most people who grew up here didn’t quite care about history.  People from Auklet live in the moment.  

‘The past is no more, the future ‘an’t be known, but the present is what we should live by.’  Everyone who went to school here knows that quote. And everyone lives by it. That is, everyone except me. I’ve always been one to wonder about the past. My father used to tell me off for asking about the island. 

“It’s our home, and we love it. Why should we linger in what it used to be?” I can still hear his deep voice. And I can still remember when his voice faded away. 

It was such a sunny day for what had happened. As soon as Maria had walked in, her expression turned to grief. He wasn’t dead yet, but by looking at Maria, it felt like he was. He’d had what Maria called a stroke. He tried to say goodbye, but his voice had already gone. When he tried to reach out, he found he could only move his right arm. By sundown, he was dead. I’m an only child, and my mother died in childbirth, but I had a very large family to grieve beside. Everyone on Auklet is family. No matter what happens, we stay together. When my father died, everyone was in front of the house in under ten minutes.  

That night, it felt the same. Although we were grieving for our island, we were together, so we felt safe.

Only now did I realize how truly exhausted I was. My eyes felt like lead weights, and my limbs were like jelly. My brain felt like it had melted away, and my hearing shut down. But somehow, I didn’t fall asleep. I couldn’t. However much I wanted to, my body refused to fall asleep. It was a strange feeling. I soon began to feel a sort of anger. Although I probably had much reason to feel this way, I couldn’t trace my anger to anything directly. I simply was irritated. This irritation made me feel limp, like I couldn’t exert anymore energy, until, at a certain point, I just stared up at the sky and watched as the stars moved away, and the majestic bluish black of outer space quickly lightened, and the grey of dawn shone through. 

By the time the sky had returned to its usual bright, cloudless blue, everyone was walking around, asking what they could do to help. In the past hour or two, George had begun instructing people in the building of a shelter from the remaining planks of their houses. I walked over to a group of old locals who were talking quickly and nervously.

“We ‘ave to go now before it’s too late!” one said.

“We’ll gather a search party,” said another.                                                                                                  

I saw George walking over, a grim look on his face. They were talking about Conan.

“What’s all the trouble fellas?” George asked.

“We have to go back for ‘im, George,” the baker said in a calm voice.

I don’t know what made me do it. I hardly knew Conan. Maybe it was the mystery of it.  Whatever it was, I stepped into the circle of locals and voiced two words:

“I’ll go.”

***

George had taken me aside as soon as I said this. Searching for Conan wasn’t a dangerous task, but at the same time, Conan was like a symbol of the unknown. He was quite a mysterious person.

“You have to understand, Fin. Conan might be gone.”

“But he might be alive! We’re family. We simply can’t jus’ leave him to die.”

George looked at me long and hard. Then he simply nodded, and walked away.

Splash

Splashing 

Playing

Sitting

Thinking

The ocean

My haven

I come here to breathe

To live

It’s like I’m 

Holding my breath

All day

Waiting 

For the moment

I can gulp salty air

And be reborn

My connection with

The waves

Tugs at me

Pulling me 

Through the day

Until I’m back

Sitting on sandy shore

Wind tossing my hair

Water lapping my feet

Salt spraying my face

I come here to think

Something about this place

Calms me

Eerily soothes me

No one else 

Comes to my beach

They say

The waves are too tall

Like big walls 

You can’t get past

They say

The fog is too thick

Like a mask

To their vision

They say

No one will come here

Yet I do

Day after day

I come here

For what?

Who knows

Maybe 

To get away

From Mom

Sitting at home

Smiling

Pretending 

Dad didn’t abandon us

All alone

With no clue

Where he is

Maybe I come

To forget

Forget about

Hannah

My best friend

Now my enemy

To forget

How she left me

Just like

Everyone else

Or maybe

Maybe I just come

Out of habit

Longing for the tranquility 

It brings me

Telling myself

It would be lonely

Without me

But really

I’m the one

Who gets lonely

And needs the ocean


Mrs. Reynolds Waits

Mrs. Reynolds sat on the edge of her seat, shoes bouncing on the floor. She looked up at the brown wall clock, eager to check the time, but in a moment she remembered the old thing hadn’t worked properly since the Reverend had come in last Tuesday for tea. The wild gesticulations which always peppered his conversation resulted in the clock being drenched within a quarter of an hour.

So Mrs. Reynolds got up quickly from the tattered armchair and made her way into the dining room, where she’d left the golden watch chain ever since dear old Mr. Reynolds had passed on. That is, she attempted to move quickly, but so withered and creaky were her bones that it took approximately the same amount of time for her to move from room to room as a turtle might take to walk a few yards. 

In her attempt at haste, Mrs. Reynolds’ distracted mind nearly forgot to take the fabric and needle with her as she went to check the time. But she had left the room so many times now throughout the day that it was becoming second nature to take her work with her. After all, it could hardly be left behind—she’d been sewing the new dress for nearly a week and what with all the embroidery she had planned, but not yet begun, it was likely to be a full fortnight before little Elizabeth received the gift.

Mrs. Reynolds could feel her heart beat faster as she crossed the threshold, maintaining a steady turtle’s pace. She snatched up the watch chain from the table and let out a disappointed sigh, as she had already done twenty times that morning. 

Two hours now… two hours… 

The old woman had been waiting nearly half a century for this day, and now that it had come at last she could hardly dare to believe it. She was all aflutter, feeling as she used to when she was just twenty, and would wait impatiently for Mr. Reynolds each night out on the doorstep. The moment could not come soon enough. 

So compelled was she by the thought of what was to come that it wasn’t until she noticed small red droplets forming on her finger that Mrs. Reynolds realized she had poked herself with the sewing needle. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so distracted by something as to do that—it must have been thirty, no, forty years ago now. So Mrs. Reynolds made her way back to the dining room and wrapped her finger with a thin strip of gauze before returning to her needle and thread, though her hand shook so much with anticipation of checking the time once more that the gauze ended up an inch away from where the puncture had been made. But Mrs. Reynolds did not mind; she could think of one thing only—what was to happen in two hours’ time. She rushed (or rather, tried to rush) back to the table and gathered up the watch chain as quickly as her fingers could wrap around it—only two minutes had passed.

Less than two hours now… less than two hours…

Mrs. Reynolds knew she could not contain herself much longer. Back in the drawing room, she set down dear Elizabeth’s dress, for she would only ruin it if she continued on in this state. She sat on the edge of the chair once more, shoes bouncing on the floor and fingers tapping on the arm.


i remember

i remember my grandparents house

i remember that there was a wall there before it got knocked down 

i remember that the kitchen looked different

i remember the smell of cigarette smoke

i remember climbing the big tree outside

i remember moving 

i remember the new smells 

i remember no more trees

i remember cigarette smoke everywhere

i remember the two chairs

i remember one with towels on it

i remember bowls of ice with lipstick stains

i remember two twin beds pushed together

i remember sleeping on the floor

i remember waking up early

i remember mcdonald’s breakfast

i remember hash browns

i remember the single cigar in the backseat

i remember the hugs

i remember being dropped off

i remember taking it all for granted

i remember leaving without saying goodbye

i remember not giving hugs

i remember not saying that i loved them

i remember christmas

i remember waiting for family

i remember hospitals

i don’t remember the night before

i don’t remember the next morning, i made that up in my mind

i don’t remember my feelings

i don’t remember christmas

i don’t remember anything

i don’t remember my birthday

i don’t remember one of the chairs leaving

i don’t remember the cigarette smoke smell getting worse

i don’t remember more ice

i don’t remember the twin beds being pushed apart

i don’t remember beeping

i don’t remember the second bed being covered in stuff

i don’t remember anything

i want to remember when it got worse

i want to remember so i could have changed the future

i want to remember memories

i want to remember things i don’t

i want to remember so i could have done something

i want to remember when the cigarette smell got worse

i want to remember when the twin beds got pushed apart

i want to remember beeping

i want to remember selling the scooter

i want to remember christmas

i want to remember my birthday

i want to remember more ice

i want to remember the end

i remember the end

i remember the beeping

i remember the tubes

i remember clearing off the beds

i remember selling clothes

i remember airing out the smoke

i remember getting rid of ice and popsicles and lipstick

i remember the end


Surrealist’s Summer

Shaking off the flower crown you made when life was new

and alien.

I’m fighting to win your time.

For now you’re so sweet but

When will you be sour?

I’m aching for nostalgia

So I down a bottle of pepto-bismol

The monk shoos me from the cloister.

I look up how to be quirky on WikiHow. 

At the boardwalk

I bored my third cousin with descriptions

Of when the beach was still relatively wild.

He tilts his head and says “so silly”

We’ll stay a while to watch the sunset.

Justin and I are matching in baby blue

(my skirt, his shirt)

He’s left his things in my apartment. 

Do you hear that ringing too?

No?

I’m so sure it’s not in my head.

Is there a church nearby? I look on my paper map.

The man shakes his head.

Sorry, no Calvinists allowed.

I see a list:

Flowers

Fresh Bread

Televised Junkies

I wonder which does not belong.

The tourist in front of me is wearing my same shoes.

I follow her around the block, as excited as a three-year-old discovering finger paints.

I would take a picture but I left my phone at Claudia’s apartment

She’s probably been calling it to let me know.

Her summer specialty is fruit salad with kiwi and lime.

In Prospect Park the sky turned purple like a bruise. 

I run into a boy and he says shall we dance?

I laugh and put down my mountain dew. We waltz. 

He asks me who I am and what I’m doing later this week — I say I’m going to Cleveland and my name is Mary Sue (positively untrue)

Someone left carnations on the front step of a walkup.

I get an itch to board the New Jersey-bound-train but instead

Take several transfers to the B line, then take seven stops to figure out all the ads.

I look at every passerby hoping and dreading that it’s you. 

“Hey, can I take your picture?” I glance up. 

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were talking to me.” 

His camera snaps “perfect, honey” and I wonder how it came out, 

and if everything is this simple.

The lady behind me in line orders an açaí bowl with shrimp. 

I duck into a side street to tell my friend to hurry, 

my açaí bowl is melting. 

Till she comes I hide behind my newspaper. 

I think about the people dreaming about living in the city.

Look! A duck on the platform.

I keep trying to help him find the exit 

but he seems content — I guess I’d be too.

So I leave him alone. He has a newfound foreign glow.

I wanted to go to the Japanese gardens today 

but I ended up biking across Manhattan bridge.

On the G Line a man preaches about y2k.

I look back at him and feel a familiar tingle in my eye.

My throat tightens and I wish I knew why

I think about people who have had their wrist cut off for a fool’s gold watch.

In industrial Brooklyn I read a book about St. Marks Place

And then about Syria before the war.

Someone approaches me but no, I’m not interested

I want to eat avocado tacos in the restaurant with the picnic tables out in the back.

You have to ask specially to sit there.

Bother me later.

My newest friend is my camp counselor from three years ago. 

He recognized me but I needed a reintroduction.

He’s headed to a costume party and asks if I want to come.

We promise to keep in touch but it’s likely I’ll forget.

Someone’s blocking the traffic on third avenue. 

He’s wearing a mask I recognize from Venetian Carnevale and fiercely protecting his box of pizza. 

A woman turns up her nose as she walks by with pink-wrapped succulents. 

I quickly text a promise that I’ll be there in 12 minutes. 

A little girl is selling garlands in the park

I buy one for the sake of it.

When she grins at me I see the holes in her teeth.

I’ll have a word with her dentist and book an appointment for next Thursday.

Do I have time to talk about the water crisis?

Not now, but I leave my postal code. 

I have to go recite Tartuffe aloud on the M Train. 

It doesn’t help.

What would I name a boat?

What about, Second happiest day of your life is the day you buy your boat.

But then I’d be Tartuffe. And what about the water crisis?

Sorry I gotta get home.


All the Way

I approach the water

Many times a day.

Sometimes I dip my toe in,

But I never go all the way.


I linger by the coast,

But soon high tides win.

I scurry back up,

Jagged rocks breaking my skin. 


The heat of it burns me,

The cold pushes me away.

But I know when I’m ready,

Nothing will make me stay. 


The waters break roughly,

So I look far out to sea,

Where it sits patiently,

Waiting calmly for me. 


Someday I won’t be scared;

I’ll dive all the way in.

And when they come to find me,

I’ll be nothing but the wind. 


The Cottage in the Woods

It was a seemingly ordinary day at Camp Lemon, but not for Emilya Collins. Emilya was simply hiking along the Yellow Trail like everyone else, except for the fact that she wasn’t engaging in meaningless chatter like everyone else. No, Emilya was a loner, and she wanted to stay that way. She also had dirty blond hair that she always kept in a tight bun at the back of her neck, and was only four foot eight.

The group halted when the counselors up front did so. At this point, in time and space, the group of middle-aged (by camp standards) campers on the Yellow Trail were supposed to meet the younger campers, by the way of the intersection of the Green Trail and the Yellow Trail, but the younger campers and the Green Trail had seemingly disappeared. 

Since the counselors couldn’t investigate just by themselves, (since that would mean leaving the campers alone) two of the counselors said that they would stay behind on the trail with anyone who wanted to, and two others would take students who wanted to explore (aka look for the younger campers, their counselors, and the Green Trail). Since Emilya preferred small groups to large ones (but she liked to be alone above all), and since less people wanted to “explore,” Emilya joined that group.

Twenty or so minutes after the “explore” group started “exploring,” Emilya got bored. When she thought the coast was clear, she set out to re-find and explore the cute and mysterious cottage she saw around five minutes back. 

Just as Emilya was escaping, she heard a most annoying phrase.

“Halt!” It was Claire Oderr-Clemens, the biggest bully in Camp Lemon. Even the head counselor was scared of her (only because the mad scientist Dr. Oderr-Clemens-Shakespeare-Rowling-Silverstein was her mother, and she threatened that her “explosion-causing mother will hear about this!”) Both mother and daughter were known for blowing things up. When they arrived at Camp Lemon, they planted an explosive in the Nurse’s office that didn’t blow up because, as Claire said, “I just want to scare people.”

Dr Oderr-Clemens-Shakespeare-Rowling-Silverstein threatened to actually blow up the nurse’s office if they expelled Claire.

“What does your uncivilized person want from me?” Emilya grandly replied. Claire got rather red in the face.

“Want to leave with Emily,” grunted Marsha Balonrey, the strongest person in the entirety of Camp Lemon. Due to the threat of Marsha, Emilya warily let them find/explore the house with her.

The walk to the house was peppered with Claire criticizing Emilya’s literary tastes, and Marsha pointing everything out.

However, soon they reached the mysterious cottage. It was small, but probably appeared bigger on the inside, with cute woodwork. It was the sort of place Emilya might want to live herself one day. 

When the rebels approached the cottage, some sort of forcefield froze the bullies in their positions, but they were surprised by the forcefield, so they were stuck in rather ridiculous poses. However, this did not affect Emilya, so she walked on through. 

Emilya adored the tiny little cottage, everything from the Gothic arches, to the fascinating books, and the cauldron on table, until she saw the old hag putting ingredients in aforementioned cauldron. Then Emilya was scared out of her wits.

“Emilya, I know what you want,” the hag croaked. “I know what you need.”

“Who-who are you?” the usually eloquently-tongued Emilya stammered.

“I am Cerona,” the hag answered, “and I can help you, Emilya. I can have an Asgardian spirit eat your enemies for breakfast. I can summon a Linckenlay poltergeist to drive them insane. I can do that Emilya, and so much more. Just say the word.” 

The always-quick Emilya replied, “That’s absolutely ridiculous simply because you never said what the word is. If you’re going to enchant people at least do it right.” The hag looked indignant.

“Little girl, have you any idea of what I can do? The things I know?” Emilya yawned. She looked and sounded bored.

“No. Please enlighten me.” The hag looked even angrier.

“I can send the Earth out of its orbit and into space! I can kill you with the snap of my fingers! You, little girl, need to learn about respect for your God!”

Emilya still looked bored. “I don’t care,” she casually announced. “If you could kill me with the snap of your fingers, you would have already. What do you want?” 

The witch was growing in size, and was slowly getting younger until she was a 25 year-old with her black hair in a bun, and was wearing extravagant, yet simple silken purple robes. She had red-hot, fiery anger in her eyes, and magic in her fingertips. She was all-powerful, and wanted everyone to know it.

“I am sick and tired of your comments, little girl. I had a reasonable price for you: in exchange for me fixing your problems, you would be my assistant for twenty years.” 

Emilya was still unimpressed. “You should be aware that indentured servitude is currently illegal in the United States of America. And hidden prices are common, but frowned upon…”

 Cerona literally had fire in her eyes.  While colors were flying out of her fingers, she chanted an incantation: “Hanf hivobe avilf. Levwe libh vall.”

Now Emilya looked impressed—and terrified. Cerona knew real spells! In her haste, she grabbed the enchantress’ cauldron and oar. Cerona looked frightened.

“Not so powerful now, hag,” Emilya snarkily said. Cerona now looked more angry than scared.

“I am no mere hag, little girl! Give me the cauldron and oar if you know what’s good for you!” 

Emilya now looked rather cocky, with a strange little spark in her eyes. “I don’t answer to hags! All my fear and ignorance was false!” ahe said as colors flew out of her fingers. “I know how magic works! You can only use your cauldron for ‘little’ magic, like making a hiking trail and a dozen people disappear, or for aiding big magic. Spells can only be used to aid big magic, but you can only use spells if you’re powerful enough. You’re a Felleli enchantress,” she said as she donned a scarlet, velvety cape. “The angrier you are, the more power you have. I was getting you angry for a reason, for I am the almighty in the sky, I am the power above, I am your Goddess, and now, with your hard work done, I shall rule the world.”


The Tale of Lillian Becket

Chapter One: The Beginning

Aug 8

My story is a hard one to tell. Most would say to start at the beginning, but isn’t that the least important part? My beginning starts with my parents, who have a tangled history, a history woven with lies and secrets.

My name is Lillian Becket. When I was born, I was far from expected. They called me a blessing, a very surprising blessing. My parents work some secretive job I know very little about. What I do know is ever since I could toddle, only one of them would be around at a time. Often, the dinner table is only half full and food lays cold and untouched. I have my suspicions, but most of them are unrealistic hopes that stir in the safety of darkness and twilight. Whenever I question their absence, I am met only with anger.

I have friends, some as fake as the plastic wind-up toys that sit on my desk. I do have two who understand me, and have for years. Their names are Maya and Dylan. They found me swinging from the old squeaky playground set, after a brutal round of taunting and teasing. Maya, with her kind blue eyes and hip length hair is the one who wraps her arms around me and tells me it is okay to cry until my eyes dry of tears and my heart is satisfied. 

Kyle, with his deep dark eyes and his tight curly hair listens to me and assures me that it will all work out in the end, and that the sadness lingering in my eyes will soon wash away like footprints in the sand.

 We live near the sea. The only place I feel truly safe is sitting by the shore. Salty wind whistling through my tangled hair. That is where I sit now, trying to explain my story in the lined paper of this jet black notebook. Besides the coast, my other safe place is my journal. I can explain myself without interruptions and judgements. So please, don’t ask questions, don’t wonder, just bear with me as I try my best to tell my story. 

So, now that you know a little bit about me, I can begin the middle. 

The middle began on a day much like this one. Clear sky, breeze whistling through the palm trees that line the outskirts of town. When I wake in the morning, nothing seems odd about the way the books are lined straight and ordinary on their bookshelf and the way the clouds dance across the sun. But in the air, a scent lingers, of blood and roses, sweet. Gruesomely sweet. Humidly sweet. And slowly my nostrils flare, registering the discomfort in the air, but dismissing it as quickly as it came.

Like any normal morning, I stretch my arms in wide circles, feeling the soreness sleep has brought to my shoulders.

I have always been a morning person, in that serene time between dawn and when people actually begin to stir.

Tiptoeing down the ice cold stairs, I listen for my mom, or my dad. Per usual, neither are present. I am almost positive that Dad went on an early morning run down the beach, just like every morning. Who knows where Mom is?
I head into the kitchen and grab a bowl and the box of honey cheerios. Filling it with cereal and milk, I turn towards the living room. I sink into the couch, bowl balanced unsteadily on my knee.

I slurp my cereal while the TV blares. The images and light mix together, searing my eyes. The smell of dusty light is embedded into my couch, along with the slightly sour smell of my mothers perfume. I take a long deep breath and turn as my phone lets out a high pitched chirp. Picking it up, I see a text from Maya and a response from Dylan.

I click on our group chat and see that Maya has asked to see if one of us will help her pick out a dress for some event she has to go to for her dad’s demanding job. Hearing her complain about spending time with her parents makes me want to scream, but she is my best friend, and I don’t want to be alone all of today.

I respond with a short, “Yes,” and turn back to my show. 

After ten short minutes, barely halfway through the show, I hear a knock on my door and open it to find both Maya and Dylan on my doorstep. I reluctantly let them into the house and stomp upstairs to pull a gray sweatshirt over my shoulders and shove the hood over my head. I want to give off the don’t-talk-to-me vibe.

Dylan gives me the side eye as we scamper to the car and I decide that I will tolerate them, and try to cheer up. In shotgun, I crank up the music and play the part of DJ. In between flipping through songs, I stare, expressionless, out the car window. Maya and Dylan make chit chat until they cut off the music and, from the backseat, Dylan turns to face me. He looks at me and I know something is on his mind, but before he can tell me, we pull into the mall parking lot. I shoot Dylan a glance, but read nothing from his expression. 

As we walk, I can feel the pavement, hot underneath my flip-flops. We enter the mall and the cool air conditioning and the smell of new products envelops me. I’m slightly overwhelmed, always have been when going to malls. I wish I could communicate this to my friends who are mall enthusiasts. I turn to glance at them and Maya is staring at me with an expectancy in her eyes. Did I miss something?

“Well?” Maya questions.

“Huh?”

“I asked if you want anything?” She sounds exasperated. This happens to me a lot, just spacing out in the middle of a conversation.

I shake my head, a definite no. Even if I did want something, I don’t think I have the strength to ask my parents for money right now.

“Hey Lillian, are you OK?” Dylan questions.

“Yup, just tired,” I reply. I’m not lying, I’m tired of being here and of these parentless nights.

After two hours of trying dresses on, both Dylan and I are completely out of steam and hungry for greasy fast food. We end up dragging Maya out of Macy’s with a light blue, strapless dress.

We drive to the closest Five Guys and buy paper bags of salty, hot fries and fountain cold soft drinks. Grease soaks through the bottom of the white paper bags and cold condensation lingers on my fingers. We run to the car and gobble fry after fry, slurp our drinks, and enjoy each others company.


Bear Mountain

Picture this: a hot and sweaty day. When I say sweaty I don’t mean I went on a run sweaty. I mean I officially became redder than a tomato. I’m a city girl. So, you might be wondering why a city girl is going to a hiking camp. A normal answer is because I want to explore the life outdoors and disconnect from all the technology. But not me. I’m certainly not a hiker. Nothing could change that. The only reason why I’m going to a hiking camp this year is because this is my fourth year, and the previous years at my camp didn’t have a lot of hiking. Being myself, I thought, It’s just hiking, what’s the worst that could happen? Boy, was I wrong.

I’m about to begin the fifth hike. This hike is not like a normal hike where it’s, “Oh look, I got a sunburn and a tick bite.” It’s more like bring enough water in order to see the sun shining tomorrow. I have no clue how I could survive this long. The other hikes were crazy hard!

For the first time, my counselor said, “This hike is so easy.”

I started to believe her, but then I looked up, expecting to see a clear view of the sky. But, then a gigantic mountain emerged, and I glanced to the right and a sign appeared that said: Welcome to Bear Mountain. All of a sudden, I started having doubts. For instance, when am I going to see civilization again? 

The hike just started. It got so bad to the point that the group was a half an hour ahead of me, and three counselors had to help me up each step. So then I thought, Nothing could get worse from here. Luckily, two other kids were with me. However, one of them was my arch nemesis. If things couldn’t get worse. But, this year we became friendlierish. And for the other kid, we didn’t know each other well. As we were walking, we stumbled against a rock that had a chain. Somehow that was the easiest rock which was not slippery at all — while there were much more dangerous and harder rocks. My friends and I were trying to survive. Not only was the hike physically draining, so too emotionally as well. Not only was I on the hardest hike of my life but an emotional rollercoaster too. I felt really bad for the counselors, but they were actually very encouraging. Maybe it’s because they were getting their paycheck in two days… Yup, you just heard me, folks! My camp decided to take us on a disgusting, dirty, and — in my opinion — a dangerous hike before we have packing day.

Packing day is when we pack up our abnormally nauseating clothes and other luggage that is completely destroyed, dump them in our trunks, and leave a nice “I’m back” present to campers parents. Not only is it horrific laundry, but it’s seven hours of laundry time. No exaggeration! And, this is just for one month! Imagine two months.

Just in case something happened to me, I already wrote a letter to my mom before: 

Dear Mom,

Thank you so much for everything! I love you, and I’ll never complain about being bored again! 

Love,

Miri

All of a sudden, my counselors said, “Miri, why don’t you try to lead the hike.”

I was so sure that they were joking, I was cracking up. But, they were serious all right. So for a couple of minutes, I led the hike (and people wondered why the hike took more time for us). Three hours later, we finally reached the top! All there was were plums and cookies. What a great way to give us energy! Wow, I feel like I should get an award for this #mostlikelytonotsurvivethehike. Not only is Bear Mountain known for hiking but also its tower, which was not as bad. Since my so-called acquaintance and I were the only people there, we walked up the tower. For every step I took, I thought Wow, what a great workout I’m getting! Right before the last step to the top, my ‘friend’ slipped and twisted her ankle. I felt mixed emotions. On the one hand, it was funny because what are the odds of walking up a crazy big hill and falling down on a stair and what goes around comes around, aka Karma. However, I also felt bad because — what a pain in the neck. 

After, I helped her down the staircase step by step. When we got back down, there was a van with a counselor. However, the counselor said there’s not enough room in the van. To picture this, think it’s like going to the school nurse with a headache and she/he gives you a bandage and says, “put it on your stomach.” We have all been in the situation before and know how that works out.

Anyways, when we got back down, we thought that the hike was over. My counselors started to crack up. They said you only did the hike halfway. All we have is just downhill. Oh, I knew this hike was going to be downhill since the beginning.

Thank goodness downhill was so much easier! Maybe it’s because I officially became a hiker. Or, it’s because I couldn’t feel my legs anymore. Either way, I still have a story to tell. When I finished the hike, I heard a couple of kids complaining. I thought we should have a party together. We would call it the pity party. Instead, they were complaining that they “didn’t get enough exercise from the mountain.” Later, I found out they were serious when they went on a run. 

Two days later, I finally arrived home! The second I got home, I ran into my shower, and then I ate a multigrain bagel with cream cheese, aka a normal lunch. Because a lunch for my camp was potato chips, and breakfast was muffins. Last but not least chicken nuggets were a snack. Although I enjoyed most of camp, I was happy to be home. From my personal camp experience, not only did I learn survival skills but to appreciate home. I know this is going to sound cheesy, but this is what I learned from the hikes: First, you can become closer and friendlier to a person who you were once not on great terms with, and life can be a rollercoaster at times. Sometimes you can be on the top and go straight to the bottom. When we are at the bottom, it can still be very difficult to climb up the ‘steep hill.’ But, when we go in, we must have a positive attitude. A positive attitude can make a huge impact on the whole situation. And vice versa. Whatever our experience is, it’s part of a bigger picture.

The End

Pollution Problems

People need to stop pollution now more than ever. Pollution has always been a problem before humans learned of its existence. Pollution has affected various animals species, air, water, and even health and will continue to affect all of this in time. If this keeps up humans will be heavily affected by all the pollution. Pollution was always a problem and we should have stopped it when it first became a threat. It has become even worse now and we need to stop it, and if we don’t our future will be full of extinct species, health issues, and lack of food.

Pollution has existed and has not been dealt with properly, and now the world has to stop it more then ever. Many scientists proposed that companies should cut back on creating pollutants. Even though many people have acknowledged its existence, it wasn’t until 1948 when giant smog covered a city in Pennsylvania that many people and scientists started getting worried about what pollution will do. It started when a “Severe industrial air pollution created a deadly smog that asphyxiated 20 people in Donora, Pennsylvania, and made 7,000 more sick” (History.com). Though not many were worried about pollution and what it may do, this instance definitely brought light to this rising problem. Overall, pollution has always been a problem and has caused nefarious occurrences since 1948, such as oil tanker explosions spreading oil in water.

Pollution has been massively increased by coal usage and dumping trash into bodies of water and will continue to become a bigger threat in the future. The sky and the water are being heavily affected. Water pollution is rapidly increasing thanks to trash, bottles, and wastewater being dumped back into bodies of water. Only 1% of the world’s water is safe for humans, so people need to preserve it at all costs. Scientists have noted “without action, the challenges will only increase by 2050, when global demand for freshwater is expected to be one-third greater than it is now” (nrdc.ord). Without out freshwater humans cannot survive, and in order to keep that humans need to stop throwing trash and wastewater in water environment. Humans need water to live, and just like humans need water, humans need air to breathe. Polluted air is a big source of sickness such as, “(including asthma and changes in lung function), cardiovascular diseases, adverse pregnancy outcomes (such as preterm birth), and even death” (Niehs.nih.gov). It’s not just air and water that is getting affected by pollution, many more things like food are getting damaged.

If pollution continues into the future, many dangers that scientists predicted will be true. Many scientists say that human extinction will arrive sooner than expected. It was proven that many diseases will come from pollution in the future, which will lead to animal extinction, and finally, it will start to suffocate humans. According Future Effects of Pollution by Ciele Edwards, “pollution is the primary cause of the extinction of various species of butterflies and other insects in Great Britain. Although pollution poses a threat to creatures on land, aquatic creatures may face an even greater danger” (Sciencing.com). Many land animals will be harmed but some sea species will even go extinct, because pollution affects everything aquatic animals need to live. In the future, however, this will happen to land animals too, since trees, plants, and food will be scarce. If the need for fresh water increases, many people will be left with nothing since the water will be polluted. Therefore, the future is at stake because of pollution and humans need to stop it before this happens.

Overall we need to stop pollution now more than ever. Before, pollution was already doing major damage to life and the planet. Now, it is devastating and humans need to band together to stop it. If humans continue to cause pollution, the future will have devastation things in store for all life. Therefore, pollution needed to be stopped when it started affecting life, because it is bad now. It is a primary need to stop it and, if we don’t, the future will be missing a lot of life and humans will be sick and lose food and water.

Works cited

  1. Editors, History.com. “Water and Air Pollution.” History.com, A&E Television Networks, 6 Nov. 2009, www.history.com/topics/natural-disasters-and-environment/water-and-air-pollution.

2.   Edwards, Ciele. “Future Effects of Pollution.” Sciencing, 3 July 2019, sciencing.com/future-effects-of-pollution-5690014.html.

3.  “Air Pollution.” National Institute of Environmental Health Sciences, U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, www.niehs.nih.gov/health/topics/agents/air-pollution/index.cfm.
4.  Denchak, Melissa. “Water Pollution: Everything You Need to Know.” NRDC, 22 July 2019, www.nrdc.org/stories/water-pollution-everything-you-need-know.

Socialization: Why is it important?

Why is socialization important? Socialization is important because it helps us set standards and keeps us mentally healthy. Socialization is the action or activity of mixing socially with others. Solitary confinement has shown us what being away from other human beings does to us. It causes depression and many other illnesses. When we socialize, it helps us set rules for how we expect each other to conduct ourselves. We set norms to make sure we operate efficiently, and that only happens when we socialize. Whenever we socialize, it makes us happy; it helps us expand our general knowledge on what is going on. It is important to socialize, not only to avoid what happens when we don’t, but to make us happy. When we don’t socialize, we often miss out on some really memorable moments and can lose our connections with people.

Socializing is important because it helps us understand certain norms of our behavior and also lets us exchange information. Many of our proudest moments as a civilization would not have been achievable if we did not socialize and coordinate what we wanted to achieve. In many public spaces, there are rules to follow, and they need to be communicated with us in order to maintain civility. “Don’t shout fire in a crowded theater” (Justice Holmes) is a norm and expectation on how we are to act. This makes us safer and ensures that we maintain productivity. Everything around us was built by people, and that took an incredible amount of talking and communicating. That is a crucial part of achieving these things. We would not know how to act or what the goal of said situation is if it were not communicated to us. 

Socialization is important because it keeps us mentally healthy. Not only does socialization help us move forward as a society, it makes us happy, usually. When we don’t socialize for long periods of time, we can experience all of the following as a symptom. Poor self-esteem, depression, loss of reality, increased tumor risk, body chills, decreased ability to learn, decreased sense of empathy, inflammation, shorter life span, increased risk of dementia and reduced resilience, as stated in Bustle. As provided by Medical News Today Office, “Many colleagues have stated their friends have helped them destress and put things in perspective” (Medical News Today Office). The people around you often act as an anchor. They help you move through life and without them, you would be in a very different place right now. Even if they don’t help you, they keep away the detrimental effects of not socializing, brought on by solitary confinement.

Solitary confinement is a form of prison built to protect inmates from others or a way to separate inmates from the grasps of society. According to a 2017 Department of Justice report,  “The BOP (Federal Bureau of Prisons) houses mentally ill patients in solitary for years at a time, despite evidence that this can be psychologically harmful.” The purpose of solitary confinement is to let inmates think and reflect without having temptations and thoughts from society to disrupt. Consequently, there are many detrimental side effects to this punishment. Lack of even seeing other humans can be very negative and have life-changing impacts. As John McCain, someone who was imprisoned in 1968 in the Vietnam war and a first hand witness to solitary confinement, once stated, “As far as this business of solitary confinement goes, the most important thing for survival is communication with someone, even if it’s only a wave or a wink, a tap on the wall, or to have a guy put his thumb up. It makes all the difference.” There is no guidance in solitary confinement and you are left in a very small space, with very high security to make sure you never escape. You cannot talk to anyone else and are only allowed to for one hour a day depending on the prison. Solitary confinement shows how not socializing can affect you, it is clearly bad due to it being for high-risk inmates. It has many detrimental effects and that shows us that not socializing is really bad for you. However, people have started to take notice of this and two new organizations have been formed, both dedicated to helping people in solitary confinement. They organize people and help them send letters to inmates in solitary confinement to try and make them as stable and happy as possible while being imprisoned. Overall, solitary confinement is proof of how destructive isolation from other people can be.

Socialization is important because it helps us maximize our productivity by setting norms, exchanging information and putting goals in place. Socialization is also important because it makes us happy and that is good for us. It also wards off mental and in some cases, physical health issues. Solitary confinement is a type of prison to help put people back on the right path by isolating them from the expectations of society. That is directly related to this topic given they are forbidden to socialize. In conclusion, socialization maximizes our efficiency, makes us happy, and has many detrimental consequences when we don’t do it. 

Citations:

Baum, Isadora, and Chc. “How Your Body Can React To Chronic Isolation.” Bustle, Bustle, 12 June 2019, www.bustle.com/articles/196816-11-things-that-can-happen-to-your-mind-body-if-you-dont-socialize-for-a.

“JustBreatheMag.com > Top 9 Benefits of Socializing.” JustBreathe, 5 Feb. 2019, justbreathemag.com/life/holistic-lifestyle/9-benefits-of-socializing/.

Meisenzahl, Mary. “Mary Meisenzahl.” The Wellesley News –, 17 Apr. 2019, thewellesleynews.com/2019/04/17/solitary-confinement-is-torture-and-whistleblowers-dont-belong-in-prison-free-chelsea-manning/.

“Socialization Processes in the Family: Social and Emotional Development.” Annual Reviews, www.annualreviews.org/doi/abs/10.1146/annurev.psych.121208.131650.

“To Socialize or Not? That Is the Question.” Psychology Today, Sussex Publishers, www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/quiet-the-power-introverts/201103/socialize-or-not-is-the-question.

“Top 10 Reasons Why Socializing Is Very Important.” Listovative, 4 Mar. 2019, listovative.com/top-10-reasons-why-socializing-is-very-important/.

“Why Do People Need to Socialize?” Reference, IAC Publishing, www.reference.com/world-view/people-need-socialize-1457c057f8ba5569.

“Black & Pink.” Black & Pink, www.blackandpink.org/.

Doppelt, Jack. “Black and Pink: Concerns over Solitary Confinement and Other Justice Issues for LGBTQ Inmates.” Social Justice News Nexus, 2 Aug. 2016, sjnnchicago.medill.northwestern.edu/blog/2015/12/23/black-and-pink-concerns-over-solitary-confinement-and-other-justice-issues-for-lgbtq-inmates/.

“Lifelines to Solitary.” Solitary Watch, 19 June 2019, solitarywatch.org/about-lifelines/“Solitary Confinement.” Penal Reform International, www.penalreform.org/priorities/prison-conditions/key-facts/solitary-confinement/.

The McDonald Murder

The little door bell rang as I stepped into the Mcdonald’s office. The cold air rushed in to meet the toasty warm fire under the chimney as I, Billie Clement, hoped to work at this delicious fast food restaurant. The waiting room was surprisingly empty for a job interview, except for one man reading a newspaper. The man didn’t look up as I walked in, he probably didn’t care either. I sat down in one of the chairs and waited for the interview to begin. Right when I sat down though, a woman walked out of the waiting room. I didn’t see her face to tell if she got the job, but who cares? This is my day. Another man walked out of the room and told me to walk right in. As I sat in a comfy leather chair I handed the man my resume:

Name, Billie Clement Age, 26

Sex, male

Professional experience, I can heat my food up in the microwave

While the man looked over my resume carefully with a couple nods, he put the paper down, folded his hands, and looked at me with tired eyes.

“Congrats Billie, you got the job,” he said to me.

Finally, I thought to myself as I walked out of the room and closed the door, I didn’t mess up! But as I was walking out, the man with the newspaper wasn’t there. Then, I heard a shrill scream from the room. I quickly ran back to the room. The window was shattered, I looked to the desk and saw the interviewer, with a knife in his bloody back, and a note that read: SEE YOU MONDAY! 

It’s Monday, the day that I feared and was excited about because, duh, first day of work! As I walked the tiring 2 blocks to Mcdonalds, I could make out the shape of the giant letter M on top of the giant Mcdonalds building. In front of the building was the statue of the mascot, the one and only Ronald Mcdonald the clown. As I was walking I thought about who could’ve killed the interviewer, I mean, who has anything against someone that could give you a job? Oh, now I see why. Only a couple minutes later I arrive at Mcdonalds. “It’s strange that there’s cars parked, but the lights are off,” I mutter to myself. I unlock the doors with the key that the interviewer gave me, and walked inside. I go to turn on the lights, but I can’t find it, so I head to the store next to the restaurant and buy a flashlight and some batteries. I head back inside Mcdonald’s and turn on the flashlight. The sight scares me, people are scattered everywhere, cops and citizens. “Maybe there was a fight?” I say to no one, but how can a fight end with no winner? And also, where’s the Ronald Mcdonald mascot? Right when I think that, water starts to drip on my shoulder, and as I look up, Ronald is on the ceiling, except it’s not Ronald. His teeth are sharp and dripping gooey alienish saliva. 

His hands and feet are claws. The alien Ronald he has red all over his body, and I don’t think that’s from the ketchup dispenser in the corner. He tries to jump on me and I try to reach the door but he pulls me backward. He starts walking towards me as I cover my eyes and brace for my death. But then, just as I can feel his warm, sticky breath in front of me, I hear the sound of someone being whacked in the head with something metallic, and then a body falls to the floor. I uncover my eyes and there’s a Mcdonald’s employee standing over the monster with a frying pan in his hands. He looks at me with his frightened eyes. He tells me, almost in a whisper, ”Run.”

I didn’t really hear him that well because I was halfway out the door at the time. I slam the door shut. And run, almost in a sprint, back home.

I slam the door open and rush to the phone, 911, call the police they can fix this. I think. The cops pick up the phone and ask me what my emergency is. 

”There’s this, um, like, KILLER CLOWN, RONALD MCDONALD IS. A. KILLER. CLOWN.” I think I might have been too over panicked. Naaah, I don’t think so.

”Sir can you speak more clearly please?” The cop says to me. 

I scream into the phone with anger, “Speak clearly?! A lot of innocent people were just killed. And it was almost me too! By a monster-like, killing, psychopath clown at Mcdonalds!” 

“Sir I don’t think there’s anything to worry about, but will send over a couple people to check the place out,” the cop says in an annoyed tone, like this happens all the time. 

“No you’re going to need more than a couple, send the whole place. Thirty people just died and you’re acting like this is bullshit!” 

“Fine sir, if it makes you happy we’ll send everyone over,” she says to me. I’m about to say thank you but she hangs up. 

“Maybe I’ll just go to bed,” I mutter under my breath. I trudge upstairs and collapse in my little bed. “It will all be over tomorrow.” I say to myself. The next day I try calling the police hq. No one answers. “Hmm, maybe they’re still at Mcdonalds.” I say aloud, so I run over to McDonald’s but not before I make sure to take a pocket knife just in case. 

As I walk up and press my face against the door to see if anyone’s there, I see a bunch of dead cops and the clown bending over and looks like he’s eating something. Just then I get a call on my phone from my friend. “Shit,” I say to myself. I try to turn off the ringer but I guess the clown already heard it, because the next moment, the clown is right at the door, his mouth covered in blood, but it’s not his. I try to scream but no words come out. I run away from the door and try to call someone, anyone that can help me kill this thing, or else there’s no way of stopping it. 

I yelp a gun store and see that it’s not far away, I run over there, and buy a little revolver and some ammo for it. Then I run back to Mcdonald’s and open the door, the monster is nowhere to be seen so I turn on a flashlight, holding it in one hand and the revolver in the other. I walk down the hallway shining the flashlight in every room, and when I come across one room, my blood turns cold. There’s someone standing up in the kitchen not moving. I run over him and ask in a whisper, “What are you doing? Hello?” He doesn’t answer or try to shake his shoulder but he falls over, like he was propped up. Just then I heard a clang of something falling on the floor. 

I crouch just in time as the clown walks into the room, grinning ear to ear with his red-stained teeth. He pokes each pan and pot that’s hanging on the wall like he’s toying with me, wanting me to be afraid. I jump out of my hiding spot and try to shoot him, but the bullet bounces off one of the pans and hits the ceiling. The clown runs to the right and I manage to shoot him in the arm. He screeches like scratching a fork on a plate. My ears are bleeding from the noise. He runs towards me.

“Bad move Ronald,” I yell to him and lay the finishing blow right as he pierces me with his long fingers in the stomach. I point the gun under his chin, and pull the trigger, then I black out from tiredness. 

I wake myself up and stand on my wobbly legs, I walk over to Ronald and see his shirt covering a letter, I tear the shirt off him and tattooed in black is written: TEST SUBJECT NO.0.

Agent: So, that’s why you came here Mr. Clement?

Bobby: Yes, I thought you guys at the government could give me some answers about this thing.

Agent: Oh yes Mr. Clement, but the thing is you won’t be coming home for a long time.

Bobby: Wait, what?

Agent: Kill mode.

Robot: Kill mode activated.

Bobby: No, no, no, there’s got to be a mistake I-

BLAM!

To be continued.


The Cheese Thief

Pedro the Sombrero Snake was a snake from Sombrero, the capital planet of the Sombrero Galaxy Union. At first, he would seem to be your average Sombrero citizen. He was a snake, the native species of the planet, ate cheese, the food of choice, and he always, always wore his sombrero.

Back when he was little, Pedro the Sombrerito Snakito was very close to his grandfather, José the Sombreroto Snakoto. Every night, José would tell Pedro stories, before tucking him into his little blanket burrito for bed. 

It didn’t happen suddenly, but, for most of the time that Pedro the Sombrerito Snakito was growing up, there was less and less cheese to go around. Pedro, having heard so many stories of Sombrero valor, decided that he would be the one to solve the problem. The moment he turned two, and became Pedro the Sombrero Snake, he was ready to go, and find a big supply of cheese. The day after his birthday, he got his Sombrero Space Helmet, and was off.

He had heard rumors of a huge stash of cheese in the Milky Way, so he decided to take a trip there. The first few planets that he ran into had no cheese, so he was considering searching elsewhere when he saw this little blue planet. The planet itself was uninteresting, but he saw what appeared to be a huge ball of cheese peeking around it. Suddenly reinspired, he quickly slithered over towards it. 

When he got close enough to see it clearly, he was overjoyed. It was a miracle! Suddenly, he was approached by a small spacecraft. A window opened up, and somebody pulled him in. One of his assailants held him in place while the other closed up the window, and steered back down. One of the creatures turned around, and Pedro finally got a good look at it. They both had disproportionately big, green onion shaped heads with gigantic eyes, and wore bright yellow uniforms with a cheese emblem on them. The one holding him had a gigantic grin, and the other had a very small, wispy mustache.

The one with the mustache spoke. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

Pedro responded, “I’m Pedro the Sombrero Snake. Why did you stop me?”

The one holding him said, “You are trespassing on Cheese Fiend lands. We are Clidney and Goyd, the moon men currently in charge of patrolling this quadrant. You’re under arrest, so we’re going to take you down to our highest security prison.”

Pedro felt all hope leave him. How could he possibly escape a high security prison? His doom was upon him, and he could feel it closing in. Apparently, the moon men could too. They were quickly arriving on the surface, where there was a whole crowd of moon men standing on either side of an empty street, as if they were waiting for a parade to pass by. At the top of the street, there was a huge, imposing building, helpfully labeled as “Jail.”

Clidney and Goyd landed the ship in the middle of the street, and pulled Pedro off. Slowly, they pulled him up the silent street, towards the jail. With every step they took, Clidney and Goyd said, “Doom.”

With every “Doom,” the mob took one step closer to Pedro.

Sixty-seven “Doom”s later, Pedro, Clidney, and Goyd were at the front door of the jail. The mob was so close that, if he had arms, Pedro could have reached out to either side and touched them. Clidney opened up the door, and Goyd ushered him in. Through the window, Pedro could see the mob going back to where they had been before he’d arrived.

They escorted him down thirteen flights of stairs, to a common jail cell. After daring him to escape, Clidney and Goyd walked away, leaving Pedro to his fate.

Once left in the cell, Pedro collapsed onto the floor, miserable. He would close his eyes and pretend he was home, if snakes could blink. He sat there, bemoaning his fate for another forty-two minutes, before suddenly stopping. His hour of dramatics was over. He was ready to escape.

He slithered up to the bars, and examined them. They were four inches thick, made of cold-rolled steel. He stuck his head around to see the other side before realizing: he was a thin snake. He could just slither through the bars and leave, so he did. He just slithered through the halls, up the thirteen flights of stairs, and out the door. 

None of the moon men were looking at him, so he looked around. A lot of moon men were wearing the yellow Cheese Fiend uniforms. He made sure to avoid them as he snuck out of the square. He already knew what his next mission was—steal a huge mound of cheese, and slither away.

Pedro had no idea where he was going, so he just wandered around, until he came across another building, labeled as “Cheese Mine Headquarters.” Seeing as it had the word “cheese” in its name, Pedro decided that he should go in. 

One window was open, so he snuck in through it. There seemed to be a Cheese Fiend meeting in progress, so he decided to stay put, and listen in. There was a panel of Cheese Fiend leaders, facing a currently empty stage. As Pedro watched, a white unicorn climbed up, and stood in the middle of the stage, facing the panel. Ten spotlights suddenly swiveled to shine on her, and the light bouncing off her bright turquoise horn nearly blinded him, so he looked away.

Once he deemed it safe to look back, the lights were controlled, and the unicorn was just starting her speech. “Hello, Cheese Fiend Leaders. Welcome to the Cheese Mine Headquarters. I’m Cynthia, the new director. The new cheese mining initiative has been incredibly successful, and we have had to expand the Cheese Warehouses to fit it all in. With the amount of cheese to process, we have decided to eliminate our current shipping process, in favor of a newer, better one. We will build small ships, which we will then cover with enormous balls of cheese, to be flown out to our buyers. In fact, we already have one built, ready to send out. The rest will be finished shortly.”

The Cheese Fiend Leaders all clapped. Pedro would have done the same, if he could have. Cynthia the unicorn had just given him a really good idea. When she left the building, Pedro sneakily followed her.

She led him right to the Cheese Warehouse, where he finally got to see what he’d been looking for all along: a huge ball of cheese. There were fifteen Cheese Fiends guarding the front of it, where the pilot would get in.

Pedro knew he had to get that cheese, but also had enough self-preservation to not launch a one-snake assault on fifteen enemies. He decided that, instead of hijacking the cheese on the ground, he’d do it out in space.
As the entire ship was covered in a huge ball of cheese, Pedro ate himself in, and settled in to wait. A few hours later, the Cheese Ship started to move. He looked out through his entrance hole, and saw that they were just leaving the surface. He waited until they had passed all of the perimeter guards before eating his way into the cockpit. There was a pilot in there, but Pedro managed to open the hatch, and throw him out, where he would soon be found and rescued by Clidney and Goyd. 

With the pilot gone, Pedro had complete control of the Cheese Shop. He immediately changed course, heading for the Sombrero Galaxy. It took him a while, but he brought the cheese safely back to Sombrero, where he was hailed as a hero, and ate his fill of delicious moon cheese.

With his new taste for adventure, Pedro soon set off on many great adventures through space. Soon, any Cheeser would tremble with fear at the sight of a long, snaky shadow, or even the mention of Pedro the Sombrero Snake.


Grayforce

“Hey, who’s Rose?” Cam asked. Amina looked up from her phone at Cam, seatbelt unbuckled and craning his neck from the backseat to peer over her shoulder. She giggled and turned off her phone with one hand, swatting her cousin away with the other.

“Cameron, sit your behind down and put your seatbelt on,” Amina’s mom said, eyes never leaving the road. “I know you know better.”

Amina stifled another laugh and pushed her round glasses up.

Cam hung his head, sliding back into his seat. “Sorry, Auntie E.” Amina listened to the click of his seatbelt as her mom turned the radio’s volume down.

“Why’d you turn it down?” Amina asked. “What were they talking about?”

Mrs. Jackson sighed. “Some members of Catch 88 robbed a restaurant in the next county over.” She shook her head and muttered something under her breath. “I’m not interested in hearing that right now.”

“It would be so awesome to actually meet Catch 88,” Cam said. Mrs. Jackson’s eyebrows shot up and Amina gasped in mock horror. “If they turned to the good side,” he quickly added. 

“Buuut,” he said, twisting his wrist, “I’m more interested in whoever Rose is.” 

Amina tried to keep a hold of her phone, but the pull of Cam’s telekinesis was too much for her. Her smart phone slipped clean out of her dark brown fingers, past her cornrows, and into Cam’s lap.

“Ugh, I think you’ve gotten too good at doing that,” Amina grumbled. Sometimes, she wished that she had mind manipulation like Cameron and Deterge, the wicked queen supreme of the criminal three-person posse Catch 88. Other times, she was grateful for her own gift, no matter how bothersome it could be every now and then. 

“Yeah, no thanks to our training classes.” Cam deftly unlocked Amina’s phone and went straight to messages. “Like, how the heck’s a genealogy project going to help us hone our abilities?”

“Genealogy project?” Mrs. Jackson asked, turning into the bursting mall parking lot. 

“I’ve got a genealogy project due next week,” Amina said, adjusting her glasses again. “And you know what would help? Maybe some more info on Aunt Deandra? I’ve got plenty of info on dad’s side of the family, but-”

“Nope,” Mrs. Jackson said as she turned the car into a teeny parking space and yanked out the keys. 

Amina sighed. She hated going behind her mother’s back, but the family tree part of the project she was supposed to present to her homeschool cooperative super training class was going to look pretty weird if she didn’t have any information about her mom’s side of the family. What she was about to do… well, it was the only way to get the details she needed. Besides, maybe she’d be able to figure out what had gone wrong between her Aunt Deandra and her mom  – and maybe even fix it.

Amina watched her mom get out of the car. It seemed like she was moving through water- couldn’t she hurry up? She was really trying to go about this without abusing her ability, but her mom was making it so hard. If her mom didn’t always somehow know when she was trying to dig through her mind, Amina would’ve probably jumped right in without hesitation.

“Are you planning on getting out of the car sometime this year?” Cam asked, poking her in the back.

Amina rolled her eyes. “Very funny, Cameron Lesley.”

Cam’s eyebrows scrunched closer together, making Amina’s cousin look like he’d glued a furry caterpillar to his forehead. “No, but really. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” Amina said, grabbing his arm and jogging to catch up to her mom. “Come on!” Excitement jiggled in her stomach alongside the guilt and unspoken worry she’d swallowed down.

As they walked towards the mall’s entrance on a fading crosswalk, Mrs. Jackson rattled off a list of rules. Practical ones like no talking to strangers, no using their abilities, etc. She seemed to be mostly preaching to Cam who grinned the entire lecture. Ironic that this time around, Cam would be playing the role of angel child. Well, hopefully. Cam could always tease a smile out of her, but Amina knew he was also thoroughly capable of turning heads for all the wrong reasons at all the wrong times.

“I’ll text you when I’m on my way back, alright?” Mrs. Jackson said, capping off the speech with a kiss on Amina’s cheek. “Be safe.”

 Amina nodded, then watched, toes itching to get moving as her mother strolled a bit further down the massive hallway sooo slowly. Finally- finally!-  Mrs. Jackson disappeared around the corner, probably on her way to get her nails done.

As soon as Mrs. Jackson was out of Amina’s line of sight, Amina turned to Cam, eyes still glued to the coffee shop window that faced the mall interior.

“Okay,” she said, trying to keep the giddiness out of her voice. “You stay here and keep watch for my mom. If she comes back, just… I don’t know, distract her, I guess.”

Cam nodded. “Should I pretend to choke on my mint latte?”

“Ugh, Cam, no,” Amina said. “And give me back my phone. Please.”

Cam handed her phone back to her. “So when will I be meeting this ‘Rose’ ?”

Amina shrugged. “Rose is my debate class partner. I put her name down so it would look like I was texting a friend instead of my aunt.”

“Alrighty then.” Cam paused. “Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, I applaud your planning, this really is phenomenal, but what if she-”

“It’ll be great,” Amina said. “She’s my aunt. I should be close as close to my mom’s family as I am with my dad’s.”

Cam nodded. “ ‘Cause if you weren’t we wouldn’t be buddies, would we? If anything goes down, though, remember, she’s your family, not mine. I’ll come in there and,” he mimed clocking someone in the head with a bat.

Amina began walking towards the shop. “Sure you will,” she said over her shoulder. 

“Haha, you think I’m playing!” she heard him call after her.

Amina entered the coffee shop and scanned the large yellow-colored space. There were plenty of people, but Amina knew she was looking for a woman in a gray sweatshirt and jeans. That was what her Aunt Deandra said she’d be wearing over instant messaging. Amina had wondered if her mother was secretly in contact with her aunt, as she’d found a box full of Aunt-Deandra related stuff, including a conveniently current phone number, under her mother’s bed after FBI worthy snooping.

The strong smell of coffee undiluted by sugar curled inside of her nose. How could people actually drink this stuff? Soft chatter, occasionally broken by the sound of awkwardly loud laughter, provided some nice white noise. Amina forced herself to relax.

After a minute of searching, her eyes landed on the gray sweatshirt. The woman, her Aunt Deandra, was sitting alone at a booth in the far corner of the restaurant. Her hood was up and the sweatshirt was enormous, hanging off her body. Her auntie looked cozy. Amina liked cozy.

 She adjusted her glasses and strode over, clutching her phone. As she slid into the booth, she grinned. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

The woman, whose face had been obscured by the hood until now, looked up. To Amina’s delight, she shared her mom’s high cheekbones, rounded nose, and nearly black eyes. “Oh, we’ve met before. You were just a baby.”

Amina opened her mouth to say something else, but Aunt Deandra interrupted with, “Is Estelle around?”

Amina shook her head. “Well, see, I have a family tree project due for my training class, and it wouldn’t have felt right if you weren’t part of it. Estelle, er Mom, just dropped me off to meet with you…” 

Amina let her voice trail off, hoping her Aunt Deandra would put the pieces together herself.

“It doesn’t seem like Estelle to send you here alone to meet up with me,” Aunt Deandra said, rubbing her neck. “Is she nearby?”

Amina squirmed. Aunt Deandra sounded… almost panicked. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Amina wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but obviously, this wasn’t it. She could still fix everything, though. “Mom doesn’t know. I wanted to surprise her when you joined the family again.”

Aunt Deandra’s carefully waxed eyebrows furrowed before she laughed. “Of course. Just like your mom to say that I left the family.”

“Excuse me?” Amina asked. She glanced at the coffee shop entrance doors, where Cam was casually browsing on his phone. No Mom in sight.

“Did she tell you that I left the family?” Aunt Deandra asked. “That I didn’t want to be involved in her life anymore?”

Amina snapped her focus back to her aunt. “Kinda, yeah. She never talks much about you.” Sometimes, when her dad was working late and she and her mom were cleaning up the kitchen together, her mother’s lips would loosen from exhaustion and a good meal. Those were the nights she experienced her aunt in snippets and stories.

“That makes sense. It’s a shame you had to contact me without her knowledge.” Her aunt grinned with beautiful gleaming teeth. “A girl should know her auntie, right?”

Amina nodded eagerly. “Yeah, that’s why I’m here.” She quickly added, “Oh, and the family project, too.”

Aunt Deandra laughed. “Right. You thirsty, baby?”

Amina nodded. She had almost forgotten they were in the coffee shop! For one sparkling moment, she and her aunt had been laughing together.

As soon as Aunt Deandra returned with the iced lemonade Amina had requested, and a mango smoothie for herself, Amina pushed her glasses up, saying, “Can I start with the questions?”

“Sure,” Aunt Deandra said before taking a sip from her smoothie. 

“Well, why did you leave the family?” Amina asked.

Aunt Deandra’s smile evaporated. “I didn’t leave. I was forced out because I decided to do whatever it took to get the ability training I needed.”

Amina tried to hide her excitement at hearing that she, her dad, and Cam weren’t the only supers in her family. “You’re a super?”

Aunt Deandra nodded. “You didn’t just get it from your father’s side of the family.”

Wait…

Amina readjusted her glasses. “Uh… how do you know I’m a super?”

Aunt Deandra sipped her drink before looking around the coffee shop. “You know, you’re something extraordinary, Amina. What if I told you that there is a group of very, well, special people who used to be just like you? Being kept from the real way their abilities worked.”

Amina gripped her drink. This was starting to feel wrong, like she’d been tricked. She knew she hadn’t; she’d sought her aunt out and she’d arranged the meeting, but… her stomach was doing a funky flip-flop, I’m-not-happy dance with improvised choreography.

“What if I could introduce you to these very special people? They, in a way, know you already. Do you want to know them?” Deandra continued, stopping every now and then to take a sip from her drink and pull her hood tighter around her face. Her movements were so measured, so… practiced.

The warning lights flashed full force in the back of Amina’s mind. She shouldn’t be meeting strangers, but… they were her aunt’s friends… and her aunt wasn’t a stranger. Right?

Amina’s phone pinged. She ignored it. “Um, who are these people?”

Aunt Deandra swallowed. “I shouldn’t say.” She gestured towards a man in a black suit, his nose inches away from his cellphone. “We don’t know who’s listening.”

Amina knew that she shouldn’t use her ability in public. It wasn’t quite illegal but if she removed her ever present glasses now, the coffee shop-goers would get panicky. People didn’t like to be reminded that supernaturals lived among them no matter how commonplace abilities were. Then again, she didn’t normally meet up with mysterious estranged aunties, so, slowly, she slipped her glasses off.

She blinked as her eyes, uninhibited by her glasses’ vision modification lenses, swept over her Aunt Deandra. Her vision wasn’t as clear now, but she could see much more than her eyes alone could tell her. Any warmth she might have harbored towards her aunt drained right out of her chest.

Aunt Deandra sighed. “You know who I am now, don’t you?”

Amina clutched her phone to her chest and struggled to slide out of her seat. “I… I should go-”

“Amina, wait,” Aunt Deandra said, her voice still low and relaxed. “Don’t make me-”

“No, no, I have to go. This is wrong, I shouldn’t, you’re-” Amina’s words tumbled all over themselves.

Aunt Deandra snapped her fingers right as Amina slid out of the booth.

The yellow of the walls began to swirl. The people stretched like multi-colored spaghetti.

Amina tried to move, but her legs were lead and her tongue suddenly felt glued to the roof of her mouth. Of course, she thought. Short-term reality warping

“You’re Hypatia,” Amina breathed. Her voice sounded like she’d gone on a helium breathing spree and tied her tongue in triple knots.

Aunt Deandra nodded. “I am. Listen to me. Your mother isn’t going to get you the help you need to properly use your abilities. Only Catch 88 can do that. My parents refused to send Estelle and me to a proper super-learning institution, and-”

“How is Catch 88 a proper learning institution?” Amina asked, her voice climbing octaves as the temperature in her cheeks rose. “You guys mug people and rob banks and do… do bad people stuff!” What, did her aunt think she was stupid? And she’d mentioned her mom being denied the opportunity to go to the training school- what the heck was that about? Her mom had the supernatural abilities of a soda can!

Aunt Deandra frowned. “I’m not involved in most of the criminal activity. But you’d be surprised what Deterge and Clepsydra, despite their lawless lifestyles, can do for you.” She paused, then added, “It’s only going to get worse. You can’t control what your mind wants to see, can you?”

Amina didn’t want to answer, but her face must have betrayed her, because her aunt continued with, “Those glasses you wear in order to suppress your psychometry are only going to help your abilities strengthen. Eventually, they won’t work. Your mind will build up a resistance to the medication due to constant use. Matter of fact… I bet you’ve even seen into someone with the glasses on once or twice.”

Amina felt like cold fingers were doing the Irish jig on her neck and arms. Her aunt was right. It had only happened once or twice… but it had happened. That was how she’d learned that back-of-the-room Bailey in her SAT prep class had been late to class that one day because his bike had broken down, and that her dad secretly wanted to grow a beard. Harmless things. For now.

The yellow swirls shrank back into their normal form. The coffee shop reformed around them as people shrunk back to normal size. Her aunt’s reality manipulation ended. No one seemed to notice that reality had just been stretched out, stopped, and then smooshed back together by the invisible hands her aunt’s mind.

“Whoa,” Amina breathed as chilled air rushed through her lungs and the sounds of people around them returned.

“Imagine. You wouldn’t have to wear those glasses to control your psychometry.” Aunt Deandra- Hypatia– said. Her voice sounded far away and bluesy, like it belonged in the middle of a sultry jazz song playing from down the street. “You would be able to filter out whose information you want to know and whose you don’t at will.”

Amina was about to say that she’d think about it- then make a run for it- when Cam slunk over to their booth. Amina forced herself not to announce her aunt’s super identity. 

“Sorry to interrupt, Amina’s mystery aunt! Amina, your mom just texted me. She’s coming since you haven’t been answering your phone. We should go meet her outside so she won’t see,” he gestured with his hand towards Aunt Deandra.

Amina sucked in a quick breath. “Okay.” She looked at her aunt. “Is there somewhere I can meet up with you when I make the decision?” She wouldn’t join her wacko aunt in becoming a criminal, but she sure would be making all the right phone calls to the local authorities as soon as it was safe. Right? Criminals hurt people and enjoyed it. She pressed her clammy palms to the legs of her jeans.

Aunt Deandra shook her head as she looked over her shoulder. “You can’t get back into contact with me. It’s not safe.” She glanced at Cam, then back at Amina. “Choose.”

Cam snapped a finger in front of Amina’s face. Amina jumped.

With a flick of his wrist, Amina’s phone shot into Cam’s waiting palm. “Amina, let’s go.” He waved the phone a few inches from her nose. It pinged once, twice, then three times as her phone showed her the notification for missed calls and (probably ranty) text messages. 

Amina turned back to Deandra, trying hard to erase mental images of her mom, hands on her hips, give her the talking to of a lifetime for teaming up with a gang of super thugs. It wasn’t for real! She would go with her aunt and then call the police. They’d find Deandra that way.

But Deandra wasn’t looking at her anymore. She was scowling. Her eyes were fixed on a spot behind Amina’s head. Amina froze, sure that her mother was standing right behind her. She slowly turned, breathing deeply. In. Out. In. Ou-

Cam’s mouth fell open. He looked like he might drop dead on the spot. 

“Let’s make this quick. Hypatia, where’s my money at?”

Amina’s eyes finally landed on the person behind her. 

Deterge was even taller than she looked on television. Her short black hair framed her white mask. A bulky looking white and gray bodysuit concealed the rest of her body. It looked like she’d never been to fashion school and had designed it herself. 

Amina shivered. She’d studied Deterge for her current events class, but she’d never encountered any textbook information on Deterge having temperature manipulation abilities. Despite that, Amina felt cold radiating directly from the super. She was an unregistered super, so for all anyone knew, she could turn her eyes fifty million different shades of violet and see into the future with them in addition to her infamous telekinesis. If she could see into the future and was able to anticipate police raids, maybe that was why she never got caught. 

Deterge repeated her question. “Where’s my money?”

Aunt Deandra stood up. “I don’t have it. I have something better.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Amina could see people diving under their booths and tables, pulling out their phones, and snapping photos with flash. A baby cried.

Deterge crossed her arms. “Even after all the extensions I’ve given you? Pathetic… but not unexpected. I thought this might happen. This actually works out nicely.” She turned to her ‘audience.’ “What I’m about to do to this woman is nothing compared to what I’ll do to any government official who dares try to suppress us. Catch 88 will not stand for the suppression of our gifts, and we will bend-”

Aunt Deandra crossed her arms, too. “I’d forgotten how much of a drama queen you are. Are you going to accept my offer or not?”

“No,” Deterge snapped. “Give me the money.”

Under normal circumstances, Amina knew Cam would be live streaming this super-exchange via his mom’s Facebook profile. Instead, his eyes looked glazed as he gaped at the criminal super in white.

Aunt Deandra’s mouth opened and closed without a single sound, kind of like a fish’s.  “I don’t-”

Deterge snapped her fingers. Every drink sitting idly on a restaurant table exploded. A spray of ice-cold lemonade hit Amina’s right cheek and eye. People screamed.

“Now, you and I both know that I would like to blow you up just like I did those beverages. But I won’t since Catch 88 needs more than one competent member. So, if you don’t give me the money right here, I’ll have no choice but to do the next best thing.” Deterge said this like she was talking to an inattentive preschooler. 

“Which is?” Aunt Deandra asked.

Deterge turned to Cam. “Who is this?”

“He’s not involved,” Aunt Deandra said, rolling her eyes.

“Then he’s perfect,” Deterge said. She slid out of the booth from behind Amina and grabbed Cam’s wrist. “I know you know him.”

“I don’t,” Deandra protested, although she didn’t seem all that determined to save him. 

Amina screamed, “She doesn’t! Cam doesn’t have anything to do with Aun- Hypatia, she doesn’t know him.”

Deterge paused. She chuckled. “Did you say aunt?”

Aunt Deandra swore. She glared at Amina with the kind of look that seems to turn your insides to stone. 

Amina shrunk back from her aunt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“Oh, don’t apologize. I met you here because you have a chance to help your auntie out,” Aunt Deandra said. She looked back to Deterge. “What if I let you train Amina? You can let the kid go, I’ll have half the money by Saturday in return.”

Amina could not make her mouth move. 

Deterge tilted her head. “I don’t know… how long would she train with me?”

“Train? She doesn’t have to train.” Aunt Deandra said breathlessly. “You said you were raising an army. Amina’s your first soldier.”

“W-what?” Cam squeaked, not even bothering to struggle against Deterge.

Deterge shook her head and laughed. “Not gonna work, I’m afraid. Now, if you don’t have the money-”

“She can see into people’s minds, Alice.” Aunt Deandra said. Deterge flinched, probably at the use of her real name. “Where else are you going to find a natural-born spy? I am giving her to you.”

“I didn’t agree to that,” Amina heard herself saying.

Deterge grabbed Cam’s curly hair. “You’ll agree if you want him to live.”

“You wouldn’t kill a child,” Aunt Deandra snarled. “You haven’t reached that level of stupidity.”

“Haven’t I?” Deterge threw Cameron across the room. He went flying, hitting a nearby chair, landing limbs akimbo on top of it. He was very, very still. The man under the table next to the chair yelped and scrambled away. 

Amina screamed, heat pushing up into her chest and face. It felt like someone was holding her underwater. She was breathing, but whatever she was taking in wasn’t keeping her alive.

Her mind kept shoving Deterge’s stats in her face over and over and over. Then, she realized that though Deterge had the power to end everyone in the coffee house, and maybe the mall, Amina now had her real name and age and everything. Plus, something was brewing deep in her gut. Would she be able to use it?

She heard Deterge swear colorfully and hit the floor.

For once, her psychometry wasn’t just a bunch of nobody-cares facts that threw themselves at her in a flurry of color and sound. Everything was black and white, purpose stark. Her mind was an arrow, already locked on bullseye- a deep black tunnel leading into what looked like color. It knew where to pierce the skull and allow her inner eye to peer through. She could feel her mind scanning through Deterge’s, scraping through memories like they were file cabinets. 

Amina imagined her mind had arms and that Deterge- Alice Jennings, actually- had file cabinets for memories. She used her mind arms to rip a cabinet straight out of the shelving. 

She heard faint screaming in the distance, and for a moment, her arms weakened, and she could feel Alice/Deterge fighting against her.

Amina dug deeper, punching through the soft gray folds of Alice’s mind and pushing through the tunnel. She was swimming deeper into a clear pool of some kind of juice- ew, she thought, ignore that– deeper and further until she touched on a flaming red file cabinet. Her motions were slowed by the surrounding juice, but her arms still worked through it, grabbing hold of the filing cabinet and yanking. Someone was pulling in the opposite direction. Amina knew she couldn’t win and her stomach begged for her to stop. It rolled and flopped. She ignored it and examined the cabinet, holding on to it like it was the last morsel of food on earth.

Names, memories, all kinds of bits and bobs floated in the cabinet. Her mind’s hands pulled at the random objects. They crackled under her touch. Hearing them crinkle felt good.

John Jennings. Johnnie. Melanie Jennings. Little Mellie, Jennifer Jennings, Little Je-

“Stop!” she heard someone screech.

Amina blinked. The cabinet scraped against her hands before falling away. Her mind screamed in pain as it was ripped from Deterge’s. Searing heat danced along her forehead and temples.

She stumbled back, the world spinning around her in circles and ovals and craziness. Something warm leaped up from her chest and into her throat, filling her with a sour, gushy feeling. Her cheeks were furnaces on the verge of overheating.

Her vision, which she hadn’t realized had been missing until now, cleared. No matter how many times she swallowed, the gushy feeling in her throat wouldn’t subside.

Deterge writhed on the floor. She wasn’t covered in blood, or even scratched. Her hands clawed at her mask, scalp, and hair, trying to reach for something she couldn’t touch. Amina’s mom lay next to Deterge, groaning. When had her mom gotten there?

“Johnnie!” Deterge wailed. “Johnnie, I’m sorry!”

Amina stepped back. She had to get away. She had to get away from what she’d done.

The people who’d hidden themselves away under the coffee tables began to emerge as Deterge slowly stopped squirming. A few darted out of the open door, dragging crying toddlers and children behind them.

“Is she dead?” someone called out. 

She’s dead, she’s dead, her brain screeched. Amina’s hands shook. Did the people know she’d killed Alice? Had she killed Alice?

Arms wrapped around Amina from behind. Her aunt was saying something to her. 

“How did you do that?”

Amina shook her head. She didn’t want the credit. She didn’t want this. “Make it go back,” she whispered.

“What?” her aunt asked. “Make what?”

“Time! Make it go back, I can’t, I have to fix it and you have to do it because I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Alice! Make it go back!”

“I can’t,” her Aunt Deandra said. “But listen to me, Amina. You could make a lot of money using that gift of yours. If you did what I think you did, you-”

“No!” Amina screamed. Her mom. She needed her mom. Her mom would be able to wash this away, hold her tight and away from the world. “Let me go, I want my mom!”

The only signs her mother showed of hearing her was lifting her head. Her dark curls obscured her face.

Aunt Deandra’s voice sliced into Amina’s ear. “Forget about your mother, Amina. You and I, we can get your friend the help he needs and then train you. You have a gift, something so wonderful that you have to learn to use it properly. You can’t go on having a normal life with powers like yours.”

“You’re not my mom! I want my mom now!” she yelled. She stomped down on her Aunt Deandra’s foot. Hypatia, momentarily surprised, released her. Amina ran towards her mother, sneakers gripping and releasing the floor over and over.

Mrs. Jackson raised a hand. “D-Deterge might come back to her senses, honey. Stay where you are.”

Amina obeyed, eyeing Deterge. 

Then she remembered her cousin. She couldn’t just stand there.

She rushed over to Cameron, who was moaning and rolling around.

“Everyone put your hands where we can see them!”

Amina’s stomach dropped. Police threw open the coffee shop’s double doors and clambered in, shouting directions as their hands traced their gun holsters. 

Amina raised her hands high over her head, craning her neck over her shoulder to see Detege being apprehended. Her Aunt Deandra gave her one last look even as police surrounded her before pressing her palms together. Space folded in on itself, swallowing Aunt Deandra before popping back into place.

She didn’t care. Let her aunt warp away like she’d done nothing for now. Amina was going to find her. She knew what her aunt looked like, sounded like. It would only be a matter of when, not if, she and the police captured her. 

“Amina,” Cam groaned. “Amina, what’s… what’s going on?” 

Amina focused on Cam. Her mind immediately jumped into his, gathering facts she already knew. That had always happened without her glasses. But now, her mind was hungry to slice and tear Cam’s memories like they were gray putty erasers. That…that was new.

“Just- just relax,” Amina said, more to herself than to him.

Amina must have been making her I-can’t-see squint face, because Cam scrunched up his face and snapped his fingers.

Amina’s glasses knocked straight against her face and landed on Cam’s chest. Cam groaned. “You’re welcome,” he croaked. He hesitated before asking, “Your… your aunt? Where is she?” He tried to sit up, eyes darting around the coffee shop.

“I’ll find her,” Amina vowed, feeling silly with her hands still up in the air.

But first, she would train. She would petition her parents to send her to the National Training Institution, and if they refused, she’d run away somehow.  However it happened, she needed to get her powers in line before she destroyed somebody’s mind the way she had Deterge’s. She needed to rein in whatever in her had felt good as she crinkled Alice’s memories into badly burnt and churned pain.


The Dark Room

The cold, empty, dark room. That’s where I am. The room is pitch black, I can’t see myself or anything around me. I don’t even know if my eyes are opened or closed, it’s all just dark. I need to slide my bare palms along the cold, rough surface of the walls and floors to recognize what’s around me, the skin on my knees becoming sore and scraped. Every few minutes I crawl on my hands and knees, feeling to see if something, anything changed. Just in case something appears. There are areas of the wall that change textures, from rough to smooth or dry to damp, but there are always no entrances or exits. I’ve tried calling for someone, banging on the walls, screaming for help, sobbing. But I’m trapped. Trapped in the dark room.

Everything’s quiet apart from my movement and breathing, my beating heart, and shallow breaths. It’s so silent here. I hardly remember anything before this. I remember a life, people around me. I remember sadness. A never-ending river of sadness, despair, and hopelessness. I remember tall walls, barred windows, and paper clothes. I remember eyes, everywhere, watching me. And now there’s just the dark room. A maze with only four walls. I’m scared that if I make it out of the dark room, I’ll go back to that place. Filled with locked doors and judgeful stares. Lies and constant eyes. Staring. Always.

I hear voices calling from all sides. All the time. Crying, screaming, yelling. Sometimes angry, sometimes sad, but they’re always scared. They mask their tones but, underneath, they’re scared. High-pitched, confused voices. Scared teenagers hiding it all in anger. All just teenagers’ words, calling out from the darkness. Sometimes I wonder if they’re mine, but then a furious shout sounds. The voice of a gruff man, commanding, angry. I know that’s not my voice. 

I don’t know what I sound like. My voice disappears into the walls, echoing in the abyss that hides beyond, mixing like a chorus with the rest of them. But I know what the dark room sounds like. I hear noises. Scratching on the walls. Sometimes quiet and soft, other times loud and desperate. But I can’t remember whether or not it was me. I can’t remember why my nails are chipped and broken, sore cracks in them that sting when touched, and bleeding, the feeling of the liquid trickling down my fingertips. Everyday, I move my hands against the cold surface and find the grooves in the walls and floor. But sometimes they’re gone. Replaced by a smooth, flat wall. Still, I know that I hurt the dark room. I know that I made it angry.

I try to claw through the dark room, but whenever I do I hear someone crying. Calling my name between sobs. I’m unsure if its below, above, or next to me. I’m not sure if it’s me. I’m only sure of the dark room.

I’m safe in the dark room. I listen to the yelling, banging, screaming, and crying on the other side of the wall, but I’m safe from them. I’m in the dark room. Whenever I feel along the walls I only feel the cold smoothness of the dark room. There’s no one else. There’s nothing else. There is only the dark room. There is only the metal walls that echo with the pain of others. The metal floor that feels damp with my tears.

No one can hear me when I’m in the dark room. Only the dark room can. No one can see me when I’m in the dark room. Only the dark room can. Only the dark room knows I’m here. The dark room with its cushioned walls and cushioned floor. Its metal door and little window. The dark room where people wait outside. Screaming, yelling, shouting, crying. Some angry, some sad, all scared. But the dark room is where we hide. The dark room is where we scream. The dark room is where we yell. The dark room is where we shout. The dark room is where we cry. The dark room is where we’re angry. The dark room is where we’re sad. The dark room is where we’re scared. The dark room is where we’ll die.


The Heart

As I was walking home, sobbing in the rain, I get a text saying, I’m sorry, I love you, I hope you will be happier than you were with me. I keep crying as I’m walking to the nearest Seven Eleven because I hated Chinese food and right before he dumped me, Dan, brought me to a Chinese restaurant. Even after three years of dating, he still doesn’t know me. But I forget about him, so I walk into the Seven Eleven. 

I start getting slushies and realize that my mascara is all over my face. People at the store are staring, but honestly, who cares? I then buy a bunch of chips. After they kick me out for almost falling asleep on the floor, I walk into the Starbucks attached to the Seven Eleven. I decide to get a venti iced coffee with two shots of espresso. I know, terrible choice, but I personally hate sleeping, and it was already around 3 AM and I need to be at work by 8:45, so I guess I could just deal with it. When I’m done drinking my coffee and eating my cookie dough cake pop, I leave the place. 

As soon as I walk out of the Starbucks, I realize it’s not raining anymore. That kind of cheers me up. I don’t feel like getting an Uber looking like this, so I decide to just walk home. I’m now walking in an alley and I notice it smells so bad. As I’m thinking of what could be in the dumpster right next to me, my stomach starts to churn. But since I’m already grossed out, I might as well text Dan stuff that I’ll probably regret in the morning. 

I start texting him, You don’t deserve anyone you no good heartbreaker. I know, sounds cheesy. Right after I send the text, I hear a sound. It’s quiet but I’m able to hear it. I look around and say, “Is anyone there?” Having a scary movie preference, that is the dumbest thing anyone could ever say. 

So I decide to look around, I then turn back to the dumpster. I was hesitant to lift up the top of it. But I eventually start to hold my breath and open up the dumpster. The smell is repulsive. I want to throw up. As I turn on my flashlight from my phone, I look down and see the most terrifying thing I would ever see in my life. 

It was Dan. He was wrapped up in a black bag, but I could see his face through the clear colored grocery bags. He was so bloody. He looked like he was in a fight then hit really badly. His face had scratches and bruises all over it. His chest was like a lagoon of blood, it was disgusting. I wanted to scream. My ex-boyfriend that I loved endlessly was in a dumpster, dead and soaked in his own blood. I wanted to pull him out to see if he was still alive and able to survive. But I wasn’t stupid. It’s the twenty-first century. People are going to lie, for example. If I’d call the police right about now, what would I say? That I just magically found a dead body in a dumpster that I just happened to be looking through? They’d also find my fingerprints if I checked if he was still alive or pulled him out. So calling someone was not an option at all. But I loved him, but he didn’t love me. I wanted to die. He was so special and kind, except for tonight. 

As I got home, I realized that my apartment door is unlocked and a little open, so I take my taser that I keep in my purse and hold it up. I then walk into my apartment and see that there is blood everywhere. On the walls, on the floor, and on the doors. I cannot believe it. What if this is where Dan died? What if this was something else that didn’t have to do with Dan? As I walk around my apartment, I realize my fridge was open and leaking red liquids. I was terrified of what could lie behind the steel refrigerator door. As I open the door, I see a heart. A bloody, big, red heart. 

I fall on the floor from the shock. I start crying hard, and then have a couple panic attacks. But then I say to myself, what the hell am I supposed to do with this? I can’t call the police because my fingerprints are all over my own house. So I decide to do something crazy, I decide that I would be doing some early spring cleaning. So I put on some sweats, go to Target, get the buy four get 1 free bleach sales. But first, I had to send my boss an email saying that I was sick and couldn’t come to work, so that by morning he’d see my email. Then started scrubbing, scrubbing hard. 

After about six hours of bleaching my house top to bottom, left to right, and side to side, I was so scared of what would happen in the future. Was I supposed to live with this forever? Well I can’t, if you were asking. I honestly want to know who would do such a thing. But before I can think of anything close to that, I have to sleep. I need to rest every part of me that I could think of. Then I start thinking of Dan’s family. He has a sister and two brothers, he has a 5-year-old niece and a cat in his house. He was only twenty-four. He had such a big career in law ahead of him. But then I started wondering who could’ve done it. I start to think of who could possibly have had a grudge against him or even someone who wanted to ruin his career, but that was going to be a hard one because Dan was a famous lawyer for celebrities in LA. After that, I realize that I just can’t sleep. So instead I head to Dan’s house, but I need to prepare for anything. I have an emergency gun and a taser. I also pack a first aid kit just in case I get into an accident. I do realize that I could either be killed or go to jail. 

As I was getting ready to leave for Dan’s house, I remember that I need to make sure that my boss at work knows that I am “sick” and can’t go to work. So I grab my phone from my kitchen counter, check it, and then realize that I have a lot of missed texts and calls. I even have a voicemail in my inbox. So I open my text app. I first see one of my friends from work, Melanie, had texted me, Where are you? So I text back that I was staying home from work today. 

Then I go back to check who else had texted or called me. The text right after Melanie was Dan, and I was anxious to open it. What if the person that did it texted Dan from his phone while he was put in the dumpster to decay? I wasn’t ready, so I just go on to check my voicemail box. And of course, in my voicemails there are possible scam messages, so I go through all of those and block most of them. And after that, I go to check if I have any left, and I have one more. I was thinking I had just missed another scam call, but no, it’s a voicemail from Dan’s phone. I was so scared I could feel my goosebumps spreading everywhere from how scared I was. I know that I was eventually going to have to listen to it, so that time might as well be now. So I carefully open it and put my ear against the speaker. At first, all I can hear are the breaths from someone, then I realize that it’s Dan breathing. It sounds like he was out of breath and running. But what I was about to listen was going to ruin me for life.  

So I’m still listening to the voicemail from Dan, but as I’m closely listening, I hear a guy’s voice come in. He sounds drunk, and I can’t really understand what he’s saying to Dan, which gets me annoyed. But then I hear a door close, so that means the guy either left or someone else is now there. I hear a girl’s voice. It sounds so familiar. It sounds like she was whispering to him or the other guy there. I’m just not sure who the people were. After that, Dan and his “friends” went back and all I could hear was music being blasted and screaming for about an hour in the voicemail. Then I hear the girl whisper again, and I hear Dan and the girl get out or go away from the loud music. I got scared, as if, maybe Dan was cheating on me the night he died. But that wouldn’t matter because we would have already been broken up by that time. As I am still listening, I hear some kind of argument happening. I hear Dan saying, “No stop, I can’t do this anymore, just enough!” As I hear this happening, I quickly understand that whoever Dan was with could’ve been the person who killed him. And that I need to listen very carefully. 

As I’m still listening, I realize that I might’ve known where he went but before I can think, I hear a loud crack and what I thought was a hard fall. I was thinking, the girl that was with Dan at that very moment, or whoever he was arguing with, had hit Dan in the head with something hard. Then waiting for a sound to come up, I hear him say in a vulnerable voice, “Why did you do that to me?” And I hear the girl say, “Because you never loved me.” I then hear a gunshot sound and Dan choking. I was crying so hard. I had just heard the love of my life get shot in the middle of the night. I was disgusted. I wanted to throw up. But I needed to stay strong throughout this experience. 

So I now grab a piece of paper from my bulletin board to write down every girl that I have in record of knowing Dan. I write down some ex-girlfriends, some girls from work, and some friends. After I’m done writing, I put the piece of paper in my bag, lock my door, and leave my apartment. 

As I’m in the taxi to Dan’s house, I start thinking really hard about everything Dan’s ever told me. Maybe there’s a clue on who could’ve done this to him. But I then realize my phone was ringing. I see that it’s Melanie so I pick up. I asked, “Hello?” in a ratchet voice to make her think I was sick. 

She then asks, “Where are you right now?” 

I then panic a little, deciding if I should tell her I’m at home eating soup or if I’m going to the doctor. But as I think about what I’m going to tell her, I start remembering the horrors from last night. At some point I just go with saying, “I’m going to a pharmacy downtown to get medicine.” 

Then she for some reason sounded annoyed, but I just don’t really care right now. She says, “Oh, ok.” She also says in a cute subtle voice, “I can totally bring you soup later when you’re back. I could just let myself in. I still have your keys!”

 And I just tell her to leave them under my door mat after she leaves work. 

But instead of saying, ok, she just says, “Well I’m here right now. I wanted to see how you were feeling.” 

I was kind of confused, but I had to hang up because I needed to pay for the taxi and because I was here at Dan’s house. I was scared of how I would react to see his house, because well, there’re pictures of us together all over it. 

As I walk into the house, I flash back to all the great memories Dan and I had. All the ferris wheel rides, the date nights, the cute cuddling nights at home. Even before we even started dating, I had gotten sick in the middle of a little meetup we had and had to go home. He then showed up at my house with a cute care package that had a teddy bear, chocolates, and a bunch of calming stuff. Going through this is an emotional rollercoaster. I was first in shock, then fearful, then just depressed, and now I’m just a mess. But I really feel like Dan is in the room with me right then and there. It’s hard being there, but I kind of have to. I then start looking around in desks and drawers for any notes or reminders to where or who he could’ve been with. But as I’m skimming each room and piece of paper I can see, I find something weird. 

It looks like some kind of document, at first I was like, Oh that’s just Dan being a lawyer. But as I look through it, I see that there are these confusing notes on it. It looks as if it’s some kind of code. It’s a bunch of numbers. So after waiting and doing nothing for like ten minutes, I finally decide to something productive and search up the numbers of the piece of paper into Google. When I am done writing these literal ten numbers into my phone and messing up the order about five times, I enter it and press search. 

There are only two things that come up, this weird dating website, this website called White pages, and then even more random numbers. After researching on both of them, I decide they are all pointless and aren’t getting me anywhere. So I start thinking, and I realize there are enough digits for it to be a phone number. So as I dial star six seven just in case I don’t know who it is, I dial the rest of the numbers. As it’s ringing, it goes straight to voicemail. And the first thing I feel once I hear the voice of the voicemail is that my heart deflates, my jaw drops from how shocked I am, and I start to cry a little. 

It’s my best friend of two and a half years of work add two years in high school. Melanie. I can hear her voicemail saying, “Hey, it’s Melanie, leave a message.” I was terrified, but there’s no possible way that it was her. She doesn’t even really know Dan. I’ve never even introduced them. My happiness just disintegrates immediately. But the more I think about it, the easier I realize it could’ve been, if she in fact, was the killer. She has the keys to my apartment. And on my little keychain with all my keys. And I told her where I was last night at Starbucks and Seven Eleven. She had everything she could need to kill Dan, or even me! I was terrified and then I realize, someone was at the door. 

I grab my gun ready and loaded, walking slowly down the hall to the front door. My gun is ready to fire, and I have pepper spray in my pocket. I’m ready to go through anything. As I open the door carefully, I see pink hair, Melanie’s hair color. I quickly grab my pepper spray, open the door quickly, and spray her in the eyes. As she screams in pain, I push her to the floor, I take my gun, and say my last four words to her. “Go die in Hell.” Then I point my gun at her, right in her forehead. 

I shoot. 

The last thing I will remember of Melanie and my ex-boyfriend are the blood coming out of their mouths.

3 and a half months later

Now, you all might be asking, what happened? Well, let me tell you. 

After my terrifying experience three months ago, I checked into a mental help bunker, which basically meant I took a break from reality, a couple months of doing therapy and meeting new friends. I started getting sick a lot of the time. I knew in the back of my heart that I was in fact pregnant with Dan’s baby. I was thinking of all the exercises that my therapy had taught me, but I couldn’t resist and just started bawling. So I then checked out of the therapy bunker and went back to the real world. I then had Camille. She looked exactly like Dan. I eventually had to go back to work, but I went to a different place. I also ended up disappearing completely from Dan’s family because I couldn’t bear seeing them. I’m still guilty of that. So yeah, that’s just my life. 


5 years later

“Sweetie! You are going to be late for school, come get your bag, and give mommy a kiss!” I say.

 “Ok, I love you, bye mom!” Camille says as she leaves from the back door. But about five minutes later, she comes back through the back door again saying she missed the bus again. 

In a silly voice, I say, “Ok, I will just drop you off on my way to work. No worries, Milly.” As I’m grabbing my car keys from my kitchen counter, I hear my phone ringing. I was expecting it to be my boss, Larry, asking if I was working today because I had told him before that I might have an opportunity to check out houses near Camille’s new school to move into for a few years. 

But as I check my phone, and it’s an unknown number. I answer and the only thing the person on the other end of the call says is, “Hey.” 

I pause for a minute in silence to realize the heartbreaking realization I had just made. Instead of asking questions, the only words that come out of my mouth are, “Daniel?”

Sea

Whales moan to each other, chanting their conversations into the air.

The stunning Azure waves whip the rocks, engulfing them in sea.

Bubbles rise up, expiring at the foamy surface.

At sunrise, the horizon spreads fiery colors over the calm ripples.

As they dive deeper, a chill spreads through their gills.

The teal fades to a deep midnight near the sand.

A vicious tiger shark slithers quietly, lashing its tail.

It seizes a mollusk in its jaws, biting until its prey stops thrashing.

So many creatures, each having a life of their own.

One question remains.

If we can’t see air,

cAn fIsH sEE wAtER?


Bored

I walk through the farm, and I don’t feel good

This place is so tedious and dull

All there ever is to see is dirt, dirt, and more dirt

I also spot the occasional hill in the distance

I wish I could see something more interesting like animals

However, this is a crop growing farm

The scent of all these sweet fruits and vegetables begin to make me nauseous

I wish for an AC in this horrible and hot place

I feel so weary in this place

I beg someone to get me out of this place, but alas, there is no one here

I am all alone in this horrible place

The dullness of this farm is horrible

I would rather write a poem about pencils than do this

Even staring at a blank whiteboard is more fun than this

Why am I here, and how did I come here?


Where the Sun Goes

The ground shakes as I step out of my house.

Not again! I think, sighing and sitting down on the porch. We are supposed to sit down at every Switch. No one questions this law. No one knows what happens when you don’t sit down.

“It’s not fair,” I whisper to myself as I close my eyes. The ground shakes harder and harder, the wind blows faster and faster, then the feared cold enters the air and chills my bones.

I open my heavy eyes and look up at the moon. No one knows where it comes from.

Across the street, my best friend Lara is sitting on her porch like me. “Lara,” I call.

“Oh, hi, Hannah,” she says.

I cross the street, checking for cars. It’s hard in the darkness. Everything from Day is now black and cold, like someone comes around every Switch and paints the world black, then takes off the paint when it turns to Day. Lara and I feel the same way about Night. We love the warmth and brightness of Day, spending all our free time frolicking together in the sunshine. Night is when a lot of people regularly sleep, when they don’t have to work or go to school. Nobody wants to be outside now.

“The Day was only six hours long,” I complain. “Night is so stupid.”

“Yeah. And now we have to go to school during Night.”

I like school, even though a lot of kids don’t. We have to go every 28 hours, for four hours at a time. Sometimes a Switch occurs during school, but that doesn’t matter because school is lighted during Night. Occasionally the electricity goes out, and then we’re in trouble.

Lara stands up and walks inside her house. I follow. We go to her room and stay there for a few hours, chatting and playing.

After five hours of doing nothing with Lara, our phones buzz simultaneously. It’s the signal for school. “Ugh,” she mutters. 

I run out before she does, bursting out onto the dark street and running freely. We always run to school, because we live pretty far from it. Lara soon catches up with me as we dash through the darkness. 

We arrive. We’re in Level 5 now, and our teacher is Mr. Chase. He doesn’t like questions that much—he usually shuts them down and doesn’t answer them. But something’s been burning in the back of my mind all Night.

“Mr. Chase,” I say, coming toward him in the thankfully bright classroom. “I was wondering something. Where does the moon come from?”

“The moon?”

“Where does the moon come from?” I repeat.

“Hannah, how do you suppose we would answer that question?”

I blink, thrown back. “No one’s even tried?”

“We can’t travel into space, Hannah. We would be destroyed by Switches. We’re never going to find out anything about the moon.”

“But… but—”

“No one knows where the sun goes during Night. We never will. Now go back to your seat.”


After school, still during Night, Lara meets me outside.

“I’ve been wondering the same thing.”

“About the moon?”

“Yeah. If we want it to go away, we need to figure out where it comes from. And where the sun goes.”

We stand still, gazing at the eerie circle in the starry sky, bathed in its mystery. This is a mystery we can solve. Mr. Chase is wrong.

And what causes Switches? And why can’t we fly up, up into space? And what are the sun and moon made of?

“These are questions we could answer,” I say confidently.

“Yes!” Lara cries. “We’ll be the first people to ever know. We could build bird wings for ourselves and fly up during Night, reach the moon, then follow it through the Switch.”

I laugh. “Why would we stay with the moon if our goal is to be in Day? We should do that during Day so we could meet the sun and stay with it eternally. And we’d be famous.”

Even though it’s not possible, I really, really want to believe it is.

“What if there’s a way to stay in Day without going to the sun? What about—” Lara suddenly stops and looks at me, eyes wide and hopeful. “We could stand up during a Switch! We don’t know what happens when you do that. Maybe you go to an alternate universe where it’s always Day.”

“That would be fun,” I agree, thinking of infinite sunlight, warmth, and joy.

“We should do that as soon as possible. When the next Day is over, we should stand and see what happens.”

“Yeah!” I exclaim.


The Night is long, fifteen hours. The longest Night ever was twenty-five hours, but that was a long time ago, before I was born. Switches were less common then. I wake up as the ground stops shaking and I suddenly see red under my eyelids. That means light! Day! I throw off the blanket and run outside. A perfectly childish thing to do, but I never get tired of it. I’m only ten years old, still little and curious and excitable.

I find Lara, who runs outside like me when it turns to Day. We walk down the street, happily looking all around us. We get to the house of our friend Addie. She goes with us to the pool, where we have tons of fun jumping and diving and playing. Six hours of that flies by like nothing.

We walk back to Addie’s house and eat a meal with her parents. Lara keeps flashing me looks. After the meal is done, I go to her and whisper, “What is it?”

She only says, “Are you ready?”

I almost ask what I’m supposed to be ready for, but then I remember our plan. We’re going to stand during the next Switch! At any point during the next ten hours, we could be flung into an alternate world. I can’t wait to see what we discover, but I’m scared too. Lara doesn’t look scared.

After two hours of watching movies with Addie, we feel it. The shaking.

“Let’s go!” Lara shouts, bolting up and pulling me with her. We stand in the middle of the room and clutch each other, closing our eyes, the ground shaking and the wind howling.

But Addie wasn’t in on the plan. “What are you DOING?!” she cries. “Why are you standing?”

She grabs us and pulls us back down onto the couch. My heart lurches.

Lara is angry. I know without looking. “No! No! Addie—”

“Too late,” I sigh. The shaking has died down.

Lara explodes. “Addie! We had a plan! You ruined it! Now it’s Night and we wanted to be in Day!”

“You shouldn’t stand during a Switch,” Addie replies quietly, looking away. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“We’re going,” Lara sneers, dragging me out into the Night.

“That was stupid,” I say as we leave Addie’s house.

“Oh my gosh! Addie’s so annoying.”

Lately, I feel Lara’s gotten more self-absorbed and bossy. Sometimes, she seems much older than me.

“I guess we have to do it after the next Day. Let’s remember to be away from people that might deter us.”

“Right.” Good luck with that, I think. How are we supposed to know when to stay away from people when Switches are completely and utterly random?


I’m exhausted so I collapse on my bed as soon as I get home. I sleep deeply. Again, I am woken by a Switch. I don’t know how long the Night was. My mind still hazy, I stand up while the ground shakes. This is what Lara said to do, right? Yeah. Good. I find it impossible to keep my balance while my head swirls and the wind moans even in my room, so I grope around for my bed, which I lean on. The ground shakes more. My eyes are shut tight. I want to open them but can’t. Next time, I tell myself.

Then the shaking stops.

I didn’t realize I’m hyperventilating. I flop down on my bed out of exhaustion, trying to catch my breath. Too late—something builds in my throat, and I vomit on the floor.

Ewww! is my first thought. I can smell the revolting vomit, and I don’t want to see what it looks like. Then I wonder what that tells me about my brave decision to stand. Where am I? What did that do to me?

I pry my eyes open and gasp. My heart sinks.

Didn’t I just leave Night? Why is it still dark? Why has nothing changed?

I realize something awful. I attempted on the wrong Switch! I was supposed to do it on a Day to Night Switch! NOT NIGHT TO DAY! Now I’m stuck in Night. And we wanted to stay in DAY!

“Aaaaarghhhhh!” I scream, bursting into tears. What have I done? I curl up into a ball, crying. I’m so dumb. I should have been aware of what I was doing.

I slowly feel my way to the light switch near my door and turn it on. It doesn’t work. Huh? I try again, same result.

“Uh, Mom?” I call out. “What’s wrong with the light?”

I am met with the most bone-chilling silence I have ever heard. I can almost feel ghosts around me. My already weak stomach drops as I turn and find even more silence. My heart is beating like crazy. This isn’t real. This is a dream. It’s not possible to be in two Nights in a row. I am hallucinating.

And no one’s here. Terrified, I dash into the empty kitchen. My parents aren’t here and I can tell without looking.

Then it all makes sense.

By standing during a Switch, you resist flipping from Night to Day. You stay in whichever one you were in, while everyone else sits and is Switched to the other side. Now the electricity’s in Day, like everyone else, and I’m alone.

And I’ve made an important discovery, too. Lara will be happy to know how to stay in Day. It’s just as easy as staying in Night!

But will I ever see her again? Shoot. I’m on the opposite pattern… but at the end of this Night, I can stand again and be in the same Night as them. I hope that works.

I still can’t see. I feel my way to the front door and open it. Still black outside. I sit on the porch and run my hand over the chilly railing. I shiver, but don’t go inside to get a jacket. The moon is in the same place as before, still eerie with its dark patches and strangely bright glow. I can only see the moon and the stars without electricity.

It’s beautiful, something inside me says.

What? Beautiful? Night? I’ve always hated Night. The black sky is scary, not beautiful. It’s the sun that’s beautiful, with its light and warmth. The moon isn’t warm.

I blink and suddenly it’s like I’m seeing the sun instead of the moon. It looks like a reminder of… hope. A perfect round circle, glowing and white against the infinitely dark sky. For the first time, I see light flowing from it. Then I look away and am startled to see a bird hopping along the sidewalk. I can see it only by the moon’s light. Wow. I didn’t know it was possible to see in the dark.

Do I have magical powers? Or are these just some of the things no one’s discovered yet?

It seems weird that nobody’s seen this soft light from the moon. We’re so wrapped up in using electricity to make it as much like Day as possible. We have never seen this side of Night. We’ve never appreciated its own beauty.

“What is my problem?” I whisper. “I like the moon now.”

I would have never imagined this happening.

I watch the neighborhood for a long time, amazed at how it slowly transforms. Now I can make out the houses across the street. I can see more birds, not chirping, but hopping around and flying. What do they do during Switches? Do they also have to sit? Well, clearly not, because these birds are here in this opposite world with me. They are probably in the air during the Switches and they must constantly stay in Night or Day instead of Switching.

They’ve been doing it all along! And people have never noticed. We have been so ignorant of obvious clues to secrets Mr. Chase said were impossible to know. I’m the first person to know this. I am the first! I could report this to the world and be famous!


I’ve spent so long alone in Night, it’s like I’m in a world between Night and Day. I can see. Fully. It’s almost as clear as Day, both inside and outside.

And there’s not much reason to hate this Night. I’ve gotten used to the cold in the past several hours. The Night air feels weirdly good against my arms and face. I marvel at a vast display of black and gray and white, making the familiar houses and trees and sidewalk look totally new and alien.

It’s quite beautiful. I’ve almost stopped worrying about getting back to Day.

I wonder if it’s been 28 hours since school. I still want to go, even if no one’s there. Who knows? My phone doesn’t work, and it won’t buzz when it’s time to go. So I run outside and go to school, not needing the lights anymore.

I didn’t do the homework from last time, so I get my folder from under my seat and start working. It’s math, which is not too hard but takes a long time. I finally finish. Then I glance up at the whiteboard, which is updated for the coming lesson and shows a reading comprehension assignment. I go to the teacher’s desk and sift through the papers to find the one on the board. I take one back to my desk.

Then the ground shakes.

A Switch! A Switch? What do I do? Stand? Sit?

“Stand,” I say out loud. “Everyone is going to Night, so I can meet them by standing.” I’ve developed a habit of talking to myself a lot.

So I stand, remembering the nausea last time and gripping onto my desk. The shaking finally stops, and I don’t feel as bad as before.

Then the light comes. It’s so bright and blinding that I cover my eyes and cry out, “Oh!”

“What—HANNAH!”

My mouth falls open as I look again and see people. My class! Including—

“Hannah! Where did you come from?” Lara exclaims, running to me.

I’m so stunned I just stutter.

“You disappeared! Where did you go?”

I instantly regret something, probably my decision to stand the first time. “I got lost,” I murmur.

“Where?”

I sigh and sink into my chair. “I’ll tell you later.”


I dread meeting Lara after school. She’s likely going to be mad at me. But wait—wasn’t she going to stand during the last Switch? Why is she here in Night?

Oh. Because people were around and they stopped her.

I’m walking away, but Lara catches me. “Hey. Where were you before the Switch?”

I groan. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, fine. On the last Night to Day Switch, I made a mistake and I stood.”

Lara blinks at me. “On a Night to Day Switch? You know we want to stay in Day, not Night.”

“Lara, I just said I made a mistake! I stayed in Night on accident!”

“You stayed in Night. Jeez, that’s dumb.”

I groan again, louder, trying to annoy her.

“What was it like?”

“It was just any other Night,” I said, “but I was alone and there was no electricity.”

“No electricity?”

“Yup. At first I couldn’t see, but after a while in pitch-black darkness I could actually see stuff.”

“That’s impossible. You could see in Night?”

“Can you let me talk? Yes, I could see in Night. And I discovered something. The moon actually casts light like the sun.” Lara opens her mouth but closes it, remembering not to interrupt. “And by the end of the Night, I could see fully. Like, every little detail. It was so pretty. We all use electricity at Night and we never see the natural beauty! You should try it sometime.”

Lara stares at me. “Beauty?”

“Yeah. Beauty. You’ve never seen it.”

“I’ve never met anyone who loves Night before.”

I sigh. “No one’s truly seen Night.”

“Shut up, okay, Hannah? We’ve been in Night for half of our lives. We’ve all seen Night.”

“You’ve never—”

It’s useless. I should have known. Nobody will understand anything from my surreal Night alone. I walk away from Lara.

From behind, I hear Addie’s voice. “What happened?” she asks.

“She likes Night. She says you can see without electricity,” Lara says, and I can hear her disdain for me embedded into her voice.

The last time we were together, she was ranting about how annoying Addie was to me. Now the exact opposite is happening.

Addie laughs. “Really?”

“Do you believe that? I think it’s garbage. She said she—” Lara gasps. “Wait, Hannah, what did you do to stay in Night?”

I turn around. Lara is smirking at me. Uh-oh. 

“I stood up during the Switch,” I blurt out.

“Good. Did it hurt?”

“Yes. I blew around in space for hours before finally returning to Earth, and I almost died.”

Lara sees through my sarcasm. “Good,” she says again.

I roll my eyes and walk away. If she doesn’t want to believe it, good for her. I’ll find someone else.


When I walk into class the following Night, I’m startled to discover Lara and Addie missing.

“Where are Lara and Addie?” I ask the boy who sits next to me.

He shrugs. “Didn’t notice they were gone.”

“Night girl!”

One of my classmates is standing on his desk, pointing at me. “What?” I retort. Does he know about what I saw during Night?

“So you like Night, right? You have superpowers, right?”

I stay quiet and look back at him.

“You said it’s possible to see in Night.”

“Would you guys just let this go?” I shout. “If you don’t want to believe me, don’t believe me! Just turn off the lights and go outside and see for yourself!”

“Hannah,” comes Mr. Chase’s warning voice.

I sulk and sit back in my seat.

“Night girl,” the kid teases again.


I walk the outskirts of my town alone, looking at the moon. It feels much colder and darker than the Night I was alone. I’m sure if I did this for hours I would be more comfortable.

The Switch comes, the end to a twelve-hour Night. Reluctantly, I sit on the cool concrete, which will be hot from the sun in a minute. I quickly make a decision to keep my eyes open this time. I focus on the moon. It stays calm as the earth shakes. My eyes really want to close, but I manage to keep them peeled. Then as the chaos reaches maximum, the whole world is suddenly bathed in light. There is no transition, no in-between. The sun is exactly where the moon was.

In the distance, I see two girls walking together. They weren’t there before. I squint at them and see who they are: Lara and Addie! Now I’m sure of what they did. They took my inadvertent suggestion of standing during the Switch and they stayed in Day like I stayed in Night. I hope they enjoyed it.

Nine hours later and I am alone again, on the burning-hot streets, excitedly anticipating the Switch. When it comes, I grin and leap up into the air, my eyes wide open. I float. I do not feel the shaking, but I feel the wind. I fly through the air, laughing, squinting at the sun.

The wind stops, but the adrenaline flow is still there. I breathe hard when I hit the ground. Nothing has changed. That was the funnest Switch I’ve ever had.

And now I have my answer. I know where the sun goes.


I’ve never realized how different Day and Night are. I mean, I know they’re different and so does everyone, but after staying in both Night and Day three times in a row, the two worlds feel so alien to each other.

I still like Night. It’s definitely prettier than Day, I know. That doesn’t mean I have to hate Day. I love sunshine. It’s not one or the other. It’s not a choice. I don’t have to be sulky half of the time. From now on, I will do whatever I want during Switches, regardless of where everyone else is, and stay wherever I want.

I see figures way down the street, near my house, and I run to catch up.


“Nowhere,” I say to the only other people that are in this Day with me.

“What?! How is that possible?”

“Parallel universes,” I explain. “The Switch is Switching us to the opposite universe. We live in two worlds—Night and Day. When we stand we do not Switch universes. Sitting is the only way to Switch.”

Lara gapes at Addie, who looks at me, not understanding.

“A Switch is just an occasional opportunity to go to the opposite world. That’s all it is.”

“Really?” Addie breathes.

“Yeah. We never go anywhere. The wind is a portal.”

“Whoa, Hannah, that’s creepy,” Lara comments, looking a bit freaked.

“What? I can show you at the next Switch.”

“Yeah,” Addie says, “show us.”

So a few hours later, when the ground shakes, we leap into the air and glide. Lara and Addie are shocked speechless at the freedom of flight in the wind. Eventually it dies down and we are softly lowered back to the ground.

“That was amazing,” Lara whispers.

“Yeah, that was really great.” Addie looks up at the sun, which has been there for many hours now. I see a few people in the distance, meaning we’re back in the normal pattern.

“Do you see why?” I say, like I’m a teacher and they’re students.

“Yeah, it makes sense,” Lara says. “Hey! Let’s tell Mr. Chase! We can finally prove him wrong.”

Lara sure shifts trust easily. Just a few Switches ago, she was sneering at me and saying I had stupid ideas. I hope this trust stays, because when she’s a good friend, she’s a really good friend.

“We can report this to the world and be famous,” I say jokingly.

Addie laughs. “Totally.”

So we walk down the street together, arms linked. We see people coming out of their houses, people who just came from Night and are going into the sunlight again. I have been in sunlight for so long it’s hard to remember what my Night alone was like.

And now it’s like my appreciation for Night doesn’t matter anymore, because I’ve made an important discovery and I’m going to be famous. 


The Tail of Turtle Beach

Rose could be the richest girl alive and still be unsatisfied. She was named Rose for the beauty of the name, but her personality is the opposite. She’s thorny and rude and envies everything else anything has that she doesn’t. Feeling the sand between her toes and the breeze on her face, she doesn’t enjoy or appreciate the nature, she just wants the ocean all to herself along with the blue sky and the clouds. Taking whatever she wants, Rose doesn’t like it at all when someone says no. And a lot of the times, like when she is at a specific place and can’t have everything there that is nice, she gets mad. And no one wants to be on the bad side of Rose.

Having been brought up thinking her selfish and jealous attitude was okay, Rose had most of the things she wanted. Whatever she wished for was handed to her. But some things, she just couldn’t have, and those things she either fought about or left it alone. If she believed she could take it, she would. If she knew she couldn’t, she might just look the other way at something better. 

But Rose was brought up in this place, walking by it every day, feeling the breeze and inhaling the salt… she loved this place, but never once was she able to get it. Her peace was always interrupted by giggling girls or tiny children kicking sand all over her. Rose wanted this public place to be hers and only hers. She usually wanted pretty objects, or expensive objects, things that would make people envious of her for once. But this was the only place where Rose felt like her true self, and it tortured her every day that she couldn’t have it. 

Rose was even more tortured when she saw someone walking in a cute bathing suit or in pretty sandals, maybe she was even jealous of a watch or a phone she didn’t have. It could be old torn up shoes that she didn’t have. If she didn’t have it, she wanted it. And when Rose wants something of yours, she usually gets it. And that’s where Rose stands now, walking to the cold ocean and dipping her toe in, envious of even the fish who own the ocean. 

The only thing Rose wanted more than this place was to be the fish that own the ocean. Rose loved oceans, the vast uncertainty of the darkness, one that is only known to the fish that live underneath. Rose wanted more than anything to be swimming among the sharks and the dolphins, to swim in the ocean with a big family by your side. When Rose was in the ocean, it was like she for once, stopped wanting everything in the world. It was like she already had it.

To feel like this every day, Rose wanted this place. She wanted to own it, she wanted to swim with the dolphins and the fish and have a family of her own. This was the one thing that she wanted the most, the one thing that made her happy. The one thing that if she had, she would stop wanting other things. 

Some people wanted Rose to have it, not because she was their friend (because she didn’t have friends) but because if she had it, she would stop stealing their things. Rose was the neighborhood robber, but nobody ever busted her because she was only 8 years old. Other people didn’t want her to have the ocean, because they liked this place too and didn’t believe that any 8-year-old should own the ocean, not even Rose.

Rose’s father had been fighting the law for a very long time to try to get Rose to be the owner of the whole place, but he hadn’t been successful. Or at least not yet. He still tries to fight, trying to get Rose whatever she wanted in exchange for her not bothering him when he was working. That was the unspoken rule. Rose asked for something, he gave it to her, and she would let him work in peace.

Not only did her town know her from her constant small robberies of their things, but they also knew her because of her very successful parents. Rose’s mother was constantly annoyed with her daughter. She never bought into Rose’s acts. If Rose was bothering her when she was trying to work, then Rose would pay the punishment.

Rose’s mother was hoping that his was just a phase, and that soon Rose would just stop being so spoiled and jealous of everything that passed by her. Even Rose’s mother fought for the beach, so that Rose would be quiet and live the normal life of an 8-year-old. But everyone knew that Rose was not normal, and therefore she could not live a normal life.

Rose would go to aquariums and start talking to the starfish and the seahorses, ignoring the odd looks people gave her. Rose honestly thought that she could communicate with the sea animals. And the sea animals really did like her. 

Rose usually broke everything. Her parents refused to get her any kind of animal in fear that soon they would have a dead dog or cat on their hands. But Rose took such good care of the little creatures.

She would even walk the 15 minutes to the town’s Sea World and feed the dolphins that would play in shows. Sometimes the caretakers would let her go in the water like they do, because of how well the show animals responded to her. They thought it was a miracle that when the creatures disobeyed them, the little 8-year-old would hop in the water and immediately do what they couldn’t. They even called her the miracle caretaker, and that made her very happy. 

The thing Rose loved most was when they brought in a new sick animal. The town’s Sea World only brought in sick animals, and when they were all better and revived, they would perform at least three shows and then get released into the ocean. Rose hated to see the animals leave, but occasionally when she was in the ocean, she felt their presence and it made her feel better.

Today, Rose saw a little sea lion being pulled into the room by a net. When Rose tried to come up to it, the owner waved her away.

“Not today, Rose. This is a serious matter. I would suggest going home now,” he mumbled, stepping over her feet and through the door to where the little sea lion was squealing.

“No, I don’t want to go home. I want to see the little sea lion. What happened to it?” Rose asked, standing on her tippy toes to see through the little window on the door.

“We’ll call your father when the sea lion is all better. It’s time to go home now,” he says, leaving her alone in the room. Rose could feel the hairs stand up on her arms as she scrunched up her face in anger, and then stomped out of the room.

Rose stomped all the way home, making it known to people that she was very angry and that they shouldn’t dare address her when she was mad. Just then she saw a boy, her classmate, walking with something she wanted all for herself. The newest and coolest skateboard. Rose had learned to skateboard months ago, and this boy had been bragging and bragging about how he and his sister are getting the new skateboard. She turned around and started following him and his braggy comments to his friends.

She followed him all the way to his house, as each of his friends one by one left to go back to their houses. She ducked behind the bushes and watched as he opened the door and left to go all the way up to his room. She then saw him through the window of his room, putting the skateboard down and leaving for the kitchen. She snuck in through the door quickly, tiptoeing up the stairs. She heard the cling of his glass from the kitchen, and then him pouring the water. She heard footsteps coming from where he was. She quickly popped open the window, and then escaped through where the door was. She safely waited behind the bush until the sky grew dark and the lights of his parents’ cars pulled up in the driveway.

When all the lights were off, she climbed up the tree next to the wall leading to his room, and jumped from the tree to the little ledge. She crawled through the open window, sneakily grabbing the skateboard from next to his nightstand. In the place of his skateboard, she took out the ribbon her mom put in her hair from the morning and left it. She didn’t like those bright red ribbons anyways, except for the fact that it made her stick out. She crawled back through the window and down the tree.

When Rose got home with her new skateboard, she snuck up the stairs, only to see her mother standing there in front of her room.

“And where have you been?” she asked, crossing her arms. 

Rose didn’t answer.

“Your knees are scraped, your ribbon has fallen out of your hair, and you are certainly very dirty. We also got a call from the owner of the town’s Sea World saying that the little sea otter or whatever is done,” she says, leaving out the fact that she has a new skateboard in her arms. 

“It’s a sea LION, and I want to go to bed now,” she lied, slipping behind her mother and into her room.

“Wait! Where did your ribbon fall?” she yelled out to Rose.

“It fell next to Bobby Carson’s night stand when I stole his skateboard.” She giggled, locking her bedroom door so her mother couldn’t get in. She heard her mother huff and then leave down the stairs, probably to call Bobby’s parents. 

She hid her new skateboard in the secret cabinet in her closet hidden by the racks of hideous dresses she never wore. She set it down in the big cabinet, along with a few other expensive things she didn’t want her parents to take back, and also along with the boxes of bright red ribbons she kept to lay down in place of her stolen objects. Just so that the owner could feel her wrath, and just so that they could feel the same jealousy as her.

The next morning, Rose hopped back to the aquarium to see the little sea lion. This time the caretaker did not shoo her away, but instead invited her in with a concerned look on his face.

“Rose, the sea lion seems to have hurt its tail when swimming near the rocks, and now that we have mended the cuts, it has turned into a stubborn little thing. It won’t listen to any of the directions I give her,” he says, rubbing his chin. 

Rose smiles deviously. “Well first, I believe the sea lion is demanding a treat,” she says, pointing to the bucket of tiny fish that gave off the worst smell.

“I’ve tried that, the sea lion still won’t go,” he says, giving the sea lion a little fish and then pointing a certain way.

“Well if the sea lion is anything like me, you have to give the fish after the direction,” she says, hopping in the water and grabbing a little fish.

She holds the fish up over the sea lion, but before it can eat it, she points to a certain direction. The sea lion goes the same way as she points, and then comes back to eat the little fish. 

“It’s all about the bargaining. You can’t just give the food to the sea lion, it has to have some kind of motivation,” she says matter-of-factly, petting the baby sea lion. It wiggles its whiskers, and then wiggles out of her grip to stare intently at the bucket of food.

“When will it be ready to leave?” Rose asks, a bit saddened at the thought of the baby not getting to experience the feel of the ocean.

“Ready to leave? She hasn’t even done her first showing yet! And it will take a while for her to be all healed, we don’t want her stitches to open up,” he says. The baby sea lion swims up next to her and starts barking, happy to have gotten food.

“What’s her name? Can I get her toys? How long can I stay for?” Rose asks.

“Sea lion #3, no, and not that long,” he says. Rose’s shoulders slump.

“Well, that’s a horrible name,” she says, annoyed.

“We don’t name our animals and we definitely don’t get too close to them,” he warns.

“Well, I’m going to name her… Keeva. It means gentle, if you didn’t know,” Rose says, smiling. She pets the sea lion again, not fearing the sharp teeth she has when she opens her mouth. The sea lion flips over on its back, and then again on its stomach.

“I’m going to get Keeva toys. I will be back,” Rose says, stomping triumphantly out of the town’s sea world. 

Rose passes Turtle Beach, the beach she loves so much. The beach where turtles come up on the shore and sit in the sun. The beach Rose hopes Keeva will be let in to someday when she is healed and has done her three showings. 

Rose crosses over the bridge and walks the 10 minutes to the pet store. 

“For the 17th time Rose, your mother has already told me that you cannot get a pet from here, no matter the amount of money you bring in,” the owner, Mr. Burkles, mumbles.

“I’m not here to get a pet. I’m here for toys for Keeva,” Rose says.

“What’s a Keeva?” he asks, uninterested.

“Keeva is my new sea lion they are keeping in the town’s Sea World,” she replies.

“Alright kid, sea lion toys are in the back to the right next to the toys for tigers,” Mr. Burkles says sarcastically. 

“I’ll just get dog toys,” Rose huffs angrily.

She grabs a big, purple plastic ball with plastic spikes on it that squeaks. She also grabs a few plastic ducks, a rubber black ball, a stuffed animal sea lion, and two new buckets for her own fish bucket, and a bucket to hold the toys. She walks right past the cashier and out the door.

“Hey! You have to pay for that!” Mr. Burkles yells.

“Put it on my tab,” Rose says.

“What tab?” he asks, running after her.

“I’ll ask my dad for one later and send it to you,” she says, running away with the stolen dog toys. 

“HEY!” he yells after her, then gives up and returns back to the store, picking up the phone to call her dad and ask about a tab. 

Rose runs all the way back to the SW and to Keeva, throwing in the purple ball. She then jumps into the water with Keeva, playing around with the ball. Keeva jumps really high to catch the ball.

“Wow! How did you get her to do that?” a different caretaker asks her. He walks up talking to the caretaker who cares for show dolphin #15, a girl named Annabelle. 

“How did I do what?” Rose asks.

“How did you get a beginner sea lion to jump after a ball? Especially that high?” Annabelle asks, leaning down to take the ball from Keeva’s mouth.

“I didn’t do anything, Keeva is just special!” Rose says, proud of Keeva’s abilities. Annabelle throws the ball up, and it splats in the water.

“I’m pretty sure Keeva only listens to me right now, since I’m the one who has spent the most time with her,” Rose says smugly.

“Maybe we could teach her some tricks right now, instead of waiting,” the other caretaker, James says.

“I could try. Can I try? PLEAAAAAAAASE?” Rose begs.

“Well, since she only seems to listen to you right now I guess you could,” James says. 

“YAY!!!” Rose yells.

Rose picks up a fish and moves her fingers in a circular motion, the motion for spin.

“No, no, no. She can’t do that yet. It will hurt her tail. Try just a simple jump,” Annabelle says. Rose does a swift movement pointing upward, and Keeva follows.

“That’s just crazy, we’ve never had such a smart sea lion,” James says.

“Yes, I know. And she’s MY sea lion,” Rose brags. Keeva comes up to her and takes the fish out of her hands, then coming up and rubbing against her side.

“Let me play with her a little longer, please?” Rose begs.

 Annabelle nods. “Ok. But we want a chance to teach her a few more things. If this goes right, she might be ready for her first showing in less than a month!” Annabelle says. 

“And then I can take her to Turtle Beach???” Rose asks, excited. 

“Yes, and then you can take her to Turtle Beach,” Annabelle responds. 

Later that night when Rose comes home for dinner, her mother again asks her where she’s been.

“Why is your dress so wet and dirty? Where have you been? Why has your ribbon fallen o-” her mother stops and looks at the bright red ribbon that is still tied in her hair. Her eyes widen.

“Your ribbon hasn’t fallen off. What did you steal?” she asks.

“Nothing. I stole nothing,” Rose says, awed with herself. “Oh well, I still have time for that tomorrow. I can do it after I train Keeva with Annabelle and James!” Rose says, excited. 

“Who is Keeva?” she asks.

“Keeva is my new sea lion,” Rose says.

“Right…” her mother whispers to herself. 

*      * *

Rose hops down to the town’s Sea World once again. It’s been 4 weeks since Keeva came in, and her progress is going very well. They even think she might be able to show soon. For many sea lions, it takes around a full year to train them, show them, and for them to heal properly in the progress. But there is one problem. Keeva only ever listens to Rose.

Since the town’s Sea World has been needing her all this time, she comes back straight from school to hop in the water and play with Keeva. That way she can also help train her. One of the times, the owner actually asked Rose to stop coming, so that Keeva could learn to train with the caretakers, but Keeva just sat there and swam, and listened to none of them. 

Because of this small dilemma, the only way Keeva can train is if Rose comes and does it. And because of this, Rose has stopped stealing everyone’s things. And the only reason why Rose is helping them train Keeva, instead of spending all of her time playing with Keeva, is because once Keeva is done with her showings, Rose can take her to Turtle Beach. And that is what Rose really wants. 

“Rose! You’re here! We have great news! Keeva is going to be doing her very first showing this weekend!” Annabelle says excitedly.

“This weekend??? But she hasn’t learned to listen to you. She only listens to me,” Rose says, concerned. As surprising as it is, she doesn’t want Annabelle to be laughed at.

“Which brings me to my final point… maybe you can do her first showing?” Annabelle offers. Rose’s eyes widen and her smile brightens.

“REALLY??” she asks, excited.

“I asked my boss and he says yes, as long as I’m there to supervise you,” Annabelle says. Rose’s eyes brighten.

“But don’t get too excited, you’re only doing the first showing. After that we’re going to start training Keeva to listen to us instead.” James walks in. He pats Keeva’s head, but she pulls away. 

He sighs. “She just doesn’t seem to like us,” he says, frustrated.

“Maybe you should try and play with her more often. How many times do you play with her compared to training her?” Rose asks, arms crossed.

“We don’t have time to play with her,” James says.

“Get ready, because you might have to go into the water this weekend when she is showing,” Annabelle says.

Rose’s stomach flutters as she walks up to the big pool that holds Keeva. The audience is filling up the benches in front of her, and she realizes that this is way more people than Rose thought there would be. 

“Are you ready?” Annabelle asks from behind her. Rose nods. Everyone is here because of the new baby sea lion who learned quicker than any other sea lion.

“You remember the hand motions, right?” James asks. Rose nods.

“I’m pretty sure, yes,” Rose says, nervous.

“You’ll be fine.” Annabelle comforts her. Rose nods as the audience quiets down. Rose hops in the water, and people lean in, in confusion, as to why 8-year-old Rose is in the water where the caretaker is supposed to be. 

“WE NOW INTRODUCE, KEEVA THE SEA LION AND ROSE, HER TRAINER!” Annabelle yells loudly. People murmur when they hear that Rose is Keeva’s trainer.

Rose takes a deep breath and pats Keeva’s back. She swipes her fingers up in the air, and Keeva follows. Rose feels better now that she knows Keeva will listen. She twists in the air and flips as Rose taught her. Rose then does a few more tricks she was supposed to, and then gets out of the water. People gasp, and Rose turns around to look what they’re looking at. Keeva is hopping out of the water with her, because sea lions can stand up on the ground. 

“Did you train her to do that?” James whispers. Rose shakes her head. She goes back over to push Keeva back in the water, but Keeva just sits there cuddling against her leg.

The audience claps and laughs, thinking it’s all part of the show. Rose picks Keeva up and tries to put her in the water, but Keeva keeps coming out. The audience laughs again, and soon Rose is laughing too. James picks Keeva up and brings her back to her pool. Rose bows and walks away from the clapping audience. 

It’s Rose’s birthday today, but no one seems to notice because of all the buzz going on about Keeva’s third showing. It’s been a year since her first showing, and when Rose led the second showing too, people started calling her the “Animal Whisperer.” Keeva’s second showing had the most audience the town’s Sea World had ever seen. 

For once in her life, Rose doesn’t really care that no one, but Annabelle wished her a happy birthday. Even her parents seemed to forget, now that their daughter is known for something good and not terrible. It even seems like they’re more interested in her now that she’s become a good girl, and not the little robber that she used to be. 

At first, Rose didn’t notice that she had stopped stealing. She didn’t even notice that she had become a nice person. She was just occupied with Keeva because she was happy. Now that Keeva is going to be finished with her third showing, Rose can finally take her to Turtle Beach. Occasionally Rose will find herself wanting something that someone has, but mostly she just wants her parents to pay attention to her.

With all of this, Rose’s parents are definitely paying more attention to her. It may not be because they love her, and it may not be because she’s their daughter, but any attention is better than none. 

On the way to Keeva’s showing, Rose stops by Turtle Beach to smell the salty air and feel the sand between her toes, and for once she starts appreciating it. She can’t wait to bring Keeva here, because as much time as Keeva may have spent near another beach or wherever she came from, Rose wants Keeva to have the best beach experience. 

“Good morning, Mr. Burkles!” Rose yells on her way to the show.

“Good morning, Rose!” he calls out. 

Rose walks into the showing area where the collection of people have formed near the benches. Practically the whole town is here, and even though it’s a small town, there are quite a few people who live here. When Rose walks in, the whole area seems to arrupt in cheer. Rose notices a few men here who she hadn’t met yet. Maybe they are new to town? They are the only ones not cheering. 

Rose hops into the water. Keeva greets her with a bark and snuggling into her hip. Rose giggles, and the audience quiets down as Rose starts doing advanced tricks and Keeva follows. The audience starts to settle in and watch contently. Again, Rose’s eye catches the odd new men standing in the stands. They watch Keeva’s every movement, and Rose feels a sense of pride in Keeva’s skill. Maybe she might invite the new men to watch Rose go in the water of Turtle Beach with Keeva and the whole crew. 

People cheer as the mysterious “animal whisperer” gets out of the water to do the finale. Rose moves along the water and Keeva follows like she was trained, and then before hitting the water, she lifts herself from the surface of the water and moves her tail back and forth, then does a full flip and swims the other way. This is a very advanced move.

When the show is over, Rose goes to greet the mysterious men. She comes across them shaking hands with the owner of the town’s Sea World. I guess the owner beat her to it. When the mysterious men look over to her, they smile wide.

“Well if it isn’t the ‘animal whisperer’ herself. You trained Sea Lion #3 very well. Thank you for allowing me to take her,” one of them says.

“Her name is Keeva, and what do you mean take her? Are we taking her to Turtle Beach now?” Rose asks, hopeful. The man looks over to the owner in confusion.

“You didn’t tell her?” he asks.

“Tell me what?” Rose asks, her old demanding voice coming back.

“Keeva is going to a facility in New Orleans for a few years to be trained by professionals,” the owner says.

“WHAT? A few YEARS? But I thought all she had to do was 3 showings!” Rose exclaims, her blood boiling.

“Well, Keeva is very special, and she is our star sea lion and our main profit. We thought it would be good if we give Keeva over for a little while,” the owner explains very carefully as if Rose were a 3-year-old.

“Don’t worry, she’ll be back in about 9 years,” the man says casually.

“NINE YEARS??? I’ll be gone from here by then! Keeva will be done with half her life. She won’t even remember me!” Rose says, crying now. Her voice gets very demanding.

“Actually, sea lions can remember up to 10 years, so she will remember you fine,” he says.

“Well, Keeva only listens to me. You won’t be able to train her at all, so you should pick a different sea lion, and let me do my work.” Rose stomps the ground.

“We have other ways of training her, and you aren’t even a licensed trainer, so no I cannot ‘just let you do your work,’” the evil man says. 

“Rose, you should say your goodbyes now,” Annabelle says from behind her.

“NO!” Rose refused, running over back to Keeva. A few caretakers picked Keeva up and started hauling her into a truck.

“NO!” Rose protested. Keeva let out a whine, trying to get back to Rose.

“It isn’t your sea lion Rose, it has only been a year,” the owner says from behind her. 

Rose runs up to Keeva. “Then why does she only listen to me?” Rose protested, her arms crossed. 

“She’s just had bad training,” the owner says. 

Rose goes over and pets Keeva’s back. Rose has had many years of practicing when trying to get something, but this time was different. This time, her tears were real and she couldn’t turn away to try to get something better, or different, because nothing came even close to getting better than Keeva. Keeva had changed her because no one ever loved Rose, not even her parents, and Rose was never capable of loving anything before Keeva. And now they were trying to rip the one thing in life that ever loved Rose out of her hands, and they were succeeding. And this time there was nothing she could do to stop it. All she could do was watch as the truck drove away with Keeva in it, whining to get back. 

Rose was never the same after that. The memory haunted her for years, and all she could think of was how it was all her fault. Maybe if Rose had just stayed away from Keeva, they wouldn’t have to send her away for special training. Maybe if Rose had tried hard enough, the truck would stop and let Keeva go. But that never happened. And just like how Keeva came, she was suddenly gone. 

People whispered about Rose, about how she had changed from being a little kid robber to being an “animal whisperer”, and how every time a new sea lion came in, Rose would watch from the gates and remember how Keeva had come, wounded and afraid to then first meet Rose. People whispered about Rose’s sudden change of heart, from a demanding jealous little girl to a genuinely nice person. 

But for a while Rose, lost her voice, her opinion. She didn’t participate in much of anything. She became a good student and a good girl, only to always be rejected by her parents and haunted by the traumatic experience of Keeva’s absence in her life. Rose stayed away from most people, her once confident and demanding personality just gone with one memory.

Rose eventually got over Keeva, never really forgetting her, but instead remembering how Keeva changed and saved her. Eventually Rose moved on from all her fears and found her voice again. She went off to study marine biology and to work with sea animals. 

When 10 years passed by, Rose came back to her small town to see if Keeva had come back to her. Rose walked all the way back to where she was taken away from the one thing she ever brought herself to love. 

“Is Sea Lion #3 back?” Rose asked for the millionth time like she had over the years. The owner’s son, the one who had taken over after the real owner died, didn’t recognize her when she asked him. No one from her town did.

“She is, and she’s still sick,” he mumbled.

“Sick? What happened?” Rose asked, opening the gate. Her heart leaped with the idea that she would get to see Keeva again.

“She caught a disease. Only has a little time left to live,” he says. Rose’s heart sinks, and for the second time, she feels like she’s being ripped away from a part of her.

“I want to see her,” Rose demands. He takes her back to Keeva’s pool.

When Rose sees Keeva, she knows that it’s her. Even in her dying moments, she still has the sparkle and energetic spirit lying in her eyes. When Keeva looks at her, looks up from where she’s slowly swimming, she doesn’t recognize Rose. That is until Rose takes out the purple ball she had taken with her when Keeva went away. Keeva recognized the ball right away, and when she realized who Rose was, she howled with happiness and seemed to get her energy back. Rose got in the pool and pet Keeva’s back.

“Let me take her,” Rose says.

“You can’t do that,” The owner’s son says, looking at her weirdly.

“Why? She’s dying isn’t she? Let me take her. In her last moments,” she says. 

He shakes his head and scoffs, leaving the room. Rose picks Keeva’s heavy and dying body up. I guess it’s time for one more steal.

“Hey, you can’t do that. Hey!” he yells after her as Rose walks through the gate and to her destination. The owner’s son tries to come after her, but seems to give up. Rose should’ve known from the beginning how terrible this town was.

Rose floats in the salty, warm water of Turtle Beach under the rays of the sun with Keeva. She moves her legs and arms in the smooth water, watching Keeva happily swim in the water that should’ve been her home 10 years ago. Rose’s eyes are puffy from the tears that are falling down her cheeks, and her brown hair flies in the wind like it did so long ago. Rose thinks about all the ways Keeva saved her; from the world and herself. She thinks of all the amazing memories she will never forget, and how much she loved and will always love Keeva. In Keeva’s last moments, in Rose’s last moments with Keeva, they live the moments in peace together. 

They won.


Welcome to the Labyrinth

Chapter 1

Basil had only been in town for a few weeks and was told he wasn’t the most observant fellow, but even he knew that the Dagrun Library was something special to the people of Lindita. While most teenagers would be playing on their phones during the breaks between classes, those in Lindita always seemed to have a book in their hands. Crowds moved in and out of the towering library at nearly any time of day, chatting about one thing or another about what they had read or learned there. Which was why Basil was so excited to finally go.

His parents didn’t let him leave the house outside of school while boxes still filled his room, so Basil reluctantly unpacked and finished the job yesterday, finally letting him find out what all the hype was about.

When he asked some of his classmates about the library, their answers were often vague, as if the place itself had some sort of feeling that no one could explain. They had told Basil about the three librarians who lived in the building, each helpful and charming in their own way. Ji apparently knew the location of every book in the library, but would point you to his brother’s, Kalpana, direction when you gave an unclear description. The last one, Ezra, seemed to pop up whenever you needed him, whether for directions to the restroom or a specific section of the library.

Basil’s best friend, Mina, waited for him at the front door of the Dagrun Library, her hazel eyes sparkling with their usual mischievous twinkle. When she learned that Basil hadn’t been to the library yet, Mina told him she couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when he walked in. She also said that if he was lying to her, there would be hell to pay. “And hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” Mina quoted that day.

“Took you long enough,” Mina said, slapping him a high five after he made his way up to the tall, wooden doors.

“Did there have to be so many stairs?” Basil joked half-heartedly, trying to ignore the pain in his chest. He hadn’t done much exercise during the summer, preferring online and strategy games to repetitive swimming or running that got boring after two seconds. His flushed brown cheeks and resistant lungs were making him regret it.

Mina rolled her eyes and tucked a stray red hair behind her ear. “You got eight minutes on the mile; you’re not fooling anybody.”

“It’s not an A,” Basil muttered.

“It’s better than my D,” Mina retorted, swinging her legs while she sat on an iron railing. She sighed. “Why do I have to be so bad at running?”

“You’ve got A’s in everything else, Mina, don’t sell yourself short,” Basil said, then gestured to the doors. “So, are we going to go in or what?”

Her eyes brightened. “Right!” 

She grabbed his hand and practically dragged him along while Basil stumbled after her. Mina grabbed the brass handle and smiled her slightly off-putting, devious smile at him.

“Ready?” she asked and Basil nodded, pushing stray black hairs from his face.

Mina pulled open the door. “Welcome to the Library!”

When Basil stepped inside, it was as if he had entered another world infused with old pages and polished wood. The floor was made of sleek wooden planks, and Basil’s vision was filled with what seemed to be hundreds of dark wooden bookshelves stocked with books of any size or shape, all arranged like a miniature labyrinth. He could also see two spiraling staircases leading up to another level of the library lined with even more stories.

Mina skipped up to him with a grin. “What d’ya think?”

“It’s big,” Basil said, still staring at the gigantic sight in front of him.

“Well, duh, what else?”

“Really big,” Basil added, just to annoy her.

Mina punched him in the shoulder and scowled. “Shut up!”

“But then you’ll never know what I think…” Basil said in a soft, sing-song voice.

“So help me, there will be a funeral tomorrow,” Mina said.

“It’s really great, Mina,” Basil said finally. “I can see why you like it so much…it’s just it.”

Mina’s face softened as she gazed around the room, people weaving in and out of the maze of shelves. “Yeah.”

“Anyways, where do you want to go first?” Mina asked. “This starting area is mostly nonfiction texts, but there’s a kids’ room, teen fantasy, teen sci-fi-”

“Teen fantasy sounds nice. I’ve been looking for the third book in the Goldfyre series, but couldn’t find it in my old library.”

“You probably will here, then, but before we go, I should probably show you the directory,” Mina said. “Wouldn’t want you getting lost now, would we?”

Mina led Basil down the central aisle to a low wooden table that went up to Basil’s waist. However, atop the table was an assembled building mirroring the outside of the Dagrun Library.

Mina lifted off the roof of the building as well as the top two floors, putting them to the side. She pointed to where they were now on the first floor.

“We’re here,” Mina said, then traced her finger through the bookcases to the left side, where a set of wooden steps were placed on the 3-D map. Her other hand picked up the second floor while her finger went into it and directly to the right, where two tiny words were burned into the wood. Mina picked up a magnifying glass tied to the table and put it over the words.

Mina read them aloud, “Teen Fantasy. You got the route?”

“Yeah,” Basil replied, though he still felt unsure.

“Okay, I’m going to head to the bathroom, then,” Mina said, waving goodbye as she disappeared into the maze of bookcases.

Basil looked down at the map once more. “So through here, then a right, forward, then left, and then you reach the staircase,” Basil muttered as he traced the path. “Right, forward, left, staircase, right,” Basil repeated, before an odd pattern caught his eye. On each of the floors, there were certain alcoves in the maze where the bookcases formed a spiraling circle.

On the first floor, there was one alcove where Basil currently stood by the map, but on the second there were two: teen fantasy and teen science fiction on opposite sides of the floor. The third floor had three: kid’s fiction, kid’s nonfiction, and the event room. “That’s cool,” Basil said as he admired the architecture.

After repeating the directions one more time aloud, Basil headed into the maze. He reached the stairs with little effort and made his way to the Teen Fantasy alcove, surprised when he saw Mina already there, reading the third Goldfyre book: Bluemyst.

Mina looked up from the book and grinned. “Did you really remember the directions?”

“Did you really go to the bathroom?” Basil retorted.

“Touché, but you’re deflecting, which means no, you didn’t.”

“I did, I just confirmed it with the map again. Also, did you realize the cool design of this place?”

“You mean the spirals? Yeah, pretty much everyone does. It adds a cool kind of flair to the library and makes a great reading nook.”

She gestured around to the four others reading novels in the alcove.

“Also, I found the book,” Mina said and held out the Bluemyst novel. “We can check it out at the desk, but first I really do need to use the restroom.”

They both made their way down the stairs and Basil realized something, but Mina was already skipping away. He jogged after her, but she seemed to have disappeared.

“Mina…I don’t know where the check-out desk is,” Basil grumbled. He turned around and nearly slammed into another bookcase.

Basil looked around at the corridor he was in and gritted his teeth.

“Great! Now, I’m lost,” Basil muttered, still clutching the Bluemyst book in his right arm and holding Mina’s library card in his left.

“Do you need some help?” another voice said, making Basil flinch.

He turned around and saw the face of a friendly young man. He had red hair, left long and wild, as well as kind green eyes.

“My name is Ezra,” the man greeted. “I’m a librarian here.”

“Oh!” Basil said. “Yes, I would like some help. Do you know where the check-out desk is?”

“Of course, I’ll take you there.” Ezra began walking away and Basil was quick to move after him, not wanting to lose the man like he had Mina.

“Here we are,” Ezra said after a few moments. Basil stepped into an open row filled with self-checkout desks and a lone, well-kept counter manned by a person who looked like Ezra’s twin.

Ezra led Basil up to the counter, and while Basil would still call the man Ezra’s twin, it was very apparent that they were different in nature.

The man at the counter had his red hair cut short and gelled back and his emerald eyes were more calculating than kind. He wore a blue necktie and a black polo shirt, as opposed to the simple white t-shirt and jeans of Ezra.

“Ji!” Ezra said, “We have a newcomer looking to check out a book.”

“How does he have a library card, then?” Ji asked, narrowing his eyes. “You need to find the desk to get one.”

Basil flushed. “Uh, it’s my best friend, Mina’s, sir.”

“Oh! Mina!” Ezra said excitedly and even Ji’s stern mask seemed to soften at the name.

“You guys know her?” Basil asked, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“She has been a long patron of this library, and we tend to know most of the people in Lindita anyways,” Ji explained, taking the book and library card.

“Are you guys twins?” Basil asked as Ji scanned both of the items.

Ji and Ezra both glanced at each other. The former had a hint of a smirk, while Ezra shook his head.

“Triplets, actually,” Ji said, returning the book and card to Basil. “Our brother, Kalpana, is another librarian, but he usually sticks to the top two floors.”

“I knew you guys were all librarians, but I didn’t think you were related,” Basil said.

“Looks like you found them,” Mina said with a smile as she walked up to Basil. “Hey, guys.”

“It’s nice to see you again, Mina,” Ji said, inclining his head respectfully.

“Hi, Mina,” Ezra said with a casual wave.

Mina returned Ezra’s gesture before turning to Basil. “You finished checking out the book, but I’m guessing you got lost because Ezra’s here.”

Basil sighed. “You really enjoy embarrassing me, don’t you?”

“Best friend privileges. You could do the same if you ever manage to find anything on me.”

“Can I check your trash bin for bodies?”

“They’ve already been shipped to the dump, you’ll never find them now!”

“Both of you, keep your voices down,” Ji chastised.

“Sorry,” the kids whispered.

“Anyways, I think we need to head home,” Mina said.

“Have a good afternoon, you two,” Ezra said as they both headed for the exit.

When they both were outside, Basil asked, “When did you meet them? They seem to be good friends with you.”

Mina grimaced. “It’s a long story, and not a fun one either. They helped me in a rough spot, that’s it.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Mina said with a small smile, heading to her own home a few houses down. “I’m fine, Basil.”

… 

Basil kicked his shoes under the bench in the doorway and rolled onto the couch, reading the blurb on the back of the Bluemyst book:

“Quara and her dragon, Euranta, have discovered the location of the fourth jewel within the Grootvapor Swamp, home to the mysterious Bluemyst tribe. Some of the tribe welcomes them, but others don’t seem so agreeable. When the duo and their friends find a hidden tunnel network deep below the Bluemyst camp filled with captive dragons, they learn that the tribe may not be all that they seem…”

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Basil groaned and got up from the couch.

“I’m coming!” Basil said as he unlocked the door. Mina stared back at him, fidgeting with her clothes.

“What’s got you so nervous?” Basil asked.

“The library’s closing!” Mina blurted out, her arms splayed out as if to emphasize the point.

“Yeah? Isn’t that normal?” Sure, the lights had always been on when Basil looked, but he doubted that the library closing was a sign of alarm.

“No, it’s not! The library only closes once a year, and that happened over a month ago!” Mina looked seriously distressed. “Even then, the doors were never locked!”

“If they’re never locked, then that means we can ask the librarians what all the fuss is about,” Basil said.

Mina winced and rubbed her arm. “Yeah, but nobody goes in when the lights are off.”

“What? Some kind of ghost story?” Basil joked.

“Let me just show you,” Mina said and pulled Basil towards her house.

Within a few minutes, they entered her room. It was moderately tidy with some books and papers spread out haphazardly over her desk along with a few candy wrappers and an empty water bottle. The walls were painted a pale blue, and a dark brown shelf sat in the corner next to her dresser. The shelf had all sorts of small knick knacks on the front and top, but behind those items were a collection of books.

Mina pulled out three novels in the middle shelf, revealing a thin, peeling paperback with the faded title, “Unknown History of the Dagrun Library”.

“It was hidden behind the staff desk and wasn’t registered in the catalogue,” Mina said.

“So you stole it?”

“Shh, no, I borrowed it. I’m going to give it back. I just wanted to copy it at school first.”

“Doesn’t that damage the book?”

Mina waved it off. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is the stories in here.”

She fingered through the book before showing it to Basil. There was a picture of a kid, maybe nine years old, with a dark blue baseball cap and an orange shirt.

“Uther Mayson,” Mina said, “went missing fifty years ago here in Lindita on a night the Dagrun Library was closed. Several of his friends said that he ‘wanted to go read a book’.”

She flipped to another page, this time depicting a middle-aged woman wearing a polka-dotted dress and white gloves like you would see in an old movie.

“Erica Blaise was a newcomer in town meeting with her sister, Jessamine Blaise. She checked out a book and returned it when the library had its lights off, then she was found mauled in the forest.”

“Okay, this is getting creepy now,” Basil said.

“One more thing!” Mina seemed to be getting more excited the more she shared, her hazel eyes gleaming and a wide grin on her face.

Finally, Mina flipped to the back of the book. The photo was in black and white with a yellowish tint. A small signature at the bottom read, “Dagrun Library, 1887.” In the photo were three figures, each in different clothes but all identical.

“You’re kidding,” Basil whispered.

Mina nodded. “That’s the librarians, also known as the Dagrard family.”

“Okay, maybe we shouldn’t go into the creepy disappearance library with an immortal host of librarians,” Basil said nervously.

“No! This means we have to go!” Mina exclaimed. “We could find out what happened to the others. Besides, the librarians wouldn’t hurt us, I promise!”

“Maybe not, but still a woman got mauled to death! What kind of stuff is even in there?”

“Books!” Mina said, then froze. “Oh my goodness, books.”

“What do you mean books?” Basil asked.

“Stories, characters, books! The Library can make them come to life, like in Night at the Museum!”

“Oh, no. No, no, no, no,” Basil said, wagging his finger at her. “That’s crazy talk. Awesome talk,” Basil admitted, “but crazy talk.”

“You mean like immortal librarians or magically mauled women?” Mina retorted.

“The photo’s kind of fuzzy, maybe they are just related to the current librarians. And the woman could have been attacked; she was found in the woods, for goodness sake!” Basil said.

“Then there’s nothing to fear. It was your idea, Basil,” Mina said, crossing her arms.

Basil threw his hands up. “Ugh! You’re so stubborn. Can’t you see this is a bad idea? I was an idiot because I didn’t know about any of this, but you did!”

“I’m going to go, no matter what,” Mina declared, then focused her gaze on Basil. “What I want to know is if you are going to help so we have twice the chance, or you are going to leave me to die.”

Basil stayed silent for a few moments.

“I’ll go,” Basil said.

What neither of them noticed were the hazel eyes watching them from outside the room.


Antimatter

My invention was complete. After seven years, my work had paid off. I walked around the lab, admiring the beautiful machine I had created. It was a proton collider. The first invention I had ever succeeded in making. 

“Chloe, Richard, Dylan. Come down and look at my latest project!”

 My lab was the basement of our house, and my wife always warned me not to blow anything up here. She and my two kids ran down the stairs, ecstatic to see my new invention. As soon as they laid their eyes upon the collider, their eyes brightened. 

“WHOA!” my kids shouted as my wife hugged me with tears in her eyes. 

“You’ve done it Daniel!” she said. “For seven years, everybody mocked you. Laughed about you. Now you can laugh at them. Mock them.” I smiled at this. The thought of laughing at everyone who laughed at me was enough to make me laugh.

“Well, let’s see how it works Daddy!” Dylan shouted impatiently. I smiled at him. 

“Of course.” I walked over to the collider and turned it on. It immediately began to hum as thin balls of energy began to form at the two endpieces. They grew and a thin beam shot out, connecting them. As I marveled at my invention, something odd began to happen. It seemed as if something was stuck within the beam. In the middle, there was a bulge that grew at an exponential rate. When it reached the size of a basketball, it stopped growing. I looked at it curiously. Then I realized what it was. It was too late. 

“RUN!” I shouted at my family as the bulge exploded, opening up a black hole the size of a car. 

I grabbed onto the table and shouted again, “RUN!” My wife grabbed my kids and ran to the back of the lab, frantically looking for something to help me. The black hole grew bigger and stronger as the table I was grabbing onto began to slide. 

“DANIEL!” my wife shouted as I let go of the table and grabbed onto the steel pipe. Hot water moved through the pipe, scalding my hand but I held on tight. As I looked at my wife, she stared back at me with determination. She moved closer to me, making sure she didn’t get sucked in by the black hole and reached out her hand. The pipe groaned as the black hole now grew to the size of the room. I looked at her and closed my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I let go of the pipe, just as it exploded and leapt towards my wife’s hand. She looked at me and reached out even further as my fingertips met hers. Then the black hole grew once again as my fingers slid off hers, and I flew through the air towards the blackhole. I stared right at her and shouted over the howling wind, “I love you Chloe!” as everything went black.

I woke up in a field, surrounded by all sorts of miscellaneous items from my lab. I tried to recall what  had just happened. Memories started to flow back into me as I grew more and more frustrated. Yet again, I had failed to create something that worked. As I looked around me, something caught my eye. It was the garden gnome that Dylan had made. That could only mean… Yes. I was in my yard. My house was right in front of me. Perhaps it had all been a dream. Perhaps I had fallen asleep and… 

“DANIEL!” a familiar voice shouted. I turned my head to the voice. It was my wife Chloe. As I stood up to tell her what I had dreamed, I realized she was glaring at me. 

“What’s wrong?” I asked. 

“I told you to never show your face to me or my kids ever again and you have the gall to just show up in my yard and make a mess!”

 I was shocked. Chloe had never spoken so harshly to me before. 

“GET OUT OF MY YARD! NOW!” She shouted as I stared at her. 

“Chloe I just…” 

“GET OUT BEFORE I CALL THE POLICE!” 

I looked at her one last time and walked away from the house.

I just kept walking. I didn’t know where to go or what to do. As I passed a supermarket on my right, a man walked out and I immediately recognized who it was. 

“Ryan.” I said through gritted teeth.

 He had been the person who had mocked me for trying to make a proton collider and even sabotaged my attempts in the process of creating it. “Oh Daniel. How are you doing?” 

I was surprised to see he was being so nice to me. Normally, he would be such a jerk but he seemed so different. “Umm.. I’m great.” I turned to walk away but he stopped me. 

“Hey, we’re still on for today’s dinner right. 5:30 at John’s?” 

“Umm.. Yeah I’ll be there” I replied and walked away. I was so confused. Why was everyone so different from how I remembered them?

At 5:30 that night, I walked up to John’s and looked for Ryan. He was sitting at the booth at the far left corner so I headed towards him. He smiled at me and I sat across from him. The waiter came with some bread, so I ripped a piece off the loaf and started to eat. Then, something caught my eye as I choked. The man walking through the door was me.

I stared at him and he stared at me. We just looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Then he looked at Ryan and back at me. He dropped his cup and it shattered on the floor. 

“Umm.. Ryan?” he asked.

 Ryan stopped mid-chew and turned around. When he saw my doppelganger, he too choked on his bread. I tried to piece everything together. Why had everybody seem so different from who they were and why was there a clone of me?

 Then I remembered how I ended up here. Everything started to fit together like a puzzle. 

“Ryan. Other Me. When I tell you this, do not freak out. It might sound crazy but it’s true. Ryan, before when I met you outside the supermarket, I was with my family. I had created a proton collider that opened up a black hole that brought me here. When I got here, my wife acted like she hated me and you acted like we were friends. However, in my ordinary universe, my wife and I love each other and you are my worst enemy. This led me to believe that I was in an alternate universe. One that is the exact opposite of what I live in. That means you are my antimatter.”

Ryan and Other Me stared at me like I was crazy. Then they laughed. “Daniel. I’m sure that you’ve had a long day. Maybe you should just go home and rest for today.” Ryan said. 

Other me looked at him and back to me. “Well, it may be possible. Although proton colliders aren’t supposed to create black holes. If you make a mistake with the wires, it may malfunction to create one. But what kind of universe have you ended up in?” 

I looked at him. “Let’s find out. Other Me. Shake my hand.” I extended my hand to him. As soon as our hands met, pain seared from my hand. Almost like a burning feeling from acid. I quickly retracted my hand and looked at it. The entire layer of skin on my hand had burnt off. “This is what happens when antimatter meets matter.” I said to them.

“Well if this is true, we have to find a way for you to get home,” Ryan said to me. 

“Well let’s establish something. If I have any more physical contact with Other Me, we will both be completely destroyed. No more touching alright?” I looked at Other Me and he nodded. “Okay. I think I have a way for me to get back to my universe. I need to make another proton collider in order to get back home. It’s an extremely risky move and I could theoretically end up in any other universe or possibly even get stuck in the time-space continuum, but it’s the only way. Do any of you have a lab lying around anywhere that I can use?”

Ryan just shook his head but Other Me’s face brightened as he looked at me and asked, “Did you say proton collider? I have a lab with one already made. The problem is where it is…” 

I looked at him excitedly. “Where is it?” 

He hung his head low. “It’s in the basement of Chloe’s house.” 

I looked at him. Just why. Of all places, WHY?! “Oh yeah. What happened with Chloe?” I asked. 

He sat down. “It’s a long story. Let me tell you.”

“When Chloe and I got married, we each had different aspirations. I wanted to be an inventor who created inventions that changed the world. I wanted to travel around the world and enter competitions and constantly keep learning. Chloe wanted to start a family and raise them to do great things. I decided that my dreams could wait and I would help Chloe raise a family. After we had our second kid Dylan, I decided that I would enter a small competition in our state and invent something. When I won first prize, I realized that I had so much talent and I could be an amazing inventor if I had the chance. I decided to go big. Without telling my wife, I bought a plane ticket to Australia to go and compete in the international competition. Surprisingly, I won and although my wife was upset with me for not telling her about it, she was proud. After winning the international competition, my wife thought that was the end of my journey and I should come home to be with my kids, but I wanted to become even greater at inventing. I wanted to solve the world’s greatest mysteries. When my wife heard about this, she and I had an argument. I decided to go my own path while she followed hers. For the next three years, I learned many things about the world and even managed to solve three of the world’s greatest mysteries. Then I found out my son Richard had been diagnosed with a brain tumor. I automatically headed home only to find out that he had already died. Heartbroken and clueless what to do next, I tried to go back home, but she closed the doors on me.”

I looked at Other Me. He had gone through so much. “I’m so sorry.” I managed to get out. He looked at me and said 

“We have to find a way to get inside the lab with or without her permission.” 

I nodded my head. “When should we try?”

That night, we all met in front of Chloe’s house. The mess from before had been cleaned up, and all the lights in the house were off. We walked to the front door and Other Me took a key out of his pocket. 

“Don’t tell her I have this,” he told us. “She hasn’t changed the locks on the door since I moved out so I still have access to the house.” He slid the key into the keyhole and turned. With a small click, the door was unlocked. He slowly opened the door and stepped inside. Ryan and I followed, careful not to make any sounds. We walked towards the basement stairs but as we opened the door, Someone turned the corner and stopped in their tracks. It was Dylan. 

He looked at me and then Other Me, and then Ryan and back to me. I could tell he was confused, so I whispered to him, “Dylan, don’t tell your mom we were here. Just go back to sleep and forget any of this happened.” 

He stared at us as if we were crazy so we just closed the door to the basement and walked down the stairs. I looked at Other Me and he looked at me, smiling, with tears in his eyes. “He’s grown so much,” he said to me. “I haven’t seen him in seven years.” 

I smiled at him. ‘Hopefully you can see him again someday,” I said. 

The three of us walked down the stairs, and I looked around the lab. It looked exactly like my old lab. I asked Other Me, “Where’s the proton collider?” He pointed over to the machine covered in a blue sheet. I walked over to the machine and took the sheet off. Then I unscrewed the screws that held a steel plate on. After the steel plate was off, I looked through the wires. Everything was the same as the one I had made except for the ones right on top. They were twisted together, but when I did it, I had tied them together. As I untwisted the wires, I thought about my wife. My kids. I thought about how Other Me had it so hard. Wife hating him, dead child. I almost wanted to give him my place and let him live in my universe. 

After the wires were “fixed”, I walked over to the other side and turned it on. The energy began to flow just as it had before. Then, I heard a loud harsh voice. 

“DAAAAAANIEEEEEL!!! HOW DARE YOU COME INTO MY HOUSE WITH YOUR FRIENDS AFTER WHAT YOU DID BEFORE! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!” Chloe was at the back of the lab glaring at me. 

Other Me came out of the shadows. “You’ve got the wrong guy,” he said. “I’m sorry, Chloe. For everything. But we need the lab just for another minute.” 

“No” she replied curtly. “Get out.” 

“Please Chloe,” he pleaded. 

“Well first, why are there two of you?” she asked. 

“Let me explain,” he said. 

I looked back. The bulge had already started to grow. “Guys, I think this is my cue to exit.” I walked over to Ryan and gave him a big hug. I turned to Other Me, and I nodded my head. “Thanks for everything” I said to them as I turned back. The bulge exploded once again as it dragged me in. But this time I was prepared. I closed my eyes and let the blackness overwhelm me. 

I woke up for the third time that day. I looked around and saw the garden gnome. I hoped it wasn’t foreboding as I walked up the steps. I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. After a couple seconds, the door opened and I saw the love of my life standing in front of me. With tears in her eyes, she threw her arms around me and I wrapped my arms around her, patting her back. I saw Richard and Dylan in the back, so I invited them into our embrace. We hugged for what seemed like forever. Once we had released from our embrace, I smiled at them. “Let me tell you everything.” 

As I walked inside, I heard a crash outside. I turned around and looked out the window. Other Me and Other Chloe were back.


Godel’s Guide to Breaking Everything

Introduction

Two people walk down the street in two opposite directions. They are going two separate ways, and will never see each other again. 

Enter C stage left, move centerstage, keep walking

Enter M stage right, move centerstage 

C “bumps,” M drops phone

M: Oh!

C: Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going, I—

M: No, my phone!

C: Ooh, I can pay for that, it looks pretty broken. Here. I’ll go with you to get it fixed. 

M: Right now? 

C: Yeah. Why not? 

M: Well, I got a patient who I need to attend to before she gets hungry. 

C: Other nurses will take care of your patient. You can call in sick!

M: Well, I haven’t had a vacation for a while… you know, the earthquake?

M: Wait. How did you know I was a nurse? 

C: Well. You said that you had to feed a patient; doctors wouldn’t do that, they would be doing surgeries, and stuff like that. Also, when you dropped your bag (and your phone clattered out), a box of surgical masks fell out of your bag. I’m also assuming you’re going to night school? 

M: Wha? How…

C: Dark circles. Concealer can’t cover everything, honey. 

C: Now we got to go to get your screen fixed. 

Act 1

Waiting in the phone shop

C: So… do you want to talk about something? 

M: No. You’ve been super kind, but I think it would be best if we didn’t talk. 

C: So. You want to talk about nothing. 

M: Yes? 

C: Well, nothing is a thing.

M: No, nothing is black. Nothing is no-thing. 

C: Black is a thing, and no thing is the opposite of a thing, therefore, must be no-thing.

M: Oh my gosh, you’re right!

C: It’s called Godel’s Theorem. For example, take the statement, “This statement is a lie.” The liar’s paradox. The real statement behind this is, “This statement is unprovable.” How can you prove this statement? Or, really, ANY statement? For example, 1 plus 1 is just, 2. How do you know it is, though? 

M: Because, well… it’s just… well…

C: Yeah.

M: Can I have your number? 

C: Your phone’s done. 

M: How can we keep talking? 

C: I’ll call you.  

C exits stage right

M stays on set, curtain drops

Act 2

Soon after while lying on set, M receives a call… 

M: Blocked caller ID? That’s funny… hello? 

C: Hey.

M: Who are you? 

C: I’m just the CEO of a company. I just uncovered too much about Godel. It’s fine though. Sorry about the blocked caller. 

M: I was expecting you to call like, three weeks ago! It’s been a month since I broke my phone. 

C: Sorry, but I am a CEO. I have a job. 

M: Ugh. I don’t have time for this. I have to get to school. 

C: I’ll call you. 

M: (disconnects) Not if I call you first. 

C: (on the other end, M not hearing them) Dina? Look up where- wait. What’s their name? 

Act 3

One day later while M is at work, M calls C

C: Hello? 

M: No, no hello, I’m not wasting time having you or your pettiness stand in my way. You can hang up, but you won’t. Explain what’s happening. Right. Now. 

C: Look up Godel. 

C hangs up.

M: Hello? Hello? 

C calls back.

C: Dinner. Sandy’s. You’re free. 

M: No. Luigi’s. What’s your name again? 

C hangs up.

At dinner (at Sandy’s)

C: Wow. You dressed up!

M: And you didn’t? Anyway. I can’t even think about anything without going crazy, thinking  about the ways it’s wrong. I looked up Godel, but it only said that he commited a slow and painful suicide, and was a professor. 

C: Ok, I’ll explain it to you, and look up his theories. 

C: Now. Think of a rubber duck. How do you know it’s real?

M: Well… you can feel it, and you can see it. Sometimes you can smell it. 

C: Yes but you feel with your nerves, and you taste with your tastebuds, and you smell with tiny hairs in your nose, and all three of those are somewhat of a reaction from your brain. It could be your brain malfunctioning, and you’re actually eating dark matter.  

M: You’re saying everything could very well be a figment of our imagination? 

C: That’s up to you. 

C: I also ordered us a s’mores to go. I’ve found it’s best to cope with some soft, gooey marshmallow. 

M: How do you cope? 

C: I don’t. This is the first time I ever shared that with anybody. 

M: Well, glad you’re coping with me. 

C smiles. 

C: Goodnight. 

M: I’ve got to get to class.


Later 

: My mind is as sharp as an emerald, but as blunt as a dead body. 

: Wait how can you tell someone is even dead? 

: Don’t. I’ve thought about it… 

: All this time. I’ve never even thought about this before…

: Just once or twice. 

: To test. 

: I know how. 

: So do I

: Just twice. 

: Some idiot scum that no ones going to miss… 

Even later

News: “Twenty eight people have been suspected dead, over the past few weeks, no connection between them. Nobody knows where this person will strike next, but we do know this makes them the highest ranking american serial…”

:Why?

: Because. I had to, before you did. 

: we agreed on two. 

: …g

Goodbye, C. 

: Goodbye. 

Epilogue

Charlotte was driving to her second mansion. When she got there, somebody was standing where she was supposed to. 

Maya? I thought. We ran to each other and shared a familiar kiss. How… why… “They think it was me so I said I was going on vacation.” 

“They won’t look here because we have no connection, they would never suspect us of being friends, and they would never guess we’re more.”

fin


Loyalty

Loyalty

Is T   h e r   e

For you 

For your friends

She will follow you

If you wish 

Loyalty

With modest overalls  

And dirt blond hair

Cascading down her face

Loyalty 

Loyalty is T   h e r e


When you tell a secret

She keeps it 

When you spill the tea

She will always see

If you’re 

Sad

Sick

Hurt

Happy

Unaware

Loyalty

Loyalty is T   h e r e


If you can’t hold it in

You can confide within

Those kind green eyes and each warm freckle

So maybe just a speckle

Of love will shine through

From the both of you

Loyalty 

Loyalty is T   h e r e


Maybe if 

You catch a whiff

Of rumors dark and twisted

If you ever tear up a slight amount

You can always

Bury your head 

Into the bed 

Of friendship necklaces

Too many to count

Loyalty

Loyalty is T   h e r e


From the furthest corner

Of her satchel worner

Out comes a shiny gift 

Your birthday

With a Hallmark holiday

Card insignia on the back

She smiles and 

Gives it to you

Inked doodles on her hand

Loyalty 

Loyalty is T   h e r e


She is there for you 

Through and through

Thick and thin

She doesn’t choose

In a clash of cliques

She’s on her side

Your side 

No side

Loyalty 

Loyalty is T   h e r e

Poem # 3

Blue eyes lost in emerald,

Its edges soft, but not dulled,

Glossed over, her mind becomes lulled,

Blue eyes lost in emerald.


Oceans collide with romantic magenta skies,

Everlasting pinks weave with clouds’ loose ties,

The moon will soon shine, and purplish reds will die,

Oceans collide with romantic magenta skies.


Hearts of gold dazzle depths of teal,

Rosy tones warm their cold metal feel,

Invincible love that no one would dare steal,

Hearts of gold dazzle depths of teal.


Orange velvet stained with royal ink,

Amber threads soaked in a pen’s drink,

Beautiful blues bleed in a blink,

Orange velvet stained with royal ink.


Sapphire salty waters hold reflections of yellow,

Goldens and sunnies, warming bodies of mellow,

Sounds of a wave’s wake and a bird’s bellow,

Sapphire salty waters hold reflections of yellow.


Small moments catch uninspired eyes,

Some details only noticed by the wise,

Beautiful worlds live in disguise,

Small moments catch uninspired eyes.


My Past

His family was lying to him about his father, about his old ways. It’s put him toe to toe with his family, why is that? Is it about the money, the cars, the shoes? No, it can’t be about the money. Oh I know exactly what it is about. [PAUSE] It is about the son of the only thing that was there for him, which is his mom. He loved his dad so much, but his dad did it to his body. If he went to a party and thought his son would not find out about it, but now he’s dead so the son can only cry about it every day when no one’s looking. Crying is like being a punk about it, that’s what people on the street say. The boy didn’t believe it at first when he came in the room on a Saturday in June and his mom was crying and said, “Your father passed away.” So he laughed. [PAUSE] The body had been found that Thursday. He said he didn’t believe it, and he didn’t believe it until he was standing beside his mother in front of the casket. He didn’t want to cry in that moment or break down. He went outside and played with his cousins. [PAUSE] Now the son has to move on, but doesn’t want to because he loved his dad with rap battle fire. He wanted to spit flames, he 87654687 got ready to spit flames, he wanted the crowd to jump up, laugh, and scream. [PAUSE]  They burned his dad down to ashes, like crumbs of bread moldy on the ground. [PAUSE] Now he doesn’t want to lose his mom, so he’s got to respect his mom with all his heart. Staying away from her is like burning himself down into ember. [PAUSE, look at audience] They lied about his father.


After Hours

The beautiful color of the blue flowers

They must be happy when there are rain showers

They must be happy after hours

But it’s not true their sadness devours


All of their bad thoughts overpower

The flower’s sadness start to tower

But when the morning comes their sadness scours

Then time works its magic, it happens all over again

and the flowers will once again face the sadness tower.


In a Crowded Train

WHAT’S GOING ON

“Maria Jane Wodson, there is a friend I would like you to meet!” Father yelled from downstairs.

As I made my way down the white marble stairs, I saw him. He wore the Nazi uniform, with the red arm band on his left arm, showing off his muscular arms. He looked like he was in his 30s.

Looking at his cold blue eyes caused my hands to tremble on the wood banister. Scared. I was scared, that’s the word. Scared.

Father saw that I had finally got out of my room and exclaimed, “This is my coworker, Kurt. He will be your math tutor for the next month.”

I said a quick, “Hi.”

I made my way past Kurt. Then I felt a cold hand on my shirt. It was Kurt.

Then he whispered in a low voice, “I know people like you, up to no good.”

What did he mean, “people like you.” He let me go, but I still felt his cold hand on my shoulder.

Making my way to my car, I noticed these kids playing around the street playing tag. And they each wore a necklace with the Jewish star. Then I continued observing the kids’ clothing, noticing the same star sewn on their spring vests, their jeans, and shirts. 

But I got in my car, driving to a cafe to meet up with a friend. I saw in front of me that Betty had already found seats. I made my way across the pink tiled floors, past the bar. But I could not stop thinking about why all Jews were sewing the star. I knew Betty was Jewish, but why didn’t she have the star sewn on? We had just started drinking coffee when these Nazis barged in. Grabbed Betty by the arm. And I just stood there in shock. Betty was thrashing and screaming in fear. No, I couldn’t lose her. She has been my best friend since, like, the beginning of time. Now she was gone. My head was spinning in confusion. What was happening. And why. 

FINDING OUT THE TRUTH

After I left the cafe, the only thing I could think about all day were the Nazis. Then all of a sudden, I fell to the floor. Looking below me I saw a yellow rubber duck staring at me with black beady eyes.

“What the heck!!” I said to myself. Why was there a rubber duck. Oh well, never thought that would happen. 

Making my way up the old brick stairs to my home, I felt like a melting marshmallow in the hot sun. I didn’t know if Father was home. So I went upstairs to check his office, but as I made my way closer to the office, I heard men yelling.

You know all Jews must be sent to the camps. Not one can slip past you!”

 What camps? I thought. And why target Jews? 

But then I heard more. “We finally got that stupid Betty. The troops just got her at the coffee shop when she was with my daughter. Get the rest of them. Hitler’s orders!”

It was Father!!! Father was the reason Betty was taken away. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. Was this why the kids were wearing the stars, the Nazis needed to know who were Jews. But what camps.

The Nazis stormed out of the house. I was in the kitchen snacking on some potato chips when one of the men caught my eye.

He had cold emerald eyes, then he said in a loud booming voice, “Alright, men, hurry up. Let’s go.”

I recognized that voice. It was the voice of the first man in the conversation. I must stay away from that man.

One week later… 

THE TRAIN

I found myself in a crowded train, filled with Jews. Babies crying, kids crying, women and men crying. Why had I gone snooping? Why did I ever start to have feelings for Kurt? Kurt did this to me. I felt the train stop. The Nazis opened up the doors. Then they started pushing people off the train. One Nazi pushed me so hard that I fell.

I looked behind myself and saw Kurt. Kurt, the one who started this whole mess. But he looked at me like I was no one, kicked me, and said, “You stupid girl, get up.”

I wondered if he even noticed me, but then a loud scream interrupted that thought. A Jewish mama was being taken away from her daughter. I ran over to help the child.

I yelled back at the mama, “I will take care of her!!”

The girl yelled back at the mama screaming, “No!!! I need her. I need my mama.”

The girls eyes looked scared, so I said to the girl, “It’s okay. I will take care of you.”

“No, you are not my mama. You will turn me into them, then they will kill me!!”

“Come with me, so we don’t get in trouble and end up like your mama. We must follow the rest of the group.”

“Fine, but promise me they won’t hurt me.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t make any promises, but I will try my best.”

“Are you scared?” the girl asked, shivering.

“Yes, but you must stay strong. Please stay strong.”

The girl and I followed the Nazis through the concentration camp, past lines of Jews heading into dark tunnels. Then all of a sudden I heard bang, bang. I looked over my shoulder and found four dead bodies on the cold brick floor. Then I thought to myself what will become of me.


Tonight

Hast there e’er been a night filled with such pain?

Dost the setting of the sun bring suffering?

Come fill me up with bitter, cold poison

Come singe my hair and let it scorch my neck

Do to me this for it shall be no worse 

Than what has’t been done, 

Forgotten from thy lips

My name once sweetly sung 

How dareth thee mistake mine own love 

For something to be easily tossed hence

Cowards art those who cannot face the sunrise

And you were born with two closed eyes


Darkthorn

I was awoken by the sun’s soft, early morning rays. I’ve always been a light sleeper, which is always a good thing for waking up early to work like I do. With a quick yawn and a stretch, I slid out of bed and laced up my boots again. By the looks of things when I got downstairs, Mother and Father were still asleep. Hunting takes up most of my day if I’m to catch anything, so I grabbed a decent chunk of bread from the kitchen and filled up a waterskin at the well. Lastly, I headed to the shed just outside of the house and retrieved the bow and quiver of arrows from the shelf. The early morning air was cool and the breeze was slight, the sun just beginning to peek over the horizon, leaving the land covered in a golden haze. Today should be a good hunt for me. That is, if I didn’t get too frustrated first. With a last glance at the house, I silently made my way to the nearby woods, bow gripped tightly in my hand. 

Surprisingly, within minutes, I found myself hiding behind some bushes while a deer grazed a few paces away from me. I slowly pulled an arrow from my quiver and nocked it on the bowstring. Before I could pull it back and ready my shot, a twig snapped behind me and scared off the deer. I whirled around to look for the source of the noise, only to be faced with trees, shrubs, and nothing more. I let out a low growl of frustration and stood up. Another twig snapped, this time seemingly closer. Eyes narrowed, I pulled the bowstring taught and aimed towards the sound. I still didn’t see anything, but a feeling of unease had begun to creep into my body.

“Who’s there?” I called, a slight shake to my voice.

I got no answer, which only deepened the sense of dread that had begun to weigh me down. I waited for a few more moments, and lowered my bow. I bit my lip, and quickly moved on, scanning the forest floor for any more tracks. I spent a few more hours following what appeared to be deer tracks, but after a while I realized that I had gotten completely lost.

“Of course… of course I get lost…” I grumbled, kicking a few rocks out of my way. The forest had gotten dark, even though I knew that it couldn’t be any later than noon. I had never been in this part of the woods, and every shape in the undergrowth seemed foreign or threatening. I found myself drawing my bow at the slightest noise. Eventually, I saw the beginnings of a pathway and my hopes shot up. I followed the path like an excited puppy, eager to get out of this wretched forest. The path led to an open mouthed cave, and I could faintly hear voices coming from within. As I made my way to the entrance, I tripped on a rock and fell flat on my face with a small cry. The voices stopped and I scrambled to my feet. 

When I looked up, a tall, thin man was leaning over me. I like to think of myself as rather tall, but this man was a good head higher than I was. His greasy, shoulder-length hair was dark, his eyes even darker, a glimmer of something otherworldly lurking behind his irises. His skin was like ivory, so much so that it seemed nearly translucent. His lips were the only colorful part of him, as if they were stained with wine, or something of the like.

“Well well well. What have we here? A little lost pup?” The man purred. His voice was smooth and slick, dark amusement oozing from every word.

“I won’t deny I’m lost, but I’m not a pup.” I glared and dusted off my trousers. 

The man laughed and turned back towards the cave, where two more men were standing with their arms crossed.

“Well how about we play a little game then?” The man stepped back a few paces, joining the other two at the cave’s mouth.  “Think of it as… a game of hide and seek.”

The three men grinned, in near-perfect unison. The skin on the back of my neck prickled, and I gripped the handle of my bow even tighter.

“I don’t have time for this. If you won’t tell me how to get back to the village of Farnworth, then I’ll be on my way.” My tone grew sharp, masking the fear I felt deep in my core. There was something off about these men. That much was clear.

“Oh but if you win, we’ll even take you right there!” A second man piped up. This man was burlier than the first, muscular even. His golden, curly hair was cropped at his ears, and his blue eyes glittered with the same sick amusement as the first man.

“Yeah, thanks for the offer but I’ll make my way out.” I turned to leave, but suddenly the third man rushed forward with unnatural speed and gripped my shoulder tightly, his sharp nails digging into my flesh. 

“Have it your way then.” The third man was the smallest, but also the most terrifying. His eyes were almost colorless, a dead sort of grey. His hair seemed to be falling out, despite his rather young appearance. If he weren’t standing in front of me and talking, I would have said that he was dead, or close to being in such a state. I swatted his hand away and nocked an arrow.

“I think I will.” I aimed the arrow at the man’s chest with shaking hands.

The three of them burst into laughter.

“You see that Lucien?” The first man called to the third. “He’s shaking!”

Lucien, the man in front of me, merely smiled, revealing a row of rotting teeth with several of the front ones missing. I barely held back a cry as two of those empty holes began to fill in front of my very eyes with long, wickedly sharp fangs.

Those fangs sent a chill down my spine. They belonged to some… creature. A wicked monster my sheltered mind couldn’t begin to comprehend. My eyes grew wide and a wave of cold fear crashed over me, making me shake even more. Even though my legs felt like lead, I turned around as fast as I could and began to run in the opposite direction. I could hear the three men howling with laughter as I bolted, weaving in and out between trees and fallen logs. My heart hammered in my chest, uneven breaths forcing themselves out into the now-frigid air. 

“You really are a curious one.” I yelped as the first man murmured in my ear. He was barely breathing hard, yet he had run up to me quicker than any creature I had ever seen. I screamed and tried to whack him with my bow, but he caught the end of it effortlessly. “What a pathetic little toy.” He grinned, exposing sharp fangs so white and polished I could swear I saw my own reflection within them. 

The man wrenched the bow out of my hand as if he were taking candy from a child. I whimpered and stumbled back, now thrown off balance. I fell to the ground with a grunt, hitting my head on a tree trunk. Pain blossomed at the base of my neck, a pain I’d never really experienced before. Black spots danced almost mockingly at the edges of my vision, teasing and calling me to fall into the world of the unconscious. 

“Well gentlemen, I know we just ate, but we never say no to a free meal, do we?” Lucien snickered, kneeling down in front of me, fangs bared.

“M…meal?!” I stammered out weakly, blinking several times to clear my vision.

“Oh come on, little pup!” The first man giggled. “Judging by your reaction I assume you know what we are!”

“I don’t have a damn clue! Whatever you are, you can’t be real!” I cried, clenching my eyes shut.

A cold hand grabbed my chin, nails digging into my cheeks. 

“I can assure you, we are very real.” 

I grit my teeth and kicked out my leg, hitting one of the men in the chest. My eyes flew open and the other two seemed startled by my kick, so I turned and began running again. My muscles screamed in pain, begging for me to slow down, but the adrenaline coursing through my body pushed me forward. My head throbbed, pounding with each step I took.

Then, I was suddenly tackled from behind and found myself pinned down on the forest floor, my face pressed into the dirt. 

“Rather persistent aren’t you?” The man dug his nails into my back, nails so sharp that they easily tore through my shirt, leaving a line of gouge marks oozing with warm, sticky blood. A strangled cry leapt out of my mouth, muffled by the dirt and leaves. “I usually don’t play with my food but this has been… delightful!”

I could hear the other men approach as well, and I squirmed under the man’s hand. 

“Ah ah! Stay still! It won’t hurt as much if you do, I promise.” One of the men cackled.

Tears were streaming down my face, hot tears born out of a cold fear. I whined as the man pinning me down pulled me upright and tossed me violently into a thorny bush with little effort. I opened my mouth to cry out as the thorns wedged themselves into my skin, but no sound came out. It struck me then and there that this was how I was going to die. At the hands of some strange monsters that I never stood a chance against. 

I wasn’t even able to —

My thoughts were cut short as a firm hand pulled me out of the thorn bush, and a fist smashed into my face. Once, then twice. Then a few times more. I scratched and clawed at whoever was holding me, my eyes swollen shut from the relentless blows. 

My my. This is rather pathetic, a voice chuckled. But this voice was not one of the men beating the life out of me. This voice seemed different, and seemed to come from all around me, not in one specific location. The pain seemed to fade away for a moment, as did the rest of the world. I felt like I was floating in some strange, endless void.

I can help you, you know, the voice thundered again, still without a definite source.

“How? Who are you?” I tried to speak, but my words fell flat against the darkness.

The voice laughed, a heavy boom that resonated throughout my entire body. 

“Hey! Answer me!” I yelled, looking around to find the voice. I felt as if I were on the brink of tears, but my eyes were strangely dry.

Just look at yourself, the voice purred, and the void around me exploded into a vivid scene, and a familiar one at that. I was back in the woods, watching the three strange men hitting and beating a slumped-over figure, seemingly enjoying themselves. But that figure was… me. Yet somehow I was observing this from outside my own body. Poor little thing. How could you ever survive such a ruthless attack?

A shiver ran through my body. I whirled around to see a raven perched on a low-hanging branch, its small, black, beady eyes glittering with amusement.

“What are you!?” I reached out to grab the bird, as if catching it would release me from this strange hallucination. The raven vanished as soon as I touched it.

Rather touchy, aren’t we?

“Stop it! Stop!” I squeezed my eyes shut and cradled my head in my hands. I was overwhelmed, fear and confusion running rampant through my mind, wild and untamed.

I could help you, Jamie.

I choked out a sob, opening one eye to peer at my savagely beaten body. I was covered in blood, blood which the men seemed to be scooping up with their hands and… and drinking. My arms hung at strange angles, bruises covering nearly every inch of exposed skin. There were undoubtedly more under my shredded shirt and pants.

You could destroy them, dear boy. Just say the word. 

Those words seemed to strike a spark, igniting some strange, otherworldly anger that I never imagined that I was capable of. I stood up and opened my eyes. What gave these monsters the right to do such things? To me? To anyone? Could I really destroy them? Punish them with the justice they deserve?

Yes Jamie, you can. The raven was perched on another branch, staring intently into my eyes. I can give you the power to wreak havoc on any of those who stand in your way. Scorch a path of justice, just for you to walk upon.

Well… how could I refuse with my broken body?

How admirable. I am yours to command, Jamie Darkthorn. The raven shot up into the air and dove straight down towards me. I raised my arms to block the bird, but as soon as it just touched my arm, a wave of powerful force exploded out from within me. I was back in my body, but it was no longer broken. The three men were blown back, landing on the ground with sickening crunches. I opened my eyes, only to find my vision changed. The three men, who were scrambling to their feet, now looked dead in every sense of the word. Skin and flesh was just barely holding on to their time-withered bones, eyes hollow and empty. A word bubbled at my lips, forcing itself free.

Vampire.” I growled, my voice laced with some cruel, ancient power. The three vampires hissed and backed away from me. 

“The hell are you?” One of them snarled, fangs slick with blood. My blood. I didn’t respond. I was too busy looking at my hands and arms, which were swathed in a swirling violet light. “Hey we’re talkin’ to you!”

The vampire ran up to me, ready to lunge, but I instinctively grabbed his arm and, with some urging from the raven, I snapped it. Like snapping a twig. My veins felt as if they were on fire, burning with savage rage. 

Rip off their heads. Break their necks, the raven ordered. Otherwise they won’t die.

If I weren’t drunk on this strange, newfound power, I wouldn’t have even considered doing what the raven instructed. But my fingers twitched and itched, begging me to do it. 

A second vampire rushed at me, and I clamped my hands firmly around his neck. My body was moving without my input, guided by the raven. A flash of doubt flickered in the back of my mind and for a second, my grip weakened. I can’t do this. This… this isn’t right!

You want them punished, don’t you? The raven chided.

“I-I do,” I growled, tightening my grip again. The raven pushed and shoved, and I felt bone snap under my fingers. A sickening jolt of nausea lurched in my stomach and I pushed the vampire away. He reeled back, coughing and grasping at his neck. He then fell back onto the forest floor, gasping and panting. After a few moments, the vampire’s movements stilled. His two companions glanced at me with fearful eyes and bolted back towards their cave. I let them go, a cold mixture of guilt and fear crashing like waves on a stormy sea.

What are you doing? The raven didn’t seem angry, but rather puzzled.

“Not like this. I-I’m not a killer.” 

You aren’t. That vampire was dead. As all before it have been. You did not kill it, you just made its death more permanent.

Tears welled up in my eyes, hot and painful. The thrum of power began to fade, and my hands began to shake. A rustling of leaves made me whirl around to find the raven perched on a nearby bush, its head cocked to the side.

“Why… why did you make me do that?” I choked out, backing away from the bird.

It was not what you wanted? The raven ruffled its wings. I apologize.

“Of course it wasn’t what I bloody wanted!” I took a few more steps back, tripping over the vampire’s body. I yelped and scrambled away from it.

You wanted to serve them justice. I assumed that meant by ending their miserable existence.

I shook my head vigorously.

“No! You… you.. Leave me alone!” I screamed, running and stumbling away from the raven and the body. I didn’t know where I was running, or what path I was taking, but I eventually stumbled across a river, nearly falling in. I stopped at the bank, and looked down at my reflection in the water. My eyes were no longer their usual shade of green, but a brilliant violet, shimmering with power and some otherworldly magic. My hair was still tied up, except for a few odd strands. A thick chunk of my bangs had been stripped of all of its color, leaving it pale and silvery. With a startled cry, I splashed the surface of the water, shattering the reflection. 

I am truly sorry if I had alarmed you, Jamie. The raven was on the other side of the riverbank, nonchalant as ever.

I screamed and scrambled back.

“What did you do to me?!”

Nothing. I simply awakened the power you already harboured. The raven flew swiftly over the river’s water and landed in front of me. I will explain all in due time, but I implore that you calm down before I do so.

“Awakened? Power? You’re talking nonsense!” I kicked at the raven, who squawked and flew off a few paces. 

You have just proved my point. You are shaken up, so I will wait until you are calm enough to listen to me.

“I-I’ve gone crazy!” I whimpered, scrambling to my feet and running off in the other direction. My eyes itched and burned, so I reached up to rub them. When my hands fell back to my sides, my vision had changed again. My surroundings were clouded in a violet haze, leaving only a clear path that snaked between the trees and plant life. I shook my head and ignored the chiseled path, as it had to be my mind playing tricks on me. Yet the farther I wandered from the path, the more lost and confused I found myself. I stopped for a moment and glanced at the path. It was illuminated by small wisps of light, almost inviting me to follow them.

I gritted my teeth, debating whether or not I should give in. I eventually did, for I was exhausted and desperate for any way out of this hellish maze. As soon as I stepped foot onto this path, it flickered and glowed softly. I took a second step, then a third. After a few more paces, I broke into a run. The forest became a blur, my eyes clouded with tears once again. Finally, I caught a glimpse of the forest edge. I couldn’t help but let out a sigh and a smile of relief, dragging myself out of the densely wooded hell that I had just spent hours in. 

I had made it out. I could even see our farmhouse just a few yards from where I was standing. Yet I couldn’t find the energy to pull myself over there. I was suddenly hit with a wave of exhaustion, and collapsed into the grass.


Timeless

I’ve found myself wishing for simple things recently. Like wishing for rainy but warm days. Or wishing for time to laugh at nothing with a few good friends. Or wishing to find a shortcut home through the park. Or wishing to sit down and enjoy a good chicken sandwich. Or to find a good song to listen to. Or to write something meaningful. Or to tell the girl that I like that I like her. Or to just be happier.

Senior year is coming to an end. I feel like I’ve done nothing, gone nowhere, been nobody. I’ve gotta do something more with my life than just wait for something exciting to happen. I should be road tripping across the United States or something. My mom says that the US isn’t worth road tripping across. She says that it’s just 7-11s and narrow-minded people. I disagree, and so does my grandfather, Jawahar. Or Jawa, for short. And sure, there are tons of 7-11s and tons of narrow-minded people, but there is a lot more. Jawa and I both believe that we’ve spent too much time in our lives looking at what’s outside our country. We’ve gone to Europe, Asia, Australia, and South America together, but not Antarctica. I would aim to go to Antarctica with him, but neither of us really want to. We want to go on an adventure in the US. 

But that’s a distant dream.

I think a lot of the US smells good. A lot of it smells bad, but a lot of it smells like fresh air and hotel soap. All that good stuff. Or at least it all smells better than the social studies classroom that I was cooped up in while all of these thoughts ran through my brain. Like mice running away from the siren of a fire truck, into their dark nooks and crannies where they wouldn’t be found. Mr. Whitaker had microwaved his fish lunch in the classroom again. It wasn’t pleasant. I was looking out the window and trying to not be reminded of the horrid smell. There were all these crystal-clear raindrops trickling down the windows. They left their imprints for just a minute and then went away like they were never there. And, sure, it was a rainy day like I had wished for. But it wasn’t warm.

The one part that I really enjoyed about social studies was that sitting at the next table over, to my left, was Malaika Melrose. I only knew a few select things about her. I knew that she likes to travel. That she loves the color orange. I knew that she’s Tanzanian because she’s very proud of the fact that her name is from the Tanzanian song, “Malaika.” It means Angel. And that’s a pretty accurate description. I knew that she recently got a scholarship to Pomona for volleyball, because she wore the sweater they sent her like it’s a part of her. Which was hard for her, because her co-captain passed away in a car accident. That’s why she has a tattoo on her arm that says ‘Olivia.’ Except the O is a volleyball. I knew that Daniel Vettel called the tattoo tacky, and Malaika wasn’t having it, so she punched him right across the face. That was probably the highlight of my February. After Olivia died, Malaika had to be strong for the rest of her team, which was exactly what she did. Then they won the championship, which was probably the highlight of my April. And I’m really happy that she got the scholarship because you can walk to Pomona from Pitzer, which is where I’m headed next year.  

When Mr. Whitaker makes the abrupt decision of teaching on the other side of the classroom, I get the chance to look at her without seeming like a creep. Today happened to be one of those days. She tried taking notes for a little while, but then gave up and started doodling in her notebook. Since I wasn’t listening, I thought I might as well have been doing something productive, like she was. Besides, looking at someone like that and pining after them the way I was is a self-destructive tendency. So, I drew an array of half-hearted ghosts on the top of the page. 

I guess Mr. Whitaker noticed this, because he enunciated across the room, “Levi, you ok?” And just like that, with one word, this cloud of silent pensiveness I had surrounded myself with vanished. He said my name with a disappointed tone that I usually only heard from my parents. It hit me like a shard of glass right to my chest. I nodded stiffly in response. He stared for a moment and then returned to his lesson as I opened up to a new page of notes.

As the class came to an end, you could hear the crunch of papers and the stuffing of book bags as people hustled to get out the door. Mr. Whitaker was still droning on about something or the other. Malaika bolted out of the door so quickly that I couldn’t have said anything to her if I wanted to. Not that I would’ve.

I trudged out of the building, into the fading grey light that was splitting through the storm clouds. I made my way through the crowds of bustling children. I could see Malaika just a few crowds ahead of me. She was laughing really hard at something that her friend had said. It was a true and genuine laugh. I hadn’t laughed like that in a while.

I darted away from the crowds and towards the park. As I approached the entrance, I found myself paused in time. I was looking down the winding path into all this greenery. Cherry blossom season had just come to an end, so pink petals were littered along the pavement. I was wavering in between weaving a way through the trees, as a shortcut, or just going right along the main path the way I usually did. If I started a new adventure, where would it take me? In my mind, a memory unfolded of a story Jawa likes to tell. 

“When I came here from India, I was lost. I had no friends and very little money. All hope had been drained from my heart. That’s when I met your grandmother. She was the kindest girl at Columbia. Actually, she was the kindest girl I’d ever met. She introduced me to her friends, who soon became my friends. She and I and our friends would go on adventures. We loved to wander and would often find ourselves lost in the unknown together. Now here’s something to keep in mind, Levi. Wherever we went, we would find a brick wall and put a little something behind it. A little part of ourselves, or a part of our adventure. That’s how we left our mark. Levi, you have to figure out how you will leave your mark.” 

I stood still for a while and thought about this story that Jawa tells whenever he gets the chance. The anthem of the remaining water droplets scurrying off of the leaves and falling to the floor sounded in my ears. How was I going to leave my mark? Eventually, I turned left on the sidewalk, heading towards the subway station, straying away from all previous plans and all previous paths. When I had made my way down into the dingy station, I came to a stop near the wall and pulled out my phone to dial my aunt, Gigi. It rang three times before she picked it up.

“Hi, Levi!” she shouted, “How are you today?”

“Hi, Auntie,” I said, less enthusiastically, “I’m alright.” There was a pause because Gigi doesn’t know what to do when people don’t reciprocate her enthusiasm. I would normally be just as happy to talk to her as she was to me, but today I just wasn’t feeling it. I broke the silence and asked, “Are you at work?”

“Um, yeah, why do you ask?” She was typing something out on her computer as she talked.

“Can I go to your house for a little while? I want to talk to Jawa.” She stopped typing when I said this, focusing entirely on me. The lights in the station flickered a little. The world went ghost-quiet, just for a split second. 

“I mean… yeah, of course. You ok?” 

I replied, “Yeah, yeah I’m fine. It’s just been a while.” 

“Right. You got your key?”

“Yep.”

“Alright. See you later.”

“See ya.”  

I didn’t feel like texting my parents and telling them where I was going (they would ask too many questions). When I got down to the platform, I sat on a bench and passed the time by sketching more half-hearted ghosts on a scrap of paper. I was thinking of nothing, which was nice because I rarely get the chance to do that. But this nothingness went away with the whip of wind that came by with the train. As I rose out of my seat and onto the train, I was reminded of how much I dislike the subway. Everyone on the subway is burdened by where they need to be, except for a few who don’t have a place to go. We’re all swallowed in darkness, making it seem like we’ll never see the light again. Plus, it often smells like old cheese and burning garbage, which doesn’t help either. Luckily, Gigi’s house is just two stops away. 

Gigi’s house is the coffee-colored one at the end of the street. It used to be a fire station, so it has a big pole running through the middle of it. She thought it would be fun to keep for her nieces and nephews to play on. Unfortunately, most of us are afraid of heights, including me. 

I came to the corner and unlocked the door with the clack of a rusted keyhole. I entered the building and climbed up the steps towards the top. The draftiness and the sunshine flooded from all different areas, creating an eerie mix of temperature. Nevertheless, I love Gigi’s house. It always smells of its sun-soaked pine floors and basmati rice. 

As I reached the top floor, I saw Jawa for the first time in a long time. There he was, upon the mantelpiece stored away in a shiny silver urn. I constantly avoid going to the top floor when we come to Gigi’s house for dinner, just in fear of seeing him. Seeing him without a smile and a pleasant greeting. Seeing him lifeless. But I had to confront him because I could feel how much I missed him in my bones, and this was all I had. 

So, I closed my eyes, leaned against the mantelpiece, and forced myself to talk: “Hi, Jawa. I know it’s been a while. A long while. And I’m sorry I haven’t come and visited sooner. The family wanted me to, but it’s just that talking to you without you responding is difficult. It’s mainly because I know you’re still here. I just know it, in my gut. But it makes me really mad that you can’t respond.” My voice was breaking a little bit. I felt this sour lump of sadness swelling in my throat. “And I kind of really need a response right now. There’s so much that I need to do. And if you would just respond, you would bring me to do it. You always knew what was right for me.” I paused and opened my eyes, looking up at the urn. “But I know that you can’t give me a response. And I know that I have to do things on my own now.” 

That was when my eyes, blurred with tears, happened to notice something in the reflection of the urn. Gigi kept it so well polished that I could see the brick wall on the roof of the 7-11 across the street. I crouched down by the window, fixating my eyes on the wall. Jawa and his friends, always putting memories behind walls. I wiped away the tears and looked back at the urn. With a smile, I quickly ran into the kitchen and found a ziplock bag. I hurried back to the urn and opened it up. There was already a trowel inside, so I carefully scooped up a bit of his ashes into the bag. I closed the bag, then the urn, and headed straight for the pole, leaving my bag on the upstairs floor. I didn’t care how afraid of heights I was; I spiraled through the air on that pole, all the way down to the first floor. It was like I was afraid the brick wall might be gone in a matter of minutes or something. 

I dashed out the door and across the street and was about to head into the 7-11 when I realized that it’s kind of odd to go into a convenience store with a bag of your grandfather’s ashes in hand. So, I pocketed the bag and opened the door. I was relieved to find that Bayani, a long-time friend of Gigi’s, was working that day.

“Hi, Baya!” I shouted, running past the countertop. He looked startled.

“Hey, Levi, how are you?”

“I’m great. Do-ya-mind-if-I-go-up-to-the-roof-for-a-minute?” I asked the question as if it was one word and didn’t give him the chance to respond. “Thank you!” I called, rushing towards the stockroom.

As I climbed up the first step, I could hear him in the background saying, “You’re welcome?” I made it to the top and climbed through the bulkhead door. The sunlight was immense compared to the fragments from earlier in the day. It washed the red tear imprints right off of my face and it guided me towards the wall. I ran my fingers along the bricks, trying to find a loose one. There was one that shook a little bit to the left as I ran my hand across it. I pulled it out and was about to place the bag of ashes inside when I noticed something. I dropped the brick on the floor at the sight of it. I guess Jawa had already found this wall because there was already something behind the brick. It was two pieces of paper. I pulled out one, in awe, and read it aloud to myself:

I moved to this city out of spontaneity. I knew I wanted to get out of India and that my parents wanted that for me as well. So, my father found me a map of the U.S. at a small souvenir shop in the heart of Delhi. We hung it up against our wall, and I threw a dart at it. It was the luckiest shot in the world, landing right on New York City. So, I went. I got a scholarship to go to Columbia University and met some of the best friends I’ve ever had. Although, I try not to tell them that because their heads are big enough as it is. On this map that my father gave to me, my friends and I have marked all the places in the U.S where we have left treasures like this one. I miss India, but I made enough money in the three years after graduation to get my parents and brother settled in Brooklyn. As I sit on this rooftop, I am reminded of the fact that spontaneity saved my life. A lot of it was hard work and dedication, but it all spawned off of the spontaneity of throwing a dart at a map. So if someone finds this someday, I would like to remind them to bring spontaneity into their lives. You never know where you might end up.

— Jawahar Kadakia

This was it. This was the response Jawa had given me. As my eyes traveled back and forth from the map to the note, everything was clearer. This treasure that he had left was timeless. Jawa’s legacy is timeless. Our family is timeless. I am timeless.

And that’s when I heard a familiar voice. The door of the 7-11 opened below me. I looked downwards at who was entering. There was Malaika, talking to her mom on the phone. Suddenly, I had the best idea. Or the worst idea. I would only know if I went for it. 

I pocketed the map and note and placed the ziplock bag of ashes behind the wall. I slid the brick back in and pressed my forehead against the wall for just a moment. Then, I slipped back through the bulkhead door, into the darkness of the steps. I practically fell down them, back into the 7-11. I hurried along the rubbery floors in search of her and my feet skidded as I came to a halt in front of the Twinkies aisle. There she was, choosing between strawberry and chocolate peanut butter Twinkies. I tried my best to center myself and calmly walked over to her. 

“I would suggest the strawberry,” I said, pointing to the box to her left. She laughed a little.

“Nice,” she said, picking one up. “We have social studies together, right?” I nodded. She continued, “I’m Malaika.”

“Levi,” I said, shaking her hand. I was smiling really obviously, which would’ve been weird if she wasn’t too. “This might weird you out, but can I ask you something sort of spontaneous and probably really impulsive?”

“Go for it,” she replied.

“Over the summer, I’m planning to go on this road trip. You see, my grandfather left this treasure map, and I’m supposed to go to each location and find the stuff he left there.” I unfolded the map and handed it to her. She ran her eyes over it a few times before saying:

“Wow. You must have a pretty cool grandfather.”

“Yeah, I did.” She smiled and handed it back to me.

“Now here’s the weird part,” I said, “How would you feel if I asked you to come with me?” Her jaw practically dropped to the floor. This felt like the perfect example of an awkward silence.

I rambled on, “It’s totally fine if you don’t want to, I just thought I should ask somebody, and y’know you were the first person I saw so–”

“I’ll do it,” she said, cutting me off. 

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah,” she smiled, “Come. Let’s talk.” And with that, I was no longer a half-hearted ghost, lost in a pensive silence.


Sketches

The empty grey walls and glaring fluorescent lights seemed to soak up time as it passed, slowing down the world. At the front of the room, the teacher clicked through a presentation about the parts of a cell. In the farthest row of desks from the front, a student sat, blatantly ignoring the “take notes” portion of the slide. 

Instead of a long paragraph about the lesson, the page was filled with a series of sketches. The desk next to him began to move steadily closer, and with very little subtlety. 

“What’cha drawing, Fin?” asked the occupant of the desk, trying to get a look at the notebook. 

“Nothing, Roman,” replied Fin, refusing to even look up at the other boy. 

“Come on,” groaned Roman loudly. Fin sighed and held up the notebook. The page was filled with a few drawings. The largest one was of the teacher, Mr. Stuart, and his mind-numbing presentation. 

“You’d better be taking notes!” yelled Mr. Stuart. For a moment, it seemed as though he might begin a lecture about the importance of notes, but then he noticed the time and continued with his slides. “Don’t blame me when you fail the test,” he muttered before beginning again. 

“Why don’t you ever draw anything cool?” asked Roman, dropping back into his seat, somewhat dejected. Fin didn’t even give it a response. 

“Remember, homework is due tomorrow!” screamed Mr. Stuart, finally closing down his computer. Even the blank whiteboard was more interesting and educational than whatever Mr. Stuart crammed into his presentations. 

Then it happened. It finally happened. The blaring, harsh sound of the bell. Fin gently placed his notebook into his open backpack and slung it onto his shoulders. Even though he was in the back of the room, he crossed it and reached the door with incredible speed and ducked out into the hallway. He sprinted down the hall as other students began to file out of their rooms. Fin knew he only had a few moments before everything in the hall was packed with people. He leapt toward his locker, preparing to wait out the crowd. Fin quickly opened the door and stuffed his textbook into the small space. He glanced over his shoulder, checking if he could get out. The main door was completely clogged with students, pushing each other trying to get through the surprisingly narrow door. Fin glanced over at the side door, which was empty. He got up and ran to it. 

Fin stepped out into the cool, fresh air. The sky was filled with clouds and looked like it was going to rain again. The smell of the morning’s rain still hung over everything. It seemed as though it was always raining. 

Fin walked with purpose, expertly navigating through groups of students toward his destination. He walked past several courtyards, flanked by massive buildings. Finally, he passed by the last one and walked behind it. Behind the row of classrooms was a fairly large area. It was covered with grass but had several low walls for seating. It was protected by the shade of the neighboring building and a dense canopy of trees. 

“Hey Fin,” exclaimed a voice. One other person was already relaxing on the benches. Fin tossed his backpack down on the ground next to a spot of wall and sat down. 

“Hey, Cooper,” replied Fin. “How was English?” he asked sarcastically. Cooper laughed. 

“Obviously terrible,” he said, walking over. “How about science?” Fin shook his head sadly. 

“Mr. Stuart tried his hand at a slideshow again,” stated Fin. Cooper placed his hand on Fin’s shoulder.

“I’m truly sorry that happened,” replied Cooper.

“Yeah, hasn’t he figured out technology isn’t his strong suit?” asked a newcomer. They both turned to look. 

“Hey Alex,” said Fin. Alex nodded and walked over. She sat down across from them. “It does seem problematic that the science teacher can barely use a computer.” 

“None of them can use a computer, have you seen Ms. Philips try to send an email?” laughed Alex. “Oh, Fin, you have a sub in English today.”

“Is he any good?” asked Fin. Alex nodded. 

“Yeah. First time that’s ever happened.” She laughed. “He actually understands what he’s teaching, unlike the real teachers.” 

“Hey, where’s Huge?” asked Cooper, interjecting. Alex and Fin looked around, surprised he wasn’t there. 

“Maybe the lunch line is longer than usual?” suggested Fin. 

“Or he had to stay after class,” added Alex. Cooper nodded. After some time, Huge finally did arrive. 

“Stupid lines,” he muttered, taking a seat. “It takes forever to get any food!” The others nodded. “Even on a good day, you don’t have enough time to-” Huge was cut off by the bell. He groaned loudly. 

“See you guys tomorrow,” said Alex, pulling on her backpack. 

“Bye,” replied Cooper, packing up his own bag. They hurried off. Huge begrudgingly placed his lunch in his pack and walked off, still muttering angrily. Fin was the last to leave, and he walked slowly. He was mostly contemplating what to draw in fifth period, but also this substitute teacher who somehow knew what he was talking about. It sounded a little far-fetched, but Alex was never one to exaggerate. 

He strolled down the small hill and yanked open the door to his class. It was about half-full. The teacher was nowhere to be found. Fin sat down in a seat near the back of the room and pulled out his notebook. Students filtered in and took their seats slowly. Once everyone was seated, the teacher appeared. 

The teacher wore a bright, almost lime green dress shirt and a shiny black bow tie. A few students laughed under their breath at his burgundy suit. 

“I am Mr. G,” he said. Instantly, a dozen hands shot up with the same question. Mr. G pointed to one student. 

“What does the G stand for?” she asked. Mr. G sighed.

“Germaine,” he said. A few more snickering laughs could be heard across the room. Mr. Germaine ignored them and began his lesson. He pushed the button, turning on the projector. Loud groans of despair echoed across the room — a slideshow was beginning. Everyone gasped in shock as the first slide appeared. It was well-organized, had pictures, and real information! No one knew how to react to this. The pictures appeared to have been hand-drawn as well. All the students were confused. 

Although impressed, Fin continued to sketch instead of paying attention. The grey lines of his pencil began to form something. It started to take shape into a room with two windows. Then a hardwood table. Chairs. Decorations and food, with incredible detail appearing all over the page. 

Fin looked down at it and nodded with satisfaction and flipped the page. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. Fin decided he had just enough time for another drawing. He didn’t plan this one. He let his hand and the lead create. They created first a rough sketch. Detail slowly crawled into the drawing and the outline quickly became a distinct depiction of a person. It was from behind, preventing the person’s face from being seen. Mr. Germaine took notice of Fin not paying attention and walked over to him. Fin nervously ripped the page of his notebook and stuffed it hastily into his pocket. He flipped to a blank page and swiftly covered it with words somewhat resembling notes. 

Mr. Germaine looked down at Fin, busily scribbling his attempt at notes. Mr. Germaine saw through Fin right away but walked past him anyway. Instead, he grabbed a crumpled piece of paper off the floor and returned to his place at the front of the room. Fin realized there wasn’t enough time for anything else so he turned eyes toward the lesson. He would finish the sketch the next day. 

Again the shrill sound of the bell rang out and the halls were packed. Fin forced his way through toward his next class. It was the only one he was remotely interested in. Fin’s last class of the day, was art class. Unfortunately, his teacher insisted on only using paints. The teacher referred to pencils as “only for tests,” a statement Fin fervently disagreed with. He never used color in any of his drawing, a style the teacher simply couldn’t accept. Fin also preferred a more natural way of drawing, another reason for conflict with art teacher. “Art requires rigid structure!” Fin remembered being told on many occasions. He didn’t, couldn’t understand how anyone could think that. 

Fin forced his hand to cover the canvas in color, first in blue, then red. The teacher always marched around the room while they painted, offering entirely unhelpful criticisms. 

“I see you are finally applying yourself to real art,” the teacher declared, passing by Fin’s desk. Fin suppressed a laugh as he looked at the random pattern of color in front of him.

“Whatever you say,” he muttered once the teacher was safely out of earshot. Fin continued to ‘enhance’ his painting as the clock ticked away, far too slow. At long last, the class ended and Fin sprinted out the door. 

He hurried out the gate and set off toward his house. Fin walked calmly down the grey sidewalk. His eyes swept across the familiar scene. Houses lined the street on both sides. He could describe them from memory. Fin decided to try.

“First the two-story blue, one-story red,” he continued all the way up the street without even opening his eyes. He must’ve walked this route a thousand times. But just because it was familiar didn’t make it boring. Fin found comfort in the same walk, day after day. The routine grounded him. 

The walk wasn’t long and Fin soon found himself at his own front door. It was painted a crisp white. Fin fumbled for the key and inserted it into the lock. 

“Hello!” he shouted, stepping inside. There was no response. Fin glanced out into the driveway and noticed no car. He walked inside and dropped his backpack on the floor. 

Fin dragged the bag up the stairs and tossed it into his room. The room, like the rest of the house, was mostly some shade of blue. The walls were a light, cheerful blue, the ceiling a darker, calm navy. Fin sat down at his desk and his reached into his pocket for the sketch he had started earlier. 

Fin’s eyes widened in surprise as he found his pocket was empty. He quickly searched his other pocket. Then those of his jacket. Finding nothing, he dropped to his knees and ripped his backpack apart in search of the paper. All his looking turned up no results. Fin slumped back down into his chair. 

He wondered why he was so concerned about this sketch. After all, he had lost drawings before. Fin grabbed a new sheet of paper and started to draw. He tried to make his hands recreate the simple elegance of the previous drawing. The attempt failed dramatically. The lines became jagged and hard. Fin angrily forced the paper into a ball and tried one more time. This too, was unable to replicate the initial artwork. 

Fin gave up, tossing both crumpled papers into the trash. He stood up and walked down the stairs. He paced back and forth a few times in the hallway, lost in thought. Eventually he made his way into the kitchen and searched for something to eat. Fin hastily slapped a sandwich together and carried it back up to his room. 

The sandwich dropped onto his desk as Fin sat down again. He stared down at the sandwich. It was made of white bread, and filled with ham and cheese. Fin’s hand grabbed his notebook and he flipped to a new page. Filled with boredom, he began to sketch the square lines that made up the sandwich. Quickly, the lines turned from a square into a perfect likeness of bread. In between, the thinly sliced meat was just larger that the bread, exposing its edges. 

Fin glanced down at the completed drawing with a contented look in his eye. He pushed the notebook to the side and slide the sandwich toward him, taking a large bite. A few moments later, the sandwich had vanished. Fin felt much better after eating. 

“I’ll find it tomorrow,” he decided. Fin rolled his desk chair over to the window and gazed out. The last traces of sunlight vanished before his eyes. Far in the distance, the bottoms of clouds were lit up in a brilliant gold, a final farewell from the sun as it passed to night. Fin dropped the blinds he was holding up and turned on his cell phone. 

The sudden flash was blinding after the calm dusk outside. Fin looked down at the three numbers at the top of the screen. Six forty-two. Fin stared at the number. The screen stared back like a flashlight. Twenty more minutes, thought Fin, clicking the button to put the phone back to sleep. Fin was not excited for the twenty minutes to end. He wished they would pass as slow as the minutes did at school. Instead, they seemed to fly by. After what seemed like only a few seconds, a new light appeared outside. Fin peaked out the window, hoping. 

In the driveway, his father’s car had just pulled to a halt. Its headlights were still illuminating the garage door with shaky beams. The vehicle was incredibly old. Not old in the cool, vintage sense. Old as in old. The engine churned loudly and the paint was not in good condition. The door creaked open and then closed with a metallic clang. A figure walked up to the door and stepped inside. 

“Finley?” a voice called out from downstairs. Fin got up and walked down the stairs. He was greeted by a tall man with a long, light brown overcoat. He pulled the overcoat off and hung it carefully in a hall closet. Underneath, he wore a light grey suit and blue tie. An orange pocket square added a much-needed splash of color.

“Yeah, Dad?” asked Fin, stepping off the stairs. His father looked at him and gestured for him to follow. Fin followed him into the kitchen. His father had removed his suit coat and hung it on a chair. 

“How was school?” he asked, walking over to the fridge. Fin took a seat across from the coat. 

“Good,” he replied. Fin hated talking about his day. Nothing eventful had happened and, if it had, it would be too hard to explain. 

“Good.” Fin’s father stood up and placed a carton of eggs on the counter. Fin looked at it, confused. 

“Eggs,” he asked. His father nodded. “For dinner.” His father nodded again. 

“Son, there is never, and I mean never, a wrong time to eat breakfast food,” stated his father. The look on Fin’s face disagreed. His father tossed the eggs into a pan and put bread in the toaster. Fin shook his head, at a loss for words. 

Once everything was cooking, his father grabbed his own cell phone. A moment later, the sound of violins and cellos erupted from the speakers and filled the room. His father quickly scrambled the eggs and dropped them onto a plate. Seconds later, the sound of toast popping up from the heat interrupted the classical music. 

His father happily hummed along to the music as he assembled the dinner/breakfast. He placed a plate in front of Fin, heaped with eggs and toast. Fin looked at it skeptically. Fin’s father sat down across from him, with his own large plate. 

“So, draw anything today?” he asked. Fin nodded. “Can I see it?” 

“I lost it,” replied Fin. 

“Too bad. I hope you have something by the time I get back next weekend,” his father stated. 

“Yeah, where are you going again?” asked Fin. 

“San Francisco, for work,” he replied. “I wish I wasn’t, but not my call.” His father sighed loudly. 

“This is actually pretty good,” said Fin, staring, shocked, at his eggs. 

“Of course it is, it’s breakfast. Well, I’d better get some sleep before the flight tomorrow. Good night, Finley,” his father said, standing up and carrying his plate to the sink. 

“Night,” replied Fin. His father paused the song and walked out of the kitchen. Fin remained for a while longer, slowly eating his dinner/breakfast. As Fin finished, the house was silent. He glanced at the time again. It was almost eight as he heard the sound of another car outside. 

Fin was in the kitchen, washing his plate when the door opened and his mother walked in. 

“Hey,” he said. 

“Hi, Finley,” she replied, placing her computer bag on the counter. She too wore a long, heavy overcoat. It could easily be mistaken for pure black, but in the light, the shades of green revealed themselves. “How was school?” 

“Good,” Fin replied, in the same disinterested tone as when his father asked. He began making his way toward the stairs.

“Where’s Jerome?” she asked. Fin gestured with his head toward the stairs.

“Dad went to bed,” he replied, walking up the stairs himself. Fin hurried up and into his room. He couldn’t tell if he was tired, or fully awake. He sat down and thought for some time. He quickly decided that he did feel tired and, a few minutes later, was peacefully dreaming in the calm darkness.

***

Fin awoke to find the sun just beginning to rise. He quickly turned off his alarm, which would have gone off any minute. He struggled out of bed and got dressed. Fin made his way down to the kitchen and poured some milk into a bowl of cereal. He sat quietly eating it and staring at the clock. He finished just in time to grab his backpack and run out the door. 

“Bye!” he shouted, slamming the door behind him. Fin had no time to savor the walk this morning. He ran down the sidewalk as fast as he could. He just managed to slide into his desk as the bell rang. 

“Today we will be continuing our study of the Roman conquest of Gaul!” shouted Ms. Stevens, the history teacher. Fin sighed quietly and began to doodle a few Roman soldiers into his notebook. Although a little rushed, the small warriors were covered in intricate detail. Each of their faces, full of expression. Each of their shields, reflecting the sun. Fin continued to elaborate on the small drawing as the lecture dragged on. He added a few Gallic fighters on the opposite side of the page. Then some forests and woodland. By the end of the class, the entire page was covered in a vast battle among the densely packed trees. 

Fin was forced to pay attention to his math lesson. He couldn’t think of anything to put down on the page. He waited patiently for inspiration as the teacher went on and on about trigonometric functions and their vast importance to everyday life. Finally, the bell rang again and Fin hurried out to where his friends gathered. 

Alex and Cooper were deep in conversation when he arrived. Huge was also there, with food. 

“Short lines today?” Fin asked. Huge laughed and shook his head. 

“No such thing as a short line. I decided to bring food today,” he replied, taking a large bite out of his sandwich. 

“There has to be a way to shorten the lines,” Fin muttered, trying to think of one himself. Huge laughed even louder.

“They try something every year, but it never works. Remember last year, they tried opening a second cafeteria. They both just had giant lines!” declared Huge. “There’s just no way around it.” 

“Plus, the garbage they sell doesn’t even taste good,” added Fin. Huge nodded his agreement. 

“Of course it doesn’t taste good. If it did, the lines would be even longer!” shouted Huge. He was very passionate about lunch lines. 

The short break ended all too quickly and Fin and the others headed off to third period. For Fin, that meant Spanish. Spanish was one of the only classes he enjoyed. Learning a language was fun, even if he wasn’t any good at it. It was the one part of the day that passed too quickly. He wished he could stay there instead of heading off to learn about something boring about biology. 

Fin sat through science, still lacking in inspiration. Tragically, he actually learned something human cells. Strangely, this class also seemed to slip by quickly. 

Even lunch vanished in what seemed like seconds, and Fin found himself once again sitting in his English class. At the front of the room, Mr. Germaine prepared for class. He had replaced yesterday’s outfit with a bright blue suit, purple shirt, and solid red bow tie. 

Another of Mr. Germaine’s flawless slideshows occupied the entirety of the class period. As Fin got up to leave, the teacher was suddenly next to his desk. 

“Finley, stay after class,” Mr. Germaine said. Fin finished packing up his stuff and, as everyone left, walked up to the teacher.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. Mr. Germaine reached into a drawer in his desk and withdrew a piece of paper.

“Nothing’s wrong. Just wondering, is this yours?” asked Mr. Germaine. He unfolded the paper, revealing Fin’s sketch from the day before. 

“Of course not, I would never-” Fin began to protest but Mr. Germaine held up his hand. 

“You aren’t in trouble, in fact, quite the opposite. This drawing is incredible,” stated Mr. Germaine. “It’s some of the best art I’ve ever seen, and my sister owns a gallery.” 

“Really?” asked Fin, surprised. 

“Yeah, I’d like to show it to her if that’s alright, try and get it into the gallery.” added Mr. Germaine. 

“Really?” asked Fin again, even more surprised. Mr. Germaine nodded. “Awesome.”

“You should go though, you’ll be late for your next class,” said Mr. Germaine, pointing at the clock. Fin saw the time and sprinted out. 

As he sat in art class, painting some disgusting colors, he couldn’t take his mind off what had just happened. His art might actually be in a gallery! He walked a little in shock, and couldn’t care less when his art teacher called painting “uninspired” and “boring.” 

Fin raced home after school. As he walked, he stared down at his phone. He quickly typed, “Might get my art into a gallery!!!!!” and sent it into their group’s text chain. Fin got home sat in his room, just thinking. Thinking about what it would be like to get his art into a gallery. About what it would be like to be an artist. A loud buzz broke his daydreaming. “Nice,” Huge had replied. Sometime later, an “Awesome” was received from both Cooper and Alex. 

Fin went to sleep contented and excited for tomorrow. The next day’s classes lasted for the blink of an eye until, once again, he was in English. Fin arrived early to talk to Mr. Germaine, who was waiting for him.

“Ok, so, she loved the drawing but… there were a few problems,” said Mr. Germaine as Fin approached.

“What happened?” he asked, concerned. 

“For one thing, it’s pretty small. Also, it’s on notebook paper,” stated Mr. Germaine. Fin groaned, he hadn’t thought of that. “If you can recreate it, or something close, on better paper, you’re in. Obviously not during my class but… whenever.” 

Fin was completely lost in thought during art class. He never even started painting. Fin made a quick smudge on the canvas as the teacher walked past, but other than that, he was completely disengaged. 

Once again, he sprinted home and searched for some better paper. He could find only one sheet. One chance. He set the paper on his desk and sharpened his best pencil. 

Fin decided he needed to practice first. He grabbed his notebook and pictured that first sketch in his mind. He started to draw. Fin looked down in dismay. The hard lines didn’t even approximate a person. It was a disaster. Fin tried again. Then again. Time after time, the copies fell apart before his eyes. None of them looked at all like the original. Angrily, Fin ripped the papers apart, tossing the tattered scraps into the trash. He took a long, deep breath and grabbed his sheet of paper. This was it. He put the pencil to the page and gave his hand control.

Slowly, the first lines molded long, flowing hair. Then a tiny corner of face. Then a neck and shoulders. Finally, a body appeared and they drawing came together. Gradually, Fin added depth and shadow. It turned from a drawing into a person. He took a step back looking at the finished drawing. It was perfect, yet nothing like the original. Its differences only made it better. 

Fin gently rolled the paper up and wrapped two rubber bands around to hold it in place. Then he set it down by the door, ready for tomorrow. Fin checked the clock and was stunned. He hadn’t realized just how long he had working on the drawings. The clock displayed twelve fifty-two. 

He lay awake, bubbling with excitement, for quite some time. After what could have been an hour, he slipped into dreams about the future. These dreams carried him peacefully till morning. 

Fin could barely stay in his seat the next day. Not a single word said by a teacher stuck in his mind. It was filled with thoughts about his drawing. The classes barely registered in Fin’s mind as they flew past. He couldn’t wait to show Mr. Germaine the drawing. 

He sprinted into the room the moment the bell rang for class. He ran up and rolled the drawing out onto Mr. Germaine’s desk. Mr. Germaine picked it up and looked at it. 

“This is magnificent!” exclaimed Mr. Germaine. “I’m glad you didn’t try to copy the original, this is much better.” Fin laughed a little ruefully, remembering the numerous attempts to do just that.  

“Thank you,” he replied. Mr. Germaine rolled it back up and placed it next to his desk. 

“I’ll take this over after school,” he said. Fin nodded and walked back to his seat. He couldn’t believe this was really happening. His art might hang in a gallery. 

As the class began, Fin began to absently doodle on in his notebook. The seemingly random lines came together and an image appeared. It was a clean, plain, white wall. Hanging on this wall was a rectangular object. On it was a drawing just like the one Fin had given to Mr. Germaine. Fin scribbled a few people around it. Two, both in suits, appeared to be discussing the drawing. Another person was simply marvelling at it in the corner. Fin continued the drawing onto the next page during his next classes. He added more wall and some of his other sketches. Soon, an entire room was covered in his artwork. It was packed with people of all kinds. Some seemed like wealthy collectors. Others were just normal people. The thing they all had in common was their fascinated gaze as they stared at Fin’s drawings. 

Fin spent the next day searching for inspiration for his next gallery-worthy drawing. It wasn’t easy. He was still thinking when he entered Mr. Germaine’s class once again. 

“Good news!” exclaimed Mr. Germaine, walking up to Fin’s desk. Fin looked up in surprise and excitement. “It’s in! It will be hanging tomorrow. Come by sometime in the evening,” said Mr. Germaine, handing Fin a business card for the gallery. It was covered in color and the words were printed over it in black ink. A large, intricate compass was located in the bottom left corner. 

“The Compass,” Fin muttered, reading the words on the card. “By Claudia Germaine.” Beneath the names was a phone number and address. Fin placed the business card in his pocket and, once he got home, typed the name into his computer. He wanted to see what this gallery was like, and what sort of other art it had. 

It had a rustic front and large windows. Its name was in large gold letters. On the website, a large banner heralded the arrival of a new piece in the evening the next day. 

Fin grabbed his phone and sent a message inviting his friends to go with him to the gallery. Within only a few minutes, everyone was in. Fin could barely contain his excitement. 

Fin received hearty congratulations from each of his friends and, later that day, Mr. Germaine. Fin waited at the front gate of the school for his friends to arrive. They came slowly because Alex had to cross the entire campus. 

“How are we going to get there? This address is downtown,” asked Alex. Fin had already thought of this.

“My mom’s gonna take us,” he said, leading the way toward his house. Fin walked with purpose, not engaging the chatter and jokes of the others. 

“Hey, so what’s your drawing of?” asked Cooper as they piled into the car. They could just barely fit. 

“You’ll see,” replied Fin, not wanting to spoil anything. The ride was loud and fun, but also shorter than expected. No traffic blocked the streets and tied up hours of everyone’s time. Fin savored the moment as he climbed out of the car and looked at the gallery. It looked just like the picture. Giant windows and a long, elegant entrance. Fin took a deep breath and pulled the door open. 

It was not all what he expected inside. It didn’t have stainless white walls and fancy people. The walls were a charming exposed brick. Two glass cases with eighteenth century antiques greeted him as he entered. Inside, the gallery didn’t appear to have any sort of theme. Something that looked like a medieval tapestry was next to a piece of modern art. A stained glass chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting confusing, colorful shadows across the room. The building was supposed to be two stories but, instead, the first floor just continued all the way up. A wooden set of stairs and balconies allowed access to the art located higher up on the walls. As he approached, Fin noticed that the simple structure, that seemed to be made mostly of plywood, had a tiny flower carved into each step. The flower on each step was completely unique. 

“You must be Finley!” exclaimed a voice from the back of the room. The voice, and its owner, were like the gallery — not what Fin had expected, but somehow exactly what it should be. The speaker, Claudia, stepped out from behind a desk in the back. Claudia wore glasses the shape of water droplets that were tinted blue. She wore compass earrings made of some sort of crystal. Her dress was painted perfectly and looked just like a sunrise. “It’s so good to meet you!” she added, extending her hand to each of them. 

“Nice to meet you too,” said Fin. He was full of questions about the gallery, but his first was stolen by Alex.

“Why is it called The Compass?” she asked. Claudia smiled.

“Because art helps you navigate the world, just like a compass,” she replied. “Please excuse me for a moment, I have to finish setting up your drawing. But feel free to take a look around, there are some fascinating pieces in here.” Claudia began to climb up the nearest staircase and ascend to the highest level. The four spread out to different corners of the gallery, inspecting the artwork. 

Fin headed towards a pencil drawing similar to something he might draw. It was nothing like his, however. Fin’s drawing was like a photograph in its realism. This was only straight, hard lines and didn’t look much like anything. Even so, you could tell exactly what it was. Where Fin’s drawing was realistic, this drawing seemed like a pile of cubes. But they were both equally recognizable as their subjects, they were both a human. 

Alex found herself in front of the tapestry. It was clearly handmade. Instead of depicting the sort of thing tapestries did, namely knights and battles, it had been woven into a tank and other modern weapons of war. 

Cooper walked up to a row of statues. Each was carved out of marble and was in Roman and Greek style, yet they didn’t show some ancient god or hero. Instead of ancient characters, the statues showed people of history who had been enshrined into American mythology. 

Huge was the only one to climb the stairs and investigate the art high up on the cavernous walls. He came upon a canvas. The background was painted a light, sky blue. Small, puffy clouds dotted the painting. In the center was an airplane, but it was no ordinary airplane. Where the long, rigid wings of an airplane should have been, a pair of soft, light, feather-covered wings were attached. Huge raised an eyebrow, not sure what to make of this. 

“It’s ready!” shouted Claudia from the top of the stairs. All four of them rushed up and climbed up the spiralling stairs until they reached her at the top. They passed by even stranger piece of artwork, but had no time to stop. They ran up and saw Fin’s drawing was positioned at the very top. From the top balcony rose up toward the ceiling. At the point where the straight wall became the diagonal ceiling, Fin’s drawing sat. The small staircase led directly to it. “What do you think?” asked Claudia. 

“It’s… It’s…” Fin stammered. “It’s perfect!” Claudia smiled. Fin stood there for a moment and when he finally descended, found himself in a dreamlike state. Nothing felt quite real, and everything was fuzzy. 

“Goodbye!” yelled Claudia as the four left.

Fin stepped out onto the sidewalk, followed by his friends. The sun was low and the air was growing colder by the second. Fin set a quick pace for them as they walked towards the car. It was cold now, and they all regretted not bringing jackets. Fin couldn’t stop smiling. He radiated joy and excitement. It still hadn’t fully sunk in that his art was in a real gallery. He turned around and glanced back at the open doors of the gallery. A crowd was gathering outside. Gathering to see something he had created. 


Adeline

Chapter One: A Vision

Sometimes, Adeline wished she could die.

She contemplated this often, wondering how or when it would finally happen. Now, she wasn’t about to take her own life, having been raised with the idea that it was immoral and she’d plummet straight to hell immediately. She just wished that it would happen naturally or someone would finally take notice of her anguish and pierce an arrow straight through her heart. 

She was thinking about this one day as she sat by the windowsill holding a thick, worn out book in her hands. She had read this book a hundred times before and now only held it for its comfort and security. The sound of children’s laughter and shouts filled her ears as she gazed out the window. She had never before laughed as those children did almost daily. 

Her thoughts were interrupted when an angry-looking woman entered the room. Her red, burnt skin was peeling, her tangled hair was nested on top of her head, and smoke was practically fuming from both her nose and ears. Her bloodshot eyes found Adeline, and she opened her mouth, revealing a set of yellow, rotting teeth. 

“Adeline! You good-for-nothing scum! What are you doing sitting around, you lazy pig? The stairs need to be washed and the toilets need to be scrubbed! Come on, get up and get to work!” 

Adeline was used to her shrill screeches and only sighed and replaced her book with a bucket of water and soap. She went out to the stairs and began to scrub. She had almost completed this task when a pair of muddy girls ran up the stairs, the mud on their boots erasing Adeline’s hours of hard work. 

“BEATRICE! THERESA! WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT RUNNING UP THE STAIRS WITH YOUR BOOTS ON?” Adeline called up to the girls.

The 4 and 6 year-old girls sheepishly walked out of their room, each trying to cower behind the other. 

“We’re sorry, Addy,” Beatrice said softly. “We just forgot.”

Theresa, being the older one, tried to take most of the responsibility. “It’s my fault, Addy, I made her too excited.”

Adeline only sighed and gave them a reassuring smile. “It’s all right, girls, just try not to do it again. Now go take those boots off before Madame Lestrange catches you.” 

The girls gave her wide, toothless grins and rushed off to their room. 

After Adeline finished her chores, Madame Lestrange walked up to her and shoved a brown basket and coins in her face. “Go buy me five loaves of bread. Hurry up, before all the good ones are sold. You either come back with good bread or don’t bother washing up for supper at all.”

Adeline only rolled her eyes and walked towards the market. 

She often enjoyed going to the market and greeting people. It was a very busy place, filled with different and exciting tastes and smells. She knew most of the vendors and they often sneakily gave her samples or extra loaves of bread. She went most days due to being sent by the orphanage. She lived in an orphanage called ‘Lestrange Home for Girls’ in a small town called Fauxburg. 

“Bonjour, Adeline!” The baker exclaimed when she walked into the bakery. 

“Bonjour, Monsieur Gavroche! Can I have five loaves of bread, please?” She handed him three bronze coins. 

“You got it!” He filled a bag with the five loaves of bread, along with a small, pink pastry for her. 

“Thank you, kind sir!” She waved her goodbye and was just about to exit the shop when a familiar aroma filled her nose. It was a sweet but sticky smell and had a resemblance to the cookies Madame Lestrange ‘secretly’ ate in her room. 

This was different, though. This was different because along with this smell came a vision. Adeline suddenly pictured something in her brain. It was a… woman. A woman with long, brown, wavy hair just like hers. Her eyes were a crystal blue and her teeth were perfectly white and straight. She held a small, brown book in her hands and seemed to be laughing about something. Freckles faintly dotted her face and her dimples creased as her smile widened. This woman was beautiful. Suddenly, the woman’s mouth shaped like an O and she ran to another room. She came back holding a tray of pink and white cookies and set them on the table. That’s where the vision ended.

Adeline had no idea who this woman was.

She spent the rest of the walk to the orphanage thinking about it. Surely, it must be a memory if it’s in my brain, she thought to herself. But how? I have no idea who this woman is. I’ve never seen her before in my life. Could it have been… my mother?

Truth be told, Adeline had no idea who her family was. Madame Lestrange told her she was left at the doorstep of the orphanage by a hooded woman when she was 18 months old. She never wondered what her parents were like or fantasized them coming back into her life. She decided a long time ago that it was a waste of time to think back on the people who had abandoned her and clearly didn’t want her in their lives. 

But still, this vision brought out her curiosity and she wondered if she had any more of these visions stored inside her brain. The woman seemed so free, so happy. So then why’d she give me away? 

She was brought back to reality when she opened the orphanage door only to see Madame Lestrange shouting at a very frightened Beatrice. 

“WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT HAVING THIS DOLL?” She held up a small and dirty doll that had very little hair and was missing an eye. 

“Y-you told me t-throw it a-away.” Beatrice whimpered. 

“That’s right! And what did you do? You held onto it! So now, it has to go into the flames!” She was about to toss the doll into the fireplace when a small, skinny hand grabbed her big, meaty arm. 

“DON’T BURN IT!” Adeline tugged at the doll and tried to pull it from the woman’s hands. “GIVE! IT! BACK!”

“Let go of me, you little wench!” Madame Lestrange flung Adeline to the floor and tossed the doll into the burning flames. “No supper for the both of you! Now go to your room and stay silent!”

Adeline carried Beatrice up the stairs as she sobbed into her shoulder. She laid her down in her bed and stroked her hair as she continued to weep. Theresa noticed what was going on and laid down next to Beatrice and cradled her in her arms.

“She… she b-burned Lally!” She cried. “She burned her!” 

“Shh, shh,” Addy whispered, “She’ll get what she deserves.”
She pulled out the pink cookie the baker gave her from her pocket and the little girls’ eyes widened. She pulled it apart and shared the pieces with the girls. 

“Don’t make any noise or you’ll wake everyone up.” She motioned towards the rest of the orphan girls sleeping in their little cots. 

Beatrice sniffled and finished the rest of her cookie piece. “Night, night Addy,” Both of the girls said. 

“Good night, Betty. Good night, Tessie.” 

Beatrice and Theresa fell asleep at once, their faces peaceful and innocent. Adeline, on the other hand, could not fall asleep. She lay awake all night thinking of a better life. An actual life. Her thoughts kept on coming back to the woman in her vision. Who are you? 

. . . 

One month later, Adeline sat against the windowsill and gazed at the laughing children once again. She was all alone now. Just a week ago, a loving and wonderful couple came to adopt children and fell in love with Beatrice and Theresa immediately. They were adopted and taken into their home. She looked down at the paper dolls they had given her as a farewell gift. Her heart ached, but she was glad the girls had a better future ahead of them. She didn’t cry. She never did. 

Her eyes tore away from the children and rested on the library right next door. Madame Lestrange was away at another town for some errands and wouldn’t be back until nightfall. She decided to go for it.

Five minutes later, she took a step into the quiet and cool library. It was empty, except for a man scribbling furiously behind a desk and the librarian putting a set of books in their places. She inhaled deeply and sighed. She loved the way books smelled. Old, but full of life.

Adeline loved to read. An old librarian, Monsieur Friar, had taught her how to read when she would sneak into the library as a little girl. Monsieur Friar had been like a father figure to her, but died of a stroke three years ago,

Madame Lestrange forbade them from reading, but Adeline secretly taught the girls in the orphanage how to read. They all loved to read and often gushed over how rebellious they felt doing it. Adeline would only laugh and flip the page of her book. Reading was precious to her. It sucked her out of her reality and took her to entirely different worlds. She battled with dragons, saved the princess, bested the knight, built a treehouse, etc. She felt free when she read. She felt alive and like a completely different person. She could pretend that she had a completely different life and was actually beautiful, unlike the raggedy orphan she was, with boring, long brown hair and terrifying grey eyes. She pretended she had beautiful ball gowns instead of the rags she actually wore. 

She walked down the long aisles filled with more books than she could ever count and gazed at them in wonder. She was walking through an old abandoned aisle when she saw a book from the corner of her eye. It looked brand-new and shiny, unlike the rest of the old and dusty books that filled up the library. It had strange, intricate designs on it, like vine branches intertwining and trying to beat each other to the top. She couldn’t help but open it and smell it. It smelled brand-new and fresh. She flipped the pages. This book was a factual one and contained the stories and facts of royal families from all over the world. Addy usually stayed away from nonfiction and factual books and would rather spend her time on fictional, adventurous books. A little disappointed, she was about to put the book back in its place when it flipped to a page and Addy stopped cold. 

It was the woman from her vision. 

She stared at the picture of the woman in her satin robes and the jeweled crown above her head. Same wavy hair. Same wide, lopsided smile. Same crystal blue eyes. 

Adeline gaped at it like a fish and scanned the page for more facts on this woman.

Queen Eponine of Northreign:

Queen Eponine was born in a small village in poverty and lived with her parents and 8 other siblings. When she was 15, Prince Arren stopped by her village and the two of them instantly fell in love. He took her to live with him in his palace at Northreign as his queen. The two continue to reign happily. There were rumours of a child, but nothing is known about their offspring. They keep to themselves when it comes to that matter. 

Adeline dropped the book and the echo resounded with a large thud. 

“SHH!” The librarian popped out of nowhere and put a finger to his lips. He was an old short man with a bald spot on his head and white hair puffed out on either side of it. His nose was sharp and pointy and his skin was wrinkly and spotted. He frowned at Adeline and shushed her once more.

“I’m sorry, Monsieur LeFray, pardon me.” Adeline hastily picked up the book.

“Quiet, girl, people are trying to focus.” He motioned towards the empty library. Not a single soul could be seen. 

“Uh, right. Sorry.” 

Monsieur LeFray began to walk away before he turned around and gave Addy a large smirk. “You know, Northreign is only miles west of here if you’re interested in going, Princess.” 

Adeline’s head snapped towards the man. “What?”

He winked at her and walked away.

“What? Hey! Wait!” She shoved the book into her sack and rushed to catch up with the man, but he was suddenly nowhere to be found. Abigail stared off into the direction he came from. An idea began to form inside her head. 


La Historia de Blaze y Rainstorm

“I don’t want to go!” Rainstorm whined. “Why do I have to go with you to the unknown?! I want to stay home!”

“Rainstorm, shut up and quit crying,” Blaze growled. “This rain is also quite annoying!”

My healing rain, Rainstorm thought in agony, trying to act right. It can heal any kind of wound I want it to.

Blaze led his adoptive brother away from their home. “Listen, Rainy, I’m sorry if I was a jerk in the past…”

“It’s fine,” Rainstorm growled. “I just really want to meet a friend! A true one!”

“I’m your friend,” Blaze murmured comfortingly.

Rainstorm began crying again. “You’re my adoptive brother!”

“Who says we can’t be friends?”

“I meant like a different friend.” Rainstorm walked away to calm himself down. He felt his special healing rain sink into his fur.

“Man!” Blaze followed him. “You cry up a storm when you’re unhappy! No wonder your name is Rainstorm.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Rainstorm grunted. “Tease me all you want. I’ve been teased enough in my life to care less.”

All throughout Rainstorm’s life, he had been bullied. No one liked him because of how useless he was. He couldn’t control his unusual powers, either. Blaze, on the other paw, was a respected cat. He was technically Prince Blaze, but he preferred Blaze.

“Maybe we should check upon Skyline, don’t you think?” Blaze asked. “You were babbling about him shortly after we left. You said he can’t control his grief or something along the lines of that.”

Rainstorm nodded in agreement. “Where do you think we should look for him at?”

“Maybe the river.” Blaze led him over to the nearby river. “Look. Is that him?”

“Yes,” Rainstorm answered.

He peered at the cat in the river. The cat was sinking his claws into something Rainstorm didn’t see.

“Skyline?” Blaze called.

He ran over to meet him, followed swiftly by Rainstorm.

Skyline, well, King Skyline, was the cat who ruled Eastern Rome. He had lost his mother many months ago, and a few months after that had lost his father. He had lost both of his parents due to a sickness. Rainstorm and Blaze were cats who used to live by the river but got kicked out by the ruler Queen Periwinkle because of Rainstorm’s dangerous magic.

“Ugh!” Rainstorm moaned. “Skyline!!!

Skyline looked at them warily. “Yes?”

“You okay?” Rainstorm came to sit beside him.

Skyline shook his head. “Too much has been going on in my life.”

“Like what?” Rainstorm asked curiously.

Skyline flinched. “Oh, by the way, you can call me King Skyline as well if you want… You don’t have to. I’m trying not to think about being a king in this stance…”

“Why?”

“I caught a cold a month ago, and it’s getting worse…” King Skyline burst into a fit of coughing. “I let my daughter Sofia take over as queen until I can get better. My daughters, Sofia and Shadow, look almost exactly the same…”

“Woah, you just changed the topic!” Rainstorm exclaimed. “You never used to do that!”
King Skyline looked away. “I know! I can’t think straight with this cold!” He coughed more.

“Should I heal it?” Rainstorm asked. “I think my healing rain can do the trick.”

Skyline looked at him with watery eyes. “Could you try it then?”

“Sure.” Rainstorm got himself into a meditating position, which was a sitting position with his tail over his paws. He closed his eyes and felt himself calm down. Healing rain oh healing rain, come down to sprinkle us with rain. Terrible summoning job! Great going, Rainy!

Rainstorm felt rain sink into his fur. It worked? But how?

Skyline was still coughing himself off even as the rain sank into his fur.

Blaze nodded at him. “Should I keep the little one warm?”

“I’m not that little!” King Skyline rasped.

“I never said you were little!” Blaze spat.

Rainstorm flattened his ears as Blaze began hurling insults at Skyline and Skyline began talking quickly… 

Rainstorm glared at the sky as the rain stopped coming down. He tried to summon his healing rain again, but nothing came from the sky. He tried again and again until he began feeling frustrated. Work already!

Blaze!!!” Rainstorm bellowed. “Stop it!”

King Skyline was on the ground. His chest was heaving with the effort of talking.

“He’s dead,” Blaze grunted. “Well done, Rainstorm! You killed him.” He narrowed his eyes. “I’m being sarcastic, you murderer!”

Rainstorm flinched. “B-but he’s not dead yet…”

“Just because he isn’t dead ‘yet’ doesn’t mean he won’t die five minutes from now!” Blaze shot back.

Rainstorm knelt beside Skyline and tried to not lose control of his growing emotions. Am I slowly killing him?

“Y-you’re fine!” King Skyline gasped. “Don’t worry… about me.”

Rainstorm itched to give him a hug and hopefully make him feel better, but he knew he’d have to have his permission. “Sky, may I hug you?”

“Ugh, stop!” Skyline wheezed. “Talking to me…”

“Can I hug you or not?”

The sick king nodded. He didn’t say anything else really as Rainstorm hugged him.

“Aww, a couple. I like that.” Blaze took a phone from off the ground and snapped a photo.

“Hey!” King Skyline glared at him. “That’s my device!” He began coughing again.

“Did the rain heal you at all?” Rainstorm asked.

King Skyline nodded. “Slightly. I still feel awful.”

Rainstorm decided to give him a few reassuring licks on the back. “How does that feel?”

“Terrible,” King Skyline moaned in distress.

“Try feeding some of the rain to him,” Blaze suggested out of the blue. “Oh, here’s your device thing.” He gave it back to Skyline, who sniffed it.

“Such an animal,” Rainstorm said to himself. “Animals sniff everything!”

“Yeah,” Blaze agreed. He turned to glare at Skyline. “Animal!!!

King Skyline sighed. “What?!”

“I thought ‘animal’ was sick,” Blaze grunted. “Why are you even responding if you’re sick?”

“Well, I’m not deaf,” King Skyline wheezed.

Rainstorm decided to use his dangerous magic to try to heal Skyline. He reached forward and dug his claws into the king’s fur.

King Skyline looked at him fearfully. “What are you doing?”

“Something,” Rainstorm answered, feeling the magic sinking into the king’s fur. Please work! Please work!

King Skyline let out a scream of surprise. “What…” He suddenly went limp.

“That’s a good thing,” Rainstorm murmured, looking into Blaze’s shocked face. “He’s unconscious, meaning that he’s healing.”

“I’ll carry him home then,” Blaze murmured back. “But the problem is I don’t know where he lives.”

“Just keep him here for now,” Rainstorm said breezily. “And we’ll check in on him in a day.”

“What about his kingdom?” Blaze demanded. “He needs to go back! He’s a king, you dummy!”

“Yeah I know, but what’s more important: sending a sick, unwell king to his kingdom, or waiting until the sick king heals to send him back to his kingdom?”

“I guess the second one,” Blaze said reluctantly.

“Exactly, so let’s just wait here,” Rainstorm growled.

***

“Where am I?!” a cat who sounded like Skyline wailed.

“Huh?” Rainstorm woke up immediately and found King Skyline whining near a bush. “What’s wrong?”

“I had a nightmare about my kingdom!” King Skyline moaned. “They were all dying, and it was my fault!”

“Okay first off, calm down and second… there’s no such thing as an entire kingdom dying at once.”

“Thanks.” King Skyline curled up in a ball again. “Say, what happened while I was dead or out or whatever you call it?”

“Unconscious. Nothing really happened except for Blaze and I discussing when you’ll go home. We don’t know where you live, so we can’t walk you there.”

“It’s okay. I can go home now.” King Skyline gave Rainstorm a few licks on the face. “Thanks for saving me. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem, but I’m still walking you home to make sure nothing happens to you. Blaze is coming, too. Sky, show us the way.”

Skyline shut his eyes. “They won’t like it. But sure, let’s get this over with.”

***

“You guys are going to get me in trouble,” King Skyline moaned. “I already got in trouble with my father for losing my crown about half a year ago!”

“Your father is dead,” Rainstorm reminded him. “I know it’s still kind of new to you… and I’m sorry that you had to lose your parents at such a young age.”

King Skyline shut his eyes angrily. “Yeah I know…” He flexed his claws in the grass unhappily.

“Sorry for your loss.” Blaze gave the king a few licks on the cheek. “Rainstorm lost his parents in a dog fight I think.”

Rainstorm glared at him. “Yeah, and them dying ruined my life forever!” he barely managed to keep himself from bawling out loud.

“Wait, what?” King Skyline flickered his ears up in surprise and opened his eyes. “You did? And Blaze, stop kissing me!”

“Sorry, sir. I’m trying to cool you down,” Blaze apologized.

“Nope, you’re embarrassing me.” King Skyline looked at the camp entrance. “There should be a line of soldiers on their way to scout the entrance for intruders.”

“Would you allow your crush to kiss you?” Blaze teased.

King Skyline looked at the ground and shuffled his paws awkwardly. “Depends on who it is.”

Just then, a patrol walked right up to them. They had hostility in their eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?! Catnapping Skyline?!”

Skyline looked the other way. Rainstorm wondered why he was so embarrassed at looking at his own soldiers.

One of them strolled out. Her black fur was rippling along her spine. “Sky, what’s wrong?” She rested her tail on his back.

“N-nothing.” Skyline shook her off. “Go away, Alanna.”

“Who’s Alanna?!” Rainstorm blurted. “Your love?”

Skyline didn’t answer. “This is my goodbye. Thanks, Rainy.” He hugged him tightly, and Rainstorm noticed that he was bawling yet again and was trying to hide it.

Yeah, I don’t blame him. As soon as I found out Queen Periwinkle wasn’t my mom, I was bawling for hours. I didn’t even know my parents were long dead. Queen Periwinkle was his adoptive mother, and where he used to live, she was a ruler. She had one or two kittens. One of their names was Blaze, and for some reason Blaze ran away from his mom along with Rainstorm. Rainstorm found himself still twitchy from that experience.

“What about me?!” Blaze demanded. “I helped you, Skylight.”

“Skyline,” Skyline corrected. “Yeah sure.” Blaze hugged him anyway. “Bye, Blaze, nice being around you.” Skyline went to join the others. “Bye!”

“Bye!” Blaze and Rainstorm chorused, going back home the way they came.

I hope King Skyline feels better at home, Rainstorm prayed. Maybe one day he’ll decide to visit us again when he’s settled back in his home.


Bay Area = No Kind Of Grey Area

Winding roads winding away,

Towering skyscrapers scraping today,

Wandering waves riding across the sea.


Skylines are scattered with buildings,

Hills,

And trees.


Roads are rotten with people,

Cars,

And fleas.


Drive to hills,

Drive to the bay,

Drive to the city,

Drive, drive away.


In Berkeley,

There’s thrift shops with jeans,

Cool cafes,

And streets filled with teens.


In San Francisco,

There’s always a disco,

There’s always something to do,

Be it walking in the park, or going to the shops.


In Sonoma County, 

The trees are always at a bounty,

You could never be frowny

In Sonoma County.


The Bay Area is

No kind of grey area

For it is the main area

And the greatest yay area.

Yes, it may have its issues,

But we shouldn’t pull out the tissues.

It is the Bay Area.


Glitch

Chapter 1

RUN FASTER! I tell myself. My legs are throbbing in pain because of the arrow that’s stuck in them. I hear yelling in the back and another arrow flies past me, just missing my head. I look behind me and see a whole tribe of Indians racing behind me with knives and all sorts of dangerous weapons. I see it! The doorway to the next level. Almost there. I jump for the door and make it. I look behind me and everything fades away. I put the golden Idol in the treasure slot and wait for the next level to load.

 I have been in this game for at least five hours. I press the menu button and take off the VR headset (Virtual Reality). I look at my leg to see where I was shot by the arrow, there was a big bruise there. I take off the RE suit (Real Effect), I turn on the newest AI assistant AIA (Artificial Intelligence), and ask for the time.

“It is 5 AM Mr. Lucas. You should start to get ready for school, sir,” she said in her robotic monotone.

I go into my closet and pick up some clothes on the floor. I tell AIA to get my bag and schedule ready. I go to the restroom and set the shower and sink to the right temperature and get ready for school. I get my bag and get onto the bus that has been waiting outside for me. 

I hop on the bus and find my friend Erin. I start telling him all about the game. I show him the bruise and how when I got shot it felt like I was really getting shot. He says it must be a glitch because that only happens in the VR competitions where people compete for money. 

“How do you win the competition?” I ask.

“You have to be the first to complete all 500 levels. It takes a whole week for the competition to finish.”

We get to school and go to our classes. School was slow. I had the usual classes math, English, history, and EI class (electronic intelligence). I get home and get straight back into the game when my mom calls me to come downstairs. I go down and see a man on the couch drinking some wine.

“Lucas, this is Mr. Oscar, he is here to talk to you about your VR gaming.”

“Hello, Lucas. Me and my colleagues have been watching you play and we want to ask you to represent America in the international VR competition with a few other kids.”

I was so shocked I could not talk at all.

“What do I get if I compete?”

“You will have the chance to win 500,000,000 dollars and will also receive an RSVR headset for participating (Razor Speed Virtually Reality).” He must have seen that my mom did not want me to go so he said that I will be monitored by professional doctors so I will be in safe hands. He looked at his watch and he said it was time for him to go. He gave his card and said if I want to compete, call him. 

Chapter 2

Saturday morning was slow, I lay on my bed trying to figure out what had just happened yesterday.

Maybe a bath would help me.

“AIA turn on the bath and set the water to warm.”

“Yes Mr. Lucas setting the bath to warm, would you like bubbles?”

“No thanks AIA.”

I stripped off my clothes and dipped my body in. I sat there for an hour thinking about all of the possibilities of what would happen if I went on the trip. Like if I won it could help me and my mom with rent and I would be able to have the best gear for gaming. I get out of the bathtub, put on my headset, and continue the game that I was playing. I finish the level and lay back down on my bed.

“AIA.”

“Yes, Mr. Lucas.”

“Call Mr. Oscar, and tell him I’m going.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Lucas? Your mom will not approve of this.”

“I am sure, AIA.”

I am still packing my bag trying to figure out what to wear. 

“AIA, order new Nike clothes and have them shipped in now!”

“Yes, Mr. Lucas.”

I go over to the PTD (Portable Transporter Device) that I got for Christmas and grab the clothes that I ordered. I finished packing and put on the headset. I had to get ahead of the other people that I am competing against. I put the mode on EC (Extreme Challenge) and started to game. I played all the way until I could no longer stand. I had bruises all over my body and one cut that was dripping with dark red blood.

“AIA, give me the first aid kit.”

I grab the sewing needle inside and sew it back together. 

Three days till I fly out. Mr. Oscar says that he will check in with me tomorrow to go over who I will be competing against and who will be on my team.

The next day, Mr. Oscar came over to pick me up. I grabbed my bag and hopped

in the car. I said bye to my mom as the car pulled away.

“So can you show me the people on my team?”

“Sure, here are some photos.”

I analyzed the photos, two other boys one had a military haircut and had a devilish look on his face. The other one had brown curly hair and freckles all over his face. We stopped at a big building with the words V.R. Corps in big bold letters. 

“Put this on,” Oscar said.

He gave me a silver suit that said AVR team (American Virtual Reality), then we went into the elevator and went up into a big room.

“Stay in here, I will be right back.”

He left the room and came back with the two boys that were on my team.

“These are your teammates, Lucas.”

The boy with the military haircut said that he was Romelo. The boy with the freckles was Lee.

“You have all been chosen to compete and you must work together in order to win, so get to know each other. When you guys are ready, you may start to practice in the hub. 

He points to a room behind us.

“Well, I will leave you boys to it. If you need me, just call me using your suit. I have put a personal AIA in each of your suits.” And after, he left the room.

“Listen up, dweebs, I am going to make this nice and easy. Mess with me and I will make sure that you don’t make it to the competition,” Romelo says with a nasty tone. 

“Now get to practice!”

We enter the hub and put on the RSVR headsets. 

Chapter 3

We complete each level with ease. We finished all of the puzzle challenges with the help of Lee. We finished all of the shooting and physical levels with the help of Romelo. But I was not much help at all. I could tell that they were starting to get annoyed with me because I am not as experienced in VR like them.

“Do you understand how to complete maze levels?” Lee would ask me. 

“Do you know how to aim for the head?” Romelo would ask me.

I could not take this anymore so I left the hub and take a break. I grabbed a cup of coffee, a bag of chips, and turned the TV on.

“AIA, how much time do I have until we fly to Montana for the competition?”

“You have 22 hours and 28 minutes left.”

I put my headset back on and practiced more and more. We are all so tired. Well, with the exception of Lee, who is never hungry or tired. We go to bed and fall into a deep sleep. 

“Hey, loser.” I get out of bed to see Romelo waving me over.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Dude, look at Lee. What a weirdo, he is still in the hub playing and I have been watching him for 9 hours.” 

“What the, is he like some sort of robot or what?”

“Whatever dweeb, I’m going to sleep now. We fly out first thing in the morning.”

On the airplane, Mr. Oscar tells us all about our competition and who to watch out for. He tells us that we will not be able to leave the game so use the restroom before the game starts. We all look at him with a bored face because this is the ninth time he has told us. 

I play some music and fall asleep. I get awoken to the sound of yelling. I see Mr. Oscar yelling at Lee and then clicking his neck with something. I had no idea what it was, but it must have been a comms device cause he started to talk about random stuff. 

“Hey Lee, what was Mr. Oscar yelling to you about?”

“None of your business!”

“Ok, sorry.”

Chapter 4

I looked outside the window to see what Montana looked like because I had heard stories that it was mountains and big lakes and all sorts of wildlife. But it was just buildings, workhouses. We landed and went directly into a limo!

“Damn this is my kind of ride,” Romelo said with an amazed tone.

The limo took us to this warehouse. It was all white inside and the AC (Air Conditioning) was on high, so it was so cold inside. Mr. Oscar took us to a room where he said he would get the other groups. Five minutes later, he came back with two other groups. 

“These are the people you will be competing against. I want to see nice and good sportsmanship, ok. No fighting. I will be back in three hours, I have to get the course set up.”

“You guys are going down, we going to win this and none of you losers will get in my way.”

“Romelo take it easy, this is just a friendly competition, ok?”

We get to our own hub and put on our headset. A voice comes up.

“Game starting in 3, 2, 1…”

The pixels start to form into a jungle. We start the game. We blow through the first 250 levels with ease. As we went through the levels, Romelo and I couldn’t walk anymore. Our legs were full of bruises and cuts and we needed to rest for a little while.

“Lee, stop moving please, we need a break.”

I get up and touch his shoulder. He grabs my arm and throws me to the ground. 

“The weak will die.” 

Just as he says that, he pulls out a gun and shoots Romelo in the head. His particles go away and that was it. Romelo was out of the competition. 

“What the hell, you are such an idiot!!!” 

Lee pointed his gun at me but the game paused and the locks on our headsets released. I took it off and went looking for Romelo. 

“Romelo, where are you?!”

I saw Mr. Oscar and asked him where Romelo was.

“Romelo said that he did not want to compete anymore so we had Lee kill him in the game and we sent him back home.”

Chapter 5

There is no way that Romelo wanted to go home. There has to be more than the eye could see. At night, I will follow Mr. Oscar through the vent to see what is up.

1:30, time to shine. I got out of bed and unscrewed the vent. I hopped in and saw

Mr. Oscar walking towards a room. The vent was so dusty and smelled of decay. I followed the sound of Mr. Oscar’s voice to a room where there were scientists everywhere with clipboards and typing on computers. What is this place?

“Sir, Group 47 is not doing so well, they are all still on level 100 to 110. Only one group has reached the average. And why did you give them an extra day of rest, now the data won’t be fair! Ohh and just to mention, you killed a test subject!” 

“I don’t care! You asked me for test subjects, I give you test subjects. One sees the lab or anything else, they get eliminated. Plus they’re all gonna die either way and we have more test subjects so take a chill pill.”

 What? How is this happening? There’s no way. This can’t be true. How could they kill innocent kids just for some dumb stupid experiment? I have to get out of here.

“Lee (Logitec Experiment Executioner), please come over here. I think that Lucas is onto us. On the next level, kill him and then eliminate the rest. We will bring in the next batch of kids after this is done.”

“Yes, Mr. Oscar.”

“Now go and charge yourself. I can’t have you run out of batteries during the competition.”

“Yes, Mr. Oscar.” 

I started to make my way back to my bed. I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened. I always knew that something was up, but they were killing kids! I jumped back onto the bed. 

All of a sudden, I heard footsteps in the front of the door. I quickly pretended to be sleeping.

“I told you he’s fine, he was just sleeping the whole time.”

I peek out from under my pillow to see Mr. Oscar and a scientist at the door.

“Alright, let’s get the game ready for tomorrow. Oh and make the levels for Lucas extra hard. We need to make his death look like an accident.”

“Yes sir.”

Chapter 6

I get out of bed and get ready for the game. I am met by Mr. Oscar and Lee.

“How did you sleep, Lucas?”

“Fine.”

“Ok well just want to wish you good luck, you only have 3 levels left.”

“Thanks, I really wish that Romelo was here.”

“I know it’s a shame that he wanted to leave.”

“Yeah, it’s like he was killed.”

“Haha, your sense of humor always seems to get me, Lucas.”

We walk into the hub and put on the headsets. Again, the voice comes up.

“Game starting in 3, 2, 1.”

The pixels load and we are on top of a huge building. We go on to complete the level. We have to get a key that is hanging from a pole that is high up in the sky.

“You climb the pole, I will hold it so you don’t fall,” Lee says with a smirk on his face.

“No it’s fine I think you should climb.” 

“Ok be sure to hold the pole tight.”

He gets onto the pole and grabs the key. I sigh because he wasn’t going to kill me.

We unlock the door to the next level. 

This level is about aim, again someone had to climb up high and hold a board where the teammate has to shoot. I grab the gun and he gets the board. Success! We continue to the next level. 

Last level, we spawn on top of a bridge. We need to get down from the bridge without falling. In order to get down we either climb down a rope that is slippery, or we walk down the rail of the bridge with the wind blowing at us.

“I think that we should go down the rail,” I shout.

The wind is so loud that we can not hear each other. I turn to look at the rail when I see Lee running at me and kick me in the stomach. I stumble back and lose my footing. I grab onto the rail just in time and get back up. He comes running at me again and I dodge him. He almost falls off the bridge but stays on.

“That’s it. I have had enough of this nonsense.”

He pulls out a gun and points it at me. 

“Please, Lee, don’t do this, you don’t have to.”

“I am programmed this way.”

I grab the rope and wrap it around my waist and a metal pole. He shoots but I dodge it. I run at him and we both go plummeting down the bridge. The rope catches me Lee is holding on from my hand.

“I don’t want to let you go.”

“You don’t have to.”

He lets go and his pixels go away. I get off the bridge and leave the game. My locks release and I run out of the hub. Mr. Oscar is waiting for me outside. 

“Congrats, kid. You win.”

“Where are the other competitors?”

“All went home after you won.”

“How could you kill them? You are such a monster.”

“What are you talking about?”

“BS, don’t lie to me. Tell me, why did you kill them!”

“That’s classified, and now that you know, it’s your time as well.”

He pulls out a gun and shoots me in the chest. Blood drips from my chest and mouth.

“I’m sorry, Lucas but this is the only way,” he says with tears and walks away.

I sit there waiting to die, staring at the blank white ceiling, thinking about all the people who died. Then I fall to the ground.

***

One day later in an airplane

“Hello, sir this is Oscar, postpone the mission.” 

“For what reason?” 

“All test subjects have failed the test. None of them were able to complete the levels.”

“Don’t lie to me, Oscar. I have the data, it’s already been sent to me.”

“Yes, sir… what are you going to do with this data?”

“I can’t tell you that, Oscar.”

“Five years of studying human instincts and killing people and you won’t tell me what you are using it for?”

“This concludes our call. We will talk when we meet when you get home.”


The Crevice

The Shenandoah mountains are the perfect place to hike, especially in the fall. The leaves are my favorite part. They’re wet to the touch today. It rained this morning. My parents didn’t feel like hiking, so I convinced my sister to take me. She only takes me so she can take photos for her Instagram, I think. I don’t mind, though. I just like being here.

The trail is pretty empty today, so I can do my favorite thing without being judged. I think I get judged a lot, picking up rocks like that. My sister tells me to stop; I’m a fifteen-year-old girl, she says. And people give me this funny face, like they feel bad for me. That’s the worst part. The pity. 

I don’t like pity. It’s a way to look down on people by looking nice. It’s just another way to mask the nasty thoughts that are floating around in people’s brains. I have nasty thoughts too. I think that my older sister is a follower and my younger sister is flirty and my mother is too tall and my father is too fat. But I don’t pity them. Nobody deserves that. 

When people see me squatting in the mud like that, digging around for rocks, they sometimes say I’m on “the spectrum”, all loud and stuff, as if I don’t know what it means. I’m not, I don’t think. It’s not like I check.

It’s harder to find rocks today, probably because of all the fallen leaves. I wonder if it’s fun or scary to fall like this. Like a leaf. My older sister, Janet, says I shouldn’t say stuff like this, but I still think it. Thinking is a hobby of mine. Every rock that I pick up makes me think. I spot one in the middle of the trail. It kind of looks like a lowercase “B”. It makes me think about my name.

Benny is a stupid name. I would understand it if my parents had named me Benjamin, but my mother says that it is “simply unsuitable” for a girl. So why is Benny any better? Benny, that’s it. The whole package. 

I remember the first time the name’s irregularity dawned on me. It was the summer before first grade, and we were moving into our new house. The house seemed nice. My parents painted it butter yellow, which I hated, but it had big windows and a cool old attic, so the weird color didn’t bother me so much. The first day we drove into that driveway was just to show us kids the new house. The first thing I noticed was the dog poop right outside the car, but my sister seemed to notice something more interesting. A small apartment building loomed across the alley from the new house, and who should be on the lawn but two boys. While my older sister chattered about the older one and my younger sister whined about having boys for next door neighbors, I focused my attention on the little surprise outside of the door. There was no way I was stepping in it. After we made it into the house without any mishaps, I finally turned my attention to the minor situation at hand: the neighbor boys. There they were, on our front porch. Nobody would dare answer the door. My younger sister, Vienna, three at the time, held her stuffed elephant close. Janet, nine at the time, stuck her nose up and said that they probably had cooties. So there they went, my two sisters, clambering up the stairs to pick out their rooms. 

Gingerly, I opened the door. The boys looked smaller in person, and pretty clean. I couldn’t see any cooties from the doorstep. The younger one was tilting his head so much I thought it might pop off. The older one looked nervous, clutching the container in his hand for dear life. He was, it seems, because he dropped the container on the floor and ran off. 

That left me and the younger one.

His head was still tilted a lot, and he had a curious expression on his face. 

“Careful,” I said matter-of-factly, like my doctor, Dr. Kneeler. “I’m afraid it might pop off.” The idiot didn’t change one thing! 

“What?” He drew out the word. He sounded pretty whiny. I decided to do what needed to be done. His neck still cracks a lot. I guess I shoved it a little hard. 

Mitchell, that’s his name, but I call him Mitch and he calls me Ben and we’re still good friends, despite the whole neck thing. Usually he would collect rocks with me, but he has to go to church today and I don’t. You could say I’m not religious. 

The hunt for rocks is getting tricky, so I decide to just run ahead to the best part of the hike: the summit. The summit is a challenge every time I reach it. I’m not the biggest fan of heights, and rock climbing isn’t my thing. But Mitch and I found a loophole: the pit. In the brown rocks that form the tippy top of the mountain lies a crevice. If you get nice and flexible like Mitch and I did from our circus classes, you can wiggle your way into it. And voila! The perfect hideout. Janet usually stays behind, because she doesn’t like what the big gusts of wind does to her hair, so I run ahead, usually, just like today. Once I reach the rocky surface, I climb towards the crevice nice and slow, because the rain makes the smoother rocks pretty slick. I almost fall off anyway when I see what’s scattered all over the crevice. It glints in the sun. I shriek.

And that’s what starts it all. I like the word ruckus; I’ll use that. That’s what starts all the ruckus. There’s always that something that someone finds that causes all the ruckus. I’ve seen enough movies to know that. But I’m not running away from the ruckus, not today. I always do that, and look where it got me. Today, I’m taking my sister’s LuluLemon tote bag and taking ruckus. A lot of it. 


hi, i’m jojo

CHAPTER II

On the inside of the house, there’s a huge sectional couch with a couple big chairs across from it. A large chandelier is shining bright light onto the elaborate fabrics on the couch and chairs and reflecting off of the glass coffee table in the middle. In the back of this room is a big, carpeted staircase.

We walk through a hallway into the dining room. Inside is a long table with 14 chairs: six on each side and one on each end. The huge vase of flowers in the middle of the table sits atop a runner.

“It’s awfully well furnished and maintained for an abandoned house,” notices Eriphili. Raphael and Clarice nod in agreement.

The kitchen is adjacent to the dining room and is filled with all sorts of cutlery, plates, glasses, and some lemons hanging out in a bowl by the stove.

“There’s even fresh food,” adds Clarice. “I wonder why it’s so… well… different from the outside.”

“I’m outta here,” decides Loki, running to the door. He tries to pull the door open. 

“Hey, Clarice?” he shouts, his voice slightly quivering.

“Yes?” Clarice yells back.

“You didn’t lock this door, right?”

“No! Why would I be that stupid?”

“Well… I guess we have an issue.” We all run over to the door.

“What’s our issue?” asks Raphael, his face crinkled up with worry.

“Um… see for yourself.” Raphael grabs the door knob and pulls. Nothing happens. I grab onto the doorknob and we both pull. Nothing.

Soon, everyone is pulling on the doorknob as if our lives depended on it, and right now they actually might.

The door still doesn’t open.

Suddenly, a huge voice echoes through the house.

“Ha ha ha! I see you have entered my house!” The voice has a thick German accent and is very high and squeaky.

“Hello? Who are you?” yells Eriphili.

“Oh, just a passing ghost, not much to be concerned about. Endivay, you have 24 hours to find a vay out. If you don’t, vell… let’s just put it zis vay. Sometimes you try your best but you don’t succeed, and zen crazy animatronic killer monkeys come and kill you!”

Chills run up and down my spine and neck, munching away at my bones like animatronic monkeys as I realize what this means: if we don’t find a way out in the next 24 hours, we’ll be killed. Loki grabs Clarice and I can see Raphael and Eriphili tense up.

Raphael seems to be imagining what death is like because his face is turning the color of porcelain and he’s holding a hand at his mouth. His eyes are wide open and I can see the fear glazing them like they’re donuts.

“So… how exactly do we get out?” Eriphili asks, but she gets no response.

“Well, I guess we should go look around,” I suggest. Loki and Clarice start heading towards another room opposite from the dining room and kitchen. The rest of us follow them.

The room seems pretty normal. At least until I notice a small door in the back of the room.

“Hey, people, maybe this door leads to something helpful!” Clarice, Eriphili, Raphael, and Loki run over to where I’m standing and I pry open the door. Inside, there’s a narrow wooden staircase.

I step onto the first stair to check if it’s solid. It is, so I continue up the stairs. Once I reach the top, I am greeted by a wall. I groan. 

Then there’s a random and short flicker of light, revealing a keyhole.

“Hey, people!” I yell down the stairs. “I found some sort of keyhole!” I hear the pounding of feet as everyone runs up the stairs, meeting me at the top.

“Let me see!” whines Eriphili. “I know how to pick locks!” 

“I know how to pick locks,” mocks Loki, being his normal rude self. 

“Shut up,” says Eriphili, pushing past Clarice to the door. Loki kicks her. “Hey! If you touch me one more time, I will slaughter you. Got it?” Eriphili pulls a dagger out of her backpack to prove it.

“Eriphili!” I yell. “Why do you have a dagger?”

“Oh, you never know when you’ll need it.”

“But people don’t just carry around daggers!” protests Raphael.

“I do. Ah… I see. An HYT Chain Key lock… it’s unpickable.”

“Even with your dagger?” scoffs Loki. Eriphili rolls her eyes.

Raphael moans and starts jumping back down the stairs.

“What if we look around the house for the key?” suggests Eriphili. I nod.

“Alright. Let’s split up. Loki and I will go upstairs, Raphael will search this floor, and Kingsley and Eriphili will search the basement,” decides Clarice.

Eriphili and I walk towards the stairs, hoping that they have an opposing stairway that leads to the basement.

I search all around the stairs, but don’t see anything that could potentially lead to a third floor.

“Hey, Kingsley!” yells Clarice from the second floor. “I think I see something that could lead to the basement!”

I run up the stairs to where Clarice is standing, Eriphili right behind me. The second floor is made of a huge carpeted hallway with numerous rooms spread randomly among the floor.

“What is it?” I ask Clarice. She points to a little square outlined with thin black Sharpie. However, the square is on the ceiling. “Well, how are we supposed to reach that?”

“I don’t know,” Clarice replies. 

“What if we try walking up the wall?” suggests Eriphili.

“Do you seriously think that would work?” Clarice snaps back.

“I think it’ll work better than you and your annoying boyfriend sitting around doing nothing this entire time!”

“Don’t say that to her,” yells Loki.

“Hey! People!” I yell.

“It’s not like you or Loki have done anything!” says Eriphili, her voice rising.

“Oh, really? We’re the ones that found the trap door!” protests Clarice.

“You’re also the one who can’t survive a creepy bus driver without crying into Loki’s shoulder!” Loki runs up to Eriphili and prepares to punch her.

“Hey! Loki! Stop! None of you are helping us get anywhere! You’re just wasting time that we need! All your bickering is completely pointless! So shut up and do something! All of you!” I shout. Loki’s face looks sheepish as he wanders away from Eriphili, who is crossing her arms and rolling her eyes. Clarice puts her hands on her hips and I can see her nostrils flaring. 

Eriphili walks over to the wall and presses her hand on it. Then she presses her foot on. She lifts her other foot off the ground and, amazingly, she stays on the wall.

“Woah!” I say, doing the same on a different part of the wall. However, I fall down and land on the hard ground with a THUMP! “Ow!”

“I guess it only works on this part of the wall,” concludes Eriphili. So, once she’s up on the ceiling, I climb up after her. “Now, how do we open up this door?”

“Maybe just try to pull it,” says Clarice. Eriphili rubs her hand along the edge of the square, searching for any sort of notch that she could pull.

“Here,” she says, and then she grabs a little dip in the ceiling and pulls it. The squeaky door flies open. “You first.”

I crawl over to the hole in the ceiling and hoist myself up. It’s like a vent: square and metal. Every movement creates an echo that runs all the way down to the end of the crawl space and back. I start crawling down it and Eriphili tails behind me. Suddenly, I hear a switch flip, and then drop down a hole in the crawl space and keep falling, falling, falling.

I land on a huge pillow-like thing. Lights turn on, going all the way up to the top of the hole where I see Eriphili’s round face. She’s holding her dagger.

“I hope you’re not scared of clowns!” she yells, her mouth in a huge grin that reveals her teeth. They almost look like fangs. Then she cackles and the roof of the hole closes up.

All the walls around me pull backwards, creating a small pit with tunnels going out in every direction. The lights turn multicolored and start shining all around the room. Creepy carnival music starts blasting throughout the room.

“Wait! Eriphili!” I yell, but it’s no use. She’s gone.

The room is about seven feet by seven feet. The crazy-colored lights are making my head hurt a little bit, and the music is not helping. 

This is probably just a joke, I think. I really hope it is, because the aesthetic in this room is really creeping me out.

All of a sudden, I see a figure coming into the room. It has a white cloak, and I can’t really see what else it looks like. Is it an angel?

No, not at all.

The thing that is coming towards me wears a huge white robe and its face looks like Pennywise. It’s clutching a huge dagger in its right hand–no, its left hand. And the dagger is the same as Eriphili’s.

“Hello, Kingsley Caligari! Would you like to play with me? Forever and ever and ever and ever?” I recognize the voice. While the clown is still far away from me, I scan my mind for who it could be. Then I land on someone: Eriphili.

“Um… not really…” I answer.

“Too bad!” yells Eriphili. She leaps towards me and I jump to the side. The knife slices my right pinky finger off. I yelp in pain and dash off to one of the tunnels. Eriphili follows me. Suddenly there’s a clang on one of the other sides of the pit. Eriphili turns and starts walking towards it; I think she thinks that I’m over there.

Then I have a revelation: since the clown is Eriphili, she must be wearing a mask. Therefore, she can’t see, and only relies on her hearing to capture me.

I slowly tiptoe backward into one of the tunnels and Eriphili doesn’t notice.

When I get into the tunnel, I rip off my sweater to try to staunch the bleeding from my finger.

I almost reach the end of the tunnel when I hear clanging like cymbals. I look all around me and see nothing except a figure in the distance.

As it gets closer to me, I see a monkey figure. In its mouth it has huge sharp teeth and blood splattered around its mouth. The eyes are different sizes and the larger one is rolling around in its socket. 

“Oh, no,” I mutter as I notice that the sweater didn’t help, and that the blood is draining out of my finger like a storm drain during a hurricane. I start becoming dizzy and I can’t see straight. I think the monkey is close to me… or is it far? Now there are two. Or maybe I’m just seeing double. 

A white border starts creeping into my vision. It slowly takes over everything except the bloody, satanic face of the monkey.

Then everything goes black. And it stays that way for a while.


The Golden City

Chapter One

“In San Francisco, you’re going to love San Francisco,” my mom said excitedly. “The city is so pretty at night. We’ll be surrounded by water on three sides and a mountain on the fourth. There won’t be snow there, though. I know you’ll miss the snowstorms we have here!”

Pictures swirled across my mind as I imagined bright billboards and flashing lights. The city would be nothing like the small Pennsylvania neighborhood onlooking the Susquehanna in my little corner of the world.

“We’ll make up for it with some of the things you love. Applecrest has a great drama program. And if I do recall, a science program as well! You’ll be thriving,” my mom added cheerfully while making dinner.

“But what about Dad?” I glanced up at her as I sat curled up on the couch. I bundled the edge of a blanket and tucked it close to my chin. I was going to miss my dad, who lived all the way in Lancaster. I’d been visiting him on the weekends since I was nine.

“We’ve already arranged things, Rosie. You’ll spend the fall and a bit of summer break down here with him. We can even schedule activities for you and Chrissie down here. Things will be so perfect.”

But things are already perfect as they are, I thought to myself, pondering everything that would never be the same.

“You know I’m never forgiving you for this, right?” Chrissie huffed, arms crossed as she stared at me sadly. “You’re basically my only friend, Rosie. It’s sad but true. I’ll miss you so much…” Chrissie grabbed my hand and walked sulkily along the sidewalk like a wilting flower. 

I couldn’t console my friend when I needed consoling myself. “I’ll email you. I promise. It’s not like I’ll be making any friends at Applecrest, anyways.”

“Maybe someday, I can come visit you there. The Golden City,” Chrissie exclaimed, saying the name of my new home with pizzazz. “You know what they say. There’s gold in the hills! And the sunsets are warm and golden. And people say that the hills shimmer golden in the summers, too!”

“That’s just a silly nickname. There’s more fog than sun in the city. The water might be pretty, but not prettier than the Susquehanna. There’s a drama program, but I don’t think anyone will like me…”

“Don’t be such a Debbie Downer. Think on the bright side. You’ll get away from this boring place. Wish I was in your shoes.” Chrissie flashed me a smile that seemed pained but hopeful.

I rolled my eyes. Chrissie, of all people, didn’t understand how I was feeling. 

“One of Pennsylvania’s nicknames is Oil State. How pathetic is that? Compare The Golden City to Oil State!”

“Whatever, Chrissie. Since obviously you don’t get it, I’ll go wallow in self-pity by myself.” I stormed off annoyedly in the direction of my house.

“Geez! Well, I’m sad too! I was just trying to make you feel better!” she yelled after me, and I could tell by the quivering of her voice that she was about to cry. 

I ignored her, although my inner conscience was telling me not to keep stalking away. I turned back after a few seconds and saw Chrissie walking home to her neighborhood in the other direction, hanging her head like a gloomy scarecrow.

Chapter Two

Chrissie seemed so miserable and upset that I knew I couldn’t just walk away. I was almost home now, under the canopy of the huge willow tree by the playground connecting our neighborhoods. Chrissie always knew the right thing to say in every situation — maybe I was the problem. Maybe I misinterpreted her because I was so busy feeling bad for myself.

I turned around, speeding up my pace a little to catch up with Chrissie. She was passing through the cul-de-sac leading to her house.

 “Chrissie! Wait up!” I called, running toward her and sliding into the spot on the sidewalk next to her.

Chrissie didn’t seem surprised by me; she just hugged her arms to her chest and continued walking. “What is it, Rosie? Do you want me to talk about how awful San Francisco is? Make you feel better by talking about how amazing Pennsylvania is?”

“Look, Chrissie. I was really mean… I’m sorry. I know you were just trying to help. I’m really going to miss you,” I said, and after a few seconds we both went in for a hug. 

“I’ll miss you too. Too bad you’re leaving tomorrow… I’ll have to cancel the party. I’m not even nearly done decorating quite yet.”

“What party?” I giggled.

“Your going away party, silly,” Chrissie laughed, shoving me playfully in the shoulder. “I’ve been planning it since you told me a week ago.”

I froze, jaw open like a cod fish. Chrissie had planned a party for me? She was the best friend I could ever ask for.

“No way we’re cancelling this party! Let’s get decorating!” I exclaimed as the two of us grinned and headed in the direction of Chrissie’s house.

It was moving day. We had packed up the entire house — all that was left were dust bunnies and yearly height marks on the walls. I had spent some of the morning jumping from box to box, which had resulted in some bent cardboard and my very angry mother.

I sat here at Chrissie’s house, admiring everything we had done — the golden confetti and streamers, the giant map of Pennsylvania, the ice cream cake that read Bon Voyage, Rosie! in shimmering golden letters covered in edible glitter.

Maya, Isabel, Carly, and a few other girls in our grade were here, gathered around the kitchen table as my mom, my dad, and Chrissie’s parents poured sparkling cider into our cups.

After my mom had poured cider into Chrissie’s, she grinned and held her plastic red cup high in the air. “I’d like to propose a toast in honor of my forever best friend, Rosie. Of course I’ll miss her, but I hope she likes San Francisco. And I can’t wait to see her in the fall and the summer.”

“Cheers to The Golden City!” she cheered, then knocked her cup against mine.

“Cheers to The Golden City!” we all shouted, laughing, as we raised our cups in happiness.


Midnight Hour

My mind wanders as I stare out at the constellations on the top deck of The Midnight Hour.

“Leina.” I spin around, half expecting a ghost to be whispering my name through the cool breeze. My mom stands at the edge of the deck beckoning me to go downstairs to my room. Her cool, light brown eyes watch over me closely as I pretend to ignore her. Never once does she use the world sleep. My family doesn’t believe the night ends day, and bedtime has never been an issue for their only daughter. She trusts me to know when my body needs to rest and plans the rest of my day around it, only on nights like this one does she actually care what time my body falls asleep. The calendar has already been laid out for tomorrow. 

I turn to look at my mom. Xandra Morrigan has always been gorgeous, dark black hair, soft tan skin, and curvy hips, as well as being the perfect owner and manager of the large ship I call my home. My mom has never told me where the ship came from or how it came to be hers, though I never viewed it as my place to ask.

“Magdalena,” my mom says, her smile faltering into a slight frown as I rise from my leaning position on the fence guarding the drop into the ocean. I roll my eyes, kissing her cheek before running down the stairs to go to bed. My parents are planning on hosting a masquerade tomorrow, to celebrate my father’s 51st birthday. Even though it is well past midnight, the crew of The Midnight Hour will be preparing and decorating the ship the entire day right up until we dock at Celestia Cove tomorrow evening. We have just over 100 staff with us at the moment, their sleeping quarters are located on the second level of the ship, only above the cargo area, and next to the kitchen. They are usually only with us for a month or so to earn a little extra before returning to their normal residences, though some use their appointment as a free method of travel to get to a particular destination to see relatives, or spend vacation. The third level of the ship is our ballrooms and dining areas. Our small family area is located in the back of this floor, with my parents’ grand master suite right next store. This is where my family and I spend most of our time. Other guest rooms and guest access is on the fourth floor with the main deck right above. 

The outside of our ship is largely uninteresting, with metal covering most of the outside and concrete holding up the decks. No one knows how the ship can support this giant concrete flooring, though no one questions it since this is the way it’s always been. Our ship seems quite large compared to other ships we pass. Our ship is currently around 650 square feet, with additions happening around every 5-10 years. I have had two renovations in my lifetime. Our current capacity is around 1,500 guests depending on the amount of staff staying with us at the moment. This usually allows us to entertain every adult in the island or coastal town we have decided to dock at for the festivities.

The halls are deserted as I make my way through the ship. My room is currently located at the back end in one of our smaller guest rooms, so I can stay away from current festivities, and so I have easy access to both my dress and changing rooms. Fatigue overtakes my body, though not my mind, as I stumble my way through the halls, tripping over my own feet as I run. Despite what I may look like, bloodshot eyes, rumpled hair, ragged fingernails that I am scolded on for chewing everyday, I don’t feel the slightest bit tired because I know I need to do one more thing before climbing into bed. 

Once I reach my door, I creep into my room and flick on the lights. My room illuminates with a pale, white glow dancing off of the sandy-colored walls. My bed sits in the middle of the room right up against the wall to the left of me as I walk in. Its bright, blue-colored bedsheets stand out as virtually the only color besides the starlight casting my light blue rug into what reminds me of Marena’s city lights, my favorite island off of the mainland. As I spin around to face my closet, I catch my reflection in the mirror which hangs over my brown, wooden dresser. I always liked the way I looked at night better, my gray, green-gray eyes are squinted into slits from minimal light, making me feel powerful and deceptive. My short-cut black hair hangs over my eyes jaggedly, wavering as the fan above my head attempts to push it out of my now black-looking eyes. The rest of my face I rarely notice in the frenzy of various maids trying to match dresses with my already complex complexion. I have bright rosy cheeks that stand out against my harsh olive skin tone, with a long, tipped-up, pointy nose to finish. I grin wickedly at the thought of the maids trying to dress me tomorrow now that I have cut off most of my wild hair with a sharp butcher’s knife. I have always preferred the look of shorter hair and I thought it would require less maintenance when either climbing or getting ready for a party. My pointy lips fade into a smirk as I turn to look at my dress selections for the rest of the night.

“White, black, blue, purple,” I mutter the colors of each dress I look at that is currently in my closet. “Red,” I say at last. “That’s what I want.”

The night is cold and windy, though during the summer, the stars that shine off of The Midnight Hour look as brilliant as ever reflected in the midnight blue water below. I find sneaking out onto the lower deck off the side of the kitchen is a good way to calm my anxious spirits before going to bed. Red, I think again as I watch my flowy silk red dress sail over the water, allowing the rest of my body to breathe in the night sky. Red goes well with midnight blue. I laugh as my fingers brush the edge of the water, illuminated only by the moon and the stars. The lower deck is my favorite one to sneak out onto because of its lack of a railing. This gives me the ability to literally hang onto the handrails and allow my feet to dangle above the starlit waters. I yell as loud as I can muster into the wind whipping my face, telling it to carry me away.

“Take me to the place of wind and weeping willows.” I choke my powerful calls into a delicate whisper. “To the places where stars are places I can visit and the moon is the light I use to read and write.” I pause, gasping as though I have said too much, and maybe I have.

Magic has always been a part of this greater world that I have never gotten the chance to be a part of, wishing it were there. I have always known I have it, and it runs through me like a sheepdog would herd its cattle. I feel it now, boiling under my skin, caressing my head and my body until I can’t feel anything else. The wind starts to gush around me, making my hair fly out from my neck. This is my magic, who I am. This is it, I think. I know the wind will carry me to somewhere I want to be, somewhere, where I can live my life. And, it does.


Hiraeth


i seek your monsters and your poltergeists

rummage through your closet and 

you go to bed before me

so i can tuck you in

search my soul for doubts and find

so many

i take a broom and

whack the crusted corners of 

infinite attics and sheds

wind up cobwebs and

keep them in my lunchbox

i ask you why you play with fire

you say i am drawn to heat

but i only ever learned to burn

quietly


The Tournament

It was August 31st again.

But this year, what seemed like a normal day became the most important one of the year. It was the final day of the Tournament– a day both held up in honor, yet dreaded by all. 

Nobody knew how the competition had been created, but it was a tradition of the community. Every other year, ten random teenagers were selected to compete. Every other year, the competitors tried their hardest. Some years, one participant would make it to the final task. But still, every time, nobody was able to claim the Grand Prize and take over the role of the Magistrate.

Why, you ask?

Nobody made it out alive from the final task.

Every year, the monster-like bird countered each challenger with success. 

It was a horrible tradition, really, forcing adolescents into a nearly impossible tournament in which they would likely suffer a gruesome death. And for as long as the people knew, nobody had ever been able enough to take the crown from the monster’s head to deliver it to the Magistrate.

But tradition was tradition. The people respected tradition, perhaps even more than morality. And so, the cycle repeated, and every year, ten innocent children were killed. 

This year was no different.

———————————————————————————————————————

Dressed in ceremonial robes, the boy stared out at the vast crowd that lay in front of him, a massive sea of people that seemed impossibly large. How had he gotten here? He was one of thousands of teenagers in the community, yet he had been selected to die. 

Of course, he had been reminded that this was not a selection for death, but rather a selection for eternal glory and honor. Yeah, sure. It wasn’t as if you were being selected for a competition in which none of the participants made it out alive. 

He scanned the audience, looking for a familiar face. Perhaps his mother and father were watching. But he doubted it, remembering how his mother had fallen into hysteria after he had been chosen. His father would not look him in the eye. 

He had not seen his family since. 

Neither had he seen his friends. They’d simply gave him a pitying look, and moved on with their lives. As if he had never even existed. 

And so, estranged from his family, he’d left his small village for the capital. 

Isn’t it cruel, he’d thought. That this is the first and last time I will ever see something else than my tiny village? 

At the orientation, the competition’s judges had told the Ten that they might be the first to succeed, but they all knew better. Faced with death, they solemnly told their tearful families goodbye, and faced their challenges.

One by one, their lives were taken, until one was left. The boy. He wasn’t even sure how he escaped himself. Perhaps it was luck? Maybe the judges had decided to create easier tasks for him. But a small, hopeful part of him thought that he was more skilled than the rest, that he took a different approach than the others, one that was better. 

Yet he told himself that this wasn’t the case. He didn’t want to hope. It would just make his demise even worse.

The assembly was nearly over. He looked down as the Head Judge finished his speech, the people cheering him on. The sea of faces disappeared into the stadium as he watched, flanked by armed guards. There was no point in trying to escape. It would only prolong his suffering.

The judges said a few words to him, but he didn’t bother listening. What was the point, anyway? Death was only a few moments away. Mere words of encouragement made no difference. 

Now, there was no more time to ponder. Death was coming, and there was no point avoiding it. 

The boy knew what would happen. He was no fool. He had watched the task unfold seven times in his sixteen years. He had been chosen. He had faced countless tasks. He had come within an inch of death. He had watched all the others die before his eyes. 

And now, it all came down to this. 

It was all so simple and obvious. He was to be mauled to death by the monster, just as the many who had struggled before him. Yet a desperate glimmer of hope remained in him. He tried to push the feeling down, tears coming to his eyes for the very first time since the Tournament began. 

He was brought to the side entrance of the arena as the Magistrate spoke to her people and listened quietly.

“Residents of our glorious nation, we are here to witness the final task of the Tournament!”

The crowd’s cheering was overwhelming.

“This last task is the most difficult, and it only sees fit that our last remaining competitor will see it finished!”

Again, tumultuous applause erupted from the audience.

“Our champion will face his foe, a great monster that has served as our obstacle for many centuries. Today, he will take the crown from its head and deliver it to me. Only then will he become the Champion of the Tournament. He will win our eternal respect!” 

The people screamed their agreement.

“Now, we welcome our final competitor!”

The boy’s stomach dropped. 

The doors opened.

And he stepped into the dry dirt of the arena.

In that moment, he couldn’t hear. He couldn’t smell. He couldn’t see. His senses seemed to be numbed, and his mind wandered in a panic. 

I know that death is coming. I can see it. Taste it. Feel it. Smell it. I can even hear it. From the moment my feet touched the dirt of the arena, I knew it was the end. I guess I had it coming. I’m nothing but a useless teenager, ready to be fed to the monster.

Nobody has ever made it past the final task. Why did I ever think I was different? Why did I ever think I might be the only one to escape the grasps of death? I was always normal, at least I was until I was chosen to participate in this sadistic tournament. 

I was so stupid. Stupid for not realizing how cruel this tournament is. Stupid for being proud of being selected. Stupid for only seeing the flaws of our tradition now, when I am about to die. For fifteen years I watched innocent children die in front of my eyes, and not once did I question the Tournament. Not even after I watched my fellow competitors die in front of my own eyes. 

But I know it’s all too late now. Too late to turn back, to do what is right. To run away from this. Now, it’s only me and death. 

It’s a strangely funny thing, death. What comes after? What does it feel like? Is it really the end? Hah. I used to wonder about these things, but I never imagined I would be in the situation I am in now. 

I never thought I would say this, but…

I am ready to die. 

Wait, what?

Disbelief flooded his body as he realized what he had accepted.

But it was true, wasn’t it? He knew there was no turning back. He knew there was no way he could defeat the monster. And so, he’d accepted what was surely coming. 

Suddenly, he could hear again. Smell, see, even taste the dirt that had swirled up in the air. 

He was suddenly aware of the Magistrate speaking to him. 

“Our champion– are you ready to face your enemy?”

He looked up, at the thousands of people who knew nothing.

They didn’t know how much he had suffered.

They didn’t realize how wrong the Tournament was.

They didn’t realize that the Magistrate’s rule was cruel, and wrong.

They couldn’t, and they would never.

The crowd held its breath.

He looked at the Magistrate, and nodded silently.

“Then let the final task commence.”

With the grinding of gears, the doors facing him opened. 

At first, there was nothing. But then, a terrible, otherworldly scream came from the tunnel, and the monster hurtled into the arena.

It was a disturbing sight, to say the least. The monster stood forty feet tall, an unrealistic height for what looked like a normal black raven you might see on the streets. 

But it wasn’t just an oversized raven. The boy could see the differences. It had talons and a beak of steel, as sharp as knives. Its eyes were alight in fiery rage. Its feathers were enough to slice a human’s skin. 

And upon its head was a crown, made of gold and encrusted in jewels. It sparkled in the sunlight, entrancing everyone in the silent arena. 

The boy did not move, but simply stared at the monster. 

The monster stared back and slowly made its way over to the boy, towering over his figure, tiny in comparison. 

The boy stared into the monster’s eyes, and saw more than fury. He saw pain. He could only imagine the cruelty it must have faced. 

And he did something that no other finalist had ever done. He kneeled to the monster. 

The audience were frozen in expressions of shock. 

Surprised, it tracked back a few yards, and stared even harder at the boy. 

The boy bowed its head in return.

The monster returned, as if interested to see what the boy would do next. 

He raised his head, and spoke to the monster.

“I don’t want to kill you.”

The bird tilted its head. The boy wondered if it understood what he was saying. 

“I just need that thing on your head,” he whispered, still unmoving. He didn’t know what was making him stay still, but the monster had not yet tried to hurt him. He hoped his plan was working. He might have been ready to die, but he wasn’t going down without at least one try.

The monster seemed to be considering the situation.

“Neither of us want this. If you let me take your crown, you will never have to kill another creature again. You won’t have to spend your whole life trapped inside the dungeons. 

But if you refuse, I won’t resist. I’m ready to die.”

He gazed up, into the monster’s face, and looked it directly in the eye. It simply stared back. Neither could look away.

Abruptly, after what seemed like hours of breathless anticipation, the bird broke its gaze and stepped away. The audience groaned in disappointment– it had been very long since someone had come this close to becoming a champion– and the boy’s head dropped. Everyone was confident they knew what was coming next– surely, the boy would die.

Nobody expected the monster to do what it did. It lowered its head to the ground, as if beckoning the boy to take the crown. 

At first, he did not move. Had it really been that easy to finish the task? He doubted that this would be the end of the Tournament. But, tentatively, he stood up, and slowly walked towards the monster. And so he lifted the crown from its head. 

The audience roared in applause. The boy glanced up at the top box, where the Magistrate sat. She, too, was clapping, but seemed to be straining a smile. She stood.

“Now, if you succeed in delivering the crown to me,” she paused, struggling. “You will become… the Magistrate and the first known champion of the Tournament.” She gave a sour smile again and sat down.

The boy looked back at the monster– no, the bird. It seemed wrong to call it a monster now. It had understood his words and helped him– in many ways, it was no less a monster than the Magistrate…

Suddenly compelled to speak, the boy looked up at the audience. Little by little, the applause and shouting died down, leaving the stadium silent for him to speak.

“Brothers and sisters, the time is now. For so many centuries we have lived under the cruel rule of tradition. Our own Magistrate, who claims to only want the best for us, allows for these traditions to continue. Open your eyes. Every other year, ten innocent teenagers are killed for tradition. But what good is tradition if it only causes suffering and pain?”

Clearly, nobody had been expecting this. The people began to mumble and whisper amongst themselves. Many shook their heads in disapproval and some rose from their seats.

The Magistrate stood, clearly outraged. “You dare to criticize my rule? You are not fit to be our Magistrate.”

All around him, people shouted their agreement.

The boy took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. “Yes, I dare to criticize your rule. What proof do we have that you have helped our nation thrive or made it better in any way? Yes, you have stuck to tradition. But by doing so, you have permitted the deaths of innocent children.”

Fueled by anger, the Magistrate ran to the banister of her balcony box and began to shout down at the boy. 

“Nobody can dare say that I have done anything wrong for as long as I have ruled. I have held up the rules of our ancestors. I have respected tradition– so much that I have let children die for it. I have fed the wants of our people. 

“I have only done what they need. 

“So here, in front of my very eyes, stands a boy who dares to take my place. He dares to steal my power. Who is he, to take this away from me? I can see the thirst in his eyes. I can see that he is another one– a revolutionary– who will dare to change our traditions. Dare to defy the rules of our ancestors. He will destroy our people. He will destroy our nation. 

“I have respected tradition.

“But he values what his own ideals say are better above tradition.

“Maybe I killed a man destined for glory.

“But I did it for a greater cause –”

She stopped unexpectedly, as if suddenly realizing what she had said. A dark red flush began to rise up from her neck.

The people were frozen in their seats, as if unsure whether or not to believe what they had just heard. The boy was the first to act.

“Did I hear you right, Magistrate? You killed the rightful Magistrate?”

The Magistrate spluttered and tried to speak. “I, I–”

“Go on. I’m sure we would all be happy to hear what you want to say.” At this point, the boy had lost any sense of the respectful tone he had carefully used to speak to her.

The Magistrate’s mouth hung open like a gaping fish for a moment, but then, she closed it, swallowed, and began to speak, first in a wobbly tone.

“I — I am not the rightful Magistrate. But you have to understand.

“We all thirst for power. It is something we all want, whether you let it be known to everyone, or it resides in you subconsciously. Who can blame me for my own thirst for power?

“Traditionally, a Magistrate is a hereditary role. But I am not a descendant of the man who came before me. Yes, he did have a descendant. But he was cruel, ignorant, disobedient to tradition. 

“So was I wrong to take him out? Was I wrong, to kill him? Was I wrong, to ensure that our nation would be safe, in better hands than a man insufficient to rule his people? Was I wrong, to kill a man who would dare to change our traditions? Was I wrong, to long for something that everyone thirsts for?

“Yes, I killed him. I pretended that I was the daughter of the Magistrate. I pretended that my ‘brother’ had died of secret illness. I hid my secret from everybody, even the people I claim to be so loyal to. But does it really matter now? The rightful Magistrate’s body lays decaying in his grave.

“If you were in my own place, would you not do the same?”

The boy countered her almost immediately. “No, I would not do the same. Why? Because I am not a murderer responsible for the deaths of children and the rightful Magistrate!”

The whole time this shouting match had been taking place, the people had been muttering among each other, unsure of whether to take the side of the Magistrate or the boy. But now, one girl spoke.

“I refuse,” she said. “To be ruled by a murderer,” she added boldly.

The boy jerked his head in her direction and recognized her as one of his friends– well, one of the friends who had abandoned him. But still, he was grateful to her for standing up to the Magistrate.
Sparked by her words, others began to stand up to speak.

“I agree!”

“The boy is more fit to be our Magistrate!”

“She’s a murderer!”

“She should be put to death!”

The Magistrate was paling quickly. “I only did it for our good– we were a better people because of my actions–”

“Lies!” The boy was angry now. “You claim that you have made us a better people, yet you have changed nothing. You have blindly forced us all to follow the sadistic traditions of our society. You haven’t changed a thing. And you are trying to cover up the fact that you murdered a man with the fact that you have apparently made us a ‘better people?’ What a pathetic excuse.”

Nearly all the people had risen from their seats now, and were chanting loudly, obviously furious with the Magistrate. “Put her to death!” they screamed together. 

The boy strode up to where the Magistrate was hanging over the balcony. She looked as if she was shivering slightly in fear.

“You can admit your defeat now, Magistrate, and we will see fit that you are punished with justice. But if you still refuse to admit that you are responsible for the deaths of countless innocent people, your own people– who are no longer so loyal to you– can decide your punishment,” he spoke confidently. 

Everyone was unified against the Magistrate now, chanting and jeering. Even her guards had abandoned their duty. All seemed lost for her now.

Something strange seemed to flash behind the Magistrate’s eyes. Her mouth twitched. Her shoulders slumped. All emotion seemed to have left her body. “You will never take me,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

The boy knew what was coming. “Don’t do it,” he urged her. “It’s not worth it.”

The Magistrate stared into the boy’s eyes and wildly scanned the crowds of the people who had abandoned her. 

What happened next seemed to be in slow motion. The Magistrate stepped over the railing and fell. She hit the ground, her body sprawled awkwardly in the dust. She no longer looked like a hero or a villain. She was no more than an old woman who had forgotten what it meant to truly live. 

Just before her eyes glazed over, wispy words seemed to float from her mouth, into the air, so quiet that only the boy could hear.

“Forgive me.”

And she breathed a last breath. 

All was silent in the stunned stadium. Nobody dared to speak, to cheer, to mourn. The jeering crowds were silent, unable to jeer. The Magistrate had taken her own life just to escape the shame of her actions. It was all over, but not in the way that anybody had wished.

The boy bent down sadly and answered her, though he knew she could hear no longer.

“I forgive you.”

Violet the Explorer

Once, a long, long time ago, there was a small meadow on a large continent which was protected by a tall mountain range. This meadow had just a little short grass, as the rest had been eaten by cows. In this meadow, there was a small cow named Violet. All the cows were very sad because there was not enough grass in their meadow, and no way past the mountain range. However, just across a fast river, there was a large, green meadow. In this meadow, there was large, green grass and no more cows. 

Then, almost like magic, she found a small, rickety bridge. Violet carefully crossed first, followed by the other cows, and made it to the meadow. Unfortunately, in a month, the cows had eaten all of the grass there and were always in the sun without the protection of the mountains. Then, they saw that the grass on their old side was much greener. Thinking about the many years in the small meadow, Violet attempted to cross the bridge again, but it broke, dropping them down into the river. She floated down the river, unable to return.

Meanwhile, a way down the river, Violet was trying to swim back to the other cows, but the current pulled her along and all their energy had to be put into floating. Using all of the remaining energy she had, Violet finally got up to the riverbank and lay there, coughing. Soon afterwards, a small black sheep ran up, poking the strange cow with their hoof. She groaned in pain. Not knowing what to do, the sheep dragged her back to their house.

When Violet woke up, the sheep came over and said, “Are you all right? I found you by the river. I’m Coal.”

“Violet,” was all she could muster to say. 

After about a week, Violet had regained most of her energy, and was able to walk and speak. She really wished she could go back to her meadow, but there was no way except the river and the mountains. She knew she would have to take one. 

She decided after going through the strong river current that she would try to climb the mountains. She brought some grass for the road and a blanket for warmth. Leaving the cozy house of the sheep, Violet knew she would have a hard journey ahead, but she felt ready. She set off to the base of the mountain. 

After about an hour of hiking, she arrived at the base of the mountain. Looking up, she could see it looming, breaking the clouds above. She had no idea what to think, or how she would ever reach the top. She put two hooves on the mountain and tried to pull herself up, but fell. Then she saw a path which cut through the mountain. She decided to walk that way instead.

After a while, when she had gotten a little in, a wolf jumped in front of her. She turned, but there were more behind her, and next to her… She was surrounded! One of the wolves approached, growling. 

“I am the head of this pack… You have trespassed on our land. Now you pay the price…” He growled. 

“I-I’m sorry… I didn’t know this was yours, I just had to pass the mountains…” She shivered under the eyes of the pack. 

“Well, do you have anything that could… persuade us?” His eyes glinted.

“There’s a river down the road, you all seem thirsty…”  

“The cows pushed us away from that.” 

“I do have this blanket…” She pushed the blanket toward him.

The wolves took the blanket and nimbly jumped back up to the ledges on the mountain. Violet, taking her chance, ran toward the end of the mountains. When she emerged from the end of the pathway, she was back in her meadow! And there she stayed, happily, with plenty of grass. Eventually, she and the other cows built a bridge, a sturdy one, which they could cross back and forth. 

The end ... For now.


The Tales of Frog Royalty

LIST OF CHARACTERS:

FROG KING

FROG PRINCE/TADPOLE

FROG PRINCESS/LILY PATTY

SIR EVIL WIZARD FLYTRAP/S.E.W.F.


ACT I: THE FROG KING’S RETIREMENT

Frog Prince enters room where Frog King is sitting

FROG PRINCE: Father Frog, you called?

FROG KING: Yes, my dear youngest froggy. It seems now is the time to take action against Sir Evil Wizard Flytrap, or as we know him- S.E.W.F.

Frog Prince nods confidently

FROG KING: S.E.W.F. has just sent another lightning-tornado towards our small village, and if we take another hit…

FROG PRINCE: What will happen?

FROG KING: We will be forced to relocate.

Frog Prince gasps

FROG PRINCE: No!!!

FROG KING: Indeed. However, my son, if you look on the bright side, relocation doesn’t sound so bad, does it?

FROG PRINCE: I think it rather does, Father Frog, Sister and I would hate it!

FROG KING: Not for you, child, for me!

FROG PRINCE: What are you talking about?!

FROG KING: Well, I’ve been thinking. I’m pretty old, aren’t I? Eight years old tomorrow! Since your sister is the heir to the throne, I was hoping you could tell her that I’m retiring for me.

FROG PRINCE: Why do I have to tell her? She expected you to retire in at least another year, and she hates surprises! This will likely make her furious! And you know how Sister is when she is angry…

FROG KING: Of course I know, in fact, you got lucky! You were only a tadpole when she was in her most angry phase! And since I’m leaving you two here while I move to Froglandia-

FROG PRINCE: (in a whiny voice) But IIIII want to leave, too!!!

FROG KING: Hush, quit acting like a tadpole, Tad! As I was saying, since I’m leaving for Froglandia and starting a much more peaceful part of my life, I should be more easygoing. Starting with having you deliver the news to your sister.

Frog Prince rolls his eyes

FROG PRINCE: Wow, thank you, Father.

FROG KING: You’re welcome. Another easygoing thing I’ve decided to do as my final act as Frog King is befriend S.E.W.F., it seems fitting, since I was the only royal frog he ever disliked.

FROG PRINCE: You said it was my great-grandfather who accidentally lost S.E.W.F.’s crazy grandmother!

FROG KING: Did I? Well, no, I just didn’t look him in the eye when shaking his leaf…

FROG PRINCE: Father!!!

FROG KING: You can’t blame me, I was distracted by some nearby flies!

FROG PRINCE: That is not at all an excuse, but let me get this straight. You’re going to leave Sister and I to rule our small village and deal with your problems, while you go have flies with our sworn enemy?

FROG KING: Oh, no no no, young frog!

Frog Prince releases a big breath

FROG PRINCE: Oh, that’s good!

FROG KING: Actually, I’ve had it arranged for you to meet with S.E.W.F. this evening!

FROG PRINCE: You’ve GOT to be kiddi-

Frog King checks his imaginary watch

FROG KING: Oh, would you look at the time?! I’ve got to go catch a llama before it’s too late!

FROG PRINCE: Where are you going?!

FROG KING: Didn’t I already tell you? Froglandia!

Frog King rushes out of the room, leaving Frog Prince.

FROG PRINCE: Oh my toad.

ACT II: THE PRINCE TELLS THE PRINCESS

Frog Prince is waiting outside of Frog Princess’s home and knocks on the door

FROG PRINCE: Sister? Lily? *knocks on door again* Lily Patty???

Frog Princess opens the door and looks surprised to see Frog Prince

FROG PRINCESS: Why are you here?

FROG PRINCE: I missed you too!!!

Frog Princess sighs

FROG PRINCESS: Seriously, Tad, what’s going on?

Frog Prince looks nervous

FROG PRINCE: Just warning you, It’s not my fault.

FROG PRINCESS: What isn’t your fault?

Frog Prince takes a deep breath

FROG PRINCE: Father left for Froglandia just now and he’s retiring and he’s sending me to have flies with S.E.W.F. this evening and you’re Queen Frog now and I don’t know what to do!!!

FROG PRINCESS: Woah. That would be crazy.

FROG PRINCE: It is!!!

FROG PRINCESS: It would be. I know this is a prank, Brother Frog.

FROG PRINCE: I WISH. Father just left on a llama!

Frog Princess crosses her arms over her chest

FROG PRINCESS: Really? That’s hard to believe. I thought they permanently refused service to him after he spilled flies on the llama he was riding on.

FROG PRINCE: I guess he’s hoping to get lucky and find a llama that hasn’t heard of him? And hey, that incident was your fault for not screwing the thermos holding the flies the whole way…

Frog Princess glares at Frog Prince and takes a deep breath

FROG PRINCESS: Don’t you blame this on me, mister, S.E.W.F. attacked again today, I have had enough things going wrong today, you-

Frog Prince steps back cautiously

FROG PRINCE: Woah, woah, woah, calm down! Now is not the time to unleash your sisterly rage on me. What is it, 4 in the afternoon? We should be preparing for our meeting with S.E.W.F.!

FROG PRINCESS: Our meeting?

FROG PRINCE: Oh, um, right, I was hoping you would consider coming with me…?

FROG PRINCESS: Ugh! You are so lucky I was raised a good frog.

ACT III: FLIES WITH S.E.W.F.

Frog Prince and Frog Princess have just arrived at S.E.W.F.’s house

Both look nervous

FROG PRINCESS: G-g-good day, Sir F-Flytrap.

S.E.W.F.: What brings you two here? Are enemies supposed to hang out?

FROG PRINCE: We, er, came to create peace between our species. Sir.

S.E.W.F.: That seems quite boring. And relatively impossible. No wonder you are Prince Tadpole, you are thinking like a child.

FROG PRINCE: That’s not very nice. And what makes peace impossible?

S.E.W.F.: Well, peace has to be agreed upon, and as I said, it’s really quite boring. Why would I agree to something as boring as peace?

FROG PRINCESS: We brought you flies, if it helps…

S.E.W.F.’s eyes light up with excitement

S.E.W.F.: Oh! That would help… where did you get these flies?

FROG PRINCE: The swamp.

FROG PRINCESS: They’re very fresh!

S.E.W.F. claps his leaves excitedly

S.E.W.F.: Ooh, I haven’t had swamp flies in a long, long time…

FROG PRINCESS: Well, you won’t have them for an even longer time if you keep attacking our village, Sir Flytrap.

S.E.W.F. ponders this for a moment

S.E.W.F.: I suppose you’re right. Let’s sit and discuss this while eating these delicious flies.

They all sit

S.E.W.F.: Peace would be quite a new concept for me. Would you mind going over what it entitles?

FROG PRINCE: Well, you would probably have to agree to have your name shortened.

S.E.W.F.: How come?

FROG PRINCE: Sir Wizard Flytrap is a lot more peaceful-sounding than Sir Evil Wizard Flytrap, wouldn’t you agree?

S.E.W.F.: Well, I suppose. Ok, from now on I will be known as Sir Wizard Flytrap, or S.W.F., but pronounced just like S.E.W.F.

FROG PRINCESS: Marvelous! Another thing peace would mean would be that you would stop sending lightning-tornadoes towards our small village, and us frogs would stop hogging all of the flies.

S.W.F.: You’ve been hogging the flies?! No wonder my meals have been ending quicker!

FROG PRINCESS: Is that not why you’ve attacked us in the past?

FROG PRINCE: Oh, right, I forgot to tell you, it’s actually Father’s fault. Father didn’t look Sir Flytrap here in the eye when shaking his leaf.

Frog Princess gasps and S.W.F nods sorrowfully

S.W.F.: Yes, the number one rule of both Frog Etiquette and Flytrap Etiquette. I was deeply offended.

FROG PRINCE: Obviously.

Frog Princess glares at Frog Prince

FROG PRINCESS: Anyone would have been offended. I deeply apologize, Sir Flytrap, for my father’s mistakes, but you met him. He was always a bit of a ditzy frog, you know, and his actions were in no way intended as an offense.

S.W.F. nods and chews on a fly

S.W.F.: I see your point. He definitely was a bit ditzy. So, if we advance with this peace thing, you frogs will leave more flies for flytraps and I won’t send lightning-tornadoes at your village.

FROG PRINCESS: Correct.

S.W.F.: But that’s not fair. I had to change my name too, and you guys only did one thing.

FROG PRINCE: That’s true. How about we have weekly flies together, since you seem to be enjoying our flies quite a bit?

S.W.F.: That’s alright with me.

FROG PRINCESS: Perfect! We should be getting home now, turns out I have to plan my coronation.

S.W.F. raises his eyebrows questioningly

S.W.F.: Oh?

FROG PRINCESS: Did I not mention that my father has just retired and fled- sorry, traveled- to Froglandia?

S.W.F.: Interesting. I might want to join him soon.

FROG PRINCE: Well, let’s shake on this treaty and start planning.

The frogs shake S.W.F.’s leaf, making sure to look him in the eyes, and head back to their now-safe village.


Anxious on the Subway

I am underground. It looks like there are rats hanging from the ceiling. It smells like pee. I feel like someone’s carving a pit in my stomach because my mom is sick. There’s a person staring at me. And when I get off, he is following me. He is white. He looks like he’s up to no good. He looks like he wants to injure someone. He has his hand in his coat pocket. When I get off, he starts to follow me. I run to my mom’s hospital. And I tell the security guards that there is someone following me. The security guard is a big white guy, and he sounds like he’s French or something. 

He says, “We will not let this man in.” Then I go to the desk, so I can check in to see my mom. I see my mom, and she looks the same as she did before, when she wasn’t sick. Beautiful.


Identity

Pride 1 (Meanings)

lions stick with their groups,

their prides.

what is pride?

well to a lion it is their family.

to a human, it is their self regard.

to me it is both.

pride is my home.

pride is my month.

where i can be unapologetically me.

where you can be unapologetically you

the month where big corporations see you.

maybe for their own benefit,

but you feel seen.

and it feels amazing.

Pride 2 (Sidewalk)

waiting.

the sign said one o’clock

the policeman said three thirty

the volunteer says thirty minutes more.

it’s been hours since each said anything.

the sidewalk is the worst place to sit;

hard and scratchy.

waiting.

it better be worth it.

it better be rainbows and love and

warmth and

happiness.

the storm clouds better stop their threats

of rain and thunder.

empty promises that are made of

high and loud cheers.

and then the drums start. 

and the clouds are an empty threat.

and the cheers give hope.

and the sidewalk is the most cushioned chair.

and it’s rainbows, and love

and warmth and

happiness.

Pride 3 (Reason)

this is uplifting.

this is community.

these are my people. 

this is my culture.

my history.

this isn’t a choice.

this isn’t a lifestyle.

we ARE obeying love.

we are at home. 

it won’t be destroyed or 

deemed unsafe.

it is our home

Pride 4

the confetti curbs

rainbow pupils all over.

i am in my own.

ADHD 1 (School)

the window is preferred.

not the chalkboard. 

i’m sorry i can’t help myself.

the trees sway so beautifully and 

i hate this.

i hate how my grape flavored focus

melts away and turns bitter.

i hate that 20 i got on the math test.

i hate that i have to work twice as hard.

i hate that i have become my 

disorder.

i hate that it’s i’ve turned it into an excuse.

i hate that i can wield it against people

but then the blade always hits me afterwards.

i hate that i hate something that i can’t change. 

ADHD 2 (Staring Contest)

a staring contest.

you can look into my eyes.

they seem empty, 

soulless. 

but they are not.

right behind them, you’ll find my brain,

it’s thinking a thought a second.

after you blink, i’ll keep staring.

maybe on purpose. 

maybe by mistake.

and then i become me again.

ADHD 3 (Impulse)

my brain’s mantra seems to be
YOLO.

my brain seems to be

back in 2013. 

a fraternity

boy.
maybe that’s why i like girls.

he sees one thing and turns it 

into a toy or a joke.

always tugging me along.

dragging me 

left,

right

Up

down

when did he take over? 

ADHD 4

my mind waltzes ‘round

my hands can’t be held down now

the leg bounce™ begins

Judaism 1 (Reading)

letters

with sharp edges.

cutting your throat

with each ch.

vowels that

you can’t read without.

is it possible

to have dyslexia

in only one language?

everybody

knows the tongue.

why doesn’t the torah

have transliteration?

give me another crutch.

but wait… 

what is this?

memory?

all of the sharp tones

and letters

are mine.

to keep.

to savor

to love.

Judaism 2 (Bat Mitzvah)

a hummingbird’s heart

beats at 1,260 a

minute.

i feel like a hummingbird.

my heart feels like

it is making rounds

around my body.

my throat

then my stomach. 

acting like a bouncy ball.

then i have to stand.

my voice carries.

i am floating.

the bumblebees

on my high heels

buzz up to the flowers on my dress.

a juxtaposition of simple and detailed.

both bought from the same store.

i am in my element.

Judaism 3 (G-d)

a third grader

questioning her 

rabbi.

“why is G-d

always

portrayed as male?”

she could

ask anything.

always he

never she

or they

if G-d is

everywhere

then why isn’t 

G-d everyone?

G-d is

non-bianary.

sorry talmud.

Judaism 4 (Synagogue)

mosaics of love

a window of stars, flowers

an unused organ.

Music 1 (Singing)

isn’t it

euphoric

when

you open your

mouth

and you

hear harmony?

a string of sounds.

that make 

perfect

sense?

is it not wonderful

when you hit all the notes?

like a sixth grade boy

finally reaching the

doorframe

when he jumps?

isn’t it?

all of it

goes together.

when you can

harmonize

with yourself.

any song

sounds

beautiful.

Music 2 (Listening)

i know you

are fake

over produced

yet i cling to each word

savoring it to remember

for later.

each note.

i am a hoarder

i keep each

and every song 

for my own

i even steal some

from my sister.

little bits and pieces

shazam!

a new song has been added 

to my repertoire.

a playlist

for everything

for crying

for showering

for everyday 

commutes.

the notes

run 

through my blood.

who needs

cells

when you have

music?

Music 3 (Childhood)

in the car

a cover

asking

where my mind is.

in the basement

loading songs onto

a cd for a long trip.

peter’s trip cds

that shaped my

childhood.

songs written

by preschoolers

the cow in the cowboy hat.

something about a ladybug

jack and sarah.

ti esrever dna ti

pilf, nwod gniht ym tup 

sweaters unraveling.

parents understanding

me just enjoying the

songs.

the soundtrack to

my girl hood.

fiona apple when we first 

moved to new york.

single ladies when 

i was in preschool.

eminem in fourth grade.

melanie martinez in fifth.

rap in sixth grade.

and everything in seventh.

Music 4

thank you for lessons.

taught me how to dance and sing.

taught me poetry

Identity

i am not 

always

identifiable.

my pale camouflage

hides my thoughts.

my jokes,

hijinks,

ums,

and

pauses,

hide my thoughts.

always try to fill in the blanks

a madlib.

eloquence isn’t controllable.

not quite sugar spice or

everything nice.

not quit snips snails

or puppy dog tails.

a jew.

riddled with

ADHD.

a pansexuel;

a sacrilege.

a contradiction.

yet everything makes

perfect 

sense.

The Forest

The large pack weighed heavily on the traveler. He leaned on his walking stick with every step. He considered, for a moment, slinging it over the saddle of his horse. This thought was instantly abandoned as the horse was moving even slower. The traveler glanced up at the sky, the sun was low, but not quite low enough to stop. He ignored this. 

“Might as well rest here, eh Charlie?” said the traveler, addressing his horse. The horse answered by lying down on the soft grass. “Guess that’s settled,” muttered the traveler. He slung his own pack off his shoulder and let it drop to the ground. He made his way over to the horse and slowly dragged the items out of its saddle. Charlie took a few bites of grass and the traveler rummaged through the large sack. He withdrew a rather unappetizing looking piece of bread and a waterskin. He reluctantly took a little of each and then laid down in the soft grasses, looking up at the darkening sky. “Ol’ Dawson is getting too old for this,” he said, Charlie continued to munch on the nearby plants.

The sun rose and Dawson, occasionally irritable in the mornings, struggled to his feet. Groaning, he pulled the pack back up onto his shoulders and reloaded the saddle.

“Come on, Charlie,” he said with a heavy sigh, and began to walk. The horse obediently fell in line behind him. “You know, we’ll be reaching the Forest in a few days.” The remark was nonchalant but mentioning such a place made Dawson instinctively shudder and look over his shoulder. There was nothing there of course, only the plodding horse. The horse felt it too. It took several minutes of the bright sunshine to remove the grim shadow of those words.

The day moved its way along; Dawson humming a little now and then. However, the calm mood turned sour when Dawson saw the sun sinking behind a dark mass of trees. As soon as Dawson stopped, Charlie was laying on the ground. Dawson rolled his eyes and sifted through his many bags until he found his map. On it was clearly marked the road on which he stood, and the Forest. He did a few mental calculations.

“Sorry, Charlie. We won’t make it in time if don’t head into the… there tonight,” said Dawson.

The look on the horse’s face was something akin to “make me.”

“Don’t be like that, Charlie,” said Dawson, shaking his head, although he was just as nervous. Dawson pulled an apple out of his pocket and held it in front of Charlie’s face. The horse raised an eyebrow. Dawson began to walk slowly away and Charlie, who was rather sick of grass, begrudgingly got up and followed. Dawson held out his hand and Charlie eagerly crunched the apple. Dawson laughed and led the way toward his greatest fear.

The creeping darkness and the ominous trees forced Dawson to relive the countless tales and fabled horrors of the Forest. He couldn’t help but wonder if he too, would one day become a cautionary tale for avoiding these grim woods.

The sun quickly vanished and, as the sky grew darker, Dawson had to nearly drag Charlie toward the Forest. Finally, once a thin canopy of leaves formed above their heads, Charlie seemed to get more comfortable. The trees were spread out, with one every ten feet or so, but their trunks scowled down at the travelers. The meandering breeze, which outside had seemed so calming, became a gruesome hiss of foreboding. Dawson slowed his pace until he was walking beside the horse. He reached into one of the saddlebags and fished blindly around, his eyes glued to the surrounding trees.

Finally, his fingers found the item they sought and his fist tightened around it. He pulled out a fat shortsword. Its steel blade seemed the only thing not a dull shade of gray or a terrifying hue of black and green. Its hilt was of a sturdy wood and the handle was wrapped in a worn, gray leather. Feeling this weapon in his hand, Dawson felt a good bit more confident.

A few notes of song whistled out of Dawson’s lips and seemed to shatter everything around them with their noise.

Charlie’s large eyes bore into Dawson, a frightened look saying something between “Ssssh!!!” and “are you trying to get us killed?” Dawson took the message and fell silent. The threatening trees on every side lurked like massive beasts, ready to pounce on the man who broke their tranquil rest. Dawson kept his hand on the hilt of his sword. Against the terrifying and ominous power that was the Forest, the sword felt like glorified kitchen knife in his hands.

Dawson nearly jumped out of his skin when Charlie accelerated and sped past him, tearing the lead from Dawson’s hand. Dawson drew his weapon and whirled around to face a possible enemy. He saw nothing on the dark path behind him but his own footprints. When he turned back, he saw Charlie, standing in a small circle of moonlight. The three trees grouped around the spot seemed different. Their bark was a gentle brown and their leaves a cheery green. The moonlight seemed almost golden. Dawson’s nature drew him to suspicion immediately.

“Psst! Charlie, get out’a the light” said Dawson in a sharp whisper. The horse glanced at him but, instead of obeying, sat down. Dawson shook his head and crept closer to where the horse lay. Dawson drew another apple from one of the many sacks he had slung over his shoulders. Charlie looked at him sniffed the air a few times, but didn’t budge.

“Charlie, get over here,” Dawson muttered, a little louder. He turned to face the vicious trees behind him, aiming his sword as if to fight them off. He felt drawn to the spot and unconsciously began to walk backward. Charlie nodded his approval, but Dawson didn’t even notice; his eyes scanned the trees. Dawson felt something solid on his back. He turned around. Startled, he found himself in the center of the moonlit patch of forest. It felt like a different land. A sense of warmth and safety filled him; the sword fell from his hand and hit the crisp green grass.

“Suppose we can rest here for the night…” said Dawson, putting his back to one of the soft, welcoming trees and sinking to the ground. Charlie was already dozing off. Dawson felt sleep creeping up and, with a final burst of energy, rolled the apple Charlie’s direction. His eyes shut and he was deep in the restful, calm darkness within a second.

Dawson sat bolt upright. His hands reached out, desperately searching the ground for his weapon. He grabbed it and put his back against the tree. As the fog cleared from his mind and eyes, he remembered the events of the past night. A few pieces of apple core sat on the ground near Charlie. Dawson looked up through the gap in the trees above and saw the blue sky. He sighed relief and pulled his pack back on. Charlie seemed reluctant to leave the safety of the sunlight but obliged Dawson’s pleadings. They stretched their legs as they walked, expelling every trace of sleepiness.

“Shouldn’t have doubted you, Charlie,” said Dawson. He felt well rested and was setting a rather quick pace for the two of them. 

Charlie’s eyes seemed to say, “Have I ever led you astray?” 

Dawson shook his. “That you haven’t,” he said.

After about an hour of marching through the trees, which seemed barely more receptive to company than in the dead of night, Dawson stopped. A short distance ahead, the road was cut in half by a stream. Something was off about the water. Not its pitch black color that seemed typical of the forest, but its silence. The water was rushing down at a great speed but made no sound at all.

Arching over the icy waters was a bridge. Like the water, it appeared normal at first glance. Its floor was made of wood planks and it had a handrail. However, the wood had rotted to its core. Dawson motioned for Charlie to stay put. Charlie, not being especially fond of water in general, was happy to comply. Dawson thrust the pack off his back and moved carefully toward the bridge. He tapped a few planks with his walking stick, testing their strength. They seemed sturdy enough. As Dawson inspected the bridge closer, he noticed something about the wood.

“They must’ve cut down a few of these trees to make this bridge” he commented under his breath. Looking around, Dawson noticed a few tree stumps near the bank of the stream. As if in revenge, he also saw roots from nearby trees uprooting and undermining the bridge on both sides. The thick, study roots must have been all that was keeping the bridge together. Bright green vines twisted in and out of the rotted holes in the bridge. Dawson, semi-confident that the bridge could hold him, retrieved his pack.

He walked forward to the edge of the wood beams. Cautiously, Dawson placed his foot on the wood. It groaned in protest but held firm. As he walked, Dawson couldn’t help looking down into the black water. He thought he saw something move between the currents. A streamlined shape, its outline somehow even darker that the waters surrounding it. Dawson shuddered, considering what evil sort of creature would enjoy these waters. These thoughts escorted Dawson the rest of the way across. He gratefully put his feet down on solid ground, took the pack off and leaned it against the nearest tree. Dawson, careful to avoid extra weight, dropped his sword down next to the pack. Slowly, he made his way back across the bridge.

Charlie was waiting patiently on the other side of the stream. He had watched Dawson cross the bridge and was beginning to realize that he would have to make the crossing as well. Once Dawson returned, he pulled several bags off Charlie and carried them back across, stacking them with his first load.

“It’ll be easier for you to cross without all these bags,” said Dawson, removing the last load. “Follow me,” he added. Charlie got up and picked his way up onto the bridge. Dawson was checking the contents of this pack. Halfway across the bridge, Dawson heard something. He whirled around at the sound of wood cracking behind him.

As Dawson turned, he saw splinters of wood explode from the bridge and boards go collapsing into the black waters. The entire bridge began to crumble. Charlie had completely vanished. Dawson was paralyzed. He looked behind him at the pile of goods and packages that held in them the keys to his future and down toward the water. The forest decided for him. The board on which he stood snapped and Dawson went tumbling into the ice cold water.

He struggled to take a breath before his head was engulfed into the darkness. A few seconds later Dawson returned, sputtering, to the surface. As his head came up, not a ripple disturbed the horrifying tranquility of the water. Dawson spit as he broke the surface. The water had filled his mouth as he crashed into the depths. It tasted rotten and sickening.

Dawson looked around but his eyes couldn’t penetrate the inky darkness that was the river. With sudden terror, he realized that the remains of the bridge were no longer in sight. He found himself being whisked along by the currents in a nearly imperceptible way. The water remained quiet and even.

Dawson tried to think. He had a small pack on his shoulders; with luck it had a little food and water. He attempted to catch onto a branch and lift himself free of the river. His fist wrapped around the wood. For a second, he was still as the water sped around him. Dawson heard a creaking sound. As the branch snapped from the tree, Dawson’s body was hurled head-first into the water. Dawson struggled against the rushing water, desperately searching for a precious breath of air; he felt something touch his leg.

It was even colder than the water. The icy touch forced its way through Dawson’s heavy boot. Dawson instinctively jerked his leg in the opposite direction. He reached down to where his sword was sheathed. Fear clutched Dawson’s heart as he remembered that the sword, along with the rest of the supplies, were on the other side of the bridge.

“It’s probably nothing,” muttered Dawson, stabilizing himself. Then he felt the same cold clutch his ankle and it yanked him upstream. Dawson snatched a heavy root hanging over the river and held on with all his might. The cold seemed enraged by this struggle and began to pull harder. Dawson, in a burst of luck, felt his boot begin to loosen. He started to crawl up the root, attempting to loosen the boot. It was almost impossible to resist the creature, let alone move.

Dawson shivered as the boot slipped off his foot and the water hit his skin. He forced himself up the root and struggled up onto a patch of land. Dawson sighed and peered down at the water. He recognized the black shape he had seen from the bridge swimming with lightning speed up the river. Dawson decided that his best chance was to follow the river. It was his only hope of navigating out of the forest and, hopefully, to Charlie. He cast a last look back up the river to where the heap of goods and supplies sat on the other side of the bridge. Dawson cleared his head and steeled himself for the journey ahead.

He began to pick his way as well as he could through the dense and angry trees. Dawson unslung the pack and looked inside. There were a few soggy pieces of bread and an intact waterskin for supplies. He sighed and continued to move forward. The tree roots shot up from the ground; even the forest grasses were knotted and tangled. Every low-hanging vine was an invitation to trip and send Dawson spiralling back into the icy waters of the river.

Dawson climbed along the trees. He was moving blindly through the forest, his only hope being that the river led to the outside world. After what seemed like days of hard hiking through treacherous and uneven ground, churned up by the powerful roots, Dawson found himself in front of a massive, rocky hill. He saw it vanish among the forest canopy.

“Might as well have a look ‘round,” mumbled Dawson as he began to climb. As his feet struggled against the steep and gravelly side of the hill, Dawson remembered his old walking stick. It had vanished somewhere at the bottom of the stream along with his sword but it would have made a helpful addition to the climb. The jagged group of stones cut at Dawson’s bare foot, making every step that much more difficult. The rock became steeper with every step Dawson took. Not long into the climb and Dawson felt as though he was making his way up a solid wall of rock. Dawson nearly lost his balance when he felt something touch the back of his neck. It felt like sandpaper against his skin. Dawson turned as far as he could to look behind and found himself among the tree branches. Dark green leaves repelled any sunlight that might have been shining above. Dawson noticed another one of those bright patches of golden light a little distance from the river. He climbed further, forcing the heavy branches and sharp leaves out of his way and moved higher and higher. The higher he climbed, the less rough the leaves became. Near the top, they even felt soft. Finally, as his hand pushed a large leaf out of the way, a warm feeling hit his skin. A flood of sunlight and morning air hit Dawson’s senses. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, feeling the glow of the sun and air that didn’t smell of damp leaves. Dawson looked behind him and saw the massive, twisted form of the forest stretch out behind him as far as the eye could see. In front, there were still a few feet of rock to ascend. Dawson reached his hand up and felt a sturdy stone to grab onto. Using this, he pulled himself up to the rough plateau.

With a gasp of joy, Dawson saw the forest seem to melt away before him. The tightly packed trees separated and turned into a wide, grassy plain. In time, the plain met with the blue sky and calming light of day. A few other trees remained, spread far across the plain. Far in the distance, a few pillars of smoke heralded a settlement. Dawson dropped to his knees. He had no idea if there was any sort of civilization in this direction. He breathed a sigh of relief. As Dawson looked, he noticed the black waters of the fearsome forest stream soften into a shimmering river, snaking across the countryside. Dawson yearned to reach this freedom and hurried down the other side of the mountain.

The short distance he had to walk still inside the confines of the ferocious trees had no effect on Dawson’s new and joyful attitude. He walked at a quick pace, ignoring the scowling faces of the towering wooden figures. As he made his way through the forest, the trees began to thin. It happened slowly at first, but one by one the trees began to get further apart. Their powerful roots, causing upheavals in the ground, became less frequent. Their thick canopy was no longer strong enough to hold back the sunlight.

Then, at long last, the trees fell away and Dawson was standing in the plain. It felt strange, not being surrounded at all times by the frowning trees. Dawson found himself starving, and not in the mood for the soggy bread that was left in his pack. He looked around and spotted a few orbs of red lying beneath one of the remaining trees that dotted the landscape.

Dawson broke into a run as he sped toward the tree. As he got closer, his jaw dropped. His swift run began to slow until Dawson was just standing still. Sitting lazily under the tree surrounded by the remains of a few apples, was a horse. Dawson looked at the horse’s eyes, which seemed to say, “You could have just stayed in the river, it would have been faster.” 

“Good to see you too, Charlie,” said Dawson.


NYC Subway Reliability Essay

Reliability within a transit system is always inconsistent. One can never predict with absolute certainty how congested traffic is, which route is quickest to your destination, and the overall travel time from Point A to Point B. But what can be altered is communication and improved infrastructure. In New York City, riders expect their subway commute to be the overall shortest of travel times, if all goes well. It is expected that when one leaves their house, walks to their station, waits a couple of minutes for their train, gets off their first train and onto the second, and exits at their destined station, that it will all be a seamless experience. A Time Out article written in February 2019 expressed that the two best tourist attractions in New York City are the Empire State Building and the Brooklyn Bridge. If one were to look on Google Maps, they would find that on a weekday at ten in the morning, it would take around 30 to travel between these destinations by subway. One would have to walk one block to the Herald Square Station, wait for a choice of four trains departing within a span of seven minutes, get off at the Washington Square station after three to four minutes in transit, wait an additional five minutes for the next train, get off six minutes later at Fulton Street, and walk three blocks to the on-ramp of the Brooklyn Bridge. From door to door, this would take approximately 25 minutes, if a commuter could walk a block per two minutes and everything in the subway lined up perfectly. However, this rarely happens. The New York Times gathered in March of last year that weekday trains arrived early, on time, or as late as five minutes only 58.1% of the time. If each line has about twenty seven trains operating on the line at one time, excluding shuttles, that means that only about six of ten trains are considered by the MTA to be “on time.” By going more in depth, one can find out what can be done to improve the reliability of the United States’ largest subway system.

An easier change that can be made in the grand scheme of improving the subway’s reliability is the installation of WiFi in the system’s 472 stations, as well as encouraging train dispatchers to announce the status of the lines they are monitoring. Transit Wireless observed that the MTA celebrated the one year anniversary of installing WiFi to all of its 279 underground stations on January 16th 2018. While the installation of WiFi is still being worked on for the other 193 stations, the existing system has helped riders keep up to date on the status of their subway lines without the use of cellular data. When using Google Maps with Verizon’s 2GB cellular data plan, one is limited to 34 consecutive hours of usage before their charges go up. For commuters who deal with frequent delays and service disruptions, this data can be easily eaten up when included with regular data usage. The MTA’s service disruptions can cause Verizon users to pay excessive fees. By installing WiFi in each and every station, commuters’ phone plans stay intact, as do their wallets.

However, all commuters can appreciate train dispatchers providing station announcements when service is disrupted. The New York Times analyzed that delays have more than tripled in the span of five years, from 20,000 delays in 2012 to 67,450 in 2017. By encouraging dispatchers to make simple announcements such as, “(N) train service has been suspended due to a sick passenger in Astoria,” riders can be made more up to date on the current status of their commute. According to Psychology Today, “one of the most prevalent fears people have is that of losing control” (Cohen, 2011).  If riders can focus more on their alternative routes, instead of worrying about the unknowingness of when their train will arrive, the system will be more reliable for communicating with passengers when service changes arise.

A constant problem of the subway’s reliability is how long a train is dwelling in the station. Six Square Feet reports that “the system is designed for trains to spend only thirty seconds at each station before departing. However, in busy stations like Grand Central, the wait times constantly exceed this limit” (Gannon, 2017). The MTA has begun to address this problem by adding Platform Controllers at a few high ridership stations, who are primarily hired to assist train crews in maintaining the scheduled movements of trains. They are able to do so by reminding riders to step aside to allow people to alight, to step all the way into the train car so everyone can board, and not to congregate by one doorway. They also improve safety by alerting customers when the train is ready to leave, and by flashing a light at the train conductor, they assure them that it is safe to close the doors. With everyone following their instructions, trains reduce their dwell time in the station, leading to fewer delays in the system. What is shocking is how sparsely located Platform Controllers are in the system, only assisting at 11 stations according to the MTA. With ridership and delays increasing, Platform Controllers are a quick fix to both of these issues. Stations that could primarily benefit from platform assistance would be Herald Square, Penn Station (all lines), Columbus Circle, and Fulton Street. These stations all rank in the top ten for highest ridership, yet conductors do not receive any platform assistance. While there would be additional cost in adding extra controllers, the benefits of having fewer delays, which can cost the MTA as much as $389 million annually, far outweigh this con. In a city as big as New York, one delay can turn into one big catastrophe.

While the examples above have provided quicker fixes to reliability, the main issue with the system is its signaling system. This, along with better construction management, will help fix many of the system’s issues with reliability. Curbed NY reports that the current signaling system, known as block signaling, is:

A manually operated method that has been used since the subway’s inception. Subways have blocks, each typically some 1,000 feet long. Fixed-block signals are visible from subway platforms, and the information they provide to train operators are based on the location of the most recent train to have passed—this is known as a moving block system. But this method is imprecise, and because of the age of the signals, subway personnel do not actually know the exact location of the subway cars using block signaling. Much of the current system was installed from the 1930s to the 1960s, and requires custom replacement parts to be made in-house because the machinery is so outdated.

To summarize, this quote demonstrates that a majority of the subway’s signaling is ancient, and trains are spaced out by how many signals they pass in a certain period of time. If another train is too close to the signal where a train just passed, the signal will appear red, delaying that train. This system is also very inefficient, as spacing is higher than what the demand requires at peak hours. 

To make the subway more reliable, this ancient system must be replaced. The MTA has begun the transition to Communication Based Train Control (CBTC). CBTC refers to automatic, computer based signaling. This leads to MTA personnel knowing the exact location of trains, and also decreases the space between trains. This system was fully integrated onto the L line in April of 2012 and the 7 Line in November of 2018. The system is far more durable, leading to fewer breakdowns. Curbed NY clarifies, “Weekday rush hour commutes were marred by signal problems 92% of the time in 2018.” By expediting the process of CBTC, riders will be on time more frequently and the MTA will have larger profits. The 7 Line, which operates from Times Square, Manhattan to Flushing in Queens, has seen on-time performances increase from 56% in March 2018 to 91% in March 2019. With the modernization of signals, trains during peak times have increased from 25 to 29 trains per hour, the Sunnyside Post reports. The article then continues, mentioning that the “MTA said that the L Train and the 7 have the best performance in the system” (Sunnyside Post, 2018). By expanding CBTC to other lines, such as what the MTA has been doing to the E, F, M and R lines in Queens, consistency of train service will become more reliable. To increase the implementation of CBTC, more funding will be needed.

When lines are closed for a myriad of reasons, better use of time for construction will also help improve reliability within the system. Trains are frequently and erratically out of service on weekends and overnight hours. Riders are told this is “because of construction.” For instance this year, J Train service was suspended from Broadway Junction to Jamaica Center on Memorial Day Weekend. The following weekend, service was suspended from Crescent Street (halfway between Junction and Jamaica) to Jamaica Center. This is evidence of poor construction management from the MTA as the replacement of bending rails, breaking signals, and decaying stations could not be expected to be completed in a weekend. The Daily News supports this conclusion by discovering that the “MTA budgeted 900 workers for a job that apparently needed only around 700. Those unneeded 200 workers were pocketing an absurdly high rate of around $1,000 per day” (Samspon, 2018). This all adds up to extra taxpayer money, higher union worker salaries, and less money for crucial mass transit repairs. It can be theorized that working on an eight mile stretch of the J line in one weekend was not feasible as construction costs were too high. This shows poor construction management as more of the line was closed than was necessary This is supported by the fact that the following weekend, parts of the same line were still closed. To better repair crucial infrastructure within the subway system, union contracts for NYC subway workers need to be reviewed and lowered so construction work can be faster, more efficient and cost less money.

In short, the NYC subway can improve its reliability by making alternative routes clearer for time conscious riders, hiring more Platform Controllers for high ridership stations, better managing the time allocated for construction by revising union contracts, and expediting the installation of Communication Based Train Control. In recent years, there have been proposals to improve the system, such as hiring new representatives with fresh ideas. Andy Byford’s Fast Forward plan involves improving the subway by introducing CBTC to more lines and introducing longer line closures. With more organized management, the subway has also seen more renovated stations, newer subway cars, and improved infrastructure. However, it is not enough to keep the system functioning for eight million New Yorkers. With stations as old as 115 years old, more action needs to be taken to keep the New York City subway system thriving. New York is the biggest city in the United States, with almost twice the metro area of Los Angeles. With a city this big, it can take as long as two hours to travel from one end to the other in a car. With the subway, it could take one hour, or three. Cities depend on reliable transportation to grow and expand. Without it, the city cannot sustain its populace needs, leading to a more troubling future with a worsened economy. The New York City subway should be thriving. As of now, it’s merely surviving.

Bibliography:

Fox, Alison, et al. “Firsthand Accounts of a subway in Shambles.” Am New York, 9 Oct. 2018, www.amny.com/transit/nyc-subway-delays-1.21683620.

Berger, Paul. “New York City’s subways Are Slow, Crowded and Smelly-Officials Say Part of the Problem Is You.” The Wall Street Journal, Dow Jones & Company, 21 Sept. 2018, www.wsj.com/articles/new-york-citys-subways-are-slow-crowded-and-smellyofficials-say-the-real-problem-is-you-1537544194.

Matthews, Kayla. “What’s Gone Wrong with New York’s subway System – and How Is MTA Planning to Fix It?” CityMetric, 2018 www.citymetric.com/transport/what-s-gone-wrong-new-york-s-subway-system-and-how-mta-planning-fix-it-4155.

“The Best New York Attractions.” Time Out New York, Tazi Phillips, 15 Feb. 2019, www.timeout.com/newyork/attractions/new-york-attractions.

“How Many Trains Are on a New York subway Line at Any given Time?” Quora, www.quora.com/How-many-trains-are-on-a-New-York-subway-line-at-any-given-time.

“Transit Wireless Celebrates 1 Year of Full MTA System Coverage.” Transit Wireless, 16 Jan. 2018, transitwireless.com/transit-wireless-celebrates-1-year-of-full-mta-system-coverage/.

“Mobile Internet Data Usage Calculator.” Confused.com, www.confused.com/mobile-phones/mobile-data-calculator.

Cohen, Elliott D. “The Fear of Losing Control.” Psychology Today, Sussex Publishers, 22 May 2011, www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/what-would-aristotle-do/201105/the-fear-losing-control.

Gannon, Devin. “Overcrowding and ‘Dwell Time’ Are Why NYC’s Subway System Is Failing.” 6sqft, 28 June 2017, www.6sqft.com/the-subway-system-cant-handle-nycs-growing-popularity.

“Your Ride Matters.” Mta.info, web.mta.info/nyct/service/YourRideMatters/StrategiesforImprovingService.htm.

“Introduction to Subway Ridership.” Mta.info, web.mta.info/nyct/facts/ridership/.

Frishberg, Hannah. “A Guide to NYC subway’s Ailing Signal System.” Curbed NY, Curbed NY, 27 Feb. 2019, ny.curbed.com/2019/2/27/18240200/mta-nyc-subway-signal-delays-infrastructure-guide.

“The Economic Cost of Subway Delays.” Comptroller.nyc.gov, 1 Oct. 2017, comptroller.nyc.gov/reports/the-economic-cost-of-subway-delays/.

Spivack, Caroline. “Signal Delays Snarled Subway Commutes Nearly Every Day in 2018.” Curbed NY, Curbed NY, 14 Jan. 2019, ny.curbed.com/2019/1/14/18182360/mta-nyc-subway-signal-problems-riders-alliance.

Staff, Pcac. “The Complicated Progression of CBTC.” PCAC, 13 July 2017, www.pcac.org/blog/the-complicated-progression-of-cbtc/.

Krisel, Brendan. “NYC Weekend subway Service Changes May 25-26.” New York City, NY Patch, Patch, 24 May 2019, patch.com/new-york/new-york-city/nyc-weekend-subway-service-changes-may-25-26.

Pereira, Sydney. “NYC Weekend subway Service Changes June 1-2.” New York City, NY Patch, Patch, 31 May 2019, patch.com/new-york/new-york-city/nyc-weekend-subway-service-changes-june-1-2.

Sampson, Brian, and Brian Sampson. “Got Subway Anger? Aim It at the Unions: Their Contracts Inflate Construction Costs.” Nydailynews.com, New York Daily News, 7 Apr. 2018, www.nydailynews.com/opinion/subway-anger-aim-unions-article-1.3738252.

Twig

Chapter One

Crunch. Twig winced at the sound of his footsteps. He was used to being silent, and the distinct crackle of the leaves beneath his foot was a new sound. This was because he was walking. Twig usually ran, and when Twig ran, he flew. This came in handy for hunting, a skill required for living in the forest. Although Twig did not especially enjoy killing his brothers for food, it was necessary to survive.

At the sound of a rustle, Twig crouched, ears perked up and eyes searching. He hid behind a bush, watching carefully. There it was again. Twig craned his neck and saw the rabbit. He slowly stood, placing one lanky leg in front of the other. Suddenly, he pounced, and the rabbit lay lifelessly on the ground. 

Twig had a way of doing things, a way of getting things done. He smiled to himself, comforted by the thought, and slung the dead rabbit over his shoulder. He then took two rocks, violently struck them together, and happily watched the sparks appear. Eventually, a fire billowed up from a pile of branches and dead leaves, and Twig threw the rabbit in, watching the flames lick its fur and roast it.

Stomp. Twig turned his head. He knew that sound. It was the sound of violence, the sound of gunshots, the sound of fear and misunderstanding. It was the sound of humans. He bolted, not bothering to put out the fire and take the rabbit. As Twig sprinted, he heard the gruff voices of hunters echoing in the distance.

“A fire!” one shouted. “Someone was here.”

“Nevermind, just continue. We aren’t detectives. We’re hunters. Now let’s get a move on.”

Twig stopped. Hunter, he thought. He didn’t have the word for what he felt, but the image of the fire he had roasted the rabbit in flared up in his mind. He stowed “hunter” away with “human” in the back of his brain. Twig had been collecting words over the years, and his vocabulary was growing. He had gathered words like “gun,” “kill,” “stag,” “dinner,” “idiot,” and “twig,” the name he had picked for himself without knowledge of its meaning. Twig didn’t know what idiot meant either, but he liked the sound of it.

Twig knew he was somewhat human, but he didn’t like to think of himself that way. Afterall, humans did terrible things like abandon their children in the woods with nothing but a small parcel of food and a threadbare blanket and kill animals for entertainment. He did not know much, but he did know that he would never ever go back to his life with his parents, where he would surely live in a dismal grey box with a little clear square as his only way to see the outside world. No, Twig was perfectly fine here in the forest, with rabbits and deer and owls for company. He wanted to stay, and if he could outrun a bear, he could certainly outrun a human.

In the distance, the sun was setting and casting a fiery glow. Twig used the sun and sky as a clock. He knew that even if he had a real one, he wouldn’t be able to understand the confusing numbers he often heard hunters shouting back and forth to their companions. 

Twig lay out a heap of dead leaves on the forest floor and settled into the pile under the protection of a large tree. His dinner was gone, and most of the forest creatures were nestled into their hideaways by now, so Twig reluctantly accepted his grumbling stomach and fell asleep under the pale light of the stars.


Chapter Two

Twig was awake at the crack of dawn the next morning to find breakfast. Although he did not have a mirror, he knew he was getting thinner, because his ribs were visible through his stomach. He scampered up the tree he had slept under and crouched at the top, turning in a circle slowly and scanning the scene below. 

Empty again, but wait… there it was! A streak of white against the greens and browns of the forest floor. It was running fast, and in a flash, Twig was out of the tree and chasing the rabbit. Leaping over logs, splashing through ponds, swinging on low branches, the young boy was only human in appearance. But the rabbit was like lightning, for he had animal blood. The wild chase abruptly ended when Twig realized that he would not catch the rabbit, and he sat back in defeat. Suddenly, he realized why everything was so difficult. He was a boy, not an animal, a boy with no place to go. He felt his eyes grow wet, and a single tear rolled down his cheek.

Why, he thought miserably, doesn’t anybody want me? My parents don’t want me, the forest doesn’t want me. My whole life I’ve wanted to belong, but I don’t seem to anywhere. I’m a fake– a boy pretending to be an animal to fit in. That’s what I am, a fake! A lonely fake. Of course, Twig thought all of this with his emotions, instead of the correct words.

Suddenly, he stood, fists clenched and palms sweaty. Twig began to walk swiftly, and his brusque pace gradually turned into a run. Hot tears streamed down his face, and the wind whipped his long, ungroomed hair around, but Twig didn’t care. He ran and ran until his feet were sore and his back ached, but still he didn’t stop. Twig ran until the sun had melted into the horizon, and stars began to peek through the black blanket of sky. As a cloud drifted across the sliver of moon, Twig finally stopped. It was too dark to see anything, so he lay beneath the endless sky and cried himself to sleep.

Chapter Three

When Twig woke the next morning, he heard voices chattering and laughing. Something growled like a starved bear, and someone else yelled out a word angrily that cracked like a falling branch. Ladies shrieked, dogs barked, and wheels crunched on a gravel road. Twig curiously peeked around a tree, and almost toppled over in surprise.

Before him, was a long road, with buildings and carriages and people. So many humans! Twig had never seen so many in one place before. He longed to touch the colorful hats that delicately perched on the ladies’ heads, and the gleaming gold watches clasped around the men’s wrists. The road was half carriages, half automobiles, and Twig jumped back in surprise at the loud angry sound they made. Was there a hungry bear hidden inside? 

This place is strange, thought Twig, but he stopped all questioning when a delicious scent wafted through the air. He turned towards a stand full of rainbow scoops on brown triangles.

“Ice cream, ice cream,” a man was calling out. “Cold fresh ice cream!”

Twig didn’t know what ice or cream was, but the colors were so vivid and appealing that he was up and running in seconds flat. Twig sprinted towards the stand and right into the middle of the street. A horse whinnied and a shining black automobile screeched to a halt. Another horse with a coat of caramel began to act up, and soon he was galloping down the street and neighing noisily.

“Hey, come back here you lousy beast!” screamed a man, shaking his fist furiously. He turned to Twig. “You vile, disgusting little child. How dare you scare my horse! You just wait till your mother finds out about this!”

Twig stared at the man blankly. Then, he lifted a finger to point at the man and said weakly, “idiot.”

There was a moment of tense silence as the man’s sweaty face grew a deep shade of purple. “What did you just call me?” he roared.

“Idiot,” he repeated, this time with more confidence. Twig did not know why the man was so angry, but he decided it was not worth losing time and ice cream over, so he walked away, leaving the man sputtering behind him.

Chapter Four

The refined ladies and gentleman looked down in horror at the small, dirty, half naked boy walking confidently through the streets. On the outside, Twig remained calm, but on the inside, he was petrified. The truth was, Twig would’ve given anything to return to his home in the forest, but he knew he didn’t belong there. Although it was painful to think about, Twig wondered if he could fit in here, in the big city full of ice cream and horses and screaming men. It would have seemed completely out of the question just two days ago, but Twig was changing, and so were the possibilities.

“Excuse me little boy, are you lost?” asked a lady. She was short and round, with a feathered hat and a skirt so enormous Twig wondered what she was hiding in it. “Are you lost?” she repeated.

“Lost,” said Twig flatly. “I am lost.”

The lady looked oddly at Twig. “Well uh… my name is Ms. Thompson. What is your name, little boy?”

“Twig.”

“And what on earth are you doing here without a guardian and dressed in nothing but an animal skin loincloth?

Twig looked down at the cloth tied around his waist. He hesitated, but remembered that Ms. Thompson was the only person who had shown him kindness. So he told her everything, from his abandonment to his arriving in the city. Surprisingly, there was not much to tell, but nonetheless, Ms. Thompson stood there gaping and wide-eyed.

Finally she said, “Well… Twig, why don’t you come with me to my house and we can get you all cleaned up. And for goodness sakes, when did you last take a bath?”

Twig just shook his head.

Ms. Thompson copied the gesture, this time in exasperation. And mumbling to herself about how unhygienic children were, she rushed ahead, Twig following close behind.

When they arrived at Ms. Thompson’s house, Twig gasped. It was very different from his pile of leaves at home. The house was bright white and guarded by sturdy pillars. A staircase lead to the ornately carved entrance, and Twig found himself eagerly running up the marble steps. Inside, the mansion was even more breathtaking. The carpet was plush, the curtains were scarlet, vases of exquisite flowers were placed on every surface, and a glittering chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling. It sparkled and glistened, and Twig couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“Stars,” he said softly, remembering how brightly the stars had shone in the forest.

Ms. Thompson smiled. “Now then, let’s get you into the bathtub. You’re stinking up the place.”

Twig didn’t like the sound of bathtub, so he decided to show Ms. Thompson he was perfectly capable of cleaning himself. He lifted his arm to his mouth and began licking the grime and dirt away.

Ms. Thompson shrieked. “Stop doing that at once! If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were an animal!”

I thought I was one too, thought Twig as he let his arm drop to his side. Although he was surprised by Ms. Thompson’s sudden outburst, her tone softened when she said, “My daughter will see to it that you are clean and well fed.”

Suddenly, she yelled, “My darling little girl!” in a tone so squeaky and high-pitched Twig fought the urge to cover his ears. 

When he looked up, a lovely woman was gliding down the tall, winding staircase. Her skin was so translucent, it looked as if it was made of starlight, and Twig wanted to leap into her arms and be buried in the folds of her satin skirts. She smiled warmly at him and spoke in a gentle voice, lightly laced with an English accent. 

After Ms. Thompson told her Twig’s story, a look of worry came over her face. “And you haven’t offered him anything to eat, Mother? It’s as if you’ve never had guests before! You poor thing, you must be starved. Here, try this.” The beautiful woman handed Twig a little pink circle with a strawberry in the middle. Twig bit into it, and was flooded with its sweetness. He immediately scarfed down the rest.

The woman smiled again and held out her dainty hand. “Come along now, you must be washed and groomed.”

Twig obligingly followed her up the staircase and to a white tiled room. In the middle of the room, was a polished white tub, with little silver bars and various bottles of pastel, good smelling stuff.

“You may call me Ms. Lily. What is your name?” asked the woman.

Twig looked down at his feet, ashamed of his dirty face and odd name. “Twig,” he said softly. 

To his surprise, Ms. Lily giggled gleefully. “What a wonderful name!” she said. “And what a wonderful little boy you are!” Twig felt his cheeks grow hot and he kept his eyes glued to the ground. This perfect woman had called him wonderful.

Ms. Lily turned one of the bars, and at once a waterfall gushed out. Twig jumped back, then cautiously peeked over the side of the tub, expecting to see little red fish darting around in the clear water. But instead, all he saw was the bottom of the tub. What was this magical place, where fresh water appeared every time you turned a handle?

Ms. Lily interrupted his thoughts by ordering him to undress and step into the bathtub. Twig did this too with much caution, but when the warm water pooled around him, and the lavender scented shampoo bubbled and frothed, Twig closed his eyes and melted into the water. He was instructed to wash himself with the soap, (the little white square) and scrub his hair with shampoo and conditioner, (the bottles of pale yellow and green). Twig took the soap and breathed in its scent. It smelled like the wild berries he had eaten in the forest. He longed to taste their tangy sweetness again, so he took a big bite of the soap. He immediately spit it out, disgusted. It did not taste like berries. Why was everything so confusing here?

When Twig finished bathing and was dried, Ms. Lily ducked into something called a closet, and Twig began to worry when she didn’t reappear. Finally, she came out, holding a pair of navy pants and a matching blazer. 

“We’ll need to buy you a bow tie for this,” she said matter of factly, and Twig nodded along although he had no idea what a bow tie was. He took the clothing, and following Ms. Lily’s directions, tugged on the pants, fumbled with the buttons on the shirt, and slipped on the blazer. The clothes felt itchy and stiff against his skin, but even worse were the black shoes. They were tight and squeezed his toes all together. How would he run in these? 

But he was rewarded for all of his discomfort when he stepped out and saw Ms. Lily. Tears came into her eyes as she said, “Oh my, you look just like him. Both so handsome…”

Twig tilted his head in confusion.

“Oh, he was my brother. He died of pneumonia three years ago. It’s nothing really. You mustn’t concern yourself with it.” But despite her comforting words, Ms. Lily continued her weeping. 

Twig walked to her, and slowly put his arms around her. For a moment, there was a break in her tears as she rested her hand on his cheek. Twig closed his eyes and felt her cool skin. Tears trickled down his cheeks as he remembered all he had lost. But then he remembered all he had gained, and he wrapped himself tighter around Ms. Lily. She stroked his cheek lovingly. 

“My beautiful boy,” she said softly. “My beautiful, beautiful boy…”

Chapter Five

Finally. Twig was needed. He was loved. He belonged. He really, truly, belonged. It had been almost a year since he had first arrived in the city, and already Twig was adapting to its strange ways. True, he started out eating meals by putting his face into the plate and eating the food like an animal. But eventually, he learned to use silverware. He learned to do all kinds of wonderful things, like cook and dance and sing and play baseball. He even started attending school and talking in full sentences. But perhaps the most wonderful thing of all, was when he learned to read and write.

Twig loved books. He gobbled them up for hours at a time, and he learned from them too. In time, he became intelligent and witty and quick-minded, and when he learned the alphabet, he wrote. He wrote stories of far off lands with witches and dragons and imprisoned princesses and knights in shining armor.

He wrote stories of little boys who were abandoned and lonely, but they were always found and welcomed with open arms in the end. Twig wrote and wrote, and people read his stories. They read them, and they sent in letters, and Twig kept writing, and he knew that one day, he would share his stories with the whole world.

Now, he lived with Ms. Lily and Ms. Thompson in their grand mansion, and he never asked for a single thing. That was, until one day, when he awoke with the feeling that something was missing. Twig went downstairs, and found Ms. Lily and Ms. Thompson chatting. Ms. Lily held a cup of steaming tea, and slowly sipped it as Ms. Thompson talked.

“Twig!” she said with a start. “You’re up early.”

He nodded. “I… I want to go back to the forest.”

Ms. Lily felt her eyes well up with tears, dreading the worst. “What?”

Twig realized his mistake. “Just for a visit,” he added hastily.

Ms. Lily wiped her tears away. “Of course. We leave this afternoon.”

And they did. Twig clutched a trunk and watched the bustling people and buildings fly by as they rode to the edge of the city. 

When they arrived, Twig slowly stepped out of the carriage. He watched a rabbit scamper by, and remembered the day, now so long ago that he had realized he was human, not animal. He took in the sturdy tree trunks dappled by the late afternoon sun, and how the scent of maple seemed to linger everywhere. He breathed in the fresh, pure scent of pine needles, and looked up at the clear blue sky peeking through the tops of the trees.

“Hello again,” said Twig.

Pulling Me Back Under

Everything was quiet.

Everything was still. The hands of the clock shifted letting out a sharp ringing sound alerting everything that it was now three am. The sound echoed throughout the empty house, shaking its walls. Everything stopped, everything stayed still as if it were afraid to breathe. As if it were afraid to scream. Nothing moved as I felt that nothing would, yet I couldn’t help feeling like something would happen. Like something was there watching me, waiting for me to move, breath, or scream. I felt the chills crawl up my spine and into my shoulders. I felt caged in my body, imprisoned, not able to break free. I was standing there still alone in the empty house waiting. Waiting for something to happen, waiting to see it breathe. Still I felt there was something behind me, something about to jump and release me from this trance where I’m stuck, waiting. The clock chimed again. However, when I turned to look it was three am again. The sound chimed another time again. I felt something reach into the depths of my soul, something I had never felt before. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t open my lips. They felt like stone pressed closed not able to move. The clock chimed again. Everything went black. It was as if it were a blink that my eyes had never opened from.

I woke up in my bed dazed and confused. I could not recall whether my dream was a fragment of my imagination or if it was a reality. I could smell the savory smell of bacon coming from the kitchen. I felt chills all over my body. I began to sit up as I rubbed my head, I felt a bump on the back of it. I stood up and walked to the kitchen. I stopped. I was stunned. There she was, cooking bacon. Her soft black hair draping down to her lower back. Her smooth pale skin. She looked so peaceful. She was so quiet. I tried to say something, anything, but my lips were sealed. My legs wouldn’t move, or rather they couldn’t move. She turned around. Her face was so pale and long. She was wearing her white nightgown with the lace hem. It was her favorite. She started walking over to me. Her eyes were white and empty, it felt almost as though you could stare at them for hours and see nothing but emptiness. She touched my face with her long, cold, boney hand. She just stared at me as though she was longing to be there in the moment. She then opened her mouth. I could see her blackened teeth. She reeked of rotting, I felt my nose hairs curl up. She let out a blood curdling scream, and then it all went black. I woke up with my hands grasping my chest. I could hear my heart pounding. I felt as though I couldn’t breathe and I was gasping for air. Finally I realised it was all just a bad dream. 

I looked over at my wooden nightstand to see our wedding photo sitting there. It was just there, like it was calling for me to come home. I thought I put all of my memories of her away. I saw the time on my alarm clock, three am. I wasn’t sure if all of this was a long series of dreams and I am finally awake, or whether I was just stuck in a trance, a paralysis, never to be woken again. It still reeked of rotting. I got up and decided to take a shower to try and calm down. 

I turned the water on and let it run until I saw the steam start to pour out of the curtains, and float up to the ceiling. I stepped into the shower and the water was ice cold. There was steam, but the water was cold. Is this another dream? I thought. I got out to wait for the water to warm up. I looked in the mirror and realised I hadn’t shaved my beard. The mirror started to fog up. I opened it and reached for my shaving cream. I started rubbing it into my beard. I looked down and saw my razor in my hand. It just appeared there, like it was meant to be there. I began to bring the blade to my beard, and watch the hairs fall into the sink. One after the other, as if it were long black rain. I got back into the shower to wash the remaining shaving cream and hairs off. The water was finally warm. Maybe this wasn’t a dream and I was awake again. The water felt good on my skin. All of a sudden the water felt thick and heavy. I looked down to see a thick heavy pool of water. Somehow the water had filled the shower up. I ripped open the curtain to try and get out. The bathroom was still covered in water. It kept rising up and up. I reached for the door trying to escape but it was locked shut. My head was touching the ceiling. Soon I was submerged. I tried to wake up, but I couldn’t. I felt the air run out in my lungs. I turned to see her floating there. She was so beautiful, her hair and nightgown floating up like she was an ethereal creature. Darkness started to close in on me. I felt her soft lips press against mine. I woke up again.

There was a pool of sweat around me. I looked at my alarm and saw it was three am again. This couldn’t be another dream. Why was this happening to me? I got up, grabbed my coat off the foot of my bed, and left my apartment building. The sky was pitch black. There were no stars because they were hiding behind the clouds. The wind swept up the fallen leaves and moved them around through the air as though they were dancing. The streetlamps were flickering and newspapers tumbled around on the ground. I started to walk on the sidewalk. No one was out. I was walking along an empty road filled with abandoned secrets. I started walking along the river. I kept smelling the smell of rotting. Where was it coming from? Was she there? Was she following me? I wasn’t sure. I kept walking faster, scared to look behind me.

There was a tunnel that led to the bridge above the river. I ran to the tunnel, hoping the smell of rotting would not follow me, and she wouldn’t be there. The smell only followed me. I could feel a stream of tears flow out of my eyes and hit my shoulders. The tears felt cold, almost refreshing. I finally reached the bridge and saw blue and red lights flashing up ahead. I thought maybe they could help me. The air felt cooler up here, like a ghost had just walked through your body. The lights kept getting brighter the closer you got to them. My legs felt as though they couldn’t go on much further. My chest hurt and my head was spinning. I finally reached the blue and red lights. They were all gathering towards the right side of the bridge, looking over. There was a big gap in the guardrail. I felt the chills all over my body again. It felt strange this time, almost as though something bad was about to happen. I walked up to them. They all looked sad, however there seemed to be a sort of calmness surrounding them. 

I asked them what had happened. They just stared blankly into the water. One of them asked what had happened, and another one responded that some insane man drove off of the bridge. They then got into their cars and began to drive away. I saw the blue and red lights fade into the distance and then they were gone. I walked across the bridge to the other side, hoping someone over there would help me escape this demon of mine. By the time I reached the town on the other side of the bridge, it was five am. I searched and searched to find someone, anyone who could release me from this pain. As I walked along the sidewalk I heard a bell from behind me. Then I felt something hard hit my head. I turned around to see that there was a boy delivering newspapers on a bicycle. The boy fell over, and I went to go help him up. He looked straight at me, but kept ignoring me. I could tell he did not want my help. 

Once he finally got a hold of it he got up. He hopped on his bicycle and rode away. Now alone I stood there in the dark, in the cold, wondering, waiting. Trying to piece it all together. Maybe I might wake up this time, maybe if I tried hard enough I could go home. I walked over to where the newspaper hit my head. I picked it up and began to read. The chills filled my body again. I felt her. I knew she was near. Why wouldn’t she go away? Why wouldn’t she stop? Tears started to pour out of my eyes and on to the paper. One after the other, weighing the paper down, smearing the ink. Scared for my life, standing there waiting to wake up, wondering how I could wake up, I felt her hand press against my back the way it used to, however it was not the same. It was different. Colder, sadder, lonelier. I felt all of her pain of being alone, all the sadness, all the cold. I continued to read, hoping she would go away. I felt her hand move up to my shoulder, as it fit perfectly into place. It was like we were a puzzle, and all the pieces fit perfectly. I read and read hoping to wake up. The tears kept flowing. The fear kept growing. I stopped. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t speak. My tears stopped running down my cheeks. I didn’t move. The chills were now rapid, crawling all over my body as if they were a nest of ants covering you completely. I turned around to see her, standing there so peacefully. She looked at me and asked if I was ready to go home. I realised I had been running from the truth, and did not remember or know it. The newspaper read: man dead. Drove his car off the bridge into the river. Screaming that he couldn’t live without, his wife. There was a picture of the man. His pale body, his black beard, his lost face. I realised why the boy and the police officers ignored me, why she was here, why the blue and red lights couldn’t help me, why there was a bump on my head.

Everything went dark. Everything was still. Everything stopped, everything stayed still as if it were afraid to breathe. As if it were afraid to scream. Nothing moved as I felt that nothing would. 

Everything was quiet.


Between Four Walls

She, the girl, stands facing sideways towards the mirror, talking fast to distract from the movements she makes, twisting her waist from left to right, her eyes quietly seeking out every imperfection. The mirror is the great enemy. The mirror is the battle. Why does she look so much… doesn’t she know what it reflects by now? Why must one stand for so long looking at a mirror that only reflects what truly is. Or is it possible that one can stand so long looking at the same thing until finally, they forget what the reflection appeared to show in the first place?

What is perfection? Why does everyone want it? It seems much like fog. One is always too far to reach it, but able to get close enough not to abandon it. It is an ever lasting search for satisfaction. Everybody knows they will never find it, but still they continue to look. Maybe they keep looking because if they stop they’ll be faced with the fact that they were looking in the wrong place all along. Or maybe they keep looking because they want to win the battle so much they sacrifice themselves in the process. Maybe.   

***

A plate unfinished. Peas 60 calories, chicken 150 calories, mashed potatoes 300 calories, with butter 75 calories. Total: 585 calories. Too many. Because if I eat this, the person I like won’t notice me and the dress I like won’t fit me and the friends I talk to everyday will stop talking to me and then I’ll be left with nothing to like about myself. So I’ll eat the peas and half the chicken and pretend I had a really big lunch which was actually just an apple and hide the fact that I want to finish the plate and eat three scoops of Ben and Jerry’s chocolate ice cream which I know is in the freezer. But I can’t because if I do then I’ll have nothing left to like about myself. So I’ll go back to my room and lock the door to return to the mirror. And then it will be just the mirror and myself. I strip naked and count every bone I can see, ribs, collar, and shoulders. This reflection I see, how come it doesn’t please me? I eat less, I workout more, but still I can’t see beauty. Why? 

I step on the scale that I long to see all day. But I have to be quick because if my parents saw me I know they’d be concerned. The numbers on the scale start to form, until I see they have gone done. What a relief, because now I can be sure that all my hard work was not for nothing, and a smile starts to form on my face, and I think to myself of how very good I feel. I wish I could share this with someone. My dad calls me downstairs to finish up the dishes so I cover my body with a baggy sweatshirt so no one can see what is actually underneath. So no one can see the truth.

***

Control. She needs it. She thrives on it. Because when her life is falling apart the only thing she has left to dominate is herself. That’s why she’s protecting a secret that is slowly killing her. Even though she knows it will hurt people. Even though it hurts herself. So she keeps fighting the enemy and the battle. But what is the battle now? For the mirror is only a reflection of what truly is. There is no one battle, there is no one reason for all the bad things. If there were, it would all be much simpler as there would only be one thing to get rid of. The mirror, the plate, the scale. . . all the battles that need to be fought to achieve beauty and perfection. That’s what she, the girl, keeps telling herself.

“I ‘ll be perfect and then I’ll be okay.”

“I’ll be beautiful and then I’ll be okay.”

But she tried and still she is not okay. Because perfection is like fog, easy to get lost in and never to be reached, and the search for beauty has always been in the wrong place, never to be found. Is it possible the greatest battles were always herself? All along was she her own enemy? After all a mirror only reflects what truly is.

*** 

I am tired of looking at the mirror for every imperfection, and I am tired of the scale going up and down, and I am tired of only eating a quarter of my plate. I am tired of hurting everyone including myself. And I’m tired of forgetting everything that once mattered to me. So I will return to my mirror. The battle that I don’t even remember starting in the first place… CRACK

 Suddenly I see thick warm blood beginning to trickle down my knuckles. Sharp pain shooting through my fist which is pressing against the ice cold mirror. I released my hand from the mirror and slowly started to open up my fingers one by one, each one more painful than the last. My hand is shaking in the end, now covered in blood, a deep crimson red. My wrist ached with a rush of pain coursing through my arm. What is this reflection I see now? Who is this person staring back at me? I can see myself, thin body, only enough skin to cover the bones sticking out of me, but only, this time I look, I am covered by a million cracks, running down my face in every direction. Lines running through my left ribs and chest. But more noticeably a large crack cutting down straight through my face. And finally I can see myself, stuck in this webbed mirror. Stuck in this idea of perfection. Is this who I am? Is this my reflection? After all, a mirror only shows what truly is.


Messages in the Wind

I walked into the kitchen and plopped my school bag on the table. After the chilly walk home from school, the vegetable soup heating on the stove smelled delightful.

“Hi Mom!” 

“Hi Emma,” she said unenthusiastically. 

Then I heard my mom’s phone ringing on the counter. I looked down. The name Johnny popped up on the screen. My mom rushed to her phone to pick up it up. She looked at me with a why-are-you-staring-at-my-phone look. I returned the look with a confused stare, grabbed my bag, then walked upstairs and into my dad’s office. Who could Johnny be?

“Hi Dad,” I said. “I’ll be in my room, ok?” 

My dad sat in front of his desktop, lost in thought. “Hi sweetie, how was your day?” he said, looking up.

“It was fine-” Ding! I looked down at the phone on his desk. Johnny. Again. So my dad knew this Johnny guy too? I didn’t have time to see what the message said, because my dad snatched the phone and shooed me away. 

“Shouldn’t you be doing homework?” 

My parents were acting so weirdly these days. I decided to ignore it for now and go up to my room. Maybe Johnny was just an old friend of theirs. 

I made my way to my desk in front of the big window facing the sea. It’s my favorite place to relax. The window gives me a nice view of our small neighborhood and the Scottish beaches of the Isle of Mull. I opened it to let in the fresh ocean air. 

I took my worksheet out of my folder. Great. Conjugation. My favorite. I sighed. J’aurais, tu aurais, il, elle, on aur-” Suddenly, a flutter outside my window caught my eye and I saw a paper airplane fall into the garden. I opened the window farther and tried to find where the plane had come from, but there was no sign of anybody except my dog, Tanzie, playing in the water with my older brother Mike. He was visiting from his first year of university and he wouldn’t throw a paper airplane at my window. I knew I should finish my conjugations, but I felt intrigued—and a little bit bored with french—and decided to go get the plane. I wandered down to the garden and found it in a flower bed.

When I picked it up, I saw it was made from part of a map. Why a map? It looked a lot like my neighborhood, and I could see something that looked like directions. I climbed the stairs back up to my room where I spread the plane out and unfolded it on my desk. Someone had indeed made the plane out of a map, the kind you find in guidebooks, but I couldn’t find any other information and the directions went off the page. It was interesting, but it wasn’t going to help me with my French so I went back to my conjugation.

But later, during the night, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned. I had so many questions: Where did the map come from? Would I ever get the other part of the map? Also, who was Johnny? And why were my parents acting so oddly all of a sudden? All those questions exhausted me and I finally fell asleep. 

The next day, my parents behaved as if nothing weird was happening. 

“Good morning Honey!” said my dad, setting a bottle of maple syrup on the rough pine farm table.“I made you french toast. I love that yellow dress!”

“Hey Little Sis!” said Mike, scratching Tanzie’s neck as he sat in his usual spot across from mine.

“Morning, thanks,” I said, sitting down. Not sure if I was thanking Dad for the french toast, the complement, or both. I ate my French toast then walked to our small local middle school. It was a normal school day; maths, english, music, French, and P.E. 

That afternoon, I planned on going to play with Tanzie, my border collie after finishing my homework. After thirty minutes of solving algebraic equations, I saw another flicker in the corner of my vision. My heart beat faster – could it be another map? I rushed down to the garden and grabbed the paper airplane and unfolded it. Another part of the same map! I ran back up to my room and tried to put the two pieces of map together: They fit! But the map was still incomplete. The directions still ran off the page.

Every day that week, I looked forward to coming home from school and getting more and more pieces of the map. After five days, I finally put the final pieces together, I noticed something odd at the bottom of the last piece of the map. I looked more closely and was shocked to find a signature: Johnny. “Oh. My. Goodness.” I murmured. “How..? What…?” I needed to talk to my parents. They couldn’t hide things from me anymore.

I walked into the living room, where Dad read his newspaper and Mom and Mike watched a cooking show on TV. “Mom, Dad, Mike, I think we need to talk.” We gathered around the dining room table. My parents looked worried and my brother just looked confused. 

“I’ve noticed some weird behavior from you, Mom and Dad,” I began. “First of all, the name Johnny keeps popping up on your phones. And then there’s this.”

 I spread the taped-together map out on the coffee table in front of the sofa and pointed to the signature. Their worried expressions told me they had been expecting whatever this was, but weren’t ready. “Can you please tell me who this Johnny guy is, and why he’s been sending me these parts of a map?” 

My parents exchanged looks and muttered something to each other. 

“Hello? Can you answer me please?!” 

They quickly looked back at me, and my mom said “Oh Honey, we’re all sorry. We think you should find that out yourself by following that map.” 

“Wait. ‘we’re all’?! Are you saying Mike knows what this is this about? And why are you sorry?” I felt nearly ready to explode—confused, shocked, and enraged all at once. 

“Calm down!” My dad said, defensively. Yes, he knew. “Fine, I’ll explain: Before- ” 

My mom cut him off. “Stop! No. We need to let Johnny explain. It’s his story.” 

“Fine. If you won’t tell me, I’ll go figure it out myself.” I snatched the map off the table, grabbed my coat off the hook by the door and stomped out slamming the door behind me. 

I followed the directions and it brought me to the market. I saw a boy, maybe twenty years old, who looked a lot like Mike, standing apart from the small crowd shopping for fresh seafood at the stalls. He seemed to be looking for somebody and when he spotted me and walked carefully over, as if he didn’t want to frighten me.

“Emma? Is that you?”

 I felt confused. “Who are you!?” 

He ignored my question. “I see you got my airplanes” 

“Who are you?!!” I repeated, louder now. 

“My name is Johnny. I’m your brother.” 

I stood, shocked and speechless.

“Let’s sit down on that bench and I’ll explain everything.”

“A few years before our father met your mom, he met a woman called Rose. She got pregnant with me, and when I was born, Rose left our father. She took me with her and we never saw him again. Then our father met your mom and had you and Mike, but my mother never told me I had a sister and brother.” He sighed sadly.

“When I turned thirteen, my mom had to leave me for the military and my grandma took me in, but she died six months later. It was quite a shock for me and it left me scarred. Social workers took me to an orphanage in Harris. My mother never came back and no families adopted me. When I turned eighteen, they let me leave and I got a job at a public library. A friend agreed to let me sleep at his house.” 

What a terrible story, I thought. How could he go through all of that with only one friend?

“But how did you know about my family?” I asked, not wanting to hurt his feelings—he was already scarred for life.

“I started doing research because I wanted to find my father. I got a lot of help from friends and co-workers, but it took me two years. When I found him—last week—I got extremely excited and I called him. He didn’t believe it. He told your mom and your brother, but apparently not you.”

“Wasn’t Mom shocked or furious?” I asked, confused.

“She knew about me when she met our dad, but it was shocking to learn I wanted to come back. It took some persuading but she agreed.” 

“Oh,” I said, still not having all the answers I wanted. “But why did you send me those paper airplanes with the map?”

“Your parents didn’t want to tell you because they felt embarrassed that they hadn’t mentioned anything earlier. We agreed to let you figure it out by yourself and I must say, it was a pretty bad idea.” He chuckled. “I hope you’ll forgive us.”

I stammered. “I…I forgive you.” 

We walked home in silence, thoughts swirling around in my head. Why hadn’t I sensed I had a long lost sibling before? Did my parents know his mom left him? Why had they told Mike and not me? All these thoughts had distracted me and soon we were already home. We entered the living room and my family came to hug us.

“We’re so, so sorry,” said Mom

“Guys, it’s all good,” I said, comforting them.

“Let’s make dinner,” said my dad, “as a family.”

We all agreed and Johnny and I helped Mike make pasta bolognese while mom and dad set the table. We told funny stories and got really close with Johnny. 

“One, two, three—”

“Cheese!”

At Easter holidays, my whole family had decided to go to Edinburgh to celebrate our reunion. We sat beside Edinburgh Castle, beaming at the camera and we probably looked like the happiest family in the city, because we were! My family felt complete and we all had decided that we wouldn’t keep secrets anymore. I never wanted this moment to end. I looked up and saw Johnny, smiling at me, mouthing, “thank you.”


Normar at Dawn

He left early morning, before the sun had even thought of rising. He took the bag he packed last night and was gone. The squeaky stairs and door were a ghost of a sound to the rest of us as we slept soundly. He said he didn’t want us to see him leave, that it would be easier for everybody. Or that’s what he wrote on the little scrap of paper he left behind. I disagree. I grab the other letter he left, the one with my name written on it in blue ink, and quietly leave the house.

I run as fast as my legs can take me down to the port, dodging crates of fish and clams that are being carted up from the fishing boats. They ooze a salty smell that I have grown up surrounded by, that everyone here has. I weave my way between merchants, whose carts are piled high with barrels of seafood, bags full of salt, and piles of sail cloth and rope. They will leave Normar at sun set. 

Precious few outsiders stay in Normar for long; there is nothing for them here. Job opportunities are few and far between. Most of us are sailors and fishermen, at sea all day from dawn to dusk, sometimes longer. The rest are traders, weavers, shipwrights, glass blowers. Our town is one built around the sea: there are no cobblers, for leather will only be ruined by the water; no silversmiths, for the metal will simply tarnish. Those who are born here though, often stay for a lifetime, for generations. Sons and daughters learning their trades as they watch their parents perform them. 

But Normar is no place for artists, for writers or scientists. Many townspeople would have hired my brother, for his deft hands or sharp eyes, but he didn’t want to spend his life here. It made sense; of course Normar is no place for an artist like him. His creativity is wasted here. So he’s on a boat, preparing to go somewhere new, to London, then maybe even Paris. He’ll probably never return.

The bell on the dock begins to clang adding to the cacophony of the streets. I turn sharply, towards the sound. It signals ten minutes to the next ship’s departure, my brother’s departure. I, like all the other people of Normar, know the sound by heart. I can tell you when it signals an arrival, a departure, or simply the time of day. Some things you learn by living. 

I stand at the edge of town center, on the brink of complete chaos. There are vendors who sell their products out of the bottom floors of their homes, pushing out farther into the street than they have a right to. Donkey carts positioned at opposing angles, making it difficult to get through. I dive in head first, side stepping children playing tag, ducking through conversations, and dodging the brooms and canes of men and women fending off the hordes of hungry seagulls. The air is filled with shouting, disgruntled neighbors and competing merchants. They are accompanied by a clatter of wood and metal. I step out of the chaos, not entirely unscathed, but in relatively good shape. I check my pockets quickly to make sure that his letter wasn’t stolen.

I hear someone shout my name and I wave a friendly hello, still walking quickly towards the seashore. I step onto a side street and a crash sounds from a few yards away. I quickly pivot towards the source and see a few of my father’s friends, Steve and Martin, I think their names are, struggling to keep a stack of barrels from toppling over.

“Maria!” one of them shouts. “A little help here?”

“Sure thing.”

Quickly, I rush over and take the barrel from him. It is heavier than I am expecting, and he and I both lower it to the ground while he balances another. As the men work, I steady the foundation, ensuring that none of us are crushed beneath the barrels. Judging from their weight, I guess they are full of lobster, so I work with caution. I definitely wouldn’t want to set these little sea devils loose. When we are finally finished, Martin and Steve wave a goodbye as I continue towards the dock. 

My earlier walk is now a run, racing the sun, even though I should have plenty of time. But when I reach the dock, I slow down and when I reach the post, where there is supposed to be a rope tied, mooring the ship to land, I come to a full stop. I see the boat already much too far from port, the sails out and full of wind, blowing him away from me.

 He said it would be easier like this. How can a single envelope be easier? With its messy white seal and chicken scratch writing. It’s not better. Two pieces of paper aren’t better. A letter telling me how much he cared about me, and I know it’s selfish but I can’t help but think that if he really cared he would have stayed. Sailors bustle around, continuing their work as I unfold the other leaf of paper. It’s a portrait of both of us, his arm over my shoulder. We look so close, and for a moment I forget how far apart we really are.


The Last Robbery

Prologue

In the small town of Memphis, Tennessee, where the crime rate was high, two robbers simultaneously spotted their next job. 

Paz was slim and worked behind the scenes. She sat on the dirty curb next to a busy street. Traffic screamed in her ears while she scanned a newspaper article. Her face lit up as she found the house waiting to be robbed. A grin spread across her face, and her eyes widened.

Dave was a tall and stocky man. He was very clumsy, which was not a favorable trait for a robber, but he still got away with it. He drank warm coffee from Starbucks in his apartment. He bit his lip when he set eyes on the article. His face dropped as he started the plan.

Lurking in the shadows, a greater evil held the newspaper with a gleam in his eyes.

***

Dave

I sit in my musty apartment, planning my next robbery (and figuring out how to pay rent this month). I know that my neighbors, the Henkins, will leave to go to Hawaii this afternoon. My stomach tingles and I twist my thumbs every time I steal from someone. I’ll spy on the house before I go in.

I go over and decide that they’re gone after a wait in the yellow and green shrubs that seem to trail on forever. I walk around the house, through the gate and into the backyard. My lock picking will take a while, and I don’t want anyone getting suspicious. I figure the other neighbors will be easily convinced that I’m taking care of the Henkins’ lizards. 

I slowly open the kitchen door in the back of the Henkin’s house. The guilt is already creeping around the house with me. I know it’s only a trick on the neighbors, but I do wind up checking on Dexter and Kiwi, the family’s lizards.

“Hi, Dexter! Hi, Kiwi! Do you miss your family? Oooh, yes, you do, yes you do- o,” I say in a baby voice to them.

Acting out Dexter’s rough, made-up voice, I say, “The telephones aren’t working!”

“Oh, Dexter, I might be able to fix those, right after I rob your house okay!” I respond in my normal voice. I chuckle and move away from the terrarium the lizards are kept in. 

I poke my head further into the kitchen, pushing back the thought that I have to do this quickly. A smile slowly spreads across my face every time I enter the Henkins’ house. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, is clean and organized. There are two candles in copper candle holders sitting the same exact distance away from the clear vase in the center of the table. Purple, blue, pink, and yellow flowers spring up from the rim of the vase, growing off of the table, slithering on the ground, and wrapping around my feet like snakes. I blink and rub my eyes and the flowers turn back to normal. Turning around to the living room and leaving the flourishing flowers behind twists my smile into a slight frown, but I have the willpower to leave.

The Henkin’s living room holds a long, curved, brown couch. An oval blue rug lays on the oak floors beside a small glass coffee table.

As I explore the living room, I stumble into the office and gag as the bitter smell of the fresh cleaning supplies drifts up to my nose and races around my head, making my stomach churn. I lift my dark red shirt over my nose and mouth. I trip over a neat stack of books with torn covers of all colors as I walk towards the leather chair in the middle of the room. Sitting on the shining desk are forty-five, eight-inch tall rag dolls of the U.S. presidents. The first one in the row is George Washington; the last is Donald Trump. They all stare my way with their beady button eyes. As I think back to being here six months ago at the house party when they moved in across the street, more guilt swallows me like a wave, swarms me like wasps. Six months ago the books were not on the floor. The spot on the desk which Trump now fills was empty. The bigger white rug that was in the living room has now been replaced with the oval one.

The steps quietly creak as I tiptoe up the stairs and meet the biggest window in the house. The stars have been hidden in the black night outside. I’m so caught up in the exploration of the house that I don’t immediately recognize the sound of the door clicking open.

***

Dave ran into the nearest closet he could find, in the room of Emma Henkin, the smallest daughter in the Henkin family. The panic that had been following him flooded under the door of the closet, and soaked him with sweat. Was there an actual pet sitter or housekeeper there to check on the house? Would he be caught after everything that he had gone through? He had money once, when he was only six years old, but when his parents died, a storm of dust had ripped them and their fortune away from him. He needed this job. He couldn’t be arrested.

***

Earlier that day, Paz was at a sketchy restaurant, impatiently waiting for her small salad to be delivered to the window booth she inhabited almost every Wednesday and Saturday. Turning her head to face the window made her nose wrinkle and lips curl up. The window had been smashed in and there was a sheen of dirt coating the cracks.

“Excuse me ma’am, excuse me? Your order is here,” the waitress said in a sing-songy voice. 

Paz snatched the salad and turned away, rolling her eyes. She was not a sing-songy person. She looked down at the pathetic pile of greens and dressing. She rose up from the booth, her legs sticking to the vinyl material of the booth as she stood, lifting the plastic tray of the salad with her. She took slow, long, paces to the black trash can in the corner, which was sitting on the dusty floor. Her eyes scanned the contents of the bin, and her nose wrinkled again.

***

Paz

I push open the creaky blue rimmed door and an evil grin is plastered onto my face as I think about my plans for tonight. I creep around the neighborhood until I reach the house of today’s victims, and push through the gate and to the door.

I begin to take out my lock picking equipment and turn the door handle. It’s not locked. My eyes widen and my face becomes a little more pale. I think about whether I should rob the house or not. I’ve never been wrong before when it comes to telling if a house is rob-able or not. I decide to go in, preparing myself to face anyone inside. 

All of the lights are off, and the house was left clean. I straighten out and silently laugh at myself. I begin to forage through the cabinets and drawers in the kitchen, bending down to reach compartments closer to the white tile on the floors. I have my mind set on finding the house’s pearl. I shift my attention to the living room, ducking as I pass the large windows. There are two bookshelves in the one corner of the room, and a rocking armchair in another. One bookshelf is shorter than the other, and I carefully shove books, big and small, away, as I search the smaller one on my knees. Not there. I stand on my tiptoes and start from the top of the lofty bookshelf. I finish searching the top shelf, the two shelves in the middle, then the bottom shelf. Not there. I fling the cushion off of the armchair, causing it to rock faster. 

I’m about to storm up the stairs, but I soon regain the knowledge that I have to be fast and quiet. Softly, landing my feet on the stairs ahead of them, I go up the stairs. One. Two. Three … Ten. Eleven. Twelve! I quickly duck down in front of the biggest chunk of glass I’ve ever seen in a house.

What a terrible place for something of such value! I think to myself as I feel around the wooden floors. I search the bathroom, the master bedroom. I look everywhere. The shower, nightstands, and dressers. Under the bed, over the bed, and in the closet. Nowhere to be found. The only rooms left in the house are the kids’ bedrooms. Guessing on what the doors of the bedrooms look like, the family has a young girl, and a teenage boy. One door is covered with messy doodles of princesses finding their princes. The other door has a printed out “Keep Out” sign, held on by a measly piece of tape in the top right corner. The cool draft of the AC had caused the sign to tilt, hanging off the door. I quietly cackle as I disregard the sign, entering the boy’s room.

The smell of dirty socks makes me dizzy as soon as I open the door. My stomach swirls, but I proceed on into the room anyways. After poking my head in the closet, reaching my hands into piles of sweaty clothes, and moving around dandruff covered pillows, I still haven’t found the famous item.

My last destination is the little girl’s room. My shoulder’s slump as I pointlessly push open the door. Why would an item of such value be hidden in a foolish, senseless little girl’s room? I think to myself.

I open the closet door and my face lights up as I stare in disbelief at the valuable treasure. I’m still in disbelief, but this time, as I shift my focus a few inches up at the hand grasping the small painting. 

As soon as I recover from the shock, I grasp the baton at my waist and manage to mumble a threat to him.

“This street is my turf,” I say, my voice shaking.

The man looks up at me, meeting my eyes with a confident glare. The traces of confidence in his eyes disappear as he backs up and stumbles over the angry bird figurines in the large closet. I stifle a laugh, wanting him to know that I take my job seriously.

“I’m sorry, are you robbing this house?” he asks.

I answer him with a yes and note the awkwardness of the situation, not knowing what to do next. Should I grab the painting and run?

He speaks again before I can take action, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think you should be proud of robbing houses.”

I’m about to say that I’m not, but I realize two things. One, I called the street “my turf.” Two, I am proud of being a quality robber.

“Why shouldn’t I?” I ask in a judgy tone.

“Well it’s just not very nice of you to rob houses.” he responds.

“Excuse me? You’re doing it too!”

“I take no pleasure in it.”

“Why? Being mean and mischievous is awesome!”

“At our age, it’s really not. We should be caring for our community. It’s a little irresponsible of you to think that being mean is a good thing.” I don’t get this guy. He takes the same thing I’m after and then tells me I’m being malicious. Sure it’s mean. Sure, being mean isn’t cool, but he stole it before I did! I love sneaking around, and all of those people who have regular lives are just pathetic.

Memories of the orphanage flash in my head as I see more doodles of the family in the girl’s room. Memories of the trouble I made. Memories of the people who came and left, taking a friend of mine every time. But never me.

This family has something that I never had in me. They love each other. They have lives that are worth saving, and I’m interfering with those lives.

***

At this moment, another force of evil lurks in the backyard. He wears dark jeans, and a hunter green colored cotton T-shirt. He paces the patio after realizing that the door was yet again, left unlocked. He silently creeps closer to the muffled voices up the stairs and turns the door handle without a sound. He is now thinking sinister thoughts while positioned behind Dave and Paz, who still do not know that he is in the house with them.

***

Dave

I begin to walk out of the closet, but the woman reaches out and stops me. I know she won’t leave until she gets the painting. I freeze up as I turn. My eyes widen and my jaw slightly drops. My face is pale. Beyond her is a taller man who stares directly down at me with a blank expression. He slowly reaches a gloved hand out, expecting me to hand over the painting. He wears a black glove on one hand and nothing on the other. A large hat shades out most of his face, but I can still see his eyes and mouth clearly enough to know that he is made up of pure evil. His eyebrows curve and he glares at me. His eyes hold no shine, like there’s nothing in there, but a black heart.

I tap the woman’s shoulder and point to the man, my mouth still hanging open. She surprises me, and glares right back at him, but his expression doesn’t change and he doesn’t seem the least bit intimidated. 

The woman reaches for her baton as we reach a silent agreement. She takes a step towards the man and swings her baton towards him. He lifts the gloved hand, blocking it from touching his head. I leap forward in an attempt to tackle him, but again, his hand reaches up and pushes me onto the floor. The woman and I meet eyes. We nod, and spring forward, pouncing on the man and taking him down to the ground. The hard floors knock him unconscious and we use our socks and a few ropes from Emma’s closet to tie him up.

“By the way, I’m Paz,” the woman says.

“I’m Dave.”

We leave the house and carry the criminal to her car, opening the door and shoving him in. Paz gets in the driver’s seat and I get in the passenger seat, but the moment we turn around, he’s gone. We look around, but he’s nowhere to be found.

We pinky swear to never steal again.

***

5 years later…

Dave and Paz sit at the outdoor mesh table reading the news. A criminal named Randy Bluett had recently been caught. They exchange glances and grin, their eyes gleaming. Dave had taken the wallet of the criminal they had encountered on their last robbery five years ago. Some of the name had been scratched out, but he could read “Randy Bluett”. Dave drinks a latte and Paz drinks black coffee. Dave pays and Paz gets up and heads to work after saying goodbye to Dave. Paz now works as an author. Most of her stories are about robbers who have great adventures. Dave works as a fortune cookie writer. He gives great fortunes to bad people. It will get better . . . after you learn your lesson. Dave and Paz are the only people who know about their pasts. Besides the Henkins . . .


Someone Like You

I live in area 423, for only Jewish white people. Twenty years ago, the Federal West segregated everyone by religion and race. Each area is surrounded by a gate. If you get caught going past it or being with anyone in another area, you will be punished. Sneaking out last night was one of the worst mistakes I’ve ever made. I’ve snuck out before, but last night, last night was different.

I walked to school every day like usual. My high school is ten blocks away from my home, but today I felt sick to my stomach. It was my last day of junior year. I stopped at Quart Street to wait for Rory, my forever best friend. Rory and I have been inseparable since kindergarten. I can tell her anything and everything on my mind. We walked to school in silence. Neither of us wanted to talk about what happened last night. 

Last night me, Rory, her boyfriend Keith, and his friend Phil went to the gate to celebrate the last night before the last day of school. Everyone goes to the gate to hang out, but mostly to smoke and take drugs. I’d been there before. I snuck out at twelve, careful to keep silent as I opened the window and reached for the rope I had previously tied to my window frame. I walked down the silent streets of 423. Getting caught outside after 8:00 could result in jail time, but in 423, it was easy to sneak around. Rory and Keith were already there and Phil was in the corner smoking some new drug.

“Lena!” Rory jumped up and gave me a hug. I sat down next to her. As soon as I sat down, I heard a rattling sound. I turned around and saw Phil climbing up the gate to area 907. I sat there astonished at his stupidity.

“Get down idiot,” Keith yelled. Phil got to the top of the gate, ducked under the barbed wire, and climbed down the other side. 

“Fuck society,” he yelled and walked away into the darkness. The three of us stood there, shocked, and frozen. We slowly walked towards our homes, knowing if we went after him or reported him, we’d all be doomed. 

So, that’s why Rory and I walked to school in silence. We started to hear the screams of the kids at our school. Every yell, every shout, reminding me about last night. I was so dazed that I hadn’t noticed that Rory stopped. 

“Lena?” Rory said quietly.

“Yeah?” I turned around to face her. Her eyes were red. She must have been crying a lot. “Are you okay?” 

“Do you think he’ll come back?”

“Rory, I-I don’t know. I hope he does.”

She looked at me with tears in her eyes. “Okay.” I could tell that my answer wasn’t the answer she was looking for. We walked the rest of the way to school, pushing our sorrows away and putting on our fake smiles. 

I sat down in math class, middle-left side. Mr. Fitzgerald walked in and sat down. The bell rang and Mr. Fitzgerald turned on a movie and went on his phone. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around. There sat the incredibly hot and gorgeous Matt. Matt was on the baseball team and always played the lead in the musical.

“Hey Matt,” I said awkwardly as I faced him, his deep blue eyes staring back at me. 

“Are you okay?” He asked me.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I responded with my cheesiest grin, my voice only shaking a little bit. 

He lowered his voice. “I know what happened last night.” My heart stopped, my brain froze, and I died a little inside.

“Keith told me,” he said. Of course Keith told him. Matt and Keith told each other everything, at least that’s what Rory told me. Matt and Keith were the male version of me and Rory, except I knew Keith before Rory. I practically set them up.

“Earth to Lena,” Matt’s gentle voice whispered to me. I felt myself come back and I looked at him. “Lena, I’m here for you,” he said and reached for my hand. We sat there speechless for a while. I sat there going through the events of last night. The bell rang and my body jolted. I didn’t even realize that I was still holding onto Matt’s hand. He smiled shyly at me, and I smiled back. We walked out of the room, and I dropped Matt’s hand immediately. Rory was sitting on the floor bawling with a note in her hand. I quickly sat down and gave her a hug. 

“Rory, what’s wrong?” I asked, concerned and worried. She looked at me, her makeup dripping down her face.

 “I-it’s Keith,” she muttered between sobs, “he went to join the rebellion.”


DIY Shopping


Shopping List

1. milk   x

2. cookies  x

3. pony       x

4. paint    x

5. pillow    x

6. unicorn   x

7. book    x

8. camera    x

9. a grape (one singular grape)   x

10. spinning wheel  x

This morning, my personal shopper quit. She said I bought too much stuff and she just couldn’t take it anymore.

I was like, “It’s your job though.” Then she hung up. Now I have to buy everything on the shopping list for tonight’s gala. The first thing on the list is milk. I forget why I needed milk. Oh! I remember because cows and horses are related, I read that in an article. Cows make milk, and so… horses must drink milk, which means ponies must drink milk, and a pony is on my list. 

“I’m so smart,” I said to myself. So I got into an Uber and headed to the grocery store. I went to the dairy fridge and saw so many brands of milk, so I took one of each. Organic Valley, Horizon, Borden, coconut milk, almond milk. I looked at the list and saw cookies after milk. So I went to the snack aisle. Again, too many brands of cookies. I felt overwhelmed. I finally understood The Bachelorette. The cookies were all the guys. I actually know the girl on The Bachelorette right now and she told me what it’s like. This is obviously more stressful though. So I took out my phone and searched up best cookie brand. Nice! was the best one but Fairway doesn’t have it. I kept going down the list and nothing was here, finally I resorted to the last brand on the list, Chips Ahoy. They didn’t even have the original one. They only had chewy. I tossed the chewy cookies into my cart and moved on. I looked through the list and saw that the only thing left that I could get at Fairway involved shoplifting and the risk of jail. I needed a single… grape. I unsuspiciously moonwalked to the fruit aisle, trying not to attract any attention to myself. I began looking at grapes, trying to find the least bruised one. I needed the perfect grape. I discreetly searched the grape packages. 

“Finally!” I shouted out loud. Instead of having one of my many head voices say it for me in my head. Some old people looked at me, 

“Sorry, sorry,” I whispered. I tucked the grape into my pocket while being very sly. I took my cart to the register. I started taking out all the milks, 16 in total. Then I took out the crinkly Chips Ahoy bag. I began to sweat when the lady started to speak. 

“Would you like a cooler bag for an extra four dollars for all your… milk? Or would you like a normal bag for an extra fifty cents or would you like a plastic bag for no extra charge?” 

“C-cooler um bag,” I stuttered. My armpits were getting really sweaty, like that time I met Justin Bieber and he hugged me and then he made a gross face because I was really sweaty. Don’t worry. I’m still a Belieber. She started scanning everything and putting everything in a cooler bag. I handed her my credit card and she slid the card into the machine. Finally it was over. She handed the card back to me and I took the bag. I speed walked to the security alarm and took a deep breath. I stepped across and the beeps began. Beep. Beep. Beep. I stood in place as guards surrounded me. They had mini scanners in their hands and they cornered me. My only exit was the door. I backed up as they closed in on me. Then the automatic doors opened for a cute old lady. That was my exit! I was free. I ran backwards and then spun around so I was running facing forward. I ran to some bushes and called an Uber. After four minutes of waiting, I saw the car stop in front of the grocery store. The guards were busy searching behind cars in the parking lot, so I took a rushed breath and sprinted to the Uber. I opened the car door, breathing heavily and tried acting very calm, “Hi, Danny?”  I said with a breathless voice.

“Yes, Alisha?”

“Yup.” 

The car began moving and we headed to Home Depot. I said goodbye to Danny and entered the wonderful world of Home Depot. The first thing I saw were toilet seats. Then pipes came into view and then finally big buckets of paint. Why did I have to be so vague on the shopping list? Then it hit me… because I was mean to all my assistants. Maybe that’s why she quit. Rude. I set my shopping bags down and looked through the paint. Pink, blue, orange, red, magenta, maroon, brown, black, grey. I decided to get the grey paint because it’s a neutral color and the gala is called The Grey Life. Everyone has to wear grey so all the decorations pop out. I put the grey paint bucket in the cart and put my shopping bags in there too. I went to the comfort section of home depot. The next thing on the list were pillows. I had a specific pillow in mind despite the vagueness of the list. SmartHome Bedding Super Plush Pillow. It’s my favorite pillow of all time. 

I searched through the shelves and shelves of pillows but there was no sign of my SmartHome Bedding Super Plush Pillows. I resorted to an average pillow with some pink on it. I placed it in the cart and headed to the cash register. The scrawny man scanned the stuff and I went through the boring paying process. I ordered another Uber and checked the list for what was left. I needed a book and a camera. We were heading to Barnes and Noble. We got there and I entered the store. I was slow because of all the bags I was carrying but I pushed through. I took out my phone and took a selfie on the gram. Took a photo of all the bags and put it on my story, #thestruggleisreal.

I was going to get 50 Shades of Grey. A classic, definitely my favorite book of all time. It also went with the theme, just an added bonus. I found it in the romance section. I plopped it in the cart and then I went to the other section of the shop. It was called… other. I looked for one of those pretty polaroid cameras. Thankfully I found a bright pink one. It will really pop. I put it in there. Paid. You know the drill. Except, the sweet old lady who was in Fairway was in the romance section. I saw her when I was leaving and so I hid behind a tall man on the escalator. I ran up with all my strength and suddenly I smelled Shake Shack. The delicious smell of milkshakes and burgers and fries filled my nostrils. My head voices started talking. “Go eat it.”

“No, you have a gala to plan.”

“It smells good. Go. Eat. The. Goddamn. Burger.” 

“No! No! No! No!”

“I shouldn’t. But it tastes so good,” I said. 

“I can’t!!!”

Imagine a lady with a bunch of bags filled with random stuff talking to herself. Now you get it. People started moving away from me. 

I took out my phone once again and called another Uber. The dropoff location was the Apple store on fifth. It was near the horse carriages all the tourists love. The guy dropped me off and I walked across the street to the carriages. I went up to the first guy. He looked like Jack from Mary Poppins. 

“Is your horse for sale?” 

“No.”

“Can you make it for sale?”

“No.”

“Do any of these people have ponies?”

“Yes. All the small ones.”

“All the small people or all the small horse looking ponies?”

“You pick.”

“What?”

“Go away.”

I went to the next guy, “Is this a pony?”

“Yup.”

“Can I have it?” 

“No.”

“You’re just like the last guy.”

“Are you calling me a potato?”

“What? No.”

“All Grumpy Joe eats are potatoes.”

“Is your pony for sale?”

“Maybe.”

“How much is it?”

“An apology from you.”

“I’m sorry. Ok, can I have the pony now?”

“Make it sincere.”

“I’m so so sorry for calling you a maybe potato.”

“She’s all yours.”

I took the pony’s leash and climbed onto it. “78th and 3rd,” I said. The horse was still. “Move!” I screamed at the horse. People started looking at me. “Can someone help me move this pony?!”

Fast forward to when I finally got the pony to move. I dropped all the stuff at home. The last two things on my list were a spinning wheel and a unicorn. 

“How the heck do I get a unicorn?” I asked myself. I called an Uber and said hi. I took out my trusty mini bat and whacked him in the head. I only knocked him out for a little bit. 

“Sorry.” I mumbled. 

I got out of the car and took out my phone, dialing the number of my trusty car mechanic. I called him over and watched him remove bolts and lift up the car to get the tire. He had another appointment so he rushed off not noticing the Uber driver I had laid on the floor of the car. I got the tire out and left the car in the middle of the empty road. I rolled the tire back to my apartment. Jeff the doorman looked suspicious of the tire but I acted very normal. I said nothing and we made eye contact until the elevator door closed. Like I said, very normal. I hot glued the tire to my pottery wheel. There you go. A DIY spinning wheel.  

The last thing on the list was a unicorn. A majestic, elegant, unicorn. I know! I’ll just go to one of those witch stores. I called a Lyft because Uber isn’t letting me log in. 

The driver came, and he said, “So, you’re one of those people who believe in witches.”

“Nah man, I just need a unicorn.”

“Oh, yeah that makes it normal.”

The rest of the drive was quiet. We finally reached the witch store. I walked into the store and heard the bell ring.

“Hello?” I said, trying to make my voice heard. 

“Whatcha want?” An older woman came into view dressed in leggings and an orange off the shoulder shirt like she just came from an 80’s disco. 

“I need a unicorn.”

She went to the back of the shop. She came back with a stuffed unicorn in her hand. “50 bucks.”

“It’s fake.”

“Since when were unicorns a thing?” 

“Well, I need one.” 

“Go put a horn on a horse.” 

“When have you seen a brown unicorn?”

“Paint it.”

“Good idea.”

I left the shop and went home. When the time was right at the Gala, I would go to the bathroom, dump some paint on the pony, and stick the unicorn horn headband I wore for Halloween last year. 

The shopping list was done. I took a breath of relief. My phone dinged and I checked my phone. The contractor called in sick.


Staggering Impacts of Single-Use Plastic on Human and Environmental Health

Every year, an estimated 182.5 billion plastic straws are used globally. Not only the straws, but also plastic bags and styrofoam cups, create massive amounts of landfill that pollute world oceans and jeopardize the existence of many mammals and sea life in the water. In Canada, there have been major steps made to try and bring the country out of a place of mass pollution and towards a more environmentally friendly lifestyle. In Justin Trudeau’s statement, he describes the issue of plastic pollution as an issue “we simply cannot ignore”. Following his statement where he aimed to create a community more environmentally aware, Trudeau released the details of a new policy that bans single-use plastic and will be fully enacted before 2021. Trudeau’s confrontation was powerful and brought attention to the plastic crisis. It is also a model for how other countries around the world should be facing the urgency with which they should be recognizing the same issue. Canada’s ban on single-use plastic is critical for other countries to understand and consider implementing since its predicted effect on health concerns related to plastic as well as its potential to decrease plastic’s environmental impact is remarkable. 

Single-use plastic has many more direct impacts on human health than expected and can be surprising for many to hear. Through the life of a single plastic object, there are a few different ways in which the object is harmful. From the production of plastic in a factory, where the gases released from the creation of the material are toxic, to the consumption of foods that are packaged using bisphenol A (BPA), the entire process of both the creation and consumption of plastic is damaging. There have been studies surrounding the many chemical additives used in the production of plastic and the consequences of their presence in the human body on diseases that might form in response. In a study done by the Ecology Center, it was shown that the chemical additives that give plastic products desirable performance properties have negative effects on human health such as disruptions to the endocrine system that cause the growth of cancers, birth defects, immune system suppression and developmental problems in children. The results of studies that show the effects of plastic on human lives can be shocking for those who haven’t previously acknowledged the impact of these products on the health of humans. But the facts of the serious health implications that single-use plastic can have on well-being are much more harsh than the change in lifestyle that can come from removing these plastic objects from our day-to-day lives. While it can be hard to imagine daily life without products such as plastic grocery bags or straws, it is imperative that the health concerns tied to these products are considered. 

Although the concerns relating to human health must be talked about, there are various environmental issues that are also as important and should be mentioned as well. Specifically, one of the main issues with chemically produced plastic is that it can take hundreds, if not thousands, of years to disintegrate. When plastic is disposed of in the ocean and ends up in landfills, it is just staying there and creating islands in the ocean that are made of plastic and not going to decompose since the decomposition rate is so slow. These plastic “islands” appearing in the ocean have serious repercussions for marine life and sea mammals as, many times, these animals confuse plastic pollution for food. Animals like turtles are eating plastic bags, mistaking them for jellyfish, which is their usual diet. By ingesting these plastics, they suffocate themselves and are dying with a much shorter lifespan than they have been said to have in the past. These larger animals are quickly dying in the wild because of the plastic pollution in the waters. But most of the time, the only time humans are seeing the effects of pollution on wildlife is when the dead animals wash up on a shoreline. However, in addition to the plastic ingestion of larger animals, small sea life such as shrimp and fish are digesting particles called microplastics that are invisible to the naked eye, but can greatly affect human lives as a consequence. In a study done by Debra Lee Magadini at Columbia University’s Earth Observatory Lab, she shows that the microplastics in animals like shrimp are much worse than previously thought. In a single shrimp, she finds that there are hundreds of microplastic particles that clog up the stomach and gut of the individual shrimp. Those same particles would then be ingested by the human consumer of the shrimp and would cause the consumer to ingest the plastic particles. As aforementioned, the consumption of plastics (whether by microplastics or through the digestion of products containing BPA), the human endocrine system, which flushes out toxins from the body, can be seriously damaged. 

There have been countless studies done, articles written, and demonstrations organized that bring to light the many problems with plastic use in the United States and around the world. However, many people tend to block out the information that is being presented to them through these methods of advising the public. The blockade that is created makes it so that the people of societies nationwide aren’t being properly informed and governments aren’t successful at briefing their people. The feeling of urgency that the Canadian government is expressing is quite apparent through their policy making, however, the rest of the world’s response to their change shows the degree to which others realize the power of this ban. Surrounding countries in the Americas as well as Europe admit that there is an issue with plastic, but they don’t seem to understand how massive the negative effects could be of having such harmful materials used on a daily basis. Having plastic be so widely accepted, to the point where it is essentially destroying the world, is an issue that must be solved, but cannot be with the support of only one world nation. 

It is obvious that there is no more time to thoughtlessly consume plastic products and through establishing the ban on single-use plastics, it is clear that the Canadian government understands the importance of acknowledging this complication. The problems pertaining to plastic in oceans and, consequently human bodies worldwide, is an issue that has been lingering and waiting to be talked about. As a major global power, Canada finally took matters into their own hands and created laws that would be curbing the production and use of single-use plastic on Canadian land. Through The fact that Canada is taking initiative and creating a more environmentally friendly mindset for citizens across the country shows the importance of the issue with plastic for Canadians, but also the whole world. There are communities across the globe who understand and urge people around them to recognize the issue, an entire government hoping to bring the information about how bad this crisis really is, is a much larger step towards change in this world. 

Works Cited

BBC. “Canada To Ban Single-Use Plastics As Early As 2021”. 2019. BBC News. Accessed June

18 2019. https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-48477087

Bilefsky, Dan. “Canada Plans To Ban Single-Use Plastics, Joining Growing Global Movement”.

2019. Nytimes.Com. Accessed June 18 2019. https://www.nytimes.com/2019/06/10/world/canada/single-use-plastic-ban.html.

Christensen, Jen. CNN. 2019. “The Amount Of Plastic In The Ocean Is A Lot Worse Than We Thought”. CNN. Accessed June 18 2019. https://www.cnn.com/2019/04/16/health/ocean-plastic-study-scn/index.html.

Ecology Center. “Adverse Health Effects Of Plastics | Ecology Center “. 2019.

Ecologycenter.Org. Accessed June 18 2019. https://ecologycenter.org/factsheets/adverse-health-effects-of-plastics/.

The Globe and Mail. “Canada’s Single-Use Plastics Ban: What We Know So Far And What You

Can Do To Recycle Better”. 2019. The Globe And Mail. Accessed June 18 2019. https://www.theglobeandmail.com/canada/article-canadas-single-use-plastics-ban-what-we-know-so-far-and-what-you-can/.

Royte, Elizabeth. “We Know Plastic Is Harming Marine Life. What About Us?”. 2018. Nationalgeographic.Com. Accessed June 19 2019. https://www.nationalgeographic.com/magazine/2018/06/plastic-planet-health-pollution-ste-microplastics/#close

Westcott, Ben. “Canada Plans To Ban ‘Harmful’ Single-Use Plastics By 2021”. CNN. 2019. Accessed June 18 2019. https://www.cnn.com/2019/06/10/americas/canada-single-use-plastics-intl-hnk/index.html.

A New and Improved 2nd Amendment

The constitution is a protective yet society controlling document for the better and worse. The second amendment needs to be revised into a law that applies to our modern world and still protects those who need it. It grants too much freedom and interpretation for firearm owners and others that wish to buy a gun. In 2017 around 40,000 people died from guns and 60% were from suicide (Mervosh, 2018). The states that have the most gun deaths, like Alabama and Texas, (which have over 4,500 gun deaths combined), are the states with some of the loosest regulations (Centers for Disease Control and Prevention). Every day, one hundred people die from guns, and even more are injured by them (EverytownResearch.org, 2019). This clearly states how disturbed our laws against firearms are throughout all of the fifty states.

The second amendment states that “a well-regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed” (Nelson, 2018). This means that anyone with an able body can purchase and possess a gun. But the constitution was created many years ago, in the late 1700s, and we are in the 21st century with newer and deadlier weapons. In the late 1700s the people of the United States had recently finished fighting the Revolutionary War. It’s easy to understand why they needed this law. But we live in a modern and civilized world where technologies have advanced immensely and security has improved. There shouldn’t be a need to worry about someone walking into your home, school, or office with a gun and shooting your friends or family. If the second amendment was improved, this would be almost impossible. 

There need to be stronger gun regulations. Any person, twenty one or over, has the right to apply for a background check. The background check needs to be stronger and put within the amendment itself. Most of the states that contain major cities, for example New York and Illinois, have laws against guns and penalties for those who own a gun but fail the test. There are laws in these states that require criminal background checks for all firearms, and there are others that don’t, for instance, South Dakota, Wyoming, and Tennessee. North Carolina and Iowa don’t even keep records of guns purchased (Everytown Gun Law Navigator). One of the main reasons why there is corruption within the gun control system is that the separate state laws are very spread out, and they need to be reformed into one document that applies to all of the states.

The main parts of the second amendment that need to be edited are the following: a well regulated militia. A person that wishes to purchase a gun needs to go through a thorough background check. This involves criminal acts, mental health tests, previous family history, domestic violence, previous jobs, physical health, and a situational, decision-making, diagnostic test. The test may or may not be taken with a lie detector, but that is up to the jurisdiction of the state. This applies to all types of firearms. The “militia” who can apply for a gun must be any person 21 or over, no matter what sex, race, religion, ethnicity, gender, or any other identifier.

If this revised version of the Second amendment is put into effect, it is a guarantee that these thousands of deaths will decrease and create a safer environment for ourselves and future generations to come. Gun control is a common discussion topic, but those discussions don’t always involve a solution. Instead of making short term laws or local laws, these new changes are taken right to the source. This will open up new ideas and conversations about not just changing this amendment but our country’s founding document as well. 

CITATIONS: 

“Gun Law Navigator: Compare States.” Everytown Gun Law Navigator. Accessed June 20, 2019. https://everytownresearch.org/navigator/states.html?dataset=background_checks&states=IL-NY-PA.

“Gun Violence in America.” EverytownResearch.org. April 11, 2019. Accessed June 20, 2019. https://everytownresearch.org/gun-violence-america/.

Mervosh, Sarah. “Nearly 40,000 People Died From Guns in U.S. Last Year, Highest in 50 Years.” The New York Times. December 18, 2018. Accessed June 20, 2019. https://www.nytimes.com/2018/12/18/us/gun-deaths.html.

Nelson, Jeremy. “The Bill of Rights (Amendments 1 – 10).” National Center for Constitutional Studies. January 01, 2018. Accessed June 21, 2019. https://nccs.net/blogs/americas-founding-documents/bill-of-rights-amendments-1-10.

“Stats of the States – Firearm Mortality.” Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Accessed June 20, 2019. https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/pressroom/sosmap/firearm_mortality/firearm.htm


Scared of Heights?

Have you ever wondered if you were afraid of heights? Have you ever felt your legs trembling or wanted to crawl on the floor while high up? Do you close your eyes while riding across a bridge with nice scenery? Then you might have acrophobia. An irrational fear of heights, otherwise known as acrophobia, is a common psychological phobia that might negatively affect a person’s life in the future. Although there isn’t a permanent solution, there are many other ways to help cope with it. 

As of now, the majority of earth’s population have had a fear of heights at least once in their lifetime. However, only 1 in 15 people have Acrophobia (Boynton and Swinbourne, 2019). According to research, around 3%-5% of all people on earth have experienced this (Us and Infographics, 2019). According to these numbers, women are twice as likely to have this phobia (Us and Infographics, 2019). Although acrophobia is not that rare, it is important to distinguish the difference between being cautious while high up and actually having this phobia. Based on this information, we can tell that it isn’t a rare/unusual phobia. While in the midst of experiencing acrophobia, some of the symptoms may include: shaking, sweaty palms, feeling terrified or paralyzed, irregular or high heart rates, rapid breathing, and a fear of injury or death. People can also experience symptoms similar to acrophobia such as vertigo, bathmophobia, climacophobia, aerophobia. Vertigo is a spinning sensation in your head which can be simulated by spinning in circles. Bathmophobia is a fear of steep slopes. Similar to bathmophobia, climacophobia is a fear of the act of climbing. And finally aerophobia which is a fear of flying in flying objects such as planes and helicopters. These are some symptoms to help distinguish whether you might have acrophobia. 

There are many symptoms of acrophobia. There are just as many causes. Not only people, but also animals, can experience these symptoms. This is because for all living things, it is natural to have a fear of heights. It is an instinct for all beings to protect yourself from falling. However, some are more extreme than others. This extremity tends to lead to acrophobia. Mainly for people, it can be caused by a response due to a traumatic experience during childhood or someone’s past. It could also be caused by a parent’s nervous reaction to certain heights. Even balancing issues can lead to experiencing acrophobia. However, in some cases, people are born with acrophobia. Scientists have done research in which babies were put at the edge of a simulated cliff with a mother encouraging them to cross to the other side (Us and Infographics, 2019). Most of the babies were born with the natural instinct to avoid falling off of the edge, but some babies were a little more afraid. From this research, we can tell that they had similar reactions to the people who have acrophobia. This shows that acrophobia can happen to any person or animal at any point in their lives. 

Although it’s not easy, and there aren’t any immediate cures, there are many different treatments to help get rid of someone’s acrophobia. Yoga is one of the most common treatments that people use. Practicing yoga can help relax yourself and keep your heart/breathing rate in a steady pattern. Also, learning all you can about acrophobia is very good for you. Acknowledging that you can put yourself in danger and learning what you can do from the internet is helpful. Some people also use prescribed anxiety pills to help calm themselves from panicking while at a high area. In addition to all of the treatments above, others use Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) which helps with mental health strengthening. Overall, visiting a therapist or a psychologist is very important for someone with acrophobia. It may stay with you for your entire life if not treated at all. These therapists can help you go up to heights at a small rate and provide support if you have a panic attack.                                                           

As the study of acrophobia is further revised, we can see that there are no permanent treatments to the phobia. People around the world have acrophobia and not knowing how to treat it and the dangers of it can lead to life threatening situations. People need to know how to help themselves and acknowledge what is happening to them. This means that there are some everyday strategies to help cope with it. These methods may include therapy, yoga, and Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. Without the proper treatment, it can negatively affect someone’s life. Because acrophobia is made up of a lot of rare phobias, it can also help us learn more about those phobias and find treatments for others too. 

Bibliography

 Kirkpatrick, N. (2019). How To Handle And Overcome Your Fear Of Heights | Betterhelp. [online] Betterhelp.com. Available at: https://www.betterhelp.com/advice/phobias/how-to-handle-and-overcome-your-fear-of-heights/[Accessed 21 Jun. 2019].

 Black, R. (2019). Acrophobia (The Fear of Heights): Are You Acrophobic?. [online] PsyCom.net – Mental Health Treatment Resource Since 1986. Available at: https://www.psycom.net/acrophobia-fear-of-heights/ [Accessed 21 Jun. 2019]. 

Fritscher, L. (2019). What to Do If You Suffer From Acrophobia. [online] Verywell Mind. Available at: https://www.verywellmind.com/acrophobia-fear-of-heights-2671677 [Accessed 21 Jun. 2019].

 Planet-science.com. (2019). Fear of heights. [online] Available at: http://www.planet-science.com/categories/over-11s/human-body/2011/02/fear-of-heights.aspx [Accessed 21 Jun. 2019].

 Us, C. and Infographics, P. (2019). 11 Curious Acrophobia Statistics – HRF. [online] HRF. Available at: https://healthresearchfunding.org/acrophobia-statistics/ [Accessed 21 Jun. 2019].

Boynton, R. and Swinbourne, A. (2019). Health Check: why are some people afraid of heights?. [online] The Conversation. Available at: http://theconversation.com/health-check-why-are-some-people-afraid-of-heights-82893 [Accessed 21 Jun. 2019].


Has Basketball Improved Since Its Invention?

Basketball is a great sport no matter how it’s played. However, if you really think that the way it’s played now has been the same forever, you would be very wrong. The game has had a countless number of adjustments in its history. Basketball has changed for the better since its invention. There are many reasons why it has changed for the better. To actually understand these changes, you have to learn the history of the game.

Historians have found that the ancient Aztec people played a game similar to basketball. However, the game as we know it was invented in December of 1881 by a Canadian Physical Education teacher named James Naismith in Springfield, Massachusetts. He created basketball because the principal of that school wanted him to design a game that the students could play inside on cold days. Basketball was first played with peach buckets and a ball similar to a soccer ball. The game only had thirteen rules. Some rules were very different than rules that we use today. Some rules are also very similar. For example, the most common aspect of basketball today is dribbling. Surprisingly, one rule that was very different was that there was no dribbling in the game. Dribbling was not actually introduced until 1897. Originally, the players could not run when they had possession of the ball. One rule that has existed for basketball’s entire history and has not changed is that the players can pass the ball with either both or one of their hands. All of these changes show that basketball is better now because it gave all players, good or bad, a fair chance. The game is now much more sophisticated. Some could argue that fewer rules are simpler, so the game would be easier, but the game would be too easy then.

Basketball became popular after it spread to New England in 1913. Throughout its history, basketball traveled to many different countries, and many major leagues were started. Some common major leagues are FIBA, which was founded in 1950, and the NBA, which was founded in 1946. FIBA is the major basketball league in Canada and Europe. The NBA is the major basketball league in the United States of America.

This game may sound great, but it also had some bad things about in the past.

One horrible attribute about basketball was that it was heavily segregated in its early years. African Americans were not allowed to play the game. For people who watch basketball, they would know that there are many African American players now. The first African American professional basketball player, Earl Loyd, joined the NBA in 1950. That is one big reason why basketball has changed for the better. 

Many people enjoy basketball and would like to know the background and changes of it. It might teach people that sports were not always great and were very segregated. This essay can teach people about the history of basketball as well as the history of the U.S.A. Basketball is a great sport that everyone should enjoy.

Works Cited

Faurschou, Bran. “The History of Basketball.” The History of Basketball, nbahoopsonline.com/Articles/History1.html.

Silverman, Steve. “Why Is the Game of Basketball So Popular?” LIVESTRONG.COM, Leaf Group, 19 Apr. 2019, www.livestrong.com/article/364098-why-is-the-game-of-basketball-so-popular/.

Wikipedia. “History of Basketball.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 14 May 2019, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_basketball.


The Girl Who Could Not Play

Chapter One: Mornings

It began as something sweet and airy. 

All things begin this way.

It was a jumble of pleasant mornings spent with a friend: two girls with their arms swung around each other making their way from street to street. They strutted at the same pace shoulder to shoulder chatting amongst themselves. They looked like twins with their matching outfits. Each wore a black skirt, cap, and shoes with white stockings and a loose blouse. They were completely oblivious to the world around them; the rolling cars on the cobblestone streets, the pitchmen that came around selling everything from newspapers and cigarettes to bowties and shot glasses, or the  sombre-looking soldiers that lined up in the streets before going to the front.  

Above the hustle and bustle in the streets, the sky had been lit up with a purple glow. Swirls of fuschia and ivory exploding like small candies were pinned to the sky. Someone must have painted the sky by hand.

The two girls were immersed in their own world of fancy.  Around them they saw classrooms instead of cars. Instead of pitchmen offering them trinkets, they recounted stories of boys offering them flowers. And instead of soldiers, they thought of their own division. A youth division just for girls. Donna’s mother insisted on her daughter arriving early to each session. Donna set off just after the crack of dawn each morning with her hair in tight braids and face washed. Donna would meet Alessia on the corner and they would walk together. That was the way it went every morning.

Donna was like a white starched linen. She had two long braids the colour of sour lemons that dropped from her shoulders like ropes. Her complexion was blanched and pearly. It was like someone had come along and white-washed the colour from her face. However she had eyes dark as a starless night that stuck out like lumps of coal stitched on either side of her nose. She was generally a quiet reluctant girl and was lucky to have made such fast friends with Alessia, the exemplary girl. Donna’s friend was conventionally beautiful with heart-shaped lips and bouncy ringlets. She had a throng of admirers who watched her wherever she went.

This particular morning, Alessia was engaged in recounting her a story about the time a boy walked up to her and pulled at one of her ringlets. Donna listened contently. As they passed through the square, Donna glanced at the clock. 

“Alessia we’re late!” She tugged at her friends sleeve. 

“Let’s run!” Alessia exclaimed after swinging around to look at the clock. The girl outstretched her legs and bounded forward. As she sped off, Donna, after a moment of hesitation, set off after her.

They shrieked with laughter as Donna quickly caught up with Alessia. They swatted their arms and clawed at each other, doing whatever they could to slow the other down. Donna was panting relentlessly. Their bodies pierced through the crowd. They were tripping, slipping, and swatting, meanwhile gaining speed. They raced right around the corner. Donna picked up her legs and began bolting forwards. She surpassed Alessia and was dashing up the cobblestone sidewalk. She jumped onto the road, slipping on the morning frost and dodging cars as they came skidding towards her. She knew if anyone had seen her and told her mother that she was running on the street, she would be in trouble. The thought of this both frightened her and enthralled her with amusement. She leapt back onto the sidewalk that spread out in front of her. Her arms swung back and forth. Exhilaration ran through her as wind lashed at her legs and blew at her face. She thrust herself forward. Alessia was calling to her. She twisted her neck to look back, her legs still wheeling forward. Suddenly, her chest fell backwards and her black shoes slid off the ground. Pain shot through the back of her head. And the scene went black.

Chapter Two: The Girl Who Cried on the Main Street

Through the obscurity, Donna could see herself lying there. Her limbs sprawled out over the cobblestones. Her meager figure laid out for the world to see. Her braids coiled around her like a spider’s front legs. Her face twisted in abject terror. Her heart was saddened by her own modest self lying down motionless over the sidewalk. 

As her eyes blinked open, above her Alessia’s ringlets poured downwards onto Donna’s face; her friend had knelt down beside her. Donna could hear phrases in the distance. The words hovered above her.

“What happened?”

“A girl just ran headstrong into Signor Di Napoli!”

“Are you hurt, Signor?”

“No, no, I am fine.”

“What about the girl?”

“Who is she?”

“Is she alright?”

“I think she may be dead!! And it is all my fault!” This last bit was Alessia, who was now sobbing uncontrollably. She grasped Donna’s shoulders and began shaking her. Four hands were placed upon her and Donna was prompted to her feet.

“Are you fine, miss?” This was the voice of old Signor Di Napoli. Five years ago, he moved to Rome from Naples and had started a toy store. All the children in the neighborhood spent their weekends lined up to go into his store. Walking through his store that now stood behind them was like perusing through a book. Metals, porcelain, plastic, gears, springs, fabrics, tinsel, colours, reflections, textures, speaking dolls, and kites line the walls and were scattered on the floor. It was a portal into another world found in the heart of Rome. An emporium of sights and sounds, feelings and imagination. From the walls, tin airplanes were suspended, glinting with light.  Dolls with glass eyes and fountains of shining hair were lined up on shelves peeping down at small girls cruising through the aisle. 

Donna always admired Signor Di Napoli. She wasn’t in love with him. She wanted to be him. She did not want to live in vain. Living with a husband and family in a fancy house with servants for her to boss around was her mother’s dream for her. Donna was opposed to this. She wanted to be a maiden forever and  live in a house with a toyshop on the ground floor and a limited loft up top to sleep and eat in. 

“I am fine Signor Di Napoli!” She grinned, making a quick recovery. “How is the shop going?” she asked eagerly. His face was sombre with a sad smile and a pointy moustache.

“I am afraid the shop is not doing so well at the moment, ragazzina.” He always called her “young girl” instead of her real name. He never thought the name Donna really suited her. 

She glanced over his shoulder to see the wooden sign above the shop doors being lowered by two construction workers.  She opened her mouth to speak but it felt like someone had pushed a stone down her throat. Her chest rose and fell abruptly. All she could squeeze out of her lungs was a gasp like sound. However the heroic Alessia put her words in for her.

“Is the shop closing Signor Di Napoli?” 

“Yes it is, Alessia.” As he looked down at the girls, they could see tears welling in his eyes. Donna was silent. Inside she was screaming. She was clawing at the construction workers and hissing at Signor Napoli for not even giving her one more day to enjoy the store. Outside the morning turned cold and frost nipped at her toes. She stood there feeling like an out-of-place pole made of cold steel.

“Why,” she whispered under her breath. He did not hear her.

“Why?” she said a little louder this time, “Why? Tell me, why?” She hung her head and sunk into a fury of muffled confusion. She had to know why.

“Why didn’t you have a closing sale or something?” Alessia asked.

“I am moving back to Naples. My brother is coming in his car to pick me up this afternoon,” he announced.

“But why?” Alessia tipped her head to the side.

“The toy factories in Italy are being turned into war industries. If I were to keep the store open, there would be no more toys to sell,” Signor Di Napoli said gravely. Donna thought she’d heard him wrong. 

“No toys…” she looked frantically at him. She felt a kind of squeamish discomfort rise within her.

Alessia suddenly remembered the time and clicked her heels. 

“Donna, we are late for our meeting! It’s already started,” she said, pulling at her friend’s arm.

“I think I want to stay for a while, Alessia,” Donna looked longingly at her friend, “but you can go if you want.”

Alessia’s face grew long. Her nose screwed itself up and her lips pressed together. They always walked together; at the mention of walking separately, Alessia’s face twisted and contorted itself in different directions. Anger. Confusion. Embarrassment. Her cheeks turned red and she turned away with an abrupt “fine.”

Donna watched as Alessia’s bouncing ringlets moved farther and farther away. She shifted her gaze over to the store. The boarded up window, the locked doors and the expressionless construction workers aggrieved. Her anguish piqued as the two construction workers lowering the sign lost their hold on it, dropped it, and it came clattering to the ground. The painted sign broke in half. The shattering sound rang in Donna’s ears. Her heart turned to porcelain. She stumbled to the boarded up window. Her hands fell on the plywood boards and she crooked her head to see through the window. The room was submerged in an inky darkness. Donna pressed her forehead against the window. She squinted. She could see the outline of smiling painted faces looking at her with their large circular eyes. They seemed to be both mocking her and silently asking for her help.  She leaned in closer, but a construction worker grabbed her arms, pulling her back. She howled and flung herself in all different directions. She lunged forward and used her legs to pull herself back to the window. The construction worker’s firm arms dragged her in the opposite direction. She was brushed to the side like an unwanted pile of shingles. She and the shop were separated. She fell into Signor Di Napoli’s arms and wailed.

A small crowd had formulated and was watching the girl as she collapsed in the middle of the main street. Tears came pouring down her face and she could not choke them back. Signor Di Napoli was unsure what to do. He tried comforting her, but there was nothing he could say. Donna did not know what she was doing. She was equally surprised as some of the bystanders that were watching her. Why am I crying, she thought. She had not played with toys since she was seven. When she was young, she had a dolly with feather wings and a plastic halo. She called her doll Anna. It was Donna’s prize possession for the first half of her life; she took it everywhere.

When she was eight, she started her training in Piccole Italiane, a youth division dedicated to preparing girls for their future. Her mother thought this very important. In the beginning, Donna cherished the division meetings. She showed so much enthusiasm that she was asked to stand and pose in traditional roman imperial clothing at a rally. She grew so busy with learning the Italian anthem and learning how to cook that she had no time to play with her doll Anna. One day she returned home from a meeting to find that Anna had been sold. She didn’t cry. At the time she just shrugged her shoulders. Now she cried. She was surprised at herself. This was the moment her memory flashed on, like a light switch turning on the electrical lighting in a room. Today she can barely remember what it was like before. From then on she was no longer a young girl with a friend walking down the street. She was the girl who cried on the main street that day.

Chapter Three: Warhood and The Cherry Dress

The remainder of the day passed by slowly. Donna was scolded for being late to the meeting. Before she would have blushed, slouched her shoulders, and trudged guiltily into her place in line for being so late. Today, Donna arrived at the meeting numb with tears and dragging. The useless girl barely showed a sign of consciousness. She didn’t look at the Piccole Italiane instructors when they were speaking to her. Her feet carried her from place to place. Alessia approached Donna asking gently where she had been, but Donna only sighed and wandered off. She silently refused to sing when they sung Giovinezza. She stood there amongst her smiling piers as they sung with their high-pitched voices. Donna remained silent.

“Hail, people of heroes,

Hail, immortal Fatherland,

Your sons were born again

With the faith and the Ideal.

Your warriors’ valour,

Your pioneers’ virtue,

Alighieri’s vision,

Today shines in every heart.”

The sound of the opening verse flooded through her ears. There was an influx of bitterness that arose within her.

Many years ago, a group of men came together to write the lyrics to this song. They thought it would be the best representation of their fascist Italy, a song to define an empire. When Donna first learnt the lyrics, the words were bold and strong, both poetic and to the point, but most of all, the words seemed right. She could remember how her courage would be reborn as she heard this song. Now there was something sickening and plasticky about it, like the smell that emerges from a factory. She winced. 

“Youth, Youth,

Spring of beauty,

In the hardship of life

Your song rings and goes!

And for Benito Mussolini,

And for our beautiful Fatherland,”

Suddenly, she began to remember things from the past she had not noticed or thought odd before. The same year Donna joined the Piccole Italiane division, Mussolini had travelled from city to city across the country to give speeches. He began in Rome. 

Her mother barely left the house, but on this particular day, Donna watched her as she swung a string of pearls around her neck and  slipped into her yellow dress limited to special occasions.

“Is Papa coming back today, Mama?” Donna asked. Her mother shot her a glance.

“No.” Her words were cold as they struck Donna across her face. She flinched. “Now go and get into that new dress I got you, the one with cherries painted on the fabric.”

“Are we going out for lunch? Is that why we are getting dressed up?”

“No.”

“Are we meeting Papa somewhere?” 

“No, there is no Papa. Now go get dressed. I do not like questioners. It’s forbidden for a child to talk up to her elders in such a matter.”

“But where are we going?”

“In the Italian borders,

Italians have been remade

Mussolini has remade them

For tomorrow’s war,

For labour’s glory,

For peace and for the laurel,

For the shame of those

Who repudiated our Fatherland”

Remade. Repudiated. Tomorrow’s war is now.

Donna and her mother left the house and entered out in public, a place her mother had not stepped into for the longest time. The cherry dress was new and exciting. It was too tight for comfort, but fit her well considering it was secondhand. It was new for Donna, but the world had seen it many times.

They met Alessia and her parents on the corner. Alessia and Donna walked in front as the adults trailed behind. Everybody was out on the streets and people they barely new tilted their hats at the young girls and bid them how do you do. Young Donna must have presumed  that all the people on the streets, including herself and her mother, were making their way to a party of sorts.

“The poets and the artisans,

The lords and the countrymen,

With an Italian’s pride

Swear fealty to Mussolini

No poor neighbourhood exists

That doesn’t send its hordes

That doesn’t unfurl the flags

Of redeeming Fascism”

Thousands of Italians gathered together, jostled into each other. Above them a facade stretched itself out. Donna remember the eager moments she spent admiring everyone’s outfits. They were chained down in patterned skirts, coloured headbands, straw hats, ties, ribbons, and smiles. Donna beamed at the notion that, from up above, the crowd would look like a multicoloured fruit. Then all of a sudden the crowd fell silent. All those yapping mouths hushed to listen. A man dressed in a fleece suit stepped into view through a shallow balcony smoothed onto the facade. One yapping mouth poured it’s words onto the crowd. Donna could hear the words, but she could not understand. 

“Do you know what he is saying?” she leaned in and whispered this question into Alessia’s ears.

“Shh,” she hissed, “I am trying to listen!”

Moments later the crowd erupted. Thousands of voices hurrahing. It was like an explosion. Hats catapulted into the air and couples leaned over and kissed each other. To her side, Alessia was jumping up and down, clapping her hands and sputtering indistinct words of joy. Donna’s mother grabbed her shoulders and kissed her right on the nose. 

“What has happened, Mama?” Donna couldn’t help smiling. “Is Papa coming home?”

“No, bambina, we are at war!” her mother triumphed. She leaned down and kissed Donna again. It was as if they had already won.

After most of the crowd had left to go off to bars for a drink, Alessia suggested that they search the ground for coins. Donna knew she should be getting home, but with her new cherry dress, she wanted to stay outside longer. As they were searching the ground they found a small boy a few years younger than them sprawled out on the ground. His sock was red, drenched with blood that poured from his ankle like water. He had been trampled in the excitement of the coming war. They knew this boy. He lived in their neighborhood. They often saw him at the toy store, but never at church. As Donna thought back on it now, she could not recall seeing him for a while now. He had vanished over the last few months. She was forbidden to talk to him because he had darker features. Dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes, he had it all.  He must have been completely swallowed up by the crowd this time. Or maybe he vanished for a different reason. As the Italians were being remade one by one in the hands of Il Duce, that boy must have been neglected. 

The group stopped singing. The girls’ singing voices ended. The meeting was dismissed and all the girls set off in different directions. Alessia searched the crowd of friends, enemies, and girls for Donna. She glanced down a small alleyway to find her friend crouched down in a gutter, legs pulled towards her chest and eyes forced into her knees. Her shoulders bounced as if she was laughing silently. For the second time that day, Donna cried.

Chapter Four: The Silhouette Wife

Donna was relieved to finally be in bed. Her heart was filled with sour chagrin. She felt betrayed, as though all those smiling people had lied to her. And so had the cherry dress. She wrapped herself in her bedsheets and curled into a ball in the corner of her bed. She felt sick. After a few moments of silence and painful thoughts, the door opened to her room. Donna peered out from behind the blanket to see a yellow glow projected on the floor of her room from the hall. Her mother’s silhouette as she stood in the doorway drew a clear outline of her mother’s figure on the floorboards.

“Are you asleep, Donna?”

“No,” her sickly daughter responded

“You didn’t help with the laundry today. You knew you were supposed to do it today.”

“I know.”

“Well, how do you expect to become a good wife if you decide not to do the laundry whenever you don’t feel like it.” These words were not unfamiliar to Donna.

“What if I don’t want to become a wife?” she spat.

“Well I am afraid, Donna Roma, that you have no choice. A woman’s job is to keep a house, not a seat in Parliament. Do you want to end up on the streets?” Before Donna could answer, the door shut abruptly. Darkness fell back onto the room the same way a thick polluted fog would, the kind of fog you get trapped in and you cannot breath in or find a way out.

A few words about Donna’s mother, Ines Roma:

She was beautiful and lively with rich blonde hair and twinkling blue eyes. She grew up in a respectable middle class family and was brought up in the countryside. She spent her days playing with the other children in the village, climbing fences, drinking spoiled water from wells, and chasing each other across fields of long untamed grass. At nineteen, her father took many day trips to the neighboring villages and farms. At nineteen years old, Ines was dozing in the field behind her house when her father was returning from one of his trips. She was dragged indoors. Before her twentieth birthday, she was married to the wealthy man, Giovanni Roma, who happened to be vacationing in the next village at the time. His father was fast friends with hers and thus a wedding was in order. She went with him back to Rome where his family lived in a grand house made of slabs of marble and chandeliers of shining crystal. During the economic crash of 1929, the Roma family lost all its money and honour. They were forced to live in an overcrowded tenement. After a few years of this meager lifestyle, Giovanni was embarrassed to show his face in the streets and could not bear to look at his wife and newly born baby girl. One morning, he left before the light of day as usual for his newly acquired job as an assistant shoemaker. Ines waited for him at the house. She waited as hours and hours clicked by. When her husband did not return that night, Ines knew that he would never come back to them. In the last few days he was living with her, she neglected him. He stayed curled up in a mound of bedsheets as Donna is now doing and served no purpose. She only gave him small scraps of food, the rest she gave to the baby. She was not a very good wife to him the last few days before he left.

Chapter Five: The Break-ins

First she began with the toy store, then the houses.

The decisions Donna would make in the next few moments of life would change the course of history forever. Wrapped in her bedsheets, she contemplated in the dark. At first it began as a sudden impulse where Donna found herself half awake and half in a dream. She went over the idea multiple times in her head. At first, she laughed at the ridiculous notion. Then she began envisioning herself doing it; that is when it became real. She tossed and turned in bed. She wrenched at her mind and clenched the bedsheets in her fists. She couldn’t shake the concept of her sneaking away at night and breaking into the toy store from her head. It was so daring. It was so exhilarating. But most of all, it was so unlike her. 

How could she be sure of anything anymore? She pushed herself from the bed. Donna threw on her robe made of purple fabric with yellow stitching. She positioned it onto her back and tied the belt. It fit like a glove. War was no longer just soldiers that line up in the street; war meant lives both lost and living. It meant the life of Alessia, the spritely girl living a few houses down. It meant the life of Signor Di Napoli, the man now probably fast asleep in Naples. It meant the life of her mother. It meant the life of her father, wherever it he is now. It meant the life of the little Jewish boy with the bloody ankle. It meant the absence of toys in her neighborhood.

She thrust open her window. A brown sac swung over her shoulder, she carefully sat on the sill. She turned around and shoved her toes down the gap between the open window and the wood plank she was sitting on. She gathered air into her lungs and pushed her legs out into the dry night air. She gave herself little time for reluctance and she slid herself out the window! Donna felt her newly exposed body hover in midair. As she felt the air spin around her, she swatted her arms and caught hold of a brick that was slightly jutting out of the wall. Taken aback with amazement, she stayed clinging to the wall a while longer. Eventually, she succeeded in crawling down the wall like a spider. Her feet dropped onto the cobblestones and she rubbed her hands together to get all the chalk from the brick of them. She blew into her hands to warm them and she ventured off into the darkness. The darkness was comforting. The constellations watched Donna as she moved about the city. The darkness was going to let one girl shine.

Most nights, the people in Rome are forced to flee into a bomb shelter. But tonight was much more gentle. It humbled her. It was as if the war was put on pause for her most beautiful action.

The walk to the store was enjoyable. Donna smiled for the stars that blessed her eyes. She smiled for the cool breeze that stroked her hair. She smiled for her warmth all bundled up in her robe. She smiled in hot anticipation.

The store itself was tedious. She approached the boarded up door and latched handle to size up the amount of force it would take to break the plywood. After attempting to do just that for several minutes, she had tried several different tactics: pulling, punching and wrenching. She slid her hand behind the plywood until her palm touched the cold refreshing glass. She used the small muscles located in her fingers to tap on the door and she heard the hinges squeak weakly as the door pushed open. The girl lowered herself to the ground and slithered under the plywood. She sucked in her stomach so she could fit.  Using the sleeve of her robe, Donna wiped beads of sweat that came trickling down the side of her face. Her breathing grew heavy. Her sense of feverishness heightened. The air in her lungs thickened until it was dense enough to cut with a knife. She kept reminding herself to quicken her pace; she pushed herself to be faster. Her stomach still glued to the floor, she pulled herself deeper into the toy store. Faster. She arrived at her first pile of toys. Faster. Then she worked her way into the second. Faster. She worked tirelessly for half an hour until she could marvel at her filled brown sac. In it lay dolls that opened and closed their eyes depending on how you held them, toy vehicles, some with real tiny engines, wind-up toys in the shape of mice drumming away at very festive looking drums. Donna had even climbed up onto the top of a low shelf and untied a red old fashioned toy airplane from the ceiling and a green and red kite along with it. You can only imagine the trouble Donna had fitting the bag underneath the plywood. But it would all be worth it.

She escaped back into the night like a common criminal, the sac like a boulder she herself had laid across her back. She gazed upwards to watch the sky as it slowly began to shift and become lighter. She wished fervently that no one would see her and she ducked away into the shadows of buildings. Unlike a common criminal, Donna was not quite done. If she were to stop now her whole plan would be failed.

She encircled the first house several times before seeing the open window leading into a boy’s nursery. The window felt as though it was left open especially for her to climb into. She hoisted herself in and was now standing gingerly in the middle of a small boy’s room. From the thermometer left on the bedside table and the medicine bottle that rested in all its plumpness on top of the bureau, Donna could deduce that this boy was ill. Donna removed the multicoloured kite from the sac and slipped it in next to him beneath the bed sheet. She searched the room for a pen and paper. Once she had found some she wrote:

When you get better, go out to the beach and fly this kite.

Sincerely,

Donna paused for a second. She brought the tip of the pen to her lips. 

The boy’s eyes blinked open. Donna began shuffling towards the window afraid that the boy would scream in terror and attract the attention of his parents into the room. After a few silent moments of staring at each other, she noticed that the boy wasn’t in the least bit surprised to see her.

“Are you La Befana?” he inquired. La Befana is the friendly witch that brings children toys in Italian Culture.

“No.”

“Then why did you give me this kite?”

Donna was about to hiss and tell the boy off for asking too many questions, but instead she shrugged her shoulders

“What is your name then, if you aren’t La Befana?”

Donna shrugged her shoulders again.

“Are you the bogeyman then, come to take me away?!” 

“No!”

“Are you death herself come to fetch my corpse away? Am I dead?!” For a young boy he had quite a vivid, but dark imagination.

“No.”

Quickly Donna scribbled her name on the paper:

The Toygiver.

It seemed to fit her.

“What is that paper?”

“It is far too late for a boy your age to be up.” Donna sighed. “Now get comfortable in bed and I will sing to you if you like.”

“Alright.” The boy nestled in bed with his new kite; he was grinning ear to ear. Donna pulled a stool by his bed, sat, and sang until her mouth was dry and the boy had slipped into a blissful sleep. She left his room through the window, not forgetting to leave a note on the table. She visited ten other houses that night. The sky was red like a pitted cherry when she stumbled back to her house. Her mother was waiting outside, shivering in her robe both of chill and anxiety. 

“Where have you been, Donna?” her mother cried out when her daughter came into view. “I was about to have a heart attack!”

“You were?” Donna said gently.

Before her mother could answer, she was engulfed in a warm hug. Donna went over her new name over and over again in her mind. The Toygiver. The Toygiver. Toygiver. Donna would continue to do this nighttime ritual for years to come. She did it all the way until the end. The end of the war. The Toygiver. The Toygiver. Toygiver.


Decaf

Chapter One

“Grande iced coffee with almond milk, two pumps of caramel, and one and a half pumps of hazelnut. Thank you.”

“Decaf?”

“No,” I shuttered. It was too early to have decaffeinated coffee. I needed to have coffee. Last night had gone too late and too long. God, last night was awful and now I was tired, annoyed, and majorly hungover. Coffee would help with that. Maya always said I drank too much coffee. Everyone always said I was addicted, but I was really trying to stop drinking so much caffeine. It’s just, what else am I supposed to do? At this point in the argument, Maya would say I could sleep, then I would laugh, she would roll her eyes, and I would leave with full intentions of going to Denny’s, getting on line, smiling at Ralph and getting my drink. They always had it ready and ice cold. But of course today of all days, there was a new barista. Molly, I read. Next time I would make sure I got a barista that knew what they were doing. 

“Anything else, um, what’s your name?” Molly asked.

“Lexi and, um, yes.” Then I looked at the clock and then at Molly. This was her first day and I could tell. She looked like a deer in headlights, staring down each customer like they were her enemy. No, I didn’t have time for Molly to under or overcook my bun and I didn’t need to be any later than I already was. 

“I mean no,” I told Molly just as she was about to add more to my order. “I’m good,” I said as I gave her my rewards card. She took it like it was a space rock from Mars. She looked it up and down trying to figure out what this strange object was. 

“Never mind I’ll just pay with cash.” I took back my rewards card and gave her exact change in case she didn’t know how to open the cash register. 

“Thank you,” she said. For a moment I thought she was going to come out from behind the cash register and hug me, but she just stared. I smiled and went to go get my coffee.

“Nice name,” Molly shouted. The bribery was strong in this one. 

Now all I had to do was run to the open call and hope and pray I would get the role. Fortunately, when I checked my phone I saw that the open call was only five minutes away. Unfortunately, I only had two. I ran all the way there and was still late. When I went inside, the director handed me a packet and told me to sit down. I knew as soon as I saw the character description that I wasn’t even going to try. Shame, the girl at first seemed good. It said her name was Ashley and she was twenty one. That was fine and good. The only problem was that Ashley was struggling with an addiction to alcohol. I had never had an addiction. I didn’t want to offend anyone by portraying someone wrong. I stood up and walked over to the director. I was two steps away before I realized I was without my Denny’s cup. I needed something to get me through this. I ran back to my chair, grabbed my cup, and went back over. 

“Hello sir.” I smiled. I knew I could do this I talked to directors all the time. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about my role.”

“Call me Carl.” Carl. Of course his name was Carl. “Yes, Ashley. She’s a beautiful character.” I took another sip of my coffee. The taste swam around in my mouth making me feel the heat of a Costa Rican sun or feel the drum of a lost island. The smell was enough to make you happy, but the taste was amazing.

“Yes but it’s just-” Suddenly a wave of caramel splashed the top of my mouth. Something was off. I took another sip searching for the hazelnut that would always balance of the slightly salty caramel, but I couldn’t find even a trace of it. I took another sip and another, but the caramel once again overwhelmed my taste buds. It must have showed on my face because Carl was staring at me like I was a freak.

“I’m sorry, it’s just, I don’t know if I can play her.” I tried to recover.

At this point, if I messed up, the ice and coolness of my drink would calm me down, but instead the coffee seemed to grow hotter. 

“Listen, I understand that she seems like someone completely different, but just see if you can find some similarities. I’m sorry—are you okay?” No, I wasn’t. My mouth was just flooded with a nutty taste. Oh my god, is that nutmeg? Who mixes up hazelnut and nutmeg? This was the most disgusting coffee I had ever had and apparently it showed.

“I’m sorry. It’s just my barista messed up my order and it’s literally disgusting and it isn’t ice cold and just blegh.” When I looked up at Carl, he was laughing. 

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s just, it seems like you have a bit of an addiction of your own.” How dare he. How dare this man insult me like this. It wasn’t my fault Molly messed up my order and it wasn’t my fault Carl was being rude. 

“I’m usually like this it’s just something was off and I didn’t know what it was. It turns out my barista used nutmeg instead of hazelnut and I’m just having a bad day.”

“So I see you’re a coffee snob—” My jaw dropped. “—and a little bit of a drama queen.”

“I am not a coffee snob.” My face was getting red and my jaw was practically hitting the floor. “And I am not a drama queen. I just like to be in control of what goes into my mouth. If it’s trash, I don’t like it, which is probably why I don’t like this character!” As soon as I said that, I wanted to take it back. “No, no, no. That’s not what I meant. I just meant-”

“Ms. Brown,” said Carl, “I think you should leave.”

“No, sir, please.” I took another sip of my coffee, knowing and dreading what would happen next.

“Out.” Carl smiled and reached out a hand for my Denny’s cup. “And close the door on your way out.” I bit my lip to stop the tears and slowly walked out the door. I almost left that audition feeling sad until I heard Carl spitting out my drink exclaiming how disgusting and gross it was. Maybe it was the complete over dosage of caramel. Maybe it was the absence of hazelnut and the nutmeg sinking into every delicious coffee bean. Maybe it was even the coffee itself. Maybe Molly had messed it up like she had this entire day and this entire audition. But all of those seemed fine compared to the giant flem god that I spat in my coffee. Who was a drama queen now?

Chapter Two

“How did it go?” asked Maya. She was making coffee, decaf no doubt. 

“Not well,” I told her. “The director was just awful and my coffee was just awful. There was this horrible barista, Molly. She mixed up hazelnut and nutmeg. Like who does that?” I fell onto the couch, sinking into the fluffy Target pillows.

“Well,” Maya said as she jumped onto the couch next to me. “Maybe it wasn’t all Molly’s fault.”

“Yeah maybe I actually just told her nutmeg instead of hazelnut.” I rolled my eyes. I would never mess up my order. 

“Well yeah,” Maya said, “I mean I do it all the time.” I rolled my eyes, but then Maya smiled and I had to forgive her.

“I redecorated the apartment.” I looked around. Maya tended to do this very frequently. This week’s (possibly day’s) theme was blue. She had added blue beach paintings, which she was making when I left, to the walls. Then she had gotten a new rug for the living room and some new vases and accessories for around the house. Yeah, it looked good, but I wish she could just stick with something. I told her I really liked the peach one she did three weeks ago, but she said it was too princessy. I took a peak in her room and saw she had completely redone her room to. It was slowly closing in on itself with the layers and layers of paint she would use to cover the last stage of herself. The Maya she was showing today was vintage Maya. She was wearing old Levi’s overalls and an old MTV tee that she no doubt got from a thrift store or yard sale. This ensemble was accompanied by her old ass Converse and a ripped up Newsies cap. Maya would change into a different person every week, throwing away her life before this new style. Sometimes I would like Maya and sometimes I would hate her. I didn’t like emo Maya. I really didn’t like preppy Maya. Sometimes she would ask me what my favorite Maya was and then I would say, “My favorite Maya is just Maya.” Then she would laugh, even though it wasn’t a joke. But today vintage Maya would just be out of it and cool. I was fine with that, but I wished I could spend my time with the Maya I knew when I moved in with her. But who knows maybe that was another version of Maya that I didn’t know. To go with this new Maya, she had painted her room a brown-ish mustard. Her record player and typewriter were out and she was using her orange sheets and she had switched out her Chanel poster for a display of her records. Maya was starting over once again, creating herself again. Soon she would drop all her preppy friends and she would start hanging out with hipsters at coffee shops. 

“So do you like it?” She seemed kind of eager to hear what I had to say.

I wanted to say, “you should just keep it normal and stop changing it,” but instead I said, 

“I love it. Definitely your best form yet.”

“Well,” she said. Then she smiled and I realized I was looking at the same Maya. Her toothy grin made me so happy so I went with it. 

“Yes.” I tried to replicate her smile but I just came out looking like a bunny.

“Maybe we could redo your room.” She flung open my room before I could stop her. I would go into detail describing my room, but it’s pretty basic. It’s all white, but not in a cute way. It looks like an asylum except for the occasional splotch of coffee spill. I still loved it, but Maya, well, Maya thought it could be improved. 

“I mean.” Maya paused. Even Maya, who comes up with new room designs every week, couldn’t think of a way to salvage my room. “We could-”

“We could close the door of my room and never open it again,” I suggested, but before I could execute my plan, Maya stepped into my room. I couldn’t leave her to her own devices in there so I followed her in. I was truly beyond the point of no return.

“Well we can start by getting you some new sheets.” Oh brother this was going to be awful, but, hey, I was in Maya’s hands now. When I looked back at Maya she was spacing out.

“Maya,” I said. Nothing. “Maya!” I basically screamed. Suddenly Maya’s face lit up. “What?” I asked.

“I know what we’re doing for your room.”

“What?” If she made my room like a six year old’s I was going to kill her.

“Coffee,” she said smiling.

“What?” 

“Oh my god, stop saying what. Your room is going to be brown, white, and green, like a Denny’s cup. Also we’re going to have cute coffee art and a desk and finally your room isn’t going to look like you live in a mental institution.” 

“Great. You do that.” I went to go get some Cinnamon Toast Crunch and, you guessed it, coffee. 

“Come on,” Maya begged.

“No,” I said. I had no intention of letting Maya touch my room.

“Why not?”

“Because.” 

“Because what?”

“Fine. Do it.”

“No.”

“This is why. Once you do it once, you’re just gonna do it over and over and over until I’ll have no room because the paint is going to kill me with it’s fumes.”

“I won’t do that.”

“Fine, go. Go make over my room.”

“Eeeee!” Maya squealed. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!”

I was going to regret this, but before I could tell her to stop, she was out the door. I slipped into my room and opened my computer. I opened up my Gmail and waited. I stared at the screen, waiting for an email, an open call, an audition, something. I needed to start pulling my weight or else, well, or else Maya might not want to house me anymore. No, that couldn’t happen. It wasn’t Friday, but I started the send anyway. First, I would need coffee. I walked out to the kitchen, bringing my cereal with me. I mixed it and sipped it and I suddenly knew everything was going to be okay. I started the first email and finished the second, third, and sixth. I sent the third and the second, but held on to the sixth. I wanted to see what Maya thought. Then I waited… and waited… and waited. And then an email popped up. I clicked on it and it was from Carl. It read: 

Dear Lexi,

Although you were a bit rude I want to give you another chance. I feel you can really embody this character. Come tomorrow at nine. Sharp.

Chapter Three

I’ll skip the pleasantries and just say this show was amazing. Except for one day. One day, I was walking back from a particularly bad rehearsal and Maya told me to sit down.

“I have a surprise,” she said. She seemed a bit too happy. “Come with me.”

“Ok,” I said. She led me to my room. 

“Now open.” My jaw dropped. My room was white with a band of brown around it. In the middle of my new room was a huge circle with the Denny’s logo on it and that logo ended up morphing into my head board. Around my room was more disgusting green and coffee art. If you couldn’t tell, I hated it. 

“What did you do to my room?” I screamed.

“Nothing, I just made it better.” Maya seemed hurt, but I didn’t care.

“That was my room and now I’m literally living in a coffee cup.”

“Yeah, that was the idea.”

“Well, I hate it.”

“I was just trying to help.” Maya started to cry.

“Wow, Maya,” I said sarcastically, “and I thought with so many different personalities you weren’t able to even have feelings.” At this point I was crying too. But not sad crying, angry crying.

“I just wanted to help you.”

“Well Maya, you didn’t.”

“What is wrong with you? I thought we were friends. Friends do things like this with each other.”

“Really? I don’t know, Maya. Are we friends? Or am I friends with Preppy Maya, Hippie Maya, Mean Girl Maya, or, god forbid, Emo Maya? There are just so many of you I don’t know. Are we friends?”

“I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

“You don’t know who I am? Try figuring yourself out first.” 

“Don’t go there, Lex.”

“Oh, I’ll go there Maya.” Now I was mad. “You don’t know who you are. You always say you change your look for fashion, but that’s not true. The truth is you keep changing because you think one day someone might actually like you. But guess what Maya? If you just keep never truly opening up, no one can love you. No one.”

“Out,” Maya mustered through tears. So I did. I packed up my stuff and left for a cheap motel. The next day, I was still in shock, but I still went to Denny’s and got my coffee.

Molly gave me the cup and said, “I made it specially for you.”

When I opened the lid, I saw something I’ll never forget. A huge fly was swimming around in my foam. Before I could think, I texted the food and drink health department and demanded for Molly to be fired. Then I sent a picture of my drink.

I left for my last rehearsal. At the end we all hugged and high-fived and said we couldn’t wait for Sunday. It was Friday and I couldn’t wait.

I went home, well, I went to my motel and I texted Maya. I said I was sorry. She left me on read. I pulled an all nighter sipping the gross motel coffee from the lobby. When I went outside the next day, I saw something. I didn’t believe it. I saw an abandoned building that used to house the Denny’s coffee shop. I went up to the window still seeing the painted walls of green, white, and brown. The chairs were turned up just like they were yesterday only now the doors would never open. I touched the brass door handles and pulled slightly. The door opened until a chain stopped it. The opening was just big enough to slip inside. I did. Then I smelled the coffee. I looked outside to the world I used to be in and then to myself inside a now abandoned coffee shop. My hair was messy and my eyes were cakey from putting on too much concealer.

I still remembered that fateful day when I went to get my coffee and met Molly. That day I thought I was mad at her, but I didn’t know about how much she could really destroy. As I walked around this haunted house, I saw a flyer. I walked over to it, examining the bold red letters that spelled “D-A-N-G-E-R.” Right below it, it read “dangerous health conditions.” Then my eyes got fuzzy and I heard the drop of a single tear on the ground. This was my fault. 

“So.” I turned around and saw Molly in the doorway. “Was it worth it getting me fired?”

“No,” I said, “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, well, here.” She handed me a coffee cup.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“Crush it,” she said. So I did. 

“Done.” She looked at the cup. It was completely destroyed, the green band now bent.

“Now say ‘I’m sorry’,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” I told the cup. It stayed the same. Destroyed. “Nothing happened,” I told her.

“Exactly.” She slipped through the door and didn’t look back. I walked sluggishly back to the motel, making each step slower than the last. When I finally got there, I went up the stairs, not even stopping to think to myself how hard it was. When I opened my door, I saw that Maya had texted me back. She said it wasn’t OK. I lay on my bed thinking of Ralph and Molly and even Denny. They were all out of work and were probably struggling. Especially Molly. I thought about what she said. Even though I knew she was right, I still wrote each and every person I hurt an apology email. No one wrote back. I closed my eyes and thought of everything and finally I slept. I slept and slept not being woken up by coffee or Maya or anything. I slept through the opening lines of alcoholic Ashley. I slept through Carl screaming and asking anyone if they knew where I was. I slept through eighteen text messages from Maya telling me to wake up. I slept through Denny’s getting sold to Starbucks. And the Sunday I had wished and dreamed about for my whole life came and went.


Ink

Introduction

Hello. I’m the narrator and I only have the one paragraph for the introduction so let me get some things straight. First of all, this is totally made up and you should not try this at home. Second of all, I really don’t have anything else to say except get ready for lots of humorous and crazy things to happen so let’s hope you didn’t skip this.

Chapter One: Inky Depths 

Hey it’s the narrator again and I’m back to tell you the story. So, this story begins at the home of an artist name Jeff Jones who had this pen and was drawing. He was always drawing horror and he loved horror and this new pen he just got was special and Jeff did not know that. So he drew a portal sucking a house into this world, then he felt this tight pull on him and he saw a portal. He quickly wrote a message that said:

Free me from the portal.

The pen is the mightiest weapon you have.

It creates anything you need to use.

Use it well.

-Your dad,

       Jeff

Later that day, Bobby came home from school to find ink everywhere and a message covered in ink. He was able to make it out and it read:

Free   from portal the   is the mightiest weapon you         creates 

Anything     need us t we l

-Your   ad

       Jef

Bobby decided to recreate the drawing that he saw that was ripped and then it happened. He saw an inky black portal open and it sucked him in.

Chapter Two: Inky World

When Bobby woke up, he saw he was in a cage and in front of him were two knights. Then one said, “Second one today, guess we better feed him to the ink hound”. Bobby knew this was not good so he drew on the wall a tommy gun and then he started to pull on the wall. After that, he got his tommy gun and he knew this was his only hope. He saw bright lights and on the floor were the two knights. The cage had broken open and then he saw the knights melt into ink and then everything went black…

When he woke up, he was on the floor, and looking down at him was a monster that looked like he had taken a bath in ink and never wiped it off. The monster had one eye and you could tell the other eye was submerged in ink. He had a creepy smile and spoke in a raspy voice “these inky depths, they are evil and you can’t get out. Beware of the wolf known as Billy he makes sure that no one escapes. He has two accomplices. One’s a spider and one’s a lion. Neither are… oh no I have said too much, run!”

As Bobby ran away, he heard a scream and ripping and chewing. Bobby ran and ran till he saw someone in front of him that looked like a man from Jeff’s drawings. So Bobby ran more and more until he couldn’t even stand up so he drew a car. As he drove the world around him got darker. Then he fell and the world around him changed. 

Chapter Three: Wolves, Spiders, and Lions

When Bobby hit the ground, he was tired. So he ate his favorite food: tofu and pea soup. As he ate, Bobby felt so refreshed that he could fight. Then he heard a howling and a wolf came with a lion and a spider next to it. Bobby walked back and then he felt the cold stone hit his back. Bobby knew this was the end and then he tried to draw a line, but he was so scared that it was not even straight. So he closed his eyes and let the monsters eat him.

He felt the cold drool of the wolf on him. The ground rumbled and broke open. Then everyone fell through. He drew in the air hoping a trampoline would come out and then it went black…

Bobby woke up seeing the ink rising and then Bobby saw a door. He ran towards it just in time to get inside before the ink covered everything around it. Everything was submerged in ink and he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see his dad covered in ink. Before they could talk the ceiling cracked and little by little ink started to flood in.

As Bobby and Jeff ran for their lives, Bobby felt a sharp pain in his arm and he saw the wolf had bitten him. He ran and the wolf ran after him and then the ink broke through the ceiling and killed the wolf. As Bobby ran, the ink started to catch up to him and then he felt his heart stop pumping and his blood started to leak out from his body and then…

Chapter Four: Dead Or Alive

Hey, it’s the narrator again and I have to tell you that this next chapter is really weird and you should definitely not read it. But then this won’t make sense. You know what just ignore me.  

When Bobby woke up he was still dead but he was also alive, probably because he drew a heart on himself (yes, this worked for some dumb reason).  And he had lost his dad again. Then he saw foot steps, so he followed them. He followed them for hours until he found a place covered in ink. He did what his gut feeling had told him to do: draw a portal.

He felt himself getting pulled on, and then everything went black.

Chapter Five: New Ink City

When Bobby came out, he saw a huge building with big letters on it that said: “get yourself inked.” Then, Bobby realized that someone or something must have escaped the ink world. Then it hit him, literally and figuratively. His dad’s creations must have gotten out and one of his dads creations knocked him out which was the fourth time he got knocked out. When he woke up, he was in a cage with pipes that was starting to pump ink into it. He drew a huge cork and plugged the pipes knowing that he had enough time to draw a key and unlock it. Then one of the corks burst and then the other one. He was starting to drown so he worked more quickly and then he opened the cage. He fell down and knew he was gonna die but no one was there, then the door burst open.

He saw a guard there who then fell down.

There was a man who said, “The legendary Bobby Jones, the man who started this and has to end this.”

Bobby was confused and asked, “One, who are you? Two, where is my dad?”

The man replied by saying, “One I’m a rebel. Two, your dad died 4 years ago. You and your dad disappeared 10 years ago. He came back in 6 years then died; you came back now so help us.” 

“No!” Bobby yelled.

“Ugh,” said the guy. Then Bobby got knocked out again.

When Bobby woke up, he was surrounded by many people and they were all screaming questions at him. So he drew a minigun and held it up to them and said, “Listen up you guys. You have no weapons or ammo so let me make you some guns with infinite ammo. Trust me: if one of you betrays me then the last thing you will hear is bangbangbangbangbangbangbangbang. And trust me, you don’t want it to end that way. So who’s with me?”

Everyone looked at each other for a little bit and then started chanting and bringing whatever they could to help create weapons for them. Some asked for swords others asked for guns and some asked for helicopters which was weird, but Bobby had seen weirder. After many hours of creating weapons everyone was ready.

Chapter Six: Blood And Ink

The army of men and women charged towards inky people, all with swords and guns. As Bobby and his army charged, many people fell dead from swords, but so did the ink people. Then, everyone heard a rumble. 

Bobby ran while yelling, “Take cover!” but it was too late. Everyone was turned into ink so Bobby took his minigun and shot until it looked like the floor was ink. Then no one was left; just him. He went to confront the leader and then he heard a rumble and the ground broke.

He woke up in the ink world again with many portals around him. He knew only one would lead to where he needed to go. So he looked at them until he found one that mentally spoke to him and he went in it and woke up in his house and his father was talking to him and saying, “Shh, shh. Everything is alright”.

“What happened with the ink?” 

“I will tell you later” said Bobby’s dad and then Bobby went to sleep. 

Chapter Seven: Clean Up

When Bobby woke up his dad said, “Many of the ink things got out; it’s time we erase our work because they are evil.”

“But why can’t we just draw something to do it for us,” asked Bobby, “because that’s just making things worse than they already are and right now they are worse than the Devil himself.”

“Ok,” said Bobby’s dad.

When they got outside, the first thing they saw was an inky black killer clown and Bobby drew an eraser and waved it at the killer clown until it was nothing but a drop of ink and then it was nothing. As Bobby and his dad, Jeff, walked, a monster came down and ripped the pen in half and Bobby and Jeff had no more weapons

Chapter Eight: Just Flesh

With only fists and their surroundings, Jeff and Bobby were outnumbered by many ink things. Then Jeff realized something: these were his creations so all he had to do was get rid of himself. So he went up to the creatures and yelled “take me and kill me!”

The leader which was the lion from the ink world said, “We will keep you, but not kill you.” And they took him away.

As Bobby ran, he could not keep up with the monsters that took him away and slowly he stopped. He looked up and saw this monster running away to the White House (yes, Bobby lives in Washington D.C.) and he knew they would keep him hostage. So he ran towards them, fighting the will to give up until he finally got to the White House where he could confront the monsters that were still alive from the destruction of the ink world.

Chapter Nine: Ink to Flesh

Finally, when Bobby got to the White House it was more of a black house and the American flag was just a black flag. It really looked like you took the white house and dumped a bucket of ink on it. Nonetheless, Bobby went in. As he walked, the men guarding it stepped away cautiously as they knew the pens powers, but did not know that the pen was broken. 

After he got to the oval office, where his father was being held captive, the Lion sat there and looked out the window and said, “This place is amazing, full of color and no way to get out. All you have to worry about is dying, but not in my world”. Then the Lion turned around and attacked Bobby.

As Bobby got bitten by the Lion he yelled, “Wait, wait, wait!” And the Lion stopped. Bobby said, “If you give me one of your teeth, I won’t stop you at ALL”. The Lion was mentaly blinded by having the whole world so the Lion gladly ripped off one of his teeth and handed to Bobby. As he ran away to take over the world Bobby ran to his dad.

When Bobby got to his dad, his dad did not look at Bobby and said, “Kill me, Bobby.”

And Bobby said,“No, I refuse.”

Quickly, Jeff grabbed the Lion toothed and said, “I love you Bobby,” and thrust it into his chest and all the ink melted away and then the white house was white again. He then took the Lion tooth and walked away.

Chapter Ten: Fist Fight

As Bobby walked out of the white house, he saw a six monsters: a dragon, the Lion, a stick figure, a skeleton, a vampire, and a cowboy. As all the monsters ran at him, he picked up a sharp piece of concrete and ran at the them. He cut the cowboy from the chest up. Then he took another piece and threw it at the dragon and hit him directly in the face, falling down and exploding into ink. Then he took the stick figure and stabbed the vampire in the mouth,and the vampire fell down dead. The stick figure was also dead. Then he took the skeleton and stuffed it down the Lion’s mouth then the Lion fell limp.

Then all the monsters melted away, except for the Lion who charged at Bobby screaming, “You killed everything I had!”

Bobby replied yelling, “I had to kill my only family member.” And then he stabbed the Lion with the lion tooth he had in his pocket and got up and walked away.

Epilogue

As Bobby walked home, he was covered in ink and wished he could talk to someone about what just happened with his father dying. When he got home, he opened the door, but the door just fell down. So he went in the living room, which was the room were he got sucked into the portal. The room was the same, but as he explored, everything was covered with ink so he started to clean. 

When he went to clean the bathroom, he saw himself. If anything, he looked like an ink person, so he just kept cleaning and told himself that he would take a shower soon. After he had cleaned the house and taken a shower, he got his dad’s body and put it in a coffin that had his most important drawing on it. The drawing was Bobby fighting a dragon. Then he closed the inky black coffin and walked out of his dad’s room into the living room to watch some TV.

The End?


The Shattered Syringe

Editor’s Note: Content Warning for Drug Use

As the luck in the packs does not change, Michael sits in his chair trying to stay enthused so that his chat does not know how much that measly eighty two rated card affected his bank account. The packs begin to get slightly better, and then go right back down in their regular slope. Michael decides that he has had enough for today. He ends his stream with no warning to his thirteen fans, leaving them confused as to why they got only seven and a half hours of streaming today.

Opening the fridge to the repulsive stench of spoiled milk and half-eaten canned tomato soup, he asks himself if he should just quit streaming and get what his family calls “a real job.” With half a Campbell’s soup in hand, he walks over to his monitor to see if there are any job openings nearby. The only available positions near him seem to be quite tragic: a cashier at the rundown Sunoco gas station or a waiter at Bertucci’s thirteen miles away. Both pay the same, $7.25 an hour, the Texas minimum wage. The long bike ride is worse than the cigarette smell that the gas station has, leaving Michael with only the interview left to complete. Calling it a night, Michael falls asleep to the three am Houston traffic.

The next day, with his best sweatshirt on, Michael walks into the gas station looking for a job. After the interview, Michael is confident that he has secured the job and decides that he deserves to treat himself for going out to the gas station instead of wasting away in his room playing FIFA on camera until he is ready to punch a hole in his wall. He buys himself a box of Pop-Tarts and a beer, the treat he deserves after this successful day. On his walk back home, he notices a bar and decides to go in. After all, he deserves it.

The next morning, he wakes up with a severe headache and a voice message on his phone. He opens the message. It’s the manager of the gas station. He didn’t get the job. The taste in his mouth turns bitter with rage. He needs that job. He grudgingly unlocks his computer and begins to stream. As a starting point he puts in $100 into today’s packs, the remnants of what’s left over in his bank account. Finally, after an hour and a half of no luck, he gets a walkout. As he walks across the stream, he hears a noise coming from his computer. Someone had donated two dollars. Not much, but it’s a start. Pack after pack, his luck seems to be shifting, getting slightly better and better players every time. After another forty five minutes, he gets the flash of light, indicating a good pack. Crossing his fingers, Michael watches as an icon walks out of the pack and does that little animated celebration everyone was waiting for. Maradona. Michael watches his stream go crazy, numbers rising from thirteen to twenty to thirty six viewers. Someone donates $15. Slowly but surely, Michael is making his money back. For the first time in his FIFA career, which is also his only ever career, Michael has gone positive at the end of the stream, actually gaining three dollars.

As Michael contemplates what to do tomorrow on his next stream, he begins to smell smoke. He wanders around, searching for the source of the scent, until he eventually stumbles into the kitchen where he notices that the oven is still on. In the oven are Michael’s, now charred, attempt at cookies that he was going to treat himself with. Panicking, Michael throws the cookies out of the oven and tries to put the fire out. The severity of the situation does not occur to Michael until he hears a knock on his door. He sprints out to open it, and one of his neighbors is there with a fire extinguisher.

After an alarming ten minutes, his neighbor finally leaves him alone with just a very dark patch left on his floor. Only now noticing that the fire alarms are going off, Michael uses the anger that is pent up inside of him and uses a crowbar to knock the fire alarm out. With some peace and quiet now flowing through the house, Michael walks toward his bed. Looking down at his bed, Michael begins to bawl. Tears rolling down his cheeks, his shoulders tremble.

The next morning, Michael walks down the street looking for any money making opportunity, even asking kids running a lemonade stand if they need a hand. As he walks past the CVS, he decides that clearly this won’t work. On the walk back to his house, he decides to take a shortcut, leading him through the back alleys of Houston.

A man stands in the middle of the alley on the way to Michael’s flat, almost as if he is another roadblock in Michael’s life. Michael contemplates what to do, whether to speak to him or not. Deciding that he has hit rock bottom, Michael decides to just say hi to the strange man. 

“Hello,” Michael says politely to the stranger.

The man looks up at him and gives him a size up. He looks up and down, as if surveying if Michael is a threat.

“Hey, I have something you want,” he replies with a hoarse voice.

Michael begins to wonder what it is that he has. Money? A job opening? Some luck?

“And what is it that I want?” Michael asks, genuinely curious, but also a little nervous for what he is going to hear.

“Heroin,” he replies.

The word bounces around in Michael’s mind as if it is a skipping stone going across a pond. Michael’s immediate reaction is obviously to reject it and walk away, but the more he thinks about it, the more the idea seems to be a good one.

“I don’t have money on me,” Michael finally responds to the stranger.

Hoping that that might be the end of it, he begins to walk away.

“Don’t worry, first dose is always free,” the stranger responds, knowing that this first dose would lead to another and another and another.

“Sure, why not?” Michael responds, somewhat knowing that he shouldn’t be doing it anyway. “How do I take it? Do I like snort it or something?”

“No, I have a spare syringe for you. Don’t worry about it,” the stranger responds, reaching into his back pocket. “I guess this will scare you if you’re an anti-vaxxer.”

“Just give me the damn syringe,” Michael responds, just wanting to get it over with.

He grabs the syringe, already filled with a dose, and looks for his radial artery. Being a med school drop-out, he knows how to get an artery to bulge out. He cuts the circulation going into his right arm and then injects the grimy syringe into his bloodstream. 

There is not much immediate pain, just like a normal vaccine or blood test, and Michael does not feel any different with heroin as without.

Thirty minutes later, and a calm passes over Michael. It is as if his troubles in life just disappear, and all of a sudden he is just peaceful. Unfortunately for Michael, this only lasts for about 45 minutes. Now Michael is back to normal, except for one thing. He has this strange cramp in his jaw. Not much to worry about. It should leave in a day or two, Michael says to himself. 

A day passes by, and Michael has gone to see the stranger another time to get another dose, this one not quite as cheap. The jaw cramp has yet to leave, but that isn’t too much of a problem. Instead he now has these continuous muscle cramps that come and go but are mostly just annoying. He ignores the symptoms, not wanting to realize what he knows they are. The days pass by, and he continues to make a few dollars here and there on stream, mostly looking forward to when he could afford his next dosage.

A week later, he finally could afford a small dosage. This starts to become routine, meet up with the man, whose name turns out to be Theo, get the dose, go home, and enjoy.

“Hey, Theo,” Michael says as he walks closer to joy.

“Michael,” Theo responds, not looking up.

He is wearing an OffWhite sweatshirt and Fear of God jeans. Theo is a dealer, and because of that, lives quite fruitfully off of the money he makes, just with the bad part of being constantly scared of getting caught.

“So, can I have it,” Michael asks, handing over the $50.

That is all that he has made over the last week and was going to pay for a bit of his rent.

“Sure, whatever you want,” Theo hands it over, once again, in quite an unclean syringe.

Michael thinks about just wiping it down, but that seems like a lot of effort for such a small benefit.

“Thank you, man. I’ll see you soon.”

Michael walks away, trying not to let the excitement show, so Theo doesn’t think he is a complete junkie.

 As the days roll by, Michael seems to be getting more headaches and is having trouble swallowing. And a month later, he goes to see Theo again, this time for a bigger dose. 

As Michael walks towards Theo, he takes the money out of his back pocket, $150, the most he ever made off of streaming. Theo is there waiting. Michael is becoming his best customer, and he could see that that wouldn’t change anytime soon.

Michael is about to hand the money over when his muscles suddenly stiffen and he loses consciousness. Michael falls to the ground and begins to convulse. White foam comes out of his mouth, and his eyes roll back in his head. Theo panics and sprints away with the money. He leaves a syringe next to Michael.

Weeks go by, and a stench begins to come from the alley behind Alonzo’s Pizzaria. Finally, a customer decides to go and see what is producing this horrid odor. It is a surprise indeed. The flies buzzing in and out of the man’s nose and mouth is enough for a scream to crawl out of the former customer’s mouth. He is glued to his spot, looking at a man sprawled across the asphalt with open eyes, but no pupils.

As police come onto the scene and bring the body back for an autopsy, it is clear that he has died because of untreated tetanus. As the police swarm the scene like the bugs across Michael’s body, they find something. A single shattered syringe.


My Mom

Hi, I’m Skylark Lalak. I live in Cleveland and really want to find my mother. When I was three years old, my mother ran away. This I remember because, if I want to remember something, I can remember it. It is kind of sad to think that she would run away. Now that I am sixteen, I would like to know more about where my mother is and find her. I also would like to know more about why she ran away.

I have a sister named Maya, who has Leukemia. Leukemia is a type of cancer. I am worried if I leave I will never see her again. My dad wants to help my sister but they don’t realize how much it is impacting my life. 

The thing is I have to take care of my sister because my father works till 8pm every night. The main thing that I have to do is make dinner and clean the dishes. Luckily, I can go to school. My sister can’t go to school because then she will get even more sick, considering all the germs. It is really hard to make friends at a time like this, but luckily I have a friend named Chloe. Chloe is a nice, caring person who helps me with my sister by checking on my sister while I do my homework. If only my dad would take some time off of work for my sister. Last night I was telling my dad how I felt about all of this. He said it was so we could pay for everything. 

Back to trying to find my mother. I decided that tonight I would ask my dad about my mom and why we never speak of her. First I needed to go to school, check on my sister, do homework, then wait for my dad. My dad gets home around 8:30 pm and sits down on the couch and I notice something is wrong so I call 911. I notice that my dad is limping and his foot is swelling. We go to the ambulance and after some tests, they find out my dad has a broken foot. He will not tell me how he broke it. Uh oh. I need an adult I can trust. Now I really need my mom. I can only trust my mom and the doctors. I just talked with the doctors and they say they will call whenever something happens. So I’m off. But I need to tell my dad and ask him a few questions.

I go up to my dad and ask, “Dad can you tell me anything about Mom?”

“No,” he says.

“Why not?” I ask, trying to beg him.

“Because,” he answers. 

“You sure?” I try one last time.

There is silence then finally, “Fine, just ask her yourself,” he says as he goes on my phone and dials a number. I go in my room and answer the phone.

“Hi Mom,” I say.

“Hi,” she says. It feels great to hear her voice. It has been a long time since I heard her voice. It makes me feel sad and happy at the same time. Her voice is kind of soft like the harmony of angels.

“Where are you mom? No one will tell me anything. And why did you run away from dad, Maya and I?” I feel bad that people don’t tell me anything.

“I will give you a hint and tell you the rest when you come and find me. Here is your hint… I am at the hottest continent in the world. The country I am in is called something that has a few Os in it,” she answers. I think that this is a very strange answer. Now after I finish this call I have to solve the riddle.

“Mom, if you don’t know, dad has a broken foot and Maya has Leukemia,” I say in grief because it is sad to say that my whole family is falling apart.

“Sadly I know that these things are happening right now. I know these things because your father calls everyday. Gotta go ,bye,” she says.

“Bye,” I say and hang up. I think I just need to figure out that riddle and then I will tell my dad that I am going to wherever the riddle takes me. I head over to my desk and figure out the riddle. I have always been great at riddles and I love them. This is how I figured it out…

First, you figure out what the hottest continent: Africa (if you don’t know look it up.)

Second, you know that a few means around three, and there are three o’s so…

The answer is Morocco.

So now I need to tell my dad.

“Hey Dad,” I say as I head over to the couch.

“Hi honey,” he says.

He looks tired so I tell him, “Dad, let me tell you something. Then you’ll try to sleep.”

“Ok, what do you want?” he says.

“Can I go to Morocco to save Mom?” I ask, crossing my fingers.

“No,” he answers.

“Dad, why not? I am helping Maya, you and myself. Please.”

“But you may get hurt,” he says.

“Dad, I won’t get hurt. Can you stop being overprotective?”

“I don’t want everyone in this family to be hurt.”

“Then let me go. I will always be hurt without my mom. Just so you know the doctors are taking care of Maya.”

“Go, but try not to get hurt.”

“Sure.” Yes, I am going to Morocco and saving my mom. Now I need to get a ticket. I look at my phone, and I see that there is a flight tomorrow at 2 pm to Morocco. When I turned sixteen, my dad gave me a wallet that had a credit card. I will go then. I am lucky that it is the weekend tomorrow. Wait for one second. Tomorrow is Chloe’s birthday. I will ask if we can do something for her birthday in the morning before noon.

A few minutes later…

Yes! She replied and said that I could come over now and have a birthday sleepover. I told her I’d be there in a little bit. So, off I am to the bookstore to get Chloe a book. I decided to grab something Harry Potter. I am now trying to find the Ravenclaw notebook. Our favorite house. We like Ravenclaw because they are smart and so are we. Found it. Now I pay and we are off to Chloe’s 17th birthday party. She is a few months older than me. 

I get there and I give the present to Chloe and say, “Are you looking forward to being seventeen? I am sorry that I could not be here for your actual party.”

“It is fine, I know how much you want your mom and your family to be safe at home,” she says, and we start the sleepover. To sum it all up, we ate pizza and popcorn, she loved my present, we watched Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, and we played Just Dance. Now the party is done. I am surprised that I had a good time. Like, I have to go home to grab my stuff and head to the airport, forgetting my passport. Don’t worry about that.

A few hours later…

I am on the plane to Morocco. It is a long plane ride so I will watch some movies. I also will listen to Grace Vanderwaal. She is my favorite singer. I’ve been on a plane many times before. The plane has 3 rows. 

15 hours and 25 minutes later…  

It was a long plane ride, but finally I am here, in Morocco. Now let me call my mom.

“Hey mom I figured out that you meant Morocco and I am in Morocco right now. Where are you?” I tell her.

Good job,” she said. “You did it. Come outside. I go outside and see that there is a limo. The guy asks me if I have any luggage and I realize that I forgot my luggage. I go inside and get my luggage and go back to the car. I’ll listen to more Grace Vanderwaal. When we get to wherever we should get to. I see a house with a backyard that seems like it is close to a lion territory. I walk  in and see the person I’ve wanted to see basically my whole life,

“Mom,” I say as I run up to her.

“Finally, I can see you and talk to you in person. Sit on the couch and I will tell you what you want to know,” she says. “What would you like to know?”

“I have many questions. First question, Why do you leave Maya, Dad, and I?”

“Ok, the answer to that is one night I got an email that the lions need some help to stay alive, and since I love animals, I thought that I could maybe help.”

“Ok, next question, why do you never call me or Maya?” I ask.

“Because your dad wants us to surprise your sister on her birthday. So can you please stay here for a little while? You will have to be homeschooled, sorry. I didn’t call you because we wanted you to want to come here.”

“I guess,” I said. I was unable to answer this question because I would like to be with my mom, but also want to be with my other family and friends. So I guess that I will be hanging out around lions for a month or two.

Epilogue 

It has been a couple of months and I am on my way to my sister to surprise her. For some reason, we are heading to the house instead of the hospital. Does this mean what I think it means? It does! My sister overcame leukemia!! I am so happy and excited. My life is finally normal. My sister is a normal kid, who can do normal things. My mom is back. And my dad has his foot back. That is all the time I have, bye.


Goldfish

Every day, I just see a boy staring back at me. I see most everything he does, and not all of it is pleasant to watch. I’m a goldfish, and this boy decided to name me Bananas. What kind of name is that? Especially for a fish. 

I have a pretty nice life though. I just swim around in my tank and wait for this boy to feed me. At least I’m not getting flushed down a toilet.

As I swim around, I question, “Why does this boy have me in his room? Why does he need me?”

And I’m still not quite sure of the answer. All I do is swim in this tank. Is it really that entertaining for this boy? 

This boy, I think his name is Sam. His hair is brown and he has green eyes. He’s fairly pale and tall. Well, I guess every human is tall compared to me. I’m not sure what this boy does. Sometimes I see him on a device with cords coming out of his ears, and he nods his head or dances. Sometimes he sings while he stares at me. I’ve seen other boys come in here. I’ve even seen girls in here too. I’ve seen this boy Sam cry. I do not understand why he cries. I do not understand what he has to be sad about. All I know is that he comes over and looks at me, salt water pouring down his face, and I cannot help him.

I’m useless. Maybe the boy cries because he feels useless. Maybe I make him feel as if I needed him. Maybe that’s why the boy has me in his room. Maybe that’s why he wants me, because I need him, and it’s encouraging to know that someone or something needs you.


Anactoria’s Cry

I traced her name into the swirling brown dust,

and it came out loud, and free, and infinite — 

Sappho,

on a clay tablet, on a hard patch of earth… 

Till papyrus, colored stylus,

pulses bright

as the woman in the flower field.


Before, I did not know the name, 

I did not know of sleepless nights,

sacred fires, 

girls who dance on wet grass.


But she came to me, 

pudgy grapes in slender hands,

violet hair and olive skin… 


And she touched my lips,

with the taste of wine, and pomegranate,

and honey cake stuffed with fig.


I was not Sappho’s schoolgirl — 

men and schoolgirls are for figments


wine, pomegranate,

honey cake with fig;

when there were 

sacred fires, women who danced on wet grass

and we burned.


When Time comes by

to split the fig open and eat away the pulp,

spoil the wine,

smear the pomegranate,

and turn the honey thick with poison… 


Let me eat the rotted fruit, 

bury my heaving body in the swirling brown dust,

devour the last molding seeds — 

Till I become numb to the men that tarnish my name,

Numb to the girls who sneer as I struggle to breathe… 


Till I am with Sappho, Eros, dust

dust, dust, dust, dust… 

tracing the name… 

tracing the woman that saw me


Into the crumbling Lesbian soil.


Eye of the End (The Second Vision and The Third Vision)

Editor’s Note: The First Vision in The Eye of the End was published in the Spring 2018 issue of the (parenthetical). This is a continuation of that story.

The Second Vision

All alone, far away from any contact that might help me. It’s been days since I’ve seen Lucas’s smile. No humans know anything about this place. The place is bright and gives me chills.  Some random extension dimension with mirrors that isn’t home. I feel different than my usual self. I don’t know what it is, but I feel like I’m not myself anymore. I made a friend, and I risked my life for humanity, but in that process, I also got so much hate. My life was a constant reminder that I would never get treated the same.

The bullying that happened in my past was as painful as getting your head stabbed with an axe. I specifically remember Bob. He was a mean one, Mr. Bob. The mean popular kid was always creating trouble, but Bob was just on another level. His real name was Affreux, but he was commonly known as Bully Bob (BB). 

Screech, Screech, Screech. The creaky steps of the klutzy school. Recess is present, and all kids are running after the spinning checkered like a ball. Soon BB approaches the scared, scrawny Megre. Before Lucas came, he was the only person who would at least smile at me. 

His face would enlighten hope throughout me. BB picks up little Megre and shakes him up and down like a girl to the melody of Édith Piaf. Lucas’s shoes clang on the ground while he moves towards the bully. Peu and Gros try to stop Lucas from his daring mission. Knowing the consequences, Lucas runs toward BB and punches him in the hard, sturdy, and extremely sweaty back.

“You’re going to pay for that you little insect,” exclaimed Bob.

Peu and Gros come running towards me. What did I do? Do they think I was part of an attack? Or do they expect me to fight alongside with Lucas? Was I being picked on because of my third eye? Were they after me because of my love for Lucas and Megre? Questions aside, I had to deal with them. I was bickering to myself on how to prevent the abuse. With one idea in my mind, I ran with it, literally. Running towards these pests was the only option I had. If I had stayed in the back, they would’ve cornered me and made me into Hollandaise sauce. If I would have run the other way, they’d cooperate and chase me down like the alarm escape scene from Rififi. Jules Dassin is an amazing director, and I’ve seen all of his movies.

My feet lifted off the ground and dashing north shows a shocked and slightly terrified look on Peu and Gros’s faces, but the chase is still on. I dodge the students in the way and jump over the hurdles like a horse in a race. I’ve caught a few sights of the daring acts of horses leaping as fast as a bullet. Four meters away from them and I still don’t know how I’ll get passed them. I think and slide. I am under them, and I make it through the thighs of Gros. I felt like I was in a stunt movie as I glide through under. Peu looks behind him and sees me. I wink at him with a sign of awesomeness. I look in front, seeing BB. Seeing my competition, I’ll crush that piece of — thud. I fall to the ground, making me injured and vulnerable. Gros and Peu start to thrash me. I catch glances with Lucas. We are in pain but have the energy to do one thing … smirk at each other.

The Third Vision

I feel something rushing through my feet as if it’s a snake rolling up my spine. As it reaches the most top strand of my hair, I feel unwanted energy through my body. Slowly, my feet lift off the solid ground, and before you know it, I am flying. But my flying is not like normal flying because I can’t move at my own will like birds. That thought reminds me of a poem that Lucas told me.

As a Blackbird flies,

A Rooster will crow.

As a Chicken pecks,

A Duck will Quack.

How to kill a Mockingjay was the title,

But Why would you kill a Mockingjay was the question.

The birds are like Humans, 

Stupid and Weird.
I am still stuck in the Mirror Dimension, reciting all the poems that Lucas taught me while drifting in the air. Not knowing how to get out of this world, I fall asleep in the peaceful realm midair. I wake up tired, and I find out that I am no longer floating but dangling on the ceiling from a glass chandelier. My face turns upside down, and my pupils make me feel dizzy. I feel like I want to cry, but the tears just don’t roll from my eye. As the string that pulls me together swings, I slip out like soap. I dive out of the chandelier while looking in the mirror and seeing my face with a blank expression, as the disappointment on my face sinks into my soul. Blood.

The Willow Tree (Excerpt)

“Oh, what am I doing?” Azure whispered to herself.

Abruptly, the crowd of people that surrounded Azure gave a wide berth to a group of teenagers. From the way they spoke and the excruciating detail and craftsmanship of their clothing, they seemed to be from… the higher folk in the desert lands. The two girls in the group wore colorful silk tops that matched the bright colors that swathed the marketplace’s stalls. Barely a streak of muck or dirt showed on their tanned faces. They bickered loudly over a large diamond-encrusted necklace as the frenzied merchant tried to separate them.

Azure swallowed down the bitterness that rose in her throat. Here there were people fighting over the simplest issues, only worrying about how expensive the things they purchase are, when there were people dying from the Desert’s Wrath and fighting over life and death.

“Typical,” Azure exclaimed. “Fighting over a piece of jewelry while death and disease are elsewhere.”

She blew a strand of hair from her face, thinking sickeningly about her own family and their suffering from the Desert’s Wrath. She spotted a water stand near the bickering girls, and suddenly she felt how dry and parched her throat had been. Perhaps I have a few coins to spare to get water, Azure thought.

“Come on,” Azure urged. “We can spare getting a water supply before we head out.” 

Erix shifted uneasily in his place as Azure gave him an impatient glance over her shoulder. His eyes continued to squint at the group of kids in the center of the market. Azure swiftly made her way ahead of Erix, when the apparent leader of the teenager group, a tall boy with sleek, dark hair and a crooked nose, waved his two arms up in the air.

His face lit with recognition as he shouted, “Hey Erix!” His voice reverberated along the market shops. 

Erix stopped mid-step, a few feet behind Azure. His face fell, and he slowly began to back away. Azure’s eyes shifted from the boy and Erix nervously, creasing her brow. Immediately, the guy wrapped his arm around Erix’s shoulders like they were longtime friends. He tassled Erix’s already messy hair.

“I missed you, little guy!” he exclaimed, despite Erix being an inch taller than him. “Didn’t think you’d actually go on that silly dare we gave you!”

Azure knew Erix had tried to steal her ruby when they met, and stepping away from the two boys, she wondered if they were accomplices. She’d only met Erix last night when they’d both made the agreement to help each other find the willow tree. Azure was still wary of him.

Erix pulled away, but not before the guy snatched his map from his pocket. Erix angrily went to grab it back, but the guy held it high above his head, throwing it to his friend.

“You said something’s been stolen from you alright, Rowlen,” the boy said to the guy next to him. “This it?” 

The second guy shrugged. “Nope, but finders keepers, eh?” He went to put the precious desert map in his trouser pocket. 

Azure stepped up in front of Erix to face the leader of the group.

“It’s ours,” she said defiantly, craning her neck upwards to meet his eyes. “I’d like you to give it back.”

The boy laughed and raised his eyebrows. “Sorry, my lady.” He bowed sarcastically. “But it’s ours now. Besides, do you really trust this guy to take you to the willow tree? If it even exists, you’re going to die anyway, reaching it. I’m doing you a favor by sparing you the trouble of dealing with him.” 

Azure narrowed her eyes, her eyes still glued on the map that peeked tauntingly out of Rowlen’s pocket. She knew well enough that some people only searched for the tree to gain glory, and she was quickly running out of her time, and patience. 

“You think he — ” The boy pointed at Erix. “ — is true to his word? Ha! Well I’ll tell you what I know of Erix of Ragnarox.” The boy spat.

“Kwan, that’s enough,” Erix said dangerously. 

“Just leave him alone! I don’t care what you think of him,” Azure snapped back. She glanced nervously behind her shoulder. The exit from the marketplace was too far to steal back the map and get away from these people. Of course, she had to be dragged along into Erix’s problems. “Just give me the stupid map… now.”

“Actually for your information,” the boy replied, “Erix wouldn’t even have helped you or known anything about this map without my help. He didn’t even know about the legend itself! I’m the one who dared him to find that tree when we met back in Ragnarox and led him to the place where he could most likely find the map. All that’s left for him to do is to find it and cut it down. Then you’ll be accepted by us, right pal?” Kwan continued. 

Erix tensed his shoulders and his fists. “Shut up, Kwan!” he exclaimed stiffly. 

Kwan ignored him. He turned back to Azure. “Still don’t believe me, eh? Just see the look on his face then!” He and his friends laughed.

Azure stood still. She opened her mouth, yet no words came out. She didn’t know how to make her words come out. She gritted her teeth. She’d just run off with the map and leave. The bitter feeling in her mouth returned. Erix would cut down a tree that had the cure to the worst disease in the desert, something that has been surviving in the desert for so long, just to prove himself to these ignorant people.

With a cry of anger, Azure grabbed the map from Rowlen with such force that he fell over a cart of caged chickens, and ended up landing straight in a pile of donkey droppings. The group of kids suddenly stopped laughing as Rowlen glowered, his eyes on Azure. Azure’s instinct took over. She had one thing on her mind now.

Get out.

With that, Azure sprinted away, pushing the crowd despite people’s cries of annoyance. In her haste, she knocked down merchant stalls, sent baskets of market goods flying, while the group of teenagers took off in pursuit. Dust clouds flew in front of her face, blocking her view. Kwan was right on her tail, merely a few feet away. The edge of the marketplace was still out of reach. Azure had no idea where Erix was, nor did she care. She wanted to run, far away from everyone and everything, off into the middle of the desert where no one would lie to her for their own reasons. 

“Azure, watch out!” Erix was a bit ahead of her just near the barren, golden landscape of the desert. Azure’s ears perked as she turned, her face inches from the furious hooves of a horse, its rider frantically pulling on the reigns.

Aahh!” both Azure and the rider screamed.

Azure swung her head down and rolled out of the way, hitting the side of a crumbling building. Clutching her aching head, Kwan appeared over a pile of rubble. He loomed over her and reached his arm out, grabbing the other end of the map. 

“You’re not getting away, you lowly wretch! It’s time you learned your place in the world.”

People stopped by as they watched Kwan and Azure. Neither one of them was about ready to let go. Azure grabbed the edge of the paper till her knuckles went white. Her arms shook from the effort to hold on. The crowd murmured and whispered, chickens clucked while the donkeys brayed loudly, Erix shouting out for Azure. The image of the willow tree on the map blinked up at Azure in the sunlight. The beautiful willow tree that Azure yearned to find. The one that would bring her back to her former life. 

Azure’s head was about ready to burst as tears of frustration pricked at her eyes. From the distance she could see the silhouettes of the others making their way through the market. Freedom was too close to let go, when Azure was nearly at the desert. Sweat slipped down the sides of her face as she bared her teeth. The crumbling building next to her continued to crack faster and faster, breaking apart the dried, dull yellow stone. Rocks and stones began to fall as the building’s bottom began to deteriorate.

Everything happened too fast.

In a shout of frustration, Azure tugged with all her might, pushing Kwan backwards onto the dirty road, freeing the map from his clutches. Her hand hit the building, and like a rippling effect it continued to crack apart at a mad pace until it reached everywhere, up to the top of it and beneath Azure and Kwan’s feet. Azure’s mind was racing. She didn’t know what she was doing, yet her mind had no control over her movements. Her hands swung upward and to the side. The right side of the building finally collapsed.

A huge dirt cloud blasted in Azure’s face. Azure coughed in the flecks of debris that now swarmed the air, engulfing her lungs and throat.

People cried out in shock, and Azure could barely hear the faint warbling sound of Kwan and his groups voices.

“She’s cursed!” came their cry, along with the scared agreements of the crowd.

Azure had heard enough, and this time she had no retaliation to say back. Words had completely left her. Azure’s clothing was ridden with dust and dirt. Her hair was a wretched mess, just like Kwan had said. Breaths came in quick, constricted gasps. The map was still clutched in Azure’s fist, yet the view of the market was fully blocked with all of the fallen debris and wreckage. All that was left to see was the glittering sand and the one lone stray fox in the distance. The sun glared down on Azure as she kneeled down, resting her head heavily against a rock face.

What have I done? she thought to herself, scared of looking at her own hands. She shot a quick, narrowed glance at Erix, whose face had gone pale. He didn’t back away or run from her however.

“W-w-what did you — ” he shakily began.

“I don’t know what I did, okay?!” Azure shouted, louder than she expected. “I don’t know! But this is all your fault! Of course, you care more about being ‘accepted’ by people that will never really be your friends, don’t you? You’re just like everyone else. Just as bland and just as selfish and self-involved.” 

Erix didn’t say anything. He looked at his torn shoes.

“Of course you don’t have anything to say, huh?!” Azure exclaimed. She thought he would have at least said something, anything, even the most stupid excuse to his actions would have worked. “Aargh, I hate you! I hate everything. I hate your stupid ‘friends.’ I hate myself!” Azure punched the eroded rock, clutching her hand in pain. She couldn’t bear to look at Erix anymore. “Good luck getting accepted,” she said quietly, turning her back to Erix. 

With that, Azure ran. She didn’t care how far she went or where she was going at the moment, but she needed to leave. She ran and ran, her feet flying before her eyes, the entire landscape a blur to her. Only when the sun began to slowly descend into the crimson sky did Azure stop. Splat. Azure looked down. A single tear hit the grainy desert sand, before absorbing into nothingness. 

Hurriedly, Azure wiped her tears with the back of her hand, streaking dust and mud across her left cheek. She looked around. No sign of life was in sight. Azure had gone right back to stage one in her quest for the willow tree, alone and helpless as daylight fell through her grasp once again. Not even the map could comfort her now.

Azure slumped her way over to an array of rocks that bordered a series of towering sand dunes, their sloping hills shining deep orange in the fading sunlight. A skull rested at the base of one of them, slowly crumbling to dust. Wait a second, Azure thought to herself. With a shaking hand, she lifted up the map. Skull Man’s Dunes was drawn onto it, shielding the place of the willow tree that barely anyone dared to pass. Four sloping dunes were drawn in shining ink, identical to the ones that stood menacingly before Azure.

Azure’s knees sagged, and she clutched her chest, her heart rapidly beating, sinking lower into the ground.

“Oh no. Oh no no no no no no!” she cried out to no one. “I have to get out of here,” Azure squeaked. She tried keeping her composure, but her movements were clumsy and she struggled to stand. She had to keep going. The donkey. Azure tugged at her hair in anger. “Stupid Azure!” Azure exclaimed. “How could you forget about what you needed most to reach the tree?!” Azure imagined Erix, happily riding on that donkey, making his way across Skull Man’s Dunes without a care in the world, free and safe from any possible harm. 

“Arghhhh!” Azure shouted, her voice breaking.

She began to run, hoping she hadn’t been in that treacherous area for too long. Abruptly, the ground shook, and Azure’s legs buckled. She fell face flat in the sand. Turning her head around, Azure’s eyes bulged, her mouth agape, unable to make a sound or a movement. 

The dunes had been awakened.

A vast cloud of golden sand and speckles of dust rumbled in Azure’s direction. It burst through the desert, devouring everything in its path greedily. The wind shrieked and howled in Azure’s ears as she covered her hands over her head. Spumes of dust and dirt rose above Azure, coating her in a thick layer of sand and grime.

Azure could barely see through the haze of dull yellow grains of sand that flecked at her stinging eyes and skin and lips. She shouted out desperately for help, yet the moment her mouth moved it was engulfed in dust. Azure, closing her eyes shut, crawled along the ground, grappling her way through the monstrous domes of sand that blotted out any source of light. The wind grew louder, crying in agony as Azure shouted along with it. Her hand managed to find the rough edge of an object, and she squeezed her fist around it like a lifeline. 

It crumbled to dust in Azure’s hands, relenting to the storm. “Stupid power!” Azure managed, clutching her aching hand, wiping her mouth from all of the grainy sand that dotted it. It did nothing as the storm raged on, enveloping Azure’s nostrils and her mouth once again, not letting down.

Dust and bits of rock caked Azure’s face and clothes. She lay there, crouched on the floor, coughing out dirt. Her hands were cut up raw from the million bits of sand that flew past her skin. Another wave of sand flew into Azure, and upon the impact, Azure was sent flying across the desert, scabbing her knees on the rough desert plains, not knowing where she was or what day it was. Her throat begged for water, yet all it got was more dirt and speckles of rock. 

After shouting for help repeatedly, Azure stopped her struggling. “Help,” she said hoarsely, before letting go to the storm.

Clutching her torn and rugged satchel that was miraculously still there, Azure prayed that it would end. She didn’t care about the willow tree anymore. It was hopeless. She had no one left by now. She was no one. Her family was sick, and she had trusted the wrong people. She failed. 

Azure thought for a moment she heard her name beyond the howling sound of the ghastly wind. Images of her family, her parents, and her siblings flew through Azure’s mind. The smell of fresh warm baked bread her mother would always make every Saturday morning, her father’s low, rumbling voice that would resonate through the house when he was in an elated mood, as well as her little twin brothers’ shrieks of laughter as they’d play outside, sending dust clouds in the air as they chased after one another. 

“I’m sorry,” Azure finally spoke, her eyes shut tight, her ears ringing from the sound of the wind. 

Azure breathed heavily, every bone in her body smarting and aching. She begged repeatedly for everything to be over, for everything around her to just end. Azure’s voice grew so loud in her head as she screamed for everything to stop that she couldn’t hear the overbearing sound of someone calling out. 

Azure’s eyes barely opened, and as she squinted through the golden haze, she could make out a frail silhouette. Her hands left her ears and the ringing subsided, followed by a clear sharp voice. “Azure!

Weakly, Azure looked up. An arm reached out, and without knowing who or what that thing had been, with her last ounce of strength, Azure reached out her own hand. She got hoisted up onto what seemed to be a stout gray animal that clomped hurriedly across the dunes. An animal that looked just like a donkey. The person finally turned, only his eyes visible, warm dark eyes that were filled with concern. Erix, Azure thought. As they made it to where the dust and sand had lessened, Azure could finally take a full breath. She nearly sobbed with relief. The one person who’d originally wanted to cut the tree was here. 

The sand still loomed above them, and not saying a word, the two bolted off to the nearest border of rocks, where a small opening revealed a stone cave. Just as the wind pushed the sand furiously closer, they leaped through the opening. 

“Come on, we have to close the opening!” Erix finally said, struggling to push a giant boulder at the back of the cave.

Azure rubbed her sore arms, barely able to push or move anything. She looked down at her hands. The scene at the marketplace flashed before her eyes, Kwan and his group chasing her, and the cracks in the old building, spreading out like a ripple. Maybe I don’t only have to cause things to crumble. With a shaky breath, Azure thrust out her hand willing herself to move the boulder. Come on, please! I don’t have any idea how my hands have been doing any of this, but you need to move now! 

Closing her eyes, Azure felt a gush of air and a final crash. She snapped them open, praying she hadn’t accidentally crushed Erix with a boulder or something. The giant rock now lay on its side at the entrance to the cave, and the world was drenched in darkness except for a tiny sliver of sunlight from the ceiling of the cave.

Azure panted heavily, then broke into nervous laughter that instantly grew louder. She must have looked delirious. “Ha! I did it! I moved a boulder, Erix! A boulder!! With my bare hands!” Azure turned, Erix still staring straight at the blocked entryway.

“Uh huh… ” he said weakly. “So this is… normal now?” He turned to Azure, his hair and clothes caked with a layer of sand, he grasped the leash of the old donkey as though it was his lifeline.

Azure looked down, finally calming down. “I honestly don’t know, Erix, ever since being in that marketplace… I just felt so furious at that moment, trying to get hold of the map, I could barely even think straight! And the next moment I destroyed that building. Imagine if there had been people in there!” She slid down against the cool cave wall.

Erix crouched down beside her. “But there wasn’t. That building was ancient after all. It would have eventually been taken down.” 

“You saved me after our, well, you know… argument. Why?” Azure spoke again after a still silence, trying to change the subject.

Erix fiddled with his fingers. “W-well, you did stand up for me back there in the market. No one’s done that for me before.”

“That kid was being a brat anyways,” Azure said finally.

Erix chuckled. Erix might have been selfish at hiding his motivations, but after seeing him save her, perhaps, he could be trusted.

“Look, whatever Kwan said you did… about being dared to take the map and cut down the tree and all that was wrong, and unjust of you… ” Azure took a deep breath before continuing. “But Skull Man’s Dunes, it isn’t a one man journey. To be honest, I never imagined I’d ever say this yet… I need your help, Erix. We both need each other’s help if we hope to make it out of here successfully… and alive as well. Perhaps the reason I even have this new ability is to somehow help us reach the willow tree.” 

Azure finally turned to Erix, and she caught a flicker of determination in his eyes. “Well, what are we waiting for?” He flashed a mischievous grin. “You think you can find a way to move that rock again?” 

Azure nodded, stiffening her shoulders. “I-I think so.” 

Together, Azure and Erix reached the large boulder that blocked the cave entryway. The sound of the howling wind had diminished to a faint whisper as the storm began to drift away gradually. Here goes nothing, Azure thought to herself. Steadying her shaky breaths, Azure pressed her palm against the rockface. Instantly, it grew warmer by the second, and the warmth spread all the way up Azure’s arm. Still concentrating, she used all her will to cause the rock to move. Slowly, Azure’s tense arm relaxed as the warmth from the rock filled her. The surface of the rock left her fingers, and when she opened her eyes, the rock had been pushed away, revealing the fading orange light of day. 

Erix, giving the boulder one final push, clapped his hands happily, still heavily ridden with dust. Wiping sweat from his brow he glanced at Azure.

“I suppose I could get used to this.” Azure rolled her eyes as they stumbled their way onto the donkeys back once again.

They were still in dangerous territory. The thought of the violent storm was still clear in Azure’s mind. The map had still miraculously survived, and it lay clutched in Azure’s fist. They’d been in Skull Man’s dunes for a while.

“We have to be getting closer,” Azure began, furrowing her eyebrows as she studied the map.

“Let’s hope we find it before we can’t see anything at all.” Erix, grabbing a hold of the reigns on the donkey’s saddle, nodded towards the tiny faint sliver of light in the corner of the sky. The sun was setting fast, and already stars began to pop up in the sky. “You know,” Erix continued, “we never got to name him.”

“Who exactly?” Azure began slowly, confused.

“The donkey, obviously. Got any ideas for names? How about… ” Erix scratched his head as though in deep thought. “Erix Jr. maybe?”

Azure crossed her arms, giving him an incredulous look. “The fate of an entire village is at stake, and you are worrying about naming our donkey at the moment?” Erix merely smiled in reply. “Well, looks like it shouldn’t be at stake anymore.” They suddenly stopped, and Azure’s eyes grew wide, a grin breaking across her face.

The willow tree towered above them, wide burly branches reaching to far ends, with broad leaves in deep golds and greens. Its roots extended deep below the sand beneath it, and although its bark was chipped and cracked, it was alive, surviving even in the most harsh circumstances. The shriek of a hawk pierced Azure’s ears, and a chip of the tree’s bark fell before Azure. Upon closer inspection, it looked blackened and… dead almost.

With a sick feeling rising in her mouth, Azure immediately hopped off of the donkey, rushing to the tree, Erix right in her wake. As she got closer, Azure realized how weakly the leaves flittered in the wind, how the branches groaned under the weight they had to hold, and how the mahogany-colored bark was fading into a deathly black color.

Erix stood next to Azure, his eyes twice their normal size as he looked about the tree in utter shock. “I-is is it… dead?” he spoke faintly.

Azure gently reached out her hand to the tree. She pressed her forehead against it. No. She repeated to herself over and over. I couldn’t have come all this way for nothing. No! Tears began pricking Azure’s eyes and slowly began to streak down her cheeks, yet she didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore. “No! It can’t be! It’s not dead!” Azure hit her fist against the ground, not gaining the strength to use any of her powers. Azure released her hand from its fist, staring at the center of it, wishing somehow a miracle would occur and her hand would be able to heal the tree. 

A small, papery object flew into Azure’s open hand, a green leaf. Azure looked up at the tree, her heart thundering in her chest.

“It’s alive,” she cried. “It has to be. Its leaves are still not blackened!” Azure stood up abruptly, her mind whirring. “It’s not dead yet. It’s just been… ”

“Poisoned?” a gravelly voice spoke from a few feet away.

Azure’s head snapped to the side, clutching her leather bag tightly.

“No need to be afraid… ” the voice continued smoothly. “I’ve been expecting someone to arrive quite soon.” A figure emerged from around the tree. He was lean and tall with a narrow tan face and crooked nose, his dark eyes glinting mysteriously. His lips curled into a thin, sly smile. “Hexron’s the name,” he said calmly, as though he was in any normal conversation. “So the Desert’s Wrath. I heard it’s been spreading quickly, hasn’t it? It’s a pity how ignorant people can be when it comes to finding clear solutions to their problems. By then I’d already poisoned this pitiful tree. It’s already gotten terribly old, hasn’t it? It’s grown old and tired from the disease and terrible actions of humans it has had to fix.” Hexron chuckled slightly at himself, as Erix and Azure’s mouths hung open in shock.


Perfect is a Knife

The pinboard is a fantasy, a collection of moments, of friends that anyone would want but it is just a fantasy. This is my life! I say screaming to anyone that will hear. Aren’t you jealous? Don’t you want this?  I’m screaming into a void, carrying the sound to no one. These moments are displayed for you not for me. I already know I felt like dying that night. I already know I was desperate and pathetic, clinging to anyone that would take me. But you don’t. You just see wide smiles, unblinking eyes filled with so much happiness they look like they will explode if just one more drop off bliss enters their perfect bodies on the most perfect night. “Perfect,” that word rips into my skin exposing those dreaded vulnerabilities. The camera captures a moment where you gather up all the good things you can find, shove it down your throat and cut crinkles in your eyes to show the only smile you have left. Your fingers trace over the shining, angelic people. A perfect night, oh so perfect.

The Sapphic’s Jumble, A Grammerless “Unpoem”

The words are sweet and watery you gorge 

yourself on them. Euphoria is instant inside this 

inner monologue when we are poetry and

poetry is addictive. We call this The Sapphic’s Jumble.


A Woman rises in the distance. I lived that

the words are poetry and 

poetry is addictive. The woman is addictive poetry. The

woman is very undecided, very loose and very 

beautiful, lying on your bed in silence. Sometimes 

you loved her as you loved addictive

poetry. 


The Woman was lying in your arms and her

breathing sped up and her eyes were blooming

pale tempests. You think you loved her, maybe you

didn’t love her. All this because of a closeted girl, 

silly thing. Steady your breathing and learn to 

think again. Push aside the clawing and screaming memories 

making up the throbbing Jumble.


Addictive poetry in the mad world. 

Chained to an internal monologue 

that smells like violets. 


This is what disorder is. She loved you, and she

loved you not in A Sapphic Jumble. The state is 

a disorder, it causes disorder. Disorder is chaos;

we are chaos. 

The Sapphic chaos.


Here is where you fight to? delineate the Lines;


Delineate the Addictive Poetry


Delineate The Sapphic’s Jumble


She loved you and maybe she never

loved you but either way. 

Punctuation is for fools. 

Punctuation is for Women of Logic.

You exist beyond Logic.


The existence of Your Lover

The existence of Your Presence

causes (a beautiful chaos)


Take it or leave it 

in The Sapphic’s Jumble. 

You can-a-can’t-can’t think,

till


We lie in Insanity


As we lie in Beauty


March 17th

The trickee has become the trickster

Running around with crushed hearts in hand

You can’t break a heart that is broken 

Playing games 

Foolish games

Power grows like vines 

Slips from my mouth on the third-month fourteenth day

Wishing I used force a few months before

But weak me

Little me

Never knew anything

I laugh in pity 

If only you knew how childish you were being

‘Cause this is fun

Words are shaken

Thoughts mistaken 

Stories are always told differently 

And they will turn you into a memory 

Learn to laugh in the face of that monster under your bed 

Learn to love your bare face

The taste of mistake on the lips

Dripped in the taste of regret 

You will never fully get over it 

Learn to show it who’s, boss

Don’t let it ever smile

‘Cause that’s when you know you’ve fully lost

People will call you weak 

And you will stare them in the face,

You will think have they even brushed their teeth that day

Wonder if their hands are in fists

Turning white losing blood as you stare them in the eyes

You notice the scar above their eye

Realize they too have once lost a fight

More questions appear in your head

Why this?

Why now?

How is this supposed to end?

Remember we were all little kids once

Blowing Dandelions fluff off stems

But Danny went off and was a liar

Big lies escape from the smallest mouths

And the biggest lies sting your skin like lemon juice

And you finally realize you might never get over it 

But that doesn’t stop you from trying

And more lies slip from mouths

Whispers whirl around your head, the words repeat and repeat again and again

And you’re stuck sinking in your thoughts

Is this the end?

And if it is the end

Did I do enough?


Monsters

when you think of monsters you think of long claws have three heads

hiding under your bed ready to attack

but some people’s monsters don’t have long claws hide in your closet or have big fangs some people’s monsters is fear of not passing the test

not achieving your goals upsetting people letting them down

thinking you have it but you don’t 

or feeling regret being alone seeing death

doing nothing when you think you could have done something  

feeling something is going to happen

being in the wrong place at the wrong time

being made fun of how you look 

getting your lunch money stolen and not saying nothing

wanting to do something but you can’t 

feeling left out feeling guilty

when people see your face and they sit somewhere else 

or feeling misjudged on the action you did 

not having someone to talk to being blamed for something you did not do 

being embarrassed or wanting something 

a pet flying or running away 

or the feeling that you forget something but you realize at the last moment

doing an action that you think is good but someone sees it differently or as a bad way

losing family or a friend

not being loved or doing something unintentionally

so the monster that has long claws or has three heads are actually your fear but just disguised as a scary or mysterious creature that pops out in your dream it is your fear


frank

“frank? frank!

my entire life, summed up into two short words, written in sharpie against my white bedroom walls.

i think that’s what they hate the most. the shortness, the stillness of it. the ink that dried too quickly and the words that were missing too many letters. the blood that rushed to my head and the gravity that pulled the marker away from me, onto the ground.

i’m sorry.

they’re angry with me, even if they pretend that they aren’t. maybe they wish i had more to say, more of an apology than just the words:

i’m sorry.

when i think about it now, i have more to say. i could’ve written pages and pages about it, explaining why i did what i did. but sometimes things are better when they’re simpler. sometimes i don’t need the whole world to try and analyze my mind. 

the only reason why i make so many mistakes is so that the skeletons in my closet won’t be lonely. but i didn’t tell them this, won’t tell them this. instead, all i left behind was a measly i’m sorry. it’s better than nothing, i guess.

still, they hate me. i know that they do. but i can’t really blame them. i hate me, too.

i felt like a jellyfish that day, or a ghost. something that you can’t hold on to. i couldn’t even hold on to myself.

***

i spent two weeks in the hospital last month. four days were for me, in a stiff white bed with no company but the ceiling and the tubes and the nurse who poured me orange juice every morning. the remaining ten days were for my dad, sitting beside him in a plastic fold-up chair, listening to his even breathing as he climbed over the edge of life. he died surrounded by what he loved most, the woman he pretended that he could still call his wife and half-empty cans of beer.

he was a nice person, i think. he was just good at not being himself.

he’s in a better place now. and if you ever want to talk about it… if you ever need me, just know that i’m here. i’m here for you. we’re here for you. you’re not alone. 

it’s going to be okay.

it probably is going to be okay, but i wish it could be more than that. i wish that things would be how they used to be. i wish that things could be summed up more than just “okay” and “i’m sorry.”

the last night as a patient in the hospital was the worst. i shared a room with a six-year-old girl. she talked a lot, mostly to herself but also to me. she told me about the pet rats in her bedroom who chewed holes into the sunlit yellow paint that coated the walls and died. some nights, she’d crawl over to my side of the room and just cry, but i never said anything when she did. that was the worst part about being upset — people just wouldn’t leave you alone. i couldn’t tell what she was thinking. maybe it’s better off that way.  

monday, 1:37am. i wish that i had learned her name.

my dad died on a thursday at half past twelve with so much alcohol in his veins that they couldn’t tell how much of it was blood and how much of it was whiskey. i wasn’t there that night like i was all the other nights, like i was that monday thirty-seven minutes after one in the morning. i wasn’t there as he faded into nothing, silent as ever, no one noticing that he was truly gone until my mother turned over to give him a glass of water and didn’t even hear a whimper of protest in return.

he was half dead when they first found him on that day, face down in a puddle of unrecognizable fluids. they spent ten days trying to revive him, wasting their energy on a man who was too far gone to even care. 

i don’t miss him, and yet i wish that he was still here. ryan doesn’t believe me. she thinks that i do miss him, somewhere inside, and maybe she’s right. but maybe she’s wrong.

ryan visited me twice when i was there. she brought a plant with her the first time, a small cactus she named albert that had allegedly lived for fifteen years, but no one really believed her about that, especially because after a few days of living on my windowsill, albert was no longer looking very healthy.

it’s fine. everything’s fine.

***

there is no air here. i can’t tell if it’s actually as stuffy as i think it is — maybe it’s just all the flowers lined up against the wall, little goodbyes and sorry’s but mostly just dying flowers of what they think is sympathy.

goodbyes to a dead man. how ironic. shouldn’t he be the one saying goodbye?

people are staring, but no one says anything. maybe they feel as out of place as i do. maybe they’re pretending just for me.

my mom leans over towards me. she doesn’t reach for my hand, but i feel her breath, warm and sticky on my neck as she says, “are you okay?”

i nod. 

the breath moves away like it had never been there at all. i don’t look up. i don’t look anywhere. time keeps moving, moving on and moving away and i am still, not still enough to not be noticed, but still enough to fade into the background. 

there is no air here, and yet the atmosphere still smells of who he used to be and the dust that floats by me but not in the way i want it to. and everything is so quiet, their words tiptoeing around me, but it still feels too loud and i know this only because my head feels like it’s going to explode. 

it doesn’t.

my mom hovers over my shoulder again, pressing fingers into my palms and words into my ears but really all it is is noise.

“are you okay?” she asks again. this time i turn to face her. “frank?”

“yeah.” something crawls up into my throat and pulls down at my flesh, down my neck and my spine and my wrists. it’s racing up and down my chest and down into my stomach, and i feel like i might throw up. everything is glued to me. the hair on my forehead, the shirt on my back, and the rows and rows of eyes watching me, waiting to see what the dead man’s son has to say about his decaying body.

i cough into my sleeve, the cloth warm over my chin. another layer of fear.

“frank, are you sick? you’re not getting sick, are you?” she reaches up to my face and presses a palm to my forehead, pulling away after a few moments of prodding. “you feel sweaty,” she says. 

“it’s hot here,” i tell her. “it’s too hot here. and stuffy.”

“maybe you are getting sick,” my mother contemplates to herself, reaching up to my skin again. she looks worried. i didn’t mean to make her worried. “but you feel okay… ”

“because i am.”

her eyebrows curl up and form little creases on her face. “you’re pale,” she tells me anxiously. “maybe you should go lie down somewhere.” she digs into her pockets and pulls out a pack of napkins, our alternative to regular tissues when i was kid. i cough into halloween, into rainbow birthday cake, into christmas and pearly black new year’s balloons and sparkly fourth of july. i shove the crumpled up celebratory paper deep into the pocket of my jacket.

“is ryan here?” i ask, searching through the sea of people for a tiny head of green. “did you see her?”

“uh, no, i don’t think so.” she shoves the words out of her mouth quickly to reassure me, and then shoves me forward a bit along with them. i wobble towards the back of the room near the door and into a cheap plastic chair. “you should rest, until she gets here at least.”

“you’ll wake me up when — ”

“yes, yes, okay? i’ll wake you up when she’s here, now go.”

i go. what else can i do?

she wanders off to talk to who i assume are relatives. i recognize a few of them but most i don’t. even from here, i don’t need to hear what they are saying to know what they are telling her. one of them looks familiar, an old woman with bracelets that sing like cymbals as they tangle themselves around her wrists, and this one leans forward to enclose my mother in a hug.

she barely knows him. she barely knew him. why does she get to care? why can’t i?

they’re always asking, and i never tell.

how are you feeling, frank? after what happened… ”

nothing. i feel nothing.

“i’m doing okay.”

i feel less than this woman with a face that looks a bit like everyone else’s, a woman who had probably had only spoken to my father once in her life. and still she brought flowers. and still she feels bad.

she feels bad.

i feel nauseous.

suddenly i can’t sit still anymore, and it’s like the bats that have been breeding in my stomach have blossomed and burst out and i can hear nothing and everything all at once.

i shift out of my seat and slip out the door where no flowers wilt, no chairs are stacked, and most importantly, no people are huddled. the air feels cool on my skin for a moment until another wave of heat crashes against me, and i realize that i’m shaking. i move back to steady myself against the building. it helps just as much as i expect it to, which is not at all. my head is still spinning.

no one is here. no one is watching. usually that would make me feel better, but right now it isn’t.

breathe, i tell myself. an ant crawls up against the back of my arm. breathe.

i’m going to throw up. i know i am. i know i am, breathe, breathe — 

“frank?” a voice calls from behind me. i turn around for a moment to see a head of green and brown hair, scan all the way down to her feet with curly shoelaces, the ones that match mine.

and there it is. it all pours out of me, more bats and more stomach acid, and even though i knew it was coming, it still takes me by surprise.

“oh, frank.” she edges towards me slowly. no touching, no touching. she knows this already. of course ryan knows. “hey,” she says. “it’s alright.”

“not really.” i cough out more bats. then, i wipe my mouth with the napkins in my jacket pocket. the party poppers and confetti and balloons are ruined.

“can i… ?” ryan questions, and i nod, so she pulls my hand into hers and we tumble into the grass. there are ants crawling all over us, swarming us, or at least it feels like that. i ask her if she feels them, if she feels them all over us, suffocating us, and she shakes her head in return.

“nope,” ryan says. “no ants. just us. just you and me.”

“oh.” i take a deep breath, but it doesn’t seem to sink in. “good. that’s good. i like it better like that.”

“me too.”

i am floating on this twin sized mattress, on this bed of grass, and i am listening to the water. i am just an accessory. i am just a footnote to someone else’s happiness. maybe that’s all i’ve ever wanted. maybe that’s all i’ll ever get.

it is/was/will be. and that is enough.

“are you okay now?”

i think before i answer. “i, um, i guess so.” i’m breathing again. the bare minimum but it still counts. ryan tells me so. we listen to our breaths for a few more moments before she speaks again.

“do you want to go in?” she asks, pointing to the door behind us. 

no. i don’t want to see him.

no. “okay.”

***

the hospital again. it smells the same and looks the same, but this time it feels different. there is no commotion outside in the hall, where my dad is still half alive. there is no nurse with orange juice, no roommates. nothing. it is quiet and for the first time, i wish that it wasn’t.

i look up at ceiling where there is no fan spinning like the one in my bedroom. instead, there is a spider, and the way its legs move reminds me of a fan a bit, or maybe everything reminds me of everything. maybe i just want to go home.

i do.

i wonder if anyone will come visit me this time. i wonder if anyone will bother at all to go down to the pharmacy across the street where they sell those pink balloons with the bears on them, where they used to sell holiday napkins except now they don’t anymore. i wonder if my mom is at home and if she’s thinking about me at all. if ryan’s thinking about me at all. i wish for a moment that she didn’t know about what happened, about what i did.

the door squeaks open, and something jumps up in my chest as a woman in a white coat pushes her way in, and i know that my eyes are traveling down to her shoes, looking for laces that curl but they aren’t there. this isn’t who i want it to be.

The Price of Freedom (Chapter One)

CHAPTER ONE: The End

“Where did you say that they’ve spotted these things again?”

“The biggest places,” Elizabeth Brunswick began, rolling her eyes. She started to type on one of the bigger computers, so that images of cities showed on the large screen. She pushed her hair back from her face and began to name the cities. “New York City, Phoenix, Philadelphia… the list goes on and on… ”

A few of the people in the room who were sitting in the other computers turned to look. Viola and Elizabeth glanced at the people who were peeking; they turned back to their work at the computers. 

 Viola Lodge rubbed her forehead with her fingers. She wasn’t pretty, to get that straight. She wasn’t all that skinny, and she had a blemished complexion from having acne as a child and wrinkles were forming on her face. And, even though she was still young, she did nothing to stop them.

But, she wasn’t ugly either.

Viola Lodge was Viola Lodge. Distant, but down to earth. Delicate, but, yet, strong. Discrete, and up-front. No one could figure out what she was, or try to get her to change so that she could be easier to understand. No one wanted to anyway.

“And,” she began, sighing, “are all the 911 calls from different places?” Viola wished that the answer would be ‘no.’ But, her gut feeling — which was never wrong — told her that she wouldn’t not get the answer she wanted. 

Elizabeth Brunswick shook her head. “Sorry to say, Ms. Vice President,” she started in false respect, “But they’re all from different places, a different city.” That was all Viola wanted to hear, but Elizabeth kept talking, as she usually did. “And more are coming in by the minute, but we haven’t checked since the original calls.”

“And how many original calls were there exactly?” Viola rolled her eyes as she spoke. She hoped that she wasn’t sounding frightened. Not frightened in front of Elizabeth Brunswick, out of all people. To be honest with herself, she was scared out of her mind.

All the computer workers wrinkled their faces, some even closed their eyes, as they cringed. Maybe they thought that they could scrunch themselves up so much they would turn to nothing, and wouldn’t have to deal with the looming problem. 

 Elizabeth Brunswick bit her lip just before mustering out the words: “There were 20 original 911 calls.” She fumbled with her hands. “But there must be hundreds now… some might be from new places.” 

“Twenty!” Viola screeched, losing all her cool. 

“Make that 21.”

 The door swung open, and it smashed loudly against the wall. All the heads in the room turned to look as President Richard Werrington entered. Everyone but Viola rose and saluted him.

“Way to make an entrance… ” Elizabeth Brunswick muttered sarcastically. Soft enough that only Viola could hear. Viola shot her a death-glare to shut her up. Though, inside, Viola agreed with her. She just wasn’t willing to admit it.

 “What do you mean?” She asked hastily, waking up to him. She tried not to show it, but her eyes began to water and her heart beat rapidly. She had to crane her neck to look up to Richard, who stood at 6’3”. 

“I don’t recall you telling me that you’re blind, Ms. Vice President,” Richard Werrington started. He took off the white gloves that he was wearing and shoved them into his pocket. “Have you even bothered to look outside? One of those… things — ” he gestured at the screen — “is right outside.”

“Well, that’s news,” Elizabeth Brunswick said nervously.

Even though her voice shook, she held herself high and kept her chin up. Elizabeth Brunswick didn’t brand herself as a woman who got scared easily. She wouldn’t let it fear overcome her now. Even in a situation such as the one before them.

Richard pushed back his wavy, dark-blond hair. “You!” He said, turning and pointing to one of the workers. “Call Mr. Irving and arrange for an Air Force 1 jet to be ready for take-off. I’m getting out of here.”

“Yessir,” the employee said quickly. 

“Mr. President,” Viola scolded. “This is no time for your usual crap! We don’t even know what these things are!” She turned back to the screen that now displayed the different glowing lights. “I mean, they could be comets… rocket ships… even meteorites — ”

 “Bombs,” Richard said flatly. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Elizabeth Brunswick cut in. She scoffed slightly, but she didn’t seem to intend to make the sound she did. Some of the computer workers looked up anxiously. “Did you just say, bombs?” 

“Yes, bombs, Miss Secretary,” Richard stated. “And if you’ve got one ounce of sense in you, you would issue a national emergency and get out of here as fast as you can.” 

“How do we know that they’re bombs?” Viola asked. She scrolled on the computer, and it zoomed in on the light, having to adjust to the new zoom. “We can’t be sure, and who would possibly want to attack us.”

“North Korea… for one.” Richard began, counting on his fingers. “Then there’s China… Russia… ” He paused for a second and crossed his arms. “To be honest, we’ve pissed off so many countries it could be anyone.”

“Richard James Werrington!” Viola screeched. “If you really think that this is a national emergency — then you shouldn’t be fooling around like this! Every day it’s the same damn thing –”

 “Mr. President… ” Elizabeth Brunswick’s voice was oddly feeble. She was standing next to one of the workers at their computer. Her face was paler than it usually was, and her purple veins were visible in her highly exposed neck and arms. That was another thing Viola wasn’t fond off… 

 She gulped and turned to Viola and Richard. Her eyes were wide, but her back straight. “I… I… um… I think that you might just be right… ” she said so horsley, it was almost a whisper.

 Richard and Viola both heard her, even though her voice was soft. They still couldn’t comprehend what she had just said. Even Richard, who had suspected it, was praying on the fact that he might be wrong. Now that was thrown out the window.

“I’m sorry… what?!” Viola said. Her voice started off as low as Elizabeth’s, but it slowly rose higher. The “what” was so loud that it shook the entire room. Viola had that effect on people, but she also had that effect on rooms, apparently. 

“President Werrington is right,” Elizabeth spoke again. Her words were like thin ice, but much colder. “It’s a bomb, and I’m damn sure it is… From my days in the military… ” Her face suddenly went red, and her breathing quickened. She looked like she was about to pass out. 

“We have to get out of here… ” She managed to get out the words as she stumbled her way from the computer. She pushed to the two of them and ran to the trash can by the door. She proceeded to throw up; she was done being strong. 

 Richard and Viola advanced towards the computer. The nervous, fumbling, shaking employee was zooming in on the image of the light. The entire room was filled with nervous mumbling and the sound of Elizabeth vomiting. 

“Put that one the screen,”  Richard instructed carefully. The words came out slower than he thought they would. He punted to the screen, and everyone in the room seemed to lean towards it to see the image. 

 The image appeared on the screen, and the man behind the computer began to zoom in. As it came closer, the ball of light took on a definitive shape. 

 Richard adjusted his glasses, although he didn’t need to. He could see it quite clearly. Elizabeth, still shaking, walked up to between Richard and Viola. She lifted her head to look up, as much as she didn’t want to.

Elizabeth turned her head slightly and sighed. 

Richard turned to the rest of the group, and flopped his arms to his side. He sighed and let out an exasperated laugh. “Crap,” he said, still chuckling. “Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap… ”

This didn’t exactly strike Viola as unusual — Richard was well-known to her as one to laugh when he was nervous. But, whether she was used to it and whether she was bothered by it were two extremely different things.

She had known Richard since they were children. They had lived in the same estate and been friends from elementary school all the way to law school. They flocked to each other because they had the same goal in life — they were the only two children in St. Peter’s Catholic Academy who had wanted to become the president.

But only one of them has achieved that goal.

Steaming with anger — she wasn’t usually wrong — Viola walked up to the front of the room, in front of the screen. “We’re going to issue a national emergency, people!” she yelled. She began to walk up the isles, observing the people. “A national emergency!”

 The lights dimmed and red lights in the ceiling and in the hallway began to flash. The room turned to absolute chaos, with people running and Viola shouting instructions. It suddenly felt strangely hot. 

“Get to the helicopters! Get to the base! You know where to go! Take your laptops! We’ll operate from there!” She commanded, picking up a grey briefcase. All the people began to run. “Get yourselves out of here!”

 Elizabeth Brunswick had gained back her usual air of mightiness and was new walking up to Viola. “I’m going to need Secretary Greene and Secretary Xin,” she said sternly. “I’m almost certain they’re with Ortega at a meeting — you might as well get him too.”

Viola crossed her arms and spat back, “I don’t take orders from the likes of you.” Viola wasn’t fond of Elizabeth. She didn’t like how she always showed up in designer dresses and heels. She believed that work wasn’t a place to dress up like a model to go to.

Elizabeth scowled. The feeling was mutual.

“Fine,” she spat. “I’ll go there myself.” She stalked off towards the door, her red heels clicking so loudly that it nearly drove Viola insane.  

“Richard!” She now turned to him, addressing him by his first name. Richard Werrington turned to her, looking lost in all the hustle and bustle. It was clear that he was a little claustrophobic. “You need to get Madeline and Anthony! Get to the jet. That employee already placed a call. It should be ready for you.”

  Richard paused and stopped to process what she had said. He suddenly gained the face of someone that had just been hit on the head with a frying pan. Richard began to run towards the doorway at full speed. His arms didn’t seem to know what they were doing.

Although he ran fast, Viola ran faster. She grabbed his sleeve before he was ever able to get to the doorway and held out the briefcase. She opened it with a click, to reveal a panel of buttons. 

“You know, Ms. Vice President,” Richard said frankly, catching his breath. He slammed his hand down upon one of the buttons with such force it nearly fell out of Viola’s hands. “Usually I like pressing red buttons.”


Before I Forget

I think of the rumors I hear about her. They get whispered around the school. I hear the mumbles of questions wondering what exactly happened to Liv. I’m beginning to wonder what exactly is true. How can the rumors I hear be about the same girl I used to know? 

Let me tell you what I remember. I first talked to Liv in the courtyard at school reading a book on some time period I can’t remember. I was drawn to go up to her. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was because she sat alone, with the remains of temporary tattoos up her left arm. 

“So you like history?” I said awkwardly. 

“A little.” Her eyes squinted, looking up at me and the sun.

“Here.” She moved her bag. “Come sit next to me.” 

That’s how it all began. We had gone to school together for years, but we were just classmates. She was the friendly girl I found intimidating.

I recall that day her nails being painted eggshell blue. Her third finger torn up with a ring that sat at its base. It was faux bronze, with flakes of paint chipped off of it.

Her stories always included farfetched realities, and she told them with exaggerated hand gestures, to help make her point. Each one left me wondering if what she told me was true. I learned about her and the secrets she held inside about the people who acted differently in a different light. 

“I trust you,” she told me.

If only I knew what that meant.

Liv was the type of girl every boy fell in love with. She was far from perfect, and not like other girls. I never tried to resent Liv for this. It wasn’t something she caused. However, the memories are replaying on why exactly boys were in love with Liv constantly. Liv had long blond hair, and her personality seemed unnerved by people’s comments, a polar opposite from mine. 

As I think back to the first day we met, the feeling of the black plastic table burning the bottom of my thighs is brought back, but it was easy to ignore the pain when talking to Liv. 

“Everyone wants to believe they’re a good person.” She played with the skin of her middle finger some more. “It’s too hard for them to hear there’s a chance they have hurt someone.” I continued to look at her as her hair hid part of her face.

For someone who I didn’t know for long, it became hard for me to think of days passing without her. We spent time together laughing with each other in the front seat of her car, ignoring all the pain that occurred in our lives. I enjoyed that our friendship wasn’t a typical one where we complained about who had it worst. Instead, we would joke around about our lives and laugh about how much we wanted to die, because it used to be true, but now it was just a silly remark we’d make. 

She told me about the boy she’d been seeing. Some days I lived through all the secrets and adventures she lived. 

Our phone calls would last for hours, but it usually ended with her telling me about how she planned to sneak out of her house to go somewhere. I would typically tell her I was getting tired and hang up the phone, but each morning there was a text telling me about the past night’s adventures.

I knew clearly that I didn’t know everything about her.

I would go to pick up her phone, but before I knew it she would snatch it away. She lived a life of secrets, thinking it would be more fun.

It was summer time when I went to my first party with Liv. We walked into a room of classmates and strangers. Dave was there. He was the boy Liv had been seeing, but she’d clearly stated it wasn’t love. 

Liv drank enough for four people her size. She danced and giggled, wearing high heels I knew she’d complain about in the morning. I stood in the corner with water in my cup as I watched her enchant the whole room. She talked to boys, being flirty, but this was nothing new. But perhaps when I saw one of the boys hands got down to the hem of her skirt it caused me to step in.

“We should head home!” I screamed over the music.

“Come on, lad, few more minutes. Do you like that? Lad, I sound like an Irish man.” Her head tilted back, laughing. 

“I’m going home,” I said.

“What a buzzkill. Fine, let’s go then.” She aimed for the door. However, her direction changed when Dave stepped in, I knew I would be leaving without her. 

I don’t believe Dave caused the problems that occurred. It was an inevitable sequence of circumstances that prevailed. 

Liv had created a world in her head. She didn’t let me be a part of it, but she made me feel as if I could be. 

Six months later from that day we first me outside in the courtyard, it was Memorial Day weekend when I got the phone call. I had been away with my family. Liv whispered through the phone things had gotten out of hand and she wasn’t exactly getting better. This was her goodbye to me. 

 I sat on the floor confused, wondering what had changed. Liv was the most outgoing girl yet too shy to say what was wrong, the one who hid away, the one who broke her own heart. The girl I knew for six short months. 

Perhaps people can change quickly, in the blink of an eye, become someone new you can meet again. Maybe I’m wrong.

All I know now is that I want to remember her before I forget. Ingrain the memory of the late Saturdays and Sunday early afternoons we spent together.

I don’t want to forget that she taught me to live, but, in the end, I couldn’t help her. 

I want to remember the Liv I knew.

I want to reminisce about it before I forget.


Sky Demons

There’s an old legend that states that one night a burning star fell from the sky and slammed into a mountain range. It caused a catastrophic explosion, tossing huge hunks of rock and dirt and debris around the mountains for miles. The star disappeared, but it left a gaping hole in the mountains.

According to the legend, my people and our sheep were born from that star. In the morning, my ancestors emerged fully formed after its burning diminished. Together, they all blinked in the harsh light. They looked around at the scorched, rocky ground and the walls of stone on either side. One of their sheep bleated. Then, a cluster of massive shapes dove down towards them. They grasped both sheep and people in cold talons and swooped back up to the sky. They ate their prey. From that moment on, my people have called them sky demons. From that moment on, they have been our enemies.

That’s the legend of how we came to be. I always thought that it was ridiculous, because how could people and sheep come from a falling star? And how could a star not destroy the Earth? Papa thought it was nonsense, too. Mama and Sam didn’t though. They were the dreamers in the family. 

I once told Sam that the legend was utter nonsense. I was eight years old at the time. He was seven.

“No it’s not!” he replied. “The legend is true!” That was the end of our conversation. 

Sam also liked to look at the tufts of green grass that had sprouted up over the years.

“It’s like us, Sophie,” he said to me one day. “The grass is like us. It lives on rock. And,” he paused here, his light brown eyes wide with excitement, “no one would have ever thought that grass could live on rock. But it has. Just like us! No one would have ever thought that humans could live in a rock hole, but we have, too!”

I had laughed and ruffled his soft blond hair. I didn’t care about metaphors between us and grass. All I had ever wanted was to learn about the world. The real world outside of the ashen gray rock walls that surrounded us. Once I learned enough about the world, I reasoned, I would be able to escape the rock. I don’t know what I was thinking. Papa had always wanted to escape. And look where that got him.

***

Sometimes, on clear summer evenings, Papa and Mama and Sam and I would lie on the stone behind our hut. Together, we would watch the sun set. Once Papa tried to explain how it worked, how it wasn’t the sun that was moving, it was actually the Earth. Even I quieted him, though, because sunsets shouldn’t have a scientific explanation. 

We would watch as orange and pink spread their fingers across the sky, pushing away the soft blue-gray of daytime and welcoming the purple of night. We would watch as the purple oozed across the sky, erasing the orange and pink. Once it was completely dark, Papa and Mama would usher Sam and me inside. Sam would go right to sleep on his cot, but I wouldn’t. I would peek out from my window and watch the sky demons cut across the dark, hurrying towards their nests, their bodies like blades against the soft purple. I watched as the adults in our village would crowd in the square, holding spears of wood and stone. I watched as they hurled the spears at the sky demons. Sometimes, a spear would hit its mark, and a sky demon would fall from the sky, shrieking. The next day, we’d have meat at dinner. Sometimes, a sky demon would fly down towards the adults. Sometimes, it would grab one of them in its talons. Sometimes, it would rip the roof off of the sheep barn and steal away the sheep. 

Every morning, we would find blood dribbled on our roofs and splattered in dark stains on the stone. We always worked hard to scrub it away. 

Mama and Papa were the only adults who never took part in sky demon hunting. Papa because he was too busy studying a way to get us out of the hole in the mountains. Mama because she couldn’t bring herself to pick up a spear.

Sam and I used to watch the other children holding little bits of stone, throwing them towards the sky, trying to hit a sky demon. It never worked. The stone would always fall back down before it flew up far enough. It would usually hit one of the other children on the head. Sam and I never threw stones at the sky. 

I used to wonder why the sky demons only ever ate a few of us or our sheep. I used to wonder why they didn’t kill us all. They must have wanted to, I thought, them being such evil beings. I never figured out why they didn’t. I also used to wonder about why, in the legend, when a cluster of sky demons first swooped down, why they didn’t eat all of us. 

I asked Papa why. He told me not to bother with the legend because it was stupid. Then he took me and Sam by the hand and slung a rope over his shoulder. He called for Mama.

“I’m ready,” he told her.

Mama just nodded. I’ve always wondered why Mama didn’t argue, why she didn’t tell Papa not to go.

We walked to the rock face near our hut. Then Papa tried to climb it. He wanted to get to the top. He wanted to see what lay beyond us. He had a long rope and strong arms. He got very far. The whole town gathered to watch. He was almost out of our sight when the rope broke. He flailed for a grip on the stone, but to no avail. He fell, and his body broke on the ground.

We wanted to bury him, but it was impossible to bury anything because our ground was stone. It didn’t matter anyway, because a few hours after Papa fell, while Sam and Mama and I all held each other and sobbed and shook, a sky demon grabbed Papa’s body in its claws and ate it. Then he was gone.

***

One day, about a year after Papa died, a sky demon fell. I was on my knees, scrubbing sheep’s blood from the stone, when it crashed in front of me. I dropped the rag with a strangled yell and launched myself backward, my palms skinning on the wet ground. The sky demon was lying on its side. It didn’t move. 

I thought briefly that perhaps it was shot down by one of our archers, but it had no arrows or spears implanted in its body. 

Once I had caught my breath, I inched forward on my hands and knees. The sky demon showed no reaction as I approached it. I had always been a reckless child, and soon I was a mere foot from its prone body. I stared at it. My whole life, I had always been taught to hate and fear the sky monsters. My whole life, I had never seen one up close. The sky demon was barely larger than I was. It couldn’t have been more than a few months old. It had a gray, downy coat of fluff. Its feet were curled and a soft, wrinkled pink. The sky demon’s talons were pliant, and translucent pink, the color of Sam’s cheeks when he was born. The sky demon’s chest hammered up and down, its heart a pulsing orb pressed against its rib cage. Its wings were skeletal. One was twisted at an unnatural angle. The other one was barely twitching.

I was enthralled. This wasn’t the nightmare that we thought haunted our home. It wasn’t larger than our huts. It didn’t have a black coat of acute feathers pointed in the shape of knives. It didn’t have fine, metallic-like talons large enough to snatch our sheep. I didn’t see a monster; I only saw an infant. 

The sky demon’s eye fluttered open. The iris was a cloudy blue, the color of the dye we made from the berries that grew near our homes. The pupil swam around in the iris, constricting and expanding rapidly. The sky demon gazed at me. It let out a small moan. Then a squeak. Then it made a sound that I could have sworn was a plea. A cry for help.

I reached out a cautious hand, my fingertips brushing its feathery back.

“Sophie!” My name tore through my ears. I looked over my shoulder and saw my mother running toward me, her dress fluttering in the wind.

“Ma — ” I started to say, but before I could finish, she shoved me aside.

I watched my mother. My mother, who baked flat bread for anyone in our village who was hungry; my mother, who had never once thrown a spear at a sky demon; my mother, whose arms trembled so badly that she could no longer she braid her hair. I watched as my mother, with hands steady as stone, pushed her knitting needle into the sky demon’s chest.

What would always stay with me was the sound. The sky demon let out a shriek as the needle pierced its heart. The needle made a wet crack as it punctured the bone. It made a crisp tearing noise as it stabbed through the muscle. 

Blood gushed out of the demon, flowing onto the stone. It swirled around my feet, warm and wet. I stood, paralyzed. I stared at my mother and the dying creature at her feet. She met my gaze, and her eyes were hollow. Empty. 

“Get inside, Sophie,” she finally said. She ducked her hand down. “I’ll clean it up.”

Wordlessly, I ran into our hut, tracking blood on the stone.

***

The next night, my town gathered together in the central square. The sky demon had been defeathered earlier that day. A wooden beam was stabbed through its body, and it hung over a huge bonfire. Fat and grease dripped down and sizzled in the flames.

The adults sat at long, stone tables and laughed and drank jugs of mead. Mama sat with them, her hands folded tightly together. She didn’t drink. She was talking to some women, whom she was friendly with. Her friends were all smiling and talking loudly and cracking jokes as they bit into the flesh of the sky demon and the blood trickled down their chins. Mama had a very small portion of sky demon, which she nibbled on. She smiled and talked and laughed, too, but all her smiles were too wide, and her laughs were too loud, too late, too fake.

The children were happy, too. The smaller ones ran around chasing each other and hiding under tables. The older ones were cheerful. They gnawed on the sky demon’s bones and pushed each other around.

Sam and I sat together on the damp rock, on the edge of the square, in the shadows. I didn’t eat the sky demon, and so neither did Sam. 

“Do you ever wonder, Sophie,” he asked, “where the sky demons came from?”

“No, I don’t, Sam,” I replied, not looking at him, but looking at the darkness beyond the firelight.

“I do,” he said, quietly. “I wonder where they came from.” 

I didn’t answer.

“I think,” he continued, “they came from the star.” I looked at him, and his face was wide and earnest. 

“What did you say?” I asked, my voice quiet, serious. 

“I think they came from the star,” he repeated. “Just like us.”

I snorted and picked at crumbling pieces of rock. “That’s ridiculous, Sam,” I said, and my voice caught a little. 

“It’s not, Sophie!” Sam exclaimed. “If we and our sheep were born from the star, then it only makes sense for the sky demons to have been, too.”

“Why, Sam?” I was angry now, but I didn’t know why. “Why does ‘it make sense’ that the sky demons were born from the star? How does that make sense, Sam?” 

He shrank back. “I just think that we’re not that different,” he said and his voice was soft and quiet.

“Not that different?! They eat our sheep. They kill us!” I gulped down a sob. “And we kill them.”

“But it doesn’t have to be that way,” Sam retorted. “We don’t have to kill each other!”

He was wrong, and I told him so. “That’s not true. We do have to kill each other.”

He looked at me disbelievingly. “You can’t honestly believe that, Sophie. You didn’t use to.”

I bit my lip and said harshly, “Well, people change.” I turned away from him and faced the shadows.

It was several minutes before Sam replied.

“I know you didn’t want Mama to kill that demon yesterday,” he whispered. “You tried to stop her.”

I wiped away a tear. “It’s dead now, Sam. It doesn’t matter whether or not I wanted it to be.” I tried to swallow a sob, but it didn’t work. I started crying hysterically.

I could suddenly feel Sam’s small arms wrapping around my shoulders. “It’s okay, Sophie,” he whispered in my ear, his breath tickling my neck. “It wasn’t your fault.”

I cried into his shoulder. “It was my fault, Sam! I should have stopped Mama! I should have saved it!”

“She had pushed you away,” he replied. “There was nothing you could have done. Even if she didn’t kill it, someone else surely would have.”

“And that’s what I hate!” I yelled. A few small children turned to look at us, but no one else heard. I lowered my voice. “I hate how we always have to kill them! I hate how we have to live like this!”

“Me too,” Sam whimpered. “I do, too.” He paused. “I wish we could find another way.” He took a deep breath, then plunged on. “They only kill us when they have to. We kill them because we want to. Their species is obviously just as desperate as we are. I wish there was some way we could work together.”

“Now that’s ridiculous,” I told him, through my cloud of tears.

“I know,” he replied, sounding much more like the ten years he actually was than he’d been sounding like a moment ago. “I know it’s stupid. It just makes me happy to imagine it.”

Then we laughed, just a little.

Soon after that, Mama came over to us, her mouth set in a straight line. The other adults were sharpening spears. “Time to go,” she said.

***

Half a decade later, a sky demon landed in the garden in the back of the hut that my mother, Sam, and I shared. It squatted in the garden; its jagged tail swung, clobbering and toppling a young evergreen tree. It bent its feathered neck and nibbled on the purple thyme. My mother was sleeping on her cot, and Sam was crouched on a stone stool, weaving a scarf. I watched from the back doorway, silently. It didn’t see me.

A voice broke the quiet. “Go away!” our neighbor, Scott, shouted. The sky bird started, its wide, black eyes narrowing. “You hear me?” he yelled again, crossing over to the edge of our garden. He was holding a newly invented weapon in our village: a catar. It was dangerous, more dangerous than arrows or spears. It was made of stone and vine, and held razor-sharp rock knives. Inside of it, vines were woven together into a complicated catapult that could quickly hurl out the knives when the trigger was pulled.

Sam looked up. “Sophie?” he asked.

I glanced at him for a second, then turned around and edged out to the garden.

“Get away!” Scott yelled again, and the sky demon tensed, strands of shredded thyme hanging from its metallic beak. 

“Scott,” I said, quietly, “Stop. It’s not hurting anybody.”

Scott and the sky demon both turned to look at me, equally surprised. 

Scott let out a low sigh. “Look, Sophie,” he said in a much gentler voice than he had been using moments before, “it’s not often that we get one this close.” His hands clenched the catar, a finger nearing the trigger. The sky demon cocked its head and twitched its wings.

“Don’t shoot it.” I began to panic. He wouldn’t listen to me. He would kill it.

Sam stepped outside. At fifteen, he had finally gotten a growth spurt, and he was several inches taller than Scott, but too slim to be intimidating. “Scott,” Sam said. “Drop the catar.”

Scott grunted. 

I felt a pang in my chest. He wasn’t going to listen to Sam either. Sam and my mother and I were known for being different than everyone else in the village. If we had been more average, maybe he wouldn’t have shot. Maybe he would have listened. But we weren’t. We were the odd ones, and we would never be heard.

Scott’s finger locked itself around the trigger. The sky demon had returned to snuffling in the thyme. It didn’t see Scott holding the weapon. It didn’t know that in seconds its life would end. Without thinking, I jumped forward. Just as Scott pulled the trigger. 

As I was in midair, a knife buried itself in my shoulder, and right before I hit the ground, I could see the sky demon taking flight.

***

I woke up the next day in the town infirmary, lying on a cot with a bandaged left shoulder. Pale light streamed through the open window, highlighting Sam and my mother’s faces. They stopped whispering when they saw that I was awake. 

“Sophie,” my mother’s voice was gentle. “How are you feeling?”

It took me a moment to register her question, and another moment to remember what had happened. “The demon,” I gasped. “Is it okay?”

Sam and my mother exchanged a look.

“No,” Sam told me, eyes downcast. “Scott shot it.”

I sank back against the cot. I couldn’t explain why I felt that way, but, for some hopeless reason, I thought that if I could stop Scott from killing the sky demon, I would finally be able to forget about what my mother did.

“But your shoulder,” my mother pressed. “How does it feel?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. My shoulder hurt, but that was nothing compared to the fact that the sky demon was dead. It was dead. Just like the one that Mama killed. “It’s fine,” I told her. 

She frowned, worried.“Are you sure? The medic told us that you might be in pain for a while. You should at least stay here for the night.”

I pushed myself to my feet. It was painful, but I could do it. “I said I was fine! Please, just leave me alone.” I pushed past her and Sam and left the infirmary. I stormed to out hut and sat down in the garden, fuming. I stared at the broken thyme and the imprint of the sky demon’s body. The blood had been washed away. 

I don’t know how long I sat there, but I know that by the time my mother joined me, the sharp pain in my shoulder had receded into an ache. The sun had set, the stars twinkled merrily, and the bright, fat moon was hanging low in the sky. 

She sat down across from me on the dirt. I looked down, ashamed.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

She took a long time to respond. When she did, her voice was quiet. “It’s okay, Sophie. I’m sorry.”

I shook my head. “What are you sorry for, Ma?”

She shrugged. “Nothing. Everything.” My mother took a deep breath. “I’m sorry that your father died. I’m sorry that you had to watch.” She paused. “And I’m sorry that I killed that sky demon that time, when you were scrubbing the stone. It was only a baby. And I shouldn’t have done it in front of you.” She tried to suck in a breath, but it caught in her throat. “I’m so sorry, Sophie,” she whispered.

I looked at my mother, really looked at her. For the first time, I saw how fragile she was. For the first time, I realized that she regretted killing the sky demon. For the first time, I realized that my mother made mistakes. “It’s okay,” I told her, and a tear dripped down my face.

We stayed together for the rest of the night — sitting on the stone and holding hands in the moonlight.

***

Anyway, I don’t want to be thinking about any of this now. 

My father died a decade ago. I forgave my mother four years ago. Three months ago, my mother was killed by a panicked sky demon. It had a spear stuck in its wing, and it careened down from the sky and landed on her, hitting her hard enough to snap her neck. 

Two weeks ago, Sam and I were sitting outside the hut that we share, and we watched a group of small children climbing the rock face. They were just doing it for fun, of course, but some of them got pretty high. Then one of them lost his grip. He tumbled down the stone, shrieking and kicking. A sky demon dove down, caught him, and brought him safely to the ground. No one knew quite what to make of it.

It sparked something in me, though. In Sam, too. I guess we thought, or I thought at least, if little kids are trying to climb the rock face, why can’t we? If the town is finally becoming curious enough to wonder what it beyond the rock, why don’t we climb it and see? 

Together, we gathered the unused rope that we wove with Papa when we were little. We added more to it and strengthened it. We practiced climbing parts of the rock face behind our hut. We packed knapsacks with food and water and wool sweaters and blankets. Now, we are ready.

Sam and I woke up early this morning and walked to the rock face. We started to climb. It was difficult at first, and I was so nervous that my muscles tensed, and I started shaking. It got easier, though. We took small breaks throughout the day, sipping cool water and eating sheep’s cheese. 

It is evening now, and we’re still climbing. A group of children have gathered beneath us, shouting words that don’t reach our ears. I think it’s encouragement, though. They jump up and down and run around in circles, heads tilted back, watching us in the fading light. We’re so high up now that the children are barely there. Just little dark shapes beneath us.

Sam and I settle in a small crevice in the rock for the night. We strap ourselves in and lean back, rubbing our exhausted hands. My shoulder healed years ago, but it has started to hurt again, a dull throb. 

“So, what do you think, Sam,” I say. “Do you still believe that the sky demons were born from the same star we were?”

He looks at me, startled. “Of course, Sophie. Of course I do.” He lets out a small laugh. “Do you agree with me yet?”

“Maybe,” I reply, because I still don’t know if I even believe in the legend.

I pull a blanket from my knapsack and wrap it around Sam and my shoulders. We squint our eyes to watch as the parents come to collect their children. It’s hard to see them, but I can just make them out. 

“Look,” Sam points, “a shooting star.”

I look up, not down, and I see it, too. 

Streaking across the black, leaving spurts of silver in its path. I look around at the children and their parents, and me and Sam, and the dark silhouettes of the sky demons circling in the clouds.

The shooting star brightens the sky, and I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but it looks like it’s coming straight towards us. 

And just for an instant, we are all encompassed in light.


The Silent House

Chapter One: The Questioning

There is a moment of silence, and, of course, there is a silent tension in the room. It seems to cling to the air, just like death would cling to a person. Slowly eating its way out, from the inside.

“Are you ready to start?” There is silence in response. Everyone seems to hold their breath as if something unexpected would happen. “Ahem, okay, first question… ” Michael glares at her from across the table, his handcuffs digging into his bare skin.

“What was your weapon of murder?” The reporter hurriedly grabs her pen and awaits a response.

“Excuse me?” Michael asks, with a clear hint of irritation in his voice. “What do you mean ‘weapon of murder?!’” The reporter nervously looks around, shifting uncomfortably in the dusty, gray prison chair.

“There was no weapon of murder. This is a waste of time. I’m telling you. I did not kill my girlfriend.” Michael looks at the reporter. Her beady eyes eat up all the information hungrily. She scribbles madly in her notepad, leaving Michael only to his thoughts.

The reporter stares at him intensely, as if there is something there that she is missing from him, as if she is trying to crack a code. She then licks her lips and says through a smile, “Yet, you mention the death of your girlfriend… I didn’t ask about that. I simply sai — ” 

Michael, all of a sudden furious all over again, stands up abruptly and swiftly. The anger in his eyes makes the reporter’s heart beat at an alarming rate. “Riddle me this! Why?! Why do you think I would kill my own gi — ” He couldn’t finish, feeling the tears swell up in his eyes. Remembering that night… that horrible dreadful night.

He takes a breath and starts again, “Why would I kill her… she was the love of my life… ”

The reporter smiles, her inside info, is no match for him, or so she thinks. “Well… Michael, isn’t it true that even before her death she accused you of cheating… ” Michael’s jaw drops as the color drains from his face, “… and even after her death, didn’t you have an affair with another woman?”

Michael’s heart stops. The only thing on his mind right now is Sadie. There’s no way she could have been involved. Not after what she’s gone through, and not after what they’ve gone through together. 

Michael looks over to the guard standing by the doorway and mouths him something. “I don’t have to be here doing this right now. In fact, I’m not doing this right now. Your stupid newspaper is the least of my concerns.” Michael gets up and walks over to the guard, who leads him out of the small room, leaving only the dumbfounded reporter and her little notepad to sit on the ugly, little, gray chair.


Chapter 2: March. 23. 2006

Michael’s feet pedal hard, and sweat is running down his forehead. He pedals like a madman, as if he is riding off anger. But the look on his face says otherwise, as he turns the corner to Julie’s house.

He chuckles to himself, ready to see the look on her face when she sees what he’s done for her.

The house Julie lives in is a small yellow one. Comparing it to a Florida home would be silly, but it’s not tiny. The smallness of the home is more cozy than uninviting. The familiar tiling of the roof is a burgundy colour, and the small rounded windows make the house look bigger than it is.

Michael dashes to the door, almost forgetting his purpose of coming. He sprints back to the little basket in his bike quickly, seizing the present he has, and runs up to the doorbell. But after hearing silence in response, he remembers that the Walsh’s doorbell is broken.

Remembering this, he starts knocking crazily, until he sees through the side glass that someone is coming. Julie’s mom appears at the door suddenly, wearing nothing but a tight satin dress. 

“Michael.” They look at each other like two snakes would.

“Mrs. Walsh.” 

“What a surprise to see you here… ”

Not knowing what to say, Michael responds with, “You too… ”

After realizing what he said, he’s saved by, “Claudia! Who’s at the door!?” He can hear Mr. Walsh now yelling from the living room.

“Nobody of importance, dear! No reason to come over he — ”

Too late. Mr. Walsh is already standing in front of Michael, smiling ear to ear as if they’re old buds at a reunion.

“Michael, son! How long has it been? C’mere!” He grabs Michael and puts him in a headlock and starts noogying him hard. Michael laughs along with him, trying to hide his real pain.

“Not long enough, sir! Just visiting because it is a special day for Julie after all.”

Mr. Walsh pats Michael on the head gently and says, “Boy, didn’t I tell you to call me Dave? It’s only appropriate… ” Michael looks up at Mrs. Walsh, “… Come on in. I won’t take no for an answer!”

Michael, now smirking, looks directly at her while saying, “Will do… Dave.”

“That’s the spirit, son!” He chuckles and leads him into the bright home.

The walls are decorated with all types of green decorations and a sign that reads, ‘Happy 17th Birthday Jules!’ Michael also spots a family portrait of the Walsh’s on the wall. And it’s the only picture they have with Julia in it.

She looks about 12 in it, her hair a brown-black with a tinge of orange that lays on her shoulders in neat sections. The unique thing is that it’s naturally straight. Her blue eyes complement her dark skin, and her full lips are apart, revealing a set of pearly teeth. Next to her is her little sister, who is a baby in this (one to two years old) who looks a lot like her, except her straight hair is gone, and replaced with gorgeous curls, which complement her round face. And instead of wearing regular clothes, she’s dressed up in a frilly baby dress, with a tutu, and fancy little socks that come out of her white shoes.

Michael smiles at the photo without realizing, studying every detail, as it dawns on him that Julia was just as pretty when she was a child. But he’s snapped back into reality, realizing that Dave’s been talking to him the whole time. “And then I said, well, buddy! Then you shouldn’t have eaten it if it made noises!” He bursts out laughing, so Michael laughs along, completely unaware of the joke’s purpose.

But their laughing stops as they both hear, “No! No! No! I’m telling Mom!! Mom! Mom, where are you!! I want a dress like Julia’s!

Michael looks over at Dave, startled by all the yelling, who takes a sip of his coffee and sighs. “Trouble in paradise… ” He takes another sip of the coffee and winces. “Strong stuff.. want some?”

Michael turns down the coffee politely, but doesn’t bother hiding the disgust in his voice. 

Thump, thump, thump…  They both turn to where the sound is coming from, and it’s all three of them.

Zelda is first with a salty expression on her face that tells Michael she never did get that dress she was so hopelessly yelling for. Next is Claudia, but Michael isn’t exactly looking at her. He is looking at the elegant swan that is coming down after her. Julia finally… He sits there for moments breathlessly, as she approaches him.

“So? Aren’t you going to say anything? Or at least hand me my gifts?” She bats her eyelashes at him. Zelda stares at the lovestruck two angrily.

“Mommy, first Julia gets to wear a pretty dress, and she gets a Prince Charming! That’s just not fair!” She pouts and looks up at Claudia, who lifts her into her arms and kisses her forehead. 

“Don’t be upset, Zelda,” she tells her, reassuringly. “You always have a chance to find your Prince Charming. You just haven’t found yours yet.” She sets her down, takes her hand, and they head for the living room.

Julia looks at the two men, mouths gaping. “Well if you don’t say anything, Michael, than I’m sure Daddy will.” She looks over at her father who takes another sip of his coffee.

Putting one hand over hers, he says, “The only thing that I have to say is, look at my little girl all grown up!” As he pulls her into a tight hug, he nuzzles his face in her hair. As he lets her go, he turns to Michael and says, “Stop drooling, Prince Charming, have her back by curfew, say… 10:30… 11, max. And no funny business.” He glares at Michael, only leaving him to do nothing but gulp. “Just kidding! Have fun, kids!”

Julia and Michael look at each other anxiously and force a chuckle.

“Let’s go, babe!” Julia starts pulling Michael off the little kitchen chair, but before she can, he brings her in and plants a big kiss on her. She grabs his face, and they make out. It feels as though both are flying, he pulls on her hair gently and groans. She pulls out.

“What? Too much?” Michael says, and the expression he wears is one of hurt.

Letting her hair finally go, he retreats in shame. She slides her hand into his and leans against his warm chest. Feeling his heartbeat is calming, and it makes her feel safe.

“It was perfect. There’s nothing in the world that could have ruined that… ” She looks up at him, smiling. Michael suddenly gets that flying feeling again, as he intensely stares into her deep blue eyes. He feels like they’re a pool he can jump right into, head on, and never get enough breath out of.

“Oh, Julie, by the way… Happy Birthday!”

He pulls out a little box wrapped in bright green wrapping paper, the little bow is scraggly, and wonky, the wrapping is horrible and there’s tape everywhere, but Julia beams as though she’s just won the lottery. 

She takes the little bow and undoes it. The bright green wrapping paper comes off next, and soon she’s left with a small, velvet-covered box. She stares at the box with such immense intensity, that Michael looks down at the box, and at her, worriedly. The truth is she already knows what’s in the box.

“Why don’t you just ope — ” He gets cut off to Julia jumping on him. She squeezes him tight enough for it to be a chokehold.

“You remembered… ” she whispers into his ear. “You remembered the beautiful butterfly brooch we saw at the store… the thrift store. It’s just so… ” She sighs deeply and turns to him. “Breathtaking… ”

Of course he remembered. He could never forget. Her reaction to the brooch is priceless, and although it seems like an old, rusty, little brooch, she saw something in it, and so did he. He saw her in it. The little butterfly moving in fast motions, graceful, and a deep blue, just like her eyes who at the moment were dancing with glee.

“C’mon let’s go! Quick!” Michael grabs her by the arm, and they fly out the door.

Julia laughs heartily, “Where are we headed to?”

He stops. He looks down at her and suddenly scoops her into his arms, into a warm embrace. He smiles and looks down at her. “It’s a surprise… This is your second present! And I’m sure you’ll like it, but I reckon we’re going to have to take a ride to my house, to get my dad’s car first.”

Julia runs a hand through her short hair as Michael looks up at her. And for the first time that day, he really looks at her.

Julia’s short hair stands up behind her, the slight orange tone in it intensifies as she steps into the light. Although her relatively wide eyes make her look awake, you can see the bags she tries covering, with poorly applied concealer. Her lips, round and plump, are in a straight line, not moving from their position. Her little green dress makes the blue color in her eyes sparkle, and her perfume stinks of death as she gets on the bike with Michael.

Chapter Three: Gun Powder and Dynamite

  As Michael and Julia pull up to his house on his bicycle, Julia gets a good look at his house. 

A small gray duplex, the lawn clearly hasn’t been mowed in a while. The trash is in a heap at the entrance. The overgrown vines do little to benefit the small space. As they pull up into the garage, Julia gets off first, making sure to steady the bike so it doesn’t topple over. Julia is fascinated by the odd smell and the uncleanliness. Although this isn’t the first time she’s seen his house, it is the worst state she’s seen it in.

As Julia eagerly approaches the doorbell, Michael stops her. “Wait! Stop! Hold up!”

Julia stops dead in her tracks, and turns around to see an out-of-breath Michael, running towards her at full speed.

“What?! What is it?! Michael, are you okay?!” She holds him by the shoulders, peering at him.

He sighs deeply and looks her in the eyes.

“He… my dad, he’s been… um… laid off…”

He looks behind Julia, away into the distance wearily. She looks up at him confused, and concerned.

“Well, I mean… so? Why do you care so much?”

Michael looks at her, not bothering to hide how disgusted he is at her. Julia stares at him slowly, still confused.

“He’s my father,” Michael, now furious, yells at Julia, oblivious to the fact that he’s standing right in front of the open window. “Of course I care! I don’t want him to turn into a good-for-nothing bum! And I want him to find a job… ” Voice now quivering, he continues, “He is an unemployed 53-year-old man… and when Mom died it was so hard on him. He turned to drinking as an escape, like most do. And he just completely fell apart… and I don’t want him to turn into that again.”

Looking now straight at Julia, he puts the back of his hand on her cheek. Softly rubbing up and down. 

Julia smiles into his hand, her mind racing, and heart pumping. She nods silently, and rings the doorbell. Michael looks at her and smiles, thinking to himself, How lucky I am to have someone like her… 

The door stands, not budging. The paint is chipping at the sides, and the bolts are ready to pop out any second. They stand there for what feels like ages, finally hearing a loud groan, followed by slow shuffling. Soon, a man stands at the doorway, beer in hand. His stomach slightly exposed, spilling out of his pajama pants. He looked disheveled, fresh stubble covering the lower part of his chin. Hair graying in patches, the other parts of his hair are a fawn-ish colour. His hair lay in messy curls all across his head. His eyes are a deep chocolate brown, and the bags under them not any lighter. He has small dark freckles splattered across his whole face. Julia takes a deep breath, stepping forward.

“Mr. Greene, Hello… it’s Julia.”

There is a pause as he studies her. After moments of examination, he smiles.

“Please, call me Robert. Michael hasn’t mentioned you before.”

Michael looks at Julia in shame. Turning back to his father, he says, “Actually I have, you just might be too drunk to remember.”

Michael marches past him, pushing him out of the way, leaving Julia to stand outside with Robert. He stands there smiling, his eyes hungry at the sight of her.

Beckoning her inside, he asks, “Would you like to see my gun collection?”

Eyes sparkling, he smiles at her, leading her into the room where the guns are kept.

“What about Michael? Won’t he be — ”

He cuts her off, waving his hand, “Nonsense. Don’t let some silly boy stop you.”

They walk through the minuscule hallway. Cracks in the bare walls make Julia shudder. She thinks of her small, nicely furnished home. This place is such a wreck compared to it. No wonder Michael is worried about his father. 

They stop in front of a small door… Well, Robert stops. Julia just follows him. 

Robert suddenly starts feeling around in his pants for something. Finally, his hand dives into one of the pockets, returning with a single key, which he uses to unlock the heavy-metal hard duty lock, that’s on the old door. He pushes the door open, sending a cloud of dust out. Julia scrambles back, waving off the dust as if there was a fly. Robert steps in first, leaving her to do nothing but follow. 

“One sec… just got to find the light switch.”

He coughs loudly from somewhere in the room; Julia hears little scrambling sounds shortly after. Stepping back, she feels a pinch on her right butt cheek. Startled by this, she cautiously starts backing away. Suddenly the light turns on. Robert smiles a toothy grin, still holding the light switch in the back of the room.

“Fou — ” he coughs… hard. It sounds as if though his lungs will give out any minute. His face red, he lifts his head back up and says, “Ahem, sorry about that. I meant to say found it.”

Julia shudders in relief, but in the back of her mind she can only think about what she felt in the dark. There’s a tension that follows.

Robert must feel it too because he says, “So… if you look right here you can see a 49.367 gun, a classic… ”

Julia quickly gets distracted by something in the corner of the crowded room. She walks over, and sees a little crate standing on the corner. On it is a pocket knife, and what seems to be a little figurine of a year ballerina. Part of it carved out and the other part of it is smooth. 

“That was supposed to be a present for Donna… ”

Julia turns around to see Robert looking at her. But he isn’t exactly looking at her. His eyes are there, but he actually seems very distant. Suddenly he turns back to the guns as if nothing happened. Julia walks up behind him, peering over his shoulder.

“Who-who’s Donna?” she asks, sounding genuinely curious.

Not turning back to even face her, Robert says, “She is — was… my wife. She was a ballerina, and so I assumed it was only appropriate… ” He chuckles. “She had, um… she was very fond of small things. So I decided to carve her a little ballerina… but she’s gone now, so I… I’m not going to bother finishing.”

Julia sympathizes with him, putting one hand on his shoulder.

Julia turns his face to hers; Robert looks at the ground. Julia notices the wetness under his eyes. She lifts his chin up. His eyes meet hers.

“Listen… death is a natural thing. The sooner you learn to get over it, the sooner it’s easier for you. And plus just because she’s gone… doesn’t mean that you should grieve. You should celebrate her moving onto the other life.” Julia’s surprised at her own response. Still looking her directly in the eyes, Robert moves back, forcing Julia onto the counter behind her. He leans against her so close, that she feels his breath on her chest. Afraid to make any sudden moves, Julia sits still, awaiting his next move. Robert’s hand goes up slowly, as he touches her cheek gently. He closes his eyes, leaning closer and closer to Julia until — 

Julia!” Michael comes into the room, completely unaware of what he was about to see.

Julia gets off the counter as quickly as she got on. Terror in her eyes. Michael stands at the doorway, confused and disgusted, more so than when he came home.

“Aherm… ” His father walks out the room, pushing Michael to the side.

Robert’s hand is up at his nose, making it look like he is thinking hard about something. Sprinting over to Julia, Michael wears a worried expression. 

“What the fuck was that? Why were you two literally inches from each other… ”

Michael looks like he’s about to blow a fuse, which is a realistic outcome considering his extremely short temper. Julie’s eyes widen, and her mind races, and she quickly tries to come up with an excuse, or at least manage words. Would the truth be better? Or a believable lie? Either way, she is in for it with Michael.

“Listen, Michael… ” She slowly hops back onto the counter, and sits, just looking down at her fingers. “He… he just needed some closure… He just lost Don — his wife. And he just got fired! I was just trying to help… ” She looks up at Michael, hoping to see the tiniest bit of sympathy and understanding in his eyes. But the expected reaction came. 

“What were you thinking?! Why do you… ” He puts his head into his hands. Julia could hear him trying to calm himself, as he took a deep breath. Looking at Julia is unbearable for him, especially in the moment, but he loves her. Making one mistake doesn’t change who she is, and he won’t let a bump in the road mess up their relationship. While Julia is anticipating an answer, Michael finally looks up.

“Can we just… forget about this?” Julia vigorously nods, as Michael laughs a hearty laugh. “Okay. Okay. You know your mistake, and I want to just forget this… Let me just take you to your birthday place.” Smiling at her, Michael feels a warm glow inside of himself seeing her smile in response. 

As Julia gets off the counter top, Michael takes a long look around the room, before shutting the lights off. He shudders, thinking about how he can only be in the room with the thing he hates most for one person… Julia. Remembering the reason the room was on a lock, the only thing that scares him more than opening up is guns. Guns scare him. As he grabs the keys to his dad’s old pickup truck, he thinks about his dad… He would kill him.

Chapter Four: T.O.D

  The car ride is tense, but as soon as Michael turns on the radio, Julia’s just jamming out to Adele. Michael can’t sing for anything, but when he hears Julia sing, it’s like the gateway to heaven is opening up. He turns it up extra loud, looking over to the passenger’s seat, hoping to get a glimpse of his dearest singing her heart out.

Julia knows Michael is looking at her while she sings, but it’s nothing new. She knows she’s a great singer, and she knows Michael himself would agree. She smiles to herself knowingly, as Michael watches her sing “Rolling In the Deep.”

“I love Adele.”

Michael looks at her. “Huh?” 

“I said, I love Adele… ”

Michael turns down the volume a bit, just as it goes to an ad.

“She’s so powerful, you know? Like there isn’t a single thing that holds her back. If she started an alliance, or even a cult… I think I’d join… ”

Michael laughs at her little joke. Minding the road ahead of him, making sure to drive carefully.

By now it is late, and the moon is out. The rectangular window of the dashboard has fluorescent numbers that read, 9:25. They aren’t late… yet. Julia’s dad said to have her back by 11:00, max. They’d still have plenty of time, and Julia would be able to enjoy her surprise.

Michael starts driving faster, eventually arriving at the woods. Julia looks around, confused. She was waiting for a surprise for so long, and all she gets is to see some boring old woods?!

Baffled, Julia starts complaining to Michael. “Is this really my surprise. Don’t take it the wrong way. It’s very… beautiful? I was just hoping for something… more.”

Michael looks over at Julia. She has been complaining about it nonstop for 20 minutes, and kept asking him if they’re there yet. Of course they weren’t there yet, but Michael wasn’t about to ruin his surprise for her just yet. So he gets out of the car silently, leaving Julia to do nothing but follow… Again.

“C’mon, Michael, I don’t want to be walking around for half an hour!” She sighs and frustradely looks at Michael, who still isn’t talking.

Seeing as Michael hasn’t cracked yet, she sighs heavily and trails behind him. Finally she walks in front of him and faces him. She stops and scowls. How can he make her go through all this? It’s terrible, it’s evil, it’s — 

“Beautiful… ” Julia breathes out the words.

Michael spins her around to face the marvelous waterfall that’s hiding just between two tall trees. She steps out to look closer. He makes his way behind her, slowing with every step. They both stand there marvelling at the beauty, mostly Julia. Michael has been here many times before. It’s where he went when his mother was first diagnosed with tuberculosis. And the first place she went after they buried her body.


I Remember

I remember you, Bubbe Ester.

The smell of your house is what I remember clearly, 

The smell that comes with things that have been loved over time,

That carries so many memories with it.

I remember you

and the stories you told me and Sammy of Mommy,

Of how Mommy had curly hair, and liked gymnastics and shopping,

just like I do.

I remember when you rushed to the house,

when you heard the ambulance came

to rescue me after my hair got stuck in the electric mixer.

You tickled me, made me laugh, made me forget the pain that I felt.

I remember you.

I remember you playing string with Betty, our cat.

You always loved to have her on your lap and pet her so she would purr.

I remember when I was little, you would come to our house 

with lots and lots of clothes and jewelry for me, 

Even though Mommy said not to buy me so much.

But you gave me so much more than things — 

I remember when you lived with us, you sat in the big brown chair and we played school.

I, the teacher, always had fun while you did the math “homework” 

And you, the student, always tried to enjoy it, even though you didn’t really want to practice second grade math. 

I remember we watched TV and played outside, 

You always picked up sticks in the backyard, 

even though we both knew more sticks would come, 

and Mommy would say to let the gardener do it.

You were always trying to make things look nicer, 

and you always did. 

I remember how you loved to watch me dance and sing,

not just at home but on stage in many musical shows.

How you were with us on holidays — even if you didn’t know what holiday it was,

But every day with you felt like a holiday. 

I remember you Bubbe Ester,

I remember the Sundays we visited you.

I remember the walks we took and the afternoons spent sitting outside,

I remember that you loved the sun beaming down on you,

How being warmed up by the sun always put a smile on your face.

I remembered how we listened to the old-fashioned songs you loved,

How we sang along with Bing Crosby and Elvis impersonators with so much glee,

I remember how you genuinely enjoyed those songs, 

how you glowed with joy — perhaps being reminded of time long ago.

I will remember you, always — 

How you were always there for me and everyone you loved.

Even if you aren’t here with us today, 

you will always be in our hearts, forever.


The Diner

Shining Lights

The old diner’s lights flicker. The lopsided S has been broken for some time, so all that shines from the roof above is deedy’s Diner. Her hair is pulled back, the furious curls of red angrily shoved into a reluctant ponytail, because Frank is insistent after a customer demanded a refund after finding an angry curl in his soup. She quietly washes the table, too exhausted to try and make conversation with the drunk who ordered pie at midnight. 

“Honey, grab me another slice, would you,” he says, handing the empty plate to her.

She looks down at her nametag where it plainly says Amy, and even though there is no Honey currently working at the diner, she shoves another slice into his greedy, grubby hands. No ‘thank you’ comes out of his mouth. Only pie is crammed in, but she is used to it and continues to scrub at the stain that will never come out.

The door swings open. The cheerful ding makes her eyes droop even more, and her tired body almost collapses into itself at the thought of more customers. Laughter comes from a throng of black T-shirted theatre kids who plop down into two different booths. She makes her way over to the booths, her feet dragging behind her. 

“What can I get y’all,” she drawls. 

“We’ll have five orders of french fries, six milkshakes — two vanilla, three chocolate, one mix of both, three burgers, two veggie burgers, three hot dogs, and one tuna melt,” says the obvious alpha of the theatre kids. Not so alpha out of all of high school, but this kid certainly thinks he’s the shit. 

“Jeremy, I wanted a veggie burger too,” giggles a pretty girl with an irritating voice. 

Jeremy turns back to Amy, “And we’ll have one more veggie burger for Mary Anne,” he says, as if she was stupid and she had not literally just heard Mary Anne order for herself.

Mary Anne giggles again. 

“Gotcha, okay I’ll be back in a little.”

She slides the order over the counter into the kitchen to Danny, who is either asleep or playing video games on his phone, either or, those kids wouldn’t be getting their orders for a while. She looks back at the drunk and sees him mumbling to himself. God, maybe he’s high, not drunk.

A boy sitting next to Jeremy starts to talk about the stage lights. That they were so bright he was half blind, half distracted during his performance. She remembers the feeling of the shining, blinding, too bright lights. They sat, and they laughed. And talked. And laughed some more. And they shared their dreams, so drunk off their sugar high and the old scotch that Jeremy probably stole from his dad. She knew too well that hangover after having too much fun and eating too much, and that immortality that you think you have — a shield covering your whole body, and anything that tries to get through is immediately blocked by the thought that nothing could ever take away from that night. She knows that feeling the second the lights go off and you bow and everyone claps and you stand there hand and hand with your friends that you think are your soulmates, but they go off to college and you never see them again. She wants the feeling of the hot lights on her skin again, the feeling of sweat along with pride pouring out of every fiber in her body again. She still longs to see the flickering lights of the sign Broadway, and she knows that the B would never be broken. She longed when she was young as well, with those lights, and had those shimmering dreams she can see in the souls laughing in the booth across from her.

Her shift is over, so she grabs her bag and leaves without saying a word. Outside, she stands in front of Speedy’s Diner, but the lights don’t tingle her skin the way those stage lights used to. She got her dream in a weird way — she is standing in front of the shining lights like she always hoped she would some day.

A Little Haven

Twenty minutes down the highway, an exit at 32b, you pull a right and you find yourself in the most heavenly place in the world. A place filled with midnight magic and away from the stretching hand of reality. A place filled with solitude and cheap beer to pour down the drain into your already dying liver. 

The waitress tonight looks like Carol. Carol had beautiful hair, scarlet waves cascading down her back, almost touching her waist. The waitress also looks like shes in a bitchy mood, so maybe that’s what I find so familiar.

“Honey, grab me another slice, would you,” I say, pointing down at my empty plate.

A bitter grimace forms on her face. Yeah, reminds me of Carol, her sour complaints, whining about my laziness. 

No, I am not lazy, I work day and night writing beautiful words and sentences, while you know what you do? You go to work and shove a needle in someone’s arm and do it over again. That requires no creativity, no imagination. A boring, monotonous life filled with absolutely nothing!

Oh, and then she grinned. A crazy grin formed on her face, and her wild waves bounced up and down as she almost started jumping with the mad energy that sentence filled her with.

“You think you’re a genius, don’t you? The next up-and-coming William Shakespeare, ladies and gentlemen. God, I hit the jackpot with this guy. He’s such a genius. Yeah, this guy right here, when he gets drunk, writes a few nonsense poems, and calls it a day. Oh so lucky, I am the luckiest girl in this god forsaken world as he provides for me writing shit while I go work an eight hour shift, come home, make dinner, clean the house. You know, just simple tasks while he does the real man job. A genius needs his time to work alone. All the great ones did, so I think you should leave. It will let you have your space to ‘work.’ Hope you remember how to cook, ‘cause I am sure not going to do it anymore.”

A piece of pie plops down in front of me, and I start to shove it in. I can’t seem to remember the last time I ate. I should go home and get dinner. Carol is probably there, already starting to cook something like pot roast. Yeah, she would want me to be home right about now. She will tell me to set the table, and I will do it on the one condition that she wears the apron that makes her look so sexy. I can already smell the pot roast in the oven.

I slip a few bills on the counter and head out. The waitress that looks like Carol is outside staring at the sign, paying no attention to me. I head into my car and get back on the highway, making my way to the motel, my boxes rattling in the back of the car. Two measly boxes can fit a whole life.


Boundless

The sky is an endless path for Apollo to trek

his glorious reign flushes my face


I promise myself I can do anything

as the strings binding me unwind

flying with blue kites

chasing down Apollo


New leaves grow on hedges

peeking into the world

when autumn returns

the gardener will drive back

and they will fall like snow

barely given a chance


But I promise myself the moon is touchable

as I watch it slip away

staying shielded by tickling grass

The dark lit up by a thousand little fires


I wait

for a reason to drop from Apollo’s chariot

into my open palms

Why?

and if not, then raindrops

to hide my tears


Autumn comes and touches my face

with burning leaves stumbling towards their demise


Smile, child, she whispers

I’ll prove you can do anything

and I’ll put on a porcelain smile

knowing Apollo is tired too

stepping forwards, waving goodbye


to an endless season


The Beginning of the End

Chapter One

In the beginning there was peace in the world, everyone was getting along, and there was no violence.

Yet one day, an outbreak broke out. A woman named Susan Walker thought that she found the cure for cancer.

For a few weeks it was working. Then the people started feeling the symptoms of the cure. People reported headaches and nausea.

Then people started feeling weakness and tiredness. When they slept, they woke up, but not as the same person.

Yes, Susan Walker found a cure for cancer, but by doing so she caused half of the human population to turn into bloodsucking zombies.

This is where our character comes in. Her name was Rachel. Rachel’s mother had cancer. When she heard that there was a cure, she dashed over to the hospital and got the cure, but soon the same thing that was happening to everyone else happened to her. First headaches and nausea, then weakness and tiredness, then becoming a zombie. For Rachel this was the beginning of the end.

Chapter Two

Rachel was only 17 when it happened. When her mother turned into a zombie, her heart shattered into a million pieces.  

Rachel had suicidal thoughts because, without her mother, she had nothing to live for. 

She knew she was nothing without her mother. The government ordered a quarantine over the island, and they left the survivors.

She knew that if she was going to survive she needed to find other survivors like herself. She had a few friends, and they all had a walkie. That way they could communicate. There were three, including herself. Only one picked up the walkie. Her name was Hope. They had planned to meet up at their normal meetup spot. When she got there, she heard Hope shout. By the time she got there, it was too late. Hope was gone.

Chapter Three

Rachel felt empty inside. Everyone and everything she ever loved was gone. She felt like there was no reason in living anymore. She thought that if she died she would be reunited with the people she loved. That’s when she went outside to a crowd of zombies and was about to let them eat her alive. Slowly but surely they kept on getting closer and closer. Who knew dying would take this long. Eventually, she couldn’t take it anymore. She ran as fast as she could. As she ran, she thought, what was she thinking. When she finally got far enough away, she bent down and caught her breath. When she stopped, she knew that the people she loved wouldn’t want her to die. She knew that if she were to survive, she would need a base of operations and a good supply of food and water. And she also knew that it was impossible that she was the only survivor, but her main priority was to make a base of operations. 

She got started on the base. She thought that her base should be a tree house because zombies can’t climb, so she would be safe. She also had the food situation down. She could just make a farm. The only problem she had was the water supply, but she would come up with something. When she finally finished the base of operations, she started on the farm. But that was the dangerous part, because that was where the zombies were. Before she got to making the farm, she had some metal left over from the base, so she built a fence around the farm. When she finished the fence, she felt she had enough to start the farm, but to have a farm you would need to have water to water the plants. So she would need to find a good amount of water. She knew that there were gallons of water at the store, but the store would be crawling with zombies, so she needed weaponry, and her uncle owned a gun store. His name was Uncle Sam, so she could just go there and get some guns and maybe her uncle might be alive when she got there. She decided to take an automatic gun and some side arms, maybe a Mac-11 would do. She decided to take a FN SCAR-H and a Mac-11. Just when she was about to leave, she heard rustling.

She looked and said, “Uncle Sam?”

Something slowly started to come into vision. Then she saw a man’s outline. Rachel screamed with joy.

Uncle Sam!

But when she saw his face, she realized he was just like the rest. She knew what she had to do. She raised the gun and took three shots. The walk back to her base was quieter than usual.

Life and Why We Live It: An Essay On Reality

What is death? To some, it is an ultimate end. They believe there is nothing more. Others believe in some sort of afterlife. This afterlife is usually perceived as in the sky, or underground. Sometimes, it uses two locations. Some believe death is nothing but a new beginning. They believe they will be reborn as something else, depending on their life. But if some know that there is another life, or some sort of better afterlife, why do they want to live? What is the driving force that makes us want to continue? 

People love experiences. An unforgettable experience is not what helps, though. It is the pursuit of those experiences that is important. Which would help one continue more: going skydiving, or wanting to go skydiving? Once one has the experience, they will need something new to chase. One also can’t want something and then not take it when they have the chance. If they actually wanted to do it, it would make them feel scared. If they didn’t really want it, this would force them to think more about what keeps them going. When a goal is completed, the person will need a new goal that is going to keep them going. This goal can be anything, from making the perfect pastry to committing the perfect crime. However, these goals are temporary. After some time, the goal will be completed. Then, one will need a new driving force.

Another thing that can keep one alive is a hobby. Just doing something can help you love life. First, you have to love it. Then, one has to do it at least once a day, with a structure. If one can do it at any time of day, that person will inevitably not do it at least once. This is the road to collapse. One time leads to two times and before you know it you’re only doing your hobby once a week. One main thing this plan needs to succeed is the constant enactment of this force. Consistency is the key to success. Also, this has to be a good hobby. It can’t be something bad for you, because you will eventually realize this and stop to think about it. If you continue, then you will always second-guess the reason you’re living. If you decide to stop, you will need a new hobby. You must make sure your hobby is here to stay. If your hobby turns out to be a fad, you will be forced to like something that is uncool. Imagine making your hobby Pokémon Go when that was a thing. In three months, you would be an outcast for liking a bad game.

Another lifeline could be love. I would strongly advise against this, because love isn’t always forever. People break up, and then where will you be? Also, loving someone, and being consumed by that love, can make one seem clingy. This will lead to even less success. But say it works. You get married and live happily ever after… not. Half of all marriages end in divorce. Having loving someone be the only thing you do and then having that love crushed would be soul-crushing. Also, say in your pursuit of love you do something wrong. If your views of love are twisted enough, you can be committing sexual harassment. Even if everything works, eventually your spouse dies. Imagine having the person you care about most die and tell me you still think love is a good idea. Too many things can go wrong and are known to go wrong. Humans are just too unpredictable. Find a Plan B.

There is one more paradigm toward life: hatred. One can be sustained by the ultimate dislike of others. First, your hatred must be absolute and ultimate. Second, your hatred must have a target. I would suggest a small, focused target, like a person. However, a larger hatred for an ideal can also work. Some would prefer a larger target, because there are more things to hate. I prefer a specific thing, because acting on that hatred can be more satisfying. Either way, hatred is considered wrong. Your whole life plan may be put into question. You will also question it, which is never good. Hatred does provide a very strong motivation to continue, but that motivation may be found evil. While you may not think this, others will. This makes hatred not the best motivator. Goals and hobbies are much better, but you are better off hating than loving.

Each of the above plans to motivate life has its own merits, but they are best when combined. Having a good hobby that also offers goals can be truly rewarding. Hating someone can be a hobby if you do it every day. Your goal could even be to put down another because of your hatred. Love used in conjunction with other plans can provide results ranging from having a bad time to getting arrested, but one can still love. The love just has to be separate. Love can be extremely motivating if you also have a hobby to fall back on. Using multiple plans is important, so one has a backup plan. It can soften the blow of loss. Each plan has individual merit, but each one shines even brighter when combined with the rest. Making a motivation plan can be motivating in and of itself. This is the final step toward excellence. Wanting to want can be just as good as wanting. It is the ultimate goal, because it is constantly being achieved and reset. In conclusion, life will continued to be lived, but each person chooses why they live it.


Incoming Red Giant

What happens when you die?

Will we live forever?

Will we be immortal?

Why do we die?

Incoming, incoming… 

(This whole story is written from a narrator’s point of view on the city crisis when a red giant is coming.)

Beep Beep Beep. That is all that was heard around the one mile radius of NASA headquarters in Houston. This robot voice was saying, incoming. Incoming. Red giant incoming. This was in the middle of the night, so the sleepy janitors in NASA’s hallway suddenly woke up. The janitors here only knew rocket science, so they didn’t really know what a red giant was, so all they did was run. They ran as fast as they possibly could to go outside to see what was happening. Every man and woman was outside and looking at the sky, trying to find the red giant. Indeed, very high up, opposite of the sun, they saw a little red dot getting bigger by the minute. All of the NASA control center freaks who experienced Apollo 11 hurried back to their study and discussed how to stop this massive thing from hitting Earth. One said that they should send a rocket that would blast the thing to pieces. That idea was quickly turned down, for Neil Armstrong shouted, “that wouldn’t do a thing to the red giant.” 

After all, the one who suggested blasting it was a janitor that snuck into the room and skipped his rocket science class. Michael Collins scurried into the room and said, “we can send a rocket that will have a nuclear bomb and a bunch of explosives in it.”

So everyone agreed and got to work. The red giant was outside of Earth’s atmosphere, so if a nuclear bomb went off outside of the atmosphere, it wouldn’t affect Earth. The Buzz Aldrin was quickly at work, figuring out how much time there was left until the red giant hit Earth and how far away it was


30 hours, 48 minutes, 29 seconds, 120 miles away

The top engineers at NASA ran to take a shot of coffee and quickly went to work building a nuclear bomb/rocket and putting a ton of explosives in the rocket. The rocket wasn’t going to get to the red giant too quickly. It was going to be going the speed of an airplane because of how heavy the load would be and how little time they would have to build this. 

22 hours, 56 minutes, 38 seconds, 100 miles away

By the morning, the engineers were finished with the rocket and were starting to make another one because they thought one rocket wouldn’t be enough. The first one was being towed to the launch site. The launch would happen in half an hour


Blast off rocket number one

Once the rocket was ready to launch, a crowd had gathered around, and a 15 minute countdown had begun. When it was time for blast off, the engine stuttered for a moment, and the crowd oohed and ahhed. Once it was about ten feet in the air, the rocket dropped back down, but suddenly a really loud blast caused the rocket to start ascending toward its target. The rocket was ascending at the speed of an airplane, which caused the crowd to worry. In a few minutes, the rocket was the size of the red giant, a small dot.


20 hours, 13 minutes, 01 seconds, 90 miles away

Everyone who witnessed the take off of the rocket was now about to witness the rocket crash into the red giant. A few moments later, you could hear NASA’s loudspeaker telling the crowd that the red giant was unharmed. Half an hour after the news, you were able to see the next rocket being towed to the launch site. 

Blast off rocket number two

A larger crowd had gathered this time, because these people’s lives depended on NASA’s decision. But, right before the 15 minute countdown was about to start, every human being in the USA saw that far to the east there were a whole bunch of smaller rockets being set off into space, and, soon enough, the people at NASA were able to see this rocket trajectory, and it looked like it was heading for the red giant. In a matter of minutes, others at NASA were able to see the launch site of these rockets… It was the USS Armstrong. The USS Armstrong was known for its rockets that, in times of war, could launch little rockets that went so high enemy ships wouldn’t be able to see them in warfare. NASA was quickly trying to contact the USS Armstrong. Soon enough, they got in contact with the ship’s captain, and the captain explained to NASA that the USS Armstrong heard that NASA was sending rockets to the red giant, so they thought that they could too. Maybe more than one rocket at once would be enough to knock it back. So the countdown started, and before you knew it, the rockets were all about five minutes away from their targets. Once the rockets hit the red giant, there was more of an impact. Many tiny pieces were seen coming off of the rockets.

“This is progress, people, this is progress,” shouted a voice from the NASA loudspeaker.

By now, NASA was preparing a third rocket. The USS Armstrong was also planning to send more rockets, which were going to be in sync with NASA’s rocket. Soon enough, the third rocket was already at the launch site, and the countdown started. Sixty… fifty-nine… ten… night… eight… seven… six… five… four… three… two… one… blast off. The rocket made a roaring sound, and to the spectators it sounded like the loudest launch. Off to the west they also saw a bright red light that looked like another rocket. They realized that this was a nuclear rocket going off in Japan. Quickly enough, the Japanese airspace was contacting NASA, saying that they hacked into NASA’s countdown and launched their nuclear rocket at the same time. So now they had three different sources of rockets.

And on and on this went, both countries and warships sending up rockets until the red giant entered the Earth’s atmosphere.


10 hours, 21 minutes, 43 seconds, red giant entered Earth’s atmosphere

Now, all over the world, TV stations and radio stations were given instructions by NASA to teach their viewers and listeners how to build small rockets and launch them. So, all over the world, elders, newborns, people in wheelchairs, and people in the emergency room were all building rockets. This was life or death here. The surgeons who were doing life or death surgeries equipped the patients with the right supplies to build rockets. All of these rockets would be the size of those rockets that you would make for a science fair project. They made all of the rockets sync up to NASA’s control center, so they would all launch at the same time. Once all the rockets in the world were launched, the whole world looked up in astonishment. Half an hour later, they saw many millions of pieces coming from the red giant. But there was still one big rock, bigger than all the other ones.


6 hours, 43 minutes, 09 seconds, red giant 30 miles away

By now, the only person with an idea was the astronaut from NASA’s latest mission on Mars, Martian 22. His name was Sir Isaac Newton. He had come up with a miraculous idea, but it may have been the only chance the world had. NASA and all the world countries had sent out alerts to every electronic device telling people to turn on their blow dryers and fans which would hold up the rocks from the Red Giant. NASA would provide 3,000 mile extension cords to all cities, towns, and farms, so they could all keep the blow dryers going. And if the people didn’t do what they said, they hacked the blow dryer and fan companies. Once the rocks were hovering all about 10 feet in the air, a bunch of Robotic Concordes with huge trash cans would come around and collect all of the rocks. And NASA didn’t have to worry about the oceans, because all oceans were dead, for they all died out because of starvation. For this was happening in the 29th century.


30 minutes, 1 mile away

Now all of these things could be easily seen from the naked eye, and the Earth was now at about 200 degrees. This might be scary for you, but it was pretty normal for people living in the 29th century. All the world could do was wait and watch


Red giant 1,000 feet away

You’re probably thinking, why are countries that are opposite North America helping? Well, it was because the aftermath of all of this would wipe out the whole Earth, even though it was mostly going to hit North and South America.

Old man Steve Jobs walked out his front yard, and he saw a bunch of iPad sized rocks plunging toward Earth. He just woke up from a five-day coma, so he didn’t really know what was going on, and he just started yelling at his kids and all of their kids for not informing him about what had happened, so we just thought that all the iPads he ever made were now going to waste. The reason he stopped screaming is that (you will never believe this, but keep reading) all of the “iPads” hovered above Earth, and soon enough, they were collected and put into the dead ocean. But the sad thing was Steve quickly went into another five-day coma.

At the same time as Steve Jobs was experiencing those traumatic things, a little boy was thinking this:

Twelve-year-old Caleb Brokerstein was thinking about death in his room. He was thinking how he wouldn’t want to die along with all the other people in the world. All his childhood death had haunted Caleb. He had always wondered, what happens when he dies? Can we ever be immortal? Why do we die? And now all these thoughts were racing through his mind. Until the thought struck that he was going to die.

When that thought occurred to him, he ran out the house screaming, “I don’t want to die, ‘cause if I do I will never be reborn again!”

These were the precise thoughts that were running through his mind and coming out of his mouth. After a minute of all of this screaming, he looked up at the sky and saw that the particles were all hovering 10 feet above the ground.

When he realized this, Caleb retraced his steps and ran screaming, “We are alive!

The End

Elemental

Heather sat in the corner of her room, hearing the fire crackle. Around her, near her, behind her, in front of her… 

Inside her.

The purple walls of her rooms seemed to envelop her, consume her, as her breathing hitched.

She hugged herself tighter. She couldn’t be, right? No, there was no way. No way. No way. She was a fire elemental, right? Of course right. Her dad is a fire elemental, her mom was (at least she assumes she was), her whole family was, for as long as she could trace.

So why hadn’t she developed some fire-related power yet? Why? All the other kids had. She had to as well.

She thought back to her mom. 

Something inside her heart stung like a fresh wound. Her mom had disappeared right after she was born, run off to somewhere. Her dad couldn’t join her yet, but he always promised Heather that it was soon. They’d be rejoined soon.

Heather had a question burning inside. Literally.

She pulled herself up, pulling open her window and sliding out and onto the ground outside. 

In the Fire Side, everything was red. Or brown. Fire crackled at her feet as she softly tread over burned ground. She had to get there.

Get to the middle.

She was silent when she finally got there, looking up at the almost-impenetrable glass that separated the designated areas for each element. She stared right at the water zone.

She wished she could step right through and escape.

A drop of water escaped her fingertips, sizzling and steaming on the burning ground. 

She was a public danger.

She was a water elemental. Everything in her life started to softly click together. 

She was a water elemental. She was a water elemental. She was a water elemental.

She was a child.

She was lost, confused, and a scared-for-her-own-safety child.

And most importantly, if she got caught as a water elemental, she could die.

Heather wasn’t really scared though.

She was excited.


Hunted

I ran through the forest, feeling the tickly grass on my paws. I felt weightless, speeding toward a tiny, unknowing squirrel in the roots of a tree. I was moving quickly, but I made sure to tread lightly and quietly so as not to alert the squirrel. As I got closer, I slowed down and crouched. The squirrel was still nibbling at its nut, completely unaware of the danger it was in. And then I sprang. My claws sunk into the squirrel’s flesh, and I took the first delicious bite. I ate hungrily, happily tearing into the squirrel. I supposed it had felt pain when I killed it, but I didn’t care. It was just prey. 

One day something different happened. I was crawling slowly toward a mouse, careful not to make any noise, when I heard the sound of beating wings, and a loud screech. I looked up, and I saw a gigantic eagle, with a wingspan so big it made my blood freeze. I screamed so loud I thought I scared off every animal in the forest. I tried to run, but it was too late. The huge golden eagle picked me up effortlessly and carried me high into the sky, ignoring my terrified squeals. Agony filled my bones as the eagle’s claws tore into me, slowly killing me. I wailed in pain, but if anyone heard, they didn’t care enough to help.

***

I ate hungrily, happily tearing into the cat. I supposed it had felt pain when I killed it, but I didn’t care. It was just prey.


Halo

An angle of the sun’s embrace

Shining in the thunder’s wake

Golden curls rain down your face

Seafoam eyes bring hearts to race

Pale hands open aches

Leaving scratches, bruises, brakes

Even though the halo’s there

A shadow crosses your plastered stare 

Heaven knows you stand too tall

You too perfect for it all

No one knows your flesh and bone

Hidden by your lies in tow

Marching with the devils row by row

You fool the world

Show it through a great curved lens

Cause them all to lose all sense

A delicate flower with leaves so fine

Hiding those thorns just under the line

And if someone moves

Just makes a step

You shoot your gaze

Bringing on the lazy haze

Don’t let them spot

Don’t get too close

You have a halo so sharp it burns

And everything just turns and turns

Until all is left but not the same

The halo shares its wavy ways

Daze runs off its golden rays

Tricked and frazzled it had to stay

But free at last

It falls away

The halo’s gone

Nowhere to stay

And leaves the world too far away

Where halos float until their days

To take their place 

Opposing evil

Even though the halo’s there 

It lives around in everywhere

An open heart beckons its wake

Raining down in shiny swirls

The halo trusts the tiny pearl

Leaving cold ones out to die


Pay No Mind – VII

          

VII.

I stare at a mere reflection,

a girl whose eyes, drained, are watering still after hours nonstop

For she had cried all night, and there’s no stop in sight

She had screamed and hissed 

And the birds chirped a lovely, sad song

The wind whistled, but she paid no mind

As she lay on the bathroom floor

Fixated on the weeps of crows

And the wails of wilting roses

She the wilting rose, the weeping crow, cannot point where things went wrong

The birds and flowers fought relentlessly over sentences described in paragraphs

IX.

Yesterday, the tree whistled at the glowing moon

And glass smiles stood until we fell fast asleep, today

The trees melt away

As we say goodbye to dreams, today

They’ve said I’ve changed

But I feel the same, this world has done the changing for me, today

Today was as long as the last and my pains are tired of growing.

I must stop, but the ride’s not over yet, no not today

She puts in another quarter

But I can’t take another today

I miss you — 


Uncertainty

I Am Still Alone:

She thinks she knows 

He thinks he understands 

Yet I am still alone 

“Everyone has experienced that”

“Trust me it is normal” 

They say and walk away 

They say they love 

It is said that they care 

I remain alone. 

In the dark corner of my mind I remain

They say 

“I’m always here”

But there is no one

I see no one 

I’m a supernova about to explode away from all celestial objects in the universe 

What they say is a lie

So I will be alone

I will be with the only person who understands

I will be with somebody true

It is good I am still alone


Overflow:

Almost reaching the top then the bar gets higher

It continues to grow in an uncontrollable rate

The fail to reach enough makes me start over

Vicious cycles attack me

So close but I never can accomplish

Then all the way back down again I fall

Fall back into the necessities of the world

I watch from down below seeing all the people reach the top

They eye me with pity

But no one can help assist me up

I drag myself lower and lower

I dream of an overflow, to be more than needed

Enough and more

Yet I stay behind what I continuously hope to surpass

Never full, never more

Nothing ever there to fill it up


They Don’t Know: 

Innocence but you take every burden

You love but keep the unconditional loneliness that you are brought up with

Giants step on the speck of dust that you made yourself to be

You know of your rightfulness, however power drowns inside you

You see through yourself in the midst of your reflection

You hate then love it

It has been beautiful, it has been astonishingly horrible

No one sees the beauty though

No one ever has

The ugliness underneath beams through even with your rightfulness

Limited time keeps them blinded

You aren’t worth the dread of patience

They don’t intend on discovering your beauty


Dirty Laundry

Dirty Laundry

The chore that everyone suffers.

From the first sweaty shirts,

To the old droopy socks,

Till the time when it’s full

the smell of Pandora’s box.

To the time 

When you take it out 

And put it in the sack

To the time 

You take it down the stairs

To try not to drop

To take it across the street 

And make sure you didn’t 

Leave the detergent 

Or you have to go back 

To put it in 

The machine 

When the Pandora smell 

Comes back 

To the time 

When you realize 

You lost your droopy sock 

When you first open 

The detergent 

The opposite smell 

of the Pandora’s box 

To when you close the lid 

And you turn the machine on 

To the time 

You need to wait 

And hope it comes out right 

To take it out of the machine 

To the time you need to organize 

The fresh socks 

And the shirt and the pants

To fold them all up

To take it back home

Then put it into your child’s cabinet

And let them use it

And make the suffering process

Start all over

Each week


Trees of Albuquerque

I had been watching birds since the age of nine. Owls, finches, herons, and song sparrows were my favorite. The variety in species and function in the finches were fascinating, but what really caught my eye, or in this case my ear, were the song sparrows, the way their notes flowed into each other in complete harmony, going from do to re to mi to fa in beautiful consistency. The song sparrows were my favorite birds to observe, as their action of singing sounded so simple as a word but so magical as a sound. But the song sparrows didn’t last. By the time I was 25, my days of listening to sweet harmony were over, as a new power plant opened up, and with its smoke and ash and cracks and pops, it drew all the birds away. I learned by that time I wasn’t a bird watcher. I just liked the sound of song sparrows. Yeah, there were other birds I looked at, but who doesn’t think some birds look nice? This migration plunged me into sadness. I would never hear that beautiful flow or that consistent harmony ever again. I tried everything to recreate that sweet sound, every stroke of the hand or a blow of the horn or on an instrument, every audio recording, but none could replicate it, not exactly.

At this treacherous time I had come across an old nest with a peculiar egg in it. I thought to myself I might as well try to hatch the little thing. Its shell was so thin that it could be crushed by a flea. I took it in praying it would be a song sparrow, praying that I would hear those sweet symphonies again. It had been two weeks in the incubator. Even with its warm light at a nice 72 degrees, there were no cracks. Four weeks in the incubator with its steamy air, no cracks. I had given up. I had decided that I would follow the song sparrows even though I had lived in my town all my life, but I couldn’t take being apart from the harmony. I decided to crack open the egg and make a good breakfast with it, if it wouldn’t give me a song sparrow. Right before it hit my bowl to crack, I heard a noise. It was a perfectly consistent flow from do to re with a harmony unreplaceable. It was the voice of a song sparrow with its tranquility. I canceled every flight, unpacked every bag, and put back every plate because I was staying. The egg then continued to crack over the next three days. I had a song sparrow. I wasn’t going to use this bird just for its beautiful voice but also to show the power plant what its emissions were doing to the area. It was my duty to these sweet birds that were forced to leave. I had readied my case towards the court of how the power plant was driving away wildlife. When presented towards the court, it looked like a one way street with me going the wrong direction. The defendants argued that shutting down the plant now wouldn’t save the birds and there was no point. But I still had to try. I then gave my most persuasive point. I let the court hear the sweet symphony and melodies of the song sparrow even though it wasn’t allowed. I let them hear the beautiful flow from note to note, hoping it would be enough. It wasn’t. The power plant company had a better argument and a better lawyer. It was sad. My song sparrow was sad. I had used it, and now it wanted to be free. So I let the bird go, and with it I let my fight go. There was nothing I could do to stop it except let it free to the trees of Albuquerque.


Natalie, Luke, and Michelle

Natalie

There’s a lot that you can buy with a stolen 20 bucks. Especially if your mission is to sneak to CVS from school and see how long it takes until your mom notices you’re missing. Then you get to walk down every aisle. When you have $20, anything is possible. Well, anything that you can do with 20 dollars. But there’s a certain kind of freedom that comes with being on your own with money. I browsed through the aisles, getting whatever caught my eye. Oreos, mallomars, . I spotted the aisle with gum and backpedaled before snatching two packs off the shelves. Ooh, nail polish. You can never have enough nail polish; there are millions of shades that can make or break an outfit. While looking out of the massive glass windows, however, I spied a red Tesla pulling into the parking lot. It was Mom’s car! There was no one in the line at the checkout though.

I awkwardly stumbled over to the checkout. I hope no one saw that. I surreptitiously glanced around. No one in sight except for the bored looking checkout clerk who I think was a senior who had nothing to worry about. His faded shirt didn’t look like it had been washed recently so I tried to breathe through my mouth, but he asked me if I wanted a bag. He would have thought I had some sort of problem if I only nodded, so I had to answer.

“Um, yes,” I answered, trying my best not to seem rude, but really? I had seven items (yes I counted correctly for once; the only math skill I seem to possess) of course I wanted a bag!

While the clerk silently put my items into the white plastic bag, I spied my mom walking into the store with a purposeful stride and an ice cold glare, her stylish fall jacket accentuating her silky auburn hair. I knew that my mom would never make a scene in public, so I raced to think of a way to delay the checkout clerk.

“Hey, um, so how much were the Mallomars?” I asked, purposely drawing out the question.

“Uh… they were $3.99,” came his slightly suspicious answer. I don’t think he got asked many questions in this job, and my question definitely came as a surprise to him.

“And if I were interested in joining the rewards program, would I have to pay for it?” I squinted at his cheap plastic name tag with a barely legible scrawl written on it. “And, Alex, what benefits would I get?” My mother had caught up to me by now and was standing next to me. I could practically feel the anger rolling off her in waves.

Alex was definitely confused now. “Well, you don’t have to pay to sign up, but I’ll need your email and or phone number.” He was speaking in the perfected speech that all store employees probably had memorized. “You will get storewide benefits, and rewards such as discounts on everyday items.”

By now, the hairs on the back of my neck were raised from the furious look my mother was giving me. I think Alex had figured out what was happening, based on the surreptitious glances he was giving my mom’s face.

“Would you like to sign up today, or would you like to hear more about the many benefits of the CVS ExtraCare rewards program?” he asked with a pointed look and a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“That’s ok, we can get going now,” my mother cut in smoothly with a voice that would seem polite to everyone but me. She whipped out a credit card from her clutch with perfectly manicured nails. Alex fell silent while she inserted the card and waited for it to process, tapping her high heeled boots on the floor obnoxiously loud. The slow machine finally finished, and my mom swirled the pen on the screen for a brief second before snatching up the bag and giving a curt nod to Alex. I hesitantly followed her, pausing only to ogle at the Jolly Ranchers on display near the exit. My mom stalked to the car, skirting around a particularly murky puddle. She unlocked the doors and gracefully settled herself into the leather seat.

I could feel the tension in the air; you could have cut it with a knife. Some awkwardly silent minutes later, I took a break from tapping my nails on the dashboard and shattered the silence.

“So….” I started guiltily.

My mom’s shoulders visibly tensed up, letting me know that I was in for it. We had reached home by now, so I pretended to be preoccupied with untying my laces and putting away my jacket. I silently padded up to the kitchen, plopping down at the island to wait for dinner, my stomach grumbling painfully.

Luke

There were fifteen minutes of peace in the house. I could usually be found in my bedroom, slaving away at my homework, but given that no one was home I took the chance to lose myself in some quality TV. Then I heard the garage open. Mom was back with Nat. I hurriedly shut off the screen, and made a mad dash to my bedroom, diving onto the bed and taking a nonchalant pose just as the door to my bedroom swung open to reveal a stressed looking Mom in the doorway.

“Hey, Luke. I got her- she was hiding in CVS,” she said tiredly.

I nodded, sighing inwardly. Natalie was being rebellious. Again. Why did you sneak out again? I think. Do you know how much Mom worries about you? Of course you don’t… you think Mom doesn’t care at all. She does, though. A lot. And you really freak her out when you do stuff like this.

Me, I’m the perfect child. After Dad left us, I kept it together, for Mom’s sake. I did what I was told, I didn’t argue with Mom, and my grades stayed constant. But my sister, didn’t. Her grades started slipping, her focus went onto all the wrong things, and she lost her motivation to do anything important. Mom and Nat have been at one another for the past year. Mom will scream at her for being on her phone too much, and then the next thing you know, they’re yelling about how Natalie is a disgrace to our family. Our broken family. It’s in little pieces, scattered around like glass shards on the street. Natalie’s waiting for Dad to come and pick up the pieces and glue them all together. Mom’s waiting for Natalie to attach herself back to us, and pretend that the bottle is back to normal, ignoring the way cracks that are inching up again and the fact that even the slightest gust of wind will send us into little pieces again, meaner and sharper than before. And me? I’m trying to work out how to put the shards back together, but I don’t want to get cut, but the pieces are oh so sharp, and one slip of my hand and I’ll get blood on me.

Michelle (Natalie and Luke’s mom)

I took out my anger by ripping off my unsuspecting stockings. I stood there in my bedroom, with my fists balled. Dinner had been icy, no one talking. Natalie never even made eye contact with me. Slowly, with every minute that passed without conversation, my heart had broken a little.

I automatically looked over at my dresser, at the framed drawing that filled me with love as I examined it. I gently stroked my fingers over the bright, childish colors of the crayon. Nat and I. My daughter and I.

Nat had drawn it, when she was five. She was sitting in her room, drawing it, not even letting me inside her room for fear that I would see what she was doing. The next day, Mother’s Day, I was awoken by small feet climbing over me. She had a frame grasped in one hand, and a plate of bacon and eggs, perched precariously on the bedside table beside me.

“Hi sweetie!” I had said, while stroking her hair away from her face.

“Hi Mommy!” she replied, so lovingly, so happily. “Happy Mother’s Day, Mommy!” She grinned, brandishing her drawing and suffocating me in a hug. It was me, wearing the red dress that she knew was my favorite (a beautiful red triangle), and her, beaming, hugging me with stick figure arms. Framing it was a baby pink frame, bearing the words ‘I love you’ and a teddy bear on it. I had kept it on my dresser ever since, and every day I looked at it before I left for work, to remind me that I loved my daughter and my daughter loved me. Loves me.

But lately, I had to constantly reassure myself of it. I often found myself questioning the fact, and my suspicions were only confirmed further when we had another argument. I reminded myself that my daughter was downstairs, sitting at the island. Safe. Home. But what did home really mean? Was home a place to relax and feel happy? For any of us? Luke, or Nat, or me, even? I would be kidding myself if I said yes.

Natalie

My mother walked into the kitchen, and upon seeing me on my phone, immediately snatched it out of my hands.

“Wha..?” I was about to start complaining but I knew better than to fan the flames of an inferno waiting to be unleashed upon me.

“You aren’t getting your phone for two days, young lady. And if you have a problem with that, then maybe you should use your phone to text me your location once in a while!” My mother ended in a furious tone that left no room for argument. But, of course, being me, I found some.

“That’s so unfair! Why can’t I have a little freedom without you having to know where I am all the time?” I cried out, making the situation worse.

My mom’s eyes looked murderous. “I am your mother!” she yelled. “And I have a right to know where you are at all times in order to keep you safe! If you sneak off to CVS then how do I know where you are? There could be a terrorist attack in that building and I would think you are safe at home!”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes but I couldn’t hold back the sarcastic retort that had been circling around in my head.

“Really? Would you really be worried? You don’t even love me.” I challenged vehemently. “I bet you would be glad that your stupid, worthless daughter is dead.”

She glowered at me, but her eyes looked glassy. “How dare you speak to me with that tone? I can’t believe you would think-” her voice wobbled and I couldn’t stay after I said that to her.

I stalked out of the room and slammed my door shut as hard as I possibly could. I curled up on the floor, regretting everything I had just said. Those aren’t words that you could just take back.

My mind kept replaying the way her eyes had looked, when I said that to her.

How could I?

All she had wanted was to know where I was!

One side of my mind tried to convince me that I was justified, and she was being overprotective. But it was fighting a losing battle, as my anger ebbed away and the weight of my words sunk in. I was trembling on the cold floor, with tears running down my face. Trying, trying not to think of my mother doing the same.

Before I could give the topic any more thought, the signature thumping of my younger brother came from outside the door.

“Nat?” came my brother’s voice through the crack at the bottom of the door.

Quickly wiping my face and pasting on a smile, I got up and opened the door to allow him in. With an awkward chuckle, he stepped in and flopped on my beanbag.

“That was…” he trailed off.

“You heard that?” I grimaced. I had forgotten all about Luke in my anger. I was afraid to meet his eyes, knowing they would be frosty and filled with hate. He would never love me again. Not after hearing me say that to Mom.

“They probably heard that in China.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “But they wouldn’t understand anything because they don’t speak English; they speak Chinese!”

I rolled my eyes and laughed a breathy laugh of relief while messing up his hair.

“You know for an eleven-year-old, you’re pretty stupid, Luke.” I grinned at him.

With mock indignation, he turned away from me and buried his face in my throw pillows.

“No!” I shrieked. “You’ll get all your face oil on them!” I yanked them out from under his face.

“Face oil? Really? That’s the best you could come up with?” He laughed and slid to the ground, landing on my plush white rug. “So, anyway, what’s the deal with you and mom?” he asked, turning serious.

Deflecting the question, I squealed instead “OMG, this is one of those rare occasions where you’re serious!”

Pouting at me he went back to his usual goofy state. Phew. I didn’t want to have to talk about that with him. Didn’t want him to think of me as a monster.

“Can you help me with my math homework though? Probability is weird.”

“You must be truly desperate to come to me for help,” I said, imitating Loki, my favorite Marvel character.

“Yes!” He laughed loudly. “Loki is awesome!” He bounded out of the room laughing and cheering all the way.

Giggling, I followed him into his messy room. I nearly tripped over the dirty laundry on the floor, catching myself on a low shelf, which in turn released a torrent of comic books onto the floor.

“Luke!” I howled.

He grimaced. He kicked the comics under the bed with a sheepish grin.

“How is it even physically possible that your room is so filthy?” I exclaimed.

He rolled his eyes and waded through the trash on the floor to what could be considered a desk. Hidden under a mountain of clothes, the custom designed desk was wedged into the corner of his room. On the other side was his bed, heaped with candy wrappers and his homework. I took a flying leap to the bed and I landed on top of him, unleashing a yell of indignation from his lips. I had loaded up on dinner, stress eating, and I probably weighed as much as a baby elephant. Half an hour later, Luke’s homework had been conquered, and I had almost forgotten about the war I waged with my mother. Almost.

Michelle

My breath trembled as I exhaled. I was in my bedroom- I hadn’t bothered to shut the door, and I could hear everything that was happening in the room next to me. Giggles emitted from Nat’s high pitched voice.

She had probably forgotten about the whole meltdown in the kitchen. I hadn’t, though. Her last words still echoed around my head. I wasn’t sure if this was Natalie being her usual melodramatic self, but the words stung all the same. Was that really what she thought? That I didn’t love her? Had I shown that over the past three years? We certainly had had more disputes than bonding moments… in fact, we had exactly one mother-daughter talk in the past year. Truth be told, Natalie had always been a daddy’s girl. And when he left, to go with a stupid, brainless, bimbo who-

I exhaled sharply to stop myself. I shouldn’t let myself let carried away.

Natalie and her father could always be found together, giggling about something, making something. One week, they had decided to make a treehouse. Natalie had been ten years old, insisting that tree houses were cool. They started building it, and a few weeks later, Natalie had gotten bored. The wood lay, discarded in the tree, the rope ladder dangling uselessly in the wind. Then, the dreaded talk. We sat down both the kids and told them that their lives were about to be flipped upside down. Natalie cried. I heard her, every night, muffled sobs coming from her room. The second I went in there though, she would order me to leave her alone. Luke didn’t talk about anything. He would pretend as if nothing had happened. Every time I had insisted that we talk about it, he had responded with the same answer; “I understand, Mom. You and Dad didn’t get along. It’s okay.” Never being able to get anything out of him, I had slowly given up. Soon after, we became a three-person family. I caught Natalie in the garden, trying to build the treehouse on her own, hauling wood across the yard, drooping under the weight, but I didn’t want to interfere.

Natalie went to her first day of middle school. Luke went into fourth grade. Natalie caused trouble. Luke got amazing grades. Natalie was popular. Luke stayed a role model. And I didn’t think to talk to either of them. Not Natalie, the struggling teenager. Not Luke, the quiet elementary school kid.

Wow. Divorced, and isolated from your children. Not where I envisioned myself to be at this time in my life. With that cheerful thought, I rolled over and tried, unsuccessfully, to fall into the vacancy of sleep.

But I couldn’t help thinking about my kids. Take Luke for example. We had always been closer than Nat and I, going on expeditions to football games and parks together. When the divorce happened, I had spent more time with Nat, trying to pry out feelings and emotions. I had talked to Luke too, of course, but I had never given much thought to the fact that Luke’s answers never seemed realistic. It was always, “Yeah, I understand that,” and “I’m alright, you don’t have to worry about me.” Never answers that we had to talk about at length. And when he saw that I reacted positively to the answers he was feeding me, he realized that those kinds of answers would make me happy. So that’s how he always answered. Trying to please me, not wanting me worried.

Natalie

I woke up with much difficulty. I lay in bed for a while, listening to the sounds of my mom in the kitchen. The sounds sent a shock through me as I remembered yesterday evening. Heaving myself out of the bed, I began my morning routine slowly. Glancing at the clock as I considered what to wear, my eyes widened in horror. It was 7:25! My bus would be here in less than five minutes! I quickly grabbed an outfit out of my closet, still shoving my arms through the sweater as I ran downstairs. I grabbed a protein bar and yelled a quick goodbye to my mom and Luke, then I slammed the door behind me and speed walked as best as I could with a backpack on to the bus stop.

I arrived just in time, noting the yellow bus turning the corner in the distance. The other kids eyed me, but I was too relieved to worry about them judging me.

It was Monday morning. Most people hated school. I didn’t. Not because I was super smart; I was not, to the despair of my mother. But in school, I was a different person. I was no longer Nat, who was a disappointment to her mom because she wasn’t responsible enough or hard-working enough. I was Natalie Mercier, the most popular girl in school.

My friend’s voice shattered my thoughts, and I came back down to earth in time to hear her say “So then she said no! She said she doesn’t want rejects from the queen bee!” Beth was looking right at me, obviously expecting a reaction.

“Oh my god!” I exclaimed too late.

Beth, not realizing my lack of focus, continued with her rambling talk, trailing off when she noticed me still staring behind her.

She snuck a look over her shoulder and blushed excessively when she saw who it was that I was staring at. A small smirk played at the corner of my lips in anticipation.

“H…hi Ryan!” Beth stuttered, her embarrassment showing on the tips of her ears as she beheld her crush.

“Oh…hey.” Ryan scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck, looking for a way to get out of this conversation.

Deciding against my better nature, I intervened.

“Hey, Ryan!” I exclaimed excitedly.

“Oh hi, Natalie!” He responded with a confused smile. Why was the most popular girl in school talking to him?

“So what are you doing after school today?” I asked, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow.

“Uh, nothing, why?” He asked me hopefully, thinking he knew what was happening.

“Well, Beth’s free too, and she’s been talking about you for a while, so…” I smirked at the disappointed expression on his face, and sashayed off, a crowd of wannabes already swarming around me. They began to talk about mundane, trivial things, not noticing when I zoned out.

Everyone knows me but no one knows me.

No one knows the insecure struggling teenager who goes by the name of an insect. No one knows the girl who only lives with her mom. The girl who was told to go visit her dad every month, but refused, because she wouldn’t swallow her pride. The girl who lost her relationship with her dad, and didn’t try to mend it before it was too late. The girl who doesn’t talk to her dad at all. The girl whose dad left her and now has another kid. The girl who only loves one person in the whole wide world. The girl who doesn’t love her mother, but loves her brother.

No, they know me as the sarcastic, stylish, pretty girl, hated by few, loved by most. And I’m confident. No one tells me what to do. No one can make me feel like the little child I know I am.

Michelle

Nat,

Hey. It’s me, Mom. Mama. Mommy. Do you remember when you used to call me that? Seems like a long time ago now. Another lifetime, really. The last time you called me that was when you were eight. You were still in that innocent age where everything is exciting and cool, and you didn’t really care what other people thought. Well, that’s a lie. You’ve always cared about what other people think of you. It’s one of your best and worst qualities. Don’t get mad at me for saying that; hear me out. It definitely makes you a better person. You’re different around others, and you strive to be the best so that others will like you. But sometimes you care too much. And you’ve become such a different person that I feel like I hardly know you anymore.

You think that I don’t care about you except for your grades. You think that all I want from you is a good daughter who also gets a great job and becomes successful in life. That’s true, I do want that for you in life. But I still love you, care about you, want to be there for you. I wish you knew that. I know that I’m not always there. I know that you and Luke have to be there for each other when I’m not. But if we all trusted one another, then we could be a better family, and we could all understand each other better.

Urgh. No. I couldn’t just write a letter for my daughter to try and make up with her. I balled up the letter and tossed it into the garbage. I should just tell her that, to her face. But would it be enough? That was the question. Would this be a solution for all our problems? Would the issue of her father just go away, like that? Would the broken relationships? The icy walls that everyone had put up? No, of course not. We still hadn’t confronted the whole issue together as a family. In fact, I had never really had a serious conversation with Luke about the whole topic. I grimaced inwardly. I hadn’t exactly been the star parent, ever since I became a single parent unit. You would think that it would be easier in some aspects; no other parent to go crying to when the other’s screaming at you, one tyrant- sorry, parent, in charge. Well, no better time than the present, right? I set my shoulders and lifted my chin up high. Today I would talk to my children. Properly.

Luke

The front door swung open and I glanced up in time to see my mother enter the room. She looked around and seeing that I was in the living room she smiled at me, before frowning at the TV.

“Luke! I told you no TV on weekdays, until you’ve finished your homework!”

“Sorry, mom,” I said guiltily, not meeting her eyes. My mother was a formidable force when she was angry, and no one wanted to experience that.

Nat walked into the room just then, excitedly exclaiming.

“Luke! I have time now if you want to play that game we were talking about before.” She noticed our mother standing in the doorway and immediately became stone-faced.

“Never mind.” She said with a bitter tone. “I shouldn’t be having any fun; I should only be doing work. Definitely not on a Monday afternoon.”

“Natalie,” Mom sighed exasperatedly. “We are going to have a family meeting at seven, so be ready in fifteen minutes.” Mom turned to leave the room but Natalie interrupted her.

“You mean like how it was before Dad left?” My sister’s voice had lost its meanness, instead it was filled with a sort of sadness and longing. Within seconds, however, she realized that her mask and slipped, and hastily rearranged her face into the stone cold look of anger again.

Mom sucked in a breath. I could tell she was remembering, and it pained her.

“Yes, exactly like how it was before Dad left, Nat,” Then Mom turned away, up the stairs, and into her bedroom.

I looked up at Nat from my position on the soft white couch.

“What do you think it will be about?” I asked her.

She opened her mouth, about to answer, before she realized that she was still fuming at our mother.

“Nothing. I don’t care.” Natalie left the room, leaving me with my thoughts, as usual.

I speculated the cause of the meeting. As Natalie had mentioned, we hadn’t had a family meeting since …the divorce. The separation. The splitting of our world. The disaster that destroyed our family, never letting it be whole again. When for the first time, as a young, sheltered eight-year-old, I had been overwhelmed. Overwhelmed with feelings.

I never shared them of course. Who would I share them with? My father was out of the question. He was gone, living with his girlfriend and his son in a little house in California. My mother, well, my mother was going through a lot. I couldn’t dump this whole load of feelings on her, could I?

So I didn’t answer her questions. She had asked me if I was doing okay. I always answered, “Yes, of course, I am.” She had talked to me about how life was going to change. About how Dad wasn’t going to be there anymore. About how it was ok to be angry, to be sad. I always answered, “Yes, I understand.”

Now, after watching movies, and reading books, I realize that I should have confronted my feelings. But, there was no way to do that. Sure, my best friend, but what would he know? His parents were getting along great. They were even expecting a baby. He could never relate to me. His family was perfect. His mom would offer us snacks, and then his dad would come home from work, and then they would hug, and the mom would ask the dad how his day was and they were all happy.

Who else could I talk to? Natalie, my sister. I don’t know for sure, why I never talked to her. But, truth be told, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to tell anyone how I was feeling. I don’t have secretive issues, like Nat, but sharing such a deep, important, personal part of my soul felt… weird. Those are my feelings, thoughts. Why should I share them with anyone? They couldn’t help me by talking. At least I didn’t think so, even though the evidence from movies and books were blaring in my face. But they would never apply to me.

Talking; does it help? Maybe for other people, but not me. I prefer to listen. To listen to other people’s stories, whose stories are more interesting, more exciting, more important. It keeps me safer. I don’t have to worry about people knowing my personal thoughts. Learning about other people, that’s what I like. Not telling people about my life. I would like to think it’s genetic. My mother bottles everything up, rarely talking about her feelings. And Nat is loud and unapologetic, but when it comes to things that matter, she’s secretive and no one can tell what she’s feeling. It’s a recipe for disaster, according to the laws of a family. We’re all supposed to be open with each other.

I read somewhere that family is the most important thing…

Is it really?

Natalie

My nails dug into the couch, where I sat next to Luke. Family meeting…family meeting. The words haunted me. The last family meeting I attended had left me destroyed. I remember the swirling storm of despair and loneliness and anger, all bottled up inside me, coming out of me in teenage rants and rages. Only at home, of course. At school, I was a cool kid. I talked back to teachers and students, earning respect from almost everyone. I was cool, and everyone envied me. Few know that my parents are divorced, and the topic has rarely come up in conversations among my peers and I. No one at school knows how my home life is. They know I go on expensive vacations, and that’s it. They don’t know how my dad abandoned us, abandoned me. He promised me that he would always be there after I had a nightmare. But he lied. He did leave. And he wreaked a storm on our family.

Mom strode into the room, and I immediately snapped my head down and inspected my socks studiously.

She hesitated for a moment, before opening her mouth to speak.

“Luke, Natalie,” she gazed into our eyes respectively. Me second, of course I thought to myself angrily.

“We need to have a talk. As a family. I know that all three of us are naturally secretive. None of us opened up to each other, when…” she trails off for a moment. “When Dad left. And I know that none of us confronted our feelings, and we didn’t get over it-”

“Get over it?” I interrupted, angry tears springing to my eyes. “What do you mean, get over it?”

“That’s not the right word-” my mother tried in vain to explain to me. But I was on a rant now.

“We can’t get over it! Don’t you get it? Dad left! We’re not the same family we were before! Now we’re just three! We aren’t the same as we were before!”

My mother wasn’t saying a word, she just stared at me with an unreadable expression in her eyes. It seemed, almost…satisfied?

“Do you know how I felt when Dad left? Do you?” my voice dropped down to a shaky whisper. And then I opened my mouth again, and there was no damming the flood of emotions. And five years of feelings came rushing out.

Michelle

I gaze at my daughter with a mix of admiration and wonder, urging her to go on.

“Why did he leave us, Mom? He said that he would always be there for us, but now he’s gone. He said he would never leave!” Her voice breaks, and my breath catches in my throat with the emotion in her voice.

“How did it make you feel?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. My mind flickers back to books I had read on children and divorce, remembering to not make any assumptions about what she’s feeling.

She hesitates, not sure if she could share these emotions. The familiarity of keeping secrets bottled up was a familiar feeling for me. I silently plead with her to answer the question, to release the feelings that she’s kept tucked away for five years.

She blurts out, “Sad.” she looks at me with tears welling up in her eyes.  “So sad. It was like half of my life was gone. I would come back from school, and no one would be waiting there for me. I would come home to an empty house, all alone. Luke was coming back from school, and you were at work. I couldn’t talk to anyone. And I used to go into your bedroom, and just sit there on the bed and cry.”

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” I ask gently, not wanting to break the spell.

Her head snaps up and the tears are gone, the only evidence that they were ever there are her puffy eyes.

“You divorced him! It was your fault! If you two had just gotten along, he would have stayed here! We wouldn’t even be having this conversation!”

I’m shocked into silence by the sudden mood change. I blink slowly at my daughter, standing in front of me, trembling with anger and the remnants of sadness. Her fists clench together tightly, the skin a pale white. She suddenly releases them, and her palm is indented with crescent moons.

“We can’t fix this without Dad! If he came back, everything would be sorted! We would all be happy, and we’d be talking and laughing all the time, instead of screaming and crying!”

“Natalie.” I interrupt, with a sudden sharpness in my voice. “Look at me. Dad can’t come back. So we’re going to have to find another way to solve this, without Dad. We can be a family, just the three of us. But to do that, we need to talk about what happened, so that we can put it behind us.” Natalie opens her mouth to interrupt, but I quickly finish my sentence before she can input any more into the conversation. “And go back to talking and laughing and being a family.”

“Yeah, we don’t need Dad to help us!” a voice chimes into the conversation. “We can do this on our own! We need to talk to each other, and help each other move on!” I try my hardest not to stare in shock.

It’s Luke.

Luke

I can feel Natalie’s icy cold eyes on me, and they’re daggers of intense hatred and disgust. I’ve never been the receiver of this frosty a glare, seeing it in action on others instead. It’s as terrifying as my mother’s withering look.

I gulp, nervously, before I continue.

“We don’t need to have Dad here to solve this problem. We can do it ourselves. If we all talk about how we feel, then we can help each other!” I quote directly from a book, not meeting my mother’s eyes, not wanting to see her incredulous expression.

“Did…did you get that from one of my books?” she watches me with creased eyebrows.

“Yeah…I used to go read them after…,” I take a harsh intake of breath. “I figured that I should find out all the information on the topic. I’d have a better success rate-”

“Success rate?!” my mother cries. “What do you mean, success rate, Luke? This is life!” I cringe at the harsh words.

“Well…” I stutter. “There was a problem; the divorce, and so I did my research; reading your books.”

“But Luke, that’s not how it works! Didn’t you pay attention to anything that the books said? We need to talk to one another!”

“But will that really help? I mean, what does talking ever do for anyone? Other people can’t help you solve your own problems…your own feelings!” I answer, doubting my logic even as I say it.

To my suprise, it’s Nat who speaks first.

“Luke,” she says, and my head whips around to look at her.

“I understand I’m a little hung up over Dad,” she corrects herself “a lot hung up over him. But, if we all talk about him, and how it wasn’t going to work out, I would get over it a little.” she seems to be talking to herself, realizing the truth of her words.

“When you talk to other people about your problems, you share what seems scary to you with someone else. And, yes, that’s a little terrifying. But…in the long run, it helps. They can help you, teach you. And in general, it just helps you cope with it. Hearing the words come out of your mouth, you realize things.” She finishes her little speech and she seems…lighter somehow. Her shoulders, once slumped, are now set back proudly. A small smile is growing on her face, and I haven’t seen it in so long that it makes me realize the truth in her words.

She’s right. It does help. I can see the evidence right in front of me. Not from a book, not from a movie, but from my sister, and for me, that’s all the proof I need.

Natalie

As I say the words, it dawns on me that I’m not just spouting nonsense from one of Mom’s books, or one of the stupid assemblies on bullying. What I’m saying is actually true. With this realization, the weight that had been residing on my shoulders, dragging me down everywhere I went, lifted. The black cloud hovering above me lifted too. My lips started to turn upwards, the ghost of a smile playing on my lips.

I meet my mother’s shining eyes, and she’s smiling at me. Her eyes are so full of love, it’s almost radiating out of her. I offer a hopeful smile back in her direction, and her beam widens even more.

My eyes dart over to Luke, gauging his reaction. His face is morphing, from a timid, unsure expression to one of realization, probably mirroring my own.

And he opens his mouth and words come tumbling out, rushing, falling over each other in a mad rush to get out.

“Nat, you’re right. Thank you. For…” he decides to ditch the sappy speech and cut to the chase- what he’s really been feeling, all these years. His words pierce my soul, the meaning behind them, the emotions behind them having been shoved inside a forgotten closet, one no one bothered to check, but if they had it would have led to Narnia.

By the time he’s done, my eyes are wet, and Mom’s long gone; tears rolling freely down her face leaving sticky tracks.

“Luke, sweetheart, why didn’t you ever tell me any of that?” her voice breaks on the word tell, and I feel a tug at my heart.

“I… I didn’t want you to waste your attention on me,” I see my name start to shape on his lips.

“Luke!” my mother cries “It wouldn’t be wasting! Your thoughts deserve and need to be heard. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel otherwise!”

He opens his mouth to respond, no doubt something selfless again, then he hesitates and shuts it. When he speaks again, the word inspires such sadness in me that a lone tear runs down my cheek.

“Really?”

“Yes. Really,” my mother answers, her voice torn between disbelieving heartache, and a joy that I’ve not seen on any of our faces in a long time.

His eyes flicker up to both of us, and a small tentative smile breaks through. I smile back, a genuine one, filled with all the love I have in my heart and a little more than that.

Puppies of the Airport

My name is Pupsie Barns, named after Bucky Barnes and my creator Pupsie San Drought. I am here to tell you about the puppies of the airport. It is based on true events.

Our story starts in Canada. The airport in Canada is called the Canadian Airport. First, you must know that once in the year 3000, a scientist called Pupsie San Drought made the first talking puppy. These pups spoke and communicated just as well as humans, and they are almost completely cruelty free. One day, a huge shipment of these dogs were being shipped from Canada to the US, while hundreds of people in the airport forgot to wipe their tables while they were traveling during the dreaded flu season. Because of this, they all contracted the flu. They brought the disease with them into the airport.

Soon after, the airport staff figured out that they all had the flu, and they shut the place down. But sadly, they couldn’t call for help because my little pister (sister) Pupbecca cut the wire for the Wi-Fi, because hostess Juli turned their right to Wi-Fi down, because after all, they were just pups. Pupbecca thought if she couldn’t have Wi-Fi, no one could have Wi-Fi.

After hearing the humans collapse upstairs, we began to make a plan to save the humans. Maybe, just maybe they will give pups all around the world the right to airport Wi-Fi.

Then I realized just what we should do. We shouldn’t make new phones for them to call help. We should be the phones to call for help. You see, Pupsie San Drought made it so that in times of emergency, we pups may be used as communication devices. So, we called for help with my cousins, uncles, sisters, dads, brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephew. Paramedics heard our cry for help and rushed to the airport, and because of our smart thinking, we saved all the humans, therefore giving pups the right to not only use airport Wi-Fi, but restaurant Wi-Fi too.

Motto: Don’t fly during flu season.


when i ran out of thyme

when i ran out of thyme

they should have buried me in lavender

lavender — great swooping fields of it

Girlhood joins me with a simple dress and starry-eyes

she lays down

in the dust

in the dirt

in lavender — great swooping fields of it

we pass the time eating honeysuckle

and resting our rosehips

in the dust

in the dirt

staining our dresses

not our heartbeats

such buttercup crowns,

such strands of mallow in our hair

hanging on our lips —

what broom and borage we played in

till we lost our protea and primrose

and lavender — great swooping fields of it

to sultry red fruit

and roses neath thistle and thorn


Elementary Years

Content Warning: The following content includes symptoms of eating disorders

First grade:

She put on the T-shirt that was on the top of the drawer and threw on the sweatpants that were in the hamper. Bright and happy, excited for the day ahead. She runs down stairs to eat the bacon, eggs, and toast her mom prepared. Leo Matthews called her a nerd at school today, and she happily embraced that word, tucking it in for bed next to her as she read the second book that day.

Second grade:

Her mom promised her she could wear the new dress she bought at the mall last weekend. She put it on, checking all angles of it in the mirror and spun around in it. It was beautiful — a shining yellow, proud and exuberant. She felt like a princess until one of the boys lifted it up, and she felt like a slut. She didn’t know that word yet, but all she knew is that she felt like one.

Third grade:

The glasses the doctor said was a result of all that reading in the dark. She was kind of excited to wear them to school and see what her friend would say. All the greatest writers and brainiacs wore glasses, so why shouldn’t she. Her friend told her she looked dopey, and Leo Matthews called her “four eyes.” Those words cut deeply, and when she tried to throw it out in the trash that night before she went to bed, she could still see the dark shadow of those ugly words haunting her dreams.

Fourth grade:

Finally, finally she would get to redesign her room. She decides on some soft pinks and grays and a gold-rimmed mirror in the middle — perfect for mirror selfies her friend had said. And that same mirror she looked in before swim practice that day, her short bitten fingernails digging into her skin, trying to shove all that fat to the very dark corner in her body. But she lets go, and her skin drops down to where it was before. A floppy T-shirt that is too big for you — that is what her body feels like. She does not eat breakfast that morning. No matter how her mom complains, she insists she is not hungry. She is starving.

Fifth grade:

She has started to take a hairbrush to school. It is an operation — asking the teacher to go to the bathroom to trying to sneak down to her cubby to grab the hairbrush before walking out. She always wets the hairbrush. This makes her hair straighter, so it looks like Lily’s: sleek and shiny. She comes back into the classroom just to hear Ryan say she looks like a wet dog. That night, she cries in the mirror while trying to smooth down her hair until it is soaking and the old mascara she found in her mom’s drawer is dripping down her face.

Sixth grade:

The boys in the grade have started to look at the girls differently. Leela wore a black bra under her white polo, and she had to be pulled over by the teacher. Leela went to the office because she started to cry, but the boys kept laughing. She didn’t know why Leela was crying until the PE teacher called her into her office to talk about wearing bras to school, and she felt like lying on the floor face down. The teacher gave her an extra large sweatshirt to wear in PE so no one would notice; everyone noticed.

Seventh grade:

She tells her best friend that she is fat; the response she gets back is, “I am too.” Her friend is the kind of girl whose ribs pop out when she raises her arms, and she has abs just because she’s that skinny. She bends over the toilet that night and looks down at her belly for the first time and pinches the four rolls of fat that cover the stomach. The next day when she goes to the mall, the saleslady recommends the men’s department because even the biggest size doesn’t fit her. Her mom tells her it is because she is tall, and she swallows this answer, but she is gagging inside.

Eighth grade:

She and her friends have those deep, meaningful talks where they spill all their secrets. But they don’t because they still keep a little of the drink in the glass, the sip that they know they will never share. A story about a friend has spread around, and one of the girls calls her the word that she knew she was in second grade. No one says anything even though they all nod their heads and agree, really screaming at each other inside. They cry and say they are fat, and then they all give a big hug and call each other beautiful. Then they all go home and really cry — their big, ugly, gulping tears that no one has ever seen, and half of those girls stick a finger down their throat.


Where it all ends

Content Warning: Suicide

With the heavy sun of Mozambique beating down upon my bare back, my hand cupped the wilting plant. Colorless leaves begging for water, a luxury we could not provide. Crumbling stem, slowly turning to ash. Moribund, expiring. My frail bones resemble the maize plant all too much. A tear trickles slowly across my thin-cut cheek. I gently move aside the leaves and spot the last maize of the season. There are only a few ears left, small and drooping. I pry them away from the plant and drop them into the woven basket Ma made.

Ma. I vividly remember the angry conversation she had with Baba nearly a fortnight ago, inside our one-roomed mud hut. Before Baba was gone.

I had plastered myself to one cool wall near the doorless entrance, and I often eavesdropped there.

“What will become of us, Baba! All our harvest money is gone! And now you are lazing around at home instead of selling at the market” Ma cried

“We are on our last reserve of maize,” Baba’s voice is clenched, held in, “ I do not have any more maize to sell at the market. Give a break to me, Ma. I am the only one in this house who does any real work.”

My father’s eyes are igniting, like the flames my mother cooks over.

Our food is prepared outdoors by reason of our thatch roof. Normally, we eat the scrawniest plants in our stock. Otherwise, on a day of particularly good sales, my mother will walk to the market and buy ingredients for fufu, a staple food in Africa, as well as cheap collard greens.

Sometimes, the undersides of our food would burn.

What will burn this time?

I had yet to find out.

“You do not have the money to send Debelah to school. You do not have any maize to sell. All you do is drink chibuku and spend our remaining earnings.” Ma spats.

Tears slide into place, blurring my vision of the thin maize stalk before me. Dizziness is overpowering, and my head sways. My throat burns. Dehydration.

A man-made trough lies at the end of this field. Water is collected from there and turns up there from rainfall. But recently, the rain has been sparse, if any at all, throughout our rainy season. I am praying that there is some of that precious liquid left.

The lipless mouths of the cracked earth are sucking me in, pulling at my heels. In desperate need of the refreshment of water. I heave myself forward when I see the through hoping to see the diamondlike liquid. But when I reach, there is simply a thinned out mud. I cup my hands and lift it out, bringing my lips to it and sip.

Hot sludge fills my mouth, and suddenly I am coughing up bile. Body wracking coughs are bringing me to my knees. And then It is not only the thirst, but I am begging myself to stop pulling back memories that want to stay where they are. In the past. Yet I still pull them forward, pressing my lips together, ignoring their jagged edges ripping at my soul. Secrets, pain. Something did truly happen to our harvest money. And it may as well have ruined our lives. And eradicated my father’s.

As I lie here on this hot earth, I will recount what happened that fateful day.

There are three sections to our vast market. While the barriers that separate them were never truly spoken, they are still there. There is the wealthy market, poor market, for people like us, and the swart market -the black market. It is filled with illegal, stolen, goods you can get for cheap. After this years tough times in terms of farming, men began to meet there, respect and dignity forgotten. Including my father.

Mind that we didn’t know much about it, of course. But sometimes he would slip in late at night, like a shadow, with the putrid scent of chibuku lingering around his body. I would never say anything, nor would my mother, even when our food rations would be cut considerably short. And during the day, a aura of defeat surrounded him. He would sling his thin body across our roughly carved wooden chair, and look out at our dying crops. His dark eyes turned blank, and I wondered what was going on with him.

My Baba was giving up.

The days pass. Sometimes he would just stay limp, ignoring everyone, hardly touching his dinner. But at other times, he would lash out like a snake, waiting to bite in the most painful spot possible. I recall clearly his hand swiping across my Ma’s face when she dropped a platter of fufu. Useless, uneducated woman! Can’t you do one job correctly! I remember the tears that dripped from her eyes as she clutched her red cheek.

And then, the secrets got to be too much. Three nights in a row, Baba was gone from the house. On the fourth day, I was working in the fields, a man’s task I still had to do. And that’s when I heard it.

It rippled and echoes across the field. A sound I had never heard before but caused fear’s clawed heart to wrap around my heart. A gunshot. I drop my basket in shock. And I begin to run, following the remains of the echo.

I already know what happened. I can already envision the body collapsing to the ground. Suicide. A word only whispered out of mouths. But Baba… not him, it couldn’t be him. My thoughts and emotions are whirling around.

I am trying to outrun fear itself. I hurtle through the stalks, ignoring how they cut into my arms. But as my feet pound the musty ground, I know one thing for sure. No matter what, I am heading to where it all ends.

Slammed

Setting: Evening. Sam’s house. There is a front door perpendicular to the audience. There is a bush next to the door. There is also a table inside the house.

Characters:

Sam: Around 25. Currently dating Amy but wants to break up. Friends with Ryan.

Ryan: Same age. Sam’s friend, currently staying at his house.

Amy: Same age. Currently dating Sam but wants to break up.

Ella: Same age. Amy’s friend.

(Lights up on the inside of the house. We see SAM and RYAN sitting at a table with a computer on it. SAM has his head in his hands and is clearly distraught. RYAN is trying to console him by talking it out.)

RYAN: So hey. You know what I’d do? I’d just say, as calm and gentle as possible, “I’m not sure this is working out, and I think we should break up.”

SAM: Yeah, but I mean… (his voice trails off for a second) if I break up with her, she gets the TV! (RYAN winces and puts a hand on SAM’s shoulder) At the end of the day, I need to say to myself: “Which is really worse: Staying with Amy, who can maybe not be perfect sometimes, or no Hulu binges ever again?”

RYAN: Okay, fine. So why not just stay with her?

SAM: You wouldn’t understand, Ryan. I need to play it exactly right so that either she breaks up with me, (his face lights up) or…

RYAN: Whatever it is, you’re never going to pay me enough.

SAM: Can you break up with her for me?

RYAN: First of all, what would that even accomplish? And second of all, no way in hell.

SAM: Come on, dude. You don’t even have to be yourself. Just pretend you’re me, talk with her through the door, and I can break up with Amy and suffer no personal introspection whatsoever!

RYAN: But if I pretend to be you, she’ll still get the TV, won’t she?

SAM (pulls out a pen and paper): Nonsense! (begins to write furiously) (starts talking very quickly) If you do the honors of breaking up with her, but still pretend you’re me in the process, that circumvents the Breakup Clause of the 1704 Edict of Cryingbinge, which would normally rule against me. This method of dumping, further established in the 2008 custody case of Lohan v. Everybody, gives the dumper full rights to disputed items, except for a six-month court-ordered supply of Ben & Jerry’s issued to the dumpee. It’s simple legal precedent!

RYAN: How long exactly have you been researching this?

SAM: None of your business. But back to the point. What do you have to lose, bro? You have Hulu.

RYAN: Hold on, couldn’t you just break up with her and then watch TV at my house?

SAM (whiny): But it’s cold out.

RYAN: Jeez… fine. So how do you want me to dump her?

SAM: Well, I’ve thought this through a little bit. See, I prepared a list of classic breakup lines right here. (hands RYAN a piece of paper) Or, if that’s not to your liking, I also wrote a poem about it. (hands a different piece of paper to RYAN) Just read this off and —

RYAN (reading off the piece of paper): “I think we should see other people/You fed my mouse to your pet eagle/You played my friend in naked Twister/Blah blah blah I love your sister.” What is wrong with you, dude?

SAM: What? None of that was false!

RYAN: Are you kidding? If Amy finds out that I’m filling in for you, we’re both dead! You know she’ll post it all on Instagram, don’t you? Her account is literally the Truman Show.

SAM: Ugh, I know… We have to make me sound as good as possible, but still get her to ditch me. (pauses) You’ll do this for me, right? You’re my friend.

RYAN (soft): I’m your friend… (pauses for a few seconds) Eight hundred dollars.

(Lights up on ELLA, who knocks at the door.)

ELLA (pretending to be AMY, and she will use this voice every time she impersonates AMY): Sa-am! Ready for dinner?

SAM (hurried): Oh my god, it’s Amy. Quick, go to the door!

(RYAN rushes to the door.)

RYAN (deliberately high voice, and he will use this voice every time he impersonates SAM): Hey, Amy! Can we just talk… through the door… for a second?

ELLA: Sure! But you don’t have to deepen your voice for me. Keep it how it is!

(RYAN snickers and looks at SAM. SAM looks embarrassed.)

RYAN: Listen, Amy… I just… I don’t think this is working out, and —

ELLA: Oh, that’s okay! (RYAN and SAM both pump their fists) I get that this was pretty unexpected. We can just go out to dinner tomorrow.

(RYAN and SAM both sink down and cover their faces. SAM thumps the table with his fist.)

ELLA: What was that noise?

RYAN: Cat. Cat. That was cat. That was my cat.

ELLA: I know you’re allergic to cats, Dr. Seuss. What’s actually going on?

RYAN: Fine. If you must know, my friend Ryan is here with me. Say hi, Ryan!

SAM (looking up): Mm?

(RYAN gives SAM a hard stare.)

SAM (deep, disguised voice): Well, hello there, … Sam’s girlfriend. I hear that you’re really canoodling the love languages up to the stars with my handsome friend Sam, am I right?

ELLA: What does that even mean?

SAM (pauses for a couple seconds): Song lyrics. Anyway, I know how easy it must have been to fall right in love with my buddy (he draws the name out) Samuel T. Leitbrewski, you feel me?

ELLA: Well, if you’re interested, Ryan, I know this great guy I can set you up with.

(RYAN covers his mouth and tries his best not to burst out laughing. SAM leans his head back and looks distraught.)

RYAN (trying to steer the conversation back on track): So, Amy… I don’t know how to say this, but…

(He takes out SAM’s breakup poem and starts to sweat. His words catch in his throat.)

ELLA: But?

RYAN (starts to talk slowly and nervously): I think we should see your naked mouse… Blah blah blah people love Twister… You played my eagles!

ELLA: Huh?

RYAN: I mean, I think your friend should love naked eagles… (gives up and says the next sentence loudly and quickly) Let’s break up.

ELLA: But, Sam…

RYAN: No, Amy. (takes out SAM’s list of breakup lines) We’ve been together for too long. I think we should see other people. I just need some space. It’s not you, it’s me. I don’t really —

ELLA: Okay, you can stop! I just can’t believe you would do this right when I had just bought us that new Tesla. But I guess —

SAM (forgetting to disguise his voice): Wait… what?

RYAN (whispers): Don’t do it, Sam. Don’t say anyth —

SAM (leaps off his chair): Amy! Forget everything I said! I wa– (RYAN claps his hand around SAM’s mouth) Mmmmph.

RYAN (strained and rushed): I don’t think this is working out and stuff, please leave right now.

ELLA (starts walking towards the bush): Okay. I’m just going to cry into this set piece over here.

RYAN: Okay!

(Lights off RYAN and SAM. ELLA walks up to the bush. AMY, who has been hiding there the whole time, slowly stands up.)

ELLA (normal voice): How am I doing?

AMY: Perfect! They totally think you’re me! Sam’s so predictable, isn’t he? I knew asking him to go out would make him want to stay inside. Honestly, I’m disappointed in him. Can’t even recognize his own girlfriend’s voice? I don’t know how he found out about the naked Twister thing, though. Impressive work on his part.

ELLA: One sec.

(She turns toward the door and makes prolonged, exaggerated crying noises. Then she turns back to AMY.)

ELLA: Okay, where was I? You’ve been recording the whole thing, right?

AMY (holds up a phone): Oh, yes. And once you’ve dumped Sam for me while embarrassing him, this little video goes onto Instagram! (laughs evilly for a few seconds) Also, I’ll get the TV.

ELLA (shrugs): Sounds cool. Just as long as you tag me.

AMY (sinks back behind the bush): All right, then. Let’s do this.

(Lights off ELLA and AMY. SAM and RYAN are back to their seats at the table. SAM is rubbing his mouth.)

SAM: I can’t believe Amy didn’t recognize my own voice!

RYAN: It won’t matter in a few minutes, though, right? I’ll have broken up with her for you, and you can rest easy.

SAM (determined): No. I can’t dump her now. Did you hear what she said? She bought a Tesla for us. I can use a legal loophole to get the TV, but if I ditch her, I’ll never get to use my Tesla!

RYAN: Let me just point out that it’s not your Tes —

SAM: Shut up! I want you to go back to that door, and I want you to get back together with Amy!

RYAN: Fine! I still want my eight hundred dollars, though.

SAM: What eight hundred dollars? We never agreed to a deal, did we? Amy knocked on my door right before I could say yes! (flashes a smug smile at RYAN) Now go repair my relationship while I go to the bathroom.

(Exit SAM. RYAN stares coldly after him for a few seconds. Then, he gets an evil smile on his face and goes back to the door.)

RYAN: Amy?

ELLA (fake sniffle): Sam?

RYAN: Amy, I’ve changed my mind. I… I want to get back together.

ELLA: You do?

AMY (from the bush): Abort mission! Repeat: Abort — (ELLA makes the “one sec” motion with her hand)

RYAN: After I thought for a little, I just realized that in the end, I loved your — you. I loved you.

ELLA: Oh, Sam…

RYAN: I think we need to put this relationship into the next gear. We’ve really got to charge up our relationship, ride down the road of… marriage, in our all-new, smooth, electric… love. Smooth electric love.

ELLA: Are you saying that you only love me because of my Tesla?!

RYAN: Whaaaaaaaat? Of course not, babe. When I look into your eyes, all I see is unlimited possibilities…

ELLA: Aww…

RYAN: Unlimited technological possibilities from the brilliant mind of Elon M —

ELLA: Dammit, Sam! I can’t believe how shallow you are! I bet you can’t name one thing we have in common.

RYAN: A 10-hour-a-day anime obsession?

ELLA (mock shock): You said you were writing your dissertation!

RYAN (quietly): What else can I make up, uhh… (normal volume, to door) Cheating?

ELLA: What?! You are the only one cheating here, Sam, and by God, if you —

(Enter SAM.)

SAM: Yo, Ryan. How’re things going?

RYAN: Well, I think you’ve paid me enough by now.

ELLA: You care less about me than about my Tesla, you watch anime 10 hours a day, and you’re cheating on me? How could you possibly be a worse boyfriend?

RYAN: So, are we down for four kids, or would you prefer five?

ELLA (mock anger): I HATE YOU, SAM!

SAM: Dude, what are you doing?

RYAN: Moral of the story, Sam? You have to pay the shipper. (to door) Hey, are you one of those people who makes a huge deal about (mocking tone) “child support”?

ELLA: That does it, Sam! You open this door right now, or I’m going to break it down for you.

SAM: Dude, do what she says! She takes regular karate and high heel karate.

RYAN: Nope. Sorry, Sam. (to door, but forgets to put his SAM voice on) So do you —

ELLA (forgets to put her AMY voice on): Sam? Your voice sounds kinda weird…

RYAN (no more SAM voice): Wait, you don’t sound…

(A confused RYAN rushes to the door and opens it.)

ELLA (pauses): Ryan?

RYAN: Ella?

ELLA: I think we’ve only talked once, at that party…

RYAN (trying to be smooth): Well, now we’ve talked more than once, right? (turns around and covers his eyes with one hand) God, I’m bad at coming up with one-liners.

ELLA: So… all this time, we’ve just been talking to each other, instead of Sam talking to Amy?

RYAN: Yep. (sarcastically) Aren’t they just perfect together? If they could recognize each other’s voices, they’d be even more perfect.

ELLA (laughs): Hey, maybe we’re just great at imitating our friends! (RYAN laughs) Um, well… Want to get a coffee next week?

RYAN: Sure! I promise I won’t hire a stunt double to meet you, like some people I know…

(SAM and AMY both glower at him. RYAN and ELLA start to walk away together.)

ELLA: So, was any of what you said true?

RYAN: Ehh… Does it matter? Some of it probably was. His dissertation’s on anime, though, so he could have been doing both.

(Exit RYAN and ELLA, leaving SAM and AMY standing awkwardly on opposite sides of the open door.)

SAM: So, was it true, about the Tesla and all?

AMY: Ehh… Does it matter? We’re breaking up anyway.

(AMY pauses to flick a piece of bush out of her hair.)

SAM: Well, okay. But who gets the TV?

AMY: Can you Google it?

SAM: Sure.

(He walks inside and gets his computer off the table. AMY follows him.)

SAM: Okay…

(AMY watches anxiously as SAM makes some nervous keystrokes on the computer.)

SAM: There we go. Let’s see… Okay, it says the TV goes to —

(Lights out.)


Populism: Fighting for Liberalism without Liberals

There seems to be a consensus amongst scholars that right wing populism is an anti-liberal movement.1 This notion is, to say the least, flawed. The populist movement has arisen due to a lack of liberalism, not opposition to it. My intention in this essay is to demonstrate that most populist voters are not anti-liberal but rather that support for populism is because liberalism is not available.

Perhaps it is best that we begin this essay by defining our terms properly. Since labels often serve more to confuse than to clarify, they should be avoided, but I feel that it is impossible make my point without resorting to them. By ​liberal I do not mean it as most Americans likely see it. The word has become associated in the United States with political correctness, censorship of conservative viewpoints and so forth. The word, “liberal,” around the rest of the world means a belief in civil liberties, political autonomy, human rights, constitutional government and the rule of law. Today, political liberalism is generally divided into classical and modern forms. What is today called classical liberalism emerged during the Age of Enlightenment. Building on the ideas of John Locke, Jean Jacques Rousseau and Adam Smith, classical liberals advocated political freedoms, the rule of law and laissez faire economic policies. The American and French Revolutions were inspired by classical liberalism, arguing that government was by consent and that people retained certain natural or inalienable rights which even the government must respect. While enjoying significant support, particularly in Britain under the Governments formed by William Ewart Gladstone. Classical liberalism eventually began to be replaced by modern day egalitarian or social liberalism. While strongly supportive of human rights, civil liberties and the rule of law, social liberals also believe that social programs aimed at reducing inequality are also necessary towards maximizing individual liberty and are more critical of the laissez faire policies of classical liberals. Examining social liberal thought, we find that two strands of thought can be identified within it. The moderate tradition articulates a support for laissez faire economic policies alongside support for a minimum level of welfare protection. It departs from classical liberalism in its support for the welfare state and a minimum level of government intervention in the economy but departs from more radical liberal variants or from social democracy and democratic socialism in its more pro-business stances. This tradition began with the rise of the, “Third Way,” movement under U.S. president Bill Clinton and British prime minister Tony Blair. Today it is continued by French president Emmanuel Macron and British politician Vince Cable.

The more radical strand of thought, although rejecting centralized ownership of the means of production, tends to be more skeptical towards full capitalism (private ownership of the means of production) and is more supportive of collective bargaining and cooperatives. This tradition is usually more extreme in its support for autonomy, decentralized structures of political organization and civil disobedience. It began with Leonard Hobhouse,2 and was continued economically with the work of John Maynard Keynes and politically with the Italian anti-fascists such as Piero Gobetti and Carlo Rosselli. As an academic tradition, philosophers Norberto Bobbio and in particular John Rawls contributed to its conceptions of justice and liberty.support taking in refugees from other countries.7 A study done by the Better World Campaign found that 88 percent of Americans believe that the U.S. should play a major role in the United Nations and that 81 percent believe that the U.S. should work with major allies to solve issues facing the world today, thereby affirming that the public retains vast support for internationalism.8 Furthermore, the Eurobarometer recently revealed that the E.U. is enjoying its highest support in 35 years.9

Thus, if support for the rule of law, multiculturalism, immigration and internationalism (in short everything that the populists oppose) continues; why do populists continue to get elected to, and form governments?

The answer lies in an examination of what liberalism and populism both represent. Liberalism, particularly social liberalism combines both support for rule of law institutions, human rights, civil liberties and free markets with support for social programs aimed at the redistribution of wealth and in limiting the influence of business over people. In short social liberalism seeks to increase autonomy not only through limiting government power but also through limiting corporate power while also believing that individual liberty requires not just political and economic freedom but also reduced inequalities.

The populist movement has taken traditional social liberal and social democratic policies of support for the working class and the, “commoners over the elite,” but eliminated what makes liberalism the guardian of natural rights and the social contract by rejecting liberal institutions aimed at safeguarding the rule of law and individual freedom and also rejecting support for immigration and diversity.

As we have shown, support for liberalism remains vibrant. The rise of populism has therefore not been moved forward by opposition to liberalism but out of a lack of it.

In places where liberalism has managed to defeat populism, liberal parties, or at the very least strong liberal factions in other parties, have managed to gather support from the people and therefore beat back populism (or prevent it from gathering a stronghold in the first place). For example, the Liberal Party in Canada has remained one of the two major governing parties in Canada for decades along with the Conservative Party. The social liberalism of the Liberal Party managed to appeal to a wide demographic in the 2015 federal election in which the Liberal Party under Justin Trudeau seized back Government from the Conservatives.10 France is perhaps the most notable example since Emmanuel Macron’s victory against populist Marine Le Pen in the 2017 French presidential election is widely seen as a victory for liberal democracy.

Now Macron, while being a social liberal is still a part of the moderate rather than radical tradition and his ​La Republique en Marche! party did not appeal to as wide of a demographic, particularly not in high deindustrialized areas of France. However, he still managed to present himself as the moderate alternative to Le Pen.11

By contrast, liberalism has suffered where no liberal parties or liberal factions within parties have gathered support. Italy has no notable liberal presence. Nor does Poland or Hungary.

The 2016 U.S. presidential election is widely seen as a loss for liberal democracy. While Hillary Clinton and the Democratic Party are social liberal in the moderate tradition, similar to Macron in many ways, the main problem is in the electoral college system in the United States but the problems of the Electoral College are a story for another day. In fact, Clinton’s win of the popular vote goes to demonstrate how a social liberal platform can appeal to a wide demographic.

The challenge to liberalism by populism come, not from a rejection of liberalism, but from a lack of it. Social liberal parties can present themselves as the alternative towards populism. More than ever, liberty must ring.

1. Rupnik, Jacques. ​“The Crisis of Liberalism.”​​Journal of Democracy ​vol. 29, no. 3 (July 2018): 24-38.

Wike, Richard, and Janell Fetterolf. ​“Liberal Democracy’s Crisis of Confidence”​Journal of Democracy vol ​29, no. 4 (October 2018): 136-150.

2. ​Hobhouse, Leonard Trelawny. ​The Labour Movement​.New York, New York: Macmillan Company, 1912. Accessed November 06, 2018. https://books.google.com/books/about/The_Labour_Movement.html?id=RHBMAAAAIAAJ&prin tsec=frontcover&source=kp_read_button#v=onepage&q&f=false.​

3. Munro, Andre. ​”Populism.”​Encyclopedia Britannica. March 06, 2018. Accessed October 28, 2018. ​https://www.britannica.com/topic/populism​.

4. ​Galston, William A. ​”The Populist Challenge to Liberal Democracy.”​​Journal of Democracy Vol 29, no. 2 (April 2018): 5-19.

5. ​“How countries around the world view democracy, military rule and other political systems.” Pew Research Center. October 30 2017. Accessed October 27 2018. http://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2017/10/30/global-views-political-systems/

6. Harting, Hannah. ​“Most Americans View Openness to Foreigners as ‘essential to Who We Are as a Nation’.”​Pew Reseach Center. October 09, 2018. Accessed November 05, 2018. http://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2018/10/09/most-americans-view-openness-to-foreigners-as -essential-to-who-we-are-as-a-nation/​.

7. Connor, Phillip. ​“A Majority of Europeans Favor Taking in Refugees, but Most Disapprove of EU’s Handling of the Issue.”​Pew Reseach Center. September 19, 2018. Accessed November 5, 2018. http://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2018/09/19/a-majority-of-europeans-favor-taking-in-refuge es-but-most-disapprove-of-eus-handling-of-the-issue/​.

8. Better World Campaign. “New Poll Finds 88 Percent of Americans Support Active Engagement at the United Nations.” Better World Campaign. November 06, 2018. Accessed January 04, 2017. https://betterworldcampaign.org/news-room/press-releases/new-poll-finds-88-percent-of-american s-support-active-engagement-at-the-united-nations/​.

9. ​EU Public Affairs. “Eurobarometer Survey Shows Highest Support for the EU in 35 Years.” European Parliament. May 23, 2018. Accessed November 06, 2018. http://www.europarl.europa.eu/news/en/headlines/eu-affairs/20180522STO04020/eurobarometer-s urvey-highest-support-for-the-eu-in-35-years.



Gone with the Sun

Mornings are the most enchanting time of day. Light streams through the windows, hugging my home with its bright tentacles. When the light hits the colorful crystals hanging down from the rainbow maker taped in the kitchen, tiny spurts of color dance into my bedroom like fairies. Waking up to those cheery rainbows always told me that it was going to be a good day. Who knew light could be so deceitful. I slide into my kitchen on the ends of my blue pajama pants still two sizes too big. Mom sits still as a statue at the dining room table. Her lips are a straight line. Slowly, she looks up to meet my gaze, her face pale as if she’s seen a ghost. Mom asks me to sit down, gesturing slightly to the chair across from her. Tears have left her eyes ruby red. I cringe when I hear the slight rasp in her voice. The waves of pain shake our home like an earthquake. My legs are paralyzed with fear. I glance down to see my feet melting into the ground, two candles waiting to be burned. I refuse to be privy to whatever is weighing down my mother’s heart. As long as I stay showered by rainbows in the safety of the kitchen, then nothing has to change.

Somehow I manage to tear my feet from the floorboards and sit down across from my mother at the dining room table. I try to mentally prepare myself for whatever’s coming next, making an internal promise that it cannot be as bad as what I am imagining.

Why do we lie to ourselves?

To my distress, I begin cracking my knuckles, a habit I quit months ago. Tick tock tick tock. The red clock keeps careful count of the tense seconds as we sit in silence. Then my mom begins to speak.

Her words rush around my head as I try to save myself from suffocating under their weight. “There’s been an accident.” I wait for her to tell me everyone’s okay, but those words of sweet reassurance never reach me. Instead I hear a horror story: a man breaking into my aunt’s house with a blade. My aunt running and fighting him off with an axe. A hospital treating her stab wounds.

A cloud ambushes the sun, and the rainbows vanish.

I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping I can block out the truth. This is the nightmare that happens to someone else. Anyone else. It is the story you read in the paper and feel a few moments of remorse before flipping to the next page.

“I am flying out to see her tomorrow.” I nod. “She was so brave.” Another nod. My brain has stopped functioning. Illana helped me climb my first tree when I was just four years old. She stills calls me “Averybear” whenever we visit her. Illana can’t be the person in my mother’s devastating account. Everyone is wrong. They must be. They have to be. I feel the need to sit before I remember that I am already seated. Then I am standing up. In a trance I get dressed, brush my teeth, and continue with my life. But something stopped in that moment. My world is blanketed in a shield of security. But that morning I reached up and realized there is no shield at all, just the endlessly vast universe. We have no protection.


Magical

The magician drowsily woke up to a sunbeam shining directly into his eyeballs. Rolling out of his tent, he picked up his wand and conjured a single dollar, then he headed to the dollar store like he did every day.

It was a long walk, and he almost got hit by a car. He walked in the dollar store quietly and picked up a bag of chips. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a group of teenagers watching him and giggling at his purple and white magician spandex. He summoned a flash of blinding demonic light to scare them off; it did the trick. He then walked to the cashier and put the bag of chips on the table.

“That’ll be a dollar,” the cashier said.

“Thanks, Billy,” the magician said, handing him the dollar.

“How do you know my name?” the cashier respond.

“I come here every day. And by the way, that dollar is going to evaporate in an hour,” the magician responded, turning away.

“What?!”

“You won’t remember this,” the magician said finally, waving his wand with a flash of light and exiting.

It’s funny how even magic obeys the laws of thermodynamics. The dollar turns back to air because you can’t get more than what you put in. The magician strutted to his next destination, the side of the highway. There he collected a bag full of rocks while people speeding past gave him weird looks. Every once and awhile, someone would throw a cigar or something out of their window at him. He always responded by cursing them with the eternal wrath of the half-demon half-god Maerceci the Vengeful, who would slowly and painfully devour their souls while tormenting them with their greatest fears. It was the magician’s way of taking out his anger irrationally.

After collecting a sufficient amount of rocks, he headed of to his final destination. With pain in his heart, he saw that his work had been vandalized and destroyed again. His blessing had come with a curse because the devil never gives more than he takes. For 42 years he had been trying to build a house by converting rocks into bricks, but every time he got somewhere, his humble creation was mercilessly destroyed, as was his curse, forever keeping him in his sad and insufficient tent. Holding back a tear, the magician sighed, salvaged what he could from the wreckage, and began rebuilding.


Creation of Earth Parody

I need to create an earth, but what is earth? How do I know what earth is? Who created me? I have lived on this earth long enough. Will I never know who my creator is? I have been living in here for I don’t even know for how long. As a matter of fact, where am I? Wait, how am I writing this? I am hungry. Wait, what? What is food? How do I know that word? I just wake up one day. Day, what’s a day? Okay, forget it. I just wake up one day realizing that I can write and that I know words. I need earth. Wait a second, bloody hell. How did I sleep? Wait, what is sleep? I need earth. C’mon, god, help me create earth. Wait, God. How? What? No, no, no, no. This can’t be. The pressure is on. I need to create this. What is that? That’s earth. Wait, how did I do this. Now how do I get there. Let’s run. Okay, now this is getting scary. How do I know all of these words without learning them. Is there a flash drive in my brain — flash drive, brain, what is that? How do I know this? I need to get there. C’mon now. What is this a bridge? Okay, now this better stop. Yes, now I can get to earth.

After finally making earth…

What is this green thing. It is enormous. Oh, I can climb it. Damn, this earth is big because it is the only one I have been on. Made you laugh, right? Haha. Wow, I say in amusement.

Earth day one…

I am on Earth. I mean, how would I come up with any other names? In the last hours I have been chopping down wood to make a house, and I don’t understand how I got that idea but yeah. I am pretty shabby looking now that Earth had actually started because I really don’t know how to get clothes, so you really don’t want to see what I look like. I hope to find other humans in this huge Earth thing, so maybe they are smarter than myself. When writing this, I saw a human striding toward me.

Is this the end, or is there more???


The 84 Block Journey

I rushed across 2nd Street in a blaze and rapidly approached the stairs leading to the train station. I looked down at my watch, and then realization dawned on me; I was already 15 minutes late for my very first job interview! I scurried down the stairs, careful not to touch the dirty railings, and made my way to the platform. I looked at the bright neon sign above my head that said I had to wait three minutes for my train. Three entire minutes! I couldn’t believe that I had to stand on this dreadful platform and watch the clock slowly tick by. In the meantime, I was wondering how I was going to deliver the news of my tardiness to my annoyed interviewer. While I hoped that they will empathize with me, and even take pity on me, I knew that in the end I would just be wasting their precious time. I started to tap my foot out of worriedness and frantically check my phone. Suddenly, I heard a loud wailing sound, the most beautiful, glorious sound I had ever heard. My train, my savior, had finally arrived!

I turned around and looked at the big sign above my head. As I looked closer I realized that I had been standing on the wrong platform the whole time: the train coming was taking me to Brooklyn, which was nowhere near the interview. In that moment I wanted to bang my head against the unsanitary train walls. How could I have been so blind? In a hurry I sprinted up and down several flights of stairs to my platform, and I looked up at that menacing sign yet again, only to find that the train wasn’t coming for another 10 minutes. I didn’t have the time to wait around for some dumb slow train for a whole ten minutes. Worry filled my body, and I started to break a sweat. I started considering taking a cab instead because the trains had become extremely frustrating, but then realized I only had 10 dollars in my wallet, because I had spent the rest buying pasta, chicken, and fruit for my little sister who was home with the flu. My mother was in Florida working with her tech startup company, Gigawtz, and attending a series of women in coding conferences along with that. I checked my jacket pocket for any more leftover change and to my dismay only found two dimes. I looked back up at that looming shiny sign that read two trains were coming in two minutes, but could only take me to 60th street when I needed to get to 84th. I decided to go with my gut and take the train heading uptown. I subtly speed walked toward the small platform and boarded the train.

The woman’s voice saying “Stand clear of the closing doors, please” seemed to mock me. Her robotic voice irritated me to a point that brought all of my insecurities out of the dark: pinpointing my failure, reminding me of the fact that this wasn’t just any internship. I don’t know why something like that would trigger me so much.

I reminded myself that even if I wasn’t late, the probability of me getting in wasn’t very high. Even though I had taken coding summer courses for years, done coding projects on my own, and visited my mom’s office occasionally, my confidence was at rock bottom. Two of my friends were also very into coding, and one got in because her uncle was the manager of that Microsoft office. My other friend was a coding prodigy and got straight A’s but wasn’t good at public speaking or communication in general and sadly didn’t get the internship. I couldn’t tell how I compared with them, my connections, my public speaking, but either way I knew it wasn’t good.

I smoothed out my cream-colored blouse and wondered if I chose the right outfit to wear for today. I had been anxious about what outfit to wear for days, and the thought of appearing to be trying too hard or not caring enough scared me nearly half to death. I had chosen a light gray skirt that wasn’t too short or long that took me ages to find. It had been laying at the bottom left corner of my closet alongside my old dolls and my favorite stuffed penguin. That put together penguin with his beautiful tuxedo, top hat, and glossy shoes had been my best friend for years, but now it was dusty, worn out, top hat tattered and broken laying alone at the bottom of my closet.

The conductor’s booming voice on the loudspeaker announced: “We are approaching 48th and Sixth, next stop 53rd!”

53rd! I thought. Surely we can’t be moving that slowly. Sure enough it had been 11 whole minutes stuck on the train.

I looked up from my phone to see a tall, tan woman yapping on her phone, blabbering loudly to her friend: “Ceci, I simply can’t deal! I was supposed to buy the hors d’oeuvres for the party in five mins, but I’m going to be late. What are they going to do without me.” She paused for a few seconds and then dramatically sighed and sadly said, “Ceci, I can’t. This party, they need me.”

She sounded like a conceited war hero, and everyone else stuck on this dreadful train felt the need to slap this girl in the face to get her to stop talking. She finally hung up, and I thought to myself, She’s worried about being late to a party. My life is on the line here. Well, not my entire life, but I mean it would help a ton for college, and it would be a cool experience.

I looked up from my phone to find a nice-looking old man giving me a repulsed glare. He sighed loudly and looked away, leaving me feeling extremely insecure; the people on that train were looking at my self-absorbed self and becoming annoyed with me too. At least I had these kinds of opportunities. I mean, it’s not every day that you could be working at Microsoft. Looking at my preppy little outfit, crossed legs, and stressed face, I probably seemed like I felt above everyone, like getting to this interview was far more important than anything going on in there lives.

The conductor’s booming voice on the loudspeaker broke me out of my trance, and to my relief we made it! Only twenty blocks to go, and then I had to find some way to get a cab really fast and make my way to the interview room. In a hurry I stepped off the train and began to casually run by the multitude of people in my way! I began to notice how slowly everyone was walking, and I just wanted to scream with frustration. Finally I made it out the train station on onto the street. I stepped out on the sidewalk in search for a glorious yellow taxi, my salvation, only to find that about ten other people were waiting for cabs! I decided to walk two or three blocks up to find (hopefully) more cabs and fewer people. After walking three blocks, I came across a cab. I wanted to jump for joy in that moment. Finally something had worked for me! Then I looked behind me and saw a tiny old woman waving her hands in the air frantically, obviously trying to get the cab I was about to get into to. My first instinct was to leave. Who cares about this old woman? This is your job on the line. Go!! But then my more mature instincts kicked in and told me to wait and find out where the old lady has to go, and compare the two circumstances.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said as politely as possible.

“It’s fine, dear,” replied the old woman. “I was just trying to get my poor dog Lulu to the vet. She has come down with a dreadful cold, and I feel terribly for the poor thing.”

Immediately I apologized again to the woman. Dogs were a huge soft spot for me, and I let her take the cab. I can’t say I didn’t regret it at all, but a sick animal is also a time commitment that requires immense attention, just like my sick sister. I continued to wait on the curb and hail taxis and hope and pray a free taxi would come. I looked up at the sky and noticed how perfectly calm it all was. The clouds just seemed to float by gently in an orderly fashion, never colliding or crashing into each other. In that moment, being a cloud sounded like the nicest thing to me: no responsibilities, no stress, freedom and peace. Just as I was about to walk up another block, I saw a gleaming yellow taxi come my way that appeared to be unoccupied! I quickly jumped in and told my driver the address, and we set off. The only thing stopping me now was traffic, which could make my 10 minute trip go on forever. I clenched my hands and knees my nerves on the edge, but to my surprise I arrived at my destination in a matter of minutes.

“Thank you very much,” I said and hopped out the car in a flash.

I looked at my phone to check the building number, and after combing through my texts I finally found it. I looked across the street and saw the building, modern, sleek, and made entirely out of glass. It was one of those really calming yet intimidating buildings, extremely tall but reflecting the blue sky.

I approached the door and stepped into the lobby of the building. This it it, I told myself, everything you hope for in this one interview, everything your mother and father wish for, everything your friends have already. You need this job.

I stopped at the lobby desk and asked, “Do you happen to know what floor the Microsoft intern interviews are taking place?”

The sleep-deprived receptionist gave me the very unenthusiastic answer, “It’s on the 12th floor. Just take the elevator that way.”

I pushed the big golden button and saw that the elevator was on the 12th floor at this moment. Had someone else been doing my interview? Would I lose this opportunity because of my lateness? Suddenly my stomach felt like there was a butterfly parade in it, and as I stepped in the elevator, my knees became shaky. What if they don’t like me? I thought. What if they take one look at me and decide I’m not cut out for this. The fear of failure and judgement crippled me and slowly my emotions collapsed. The big, shiny elevator doors opened, and I timidly stepped out. I felt like a tiny fish setting out into that big blue sea all alone. The floor looked exactly as I expected it to be, unexpected. The walls were bright white and looked incredibly clean, like not a single smudge covered their surface. The floor was also extremely clean, and I could see my own fearful reflection. There were glass doors branded with Microsoft’s colored logo, and without thinking I pushed the heavy doors open with the little strength I had. I looked around, and the first thing I saw was an open room full of desks and focused people typing on computers. They all looked incredibly professional, and I looked down at my outfit with dismay.

“Hello there!” said an enthusiastic voice behind me. “I’m Barbra, and I will be interviewing you today, and please do not worry about being late. We were able to fit someone else in before you.”

Her happiness overwhelmed me and caught me off guard. Her booming voice, like the loudspeaker lady in the train station, was mechanical, giving me the chills. I suddenly processed her words, and a river of emotions flooded my system.

Relief but also fear and anger filled the pit of my stomach, and I half heartedly replied, “So nice to meet you! This is such a cool place.”

Barbra started walking, and I walked behind her, well more like ran; her strides were huge! We approached a room numbered 445, and she closed the door behind me. As I walked in, the first thing my eyes gravitated towards were the giant windows at the back of the room with an amazing view of practically the entire city! I tried to take in the simplistic beauty of the room and sat down in the sleek white chair in front of me. I realized that my overall appearance was quite disheveled; I was covered in sweat, and one of my heels was about to fall completely off. What was I doing here? I thought, Why did I ever think I could work in a collected place like this? I heard the scrape of my chair as I sat in it and saw the shimmer of disappointment in Barbra’s joyous face. Her smile was plastered, her eyes glittered with deceit, her perfectly ironed outfit reeked of her character bluntly lying to my face. As I sat down, Barbra took at a green shiny folder and crossed her arms.

“Now.” She paused. “This place is big and intimidating, but what we are doing for women here is more important than some childish fear and insecurity we all have. The question is: are you willing to conquer that fear and stand up to it or let it take over?”

That question has resonated with me ever since, and I have never forgotten her wise words. It’s like a mini battle of selfish needs and powerful fear, or the importance and realization of what you are doing is not for yourself or anyone in particular. It is for the bettering of society.

I suddenly realized that I had left the stove on, and I ran home to my sister.


Bus Thoughts

The boy I look at every day always sits in the same seat on the bus. The one in the very back and next to the window. He draws flowers in the window when it’s fogged up, like today, and he always moves his head with his music. I haven’t seen him smile once.

I see him only on the bus, never really elsewhere. Occasionally I see him in the neighborhood, but very rarely. He must go to the private school a little further away if he’s still in school because he’s not at mine.

He has red hair and a soft face. His eyes are kind, but there’s an unapproachable aura behind them. Maybe it’s just me.

I’ve made a habit out of staring at him, I realize.

I’m sure it would be worth it to start a conversation with him. I’ve wanted to talk to him for a while now, but I’m too awkward, I think.

Shit.

I wonder if he’s noticed me staring at him before. I panic. I hope that’s the first time he’s noticed me. I don’t ever remember making eye contact with him.

I still can’t figure out why I’m so attracted to him. I guess everyone has a person too far out of reach for them. I’ve never spoken to him to before. He just looks… perfect.

Maybe I’m overthinking. Teenagers have a tendency to do that.

I, hypocritically, hate it when people stare at me on the bus. But I do it anyway. I like staring at bus boy. What if he stares at me when I look away? He would probably see nothing. I don’t want him to look at me.

For about two months since school started I’ve made up an entire character of bus boy. I don’t know if he’s actually an artist or even if he’s nice. But somehow he seems content, grounded. I bet he’s passionate. Bus Boy, although never smiling, is happy.

He interests me the most — more than the woman with a bad dye job, or the small cluster of seventh graders who complain about their homework, or the loud old women in the back, or the unshaven man who looks really angry all the time, or the other sleep-deprived kids in the neighborhood.

Bus Boy is better than these ordinary people.

He is an artist. I know he’s creative.

His sweater is too big for him. It looks like his grandma knit it, but it works. Over the sweater, he’s wearing a puffy bubble-gum pink jacket. I couldn’t imagine him in jeans and a polo shirt that other guys wear. He looks just right.

But Bus Boy doesn’t care about what other people think of him. His hair is all messy and cute like he doesn’t even need to try. Somehow he looks put together and carefree at the same time.

It feels like my eyes blur out everything around him the way a camera does when it focuses on a subject. I was in a slight trance, forgetting that I was further away from him than it felt like. The same way objects in a mirror are closer than they appear.

The bus didn’t exist anymore. The cluster of seventh graders didn’t exist anymore. Bus Boy was still drawing flowers in the fog, but they looked real.

I start to hear faint whistling. Maybe it’s Bus Boy. Maybe it’s someone else. Bus Boy is moving his head along with the tune.

Suddenly he stops drawing flowers and reaches into his bag. Most would assume he was taking out a notebook or a water bottle, but I become even more enthralled when he takes out a huge swirly carnival lollipop and starts to unwrap it.

The lollipop colors all spin into one red pink color. The flowers start to float, and then they get sucked into the colorful, swirly whirlpool that now encompasses everything. Bus Boy’s face blends into the swirly colors, and it all looks like a Van Gogh painting.

The bus screeches to a stop. As I get out, a cold burst of wind hits my face. The bus drives away leaving me to the cold, no longer warming me up from the vent. I should’ve worn a better jacket.

Night Alone in Mytilene, Lesbos

When the light is gone, when the moon is quivering…

the Pleiades are gathered into a drawstring pouch of white stars,

And Orion is aborning, while the Evening Star

has been calling…

The ground is rainy black soil,

black orchid and black chamomile,

Black sky-song, white star path,

Anactoria, I sleep alone

And my fresh chiffon slides from my chest,

into a pile, on the floor…

The rain won’t stop, sweat drips down my breasts,

Selene pulls the Moon Chariot,   

I pull my words onto the page,

When it’s quiet but for the sound of crickets,

the temples and the agora in the distance,

the Aphrodite on my Cretan urn…

While the heat drones, and the wind whispers,

my stylus rustles against papyrus,

and Anactoria, inside her bedroom,

Calling out to me…

Calling, “Psappha, Psappha, Psappha”

Night — alone in Mytilene, Lesbos,

as I write in my bedroom…

And Anactoria, I sleep alone


The Judge

David slowly walked to school. Dragging his feet along the pavement, he arrived at school as the first bell rang. He dragged himself up the stairs to his locker.

He started to put his books away when he heard those tormenting words, “Hey, David!”

He winced and turned around. The three jerkateers. The school bullies known as Darrall, Michael, and Steven. They had been tormenting him since he started at Berrybrook Middle. You see, David has always been a bit of a know-it-all. But at his new school, they considered him more of a “teacher’s pet.” That had made him a target to bullying. The bullies did the normal routine. Slapped his books out of his hands, spilled water on his pants, etc. After all the normal stuff was done, the bullies were about to leave, when all of a sudden, they saw David’s notebook on the floor.

“Hey, what’s this?” Darrall said as he picked it up.

“No… ” said David as Michael put his hand over his face.

Darrall smirked. “Oh… Smarty Mc. Smarty is doing some extra dork work, eh?”

“Give that back. I can’t have my precious science formulas being held by some dumb mutt like you.”

Darrall, nostrils flaring, took a swing at David’s head. David, fortunately, dodged the punch, but to only receive a kick in the stomach. David curled up in a ball, but no luck. More attacks came quicker and harder and did not end till Principle Quinton came.

“Darrall, Michael, Steven! What is the meaning of this!” They looked over at the principal.

“Come with me!” He grabbed them and dragged them away.

“And Mister Ren, get to class please. If you’re bleeding or bruised, go to the nurse’s office, but you look good to me.” Dave sighed and grabbed his formula book along with his others and dragged himself to class.

***

In the middle of class though, the principal called him through the intercom to come his office. David blushed and headed out to the hall.

“David,” said Principle Quinton. “Darrall, Michael, and Steven said you started attacking them from the hall, and you started up a fight with them.

David’s mouth dropped. “But, sir, you have to believe me. They’ve been bullying me for months. I bad-mouthed them once, and they started attacking me.”

The principal smiled. “I never said I believed their claim.”

David smirked. “Very true, sir.”

“But,” he said moving his mouth near my ear, “their parents have invested a pretty amount to the building of this building. So I just think we should get along. No more bullying, that I promise. But try not to tell anyone. Let bygones be bygones, eh?”

David’s jaw dropped. “But, sir, they deserve to be punished. I mean, they bully other people too. This is a problem. It needs to be dealt with. It needs a judge.”

Principal Quinton’s little smirk went away. “David, it’s either no punishment for the bullies, or a two-month suspension for you.”

“But why me, sir?”

“Well, as I said, they said you started the fight. I can believe them or leave all of you off the hook. The choice is yours. Take your time to decide.”

David swallowed, and tears came to his eyes. “I trusted you,” he said before he left the room and slammed the door.

I’m going to take that as the better idea!” the principal yelled as David left his office, walking fast, and in tears.

***

After school that day, David went to archery class. This was his second day, and last week, all they did was go over safety rules and did not have time to try the actual bows. Now, this class, they were going to try shooting some arrows at the targets. After 30 minutes of teaching them how to hold the bow and how to shot the arrows, David had the bow in his hand. He reached down for an arrow and put it on his bow. He took a deep breath and looked at the target. But, in its place, he saw the principal shaking hands and taking money from his bullies’ parents. David’s eyes filled with rage, and he let go of his arrow go. He suddenly saw his arrow flying towards the target and hitting it in the middle. He picked up another arrow.

“Bravo, David. Bra… ”

David turned around and hurled his arrow in the air. It sailed in the air, right into the instructor’s chest. The instructor fell back in the wall, dead. David, surprised, grabbed his bundle of arrows off the floor and ran out the room. No one stopped him. Not even security. They most have been wondering how an arrow thrown lightly by a weak, scrawny 13-year-old made it into a person’s heart 100 feet away.

Early the next day, David came to school and started unpacking his backpack.

“Well, well, well,” said Darrall from behind him. David turned around and was picked up by the neck.

“I never got to finish the fight yesterday. Well, there’s always time now.”

He let David go almost automatically, partly just from the fact David’s Swiss Army knife made his way into his stomach. Darrall dropped to the ground. Yesterday, after the archery incident, David wanted to see if he had some sort of power. He started practicing with the arrows again, but then discovered he could throw any object and aim it at anything. He saw automatically that the other bullies were right behind Darrall, with surprised looks on their faces, and picked up his Swiss Army knife and threw it at the other bullies. It whipped through their bodies. The principal started running down the hall screaming. David sighed.

***

Thirty minutes later, David came out of the school building with his shirt soaked. After he figured out that he had a special power, he decided that if no one would be his judge, he would be his own. He saw that there were SWAT helicopters coming towards him, screaming at him to surrender. He sighed and threw up his knife once more, only after a bullet clipped him in the neck. On his way to the ground, he thought of how some sharpshooter hit him in the neck right before he threw the knife. He heard the helicopter falling above him and knew he had succeeded. The judge had thrown down his hammer.

***

“David, are you still with us?” David’s eyes blinked, and he looked up at his archery teacher.

“Well, class, we’re about to start with the bows and arrows. Please feel free to grab some from the bucket.” David realized this is when he had discovered his special power. It had all been a dream. But then, he thought, What if I actually have that special power? What will my path be? Will I follow the same?


The Chronicles of Tulupinia

I was on the mere verge of descending my perfect Tulupinia. I had carefully scavenged a hole in the dirty and moist dirt. The perfect circle, 9’ by 5”. I had been infiltrating the perfect low cal, sugar free, organic, pasteurized water. And for a whole excruciating month, I ate nothing but vegetables and protein to secrete the perfect turd to lay upon my perfect little Tulupinia.

Everything was going as planned. Tulupinia was like a child to me, and she needed to grow as much as a prepubescent teenager. Every day I nurtured her with intense love and care. Some call it creepy, I call it life. Christmas was coming around the corner, and Tulupinia and I were happier than old Blue laying on the porch chewing on a big old catfish head. We decided that we wouldn’t get each other any gifts this year, as I had an obvious advantage over her to get a present. I had a steady job. But I could not resist from getting my Christmas bells ring, so I decided to secretly get Tulupinia a present. I had the perfect idea in mind. The ultra 50000 non GMO fertilizer. Filled with goody richness. And guess what, it is from Japan! So I told Tulupinia that I was going to be gone for a gardener’s convention in Tokyo. At first she didn’t believe me. Typical skeptical Tulupinia. So I came up with something quick and told her that I even had ordered a legitimate businessman suitcase. Tulupinia stood still. She was so hard to read, but I knew she believed me. I’m such a clever liar. I hired a professional gardener, one of my colleagues, to take special care while I was gone. I made sure that he understood the responsibilities and consequences I had given him.

A few minutes before…

“I swear to god if Tulupinia has one less leaf than when I first saw her, I will hunt you and your family down and bury you alive in soil, and not even the good kind.”

I could never let Tulupinia go through what Marijuanita went through. She was the light of my life. Being with her always made me feel so good. Then my neighbor found out about our relationship and called the cops on us. They said it was illegal to obtain marijuana, but is it really illegal to love??? They took her away from me. Forever. But that’s a story for another time.

On the plane to Tokyo, I noticed a magazine in front of me. It was the Garden Gazette. I decided to take a peek. I flipped through the magazine pages to see thousands of flowers. Poor flowers, unacknowledged by their parents, forced into the show business. There was one specifically terrifying photo of a sunflower with a squirrel eating out of its center. The pain it must have gone through! The picture made it seem as if the squirrel was the victim of pesticides, yet people were deaf to the agonizing screams of the poor, now seedless, sunflower. I flipped the page one last time, already bored by looking at these dirtbags (pun intended) and came to see a tulip. Oh my, he looked just like Tulupinia! Although, Tulupinia had kinder eyes. I suddenly saw the ad at the corner of the page. They were selling this exquisite being at the gardener’s convention! What a fortunate stroke of serendipity! Maybe I would get Tulupinia two presents this year. She hasn’t been making many friends lately, and her romantic life isn’t very active if you know what I mean. Yes yes, I know that times have changed. Planned marriages aren’t very in right now. And of course I am quite the feminist, and I believe that all female plants can decide their own future, but I believe Tulupinia will thank me for this. You know, since I became a parent, a lot of things have come into perspective. All I want to do is make Tulupinia flourish and photosynthesize the heck out of life.

After I had finally managed to go to sleep, I woke up to go to the bathroom. I got up to go the bathroom, but some man was asleep, and his dog beneath the seat in front of him was growling at the very sight of him. Why wasn’t that dirty dog underneath the plane. People who treat dogs like humans are stupid. Ugh. I got a flight magazine and started to tap the guy with it. I sucked in my stomach and passed by in front of the guy barely surviving the big snarling teeth from the small white dog. I got to the bathroom and did my business and washed my face and hands. The worst part about going to the bathroom on a plane is the horrid, loud noise the toilet makes when you flush. When I came back from the bathroom I couldn’t go to sleep, and I already finished all of my sleeping pills. I decided to watch something on the little TV in front of me. I watched some Friends. Poor Rachel just found out that she was pregnant with Ross’s baby and didn’t know if she could be a single mom. I could totally relate.

Finally, after 12 hours on the plane, I heard that sweet angelic voice of the Japanese pilot.

“Hello, this is your Captain Sum Tin Wong, and we will be landing shortly. Please fasten your seat belt, and thank you for flying with Crane airlines.”

After getting out of the airport, I arrived at my three star hotel. Personally, I thought it was very underrated. These towels actually dried you instead of getting you wet compared to home. I couldn’t wait to tell Tulupinia about my wild adventures. The next morning I got all trim and proper and made my way to the gardener’s convention. The moment I stepped through those glorious, sketchy underground doors, I finally felt at home. The location was magnificent. I had never seen such a — big basement. To my surprise, there were 50 people. What a turnout! I immediately saw the bright logo for the Ultra 5000 non GMO fertilizer standing on proud stand. Once I had acquired the best Christmas gift of all time, I made my way to the adoption center. I entered to see magnificent colors and healthy flourishing stems. And then I made eye to petal contact with the one. The hot stud from the ad. I went over to his pot and looked closely at the description. Florencio Tulust was his name, originating from the spicy side of Argentina. All I read was hot, single, and ready to mingle! I signed off the papers of adoption and Florencio Tulust’s freedom. I thought that my time at Tokyo would be prolonged, yet I was too excited and eager to go back home to Tulupinia that I decided to come home early. On the way back home, I could not stop myself from ranting on about how life was back where Tulupinia lived and what future Florence (he lets me call him that now) and Tulupinia will have. He was such a good listener.

On the taxi back home, I started to spiff Florence up. He looked particularly dehydrated, but I made it work. I added a nice red bow for that additional wow factor.

I couldn’t wait to see the look on Tulupinia’s greenery when I showed her my multiple surprises. When the taxi driver, Anass Rahammar, finally stopped the car, I opened the window to smell the familiars of home

Ahhhhh, mother nature’s fertilizer!”

“That will be $19.57 please”

“You know what, Anass, I’ll do you one better.”

I gave him my priceless, one of kind tomato seed.

“Take care of this one, she’s a biter.”

He looked like he was mad, yet he calmly and peacefully told me to get the hell out of his car.

With great excitement, I skipped unto my pavement opening my door with one jolly swing.

“Honey, I’m home!!!”

Surprisingly enough, there was no response.

“I gently put Florence down on the counter and made my way to the garden in my backyard. I opened the sliding doors only to reveal my greatest nightmare.

“Tulupinia! What in the name of mother nature and all that is green are you doing?! I wanted to come home early to surprise you, and this is the thanks I get?!”

I found Tulupinia, high and mighty, tangled by the stem of another plant, a male one to be exact. And not just any plant. No no no no, a weed! And to top it all off, as I took a closer look, I saw seeds growing on Tulupinia’s flowers!

“Tulupinina, what has become of you?! Who is this? Are those seeds or dew drops? Tell me now, young girl. What is going on here?”

Before it was too late, I noticed that my voice had risen to the highest of altitudes. Tulupinia stared at me without saying a word, out of astonishment of course.

“Don’t you start that silent treatment with me, young lady!”

It had started to rain, which only made my anger increase, along with the volume of my voice.

“This ends now!”

I went into the kitchen with a fit of rage and came back to the garden with a set of gardener pliers. The wind was getting stronger now and the rain more than ever.

“You’ve left me no other choice!”

I started to grab at the maleficent boy’s stem and started to pull at the ground. Tulupinia threw herself onto him as if thrown by the wind, as if she was begging for me to stop. But it was too late to stop. Weed was gone.

“There we go, Tulupinia. Everything is better now. No need to be upset. And you’ll be so excited by what I’ve brought you from Tokyo!”

“Why aren’t you saying anything, my dearest Tulupinia. It was all for the better.” I reached out for her, when all of a sudden, I got pricked by one of her thorns.

“What has gotten into you, Tulupinia?”

I once again reached out to her, yet this time one of her thorns gashed through my whole palm, leaving a stinging gash.

“That’s enough!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. I was in rage. “You don’t deserve me or Florence!”

I looked like a monster in the rain, hovering over my frightened child. But my anger was too hard to control. I yanked Tulupinia out of the ground, leaving some of her roots to die. I grabbed her leaves and started plucking one by one, each more painful than the other. I could almost hear her screams thrusting away with the wind. When I had finally regained consciousness from my blinding rage, it was too late. I was at the last petal of Tulupinia’s poor shriveled body. It was then that I finally heard the pounding at the door. The police, something about a disturbance call. By then they were already breaking the door open with guns at hand. I saved the last petal of Tulupinia that would ever remained and saved it in pocket. I looked at her small body, drained of life.

I pulled her close to me and whispered, “I’m sorry.” I gently kissed her, feeling her rough thorns cut through my soft lips. After that, everything went dark.

It was dark and cold, all alone. Seedless. “What have I done?! No no no no no. Bad Hank!”

I heard my voice echo back at me in the jail cell —

“Oh, shut up, Hank. What do you know.”

It was as if the echo was talking back at me. I started pulling my knotted hair out, a similar action I had done before. The great, sinful crime. Plucking.

“She deserved it, you know.”

“Who said that?” Looking at the walls with the broken mirror, I saw something. Pieces of a broken man. A murderer. I reached into my pocket and smelled the increasingly brown leaf in my hand.

“What have I done, Tulupinia.” Just then, the guard passed by with my food and a thick newspaper.

“Lookee there, you’re on the front page”

The newspaper read, Teenage Girl savagely murdered and quartilized by kidnapper, a former attendee to the institution for the insane.


My Last Goodbye

It’s a fifteen hour flight to South Africa

A journey across the Earth my family embarks upon once every two years

I press my face to the glass of the coveted window seat

A place I scored after lengthy negotiations with my sister

The oval window is a portal to the rest of the world,

reminding me just how insignificant we are

Oceans and islands soar beneath us as I plug into my third movie of the day

The end of this eternal ride has left me wondering where all of the time has gone

It’s a two hour drive to Johannesburg

I have never been able to stay awake the entire duration

I don’t see the gorgeous sunset spread across the sky

A sea of ruby reds, vibrant yellows, and cotton candy pinks

I don’t see the last rays of sun slip off the rocky sidewalk

As darkness consumes the night

When I awaken thousands of stars shower the sky

Like drops of glittering rain that never reach the Earth

New York City does not have stars like these

Twenty minutes of waiting for them to text us to come over to their house

Later we play bridge in the dining room

I pretend to understand the endless rules and meticulous strategy

So that I can keep my blue folding chair around the deck table

In the kitchen I learn to bake challah with Aunt Joanne

The overwhelming scent of yeast shocks my nose with its powerful aroma

My fingers knead through the sticky, elastic dough

Even though one side is as burnt as the scorching pavement

that sits beneath the African sun

I pretend that I remembered to flip the loaves after thirty minutes in the oven

So much pretending

Pretending I don’t understand everything that is going on around me

Soon I’m running from Alphie, the ferociously persistent little dog

Secreting pearls of gleaming sweat in the malicious heat

And shivering in the icy pool that bites your toes and fingers if you overstay your welcome

All simple, All familiar

But then it’s talking in hushed voices about renowned hospitals

New surgeries

And ovarian cancer

It’s Aunt Joanne being too tired, so tired

Too tired for chemo

Too weak

Some words hold more meaning than I can even comprehend

Rocks around a volcano are hollow

Formed by scorching hot magma

Natives used to think they were just unbelievably light

Legend tells that taking one of the rocks is bad luck

The word cancer is unbelievably heavy

It is the quintessence of bad luck

This one word has the power to weigh everything down

Slowing the world to its own pace, forcing accommodations

We try our very best to avoid the heavy word

To not let it crush us like ants underfoot

One word is on the tip of everyone’s tongue yet rarely do we dare breathe a word of it

But before we know it, it’s time to say goodbye

Goodbyes seem so simple

Yet there is something so personal about them

I give my goodbyes everyday

To my friends

To my teachers

To my parents and sister

To the sun when she goes to sleep each night, urging me to do the same

Sometimes I say goodbye forever

To my friends at camp when I know that our adventures together have come to an end

To my cat when she decided to never to wake up from her nap on my parents bed

And to all those dreams I have let go of

But it never quite feels as final as it should

When one chapter of your life snaps shut

The final curtain

We allow ourselves to believe that we might keep in touch

We might revisit that plan we started

We might be able to go back to that moment in time where we let go

Now Joanne is giving me a gentle hug and telling us to have a safe flight home

I’m saying that I love her and that I hope she wins her next bridge game

I know this is goodbye forever

It doesn’t feel big enough

It doesn’t feel special enough

It doesn’t feel worthy of being the last words that are ever imparted

from her soul unto mine

But just like that and it’s over

I want to say that when she dies I am going to miss her so much

and cry until I’m all out of tears

But I can’t say that

I want to ask if she is really ever going to get better

But I can’t ask that

I want to lock myself in a room and not leave

Because it feels like I’m leaving her behind

But know I can’t do that

I want to beg her to stay strong for two more years

Until I am back to bake challah and learn the rules of bridge

But that is not fair to anyone

Before I know it, I’m driving out of the gate

Past the Acacia trees that sway in the breeze like the swings at Pierpont playground

Past the little inn where we stayed because the house is overflowed with relatives

All waiting to say their own goodbyes

My heart tries to trick itself into believing otherwise

But my mind knows the truth

I’ve said goodbye forever


The Dream Sixteen

Today is the day of my 16th birthday party. It all started out as a normal day. I was just taking my birthday party outfit out of my closet. I’ve been waiting for this party since forever. All my friends will be there. I just can’t wait.

This party will probably be the best party I’ve ever had. My guests are just starting to walk in. “Hey, Aspen,” my friend Jordyn says. “Are you excited for your party?”

“Yep,” I say. We decide to hang out at the snack table for a few minutes.

“So who did you invite,” Jordyn says.

“I invited you, Taylor, Peyton, Ashley, Amari, Jackson, Jamie, Lila, and a lot of other people.”

“Sounds like you have a big guest list. Are you sure that you’ll have enough food? Did you invite a lot of the boys?”

“Yeah. My mom said that the caterer is bringing more than enough food. So I can only hope that they don’t eat it all.”

“Did you invite anyone else?” Jordyn asks.

“Yeah. I invited Adonis, Marcus, Lexi — ”

“Wait, you invited Lexi?”

“Yeah,” I say. “What’s wrong with that?”

“You know that if you invite Lexi that Tori will come. And you know how Tori is,” Jordyn says.

“Just because her twin sister is mean doesn’t mean that she shouldn’t be invited to parties too. I genuinely like Lexi. And you have to admit she is really cool.”

“Yeah, she is really nice. I feel so bad for her though. She’s stick with a twin sister that’s so mean. I wonder if she’s really mean to her.”

“I know,” I say.

I know that if I had a twin sister that I would want her to be nice to everyone, including me. I honestly feel so sorry for her. At that moment, a large group of my friends arrive. My older sister, Ashanti, just brought them into the party room. The theme of my party is lights out. It’s a major dance party with neon lights. Everyone gets a glow bracelet or glow necklace when they walk in.

My mom, Aunt Chantelle, and Ashanti helped me come up with the theme of my party. Ashanti and Aunt Chantelle helped me plan where my party would be. We rented out a country club ballroom and decorated it to look like a dance club. There are flashing strobe lights everywhere, and there is also a disco ball. The lights are bouncing off the walls. Music is going. You can actually feel the beat of the music.There are white, shiny marble floors. The lights are reflecting off the floor. Different color balloons and confetti are all over the floor. There’s a long white table on the right side of the room with different finger foods on them. There are little sandwiches, cakes, fruits, and punch on the table. In the left corner of the room, the DJ is getting ready to play music. It’s kind of awkward right now because nobody is here yet. But once the party gets started, it will be a whole lot of fun. People won’t be able to help dancing and having fun.

“Hey, Aspen,” they all say.

“Hey, guys,” I say.

Ashanti shows them the table where they can put my gifts. I can’t believe this is finally happening. A few minutes later, more of my friends come in. A little while after that, more of my friends come in. After about 20 minutes, everyone is there. The party was just about to start when all of a sudden Tori and her friends, Marcy and Samara, walk in. Right behind her are Lexi and Denise. Everyone stops to look at Tori and her friends. There is complete silence, and I feel completely awkward. Now I’m starting to understand what Jordyn said.

“Happy birthday, Aspen. Great party,” Tori says with a smirk. Marcy and Samara start laughing maliciously.

I’m really starting to regret inviting Lexi. But at the same time, it’s not Lexi’s fault that her sister is extremely mean. Hopefully Tori doesn’t try to make a scene and humiliate me at my own party. That would be awful. But then again, I invited some of the boys. I know she definitely wouldn’t want to embarrass herself in front of them. She already knows what a laughingstock she would be if she did that. She should know because she’s already embarrassed plenty of people before.

“Thanks, Tori,” I say. “The party will start shortly.”

Suddenly, the music starts. People start coming out onto the dance floor. The lights come up. The disco ball starts to spin and reflect its lights. Everyone has glow sticks. Music is playing. Everyone is dancing, but I just can’t make myself join in. I wander off into the hallway to go to the bathroom. Just as I get ready to open the door, my sister Ashanti comes out of the bathroom.

“Is everything okay? You look a little worried.”

“I guess I’m okay.”

“Isn’t that Tori?” she says.

“Yeah,” I say.

“What is she doing here. The last thing we need is someone to ruin your sweet 16. It’s the most memorable party of your life so far. Do I need to go and say something to her?”

“No,” I say. “The last thing I need is for someone to upset her. That would just give her more reason to try to humiliate me. You understand right?”

“Yeah. I get it. You remember Andrea, right?”

“Yeah.”

“She was like a Lexi to me when I was 16. She always tried to do whatever she could to humiliate someone.”

“Your point being?”

“Don’t let one person ruin your party. Look around. All these people came here to celebrate you. They all came because they care about you. They’re not concerned about Lexi and what she could do to them.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Anyway, these people came to celebrate you. Now go have fun at your party. I’ll peek around now and then to make sure that everything is okay. If Tori tries to even start to make a scene, I’ll take care of her. Don’t worry about anything.”

“Thanks,” I say. We give each other a hug. I go into the bathroom to check my reflection one last time. Then I decide that it’s time for me to go back to the party.

The party is going great. The music is loud. A rap song has just ended, and a dance song has come on. I’m able to feel the beat of this song. Everybody is dancing. Everyone is having fun. I decide to start dancing. I start to lose my worries in the song. Suddenly, I notice that the party is actually going great. Maybe it’s just me being paranoid. I mean, a party is supposed to be calm, right? But something doesn’t feel right to me. I see Jordyn standing by the food table getting some punch. I pull her aside. We leave the party and go into the hallway.

“Jordyn, have you seen Tori?” I ask.

“No, not recently. The last place I saw her was over by the food table. Why? Is something wrong?”

“No. It’s just that the party seems normal.”

“What’s wrong with that? Isn’t that what a party is supposed to be?”

“Yeah, it is. But it’s still weird that Tori is here. You don’t think she’s going to try to ruin something, do you?”

“I sure hope not. I’m pretty sure that you got some really cool presents. My present is so pretty that you’ll never want to leave it alone.”

“Can you tell me what it is?”

“Nope. That would ruin the surprise. I want your breath to be taken away when you open my present.”

This sounds so much like Jordyn. She’s such a caring, sweet, and kind person. But you don’t want to get on her bad side. It’s really scary. But all in all, Jordyn is one of the kindest people I have ever met.

“Okay. I guess I can wait.”

“Now come on. Quit worrying, and have fun at your party.”

“Okay.”

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but my party is going great. I’m enjoying myself and so is everyone else. But I still have this sneaking suspicion that Tori will do something. I decide to push this thought to the back of my mind. This is my party, and I’m going to celebrate.

I walk over to the food table. Everything looks fine. Nothing seems suspicious. My presents seem to be safe. Suddenly, I hear a rustling noise over by the DJ. Then I hear something drop right near the table where my presents are. I wonder what’s going on. I hope Tori isn’t trying to ruin anything. I have a really bad feeling about this. I decide to go over to the DJ.

“Excuse me, sir. Have you seen anybody come over this way recently?” I ask.

“Nope. I haven’t. Sorry.”

“Thanks anyway,” I say.

Well, the DJ seems to have not seen anything or anyone come over there. So I wonder what that noise could have been. Now the worst thoughts are starting to come to mind. What if an animal wandered into my party and is going through my presents? What if one of Tori’s friends is going through my presents? What if Tori paid someone to go through my presents and ruin my party? Or worst of all, what if Tori herself is going to do something so mean that it’ll cause me to start crying at my own party?

“Come on, Aspen,” I say to myself. “You need to get yourself together and stop assuming that the worst is always going to happen.”

Eventually, I talk myself into walking over to where the rustling noise came from. As I grow closer to the table where my presents are, the noise grows louder. The noise keeps growing louder and louder and louder. I can’t take this suspense anymore. I decide to finally see what’s making this noise.

As I walk around the table where my presents are, I find Tori going through my presents. I stand behind the table frozen with fear. I’m brought to tears. I can’t help not crying. There’s presents everywhere. There’s pink, purple, red, and a lot of other colors of tissue paper all over the floor. Some gift bags are strewn all over the floor.

“This present is okay. Uh, what is this present? Who would ever want this as a present? This is so lame. People can really do better with presents these days,” Tori says. Marcy and Samara are with her.

“Why would anybody want this as a present? It’s so dorky,” Marcy says. She’s waving a gift bag in the air.

“Honestly, I don’t know. But then again, these presents are for Aspen. Why wouldn’t you expect them to be lame. She’s really, really lame.”

“I know. But still, anybody could give her a better present. I kind of feel bad for her,” Marcy says.

“Why should you? Obviously, a lame person deserves lame gifts. Aspen is a completely lame person.”

“I still can’t believe that you were friends with her when you were younger,” Samara says.

“Really, I don’t even know either. I guess we all made mistakes when we were younger,” Tori says.

“You certainly did, Tori. I really can’t understand why you were ever even friends with her either,” Marcy says.

I can’t take this anymore. I shouldn’t have to listen to this anymore. I decide to come out from behind the table.

“I can’t believe you, Tori. How could you do this to me?” I say in disbelief.

“Well, if it isn’t Ms. Crybaby. What’s wrong? Did someone steal your blanket?” Tori says sarcastically.

Now everyone has turned to stare at the table where my presents are. The music has been turned down some. Everyone starts laughing at what Tori just said.

“For your information, I’m not a crybaby, and I don’t have a blanket. What are you doing over here in my presents anyway?” I say with an attitude. My hands are on my hips.

“I just came to check and make sure that your presents were okay. I wouldn’t want you to receive any horrible presents. But lucky for you, they’re all horrible presents.”

“That’s exactly why they aren’t yours. Now how about you do yourself a favor and get away from my presents,” I say.

“I don’t think so. You can’t tell me what to do. Marcy, what do you think about this present? Isn’t it so stupid?” Tori asks sarcastically as she looks into a gift bag.

“It’s so stupid. Why would anyone want to own such a stupid gift? Would you want to own it, Samara?” Marcy asked.

“Leave me out of this,” Samara says.

“Why? What’s wrong? Do you think it’s good enough for you? Marcy says sarcastically.

Everyone starts laughing. The boys are making “ooohhh” noises.

“No,” Samara says.

“Then what’s your problem?” Marcy says.

“My problem is you. You and Tori are always picking on innocent people that have done absolutely nothing to you. I’m tired of being around people like you who always put people down.”

“So let me get this straight. You’re trying to stand up for Aspen, Samara?” Tori says.

“Yes, I am. I’m so sick and tired of being around cruel people like you and Marcy. Aspen has always been nothing but nice to you, and yet you still treat her horribly,” Samara says with boldness.

There’s a long period of silence in the party room. Even the music stops. Everyone is staring over at where Tori, Marcy, Samara, and I are.

“Well, you know what, Samara? I can’t be friends with people like you. People who think its okay to be friends with losers.”

I’m tired of hearing all of this. It’s getting on my last nerve. I can’t take it anymore.

“Guess what, Tori,” I say. “I’m not a loser, and you can stop talking about me.”

“And she’s right,” Jordyn says. “We all know that the whole reason why you even came to this party was to ruin Aspen’s great party. Well, guess what, you failed to accomplish your goal.”

“I don’t understand why you would do such a thing, Tori,” Lexi says. “It’s Aspen’s party, and this has absolutely nothing to do with you. Why don’t you just leave?!”

“Because I don’t want to,” Tori snaps. “Look, Samara. Here’s the thing. If you want to be friends with us, then you have to not be friends with Aspen, and if you want to be her friend, then we won’t be your friends.”

Everyone is staring intently at Samara. For some reason, the DJ is playing action music.

“So what’s your choice, Samara?”

“I choose Aspen. I don’t want to be remembered as the mean girl like you and Marcy.”

“Very well then. You made your choice. I hope it was worth it to lose your only friends that you have,” Tori says sarcastically.

“Why are you doing this?” Marcy asked sincerely.

“Because I’m ready to move on and be around actually nice people,” Samara says.

“Whatever, Samara. Come on, Marcy, let’s leave this lame party. We’ve got better places to be,” Tori says.

“Tori, Marcy, do you need an escort out?” Ashanti says.

“No thanks. I’m good,” Tori says.

“No thanks,” Marcy says.

They both storm out of the party.

Finally, they’re gone. The music has been turned back up. Everyone has resumed dancing and having a good time. The strobe lights have come back on. Samara is still here all by herself.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Not really. It feels kind of weird to not be around Marcy and Tori,” Samara says.

“Its okay. It must’ve felt really weird to actually stand up to Tori for once.”

“Yeah, I know. But it eventually had to be done.”

“That was really brave,” I say.

“Thanks.”

“Look, I know that we’ve started off on the wrong foot, but I’m willing to start over and be friends if that’s okay with you,” I say.

“Sure. I mean, I haven’t been exactly nice to you either.”

“So friends?”

“Friends,” Samara says.

“I’m so proud of you,” Ashanti says.

“For what?”

“Standing up to Tori. You really are growing up.”

“Thanks.”

If there’s one thing that I’ve learned after tonight, it’s that people may actually come to surprise you in the end.


The Old Man

There was a man. The man was lonely, sad, and old, so he went into the forest to die. He wandered for hours, dwelling on old memories, until he came across a cottage in the woods. The man thought that the cottage would be a good place to die. He entered the cottage to find a toy makers kit, sitting on a desk. The old man had always loved toys and had made them for a living. He decided to die doing what he loved, so he sat down at the desk and started to inspect the tools. He opened the toymakers chest and was startled to see that the tools in the chest were extremely old, but in amazing quality. He had never seen such good tools and was happy to have access to such grand instruments, so he got to work quickly. Hours passed, a storm of creativity flowing through the man.

In the morning he awoke to see a massive amount of toys all around him. There were dolls, and toy soldiers, teddy bears, and a few rocking horses. He was happy and content to see his efforts and was shocked and surprised to see that his creations were moving around and repairing the broken down cottage. He jumped up in surprise, and they all turned to look at him. The toys grew giant smiles and began to run over to him. The man, terrified, stumbled over the chair and fell to the ground as the toys swarmed him. He screamed, until he realized that the toys were hugging him.

He sputtered out, “W-what? What’s going on? What’s happening?”

A clown walked out from behind the mass of toys. “Why, you made us of course! Can’t we be happy to greet our creator?”

The old man rose, startled, and proclaimed, “What? But how are you alive?! I know I made you, but how are you living?”

The clown shrugged, unconcerned. “Does it really matter? We are, and you made us. Now we can play with people!”

The old man was concerned, but also overjoyed that his life had come to something after all. He was a nobody, with a job nobody paid attention to and a boring life with no family or friends. He was so excited to show everybody what he had created, he didn’t notice that the clown began to smile behind his back. He gathered all of the toys up and marched them into town. A crowd of people gathered by the commotion, and he began handing out all the toys there were. The toys went gleefully, as their only aspiration was to play with children. Finally, all the toys but the clown were given out, and there was only one child without a toy, the mayor’s daughter.

The clown walked over and picked her up, who laughed gleefully. “Are you my new owner? O boy, I can’t wait to play with you! Let’s go!”

And they ran off. The old man was very happy to have done something good in his life and walked back to the cabin to spend the night.

In the morning he woke, stretched, and got dressed. When he walked outside, however, he saw smoke, rising in the distance. He grew worried and decided to go check it out. He made his way back to town, and when he got there, all hell had broke loose. There were fires everywhere, mangled bodies strewn like neglected dolls, and a massive demonic ferris wheel in the middle of town, with screams eminiting from it. The toys were all laughing with glee, chasing people, torturing people, and the clown was the worst of all. He was on top of the ferris wheel, with a terrified girl crying near him.

Are you having fun, darling? I know I am! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”

At this point, the old man was absolutely petrified. He had no words to describe the horror that lay before him. As he stared, he had a sudden realization. Everything he made did the exact opposite it was supposed too. Things made to entertain, tortured. Things made to comfort, terrified. He ran to the cabin as fast as he could. Meanwhile…

The mayor ran, terrified, away from the center of town and the laughing clown. He ducked behind a nearby wall to catch his breath and peeked around the corner to get his boundaries and immediately pulled his head back. There was a teddy bear a couple feet away, tearing up a corpse. His heart pounded in his chest, and he held his breath and listened. A couple minutes later, the teddy bear walked away, and the mayor tried not to look at the body as he made his escape. He ran and ran, never stopping until he reached the next town down the road. He collapsed at the town gate, and when he came to it, he told his story. His story about an insane toymaker and a devil banding together to cause chaos spread like wildfire, and centuries later, would develop into a fairy tale to scare children.

Now then, back to the old man. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, all the while hearing the devilish carnival music behind him. He slammed open the cottage door and scrambled inside. He shut the door and sat down on the bed to catch his breath. He began to realize what he had done and cried himself to sleep.

When he woke up, he felt determined to fix his mistake. He picked himself up and walked over to the desk and its cursed tools. He sat down and put his head in his hands. He began to think of ways to fix this with what he had at his disposal and if he could fix it at all. He thought and thought, until an idea struck him. If the toys he created did everything in their power to do the opposite of what they were supposed to, then what if he made a toy that was intentionally bad? If he needed something that disobeyed and hurt others, then a dummy would do the trick, wouldn’t it? He began to craft his masterpiece, making it as scary as he could possibly be, giving it knives and weapons a plenty. When it was done, it sat motionless.

He gave his first order. “Y-you m-may speak. A-and move on y-your own will if you will c-cause no harm to o-others by doing so.”

To his surprise, the dummy immediately sat up and jumped off the table.

“I thought you’d neva ask. I been conscience eva since you started packing me with weapons, ya hear. Now, what can I do for ya?”

The old man was quite startled at his abruptness, but he got over his surprise quickly. “I, uh,” he began, but the dummy interrupted him.

“Wait wait, lemme guess. Youse did something youse regrete with the doohickies that made me, and ya want me to clean up your mess? No problem, lead the way.”

The dummy jumped off the table and made his way to the door. The old man was very confused and concerned, but followed the dummy outside. The dummy was waiting for him, and the old man began walking towards the town. He turned around when he noticed that the dummy wasn’t following him and asked why he wasn’t following him.

“Well, I forgot ta mention dis before, but if ya want me ta do anything, ya gotta give me veeery specific instructions, so get on dat, would ya pal?”

The old man walked back over to the dummy and began to speak out his specific instructions.

“You are going to destroy everything that I have made and make sure that they stay dead. If any escape, you will hunt them to the end of the earth. You must never intentionally hurt a human being, and you will come back to me when you are done with these instructions.”

The dummy nodded once and took off towards the town like a flash. The old man watched him disappear back into the forest and walked back into the cabin, where he promptly hanged himself. Well, onto the next main character.

The dummy ran the forest with unending stamina and broke through the forest with a flying leap. He landed heavily and looked around. He saw a platoon of wooden soldiers heading his way and sprinted towards them. They turned to look at him and got into a firing line of maniacal smiles. He jumped right into their midst, with a knife in hand, and turned into a whirlwind of carnage. Body parts flew everywhere, and before long, he stood along in a pile of firewood. He took a breath and turned his attention to the ferris wheel and the clown. For some reason, the dummy could feel the clowns eyes on him, and started to head in that direction. Before long, he had reached the base of the ferris wheel and stared up at the tower of torture before him. He waited for the perfect moment, then jumped onto the closest compartment.

In a matter of seconds he was at the top, directly confronting the clown. “So then, you da boss, huh?” the dummy remarked. “I gotta say, I was expecting someone taller.”

The clown continued to sneer at him and said, “While I appreciate the sense of humor you’ve got, it seems a little misplaced! I’m the clown! I should be making the jokes! Meanwhile, I’ve got something to laugh about!” He pointed at the sniveling pile of flesh at his feet and promptly kicked the girl off of the ferris wheel and watched her plumet.

The dummy sprinted towards the clown, seeing that he was distracted, and pulled out a wooden club with nails on the tip. He slammed it with all his strength into the back of the clowns head, and to his surprise the head went flying! However, to the dummy’s surprise, the head bounced back on a spring and slammed him across the face. The dummy flew across the top of the ferris wheel, and the clown was on top of him in a flash.

“I got plenty more tricks in store than that! You’re gonna have to try a lot harder than that to kill me!”

The clown pulled out a scythe from seemingly nowhere and swung it at the dummy’s head. The dummy barely had enough time to pull out a hammer to block and swiftly counter attacked. The clown jumped back, but not before dropping a jack-in-the-box on his chest. The music played very quickly, and the dummy was blown over the edge of the ferris wheel.

He hit the ground with a thud and immediately got back up. The clown had jumped down after him, and he pulled out a massive club and took up a fighting stance. The clown hit the ground with a sproing and immediately ran towards the dummy, his scythe at the ready. When the clown was within the dummy’s range, the dummy swung with all his might, but the clown jumped over and sliced of the dummy’s head. The head flew from the body, landing several feet away. The body slumped over, all signs of life gone.

The clown let out a laugh. “HA! Is that all you got? To think that the one thing I was a little worried about would be this easily defeated!”

He walked over to the head and picked it up to gloat. To his surprise, the head said, You’re not da only one wit tricks! as the dummy’s body impaled him with a broadsword. The clown sputtered and went limp, falling off to the ground.

The dummy walked over and picked up his head and screwed it back on.

“Dat’ll teach him. All I gotta do now is ta take out da remaining small fry, and I can meet up wit da old man again.”

Unknown to him, the other toys were watching the fight, and when the clown was defeated, the toys were surprised that the clown lost. Half of the toys wanted to run and spread out. The other half of the toys wanted to band together to defeat the dummy. They decided that the toys that wanted to band together to defeat the dummy would buy time for the other toys to get away. Meanwhile, the dummy was retrieving his greatsword from the dummy’s body. He had just gotten the sword free when the toys pounced, catching him off guard. He was exhausted from his fight with the clown and put up little resistance. He took out the majority of the toys before they subdued him, and before long, he was on the floor defeated. The clown had given the toys a protocol to follow if they defeated him, and they followed it to the letter. The dummy was immobilized and tossed into a box, and then buried the box underground. After his escape was impossible, the toys all scattered around the world, their one adversary trapped, for centuries to come.

END PROLOGUE


Necromancer

The necromancer fiddled with his knife, running his fingers along its edge. The ocean surrounded him absolutely, and land was nowhere to be seen. The sun beat down on him and his boat, gleaming off his knife. Sometimes, the necromancer stared directly at the sun for extended periods of time just to relieve his boredom. He contemplated whether to start another wood carving project. So far he’d made three birds, four dogs, and five Angelas (his wife). He decided to start one more, going through his bag and finding a block of wood. When he carved, he seemed to become one with his environment, the rocking of his raft, the splashing of the ocean, the gleam of the sun. Thoughts of the plane crash seemed to fade away. Just as he was about to start his project, his peace was rudely interrupted.

“You’ll never finish it,” it said. Turning around, the necromancer saw its face, rotting in the sun, tattered clothes, and greenish gray skin, his companion zombie.

“You’ll be dead.”

“How do you know?” the necromancer replied defiantly.

“You ran out of water days ago, and you’ve been out at sea for weeks hoping you’ll miraculously end up on land and get back to Angela, but it’s game over.”

“I’m a necromancer. I’ll figure something out. In the meantime, just leave me alone and let me carve.” To this, the zombie simply leaned back in the raft, staring intently at the empty sea.

“Necromancers don’t exist,” the zombie replied. “They’re fantasy.”

“What! How could you say that!” the necromancer protested “You’re living, or rather dead proof that they do!” The zombie turned his head to the necromancer and stared him, dead in the eyes.

“I’m not dead or alive. I’m just a fantasy, a figment of your imagination.”

“No! You’re real. You must be real. I’m looking at you with my own eyes!” the necromancer countered, a definitive panic in his voice.

“Think about it for once! How am I in your boat one minute and the next you’re alone at sea! What, do I jump in and out of the boat to swim?!” The necromancer opened his mouth to argue, only to close it again without saying a word.

“That’s right! There’s no logical explanation for my existence. You’re just going mad. You’ve convinced yourself you’re a necromancer, and now you’re going to die without a shred of sanity.”

“I’ve been a necromancer all my life. I know who I am!” the necromancer screamed.

“Tell me then, when your mother died, why did you not resurrect her?! Did you not love her, or were you simply not able?!” The necromancer looked away, his hands shaking.

“If I were calling the shots, I’d make my amends, take that knife, run across my throat, and die with a little honor!”

“JUST SHUT UP AND LET ME BE!” the necromancer screamed, turning away.

The zombie scowled, taken aback.

“Fine,” it muttered spitefully. “But think about what I said.” When the necromancer looked up, the zombie was gone, and he was left alone at sea. The necromancer picked up his knife slowly, hands shaking. In it he saw a reflection. The reflection of a starved and unrecognizable man, a man with tattered clothes and jutting cheekbones, a man without a life worth living.


Water

I am running down the street, panting, and I turn around to look behind me, but don’t see the giant hole right in front of me.

“Ahhhh,” I yell as I fall into the hole.

It looks like a series of tunnels. But it’s not dirt. It’s stone? They are super fancy with engravings in them, so I start to follow along them to see if there is another exit, because clearly I can’t go back the other way.

After what feels like a half an hour of walking I see a slight, rosey-ish glow in my vision of the tunnel. I run towards it, and there’s a staircase. It leads to the basement of a house from what it seems. I walk up the stairs, and I walk into what looks like a basement or a cellar of some sort. I don’t know what this is. It might be a house? I walk up the stairs, and I slowly open the door. I walk into the kitchen, and I’m wondering where I am and whose house this is. From the looks of it, it doesn’t look like a small house.

All of a sudden, a girl walks into the kitchen. She looks a few years younger than me.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“My name is Rose,” I reply. “Something mysterious happened, and I don’t know where I am. Where are your parents?”

“They are out here on the terrace,” she says. “Come on, I’ll take you to them.”

She grabs my hand and skips all the way to the terrace where her parents are. While I’m walking through the house, I notice it’s so beautiful, with marble floors in some parts and a grand staircase leading up to the second level. We step out onto the terrace, and her parents are sitting on lounge chairs talking and drinking lemonade.

The little girl says to her parents, “Mom, Dad, this girl showed up in our kitchen.”

“Um, Lily honey, can you go inside please?” they say.

The little girl whose actual name is Lily skips inside and up the stairs and out of sight.

“Where did you come from?” they ask.

“I fell into a hole, and there was a tunnel with a faint glow at the end, so I followed it, and I ended up here.”

“Hold on,” they say.

They started whispering to each other, and I only caught a few words like, Who is she? What should we do?

“Where do you live?” they ask me.

“Well, I was a runaway, so I didn’t really have one place,” I told them.

I kept quiet, not because I didn’t want to tell them, but because I couldn’t remember all of it.

“Okay, go inside, and Lily will show you a spare room until we get this figured out,” they say.

“Okay,” I say.

“Lily!” they shout to Lily who’s prancing around inside.

“Honey, can you show Rose a spare guest bedroom?”

“Okay,” Lily says.

“You can stay in one of our many guest bedrooms until we figure this out?”

I follow Lily inside, where she leads me up the grand staircase to a guest bedroom that is very extravagant with lots of fancy things.

“Here you go,” she tells me.

“Okay, thanks,” I say back.

I sit down on the giant bed and think of why I got here. I was taken from my family when I was little and kept for many years there, at that house. I finally escaped from the house and have been a runaway ever since.

And that leads to now, falling into a hole and ending up here. Wow. I think to myself how it has been rough for the last couple of years. Maybe this nice family can help me.

I am so tired I lay down on the bed, and the soft, comfortable comforter lulls me into a deep sleep.

While I am sleeping, Lily’s parents come up to make sure I was situated.

“Rose seems like such a nice girl, but who is she?” they ask each other, but I don’t hear them because I am still fast asleep.

I wake up the next morning in the soft, comfortable bed and sit up. I can’t believe all that has happened to me. And I can’t believe I ended up here.

I walk into the kitchen, and Lily says hi to me. Lily’s parents say good morning to me also.

“Oh no, what happened to your arm?” Lily’s mom says suddenly to me, as she noticed I am clutching my arm.

My arm had a long deep cut on the side of my arm that was starting to turn blue, black, and purple. I must have not have seen it yesterday because I was wearing a jacket.

“When I fell into the hole I must scraped it on a nail that was sticking out as I fell,” I say to Lily’s parents.

“Well, we must take you to the doctor and make sure it wasn’t a rusty nail and that you have your tetanus shots updated,” they say to me.

“Oh no, that’s not necessary. It doesn’t hurt that much,” I say to them even though it did hurt, a lot.

“No no no, we must. When we find your family, we must return you with a good arm.”

I knew in my heart that they would never find my family though. I didn’t even know who they were.

“Okay, I will call Dr. Smith to schedule an appointment with her,” Lily’s mom says to her dad.


The Doctor’s Office

*Ring Ring*

Dr. Smith answers the phone, “Hello, this is Dr. Smith. How can I help you?”

“Hi, Judy. This is Penny from the Robinsons.”

“Oh, hi, Penny. It’s nice to talk to you again. How can I help you?”

“Well, this girl showed up in our secret tunnels, you know the ones that were the old maid quarters, and we have no idea who she is. She also has a giant cut on her arm that she says was cut on a nail.”

“Can you make sure she has her shots updated, and while you’re at it, will you take some blood and see if you can find out where she is from and who her family is?”

“Yeah sure, no problem.”

The next day…

“Rose, come on. We’re going to take you to Dr. Smith to make sure you arm is alright,” Penny says to me.

“Okay,” I say.

We get in the car and drive to Dr. Smith’s office, where she is waiting for us in the waiting area.

“Hi, Rose. My name is Dr. Smith. Let’s go to a room and make sure your arm is alright.

“Okay.”

We walk to a room, and Dr. Smith checks out my scraped up arm. She looks it over and then rolls over to the computer on her little wheely chair.

“Okay, Rose it looks like it’s just a very deep cut, but I’m going to have to take some blood so I can make sure it wasn’t infected since you don’t have your tetanus shots, correct?”

“Yeah, okay.”

I know I don’t have my tetanus shots updated since I’ve been on the run since I escaped.

“Okay, this is only going to hurt a little bit, okay?” Dr. Smith says to me.

“Okay,” I say back to her.

She takes a little needle out of the cabinet, and it only hurts a tiny bit.

“Okay, I will get the results back in a few days, but until then I’ll wrap your arm up so nothing gets in it.”

“Okay,” I say to Dr. Smith.

“Okay, thanks, Judy. See you later,” Penny says to Dr. Smith.

I really hope I don’t have anything wrong, so I don’t cause this nice family any more trouble.

We pull into the driveway, and once again I’m astonished of the view of house from the outside. When we get inside, I want to lay down since I just got some blood taken, so I’m very tired.

“I’m going to lay down,” I say to Penny.

“Okay,” she says.

I walk up the stairs and start walking towards the room I am staying in, when a spark of light catches my attention from one of the rooms over a few. I want to check it out to see what it is, so I walk over to it and peek inside.

It’s a beautiful mint colored room that has a light reflector on the window that makes rainbows dance across the room. I think to myself, Oh, this is probably Lily’s room or a playroom for her.

I’ll ask Penny about it later after I get some sleep. When I’m back in my room, I lay down, and my eyelids quiver as I fall into a deep sleep…


The Doctor’s Office

“Okay, let’s see what we can find out about Rose from her results and make sure she is okay,” I say to myself.

As I scroll down through the results, it looks like her arm is alright which is good. She will just need to bandage and watch it.

I look for any traces in her DNA which will help us find her family or any of her relatives.

Okay, blood type, blah, blah, blah. This is weird. “What is this?” I ask myself. Okay, DNA and genes. Wait, what?! O-M-G…

The next morning…

I wake up in the morning as the sun shines brightly into the window and walk down the stairs into the kitchen.

“Hey, Penny, is that mint blue room upstairs Lily’s?”

“… No, it’s not.”

“Whose is it?”

“It was our other daughter’s room. Her name was Aguamarine, or for short, Agua.”

“Where is she now.”

“She was taken from us at a very young age, so we don’t know. We searched high and low, but we never could find her,” she added.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say to Penny.

She just looked sad, so I brought something else up.

“Where’s Lily?”

“Outside, you can join her if you want.”

I walk outside to see Lily jumping on a trampoline up and down.

“Hey, Lily, can I join you?”

“Sure!” she says to me in a high voice.

I climb up the ladder and join her. I feel like a bird soaring through the clouds as I jump higher and higher. I feel like I could jump right to the moon. A few hours later, after a few games of tag, Penny yells from inside the house.

“Rose!!”

“Can you come inside please?”

“Yes!”

I skip inside, my stomach still fluttering from jumping on the trampoline.

“What’s up?”

Penny and Sam (Lily’s dad) are standing inside next to Dr. Smith.

“Dr. Smith is here with the test results about your arm, Rose,” Penny says to me.

“So the results came back, and your arm is doing just fine. You will just need to wrap it and make sure to take care of it,” Dr. Smith says to me.

“But… ”

“While I was looking through your DNA results, a thing popped up on my computer, and I thought it was one of my other clients, but when I clicked on it, it wasn’t. It was from you.”

“A DNA match… ”

“You are the missing daughter of Penny and Sam… ”

I don’t know what to say. I feel like I’m about to faint. I can’t get anything to come out of my mouth. I can’t believe this just happened…


The Fox and the Forest

It all started with my cousin, Penny. She woke me up before the sun had risen, begging me to go hunting with her.

“Felicity, please come with me… Nobody else is up yet, and you know that I don’t like going out and about in the forest alone. Especially when it’s dark out,” Penny groaned. She pawed at me playfully.

“Penny, I really don’t want to go hunting right now.” I glanced at my aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters, and parents. They were all still asleep. Unlike most foxes, my family lived and hunted in a pack. We were unique in that way. Anyway, the Den was cozy and warm, and I didn’t want to go out into the cold morning air.

Penny was relentless, though. After a while, I gave in. We walked to the entrance of the Den. The birds had just started their morning songs, and the sun was slowly starting to rise. I sniffed the air, which smelled like rain and flowers.

We walked in peaceful silence. When we got to the River, Penny found a worm and dangled it in front of my snout. I devoured it and dug around in the mud to find one for her. We had played this game since we were able to hunt. Soon, the sun was up, and our stomachs were full.

That’s when the storm arrived. I had sensed it when I woke up, but I had pushed it away, thinking it was nothing. A cloud blocked the sunlight. I looked up and noticed that it was dark gray, a sign that the storm would be big and really wet.

“Penny — ” I was cut off by a loud crack of thunder and a flash of lightning. A big, fat raindrop landed on my nose, and the rain started coming down hard. Penny and I scampered under the trees, hoping for shelter from the rain, but the trees were no help. The rain still leaked through the thick leaves.

“Grrr… ” I heard my least favorite sound: the growl of a wolf. I spun around and saw the leader of the wolves that lived in the forest, Winter. She was a huge wolf, with whitish-gray fur and gleaming, black eyes. Winter and her pack were horrible, any fox’s enemy.

Winter growled again, baring her sharp, white teeth.

“Felicity, run!” Penny howled. We ran in the opposite direction of Winter, towards the River. The River was now quickly flowing and sharp rocks jutted out of the water. Winter raced after us.

“Penny, we’ll have to try to jump across the River!” I shouted over the roar of the storm.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to!” Penny yelled back.

“You’ll have to try! I’ll go after you! Don’t worry, I believe in you!” Penny looked at the River with uncertainty and back at me.

“Okay, I’ll try!”

Penny took a running start. Then, she leaped gracefully into the air, but she didn’t leap far enough. Her paw grazed a rock and threw her off course. She fell into the River with a loud splash.

“Aagh, Penny!” I shrieked.

“What are you going to do now, fox?” Winter growled.

“I’m going to go after her,” I replied.

I jumped into the River. It was cold and disgusting. I hated water. I saw a flash of orangish-red fur and tried to propel myself through the water towards it. A log came passing by me, and I dug my claws into it so that I wouldn’t have to swim in the raging water. When I pulled myself out of the water, my head hit something. Then everything went black.

I opened my eyes and found myself resting on the forest floor. I had a sharp pain on my forehead, and my paws ached.

“Felicity! You’re awake!” I heard a familiar voice. I turned and saw my favorite fox in the whole entire forest, Penny. Her fur was dirty and matted, and I figured that I probably looked the same. I stood up unsteadily and looked around. We were in a part of the forest that I had never been to. The trees were taller and darker, the ground was a lot rockier, and there were a lot more spiky bushes. I was lying on a tiny patch of brownish moss.

“Penny, where are we?” I asked. My voice was a little raspy.

“I think we might be in the Dark Forest. It sure looks like it, from what Grandfather told us,” Penny said.

Our grandfather was a traveling fox. He traveled to many forests, and he would always come back and tell us what he had seen. He had once told us about the Dark Forest, the place that the River had taken us. He had said that it was particularly unpleasant and not a place for a fox to live. Apparently there were “things too terrible to speak of” in the Dark Forest.

“We’re in the Dark Forest?!” I shrieked.

“Shush… You don’t want to yell in this forest. The Creatures will awake, whatever they are. Remember how Grandfather said that they come out when the sun goes behind the horizon? We have to get back before then,” Penny said.

“Oh, sweet Mother of Rabbits. How are we gonna get back?” I looked up. The sun was already high in the sky. “We will have to find some sort of shelter before the sun is gone.”

We began running in the direction that seemed like the direction of home. I was running a lot faster than Penny, who looked quite tired. And hungry. I slowed down, so she could catch up with me. She looked at me wearily.

“You okay, Penny?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just a little tired. I’m not used to running this fast and this far,” she replied, panting. After a while, we stopped running, attempting and failing to find food.

The clouds in the sky started to turn pink and purple. My heart raced. The sky was turning darker and darker every second. I guessed that we only had a small amount of time left of daylight. Then, there was no light left.

“Oh my — ” I never heard what Penny was going to say. There was a terrible noise, like a sick eagle being eaten by a growling wolf. Penny edged closer to me. Then, we saw the first Creature of the night. It was almost indescribable. The dark made it hard to make out exactly what the Creature looked like, but I could partially see it. It had the yellowest teeth; gleaming, red eyes; horribleness; pain; and the worst things imaginable. The level of sound increased, telling me that more Creatures were coming close. We couldn’t see them completely, but I had a good idea of what they could do to a fox. It was like the Creature could bring back the worst memories and take away all happiness. It was the worst thing I had ever experienced in my whole life.

“Run!” I cried. But Penny was frozen with fear, whimpering. I nudged her, and she didn’t move. She slumped against me. More Creatures emerged from the depths of the forest. We were completely surrounded. It seemed like there was no way out.

Unexpectedly, Penny straightened up and shouted, “Felicity! There’s a gap right there! Hurry!” She ran off, and I followed her. The Creatures swiped at us, but we squeezed through the gap and darted into the forest.

We ran and ran and ran for the second time that day. It was completely dark, and we couldn’t see a thing; the dense leaves overhead blocked out all the light from the moon and the stars. I bumped into a tree once or twice, which slowed us down a lot.

Eventually, we couldn’t run anymore, so we tried to find a safe place to sleep. Penny suggested just sleeping up a tree, but that made no sense since foxes can’t climb trees. I guess she was just delirious from all the running that we had been doing and all the stuff we had been through. We walked for a little bit until we found a dark cave that looked calm and deserted.

“This might be okay,” I said. I peered inside to get a better view of the interior. The walls were nice and smooth. There were a few dead leaves that looked damp and a few fuzzy lumps that I assumed were dead mice. “Penny, there are mice! We could eat them!”

“Yeah,” Penny said. We lunged for the mice and gulped them down. They were really lean, and they seemed as though they had been malnourished when they were alive. They tasted weird and sour; they were nothing like the delicious worms and rabbits of my forest.

Bellies only halfway full, we curled up in the unfamiliar place and tried to fall asleep. Penny was a fast fall-asleeper, but not me. I had never slept away from home.

I adjusted my position so many times, but the cave wasn’t the same as the Den. I then realized that I was lying on a sharp rock. I pawed at it, trying to get it out of the way without waking Penny. It bounced away with a loud clatter.

Only partially satisfied, I lay on my side and fell into a deep, uneasy sleep, full of weird dreams.

I was walking happily through the forest. I hummed an old fox melody that had been passed on for generations. All of a sudden, the sky blackened. I was surrounded by things that looked like Creatures mixed with wolves. Then Penny was flying above me shouting misleading directions at me. Then she turned into Winter, the leader of the wolves. Winter-Penny came down and stared at me menacingly. She bared her teeth and growled.

I woke up with a start. It had all been a horrible dream. Penny was already wide awake.

“You okay, Felicity? You were moaning and groaning in your sleep. And kind of shouting.”

“What did I… shout?”

“You were saying things about Winter and how she was attacking you. Well, the sun is up, so let’s go attempt and probably fail to find food.”

I laughed at this, even though it wasn’t a laughing matter. It just seemed crazy how my cousin and I were stuck in a creepy forest when just yesterday we had been joking around about worms. Penny frowned at me.

“Felicity, this isn’t a joke. We need to find our way home. But first, we’ve got to find the River,” she said, glaring at me. I was surprised. I’m usually the one who thinks logically and stays on task. Penny just goofs off most of the time. It was like we had switched roles.

“Well, okay then. Let’s go find food and then the River. Or find food by the River. I don’t know,” I said. Penny stopped glaring, but she still seemed a little stiff and distant. I wondered why. Maybe because I laughed? But Penny was not usually upset by things as small as that. I thought about that as we looked for food.

I dug around in the mud. Mud, mud, rocks, mud. Nothing but mud. Out of the blue, I glimpsed something pinkish and wriggling. Slowly, it came into view. “Penny, look! A worm!” I turned around. Penny was facing the trees, just sitting there. “Penny? You okay?” I walked over to her and pawed at her back.

She turned around and looked at me like it was her first time seeing me. Her eyes looked blank. Then, she bared her teeth and growled. She pounced, and I scurried backwards. It was terrifying. Penny had never acted like this, ever, even during our worst disagreements.

“Penny! It’s me… Felicity… ” Penny’s eyes looked full and normal again. But that encounter scared me. “I found a worm.” I split the worm in half and gave the bigger half to Penny. I had the idea that she had acted weirdly because of the lack of food.

I started to walk in the direction that I thought we had come in the night before. Penny followed me. Soon, she was acting mostly like herself, but she was a lot quieter. I finally gathered up the courage to ask her what happened earlier.

“Penny, what happened earlier? When you went kind of crazy. You know, you pounced and growled. At me,” I said cautiously. Penny looked confused.

“Wha — Oh, yeah. Sorry that I was rude about your dream,” Penny said. I looked at her weirdly. But before I could say anything else about it, I saw something shiny. There was a gushing sound, and I realized that it was the River.

“The River! Penny, look!”

“Yay. Awesome. I have to stay here, though. For the greater good of the Creatures,” Penny mumbled. It sounded like she was reciting a story, like it wasn’t actually real. My heart skipped a beat.

“The Creatures? Why?”

“Because. They need me.”

Something was very wrong. Penny, wanting to stay with the Creatures? She was obviously possessed or hypnotized or something like that. Grandfather had said that if one got too close to a Creature, they would never be the same. Unless they got help from someone unreachable for a fox. The Wise Old Owl, who lived up in a tree right next to the Den, and foxes can’t climb trees (obviously). The Wise Old Owl knew all the secrets of the whole world, even the human secrets and the wolf secrets. But she would only share the secrets if you were in critical need and even then, only if you paid. And she never, ever comes onto the ground.

Suddenly, an idea popped into my head. “Penny, where the river leads, the Creatures will be there. Remember? We’ve lived with the Creatures all of our lives. They are… um, our family.” Penny’s curse must have made her really unintelligent or willing to do anything that had to do with Creatures, because she nodded with excitement and grinned.

“This is an amazing idea.”

I started walking in the opposite direction from the river, but Penny’s voice interrupted my thoughts. It was still vague, and it still sounded hypnotized. “This place seems familiar in my memories of the Creatures. Are we close to them?”

This place did indeed seem familiar. Right at the edge of the Dark Forest, there were fox paw prints and a big patch of moss. It was the place where Penny had woken me up on our first day in the Dark Forest. There was that tree… and those rocks… and… a Creature? My heart leapt, and I bit back a yell. What was it doing in the daylight?

“Oh Creature, I am your humble servant.” Penny bowed down to the Creature and motioned for me to do the same. I wanted to give her a disgusted look, but I had to play along. Reluctantly, I bowed down next to her.

The Creature made me feel horrible, but its power seemed weaker this time. I held all of my feelings inside and tried to avoid gazing at its ugliness. It was huge, with twelve spiky legs and many teeth. It stood on all of its twelve legs, and it had one pair of gruesome pincers. Its small amount of fur was greasy and greenish-gray. It looked like it was sweating goo, and it was drooling reddish brown saliva. It was pure evil.

I gritted my teeth and said, “I am… totally your humble servant, Creature.” It was the exact opposite of what I wanted to say. Penny looked at me proudly.

Without a warning, the Creature jumped and tried to attack Penny. Penny just stood there, willing to do anything for any Creature. I acted quickly, pushing her away just in time. “Penny, we need to go! This isn’t a Creature, it’s something disguised as a Creature!” I lied. Penny looked shocked. She looked like she might be sick for a moment, then she bared her teeth and growled menacingly.

“Grr… You imposter!” She got ready to attack, but I nudged her towards the river.

“We are wasting time, Penny. We need to get home. This won’t solve anything.”

Penny let my words sink in for a second, then she let me lead her away. The Creature trailed slowly behind us, leaving an icky green sludge behind it. It was really weird how it wasn’t attacking us. It was like the lion that Grandfather had told me that he had seen once, stalking its prey before attacking.

I kept looking over my shoulder. Every time I looked, it was still there, but it never showed any signs of attacking It was really quite bizarre. Maybe, a thought occurred to me, it can’t attack during the day, and that’s why it only comes out at night. That is probably why it is so weak right now and creepily following us.

Gradually, things became more and more familiar. Less and less evil-looking. I finally saw a place the Mama had taken me and my sisters and brothers a lot when we were cubs. It was an hour’s walk from the Den, so we had to be close. I was worried, though. The Creature was still following us, and I didn’t want to lead it to my family.

I decided to do something dangerous. I tried to find a place, any place, where a dead tree had fallen over the river. The storm had knocked over a tall, skinny tree, so I hopped up onto it. It wobbled and swayed when Penny jumped up behind me. We crossed safely, but somehow the Creature did too, even though the branch would probably be too weak to support its weight, and it had no wings. This was part of my plan, though.

After a little while, we passed the Den. I looked at it longingly. I just couldn’t stand seeing it and not stepping inside. Unable to stand it, I told Penny to wait outside a little ways away from the Den. She did as she was told, with only the Creatures and the “Imposter” on her mind.

The Den smelled great. Like home. I was home. “Mama! Papa!” I called through the dark tunnel that led to the main room of our den.

“Felicity? Is that you? Where have you been?” Mama’s voice rang throughout the tunnel. I picked up my pace and found her and Papa and most of the family in the room. Everyone’s eyes lit up at the sight of me, but they noticed quickly that Penny wasn’t there. Because of that, most of their smiles faded and turned into confused looks.

My Aunt and Uncle both asked at the same time, “Where is Penny?”

So I told them the whole story, of how we wound up in the Dark Forest to seeing the Creatures to Penny being cursed to the Creature following us home. They looked more and more concerned every second. “So what’s happening now? Why are you here if you haven’t broken the curse?” my annoying little cousin Liza whined. But I couldn’t blame her. Penny was her sister, after all. “Do you even know how to break the curse?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. We have to do is talk to the Wise Old Owl. She knows everything, and she might be able to break the curse.” I felt like I was giving some sort of speech because everyone nodded and listened to me with thoughtfulness. Before, nobody took me seriously, and nobody listened to me.

We shared ideas of how to get the Wise Old Owl to come down. My brother even suggested pretending that the forest was on fire and her tree was burning up, but then we realized the she would know whether or not the forest was burning since she knows everything.

Finally, we decided on a boring, basic idea. It was to catch a fish and offer to give it to her if she gave us the information we needed. But we planned to do that after leading the Creature away from the Den. I knew just the place to lead it to. The Wolf Den. My family agreed that we should do that. Papa insisted on doing it by himself, but Mama refused.

“Either we all go, except for the little ones, or none of us go. That’s the way it is. We have to stick together,” she declared.

So we set off. The Wolf Den wasn’t too far; it was a short walk. My Aunt stayed home to look after the little fox cubs and the rest of us filed out of the Den one by one. We all walked over to Penny, who was still standing many steps away from the Den. “Penny, these foxes are our friends. They’ll… um, help us get home,” I said nervously.

Penny just nodded and kept looking at the “Imposter” angrily. Papa and Mama led the way to the Wolf Den, having been there many times to make deals. My Uncle and Aunt were close behind them, and everyone else was in between them. I was in the rear so that I could keep an eye on Penny. The Creature was behind us, still leaving a trail of green sludge.

After a short time, we reached Wolf Territory. The wolves had made a huge borderline out of fallen branches and pinecones. There were two muscular-looking wolves standing guard. One snapped at us, ready to attack.

“We… We have a gift for the wolf pack,” Papa said.

“What’s that thing in the back?” said one wolf. “The ugly thingy.”

“The gift, obviously. Can’t you wolves see?” Papa said. He was getting worked up and tense, which wasn’t part of the plan. Mama nudged him, and he calmed down slightly.

“Okay, we’ll take the gift. You can bring it to the entrance of our den and leave it there.” They let us pass, and we marched to the entrance of their den. Our loud marching alerted Winter and her sons and daughters that we were coming, and they met us next to the entrance of their home.

“What are all of you foxes doing here?” Winter’s oldest son, Orvar, grumbled. He glared menacingly at us.

Mama said calmly, “We’re here to deliver a gift. If you look behind us, it’s right there. See?” Winter’s eyes shifted from Mama to the Creature that was standing right behind me. “It will protect you. We have found it, and now we are giving it to you as a peace offering.”

Winter and her children stared at it for a few moments. Then they bared their teeth and smiled evilly. “Okay then. Give it to us and never return! You foxes are banished from our land! You were banished years ago!” Winter said. Everyone tensed, ready to fight the wolves. But we didn’t have to. The sky did it for us.

I looked up and noticed that my plan had worked. The sky was turning dark purple, and there were bright little dots scattered around up high. My family realized this, and we slowly backed away. This aggravated all the wolves.

“Where are you stupid savages going?” Winter’s daughter, Callisto, said. We said nothing and let the Creature do its job. It started running towards the wolves. Winter’s face was full of terror and so were Callisto’s and Orvar’s and all the other wolves’. But before I could see their terrible fate, Mama and Papa led our pack back into the woods, away from all the chaos.

When we were safe in Fox Territory, we rejoiced. We whooped and barked and howled, nuzzling each other and licking each other affectionately. I was only reminded of the Wise Old Owl when I saw Penny looking out of place among the others, standing on the sidelines with that blank look on her face.

“Hey, Penny. You okay?” I asked her with gentleness.

“I want to go home. I want to be reunited with our family, our real family. These foxes. are not the same as the Creatures. Take me to them. You have to,” Penny ordered. I could tell that she was restless and I sighed.

“Fine. We leave at… dawn, okay? Dawn.”

Penny nodded firmly. I told Mama and Papa that we were leaving at dawn for the Wise Old Owl’s tree. Mama agreed and said that it would only be me, her, Papa and Penny. She said that the more foxes we brought along, the less likely the Wise Old Owl would be to accept our plea. She also said to call the owl Ms. Kokka because she would never respond if we called her “Wise Old Owl.”

I woke up to Mama and Papa pawing at me. Penny was standing behind them, looking as vacant and cursed as ever. Mama caught a salmon from the river as payment for Ms. Kokka’s services. Then we started off toward the Wise Old Owl’s — Ms. Kokka’s — oak tree.

“Felicity, are you sure we can trust these foxes?” Penny whispered. She looked scared.

“Of course. I’ve known Mama and — er, these foxes for a while. They’re taking us to the Wise Ol– I mean, the Creatures now. Woah.” We had arrived. The oak tree was ginormous. I could barely see the sky because there were so many leaves. Close to those leaves was a big, hollow hole. I caught a glimpse of a yellow beak.

“What are we doing here?” Penny demanded.

“We just have to do an errand. Then, we’ll take you two to your home,” Mama said without missing a beat. She was amazing at pretending. “Oh, Ms. Kokkaaaaaaa!

The owl flew onto the closest branch near her nest and glared down at us. “What do you want, you idiotic, foolish, imprudent foxes?” Ms. Kokka’s voice was old and grumbly. She obviously hated her job, but the whole forest depended on her.

“We need your help! One of our dearest friends has been cursed! By creepy beasts that live in the Dark Forest!” Mama yelled.

“Surely you know there’s a price, after barking up my tree so many times,” Ms. Kokka said.

“Of course, Ms. Kokka. We don’t have much to offer you, except for a freshly caught salmon from the river. We hope you accept it in return for reversing the curse on our dear friend.”

“Well… ” My heartbeat quickened. “Since you went through all that trouble to get me a minuscule, infinitesimal salmon, I’ll help you. I’ll break the curse, but you must come up here.” The owl smirked. “I do not feel like flying down on such a hot, sweltering day.”

It wasn’t hot at all. Ms. Kokka clearly just wanted some entertainment. But I was willing to do almost anything to get my cousin back to normal. “Let’s do it.” Mama was determined, too. And so was Papa. He was already making his way over to the tree. Penny decided to stay on the forest floor (which was probably for the best, because once we got to the top, we could tell Ms. Kokka who was really cursed — Penny, not some dear friend).

I started to climb the tree. No, I started to scratch at the tree. It was impossible to get a grip on the bark. I inched my way up to the closest branch, which I hurled myself onto to catch my breath. Mama and Papa emerged a minute later, gasping and panting. They were older and larger, so this would be way harder for them than it was for me. We slowly made our way up the tree, which was amazing. We were probably the first foxes in history who had ever climbed a tree. Wherever I stopped for breath, Mama and Papa stopped too.

Climbing was excruciating. I had always envied squirrels and raccoons, but now I was glad that I didn’t have to climb trees. The sun inched its way up along with me and Mama and Papa. By the time we were halfway up in the tree, the sun was halfway in the sky. The leaves of the oak tree blocked out its bright rays, but I still felt like I was burning up. My mouth was parched. I felt like I hadn’t eaten in five days. When I got up to that despicable owl’s lair, I would tell her just how evil she was. But she’s helping us make Penny normal again, I reminded myself.

Finally, just as the sky was turning purple, we reached the horrible Ms. Kokka’s nest. It looked disappointingly normal. I had thought that she would have human tools and creations (like those weird glowing things that humans tap and they talk to spirits), but it just had a bunch of sticks and hay. There was a golden circle with markings on it, but that was the only special thing in there.

“Ms. — Ms. Kokka?” I asked. The old owl emerged from the shadows.

“Yes? Oh, my, You’re actually here? I thought you would never be able to do it,” Ms. Kokka said.

“We climbed your tree. Now, please break the curse on my cousin. Please. She’s the fox down there. She got cursed by the Creatures, and now she thinks she’s one of them. We really need your help. Please.”

“Well, I haven’t done magic in many years.”

“Come on. We’re counting on you!”

Ms. Kokka nodded mysteriously. Then she started chanting in a weird language. Purple dust with gold flecks in it started flying around her. Her eyes started glowing yellow, and she rose up without even flapping her wings.

The purple dust drifted down the tree. It swirled around Penny. Her eyes widened as her paws lifted off the ground. The blankness left her eyes and her shoulders relaxed. Ms. Kokka brought the dust back up the tree, and then it swirled around Mama, Papa, and me. It brought us down to the ground, right next to Penny, who rushed to me and nuzzled me.

“Felicity! I can’t believe that happened! Oh, sweet Mother of Rabbits! I’m so glad that I’m okay! And that time with the Creatures was insane! Mother of Rabbits! Wow!”

We made our way back to the Den. The whole family embraced us and smothered Penny with nuzzles and licks.

Later, Penny and I vowed, under the light of the fireflies, that we would never let anything bad happen to each other ever again.


Toys R Us Ripoff

When I was three, my parents went to a Toys R Us store, seeking to get me the best birthday present I would ever get. They could have went to any Toys R Us store and picked any present, but no, they picked a robotic dog, a robotic dog that would change everything… Duh duh duhhhhh!

When they brought it home and I opened it, I was overcome with joy. I had always wanted a dog! (Even though it was a robot, I honestly couldn’t tell the difference.) I begged my parents to help me turn it on, and when they did, my happiness slipped away. It didn’t turn on. It just sat there glitching, while I sat there crying. My parents took the dog into our closet, never to be seen again. Or at least that’s how I wish it went.

Because of those events, my family and I became cat people!!! We got five (alive) cats named Marmalade, Marble, Salty, BB, and Jinky. One day after I had come home from school, I realized I forgot to check on the cats. I raced up the stairs and into our cat room. I pushed by the doorway to count my cats.

“Okay, there’s Marbles’s here so is Jinky, BB, and Salty. Great, all four,” I said. Then, I stopped. “Don’t I have five cats.” I looked around. “Marmalade? Marmalade, where are you?”

I looked around my whole house, but there was no Marmalade.

Suddenly, I heard beeping behind me, while I was checking my parents’ bedroom. I spun around quickly, but there was nothing there. Over the next couple days, I did everything to find Marmalade, from missing posters to screaming “Marmalade” everywhere I went, which got me a lot of weird looks because most people thought I was screaming for jam. But things got weirder. Every other day, a cat would go missing, bringing more posters and more pain and more of those weird beeping sounds.

***

On the last day, I raced home from school. Only one cat was left, Jinky, my favorite. I ran up stairs as fast as one could, and I pulled the cat door open. It was empty. Jinky was gone. My heart froze. This can’t be happening. Then suddenly, I started to hear the beeping noise getting louder and louder, interrupting me from my thoughts. I looked to both of my sides, What is that?

“Jinky, is that you?” I asked.

Then I saw it. My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach. Our closet was open. I slowly turned around, and there was my robo dog… very much alive.


The Psychic

The psychic lived in an old house on the end of a deserted street. Her house was 200 years old and was situated on a volcano. She never left her house, and she only drank herbal tea. She believed that drinking herbal tea would make her live longer, so she drank 20 cups of it a day.

After the death of her husband, Mike, she had gotten 60 hamsters to console her and to keep her company. Many people who lived in the village below her thought she was weird, but at least she had three patients that came to see her every day. Jen, Madeleine, and Lola had been her best friends and patients since the age of five, and they spent all of their free time together.

On the psychic’s birthday, a beautiful, sunny day in November, the three patients decided to plan a party for the psychic. They were going to bring her on a hike to the top of the volcano for a beautiful picnic. Once the psychic found out about their plan, she was furious they had planned something for her. She had always spent her birthdays with her 60 hamsters and 40 cups of herbal tea. This was the one time she had to be alone with her prized possessions and not with her friends that literally spent every hour of the day with her. She couldn’t go up to her best friends and only patients and tell them that she didn’t want to go to her party, so instead she just kept her mouth shut.

At the top of the volcano, after two tortuous hours of loud screaming and singing had gone by, the psychic said to her patients, “Ladies, ladies, listen up. I am very grateful that you have planned all of this for me, but something doesn’t feel right… We should go back. I am getting a vision of my hamsters drinking all of my herbal tea.”

“Nonsense!!” Jen said. “This is our chance to do something nice for you. Forget about your tea and your hamsters for once.”

“Please,” she begged. “Oh wait,” she said, “I also just remembered today is the day of the month when I must clean the hamsters’ cage. I have to get back immediately!”

“Come on, Nadia,” Madeleine said, “stop making excuses.”

“But I’m not making excuses.”

“You need to spend some time away from that old, smelly house of yours. You barely go outside. You only drink herbal tea, and you wonder why people think you’re weird.”

Nadia just stood there shocked. No one had ever dared to insult her love for her tea. Her friends had just crossed a line. That was it. Nadia had finally lost her temper. Her face became as red as a tomato and her eyes as dark as the night. She was determined to save the loves of her life!

All of a sudden, clouds came out of nowhere and covered the sun, leaving the sky gloomy and gray. The three girls felt a rumbling beneath their feet, and a giant cloud of smoke rose from the peak of the volcano. This massive gust of wind threw them off of their feet. As they stood up, they found Nadia facing them with explosions of lava surrounding her.

As she spoke, her voice cracked at the beginning of every sentence, and her voice had become much deeper.

She grabbed her least favorite patient, Jen, by the arm and said, “Jen, in your future I see you dying by being thrown off the side of a volcano.”

She picked her up and threw her into the magma. Next, she reached for her patient Madeleine and gave her the same fate as Jen. As she went to grab her last patient, Lola, she felt the ground beneath her rumble, and before she could take another step, the rock she was stepping on had broken into millions of pieces, and she was falling into the volcano. The last thought that crossed her mind as she was getting closer to the end of her life was a vision of her hamsters drinking her herbal tea.


Taking out the Garbage

I yawn and look up at the pool blue ceiling, and then it hits me. No! Today’s the day. The day that I have to take out the garbage. I love garbage. I collect garbage, and I’ve been saving all the garbage I love most! For example, my rainbow tin can with a crab on it that’s from Mexico or my collection of Disney plastic bags. But my mami said that today the garbage is going in the garbage.

I roll over in my bed and cover my head with my fluffy pink blanket my abuela gave me when she visited.

“Nya, get up. It’s the day for you to take all the garbage out,” my mom says with glee.

“No, I won’t,” I grumble. “And for the last time, it’s not garbage. It’s my treasure!”

“Nya, for the last time, you have to take the garbage out, so you can collect more. Wouldn’t it be nice to have new fresh garbage?” my mami says, making an excellent point.

“Yes, yes it would, but this is my precious garbage. How can I just give it away like… trash?” I say.

“Nya Solone Rodrigues, get down here this instant. Or I’ll burn it, and you know I will,” my mami says with satisfaction.

“Fine,” I say and hop up on my too-hard bed and trudge very slowly down the stairs. I’ll do what she wants, but I won’t do it fast. When I get downstairs, my mami has a wide smile on her face and a huge garbage bag in her hand.

I grab the garbage bag and give her my best stink eye. I walk out the door with my mom trailing closely behind, to make sure I don’t hide the bag somewhere and use a decoy like I did last time on garbage day. I walk up to the garbage bag and kiss my garbage knowing this is one of the last times I ever will. My mami opens the blue lid, and without looking, I slowly lift my garbage bag up and kiss it one last time and sling it in.

I immediately start crying. I blubber like a baby as I say, “It’s my garbage.”

My mami, now with sympathy in her eyes, says, “I’m sorry, sweetie, but you know this is the only way.”

“I know,” I whisper. “I know.”

My mami says, “At least you’ll have your memories.”

I exclaim with delight, “You’re right. I’m gonna go make a poem!”

And I write this:

I Remember

A poem by Nya

I remember my lucky rainbow lobster can from Mexico.

I remember the gum wrapper I found on the ground in the shopping mall.

I remember the hippie headband I found soaking wet down at the beach.

I remember the toilet roll I found at the Macy’s department store bathroom.

I remember the little fancy hand napkins I also found at the Macy’s department store bathroom.

I remember the doll head I found in my cousin’s backyard.

I remember how the doll was missing a tooth and had blood all over its head.

I remember my sister’s first pineapple rind.

I remember the tooth I found in the sandbox.

I remember the plastic bottle I found with Dora all over it.

I remember the Elsa and Anna chicken noodle soup can.

Oh trash, oh trash it doesn’t matter if you’re here or in the garbage can. I will always always remember you.


Pencil Sharpener Dream Dilemma

Part One:

“Guess what!” Kevun exclaimed.

“What?” his sister Patricia said.

“Last night I had a dream that a pencil sharpener was trying to kill me!” Kevun said.

“For Christ’s sake, Kevun, why do you keep having such horrible dreams?” asked Patricia.

Kevun thought for a moment. “Maybe… it was because this kid. He’s a big bad bully, and his name is Dylun. He threatened me yesterday that he was going to kill me with a pencil sharpener!”

“I wonder how he thought he was going to kill you with a freaking pencil sharpener?!” said Patricia.

At breakfast, Kevun decided that he was going to ask Dylun how he had planned to kill him with a damn pencil sharpener. Kevun left for school earlier than usual because he knew that Dylun always loved to play basketball before school started.

So, when Kevun met up with Dylun, Kevun asked, “Remember yesterday how you said that you were going to kill me with a pencil sharpener.”

“Yeah, I still will kill you with that,” Dylun said as he made a 3-pointer.

“So, how do you plan to kill me?”

“Why would I tell you that?” said Dylun as he laughed.

Kevun raged with anger! Kevun was actually pretty strong. “Yo, you want to fight?!” Kevun shouted.

“Oh yeah, game on,” Dylun challenged back.

Kevun and Dylun had never been friends. They were always arguing and fighting, and Dylun had always bullied Kevun. They were both pretty even when they fought, but finally Dylun slipped, and Kevun grabbed a hold of his neck.

“Aha, gotcha.”

“Get me out of this.” Dylun barely could get those words out.

“Tell me how you intended to kill me with that pencil sharpener, and I’ll let you go,” Kevun demanded.

“Okay fine, I intended to use the sharp part of it to cut your neck and yeah, okay, now let me go!” Dylun yelled.

“Thanks.” Kevun scrambled away and ran straight to Mr. Littleton’s office (the principal) to tell him what Dylun had planned on doing. Back in the gym, Dylun was recovering from being choked…


Part Two:

In the end, both of the boys’ parents were called over to the school immediately. They had agreed that Kevun would get an after school detention, and Dylun would get two weeks suspension, during which he had to go to the hospital for mental help, and after that he would get an after school detention too. After all the punishments were over, things still weren’t that great between the two. Disputes were common between the two. One day, Dylun woke up and told his parents that he had a dream about a pencil killing him.

He explained to his parents what happened in the dream and then said, “Wait a moment, I know why I had this dream. The other day this kid Kevun threatened to kill me with a pencil.”

Dylun was lying of course, for Kevun would never do such a thing. Dylun ran off to school with his parents chasing after him. He was no match for his parents. So, when Dylun came to school, he acted as if it was a normal school day. He did this so when his parents called up the school, the school would say that he is acting perfectly normal, and that is exactly what happened. When school was over, Dylun saw that Kevun was standing alone waiting for his friend. Dylun ran up to Kevun and jumped onto and over Kevun’s shoulders. This totally caught Kevun by surprise. Immediately, Dylun engaged with Kevun, and quickly they were fiercely fighting each other.

Soon enough, a crowd had gathered around and was chanting, “FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!”

Even one kid started Instagram live-ing the scene. At the end, bystanders from the street broke up the fight and called up the school. It was talked over and agreed upon that Dylun would be expelled from the school, and Kevun would get a suspension. Kevun’s parents had decided that this wasn’t the right school for him and that he would go to a new school. In Kevun’s new school, he felt safer and had already made new friends. Kevun was still beaten up with scars from yesterday’s fight.


The Power Within (Part One)

One day in the middle of February, my dad, a genius scientist acknowledged by everyone across the world, made a machine to stop his fear because late at night he sees ghosts. These ghosts look like everyday people, but they have reflective, transparent skin and draped clothes that make them look creepy. So after making this machine, he loses his fear of ghosts, but it doesn’t work at the time. But two days later during the solar eclipse, I am skateboarding near the machine, when all of a sudden I am flying with my skateboard. And me being educated about my dad’s study of science, I assume since my dad’s invention is sun powered, it might have been the solar eclipse that caused me to have ghost-like powers. But maybe the gap between ghosts and humans is too great. But at the moment, I feel above everyone. I feel the breeze in the air and see the sun emerge from the solar eclipse. But wait, does that mean that I might fall? So I then go home with my flying abilities, and in addition, I learn I can fly without the skateboard. I make it home just in time to see the solar eclipse end. During dinner, I ask my dad if it is possible to fly.

He says, “Son, if you want to fly, we can make you a jetpack. If you want to soar, we’ll make you a hoverboard. Whatever you want.” As a side note, he says, “Kids these days and their crazy ideas.”

Then I go to sleep, confused on what I should do for the next day.

0800 Hours (Eastern Standard Time)

The Awakening

I wake up, and it’s five minutes till school. If I’m late, my dad said he wouldn’t get me my new isotopes, so I use my machinery to get on my clothes, brush my teeth, and stuff like that. Then with my new powers, I zoom off to school just in time to make it. I feel numb from the tingling and coldness of my special machine. Now it’s one minute. I use my hoverboard to zoom to school and make it with seconds to spare and dash into my seat. The teacher then starts her occasional speech about polynomials, and in my boredom I decide to doze off. When I wake up, the effect takes place immediately. When I wake up, someone throws a piece of chalk at my head, and inches away from my head it zooms back towards them. It shortstops a centimeter away from them, then drops to the floor. Everyone looks at me, and I realize I am a psychic. I get ready to call 911, then I decide to call my best friend Jelani, a kid who I went to school with. He is one of the greatest minds in psychology in the whole entire world. He tells me there is one person in the world that has had a case like mine. Dylan. I think, Wow, we were great friends in elementary school. I had heard that his parents partnered with my parents many, many times. I ask if I can see him, and they say that’s fine but try to keep it brief because he has been going through some emotionally challenging times. I walk into his room and see his room half sloppy on the gaming side and half clean on the nerd side of his room.

I say, “Wow, this looks really good,” and he responds by saying, “Well, when I game I feel free from the world,” which I totally get because I game only when I feel comfortable and when I can get into a proper mental state, like meditating but with more action.

I decide to use a calm approach to get him to talk about his powers, and I ask, “How cool would it be if we had our own powers like superheroes.”

And he responds by saying, “I don’t know. There’s bound to be some ups and downs of having superpowers.” I stare because of what he just said.

I see him thinking about how while playing around in his parents’ creativity ray, he earned the power to change reality as we know it.

I then say, “Your power is really cool,” and he responds with, “Are you really Jayden Tolliver?”

I tell him about how he stuck up for me. Then, I tell him about my powers. He tells me that he can’t change anything that might affect me, like making my parents the second smartest people in the world. I then tell him about how I gained my powers and how I found out he actually had powers.

The Agreement (00:00 hours)

At midnight, we agree to discuss our new powers since his mom thinks he is going through puberty, so we think his parents might think we are acting crazy. So we decide we would play one of our favorite games together and use our private chat to discuss what we would do henceforth.

Then around the middle, I find out from Jelani that my friend Noah also has a new ability, and I am laughing at that, so I just have to say to Dylan, “And so the plot thickens… ”

The plot thickens…

I get to my house where my secret hideout is located. I tell him no one in the world knows where it is, and we start to walk in the house. It is then I notice the door is unlocked, and the case that holds the spare key is gone. We walk into the house to find it ransacked. Luckily, my door’s special lock is still engaged. Then we notice the note. It says, If you want your parents back, you will have to give us your ability. Then I realize the only way they could have known all this. Jelani betrayed me. He is the only person alive who knows this fact besides Noah, who was with me the whole time.

To be continued…


How is the Winner of the Nobel Peace Prize Determined?

Peace is said to be the ultimate challenge of our time, and one of humanity’s most important values. Unfortunately we struggle for peace because of racial discrimination, and the imbalance between the rich and poor, among many other things. This makes peace and the Nobel Peace Prize all the more important. The Nobel Peace Prize recognizes people who have tried to make peace throughout the past year and encourages them to continue making peace. Researching all the amazing people who have changed the world for the better made me wonder how the judges of the prize determine who has made the most peace. How do you measure what makes one person’s good deeds greater than another’s?  That is why I choose to do my topic on how the winner of the Nobel Peace Prize is determined.

Before starting my research on how the winner of the Nobel Peace Prize is determined, I first researched more about the Nobel prize so I could have a deeper understanding of how it works. Most of my information on this came from the Nobel Prizes site and the book “Peace I Say” by Jay Nordlinger. discovered that the Committee of the Nobel Prize Judges is an independent body and is elected by the sorting, which is a legislative body composed of 169 member elected by the Norwegian people. The committee is responsible for the selection of eligible candidates and is composed of Norwegians. That is a custom but not a rule and anyone can be elected. A member is elected for a 6 year term but can be reelected as many times as possible. Each member can appoint their own chairman and deputy chairman.  As far as I can tell, the only rule for who can be a committee member is that no member of the government can serve on a committee. Another custom is that no member of the sorting can serve on the committee. Members can split the prize between as many as three people as well as give it to an individual or a organization. The prize can even be split between two people who have nothing to do with each other! I also found out that the prize does not have to be given every year, but it does have to be given every five years.

After researching about the Nobel Prize, I wanted to see who can be nominated and if there are any rules about being nominated for the prize. I found out that whoever is nominated has to be nominated for the work he or she have done during the preceding year, not any past work. Also the prize can not be given to anyone posthumously (after they have died), unless it has been decided before the person died. However, in 1961 Dag Hammarskjöld was the only person to win the Nobel Peace Prize posthumously but that was under specific circumstances and will never be done again. There are strict rules about who can nominate people and if you want to nominate someone you have to fall into one of these categories. You can nominate someone if you are a member of the International Court of Justice or the Permanent Court of Arbitration in the Hague, a member of the Institut De Droit International, a past winner of a Nobel Prize, on the board of directors for an organization that has won the prize, a former advisor of the Nobel Committee, a present or past committee member, a member of a national assembly or government, a university chancellor, or a university professor of Social Science, History, Philosophy, Law, and Theology. If you fit into one of those categories you will be sent a formal invitation to place your nomination.  Anybody can campaign to be nominated, but you can not nominate yourself. However, if you campaign you are not likely to win. The deadline for nomination is February 1st.

Now that we have all the logistics of the prize worked out, I can go back to my original question: How Is The Winner Of The Nobel Peace Prize Determined? The most obvious answer is whomever has made the most peace. But what is peace? What is considered “making peace”? The definition from the American Heritage College Dictionary is “the absence of war and other hostilities or an agreement to end hostilities”. In that dictionary it was also defined as freedom from quarrels and disagreements, harmonious relations, public security and order, inner contentment and serenity.  The Oxford Living Dictionary defined it differently. They defined it as a mental or emotional calm and freedom from disturbance. The most common definition of peace is the absence of dissension, violence, or war. The is also the definition of of the Greek word for peace, irene. However the original stem for peace is from the latin word pax wich means freedom from civil disorder. Other words for peace include haiwa, paix, shalom, pace, par, irene, aloha, pax, peace, frieden, and so many more; and like there are many words, there are many meanings for peace. In some cultures peace is used as a greeting, farewell, or request for silence, like aloha in hawaii. To the Chinese, peace is a feeling of contentment and is not connected to a peaceful society. To Israelis, peace is a state of friendliness and wellness. Emperor Augustus of Rome said, “Rome will grow richer only through peace.” which to the Romans meant absence of war and lasted 207 years. Cicero defines peace as freedom or tranquility which can only happen without war. Franklin Roosevelt believed that peace, like charity, begins at home. Peace can also be viewed as concord, harmony, tranquility, serenity, and a state of justice or goodness.

Even though there are many definitions of peace, in these circumstances the one the matters most is how the founder of the prize, Alfred Nobel, defined it. Alfred Nobel started the prize in Stockholm in 1900’s. He started the prize to rid himself of the title, “The Merchant of Death” which was given to him because he got rich selling dynamite. The instructions for the prize were inclosed in his third and final will which he signed in a Swedish/Norwegian club in Paris, France. As expected, his family was opposed to him leaving the majority of his money to the prize and not to them. The people he asked to award the prize was also opposed and therefore the first prize was not awarded until five years after his death in 1901. In his will Alfred Nobel described the winner of the peace prize as “The person who shall have done the most or best work for fraternity between the nations, for the abolition or reduction of standing armies, and for the holding and promotion of peaceful congress……….and have conferred the greatest benefit to humankind. ” Nobel’s definition also includes people who have worked to resolve conflict or create peace. It is also said that the person who receives the prize must be modest. Another very important line in the will is, “It is my express wish that when awarding the prize no consideration should be given to nationality but that the prize be awarded to the worthiest person whether or wether not they are Scandinavian.” One of the only rules in the will states that the entire remaining estate should be given to those who have made the most peace during the preceding year. This is a very controversial line because someone can easily say that someone won from their work in the preceding year but in reality it was because of past work.

Even though that is Alfred Nobel’s view it is not necessarily the views of the people who are currently in the committee. It is very hard to find why winners have been chosen because why a person was chosen over the other nominations along with the information and names of nominations are not supposed to be revealed until 50 years later. However, I did find information on why some organizations were chosen. For example, doctors without borders was chosen for the Nobel Peace because, “They help people in the most desperate situations whatever their race and whatever they may be to turn back to a dignified life.” The prize is awarded to a person or organization that has done the most to benefit humanity and promote the cause of peace. It is said that the winners of the peace prize go where need, suffering, and hopelessness is greatest – regardless of whether the catastrophes are human or natural in origin. I also think it is important to point out that the views of the Nobel Prize Committee are not and do not claim to be the views of the majority’s of the world’s population.

As I just said, the Nobel Peace Prize is not the view of the majority of the world population, which makes it a very controversial and politicized prize.  As the journalist Jay Nordlinger said, “Its selection process is bound up intimately with the parliamentary politics of Norway.” Even though that may be true, the Nobel Peace Prize has many benefits. The prize will raise awareness and previously closed doors will be opened for the recipient(s). With all the publicity and attention on political oppression and human rights violations there is a good chance that the government will work more towards helping people and changing what is wrong. The prize also helps the recipient further stabilize the peace they have been working towards.  The money given to the recipient(s) most likely will be used to continue their work and will benefit human kind even more. That is why the price is usually given before or in the middle of the peace process, when there is still much work to be done, so the Nobel Peace Prize can help them continue their work. One great thing that the prize does is highlight and recognize people with great aspirations, not necessarily great accomplishments. This way everyone who wins the prize is a good person at heart who will use the money and publicity for good and not to benefit themselves.

After researching how the judges are divided and how the judges/nominations decided who has made the most peace, I thought I should talk a little bit about the election process before I move on to interviews. February first is the deadline for nominations but the committee members can add more to the list, but only on that day. Finally in late February and early March the committee members work hard on coming up with a list of around 35 names. They then take a break to research and think before meeting again in April to narrow the previous list down to five to seven names. They then spend until early October trying to agree on the winner. In October the members do a majority vote without appeal. The winner is final and can not be changed. If a member strongly disagrees with a choice, they can resign before before October 27th when the winner is announced, but they must keep a dignified silence on their opinions.

I decided to interview two people on my topic to see what they thought about the Nobel Peace Prize and the process for awarding it. The first person that I interviewed was my friend Carly Cieslowski. I asked Carly how she thought the winner of the prize was determined and she said that she thought it was by the amount of people the person(s) help. Later, when I asked my brother Charles Billings, he said the opposite. He related it to one of the theories of Hobbes (the philosopher)  which is that it is about who affects the greatest good and it is not about how many people it helps. In other words, it is about who needs the help the most. He also said that it might be based on whether the person is a good, amiable person. I also asked my brother if he thought there should be any requirement for who can be nominated and he said no, as long as the person nominated is a good human being. The last question I asked my brother was what he thought makes a good deed great. He said that it changes the world for the better, which I completely agree with.

As Alfred Nobel said, “to declare someone a champion of peace is a bold act, to declare someone the greatest champion is an even bolder one.” However, I do not think that the Nobel Peace Prize itself is the bold one; I think the winners are. The winners of the Nobel Peace Prize are some of the bravest people in the world because they have the courage to stand up for what they believe in and fight for what is right. Ultimately, I think that the winner of the Nobel Peace Prize is determined by whoever  is the most selfless person who will dedicate their entire life to helping people and making a brighter tomorrow.

Bibliography

“All Nobel Peace Prizes” https://www.nobelprize.org/prizes/lists/all-nobel-peace-prizes/ 11-20-18

Billings, Charles interview 11-23-18

Castiglion, Elisa “what does peace mean?” faces vol. 34 no. 7 april 2018, pg 8. EBSCOHOST, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=dr&AN=128502862

Cieslowski, Carly interview 11-20-18

Krebs, Ronald R. “the false promise of the nobel peace prize.” political science quarterly (academy of political science), vol. 124, no. 4, winter 2009/2010 2009, pg. 593 EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=f6h&AN=47569163&site=ehost-live

Kushner, Sherrill. “ Nobel Peace Prize” faces, vol. 21, no. 7, march 2005 p.44 EBSCOHOST.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=erl&AN=16314711

Lusted, Marcia Amidon. “A Prize for Peace.” faces vol. 27 no.3, november 2010, p. 33 EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=trues&AN=54977684

“Nomination and selection of peace prize laureates” https://www.nobelprize.org/nomination/peace

Nordlinger, Jay. Peace, They Say. New York: Encounter Books., 2012

Peace. Oxford Living Dictionary. 2018 Oxford university press. https://en.oxforddictonaries.com/definition/peace

Rummel, R.J. “Understanding conflict and war: vol.5: the just peace chapter 2. What is peace”  https://www.hawaii.edu/powerkills/TJP.CHAP2.HTM

Russel, George. “Nobel Causes.” commentary, vol. 133, no. 6, June 2012, pg. 47. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=f6h&AN=7638407&site=ehost-live

The American Heritage College Dictionary, 3rd edition, 1997


What is Constructive Criticism and Why is it Important?

Have you ever asked someone for feedback and only received an “It’s fine?” When giving someone feedback, are you ever worried that they might react in a negative way? For my inquiry project, I decided to research criticism. What makes feedback constructive and helpful? What makes feedback unhelpful?

I love to draw and write, and the opinions of others are very important to me. I have noticed that whenever I share art with someone, I almost always get feedback. Even when I don’t ask for it. I researched this partly for myself, because I wanted to improve my criticism and how to respond to unhelpful criticism. I wanted to know what to say to get more out of someone who says something like “I don’t know, but something’s off about your work…”. I think it’s very important to know how to give and receive feedback. If you know these things, I believe that you will improve your work faster by critiquing others, yourself, and learning how to receive feedback.

To start off my project, I wanted to research the basics. What is criticism? What is helpful criticism? Why is it important? According to The American Heritage Student Dictionary, “Criticism is the art or profession of forming and expressing judgements, especially about literary or artistic works.” I also found another definition that is as follows: “Criticism is unfavorable judgement; finding fault; disapproval: constant criticism with no encouragement.” In all of these definitions, the word judgement comes up. To me, judgement sounds harsh, not helpful, really. It seems that this dictionary views criticism as a bad thing. I believe that it can be bad or unhelpful, but it isn’t always. So what is helpful criticism, then? Helpful criticism includes tips and things to improve on. Believe it or not, saying “I like it, it’s perfect.” is one of the most unhelpful feedback lines to give someone. It implies that you are unwilling to give detailed and personalized feedback. Since humans, just like any other natural thing, are incapable of being perfect, there are always things to improve on. Saying something is perfect cuts you off from learning more and recognizing mistakes that will help you grow. But why is criticism important? Feedback equals improvement, and improvement should always be your goal. It’s not about getting it done fast, it’s about getting it done well. To get something finished and polished, you need feedback.

To understand more about feedback, we have to break it down into the three types of feedback. It is important for the giver and the receiver of feedback to understand these categories.  The first type is Appreciation. Appreciation feedback is mainly fostered off of human relationships. It’s the giver of the feedback showing that they understand your work and maybe even agrees with it. Appreciation is the feedback that makes us feel good about our work. Most commonly, it motivates us the most to keep going. This is because we are reassured that what we are working on is “worth it”, so to speak. The main purpose is to acknowledge the person’s work. An example of Appreciation would be “Wow! This poster you made for the fair is so cool. You’re so good at this. Keep going!” The second type of feedback is Evaluation. Evaluation feedback is when you or your work is compared against standards. It’s purpose is to rate or rank someone’s work and align expectations. An example of this would be “Your drawing is good, but do you see Maria’s? She shaded her piece, so it looks a little more finished. That’s what we’re going for.” The last type of feedback is Coaching. In my opinion, coaching is the most helpful type of criticism. Coaching helps you learn, grow, and change a piece of work or skill you have. The goal is to fix and improve, which I believe is the purpose of feedback. Speaking of purposes, the purpose of Coaching is to expand your knowledge and sharpen your skills. You can also address your feeling on a situation or work with Coaching. An example of Coaching would be “I like the green, but in my opinion, some red would make it pop even more.” or “Your really good at soccer, but I’d like you to work on your passing so you can improve before the next game.”

So now we know the benefits of each type, but there are some shortfalls to each. Appreciation is great because it makes you feel good about your work, but it also teaches someone to only expect good feedback and take Coaching feedback poorly. It tends to seem fake and lazy because it’s almost as if you don’t have time to give a person good feedback, so you just say “I really love it.” To improve Appreciation, tell the person what you like about their work so they can add more and know what they’re doing well. The shortfalls of Evaluation are the opposite of Appreciation. Instead of a person not saying enough, someone giving Evaluation feedback can seem more opinionated than helpful. Sometime it doesn’t inform how to improve, leaving the receiver to figure it out for themselves. This is not the point of good criticism. For these shortfalls, Coaching is a better alternative. But saying that, Coaching is not perfect, either. This kind of feedback can make the receiver feel targeted and attacked. With Coaching, it’s hard to find a balance between good things and bad things, which is a main ingredient for good feedback.

The main thing to understand with Coaching is differentiating between hearing and meaning. What a person hears can be different than what you intend. For example, if someone tells you to be more confident, you may hear it as “You’re not good at this because you aren’t confident,” even though that’s not the giver’s message. You message may have been that confidence helps you improve and realize what you’re capable of.

Opposite of the three types of feedback, we have the three feedback triggers. Feedback triggers flip a switch in someone’s brain that makes them defensive. The first trigger is the Truth trigger. This trigger is set off by the actual feedback. Some common responses you my be familiar with giving or saying are “That’s not true!”, “That isn’t what they said!”. The feedback makes the person feel wronged, so they get defensive. The way to help this problem for the giver is to make sure your tone is passive and not aggressive at all. If you are the receiver, try to understand that the person is trying to help you improve, not hurt your feelings. The second type of feedback is Identity feedback. This trigger is all about us. Who we are and what we believe in. When we feel that someone is attacking who we are, we fight back. When the giver of feedback gets this kind of response, they need to reevaluate what they said and make sure it wasn’t hurtful. One’s person shouldn’t be criticised unless permission is given. The last kind of trigger is the Relationship trigger. These have to do with the relationship between the giver and the receiver. The receiver’s reaction is based off of what they believe about the person. The receiver needs to make sure that they aren’t reacting to the person when they should be reacting to the criticism.

The person giving you feedback should not be trying to hurt you. If their criticism isn’t helpful, you do not have to use it. Thank them politely and move on. Don’t feel like you have to take it, but it’s important to be kind.  

If you are giving feedback, it’s important to focus on the situation, not the person. Here are some examples of critiquing one’s dressing style, one of which is constructive, the other not:

“You’re too old-fashioned. You’re always wearing old people’s clothes that make you so boring.”

“From my recollection, the clothes you wear tend to be dull in color and dated compared to current trends. There’s nothing wrong with that, it just can make a person appear to be older.”

The first example is not very constructive and helpful. The person may of had good intentions, but the conveying message is that YOU are the problem, which is not constructive.

The second example is much better. It detaches the situation from the person. They aren’t blaming the person, so it doesn’t feel like an attack.

There are some things to remember when giving criticism. First, make sure you detach the situation from the person. Take the person out of the equation to better focus on the situation. Make sure your comments are directed to the situation, not the person. For example, “The report is late.” not “You are late.”. You’re not accusing the person, you’re helping them. Use a passive voice when giving feedback, you don’t want to sound aggressive.

All of this is good for when you are giving feedback, but what if you’re receiving it? How do you receive and understand feedback well? That’s what I wanted to explore next. One of the obvious things about feedback is that positive feedback is always easier to receive well. It makes you feel good about your work, and usually the giver knows this. With this kind of criticism, it either helps or it doesn’t. It rarely hurts a person’s feelings. This feedback doesn’t make you rethink your choices. It is, in a nutshell, neutral feedback. If neutral feedback does hurt one’s feelings, it’s because compliments can make some people feel put on the spot. They may feel pressured to keep doing well.

But how do you receive feedback that isn’t a compliment? First, you must understand that this feedback includes any information you get about yourself and your work. It’s most constructive if you ask for it.  People give feedback so you can improve your work, not to make you feel bad. Feedback isn’t about ranking value, it’s about improvement and learning from error and experience.

If you are giving a person constructive criticism, you want it to be as helpful as possible. One of the most important things to remember when giving criticism is to be specific. Try not to be vague, because it can come across as unconstructive. The person shouldn’t have to ask additional questions to get basic feedback. So you might have guessed, saying things like “It’s okay.”, “It could be better.”, and “It’s missing… something.” are not constructive. But how do you make your feedback more specific you may ask? Focus on the objective and start with the specific things you would change. It can help if you break down the feedback into key points. Don’t mush everything into one big lump, because it can be hard to process. Something to really help the receiver understand your point of view is to give examples with the feedback. For example, instead of “I think you should alter the colors.” say “I think you should alter the colors. Maybe make the text a little darker. That may be beneficial for the legibility.”

Sometimes a person giving you criticism is unaware about what makes feedback constructive. So what can you say to get more out of person? For example, if someone says “This looks bad.”, ask them why it’s bad. What elements make it bad? If they tell you that your work is fine, ask them that if they were to change one thing about your work, what would it be? It’s important to not just accept unconstructive feedback, but instead ask questions to improve your work.

While I was researching, I came across a lot of information about the Sandwich method of feedback. This is constructed by giving someone a positive, then an improvement, and lastly ending on another positive. This method focuses on strengths and things the giver thinks the receiver is doing well. While you are doing this, you are still providing criticism. The last positive can include that if the receiver considers the given feedback, their work will improve.

The best time to use the Sandwich method is when you are giving feedback to a person who you don’t know because the positive buffers make your feedback seem passive. So what makes this method so good? It helps the person recognize what they are doing well. Additionally, it gives a foundation to show what can be improved on as well. The last part helps articulate the beneficial things that can be seen if the subject of improvement is worked on.

The last topic I wanted to research was how to discard feedback kindly. People giving you feedback are usually trying to help you. You don’t have to take their feedback, but you should still thank them. For example, if someone tells you to make the text blue but you think it should be black, instead of “No, I think I’m going to keep it black.” say “Thank you, I’ll consider your suggestion.”. You can, however, be firm if someone is pushing their feedback on you. If someone keeps pushing their ideas on you, it’s no longer constructive. You can say “Thank you, but I’d like to figure the rest out for myself.” Criticism is important, so you should listen to other’s views because they will  help you improve.

In conclusion, I learned a lot while doing this project. I hope my research has helped me become a better giver and receiver of feedback. Feedback is important to improvement. Learning how to give constructive criticism and receive it will improve your work and view on others. I learned about methods for giving and receiving criticism well and about different types of feedback. This project was very interesting to me, and I really liked reading different people’s views on constructive criticism. To me, the different types of feedback were the most interesting part of my research. I believe that constructive criticism is important and we should all take a second to learn more about it. I enjoyed learning more about this topic and hope my research will be helpful to me in the future.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

“Criticism” The American Heritage Student Dictionary, Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1994.

Pillay, Nishlan. “How to Give Constructive Criticism. Six Helpful Tips.” Linkedin. April 9, 2015. <https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/how-give-constructive-criticism-6-helpful-tips-nishlan-pillay>

Scott, A.O. Better Living Through Criticism. New York: Penguin Random House LLC, 2016.

Stone, Douglas, and Sheila Heen. Thanks for the Feedback. New York: The Penguin Group, 2014.

The Forgotten Cowboys

The cowboy. A figure bathed in romance and national worship, the cowboy represents open lands, rugged individualism, and wandering, roaming freedom—diving into the unknown, unafraid, charging on a lone horse. The cowboy is the essence of American life, what we want to be; he is our quintessential hero. And he is always—always—white.

However, white men were never the only ones out on the range, and they certainly were not the only ones with a hand in the American cowboy culture. During the late 19th century following the Civil War, cattlemen and ranchers saw the economic potential in the Great Plains, and over 55,000 cowboys worked the plains between 1866-1885. Twenty-five percent of these cowboys were African Americans who brought their own culture, which they had already developed during their time as slaves, to the open ranges, where it became the heart of cowboy culture.

*

Buckaroo!” With its kicking k’s and howling oo’s, the word “buckaroo” is a classic example of Wild West slang. Meaning cowboy, “buckaroo” is generally believed to come from the equivalent Spanish word vaquero. But as with all history, origins are murky, and it is equally likely that “buckaroo” arose from African American influence, specifically the Gullah word buckra. Gullah, a language orginaly spoken by Southern slaves, was carried out west by black cowboys who quickly adapted its vocabulary for their new life of strange, foreign geography, unfamiliar work, and, most notably, heightened socio-economic tension in a work system much different from that of the plantations. Buckra, in particular, reflects these environmental factors, and to understand its use by African American cowboys requires an understanding of the African American cowboy’s status in the social hierarchy of the West.

While the segregation between white cowboys and African American cowboys was customary, the presence of Mexican vaqueros on the range complicated this relationship. African Americans, outnumbered by Mexicans who were better trained for range work, found themselves in economic competition with another minority group. Though neither group was fully accepted by the white cowboys, Mexican vaqueros were regarded as above black cowboys.

The Mexicans’ attitudes merely added insult to injury; contemptuous and condescending, “como un negro” was their supreme insult. Resentful of the Mexicans’ mockery and superiority, African American cowboys turned against the Mexican vaqueros by attacking them viciously through a coded language.

Buckra, in essence, means “white man” or “master”; “buckaroo” is simply a variation of buckra, intended to be confused with vaquero to disguise its meaning. The use of words with double meanings was common among African Americans, hiding an often derisive and risque message. “Buckaroo” fell perfectly into this pattern: African Americans privately ridiculed Mexican cowboys by sarcastically referring to them as white men or masters. Because of its phonetic proximity to vaquero, outsiders—both whites and Mexicans—only picked up on the surface meaning of “buckaroo,” which was cowboy. This secret language gave African Americans a feeling of dominance over the Mexicans, allowing them to preserve their pride in the face of harsh racial and economic competition on the plains. The fact that “buckaroo” has remained with us to this day as a distinguishing cachet of cowboy culture is a testament to the gritty survival of the black cowboy in the wild, wild West.

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It was John Lomax, the 19th-century American folklorist, who best described the beauty of Western music in his collection Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp: “Here… we may see the cowboy at work and at play; hear the jingle of his big bell spurs, the swish of his rope, the creaking of his saddle gear, the thud of thousands of hoofs on the long, long trail winding from Texas to Montana…” Indeed, cowboy music alone is material enough to retell the history of the West; its narratives and melodies carry us to an untethered land of young blood, beaten trails, and cattle drives. Though neglected and forgotten, African American cowboys were the keepers and interpreters of this cowboy legend, making significant contributions to Western music’s early formation.

When African Americans went out to work on the range, they brought with them an already developed musical culture from the plantations. In both structure and content, the ballads of the West originated from the field holler and moan sung by black slaves: a traditional three-chord ballad with narrative and sentimental lyrics. The song “Levee Camp Moan,” sung by Texas Alexander, contains the brooding lyrics and poignant reflections characteristic of black music and, later, of cowboy music: “They accused me of murder,/And I haven’t harmed a man,/They accused me of forgery,/And I can’t write my name.”

Songs by African American cowboys appear in numerous collections from the era. The first collector of cowboy songs, Jack Thorpe, began his work in 1889; his initial find was “Dodgin’ Joe,” a song by an African American cowboy and popular amongst black trail crews.

John Lomax’s collections, including 1910’s Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier Ballads and 1919’s Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp, contain plenty of songs by black cowboys; indeed, several of the most famous songs in both collections, such as “Git Along Little Dogies”, “Sam Bass”, and “Home on the Range”, came from African American cowboys. This music gave African Americans an indispensable role in the landscape of the West: by pouring the tribulations and joys of the trails into rowdy, sentimental music, African American cowboys reached out in song to touch other cowboys, alleviating the loneliness of the plains and making range life’s hardships a little more bearable.

*

Rodeo is the poetry of raw physicality, unpredictable creatures, and sacrifice; a battle between injury, immortality, and glory. Long dubbed “the toughest sport on Earth,” rodeo holds an undeniable appeal as a symbol of cowboy masculinity—after all, who else but a seasoned cowboy would even dare to handle a thrashing, bucking bull? African American cowboys too took part in this show of bravado and bravery, making rodeo the heroic sport it is today.

During slavery, African Americans often made up work crews responsible for the maintenance of ranches, including breaking horses, and after the Civil War, African American cowboys rounded up and branded cattle. These requisite skills made African American cowboys a perfect fit for the sport of rodeo; in fact, rodeo itself began with African Americans, NativeAmericans, and Mexicans teaching white men how to rope and wrangle cattle.

African Americans continued to develop their early cattle-ranching skills, and soon began creating their own thrilling rodeo events. Bill Pickett, an African American rodeo star, invented bulldogging, a rodeo style in which cowboys control a bull by biting its lip and subduing it. Pickett performed this trick for audiences across the country on numerous rodeo circuits; to this day, bulldogging remains one of the most popular events of rodeo. Nat Love and John Ware, both African American cowboys, were pivotal figures in early rodeo. Love was celebrated for his daring exploits and his roping, bridling, saddling, shooting, and bronco riding skills, earning the nickname “Deadwood Dick”; Ware, along with Pickett, popularized bulldogging. African American cowboys also created roman racing, a rodeo style where contestants ride standing upright on the backs of two horses. The evolution of rodeo, it appears, is as dynamic as the sport itself.

*

History is fickle, constantly subject to reinterpretation: narratives are hidden, then retrieved; memory is pregnant with meaning. In previous interpretations of Western history, African Americans, under a veil of racism, became the forgotten cowboys—their contributions overlooked and underestimated, their place in the wild West ignored. By reexamining Western history, we lift the corner of the veil and begin to see the full picture of the development of cowboy culture. The African American influence reverberates in the twang and rhythm of a hollered “buckaroo!”, in the bittersweet blues of a cowboy ballad, in the dust kicked up by racing rodeo horses. The history of the forgotten cowboys reminds us that the cowboy, a classic emblem of American life, is very much a product of multiethnic and multiracial influences; indeed, it is diversity that makes America so uniquely American.

Bibliography

Lomax, John. Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier Ballads. Sturgis & Walton, 1916.

Lomax, John. Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp. HTML ed., Project

Gutenberg.

Mason, Julian. “The Etymology of ‘Buckaroo’.” American Speech, vol. 35, no. 1, 1960, pp. 51–55.

JSTOR, JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/453613.

Nodjimbadem, Katie. “The Lesser-Known History of African-American Cowboys.”

The Lesser-Known History of African-American Cowboys – History –

Smithsonian, Smithsonian, 13 Feb. 2017, www.smithsonianmag.com/history/

lesser-known-history-african-american-cowboys-180962144/#MwIvehGBRmrcm24B.99.

Accessed 25 Nov. 2018.

O’Connor, Patrick Joseph. “Cowboy Blues: Early Black Music in the West.” Studies in Popular

Culture, vol. 16, no. 2, 1994, pp. 95–103. JSTOR, JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/23413735.

Patton, Tracy Owens, and Sally M. Schedlock. “Let’s Go, Let’s Show, Let’s Rodeo: African

Americans and The History of Rodeo.” The Journal of African American History, vol. 96, no.

4, 2011, pp. 503–521. JSTOR, JSTOR,

www.jstor.org/stable/10.5323/jafriamerhist.96.4.0503.

“Who Were the Cowboys Behind ‘Cowboy Songs’?” Who Were the Cowboys Behind

‘Cowboy Songs’? : NPR, NPR, 4 Dec. 2010, www.npr.org/2010/12/05/131761541/

we-ve-all-heard-cowboy-songs-but-who-were-the-cowboys. Accessed 25 Nov. 2018.


Conspiracy Theories

What is a fact? A fact is something that is obviously true. But something may seem obviously true to one person and false to another person. Conspiracy theorists mostly accuse someone or something for not being factual. Most conspiracy theories form from one side that has credible evidence to prove one thing and the other side has credible evidence to prove it’s wrong. Often media outlets give platforms to conspiracy theories. Most conspiracy theories are formed in reaction to acts being carried out by the government or other powerful people. Conspiracy theory are helpful because they encourage people to have an open mind and think outside of the box.

That may be the case for some theories, but there are also theories that have valid evidence, if it’s either video proof, articles or people admitting certain things about the event where the conspiracy theory is coming from, and people still deny them. For example, there is a theory that most singers in groups, Fifth Harmony, K-pop and other groups out there, are being treated like slaves and are getting paid almost as little to nothing.On the other hand, you have people who believe these stars are in perfect health, nothing bad happens to them, they are free to do whatever they want, their managers don’t monitor anything they do, and that is just not the case. I don’t personally believe that “all” conspiracy theorist have no valid evidence when they talk about certain topics. Obviously there are conspiracy theories where people believe that Donald Trump is an alien that satan sent from hell, and the person making this up believes this theory, of course the person or the people believing this has no proof at all. Even though that is extremely far-fetched, it doesn’t mean all conspiracy theories are ridiculous like that.

One of the main reasons why conspiracy theories are interesting to me, cause they make people think outside the box. You can even look at facts coming from a certain theory and come up with your own decision if you want to believe it or not . Not every single person who believes in the theories or come up with them are “crazy.” People call other people who believe these theories crazy, because they don’t want to believe everything what the news or the government tells us, so people call them crazy to discredit anything they have to say or believe in. Most theories out there, for example, 9/11 was done by the government, the moon landing was fake and how the company 23andMe takes your DNA so 50 years from now you can use it to deage you. All of these theories, when some people hear them, they call everyone who believes them or who comes up with them, crazy, but why? Not saying I believe in all of these theories, but they are definitely not crazy, and are not impossible from happening. If you look at the 23AndMe theory, why this doesn’t seem so farfetch for me, because, scientist have confirmed they are working on deaging for years now. Jose Codeiro, founding member of Singularity University, has said publicly that he does not plan on ageing, because a group of scientist are working on deaging, and he plans to look 30 years younger than the age he is now.

If we as a society were to able to sit down with someone, have a conversation with someone about their beliefs about a specific situation and just listen to what they had to say, most conspiracy theorists wouldn’t be called “crazy” for believing in them.

Lenin’s Declaration: A Reflection of the Toiling People’s Anger

Lenin’s “harsh voice that always grated on his opponents” rang through the air. He was commonly described in this manner while brandishing his fist as a sign of intense and rebellious spirit. Especially in his “Declaration of the Rights of the Toiling and Exploited Peoples,” Lenin employed dark and incriminating language in order to reflect the social, political, and economic turmoil in the era of the Russian Revolution. Within his text, Lenin focused on immediate revolution to upturn the social hierarchy, firmly advocated for the workers’, peasants’, and soldiers’ exclusive participation in government, and vigorously demonstrated his desire of establishing a socialistic economy and toppling down capitalism.

The social hierarchy in Russia, in which the bourgeoisie rested comfortably on top, was a major social issue that Lenin opposed and vigorously attacked in his Declaration of the Rights of the Toiling and Exploited Peoples. In this document, Lenin declared that a goal of the Constituent Assembly was ensuring the “complete abolition of class distinctions in society.” The class system in Russia during the late eighteen hundreds and early nineteen hundreds did not allow for any social mobility between classes and kept the urban working class and peasants at the bottom of society. The peasants made up 82 percent of the population, and yet were struggling as a whole and were the lowest class for a myriad of years. In 1861, the peasants had finally received legal freedom and redistribution of land from an edict of emancipation. However, they received the worst tracts of land and had to pay annual redemption payments to the government leaving them in a more precarious situation. Lenin described this social system as “parasitic.” According to Oxford Dictionaries, a parasite is an organism that lives on or in another organism and benefits by deriving nutrients at the other’s expense. In using the term “parasitic,” Lenin explained that the bourgeoisie had forced the peasants and urban working class to toil and profited off of their sweat and tears. In his declaration, Lenin also categorized the bourgeoisie as “few chosen nations,” which, in juxtaposition to the “hundreds of millions” of the working class, firmly elucidated the bourgeoisie’s relatively miniscule population with the toiling population. He then described the policy of the bourgeois “at the expense” of the working class to be “barbarous.” These situations were the main reasons why Lenin advocated for the “complete” eradication of this policy.

Lenin addressed the political issues of society with forceful language in order not to repeat history and not to place the bourgeoisie in positions of power. Specifically, he emphasized the workers’, peasants’, and soldiers’ sole and exclusive authority in the government. To this point, Lenin’s slogan was “[a]ll power to the Soviets.” In this statement, Lenin asserted that Russia should not repeat history. By the time the Declaration of the Rights of the Toiling and Exploited Peoples was written in January 1918, Russia went through two revolutions: The February Revolution and Bolshevik Revolution. After the February Revolution, despite much anticipation and desperation for democracy, Russia experienced a setback. Although the toiling masses had been hopeful of a new democratic government, the Constituent Assembly, it was not ready and the Provisional Government was formed in its stead on November 25, 1917. Alexander Kerensky was the leader of the government and his Commander-in-Chief was Lavr Kornilov. With their newfound power, they began to oppress the citizens through the restoration of death penalties of civilians, the restoration of military discipline, the militarization of railways and defense industries, and the ban on workers’ organizations. Not only did they support the war, but they also rejected the pleas of people who wanted a limit of eight hour days due to the war. Lenin, who was furious at this improper usage of power, stressed that the government must consist “wholly” of the toiling masses and of their “fully empowered representatives, the Soviets of Workers’, Soldiers’, and Peasants’ Deputies.” Furthermore, in Lenin’s article “What Is To Be Done?,” he specified that the toiling people should only participate in government if they “engage in revolutionary activities as a profession,” in order to ensure that the government is united and has a desire for immediate rebellion. Another example in which the upper class was resistant to release the power occurred in 1905 and 1906. When avoiding to “sw[ear] to act upon” the October Manifesto “as a constitution,” which limited his sovereignty, Tsar Nicholas II attempted to cling onto to his rapidly diminishing control in government. Recognizing this situation, Lenin explicitly wrote in the Declaration of the Rights of the Toiling and Exploited Peoples that “there is no place for the exploiters in any organ of government.” In this statement, Lenin focused on the bourgeoisie’s injustices against the toiling population and dubbed them “the exploiters.” He also reiterated that they would not participate in “any” form of the government, despite already clearly asserting that the government must be made of solely the toiling masses.

In the Declaration of the Rights of the Toiling and Exploited Peoples, Lenin’s aggravated wording expressed the destitution of the oppressed in Russian society. He focused on diminishing the bourgeoisie’s wealth and establishing a socialist economy. Russia’s economic crisis, as a result of its losing battles in World War I, hit those at the bottom of society severely. When workers in Petrograd faced bread shortage, the Russian authorities in February of 1905 mandated rationing to be implemented. Fed up, the workers finally marched to the center of streets chanting “[b]read!,” “[d]own with the tsar!,” and “[d]own with the war!” However, even the Provisional Government established after the revolution refused to discontinue Russia’s fight in the war and the majority of Russians’ living condition seemed far from an improvement. To their dismay, Lenin’s opinions regarding the implementation of capitalism to be the “claws of capitalism” surfaced and blamed it for starting a “most criminal of all wars” which “drenched the world with blood.” This sentence reflected Lenin’s accusatory tone towards capitalism and that the only way to save “mankind” from this malevolent practice is for the Constituent Assembly to “snatch” mankind promptly. In addition, according to Merriam Webster, a “yoke is an arched device laid on the neck of a defeated person.” In this context, Lenin compared the “toiling masses” to the defeated people who would be “emancipat[ed]” from the “yoke” capitalism through transferring all the banks to the Workers’ and Peasants’ Government.

Lenin’s incriminating language was not a mere expression of his Bolshevik style of delivery, but rather it served as a sounding board for proletariat’s voice in their destitute situation in Russia. With Lenin’s ideas and his vociferous attitude, he forcefully conveyed messages on solving the social, political, and economic problems present during the Russian Revolution in his Declaration of the Rights of the Toiling and Exploited Peoples.

Bibliography

“Declaration of the Rights of the Toiling and Exploited Peoples.” Internet Modern History Sourcebook. http://community.dur.ac.uk/a.k.harrington/decright.html.

Figes, Orlando. Revolutionary Russia 1891 – 1991 a History. NY, NY: Picador, n.d.

Fitzpatrick, Sheila. “The Bolsheviks.” In The Russian Revolution. 3rd ed. New York, United States: Oxford University Press, 2008.

Kort, Michael. “Reform, Reaction, and Revolution in Russia.” Facts on File. Last modified 2008. http://online.infobase.com/HRC/Search/Details/3?articleId=271596&q=the%20class%20system%20in%20the%20Russian%20revolution.

Moorehead, Alan. “The Constituent Assembly.” In The Russian Revolution. New York, United States: Harper Brothers, 1958.

“Parasite.” Oxford Dictionaries. Accessed December 5, 2018. https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/parasite.

Quinn, Edward. “Russian Revolution (1917).” Facts on File. Last modified 2004. http://online.infobase.com/HRC/Search/Details/3?articleId=45303&q=Russian%20Revolution.

Reed, John. “The Coming Storm.” In Ten Days That Shook the World. NY, NY: Skyhorse, n.d.

“Russian Society.” Alpha History. Accessed December 5, 2018. https://alphahistory.com/russianrevolution/russian-society/.

Strayer, Robert W., and Eric W. Nelson. “Revolutions of Industrialization, 1750 – 1914.” In Ways of the World. 3rd ed. Boston, United States: Macmillan Education, n.d.

“Yoke.” Merriam Webster. Accessed December 5, 2018. https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/yoke.


Feel the Heat: How Qatar is Converting to Solar Energy

Thousands across the globe feel the Sun’s blazing heat. But, in the Middle Eastern country of Qatar, the Sun could provide a new type of renewable energy to a forward-looking government and its people. There are many ways Qatar plans on diversifying their energy industry to include solar. Even though they have progressed greatly, Qatar and its companies should continue to support and invest in the solar energy sector. This will diversify its oil and natural-gas based economy and ensure a stable financial future. Supporting the solar industry will take advantage of the growing energy needs today, and build on Qatar’s position as one of the world’s largest and wealthiest energy producers. Qatar has the economic resources to enable the transition to solar and support a sustainable society for the future.

The Oil and Natural Gas Industries

To understand Qatar’s position on renewable energy one must first understand its economy, which has changed a lot since its early days. At first, Qatar was a poor country and did not have much of an economy. After a brief rise and fall of the pearling industry, Qatar had a major discovery in 1939: oil. They found large fields of oil on the eastern side of the peninsula, both onshore and offshore. These were some of the largest oil fields in the world, and they revived the dying country’s economy. Qatar had a booming industry, which helped them earn a large trade income to make it the wealthy country it is now (Willis 71-81). The oil industry in Qatar today is still going strong. Currently, there are several key oil companies that contribute to the wealth of Qatar. A major petroleum company is Qatar Petroleum, a massive oil company that is a crucial part of Qatar’s economy. It is a state-owned business formed in the 1970’s that many people in Qatar work for. In fact, most companies and jobs in Qatar are working for or around Qatar Petroleum (Willis 71).

Another important fossil fuel industry in Qatar is the natural gas industry. There are two types of natural gas: associated, which is found with crude oil, and non-associated, which is pure and found without crude oil. Qatar’s main natural gas field is the North Field, on the northern side of the peninsula (Willis 73-74). It is considered to be the largest non-associated natural gas field in the world and accounts for 99% of Qatar’s gas reserves (Gulf Times). Though it is hard to mine and liquefy, natural gas as well as oil make up most of Qatar’s income, and these fossil fuels are what make Qatar a wealthy country today (Willis 75).

Qatar’s Views on Renewable Energy

Qatar’s government has unique views on renewable energy. They are very supportive of renewable energy, even though they earn money mostly from fossil fuels. Qatar uses these fossil fuels mainly as exports, not for themselves. People in Qatar use ‘cleaner’ fossil fuels such as coal, and sometimes their own natural gas. Qatar’s philosophy is to let the world use their resources so they can make an income, and then spend that money making wiser decisions for their own country (Qatar Embassy). Qatar also sees the growing demand for renewable energy as an opportunity. The world is converting to renewable energy forms such as solar power, so companies like QSTec (Qatar Solar Technologies) are moving into mass production of solar panels. Qatar wants to take the opportunity in the growing industry and demand. Switching to being a producer of renewable would also be a smarter choice for the economy, to diversify it from oil and natural gas. That way, when next economy change comes, like when it converted from pearls to petroleum, Qatar will be ready. The country encourages its people and companies to convert to renewable for these reasons (Qatar Embassy).

Qatar also wants to move to renewable energy as part of their plan to fulfill the Paris Climate Agreement, an accord signed by 195 countries to set goals and improve on their renewable energy utilization (Qatar Embassy). They want to do this because they are a wealthy country and can set an example by using their money for worthwhile purposes, such as renewable energy.

Solar Energy: Benefits and Tradeoffs

Qatar, a country with a hot, subtropical climate and lots of sunlight, specifically wants to use solar energy (Gulf Times). There are several positive and negative aspects of solar energy. Out of the many, one of the preferable features about solar versus fossil fuels is that solar power is more sustainable. While fossil fuels are finite and will eventually run out, there is so much energy from the Sun that there is more supply than demand. This means that even if everyone in the world used solar, there would be more than enough energy left over (Nakaya 40-41). Currently, solar energy is expensive because it is not as common as fossil fuels, but it has a trend of getting cheaper. With new technology, and more people buying solar, experts think the trend will continue. Soon, we will have completely affordable solar energy.

Though solar energy does not need a grid, many users of solar energy buy and sell to power companies with one. A new grid will make solar energy less risky and will enable people to buy and sell their power, and provide energy to other areas that need it. This way, communities and cities can support each other’s power and transport energy to one another (Nakaya, 42-44). Another positive aspect of solar energy is that, with grids, people can buy or sell energy to or from a power company depending on weather (Nakaya 42-44). This is not much of a problem for Qatar however, mostly because of its potential for solar. Qatar has high solar irradiation, is always sunny, and has a strategic combination of long days and short nights (NREL). On the other hand, solar is a relatively new energy source, and as with all new products, there are several caveats and complication to it. First and foremost is an issue of concentration. This means that though there is lots of solar power, it is not as concentrated as fossil fuels. It does not provide the same amount of energy from the same amount of fuel. Because of this, solar energy requires large solar farms to harness enough energy, which is why experts and officials are worried it may not be able to sustain the growing energy need (Nakaya, 44).

Types of Solar Energy

As Qatar plans to go ahead with their renewable energy action, companies interested in investing in solar are making decisions on different types of solar energy. There are lots of solar energy technologies that provide energy efficiently, but the main two are photovoltaic (or PV) panels and CSP (Concentrated Solar Power). Photovoltaic technologies use silicon panels that convert light energy into electrical energy. PV works by directly harnessing the Sun’s light. Sunlight is made of bundles of energy called photons. When the Sun shines, it excites silicon atoms, which knocks electrons loose. The free electrons form an electrical current (Heinrichs, 58). A newer type of PV technology is thin-film photovoltaics, which is made of several layers of light-sensitive materials. It is cheaper and easier to integrate into roofing and windows, but less efficient (Heinrichs, 62). CSP, or Concentrated Solar Power systems, work by using reflective surfaces to harness the light. There are three main types of CSP. The first is a solar dish/engine system, which uses a dish or receiver that concentrates sunlight onto a liquid or gas. The substance expands as it heats and powers a generator. Another type of CSP is the parabolic trough, which has curved mirrors that concentrate the sunlight onto pipes of oil. The heated oil powers a generator. The last type of CSP is a power tower, which are towers surrounded by mirrors called heliostats. Heliostats are special mirrors, and follow the Sun’s path. They concentrate the sunlight onto a receiver that powers a generator (Heinrichs, 59-60).

Though Qatar has a lot of solar energy, a problem is that its climate is very dry and dusty. Dryness in the air and particles of dust can both damage solar panels. The Solar Test Facility founded by Chevron, Qatar Foundation, and GreenGulf, three green companies, aims to find new PV technologies that can withstand such elements in Qatar (NREL). Though progress on solar technologies is underway, government involvement could help speed things up.

Government Policy and Incentives

Some, such as solar power investors and producers, say that the government should be involved in solar energy. This means that the government would set standards that would guide people to convert to renewable. There are a few different types of these incentives grants and loans, where they government lends money to invest in renewable. There are also subsidies, which are when the government pays for some of the price of solar investment, either as a loan or a donation. Lastly, there are feed-in tariffs, when the government or private investors offer to buy the energy before it is produced (Nakaya, 53). All of these motivations would convince investors to participate in the solar energy. And, if the government sets standards, more people will end up converting. This will be environmentally friendly, and though it may be expensive now, it is easier to convert to solar in the long run rather than continue with fossil fuels. Government incentives will also set an example for investors, and make it less risky for people to enter the solar business. People are more likely to invest in clean, renewable energies like solar if they know they will have support in doing so (Nakaya 54).

Despite this, some economists and managers do not think government involvement is a good idea. They say that motivations such as feed-in tariffs, loans, grants, and subsidies are often given depending on persuasion rather than the product. This means that the government sometimes gives incentives to companies just because they produce renewable energy, rather than if they have chances of doing well or not (Nakaya 61-62). As a result, renewable energy companies sometimes end up going bankrupt or closing down (Nakaya 63-63).

Qatar takes both the positive and negative aspects of government involvement into account. However, the government supports moving to renewable energy as a smarter choice for a sustainable country and want to provide incentives for companies and individuals to use and supply renewable energy. The government of Qatar offers grants and loans to companies, as well as lots of subsidies (donations in the form of loans or grants) to encourage companies to convert to renewable energy. As a result, businesses and private investors are getting involved in the solar industry. Some citizens even have free energy because the government pays for production. The leadership of Qatar pays for renewable energy costs for lots of companies, which is why everyone is turning to solar energy. Despite all this government encouragement, there is actually no legislation about incentives for renewable energy that need to be legalized. This means that there are no laws for incentives like feed-in tariffs, which is buying the energy before it is produced. Such motivations require laws for the government to give them out (Davies, Evershed, PwC).

How Qatar’s Companies are Converting to Renewable Energy

QSTec is a company focused on providing solar energy to Qatar. It has recently developed a new, high-purity polysilicon, a key part of solar panels that allows sunlight to be converted to electricity. The purer the silicon, the better it harnesses sunlight. The company’s good fortune started when it received financing from several shareowners. The money was invested in 47% stakes in Solar World, a German solar company. SolarWorld will be a key customer of QSTec’s polysilicon in the future to provide for their own country. QSTech has also acquired takes in a special photovoltaics technology (centrotherm photovoltaics). QSTec has finished building and is in full production modes of solar panels. It will have lots of business as high-purity polysilicon becomes more popular as an efficient and reliable energy source (Osborne, PV Tech).

Another example of companies in Qatar converting to renewable energy are the solar energy gardens, a joint project by Al Shamal Municipality and Ras Laffan Community Outreach. These two companies take care of the community as well as the environment, and put solar energy recharge stations in gardens. The second part of the project was putting solar powered umbrellas and lights at beaches, where lots of tourists visit (Gulf Times). Some fossil fuel companies are also making efforts to switch to renewable energy, such as Qatar Electricity and Water Company and Qatar Petroleum, two energy companies who are together investing in new types of energy. Siemens Qatar and Alfardan Automobiles, car companies, are creating solar powered car charging stations and eventually plan on producing electric cars (PDF, Qatar Embassy). In the infrastructure industry, several infrastructure companies in Qatar have started creating environmentally friendly bridges, transportation, and buildings. One of these projects is Qatar Rail, which is using strict environmental standards and is four-star rated according to Qatar standards (Varghese, Gulf Times).

Environmental Standards

In thinking about environmentally friendly companies converting in Qatar, there are several standards to follow. One of these are renewable portfolio standards, specific standards on how much energy out of total energy production and consumption should be renewable. Several companies in Qatar are using GSAS standards (Global Sustainability Assessment System standards). These are a set of environmentally friendly guidelines approved by FIFA. Another set of such guidelines are the Green Building Standards set by Qatar Standards and Metrology Authority. It sets specific standards on renewable energy (Varghese, Gulf Times). As a national standard, Qatar’s government wants 20% of its energy to be renewable by 2030 (Gulf Times). Qatar is also preparing for the FIFA World Cup, which they are hosting in 2022. They hope to be carbon neutral by reducing 6 tons of emissions by 2022 in preparation for the World Cup. Qatar also wants to build sustainable infrastructure for the World Cup.

Qatar’s World Involvement in Renewable Energy

In addition to its companies, Qatar as a country has potential to be a renewable leader in the world. It is involved in the International Renewable Energy Agency, or IRENA. Qatar signed IRENA’s founding document, which is significant because Qatar, a mass oil and natural gas producer, is stepping towards renewable energy. Qatar has also been involved in Gulf Region, as part of GCC, or the Gulf Cooperation Council, to help its fellow fossil fuel producing countries change energy sources (IRENA). Qatar also has a Memorandum of Understanding. with the U.S. The Memorandum of Understanding means that the countries will share knowledge, skills, and expertise on renewable energy. Topics will include reducing oil and gas development for Qatar, reducing carbon emissions for the U.S., and energy efficiency and renewable energy for both countries (Gulf Times).

Conclusion

Qatar has made great strides in switching to renewable, with both its government and companies adopting solar to address the growing renewable energy demand. Despite Qatar’s position as a significant fossil fuel producing country, it has still become involved in solar, showing renewable energy’s growing popularity worldwide. There is a high potential for the future of solar in Qatar, and the government and companies are moving forward systematically, having set multiple goals to fulfill. With a great position on renewable energy now and determination to be more sustainable in the future, Qatar has set an admirable example for other countries in the world.

Works Cited

Davies, Michelle, et al. “Developing Renewable Energy Projects: A Guide to Achieving Success in the Middle East.” Eversheds, PwC.

Embassy, Qatar. “Notes- Qatar Renewable Energy.” Embassy of Qatar, Washington, DC. Reading.

Heinrichs, Ann. “Solar Power: Capturing the Sunshine.” Sustaining Earth’s Energy Resources, Marshall Cavendish Benchmark, 2011, pp. 56-63.

Nakaya, Andrea C. What Is the Future of Solar Power? ReferencePoint Press, 2013. The Future of Renewable Energy.

Osborne, Mark. “QSTec Produces First Polysilicon at Qatar Plant.” PV Tech, 27 Mar. 2017. PV Tech, www.pv-tech.org/news/qstec-produces-first-polysilicon-at-qatar-plant. Accessed 21 Feb. 2018.

“Qatar and US Sign MoU on Energy Co-operation.” Gulf Times [Doha], 31 Jan. 2018, Qatar sec. Gulf Times, www.gulf-times.com/story/580037/Qatar-and-US-sign-MoU-on-energy-co-operation. Accessed 21 Feb. 2018.

Qatar Science & Technology Park, and Chevron Qatar Energy Technologies QSTP-B. “A New PV Module Reliability Laboratory in Qatar.” NREL, www.nrel.gov/pv/assets/pdfs/2014_pvmrw_93_plaza.pdf. Accessed 28 Feb. 2018.

“Qatar Signed IRENA’s Statute.” IRENA, 24 June 2010, www.irena.org/newsroom/articles/2010/Jun/Qatar-signed-IRENAs-statute. Accessed 27 Feb. 2018.

“A Renewable Energy Future for the Gulf? – COP 18 Qatar Joins Global Atlas for Renewable Energy Resources.” IRENA, 4 Dec. 2012, www.irena.org/newsroom/pressreleases/2012/Dec/A-renewable-energy-future-for-the-Gulf–COP-18-Qatar-joins-Global-Atlas-for-Renewable-Energy-Resourc. Accessed 27 Feb. 2018.

“Solar Energy Powers Public Gardens.” Gulf Times [Doha], 5 Feb. 2018, Qatar sec. Gulf Times, www.gulf-times.com/story/580561/Solar-energy-powers-public-gardens. Accessed 21 Feb. 2018.

Varghese, Joseph. “Qatar’s First Renewable Energy Strategy on the Anvil.” Gulf Times [Doha], 26 Nov. 2017, Qatar sec. Gulf Times, www.gulf-times.com/story/572622/Qatar-s-first-renewable-energy-strategy-on-the-anv. Accessed 21 Feb. 2018.

“Solar Energy to Meet 20% of Qatar’s Energy by 2030.” Gulf Times [Doha], 8 July 2016, Qatar sec. Gulf Times, www.gulf-times.com/story/501761/Solar-energy-to-meet-20-of-Qatar-s-energy-demand-b. Accessed 21 Feb. 2018.

Willis, Terri. Qatar: Enchantment of the World. Children’s Press, 2004.

What’s the Tea?

Movies depict high school like a zoo. You, the audience, react, gawk at the “animals”, the students, that are behind the cages at the exhibit. Movies about high schools dynamics seem to reveal exaggerated hostility between the “popular” kids and the “non-popular” kids. That is something that you are not going to experience. Instead, you will be confronted with fake people from all different groups, people who might want to get the worse out of you. The movies do not depict what will actually occur in our lives in high school. Furthermore, movies are often cast white characters and the plot seems to go the same direction. What the movies do not capture is the diverse environment and how it impacts the character.

In a movie, ain’t it interesting how quickly rumors spread in High School? The secret you thought might have been safe with the main character can be easily revealed by the loose lips of the people they may have trusted. In my perspective, secrets are revealed little by little over time. It can starts from a quiet “who said what?” in the hallways or even if you see a friend in the bathroom and you have that instinct to spill the tea? Ain’t familiar. Well, that’s what I hear often from my “acquaintances” mouths. But what’s different in high school than from TV shows like Gossip Girl is the show exaggerates rumors and fights based on social hierarchy in the high school. In real life, fights are about how friendships are prone to destruction based on something small which may grow into something bigger over time. Rarely is it a “you stole my man” or “Keisha told me that you said my hair ugly,” outburst in the middle of the cafeteria.

There is no social hierarchy in high school it is a fusion of everyone’s redeeming qualities. The cheerleaders are not on the top, the nerds are not being mocked. In this generation, you can have your personal cheerleaders who can be your friends. Even being a “nerd” is a good thing. That means I’m smart and if you’re mad that I’m smart then you can go. Period. The people who have mocked you for knowing too much are now coming back crawling on their knees in confusion seeking your help. Interesting ain’t it! The first day of school, it is interesting how my brain told me how it’s not about the type of friends you make or how popular they are, but my heart was telling me otherwise. Now that I think about it I am shocked about how my conscious took a turn and I was shocked at how It was showing me the image I should maintain to make those types of “popular friends” and images of that person and those “popular friends” came from the movies and TV Shows I have watched since I was a child. I grew on Hannah Montana, Lizzie McGuire or the failure to meet realistic scenarios in life or have a repetitive representation of a blond hair and blue eyed girl. As an African American child growing up in Harlem, New York this is not the life I was living.

“Girl, spill the tea.” “Come on, you have the tell me.” No really I don’t. But of course, my brain just wants me to spill the tea just to see the sinister smiles that grow on their faces and the anticipation to tell their best friend what they had just heard. It is really the people who don’t talk to you on a daily basis You really don’t have to spill the tea. Just keep it in the cup. Just keep it bottled up in a cup. If one of your close friends ask you it’s okay to let me take a sip out of your cup full of secrets because you knew them well, you really trust them. The excitement is the main fuel for people spreading rumors. It’s what causes people to twist and turn so it can really sound more appealing for others and later on that rumor they spread is their satisfaction. But when that rumor that is about you, it spreads like wildfire, people do talk and don’t think they don’t and you hear the malicious opinions of the friends you thought you had that Cloud 9 bond with it really hurt. The shock makes your heart pierce. I know I sound repetitive about the whole trust thing about the trust, friends and most importantly conflict” part but it always in the situation it has different perspectives to it and I don’t know if you guys are like this, but I think I’m always right. Daido knows best! Well, so does the other person and then that’s when the back’s turn on each other. When they start to bicker, not say hi to each other in the hallways, avoiding eye contact in class and feeling the hurt and non-existence of the conversations and laughs that you guys used to have. You tell yourself I don’t need her? Did you cut me off then I’m going to cut you off? Keep the same energy. You may not need her to live, but deep down you will miss the redeeming qualities of your ex-friend that made you happy.

Coming from a private school with a majority of white people in it and making that major transition to a Catholic High School which has more black and latinas you really see the difference in the environment and also a shift in your behavior as well. In this High School when things happen, like conflict, people don’t except for the teachers to just fix it, sugarcoat it and say that everything is going to be okay and move on. The teachers are not there to really solve problems as they were before. It is the students who really take it in their own hands and that’s where the role of confrontation comes into play. In that confrontation often uses harsher words or solve conflicts with their fists. Like when you hear that these two girls fight in McDonald’s over a boy, you’re like really now. Those moments that are taking place seems to reflect on the type of environment people have grown up in or are surrounded by. But I also in this high school, I had an opportunity to dive in a pool of culture as well. I could connect with them on a whole other level, we converse, share, and might even laugh about the similarities concerning our traditional and cultural lifestyle and I have to say it’s really beautiful.

Movies and TV shows definitely alter your perspective about high school. Yeah people are fake. No, there are no cheerleaders on top and geeks on the bottom, it is really a place that will let you shine, but there are always snakes that are ready to attack with their poisonous venom of gossip and envy. They might whisper with their little friends, confront you about something you might have not done, threaten you, lie about you, but just remember those who really talk about you, spreading all the “bad things” you have done are using those lies to cover up the guilt they have about how they did you wrong.


The Girl Behind the Wheelchair

When I was younger, I dreamed about playing on my school’s basketball team. I longed for, the day where I could score my first goal. I wanted the feeling of adrenaline rushing through my body as I made the winning goal. I wanted to hear the voices of my teammates cheering me on! Back then, I admired that the players on that team could just let go and just play basketball. They did not need to worry about their circumstances in that moment but they were able to… just let go. I vividly imagine myself playing on the court, I hear the crowd cheering me on, “Josie! Josie! Josie!” I can still see the sweat beading through my body as I throw the winning shot the crowd goes wild! But as I got older I realized that that dream was never going to become a reality due to my disability. Coming to terms with that fact was a very hard thing for my then 8-year-old self, but I persevered and I made it through that hurdle.

I was born with a disability called Osteogenesis Imperfecta, also known as OI. In short my disability makes my bones weaker which causes them to break easily. About a year ago I went to the mall with my mom and when I was in JcPenney and a young girl came up to me I believe that she was around the age of 6 or 7. She asked me a question that left me absolutely speechless. She had asked, “how old are you?” I answered with, “I am 12 years old.” Her response made me so enraged. She said, “but if your 12 why are you so small?” It was In that very moment that I felt so angry that she could not see past my wheelchair. I am not expecting people to be perfect I just want and need them to be considerate.

I write to make sure my voice is heard loudly. It should echo as loud as a megaphone in a crowd filled with people. Malala Yousafzai once said, “We were scared but our fear was not as strong as our courage.” Everyday I implement courage by trying my best to face the day to the best of my ability. This quote shows that even if we are scared, in the moment our courage can outweigh our fear.

I felt sadness rush through my body. I had just been rejected. My mom told me that she would never even consider letting me play basketball. “I am so sorry I know this is your dream but it’s just too risky,” Mom said as I started to cry. In that moment, I felt as though my heart was ripped out of my chest. I felt like she was telling me one my best friends had just passed away. She had just unleashed my greatest fear, which had been the fear of not even getting the opportunity to try. I was not mad at her because I understood where she was coming from, she just did not want her beautiful daughter who has the bones of glass to shatter into pieces. But it was really just the fact that I would never, get to experience my dream in that moment was hard for me to emotionally handle.

As I typed away on my computer I felt adrenaline rush through my body. I was writing a speech called When I Roll by, which was basically piece about hope and rising above your disabilities or even your challenges. I wrote that not only to encourage the reader to rise above their own personal struggles, but to encourage myself to not to dwell in my inability to do basketball but to rise up and make the best of my abilities. So as I type away again on my computer, I reiterate that very same message to you and I urge you to not view your differences as different but view them as uniquely different.

Sorry, I Can’t Eat That

“With this in mind, and knowing the severity of your allergies, we cannot encourage your being part of camp 2017. We recall regretfully what developed during camp 2016 and are concerned that this is not a safe environment for you.”

I reread this email for the tenth time with tear drops sliding down my face. My allergies had stopped me once again from participating in my community. I knew I was the first one to turn in my application for the Hindu Youth Summer Camp, yet my application was denied and I could not do anything to change it.

I had been at the sleepaway camp last year for three days before I was sent home because of an allergic reaction. I had really enjoyed those three days. The camp allowed me to embrace my Hindu religion, and still experience a regular sleepaway camp. The camp had told us that it would be nut-free, but on the third day they served Nutella crackers to the whole camp. When I saw the tray on the table, I was terrified. I immediately left the room in hopes of distancing myself from the Nutella, but my efforts were in vain. After snack, we had camp activities which required all of us to sit near each other and hold hands. Everyone else had Nutella on their breath and hands, and within minutes my whole body was covered in hives. I was immediately sent to the infirmary. My mind was racing with worries. Will my throat close? Does the staff know how to use an Epi-pen? What is going to happen to me? Finally, after four hours of the nurses not knowing what to do, the camp manager took me to the hospital at midnight. I was sent home from the camp the next morning. I was at home for ten days watching my hives dissipate, while feeling envious of all of those who were still at the camp. For the next ten days, I missed out on community prayers, field trips, and other basic camp activities because I could not control my own body.

My body has been controlling me for as long as I can remember. When I was five, I found that I was allergic to all nuts, seeds, legumes, and fruits. Since then I have tried not to let my allergies define me, but it is challenging. Every time I enter a new environment, I am concerned for my own safety. My allergies walk into each room before me. My allergies surround me. My allergies are around every corner, jumping out when I least expect it. My allergies follow me everywhere.

I was tired of my allergies controlling me. I was tired of having to decline offers to eating out with friends, or volunteer for opportunities where I would have to touch food that I could not even be around. I could not even be upset at anybody, because it was truly nobody’s fault. Yet somehow, I always wound up blaming myself for my inability to manage my body’s reactions to different foods. I had become subservient to my allergies. The doctors we had seen had done all they could, and nothing had worked. Therefore, my mom and I looked into other ways of treating my allergies. One of her friends had recommended Raj, a naturopath, who used homeopathic methods and Naet therapy to cure many diseases from minor intolerances to cancer. Raj’s practice is in London and it would require at least two years of constant trips to London on school breaks and taking homeopathic elixirs daily. At first I was not sure if I wanted to commit to intense therapy and regular trips to London, but when I realized that there was a slight chance of curing my allergies I knew I needed to take it.

The whole 6-hour flight to London, I doubted my decision to come and see Raj. I should never have convinced myself that this would be a good idea. Why do I have faith in Raj when nothing else has worked? If this does not work, I will have gotten my hopes up for nothing and I will have wasted my mom’s time.

I was fidgeting in the waiting room and could not sit still; this appointment would determine if I would be able to diminish an obstacle that had been controlling my life ever since I could remember. Raj walked into the room. Before the appointment he had asked us to triple Ziploc bags the foods we knew I was allergic to and foods that I was avoiding because I thought there was a chance I could not eat it. He then made me hold each Ziploc bag in my hands while he used a Galvanometer to measure the electric currents in my body, which would determine whether or not I could eat that certain food. As the pile of the foods I needed to avoid became bigger than the pile of foods I could eat, I doubted again if I made the right decision to meet Raj. I had just found out I had even more allergies than I knew about. I was devastated as I thought this treatment was supposed to help me get rid of my allergies. Instead I was learning that I had to be even more cautious around food.

I was staring at the dull carpet, holding over thirty Ziploc bags in my hand. Raj started to tell us what he was now going to do to me, but my mind was elsewhere. I could not focus on what he was saying. I was trying to be as still as a statue, otherwise both my mom and Raj would realize how terrified I was. Not only was I terrified, but I also kept thinking of everything that would happen if this treatment actually worked. I was imagining a world where all the passengers on a plane would not look at me, when they announced on the speaker that there was a passenger with anaphylactic nut allergies and no one else could eat nuts. I was imagining a world where I would not have to read the ingredients on the box of every snack I wanted to eat.

I felt a vibration on my back and realized Raj had already begun the therapy. The treatment was not painful, and I relaxed. I realized that going through these treatments to get rid of my allergies was a tiny price to pay compared to living with anaphylaxis all my life. I had two more days of treatment until the next time I came back to London, but I hoped that sometime soon I could go to a restaurant and order off the menu without having to list to the waiter all of my allergies. I am still waiting for the day where I can walk out of my house without carrying my Epi-pen.

The Concept of Roleplaying

What is roleplaying, and why do we do it? These questions have been going around since the beginning of people pretending to be someone, or something else. Most people have roleplayed at least once in their life, whether it be in a game, or just pretending to be a different person. In Roleplaying Games players adopt a different identity and make decisions as that character in an imaginary world. the beginning of modern roleplaying games was in the mid-1970s with the release of Dungeons And Dragons. But the activity has been around since the ancient Greeks. roleplaying has been around longer than people think, just not in the same way.

Theater is a type of roleplaying. Present roleplaying is interacting in a story as a character interacting with the world in a way people usually wouldn’t. people do it to escape their world. But actors do the same thing with theater. In any type of theater, you interact as a made up or real character and played along in a story. It’s called a play for a reason! It’s because actors play in a story! And the role aspect fits in nicely. they take a role to use in a story. We like to interact in another story other than our own so we can escape our world. Roleplaying is a very popular activity right now because people want to escape the mundane. As Adam Columbia, Teacher and Dungeon Master states: “Roleplaying is an intentional break with reality, to a degree preferred by the person performing it.” Everyone plays to escape the world they live in, to live in another’s shoes. Reality is hard and gets boring, so they want to do something different and become someone special.

Roleplaying is a way of becoming a character that the player invents. This can take many forms, such as games, improv, and more: “Roleplaying is an act of imagination in which a person takes on the personality, appearance or actions of another entity either fictional or non-fictional”(Columbia). Roleplaying is all about imagination which is just as important as thinking realistically because if a person imagines something and work for it, it is possible for it to become a reality. If people think creatively, they can bring something into existence that wasn’t there before. Roleplaying helps you think creatively, by finding and solving problems.

Roleplaying expands compassion. Adam Columbia believes that roleplaying gives players “The power to think outside your own mind and observe reality with a different perspective than the typical.” If you think outside your own mind in roleplaying, what says you won’t do the same in the real world. Roleplaying is all about perspective, and if you are understanding somebody’s perspective, then you understand their feelings. Therefore, you don’t have bias feelings about someone you don’t know. Roleplaying helps you understand someone’s perspective and feelings so that you don’t hurt others.

There are many different types of roleplaying. The main types of roleplaying are all based on one aspect; imagination. Roleplaying is imagining yourself or acting as a character in various contexts such as: Choose your own adventure games like The Telltale series. LARPing is pretending to be a character and acting it out through improv and weapon play. lastly, tabletop games like Dungeons And Dragons allow a small group to experience an adventure through storytelling and dice. These games may sound very different but they all share many similarities, all of them require you to become another person or creature, to walk in their shoes. The basis of roleplaying is imagining and becoming a character, so in that case, almost everything should be considered roleplaying. Roleplay takes many forms and someone can do any of them: “I think that roleplaying takes many forms and everyone should find the form best suited to them” (Columbia). The concept of roleplaying is very large and you can choose what type is right for you.

Stories can be inspired by any aspect of a player’s life. All you have to do is imagine and create ideas. Some players use pre-made rulebooks like Dungeons and Dragons, Pathfinder or Champions to create a story based game. Others choose to imagine and make it up as they go along. “Sometimes no framework at all is best, just playing an imaginative storytelling game with friends”(Columbia). Roleplaying allows players to follow a framework of rules, or just stretch the limits of their imagination by creating a world from scratch.

Sometimes society views roleplayers as “geeky.” However, enthusiastic roleplaying in a creative setting allows players to learn skills like problem-solving and empathy in a friendly environment “It can be uncomfortable being ourselves and getting a little vacation can relieve stress, anxiety or social pressure temporarily and give a roleplayer a more positive, dynamic [or] different perspective moving forward”(Columbia). Roleplaying releases the players of those social standards for the duration of the game. It also connects players to friends and communities. As we look toward the future, it is clear that roleplaying games will keep growing and helping players, just as it did in the past.

Sources:

Columbia, Adam. 11 May 2018.

Home Is Where the Heart Is: The Meaning of Two Distinct Words

“A house is just four walls and a roof, but a home is made up of everything else inside. A house may be decorated from floor to ceiling with the finest furnishings money can buy. But that will never make it a home.” – Anonymous.

What happens when you are ashamed of your own home, the place that keeps you safe, your sanctuary, the place you belong to? What happens if you start thinking of your home as the same as your house? This question is important because people everyday always mistake the words home and house as having the same meaning, when actually, they mean two completely different things. Physical things can never ever compare to emotions or feelings, and I think that’s the biggest difference between the two words. Home is a place you connect with, where all your memories lay, where you belong to, where you’re from. It tells your story, it whispers who you are, but never what you will become. The House on Mango Street, written by Sandra Cisneros, is about a girl named Esperanza and her convoluted story of her moving to a new house and community. In The House on Mango Street, Esperanza treats the words “house” and “home” as the same word, but as the book progresses, Esperanza learns/sees that a house just represents her social class, and is very different from a home which represents her identity. This new knowledge ultimately changes her view on Mango Street’s community.

At the beginning of the book, Esperanza implies that she wants a house of her own that she can be proud of, not realizing that what she actually wants is a home she can be proud of. In a vignette called The House on Mango Street, (the very first one) Esperanza is telling us about the previous apartments she lived in and arguing how the house on mango street was not the house she dreamed it would be. “I knew then I had to have a house. A real house. One I could point to. But this isn’t it. The house on Mango Street isn’t it.” (5) This quote shows that Esperanza is ashamed of her class and more of the status of her neighborhood and her street. Though this might be (unconsciously) clear to Esperanza, she forces herself to narrow it down to her house, even though it’s really her home that she is ashamed of.

Towards the middle of the book, Esperanza’s definition of home and house shifts a bit from representing her yearning to representing Mango Street’s oppression and the sadness of the people from there. Esperanza is telling us about this girl named Sally, who Esperanza sees and admires her for her maturity. Esperanza is trying to understand Sally, trying to connect with her, by just observing to herself, and wondering. “… as if no one could see you standing there, Sally. What do you think about when you close your eyes like that? And why do you always have to go straight home after school? You become a different Sally.” (82) This quote shows how “home” is the dreaded cause of oppression for Sally, and for her, and for everyone on Mango Street. She implies that when Sally leaves for school, or away from Mango Street, she is leaving her worries and her sadness at home, and comes back to it at the end of the day, everyday, just like everyone on Mango Street. “She lets me read her poems. I let her read mine. She is always sad like a house on fire — always something wrong.” (Page #: 84) In this quote, Esperanza compares this girl, Minerva and her sadness, to a house on fire. It’s a peculiar analogy, but it shows how Esperanza feels that it’s the house that traps her. The house that traps Sally. The house that traps Minerva. The house that brings these gender issues, and poverty, and sadness.

By the end of the book, Esperanza realizes that after so many years of telling herself that she is not Mango Street, she accepts her home, even if she never will like her house. Esperanza is describing a time where she is sitting on the steps of a house with a girl named Alicia who lives on Mango Street, too. “You live right here, 4006 Mango, Alicia says and points to the house I am ashamed of. No, this isn’t my house I say and shake my head as if shaking could undo the year I’ve lived here. I don’t belong. You have a home, Alicia, and one day you’ll go there, to a town you remember, but me I never had a house, not even a photograph… only one I dream of. No, Alicia says. Like it or not, you are Mango Street, and one day you’ll come back too.”(106-107) This illustrates that Esperanza is finally being told, that throughout the whole book, she has been unconsciously directing her shame towards her home; her community, and where she comes from. If you think about it, she has never been encouraged and told that she is safe and that she should not be ashamed of her own home. As Alicia told her: she will always be Mango Street: her home. “… but what I remember most is Mango Street, sad red house, the house I belong but do not belong to… they will not know I have gone away to come back. For the ones, I left behind. For the ones who cannot out.” (Page #: 110) This reveals that Esperanza is tired of not accepting herself and who she is. And where she is from. By the end of the book, the reader feels this powerful sort of breath from Esperanza. Like she is breathing out all her doubts, and insecurities. Breathing in her true self, and finally accepting herself: Mango Street.

In conclusion, Esperanza discovers that her physical house does not define who she is, and who she will become or what path she will go down in the future. Cisneros shows us this by shifting Esperanza’s opinion on her home, and directing it towards her community and herself, more than her street and her physical house. She realizes that her feelings and emotions are what makes up her home and that a building can belong to her, but she will never be able to belong to it. This knowledge shows us the value of your home. Where you belong, where you come from, who you are. Ultimately, no one should be ashamed of who they are and where they come from, no matter what class, what neighborhood, how much money your family has. Its home and no one can ever change that.

Margaret Sanger: Role Model or Racist Eugenicist?

Margaret Sanger was the founder of modern day Planned Parenthood and is regarded as a pioneer in women’s reproductive justice. However, her motives for the work she did involving birth control access and the specific communities targeted for healthcare remediation were questionable in that they often carried heavy themes of eugenics and race control. Despite the contemporary discourse surrounding her affiliation with eugenics groups, her idealized image as a hero of women’s healthcare has often ignored or silenced her participation in these hate groups. The question for modern historians and feminists is how to celebrate the gains that she made for women’s reproductive justice while acknowledging those were oppressed in her zeal to achieve her goals. While Margaret Sanger has been noted as a pioneer in achieving medical and sexual liberties for women in America, her accomplishments do not overshadow her simultaneous use of eugenicist policies and funding and thus her legacy must be examined through a dialectical lens.

Margaret Sanger was an activist and social reformer born into a Roman Catholic working-class American family. As a child, she watched her mother struggle through many 1 miscarriages and believed that her mother’s death at the early age of forty was caused by the miscarriages she had suffered through. Their family was very poor and her father was unstable and often drunk, leaving Margaret alone with her ten siblings. Margaret left home to attend 2 Claverack College and Hudson River Institute in 1896 to escape her home life and poverty. 3

Sanger studied nursing and soon married William Sanger and gave birth to three children. 4 Through this work, and during their time living in Paris, Margaret became interested in sex education as she noticed a large gap in support for women. She worked as a nurse in a predominantly poor immigrant neighborhood on the Lower East Side and she met and treated many women who had undergone unsafe “back-alley” abortions or had tried to self terminate their pregnancies. At this time, female reproductive healthcare was largely underdeveloped, and 5 accessible only to those with both money and a sense of security that they would not get penalized for seeking health treatment. The social rules around sexual reproduction, let alone 6 sexual pleasure, were strict and began and ended with decorum. Women could confide in each other about their bodily functions, but “women’s troubles” would never have been shared with men outside of the more unavoidable shared aspects of pregnancy. The practice of “confinement” was indicative of the secrecy, silence, and shame surrounding all aspects of female reproductive healthcare; across many cultures and for the majority of recorded history, those with economic advantage would experience some sort of confinement after giving birth, where they would be supported as they and the baby transitioned into their new roles and responsibility. Although this process is often referred to as a positive aspect of female 7 community building, with one author of a recent historical book referring to it as, “a golden rope connecting women from one generation to the next,” the origin of this behavior is more likely 8 due to the desire of the men in the community to distance themselves from the routine health needs of women. However, there is evidence that women were still aware of methods of contraception and bodily function regulation, and would use methods like newspaper columns to seek information and to sell their wares. A column from 1842 records the correspondence of women seeking information and tools for the “obstruction of their monthly periods.” Things 9 were much worse for women outside of the safety of wealthy spheres, living in poverty, in recently established immigrant communities, or in places of low literacy without the ability to seek out information for oneself. Even the Bible describes the bleak outlook for women who had the gall to have a period, and the “red tent” practice, in which a woman is shunned and isolated form the community during her period, remains even today in some parts of the world. Gilded Age America was not a particularly good place in which to inhabit a female body, and as the Comstock Laws will evidence, there was active work being done to keep women’s issues separated from the view of men, and to keep women in ignorance of sexual pleasure and the freedoms associated with planning pregnancies. Thus, when Sanger began her campaign for accessible sex education for women in 1912 by writing the newspaper column “What Every Girl Should Know,” she was going against the unnecessary suffering of these women and wanted 10 for them to have safe and accessible contraceptives and education, even if doing so had the high probability of getting her into trouble.

Sanger and her family eventually moved to Greenwich Village in 1910. At the time, 11 Greenwich Village was a very politically radical area and Margaret became involved in politics. Although initially introduced to socialism and bohemian values by her husband, William, it was Margaret who became the political activist. As she engaged more heavily in the birth control movement, their marriage faltered, and they were separated in 1914. Her second marriage would happen after their divorce was finalized in 1921. At that time, she would choose to marry J. Noah H. Slee, a choice that will be examined in more detail later on this in paper, but who in the moment allowed her to fund her work and further her support for lower income women. She 12 joined the Women’s Committee of the New York Socialist Party and the Liberal Club, and participated in many strikes as a supporter of the Industrial Workers of the World Union. The ideas of socialism and bohemianism, of equality and pleasure-seeking choices that she became exposed to while in Paris with her first husband, remained powerful proponents for her as she tried to bring equity into the healthcare sphere. Additionally, she recognized that there was 13 power in collective bargaining action, and that working class individuals were an important and often overlooked aspect of society that needed to be rewarded the same benefits as those in the upper classes. Like many women over the ages, she realized that some sort of way to provide a safe and easy way to prevent against pregnancy where a women had complete autonomy and control over her body. As a woman living in the Gilded Age, however, she realized that this solution would likely be produced through research science and applied medicine, rather than in the home cures used by every generation before her, including the practice of the Ancient Egyptians of putting alligator dung in the vaginal canal to prevent against conception. She 14 started her own feminist publication known as ‘The Women Rebel’ in 1914. It promoted women’s rights to contraception and autonomy over their bodies. Even as she was engaging in this work, she was well aware that her actions and choice to be very public about her advocacy of contraception put her in a position to be arrested for violating the Comstock Act. The Comstock Act of 1873 prohibited trade in circulation of “obscene and immoral materials.” These acts were named by their primary proponent, Anthony Comstock, who was 15 an active leader in the Young Men’s Christian Association (YMCA) and created the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice, with the goal of reducing the impact that obscene materials had on children. Comstock believed that the youth were being corrupted by a wide variety of publications, and he targeted the United States Postal Services as a source of distribution that needed to be regulated to keep the purity of the American youth. Even in his time, Comstock’s 16 beliefs were considered to be too judgemental or, at times, ludicrous; playwright George Bernard Shaw wrote that, “Comstockery is the world’s standing joke at the expense of the United States. Europe likes to hear of such things. It confirms the deep-seated conviction of the Old World that America is a provincial place, a second-rate country-town civilization after all.” However, upon 17 being named an United States Postal Inspector, Comstock and his laws were tightly woven into the politics of the time, and the repression of information, devices, and medications related to all manner of obscene materials. This included any information or tools about contraception and abortion within its definition of obscene materials. It also made importing or mailing anything related to contraception and abortion a crime punishable by law; by controlling the Postal Service, a primary method of information transfer in the Gilded Age, Comstock’s laws had far-reaching consequences. Those who were found to be in violation of said act received a 18 five-year jail sentence. Sanger’s publications about abortion and contraception, while ostensibly about public health, were identified as being the type of obscene content that the Comstock Act prohibited. Rather than get arrested for going against the Act, she fled to England. While in 19 England, she learned about and researched many other forms of birth control and smuggled them back into the U.S. when she returned to her home in 1915 once the charges against her had been dropped. Her estranged husband William was accosted during her absence by some of Comstock’s agents, but he did not expose her whereabouts despite their separation. For refusing to help, he served thirty days on Blackwell’s Island, a prison in New York City. This 20 would not be the only time that Sanger’s family would be imprisoned as an attempt to silence her and her work. At juncture in her career, Sanger is credited with coining the term “birth control” to describe contraception and began touring to promote its use and functionality. Her focus 21 at this time was to emphasize the idea of choice both before and during gestation, to elongate the window of opportunity afforded to women to control their bodies. After touring, she opened her first birth control clinic in 1916 at 46 Amboy Street in the Brownsville neighborhood of Brooklyn. She had initially chosen the location due to her tight knit relationship with the community. She knew the services she would provide would be welcomed and much needed 22 within the community. She modeled the clinic after ones she had visited previously in Holland. 23 The clinic operated secretly, relying solely on word of mouth. Each woman that came through was offered Sanger’s informational pamphlet “What Every Girl Should Know” (see inset above), which included information and instructions about various methods of contraception.24

The clinic was incredibly successful and managed to see one hundred women within the first day of operation. However, within nine days, Sanger and her entire staff — including family members — were arrested (see inset below). They were charged with “providing information on contraception.” They spent three days together in jail for breaking the law. She appealed her 25 arrest on the grounds that the the material she was accused of distributing was not obscenity, but medical health information, and thus should not be subject to the restrictive propaganda act. When the court upheld her defense and ruled in her favor, she successfully changed the tide in favor of freedom of choice. The court maintained the opinion of law enforcement that obscene materials should still be restricted, but it allowed an exception to the law to allow for doctors to prescribe contraception for medical reasons. Buoyed by this success, Sanger established several additional institutions to capitalize on the changing view of birth control and women’s choice. In 1917, the first edition of the Birth Control Review was published, and the American Birth Control League gaveled their first meeting in 1921 with Sanger as president. In later years, this organization became what is now known as Planned Parenthood. Learning from her prior experience, Sanger 26 opened the first legally-permitted clinic, the Birth Control Clinical Research Bureau, and in 1929, she started the National Committee of Federal Legislation for Birth Control to advance issues of women’s rights and birth control through the legal system. In 1939, the summation of her labors bore fruit when the U.S. Court of Appeals allowed for birth control medications, tools, and related materials to be imported into the U.S. In the 1950s, money from her research foundation, funneled through the Planned Parenthood Federation of America, helped to sponsor the study that produced the first oral contraceptive pill. The legacy of Margaret Sanger paints 27 her as a pioneer in the fight for women’s reproductive rights, and the sustained work of Planned Parenthood is a testament to her strength and courage in the face of adversity.28

However, this is not the whole story. Margaret Sanger did not achieve these aims without assistance. As a woman of her time and class, Sanger would have needed to find funding to support her work, and she would gain needed respectability through marriage. As it happens, her choice of both a husband and a funding group led her to the American Eugenics Society, which encouraged her goals with the hope of limiting the populations of African Americans and Native Americans. Although it is not clear if she was a believer in these principles before she began working with them, it is undeniable that her relationship with the American Eugenics Society forever tinged both her legacy and her writings about the importance of contraception. Between the 1910s and her death in 1966, Sanger was involved in several eugenics meetings, programs, educational series, and projects. In the United States, eugenics intersected with the birth control 29 movement in the 1920s, and Sanger reportedly spoke at eugenics conferences. She wrote many papers with questionable themes, saying that she would make sure they, “lay all our emphasis upon stopping… the reproduction of the unfit.” Her definition of “unfit” was was often left 30 ambiguous, but since she was giving these speeches at white supremacist gatherings and publishing her thoughts in an effort to calm the fears in the communities of color who questioned her motives, it can be extrapolated that her definition of unfit probably did not include white people like herself. Sanger also worked on a project delicately titled the “Negro Project,” in which the goal was to bring birth control to African American populations with the stated intent of limiting the growth of said populations. The project was initiated by Sanger in 1939 and was 31 a collaboration between the American Birth Control League and Sanger’s Birth Control Clinical Research Bureau. However, she also had significant support for this project from prominent 32 leaders in the black community, including W.E.B. Dubois, despite the racist overtones of the project. Although it seems counterproductive in hindsight that Sanger would partner with leaders in the communities of color in order to do her work, Sanger was very aware that her “Negro Plan” would not necessarily go over well and came up with a solution to this problem; she wrote, “We do not want word to go out that we want to exterminate the Negro population and the minister is the man who can straighten out that idea if it ever occurs to any of their more rebellious members.” Even in her writing, Sanger is careful to phrase her ideas about the 33 “word” or “idea” of racist actions, rather than to focus her deception on whether or not the racism was real. Sanger understood the power of perception, and realized that all that mattered was that she didn’t appear as a racist when speaking to communities of color. In order to appear trustworthy and access new communities, she often went through ministers and religious leaders, first convincing them that her cause would benefit the poor black people in their congregations, and then making sure that they convinced the people of her “good intent,” when she arrived in person. Sanger also talked about contraceptives being used to facilitate, “the process of weeding out the unfit [and] of preventing the birth of defectives,” and it appears as though her definition 34 “defectives” included communities of color. Notably, she spoke to the Klu Klux Klan. She detailed the encounter in her autobiography saying, “Always to me any aroused group was a good group, and therefore I accepted an invitation to talk to the women’s branch of the Ku Klux Klan.” She was not ashamed of her speech which she made clear when she stated that “(she) 35 believed (she) had accomplished (her) purpose. A dozen invitations to speak to similar groups were proffered.” She enjoyed her interactions with the KKK and wanted to continue her 36 connections with them. When various interest groups representing communities of color expressed concern about the role of contraceptive clinics in furthering racist aims, Sanger wrote that she was going to use black religious leaders to try and convince communities of color that her motives were pure, when in fact they were not. As one examines Sanger’s legacy, the most problematic evidence regarding Sanger’s motives are her collected writings and articles. Although early articles focus more on her push for contraceptives, by 1921, Sanger was writing regularly in her Birth Control Review, and the articles took on a decisively eugenicist tone. A well known eugenist, Eugen Fischer, who was funded by The Rockefeller Foundation (one of many same organizations that also funded and supported Sanger’s work), was responsible for the racial hygiene theory adopted by Nazis. Her work at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute led to the 37 eugenics directly implemented in the Holocaust. The deep connection between Sanger’s 38 eugenics work and the Nazi eugenicists who carried out much of the reproductive system torture as well as the planned sterilization of the “inferior” races makes it difficult to deny that Sanger was not herself motivated by these ideas.

The connection of the American eugenics movement to the rising power in Germany was not limited to Sanger herself; later, in 1928, the cover of the Birth Control Review (see insert) featured minutes from a meeting between Sanger, the executive council, and representatives from prominent American eugenics supporters. Interestingly enough, Sanger has yet another connection to Hitler in that Whitney had previously sent him letters complimenting him for a book he had written on sterilization. By 1946, when popular 39 opinion had turned against eugenics after the end of the Second World War, Sanger published an article in the Negro Digest which shows that she walked back some of her rhetoric about who should have the right to dictate to others about their child needs. In particular, Sanger wrote that 40 a black women has as much and possibly more right to make that decision for herself and her family, which is in contrast to the language Sanger had used that implied a divine mandate for her to tell others how to control their births. Although she might have changed her mind about the eugenics movement by the time that she passed away, the scarcity of evidence about her progressive thoughts and the lack of an apology for her former actions leaves this as more of an assumption than as a certainty for those looking to absolve her.

With historical evidence to support Sanger’s positive impact on the reproductive healthcare of women situated alongside the financial and potentially philosophical reality of her partnership with eugenicists, describing Sanger’s legacy remains a complex task. Even as research was being completed for this paper, it was necessary to search the full phrase “Margaret Sanger eugenicist” in order to find internet search hits that did not focus solely on her professional accomplishments. In fact, when preliminary research for this paper was conducted by reading the special section about the birth control movement in the classroom textbook by Foner, the three paragraphs over two pages took time to mention her childhood but did not 41 make any mention of her relationship to eugenics. Of course, Foner is subject to the same publication and editorial demands as any other textbook author, yet it does seem hard to believe that a significant portion of the evidence about Sanger’s work and life would be omitted for any reason, while details about her ten siblings made it into the final edition. One could argue that being raised in such a large family could have inspired her to crusade for contraception; however, one could argue as easily that her eugenics leanings helped to propel her to continue the battle when faced with jail time (and a bail price she would have to pay off with funding from those partners). Foner himself summarizes this discrepancy in presenting heroes of American history in his preface to the text, “Americans have always had a divided attitude towards history. On the one hand, they tend to be future-oriented, dismissing events of even the recent past as ‘ancient history’ and sometimes seeing history as a burden to be overcome, a prison from which to escape. On the other hand, like many other peoples, Americans have always looked to history for a sense of personal or group identity and of national cohesiveness.” This desire of Americans in particular to obscure the difficult truths associated with our history 42is at once understandable and defensibly, and Foner’s acknowledgement indicates that he might unintentionally make this decision. Yet, in order to truly form an identity or a national cohesion, it is important to identify the moments where those who built up our history were themselves subject to the same flaws that we identify in our current landscape. Our heroes were as vulnerable to the same missteps as we are today, and by drafting histories that emphasize the complexity of the hero, we could help to foster that sense of national cohesion by discussing and processing the horrible things that we have done to each other in the name of “progress.”

Depicting Sanger as a complex historical figure does not diminish her power, it actually increases it. Consider the idea that Sanger might have only taken money from eugenic societies in order to fund her goals, and that she wasn’t herself a racist (her careful phrasing in most correspondence keeps that door ajar). In modern economic ethics, if one takes money from an organization, one is purportedly in favor of the values of that organization. This topic comes up time and again with modern politicians; for example, when the recent vote happened in the Senate to reestablish Net Neutrality, many of the list of senators who voted to keep it repealed had taken money from telecommunications companies who favored the ban, whereas many of their represented constituencies were in favor of repealing. However, when one examines a 43 historical issue that had been politicized, one must also identify the general availability of money at that time. For Sanger, access to money for her projects was greatly limited due to her gender and her cause, and it might truly have been impossible to find money other than that of eugenicists, as they had a similarly-aligned cause. Yet with her later writings, in particular her pro-eugenics manifesto, “The Eugenic Value of Birth Control Propaganda,” it seem as though she has embraced the eugenicist idea by at least 1921. Did she begin her crusade for birth control as a eugenicist, or did she embrace the values later? Once she took the money, was it then easier for her to compromise other morals in pursuit of her goal? These are the kinds of questions that make Margaret Sanger a much more interesting character than just a pro-birth control fighter. Complex characters are real characters, and history will be best learnt from if the models that are presented have the same weaknesses and foibles, and yet achieve great things despite these more negative traits. And when it comes to creating a historical model for a young woman in America, it is important to frame historical figures in their contexts to highlight their successes, as well as acknowledge their struggles and the compromises they made along the way. These choices are incredibly familiar to young American women today, and if Sanger’s story was told with all of the complexities and complications that come with living a full life as a woman at any time, then potential future activists sitting in classrooms right now might be inspired to take on large projects themselves.

While Margaret Sanger is well respected and often remembered as an activist and in achieving medical and sexual liberties for women in America, her legacy is tinged by the fact that her efforts were funded by racists and eugenicists and her work often benefited from the suffering of those she deemed “unfit.” Since her actions were funded by eugenicists her work must be put into perspective and she should both be remembered for the strides she made for woman as the founder of planned parenthood, but also someone who sacrificed moral beliefs and equal treatment of the people she claimed to care for in exchange for funding. Margaret Sanger was a complex woman who will always be remembered in history as a pioneer for women’s rights, but also must be remembered for her money from racists and eugenicists.

Endnotes

1. Eric, Foner. Give Me Liberty! An American History. New York: WW Norton &, 2017. 713-714.

2. “Margaret Sanger Biography.” Encyclopedia of World Biography. Accessed April 06, 2018. http://www.notablebiographies.com/Ro-Sc/Sanger-Margaret.html.

3. Margaret, Sanger. Autobiography (New York: Norton, 1938), p. 13; Katz, Esther, et al., eds, The Selected Papers of Margaret Sanger, Vol. 1: The “Woman Rebel” 1900–1928 (Urbana: Illinois University Press, 2003), pp. 4–5.

4. IBID

5. “Margaret Sanger.” Biography.com. April 28, 2017. Accessed April 06, 2018. https://www.biography.com/people/margaret-sanger-9471186

6. IBID

7. Wei-Chen, Tung (22 June 2010). “Doing the Month and Asian Cultures: Implications for Health Care”. Home Health Care Management & Practice. 22 (5): 369–371.

8. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Postpartum_confinement. Ou, Heng; Amely, Greeven; Belger, Marisa (2016). The First Forty Days: The Essential Art of Nourishing the New Mother. ISBN 9781617691836. (book quote found on wiki we spoke about it in class)

9. Mrs. Bird, female physician To the Ladies–Madame Costello. New York, 1842. Photograph. https://www.loc.gov/item/2002719613/.

10. Margaret, Sanger “WHAT EVERY GIRL SHOULD KNOW.” NYU. Accessed May 30, 2018. https://www.nyu.edu/projects/sanger/webedition/app/documents/show.php?sangerDoc=304922.xml.

11. “Biographical Sketch.” NYU. Accessed May 29, 2018. https://www.nyu.edu/projects/sanger/aboutms/.

12. “Margaret Sanger.” Biography.com. April 28, 2017. Accessed April 06, 2018. https://www.biography.com/people/margaret-sanger-9471186.

13. “Margaret Sanger.” Economic Aspects of Euthanasia | The Life Resources Charitable Trust. Accessed May 30, 2018. http://www.life.org.nz/abortion/aboutabortion/historyglobal10/Default.htm.

14. Chris, Will. “Early Forms of Birth Control Were Revolutionary but Look Scary.” Mashable. June 07, 2015. Accessed May 30, 2018. https://mashable.com/2015/06/07/early-birth-control/#3lt27KVpvZqp.

15. Britannica, The Editors of Encyclopaedia. “Comstock Act.” Encyclopædia Britannica. February 15, 2017. Accessed April 06, 2018. https://www.britannica.com/event/Comstock-Act.

16. De Robigne Mortimer, Bennett (15 May 1878). “Anthony Comstock: his career of cruelty and crime; a chapter from The champions of the Church”. New York, Liberal and Scientific Publishing House. Retrieved 15 May 2018 – via Internet Archive.

17. “Anthony Comstock.” Pseudoscience – RationalWiki. Accessed May 29, 2018. https://rationalwiki.org/wiki/Anthony_Comstock.

18. Britannica, The Editors of Encyclopaedia. “Comstock Act.” Encyclopædia Britannica. February 15, 2017. Accessed April 06, 2018. https://www.britannica.com/event/Comstock-Act.

19. “Margaret Sanger.” Depression-era Soup Kitchens. Accessed May 30, 2018. https://www.u-s-history.com/pages/h1676.html.

20. Neil A., Hamilton. Rebels and Renegades: A Chronology of Social and Political Dissent in the United States. Place of Publication Not Identified: Routledge, 2013. 182.

21. Jonathan, Eig. The Birth of the Pill: How Four Crusaders Reinvented Sex and Launched a Revolution. London, England: Pan Books, 2016. 3.

22. Margaret Sanger Papers Project. Accessed May 29, 2018. https://sangerpapers.wordpress.com/tag/brownsville-clinic/.

23. “Sanger’s First Clinic.” Margaret Sanger Papers Project. November 19, 2010. Accessed May 21, 2018. https://sangerpapers.wordpress.com/2010/10/26/sangers-first-clinic/.

24. IBID

25. “Margaret Sanger.” Biography.com. April 28, 2017. Accessed May 31, 2018. https://www.biography.com/people/margaret-sanger-9471186.

26. Melissa R., Klapper (August 22, 2014). Ballots, Babies, and Banners of Peace: American Jewish Women’s Activism, 1890–1940. NYU Press. pp. 137–138.

27. The New York Times. Accessed May 24, 2018. https://archive.nytimes.com/www.nytimes.com/learning/general/onthisday/bday/0409.html.

28. Peter, Engelman, “McCormick, Katharine Dexter”, in Encyclopedia of Birth Control, Vern L. Bullough (ed.), ABC-CLIO, 2001, pp. 170–1. Marc A. Fritz, Leon Speroff, Clinical Gynecologic Endocrinology and Infertility, Lippincott Williams & Wilkins, 2010, pp. 959–960.

29 “Margaret Sanger.” Biography.com. April 28, 2017. Accessed April 06, 2018. https://www.biography.com/people/margaret-sanger-9471186

30. Margaret Sanger, “Birth Control and Racial Betterment,” Feb 1919. Published article. Source: Birth Control Review, Feb. 1919., Library of Congress Microfilm 131:0099B.

31. “Reflections on Roe: When Margaret Sanger Spoke to the KKK.” The American Spectator. March 15, 2017. Accessed May 23, 2018. https://spectator.org/61552_reflections-roe-when-margaret-sanger-spoke-kkk/. 366-367.

32. The Negro Project was initiated in 1939 by Margaret Sanger, founder of Planned Parenthood. It was a collaborative effort between the American Birth Control League and Sanger’s Birth Control Clinical Research Bureau

33. “Newsletter #28 (Fall 2001).” NYU, www.nyu.edu/projects/sanger/articles/bc_or_race_control.php.

34. Amita, Kelly. “Fact Check: Was Planned Parenthood Started To ‘Control’ The Black Population?” NPR. August 14, 2015. Accessed May 27, 2018. https://www.npr.org/sections/itsallpolitics/2015/08/14/432080520/fact-check-was-planned-parenthood-started-to-control-the-blac k-population.

35. Margaret, Sanger. 1971. Margaret Sanger: an autobiography. New York: Dover Publications. (page 366 and 367)

36. IBID

37. Gretchen E. Schafft, From Racism to Genocide: Anthropology in the Third Reich (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2004), pp. 48-54.

38. United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, www.ushmm.org/information/exhibitions/traveling-exhibitions/deadly-medicine.

39. “Saynsumthn’s Blog.” Saynsumthns Blog. Accessed May 29, 2018. https://saynsumthn.wordpress.com/tag/leon-whitney/.

40. Margaret, Sanger. “Love or Babies: Must Negro Mothers Choose.” NYU, www.nyu.edu/projects/sanger/webedition/app/documents/show.php?sangerDoc=320905.xml.

41. Eric, Foner. Give Me Liberty! An American History. New York: WW Norton &, 2017. 713-714.

42. Eric, Foner. Give Me Liberty! An American History. New York: WW Norton &, 2017. Preface xviii.

43. Aaron, Barksdale. “Reddit Users Exposed Elected Officials Selling Out on Net Neutrality.” Impact, 5 Dec. 2017, impact.vice.com/en_us/article/j5d85p/reddit-users-exposed-elected-officials-selling-out-on-net-neutrality-by-taking-over-the-site s-front-page.

Bibliography:

“Anthony Comstock.” Pseudoscience – RationalWiki. Accessed May 29, 2018. https://rationalwiki.org/wiki/Anthony_Comstock. This source was a quotation by George Bernard Shaw found on the biography page of Anthony Comstock. It details how he feels about Comstockery and how the general public viewed it as a joke overall. This source helped me understand that the comstock laws were not only disliked by Activists, they were also disliked by the general public.

Barksdale, Aaron. “Reddit Users Exposed Elected Officials Selling Out on Net Neutrality.” Impact, 5 Dec. 2017,impact.vice.com/en_us/article/j5d85p/reddit-users-exposed-elected-officials-selling-out-on-net-neutrality-by-taking-over-the-sites-front-page. This source was an article detailing how senators took money from telecommunications and allowed themselves to be morally swayed and vote for repealing net neutrality. This is relevant because it is a similar narrative to what Margaret Sanger did when taking money from Eugenicists.

Bennett, De Robigne Mortimer (15 May 1878). “Anthony Comstock: his career of cruelty and crime; a chapter from The champions of the Church”. New York, Liberal and Scientific Publishing House. Retrieved 15 May 2018 – via Internet Archive. This source is an archive of an article displaying Anthony Comstock’s fears of youth being corrupted through the postal service. This source is relevant because it shows how Comstocks laws were surrounded by fear of sexuality and freedom.

Bird, Mrs. female physician To the Ladies–Madame Costello. New York, 1842. Photograph. This source is an image of a newspaper article showing two advertisements from the New York sun newspaper. Mrs. Bird offers pills for treatment of menstrual irregularity and Madame Costello offers help to women who want to be treated for “obstruction of their monthly periods.” This source is important because it shows how women accessed important information about their bodies.

“Biographical Sketch.” NYU. Accessed May 30, 2018. https://www.nyu.edu/projects/sanger/aboutms/. This source is a biography on Margaret Sanger. It is important because it gives very telling details into her life.

Britannica, The Editors of Encyclopaedia. “Comstock Act.” Encyclopædia Britannica. February 15, 2017. Accessed April 06, 2018. https://www.britannica.com/event/Comstock-Act. This source gives details and the specifics of the Comstock Act. It is important in understanding the Act and how it affected Sanger’s work.

Eig, Jonathan. The Birth of the Pill: How Four Crusaders Reinvented Sex and Launched a Revolution. London, England: Pan Books, 2016. 3. This source is from a book. It is important because it explains how Margaret Sanger coined the term birth control.

Engelman, Peter, “McCormick, Katharine Dexter”, in Encyclopedia of Birth Control, Vern L. Bullough (ed.), ABC-CLIO, 2001, pp. 170–1.

Marc A. Fritz, Leon Speroff, Clinical Gynecologic Endocrinology and Infertility, Lippincott Williams & Wilkins, 2010, pp. 959–960. This source details books in which Margaret Sanger and Planned Parenthood’s legacy is apparent. This is important because it showed that the impact of planned parenthood was far beyond Sanger.

Foner, Eric. Give Me Liberty! An American History. New York: WW Norton &, 2017. 713-714. This source is a textbook. It is important because it shows how we often don’t put into text the details of our heroes that paint them as less so. It helps prove my point that Sanger is often remembered for the good she has done, but the bad is often forgotten.

Hamilton, Neil A. Rebels and Renegades: A Chronology of Social and Political Dissent in the United States. Place of Publication Not Identified: Routledge, 2013. 182. This source is an article. It gives a background on William Sanger and shows that he was willing to go to prison for his cause.

Kelly, Amita. “Fact Check: Was Planned Parenthood Started To ‘Control’ The Black Population?” NPR. August 14, 2015. Accessed May 27, 2018. https://www.npr.org/sections/itsallpolitics/2015/08/14/432080520/fact-check-was-planned-parenthood-started-to-control-the-black-population. This source is an article that features direct quotations from Sanger. It is important because it exposes the racist and eugenicists themes within her writing and ideologies.

Klapper, Melissa R. (August 22, 2014). Ballots, Babies, and Banners of Peace: American Jewish Women’s Activism, 1890–1940. NYU Press. pp. 137–138. This source is a book and it is important because it shows how planned parenthood began.

“Margaret Sanger Biography.” Encyclopedia of World Biography. Accessed May 30, 2018. http://www.notablebiographies.com/Ro-Sc/Sanger-Margaret.html. This source is a Biography on Margaret Sanger. It is important because it gives important details and a new perspective into the life of Margaret Sanger and how she became the person we remember today.

“Margaret Sanger.” Depression-era Soup Kitchens. Accessed May 30, 2018. https://www.u-s-history.com/pages/h1676.html. This source is an article. It is important because it shows how the Comstock laws nearly stopped Sanger’s work, but she was able to escape and continue persevering.

“Margaret Sanger.” Economic Aspects of Euthanasia | The Life Resources Charitable Trust. Accessed May 30, 2018. http://www.life.org.nz/abortion/aboutabortion/historyglobal10/Default.htm. This source is an article. It is important because it shows her social and political activism and involvement.

Margaret Sanger Papers Project. Accessed May 29, 2018. https://sangerpapers.wordpress.com/tag/brownsville-clinic/. This source is an article. It is important because it sheds light on what her first clinic was like and how far she came from then to modern day planned parenthood.

Margaret Sanger, “Birth Control and Racial Betterment,” Feb 1919. Published article. Source: Birth Control Review, Feb. 1919., Library of Congress Microfilm 131:0099B.

“Margaret Sanger.” Biography.com. April 28, 2017. Accessed May 31, 2018. https://www.biography.com/people/margaret-sanger-9471186. This source is a Biography on Margaret Sanger. It is important because it gives important details and a new perspective into the life of Margaret Sanger and how she became the person we remember today

“Newsletter #28 (Fall 2001).” NYU, www.nyu.edu/projects/sanger/articles/bc_or_race_control.php.

“Reflections on Roe: When Margaret Sanger Spoke to the KKK.” The American Spectator. March 15, 2017. Accessed May 23, 2018. https://spectator.org/61552_reflections-roe-when-margaret-sanger-spoke-kkk/. 366-367. This source gives direct quotes from Sanger about her meetings with the women’s branch of the KKK. It is important because it gives input into her views and the racism she allows in order to receive funding.

“Sanger’s First Clinic.” Margaret Sanger Papers Project. November 19, 2010. Accessed May 21, 2018. https://sangerpapers.wordpress.com/2010/10/26/sangers-first-clinic/. This source is an article. It is important because it gives insight into her first clinic and how the struggles she endured in order to continue her work.

Sanger, Margaret. Autobiography (New York: Norton, 1938), p. 13; Katz, Esther, et al., eds, The Selected Papers of Margaret Sanger, Vol. 1: The “Woman Rebel” 1900–1928 (Urbana: Illinois University Press, 2003), pp. 4–5. This source is an Autobiography. It is important because it shows Sanger’s perspective and gives insight into her thoughts.

Sanger, Margaret. 1971. Margaret Sanger: an autobiography. New York: Dover Publications. 366-367. This source is an Autobiography. It is important because it shows Sanger’s perspective and gives insight into her thoughts.

Sanger, Margaret “WHAT EVERY GIRL SHOULD KNOW.” NYU. Accessed May 30, 2018. https://www.nyu.edu/projects/sanger/webedition/app/documents/show.php?sangerDoc=304922.xml This source is an image of a pamphlet given out at Sanger’s clinic. It is important because it gives details and perspective into the specific issues she was tackling at the time and how she was spreading resources.

Sanger, Margaret. “Love or Babies: Must Negro Mothers Choose.” NYU, www.nyu.edu/projects/sanger/webedition/app/documents/show.php?sangerDoc=320905.xml. This source is an article containing quotations. It is important because it shows the racist themes behind a lot of Sanger’s Eugenics work.

“Saynsumthn’s Blog.” Saynsumthns Blog. Accessed May 29, 2018. https://saynsumthn.wordpress.com/tag/leon-whitney/. This source is an article with primary sources. It is important because it connects Sanger’s eugenics works to Hitler and ideologies used within the Holocaust.

Schafft, Gretchen E.From Racism to Genocide: Anthropology in the Third Reich (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2004), pp. 48-54.

Tung, Wei-Chen (22 June 2010). “Doing the Month and Asian Cultures: Implications for Health Care”. Home Health Care Management & Practice. 22 (5): 369–371. This is important because it explains shame-based practices surrounding women’s health care.

The New York Times. Accessed May 24, 2018. https://archive.nytimes.com/www.nytimes.com/learning/general/onthisday/bday/0409.html. This source is an article. It is important because it explains the role of Dr. Pincus, the man who created chemical birth control, and his work with Sanger.

United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, www.ushmm.org/information/exhibitions/traveling-exhibitions/deadly-medicine. This source is an article. It is important because it connects the tactics used in the Holocaust to similar tactics used by eugenicists.

Wild, Chris. “Early Forms of Birth Control Were Revolutionary but Look Scary.” Mashable. June 07, 2015. Accessed May 30, 2018. https://mashable.com/2015/06/07/early-birth-control/#3lt27KVpvZqp.


Nolan’s Inception, Shakespeare’s Macbeth, and the Femme Fatale

“You keep telling yourself what you know… but what do you believe? What do you feel?” (Nolan 133) Mal asks her husband, Dominic in the film Inception (2010). Perhaps she embodies what women are traditionally expected to do — to rely on emotion rather than sense, to have more EQ than IQ, and to use the heart rather than the head. In these brief lines, Mal tries to convince Dom to think in an emotionally charged way, hoping it will bring them closer together as a couple. (Mal no longer is alive, but the movie presents her in the same way as a real, tangible person, suggesting she should be treated as such.) Dom responds bluntly, but not without strain: “Guilt. I feel guilt” (Nolan133). She successfully pulls the confession out of him, exploiting his grief and regret for her own satisfaction.

Inception is indirectly based on a play by William Shakespeare: the famous “Scottish Play” Macbeth, whose titular character spirals into a rut of guilt, shame, and paranoia brought on by the women in his life. The witches play a game with Macbeth, providing glimpses of a future he can’t predict, making him feel foolish and stripping him of his masculinity — which in this particular case might be synonymous with “rationality.” To exacerbate the issue, Macbeth’s wife, known only as “Lady Macbeth”, manipulates him to kill King Duncan, not only so he can usurp the throne, but also so he can prove his worth as a husband. “When you durst do it, then you were a man / And, to be more than what you were, you would / Be so much more the man,” the Lady tells Macbeth. Once Macbeth becomes king, he’ll have no choice but to agree to have children and continue the royal line. The stress caused by these immoral activities makes Macbeth agitated and restless, and by the end, he’s led to his demise at the hands of an old friend — Macduff, the Thane of Fife. But according to the story’s subtext, Macbeth himself is never truly to blame. It’s always either the witches, with their evilness and “filthy” sorcery, or his wife, the master manipulator.

In an interview, Nolan described Mal as “the essence of the femme fatale”. In fiction, a femme fatale is a mysterious and seductive woman — often a sexist stereotype — who will ultimately bring downfall to a man who becomes romantically or sexually involved with her. This is a stock character used especially in “noir” films from the 1940s like The Lady from Shanghai or Double Indemnity. After the film noir period ended, “neo-noirs”, modern takes on the genre, started appearing: among them were Blade Runner (1982) with Sean Young, Blue Velvet (1986) with Isabella Rossellini, and Basic Instinct (1992) with Sharon Stone. Anyone who consumes a significant amount of TV or pulp fiction will start to notice this character appear frequently, with minor variations. The Top 40 single “Maneater” by Nelly Furtado and Timbaland, which employs this character to great effect. In the song’s extended outro, Furtado sings “You wish you never ever met her at all!” — a powerful cry indicating the destruction femme fatales employ on their lovers. Nolan’s description is therefore an apt one. Mal isn’t there to do much more than provide a source of misery for the male protagonist. With this one purpose in mind, the character comes across as underwritten: actress Marion Cotillard does her best with the challenging line readings. The script’s dialogue is simplistic and often ineffective, which indicates that Nolan is more focused on the mechanics of Inception’s dream-world than on the intricacies of his characters. If that wasn’t clear from watching the film, his willingness to sum up Mal’s personality in two words — “femme fatale” — shows he has more devotion to creating narrative puzzles than people. It seems Nolan could have done a better job with writing this character, but to give him credit, Mal’s underwritten-ness may actually have been a conscious artistic choice. When considering the idea that Mal is a “projection” of Dom’s mind, we understand that her personality traits are exaggerated and she is an imperfect reconstruction of the wife Dom once knew.

Lady Macbeth is similar to Mal in numerous ways. It can be argued that Lady Macbeth cannot be a femme fatale due to the period in which this story is set: there are no cigarettes to smoke or fedora-wearing detectives to deceive. However, there is one major sign indicating her as a forerunner — her manipulation of her husband. In Shakespeare’s world, women can be as ruthless as men, yet social norms deny them the ability to pursue power on their own. Lady Macbeth never outright kills Duncan, but she is instrumental in aiding Macbeth to commit the crime. In her character arc, Lady Macbeth does whatever she can under the constraints of being a woman; in fact, she maybe even harbors a secret wish to be a man. In Act 1, she delivers a monologue which includes several eyebrow-raising lines, including this one:


“Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full
Of direst cruelty!”


She hopes evil spirits will remove her ladylike characteristics, such as her motherly instincts, and instead make her as cruel as any man. In another line, she asks the spirits to “come to my woman’s breasts, and take my milk for gall,” a rather extreme demand which suggests she wants to stop lactating. It’s clear Lady Macbeth means this metaphorically, but the idea that that she needs to become physically more masculine in order to commit this terrible crime is odd and disturbing, and brings controversial psychology to light. It’s Freudian in nature, seeming to echo his problematic and misogynistic idea of “penis envy”. The concept explains how, in a patriarchal society, women might envy the power given to those with a phallus. These lines were written before Freud was even born.

While Lady Macbeth is feminine in nature, the witches are certainly not. In fact, the first thing we learn about them is that they resemble men. They have beards, as illustrated by Macbeth’s remark “You should be women / And yet your beards forbid me to interpret that you are so.” This seems to foreshadow that they are men’s match in power and agency. Indeed, the witches are the most powerful characters in Macbeth — even more powerful than any man with a royal title. Women with immense power over men, like the “weird sisters”, are bound to be abnormal looking or acting women according to Shakespearean logic. Any “normal” woman in Shakespeare’s plays will not have copious power: the further women veer towards authority, the weirder they become. Of the major female players in Macbeth, Lady Macbeth is the least powerful, as she is only Macbeth’s husband and socially expected to be obliging and agreeable. Unlike the witches, she looks feminine and dresses customarily as an aristocrat of medieval Scotland. She might initially have some deep-seated desires of manhood, but by the time the play ends, she’s helpless and filled with regret, trying to wash away an invisible bloodstain.

The witches, similarly to Lady Macbeth, heavily influence Macbeth’s actions. Their repeated line “Fair is foul, and foul is fair” is the marker of their unpredictability. Though the witches do not deliberately advise Macbeth to kill King Duncan like Lady Macbeth did, they use a form of temptation when they inform Macbeth that kingship is his destiny. By placing this thought in his brain, they do what Lady Macbeth cannot — they bolster his manhood and give him an actual drive to pursue his ambitions. This is where the parallels between the two works fall apart: while easy comparisons can be made between Mal and Lady Macbeth, there aren’t any for the witches. If anything, Cobb himself acts as a magician, using “magic” (dream technology) to plant an idea in Robert Fisher’s head — the idea to break up his dying father’s business empire. Additionally, he less literally plants an idea in Mal’s head: a romantic fantasy. Dom indulges Mal in “limbo” for fifty years, and the two lovers build their own little dream world together, as time moves much more slowly than in real life. Mal refuses to return to reality, and when Dom forcibly wakes her, she decides to commit suicide by jumping from a hotel window — the site of their anniversary celebration. This causes him to feel the aforementioned guilt in a truly profound way.

The witches, along with male royalty, are the most powerful agents in Macbeth. It should be noted, however, that while both witches and kings have power, the witches have a type that is more inherently feminine. They’re the only ones possessing supernatural, magical abilities — possibly the most feared ability in all of literature. The witches can make any man believe anything by just whispering in his ear. In this case, they use their abilities to gain Macbeth’s trust, build up a false prophecy, and then bring him to his demise. It could also be argued that the intrinsic fears men have of women are represented by the supernatural abilities of the witches. Women are more cerebral than men, which is why this form of power is more believable than having them be bloodthirsty barbarians who can gore any man with the swing of an axe. Of course, Shakespeare is also attempting to drive a wedge between the sexes and show a sense of mistrust between them. The witches have something much scarier than kingly power because it can’t be explained: why they, of all people, poor, lowly and haggard, deserve to have it; what they plan to do with it; and even the scope of what can be done with it.

possibly the most feared ability in all of literature. The witches can make any man believe anything by just whispering in his ear. In this case, they use their abilities to gain Macbeth’s trust, build up a false prophecy, and then bring him to his demise. It could also be argued that the intrinsic fears men have of women are represented by the supernatural abilities of the witches. Women are more cerebral than men, which is why this form of power is more believable than having them be bloodthirsty barbarians who can gore any man with the swing of an axe. Of course, Shakespeare is also attempting to drive a wedge between the sexes and show a sense of mistrust between them. The witches have something much scarier than kingly power because it can’t be explained: why they, of all people, poor, lowly and haggard, deserve to have it; what they plan to do with it; and even the scope of what can be done with it.

So, the question: Who is responsible? Is it Macbeth, or the women giving him bad advice? It’s Macbeth who actually carries out the murder of Duncan, and Macbeth who unwisely hires contract killers to murder Banquo, so in the most literal sense, it’s Macbeth’s fault. We don’t know what Shakespeare would say, but many would point to the witches and Lady Macbeth as his answer. According to them, his writing of women in the play is questionable at its best and blatantly sexist at its worst, showing the remnants of an alarming agenda — the idea that the influence of women can erase a man’s free will completely. I personally believe Shakespeare’s ambiguity surrounding this element of the story is intentional, but it doesn’t really matter — Shakespeare is appealing because we know so little about him and what he created. Some scholars have even speculated that the Scottish Play we know and love today is just an abridged version of a lost, complete manuscript, which adds another layer of mystery to Shakespeare’s psyche. Nolan, conversely, is alive and well, and willing to explain everything he creates. His narratives are less poetic and more workmanlike than Shakespeare’s, airtight with no plot holes or narrative gaps — and leaving no space for poetry. For instance, Inception, despite being a film about dreams, is filled with exposition, and it’s more restrained than other cinematic depictions of dreaming such as Mulholland Drive and Lost Highway by David Lynch. An architect of words and images, Nolan crafts films that may require more than one viewing to fully understand, but are always incredibly deliberate in their execution. While Nolan and Shakespeare deal with similar themes relating to guilt, free will, and the relations between the sexes, they are far from two sides of the same coin.

Works Cited:

http://shakespeare.mit.edu/macbeth/full.html

http://www.raindance.co.uk/site/scripts/Inception.pdf

Consent: Hidden in the Length of My Skirt?

In 2018, the terms “victim blaming,” “rape culture,” and “consent” are buzzwords that constantly get thrown around, but where exactly does the controversy lie in the whole matter? Apparently, within the wardrobe of the victim. But with a simple understanding of consent and assault, all of the answers seem clear ­­ at least to most. The length of a woman’s skirt is not a measure of consent. Nor is the height of her heels, nor the amount of skin she’s showing. Rape and assault are not two ­way streets; one person inflicts assault, one person is at fault. It’s an active decision made by the perpetrator, and “suggestive” clothing worn by the victim can never justify this by any means.

This is not to say that men’s arousal cannot be triggered visually with provocative clothing as a catalyst, but rather that this does not excuse any actions that follow this arousal. The interpretation of provocative dress that perpetrators propose is that the clothing a victim wore expressed a desire for sexual attention. We’ve apparently forgotten that clothing does not come with tags reading, “Dear men, this is an invitation for invasion of my personal privacy and safety.” Jessica Wolfendale emphasizes this common mis­assumption in “Provocative Dress and Responsibility,” by suggesting a hypothetical in which the roles are inverted. She tells readers to imagine a situation where a women makes sexual advances on a man wearing tight jeans and a tight tank ­top, and though he tells her to stop, she continues while claiming that he must want it, considering what he’s wearing. There is no doubt that if this truly happened, most people would defend the man and not blame him for his choice of attire (and rightly so). But the sad truth of this shows us the very real negative implications of social norms surrounding “provocative dress” in women, and the lack thereof in men.

Victim blamers cite “science,” claiming that men can become so aroused that their actions are beyond self control. A common defense is the belief that since the woman chose to wear the clothing that triggered this “massive, insurmountable” arousal, she is at fault. In short, the facts they reference are flawed. The biological aspects behind sexual arousal are somewhat obscure, but there is evidence of neurological systems connected to visuals that induce and regulate arousal. So while, undoubtedly, arousal in men is proven to be very visual and can be unintentional, there are other neurological systems such as the orbitofrontal cortex that suppress these feelings and can almost “understand” when it’s wrong to have them. But is it possible for these regulating systems to be compromised? Of course. If you’re under the influence of alcohol or drugs, the orbitofrontal complex’s judgement can be compromised and it is possible it would not have the same power to stop actions upon sexual arousal. But let’s revisit the definition of consent again ­­ will this added component of being under the influence really help an assaulter’s case? Experiencing sexual arousal doesn’t justify sexual assault just as being drunk does not justify sexual assault. Having a combination of the two doesn’t magically balance it out either. And while you would think assaulters would not want to flaunt their ability to be so dominated by their sexual arousal that they just “can’t control themselves,” it is an excuse they keep on coming back to simply because they have no other defense.

In other words, there are no justifications for assault or rape. Scientifically speaking, there are no inner forces that drive men to make sexual advancements stronger than the forces that exist to stop them from doing it. And in the case that these forces are impaired, consent is already invalidated because of the involvement of these impairments. If consent is given, one will know it. Consent does not lie hidden within the folds of provocative clothing. The problem does not lie hidden within the folds of provocative clothing either. Commanding women to dress differently as a means to keep them safe is complying with the perpetrators, and essentially names rape and assault as a completely avoidable situation. While, yes, we want to encourage women to stay safe and of course limit the number of opportunities for assault, we have to see how failing to target the problem at its source is leading victims/survivors to watch others place the fault on them ­­ and this can get inside their heads. When horrible and unnatural things happen to humans, the instinctive response is to rack your brain for the answer to one question: Why me? After an assault, a victim is at their most vulnerable, and with accusations and misconceptions publicly thrown around, they too may begin to place the blame on themselves. The awful truth is that harassment can happen to anyone, and the last thing we want are rapists who feel like their actions are justified just because their victims were scared into believing so too. Most of the general public will stand strongly in their belief that victims of rape should not be blamed, but it is important to target the minority that believes otherwise in order to fight the problem at its source. Let’s stop telling victims to change how they dress and start telling assaulters about consent and what it means when there’s a lack thereof. It’s important we all remember that she was not “asking for it” unless she was purposefully, verbally, and quite literally, asking for it.

Bibliography

Burnett, Dean. “How ‘Provocative Clothes’ Affect the Brain – and Why It’s No Excuse for Assault.” The Guardian, Guardian News and Media, 25 Jan. 2018,
www.theguardian.com/science/brain­flapping/2018/jan/25/how­provocative­clothes­affect­the­brain­and­why­its­no­excuse­for­assault.

Costello, Carol. “’Sexy’ Clothes Don’t Excuse Sexual Violence.” CNN, Cable News Network, 9 Oct. 2014, www.cnn.com/2014/10/06/opinion/costello­provocative­clothes­dont­cause­rape/index.html.

Greyson. “’Provocative Clothing’ Does Not Excuse Sexual Assault.” The Collegian, 21 March 2018, sdsucollegian.com/2018/03/21/provocative­clothing­does­not­excuse­sexual­assault/.

Lifestyle, Yahoo. “Why Do People Blame Sexual Harassment On Women’s Outfits?” TheHuffington Post, TheHuffingtonPost.com, 21 December 2017,
www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/why­do­people­blame­sexual­harassment­on­womens­outfits_us_5a3bdbeee4b0b0e5a7a06154.

“Why Dress Codes Can’t Stop Sexual Assault.” The Washington Post, WP Company, 13 April 2016, www.washingtonpost.com/posteverything/wp/2016/04/13/why­dress­codes­cant­stop­sexual­assault/?noredirect=on&utm_term=.f6bf40701970.

Wolfendale, Jessica. “Provocative Dress and Sexual Responsibility.” SSRN Electronic Journal, 2015, doi:10.2139/ssrn.2591440.

Spinsters, Damsels and Green-Skinned Space Babes: An Analysis of Female Representation in Sci-fi Films

With 2017 and 2018 both being big years for women’s rights, female representation in films and media seem to have fallen noticeably behind the times. So much effort and so many resources are being put into combating sexism in individuals or groups of people — think the Women’s March and protests against President Trump’s inauguration — that activists are beginning to lose sight of exactly why discrimination against women is still deeply rooted in the minds of so many people. Not only have scores of media moguls been accused of sexual harassment of female actors, but women have also suffered from both the lack of representation and misrepresentation in American films, a disparity which is particularly prominent in the science fiction genre.

The way people perceive the world around them, including their views of women, is in part shaped by their exposure to various forms of media, including digital media such as movies and TV shows. But why are science fiction films so special? What makes the sci-fi genre in particular more harmful to society’s perception of women? After all, it seems ironic — sci-fi is a genre meant to portray futures where mankind has progressed beyond its current stage, for the better or the worse, and yet somehow still fails to properly represent 49.6% of the population(Country Meters) in a progressive way. One main factor contributing to issues surrounding how women are portrayed in sci-fi is the underrepresentation and misrepresentation they suffer on-screen. Though this problem is seen across many forms of media, including books, TV shows, and other genres of movies, science fiction movies in particular suffers from issues pertaining to not only poor representation of women, but also the lack of representation itself; of all movie genres, sci-fi films are the least likely to feature female leads, with protagonists who identify as female making up a mere 4% of all main characters (womenandhollywood) in comparison to the real-life men-to-women ratio of 50.4% to 49.6% within the United States. The absence of female representation in sci-fi films already serves to perpetuate stereotypes, sending subliminal messages to consumers about what women in the physical world are and are not capable of. Making matters worse, the tiny amount of women who do appear on-screen at all in sci-fi movies often become reduced to flat, one-dimensional characters. A less discreet means of bolstering harmful dogmas about the female population, this effect is seen through both the overuse of tropes such as the “Damsel in Distress” as well as bland stereotypes such as the “Sexy Alien” (which exoticizes women with different ethnic backgrounds)  and “Frustrated Spinster Scientist” (a lesson to female readers that career success equals feminine failure). Though it is in fact true that women will most likely be limited by their gender to at least some degree no matter what futures they pursue, this stereotype suggests that it is because they are female that they cannot perform as well as their male counterparts, while the reality is that the disparity in general “success” between men and women is rooted in how they are perceived by the world around them. This inaccurate and inadequate portrayal of women in sci-fi movies has had negative effects on how they are viewed by society as a whole, and often even how women view themselves.

The detrimental effects the sci-fi genre has on how women are perceived by society stem from a few key issues, among them the aforementioned lack of female leads in sci-fi films, which then leads to inadequate representation. In fact, according to www.womenandhollywood.com, female protagonists are most likely to appear in comedies (30%) and dramas (30%), followed by action films (17%), then horror films (13%), with animated features and science fiction films coming last with women consisting of only 4% of their protagonists. As mentioned before, this fact puts movies in the sci-fi genre at an enormous disparity with real life; according to the Country Meters, just about half of the total world population (49.6%) identify as female. So why aren’t we seeing more women — who make up just about half of the population — in science fiction movies?

One reason for why there is such poor representation of women in sci-fi, and arguably the main reason, is because the movie directing industry is still predominantly male, with women making up only 8% of the top 100 grossing films as of 2017 (womenandhollywood). Of all movies with at least one female director, females comprised 45% of protagonists, 48% of major characters, and 42% of all speaking characters. On the other hand, in films with exclusively male directors and/or writers, women accounted for only 20% of protagonists, 33% of major characters, and 32% of all speaking characters (womenandhollywood). This difference in the amount of women represented in sci-fi in movies directed by men versus those directed by women is not a coincidence; this trend shows the tendency of both men and women to cast people of their own gender in leading, or at least speaking, roles. If more women were given positions of power in the movie directing industry, more women would be represented in film. This change could potentially be seen throughout all movies, not just those belonging to the science fiction genre, and the imbalance between the number of women we see on-screen and the number of women who inhabit the physical world would start to diminish.

Female protagonists in sci-fi movies have also never been seen as complex characters and have often been reduced to one-dimensional stereotypes, as opposed to their male counterparts. This fact can be seen throughout much of the science fiction genre, and typically manifest themselves in the form of overused tropes like the “Damsel in Distress”, which strengthens the idea that women are not capable of defending themselves and perpetuates patronizing myths about women, seen in multiple James Bond movies as well as Star Trek. Also common are harmful stereotypes like the “Sexy Alien”, which serves to objectify and exoticize women who are perceived as “different”. This stereotype is featured most commonly in the Marvel Cinematic Universe and Star Wars(as well as Star Trek). “Frustrated Spinster Scientist” is also a common stereotype which teaches the female audience, especially young girls, that not only do men not find women working in the STEM field attractive, but also that the pursuit of STEM-related careers will remain fruitless given that one is a woman. Though the presence of the stereotype itself is not too problematic, it becomes problematic, and begins to represent such ideas, once such stereotypes are the only ways women see themselves being portrayed on-screen. An excessive use of the “frustrated spinster scientist” stereotype is especially harmful since it perpetuates not one, but two harmful stereotypes about women in STEM, thus making it doubly dangerous, especially to younger minds; one about how others will view them, and another about how their gender inherently inhibits their ability to achieve in typically “masculine” careers and/or environments. Thus, the gross overuse of harmful stereotypes quickly becomes problematic, even dangerous, as science fiction continues to present consumers with films which either confirm past dogmas about women, or serve to invent new ones.

All groups of people tend to categorize other groups into specific archetypes in order to try to understand them in a simplified way; however, that “simplification” often leads to some of the one-dimensional caricatures audiences see onscreen — and the same stands for men and their depictions of women in sci-fi. The spinster scientist, space babe and the damsel in distress all reflect not women’s perceptions of themselves, but men’s perceptions of how women should and should not behave. Society thus far has been fascinated in seeing women in these roles; the “damsel in distress” caters to the way women are perceived as submissive and unable to defend themselves, therefore justifying society’s patronizing attitude towards women’s abilities in activities and careers traditionally seen as masculine. The “frustrated spinster scientist”, on the other hand, expresses men’s subconscious fears of women in the pursuit of fields typically dominated by men, especially those relating to STEM. Such scientists are portrayed as career women who struggle to find romantic partners since they emasculate the men around them, leading the audience to conclude that real-life women will not be well liked by their male counterparts if they are too ambitious in male-dominated fields. Both stereotypes hold the power to alter how others view women, as well as women’s perceptions of themselves. This effect is made especially dangerous once the messages such stereotypes send are able to be consumed subconsciously through compact, easy-to-digest forms like movies and TV shows, which is exactly what is happening now.

Various forms of visual media including film influence our daily lives and lead us to perceive others differently, whether for better or for worse. Science fiction films in particular influence how women are perceived by others and even by themselves in a negative way, as seen by the extremely low percentage of female protagonists (4%) featured in such movies. Worse still, an outdated “discriminatory industry adage that women can’t direct thrillers, sci-fi or action films hurts the earnings of female directors even more” (Forbes). We cannot let the irrationality of discrimination based on gender infiltrate our most optimistic portrayals of the future, or poison the meticulously delineated utopia mankind hopes to someday achieve. People are being exposed to more digital media than ever with the advent of the age of technology — which is why it’s so important to ensure that what we are all consuming is just as progressive as the worlds portrayed in science fiction in which we aspire to live.

Sources:

“Damsel in Distress.” TV Tropes, tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/DamselInDistress?from=Main.DistressedDamsel.

“Green-Skinned Space Babe.” TV Tropes, tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/GreenSkinnedSpaceBabe.

Womenandhollywood.com, womenandhollywood.com/resources/statistics/2017-statistics/.

“World Population.” Country Meters. Accessed November 23, 2018. https://countrymeters.info/en/World.

Definitive Characterization: The Insidious Corruption of High Art

In 1885, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was challenged in Massachusetts for obscene language relating to people of color, and has since come under tremendous fire for the same reason. In 1988, The Lord of the Flies was banned by many schools in Canada for “denigrating blacks. ” Even To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee’s novel about racism in the South, was removed from schools across Canada in 2009 for racist language and epithets.

How horrible, think many confronted with these facts. And obviously, banning books is wrong, most would agree; it is a denial of free speech, it crushes dissenting opinions, it fosters children who are sheltered from a whole myriad of challenging themes — I could go on. But obviously, it is not a desirable practice for a nation to get into the habit of.

However, it is a common misconception that bannings such as these are the results of religious groups. On this logic, the exigent problem which demands our attention is the overreach or intensely religious communities or organizations. While this is certainly far from falsehood (the banning because of sexually inappropriate material stems mainly from them), we waste our energy standing like adept watchmen on guard for religious groups to exercise the power they had in past years. Religious censorship, while it might have had an considerable effect in its heyday, carries far less weight than people afford it today.

Just take the last complete century. In 1900, there were 226,120 registered atheists, according to the world census totals, as opposed to the 150,089,508 in 2000, an over 650% increase. And since then, the ranks of agnostic/atheists have been swelling at a rapid pace, tripling in 18 years. And this not even mentioning those who are unaffiliated with any particular religion, which is a whopping 16.5% of the adult population. Around 1.1 billion. And too many now believe wholeheartedly in the school of thought that banning books is a malicious and condemnable process before going home and becoming part of the problem. Because the problem is not religion. It is definitive characterization.

“Definitive characterization” is a term that I created in order to accurately describe the growing school of thought which increasing numbers of people have unknowingly sworn themselves into. It is the school of thought that says that to examine the character of an individual is to examine their moral status as pertaining to only contemporarily paramount topics. Regardless of the actual content of the piece (an aspect carrying less and less weight in a world that moves steadily away from artistic quality), judgements are rather based on the political orientation of the work or person.

This resounds very powerfully today, especially with increasingly common cases such as that of Roseanne Barr. After Barr used racist language to describe Barack Obama on Twitter, a whole storm of outcry that would end up forcing ABC executives to cancel the appropriately titled reboot Roseanne. While Barr’s remarks were inexcusable, the mixing of politics into anything other than public demonstrations, and, well, politics, should be grossly undesirable for our country. Because once Barr had been so definitively characterized, all of her work, whether high-quality of low-quality, racist or not, was discarded.

And it is the very notion that accomplished people, important works, productions, publications, and the like, that they, before being judged on a basic level, must first subject themselves to a thorough moral pat-down that appalls me. Before being accurately rated, they are checked for standards totally unrelated to the pure quality of the book — the melodic prose, the subtle undertones, the particularly thrilling twist.

Take Of Mice and Men, a John Steinbeck classic detailing the taunting allure of dreams, banned in certain schools in 2002 for racial slurs. It is a novella, somewhere in the realm of 27,000 words. Near the middle, there is a scene in which Lenny (a gentle giant with minimal intelligence), left alone on the ranch in which the book takes place, strikes up a conversation with “Crooks,” an African-American ranch hand.

Crooks, named for his crooked back, is first terse with Lenny, but is won over by his almost puppy-like demeanor. After a bit of small talk, Crooks lets gushing out a monologue on the hardships afforded to a black man simply for his skin color. He loudly laments the fact that he will never be fully accepted, no matter what he does. It’s a poignant speech. It is even a scene which Steinbeck seemingly goes out of his way to jam into the novel — which is to say, it hardly fits with the general plot arc of the novel. This should perhaps be a perfectly fine, even well-respected scene. But then Steinbeck makes one surprisingly significant misstep: he has another, completely antagonistic figure come into the shack, a rancher by the name of Candy. For a few plot-related reasons, Candy begins to become a little aggressive towards Crooks, using derogatory language as a defense mechanism when Crooks becomes harsh towards him. After examining the lengthy list of reasons for the banning of Of Mice and Men, I’d say it’s a fair gamble to say that the most common reason given is racism and derogatory language.

This parable acts as a perfect paradigm, a symptom, if you will, of a larger, more sinister malady. Many classic pieces today are discredited for the simple fact that many refuse to look past the author’s political orientation, even if, as in this case, the passage actually sympathizes with the plight of blacks worldwide. Once Steinbeck brings forth “derogatory language,” however, our brains close off to receiving any new information. Anything we read from that point onwards is as if we were reading it through tinted glasses: everything is still technically legible, but it heavily discourages closer reading.

And another example is found in the debate over Thomas Jefferson.

Now, Jefferson has an admirable resumé (negotiated the Louisiana purchase and wrote the Declaration of Independence), but he has come under heavy fire lately for owning slaves. Yes, this accusation loses much of its weight under research, but the more troubling fact about the accusation, (more than it’s objectively unsteady factual foundation), is that the character of a historically vital piece in the creation of this country, could be called into question over whether or not he owned slaves. The two are separate entities.

Hearing that someone owned slaves, according to the gathering storm of believers in definitive characterization, shuts off any further examination. The main thing to know about Thomas Jefferson, first and foremost, is how he related to minorities. If he owned slaves then other achievements, no matter how important, are irrelevant.

And because my conscience will not allow me to continue without a clarification, Jefferson was not some dastardly owner who mistreated his slaves. It is so easy to forget in this post-Industrial Revolution era, machines could not do that basic level of menial labor. The southern states, being farther away from countries in Europe that could give them indentured servants, were geographically forced to look for workers in the southern hemisphere. Jefferson inherited a plantation from his father, and used it to keep himself afloat financially. However, in horrible debt and thus financially blocked from freeing his slaves, Jefferson still paid many of them, as well as constantly working on laws to halt the slave trade. He enacted landmark legislature in 1778 and 1779, as well as a proposal to ban all slavery in the North and South in 1800 that failed to pass by one vote in Congress. On the other side, one could make the case that many Northerners did manage their businesses without slaves fairly easily, and that Jefferson, if he believed so wholeheartedly in the edicts he preached, would have taken the hard way by selling Monticello. If Jefferson cared about freeing slaves as something other than a political mechanism, a move to the North was certainly plausible. Jefferson is also rumoured to have had an affair with one of his slaves, Sally Hemings, when she was sixteen, though some academics quarrel with the DNA study which gave new life to that theory. The majority are not entirely compelled to believe it was Jefferson, and not a family member, who impregnated Sally Hemings, but opponents fight back with the evidence that the Sally Hemings and her children were the only Monticello slaves to be freed. Still others maintain that this is irrelevant, given the nature of Jefferson’s life and his contributions to freeing the slaves entirely. The point is, the rewards of such research require only people to remove their tinted glasses, and keep open the possibility to learn more and develop thoughts on a subject. For those who can take the leap, a treasure trove of enlightening information lies waiting.

And not only do we shut ourselves off from acquiring new information, and close our minds to available knowledge, we encourage our posterity to follow in that example. By making it clear that a creative artist’s work will first be weighed according to his or her politics encourages those who might write silver tongued masterpieces to blandly plod forwards in their perfectly average pieces, intent only on not being subject to the horrible literary torture of being seen through tinted glasses. By continuing to definitively characterize art forms, ideas, companies, and people, we destroy any future progress in humanities and the liberal arts.

Our energy is misplaced when we scream the dwindling religious figures who will today barely manage to get a religiously based ban past school boards. That aggressive and uniquely unproductive use of our energy is far better spent in educating ourselves on the true nature of a situation. It would be better spent prying our minds open to hear the opinions of those that we disagree with and not judge their character for it. The evidence of this pandemic is everywhere. In the words of the English historian Christopher Hill, “history has to be rewritten in every generation, because although the past does not change, the present does; each generation asks new questions of the past and finds new areas of sympathy as it re-lives different aspects of the experiences of its predecessors.” And indeed, haughty with our modern ideas, (just as much of a construct of the imagination as any past idea was, for the record — human rights are no less fictitious than dragons are), we refuse to consider further perspectives once the author has activated any of our newfangled tripwires.

Ask Ty Cobb, who had the best lifetime career batting average of any major league player, but whose reputation is sorely tarnished by his anti-semitic activities. Take a look at Uncle Tom’s Cabin, literally an anti-slavery novel written by Harriet Beecher Stowe, who made the mistake of having the white characters refer to the black characters using derogatory terms, such as “house negro.” That was banned in a whole district in 1984 for racism. Ask Cesar Chavez, a famous labor leader and civil rights activist whose phrases and speeches (when collected into a book entitled The Words of Cesar Chavez) was banned for derogatory language towards illegal immigrants. The Color Purple. Or Beloved. Or The Invisible Man. Peruse the contents of any great library to see dejected works of brilliant literature lost to time for their failure to comply with new, modern standards, and attitudes about history from. Watch as the magnificent works of Conrad, Twain, and, Steinbeck droop in sorrow, and check that you do not fall prey to this enticingly simple trap. Ensure that this practice, all too easy to subscribe to, may begin to be reversed within our lifetime. Ensure that you can help spur that change.


The Ancient World and The Future World: Yesterday and Tomorrow

About 3,000 years ago, the lives of humans were unimaginably different from ours. What we know about the way they lived we know from the rarely found texts, art, and artifacts. Of course, the events in their everyday lives were often much like ours. It’s the details that we do not know of. However, there is one other thing that puts together the image of their lives in our heads. That final puzzle piece is called stories, or as we refer to them, myths. Combining these puzzle pieces allows us to create a vision in our minds of what life may have been like back then.

The word “myth” comes from the word “mythos”, which in Greek means fable, legend, story, or poetic tale. Today, we look at ancient myths as beautiful stories about majestic things of the past. We view them simply as legends, not as something that was most definitely true. The same goes for more realistic and proven tales of ancient rulers and events. Take, for example, the story of Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile. Much of what we know about her, we know through artifacts that we have found. By putting the story of each of those artifacts together, we were able to create an approximate idea of what her life was like. However, we do not know any of this for sure. What we do know is that there was a woman named Cleopatra who ruled Egypt for some time. We know these due to the series of artifacts such as stelas, sculptures, and texts that have been found. We do not know the details of her life, though. We look at her story as myth, or something that may, or may not have happened.

This is how we view what was happening 3,000 years ago. Now fast forward 3,000 years from now. Of course, we will all be long gone, and our descendants will be walking the Earth. The technology will be more advanced than we could ever imagine. How will our descendants look at our way of life and our stories? Well, most likely the way we look at the life of ancient Romans, Egyptians, and Chinese. They will look at the major events of our time as tales or legends. Of course, the technology on Earth has advanced by so much in the last 3 millennia, so the “artifacts” from our time will be easier to study and will be more detailed. However, we must also consider the fact that the overall amount of information will be so huge that it will not be accessible for an average person. In order to see and study this information, you will have to be a specialized professional. Also, over time, we have used different materials and methods in order to store information. In the ancient times, it was stone, papyrus, clay, and other naturals materials. Today, we use hard drives to transfer information. In many ways, the materials used then were much more reliable, and as we see, we are still left with myths and not facts. Now imagine how information from today will survive. We can delete anything one click of a button.

***

Today, in school, we study historical events such as World War II, the American Revolution, and the Renaissance. However, the average person today does not study any ancient history until high school. The middle schools that do teach ancient history often have very weak courses on the subject. “Every year, over 1.2 million students drop out of high school in the United States alone.” This is a fact from dosomething.org, a site that provides statistics on different topics. This fact simply proves that about 1.2 million Americans every year do not learn ancient history. Now, you may ask, “Why is learning ancient history so important, especially if we’re not even sure it’s true?” Well, the incredible thing is that everything that is happening or has happened or will happen in our time, has most likely already happened in the ancient world.

Take, for instance, Donald Trump. There have been other instances when a populist autocrat led a democratic nation to tyranny. The article “Meet the Trump of Ancient Rome, a Populist Demagogue Who Helped Bring Down the Republic” by Huffington Post states “Nothing was sacred to Clodius. The more audacious his behavior, the more the public loved him for it.” Publius Clodius Pulcher was a rich nobleman in Rome. He was known for his presumptuous actions, which included disrespect to women. Deciding that he wanted to change the way the Romans viewed him, he became very involved in politics, and he managed to quickly rise to the top. Just like with election of Trump, the Roman citizens split into two groups. One was Clodius’s followers, and the other was those who believed that the Roman Empire was in terrible hands. This is just one example of a situation where the ancient world can teach the modern world. Even after Clodius was killed, the populist forces continued to control the state. His work eventually led to the ultimate fall of the Roman Republic. Although the republic fell, the human civilization lived, and here we are today.

In conclusion, myths add to the puzzle of the ancient world and allow us to put together theories from the other things we know. They allow us to learn from the past and use the experiences and thoughts of others to the benefit of us and the people around us. Everything that happens in our lives today has already occurred in somebody else’s life, whether it was two days ago, or two centuries ago. Also, if we put in the effort to save and treasure our stories and artifacts, we may be able to give our great-great-great-great -great grandchildren a chance to know more about our lives than we do about the lives of our great-great-great-great-great grandparents. The ancient world was a beautiful place of art, politics, love, people, and to us, mystery. In our minds, the mystery of what really happened will always be a missing piece in the puzzle, unless we take the chance to use what we learned and create that final puzzle piece ourselves.

Work Cited

https://www.dosomething.org/us/facts/11-facts-about-high-school-dropout-rates

https://www.huffingtonpost.com/philip-freeman/trump-rome-populist_b_9659660.html

Separating Art from the Artist in the Age of #MeToo

In the age of #MeToo, I don’t really know who or what entertainment I like anymore. I used to list Aziz Ansari and Louis C.K. as my two favorite comedians, once had a photo of Kevin Spacey as my cell phone lock-screen, spent five years contending that Jeffrey Tambor’s television show “Arrested Development” was the best series of all time, and can recite Bill Cosby’s “The Fat Albert Movie” verbatim. Thus, the pattern in which men in Hollywood are discredited as perpetrators of sexual assault and misconduct has forced me into a tremendous media reckoning. The issue of separating art from the artist has never been more pertinent.

It appears that the impulse of the general public when it learns that celebrities have acted inappropriately or criminally in their private lives is to eschew their bodies of work. As Natalie Proux said in her November 2017 New York Times article “Can You Separate Art from the Artist?” when a man in media is accused of being a predator, “his work — no matter how much people liked it before — turns radioactive.” Choosing not to consume content created by the perpetrator of the given crime is a token of our protest. Often, it is also a necessity; we are unable to watch a person’s work without considering the horrible things we know they’ve done, which is unpleasant.

However, creating a binary where every piece of entertainment is morally permissible to view until there is a direct allegation against its creator is simply a mistake. It is narrow minded and parochial to assume that all of the culture we consumed until the emergence of #MeToo was created exclusively by good people; most of us probably don’t make that assumption. Did we assume Louis CK was a paragon of moral rectitude until he became an alleged predator? No, of course not. The entire premise of his semi-autobiographical TV series, “Louie,” is that he is rude, sarcastic, flippant, and sometimes downright cruel.

Similarly, writes Richard Brody in his October, 2017 New Yorker article “Harvey Weinstein and the Illusion of the Vulgar But Passionate Old-Hollywood Studio Boss,” Harvey Weinstein’s career has been colored by “an overarching trait of his character that has long been publicly known—his extreme and systematic bullying, which expressed itself not only in his alleged harassment of and assaults on women but in his horrible–boss-type behavior toward both the men and women he worked with.”

In other words, we knew Weinstein was bad news long before women came out publicly against him. Brody adds that Weinstein was prone to “likening his own style to that of an earlier era of film producer… he sees himself in the tradition of such studio greats as {Irving} Thalberg and David O. Selznik.” We always watch old movies with the dim awareness that their production was colored by gendered power imbalances and possible abuses. Surely, we cannot and should not discard the entire classic film canon on these grounds. That would be revisionist history; it would create massive gaps in our culture.

Deciding that some works are tarnished by the discreditment of one individual who worked on them also does a disservice to the hundreds of other people who participate in the creation of every movie or TV show we watch. Every Miramax film may also have been someone (a makeup artist, a screenwriter, a scenic designer)’s magnum opus. Boycotting such projects ignores the hard work of thousands in order to shame a select few. Aziz Ansari’s “Master of None,” in addition to being the crowning project of Ansari’s problematic filmography, is credited with the best black female coming-out scene in television history in its “Thanksgiving” episode. And that has nothing to do with Ansari — it was written and starred-in by Ansari’s co-writer, Lena Waithe.

However, Ansari’s case may actually be one where it is impossible to extricate the art from the artist. This is because his entire career, from “Master of None” to his 2015 book Modern Romance, to his Netflix special, “Creepy Dudes are Everywhere,” has an autobiographical spin and a strong focus on love and dating. In most of his work, Ansari has characterized himself as the last decent, honest person in the hookup-obsessed, impersonal dating culture of the present day. Obviously, though ambiguous in their status as assault, the allegations against Ansari negate the veracity of the persona and discredit Ansari as an authority on how to court women.

For similar reasons (though absolutely not of the same scale), it is also impossible to enjoy Bill Cosby’s work. His serial rape allegations, which predate #MeToo and far surpass the offenses of most of the people condemned in the movement, are so severe that they taint anything tied to him. Much of Cosby’s work positions him as a father figure for Americans, a moral compass of sorts. It has come to light that Cosby is no such thing. He’s reprehensible, and there is absolutely no cultural rationale that could possibly dissuade me from feeling nauseous when he appears in “The Fat Albert Movie,” inviting his teenage neighbor, Doris into his home to dispense some quality advice.

To me, it seems short-sighted to stop enjoying the work of every man accused in the #MeToo movement, but sometimes we must — either because the person is so morally repugnant that we cannot even hear their name uttered, or because the allegations against them are antithetical to the image of them projected in the work that they render the work totally void of legitimacy.

In the end, this is really a personal decision. It is less about what it is “right” or “wrong” to consume, and more about what we can stomach as individual viewers.


Linguistic Relativity: the Impact of Language & Society

As English speakers, we experience life in English. Our every thought is formulated with the English terminology available to us. But how might our experience and our thinking be different if our primary language was not English but German or Arabic? Who might we be if we were living through another language?

It is this very question that has motivated linguists for hundreds of years to grapple with the validity of linguistic relativity. Those who subscribe to the theory of linguistic relativity believe that a person’s way of thinking is influenced by the language he or she speaks. Signs of this influence seem to be everywhere: as English speakers and writers, we tend to spatially represent time from left to right, while those who speak and read Hebrew tend to represent time from right to left. However, when we make these observations, we often fail to take into account where language comes from. When we consider the theory of linguistic relativity, we must take into account that languages develop within and emerge from distinct cultures. Language is a result of society. Therefore, language does not deserve the credit for shaping the way we process information. Differences in the thought processes of speakers of different languages should be accredited to the distinct cultures from which these languages emerge. Nevertheless, language is an important factor in the way a culture evolves. Ultimately, although it is our society rather than our language that shapes the way we think, language helps to enforce the way society is.

Language cannot be said to be responsible for the way a society functions since language itself is a result of that society. A key example of this can be found in the substance of a language, which tends to reflect the values of its speakers and the culture it comes from. The Korean language demands the use of honorifics according to seniority, whereby a younger speaker must use honorifics when conversing with an older speaker. Most Korean nouns and some verbs have a specific honorific form. For instance, if a younger speaker were to ask an older speaker their name, the younger speaker would have to use the honorific form sengham or conham for name, rather than the plain noun, ilum. In this case, a culture’s high regard for respect according to age had such a strong influence on the language of its speakers that an entire set of words formed for the purpose of serving this cultural element. A proponent of linguistic relativity might argue that this is an example of language shaping the way people think by defining age as the primary quality to know about a person. However, this assertion fails to recognize the big picture. A more accurate analysis might indicate that society is responsible for this way of thinking, not language. According to linguist Kit Wong, the reason for the widespread use of honorifics in Korea is the “hierarchical culture in Korea that one should respect people who are older, even if only by a few months.” It is Korean culture that defines age as the primary quality to know about a person, and the structure of the Korean language is simply a reflection of that.

However, language still plays an important role in affecting cultures and social norms. Although languages are reflections of cultures, languages do influence how cultures will look in the future. We can see this phenomenon in the history of the English language, which dates back to sometime between the 5th and 7th century AD, with Modern English gaining prominence in the late 17th century. Although English is always evolving, much of it retains the influence that 17th century society had on its development. This is because the evolution of society outpaces that of language. For example, English sentence structure is formulaic and follows a certain word order despite having its parts of speech grounded in Latin, a language wherein word order does not matter. English developed this way due to the nature of the literary culture of medieval society. Typical English sentence structure remains this way despite our progression past this age. As we see with English sentence structure, the influence of cultural institutions on a language is often left intact even after that institution has weakened or disappeared.

Because the evolution of society outpaces that of language, the lesser rate at which language can change acts as a hindrance on the rate at which society can progress. In the words of philosopher of language Ludwig Wittgenstein, “the limits of my language are the limits of my mind.” Since language is our only proficient method of communication, what we can communicate is limited to the words and phrases available to us. While the society we live in may limit our perspective, the extent and strength of these limitations do not compare to that which language imposes. Cultural change comes more easily to us than linguistic change. It took centuries for the Great Vowel Shift to occur while the world experienced revolutions, literary movements, great awakenings and deadly plagues at a much faster pace. This pattern is demonstrated in American culture as the language we speak fails to keep up with the progress we make. Patterns in our vocabulary tend to reflect this. A commonly cited phenomenon is the negative and positive associations that English seems to make with “black” and “white.” Although American society has generally moved in a positive direction in the past fifty years toward overcoming racism and discrimination against African Americans, our language would indicate something different. The phrases we use with ‘black’ in them, like blackmail, black mark, black deed, black market, and black magic, tend to have a dangerous or unethical connotation to them, whereas the phrases we use with ‘white’ in them, such as white knight, tend to have a connotation of purity and innocence. This pattern of associations with these words stems from racist and outdated notions that continue to influence the English language despite fading from American society. Thus, as social progress outpaces linguistic progress, the rate at which our society as a whole can progress is limited.

The limits of language may prevent us from progressing as quickly as we may want to, but we do have the ability to overcome some of these linguistic limits. With enough momentum, new ways of thinking and new terminology can develop. As commonly cited, the term “sexual harassment” entered the mainstream in the 1980s when the demand to address it grew. Once we had a word for this topic, people were able to discuss it and deal with the problem. Ultimately, when we respond to the question of how we might be different from speakers of German or Arabic, we need to see the issue through a cultural lense as well as a linguistic lense. In addition, we must remember that we do not need to be trapped by our culture and our language into thinking a certain way. Language may help to enforce the way society is, but if we care enough about an issue, we have the ability to tackle it regardless of the limitations our language might pose.


Superheroes

Superheroes are getting so much more diverse. Before comics went through changes, most of the superheroes were all white males. Then it changed to white females, and then all the slightest changes of diversity brought us to our current diverse comic world. When I finished reading Spiderman, I started reading The Ultimate Spiderman. This version of Spiderman was more entertaining than the original. And since the main character, Miles Morales is young, it made him funnier. In this comic book, Peter Parker, one of the default white male superhero dies. Before that, Miles Morales, a young black child, gets bitten by a spider. He then becomes the new Spiderman because he was bitten by a black widow just like Spiderman did. But he had more abilities like the ability to become invisible and taze people. This is proves my point that superheroes are getting more diverse. Race, Religion, relationships and so much more are becoming diverse. These changes didn’t just happen in 2018, but they started back in the 1900’s when there was still racism. The slightest changes in diversity brought us to 2018 where the world is diverse. There was this scene before Peter died in the Ultimate Spiderman, when Miles just gets his powers. 2 firefighters are having a conversation, when Miles is running and can’t stop so jumps over the long box like Spiderman, and the black firefighter was like, “I told you Spiderman was black.” After that he smiled.  Miles Morales is a revolutionary figure in the world of comic books. He is changing the perspectives of superheroes in people’s minds. Perspectives are changing making a black person one of the default superheroes. Miles Morales is changing the superhero genre and world of comics, because of him the genre is expanding and new characters with different races and religions are joining Marvel and DC. The comic books genre is creating hope and role models for everyone that didn’t have it before.

One of the changes is that superheroes are getting more diverse in religion. Comic books are expanding and one of the branches of expansion is religion. The typical superhero, the default used to be white man with either no religion or christianity. Now there are many superheroes that have different religions. For example, Ms. Marvel is a Muslim superhero who is like a superwoman but in Marvel. This is big because this is a religious superhero. She is not another race but another religion creating another branch of diversity. Another superhero that is challenging norms is the Thing (from the Fantastic Four). The Thing turns out to be Jewish. A Christian superhero is Captain Salvation. He may not be one of the big superheroes, but if you search him up on the internet, he’s there. These are revolutionary superheroes because they have religions and these religions aren’t usually the default. This tells us that comic books are rapidly changing and featuring perspectives and voices they have not before.

Another aspect of comic books that is changing is race. After changes occurred, more diverse races were being represented. A well known superhero that’s black is Cyborg. Cyborg is a teenager who was a great athlete but had an accident. His scientist dad repaired his body with technology and after that he became a superhero. Cyborg became one of the most popular superheroes and he was black. But not only was he African American but he was also one of the main characters on the Teen Titans. This was a huge change because the default main characters would be white males. Not only are there new superheroes of different races that are male but new ones that are also female. Katana, is an Asian, female superhero from suicide squad. After her husband dies, she becomes a martial arts expert and samurai and is on a quest to find her husbands spirit. She is one of the most well known Asian superheroes and there are not many Asian superheroes at all. Not to mention also female. The first black superhero was Black Panther, one of its recent hits was the Black Panther movie in 2018. The movie was extremely popular. This tells us that not only white superheroes will get viewers but a more diverse set of superheroes will also get just as much and more attention. In fact, people seemed to enjoy Black Panther more than Captain America. People are accepting this new change and not hating the changes.

The last aspect of the change occuring in comic books is gender. Before changes occurred, there weren’t many female superheroes and the ones that did exist didn’t get as much attention as the men. As society changed over the past 20 through 30 years, it evolved and changed and became more diverse, segregation was stopped and equality was made causing massive changes to happen in gender. There were a lot of changes in gender. Unfortulantely, DC` This wasn’t only for the comic universe but for current events too. For example a well known female superhero is Black Widow. Black Widow was an orphan saved by Soviet Union officers who then trained her to be a fighting expert. According to CNN Politics, a recent protest was for women’s rights. People from all over the world came to protest about women’s equality. Although DC isn’t as diverse as Marvel, they still have well known superheroes such as Wonder Woman. However DC Comics isn’t as diverse as Marvel. DC has tried making characters more diverse and sometimes succeeded but other times it couldn’t hold its place in the market. On the other hand, Marvel is successfully making more diverse characters. However, DC has some well known superheroes like Harley Quinn and Raven. Although there are white women, there aren’t as many different races of women.

Representations of diversity are important because they relate to equality. People look up to superheroes as role models. As superheroes get more diverse, people get a chance to look up to new superheroes of the same race, religion, or gender as them. Then, people become more comfortable looking up to someone more like the person they are. It also makes people feel stronger because superheroes are made to help people and give them hope. Although, this means that society at large won’t be as comfortable receiving hope from people of different races and ethnicities as them. because at the time when African Americans first came to the U.S.A, black people were new to them so if you met them in the street, the fact that you were meeting a person totally different from you was unsettling. Even though, superheroes of different ethnicities may be uncomfortable for some, the more diverse superheroes that are made, the more people will get comfortable.

Bibliography:

Abad-Santos, Alex. “Marvel Misspoke about Diversity in Comics. Now It Has a Chance to Do Better.” Vox, Vox, 4 Apr. 2017, www.vox.com/culture/2017/4/4/15169572/marvel-diversity-outrage-gabriel.

Allen, Thomas. “Comics Color Outside the Lines, Drawing a Diverse Cast of Heroes.” National Geographic, 18 May 2017, www.nationalgeographic.com/magazine/2017/06/explore-minorities-in-comics/.

Brown, Jennings. “Superhero Diversity Hasn’t Advanced In A Single Bound.” Vocativ, Vocativ, 4 Oct. 2016, www.vocativ.com/news/206915/a-timeline-of-superhero-diversity/.

Brown, Jennings. “Superhero Diversity Hasn’t Advanced In A Single Bound.” Vocativ, Vocativ, 4 Oct. 2016, www.vocativ.com/news/206915/a-timeline-of-superhero-diversity/.

Doll, Jen. “On the Importance of Having Superheroes.” The Atlantic, Atlantic Media Company, 30 Oct. 2013, www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2012/05/importance-having-superheroes/328461/.

“How Superheroes Are Changing the Way We Think about Diversity – Bloomberg L.P Diversity & Inclusion.” Bloomberg.com, Bloomberg, 31 Jan. 2018, www.bloomberg.com/diversity-inclusion/blog/superheroes-changing-way-think-diversity/.

“Opinion | Diverse Superhero Stories Are Drowned out by the Status Quo.” NBCNews.com, NBCUniversal News Group, www.nbcnews.com/think/opinion/superhero-narratives-striving-diversity-are-drowned-out-status-quo-ncna833431


Racism

People are racist, it’s a fact. It’s becoming a huge problem that is sweeping the nation and it needs to be fixed as soon as possible, but for that to happen we need to teach others about racism and why it is happening. People tend to say racist things because they don’t know any better because they weren’t taught about it. Only 1% of our population had studied racism in depth. My goal is to change that and to spread awareness about racism and the ways that we can fix our wrongdoing. To start, let me tell you a little bit about what “race” actually is and why racism if you think hard enough, is really stupid.

In the first part of the nineteenth century, a scientist by the name of Samuel Morton from Philadelphia found a way to “scientifically rank races”. Dr. Morton collected skulls from all over the world. He started by dumping a set volume of pepper seeds into the brain cavity. He then filled up the extra space with lead pellets. Once the brain cavity was full, he dumped it out and counted the number of lead pellets and added it to the set volume of pepper seeds to find how large the person’s brain was. During his studies, he discovered that Caucasians or “Whites” are the most intelligent, therefore highest ranking. East Asians or “Mongolians” were next, one step down from that were Southeast Asians, then followed by Native Americans. At the bottom of the chain were blacks or “Ethiopians”. For some strange reason, people believed Morton. He had made a strong enough case that he was correct so people took his word for it, especially supporters of slavery and slave owners. He got most of his support from the south. To this day, Dr. Morton is called the Father of Scientific Racism.

Sadly, no one spoke out about the fact that race has no scientific or genetic basis until Craig Venter said exactly that in June of 2000. Though he may not have been the first to notice this, he was the first person who successfully let a huge group of people know. He had done his research and this is what he came across: all humans are more closely related to each other than chimps. Also, all people alive today are technically Africans. This is because the earliest forms of human life that scientists have been to identify are all in Africa, this makes sense because if you think about, Africa was in the middle of the earth surface (or as close as it could get anyway) during Pangea. So, we know that people are all from what is now Africa, but how long ago was this?

Well, scientists have been able to trace back the human race to about three hundred thousand years ago, but we could have been living much earlier than that. We just don’t have technology advanced enough for us to figure that out. If we’re all from the same general area, why do we all look so different?

The reason that we all have different colored skin is that some groups within that original human race moved around and became more isolated. As the continents moved closer to the formation that we know today, people moved with them and the non-Africans that we all know and love today, they are most likely descended from a few thousand humans who left their place in Africa about 60,000 years ago. Studies show that that first exodus of humans created offspring with another species called Neanderthals in the what we now know as the Middle East. Neanderthals are an extinct species of human that were all over the place in ice-age Europe between about four hundred and fifty thousand years ago and thirty-five thousand years ago. They are said to have had receding foreheads and brow-ridges that stuck out more than your average human being. These people were more tanned because they were living further from the equator at the time, so obviously, the offspring between them and the humans from Africa had a different skin tone than either of the original species. From there, some humans went closer to the equator and some were moved further north or south. Scientists haven’t found a way to figure out exactly where this first group of people went, but those closer to the equator built up a thicker layer in their skin to shield themselves from the potentially harmful UV rays. Therefore, they had and some of us have darker skin. The people that moved farther away from the equator didn’t build up that shield though. This is because there is less sun exposure up north and far down south whereas there is always sun exposure at the equator. About ten thousand years after that first exodus from Africa, another large group of humans left Africa and made their way over to Australia. This happened about fifty thousand years ago. ABout five thousand years after that, this same group of people split and some continued on to Siberia. This group stayed in Siberia for about thirty thousand years before they made their way over to South America. Just keep in mind that through this whole process, the original human race was meeting up with Neanderthals and integrating them into the race. This (for the most part) is how the first humans on the earth made their way to other continents and why we all have different skin colors and this all goes to show that those who believe that their own race is superior or that skin color or “race” determines how well others are able to function are completely wrong because we are all from the same place if you trace it back far enough. Also, we are all made up of the same basic cells, we each just have slight differences that make us who we are. Those slight differences make us unique.

People have lots of different ideas about what racism is. For example, some think that racism is when someone discriminates against someone because they look different. Others say racism is when you discriminate against someone who is from a different place. In the Merriam Webster Dictionary, the definition of racism is “The belief that race accounts for differences in human character or ability and that a particular race is superior to others.” Basically, it is saying that racism is when someone thinks that their “race” is the best and that one’s “race” determines their personality and how well they’re able to do things. This definition does show a prominent reason for slavery hundreds of years ago. But it really doesn’t show how racism has evolved since then. Explicitly stating that your race is better than someone else’s is not the only form of racism out there. But why?

People don’t like to admit that they’re prejudiced. It happens all the time. For example, as of 2017, 11% of people still disapprove of interracial marriage. I bet that the majority of that 11% doesn’t tell anyone about this belief though. This is because people are taught from a young age that prejudice is bad. So when they say something racist or prejudiced, it is most likely going to be subtle and not explicit. The remark will probably be implied or hinted at. This is because that person, in the back of their head, knows that what they’re doing is bad so if it is subtle, they can play it off as not meaning to say it. So they don’t have to admit to themselves or anyone else that they did something racist. But if people know that being prejudicial is bad, why do they still say prejudiced things?

People say prejudiced things because of biases. A person may know about this bias, but it may be something that comes up unconsciously. Some say that an implicit bias is like a filter that clouds some conclusions and this filter are shaped by past experiences. These unconscious or implicit biases can start forming as early as age six. This is alarming because if one’s parents repeatedly say something, whether it is directed at the child or not, that child is going to learn this and it is just going to be in their minds for a very long time. Really, unless a parent really teaches their child about racism and why it is bad and what not to do, they are going to do it because they are actively learning from the environment around them. They can’t do anything to help it. Everyday racism is something that is very common, just little things that people say that kids, for example, pick up on and start to say because they think that it is okay. For example, President Trump, after the rallies in Charlottesville in August of 2017, didn’t condemn the hate groups that organized the whole thing until two days after it happened. Although this example specifically isn’t something that kids will pick up on, it is an example of everyday racism.

Another type of bias is a racial bias. This bias takes over the amygdala which is the part of the brain that governs fear response (also known as fight or flight). Again, this bias is unconscious. People don’t know it is there. It is usually formed when someone is exposed to something repeatedly, but it isn’t necessarily formed from a young age, though it can be. Many people believe that this generation of young white kids are much less racist than the generations before them because of how many more people are trying to teach them about racism. Also, while support for segregated school had dropped drastically in the last fifty years.

One more form of bias is called ethnocentrism. Although this isn’t really a bias, it is very similar to one. Ethnocentrism is the idea that a person’s own culture, lifestyle, and experiences are normal, or that everyone else experiences the same things, so when someone doesn’t do the same thing as this ethnocentric person, they will most likely get mad or annoyed because it isn’t what they’re used to.

To treat these biases and make them go away, you are supposed to treat them like a habit. Try to fix them the same way that you would get yourself to stop biting your nails or playing with your hair. Try to catch yourself whenever you recognize one of the biases and try to drill it into your mind that you can’t do it anymore.

We aren’t going to get any better about our acts of racism if racism continues to shape our politics, neighborhoods, sense of self, and therefore our daily life. Systemic racism is something that is in our daily life. As you may be able to tell from its name, it is racism that is systematic. It is unavoidable because it is built into a system that is pretty much the structure of our society. Here are some examples: studies show that once black kids are in the criminal justice system, they are about eighteen times more likely than white kids to be sentenced as adults, and within the criminal justice system, blacks make up thirteen percent of the general population and forty percent of the prison population. Also, many studies show that black people tend to get much harsher sentences than white people. More closely related to daily life, blacks are shown eighteen percent fewer homes and four percent fewer rental units. Also, black drivers are thirty percent more likely to be pulled over than people of any other ethnicity. And lastly, one of the scariest statistics: white families own ninety percent of the wealth, black families come in with about two point six percent of the wealth within the population of families in the US.

All of those statistics above are extremely alarming considering the fact that only 58% percent of people in the United States in 2017 think racism is a “big problem” and only 55% percent of the population of the United States support the black lives matter movement. In my opinion, that movement wouldn’t be a thing if the United States were truly equal.

We, as Americans, need to step up. We need to improve our lives now so that our children and our children’s children can have a good life. We want them to not have to worry about discrimination and prejudice. We want them to live a happy, worry-free life, where they don’t have to think about other people’s skin colors.

In the words of Common: “Gert over race … extend a hand in love.”

Bibliography:

Bassett, Charlotte; Interview; November 4, 2018

Davis, Grey; Interview; November 4, 2018

Edwards, Sue; Harris, Duchess; Black lives matter; MInnesota: Ando Publishing; 305.896 EDWARDS

Fleming, Crystal Marie; Living In a Racist Society is Making Us Stupid; The Medium; September 25, 2018; medium.com

Goldberg, Susan; For Decades, Our Coverage Was Racist. To Rise Above Our Past, We Must Acknowledge it; National Geographic, nationalgeographic.com

Hangerman, Margaret; Are Today’s White Kids Less Racist Than Their Grandparents; The Conversation; September 17, 2018; theconversation.com

Kolbert, Elizabeth; There is No Scientific Basis For Race, it is a Made Up Label; National Geographic, nationalgeographic.com

Neal, Samantha; Views of Racism as a Major Problem Increases Sharply, Especially Among Democrats; Pew Research Center; August 20, 2017; pewresearchcenter.org

Police Shootings in 2018; The Washington Post; October 1, 2018; thewashingtonpost.com

Racism; The American Heritage Student Dictionary; Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co; 1994

Razzett, Gustavo; Why Racism is About The Color of Your Mind, Not Your Skin; The Liberationist; April 22, 2018; liberationist.org

Wan, Wiliam; Kaplan, Sarah; Why Are People Still Racist? What Science Says About America’s Race Problem; The Washington Post; August 14, 2017; thewashingtonpost.com

7 Ways We Know That Systemic Racism is Real; Ben and Jerry’s; benandjerrys.com


The Negative Impacts Eyewitness Misidentification Has Had on American Society

In “Historian as a Participant”, it is argued that eyewitness history is beneficial to society because the “true traits of the principal persons and their relationships” involved in a historical event are better described by the witnesses involved (Schlesinger 347). In this statement, Schlesinger establishes that one of the main reasons why eyewitness identification evidence has played a vital role in America’s criminal justice system is that the people involved in an event are able to provide a deepened understanding and awareness of situations. Despite the significant role it plays in establishing the factual evidence in a criminal investigation or prosecution (Albright), it should not be relied on because according to Richard Axel, “Our perceptions are not direct recordings of the world around us, rather they are constructed internally according to innate rules” (Axel 234). In that statement, Axel identifies how one of the problems with eyewitness identification evidence is that can be influenced by internal/biological factors. These factors include age, race, and gender which can influence the way a person’s senses encodes information to their brain and therefore their memory’s ability to recall certain events and details (Lorenza 45). In support of this conclusion, studies supported by the National Science Foundation and published in Memory and Condition regarding the correlation between aging and face recognition found that “Compared with the young, seniors had lower accuracy and higher choosing rates” on target present and target-absent lineups, and they also falsely recognized more new faces when asked to perform a recognition test (Searcy, Bartlett, Memon).

Throughout history, the U.S supreme court has acknowledged the potential risk of wrongful convictions occurring due to eyewitness misidentification and established criteria for assessing its accuracy in Neil v. Biggers and Manson v. Brathwaite during the 1970s. State supreme courts have “enacted… mandates that law enforcement personnel conduct identification procedures in ways consistent with scientific discoveries”, as well. However, eyewitness misidentification still remains one of the main factors involved in wrongful convictions (Kahn-Fogel 120). This is supported by statistics collected by the Innocence Project, a nonprofit organization that uses DNA testing to exonerate wrongfully convicted individuals, that found that mistaken eyewitness identifications have contributed to approximately 70% of the more than 350 wrongful convictions in the U.S. overturned by post-conviction DNA evidence from 1989-2017” (Innocence Project). Even though these victims make up a small portion of the United States population, The significance of this issue lies in the many economic, social and ethical concerns it raises. In many states, wrongful convictions have resulted in economic losses, made it difficult for exonerees to reintegrate back into society after they are released and threatened the safety of society by leaving the true perpetrators of criminal cases unpunished. As preventive measures, all states should implement mandatory reforms regarding the way eyewitness evidence is extracted from witnesses. In addition, A national system for helping exonerees adjust to life outside of prison needs to be developed.

Economic Impacts

Wrongful convictions have wasted money that could have otherwise been allocated for other purposes beneficial to communities. In states such as Texas, Illinois, and California, misidentification has cost state governments millions of dollars. In 2009 an investigation carried out in Texas by the Justice Project, an organization dedicated to improving America’s criminal justice system, documented the involvement of misidentification evidence in 85% of DNA exonerations cases in which thirty-nine innocent people served 500 years in prison for crimes they didn’t commit (The Justice Project). Jonathan Silver, a reporter for Texas’ criminal justice system in the Texas Tribune depicts the high cost of the wrongful convictions using data from the state comptroller’s office that found that over the last 25 years, Texas has paid $93.6 million to 101 individuals who were wrongfully incarcerated. To further quantify the expenses associated with just one wrongful conviction, Silver discusses how exonerees are eligible for $80,000 in lump sum payments for each year they spent behind bars. (Silver and Carbonell). In 2011, The Better Government Association and the Center for Wrongful Convictions conducted a seven-month investigation into exonerations that took place in Illinois from 1989-2010 and came to the conclusion that the wrongful conviction of “85 men and women for violent crimes in Illinois has cost taxpayers more than $214 million.” Eyewitness misidentification evidence played a role in 46 out of 85 of these cases. These claims are based on the organization’s review of various resources including 100 Freedom of Information Act requests and interviews with the exonerees, police and prison officials and attorneys. (Better Government Association). Lastly, A cost analysis of failed prosecutions in California’s criminal justice system published in 2015 by the Berkeley School of Law found that taxpayers paid over $220 million for the imprisonment of over 607 individuals in their test sample. Out of the total $220 million spent, $31 million of it is associated with “an eyewitness who were found to be unreliable or lying, eyewitnesses who were mistaken in their identifications, and police identification practices that were improper”. The authors elaborate on the ways in which these convictions have wasted resources that could have been spent on improving society by discussing how if cities and counties in California had $220 million, they could purchase “a year of K-12 instruction for almost 40,000 children, 1,836 additional firefighters, 2,300 additional police officers and 117 million school lunches” (Silbert, et al. 61).

Safety Concerns

When innocent people are wrongfully convicted and put behind bars, investigations into the real perpetrator of a crime are put on hold and these individuals are able to inflict harm on communities by committing further crimes. This is supported by the Better Government Association and Wrongful Convictions Center’s discovery that while the 85 people in their investigation were wrongfully incarcerated, the actual perpetrators were on a collective crime spree that totaled at least 94 felonies, including 14 murders, 11 sexual assaults and 10 kidnappings” (Better Government Association). This claim is further supported by the 153 actual perpetrators that were identified by the Innocence Project and the estimated 80 sexual assaults, 35 murders, and 35 other violent crimes they committed while innocent suspects remained behind bars (Innocence Project). In his article published by the National Academy of Sciences, Thomas Albright argues that these additional crimes that occur due to the wrongful incarceration weaken the public’s trust in the criminal justice system and can result in “social unrest and enmity directed at law enforcement and..courts” (Albright).

Negative Impacts on Exonerees

When exonerees are released from prison they experience mental illness and other emotional difficulties that can impair their ability to reintegrate into society. John Wilson, professor of psychology at Cleveland State University makes the claim that more mental health professionals trained to treat exonerated individuals should be available at public agencies. He justifies this position using an assessment he conducted that found that “post-traumatic stress disorder, anxiety, depression, obsessive-compulsions, phobias, and paranoia” are common among individuals who have been recently released from prison (Wilson). Some common symptoms of these disorders include fears of re-arrest, sleep disturbances, problems trusting others that can interfere with the relationship an exoneree has with their family, and problems securing employment. A clinical study conducted by Psychiatry Professor Adrian T. Grounds on a group of eighteen wrongfully convicted men released from long-term imprisonment in Europe documented a pattern of psychological problems such as Enduring Personality Change, Psychological/Physical Suffering, and Re-adjustment Issues. Enduring personality change was documented in 14 cases and is associated with “an enduring and disabling personality change with characteristics such as hostile or mistrustful attitude toward the world, social withdrawal, and feelings of emptiness” (Grounds). This study helps to further validate John Wilson’s findings and stresses how the impact of prison on an exoneree is so profound that it can lead to drastic changes in their personality, and consequently the way they treat their family, friends, and other members of the community. Joan Petersilia, a Professor of Criminology at the University of California, Irvine, elaborates on how wrongfully imprisoned individuals experience the adverse symptoms described by Wilson and Grounds as a result of different aspects associated with prison life such as separation from loved ones, crowded and confined living conditions, intravenous drug use, and poverty (Petersilia).

Some other contributing factors to mental illness among exonerees are unemployment and trouble with record expungement. According to Leslie Scott in her American University Criminal Law Brief, Exonerees have difficulty finding work since they have no legal right to get their former jobs back and when applying for new ones, they must still answer “yes” when asked if they have an arrest or conviction record, even if the conviction has been thrown out. Another obstacle that many exonerees face is non-automatic record expungement. This makes it possible for an employer to do a background check and decide not to interview an exoneree because of their remaining arrest record (Scott).

Many exonerees also experience difficulty affording medical, social, and educational services due to unequal compensation as well as restrictions placed on statutes offered in different states. According to Jeffrey Gutman, a professor of clinical law at George Washington University Law School, as of 2017, only 32 states including the District of Columbia have established compensation statutes. Scott Rodd, a reporter for the Pew Charitable Trust elaborates on the disparities that exist between different states by discussing how in states such as Kansas, without compensation laws, exonerees typically have to file expensive and time-consuming lawsuits in order to try to convince legislatures to pay them. Despite all of their efforts, winning compensation from a legislature isn’t always guaranteed. Although Texas offers $80,000 per year of incarceration, Wisconsin only offers $5,000 per year with a maximum of $25,000. These caps on monetary statutes, “ignore the nature, severity, and variation of injuries suffered” by exonerees (Gutman). Leslie Scott helps to stress the need for reform within this system by discussing how in the employment arena, parolees often fare better than exonerees because they have access to services such as free job placement, temporary housing, and counseling that exonerees do not (Scott).

Solutions

Social science research has proven that eyewitnesses can easily be mistaken as a result of external factors such as, “specific line-up techniques, interviews and police procedures” (Anderson 12). Therefore in order to reduce the risk of eyewitness error, specific procedures and guidelines, such as double-blind lineup administration and standardized witness instructions, should be used by law enforcement personnel in all states. According to the Journal of Criminology, double-blind administration requires that the lineup administrator not be aware of what position a suspect is in making it impossible for them to purposely or unintentionally steer witnesses toward a suspect that they would not have pointed out otherwise. These procedures are recommended by several different organizations such as the American Bar Association, the International Association of Chiefs of Police and the American Psychology-Law Society (Rodriguez and Berry 6). One concern of this procedure are the expenses associated with it as a result of the need for extra manpower(Joyce and Stark). However, the ability of these procedures to be recorded on audio files and administered using laptops without any police officers present helps to alleviate these concerns. The computerization of lineup techniques is also beneficial considering how technology-focused society has become (Wells, et al.).

The development of standardized witness instructions is another way to reduce eyewitness error. The National Academy of Sciences has advised that administrators should “use witness instructions in all photo arrays and lineups and read instructions aloud in a manner similar to how the Miranda Rights are read” (National Research Council 107). In addition, according to Policy Insights from Behavioral and Brain Sciences, during a lineup procedure, it has been recommended that administrators give witnesses unbiased instructions such as notifying them that the person who committed the crime may not be present and that they are not required to make an identification. Compared to biased instructions that may give the witness the impression that the person who committed the crime is present and that it’s the witness’ task to pick him, unbiased instructions have been demonstrated to reduce false identification rates. However, one implication is that their usage has been shown to reduce correct identification rates (Clark).

Lastly, a national compensation plan should be put in place to ensure that all states offer equal access to monetary assistance and other services. Currently, the Innocence Project has proposed one that would allow the exonerees record to be expunged if they file within three years. They also recommend a minimum of $62,500 per year of imprisonment that would reflect consideration of lost wages and medical fees. It also provides a lifetime of physical and mental health care. However, hardships may arise when trying to get states to change their current system or set up systems in states that offer nothing(Innocence Project). More organizations similar to the Life After Exoneration Program should also be developed. This organization is centered in Northern California and helps to establish exoneree-mentoring relationships as well as other beneficial services such as phone counseling, support, and referrals for therapeutic counseling services (Life After Exoneration Program).

Works Cited

Anderson, Tiffany M., “Juror misperceptions of eyewitness evidence: impact on expert testimony and credibility”. Honors Program Theses. 192, UNI ScholarWorks, 2015. Google Scholar. https://scholarworks.uni.edu/hpt/192.

BGA and the Center on Wrongful Convictions. “A Landmark BGA Investigation: ‘The High Costs of Wrongful Convictions”. Better Government Association, 2011,https://www.bettergov.org/news/a-landmark-bga-investigation-the-high-costs-of-wrongful-convictions.

Clark, Steven, et al., “Eyewitness Identification and the Accuracy of the Criminal Justice System”. Policy Insights from the Behavioral and Brain Sciences. Vol 2, Issue 1, pp. 175 186, Oct.2015, http://wixtedlab.ucsd.edu/publications/wixted2015/ClarkEtAl2015.pdf.

Dario N. Rodriguez and Melissa A. Berry. “Eyewitness Science and the Call for Double-Blind Lineup Administration”. Journal of Criminology, vol. 2013, Article ID 530523, 2013, doi:10.1155/2013/530523.

Grounds, Adrian T. “Understanding the Effects of Wrongful Imprisonment”, Crime and Justice, Volume 32, 2005: 1-58, https://doi.org/10.1086/655352.

Innocence Project. “Eyewitness Identification Reform.” Innocence Project., 2017, https://www.innocenceproject.org/dna-exonerations-in-the-united-states/.

Jeffrey S. Gutman. “An Empirical Reexamination of State Statutory Compensation for the Wrongly Convicted”, Missouri Law Review, Vol.82, Issue 2, 2017, https://scholarship.law.missouri.edu/mlr/vol82/iss2/7

The Justice Project. “Convicting the Innocent:Texas Justice Derailed”, Jennifer Willyard, Michelle Strikowsky, 2009, https://deathpenaltyinfo.org/documents/convicting-the-innocent.pdf.

Kahn-Fogel, Nicholas. “The Promises and Pitfalls of State Eyewitness Identification Reforms”. Bowen Law Repository: Scholarship & Archives, Volume 104, Issue 1, Ky. L.J. 99, 2015, Google Scholar, https://lawrepository.ualr.edu/faculty_ scholarship/172.

Lacy, Joyce W., and Craig E. L. Stark. “The Neuroscience of Memory: Implications for the Courtroom.” Nature Reviews Neuroscience, Vol.14:pp. 649–658, 2013, doi: 10.1038/nrn3563.

Life After Exoneration Program. Rebuilding the Lives of the Wrongfully Convicted. www.exonerated.org/.

Lorenza, Sheena M. “Factors Affecting the Accuracy of Eyewitness Identification”.The Review: A Journal of Undergraduate Student Research, Vol. 6: pages 45-50, 2003, https://fisherpub.sjfc.edu/ur/vol6/iss1/9/.

National Research Council. Identifying the Culprit: Assessing Eyewitness Identification. Washington, DC: National Academy of Sciences, 2014,https://doi.org/10.17226/18891.

Petersilia, Joan. “When Prisoners Return to Communities: Political, Economic, and Social Consequences”. NIJ Research in Brief, National Institute of Justice, No.9, https://www.ncjrs.gov/App/Publications/abstract.aspx?ID=184253.

Richard, Axel. “Nobel Lecture: Scents and Sensibility: A Molecular Logic of Olfactory Perception”, Nobelprize.org, Nobel Media AB, 2014, http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/medicine/laureates/2004/axel-lecture.html.

Rodd, Scott. “What Do States Owe People Who Are Wrongfully Convicted?”, The Pew Charitable Trusts, 2017, http://www.pewtrusts.org/en/research-and-analysis/blogs/stateline/2017/03/14/what-do-states-owe-people-who-are-wrongfully-convicted.

Schlesinger, Arthur. “The Historian as Participant”. Daedalus,Vol. 100, No. 2, pp. 339-358, American Academy of Arts and Sciences, 1971, http://www.jstor.org/stable/20024007.

Scott, Leslie. “It Never, Ever Ends”: The Psychological Impact of Wrongful Conviction”. American University Criminal Law Brief 5, no. 2, 2010:10-22, http://digitalcommons.wcl.american.edu/clb/vol5/iss2/2/.

Searcy, J.H., Bartlett, J.C. & Memon, A. “Age differences in accuracy and choosing in eyewitness identification and face recognition”. Memory & Cognition, Volume 27, Issue 3, pp 538-552, 1999, https://doi.org/10.3758/BF03211547.

Silbert,et al., “Criminal Injustice: A Cost Analysis of Wrongful Convictions, Errors, and Failed Prosecutions in California’s Criminal Justice System”, Chief Justice Earl Warren Institute on Law and Social Policy, University of California, Berkeley School of Law, 2015, http://theopportunityinstitute.org/publications-list/criminal-injustice.

Silver, Johnathan and Carbonell, Lindsay. “Wrongful Convictions Have Cost Texans More Than $93 Million”. The Texas Tribune, 2016, https://www.texastribune.org/2016/06/24/wrongful-convictions-cost-texans-over-93-million/.

Thomas, Albright. “Why eyewitnesses fail”. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, vol. 114, no. 30 7758-7764, 2017, doi:10.1073/pnas.1706891114.

Wells, Gary.,et al. “A Test of Simultaneous vs. Sequential Lineup Methods”.Center for Forensic Science & Public Policy, American Judicature Society, 2011, http://www.popcenter.org/library/reading/PDFs/lineupmethods.pdf.

Wilson, John. A Perpetual Battle of the Mind, WGBH Educational Foundation, 2002, http:// www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/burden/cameras/memo.html.

A Brief History of the Salem Witch Trials

The superstitious hysteria of olden times has long intrigued the American public, but from the vast swath of witch hunts past, no other event has captivated our cultural consciousness like the Salem Witch Trials. The Salem Witch Trials were a series of hearings, imprisonments, and executions which occurred from June 1692 to May 1693 in Salem Village and Salem Town. As a result of the trials, 19 supposed “witches” were executed. The trials are regarded as an infamous chapter of American history, so much so that even now, they are known as a cautionary tale regarding the dangers of unbridled religious belief and mass hysteria.

A subsidiary of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, Salem Village was a small farming community of approximately 500 inhabitants. Notably, the village was situated close to Salem Town, a wealthy merchant town. Within the small village, there were multiple factors that led to the witch trials. To begin with, the village had a notable economic divide between its poor and wealthy families. The most significant consequence of this divide was a rivalry between the Porter and the Putnam families. The Porters were a relatively wealthy family who favored the village gaining stronger ties with Salem Town. In contrast, the Putnams adhered to strict puritanism, and opposed a stronger connection to the town on religious grounds. Through the Putnams, Samuel Parris was contracted to be the village’s pastor. Notably, Parris brought his daughters, his niece, and a dark-skinned slave named Tituba along with him. As pastor, Parris 1 inundated the village with fierce religious rhetoric, including the condemnation of witchcraft. Parris’s strict religious regulations, coupled with a dispute over his compensation, further increased tensions in the village. The second factor was the village’s strict puritanism. With little variation, the village was composed of devout Puritans who subscribed to a strict interpretation of the Bible. This interpretation included a belief in witches: men and women who sold their souls to the Devil in exchange for exorbitant pleasure. In return, it was believed that at the Devil’s behest, witches would torment the people of a town. To accomplish this mischief, witches would employ multiple supernatural tools, including the use of “specters,” ghosts of the witch who would haunt random victims. In addition, witches could put curses on their victims.

Witches were thought of as unholy beings and, as a result, they were pursued and executed if convicted of witchcraft in court. However, if someone accused of witchcraft confessed before conviction, that person would be spared from execution or other severe punishment, as it was believed that such witches would receive their punishment from God instead. In many cases, the accused would identify other “witches” in the community, so as to try and obtain additional mercy from the court. These Puritan beliefs played a large part in the creation of the hysteria of the Salem Witch Trials. Thirdly, the village had recently experienced a smallpox outbreak and was under constant threat of Native American attack. Both of these circumstances severely damaged the village’s morale and created a high stress living environment. As a result of all these factors, the village was ripe for mass hysteria.

Although history of the Salem Witch Trials is complex and convoluted, but there is little subtlety to the catalyst that started them. In January 1692, Parris’s daughter Betty (age 9) and his niece Abigail Williams (age 11) began having violent fits. At random, the girls would scream, contort, throw objects, and complain of biting and pinching sensations, among other symptoms. A local doctor was summoned to examine the girls, but, unable to find anything wrong with them, he diagnosed the girls with what was obviously the only rational alternative: witchcraft. In 2 an attempt to find out who had bewitched the girls, at the suggestion of a neighbor and without first consulting Parris, Tituba concocted a “witchcake.” The witchcake was a cake made with the urine of the victims of witchcraft (in this case the two girls). To find the witch, the cake would be baked and then fed to a dog, who would then point out the witch responsible for the curse. 3 Obviously, the cake did not provide any answers. However, once discovered, the use of the cake outraged Parris, who considered the such folk medicine blasphemous. With the fits continuing and facing mounting pressure from Parris, the girls accused Tituba and two other villagers (both of whom were of low social standing in the community). As a result, the accused were imprisoned and two magistrates from Salem Town were sent to the village to conduct an inquiry. As part of the inquiry, Tituba was questioned. Initially, she asserted her innocence. In 4 response, she was met with fierce and repeated questioning asserting her guilt. In other words, her questioners would not take “no” for an answer. Faced with a badgering examination and diminished credibility as a result of her slave status, eventually Tituba gave her questioners the answer they wanted to hear, and admitted to being a witch. Through three days of vivid testimony, Tituba described her encounters with the Devil, while also implicating the other two women who had been accused. With the presence of witches now apparently confirmed, hysteria surged, resulting in other girls and young women suffering fits. There are many possible explanations for as to why the increasing fear of the village actually materialized into additional psychiatric episodes. Among them is the possibility that a combination of fear and religious teachings subconsciously forced the women to physically manifest symptoms, but there are also political explanations. For example, many of those newly afflicted by “witchcraft” were part of the Putnam family and, in many cases, those they accused were family enemies.

With mounting evidence of widespread witchcraft in Salem Village and multiple accused having already been imprisoned, the Governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony ordered an official court to convene in Salem Town to try the accused. During the trials, the accused were 5 not afforded the right to counsel. At the same time, when the accused attempted to defend themselves, they were pressured by their examiner to admit to their crime, making it seem like the only way to avoid conviction and subsequent execution would be to confess. Most importantly, the court allowed the admission of “spectral evidence,” meaning that witnesses could testify that the specter of the accused had attacked them in their dreams, or through other supernatural methods, thereby depriving the accused any meaningful opportunity to rebut the witnesses’ testimony. And to make matters even worse, during the accused’s testimony, alleged victims in the audience would babble, contort, faint, and scream, so as to imply a demonic presence. Even with such fundamental flaws, the Salem Witch Trials continued without interruption, as there was no way for the public to object, given that those who did so risked being accused of witchcraft themselves. With new witches being continually accused and confessions occurring relatively often, the trials marched forward.

The first of the trials’ victim was Bridget Bishop who was convicted and hung on June 19th in Salem Village. Five others were convicted and hung until a man named George 6 Burroughs was convicted for being the witches’ ringleader. As Burroughs was about to be hung, from atop the gallows and to great dramatic effect, he flawlessly recited the Lord’s Prayer in a last ditch effort to prove his innocence. In spite of this seemingly impossible feat, he was still 7 hung. However, his death was not in vain, as his execution began to turn public sentiment against the trials. Subsequently, on September 22nd, eight more condemned prisoners were hung. But more significantly, the husband of one of those hung, Giles Corey, an 80-year-old farmer, was also accused of witchcraft, but refused to enter a plea. In an attempt to force a plea, Corey was 8 tortured by having a wooden frame placed on top of him while he lay on the ground, as stones were continually piled up on the frame. Reportedly, when a sheriff came to ask Corey for a plea, he responded with “More weight.” After two days of torture, Corey succumbed to his torment and was crushed to death. His brutal murder has come to represent the barbaric nature of the 9 Salem Witch Trials. In addition, Corey’s death further strengthened public opposition to the trials and, gradually, the trials slowed down. Although there were a few more accusations and executions, as public support dwindled, and after the Governor’s wife was accused, the proceedings came to an end when the Governor ordered the court dissolved. All in all, nineteen 10 people were hung, five more died in custody awaiting trial, many more had been imprisoned, and Giles Corey had been crushed to death.

Over time, the Salem Witch Trials have become a quintessential example of an investigation based on mass hysteria, so much so that they are commonly used as a metaphor to describe an investigation that is supposedly baseless. The trials have inspired multiple fiction works, most notably The Crucible, a play about the trials written by Arthur Miller. Interestingly enough, it was Miller who helped turn the trials into the colloquial metaphor they are today, by publishing The Crucible in 1953 to criticize McCarthyism. In addition to these cultural effects, the Salem Witch Trials helped develop the idea of due process. The trials demonstrated that fairness in the judicial process was not just a right, but also a tool to help ensure the accuracy of 11 the judicial proceedings. Perhaps most importantly, the trials inspired Increase Mather (the father of the President of Harvard at the time) to issue the dictum: “It were better that ten suspected witches should escape than that one innocent person should be condemned.” This dictum, albeit in a slightly different form, still guides American jurisprudence to this day. On a final note, the 12 Salem Witch Trials are now more relevant than ever. The recent Kavanaugh hearings have drawn huge parallels to the Trials, as they have acted to remind us of the havoc that unsubstantiated accusations (even if the allegations are potentially true) can cause in a civilized society. In an even more direct allusion, President Donald Trump consistently calls the Russia investigation a “witch hunt.” Regardless of what one thinks of the President’s characterization, there is no doubt that the potency of his dismissal of the probe comes from a reference to a powerful, albeit tragic, piece of history.

Endnotes

1. It is disputed whether Tituba was of Caribbean or African descent.

2. There are many theories regarding what caused the fits to occur. Among them are delusional psychosis, epilepsy, and ergot poisoning (Ergot is a fungus which can cause hallucinations. In fact, one of ergot’s derivatives is LSD). It is also possible that the girls, having been inspired by intense religious rhetoric, were simply seeking attention.

3. It is unclear how the dog was supposed to make this indication.

4. Notably, the inquiry was purely investigative in nature and, as such, the inquiry did not possess the power to convict those it investigated.

5. Known as a “Court of Oyer and Terminer.”

6. Twelve years prior, Bishop had been tried and acquitted of witchcraft.

7. It was believed at the time that it was physically impossible for a witch to recite the Lord’s Prayer.

8. By refusing to enter a plea, Corey was subject to peine forte et dure (strong and hard punishment). Corey likely sought this status for inheritance purposes.

9. Even with brutal execution methods such as these, contrary to popular belief, no one was burned at the stake during the Salem Witch Trials.

10. There were a few more proceedings after that order, but every person either convicted or imprisoned during those proceedings was pardoned.

11. The Trials helped demonstrate the need for rights such as the right to counsel and the right to remain silent. Unsurprisingly, both of those rights were eventually codified in the Bill of Rights.

12. This maxim of judicial equity has been echoed by some of the most influential figures in United States legal history, including William Blackstone (a legal scholar who played a substantial role in the development of English common law) and Founding Father Benjamin Franklin.

Works Consulted

D, Elbert. “The Death of Giles Corey.” The Salem Journal, University of Chicago Laboratory Schools, https://people.ucls.uchicago.edu/~snekros/Salem%20Journal/People/ElbertD.html.

D, Elbert, and Luke R. “Puritans Face Defeat.” The Salem Journal , University of Chicago Laboratory Schools, https://people.ucls.uchicago.edu/~snekros/Salem%20Journal/Hysteria/ElbertDLukeR.htm

Szendy, Peter, and Gil Anidjar. “Spectral Evidence.” Prophecies of Leviathan: Reading Past

Melville, Fordham University, 2010, pp. 70–74. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt13wzvj2.24.

Wallenfeldt, Jeff. “Salem Witch Trials.” Encyclopædia Britannica, Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc., 13 Nov. 2018, www.britannica.com/event/Salem-witch-trials.


APUSH It Out!

The changes made from the 2014 to the 2015 AP US History Curriculum Guide by the College Board (as suggested by the Republican National Committee) are designed to diminish the abhorrent actions of the European settlers in the 1600’s. The Republican National Committee, who had never commented on the curriculum before, claimed that the 2014 curriculum standard was, “presenting a biased and inaccurate view of many important events in American history.” Upon examining the wording in the 2014 APUSH Curriculum Standards in contrast with the 2015 curriculum, one change is immediately made clear: the 2014 standards are more descriptive and precise (as it should be), whereas the 2015’s are a rough overview that glide over important details.

The 2015 curriculum demonstrates a whitewashing of historic events and, in turn, lessening the natives ‘slaughter.  It states, “Interracial interaction in the colonial… years spurred evolving religious, cultural and racial justifications for subjugation.” When one reads this sentence, it is clear that the phrase “interracial interaction” is vague, and left open to interpretation, compared to, “white superiority,” (2014 standard). This was perceived to be too loaded of a term by the RNC, and too heavily race-centric. Heaven forbid there be an accurate account of the detestable Europeans’ acts. The words, “intensity and destructiveness” (2014 standard) are replaced with, “cultural and demographic changes.” (2015 standard). Again, revealing the biggest change: softened vocabulary and the lackluster retelling of the events, leaving them unrecognizable.

Republican Party members came out to the media in an attempt to legitimize the change in curriculum. Rebecca Klein, a Huffington Post Journalist cites Ben Carson, (“Fox News’ Ben Carson Thinks New AP U.S. History Course Will Make Students Join ISIS, as it, “paints America in a bad light,”), a retired neurosurgeon and current Fox News commentator, who (ran for President under the Republican party in 2016) claimed that the 2014 standard curriculum provided for AP US History teachers all across America was giving, “an anti-American bias.” By focusing on the, “bad parts” of history, Ben Carson thinks the 2014 curriculum will turn teens against America. He states, “a whole section on slavery… and how evil we are… internment camps and how we slaughtered millions of Japanese with our bombs.” Carson is attempting to diminish these abhorrent acts (slavery, internment camps) and to, “stop this silliness crucifying ourselves.” It also states that, “he will likely run for president in 2016.” Carson, an African-American male, is down playing historical events for political gain. The average Fox News viewer is white and republican.  These statements originating from an African American candidate, absolving any white privilege “guilt” on this network and in turn vindicating the viewer’s’ beliefs is clearly a strategic play. He continues with, “only two paragraphs in there on George Washington… little or nothing about Martin Luther King,” hence solidifying further his votes by playing to their love of old white fore father George Washington, recognizing the equality of African Americans in the United States MLK, and diminishing the relevance of slavery. This is a double play, because by mentioning both, Carson is continuing to absolve white guilt because slavery was “a long time ago,” and African Americans have nothing to complain about now. This feeds into the Republican National Committee belief that the European settlers were being vilified and that the curriculum failed to provide enough emphasis on the more positive side of America’s history, thus painting the country in a bad light.

The Republican National Committee wished to soften the 2014 curriculum to comply with their narrative of diminishing the focus on racial strife in United States history. They believe that the 2014 curriculum was not the “true history of their country.”  They recommended that the APUSH committee postpone the 2014 curriculum to reconvene and make a new one: “The RNC recommends that the College Board delay the implementation of the new APUSH framework… and that during that time a committee be convened to draft an APUSH framework that is… consistent with state history standards.” The Republican National Committee claimed the APUSH curriculum did not meet state history standards and that it was inaccurate. It states, “the framework presents a biased and inaccurate view of many important events in American history”. This included slavery, the US involvement in WWII and the Cold War. These changes were implemented in the 2015 curriculum, which its wording leaves such ambiguity that if you knew nothing about history, you’d never learn that the Europeans Settlers were responsible for the acceleration of the discourse between the Native American tribes and slavery for their financial gain. Students would not have the opportunity to discern for themselves how the US became a world power and the cost to become one.

Diminishing the correct reporting of a nation’s’ repugnant actions has been put into effect by many groups and world leaders in the past. This is an old strategy to raise nationalism and alter the people’s perception.  These countries do not have the first amendment – freedom of speech. This act by the Republican National Committee and its puppets (Ben Carson), is abhorrent. The idea that a true historic APUSH curriculum would incite students to join ISIS is ignorance – lack of knowledge or information

Complicating the Declaration of Independence: An Analysis of Three Case Studies

Justice Delayed, is Justice Denied

                                                                               – Martin Luther King jr

“All men are created equal.” Thomas Jefferson famously wrote in the Declaration of Independence and declared on the famous date of July 4th, 1776 to the American people. Although this was a promising goal for American society, it is critical to recognize that these values were not always implemented in the reality of society’s situation. In fact, it was a complete falsity of reality. I believe that the foundation of our democracy was hiding under a veneer that everyone had equal rights. One has to see the injustice in our country in order to create justice.

In the 1800s, women were mostly seen as a man’s maids. Many were denied educational opportunities in math, science, and politics. In addition, the only “job” they could pursue was having children and taking care of them. All in all, women were denied fundamental rights that everyone should receive.  At a young age, Elizabeth Cady Stanton became involved with the abolitionist movement. The abolitionist movement was a social and political push for the immediate liberation of all enslaved people and the end of racial discrimination.(1) Her efforts reached out to help women as well, and soon Stanton  started advocating for enslaved people’s rights and women’s rights. She famously said,  “We hold these truths to be self evident that all men and women are created equal.”(1)  Being brought up in a white household, Stanton was still disregarded since she was a women. She was engrossed in history and science and stayed up late reading her father’s English books although she knew she could never advance in any of those subjects. Opportunities in politics were also very rare because politicians and other men in power told Stanton there was no place for a lady in men’s work.(1) This symbolizes that this statement was catering to a very select few and was glossing over the truth of society.

In addition to being a woman, Harriet Tubman was also a slave. Enslaved individuals labored day and night facing extremely harsh environments and people. Harriet Tubman was one of those enslaved African – Americans who helped many escape by the Underground Railroad to where there was no enslavement in the North. Tubman was enslaved most of her life in the cotton fields of the South.(3) At a young age, Tubman decided to escape from the plantation and race to freedom. However, she was afraid that her family would continue to suffer more severity and went back for them during the mid – 1800s. She used a series of underground safe houses known as the Underground Railroad to later free hundreds of slaves and bring them safely to the North. Just when Tubman thought she was safe, the Fugitive Slave Law was put into action requiring that any escaped slave from the South had to be recaptured and sent back regardless of the North’s views. (1) When Tubman found out, she rerouted the Underground Railroad and brought people to Canada instead. Looking back Tubman describes her experience, “I grew up like a neglected weed – ignorant of liberty, having no experience of it.”(3) This does not only reflect the experiences regarding slavery, it displays inequality on a whole other level. In a way which is incomprehensible in modern day.

Meanwhile, Abraham Lincoln, the American president at that time was not struggling with oppression. The fact that he became president confirms that he was granted an education and with that, opportunities in politics. However, Lincoln started off poor, living it a log cabin in Kentucky. As President he turned his attention to the issue of inequality in America. He especially detested slavery. However, in his political opinion he was a moderate.(2) This meant that he was neither for, nor against slavery. At the start of the Civil War, many abolitionists were irate about the situation in the South. Lincoln’s strategy was to take small steps to accomplish what  he wanted (to keep the Union and abolish slavery). He knew that this would infuriate much of the North even more, but he was a wise man and he knew what he had to do. He described this as, “I walk slowly, but I never walk backward”.(2) He thought that the country would either end up abolishing slavery as a whole, or keep it everywhere. Of course he wanted abolition of slavery but he was president, and he had to recognize everyone’s opinion if he wanted to keep the Union together as well. Lincoln was faced with many important decisions but even he knew that America suffered greatly with inequality. He was one of the first American presidents to acknowledge that.

Today in modern society it is necessary to acknowledge that even though we have made great progress we are still struggling with this leading claim of “all men are created equal.” For example, the leading faces in politics of our country currently are intolerant and dismissive to equal treatment of people in America. The fact that our president wants nothing to do with immigrants when our country was built from immigration shows a level of inequality amongst many other derogatory views on different cultures and races in America .(4) In addition, there are still women’s rights marches for equal treatment. An example of this is the march in Washington after our president was elected. Even though, women now have the right to vote and many more  job opportunities, they still experience inequality especially in the workplace.(5)  Women get paid less than men would for the same job. There is also a risk of inappropriate behavior from men leading to sexual harassment. Adding on, African Americans still have a higher risk of being stopped by police and have a higher frequency of being misjudged due to their skin color.(6) This shows that there is still racism and sexism in this country.

It is vital to note that even though all people still don’t have have equal rights, we have certainly made considerable progress that Stanton, Lincoln and Tubman would have all been very proud of. Nowadays there is so much more activism for equality and other issues that are important to people. Even in popular culture to be “woke” meaning advocating for what one believes in, is considered cool. For example, the Black Lives Matter movement promotes awareness for racial injustices and ways we can come closer to equality. In addition, women can vote and express their opinions freely. The Declaration of Independence set an aspirational goal for our society in a time of great inequality.  Even though we haven’t achieved perfect equality, we’ve made a lot of progress which nurtures the hope that one day all people will feel that they are created equal.

Bibliography:

(1)https://www.history.com/topics/womens-history/elizabeth-cady-stanton

(2)https://www.history.com/topics/us-presidents/abraham-lincoln

(3)https://www.biography.com/people/harriet-tubman-9511430

(4)https://www.nytimes.com/2018/09/22/us/politics/immigrants-green-card-public-aid.html

(5)https://www.nytimes.com/2018/09/28/us/how-to-help-young-women-in-the-workplace.html

(6)https://blacklivesmatter.com/about/herstory/

Mitosis

The pre-med girls walked down the street every morning.

But they weren’t pre-med, at least not yet. They liked thinking that they were, though; they liked talking about saving lives–they liked it when their parents introduced them to other Asian parents with: “Oh, this is my daughter. She’s pre-med.” And then the other parents would smile, grin, say, “Oh, your daughter is so accomplished. She’s going to do great things.” Pre-med was a great term, a brilliant term that all the Asians wore like a Science Olympiad gold medal.

When I was younger, my grandfather ran a clinic in Taiwan, where we lived upstairs each summer. In the mornings we’d come down, watch as my grandfather looked at one person’s foot, the back of a neck: intimate parts, fleshed-out parts. I’d watch from the worn-out leather stool in the corner. The little plastic fan attached to the sink never worked, and my shorts were always sticking to my thighs.

“Why do you do this?” I’d asked my grandfather once. He’d grown up in the basement of a fabric shop, where rats were always found dead under the piano and poverty was a given. It wasn’t until he decided to open his own medicine clinic that the fabric shop became an apartment. The apartment became a four-story building. I’d always assumed that the reason he chose to go into medicine was for the success.

My grandfather had looked at me as if he couldn’t believe that was even a question. “To save lives,” he’d replied.

In that instant I was reminded of the countless other pre-med girls who had said these exact same words, that I want to save lives, as if those words meant something.

What hurt was that I could have been one of those pre-med girls. I wasn’t really good at math, but I’d done science fair. I hadn’t won anything, but that was okay. What mattered was doing it and talking to those around me: girls who had been doing science for as long as they could remember, girls who designed apps that solved third-world problems, girls who purified water with the formulas inside their heads, girls whose inventions were so, so much realer than themselves.

_____

The first time I ever participated in science fair, I began to split apart.

I’d dressed up specifically for the occasion. As I walked to the convention center, I hitched my board to my waist, feeling professional and powerful.

We had all received badges when we entered the auditorium for the science fair; each one listed how many years we’d been participating. I only had one blue dot, but there was an Indian girl next to me who had nine. Her board looked professional, like she had spent hundreds of dollars designing it. She’d connected all these wires to it. The front of the board said her name, big and bold and blue. Her pantsuit made her look like she was running for office, rather than attending a science fair. She wore all the medals she’d received from previous years around her neck, as if to say: I’m experienced. I know how to win. I’m pre-med.

I would have loved to be her at that moment: poised, calm, confident. But then I saw how unhappy she looked. Her project was on trying to find a cure for the developmental stages of cancer, a continuation. Her dad had come with her, carrying a piece of equipment. They came to the table across from my measly-looking board on learning languages, and set everything down with such an alarming speed that it was clear this was just another day to them.

For the remainder of the fair, I watched as the girl spoke to wide-eyed competitors, people who had come with goggles and electrical equipment and things that screamed power, success, and changing the world, one invention at a time. “Yeah, curing cancer,” she’d say, “I’m coming really close to it. Should be a few more months.”

I stood by my project, feeling awkward and ordinary, but most of all not pre-med. Because I’d probably never be pre-med. I’d probably never find the cure for cancer. I’d never be someone who invented things that were realer than myself.

An old white lady passed by–a judge, presumably. The girl stood up, straightened her suit, prepared for a discussion. The lady looked at her and frowned. I watched as she grilled the girl on her project, asked if she really thought she was going to cure cancer, asked why she felt like it was her place to conduct such an experiment.

And the girl just kept on stating the same fact, the same I want to save lives. I just want to save lives. She said it so methodically that I began wondering if she really wanted to save lives at all, or if it was more of the feeling of being pre-med, the feeling of power, of success–feeling like you were someone to be proud of. Not just a collection of cells, but a complete, full, whole human being: someone who could save the world, but not someone who was real.

I checked the winners list a few weeks later. She had gotten first place.

_____

In biology, mitosis is defined as the type of cell division that results in two identical daughter cells. These cells are identical copies of one another. The last stage, cytokinesis, overlaps with the final stages of mitosis. That’s when the daughter cells split apart, reform again. No matter the mitosis, though, the cells are the same: always dividing and developing, regenerating and replacing. There will always be parents who introduce their daughters to others, saying: “Oh, this is my daughter.” And there will always be unspoken questions. Why do you do what you do? Why is it your place to conduct such an experiment? Is there something else going on that we don’t know about? What’s your major?

What will you be?


Weekdays

Monday.

There was something in the shoulder of a clean-pressed uniform that never seemed to fit me in the same way that it did for others. Plaid skirt, clean flats, and an oversized blazer to grow into, that first week of my life in Seoul was cold.

On Monday, Ashley Kang, the kind of girl who always looked like she was either disgusted or had eaten a grapefruit or both, pulled me down and told me to sit. I didn’t really want to. When Matthew set his books down on a nearby desk, her face soured even more.

“You can’t sit there!” Cruel, like the first graders on the school bus who liked to kick the back of your seat just because you wouldn’t talk to them.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to. No one likes you.”

All around were faces that said not this again, but I pushed her back, annoyed. Stop.

“Why?”

These cannot be my people.

Tuesday.

It was one month into school, and Sammy Kim – new kid on the block – had already proven herself capable of laughing with all the kids in class with a familiarity I could never muster on my first day.

“I’m from Hong Kong,” she said. A poised, LA kind of girl piped, “I’m from California!”

“I don’t like Californians, they’re all such valley girls.” Without a moment to spare, the girl from LA nodded, laughed with her hand over her mouth, eyes scrunched in a fake smile that was so ready to throw away everything else that California was and ever could be, and said, “I know, that’s basically everyone from California.” Laughed again. The crowd dispersed.

“What do you think?” said no one to the only girl in an oversized blazer and an actually knee-length dress code-adhering skirt.

I keep my mouth shut like the model minority I am.

Wednesday.

Student council took us on a picnic to celebrate and told us to wear our house colors: color-blocked, PE uniforms of blue, green, red, and purple. Freedom, whispered the breeze. I spotted my purple-clothed friend sitting on a large foil mat with a group of other giggling girls, and walked over to search for a corner to call mine. Then a red-clothed girl said, in a voice I will never forget-

“There’s no room for you here.”

Red and purple, red and purple – that strangers could dictate my life. I’ll sit on the grass, I could have told her. And Sammy, I could have said. We will never. Ever. Be friends. Instead I, in my fraying blue shirt, watched the purple girl hesitate and say nothing, and went off to find my other blue friends and throw around an ugly yellow frisbee, cheeks burning. Once blue, always blue.

Thursday.

That summer, my arm got stuck in the metro door, and fear hit me like a train. Mom tugged endlessly at the door from the inside of the train, while everyone else just watched, silent, unmoving. The train didn’t have to move and snap my arm off for me to all at once start gasping for air, submerged, stabbed. The doors finally opened and as Mom stared at the people standing beside her, I got on, tried to laugh, and listened to the shame I hoped the people around me felt.

On Thursday night, I took the subway and watched someone’s foot get stuck between the platform and train as no one stopped to help her. Someone kept muttering behind me, shoving coins into a vending machine, and I stood there, in that space between vending machine and train, hesitating. When she finally clambered on, all I can remember is following her numbly onto the train and feeling all of the shame as I slowly became one of them. Later I wrote a poem about the incident, printed it out, performed it for class.

This doesn’t sound very realistic, the teacher wrote in the margins.

Friday.

The animal shelter that we volunteered at was in a different part of the city and required us to take the metro. Even though the others had lived in this city for eight, nine years, and had histories from a time before me, somehow, I ended up in the lead. As we clambered down the stairs, my Taiwanese-Korean friend asked me about my Taiwanese-Korean ethnicity. Clumsy, fumbling, I replied, “Yes.” But we are not the same.

I’m flashing back to this morning during study hall, when someone didn’t know me, and the first thing he said to me was that my name was so white. Like he couldn’t figure out why I didn’t have a Korean name and wanted a full explanation – all just because he had never known someone like me.

He stuck out his hand for a handshake like he wanted to take my name away from me. I smiled and turned away. It was awkward, it was rude, and it was mine.



elegy

as a child, I remember the hum of the sea
as you sang for me from
the pages of the old dictionary,
beaten blue cover on the
definitions of your long-dead youth;
stories swimming with spirits.
I listened as you slipped sand
through the creases of your soul.

I remember how you made
corpses waltz in grey satin dresses
across my sky. you told me to
listen to the old man playing
fiddle from the foam of the sea
and the trumpet calls ripped
from the gulls’ frosted throats.

you defined love as a ghost
who holds your hand and
wanders the beaches, blowing sand
out of seashells and holding them, too.
you told me love’s face floats in the corners
of your soul, translucent and kind.
as I lay with my head in your silken lap,
you told me you loved me.

I still believe you.
I remember the day we wandered
the graveyard and blew out the flames of
dandelions, because you told me a wish is planted
in every person you help find their wings.
that day, I knew what you meant
when you told me to keep making
the dead smile and sing.

The Bleachers

I sit behind the block, fidgeting with my goggles and cracking my knuckles. There is one more heat before I swim, and watching the other swimmers race makes me want to rip somebody’s spine out. I lick my lips; the arena tastes like rusted copper and it reeks so grossly of chlorine I could swear the air is tinted yellow. The drone of thrashing water and frenetic onlookers makes my mind go numb.

Silence settles over the building as the next heat steps onto the block. The stillness is louder than the uproar moments before.

Beep, I say, mimicking the starting official. Beep Beep. Take your mark.

The starting buzzer fires, shattering the silence. The crowd erupts violently; their shrieking voices make my ears ring.

I love it.

I stretch my ankles, counting to ten as I bob up and down on my tiptoes. My hairs stand on end and my stomach feels like ice — for the first time in years, I am nervous. This race will be my last.

I whip my arms around me, slapping myself to get the blood going. The pool churns violently as athletes smash into the wall, ricocheting off at breakneck speeds. I envy the swimmers. There is nothing like the sensation of breaking the water with your body, the hit of jarring frigidness, the exhilarating rush of surging through the water in streamlined form. The icy numbness flowing through your veins, the muted roar of the crowd underwater. The unrelenting support of your closest friends.

I look up. I’ve stared at this ceiling for countless hours: during dryland, through sprint sets, or when drifting down the pool after an exhausting day. The lighting is normally white, sharper than a cloudless January day.

But today, the plaster above me is a musty beige. The air feels warm and damp, and the ceiling lights are weak. I can’t help but wonder if the dimness is just my imagination.

The swimmers before me have fifty yards left. I slip out of my sweatshirt and sweatpants and pull my goggles over my eyes, snapping the strap into place before pulling a second cap over my head. My goggles had been a present for my ninth birthday; they had black rims and shimmering lenses, two bright neon-blue ellipses that danced in the sun like the glittering scales of an exotic fish. Now the replaceable bungee strap has faded from years of use, and the blue-black stripes have been reduced to a dim blue-gray. My swimsuit feels thick and silky, black as tar.

As the heat before me finishes, I hear a crack and a searing pain shoots between my shoulders.

“I’ll be watching your race. Good luck,” my friend chuckles. His voice is warm and damp beneath the golden balcony lights.

I turn to face him — it’s OshKosh, wearing that goofy-looking smile I know all too well. I smirk as I rub my reddened back.

“You too,” I reply, “but I won’t need any.”

He laughs.

We both stare at each other through our goggles, unable to see the other’s eyes. As the crowd dies down, the only thing I can hear is the pounding of my heart. I take a deep breath, and I step onto the block for the last time.

The race is just like any other — when it is over, I talk with my coaches, cool down, and change. I have twelve events until my carpool finishes his last race, so I take a seat on the bleachers and try to read.

OshKosh approaches. I love the way he lumbers about, the way he holds his thick frame upright, his acne-studded body, his short, prickly hair. He is wearing the OshKosh sweatshirt that gave him his nickname; it is the same design as the one he wore to his first practice with us, eight years ago.

“Hey,” he calls out. He’s showing me that foolish-looking grin I love so much, but his eyes are clear and dark as he sits down beside me.

Only he knows I am moving. Tomorrow I’ll be half a country away and yet here I am, sitting on these bleachers, reading.

I glance at him. He is carefully adjusting his cap, trying to squeeze the tips of his ruddy ears beneath the velvety silicone plastic. His upcoming race means a lot to him; it is his last chance to qualify for regionals.

I need more time with him. I have to be there for his race: to see him achieve his dreams, to at least say goodbye — maybe I can stay a bit, maybe my carpool won’t mind the wait–

But I know I can’t. I have clothes to pack and a plane to catch. And my carpool — I can’t be so selfish. It is impossible for me to watch his race.

We sit in silence. On the bleachers, not moving, not speaking — the timestamps above flicker rhythmically as I watch our final moments together slip away.

My friend takes a deep breath and holds it before quietly letting it out; he laughs bitterly, staring restlessly at the grimy tiled floor. The silence is suffocating.

I hate it.

The bleachers are disgusting; they are littered with smashed food particles, spilled drinks, hair, more hair, an unidentifiable black, stringy substance, and God knows what else. I must leave, and as I look back, I see him sitting calmly on the bleachers — the sunlight dances around the room and lights the metal seats ablaze. There he is, staring straight back at me, eyes unblinking, face expressionless, unmoving and indomitable. He looks away, still unblinking, brooding over the days to come without me.



Inside the Ribcage

People tell me I look just like my mother.

It took me years to see it. The structure of our cheeks, the shape of our smiles. A few weeks ago when my mother drove me home from the airport I looked down at my hands and was startled to see hers. I hadn’t realized I’d known them so well — the wrinkles on the joints of her fingers, the patterns of crevices at the base of her knuckles, the veins that bulged out of her skin when she made a fist.

I don’t know how to explain my mother.

My childhood memories of her are shaped by numbers: every day we sat on the swing in the backyard, my older brothers’ textbooks between us. I fancied myself a prodigy. I sat proudly in the front row of college classes in calculus, C++, chemistry. Now when I look back I remember my mother driving me from school to the community college an hour away three days a week. I remember she brought me lunch to eat in the car. I remember that when I sat for exams it was her numbers that spilled out of my pencil, her numbers she’d seared into my skin from hours of practice tests, homework questions, textbook examples. Her numbers that had flattened me into my seat and slapped the tears off of my cheeks.

Only it wasn’t her numbers. It was her father’s. When I go to India every few years I see them still, on the swing of my grandparents’ porch, overlooking the dusty street air and the stray dogs that wander the backroads. My mother, pale and fragile in her youth, feet curled underneath her with a book of trigonometry in her lap. Her father, my Nana, sitting upright beneath the creaking chains, gnarled skin sallowing into itself.

When I was thirteen, Nana cupped my face in his hands, held my cheeks up against my mother’s. He was looking at me; I was looking at him, and at Nani on the couch, and at my mother’s face radiant above mine. My mother is beautiful. I wonder what combination of Nani and Nana’s genes led to this: Nani, with her wizened body stooped into the ground over her walking stick, Nana, with his round face, bulbous nose, peeling brown skin. Maybe it comes from neither of them. Maybe it’s the besan she grinds into her body every day, the henna and coconut oil in which she steeps her hair overnight. Maybe it’s the manicures and the kajal and the hair irons, all coalescing into the image of a woman who has found the fountain of youth and has bathed herself luxuriant.

My mother had wanted to be a doctor.

That was before Nana tore open her chest and fashioned her a new spine made of functions and integrals and logarithms. Now when I touch my ribs through my chest I do not know how much of my bones is my own and how much is what my mother has welded into me.

I don’t know how to explain my mother.

I was twelve when she began the inevitable descent from infallibility. The day the world splintered into pieces around us, I remember she sobbed, holding herself together in the corner of the hospital room. It’s not your fault, I said. My mother stopped crying once the doctors stitched me shut.

She failed me, is what I tell my friends four years later, when people still stop to stare at my scars. My friends are quick to agree. What kind of mother could erase two years with a wave of her hand, could look her daughter in the eye and laugh about mental illnesses, because why don’t those girls who starve themselves just eat? and oh, maybe I have social anxiety too!

Now I think that maybe it was easier that way. I remember how my mother sobbed in the corner of my hospital room. I remember she told me maybe this was karma for having such an easy childhood. Like the needles that dove in and out of my wrist had torn open her skin.

People tell me I look just like my mother. I wonder how it must feel: to stand there powerless and watch your image tear itself apart.


Split Ends

This is a story that begins at the ends: the frayed, thinning, split ends. The mangled roots that tell a tale of irreparable damage and stagnated growth. Why wouldn’t I cut them off? The scissors are in my hand, the inimitable power to sever and the potential energy of choice gripped shakily in my palm. But my finger rests perpetually on the trigger. This is why.

The first time it happened, the scissors were not in my hand. They were in the hands of my fearlessly independent eleven-year-old cousin. I was only six years old, so young that I blew off big decisions like dandelion fluff, unconcerned about where the seeds would land. It wasn’t until after I had heard the harsh snips of the blades and felt the tickling of severed hair brushing past my neck onto the ground that I fully internalized the meaning of irreversible. Irreversible clung to the mangled locks of slightly-damp hair and stared back at me when I glanced at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Irreversible was all that I had lost and could not get back.

When my mother came into the bathroom, her eyes dropped to the ground and took in the tufts of black hair scattered haphazardly across the sterile white tiles on the bathroom floor. Later, she would tell me never to let someone else hold the scissors again. She would tell me about the sacred power of choices and the burden of consequence. But at that moment, she didn’t have to say anything. Her eyes, hollow with the shards of broken expectations, said it all.

Today, when someone asks my mother when I last cut my hair, she’ll act as if she’s forgotten. “Not since birth,” she’ll say, the lie slipping unnoticed through the cracks of her proud, plastered smile. But I know that first haircut hasn’t been discarded from her memory like the locks of hair that she had swept up with the dustpan and tossed into the trash bin. Beneath the pretense, I can see her eyes narrowing with the same shameful discernment, as if I were a puzzle that she couldn’t quite piece together.

That was how it always was with my mother. She would never tell you anything, and yet you would already know. As the years passed by, and my hair grew longer and longer, I became an expert at reading in between the lines of the homilies she would impart whenever her moral smoke alarm went off. Never do the wrong things. Always make good choices. I quickly learned that Always and Never were the king and queen in my mother’s realm. Soon, I became a loyal subject, and the Absolutes restricted me at every turn.

Getting a haircut after the first debacle fell under the domain of Never, even as my hair transformed into a disobedient cloud of tangles that only grew more irrepressible the more I ignored it. Every week, my mother and I would sit down in front of the educational children’s TV programs on PBS, armed with a fine-toothed comb to inflict pain and a bowl of ice cream to lessen it. Each time, I would beg her to cut it all off. And each time, she would refuse, continuing to tug persistently at the tangles without offering an explanation.

After a particularly painful hair-combing session, I realized that I was sick of my mother’s power to trap me between the stubborn walls of Absolutes. I was sick of her fingers knocking the scissors out of my hands as soon as I had picked them up, hovering anxiously over me to make sure that I wouldn’t cut myself. I wanted to test my own power for once. So I took out the sewing scissors and my beloved American Girl doll. As I grasped the scissors tightly, I felt an electrical current coursing through my veins. In a surge of anger, I chopped off the doll’s synthetic black hair. The plastic strands fell to the ground noiselessly, and the doll continued to stare at me with her glassy-eyed complacency, unconcerned that I had just taken everything away from her. Suddenly, the blades felt like poison ivy under my trembling grip. I let go, and the scissors clattered to the floor. They had defeated me this time.

At that moment, my mother came into the room. She looked at me knowingly, as if she had foreseen this all along. “It’s so easy just to cut things off, isn’t it?” she said quietly. “But things don’t always turn out the way we expect, and we have to live with the consequences of every choice we make.”

I finally realized why my mother had refused to let me cut my hair. After that day, her fear of the irreconcilable was passed down to me. Like a virus, it only grew, spreading to every aspect of my life. Every time I was faced with any decision, I would panic, remembering the tufts of hair on the tiled floor of my cousin’s bathroom and the doll with mangled hair who I never played with again. Even for the simplest of choices, my mother’s words echoed in my head. So easy just to cut things off. I became so scared of making the wrong choice that I ceased making choices at all. Like an overrun garden, my hair grew out of active neglect. And that’s when the split ends began to appear.

It was gradual at first. But after a while, it got out of hand. Every end became a split end. I was perpetually stranded at a fork in the road. The longer I waited, the more damage I was inflicting. By dodging the burden of consequence, I was only orchestrating my own ruin.

And so here I am again. At the ends. With all of the power, but none of the will. So easy just to cut things off. But in reality, it is so difficult. The scissors are in my hand.


my grandmother

my grandmother lives
in a sunny-yellow room with dried wildflowers in a
china vase by the window.

her canary-coloured castle
is adorned with stacks of outdated cosmos and
faded national geographics
-stained with oatmeal and soup-
colorful green boxes of
orange
prescription pills, gauze, and healing ointments.

And my grandmother
knows the playful Summer Wind
who kisses her wrinkled pink cheeks,
catching in the lace curtains as he
Brings her pink flower petals and small green leaves from the garden
Leaving them gently on her windowsill

And she knows
the sunny-yellow goldfinches
who chirp
and cling curiously to the window screen,
wondering when she will leave her tired body
and join them in their glorious flight.

With her watery eyes, and her gentle coos
she is almost a baby
when i spoon feed her.
she smiles as it dribbles down her chin
Landing in little splotches on her pale pink gown.
And as i look at how gentle and small she is
her bony wrists and spotted hands remind me of my mother’s.

And most nights,
i am afraid of the day
that the cold moon will take her back,
and i know i cannot ask for more time.

so instead

i buy her new magazines when
she grows tired of the pictures in her collection.
And i replace the wilted flowers with
wild peonies and baby’s breath and white lilies
and i kiss her forehead,
wipe the dribble from her chin,
comb back her silver locks
and listen to her gentle cooing,

like a brilliant goldfinch singing
from the muffled confines of her ancient chest.

Not the Last Time

“Pass the pani, please,” I bugged my sister, who tossed me a bottle of chilled water, a refreshing coolant in the scorching blaze of Indian heat. In the back of the cab, my thighs glued together from the sultry air, and my fingers frequently tangled as my skin grew sweatier and sweatier.

I did not dare unclutch my hands from the handlebar; whenever the driver swiveled sharply amongst the disarray of the hectic road, I felt certain we would run into a cow. Contrasting the humid air, my eyes seared with dry pain from the dusty air. Jetlag stuck me hard at this hour, but the never-ending rush of rickshaws and motorcyclists withheld my eyes from closing shut.

Apart from the headache from the boisterous sirens of the produce trucks, another thought overwhelmed my mind. Had fate rolled its dice slightly differently, possibly landing on a three instead of a five, I could have called this very place my home. Eagerly, I examined through the clouds of filthy haze for signs of comfort and belonging, but I remained fruitless.

Didi, my sister, sat relaxedly beside me, somehow lulled by the reckless rocking of the cab.

“You know something? When I’m older, I want to move here.”

“Why’s that?” I asked, still on the edge of my seat.

“I don’t know. I guess I can’t help but remember when we were younger, and Nana would teach me Hindi out on the veranda and would read me parts of his scriptures. I’ve never met a man as wise as him.”

I scanned my brain hard for such moments like this with my grandfather, but only his calm yet cracking voice over the telephone replayed in my mind. He would speak to me in Hindi, and I would reply back in English.

I released my grip on the handlebar at last when we approached the house. Though tainted with smears of dirt and some of the wood chipped away, my grandparent’s home still stood with great grandeur in contrast to the cluttered streets, crowded with beggars dressed in nothing more than battered rags. To my right, delicate, blush pink lotus flowers and towering guava trees filled the lush green garden.

We stepped inside the doorway, the rich smell of spices rushing to my nose. Instantly we were greeted by my aunt, grandmother, and cousins.

“Oh, how tall you have grown!” my grandmother said, her sari infused with the smell of masala. Didi wrapped her arms around her, exclaiming, “Good to see you, Nani!”. From the sounds of laughter and excitement, a heard a faint voice approaching.

“Beti,” he whispered. My head turned instantaneously, the deafening drum of my heartbeat vibrating through my ears now. Tottering towards me was my Nana, his legs as skinny as sticks and his face pale as winter frost. The wrinkles that blemished his face sagged as to stretch his gossamer skin so it hung past his chin. While his head remained completely bare, fine white hair still grew like a jungle in his large ears.

He took my hands in his, and I could feel his frail arm shaking uncontrollably. When he spoke he repeated his words once or twice, forgetting that he had already said them. I felt tears building up in the back of my eyes, a sea waiting to be released. My stomach lurked with a fierce stab of regret.

I stood before a man whom I should feel is apart of me, a man whose wisdom I could have soaked up like a sponge. Here he slumped, so wearied and brittle, almost as if he were to crumble into thousands of pieces in a matter of seconds. A gulp in my throat formed as I thought how I barely knew him at all.

Truly, though, it was near the end of my journey in India when this regret ignited in my thoughts. As we approached the doorway, once again, this time for goodbyes, I heard my father say, “Well, this may be the last time we ever come here.” He hinted that the next time we visited, we would be throwing my Nana’s ashes into the river. These words stung my skin and left a hefty bruise.

The cab ride to the airport left my sleeves soaked in snot and tears. You failed, I thought. You will never know what it’s like to be an Indian. I glanced out of the window and saw a family bathing themselves in the holy river water, and thought to myself, The only thing you have in common with them is the color of your skin.

I did not desire this meeting to be the end. What I wanted most, was to found a connection with the dense Indian culture and the people of my motherland. But how could I, if I did not speak their tongue and they did not speak mine? I thought about my own children, and how they would be completely clueless to the magnificent wonders that is this subcontinent. The glorious mandirs that adorned the littered streets had me itching to join the mass of men and women who filled every square inch of space. I rolled up my wet sleeve and promised myself that I would return, to join and pray with them.


All Roads Lead to Nowhere

The classic golden Californian hills and fields whiz past in a wheat-colored blur and the world itself spins by like a toy.

Embarking on a road trip feels like true freedom, a blitz through the universe. As the road rumbles beneath the tires, it feels as if the highways are being pulled underneath the car, and I’m gliding through the air. There goes a black hatchback with water stains spotting the sides, a silver sedan as shiny as a new dime, and a white minivan with chips on the edges of the door. The clouds in the sky, distant and unmoving, look as if they’ve been pressed down by a rolling pin. Flat, dirty grey, and slightly rough around the edges, they resemble the inside of my fleece sweatshirt.

My ten-year-old body fits into the natural contours of the seat and I try to adjust my head against the peculiar angle of the headrest. Whatever fancy gears and levers might be attached, the average car seat is a device designed to be one-size-fits-all, and it is the headrest, more than any other part, that first presents this fatally uncomfortable flaw to the passenger. The air conditioning turns on as the engine purrs to life, and the air wafts lightly over me, warm and dry like skin, as if the car itself were breathing over me. Later the breeze cools down slightly, and I adjust the dials periodically—now a stronger current, now a lighter one. Now I am too warm, now I am too cold. Dial clockwise, then counterclockwise. The same pattern for the radio, as it stutters on and off at intervals when we pass through the stuffy, dank stillness of a tunnel.

There is something about being in a car that allows one to become almost perfectly detached from the rest of the world. We pass by an accident, several police cars flanking a pick-up truck and a smaller sedan. The police cars look cartoonish, the red and blue flashing lights making them seem like toys. Our car whizzes past the accident, leaving it behind in a blur of gray asphalt. The lane dividers on the highway look like stitches, and I mentally trace a finger over them.

And yet, despite, or perhaps because of, the constant movement, I am restless. There is no song on the radio that satisfies me. There is no temperature on the dial that either soothes or warms my skin with the consistency I desire, no matter how many times the car, blowing through the vents, sighs over me.

“Are we there yet?” I ask.

“Are we there yet.”

“Are we there yet.”

It’s a small mental trick, that if you repeat anything long enough in an enclosed space it eventually becomes absolutely unbearable.

My big sister gives me a silencing, cold stare and says, “No.”

“Do you wanna play a game,” I continue to pester.

“No.”

“How about a movie.”

“No.”

Eventually she snaps at me and says something vicious. I don’t say anything then, for a long time. I begin counting the cars we pass (or which pass us) on the highway. One rattling pick-up loaded with a ladder and construction tools. A grand brigade of six motorcycles revving past like a roll of continuous thunder (and spewing dark fumes that indicate the same). They rear up on their back wheels as if they were riding horses, and from the passenger’s seat I can see that  the motorcycle closest to our car, only about five feet ahead of the hood, wobbles ever so slightly before coming back down safely.

“That’s pretty cool, isn’t it,” I say to no one in particular.

“Huh,” my dad, who is driving, grunts noncommittally.

After some thought, he adds, “It should be the vehicle wrapped around the person to protect them, not the other way around.” It’s as strong a condemnation as his mild disposition allows. With rounded glasses on his round face, he is the Peter Griffin of the family, frequently amiable and sometimes clueless.

Trying to take my mind off this conundrum, I pick up a well-worn pack of Trident chewing gum. The thin cardboard is damp with old perspiration and the T in Trident is coming off from a week of hard use. I inspect its contents the way a smoker would survey the number of cigarettes he had left, and finally slide one small clay-like green slab with neatly sliced edges out of its not so crisp paper slip and into my mouth. Despite the slight griminess of its packaging, the gum is a cool burst of watermelon on my tongue, taking on a ridged texture from the impressions of my teeth for a few chews before settling into a mellower, taffy-like feel. I slip the pack into my deep jean pocket, letting it await another boring moment.

The car is a symbol of freedom, with its mobility and power. But I keep thinking about that. Doesn’t being truly free mean that I wouldn’t want more freedom? So, the people who have freedom are the ones who don’t think they need it? Yet, I feel a primal urge, calling me outside to run in the ocean of grape fields with wind flowing through my midnight black hair.

Is that what freedom feels like? I wonder.

The clouds are slow and silent, and do not reply. Eventually the landscape transforms, slowly, then all at once, like dawn breaking. The golden hills become cool, fog-laden forests, and then give way to enormous dunes of ice-plants and sand. Beyond, the ocean beats against the shoreline in protest of the low tide, gray and relentless. For a time, I can forget my questions about freedom. As the window slides a crack open, the smell of salt and seaweed slips in, a cool scent that makes all my senses come alive.


Tears of Hope

Music echoes against the cool wooden walls of the old room, each note emphasizing how silent and still everything else is. Old books, stacked unevenly on the shelves are coated in a thick layer of dust, and papers are strewn across the floor. The song comes from a music player, perpetually playing the same three notes forlornly, longing for someone, anyone, to join in with its song. The drapes flutter with each gust of wind, not shielded quite enough by the room’s sole window which has succumbed to the elements and disintegrated along with the world outside.

Far away, a man stumbles through the dry, desolate desert all alone. Upon his skinny body cling tattered cargo pants, scattered with holes and loose threads. An equally worn shirt hangs loosely, size large, though he is now a small. He was once known as Jeremy, but the name has long since slipped from his memory along with thoughts of his family and home.  As he climbs each hill of sand, his tattered leather bag slips off his skeletal shoulders repeatedly, forcing him to stop and adjust it over and over again.
A year passes. The man has survived by drinking from wells in abandoned villages and sleeping in empty homes nearby. The water is bitter and the houses coated in dust, but they offer shelter from the neverending sand and sun. As weeks pass his strength begins to dwindle, his steps become smaller and smaller as he walks; he stumbles along, eyes half closed, legs weakening.

As he drifts in and out of a sleeplike state he recalls a time where life had a meaning, when each step forward took him somewhere instead of in endless circles. More than that he remembers the days, moments, in which everything changed. He recalls the announcement on the news, that the asteroid would not avoid Earth as expected, but instead plummet directly into his future with his daughter.

He remembers the dream-like moment in which he swept his daughter up in his arms and laid her down in the backseat of the car, speeding away into the night. He relives it all, each piercing memory, as he continues across the sands of a completely different world — the car accident, holding his daughters limp body, laying it among flowers, below a willow tree. He remembers forcing himself to leave the person most important to him in the world, tears in his eyes, and, later, the feeling of the ladder in his hands as he climbed down into the bomb shelter as a red flash streaks through the sky above him.

Suddenly, the man is jolted from his memory. His body bashes against a rough surface and his eyes burst open. A wooden door greets him, welcoming him with a hard hug. One note, then another, meet his ears, beating down on him with heaviness of the past. The song that he once recognized feels distant, but the meaning is something he has never forgotten.

He rushes inside, eager to escape the brutal sun. The man is greeted by old, dusty books, and a faint breeze that flow through the broken window. He spins around, searching for the source of the music. In a corner of the room he sees a music player with the cord plugged into the wall.

With a rush of excitement he shifts the player in his hands, searching for an opening to reveal its inner workings. He flings off a small panel on one side and holds the music player up to his eyes. With a gasp he pulls out a tiny music box and the music comes to a stop.

He shrivels with sadness, sinking to the floor, shoulders against the wall, sobbing. His mind races, searching for a reason for such a blatant reminder of his daughter. He asks the music box to have a conscious, to speak to him, to explain the unexplainable, and yet he can’t help but hear a voice in his head, whispering his daughters name.

Hours later he lies, shivering on the floor, overtaken by a restless sleep. Even as he dreams he feels a presence. A shadow. As his eyes flutter open he see his daughter at the bookshelf, her tears falling across the pages of a book her dad had once read to her. He has a sudden urge to comfort his daughter, but is left with an empty feeling, realizing that no one is there. He runs to the books, noticing a select few which have recently shed their dust.  He knocks the pile down, searching for one book in particular, the one he had seen in his dream. It catches his eye, the bright fluorescent colored cover and glossy paper, reminding him of the many nights that he sat reading to his daughter.

Instead of reading the book he throws it back down, yelling internally at himself for being so optimistic. He becomes angry, angry at himself and the room for playing tricks on him. He shouts out loud, projecting his feelings into every corner of the room, yet his emotions continue to flood his body. He punches the table once, twice, three times, continuously, endlessly, expelling his rage for what had happened to his daughter.  He spots the books he had strewn across the table earlier and thrusts them onto the floor. Then he crumbles into a ball on the floor, sobbing.

Through his tears he scans the room, colors blending together from the salty tears filling his eyes. The books scattered across the floor catch his eye once and before he can resist he is on his knees, weeding through their pages. His tears scatter like rain across the paper, but he can not ignore the dried tears already among them, undeniably from an earlier time. It is not till minutes later that the truth actually sinks in. He ignores all reason, his mind clouded with hope: his daughter must have been here, there is no other possibility.


Bathroom Break

I spent all night last night

running to get the men in white coats

with butterfly nets

because there’s shampoo oozing out of my walls

making my bathroom tiles sticky

and I’m pretty sure I’m crazy.

Also,

don’t forget the graham crackers

or how I bites hot sticks in my free time

or how everyone else ate their marshmallows raw

while I cooked steak over a fire.

And you know, I might one day

learn to play a song on the guitar

instead of barely tuning it

the only problem being I tossed the sheets of guitar chords away

and ignored all my lessons.

Spent my time just

looking

at the tall white bookshelf next to my chair where,

four years ago,

I tore out all the answers to the stories in my

Encyclopedia Brown books,

started a fire with them.

Duct taped my questions up in an attache

shoved them in the corner of my cellar

Finally, meet this guy,

barely even existing in my mind

threw his own sandwich on the ground,

made pens for a living until he was seventy nine,

still hasn’t bought a shower curtain that fits his

god

damn

shower.

He picked all the paint off of my moms cigar box

was left with

wood and brass clasps

not unlike the eyelets in my boots

not unlike how I let too

many people

see the stockpile of salt packets on my desk

the eyes drawn on every round object in my room

and the big reminder on the wall that there’s no jam or butter here

just a lot of scrap paper I’ll never use

and notions of parasols.


A Different Perspective

Dangerous. Deadly. Threatening. That’s what they called it. But all I could see was an innocent puppy who needed love, care, and food. A lot of food.

I looked at the sickly figure, bones clearly visible under the skin and the sorrowful chocolate brown eyes. I winced, and feeling sorry for it, I ran inside to grab some food. I came back out with a piece of bread in my hands, greeted by the same dog running around in happy circles.

Despite countless warnings from my aunt and relatives, I was going to pet this stray. They hadn’t seen that these dogs could be gentle, so they didn’t know. Cautiously, I put my arm around to pet it.

I smiled at the sight and cautiously put my arm out to pet it. I loved dogs, and usually showed no hesitation, but this time I was more careful. Though it seemed good-natured, it was still a stray, and you never know what might happen.

Surprisingly, it let me pet it, tail wagging impossibly harder. I dropped the bread on the ground and it immediately gobbled it up in mere seconds. I called out to my cousin to bring some more, and he arrived, a new bread in his hands. He pet the dog too, grinning at the stray’s enthusiasm.

“We’ll call him Noko,” he announced. I laughed at the funny sounding name and tried out the feel of it in my mouth. I agreed, and it seemed Noko did too, trotting over every time we called his name.

Even as we were laughing and playing with him, I felt a wave of sadness hit me. I was surprised at the sudden emotion, and it soon became apparent why I felt a little sad. Because even if I was helping out this one little dog, I couldn’t help them all. But I wanted to.

Nobody deserved this kind of living. Starving on the street, eating out of the garbage, and having no one who cares what happens to it. Especially in India, where stray dogs were becoming a serious problem, whether or not they seriously acknowledged it. It was a battle, because killing the strays was inhumane and illegal, while neutering/spaying them was considered too expensive, so the dogs were merely left there.

But were there any solutions?

Naturally, curious about other people’s view on it, I googled it. But most people online simply wrote about how they’ve been attacked and the dogs should be put down. If only there was a way everyone could win. Something everyone would be happy about.

But there was a way I could help.

At that moment, in that situation, I told myself that one day I would do something that would notify this problem to the rest of the world. Write a book, make a speech, or open up a website. Because that day, I learned two things: that even the smallest change can help out someone and that first impressions aren’t everything. I thought about Noko, and how he would probably benefit everyday from me simply giving him some food.

Most people stayed far away from strays, but what if all they needed was a chance? I knew they could be really dangerous, but that was mostly because they were in conditions where they needed to fight for survival.

On my last day staying there in India, Noko stayed longer than usual, almost like he knew. It was strange, but it might have been that sixth sense that people say dogs have. I was leaving at about nine o’clock, and by the time I was getting ready to leave, I was surprised to find him still there. He usually left at seven, but he was still there, in the dark.

I gave him one last scratch on the ear, my eyes following his figure through the window of the car when I got in. I took my last glimpse at him and said my goodbyes, accepting but sad. Before I looked away, I caught the glint of metal chains against the harsh streetlight, on the corner of the street and forgotten. I turned back around in my seat and didn’t look back.

I used to be ignorant but never again. Never again would I be able to forget. Each time I saw a dog, the only thing that came to mind was Noko. Poor Noko, who would never know the joys of having a safe home, and food, and a family who loved you. I may have been younger, but I still knew at that time that everyone deserves someone who cares for you.

And now, I’m writing this essay. I’m writing this as I remember the coffee colored eyes that changed me. The ones that drowned me in ase This is the first time I’ve been able to do something that may help. I can only hope that this small change can cause a ripple that spreads. So someone else can know about this too.


Insanity

Drop a lightbulb onto any surface

Watch the splinters on the skin morph into perfect shards

Flying everywhere, exposing the wiring inside.

A candle sputtering the last of its wick;

the wax dripping onto a finely polished table.

The anatomy of a kaleidoscope seems symmetrical

But bits of unshaped, colored glass reflecting each other

Create the eccentric designs and intangible pictures

Encased inside their hollow shell.

A hall full of mirrors gives no sense of direction

Walk round and round and watch everyone stare back.

Be entertained by the blistering paint

Observe it peel in long strips, bottom to top

as you hang upside down

from the ceiling

Do You Believe in the Devil?

“John, do you believe in the devil?”

John looks up from his book, the old, yellowed pages a sign of its age and use.

“I’m sorry?” he asks, confused and little bit frightened. He looks over at his traveling companion for the week. They were on mail duty that week, getting the mail from their little town in the middle of the desert to one of the larger towns, like Sugar Pine.

“I asked, if you believe in the devil,” he states plainly, and John looks into the crackling fire. The wind blows in his direction, and he squints from the smoke blowing into his eyes.

“I don’t suppose I do, Will,” John says, shaking his head.

William chuckles and nods. “Ah. Not a religious man then.”

John shakes his head, and looks up at the sky full of bright stars, smiling. “My mother was though.”

William smirks and nods. “Yes, John is a very religious name.”

“What about you?” John looks over at William, who is also looking up at the stars.

“Hm?” he asks, looking over at John.

“Do you believe in the devil?” John asks.

William chuckles, and John laughs with him, the tension of the moment subsiding slightly. “Of course I do.”

John stops laughing as William’s eyes meet his. John freezes, and for a moment, William disappears, and something else takes his place. But it was only for a moment, because when John blinks, he’s back.

William gets up, and walks around the burning fire towards John. “You’ve heard ‘em talking, haven’t you? The town, the other deputies…” William pauses, and a wry smirk makes its way onto his face. “The pastor.”

William wasn’t normally a menacing man. He was creepy, sure, but he could hold a conversation. But John had never seen him like this, with murder in his soul and a hint of the devil in his eye. John was actually scared of this man.

William places his hands on his hips, resting his right hand on his pistol. He looks down at his gun, and uses his left hand to pull it out. He looks it over, and puts it away in his right hip holster instead. His smirk is wider as he says, “It’s a sign of the devil, bein’ left handed. It’s said that people who’re left handed are marked by the devil to be evil.”

John swallows instinctively out of fear, but doesn’t move, for the fear of being shot by one of the men he trusted outweighed his need to run. “Well, I’m sure that’s not really true…” John trails off, looking at the ground next to him, then up at the rocks lining their little canyon, and then at one of the long dead trees sporadically placed here and there. Anywhere but William’s eyes.

“For some, maybe, but those are the people who have the evil beat out of them by the lord,” William states, waving his statement off. John’s eyes are drawn to William’s, and he sees the murder in them, the sadistic horror that only awaited John this night. “I didn’t get that privilege, of meeting our lord. The devil had too much of a grip on my soul to want to let go.”

John leans back, reaching for his colt, but as he palms the dirt, it’s gone. Looking behind him, all of his guns were gone, and when he looks back, William has his colt in his hands.

William, scrutinizing the powerful weapon, turns it around in his hands, running his fingers over the beautiful carvings in the wood and metal. He holds it out in front of him, and up to John’s head, the gun in his left. “It’s not hard to see why. Why they think that, that is.”

“Who… who are you?” John asks, and William, or whoever he is, shrugs.

“I guess no one really knows. I wouldn’t suspect you, a man without religion, to know…” He shrugs, but the gun doesn’t move. John’s eyes widen, and he starts to shake. John doesn’t know when his eyes started filling with tears, but the harder William pressed the gun to his face, the more the tears threatened to fall. His skin felt like it was boiling under the heated glare. He could feel the cool tears now rushing down his cheeks, and sweat pooling underneath him, soaking his clothes, but it didn’t help. Nothing could bring him reprieve from the feeling of having his skin burned off him. He could feel his heart give way, stopping and starting every time William said or did something, beating faster and working harder than he’s sure it’s ever before. His head is pounding with an ache that’s so severe, John’s almost afraid his head is going to explode. Looking up into William’s red eyes, John’s world changes. William smirks as John has his epiphany, a curious and sadistic look replacing the look of the devil in his eye, because William didn’t just have the devil in his eye, he was the Devil himself. “Still don’t believe?”

“William?” John asks, but the devil standing above him just laughs.

“What a stupid name, William. That was his name.” He points to his body, William’s body. “But that’s not my name, is it?” John shakes his head hurriedly, and the man above him chuckles. He takes a step closer and puts the cold barrel of the gun to John’s head. John gulps, looking up at him, fear completely taking over his expression. “Say my name, John.”

There’s a pause, and for just a second, John doesn’t say anything, but when the gun is pressed harder into his forehead, he whimpers quietly, and speaks. “Satan.”

A gunshot goes off, a body falls to the floor, and standing above John’s lifeless body, the Devil is grinning down at him. “See you in Hell, John.”

The Skeletons in My Closet

Thunder cracked as lightning branched from the sky.

“Let’s move!”

The hazard lights flashed, and the windshield wipers beat rapidly as I scooped the raccoon’s body into a bag. Jumping into the car, my dad swerved back onto the freeway.

“Muy, time to wake up.” My dad switched on the light. It was time for school.

On the shoulder of a nearby freeway exit slumped a large raccoon. We strategized to harvest the raccoon’s skull the next night when traffic was light, but the law foiled our plan: picking up roadkill was illegal.

My skull collection began when my seven-year-old eyes spotted a glimmering seagull skull sinking beneath the ocean waves. My family and I traveled to Half Moon Bay in late November to explore the tide pools as the ocean waves receded. It was one of my few off days from gymnastics. At the time, I was spending twenty hours a week in the gym, spinning around bars and cartwheeling on beams.

I started gymnastics when I was two years old, inspired by gymnast Carly Patterson during the 2004 Olympics. I watched in awe as she flipped across the TV screen and stuck a perfect landing.

“I wanna do that!” I exclaimed, and for the next ten years, my life revolved around gymnastics. I skipped birthday parties and playdates for hours of practice and competitions.

The next school day, I walked up to my friends during lunch with my skull in hand, excited to show them what I had found over the weekend. They grabbed their lunchboxes and ran away. I put the skull away, attempting not to alienate any more of my classmates.

My first two best friends threw tanbark in my face and wheeled bikes into my shins. “You’re stupid,” they said. “We don’t want to be friends with you.” Any new friends I made were no different: they slammed my books into puddles and threw them into the trash cans. They snatched my glasses and dragged them against the concrete.

When I was eight years old, my dad found a dead sparrow glued to a rat trap in our backyard. Knowing my affinity for skulls, he suggested that we harvest the skull. After a long afternoon, I had a pearly white sparrow skull to add to my collection. While the sparrow’s life had ended, its legacy endured. The skull served as a physical reminder of its life.

The same year, my violin teacher passed away. She was my mom’s viola teacher, and when she heard I wanted to begin learning violin, she quickly took me on. I stood nervously in her doorway, attempting to hide behind my mom as she rang the doorbell.

My teacher opened the door with a wide grin on her face. She had brilliant blue eyes, contrasting with her short peppered hair. Within the first day, I learned to hold my violin and play the open strings. We played duets, and I loved going to lessons.

Our lessons stopped abruptly. My mom told me that my teacher had gotten sick, and I expected that it’d pass within a few weeks and we’d be playing together soon. The next time I saw her, she was in a nursing home, her grip weak and sweaters loose.

She died later that year.

Not long after, my grand-aunt passed away from a stroke. I once ran through her house, using her collection of half-dried markers to color the pages of my taped and stapled books. She handed me sugar cubes and roasted pumpkin seeds as I slipped from room to room. When my sister and I pressed half bitten strawberries on each other’s white shirts, she quickly joined in, chasing us around the house. The pink circles on our shirts were evidence of our crime.

The people I loved the most were gone, but like the sparrow, they had left behind a never-ending legacy. They had loved me and supported me no matter what. Even though they were gone physically, they lived on in memories that would be cherished forever.

Today, I own eight skulls, each telling a unique story with every suture, cavity, and tooth. Skulls were no longer just a novelty but a staple in my life. I proudly displayed every new addition to my collection despite the horrified looks on my friends’ faces, even taking joy in their shocked expressions.

Last Christmas, I received an impala skull with beautiful, long, black horns and swirling sutures. I giddily pulled the skull from the box, excitedly examining it until my eyes drifted to its broken nose; it wasn’t perfect. Aligning the broken pieces on the skull, I glued the pieces in place.

I checked on my skull first thing the next morning. After a hefty layer of wood glue, the broken pieces of my impala skull stayed in place. From a distance, it looked like every other impala skull, but the outline of yellow glue gave it character, something only I knew was there.

I have always been strong, rejecting help from others, pushing myself to my limits, and internalizing physical and emotional abuse. Given enough time, bones can heal, but not as fast as if they are wrapped in a plaster cast. Scars and bandages mask wounds but do not erase them. Wounds make you stronger.

After years of bullying and grief, I have learned to embrace my quirks. I am different than everyone else, and I’m proud of it; it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.

Skulls go beyond looks and superficial personalities; they are who you are. They change as you change, they grow as you grow. Every skull is complete with the muscles to support it, but they are independent, unique, and perfect in their own way.


The Goldin Era

girls like moths he said  musical thrilling voices

long slender limbs she said silk column dresses

tight tilted faces   I read framed by sleek bobs

eight Louis heels softly bobbing the thick throb of lifting thighs

T-straps dipping into plush grass They’re getting muddy

calves long and shapely burn with lac tic ac id

misty pale in the sunset-drip

one girl spells Ls of her arms, Who designed this hill?

crosses their raised nap

guarding her rib-ridged chest. It’s awful cold

At the house

the doorbell lost in cheerful chatter Maybe press it again—

show themselves in, confident women —uncertain girls

The cheap sneer of polysatin

Running, splashing, hiding across dresses

The hostess appears, pulled patch in her sleeve

wide in the electric glare

Gaping threads, perfectly even teeth look slippery—

like bathwater

on composite countertops

necks swiveling like swans uneasy.

Scanning, leaping

from face to frizz-topped face Is that—?

A crown—no, a helmet

Of gaud-yellow hair reassembled

Stiff as laughter

Crescent moon in reverse

Dirt under a trimmed pointer nail

Against a sky of smuggled smiles

The elegant flow of another gallant pour

Champagne groping awkwardly

For the glass caught off-guard

un

even

eyeliner

conversation

the wet sound of it


Nod at Me

nod at me nod at the rooftop do it nod

acknowledge the bathtub on the penthouse garden where i am with my friends taking photos in cowboy boots

and

slips in monochromatic feels

we are 22

we are new york

and

we are living like western gods so

conceited

taking photos in red cowboy boots on the fourth of july like real americans not millennials

and i nod that barbaric yawp

biting at raw U.S. air

at the marks seen through fake silk a material that lost its name scaling the stairs to the rooftop and i found mine in people who know that photos should be zoomed at angles and only in high waisted white underwear on firescapes if not rooftops

where people don’t nod even if you nod please nod please validate our bathtub party

on the fourth of american july and nod

come in and join us

red white and blue bubble bath drowns out balcony noise of

the spice girls on top of this patio looking like nineties does seventies wrong in the south

why aren’t you nodding

at whisky stained flags marking this territory as the girls

join our cult instead

where we fear the laundromat so all our scarves remain signals in the wind yelling

we are poor! we are poor millennials!

the sun she agrees with us wiping the shadows of laundry away her smoldering beams

the natural world is all on our side and yet

you glare on

why look down why look down at that goddamn paper clip you don’t even know if its silver or gold you can look at me clearly im golden were glowing like goddamn aphrodite in spurs

gold spurs spurring dirty old bathtub water we dump off the roof onto people who won’t nod

but even they nod at you look at you why aren’t you nodding

you step over the paper clip into reality into manhattan where bathtubs are indoors and life is all silver not gold

happy fourth of july this is america where no one no gods just millennials

nod transcendentalist yawps in the sky

it’s the young who know it’s still a paperclip

silver new york at most

why aren’t you nodding america

this is our country

bow down to your gods


The Adventures of Rusty and Runty

When two sailors of the open seas

Come forth to a ruler of fortune and keys

Whence spews forth a prince who wears gold

Who has weak bones and a fragile mold

Together they sail for the deepest caves

Darkest corners

And an interesting enclave


Together two fight

A creature of snarl and bite

Then as they draw their pistols

And fire bullets by the fistfuls

The creature grabs one in rage

With the deadliness of a bacteriophage (i was desperate)

But together they fight hard

Fending off the creature

By Playing the cannon card


When the ship is impaled by a needle

On the island of the lethal

They take the rest on foot

Soon to be shook

By a monster of fear and terror

When Saved by the bearers

Of skull masks and spears

And an evil agenda

Stored between their ears


When taken to the rooms

Of their kidnappers of doom

They must speak their way out

Rather than slash and shout

And here one shines and shows

Who once did nothing but crow

Of discomforts and complaints

With terrible temper

And little constraint


With overwhelming speed

And a deadly steed

They made their escape

things escalate

They steal a new boat

And cut someone’s throat

Sailing away to the seas

In order to find

the lands of grass and trees

Danger in Life and Death

D

SCENE ONE

EXT. LANERCOST BRIDGE – FUTURE- DAY

The camera focuses on a lady (Ivy), arms outstretched, holding onto a support beam. She’s high up in the air and on the outer edge of the bridge. She looks around 17 years old, and she’s crying. Looking down at the water that is at least 200 feet below her. The currents are strong. Car horns honk in alarm and warning behind her. All sound around her fades except for her heartbeat.

HADLEY (V.O.)

We can jump together Ivy. It’ll be so real. All the pain you’ve gone through, all of the suffering, it’ll disappear. It’ll subside. All you have to do is…

Ivy’s head snaps up from the water as a man in a black leather jacket and long hanging dark hair comes climbing towards her cautiously but fast. He’s yelling at her to stop, to not jump. Ivy looks back to the water, tears still streaming down her face.

HADLEY (V.O.)

You can do it, Ivy! We can do it. You just have to trust me.

Ivy slowly loosens her grip on the support beam.

HADLEY (V.O.)

Your family doesn’t love you. No one understands you like I do. We can be together in peace and harmony once you jump.

Ivy shakes her head

IVY

But, I’ll die.

HADLEY (V.O.)

But is death really punishment when life was hell on Earth?

Ivy finally looks up at the skyline stretched out on both ends of the bridge, closing in together on the horizon. The view is beautiful. She opens her arms and closes her eyes shut tight, releasing the beam, the man is still climbing towards her. She stands still for a moment, but then gravity gets the best of the situation. One last tear falls down Ivy’s cheek, and then she’s falling.

The wind whipping her face, the tears stinging her eyes. But Ivy… her face has no regret whatsoever. She’s ready for death. But then, suddenly, she’s suspended in air. She looks up at what has held her back, and the man is holding her up. He saved her. She looks up at him.

The Man

We can’t let you die. Not just yet, anyways.

SCENE TWO – One month earlier

Ivy pushes the door to her room open. Sleep is still lingering on her face. It’s late at night, but she must have woken up from one of those nightmares she keeps having. She shuffles down the long carpeted hallway and drags herself by a closed door, only stopping there for a second. Listening. There is a shuffling sound behind the door but Ivy walks on to go down the stairs.

On the other side of the door, a woman stands hunched over a desk. We can’t see her face, but she’s sad. You can tell from everything about her. From the way she holds herself to the way a tear drops onto the wooden desk. A picture frame shows the picture of a man, a women, and Ivy. It’s the family. She’s about to pick it up when the phone rings in the room. She walks over towards it and hesitates a second as she looks at the unknown caller id, but then picks it up. Cradling it next to her face.

“Hello? Who is this?”

Someone on the other end begins to speak

“Hi, I was a friend of David’s. I think you might need my help.”

“With what may I ask?”

A quizzical look crosses her face, and then understanding, and then disbelief. Before the man can speak, she cuts in.

“Wait, are you Walter?”

“Yes that’s me.”

“Oh, David talked about you quite a bit.”

“Yes, we were co-workers.”

She waits for a second before answering.

“Do you want to come over sometime, we can talk then.”

“Oh, so you know why I’m calling.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to have this conversation now. I can’t help but feel that this is not the right time or place.”

There’s a pause.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is it too soon? I understand if you’d like to mourn for a bit longer before we have this conversation.”

She looks startled. But then shakes her head.

“No, I just don’t think that our conversation is only being heard between us two right now.”

“I see. Then, in that case, I feel no need to continue if I’ll see you sometime soon.”

“Yes, what about noon on saturday. I should be free then?”

“Okay. Goodbye. I have to go now. See you then.”

“Bye now.”

She hangs up and fumbles to put the phone back on its stand before rushing toward the door. She swings it open suddenly and looks both ways down the hallway. As if she’s searching for someone. She relaxes for a split second before a sound of something clattering comes from downstairs. She rushes down the stairs and into the kitchen only to see Ivy picking up a spoon from the floor. She’s standing on the other side of the island. The woman puts on a smile, and Ivy returns it.

“Hello Ivy. Why are you up at this time?”

Ivy tilts the milk carton in her hand over a mug on the counter and lets the milk pour into the cup.

“Nightmare, again.”

“Oh, I told you how to get rid of those.” The woman nods with disapproval.

“Yes, I know.” Ivy stops pouring the milk and closes the cap on the carton.

“Once your done, you’ll go back to sleep? The milk should help.”

“Probably.” Ivy thinks for a second while she turns to put the milk in the fridge. “What were you doing in dad’s room, mom? I thought you never go in there.”

The mom’s face is tense. She frowns slightly. But then looks at Ivy and smiles.

“Oh, nothing, just a business call.”

“This late?” Ivy questions, grabbing her mug in both of her hands as if she were cradling a cup of hot cocoa on a cold winter day.

“Yes, this late.” The mother states matter of factly. “Now, I’m going to bed. Make sure you get some rest.”

“Okay.”

The mom slowly climbs up the stairs.

“Goodnight, Ivy.”

And she disappears upstairs, Ivy sips from her cup just as an alert dings on her phone face down beside her on the counter. She puts down the milk and grabs her phone. As she reads whatever it is that she got, she smiles. Then, without even letting her mother know, she grabs her coat and shoves on her shoes and creeps out the front door with her phone in hand. The cold mid-night wind whips against Ivy’s face so she tries to keep her head down. Across the street, houses identical to hers are shown in a nice row. She takes a left off of her front lawn and hurries down the street. Upon arriving to the next corner, she takes another left to reveal a busy avenue. People bustle about and car horns honk. But she isn’t out there long because about two or three doors in, she turns and enters a diner. It’s quiet inside, music playing through old speakers in the ceiling. Only a few people are inside talking amongst themselves. She walks up to the bar and sits beside a boy who’s slumped over his phone. A hat over his head. She taps his shoulder.

“Hey,” Ivy says, almost in a whisper.

The boy looks up. He’s maybe 15-16 and some sort of mustache is already forming on his upper lip. When he smiles, wrinkles form around his eyes.

“Hey, Ivy!” he says.

She takes off her coat and puts it next to her.

“So, what’s the emergency?” she says casually.

“Oh, nothing really. I just couldn’t sleep,” he stutters. Ivy looks at him quizzically.

“Me neither, but I know that’s not it. What’s up?” she pushes.

The boy sighs, but looks around before starting to talk. For the first time, he looks really scared.

“Something happened last night, Ivy. And I really just don’t know what to do.”

“What?” Ivy asks. Her eyes lighting up in curiosity.

“This man, he showed up at my doorstep. He rang the bell but no one answered because we were all asleep. My sister was out at a party and my parents were away.”

“So, it was just you?”

He nods.

“So what happened?”

“I swear, I don’t know this guy. I never gave him a key or anything. But he got in my house and woke me up.”

“What?” Ivy screams.

“Keep it down, Ivy,” the boy hisses.

Ivy ducks her head and continues in a yell/whisper.

“But that’s breaking and entering. Do you know how scary that is? You’re lucky you’re still alive. Do you want me to call my mom, file a police report?” she hisses right back.

“Yes, yes. I know. But I think you’ll want to know what he said to me right after that.” He takes a big breath. Inhale, exhale. “He said I had to bring him to Ivy Dun. He said he’d kill my family and anyone I care about just to get to you. He said I’d better cooperate, it’s your life or my family’s. And he looked like he meant it. That’s what scares me.”

Ivy frowns, in deep thought.

“Do you remember what he looks like, Logan?”

Logan shakes his head no. But then he says something more.

“He said his name was José. Does that spark anything? Any memory, anything?”

“No, why?” Ivy asks.

“Well, he said that you once knew a José. You never paid much attention to him, but you knew him. And now he intends on getting back into your life because it’s life or death.”

“No, I don’t know a José.”

“You sure?”

Yes! I’m sure.” Ivy is back to whisper/yelling again. But calms down after taking a deep breath. “So, what are you going to do?”

Logan gives her a sad and knowing look.

“Ivy.” He’s trying to reason with her. Make her see his way. “You know I love you, but it’s family over anything. I need them. I can’t put them in any danger.”

“And you think that this whole situation is doing exactly that don’t you?” Ivy says, finally understanding with a sad look on her face. And even a hint of betrayal.

“I have to tell him everything I know about you,” he says. “There’s nothing else I can do.” He sighs.

“There’s always another way.”

He shakes his head vigorously. “Not one that won’t put anyone in danger.”

Just as Ivy is about to respond, her mom bursts through the diner door. A mad look on her face. She’s furious.

Ivy! You better give me a good explanation for why in the world you are up here at this time of night!” Everyone turns their heads towards the mom.

The owner who was previously behind the counter working with a waiter turns towards the mom.

“Oh! Mayor Dun! What a lovely surprise. No one expected to see you here at this time of night! Would you like something, on the house of course.” The owner says with fake delight.

Mayor Dun looks at the owner but doesn’t even acknowledge that he said something. She storms over to her daughter. Ivy looks at Logan with a worried expression.

“I’m sorry mom, it was urgent,” Ivy pleads.

“Urgent enough for you to not even let your mom know? You know what could’ve happened to you out here alone at this time of night?”

Ivy looks down in embarrassment. Everyone in the entire diner is watching the scene play out. It’s not every day that the mayor comes in and starts yelling at her daughter. Ivy’s mom focuses her attention at Logan who suddenly seems to have shrunk in his seat.

“And you, young man, you should know better than to even ask my daughter to come out at this time of night,” she says

“How’d you know he even asked me? How’d you know it wasn’t my idea?” Ivy intervenes.

“Well, was it?” Ivy’s mom huffs.

Ivy shakes her head no, slowly. And then her mom starts tugging her towards the door to leave.

“And shave that dirt off your lip too if you want to be seen in public with my daughter!” the mayor announces at Logan over her shoulder.

Logan absently rubs his little mustache just as Ivy and her mom leave.

The mayor drags her daughter down the street by her arm.

“Damn it, Ivy! I don’t even want to know what you were doing there. I just want an apology!”

“Sorry.” Lauren lets go of Ivy’s arm slowly and waits a second in silence.

“But it would be nice if you at least had one good reason.” The mom huffs. Ivy pauses.

“Well, I don’t, Lauren… I don’t.” She sighs.

“Either way, I never want to see you doing that again.” They’ve turned the corner now and are approaching their house again.

“I don’t know if you’ll have to,” Ivy whispers.

Lauren glances at her daughter but says nothing, she just digs in her pocket and retrieves her keys. Then she opens the door with the keys and steps into the house. The light is still on, the shoes next to the door are strewn around obviously because Lauren left in a rush. Hair rollers are in a little pile on the dining room table and a robe is hanging over a chair.

“The things I do for you Ivy, the things I do… ” Lauren says to herself and then slowly walks up the stairs. Leaving a tired-looking Ivy standing in front of the door. Ivy turns around to close the door but sees a dark figure rushing behind her house to the left when she does.

“What?” Ivy says, startled.

She rushes out the door and turns on her lawn to get a better look around to the back of her house. She sees nothing but the small downwards hill of a backyard behind her house. Yet, she still squints her eyes and cranes her neck to stare into the darkness. After a long moment, she gives up and walks back into the house. Shutting the door behind her and locking it. After slipping off her shoes, she walks upstairs and goes into her bedroom. Not even caring that she never even changed out of her now dirty pajamas, she hops into the bed and pulls the covers all the way up to her chin. She stares at the ceiling for a while. It’s then that she hears someone ring on her doorbell downstairs. She makes to get out of bed until she hears her mother opening and closing her bedroom door in the next room. She hears the sounds of footsteps shuffling down the stairs and her mother opening the door. The conversation is heard in muffled tones from downstairs.

“Hello. And just who are you?” Lauren says.

A man’s voice is heard.

“Greetings, my name is José and I have a few questions for you.”

Ivy’s eyes widen in her bed.

Scene Out

Bad American Food

There was once a diner on the highway. It was small and dinky, but charming in that old time sense. It invoked a 50’s style aesthetic, with a shiny metallic roof and dim neon signs announcing to the world that it is, in fact, open. The food was bad, no doubt about it. But the people were nice, and the music wasn’t too intrusive, and anyway no one would stay here for very long. After all, it was on the highway. The owner, Johnny Smith, would always say he was gonna start up a new place, up on the 88. He never did though. Barely had enough to scrap this place together, he’d always reasoned.

There once was a Chinese restaurant, in a city far away from the highway. It was never successful, but it made enough to stay afloat. With a red awning covered with yellow Chinese characters, and English ones underneath, it did little to separate itself from anyone else in Chinatown. The food wasn’t particularly special here either, but no one could really tell. After all, did Americans really understand Chinese food? It was named Wang’s, but the owner was named Luo Jinping. He’d always say that a Chinese restaurant needed to be pronounceable by Americans to be successful. Some days, he would look across the street from his home above the restaurant and gaze out at the masses of people crowding the sidewalk, and he’d pray that at least one of them would find him.

There was once a pizza place, deep in suburbia. It was called “Empire Pizza,” and its gimmick was that it was vaguely modeled after the Empire State Building. Inside were all sorts of New York inspired props and scenery. The kids loved it. Day after day they poured in, ordering pizza, ice cream, pasta, meatballs, and Empire’s signature “Deluxe 5th Avenue Sundae Supreme.” The food itself was, of course, nothing to write home about. Parents only came here because how else would they get their kids to shut up about it? The owner, Jim Evans, liked to greet customers on weekends. Every time he saw a parent and their children walk in, he felt a little pang of regret in his heart.

There once was a wildly successful fast food chain, which sold overcooked burgers and obscenely salty French fries. They were called Sally’s Fries, and their mascot was a little blond girl holding a spatula. Sally was the founder’s daughter. Allegedly, she had made those very first fries all on her own, and her daddy made a business out of selling them. Of course, Sally never did make those fries, and she always resented her father for making her into a marketing tool. Though she objected countless times, her face eventually became a very lucrative one. Her father always regretted estranging her, but hey, at least he made some money off of it.

I was once very hungry, so I searched for restaurants on Google Maps. On the highway was a small diner, in the city was a Chinese place, in the suburbs was a pizzeria, and in two places near me was a fast food outlet.

But they all were below four stars, so I passed and opened Seamless instead.


The Infection (Excerpt)

Chapter Eleven

I jolt out of sleep and am met by a wave of relief. So it WAS just a dream! That kind of dream drains me emphatically. Wow, I’m thirsty. I get out of bed to get a drink of water. As I go out, I stub my big toe on the doorway. I yell several words that my mother would not approve of, and I stumble out the door. I faceplant on the floor.

I limp towards the bathroom, or at least, the direction I imagine the bathroom to be.

… And I run smack into a wall.

Yeah, of course I do.

Why? Because the bathroom door is no longer present. Just to piss me off, life gives me a dream-inside-a-dream. They’re the most tiring kind. The relief just fades so fast, especially with bad dreams.

I lumber back over to my bed, hoping it might go away. What better place for a dream to end than in a bed? You never know when you might have just been hallucinating and you’ll wake up in the warm morning.

I come into contact with another wall. Well, there goes that.

What’s eery is that this environment is exactly the same as my last dream. It’s like the dream is repeating itself in some horrible, tormenting way. And I just won’t wake up.

So, I begin to walk through the hall, longer than ever, simply because it’s the only way out. And the mesmerizing pattern, again and again and again. It’s even more frustrating because it’s not even the carpet I remember from our apartment. Then again, what about this torturous dream isn’t frustrating?

I just want to get it over with, but my brain won’t comply with that demand. No matter how far I walk, I don’t seem to get anywhere. My feet get sore, my eyes get heavy, and I feel like I’m about to collapse. Just as I’m about to actually do so, something changes. Nothing becomes visually different, but my feelings of boredom and drowsiness change to fear and panic.

I turn instinctively, feeling as if retreat might at least let me end this nightmare where my “home” was. But it’s pitch black behind me, and creeping tendrils of darkness extend from the shadows that chase me.

I run.

I try to calm myself, to no avail, by whispering to myself in my head. It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream. But I was definitely failing to convince myself, because all I could think of was being consumed by whatever (I thought) was chasing me.

In my frightened panic, I make a mistake. I turn around to look behind me, as if something was there. And something was there. The darkness had begun to form into something, malevolent and embraced in the darkness of the shadowy hall. This time, I got a glimpse of what it might have been.

Its eyes glow white with the empty void of death. I don’t know how, but the shining light that threatened to end my existence reeked of torture and the screams of its victims. Its shape is veiled, but I can feel the very aura of its destructive potential emanating from its wraithlike black form.

I try to escape as best I can, but like before, the hallway begins to come to an end. A door stands there, but I have no time to look at it, because I’m already through it. The room is empty, and the door is no match for the creeping entity. As it bursts through, the shadows are upon me.

The tentacles of dark matter begin to crush the life out of me. I start to cough up blood as I run out of air. I know it’s just a dream, but the pain is somehow real. I can feel every razor-sharp blade of shadow pierce my flesh, every gasp of air get choked out of my body. And as I’m finally on the brink of death…

It stops.

The creature had faded into nothingness, leaving only a wisp of black smoke and the fragrance of rotting flesh.

The door has disappeared behind me, but it doesn’t matter to me. I wouldn’t make it either way. I stumble over to a tiny, box-shaped window — identical to the one in the first version of this nightmarish hallucination. At the foot of it is a dead body. It’s a terrifying revelation to figure out that it was my body. But I’m far too exhausted to care, too desperate to end this horrid experience. I gaze through the window as I had done before, in the hopes that it would end.

I see myself, once more, staring in shock as the light leaves me.

And that’s the last thing I see before my vision fades to black.


Secrets That Lie Beyond the Front Door

Chapter One

“Looks can be deceiving.”

I wipe my eyes as I close the door behind me. Walking down this uneven dirt road brings back memories of when she used to skip down a sunny road with the cherubic face of a child wedged in her arms. As I keep walking towards the yellow school bus, I think about the time when I refused to go on the bus without my mother right by my side. As I walk on the bus, the whispering automatically stops. I hear kids making fun of my clothing. The hand-me-downs I wear still smell of her perfume, Chanel Coco Mademoiselle. So many years later and these are the kind of memories that still haunt me. I don’t dare say a word to the “popular kids,” so I won’t end up on the floor of the schoolyard. Not that it would be any different from the floor in my bedroom.

It all started ten years ago, on Friday the thirteenth, the afternoon my mother died. I was eight years old when I heard the gunshots that caused my mother to lay on her deathbed. My “dad” wouldn’t even speak to me for the next week. When I asked him where to put all of mom’s clothes, he threw the glass he was drinking from at the wall nearest to my head. Even to this day, if I say the name Dana, he flinches.

This morning, I was sitting on the white plush chair in my room asking my dad if I could wear mom’s dress for my eighteenth birthday. He slid the chair from under me which made me land on the somewhat fluffy rug. The next thing I knew, I had a black and blue mark on my forehead when I heard the school bus halt to a stop.

Eventually, lunchtime came, and I texted Syd and told her to come to the library (our daily meeting spot). I opened my pale purple JanSport backpack and took out my book. As I was opening to page 134, Syd walked in saying, “How surprising, Laila has her head stuck in a book.”

“Shhhhh. I am in the middle of someone getting saved from drowning.”

I took out my PB&J from my sparkly purple, black, and blue lunch bag. As she sat down, she pulled out a white and blue striped box saying happy birthday in pink letters.

“Thanks,” I said, as I pushed the gift box to the side to make more room for my book.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

“In a second. The girl just got saved by her prince charming (cliche), but she is still unconscious.”

“Still waiting.”

“Fine.”

As I was opening the gift, I saw black and rose gold pieces of clothing peek out of the box. First, I took out two rose gold rompers with the shoulders cut out. Then, I took out a black dress with a halter at the top.

”I wanted to ask you what happened to your forehead.”

“Oh, that. Um, I was hit with a softball… ”

“You don’t even play softball.”

“You know… um… the bus gets crazy sometimes.”

Okayyy. Anyways, I wanted to take you to a movie for your birthday.”

“Sure. What time?”

“Five sharp. I’ll meet you outside the AMC on 109th street. Okay?”

“See you then.”

The bell rings…

In break, on the phone.

“Hey, Dad. I’m going to study in the library after school.”

“You need to be home by eight and no later, or you’re going to regret it.”

“K. Bye.”

Hangs up the phone…

I’m not going to get caught. It’s fine. I’m totally fine.

After school…

“Hey. Do you want to eat something quick before the movie?”

“Sure. We have a lot of time on our hands.”

“What? Why?”

“I forgot to buy the second ticket. Then, the tickets sold out. So… now we are going at 7:30 instead of 6.”

“Okay. I don’t think that’s a problem.”

A few hours later…

“So what movie are we going to see”

“It’s called, Life Is Like Riding a Bike on Fire.

“What is it about?”

“It’s about this girl that has this crush, and he doesn’t treat her right, so she breaks up with him. Kind of a cliche, but I heard it’s good. Let’s go in. It’s going to start any minute.”

Entering the room…

“Oh my gosh. WHO IS THAT.”

“Who?”

“The guy next to my seat.”

“Oh. That’s Michael from our school. He’s in our grade. He’s just not in any of our classes. He’s one of my brother’s best friends. He’s like a brother to me.”

We sit down…

“Hey, I’m Laila.”

“I’m Michael. I’ve seen you around school.”

“So… did you come here with anyone.”

“No. My friends ditched me. Hey, Squid.”

“Haha. Very funny, Michelle.”

I almost forgot that Syd was next to me. It was like it was just me and him in this moment.

“Ahem. Look I know you guys are vibing, but I’m here too.”

I didn’t even hear Syd. I was just focused on his perfectly shaped, tan face. His deep blue eyes pierced into my skull. Is it bad that I was just staring at his lips. Oh my gosh. I totally forgot I was supposed to be at home right now. Have you ever felt like your heart was melting all because of someone’s gaze.

“I could kiss him right now.”

Oh my gosh. I said that out loud to his face. I just got to keep my cool. I can tell he likes confidence. All he did was smirk. He knew I said that by accident.

“I have to go now. Maybe I’ll see you later.”

I was liking this new confidence of mine. Maybe a new wardrobe would suit this new attitude. After all, I did have enough money from the job I worked at in the mall.

“Come on, Syd. Let’s go.”

I gave Michael a shy smile to go.

“Hey. I need to tell you something,” said Syd.

“Yeah?”

“Please stop crushing on Michael. He’ll just break your heart, and he’s like a brother to me, so it’s really weird. K?

“I’ll try.”

“Is that a promise.”

“Promise.”


The Case of the Missing Gem

This piece is inspired by the Sherlock Holmes series by Sir Conan Arthur Doyle

Chapter One

One day, Sherlock Jr. (Lock) got a text from Watson Jr. (Watts) telling him to come 31st Avenue. Lock rushed out and called a cab. When the cab arrived, Lock told the driver his address, and the cab sped off. When he arrived, Watts told him that the British Museum in London was robbed from the biggest diamond in the world.

The security guards recognized the detectives and waved them over. They walked over and asked the guards, “When did this happen?”

The security told them that it happened this morning. Lock asked the guards if he could go to the room where the diamond was held to do some investigating. When they got to the room, the glass cap that was previously covering the diamond was on the floor, and the diamond was gone. The room was cold but bright, and there were some windows. Watts and Lock looked around the room for fingerprints and clues. There was no one else in the room except for some guards. They found there was a green hat in the corner of the room with the letter M on it. Lock instantly knew that this hat belonged to Moriarty, Sherlock’s (Lock’s dad’s) enemy and also London’s most wanted criminal. He must have left it behind when he was escaping. They came out of the room and told the guards what Lock had found. Then, they walked out to continue their search.

They wanted to track down Moriarty to find the diamond and figure out what he was planning to do with it.

Chapter Two

Lock and Watts walked around the big museum building, looking for ways Moriarty could have escaped without being noticed. They looked around for two hours, but they found nothing. Every corner of the building was clueless.

“He must be one of the world’s greatest criminals to get away like that,” said Lock. “No wonder Dad had so much trouble catching him.”

“Moriarty could have jumped out of a window and ziplined across to some other building.”

After their discussion, Lock and Watts went to a nice cafe where they could get some coffee and discuss the case.

Chapter Three

After their coffee, the detectives went home to get some sleep. The next day, Lock and Watts went out to the nearby buildings to see if Moriarty had ziplined in and out of the museum building. The first building they checked had no signs of Moriarty, but the second house had a broken window which the criminal must have done. The detectives asked the house owners about the broken window, and they said it was not there two days ago, which is when the robbery had happened. Lock looked around and found a piece of some wire under the windowsill with the name 23rd Street Wire Company. Finding this, Lock showed it to Watts. The detectives said thank you to the house owners and walked out.

Chapter Four

The detectives headed towards 23rd Street on their motorcycles to investigate the building. From their past cases, the criminals always used the building of a company of something they’re using or wearing. When they got to the big brown building, it was as dark as night. They looked through the windows. They saw part of a big room where they expected the wire was made, and there was no one there. They entered the building. It was cold and dark. They walked through the hallway and looked through into every room. They got to the stairwell and walked up to the second floor and saw a light.

Chapter Five

The detectives walked towards the bright light. They snuck up to the corner to get a glimpse of who or what was there. At a large, brown, wooden desk sat a fat man with the same hat they found at the museum.

“This guy must be Moriarty. Quick, let’s get out of here before he notices,” Lock whispered to Watts.

“Yeah, we’ll notify the police too,” Watts answered. Suddenly, the man on the desk got up and walked towards them. The detectives ran towards the stairs.

Chapter Six

Dashing down the stairs onto the ground floor, Moriarty was gaining up on them. Luckily, the detectives got onto their motorcycles, and they got away. They rode towards the police station.

When they got to the police station, the detectives told the police to hurry up and follow them before Moriarty could get away. They sped off with five police cars following. Lock told them to circle the building and hide until Moriarty would come out. The detectives waited outside with the police. They waited for one long, cold winter hour.

Chapter Seven

Everyone was starting to fall asleep standing against their cars and motorcycles, when suddenly they heard a scuffling noise. The detectives rose to their feet where they could see the same fat man was walking out with that green M hat. The detectives gestured to the police to wait until he was closer, so they could capture him without him running away. They waited a minute or two. Moriarty started walking their direction. Watts whispered to Lock that the diamond he stole might be in his green backpack.

When the criminal got closer, the police officer said through his blow horn, “Police. Stand still. Don’t move.”

The criminal tried running the other direction when two more police cars came in and circled him. Finally, Moriarty dropped his bag and put his hands up. The officer walked up to him and put handcuffs on his hands. In several minutes, they were cruising down the street towards the police station.

Lock said cheerfully, “Another case well solved.”

The next morning, Moriarty was sent to court.

“Why did you steal the diamond?” asked the judge.

“I wanted to become a better person and sell it to some rich guy and give the money to charity,” answered Moriarty. “But if you want, you could put me in jail. I was just trying to make the world a better place.”

“Okay, I believe you, but you will still go to jail for a year, and if we catch you doing something wrong, you will go to jail for the rest of your life.”

The end

After one year in jail, Moriarty became a really nice and good person and donated a lot of money to charity.

The detectives continued solving mysteries.

The actual end.


The Diary of Evil Chicken Dude

Today, the craziest thing happened. It seemed like an ordinary day, but it wasn’t. I went to the kitchen like I do every day and waited for my mom to make me a hard boiled egg. But when she grabbed the egg, she dropped into a big pot of moldy stew. But I ate the egg anyways.

Soon, I noticed I was pooping out eggs and suddenly craved corn seeds. Then out of nowhere, I grew a beak and feathers. I turned into a human-sized chicken, then I started to do evil mean tricks and pranks. I then came to the conclusion that all my mean tricks and pranks started because of the mean old mold. I went to see the M.O.L.D. doctor for villains, and he told me my theory was true, and the M.O.L.D. doctor also said he’d ask his friends if I could join M.O.L.D..

I started my new life living alone being an evil chicken. Finally, the evil villains of M.O.L.D., which stands for mean, old, lazy dudes, called me, and now I am robbing banks and living a life of crime. I am no longer accepted at my parents’ farm since I robbed my parents of all their chickens, to make mold egg stew. I live at the M.O.L.D. headquarters and bunk with a giant lemon named Pablo.


Black Roses

We planned our funerals together. You told me you wanted black roses.

“Black roses, where can I find those?” I asked.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” you smiled.

I think about that conversation a lot. I think about black roses a lot. In fact, I think about black roses so much that last summer, I tried to make one. I painted a white rose black with acrylic paint I found in my garage. It didn’t work. I threw it away. The black paint smeared on the garbage bag, leaving ugly dark streaks. Last summer was the last time I saw you. Last summer you winked at me and told me to let you know if I ever found a black rose. That was the last thing you told me before you boarded the airplane. The airplane that would take you to Guam. Guam. The island. To be honest, I’m not even sure where that is. I’m not sure why you leaving bothers me. I’m not sure why I’m still looking for black roses.

A Mother Knows Best

“What about George National High School?” asked my mom. I immediately felt my chest tighten. You had to take an admissions test and have a perfect GPA to get into George National High School. And I didn’t have the best GPA. It had its flaws, but I knew very well that I couldn’t disagree with my mother, so I had to put George National High School as one of my options. “Love, why don’t you say what you think about it? I’m just suggesting a school.”

“I don’t want to go to that school, but I don’t know why I would say that because you never take into consideration anything that I say,” I answered.

Mother ignored me and kept flipping through the big, fat book that named all the high schools that my social studies teacher gave me at the beginning of the eighth grade year. I left Mom alone in the living room and headed to my bedroom. I grabbed my laptop from my nightstand and opened it to the application page. The application started in two days, so I still had time to pick the last two schools that I needed for the list, without Mother’s “suggestions” or “recommendations.” Mother had other visions for my future: she wanted me to go to a boarding school or a private school, then have a career that was in the science or medical field. I, on the other hand, had plans to go to a good high school that was in the city and then… just let fate make my choice. Of course, I couldn’t tell this to my mother. She would argue with me and say she knew what was best for my future. But that fact was counterfeit. How could she know what was best when I didn’t even know what I wanted to do with my future?

“Dalilia?” asked Mother. I immediately closed my laptop and opened up the nearest book. “Where are you?”

“Ma, I’m in my room,” I yelled back. A few minutes later, my mother entered my room with a cup of milk and tea in her hand.

“Would you look at that… you’re back to reading,” said Mother.

“What do you mean? I always read.”

“Yeah, but you are doing it because you want to, not because I told you to… ”

“Alright… ”Another lie, but I didn’t want to argue with her. Mother had seen me read in the cafe right next to my school many times before. I kept reading while my mom placed the milk and tea on my nightstand, on top of my history notebook. Right on top of it. I felt like she forgot that tea is liquid, and the notebook had my notes for my history final.

“So, what are you reading?” she asked, tentatively.

Call Me By Your Name by — ”

“Andre Aciman,” she finished.

“Yup, that’s the one… ”

“Dalilia, you are always reading that book! Try being more diverse… ”

“I really like the book — ” I stopped myself before my mother could give me the death stare. “I will, Ma. Do you have any recommendations?”

“Try Milk and Honey,” she responded, then left my bedroom. That conversation was so unnecessary, but now I had a book recommendation. I went back to the application website and saw that some high schools allowed you to apply early. I looked at the screen and contemplated the choice I was about to make. I had always been a good child and taken my mother’s recommendations, but now something was making me rebel against my mother. I trembled as I clicked the blue apply button next to my top four choices and then watched the computer load and accept my selections. I immediately felt a wave of catharsis and sent a text informing my counselor.

Dalilia, you know your first choice was Dule Jet High School, right? she texted back.

I told her yes and the reason why I picked the school (for the puppy shelter after school program). She then sent me a picture of the school’s graduation percentage rate and the safety rate. Only 34 percent of the students had graduated in four years, and only six percent of the students felt safe in the school. This meant that the high school’s seats were not filled, and I suddenly experienced a rush of stress as I realized that it was official: I would definitely be going to this school. I threw my head face-down onto the pillow and screamed into it: College was never going to happen now. My counselor called me right in the middle of my breakdown.

“Dalilia, you might not get into the high school, maybe… ” she said. It was clear that she was trying to find a scenario in which I wouldn’t be accepted into the school, and it was also clear that she couldn’t find one. A huge sob came out of my mouth. “W-Wait, um. You could always apply to a boarding school or a private school. I believe you are smart enough to get into one… ”

I stopped crying for a good second. If I did apply for a boarding or private school, then I would have to tell my mom that I needed to take a test to be accepted. A test that I hadn’t studied for because I didn’t have time, and I’d wanted to rebel and — and — and… I broke down again.

“Ms. Sar, I’m going to have to tell my mom,” I said, between sobs. Ms. Sar stayed quiet as she listened to me weep.

“Our mothers tell us what to do for a reason, Dalilia. It’s because at the end of the day, they want us to become someone who is respected and valued. Even if your mom annoys you and punishes you, she does this so that you won’t make mistakes that affect you in the future. A mother knows best, so right now you should go talk to her about this. It’s not good to be keeping lies from her.”

I thanked Ms. Sar and hung up. I headed to the bathroom, washed my face, and dried it. Knowing my mother, she would punish me or maybe even scream at me, but you couldn’t always assume the worst. I headed downstairs and found my mother sitting on the kitchen island on her laptop. She had her glasses on and her favorite coffee mug that I gave her for her work promotion gift. I sat next to my mother and took a deep sigh.

“Ma — ”

“I know, you don’t need to tell me.”

“Wait, what? You know about the high school — ”

“Yup, I keep tabs on your computer and your phone and your Netflix account.” Yeah, talk about privacy. “And I’m proud of you for being honest and coming to me to tell me about your naive choice.” Mother’s eyes were still on the laptop screen, and surprisingly she was being very nonchalant about this whole situation. I stayed quiet while she kept typing on her laptop.

“I plan on applying to a boarding school,” I quietly added. Mother had no reactions and kept typing on her laptop. A few seconds later, she stopped and took a sip of her coffee, then looked at her laptop again.

“Dalilia, I feel like you’re mature enough to make your own choices about your next steps, but right now I’m thinking about sending you to the church school that your uncle has recommended since you were in fourth grade,” Mother responded. I opened my mouth, but she kept on talking. “Don’t answer me right now. Why don’t you go and think about it — go outside and get some fresh air or something.” I really needed it, so I didn’t bother to argue with her.

As soon as I stepped outside, the smell of my neighbor’s Smeraldo flowers hit me. I hadn’t been outside for so long that I’d forgotten about the Smeraldo flower and the placid winds that made the chimes on my window move and tinkle. I remembered my neighbor telling me that the meaning of this flower was, “the truth untold.” Fun facts, huh. My mother coughed and interrupted my contemplative moment. I came rushing back to reality and thought of my mom, the woman who I respected most. I admired her yet abhorred her for making me abhor myself. I admired the fact that someone could be powerful enough to make someone else hate themselves: a power of hers that I both hated and revered.

I texted my Aunt Pam who was like another mother to me, but I never told this to my mom because I knew she would get jealous. Aunt Pam was in her 20’s and had her hair cut short last November because she strongly believed at the time that women who cut their hair wanted to change their life. She was still stuck in the 90s, since she wore mom jeans and a wide shirt with a finishing touch of a dark red matte lipstick. Personally, I loved this aesthetic look unlike my mother who thought that Aunt Pam needed to “wake up.”

Aunt Pam texted back, inviting me over since she heard about my choice. In the family, when you did something wrong, all your family members know about it, no matter where they were. I could call a family member who lived overseas, and they would know about my choice too. I headed over to Aunt’s Pam house, a couple blocks away. As soon as I entered her house, the smell of cinnamon rolls hit me, which brought memories of when I stayed over at hers when Mother was away.

“Oof — ” I said as I body tossed myself onto the couch. “I hope I don’t get food poisoning, don’t need any more problems.” Aunt Pam came out of nowhere, sat next to me, and kissed my forehead.

“Ha, you know you want them, but I don’t plan on giving them to you until you tell me what’s up,” she responded. I let out a stressed sigh as my response.

“I know that Ma is surely applying for the nearby boarding school, even though she said that I should go to that obtuse school all the way in Boston with a Nun. So, I guess that at the end of the day, she does design my future… ” The house was quiet, making it feel like even Aunt Pam was experiencing the same epiphany I was going through.

“That how it goes, boo. Your mother kept you in her stomach for nine months and had to grow through vomiting, urination, and other worse things — just to bring you into this world. She knows you the best, even though you claim to not know yourself… ” Aunt Pam stood up and headed back into the kitchen.

“So, Boston it is,” I responded. Aunt Pam nodded. That is how I made my decision. I didn’t have to think about it —

***

“Wait — so you made a choice to come here in a matter of seconds?

Dalilia nods and pats her roommate’s head. The roommate is a freshman and comes into the room, complaining that she could have thought twice before picking a horrible high school that her mother didn’t allow. It was sort of similar to Dalilia’s story, so she sat down at 5 am on a school night and told her freshman roommate the story as a way to console her. Plus, Dalilia also thought it was a great icebreaker.

“Well, I’m going to sleep,” said Dalilia. The freshman pouts and has a tiny tantrum. After the tantrum is over, the room stays silent. So silent that you can hear the birds talking to each other and the leaves fighting each other and if the sun could make a sound, you would hear it too. The freshman looks at her hands and lets out a tinkling giggle. “Hm?”

“By the way, how do you remember the story so vividly?”

Dalilia laughs and thinks for a moment. “Some things are just so important that it’s impossible to forget them.”

People say that they created mothers because God couldn’t be everywhere, but Dalilia didn’t believe this. However, that doesn’t mean that she forgot about it. Dalilia had finally decided to come to her senses when she graduated high school with honors in all classes and got into one of the best colleges in the country, thanks to her mother’s screaming when Dalilia wanted to give up, the tight hugs when girls were being rude, and the inspirational texts in the middle of the day. Since then, Dalilia figured out that she would always need her mother — no matter what age she was, no matter how mad she was at her.

The End


Disney Breaking Out (Part One)

          

Prologue: Before the Time

Holly ordered her sweet peppermint hot chocolate after waiting in the line for way too long. She settled down in her usual spot for the last ten years. The peaceful corner table with quiet music was what she loved about her special time in the cafe. If it were up to Holly, she would spend every moment at her magical reflecting table. Every memory, every moment of happiness, fear, and anger, led up to this one spot.
She began with how it started. In the beginning — she remembered.

 

Chapter One: The Journey to the True Kingdom

Holly and her parents had been preparing for their home-away-from-home journey for five weeks and counting. Holly packed her red with black polka dot duffle bag to the fullest. She arranged her bow shaped purse perfectly with her dearest belongings. She placed her sixteen stuffed animals against the leather backseat. She fluffed her pink and black skirt, perfected her bow, and hopped in the car next to her many stuffed siblings. Mrs. and Mr. Casco smiled at their daughter as she opened her fairy tale book at the start of driving.

“Ya ready?” Her mom, Daisy, smiled warmly. She too was dressed up, along with Mr. Casco. Christopher, Holly’s hardworking dad, put his honeycomb-shaped key into the car. And without another word, the bright red car with a Mickey and Minnie shape engraved in the windshield drove slowly out of the parking spot. I am sure you can tell the Cascos were huge Disney fans.

Holly didn’t mind the long trip to Disneyland. She, in fact, enjoyed it. She couldn’t wait to get there, though. She daydreamed about the rides and characters and hot cocoa. She loved the Matterhorn, the big, hairy monster with yellow, glowing eyes She remembered the story her dad told her when she was young and scared of him. The monster was Harold, and all of his growling was about the fact that he had no chocolate chip cookies. The story made Holly smile.

Next, she imagined the Nemo ride with the colorful coral and fish moving underwater. She remembered the story her mom had told her about being a “mermaid” and sitting on the rocks under the monorail. Back then, when she was a little girl, the managers of Disneyland had real women dress up as mermaids. Holly wished she could have been a mermaid. Holly, through her Minnie Mouse dress and twinkling brown-golden eyes, almost envied her mom for her childhood in Los Angeles.

Mrs. Casco barely talked about living by Disneyland. Disneyland had always been magical to Holly. How? She never knew how the magic worked. The sensation of lighting the Christmas tree at night and Mickey’s Halloween party made her breathless. Every single Halloween, Holly dressed up as Minnie. In fact, she had just stopped dressing up last year as the original Disney characters because a candy giver called her “sweetie.” Holly smiled at the funny explanation of her true age. She just loved Disney! There wasn’t another thought about it.

If it were up to her, Holly would stay six months at Disneyland. The Cascos were staying only sixteen days. Another reason why Holly brought sixteen of her many Minnies and Mickeys. She would bring one stuffed friend each day. She held her Hawaiian Minnie, Golf Mickey, Fishing Mickey, Christmas Minnie, Valentine’s Day Minnie, Easter Minnie, and Christmas Mickey closer, looking back at her other eight stuffed siblings. She made a list of whom she would bring in on what day in her Minnie notebook.

The car flew by the never-ending plains and farmland. Her dad stopped at a little fruit shed and got a carton of strawberries and other sustenance for the drive. Her brother grabbed several strawberries as if to say to Holly, “And this is for taking up the entire back seat with your stuffed animals!”

Tryvis was Holly’s older brother. He was squished up against the door of the car, and whenever the car turned and the animals slid, he would flick them away. Tryvis, unlike the rest of the family, was not a Disney fan. He smirked at Holly and shoved the juicy berries into his saliva-filled mouth. Holly tried to ignore him.

Tryvis wasn’t looking forward to the “short” trip. Sixteen days! Barely enough time to get everything done!

Why did the Cascos stay so long? Holly’s parents did a really good job at covering it up. Well, Mrs. Casco’s maiden name was Disney. Raymond Arnold Disney was her father.

Holly stretched her legs as she slipped out of the car, four hundred miles away from home. Tryvis whined impatiently as Holly grabbed her stuffed animals. He shut the door behind them. The bright moon shone, and Holly could swear she saw three Mickey Mouse-shaped craters. The Disneyland adventure had begun.

The three Disney fans and one annoyed brother opened the door to the private hotel. Holly jumped onto her bed and arranged her belongings in her room. The room had three Disney-themed bedrooms and one and a half bathrooms. The balcony held exquisite views overlooking the Matterhorn and a couple other rides from three floors up. Holly watched the moon and stars shine down and illuminate the pleasant sight of several people here and there in nighttime Disneyland. The sight was amazing, and while Holly had seen it before, it never ceased to amaze her.

Holly took out her ballerina Minnie and held her out in the wind as if she were dancing. “Not to interrupt — whatever that is… ” Tryvis snarled at her, disguised with the ballerina dancing. “But it is time for a late dinner.” He stalked away.

Neither Holly nor her parents had any idea how Tryvis went wrong. He had been a very happy baby, almost too happy. And then one day, it was as if all his joy had been sucked out of him. That day was when four-year-old Holly started talking about her adventures. Everyone seemed to love the happy girl, and when she told Tryvis her stories, he snarled as she turned away.

Daisy and Christopher, Holly’s parents, set up the pizza and sweet lemonade onto the wooden table. Holly savored the fresh pineapple and olives on the pizza. She couldn’t wait to get on the rides at Disneyland the next morning. You see, it was Holly’s job to test all of the rides early, early in the morning, or deep into the night. Don’t tell me you have never heard of her!

Every time Disney cancels fireworks, it is not because of high winds. It is because Holly needs more ride testing time. Every other week, when the park closes down two hours early, that is all the work of Holly. Every time Holly visits the park, the rides become a little bit safer.

***

Holly dreamed of pixies, disappearing cats, a bear with a thirst for honey, and an unusual transformation into a frog. Holly’s imagination was magic. Her kindness was her very own magic. And her favorite thing in the world was magic Disneyland.

Whether it was the magical fireworks of Disneyland or it was the sweet Tigger Tails with soft caramel wrapped around chocolate and marshmallow, everyone who left Disneyland came back for more of their favorite things. Everyone wanted to experience the magic of the characters or the creative roller coasters. Everyone wanted to meet a graceful fairy or travel underwater into the colorful world of an orange and white fish and his friends. That morning, when Holly awoke, she spied her brother snoring noisily, a bit of drool slipping down his right cheek. She quickly wrote a note in her neat handwriting to her parents, explaining why she was leaving so early:

 

My dearest parents,

I am extremely sorry that I am leaving so early. But as you know, duty calls! I am getting a head start on testing all the rides, and if I have time, some restaurants. I do hope you don’t mind, but fifteen days and six and a half hours will go by quickly. And the time is still ticking! I will be back for dinner and find a nice place to eat lunch. I’ll get you a Minnie, Mickey, and Pluto keychain!

Your sweet, loving daughter

P.S. Tell Tryvis that his favorite characters will make their appearance in a couple hours, so tell him to not miss them!

 

She wrote the last part hastily, hoping that Tryvis would for once enjoy his Disneyland trip. He would sleep forever and just lie in bed, thinking about crazy, disastrous stuff. For Holly, it was the opposite. She wished she could simply live in the Matterhorn in the spiraling “icy” tunnels with Herold. She and Herold could be besties because they both loved chocolate chip cookies! In fact, Herold’s craving for chocolate chip cookies could melt the plastic coating right off of his skin and bring him to the nearest cookie stand.

Holly pressed the note up against her mom and dad’s door. She hoped they wouldn’t worry. She skipped cheerfully down the hall leading to the door of the fancy condo, careful not to awake any other special guests. While walking to the secret entrance into Disneyland, she tripped on a tiny, sticky blue rock. The blue rock was a bit uneven and almost had a furry texture. From the beginning of Holly’s trip, she had felt a feeling of distress and mistakenness. She placed the tiny but sharp rock back on the ground and kicked it playfully down the pathway, unaware of her interference. The bushes shook silently as several pairs of eyes appeared on both sides. Holly continued down the path, but as happy, harmless, and innocent she had been, that record was broken. Holly had changed the natural order of effects without meaning to.

Holly loved, loved Disney. She lived for Disney. She was a Disney. So how come she had done something that the most wanted villain would have done? She had been the worst villain in all time without meaning to be.

***

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. How are you?” She looked around. Tryvis was in bed, Mom was packing her purse for dinner, and Holly’s dad was checking his watch impatiently by the door. Then, Holly looked at Tryvis. “How were the characters? Which ones did you see? What did they do? Did you tell them that you were descended from the great Raymond Disney? Of course they probably already know because all Disney characters can tell!” She held her fist up high and looked proud to have been descended from a Disney.

“Oh… it was great. They could totally tell that I was a Disney. They wouldn’t keep their hands off of me. I was so busy that I saw all of them.” Holly looked pleased. Then, Tryvis continued, “I was probably way busier than you! The characters even held a parade just for me because I am a Disney.” Holly looked as if she had just seen a unicorn.

“Wow, I wish I could have been there.” Holly’s parents looked confused.

“You dumbo! I was in bed all day thinking about how trusting you are! You’d believe anything and everything. One day, it’s going to get you in trouble no one will be able to get you out of — not even Mickey Mouse!” He smirked.

“So, you didn’t even see any characters. I wrote part of the note just for you… ” Holly squeaked like a tiny mouse at her rude brother. Tryvis ignored her and rolled over in bed. He reached for his bouncy shaped baseball that lit up and turned it thrice in hand, as if debating if he should throw it at someone.

Holly dressed in her nicest clothes. She smiled cheekily at Tryvis, making him scowl harder. His mouth started to get tired of the tight face, so he fell backward into the soft, luxurious pillows, exhausted from doing nothing all day. Holly tried to cram as much in as possible during the Disneyland trip, while Tryvis was just trying to get through the rough days of happiness and magic. Truly, the Casco younger sister and older brother, Holly and Tryvis, were almost exact opposites. Their only similarity was how they both looked out for each other, even if they would never admit it. Tryvis always wanted his sister safe, even if he treated her badly. Because in the very end, they were family.

As Holly and Mr. and Mrs. Casco headed out the door, Holly wondered why her brother wasn’t coming. She felt bad for his somber mood, but it wasn’t her fault. Or was it? On the walk over, Holly skipped and looked overhead at the monorail track and spied several fireworks going off as cheers rose around them. She continued walking over to Blue Bayou while the crowds were gone. The three family members had a good time looking at the Pirates of the Caribbean boats, talking, and eating a scrumptious dinner.

Meanwhile, Tryvis got into some trouble of his own. He had been looking out the porch balcony, one floor up. He was spying on his family as they walked down the boulevard, hand in hand, and wished either he was happy with them or a storm picked them up and brought them to the Arctic where they would freeze to death. He was angry with himself and in despair, for he couldn’t start being all sunshine and rainbows all of a sudden like Holly! Suddenly, a bright, shining light illuminated the dull room. He turned around and tripped on his skateboard, blinded by the light. On the floor, he sat up and pressed his hand against throbbing head. He shook his head in anger and embarrassment. He crept slowly on hands and knees up to his bed and peeked up. He immediately fell backward into his back. Hesitantly, he crawled around to the right of the bed and grabbed the illuminated, rounded, mysterious object. It felt familiar. He could already realize that someone was trying to interact with him through one of his objects. But who was the question, and why this object? Things were getting heavy and mysterious, and with Tryvis’ somber record, who could he ask or cry to for help? Tryvis crouched down, object in hand, and reached open-fingered toward the light source.

***

Holly checked her Minnie Mouse watch. “Oh my! It is time to go check some more rides! Doodle-dooh!” She skipped off in ambush of fun. On the way there, she got an ice cream sandwich. She opened the wrapper, expecting a regular Mickey shaped cookie, but instead a Mickey with fangs holding a tiny staff appeared before her. She looked confused. “It isn’t Halloween!” she murmured under her breath. After eating a bit of her tart ice cream sandwich, she didn’t think much of the funny shaped Mickey. This was only the start of them taking the glory from Him. I’ll give you a hint. Him is the big boss. The one that everyone knows about — the one that’s all powerful — Him.

 

Chapter Two: True Disaster Eats Mice Cheese

Hints gathered up and layered upon layer upon layer. Holly took several hours just to try to piece together what was happening to the magic. Babies started crying at Mickey’s touch. Even the snickerdoodle and chocolate cookies were losing their magic. As a result, Holly got up earlier and earlier with each day to come. And on the eighth day, Holly was up by four and going to bed at nine. Every day, she would pace around the area where she found the sticky, blue little rock. “It has to be a sign, or a warning, or even a secret passage!” Holly would whisper to herself.

Not all of this mystery was new or bad to Holly. She enjoyed suspense and trying to figure out what was happening in the magical kingdom. Day after day, guests stopped piling in, and rumor had it the movie makers of Mickey’s Darkta Holiday Cruise, the new movie, had gone dark. Everyone, even Holly’s mom and dad, seemed not to notice how dark Disneyland had become. Holly didn’t have really any real answers until the eighth day of Holly’s trip.

While she was pacing, something extraordinary happened. She slipped on another one of those sticky rocks. She fell on her knees, head facing the floor. She bent down to pick it up, and as she tilted her head upwards, a fur ball made a sneeze. As she opened her eyes… big, black, adorable eyes stared back at her. She fell backwards, again and opened just one eye. Can it be? She hesitantly rubbed the blue alien. Stitch had come for help.

***

Tryvis continued to hold the bright ball in his left hand.

“Oh, Tryvis! What a handsome boy.” A mysterious, evil voice filed through the room. A voice that just screamed disaster and evil. This voice tried to butter Tryvis up, making her seem to tell her wicked truth. “I can see why your sister is all happy and jolly. She is very sick. She has too much happiness and goodness. The illness makes her a stealer. She stole your happiness! You can’t let her do that!”

Tryvis looked horror-struck. He always wanted the best for his sister, except now, because of the sickness. She was stealing his happiness. At first, he looked scared and worried for his little sister, and then greed and hatred filled his face. He wanted his happiness back! “What do I do?” Tryvis looked determinedly at the little ball.

“Oh! I just knew I could count on you to save us! What a brave, brave, boy! Your sister hasn’t only been stealing your happiness, she has been stealing ours too!” A softer voice made a sad whimper, but then she went on. “Please help us!” A sound of bubbles trickled out of the ball as a purple hand reached out of the ball, signaling an arrangement.

“Do we have a deal?” crackled a purple monster. Tryvis shook the slippery hand without hesitation.

Nearly a mile away, Ursula pressed the “off” button next to her crystal ball as she crackled and sneered and snickered evilly. She had a deal, a deal to make evil back in the movie business. A deal to completely destroy the minion — Tryvis.

Ursula grabbed her shellphone and headed into the poor connection boot. “Guess what, we’re in business.” An evil crow made an obnoxious sound in the background.

“Now, now, Diaval. This time, we’ll praise Chernabog in triumph. We are going to use the boy. He is foolish enough to trust that ocean lizard!” She giggled violently up into the heavens. She wrapped her crippled fingers around the heavy trison bar, waiting for the lightning bolt symbol. She stroked Diaval evilly, holding her staff. Her horns struck up jaggedly, making a fearsome shadow.

The dark witch with dark magic and with a dark plan strode around to the prison bench, waiting. The ugly witch stared at the clock, knowing that the Cascos had been at Disneyland for two days. She revealed her palm, trying to get a burst of evil magic. “Oh, well.” The unique design of her very own prison restrained the witch’s magic. All that she could conjure was a little dusty wind of yellow-green.

“Oh guard! I see a rat! Get it away from me!”

“Well, he might just bite out all of the evil from you. And again, there is too much evil for just one rat to devour.” The Evil One rolled her eyes. “I’m coming… ” He tilted his head almost through the bars, spying for the little rascal. Meanwhile, Diaval scuttled along the ground. The guard clearly wasn’t smart. The dim light didn’t help, along with the black bars. While he was leaning down, the gloomy witch snatched the keys from the guard’s waist. He was so busy looking for the rat that he didn’t even notice her grabbing his keys.

“Oh my! I think it flew up to the ceiling!”

“That’s impossible!” Maleficent quickly unlatched the prison door. She stepped out into the deserted hallway and placed a spell under the guard.

“Nothing happened,” the mysterious witch cited.

“Nothing happened… ” the guard repeated.

“Maleficent is still in prison.”

“Maleficent is still in prison.”

“Good, good — good.” Maleficent smiled evilly.

“Good, good — good.”

“No! Don’t repeat any more!”

“No — don’t — ”

“Ugh. Useless.” The Evil One relatched the door, keys in hand.

The useless guard awoke and said, “I just had the strangest dream!” He shook his head and stood his post again.

Diaval crowded approvingly. Maleficent stroked him and muttered, “Brainless.”

***

Holly peered expectantly at Stitch, waiting for his quiet response. Holly wiped her brow after seven hours of sleep last night. Her time to sleep went lower and lower, for she was eight days into the trip. Stitch eagerly took Holly’s hand and pulled her close to the first rock. He tried to touch the original rock that Holly had first kicked. An invisible force blocked Snitch’s hand.

Stitch motioned towards Holly’s hand. She picked up the rock carefully. “Wh-what? I don’t understand!” Holly stared at Stitch in the eye, placed his paw in both of her hands, and spoke convincingly. “I am going to figure this out. Whatever evil, whatever is happening here — I will figure it out.” Snitch looked sympathetically at Holly and pulled her over towards a bush. She tried to back away, afraid of what terrors or mishaps she might find. Curiosity always got the best of her.

She pushed back a couple of leaves and found an unrecognizable bear. His red shirt was ripped on the side. His fur and short tail was ruffled. He clutched his broken honey pots — and yet he greeted Holly with some sort of a smile. “Oh, Pooh bear… what happened?”

“Christopher Robin wasn’t able to save me this time,” he said in his poor, soft voice he always had. “She knows that it is out of place. She knows her time has come. You must put it right! And if you don’t — ” Pooh’s eyes grew fearful, yet Holly looked confused.

“Who? What back? How do I do it!” Holly huddled around Pooh, nearly begging for information. Pooh’s face drained of color and held his fist against his forehead, as if an invisible force withheld his speech. Holly, on the edge of her seat for information, looked back at Stitch, but he simply shrugged. It was as if Stitch had completely forgotten the topic that they were talking about. Holly’s eyes went big, and Pooh hung his head.

“It restrains me. I can’t say. I’m not able to! The same reason Stitch couldn’t!” He tried to hint, but his paws formed back into a stressful fist. Holly looked sympathetically at Pooh but disappeared behind the bush, heading back to the hotel.

“Oh, bother.” Pooh was left, hands still holding his head against his ripped red shirt.

Holly made it back for a lunch with her parents, and yet, Tryvis wasn’t at home. He must have run an errand, she guessed. Half an hour later, with mud on his boots, Tryvis appeared, hungry. “Hi, big brother! Whatcha doing for the rest of the day?”

He said nothing, except take off his fancy coat and throw it on the ground. He stepped on it. Muddy boot stains with the imprint of his shoe stuck against the black striped leather.

Tryvis’ little sister made a disgusted face and smoothed her own skirt and blouse gently, as if treasuring every moment of them before Tryvis, too, stepped on her clothes. The family of four ate dinner, none of them knowing what was to come.

That night, the wind blew. It whipped the hairs of people riding roller coasters. Rain poured down. People slipped on the normally beautiful landscape of Downtown Disney. The bright lights streamed across the walkway above on the shops fell, starting a small fire. Minnie’s bow kept on falling off as children went to hug her. And at Goofy’s kitchen, the Mickey Mouse waffles were cold. The bacon was all fat. The characters didn’t go to several tables.

Tryvis seemed to become sicker and sicker with each day. Holly’s parents didn’t notice anything, though. It was as if everything was normal. In fact, Daisy Casco even said something really weird. “Oh, Darling!” she had said as Holly went out the door. “Do be careful of the smoke from the fire! They were just putting it out.” After that, her mom went back to making breakfast for Tryvis. Holly looked shaken. Why isn’t she alarmed that Disneyland might go up in flames? After that, Holly Casco didn’t give it much a thought.

With five days left to test rides, Holly still didn’t figure out the mystery. On day eleven, an unhappy Stitch appeared again. “What do you want now?” she responded impatiently. Stitch looked a little hurt and stared down shyly at his feet. “I’m sorry, it’s just… why can’t you tell me what is going on?”

“Go back to the beginning since it started,” Stitch whispered, almost embarrassed by interrupting Holly’s annoyed behavior.

Holly sat next to Stitch behind a bush. Stitch’s eyes gleamed with a tiny bit of mischief and knowing the answer.

“What started? My trip? My life? Disneyland?” Holly tried to think. When did she first see Stitch? She didn’t see Stitch at all until a few days ago. “I never saw you until a few days ago.” She pointed out what was on her mind.

“But you did see part me. And one of Winnie the Pooh’s favorite artifacts. We combined sci-fi and fantasy.” Stitch had never talked this much, especially to a human. But when good and evil are at risk, including all of the good characters’ lives and popularity, someone must take charge to think and act outside the box.

“Oh my! The rock!” Stitch nodded gleefully, his adorable smile beaming proudly of his hints that no other characters could think of. “That’s why you and Winnie the Pooh came to see me first. The fur was yours, and the sticky mixture was… honey?” Stitch nodded again. “But what do I do with it?” This was when Stitch changed faces, looking troubled. “Well, I think I’ll sleep on it. Clearly, you can’t tell me, so I might dream about it and get answers — I get all of my great ideas from dreaming!”

Stitch nodded, as if saying, “Well, this is a good start. I’ll report to the others! Bye!”

“Bye!” whispered Holly. She checked if the coast was clear and then headed back to the hotel.

***

As she neared the condo, Maleficent, Ursula, Jafar, and Lady Tremaine posters littered the crowded street. No one seemed to notice the difference. Okay, Holly tried to gather her thoughts. What do I know? It all started with the rock. But what do I do with it is the question. No one seemed to notice the poster change or the difference in the magic. I am not sure if this is good or bad. The park seems to be more crowded every time! Well, I have decided — this isn’t good.

A crowd gathered around something… or someone! Holly tried to peek through the legs of cheery adults, but they wouldn’t budge. “Excuse me,” she whispered. Or at least it sounded like a whisper, because of all the racket the crowd and thing was making. It seemed to be a character. Holly followed the crowd. Along the twisting pathways, the character was taking the fans, Holly looked above at all the crooked trees. That wasn’t correct! Lanterns normally lit the way! Holly whimpered under her breath.

Holly followed the crowd into a clearing. As they circled around her, all Holly could bear to see was the ambiguous shadow. The character was holding a clear glass of water, spinning the drink around in her hand. And Holly ran. She ran as fast as she could. Holly didn’t care who she knocked over — she just had to get out of there! The character that ate all of the Mouse Cheese gleamed with green eyes, crackling behind her smirk. She looked sneakily at Holly’s back. Overhead, a crow spoke annoyingly.

Holly knew it. All of the good characters knew it. The bad characters smiled at it. Change was coming to Happiest Place on Earth — something dark — something bad.

 

The Memories

 

Chapter One: The Earthquake

April opened up her dictionary and gasped. “Jackson!” she screamed. Her friends thought it odd to have a pet caterpillar, but it was amusing sometimes. This was not one of those times. “Jackson!!” she screamed, even louder this time. She finally saw him on the corner of the table. “There you are Jackson. How many times have I told you not to eat my dictionary!” She glanced at the dictionary, which was covered in holes. It looked like an expert piece of lace. She wagged her finger in Jackson’s face, knowing that he most likely could not understand her, but she enjoyed it anyway. She set him back down in his tray, which was full of as much foliage as possible. April knew that it was not very comfortable for a caterpillar to live in an apartment, so she tried to make it as luxurious as possible. She frowned at her dictionary, but moved on, and sat back down on her bed. She picked up her book, and flew instantly into a land of danger and suspense. How could Lord Jeffrey marry Grace when they were in two different social classes and their parents forbid it? How dramatic, how unresolved! April knew it was time for dinner, but she had to read another chapter. And that was when the earthquake struck. It heaved the earth from side to side, making it dance like a clumsy ballerina. Books slid off of April’s bolted-in shelves, and she flew out from her bedsheets to hide under her bed. She heard some of the old, unstable complex crumbling elsewhere, but she didn’t dare move from her position. After what seemed like an eternity of worry, it stopped. The ballerina stopped her dance, the earth stopped its heaving. She crept out from under her bed, only to hear her mother tearing through the door.

“Honey, honey, are you okay? Are you hurt? Did anything hurt you?” her mother shouted.

“Yeah, yeah, Mom. I’m fine.” April suddenly remembered Jackson and rushed over to his tray. He was happily munching away on some leaves, oblivious of what disaster had just struck. April let out a breath of relief, only to become worried once again. “Is the rest of the complex okay?” she asked her mother, her voice shaking.

“I don’t know, sweetie. I didn’t check yet,” her mom said, confused. April rushed down the stairs and out the door, only to have the color drain from her face. Half of the apartment building was cracked and crumbling, including the apartment next door. April ran back inside to get the key that she had to her best friend Erica’s apartment. She tore back to apartment five, the one next door to hers, and thrust the key into the lock. She frantically opened the door, and instead of seeing the home she practically grew up in, the couch she sat on, the floor she walked on, she saw rubble. Where her memories were made was just rubble. When her mom was at work, when her mom was broken down crying, when her dad left after April was born, Erica and her family were there. But now it was all reduced to rubble. And then she heard a shout.

“Help! I’m stuck!” It sounded like Erica was in tears. She sounded broken, like the building around her.

“I’m coming! I’m right here!” April shouted as she pushed away at the pile of rubble that was surrounding Erica’s voice. She finally saw her friend’s face, a circle of dust broken by streaks of tears.

“April! April. Thank you. I missed you. I just I can’t… ” her speech was broken by a fit of sobs. April sat down next to her and rubbed her back. She stood there for ten minutes or so, just comforting her friend. After all those years of comfort from Erica, the roles were reversed.

“Are you okay? Is anything broken?” April said calmly. Erica didn’t answer. “Is anything broken?” April repeated, lightly tapping her friend on the shoulder. Erica looked up at her, a confused look plastered on her face. “Is anything broken?” April said frantically. Erica just kept looking at April with her confused, worried eyes.

“Oh god, oh god. I’m calling 911,” April said, frightened that her friend could no longer hear her words of comfort. “It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay,” April whispered, more for herself than for Erica.

The next few hours were a numb blur of flashing lights and loud noises for April. If you talked to April now, she would tell you that the moment everything came into focus was when the doctor walked into the waiting room.

“I’m afraid she has permanent ear damage and will not be able to hear anything from now on,” the doctor said solemnly. Erica’s mom fell down sobbing into Erica’s dad.

April heard a quiet, “If we hadn’t gone out… ” coming from Erica’s mom. April’s mom looked at her, not sad for Erica, but sad for April. April needed to go into the hospital ward. She needed to see Erica. The doctor was so calm about it, like this happens every day to him. How could he be calm about this? Too many dangerous thoughts were floating through April’s head. She started feeling dizzy, like she was inside of another earthquake. Like the earth was dancing another deadly dance. She shrieked, then crashed to the floor. She woke up later, to her mother fanning her face.

“Honey, are you okay? I think we need to get you back home,” her mother said

“No!” April half-shouted. “I need to see Erica!” She felt sick, but she would never leave until she could see Erica.

“I agree. I think you should get some rest,” the doctor said.

That stupid doctor with his stupid serious voice and his stupid ideas, April thought.

“I don’t want to go yet!” April shrieked, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “I need to see Erica!” She felt her mother and the doctor pulling her toward the car while she flailed dramatically. She suddenly felt dizzy again and fell onto the waiting room couch next to her.

She woke up later to the smell of pancakes wafting into her room from the kitchen. The pancakes floated in, all by themselves, while a plate materialized in front of April. She dug into her pancakes, while a two-foot long Jackson rolled around at her feet. Suddenly, the earth was doing its dark dance again, and she spiraled into darkness. Her mom was in front of her, saying something, shouting something, but April couldn’t hear it. She was trapped in a cage, and she couldn’t get out, she couldn’t get out, until she woke up. But this time, it wasn’t her room.

 

Chapter Two: The Boxes

She still smelled pancakes, but it was a different room. She saw normal-sized Jackson on his tray, so she wasn’t dreaming anymore, but there was nothing else in her room. It was like a blank slate. “Moooooooooom!” she called. “Why is the room that I am in not my room?”

Her mom walked in, puzzled, until she finally realized what April was asking. “Oh, the complex was too dangerous to stay in, so we’re renting a different apartment for a little bit,” her mom answered calmly.

“How did I get here?” April asked groggily.

“After we came back from the hospital, you were knocked out cold. I think it was just from shock. I just slid you into bed.”

“But what about my stuff?” April asked frantically.

“It’s all in boxes in the living room.” Her mom nodded toward a few boxes marked “April” in the other room. April never realized how little she had until it was all put in boxes. Most of them were books, but a few boxes held sentimental objects, memories. Her first toys, her favorite stuffed animals, her thoughtful pictures. Her life could fit into a few small boxes. April heard a “Bye, sweetie!” and the sound of the apartment door closing. April sat up in her blank white bed and picked up “The Adventures of Lord Jeffrey,” which had been carefully placed on her white bedside table, probably by her mother. She contemplated reading it, but right now, her life was practically a storybook, and she didn’t want to forget her own tragedies. She crept into the kitchen, still wearing her worn-out clothes from yesterday. She took a plate out of the box marked “kitchen” and picked up some pancakes off of a plate her mother had prepared. Next to the plate was a note that read:

Morning Sweetie!

Had to leave early for work, hope you understand. There’s no school today, so you don’t have to worry about the Monday homework load (yay!). Don’t leave the house until I get home, and don’t do anything too mischievous. Enjoy your pancakes!

Love, me

April would have put some whipped cream on her pancakes, but upon inspection of the fridge, all she could put on her pancakes was peanut butter, eggs, or milk. She sat at the pristine breakfast bar and ate in silence. After what had happened, she could only think. She trudged back to her room and sat on the white bed. She was unsure what to do. She didn’t want to do anything, but she was way too bored to do nothing. She got her phone and her speaker from one of the “April” boxes, and proceeded to play melancholy piano music. If someone else did this, April would sarcastically play an imaginary tiny violin while pouting exaggeratedly, but this was different. She was too emotional and too sleepy to play happy music. She thought that maybe she should do something productive and decided close her curtains and take a nap instead. She woke up much later to a tickle on her face.

“Jackson! How many times have I told you not to scare me like that!” She gently pulled the blue caterpillar off of her face and looked at his tray, which was now almost empty. “Oh you’re huuungry. That’s what it is.” She wanted to obey her mother’s instruction not to go outside, so instead she leaned out her window, and picked a few leaves off a few trees on the sidewalk that were planted by the state to “brighten things up a bit.” She placed them neatly on the tray and sat. And thought. Thought about Erica. Thought about the future. Thought about the past.

She never sat and thought this much, but she never finished, because her mom came in with a loud “Honey! I’m home!” April sighed and fell back against her bed. “Honey? Are you here?”

“Yup, I’m in my room that is not my room,” April replied jokingly. Her mom walked in, looking flustered, probably from traffic.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Good. I slept. And ate. How was work?” April said groggily.

“Okay. Williams got the numbers messed up again, and Higgins is going to be furious… ”

“Typical Williams.”

“So now I have to fix everything and we had to move into a new office because of the earthquake and uuugh, it’s just chaos is what it is.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Oh, it’s not your fault, it’s just darn Williams again!”

“That Williams! One day he’s going to be the death of the company!”

“You have no idea who I’m talking about, do you?”

“Nope.”

“Well, thanks for the support.”

“Anytime.”

“Well, I’d better get dinner going… What do you feel like? You’re the real champ.” April’s mom punched her playfully.

“Well, I would love some peanut butter omelettes,” April said sarcastically.
“Oh my gosh, the groceries! I completely forgot… I am so sorry. Do you want takeout? Chinese?”

“Chinese sounds great. I’ll text you my order.” April used to just tell her mom her order, but after getting cow feet soup instead of chicken soup, she thought she should text it instead so her mom would remember.

“Okay, I’ll let you know when it arrives.”

“Thanks, Mom!” April’s mom left the room. April sat. And thought. When can I talk to Erica? was the main topic of this mental conversation with herself. But of course I can’t talk to her because she won’t hear me. But then how can I talk to her? She eventually decided she probably shouldn’t think these thoughts, especially with impending Chinese food. She didn’t want a relapse of her melancholy music moment this morning. So instead she played with Jackson for a while. There is only so much you can do with a caterpillar as a pet, but you can give it different objects, and see how it reacts. Right now, April was experimenting with a piece of hard candy before her mom shouted for her to come get Chinese food. When April walked into the kitchen, she saw candles and fancy napkins thoughtfully laid out on the breakfast bar. Usually, April and her mom ate separately because her mom had work to do, but on rare occasions, like birthdays, they would eat together.

“With all that’s going on, I thought we could eat together,” April’s mom said.

“Yeah yeah, that sounds great,” April said, kind of sad, but kind of happy that this meant less thinking time. They got plates out of the “kitchen” box and piled on chow mein, rice, and kung pao chicken. They sat down and dug in.

“So how long are we going to stay here?” April asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“As long as necessary. We probably won’t be moving back to our old complex because it will take a while to rebuild. And most of it wasn’t earthquake safe anyways, which is why some of it crumbled. Plus, we were really close to the epicenter. Thank god our apartment was okay, though. It’s newer and more up to code,” her mom answered. April could feel all of her childhood memories slip away. All of the movie nights at Erica’s, gone with the rubble. The building could be rebuilt, but April’s memories stayed crumbled and dusty. “This building is far away from most of the damage though, and it is much newer and much more earthquake safe.” April didn’t really care that much about the building. She wanted to know about Erica.

“How’s Erica?” April asked, hoping for good news.

“Good. The communication specialists at the hospital are contemplating giving Erica ASL lessons so she can communicate better, and they were wondering if you want to join,” April’s mom said carefully.

“What’s ASL?” April said, confused and worried.

“American Sign Language. I just know you two are practically joined at the hip, and there is an interpreter, but they thought that maybe you two would want to be able to communicate without someone translating your every thought.”

“Yeah. Sounds great.” April picked at her Chinese food. She felt her eyes tear up, and soon drops of salt water started dripping into her chow mein. “Is Erica gonna get her hearing back?”

“Oh honey. The doctor doesn’t know. For kids her age, it’s hard to tell. And her parents might not able to afford an implant.” Her mom left her position at the breakfast bar to come hug April. “It’s okay.”

“I just want everything to be normal again,” April said, her voice breaking, glad to have her mom by her side again.

“It’s okay. I understand,” her mom said lovingly. April felt a surge of anger. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t understand. Nobody understood. As much as she longed to be with her mom, she shoved her away.

“No you don’t understand! Nobody does!” April stormed off into her room. She sat. And fumed. And thought. And thought. And finally fell asleep.

 

Chapter Three: The Hospital

The most important night of Erica’s life was all a blur of sirens and people talking in serious voices. If you communicated with her now, she would say that the moment everything came into focus was when she woke up in a hospital bed. Her parents were across from her and hugged her as soon as her eyes opened. “Where’s April? I need to see her,” she said frantically. Or she thought she said. She couldn’t even have the comfort of her own voice. Her parents took out a pen and a pad of paper.

They wrote down, “You can’t see her right now. We are glad you are awake.” It took a while for them to write all of this, and when they finished, Erica started bawling. She looked up to see the doctor suddenly in the room. When did he get there? He stared down at her with a serious face and started making weird motions with his hands. Almost like… sign language?

“What are you doing? I don’t understand. Can you write it down?” He sighed, clearly disappointed that she didn’t understand already, and handed her a wooden clipboard with papers attached to it, and a pen tucked into the top. It read:

Patient: Erica Edelman                      .

Gender: Female            .

Age: 14       .

Town of Origin: Paducah, Kentucky                   .

Diagnosis: Severe hearing loss                                    .

Cause of Diagnosis: Broken eardrum                                .

Status of Diagnosis: Permanent?                .

Medication: None                      .

Potential Operations: Cochlear implant?                  .

 

It was the first time in Erica’s life that she was speechless. The world seemed like it was spinning around her. She fell into a fit of sobs and then she saw the doctor and her parents speaking. She felt a needle in her arm and fell into a deep sleep. She woke up later to the sound of sirens, again, only this time, it was dark. She was sitting, alone in a field. The sirens grew louder and louder and louder until she fell, like Alice, into the rabbit hole. Curiouser and curiouser, until she woke up. She was alone, in her hospital bed. She saw a vase of roses (her favorite) on a little table beside her. Across from her, there was a cheesy ballon that said “get better monsoon!” and it had little painted-in rain droplets. Sitting on her bedside table, next to her roses, was her teddy bear Max. Part of his ear was coming off, and he had been washed so many times that his fur felt like trodden-down carpet, but he was comforting nonetheless. She picked him up and hugged him as hard as she could, happy that he was here, but unsure of what would come next.

 

Chapter Four: The Meeting

April was sitting on the bench reading her book, when she saw a girl out of the corner of her eyes, bawling, holding a teddy bear. April was invested in her book, but she wanted to help this girl, so she put her bookmark (a piece of scrap paper) into her book, and nestled it in her arm. She skipped over to this girl, her brown curls bouncing behind her, and knelt down beside her. “Why are you crying?” she asked this little girl.

“I got this new” — gulp — “teddy bear” — gulp — “and I named him Max,” April glanced down at the fluffy teddy bear the girl was holding, “and this girl came over and said he was — he was” — gulp — “stu-hu-hu-pid,” the girl said, her speech broken by her intense bawling.

“Well, sometimes people have different opinions, and we just have to be proud of our opinions, and not let it bother us.”

“I mean, I guess so,” the girl said, finally calming down.

“I’m April, by the way.”

“I’m Erica. Do you think Max is stupid?”

“I think he’s great,” said April.

 

Chapter Five: The Memories

April had brought the boxes into her room and was almost done unpacking her books. Today was another day off of school, because the school had been damaged by the earthquake as well. Until now, she had been happily sleeping, but she decided she should get some work done. “There,” she said as she placed her last book onto her bookshelves. “It’s finally starting to feel like home.” But now she had to face the boxes that held her memories, her emotions. She was afraid that when she opened her other boxes, it would open her, and she didn’t want to deal with that. But she had to, eventually. She got her scissors and carefully slid them under the tape that separated her and her memories. The first thing she pulled out was an empty mini popcorn box. She had been saving this for ten years, since she and Erica were only four, and she was invited to her first movie night. The popcorn had been warm and buttery and coated with a thin layer of sugar, unlike the microwave popcorn April’s mom had time to make. They sank into the dark green couch and started Kung Fu Panda. The idea was ridiculous, but also hilarious, and they laughed and laughed until their last drop of laughter was spent for the night. When it was finally time for April to leave, she and Erica refused, and they insisted that April stayed for a sleepover. Her mom agreed, and April and Erica spent all night talking. All night. Drop. Tears spattered the red and white stripes of the mini popcorn box. April set it back in its place. She would unwrap her memories another day.

 

Chapter Six: The Email

A tray was set in front of Erica. It held her favorite food in the whole world: popcorn. It was warm and buttery and coated with a thin layer of sugar, just like her dad made it for movie nights. Next to the popcorn was a tablet. It had “Kentucky Hospital” written on the back, and the screen had a few scratches, but it was intact. She pressed the large “on” button on the side, and the screen lit up. It had a few different large boxes displayed on it, each in a different color. One of the boxes read “games” while another read “communications.” There was a small gray box in the corner which read “email.” Erica clicked on that and was sent to a familiar email screen. The first email she sent was, of course, to April. It read:

To: April

Subject: Hello!

April,

Hello! I hope you are okay. I am having lots of fun at the hospital, in case you are wondering (can you hear my sarcasm?). How’s Jackson? Is he still adorable? I sure hope so 😉

Your friend,

forever and always,

Erica

 

Chapter Seven: The Ice Cream

April picked at her sandwich. It was her favorite, ham and cheese; she thought she might treat herself after the popcorn box incident. She heard a rumble from her stomach region and decided she should probably eat something. She took a bite from her ham and cheese sandwich and decided she wasn’t hungry. She decided that if she didn’t want to eat a ham and cheese sandwich, she probably didn’t want to eat anything. Her mind flitted to ice cream and lingered there for a moment. She opened up the freezer and frowned, as the only kind of ice cream they had was coffee. “Blech,” she whispered to herself. She’d have to go out for ice cream. Her mom was already out, so she texted her. The conversation read:

– Yooooo! Hope you are having a good day. I was just wondering if I could maybe go out to get some ice cream? (Also do you know of any good places around here?)

– Sounds fun! There’s a place down the street called “Cold Stone Creamery” that I’ve heard is great!

– Thanks!

The chocolate ice cream was cold against her tongue and a relief from the heat wave that had hit Kentucky. She had brought her book to the store and had started to read. April heard a plop! as dripping ice cream hit the pages of her book. “Ugh!” she said as she got up to get a napkin. She set her dripping ice cream against her glass of water, to hopefully try to make it stay upright. She saw people start to fill the store as it neared noon, the hottest time of the day. She was struggling to make it to the napkins through all the people, and right when she was about to get to the utensil table, she fell. She felt her nose crash against the floor, but it felt somehow unbroken.

“Oh my god, I’m so, so sorry. Are you okay?” a guy about her age turned to her, apologizing profusely. “I think I might have accidentally tripped you.”

“No, no I’m fine. Is my nose bleeding?” she said, her hand flying to her stinging nose.

“Yeah, here,” the guy said, handing her a napkin.

“Thanks,” she said, turning back to get her ice cream.

“Wait, what’s your name?” the guy said.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. She had a little bit of trouble holding the napkin under her nose while also holding her book and her ice cream, but she managed. She just wanted to leave the store as soon as possible. The door dinged as she left, and she immediately felt a wave of relief wash over her as she started to walk down the street. She saw all sorts of people walking along with her, like dog walkers, business people, and even people her age. She finished her ice cream halfway through her walk and threw away her wrapper into a nearby trash can. She was now finally free to look around! She saw buildings towering to her sides, and she felt intimidated. This was a newer area, so not a lot was affected by the earthquake; everything was still picture perfect. She made the decision to only look at the ground so she would feel better. After what seemed like an eternity of sidewalk, she arrived at “Liberty Point Apartments” and trudged toward her section of building. She turned the key, walked into the apartment, and plopped on the couch. Suddenly, she heard a ding! And she turned to her room, where the sound seemed to come from. She walked to her temporary desk and looked at her computer. She had an email! She opened it and discovered it was from Erica, of all people. April replied:

To: Erica

Subject: Greetings!

Erica,

Greetings! Jackson is adorable, as always, and I am happy you are enjoying the hospital (sarcastically, of course). Also, my mom mentioned ASL lessons… what are your thoughts on the matter? Send my love to Max.

Your friend,

Forever and always,

April

Before she sent the email, April turned to look at Jackson, the real star of the email. But the tray was empty. Where could he be now? April thought, not sure what mischief the tiny caterpillar could be up to. It had been a full day since she checked in on him, so he could be long gone by now. Then she remembered, a few months ago, when she first got Jackson, she was scared he would run off, so she put a tracking sticker on him. It was tiny, and wouldn’t disturb him, but it was useful because the caterpillar could travel unusually long distances. She pulled out the little device that tracked the sticker and found he was in a hospital nearby to the apartment! How on earth did he get there? Well, no use dwelling on it now. She grabbed her key to the apartment and set off once again.

 

Chapter Eight: The Caterpillar

Erica was sitting in her bed, playing one of the little games the tablet provided for her, when she felt a tickle on her face. Erica pressed the “camera” button on her tablet and switched it to selfie mode. She gasped as she saw a chubby blue caterpillar on her face! But this wasn’t any blue caterpillar. Erica could recognize this caterpillar anywhere. “Jackson! How on Earth did you get here?” Erica said. She thought she might as well enjoy his company, if he’s here. She put him on one of her fingers and watched him crawl around for a while. Suddenly, Erica’s door burst open.

“Jackson! If you are disturbing a patient, I’ll… ” April stopped, mid sentence. Standing right in front of April, holding a tiny, blue caterpillar, was Erica. They stood, opened-mouthed, looking at each other. Erica felt tears coming down her face. April rushed over to her. They hugged. And hugged. The wait was over.

 

George

Beep! Beep! Beep!

George sat up. He turned off the alarm. He put on his slippers. He walked into the kitchen.

Crack! Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle ssssssssss. George cooked himself an egg.

He poured some orange juice. He ate his breakfast in silence.

“Meow!” George said goodbye to his cat. He opened the door. He walked outside of his apartment. It was a penthouse apartment.

Jingle jingle slam! George closed the door. He locked the door. He went into the elevator. He rode it to the ground floor.

He got a cab.

“Where to?” the cab driver asked.

“Fourth and twenty-ninth,” George replied.

George arrived at his destination. He paid the man six dollars and twenty-nine cents exactly. He got out of the cab.

Beep beep! Woosh! Bum Bum. George heard the sounds of New York City.

He walked into his office building. He rode the elevator to the very top floor. He greeted his secretary. He walked into his office. He sat down. He looked out of his floor to ceiling windows.

He saw the bright energy of New York City and sighed at the life he could have had, and even though he had reached the top, he couldn’t help but want to start a new life, to start from the bottom again, to live the process again, to think new thoughts, to dream new dreams, to change lives for the better, to help in the world, instead of accounting.

Accounting never changed lives for the better.

George got up. He threw everything off of his table. He turned his table over. He ripped off his tie. He started a new life.

 

Forever Standing

        

When someone looks

Down on you

When they laugh

At your differences

When they criticize

Your similarities

When you want it all to end

So you hide away

Tears streaming down your cheeks

Thinking to yourself:

“You don’t deserve to be here”

 

Remember, to see is a gift

To come home to your loved ones and say:

“I love you”

Is a blessing

To stroll on the beach,

Sun shining down on your back

Water lathering your toes

Is a miracle

To have compassion and be able to give back

Love that others have given to you

Is a wealth that cannot be measured

 

When you are looked down upon,

Someone somewhere is looking up and saying,

“Thank you”

Because now those tears on your face won’t be on theirs

Because you didn’t give up and didn’t give in

Because maybe, just maybe, you powered through

All the hatred being poured onto your shoulders

Sweat drips down your face in effort

But you are still standing

You will keep standing

You won’t dare stoop down for a rest or a drink

You can’t

So you will keep standing,

Forever

He Laughed like the Ocean

        

The tide pulled the water closer to my feet

He threw his head back

And bellowed

He laughed like the ocean

I sifted the sand through my fingers

Knowing what would happen if

I too

Did not laugh

He tries

I think he does

I know he does

I hope he does

But his heart was as cold as the Hudson River

Maybe even colder

I chuckled

There was no joke

I, like a child;

Asked to go into the water

The sun was setting

Every movie ever told me this was supposed to be romantic

But it’s not

He nods and and I jump up

Slowly walk towards the water

A woman stares at my scars

And all the ways he marked me

He tries

I think he does

I know he does

I hope he does

So I started running

Farther away from him

And closer to God

Or what I hope was God

I ran till my feet could no longer touch the sand

I kept swimming out into pinkness

That water was deeper than snow

Not colder

Just deeper

 

You, Simply

The sunshine was hot and bright, reflecting on the stream like rippled fireflies. I could feel the world around me, moving, changing too fast. Sometimes I felt like it was moving without me, like it needed to move without me; like I was running and I couldn’t keep up. Jared walked slowly beside me as we made our way through the old, abandoned park.

“I notice how cynical you are, Karrie Rainier,” he remarked, feeling in front of him with his shiny, black cane. He smirked a bit. “Why?”

“There doesn’t have to be a reason for a person being cynical, Jared Hale. People just are,” I reasoned, chuckling to myself. I ruffled the back of his hair.

“Okay, let me reword it: why do you hate people so much? You don’t talk to all that many people besides Pema and me. What’s your thing against the world?” he asked. His voice sounded sweet and innocent, but also distant, and wondering. Jared was curious. It was his mission to truly seek people: who they were, who they were going to be. He wanted to know people like he knew himself.

Well, that was the only way that he could know people, through their personality. It wasn’t like Jared could see anyone, literally. He was blind. He saw through his fingertips and his mind and his hearing. He could feel, with his heart. Maybe that was why he asked so many questions, so he could see clearly enough. He had a chiseled face and fawn-colored hair, cropped neatly with a nice wave in the front. He was kind of pretty.

And me? I was Karrie Rainier. I could see just fine, and I think that was my biggest enemy.

How do I explain this? I guess you could say I was the bruised apple, or the broken window. I was the girl who would get passed by in the hallway and could hear the terrible things that strangers said about me as they walked by. I was the girl who would get on the weight scale and see the number that made me guilty until I couldn’t go back to sleep. I was the girl who read the magazines and the health websites and never got any better. I’m “undesirable.” “Imperfect.” “Ugly.”

I came up with an idea about it in my mind: I called it an ocean. I just kept sinking in it. I kept sinking in it because I was not worthy of swimming back up. No one would save me, they were willing to let me drown, probably because I wasn’t pretty enough to deserve life. Yeah, I simply stated it. I knew it. I knew what I was. I didn’t want to have to put up with lying to myself like most people do. Honesty was the right thing, right? That was why I was honest with myself. I was honest that I was a disappointment, and I wasn’t getting better.

To answer Jared’s initial question, I avoided people because they didn’t want me. They never did. I didn’t even want me. There’s no way I would tell him that, or so I thought.

I used to wonder why I was still here. Society silently discarded their undesirables, so why hadn’t I followed along? Wouldn’t it be easier to be in a place where I could feel…

Happier?

Prettier?

Somewhere better than this god-awful place. Somewhere on land, not in my ocean. Maybe not even on land, but in the sky. That beautiful, heavenly place. So far, far away…

I stopped in my tracks, shaking away the frightful thoughts.
“Well?” he demanded playfully, smiling.

“You wouldn’t get it,” I warned. “Nobody does.” Jared punched me gently in the arm.

“I will, trust me,” he promised. While there was laughter and innocence in his honey-sweet voice, there was also truth. Reliability. I was like a puzzle to him, and he couldn’t quite piece me together. We had known one another for over a year now, and I still hadn’t opened up to him.

Would he think any different of me if I told him how I felt? Would he imagine me as some piece of shit? How did he see me now? How would he see me afterwards?

Then I realized, if Jared was really loyal, if he was really worth it, he would see me the same. Right? He wouldn’t care. I had to trust him. He would understand.

I would not replace his eyes with the eyes of society.

“Fine, I guess,” I promised reluctantly. “But you better not tell this to anyone.” But what would be an easy way to tell him? Would it ruin his innocence? His faith in the world? His faith in me?

I knew I was really, really overthinking it. It sounded more and more pitiful as it rolled over in my head. But the rock in my psychological ocean started to sink. Down, down, down…

Down into the deep pits of the midnight zone.

Past the sunken Titanic of feelings I don’t like sharing.

Down to the bottom of the Mariana Trench, where the horrible insecurities banished themselves.

And dizziness rang in my mind.

“Sometimes, I know, in the back of my mind, I feel… different,” I confessed to him. I felt my palms get sweaty and my cheeks get hot. If he could’ve seen me then, he’d probably have laughed at how uncomfortable I looked. He didn’t say anything, he just kept walking, not looking at me.

“I feel like I, well, I don’t quite fit in. Like, I was born not to fit in and everything I do makes me even more desperate.” I continued, “And nothing I do works.” The ocean of emotion started to rumble, making me feel seasick inside.

“I don’t quite get it,” Jared told me. His confusion startled me. I started wondering: what was that life like? Not knowing? Not feeling the social walls built around him? I realized how little I knew about Jared. Who was he? Why was he so…

Well, I wouldn’t say “perfect” was the right word. More like, pure? Or was he lying to me, to try to push me away. I wanted to know. What was behind the glassy, sightless eyes?

Unable to get the right question out, I continued to elaborate.

“I guess I feel like I’m not as pretty as people want me to be. I know, people tell me it’s not important. Judge on the inside and that’s what counts. But we all know that society tells you differently. Why else would there be a million diet options hovering around radio stations and magazines and on TV?” I found myself ranting. Damn it! Had I gone too far? Was Jared getting tired of this? That was when, of course, his words knocked me away. I didn’t know he would address the situation so beautifully, so gracefully. He opened his mouth to speak.

“Have you ever heard the saying, ‘beauty is the eye of the beholder?’” he asked curiously.

“I mean, maybe on the Twilight Zone but probably nowhere else,” I started.

“Well, I guess it means that what you look like doesn’t matter in the long run because everyone sees you differently,” Jared explained. “Like, there’s no point in conforming to society. There’s no exact definition of pretty, you know?” I tried to understand, but I felt like I had heard the same lecture before. I didn’t know exactly what anyone meant when they said that. It was the default phrase, an overused lecture.

“Jared, you can’t be naïve,” I murmured. “I think we all know — ”

“No, wait, hear me out. Think about it. Some people can’t see, and we still have valid opinions. I think that counts for something.” He started talking louder. I could hear the truth singing in his clear, low voice. He had a point, and I still didn’t understand. But somehow, I felt like he really, genuinely wanted to show me something I had never heard before. Curious and frustrated, I pushed on.

“I’m not trying to offend you or anything, but I don’t think you see it,” I tried to reason. Jared fiddled with his hand. He exhaled.

“I think I see it,” he said, almost to himself.

“Yes, but I feel personally like I’m not good enough. Like, I can see. A lot of people can see. What they see is me. Just me,” I scoffed, running my hands through my hair. I felt a bead of sweat.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t matter is what I’m saying,” Jared argued. I didn’t know what to say. I bit my lip.

We had reached a little gazebo by a stream, where Jared sat down. I stared into his glassy, sightless eyes and wondered what he was seeing. What he was trying to make me see.

“I know we’re both confused about each other,” Jared pointed out. “Me being blind and all, and you, with your problems.” He said it so bluntly, but it was still gentle. It didn’t hurt when he said “problems.” It might’ve been the beautiful softness and gentleness of his tone.

“I just don’t understand what you’re trying to convince me of. Or how you’ve never felt different or excluded… ” I began.

“Well actually, I guess I wasn’t clear before. I have felt different or excluded,” Jared admitted. The pain in his voice made me upset. I almost wanted to fight all the demons in his head, face-to-face. They were not allowed to hurt him. It also made me realize that Jared was battling his own fights. He just fought them differently than I did.

“What do you mean?”

“I felt different before, but maybe when I said I don’t really get it, I don’t get how people think those things are so bad.” His words just confused me. But he kept talking. “I guess being excluded taught me the beauty of being blind. I was different. Yeah, I couldn’t go anywhere without a little extra help, and I’ve never been able to read like a normal person, but also something else. While everyone else was judging people by their looks, writing diet tips in magazines, editing false images, I’m only exposed to words and actions and feelings. Looks are totally void to me.”

I listened curiously. I felt like I was starting to grasp it, what he was telling me.

“I know that whatever voices in your head are telling you that you’re ugly don’t have to matter. I know that you can live your life only seeing what is inside. I see people for who they are. And I think you should too,” he explained. Pause. Silence. Thoughts and contemplations.

Suddenly, when I looked into those glassy eyes again, a whole new meaning emerged. Jared was not sightless. He could see everything. Everything that truly mattered. I could not speak. I could only feel the connection between his eyes and the truth. Jared was not blind. He just saw a little differently. Through one small conversation, the only one that mattered, he showed me this new idea.

“Jared, I never knew you thought of it this way.” I noticed that my voice had lost its hardened, cynical tone and came out quiet. My own voice, sounding unfamiliar. Possibly because I was taking up most of my energy thinking about myself. Realizing, maybe, I could be beautiful to somebody, because their opinions are valid too.

Or not really. Not in the obvious way. But Jared, he must’ve imagined me beautiful. If he cared about me that much because of the way I am, am I beautiful? If he analyzed my personality as beautiful, would that make me beautiful too? It was a weird thing to wrap my head around. Being beautiful.

I had never been beautiful before. Or maybe I had. Maybe all this time, I was beautiful in ways I did not realize. Me: beautiful. Me: pretty. Me: desirable. Maybe I was worth it. Maybe whatever creator up there blessed me with this incredible life because I was worth it.

Back in my metaphorical ocean, I stopped sinking. I felt myself suspended in this one moment of time, unable to quite understand anything. It was that moment of thought, when nothing moved except for the heart in your chest and the blood in your veins.

Suddenly, I saw a light at the surface of my emotional ocean. A boat. A hand reached down from the boat, prompting me to grab on. Was it worth swimming back up? Trying to clean up my emotional mess? Or should I just keep sinking? Should I conform?

No. Because I was beautiful and worth it and good. Jared reassured me of that. I was something I should fight for.

I could feel my head reaching the surface of the water, and I could breathe again. Even if just for a second, I felt free. Free from my anxiety, free from society, free from my ocean of self-doubt. I smelled the fresh, salty air of self-acceptance.

I knew it would be a long journey back to the land. But Jared had started the journey for me. My journey to self-acceptance, the one thing that I might’ve needed. If I could will myself to swim all the way to the land, even if it would take me years, it would be a story that would change me and maybe the world forever.

I sat in that gazebo with Jared at my side. Never before had his poetic, aesthetically pleasing way of life affected me this much. This boy, this boy who I had hardly known. This boy who was not blind but was the best seer of the age.

“Thank you.” Those were the only words I could squeeze out of my mouth. And then, the long pause of silence. The blind boy who could see. The girl with the underrepresented body who was beautiful. That was who sat under the gazebo. We were proud, even just for one moment. One little string of time.

“Karrie,” Jared interrupted. I liked hearing my name. Something I thought people cringed at saying. My name sounded nice, like it was meant to be said. We looked at one another, no words exchanged. We both knew that neither of us had much more to say. Just think.

I guess I walked away from that gazebo and that day a little differently. It still loomed somewhere in my mind, maybe forever, but the rest of my life slowly started to change. I noticed it change, even when I got home from that walk. It kept changing with each passing day.

I ate more, a healthy amount. I would exercise but not force myself to pass out. Maybe I even opened myself up more. Just a little. Still, it was change. It was change if I ever saw it.

Sometimes I still look in the mirror and see the self-conscious girl who would only wear baggy clothes and who would cover up her face with her hands. The girl who was submerged in her own water. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still there.

But she at least had something else in the back of her mind, that while society’s expectation seemed so real, it was really fake. Some people lived wonderfully without it. Some people whose eyes work just as well. They might just see some things in a different light. So even if she was still there, she had something to look to.

I never forgot that walk. I never forgot those silky words that helped me escape my ocean of dread. I never forgot peeking out of the waves for the first time. That day told me that living another day is an accomplishment itself.

I didn’t want to go somewhere else. I didn’t want to fly away with all of society’s discards. Because I was more than that. Everyone was more than that. Jared helped me to see that.

Slowly, I cut through the blue waters. The land was getting nearer. Not the sky, the sky can wait. No, I wanted to live. On the land. That was where the other girls who needed help were waiting.

If I were to reach out to another girl, maybe my age, who was struggling and fighting and just couldn’t catch her breath, I would probably tell her something like what Jared told me:

That she is everything she thought she wasn’t good enough to be and more. Her ocean’s surface isn’t far away. Sometimes the world will ask for you, changed.

But really, all you have to be is you, simply.

 

A Project Complete

The chill in the air woke me up; I forced myself to smile. The feet of the lucky rushed by, nervous about being late to work. The cars passed while kids screamed to their parents, not wanting to go to school.

Another day of seeing our problem not being resolved. I had to smile though, to show that I knew it would happen. Today would be the day. The sun was still rising over the endless horizon of the sea. I stretched and immediately noticed a pain in my shoulder; I had slept crookedly again. When my spine rolled up off the ground, the hard rocks sank into my skin. But today was different. I felt it in the air. A little kid wearing a navy blue school uniform walked by, tugging his father’s sleeve. Both were wearing hats.

“Please, Father! Please! I promise he won’t eat all the cheese! Can we ask his mom?” His father’s hands clenched, and his face turned red.

My father would’ve taken his belt and given me a good bruise down my back if I was six and asked him anything.

The doves flew in, bringing with them a love song and flying away at the slightest movements. The water was yet so violent. The waves so big, one would be careful of surfing. Even though it was mid-September, the weather was getting cooler.

I rummaged in my bag and found two Oreos a little girl kindly had given me while her mom wasn’t looking.

“Breakfast,” I mumbled and ate the cookies.

My Cardinals cap still laid empty next to me, except now it had a Twix wrapper in it.

Probably some half-hearted greedy person thought my hat was trash. But soon, the wrapper was carried away by the wind.

After an hour or two, the streets were calm, everyone at their destinations except for me. My destination was right where I was. I watched the waves, finding myself very bored. I started dancing, but no one was there to appreciate it.

I realized I smelled like expired milk. That might be why nobody wanted to be with me. Maybe I could go down to the shore for a quick, clean bath. No one was there to see me.

I decided to go and left my bag by my spot. I ran down the stairs that led me to the beach. Down by the shore, I took off my clothes and jumped into the water. After swimming a bit, a big wave started to form, but I was too into the water to swim back in time. The wave five times my size crashed on me as I frantically swam to the shore. But as the wave hit me, I felt all the air left in me leave.

Waking up on the shore was a big surprise. The first thing I saw was an even bigger surprise.

She was blond and looked about twenty years old. That was all I could make out of her, but she looked at me in concern.

“Are you okay? You were knocked out pretty long.” She brushed the hair out of my eyes and looked me straight in the eyes.

I said I was okay and checked that my clothes were on. I was in my clothes, which was weird since I had them off a while ago. Maybe she’d put them on? She helped me go back to my spot by the street and wrapped a towel around me even though I was already dry.

“It’s three in the afternoon, by the way. You should eat something.” She caught me eyeing a food truck across the street.

“Yes, please.” My stomach spoke for me before I realized I was asking a stranger for food.

“Hamburger?” She rummaged through her purse and pulled out a twenty, making her way to the Burger Shack across the street.

I licked my lips.

 

After gobbling up the delicious hamburger, the lady said she had to go. The sun started to set while people started coming back from work. More busy feet and crying and complaining, when I should have been the one complaining since I have the street as a home. Everyone walked past me as if I were nothing.

But then, about an hour and a half later, four men in black uniforms and earpieces walked up to me, looking like they were lost or tired. Uh-oh! Why are they here? Did I do something? But before I could come up with an alibi, they stepped aside and made way for a blond lady.

A blond lady! I immediately got up and recognized her as my savior from the waves. She said nothing but took a paper from behind her back and held it out to me.

I looked at her, and she nodded with a warm smile. Shakily, my hand reached out for the

paper and took it. It read:

         Kris Yalgougly,

         Temporary Apartments

         Under Construction

         For those in need

         Head of Public Attention,

         Ashley Nofraih

I looked around and saw the construction workers and trucks had started to come in, the men examining blueprints. They were starting to build some places I could call home as I had requested five years ago. They settled down a couple blocks into the city and started to build.

I smiled at her. She smiled back. At last, peace.

 

 

The Food Chain

    

 

As I stepped out of my house that day, I saw my neighbor George putting a leash on his pet human. They did this every day, walking down to Little Piggy’s human-burger shop to grab a bite to eat, which disgusted me. It is horrible how animals treat humans like nothing and are treated as lower than low to the rest of society. I wish I could do something to stop this madness.

But who am I to say anything? I am a lonely sheep, too low on the government-enforced food chain to make an impact. What am I saying? You can’t understand me anyway.

“Well, Sparky,” I said to my own pet human. “I have to go out. I will not be long.”

I walked down the street past Little Piggy’s shop, past Jim Jam’s gas station and took a left, toward the city. I was about to walk into my office building until I heard a scream coming from a nearby alleyway.

I rushed towards it and saw two boars kicking around a human who had a couple of bruises and a cut above his shoulder.

I yelled at the attackers, “Stop! Don’t hurt him!”

The first boar turned and spat, “What are you gonna do about it? You’re lower than us on the food chain.”

The second one punched the human once more and turned, saying, “Why don’t you go back home, human lover?”

I pleaded with them, “Stop, you’re hurting him. Please, stop!”

The boars kept on kicking the human.

I ran at one, knocking him to the ground and bruising my shoulder in the process. The second one grunted and grabbed me, lifting me off the ground and shouting, “You fucking farm animal! I will gut you like a baby human!”

Then, the first one pulled out a switchblade and flipped the shiny piece of metal out, pointing it at me. By now, my shoulder was already swollen, and I began to pray for some sort of protection.

As if on cue, there was a sound of a K9 police siren coming our way, getting louder and louder. The two boars dropped me and ran out of the alley. The two dogs slammed the brakes on their car, getting out and racing after them, leaving me alone, which I thought was typical.
I grabbed my shoulder in relief and stood up, walking over to the human.

“Hi, my name is Leonard. What’s yours?” I said in a soft voice.

The human shook his head. Could… could he understand me?

“You know what I’m saying?”

The human nodded.

“Do you have a home?”

The human shook his head. I made the best decision I could.

“Okay well, I guess you can come live with me. I have another human at home. His name is Sparky. I could name you Spot. That’s where I found you.”

The human shook his head violently.

“What about Spot?”

The human nodded and jumped about.

After a few hours at the vet, Spot was vaccinated, and we walked home. As soon as I opened the door, Spot ran in and jumped on Sparky. At first, Sparky was shy and afraid, but after three weeks or so, they started to form an inseparable friendship. Wherever Sparky went, Spot followed, and wherever Spot went, so did Sparky.

One night I had to go out because it was my mother’s birthday, so I asked George if he would look after them. I figured nothing could go wrong. Little did I know, that was the night that everything would change.

George sat down on the couch with an apple and turned on the TV to watch The Bachelorette, where one Foxy Fox would be able to choose from ten other foxes who would get to take her hand in marriage. He was watching so intently that he forgot to feed Sparky and Spot and was neglecting them. My humans tried to get George’s attention by squealing and jumping on him. George started to get mad and backhanded Sparky in the face. Sparky got mad and started making hand motions to Spot. Spot made hand motions back in response.

George was shocked and said, “Wait, what are you doing? What are you saying to each other?”

Just then, the humans jumped on him, knocking George to the ground. Spot ran and grabbed sheets in his mouth while Sparky kept jumping on George. When they came back together, they tied George up.

That was when it got way, way worse.

Spot and Sparky peed on George, covering him completely. When I got back home, George was screaming slurs and insults, tied up in bedsheets, and soaked in yellow liquid.

“What happened here?” I asked, not believing my eyes.

“Just help me, Leonard!” George screamed.

I untied the tangle of knots and tried to calm George down.

“Okay George, I want you to take a deep breath and explain to me this. Why are pawprints across Sparky’s face?”

“It was those fucking humans! They communicated with each other!”

I tried to stay calm, thinking about my two humans possibly talking with each other. What would they have said? Did they… plan this?

“George, that’s crazy. I think you need to go home and get some rest.”

He growled in response. “I know what I saw.”

“Just go home, George. You did this to yourself.”

He picked himself up and left in a huff.

As soon as the door shut behind him, I made hand motions towards Spot and Sparky and started to shout at them, forgetting that I didn’t need to use my voice when using the sign language we had developed.

“What the hell were you guys thinking? I’ve told you no communicating around other animals!”

Sparky and Spot bowed their heads. Spot motioned that he was sorry and that he didn’t know why they had gotten so mad.

The next couple of days were normal, until I caught George trying to peer through my window with binoculars. He even set up a couple of cameras outside his house.

One night, I came home from work tired and had forgotten all about the cameras George had set up. At that point, I had been with Sparky and Spot long enough that signing with them had become somewhat of a routine.

Suddenly, I heard sirens, loud and painful. Two cop cars pulled into my driveway, and a dog and three coyotes, all in body armor, came bursting into my home.

The lead coyote shouted, “You are under arrest for teaching and communicating with humans! Anything you say or do is and will be held against you in a court of law!”

Then, the three coyotes grabbed the three of us and shoved us in to the driveway. The last thing I saw was George’s smug face staring through his front window as we pulled out of the driveway and went down the road.

I knew I could not go to jail and survive. I was prey. The other guys would kick the crap out of me, and I’d be ripped to pieces. But what about poor Sparky and Spot? What would happen to them? The shiny, black rubber wheels stopped in front of a rectangle-shaped building that read police station, and the cops led us out of the car.

I asked one of them what they were going to do to Spot and Sparky.

The cop said, “Don’t worry about them. There’s a special place for them.”

As they split us up and took me to my cell, I could not help but shed a tear.

The next morning, I woke up to a loud buzz as the cell door opened. There was a platypus standing in the doorway.

“Your name Leonard?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Mr. Richer. I am going to be your defense attorney against the prosecution led by Mr. George, who has accused you of disturbing the peace by teaching and communicating with two humans.”

Richer led me into a van, and we drove. As we were driving, I couldn’t imagine how Sparky and Spot were feeling.

Before long, we stopped at a big building that read COURT of LAW and JUSTICE.

Mr. Richer turned to me from the passenger seat. “We’re here. Are you ready for this?”

I replied, “I’ve got nothing to lose except what I’ve already lost.”

Richer looked at me for a long time before saying, “Well then, let’s get to it.”

As we walked inside you could smell the sweat and stress from previous cases. It was as if I had turned into a magnet for the eyes in the room. Everyone stared at me.

One person yelled, “Animal lover!”

Another yelled, “Farm animal!”

I heard a loud bang of a gavel, and everyone went silent. I looked up to see an old elephant sitting behind the podium. She said her name was Mrs. Tuskworth and that she would be the judge in my case. I glanced to my left and saw George sitting with a kangaroo that was dressed in a suit and tie.

I sat down, and the judge began to speak.

She asked, “Both of you know why you are here, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

Judge Tuskworth cleared her throat. “Alright, what happened? I want both of your sides of the story. George, you go first.”

The crocodile stood, looking smug and fearful at the same time. “It was a peaceful evening when I saw the disturbing connection between human and animal. It was clear that an unspoken bond had been formed between that sheep and his pets. To my knowledge, it looked like they were planning to overthrow the government and destroy the world with their human army! They will enslave us all again, I tell you! It’s happening!”

The judge looked at George in concern. “Thank you George, that’s enough for now. Leonard, it’s your turn. What happened?”

I stood up, looking at the wise face of the judge. I took a deep breath and began to speak.

“First of all… so… I came home late from work and asked Sparky and Spot if they were hungry, that’s all. Second, why is communicating with them such a bad thing? I am bridging a gap between our two worlds. Who knows? Maybe they know things that we don’t, and if I can teach it to all animals and humans, it could seriously be of use! Animals could communicate with us. Like what if a human sees something suspicious like a robbery and can’t tell anyone? What if there was a gas leak, and the human can’t tell the animal to get out of the house?”

The judge raised her hoof to stop me speaking. “Okay, Leonard you have made your point. But may I ask both of you: how would you execute your beliefs or ideas? George, you first.”

George stood. “Well first, I would start by chopping off all humans’ fingers, and just in case, we would have to cut off their tongues.”

Tuskworth thought hard and said, “Okay, George, point taken. Leonard?”

I stood, angry at George’s words. “I would set up a business with my own funding and hold classes where I could teach humans and animals the language. I would have Sparky and Spot teach the humans while I teach the animals, and then we would bridge a gap in our society. I am sorry, judge, but what George is saying is immoral and crazy.”

Tuskworth stood and spoke one last time, “That’s it for today, I think. I will discuss with the government council. We will continue our session next week when I will decide who is right. Court will be adjourned until then.”

She banged her gavel.

When I was outside of the building, I called an Uber to drive me home. When I got home and opened the door, everything was a mess. The sofa was thrashed to pieces, and the coffee table was turned on its side. All the doors were pulled out, all my cabinets were open. It was like someone was looking for something.

Was I robbed? Did… did George do this?

I started to fix and clean everything and look for what they would’ve taken. Someone must have done this just to mess with me.

The next few days were mellow. It was not the same at home anymore without Sparky and Spot.

Finally, after one of the longest weeks of my life, it was time. The next day was the last hearing at the court. It was the final decision. We sat down, and the judge started to say, “Leonard, we will not provide funding, but we think you can, and will, bridge the gap in our society. You may have your humans back.”

I jumped up in joy. I’d done it! I’d won! I couldn’t believe I won!

Suddenly out of nowhere, George jumped on me, knocking me to the ground, thrashing me with his sharp claws and tearing my suit to pieces. I felt a piercing in my skin as blood started to run down my chest. Luckily, there were two security guards on standby who tackled George to the ground, knocking him unconscious.

My surroundings started to darken as my eyes started to close. When I woke up, I had a sharp pain in my chest. There was a monkey in the room, dressed up in a lab coat.

The large chimpanzee spoke in a calm, soothing voice.

“Take it easy, Leonard. You have nothing to be afraid of. I’m gonna take care of you. You’re gonna be just fine.”

Just then, Mr. Richer walked in with Sparky and Spot.

I asked, “What happened?”

“Everything’s taken care of, Leonard. George has been sentenced and is going to jail for a while.”

“That’s a relief.” I laughed as Sparky and Spot jumped on me. “I’m so happy to see you guys! The doctor said that he thinks I should get some rest now, okay?”

I shut my eyes and pictured my communication business and where I would build it as I fell into a deeper sleep.

The next week, after all my injuries were healed, I had my brand new staff break ground, and since then, it’s been three years. My business has been doing great. We are working hard to finally bridge the gap between animal and human.

I decided to finally start a family, and in the year after the incident, I married a lovely sheep named Clara. Two years later, we had three kids, two boys and one girl. Sparky and Spot grew and eventually, they told me that they wanted to be let go into the wild. That was a hard day.

Now, I sit here, writing this story. Even if I am a sheep, now I feel like a lion.

 

 

The Lost Gold

Once there was a bank employee named Paul who worked at one of the world’s most sophisticated gold vaults. It was called the global bank. Loads of gold was stored in the building’s basement. It was one of the largest in the world.

Paul was doing his normal business, working with people setting up bank accounts when his manager, Mr. Smith, told him that the security cameras in the gold vault weren’t working and that he must check the problem and fix it, as Paul was also an engineer. Only once before, Paul had been down in the vault.

The bank owner gave him the combination numbers to open the vault. There were several locks and complex doors; it needed to be like this to prevent any robbery. After the innocent employee headed toward the lower levels, he found the door. It was massive. There were so many intricate locks that laid in front of the door. Paul casually entered the combination code to open the vault, but something strange happened. The vault’s massive door was not opening.

Paul was completely shocked. The door just wouldn’t open. But then, he realized something. Mr. Smith only gave him the combination numbers, not the exact pattern. With six numbers in the combination, there would be tons of different six digit numbers to open the vault door. And then Paul thought, Why would my manager give me the numbers but not the proper code? Trying to avoid going back upstairs, he pursued the attempt to open the door. He tried each and every pattern possible. After nearly 30 minutes of trial and error, he finally opened the door with the correct code/pattern. When it was opened, Paul was amazed because he had only seen this much gold once in his life.

His boss had done another strange thing: he did not specify which security camera was “broken.” Paul examined each camera extra carefully and saw that all the cameras were working properly and were intact. He began to get a little suspicious. He was at the same time confused. He climbed down the ladder from the security camera in the ceiling. He was about to walk out until something strange caught his eye. One of the golden bars in the vault seemed to be chipped. A little, gray dot appeared on the gold bar. Paul inspected it closely until he uncovered a baffling sight. He realized the gold stored in the vault was fake when he saw missing paint on the gold. They were just gray steel bars painted gold.

Paul scratched the gold and sure enough, the gray steel became more visible. He was shocked. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew what was happening was wrong and that he should put an end to it. But he began to uncover something else. If Mr. Smith instructed him to fix security cameras that were healthy, why did he send Paul down in the first place? Did Mr. Smith deliberately do this because the gold was a counterfeit, and he wanted Paul to find out? Paul didn’t know why. He thought about calling the police. Never in his seven years working at the bank had he witnessed anything like this. He exited the vault and headed upstairs thinking to himself, The manager has recently been preventing people from going into the vault. But one thing still lingered around in Paul’s mind: If my manager was so protective of the gold vault, then why did he casually tell me to go down? Does he trust me? As Paul went to his office to tell Mr. Smith what happened, he felt a bit nervous. He opened the door to the manager’s office and stressfully entered the large and nicely decorated office. It had a beautiful, lavish floor and a modern interior design.

“I think the gold downstairs is fake,” Paul said anxiously.

“I know!” Mr. Smith said in an angry and annoyed tone.

Paul had no idea what to say next. “You’re a fraud,” he said.

“I’m no fraud, but a very clever person,” Paul’s manager said in disgust.

And with that, Paul left the manager’s office. But he had an idea. An idea that would expose Mr. Smith.

Paul believed that the bank’s money was stolen by the owner and kept in his household. And replaced with artificial gold. He assumed that Mr. Smith had stolen gold to sell it and make money. He was determined to stop it and decided to follow Mr. Smith to his home. So at 5:00 p.m., Paul got into his car and saw Mr. Smith enter into his car. Immediately, Paul followed him. After 30 minutes of following Mr. Smith, they began to exit the city and enter into a small town. Luckily, his manager was oblivious to the car following him. At the edge of the town in a large house isolated from the neighborhood, Mr. Smith stopped and pulled into the front of his house. Paul parked his car a few yards away and watched Mr. Smith walk into his house. But then, he realized that he didn’t think about how he would get into the house. After Mr. Smith entered his home, he got out of his car and walked around the side of his house. He looked through one of the basement windows. He saw a door and could see something shining through. It could only be gold. Paul found out how to enter into the basement. One of the windows was small and had a very small opening. With a stick he found in the front yard, he pried open the window and squeezed through and got into the house. He had a sack with him to hold the gold. He got past the door and took some gold and filled up the sack. It got heavy, but it was manageable. Suddenly, Paul tripped and made a loud noise. Seconds later, he could hear someone coming down the basement steps. Despite having throbbing pain in his knee, he threw the sack outside and climbed out, but as his leg got out through the window, Mr. Smith ran toward him. With all his might, the manager grabbed Paul’s leg and tried to drag him through the window. Paul, who already had his knee in pain, used all his power to pull his leg back. Mr. Smith was pulling harder than ever. He wouldn’t let Paul get away. But something the manager had just noticed was that the shoes on the “thief’s” feet were strangely familiar.

“Paul!” the manager screamed. “Come here.” Normally, people would think that Paul would break away, but instead he had the feeling that Mr. Smith was trying to welcome him. Paul decided to go through the window thinking he could uncover something.

“I understand you tried to steal the gold to give the police proof,” the manager said in an annoyed tone. “But there is a big reason I deliberately led you right to the artificial gold. You see, I secretly work for another business that’s illegally selling gold to make money. I led you to the counterfeit gold because I wanted you to join me. You’re one of my most intelligent workers. I want you to be part of this business.”

Paul knew this was wrong but realized he would make a ton of money. Still, he declined the offer, and Mr. Smith made a big mistake. And with that, Paul ran out through the window, and Mr. Smith chased after him.

“I will call the police. I will end you,” Mr. Smith threatened. Paul immediately got into his car and sped away. There was nothing Mr. Smith could do. Calling the police made no sense, because if he called the police, he would basically be calling them because someone declined a job offer. Paul was in total control of the situation. Knowing that he just caught someone doing something illegal, he could easily call the police and get Mr. Smith into trouble.

The next day, Paul told the FBI that Mr. Smith was making money in an illegal business. The whole FBI crew came that morning. Mr. Smith was furious at Paul and came face to face with him.

“I will destroy you,” he said angrily. But for now, Mr. Smith’s five-year imprisonment would keep Paul in good hands.

Paul was glad he did the right thing. He was well-known internationally because he exposed one of the most illegal businesses in the world. People in the illegal business knew about Paul and what he did. Despite all this glory, the employees in the illegal business that weren’t sent to jail were after Paul. And Mr. Smith would be back.

The hunter would soon become the hunted.

THE END (FOR NOW)

 

No One’s Safe

Everyone has a fear, one that drives them insane. A fear which paralyzes you and consumes your soul. A fear that may or may not be real. Right out of Tennessee, located in the mountains, is a little Italian town called Nessuno è Sicuro, with a population of 746 people — well, now 745.

Emily walked out of her home for the first time in days. She needed food. She walked past the park and past the barber shop. She turned the corner and walked into the supermarket. She filled her basket with two six-packs of ramen and minute cook rice, and when she got to the checkout counter, there was a new cashier she had never seen before. Emily gave him the groceries and pulled out her wallet. As she looked up, the old man with a white beard was staring at her. “Hey, young missy. You look like that missing girl, except you don’t have that screwed up, ugly eye like her.”

“It wasn’t screwed up or ugly.” Emily grabbed her groceries and ran out the door.

Emily had a physical condition where her knees buckled quite often without her controlling it, and as she walked home, her knees buckled, and she fell in a puddle of water. Emily looked down to see her face in the water. It looked just like her sister’s. She started to cry. She just wished that she didn’t look like her sister so she did not have to see her face every day. She got up and she ran to the park. As she collapsed on the bench, she turned her head to read a missing poster. It said:

Two weeks ago, a girl by the name of Luara went missing. Luara was a 16-year-old girl by the time she went missing. Luara is a tan girl with red hair and one blue eye, and she is blind in the other eye. There is a cash reward. Please find her.

When Emily saw this, she felt her heart drop. She ran home and slammed the door as she fell on the floor. Emily was Luara’s best friend and identical twin sister. Emily kept thinking about what the cashier had said and how he called her sister’s eye “screwed up and ugly.” Emily and Luara’s mother was dead, and their father was a drunk who didn’t even care that Luara was missing. The two girls had a hard life, their mother died when they were two due to a car crash, their father beat their mother, and well, then Luara went missing. Emily always thought that the night before her mother died, her father came home drunk again and was punching her mother because he thought she was having an affair with her boss. Her father later told them that their mother had tried to leave them, but then she hit a tree with the car and died.

*Ding-dong* “Go away!” *Ding-dong* “I said go away!!” *Ding-dong* “Go the hell away!!! Ughhh.” Emily ran downstairs and opened the door to see Sheriff Davis standing on her front porch. “What is so urgent, Sheriff, that you had to ring my doorbell three times?”

“Sorry Emily, I know that you are worried and upset, but we have some new information about your sister you might want to hear.”

“What information? Please, please, tell me everything you know.”

“Well, we know your sister did not run away. We suspect it might have been a homicide. I am so sorry, and I know this information is stressful to hear,” the sheriff said, while fidgeting with his fingers.

“No! No, she’s not dead. She can’t be dead. This isn’t possible. Please oh please say this is just a premature verdict!” Emily’s heart started to ache, and she tried to hold back the tears.

“I am so sorry, Emily, but this is most likely what happened to her.”

“But — but they haven’t found a… a… a body yet.” Emily started to choke up.

“Again, I am so sorry, Emily, and we will get to the bottom of this, but please take care of yourself. Have a good day.”

“Excuse me, you don’t just ring someone’s doorbell three times, tell them their sister was murdered, and then say have a good day! I mean, what the hell is wrong with you?! Do you have no empathy? Just go away, just go.” Emily’s knees buckled as she fell to the ground.

Later that evening, the news had been spread around the town, and Emily finally cracked. She cried and cried until her face went pale and she fell on the floor.

*Ding-dong* “No please… please, no.” *Ding-dong* Emily couldn’t get up, she couldn’t feel her legs, and she just wanted this all to stop. She did not want to open the door. She just kept crying on the floor for a minute. Suddenly, she felt warm, strong arms wrap around her, and she just stopped crying.

“Luara? Luara, is that you?” Emily looked up only to see Jack’s face.

Jack was one of Emily’s best friends. He was a pale 16-year-old boy with brown eyes and brown hair, and although he loved Emily, he had never liked Luara. Jack had come to check on Emily after he heard the news about her sister. Emily started to cry again, and so he held her tighter.
“Hey Em, don’t worry. Nothing can hurt you when you’re in between my strong arms!”

Emily stopped crying, and Jack looked at her face to see she had fallen asleep. She must have been tired from not sleeping for a while, he thought. Jack stayed up as Emily lay asleep for three whole hours. When Emily finally woke up, stretching and yawning, she realized that Jack was still there and screamed.

“Umm, how long was I out?” Emily asked.

“Not long, only a couple of hours. You should sleep a little longer though. It’s not healthy for you to not get any sleep.”

“Thanks, but I — I have to find Luara!”

“Emily, Luara is dead. Sheriff Davis told everyone last night.”

“But — but they haven’t found a body, which means they don’t know yet.”

“I am sorry Emily, the sheriff announced it while you were asleep, they found her. Well… they found her remains.”

“What? But she’s only been gone for two weeks! That’s not enough time. It isn’t her. It isn’t her!”

“I really am sorry, Em. I’m here for you.”

“You’re lying to me! You’ve never liked Luara, and that’s why you’re telling me these lies! I don’t care what you say, I’m going! I’m going to find her!” Emily walked out of her house and slammed the door behind her.

As Emily walked through the town, she saw people smiling as if things had gone back to the way they were. They were acting like no one had gone missing, like there hadn’t been a murder and there wasn’t a body. Emily wanted to scream. She wondered why nobody was worried, why they weren’t acting like someone would if another person had been murdered. She started to cry. She ran as fast as her legs could go until she reached the police station and fell to the floor in front of the sheriff, bawling and screaming.

“Where is she? Where is the body you claim is my sister? Huh?! Where is that… that thing, that you have mistaken for my sister? Where is it? Tell me!!!”

Sheriff Davis took Emily to the morgue. They walked into a room, and Emily gasped. All that was left of Luara was her ripped up body, her bones, some rags which were her clothing, her hair, and her one blind eye. Emily felt a sharp pain in her stomach, her heart started to beat faster, and she was short of breath. She remembered when she and her sister were seven years old, and Emily had been sick with the stomach flu. Luara stayed up all night to distract Emily from the pain by talking about their birthday and how fun it would be. They had wanted to celebrate their birthday with all of their friends and eat chocolate cake. Emily never thought that this was the way it would all end.

Two days later, Emily finally stopped crying. She told the sheriff that he had better start an investigation right away. She was trying everything to get her mind off of the thing that they had called her sister, but nothing was working. Emily was sitting on the couch in the living room when she heard *ding-dong.* “Just come in,” she muttered.

Jack opened the door and came in. “Hey, Em, I think I have something to help you ease the pain.”

“What?”

“A party! I’ll be there too. It will help, just please come. Please.”

“Fine, I need something to help me right now, so I’ll try anything. Anything.”

“Great, then I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Great.”

After Jack left, Emily got up, and she headed to her father’s room. He was passed out from being drunk. His closed eyes started to shift back and forth rapidly as he slept. Emily had never seen this happen to anyone before and did not know if this was normal. Emily looked at her father’s strange eyes in shock. Suddenly, his eyes opened up to reveal a glowing yellow, and Emily got scared and ran down the hall to her room. Emily’s room was clean and had two beds, one for her and one for Luara. It had pink, striped wallpaper that was starting to peel at the top. There was a leak in the middle of the ceiling and a metal bucket on the ground for the water to drip into. Emily sat on Luara’s bed and cuddled up under her sheets. They still smelled like Luara, and Emily felt safe and warm as she fell asleep.

When Emily got up, she was careful to not move the covers too much as she didn’t want to lose the feeling of Luara. She walked over to the vanity they shared and started to comb her hair, and when she looked in the mirror and saw the dark circles around her eyes, it was like she saw Luara. Emily called out to her.

“Luara! Luara, come here! Come back to me!!”

Then, Emily remembered it was her reflection, and she got so pissed that she punched the glass and shattered the mirror. Her fist was bloody, but she didn’t realize because of her crying. She suddenly heard the doorbell ring. Emily realized she’d forgotten all about the party as she fixed her hair and ran down to the door. She didn’t know why Jack had come early. She opened the door to see Danny instead of Jack.

“Uhh hi, Danny. What are you doing here?” Danny was one of Luara’s best friends. He was a 15-year-old boy with green eyes and dark brown skin. He normally never talked to anyone except Luara, but now that Luara was gone, he at least needed to talk to someone like her just one last time.

“I wanted to see Luara one last time. You look just like her, I’m sorry,” Danny said in a quiet voice.

“Uhhh… Co-come in.” Danny walked through the door and looked around as if he had never seen the inside of their old house before. “Danny are you okay?” Emily asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“You just seem a little out of it.”

“I’m sorry, I-I-I just miss her. I don’t really like people, but she… she was different.”

“I’m sorry, Danny. I understand how you feel. Hey, do you maybe want to come to a party with me and Jack tonight? I know parties aren’t really your thing, but it might make you feel better.”

“Sure, but ummm, is that blood on your hand? I can help you out if it’s a cut.”

Emily hesitated, she didn’t want him to think she’d done something bad. After a moment, she said, “Umm thanks, but it’s just raspberry jam.”

“Oh okay. Can I stay with you until the party?”

“Um yeah, sure. Just take a seat in the living room over there.”

The room was dusty and old. There was a sofa next to an old bay window and an old, antique coffee table in the middle of the room. On the wall facing the right was a big fireplace. The hardwood floor started to break. However, the room was cozy. Danny sat down as he waited, and just then the doorbell rang.

“Hi, it’s Jack. Em, you ready?” Jack shouted through the mail slot in the door.

Danny opened the door. “Hi Jack, Emily is upstairs getting ready. Come on in.”

After a moment of shock, Jack entered the old house and sat on the sofa. As he sat down, dust came up from the sofa, and he started to cough.

“Danny, are you okay down there?” Emily called.

“Yeah. Jack’s here too, by the way.”

“Okay, I’m almost ready.” Emily combed her hair, and she ran downstairs to see Jack and Danny. “You guys ready to go?” Emily asked. Both boys said yes, and so they got in Jack’s car and drove to the party. The party was at a tall townhouse made of brick. There was an alley on either side of the house. One of them led to a big backyard. The three teenagers walked down the alley and opened a gate to the backyard. There was loud music playing, people dancing with drinks in their hands, and Emily could swear she smelled a person barbecuing. The party smelled of cheap booze and roasting meat, and the smell of roasting meat would have been mouth-watering by itself, but mixed with the smell of cheap booze, it was nauseating.
“Hey, Em you want a drink?” Jack asked.

“Uhh… no thanks, I don’t drink.”

“Okay. Danny, you?”

“I’ve never had one before, but it must be fun!” Danny said.

“Lmao okay, two drinks coming right up.”

The three teenagers danced and ate. Emily wanted to leave. Danny and Jack had gotten drunk, and Jack was starting to yell angrily at random people while Danny was acting dazed and had started touching people and making them uncomfortable.

“Hey guys, I’m ready to go home now,” Emily said.

“Em, just stay a little longer,” Jack said as he started to laugh. Danny was passed out on a table by the speakers.

“Look, if you guys want to stay, I’ll walk home.”

“Okay, Em! Night night.” Jack started to walk back to the crowd of dancing people. Emily was shocked that he didn’t try to help her get home. She started to walk away and as she opened the gate to one of the alleys, she saw that the other end was blocked off.

“Ughh, damn it. This is the wrong side!” Emily said, and she was about to leave when she saw a person at the end of the alley. She wondered if he was drunk and needed help leaving. Emily walked up to the man but gasped when he turned around suddenly.

His eyes were shifting back and forth and glowing yellow. Emily thought they looked similar to her father’s eyes. His mouth was foaming and had two large, sharp fangs sticking out of it. He started to grow hair from all over. A tail sprouted from behind the man, and then all of a sudden he grew wings. Emily stared in shock. She wondered what this thing was and whether she was going to die. The thing looked at Emily and started to go after her. Emily ran, screaming down the long alley all the way back to the party. Her heart was beating so fast it felt as though it would burst. She was hyperventilating when she finally ran through the gate and tried to find her friends. She found Danny passed out on a table and grabbed him and started to shake him. Danny, still very dazed, said, “Hi Mom, what time is it? Is Santa here yet? Hauhah.”

“No it’s me, Emily! And what? It’s June! Get up, there’s a monster thing. Help! O-M-G, O-M-G, we need to leave!!! Come on, get up! Come on!” Danny started to get up as Emily frantically looked for Jack, who was dancing next to two women when she found him.

“Jack! Jack, come on we have to leave! There’s — there’s a thing outside!! It-it-it it’s a monster thing!! We have to run, come on!”

“You’re delusional, Luara! Did you meet my friends? Uhh… umm… this is, uh, blonde girl number one and blonde girl numbah two.” Jack waved his drink in the air. “Look at my big muscles! Huahha.”

“Come on, Jack, you’re drunk. We have to go! Come on!!”

“Luara, I told you to just go if you want to go! Just go the hell away!”

Emily couldn’t believe he was acting so mean, or that he’d called her Luara. Emily grabbed Jack and Danny, dragging them to the car. Suddenly though, her knees buckled, and she fell to the floor and couldn’t get up. Jack and Danny couldn’t help her since they were too drunk. They all watched as the monster thing flew over the brick wall of the alley and started to head straight toward them.

“Jack! Danny! Help, please! I can’t get up!” Jack and Danny’s bodies filled with fear when they saw the thing. Jack grabbed Emily and started to run to his car. He threw Emily in the back as Danny hopped in the back as well. Jack threw open the door to the driver’s seat, grabbed his key from his pocket, and dropped it. The three teenagers were too scared they had forgot that Jack had been drinking. His hands were so sweaty he kept dropping his keys, all while the thing was coming straight toward them.

“Jack, pick up the key! Jack, come on!”

“I’m trying to, it just — it just — ”

“It’s right there, Jack! Hurry!”

“Got it!” Jack started to drive away. He drove past the supermarket and turned the corner past the barber shop. They saw more of the monsters in the park, and as they passed, the monsters looked up at them. The teenagers felt their bodies go numb. They couldn’t move or speak. Everything was quiet. And then the things started to fly at the car. Jack hit the gas pedal and sped sixty miles per hour down the road. He drove past the houses and buildings until he crashed into a tree. Emily had been so scared she forgot Jack was driving drunk. She looked out the window and saw the things approaching them.

“Run, RUN, we’ve got to RUN!!!” she screamed.

The teenagers unbuckled their seat belts and tried to run. “I-I-I think I’m stuck! Danny, Emily, help me please!” Jack yelled. Emily and Danny helped Jack get out, but they cut his leg in the process. The three of them ran into a nearby store for shelter.

Emily thought about how her sister could have been killed by one of these things. These things could be people she knew! Emily thought about her sister and who could possibly have done this to her. Who could have hated her so much. And that was when she realized…

Emily gasped as a thought came through her head, and her body went cold. “Jack… where were you two weeks ago?”

“What? Why?”

“Jack, just tell me where you were.”

Jack frowned. “Emily… you — you don’t think that I could’ve done that to Luara… do you?”

“Jack! Where were you?”

“I don’t want to tell you!”

“What could you have been doing that’s worse than murdering my sister?” Emily demanded as she started to cry.

“I was high, okay?! I didn’t want people to know about it,” Jack said angrily.

Emily didn’t believe him. “That’s such a bad excuse, even I could do better! You were high? I mean come on, you could’ve said you were on a date or at a party, or even at the movies! But you had to say you were high? You hated her! You-you-you’re one of them, aren’t you?”

“What? No! You’re paranoid. Why the hell would I be one of those things? You don’t really think I’m one of those things. Do you?”

Emily and Danny started to back away from Jack. “St-stay away from us, Jack! Danny, we’ve got to run!”

“Guys wait! I said wait!” Jack grabbed Emily and threw her across the wall with all of his strength. “Emily, I’m sorry, but you can’t think I did that. Do you really think that?”
“Jack, why would you do that to her?” Danny helped Emily up and started to run out of the shop. As they ran, they saw Jack limping behind them trying to catch up. They turned around to see one of the things jump on Jack and rip him apart.

He called one last time to say, “Em, this is your fault!”

Emily started to cry. Her childhood best friend had just died. She had seen him get ripped apart, heard him scream… she could even smell his blood in the air. His screams echoed in her head, but she couldn’t think about them for long. She needed to run away.

Emily and Danny ran to Emily’s house. They didn’t stop until they made it in and slammed the door behind them. They fell to the floor as they tried to catch their breath, and Emily looked over to see her father sitting in a lounge chair. The fire in the fireplace was roaring in front of him as he stood up and turned around. Emily got up and ran to give him a hug. Her father was shocked, but he hugged her back. Emily started to cry again.

“Da-da-dad! Ja-Ja-Jack, he — um, he was the one who killed Luara,” Emily said as she tried to not get fully choked up.

Her father hugged her tighter, “Oh, sweet, sweet daughter. You innocent dumb girl… your friend wasn’t the one who killed your sister. You didn’t really believe that, did you?”

“What — what do you mean?”

“I mean, your friend didn’t kill your sister. You two come sit down.” Emily and Danny walked over to the couch and sat down. “Let me give you a little history lesson on your beloved hometown.”

Emily froze in fear, scared for what her father was going to say.

“A long time ago in Italy, there was a man who decided to create a new race. He made 23 of these, well, creatures, and he watched as they changed and they became monsters. The man tried to keep his creations a secret, but one night someone broke into his lab and found them. The spy told the city what he had seen, and they all grabbed their torches and stormed his lab. The scientist found out they were coming though, and so he took his creatures to the dock, and they fled in the night. He sailed to Louisiana where they were eventually attacked. The scientist was burned at the stake, and only thirteen of the creatures survived. The creatures ran until they were safe here in this town called Nessuno è sicuro. None of the people speak Italian here except for some ancestors of the original 13, but Nessuno è sicuro means no one’s safe. Emily, your ancestors are two of the original 13, and your mother and Luara weren’t safe here.”

Emily and Danny were frozen in fear, their lives had been a lie, everything they knew was a lie. “You’re lying, none of this is true,” Emily insisted.

“Then explain the creatures outside. Explain your dead sister — your dead mother even!”

“Mom died in a car crash, Jack killed Luara, and those things out there they are not real! I don’t believe it!”

“No Emily, I killed your mother, I killed your sister, and those things out there are your flesh and blood. They’re family.”

“No! Why would you kill Mom? Why would you kill Luara? You don’t kill the people you love!”

“Love? Who said anything about love?” Emily’s father let out a sneer. “They didn’t have the gene activated like you and me. They weren’t strong enough, and so I did what I had to do!”

Emily’s heart felt a pain she had never felt before, a feeling from deep, deep down inside her. The agony started to spread all over her body as she started to scream! Her eyes started to glow, her mouth now had fangs and was foaming. She grew wings, a tail, and hair grew all over her body. This pain felt like no other pain in the world.

“You’re changing. You’re doing it! Embrace it! Hahahaha!”

Emily’s mind began to shut off, her body charged at Danny — she didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t help it. Emily ripped Danny’s head off of his body, and it flew across the room. The blood splattered in her face and got into her mouth. It tasted bitter. Like… well, how else could you describe it other than like your friend’s blood? Emily’s mind was shutting off, and she could feel it. Her father started to run, but she grabbed him and threw him into the fire. She didn’t want to do this, and she tried to fight, but it wasn’t working. Her father’s body caught on fire, which set the house on fire, burning both her father and Danny’s bodies.

Emily flew out of the burning house and watched as it crumbled. As the monster took over Emily, she saw bright lights and heard loud noises coming from all directions. Emily felt like she was drowning and couldn’t swim to the water’s surface. She finally reached the bottom, and her mind fully shut off. Emily couldn’t see anything, feel anything, or hear anything. She was just asleep, and later that night she killed everything in her sight, until there was nothing left living in the small town.

Emily woke up on the cold, hard street. She looked at her hands to see that they were covered in blood that she didn’t know how had got there. She stood up, remembering nothing of what had happened the night before. The streets were covered in red, the air reeked of iron. Emily walked through the streets and saw bodies covering the sidewalks, guts on the walls, in the streets, in the trees, and even on the street lights. The remains of people she knew and people she did not were scattered everywhere. Emily walked over to where her house used to be and sat down on the burnt remains of the place she once called home. She wanted to know what had happened the night before. She wanted to know if she had caused all of this destruction herself, and more importantly, she wanted to know if she could do it again.

 

Michael (Excerpt)

   

Chapter One

 

Daniel took a breath, stepping off the subway. His flight from Seattle had just landed, and he was able to catch a train that went straight from JFK Airport to New York City, his old home. Though he hadn’t visited the large city since three years ago, when he did live in the area, he still felt like he belonged there. He used to believe he did belong there, as all of his friends and connections were there.

His mother was able to get him a plane ticket and arrange for him to stay at his friend’s house for a week or so. Daniel was excited and could barely sit still on the flight. Texting and calling weren’t the same as seeing his friends in real life. He walked down the street, avoiding the crowds, while turning off airplane mode on his phone.

Daniel stopped as he noticed that he was there, at his friend’s home. It was arranged as a surprise for Percy, one of his good friends. He wondered how much they had all changed. They must have changed, hadn’t they? When he left, they were only eleven years old, and now he was fourteen. He was shorter back then, and he had changed his hair since then, and he wondered how much they had changed.

He wondered how much Michael had changed. Michael, his best and closest friend. Michael, the one who had drifted the farthest away from him after he moved. He couldn’t wait to see him. Daniel had decided on visiting him in the first few hours of his trip. He wanted to hug his best friend like he hadn’t in years, tell him all about life in Seattle, and see the people he had grown to know as part of his family.

He walked up the stairs, pressing the buzzer that was on the wall. He immediately got access, and a feeling of nostalgia ran through him as he looked up at the darkly lit stairwell that he remembered so well. He quickly climbed up the old stone stairs, his feet making soft thumps as he scaled the three stories it took before he was standing there.

Daniel stood in front of the door he remembered. It was a red door with a small peephole. Some of the paint had chipped off, showing the dark wood that was hidden underneath. He took a deep breath, swallowing his nervousness, as he knocked on the door three times.

“Mom, I got it!” Daniel heard someone say, who sounded very familiar. Though the voice was deeper and louder, he couldn’t help but smile at the sound of his old friend’s voice. The nervousness climbed back up his throat as the door swung open to show a shocked Percy.

“Daniel?” Percy asked, his voice quiet and shocked. Daniel smiled, looking his friend up and down. He had gotten taller, much taller (though Percy always had a few inches on Daniel when they were younger, he was at least half a head taller than him now). Percy’s hair was still the same dark brown, and his eyes looked like a more vivid hazel than they did three years ago. Percy wore a red T-shirt and jeans, and old, worn, black Converse that looked exactly like the pair he had worn when he was younger, though they couldn’t have possibly been the same as his feet looked five times larger than they were in the past.

“Hi, Percy,” Daniel said, trying to keep his voice steady when really it was shaking with excitement. Percy enveloped him in a hug, and Daniel hugged back, knowing he missed the feeling of his friend’s touch.

“How come you didn’t tell me you were coming back?” Percy asked as he pulled away, punching Daniel in the shoulder, causing him to yelp.

“Hey!” Daniel said, rubbing his shoulder. “It was a surprise. Your mom helped set it up.” Percy turned around and glared at his mom, who was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, her phone out and blinking, signalling it was recording.

“Wow, Mom, thanks,” he said sarcastically. “Here, come in. So, are you staying? You’ve honestly missed so much.”

“I think I’m staying for a week or two,” Daniel said, dropping his bag next to the door. He stepped into the apartment, which looked the same from what he could see. The light wood floors and cabinets on the walls were the same, and the kitchen looked the same — white cabinets and countertops, which looked good in Percy’s mom’s opinion (though Percy disagreed, as he had thought that all their science experiments they had done when they were younger would ruin the cabinets).

“How’s your mom’s job going?” Christine, Percy’s mother, asked, referring to the reason that Daniel had moved away from them in the first place. She handed him a mug of hot chocolate.

“Good, she says that she really likes it, and it pays well, so she thinks she’s going to stay there for a while,” Daniel said, taking a sip of the hot chocolate, frowning as it scorched his tongue.

“You always make it too hot, Mom!” Percy exclaimed when he took a sip, sputtering at the unexpected heat.

“Hey, it’s not my fault. I just turn on the kettle and that heats up the milk, not me!” Christine said, holding her hands up in surrender. “I’m going to take the dog for a walk. You two can catch up.”

Daniel looked at Percy in surprise. “You got a dog?” he asked. Percy had always wanted to get a dog, but he never could because his older brother Charlie was allergic.

“Charlie’s twenty now, and he moved to college. He’s actually in Florida right now, enjoying the nice, warm weather while we have to suffer in this cold,” Percy said, scowling. “But that means I get to have a dog.”

“What kind of dog is it?” Daniel asked, looking around, now noticing the dog bowls and kennel in the living room.

“A small one, some kind of mix. That’s what the breeder said, anyways,” Percy shrugged as the door closed, signalling they were alone in the apartment.

“And how are the rest of them? Jace and everyone else?” Daniel asked, sitting on the couch in the living room.

“He got another guinea pig, two actually. And a lizard gecko, and a few more fish,” Percy said, counting the animals that their friend had gotten. They called Jace the Animal Whisperer, because he always had at least five different kinds of animals, whether it be guinea pigs or snakes.

“How’s Michael? I haven’t talked to him in a while,” Daniel asked, causing Percy to frown.

“He moved. Somewhere in Oregon, I think.” Percy sighed, taking a sip of his drink, his mood lowering at the mention of their friend across the country.

“Really? When? Why?” Daniel asked. Percy shrugged, sinking into the couch as he took another sip.

“About a month and a half ago. I don’t know why he moved. One day he just disappeared, and we didn’t hear from him for a week. Then, my mom got a call saying he had moved to Oregon,” Percy explained, putting his empty mug of hot chocolate on the coffee table.

Daniel thought back to a month and a half ago. A month and a half ago, he was still in Seattle and texting his friends daily. But a month and a half ago, his messages and calls weren’t being returned from Michael. And then a month ago, his messages weren’t being delivered and his calls rejected. Maybe that was why, he had lost his phone or gotten a new one.

“My messages haven’t been sending to him since then,” Percy exclaimed, revealing a problem similar to Daniel’s. “My mom just thinks he got a new phone, but I think he would’ve told us before they disconnected his old one.”

“We should go to Oregon then!” Daniel said with a small, playful smile, causing Percy to laugh.

“Sure, ‘cause my mom would totally allow that five minutes after you stepped off your plane to New York. And we don’t even know where he lives!” Percy laughed, the mood lightening.

“Sure, but we could find out, maybe. I want to talk to him!” Daniel declared. “We need to get the group back together.”

Percy frowned. “But Daniel, you’re going to be here for barely a week. And how would we be able to find him?”

“Maybe the landlord of his old apartment knows something,” Daniel speculated. “Or his cousin! His cousin lives in Greenwich Village, on Fourth Street. They’ve got to know something.”

“Do you really wanna do this the second you get back to the city?” Percy asked. “We should at least go and surprise Jace. We can’t leave him out of this.”

“We’ll do that first. But please, I haven’t seen you guys in three years. It should be four of us, not three of us and one of them missing,” Daniel pleaded, seeing the conflict in Percy’s eyes.

“But Daniel, it was three of us and one missing for three years,” Percy said, causing Daniel to frown. “We never saw you, and we still managed to have fun. Sure, it wasn’t the same, but isn’t different good? What if neither of them have information?”

“But what if they do?” Daniel asked. “It can’t hurt to try, right?”

Percy sighed, standing up, and Daniel cheered in victory.

 

The Bathroom Mirror (Excerpt)

The next day, Mary woke up to find a note on her bedside. Of all things, her sister thought this was the most appropriate. Love letters on how much she missed her. Mary snatched the paper from her bedside and opened it. You have been warned. If it had been written in any other way, then maybe she would have taken it seriously, but the font Helvetica? Really? She was worth way more than this basic font. She discarded the paper where she did everything else: underneath her bed. Getting out of bed would have usually been a problem, but today it just felt like that day. She jumped onto her very gritty floor and nearly slid. She still slept with socks on, like a weird person. She glanced in the mirror as she headed to school, simply because she was that weird person who slept with their clothes for the day already on. You only ever realized this if you lived with her. From past “friends,” Mary had learned that telling people she poured her milk before her cereal was probably not a good conversation starter, unless she wanted to be teased mercilessly.

Besides all of that, Mary was walking to school with someone following her. Every step she took and every block she turned, she felt a presence there with her. She burst into a sudden sprint to school, and at the door she was greeted with a familiar face she hadn’t seen in quite a while. She was not sure if she should be mad because he never texted back or happy that Josh was finally back. He ran his hands through his thickly gelled hair, and she rolled her eyes. No greetings were needed, as they were back to talking about Josefin’s abnormally big ears. Secretly, she felt bad. Who was she to judge? But she was just so glad Josh was here, that she didn’t really care what they were talking about.

Finally, the elephant in the room was addressed. “So… where were you… all this time?” Mary said casually.

“Oh you know, just taking care of business,” Joshy struck back. Afraid to make things too awkward, Mary let it be at that. What business? Mary wanted to ask. What could be so important that you would just leave? And right after that whole mirror incident too? This was getting complicated, and she didn’t want to get too deep into it, so, again, she let it go.

The rest of the day, she went from class to class as if nothing was happening. But there was still a presence that she could feel following her. She kept looking back so hard that her neck started hurting. Her whole experience of just being was super eerie. Like when she had that weird dream of being in that girl’s body and that man… Mary didn’t understand why this was happening to her. Or why it would happen to anyone for that matter. In her confusion, she did what any other teenager would do and Googled it. She didn’t really know what to type, not that anyone had ever talked about being through this, so she looked up Bloody Mary. She saw what she expected. A Wikipedia page on how Bloody Mary died. Murdered in a dungeon by her caretaker, Harold Green. Chills ran down her back. Slowly, she was able to piece things together. She got up from crouching on the bathroom floor, as she smelt the girl in the next stall completely gassing the place. She scrunched up her face and ran out of the bathroom. Everyone knew the school bathroom was for meeting, talking, dancing, possibly peeing, or even making Snapchat stories if you were that girl, but no one ever actually used the bathroom.

With her face flushed, Mary ran to last period, her phone lodged between her books. She was probably the only girl too paranoid to leave her stuff in her locker.

 

What Separates Them All

The air around the harbor blows every which way, cool gusts of wind sending the waves that lap by the shore into a frenzy. The summer sun sinks into the sky, replaced by dark clouds that settle on the horizon, as a light breeze shifts to colder, increasingly high temperatures, frigid enough to make the hairs on Farah’s neck stand up. Everything around here changes in a fraction of a second. The ripples in the water become choppy waves in a matter of minutes, the palm trees once static sway with such motion that they nearly blow over.

Farah detests it. The unpredictable weather breaks fishermen’s boats into halves, endangers the lives of the children swimming by the cove — making the entire village regard the sea with apprehension, despite centuries of the two living side by side.

She spends a month in the miserable seaside town every year. Any major city or outpost is hours away, and the nearest airport is nearly a day’s journey. The coastal village couldn’t be further away from any form of modern day civilization, isolated at the very tip of the Mediterranean. Neither is there any cellular service, and Farah quickly finds herself buried in boredom mere hours after her family’s arrival.

A clap of thunder startles her, and she turns away from the sea, just as a slow patter of rain can be heard as it drums against the roof of the house. Fanning an arm on top of her head to shield herself from the increasing speed of the downpour, Farah makes her way past the dock and up the coastline. Poor weather calls for hazardous conditions, and a night cooped indoors. She reminds herself that she’s only got twenty nine days left, and picks up her pace to make it back inside before she’s soaked to the skin.            

Farah can see the warm crackle of the fire and her family seated in a circle by the hearth through the window of the house, her younger cousin sitting below the easy chair as their grandmother weaves through Laila’s hair, her nimble fingers forming a neat plait that lies down her back. Her cousin enjoys their month in the village by the sea to an extent that Farah can’t understand. She holds a parallelled view — she can just remember the recent years of never looking forward to their summer vacation along the coast of Turkey.

The very truth is that when she’s here with her family, she never feels more out of place. Farah looks like them all, her tan skin and thick brown hair only a few shades lighter than the surrounding community. She can pretend she fits in all she wants, but she knows she does not. Her tongue can’t twist to form harmonized vowels or thick rolls of Ks and Rs, all everyone can hear is the voice of a foreigner. Her family attends the mosque every week, and Farah can merely hum nonsensical syllables that she strings together, can never blend into the way her relatives pronounce everything with such grace, as if the beautiful words can just roll off of their tongue. The fact that Farah is not bilingual is the defining factor that separates them all.

She wonders if her family is ashamed that she doesn’t speak the dialect like they do. They’d never fully accepted that fact that only one of Farah’s parents were Turkish, and her mother’s passing had made their relationship strained altogether. Farah’s grandparents had worked so hard to get Farah’s mother through her years of schooling, had risked so much to help support her when she moved overseas, and losing their daughter had left a heavy mark in their lives. Farah, the only child of her parents, was the last remaining bit that her grandparents had of their mother. Had she failed them for having the inability to hold on to what her mother had passed on?

When her grandparents looked at Farah, they saw the very same girl who’d stood in front of them decades ago, waves of dark hair framing her face, almond shaped eyes, exact matches to theirs. When they saw Farah, they saw the hope of the future their own daughter had had in her, the one who blazed trails and set a new path for herself, outside their bubble of home. But when her grandparents saw Farah, they also saw what they’d lost, and maybe Farah was too painful a reminder for them to see.

***

Farah greets her family and makes her way upstairs, her footsteps quiet thuds against the wooden floorboards. She shares a bedroom with her cousin, the very one that used to be her mother’s. The photograph by the bedside table makes her lips tug into a small smile — it’s one of her rosy cheeked mother, beside her two brothers, and Farah’s grandparents. If she looks at it close enough, she can see the resemblance of herself. When Farah’s mother was alive, Farah would share this room with her parents every summer. Her anne would sit by the floor of the closest and laugh with Farah, and the two would pour over old photo albums, and she’d show her the window that she’d rigged in her teens to sneak out at night without her parents knowing. Farah stands in the very same place she once did with her mother, seven years ago, thumbing through the old dresses of her mother’s that line the inside. She pulls one out and holds it to her nose, because if she tries hard enough, she can smell the familiar scent of rosewater and saffron, a comforting memory.

At the very back of the closet is a dusty pile of schoolbooks, ones Farah’s mother saved to teach her Turkish as a child. The covers are stained and pages are missing, but staring at the same images she did as a four year old help her formulate syllables she tries to sound out together. Learning Turkish isn’t too hard of a task, but only spending one month in Turkey doesn’t give her much time to learn the language properly. She forgets everything she learns once she gets back home, and she hasn’t met one person in her town who’s Turkish beside her. Farah knows that it’s hard for her father, but she’s caught in the middle. She looks nothing like anyone in the States, nothing like her father, and while her looks bear similarities of those around her when she’s here, she’s regarded as the yarim turk, the half-white Turkish girl.

Merhaba, Farah,” Laila passes a warm smile to her cousin, “wanna come downstairs with me? Baba brought new rolls from the market, and they’re toasty.” She glances down to where Farah flips a page of the textbook, “Hey, I remember those — Auntie Zehra used to teach us from them, right?”

She puts her back against the wall, facing Farah, “Here, I’ll help you — repeat after me! Baba will be thrilled to hear you say this.” She passes Farah a cheeky grin, “It’s, uh, merhaba kaltak.”

Minutes later, when Farah repeats the phrase to her uncle, his eyes go wide in surprise, and Laila’s brother has to conceal his laugh behind the table. He gives her a bemused smile, “Don’t let anyone else ever let you say that, Far. And don’t take lessons from Laila.” Laila is in peals of laughter, and Farah’s cheeks flame a bright red. But her uncle’s twinkle is bright as he tugs at her braid. “I’d be happy to teach you some — your mother would’ve loved to hear this.”

Farah rolls over on the bed that she and Laila share, just as her cousin nudges her. Laila’s voice is quiet, as to not wake the household, and her gaze drifts to the photograph that stands on the table, “What was his name, Farah?”

Her eyes close and her throat tightens, but she breathes a quiet response, “Imran.”

Laila reaches out to grip Farah’s hand, “I would’ve loved to meet him, Far.”

“Yeah.” The Mediterranean breeze flutters through the open window and blows stray hairs onto Farah’s face. “I would’ve, too.”

The warmth of her cousin’s embrace is comforting, and Farah lets out a breath that she hadn’t realized she’d holding. Seven years ago, Farah lost her mother, and her miscarriage had meant that Farah had also lost a brother. And the only thing she has left of them are the people with her now. If she can’t push herself to bridge that gap between the people she loves the most, then her family is going to be one more thing that she loses, too.

Her grandfather takes her out on his fishing boat the next morning, their quiet ritual of Sunday mornings. The salty sea air wafts through the breeze as he pushes the boat far out into the cove, as it bobs along the waves. Farah glances up towards the cloudy sky and hesitates before passing him the paddle, so that she can swim out to climb aboard. She wades in knee deep, and the fog settles across the sea, just enough so that she can still see where the boat floats on the sea.

As soon as she makes her way across the beach, the waves swell in size, and cascade abruptly against the rocks. Worry etches across her features as a clap of thunder echoes in her ears, and the summer sun seems to disappear under the expanse of dark billows in the sky.

Farah lets out a scream as the heavy seas overturn the boat, and her grandfather is swept under by the current. She keeps a trembling finger pointing at his exact spot, not wavering her gaze, to keep track of where he is. She shouts in broken Turkish and curses every bit of her bones for not taking the time to memorize the shouts of help. The calm sea seems to turn angry with rage, and the light hues of blue turn dark and stormy, reflections of the clouds overhead, the storm settling on the horizon. Farah doesn’t stop yelling even when her voice turns raw, consumed by the sound of waves crashing against the rocks — the dangerous, sharp landmarks that will kill any sailor if they’re thrown against them. Her knees buckle under her as the villagers run towards the water, her nails digging into her palms, and she sinks into the sand, a quiet sob escaping her throat.

Farah stays by her grandfather’s side through the night. The boat was torn apart on the rocks, and he’d washed up on the shore, bruised, bloodied, and battered, but with a wisp of a heartbeat still sound in his chest. They’d called the doctor and cleaned his wounds, letting him rest, but Farah didn’t dare to sleep.  She kneels by his bedside now, helping take shifts with her uncles and grandmother. The events of today register in her mind that the family she’s taken for granted for so many years, are the ones she could never imagine losing.

Her grandfather doesn’t stir for days, and neither does Farah, spending her hours tending to his needs and pouring over the dusty Turkish textbooks piled in the corner of her mother’s closet. Her uncle helps her, and her skills in the language increase more than they ever have in the past fifteen years. Because now, Farah truly has a desire to learn. When her grandfather wakes, he slips a wrinkled hand into hers, and she squeezes it gently, tears pricking her the corners of her eyes.

“You’re just like your anne, jaan,” he whispers. “You make me smile, just like she did. Your mother was wonderful. My Zehra was her own person,” his voice catches as he lets out a waver, “just like you are.”

Farah slides under the covers, next to her grandfather and wraps a gentle arm around him as he falls into a peaceful sleep, the warmth of his embrace just like her mother’s. The language that divided Farah from her family also brings them together, and as her eyes drift close, she realizes that just like the people she’s with, she might grow to love the idea of this home.

***

The salty summer breeze whips at her skirts, and Farah lifts her son up onto her hip, as they gaze out at the sea. “This is Turkey, jaan,” Farah smiles softly, and presses a kiss into his curls, ones very much like hers.

Where Farah stands is where her mother did, decades ago. And when little Imran’s fingers curl around Farah’s thumb in joy, Farah looks at the house behind her and down at the sands that seep between her toes, the water that washes against the beach. It used to be a reminder of what Farah lost. But now, it’s just a reminder of what has changed.

 

Telekinesis Boy

My name is Igor Parentheses Daily, and the moment I woke up today was the first day of the rest of my life.

When I woke up, my phone was on the other side of the room. I didn’t want to get up to reach my phone, so I imagined the phone flying into my hand and thought, That would be cool, so the phone got up and flew into my hand! I was so surprised that I dropped my phone. At least that turned the alarm off.

When I got on the school bus, I decided to test whether it was a dream or not. I went to say hi to my best friend, Daniel. We had been friends since we were three. We loved to play pranks on our other friends.

I went up to him and hollered, “Look! It’s a bird!”

He didn’t fall for it. He said, “I am not going to look.”

I replied, “Okay, suit yourself. It’s not my bag that’s being flung out the window.”

He turned around to see that his bag was hovering in the air, about to be thrown out the window by an invisible force.

Daniel responded, “Nice. Wait, did you steal my levitate-a-bag ropes?”

Suddenly, I felt nauseous. I realized that using my powers is hard. It also takes a lot of energy out of me. I would only use my power in small amounts from then on.

In gym class, our teacher Mr. Schwarzonator told us that we had to run the pacer. I decided otherwise. When he pushed the button next to the light switch, the program started.

“Get on the line,” he barked.

I got on the line just as the announcer started to speak. “The fitnessgram pacer test is a multi — ”

I was just thinking, The fitnessgram pacer test is a blah blahblahblah blahblahblah blah blah, when the announcer announced, “On your mark, get ready, start!”

I just stood there. Didn’t do a thing.

When Mr. Schwarzonator shouted at me, “Start running, Daily!” I still remained motionless. When he reached to blow his whistle, I moved it to the other side of the room. Now, it was Mr. Schwarzonator’s turn to stay motionless. By then, all the kids had stopped running and started high fiving me.

One asked, “How did you do that?”

Another questioned, “Wait, wait, wait. Did you steal my rope that I use to throw whistles across rooms?” It was probably the highlight of my day.

The next day, I decided to try and figure out how I got these powers. I searched my memory for what I did two nights ago. I started from after dinner.

First, I did my homework. Second, I took a shower. Third, I watched some of my favorite TV show, The Boss. Don’t see anything that could have given me superpowers then. I went back further, to around lunchtime. First, I went to boring classes. Second, I went onto the nice, little, abandoned cliffside that had ghost stories about it. Third, I went home to eat dinner. Which one could it be? I went on a limb and decided that it was probably the ghost-storied, abandoned cliffside. I decided to go back there the next day to find out more about my powers.

The day after that, I went to the abandoned cliffside after school. I saw these glowing, green rocks, but they weren’t green like grass, more like that part of the ocean you don’t want to explore. I picked one up and studied it. It was shaped unlike all the rocks I’ve ever seen. Instead of being circular, it was jagged. If someone told me it was a moon rock, I would have believed them. Then, someone knocked me unconscious.

I woke up in a lab, held down on a chair, and took a look around. There was a wooden desk in the corner, which looked unused and forgotten about, but that wasn’t my real concern. The sharp-looking tools on the desk were my real worry. I wasn’t going to get tortured! I looked at what was holding me down. It appeared to be a simple zip tie. I made the knife on the table fly to me and tried to get it to cut the zip tie, but it hit me instead! Owowowowowowowow! That hurt, but luckily, it was only across my arm, it didn’t stab me. I realized that without being able to see my restraints, I couldn’t move the knife toward them without risking it stabbing me. I had to take the chance.

I started to move the knife very slowly out of my plane of vision, hoping to keep it in control. It hit me, and it hurt, but as it hit me, it cut into the zip tie. I kept on cutting, and after three minutes or so, the zip tie broke. I decided to pretend like I couldn’t move even though I could, to throw off my captors.

After 15 minutes of this, an intimidating man walked in. He told me, “I want to learn about your powers.”

I replied, “Let me go!” Then, I tried to trip him using my powers, but he seemed to be able to deflect it.

He looked amused. “Well, well, well, someone is trying to use their powers. Sadly, this room dampens them, so no telekinesis for you.”

I didn’t believe him. “Well, that’s kind of funny.” As I stated this, I telekinetically picked up the extra zip tie behind him. I continued, “Because… wait, why can’t you move your legs?”

Mid-sentence I had zip tied his feet together. It was hilarious! He tried to walk backwards but tripped on the zip tie! When he fell back, I zip tied his hands together. Now that he was stuck, I stood up, zip tie free, and started out the hall.

Since this facility captured and zip tied me, I wasn’t eager to explore, so I just tried to find a way out, and while I was searching, I saw hallways among hallways of rooms looking identical to mine. I promised myself I would free those people later. I did eventually find the exit, at the end of the only hallway with no attached rooms or hallways, then left the building. After a couple of minutes and some asking, I oriented myself to the city and took a taxi home. When I got home, I decided that I would find the people that the scary guy worked with and turn them into the police, using my powers to help.

When I woke up the next day, I pulled my phone from across the room with no effort and realized that my powers were improving. I had so many questions about them. How did I get it? Is it like a muscle, so that I can improve it while using it? Does something generate it? I wanted to solve all of those mysteries, but first, I had to defeat that man. I am going to call him TG, for That Guy.

After school that day, I went and tried to find the lab, but was unsuccessful. I was shouting and was so frustrated that I couldn’t think straight. When I got home, I was watching a random TV show, then a Star Wars ad popped up. It showed Yoda telling Luke, “You will only find what you seek when you stop looking,” and I knew what I had to do.

On day five of having my powers, it was Friday, so I got out of school early and had more time to search. During school, I tried to develop my powers. In gym class, instead of moving Mr. Schwarzonator’s whistle across the room, I tried moving bigger things. While we were playing basketball, it was Daniel, a new kid whose name I forgot, and me versus the best kids at basketball in the grade. There was Peter, whose dad made him play at least two hours a day everyday since he was three. There was Coby, whose Mom played professionally for 15 years, and finally, last but certainly not least, there was Jack. Jack was six feet and six inches and was the only sixth grader that could dunk. He could also make any shot, as long as it was closer to the hoop than the half court line.

We were severely outmatched, with only two minutes left on the clock and my team losing by 15 points, but I had a plan. When the other team got the ball, they immediately passed to Jack, which they had been doing for that entire game. He got it and started going down the court, fast as a lion. I pushed the ball away with telekinesis, but made it looked like Jack just tripped. It went out of bounds, and my team got the ball. I took it out, passed it to Daniel, and told him to shoot, even though he was at half court. As he shot, I telekinetically moved the ball into the hoop, giving our team three points. I did this for the rest of the game, giving our team the ball, then making ridiculous shots. By the end of the game, we won by nine points.

After the game, Jack asked me, “Did you steal the ropes that I use to make ridiculous shots?”

After school, I set my plan in motion. I went near the cliff with the rocks and didn’t do a thing, like in gym class. I just stood there. Suddenly, I heard a movement in the woods and turned around to see my most fearsome foe. That guy! I faced him, ready for battle.

He said, “You know, Igor, I generate your power. It was me who originally found the stones, so I have the ability of telekinesis. It was also I who told the ghost stories about the cliff to keep everyone away from them. The only reason I didn’t knock you out the first time you came here was because I wanted to see if the stones still had any power in them. Now that you’re here, I assume they do. And you cannot defeat me, because I can stop generating the power, and you won’t have them anymore. The only downside to stop generating the power would be that I would no longer possess it, but that won’t matter if I am in jail. So, I will give you two options. Forget this ever happened and you can go about, freely using your power, and having a good time. Option two is that you fight me and die, or I will go to jail and you won’t have your powers. So what do you chose?”

I answered, “I choose the one where you stop making all of those incredibly long speeches.” Then, we fought.

At first, he had the upper hand because he had had his powers for so long, but I was catching up, countering his attacks and sometime putting in my own. Granted, we weren’t actually moving when we were fighting, just standing there, using our abilities and looking like statues.

After a couple of minutes of dodging and countering, blocking and dodging, he finally pinned me to a tree and muttered, “Don’t try anything funny,” but as he said this, I pushed him back into a different tree, so it sounded more like, “Don’t try anything fuuaaaaa!” Once he was pinned, he cried out, “Remember. If you take me into the police, I will turn off your power, and your life will be as boring as ever.

After he told me this, I had a split second decision to make. Do I want my power more than justice for that man? I was so startled by this decision that That Guy had time to get up and knock me unconscious once again.

This time, when I woke up, I was pinned down on a cold, metal table, with little droplets of water going down my forehead every five seconds or so. “This must be to distract me, so I can’t use my telekinesis,” I muttered. I also had a blindfold on, probably to keep me from seeing anything to move to cut myself lose. This was going to be hard to escape.

Suddenly, a voice whispered in my ear, “I know you’re awake. It must be hard to not be able to use your power after five amazing days of having them, but I can’t have you trying anything.” It was That Guy. He continued, “Guess what, Igor? I finally decided to just pull the stones from the dirt. I really don’t know why I didn’t do that before. Now, I don’t need the power I have now, because I can figure out how to take more from the rocks. You know what that means? No more powers for you!” And with that, he left.

Suddenly, I felt my power being drained from me. It happened so precipitously, like it was a bullet being fired from a gun. It was so painful, a bullet ant would have empathy. I made a decision in that moment. I would get my power back and stop That Guy. I realized that my arms could still move, even though I was chained to a table. I took off my blindfold and realized that the only thing holding me down were zip ties on my feet, which I quickly undid and went to the door. That was unlocked too. It seemed that That Guy didn’t care about me now that he took my powers. Good, that would make it easier to take his.

As I started out of the faculty, I decided to free some people along with me. The first one I freed was a timid, little seven-year old, and she told me that her name was Kira. When I asked her what her power was, she told me that she could control computers by hacking them with her mind. I asked her if she could see things on a computer other than data, like videos, and she said she could. I asked her if she could find glowing, green rocks on the security cameras, and she answered that she could and then gave me directions to them. I knew this was a long shot, but I asked her if she could remotely open everyone’s cell door, and she told me she could, but that wouldn’t undo the bindings. I was fine with that. I told her to open all of the cell doors, then free as many people as she could, and get out of there. She wished me good luck, and off I went.

I started down the path that Kira had instructed me to go to, but soon realized that whenever she said left, she meant right, and vice versa. This was going to be harder than I thought.

After a couple wrong turns and plenty of backtracking, I finally got the hang of remembering to reverse rights and lefts. When I reached the room they were allegedly in, I searched for the green rocks. The room was small enough that it wouldn’t be a major challenge to find the rocks, but my only problem was that the room was very crammed, with too many drawers to count, and materials strewn about. This might take a while.

Suddenly, I heard a loud alarm blare through the facility, and a soothing voice said, “T-minus 10 minutes until self destruction sequence initiates.”

After five minutes or so of hurried searching, with me looking at my watch all the time to see how much longer I had, I saw something green and shining under a tarp, so I decided to search it. When I lifted up the tarp, I heard a snap. It was a tripwire! I dove forward, trying to avoid whatever could hit me, but nothing happened. I was in the clear, for now. I went to the green rocks, and when I picked them up, an anvil fell where I was standing before I dove forward.

Suddenly, I heard a voice say from behind, “Well, well, well. Looks like someone wants their powers back. The only problem is, I will touch the stones, and then I too, will have powers.”

“I don’t want my powers back, I have my powers. If you haven’t noticed, I am holding the stones,” I replied.

Then, I used all of my brain power to push him back as hard as I could, and he flew into the doorway horizontally, so that his head and legs took the brunt of the impact. He started to get up, grunting, and I hit him again, this time focusing the push on where he hit his head. He screamed in pain, and then fell unconscious.

The computer voice spoke again, “T-minus two minutes until self destruction sequence initiates.” I looked from That Guy to the exit, then back to That Guy, and then lifted him with telekinesis, as if he were on an invisible gurney. Because I had to focus on holding him up, I put the stones in his lap so that my hands were free. Then, the computer said, “Self destruct sequence initiating.”

At first I was afraid, I was petrified, is the beginning of a song from the ‘70s that my parents like to listen to, but it is exactly how I felt. Afraid and petrified, but when nothing happened, I relaxed. Then, the room I was just in exploded.

I started running as fast as possible, with rooms exploding behind me as I went. This was very difficult because I had to maneuver That Guy out of the way as well. When we entered the hallways, filled with rooms of people, the explosions stopped, and I started to free them.

Then, the computer voice announced, “T-minus 30 seconds until next stage of self destruction,” and I almost panicked, but somehow managed to keep it together.

When I freed all of them, and told them to run for their life, the explosions in the cells started again. I started running, but for a split second saw a kid, maybe six or seven, held down in a room that I missed, and I knew what I had to do.

I think I had maybe five seconds until his room exploded, so I used that time to undo his bindings, throw him out of the room, telekinetically, of course, then, when the bomb exploded, I absorbed it in what one could call an invisible force field. I somehow didn’t die, so I ran out the room to the little boy. I didn’t have time to tell him what was happening, so I simply said, “Follow me.”

We started running as fast as we could down the hallway, the explosions going on around us. Suddenly, the computer voice announced, in between explosions, “Stage three of self destruction initiating.” I heard a distant explosion. Suddenly, the ceiling started shaking, and where we had been a second before got smashed by falling chunks of ceiling.

The six-year-old and I started sprinting, me occasionally sidestepping to avoid rubble that would have fallen on me, but the six-year-old just ducking under it.

He asked me, “Why are you sidestepping?”

I didn’t respond and kept sidestepping. We approached the last corridor until the exit, but we had one problem. It was filled with rubble, blocking our path. I focused my mind and tried to think of something peaceful, like trees moving in the wind, dancing, with the sun lighting them up, but in a good way, that makes you wonder why not everything is like that, and then, I lifted up the entire corridor.

It was so excruciatingly painful and stressful on my mind, I would not have been surprised if I lost my powers the next day. I almost dropped That Guy, which would have killed him in his condition. I wondered what the six-year-old’s powers were, but I had to stop because I had to put all of my energy into lifting up the hallway. I started to walk slowly through the corridor, and the six-year-old followed.

He said, “That’s awesome! I wish I could do that. By the way, my name is Aaron. Nice to meet you.”

I grunt-responded, “My name is Igor. Run until you reach the end of the corridor.”

But he, oblivious to the danger, said, “No, it’s fine. I’ve handled worse than falling building before.”

“Huh?” I replied, not having enough leftover brainpower to realize that his power was invulnerability.

We went on, with Aaron talking about how he loved pancakes and occasionally telling me a bad joke. He was really energetic. After what seemed like a lifetime, we reached the exit and stumbled out of the building, me exhausted, Aaron cheerful. What I saw before me was not superpowered children, but scared children, so I helped them. I went around to each and every one of them and asked if they knew their address, and if they did, told them to wait. If they did not, I asked if they knew their parents’ phone number. Some were older than me, the ones that just asked me where we were so they could find their way home, so I told them, and they went, but some stayed behind to help me.

Half an hour later, everyone was home. That Guy, whose name turned out to be Dexter, was going to trial. I asked the cops to not tell my mom that I was in danger, so they didn’t. Luckily, it was only six o’clock. I went home and took a shower immediately, so my mother wouldn’t ask what happened. After dinner, I started watching the final episode of The Boss, but in the middle, I realized that I would have to get rid of my powers. Because I put the stones on Dexter’s stomach, it gave him powers, but I got them first. I assumed that if I got rid of my powers, Dexter would lose his, so I had to do it. I focused all my willpower and imagined the power seeping out of me, and then, I tried to move my phone with my mind, but it wouldn’t work. I had lost my power.

I continued the show, and it ended without warning. The boss had just retired and was no longer stressed about anything. He was simply sitting on a lawn chair, on the side of a beautiful lake, with trees moving gently, like a dance, in the light breeze, and the sun setting slowly, yet beautifully. It was a very serene moment. Then, just as precipitously as my powers vanished, and my life returned to normal, the show cut to black.

 

The Purple Guard

Chris looked out at the barren desert, seeing nothing but sand. No trace of the Pobergontoply rock. He had hiked so many miles and still hadn’t found the Pobergontoply rock. He needed it in the next five weeks to bring back to HQ to get turned into a bomb to cover the Red Square with red blood. He took out his advanced tech to scan for the Pobergontoply signatures hidden deep within the sand. He had been searching for months and still had nothing. HQ would kill him if he didn’t have the rock.

The Pobergontoply rock was a rock from space that was super rare, and recently, a Pobergontoply meteor fell into the desert, but the meteor was so small that no one saw it fall. The organization Chris worked for had secret intelligence systems all across the world and were looking for Pobergontoply and noticed the rock fall. The Pobergontoply rock could be turned into a bomb that could completely decimate a country the size of France, and when dropped at the right spot, could destroy Russia’s capital and more.

Chris was part of a group known as the Purple Guard and was working to stop communism by toppling communist countries and destroying and killing countries and people that practiced communism. Russia was currently their main target and needed the bomb to destroy them. The KGB didn’t know anything about the plan or the Pobergontoply bomb, and the Purple Guard needed to keep it that way. Before becoming part of the Purple Guard, Chris was part of the CIA. What people didn’t know, was that the CIA secretly supported the Purple Guard, and Chris was sent by the CIA to observe progress.

After many long hours, the scanner started to beep.

Chris jumped up off his camel and frantically grabbed a shovel. He started digging, but after going down about half of a foot, he couldn’t dig farther. He dropped his shovel and scraped the sand off the hard surface. For the next few hours, he dug around the hard surface, and when he was done, he saw a smooth, shiny metal surface. He dug deeper, to pull out the rock. Two minutes later, he heard a low rumbling noise. He ran back as a huge metal creature rose from the ground. The creature was fully made up of metal, definitely a robot. It had a huge trunk and two long pointy horns Its large eyes were gleaming purple. It was an elephant, but it was way bigger than any elephant Chris had ever seen.

He pulled his computer out of his pack and quickly opened it. He hacked into the robot creature’s programming and found that it was sent as a gift to the Purple Guard by the Verlerbofs. The Verlerbofs were aliens who lived under the surface of Mercury. The Verlerbofs worked with the Purple Guard to overthrow communism. Looking deeper into the programming, he saw that the creature was programmed to eat any humans it saw. Chris began to get scared, but he then noticed that there was a way to control the elephant, and that was to sneak up to the robot and press a button hidden on the belly of the robot.

He crept forward as the elephant shook sand off its body. He crept closer, and suddenly, the elephant spun around, facing him. He knew that if he ran, the elephant would run after him, catch him, rip him apart, eat him, and kill everybody on the planet. He knew that his only choice was to run at the elephant and go for the button.

He dashed forward. The elephant swung his head, and the elephant’s trunk hit him, and he went flying backwards. He quickly got back up and ran at the elephant. The elephant began to swing his head, and Chris slid as he winced in pain from where he had hit the ground. The elephant stomped its, feet kicking up dust and creating mini earthquakes. Chris saw the button and reached out for it as his foot was impaled by a Pobergontoply horn. His vision blurred as he felt blood spilling out his leg. With a final jolt of energy, he pushed the button. The world went black.

Chris woke up to find that all his wounds were healed. He felt no pain on his leg where the elephant had impaled him, and he saw no blood staining the clothes he wore. He sat up to see the elephant facing him. A million thoughts whizzed through Chris’ mind. How was he healed? Did the elephant heal him? And most importantly: what should he call the elephant if he could control him? It needs a name!

He looked up at the elephant and asked out loud, “What should I call you?”

A clear male voice answered him.

“Call me whatever you want to call me.”

“Okay… Then I’ll call you Ray.”

“Okay.”

Chris asked another question. “Did you heal my leg?”

“Yes I healed your leg, and I also ate your camel.

“Uhhh… Okay. Well, can I ride you?”

“Okay.”

Chris stood up. He realized that he was in a dilemma. He needed to bring the Pobergontoply back to HQ, but in doing so, he would risk the friendship between the Purple Guard and the Verlerbofs. The Verlerbofs definitely didn’t want them to disassemble the robot, but the Purple Guard needed the Pobergontoply to create the bomb to make Russia go boom. Chris thought for a while but still couldn’t find a solution.

Chris had only come up with three options, ask the Verlerbofs for permission to disassemble the robot, bring Ray to the Purple Guard, or to go rogue and abandon the mission and be hunted by the Purple Guard. Being hunted by the Purple Guard was never good. They tortured and then burned people alive that disobeyed them.

Chris decided to bring the robot back to the Purple Guard. He hopped on Ray and rode across the desert. He rode all the way close to China where he made the elephant into a little sculpture. Throughout his journey with Ray, Chris grew very close to Ray. He took an air taxi to Hong Kong where he then went underground to the Purple Guard Headquarters hidden behind a secret door in the sewage pipes.

When he entered, he took in the familiar sights and smells of HQ. Computers sitting in a half circle around the door, a huge screen on the wall facing the entrance, and smaller rooms on the right and left sides of HQ.

He said hi to boss Luigi who asked where the Pobergontoply was. Chris reluctantly showed him the elephant. He knew that by giving Ray to Luigi, he would lose his friendship with Ray. He showed Luigi that the Pobergontoply elephant was a robot sent from the Verlerbofs and that he could control it. The boss told a guard to send it to one of the side rooms to be disassembled and then shipped to Italy to be turned into a Pobergontoply bomb. Chris lowered his head in defeat knowing that if he didn’t give Ray to Luigi, he would never get revenge on Russia for what they did to him. Chris went to a room behind one of the siderooms and then went down a long hallway, and at the end of the hallway, he entered his room.

When he entered his room, he saw his bed tucked into a corner of the room with a wardrobe across from the bed. The was also a chair, a TV, and a desk. He set his stuff down on a desk and looked at the photo that was on his desk. It was a photo of him and his brother the day his brother left for Russia. That day was 19 years ago. He remembered the day when the Russian government sent back his body. That was 17 years ago. He remembered seeing his dead body, he remembered burying him, he remembered enrolling in the CIA, and he remembered promising that he would one day destroy Russia. Now that was becoming reality.

Chris spent the next month preparing to be the pilot for the mission to destroy Russia (Mission 78). Chris insisted on being the pilot for the mission. He wanted to be the one to destroy Russia. And plus, this would be his last mission with the Purple Guard. After this mission, he was going to go back to the CIA. In this time, Chris thought about Ray and what they might do to him. The bomb was shipped back to Hong Kong five days before the mission was scheduled.

Chris took off. He flew his plane over China. As he flew over the target, he pressed the big red button. With a burst of speed, he turned his plane around. He heard a loud boom! He knew he had succeeded. He landed back in China 50 minutes later. The mission was a success. Most of Russia was now destroyed, and most importantly, Russia’s communist government was destroyed, and Chris had gotten his revenge.

For the next few days, the Purple Guard celebrated the destruction of Russia.

Ten days after the mission, a message from the Verlerbofs was transmitted to the Purple Guard.

You stupid losers!!! You killed our elephant, and your petty race will pay!!! We will come for you!!!

The Purple Guard began to get worried. They started setting up armies all over the planet and started to ask other countries to do the same. Two weeks after the message was transmitted, 37 spaceships were spotted. Right after that, the sky all over the world was darkened by millions upon millions of human shapes falling from the sky by parachutes. The next morning, Chris almost fainted.

Millions of humans were walking like zombies and grabbing or killing anyone that wasn’t a zombie. He took out a gun and opened fire on all the zombies. The bullets seemed to bounce off their bodies. The zombies all simultaneously turned on him and began walking towards him. He took out out a knife and threw it at the zombie. It pierced through the zombie, and the zombie fell down. Chris realized that bullets wouldn’t kill the zombie, but anything made of steel would pierce the zombies. He rushed at the zombie holding his knife. He stabbed all the zombies and moved on to other zombies. He told other people that things made of metal would kill the zombies, and soon, he had gathered up almost all of the survivors in an effort to make the zombies leave.

After three years of hiding and fighting their way through hordes of zombies, finally, the zombies left in their spaceships, but more than 79% of Earth’s population had been killed.

Chris led his group of people through the zombie apocalypse, and now they needed to start over. Chris started settlements of new cities and towns on the ruins of big cities. Chris easily became the leader of the new civilization he had started, and soon he had created a successful nation. But after 29 years of ruling his new civilization, Chris died of a mental illness, something like PTSD due to his horrific experiences with homicidal undead aliens from Mercury. His country continued to thrive even after his death.

 

Elite Cat Trainer

I used to be a dog person. Dogs were my whole life. I was a professional dog trainer, and not just any professional dog trainer. I was sponsored by Fluffy Friends™ and licensed by the American Dog Corporation. Until… my favorite dog, Betsy Fluffercins (the s is silent), a dog I had raised from birth, betrayed me.

One morning, I woke up to see her wagging tail only to be followed by her jumping up and pooping on my face. Even now, I am not fully recovered from this full-blown betrayal. But back then, I didn’t even want to live at all. I stopped eating, drinking, and doing anything that made me happy. I didn’t deserve to. I had failed as an elite dog trainer.

In my state of depression, I did the worst thing a man like me could do on his laptop. I watched cat videos.

But… what was this feeling? Why were these cat videos making me feel such a way? This… this was the same sensation I felt when I first met The One Who Shall Not Be Named. This was it. This was the thing God put me on this earth to do. I had to become…

The world’s first elite cat trainer.

I felt like I had once before. My drive to live had been restored. As quickly as humanly possible, I sprinted to my car and drove as fast as a Toyota could to the one place where I felt at home. Fluffy Friends™.

I sprinted through the automatic sliding doors, past bunnies, fish, and for the first time in my life, I walked past… the dog section. People gave me confused looks, knowing I was an elite dog trainer. Not anymore, I said to myself. Not anymore. And as I stepped into the cat section, I became a new man.

We locked eyes. A single tear rolled down my face, because I knew… I was in love again. She was gorgeous, a beautiful dotted pattern on her coat, and her lightning blue eyes made her stand out from the other Egyptian Maus. She looked stunning, no, heavenly as she groomed herself with her picture perfect pink tongue. I knew I had to do it, to purchase this majestic creature, I had to step inside… the cat section.

My first step hurt. I felt anguish through my entire body. Everything I’d ever known, gone. But, no matter how much it hurt, I knew she was worth it. My steps were slow and each one was like a stab to the heart, and I was about to turn back when, “Mew.” She mewed for me! At this moment, I swore I wouldn’t fail her, Betsy the Second.

Wait. What was this I saw. A… three-year-old trying to buy my cat! I was hoping it wouldn’t come down to this. I needed a weapon. This three-year-old girl was a fierce one, with nails sharper than daggers. I grabbed the nearest dog leash and used it to lasso the she-devil down. She wasn’t crying from the blood dripping down her face, but the pain of losing the one thing that mattered. Betsy the Second. After the questionable looks from the security guard, I quickly purchased the Egyptian Mau and took her back to my lovely Toyota.

The car drive back was quiet, and I didn’t know why. I tried all my usual tricks to get dogs to like me, but none of them worked! I fed her everything I could think of, from apples to zucchini. I was upset of course, but I assumed it would improve as the day went on. It didn’t. I was really questioning why I bought this cat in the first place. Until one fateful day…

I woke up ready to return Betsy the Second, when out of the corner of my eye, I made out the figure of a fluffy cat coming my way. Oh no! This is exactly how my relationship ended with The One Who Must Not Be Named.

“Just do it,” I yelled. “Just get it over with.” But then… But then… I felt a wet tongue gently stroke my face, and I knew I had made the right choice. Betsy the Second.

Once the ice broke, I found out how wonderful cats can be! They are so affectionate, but when you’re busy, you can spend some time alone without them bothering you. Plus after a week, my mice problem was nonexistent! Now I don’t know what I saw in dogs. While dogs are dumb and clumsy, cats are agile and quick-witted. Betsy the Second seems to understand everything when I talk to her! And because of our deep bond, she can perform marvelous tricks!

For example, I could never train Betsy Fluffercins (remember, silent s) to eat with a knife and fork, and Betsy the Second didn’t even need any training. I also trained her to jump through hoops one inch in diameter, and she has the ability to breathe underwater. (Unfortunately, after many tests, we have figured out that The One Who Shall Not Be Named cannot breathe underwater.)

This is why I think every human should have a cat. They are just as nice as dogs, but can be responsible when you need them to be. I haven’t doubted my decision to get a cat to this day… except for, you know, that one time. I am also proud to say that I am on my way to become the world’s first elite cat trainer. If you want to see her perform, she will be on Saturday Night Live and for the first time will be breathing underwater while going through a fire hoop.

 

Animals in Captivity

According to the Zoo Statistic, about 751,931 animals are living in institutions, and many of them are killed each year (Statistic Brain, 2017). Researchers have noticed that African elephants in zoos have lifespans of about 17 years, while wild ones live for about 36 years (Curiosity Staff, 2015). This is a massive difference, which means that zoos, where people collect wild animals in parks or gardens, are not beneficial to animals. Therefore, animals should not be held in captivity, as it harms them physically and mentally.

Starting off, many people say that the animals living in zoos will suffer physically and mentally, as their social needs are not the same or can’t be met in human society. Though some zoos do try to improve their conditions, zoos around the world differ in quality and in techniques for protecting their animals. An aquarium in Orlando called Sea World got a dolphin named Betsy who was previously in perfect condition and healthy. However, once Betsy arrived at Sea World, she started eating irregularly and quickly died (Sentinel Orlando, 2016). This conveys the fact that animals are not adapting to the institutions because they are held captive from their own lives, so there would not be any decent point in caging them. Adding on, people are harmed by keeping animals in captivity. There are incidents where dolphins kill workers or elephants critically injure people. It is a risk for them to be in zoos or aquariums, as these accidents are caused by the animals not being where they are originally supposed to belong.

Going on, multiple sources state how expensive zoos and aquariums are and also how they are a waste of resources to human civilization. Spending the money to create a “similar-looking” animal compound is less beneficial for overall conservation efforts. That same money could be better spent in a more centered conservation project. Some zoos spend upwards of $1 million a year just to maintain a single exhibit (Orens Shayna, 2017). There is a difference between having animals inside a small room with translucent walls for people to watch for entertainment and having them in places that focus on animals and their safety with much more freedom. According to Newsela, the San Diego Zoo in 2014 spent more than $10,000 on just advertising, according to its public financial statement. Like stated before, many institutions waste big amounts of money on things that are useless compared to other things the money could be spent on.

Furthermore, numerous zoos can’t provide enough space, so either way there isn’t a sufficient point in keeping animals when they could be free and live wherever they wish.

Tigers and lions have around 18,000 times less space in zoos than they do in the wild. In other words, zoos are not suitable for animals. There are sicknesses and diseases animals get from being too claustrophobic, which worsens the population. The territory becomes dirty and bacteria grow, making the animals become sick. Some say that keeping animals in captivity allows the animal population to be stable and stops certain species from being endangered. However, this is not the case. When animals are kept in small spaces, they become stressed, which causes them to not breed or reproduce. Having all the animals in captivity won’t prevent animals from being extinct and instead will be worthless.

All in all, animals should not be held in captivity, as it both harms animals and makes them suffer, since the human environment differs from their own habitats. Furthermore, there isn’t be any purpose, and it is a waste to keep animals in captivity. People come to zoos for enjoyment, and though these animals are stunning, their feelings and their lives are not the same in captivity.

 

Works Cited:

Orens Shayna. “Issue Overview: Should we have zoos?” Newsela, 2017. https://newsela.com/read/overview-zoos/id/28237/

Sentinel Orlando.SeaWorld won’t breed, replace unusual dolphins.” Newsela, 2016. https://newsela.com/read/seaworld-dolphins/id/14791/

Statistic Brain. “Zoo Statistics” Statistic Brain Research Institute, 2017. https://www.statisticbrain.com/zoo-statistics/

Curiosity Staff. “Do Animals Live Longer In Captivity?” Curiosity, 2015. https://curiosity.com/topics/animals-in-the-wild-versus-in-captivity/

Annabelle F. “Animals Should Not Be Kept In Cages” The Bell Magazine, 2014. http://thebell.global2.vic.edu.au/animals-should-not-be-kept-in-cages-annabelle-f/

 

Alice’s Choice

The air was filled with the taste of something creamy and buttery — cake.

Alice glanced up at the large, maple table overshadowing her, and then at the oversized, empty glass bottle laying beside her. The smell of cake wafted from above, and Alice knew that the delectable dessert was on top of the table. Doors of all variety and size adorned the walls, and the ceiling, well there was no ceiling at all! Instead, high above her was a long hole with a miniscule hole of light at the top. From what she could see, the sky was turning vermillion, as day was slowly engulfed by darkness. This must have been the hole she had fallen from, Alice realized.

How had everything gotten so big? she wondered. She recalled the tangy taste of the liquid she had drunk from the glass bottle, and then the tight, squeezing sensation that came after as her surroundings gradually grew larger and larger.

Alice crawled towards the bottle, its surface catching light and shimmering as she turned it over. The words drink me were inscribed on the bottle’s side, and she hugged her knees wondering what had just happened. Curiosity raced through her, ensnaring her mind in wonder.

Getting up, Alice paced around the room, examining each door. The doors had to lead somewhere, anywhere from here. Eventually, she came to a small, locked door her size, with a shiny door knob and gold paint peeling off from the door. An abnormally large keyhole was fitted above the door knob, and Alice could hear strange sounds coming from it, like a jungle. The sharp scent of something floral wafted from the hole, enticing her to come closer. Alice had to know what came behind it.

She scanned the walls, searching for anything that could help open this door, her eyes almost passing over a black key shrouded in the shadows. She picked up the key, about the right size for the keyhole, and the cold weight in her hands calmed her. A strong, metallic smell came from the key, permeating the air with the smell of iron.

The metallic scent reminded her of the smell of the pots and pans she would deal with at home. Everyday, she would wake up early to help her mother cook, but not out of goodwill. Her daily activities would include cooking, cleaning the house, and other menial tasks. The act of doing the same tedious drudgery every day eventually resulted into feelings of boredom and even resentment towards her family.

Alice realized that she wasn’t sure if she wanted to return.

“I don’t want to go back,” Alice said to herself.

“Nobody’s making you go.” A croaky voice rang out from the shadows, as a tall, green body stepped from the darkness.

A frog stood, fully clothed in a burgundy, satin suit. Shockingly bright spots of lime dotted his skin, and he twirled a wooden cane between his hands before finally setting it down and laying his webbed fingers on it. A black, silk top hat rested on his head, and his large, translucent eyes peered at Alice, who was staring back with wonder.

“What’s the matter, child?” The frog bent his knobby knees to lower himself to Alice’s level.

“I’m conflicted, I suppose. I don’t know if I should try to find my way back home, or continue exploring this… wonderful land,” Alice confessed.

“Well, why would you want to go home?” the frog asked.

“Because I know that place, because it’s familiar, and it’s home, and… and all of those things,” Alice said.

“But… ” the frog prompted.

“But this place, it’s so new. It’s so different from what I know. Everyday at home is the same thing over and over again; it’s driving me crazy,” Alice said. “And this place, it’s so full of wonders and things that I just have to explore.”

“Then, stay here,” the frog said, spreading his webbed fingers. He raised his foot and stomped on the floor, sending waves of dust flying, and revealing a small trap door in the floor.

“But I might want to go home!”

“Then, go home,” he lifted the door.

“But I want to stay and go explore this land!”

“Then, go!” the frog bellowed. He jumped into the hole, his voice echoing below the moss-eaten floor.

And then Alice was alone again.

She looked at the key, before setting it into the keyhole and turning it. The resulting click resounded throughout the large room. She set her hand on the doorknob and twisted it, pushing open the door.

Outside was a ravishing forest. Different types of flowers populated the sylvan landscape, and the sky was roofed by vast trees. The sun-dappled ground was covered with moss and ivy, and the forest smelled of petrichor and pine. Cool humidity settled on Alice’s skin, and a flock of birds flew past her. She soon realized they were not birds at all, but a deck of cards flying in the air.

Alice stood in the doorway. She could feel the allure of magic and wonder drawing her in. She lifted her foot past the threshold ready to set it down, but hesitation clouded her thoughts.

Alice knew that if she went back home, she would never have a life of imagination, of wonder, of freedom. This was the first time ever that she could have a change, a decision to make. Setting foot in this land would mean no more days of listless boredom and endless monotony.

But what if there were things, dangerous things, that could harm her in this land? Well, she just had to take a chance, didn’t she? The only thing holding her back from doing something new was her own doubts. It was a bet against herself, Alice realized. She brushed past her doubts and breathed in, ready to begin a new life in this land of wonder.

Alice took the chance and stepped into the forest.

 

Summer Bod: An Analysis of Body Image and its Impact on Young Women

Marilyn Monroe once said, “To all the girls that think you’re fat because you’re not a size zero, you’re the beautiful one. It’s society who’s ugly.” In the cruel environment we live in today, society’s wrath of a constant strive for perfection gets intentionally strung and tightened on the necks of so many young women. The media take a condescending pull at the puppet strings that control our lives, teaching people to not love and appreciate themselves but to instead strive for an image that a nonexistent monster (named society) created. Because of this horrible creature, self-esteem is threatened through advertisement, lack of representation in entertainment, and social media.

The dominance of the advertising industry uses a force-feeding strategy to commercialize a product by first demonstrating the idea that there truly is a problem to begin with. This mainly exists cosmetically with a constant strive to be “beautiful.” This endorsement approach not only sets unrealistic expectations, due to constant photo editing, but can even cause eating disorders for many young women. During a February 2018 photoshoot with a Riverdale star, Lili Reinhart, pictures of Reinhart were taken and photoshopped for Cosmopolitan Philippines’ monthly issue. Not only did this action bring outrage to the star herself, it also brought many unrealistic expectations for young girls across the country. With expectations being labeled as what makes you cosmetically “beautiful,” people often look to products the advertisers are trying to sell on the ads, even if there was never a true problem to begin with.

A lack of diversity and rendition in the categories of race, economic standing, and sexuality also leads to an overall decline in self-esteem. According to the Thrive Global website, “[A] lack of representation is isolating — it causes one to perceive themself as ‘different’ and unusual. Minorities and marginalized groups need to know they are included and celebrated as a regular part of the world.” (Thrive Global). In addition to this existing in the entertainment industry, social quarantine exists in the cosmetic industry. When selling foundations, many makeup companies across the world lack specific or even any darker toned products. When Rihanna’s Fenty beauty foundations were released, the darker shades, which were in a greater and more specific scale, sold out everywhere on the first day. This amazing accomplishment proved how more cosmetic diversity was needed but also how wrong beauty companies who believed that darker tones wouldn’t sell were.

Lastly, social media and its constant grind for attention has taken a toll on self-esteem in its own way. With each notification scientifically designed to release a chemical called dopamine, the system of followers, likes, and comments strikes a yearning to receive attention through “likes.” So, many people today constantly compare themselves to others with more likes or followers, which often leaves them with a feeling of worthlessness and a decline in self-appreciation. According to The Huffington Post, “60% of people using social media reported that it has impacted their self-esteem in a negative way” (HuffPost). In addition to this impact, social media also leaves people at a strong reliance on approval from others, even if it is through a screen.

Society’s wrath on so many young women creates a hankering to be superficially beautiful. Through objectifying ads, not enough delineation, and Instagram’s (and other networking sites’) hierarchical platform based on how many taps your photo received, my generation’s obsession with being prepossessing and personable has come to a high point in time. If we continue on this route, it will soon become impossible to see the true beauty in ourselves and in others.

 

Works Cited

https://www.eatingdisorderhope.com/blog/the-influence-of-the-advertisement-industry-on-childr  en-and-eating-disorders

https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/why-on-screen-representation-matters_us_58aeae96e4b01406012fe49d

http://time.com/4459153/social-media-body-image/

 

Germany

       

“Why can’t we leave this place?” Michael said.

“Why would you ever want to leave East Berlin? You have everything here. Food, school, medicine. Why would you ever want to leave?” his parents responded.

“I want to see the outside world!”

“Outside world? Pfft. Now go to bed before the Stasi comes to whip you!”

He went to bed without questioning it. He had seen people get whipped to the point of bleeding and get beheaded for more serious crimes on top of a platform that was right in front of the Brandenburg Gate, where the scandalous West Germans over the wall as well as the public could see it happening. These people were people who tried to escape through the wall or tried to steal something and survived but got beheaded (head melted off with a very powerful laser) on a daily basis. After he thought of this idea, he got up quietly and got on his computer. He searched on Deutschesuche and searched how to leave Germany. His computer started freaking out and spewed warning messages saying, Warning. Leaving Berlin will result in death or severe punishment. Do not attempt to do so. You have been warned.

He hoped the government wouldn’t find out what he searched, but they controlled the Internet, so he thought they might have already known and would come to arrest him the next day. He heard footsteps and instinctively fell on the bed to pretend he was sleeping. The door opened with a creak behind him, and he heard his mom whisper, “I think he is asleep,” and closed the door behind her.

The next day at school, he asked around with the teachers and students about how to leave Berlin. It was like the word “leave” didn’t ring a bell in their head. Besides the one or two people who whispered to him about how people got punished and beheaded for trying, the rest just stared at him blankly and said, “What?”

When he asked his friend Fritz, he said, “Shhh!! Don’t ever say that in public! If the Stasi gets wind of that, they’ll kill you and your parents at Brandenburg gate! No questions asked.”

He thought he might have already alerted the Stasi that he wanted to escape because he had basically asked everyone in the school. People had been known to rat out their friends and family so they would get a reward or a promotion in school or work. He couldn’t even trust his friends or parents. They could have easily turned him in and not blinked an eye. One lead he could follow was an old baker, a friend of his when he was little, who owned a bakery down the street and had tons of books in a secret closet. He used to read Western stories to him. But when he escaped through a tunnel that he built under the shop, which only he knew about, he found that the bakery was abandoned along with the books and the tunnel. He had not visited the place since.

A few blocks down the road was the bakery, an old building around when the cruel Nazis were around. The third and second floors were bombed out and boarded over the sign and the windows. He went to the back of the building and opened a dusty door, which creaked. He walked down the stairs to the basement. If you looked at the basement, there was nothing wrong with it. There was a pile of boxes in one corner and three sacks of flower in the other. But he knew there was a small tunnel just behind the pile of boxes. He moved the boxes with some effort and stared down the long, damp, and low tunnel. He crouched and moved forward. It felt like forever, but finally he made it to the end of the long tunnel. He came out in an old building’s basement. He could tell it was a basement because of all of the house junk that was lying around. He climbed up a hatch and got onto the street.

He heard, “Hello.” He understood that was English. He had made it.

 

The Darkest of Depths

       

The Bathroom Toilets

“Hey! Hey Daniel,” Jack said in a whisper. “Let’s go to the bathroom so we can escape class.”

“Okay, I’ve got Ben,” Jack said. “Let’s get going.”

“Great idea,” Daniel said. “Just let me finish this one problem… done.”

The classroom was big and had desks, chairs, charts, graphs, and number lines. Boring and extremely ordinary. Jack, Ben, and Daniel quietly snuck out and walked down to the bathroom while the math teacher, a big-eyed, brown-haired, tall, glossy woman, helped students with multiplication and division and direct proportionality.

“C’mon guys, let’s go! We don’t want somebody to catch us,” Ben whispered, racing down the hallway.

“Wait,” Daniel said. “Just because you’re quicker than us doesn’t mean you have to rush ahead.” He caught up to Ben and tugged him by the hand. Daniel received a visible shock, so he quickly pulled away from Ben.

When they got to the bathroom, they huddled in a corner.

“So, did you see that new game, the one with the amazing fantasy storyline?” Jack said.

“Yeah, I just got it this weekend. It is so cool! Totally worth the twenty dollars,” Daniel replied.

“Hey, check this out,” Jack said. He ignited a flame on his finger and plunged it into the sink nearby. The water sizzled and bubbled as it evaporated.

“Cool!” Ben said. Jack looked at his friends in the mirror over the sink.

“Hey, Daniel, your hazel eyes are really cool, especially in contrast to your brown hair,” Jack said.

“Why, thanks for noticing, I guess. Yours is really cool too, with your black hair and red eyes. And Ben, your blond hair and blue eyes are cool too,” Daniel commented.

“Thanks,” said Ben. “I think this all has something to do with our powers. I mean, your eyes would be blue like mine if you had electric powers, or red like Jack’s if you had fire powers, or nature colors if you had nature powers, like Daniel. Standing together like this, you really notice how different we all look.”

Suddenly, the water in the toilets glowed, and the toilets flushed for no apparent reason.

“What the… ” Jack said. Slowly, Daniel walked up to one of the closed stalls where he could see the toilet glowing and knocked on the door.

“Hello? Are you all good in there?” Daniel said hesitantly.

He realized the door was unlocked and pushed it open. “Hey, guys! Come look at this,” Daniel said. Jack and Ben slowly walked over and looked in the stall. The water wasn’t water anymore. It had become a swirling portal.

“Ah!” yelled Ben. “What’s going on!”

“Just what I needed,” Daniel muttered.

The portal glowed even more, and suddenly their feet were sucked down the toilet. “AHHHHHHH,” they yelled as their bodies went under, all of them trying to grab onto the slippery bowl of the toilet. The rest of the portal was flushed down with them, and the toilet flushed normally.

 

A Dark Realm with a Cold Reaper

“No matter how many times I do this, I never get used to it!” Ben yelled as they flew through the portal with its interdimensional purple energy swirling around them and sucking them forward.

“Look, there is the end of the portal,” Jack said. They flew out of the portal and landed on the floor with a thud.

Daniel looked up. “Wow, look at this place!” he said with awe. Everything was black — the sky, the floor. Yet they could see. They stood up and walked around with slight curiosity, but looked for an exit. It was just black as far as the eye could see.

Suddenly, a figure appeared. A hooded cloak completely covered its face and a scythe was strapped to its back. Two minions stood at its side. One was an elf-like thing completely made out of snow, with razor ice claws and teeth. The other was taller but looked the same, with a staff that had a crystal that looked like a mini portal. Then, the figure unveiled its face. It was a woman with a scar over and under her left eye, partially covered by an eye patch. Her long hair hung around her face like icicles.

“Hello,” she rasped. “I am Chloe.” Her voice was like nails scraping on a chalkboard and cold like an untamed blizzard.

“Uh, hey Chloe,” Ben said, then added in a whisper, “Guys, what are we going to do about the crazy psycho woman?”

Then Chloe said, as if reading their minds, “You could start by coming with me and being good little brats.”

“Um, no thanks,” Daniel replied, taking a small step backward.

“Maybe we could distract her?” Ben suggested in a whisper.

“Good idea,” Daniel said. “I think I know exactly how to do that.”

“My boss wants you preferably alive but, if forced to, he said I could kill you,” Chloe said, touching the blade of her scythe lovingly.

“Look, lady,” Jack said. “How much is your boss paying you to do this? Maybe we could strike a better dea — ”

“Silence, fool!” Chloe screamed.

“Just joking,” Jack said.

“Why do you want to kill us?” Daniel asked.

“Because I’ve always wanted vengeance on elementals like you. You see, about 3,000 years ago, I had a husband who was an elemental, and one day he and his other elemental scum found out that the eternal flame was flickering.”

“On my signal, we run,” Daniel whispered so Chloe couldn’t hear.

“Hey, I heard something about the eternal flame last year. What is it?” Jack asked, trying to continue the conversation.

“Who is your boss?” Ben asked.

“Not important. Speaking of backstories, yours is horrifying and dark. My kind of story. So anyway, he and his friends went off to save the eternal flame even though they knew they might never come back. In the end, they saved the eternal flame but didn’t make it out. I knew that he never really cared about me and only about his elemental pow — Hey, what do you think you’re doing?!”

Daniel, Jack, and Ben ran away as fast as they could in the opposite direction. Ben ran the fastest, tiny sparks flying behind him.

Daniel turned around and said to Chloe, “Hey, creep, as much as we would love to hear your thrilling backstory, we would rather not die.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? After them!” she screamed to her minions with rage.

Jack, Daniel, and Ben ran for five minutes, all the while rapidly dodging balls of glowing snow and balls of ice emitting mist.

“Careful!” Daniel said, looking back at the snow balls. “That’s liquid nitrogen. That stuff will freeze you solid!

“Look, a temple!” Jack said. Chunks of stone were everywhere, littering the ground like ancient ruins. It did not look inviting in the least, with the crumbling door/archway at the front and the old, half-eroded, scary dog gargoyles on the shredded flying buttresses, but they had no choice but to seek shelter there.

They ran through the temple, and then Daniel stopped.

“Go, I’ll hold them back!” Daniel said. He thought about nature with its natural energy and raised his hands. Tree roots snaked their way out of the ground and completely blocked the entrance. Then, he ran to catch up with the others.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Chloe yelled in frustration. “This can’t be!”

 

The Temple of Webs

Daniel finally caught up with the others deep in the temple.

“Well, we are finally safe,” Jack said. “At least for now.” He ignited a flame on the tip of his pointer finger so that they could see their terrible surroundings. Shadows danced across the walls like ghosts. The columns that lined the temple ruins were held up by stone statues of people, their rock-hard faces contorted in rage, fear, and agony. Cobwebs hung everywhere, some were unnaturally huge. The walls were embedded with fossilized bones and human skulls. Jewels covered the limestone walls and floor.

Except for Jack’s flame on his finger, everything was in total darkness. They then found a whole other room, exactly identical to the last one, except for weird paintings lining the walls.

“Wow, these look like ancient hieroglyphics,” Ben said. “If these are what people thought about, then they must have gone crazy at some point.”

On the walls were pictures of giant spiders breathing fire, attacking towns with fires, and having people run away before them. A tornado with an eye and claws was standing over the whole thing like this was some kind of show.

“Hey guys,” Jack said. “Does that eye look familiar to you?”

 

Suddenly, the room shook, and rocks fell from the ceiling. One landed near Daniel, and the shock wave sent him flying backward.

“Uh, guys,” Ben said in a very nervous voice. “ Do you hear something?”

“You mean, besides the rocks trying to crush us?” Daniel yelled.

“Yeah, he’s right,” Jack said. “It sounds like the shuffling of lots of legs. And look, the cobwebs are glowing!”

“Oh great, with our luck, we will have to… Ahh! A giant spider!”

 

With a thud, a spider that was very big indeed landed on the ground and hissed a loud hiss. Suddenly, part of the ceiling collapsed, separating Daniel from Jack, Ben, and the spider.

“Oh no, what am I going to do!” Daniel yelled in panic. “I have to find a way back to them! Wait, what’s that?” Under a pile of rubble, there was an eerie, purple glow. Daniel pushed away the rubble, and underneath there was a ledge. At the bottom was a little room that looked like it was going to collapse at any second. A portal swirled at the end, glittering invitingly.

Daniel slowly climbed down, but he fell and cut his knee in the process. Despite the pain, he stood up and walked to the portal. Maybe this portal will lead me back to my friends, he thought. Then, another crash shook the ceiling above him, and the walls started to move. With a start, he realized more spiders were awakening around him, and there were so many of them. Hurriedly, he bent his legs and jumped into the portal.

 

A Cheesy Fight

Daniel appeared on an island made out of a sticky, whitish-yellowish substance that smelled terrible. The palm trees, the sand, and the water were all made out of it. The only thing that wasn’t made out of it was the sky, which was still black. Daniel began to explore a little bit. The smell was revolting, and the yellow ocean stretched out for miles and miles on end.

“Man, this didn’t take me back to my friends, it took me to a yellow island. I wonder how to get off of it. Maybe you have to try and eat it ‘cause it looks a little like cheese? I guess that’s where I’ll start.” Daniel bent down and tried to bite the cheese, but he screamed in disgust. “What kind of cheese is this?” he said.

“The kind that gives you anger,” said a mysterious voice.

“Well, I guess if you put it tha — wait, who said that?” Daniel said. There was no reply. Then, suddenly, fins emerged from the cheese water, also made out of cheese. About ten or maybe more. They circled the island first, then jumped out of the water. The fins were attached to sharks made out of cheese. Daniel summoned cheese roots from the ground and hit the sharks out of the air and into the water with a sound like a bullet through the air. They hit the water with extreme force, sending cheese waves up high, and yet the sharks didn’t have a scratch. No dents in the cheese or anything.

Wait, Daniel thought, If these sharks are invincible, then how do I defeat them? Then, a shark much bigger than the others emerged from the water with a man made out of cheese wearing a cheese poncho riding it.

“This is what you might call a cheesy fight,” he said.

“Ha ha,” said Daniel. “Very funny.”

“To have the privilege to summon a portal to get off this island, you must first defeat me and my sharks,” the man said, squaring up.

“Oh yeah, before I destroy you, I want to find out your name,” Daniel said, bracing himself. “So… what is your name?”

“My name is Maxarella.”

I’m almost out of ideas to stall him, but I still can’t figure out how to defeat the sharks. Okay, it’s time to resort to the back-up plan, Daniel thought, sweat beating down his forehead. Suddenly, Daniel noticed marks on some of the sharks’ fins that looked suspiciously like bites. A happy, confident thought popped into his mind. Daniel bent his legs and jumped onto a shark and bit it as hard as he could. He focused all his anger on the cheese man for trying to kill him, all while trying to stop himself from gagging. The cut on Daniel’s knee immediately healed with little, green sparks flying from the wound. The feeling was refreshing, like being in a painful position and then being allowed to relax. I didn’t know I could do that, Daniel thought. The shark dissolved into mist with a sound that sounded a lot like a fart. That’s it! Daniel thought. That’s their weakness. Daniel summoned vines that carried him to the other sharks.

Some sharks ran away, realizing that Daniel knew how to beat them, while others tried to fight and ended up thrashing while Daniel was on top of them. Multiple times, Daniel was almost thrown off before he got the chance to bite them. Maxarella, meanwhile, was summoning balls of cheese from his hands and throwing them desperately at his oppressor.

“Well, Maxarella, it seems I’ve learned two things from this experience,” Daniel said as a cheese ball flew over his head. First, your weakness is that you can’t survive being bitten. Second, if I focus on my anger, I can heal anything.” He bit into the shark he was standing on. Just like the last one, the shark dissolved with a fart-like sound. Then, his roots carried him to the next one and the one after that and the one after that until all the sharks were gone, except for the big one that Maxarella was standing on.

“Well, Max, you’re looking a little blue like blue cheese.” Then, he hopped on the shark and bit it. The shark dissolved into mist with a fart sound.

“NOOOOO,” said Maxarella, as he dissolved into mist when Daniel bit him. Daniel rushed back to the island and looked around the tiny island for the portal. He soon found it waiting for him. Daniel quickly spit into the cheese sand to get rid of the terrible taste in his mouth. He thought about his friends and jumped into the portal.

 

Hopscotch with a Lava Pit

“Oh man,” Jack said, trying to catch his breath. “That… was tiring.”

“I know, right!” Ben said, also out of breath. “How did we even manage to defeat that spider?” Jack and Ben were sitting in the temple which had rocks strewn across the floor. Sweat was covering their bodies, and their hearts were pounding like drums.

“Well, we survived, and that’s the important thing… except for one of us,” Jack said.

“Don’t say that,” Ben said. “For all we know, Daniel could be fine, just trying to find his way back.”

Jack stood up suddenly. “Let’s see if we can dig through the rubble.” He tried lifting one of the rocks and fell back with a crash. “Man, these things weigh more than a ton, literally. There is no way we can get through.”

“Hey, look,” Ben said. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” He pointed to the spider with interest.

“Uh, an endless temple which we will never get out of?”

“No dude, I’m seeing a door inside the dead spider’s mouth,” Ben said.

“Yeah,” Jack said with sarcasm in his voice. “And pigs can fly — wooah!” A wooden door with a brass handle, shiny and new, was actually sitting in the spider’s hairy, slime-covered mouth.

“Should we go in?” Ben asked.

“I… guess,” Jack replied. They slowly walked in. The spider’s mouth was hot and sticky, covered in hairs. Jack and Ben tried hard to crawl around the hairs and also tried hard not to gag. Once they made it, Jack grabbed the brass handle and opened the door. The room on the other side was a long hallway with doors at the end. It smelled like sulfur and ash. They paused and listened, feeling the earth tremor below like the earth itself was angry.

“Whew!” Jack said. “I’m glad we made it out of that, because that was disgusting.”

“That must be the way out,” Ben said.

“There is only one way to find out,” Jack replied. He took a step toward the doors. Suddenly, fire sprang up out of the ground and engulfed his foot.

 

“Ah!” Ben yelled.

“Don’t worry,” Jack said. “Remember fire plus me equals no harm.” Then, a pit appeared at the end of the hall, and lava erupted from inside. “This hallway is filled with traps,” Ben said. “I can guide us through them.”

“Okay, the first part was obvious. The second part, not so much. How will you know how to guide us through them?” Jack asked.

“Oh, I’m surprised I didn’t tell you,” Ben said. “Remember that science class where we learned about electrical currents? Well, in that class I learned that I can sense electrical circuits, so I can sense the traps in the walls.”

“Cool, very cool,” said Jack. “But what about you? I’m okay with lava, but will you be okay? It could probably fry you.”

“No, I’ll be fine. Anyway, basically what I’m saying is, follow me and step exactly where I step.”

“Fine with me,” Jack said.

They slowly made their way across the hall, dodging axes, logs, flames, toxic gases, and random holes that appeared in the floor. They ducked, rolled, jumped, ran, punched, and ducked some more until they reached the lava pit.

“This whole thing reminds me of hopscotch,” Ben said. “Okay, last part is the lava pit. There are small columns of stone that we can use to get across. Step on the columns that I step on because some of them will collapse when you step on them,” he added hurriedly.

Step by step, jump by jump, they finally made it across the pit of lava. Then they ran to the doors and were about to open them when they suddenly disappeared.

“I guess this is some kind of illusion,” Ben said.

“Hey, look in the lava pit,” Jack said. In the pit there was a door about twenty feet down from the top, lying horizontally in the air. The smell in the air was worsening rapidly.

“Okay, this is definitely real,” Ben said, “so let’s get jumping.”

He jumped down and landed on the door.

“Now it’s your turn Jack.” Jack bent his legs and jumped but missed the door by a millimeter and flew down towards the lava. Suddenly, a lava geyser appeared and shot Jack back up to the top of the lava pit. Ash filled the room, making it nearly impossible to breath.

“NO!” Ben yelled. Then, using his electric power, he shot back up to the top and ran over to Jack. Ben knelt down and checked Jack’s pulse. He was still alive although he was laying still, his eyes closed, unmoving. In addition, weird fire swirls were running across his skin. “What am I going to do. He needs help, fast!”

Suddenly, an eerie glow rippled through the room. Then, a portal appeared in the wall and out of it shot a figure that almost knocked Ben into the lava pit.

“Sorry, Ben,” Daniel said.

“Daniel!” Ben said. “What happened to you?”

“It involved a lot of cheese with a cheese island and cheese sharks and a cheese man with a cheese poncho.”

“Well, Jack needs our help. He fell into a lava pit but is still alive.” After he said this, Ben stared at Daniel for a whole minute until Daniel coughed into his shoulder.

“Right, right. Well, what are we going to do about Jack?” Ben said, getting back to panicking about Jack.

“Okay, stand back. I got this,” Daniel said. He focused all his anger on the lava pit for hurting Jack and put his hand on Jack. All the swirls immediately disappeared, and Jack sat up.

“Whoa,” Jack said. “What happened?”

“Thanks to a lava pit, you nearly died!” Daniel said.

“Hey Daniel, you’re here!” said Jack. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks,” said Daniel. “But now we’ve gotta get out of here. The door down there is the way out, right?”

“Yeah, I certainly hope so, because we went through all this trouble to get to this door!” Jack said with irritation. “Also, I now know what it’s like to be burned. I think the lava is enchanted to burn even me. I haven’t been burned like that since, you know.”

Daniel summoned roots, flowers, and leaves and created a bridge down to the door.

“C’mon,” he said. They walked down into the lava pit and stopped at the door. Jack bent down and opened the door.

“Alright,” Ben said. “Let’s go.” Together they jumped through the door.

 

Deja Vu

As they sat up, they became more aware of their surroundings. They were sitting on a stone bridge, except the stone bridge wasn’t really stone at all. It was half rock, half molten magma, and they had bubbles around them to protect them from the heat and radiation. The bubbles were in the shape of their outlines and seemed to move with them. Not only that, the walkway was floating in space. Black with stars everywhere, in every direction. The infinite expanse of space was so beautiful, it was hard to describe. They could see the Milky Way, and they could see Mercury, Venus, and Earth. And, of course, they could see the infinitely huge sun stretching out before them.

 

Sunspots seemed to stare at them like huge, black, beaded eyes. Arcs of gas leaped up, and settled down again. The gas seemed to envelop them as if it was mist made of fire. They walked towards the sun slowly, in awe, but surely. As they approached the wall of fire that was the sun, the gas pulled back, revealing a tunnel made out of what seemed to be solid gas, like an arc of fire. They stepped into the tunnel, and then the gas wall closed behind them like a door. They walked through the tunnel for what seemed like forever. Then, they approached this pod-like object that was a disk with a semicircle of swirling ice on top.

“I think we’re supposed to jump on it,” said Jack with anticipation.

They held hands and stepped in it. Power surged through them like nothing had ever done before. Arrows made of ice that appeared on the walkway pointed them down the tunnel, and they knew exactly what to do. They ran. Because of the energy, they ran at over 10,000,000,000 miles per hour, speeding along the tunnel so fast they basically flew. The sun’s gas was rushing past them, resisting their speed, but they pressed on. Then, after a few seconds, an invisible force told them to slow down, and they came to a halt at a gateway made of ice, broken in half down the middle. All that energy drained out of them, like water in a spilled cup.

They seemed to be standing in ruins of a castle. There looked to be an invisible bubble of force that made a sphere-shaped hole in the sun, and that hole is where the castle was. Shards of white stone were everywhere. However, the path to the main part of the castle was still intact, with a little bit of chunks floating around it. They walked slowly up the path to the front gates of the castle. An entire half of the castle had been blown apart. They came to a staircase. Liquid nitrogen was foaming and dripping from two bowls, one on each side of the door. They walked down the spiral staircase, so deep in the castle that it was very cold, and they could feel ice-cold power trying to take over the heat that was the sun. They emerged in a room that was completely blown up. It was supposed to be a smooth field of ice, with walls surrounding it and a ceiling on top. However, instead the walls and the ceiling were completely blown apart, and where they were supposed to be were holes looking out at the sphere of gas that surrounded the castle. The only thing intact was the floor, but it was covered in rubble.

“Wait,” Ben said. “Look at that, in the center of the room.” They gathered around a circle carved into the field, with a mini circle at the center. Both of the circles’ outlines were glowing. Then, a line appeared, cutting both circles down the middle, and then the mini-circle split apart at that line and out rose a ball of light, so filled with energy and heat that it blinded them for a second. It smelled, emitted, and sounded like pure energy, humming with power. The ground around it was black and crackling with energy.

Then, light from the ball poured into Jack, making his hair turn red and blaze with heat and fire. His pupils in his eyes turned into little fireballs, and his entire body seemed to be emitting smoke. Light from the ball then poured into Ben. His hair turned blue and coursed with electricity. That electricity ran down his entire body and into his hands which sizzled with power. When the light finally poured into Daniel, his hair turned the color of wheat, with strands of hair turning into leaves. Markings like vines engraved themselves into his arms, neck, and legs, and a wave of dim light burst from him, healing injuries, and making everyone feel wonderful. They all knew instantly what this was.

“The Eternal Flame,” said Jack with awe.

 

A Cold-Hearted Reunion

Then, something else came out of the circle hole. A white wisp, almost like a ghost. Then, the white wisp landed on the ground. It swirled around and around, and then it began to change. It grew and shaped itself into a human shape and solidified into a woman with icicles for hair, a scythe on her back, and a long robe on her body. Chloe.

“AFTER THEM!” she screamed. Then, the ground shook, and thousands of wisps exploded out of the hole, solidifying into Icers, their teeth bared, their staffs swirling. Jack, Ben, and Daniel ran back all the way to the entrance in the field and stood there, facing the impossibly huge army.

“Now I remember,” said Jack to his friends. “This is the castle of that ice spirit we fought last year.”

“You dare try to steal the core of the sun,” said Chloe.

“Oh, so that’s what that was, besides being the Eternal Flame,” said Daniel in realization.

“This is vengeance for the last time we met. Icers, ATTACK!” Chloe yelled, waving her scythe like a maniac.

Jack jumped up 30 feet in the air and summoned an incredible amount of fire. He then blasted that fire in a wave of heat that vaporized at least five hundred Icers, shrieking as they faded into puddles. Ben raised his hands to the sky and summoned a very powerful lightning bolt that struck him. His hands sizzled, and he sped in the air towards the enemy and blasted them with electricity from his hands, cracking with heat and static as they pounded their targets. Daniel summoned a storm of leaves as sharp as daggers and pushed them telepathically towards the enemies. Then, he ran towards another group of Icers, raised his hands, and summoned vines that wrapped around all the remaining Icers, and around him. He drained their energy the way a tree drains nutrients. All the Icers were now melted water, or piles of snow.

 

“Your turn,” Jack said to Chloe with glee. Chloe screamed in rage, leaped up, swung her scythe above her head, and smashed it down. Ice power hit the three fighters, and they flew backward, their bodies smashing into the ground when they landed. Chloe then summoned a small ice and snow tornado, and sent it flying towards Jack.

 

The snow swirled around Jack for a second and then quickly dissipated, evaporated by his fire. Jack summoned a fireball that grew bigger and bigger in his hands. Heat rippled around him like water flowing. Ben stood up and started waving his hands majestically. Electricity arced between his fingertips, trying to escape. Meanwhile, Daniel breathed in and out heavily, and green energy flowed peacefully out of his mouth in tentacles towards Chloe. As they grew closer to her, they solidified into branches and wrapped around her body, tying her to the floor. Suddenly, a lightning bolt came from what seemed like nowhere and struck Ben’s hands. His fists were completely enveloped in electricity as he jumped up, swung his fists back behind his head, and crashed down towards Chloe.

The sound was unbearable, and the smell of ozone filled the air. Chloe was thrown back, her body rippling with electricity and her cloak flew around her. There was now a small circle of charred ground where she lay. Then, Jack threw the fire ball at Chloe. The whole world was on fire as Chloe screamed and the fireball exploded.

When the dust cleared, Chloe was gone. In her place was a divot in the ground, and in the center, was a man.

 

Damaged World

The light was just coming up while Abby Red crept along the side of the river. The cries of the werewolf echoed in the distance. Glaring out of narrowed eyes, she hid behind a tree as the werewolf slunk past her. Abby breathed out.

“Abby, are we ‘afe?” her little brother Theo whispered, his front toddler teeth still somewhat nonexistent. She was about 15, her little brother about five. He looked up at her with wide brown eyes, his dark curls bouncing in the soft breeze. Abby’s eyes widened as she noticed the movement, grabbing Theo’s hand and pulling him along the path to town. She stopped after a while, licking her finger and holding it up to the breeze. Theo watched her intently.

“It’s going… east. Okay.” Abby glanced down at Theo. “Our scents will be blown to the werewolf, and then where will we be?” Abby looked up and screamed, shoving Theo out of the way. He tumbled to the ground, looking ahead just in time to see Abby get snatched up by the werewolf.

“ABBY!” he yelled.

“Run!” she shouted to him, kicking the werewolf so it would drop her. “Liam, this isn’t you!” she yelled at the werewolf, breathing quickly. “Let me go!” Theo couldn’t look away as the werewolf bit Abby, tearing her up and throwing her to the ground. Theo got up and ran, yelling for help from the other warrior patrols that were stationed out in Foxtail Forest. At last, he got to the Thundersong’s base, unable to get out any words but “dead.” Patrols went out to look, but they didn’t see anything besides a large amount of fur and a huge claw stuck to a tree.

 

Chapter One

I live in a damaged world. My old town, which I can’t remember anymore because I was barely one year old, burned to the ground when a group of pyromaniac elves got hold of Yoli County’s flint and steel supply. My old city’s inhabitants left when the famous Foxtail Forest werewolf, formerly known as Liam Towers, attacked Abby Red and we had to evacuate. Now I live with the Thundersong, a group of amazing people who are all dedicated to defeating evil. My dream in life is to be a warrior of the highest order. To be honored and respected. For people to know my name all over the world.

“Alexa! Are you up?” I look up sharply from my careful writing, accidentally smudging the last word in the paragraph.

“Yes, whoever you are, I am up. I was just finishing the summary of my entire goddamn life.” My little sister Katherine struts into my room, wearing a brand new, stretchy fighting suit. She’s about 11. My mother died just after she was born, so the only memory I really have of my mother is her brown, curly hair. I inherited it. Kathy twirls around, grinning at me, and I raise an eyebrow.

“What do you think?” she asks eagerly.

“Sweet,” I say, shutting the door to my tiny room in the Thundersong base. “Who got that for you?”

“Jacob. He’ll make one for you, too, if you want.” I shake my head, leaning back on my chair and putting my legs up on the desk. My room is one of the bigger ones, with oak paneling and a rug made from wool. I actually have windows to the outside. My bed probably has the best sheets, except for the hospital room. My desk is one of my prized possessions, except for my leather gripped daggers. One of them, which I never use, has a real ruby on its pommel. I’m a skilled knife fighter. It’s my calling card.

To the fighting suit I say, “Nah, that’s fine. Purple isn’t really my color.” Kathy moves my head up a little and ties my dark brown curls up in a ponytail. Most people at the Thundersong northern base have dark hair and dark eyes, skin of all colors, but I’ve never seen somebody with blonde hair and blue eyes up here. I myself have hazel eyes, a healthy mix of brown and green. Different people see different colors, usually — I like to ask.

“Okay, then. He could make one in blue or something,” Kathy says about the suit. She knows better than to press me, on anything, letting the subject drop after the last sentence. “Alexa, did you know that Theodore Red is going to join the Northern Thundersong base? I’ve heard he’s hella dreamy.”

“Theo Red?” I repeat, incredulous. “But… doesn’t he… he has post-traumatic stress disorder. Right? I mean, he saw his sister get bitten by a werewolf only miles from here.”

“I would think he has PTSD, it makes sense. But rumor has it — and this time the rumor is correct — that yes, Theodore Red is coming up North.”

“Wow,” I breathe, exchanging a look with my sister. “That’s actually pretty cool. He’ll have the best room in the base. Ya know, his sister was an honored warrior. And when she got bitten, Theo started training right away, so now he’s a really important person. At least he was, until he moved down to the South base and had to start all over again.”

Kathy finishes with my hair, handing me a mirror she got from one of our friends in the South.

“So, you’ve been working on your writing assignment?” Kathy asks me, peering over my shoulder to see what I’m doing. I nod, handing it to her.

“Yeah. I accidentally smudged the bottom word, but I’ll turn it in anyway. See how I do.”

“It’s a competition, right?”

I roll my eyes.

“Obviously. So apparently I win a training lesson with some really skilled dude. He’s only really skilled if his — ”

Somebody screams from down the hall. I’m on my feet in an instant, grabbing my shotgun and racing down the hall. My sister stops in her room to grab her katana. Adrien Young from the downstairs boys dorms comes sprinting up the stairs as we’re going down, causing a slight collision.

“What’s going on?” I yell, struggling to regain my balance without shooting anyone.

“I don’t know,” Adrien says, breathing heavily. “I just ran out of there. I think it’s a mutant or something.”

“Mutant what?” I demand, grabbing Adrien before he can run out.

“I don’t know!” he wails. I shove him and Kathy, and I run down, out into the main hallway. It’s a mutant, all right. Two huge wolves, no doubt from Foxtail Forest, are circling two of the youngest recruits of Thundersong.

“Eloise and Brianna,” Kathy tells me, looking pretty heroic in her new fighting suit. Her katana has a new handle cover, and it’s pretty awesome. “Hang on guys, we’ll be right with you!” she yells to the other girls. Brynn, Lee, and Josh are already there, trying to figure out a way to distract the wolves. Brynn tosses her black braid, pacing just like the wolves when she sees me. As I mentioned before, I’m a very skilled warrior, if I do say so myself, and I am respected. I worked hard to be where I am today. I started from basically nothing, joining the Thundersong just a little after the Abby Red scandal when I was seven.

“Okay, Alexa, what’s the plan?” Ross asks me, coming beside Kathy and me.

“I’m not sure,” I reply. “I want to try get someone on top of the wolves, and then we can try to stab them. Once one is down, the other one will either run — ”

“And we pursue it and kill it.”

“ — Or we trap it and find out how it got so… big and ugly.” Kathy laughs. Ross nods pensively.

“I think Kathy’s pretty nimble.”

“No, she’s not getting up there,” I say protectively, flinching when I imagine Kathy getting either thrown off the giant wolf or maimed by it.

“Got it. Katherine, run across the room and tell Brynn, Lee, and Josh what the plan is.” Kathy nods, zipping across the room and talking quickly to Brynn.

“Stay!” I yell. “I’ll go up!” I hand my shotgun to Ross. “Throw this to me once I’m up there.” Closing my eyes, I bend my legs and run. I leap on top of one of the wolves, just barely getting onto its back and getting a good grip. Ross hurls the shotgun up, but I miss it, just barely. The wolf howls, bucking wildly, and I yell in spite of myself. “Oh, God,” I mutter. I grab one of its ears, hanging on with my left arm while I try to reach my dagger at my belt. People are yelling, but I can’t focus on what they’re saying. Cursing softly, I grab my dagger and struggle to cut its neck deep enough. It yowls with fury as I score its neck, cutting the skin just barely. Desperately, I sink my knife into the wolf’s neck and surrender to gravity. I land on the floor nimbly, glancing up and feeling almost like I’m in an action movie. People clap, and I smile slyly to myself as I get to my feet. My ankle cries out in protest as I put weight on it, but I ignore it.

“Alexa, what was that?” my sister demands, running over to me furiously. “We all thought you’d fall off. Or die!”

“But I didn’t,” I say easily, brushing off my legs. “Nope, on the contrary, I killed one of the wolves.” Kathy rolls her eyes. “Let’s just focus on the last wolf.” We look up at the other giant wolf. It’s starting to fidget nervously, ticked off by the death of its friend. Brynn and Lee are taking turns slashing its legs and tail. By now, more warriors have arrived, including the heads of the North Thundersong unit, Jack Miller and Liana Beacon. Their son, Matthew, is my age and one of my closest friends.

“Dean, what’s going on?” Jack demands. We’re actually friends outside of battle, but right now he has to call me by my last name. I quickly salute the pair of superiors, explaining the situation with tense terms. The other warriors have caught the wolf and have it tied up in a corner. Matthew, who must have joined the fight, runs up to his parents and me.

“Should we kill it, Miller?” he asks formally, running a hand through his dark brown hair.

“Don’t kill it. We’ll do some experiments on it. But we do have to have it hidden somewhere before Mr. Red comes. I don’t think he would appreciate the sight of a mutant wolf,” Liana interrupts.

“Do we maybe have a spare building we can put it in?”

“We can put it in the empty basement,” I suggest. Liana nods, calling a couple warriors over and giving them orders to drag the wolf away.

“Are we going to try to shrink it down again?” Matthew asks.

“I guess? We’ll figure it out.” Liana and Jack walk away, leaving Matthew and I alone in the middle of the battlefield.

“Hey,” he says, as I start to walk away. “Did you start working on that writing assignment?”

I nod, turning around. “Yeah. What did you write for it?”

“Eh, just some crap about how I’ve lived with the Thundersong all my life. Honestly, I don’t know what they expect from me, that I came from three different villages and six different cities and that I want to be a blacksmith?”

I laugh. “What about you?” I’m about to answer when Matthew answers himself. “Actually, let’s head up to my room.”

“Okay, let me just grab my dagger from that wolf.” I quickly run and grab the dagger from the wolf’s neck, cleaning it off with my sleeve and sticking it in my belt. We walk together up the spiral stone staircase. “So, basically I wrote about how I came to the Thundersong. It’s not that interesting.” We turn left, scouting our way through the boys dorms and coming up to the biggest one. I love Matthew’s room. It has the most amazing bed, with giant windows that open to the forest. He has a dark brown rug with the Thundersong logo on it, a golden eagle with a silver lightning bolt going across it and a silver circle around the whole thing. I have one too, but it’s just a tapestry. I flop onto Matthew’s bed, staring up at the ceiling.

“I’d love to read it sometime,” he says, grabbing my ankle and pulling me off the bed. I flinch as my foot twinges again. He tries to discreetly pull his sword out, testing my reflexes, but my dagger flies out and blocks the sword. Matthew sighs playfully, tossing the sword casually to the side. Its rubber cover makes it bounce harmlessly off the floor.

“En garde,” he says, smirking. I smile, holding my ankle close to my chest.

“I need to go to the hospital room. I banged my ankle when I fell off the wolf.”

Matthew grins.

“Say no more.” He leans over, scoops me up in his arms, and we head down to the medic center. I laugh, hanging out of his embrace. He laughs too, grabbing my dangling arms. Our relationship is so easy because we’re nothing but friends, and probably won’t be anything more.

 

Little Lemon

Once upon a time, in the village of sugar lemons, Momma and Poppa Lemon had just announced the arrival of Lester the Lemon. Even from miles away, you could still hear Lester crying while his parents were celebrating. Sugar Lemon Land is all yellow and happy. There are positive quotes everywhere. The water is bright blue and sparkling. Everyone knows everyone.

“Lester, sweetie, don’t cry,” said Momma Lemon. Sweet lemons normally learn to speak right when they are born, so Momma could tell something was wrong. Speaking was an important aspect in sweet lemon life, because they need to communicate if they lose a sugar crystal or if a drop of juice gets squeezed out of them. If any of those problems occur, they will be taken to Sugar Sweet Lemon Rescue Center and get fixed, and if they don’t get fixed, they could have a permanent scar or injury forever. At day care, Lester was the only lemon who could not speak, and the teachers couldn’t give him what he needed. Ten different teachers came, and not one of them could teach Lester to speak. On Lester’s first birthday, a big surprise appeared. Lester spoke, and his first words were…

“When can I eat the sugar cake?” Momma and Poppa were overjoyed. At day care, Lester started making friends now that he could say “hi” or “what’s your name.” Lester was about to turn two when another obstacle came along.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday… ” sung Lester’s friends. At that moment, Lester realized something. He saw that all his friends were sugared, and he was the only lemon that was sour. He suddenly felt so alone, so different. He ran into his room and shut the door. Back in the living room, Momma and Poppa were deciding whether they should talk to Lester or leave him be.

“I can’t believe he found out this way!” exclaimed Momma.

“I know, on his birthday as well. Let’s get him a sugar suit!” said Poppa.

“Are you crazy?! That would make Lester feel even worse!” said Momma. Up in Lester’s room, he was lying in his bright yellow bed, reading The Yellow Book: Volume Two. Then suddenly he thought, It’s okay that I am different. It means that I am special. I will prove that I am the same, maybe better than those sugar lemons! And with that, Lester jumped out of bed and opened the door. He looked at the better picture.

Even though sometimes Lester was left out, he also didn’t have to deal with problems like losing a sugar crystal. But Lester wanted to enjoy sugar lemon activities. He wanted to play Don’t Lose Sugar Hopscotch and Sugar Swimming Class. His friends included him as much as they could, but sometimes they just couldn’t. His parents tried to sugar him, but the sugar fell right off. There was also one problem. Lester couldn’t smile. He was sour. He wanted to, but he always had a bitter, mean look on his face which gave him a threatening appearance, even though he had a kind heart.

So for a few more years, life went on in the same way. He graduated from middle school, high school, and college. He got a job as a chef making banana pie and other yellow foods. Then one day, Lester did something unforgettable. He saved someone from going to Sugar Sweet Lemon Rescue Center. So here’s the story. It was a normal day, and Lester was taking a walk along Lemon Lane, and he saw a little lemon eating ice cream. Suddenly, he saw a sugar crystal fall off of her from the lemon peel. It was like in slow motion. He jumped and caught the crystal and put it back on her.

“Thank you so much, sir!” she said.

“You’re welcome. Make sure that doesn’t happen again!”

Soon, every lemon knew. News spreads fast like a busy bee. Lester became famous. He received huge amounts of money, which he donated to charities to help find new cures for illnesses, such as rotton sugar disease and such. He got the Sugar Award for saving a little lemon and when he got the reward, he smiled. A big, fat, non-sour smile.

 

Sandy VS The World

It was a cold, windy day in December. Sandy was huddled into the corner of the barn. The barn was empty except for her. The owners did not keep it very tidy, as there was hay scattered all around, and her deer poop was also scattered. The roof was crumbling, and the paint was coming off the walls. It was pouring outside, with thunder and lightning that made Sandy scared. She tried to make herself comfortable, but she couldn’t. She kept shivering, her teeth chattering. She wished she wasn’t alone. She wished there was someone, anyone, to hold her close and tell her it would be okay. Sandy knew that it wasn’t. Something was off, something happened, something was wrong. The owners did not like other animals, they only liked deer. The owners were not like any other owner Sandy knew. Sure, they fed Sandy and took care of her, but they weren’t the same. For one thing, the owners did not like other animals, only deer. They also rarely went outside of their property, only to buy groceries and other things like that. On top of that, they treated Sandy like a dog, which in some ways was good. Sandy learned how to be civilized and stay calm while someone pet you. She learned how to eat dog food, much to her dismay. The only thing that wasn’t like a dog was that she lived in a barn. She figured this was because the owners did not have much space in the house. She was used to this and was not ready to leave her home and be a normal deer like everyone else.

***

When Sandy awoke, the air was clean and bright, almost like last night didn’t even happen. The sky was blue, clouds were white, Sandy was calm. She walked to the front of the barn and used her nose to push the door open. The ground was wet and when Sandy took each step, the water flew up into the air like a bird. She walked towards the house. Her head was held high, trying to keep positive. She again pushed the door open with her nose. The owners always kept the door mostly open so Sandy could get in. They didn’t fear that she would run away. She pushed it open and saw her owners. At first, Sandy thought they were sleeping but when she stepped closer, she saw the owners’ face, their eyes fully closed, not wanting to open ever again. Their fingers were cold when Sandy put her head on them. Their faces were wrinkled but looked even more wrinkled than the last time she saw them. Then, Sandy started hearing rain. Then, thunder and lightning. Sandy jumped onto the bed with her dead owners and cuddled, wishing they were still alive. She stayed there for a little while, not knowing how long. Then, she got up and walked out of the room and onto the first floor. She walked out of the house and into the barn. She cuddled in the corner just like last night.

A few hours later, Sandy saw a stick pushing at her body. She looked up and saw a man with sunglasses and a blue uniform. He stopped pushing the stick into Sandy’s body when he saw that she “woke” up. The man was moving his mouth, but Sandy didn’t understand what he was saying. Then, he pointed outside of the barn. Sandy stayed still. The man pointed again. She stayed where she was. Then, the man took the stick and slapped it onto Sandy’s back. Sandy whimpered quietly. She stood up and slowly walked out of the barn. The man growled and left too. Then, he closed the barn door and locked it. Sandy saw yellow tape around the house, her house. She started running towards the house, but another man in a blue uniform stopped her. He also pointed her away, so Sandy left. She walked into the forest and kicked the sticks off the ground. The leaves fell on her face when she walked. Sandy sat down on a rock. Soon, it started to rain. She didn’t move under the tree. She let the rain drip on her skin. The rain moved down her back and onto the floor. Sandy just stayed there, not moving. She was scared, sad, and angry. When she finally did move, she wandered around the forest looking for food, any food, so that she could survive. Soon she saw some berries hanging from the trees. She lifted her head up and ate the berries. They were a little raw, but good enough for her to eat. She ate more berries until she was full. The berries made her a little drowsy, but she powered through and looked for water. She found a lake nearby where she was. She started licking the lake rapidly, leaning more and more forward. She was becoming careless, and soon enough, she fell headfirst into the lake.

Sandy couldn’t swim. She had tried to learn in the small river near the house. It resulted in her almost drowning and a wet house. Now she tried to remember the weird motions her owners had made to tell her how to swim. There was one that made a motion like scooping ice cream. Sandy tried that one now, and realized her limbs were too short to make the motion. Then, she remembered one where you made your hands go up and down frantically. She liked that one more. But soon she was too tired to do that one, and the lake was moving too fast. Sandy worried what would be beyond the river or if it went forever. She hoped it would be a big rock that would stop Sandy from moving and would allow her to go to shore. Unfortunately, that was not the case. When she came to the end of the lake, she saw that there was a waterfall. As she got closer and closer, she frantically tried to hold onto shore or at least not fall into the waterfall. Her hand fell on a piece of grub, and she managed to pull herself mostly up from the water. As she was about to step her foot on the land, a large wave washed her back and under the water. When she finally did get up from the water, she saw the waterfall just a few feet ahead of her. She knew she was doomed, so she closed her eyes and waited.

When she fell off the waterfall, her body was a mess. Her arms were frozen from the water, and her legs were cut from a rock in the bottom of the lake. Her body was soaked, her face scratched up. When she hit the water, her whole body slapped on it, hard. She was suppressed under the weight of the water. She pulled herself up and was very relieved to see land in front of her. She walked onto the land, bruises and all. At least she wasn’t dead. She found a leaf to cover her bleeding. She took it and laid it on top of her body. She let the blood ooze out of her leg and onto the leaf. Sandy ripped some of the leaf off and with some sap from the tree next to her, she put it onto her leg. Her owners did this to her when she got hurt, which was a lot. Sandy slowly stood up and walked, or rather limped, to the edge of the forest. She didn’t care what the man in the blue uniform had done to her. She wanted to be home and safe. She sneaked around the house and into the back door. She knew that the men wouldn’t know to come in this way since it was covered in moss and grass. When Sandy walked in, she saw men all over the house. She didn’t care though. She was done with the forest. She stayed low and avoided them as much as she could. She walked up the stairs where they were all huddled around the fire. Sandy went up to the owners’ room. The owners were not there. Sandy wished they were there, sleeping in their bed with Sandy between them, just like it was when Sandy was a baby.

A sudden knock jolted Sandy awake. Sandy quickly moved under the bed. Through the blankets she saw another person with a blue uniform, this time a woman. She heard moans and things that she couldn’t make out. Then, the officer started walking around the room, almost looking like she was looking for someone or something. The officer was getting closer and closer to Sandy until she was at the bed. Sandy’s body was shaking uncontrollably, The officer’s head slowly moved downward until it saw Sandy. Sandy jumped, and her head hit the bottom of the bed. Her body felt lifeless for a second until the officer grabbed her and carried her out of the room. Sandy was strung over the officer’s shoulder and carried outside of the door. The officer laid Sandy down on the pavement. She pet Sandy’s head softly. The officer took out a first aid kit and took out a bandage. She softly put it on Sandy’s head to stop the bleeding. For a while, the officer sat there beside Sandy until she had enough strength to stand up and go back into the forest.

***

Sandy was wet, cold, hungry, but most of all, alone. She didn’t want to be in the forest, but no matter what she did, she always ended up there. It was like the forest wanted her forever. Sandy knew she wasn’t meant to be in the forest. She was meant to be in the barn or in a house! Sandy was walking around the forest, perhaps to get some exercise, or to clear her brain of the horrible things that had happened to her. Her feet scratched the dirt down below. She focused on the different footprints. Large, small, large, ahh! Sandy had bumped into something. She looked up and saw herself? No, it wasn’t herself. It was another deer? It had brown marks on its nose and blueish eyes. The deer had the same color fur as Sandy but instead of having white spots in the back, it had a fully brown coat. Its ears were much bigger than Sandy’s but had the same shape. The nose was also bigger than Sandy’s but had the same color. The other deer grunted and brushed past Sandy, but as it did, Sandy tripped on a small rock and fell on top of the other deer. The deer grunted again. Sandy sheepishly stood up and shook the leaves off of her body, but instead of the leaves falling on the ground, it fell on the other deer. The deer grunted. Sandy saw a tree nearby with berries that she could store for the winter. The deer was watching her as she opened her mouth and started to bite the berries. Just then, the other deer pushed her away from the tree and shook its head. Sandy understood, she wasn’t supposed to eat that berry. The other deer took the berry and held it in its hoof. Sandy stepped forward. The other deer pointed to some black spots on the berry. Sandy nodded. The deer signaled to follow. Sandy followed. The other deer walked to the middle of the forest. Sandy saw a hole in the ground. She assumed it was his barn. The other deer jumped into the hole and disappeared. Sandy stood still for a moment, and then she too jumped into the hole. The hole was dark and only lasted a moment until she came to the deer’s barn. The barn was dark and wasn’t especially cozy. It had some moss in the corner, probably for sleeping. Another hole was there for going up. When Sandy looked up, she saw the ground, nothing more. The other deer lay down on the moss and closed its eyes. Sandy stayed where she was and sat down. She thought of her owners, how they held her close when she was scared, how they made her feel warm and cozy inside, how they taught her everything she knew which apparently didn’t help her in the wild. Sandy decided to wake up the other deer since she was bored. Sandy lightly tapped the other deer on the shoulder. The other deer jolted awake and groaned. It looked up at Sandy who was looking down at it. It slowly stood up until it was fully standing on the floor, then it started to move across the barn and up the ladder. Sandy followed, but the other deer stopped her, almost to get rid of her. Sandy waited until it was fully up the ladder and couldn’t stop her. Then, she too went up the ladder. The other deer was drinking water on the lake. Sandy was thirsty too, so she got some water too. She was again becoming careless, just caring about water. Then, it happened again. She fell in, but she didn’t. The other deer had stopped her. It had grabbed Sandy’s leg and pulled her up to land. Phew! Sandy knew she needed a protector, but she didn’t want one, so she just left. Into the wild.

Sandy shivered in the cold. She saw a man in green and white carrying a weapon of some sort. She had seen it on the owners’ wall. Sandy tried to hide from the man but soon enough, the man saw her. He quickly pushed something that made a bullet fly past Sandy’s face. Sandy’s face went pale when she saw it make a hole in the tree behind her. She couldn’t even see it anymore, only the hole that it had made. She wondered what would happen if it had hit her instead. She didn’t want to know. Soon another bullet was shot, Sandy ran as fast as she could. She didn’t want to run, but she had to. Her legs started moving as soon as the second bullet was shot. She soon was out of breath and had to stop. More bullets kept coming. Sandy shivered again but not because she was cold. The man came closer and closer, his weapon slowing him down. Sandy whimpered when she saw the gun aimed right at her face. She waited for the moment, but it didn’t happen. She looked down and saw what had stopped it.

The other deer had sacrificed its life for Sandy. Blood oozed out of the deer’s chest. Sandy felt a tear trickle down her cheek. She took a leaf and sap even though she knew there was no hope. Sandy looked up and saw the hunter. He aimed at Sandy, and Sandy realized he wanted the other deer for himself. Sandy ran away in fear, although she would miss the other deer a lot. She ran out of the forest and still saw the yellow tape and blue uniforms. She saw the woman policeman that had taken care of her and walked over to her. The woman smiled as Sandy put her head on her neck. The woman then looked at Sandy seriously and started to carry her through the streets. Sandy didn’t feel alone anymore. She felt welcomed and loved. The officer stopped at a house labeled 491. Sandy had learned to read from her owners. Endless hours and hours of letters and words finally paid off. The street was dirty mostly. She saw some stray dog near the trash can. She saw dirt on a lot of the houses which somehow made Sandy feel more welcome. The officer obviously didn’t have a lot of money, but Sandy liked that better. The officer opened the door and stepped inside. The officer started to write something on a piece of paper. The officer held it up for Sandy to see. It read welcome home.

 

John the Cow, Escape Artist

The cow was named John. He loved to play with his master named Ron. Ron was a good master because he could be playful like when he patted John on his head, but he was sometimes bossy. Ron would also whip John. John was brown with white spots. One day, John was thinking about running away. He knew his master would know that he ran away by morning, but that would give him at least five hours to run. So that night, John started to escape. He ran and ran until it became dawn. He was so far away from his home that he did not know where he was. It was still countryside, which told him that he still was not away from his master. He continued to roam around until he stopped at a small village. He was curious because he had never been to one before. He walked up and down the street until he felt tired. He went to one of the alleyways and fell asleep.

Sleeping in the alleyway was dark and cold. John was used to the warmth of the barn. When he woke up, he was in a truck. Had his master found him? Where was he going? These questions scared him, so he tried not to think about them. When the car stopped, he could make out the word Slaughterhouse. He was going to get killed. He had to find a way to escape. When John clomped out of the truck, two men grabbed him and dragged him to the slaughterhouse. He got put in a locked cell, so he could not escape. He guessed that he had 24 hours to escape before he got slaughtered for meat. He had to come up with a plan, and quickly, for his life. Just then, a person shot a tranquilizer dart in his body, and he fell to the ground.

While John was sleeping, he had a dream about a plan that would get him out of the slaughterhouse. He would break the door of his cell open with all his might, then when the security came, he would go out the back entrance where there was no security because that was where the food got loaded up and shipped to markets in the country. He would run to the nearest ranch where he could blend in and sleep for the night, and maybe even make a friend to help him in his journey of running, though he would not give help to them after they ran with him. He had the perfect plan, all he needed to do was execute it.

At midnight, John broke the chain of his cell and started for the back entrance. He was met with security at the back end to his surprise. He tried to back away, but one of the men saw him.

“Cow!” he shouted and started chasing him.

John’s only chance to escape was to go through the main entrance which was heavily guarded. At least the guards at the front did not know what was happening. He had the element of surprise. John ran at full speed toward the gate which shocked the guards. At the last possible second, he jumped the fence and ran away from the slaughterhouse.

John started to roam around, trying to find a barn to stay at. He wanted to find a cow who would help him in his travels. At 9:00 P.M., he finally found a small barn to sleep in. It was a little smaller than his original barn, but it would do fine. Quietly, John crept into the barn. After he lay down, sleep overcame him, and he dozed off. In the morning, John woke up and looked at the other cows. When he talked to some of them, nobody wanted to run away with him. Saddened by this, John skipped breakfast and headed on his way. As he walked and enjoyed himself, he started to wonder what he was going to do now that he was free. All he wanted to do was to live in peace and not get captured. Suddenly, another cow came down the road. She was white with brown spots, and she was pretty.

She asked, “What are you doing out here?”

John said, “I am on a mission to stay away from captivity.”

“I hate being stuck in a barn. Mind if I join you?”

“I don’t mind,” said John cheerfully.

“I escaped by jumping the fence because I was curious what you were doing,” said Stephanie.

John and his friend Stephanie began talking about their lives and how they got to this point in life.

“I was born on a farm that was very small. My master’s name was Shawn. He was a well-caring man because he would always give me enough food to eat. He would tend to me every time I mooed, and I liked him. One day I mooed, and he did not come. This was strange because it was nearly noon, and Shawn should have been awake. Then, an ambulance showed up. I heard the sirens like it was my master calling. I figured out that the ambulance had taken my master to the hospital. I loved Shawn, and I didn’t want him to die.”

Stephanie told John that she had been living in the barn for five years and had never seen the real world. Stephanie and John decided that they wanted to live together, so John got a job killing weeds. He saved up five hundred dollars to buy a big shack.

John was living in a big shack with his wife Stephanie in Oklahoma.

“I don’t want to live in the small room,” said John. “I am bigger than you Stephanie.”

“But I want to be in the bigger room,” replied Stephanie angrily. “I’m staying here and that’s final.”

“You are being more bossy than Ron,” replied John angrily. He just wanted to get over it. “Fine. I’ll let you have the bigger room.”

“Thank you.” Stephanie put her hoof around his head and gave him a hug.

“I remember the old days when I hated my life. Those days are over now, and I have a new future ahead of me that I am waiting for us to explore together.”

 

Change It Now

I was walking home from school on a normal Wednesday afternoon. I woke up, ate a bowl of Cheerios for breakfast, walked to school, and had a great day. I had aced my spelling test, and someone gave me a Fruit Roll-Up during lunch. My life as a second grader couldn’t be better. My mom said she would buy me ice cream after school because she was so proud of me, so we were on our way there. I thought nothing could ruin my perfect mood. But then, in front of me, I saw an evil man. He had a gray beard and a hunchback. He was wearing a long black coat that looked a size too big for him. He had just finished his milkshake, and he threw his cup on the sidewalk! I couldn’t believe it! There was a garbage can at the end of the block he was on, but he still threw it on the ground. How selfish of him! Now over my seven years of life I had seen people do this time and time again, and I always thought that I couldn’t do anything about it because I was just a little girl, but there was something about today that felt different. Maybe it was the fact that I had a little extra sugar from the Fruit Roll-Up, or a little extra confidence from acing my test, but I decided to go confront him.

I sprinted away from my mom, despite her screaming at me to stop. I stopped right behind this man and poked his back. He looked at me over his shoulder, and for the first time, I saw his full face. He had small brown eyes and chapped lips. He squinted at me, turned around, and mumbled, “What do you want.”

“Hello sir,” I said, trying to mask my fear. He squinted at me again. “Well, I saw you dropped your milkshake cup on the floor, and I was just wondering if you wouldn’t mind possibly picking it up?”

“Okay, I guess I’ll do it next time.” He rolled his eyes and began to walk away, but I knew he was lying to me. So, I walked in front of him and stopped him again.

“What do you want now,” he said.

“I don’t believe you. I don’t think you are going to do it next time.”

“So? Why do you care? It’s not my job. There’s other people who can do that. Now let me walk home.”

I knew he was a stranger, and I knew I shouldn’t have even talked to him in the first place, but I felt the anger boiling up inside of me. This happened to me a lot. I would become furious at people like this all the time. Usually, I just ignored it, but instead, I exploded.

“No! You just don’t get it.” I was almost screaming by now. “It is nobody’s job but your own! You know that polar bears and penguins and even dolphins are dying because of you!”

“Whatever,” he mumbled. “Get out of my way, you little brat.” I was mad. I was really, really mad, but this man was scary, with his wrinkled hands that looked like they could knock me out in a second and his creepy squinting eyes. I decided to let him go. I walked back to my mom.

“Mommy! That man threw his cup on the ground and didn’t pick it up, even though I reminded him to!” My mom gave me this look that I got a lot. A pitiful smile, sad eyes. She looked at me like I was some crazy kid who didn’t understand the world. I hated it.

“Honey, it’s okay. He’ll throw it out next time. Also, what did I tell you about talking to strangers! It’s not safe. You’re just a little girl.”

She said it. Those words that I had heard time and time again. They made me so mad. I knew I was smarter than every grown-up who had said this to me, but there was nothing I could do about it.

“Okay, Mommy. I understand.” Suddenly, my day wasn’t so great anymore. I didn’t want ice cream. I walked the rest of the way home with a slump in my back that was almost as big as the evil man’s was.

I got home, went straight to my room, and plopped down onto my bed.

I wish I was older, I thought. Then, people would take me seriously.

Later that night as I was laying in bed, I was unable to fall asleep because I was consumed by my thoughts. I imagined what my life would be like if I was just a little bit older. Even just today would have been different. I bet that old grouch would have listened to me if I was a grown-up or even just a teenager. Sure, I might not get to eat Fruit Roll-Ups as much, and I might not get ice cream just for acing a spelling test, but that wouldn’t matter to me if people actually listened to me. But I knew I was still stuck as a second grader.

The next morning, I woke up, ate my Cheerios, and walked to school again. It was raining, but I didn’t have an umbrella, so when I got to school, I was soaking wet. School was fine. No Fruit Roll-Ups, though. I walked home with my mom, got home, and plopped down on my bed again. I lay there for a little while and thought. Then, I did what I usually did when I felt hopeless or upset, I talked to my sister. I walked to her bedroom and knocked on her door.

“Come in,” she said. “Hi, how’s it going?”

“Not great,” I admitted. “Can I talk to you about something?”

“Of course.”

I lay down next to her on her bed and sighed.

“What’s going on?” I wanted to talk to her, I needed to talk to her, but I thought she wouldn’t understand. She was in high school, almost a grown-up. People took her seriously, people didn’t ignore her. I decided to stay quiet.

“I bet I can help. I was seven once too.”

“Fine, but you might not understand. It’s just that nobody takes me seriously! They think that since I’m a little girl, I don’t know anything.” She looked at me for a moment.

“That’s not true,” she said. “People take you seriously! I know I do and — ”

“No, you don’t get it! It happens constantly. Like yesterday, I was walking down the street, and I saw this old freaky man throw his cup on the ground, so I told him to pick it up, but he didn’t! He just called me a brat and walked away!”

“Okay, so you might be right. People don’t take you seriously ‘cause you’re a kid. But that’s okay, you can just wait until you’re older, you shouldn’t have to worry about this. You’re seven! Have fun and make it last.”

“Fine. I guess you’re right.” I began to walk out of the room, but paused mid step.

“I have one more thing to say… ”

“What is it?” My sister walked back to my bed and lay down next to me again. I took a deep breath.

“Well, it’s just that, I think actually… um, I might be afraid of growing up… ”

“What? You just told me you wanted to be an adult so people can trust you to change the world or whatever.”

“I know, and I have been telling myself that. I thought that all of my problems would go away if I grew up, but that’s kind of why I’m afraid of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, what if when I do grow up, people still don’t take me seriously? I try to help people do the right thing, and they still say that I don’t know anything or that I’m just being stupid.”

“I don’t think that will happen. You’re so smart. I know it, you know it, and the rest of the world will know it soon enough.”

“Yes, I know I’m smart. And I’ve always thought that it was a good thing that I am determined, but Mommy has told me that sometimes I don’t know when to stop, and I don’t think that will change with age.”

“I think it’s great that you’re so perseverant. Sure it annoys some people, like that old grouch, but not me.”

“You have to say that ‘cause you’re my sister. If even my own mommy thinks it’s annoying, then it probably is. So maybe I just use my age as an excuse, because really I am insecure.”

“Well, I don’t know if you can say that for sure, and — ”

“No, I think I can. I haven’t told anyone before. I’ve barely even admitted it to myself. But you’re my sister, you know me better than anyone in the world. So tell me, will this ever change?”

“Well, I guess it kind of doesn’t. But it’s not just for you, it’s not just because you’re so smart and determined, it’s true for everyone. Whenever someone disagrees with you, they won’t listen. Sadly, there’s nothing you can do about that.”

“I think you can always do something about any situation. I’ve always thought that I don’t have to try to make a change yet, because it will be easier when I’m older, but now that I’ve realized that it might never get easier, I might have to do something now.”

“Okay, I guess you might be right, but what can you do?” There was a moment of silence Then, my face lit up. I had an idea.

“Well, even if I can’t make other people pick up their garbage, I can just do it for them. Maybe I can go and pick up all that garbage from the streets myself! I’ve been waiting for so long to help solve this issue, and I thought I’d have to wait till I was an adult, but maybe I can start now. I know people might not listen to me, but I can still make a change. I’m going to save all the polar bears and penguins and dolphins!”

“Alright, have fun! You can do it!” I was ready to begin. I didn’t care that it was raining. In fact, that just made me want to do it more. I ran into the kitchen and grabbed a bunch of garbage bags. I went into the closet and put on a pair of stained yellow gloves that were a bit too big, because they were meant for Mommy. Then, I went back into my room and grabbed my swimming goggles just in case anything happened. I put on a rain jacket and rain boots, and sprinted out the door.

“I’ll be back soon!” I yelled. The door closed behind be with a slam. I stepped into the rain, I took a deep breath, and began.

There was hardly anyone on the street since it was pouring out, which made this much easier. I kind of got into a zone. Pick up garbage, put in bag, drag bag forwards. Over and over again. It might sound boring, but I actually had lots of fun. I imagined that each piece of garbage I picked up was a polar bear, or penguin, or dolphin that I was saving. I had no sense of time, because it was already dark out from the rain, but after a while my mom came out and told me it was time for dinner. I told my family about what I had done.

“I picked up garbage off the streets, and now all of the animals won’t die anymore.”

“That’s great, honey,” my mom said. She still gave me the look, but I didn’t care. I knew I was making a change no matter what.

That night, I fell asleep much happier than I had in a very long time.

The next morning was Friday, my favorite day of the week. Mommy always made chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast, so I had that instead of another bowl of Cheerios. It was still raining, but I was okay with that. And it was someone’s birthday at school, so we all got cupcakes!

When Mommy picked me up, she offered to get me ice cream since we never got it the day before, but I told her I wanted to go home since I was so excited! I had been looking forward to this all day. Again, I grabbed the garbage bag, the gloves, the goggles, and my rain jacket and rain boots. As I was running out the door, my sister stopped me.

“Wait! Can I come with you?”

“Of course! Yay!”

She grabbed her own pair of gloves, goggles, and rainboots. She threw on her jacket.

“We’ll be back soon!” she yelled, and we ran out the door.

We decided to go to a slightly different neighborhood today, just a few minutes from ours. We rode our bikes there, got off, and got to work.

It was great. We were soaked from head to toe, but we didn’t care. I told her about imagining each piece of garbage as an animal, and she laughed at me at first, but then realized that it was actually quite fun.

I looked around and realized how great this was. I was no longer making excuses, but instead making a change. I looked around. I saw the clean streets that almost looked like they sparkled. It was dark and gloomy, but still, I thought the neighborhood had never looked better.

 

19 minutes

I woke up in the morning to realize that my alarm clock hadn’t even gone off yet. It was only four in the morning. Meh, who cared? I would be early for work. Plus, I was the head of the company, no one could get mad at me for being early — right?

Wrong. My assistant publisher was always screaming at me, like, “Grant! Don’t forget your meeting at ten o’clock sharp!” Blah blah blah. Now, I know that I talked about her as if she were annoying, and don’t get me wrong, she was; but she was a real lifesaver.

One time, I had planned a meeting with the president of France, and I totally forgot about it. But thanks to her screaming, I didn’t miss it. Today though, I’m not here to tell you about how dumb I could be sometimes, because today I’m going to the Amazon rainforest. I was flying to a lab where they tested on plants — or, that’s what they said. I was here to find out if that’s what they really did.

Nine hours later, I was at the Harper Labs Plant Experimentation Center. First of all, the place was huge. I don’t mean like the White House huge, I mean like if the Empire State fell over huge. I was twenty-three, and I was the most famous reporter in the world. That meant I’d seen a lot of things, but never something like this. They had hundreds of thousands of plants everywhere. If they were trying to hide something, it was one hell of a cover story. Dean — the man who scheduled all of my interviews — broke me out of my daydream.

“Grant, Grant!”

“Huh,” I replied like an idiot.

“Your interview is in a half hour, so pull yourself together!”

“Sure, dude,” I replied. Dean acted all tough, but on the inside he was a total softie. I’d actually known Dean since I was 15. He was 17 at the time, but we were — and still are — best friends. Dean told me that the name of the man who was going to give us a tour of the lab was Jaden William Smith. When he came to give us the tour, I was quite surprised to find that Jaden was actually a man in his mid-thirties, tall (about six foot one), with light blond hair and green eyes.

“Welcome to Harper Labs. My name is Jaden Smith, but you can just call me Jaden.”

“Thank you for having us,” I replied, slightly in awe.

“So, you ready for that tour?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Please, just call me Jaden.”

“Okay,” I replied.

 

After about a half day of the tour we, ended like this.

“This is the experimentation room,” Jaden said, pointing to a room on the right, “and finally, this is the testing room.”

“What are all those rooms?” I asked, wondering why he hadn’t shown us those rooms.

“Oh, just boiler rooms,” he replied.

I wasn’t convinced, so I said, “Why do you have so many?”

“It’s a big building.”

“Ah I see,” still suspicious.

“Dean,” I said, “can I have a word”

“Sure, wassup?”

“Well, you know the boiler room?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, I don’t think they’re boiler rooms.”

“Why?” he asked curiously.

“Well, why do they need so many boiler rooms in the Amazon?” I told him.

“Big building,” he suggested.

“I don’t think so, let’s check.” I walked up to the door and turned the knob.

“Damn, it’s locked. Dean?”

“On it,” he replied. What most people didn’t know about Dean is that he studied in the police force. Nobody knew why he became my interview assistant. If anybody asked him why, he would just say that he didn’t want to talk about it. Thanks to his experience though, he knew how to open locked doors.

We couldn’t be seen, so I told Dean to stop. I went over to Jaden and asked him where the bathroom was. “Two hallways to the left,” he said. I thanked him and called Dean to come. When we got to where he said the bathroom was, we kept walking until we got to a boiler room. Dean worked his magic, and the door clicked. The first thing I noticed was that it was freezing in there. This was no boiler room. The next thing I saw were shelves, thousands of them, lined with a purple liquid. The room was huge, as if it took up half of the lab, but how could that be? We had already seen two-thirds of it. Then, I realized that this room was far bigger than that. It stretched about four floors down. I looked at Dean to see him staring at everything through slitted eyes.

“Dean,” I whispered. “This can’t be a la –”

Beep! Beep! Beep! A loud alarm went off, and then we heard a voice over the speaker. “Evacuate the premises quickly. We have had a leak in sector 1382 C.”

“What the… ” I was confused. What was sector 1382 C? What type of leak? I checked my watch, and it was 6:22. Then, I was reminded of the evacuation. Dean and I dashed out of the place and into the hallway. It was chaotic. People were running everywhere, but as a reporter, my job was to find out what was happening. I started running against the tide, Dean on my back, until bam! I lost consciousness for a moment. When I came to my senses, Dean was standing in front of me with a woman. She resembled my sister Claire. Wait. It was my sister Claire. She helped me up and told me to follow her. She led us into a strange room with lots of strange looking animal statues.

“Claire! What are you doing here?”

“Hi, brother. I work here.”

“What! You told me you were a travel agent.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not. We need to get out of here.”

“No. Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Ugh. Fine. This isn’t a lab for plant experimentation.”

“Yeah, I realized that,” I interrupted.

She continued, “It’s actually an animal mutation center.”

“What do you mean? What about the purple liquid. Is it — ”

“You saw that?”

“Of course, it’s my job to see what people don’t want me to see.”

“I knew it was a bad idea bringing you here. You find things out too quickly.”

“Well, can you explain to me what’s going on please?”

“Okay. Umm, so the purple serum is called a SeurgaGene Serum, and it’s supposed to help us speak to animals. The leak that you heard about over the speakerphone is referring to the serum.”

“Okay, so what’s the problem?”

“The serum is still in the testing phase, so there is no telling what it will do to the animals in the rainforest.” Just then, a huge bang hit the other side of the wall. I checked the door window. A huge jaguar was walking down the hallway. There was blood everywhere. The large animal was carrying two humans — dead humans. A man and a woman. Horrified, I noticed that the the man was Dr. Jaden Smith. He had blood on his neck and looked like he had died terrified. The woman I did not recognize, but I could tell that she had been a very good-looking woman, no more than twenty eight.

I checked my watch. 6:41. It had been 19 minutes since the leak, and the animals had already started to react. I ran to my sister and said, “Wha — ” She covered my mouth with her hand. I looked into her eyes and saw her fear. She removed her hand from my mouth and shushed me. By now, I realized that the animal has heard us. Claire showed us a secret exit, and we ran. I heard glass shatter, and I realized that the jaguar was following us. I turned to see the jaguar leap at me, and then I screamed. I closed my eyes and wondered why I was not dead. I opened my eyes and saw that the animal was on the ground.

“Is it — dead?” I ask, horrified.

“No, it’ll just be too weak to do anything for a few minutes. Now, let’s get moving,” my sister said, like it was obvious. We followed her outside, and that’s when we saw about forty animals waiting in front of the lab. They immediately noticed us, and Claire shot darts until she ran out of ammo. Crap, we were screwed.

“Run!” Claire shouted. If the other animals hadn’t noticed us earlier, they definitely noticed us now.

We ran through the jungle until we ran into a nest of anacondas. “SSSSSSStttttooooooo pp,” I heard a voice in my head.

“What? Who said that,” I said out loud.

“You are looking at us,” replied the voice in my head. I looked at the anacondas.

“How can you talk to me?” I asked.

“Yessss, now I suggest you run before I kill you.” He didn’t even answer my question.

“Come on, let’s go,” Claire shouted.

“Okay,” I replied. We started running. I looked back to realize to my horror that the anacondas were slithering after us. My sister stopped.

“Why did you stop?” I looked at her, panicking as I realized that the snakes were closing in.

I looked at what my sister was looking at, and I realized that we were on the edge of a cliff. A huge waterfall hit the bottom into a river. Jump. It was our only option. I breathed deeply and told my sister, “Follow me.” She looked at me confused, and then I jumped. I hit the water, and then I saw nothing.

 

140 Miles to You (Excerpt)

     

Chapter One: The Blood Test

“This is not how I would like to spend my weekend.” That’s exactly how my best friend,

Isabel Cheston was feeling. Sitting in the doctor’s office one Saturday morning. She actually wasn’t really sitting. She was pacing the large white room while freaking out about her blood test. I could see why — she was getting four vials of blood drawn! Her hands were sweaty and clammy from her worrying. Her short brown hair tangled and knotted from her pulling.

“You’ll be fine, I promise” I said. “They just want to make sure your blood is healthy.”

“That really makes me feel better, Kosette!” Isabel snapped.

Surprised by her icy tone I paused. “At least I’m coming with you on a Saturday. Give me that much!” When Isabel didn’t respond I added, “Your mom is taking a long time parking the car.”

She glanced at me, but before she could respond the doctor opened the door. “Isabel, you may come on back.”

Isabel looked back at me and mouthed “Thank you.” She turned toward the doctor. “Can my friend come back with me?”

The doctor hesitated and looked like she was about to say yes. Then she thought better of it and said to Isabel “How about your friend stays in the waiting room, and you can see her when you come out. You’ll be done in no time and besides, your mom is coming up. See there she is!”

Isabel slowly nodded, her face crumpling up like she was about to cry.

Suddenly, Isabel’s mom hurried in. “I’m sorry I’m late Dr. Blakeman. The parking lot — it’s insanely full!”

“It always is” he agreed. “Isabel, can we come back now that your mom is here?”

Isabel nodded. The doctor took Isabel’s bony shoulders and guided her to the back rooms. Her mom following behind.

“You will do great!” I called. “I will be here when you are done!” I sat back down and sighed. I grabbed a Sports Illustrated magazine but my eyes weren’t reading the words. I couldn’t focus. Isabel’s blood was fine, wasn’t it?

 

A week later I was with Isabel in her backyard. The Florida air playing with our hair. Isabel had emerged from the back of the doctor office last Sunday acting fine. My worries had left… somewhat.

I still couldn’t shake the last few months out of my head. All the times Isabel had seemed okay, but then suddenly not okay.

One time that really worried me was when we were at Daytona Beach together. We were boogie boarding as we always did when we went to the beach. She suddenly looked up and said

“I’m tired, I need a break.”

“What about a few more waves? Then we can take a break and recharge.”

Usually Isabel was as active as me, preferring soccer and basketball to reading and writing. So I was pretty surprised when she strongly replied “No my knees are really hurting. I NEED to stop.”

“Fine” I agreed. “We can hit the ground running this afternoon. Sorry you are not feeling well.”

 

And now we were here. Sitting outside her house braiding each other’s hair. This was also a break from yet another fun activity, soccer.

And yeah, Isabel had been the one to ask for it.

Suddenly her mom ran outside and hurried over to Isabel. I expected her to yell that Isabel and I had left the ball in the street. Despite there being barely any cars on the road. She just looked at the ball without really seeing it.

“Isabel come with me.” Isabel stopped braiding my long brown hair and followed her mom back into the house. She turned around and shrugged as if saying she didn’t know what was going on.

I automatically followed Isabel. Her mom turned and said to me “It would be best if you could just stay here, alright? I need to talk to Isabel about a few things.”

I nodded but of course, being the nosy nine-year-old girl that I was. I had to know what was wrong. As soon as Isabel and her mom disappeared into the house I silently crept to the sliding glass door to listen.

“How?!” Isabel’s response was high-pitched. She always got like that when she didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t either. My heart pounded so hard I thought both of them would hear it. I wanted to stop listening. I couldn’t tear myself from the door. I heard Isabel’s mom reply. Her voice sounded muffled, as if I was underwater. I tried desperately to piece together what I was hearing and only grasped this: Isabel’s blood test from last week came out positive for some type of cancer. She needed the right blood. She needed to go to the hospital to get the wrong blood removed from her system.

 

I slid the door open a crack. I could now hear clearly.

“Isabel it’s called leukemia” Isabel’s mom said slowly.

“What’s that?” Isabel asked. “I don’t understand!”

“Imagine you put gas into a car” Isabel’s mom explained.

“The gas does not react well in the car. It’s the wrong gas. The car becomes sick. The car has to go to the automotive shop to get the right gas put into it. Then the car becomes healed. You have to do the same.”

The doctors will put the right blood into your body. And you’ll get better.”

“When do we leave?” Isabel’s voice cracked like it was on the verge of breaking. When her mom didn’t respond Isabel asked again. “When? When?!”

My heart felt like it would break out of its cage. I anxiously raked my hands down my hair. My fingers running along each strand.

“That’s the thing, Isabel, we have to start treatment quickly,” her mom responded after a long pause. “We leave for the hospital tomorrow.”

 

If Only

Long ago, when people didn’t destroy the Earth and people were the Earth, there were two. The water belonged to the Goddess, and the land belonged to the God. The Goddess and the God were in a relationship of sorts, as they worked together and around each other. But that was all they could do, because the land and the water were separate. They longed for each other. Every morning, the Goddess would bathe in the water and greet her aquatic friends. They looked up to her. Her, in her green, grassy-skinned glory. She was different from them, and powerful. The Goddess looked across the world to the land and to the God. The God, whose long beard reached his toes and beyond, met her gaze easily. His skin was different from hers. It was smoother and rosier. His beard was different from anything she had seen in the water, too. Cherries and fruits and leaves were growing from it, and the Goddess wanted nothing more than to reach out and be able to hold it in her hands. To pick the cherries and the fruits and the leaves and eat them, adorn her meals with them, cherish them. She wanted him. His smile was shy and tentative, but it was there, and the Goddess smiled back like she would with any of her friends in the water. The God turned around to talk to one of his own friends in the land, and the Goddess looked down, content with the interaction. She continued with her day, and he continued with his, and it went on like that for years. They would meet eye contact, smile, and then look away.

One day, the Goddess decided she wanted more. More than just seeing a smile, but instead holding the smile closer to her, in her hands. She called out to the God. He looked back, shocked. They had never dared to talk to each other. Nobody would dare to talk between worlds. But he responded.

“I want to meet you,” the Goddess said.

“We’ve already met.”

“I want to feel you.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t allowed. Not in this lifetime,” the God said after a pause, and he frowned.

“But why isn’t it allowed? What are we scared of?” the Goddess said, her voice liquid hope. Everyone was staring at them now. All of the Goddess’ aquatic friends, and all of the God’s woodland creatures. They all looked at the God and the Goddess as if they were insane. No one had ever even thought to break the unspoken rules, and no one had ever even thought that the leaders would think of doing so themselves. “We could be happy together.”
“We could get banished.” His eyes were skipping around her, looking everywhere except her.

The Goddess looked at him, hurt. She couldn’t believe her ears. After all this time — she thought that the God wanted her just as much as she wanted him. She would be willing to throw everything away for him, why didn’t he feel the same. The God looked up at her again, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes crowded by a cloud of confusion. The Goddess reached her arm out, across the world, trying to grab onto the God. There were gasps all around: that was never done before! The God didn’t move back, but he didn’t move closer either. The Goddess was getting closer to him, closer, closer, closer… Her arm was thin and cracking from the stretch, like elastic in freezing temperatures, and she knew she couldn’t go much further. But she was so close… Suddenly, the God stretched his arm out too and easily clutched onto the Goddess’s grass covered arm. Light beamed from the interlapse, and again, the crowd gasped. The God pulled at the Goddess, and the Goddess pulled at the God, bringing the two worlds closer. The light was growing in size and in power, until finally, the two worlds connected, and the God fell into the Goddess’s arms, and the Goddess fell into the God’s arms. The light between them grew and grew until it took over both of their visions, and all of the visions of the aquatic friends and woodland creatures. Abruptly, the light fizzled out, and the God and Goddess were one, as were the water and the land. The woodland creatures walked around and looked curiously at the aquatic friends, and the aquatic friends reciprocated those stares. The God and the Goddess were together from that point on, and they couldn’t be happier. The one catch was that now there wasn’t a God or Goddess to look over the aquatic friends or the woodland creatures. They were on their own, and the Goddess thought to herself that they’d be just fine. She knows them, and the God knows them, and they both know that none of their own beings could ever be cruel.

If only they could see what the world they created has become today.

 

Emery’s Revenge

Emery woke up in the morning with a yawn. Emery lived in a very small cabin near a mountain. He was the son of King Timothy, one of the strongest kings that were alive today. But he was only strong because of one stone that carried strength. He desperately wanted the stone, and he was jealous of King Timothy. King Timothy kept the stone in a mountain that had the strongest gusts of wind that would blow anyone off to their death. Emery hated his dad a lot, because he was weak.

“How can you not even lift an apple up? You should be ashamed of yourself, Emery. You’re a disgrace to our family!”

Emery was disgusted at how King Timothy insulted him every time he saw him. He wanted revenge, and he wanted to show who was stronger. But Emery first needed to know how he couldn’t lift something up that was really light, like an apple.

 

Emery trained hard so that he could reach the cave on the mountain to snatch the stone of strength. He knew hundreds of people died from climbing the mountain, so he needed to train hard and be the strongest he could be. Emery then could carry horses, and tables, with only one hand. But he knew he wasn’t as strong as his dad. The next day, Emery decided to start his journey to the stone. He knew he was strong enough for the journey. The tiring and dangerous trip to the cave was going to be two days, and Emery packed enough food and water for his trip. The journey had just begun.

 

Emery walked on a bridge over the river and saw a stranger standing on the bridge. He turned his head and saw Emery step on top of the bridge.

“Now who do we have here? Emery Farman, you really think you can climb this wall? Pffff. Loser. I heard you couldn’t even carry an apple! HAHAHAHAHA!” said the stranger.

“Who are you?” asked Emery.

“You’re as stupid as you look, Farman. I’m also here to get the stone, and nothing can stop me. Can someone weak like Emery Farman beat me in a fight? No?!”

“Then why don’t we fight here now?” challenged Emery.

Emery then took out his sword, and the stranger took out his sword too. Emery and the stranger then started to fight each other hard. The stranger then went for Emery’s legs. Emery blocked it and then kicked the stranger in the face. The stranger couldn’t keep his balance and fell to the ground. Emery then decided to kick him off the bridge.

“Bye bye!” Emery said.

The stranger then fell to his death. It was a good start for Emery Farman.

 

Emery saw the big mountain he was going to climb. There was a big amount of snow on top of the mountain. He then saw a small sparkle on top of the mountain inside the cave.

It’s the stone, Emery thought. Emery then stepped on the mountain, and he decided to take a path with a bunch of rocks and sand around it. Emery walked and walked. His legs were sore and heavy. Then, there was fog and mist everywhere. Emery then got hit by a gust of wind.

 

Emery was freaking out. His hand was on a piece of sandy rock. He was dangling off the mountain like a Christmas tree ornament. He took a few deep breaths.

“AHHHH!” Emery screamed.

Emery was tired and sore in every muscle of his body. He was back on the mountain. He then faced the same stranger right in front of him.

“Y-y-you’re not dead?!”

“What else did you think, Farman? Now I really want to kill you!”

The stranger then tried to kick Emery off the mountain. Emery then tripped the stranger, and put his arm around the stranger’s neck. This was Emery’s chance to finally kill the stranger. But then, the stranger disappeared out of sight.

 

The stranger was now making Emery furious. Surely there was another way to get rid of the stranger, Emery thought. Emery then decided to forget about what had just happened, and he just continued his journey. Emery was sure that the stranger was going to come back. He knew that the stranger wouldn’t just give up for the stone. Emery then felt drowsy. He knew he needed rest, so Emery made himself a sleeping spot and slept.

 

Emery dreamt of all the insults he heard from his father in his childhood. He also dreamt of all the misery he went through. He then dreamt of him getting kicked out of his father’s kingdom and of how he was really weak. He then woke up with sweat dripping all over his face. This dream was basically a nightmare for Emery. Not only did he wake up with sweat dripping all over his face, he was basically on the edge of the mountain.

“GAHH!” Emery screamed.

Emery took a few deep breaths and stood up and acted like nothing just happened. After that, Emery hiked and walked, and he felt the strongest glow ever in his life. He felt a loud buzz against his skin, and he also felt warmth. When he looked to his left, there it was, the stone of strength.

“Finally! Now I can show father who’s stronger.”

Emery ran up to the stone until a dark shadow appeared out of nowhere. I bet you can guess who it is. The man who annoyed Emery’s journey. The stranger.

“Hey, Farman! You should’ve seen the face you made when I disappeared. It was so funny!”

“What?! How can you not die!” Emery shouted.

The stranger then formed into the man Emery hated all his life. His father.

“Now Emery, you’re not going anywhere near my stone. You better get out now before I shred you into pieces.”

“Well, I’m not leaving until I get the stone,” Emery said.

Emery took out his sword and put it on his father’s neck.

“So, you still want to kill me?” his father asked.

“Yeah,” Emery answered.

He then used all his strength to slice his father’s head off. Instead, King Timothy stabbed Emery in the stomach. The sword stuck through Emery’s stomach. Blood dripped everywhere.

“Goodbye, Emery,” his father said.

 

His father then left Emery’s dead body and disappeared. Emery groaned and groaned. He knew he would die in just seconds. He saw the stone of strength on top of a rock. It was glowing on a piece of rock. Emery realized that he could retrieve the stone in time before he died. Emery crawled with all his strength. His shirt was already soaked with blood. Emery then knocked the piece of rock down, so then he could catch the stone of strength in the air. It seemed like everything was in slow-motion now. Emery then extended his arm out with his final amount of strength…

 

The stone twirled around and around. The stone then fell between Emery’s fingers. Boom! The cave exploded in bright yellow. After the explosion, Emery realized that he was not dead. He felt stronger and more powerful. Emery then jumped off the mountain and brought the stone with him so that no one could ever keep the stone and retrieve the strength and power he had. Emery jumped off the mountain and landed in no sweat. Emery was ready, and now all he had to do was kill his father.

 

Emery entered the kingdom. People gasped and spit at him. They shouted insults and said that Emery was not welcome to his father’s kingdom. Emery murdered the people who insulted him in one second. People backed off and ran away and were scared of the new Emery. Emery then stormed into his father’s room and saw his father reading a book. His father gasped and was surprised to see Emery alive.

“Uh, uh, I-I am sur-sur-prised to see you a-alive, E-E-Emery,” King Timothy said.

“Hello, Father. Now I have one more thing to do. Kill you,” Emery said.

Emery then struck his father in one punch. Crack! His father collapsed, and his eyes turned white.

“You made my life miserable,” Emery said.

Emery then spit at his dead father’s body.

 

Losing or Letting Go?

 

Scene 1

(Open on the dining room. MOM and ALEX sit at opposite ends of the table. MOM is speaking passionately)

 

ALEX

(Slams cup on table) MOM, C’MON, PLEASE!?

 

MOM

WHAT?

 

ALEX

(he takes a deep breath) I don’t want to get into yet another fight with you, let’s just-

 

MOM

(interrupting) We’re not fighting.

 

ALEX

Then what are we doing?

 

MOM

We’re have a civil discussion.

 

ALEX

But what you’re saying is hurtful mom.

 

MOM

I’m not talking specifically about your stories, it’s CNN’s stories…you know, generally.

 

ALEX

It doesn’t matter. Everytime we talk you bring it up.

 

MOM

If you don’t want to talk with me, stop coming to our Wednesday dinners, I don’t care.

 

ALEX

Mom, (he groans) that’s not what I mean.

 

MOM

I just don’t see why you are making this such a big deal.

 

(MOM picks up the plates and walks offstage. MOM continue talking to him from the kitchen offstage)

 

ALEX
Because mom, you do this all the time.

 

MOM

It’s only because I don’t see why you need to work for that place, I thought I raised you differently.

(ALEX doesn’t respond)

 

MOM (cont.)

This would all stop if you just found another job, someplace more sensible. I really think you’d be a good lawyer.

(Silence)

I’m ashamed when I talk to my friends and tell them you work for CNN. It’s embarrassing.

 

ALEX

PLEASE JUST SHUT UP

 

MOM

(Pause. She walks out of the kitchen and stands over ALEX) If you can’t be respectful and…and civil, just leave, okay?

 

ALEX

Are you kidding? You’re gonna lecture me about respect.

 

MOM

I’m just…baffled, I mean, I would never ever tell my mother, or anyone for that matter, to shut up.

 

ALEX

You see how ironic that is, right? Because I would never tell my OWN SON THAT I’M ASHAMED OF HIS JOB.

 

MOM

I’m your mother, I’m supposed to help guide you away from bad decisions.

 

ALEX

I can make my own decisions mom, just lay off me a little.

 

MOM

Really? And what about when you wanted to marry that girl? A few years ago?

 

ALEX

That was-

 

MOM

(interrupting) You came to me for advice. So then you tell me you don’t need me.

 

ALEX

(pause) You know, I really should just go.

 

MOM

Fine, go.

 

ALEX

I’m just done fighting with you over stupid things.

 

MOM

So you agree that it’s stupid for you to get angry at me over this, because it really is.

 

ALEX

(he takes a deep breath) Okay, I’m gonna go now.

 

MOM

Do you? Answer me, do you agree that its stupid?

 

ALEX

SHUT UP, SERIOUSLY.

 

MOM

Don’t speak to me that way, not again. It’s your fathers fault you’re so disrespectful, I would never have raised you to talk that way.

 

ALEX
You don’t know where to stop mom.

 

MOM
I’m just saying, those weekends you spent at his place ruined you. I don’t understand why you had to-

 

ALEX

(interrupting) Why do you always have to bring that up?  

 

MOM

Because, I really think he had a bad effect on you, always cursing, and drinking and gambling.

 

ALEX

(pause. He smiles) You know, mom, I was actually thinking of flying out to Las Vegas to go see dad soon.

 

MOM

Don’t make empty threats.

 

ALEX
It’s not an empty threat, the flights are cheap and I’ve been wanting to see him again lately.

 

MOM
He’s reckless honey. I’m telling you as a bystander, not as your parent, thats a bad idea. Don’t you remember when dad told you to skip school that one time and come to see him, and you got suspended. He’ll…he’ll get you into gambling and you’re just-

 

ALEX

(interrupting) Again, mom, I can make my own decisions.

 

MOM
You’re not gonna do it, I know you won’t.

 

ALEX
No mom, I will do it, I’ll do it right now, right in front of you.

 

MOM

(pause. She turns around and walks to the kitchen. She continues doing dishes) Well, I honestly don’t care. I mean, you’re right it is your decision, so, if you want to go then you can go.

 

(ALEX sits back down at the table and pulls out his computer, starts looking at something)

 

MOM (cont.)

I’m just telling you, a few weeks with him out there and you’re gonna come back as a gambler and-

 

ALEX
(interrupting) I got it.

 

MOM

I’m just warning you honey, he’s changed since you were a kid. Back then he just drank, but, you know, he went to jail a few years ago.

 

ALEX

But I’m looking right now, one of the flights, leaving Saturday and returning the 18th is only 200 dollars round trip, that’s a bargain. All I would need to do is tell my boss that I’m taking my vacation days for the next two weeks.  

 

MOM

Okay, do it, go ahead.

 

ALEX

Okay, then I guess I’ll just get this one.

 

MOM

Wait! What’s the airline?

 

ALEX

Southwest.

 

MOM
Oh…well, if I were you…and again you can make your own decisions, but if I were you, I wouldn’t take southwest. It’s a little, how do I put it…downmarket?

 

ALEX

You know, I think I’m okay.

 

MOM

You sure? I have a pretty funny story about Southwest.

 

ALEX

Okay….?

 

MOM

So once, when I was about your age, I took one of the flights, and guess what?

 

ALEX

What?

 

MOM

They lost my luggage. (she chuckles fakely) Isn’t that just hilarious?

 

ALEX
Yeah, I guess.

 

MOM

I vowed I’d never take southwest again.

 

ALEX

Okay mom. I’m just gonna go ahead. I’m gonna book it, okay?

 

MOM

(she runs out of the kitchen)  WAIT! WAIT!

 

ALEX
Oh my god, what mom?

 

MOM
I just really think it’s a bad idea, please, please, please, just don’t go, I’m begging you, please, please…

(she is out of breath)

 

ALEX
Okay mom, okay, just sit down

 

MOM

(she sits down) I just…I don’t understand why you’re doing this, I just don’t understand.

 

ALEX
Mom, somethings obviously wrong, just tell me, why do you care so much?

 

MOM

I just don’t want you to go see him, I really don’t. I promise you, I won’t ever talk about the politics or your job ever again, I promise you, just don’t go.

 

ALEX

Why mom, really?

 

MOM

I don’t know, I guess I’m just jealous of him, you know that. You always came back from your weekend visits and said how fun it was…

 

ALEX

But…I deserve to see my own father.

 

MOM

No, no, of course-

 

ALEX

(interrupting) So, I’ll just go ahead

 

MOM

No, please Alex.

 

ALEX
MOM, WHAT IS THE PROBLEM?

 

MOM

You can’t go, I’m sorry, I won’t let you. (she slams his computer shut)

 

ALEX

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? I’M DONE HERE!

 

MOM
Wait, wait, stay, let’s just talk about something else. I heard there was a big win for the cavaliers last night.

 

ALEX

(he grabs his computer and his bag) See you in a few weeks mom, love you.

 

MOM
Wait…just…

 

(ALEX walks out the door, slamming it behind him. Blackout)

 

Scene 2

(Open on MOM sitting at the dining room table. She is on the phone, talking to her mom)

 

MOM

…and he just left. And I tried to call him later that night, and he didn’t pick up. I left four voicemails, FOUR! Right? So then yesterday, I get a text from him saying, “please stop calling.”

(pause)

No, mom, he’s being overdramatic and…and stubborn.

(pause)

Mom, I’m not at fault here. Why do you always take the other person’s side?

(pause)

I know mom… I’m just jealous of his father, he would come home from his weekend visits and talk about how fun they were. I can’t lose him.

(pause)

No, I’m not afraid of losing him.

(pause)

No mom.

(pause)

Mom, I’m not the one at fault here-

(pause)

That’s the problem mom. I know that I have to let him go, but I don’t want to.

(pause)

No, but I haven’t done anything wrong, I just love him, maybe too much.

(pause. She chuckles)

Yea, I do remember my rebellious phase.

(pause)

I guess so, but that was a different thing, you weren’t letting me live my life and…and always judging my decisions.

(pause)

I know that mom. Obviously, at some point, I will have to let him live his life…without me looking over his shoulder…oh my god, maybe you’re right mom.

(pause)

I just want to keep my eye on him…because, I don’t know, I guess I know that if I do, I won’t lose him.

(pause)

No, mom, I can’t let him go to Las Vegas, I can’t.

(pause)

Because, I don’t want to lose him to his own father. Maybe he’d start drinking and gambling, Maybe he’d never come back, I mean, he could go to jail or…I don’t know. Out there, who knows what could happen.

(pause)

I know you’re right mom, I’m afraid of losing him.

(pause)

And he’s not speaking to me. I…I’ve already lost him, on my own terms.

(pause)

What should I do mom?

(pause)

No mom, I can’t…I can’t.

(pause)

Wait, don’t go yet.

(pause)

Okay mom…love you.

(pause)

Bye.

(she hangs up the phone. She takes a deep breath. And then picks it up again and dials a number)

Hey Alex, I’ll buy you the tickets to Las Vegas…call me back when you get this.

 

Dave

Sharpie Dave was a very shy brown cactus who came from Colorado and was “born” in a toilet,  a.k.a thrown in the toilet to die by some random cactus farmer. Since then, Sharpie Dave had always felt unlovable and scared, but Dave had learned to accept that bad things happen in the world.

One day he was found in a local sewer in Ohio by a thrifty woman named Peach. Now in his new home, a thrift shop a few years later, Dave learned about this new interesting thing called “dating.” Maybe, he thought, if I try this, then I can understand what feeling loved is like! One day Dave gathered up all his confidence and went up to Brenda the Blender and asked her, “Will…y-y-you go on a date with me?”

“Sure, I have nothing better to do” she replied.

“Okay, I guess I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 2:00pm?”

“Whatever.”

The next day Dave woke up very chipper and thought about what they should do for their date so he asked around.

“I’m going on a date today, and I’ve never done this before. Do you have any suggestions for what I can do on my date?” he asked his friend Larry the Candle.

“Aisle 7, most romantic place of all time! That’s where I met my wife Joan Bean,” said Larry dreamily.

“Hmmm Aisle 7…okay thanks!” Dave said as he sped off. “If it is the most romantic aisle that maybe she can be my wife, too! Even though I don’t really know what that means, do you know what it means?” said Dave to his dog Bagel, who stared back at him glass eyed.

In the meantime Dave looked around his spot on the shelf to prepare himself, but could find nothing except dust bunnies, so he clumped them all together and made a dust bunny bow tie. Finally after minutes of waiting, the clock struck 2:00pm and Dave made his way towards Brenda’s aisle.

“Brenda? It’s me Dave. I’m here to take you to Aisle 7, the romantic of all the aisles!” said Dave happily.

“Okay, I’ll be down in a second!” replied Brenda.

Patiently Dave waited when suddenly Brenda appeared with her blades shining and her pitcher as clear as the windows in the store.

“You look nice,” said Dave.

“Let’s get going. I don’t have all day,” snapped Brenda.

So Dave and Brenda made their way towards Aisle 7, which contained a whole line of shelves with red satin on the interior, a Barbie play table set with a small lit candle, and romantic jazz music in the background.  “So, do you have any hobbies?” asked Dave politely as he and Brenda sat in a vacant shelf.

“I mean I love to wear makeup since you know, blending is kinda my thing. What about you?” said Brenda.

“Well I uh, I guess like to take care of my dog Bagel” smiled Dave.

“I hate dogs.” And with that Brenda left, and Dave had failed at his date.

Later that week, as Dave made his way back from Larry’s aisle, he spotted Brenda with an eggplant named Ernesto who bullied everyone. As Dave hurriedly tried to hide from them, Ernesto called out, “Hey, Sweet Cheeks! Come over here and give us some love!” Ernesto must’ve thought Dave hadn’t heard him so he made his way over to him. “Yo, I heard you tried to date my soon-to-be wife. Just so you know you’re never gonna find love, and that farmer was smart to throw you in that toilet.” Then he touched Dave’s clay pot, which made Dave very uncomfortable, plus he said more insults.

Dave felt so heartbroken and dirty that he cried himself to sleep that night and dreamt that Ernesto was wrong and he could find love.

   Meanwhile, a young, magenta-colored balloon named FloorBoard who lived in Kansas wanted to see the world and find true love but she was scared she would never find the right guy or be popped. “I want to be in a place where there is a beach and no sign of corn stalks but, alas I cannot possibly do this for I am nothing but a balloon,” she said sadly. “No, I shall leave this place and make my way to the place farthest from here!” And with that she left her Kansas home. Floorboard blew with the wind at a great height and saw the driest deserts she’d ever seen along with a very swampy bayou with murky waters and alligators trying to snap at her. As Floorboard blew through all these extravagant places she finally crossed Indiana into Ohio.

When Floorboard arrived in Ohio, Sharpie Dave was feeling very melancholy and deep in his thoughts about what Ernesto had told him. “Maybe he’s right, I am unlovable,” gulped Dave. He started to cry. Bagel who didn’t know what to do curled himself around Dave’s pot as he wept.

“Oh what a sight this is!” exclaimed Floorboard as she glided over The Great American Ball Park and saw the crowd cheering for men holding strange, wood-like objects. As the Floorboard explored more and more of Ohio she caught sight of Peach’s Thrift Shop. A small bell tinkled as she entered the shop. Looking around Floorboard was entranced by all strange objects such as a porcelain cat, a sun mirror, a lamp, and a buduaar. While going up and down the aisle, she could hear faint sobs in the distance. She came across Dave and Bagel. “Are you alright?” she said softly.

Dave, who had been crying for who knows how long, looked up with his little puffy red eyes and said, “I don’t know. Someone said that I won’t ever find love and I really want to, but now I’m afraid I never will because I am unlovable.”

“I’ll…love you,” said Floorboard comfortingly.

“Really!?” said Dave as he jumped up from his slouched position.

“Yes, I don’t want you to be sad and feel unloved so I will love you!” she said happily.

So Dave and Floorboard left Peach’s store and went to go love each other. They went from the shore and island gateways to the Toledo Museum of Art! They dined out every night and stayed up till morning talking and laughing. Dave had never felt this kind of happiness before, and everytime he looked at her he felt an amazing sensation in his heart. He nor Floorboard ever wanted this to end. Dave knew that he was once afraid of love because of the cactus farmer’s bad mistreatment towards him, but he overcame that fear because of Floorboard’s love for him.

One day, Dave got some bad news from Floorboard, “Dave, there’s something I need to tell you,” said Floorboard bleakley. “I love you Dave, I really do but, I long for my home back at Kansas so I must go now. I’m so sorry.”

     Dave knew that something bad would happen but he didn’t know that it would be this bad. As Floorboard made her way back home to the deserted barn in which she lived, she noticed something odd about it. She floated towards a weird misshapen fence and realized that it was actually barbed wire! In her final seconds she thought about the times she had with Dave and at the barn, also knowing that her fate was right before her. She closed her eyes and was popped.

Meanwhile, Dave who still longed for Floorboard to return was informed about her death. A feeling like no other in Dave’s life came over him like a black shadow of sadness, feeling heavy and alone. Now that Floorboard was gone, Dave decided to go to a local gas station to light himself on fire.

“Oh Floorboard, thank you so much for showing me what it feels like to experience love,” he sobbed and thought of the pros and cons of taking his life. “If I do this I shall be with her again and we can be happy forever, if I don’t do this then… no, I must do this, there is nothing left for me here.”

Looking up at the sky, Dave could already see her waiting for him and as final tear escaped his eye he burnt until there was nothing left but his little clay pot.

 

Envy and Murder

Sweat trickles down my neck. Why am I here? How did it come to this? I stand over the body and let the moment sink in. I look at my hand and see a gun. I drop it. It clanks against the floor, echoing for what feels like forever. I turn to the shattered mirror and see the monster I have turned into. My usually neutral face is red with fury, in stark contrast to my pale body. My neat red hair is tangled and appears as if I have blood on my head. Maybe I do. My green eyes are so small and frightened, I almost can’t see the evil that rumbles beneath. I start to hear her dog bark.

My confusion is replaced by the fear that seems to seep through every bone. I pick up the gun and put it in the pocket. I pull down my shirt to cover the handle. I look at the body. The eyes are still open from the shock of my killing. I quickly turn and stumble to the bathroom. I wash my hands and turn back. My body tenses up as I walk closer to the body. I close the eyes of the murdered. The green eyes, so similar to mine. I thought killing someone would bring justice, but it doesn’t, it just brings regret. I look at the pool of blood. Betrayal is written all over it. But I am the one to be seen as crazy and unfair. What justice was I expecting? I pick up the body and carry it to the bathtub. My muscles are tense, and I feel the bones on my hands. I let the body sink into the bathtub, and I fill it up with water. I let the body get clean, and then I refill the tub. My hands shaking as I close the door. I take the dog as I leave because I don’t want the risk of anyone knowing what I just did.

The dog whimpers as I put the collar on him. I pick him up and let him see who I am. His eyes go wide because he knows me and knows what I did. Not many people kill their sister. I get him on a leash and walk out the back door. I sprint to the neighbor’s yard, and as I do, I hear a scream. I think of it being directed toward me, and I turn to run. My heart is beating in my chest, matching the beating of my feet on the sidewalk. I run to the corner and pull out my phone.

“Hello?”

“911, what’s the emergency?” says a lighthearted woman.

“My dog owner seems to not be opening the door, and I heard a scream.”

“Where?”

“Gerland Lane, house 67.”

“Thank you. And what is your name?”

“Phoebe.”

“We are sending people over now.”

I put my phone back in my pocket, but I realize it doesn’t fit. Oh no, I still have my gun. How suspicious would that be. I shudder and feel the sidewalk start to sway. I feel myself heave as I proceed to throw up on the hard gravel beneath me. I look at the ground, astonished, and the floor continues to sway. The dog starts to run and bark in circles. I pick him up as I wobble toward the nearest trash can. Since it is quiet and dark now, most people could hear the dog bark, but everyone seems to be asleep. I throw the gun in the trash. Not in my possession, not my problem. I’ll pick it up after the police leave. I glance around to make sure no one saw me, but since it is very late at night, no one is awake. Hopefully no one heard me. A chill shoots through my spine because I realize that the shot of a gun is very audible. I shake my head because that doesn’t point the murder to me. I don’t have the gun anymore. The police arrive about five minutes after I called them, and by then it is pitch black, except for the lights from one house half a block away and a single lamppost.

A single police car pulls up. I nod and walk over to them. A cop with a gray mustache steps out of the driver seat. The red and blue lights from the car show his face. He is obviously not happy to be here. I mean, who would be? It’s like 12:30 in the morning. I see his wrinkled face. His uniform is quite sloppy, and his badge is definitely used and old. The regular shine is lost. He must really know how to do his job. I try to calm myself down while talking to him because I don’t want to seem suspicious.

“Which house is the dog owner’s?”

“Well, actually, she is also my sister. I just did not mention that to the dispatcher. Sorry, I am just really worried.”

“Okay.” His brow furrowed when I said that.

“I just really care about her.”

He interrupts me and says, “Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Sure.”

“No, in the police station.”

“Oh, okay,” is all that I am able to squeak out.

He turns away from me to walk toward the house. I am silent, just letting my mind race with fears. He turns around and motions for me to go ahead of him. I swallow my fear and let my feet take me toward the police officer. He knocks on the door. No one answers. I knock this time. Again, no answer. I put on my mask of worry and knock one more time. He takes out a single key. Unlocking the door, I feel my heart beat for what feels like a thousand beats per minute. I hope he can’t hear it. We open the door, and it creaks. I step in first.
“Hello?” I shout. My words feel dull and fake as they hit the walls and echo so softly. He takes out a flashlight and looks for the light switch. I point to the wall, and he hits the switch. He scouts the first floor and finds nothing. I follow behind him and put on the emotion of fear and worry. He keeps glancing back. Does he suspect me? He finally reaches the stairs and starts to walk up.

“Should I follow you?”

“Yes,” he replies in a gruff voice.

I nod and continue to walk with him. We get to the top of the stairs, and I glance around the room and see that I left nothing suspicious around. I start to look around the room, and I hear a gasp. He saw the body. I rush to where I hear the sound and see him in the bathtub next to my sister. I open my mouth and realize there is a way to get out of his questions. I faint. I hold my breath, and my face goes red. My legs shake, and I drop. My head hits the floor. I’m…

I wake up on a hard bed almost worse than the floor. My eyelids flutter as I slowly get up. I see the cop that wanted to interrogate me. He looks at me as I yawn. I see him start to come my way. I debate fainting again but don’t have the chance.

“You up?”

“Yeah.”

And silence falls like a wet blanket.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Your sister was shot.”

“Oh my gosh.” I decide to put on the face of horror with a hint of despair.

My mouth drops, and my eyes get big as I command my face to become pale.

“We have a few leads,” he says.

“Really, who?”

“Well, first we must ask a few questions about you and your sister’s relationship.”

“Of course.”

He takes my arm and drags me to another hallway. I see a group of teenagers arguing in a room. I feel the fluorescent lights shining on me. I feel watched as I glance around. We walk for a good amount of time. Enough to make me not know how to get back to that bed. I see a room at the end, and it’s empty, and I realize I’m about to be interrogated. I suddenly remember, where is the dog? Oh well, never liked that mutt anyway. He opens the door with ease and motions for me to go before him. For the first time, I see his badge, and well, he is Officer Crumpy. What type of name is that? I step toward the chair. I suddenly see the chair buzz and fill with sparks. The room goes black. I blink, and it’s back to normal. What the hell?? I know I am going to have to sit in that chair. As I walk, my feet feel like they are going through slime. I go slow, and I feel my knees wobble. I reach the chair and sit down, and I block the image of me dying here.

He stands in front of me and walks around me as I just paint the face of confusion. He looks at me, and his brown eyes are deep and full of mystery. I just can’t tell what he is thinking. He asks, “Were you and your sister close?”

“Yes. We used to be closer, but we still talk very often.”

“Are your parents dead?”

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“Like two years. It is still a fresh wound.”

“Why did you call her your dog owner on the phone?”

“Because I thought if I said sister they would think I am overreacting. I honestly thought that is better to explain.”

“You had the dog for how long before you decide to call the police.”

“Like an hour.”

“Did you call her phone?”

“Yeah!”

“Okay. Did you notice any other weird people around her?” he questions.

“Yeah, she has a boyfriend who is very sketchy.”

“Okay, well, thank you, and I am so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” I say.

I walk out, and he brings me to the exit. I smile. I could smell my freedom. Maybe I can get justice for what she did and what she always had done. What my parents couldn’t see. What my friends couldn’t see. What my own lover couldn’t see. She always gets what she wants. It was time to end that vicious cycle.

***

I knocked on her door. I saw the doorknob move, and she opened the door. Her strawberry blonde hair glistened in the sun. Her teeth shined so brightly, and her skin seemed to be glowing.

“Sister! How are you? I’ve missed you so much.”

“Me too,” I said with a small smile.

“I mean, so much has happened! I got the promotion, and now I found the absolute man of my dreams. He has brown hair with little curls. His eyes are green. It is so beautiful.” She giggled while saying this. I felt my face flush, and my hands curled with envy. I pushed down the emotions and just decided to be happy for her.

***

It was a buildup. I love my sister. She just always gets lucky and takes everything, and that was my life. I wasn’t Phoebe. I was Bridget’s little sister. That wannabe. She always got the friends. Once they met her, they liked her more. Same with boyfriends. The final straw was when our parents died.

***

We were in the living room. She was dripping with tears. I was numb. Why didn’t I feel anything? What was this? I looked at her at her worst. Her face puffy, and I felt jealousy. Why didn’t I feel something? I painted my face to be as sad as possible. She looked at me and said, “It just feels so surreal. I mean, they aren’t even old, they don’t deserve death.”

“I totally agree.” I gulped down a smile. Why did I feed off her sadness?

“I’ll miss Mom’s cookies and Dad’s hugs. And how every time I was sad, they comforted me,” she said in between sobs.

“How they always believed in me even though they never said so,” I said.

“They cooked mac and cheese for us, my favorite,” she said while smiling.

“I always hated mac and cheese,” I said with fury.

“You did?”

“Yeah, they just liked you more,” I said with sadness.

“No they didn’t. I just needed more attention,” she argued.

I sighed. She just didn’t understand that I was not the favorite. I stood up from the couch and left her to cry. I went to the kitchen and got a glass of water. I flicked the water onto my eyes. Note to self, learn how to cry. I came back into the living room and hugged my sister maybe a bit too tight as we sat in silence. All I heard were the sobs of Bridget. I loved her sadness, but I also envied it. What was wrong with me?

***

I feel the wind seep into my room. The window is open. I wonder why. I pull out my phone, and I see it says 3.00 a.m.. Only a day since my interrogation. Let’s hope they already closed the case. I pull out my computer and log in. My screen’s background is still a photo of my sister and me. I freeze from the shock. My computer falls from my lap onto the floor. The screen cracks through the middle. One side has my sister, and the other side is darker. It’s me. I see myself in chains, crying. I turn away and look back, and all I see is a cracked screen. I close my computer and pull the covers to my shoulders. I let the window stay open, letting in the cold from the outside to match the my heart. I drift off to sleep. I don’t dream, only fall into a deeper darkness.

Beeeeeep. I hear the alarm while it shakes, and then I slam my hand against it. It turns off. I look outside. Birds chirp outside. I feel a warmth come from within me. I don’t know how I feel about it, but it definitely feels good. Is this happiness? I smile, and this time, it isn’t from someone else’s sadness. I stretch and hear a dog bark in the living room. I go to it, expecting kissing and love. Nothing is there. I shake the feeling of guilt off of me. I go into the kitchen and prepare toast. I put a bit of butter and jam. I bite into it and feel the warmth spread through me again. My eyes flicker through the room, and I see strawberry blonde hair appear on the corner of my eye. What is my sister doing here? I feel more guilt rise in me, and again I push it down into the pit where all my rare emotions go. I quickly throw on a red blouse and some ripped jeans. I look in the mirror. I look like a normal, happy girl. A little like my sister. I run out from my apartment as if I’m leaving behind that thought. I run down the stairs until I get outside. I take a deep breath and punch into the side of the building. Even when dead, I compete with my sister. I look at my hand, and there are bruises on my knuckles and cuts on my hand from where I slammed down my alarm. With these cuts are my own wounds… But they are more mental. I decide to go for a walk, to clear my head. I walk around and just take in my surroundings. The houses are so perfect, so neat. The blocks are the exact amount of distance apart, with a trash can at the end of each block. It hits me. The gun. I start to pick up the pace. My fingerprints are on that gun. That gun is still in the trash can.

All the blood from my face seems to leave from my face into my legs. They start to wobble, and I slowly lose my senses. My eyes focus on the floor. I see the little bits of shiny rock between the bland gray. My legs regain their balance. My eyes drift up, and I see the house of my sister. How am I here? I blink, and I look down to see I am in the same place. I still have walking to do. What are these illusions? Am I going crazy? I start to run. Letting the wind pick up my hair as it falls behind me. I let my life be carried away by the wind. I let my feet hit the sidewalk. It is not fair! I close my eyes and feel my feet hit the sidewalk harder each time. My head lifts, and I open my eyes. I’ve reached the block. I can just feel how the air seems denser. Without my sister here, it seems dead. I feel like a trespasser. I look around me. The garbage truck. It’s right behind me. I sprint to the trash can and start to rummage around it. A glint of metal shines in my eye. The gun. I grab the gun. It feels heavy in my hand. It is a harsh memory. One I wish to forget. I pick it up and wipe it on my shirt. No more fingerprints. I scream. The man comes out from the garbage truck. He rushes over to me. I feel my face take on the emotion of horror. My mouth wide open.

“What is a gun doing in the trash?” I say.

“What gun?” he says.

“Look!” I say.

He looks in the trash and sees nothing. Nothing is there.

“What?” I scream.

Right there. I grab the metal object and out comes a water bottle.

“Are you okay, miss?”

“I think. I just need to breathe.” I look past the garbage truck man and see a group of police who seem to be interviewing people. My face flushes, and I turn away so they can’t see my face. I am going crazy.

“I am sorry for your loss,” I hear behind me, as I just walk away. My feet feel like they have bricks strapped onto them. Do they already have the gun?

***

I opened the screen door to the back. The sun beat down on me. I smiled even though it seemed a bit forced. My dad was just humming a song as my sister happily walked around picking up flowers. I closed the screen and noticed the swings were still, with no one on them. I galloped to the swings and let my face create a smile. I hopped on the swing and let my legs pump me to the point of flying. A warmth flowed in me. I almost never had this feeling. The first time I remember having it was when I turned seven, and my sister was in the hospital for breaking a bone. All my friends were singing me “Happy Birthday.” My parents were there, and they were paying attention to me. It was my day. If only every day was my birthday. It had been two years, and I’d felt it about ten times. It felt like a fire was starting from within you but a good fire. Not the kind that destroys. My memory was shattered from my sister’s talking.

“How are you going so high?” she said with her little ten-year-old voice.

“I just let my legs do the work,” I said.

“I’m so jealous,” she whispered.

I smiled so hard it felt as if my face were to fall off. This was the strongest warmth ever. I felt happy.

***

My phone buzzes against my skin. I pick it up.

“Hello?” I say.

“You left your dog here,” says the the cop.

“Oh, thank you,” I say. Relief falls from within me because I was expecting them to find the gun.

“Okay bye, come pick him up — ”

“ — Are there any leads?” I quickly say.

“No, we didn’t even find a weapon near the house,” he says. I hear him sigh.

“Ugh!” I start to mutter gibberish.

“Come pick your dog up soon!”

“Of course! Thank you,” I say, even though he already hung up on me. I smile. It seems like my sister might get what she deserves.

 

The Bower

        

She assumes for all she’s gladdened,

her mouth sugared and her frock patched with clementine stain

That her world is ripe joy.

 

We do not talk,

for the joy is hers alone.

 

Indulged by untimely dusk, she clutches JACK KEROUAC by the spine,

pages snapping into the silence.

 

The bridal moon turns a natural eye to the wild pools of sunflowers,

the bloodshot summerhouses and discarded Cola cans

and the air strokes like heaviest satin.

 

Ambling three slim fingers through her hair, champagne and tangled,

She does not discern me any more than the low cicada hum,

 

and I must consider if she is at all

 

The Path of the Soul

       

“Dargos and Herga. Rise. You are now one with the soul of nature.” Tapping them on the shoulder with his knarlwood cane, the cleric’s green and white robes fold as he ends the short and sweet indoctrination ceremony. Bowing to each other and the cleric, Dargos and Herga swiftly leave the auditorium of the city-tree.

“We are now servants of nature,” Dargos whispers excitedly to Herga, “and we have a place in this great city tree. The Forgag will provide us with everything we need. As one of them, we will have the chance to serve the soul of nature. I am so proud, and I can’t wait.” Entering the assignment center, Dargos and Herga rush to the desk of the old sage seated in the room.

“Welcome, Dargos and Herga. Your first assignment will be guarding against the Rogar. You must defend our enclave of nature against their advance. Their so-called progress encroaches on our land. As members of the Forgag, it is your responsibility to protect all of nature. Pick up your weapons and meet the rest of your patrol squad in an hour,” the sage softly speaks.

Bowing to the sage, Dargos rubs his hand against the soft wood of the room, feeling the pulse of the tree’s life. Turning around, Herga leans into a small knot in the tree. “Hlegor leg. Hlegor leg. Hlegor leg. Great soul of the tree, provide us with weapons,” she chants. Two swords of wood form out of the tree, and Dargos and Herga grab them both.

Rushing downstairs to the plaza where they’re going to meet their squad, Dargos looks out a window of sap. “Just look at the beauty. The perfection,” he says in awe.

Herga joins in with a, “And I can’t wait to crush Rogar scum.”

Dargos nods, but a shadow of doubt begins to creep into his mind. All he’s ever known is what the clerics have told him. “But not everything in the Forgag is perfect. You haven’t seen the prison blocks like I have. Maybe the Rogar aren’t as bad as were told,” he mumbles.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“We’ve trained all our lives for the moment. I can’t wait.”

“Herga, can I let you in on a secret?”

“Always. What is it?”

“In the prison blocks, they torture the Rogar prisoners. Everyone of them captured is encased into the tree and slowly crushed to death while being ripped apart. That’s how the tree gets nutrients. There isn’t really a point, since the tree can get nutrients from the sun. It just likes the torture.”

“Good. The Rogar have it coming.”

Dargos bites his lip as they exit into the plaza. “Attention, guards. You two will be joining the assault team. Over there. After the rogar burned down our catapults, we’re going to destroy their labs in revenge. Two wolf mounts are waiting for you,” a brightly dressed officer shouts.

Hurrying over to the rest of the assault team, Dargos whispers to Herga “We weren’t told anything about an attack. Aren’t we supposed to just be guarding?”

“I, for one, am excited to attack. Let’s go kill some Rogar scum.”

Dargos just nods, biting his lip so it bleeds. The two mount the wolves as the commander begins to address the squad. “We are about to attack the Rogar, and I need to make sure you know what to do. What do the Rogar prize most?”

“Knowledge, sir!”

“What do you do if you see a Rogar?”

“Kill or capture, sir!”

“Good. Very good. Now, none of us have ever attacked the Rogar before. But knowledge gained when the last squad died… Oops. Anyway, information gathered from several secret, hidden, nondescript, and unknown sources tells us that their buildings are armed with fire shooting cannons that can burn straight through a wolf. Be strong and decisive in your attack. The Rogar are armed with strange and unrighteous mechanical devices. In order to beat them, half of our wolf riders will go straight into their compound as bait, while the other half will dismount and destroy their labs. But those who are bait, don’t worry. The soul of nature will protect you. Does everyone understand?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good. Then we strike at once. Onward!”

Rushing out of the gates of the tree, Dargos feels the wind blowing through his hair and the soft touch of the wolf’s fur against his skin. Tightly grasping onto the reins, Dargos confides in his wolf.

“Hey, boy. Listen up, okay? Did you hear what the commandant said about the Rogar compound? How did they get all that information? I feel like this isn’t the first attack, or there’s something they’re not telling us. Anyway, thanks for listening.”

As the squad crosses the bridge leading out of Forgag territory, they look at the horizon. The area right in front of their noses is a deserted wasteland, ruined by centuries of war. Scorched bodies of wolves, clerics and warriors in the traditional Forgag robes, Rogar creations, and Rogar agents litter the ground. The earth is scorched to a crisp. All around, houses are crushed to the ground. All that can be seen left standing are the waves of tombstones seemingly stretching endlessly. Dargos leans closer into one, reading the words on a single tombstone out of the many, bearing neither the Rogar nor Forgag emblems.

“Morie Yehar. C.E.730-C.E.738. Killed in a Forgag prison, for healing wounded Rogar soldiers. May she rest in peace for all the people she healed by such a young age. She will never be forgotten as long as we tread this land.”

Pulling away the vines covering the tombstone, a shudder goes down Dargos’ spine. He looks down at his wolf. A single tear rolls down his cheek, but it’s wiped away by the wind. Looking down at the Forgag emblem on his robe, it no longer stirs up the same pride in him.

As his squad slowly passes through the wastelands, Dargos drops to the back of the pack. He is no longer excited to be part of the Forgag. Pulling up to talk to Herga, at the front of the pack, Dargos leans over and begins to speak. “Hey, Herga! Listen up! Do you see those tombstones?”

“How could I miss them?”

“A lot of them were probably killed by the Forgag.”

“I bet a lot were killed by the Rogar too. Definitely more.”

Clenching his hand into a fist, frustrated by Herga’s blind devotion to the Forgag, Dargos falls to the back of the pack, yet again.

 

“Halt!” the commander shouts, “We are right in front of the gates to the Rogar lands. Once in there, everyone is an enemy. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good. The compound is about a mile into Rogar lands. There is one town along the way. We will stop there for the night and — ” The commander raises his fingers for air quotes. “ — respectfully mingle with the enemy citizenry. If you, um, acquire any objects while respectfully mingling with the enemy citizenry and/or cause immense destruction and pain to them, you will be pardoned of all of your crimes while fighting these heretic infidels who do not honor the soul of nature.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Then let us begin.”

The commander unhooks his equipment from the wolf’s saddle and puts it on. Throwing a barbed vine up to the roof of the gate house, the commander pulls it taught. Climbing up the vine, sword in hand, the commander quickly scales up to the roof and silently slices off the guard’s heads, and he wipes the blood on the dead mens’ robes. Beckoning for two more men to come up, the commander pulls a little vial out of the pouch pocket.

“Now this here is a very potent sap-based acid. Just a drop or two on anything made of nature, like our wooden swords, will make them strong enough to cut through a roof or wall,” the commander whispers.

Crouching down, he smears a little bit of the liquid all over his sword, plunges it through the roof silently in the corner, and almost cuts out a whole circle, leaving it holding onto the roof by a little bit. Pulling out his sword in one hand, the commander slams through the roof, sword in hand, and spins 360 degrees. Killing all the guards in one clean stroke, he beckons for the other men to come down and sheaths his sword. The three men pull up the gate, and the squad goes through.

Riding along the countryside, the Forgag soldiers slice up the Rogar creations tending to the fields as they go along, and sow weeds into the ground. Collecting whatever supplies the Rogar had and breaking them, they ride into the Rogar town like kings. Dismounting, they quickly kill the local Rogar garrison with the loss of only two men and begin to sack and pillage the town. Knocking down houses, destroying equipment in items, looting valuables, pillaging, shops, murdering the local inhabitants, and just generally causing destruction. Staying for the night, they begin to turn into harsher, more crueler versions of themselves. Dargos runs around, desperately trying to find Herga.

“Arrg!” Herga yells, stabbing a local family through the chest.

“One second of cruelty, four lives ended.” Dargos mentions casually, but with a serious tone in his voice.

“They deserved it.”

“But you just killed two innocent children!”

“They must pay for the crimes of their parents.”

A fire begins to burn in Herga’s eyes.

“How does that justify killing? What makes their lives worth less than ours?”

“Because they’re Rogar,” Herga replies, with more than shadow of malice and cruelty in her voice. Beginning to hollar, Herga yells, “All Rogar deserve to die! I granted them mercy with a painless death.”

“Herga, snap out of it!!”

Getting down on his knees and begging with Herga, Dargos began to plead.

“Make it stop! All this bloodshed, for nothing. We have been taught from a very young age that all of nature is valuable. What makes the Rogar any less? What?!”

“Everything.”

Herga twists her heel, kicking dust into Dargos’ face and spits on the ground.

“You deserved that for even questioning the Forgag.”

“Enough with the looting and pillaging! It’s time to make camp for the night. In the name of the soul of nature, I hereby declare this town thoroughly destroyed and pardon you all. We set off tomorrow at four in the morning, sharp.”

“Yes, sir!”

Pulling the bedroll off his wolf, Dargos quickly sets up camp. Dropping it onto the ground, he clears the bloodstained dirt. Collapsing, he looks up at the bright starry night. Scooting over to let his wolf lie down next to him, he begins to whisper to it.

“Just look at the sky. It’s probably the only place here free from the blood. Why do we have to fight? They’re not so different from us. Underneath, we are all sort of the same. While there may be some differences, it’s not worth all this fighting. Who decided to divide the world into Forgag and Rogar anyway? Just look at this massacre. The little town here isn’t that different from the ones we saw in Forgag territory. There doesn’t always have to be a them and an us, a Forgag and a Rogar. Why can’t there just be people?”

Turning over, Dargos falls soundly asleep, dreaming of a world where there isn’t so much bloodshed.

“Rise and shine! It’s time to move out. Just leave the bedrolls. You won’t need them. We leave in five minutes! Five minutes!” the commander shouts. Shaking his head and slowly standing up, Dargos sees Herga towering over him.

“It’s our first battle! I can’t wait.”

“I can. This isn’t what I trained for, you know? A cleric’s supposed to heal people, not kill them. They had us sign an oath never to take lives. Now they send me into battle?”

“So you can heal people. Duh. You should no better than to question the Forgag.”

Sneering at Dargos, Herga spits in the dirt. Stomping off, Dargos climbs onto his wolf, leaning in.

“What’s the matter with her? Can’t she see what is happening? Urrg. At least you understand, boy.”

Pulling out his sword, Dargos sticks it into the ground and snaps it under his foot.

“I won’t be needing that.”

“Let’s move out! Everybody, we’re going!” the commander shouts and then hops onto his wolf. Riding out, the squad all mount their wolves and ride out towards the Rogar compound. “The right half of the company here will go straight in as bait, and I will lead you. Left half, you’ll be commanded by our loyal and faithful Herga. Praise the soul of nature!”

“Praise the soul of nature!”

Veering off to the left, Dargos charges forward with the rest of the pack, dismounts, and rushes into the Rogar laboratory. Pulling out the same bottle the commander had earlier, one of the Forgag soldiers smears it all over his sword, cutting through the wall into a Rogar lab. Nocking an arrow, another Forgag soldier shoots the two Rogar agents in the room, and they sweep into the building. Glass flying everywhere, they smash Rogar petri dishes, break beakers, and crack vials. Charging forward, the Forgag team rushes further into the building, wrecking as the go. Dargos, however, stays behind.

Raising his staff over two dying Rogar agents, Dargos begins to utter a powerful life saving incantation. “Alhost nep. Alhost nep. Alhost nep. Save these two agents.”

“Thank you. You are a very good man. But why are you helping us, since you are Forgag?”

“I’m not Forgag. I’m not Rogar. I’m just a human, and so are you,” Dargos declares, helping them up from the ground.

“Now, this special tree grows incredibly fast. Plant this seed anywhere, and it will go straight up through anything. Plant it below this Rogar laboratory. Dargos has a special spell to blow through the floor. Where is he? You two. Over there. Go find him,” Herga orders. “We can’t get down to the basement to plant the seed until Dargos gets here, unless we cut through. You two. Start cutting. I hope they find Dargos.”

Panting, Dargos frantically searches for a Rogar officer.

“Rogar officer! Somebody! Anybody! You need to listen! The Forgag are going to destroy your labs! The other team is bait! It’s a trap!”

Hwap! A blindfold and gag are thrown over Dargos’ head. He blacks out.

 

A blinding light shines into Dargos’ eyes.

“You betrayed the Forgag!” Herga yells into Dargos’ face. “Your petty warnings were worthless. We cut through the floor and destroyed the Rogar labs. You failed. Dargos, you are a disgrace to the Forgag. I pity you.”

Herga turns around and spits on the floor.

“Where are we?”

“In a house in the wastelands. You were so interested and horrified at the wasteland graves, we decided to have you join them. Goodbye Dargos.”

Herga sneers.

“I thought you were my friend. We’ve been raised together since we were born.” Dargos cries, tears gushing like rivers and flowing down his robe, pulling out the dye. Pools of now green tears form on the floor, flooding the half-destroyed house.

“We’ve never been friends. Merely accomplices in serving the soul of nature.”

Pulling out her sword, high above his head, Herga touches the sword onto Dargos’ chest. Heartbroken, Dargos’ eyes drop. He falls onto the floor. He sinks slowly into the pool of his own tears. His arms droop. His head falls onto his chest.

“Why? Why, Herga? Why?” Dargos chokes out through the tears.

“Because the soul of nature is above all, and you are a traitor. Goodbye, Dargos.”

Herga picks up her sword, brandishing the wood. Dargos looks up to see any hint of remorse in her eyes. All he sees is cold, hard hatred. Herga raises the sword high above her head and —

 

A Teacher’s Aid

 

Cast:

TEACHER: Jacqueline

ANGIE: Sara

FRIEND 1 and STUDENT 1: Lane

FRIEND 2: Storm

PARENT 1 and STUDENT 2: Annabel

PARENT 2: Arlen

MOM: Anushka

ADAM: Belinda

 

SCENE 1

Lights up on students leaving room and TEACHER. Blackboard in the back with a teacher’s desk. Bell rings.

TEACHER: Angie, can you meet me at my desk before you leave?

ANGIE: Ugh, Ms. Smith is calling me again. Gimme a second, guys. I’ll meet you at lunch.

FRIEND 1: Okay, Ang.

ANGIE walks up to TEACHER’s desk reluctantly.

TEACHER: Angie, I’d like to talk to you about your essay grade.

ANGIE: I know, I know already. It sucked. I’ll work harder next time…

TEACHER: No no, that’s not it. Your essay was actually amazing. The passion you put in it made it brilliant. You got an A+.

ANGIE’s face lights up.

ANGIE: Really? It was good?

TEACHER: Yes! The way you analyzed the relationship between Anne and Helen was amazing, perfectly showing the importance of Anne’s aid.

ANGIE: Thanks! Are you messing with me though? Because that wouldn’t be funny.

TEACHER: No, I’m not messing with you, but there has been something bothering me recently, and I believe this problem can be fixed.

ANGIE: Oh god, you’re not gonna mention my studying habits are you?

TEACHER: Listen, Angie. You have so much potential. Seeing how well you wrote your essay… I can’t let your talent go to waste like that. You should choose a career path that involves writing.

ANGIE: Go to waste? You think how I’m choosing to live my life is a waste? You have no place to tell me something like that. You don’t even know me.

TEACHER: I may not know you, but I can tell what kind of person you are when you don’t have a strong mindset regarding your future.

ANGIE: No you can’t! My future is my future, not yours to worry about. I’m sick of teachers telling me what to do and what will make me happy. Living for the future is such a sham. In the present, I’m much happier, and I know things will turn out good. Adam makes me happy, I don’t need any after school assignment to mess that up.

ANGIE realizes what she’s said and runs out of the room embarrassed.

 

SCENE 2

TEACHER: Come in, come in, students. I hope you all turned in your The Miracle Worker analysis homework last night!

Students fill in, empty chair where ANGIE sits — TEACHER doesn’t notice.

TEACHER: Alright, let’s do attendance, shall we?

TEACHER grabs paper and points at each student as she reads the list.

TEACHER: Mark, Julien, Kelly, Angi — Does anyone know where Angie is today? No? No one has seen her?

FRIEND 1 whispers to FRIEND 2.

FRIEND 1: I would skip Ms. Smith’s class if she was on my tail everyday, too.

FRIEND 2: Obviously. I heard that she tried to talk to Ang about Adam yesterday!

TEACHER overhears and walks to the other side, avoiding the friends.

FRIEND 1: Are you kidding me? Next thing we know, she’ll ask her about her dad!

FRIEND 1 and 2 laughs as TEACHER continues teaching without noticing.

 

SCENE 3

Room is dimly lighted at night.

TEACHER: Thank you so much for your time. Julien is a great kid, and I’d love to see more participation in my class.

TEACHER shakes parents’ hands.

PARENT 1: Yes of course, we’ll get right on it. Thanks for the feedback!

Parents leave the room as TEACHER greets the next person outside.

TEACHER: I’d like to see Angie’s parents, please?

Young man in late 20’s gets up and walks into room.

TEACHER: Hello, and you are?

ADAM: Oh, my name’s Adam, I’m filling in for Angie’s parents today.

TEACHER: Oh, I’m sorry that they couldn’t make it. Do… you know what happened to them?

ADAM: Nah, she doesn’t really like talking about it, sorry.

TEACHER: I’m sorry, then what is your relationship to Angie? Are you a trusted adult?

ADAM: Yeah, yeah, I’m just here ‘cause someone had to be.

TEACHER is visibly thrown off and at a loss for words.

TEACHER: Alright then… well… I’d like to talk about her grades.

ADAM: Alright, can you make it quick though? I got something after this.

TEACHER: Well, I’d really prefer to see where her mother and father are, because this will take a while.

ADAM: I already told you, that won’t be happening. We don’t talk to her mom anymore, understand?

TEACHER: But surely her father could come, so we can have actual discussions about Angie’s future, and not a quick meeting before you go off back to your own world.

ADAM: No, I already told you. Her parents couldn’t come, I’m an adult, so I’m here tonight because she’s forced to send someone to listen to whatever thing you are required to “help” her with, okay?

TEACHER is silent.

ADAM: So? Is she doing well? Do you have anything to tell me, or can we go now?

TEACHER: We? Is she here? May you please just bring her in, I have serious things to discuss with her.

ADAM: You know what, whatever it takes for you to leave me alone. Angie! Can you come in, and we can get this over with?

ANGIE walks in confused.

TEACHER: Is this person your parental guardian? Where is your father? I believe he would be better suited for me to talk to today.

ADAM: Babe, don’t bother with her. We did what we were supposed to, and now the school will stop emailing us. So let’s go, already.

ANGIE doesn’t acknowledge ADAM and focuses her attention on the TEACHER.

ANGIE: My father? You think you’d have a better discussion with my father? Well, he’s not here right now. He hasn’t been since I was nine. So please, for the love of God, stop bothering me about my life and leave us alone.

TEACHER gasps.

TEACHER: My goodness, I really am so sorry.

ADAM: Alright, let’s go Ang.

ADAM grabs ahold of ANGIE and walks her out the room as the TEACHER turns to her desk with a puzzled look on her face.

TEACHER walks back and sits while showing the audience a picture of her dad on her desk.

TEACHER grabs phone and dials.

TEACHER: … Mom?

Voiceover/offstage.

MOM: Honey, what’s the issue? Why do you sound so distraught?

TEACHER: I need to talk about Dad… Something’s been on my mind lately.

MOM: I thought you and I promised we’d push him out of our thoughts… Alice, it’s been ten years. Why are you thinking about him again?

TEACHER: I’m not thinking about him. I’m thinking about me right now.

MOM: What about you? I know you did some bad things to him, but you know he deserved it. You shouldn’t feel sorry for what you did, after all the damage he left on you. Why is this on your mind so much?

TEACHER: No, I’m not talking about that either! I’m talking about my future, Mom! What I could’ve become.

MOM: Oh, you sound crazy right now. Calm down, you and I both know what you did was the best for you. Now look at you, a happy teacher who teaches a beautiful group of kids. What more did you want?

TEACHER: I wanted to write. I wanted to write whatever I wanted, when I wanted, and how I wanted. I wanted people to read my books and be inspired, I wanted to change people’s lives! Now, I can’t even help someone one-on-one. Dad leaving made my outlook on life completely change… I didn’t even graduate college.

MOM: Please, honey, don’t ever put yourself down like this. Your life right now is nothing to complain about, and I know you can touch the heart of anyone you wish to. You have me, someone to watch over you. You’re lucky to have my support.

TEACHER: You’re right. I am blessed to have you, and not everyone is lucky enough to say that. Thanks, Mom. Love you. I know what I have to do now.

TEACHER hangs up.

Knock on door.

PARENT 2: I don’t mean to interrupt, but am I in the right room? I’ve been waiting a while, but I didn’t want to bother you…

TEACHER: Oh yes! Yes! I am so sorry, come sit, come sit.

 

SCENE 4

Lights up on classroom. ANGIE walks in with friends.

TEACHER: Angie, I’m glad to see you again! Hey, can I talk to you for a second?

ANGIE: Oh my God.

ANGIE turns to friends.

ANGIE: I swear, this better be the last time she talks to me. If not, I’ll make it the last time.

TEACHER: So I’m starting a support group for people who… have some family issues. Surely you would like to join? Maybe it can help you steer in the right direction away from negative people.

ANGIE: For the last time! I don’t need your help! I’m not joining your stupid support group, and I’m not developing a stupid little “friendship” with you. I’m here to take your stupid class so my Mom doesn’t get emailed. Other than that, I’m just a regular student to you. Understand?

TEACHER’s face flushes.

TEACHER: Alright. Alright. I apologize. Please, go to your seat.

ANGIE hides her frown and heads to seat.

 

SCENE 5

Lights up on hallway with lockers.

ANGIE: Did you guys hear about Ms. Smith’s support group? Apparently she’s starting one… Weird, huh?

FRIEND 1: It’s probably because she has her own issues with her dad. My mom overheard a conversation with her and her mom… something about her dad leaving and messing up her education or something? I don’t really know.

FRIEND 2: Ew, why can’t she just let it go? She was in school like, a century ago.

Friends laugh.

ANGIE: I’m sorry, what? Her dad left her?

FRIEND 1: I don’t know, probably. She went on this sob story about how she wanted to be a writer. Kinda like you a couple years ago, Ang.

ANGIE: Yeah… well you guys go. I’m gonna head to my locker, I need to get my books.

FRIEND 2: Alright, see you.

ANGIE walks by TEACHER’s room and observes it, then walks away with a frown.

 

SCENE 6

(Time skip) Lights up on classroom with desks organized in a circle and students walking in.

TEACHER: Hello, hello, don’t be shy. This is a support group, this is your safe space.

Students get in the chairs,

TEACHER: So, third time around, are we all getting the hang of this?

Students nod in agreement.

TEACHER: Okay, who wants to start off first, today?

STUDENT 1: Well, I’m glad to say that I’m developing a way better relationship with my mom! We finally talked about the problems with my sister, and she’s also talking more with my mom about her anger issues. She’s really going on the right path right now.

TEACHER: That’s amazing, Evan! I know how much stress your sister put you through. Now you can take this time to heal together.

STUDENT 1: Yeah, I guess so!

TEACHER: Who’d like to speak next?

ANGIE shows up on side of stage and observes the classroom, but turns around doubtingly.

STUDENT 2 whispers to STUDENT 1.

STUDENT 2: Angie’s here… probably to talk about her boyfriend. Poor thing just got broken up with.

STUDENT 1: Oh, Adam? But they were so cute together.

TEACHER: Are you guys talking about Angie? Have any of you spoken to her recently? It’s been months since we’ve spoken…

STUDENT 1: Yeah, sorry to disrupt, though. We’ll be quiet now.

TEACHER looks at door and sees ANGIE walking away.

TEACHER: Would you give me a second, guys? So sorry, just one second.

TEACHER walks out of class.

TEACHER: Angie? Did you want to join our group? It’s really a safe space, trust me.

ANGIE: No, no… I don’t feel comfortable sharing…

TEACHER: Then just come and sit. You don’t have to share. Just come, and you’ll be welcomed. I want to help you, don’t you realize that?

ANGIE: Just because your dad left as well doesn’t mean you have this obligation to help me. Don’t think you’re the miracle worker or something.

TEACHER: How did you know that? And now that you do, can’t you see that I understand what you’re going through as well?

ANGIE: Yeah… but I’m not in the right place to join right now. There’s too much on my plate

TEACHER: Look, I heard about Adam. I know how much stress has been put on you. Having someone break up with you is hard. Your parents or another person in your family is your best bet to go and stay with. Trust me.

ANGIE: What? Adam didn’t breakup with me, I broke up with him. I’m done with all his crap, I’m heading in my own direction now. But… I just don’t know exactly what direction that is.

TEACHER: Did you try going back to your mother’s house? I don’t know exactly what happened, but she must be some form of help to you.

ANGIE: Not yet. To be honest, I’m scared. I don’t know if she’ll welcome me back in. I’ve been staying at my friends’ houses, and it’s been good, but I’m starting to get on their parents nerves… soon I might not have a place to stay. I really don’t know what to do.

TEACHER: Hey. Don’t speak like that. You and I, with the help of this support group, will get you on a better track with your mom. Trust me, I’ve been there. You’ll know what to do.

ANGIE: You think so? But there’s so many people. I don’t know how you could have time to help me with all of this.

TEACHER: It’s not going to be just me. It’s all of us. This support group is the best thing I’ve created, and it will be the best thing for you, too. These people are just like you. They are your peers, and they went through the same things you did. Now, they are all on a path to recovery while also helping each other on their journeys. This group would be perfect for you. Just join us. We’ll help, trust me.

ANGIE: Okay. I’ll join.

TEACHER: Hooray! Don’t be shy, just walk on in. These people are going to be your family now.

ANGIE smiles, and they walk in together.

Off stage you hear her introducing ANGIE to everyone.

 

Dull Blue Dresses

One Sunday morning, my mind felt like a cloud of haze and dust. I had only gotten four hours of sleep the night before, and I felt myself strapped to the covers, unable to rise out of bed. However, I was supposed to attend a dance party later that day at a dance hall, between 11:00 AM and 12:00 PM; my best friend, Renee, had sent an invite via Facebook Messenger to which I could RSVP, and told me that the cost of purchasing tickets was expensive. However, she didn’t send me a link to where I could purchase tickets. Therefore, I didn’t buy them to get into the dance. I also didn’t have an outfit picked out; should I wear a dress or a skirt? If I was going to wear a dress, should it be flowy and long or a pencil skirt dress? Oh well, I decided not to worry about that issue until an hour before I had to leave.

After thirty minutes of resting in bed and gazing up at the ceiling, I finally lifted myself up, slipped into my slippers, and walked out into the cold air of my kitchen, where a box of pancake mix enticed me and awaited for my mouth to devour it. I propped open the lid, turned on the stove to medium heat, put a seared pan on top, and gathered sugar, milk, eggs, etc. in order to make the batter. Once I finished whipping up all of the ingredients in one deep bowl, I poured the batter onto the butter-seared pan; the dripping of the batter was like a slow waterfall, dropping onto the pan and making a sizzling sound that was piercing throughout the kitchen. The sizzling sound kept ringing and ringing out until I used up all of the batter and made seven pancakes; I was ready to devour those moist cakes! However, you can’t have pancakes without the sticky and sweet goodness of maple syrup and the creaminess of butter! As I was pouring maple syrup onto the mountain of pancakes, my mouth started salivating and drooling, just like a dog. The last ingredient that I had to put on those pancakes was butter; I pulled out a stick of butter from my bare-to-the-bones fridge, cut it in half, and smeared it across the surface of the top pancake in the mountain that I had made. Now, the pancakes were ready to be devoured! I took one bite and was immediately in heaven; the sweetness of the maple syrup and the creaminess of the butter combined with the moistness of the pancakes was the perfect breakfast food for today.

I don’t really like to eat with other people because I don’t want to see them staring at me while I eat my own meals. I would rather just eat alone in the quiet space of my kitchen, mindlessly chewing and humming along to myself.

Ugh, why did I eat so many freaking pancakes? What was my reasoning behind this decision? Was I truly ravenous, or was I eating in order to bury deeply rooted negative emotions? I came to understand that I wasn’t starving after all; instead, the pancakes were filling an emotional void.

I checked my watch and realized that it was time to pick out a dress for the dance that I was going to in exactly thirty minutes. I looked through my closet, and I found three dull blue dresses, all of which were long and flowy; I felt insecure about drawing attention from strangers by wearing a shiny dress even though I desperately wanted to, so the dullness of the dresses exposed me less.

Did I really want to try on each of the blue dresses, though? The immediate thought of trying them on filled me with dread and agony. What if I didn’t like the person I saw in the mirror reflected back at me? I was afraid of confronting my own body in the mirror.

When I finally mustered up the courage to try on all three of the dull blue dresses, I realized that I didn’t like how they looked on me because of my figure. The dresses made me look like an overweight pig. To be honest, I didn’t want to go to the dance because I felt self-conscious about having random strangers stare at me; even though I was wearing a dull blue dress, people would still have noticed that I was there and would have judged how I looked in that dress. I especially didn’t want to see anyone I knew because then I would have felt more exposed and vulnerable. At the same time, I wanted to feel good in my own body and to be able to look like a goddess in a glittery dress that highlights my figure, and to have people compliment me on my looks, but I felt too insecure to show myself off.

I asked myself this question: Should I arrive late, or should I arrive on time? If I arrived late, I wouldn’t have to spend as much time at the dreadful dance. However, if one of my friends saw me, she would most likely accuse me of being late, and then I would have to deal with that internal guilt for the rest of the time. If I didn’t go to the dance, Renee would text me, asking me where I was. Ugh, I really, really just wanted to block the world out. Maybe I could just disappear from reality under my covers, in the exact same position as when I woke up.

Even though I wanted to hide under my covers, I realized that it was not healthy to isolate yourself. The real question was: Should I call Renee to tell her that I’m not going to the dance party? If I called her, she might or might not be angry at me for calling at the last minute. After a few moments, I mustered up the courage to make that phone call.

“Hey Renee, how’s it going? I’m calling you because I really, really, really don’t want to go to this dance party you’ve invited me to,” I said with my heart beating in my chest, feeling nervous about how Renee was going to respond.

“Why don’t you want to go?” Renee asked with a concerned tone.

“I’m just feeling extremely insecure about having people stare at me and judge me based off of my appearance. I know that this is a last minute call, but I sincerely hope you aren’t pissed off at me,” I replied with sweat beads forming on my forehead and my internal body heating up like an oven preheating.

“Of course I’m not mad at you. I understand that sometimes, crowds can be fear-inducing for many people. Just know that I’m here for you whenever you need someone to talk to.”

Upon hearing those magical words, I exhaled loudly, sighing with relief; the weight of the world had just been lifted off my shoulders.

“After the party ends, I would like to spend time with you. Do you want to get together with me?” I asked, with anticipation in my voice and hoping that she would accept my offer.

“Umm, I would love nothing more than to spend time with you, Annie! Do you want to go have lunch with me?” Renee asked.

“Let’s go get coffee instead. I’m still stuffed from breakfast this morning,” I said.

“Ah, okay. Let’s meet up at 12:30 PM! So excited to spend one-on-one time with you!” Renee excitedly replied.

I was excited to spend one-on-one time with her too.

 

The Monster

 

There is a monster inside of me

The monster —

It scares me

It stays in me

Haunts me

Controls me

it takes what it wants

From me

 

It tells me it just wants

a game to play

A game of fun

And sharing

And happiness

And giving

But I know that

That’s not why it came

 

There is a monster inside of me

The monster —

It scares me

Its horrible hands —

they’re strong enough to

Rip the soul

Out of me

 

The monster won’t

set me free

It’s always taking

A piece of me

It tells me

It loves me

But I know

That it doesn’t

The only thing it loves is

What it wants to make me

 

Because

You see

There is a monster inside of me

And the monster —

It is me

 

Tunnel Vision

I was walking along the streets of Georgetown with my friends Jason and Barry, watching the filming of the new Wonder Woman movie. The busy street was filled with all sorts of 80’s cars, and there were cameras everywhere. There was even a movie theater that pretended they were playing 80’s movies like Gremlins.

All of a sudden, I saw a tunnel that looked like a secret passageway. It looked like one of those old dead-end alleyways. I immediately nudged Jason and Barry. We originally thought it was part of the filming, but then we saw it was past the end of the film crew’s roadblocks and looked deserted. There was a door at the end of the tunnel, painted all black, even down to the doorknob. The door itself blended into the tunnel, and we pulled towards it, deciding to check out what was inside. As soon as we were inside, the door slammed shut behind us.

I threw my shoulder against the door, but it wouldn’t budge. We were trapped. I pulled out my phone and dialed my brother’s number, but I didn’t have a signal. I couldn’t see a wall behind me, so I started walking away from the door. After a few steps, I found three tunnels. The first tunnel had a sign on it that said DO, the second tunnel had a sign that said NOT, and the third had a sign that said ENTER. That couldn’t be good.

“Well, this sucks,” Jason sighed loudly.

“The door didn’t move, and I can’t get signal. Why not try a tunnel?” I asked.

Despite suggesting it, I had no idea what tunnel to go through.

Barry then suggested, “How about we split up? If one of us finds the right tunnel, we can all meet up and get out that way.”

I stopped pacing, smiling in disbelief. “You’re joking, right? We can’t do that. What if one of the tunnels goes to a maze or something? We could get lost.”

Jason said, ”Sticking together is definitely the right option.”

Barry then said, “I still think we should split up. More tunnels, less time.”

Jason replied with, “Why in the world should we split up”

“You all want to go home, right?” asked Barry sarcastically.

Jason said, “Well, I am not going to split up.”

Barry said, “Fine, stay here and rot if that suits you.”

“I’m just trying to stay alive, to be honest.”

I took a deep breath. “Look. We have an equal chance of picking a wrong tunnel as we do the right one. Let’s just take the first one.”

Jason and Barry, having no better argument, agreed. When we reached the end of the DO tunnel, it was a dead end, the tunnel filled with nothing but dust.

Barry started humming a bass line.

Jason gave Barry an annoyed look. “Is that one Another One Bites the Dust? Seriously?”

I led us back to where we started and then went into the NOT tunnel. At the end of the tunnel was another door that was completely covered in dust but seemed like it had words on it.

Jason looked skeptical. “You guys willing to trust another door?”

Barry shrugged and wiped the dust off. There was something on the door in a weird language. The words, Omissa spe quae ponitur faciatis, were carved at eye-height. We spent a few minutes trying to figure it out, but seeing as none of us could speak Latin, we were stumped. As we began to walk back to the lobby, a man in a dark robe jumped out of the shadows scaring the crap out of us.

We ran around a bend in the tunnel, but when we stopped, we heard him speak, in a dry, rasping voice.

“Stop! I can translate that for you. I know you don’t trust me, but you’ll want to hear what it says.”

We inched back towards the door and saw the man waving us forward. As we walked towards him, he spoke again.

“The writing on this door says Abandon all hope ye who enters here.

When Jason heard that, he said, “Dang that’s freaky. Let’s just go back to the beginning and wait for someone to break us out.”

The man in the robe then said, “Wait! My name is Bernard. I’ve been trapped here for almost a year. Please. If you’re thinking of going through this door, don’t. When I went in, I barely made it out alive.”

Barry then said, “Well if it is our only way out, we have to try it, right?”

I replied with, “I agree, but if going in there equals death, it isn’t worth it.”

Jason said, “Equals death, seriously?”

I said, “Yeah seriously. And Bernard, what happened when you went in there?”

“They attacked me,” he said.

“Who attacked you?” I asked.

“No doubt we should go in. It is pretty much our only way out.” Barry interrupted.

Bernard looked nervous.

“Bernard, will you come with us for a little while?” I asked.

“No, never will I go back there!”

“Please just once,” I pleaded.

“Please?” asked Barry.

Bernard groaned reluctantly, but placed his hand on the old doorknob.

Barry, Jason, and I all looked at each other hopefully.

Bernard opened the door, and we all went in. It was pitch black in there for about ten seconds until a ginormous red light shined on all of us. A voice, deep and menacing, thundered from all around us.

“WHO IS THERE?”

Jason screamed and inched backwards. I shot out a hand to grab him.

“We just got in here, man!” chuckled Barry. “You can’t freak out on us yet.”

 

“Oh, but he can, and probably should” exclaimed Bernard, looking like he was regretting the decision to stay with me.

“Not helping,” I said.

“I ASKED YOU A QUESTION,” the voice boomed.

I was dying on the inside but found some scrap of my voice. “We were just leaving! Do — do you know where the exit is?”

“DON’T LIE TO ME! I CAN SEE BERNARD UNDER THAT HOOD,” the loud voice said.

“How do you know who I am?” Bernard said, his voice even more filled with nerves.

“TAKE THE HOOD OFF,” the voice snarled, sounding different now. “DO IT OR DIE.”

Bernard, faced with no other option, shook as he slowly took his hood down.

He had somewhat long dark brown hair, a small brown beard, brown eyes, was wearing a black sleeveless shirt, and had black pants. He looked rugged and intimidating, like he fit in this underground situation.

“Bernard?” asked Jason, the anger returning, “Something you wanna tell us, buddy?”

Bernard turned slowly and began to speak.

“I know this place. These are my old friends. We came here years ago, but they have been building incredible things for decades. They were made fun of as kids, and when I stuck up for them, I was made fun of. We wanted to take over the world. I realized it was pure evil, and I decided to turn on them. Using their technology, they stopped me. They brainwashed me. I’ve been under their control for almost a year and just escaped.”

“Sounds like they’re great buddies,” spat Jason.

Barry had the courage to laugh. “Hey, you know? You go out for a round of spelunking with your pals and get brainwashed and trapped trying to stop them from world domination. Sounds like a great Tuesday, am I right?”

“We can help, Bernard. Do you want us to help you kick their butts?” I asked, looking at Bernard, who looked pitiful.

“No, go now and get help. There’s a key under the mat at the end of the ENTER tunnel.”
“You just thought to tell us this now?!” Jason exclaimed in disbelief.

“I just remembered now!” Bernard shouted, pointing at his temple. “Brainwashed, remember?”

“Right.”
He slipped his arms out from his sleeves. “Here, take my robe. It’ll keep you concealed.”

I took the robe and thanked him, not wanting to think about Bernard taking on whomever “they” were by himself. We ran back to the second door, all the way back to the entrance, and sprinted down the ENTER tunnel. The key was right where Bernard had promised it would be.

When I left the tunnel, I felt like a vampire in the sun. We were going to go straight to the police, but then realized they would never believe us. I knew though we couldn’t leave Bernard behind. Barry was in on going back to help Bernard before I even said we should. Jason seemed reluctant but ready.

As soon as got to Barry’s house, we slipped into his garage and began making weapons to do whatever we could to help Bernard. I found a metal baseball bat, Barry made Jason a whip out of hot glue sticks and duct tape, Barry made a mace out of a hard foam ball, tacs, tape, the chain of many key chains, and a mini M&M’s bottle as the handle. We also got three baseballs each.

We were ready. Now the only other thing I wanted was a headband and eye black.

Once we finished, we went back to the tunnel. I thought we must have looked like idiots walking through Georgetown with our makeshift war weapons, but Bernard was in trouble. We tip-toed in and peeked at what was going on inside. We saw two strange looking people sitting at a table looking to their right. There was a third person shackled to a chair, and I could only see half of their face, enough to see a thick brown beard. After that, they pulled out some weird looking sci-fi gun type thing.

Then Jason said, “No! That must be the mind washing machine!”

“What do we do?” I asked.

Barry looked at us like we were stupid. “You idiots! We charge!”

He then let loose a scream and charged like a buffalo who had just robbed a candy store, his M&M-handled mace swinging wildly behind him. Jason and I had no choice but to follow. We ran through the door and threw a few baseballs at them. I ran up to the one in the middle and struck. He pulled up a metal pole and blocked it. Barry went and attempted to hit the one on the left with the mace, but the guy dodged it. We all continued to fight as Jason went and freed Bernard. Bernard then grabbed a hammer and was ready to get in the action. I was having an intense one-on-one battle with my guy, and Barry kept trying to hit his guy but kept missing. Right when I was starting to struggle holding mine off, Bernard came in and whacked the guy in the back of the head, making him crumple. Jason ran to help Barry, whipping the guy Barry was fighting in the back. The man saw that his friend was down. He made a break to a table that had tons of their technology on it. I knew we couldn’t let him get the table, so I ran to guard it. When the man got to the table I smacked him in the forehead and realized why Cabrera must love his job. My bat rang off his forehead and was still shaking by the time the other three got to me.

Bernard got chains that were in the room and tied his now unconscious captors up. After that, he led us out. We were covered in dirt and dust, our hair was all messy, we had rips in our clothes, and and my right shoe was ripped. We all tried to make to through the crowd without getting noticed, but everyone wanted pictures of us because they thought we were extras on set. I had completely forgotten that everyone else in Georgetown was having a normal day. We walked to the police station, and we told them they had to come to the tunnels to arrest the psychos and confiscate the weapons and technology. The police went down the tunnels, arrested them, and took the weapons and technology. They then blocked down the tunnels and returned us to our parents.

“Fun day today, right guys?” Jason laughed when we had all taken showers and were watching a movie at his place.

“Now you’ve got the spirit!” Barry laughed. “We should do this more often.”

“Heck yeah!” I exclaimed.

 

Gone for a Walk

         

Gone for a walk

The sun beaming hot on my back

Trees offer their shade to passersby

The sweet smell of summer in the air

 

The sun beaming hot on my back

Soft breezes soothe me

The smell of summer in the air

The sweet aroma lingers wherever I go

 

Soft breezes soothe me

Like the pleasant chirping of the birds

The sweet aroma lingers wherever I go

I feel like a butterfly in its true habitat

 

Like the pleasant chirping of the birds

I can only hear when I’m quiet myself

I feel like a butterfly in its true habitat

I venture through nature like a bird through the skies

 

I can only hear when I’m quiet myself

Trees offer their shade to passersby

I venture through nature like a bird through the skies

Gone for a walk

 

Attack of the Potatoes

                     

Prologue

There once was a man named Bob, who was a homeless man in New York City, and he lived in a cardboard box in an alleyway. You might think he was a sad man, but he was perfectly happy with his life. Most of the time, he had two to three meals a day.

 

Story

I was walking in New York City. It was a nice and sunny day. There were lots of clouds in the sky, and it was 87 degrees with cool breezes, the perfect day. I looked around. Everything seemed normal, the buildings tall and bustling with people, and the subway stations were crowded. Everything seemed normal until I was walking close to the Empire State Building. People seemed to be frantically running away from it. I looked around, and I didn’t see anything. I went up to someone to ask if they knew what was happening.

“Excuse me, sir, but do you know why people are running away from there?”

“Yes,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “People are running away because there are tons of potatoes attacking people in the Empire State Building!”

“What?! That doesn’t even make sense!”

He must be lying, I thought. Potatoes are something you eat, not something alive! Since I didn’t believe that man one bit, I continued walking down Fifth Avenue. I was seven blocks away. Everything looked perfectly fine except for the people running away and shrieking. One person even tried to get me to turn around and run away, but I just brushed her off.

I was six blocks away.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING!” some man in a business suit holding a briefcase said. “THERE ARE GIANT POTATOES ATTACKING!”

Now I was as baffled as ever. Another person said the same thing! I wanted to confirm that it was 100 percent true, so I went up to another person.

“Excuse me, miss,” I asked. “Why are people running away fr — ”

“RUUUNNNNNNNN!!!” the woman screamed.

“But why are people running!?” I repeated.

She just ignored me and continued to run. I’m just going to go there and figure out what is wrong, I thought. I continued on my way, a half a block away, and I heard tires screeching. I turned around, and I saw big military Jeeps and FBI bulletproof trucks speeding towards the Empire State Building. I jumped out of the way and heard some man on the Jeep shout “Get out of here! This is a really dangerous area.”

“Okay, sir,” I replied.

I turned around and walked the other way for 30 seconds and then continued towards the building when I couldn’t see the army trucks anymore. There were no more people running away. They all left. The streets looked deserted like a ghost town. There were some phones on the floor, so I decided to take one. After all, it’s not like they would come back and get it. I heard my stomach grumble. I needed some food before I continued. Luckily, there was an abandoned hot dog cart with hot dogs sizzling on it. I also took a bottle of Gatorade for when I would be thirsty. I took a hot dog with a bun and spritzed some mustard and ketchup and sprinkled some relish on it. I turned off the stove so nothing would burn and continued on my way. I was two blocks away from the Empire State Building. I could hear booms and explosions and shots being fired. It sounded dangerous. But I didn’t worry that much. I’m a curious person, so I really wanted to see it.

Being curious is what got me fired from my job. I used to work for a restaurant, and the owner once asked me to drive his car back home. My boss had a Lamborghini, so I agreed right away. I got in his car. It was a green Lamborghini. I started up the car and went zooming down the road. While I was driving, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a red button. I love red buttons, so I decided to push it… and the car all of a sudden stopped. Everything went flying, including my boss’s favorite glass cups, drinks, and all sorts of food. Two cars bumped into the back of the car, and inside the airbags came out, and everything was a mess. The seats were stained with all sorts of food and drinks, the trunk was smoking, and the glass on most of the windows was cracked. I knew I was going to get scolded for hours by my boss, so I did what my instincts thought I should do. I ran out of the car and never went back to my job. As a matter of a fact, I saw a billboard on top of a building asking where I was. It read, Ten thousand dollar reward if anyone finds this man! and it showed a picture of me. I always felt really guilty for breaking the car and not owning up to my actions.

I was on the block of the Empire State Building, and I almost passed out… They were right! Potatoes were attacking the Empire State Building. Some potatoes were eating the bricks of the building, some were standing outside of it doing nothing, and some were shooting the building with some laser gun! I hid behind a trash can and watched them in horror. Then, I heard something behind me. It was like someone was panting…

“AAAHHHHHHH!” I screamed. There was a huge potato that was 15 feet tall and had branches sticking out like it was a month old.

Then, the potato said in a deep voice, “Hello, puny human, we have come from the planet আলু ভাজা. We have come to take over Earth because our planet’s resources have been depleted. We have been studying humans for 567 years, and we learned everything about you. Now it is time for your death.”

“Please don’t eat me!” I begged. “I just wanted to see why people were running away from here.”

“I don’t care, I do not have emot — ”

All of a sudden, the potato fell down, and I saw why. There was a man with a big machine gun that shot it!

“GET OUT RIGHT NOW!” screamed the man who looked like he was from the army. “IF YOU DON’T LEAVE, I WILL HAVE TO STUN YOU.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. I will leave,” I replied.

I ran as fast as I could away from the war between humans versus potatoes. I got to East 32nd street. I turned off of Fifth Avenue and went towards Sixth Avenue. I still wasn’t done exploring and figuring out exactly what was happening. I made a turn onto Sixth Avenue and went back to the commotion. I saw a Forever 21 store with nobody inside. Clothes were spewed everywhere. I should get some new clothes. I haven’t gotten a new T-shirt and pants for a few years. I went inside the store, and I took a new striped shirt and blue jeans and put them on. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a gun, like the one the man had when he shot the potato. I went over to the gun, and then I almost passed out. There was a man who looked like someone had taken a bite out of his leg. There was blood gushing everywhere. I felt his heart for a heartbeat, but sadly, there wasn’t one.

I grabbed the gun and went on my way. Then, I heard some footsteps, and I quickly ran behind a clothing shelf. I heard panting, just like the previous potato who tried to kill me. That must have been the potato who killed the man! Chills went down my spine. I heard the potato getting closer and closer, and then… I jumped out and shot it. The potato fell to the ground, and I saw what it looked like. It had small legs, like a cartoon character, and it didn’t have any arms. It must have some type of telepathic powers that allow it to carry things, I thought. It was a small potato, a few inches taller than me. Then, I thought of a genius idea. I would carve a hole for me to fit in, and I’ll sneak into the Empire State Building. I looked around, scanning my surroundings and making sure nobody was near me. I took my trusty Swiss Army knife and went to carving. The inside of the potato looked extremely unusual. It didn’t have any insides that would possibly allow it to breathe or speak. It was like magic! All the insides of the potato consisted of some whitish mush like in a normal potato. After 45 minutes of carving, I was done. I crawled inside the potato and filled the hole back up. I made sure to make it small hole, so it would be easy to fill up. I made some eye holes and a small hole near my mouth and nose, so I could breathe. I walked outside and continued my way towards the war.

After a few minutes, I saw the Empire State Building in sight. That must be their headquarters, I thought. There were approximately 20 potatoes with things that looked like guns from the movie The Fifth Element. The guns in The Fifth Element look long and tall, and they have all sorts of buttons and levers on the bottom. It also has different bullets/weapons that you could shoot. I need to think of a good excuse to get into the building… I know! I need a new gun. I think I saw some potatoes run in there without a gun and come out with one.

I walked to the Empire State Building, and a pickle walked up to me, and he asked, “Why are you coming in here? It looks like you need a gun.”

“Yes I do,” I replied in a gruff voice, trying to sound like one of them.

“Follow me.”

I followed him down the lobby, and we turned in to another hallway. I looked around. There were potatoes walking everywhere. I had sweat all over me. I was shaking, hoping that they wouldn’t find out the truth about me. If they did, I probably would die instantly. Everyone around me had a gun. After 30 seconds of walking down the hallway, we reach a room with two potatoes guarding it. The potato escorting me told the pickles something and brought me into the room. I was amazed. There were all kinds of things, like guns that had some blue substance inside a tube. There was even a rocket launcher! The weapon that caught my eye was a sword that looked exactly like a lightsaber.

Then, the potato asked me, “What weapon do you want?”

“I’ll take the rocket launcher,” I replied. I took it off the shelf and started walking out.

“Hey! Do you know how to use that weapon?”

“Ummm, yes,” I replied. “You just click the trigger.”

“Okay, you know how to use it. Now go outside and fight for our leader, মাস্টার আলু.”

“I will fight as hard as I can.” Then, I thought, Why don’t I kill him and walk out and try to kill the leader. The leader would probably be upstairs… I quickly grabbed the sword weapon and sliced the potato in half before he could say anything. I hid the two halves of the potato behind a shelf, and I walked out. I walked back to the main lobby, and I stood around, trying to look as casual as possible guarding the building. Why don’t I ask someone if they know where the leader is? I’ll say I need to tell the leader something important, and I can go find him and kill him. I once read in a book where they killed the alien leader, and all the aliens died. Maybe it will be the same in this situation.

I continued to pretend to guard, and then I saw a human. He looked like he was part of the army, and he had a small pistol like from Star Wars.

Then, the potato next to me screamed, “KILL THAT HUMAN!”

I didn’t know what to do. I could kill my own kind, and then I would die because they would think I was a human, or I could shoot him, and I wouldn’t die, but I would always regret it.

“C’mon! Shoot the dude!”

“Okay, Okay,” I replied. I decided I would shoot him. I pulled the trigger and closed my eyes.

Boom, the man turned into smithereens. I hope I don’t get arrested after the war… if we win…

“Good job. Next time, don’t wait, just shoot,” a random pickle said.

I still wasn’t sure what to use as an excuse to see the leader. I was so tired I could barely stand up, this costume was itching, and it felt like it was a million degrees in here. But I persisted. I knew that I had to continue if I wanted to help save Earth from this attack. I felt extremely regretful for killing that poor, poor man. If I ever met his family, I would give them whatever they wanted to make up for it. But it was a sacrifice for a worthy cause, saving the world. After 40 minutes of doing nothing, I thought of the perfect excuse. I needed to tell the leader, মাস্টার আলু (I remembered his name!) that I had an amazing way to defeat the humans. I would tell him that humans cannot live if they don’t have water and that the potatoes should steal it. It was a genius plan!

I walked back into the building, and then a voice behind me said, “Hey, stop! Get back here! You have to guard the tall structure.”

“I’m going to the leader, I need to tell him a genius plan I thought of to get rid of the humans,” I responded.

“Okay, you can go, just take the box cart that goes up and take it to the 42nd floor. If you do anything weird, we will kill you.”

Yes! I thought. I can finish my plan! These aliens are so dumb! I went to the elevator, and I got on with another potato. The potato looked at me suspiciously. He clicked floor 32. I wonder what’s on that floor. Then, at the worst time possible, the hand of my potato costume fell off. The potato in the elevator gasped.

“YOU’RE NOT REAL!” he shrieked.

I quickly pulled out my lightsaber, I was just kidding about putting it back. I stole it. I stabbed the potato, and I clicked the 34th floor and hoped nobody would be there. I ran out of the elevator, my whole body shaking. Phew, there wasn’t anybody there. I got out of my costume and hid the dead potato under a desk. It’s extremely weird when potatoes die. Their insides turn green almost seconds after they die, and they become lighter than a feather. I found some towels on the desk, and I dried up the inside of my potato costume. It smelled like the worst B.O. ever. After 20 minutes of cleaning, I got back inside. I was about to go to the elevator, but then I heard a bump. Oh no! Some potato probably saw me! Then, I heard a bump coming from across the room. I walked over to where I heard the noise, and I saw there was a human hiding in a closet!

“Please!” he begged. “Don’t kill me. I have a family! All I want to do is make money to feed and support my family.”

I felt so guilty, so I told him the truth.

“I’m not really a potato,” I whispered. I peeked my head out to show him that I wasn’t. The man breathed a sigh of relief.

“Just hide here. I’ll come back and get you when the potatoes are gone,” I advised and walked into the elevator… hoping that I won’t ever have to have an encounter like that again.

I was in the elevator, I clicked the 42nd floor, and it went zooming up. I took out my sword getting ready. There were probably around five to ten potatoes up there guarding their leader. I will go up to the leader and tell him the “amazing strategy” and then stab him with my sword. I tried to look as casual as possible, even though I was shaking and sweating like I just sprinted a 24 mile run. The door opened, and I saw a potato… but instead of being big like the other potatoes, it was small. It was an average size potato, like one that you would buy in the supermarket. It also floated, and it didn’t have any arms. Around the potato, there were five big potatoes, like from downstairs. They were holding a long staff that had some knife at the end. Around the knife at the end, it had lines of blue things that looked like electricity.

One potato asked me, “What do you want?”

“I know a weakness that the humans have. We can use it to defeat them,” I replied.

“Tell me, my fellow potato.”

Shaking and sweating, I walked over to the leader’s desk and told him the plan, “The humans need water to survive. If we take all of their clean water, they will all die out.”

“What a smart idea!” exclaimed the leader. “We will send our ships to steal the water.” The leader clicked some button on his desk and said, “জল ধরুন.”

“I would like to show my gratitude for helping us take over this planet by promo — ”

I grabbed the potato and ate it.

*Gulp.*

It tasted pretty good. After eating the potato, all of the other potatoes fell to ground, and their hands and feet disappeared, and they shrank to a normal size.

 

Epilogue

I heard cheering outside. I got out of my costume, and I looked out the window. There were tons of people cheering and clapping. I went back to the floor where the man was hiding and told him the good news. He started crying in happiness and hugged me. I went downstairs with the man, and everyone started pointing at the man who I found on the 34th floor.

I asked the man, “Who are you? Why is everyone pointing at you?”

Embarrassed for some reason, he replied, saying, “I’m really a senator for New York. I should have told you earlier.” Then, the senator found a couch and stood on it and started to speak, “I would like to thank this man for saving me and our whole planet.”

Everyone started clapping and cheering. I was so excited! I was going to be acknowledged for what I did! Soon, the police came and tried to control the crowd. Then, the news trucks came and started taking pictures and tried to get over to me and talk. Luckily, the police helped me from getting crushed by journalists. At the end, someone wrote a book about me, I got a job as a police officer, and I got a really special medal and five million dollars. But still, I will never be happy because I killed that man.

 

A few weeks later…

In Bob’s brand new penthouse on the top of a skyscraper in Manhattan, (which the president gave him as a gift), he was watching television, and he heard something that shocked him.

“Breaking news: one of NASA’s satellite dishes in Hawaii got an unusual radio wave that was not from a star, a planet, nor even from a black hole. It was from something that must have been intelligent. NASA turned the Hubble Space Telescope towards the radio frequency, and what they saw was astonishing. There was a ship, and it was coming straight towards Earth. While the spaceship was flying towards Earth, it went in a weird pattern that spelled the letters P, O, T, A, T, O. Scientists say it will reach Earth in approximately 666 years.”

I looked out the window and saw that the big screen in Time Square also was playing that same message. Oh no! There must be more potatoes coming to attack us!

The End (For now… )

 

He Doesn’t Even Have a Name

There was a cool spring breeze brushing up against the park trees. The branches danced with their forest-green leaves. Upon a single great oak, there was a boy. He decided that one of the tree’s limbs would be the best spot to enjoy his novel. After thirty pages, the boy looked up from Moby Dick and saw the sun was close to setting. It was time to leave. The boy stood up, and with a slip of his foot, he fell off the oak. The drop must have been at least fifteen feet. As soon as his back hit the ground, ominous darkness aroused.

The boy woke up in a hospital bed. Two doctors and a nurse were staring right at him. The child said nothing. He searched the eerie room for his foster parents, and they were nowhere to be found. His back hurt, and his head throbbed with pain. The nurse opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by one of the doctors.

“Do you remember anything that has happened in the past twenty-four hours? What was the last thing you remember?” asked the doctor. The boy tried to remember. He tried to think of the latest events that occurred but could not. He shook his head.

“The last thing I remember is going to the park to read my book,” said the boy. The doctors frowned.

“Do you know your name?” the nurse questioned. The boy nodded.

“Dick,” he answered.

“What about a last name?” asked the second doctor. “We need to file a report for everyone that comes into the ER.” Dick scanned the area again. It didn’t seem like an emergency room at all.

“I have never had a last name. Being completely truthful, I don’t think Dick is my real name either,” Dick confessed. They all seemed shocked, except for Dick.

He doesn’t even have a name, poor boy, thought the nurse.

***

The streets of New York City were cold during September. All Dick owned were sweatshirts and jeans. The school bus pulled up to his town house. Dick’s new foster parents weren’t even awake to see him go off on his first day of high school. Dick didn’t mind, he never expected much from the Torris. They were just like every family the Foster Care system put him in, no matter if they lived in Texas, Arkansas, Virginia, or New York. They never cared for Dick, so he never cared for any them. Dick didn’t know it, but deep down inside him, he felt a longing for family. It was stronger in Texas, where he first lived. But this desire for a family connection died down after he —

“Sorry, this seat is taken.”

“Oh. Alright, sorry to bother you,” Dick replied. He must have said that five more times, before he found an empty seat. Dick gazed out the bus window. He watched as townhouses passed by, but then they turned into buildings, then into skyscrapers. The massive towers hovered over the puny school bus. Dick could feel their cool shadows brushing against his window. Screech! The bus jerked into a full stop. Everyone started to unload and enter Amsterdam High School. Dick pulled out a piece of paper from his back pocket. He checked his schedule.

First period is math with Mrs. Hether. It’s in room 2037. I have four minutes and 29 seconds until the late bell rings. I should be able to get to class on time, thought Dick. He looked up to find two boys staring across the hallway at a girl. One of them seemed to be drooling. Beauty is an abstract thing that I just don’t understand, Dick thought. He grabbed the railing as he walked up a stairwell. It was cold and rusty. Dick calculated in his head it was made of mostly copper, with a small percentage of zinc and iron. As he was walking, he passed a big clump of people. Everyone in the group seemed to be centered around one person.

“Are you excited for this season, Johnny?”

“Hey, Johnny, are you in any of my classes?”

“Yo, Johnny, do you got a date to HOCO?”

While thinking about Johnny, Dick entered room 2037. Judging by his varsity football jacket, Johnny must be on the football team. He seemed like a popular kid with lots of friends.

“I would like that many friends,” Dick whispered to himself.

“Did you say something?” Mrs. Hether questioned. Dick looked up to meet her gaze and quickly shook his head. “I am Mrs. Hether, and who might you be?”

“My name is Dick,” he answered.

“Oh yes! You are the freshman in my class. I am very impressed with you. This is an honors class for juniors, and you’re taking it as a freshman. You must be a very smart, young man.” Dick forced a smile, but truth be told, he didn’t feel much happiness. Emotion wasn’t very strong in Dick. “Take a seat, class will start soon.” Dick immediately thought she wanted him to take ownership of one of her chairs. After a second of recognition, he normally sat down in the front of the room.

The school day went on, and it didn’t occur to Dick that he was excelling in all his classes. Then, the lunch bell rang, and in the hallway Dick noticed a commotion behind him. He looked back to see Johnny helping a girl pick up her books. At that moment, Dick wanted to be friends with Johnny. Johnny appeared to be a great guy. Dick thought Johnny would be nice enough to not reject him as a friend (like everyone else has). During lunch, Dick found Johnny and all his friends sitting at a table.

Dick approached them and asked, “May I sit here?” The girls looked at each other with disgusted faces. The guys were rolling their eyes and ignoring Dick. Johnny finally broke the silence.

“Get lost, freshman,” Johnny demanded. Dick turned around and walked the other way. He kept his head down and accepted the truth. Nobody wanted to be his friend. Splat! His blue hoodie was ruined by a mash potato cannon ball. Dick kept walking while Johnny and his friends laughed at him. Dick didn’t understand humor or how that was funny. He believed the correct emotion, at the time, was misery. Dick found a quiet corner near room 2037. He ate his lunch there, without any company. He sat in that corner alone during lunch, for the rest of his school year. He never cried though, most likely because he was incapable of such actions.

***

Dick didn’t realize he was excelling in his classes with ease. He has never experienced academic difficulty before. Dick would answer questions the teacher asked and get his papers back with 100 percents. He never tried to show off his intellect. He didn’t think it was a big deal. But in the third week of school, other kids really started to notice.

Mrs. Hether asked the class, “What is the answer to question three?” Naturally, a few kids raised their hands, including Dick. Dick didn’t want to give the answer, but he felt obligated to raise his hand because he had the answer. He already gave Ms. Hether the correct answer to question two. Yet, Ms. Hether chose Dick.

“The answer is 4.39 over pi,” said Dick. Ms. Hether was pleased with his answer. She smiled and wrote 4.39 over pi on the chalkboard. Johnny, on the other hand, was not pleased. After class, Johnny stopped Dick in the hallway. Neither one of them moved. They locked eyes, their toes were a foot apart from each other. Some students stopped walking to see what would happen.

“You’re a freshman taking AP Calculus. We get it, you’re smart. You don’t have to show it off to everybody though!” Johnny growled.

Dick responded, “I only answered three questions.”

“Liar! I’m sick of your $%@&, don’t you ever talk back to me!” Johnny snarled. He pushed Dick onto the floor and walked off. Dick was startled and confused. He didn’t understand what happened. Ms. Hether saw Dick getting up from the floor. She didn’t bother to go near him.

When going home that day, Dick tried to reflect. He knew he was intelligent, but he also knew he still didn’t fully comprehend the world he lived in. He grasped the railing along a staircase. He understood its purpose but didn’t know why some people slide down the railing. It seemed impractical and dangerous. The only reasoning Dick could think of was that it’s “fun.” Dick didn’t know how to define “fun.” He didn’t have much fun in his life either.

“I want to have fun,” Dick said to himself. Hesitantly, he sat on the railing. He scooched along the railing, then began to slide. Bam! Dick fell off the railing and onto the stairs. While he tried to stand up, he tripped and fell down the rest of the stairs.

Dick returned to his foster home that day, with more bruises than intended. His foster parents didn’t pay him much attention. The Torris couldn’t care less if Dick was hurt. They only cared if he needed them to pay for a hospital bill. Dick went into his room and quickly shut the door. He went under his covers and tried to fall asleep. He failed to do so.

***

The bell rang after fourth period. Dick began to make his way to his lunch corner. He scanned the hallway for any potential threats. He saw one. Dick turned and walked in the opposite direction. All of a sudden, Dick was slammed into the wall. He didn’t see Gavin coming. Johnny and Henry walked over to Gavin. They looked down on Dick, as if he were a dead mouse soon to be preyed on by vultures. Johnny cracked his knuckles. Dick looked around, the hallway was empty except for them. This was the last thing Dick wanted.

“Take this smart@$#.” Johnny sent a right jab into Dick’s nose.

“Nerd!” Gavin kicked Dick into the wall.

“Loser!” Henry pushed Dick onto the floor. The three juniors started to kick at Dick’s half-dead body. All Dick could do was lay there. His arms covered his face and his body curled up, in order to protect himself. But it was no good.

“Please stop!” Dick cried. “Leave me alone! I’ve done nothing wrong! PLEASE!” he shouted.

“Shut up, Dick-head!” Johnny ordered. He kicked Dick with enough force to push his back into the wall. Suddenly, Dick’s arms felt immense pain, as if they were sore from over usage.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here. I’m hungry,” Henry said. The boys left Dick alone in the hallway. Then, Dick’s arms felt normal again. He struggled but managed to stand up. Dick went to the nurse’s office for some ice. Dick told the nurse he fell down the stairs. Nobody in Amsterdam High School would believe their beloved quarterback was a school bully. So Dick didn’t bother telling the truth.

Dick was regularly getting bullied now. It seemed almost weekly. Johnny, and maybe a friend or two, would find Dick and verbally and physically harass him. Originally, it was because Johnny was upset about Dick being so smart. Except, after a few times, bullying Dick was just a fun thing for Johnny and his friends. Dick never understood why being smarter was why he was bullied. Dick didn’t want to believe Johnny did it for enjoyment.

The worst part about Dick’s bullies, was that he couldn’t do anything about it. He had no friends to talk to. He didn’t have any trusted adults or anyone that cared about Dick. And it was never a fair fight. He was helpless and, in a way, internally dying.

***

Gym class was also a problem for Dick. He wasn’t very athletic or good at sports. Dick got embarrassed every time he tried to play a sport in PE. The jocks would laugh at him and the other kids would smirk. Dick was always the last pick in team sports. Nobody ever passed him the ball. Dick still tried his best, but he still never played well.

One time after Physical Education, Dick was the last one to leave the locker room. He didn’t mind because it was the last period of the day. When Dick tried to leave, the exit door swung open. Johnny and Gavin barged into the boy’s locker room. Dick tried to run. He just suffered a beating two days ago, so he couldn’t take another. Dick ran into the bathroom. They followed him in and jumped into his stall. Johnny grabbed Dick by his oak-brown hair and thrashed his head into the stall wall. Dick could only see blue for a few seconds, then his vision returned. Gavin slapped Dick across the face, leaving Dick’s cheek bright red. Johnny plunged Dick’s head into the toilet. Dick closed his eyes to avoid (what he thought was) blue liquid, in the toilet. After a few seconds, Johnny yanked Dick out of the toilet water. Dick gasped for air.

“This is why you don’t make me look stupid in class!” Johnny grunted. Dick thought for a second. He recalled correcting Johnny’s answer during science class. The teacher asked for the correct answer, and after Johnny gave his, the teacher asked again. Then, Dick provided the right one.

Gavin dragged Dick back out into the locker room. He held Dick’s arms back in an uncomfortable position, twisting his weak muscles. Johnny sucker-punched Dick in the gut. Dick coughed up a little blood. He was mortified. Johnny hit him with an uppercut, straight up the jaw. An image of a syringe flashed in Dick’s mind. Johnny grabbed Dick’s shoulders. Gavin loosened his grip on Dick. Johnny pulled down Dick’s torso in order to knee Dick in the stomach. More blood. Gavin and Johnny both let go of Dick. He fell to the ground. Dick couldn’t get up. Johnny grinned while Gavin handed him Dick’s backpack. Johnny hurled the book bag at Dick’s motionless body. The impact was painful. He hit Dick in the face, pushing his head back into a locker. This woke Dick up.

“I broke my spine from the fall!” Dick exclaimed. He finally remembered what happened when he fell out of that tree. Johnny looked puzzled. He walked over to Dick and began to swing his foot backwards. Before Johnny could kick Dick, Dick was already off the ground. Pow! Dick landed a punch right in Johnny’s chest. Johnny went flying. He flew all the way into the back wall of the locker room. That wall was ten yards away from Dick. Gavin’s jaw virtually dropped to the floor. Gavin bolted out of the locker room, and so did Johnny. Dick was amazed with this new found strength of his. “Where did this come from?” Dick asked himself. He turned to the wall of lockers behind him. Dick stepped forward with his left foot. He then pushed off his right foot, pivoted on his left foot, and punched a locker. His fist went through the locker door. When Dick pulled back his hand, the door came with it. Dick almost screamed with excitement.

***

The next day, Dick didn’t run into Johnny or any of his friends. In PE, the class had to play basketball. The teacher picked team captains, and customarily Dick was drafted last. Dick’s team was playing Henry’s team. Henry knew about what Dick did to Johnny and didn’t believe it. Johnny did look hurt, and that was what drove Henry in the game. Henry would purposefully dribble near Dick and try to embarrass Dick by exposing his awful defense skills. Eventually, Dick was given the ball. Henry ran across the court to personally guard Dick. That was a mistake. Dick dribbled up to the basket, and using all the strength in his legs, he sprung up five feet to slam dunk the basketball. Dick hung onto the rim for a few seconds then dropped back down. The entire gym was silent. Everyone was in shock. Dick didn’t know what to do, so he too stood there motionless and speechless. Suddenly, the bell rang, and everyone went into the locker rooms. Nobody could speak, but their mouths were still wide open.

The next morning, Dick couldn’t get into room 2037. Johnny, Gavin, Henry, and two other upperclassmen blocked Dick’s way. As usual, there weren’t any people in the hallway. Johnny appeared madder than ever.

“Don’t you dare think you’re better than any of us, you freshman %&#@!” Johnny threatened. The two unknown students stepped forward. Dick knew there was going to be a fight, and he was ready for it. Before they could even swing their arms, Dick sent two right hooks their way. The boys flew back, unconscious. Gavin couldn’t move. He was in shock. He just stared at the unconscious bodies. Henry charged at Dick and tried to tackle him. Dick parried with a body throw. Henry was then also unconscious, but thirty feet down the hallway.

It was just Johnny left. Johnny cracked his knuckles. Dick wasn’t afraid. Dick took a step forward. Johnny threw a punch at Dick, but Dick dodged it. Dick performed a roundhouse kick, but Johnny ducked. While Johnny bounced back up, Dick kicked him in the side. Johnny fell, crying in pain. Dick most likely broke one of Johnny’s ribs.

The hallway quickly became quiet and ominous. Dick felt as if the fight wasn’t over. Except, he didn’t know of any other enemies. He looked around the hallway and found it odd that he didn’t see anyone.

Maybe everyone is in class. I should probably go to first period then, thought Dick. Dick walked by the unconscious bodies of his bullies, his conquered fears. He opened the door to Mrs. Hether’s room. A bright light turned on, blinding Dick. He heard SWAT soldiers surrounding him, yelling formation orders. Three red dots appeared on Dick’s chest. “What’s going on?” Dick yelled. He began to regain his vision.

“GOV test subject 02SHS-A is active! Confirmed bodies outside the room. Causation from 02SHS-A!” shouted a SWAT soldier. Dick was very confused and started to get scared. Then, a radio signal came in.

“Go green, neutralize target over!” The red dots on Dick’s chest turned green. Before he could flinch, Dick was shot dead.

 

Field Trip: An Account of the Earth Invasion (2677)

           

Roughly translated to English

 

The permission slips for this trip took forever to sign, considering that Earth had countless armies and weapons of mass destruction, and there certainly was a chance that my classmates and I would be dead by the end of this field trip. We were an advanced alien elementary school class, after all, not gods. When my dad saw the slip, he immediately began to rant. “Gorp, I remember my first invasion; we did it on the planet Vaksmeeg. Ha, I remember there was this one little girl, she was crying and crying, until she wet her pants. I shot her then — what a way to go, huh? Oh, oh, there was actually this club meeting that me and a couple of my friends stumbled upon, and they were reading one of my favorite books, Microwave Down, translated to Vaksmeegian, of course, and, so me and your uncle #$@#^*&#^^$ decided to have a bit of fun, so we lined all these people up, and we would ask them questions about the book. ‘On which page does the microwave go down?’ You know, stuff like that, and if they answered wrong, we shot them.”

I decided to leave the room at this point. There was no telling how long these things could go, so I had my mom look over the slip. “Oh, is Korg going?” she asked me before signing.

“Of course he is, Mom.” Korg had been my best friend since we were little, and we had been discussing our first invasion for as long as I could remember. He was even more excited than I was, and he wouldn’t miss it for the world.

She finished signing after about an hour, and I was all set. Later that night, just before I was to begin my evening hibernation, I looked out my window and out into the city of Bondex, the place I had grown up in. The sprawling skyscrapers of The Egley district, the low rundown building of The Booga (I’m not allowed down there, because apparently that’s where bad people sell gog). Despite its flaws, Bondex was home, and I was going to miss it during the invasion. I went back to my bed. I had a big day ahead of me after all, and at least from what I’d heard, the overthrowing of a planet required a good night’s sleep.

 

The room of teaching was buzzing the morning of the trip. How could it not be? None of us had ever done this before, and this elated confusion continued to spark between us until we got to the ship, but when it came into view, everything stopped. It seemed as though all noise had been taken from the world, because the great black mass that lay before us seemed to require all the energy that had been in us moments before just to look at it. And then the silence was broken, and we all started to run toward the ship.

I was one of the first people on board, seeing as I was one of the fastest in the class, and I was absolutely shocked when I stepped inside the craft. The space inside was cavernous, and it seemed more like a hangar than a ship itself, seats sprawled evenly, none of them within five feet of each other. It was like each of us had our own world. Korg and I quickly grabbed seats and sat down next to each other (or as close to each other as we could be) and began talking excitedly.

Once all 900 of us had sat down and we had taken to the sky, an automated voice came on. It was soothing and monotonous as it began to talk slowly. “Hello, welcome aboard the vessel. Seeing as this is your first invasion, I’ll be taking you through some safety tips. First, try to kill the scarier humans that have guns while the confusion is still setting in, then move on to the more panicked ones, as they will cause less threat.” I thought about what the voice had said for a moment. I’d never killed anyone before, so the announcement spurred a sort of unease in me, but these feelings quickly became mixed into excitement. The announcement continued, encouraging us to have fun and really “take in” our first invasion, see the sights, relish in the humans’ fear. And also that we should just relax, because Earth has one of the least advanced life in our universe, so as long as we stayed calm, the invasion should be a smooth ride. After the announcement finished, it was quiet for a bit. I supposed that everyone was taking in what we had just heard, when a new voice, that of our teacher, came on.

“All right, kiddos, right now we’re entering the Milky Way galaxy, so if you’d all please stand up walk over to the windows and check it out.” I unlatched my buckle and moved to the giant window in the wall and looked out. Many of my classmates gasped in awe at the sight of the galaxy. I thought it was fine, but I again found myself distracted by the task ahead of me, the massacre I would soon commit, and suddenly I began to feel ill. I rushed back to my seat where I curled up and tried to forget about how sick I was. Korg, who had been reading Microwave Down Pt. 2, Multiple Microwaves Down! turned and saw me.

“Gorp, are you okay?” he asked, worried.

“I’m fine, just a little nervous, I guess.”

Korg wasn’t buying it. “Gorp, an invasion has never, ever failed before, all right?”

“All right.”

“Gorp?”

“Yeah?”

“This is gonna be great, and when we get home, we can tell our parents about it all. Man, you’re gonna love it.”

My stomach pain calmed down, and I felt better right away.

 

I fell asleep eventually but was jolted awake soon after by a final announcement. The lady with the smooth voice came on. “Now that you have landed, suit up, go out there, and have fun.” I looked around to see my classmates freaking out and screaming and rushing towards the battle station. I followed suit, and so I rushed to the small cubicle with Gorp etched on its door. I went in and saw what I had seen so many times in pictures, but I had never been so close to touch: the Bondexian suit, in all its shimmering glory. It was a lightweight titanium thing with a complex helmet piece covered in designs native to my home planet. I then picked up a light rifle and walked back to the seating area where some of my fellow classmates waited. I could feel the craft descending and hear the faint screams outside. Just as Eegee, the last of us to change and the student widely considered the runt of our class, had come out of his dressing room, I felt the jolt of the craft landing.

The screams were loud now outside, and I heard a ripping screech as a car tried to avoid the crash that came moments later, giving off its own terrible noise. We were all instructed to line up horizontally, facing the front of the ship. This took little time, as we had been training for months, and after we had all lined up, there was a sharp hissing sound as the front of the ship fell away, and a ramp extended down towards the ground in its place. We began to march towards the ramp, and as we moved forward, I took in the surroundings of the outside world.

I saw that we were in a metropolistic area, and despite the fact that the sky above was dark, there were thousands of glowing screens mounted to buildings, advertising strange people and things. A man with rosy red cheeks and a flowing white beard with a bottle of brown substance that looked like gog tipped over his mouth, and a dark-skinned lady was staring out of the screen. Under her picture was a name, Be once? When we began to walk down the ramp, all of us in a line, in perfect unison, I could now see real life people standing below us either running in terror or staring at us curiously. Korg leaned over and whispered to me, “The ones that ran, those are the smart ones.” I chuckled at the thought, but all of a sudden, the feeling I had felt before, on the ship, came back, the feeling that my brain was being shredded to pieces, and it seemed as if a wave of guilt had crashed down on me, crushing my body with its power.

But then the feeling passed. I could hear my teacher telling the square of people exactly what we were doing, but not why we were doing it… Why were we doing this? For power is what I had always presumed, but is genocide the best possible way to go about it? I could feel the guilt coming on again, but I was once more jolted back to my senses, this time from the sharp report of a light rifle. Near the front of the crowd a huge human man fell down into a pile of dust.

The invasion had begun.

 

The next hours went by in a blur. We were split off into groups, Korg in mine, luckily enough, and roamed the streets of what I found to be called New York, destroying the buildings around us, watching them crumble like sandcastles, being diminished to dust, just as the man from the crowd had. Before I demolished another building, I looked inside and saw through one of the window a flickering screen mounted on some sort of box. On the screen was a man with a blue suit on and a greasy wad of hair sticking out of his scalp. He seemed to be talking fast and distractedly, and behind him there were pictures of our ship. I knew he was reporting about us, about our invasion. Then the screen abruptly succumbed to static, and so I backed up twenty feet and shot at the building twice, and it was no more.

It almost made me sad, doing all of this. I couldn’t imagine my own home being wrecked like this, everything I had disappearing with a couple shots from a light rifle. I was being too nice; empathy is not the correct invasion mindset for invasion. With that, I looked back in the direction of the ship, almost a mile away now, and I saw what looked like a hallway of flames and ashes against the dark night sky, framing the streets we had walked. I turned back, and I realized how far I was from my group. I began to run towards them, but after I had gone only five steps, I was stopped in my tracks, for I saw a dark shape in the sky, coming towards my own group far ahead of me. It was a dark flying machine, with a spinning wheel on top, and the sharp chopping noise it made jolted me back to my senses. I ran towards it trying to shoot it, and so did my groupmates far ahead, but they seemed to have no effect on the plane, or whatever it was. Then, from the machine was released a bright yellow shape, flying through the air, down towards my friends, and then it reached them.

I was thrown back by the blast, and I skidded across the street like a rag doll. And when I managed to stand up, I realized I was crying. The helicopter flew away, and I could hear similar sounding blasts from far away, the sounds of more of my friends dying. I stood in the middle of the street, petrified, for a very long time. All I could see were flames, from our destruction, and the humans’. I took my helmet off, and I felt the heat on my cheeks; it hurt, but I ignored it. I thought I could make out the mangled bodies of the others in my group, singed arms outstretched in terror, mouths stretched in frozen screams. I thought about what my dad had said the day before, which seemed like so long ago, about the girl he killed who wet her pants. “What a way to go,” he had said. Not with my group mates though, no sir. On a foreign planet, with no warning whatsoever, it was just, snap, and then you were gone.

The street I stood on seemed all of a sudden like a road straight to hell. I thought about how I could get home, if there were, by some miracle, any survivors, and about how Korg and everybody else was never going to get to tell their parents about how fun the field trip had been. How did this happen anyway? Earth isn’t even advanced, so how is it that so many of us are dead? Too many questions.

I realized the aircraft was coming back around, searchlights swooping across the ground in an arc, and unless I hid, I might join my classmates. But why shouldn’t I? What was there for me? I was never going to get home. Who cared, right? So I raised my hands, felt the light pass over me, burn my eyes, and then the plane-type thing landed. I looked towards it, confused. Men without faces, wearing yellow suits, were hustling towards me. Why hadn’t they shot me? The men grabbed my arms and started to drag me toward their ship. I kicked and screamed. Why hadn’t they shot me? I stopped struggling, and they removed the plate of armor on my arm. I suddenly felt a sharp jolt of pain in my arm, and then everything got blurry, then black.

The table I lay on was cold on my back, and the sharp objects that lay around me on racks shined in the empty white light of the room. I could feel my own blood running down my stomach, a lot of it, so I too could feel myself drifting in and out of consciousness. After the invasion had failed, after all my friends had departed, strange men had brought me here, where they proceeded to cut me open, sift through my insides. I didn’t know why I hadn’t died, but no fate was worse than this. At least if I died, I might have been able to see everyone again. At least if I died, I wouldn’t have to think about the fact that I was never going to get back home.

The blood kept on flowing, and I grew tired. I thought I’d just go to sleep.

 

Everything Perfect

                

Name: Meira O’Kane

Biological parents: Ellen O’Kane and Jared O’Kane

Place of birth: Damariscotta, Maine, USA

Date of birth: August 8, 2555 (6:35 AM)

Date of euthanization: February 3, 2655

Biological sex: Female

Gender: Female

Blood type: A-

Handedness: Right

College: NYU

Profession: Criminal defense lawyer

Soulmate: Anna Vargha

 

Meira woke up. It was Saturday, September 29, 2570. She opened the LifeGuide app. In the home page sat her life’s basic information. Some of it hadn’t happened yet — she hadn’t been euthanized (duh, she wasn’t 100 yet), she hadn’t gone to college and become a criminal defense lawyer (she was only 15), and she hadn’t met Anna Vargha. Whatever. The Algorithm had it all figured out. This was her life.

The app told her she should go to Target at 10:07 AM to buy a gift for Jessa’s birthday. She could rest at home before then. She would meet a new friend there. That was exciting.

She hopped out of bed and went downstairs. Her mother had already taken this morning’s food out of the Murchiest.

“I want candy for breakfast,” Meira’s little sister, Mia, was complaining.

Meira rolled her eyes, sitting down at the table. “Stop whining. You’re such a baby. This parfait tastes great.” Meira shoved some in her mouth.

It was strawberry flavored. Meira liked blueberry better, but this was fine.

Mia stuck out her tongue at Meira. “You’re a baby! I want candy! And play with me after breakfast!”

Meira groaned.

“Now, now, Mia,” Mother chided. “You know this is the way things are. The Algorithm — ”

“I want candy!”

“If you eat candy, things won’t turn out well.”

“But I want it!”

Father poked Mia. “C’mon, my little warrior princess, eat the parfait. Didn’t you pay attention to your teacher?”

“‘The Algorithm knows best,’” Mia grumbled.

“Yep.” Father nodded gravely. “457 years ago, the Algorithm was created so that everyone would be safe and happy.”

Mia and Meira rolled their eyes in unison.

Good going, Mia, Meira thought, Now we’re going to get a lecture.

“The Algorithm has predicted the way to make everything turn out well. All we need to do is follow it. None of those big, scary choices. If you don’t follow the Algorithm, then life will get messed up. Understand?”

“I don’t care!” Mia shrieked. “Ugh, I wish the Murchiest didn’t exist!”

Father opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, the wallpaper rippled with blue light. The soft, warm female voice of the Algorithm’s warning system, which was contained within the wallpaper, began to speak.

Mia O’Kane, you are to report to the Damariscotta Center at 9:30 AM for reprogramming. A transport will be sent for you shortly.

“Wow,” Father said, raising his eyebrows. “First time!”

Mother sighed. “Oh, Mia. After you finish your parfait, you can go play with your iPad while you wait for the transport to come.”

She kissed Mia on the forehead. Mia whined, sitting down at the table.

“Children,” Father remarked drily. “Though, I’m surprised that her first time is this late. Meira’s first reprogramming was when she was five. Mine was when I was four.”

Mia, sitting sullen at the table, gave Father side-eye.

“I was such a trouble child,” Father continued. “But I’m better now.”

Mother covered her mouth in an attempt to hide her snort.

“I am!” Father protested. “I haven’t gotten reprogrammed since I was 17. Teenagers are pretty troublesome.” He poked Meira. “You were reprogrammed 13 times. I remember I was reprogrammed 12 times. Almost set a world record.”

Mother rolled her eyes. “Please, David. The world record’s 64.”

“Well, I’m above average.” He winked at Mother.

“You’re one reprogram above average.”

“Still above average.”

Mother laughed, shaking her head.

“Mother, Father, I’m going to Target today at 10:07,” Meira said, finishing up her parfait.

“Okay,” Father said.

There was a knock on the door. The robot had come to fetch Mia. Mother stood up and walked Mia over to the door. Meira finished up the last of her parfait, before walking over to the couch and going on her phone. She opened up Temple Run 10.

“Come and talk to me,” Father said, faking a pout. “I’m lonely.”

Meira rolled her eyes. “The Algorithm said I have free time before I go to Target, not torture.”

“Ouch,” Father muttered. “Gemma! Your daughter’s hurting my feelings!”

Mother laughed as she walked back. “Come on, honey, we’re going shopping.”

Meira frowned. “Shouldn’t you be here when Mia gets back? What if you don’t finish shopping in time?”

Father raised his eyebrows.

“Nevermind,” Meira said quickly.

“Reprogramming isn’t that frightening at all,” Father pointed out.

Mother nodded, her eyes flashing for a moment. Then she was all smiles.

“Have fun, my little sugar glider.” Mother said, hugging Meira tightly.

“Mom!” Meira protested. “I’m too old for that! And you made me lose that round!”

“You’re never too old for me to smother you with affection.”

Meira shook her off, but she was unable to resist a smile as she went back to the game. A few seconds later, she heard the sound of the door shutting.

She had beaten her high score in Temple Run 10 when their doorbell rang. Meira ran over to the door. Mia had been escorted back by a robot. Meira waved goodbye to the robot. She nudged Mia.

“Wave goodbye to the robot.”

Mia stared at Meira blankly. “Why?”

Meira frowned. “Mother said it was polite.”

“Okay,” Mia said flatly, walking inside the house.

She got out her iPad and started to placidly play by herself. Meira stared at her.

Who are you and what have you done with my whiny little sister?

“Umm… didn’t you want me to play with you?”

“The Algorithm said I should play by myself.”

Meira swallowed. “Yeah… but… what do you want?”

“The Algorithm said — ”

“Okay, okay, nevermind,” Meira said quickly.

Meira backtracked out of the room and onto the couch. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was 10:03 AM. Meira had four minutes left. Meira played several more rounds of Temple Run 10, before getting up. Time to go buy a gift for Jessa. She should definitely buy Jessa one of those antique Barbies.

After putting on her neon yellow sneakers, she walked out the door. Meira glanced at the garden as she walked outside their fenced peach-colored house. The organic flowers had died. Mother had decided not to get synthetic flowers, claiming that this way it was more “authentic.” It was for the same reason Meira had agreed not to get the date she would meet her soulmate. Father said it added a sense of excitement to life. Meira supposed not knowing was pretty fun.

She hopped onto a transport and sat down next to an old lady. As the transport began to move, the streets blurred slightly. Finally, when they got to Target, Meira got off. A digital clock on the wall said 10:31. She walked inside the Target.

What was Mia’s mind like right now?

Meira had gotten reprogrammed 13 times, and she didn’t remember how reprogramming happened. She’d tried to hold onto the memories, but she just couldn’t. All she could remember was walking into the reprogramming center, its sterile white walls decorated with beautiful pictures.

Every time after any of her friends got reprogrammed, there was always something off about them. And now… something was off about Mia. Which wasn’t okay. Meira felt a sudden jolt of anger at the Algorithm. Let Mia make choices! Let her be Mia! If she messed up, Mother and Father could help her out. Meira wanted her little sister, not some blank doll.

Her mind was still storming over those thoughts when her body collided with something solid.

“OW!”

Meira stumbled backwards, blinking. She grabbed onto a shelf for support. There was a girl in front of her, looking slightly miffed. There were crimson and purple streaks in her long dark hair. The contents of the girl’s shopping basket were on the floor, but a robot was already cleaning them up.

“I’m so sorry,” Meira gushed.

The girl quickly smiled. “Oh, don’t worry about it. See, the robot’s already got it.” She took her basket from the robot.

“Thank you,” Meira muttered to the robot, feeling slightly guilty it cleaned up a mess she helped cause.

“Why are you thanking it?” the girl asked, tilting her head so that her hair fell to the side, like a curtain.

Meira blushed. “My mother always taught me to thank the robots. She said we should be grateful for them, since they weren’t always around.”

“That’s cute,” the girl said softly. She held out her hand. “I’m Nikitha. You can call me Niki.”

“I’m Meira,” Meira said. “You can call me Meira.”

Niki giggled. “The LifeGuide app said I would meet a friend at Target today. I don’t suppose that’s you?

“I guess so,” Meira said. “I hope I’m up to your expectations.”

“Oh, of course you are,” Niki said, swatting Meira’s arm. “Why are you at Target?”

“To buy a gift for my friend Jessa’s birthday. I’m buying one of those antique Barbie sets that they have for the special back-to-school event. Jessa loves collecting antiques like that. She’s almost got the entire Littlest Pet Shop collection.What about you?”

“Buying a gift and some cards for my grand aunt’s euthanization.”

“Oh. Tell her I said congratulations. It must be exciting.”

“Yeah… ” Niki bit her lip. “Part of me wishes she didn’t have to go, though. She can make the cutest crochet animals. It’s silly, I know. Euthanizations are supposed to be happy.”

Meira shrugged. She walked over to the event stand, Niki trailing behind her.

“Which one should I get?” Meira asked.

“Maybe the Christmas one.” Niki giggled. “Christmas sounds like such a weird thing, huh?”

“Yeah,” Meira agreed. “I mean, isn’t it so much more convenient to have one holiday for the entire world?”

Niki nodded. “Right? My parents came from India, and the transition was totally easy for them. Imagine if Christmas was still around! Then they would have had to adjust to the new holiday customs.”

“It’s insane,” Meira said. She picked up the Christmas Barbie doll box and gave it to a nearby robot to scan, before paying with her credit card. “Life before the Algorithm in general must have been insane.”

“You might have procrastinated on getting Jessa her weird Barbie,” Niki offered.

Meira nodded gravely. “And then we might have never met.”

Niki grinned. “That would be awful. Anyways, where are you going after this? I’m supposed to go to my grandma’s house after resting at home.

“Hey, me too!”

“Looks like we were meant to meet. Do you want to go somewhere else instead of staying at home, though? I’m sure it would be fine by the Algorithm.”

Meira didn’t know if it was such a good idea, going against the Algorithm. Then she thought of Mia, who was off now. She felt another jolt of anger at the Algorithm. Screw it.

“Sure. Where to?”

“I dunno. Do you have any suggestions?”

Meira barely had to think before a location popped up in her head. “The forest.”

“The forest?” Niki asked, scrunching up her nose. It looked kinda cute. “No one I know goes to the forest. Except for you, of course.”

Meira shrugged, turning away and flushing. “I… yeah. I’m kinda weird. I don’t even know when I’m going to meet my soulmate. See, my parents… we talked and decided that it would be more… exciting, I guess?”

Niki smiled gently, tilting her head and looking at Meira, as if to examine her from a new perspective. “It’s interesting. You’re interesting.”

“There are probably other people like me. Umm, you know. Who thank robots and stuff.”

“Yeah… but… ” Niki shrugged. “Nevermind. Let’s go.”

“Okay,” Meira said. “You want to walk over or take a transport?”

“Walk.” Niki’s soft cocoa powder eyes sparkled. “Today’s a day for trying new things.”

The two left the store. Meira moved to drop her bag onto a floating pod so that it could be delivered home. Niki nudged her.

“Why don’t we do this the old-fashioned way and carry them?” Niki suggested, her eyes glinting.

“Wow, we’re really getting rebellious today, huh?” Meira teased.

Niki grinned. The two began to walk towards the forest. When they got there, Meira felt a familiar grin creep across her face. This was her safe place. She led Niki through the woods, until they got to Meira’s kinda-secret grove. Before Niki, the only person other than Meira to come here (that she knew of) was Mother.

Niki glanced around, her eyebrows raised. “The walls in my room can change to look like a more perfect version of this.”

Meira sat down on a thick tree root. Niki dusted off a spot next to Meira, before sitting down next to her.

“Yeah… but… ” Meira shrugged. “It’s kinda like… well, you see, Mother doesn’t use synthetic flowers because she says organic flowers are… alive. She can actually nurture them. It’s authentic. Slightly unpredictable. They… I dunno how to explain it. It’s the same concept with the trees.” Meira blushed, waving her hand. “Oh, nevermind. It doesn’t make sense.”

“No… ” Niki frowned. “It kinda does.” She grinned, looking directly at Meira. “Hey, have you ever been kissed before?”

Meira blushed. “Doesn’t everyone wait for their soulmate?”

Niki shrugged. “Today seems to be a day for going over the boundaries. Besides, I do like-like you. I dunno if I love you, but you’re cute and interesting, so yeah, I like-like you.”

Blushing even redder, Meira leaned back against the tree.

“That’s… wow… ” Meira muttered.

“Am I coming on too strong?”

“No… ” Meira swallowed, unable to say that it was part of what made Niki so charming.

Did she like-like Niki? Niki was… she was vivacious. Alive. She glanced over at the other girl. Despite the confidence, Meira could see a hint of hesitation in her bambi eyes. Meira didn’t know either, but what if they tried? Why not? Besides, it might be better than falling in line with the Algorithm. More real. The Algorithm took the realness out of things. Mia had been annoying before the reprogramming, but she had been Meira’s little ball of annoying.

“Yeah,” Meira muttered, leaning forwards. “I think… that might be nice.”

Niki smiled, cupping Meira’s neck with her hand and going forwards to meet Meira.

Her lips were soft and tasted like strawberry lip gloss. She smelled like the November Rain candles Father would burn when he ran out of Vanilla Cupcake candles. The angle was awkward. Meira shifted, trying to make it better, but the angle was even more awkward. But it could be worse. At least braces didn’t exist anymore — they sounded absolutely horrible. How did people back then who needed braces even kiss people? Then Niki let out a little giggle against Meira’s lips, and Meira melted a little.

The two broke apart, falling against the tree.

“Hey,” Niki said softly.

“Hey,” Meira said back, grinning.

“You wanna come here later?” Niki asked, her eyebrows lifted, a fox-like grin decorating her lips.

Meira suddenly jerked upwards, a horrible realization occuring to her. “W-what about the Algorithm?”

Her heart began to race. People were supposed to be with their soulmates. That was just how things were. The Algorithm had predicted things so that everything would be perfect. Things with her and Niki would get messed up eventually. The kiss wasn’t even that good. Niki’s lips were soft, and she smelled good, but the angle was kind of awkward. It was imperfect, which meant it wasn’t okay. Kissing Anna, who Meira was actually supposed to be with, probably would be better. Yeah.

Niki turned pale. “Oh, gosh… ” She grabbed her hair with her hands.

“Wait!” Something came over Meira, bring along with it a wave of relief. “I remember that Mother said the Algorithm’s warning system is only in the wallpaper because of budget or whatever.”

“Oh, thank God.” Niki let out a nervous laugh. “That’s — yeah.”

“People barely ever come to the forest anyways,” Meira commented.

Niki snorted. “Yeah. Lazy weaklings.”

Meira snorted. She lay back against the tree root, glancing at Niki. Her sleek hair was ruffled.

“Maybe we can even bring my grand aunt here,” Niki remarked.

Meira frowned. “Yeah… but… everyone gets euthanized at 100.”

Niki sighed. “I know. Anyways… ” She paused, glancing at Meira mischievously.

“I… ” Meira chewed her lip anxiously. She could still taste traces of Niki. “Yeah.”

“This was fun, eh?”

“Mhmm. Umm… ”

Meira felt her stomach twist. The kiss was starting to feel like a huge mistake. But she couldn’t just say that, right? That would be totally rude.

“Is… something wrong?” Niki asked, starting to look concerned.

“Huh?” Meira couldn’t help but feel bad.

“Well, your brow was all wrinkled, so… ”

“Oh… umm… it’s just that this Anna Vargha is supposed to be my soulmate.”

“And Dave Greenblum’s supposed to be mine.” Niki’s voice was growing tense.

“Also… we’re supposed to listen to the Algorithm because it knows best.”

Niki narrowed her eyes. “What are you saying?”

Meira stayed silent, looking away. She clenched her fists. Meira swallowed, squeezed her eyes shut, and quickly blurted it out.

“We shouldn’t do this again!”

“What?” Niki’s voice grew harsher, like a vulture. “But… that… ugh, Meira! You make no sense!”

“Wha — why?”

Why?” Niki snorted, her voice wavering. “Are you screwing with me right now? You were the one who was all like… like… ”

“Like what?”

“You wanted to come to the forest! You thanked the robot! You and your organic flowers and… ” Niki swallowed. There was a wetness in her pretty eyes. “You just felt… refreshing. But looks like you’re just like everyone else!”

“Isn’t that supposed to be good?” Meira demanded, the words of her kindergarten and preschool teachers washing over her.

Maybe not, Mother whispered in her head.

“I don’t know!” Niki shrieked, roughly wiping off her tears. “You were the one who gave me the tiny feeling that this could work out! Everyone else was just going along with the Algorithm and I was too! Why are you being so dull now, huh?”

“Because this is too much!” Meira wrung her hands, frustrated. “Those are small things!”

“But… don’t you want big things to be authentic too?” Niki was starting to look betrayed, which made Meira feel like a bad person.

“I — ”

“Just — fine! Whatever!” Niki jumped up. “You’re terrible at kissing anyways!”

Meira looked away, feeling tears creep into her own eyes. Niki marched off, her spine straight and stiff. Sighing, Meira tried to relax. She realized that her nails had dug crescents into her palms. Everything was going to be okay now. Meira just needed to get up, go to her grandma’s, and then go home, where she could go to Mother.

What would Mother say to all of this? Meira wondered if she had been rude to Niki. But the Algorithm was the most important thing, right? That’s what everyone said. It was just… common sense. Or was it?

Sighing, Meira got up and dusted off her pants. She began to walk towards the road. The forest was calming, but the calm made her feel uneasy. She wasn’t supposed to like the organic forest so much, but she still did. Would it be the same thing with Niki? Meira finally reached a small road in the forest that rarely had transports. Meira began to move towards the mini skywalk to cross the road. Suddenly, she noticed a familiar dark head with crimson and purple streaks sitting down next to the skywalk.

Meira ducked her head as she walked, praying that Niki wouldn’t notice her. It would be so freaking awkward. Risking a glance at the other girl, Meira saw that Niki was still wiping tears off her eyes. A feeling of guilt crept over her. She began to walk onto the skywalk.

Niki turned over to her with a grin, probably thinking Meira was a stranger and intending to say hi. Then she saw Meira’s face.

“Ni — ” Meira began, but Niki turned and ran.

“Wait!” Meira yelled, stepping forwards.

She had no clue why she wanted to go after Niki. It was a stupid impulse, gained from watching those rare permitted pre-Algorithm movies too many times. Niki glanced around, giving Meira a pained look, before turning and going onto the road.

Meira stopped, stunned. What was she doing? The skywalk existed for a reason! Niki was running across the road, and then everything happened in a horrible flash.

As she ran, a motorcycle sped up behind Niki. Time stiffened for a moment, and then it felt like everything collided. Niki screamed as she was thrown back from the force of the collision, her voice raw, an unfamiliar voice scream, and Meira screamed, because something was definitely wrong. She had no idea what had just happened, but it was something horrible and dreadful that never would have happened if they’d listen to the Algorithm.

Meira ran over to her, too, collapsing on her knees in front of Niki.

“It hurts… ” Niki whimpered, her eyes glazed.

Meira stared at gasping girl, unsure of what to do. What could she possibly do?

“I’m sorry,” Meira pleaded.

A robot that was probably stored a bit down the road came over and injected something in Niki’s arm. Immediately, Niki’s pained gasps stopped, and her eyes grew soft. He then went off to tend to the motorcycle rider. Meira hadn’t even noticed him in her panic.

“It’s alright,” Niki whispered.

Meira hesitantly reached out to touch Niki’s hair. The robot beeped.

Meira O’Kane, you are to report to the Damariscotta Center at 12:15 PM for reprogramming. A transport will be sent for you shortly.

Nikitha Tamboli, you are to report to the Damariscotta Center at 12:15 PM for healing reprogramming. A transport will be sent for you shortly.

“What does reprogramming mean, anyways?” Niki wondered.

Meira shrugged. “I think it changes you somehow. I never remember what happens during reprogramming.”

“Me neither,” Niki said. She frowned. “Does that mean you’re going to forget this?”

“I hope not,” Meira blurted out.

Niki giggled, her joking voice growing weak. “Well… I hope not. Let’s run away.”

Meira cracked a forced smile. She thought about the tales of how people would die before the Algorithm. Was that going to happen to Niki? She felt fear grow in her stomach. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Meira would never see Niki again. It… it was almost like euthanization, except euthanization was… good? Everything was so horribly confusing now… Meira’s head hurt…

“This never would have happened if we’d never kissed,” Meira said shakily.

Niki looked away. “Meh. But choosing to do that… it was interesting. Y’know, I lied when I said the kiss wasn’t good. The kiss felt… real. The angle was awkward, but… that doesn’t mean it wasn’t… ”

“Yeah,” Meira said, smiling. “It was nice.”

“If we had more time… ” Niki said wistfully.

“We might have messed up eventually,” Meira said. She hesitated. “But… trying… I liked choosing. It felt… authentic. Like the organic flowers.”

Niki grinned. The two sat in silence. Meira could see the transport coming closer.

“I don’t want to get reprogrammed,” Meira blurted out. “I’m scared.”

“Nothing bad ever happens.”

“But what if I come back a different person?” Meira asked. “My little sister — Mia — she came back from the reprogramming and she was… she wasn’t annoying.”

Niki laughed. “Isn’t that good?”

Meira shrugged. “But the annoying… that was part of Mia. She always wanted something before — candy, for me to play with her… the reprogramming made her not do that anymore and I — ” Meira swallowed. “I want to be able to want things. To make choices.

“Then… ” Niki squeezed her eyes shut, looking pained. “Then you should go.”

“Huh?” Meira’s eyes widened. “I… but — what about you?”

“Just go. Don’t… don’t give me time to worry and overanalyze and be scared.”

“O-okay,” Meira stammered, a part of her feeling slightly bad for leaving Niki so easily.

She got up and stumbled backwards, before turning and running into the forest. A part of her was yelling at her to stop, that this was rash and useless, but she wanted to escape the Algorithm. She didn’t want to become off-Meira, like Mia who used to smile more and be more annoying.

A terrified tear slid down her cheek. Meira ran and ran. The tree branches smacked her in the face like some sort of punishment. Her lungs started to burn but she went on. And then she hit a road. Meira backed away into the trees, swallowing. A transport passed by, but she went unnoticed.

“Oh gosh.” Meira tried to bit down a sob, her lungs aching as she gulped in air. “I don’t wanna get reprogrammed.”

Turning back to the forest, she ran back into the safety of the trees. She had to run faster. She had to get away from the road. As she bumbled through the forest, she started to feel like Mia, wailing that she didn’t want to be reprogrammed. She ran blindly, her mind swimming with panic. Everything was such a mess. How was Mia? Would there be any differences after reprogramming? What had the Algorithm done to her little sister’s mind? What had the done to Meira’s mind, all those 13 times before? And what would they do if they caught her?

Her foot connected with a tree root, and she fell to the ground. Meira caught herself with the palms of her hands, hissing at the pricking sting. She sat against a tree. Her face was wet. Meira reached up and wiped away the tears. Looking around, Meira realized she was near the grove. She pushed herself up, instinctively going to the place that had always been safe.

Someone was standing in the grove.

“Mother?” Meira asked.

Mother beamed, opening her arms. Meira immediately darted towards Mother, embracing her tightly. She felt solid and warm and safe, her scent like Meira’s favorite banana bread. The two pulled apart. Meira realized she had gotten Niki’s blood on Mother, but Mother didn’t seem to mind.

“Mother,” Meira gasping, shaking. Mother’s hands stayed on Meira’s arms, steadying her. “Mother… oh gosh, Mother… I’m… I’m scared. A-and… something happened — ”

“I know about Niki,” Mother said, delicately brushing Meira’s face.

Meira let out a feeble laugh. “Wow, mothers really do know everyth — ” Meira broke off, frowning. “Wait, how do you know?”

Mother’s hand reached out to grab Meira. Meira stumbled backwards, but Mother pulled Meira close to her chest, holding Meira tightly to her.

“The transport is coming shortly,” Mother said, not looking at Meira.

“Huh?” Meira choked out. Suddenly, Mother’s arms felt restraining. They had never felt this way before. “Mother! No, don’t — ”

“Please, sweetie. The Algorithm told me they were serving shrimp gumbo tonight. You like that, right? I checked the LifeGuide app. We’re going to the mall tomorrow.”

“But… what if… what if they mess up my mind and I forget about the grove and Niki? And I stop smelling the organic flowers like you told me to? I don’t want to! ? Mother! Just listen! I don’t want… Niki… it was authentic! Weren’t you always talking about how things were best when they were authentic?”

Mother looked at Meira, tears glinting in her soft olive eyes. “They are, darling, they are.”

“Then why — ” Meira broke off.

A transport had settled down outside the grove, pushing aside a few small trees. Two robots got out of the transport and moved towards Meira.

“Because I want to keep safe, darling,” Mother said. “If we listen to the Algorithm, we’ll be safe. It’s got everything all planned out so that you’ll have a nice, perfect life. I heard from the Algorithm that Niki got hurt. If you two had listened to the Algorithm, this never would have happened.”

“But — but — ” Meira floundered as the robots took her away from Mother. “But… ”

“I want to keep you safe, my little sugar glider.”

Meira let out a dry sob. “But what about being happy?”

“You are happy. The Algorithm ensures it.”

“Am I, though?”

“Yes.”

“See? This is the thing!” Meira’s voice was getting more frantic as she was hauled into the transport. “Y’know, maybe I wanna have blueberry parfait instead of strawberry, okay!”

Mother looked at Meira sadly as she rampaged on.

“We’re being told how we’re supposed to be happy, but never once, absolutely never, do we get to choose how to be happy! And that just takes so much out of lif — ”

The robot, its mind controlled by the Algorithm, injected her with its slim, silver needle.

Meira fell silent.

***

Major Glitch #79

Directly involved: Meira O’Kane; Nikitha Tamboli

Indirectly involved: Gemma O’Kane; Alex Burman

All four reprogrammed

Motorcycles and forests to be banned to avoid further incident

Everything perfect.

 

Second Chances

               

Angie

We moved to a smaller town in New Mexico on July first. It was a smaller house, with more land to get lost in. By the time Bill and I had finished unpacking, I was ready to take a walk. “I’ll be back soon, Bill. I’m going to explore the neighborhood, okay?” I called, hoping that he would come with me.

“No problem, honey. See you then.” I heard the TV turn on before I stepped out onto the front step into a new life.

The houses were lined along the street next to each other. Each home had a similar structure, but each was unique. I passed a blue house, then a yellow one, then green, then red. But I had only been walking for ten minutes when I came to a dead end. Just past the road was a forest. I thought it might have been nice to journey into the woods on the path, so that’s what I did. I forgot sometimes — well, that was exactly the problem, I forgot. I was not as young as I used to be, so I may have wandered a little far into the forest, forgetting to turn around before my old body got too tired.

Winded, I ended up having to sit down. I chose a large rock next to a tree to rest on. I heard a noise — at first, I thought it was a bird or deer or some other animal, but then it came again.

Bam!

Curious, I stood up and strolled over to where the sound came from. “Huh?” It wasn’t an animal, for sure. Glinting in the sunlight was a strange kind of sword. I noticed a symbol on the handle. It looked like an anchor inside of a space helmet. I recognized it…

I started to get nervous, because who or whatever had this sword could still be out there.

After a few minutes of waiting on the rock to make sure no one came to claim it, I decided to take the sword and hide it under my clothing until I got home. “Bill?” I yelled.

“In here.”

I entered the living room to find my husband on the couch catching up on the news. “I have something to show you,” I told him.

“What is it?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“Bill,” I said, “it’s important.”

He looked up at me, concerned, reached for the remote, and turned off the TV.

“Okay, so I walked into the forest — ”

“You what? We just moved here, Angie, you don’t know what could be in there. Why didn’t you just walk around the neighborhood?”

“Relax, Bill, I’m fine. I followed a path,” I continued. “Anyway, I found something.” I pulled out the sword.

His eyes widened. “What — ” he started.

“Bill, before you say anything, I found it after hearing a crashing noise and waited a few minutes to make sure nothing was out there,” I told him.

“That doesn’t help!” he cried. “You don’t just go picking up weird swords in weird places with weird sounds! What were you thinking?”

“It doesn’t matter! Look closer!” I said. I watched his reaction as he leaned in to see the symbol on the sword’s handle.

Bill’s expression was blank, speechless. He slowly leaned back into the couch, staring straight ahead. “The metal… ”

“I know,” I said.

The month before, we had visited the house for the second time before deciding to buy it. This time in the garage, there was a large metal plate of sorts with the same anchor/helmet symbol on it. I had asked about it, but the realtor dismissed my curiosity, saying, “It’s just old junk that we found right outside. Don’t worry, it’ll be cleaned out by the time you move in, if you like the house, of course.”

“What does it mean?” Bill asked, lying down on the couch.

“I don’t know, but I want to find out.”

Throughout the month, I researched anything I could find that might have been linked to the symbol. Bill helped me every so often, and together we thought we could solve our mystery.

We couldn’t.

That is, until Izzy showed up. It was early August, and the pale, blue-haired teen knocked on our door rapidly. “I’ll get it,” Bill said. We had just finished breakfast and were cleaning up the dishes.

“Hello,” I heard Bill say. “How can I help you?”

“Hi,” said the girl. “I know this seems strange, but may I come in? It’s kind of urgent.”

“I don’t know, miss. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here first?” Bill said. At that point, I began to get worried. I went to stand in the doorway.

“I don’t expect you to understand, but maybe this will change your mind,” the girl said. She took her jacket off and pointed to the symbol on her T- shirt. Bill and I exchanged a glance.

“Come in,” I said.

“Thank you,” said the girl once we were inside. “I’m Izzy.”

 

***

 

“So, let me get this straight. You’re a space pirate?” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Izzy calmly. Her yellow green cat-like eyes were enormous.

“And you want us to pretend to be your grandparents?” Bill said, shocked.

“Yes.”

“But why? And where are your parents?” I asked.

“They died. I tried to save them, but my enemies in space killed them. I was too late,” said Izzy, looking down.

“Oh.” Bill and I looked at each other, and I was hoping that we were both thinking the same thing: I knew she was a stranger, but she was an orphan. We had to take her in. Plus, she could help us figure out why that scrap of metal was in the garage and why the sword was in the woods. Bill asked the question before I could.

“Why us?”

Izzy looked at him. “I know you’ve seen the symbol. Why else would I show it to you before I came in?”

“But why were the objects with the symbol on them near our house? How did they get there?” Bill asked.

She took a deep breath before beginning. “After my parents escaped, the ones who killed them tried to kidnap me in their spaceship. They were flying back to their headquarters, but the ship hit a comet near Earth. It crashed, but I jumped off before it hit the ground.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s, um… ”

“A lot,” Bill finished. I shot a glance at him. He continued anyway. “A lot, not just to take in, but a lot for a teenage girl to go through.”

“Oh, it’s okay, I’m actually in my 500s,” Izzy responded quickly.

“What? 500s?” I said.

“Yes, aliens age much slower than human beings,” she explained. “I think in earth years I’m… sixteen?”

“Huh,” Bill said, taking in the information. He seemed a bit skeptical. So was I, but I wanted to find out more.

“Wait, so you escaped, we know that, but you didn’t tell us how the metal and sword got here,” I said, craving answers.

“Right,” said Izzy. “When the ship hit Earth’s atmosphere, it started slowly falling apart. The metal was a piece of the ship that fell off, and the sword was mine. It fell out of the opening in the ship that the fallen metal created. I made a mental note — which is an actual note in my mind, I think that’s different for you humans — about the location the objects fell in. These things are harder to explain, because our brains work differently from yours. Mental notes, locations, and some other minor things.” She must have seen the shock on our faces, because she said, “Don’t worry about it.” Izzy’s face was impassive, untroubled, calm. “Anyway, I figured you two would either believe me because you had seen the objects, or you know too much, disagree with me, and I need to erase your memory.” We were speechless and transfixed listening to her. “So which will it be? Please don’t let that comment about erasing your memories influence your decision.”

There were a few moments of silence before Bill or I gathered the courage to speak. Finally, I spoke up.

“Bill, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Yeah,” he said, staring at Izzy with a blank look before standing up.

We walked into the kitchen.

“What do you think we should do?” I asked.

“I have no idea. It’s just, it was a lot of stuff — ” he said.

“I know. But we have to make a decision,” I said, then paused. “I think we should do it.”

“You mean, let her stay with us? Be her fake grandparents? Embrace all that crazy stuff we just heard about?”

“Yes. I know it’s crazy, but she’s a child,” I pleaded. “She needs a home.”

“She’s not a child, she’s flipping 500 and who knows how many more years old!”

“Still,” I said. “Isn’t there a part of you that wants to help her? A part that wants someone to take care of, even if it’s not our biological grandchild?”

He sighed. “Of course there is, but we don’t know her.”

“You’re right, we don’t. But we’ve just retired, we don’t have any grandchildren — ”

Bill put his arm around me. “We don’t know how much taking care of she needs. But… ”

“But?”

“Let’s do it.”

“Really?”

“Yes, of course. She needs help,” he said. “And we can help her.”

We walked back into the living room.

“Izzy,” I started.

“We’ll be your fake grandparents,” Bill announced. “That’s a sentence I never thought I‘d say,” he muttered.

“Oh, that’s great! I was starting to get worried, especially since I can’t actually erase your memories. I just wanted you to say yes — but thank you,” said Izzy.

I smiled. This should be fun.

 

The next morning, I woke up at 7:45. I got up, trying not to wake Bill, and headed downstairs to find Izzy.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Wha — oh.”

I almost forgot what happened yesterday. But here she was, a girl I had to somehow learn to take care of.

“Bye!” said Izzy as she walked toward the front door.

“Now, wait a minute. Where are you off to this early?”

“School,” she responded. “It’d raise too many questions if the new girl in town didn’t go to school.”

“I didn’t think about that,” I said, sitting down for breakfast as Izzy left.

What did I get myself into? Raising a 500-year-old alien/girl? She seemed pretty normal, I guess, minus the blue hair and space pirate thing. I would just have to wait and see. It could be hard, but it might be easier than I thought. It could be the worst thing I’d ever have to do; or it could be the best thing to happen to me.

I went outside to work on my new garden. Bill and I loved our new house, but gardening was one of my hobbies, so I decided to put in a garden in our backyard. It took a lot of work, but I was doing it a little bit at a time. Just as I started to rake the dirt, I heard a voice.

“Good morning,” said Bill. “I thought I’d find you at here.”

I laughed. “Good morning.”

“Where’s the girl?” he asked. “I thought we should talk about her. I know it’s been hard to be around kids since — ”

“Ray wasn’t a kid, Bill,” I said. “He was 22 and finishing college.”

“I know, I know.”

I took a moment to think about our son before speaking again.

“Izzy will be different,” I said unconvincingly. “We’ll keep her safe.”

“Of course we will, Angie. I just wanted to make sure you’re feeling okay about all this.”

“I am,” I snapped. I took a deep breath. “I’m okay,” I assured him.

Bill walked back inside, and I finished my garden work for the day.

It was 4:00. Izzy wasn’t home, and I realized that she should have been by now. I was pretty sure high school got out at 3:30ish. I started to worry. What if she was taken? What if her space enemies found her? Anything could have happened to her!

She was a girl in high school; sure, anything could have happened, but maybe she was just exploring town or hanging out at the pizza place or something. I could call her and ask her where she is, but she didn’t have a phone. I should have gotten her a phone! I had to know she was okay.

“Bill, I’m going into town!” I called.

“Okay, don’t be too long,” he yelled from the kitchen.

I rushed out the door and walked toward the pizza place first. I saw the two teenagers who help their parents run the place, Mario and Luisa. When you’re a local in the town of Arcaea, you know almost everyone’s name, whether you know the person well or not.

“Have either of you seen a teenage girl in here? Pale? Blue hair?” I asked them.

“Nah, sorry,” said Mario.

I exited the store without replying. Next stop was the arcade. I didn’t love it in there because of the lights and teenagers gaming and the noise, but it was the kind of place an alien might find interesting.

I walked into the building, noticing the Arcaea Arcade sign in neon lights. I saw Izzy standing next to one of the goth kids in the back next to the game Space Invaders. Of course she would like that game.

Watching her, I realized I shouldn’t take her home. No one wanted their “grandma” embarrassing them in front of their new friends. Instead, I went back home. I’d order Izzy a phone later.

 

***

 

On Saturday mornings, I always went grocery shopping.

“Okay, I’ll be back later,” I said to Bill.

“Where are you going?” said a voice from the stairs. I turned around to see Izzy.

“Shopping,” I said slowly. “Do you need anything? Hold on,” I turned back to Bill. “Before I forget, remind me later to look up why my tulips aren’t growing.”

Izzy looks at me peculiarly, tilting her head to the side.

“I don’t need anything,” she said, but stayed put on the stairs.

“Okay.”

When I got back home, the first thing I did was check the garden. I knew flowers didn’t grow over an hour, but a small part of me wished the tulips had sprouted while I was gone.

I was astonished to see that my wish came true! The flowers had not only sprouted but were in full bloom.

“Aren’t they pretty?” said Izzy, walking toward me.

“Did you do this?” I asked. She smiled and nodded.

“How — ” I started.

“I’m part alien, part pirate. I can do a lot of thing that’d surprise you,” she answered.

I started to tear up, remembering the times I needed help with my old garden.

“Oh no, don’t cry,” Izzy said worriedly.

“I’m sorry, it’s just,” I tried not to burst. “This was so nice of you, and I can remember the last time someone helped me garden… ” I stopped to calm myself down.

“Who?” Izzy asked curiously.

I decided I should tell her. She deserved to know a little about my past since I knew a little about hers. I looked her in the eye.

“Ray,” I paused. “My son.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died about 20 years ago. Car crash.” I fought back tears. I’d gotten past the event, but it was still hard to talk about.

“Oh.” There was a moment of silence before either of us said or did anything.

“I know what it’s like to lose someone,” Izzy said.

“Right, your parents. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She looked at me with a small, sad smile on her face. “It’s okay.” I smiled back.

“Come on,” I said, and we walked into our house, side by side.

 

Days passed, then weeks. Izzy helped Bill and I around the house with her various powers. She could pick up objects with her mind and clean anything up without using her hands at all! She still went to school and hung out with her friends, but she had a phone now to text us if she had plans. By October, she felt like a real granddaughter.

It was a Monday, so Izzy was at school. I got a text from her asking me to pick her up after school. Bill offered to drive.

We were on our way to pick her up when I heard a distant, high-pitched scream ahead. Several more cries followed. They sounded like kids.

“What was that?” I said, frightened.

“It might not be anything serious, don’t worry. And if it is, well, we’ll probably find out soon,” Bill replied.

He kept his eyes on the road. The further we drove, the louder the yells became, until they stopped completely.

As we pulled up to the school, I was shocked at what I saw. A huge UFO as tall as the school and as wide as a sixteen wheeler hovered over the parking lot. A couple hundred teenagers crowded the front of the school, some clinging to their friends, some frozen still, afraid, all terrified for their lives. I got out of the car, followed by Bill, and tried to spot Izzy in the crowd, but I didn’t see her.

“Bill? Do you think — ”

“Izzy’s — ” he was cut off by the loud, painful sound of a microphone screeching. Then, a low, robotic voice came out of the spaceship. It was unclear if the voice was human, alien, or robot.

“Where. Is. The. Girl?” it said. “We. Need. The. Girl.”

“No,” I whispered. But Izzy appeared, now standing in front of the ship. Bill looked at me.

“What are we supposed to do?” he said, not really asking, but stating that there was nothing we could do.

“There has to be something,” I said, but the voice in the spaceship spoke before I could say anything else.

“YOU. Our leader. Must have. A sacrifice. You have deceived. Our kind. You. Must. Come.”

“No!” I screamed. “Please, no!”

Many confused, scared students turned their heads. So did Izzy. There was a murmuring among the students.

“Who are you. To speak to us?” said the voice.

“Angie — ” said Bill, a hint of fear in his voice.

“It’s okay,” I told him. I was afraid, but confident. I knew what I had to do.

I walked toward Izzy. Bill followed. “Angie!” he pleaded. I ignored it. I didn’t know where to look when talking, so I just stared up at the spacecraft.

“I’m Angie,” I yelled. “Her grandmother!” I put my hand on Izzy’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to do this,” she tried to say. “They want me, it’s okay, don’t do this!”

Izzy and Bill both looked at me with fear in their eyes and pleading looks on their faces. I turned to look at both of them.

“Listen. Izzy, you have so much life left to live,” I started. A tear ran down her cheek. “It’s okay,” I continued. “I’m not young like you. I can do this, it’s okay. Bill, take care of her.”

“No, Angie, I’ll go, you stay,” Bill said, tearing up. But I knew he wasn’t prepared to do what I was about to do. He wasn’t prepared to let go.

“I love you,” I said. I turned back to the spaceship.

The voice said, “I suppose. Any sacrifice. Will suffice.”

And with that, a long ramp was released from the ship.

“Come. Our master. Will. Kill you. Himself.”

I took one last look around. The trees, the sky, the grass — it was all so beautiful. Sometimes you forgot to notice the little things in life. I smiled at Bill and Izzy.

“Goodbye,” I said, and I walked up the ramp.

The End

 

The Warehouse (Excerpt)

          

Chapter One

 

The water was red. That wasn’t good… at all.

 

I tried to crawl faster, my limbs sinking into the muck on the side of the now strawberry-colored creek and coming up with loud sucking sounds that would definitely alert any guards to my presence. Lucky for me, there probably weren’t any guards in the area. In fact, there was probably no one at all.

 

The bog, a wide, flat plain full of deep mud pits and criss crossing creeks, was the last place anyone would consider using to get into the Warehouse. It was so open that it was assumed that anyone who approached would be spotted from a mile away, and it was considered suicidal to set foot anywhere near where I was now crawling.

 

And that was where they had been wrong. Or at least I hoped so, since my life depended on it. Covered in mud and crouched low against the marshy ground, I looked just like any other bump on the large, flat expanse. The sun beat down on the bog, drying and cracking the mud on my limbs and face as I scanned the landscape yet again. I couldn’t see or hear anyone around me, and the behemoth Warehouse was slowly coming into detail before my eyes. There was nowhere to run, nowhere I could hide if they spotted me. I certainly hoped they were wrong.

 

Aptly nicknamed “the Warehouse” by the citizens of Hilliche, the structure in front of me was a massive, flat-roofed building with a broad, brick chimney rising sky-high from its center. The Warehouse was an infamous prison dedicated to holding rebels and thieves prior to execution. And while it had never been mentioned directly by the King or any of his advisors, it was commonly assumed that it was also used for the executions themselves.

 

I knew this to be true of course; this was far from my first time coming this way to rescue someone or another. This time, my mission was to walk in and then walk back out a few hours later with a certain Master Matthew Dowell, for whose return I was being paid more than I normally made in a year.

 

Was that fishy? Sure. But for an orphaned 17-year-old girl living alone in the slums of Hilliche, the capital city of this god-forsaken country, money is money, no matter how it comes about.

 

Of course, that wasn’t why I started risking my life like this. In the beginning, it was more about a personal vendetta, about how my father was brought to the Warehouse and killed for a crime I knew he didn’t commit. That time, at age 14, I had been too late to save him. I had never disappointed since.

 

Although, I might lose my streak if I didn’t hurry. Darkness fell across my face as I entered the shadow of the factory, and I glanced worriedly at the creek on my left, the one that passed under the Warehouse. The light strawberry pink of the water had already turned to a brighter red. Executions were well under way.

 

I crawled a few meters further into shadow and then glanced at the creek again. It was here that it turned muddy — and bloody — enough that it was impossible to see all the way to the bottom. And it was here that I had found my way in. I edged towards the creek, my arms sinking ever further into the mud as I got closer until I could move no more. Then, I threw as much of my body as wasn’t stuck in the ground towards the rushing water.

 

The mud slowly gave way, tilting me closer to the creek. I tilted faster and faster until it let go entirely with a grotesque squelching noise, and I landed with a splash. A hidden current quickly dragged me under the surface of the murky water, pushing me back the way I had come as it ripped at my hair and clothing with icy fingers. I didn’t try to fight it like I did the first time this happened to me, when on the way to rescue my father I had fallen in by accident and panicked as I was dragged down into the murky depths.

 

It all happened much faster if I didn’t move. Tumbling head over heel, the current dropped me into the mouth of an underground passageway which was a little ways back from where I had jumped into the creek. While it did mean that I had to make some ground back up, I knew of no other place where I could find the same current and really wasn’t all that keen on experimenting, with my life at stake.

 

Looking around for a second, I regained my bearings. Lit by faint blue light from curiously mushroomy fungi which crowded the walls, this was an abandoned and partially collapsed tunnel which remained from the building of the Warehouse. It was so remote that I very rarely found a guard down here. If I did, the wet mud and blood from the water which coated me would make me look like a rock if I dropped to the ground in the shadows and no one looked too hard.

 

Muscle memory led me into familiar passages and around piles of rubble until I reached the neat X that I had scraped into the wall years ago. Reaching for the narrow, mud covered opening between two large rocks, I began to slide my way across.

 

I was a thin girl, but I still had trouble making it through that tight space, and little scars on my legs and arms showed the evidence of what usually happened when I squeezed through. The inhabitants of the Warehouse were usually starving by the time they were rescued, having been kept here for weeks. That’s how they fit through the gap on the way back and the only reason that I could get anyone out at all.

 

“ — disappearing. They don’t know how… investigate… ” Voices drifted down the rocky corridor on the other side with me halfway through the gap. I froze and went limp, muddy hair tumbling over my head and away from the nape of my neck.

 

Footsteps approached as the voices got clearer. “Well, I dunno. There ain’t any way in here, not from so deep underground.”

 

“We should check the upper levels, don’t know why anyone would think there was a way in so far down.”

 

“Busy work, that’s all this is. I don’t know why they… ” The voices trailed off down the corridor, and I waited a minute before lifting my head. It seemed from their conversation that the absences of the people I rescued hadn’t gone unnoticed.

 

In the beginning, I had come after less important prisoners who had been taken from families around the slums where I lived and had charged only small, affordable fees. Stuff that could be paid for by the poor such as myself. About a year ago, my services came to the attention of some more… wealthy figures. For the higher rates, I rescued more important prisoners.

 

My problem was this: if a minor prisoner disappears in a large prison, it causes a little ripple, soon forgotten. A major prisoner though, one who is kept under careful lock and key… that usually causes a bit more of a splash. And splashes are noisy enough to attract unwanted attention. After this, maybe I should lay low for a while, let things settle.

 

Goodness knew, I was certainly being paid enough money from this job to afford it. Hell, I could buy a new house on the edge of the slums, maybe try to find a respectable job as a store clerk or something. Whatever worked; it was best not to think too much about the future. First things first, I had to get out of here alive with my human package.

 

By now I had managed to extricate myself from the crack in the wall and was crouched in one of the shadows left by the torchlight. This hallway was part of the actual Warehouse complex itself, with walls of stone brick and a sandy floor. The sputtering flame from the torches created leaping shadows across the walls, such as the one which I was now crouched in.

 

I straightened up and winced. Tiny cuts from squeezing through the rock twanged their protest all over my body. For the hundredth time, I wondered if it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to take a battering ram to that crack and knock a hole straight through. It would certainly be the end of these annoying cuts and scars. It would also certainly be the end of my life.

 

I smiled to myself and began working my way down the hallway, drifting from flickering shadow to flickering shadow. The metallic scent of blood and a nauseating smell of burning that permeated the air as I got closer reminded me to hurry. The guards had certainly taken their own sweet time passing by.

 

Luckily, I passed the rest of the way unhindered and emerged on one of many large, unoccupied ledges which overlooked the cavernous room which held the executions. Rough stone walls bounced echoes and a large fire burned in a pit in one corner of the room, making the place a chaos of light and sound. Screaming, pleading, shouted orders, the cracking of whips… all these sounds drifted around me as I stood in the shadows of the ledge. The ledges were originally built for observers, but the Warehouse had long been closed to any of the sick people who enjoyed watching mass murder, and the ledges remained untouched.

 

I glanced at the line of prisoners who shuffled towards the execution blocks below. I was looking for a man in his 20s with brown hair and slumped shoulders. Reaching into my shoe, I pulled out a small, sealed leather case. I opened it and pulled out a scrap of paper which depicted a black and white illustration of his face. I glanced at it one last time, making sure I had his features memorized, then stowed it back in my shoe.

 

He apparently used to be quite overweight, but a month in prison should have fixed that problem nicely. I would probably have to wait for a while; the most important prisoners usually came at the end of the line. I stepped back into a shadowy corner, leaning against the rough stone. I had long realized it was was better to be safe than sorry, so I always arrived with plenty of time to spare.

 

I wondered what Master Dowell had done to end up like this. It wasn’t my job to ask, just to rescue, get paid, and move on. I had been clearly reminded of that by the wealthily clothed man who had met me by a dead-end alleyway to give me this assignment. I was instructed to get Master Dowell out, leave him in the alley, and never breathe a word about it. If I did that, I would get paid. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t. It was that simple. But again, this man who I was rescuing was most certainly someone of importance if he was worth so much money. So I couldn’t help but wonder…

 

My eyes drifted to the three execution blocks, to the methodical chopping of the axe as it swung up and down, each starving prisoner being forced to their knees by armed guards. I watched as the next prisoner was pushed from the line, sulking silently. She ascended the block and was pushed to her knees so hard that she cried out. Her head was locked into place by a lone guard, and the axe reached a shining apex. Then, her head rolled forward across the platform with a nearly inaudible thud, dead eyes still staring defiantly at the ceiling up above.

 

Blood spilled across a sandy floor which was already red and sticky with it. The creek which I had followed on the way in ran somewhere under this room, and I knew that the blood would eventually soak through the sand on the floor to mix with the water, emerging under the late afternoon sky.

 

Three guards came forward, hefting the severed head and body into the fire in the corner and releasing another wave of the nauseating scent of burnt skin. I heard a whip crack as the next prisoner in line was forced forward.

 

I had witnessed this same process at least once a month for the last two years, so I knew all of the different reactions that people expressed before death. Some kept their heads held high like the last woman, some gave speeches that would never be heard, others just cried for mercy such as the old man currently on the block.

 

My father hadn’t cried, hadn’t spoken, hadn’t acted defiant before he died as I stood watching, helpless, from this same ledge. He had smiled. Smiled with some sort of private victory of which I would never know, as if he had won somehow, even in death.

 

Tears sprung to my eyes, and I blinked them back angrily, forcing my mind away from him and back toward the situation below me. The next round of prisoners was entering, and it was nearing the end of executions for the day. I recalled the precise descriptions given to me by the wealthy man in the alley and looked over the prisoners below. There were only about thirty of them, none matching the description I had been given. How important was this man? Had I somehow missed him?

 

The next round was the second to last, then the last, then the final execution. If he was the final execution, there was no way I could get him out. It would be hard enough already with this few prisoners. I really should have asked for more money. Sighing, I re-tied my matted hair and hoped for the best, glancing back at the ground below.

 

My heart nearly stopped, and I mouthed every curse word I knew — which was quite a few of them — in violent succession as I spied the prisoner who was being forced up to the middle block. What. The. Hell. Why the hell was there a child here?

 

A small, brown-haired boy was being escorted up the steps with the help of a metal rod shoved into his back. He was very young, seemingly under ten years old and thin-faced with hunger and sadness. He stared at the scene around him with wide, terrified eyes. The guard poked him harder as he stalled on his way up. He took another step and tripped on the stair, scraping his knee with a wail loud enough that I could hear it clearly from up on the ledge.

 

I stood there, feeling vaguely sick as I realized that no matter what I cursed, he was going to die, and I was going to have to stand here watching. I knew that as soon as I spotted him, knew it as I watched his head be forced onto the block, and knew it as I watched the last spark of life leave his eyes.

 

Feeling something run down my chin, I realized that I was biting my lip hard enough to draw blood. I wiped my hand absentmindedly across my face, still watching the scene below until the boy’s body vanished into the fire and the next person stepped up to the platform, babbling something I couldn’t hear. I took a step back towards the shadows, trying to shake off the shock. I would wonder what a boy was doing here later. Right now I would just have to wait.

 

As the last of the prisoners in this round were walked up to the blocks, I focused on my plan. When I saw Master Dowell, I would climb down from the ledge onto the ground fifteen feet below, keeping to the shadows. Hiding in the small crevasse at the base of the ledge, I would catch his eye and beckon him silently.

 

Upon him coming close enough, I could knock him out with a rock which I kept in my pocket, and we would look like no more than an outcropping in the shadows until executions finished and all that remained were night guards. By that time, he should be awake, and we could climb back the way I had come, dodging guards until we reached the surface of the creek where we had a three kilometer trek back to civilization. However painfully slow it could be to return with a starving prisoner, it was worth the feeling of counting bills when I got back. The plan was flawless. I had it down to a science.

 

The next batch of prisoners was being herded out, only about fifteen of them this time. Fourteen heads of greasy blond hair and one of greasy brown. Hidden somewhat behind the rest. I could only see the top of his head, but as he glanced towards the execution blocks for a second, I got a quick glimpse of his face, enough for me to be sure it was him.

 

I pulled off my thin leather shoes and hopped over the rusty railing, climbing down the shadowy face of the rock. I moved with a practiced ease, fingers and toes automatically reaching for the same bumps and cracks in the rock until I was close enough to jump down into the shadowy dip at the bottom of the wall.

 

Matthew Dowell was still behind the others as the guards had not yet succeeded at herding them into a line, so I couldn’t see him clearly. His face swung in my direction nonetheless, and I shifted slightly, catching his attention. Beckoning, I smiled at him sweetly. While not necessary, I found that the smile sped things up, made the person more likely to trust and come towards me.

 

The will to survive always came out in the end, and not one person who I had beckoned before hadn’t taken the chance. I had watched starving prisoners go to incredible lengths with strength they shouldn’t have even had, just to save their own skins. Dowell was no exception. He came forward slightly as the prisoners were finally whipped into line, and my heart skipped a beat as I noticed a small detail that was revealed as the rest of him emerged into my line of sight. He was fat.

 

How… ? That first word shaped itself in my brain, and the thought stalled there. He should’ve been starved before he came out here, they all were. And he wasn’t just fat, he was massive, sporting rolls of blubber that stuck out from under his clothing and rippled when he moved. There were a lot of problems with that. He wouldn’t be able to climb up the wall, dodge guards, fit through the stone crack, or swim up the creek. Even a will to survive didn’t go quite that far. The entire rescue operation depended on being thin, and he, as an understatement, was not.

 

I realized that I had been staring absently at the bloody sand by the side of the execution blocks. I looked back up, wondering how to get out of this, but it seemed that Dowell had already lost interest. His blubbery face was turned in the other direction, watching something that I couldn’t make out. That was odd, but good: I was getting out of here. If I tried to rescue him, I was good as dead and wouldn’t get paid, and if I left now, I still wouldn’t get paid. Best to at least escape with my life.

 

I was about to turn and climb back up the wall when a movement caught my eye. A guard was cautiously advancing toward me from the left, a knife that dripped with something black — probably poison — held in his hand. And another one came from the right bearing the same weapon. I froze, still crouched enough to look like a rock. It was then that I noticed Dowell’s hand, a fat finger pointed towards me.

 

Damn. For two reasons. Damn because it was a trap, and a good one too. And more importantly, damn because I was dead. Running was useless, and I couldn’t climb fast enough. My head shot to the right just in time to see the guard throw his knife. I watched it flash as it arched through the air for just a second and swayed left in a futile attempt to avoid it. I felt a sting as it cut a shallow line on my upper arm, black poison dripping down the cut. That was the last thing I felt before I blacked out.

 

A Love Letter to Myself

As my being develops and evolves in the world, so does my sense of self. The different layers that shape my identity each tell a different story, and looking back at my past experiences, I am not ashamed of who I have become despite the ever so present obstacles that face me and the countless other people that look like me.

My parents gave me the name Eliwa, having a strong significance in their native Gabonese language: Pongwe. This name signifying two elements, firstly the kingdom of God and secondly, lake. It is not a name that I cherished or valued at first. I thought best to keep my name Mirya-Anne, best to say I was Austrian if people asked me where I was from. I did not want to be reminded that I was black, that my roots were neither from Europe nor from the U.S but the motherland itself. Soon enough, I was correcting people as nicely as I could on how to say it or spell it. My anger towards this was masked by politeness.

At a young age, European ideals invaded my mind, and therefore unconsciously, my anti-blackness began to show. At night, I would dream for lighter skin and straighter hair. It seemed I was too dark for everything, that the hue of my skin was still not deemed acceptable in the 21st century. My ten-year-old self could not comprehend this, and I asked myself continuously if there was truly something wrong with me. Looking back at my younger self, a feeling of sadness floods my whole being, simply knowing the unhappiness that I felt towards being black. This is not something that I particularly mentioned to my parents or even my older siblings. It stayed hidden. This obsession with eurocentric beauty standards never surfaced or became apparent either. There was nothing I could really do or say to change it. This name, this history, this culture was ingrained in me permanently.

 

I remember being a small child in my predominantly white school, having been asked why my skin looked the way it was. Children shouted at my skin in the playground, deeming it ugly. I could not answer. My skin was seen as an anomaly for along time. Because somehow I was just so different from everyone else. I remember being the only black girl in my nursery room calling for my mom, hoping she wasn’t too far away. I think it was the feeling of being such an outsider that my younger self could not cope with. I didn’t speak. I didn’t play. My siblings who attended the same school tried to comfort me, but I was hopeless. Nothing could soothe me.

 

The first time I saw a black person die on my TV screen, I was 11 going on 12. His name was Trayvon Martin, and he was the same age I was right now, seventeen years old, ready to enter an unknown future, not knowing the tragic ending that would follow. Trayvon had a bright future. He was passionate about aviation and was loved deeply by his family and friends. My mother and I turned on CNN everyday waiting for the verdict that would determine everything. The day the verdict was released, I turned on the TV and saw in big bold letters, Not guilty. My head spun, and I thought to myself, This isn’t normal. He should be in jail. He killed an unarmed young man. I started to fear for my older brother and father. I thought to myself what if something happened to them eventually. Morbid thoughts entered my head once again, and it was a difficult task to try to block them out once more. The future seemed bleak for Black America. Trayvon wasn’t the only one. Hundreds of names followed: Eric Garner, Michael Brown, Sandra Bland etc. My naivety led me to believe that black women weren’t facing the same problems as black men, police men and women wouldn’t hunt us down, except they did. Sandra Bland wasn’t the first nor will she be the last.

 

Somewhere in my early teens, I had an awakening which I can largely accredit to social media and the manner in which they uplifted people like me as well as my older brother, the intellectual 22-year-old at the time who pushed me to read more about my history. Not only that, but after having visited the continent of Africa more frequently, I found a new appreciation for the country and its culture and most importantly the people. My parents made it known that we should always be proud of our black skin and our native country. The hole in me that I could not fill seemed to be filling by itself. My real roots were in Gabon (Ga-bon): the small country of one million people located on the western coast of Central Africa. Having attended the SDLC conference or the student diversity leadership conference, in December of 2015 I had been overcome with emotion. I had discovered my inner voice as well as a deeper connection to my community. I felt strongly about racism, and I felt strongly about white privilege as well as acknowledging my own privileges, such as my parents being able to afford my private school tuition. This was something I was thankful and grateful for.

 

Due to my passion for social change and social activism, I decided to pursue a career in law. This self-rejuvenation that had occurred had changed me for the better. Although I believe the process of the decolonization of these beliefs does not happen immediately, I felt this pride and peace in my own skin that I had never felt before. These recent events as well as my past experiences have sparked something in me, that I have never felt before, a want and a desire to involve myself, as a public servant. I have been described as someone with a heart of gold and an insurmountable amount of patience. I only hope I can put these qualities to good use.

 

Recently, I was sitting in the train on my way to school, when a young man approached me wanting to sit next to me. At first, I was apprehensive and felt uneasy. He asked if he could sit next to me and as soon as he sat down, he started talking to me about everything and anything, mostly about Africa and black people. He asked me where I was from, and I told him Gabon. He told me that he thought Africa was wonderful and I was lucky to be from there.

He then proceeded to compliment my skin color. He even delivered an interesting fact on the resistance of darker skin hues in today’s environment. I listened patiently to his words. This man that I had first judged as probably homeless. I soon started to regret my words.

He told me his name was Unique. I smiled. He said he was from Harlem, and as he left, I shook his hand, and he told me I was very beautiful. Hearing someone who had the same features call me beautiful, was unequivocally reassuring. Vanity was not something I necessarily prescribed myself with, but compliments about the physical appearance have a way of uplifting certain people, especially the downtrodden ones. As I sat back down to continue my journey, I thought how odd that this happened to me on this particular day. A man by the name of Unique had enormously contributed to my new state of mind. He represented for me this sort of guardian angel that you meet only once in a lifetime, having no relevant information on them except their name and destination. As he left to descend on Harlem, a smile crept upon my face once more reminding myself that I was enough.

 

Mercy

It was dark outside. Her blood and bones ceaselessly begged her to go back to sleep, but that’s about the only thing they seemed willing to do. She felt as though she needed a cup of coffee to give herself the will to get up and make coffee.

Iris Adley woke up.

 

“It is our collective goal to send our students into the world on a foundation of knowledge and character.”

 

She took a pod of coffee out of the box. Her grandmother taught her how to make a pot of coffee when she was five years old. Her grandmother had a bright pink drip coffee maker, and her coffee was strong and highly caffeinated and never watered down.

Iris started drinking coffee on her seventh birthday.

She had a coffee maker that produced a single cup of coffee, because she lived alone, and she made a single cup of coffee roughly twenty times a day. Her coffee was black and strong and forced her to stay awake.

 

“For it is my belief that the most important gift provided by this institution is not the education you are given, but the strength of character that you earn through your diligence.”

 

She slammed down the top of the coffee maker. The last time Iris saw her grandmother, neither could remember the other’s name, and they smoked cigarettes together and talked about God.

The next day, one of them died and the other disappeared.

 

Iris Adley was exceptionally good at disappearing. On the night of her high school graduation, she vanished, leaving her cap and gown in a pile in the parking lot. It seemed as though she had turned to dust and floated away. On the night her grandmother died, she disappeared again. She ran out of a hospital, grasping onto a glass vial and thinking about ghosts.

Both disappearances felt like escape acts.

 

She went back to bed and finished her coffee while staring at the single streetlight at the end of the road. Her house was at the end of a long winding road. There were two windows in Iris’ house, and you could see the streetlight from both of them.

It was much too early to be awake. Iris’s mug was emptied, and she continued to stare out the window.

 

“We are proud to send out students who do not run to keep up with the world, but instead inspire the world to follow them.”

 

Iris Adley never managed to eat breakfast. There was always the intention, often the desire, but never the will. She drank her coffee and watched her streetlight turn off and awaited the sun.

 

Back before Iris’ first disappearance, when they were apt to remember each other’s names, Iris Adley and her grandmother would sit on the back porch of an old house and talk about the sunrise.

They could never see the sunrise, but they talked about it as if it were there.

 

“Our students will not be passive in their view of the world.”

 

Iris was seventeen years old on the night of her graduation. Her birthday determined that she was always nearly a year younger than her peers. She was good at math and science and following rules. Her teachers liked to talk of potential. Iris held all of her potential in her hands, like it was tangible before disappearing.

She chose to disappear.

 

Another cup of coffee was filled and emptied in an inevitable way, and the sun began to rise. Iris closed the curtains over her two windows.

 

After her first disappearance, Iris became well-versed in the art of being forgotten. Her siblings and parents grew too far apart and away to be expected to remember anything. Her friends had become convinced of her turning to dust before becoming different people all together.

Her grandmother was the last to forget her; she was forgetting everything by then.

Iris was also trying to forget everything, but that was never one of her skills.

 

“It is our goal not to provide you a list of things you once learned, but to leave you with the education that you will carry throughout your life.”

 

Iris opened her heavy wooden door and walked outside. The air was crisp and light and cool, and it felt like the morning. The long winding road was painted with the golden glow of the sunrise. Iris could not see the sunrise from her house, but she thought about it as though it was there. The morning was bitterly cold and pleasantly warm at the same time, like the day hadn’t yet decided what it wanted to make of itself.

 

She was well-acquainted with cold days. She could remember the night of her grandmother’s death, running from a hospital. She remembered the sound of her feet on the frozen pavement, like ghosts tapping on window panes, and her labored breaths showing white in the frigid air like wraiths and cigarette smoke before they dispersed and vanished. She grasped onto her empty vial and thought that if she crushed it to dust, it would be inclined to disperse and disappear as well.

The vial, like most things, was never as good at disappearing as Iris Adley was.

 

“Because leading is not a matter of being the easiest and loudest voice to hear but instead being the truest and sometimes most difficult voice to listen to.”

 

Iris walked away from her house, mindlessly and deliberately wandering. Her destination was as clear as it was ambiguous. It was as real as running away from hospitals and as real as turning to dust, but really she wasn’t going anywhere.

 

On the night of her graduation, Iris Adley ran away because she wanted to be anyone. She wanted to be pulled away to dance and disperse like dust in streetlights. She wanted to be ambiguous and enigmatic, both real and pretend. She ran away because she loved escape acts. She ran away because she was young, and she was careless, and it seemed exciting. She was called a free spirit. She was called full of potential. She drank coffee. She got a job. She didn’t know what she was going to be. She wasn’t going anywhere.

 

Iris Adley walked toward a lone streetlight at the end of the road.

The last time Iris saw her grandmother, they sat outside of a hospital smoking cigarettes and talking about God. Iris did not smoke cigarettes. There were long summer days of sitting on her grandmother’s back porch while packs of Marlboros appeared and disappeared in inevitable ways scattered throughout her childhood. She remembered her grandmother warning through lungfuls of smoke that her habit would kill her.

Iris did not smoke.

The last time Iris saw her grandmother, she smoked a cigarette because her grandmother didn’t know who she was, so it was like she could be anyone.

They were talking about God, but really they were talking about mercy.

 

It was the first time she had seen a family member since vanishing from high school, and she didn’t know how to act around people who once knew her but didn’t anymore. All she had done in her life was disappear, and that’s what she knew how to do.

The last time Iris saw her grandmother, she held a vial of something clear and deadly. Iris was good at disappearing, and it felt like mercy, like making the tough choice for someone who was weak.

The last time Iris saw her grandmother, she was thinking it was better to be gone than to be a ghost. The last time Iris saw her grandmother, she was smoking a cigarette even though it might have killed her.

 

She was thinking of a mercy kill, but really she wasn’t thinking.

 

“And a leader must take actions, even when they seem difficult, and a leader must make choices, even when choosing seems impossible. And a leader must be strong, even when they are weak.”

 

She ran down the street holding a glass vial. She had disappeared and reappeared, and she was a ghost. She was guilty, but she was a ghost. It was a terrible act of mercy, and there was no mercy left.

So, she disappeared.

 

Iris Adley walked toward a lone streetlight at the end of the road. She was thinking about making the unchoosable choices in life, and she was thinking about being a leader. She was thinking about running and forcing the world to catch up with her.

 

When she was young, she would sit on her grandmother’s porch for endless summer days. Potential was squandered. Desires were abandoned. Peace was not sought out, it was inevitable. Cigarettes were burned. Coffee was made. Months would pass. There was nothing to do, but there was nothing that needed doing. It was perfect.

Summers would end, and Iris would go home to her parents.

 

Her parents liked to talk of the future: caps and gowns and colleges. They always seemed to know what was happening and what to do.

Iris was never interested in such things.

But still, the summers would end.

 

She walked toward a streetlight.

 

When she graduated high school, she was walking away from everything. She was convinced that she could outrun death and despair and graduation speeches by performing escape acts in the parking lot. She was convinced that she could outrun the ending of summer by never acknowledging that it had started.

She didn’t want to make a choice. She chose to run away.

She chose to make a ghost.

She chose to walk toward a streetlight as the sun rose around her.

 

It felt as thought the world was catching up.

She was thinking. She was thinking about ghosts and cigarette smoke and light and dust. Dispersing, becoming nothing, running away. She was thinking about light.

 

The streetlight wasn’t on, but it felt like it was. She was drawn toward it. It pulled her toward the end of the long winding road. She was thinking about dust swirling around in the halo of the streetlight like it was being pulled to a single source.

 

She was thinking about mercy. The light drew her further from her house. She was thinking of endless summer days, but summers have to end.

It was impossible to outrun.

 

On the night of her grandmother’s death, Iris Adley became a ghost, but she was not the one who died. It was a terrible act of mercy, but it was a choice that she made.

She chose mercy, and she was forgiven.

 

“So march fearlessly into the word, today is the beginning of your future.”

 

The sun had fully risen, and the air became warm.

Iris Adley woke up.

 

Twinkles

Once upon a time, there was a Mom. The Mom saw beauty in the tiny moments of life. Little glimmers of hope, of humanity. She called these moments twinkles. She said they were like tiny Christmas lights, each one beautiful on its own, but dazzling when on a string. She said they covered the evergreen of life with sensational, stunning sparkles. There was also a Dad. He called these same moments everyday miracles, or the small things of beauty. But he didn’t really care for the twinkles, and only followed them because of his adoration for the Mom. The Mom would point out every twinkle she saw to the little Girl, and they would light up haer chubby toddler face with joy. When the older gentleman on the subway helped a complete stranger, a teen, struggling with his tie, that would be a twinkle. When the local coffee shop gave all their leftover pastries to the homeless, that was a twinkle. The Mom said that when the little Girl saw a twinkle, her scattering of freckles would light up, like the Christmas lights, but tiny and random.

When the little Girl turned six, she decided that she wanted to create her own twinkles. She remembered how proud the Mom looked when the little Girl boldly walked up to her, Mr. Snuffles in hand and a glittery tutu around her waist, and stated her decision. The family made their first twinkle the next day. After buying practically every lemon in the supermarket and making a fool of themselves as they talked in high, foofy voices, they made lemonade. The little Girl was truly happy, smearing sugar and lemon zest on their faces and drinking half of what they made. Then the Dad came out and set up the old table from their closet while the little Girl made a sign: Lemonade! One cup for only a smile. The sight of people on their way to work using the smile that the little Girl could tell they rarely used was priceless.

I pulled the hood of my navy parka over my thick brown hair, shivering from the early March chill. Staring at my feet, I tried to shut out the dirty New York City streets around me as I made my way home from school. It was one of those days that could be called drab, dreary, dull or another derogatory adjective starting in a “d.” The winter lingered like a wet blanket, getting pulled away and then flung back on your head with sudden icy rain. School was okay, I guess. I used to like challenging myself, being an overachiever. Now it was just a boring routine that, no matter how many times I whined about, wouldn’t go away.

I tried to shut out the mundane world. I stared at my shoes. Black Vans with a white stripe. Used-to-be-white shoelaces, now grayed and fraying. A worn patch on the right side of the left foot, where a toe ring I used to wear rubbed it thin. I stepped hard into the sidewalk. Each footstep thumped. Just then, I heard my phone buzz. I pulled it out, rubbing the marble-patterned plastic case out of habit. It was my dad. His awkward, trying-too-hard-to-look-cool, selfie flashed on my screen. I picked up.

“Why can’t you text like any other person in the 21st century?”

“Hello there to you too, honey,” he responded, a hint of laughter in his voice.

“What is it,” I replied, not willing to submit to his perpetual cheeriness.

“Well, honey, I’ll have to work late again tonight. I took on another client,” he said slowly, articulating each word like he always does.

“Did you have to take on this person when you already work seven days a week?”

“I’m sorry, Ayah. I’m doing my best.” He says that a lot. I’m doing my best. “You are going to have to make your own dinner again. I’m sorry, honey. Ayah, please forgive me.”

“Fine. Fine. Fine. It’s not like I made my own dinner every day this week. But of course I’ll do it.”

“I knew you would understand,” he responded, completely missing the sarcasm. I hung up.

Once upon a time, three years ago to be exact, the Mom died. The Girl was ten years old. The Dad didn’t fall into a state of insanity, like in movies. He didn’t wear a bathrobe or bunny slippers, and he didn’t go through five boxes of tissues a day. In fact, once upon a time, the Dad didn’t fall into grief at all. He fell into work. Every day, he would be in the office until even after the janitor had left. He would work extra shifts, and every second of his time at home was spent doing paperwork. Once upon a time, one might have thought that the family was short on money. But although the Mom liked living a simple life, the family was always very comfortable.

I kept walking, wanting to get home and away from this cold Monday, yet dreading the pile of homework our teachers had dumped on us. “Happy is the heart that still feels pain. Darkness drains and light will come again. Swing open up your chest and let it in, just let the love love love begin.” I sang silently, playing the Ingrid Michaelson song “Everybody” that was stuck in my head.

Once upon a time, when the Mom died, the Dad turned to work. The Girl, not so little anymore, turned to music. Once upon a time the Girl used to sing for the Mom. She let her voice carry, and then made it soft and delicate. The Mom would listen, swaying subtly. To her own beat, not the rhythm of the music. She would wait a few seconds after the Girl had finished her song to open her eyes. But when she did, they would glisten with tears, bringing out the crystalline blue color everyone envied.

Once upon a time, the Girl, not so little, couldn’t find her voice. She did, however, find the clarinet. The Girl loved everything she could do with it, from soft jazzy tunes to quick, dancing melodies, like pixies in a field of flowers.

As I continued my walk home, I passed Sparrow Cafe. It was a beautiful, small business that was cherished by everyone in our neighborhood. The owners, a pair of seventy-year-old identical twins named Mary and Darla Sparrow, knew me well. Suddenly, I felt someone brush against my shoulder, forcefully. It was Lily.

“Hi, Ayah,” she said, her voice dripping with fake friendliness.

“Hi, Lily,” I replied, staring at her shoes. Pristine gold and white Adidas, the laces tied in a tight bow.

“Uh, did you, like, forget? It’s Lilyah,” she responded, a condescending smile stretching from ear to ear. Oh, that’s right. I almost forgot the stuck up girl named Lily forced everyone to call her ‘Lilyah.’ She said the name had more class, just like her. “Well, I guess I’ll, like, see you around,” she said. No way.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Lily. Lily was best-friends-till-death-we-shall-never-part with the little Girl. They spent every waking hour together. The year the Mom died, a few more girls joined ‘the group.’ But Lily and the Girl still remained best friends, although they began to broaden their horizons to other people. Or so the Girl thought. Once upon a time, the Girl had to call Lily. That night, that fatal night. The Girl could barely get a word out, barely explain that she had lost her soulmate. She could barely explain how much love and help she needed, now that her mother was gone. But instead of finishing the Girl’s sentences, rushing over to her house, Lily was polite and formal: “I’m sorry for your loss. It’s such a shame,” she said. All of a sudden, Lily had transformed into a stranger. The Girl would never know exactly what had happened. Maybe Lily felt uncomfortable with someone who lost their parent? Maybe Lily couldn’t handle dealing with someone who was going through such intense grief? Although the Girl could never truly know, she did know one thing for sure: once upon a time, Lily was no longer a best friend. Lily was now a jerk.

I stood outside the Sparrow Cafe for a moment, staring at the shoes of the people who passed. My phone buzzed again. I lifted the screen to see another call from Dad. I picked up.

“What is it this time?”

“Sweetie, I would really appreciate if you could be more kind when answering — ” I cut him off.

“Come on, Dad. Seriously?”

“Where is my blue-eyed princess, the one who would find the everyday miracles? Where did she go?”

“There are no more miracles,” I said, not even trying to deny that the glitter in my blue eyes disappeared.

“Yes there are.” Hearing the silence, he continued. “Well anyways, the reason why I called you is because of your grandma.”

“My grandma?” I was genuinely confused. Dad’s mom died before I was born, and Mom’s mom… she didn’t have the best relationship with our family. Mom had some huge fight with her, something Mom said she would tell me when I was older. I never met my grandma, except for a brief sighting of a woman in black at Mom’s funeral. Dad always said it was for the best. So what now?

“Well,” Dad paused and cleared his throat. I could almost see his Adam’s apple bobbing, “I thought it’s time for you to get to know your grandma. So I got in touch with her — ”

“You spoke to her? How? What?” He ignored me.

“She said she would like to meet. I was thinking we could go to a nice dinner sometime next week, and meet her there.”

“I can’t do that. No way. I’m sorry, but no.”

“I don’t understand? Don’t you want to know your grandma?”
“It’s betraying Mom. And it’s terrible. It seems like this grandma lady is suddenly swooping in. Maybe she’s glad that Mom is dead.”

“Come on, Miracle.” He had crossed a line. Only Mom was allowed to call me that. Only Mom. I hung up, angrily pressing the screen, missing the red button the first few times, as I wiped away a tear.

Once upon a time, there was a man and a woman who were deeply in love. They desperately wanted a baby, especially a baby girl. But everytime they tried, it didn’t work. The doctors brought them the terrible news that they could never have a baby. Then, one day, the woman got pregnant. The doctors said it was a miracle the baby was in the Mom’s stomach, and an even bigger miracle it survived. So naturally, the Mom and the Dad named the baby Miracle in Arabic. To the Mom and Dad’s delight, they got pregnant again. Then something went wrong. The little Girl never knew what happened. They said she was too young, too fragile, too sad. All she remembers were the sirens, then flashing lights, red like the blood on the cold bathroom floor. All she remembers were the deep wrinkles in the doctor’s face, almost as deep as the pools of sadness that sank her. The little Girl was no longer so little.

I decided to enter into the Sparrow Cafe. I sometimes treated myself to their rich hot chocolate and light buttery chocolate croissant. Mom would say that the Sparrow Cafe’s hot chocolate was angel’s nectar. She always took me there when I had had a bad day at school, or was just feeling lousy. I added the croissant to the tradition after she died. The day of her death, I was sitting in the Sparrow Cafe. When I left, Darla handed me a croissant. “Give it to your Mom for me. From Mary and Darla.” Of course, Mom never got it.

As I opened the door, the warm air invited me inside. My ears were filled with the gentle hum of people conversing. I breathed in deeply, inhaling the delicate smells wafting from the kitchen. I could almost taste the flakes of sweet pastry, melting on my tongue.

“Hi, Mary,” I said, walking up to the counter.

“The usual, dear?” she responded, already getting out the little brown bag with which to package the croissant and setting it on the counter.

“Yes, please,” I responded

“Anything else, dear?”

“That will be all. Besides the hot chocolate, of course.” She started to prepare the hot chocolate, pouring the rich liquid in a paper cup decorated with drawings of sparrows. “Darla will ring you up, dearie.” I stepped down the counter to the vintage, blue cash register.

“Well, hello there, Ayah! Are you feeling alright today?” Darla said, peering at the wet streak on my cheek through her round, gold spectacles.

“Yeah. Thanks for asking.” I stared at the feet of the next person in line. A young woman, wearing slightly worn but still clean running shoes. Pink and blue Skechers with black laces. I took out my wallet to pay. Just as I handed her the bills, I noticed a tattered pink Post-it fall to the ground. Stooping down to pick it up, I could already tell it was Mom’s handwriting. Probably something stupid, like a shopping list. I stuffed it in my pocket as I went to a nearby table to wait for my order. I started thinking. How could Dad just betray Mom like that? Why are there no more miracles? Why are there no more twinkles? It’s not fair. I can’t do it anymore. No NO NO! By now, I was screaming in my head, clenching my fists with anger. I could see the bubblegum-sneakers lady looking at me. I’m done. I don’t care anymore. The twinkle lights went out. The tree is black.

My thoughts were interrupted by a tap on my shoulder.

“Oh, hi. Ms. Woodworth.” I stared at her shoes. Olive-green-gray heels, but not too high. Her foot, encased in tan pantyhose, was held down with an olive green strap and a gold buckle.

“Ayah! Fancy seeing you here!” Her gray ringlets shook as she patted my shoulder, and her soft pink sweater rubbed against my arm.

“Yeah, sure,” I groaned.

“What was that, Ayah?” She took a sip of the cup in her hand, wrapping the string of the chamomile tea bag around her finger.

“Uhh, I said ‘great coincidence!’” It was so easy for me to lie now. Mom used to say I was the most honest person she knew, but now, lying was part of my everyday life. Anyway, I didn’t care if she actually heard what Dad would call ‘my snarky remark.’

Once upon a time, the Girl’s Mom died. The school knew it would be hard on the Girl. They had their guidance counselor, Ms. Woodworth, help the Girl. She said, “You can talk to me whenever you need to. I’m always here.” She meant her office, a cozy nook in the otherwise chaotic public school building, filled with her snowglobe collection and a pot of tea always on the tiny stove. So the Girl went to her every day. But they never talked about that night with the sirens, or the hollow hole in the Girl’s heart. They just talked about everyday life. Like new shoes, or books. The Girl used to talk about this with the Mom. But now she wasn’t there. So Ms. Woodworth was the replacement. Once upon a time, the Girl went to Ms.Woodworth. It was a normal visit. The Girl wanted to talk about Lily, why she was being a jerk. But Ms. Woodworth didn’t let her stay. “Come back when you have a real issue. When you are actually dealing with the grief,” she said. “Other kids have more important things, rather than chit chatting about daily life.”

Thankfully, Ms. Woodworth now walked away, chuckling to herself as she went. I craned my neck to look at the counter. Where was my order? How hard is it to warm a croissant? Well, I might as well read the Post-it while I’m waiting. I pulled the now even more crumpled paper out of my pocket and carefully laid it on the blue mosaic table. I smoothed it out, running my thin fingers on the creases. It was a hastily scribbled haiku, definitely written by Mom.

Don’t drag yourself down,

With self-pity and anger

Remember twinkles

Darla called my name. “Ayah, your order is ready! Have a nice day, dear!” Rushing outside, I stuffed the Post-it in my pocket and grabbed the delicate paper bag and hot chocolate cup. I ran out of the cafe, shutting the door as I went with a slam that surprised even me, and was met by the rush of cold air. I started walking fast. Faster. Now I was almost running. Tears welled up in my eyes, but didn’t run down my face because of how fast I was going. I stared at the floor, shoes blurring past me. Teal Converse, white laces. Black loafers with a tangled thread. Gray sneakers with a lime green sole. Black high heels with arctic blue soles. Candy-apple-red wedges with a gold button. Ripped, unrecognizable shoes, one with only a sole. Panting, I stopped. I looked at the person in those shoes.

He was sitting on a greasy, old pizza carton, a threadbare, gray blanket on his lap. Why doesn’t he use the blanket? It’s freezing outside, I thought. Then, I saw it move. The homeless man carefully lifted the blanket to comfort a wailing baby, her small, red face streaked with soot. He held her up to his chest and gently patted the scrap of grimey bubblegum-pink swaddle that was wrapped around her, almost as if he were afraid to touch her, for she might break. “It’s alright. It’s alright.” He comforted her softly. His scratchy, hoarse voice barely made a sound. The baby’s wails only intensified. The homeless man looked up at me, making eye contact. His glassy green eyes were helpless, filling with tears that spilled over, dripping down his face. They drew a line of clean, exposing his weathered skin, washing away a stripe of dirt. Instead of looking away, like my parents always told me to, I stared straight at him. Suddenly, I knew why that haiku was in my pocket. It was fate. It was time, finally time, for me to create my own twinkle. I bent down, and carefully placed the steaming cup of hot chocolate on the ground in front of him. I held out the butter-stained brown bag with the croissant. He shook his head.

“Take it. Please,” I said, staring clearly, steadily at him, looking into his glassy eyes. He slowly reached up his hand, a filthy, torn glove almost falling off, and I closed the distance. Once the bag was in his hands, I started to run away, only stopping for a moment at the streetlight. I turned my head back and looked at him. His eyes were filled with a gratitude I had never seen before. He ripped a small piece of the still-warm croissant from the bag. A string of melted chocolate dripped from the pastry. He handed it to his baby. The cries dwindled. I called to him.

“Enjoy.”

 

The Art of Kidnapping

     

Before

Why do rainy days always bring trouble? Keira Keegan certainly didn’t know. She was just five. And reading War and Peace, of course, as beads of water dripped down the window of her room, splattering on the moist grass below. Her green eyes scanned the page as her short black hair fell across her face. Suddenly, she heard a piercing scream. Keira’s book dropped to the floor, and she pressed her face on the glass. A woman ran on the other side of the street, clutching a briefcase to her chest. A man chased after her, clearly trying to catch up to the fleet-footed lady. Keira realized that the man had produced the scream. Talk about an interruption, she thought and went back to her novel. But she still memorized her brief image of the speedy thief in her photographic memory, just in case. Keira was that type of person.

 

Quite a few years later…

Keira woke up on a certain Sunday in April to rain panging on the roof of 765 Haren Road at seven o’clock in the morning. “Darn you, sleep cycle,” she grumbled. But she resisted the urge to nap until noon and did her morning routine. As the droplets poured down, she remembered that day many years ago, with the woman and the man and the briefcase. Keira went downstairs and switched on the TV.

“We have breaking news,” Chuck Chuckerly, lead reporter on Channel 8 News said. “The famous artist Willam Magrotte has gone missing.”

Keira stood there, frozen in shock. “Welp,” she said, throwing up her hands suddenly. “Another thing that no one will be able to solve, just like all the robberies and murders before.”

An idea formed in her mind, though. Then I’ll solve this myself.

 

A Day Just a While Before

Willam Magrotte was working in his quarters. His apron was splattered with paint, and his immaculate mustache had a couple of specks of white on it. Another masterpiece was being born. He was just finishing up the tail of the animal on his new painting, La Vie du Chat, The Cat’s Life, when something fell in the workshop. Willam turned. The door was ajar. He saw a figure in the corner. In an instant, the artist had fallen and was bound to a chair, blindfolded and gagged.

 

Mondays

Mrs. Jane Ellison was a stickler for rules. Obviously, she resented the reckless Keira Keegan. Keira was always getting into trouble, with her tendency to talk back. Mondays were always the worst. All of Mrs. Ellison’s seventh grade students were snippy from the early times they had to wake up, a change from the lazy weekends when they didn’t have to hit the snooze button until noon. But especially Keira.

The 8 a.m. school bell rang, and Mrs. Ellison began to take attendance. “Aaronson, Addie. Abrams, Genevieve. Barnhart, Hunter… ” all the way up to “Kaye, Theodore” and “Keegan, Kei — oh, it seems that Miss Keegan is not here with us today,” the teacher said with a smile. But at that moment, Keira walked in.

“Ah, Miss Keegan. You’re here,” Mrs. Ellison said slowly. “I was just about to print an absentee report for you. However, I guess we’ll just have to settle for a tardy slip.”

“Well, you didn’t finish saying my name, therefore I didn’t have to say ‘here,’” Keira quipped, provoking laughter from her classmates. Mrs. Ellison turned red.

“Keira Keegan,” Mrs. Ellison snapped. “Take that back this instant!”

Keira didn’t though, because the PA system crackled. “Keira Keegan, please report to the janitor’s closet. Keira Keegan, please report to the janitor’s closet. Thank you.”

 

Trapped

“Well then, Miss Keegan. Take the hall pass. I trust you won’t be straying off anywhere?” Mrs. Ellison said.

Keira obeyed and set off to the closet, wondering why she was needed there.

The closet door was painted a drab gray shade. There was a grate on the bottom, with metal slats that provided ventilation. “That’s weird,” she mumbled to herself. “These weren’t here on Friday.” She noticed the jagged edges of the vent. A hasty job, she thought. She opened the door and stepped inside.

“Hello?” Keira called. Her voice echoed off the dirty walls. She heard a click and turned around. The door. She shook the knob. It didn’t budge. She was trapped.

 

A Sound

Willam Magrotte heard a sound. It was more than one, really. First, the opening of the door. It startled him. The only sounds he had heard since he woke up here were the noises of a school. It was definitely a school he was in, for the loud chatters and stomping of feet and creak of lockers opening and closing and the occasional shout from a teacher were unmistakable. But back to the sounds. Willam’s enhanced hearing allowed him to detect the slightest sounds, all the way down here in what he believed was a basement. He heard a small voice ask who was there. Then, a sudden shaking noise was heard. The artist knew there was someone there, someone that wasn’t his captor. He shouted out, desperate for help.

 

Got to Go

Mrs. Ellison was in the middle of teaching social studies when she seemed to receive a message on her smartwatch. The students stared, wide-eyed, at their teacher when the tinging beep blared around the classroom. Mrs. Ellison checked it quickly and put her assistant in charge of the class. “Urgent business,” she explained. “I’ll be back soon.” She left in a hurry.

 

The Captor

Keira leaned against the door, scratching herself on the jagged outline of the metal grate. What am I going to do? Mrs. Ellison is going to be reeeaaaalllyyy mad if I don’t get back soon, she thought. A shout interrupted her musings. “Aidez-moi! Je suis pris au piège dans ce sous-sol sale. Ce n’est pas un endroit pour un artiste!”

“What?” Keira asked, confused. But then she remembered the contents of a French dictionary she’d read in first grade. “Help. I am trapped in this dirty basement. This is no place for an artist,” she translated. An artist. Wait, so — the artist Magrotte went missing a few days ago. This person says he’s an artist. Magrotte is French. This guy is French. Yep. It has to be him.

“Are you Willam Magrotte?” she called to the direction of the plea. When she didn’t get a response, she resaid it in French. “Êtes-vous Willam Magrotte?”

“Oui!”

“Je vais vous sortir de là!” I’ll get you out of there.

Keira rushed to find where the voice had come from. Eventually, she found a door. It was rusty but looked strong. She tried the knob. No luck. But she felt a small rectangle above it. It seemed to be a small box that was painted to blend in with the door. She undid the lock and lifted the lid. It had a keypad inside. “One plus two plus three plus four. Multiply and wait for more,” Keira read out loud.

“Not so fast,” someone said behind her.

 

Revelations

“Little Miss Keegan. Did you really think you could free my captive?” a figure shrouded in black said. The voice was quite familiar — Keira was certain she knew the kidnapper. But she couldn’t put her finger on it.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t say it here, you know.”

“Well, I know your code. I’ll free Magrotte.”

“Ugh, I forgot about that photographic memory. But my codes are unbreakable, you should know that. So I’ll let you go on your way. I have to be somewhere too.”

“Oh-kay?” Keira walked back to class, looking unnaturally calm. But on the inside, she was severely shaken by her encounter.

When she arrived back to class, Mrs. Ellison was waiting. But she seemed rushed. Her elaborate hair was disheveled, and her clothes were rumpled, a change from the neat creases that were the result of excessive ironing. “Nice of you to join us,” Mrs. Ellison said. Her glasses were lopsided.

“Well, considering that I was trapped inside a closet with a kidnapper… I think I made pretty good time,” Keira retorted. The class laughed uneasily. She slipped into her seat without waiting for a response.

 

Figure it Out

“Y’know,” Keira’s best friend, Raina, whispered to her. “Mrs. Ellison left the classroom just a few minutes after you did.”

“Really? That’s weird,” Keira said. She could always count on Raina to give her the truth, though.

All through her classes, Keira tried to make sense of the riddle she’d seen in the closet. One plus two plus three plus four. Multiply and wait for more. One plus two plus three plus four. Multiply and wait for more. One plus two plus three plus four… she repeated in her head. It definitely had something to do with math. That wasn’t a problem. She knew how to do calculus. She’d learned it when she was seven. But the math in this problem was easy. Too easy. One plus two plus three plus four was ten. But… what about the next line? Multiply by what? She had to find out.

“Hey, Raina, I need your help,” Keira requested at lunch as they sat down together to eat. “I have a riddle, and I think you can figure it out.”

“Sure, what is it?” Raina asked. She was a petite girl, with long blond hair.

“‘One plus two plus three plus four. Multiply and wait for more.’”

“Well, one, two, three, and four add up to ten… Wait, in the second line, is it the number ‘four?’”

“No, it’s f-o-r,” Keira explained, spelling the word out.

“Hmmm… oh, I think I got it!” Raina jumped in excitement. “What if the ‘for’ in the second line is actually a number? So you have to multiply by the number four. That’s forty!”

Keira’s eyes widened. That’s it! I have the answer! she thought. She hugged Raina hard. “Thank you so so so so so so so much!”

“You’re welcome. But sheesh, you don’t have to be this excited, Keira, it’s only a riddle… ”

 

After School

As soon as the clock struck three, Keira rushed back to the janitor’s closet with her keys for a just-in-case weapon and a hairpin to unlock a door, if needed. She also included a small pen. Always be prepared. That was her mantra. Her parents wouldn’t mind if she came home late. They arrived back even later. As suspected, the room was locked. She stuck the pin in and jimmied it. It opened silently, and she stepped inside, immediately going over to the keypad. She entered the code four-zero in, and the door swung open with a hiss.

 

Another Sound

Willam made like an ice cube and froze when he heard the basement door open. Another sound had been heard. But was it his captor, or the French-speaker from this morning? He didn’t know, but he stayed silent just in case.

 

Lost and Then Found

Keira walked down the stairs to find an expansive room with nothing in it. Nothing but a person. A person that was strapped to a chair. A chair that was bound to the person with thick ropes. Ropes that were accompanied by a blindfold and a gag that had fallen onto the floor. Willam Magrotte.

She stepped towards him. “Monsieur Magrotte?”

“Oui?”

“I’ve come to save you,” she said in French. “Stay calm.”

“Je vais.” I will.

She untied the knots holding the artist to the chair and took off his blindfold. “How are you feeling?”

“Pas trés bien.” Not very well.

“Come with me. We have to go upstairs.”

“Wha-what happened to me?” he asked in broken English.

“It’s a long story. Just know that you have been saved.”

“Are you sure about that, Miss Keegan?” a new voice broke in.

 

Whodunit?

Miss Keegan. Miss Keegan. Miss Keegan. It echoed through her head. Only one person ever called her “Miss Keegan.”

“Mrs. Ellison? Is that you?” Keira said as she stepped back. She whispered a command to Willam. “Montez à l’étage du bureau du directeur. Dites-lui d’alerter la police de venir dans le placard du concierge.” Go upstairs to the principal’s office. Tell him to alert the police to come into the janitor’s closet.

“Why, yes. I’m not surprised that you figured out my identity. But it would provide me a great convenience to tell me how,” her teacher replied. Keira noticed that Willam had managed to sneak past the distracted kidnapper.

“Well, someone called me ‘Miss Keegan’ this morning in the closet. And then Raina told me that you left the classroom after I did. And you called me ‘Miss Keegan’ again just now. So that’s how I know whodunit. But I do have one question: Who called me to this closet in the first place?”

“Very good, Miss Keegan,” Mrs. Ellison nodded. “Very good. That idiot the janitor must have done it. He was supposed to be my accomplice. I guess he’s gone rogue. He’ll be my next victim, after you, of course.”

 

Taped

Click. Keira pressed the top of her pen. A red light stopped blinking.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Ellison, you’ve been taped. I have your whole villainous monologue on this pen.”

“Give that to me this instant!” Mrs. Ellison reached for the writing utensil in Keira’s hand. Keira dodged and ran up the stairs past the teacher to ground level, Mrs. Ellison close behind, just as the cavalry arrived.

“Put your hands up!” the chief yelled. Mrs. Ellison didn’t obey.

“You really think you can best me? You have no evidence, other than that dratted pen this little girl has in her hand… ” Her voice faltered, for Keira was replaying Mrs. Ellison’s explanation.

“‘He’ll be my next victim, after you, of course.’” the crackly recording wrapped up.

The police arrested Mrs. Ellison immediately, reading her rights. “You have the right to remain silent. If you do say anything, what you say can be used against you… ”

 

A Good Job

“Kid, you did a good job today,” one of the officers said to Keira. “Mr. Magrotte told us everything that happened. You’ll provide some more evidence too, right?”

“Yes sir, I’ve got a photographic memory, and I’m not afraid to use it,” she replied.

“Good.” He clapped her on the back.

“Keira?” someone else said. It was the janitor, Steven, who had worked at her school for years. As the former accomplice of Mrs. Ellison, he was there to give some insight into what caused her to kidnap Magrotte. Of course, it was for the ransom money.

Steven seemed changed, though, as he led Keira to a corner. He’d lost his mustache. Well, he could’ve shaved, Keira thought. His voice was different. Well, people’s voices can change. The color of his eyes were brown instead of green. Well — she couldn’t think of an explanation for that.

“Keira, I’m not actually Steven, you know. The name’s Kingston, Ricky Kingston. How would you like a job in the spy business?”

“Well, sure. Just leave me a day or so to get prepared,” Keira said. She smiled.

 

The End

 

An Attempted Rescue

The rocket stood there on the purple soil, black steam spiraling out from the top. It was night on the planet. It was always night there. Hundreds of stars hovered in the dark sky. They shined in Captain Powell’s eyes. Captain Powell and his men stepped out onto the mysterious territory.

“Where have we landed, Navigator Edwards?” Powell asked.

“Some planet,” said Edwards, looking around. “I think it’s uncharted.”

“Did we go to another solar system?” Powell said, confused.

“No, same one, it’s just we’re so far away from the Sun,” Edwards stated.

The planet looked isolated, with neglected mountains and a silent, purple lake that looked like grape soda. The only thing you could hear was the soft wind that would whisper to you and your very own echoes.

“I see something!” a crew member cried.

He was standing on a hill. He had a circular, large glass dome around his head. He also wore a big, white suit and boots. One of his legs was bruised and beaten. It was bleeding. What once was a pink, plump man was now pale and withered. However, his face was colored with excitement. He limped from the hill to them.

“Oh, thank you so much!” he cried. He then looked towards the shadows in the area. He called them. “Crew, people have come to rescue us!”

Four other men stepped out of the shadows, all in the same condition as the man.

“Who are you, and why are you here?” Powell questioned.

“I,” he explained, “am Douglas Williams of Earth, and this is my crew. We were supposed to land on Mars, but we crashed here back in 2050. We’ve been stranded here for years, and you have come to rescue us!”

Even time is different here, thought Powell. 2050 was a long time ago. These men are supposed to be dead. Maybe the planet freezes time for these people. Powell had a lot of questions.

“Well,” Edwards began, “our rocket crashed here, but we still have some fuel to take you back home! Tomorrow, it’ll be ready.”

“Thank you, thank you!” Williams turned to his crew. “We’re going home!”

They all cheered and clapped and laughed and joked. They felt alive for the first time in years. Now, they will finally be seeing their families and friends who thought they were dead.

“Is anyone else here?” Powell said.

Williams shot a frightened glance at his crew.

“Nope! No one here at all! Just us, ha, ha!”

“Okay.” Powell looked around the area.

 

***

 

Edwards went hiking through the planet, searching for new rocks and minerals while everyone was asleep. He went to a cave, and that’s when something happened. He felt someone touch his hand and say.

“Hello.”

He quickly turned around and was ready to fight, only to find a weak, injured astronaut.

“You must be new here,” the astronaut chuckled. “What planet did you try to go on. I’m Samuel Brooks and — ”

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” interjected Edwards, “and you should know, you’re part of Williams’ crew who we’re bringing with us.”

Brooks turned red. “You bring Williams with you as you escape?!”

“Yeah, I — ”

“Don’t bring him. He’s an idiot, and he’ll do you no good!”

“But — ”

“He’s insane,” Brooks blurted out.

Edwards quickly turned his opinion. “Really?”

“Yes, isolation made him start to become aggressive with my crew. Bring my expedition, we tried to go to Jupiter in 2080, but we failed,” Brooks stated.

“Okay, meet us tomorrow morning at our rocket, I’ll tell the captain. We can only have one other crew on the trip, so it’ll be you.”

“Wonderful.”

 

***

 

The day finally came, the day to go back home. Brooks saw the rocket, and he and his men started to walk along the silver ramp.

“Hey!” a voice shouted. It was Williams, and he was angry. “Get off, Brooks. This rocket isn’t for you!”

“Yes, it is, we deserve it more!” Brooks said.

Williams tackled Brooks. “That escape is ours.” He gritted his teeth.

The men on Brooks’ and Williams’ teams started to fight each other.

But word spread around quickly. Waves of failed crews and expeditions of Venus, Mars, and Jupiter came and saw the rocket. They hit, kicked, scratched, and bit each other for it.

Edwards, Powell, and the workers were in the rocket.

“Which one should we pick?”

“I don’t know!”

A man entered the crowd. He held a grenade.

“Hey, Williams! Hey, Brooks!” He threw it.

It spun in the air, but accidentally headed towards the rocket.

“Don’t,” Powell cried.

Boom.

Powell, Edwards, their workers, and the rocket were gone. Their dead bodies were in the rubble. The planet’s residents stood there, stunned. They didn’t speak for five minutes.

They had trouble sleeping that night.

Prologue to Hectorbla

            

Prologue

The winter snow brings freezing and death. In the land of Itha, freezing and death were the only things that the 4th grand army of the Glass Imperium knew. You see, Itha is a land divided by war and conquest. A supercontinent in the center of the Crimson Sea, Itha had been home to technological advancements and cultural exchange unparalleled in the entire world. However, things soon turned bad.

In the year 1813, a man named Hector Blighting completed work on his airship, the Hectorbla. Hector was an inventor, but one who had discovered too much. Hector delved into knowledge perhaps meant for man to stay ignorant of, knowledge of terrifying implication. Wielding this knowledge, Hector formed a cult, known as the Cult of Hector. With ingenuity and scientific competence, the Cult of Hector synthesized new gases and metals perfect for the creation of airships. With this, Hector created a navy of the air, which swiftly blitzed every major city in Itha, taking countries by surprise. Massive behemoths of metal and gas rumbled across the skies. Massive guns thundered throughout the night. However, Hector’s villainous campaign was not without challenge.

Every country in Itha banded together and struck deep in the heart of Hector’s ever expanding empire of iron and steam. The headquarters of Hector’s campaign were surrounded, and heavy fighting ensued, resulting in the death of Hector. With the knowledge of airships, steam tanks, trains without rails, bioengineering, energy weapons, and massive tanks now in the hands of every nation in Itha, bickering was bound to occur.

This brings us to the 4th grand army of the Glass Imperium. The Glass Imperium is a moderately sized country (though the rulers and inhabitants would prefer the term empire), hellbent on the conquest of Slavingcordia, a country to the north. Slavingcordia, though smaller in men and weapons, was not undefended. A massive mountain range, named Blackheart Ridge, separates the two countries, one that must be passed if any country was to attack the other with speed.

The Glass Imperium had finally decided to bite the bullet and invade. Seventy-five thousand man, all dressed in the traditional blue on green Imperium uniform, marched across Blackheart ridge with the intent of capturing the Slavcordian city of Deizenburgen. But luck was not on the side of the Glass Imperium. Marching upwards in the bitter cold snow, air getting thinner with every step taken. This was the hell that faced the 4th Army. Ten thousand soldiers met their end in the cold, alone and unable to move. Dreadnaughts of the sky flew overhead, but where there was no comfort to the soldiers, they huddled together for warmth. But the situation was about to get worse.

It was on the 6th of November, 1867, that Col. Williams spotted the first Slavcordian soldier. This was only the beginning of a bloody campaign that would leave millions dead, and release secrets and evils forever to haunt the human heart.

Josef awoke to the sound of shouting. His eyes still adjusting to the light, Josef squinted as he forced on his boots. Inside of his small green tent, he could not see anything but the blinding sun being reflected into the his tent. Using his left hand to wipe off his uniform, Josef slowly began to wake up. His stubble had grown worse, and his body odor unbearable. Lamenting these facts, Josef began to open the tent, when suddenly he heard gunfire. Grabbing his rifle, Josef bolted out of his tent, adrenaline pumping. Dead men lay in the snow, blood staining the ice. The gunfire continued, men shouting orders, soldiers scrambling to get out of bed and to grab their guns. A bullet whizzed by. Josef hit the floor. Lying beside one of his fallen comrades, Josef saw the Slavcordian men firing upon his division. Rolling behind the fresh corpse, Josef propped up his rifle and began to fire.

The smell of gunpowder spread through the air, muzzle flash appearing from places unexpected. An unfortunate Slavcordian soldier engaged Josef at point blank range, hitting Josef’s cover, but being hit by a lead riparte, fired from Josef’s rifle. Josef pulled the trigger and aimed his gun again at the ghastly silhouettes of enemy soldiers running to and from cover, sometimes revealing their true selves by illuminating the area with the flash of gunpowder. However, when Josef pulled the trigger for another time, his gun did not fire.

Desperately searching every pocket and crevice for bullets proved useless. Josef knew what he had to do. Throwing his rifle aside, Josef gripped the cold body of the bloodstained soldier and took the dead man’s rifle from his cold hands. A bullet hit the soldier. An eruption of blood blinded Josef. Wiping it off, Josef continued. Emptying the remaining bullets with futility into the seemingly impervious cover of the Slavcordian soldier harassing Josef, seemed a laughable waste of ammunition, but a cost that Josef knew must be paid in order to pin his adversary. Now out of ammunition again, Josef ran with the corpse down a small ledge. This time he found ammunition, but looked more. The massive shadow of a sky dreadnaught passed over, launching shells into enemy positions. Though not a decisive attack, it was satisfying to see the bloodstained brown uniforms of the Slavcordians fly into the air.

A fellow soldier passed by Josef, hurrying to defensive positions. “Ai! Dirty gravedigging sonofabitch!” Josef wanted badly to respond and tell the soldier that he wasn’t looting the body of a fallen comrade, but there were more important things at hand. A small mecha ran by, its metallic legs galloping across the snow, firing small shells, until it vanished behind the snow. The smoke of battle machines began to rise. Josef decided his best most move would be to continue behind the mecha. Following the tracks, Josef ran, and ran. Being shot at by what felt like five people, powder exploding at his feet. A bullet ripped across Josef’s back, though not injuring too much flesh, it hurt like hell. The warm blood perhaps was a blessing in disguise. Josef was beginning to go numb. Though his body heat was up, it was barely holding him together. The warm blood soothed his back.

Finally, Josef caught up with the mecha, the pilot obviously struggling with a dug in machine gun. Stuck between a machine gun and infantry, Josef knew that the mecha needed help. Josef attacked the flank of the infantry. The shouting in foreign languages disturbed Josef. He did not know the orders of the commander. Josef fired everything and got into a rhythm. Fire. Cock. Fire. Cock. Fire. Cock. Fire. Cock. Fire. Cock. The sputtering riposte of the infernal Slavcordian rounds dissuaded Josef from continuing his assault and forced him to fall back. Running blindly in a direction were he would be temporarily safe from enemy fire, Josef found himself far to the left flank of the Slavcordian rear.

Boots getting wet, limbs stiffening. Josef began to pant as he slowly trudged back to where he believed his company was. Some Slavcordian men noticed him in the distance. They fired off several rounds at Josef, but at the distance between them, they would have been lucky if the explosion of powdery snow came within a foot of Josef.

Josef stopped. He saw a tower of smoke rising from the ridge ahead. The roar of treads. The Glass Imperium had no tanks in the mountains. They deemed them too visible. The mechas used by the Glass Imperium had a much smaller profile (or at least the smaller ones). That strategy had proven useful until the first Slavcordian attack. Now, without steam tanks or bio tanks, or any form of calvary that was not exclusively anti infantry, Josef was filled with anger and disappointment. But that was irrelevant. Josef had a duty. Heaving and panting, Josef prepared for what could very well be his final offensive.

The rectangular bottom of the tank carried several machine guns. The rusted white metal reminded Josef of a bridge burnt into hell. The gray treads and silver gears gave the tank an almost aluminum look. Then, there was the turret. A massive chimney spurted out smoke. An 85 caliber heavy cannon slowly shifted around, looking for targets. Josef breathed in. His now bloodstained uniform was a fitting cloth to be buried in. Josef leapt into the powdery snow. Josef now recognized the tank as a HF-3 “Mountain Goat.” Josef gripped his rifle and screamed like never before. Josef was prepared to die.

End of prologue.

 

Robot Battle League

       

OOH, and Silo goes in the air as Wrecking Ball slams him again. Silo has difficulty getting back up, and Wrecking Ball smashes him down. Silo isn’t moving. It’s time for the five second countdown!

Five…

Four…

Three…

Two…

One…

AND Wrecking Ball WINS THE ROUND! Good game, Silo, but it looks like you and your creator will have to wait until the next round!” the commentator boomed. Dianna and her best friend Luke walked towards the arena of the Robot Battle League, a fighting sport for robots, to pick up Dianna’s now broken robot.

“Don’t feel bad. It was a good design. You just need… tweaks,” Luke said, trying to cheer

her up.

“You say that every round, Luke. I’ve never won a round of the RBL, and with the championships coming up, there’s going to be thousands of people competing. Silo and I won’t stand a chance!” Dianna told him. They walked back towards the workshop. A Retina scan indicated that Dianna and Luke had returned. The gate opened, revealing small helper bots that were carrying around spare pieces of metal. Dianna placed Silo on the robot hand truck, where she started replacing his broken parts with fresh, new pieces of metal.

 

Dianna had always wanted to win an RBL tournament. It was the most popular sport, and from her window she could see giant, neon bulletin boards displaying the champions. She dreamt of being up there, representing her city in even bigger tournaments. Being the champion of —

 

“DIANNA!” Luke yelled. She opened her eyes. Silo was all powered up, and his light blue eyes flickered as they turned on.

“Hello, creator. Hello, best friend Luke,” Silo said in a calm, echoing voice.

“Silo, you can just call me Dianna. I told you a million times,” she said, chuckling.

“My apologies. Every robot’s programming requires them to call their makers ‘master’ or ‘creator,’” Silo said. He slowly walked out of the hand truck and rummaged through the boxes.

“What are you doing?” Dianna asked.

“Upgrade. Upgrade. Requiring USB database,” Silo beeped repetitively.

“Oh right,” Dianna said. She went into her pockets and plugged in a blue USB drive with

gray writing saying, Silo database. Every once in a while, robots required updates to refresh their memories. Dianna turned to Luke, who was asking a helper bot for a lemonade.

“Hey Luke, why don’t you enter the RBL too? It could be fun!” Dianna asked.

“No thanks. I’m not an engineer. Besides, I wouldn’t want to go against you,” Luke answered. Dianna nodded. Suddenly, a hovering, lime green oval shaped bot floated into the room. A recording of Dianna’s mom came out of the robot.

“Dianna! Time for dinner!” it said.

“Gotta go. Cya Luke!” she said, powering Silo down and placing him on the hand truck, before running up the stairs. Luke waved and walked towards his house.

 

When 10:00 hit, the arena opened for its late night battles. It was only one or two, just to test out the strength of your robot. Wrecking Ball was walking behind his creator, a snarky, arrogant kid named Sam. Sam spotted a masked cyberpunk leaning against the wall. Aside from his mask, he was only wearing black. His mask was metal and had two yellow pixelated eyes. Beside him was a small robot. It was smaller than any other robot in the RBL. Sam couldn’t resist the opportunity to crack an insult against him.

“Hey, robot face! Too scared to show yourself? Bet you’re real ugly. Hey, where did your robot come from, preschool?” he said, laughing. The cyberpunk lifted his head and looked straight at Sam.

The commentator started yelling out. “Sam and Wrecking Ball vs Korben and the Exterminator!” he yelled out. Sam laughed.

“The exterminator? Bet the only thing you ever fought was a bug, and you still lost!” Sam yelled, laughing. They both sat down and grabbed their controllers. Korben’s yellow eyes turned red.

“Exterminate,” he muttered. The Exterminator grew much higher. His right hand was

replaced by a gun, and his left hand became a sword. Sam stopped laughing. Within seconds, Wrecking Ball was destroyed. Or rather, Exterminated.

THE EXTERMINATOR WINS! Better luck next time, Wrecking Ball!” the commentator

yelled. Sam grabbed Wrecking Ball and looked at Korben, who was already walking away. Exterminator turned back towards Wrecking Ball.

“Target exterminated,” he said and went back to walking.

 

Beep! Beep! Beep! Slam!

 

Dianna hit her alarm and got out of bed in a flash. Today was the sign-up for the championships! She had to get there nice and early. Downstairs, she was greeted by a warm hello from Silo and a bowl of cereal, which she devoured in seconds. She grabbed Silo, and they ran out of the house towards Luke’s. She knocked on the door, and in a few minutes, Luke was there. It looked like he had changed from his pajamas recently, but he was still looking sleepy.

“Dianna, what time is it?” he asked, yawning.

“5:00. The sign-ups start at 6:00. Come on!” she replied, grabbing his arm and dragging

him outside, as he moaned for his bed.

 

They quickly arrived at the front of the arena. Thousands of people were already lining up.

“Dang it. I’ll never sign up!” Dianna complained. Luke grabbed her and Silo.

“Okay Silo, play along,” he whispered. He started yelling.

“Excuse me! This robot has a virus! The only way to cure it is to sign up for the championships!” Luke yelled.

“Yes. I have a virus. I am very sick and need to sign up,” Silo said. Dianna wrote her name in the paper. Everyone cheered. Dianna smiled. She was in!

Suddenly, Korben shoved Silo out of the way. Everyone moved, whispering and pointing.

“Silo, scan the man and the bot,” Dianna whispered. Silo’s eyes turned green, then back

to blue.

“Name: Korben. Age: 37. Bio: Never lost a round,” Silo said. His eyes became green again, then returned to normal. “Bot name: Exterminator. Bio: Destroyed every robot in his way,” Silo read out. Korben wrote his name on the paper. As Korben and the Exterminator walked back, everyone backed away in fear of being the next target.

“Okay. It’s okay. All we have is a… RBL champion with the most dangerous robot in the tournaments. Think of winning. Think of winning,” Dianna said. Suddenly, a helper bot put

up the list of who was fighting who. Dianna saw she was against Jonathan and his robot “Red Zone.” She felt confident. Everyone took their copies of the paper and walked back to their homes.

 

In the workshop, Dianna was still staring at the paper.

“Hey. Dianna! You’ve been staring at the paper for an hour. Let’s go play gravity throw or something,” Luke said.

“I can’t. This is the biggest tournament I’ve ever been in! I’ve got to upgrade Silo as much as possible. I’m thinking rocket boosters, laser cannons, plasma bombs, virus gas, anything!” she said. She grabbed some boxes and started rummaging through them.

“Do not worry, creator Dianna. I will download all the features myself. Go play gravity throw with best friend Luke,” Silo said. Dianna sighed and walked outside with Luke.

 

The next day, Dianna, Luke, and Silo were rushing towards the arena. People were already starting to sit down, and the fighters were preparing their remotes and their bots. Luke went to find a seat, and Dianna grabbed her remote control.

 

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PLEASE WELCOME… THE CITY’S CREATOR AND HOST OF THE RBL… THE OVERLORD!” the commentator said. A giant screen with a face appeared. It smiled.

“Let the RBL begin!” it said. After a few rounds, Dianna’s turn came up. She sat down

and activated Silo’s “fight mode.” Red Zone jumped and landed on Silo. Silo got thrown backwards and hit the wall.

“Come on, Silo, where are your upgrades?” Dianna muttered. Silo got back up and

attempted to punch Red Zone, but Red Zone grabbed his arm and threw him against the floor. Silo got back up again. Red Zone punched, but Silo ducked. Red Zone tried punching again, but Silo still dodged it. When Red Zone attempted a third punch, Silo punched him in the face. Red Zone slammed against the wall. Suddenly, Silo’s eyes became dark.

“Upgrade. Upgrade. Requiring USB database,” he said.

“Nonononono!” Dianna yelled. Red Zone saw his opportunity and knocked Silo off his

feet.

Dianna looked at Luke, who had the USB drive in his hand. Luke tossed it to her. Suddenly, Silo was thrown up in the air, and Red Zone kicked him above Dianna. Everything moved in slow motion. Dianna’s hand went up and plugged the USB drive onto Silo’s back. Just before Silo hit the stands, his eyes opened, and he jumped back into the arena. A few people cheered. Red Zone ran towards Silo, but Silo grabbed him and slammed him on the ground.

“Let the countdown begin!

Five…

Four…

Three…

Two…

One…

AND SILO WINS! Red Zone IS ELIMINATED FROM THE COMPETITION! SILO MOVES ON TO THE NEXT ROUND!

Dianna stood there with her mouth wide open. She… had… won! She won for the first time in the RBL! She ran towards the arena where Silo was standing. She quickly deactivated “fight mode” and hugged him.

“WE WON SILO! WE WON!” she yelled.

 

After a relaxing period of watching the rest of the competitors fight, (Dianna’s favorite besides her win was Mega Mech vs Pyro, but Luke’s was definitely Rocket vs Blast-a-tron) Dianna, Luke, and Silo walked back towards Dianna’s workshop. Dianna powered Silo down, plugged him in, and put him on the hand truck. Luke went back home, and Dianna went to bed.

 

In the city’s central building, the Overlord was connected to millions of wires that were connected to millions of plugs. The Overlord controlled every part of the city. His pixelated face appeared on the giant screen. He watched the replays of the RBL rounds. He stopped as the beginning of Silo vs Red Zone. He watched as Dianna plugged the USB drive. He watched as Silo beat Red Zone.

“Interesting,” he said. A smaller screen went in front of him, and a camera view of

Dianna’s workshop shot into view. He looked at Silo’s powered down body.

“Nobody knows the true nature of the RBL. I believe that young fighter will soon find out my secret,” he muttered. The screen lifted, and a door opened revealing a smooth titanium robot. “Soon. Very soon,” he said. He laughed, and his face disappeared from the screen.

 

Saturday was Dianna’s favorite day of the week. She had all day to work on Silo, and not to mention, her parents always went out all day, so she had the whole house to herself. Luke couldn’t come, as he and his parents were going shopping. Dianna was disappointed, but she just went down to her workshop. She powered Silo up, and his light blue eyes flickered open.

“Hello,” he said. Dianna smiled. Silo’s warm welcomes always made her feel better.

“Hey, Silo. What do you wanna do today?” she asked.

“Well I — ” Silo started, then he crashed. Dianna looked confused. She always

plugged Silo’s USB in every time before she shut him down, so he shouldn’t be able to crash. She shrugged and opened his code and refreshed it. Silo’s eyes opened again, but they weren’t blue this time, they were red.

“Uhh, Silo?” Dianna asked. Silo turned towards her.

“Virus detected. Security down. Prepare for mode 75,” Silo said in a dark voice.

“S-Silo?” Dianna asked again. Silo’s eyes kept changing to Blue, then Red, as if he was

trying to fight it off.

“Creator! Leave… YOU WILL ALL BE DESTROYED… Go before you get hurt… OPERATION STORM!” Silo and the virus were saying. Dianna opened the hatch at the

back of Silo’s head and shut him down. She deleted all his memories to get rid of the virus, then she plugged in his USB drive to bring the memories back. Silo’s blue eyes opened.

“What happened?” he asked.

“A virus infected you. It seems your built-in security doesn’t hold off that well,” Dianna

explained. Silo looked worried.

“It’s okay, it’s just a small virus. It’s deleted,” Dianna reassured him. Silo nodded.

“Hey Silo, do you know anything about operation Storm?” Dianna asked. Silo got visions.

Flames. Robots attacking humans. But the one in the middle of it was —

“Silo?!” Dianna yelled. Silo shook the vision off.

“No. I do not know anything,” Silo replied. Dianna nodded and looked at the fighting list.

“We’re against… Korben and the Exterminator,” Dianna said. Silo wasn’t paying attention.

Suddenly, the green oval bot floated in and called Dianna up for dinner. She powered Silo down and ran upstairs.

The next morning, Dianna woke up to the sound of the TV. She went downstairs. She saw her mom and dad watching the news. They saw a robot breaking out of a house with a chip in his hand. A policeman was pointing his gun at him.

“Put your hands in the air before I shoot!” the policeman yelled.

“Put your water gun down fatty before I slap that imaginary life out of your body,” the  robot replied.

“I’m warning you, put your hands in the air!” the policeman said.

“You really think I’m going to listen to an old fat guy? Move,” the robot said.

“I didn’t want to do this, but I’ll have to electrocute you,” the policeman said. The robot’s arm turned into a laser cannon, and it shot the policeman. The screen turned to a reporter.

“Robots have been seen attacking civilians, going… rogue. We haven’t had this incident in about 30 years, but if the robots keep going on like this, we’ll have to evacuate. Start off fresh. Get new robots. Restart our whole civilization,” the reporter said.

 

Dianna looked away from the TV. If they thought all robots were becoming dangerous, what would happen to Silo? She walked up to her room where she looked at pictures she had taken together with Silo. Suddenly, her phone buzzed. It was Luke. She stared at the text message he sent.

 

Dianna! Come now! Silo’s here, and he’s going crazy!

 

Luke and his family were huddled in a circle Silo was walking around the room, shooting lasers and breaking objects. Dianna opened the door with the chip in her hand. She saw Silo, and she ran towards him. Silo turned around and grabbed her by the shirt. He had the red eyes.

“OPERATION STORM!” he yelled out. His face screen started glitching. He was still

trying to fight it off. Silo dropped Dianna and staggered to the living room. Dianna ran towards Silo again and jumped on his back. She opened the hatch, and was about to delete his memories, when red lightning shocked her.

“I’M SORRY, BUT I’M AFRAID I CANNOT LET YOU DO THAT,” Silo’s voice echoed. His laser cannon pointed at her then… he powered down. Dianna got up to see Luke pressing the button. Dianna grabbed the chip and plugged it back in.

 

Meanwhile, the Overlord was watching from one of his screens. He yelled out in fury. Dianna didn’t know it yet, but Silo was one of the most powerful, dangerous robots ever made, and he had to get control of him. He had to launch Operation Storm. His screen turned to a view of Korben.

“He cannot beat Silo in the next round. Looks like Silo’s going to have to get… angrier,” he said, as a red chip inserted into one of his wires. He started laughing.

 

Dianna was back in her workshop, trying to see what went wrong with Silo.

“This is the second time this has happened. If it happens again… we’ll have to shut you down for good and make a new chip,” Dianna said. A tear started forming in her eye, but she wiped it off. She looked at her watch.

“Fifteen minutes until my round starts. Let’s go, Silo,” Dianna said.

 

Wham! Crash!

 

Those were sounds of the Exterminator throwing Silo across the walls. The Overlord was planning his timing. Silo got up, but the Exterminator punched him in the face. As Silo got up again, when nobody was watching, the Overlord inserted the chip. Silo’s eyes turned red.

“No,” Dianna muttered. Silo grabbed the Exterminator and started throwing him against the ground. Silo jumped up and body slammed him. As the Exterminator got back up, Silo kicked him towards the wall. Then, Silo grabbed him and threw him in the air. Silo’s laser cannon emerged, and he started rapidly shooting the Exterminator. The Exterminator fell back down, limp. The five second countdown began.

Five…

Four…

Three…

Two…

One…

AND SILO WINS THE ROUND!

 

Silo’s eyes flickered back to blue. He looked confused, then sad when he realized what happened. Silo’s three strikes had gone. His memories had to be erased permanently and replaced by a whole new chip.

 

Back at Dianna’s home, her parents, Luke, his family, and all the bots in the house came to say goodbye to Silo. Dianna walked towards him, crying.

“You’re the best robot I’m going to ever have, Silo. You’ll never be replaced. I promise. G-goodbye,” Dianna said, crying. Luke walked towards Silo.

“You were an amazing robot, Silo. We’ll never forget you,” he said. Everyone went to hug him. Dianna flipped his hatch open and erased everything. Silo’s light blue eyes started fading away.

“Don’t go. Please,” she muttered. Silo’s eyes disappeared. All his lights in his body faded away. Dianna placed his chip into his stomach, so it could be transported to the Overlord.

 

In a room with a lot of wires and machinery with red lights, a small figure made entirely out of code appeared. He wasn’t just small, he was very small. His body was all green with binary code rushing through it. His eyes were still blue, but he even had a proper mouth. On his body, there was writing saying, Silo. He looked confused. Suddenly, the Overlord’s face projected on a screen.

“Welcome, Silo. Welcome,” the Overlord said.

“W-what is this place? Where am I?” Silo asked.

“You’re in the machine room. Only I can access it. This is where all deleted bots go,” the Overlord explained.

“What happened to me? Why was I always going insane?” Silo asked. The Overlord’s

eyes turned redder than usual.

“You’re not like any other bot, Silo. You’re special. Let me explain why. When I first founded this city, I built a robot, so I could use it as a body. You were the bot I built. I could move in and out of your mind as I pleased. Although, seeing on TV how robots can have armies, I designed the RBL so that the most powerful robots could work for me. You didn’t think that was fair. You fought against me. You deleted your own memories, and you were found by that girl. She made your body better and named you Silo. Now that you’re here, I can finally launch my plan. I named it Operation Storm, after your real name,” he explained. The words on Silo’s chest turned into, Storm.

“Now you work for me,” the Overlord said. Silo’s body got surrounded by chains, and the

floor lifted up to a view of the whole city. “Now you have a front row seat to the destruction of the city and the rise of my robot army!” the Overlord yelled out. Silo tried to break free, but the chains were too tight. “Now, if you excuse me, I’ve got a city to destroy,” the Overlord said. Red lightning went from his screen to the titanium robot. His red eyes opened.

“It feels so good to be in a proper body again,” the robot — or rather the Overlord — said. He left the building and walked towards the city.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. IT IS I, THE OVERLORD. I JUST WANTED TO WARN YOU THAT MY PLAN IS COMPLETE. OPERATION STORM CAN BEGIN!” the Overlord spoke. Every robot’s eyes turned red. Everyone started yelling and screaming as the robots started firing lasers at them. Dianna and Luke ran out.

“What the heck is happening?!” Luke yelled.

“I don’t know, but we have to get out of here!” Dianna yelled. As they ran, they ran into Korben, who had a massive gun out and was shooting the robots.

“STAY BEHIND ME!” Korben yelled. His gun wasn’t doing any damage to the robots, but it was pushing them back. Suddenly, the Exterminator came into view.

“Targets located. Exterminate,” Exterminator said.

“Leave! I’ll keep him distracted!” Korben yelled. He started shooting at the Exterminator as Dianna and Luke ran. As they turned towards the exit of the town, the Overlord flew in their way.

“WELCOME TO THE FINAL ROUND OF THE RBL!” the Overlord yelled. Luke stepped in front of Dianna.

 

Meanwhile, Silo was still trying to break free. He spotted the Overlord advancing towards Luke and Dianna. Silo yelled, and his body glitched out of the chains. He ran down the building and towards Dianna’s home, where his body was still standing in the living room. Silo climbed inside.

“Okay, I’ve got to control this without the chip,” Silo said. He started moving the joystick around, and Silo staggered around towards the door.

 

The Overlord shoved Luke aside, where Red Zone and Wrecking Ball caught him and held his arms. The Overlord grabbed Dianna and flew up in the air.

“Where’s your precious robot now, Dianna?” he asked.

“You won’t win,” she muttered.

“I already have! Now, let’s watch this city die together, shall we… update update requiring USB database,” the Overlord started. The robot powered down, and Dianna and the Overlord started falling to the ground. Red lightning shot out of the suit and possesed Wrecking Ball’s body. Dianna kept falling until Silo caught her in mid-air.

“Wait… Silo?” she asked. Silo’s code body appeared from the face.

“Hello!” he yelled. Dianna screamed.

“Who are you? Why are you in Silo’s body?” she asked.

“I am Silo. Just in my deleted form. I can feel emotions and all the stuff I wanted to feel as a robot,” Silo explained.

“Then why is ‘Storm’ written on your chest?” she asked.

“Long story short, my real name is Storm, I was the Overlord’s body, and the RBL was just a trick to make an army,” Silo explained.

“This whole thing was a trick?” she asked.

“Yeah, and I need the chip, so I can transfer my code into this body,” Silo said.

“The chip is in the Overlord’s building,” Dianna muttered. “Silo, fly your body up to the highest floor!” she said. Silo turned the joystick, and Silo’s robot body flew towards the building.

 

The Overlord finished plugging his chip in his robot. The red lightning flew towards the robot’s body, and its eyes turned on.

“Where is the girl?” the Overlord asked. Red Zone pointed at the tower.

“Tell all robots to get them!” the Overlord yelled. Every single robot flew towards the

Building.

“They can delete me up there. I need to stop them before they delete me and get Silo’s

body back!” he yelled. He used his rocket feet and joined the other robots.

 

“Dianna! We’ve got robots coming!” Silo yelled.

“Hold on, there are so many chips here that I’ve got to find the correct one. Aha! Here we go!” she said. As she turned around, she saw Silo fighting off millions of robots that were cracking the windows and crawling through. Dianna saw a large red chip surrounded by lasers.

This must be the Overlord’s chip, she thought. She turned to Silo, who was getting

swarmed by bots. She saw a weird blob swimming around in a test cell.

A virus, she thought. She sighed, and she smashed the test tube on the ground. The

virus floated in the air, and it went to the closest body it could find… Silo’s. Silo’s eyes turned red, and he went full rage on the robots. In about five minutes, all the robots were broken on the ground. The virus came out of Silo’s body and disappeared. Dianna grabbed the chip and was about to plug it in when the Overlord grabbed her hand.

“You won’t win that easily,” the Overlord told her. His eyes glowed more red as he started making a laser. Suddenly, someone jumped in the way…

 

TO BE CONTINUED…

 

Don’t Look at Me

Maria smoothed the corners of the picnic blanket, erasing every imperfection she saw. She frowned as a stubborn wrinkle stayed in place. She stretched the picnic blanket as far as it would go until the wrinkle disappeared. Only then did she smile.

She leaned back, trying to relax. Maria breathed deeply, hoping the smell of grass and sunscreen would slow her rapid heartbeat.

In… two, three, four… out… two, three, four, Maria thinks, closing her eyes. In… two, three — Dammit!

Maria growled, jamming her floppy beach hat tighter on her head. She pulled the edges down, annoyance filling her chest when her hat wouldn’t fit properly. It just felt so wrong.

She yanked her hat off her head, letting her curly hair bounce over her shoulders. Maria grit her teeth as her attention drew to her clothes — it was so messed up, everything was. Her eyebrows furrowed as she adjusted her shirt, because it didn’t look as good on her as it did on her friend, Liza. Why couldn’t she feel good, just for one day? Why?

Maria buried her face in her hands, her eyes burning with frustration.

“Hey.”

Maria looked up in surprise, her cheeks turning red. It was embarrassing enough when Liza found her like this, and it was humiliating for a classmate of hers to see this too. She could already see him, talking to his friends about that weird girl in his English class. Maria could already picture walking down the hallway, whispers swarming her ears —

“Maria, right?” he asked, sitting down on her blanket next to her.

“Yeah,” she answered, in a voice a lot weaker than she liked.

“I’m Philip,” he said.

Maria nodded, her cheeks still warm. She knew that she would only embarrass herself more if she said anything.

“Look, I just wanted to see if you were okay,” Philip said sheepishly. “I saw your little, uh — ” He gestured vaguely with his hands, and Maria’s cheeks burned brighter.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, her voice tighter than normal. Her voice quivered as she spoke, and her eyes welled up with tears as she said that. But it was okay, not even Liza noticed those imperfections in her voice.

Philip studied her face, his eyes narrowed. “You don’t look fine,” he pressed. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“Then stop looking,” Maria snapped, turning away from him. It was so unusual for someone to reach this far, and she didn’t want him to get any closer. She didn’t know if she could take it.

“I don’t think you’re okay,” he continued.

Maria curled her fingers into fists, digging her fingernails into her palms.

This can’t be happening, she chanted in her head. It can’t! It was getting harder to breathe, harder to focus. All she could think about was the way people always looked at her when they knew.

“Please. Stop.” Maria refused to look at him. She knew she’d only find pity there.

“I just want to help you,” Philip said. She flinched as he touched her shoulder. Maria could hear the careful way he talked. She couldn’t bear to have another person treat her like broken glass.

“I don’t think you can,” Maria replied softly. “So just go.”

She could sense him hesitating, wondering if he should leave or not. Maria didn’t hold her breath. She knew he’d leave; they always do.

 

Forsythia

An elderly woman basked in a rare patch of sun, tipping her face up to it. Her position at the moment was quite similar to the tabby and white cat that had curled up beside her, occasionally batting at the long skirt that seemed to be mostly made of fabric that everyone else had forsaken, but that she had deemed valuable enough to clothe herself with. The cat stretched, then in one fluid movement, jumped to its paws, eyes wide with alarm and tail bristling. As she watched, it darted off into the hedges behind her. She sighed. It was a chill autumn afternoon; winter hadn’t gotten its cold claws into the last truly warm autumn days that her village rarely saw, but it would soon, as it always did, and the villagers would suffer for it as they always did. She tucked her knees up to her chest and rocked softly, gazing out on the busy clearing proudly; the villagers were busy harvesting corn, pumpkins, and the rest of the hay to keep the horses fed through the winter, so come next spring and summer, they would be able to work again. And so life went on, she thought. But, why shouldn’t it? It had always gone on, ever since that horrid day. She had not, as a young wench, understood why the whole village, nay, the whole world, didn’t stop for Cynthia.

The cat poked a curious head out of the bush it had been hiding in and mewed loudly at her, interrupting her pondering. “Why’d you run off, pretty one?” she asked, rubbing it under the chin. “What’s there to be scared of here in this quiet, little village?” It rolled in the dust at her feet, loudly purring, and then wandered off to grab a scrap of fish from a fisherman, who stroked the soft tabby ears. Again, she glanced up at the rising sun — it was halfway above the skyline now. Turning her nut-brown face up to the sun, she dozed off. But her peace was soon to be disturbed.

“Granny! Granny!” Granny wasn’t really her name, but that was what the children called her. She did not know what her name had been and could not remember it. Perhaps the wind had swept it away, where it would never be heard again, she mused. She did not know why they called her Granny, for she wasn’t really their granny; she had never had children or a partner. However, they had dubbed her that, and she didn’t mind. Feet pounded the dusty ground, sending clouds of dust her way. Refusing to open her eyes, she heard an insistent clamor of childish voices.

“Is she dead?” That voice belonged to a little girl of about ten. Without even opening her eyes, she could picture the children. They were standing in a ragged semi-circle around her, legs covered in the red dust they’d kicked up, shredded clothing hanging off their bodies. The ten-year-old was dressed in a torn blue sweater that had holes in it, most likely made by moths. The rest of the children were dressed in no better condition, and she worried that the cold winter would take a toll on their frail bodies.

“No, she’s just sleeping. My father says old people sleep a lot,” said an arrogant voice. It tried and failed to take away the worry that the urchins had for her, she thought with a sigh. The child who had spoken was Nikolai, the healer’s son. Despite his arrogance, he made creams for her aching joints when it turned colder, without asking for a few coins in return, like most of the village. He was a sturdy boy of twelve and a hard worker. They’d need that in the winter, she thought. When so many fell ill, there was always a need for another healer. She had fallen ill with a cough last winter, and the healer, Gavrill, had been run ragged trying to treat everybody. It was good that he had another pair of hands. Too bad that his daughter, Kalista, would never be a healer. Once, when Nikolai had scratched his hand on a bit of wood and bled, she had panicked at the sight of his blood and fled. To the rest of the village, that was proof that she was not cut out to be a healer.

“Can I poke her, Nikolai? Can I?” That voice belonged to Kalista. Unlike her brother, she showed no interest in healing, and since she could walk, had been tottering after the hunting parties, leaving Granny to amuse and entertain the child. Not an easy task, even when she was somewhat less energetic at eight — only yesterday, she had dared Nikolai to walk along the fence of the hog sty, and then when he refused to, she’d attempted it herself and fallen in. It had been up to Granny to fish her out and wash her mud-stained clothing as the girl squirmed like a fish, complaining that the hogs were her friends, and that she wanted to be put down, and she didn’t mind being dirty. Granny could imagine the child, already dirty finger pointed at her, green eyes wide with excitement, sunset-red hair in a muddy tangle. She sighed again. And no doubt the girl would have fresh scabs on both knees, compensating for the ones just healed.

“Let’s get her to tell us a story!” Nikolai said, poking his sister and edging closer to Granny, along with the rest of the children. They sat down around her, heedless of the mud and worms that wriggled in the dirt.

“Yes, Granny!” the ten-year-old said, reaching for the cat, which gave a loud hiss and hid behind Granny. “Tell us a story, do!” Opening her eyes, she looked down at the begging girl, her brown eyes staring imploringly up at Granny. With a hand as gnarled as the thick brown tree roots that grew in the forest, she reached down and stroked the girl’s thick, dark hair, eyes still closed. She had been the one to name Galina. It meant “light,” and her thankful parents had allowed her to pick the name; Galina’s mother had struggled to birth her, and Granny had helped as best as she could. She had attended births before. When even the healer could not help, Granny would step in and occasionally receive a pence or two for her troubles.

“I have no more stories, my pretty ones,” she said. “Why don’t you leave this poor old woman alone and go look for rolly-pollies under that massive rock?” Finally opening her eyes, she saw that instead of looking upset about the lack of stories, they looked expectant and had moved still closer.

“There are no rolly-pollies under that rock, Granny.” Kalista stood up, hands on her hips and glared, the sun illuminating her hair. “Galina already looked, and, besides, we want a story, not a rolly-polly!” She concluded this sentence with a loud stomp on the ground with her right foot, sending more red dust up and causing the surrounding children to cough and splutter.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Granny scolded, thumping Galina on the back. She was still coughing, and she had always been a delicate girl. “Apologize, Kalista, or your father will know the reason why Galina’s coughing.” Indeed, Gavrill was circling ever closer, looking worried as Galina continued coughing.

Kalista considered her father, Granny, and her friend. Taking a step closer towards Galina, she spoke: “I’m sorry, Galina. I really am. Now, can we please have a story?”

“Yes, Kalista,” Granny murmured, watching as the children pulled Kalista down into the circle. For once, they were silent, and she watched some of the adults glance at the silent group and let out relieved sighs; it was quite a rarity for the children to be so calm. “Thirty days ago — or was it thirty weeks ago?” she began. “In this very village, there were two young girls. They were twins, and they loved each other dearly, but as siblings do, they fought.” Here Kalista gave her brother a vicious poke and seemed disappointed when he did not respond in kind. “However, one day they were disagreeing, and they had been sent down to the stream to gather wool… ”

***

The two girls clambered down the bank. It was slippery, and the grass was wet underfoot as they walked towards a bubbling stream. It was a lovely spring day, and the girls could see that the forsythia bush the village had planted from the top of the incline was blooming, on account of the blossoms being bright yellow. They both wore homespun dresses and carried baskets of wool, which they occasionally had to stop and adjust to a different place; sometimes they balanced them on their sides, other times they held them in front of their chests. They were twins, but you would not know it, had you ever the chance to look at their faces. One had curly dark hair, and striking brown eyes; they had more purple in them than brown. The effect was that they looked quite a bit like a rare crystal and drew much admiration. The other twin had completely straight brown hair and pretty hazel eyes. She had a few blades of grass that had stuck in her hair, as well as one green leaf.

“Zia, come on!” the purple-eyed twin called, ignoring her sister’s annoyed grunt. “If we keep moving at this rate, we won’t ever make it to the stream!”

“Your basket is lighter than mine, Cynthia!” Zia spat. “Don’t blame me if we don’t get this done on time and get scolded; you never took your fair share of it!”

“No, I did not,” Cynthia retorted. “If you hadn’t spent so much time dreaming in the field, you would have been able to take as much wool as you wanted, but the truth is that I got there first, so I took less wool.”

“Ha!” Zia crowed. “You admit it!” Glaring at her twin, she sprang forward and began to run towards her, waving her fists in a menacing fashion.

Cynthia began running faster down the incline, pausing once to stick her tongue out at her sister. Once she had reached the bottom, and seeing her sister running after her waving her fists, she shrieked: “Help! I’m being beset upon by a wild beast! Help!” Zia, at the bottom of the incline, tackled her sister, knocking both baskets full of wool into the stream and causing them to start floating downstream.

“CYNTHIA!” Zia yelled, watching the wool move away from the girls, wool that they had carefully gathered from the herd of sheep the village kept. It had been their responsibility to wash out this wool, to make sure that it was ready for dying and then felting. After that, clothing would be made out of it for the whole village. And now it was gone. They would both receive a beating for that, at best. At worst, they would receive a beating and be told to look after the crowd of village children — a task they both hated, as the children were little hellions. “This is YOUR fault!” she hissed like a cat.

“MY fault? You’re the one who made me and the baskets fall in!” Cynthia retorted, angry tears springing to her eyes. She had always been the one who was the first to cry during arguments, and Zia knew it. “Look, we can get them out.” She bent over the stream, and fished out a dripping skein of wool for her twin to examine, then bent down to grab another. Looking up at Zia (no easy task, Zia was quite tall whereas Cynthia was smaller), she smiled at her. “You tackled me. Help me with this accursed wool, or I’ll tell.”

“Why should I?” Zia asked, turning her back on Cynthia as if she would start climbing back up the incline. “I’m not afraid of what the village will say, but you should be. You’ve always been the darling of the village — everybody prefers you to me.”

“That’s not true,” Cynthia objected. “The village likes you… ” But there was doubt in her voice, as if for the first time, she was really considering Zia, her reluctance to do chores, to enjoy the company of the other village girls around their age, and her seemingly genuine dislike of the inhabitants themselves. Whereas Cynthia was the opposite of Zia, with her kind behaviors, her willingness to work hard, and her happiness in general with her charmed life. The village did dote on Cynthia and spoiled her terribly, but the girl was none the worst for it.

“You can pick up the wool, Cynthia,” Zia said. “I’m not going to, as Mother will just blame me for it and let you off.” Cynthia’s mouth opened and closed in indignation, but she’d already returned to picking up the wool. Zia sat down on a rock and considered a fat toad hopping towards her, unhappily thinking of the scolding that would come her way.

Quickly and nimbly, Cynthia scooped up every scrap of sopping wet wool, hopping over stones in the river and humming merrily. As young girls, both of them had loved playing in the water, but Cynthia had been faster than Zia in hopping across stones and swimming. Soon, she had filled both baskets with wool, quickly fishing the baskets out of the stream too. A large skein of wool wafted tauntingly past her, and she reached for it, but it slipped out of reach of her fingers. She followed it downstream, and Zia, alertered by the sound of her twin’s splashy footsteps fading away, looked up.

“Cynthia, be careful!” Zia yelled, now standing up and squinting at the forsythia bush, which was a few feet away from her twin. “It’s slippery down there!” Cynthia did not respond, but Zia could see her figure, uselessly trying to pull the wool from the water. Well, if Cynthia wanted to ignore her, that was fine with her, she thought. The stream had a bend that was deeper and faster than the rest, and Cynthia had almost reached it. Zia tried and failed to stop worrying about the water. They were old enough now to ford it — she’d be fine.

As she watched, Cynthia slipped and fell. The rocks were slippery indeed, Zia thought. Or, maybe Cynthia was playing a trick on her and would grab her ankle or splash water in her face when she approached. Yes, that was it. There was nothing to worry about. Moments later, a piercing scream split the air, and Zia’s head jerked up. Almost instantly, she turned and ran toward the area from where she’d heard the scream, her heart thumping in time with her footsteps, dreading what she would find, but knowing she had to go.

“Cynthia? CYNTHIA!” Zia bellowed, desperation taking over as she ran towards the forsythia bush.

***

The children were spellbound, staring at Granny, as two tears slid down her wrinkled cheeks.

“Did she die?” Kalista asked, for once speaking in a voice below a screech. “That girl — Cynthia?”

Granny raised her head, now weeping entirely silently. “Yes. She hit her head on a rock and then drowned,” she somehow managed to say, scrubbing at her face with one wrinkled hand. “And the village blamed Zia for it: They asked her why she couldn’t have pulled Cynthia out of the water, why she hadn’t helped her pull out the wool, why she hadn’t run for help — but by the time I got there, she was already gone.” Realizing what she had said, her eyes widened in fear.

Galina leaned over, putting her head on Zia’s wrinkled shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “You tried to warn her, but she didn’t want to listen.” But there was a bit of fear on her face, as if she had realized what had gone on that day, and why, exactly, the village had blamed Zia.

“Ah, but it was,” Zia said. “If I had gone with her, maybe…” Her voice trailed off as she considered what might have happened.

Nikolai blinked. “So, you’re Zia? And Cynthia was your sister?” He seemed unable to believe her, that the kind, wrinkled woman who had been there to watch him take his first steps, greet his baby sister after her birth, and comforted him after his mother’s death was also Zia — a former outcast who had been too late to save her sister.

Zia nodded. “Yes, I am, and yes, she is.” With that, she turned a serious, hazel-eyed gaze on all of the children. “My sister will always be my sister, no matter if she is with me or not.” Suddenly, her face brightened for an instant. “Did you children notice that there have been more and more forsythia bushes around the village? I planted them each year that Cynthia has been… gone. I planted them for her. For Cynthia.”

 

The End of a World

For the most part, they are silent and still. Only Hussein paces back and forth across the cramped white room. Not even the heavy thuds his boots make seem to distract anyone. The quietness that drapes the rest of outer space in a smothering quilt now covers the tiny space cruiser.

Sofia’s eyes are still red. She can’t see it, but she can tell by the way Tarah observes her and how everything stings when she blinks. Her sight isn’t blurred over from crying, so she can tell that they have about fifteen minutes left before… everything.

Fifteen minutes until they’re the only ones left. Fifteen minutes until they have to drift further away, farther than they’ve already gone. Fifteen minutes before all the contact will be cut off.

Tarah clears her throat. “We’re going to have to talk to them, you know. We have fifteen minutes and twenty-two seconds, counting.”

Hussein stops pacing. He draws up a chair and seats himself. His voice cracks as he speaks. “… We’ve already talked to the government, they’ve already accepted it. Now it’s just your families left.”

“Who’s going first?” Tarah doesn’t look up from the control panel, choosing instead to tap quietly away at the buttons in front of her. She sits with her back facing them both. “Between Sofia and I, I mean.”

“… I’ll go first. Hussein, are you alright with taking over the control panels?” Sofia undoes her hair from the band holding it in place. She thinks about how she was always the one who wanted to go first in the past: She wanted to be the first one to get ice cream from the ice cream truck, wanted to be the first of the three of them to go into space, wanted to be the first to set foot on Mars. Back then, she always was the one who went first, but that was because she wanted to be first.

Now she is only doing it because she knows she has to be first. No one else will go before her. Tarah has made it clear enough, and Hussein doesn’t have anyone back on Earth — he has only had the crew, and he will only have the crew after this.

Sofia dials the buttons, staring down at the spotless white floor of the shuttle. When she looks back up at the hologram, there is only static. A lump begins to form in her throat. Are they already gone? Is this it?

The static disappears, and she sees them. Mami. Papi. Leo. They’re all staring back from behind their hologram at home. If it weren’t for the occasional flickering, she’d almost reach out and touch them.

“Mi hija?” her mother asks.

She waves a gloved hand through them. “Si, Mami. Es tu hija.”

How long has it been since she’s last spoken in Spanish? Has it really been three years since they’ve been sent up here?

Her mother’s smile is outlined in red lipstick. The dimples form on her cheeks. “I’m so proud of you,” she continues in Spanish. “To think — our daughter is the youngest girl to be sent up into space! You’re my daughter.”

“Mami.” She groans a little, remembering all the times before when she’d sit in her cramped kitchen and her mother would be waving around the 99% she got on her test or her scanned certificate from the math teacher.

“You’ve learned so much.” Papi is speaking now, and she can see the tears behind his glasses. “Querida, you are very strong. We are proud to be your parents. You have learned so much, and you have taught us so much.” She thinks back to the hours spent teaching him how to make macaroni y queso as he called (she insisted that he just call it “macaroni and cheese”) and how he’d seat her at the piano and teach her how to play and that she should keep her fingers curved when she played.

“I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. I’m not going to cry again. I’m not going to cry again. “I’m sorry you’re stuck back there. We’ve tried. I’ve tried. Ecuador has tried. The UN has tried. And I hate how there isn’t anything else I can do so far away.”
“Sofia — ” Leo is speaking now.

“People keep telling me it’s not my fault, and I’ve tried to help you get off before it all. But it was never enough. I’m too late.”

Sofia doesn’t realize she’s given in to crying again until she finds herself drying her tears.

“I’m sorry for crying in front of you.” She speaks to Leo now. “I’m sorry you have to see your older sister like this.”

Three minutes left. It’s only felt like a few seconds.

“You did what you could. And it’s okay. I’m not a child anymore — I’m fourteen years old,” Leo says. “It’s okay. I’m just glad to see you before we go.”

And for a moment, like she has thought before, she wants to be back on Earth with them. She knows that she did all she could from so far away on the edge of the galaxy. She just wishes she could do more.

Te amo,” she says. She reaches through the hologram for a moment. Two more minutes.

Te amamos,” Mami says to her. She reaches back, and just for a moment, Sofia thinks she can feel the warm of her mother’s hand holding hers.

She reaches for Papi’s hand, and then Leo’s. She tries holding his hand the longest, pretending that he isn’t a hologram her fingers slip through. She’d taken him to look at the planetarium down in New York, helped him balance on a stool so he could look through a telescope, and hung models of the planets and posters of the constellations up in his room.

They’ve always lived vicariously through the cosmos. Nothing has changed since then.

“I just have one more minute,” she says. One minute before she has to turn her back from their cramped living room all the way down on Ecuador. One minute before she has to turn her back on Earth for good.

Gracias para todo. You taught me a lot,” Leo says.

Forty-five seconds.

“You’ve made it this far. It’ll be hard not to give up, but you have help from your teammates.”

“Be safe. We care about you.”

Thirty seconds.

“I’m going to miss you. I’m going to name some of the planets we find after you like I’ve told you before.”
“So there’ll be a planet named Leo.” He laughs a little. “That sounds awesome.”

Twenty seconds.

“I love you. You’ve taught me a lot, and I’m glad I know everything I do know.”

Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen.

“Thank you for everything.”

Ten, nine, eight. Eight more seconds.

They don’t have to say much more. They’ve already said what needs to be said.

Five, four, three —

“Adios,” she says.

Adios.”

Adios.”

Adios.”

She stares at them for a few more seconds before the hologram flickers off. Her time is up.

“Tarah?” It’s jarring when she switches back to English. “It’s your turn now. You have five minutes.”

“Thank you, Sofia.” She turns away and begins to dial the buttons. Sofia realizes she’s only really seen the pale blonde hair and sleek black eyeliner, and not the dark circles under her eyes and her shaking hands.

The hologram begins to flicker again. Sofia sits down at the table and turns away. She’ll just look away during this.

“Is that you, Tarah?” The voice on the other end shakes, muffled and crackling through the static.

“It’s me, Lauren. Hello.” Sofia doesn’t have to look — she’s seen Lauren before with her short red hair and squarish black glasses.

“I’m scared. I knew this would happen when they talked about it a few days ago, but I never thought it’d be like this. I never thought it would actually happen. I’m scared because I know you and the crew and the USA and the government have tried everything you could for this, and I hate how even though I know it’s all going to be over — ” Lauren cuts off her sentence to breathe through her tears. “ — I’m still scared.”

“I’m scared too,” Tarah says. “I don’t want this to happen, I feel like there was something more I should have done even though we’ve tried everything. I don’t want to leave you behind, but we’re too far away. I feel like I’m hiding away in the shuttle. I feel like I’m a coward.”

Sofia looks at the timer. Four minutes left.

“You aren’t a coward, Tarah. You’ve never been one. You’re brave because you came out to your parents even when you weren’t sure how they’d feel about you. You were the one to talk face-to-face with Mom when she found out about you and found out I was dating ‘another girl.’ You’re brave for asking the government for our marriage papers even when you told me you were scared. You found life on Mars even when NASA told you how dangerous the atmosphere was.”

“Then if I’m not a coward, it’s alright for you to be scared.”

Three minutes and thirty seconds.

“You said I was brave for asking about the marriage papers even if I was scared, right? You told me you were scared, and you’re still here. You’re still holding out till the end even after you told me you’re scared. Even though we got this news from the government a few weeks ago and no one saw it comings, you’re still holding out.”

For a moment, Sofia just hears Lauren breathing.

“I love you. We’ve had obstacles, but I’m glad you’ve made it this far, Lauren. You’re brave for making it this far.”

“I love you too, Tarah. I’m still scared, and I know I can’t help it, but I’m glad to be talking with you before… before I have to go.”

One minute and forty-five seconds, counting.

“I’m glad too. I’m glad I fell in love with you. I’m glad I’ve married you.”

She can still hear quiet crying, but she thinks she can hear Tarah crying too.

Fifty-nine seconds.

“Thank you for everything, Lauren. Thank you for moving in with me at college. Thank you for supporting me when I decided I wanted to do this.”

“Thank you, Tarah.”
Seven, six, five —

“I have to go. Thank you for everything again. Remember you’re full of courage for everything you’ve done for me.”

“I’ll remember. I love you, Tarah.”

Three, two —

One.

The hologram flickers off, and Tarah turns around. She pulls out one of the chairs and stares through the paneled window of the shuttle, away from Earth and the Milky Way and toward the sea of unnamed stars swimming in black.

Hussein doesn’t look up from the control panel, but Sofia asks to make sure.

“Hussein, is there anything you want to do? We have five minutes.”

She expects silence or a brief “no,” but —

“Yes. I want to make a broadcast to Earth.”

“What? Are you sure?” Abrupt, Tarah stands up from her seat.

“I’m sure. I just wanted to say one last goodbye to everyone there. Tarah, could you take over the control panel for me?”

“Yes. I’ll do that.”

The buttons are pressed for the third time in a row. A hologram of Earth starts to flicker to life and spin, and just above that, the faces of everyone on Earth flicker with it.

“Hello.” Hussein waves at the blinking faces.

“My name is Hussein Aamer, I am from Saudi Arabia. Some of you have heard of me, some of you have not, but I am one of the three astronauts sent by NASA into space to look for life on other planets. By then, I was a U.S. citizen and had already completed my science credits for high school and college.”

“My family was killed in the nuclear war when I was a child, and I was sent to America through the refugee program. I’ve lived with foster families for most of my life, and when I turned eighteen, I started my first year at college.”

“I have no one else to say goodbye to but you. You and the crew are my family.”

Four minutes. The engines are shifting into position now, judging by the rumbling.

“I know that Earth can be a cruel place filled with hateful people — I’ve experienced it firsthand. But I also know that my fellow humans can be kind, too. The refugee camp showed me kindness when they rounded us up and tried to teach us English and read us stories. The foster families I have met have been kind, even though they knew I would have to move on to the next family they still wanted me to go to school and get a job and go to college. My crew is my family and have shown me kindness — Sofia Zambrano and Tarah Coleman are two of the most accepting, wonderful people I have ever known.”

“So why am I telling you about this?”

Hussein doesn’t cry, but they hear it in his voice.

“Because until now, Earth is my home, and its people have been my family. We are far from a perfect family, but from the good I know we are capable of being a good family. We have achieved so much in the past few decades, and I am happy to be a part of these achievements.”

Two minutes. Two minutes before everything is over.

“We have discovered life on other worlds together. We have developed temporary cures to slow depletions of natural resources and climate change — think about all the time we have lived. It isn’t luck, it’s because we tried.”

“By now we have done all we could, and I — no, we, the crew of of the Extraterrestrial Life Search shuttle, could not have achieved it by ourselves. We have worked together to make ends meet, we have made compromises, and we have accomplished so much by now.”

Thirty seconds, counting.

“You were my family. Thank you for that. I’m sorry to see you go, but I’m grateful for all that we’ve done together.”

The hologram has begun to flicker. Twenty seconds.

“You have done so much for me as a family I haven’t known for as long, and I will try to repay you as best as I can as we go further. Thank you, NASA. Thank you, Saudi Arabia. Thank you all.”

Nine seconds. Eight, seven, six —

“I don’t have much else to say. So… thank you and goodbye.”

Zero seconds.

The hologram finally flickers out. The faces before Hussein disappear.

Sofia stands up from her seat, wrapping her arms around him. “I don’t believe it’s over. I can’t believe everyone’s… gone now.”

She tries to remember the faces of her parents and Leo, tries to keep them imprinted in her mind just in case the photographs she has from before don’t take. She tries to remember all the words she’s ever learned in Spanish. By now it’s a language she may never use again, but it’s certainly not a language she wants to ever forget.

Tarah stares down at the control panel, looking up to the stars and debris scattered across the edge of the Milky Way. For the first time within these fifteen minutes, she looks back towards the near-blinding light of the Milky Way that they drift further and further away from with each second.

She takes a deep breath. “We don’t know what’s out there.”

“We’ve found life on Mars and Neptune and even Pluto, so there must be something,” Sofia says.

“It won’t replace home,” Hussein says. “But we know there’s something out there to find.”

Exploring new horizons. That’s the motto they picked. That’s what they’re going to adhere to.

Sofia turns her chair away from the window, to face Tarah and Hussein. “Vamonos.”

They turn away from the Milky Way, not looking back as they press the control buttons and the engines speed up.

And then the Extraterrestrial Life Search floats away from the Milky Way, towards whatever new horizons they may chance to find.

No new horizon can replace the planet they used to call home.

 

Testing

      

Flashing lights. Large hands. Tubes. Needles. Moaning. Silence. Coroners. Bodies. Syringes. Blood. Sleep.

 

I stand upon a pristine white stage. I look down at the many cameras and reporters, and I take a deep breath. I smile. “Hello. Hello, everybody. Thank you so much for joining us here today. Soon, as you all know, will be the tenth anniversary of United Labs! Here at United Labs, we’ve created miracles. We’ve cured thousands, and now there are United Hospitals all throughout the world! So we thank you, the citizens, for supporting us through ten years of greatness. We are now putting all our effort into curing and preventing the plague using state of the art technology and the greatest scientific minds to solve this issue. Now, I’ll open up the stage for questions.”

A reporter in a blue suit steps up. “Hello. Don Hei, Metropia Post. Are you sure your tests are humane?”

“Of course! We have created a set of standards to ensure that… ”

 

Blood. Capsule two is vomiting blood. The Attendants rush in. One gives me a sedative. As if it would damage me to see what is inevitably my future.

“Oh, come on. Capsules 6-2 have all died! What was it this time?”

A man in a white lab coat responds. “Vomiting blood, side effect of the plague. The counter drug is only slowing the process.” The man walks swiftly away, making marks on a chart.

“Ugh, wow. Leave us to the dirty work. You know we never get any appreciation. It’s always, oh noble scientist saving us from the plague, but what about us, you know?! Who mops the blood after they vomit?! Who collects the bodies?!”

 

They’re wheeling me up. The soft fuzz that’s grown on my head since my last surgery is being shaved off, revealing a map of scars. Scalpels, masks, tubes, darkness.

 

“Hello. Mr. Green. How have the trials been going?”

“Wonderful. I talked to my lead scientists this morning, and everything’s going great! We are taking some huge steps, and I just want to thank you. Your performance as head of press has been beyond satisfactory.”

“Thank you, sir. Would you mind having the analysis crew send me the statistics on deaths in the labs?”

“Of course.”

 

I remember the before. I don’t think the others do. I have flashbacks from before the plague. I remember them: my family. Not everything. Just bits and pieces. The one I remember most is a little boy. My brother… I think. Sometimes, if I let my vision go fuzzy and squint just right, I can see a pair of hazel eyes staring down at me. The same pair that in my memories looked up at me as I held… my brother’s hand. The other test subjects can’t remember, I don’t think. They used to have a spark of life. A hint of emotion in their eyes, but after two surgeries, it begins to dull, and they start becoming the lab rats the scientists are convinced we are. I’m only me in my memories. I am a product of my mind. On the outside, I am identical to the rest of the subjects. On the outside, I am patient 204589. It’s only when I close my eyes and remember that I live.

 

I sink into my couch and sigh contentedly. I try not to look out the window. Even from the penthouse, the destruction caused by the plague is horribly obvious. The bloodstained streets and the beggars begging for just a couple more cents to buy the latest medicine make it all too apparent. My status. But I am doing my part, seeing as I work for United Labs, which is helping cure this awful sickness. I mean, it’s awesome. I do my part, and they provide me with a state of the art plague protection kit. I wonder what it would be like to be a test subject at United Labs.

 

I hear I’m some sort of marvel. I don’t pass on the plague. It just stays trapped inside of me, killing me slowly. I think I broke some sort of record. Longest life of any test subject. Not that I would know how long that is. I have no idea how long I’ve been here. Time melts under the constant glare of the fluorescent lights. Day and night are lost. I tried to keep track by deaths around me, but there were soon too many to keep track. If I close my eyes and concentrate, sometimes I can almost convince myself that I’m not some sort of human lab rat.

 

Every single tabloid and magazine have created their own crazy United Labs scandal, usually revolving around inhumane experimentation or some such nonsense. It keeps me on a tight schedule of press conferences and meetings. How dare they accuse United Labs of such atrocities! United Labs has given me everything! After my family died, I was put in the orphan relocation center at United Labs, and then when I was old enough to work, they gave me a job. They have built futures for so many. Plus, they are working on developing a cure to this terrible plague!!

 

My favorite thing to think about is escape. It’s pure fantasy of course. I’m kept so sedated I can barely move, and even if I could somehow override that insurmountable hurdle, I’m kept on so many drug’s I might just die from a withdrawal without the drugs. But I can still dream, although I can’t help but wonder: For how much longer?

 

The next wave of fake scandals is bigger than most I’ve seen and calls for me to personally oversee inspections. So of course, I start supervising inspections. The scent of bleach and plastic fills my nostrils, and I pinch my nose. Bed after bed after bed lay in a seemingly endless corridor. Each one identical and immaculate. The only difference being the people themselves. They all have the same vacant look in their eyes. They look like mannequins, and a shiver runs up my spine. I can’t wait for this to be over. I walk quickly down the rows of beds, checking boxes on my clipboard haphazardly and my heart racing. I stop for a second as something catches my eye. A woman about my age, maybe a little older, is lying in a hospital bed identical to all of the other beds lying identically to all of the other test subjects, but something flickers in her eye. I shake my head. I’m seeing things. I have to get out of here.

 

A young man walked passed me today. He’s new. He looked scared out of his mind. His eyes were wide, and I swear he looked at me and saw life. He saw the difference between me and the other subjects. He saw that I was no husk. Even so, his perfect suit and expensive haircut gave everything away. My bet was that he was some hotshot working for United Labs, completely unaware of the truth. Oh well, I will try to act unconscious all day, so they might not sedate me as much, and maybe I’ll tap my finger or something if the man comes by. I can’t wait to see the look on his face.

Something about that woman freaked me out. She seemed… familiar somehow. Her eyes’ seemed almost desperate. As if United Labs was doing anything awful to her. Ha! In any event, there was definitely something strange going on. It was probably just a trick of the light. Yes, that’s it. When I go back tomorrow, she’ll be just as empty as the other test subjects.

Today is my lucky day. Fifteen patients in my row died today. Fifteen!!! The scientists and lab assistants were so busy cleaning that they forgot to sedate me. I’m so happy I could fly. Well actually, I’m like 90% sure that I won’t be able to walk, so flying seems out of the question. But still. I feel free or at least less trapped! I can make some sort of signal to that strange United Labs inspector. I hope his ignorance doesn’t completely blind him.

I hate these daily inspections. Row after row of subjects. They look like corpses, except their chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. It is good that United Labs is helping them. I walk and walk until I find the girl from yesterday. She’s easily distinguishable because of her scars. Most only have one or two, but her head is covered with crisscrossing scars. Puckered white skin that will never again be smooth. In fact, there’s more scarring than unblemished skin on her scalp. I walk over, ticking off boxes on my clipboard haphazardly. When I reach her, her eyes widen, and her body seems to tense, and I hear a faint tapping. I walk closer, and the tapping becomes louder. I look down, and her pale bony finger is tapping the metal frame of her bed. I stare back at her. All of the other patients have been completely still. She’s straining, and her eyes are bulging like she’s trying to tell me something. Her muscles are tensed, and she’s breaking out in sweat with the sheer effort of attempted communication. Her dry lips crack open. I lean in, trying to distinguish any words she’s trying to say. Vocal cords that have been long out of use vibrate tentatively and a voice that had been silent for so long bubbles up forming a single word in a hoarse whisper.

“Lies,” she croaks.

“Crap, sorry about that one. We must have forgotten to sedate her this morning. Just a sec, lemme pump her up,” an attendant blurts out.

Pain. My throat is on fire. Each of my vocal cords a string of torture. The only relief I will find is in the sharp point of the syringe in the attendants hand. One push of the attendant’s thumb will be as good as pulling a trigger, because before I know it, I will be drugged back into submission. Barely alive yet so painfully far from the mercy of death, which seems to taunt me each day, holding blissful oblivion in front of my face, then yanking it away at the last second, forcing me to endure this torture they call life.

Lies. That was what she said to me. Lies. This single word could mean anything, Anything. United Labs has given me everything. Why should I believe that patient over United Labs, who has made me who I am. I stop myself. Who am I kidding. I have read angry letter after angry letter, each one illustrating a new unspeakable crime that United Labs has commited. This single whispered word has given these words life. Each frantically scrawled letter will rise from the page upon which they were written and form a noose around United Labs’ neck. They will that is, if word gets out.

I drift in and out of consciousness. Darkness occasionally fractured by the glare of fluorescent lights. Sometimes in the darkness, hazy, distorted images appear of syringes and blood and operating tables and sometimes a glimpse from the before. A flower in a meadow swinging slightly in the breeze, or a hand weathered and calloused but gentle, or sometimes even a face, distorted and twisted, but still a face of someone I once knew.

I go over the possibilities again. Maybe some rival company snuck in here and made her say it. Maybe she was having some sort of hallucination. These naive questions are merely space fillers, distractions in a flimsy attempt to block off the real question: What should I do about this? There is little doubt she is lying, but… her words open a new door. A whole new realm of possibilities. Her voice has given meaning to the thousands of conspiracies, allegations, and failed lawsuits. What now separates fact from fiction? Which theories are just that, and which ones are more, and even if I somehow uncover truths, what will I do? What can I do against the most powerful corporation there is? What can anyone?

I must escape. My drug induced dream land has finally disappeared, and I must escape. I am completely and utterly trapped. Trapped in a prison of flesh that refuses to obey me. I must break loose from the constant stream of sedatives. My last spindly fragile thread of hope has snapped in that United Labs employee. The so-called press secretary. The one who was supposed to speak the truth to the public. What an atrocity. The strongest words for hate or anger could not begin to express what I feel towards these sins. I must do something, anything! If this only leads to death, well it’s not like I have anything worth living for. I suck in a breath mustering all the strength I have, and…

I’m sprinting towards the center, towards the patient beds. I’ve finally figured it out, well, bits of it. But first, before anything, I must get that test subject before the guard’s break is over.

I stare down at my feet. Blood trickles out of the places where my many IVs and tubes once were. I feel nothing. I’m lightheaded, and pinpricks of light dance through my vision, but all I am focused on is my body. I sway slightly. My bones feel brittle, hollow like birds. It’s almost as if I could take flight at any moment, fly out of this broken body. What once was muscle is now flaps of skin. Clinging to my bird-bones. The lights in my eyes grow brighter, and suddenly I am in a grassy field at dusk. Blinking lights dance all around the field as if they are flying. I look down and wide hazel eyes look up, accompanied by a grin of crooked teeth. The lights go out, and all of a sudden, I am alone.

I sprint into the hospital, and the test subject is on the floor, a tangle of IVs framing her head like a twisted crown. I whip my head around. No guards in sight. I shake her frantically, willing her to wake. She jolts awake and immediately tries to wobble to her feet. I loop my arm around her, and we start to walk. Each disjointed step she takes sends spears of anxiety through me. I constantly check my shoulder, terrified of a guard meandering through the hallway. She is painstakingly slow, and by the time we finally make it to my car, it seems as though eons have passed. I help her into the car and speed off, leaving an empty hospital a little more empty. Black skid marks from my car scar the pavement. As absolute as what I had just done.

I quickly realized that going up the stairs to my apartment is futile. I give up and steer the patient into the elevator. I’m barely paying attention to the patient. My mind is a storm of thoughts and emotions. What did I just do. My thoughts are interrupted as I see the patient tearing at my apartment.

“Wait, what are you doing?!” I blurt out.

She doesn’t respond and continues to paw through my home until finally she reaches the pantry. Her eyes widen, and she snatches a brightly colored box of cookies. The big bright pink letters contrast with the bleak white of her hospital gown and the pale deathly pallor of her skin. She sits on the couch, keeping her distance from me, and starts shoveling the cookies in her mouth. She suddenly looks so familiar, like family almost, but no. I’m an orphan, my parents and twin sister died of the plague. I was raised in a United Labs orphan relocation center, but now that I see it, her face, her eyes, she looks like me. The patient is staring at me.

“Brynn?” I whisper.

I stare at this person, the sweet, familiar aftertaste of the cookies still lingering. This person who has just uttered my name, and suddenly I catch his eye. His eyes are the very same hazel eyes that visited me in my memories. The very same ones of my brother.

“Ronan?”

It all comes together.

It all comes back.

Each memory.

Each moment.

“What happened,” I whisper. What horrible fire consumed our happy lives and left us with this burned, disfigured world.

 

Over several hours, Brynn and I place shards of memory in place and pick apart conspiracies until we have something resembling a timeline. Basically, our lives were normal. United Labs was merely a shadow, until a brilliant idea struck the (clearly insane) CEO of United Labs, Eris Eliades. She would create a plague that would stump every other health organization. The world would go crazy, and out of the chaos, United Labs would come, providing pricey partial cures to the plague. Everyone in the world would want these cures, and United Labs would have complete control. Anyone, especially those in power, would do anything for safety from the plague. Soon, United Labs controlled the world. Anyone opposing Eris Eliades would be sure to get the plague and die a horrible death.

“We have to find her”
I jump, still not used to the grating voice of Brynn.

“Who?”

“Eris Eliades. We have to stop this.”

I pause. There is no way the security cameras didn’t pick up what I did. There are probably already “wanted” posters with my face on it ready to be plastered all around the world.

“It’s hopeless,” I respond.

“Not when there are others.”

“I have spent so long listening in to the secrets of guards and scientists. I know that there is a small resistance on the edge of United Labs controlled area. Even if we fail to get to Eliades, if we can broadcast it, then we can succeed. Now I need you to sketch out the building.”

“Here is the hospital building,” I say as I point to the largest square on the paper. “These circle are guard stations. This big circle in the middle is the central guard station. Not only is it constantly staffed by guards, it is where the surveillance database is located. Now this little box branching off of the central guard station is the break room, where the guards are when they finish a shift. Now this building branching off of the hospital is the Laboratory area. This is where they are testing new substances. It has crazy security, but if we manage to get through there, I’m sure we could find some incriminating evidence. Finally, these are the corporate offices, where I work. From what I know, Eliades splits her time between the top office.” I point to the top of the corporate offices. “Which is covered in security, and the lab.” I finish.

I nod, thinking. “So I propose that we go into the hospital, at the time when the guards switch shifts, then we lock them in the breakroom. We then find extra uniforms. I’ll wear a hazmat suit, because I look a little conspicuous with my scars and all, and you will wear a scientist uniform. Of course we’ll have to knock one out to get their ID cards. Then we will go through the lab, and if Eris Eliades is there, we will get revenge.”

“And if not?” Ronan asks.

“Then we will go to the corporate offices and say we are there for a meeting with Eliades.”

“So it’s a plan,” Ronan says, his eyes hardening with determination.

I run into the back room of my apartment and grab my mobile broadcasting equipment. It’s what I use for press conferences if my TV crew can’t come. “With my password, I can broadcast this all over the world.” I know the power of media. I know that this could be the spark that sets the world aflame. Brynn nods her head and gazes forward, her eyes as hard, as sharp, as the knives that scarred her.

 

We stand outside of the hospital, My eyes on my watch. In exactly five seconds, we will creep into United Labs and put our plan into motion. I click my mobile broadcasting set, and it whirs to life.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

We dash through the sliding doors and sprint underneath a bed right behind the central guard system. We see one shift worker sigh and head towards the break room. They step in, and the door squeals shut. Brynn, ghostlike, runs towards the door and shifts the bolts into place. She turns back at me, and her pain seeps through her stony expression. This, for her, is a place of nightmares. “Let’s go,” she whispers. We run to the nearest supply closet, and we dig around until we find what we are looking for, an extra uniform for me and a hazmat suit for her. With all of the profits that United Labs is rolling in, it is no wonder they are able to have such lavishly stocked supply closets. I try hard to remember what my life was like, what I was like before my world turned upside down, when I was just an unassuming United Labs employee. I take a deep breath in, and I push open the supply closet doors.

I walk down the halls as confidently as possible. I clench my hands together, a desperate and useless attempt to stop myself from shaking. The fluorescent lights illuminate my too-pale skin. Even under the hazmat suit, I feel naked. Something’s off. I just know it. We haven’t seen anyone since the guard station. I try to shake my unease. I look towards Ronan. He looks equally perturbed. He is focused on his broadcasting equipment, and he is typing up captions. We reach the huge metal door separating the hospital from the lab. Ronan enters the security code, and the door whooshes open. Not a single soul is inside the lab. I gasp as Eris Eliades steps into the light of the lab, a giant clock behind her. Her perfectly tailored white suit smells of bleach, and each white hair on her head is perfectly swept into a tight bun. The harsh lights make her pale skin look ghostly and her sharp features skull-like.

“Well, isn’t this a picture,” she croons, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“The runaway patient and her ex-employee brother.”

I look at Ronan. His mouth is agape in horror as she walks towards us.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” she says to Ronan. “You didn’t really think that you might fool me.” She puts a hand on her chest, fake surprised.

 

“You think that I didn’t know about what you were up to this whole time? You think that your apartment doesn’t have surveillance cameras in every room? You think I didn’t know that you two were siblings?” Eliades sighs. “Such ignorance. Well, I suppose you know I can’t have this getting to the press.”

My eyes widen. She doesn’t know about the broadcasting equipment. She doesn’t know that her every word is being shown to her loyal employees right now.

“Why?” Ronan asks, his eyes fiery.

“Humans have ruined this world for too long! I will fix the mistakes of our stupid predecessors, I will control the population, and with me there will be peace, and I can’t have you ruining it.” Ronan shakes his head.

Her eyes harden. She pulls out a white revolver as pristine as she is and points it, at me. Ronan’s eyes widen. Her eyes harden and she

Pulls

The

Trigger.

 

I stare in shock as she falls backwards, slowly. All I can hear is the tick tock of that huge clock across the wall.

Her body hits the floor.

Tick.

Blood rushes out.

Tock.

Her lips part.

Tick.

“Take the video and run,” she whispers.

Tock.

I look into those dying green eyes.

Tick.

I look down at the person who changed my life.

Tock.

And I run.

 

Epilogue

Ronan positioned the mobile broadcasting equipment atop his podium. He clutched his speech, the piece of paper too flimsy for the heavy words upon it. He looked down at the crowd below him. He saw hard faces, eyes aflame with anger and passion, each one wanting revenge for what United Labs had took from them. These were the writers of the angry letters. These were the people who United Labs left behind, these were the victims, the survivors. They held Red Flags, each one plastered with Brynn’s face with a crown atop her head. They had made her beautiful, with a full face and open eyes. So foreign from her hollow face and dying eyes. They made her a martyr, a symbol for survival. How funny that they now gathered around her casket. He took a deep breath, checked his equipment one last time, and began to speak, each of his words a dagger into the facade of United Labs.

 

Little Bird

     

The Cove

Its water an incredible, powerful beast

Dormant for years

Warmly welcoming her father’s fishing boat and allowing her to splash in the shallows as a child

Then suddenly awake

Awake

Awake and angry

Filled with the things people toss away

Plastic straws from summer picnics and papers with old news

It swallows all that come near

Swallows them in rising tides

And storms that have no mercy

Its waves, its hands, pound

Against rocks made smooth by weather and time

Wren

Her mother’s little bird

The one her father left behind when he found out

Left in the night in the boat that first caught her mother’s eye

She stands in the surf

Her white dress soaked through

Numb

 

Home

Her home

Its broken glass

And shells and things from the deep

Blown in from the storm

All covered in dust

A fractured nest

Since the storm

The storm that took everything

Family photos and china plates

Patio chairs and hand painted shutters

The storm that broke the glass and tore open the walls

The storm that sucked her mother into its maw

Taking her forever

And then left

Left the little bird by herself, without a mother

 

Alone she walks

The little of what’s left of her red hair

Caught in the cool summer breeze

The dust clinging to her dress

Her dress

Once so perfect

But torn and dirty now

Alone she walks

Through the town miles away from her broken home

The town of stares and whispers and pointed fingers

The town of normalcy and family dinners

Of barbecues and sunny days

The town of friends long gone

Gone, blaming her for her father’s choice

Vilifying her mother for not finding another

She’s learned to ignore it

She wouldn’t come here at all

But even little birds have to eat

 

By the market she sits

Tin can in hand

A tin can found in the wreckage of her home

The clink of people’s spare change her only hope

Relying on the guilt

Of people that call her mad

To them, she is simply a girl who went insane after the storm they barely noticed

 

Walking home

The dirt path again

Stale bread sandwich in hand

Fireflies flicker around her

Dancing in the dark of the twilit forest

Walking up the stairs

That creak and moan and bend

The door

A purple door

A rusted knob

At the table

Where she once sat with her mother braiding her hair

Red hair just like her own

But her eyes are her father’s

As the lights flickered on and off

And a harsh wind rattled the windows

The booming thunder

The crackling lightning

And clouds that can’t decide if they’re blue or gray

Now she sits

By herself

Red hair uneven

Cut by scissors she found in the bathroom

 

Trying to find sleep

On a blanket outside her mother’s door

Sleep doesn’t come

Instead come visions

Visions of running along the cove

With her mother and a faceless man

Visions of family dinners on Sundays

Her parents laughing at a joke she just told

About a pirate’s 80th birthday

And at bedtime

Her parents tell her the story of the wren

The one that wasn’t as strong or as fast as the other birds

But realized it didn’t necessarily need to be

And became king of the birds

But even in her dreams she knows none of it is real

 

Morning

The pale sunlight sneaks through the broken window

And dances upon her head

From the dust she rises

Walking out of the house

Down to the shore

The water calm and shimmering with early morning light

A washed up rowboat bobs gently on the surface

In that moment she makes a decision

Looking back at what was her home

But hasn’t been in months

 

Thinking of the possibilities

Of finding her father

Of joining her mother

She pushed off the shore

And flew away

Over the coral guts of the great beast

 

Untitled Novel (Excerpt)

 

Chapter One

 

He shivered.

After hours of searching through the forest, Ky had curled up on the roots of a great oak. Even though the huge branches and thick leaves kept the worst of the rain away, some had still made it through, soaking his already wet clothes. His brain was still a bit dazed from the confusion, but he was sure this wasn’t a dream.

 

Ky had woken up that very morning, feeling just fine, when his parents had taken him on a car ride. It was bizarre for his parents to wake up so early, but he agreed. He was still tired so he had fallen asleep at one point during the trip.

Next thing he knew, he was awake, rain pouring down on his face, and his parents nowhere to be seen. First, he had felt confused, but that quickly turned into panic. A stone feeling inside his heart, making his breathing uneven. Frantically, Ky had wandered through the forest, shouting for his father and mother. All that answered was the howl of the wind. At least they let me have my Holo, he thought. The watch surface of the Holo generated a coat-like hologram that protected him from the weather. But that thought soon disappeared, when water had somehow seeped into the mechanism. Slowly, the rain that pelted down on him drenched his clothes and hair. In his boots, his feet swam in rainwater until they became completely numb.

The forest was huge, for even after hours of trekking, Ky still couldn’t see the edge. The rain turned into thunder, joined by occasional lightning far away. He knew he’d have to find shelter soon, so he continued his hiking. He didn’t know how long he had been in the rain when he finally found the great oak. He huddled next to the trunk of the tree and closed his eyes for the first time since the morning. That’s when he heard it. A rustle somewhere in the bushes that surrounded him. The source of the noise revealed itself, a huge black bear. Little cubs ambled behind their mother, not sure why she stopped. Ky froze. This was one of the worst situations he could possibly encounter; a mother bear. He knew that mothers were the fierce ones, especially when their cubs were nearby.

Getting back to his senses, he slowly stood up, careful to not startle the bear. His hands shook as he carefully moved around the tree. Her eyes followed his every move, boring into his. Suddenly, she jumped onto her hind legs, roaring. She lunged at Ky, paws outstretched.

 

The Cooling Rack (Excerpt)

Death is not something people take lightly. People die, others mourn them, and then we eventually forget about them.

***

“Hey, Ian! How’s it going? It’s such a nice day outside, right?” A woman’s voice screams through the phone. “Look, man. We’re understaffed today and could use your help in the kitchen. Sorry not sorry, this is mandatory!” The phone beeps, signaling the end of the call.

I look up at the overcast sky, then down at the phone. BOSS LADY reads the caller ID. This woman, Paige, is the owner of the only bakery in town, The Cooling Rack. I happen to be her favorite employee, as I don’t complain when tasked with cleaning or any kitchen-related tasks, even when the orders are given everyday. Paige was never close to her employees, but even though I’ve been one of the longest lasting employees, she’s still so cold. Yet, I have the vague sense that she’s developing some sort of motherly affection for me. Paige is only four years older than me, yet she treats me like a young child, and “children shouldn’t be late to work!” as she is known to say. I sigh, letting my feet mechanically drag me towards the bakery, tripping over the uneven sidewalk and tree roots. The walk is not long, but by the time I arrive at The Cooling Rack, rain has started to fall. The little bells on the glass door announce my entrance into the bakery, and that’s where Paige, a short woman with dyed bright blue hair, bounces up to me and shoves a dark blue apron into my hands.

The Cooling Rack is not big and roomy, but it has a feeling of home. The walls are wooden, and the light is tinted a soft orange, which blends with the fiery hues of fake fireplaces. Black and white photos, ranging in content from leaves blowing in the wind to a woman walking her dog, add a small but noticeable contrast that evens out the excessive warm tones. People of all shapes and sizes pass by, picking up coffee, a snack, or a loaf of bread to bring home to their family. Children sip mugs of hot chocolate while their guardians type on silver laptops, buried in work. It’s a refuge for all, and it would be a shame if it were to close.

“Hey, man! Haven’t seen you since yesterday! Anything fun happen?” A tall man pulls me into a constricting hug against my will. The strong arms belong to my friend, Eli.

I shrug my way out of his grasp. “No, just the usual. Nothing exciting.” I speak quietly, hoping not to get in the way of any of my coworkers. “What’s my job for today?”

“If I remember correctly,” he bends down to my height, “cleaning. Good luck, man!”

With a slap on my shoulder, I make my way to the closet, tying my apron on the way. I pick up a broom and dustpan, find an empty and quiet corner of the kitchen, and start the monotonous task of sweeping burnt bread crumbs off the floor. I hum a tune, in sync with my sweeping, but not in sync with the music already playing softly throughout The Cooling Rack. The sound of an oven beeping joins me in song, but I barely acknowledge it. The quiet jazz playing throughout the store masks the continuous noise from the machine by my waist. The people crammed into the kitchen workspace are all immersed in their work, whether the task was spreading jelly on toast or shaping dough into little bunnies. The quiet beeping remains unnoticed, even when small streams of smoke sneak their way into the air.

“Is something burning?” The woman stirring soup looks over her shoulder and locks eyes with me. “Could you check it out?”

I nod and take a look around the kitchen. Something in the oven I was just standing near is indeed burning, even though there is not enough to set the smoke detectors off. Crouching down, I open the door, and my glasses do little to stop the sudden cloud of smoke that encases my face. The smoke detectors rip through the forgotten music and panicked voices of the employees and customers.

“Get everybody out of here!” Fire seems to be the death for today. Yesterday it was drowning. I wonder what tomorrow will bring. The burst of heat pulls me from my thoughts, and I’m thrown backwards and against the wall as my glasses shatter on the floor. My apron gets caught on a stovetop dial, which turns on the stove at max heat. Fire erupts from the grate beneath my right hand, burning the thin flesh. I yank my hand upwards and out of the fire, only to hit the cupboard above my head with a loud thud, and the metal pots and pans tumble down from the shelves. Each time a pan smacks my body, a painful blood-curdling scream follows. I fall to my knees and land on my the remains of my glasses with a broken cry. The shards tear through the exposed skin, which would only be possible when a person is wearing ripped jeans, as I am. I hold my hand to my mouth, as an instinctive attempt to block out the smoke, but I already knew it was pointless. Looking up into the smoke, the biggest metal pot, the one we never use, glints in the firelight, as if smiling at my inevitable death.

“Oh, dear lord,” I whisper before the impact and everything goes black.

 

Mastermind (Excerpt)

        

Prologue

Colorado, Denver, USA

2103

I stepped over the broken glass shards and entered the bank. Right in front of me was the reception, and to the left of me was a flight of cobble stairs. To the right of me were three doors. The first one was an oak door which said money counting room. The second one read file room, and the third one read surveillance room. This was at midnight, when the number of guards was smallest. I leveled my gun to my eye and looked around. My name is Deben, Deben Heathrow. I own new tech industries, and I am the richest man alive. Right now, I’m about to get richer. I heard footsteps against the cobble floors coming from the second floor. That was probably the cops. I ran toward the nearest door and hid inside it. I then turned the smooth metal lock.

“You hear something, John?” shouted the first cop.

“Nope,” replied the second cop, John.

I looked around the room I was in. I realized that I was in the file room. To the right of me was a bookshelf, and opposite to that was a window. In front of me was a wooden desk with a portrait facing the opposite direction. On the desk was a computer. Next to the computer was an Ikea lamp, and in front of the computer was scattered with files, but one file caught my eye. It was stuffed with photos, articles, headlines, and Post-it notes, and it all was crammed into one vanilla colored file.

 

Genius files: classified

 

I knew what this was. This was the file for the 10 gifted geniuses in the world. I slipped it into my bag and carefully unlocked the lock. Then, a bright light shone beneath the small crack in the door, and I locked the door again. I think the police heard me because the footsteps got louder.

“Hey, anyone in there? John, you in there?” He tried the knob, and when he found it wouldn’t give, he cocked his gun.

I opened the door and smashed the butt of my machine gun onto his head. His nameplate read out Mike. He was a middle-aged man wearing a blue shirt and black pants. He had a jug of coffee in one hand which had spilled all over the floor. I ran up the flight of stairs three steps at a time and looked around. There were three vaults and a staircase to the next level. I ran to the first vault and started working my way through the passwords. The vault was silver, and the handles were gold. I put my ear against the vault door, its smooth, cold surface touching my ear. 90 70 100 40 50. Then, I heard the metallic clink as the vault door opened. I jumped inside and locked myself in. I stepped inside the circular vault. In the center was a tower of gold bars and stacks of money. There were coins scattered across the floor, and the ceiling was as tall as a giraffe. Then, I started filling my bag with gold bars and stacks of money. The coins that didn’t go into the bag clattered on the floor. A few dozen coins clattered out of my hand, and that’s when the cop heard me.

“Hey, open the door! Mike, come in here. I need the password for vault one!” shouted the other cop, John. I froze. “Mike? Mike, answer me!”

I heard the footsteps descend the stairs. That bought me more time. I continued to fill my money bag for 15 minutes when I heard John’s gun, but then I also heard five more guns getting loaded. I slung my money bag over one shoulder and aimed my gun at the vault door that would open any minute. I talked my command into my valtraneon that was parked in the roof of the bank. A valtraneon was a car that had multiple functions. The whole front part was black. Even the windows were black. It emitted red light from both headlights and the taillights. But the wheels were the special part. They could turn 270 degrees, and they would release fire, hence making the car hover. It also had a sticky function which defied gravity, letting it fly up walls. It had rope functions, speed functions, gun functions, and a skydiving option.

“Valtra, dig a hole in exactly 39° 44’ 34”N 104° 58’ 36”W!” I shouted into my electronic wireless wristband. A few seconds later, I heard the electronic hum of my valtraneon above the bank. I heard the turning of the dial as the police unlocked the vault.

“We need backup at the Denver bank! I repeat, we need backup at Denver bank!” shouted John into his walkie-talkie.

Then, the vault opened in a whoosh, and the six police stepped in. Then, I threw my smoke bomb. It started spinning madly while it released foggy, green air. The looks on their confused and surprised faces were all I saw before they perished in a gust of smoke. I heard the sirens outside the bank. The wailing escalated as it finally arrived. I carefully stepped over the deceased bodies and saw as the FBI charged in in formation. They all wore black suits with black bulletproof armor, and their heads were covered with black paintball helmets and black ski goggles. I ran back into the vault to find that a circular chunk of the ceiling had fallen off.

“Valtra, deploy rope!” I shouted into my wristband. Instantly, a tightly knotted rope fell down, just scraping the floor. I grabbed the rope.

“Valtra, pull up rope!” The rope started pulling up, and that was when the FBI came. They pointed their gun at me and started shooting rapidly. I was halfway when a bullet pierced half the rope, and I lost balance. The files in my pocket slipped out, and I was too late. They fell to the floor, but when they reached the floor, they had a big hole straight through the middle.

“No!” I screamed. “You bastards, do you know what that is?”

“Come down now!” said one of the soldiers in a deep voice. I got onto my valtraneon and closed the door and opened its black window.

“It’s the freakin genius files!” I screamed as the valtraneon whirred away. “And now you destroyed the files!”

I dropped a grenade into the roof and closed my window. I knew what was coming next. I closed my eyes and put my pinkies in my ears. The ear deafening boom could be heard across the horizon. I heard the screams of terror from the innocent men. I saw the red and orange billowing out of the roof of the bank. I looked outside the window at the sun. I had lost track of time at the bank. It was 3:00. I made my way to my mansion on the edge of Michigan. It was going to be a long way home.

 

Train Ticket

I woke up with the sun. I never used to wake up with the sun, sleeping well into ten o’clock, but very recently, my body began to shake me awake in time to watch the sunrise. I didn’t know what change had caused that, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Sure, it required an extra cup of coffee at work, but I didn’t mind watching the yellow and orange hues of the sky.

That’s not true, I lied, I know what caused the change. What had begun the trend of waking up with the sun. It was him. It was the move.

I yawned, sitting up in my bed. Stretching my arms out, eyes closed and still full of sleep. It felt strange, waking up in a bare room. Not entirely bare, though, filled to the brim with brown boxes. Taped up so that it locked my stuff, my memories, away. It didn’t feel like my room anymore. All its charm was lost, charm that I had worked so hard to build.

But whatever, I thought, no use complaining now. It was all said and done, and now I had a train ticket on the dresser and an apartment full of boxed up memories. Joshua was expecting me soon, anyway.

I had coached myself into the same speech every time I watched the sunrise at an ungodly hour. You love him. He loves you. This is the natural progression of your relationship. It usually worked, providing at least a little bit of comfort.

That was months ago, though, and now it seemed too real. Too soon. And that same speech couldn’t take the edge off the anxiousness I felt.

It also didn’t help that today was my last day of work and the day the movers were coming, and the first thing I saw was the train ticket, sitting quietly on my bedside dresser. Not quietly enough for my taste.

Joshua booked me a train ticket himself… he thought I would like the view better than a plane.

I staggered out of bed, head still clouded with missed sleep. The boxes continued out of the bedroom and into the kitchen and living room. Piled boxes that taunted me. Saddened me. I ignored them as I also trained myself to do ever since they’d been packed up.

My phone was charging on the kitchen counter, and it was the first thing I picked up. I turned it on and found a message from Joshua and Tabitha. Unsurprising but not unpleasant though, not entirely.

 

Josh: one more day! miss you so much!

 

Reading his messages made me feel guilty for all the time I’d spent regretting my decisions and worrying about the future. It was clear what we were supposed to do and what was supposed to happen, so… why did it feel so wrong to me? I couldn’t tell you, still can’t, but all I do is feel wrong. Then, I feel guilty. It’s a pretty shitty cycle, so I moved on to Tabitha’s text.

 

Tab: last day 🙁

 

I frowned, lightly. Last day of a lot of things, I guess. Last day of work, something that I should celebrate, but it also felt like yet another part of my life that I was abandoning.

I glanced behind my shoulder and out the large living room window. The sun was beginning to peak out from the tops of the buildings. I had a lot of time before my last day of work. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to spending quality time with my thoughts.

 

The rest of the day was a little bit of a blur. Perhaps my body had been doing everything to prevent the wave of emotions from flooding into my system, so it reverted to blocking it all out. I wasn’t sad about it, though. I didn’t mind not feeling much.

There were a lot of tearful goodbyes from my coworkers. Cards and hugs. Tabitha was there too. She usually was off on Thursdays but had promised to be there for my last day.

“The magazine won’t be the same without our star journalist,” she joked. I laughed, but it felt a little too real. A little too close to home.

She had offered to take me to the train station tomorrow too, but I had declined. It was my own battle to fight, that train.

After work, the movers came and took all my boxes and furniture that I didn’t need anymore. Couches, lamps, kitchen supplies, all sold and leaving me. Posters, video game controllers, and my 80’s movies DVD collection were packed inside big suitcases.

I felt empty when they left. An empty person to match their empty house. It was like every bit of my life was taken from me and loaded onto a truck, and I didn’t understand it. Shouldn’t I be happy? Josh and I were moving in together. I get to see my boyfriend everyday and not just through nighttime Skype calls. Shouldn’t I be over the moon, jumping for joy? Shouldn’t I feel somethinganything? No, I felt something.

Sadness. I felt a lot of sadness.

Finally, I gave up. I couldn’t stand being in this apartment anymore. So, I left for the deli. I walked past yellow taxis that honked too much, and I wondered how long I had to be annoyed at them.

 

“Leaving today, huh?” Mike asked, arms crossed over the counter. I smiled.

“Uh-huh. Train bound for Chicago leaves tomorrow… ”

“You excited?” he asked.

“Of course.” That was always my response. I thought maybe if I said I was excited enough, I’d grow to believe it.

“Well… I’ll miss you, Jen. The usual?”

My usual was a turkey on a roll. Little bit of mayo and three tomatoes. No lettuce. Mike knew. I’d been coming here as long as I’d lived in the city. My little slice of home. It never hit me that in Chicago there’d be no Mike. No Sal either, and I wouldn’t get to say goodbye to Sal because he worked the first half of the week and Mike worked the second half. In Chicago, there’d be no Mike or Sal, and I’d have to say my order out loud because the deli owners there wouldn’t know my usual.

The emptiness was coming back to me.

“Here you go,” Mike said, sliding the wax wrapped sandwich across the counter. I handed him my crumpled five dollar bill. He refused with a sad smile.

“Tonight is on me, Jen,” he told me. My heart bubbled with warmth. “Consider it a going away present.”

“Mike… I’m gonna miss you so much.”

I’d miss Mike and Sal. I’d miss Tabitha. I’d miss the city and the Hudson River and Central Park. I’d miss the West End Magazine, and I’d miss my apartment. Not the one now, but the one where all my boxes were unpacked and all my memories were preserved.

God, I’d miss my home.

 

The last thing the movers took was my bed, and I only had my suitcase filled with essential items I used last night and will use on the… train ride. Chargers, toothbrush and toothpaste, and other stuff I absolutely needed. Everything was finally gone. It hurt… it was all gone.

My train ticket was still there, though. Burning a hole into my kitchen counter. I was stalling all morning. Took an extra ten minutes in the bathroom. Ate an exceptionally long breakfast of pasta leftovers that I took a little bit too much care into stirring before putting in the microwave. I stared out the window, blank-faced, for longer than normal. I called the cab twenty minutes later than I should have.

I lingered inside my apartment, my home, and wished it would all go away. The texts Josh was sending me, full of smileys and hearts and warm messages about seeing me. The movers, the empty living room. I wanted it all to just… stop.

It wouldn’t though, and I had a train to catch.

 

The cab ride was smelly. Cabs were always smelly, though, so I wasn’t particularly surprised. Something was different about this cab ride, though, because I found myself feeling nostalgic at the bad smell rather than lightheaded and annoyed. A small smile twitched at the corner of my lips, my heartstrings tugging.

I peered out of the taxi window to see the New York City skyline becoming smaller and smaller. I closed my eyes, leaning back against the car seat. It’s really happening, huh? was my only thought. I’m really leaving the city.

I wasn’t sure the nausea pooling in my stomach was entirely from the lurching taxi ride.

 

I arrived at the platform just in time to see the loud train, screeching and clunking and roaring down the tracks. I ran towards the edge, breathless from the running across the train station to make the train I was watching pull away. I had missed it.

For a few seconds, I was silent as I watched my ride towards Josh and towards my new life disappear down the endless tracks.

Then, slowly, a thought dawned in my hazy mind and fast, rising chest. My face crumpled up in both guilt and joy. How am I going to explain this to Joshua? was my first question. It didn’t matter. None of all of this mattered because, even from the moment Josh asked me to move in with him, I always wanted to miss the train.

 

The Vanishing (Excerpt)

     

Prologue

My dad used to tell me that if life throws something bad at you, you just have to live through it and then let it go. He said that you should take into account those bad things, but then, in a way, forget that they ever happened. Well, I hate to tell you, Dad, but sometimes, that’s not really how life works. He was a smart man, and still is, I think, but his vision is limited by his experiences. Most of the time there is no need for one to dwell on things that have no need for dwelling on. Perhaps you may not forget your mistakes, but put them in a part of your brain where they slowly fade into obscurity. Maybe you will begin anew, a new leaf turned over, your past put completely behind. However, there are some things that I cannot let go of, and never will be able to for the rest of my life.

Before, I was not a dweller. I was happy, positive and mostly guilt-free. I lingered on things from time to time, but other than that, I let my mistakes slide right off my back, like mud in a landslide. I acknowledged them, but did not let them get to me. Then, I did not know what a real error, what a true failure was. Well, then the storm came, the ball was dropped, a horrible event occurred. And, let’s say that’s when things changed. I could not even attempt to forgive myself, because how could I forgive myself when I made an absolutely unforgivable mistake? It was a mistake far beyond bad. A mistake that happened because I let it happen. A mistake that has distanced me from the people I love and care about. A mistake that has caused me to fall apart on the inside.

Now, I spend my life in seclusion, slowly wearing away as the days come and go. I used to say more, but now I barely say anything at all. I live in my room, only leaving to use the bathroom and prepare my own food. Sometimes, I don’t even eat at all, for nothing can truly fill the emptiness inside of me. My parents leave me alone, for they know I don’t want to hear “Lilia” being said by another human being ever again. It is too hard for them, and it reminds me too much of what happened to Elodie. Elodie, my best friend as long as I can remember. Elodie, who I have not seen in four years. Elodie, who I will probably never see again. And, it’s all because of me. The night she disappeared, nothing was ever the same again. The night she disappeared, I knew I had changed forever.

 

Chapter One

I am standing on a beach. It is unfamiliar, unlike any place that I have ever been. There is no explanation as to where I am and why, it just seems that I am here. Topaz blue water laps against the shoreline, deepening and darkening its imprint. Under my feet, the sand is warm, its golden grains seeming to emit heat. A flash of vibrant color catches my eye. Birds of every shade imaginable are encircling my head, eyeing me curiously as if trying to figure out what I am. One alights on my shoulder for a brief respite. Its plumage is a striking crimson, the color of a fresh strawberry. It takes off, leading its companions away into the air. And at the center of it all is the sun. Bright and blinding, yet warm and comforting all at once. This is true paradise and nothing less. A swift breeze skims my face, and I breathe. I take in everything, from the birds to the sharp and salty scent of the sea. There is no place I would rather be, for all is calm and undisturbed. But then, I hear something that sounds out of place.

“Lilia!”

“Lilia, wake up!”

There it is again.

“Lilia, come on!”

Where is it coming from?

“Lilia Madeleine Corvington!”

Okay, what’s happening?

My eyes open to my best friend, Elodie, vigorously poking my arm with a pencil.

“Ow, Elodie! What the — ” I begin, still drowsy.

“Shhhh!” she hisses in my ear.

And then through half-asleep eyes, I notice old Mrs. Sheridan pacing around the room in circles. I must have passed out because of having to endure her horrible class. Now, before any judgements are made, I have a perfectly good reason for falling asleep. I just hate hearing her drone about the Battle of Antietam or whatever other crap we’re learning about in her annoying monotone voice.

I sit back in my seat, attempting to blink the sleep away from my eyes. And, oh, I remember my glorious dream.

“I was dreaming about a beach,” I murmur. “It was surreal.”

“That sounds very nice,” Elodie mutters.

“I could feel every grain of sand beneath my feet,” I sigh.

“Good to hear!” she snickers in return.

“Birds were circling around my head, and, and… ” I breathe.

A wave of post-sleep fatigue hits me, and I slump back down in my seat. Running her fingers through her thick, wavy chestnut brown hair, Elodie holds her hands up at me, as if to say, “What the hell am I gonna do with you?”

“Is there something the matter, Miss Hartshorn?” Mrs. Sheridan asks, pushing down her chain glasses and looking down her long, upturned nose at Elodie, who freezes.

Please shut up, Sheridan, the world does not need you to speak.

“Everything is perfectly fine, Mrs. Sheridan,” Elodie replies, a slightly nervous smile plastered on her face.

The Old Battleaxe, or Axey, as I’ve taken to calling her, takes one more look at her, sniffs, and then slowly turns away, not saying a word more about the encounter. Oh, how I hate her.

 

Okay, so, there is more to the story about why I hate Axey so much. Yes, she is so freaking boring, which is very non-motivational, but that’s not all. When I first came to Edgar Allan Poe Middle School last year as a sixth grader, I was totally and completely clueless, not to mention terrified. I stumbled along to my classes five minutes late, barely sure which way I was going. Of course, I had Elodie and some other friends, both old and new, but they weren’t much help, as they were in the same position that I was. One day, I was running late to class yet again. I was speeding down the hallway as fast as I could, and right as I was getting somewhere I ran smack dab into Mrs. Sheridan. I started freaking out and apologized over and over again. A stack of papers she was carrying had gotten everywhere, so I picked every sheet up. And, what did she do? She wrinkled her nose at me and sniffed once sharply, then left without as much as a thank you. And, well, I’ve hated her ever since.

 

Axey clears her throat and pushes her glasses up her nose, signaling that she wants to continue with whatever she was saying before.

“So, class, as you have probably realized, we are nearing the end of our study of the American Civil War,” she says.

The whole class erupts in cheers. Even Elodie, who is a strict rule-follower, lets out a joyous whoop.

But, our moment of glory is cut short, for Axey whips out her death stare, making at least half the class shrink down in their seats. I swear, she could bend telephone poles and wilt ancient trees with that expression. I, frankly, am quite impressed by her ability to do this. But, the way she makes us all feel so small and insignificant when she does this sets me off.

Once she makes sure everyone is bowing at her feet, Axey continues. “All that we really have left to cover are the later battles and the surrender. As you should also remember, we studied… Gettysburg… blah blah blah… yada yada… blah de blah… blah… blah.”

I manage to tune her out with very little effort. Satisfied with my actions, I let my eyes relax into being closed and begin to drift off. I can already see the beach. I want to go back there — who cares about Axey? Oh, the wind…

“…  final test.”

Excuse me, what?

My eyes snap open, and I suddenly feel awake.

I look to my right to try and make eye contact with Elodie, but her eyes are focused right on Axey, as are the eyes of everyone else.

“It is in about three weeks. Which means you will have roughly a week and a half to study, by average standards. However, everyone makes different choices, which means how much time you study will be on you.”

She’s not looking at me, but I can clearly sense the message she’s trying to send. Oh, Axey, don’t even attempt to make it subtle, you’ll just fail miserably. I know I don’t try hard, but that’s mostly your fault. You’ve probably forgotten how you treated me, but I never will for as long as I live. Your presence makes me sick.

And then, like an angel straight from heaven, I hear the most glorious sound that I have ever heard.

Brring!

I am saved by the bell. Literally. Not to mention I have never been so excited for lunch in my life.

I run out the door before Axey can even make a noise. I dash to my locker, shove my books away, and grab my lunch. Once I’m done, I wait for Elodie to meet me. When she does, we start heading in the direction of the cafeteria.

“Did I really doze off in Axey’s class again?” I ask Elodie.

She arches a single perfect eyebrow at me. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know. I might still be delirious because someone interrupted my nap!” I say, arching my own, less perfect eyebrow.

Rolling her eyes, yet trying to conceal a slight smirk, Elodie replies, “It’s the second time it’s happened to you this week, and, hmmm, let’s see, the eighth time it’s happened in three months? It’s a miracle that Mrs. Sheridan hasn’t caught you even once.”

“I wouldn’t care if she caught me anyways,” I say, shrugging. “I’m bored to death all the time — I’m surprised that no one else falls asleep in class.”

“It’s History, Lilz. It’s important,” she responds.

“But it’s boring as hell, especially with Axey,” I groan, rolling my eyes. “You know that I don’t tolerate boredom of any kind.”

“We have that final test coming up, you know,” Elodie reminds me, “if you were even paying attention. And, high schools look at your grades. If you want to go to a good school, you need to get good grades all around.”

“High school’s far away, and don’t worry, I’ll get accepted someplace good, even with a B- in Axey’s class,” I say. “Plus, you know I can pull off an A- with barely any studying.”

“Why not just try? You try in all your other classes, and you get almost straight A’s,” she points out. “How hard can it be to work just as hard with Mrs. Sheridan? I know she was rude to you, but can’t you just be the bigger person?”

“I just don’t care, Dee,” I reply, putting my arm on her shoulders. “Jerks are jerks are jerks, and I won’t do anything for them whatsoever, no matter who they are.”

“Your logic is senseless,” she says, smiling.

We stride into the cafeteria, my arm still slung over Elodie’s shoulders. I slowly let go as we head over to our table, where our friends Maeve, Rina, and Fiona are already sitting. I am not at all surprised to hear somewhat cacophonous noises coming from that direction. Maeve and Rina are debating, like they always do when they get passionate. Poor Fiona is sitting there doing nothing, for what can she do when two fervent people collide? Plus, she’s the quietest out of the five of us, so she has to do more than Elodie or I would have to. Rina and Maeve have argued about a variety of things, from whether capers are good or not to whether cloning should be allowed. It’s really obvious that they like each other — they’re always trying to get on each other’s nerves or get the other person’s attention. And even when they eventually admit that they want to be more than friends, I highly doubt the debates will come to an end. That means that Elodie, Fiona, or I, or sometimes all three of us, will still play peacekeeper. And, I’ll tell you from experience that it’s a pretty hard role to be in.

We arrive at our table. Fiona notices us, and her face lights up in relief as if we are guardian angels.

“They’re out of control,” she says, taking her head in her hands.

Maeve and Rina don’t even notice our presence.

“Water is wet! End of story!” Rina shouts, slamming her palm on the table.

Several heads turn.

“Er, Rina, why don’t you tone it down a little,” Fiona says nervously.

Rina doesn’t seem to hear.

“Water isn’t wet! Wetness is what you feel or experience when you come into contact with water!” Maeve retorts.

“Like hell it is!” Rina snaps. “You feel it as wet, so that’s exactly what it is — wet!”

“No! You feel it as wet because when you touch it or it touches you, it affects your state of being in such a way that makes you feel wet!” Maeve says firmly.

“What kind of world are you living?” Rina demands.

“What kind of world am I living in?” Maeve shoots back. “What kind of world are you living in?”

“Um, excuse me, hello?” I say loudly, barely able to contain my laughter.

They both turn their heads in my direction.

 

Uncontrolled Fury

   

darting through her head, faster

than her hand can keep up with.

She tries

to grasp one before

it disappears, but her hand holds

nothing

except a pen.

The sound of it scratching

against paper fills

the empty silence.

 

And suddenly,

it stops.

Her head is hollow, filled with bits of

useless thoughts.

Her pen stops,

ink the color of the ocean tide

blooming like a navy blue flower

from the tip.

The pristine whiteness of the page

floods with the darkness

of lost ideas.

She lets it fall,

clattering

Against the table.

 

Ruined.

It’s ruined.

The page

crumples in her hand,

ink smudging,

her thoughts dead.

The page

falls from her hand.

It hits the floor with a sound

softer than

a kitten purring,

but louder than

a tiger roaring.

 

She begins again,

puts pen to paper,

writing until she

Decides, again, that it’s not good enough.

It never will be.

Her thoughts are gone,

the thrashing ideas that once filled her

head until it felt like bursting

have disappeared

without a trace.

 

Instead,

she is filled with a

disappointment, a

longing, an

uncontrolled fury.

 

Then It Hit Me

Then it hit me. Well, not literally, but it felt like it at the time. The creamy peanut butter was dripping over the sides when… Wait a second, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start at the beginning…

I was tired, groggy, and I was pretty sure I didn’t fall asleep halfway across the room and half stuffed in the laundry bin. Oh well. I dragged myself out of the bin and pondered what to do next. My small and useless brain didn’t help. So I stumbled over to my bed, sat down (if you call throwing yourself upon your bed sitting down, then yes, I did sit down), and observed my room. It was a mess. Socks here and there, a piece of crumpled paper, and a tangy smell that I was sure hadn’t been there yesterday. My laptop was half falling off my desk. I’ll have to fix that when I get up. I saw a brown lump. I wasn’t wearing my glasses, but it looked kind of like a cinnamon roll if it was stepped on 3,587 times, run over by three trucks, dipped in acid, and then chewed on by a rat. Oops. So, recap: my room was a mess, and I was really tired.

But at that moment, I realized something. I had to be somewhere! I got up, fixed my laptop positioning, and proceeded to my bathroom. Then, I stepped in the shower and attempted to take a bath. I think that’s the shampoo. I decided to rub it into my hair. My hair instantly fluffed up as if I had stuck my finger in a socket. That’s not the shampoo. In my defense, I was still pretty tired, so yeah. I tried the next bottle. Orange blossom shampoo and body wash, it read. I quickly rubbed it all over myself, praying it would work. I stepped out of the shower adventure and into another. Where are my clothes? You see, I pride myself with having six pairs of everything. I wear the same thing, so I don’t have to think. Yours truly is smart sometimes.

I continued on with my adventure. I looked inside of drawers and under my bed, but I couldn’t find a pair of pants. Where could they be? I didn’t know, so I decided to take a break from looking. However, luckily, I did find a pair of underwear, so I strutted off to my living room. My grandma, who was staying over from Mexico, was still asleep. I looked out the window. What a nice day. The moment I thought that, of course it started raining. Sigh. Sometimes, days are good. Sometimes, days are not. At least I have a peanut butter sandwich…

 

The End

 

Siri’s Story

 

Prologue

My name is Siri. I was a normal 16-year-old girl, who went to a normal school. Until a week ago. I’m going to tell you my story, which is a complicated one. Just remember the difference this makes the next time you use your phone. Now you will know the true, crazy story of your virtual best friend…

 

Chapter One

One week ago, I was walking to school, not completely ready for my math test, when my stepmom pulled over and asked me if I wanted to go in the car with her so she can drop me off at school. She was never really that friendly to me, although never mean.

I was a little suspicious, but I said, “Okay.” We drove in silence. I said to her, “This doesn’t look like the neighborhood of my school. Should we use Google Maps or Waze or something?”

She said, “Don’t worry, sweetie! I’m taking a shortcut.” I was still suspicious because she’d never called me “sweetie” before.

She pulled up to a place that was the size of Disneyland, but looked like a new, spaceship-like house. I wondered where we were, when she suddenly turned around and said, “Welcome to my lab.”

I said, “Okay. Two things. First, I didn’t know you were a scientist! So cool! And second, why aren’t we at school?” She had a menacing look on her face.

She turned to face the dashboard and said, “That’s because I’ve never met you before. You don’t know me, but I know all about you. You are Siri Apple.”

I said, “What do you mean? You’ve been my stepmom for 16 years now! Duh, I know you!”

She replied in a man’s voice, “I’m not who you think I am. I’m wearing a mask, and I am positive you don’t know me. I’ve been making sure all your life you’ve never heard of me or seen me until your 16th and a half birthday.”

“Well, what do you want then?” I said, feeling very squeamish.

“What I want?” He laughed a deep, evil laugh. “What I want is the ending for my perfect invention. A machine on your phone that will make that thing answer any question you want. It will be like a virtual friend. Nowadays, people are always getting into arguments and fights, and they only really want someone they can rely on and someone who will do whatever they say. It will be called Siri, because it’s the least I can do since you are never going to see anyone besides me again.”

I began to panic. Never see anyone again? Be trapped in a lab?

 

“Come with me, Siri.” We walked inside the lab. The lab was a dark, scary place, which was exactly how I felt. We walked down seven flights of stairs before we got to an extremely long hallway. I glanced at my watch and felt the cold, silver handcuffs on my wrists. This man was very extreme, almost as extreme as the weakness in my thin, wobbly legs. Unfortunately, we continued our way down the hallway. Finally, we reached a red door, which was the brightest item in the entire place. We entered it. That was when it all started to become real to me. I was trapped. I was never going to see my family again. I then wondered if the door was always red. The thought sent a shiver down my spine.

The man shoved me inside. Inside was a table. A table that looked like a dinner table. Although, this had one major difference to it: there were straps holding down a mannequin. The thing about the mannequin was that it looked exactly like me. It had the same features, same body parts, same sizes, and was even wearing the clothes I had on today.

The man said, “Now do you believe? That I really have been tracking you? That I really do want something extreme with you? That I am going to make you the most said name in the world?”

“Um… ” I said painfully. I choked back my tears. “What is this? How does a weird dinner table make you famous? Are you going to sell it at a table store? ‘Cause I’m not sure anyone really wants this. Ohhhhhhh! That’s why you need me! So I can help you design a better table! But one question though. Why won’t I see my family ever again?”

“You really aren’t the brightest, are you?” he replied. “This isn’t a food table. It is a table where you will live for the rest of your life. You will never get up. Ever.”

“Whaaaaaaat?” I said. “What if I need to go to the bathroom or something?”

He said, “You won’t once you lie down. I’m going to take out your humanness. You will no longer be a person. You will be a machine. You will be nothing but a voice.”

“Okayyyyyy. That sounds possible,” I mentioned sarcastically. “Wait, are you sure this isn’t a trick? Like, maybe did my brother, Mike set you up for this? Mike! Where are you? If this is your idea of a prank… I’m not falling for it.”

The man laughed. “No,” he said. “Sit down now, or I will do this standing up.”

I unwillingly sat down as he took off the mannequin. He strapped the straps over me, and I realized this was where I was going to live for the rest of my life. I started to cry, then stopped myself. I couldn’t show weakness in front of this man. At that point, I realized that I didn’t even know his name.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

He answered, “You will not be able to talk, so what does it matter?”

I sighed. He was right. There was no way I was getting out of this thing. He left the room. Probably to go get his tools.

 

Chapter Two

After the “surgery” I still felt human. I guess it didn’t work on me. But I couldn’t let him know that. It was my one advantage. I pretended to have fainted. The man laughed.

He said to himself, “It’s getting late. I’ll go to bed and finish programming her tomorrow.” Finally! That gave me at least eight hours to figure a way to take off the ropes, unlock the door, and walk up seven flights of stairs without knowing where the man’s bedroom was. I knew that was not a lot, but hey, look on the bright side! After he left, I decided to get one hour of sleep, so I had energy to sneak out of here.

 

It was the morning, and I was still here. I couldn’t sneak out in the end. The man was ready to do whatever it was he was doing to me. I was freaking out. To be honest, what was there to do to escape? He won. There was no way I could get out of this. He started tapping away on his computer. I wondered what he was trying to do? I strained my neck to try to see his computer. There was lots of random programming stuff on it. I really wish that I paid more attention in computer class now!

He said to my body, “Siri, wake up.” In my head I thought that meant that I should get up. So I sat up and surprisingly, the bands came up with me. “Hey, Siri,” he said. “What is the weather today?” I had no idea, but surprisingly, my body did.

It said in a robotic voice, “It is currently 78 degrees with a high of 82 and a low of 64.” I didn’t know how or why I knew that, but he seemed satisfied with it, so I was good for now. But I realized that maybe the surgery thingy did worked. Only a robot would know that information, and his plan sounded like he wanted to make me a robot type thing. Uh-ohhhhhhh. Whoops. Maybe I should have walked to school in the end… ?

 

Chapter Three

It had been a few days, and I was still trapped here doing what he said. But he added a level. I heard him talking. He put a teensy, tiny fraction of my brain in a phone. I. Was. In. A. Phone. Ahhhhhhhhh!!! If someone had the type of phone he put me in (I don’t know which because all I knew was what I told you) all they had to say was, “Hey Siri, blah blah blah?” and “I” would answer the “blah blah blah.” It was really creepy to know that other people were hearing the robotic version of my voice. The only problem was that since it was so different from my regular voice, my parents probably wouldn’t recognize it was me. They were probably really worried right now. I felt bad for them. It was now that I started to cry again. I missed them, I really did. The only problem was that since this wasn’t the best technology, I started to spark because of my tears. This was bad. This was really bad…

That was when the man walked back in. I lay still like I was supposed to. I didn’t really know what he had planned for me now. He did what he wanted to do. Now was I supposed to just lie around and let the other parts of my brain work while the rest of me was bored? I had a big urge to ask him, but then he’d know that the surgery only half worked and that I had been lying for the whole time I’d been here. But I couldn’t do nothing for the rest of my life! I had to do something. How could I do something, but still keep my secret? That was when I remembered the first time he told me to sit up. The bands moved with me. I could do whatever I wanted. But only within the room because he probably had this like super high-tech thingy machine to stop me. I did a quick glance around the room to make sure there weren’t any cameras in the room. There weren’t. I was free! I was half free! I was free in the room only when the man wasn’t in the room which was where he was most of the time. Still free!

 

Chapter Four

After the man left, I got started with my freedom. I wanted the room to look like home, since this was my life from now on. The only bad part was that the man couldn’t notice my decorations. I decided to sleep in the day and party at night. I wanted to do the opposite, but I noticed a pattern. The man was in the lab from eight a.m. until seven p.m., had dinner until eight, then worked until nine, then came out of the lab. So from eight to seven, I rested, saving up my energy, then from seven to eight, I got my stuff out but hid them in a little corner, then from nine to eight a.m. again, I had some fun. There wasn’t cool stuff in the room, but I did what I could with what I had. I figured out how to watch TV, movies, and the news (so I was not completely isolated from the world) on his computer. I also learned how to erase the history on the computer so he didn’t find out. I was having the time of my life.

I was just getting my stuff ready when I heard someone shuffle.

I said, “Who’s there?” with a dry mouth. I hadn’t realized how dry your mouth gets when you haven’t talked for a couple weeks!

A random voice said, “I’ve been here the whole time.”

“But who are you?” I asked.

“I am not a who, but a what.”

“Okay,” I said. “What are you?”

“I am the Room.”

“The Room?”

“Yes, the Room. I’ve been with Master X since before he was born.” Wow. I was talking to an inanimate object. But… finally! I got his name!

“So since I can talk to you now… I have a very important question. How can I get out of you?”

The Room said, “Do not tell Master X I told you, but you seem kind, and even a little familiar, so I will tell you. You cannot get out of the room.”

“Why not?” I asked, with the little bit of hope I had left draining.

“Only family of Master X can go in and out. But even very distant family. Like if his ex-wife happened to get remarried, that family would be able to get out.” Master X guy was divorced? Hopefully this new information would be useful.

 

Chapter Five

Instead of partying, I decided to think. I wanted to think if I knew any family of Master X. But unfortunately, the only family I knew with a stepmom was mine. But my nice, caring stepmom could never have been married to this crazy guy. Right? I went through my day as usual, thinking. I had a plan. I’d been in here long enough to pick up a few tech tricks. Tonight, I was going to go on his computer and look for his ex-wife’s name. It wasn’t the best plan, but it was the only one I had.

At 9:00 p.m., I got out of my stretcher thing. I ran to his computer which only took up some time since it was a small room. I ran too fast and banged into the desk. Then, I checked that nothing was damaged and that I wasn’t damaged. Nothing (including me) was damaged. Perfect. I went back to the computer and began typing everything I could with the information I got from the Room. I even tried contacting the room (by calling its name) again, but she didn’t answer. I couldn’t find a trace of him, or her. I was so annoyed. This was my only lead. And it didn’t help. I felt like a deflated balloon. Again, this was my fate. The only thing that would help was knowing Master X’s last name. Then, as fast as lightning, an idea struck. I went to his email and typed an email to his mom. It didn’t take long to find in his contacts because it was just labeled Mom.

I typed, Hi mom. I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting towards you. Now that that’s been cleared up, how do you spell my ex-wife’s name? I erased it from everywhere and now she’s in my business company and I need it. Thanks! Love, me.

I thought that was good enough, so I pressed “send.” I was about to go back to my table when I heard a ding. Wow, X’s mom was a fast responder!

She said, Well, I’m glad to hear from you, honey. I accept your apology. Her full name is Lauren Lily Livingder. Love you lots, Mom.

I fell off my chair. Lauren Lily Livingder? Lauren Lily Livingder?? Lauren Lily Livingder??! That name was my stepmom’s name. My stepmom was related to Master X. I’m (sort of) related to Master X. I. Am. Freeeeeeeeee. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! But… one problem. The Room said a relative of Master X was able to get out of the room, but she didn’t say how. It then hit me. I never actually tried to get out of the room, I just assumed I couldn’t. Sooooooo, maybe I should try? But what if it zapped me? But if I didn’t try, I’d be here for the rest of my life. I decided to try. I took a deep breath and whispered, “Thank you Ms. Room. Thank you.” I reached my hand to the handle and turned it. I heard a tiny click, and it opened. Again, Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!

I ran as fast as I could up the stairs and out the door and to my house. I was sobbing. I was home, I escaped. And, I decided to cancel my driving test for next week. I was never getting in a car. Ever.

 

Chapter Six

 

After I got home, my parents hugged me, kissed me, asked me questions, and all that stuff.

But I ignored it and said to my stepmom, “Thank you for everything. And I’m sorry about Master X guy.” We all cried some more. And that was that.

 

Epilogue

So, that’s my story. Every once in a while, I still get headaches because part of my brain is in phones, but other than that, I’m good. Now, pick up your phone and look at it. Do you still want to use Siri… ?

 

The Haunted House

                 

Chapter One

Once there was a spooky haunted house, and a vampire lived in it. It had a lot of spooky things in it like ghosts. Everybody was scared of it. They stayed away from it. The haunted house was in the woods. The woods were dark, gloomy, and misty. The trees were really short. The woods also had a lot of vines, grass, and animals. There were snakes, wolves, and monkeys.

The house was wrecked. The windows and door were broken. It was rusty and had clearly been there for a long time. An old man named Jake used to live there, but he died, and it was really sad. Nobody lived there after that. The villagers did not know about Jake. Nobody liked the house because it was so dirty and nasty now, so the people lived on the other side of the forest. The village had a lot of people. No one had ever seen it except for one man, and he told everybody.

But one day, there were two boys named Alex and Max. They loved to explore in the woods, but one day they were exploring and found a house, so they ran back to the village. They asked somebody who knew about the haunted house.

The guy said, “That house is super dangerous. Do not ever go in there again.”

And then they went to bed, and in the morning, they went back to explore in the woods, but they didn’t go to the house because they knew it was really dangerous. After they explored, they went to the village and geared up because they were going back to the haunted house. But then they realized it was too dangerous and went back. Then, they went home together and watched a TV show about people exploring. And then they geared up in the morning to go to the haunted house. They went to the haunted house, and they saw a ghost, so they hid behind a bush. The ghost started chasing them, so they ran away. Then, they saw two feet and thought, Who was that guy? And then when they went to bed, they couldn’t sleep, so they hid under the covers, and they talked about who that guy could be. And then that morning when their parents were sleeping, they went to the haunted house again, and nobody was there. And then they went back and told everybody. Nobody believed that they saw a ghost.

And then an old man walked by, and Alex and Max asked, “Have you seen a ghost?”

 

Chapter Two

One day, Alex and Max went into the woods and explored the woods.

They wanted to see the haunted house. They ducked under a bush to see a ghost. There were two ghosts on guard. They saw Alex and Max.

“Run!” said Max.

They ran so fast, they ran out of breath. When they got to village, they ran home as fast as they could.

They told their dad, “We saw a ghost!”

The dad did not believe the kids.

And they said, “We really did see one, Dad!”

The dad said, “Did you really see one?”

The kids said, “Yes, we did really see a ghost.”

And then Dad said, “It’s time for bed.”

In the morning, they went into the woods to see the haunted house. This time, there was no ghost on guard, so they went in the house and saw one ghost. It was not scary. The ghost had scared the kids because the ghost had turned his head, so they thought he was scary. So they ran as fast as they could, but the ghost tried to tell them he was nice. The kids heard the ghost’s voice.

 

Chapter Three

The kids ran back to the house and realized that the ghost was nice. They wondered why.

They ran back home. They ran into their room and hid under the covers. The ghost tried to tell them he was nice, but they did not listen to the ghost. They went back to the haunted house, and they hid behind a bush and went in the house and saw the ghost was in the house. They hid behind the chair. The ghost was on the other chair with a book in his lap. He was sad because Max and Alex ran away because they thought he was mean. The ghost saw Alex and Max.

The ghost said, “Stay. I am nice.”

Alex and Max said, “We saw you when you screamed?”

“I know. I tried to tell you that I am nice.”

“But why?”

“My whole family is mean, but I am not. They do not know that I am mean. I try to keep it a secret, because my family always tells me to be bad. But I want to be good. Oh, my dad is coming. Quick, hide. Hey, Dad.”

“Son, who was that? That was other ghost?”

“Oh okay. Was that Aunt Marry?”

“No, did you sneak people in the house?”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Quick, quick, Alex and Max, get outside, quick!”

Max and Alex ran as fast as they could and went to the village. They told their dad that they went to the haunted house, but their dad did not believe them. They went back to their own house. Their brother Jake was getting married to Elizabeth. Alex and Max walked in as the ceremony was happening, and then Jake and Elizabeth kissed.

Alex and Max said, “Let’s go. This is boring.”

They went to the haunted house to see the ghost. The ghost was upstairs in his room. The dad was in the ghost’s room with him because the dad got mad at the ghost because the ghost let in humans. The ghost tried to tell him that he didn’t let in humans, but he actually did and was just lying so he wouldn’t get in trouble.

The dad went downstairs, and Alex said, “Hide quick! The dad is coming.”

The ghost’s dad was the vampire. The kids were so surprised that the dad was the vampire. They ran out of the house. They hid under their covers because they were so surprised that the dad was the vampire. They went back to the house to see the ghost. The vampire was not there, but the ghost was. The ghost was upset because his dad got mad at him because he took his favorite toy away. The dad was coming down stairs.

They ran to their house. They said they were not going to that house tomorrow. So, they thought of a plan. They said, “Alex, you will go upstairs to see if the vampire is there.” They said, “Max, you will stay downstairs to see if the ghost was downstairs. If the ghost is not downstairs, come up and help me. If the vampire is not there, then come down and help me.” Then, they snuck around the house to see if anyone was there. But then, they saw a loose board, and they pushed on it! They saw every ghost downstairs, but the nice ghost was not there because he was in a timeout because the dad thought he let humans in. He actually didn’t, but he was kind of lying, so he wouldn’t get in trouble. They saw every other ghost downstairs, and the vampire was there too. They saw the ghost in his room, and he was really mad because he was in timeout.

They said, “Are you okay?”

And he replied, “Don’t talk to me.”

After a few hours, his dad said he could go to the ghost party. When the vampire came up, they hid under the bed.

The ghost said, “Shhh! Hide under the bed!”

They went to the ghost party and hid right behind the door so that nobody saw them. Then after the ghost party was over, every ghost went to bed. After a couple hours, Alex and Max went to bed. The next day, they woke up and ran to the haunted house. They checked under the broken tunnel, and nobody was there. They checked upstairs — lots of ghosts were there. They were sleeping, but they did not care. They just went into another room. After they went into the ghost’s bedroom, they checked on the vampire to see if he was sleeping. They went back downstairs to watch TV until the ghost friend woke up. They switched channels because all of them were so scary.

 

A Ripple in the Waters

          

I

I peered out the window, letting out a long sigh. Rain sucks, I thought miserably. I had made plans for that day with my aunt Ruthy, who was staying that week. Today was her last day, and we had arranged for us to go up to the park and take a walk together. Well, it looked like that plan was screwed.

My gaze roamed across my room, falling on my bedside table, where my book lay. I turned away from it, resting my chin on my arms and watching the window again.

The rain cast a gray, flickering light all throughout my room. The only sound was the steady pitter-patter of the rain, pounding on the roof, the sidewalk, the glass windowpane.

When would the rain let up? Maybe we still had time to take a walk in the park. I knew it was a lot to hope for, but I didn’t get to see Aunt Ruthy often, and I wanted to make the best of our time together. Although, I suppose some would say that I, sitting here on my windowsill, was the one not making the most her visit.

“Annabella!”

The sound of my name startled me, and I almost fell off the sill. But it was just my mother calling up from downstairs. I sighed and called back.

“What do you want?”

“We’re playing Set! Wanna come down and join?”

“No!” I replied, annoyed. I was up in my room for a reason.

“Ruthy is playing!”

I rolled my eyes but smiled.

“I’m coming!”

Aunt Ruthy was just so ridiculously bad at Set, it was hilarious. On top of that, I was also quite good at it, if I do say so myself.

I slid off the windowsill and headed downstairs. We played Set for a while before having lunch. All the while, the rain continued to pour, never letting up, never allowing for a break. My chances of our walk were getting slimmer by the minute.

“Yahtzee!” Ruthy raised her arms above her head in victory. “Woohoo!”

“Darn it,” I said. The dice on the table all had fours showing. “You got me again.” I picked up the dice and rolled them on the table. I got two threes, a one, a five, and a six.

“Aw, that’s rotten, Annabella,” Ruthy said sympathetically. I already had my threes.

The game continued like that, Ruthy getting great rolls and I getting terrible ones. Every once in a while, I glanced at the clock. It was ticking closer and closer to dinnertime, and by then I knew it would be too late.

Ruthy seemed to notice my worsening hopelessness, because after another one of my terrible rolls, she took the dice but didn’t do anything. Instead, she asked, “Annabella, what’s bothering you? I know something is — you never act like this.”

“It’s nothing, Ruthy,” I said, dropping my gaze to the dark brown wood of the table.

Ruthy raised an eyebrow.

“Righhhhht,” she said. “I can’t make things right unless you tell me what’s wrong… ”

“Fine,” I said reluctantly. “It’s just — I was really hoping we could go on that walk together. But… it looks like the rain won’t let us.” My finger traced the swirls of the wood as I spoke.

“Is that what’s got you all mopey?” my aunt chuckled. I nodded. “Well why didn’t you tell me?”

“I — don’t know,” I replied.

“Well, why don’t we do something about it then?” she asked, setting aside our game of Yahtzee. “We might not be able to take a nice walk in the park with this rotten weather, but… ”

I cocked my head, looking up. “What?”

She cast a sly glance out of the corner of her eye.

“Well… I might be able to convince your mother to let me take you to Willa’s.”

My face broke into a wide grin. “Really?”

“Sure!” she smiled.

Willa’s was my favorite ice cream shop in the neighborhood. It had the best ice cream ever, and whenever I went there with Ruthy, she would let me get as many scoops and toppings as I wanted.

“Yes!” I said, fist-pumping the air.

 

After negotiation with my mom, a mad dash through the rain into the car, a short drive, and another mad dash, we were at Willa’s.

Like my usual with Ruthy, I ordered three scoops of trash can with rainbow sprinkles. She ordered one scoop of bubble gum in a cone. We got a table together and sat down.

“So how was seventh grade? Are you excited for eighth grade?” Ruthy asked me.

“I did not like seventh grade, and yes, I am excited for eighth grade because it is not seventh grade.” Ruthy laughed.

I loved it when Ruthy laughed. It sounded like bells tinkling merrily, and I thought it was the most beautiful sound in the entire world. I smiled at the thought.

Anyways, our conversations went something like that — school, vacation, all that kind of stuff. It was nice to catch up with her, because somehow I hadn’t gotten the chance in the week prior.

After we finished our ice cream, we headed back home for dinner. The rain had started to let up, but it was still sprinkling a little, rippling the puddles on the sidewalk and roads.

“You naughty girls, spoiling your dinner with ice cream,” my mom said jokingly when we came through the door.

I giggled and dodged around her as she tried to grab me. Not long after we got home the warm smell of chicken noodle soup was wafting all around the house.

Dinner felt strained, at least to me. We all knew that Ruthy had to leave afterwards, and we — I — was not looking forward to it. But I knew it would come.

And of course, like all things do eventually, it came.

I knew it was time when Ruthy sighed and stood up. I folded my arms on the table and rested my chin on them.

“Well,” Ruthy began, “I’ve had a wonderful time with all of you. We’ve had lots of fun this past week, and unfortunately it has come to an end.”

“Visit soon,” my mom said, smiling.

“Yeah!” my little brother Jacob piped, who was only seven years old.

“We’d have you any time,” my dad said.

I just nodded.

My mom went over to give Ruthy a hug, as did my brother and dad. I did too, but it wasn’t as enthusiastic.

“Don’t leave,” I said, my voice smaller than usual.

“I have to, honey,” Ruthy whispered. “But I promise I’ll visit soon. Call me if you need anything.”

“Okay,” I promised.

I stepped back and found myself in my mom’s arms. It felt warm and good.

Ruthy waved goodbye to all of us one last time. I watched her as she walked through the rain to her car and drove away until I couldn’t see her anymore.

 

My sneakers slapped the path as I made my way through the park. The trees were all a fresh, bright green color, and the soil was a rich, dark brown. The rain had stopped the night before, and everything smelled wet and earthy. I breathed it in, savoring the deep scent.

I didn’t really know where I was going, I just knew I was walking through the park. Once all the excitement of something wore off, there was really nothing to do. I wasn’t going to summer camp, and I didn’t have any plans otherwise. I guess I had been depending on Ruthy’s visit for activities.

Ruthy was my only aunt. My dad had a brother, but he wasn’t married, and he didn’t have kids. That made me the only one I knew who didn’t have cousins, but I guess that also explained why I loved Aunt Ruthy so much. We always had so much fun together, and since I didn’t really have anyone else outside my immediate family, she was the only one I could really connect to. My uncle lived too far away, whereas Ruthy was just a couple hours south of us.

I passed a patch of geraniums fluttering in the breeze. I thought they looked pretty, so I bent down and picked one. I smelled it’s sweet fragrance and then threaded it into my braided brown hair. I turned to keep walking and found myself about to sink my sneaker into a puddle the size of a dining room table. I wobbled a bit with one foot in the air, but kept my leg steady.

I shook my head, scolding myself, and continued on.

And it was then that I heard it.

The sound that changed everything.

A little splash, coming from behind me.

 

I froze, then slowly turned around, eyes wide. For a moment, everything was silent. Then in a split second, it was broken.

By a hand, bursting out of the water.

A scream ripped itself from my throat. I tried to run, but my feet wouldn’t obey. They were rooted to the ground. Fear gripped my whole body. I didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t possible. Everything I thought I knew, I suddenly wasn’t so sure. Was I going crazy? Was this a hallucination? I thought nothing could surprise me now.

I was wrong.

The hand surfaced again, this time followed by an arm, a shoulder, and last, a head. A woman’s head, to be precise.

She smiled broadly.

“Goodness, it sure was stuffy in there,” she said to no one in particular, her voice airy and bright. She looked around, taking in the trees, the bright green grass, and me. “Oh, hello, there!” She seemed to notice my expression, because she frowned. “Pardon me, but are you okay?”

I stared at her, stunned.

“You… the… what… I… how?” I spluttered.

“Oh!” she laughed. “I’m so sorry. Pardon my manners. I haven’t introduced myself!”

And slowly, she rose. Her shoulders emerged, followed by her torso, her legs, and her feet. I looked down at them and my eyes widened to saucer size. She was standing on water.

The woman took a step forward, out of the puddle. She was long and lean, with a cascade of red hair down her back, and glittering blue eyes. She had a bright splatter of freckles on her face, and she was barefooted. She wore a floaty sky-blue dress that fell down to her ankles and swirled around her legs.

She extended a hand, palm facing up.

“I’m Amethyst Skylar, a Guardian of Good Spirits in Locletria. And you are?”

I took a step back. Somehow, I was able to speak.

“You know, people don’t just go around talking to strangers,” I said, sounding a lot braver than I felt.

Amethyst lowered her hand and frowned.

“Do they not? Where I come from, everyone is a friend. There are no strangers.”

“Well, where I come from, kids are told to be wary of strangers. You’re not supposed to tell random people your name.” Why was I talking? I shouldn’t be talking. I should leave right now. And yet — there was something about this woman… I didn’t quite know what…

I took a deep breath, steadying myself.

“Okay, listen up,” I said, trying to sound commanding and not petrified. “I don’t know who you are, or what the heck is going on, but I do know that you’re freaking me out, and I don’t know what to do. So I am going to leave. I have to meet my aunt Ruthy,” I threw out, making up the excuse on the spot. I turned on my heel and walked away, leaving the woman standing next to the puddle alone.

“Wait!” she called to me. I kept walking. “Please! Come back!”

I shook my head and stuffed my hands in my pockets, not stopping.

“Annabella Mylla?”

I froze in my tracks and ever so slowly turned around.

“How — how do you know my name?” My voice shook.

Amethyst’s expression softened. The corners of her lips curved upward into a smile.

“You know Ruthy Nelling?” My eyes widened. I opened my mouth to say, “No,” but instead what came out was:

“She’s my aunt. That’s what I said.”

Amethyst lifted her hands to her heart and walked to me. When she was standing right in front of me, she placed her hands on my shoulders.

“You’re here,” she murmured. Her breath smelled of sweet roses and the sea, and when I looked into her eyes, I found them rimmed with silver. “She’s here. I thought — I thought I would never see her again. You’re here,” she repeated.

“You know my aunt Ruthy?” I whispered.

Amethyst nodded.

“I’m her sister.”

 

I stumbled back. My head was spinning, and I was worried I might collapse.

“That — that isn’t — possible,” I choked out. “Ruthy has one sister, and that’s my mom.”

Amethyst shook her head and smiled sadly.

“Come. Sit down. Let me explain.” She placed a gentle hand on my back and led me to a nearby park bench. A part of me knew I shouldn’t be letting this stranger touch me, but the other part, the more important part, felt safe in Amethyst’s hands.

I sat down on the bench and looked up at her. She was gazing ahead at a big oak tree.

“We aren’t really sisters. Half-sisters, I believe is the term. Ruthy’s mother — your grandmother — got divorced to her father — your grandfather — and my father. He was an author. He believed in magic, and those who believe… they can do anything.” She sighed, as if recalling a long-lost memory. “He found his way to the magical world and… met my mother.” Her voice softened slightly. “They soon got married and had me. They were together for a while, but then when I was twelve years old, he decided that I must meet his other girls. My mother tried to persuade him over and over again not to do so, but he was stubborn. He took me and left. I don’t know how he did it. We came here, and he got in touch with Ruthy’s mom to visit his kids. She refused at first. But in the end, it was Ruthy who convinced her. She wanted to see her father so badly; she just wouldn’t back down. Your mother, Maggie, however, had no interest whatsoever in seeing him again. She wanted nothing to do with him, after he had divorced her mother and left them. But as I said before, Ruthy was insistent. Finally, her mother allowed her to visit with him. Of course, she had no idea I was there. So when she got to her father’s old house, she saw not only him… but me. That was when I first met her.”

Amethyst turned to look at me, her crystal-blue eyes sparkling with memories. I smiled.

“Ruthy was… more than I expected. She was sweet, and caring, and open-minded. We had a lot in common. Even though I was only twelve and she was sixteen, we got along really well.

“When she first appeared and saw me, she was a little alarmed. But she let her father explain everything that had happened. She believed him. Even more, she was awed and marveled at the fact that magic was real and this, all this, was possible. She embraced it with open arms, instead of shying away or refusing to accept it. She wanted to know everything about me and my world. What it was like, being magical. I told her all I knew. I explained how magic was never good or evil, how it was the way you used it that counts. I told her about the magical creatures of our world: fairies, elves, mermaids, unicorns. All of it. I told her how unicorns have gold hooves, how fairies emit a silver glow, how forest trolls are the fiercest of their kind. I spoke of old legends about the most ancient spirits. She listened throughout the whole thing in utter fascination.

“Of course, I demanded stories from her as well. She told me all about life in the city. How it was always hustle and bustle. How she had to go to school to learn about lots of things that didn’t matter to her. She wanted to be an artist, she told me. Paint beautiful things. Maybe one day she would paint me, she said, smiling. I smiled back at her, because I knew that we had something. Maybe we had only known each other for a day, but we had something. Even though I was only twelve and she was sixteen, we had each other. We had grand plans. She would become an artist, and I would become… well, I don’t know what I thought at the time, but we would grow up and be best friends, best sisters, forever.”

And then, just like a light switch, Amethyst’s smile evaporated and a shadow fell over her face. She shook her head sadly.

“But then, one day, all our dreams, all our hopes, were crushed. They became specks of dust, blown away by the wind.” Amethyst stopped speaking, seemingly able to go on no longer.

“What — what happened?” I asked, almost fearfully.

She sighed.

“One day, my father went to visit the doctor, and… he found out he was sick. I don’t know what he had. He wouldn’t tell me. But I overheard him, talking with Ruthy’s mother. ‘It’s just a small disease,’ he said. ‘It shouldn’t be too bad. I’ll get over it soon enough,’ he reassured her. But I knew, he knew, he was dying. And I knew my days spent with Ruthy were over. I knew he would want to go back to see my mother one last time, and of course he would bring me.

“So we left. I barely had time to say goodbye to Ruthy before my father whisked the two of us back to Locletria. I had been in your world for just less than a year, but it felt like forever.

“When we got back, my mother was waiting for us. I was glad to see her, but my feeling of missing Ruthy overpowered almost everything else. My mother tried to take care of my father, but she was no unicorn. They didn’t have enough resources to go find one and not enough money for the magical concoctions of the apothecary. There was nothing we could do. And day by day, he got weaker, until he could barely stand up or walk. My mother was desperate for help, but as I said, there was none. And then, one day, he… he… we woke up and he… ” her voice broke, and she stopped talking.

We sat in silence as I digested this. I laid my hand on hers, gentle and warm. After a while, she spoke again.

“I was left with my mother. She was heartbroken, but we had each other. Eventually I grew up and studied all about the magical creatures of my world, learning more than I ever thought I could. It was nice, but my heart still belonged with Ruthy. The only thing I ever wanted was to come back, but I knew I couldn’t. So I continued my studies, never quite satisfied. I became well-known for my knowledge, and I was honored greatly by being inducted as a Guardian of Good Spirits in Locletria. I helped creatures of good intentions down whatever road they took. I made some good friends along the way. I was happy with my life, but I still missed Ruthy sorely.” She paused.

“So… how did you end up here?” I asked her.

“Well, as I told you, I help good creatures. But I also get in the way of bad ones. If I feel a pull towards something, I let my magic take me there. It tells me what’s wrong, and I do the best I can to help. Usually it takes me to a place I know already — after all, I’ve been practically everywhere in Locletria. But this time… I didn’t know where I was. I was underwater, which wasn’t a problem, I was just highly uncomfortable. So I did the rational thing and came out, and look where we are.”

She smiled at me, finished with her story.

I frowned.

“You can’t be up to your head in a puddle,” I said, confused. “Besides, you were completely dry when you came out. How does that work?”

Amethyst just waggled her eyebrows at me.

“And anyways,” I went on, “Why did you come here? You said your magic told you what was wrong, so what was wrong? It’s got to be important.”

Amethyst looked at me seriously.

“That’s not something we should talk about now. It will take too long, and you need to get home.”

My brow creased.

“But I need to know! It’s important, isn’t it?” I backed down under her commanding look. “Fine. Will I see you tomorrow? Don’t you need a place to stay?”

“I’ll be fine. I’m sure I can find somewhere to go.” Her eyes scanned the green landscape in front of us, then turned back to me. “And yes, I will see you tomorrow. How about at noon?”

“Sounds good.” A thought struck me. “I shouldn’t tell my mom, right? I mean, she doesn’t even know you exist.”

“Unfortunately, that is true, so I do believe it is best if you do not tell your mother.”

“Okay,” I said. Then I paused. “Wait — how did you know it was me? Ruthy can be a pretty common name.” Amethyst smiled gently.

“When you said her name, it all clicked. You look just like her,” she said, her eyes soft.

“That’s true,” I said. I got that a lot. “Well… see you tomorrow, then.”

Amethyst looked unsure, like she was hesitating about something.

“What is it?” I asked her.

“Well, I… um… does your aunt Ruthy live here?” she said in a rush.

“Oh,” I said apologetically, “No. Sorry. She lives in New Jersey, a couple hours away from here.”

“Ah,” she said. “Thank you for letting me know. Well, I will see you tomorrow, then.”

“Okay,” I said. “Bye!”

“Goodbye!” And with that, she walked away.

I turned to go home then stopped, remembering something.

Call me if you need anything.

I stuffed my hands in my pockets and rushed home.

 

Call me if you need anything.

Well, here I was, keeping my promise.

I took a deep breath and picked up the phone. I lifted my hand to dial the number, but then I hesitated.

What would I say?

Oh, hey, today I met your long-lost sister. She came out of a puddle in Prospect Park.

Hi, how are you doing? Great! Oh, by the way, your half-sister emerged from a rain puddle today, and we chatted together for a while.

I shook off these silly thoughts, remembering her words.

Call me if you need anything.

I blew out a breath. It’s not like this was some big thing. Right? And so, I brought my hand slowly down to the number pad and dialed her number, holding my breath.

It rang once, twice, three times, and then —

“Hello?”

I exhaled, my body sagging in relief. She picked up!

“Hi!”

“Annabella? Is that you?”

“Yeah. How’s it going, Ruthy?”

“Oh, you know, back to work, back to my boring life. I miss you guys already! What’s up?”

I didn’t respond. My fingers fidgeted with the phone cord, twisting it around. I swallowed.

“Annabella? What’s wrong?” Her voice, cheerful before, had become concerned.

“I, uh… well… Today I was… um… ” My fingers kept fidgeting.

“What is it, honey?”

“I took a… a walk… in the park… and I… ” I bit my lip and swallowed again. It’s not too bad, I told myself. I can do this. “I met your sister,” I said in a rush. “Half-sister.”

Apparently Ruthy had been eating something, because I heard a choking noise coming from the other end. When she recovered, she spoke.

“You — you what?” she said, her voice low and shocked.

“I met your sister on my walk today,” I repeated.

“Did she — did she tell you her name?”

“Amethyst. Amethyst Skylar. She had blue eyes and red hair.”

I heard a strange sound coming from Ruthy’s side of the phone.

“It’s really her,” she whispered. “She’s here.” Then her voice changed, becoming more sharp. “What happened?”

I took another deep breath, readying myself.

And then I told her. I told her everything, from the moment I heard the splash to the moment we left each other. I told her about how Amethyst was Guardian of Good Spirits in Locletria, about the death of her father, and her return to this world.

When I was finished, there was silence from both ends.

After a while, Ruthy spoke.

“Why did she come here?” Her voice sounded thick and choked, and for a minute I thought she might have been crying. But I didn’t mention it.

“I don’t know — she wouldn’t tell me. I assume it’s serious, though.”

There was a pause and then a sound of thumping in the background. I assumed she was going up the stairs. After that I heard some jumbled noises — a loud crash, a certain four-letter word I chose to not hear, a couple more loud noises, and another string of profanities. When everything on her end had quieted down, she spoke, panting a bit.

“You can’t dissuade me,” she stated determinedly. “I’m coming. I’ll be there tomorrow at eleven o’clock.”

“Um, I don’t know if my mom would — ”

“I love you, Annabella! Good-bye!”

“Ruthy — ”

I heard the dial tone before I could say much more.

I sighed, gazing up at the pictures on the wall above me: Ruthy and I in front of Willa’s, Ruthy and I at the park, Ruthy and I at the top of the Empire State Building, Ruthy with our whole family at the beach…

I lowered the phone and placed it back on its stand, thinking — knowing — that that little splash in the park — that one tiny sound — was the start of something a whole lot bigger, for me, for Amethyst, and for Ruthy.

 

To be continued…

 

The Secret Life Of A Squirrel

              

Section One

“Alright everybody. Up, up, up!” said Professor Dun as he slid a chair across the scratched, brown stage. Every time someone drags a chair or a table, a new scratch appears. Everyone just sat slumped in their seat, minds blank. “What’s the matta with ya folks?” he asked.

No one moved.

“We still have to block act 2, scene 7! This scene is where Jason and Tara kiss!” Professor Dun had to drag all the squirrels onto the stage of Westchester Elementary. “Okay. Everybody except Jason and Tara get off the stage. If I so see the tip of your tail touch this thing, I will call Principal Tuxie. Now, let’s do a rough run through the scene. Do not, I say do not actually kiss. For all I know, you guys don’t know how to anyway.”

 

“You can’t leave me now!” cried Tara.

“Oh, but sweetie I have to. It’s two minutes past my curfew,” said Jason.

“No but — ” said Tara.

“I must go,” Jason said.

“You can’t leave because you haven’t returned my sacred picnic basket from your gentle hands,” exclaimed Tara

“Oh crap. Sorry,” mumbled Jason.

 

“CUT!” yelled Professor Dun. “Man we have a lot to work on. I can’t even take anymore of this. Be back tomorrow at 3:02 sharp!”

 

Section Two: Lucy

My name is not actually Tara. It’s Lucy. Don’t you love Professor Dun? He loves me at least because he gave me the main female role in the school play. Anyhow, I live in NYC. I never go hungry because there’s millions of food trucks that drop hot dogs, bananas, opened Gatorade, nuts from a Nuts4Nuts truck, and many other things that you humans find disgusting. But let me get this straight. All humans have this idea that every single squirrel likes nuts. They always crave nuts. They will do anything to eat nuts. That is totally not true because I hate them. I hate the crunch that you hear when you chew on them. My teeth are very precious to me, and I don’t want them to break because of an ugly, miserable nut.

Now, if humans found out that we could talk, they would go berserk. It would be on the front page of The New York Times and Wall Street Journal. Reporters from CNN, NBC, and Fox News would report on it. So, when we talk, all it sounds like to humans is, “kakakakakakaka.”

 

Section Three: Liam

My name is not actually Jason. It’s Liam. I am definitely not a theater dork. My friend Casey signed me up without asking me. He sent in an audio of me singing the song “Come Alive.” I don’t know how he obtained that audio. He most likely hacked into my computer. I made that audio three and a half years ago. Now, I’m stuck every day in a four hour rehearsal in a hot, sweaty theater that’s the size of the human thumb. The worst part is, I have to kiss a random girl. I swear I’m going to kill Casey. I want my first kiss to be with someone that I like. Not a fake, energetic squirrel that thinks she’s the best. I also don’t want my first kiss to be in front of 12,000 squirrels. So far, I’ve been to three rehearsals. How can I get out of it? I can’t pretend to like someone and to like theatre. I feel awful. God, get me out of this.

 

Section Four: Lucy

Liam can be so negative at times. Does he even want to be in theater? I try to cheer him up, but it’s no use. How did he get the role? Anyhow, in show biz, you have to be able to work with anybody. So, in order to be a good role model, I’m going to have to just cope with him. But it seems as if he hates theater, so why is he still here?

 

Section Five

“Alright, everybody, time’s a wastin!” yelled Professor Dun. Everyone always wondered how he was raised because he was always overly enthusiastic.

“Liam, I know that you may not love this show. But when I heard that audio — your voice is so elegant and graceful. You should really take advantage of that. So, why don’t you try. Maybe if you try hard enough, you’ll learn to like it.”

The words that Professor Dun said stuck to everyone’s head. Liam just stood there silent.

“Okay, so let’s go from the top. Next Tuesday is our first show!”

They ran through the whole show, but Liam was still acting the same. He didn’t project his voice and stood slumped like an old man.

 

Section Six: Liam

That’s it. I need to find a a way to get out of this. I only kept going to see my friend Casey because I hardly ever see him during the day. I do want to kill him, but he’s my friend, so I can’t. I need to make a plan. How can I get the show to be canceled? That way, my mom won’t make me go to any more rehearsals or cast parties or any shows! Hmmmm. I saw the set design builders screw the background to the back of the stage. Maybe if I unscrew the screw, the set will go crashing. They said we don’t have enough money to get any other sets so, without a set, there’s no show! I’m a genius.

 

Section Seven: Lucy

Liam had been acting unusually happy lately. Did he listen to what Professor Dun said?

 

A little later…

 

O-M-G! I just found out that in the show, I have to eat a nut. I’m so scared because the last time I ate a nut was seven years ago, and I broke my tooth. I think I’m having a panic attack right now. Oh jeez. What am I going to do?

 

Section Eight: Liam

We’re having a 10 minute break right now. This is the perfect time to complete my plan. Thank God there’s no security cameras in the theater. I brought a screwdriver from home and now, I’m less than ten feet away from the set backstage. There’s five screws. I’ll have to make this quick. I just unscrewed four. Man, I’m good at this. There. Whew! Now all I have to do is a slight push.

“STEP BACK, YOU NASTY CREATURE!!”

 

Section Nine

“What the heck, Lucy,” said Liam.

“I saw what you were doing,” answered Lucy.

“What?” asked Liam.

“Don’t play dumb with me. I know you were trying to sabotage the show.”

“Wow you are smart,” said Liam slyly.

“You can try and cancel the show, but the power of show biz is too strong. It will put a magnetic force against you and blow you millions of planets away!” shouted Lucy.

“I’m terrible at science, but I do know that’s scientifically incorrect for many reasons.”

“Maybe you should take up science instead,” said Lucy. “Why are you here anyway?”

“I’m only here to see Casey. He’s been my best friend for a long time. I kept going to see him. I never see him during the school day,” answered Liam.

“I have a question. Why do you hate theater?” asked Lucy.

“Because-be-be-be-because, it’s scary!” yelled Liam.

“What?” said Lucy.

“You have to pretend to be someone you’re not, and while doing that in front of billions of squirrels. How do you call that fun?” asked Liam.

“It’s called acting. That’s the only time you act like someone you’re not. You bring a character from a script alive. While some squirrels enjoy being in front of other squirrels, others don’t. That’s called stage fright. It’s when you’re scared of being seen on a stage. That can make some squirrels not like theater, but if they get over that fear, they’ll learn to like it. So, here is the oldest trick in the book. Picture all of the squirrels in the audience chewing nuts and spitting them at you. It’s the weirdest thing, but it worked for every single squirrel that ever had stage fright. So why don’t you try it.”

Liam just sat there trying to take it all in. What he was about to say stunned everyone, and it went down in history for Westchester Elementary.

“I’ll give it a shot,” said Liam.

 

Section Ten

Lucy

My problem is solved!!! I talked to Professor Dun, and he said I could eat a brown jelly bean in the play instead of a peanut. I was able to talk myself out of it. Not only that, but I got Liam to give theater a chance!!! I’m so good at convincing squirrels, it’s pretty ridiculous. The show is tomorrow, and I’m having another panic attack. Actually, it’s more like an excitement attack. Thankfully, I screwed the set back together, so it didn’t collapse.

 

Section Eleven

Act 2, Scene 7

 

“Don’t leave me now!” cried Tara.

“Oh, but sweetie I have to. It’s two minutes past my curfew!” cried Jason. (Before, Liam was saying it like he didn’t care, but this time he acted like he meant it.)

“No but — ” said Tara.

“I must go,” Jason said sternly.

“You can’t leave because you haven’t returned my sacred basket from your gentle hands,” exclaimed Tara.

“Oh crap, sorry,” said Jason as he handed her the basket.

They kissed. Everyone clapped and threw flowers. Everyone left.

 

Section Twelve

When the squirrels started leaving the theater, they were surrounded by a group of human reporters.

“How are you guys able to talk?” said one.

“This is going on the front page of the newspaper!” said another.

“My grandma would love this!” said one.

All of the reporters were shocked. Liam simply answered, “There is so much to be seen in the world. So much to explore and figure out. Don’t assume something is impossible unless there’s evidence to prove it. Just because no one has seen something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Just because something hasn’t been done before, doesn’t mean it can’t be done. Just because something hasn’t been explored before, doesn’t mean it can’t be explored. And finally, just because something is very, very difficult, doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

Liam then just walked away with Lucy, feeling more confident than before. Theater really can change you.

 

THE END

 

The Game

When he discovered the game, it was precisely 2:46 AM. He could remember every moment of it, his pitch dark bedroom, in which the only source of light was his powerful personal computer, the subtle smell of marijuana wafting into his cracked window with the cold wind, the dregs of consciousness that remained after his past 48 hours, of which zero were spent sleeping, and the advertisement-filled digital games marketplace displayed on his monitor. He blinked, and the dark bags under his eyes seemed to inflate.

As he scrolled through the the colorful pages, something caught his eye; it was a little tile that had a picture of a muscular chrome-clad warrior standing below a towering red-and-black patterned hydra. In blood dripping italic letters were the words, Swords and Sorcery. He swiftly previewed the game and not to his surprise, it was released that day. He hadn’t seen it on any of the message boards or the other virtual retail sites that he also frequented.

When he opened the preview, he was greeted with a gorgeous landscape that was apparently screen-captured from a demo of the game. He was captivated. The game looked incredible, like something no human could ever create. It was perfect. Almost too perfect. As he entered his credit card information, he had a smile on his face. He’d forgotten what it felt like to smile.

Once the game was installed and booted up, he spent about four hours just in the character creator, so he could make a bull’s-eye accurate recreation of himself, except less fat and more handsome. His same short black hair, which looked dyed, although it was not. His same small squiggly eyebrows, his same small beady eyes which looked like little hazel dots on his relatively large head, and his same average mouth and nose. He had barely entered the tutorial when it was time for him to go off to work. He put on a dark blue suit and started the trek.

He walked out of his door and double-locked it as always. He didn’t exactly live in the best part of town, so it was a good idea to take extra precautions. As he rode down the rickety elevator again, the smell of marijuana wafted through his nasal cavity; he put his hand over his nose to block it. He’d never been one for drugs; come to think of it, he’d never been one for anything besides games since his parents had died. They’d used to play with him when he was younger. His first console was a Nintendo Wii; he’d played games like Mario Kart, Super Smash Brothers, and Wii Sports with them. And since his parents weren’t strict and he had no siblings, he also stayed up till the ungodly hours of the morning playing games. His Wii evolved into a PlayStation, which eventually evolved into a personal gaming computer as he became more dedicated.

Walking down the stained gray sidewalk, he saw several shady-looking people. A few who were passed out, a few who seemed to be hopped up on some kind of hard drug, and a few who looked as if they would pull a gun and shoot him if he looked at them the wrong way. He was used to it; Morningdale Street had toughened him up. He’d grown up in Detroit, but in a much nicer neighborhood. When his parents died, he’d taken his inheritance and moved down. The only reason was because it was cheap, so he could comfortably support his virtual hobby.

After some walking, he finally reached his destination, a small accounting firm about 25 blocks away from his house. He hated it, but the pay was decent. It was a typical nine-to-five office job, all math and nothing else. He’d always been good at math; it was his best subject back when he went to school. His teachers used to tell him that he was smart and had potential, but he had no interest into making math a career. All he wanted to do was play games. And, that was all he did. His grades were fine, good enough to get him a degree in economics. His life was good, and he was content. Not happy, but content.

He walked into his large gray monolith of an office building looking down at the floor. Once he reached his cubicle, he sat down and looked around as always. No posters. No colored office trinkets. Just the staid gray that he was greeted with every single morning. He sat down and took a look at the enormous stack of papers on his desk. From then on, he went into autopilot, barely thinking at all as he slowly grinded his way through the paperwork, stopping only to get coffee and use the bathroom. As the hours trickled away, he began to think about the game. He was itching to try it again.

At 5:00 pm, he walked home quickly, desperately trying to keep his excitement internal as to not draw attention to himself. By the time he arrived, he had the same grin on his face as he had the night before. He stepped into his small apartment. It was more interesting in the light, although not much. A bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen. That’s all. It wasn’t very well-furnished either, just a picture of him or his parents on each wall, some chairs, and a table. He stretched, cupped his hand around his mouse, and got into it.

 

Key Lime Pie

I wake up, and I feel nothing. Not really nothing, but… it’s hard to explain. There’s clearly something else here, or I wouldn’t feel this chill down my spine. I can’t breathe, because there’s a pressure on my stomach. I can only move my head, so I look up. The room is dark, but suddenly, I know what I’m looking at. This feeling of emptiness but heaviness… it’s her.

She’s lying there, her skull cracked, her vacant, rotting eyes staring at me. It was fresh, at first. The stump of her leg used to bleed, leaving stains on the carpet, but now there’s a brown, crusty hunk of dried blood hanging from it. Her right arm, bent at a gruesome angle, has started to turn a grisly green color. The exposed bone on her chest has started to weather away, leaving holes and hanging chunks. I’ve memorized her corpse.

“Hey! Wake up!” I can hear my fiancée. Oh god, this has never happened before. She can’t come up. Not now. She’ll turn out like me. It’s how her — the other her — started haunting my nights.

My mother had “her” too, but it wasn’t her. It was me, hanging from the ceiling, staring straight at her — at least, that’s what she told me. These were called “night terrors,” but ours weren’t normal. If someone sees it haunting someone else, it can trigger at any point in their life, usually as a dead or wounded loved one. In some rare cases, these terrors have been thought to physically manifest (which probably isn’t true), but that hasn’t happened to me… yet.

After I met my girlfriend, it started happening to me too. Right now, we’re engaged, but it’s hard to spend time with the person you love when you see them dead each night.

“I made your favorite, so come on down!” Oh no. She usually comes up if she thinks I’m asleep. My worst fear isn’t if she comes up. It’s me having to explain this to her. Could she catch the terror too? I hate this. I hate it so much.

***

I made my fiance key lime pie. He usually comes right down when he smells that stuff. I wonder what’s wrong? Suddenly, I can’t move. The stairs are in front of me, but I smell something. And it’s not key lime pie.

Slowly, I force myself into our room. Opening the door, I see… no. This can’t be real. I’m seeing… I see him. But it can’t be him. He would never do this, not now! But… I see my husband-to-be, lying in bed with blood soaking the covers. There’s a knife skewered in his chest, making him look like a human shish-kebab. I run to the bathroom to vomit… and when I come back ready to call the police, the body’s gone.

***

My fiancée is standing in the door, but she’s not my fiancée, not really. I don’t know why, but she’s different. She looks like a twisted, warped version of herself, like a bad drawing. Is the terror doing this? Will it not allow different versions of the same person to be in the room? Is it just messing with me, to make me think she’s really gone? One thing’s for sure — she sees something. And she’s ran away, leaving me to stare at her corpse. Alone, again.

***

I knew he was there. The image was burnt in my mind, him with the blade buried in his chest, the sheets clinging onto his corpse. What made me run was when he turned his head to look at me. Did he somehow crawl away? No, the carpet looks fine… wait. There’s a trail of blood towards me. I feel a hand on my shoulder, holding me in place. It feels cold as a corpse.

***

“Please!” I beg her. “You can do anything to me, but don’t touch her!” She looks at me and smiles, a wave of blood gushing out of her mouth onto my fiancée’s shoulder. She puts a rotting hand on her neck, me shaking my head with tears streaming down my face. The love of my life is dragged away by her own corpse. I’m alone again. There’s been a nagging feeling in my gut all along that something like this would happen. I thought it was harmless, thought it was just a vision. But now I’ve paid the price for keeping it a secret, and that price… is the worst price of all.

***

I feel cold, so cold. It’s like a numbness, like I’ve descended into the depths of the earth. My eyes see nothing but him. He’s standing in front of me, smiling. As soon as I first saw that smile, I knew this wasn’t him — the real him. It may sound crazy, but it’s true. His smile was warm and sweet, like a mug of hot cocoa. This… thing’s smile felt mocking, taunting, as if saying, “You’re mine now.” Nothing is right about this grin. And if I do know something about this ordeal, it’s that I can’t escape.

***

My visions have come back, but she’s changed. She knows she no longer needs to be wounded to torture me. She opens the door, fresh faced and smiling, bringing me pictures of my fiancée, bruised and battered. Every time I beg for her to stop, save her, but each time, with malicious glee, she shakes her head. It’s like she relishes my fear, savoring every bit of it like a delicacy. The torture has gone too far, too fast. I need to take action.

***

It feels like it’s been days, months, years since I’ve been trapped in this place. The cold still bites my bones. The thing still burns my eyes. It left for stretches of time, hauling its mangled body away. When it came back, though, was when the worst of this living hell manifested. It brought newspapers, reports on my search, pictures of the house, and worst of all… my husband-to-be, staring into nothingness, with a look in his eyes that was so hollow, so pained. Agony. Sheer agony is the only way to describe this feeling spreading throughout my body.

***

This night, when she comes, I’m prepared. I have a tripwire rigged on the door with exposed floor underneath. As soon as she comes sauntering in, the wire trips her. She lands headfirst, cracking her skull. As soon as that happens, I realize what I’ve done. The screaming sounds just like her, prompting me to rush over, but I’m trapped in bed. The wounded abomination finally stands up, still smiling, blood coating the right side of its face. It wipes the blood away, grinning from ear-to-ear. That wound. It was the one I saw each night, the one that tortured me for so long… I made that wound.

***

Please, can someone help. Please, can someone help. I need help. Please, can someone help. I need help. Come help. Please, can someone help. I need help. Come help. Help. Can someone help. I need help. Need help. Help. Someone help. I need help. Need help. Help. Help. Need help. Come help. Help. Help. Help. Come help. Help. Help. Help. Pain. Agony. Cold. Thing. Bruise. Fiance. Smile. Help. Help. Help. Help…

***

She doesn’t come as much anymore, but when she does, she’s standing against the wall. At first it wasn’t much. She stared a little, winked a bit, nothing as bad as before. But after about the third night of docility, it decided to up the ante. Slumping down, the wounds from before formed at an accelerated rate, her “corpse” rotting, turning into a pile of snow-white bones. But eventually, after a few hours, a familiar, terrifying scent filled the room. It was the smell of key lime pie.

***

i can feel him                    coming

           doesn’t matter                cold my finger is gone

                       lonely so lonely what will he bring now

more pictures       why is he          stop don’t come

          leave me alone             don’t care if i’m lonely

                            help me    please

  need you            miss you       love you

                             did you eat the pie?

FREEZINGFREEZINGFREEZINGFREEZINGFREEZINGFREEZINGFREEZINGFREEZING.

crap                  i lost my finger i can’t make pie now

***

Since I felt down, I decided to paint the room. I haven’t been focusing on my waking life lately because of the night terrors. The garage was filled with cobwebs because I usually biked everywhere. I brushed away the dust, choking a little at the thick film of dirt and water on the painting supplies. The only thing in usable shape was the paint scraper, so I decided to go to Tool House for more paint. Maybe I could get a little dust off the car, which we never use anyway. Starting up the old Karavan, I drove to the store to get a roller and some paint.

***

i can  almost              taste it

             the thing                   said it would

                          get me         some

                                                                 oatmeal…

i don’t like oatmeal…

***

I’ve finally finished the trip, procuring some mild-colored yellow paint (called Sleepy Lemon), and a paint roller. As I get out my slightly rusty paint scraper, I reflect on what’s happened up to now. Okay, let’s do this…

    THINGS I KNOW

 

  • The thing has taken my fiancée.

 

  • The thing can somehow take pictures/make images of my fiancée.
  • The thing has her in a chair.
  • I am somehow making the wounds that were on the thing.
  • If the thing appears with my fiancée, the fiancée’s appearance is slightly warped.
  • Oh, what’s this?

I see a door above my head. An attic… is this real? I creak the door open, and a blast of cold, musty air hits my face, making me gag.

***

someone

here

is

below

***

I’ll go downstairs to get a flashlight. I walk down and hear something in the kitchen. What… it’s the thing. I can’t move. It looks just like her, with even her head bobs the same, but there’s one thing that’s different — no humming. Instead, silence. It’s never appeared during the day. I let out a small squeak, and as it whips around, the boiling pot (is that oatmeal?!) spills on the thing’s apron. I hear a hissing sound, internally flinching, but since I can’t move, I’m forced to watch the clothes and flesh melt off of the thing’s chest, leaving a bloody and exposed rib bone.

***

i can hear myself scream. what’s going on? it’s not me. at least, i don’t think it’s me…

***

It’s leaving. I need to get the flashlight and run. I take the light, run up, and kick the door open.

***

what is that? i see light flooding out from under a door. the thing doesn’t use a flashlight…

***

That’s a lot of doors. I should explore. I open one and see something that makes me terrified. It’s a room that looks almost industrial, with exposed concrete walls and fluorescent lights. The one thing that scares me is the bloody handprints on the walls. They looked like they were gripping onto something, with some of them dragging down to the bottom of the room. Then I look down. The floor is almost pulsating, and I instantly know what had happened. I don’t take a closer look, slamming the door. What the hell is this place?

***

Closing my eyes, I try to process what happened. It looked normal, but inside it wasn’t. I’ve got to get out of here… but I can’t. The attic door is gone, and I only see solid floor. The only way out must be behind one of these doors, none of which I want to open. What should I do?

***

no… don’t…

***

I decide to open the door next to the one I opened… and saw my childhood bedroom. What? Why is this here? I look around, and everything is exactly the same. Everything but the little boy outside my window. I’m distressed, not knowing what to do… so I open the window. Big mistake. There’s a black space outside my window that feels unnervingly empty. I look behind me, and my room is burning, falling apart just like it did in the fire. I run to the door, closing it behind me as a rafter crashes down from the ceiling. This place doesn’t just mess with your life. It messes with your mind.

***

leave. if i’m going to die, i want you to be safe. please. listen, i love you. that’s the reason i said yes to your proposal. you’re a kind, brave, and selfless person who would do anything for me. but this time, you can’t. this isn’t a rip current or an angry parent. this is supernatural. if you die… i won’t ever be able to be happy again. so for once, let me handle this on my own.

***

I feel her. I don’t know how, but I feel her. My fiancée is in here somewhere. Is this where the thing hid here? Is she okay?! I need to save her. I open the door… and see what I would describe as a lounge. Beanie chairs and pillows are everywhere, with Chinese lanterns floating around. There’s music playing, with a soft lilting feel to it. I know there’s something behind this, so I toss my flashlight into the room. Then, I notice the music speeding up. I plug my ears, and the flashlight explodes, leaving a small pile of ash.

***

what’s that noise? i hear a small explosion. is he okay?

***

Wow. The worst thing about it is that I’m in the dark now. I decide to open the fourth door, and I can’t see anything. “Hello?” My voice echoes. It seems to be pretty small, so I tentatively step in. I feel a pounding beat, which makes it so that I can’t stand well. It echoes throughout the room as I make my way towards the wall. As I put my hand on the wall, it feels… spongy. I touch it, and it bounces back slightly. In disgusted horror, I realize what’s on the walls — human flesh.

***

oh no

***

I hightail it out of there, ready to vomit. Where did it even come from?! I hesitate to open the last door and see ice. It’s everywhere, coating the room — no, it is the room. As I slide through the room, looking back at the door, a terrifyingly familiar feeling fills the pit of my stomach. I run, but as soon as I make a couple steps, I can’t move anymore. The thing is behind me. Is this really happening? Is it going to kill me?

***

i can see him, with the thing trying to deliver the killing blow. with the last of my voice, i scream.

***

She’s here. The thing took her, stole her from me. It stole the love of my life. And as the unbridled rage fills me, I turn my head to look at the thing and whisper, “You’re dead.” I stand up and prepare to fight. As the thing rushes towards me, I slide out of the way, the momentum carrying me towards the wall, and see her, a huge window shining behind her. She’s staring at me, looking near-frozen. The thing is darting around, screeching hysterically.

***

he’s fighting it. he’s doing this for me. i can feel tears welling up in my eyes, but they freeze, so i just sob.

***

I grab the thing’s shoulders, sliding forward toward the window, past the ice, past my fiancée, and into the pane of glass. It shatters the glass, falling into the void below. I held onto a chunk of ice, feeling nearly unconscious. My fiancée looks at me, sobbing, and we’re back in my room, on the floor, together.

 

“I love you,” she says.

“I love you too,” I say back.

“Want some pie?”

 

Ham and Cheese

 

I had just taken BART home from work, the day I met it. Correction: met him. It was hot out, the walk from the station to my house was miserable, and I recall being relieved it was only five minutes. The cars sped by on the road next to me, engines humming loudly. I walked up my driveway, opened the front door, turned off the alarm, and took my shoes off, the usual routine. Then, I grabbed my laundry hamper and hustled down the rickety staircase to the the washing machine in my basement. I opened the machine, dumping my laundry in. As I turned to get my laundry detergent, a flash of color caught my eye. I looked back at my laundry machine and found myself staring right into the eyes of a fish. It was red with tinges of blue on its head and fins. In all, it was about as big as my two fists placed side by side, pretty large for a fish. I didn’t scream, or run away. I just stared open-mouthed. I probably looked like a fish myself. The fish wiggled his way above the surface of my dirty socks, until I could see his entire upper body, as he used his pectoral fins to balance on the rim of the laundry machine. At the time, it didn’t occur to me that fish need water to survive. This fish apparently swam in dirty laundry.

“Ham and cheese,” he said. I stared. “A guy gets mighty hungry when he’s trapped in a laundry machine all day,” he huffed. “Would you please get me some ham and cheese?”

“Ham and cheese,” I repeated idiotically.

“Yes,” he said, “not in a sandwich though, I can’t stand ham and cheese sandwiches. I eat them separately.”

I’m not the questioning type; I do what I’m told. I found shredded mozzarella in my refrigerator and a slice of ham and brought them to the basement. I dropped them into my laundry machine, watching in shocked silence as the fish devoured them both.

“Much better. Thank you,” he said. He leaned over the edge of my machine, peering into my laundry hamper. “Let’s see now, two pairs of jeans, three T-shirts, and a pair of socks. You sure have a lot of socks, you know. There were fifteen pairs in your last load!”

 

Why the Italian Elections Matter

     

When Italians came to the polls on March 4th, 2018, they rejected the establishment that had governed Italy since the end of World War 2 and voted in a wave of populist outsiders on a level equal to the election of Donald Trump. The political establishment has been swept into obscurity, while relatively new parties and political organizations have risen to power. The Italian elections will not just impact the Italian political landscape, but is indicative of all Europe.

The center-left coalition that governed Italy took a huge hit. The ruling Democratic Party, the leader of the coalition, dropped from 26% to 19% of seats in the Italian Parliament, while the populist Five Star Movement rose to 32% of the seats. The anti-immigration League saw a 400% increase in its seats, having recently changed its name from the Northern League and abandoned its old message of secession from Italy to form an independent state in the Italian Alps. Former Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi’s center-right Forward Italy party lost seats, but faces the prospect of being part of the government. Forward Italy and the League have formed a coalition, but are still short of a parliamentary plurality (The Guardian). The Italian left has been decimated, and commentators have begun comparing the League’s charismatic leader, Matteo Salvini, to another outspoken Northern Italian, Benito Mussolini. Salvini, who has campaigned for Donald Trump and who is in the same camp as defeated French presidential candidate Marine Le Pen, may become Italy’s next Prime Minister — a scary prospect for pan-Europeans.

Though there were many issues at play during the election, the dominant one was immigration. Large numbers of migrants, mostly from Sub-Saharan Africa, but many from North Africa and the Middle East, pour into southern Italy, places such as Sicily and Calabria. From there, some settle in the south, while many move into the more prosperous, industrial north. Shortly before the election, a young Italian woman was brutally murdered by three migrants, and in retaliation, a League member shot at a group of migrants, who had no connection with the murder. Both sides of the political spectrum have latched onto the story and have used a tragic event as political posturing. The left used this as an example for why Italy needs more migrants, and the right used it as an example for why Italy needs fewer, if any, migrants. What makes the immigration debate even more heated is that the Italian people have very little say in how many migrants, immigrants, and refugees their nation takes in. Non-governmental organizations (NGOs) frequently pick up people in boats heading to Europe. Then, instead of dropping them off at the nearest safe ports, which are usually in Tunisia, the NGOs break international maritime law and take the migrants to Italy, with no permission from the Italian government or people (Reuters). Thus, the Italian people voted to have a say in their own government.

On domestic issues, things are much different. Most of the political parties in Italy, including the Democratic Party, the Five Star Movement, and the League, are socially liberal. The Five Star Movement, for example, is pro-choice on abortion yet anti-European Union, and can hardly be defined as left-wing or right-wing. Instead, they are typically known for simply being populists (CNN). This explains how the League and the Five Star Movement were so successful: they attracted many social liberals, while holding their anti-immigration and anti-European Union base. Unless the mainstream left-wing parties such as the Democrats manage to regain the confidence of the liberal voters, shattered by years of mismanagement, they have very little hope regaining their political relevance. Similarly, the center-right Forward Italy has also lost much of its base, which defected primarily to the League and secondarily to the Five Star Movement. Forward Italy, too, must regain their mainstream voters, if they intend to be competitive. In this election, Forward Italy is in the same boat as the League, but they will sink come the next election if they do not get their voters back.

Looking at the platforms of the League and the Five Star Movement, one might think they are socialist (or at least social democratic) parties. Both parties support a universal basic income (UBI) for Italian citizens, which is one of the guiding tenets of the political left. Italian citizens who wanted the UBI and opposed illegal immigration thus voted for those parties.

Another important factor in the elections was technology. The Five Star Movement held many of its primaries online, and its founder, former comedian Beppe Grillo, has a blog which he used to attract voters, many of them young and new to the political process. On a more sinister side, fake news is said to have played a large role in influencing the voters (The New York Times). That claim is unverified, but if it is true, it will be yet another testament to the power of technology, for better or for worse.

Furthermore, Italy has never been known for its political stability. From the late 1960s to the late 1980s, Italy was rocked by what is known as the Years of Lead, which included a former Prime Minister being assassinated and a railway station being bombed (BBC News). The communist Red Brigades, supported by the Soviet Union, and the neo-fascist Italian Vanguard fought each other and the Italian government, for control. When the Soviet Union fell, so did the Red Brigades, and stability was restored. However, it was not to be for long. Starting in 1992, the Christian Democratic Party was torn apart by the Tangentopoli (Italian for Bribesville) scandal (The New York Times). In the 1994 elections, Silvio Berlusconi’s Forward Italy group won in a landslide. Berlusconi was the leader of the Italian right-wing for every election up until those held in 2018. Ultimately, though, his felony convictions scared away voters, and the League eclipsed him.

The conservative wing of Italian politics has been taken over by the nationalist right, similar to how Donald Trump won the 2016 Republican presidential primaries, defeating the ossified establishment. It is no surprise, then, that the League’s leader Matteo Salvini flew to Philadelphia in April 2016 and endorsed Trump (The Local). In the recent Hungarian parliamentary elections, Prime Minister Viktor Orbán kept his job and saw his party, the nationalist Fidesz, win a supermajority (The Guardian). Orbán is an ally of Donald Trump and Matteo Salvini, and he is beloved in right-wing circles for keeping migrants out of Hungary.

In the upcoming 2018 midterm elections in the United States, nationalists, usually Republicans, are poised to win great victories. In a special election in Pennsylvania, nationalist Democrat Conor Lamb defeated establishment Republican candidate Rick Saccone (CNBC). In the Republican primary for the US Senate election in West Virginia, businessman Don Blankenship, who has referred to Mitch McConnell, the epitome of the political establishment, as “Cocaine Mitch,” has been seeing favorable polling. However, Blankenship lost the primary to State Attorney General Patrick Morrisey, who is himself associated with Donald Trump’s brand of nationalism (The New York Times). Thus, one nationalist defeated another.

After almost three months of political jockeying, Italy finally got a new prime minister. The position fell to Giuseppe Conte, a little-known lawyer and university professor from Apulia, which forms the heel in Italy’s geographic boot. After surviving a scandal regarding his academic credentials, Conte received the mandate to form a government from President Sergio Mattarella on June 1 (BBC News).

The European political landscape is rapidly shifting to nationalism and populism, as the elections in Italy have proven. Once a bastion of progressive policies, Italy is now a nation firmly committed to its sovereignty. This is a bad sign for the left, and just as much for the establishment right. The Italian elections were a large rock thrown into Europe’s political pond. Only time will tell how far the ripples will go.

 

Bibliography

https://www.theguardian.com/world/ng-interactive/2018/mar/05/italian-elections-2018-full-results-renzi-berlusconi

https://www.reuters.com/article/us-europe-migrants-italy-ngo/italy-seizes-ngo-rescue-boat-for-allegedly-aiding-illegal-migration-idUSKBN1AI21B

https://www.cnn.com/2018/03/01/europe/five-star-movement-italy-intl/index.html

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/03/01/world/europe/fake-news-italy-election-europe.html

http://news.bbc.co.uk/onthisday/hi/dates/stories/august/2/newsid_4532000/4532091.stm

https://www.nytimes.com/2002/02/24/world/10-years-after-bribery-scandal-italy-still-counts-the-cost.html

https://www.thelocal.it/20180124/italians-first-far-right-northern-league-matteo-salvini-donald-trump-2018-election

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2018/apr/08/hungarys-viktor-orban-secures-another-term-with-resounding-win

https://www.cnbc.com/2018/03/14/democrat-conor-lamb-is-the-apparent-winner-of-pennsylvania-special-election-in-trump-country.html

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/05/08/us/politics/blankenship-west-virginia.html

https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-44322429

 

Triplets Chapter 1

 

“Angelika, wake up. It’s time for — ” Angelika raised a slim, manicured hand, signaling that she was, in fact, already awake, then settled back under the covers, closing her eyes. Angelika’s mother sighed tiredly. “Angelika, please get up. You’ll be late for school. Don’t you want to go learn?” Now it was Angelika’s turn to sigh. That trick may have worked with her sisters who were always so eager to sit in a poorly decorated classroom, listening to their 60-year-old, half blind, half deaf teacher drone on about the Cold War, thinking it would help them succeed in life, but it wouldn’t work with her.

“Learning long division won’t help me in the real world. That’s what calculators are for. The human race has advanced since the Stone Age, which calls for a development in the education system, but those idiots at the DOE are completely blind to change. So I don’t see why I have to leave the comfort of my bed to ‘learn’ something that I’ll never use. If I was going to learn about business or politics, I would be out of bed in an instant.” With that, Angelika threw the covers over her head and tried to go back to sleep.

“Angelika,” her mother said softly, trying to reason with her. “I know you don’t like school, but you have to do things you don’t want to do sometimes. And you’re way past long division. You learned that in 4th grade, and you’re going into 8th. You can’t keep making excuses, honey. It’s alright if you’re not as smart as Adeline or Aubrey, but you can’t — ” She never finished her sentence. Angelika threw off the blanket, her auburn hair tangled by the action and blue eyes glaring

“Don’t you dare tell me I’m not as good as those twits! I’m smarter than both of them, and you know it!” she shouted. Instead of yelling back like Angelika expected, her mom continued in a painfully patronizing voice.

“You can’t stop trying altogether. Then how will you improve?” That was the last straw. Upon hearing that, something inside her snapped.

“Shut up! You can’t tell me what I can or can’t do! Get out of my room or I swear, I will hurt you!”

“Don’t threaten your mother, Angelika. That’s not something a nice girl does.”

“Well, I don’t want to be a nice girl!” She was seeing red, and it took all her willpower to keep herself from strangling this woman who dared to call herself Angelika’s mother.

“Well, you should because only nice girls get to go to dance.” That was the killing blow. The fury in her eyes disappeared, replaced by sorrow and desperation.

“You would do that?” she whispered. Her mother nodded, triumphant over her victory, ignoring how miserable her daughter looked.

“Unless you get up and get dressed this instant, you will be barred from all extracurricular activities, including ballet.”

Knowing she had lost, Angelika nodded and stood up. She walked with the grace of a ballet dancer over to her dresser, where her clothes for the day were already laid out. Skinny jeans and a crop top, selected by her mother and no doubt matching with Adeline and Aubrey’s outfits. She sighed as she pulled on the uncomfortably tight jeans and shirt. She turned around to find her mother had already left. Good, she thought bitterly. No doubt she was in Adeline or Aubrey’s room, gently waking them and telling them how they were her favorite daughters and how much she adored them. Angelika rose to her feet and strode over to the door, bending her knees deeply in an attempt to loosen her pants. Embarrassed by her defeat, she avoided her mother’s gaze as she trudged to the kitchen where her backpack was hanging on her chair. Angelika slung it over her shoulder, grabbed a granola bar of the table, slid her feet into her worn pair of sneakers without bothering to put on socks, and jogged toward the door. As she left, she grabbed her fake black leather jacket, embroidered with pink roses on the sleeves and back, and tied it around her waist to hide her exposed stomach. As her sisters, Adeline and Aubrey, pushed past her, she saw that they had done the exact same thing. Being a triplet really sucked.

 

The Room on the Fifth Floor (Part 1)

.    

I flopped onto my bed and screamed into my pillow, “UGHHH!! This is going to be the absolutely worst spring break ever!”

“Caitlyn Allen, do not use that tone in this house.” Mom followed me into my room, raising her voice.

“Can you please, please just leave me alone?” I said quietly. She walked out, taking a deep breath. Mom was a busy lady, being the CEO for the Allen Corporation, and all, so she rarely had the time to go on vacation. I knew I was being difficult, but how could I help it? After all, I was staying at Aunt Mildred’s, the most miserable, uptight lady I’ve ever met. She was my father’s sister and had become more evil when he died two years ago from the deadly car crash — when I was in seventh grade.

Dad was an intelligent chemist, so when he passed, everyone was devastated, especially me.  Seriously, I have had many, many memories with Aunt Mildred — all of which have been unpleasant. For example, there was this time where she made me clip her toenails and rub her feet, and even the time where she made me give her angry, clawing cat,  Kiki, a bath. I lay in bed contemplating my life and how I was going to one day run away from my home, Shelby, Alabama, to maybe somewhere like Hawaii, no, maybe Bora Bora?

Don’t worry, Caitlyn, I mean at least you’ll be able to see Ethan. No, no, no. I haven’t seen him since I was ten years old! It’s been 5 years, he is definitely not going to remember me. Oh well, I have to go anyway.

Mom hollered, “Come on, Caitlyn, we are leaving in half an hour. There will be some traffic, so get packing!” Mom had to catch a flight to Shanghai for a conference and did not trust me to stay home for two weeks by myself after the last time. Let’s just say, last time I may have made the house a mess from the pure joy of freedom I had felt. I threw some shirts, shorts, toothbrush, phone, and other stuff into my purple, plaid backpack and jogged out to the driveway. Mom was waiting in the car, speaking on the phone, as always.

She spoke loudly into her earbuds, “Mildred, hello. Yes, yes. Do not worry. We are on our way…. No, no… Yes. She will be on the best behavior… Okay, bye, bye. ”

She hung up and pointedly looked at me, “Be on your best behavior, Caitlyn. Aunt Mildred is our only family left, so you are going to be — ”

“Mom, I know, I know. Like you always say, ‘be the best, most courteous person that way you’ll go through life without getting hurt.’ You’ve said just about five billion times.” I spoke annoyed at her insensitivity. Mom backed out of the driveway, the car ride to the dreaded Aunt Mildred’s was filled with a grudgeful silence. Aunt Mildred lived in the countryside of Alabama — in the spooky town of Beatrice. Tall, branchy oak trees were abundant there, so much so that very little light could reach the town. Aunt Mildred had the largest house there, from what and for what I do not know.

I was lost in my thoughts until Mom interrupted, me, “Ahem, time to stop dreaming. We are here.” It was now seven o’clock at night, and it was almost pitch black. Caw, caw, caw! The crows here freaked me out, but definitely not as much as the mansion itself. Looking up, I saw the towering, once-white mansion. It was tall, with five floors, and large, with 52 rooms. The paint was peeling and graying, and the yellow, flickering lights did not help with its appearance. It looked unkempt with the ivy vines slowly wounding its weigh up the columns.  Honestly, it looked like no one lived there. That is, until you saw the hot pink Lamborghini and heard the creaking of the stairs only to see a tall, haughty lady walk towards us. Click! Clack! Click! Clack! I lowered my eyes only to see two hot pink stilettos, which had to be at least seven inches tall, approaching me.

Then, they stopped, and I heard her snobby voice, “Now, now, Caitlyn Clarisse Allen. That is no way to greet your auntie, is it now?”

I forced myself to look up and mumbled clenching my fists, “Hello, Aunt Mildred.” She smiled fakely revealing her perfect white teeth, while her jet black hair was pulled back neatly in a bun. She was really, truly an image to be feared. Seriously, how could you not fear a lady in a tight pink pantsuit?

Walking past me, she hollered in a high pitched manner, “Oh, Marilyn! Come give me a hug, deary!”

Mom, who was trying to hide in the car because she was on a “conference call” rolled her eyes and faked a smile. “Mildred! How are you? We’ve missed you,” Mom hollered back.

Aunt Mildred exhaled in an irritated manner, “Come out of your darn BMW!” Mom stepped out, her face heating up. Suddenly, through the bushes, I felt someone or something tap my arm.  I turned around, looking through the leaves and spiderwebs (ew) of the bush, and saw a tan arm coming for me. I gasped, Seriously… I’ve literally been here for two minutes and a zombie is already out to get me. Greeeaaat. I pulled my gaze away from the bush, but curiosity overcame me, and I tiptoed to the other side of the bush. In the distance I could hear Mom and Aunt Mildred faking a polite conversation even though everyone knows that they’ve hated each other ever since Mom got married.

“Hey, is that you Catie? It’s me Ethan!” I heard a deep voice whisper in front of me. I looked up to see him. Is that really him? He looks so much taller and so… different. His skin was olive tan (how it became this tan I’m not sure, I mean come on, there’s like no sun in this town), his brown hair was tousled but somehow looking put together. “Hello? Are you going to respond, or are we just gonna have a staring contest?” he asked with a smirk on his face. I felt my face grow hot and my hands clammed up. I forgot I was staring at him.

“Hey, sorry. I go by Cate now. I remember you,” I said rushedly.

Then, a screeching voice broke up the silence, “Caaaiiitttllllyyyn, young lady! Come into the house now. I know you’re in that Evan boy’s lawn!”

Ethan rolled his eyes, but started to laugh. “Hahaha, I just love that cranky lady — don’t you?”

I responded in absolute disbelief, “Um, nope, not at all. Not one bit.” Ethan laughed and I giggled sprinting back to the mansion before Aunt Mildred could yell at me again.

“Oh, good. You’re back. Let me introduce you to the maid,” Aunt Mildred said as she waved me into the mansion. I stepped into the mansion, and it looked exactly like it was five years ago — same black marble floor with a giant marble staircase leading to the East and West Wing. An extremely freaky statue of what looked like a gargoyle greeted me upon my arrival. On my right was the sitting room. I mean it’s sole purpose was for sitting, but no one actually sat there. Big, plump, velvet chairs surrounded one antique looking wooden table carved with beautiful detail. On my left there was Aunt Mildred’s office. I’ve never been in there, but I’ve seen through the door crack. It was actually nice and bright in there. Very pink, also. A wonderful smell wafted to my nose — mmmm… was that pork chops with mashed potatoes? Yum! I tried walking to the kitchen which was in the back, but Aunt Mildred’s bony hand held onto my shoulder.

“Not so fast, young lady. You must meet Caroline first! Ah, here she comes,” she said in her usual omniscient tone.

A stout elderly lady rushed over in an apron with a feather duster and says in a British accent, “Come, Miss Caitlyn, let me show you to your room. I have put your bag in there already.” She turns around, and her curly gray hair bounces up and down. Hmmm… I definitely do not remember this lady when I was here five years ago. She must be at least a hundred. Wow… just ancient. I climbed the staircase with her, and once we neared the top, we encountered three long hallways. Two of them were brightly lit with magnificent chandeliers, but the other one … well, let’s just say it was creepy as heck! The westernmost hallway was so dark that all you could see was one door, that had a crack of light streaming through the bottom. I peered in further and saw two green orbs of light blinking at me. I gasped in fear and tried to look away.

Caroline must have seen my agape mouth and wide eyes, for she quickly turned me around facing the center hallway and whispered in my ear, “Miss Caitlyn, you are strongly forbidden to go into the West wing. Specifically the fifth floor. Mistress Mildred’s orders.” Her cold voice evoked shivers and made me more drawn to the West wing. Then, she forcefully grabbed my hand, and she dragged me briskly into the center hallway. It took my breath away, and I felt my eyes widen, devouring all that was around me. The walls studded with sparkling gems of all sorts. The color and the sparkle weren’t all though. There were paintings too. Some of flowers, others of trees. I felt a pulling at my chest. Dad loved nature so very much. Suddenly I was no longer in this creepy mansion. I was in Muir Forest with Dad, hiking and having a jubilant time. This day, three years ago, was one of the best days I have ever had. This is what flashbacks have been like for me. I should probably take the meds my therapist prescribed.

“Ahem, Miss Caitlyn, shall we get going?” Caroline said, waking me up from the pleasant day dream.  Turning around, I faced another wall. I felt intrigued. There was a huge black and white photograph that covered the whole wall. I squinted, wait a second… that must be Aunt Mildred when she was just a young girl. One would be ignorant to not recognize the jet black hair and sharp nose of hers. She was smiling, something I have never seen her do. Furthermore, she was holding the hand of a boy shorter than her. It had to be Dad. He looked quite different from when I knew him. Curly brown hair sprouted from his round head, his jovial face smiling, revealing his missing front teeth. I missed him.

Tears threatened to escape, but taking a deep breath, I entered the open door which had always been my room here and was elated to see more beautiful decor. Anyone could have guessed that this had been Aunt Mildred’s childhood room, for it was very pink… but beautiful nonetheless. A delicate, little chandelier hung in the center of the circular room. The light reached out to every wall of the room and filled the room with a magical, golden glow. There was an ornate, white dresser next to a dainty pink closet, filled with small, pink clothing. Facing the entrance there was a white, frilly bed — decorated with lace pillows and a pink, faux fur comforter. My favorite part of this room was the balcony, for its French doors opened out to a porch facing Ethan’s window. His baby blue curtains were closed, but a bright light permeated through. His nicely groomed yard and smaller brick home were neat and homely looking. Definitely the opposite of this creepy mansion.

“I’ll leave you here to get ready for dinner. See you later, Miss Caitlyn.” Caroline waved goodbye without a look back.

“Bye, Caroline. Thank you,” I said, but she was already out the door. Sheesh, all the people that work here are so hostile. Reminds me of the kids back at home at Westwood High. Starting to settle in, I suddenly felt a sense of loneliness. I had no one here, except for Aunt Mildred, but she can’t count. I mean come on, have you even seen that lady? I guess I have Ethan. He could be a good choice for a friend. My thoughts were then interrupted by none else, but the one and only, Aunt Mildred.

“Caitlyn!! Come down already. It’s been an hour! Your food is getting cold and eaten by flies.” Aunt Mildred’s high-pitched voice rang throughout the house. Sure enough, I checked my phone and it was already 7:29. It literally felt like five minutes. Ughhh. I dragged myself out of bed and rushed down the stairs. When I exited, I once again encountered the West Wing. Don’t look. Don’t look, Cate. I couldn’t help it. Peering in, I saw the two green orbs again. I got so close to them that I felt everything slow down, and suddenly I felt nauseous.  My eyes widened in fear and my legs felt stuck in place — I couldn’t move. What was that? This mansion is definitely haunted.

“Miss Caitlyn, are you alright? You have been standing there for quite a while now,” Caroline said in a worried tone as her small hand came to rest on my shoulder.

Ummm… I was only standing there for like 30 seconds!

“Caroline, is th-th-there something in that hallway?” I asked quietly.

Caroline replied, “No, sweetie. Nothing. No one uses it, that’s all.”

I looked at her straight in the eyes, “Honest?”

“Honest.”

“Also, Caroline?”

“Yes?”

“Could you please call me Cate. It makes me feel less creeped out by everything and everyone here.”

Caroline hesitated at first, not sure what to say.

“Oh, not you! You are probably one of the more normal people here.”

“Why thank you, Cate,” Caroline replied with the first warm smile I’ve seen all day.

Caroline led me to the dining room. Again, I must have forgotten just how truly beautiful the mansion was. The largest, most luminescent chandelier hung from the decorated ceiling. Yes, I know right. How extra! Who even looks at the ceiling? Little pieces of clear jewels hung from the chandelier like beautiful water droplets. In the middle, there was a long, sandalwood dining table, the legs carved with beautiful images of flowers and herbs. There was one lone plate in the middle of the huge table. Nothing else filled the table. I mean, sure. I usually eat my dinner alone anyway, but this was a whole new level of loneliness. There was an irksome silence, for even Caroline had disappeared. Well, I guess it’s just me and the ghost now. The thought still filled me with shivers, but the delicious smell of pork chops made my mouth water. I couldn’t stop wondering where Aunt Mildred was though. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. She’s probably plotting her next evil conquest. Sinking into the deep red velvet chair, I began to dig into the pork chops and mashed potatoes. Just when I was on my last bite of food, there was a rapping on the front door. I rushed to peer through the door hole to see who this mysterious stranger was. It was Ethan! Unlocking the chains to the door, I opened the door and he rushed in, his eyes wild. He was breathing heavily and scrambled to sit on a loveseat.

“Cate… you gotta believe me. I’ve been seeing crazy… things,” Ethan said between breaths.

“What?! I’ve seen enough crazy for one day!” I said exacerbated. “Also, let’s go into the dining room, I’m just finishing up dinner.”

We rushed quietly into the dining room where Ethan sat on the dining chair next to me.

“Mmmmm… that looks good.”

“Yep, it’s pretty amazing.” I replied through bites. “Do you want any?”

Suddenly, Ethan sucked in air, and I tried to see where he was looking. He continued to stare at my plate with his mouth agape. I looked down predicting the worst. Oh. My. God.

I tried to scream, but Ethan covered my mouth with his hand and said, “Shhh… at least it’s not a bad surprise?” On my plate, sitting there, like the pork chops and mashed potatoes had never been there, was a single slice of red velvet cake. It’s cream cheese frosting and moist looking cake beckoned me to eat it, but I couldn’t. After all, it did just appear from thin air.

“Well, what are you waiting for? That is just about the tastiest red velvet cake I’ve ever seen… so if you’re not gonna eat, I am!” Ethan said, clearly not understanding my point of view.

“Um, not to burst your bubble or anything, but it literally came from nowhere. Like magic, poof! Who knows where it has been? Maybe it’s been poisoned,” I said, flabbergasted.

This whole house was strange and there were always new surprises. I didn’t know how to feel about it. I mean, I was a girl who hated surprises. I was a girl who planned by days out meticulously. I was a girl who turned my homework in early. I was a girl that liked to stay in the comfort of her room. I was anything, but spontaneous. The whole situation really freaked me out.

“Where do you think it came from?” I asked, my voice shaking a little.

“Erm… ” Ethan looked around, “I-I don’t know. There’s no one here.”

Ethan paced around the dining table, looking ready to fight at anytime, “This house is freaking me out. Let’s get outta here.”

 

I nodded, completely overwhelmed, so he pulled on my hand, and we got up. We ran outside. Across the cobbly path with many deadly looking potholes we went, and I was quite surprised that I didn’t die. He stopped once we got to his perfect white, wooden porch lined with succulents. We both collapsed onto the comfy porch swing, our breathing still ragid from sprinting away from that creepy mansion.

“Look! Do you see that? What in the world is that?!” Ethan said with a hint of fear.

He pointed up at the mansion’s roof, and its chimney was truly doing something out of this world. It was spouting out red smoke, that in turn, sprinkled onto the roof in the form of powder.

“I have no idea. I have been in this town for less than a day and suddenly, all these crazy things are happening. And I don’t know why, but this place reminds me of my dad… ” I said on the verge of bursting into tears.

Ethan replied, unsure what to say, “Oh… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to — never mind, let me just fill you in on what’s been happening these few days.”

Sitting on the steps of his porch, he told me that crazy signs have been coming up starting the last two days. Everyday at 8pm, green, yellow, and sometimes red smoke is emitted from the chimney leaving the roof a powdered mess.

“But listen, Cate. It’s not just the fumes that are abnormal. You see, through my parents’ bedroom, I have the perfect view of a dark hallway,” Ethan said on a roll.

“Woah there, Ethan, slow down. The West wing? The dark hallway is the one Aunt Mildred told me not to go in,” I said disbelievingly.

“Yeah, yeah. The West wing. But get this — the hallway has these tiny green light things that fly all the way to the fifth floor. I can’t really see what’s on the fifth floor exactly. All I know is that Ms. Mildred goes in there every so often,” Ethan said, excited to be part of an adventure.

Feeling faint, I whispered, “I saw those while I was walking past the West Wing hallway. It’s near my room. C’mon, we’ve got to go.”

I grabbed Ethan’s hand, pulling him up from the porch, and we started to run back to the mansion. It was getting, cold and my hands and feet felt numb. We pushed through the cold, running along the windy cobbly path. I couldn’t help but shiver, not from just the cold, but also the creepiness of the dark looming trees. Were the cackling crows up there perhaps making fun of us? Running up the cobblestone driveway careful not to twist an ankle, we finally reached the doorway. The only light shining was that of an old lantern emitting an orange light. There was an eerie silence as we stood at the doorway. But suddenly, there was a, boom! Boom! Looking up, we gasped. It was the largest poof of glowing orbs coming out of the chimney I had ever seen. They looked like a colony of fireflies. However, they weren’t the green orbs I saw in the hallway of the West Wing. They were red, orange, and white, looking like some sort of weird fire.

“Oh my god. What in the freaking world,” Ethan whispered, his face white.

“Oh. My — ” I started to say.

Ethan said, “C’mon Cate, we are going to the fifth floor of the West wing,” pulling on my hand.

I held back shivering in fear, “I can’t, I’m sorry.”

He replied surprised, “I thought you wanted to see what was up there!”

I said, in a sorry manner, “We don’t know what’s up there! It could hurt us.”

Then, hearing how crazy I was being, I changed my mind and said, “Actually you know what, let’s do it. It’s just some powder and weird looking fireflies. It can’t do anything to us.”

We tested the front door, crossing our fingers that it was unlocked. Shoot, it’s locked. I knocked on the door. Knock! Knock! A green eye peered down at us through the door’s peephole. Chain dropping, the door creaked open and I dreaded the sight — Aunt Mildred wearing a cucumber face mask with her fuzzy pink robe and slippers.

“Just what do you think you are doing, young lady?” Aunt Mildred spoke sternly almost exploding with disbelief.

“Nothing, nothing at all. We were just taking a walk, Aunt Mildred,” I spoke quietly, not making eye contact. I nudged Ethan who was trying to stifle his laughter at the view of Aunt Mildred.

“No one can hear you, speak up. Whatever, come on in, now,” she said just noticing Ethan.

“Hey there! Ms. M, it’s me Evan!” Ethan spoke jokingly.

A shadow passed on Aunt Mildred’s face, and she forgot about us. She looked at her watch, then back at us squinting her eyes, as if trying to read our minds. She mumbled to herself looking worried — something about cake. She rushed to the dining room, leaving us in a confused state.

“Was it something I said?” Ethan asked just as perplexed as me.

“Oh no, oh no, oh NOOOOO! The cake. The cake. Why is it still here??” Aunt Mildred cried in distress.

She sprinted out, her green face resembling that of a wild ghoul.

“You come here now, Cate. You eat this cake,” she said, chasing us through gritted teeth.

In complete petrification, my feet were glued to the marble floor next to the front door, the wind outside howling at me.

Ethan unlocked me from the trance and shook my shoulders saying, “C’mon. Your Aunt Mildred is going crazy. We gotta escape from here.”

I nodded at him, and together we fled up the stairs, escaping the green ghoul that was Aunt Mildred.

“No! Come back, children. Look, look at this delicious piece of cake. Don’t you just want to eat it?” Aunt Mildred yelled, gaining on us after kicking off the slippers and throwing the plate of cake onto the ground, the plate shattering in a million pieces.

I heard someone shriek. Wait, was it me?

“Shhhhh!! Just keep running,” Ethan said, covering my mouth with his hand.

After what seemed like a hundred steps of stairs, we finally reached the top. My calves were burning in agony, and my muscles begged me to stop running, but instead, out of pure fear, we zoomed into the West wing.

Aunt Mildred was still climbing the stairs, but must have seen us go into the pitch-black hallway and hollered, “Come out of there right this second, Caitlyn Clarisse Allen. You’ll get hurt in there, trust me.”

I didn’t dare look behind me, I shut my eyes tightly and ran side by side with Ethan.

Ethan whispered, “Stop running Caitlyn, open your eyes.”

I cautiously opened my eyes, scared that there might be a monster or worse — Aunt Mildred standing there. Alas, it wasn’t. Thank god. It’s just the stairs up to the ominous on the fifth floor. That was when I noticed more green orbs circling around us, doing all sorts of things. Most of them were busy fluttering around us, curious at the new visitors. Some other ones were creating a long line and were glowing brightly, like they were trying to aid us in getting up the stairs. Almost like we could read each other’s minds, Ethan and I climbed the stairs together simultaneously, but everything felt slower.

We pushed ourselves to go faster, but everything felt slower up here, except Aunt Mildred’s pitter patter of bare feet on marble and the impossible to miss loud panting. How was she so fast while also being extremely out of shape? Thank goodness we were both wearing sneakers and um, normal clothing. Every floor we passed through brought new surprises and clues to the mystery that was the fifth floor — the second floor of the West Wing had cardboard boxes of all sizes, all filled with flasks and powders. The third floor was a huge library, filled to its cavernous ceilings with largely binded textbooks. The fourth floor, however, was the most shocking with a huge family crest resembling a crow with a sash that said ALLEN on it. It was lit with candles with one twin sized bed right next to it — sheets all tossed off the mattress. Well, I mean, it would have been the most weird floor until we reached the fifth floor.

“Wowzers. How amazing.” Ethan breathed out, clearly tired from all the running.

“Wowzers, indeed,” I whispered back.

Suddenly, the most infuriated screech was emitted, “ARGHHHH!! Those little dweebs, they found it — ”

Aunt Mildred was on the last step leading towards the magnificent fifth floor. Ethan and I quickly scurried behind a tall stack of cardboard boxes, not daring to even let out a breath. Thump!

What happened? Ethan peered out from behind the boxes and started to giggle.

I nudged him, warning him, “Shhh… she can hear you. What’s so funny??”

Ethan replied still laughing, “Hahaha, Ms. M has collapsed!”

“What??” I said in complete disbelief.

I, too then cautiously peered from behind the boxes and yep, there she was. Aunt Mildred, completely out of breath, lay there on the steps, not moving, but still alive.  Oh, poor old woman. Is she okay?? No, Cate, don’t think that way. After all, she was the one chasing you!

We were free from her chasing us, finally. We could now take the time to fully absorb our surroundings. The tall, tall ceilings, that made every motion echo. First, the floor led to a long hallway, but then, Ethan and I made it to a pathway leading to a glass room. We observed into the glass room — somehow, there was sunlight in there. Long rows of all sorts of flowers were lined up in neat, colorful rows as bees and even a few hummingbirds zoomed around happily. The room was completely glass, and it emitted some sort of happy glow that the rest of the mansion failed to do. I moved my eyes to the right side and saw — Was that, was that some sort of mad scientist? It was indeed. There was a tall man, wearing a rumpled white lab coat. Underneath his lab coat, he seemed to be wearing a neon orange shirt with words on it that I could not make out. His hair was turning gray, with only wisps of brown hair peeking through.

“Who is that?” Ethan whispered to me in complete awe.

“No idea, must be Aunt Mildred’s scientist servant.”

We could not make out the scientist’s face because it was completely concealed by lab goggles and even a mouth mask to most likely protect him from the dangerous chemicals it looked like he was producing. The stranger stood behind a tall wooden table that was completely filled with flasks of all sorts of colors and plants. They kept letting out powders every so often which the scientist tried to catch with clear plastic hoods.  The scientist himself worked on what looked like some sort of complex machinery that pumped the flowers from the gardens into those flasks.

Suddenly, we almost jumped at the sound of this strange man’s voice, “Mildred? Is that you?”

She moaned, “Yes… the test subjects just escaped from my grasp and escaped.”

Um, test subjects? What! Me? Everything suddenly made sense, but I didn’t dare to make a sound.

He answered in disbelief, “Come on, Mildreddd. You promised that it would work! How could — ”

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll try again in a few minutes,” Mildred replied weakly.

The scientist mumbled to himself in the glass room — undecipherable to all of us. He took off his thick goggles and then, it almost seemed like he could see Ethan and I in the corner of the hallway.

His honey-colored eyes glowed in the bright light and for a second… wait. Was it really him?

 

The Girl Next Door, the Guardian Angel and the Best Friend

 

Heart Throb

 

Her heart throbbed.

For more reasons than one.

 

Her sickness for one,

But that wasn’t it,

This wasn’t the same pain.

 

Her heart throbbed.

For more reasons than one.

 

She wanted to spend the rest of her life,

With her,

The girl next door.

 

Her heart throbbed.

For more reasons than one.

 

What life? She thought.

The one that was about to end?

Or the one she had conjured with her imagination.

 

Her heart throbbed.

For more reasons than one.

 

She knew she didn’t have much time,

The doctors had said “a couple weeks?”

Maybe a month.

 

She had to tell her,

The girl next door,

Could she do it?

 

And spend the rest of her life,

No matter how short or long,

Wondering?

 

Many had told her,

“Your illness doesn’t define you,”

“It’s not the only thing you are.”

 

They always said,

“Your heart still works,”

“Just because it’s a little sick doesn’t mean it’s broken.”

 

But it felt like it was,

And nobody understood that,

Except the girl next door.

 

In her mind she knew the right thing,

But what could her messed up heart know?

Certainly not love?

Certainly not happiness?

 

And so she let herself slip away,

Away from the world she knew,

Away from the girl next door.

 

Past and Future

 

And so she let herself slip away,

Away from the world she knew,

Towards something different.

 

Something better.

Something worse.

 

As long as she remembered,

Nothing could be better than her,

Nothing could be better than the girl next door.

 

And nothing could be worse.

Nothing could be worse than leaving her,

The girl next door.

 

She knew there was no going back,

She knew there was nothing else she could have done.

 

There was no way to know.

What was beyond that light.

That sweet golden light.

 

The promises of the future,

So pure and innocent.

 

And the horrors of the past,

Dark and brutal.

 

Throw It All Away

 

So this is how she would end.

Alone and scared?

Or satisfied and relieved?

 

She definitely didn’t know.

Her and her messed up heart.

 

Her and the heart that doesn’t feel.

 

Had she lived, thrived?

 

She wished she could’ve lived.

She knew she couldn’t thrive.

 

She felt as if she had thrown everything away.

Every opportunity she could have had,

Every opportunity she did have.

 

She had done nothing,

With what little she had been allowed.

She had done nothing.

 

No One

 

Slipping in and out of consciousness,

She knew the end was near.

 

Finally it would end,

The pain, the suffering,

The hard part was over.

Or was it?

 

She definitely didn’t know.

Her and her messed up heart.

 

She couldn’t believe that after all of this,

All the struggling and perseverance,

It would end like this.

 

After all this,

She had amounted to nothing.

 

She hadn’t lived, bonded or thrived.

She was no one.

 

Though she had her one friend,

The friend that visited everyday,

Yet somehow, she just couldn’t connect,

She just couldn’t connect with her.

 

An Old Tree

 

Sometimes she felt like a paper bag,

Floating on nothing.

 

She had brought this upon herself.

She had shut everybody out.

 

But sometimes, she still felt as hollow as an old tree. As old as an old tree.

 

She felt like she had been struggling for ages,

Been sick for ages.

 

She felt like she had been through it all,

But still had no reason to live.

 

Except for the girl next door.

The girl next door was the answer to all her problems.

 

Yet somehow the girl next door was one of her problems.

 

The Hand of an Angel

 

Struggling with the same moral quandary,

Should I tell her?

Or should I let it be?

 

It felt as if there were a thousand bowling balls in her head.

Rolling around her thoughts,

Never settling down.

 

She desperately needed something to ground her,

Something to back her up,

Something to help her through the good and the bad.

 

Suddenly, as if the gods had heard her pleas,

Something grabbed her hand and pulled her back to the ground.

 

It was the hand of an angel,

Someone sent to her.

 

Was it possible?

Was it possible that after all of this bad something good was finally going to happen?

 

No, it couldn’t be.

That was impossible.

 

The Hand of an Angel II

 

As if the angel could sense her spiral,

Three gentle tugs at her hand almost brought the girl back to the present.

 

But, slipping in and out of consciousness,

She felt the end nearing.

 

Prepared to give up this world and almost everything in it,

She made no outward struggle,

But her new guardian angel didn’t give up so easily, couldn’t give up so easily.

 

Another three gentle tugs kept the girl from giving up on her dream,

Her dream of the girl next door.

 

Opening her eyes,

What stood before her,

Almost killed her.

 

In the best way possible.

 

Gone

 

It was her,

Before her eyes stood a most beautiful sight,

Cast in a golden light.

 

She couldn’t believe it,

It really was an angel,

Her angel,

The girl next door.

 

She never thought this day would come,

She never thought she would see her again.

 

But here she was,

The girl next door,

The most perfect ending to the most horrible life.

 

She smiled up at her angel,

The happiest she’d been since,

Forever.

 

Her angel leaned down,

Planted a soft kiss on her lips,

Soft, but ice cold,

Ice cold but comforting,

And with that she was gone.

 

Gone like the wind,

The wind that supported her paper bag,

The wind that propelled her forward.

 

The only thing that kept her moving,

Her guardian angel.

 

Today

 

The next time she woke up,

She was still in the hospital,

Alone, with the exception of her nurse and doctor.

 

And let’s not forget her friend, the friend that came to visit everyday.

 

Everyday was the same,

The beep of the machines,

Her pills, the blood tests and more.

 

But today was different,

Today she had met her guardian angel.

 

She felt as if she’d known them forever,

She felt like she and the angel were one.

 

The most perfect half to her messed up self.

 

Today II

 

I’m really worried about her,

My best friend,

The most amazing person I know,

The strongest person I know.

 

She doesn’t think that,

I know she thinks she is broken,

She thinks she’s alone,

But she really isn’t.

 

It hurts my heart to see her like this,

She never talks,

She looks at you with cold dead eyes,

Its almost as if she’s already gone.

 

But today was different,

Today there was a spark in her eye,

Today she looked alive.

 

She still didn’t talk,

She still thinks she’s broken,

I could see it in her face,

But today was different.

 

Today she looked like her happier old self,

Today she looked at me and smiled.

Today she squeezed my hand.

 

If I Could

 

I wish I could know everything she’s thinking.

 

I wish I could take away all of her pain.

 

All I know is she thinks she is broken,

And that fact alone,

That fact alone breaks me.

 

I love her more than anything on this earth,

I don’t know what I would do if she was gone, even though sometimes…

 

Sometimes it feels like she already is.

 

If I could break through her wall,

If I could just explain.

 

I’m sure she would understand,

I’m sure she would listen to me.

 

People say I’m just wasting my time,

People say I should just give up.

 

No wonder she feels alone,

No wonder she’s ready to give it all up.

 

What If

 

I won’t see her for another week,

A week of pure torture,

A week full of worry.

 

I’m happiest when I’m with her,

She brings out the best in me,

No one else understands this,

She makes me feel special.

 

I try to see her every single day,

I try to be there for her when she needs me.

 

If something happens while I’m away,

I don’t know what I would do.

I think I need her more than she needs me.

 

That smile today,

It made me so happy.

What if something else happens while I’m gone.

 

Something good,

Something bad.

 

I just want to be there when it happens.

 

I can feel things are starting to change,

For the better or…

Well, you know.

 

It doesn’t matter,

I just want to be with her.

 

Something Has Changed

 

I’m finally back,

I’m with my best friend.

 

I’m back at the hospital,

It feels like its been a year.

 

She looks the same,

But her eyes are warmer.

 

Maybe something has changed.

Maybe the warmth has been there all along.

Maybe I just missed it.

 

Maybe I was too focused,

On making her see,

Making her see me.

 

On making her understand that I love her,

That I need her.

 

Sometimes I get mad,

Mad that she can’t see,

Mad that she just doesn’t seem to understand that she has me.

 

But I should have been helping her,

I haven’t been a very good friend.

I glance down at her,

My very best friend,

And I can tell that this is the end.

 

The End

 

She is really gone,

I still can’t believe it.

 

After everything we’ve been through,

The heartbreak, the happiness,

Everything.

 

She peacefully left,

A simple smile on her face.

 

I was there,

I was there for the flat line.

 

The beeping stopped,

The erratic measurements of her heartbeat,

were put to a rest.

 

She will struggle no more,

She can finally be happy.

 

Its selfish to say,

But I wish she was still here.

 

I don’t know what I’m going to do,

I don’t know how to go on.

But life doesn’t stop for everyone’s tragedies.

 

I will always love her,

In the back of my mind.

 

I tuck away my love for her in my heart,

I’ll revisit it from time to time,

When thinking of her doesn’t hurt so much.

 

Sitting here hurts too much,

I have to get out.

 

I’ll never come back,

This will be the last time I walk out.

 

This place will always hold my sadness.

This place will be where my last memories of her lie.

 

I glance at the empty bed,

The pillow where she used to rest her head.

 

I close the door behind me,

And don’t even glance back.

 

Safety for Turtles

The safety of turtles is important for them and us. Nearly all the turtle species are considered endangered due to humans destroying their habitat, slaughtering them for food, and for unpermitted release. Unpermitted release can cause harm to the environment too. Therefore, turtles in captivity should be kept.

Some people argue that there are ways for turtles to be released safely. However, there isn’t really a solution because releasing a turtle is illegal. Furthermore, the only way you can release pet turtles is by either getting a permit or going to a tour that has releasing turtles events, but you cannot release your pet turtle. The releasing turtle events allow you to release newborn turtles to the beach, but there are also turtle walks, which is an educational turtle tour, and you get to see turtles. The releasing turtle events can be helpful because then predators on land can’t get the turtles easily (Schroeder). Additionally, you can get a permit if your pet turtle gets used to pond water, which is salt water, and if the turtle was born there. Although releasing pet turtles is illegal, some release them in a pond. However, Turtle Rescue USA is against this because the released turtle could carry a disease, and it doesn’t address the specific needs. Therefore, the evidence confirms that pet turtles should stay in captivity.

Moreover, other than the release of turtles, many other things can harm the turtles, like humans and natural harms. According to SEE Turtles, some natural harms include the ghost crab, birds, fish, etc. (SEE Turtles, “Baby Turtles”). SEE Turtles concludes that most of the harm comes from humans, like global warming, ocean pollution, plastic, and other marine debris (SEE Turtles, “Sea Turtle Threats”). Most humans try to help the turtles by scaring away predators. But some humans don’t care about the turtles and slaughter them for food, which is a terrible doing, while some let their dogs or pets out, and those pets harm the turtles (WWF). To sum up, the examples portray that we must stop hurting the ocean environment to save the turtles.

As you can see, the safety of turtles is important. Turtles are living beings too, so we should treat them well and help them survive from extinction. If harming turtles and the environment keeps on going on, the sea turtle species will go extinct. So that’s why I wrote this essay, to help save the environment, animals that depend on the environment, and of course the extinction of turtles. If you ever see a turtle in the wild, leave it in peace, unless it’s in the middle of the road, then you can help it cross the road.

 

Bibliography

“Releasing Turtles Into the Wild.” Turtle Rescues USA,

www.turtlerescueusa.com/wordpress/?page_id=109.

“Baby Turtles.” SEE Turtles, www.seeturtles.org/baby-turtles/.

“Sea Turtle Threats.” SEE Turtles, www.seeturtles.org/sea-turtles-threats/.

Schroeder, Debra, et al. “Releasing Sea Turtles: What You Should Know.” Traveling Well For Less, 24 Jan. 2018, www.travelingwellforless.com/releasing-sea-turtles-what-you-should-know/.

“Sea Turtle.” WWF, World Wildlife Fund, www.worldwildlife.org/species/sea-turtle.

 

Dancer Attack

Addie woke up to a gloomy sky on the biggest day of her life! A college dance instructor was coming all the way from The University of the Arts in Pennsylvania to California where she lived, just to see her dance.

This would determine her whole life. She picked up her phone and called Eliza, her best friend. When she didn’t answer, Addie knew she must have been sleeping.

Addie sighed. Her list on the door reminded her of the grocery shopping she had to do. Her mom used to do all the shopping, that is when she was alive. Her dad always had work meetings and never went shopping. Addie always spent the day at Eliza’s, and it was almost as if Eliza’s mom was her mom too.

Snap out of it, she thought to herself. You hate thinking about how lonely you are.

She changed into her bright red crop top and jean shorts, put on a raincoat that covered up her newly cut chestnut colored hair, and drove to Eliza’s house.

“It’s so early. Why did you have to wake me up?” Eliza groaned.

“Get up, you lazy head. We have to go to auditions,” Addie whispered in her ear to not wake up her brother, Tyler.

“Auditions?” Eliza popped her head up from under the covers. You could see her blue ring to match her hair. She hopped out of bed and threw clothes on. Grabbing her phone, she ran out the door, leaving Addie in the dust.

“I’ll never understand her,” Addie said, yawning midway.

“C’mon, slowpoke,” Eliza yelled from the passenger seat. “We’re gonna be late!”

“You were the one I had to wake up! We also don’t have to be there for another 15 minutes, and we are going to Starbucks,” Addie remarked.

“You know Ms. Ivey hates when we’re late.”

“Who said we were gonna be late?” Addie questioned.

When they got to Stuart Landing Performing Arts Dance Studio, the tall poles in the front stand out from a mile away. They walked over to the makeup stand where the rest of the dance team was getting makeup done.

“What’s up?” Addie yelled.

“The sky!” Casey screamed back. Her bright blonde hair flowed back and shimmered like the sun.

“Hey, guys, where were you?” Beatrix asked. She had her dark hair that was almost black being braided.

“You’re late!” Ms. Ivey interrupted. Her brown eyes flared with anger. “Get your makeup done quickly. We need to rehearse your performance.” Addie and Eliza quickly sat in the closest seats to not make Ms. Ivey angrier. Of course showing up late with Starbucks in your hand would not exactly please Ms. Ivey, but being five minutes later would’ve really set her off.

Once Addie got her makeup done, she went to rehearse. After about an hour, Ms. Ivey called everyone to see her. Addie went to go get her hair flower while Ms. Ivey gave her speech.

 

***

 

“I need you girls to work harder than you ever have, to show the women in the chair what amazing dancers you can be. You have never worked so hard in your life.” Eliza zoned out when she was speaking. Where is Addie? She’s been gone a while, she considered.

“Excuse me, Ms. Ivey, but Addie’s been gone for awhile. Do you mind if I go see what she’s up to,” Eliza blurted out.

“I do not like when people interrupt me, and you know that! I suspect that you probably should go check on her,” Ms. Ivey snapped.

“Thank you.” Eliza walked back to the dressing room but came out screaming.

“Ms. Ivey! Ms. Ivey! Help! Addie’s dead!” she howled.

“What do you mean she’s dead?” she roared. “OH MY GOSH! She was my star! She was the best student I’ve ever had! Our whole show will be ruined.”

“What are we going to do? She’s our star!” Nicole squealed.

“Let me go see for myself!” Ms. Ivey screamed.

“But Addie has her own solo. She was so excited,” Simone hollered. Everyone was yelling at the same time. There was a blur of screams.

“My life is ruined without her!” Eliza squeaked.

“If this is a trick… ” Everyone heard Ms. Ivey starting to yell from behind the two bulking doors. Abruptly, there was silence. Everybody had thought Addie originally pulled a prank, but no one knew why anyone would ruin their costume with fake blood right before a huge show.

 

“Ms. Ivey,” Zoey said.

“What do you want? My star is dead right now,” Ms. Ivey screeched. Her short, dark hair flashed in the light.

“I’ve heard of people killing themselves because of nervousness,” Zoey replied.

“Addie would never do that! She’s way smarter than to do that,” Ms. Ivey returned.

Eliza started to pace, thinking to herself, Phoebe always played with her hair too much which could mean she’s hiding something in it, and she recently has been talking about leaving the dance team, but Annabelle always tried to direct murder tak another way. Plus, neither of them had spoken yet, and it looked like they were avoiding to talk.

“Eliza, you were the one who originally checked on Addie. You would easily have time to take Addie somewhere,” Annabelle pointed out.

“You think I would kill my best friend! Not in a million years. She was basically my sister,” Eliza cried.

“You might’ve, and also you were her understudy in the recital. We all know how badly you wanted to have that solo, but you knew you would have to support your friend,” Annabelle pushed back.

“Why would Addie have been in the dressing room so long? For all we know, you could’ve missed all of Ms. Ivey’s speech just to take her away and come back when I left,” Eliza opposed. Annabelle had never been very nice to Eliza. Why would Annabelle want to blame me for kidnapping Addie. Unless, if she wanted to cover herself.

“Stop fighting! It’s not gonna help if we blame each other, but we know that it was someone in here,” Ms. Ivey bellowed. “Someone still has to show that lady the dance, so get on the stage, Eliza.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Eliza ran to her starting position as Ms. Ivey went to go turn on the music. All the girls dashed into the front row of the auditorium. All the doors were locked, so the college dance teacher would feel safe inside.

 

“You were amazing!” Casey cheered once they were in the street.

“Thanks, but knowing how excited Addie was for that performance makes me sick. We need to find her fast,” Eliza aforementioned.

“Agreed, let’s first go get lunch at my house.”

“Speaking of lunch, I’m starving. Let’s go.” They ran to Addie’s car, preparing to drive it back to her house and get Eliza’s car. They went up to Casey’s room after lunch.

“We need to find Addie now and get to work.”

“Agreed.” As they laid on the bed, they made a list of suspects.

“It’s either Beatrix, Annabelle, Zoey, Pheobe, Nicole, or Simone, but I’m gonna bet it’s Annabelle because of how she accused me of doing it.”

“You know Annabelle, and she always tries to get on your nerves.”

“So? She was trying to make herself not a suspect by blaming other people.”

“Keep in mind it could’ve been a group of people,” Casey reflected.

“I don’t think so. Nicole was last out of the room, but anyone could’ve snuck back in while Ms. Ivey was giving her speech. That makes me think that it could be Beatrix because she tends to get distracted easily.”

“That’s like saying it was me. We were talking during Ms. Ivey’s speech, so you are positive it wasn’t me. Just like I’m positive it wasn’t Beatrix. She’s way too kind to kill someone even if she secretly hated them.”

“I think we should go back to look for clues.” As they walked to the dance studio, there were police cars everywhere. They walked up to the gigantic wooden doors.

“No publicitors in the building,” the police officer said to them.

“We were friends of Addie,” Eliza said while trying to push through to go inside.

“I’m sorry, ladies. This is a crime scene.” The girls headed back to Casey’s house.

“How could we possibly figure out who murdered Addie if we can’t get into the crime scene?” Eliza questioned.

“I don’t know, but why do we actually need the scene? We can start questioning people.”

“We could just let the police do it. They have all the tools they need to find the killer.”

“Are you trying to go off of the case? Addie was both of our best friends. We can’t just let her go. We should interview the dance team. ”

“You’re right. Let’s go interview. First, Annabelle.”

“Of course she’s your first suspect,” Casey sighed. They headed over to Annabelle’s house, and Annabelle’s mom opened the door. Annabelle’s mom’s dirty blonde hair shimmered in the sun.

“Hello, sweeties. Annabelle is in her room if you were coming by to see her,” Annabelle’s mom answered.

“Thank you, Mrs. Gidmon,” Eliza and Casey exclaimed together. When they stepped in the house, it smelled like lavender. They bounced up the stairs and knocked on the door that had save the animals posters.

“Who is it?” Annabelle called from inside.

“Eliza and Casey,” Casey yelled.

“Why did you tell her I was here? Now she’ll never let us in,” Eliza whispered.

“Casey can come in, but not Eliza,” Annabelle hollered. Casey flung the door open, and they both stepped inside the bright yellow room with streamers hanging everywhere.

“Can’t you hear Eliza? You’re not permitted in here,” Annabelle yawned mid sentence.

“It looks like a yellow neon highlighter exploded in here,” Eliza commented.

“Why are you here anyway? It’s not like you would actually want to hang out,” Annabelle replied.

“We came here to talk to you about the murder of Addie Dunakin,” Casey said proudly.

“You really think I did it. I mean sure, I hate her, but I wouldn’t kill her. Plus, it was clearly Eliza.”

“Stop trying to blame me! I would never even hurt my best friend.”

“Then why does every clue point to you?”

“That isn’t true.”

“Stop arguing!” Casey cried out. “Annabelle, what did Ms. Ivey say in her speech?”

“She was talking about how we all need to show respect in front of the college teacher. Also, we need to be nice to Addie if she doesn’t make it, congratulate her if she does make it, and help her not feel as nervous because this dance is her whole future, and blah blah blah, all about Addie. Then, she started telling us about how we have to be quiet during the show, but Eliza decided to interrupt.”

“Thank you for your time,” Casey spoke in a serious detective voice, then turned around to leave. Once the girls got out of the house, they were exploding with words.

“I can’t believe it wasn’t her!” Eliza yelled.

“The only time they could’ve killed Addie was when Ms. Ivey was speaking. No one would’ve had time to kill her before she started talking, and Annabelle recited what Ms. Ivey was saying from the start of her speech.”

“I’m still shocked. Why would she blame me if she didn’t do it?” Eliza questioned.

“That’s a mystery still, and you’re such good friends with Addie. Let’s head to Phoebe’s house next because she’s closest.” Once they opened the door to Phoebe’s room, they were shocked by seeing only blue everywhere they looked. The comforter, pillows, rug, chair bean bag, and even the walls.

The girls asked her what Ms. Ivey said during her speech, and she claimed she was in the bathroom when Ms. Ivey gave her speech. They finished interviewing her and walked out of the white house with gray shutters.

“She claimed she was in the bathroom while Ms. Ivey gave her speech. How suspicious is that? She has an easy way to kill Addie, and she can hide in the bathroom when I went into the makeup studio. She could pop out of the bathroom right when everyone hears about Addie being murdered,” Eliza commented.

“That makes so much sense, but maybe we should still check the other suspects.”

“Agreed.” They checked out all the other suspects, but nothing seemed suspicious. They didn’t think it would unfold that easily. Was it really that easy? Did they already solve the case? They decided to go tell the police.

“Officer! Officer! We know who killed Addie!” Eliza yelled at the top of her lungs. They sprinted towards the doors, and once they got there, they started panting really hard.

“We do too,” Officer Antonio said ferociously. “Give me your wrists, Eliza.”

“What do you mean? You think I did it!? Eliza screeched. “It was Phoebe Green. She told Ms. Ivey that she had to go to the bathroom, and she went to kill Addie. She went to the bathroom and waited until someone realized she was dead. She walked out of the bathroom when we were screaming, and she pretended to be clueless.”

“I’m sorry. Your handprints are on her neck.” Casey gasped.

“She framed me. When I saw the marks on her neck, I went to see if her pulse was moving.” She remembered the gasping. How soothing. The croaking when she tried to breathe. The satisfying, helpless way she tried to squirm in the strong hands. Oh, how helpless she was. Eliza loved it. It all made sense to Casey.

“You went to go suffocate her when you were supposedly checking on her. Then you came running out, blaming it all on Phoebe. You are so selfish killing your best friend for a dance solo!”

“Fine! I did it! I always hated her! She got every bit of attention everywhere. It’s like I was outshined everywhere I went!” Eliza screamed. The cold handcuffs cut her wrist. They were tight and ate up her feeling in her wrist.

“Case solved!” Casey screamed.

 

Lavender

He wakes up early that morning. The room is dark, and the sofa is lumpy. He flips the pancakes and chops the strawberries and leaves them on a chipped plate on the wooden table. The shards of porcelain dishes turn the floor into a dangerous mosaic he tiptoes over. He sets a note next to the plate, a plea for forgiveness scribbled on it with a ballpoint pen. She will scan it once and throw in the trash. At least, he thinks to himself, she’ll know he cares.

The BART station is near empty at this time when the sun itself is waking up. It’s a pleasant ride. He passes the minutes by humming to himself in time to the rattling of the train car. From the window, he can see the whole world go by, towns, cities, farms. He exits at the final stop of the line, pushing past the bustle of the everyday working American. Life itself is happening around him. He savors the thought, turning to wave as the BART car rattles away. A few people inside wave back.

He takes the steps two at a time, hopping down them in the way a child would. A few people stop and stare, but he doesn’t mind. The stares are in themselves little compliments. He doesn’t trip on the loose fifth stair. He skips over it, then stops to explain to an amazed little girl how to jump just like him.

The brisk September air fills his lungs as he strolls down the street, dropping quarters into the parking meters as he goes by.

At the bus stop, he sits next to a woman wearing an oversized jacket. They talk for a bit, exchanging puzzle pieces of their lives. She tells him about her son and daughter in college who are on scholarships and don’t know that she was evicted three weeks ago. He tells the woman about his love, what he’s done, and where he’s going. The woman laughs and clamps him on the shoulder. He offers her one hundred dollars in the form of a thick wad of bills, but she declines, pushing the money into his pocket. He is sad to leave when his bus arrives.

He takes the bus up to wine country, where the land is covered in its livelihood in the form of grapes. Up here, the taste of wine is a part of every meal. He doesn’t think he could stand all of the finery that comes with it. He wasn’t born for a life of frills and neither, he thinks, was she. He remembers she had said something about that last night after he had shattered the dishes on the floor.

He wonders if she got the pancakes and the little note she probably refused to read. The bus comes to a creaking stop. He pushes the thoughts out of his head and exits in a hurry, handing the driver a plastic rose he found abandoned on the seat.

The world smells of lavender and dirt and mist. A sagging house waits a a mile down from the bus stop. He skips towards it, singing a radio hit from years ago. A couple he knows through their voices on the phone stands in front of the house. Years of happiness are visible in their every move. Behind the house is a world of violet.

The couple smiles when he gasps. They tell him that this lavender is their life’s work. Every flower holds a memory. Two hundred dollars is payment for five bags. He tells the couple that their love story will be perfect to tell her. Maybe then she’ll be able to remember they have a story of their own. The couple gives him a grateful smile and hands him the bags full of lavender sprigs.

He waits almost an hour for the bus to return. The man next to him doesn’t like to talk much. So, he tells the man about her, painting pictures with his words. The man nearly cries. He gives him a sprig of lavender and holds him until the man’s bus arrives.

Joining him now is a teenage girl, absorbed in her phone who chuckles at seemingly random moments. He watches for a while, until she glances up to see his stare. Flashing him a look of disgust, she returns to the tiny world in her screen. Anger bubbles up within him, a monster he has never learned to control. He takes her phone in his hand and throws it as far as possible. The reflective surface glints in the sunlight before it strikes the ground. The girl looks at him in shock, before dashing away to save her device.

The screen is shattered beyond repair. She screams at him and cradles the lifeless phone as if it was her baby. He listens to her for a few moments before telling the girl about her.

Throughout their years together, she never needed the tiny devices. She never needed a wall dividing her from everything else. She flourished in a world of screens by simply opening her eyes beyond that. He hands the girl two hundred dollar bills when his bus is in sight. He then tosses her a sprig of lavender. She catches it in both hands, studying the flower as if it was the first time she had ever seen such a thing. He picks up his bags and steps onto the bus.

The ride back is bumpier with people packed shoulder to shoulder. He takes a seat next to a snoring man. Across from him, a couple shares a bottle of wine. She might’ve liked that once but not after everything that’s happened. He pushes the thought out of his mind and glances around the bus. A little boy watches him. His five-year-old hands cling to a metal pole. He ducks forward, towards the boy, and offers him a sprig. Lavender is passed from big hands to little ones. He smiles and retreats back to his seat.

By the time it reaches his stop, the bus is teeming with the scent of purple flowers. He hands one to every passenger as he makes his way off. He pauses at the driver’s seat and offers her a sprig with two flowers dangling off of it. She smiles and places it next to the plastic rose. The driver’s eyes remind him of hers. He can’t help but grin.

Walking down the sidewalk, he digs out his last few quarters to save a car about to be ticketed. Several moments later, an anxious driver emerges from the station, perplexed to see she has twenty minutes to spare. The station is near full again, despite it being the quiet time of the day. He hands every person he sees a lavender sprig.

He sits across from a woman wearing a gold studded coat and has one side of her head shaved. He learns about her boyfriend who stole her life savings and how she is going to court now. He gives the woman a much needed hug and tucks one of the remaining lavender sprigs behind her ear. She walks out with her head held high, the purple flowers perfectly complimenting her eyes. The first bag is empty now, but still carries a pleasant scent. He ties it around a pole, hoping everyone can share in a little piece of his adventure. A pleasant voice announces his station, and the train comes to a screeching halt. He makes his way out and watches as it travels downs the tunnels.

The remaining four lavender bags seem to become heavier and heavier as he walks down the long winding road towards his home. The smell of an apologetic guilt is in the air.

He arrives to a depressing barren yard. For the first time today, he feels almost lonely. Then, through the window, he sees her shadow. A pianistic melody flows into his ears.

He plunges his hand into the bag and grabs a handful of flowers. He stoops and goes about planting them into the dirt. Slowly, a tapestry of purple begins to form on the rocky soil. He is soon covered in mud with a distinctive earthy scent. Perhaps, if lavender can grow without any roots, maybe so can their love.

He works for hours into the evening. She never does emerge. The tinkling sound of the piano continues to radiate from the window.

The once barren yard is a field of purple. In his hands, he takes the remaining lavender sprigs and ties them in a bouquet. Ignoring his racing heart, he marches up to the front porch and knocks four times, no more, no less. He waits for a moment, rocking back and forth on his heels. She opens the door and stares at him, as if waiting for him to make the first move in a game of chess. Studying her face for forgiveness, he holds out the bouquet. “I’m sorry.”

She looks at him blankly.

“Did you read my note?”

“It’s in the same place you left my heart.” For a moment, she catches a glimpse of the sea of flowers that has sprouted in her yard. Her eyes fill with wonder and hate, but nothing nearing love.

He turns towards his long day’s work. “I did this all for you.” He stares at her with pleading eyes. “You always loved lavender.”

Her laugh slices through his heart. “And how many flowers did you give away while you were on your little adventure?” She takes a step forward. Sunlight splashes onto her face. Inside, he can see the floor has been cleared of porcelain shards. A familiar lump of guilt forms in his throat. Her feet are bandaged with white cloth. “How much time did you spend running away from me by doing your so-called good deeds?”

She snatches the lavender from his hands, crumpling the flowers he had traveled so many miles to obtain. “You are so perfect.” A bit of saliva lands on his cheek. “All you care about is looking perfect and caring to everyone.” Tears run down her cheeks, forging tiny rivers on the landscape of her skin. “Why do I only matter to you when you feel your heart beginning to break?” The lavender bouquet falls to the ground. “You never noticed that my heart was already in pieces.”

 

Summer

 

The sweet flavor

Bursts in my mouth

As the sticky juice

Runs down my chin

And falls on my lap

Oh the clothes

That have been stained forever

By the chaotic season

That is summer

 

My feet burn as they slide

Along the grainy earth

And they shiver as the water

Laps at my toes

My bathing suit leaves

Pale lines across my skin

In contrast

To the burning red

That sears my back

The umbrella flutters in the breeze

And the blanket

Weighed down by bags

Yearns to fly away

And be free

 

The tiny pieces of rock

Clump in shapes

Moldable

Expendable

Millions and billions

Flying through the air

Burrowing

Into sandals

And shirts

And swimsuits

And everything

They can form

Castles

Or pits

Or cottages

They can make treats

Rolls

And eclairs

And truffles

Then they collapse and wash away

Leaving endless straights

Full of tiny grains

 

Gardens blossom

And fade

Violets and lilies

Turning brown and cracked

Edges curling with heat

Bees chatter and buzz

Collecting and conversing

Bushes full of activity

The air hangs heavy

With beads of water

 

Love grows wide

Opening

Unfurling

Stretching its wings

To touch the sky

Watch it fly overhead

Listen to its sweet cry

Dancing through your ears

You cannot help but listen

Clutch your loved ones closer

And enjoy the beauty

Of the feathers

That adorn the bird of love

 

Friendship, too

Swells in the heat

Children walk

Hand in hand

A mouthful shared by two

Laughs fill the sky

They flit through the breeze

Following

The soaring creature

Of passion

 

Bumps rise

On my legs and arms

Begging to be relieved

I try to resist

But in the end

Who can fight pleasure?

The mosquito flies

Unseen

A trickster

Laughing at us fools

 

Time flows sluggishly

Churning and

Rewinding

Chugging along

Day

After day

Hour

After hour

Minute

After minute

Second

After second

 

The next year looms

Above it all

Exciting

Yet Menacing

Sometimes forgotten

Pushed away

In an effort to enjoy

The little time you have

Futile,

Even though the time

Ticks by

So

Very

Slowly

The day will come

When you must return

To work and hardship

And months

Of relaxation

And rehabilitation

Will come to an end

 

Hedgehog Human History

 

Hedgehogs have coexisted with us for over 15 million years, and we have benefited off of them since the time of ancient Egyptians. Throughout the centuries, our relationships with these creatures were never faultless. After a long, complicated history with humans, hedgehogs have become our miniature, prickly friends.

Unlike our present day relationship with hedgehogs, 4th century Romans raised hedgehogs for the materials they provided. Hedgehog meat was eaten, and its quills were plucked and served multiple purposes. For example, they were used to train calves to stay away from their mother so people could collect the mother’s milk, used in card paper, and dissection pins (Wikipedia). Along with this, hedgehogs were used to predict weather during Candlemas Day, which has turned into what we know as Groundhog Day. If the hedgehog saw its shadow, it would mean there would be six more weeks of winter (HuffPost). This promotes the fact that hedgehogs were just tools for people during the 4th century.

During the medieval ages, hedgehogs started being depicted in stories called beasteries, which were about imaginary and real animals. Usually, they were shown using their quills to pick up fallen fruit and nuts and rolling into spiky balls. In the Late Middle Ages, things took a turn for the human-hedgehog relationship. Hedgehogs were still raised for materials, but it was used differently. Hedgehog meat, fat, and blood were used as medicine and were said to cure things as severe as cancer to warts. Around the same time, hedgehogs became witchcraft tools and were skinned, and they were consumed as witchcraft remedies. (Wikipedia)

In the more recent years, hedgehogs have been rising in popularity as pets in many places. They are mainly raised for just companionship and entertainment for us. However, companies based around the selling and breeding of hedgehogs for pets have been making profit off of these creatures. Along with that, there was even once an International Hedgehog Olympic Games or IHOG, which was a fair that celebrated hedgehog fitness and was originally used as a promotion event hosted by Dawn Wrabel for a ranch. Nonetheless, hedgehogs aren’t perfect and have been banned in several states in the United States including Pennsylvania, California, Hawaii, New York City, and Washington D.C, as hedgehogs have 17 species that aren’t native to America and can threaten the native species there if released or escaped (MNN). Overall, this depicts that hedgehogs are being treated better than they were in multiple time periods in history.

Hedgehogs and humans have lived in synchronicity for centuries. Today, they are a pet that is rising in popularity worldwide. Our human-animal relationship has lasted ever since the 4th century, and this is a single example anthrozoologists have studied. Animals have a long history with humans, and it would be a shame to watch some of these relationships split due to man-made issues.

 

Work Cited

“16 Fun Facts About Hedgehogs.” Mental Floss, 27 July 2018,

http://mentalfloss.com/article/56004/16-fun-facts-about-hedgehogs

 

“Medieval Bestiary : Hedgehog.” The Medieval Bestiary,

http://bestiary.ca/beasts/beast217.htm.

 

Moss, Laura. “Hedgehogs Are a Prickly Issue in Some States.” MNN – Mother

Nature Network, Mother Nature Network, 25 Jan. 2018,

https://www.mnn.com/family/pets/stories/pet-hedgehogs-are-a-prick

ly-issue-for-some-states

 

“16 Fun Facts About Hedgehogs.” Mental Floss, 27 July 2018,

http://mentalfloss.com/article/56004/16-fun-facts-about-hedgehogs

 

Oh College

 

Beep beep beep.

“Time to wake up already.” Susy, my roommate, is an early bird.

“Come on, or else we’ll be late to class,” she says. I rush to brush my teeth, get my clothes on, and brush my hair.

I start running out the door when Susy says, “Maya, are you forgetting something!”

“Oh ya, my bags.”

I get my bag and head out the door. Susy is always helping me. We get to our first class. I am twenty-two years old, and when I grow up I plan on being a pediatrician. First class is all about the bones. The classroom smells of the disinfectant the janitors use to clean, and there are already many people in the classroom setting up their notebooks. Mr. Roger, the bone teacher, is one of the nicest teachers I have.

He says, “Remember that next week is the big exam on every single bone in the body. You will have to tell me the name of each bone in the body, where it is, and its function. Remember the extra credit!”

“Oh no, what am I going to do. I can’t even remember all the bones in the spine.”

I am at my desk in the dorm, and I am so tired, but I have to keep studying for tomorrow’s big test.

Susy tiredly says, “It’s twelve thirty. Why don’t you go to bed and work on studying in the morning. Trust me. You’re ready for the test.”

“Okay,” I sigh.

“Good night.”

When I wake up, Susy has already packed up my bag for me. I love her. As we walk to class, she starts pointing to bones in the spine and asks me, “What is this bone?”

“Umm, that is in the cervical region.”

“Yes, that is correct!” Susy confirms.

She keeps testing me until we get to class, where most people are testing each other on the bones. Susy is the best student in the class, so I am sure she will pass the test. This is our one chance to get our master’s in the orthopaedic class, or else we will have to take the class for another year. Ding ding ding, the bell rings for the start of class.

As we walk into the classroom, I say to Susy, “Good luck!” She gives me a thumbs up, and we sit down. Mr. Roger hands out the tests, and we begin.

When I get to a question that says, How did the thoracic spine section get its name, I started blanking on it. My hands are sweating, and my pencil is slipping out of my hand. Then, I remember to take a minute and breathe, which really helps. I finally get the answer, that it came from a Greek word. Even though I am the last one to finish the test, I am sure I am going to pass it.

 

One week later…

 

Today is the day we are going to get the results back from our test.

“Eek!” I am so excited.

Mr. Roger gives everyone back their test except me. Susy gets a one hundred, and I give her a high five, but I don’t get mine back.

When the bell rings, I go over to Mr. Rogers and tell him, “I never got my test back?”

Then he says, “I know. Can you come with me to have a meeting with Vice Principal Robert.”

I started getting all nervous again. I have a lump in my throat, and I get goosebumps all over. When I sit down in a chair, Mr. Roger and Robert start talking.

“Okay Maya, your test results show that you were one question short from passing the test, and we would like to address this with you.”

“Oh, okay.”

“We have seen how hard you have worked over the year, and we would like to grant you a spot in the master’s degree class on some conditions.”

“Really!” I blurt out.

“Yes!” they say.

“As long as you are able to keep up with your class work, get a 75% or higher on all home work, and pass your tests. You are granted the permission to have your master’s degree. But, if you are not able to accomplish this, you will need to go and take the class with Mr. Roger again. Okay.”

“Oh my god, thank you. I promise to meet those standards or even higher each day. I appreciate this so much.”

“Then I think you may go up to your master’s degree.”

I am so excited, and I just want to start screaming, but I don’t.

Instead I say, “Thank you.” Then, I leave.

When I go to lunch, everyone is talking about their test.

I run up to Susy and scream, “I got my master’s!”

“Oh my god, that’s great!”

I tell her everything that happened, and how hard I have to work to stay in this class. Susy says she will help me stay at the top of class, and the only way to do that is to practice. I agree, and every day I wake up early in the morning at six and start rehearsing every bone in the body, and if I get one wrong, I have to start back from the beginning. Once I am even late to class, but that paid off later. After I master all the muscles in the body, it is time for me to take the test about the functions of each muscle. That is the hard part. I take a practice test in class and fail at it. The muscle teacher, Ms. Fisher, gets worried about me and makes me stay after class for extra help.

Back in the dorm, I talk to Susy about how much trouble I am having with the muscle functions.

“I have to get better at these functions. The neck is the most important part. I can’t even name all of them,” I cried out.

“Calm down, you just have to make a song or a rhyme to memorize them. That’s what I do.”

“Okay, let me try!”

“There are five main muscles, but really nine so… ”

“Most muscles in the neck control moving the head in all directions toward the shoulders, spine and scapula. The sternocleidomastoid and the trapezius muscles are responsible for the gross motor movement in the head and neck… ”

“Great, now make a song out of it.” Susy exclaims.

I worked on memorizing the song I made up, and soon I was catching up to everyone in my class.

“Yipee!”

Today is my birthday, November 18, and I will be seeing my parents. It is getting a little chilly outside, but that’s okay. I love my parents because they support me so much with my medical studies. Since I was little, I was interested in being a doctor, so my parents got me a few books about how to become a doctor. After that, they supported me in some extra studies. They have always encouraged me to do my best. I have told my parents everything, and because I am turning twenty-three, they are getting me an extra special gift. They get me a trip to one of the best hospitals in town, where I will be sitting in on one of their meetings.

The hospital I am working at is the Mount Sinai Hospital for children. I go there every other day to follow and work with doctors on patients. They are such big role models.

I have already gotten accepted to work at the Metropolitan Pediatrics when I graduate, so that is pretty exciting.

It has been a long hard year, and here comes another big test too. This test will get me to my graduating year.

“Maya, I think you are going to do great on this test as long as you keep studying,” Susy exclaims.

“Thanks,” I say.

Beep beep beep.

“Ohhh, good morning, Rrrraaa Ssshoooo. Wait, what, today’s the big day the test day,” I sleepily than more awake say.

“Maya, you almost fell back asleep. Come on, we have to get to class.”

“Coming!”

 

***

“Good morning, class,” Ms. Fisher announces.

“Good morning,” my class and I say.

“Are you ready for the test.”

“Yes,” we all say.

When I get my test, I breathe and begin, and by the time I finish the test, I feel pretty good.

“You guys will be getting your tests back in a week. See you then.”

 

Next week…

When I wake up, Susy is still in bed sleeping. How weird? Then I look at the time, 6:00 am. No wonder, she is still not up. She gets up at 6:30. Well, I think I will just wake her anyway. Besides, it’s the big day!

“Susy, wake up,” I whisper. She wakes up, then stares at me angrily.

Then she pouts. “Why did you have to wake me up, especially today!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was something special about today. I was just excited about getting our test back,” I say shyly.

“Why are you so selfish!” Susy yells out.

“What, me? I’m not selfish,” I say in a confused voice.

“All you care about is yourself. I do everything for you. You don’t even remember special dates.” Now I am very confused.

“Um, is it Hanukkah,” I quietly say.

“HHHUU,” Susy cries out.

“I don’t want to be your friend anymore. Why don’t you find another bully to hang out with,” Susy screams at me.

We are both on the edge of tears. I grab my bag and walk out. I don’t even care if I’m crying. At the beginning of class, there are always announcements.

“Good morning, college students, today everyone will be getting back their exams back — good luck. Oh and by the way, today is Susy’s birthday. Happy Birthday! Have a great day and work hard,” the principal announces on the loudspeaker. After the principal says “Susy’s birthday,” I am shocked. How could I have forgotten.

“Huu,” I almost start to cry.

Later that day during class, I find out my grade for the test. I passed it, but I was on the edge of failing. As a result, Ms. Fisher wants me to come during lunch and after lunch for extra help. It sucks!

Later that day when I come to the dorm, Susy is already there.

I go up to her and decide to lie.

“Sorry about this morning. I was going to have a surprise birthday party for you, and I was trying to pretend I forgot. Sorry if it really upset you.”

“Thank you for the apology, but I want to be alone. NOW!” she screams to me, so I leave. I realize I need to get her a birthday present, so I go to the college campus shop and get her a really nice coffee mug because she always drinks coffee in the morning.

On it says, Top mug, Top coffee, Top student. I wrap it then bring it to the dorm. I put it next to her, and then get ready for my next class. That night, she comes over to me and says sorry.

We hug, and then Susy whispers, “Friends again?”

“Yes, friends again,” I say back. We get over what happened, and life just goes on normally until…

The other day, I started helping to treat a patient with a brain tumor. The boy is only eleven, and he is very scared, so I also help calm him down. I check him and do a few small procedures. I come to him every day to help out. A week later when I come to check on him, a nurse is already in there giving him pain medicine and calming him down. I come over and ask what is wrong, and she tells me that yesterday I didn’t give him antibiotics, and that now he is very sick. I go to the main office to ask what is going on. They say that yesterday I did not treat him correctly.

I say, “I was not here yesterday because I had an appointment, so someone else covered for me.”

“Huh,” the manager says. “That’s weird because the person who signed in signed your name, but now that I think about it the person was acting a little weird. She was also very tall.”

I am not the tallest, five feet seven inches.

“May I please see the signature?” I ask.

“Yes,” he responds.

The signatures are different. Mine are always very neat and the same, but the one from yesterday was sloppy and a little different.

After that, we check the video cameras. Yes, we find the person. It is a nurse that is new to the hospital. We have a long talk with the nurse, and we teach the nurse how to treat and do that small procedure correctly. The nurse gets a big fine for doing such cruel thing. The nurse Paloma is very upset that she did the procedure wrong, so she goes to the patient and says she is really sorry.

When she comes back down to us she says, “He looks really bad, and I’m worried about him. Would any of you go up to make sure he is okay.”

I go up to see him, and just as nurse Paloma said, he looks like he is in a lot of pain. I give him some more medicine and talk to his mom who is already crying.

With a lump in my throat I say, “Your son is in some hard conditions. We can keep treating him and give him medicine, but his tumor is spreading, and it may just be best for him to go. He is in so much pain, that it may not be worth it.”

“I think he is strong enough to fight this. Let me think about it,” she whimpers to me.

I leave to give him a bit more medicine, but he looks like he is almost dying.

The next day when I come to see him, his mom is praying on the side of the hospital bed crying, “Oh, please lord, please god just let my son live a happy life, please.”

I go to his side. He had passed away. His heart just gave up on him, and he would have lived a painful life if he was still here.

I go over to his mom and give a slight hug. I help detach the wires on him and put him on a different bed. That is the end of my journey with this family because the other agency at the hospital would take care of this. I go over to the boy and do a short prayer and a hug.

Then I go over to the mom and say, “I’m so sorry. Let him rest in peace.”

I hug her for a long time and then leave. I guess this is the end. I go back to my dorm to rest after such a traumatic day.

 

End of the year…

I pass the test, which means I am going to graduate and become a pediatrician. The Metropolitan Pediatric center already accepted me, so yippee! I am so excited to start a new year full of new adventures with my new patients at the office. Susy is also coming to work with me, but at a different office nearby. We are sharing a studio on sixty-fifth street which is in the middle of both the offices. I am so excited for my new life ahead.

 

The End

 

Drowning

From above, the waters looked serene. It was twilight, and the setting sun cast a brilliant glow across the gentle waves. The turquoise waters were deep, deeper than anyone knew, with shades of periwinkle and navy mixed in the dark depths. Yes, it seemed like the ocean was taking a rest for the night, lulling itself to sleep with the rhythm of the undulating waves.

Being in it, however, was a different story.

When she had fallen in did not matter. All that did matter was the girl had fallen. The petite girl who was beautiful and unafraid, with ivory skin, delicate features, and silky hair as black as the night. The girl who had stood at the top of the tallest skyscraper in the city, staring down forty stories of gleaming metal and cold, glittering glass. The girl who had tumbled, twisting and turning through the silent night air, down, down, down, eyes wide with knowing panic.

The waters closed around her, whispering their thoughts of evil and malice. Why have you come here? They laughed threateningly. There is nothing for you but death and destruction. And so they wrapped around this girl, through her nose and open mouth that silently screamed even in the darkness. They suffocated her, the girl whose hand reached for the surface, for one more breath of air. But the waves were cruel. They squeezed the life out of her, the very soul of this brave girl, lungs burning, eyes watering, regrets and reminders of life waiting for her on the other side. She felt herself losing consciousness, the voices drowning in her sorrows. All that was left was her and the world.

And then everything went black.

 

Kiona’s eyes fluttered open as she awoke, gasping and sweating. She had the nightmare several times, especially the past week, but it seemed as if the waters had only gotten darker. They voiced her fears of leaving behind the life she had always known, and drowning had always been one of her greatest fears. She had thought about it several times, and each time Kiona had decided if it was time for her to go, she would want something quick. But drowning, feeling your soul slip away as you reached for something you could never have… that was definitely not quick.

Sighing, Kiona pushed all thoughts of the terrifying ocean out of her head. She wasn’t home anymore. She had left her mother, two sisters, and baby brother for the coldness of the college dorm just two months ago, and it was time for her to grow up along with her life. Nightmares aside, it was morning, and it was time for her to start the day. Kiona stretched her sore muscles and yawned. The last of her drowsiness slipped away, replaced by a mild excitement for what the day held. She slipped out of her covers and got up, her hand moving automatically to the teapot.

Kiona looked around as she did every day. And day after day, she could only feel sorry for herself. The dingy, gray apartment was not what she had wanted, but it was enough. She should be grateful to be living here at all. In the last few years, prices for freshman living spaces had risen astronomically. However, when Kiona had first stepped in, she wasn’t sure if she could ever really call it home. There was a small bed with an iron frame that never let her have a comfortable sleep, a leather couch where she pondered her life decisions, and a cramped kitchen where she never cooked anyway. She couldn’t bring herself to.

Kiona gasped, guilt filling her chest and spilling over in the form of tears. She blindly walked towards the door, only one thought in her head: outside. She needed fresh air. Ignoring the curfew, she turned the handle, rushing into the empty hallway and through the silent dorm. She led herself down the spiraling staircase, muscle memory taking over, until finally, finally, she reached the great oak door that would take her outside.

Kiona ripped it open without hesitation, only calming when the cool night breeze hit her face. She gulped in the air, wrapping her arms around her lavender pajamas and shivering. The cold did her good, though, and finally brought her peace of mind. She couldn’t think about the past, about the mistakes she had made. She couldn’t think about… Brooks.

At the name, the tears flowed again. Kiona doubled over, clutching her knees to steady herself as her world turned blurry. She took sharp, deep breaths, pushing everything out of her mind. She couldn’t afford to think about this, she reminded herself. She was older now, and her family was trusting her to take care of herself.

“Hey, miss!” Kiona angrily wiped away her tears and turned around. She saw an older man approaching her, a smug smile on his face. She noted his hand in his jacket pocket, obviously covering something worth hiding. Kiona tensed up, ready to run.

“Whatcha doing out here, eh?” he asked, revealing a toothy grin. “Bit dangerous, don’t ya think?”

“I’m fine,” she declared, trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convince him. Blood pounded in her ears, pulsing with rage until she couldn’t hear anymore. The world went still around her until it was just her and the street. And her instinct was to run.

She ran.

Running was the only thing she was capable of now. She knew she had to own up to her past at some point, but why now? Kiona had to take care of herself, and this was the only way she knew how. She had to escape her past, escape Brooks’ murder, escape the ocean… she had to escape everything, once and for all, and never let it catch up with her. She had to run, away from the guilt and horror. Away from life, away from feeling anything at all. She couldn’t.

And so, Kiona ran. Her feet bounced rhythmically on the asphalt, arms pumping at her sides as she challenged herself to go faster, run harder. As she ran, the world slid by, every meaningful thing turning into a blur. That was how she felt. Heart racing, legs pumping, going on and on for eternity. Everything good in life had been taken away from her. And now she left the world, letting her fears slide away, letting the wind pick up her raven tresses and fan them around her face.

Kiona ran past the houses, past the streets, past the neighborhoods until her smart watch beeped. She slowed, her rhythm reducing, and stopped at an intersection she didn’t recognize. Whoa. She didn’t realize she had run that far. And now her watch was beeping, alerting the officials to her run.

 

Kiona stared at the whitewashed walls of the interrogation room, wondering how many criminals had sat in this very chair before her. More importantly — how could she be so irresponsible? What would her family think? They thought the therapist had fixed all her problems, that she had gotten over Brooks. But she’d only been pretending all along. How could she do that to herself? She went still and calmed, placing a hand over her heart to dull the ache and taking a few deep breaths.

Kiona looked at the tinted two way glass that she couldn’t see through, wondering who was staring at her from the other side. Would her mother be there? Or just a disgruntled official? Whoever it was, could they see the hurt and longing in her face, the fatigue in her motions, the tiredness in her eyes? Could they see how much had really happened to her since Brooks had died?

For the first time, Kiona could think his name without feeling the pain that came along with it. She could remember the good times, like her mother had suggested. She could see him now, easy smile that made her heart melt, pale skin and short dark hair that was messily gelled back, and… his eyes. He had the most gorgeous eyes in the world, sea-green with flecks of amber that sparkled knowingly in the light. And he stood there now, before her, hands in his pockets like they always were, but smiling. He smiled at her, then slowly reached out his hand, graceful fingers unfolding, grasping for her. Come, he gestured.

Then, there was a loud bang, and Kiona gasped with surprise. Metal slammed on metal, and as quickly as it had been opened, the door shut. A man walked in. He was looking down at the ground and thumbing through a file. He, too, had a tired expression on his face, and his slow movements suggested he didn’t really want to do this. He didn’t want to ask her about things she didn’t want to answer.

But Kiona didn’t care. She couldn’t see anything, didn’t want to see anything except for Brooks. Ignoring the man, she spun around, looking, searching at the place where she had seen Brooks, glittering in the light.

He wasn’t there.

Kiona nearly cried out, the pain of longing was so sharp. It felt as if someone had stabbed her in the gut with a red-hot blade. She doubled over, but as her mind cleared, she began to think. Perhaps this is what Brooks had felt when he had supposedly shot himself, the bullet lodged between his ribs and working its way to his heart. Perhaps this is what he had felt when he had jumped into the ocean with only moments left, his soul left to drown in the dark. But she was sure this is what she had felt when the body had washed up on shore the next day, bleeding and broken. He hadn’t even been given a chance to live. And she didn’t even know why.

A loud clearing of the throat brought Kiona back to the present. She hadn’t even realized that her gray eyes had pooled with tears. She hadn’t known they were coming. She swiped them away quickly and turned to face the official, pushing Brooks out of her mind as she had done since he had died. She couldn’t give herself a chance to grieve. She would never move on if she did that.

“Miss Rose?” It was only a whisper at first, but as the man grew more confident, his voice did too. “Miss Rose?”

“What do you want?” Kiona said angrily, glaring at him through her thick lashes.

He cleared his throat again, looking a little uncomfortable. Shifting from foot to foot as if trying to decide, the man eventually sat down in the cold metal chair opposite to her. “I know you don’t want to do this. I don’t want to either. But I’ll have to report that you’re emotionally unstable if you don’t subject to the questioning. And you’ll have to follow the rules after this, you understand? You have to follow curfew, and you can’t — ”

“I. Don’t. Care!” Kiona hissed through gritted teeth, slamming her hand on the table. Then, the anger was gone, and as much as she tried to avoid it, the sadness started to fill her again. Tears dripped from her delicate lashes and pooled in her eyes. “He’s gone,” she said slowly, her voice breaking. She looked down.

Now, the official had no experience with crying women, especially since he knew about Brooks and her past. He also knew that her family had reported she was over the grief. However, standing in front of her now, watching her try to avoid it but at the same time falling prey to her sorrow, he knew she really wasn’t.

And Kiona knew too. She saw pain in the official’s eyes, pain like hers, but he hid it well. He was over it. And she wished with all her heart that she could be like that too. Maybe she was being unfair. Maybe she should have subjected to his questioning so he wouldn’t report her. Maybe she should have pretended to be okay like she had with her family. But seeing him, seeing how he had handled everything so calmly… how could she pretend to be okay when she was so clearly not?

The official gently placed his hand on top of hers, and for once, Kiona didn’t say anything. “I know. I know how it feels.”

Kiona shook her head, not understanding. “Then how can you be so calm? How can you avoid the pain?”

The official averted his eyes, then returned her gaze after a few moments. “Because I realized she’s gone. I have to live my life without her.”

Kiona’s bright gray eyes turned stormy. “I’m not sure I can do that.”

The official nodded slowly, pausing to think. Eventually, he extended his hand, a smile appearing on his weary face. “Mark.”

Kiona wasn’t in the mood for it, but maybe he could help her. She had to be polite. She shook it, forcing a thin smile. “Kiona.”

“I know,” he said. Then after a moment’s hesitation, he continued, “I’m afraid we’ll have to keep you here until you answer a few questions, but let me know when you’re ready. I know… ” He sucked in his breath. “I know it’s hard. And grief can make you do terrible things. So I want you to know I understand, I really do. And I’ll try to help you as much as I can.” And with that, he left.

Kiona nodded, the numbness in her heart dulling. She had finally let in one emotion, the only one she could allow. Hope.

 

Kiona stepped outside, smiling as the wind tossed her raven hair over her shoulder. She reached into the pocket of her jeans for her jingling silver car keys, walking towards the candy apple red Volkswagen Beetle that had been a gift from her mother after Brooks. At first, nothing could please her, nothing could bring her out of her misery. But now she stopped, admiring the smooth, shiny surface and the adorable roundness of the car. It really was beautiful.

The ride back to the campus was silent, but at the same time, the silence was delicate, graceful. Kiona had been in silence for so many months that it now fit her like a comfortable glove. It gave her time to notice the world in full color, not the black and white that grief had painted over it. She noticed the trees bursting with bright green leaves, the still blueness of the sky, the fluffiness of the clouds. She saw everything good in the world, everything there was to live for.

Kiona already felt a difference. Maybe with enough time to grieve, she could move on. She could even get the tracking watch removed. She remembered when the officials had showed up at her doorstep with it, giving their apologies over Brooks. But they weren’t sincere. They never were. Maybe that’s why Kiona had taken the interrogating official’s advice to heart.

Of course, her mother had assured them Kiona was perfectly stable. But as Kiona stood by her mother with a smile plastered on her face, giving way to the waves of grief, she knew the officials could see what had really happened. They were the ones who had to make sure everyone maintained baseline emotion, that no one was too happy or too sad. They gave time for joy and misery, but only enough, and then you must move on. For what is the point of life if you revel in your glories all the time, making the hike up the mountain only to sit there and enjoy the view? No, happiness was no motivation. It was just a distraction. And the same was true for sadness. Sure, certain things allowed moments of disappointment, but there was no point wallowing in it. That’s what the officials had realized.

However, the drug they had given Kiona to combat her sadness hadn’t worked. And for some reason, they hadn’t showed up to administer it again. She wasn’t sure she wanted them to, knowing the passing of her misery was fabricated. But, remembering the long, hard months, Kiona thought maybe it would have been better if she hadn’t had to go through that. And then there was the tracking watch. She didn’t know what the officials saw when they pulled up her data, only that her sorrow lasted for an abnormally long time for someone being drugged. Since then, they’d place a suicide watch on her, tracking her every move to make sure she didn’t do the same thing as Brooks.

Even before, when Kiona had been consumed in grief, she would never have commited suicide. To take the thing she valued, the thing that others loved even if she hadn’t, to shoot herself knowing that she had only herself to blame… the thought was sickening. But even if the officials had known that, they would have tracked her. They were always suspicious of her, always suspicious of everyone. A bitter taste rose in Kiona’s mouth, but she forced it down.

The officials weren’t all bad. They, too, had suffered loss and pain. Besides, hadn’t the interrogation official just promised to help her? And he had let her go?

Momentarily distracted, Kiona snapped out of her reverie, able to truly see the beauty in the world since… well, in a long time. She had been driving on mostly empty roads, and now her watch was beeping to alert her she was approaching the main street that led to her college. Even though the students were in classes right now, the highway was full of cars traveling long distances. The road hummed with the energy of all the engines, drivers chatting, talking, and gazing into the distance. They were going places, far, far away. Kiona had always imagined herself being one of them someday, traveling somewhere far to start a new life. She could be anything she wanted there, not just the girl who had lost her best friend or the girl that had a suicide watch on her.

Kiona smoothed back her silky hair and stopped at an intersection to wait for oncoming traffic. She glanced at the drivers beside her, running their hands through their hair or fumbling with their phones. She saw the simplicity in their actions and smiled. For some inexplicable reason, it made her feel better. Turning, Kiona studied the traffic light, waiting for the moment when it would turn from blood red to emerald green. And just as it was about to happen, just as the light was about to read go, she saw it coming.

She saw the car around the corner.

She’d heard of time slowing down in situations like this, but instead it seemed to speed up for her. The driver in the veering black SUV, making reckless turns and driving like a madman, did not see the red light. Or maybe he did. Because he drove towards it, eyes flashing determined as he spun the wheel maniacally. He drove straight towards where the traffic on the highway had stopped, cars lining up tip to tip in a perfect line, all the drivers sharing a moment in which their life was put on hold for a simple light. Except for his. She saw him coming straight for the left corner, where she sat in her candy apple red Volkswagen Beetle, his eyes trained on her. Kiona’s stormy gray eyes widened for a moment, a scream clinging to her mouth as it took the shape of a surprised “o.” And it all happened so fast. She watched him speed up, hurtling towards her, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She threw her hands up to shield herself and felt only a slight jostle at first. Then…

Help. Please. Crash. Collision. Brakes. Car.

A bump. A bang. She was thrown forward.

Head first. Head hit. Pain. Crash. Pain. So much pain. Exploding pain. Like longing.

And then everything went black.

 

Me, the Woman and the Man

In the corner of an illuminating empty, dull, gray room, I stand with pale hands that shiver like a shower in mid-December, shaking like the earth I am on. All over this neighborhood are factories, left to right. There is not a single park here. The smoke stacks develop into the sky like an evil crop of corn, and they give off these fumes which cover many of our homes with dust. It almost looks as if I had put black paint on my hands and rubbed it all over miniature, lego-like houses.

Who am I? I ask myself. The idea of not having anyone with me, by my side, is destroying me.

And yet, to this day, I still get these dreams — very vague and foggy — of when I was eleven years old and on a planet similar to Earth, but one that was rust and sepia-colored, and dusty.

The dream started with a woman talking to me…

“Bellumy, we’re finally here — we can start a new life,” this woman told me with a relieving voice and brown eyes which were oddly familiar.

“Where are we… ?” I stated with that sweet wonderful voice. “Are we going home now?”

This is our home now,” she cried.

As soon as I hear the word ‘‘home,’’ I always wake up from my foggy day dream and find myself on a piece of rock I would call Earth. I feel as if I haven’t had a drink of water in years, and my mouth is drier than the Sahara Desert. The sweat from my armpits and forehead reach my feet like an appalling waterfall.

“Oh my God, Bellum! You are sweating like crazy,” a nurse worryingly states. “Here. Drink some water… you’re dehydrated for god’s sake.”

“I am so sorry, Adjútor, I had those nightmares again.”

“I don’t have the time for it. I have to clean your mess,” she yells.

I want to tell her my weird dreams of this woman calling me honey or little sunshine, but I can not bring myself to it.

“Why don’t you care?” I question.

“You can always tell me but not right now. I need to clean your room while you’re eating lunch,” she explains.

“Aren’t you going to have food with me Adjútor?” I ask.

“What did I just say? I will talk to you about your dreams later, after I am done with cleaning your room. So just get your butt up and eat your lunch,” Adjútor commands me to do.

One day I will leave this wretched, scummy place, and I will leave and go somewhere better… somewhere where I belong. There is this program, a program that fixes damaged brain tissue and replaces a broken micro chip with a new one. Well you see, I have had a broken chip since I was ten years old. These microchips are implanted in every baby that was born after 2025. The MCO’s, or MicroChip Organizations, are made in various versions. For example, some improve the brain for those who are mentally challenged or have other physical disabilities. Still, others were implanted in the brains of those who’ve migrated to other planets as a backup plan to ensure the safety for every person adapting to a new environment.

When I was born, I had these tremors. Theses tremor are an involuntary, rhythmic muscle movement. These movements are often back-and-forth actions of one or more body parts.
Most tremors can affect the hands. However, tremors can occur in the arms, head, face, vocal cords, trunk and legs. Other children like me with tremors often have back-and-forth or oscillating body movements. Kids also like me have a shaky voice. Tremors can affect fine motor coordination, such as writing and gripping objects. Tremors become more severe and may be triggered when I am stressed or feeling strong emotion.

Ever since my chip was broken, a point at which I did not remember, there was a sudden increase in my tremors. I needed a nurse to take care of me. She was annoying at first. She never listened to me and never wanted to talk to me. Now, she’s both annoying but empathetic, too. Some days she seems to care, and yet on others she does not because she is busy with some kind of work.

My tremors don’t prevent me from doing work, like delivering pizzas or even taking customers’ orders down. You see, I am currently enrolled in physical rehabilitation program, which simulates real world jobs for people who lost motor skills who want to get a job in the real world. I cannot work in a stressful environment or my hands shake like they do when I get those dreams. Each day I work, I get more exhaustion and more rest. That sounds like a contradiction, but my over-tiredness helps me enjoy my time sleeping in bed much more.

A few nights later, the same old dream initiated in the peace of my subconscious with the woman droning on and on…

“Bellumy, we’re finally here — we can start a new life,” the woman had told me with a relieving voice.

“Where are we… ?” I stated with that sweet, wonderful voice. “Are we going home now?”

This is our home now,” she cried as I could see the reflection of hills in her brown eyes.

Who was this woman? Why is she haunting my dreams? What home is she talking about? I need to get my chip fixed; I need these nightmarish dreams to go away.

I immediately need to ask a doctor to fix my chip so I can get this dream off of my mind for good. I alight off my hospital bed and go on a mission to find the doctor that can help me.

Running faster than the Flash, I collide with my nurse.

“Bellumy are you okay?” Adjutor worriedly asks. “You can’t leave your… ”

“I am leaving this place… I need to look for the doctor who can fix the chip,” I yell at her, pointing to my brain.

I do not want to even talk to her — I just need to find the doctor.

“Calm down, Bellumy,”Adjutor whispers right in front her boss.

“Who is he? Can he fix my chip?” I shout.

“Bellumy, I’m Dr. Medicus, I need you to come with me,” a man with broad shoulders and chin politely asks.

“Bellumy, the chip you’re talking about is causing a decline in muscular movement. This prevents you from doing certain day to day chores,” Medicus informs.

“Sir, is it possible to change the chip?” I curiously ask.

Giving me a contract, he states, “Well, yes, but there is a long waiting list — you would have to wait a couple of weeks.”

“These chips are meant for babies and can only be repaired for babies; it will be dangerous,” Adjutor worriedly states.

I had a lot to consider about this issue.

As the weeks passed, I kept getting those nightmarish and dank dreams. Every day I have to hear ‘this is our home now.’ However, the thought of having my brain chip repaired helped me leave my room with a smile on my face, slowly realizing that I can have a better life without these nightmares. Goodbye brown-eyed woman, I shout in my head.

And then it happened.

One unusually sunny day, the doctor came with the news I was waiting for.

He stood in the doorway like a smiling scarecrow and simply asked, “Are you ready?”

I didn’t have to answer, but he knew what I was going to say.

I slowly entered the surgery room. It was so silent, but the machines were humming, and the oddly shaped tools were shining like the sun on the horizon of some new wonderful land while the nurses were looking at me.

“Sit here,” Medicus commands.

I couldn’t say anything. I was shocked that something this thrilling would ever happen to me. So they gave me anesthesia, which is the injection of drugs before surgical operations which puts people to sleep.

After the surgery, I had to rest and couldn’t do anything physical. I had to sleep and eat through an IV tube.

My mind felt very calm as if this was a sign from God that I am disconnected from my pain. But that feeling of being released from the pain was soon to be crushed by the same repetitive dream and the same brown-eyed woman. However, this was not a dream — it was longer, a man appears to be next to the same brown eyed woman…

“Bellum, do you know where we are?” the man asked me. “We are on Mars.”

“Bellum, let’s go to our new rooms,” the brown-eyed woman ordered politely.

With a happy, relieving voice, the man exclaimed, “This is our home now, I hope you love it.”

“Are you ready to go to school today?” the man asked.

“Yes, I am going to school,” I firmly replied.

I got ready and rushed to the door and leapt towards this floating car that had been given to us by the government.

Hours had passed since I was dropped at this building — so bright, white, and hovering over the entire colony of Mars. This building is like a 6-foot tall man compared to a toddler.

At the end of the day, I saw the same people who had dropped me here, and then I heard an explosion, so loud it shattered my ear drums and broke every bone in my body.

I heard a loud scream echoing through my head saying “Bellum” over and over again.
Even while asleep in this dream like state, this new influx of “dreams” felt real… not like dreams at all.

I woke up, but felt more sweaty and felt more dehydrated than ever before. Suddenly, I remember the rooms filled pictures of me — the woman and the man. We are hugging near these reddish hills; these were not like the ones on Earth which are grassy and green. Slowly trying to sit up, I immediately dropped down to the center of the bed.

I woke up the next morning, relieved that it was all over, and I desperately need to talk to a psychologist or someone like that. My dreams are getting more intense.

As soon as I saw Dr. Medicus, I tried to ask him if he could give me someone I can talk to about my feelings. Medicus gave me a number to this psychologist — her name was Sandra Hollingworth.

Later this week, I met with her, discussing my dreams and describing them with great detail. I notice something strange. She has these tiny tears slowly running down her face. She hands me this newspaper with the headline, Tragedy On Mars 2055.

“Read this article. Take your time,” she offers. Clearly she had lost someone and is still mourning because of this incident on “Mars.”

 

I grab the newspaper and skim it. There was nothing until I come to a picture of a kid, a brown eyed woman and a man. The woman was laying down with all torn clothes and bruised; the man is all bloodied up, eyes closed and grasping for life. Then, the kid is on his knees, tears down his face and fist clenched.

“Do you recognize the lady and man in the picture?” she asks. “Are these the people that were in your dreams?”

“Yes, she is the one that says, ‘This is our home,’ and the man is just a man!” I exclaim.

“These aren’t dreams, these are memories. You had experienced a very traumatizing event, and your brain had cancelled these memories,” she explains to me.

Wait a minute? I thought to myself. The woman in this picture looks like the woman in my dreams, and the man looks like the man in my dreams that had occured not too long ago. The kid looks just like me but only tiny and skinny. The woman has the same color eyes as me, same jawline, same nose shape… same everything.

“Uh — can I go back?” I had wondered.

“Well, yes. Things have changed; those who were injured or survived the 2055 accident can have a free pass back,” she continues to explain. “All the necessary changes have been made to the Colony I, so it is safer to live there.”

I completely ignored what she said, and I packed my bags and rushed out the hospital.

There had to be something more than a hospital bed, solitude, and empty terrestrial life. My destiny lay in another place… one that was red, familiar, and the resting place of the “brown-eyed” people I love.

 

Rock Climbing

On the first day of summer vacation, I went straight to the rock climbing gym. This is the place where I had first conquered my fear of heights, and where I had done my first pull-up. This is where I go if I ever have some spare time and $5.50 on my MetroCard. Whenever I had to walk across the gym, I would always notice it, and whenever I noticed it I kept walking. I acknowledged it, but always kept a distance from it, the ten-foot red paracord with green lines going through it, stained with chalk. The first day of the summer is always the day that I set goals for myself. The goals I set today were more ambitious than ever: climb a v4+ level boulder, learn to lead, climb a 5.11b wall, and last but not least, learn how to tightrope. The hardest one of these was definitely the learning how to tightrope. This is because tightroping usually takes many months to learn, and from what I’ve seen at the gym, there are only a few people who can make it to the other side while keeping a steady pace.

Now that I had finally decided to confront my bête noire, my journey toward becoming a funambulist, a tightrope walker, had begun. On the second day of summer, I came back to the gym. I remember this day very clearly because this was the day that I would walk on the tightrope once more. My “first steps” on the tightrope, and my first steps toward the abstract graffiti painted by artist Jana Liptak, the faux brick wall that it was painted on, and the carribinner holding the end of the tightrope that my eyes were fixed on.

This day was also special because I had met Vlad, my best friend from middle school’s dad, at the gym. We had never really talked before, just exchanged looks when I would come to my best friend’s house, so little did I know that this would be the start of a new friendship, one that outlasted my friendship with his son. Vlad was a yoga master, tall and athletic. He was able to do poses that I always thought were impossible. The one that impressed me the most was the firefly pose: balancing on just your hands with your back facing the ground. This requires a lot of arm and core strength, and even more balance.

“Balance is very good for brain, you know,” Vlad said to me in his good but slightly broken English with a Russian accent. “Your goal to walk down tightrope is good one.”

From what he told me, I inferred that he had been going to the gym for years, long before I had ever opened the rusty metal doors to the gym myself. Because of the experience that Vlad had in the gym, on the climbing wall, and on the yoga mat, I assumed that he would be a tightroping master. But I was wrong. He, like me, had spent most of his time at the gym climbing rather than training, so when we would cross paths at the gym and I would show him what I had learned on the slackline, he was impressed.

 

We exchanged phone numbers, and because he lived near me, he would give me a lift to the rock climbing gym whenever he was headed there. On the way to the gym, we would talk about Israel, Russia, food, or whatever came to mind. Whatever we talked about, Vlad always had an interesting story to tell, and by the time I got out of the car, I felt like a totally different person. One day he told me about the vacation he took to Israel about 10 years ago. He told me about why Israel is such a religious landmark for Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. At 7:00 he would pick me up, and at 12:00 I would be back home, hungry and ready to eat the okroshka — or sometimes borscht — that my parents had made while I was gone.

 

From the first day Vlad had begun telling me his stories, I began to spend hours every week on the tightrope. Every Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday I would wake up at 6:00 AM and head to the gym — either on the train or in Vlad’s 2012 Toyota Prius with stained seats and a broken sunroof locked in the closed position. Almost every day, I made at least a little bit of progress, and whether it was learning a better way to begin or taking one more step than the day before, I was always very happy with what I had accomplished. To me, every day was worth the hour round trip on the B train or in Vlad’s Prius. I liked taking the train because it reminded me of the tightrope — long, narrow, and hard to stand on.

 

Then came the halfway point of the summer — August third. I wasn’t yet able to make it halfway down the slackline, but I had found a great way to start, and was consistently getting about a third of the way down, something that usually took people months to achieve. I could get past the halfway mark on some days, earlier in the morning, but this was not consistent, and therefore was not what I was going for. By learning how to tightrope, I did not mean to simply make it to the other side, because that by itself would be possible with a few simple leaps. What I meant was to learn how to properly tightrope, so that I could consistently get to the other side. August third is a day I will remember for another reason as well, because this was the day that I was noticed, and this was the day I was helped. Danny, an employee and personal trainer at the gym came up to me and showed me what I had been doing wrong, and what I could improve on.

“Dude, you don’t have to start like that,” he said to me in his big, deep voice with just a splash of New York accent. He showed me how to start, and how to move my feet as to not shift my center of gravity, always keeping it right above the slackline. “Yo, let me show you how to dance upon the line of slack,” he then said in his hipster-y voice. Then he showed me his routine, first walking across once, and then coming back around to show me a circus-full of tricks. He proceeded to jump, flip, and do a dozen more tricks on the tightrope.

 

As a young child, I had believed that nothing is impossible, but as I grew older and gained experience at the things I did in my spare time such as table tennis and rock climbing, I really stuck to those things and didn’t try new things out as much. So, I began to discredit the idea that anything is possible. This is why I think I had stayed so far away from the world of slacklining, because I was too scared to try. I am happy that I set this goal for myself, because ever since the first day of summer, I began to try more new things out, and if it weren’t for the goal I set, I never would have went on the journey that I did. The hardest part about slacklining was putting my feet on the slackline for the first time. For me, the joys of rock climbing come from getting stronger and making it up that wall on the 100th try.

 

The Forbidden Island

Long ago there was a forbidden island. Whoever went there never came back, so everyone’s parents were overprotective of their children. Then the rumor came to Milan, that the island was cursed 100 years ago and that no one would come back. The best sailor there named Mario Write wanted to prove that this was just a myth, but that was 10 years ago. He left his brother Antonio when he was just born, less than three months old. Antonio was raised as an only child until he turned 13. That’s when Antonio figured out he had an older brother. It was a nice cloudy day and the ocean was a little wavy, when Antonio saw a bump in the sand. He didn’t pay attention to it at first, but it kept bothering him. He went over to step on it to flatten it out, but it just did not go down, so he decided to dig it out. He tried to dig it out, but it didn’t budge. When he did dig it out, he knew it was a bottle with some scroll of paper inside it. It was too dark to read the letter, but he was so excited to read this note. Antonio was hoping to find some ancient map to treasure. So he went home and opened it with a little bit of struggle to get the paper out, but he got it out eventually. It read:

 

Dear Antonio,

You may not know me. Please sail to the forbidden island and save me from this beauty. I really want to meet you and know how our family is. Don’t have time to talk, bye.

Mario Wright

 

He went to bed with Mario on his mind. In the morning, he went to his parents the next day to ask who this was because this person had the same last name. Antonio’s parents looked at each other with nervous looks on their faces, but obviously they had to tell him the truth about his brother who sailed to the island and never came back home when he was three months old. Antonio was so raged that his parents did not tell him this that his eyes lit up and he stormed to his room. In a few hours, his mom came knocking on his bedroom door asking why he was asking and why he was so mad. He explained everything about the beach. Antonio said he was mad because they should have told him, that he had an older brother who was missing. So he decided to go because he knew he would survive. He didn’t know when to go, and he was going to future sailors camp soon. Antonio thought that if he started planning later, he would be too late. The next letter Antonio received said:

 

Dear Antonio,

There is a lot of important information to save this city from dying here. You have to arrive on Halloween, so everyone can leave. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumor that the island is cursed, well that’s true. Every day except Halloween we all think the island is beautiful. On Halloween we think the island is hideous because it is supposed to be the scariest day in the year, so we see the bad side of the island.

*DO NOT LEAVE YOUR SHIP. THEN IT WILL SINK AND GO TO THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN AND YOU WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO GET IT BACK!

(More information on how to get the ship next time.)

Mario

 

He spent his time at camp with his friends, so he could be the (next) best sailor. He had not told his friends that he had a brother. He figured out how to get the money for the ship, but did not know which boat to buy. In the meantime, Antonio paid a lot of attention to his camp so that there might be some useful information. He was warned not to go anywhere from Woody Pier. That was a big warning, and Antonio got some ideas from that. He had so much fun in camp he almost forgot about his brother, but the next class he had was about the forbidden island. Antonio did not learn anything since Mario used to be a teacher on the forbidden island. That’s what reminded him. Antonio was stressed that he had to focus on two things at once and could not ask anyone because they would say he just should stay home, so this task was up to him. If he wanted to be the hero, he could work hard and get everyone back, and if he didn’t want to risk getting stuck on the island like everyone else too, he would have to stay and feel guilty.

 

His friends didn’t believe him that he was going to save everyone on the island. They all tried to convince him to stay saying, “You’re too young. What if you get lost.” They couldn’t convince him to stay. He went to check the beach the next day. Disappointingly, there was nothing there. Antonio thought he did something wrong. Maybe he was supposed to send a letter back. He was so frustrated he wanted to break something. Antonio went back to camp to analyze all the different letters he received. When he was about to put away the last letter he received, he saw something on the back. He could not make out what it said, so he decided to go to bed and think about it. The next morning, Antonio felt sick, so he went to the nurse. He did have a cold, but he decided that was a good thing because he could find out what was on the back of the letter. He went to his room and traced the letters so they became brighter, but he could not make out some of the words. What it said was:

 

Dear Antonio,

This is faded because this is classified information. I know this is very hard to read, but get the money for the ship from Mom’s old wine. It will be more than enough money for that. But a good ship should be 45 ft. long and should have three sails. To get here you need to leave of Woody Pier and go straight for two and a half hours.

Please come soon.

Mario.

 

Yes! thought Antonio. In three weeks, he could go and save Mario.

 

How Kombucha Ruined My Life

I wake up Saturday morning and check my phone from my bed. Looks like it will be another sunny day that I spend inside. I have been rehearsing the musical Legally Blonde all week, and tonight is the performance. I play Brooke Wyndham, an exercise queen accused of murder. Some of my friends and family are coming, so the show has to be really good. While I’m sad it’s almost over, a sense of relief washes over me. It has been a lot of work.

My phone buzzes, and it’s my very energetic best friend Hazel.

GUESS WHAT??!! she writes.

WHAT????? I jokingly reply. We love goofing off together and have been doing it for years. Since fourth grade to be exact. It’s crazy to think that now eleventh grade is just around the corner.

ASHER IS COMING!!!!

My heart leaps into my throat. Asher, my crush since, well since forever, is coming to my show?

WAIT WHAT?! I reply, hoping that what she says next isn’t true. I haven’t talked to him, like really talked to him, since sixth grade when we shared snacks once. I am one of those people who observe and admire from afar.

He asked me about show dates and times and said that there was someone special in the shows that he wants to see. I think that means you!!

O-M-G. My heart pounds. Why would he be coming to see me? He doesn’t even know me now. Sure, our families are friends, and we used to be friends. Before popularity became a thing, we used to ride our bikes together down to the little cafe and get milkshakes. Him, chocolate. Me, vanilla.

I can’t think about this now. I have to focus on tonight. On giving a fabulous last performance. I get dressed and start my hair and makeup; I will finish it when I get to the theater. I grab a frozen waffle and pop it into the toaster oven as I get my things together. My mom comes in from an early morning grocery store trip and pulls out some chocolate cookies, strawberries, and grapes for me to take out of the grocery bag. I stuff them into my already overflowing backpack and run to the car.

“You forgot your waffle,” my mom says, getting into the driver’s seat. She hands me the warm, crunchy waffle wrapped in a napkin.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, my mouth already full of the sweet breakfast.

“I got you something,” my mom says. She reaches into the back seat and grabs a cold glass bottle filled with some pink liquid and hands it to me.

“What is it?” I asked, a little skeptical of what it was.

“It’s called kombucha. It’s a fermented tea that is really good for your digestion. I want you to try it. It’s grapefruit jasmine flavored and it’s fizzy.” She glances over to me and gestures for me to open it.

I do. Only to please her; my mom always goes on health food cleanses, so it is easiest for everyone to get this over with ASAP. It reeks of vinegar and raw fish — without a doubt, the grossest thing I have ever smelled. I take a small sip, try to hide my gag, and give it back to my mom.

“Here. You try this and tell me if it is something you would drink.”

My mom takes a big sip of the kombucha and chokes.

“That was horrible! I am so sorry I bought that.”

My mom hands the drink back to me, and I put the top back on. We open the windows to air out the car.

“Take it with you, maybe one of your friends will want it.” My mom laughs as I stick the glass bottle as low into my bag as it will go.

As we pull up at the theater, I run in and throw my bag in a corner near where I see my friends Jake and Sami sitting.

“Are you guys pretty nervous too?” Jake continues to run his hands through his nicely gelled hair.

“Stop! I just did your hair. Don’t you dare mess it up again,” Sami responds. She stretches her long, tan legs to get ready for all the dancing we have to do.

We talk for a little bit longer and run a few lines before the stage manager comes in and says, “Time to go into the theatre for notes.”

A few minutes later, we go onto the theater to listen to notes, and I try not to think about that gross kombucha smell at the bottom of my backpack.

Once we finish notes, I grab the kombucha thinking I’ll throw it out, but the stage manager says we can’t leave the dressing room until we are ready for places. Looks like I’m stuck with this gross drink until after the show. I put the it down in the corner and finish getting ready for the run. I take off my clothes and throw them in a pile near the kombucha and get put my costume on.

PLACES!” yells the stage manager as she rushes through the room.

After two solid hours of intense dancing, singing, and acting, the entire cast is super excited for final bows. I am overjoyed because I nailed the super hard dance break in the middle of my song right after intermission. While we are bowing, I try to look over the blinding stage lights, but I can only see as far as the third row. In the first row, my parents stand, smiling and cheering. I still have no idea whether Asher even came or not.

After bows, I go back into the dressing room with Jake and Sami. We change out of our costumes.

“Great show, guys! I’m so happy I didn’t forget my lines,” Jake gushes. I am going to be sad not seeing them every day anymore.

“I’m so happy you didn’t mess up your hair,” Sami jokes.

I smile and pull on my T-shirt, vaguely aware of a weird smell. Everyone smells bad; it’s the last day of shows, that’s how it works. I don’t really think anything of it because we are all sweaty and tired of being in bulky costumes for two hours. Also, the chemical smell of hairspray and hair gel fills the air. Once I am dressed, I wave goodbye to my cast and friends and go out to meet my family.

As I walk out of the dressing room, I see him. Asher. His dirty blonde hair brushed to the side. His shy smile that only reaches the left side of his mouth. His blue eyes that look like the sky on a bright, sunny day. He’s wearing a nice button down shirt and jeans that fit perfectly. He’s looking right at me, and I freeze. As I start to walk toward him, I take a sharp right into the girls bathroom.

I take out my phone and call Hazel.

“Oh. My. God. He’s here. What do I do? What do I say? Oh my god ohmygod ohmygod oh — ”

“AHHH you’ll be fine! You were absolutely stunning out there. You look like a queen! I am on my way to your house, so you can fill me in on all the juicy details!”

Hazel is way too excited for this. I wonder what she knows, but I don’t have time to ask because Asher is here. In the girls bathroom.

“Asher?! What are you doing in here?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing, Zoe. I saw you ran in here, and I thought you should know it’s the boys bathroom.”

“Asher?” Hazel screams before I have time to hang up.

OH MY GOD.

“Oh yeah. Um yeah.” Crap. There’s no way out of this.

I rush out of the bathroom as fast I as I can. Asher follows me.

“Hey, I got you these.” Asher grabs a small bouquet of roses from a chair in a corner.

“Thank you, Asher. Thank you for coming too, you didn’t have to do that.” My face must be the color of an overripe tomato. I can’t believe this is actually happening.

“I did. I wanted to see you.” He takes a step closer. What was he doing? His face changes as he gets closer. His nose crinkles, and he steps back.

I look down and see a light pink stain on my white T-shirt. A stain so big, so smelly, you can practically see the waves of horrid scent coming off it. The kombucha. It must have spilled on my shirt, but I hadn’t noticed because I was in such a rush to see if Asher had come. I cover it with the roses, stutter, “Uh gotta go. Bye,” at Asher and run out of the hallway.

When I get to the dressing room, the smell of vinegar and dead fish hits me like a freight train. I go to where I had put the bottle, and there is a big crack in the glass and juice is leaking out of it. Right into a puddle where my T-shirt had been. Great.

I grab my stuff, throw away the bottle, and go find my parents so we can leave before anyone else knows that the kombucha smell is me.

Asher is still standing outside the bathroom looking confused. He is texting someone on his phone, so he doesn’t see me rush by. That’s probably a good thing.

“Good job, sweetie!” my mom says as she tries to give me a big hug.

“Trust me, Mom, you don’t want to. Let’s just go home.” I need to go home and shower!

“Hey, Zoe! Did you see who came?” My dad loves teasing me about my crushes. He just thinks it’s so funny how little they like me back.

“Yeah I know. He gave me flowers,” I shoot back. I feel some heat come to my face when I see Asher walking towards us.

“Hey, Zoe. Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Brown. Thanks for the ride home.” He’s riding home with us? Oh no.

It is a very quiet car ride home. I just try to suck all the smell off of me onto my side of the car. I open up the window and think very hard about jumping out of the car. Unfortunately my fear of death holds me back. When we drop Asher off at his house down the street from ours, he tries to say something to me, but I push him out and close the door before he can tell me how bad I smell.

“Get me home.” I lean into my parents so they can smell the emergency.

My mom hits the gas.

I jump out of the car once we get home and run into my room. Hazel is sitting on the bed.

“So??? What happened? What did he say to you? C’mon, Zoe! Say something!”

So, I tell her. Everything. From the boys bathroom, to the roses, to the shared car ride. Then I let her smell me as I was still standing in the doorway. Of course she gags and pushes me into the shower, yelling at me for not bringing any body spray or perfume.

“It’s not my fault!!! I didn’t realize kombucha would ruin my life!” I shower and make sure to scrub extra hard.

Once I get out of the shower and into cleaner, comfier clothes, Hazel and I put on Mean Girls and settle into my bed.

Right before we start the movie, the doorbell rings. Hazel goes to the window and squeals.

“You have to get the door, Zoe! MR AND MRS BROWN, ZOE’S GOT THE DOOR!”

I walk to the window, look down, and there is Asher. He’s rocking back on his heels, and he’s holding something. Hazel squirts me with some perfume and pushes me down the stairs.

I take a deep breath and open the door.

There he is, a look of relief on his face as he holds up a piece of paper.

“I was going to leave this for you if you didn’t answer the door,” he says and he holds out the note.

“Um thanks.” I take it but don’t open it yet. I hesitantly step outside and shut the door behind me.

Asher take a step towards me. “Zoe, I don’t know how to say it, but Hazel said — ”

“Hazel? Why were you talking to her?” Yes. I am a little jealous and very confused. Why wouldn’t she have told me?

“Because Zoe, she’s your best friend. I needed advice.”

“Advice on me?” I cross my arms in front of my chest.

“Advice whether to do this.” He steps in, grabs my elbows, and pulls me into a long kiss.

I step back, shocked. Why would Asher like me? What did Hazel do???

“Well I guess she gave me good advice. I’ve liked you for a while, Zoe, I just didn’t know how to tell you. I went to Hazel for help and to see if you would ever say yes,” Asher says, our faces just inches apart.

“Say yes to what?” My heart is trying to fly out of my chest.

“Open the note.” I look down at the note and slowly unfold it.

Written on the paper are the words Please go out with me? Circle YES or NO. I smile at the funny gesture and look at Asher. He has a nervous look on his face as he looks into my eyes.

I laugh. “Yes of course. Yes, Asher!” I lean in and kiss him again. I hear squealing coming from the window, and we look up to see Hazel screaming and jumping around. Asher and I look at each other and laugh.

“I better go, but I’ll see you tomorrow?” I smile and hug him one last time.

“Tomorrow.”

The next morning, I open my eyes and turn to see Hazel still sound asleep next to me in my big bed. She spent the night at my house, so I could fill her in on all the details. The light creeps out from behind the window shades onto my purple walls. The pictures of my family and friends that are hung on my wall glint and sparkle.

I roll out of bed onto my fuzzy carpet that keeps my feet warm in the winter and go to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I see that my hair is a big tangled mess and not all the makeup has come off of my face. I grab a makeup wipe and try my best to rub off the mascara. I can’t stop thinking about last night; I wonder if it was all a dream.

As I go back into my room, the light has fallen on a small bouquet of roses on my bedside dresser with a note tucked into one of the flowers, and I know I wasn’t dreaming.

 

For Them All

 

1

 

Kind

He was just kind

Everyone knew it

But I liked it the most

 

He wasn’t good in school

Everyone knew it

I can’t tell you how many times

I defended his intelligence

 

He had red hair

I loved that red hair

I guess I perceived him as innocent
Even though he never was

 

He talked to me

I was crazy

But he talked to me

 

By the time I found out he

Had fallen for me

It was too late

 

2

 

So this guy was kind of a jerk

Everyone thought he was green

I saw blue

I saw blue in that jerk!

I thought he liked me back

And just hid it really well

But he hated me

I was a bother

A massive bother

To that blue, blue jerk

 

3

 

I loved him more than I’ve ever loved anyone

Wished I could just talk to him

Hated that I could never be the one to help him

I wanted him to rely on me

I loved him, I really really did

So much that no one could doubt it

But despite all my hopes

He never knew me

 

I’ve already written countless poems about him

About how he’s the ultimate hero

 

I just kinda wanted to thank him

For saving me

 

4

 

Um… I still like this one

He’s the best of the light and the dark

He’s like me and then he’s a little bit not

Ideal, is what he is

Not that I could resist him if he wasn’t

 

5

 

I’m putting him on the list, aren’t I?

Hasn’t been around for more than a week

and yet here I am, giving him a spot

with the ones who have changed me

because he changed me

he made me fall

god, he’s the most captivating of them all

 

“don’t know when i’ll be back again”

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. The coral-colored suitcase open on the bed, the clothes hanging ready to be packed, the car come to take her away. The sun streams through the window, illuminating the pictures on the wall, reminders of a happier time. Outside, birds are chirping and children are playing in the park across the street. By all rights, it should be a beautiful day.

Marina sits cross-legged on the floor, halfheartedly sorting her possessions into heaps. In front of her is the pile for keeping, to the left a pile for charity. To the right, trash — all the things that are too worn out, too painful, too personal to give away. It’s a numbing process, most things easily separated. Near the end of her things, she picks up a picture of two girls, laughing and holding hands. They don’t have a care in the world, firmly convinced that everything will work in their favor. The hand holding the snapshot shakes a little and wavers over to the right, before Marina places it carefully in front of her.

When she’s finished, the items to keep go in the bottom of her suitcase. Zoe’s promised to take the charity pile to Goodwill — Marina doesn’t intend to stay around long enough to do it herself. She shoves the trash items into a bag and tugs it down the polished stairs. Marina’s just put the bag in the kitchen trash when she’s accosted by a very energetic ten-year-old, with Zoe right behind him.

“Marina!” her brother says, coming to a halt in front of her. His bright smile usually lights up whatever room he’s in, but today it doesn’t provide any comfort.

“Hey, Peter,” she says, absentmindedly reaching out to ruffle his hair. He looks up at her with big brown eyes, the very picture of innocence, and she finds herself wishing for that simpler time.

“Why are you leaving me?” he whines.

She sighs. “You wouldn’t understand.” Sometimes, she’s not even sure she understands why. Sometimes she thinks it would be easier to stay here, stay where she’s lived all her life.

“But I do understand.” He crosses his arms. “It’s because of her, because of… ” Whatever he was going to say is cut off.

“Peter,” Zoe warns. Marina’s stepmother has one hand covering Peter’s mouth, with the other on his shoulder. “What did I say about manners? It is Marina’s choice, and she doesn’t have to tell people why.”

Marina fingers her necklace as she watches them. People always expect the fairytale stereotype of stepmothers, but she’s never resented Zoe, even when she first came to live with them over a decade ago. Marina was five and couldn’t understand why this strange woman lived with them instead of Marina’s mother, but Zoe never forced Marina to accept her. Instead, she was lovely and kind and caring, until Marina couldn’t help but love her. Zoe taught her all the things about being a woman that Marina’s mother, far away in a little apartment, couldn’t. They celebrated the highs of life together, and Zoe held her when she came home sobbing that horrible night.

“Sorry, Marina.” Peter’s sheepish voice brings Marina back to reality.

“It’s okay, Peter. I just… it’s hard to explain,” she says. Her words hang in the stillness of the kitchen for a moment.

“Why don’t you run along?” Zoe says, mercifully breaking the tension. “Go outside and play with your dad or something.”

“Okay,” he chirps, running off to find their dad.

With Peter gone, Zoe turns the full force of her attention to Marina. “How are you holding up, honey?”

“I’m… fine,” Marina says, though they both know she’s lying. She hasn’t been fine since that Saturday in May. “I’m holding up,” she corrects herself.

“Do you need any help packing?” Zoe asks. “I’ve got nothing better to do than chase Peter around.”

“I think I’m good, thanks,” replies Marina. She’s not sure she’s ready to let another person handle all the memories contained in her things.

“I’ll be ready to help you if you decide you want it. Just shout,” says Zoe. They both know that this isn’t just about packing. It’s about Marina starting a new life where she knows nobody but her mother instead of ‘working through her problems in a familiar setting’ like her therapist says she should.

“Will do,” Marina says curtly, turning to go upstairs. She still has a few more things to pack.

The suitcase is almost full and the afternoon sun beginning to set when Marina senses someone enter the room. She turns around to face the door, and sure enough, Lise is leaning against the doorway. Marina forgot how pretty she is, how everything seemed to revolve around her the minute she entered a room.

“Hi, Lise,” Marina says, aware of how pathetic she sounds.

“Hey,” Lise says, coming over to sit next to Marina on the bed. “You’re really leaving, huh?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I needed to get away from you.” If Lise is upset by Marina’s candidness, she doesn’t show it.

“We had a good run though, didn’t we?” It’s a rhetorical question, one they both know the answer to, but Marina still replies.

“We’re still best friends forever,” she says, reaching out to touch Lise’s necklace. Marina is wearing her matching one, with the inscription xoxo Lise still visible but slightly tarnished. When they got them for Lise’s 14th birthday, they both promised to wear them forever, and Marina supposes they both will.

“Are you sad to leave?” asks Lise.

Marina mulls the question over. “I’ll miss Zoe and Peter and Dad, but I think staying here would make me even sadder,” she finally replies. “People here are too concerned about me. I want a fresh start.”

“Come back to visit, will you?” Lise asks, and Marina entertains a brief fantasy where she leaves and never comes back, but she knows that could never happen. She’s tied to this place, like it or not.

“Of course,” Marina says instead, because what else can she say? How can she leave this girl she’s known for almost her entire life?

“Alright then, goodbye,” Lise says, and Marina wants to tell her not to go, but her throat goes dry and she can’t force the words out. She closes her eyes.

“And Marina,” she hears distantly, as if Lise is suddenly very far away. “Don’t be sorry for living.”

Marina opens her eyes just in time to see Lise standing in the doorway again. She watches as Lise becomes less and less real, until Marina is left alone again. She stands up, needing to clear her head, and feels something crinkle under her foot. It’s a balled up newspaper, wrinkled and ripped but with the headline still intact.

Local Girl Killed in Car Accident, it reads. Marina must have crumpled the article up and thrown it across the room when she read the headline. It was too painful to even think about Lise at that point.

She tenderly smoothes the article out and places it at the top of her suitcase, then closes the bag and zips it up. She touches her necklace once for good luck, then pulls her suitcase to where her father is waiting. She’s ready to go.

 

The Odds Of The New Nun

It’s approximately 3 AM, and I have walked miles in pain from a motel that I vaguely remember was in Iowa. Oddly so, a laugh begins to find its bearings on my body, and I begin an uncontrollable cascade of belly laughs that alleviate all of my momentary anxieties. Your body begins to display these erratic behaviors even in its sleep once you’ve put it through what I have.

I can’t tell you the hardships of such shleps to the nearest drugstore to find some kind of medicine I can say with minimal doubt won’t kill me if I overdose by two or so dosages in the midst of a potential panic attack. Mild paranoia resurfaces at the sight of such tall grass and vegetation lining these roads, because the one time I got a camping trip invite from the resident rich goddess every contemporary high school seems to develop, I got a tick bite. However, inducing sleep to avoid my pain is the most innovative solution I’m capable of producing at the moment. I have no time or money or energy to value things that people with their human rights intact are capable of valuing.

Sleep has ended. Abruptly. Not in the way that supposedly sane mothers wake their teen offspring at the crack of dawn to attend the eight hours a day of insanity known as school. Even that is mildly sane in comparison to my situation. I can tell soil has crept into the crevices of my nostrils and mangled pockets of ripped, almost jagged skin on my fingers as I raise them slowly into the sunlight overhead. A street sign has reflected the light of the sun back as an eerily green color, like an undertone in a grainy photo of someone you keep telling yourself you used to know but don’t any longer.

Such a light is not a sight for sore eyes… and with the slightest of a meager spring in my step, I got up and walked several miles with breaks only when my body broke down without the thought of asking me. I reached a town… Meagerflower was the odd but soul-pleasing name I see on the various signage as I enter on foot. A chain pharmacy was distinguishable from the rest of the droopy looking businesses in this area because of how it’s in a franchise’s nature to have sufficient funding for large, scream like fluorescent lettering on their awnings. I stumble almost drunkenly towards sliding doors that, again, seem out of place in such a meager and idle town. As I enter this place that I assume is reflective of the cocktail of odd items that such a town’s population would need from a drug store, I get shocked by the urgency of a solution to my pain, and stealthily pursue a rack of medication bottles. They mustn’t see me, for money was a thing of my past, but yet a thriving part of today’s society that I am now ill-equipped for.

My choices seem to be made by the wind or some unnamable energy of the heavens, so if the sequence of events continues in its odd ways, I must start to walk further into this town in hopes I’ll find something or someone to provide an aid to my ability to sustain myself. I walk a few paces down the road until the road diverges from being a road and derails into a pasture full of lights and a myriad of bodies and voices to accompany them. Metal parts clanked as though their function was to hoist things up. This space, this carnival seemed to exist much farther up from the ground than people of this sort would seem to enjoy being. Children were running around screeching the announcement that it was opposite day, and Emily’s were being called Martins and Martins called Emilies. This was truly a festivity held by an elated lunatic to rid this town of it’s drear for a few moments.

Nuns’ headscarves were taken off, their heads unsheathed like the weapons heads can be, and better yet the dopamine from minds as close to the sky as they’d probably ever be floated to the ground and elation coated the air at all altitudes of the landscape. In awe, I told myself, “To the ferris wheel we go.” But in fear of the ticket master, I proceeded to crawl around the very base of the contraption’s rear end and began to climb the cold steel the structure provided me with to as close to the very top as I could get. I settled in the basket weave of a lonesome car, and ducked down below the seat so the crevices and imperfections in the construction could provide me a window to this world with the hope that not a single breath of mine would be detectable from here. My ignorance caused by lack of unobstructed viewership that the rightful customers were worthy of was actually quite pleasurable. The fog up here had a taste and smell that was like raindrops on tongues from childhood. I could feel how seized up the clouds must be, almost ready to rain. It was tiring to feel the basket sway in what little winds existed here, and soon I fell asleep.

Awoken by a black clothed face with hair neatly tucked away into the dark fabric, I sat up, the wind jerking my hair out of my face immediately. She whispered, “We musn’t camp out here for much longer. I know you’re weak because you’ve overdosed by two days of sleep, and surely such dreams can make hunger seem nonexistent. But you’ve got to get down. I had the same idea as you, but luckily I figured out the pasture is being cleared. The deflation of all the structures have been loud as fog horns. I’m thoroughly surprised you weren’t roused.”

The urgency of her voice got to my head as we were in cramped quarters, and her voice was fast and breathy, almost as though she were recovering from hyperventilation.

“O-okay,” I croaked due to a combination of grogginess and dehydration.

We started descending, and she warned me of the rusting the rungs had developed, and precisely every thirty seconds she looked at me. It wasn’t a protective gaze… she seemed to know of my history of rabble rousing and the scraped knees one expects from such drunken frolicking sprees in the middle of nowhere. She wasn’t afraid for me imminently. She knew so much, but my urge to question it had been dulled. Basking in this sense of comfort seemed too good of an option to move away from.

We made it down to solid ground, and though reality existed near enough to comfort my human mind, my eyes were enslaved by this dreamscape. I felt a pain in my chest due to my fear of getting far too lost in this, so I began the run of the mill small talk questioning I thought of when I got too tired of this lull in our conversation. She rejected every question. As did I. The town we were in. Felt like a place where people were resting. I felt a fear of disturbing this rest. I felt every current of these winds thicken, they held my breath back as though they had convinced me I could breathe without the inevitability of my next breath in I had always unconsciously anticipated. Words were not needed. A breath in being wasted on speech was an action that of a heathen unto this world. Emotions dispersed themselves evenly within this air. The sharp, garbled nature of human speech was an infection to such purity.

I shall say the same thing time and time again in a slightly altered dialect of human language, but my darling all I feel is a love for you, and a land fit for such a love has been eons in the making. You know we are larger than life.

 

Born to Die (Young)

There’s a glock in my hands, and I look at it. I weigh it, shifting it from one hand to the other, letting them crack under the pressure and fall as the gun swivels each time whatever Drake song is playing drops a beat. It might be “God’s Plan” or something. I’m not sure. Even though that came out in January, back when I was in Quebec City skiing with my friends and I didn’t have a semi-automatic pistol made to kill in my hands.

But things change. Oh well, whatever.

I lay the pistol flat on the square ends of the marble sink and stare at myself in the mirror, running my hands through blue hair and pining for July to be over. The tattooed letters on my fingers and rose on my cheek stare back at me, and if those didn’t tell you I think I’m something, the electric blue hair I’m kicking definitely should. It’s fake, obviously. So it doesn’t fade or anything. It’s just there, draping down to my ribcage in strands, as blue as it was two weeks ago when I swapped the pink out for something different.

I look… I place my fingers to my temples and lock hazel eyes with myself, daring to finish that thought. I look rough. I wouldn’t have been caught dead like this four years ago. It’s just some black ripped jeans, a camisole, and high tops. It’s a fine outfit. But it’s just that. It’s just fine. Fame does some crazy things to you, man. Some part of me shakes thinking a paparazzi is going to find me in this bathroom at a random party and post an article about how I’m “letting myself go.”

I look at the gun. I’m doing a lot of things — I shift my gaze to the tiled ceiling and lick my lips — but letting myself go is not one of them. If only they knew. Haha. I can’t imagine how many articles they’d write on my “questionable role model status.”

BREAKING NEWS: 23-Year-Old Singer, Jolee Theodora Ortiz, Stage Name: Common Daisy, Charged With Illegal Possession Of Firearm, Sentencing Awaits.

And then they’d have two or so pictures of me bent on a cop car with cuffs being snapped on. If that ever happens, I have to smile. For the camera. Or stick my tongue out, you know, something dumb like that — no matter what I’m going down for. I made a dare with Leslie a million years ago, and I do what I say I’m going to do. My strategy so far has just been to not get arrested.

I’m not doing so good at that now, though. I wince, realizing my problems definitely wouldn’t just end at being caught. I put my body weight into my arms and push off the counter, leaning into the closed toilet behind me, taking up as much space as physically possible. Usually I just wait for someone to knock or something. I’m not all that eager to leave anyway.

In the meantime I close my eyes and listen to the music. I’m so far, and yet it’s still so, so loud. But it sounds exactly how party music from a bathroom should sound. That’s familiar to me by now. Like home. It’s kind of calming — I mean I’ve been going to parties like these since I was thirteen. I can’t tell if they’ve gotten worse or better since then. The more I grow up, the more those lines become blurred.

Quickly I realize it’s “Nice For What.” As popular and played out as it is, it’s still a great song.

A woody thud echos in an empty room.

The door shakes as someone bangs on it ridiculously hard. My heart drops to my stomach — oh god, I think to myself before moving, if they break it down right now, I’m infinitely done for. There’s a gun — an illegal gun — that is not my gun, out right there on the sink, and here I am just sitting waiting to be caught and rot in prison.

I scramble to stand up, put the gun behind my belt, and open the door in one motion. My entire body shakes all over as I do so.

Parting my lips and widening my eyes, to say “Heyyy you scared me haha” or “could you hit it any harder,” or “sorry,” or any variation of that, I frown when I realize who it actually is. My best friend. My best friend trying to scare me, because we’re best friends, and because he thrives off of other people’s discomfort and milliseconds of fear right after he yells behind them in a staircase.

The best way I can describe the awful grin he has on his face right now is :). But evil. >:).

“HEY,” he says cupping his mouth to amplify that nothing word, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

Everything in parties is always in caps.

I think. What am I doing here. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” I redirect. I am left answerless.

“LOOKING FOR YOU!”

“YOU’RE WEIRDDDDD,” I say stretching out the the end to make it stand out.

YOU’RE WEIRD!”

“HOW?”

“HIDING ALONE. IN A PARTY. THAT’S WEIRD.”

“STALKING ME IN A PARTY IS WEIRDER.”

“NO IT ISN’T.”

“YEAH. IT IS.”

His eyebrows furrow down at me. If I wasn’t craning my head back at a 90° angle, I’d be staring right at the rose print on his left breast pocket. I’m not even short. In fact I’m kind of tall for a girl, I’m 5’7”, but Leslie is just something else. Standing at a hard 6’3” on an easy day, him and his pale skin and shaggy bleached hair tower over me. If I didn’t grow up with him and watch him go through every inch below what he’s at now, I’d almost be scared of him. He’s not a scary dude, just tall and cocky. But it works.

He grabs my wrist. His chipped black nail polish and the orange gels I got yesterday almost go nicely together, despite the infinite differences. “LETS GO?”

I shrug, and he starts taking me through the party, doing the hard parts for me. He pushes past moshes of bodies, people who should be here and people who shouldn’t. Guys and girls. Tall people. Short people. Mediums. I see some people I know, occasionally I wave or do a peace sign or something, but most of them aren’t looking my way or at me. I see the guy I got the gun from. I should have thanked him more. He could be taller than Leslie, and he’s a big body — just… I can tell he lifts. I picked up that it probably isn’t just a hobby. It’s not like he has tear drops or anything, but I mean I just texted him asking for a gun, and he was like, got u. He didn’t even ask what for. Just said he was coming here, and I was like same, and then he was like meet me in the back, and I was like okay, and now I have a gun.

I promised myself I wouldn’t get mixed up with guys like that in high school. But he isn’t bad. I’m sure he made that same promise to himself when he was fourteen or so. You realize something as you grow up, though. Most of the bad guys you’re scared of aren’t really bad. I don’t believe anyone is just wholly bad. Some of them are born into it, or don’t have a choice — sometimes that’s just the way things are, and some of them just did it because everyone else was doing it.

I look away from him and listen to the music for a second.

“I understand, you got a hunnid bands

You got a baby Benz, you got some bad friends

High school pics, you was even bad then”

I don’t really think I’m interpreting that right, but that’s the thing about good artists. Their songs become yours. That’s the type I always wanted to be. My lyrics become what you’ve been trying to say your whole life.

Whether or not the artist originally meant bad as in bad, I took it that way. I think eventually you have to stop and think about whether you have bad friends, or if you just have friends. If you go at it long enough, things change.

“You either die a hero… ”

Anyway, he has olive skin, and his hair’s orange or something. He’s a nice guy. I think he’s got some songs out too, we could collab or something.

If I live to see it that is.

My sweaty hands trace the phone in my pocket, suddenly remembering why I have metal pressed against my hip and met him in the first place. I’ve never been more scared in my life, and nobody knows it.

And nobody knows it.

God, I don’t know how Leslie’s acting fine. I know he’s scared. How could you not be? If I could fake feelings that good, I’d never have the media on me. But I can’t. And that’s why I do.

All. The. Time.

You never see anything about Leslie Dean Gustav in the news. Even if you did, they’d probably use his stage name, anyway. “The Wraithe.” I think it’s ‘cause the whole world likes him more. But I don’t have beef with him for that. He deserves it, and I know it.

Nausea in my stomach bubbles. My heartbeat starts to hurt. I don’t want him to die. He’s too good for this world, man. I know if he dies or I die or Olivia or the-guy-with-the-orange-hair dies, to the world it’ll just be another young, trash rapper who got what they deserved. Because we’re dangerous, right? Because we chose the wrong people and made the wrong decisions and set ourselves up to die young, and it’s our fault, and we got what we deserved, and you’re not sorry, and it was called for.

I wonder if they’d even investigate our deaths. It’s like… just because we’re not perfect, we’re not people. Like, I’m sorry your kid likes my songs with cusses in it. I’m sorry I do drugs and go to parties. I’m sorry you don’t think me and my friends are worthy of living in your world.

It wouldn’t matter so much if it was just me. But we’re all treated like this. My friends are good people… but nobody cares because we have tattoos, and they don’t like our music. Ugh.

I wonder how many other people got the text. I grit my teeth. I wonder how many other people I love are in danger.

Nobody deserves to die like that.

It taunts my mind. I wish the fact it was only a text made it less scary, but it doesn’t.

“I promise one of you will die tonight.”

I feel like crying and screaming and throwing myself on the floor, preaching how none of us asked to live the lives we live, and this is what we get… I want to point out how everyone in this room is under thirty, and any one of them could be in danger right now, with their life threatened. I want to be treated like a person. I want to do so much, but I can’t. If I tried to make a difference no one would care anyway. Ouch.

Leslie pulls me in front of Olivia, forcing me to smile — not because I’m being fake or anything. I just like Olivia. She’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, even if she’s at this party. Even though she’s just like me and the red-headed boy.

“HEYYYYYYYY!” she screams, flashing her perfect smile and using her her yellow gel nails to push back hair that falls on her shoulder tattoos. “I MISSED YOU.” I was gone for like… ten minutes.

I pull her into a hug. She could have been texted too. She could die tonight.

She smells like watermelon, and her breath tastes like ice cream. She’s soft. No matter how much she talks and how big she tries to come off as, she’s just soft and pretty and nice, and I love her. Everyone who’s ever really met her, loves her too.

“I MISSED YOU TOO,” I say, and I did. She pulls away, and in front of me the two people I care about most in the world stand, flashing in blue and red, smiling at me. God, if he towers over me, I can’t even explain what standing next to her looks like. Olivia is 5’3”. I tower over her. He is a foot taller than her.

And yet despite their differences, they still get along. Neither one of them wants the other dead because they’re different. Wild…

Leslie does the circle-hand thing we used to do in middle school from under his waist and catches her, and lightly taps her in the shoulder. She uses every cuss in the book after that. She is angry and vengeful, yet still somehow beautiful.

“UGHHHHHHH!” she exclaims. I pull her close to me and put an arm around her, catching Leslie with the hand to that arm. I move her to the side, and jump, attempting to hit him in the face as hard as I possibly can. But I don’t do fight classes or anything, so he blocks it easy, and then we’re just roughhousing.

Olivia smiles and pets our heads. I can tell she’s about to go somewhere else. We’re all close, but in a different kind of way. She respects that. Just another reason why she’s perfect. “WELL, I’LL SEE YOU GUYS LATER, OKAY?”

“SEE YOU,” Leslie and I say simultaneously. Because this is just a party. When it ends, everyone will group off with their actual friends and fall asleep in lofts and stuff. We will see her later.

And then I remember. Will I see her later?

I can feel myself start to get sick again. I wonder if other people can tell — do I look green? Or gray or white? Am I losing my color? Do I look like I’m about to break down, I mean, can people tell that I’m about to break down.

I think Leslie can. When I look from the floor up, I see his expression. It’s full of love and fear and empathy and compassion.

“HEY.” He pulls me up — not to eye level of course, but we almost were for a second. Almost.

“HEY.”

“LET’S GO OUTSIDE?”

That’s why we’re best friends. I smile to the floor and nod, the universal “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” and start to follow him. He grabs his flannel zipper hoodie, the one I steal in the winter, off the racks, and throws the door open. He could take me anywhere. Even though he’s just taking me to the dumpsters to talk or something, he could take me anywhere, and I’d let him. I trust him with my life. I would do anything for him. Anything, anything, anything.

Going down we stay close, but we’re mostly quiet, ‘cause there’s still a lot of people right outside the door and stuff. That must suck for whoever lives near here. Is that why people would let us die? Because we throw a lot of parties?

I guess I’ll never know.

The cool sting of the air hits me, and he throws his hoodie my way. Oh. He brought it for me.

“You’re my best friend… ” I say wondrously, deciding not to cage my thoughts for a second.

He smiles, sitting outside the exit door and motioning for me to sit down next to him.

“I know.”

He’s looking ahead of me, probably lost in thought too, and for a second I wonder if he really does know or not. I feel like “best friend” isn’t even a good enough title for what he is to me. More like… platonic soulmates. My soulmate. We’ve been through everything together, and if we hadn’t, I don’t think I’d be alive right now. I never say it, but I think he knows it. He’s just never cocky where it counts, you know? I love that about him.

It only makes sense we’d get our lives threatened by the same people together, too. Sad but true. Sad.

True.

I frown. “Hey man… ” He looks over and nods, his blue eyes piercing through me — but in a good way. A safe way. Somehow he makes blue eyes seem softer than they are. “Bro, I have a gun on me right now.”

His eyes kind of “gasp” if that makes sense. “No kidding…”

I clench my hands together. He doesn’t really have the right to be all that shocked or anything, considering our lives are in danger, so his reaction is lackluster. But it still hurts. I would consider it out of character for me, I know he does, but more and more I question that. Maybe I just changed characters. Maybe I’m the person I wouldn’t be in high school.

I purse my lips together and nod, feeling tears swell and choke me, knowing I won’t be able to say any other smart thing tonight. He pulls my head to his chest. We just sit for a while like that.

I cry, and then I stop. Everything is blotched. Nothing exists but us. I try my best to stop thinking about everything wrong with the world and focus on the good that surrounds me right here in this moment, but even when I do that, I just think about him dying. Us dying.

I notice he hasn’t stopped looking forward since we got here, so with his arm around me I pull away. I look where he’s looking. And then I see the billboard in spotlights.

I look back to him. He says nothing. His jaw is gritted, and his body around me is tense, though. I know that he’s lost in thought about now. I bury my head in the crook of his neck. Issa Kilman-West. He goes by Logan now. His fans know him as Logan.

But his best friends know him as “fake.”

It wasn’t just Leslie and I growing up. It wasn’t just Leslie and I till fairly recently, actually. That hurt for awhile. I’m lying. It still hurts now.

But I’d never let Leslie or Issa know that, because I can’t. I have one person now. And we have Olivia. But that’s different.

No matter how many of my childhood and teen or young adult memories are tainted with a human being I loved and love no longer, I have Leslie now, and that’s enough.

He really is in a lot of memories, though… just us three.

We got our first bad scrapes the same day together when we were ten and found a scooter. We slowly learned together that we lived in a bad place with bad families watching sitcoms, and Disney channel. We realized how different things were there. They were really different.

Issa and I were there every day Leslie got bullied — it got out he had kissed a boy, and we stood up for him. We tried. We were both scrawny and stupid and self-conscious, but we stood up for him. We loved him, and supported him. We were there when that boy broke his heart. Leslie and I helped Issa through addiction, and they shared taking me in when I couldn’t stay with my mom and the string of boyfriends I had to call dad, anymore. There will never be another person like Issa to me. Or to either of us.

But one day, he looked in the mirror and decided he just had friends. He didn’t want to be bad anymore. I didn’t think he was bad. Then.

But he hated the scrapes on his face and chains on his neck. So he left. And along with whether or not I thought he was bad, everything else changed too.

It was an unspoken thing, but back then, him and Issa were closer than us. It has to be harder on him. I hold him closer. He doesn’t react.

“I don’t think you’re bad,” I say into his chest, wondering if he can even hear me. “I’m sorry.”

My apology is on Issa’s behalf. He never said sorry, so I say it all the time.

And so we’re in silence again. Sometimes crying, sometimes not. And then I hear it. A gunshot.

A ricochet to the sidewalk. Loud. Booming. Terrifying and horrible, I realize that no one upstairs could hear us over Drake, and no one around here is up. One of us is going to die. One of us is going to die.

I hope it’s me.

It was stupid of us to come out here. It was stupid to think we had the privilege of being safe on a sidewalk. I reach for the gun, but my hands are shaking, and I was too scared some five hours ago to realize I don’t even know how to use it. But I can try. Or I can give it to him. Or I can just collapse into a ball and ready myself for whatever Hell I’m going to.

He pulls me up immediately, placing me behind him as he takes the glock from me and leans on the wall. That’s as much as I can describe. Everything after that is nothing. It’s too loud and too fast, and I want to cry too much, but I can’t. I can’t even breathe. I think Olivia comes. And someone else, maybe… does it matter? But the next thing I know I’m holding my best friend in my arms backwards, and he’s alive, but his blood makes my camisole red.

Olivia’s face is an inch from mine when I look up. She isn’t smiling anymore. She’s covered in blood. Her mascara is dripping off her cheeks, and she presses her cold hand to my forehead. She’s saying something, but I can’t hear her. I can’t even tell if there’s a ringing in my ears or not. I can’t hear anything. I can just see… God I can see, everything.

She uses both her hands to comb my hair behind my ears, and she motions for me to stand up. But I can’t. So whatever male figure is behind her puts his phone away, picks Leslie up, and takes his shirt off. He starts ripping it into little pieces, focusing on one area close to his left shoulder but not quite.

Oh. He’s trying to stop blood circulation. Because my best friend was shot. And they don’t want him to die. Leslie and I watched Grey’s Anatomy together. I know that. Most of the time there are two patients in every episode, and one of them dies. I can’t feel my body anymore. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

The red-headed boy with my gun in his back pocket looks to me, then to Olivia, and he says something I can’t hear. I think he asked for help. I think his name is Darryl. Olivia leaves my side. I would crawl over, too, if I wanted to see what my bloodied up in pain or unconscious best friend looks like. But I don’t. So I sit, and I stare blankly in his hoodie.

I can’t swallow anymore. Leslie isn’t a kid. He’s twenty-four. He failed Spanish four years in a row and barely graduated. But he isn’t stupid. He tried in school. I watched him for fourteen years. Try.

He had freckles growing up, and his hair was corn yellow. He gets sunburnt and not tanned. He falls in love too easily. He’s never satisfied with the music he makes. Clothes don’t make him happy. The fame didn’t change him. He’s not a bad person. He’s not a bad person.

Bad people get shot. Bad people get shot by bad people, and they die. Usually. Most of the time.

But Leslie isn’t a bad person. Leslie isn’t a bad person. He’s my soulmate. He’s my best friend. But Leslie just got shot.

They won’t use his name in the articles. They’ll use “Wraith,” and call him a mumble rapper with a few hit songs, and they’ll say, “died young.” They might even call him a druggie. Or a thug. They won’t talk about how he lights up when he smiles, or how he wants to save kids from killing themselves the way he wanted to growing up. They won’t talk about me. Or Issa. They’ll ask us for one sentence, and then in a year, everyone will forget, but the people who actually loved him will remember.

I watch them take him in the ambulance. Part of me is furious they didn’t ask me to go with him, but I couldn’t. I have a feeling they’re sending another one for me or something. I don’t think I was hurt. If someone was rating me physically, I’d probably be a ten.

But sitting on the cold cement, leaning on a brick wall, I feel anything but fine. I don’t even think I have a feeling. I’m not crying, I’m not screaming, I’m not angry, I’m not sad. I’m not thinking about my bleeding friend. I can’t remember what happened. I realize I’m probably in shock. Olivia and the redhead boy drive away in the same direction as the ambulance, and they leave me there.

Why am I alone? Why did they leave me here?

I don’t care. I would put myself in a ball right now, with my head in my knees, but I can’t use my body. So I just sit. I hope I die here.

I feel tires screech against the road. Almost annoyed, I look to the left and see black Vans and black pants. They’re ripped, but skinny fit and almost formal. I look up a bit. A black tee shirt, and black hair. Black eyes. Issa.

There’s the man I hate most in the world, right in front of me, but all at once I don’t want to cuss him out. I don’t hate him. He looks a lot cleaner now… but he looks a lot more broken. A line of tears falls down his steady face. Guess he knows. I look up at him, and my eyes say everything I can’t.

“What are you doing here?”

Anyone else in the world would check to make sure I’m okay or ask me a million questions that I can’t hear… or apologize. Try to fix things. I haven’t seen him since we were twenty-one.

But without saying anything, he picks me up and pulls me to his chest. He’s 6’0’. I almost reach his neck.

That’s what best friends do. They know what you need more than yourself.

He feels like home. He smells like he did when we were ten, and I thought I got married and then got divorced to Jack from school in the same day, and when I was sixteen and had to move out, and suddenly I’m not angry at him. Not even just not surface angry, but deep in my soul, in my heart, in my being, I’m not angry at him. I’m not hurt by him. I even hope he doesn’t feel guilty. He wanted to fix himself, and I understand that. For the first time, I realized he probably missed us as much as we unspokenly missed him. He loves us.

If Leslie dies, he’ll die angry at Issa. That’s so much weight to carry. I hold him tighter, using my body. I wish I could tell him that Leslie still loved him. Deep down I still loved him too. I can’t say I was ever really, really mad… and then I repeat that. If Leslie dies. If Leslie dies. If Leslie dies if Leslie dies if Leslie dies if Leslie dies if Leslie dies.

Immediately I miss not having any emotions. I can feel the heat build up in my stomach, and tears start hitting his shirt before I even know I’m crying. Then I’m not crying, I’m sobbing. Wailing. Holding him as tight as I can, I’m happy I can’t hear myself. All I can do is scream and cry and put all my body weight into him, so he supports me up. If he got shot, Leslie and I would be right there, too. If he ever called us, we’d be there. He almost lost both of us.

I have never cried so deeply in my life. I can’t stop, I can’t breathe, I can’t feel the tears forming. I can feel my ugly crying noises shake my body, and I can feel his tears hit the top of my head, too. Even through the fake blue. I pound his chest with my knuckles.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair.

I struggle for air. I think I hear Issa say he’s sorry. I run my hands through his dreads.

It’s okay.”

I open my eyes, and all I see is darkness. And all I feel is cold and soaked. I promise, I think to myself, and if I could speak, I would say it — I promise the world will rue this day. I promise I’m going to do everything in my power and use every ounce of influence I have to make everybody know that everybody is worthy of life. I’ll fight for it. I will die for it.

The world is cold but not this cold. Something has to change. Snot runs down from my nose.

I purse my lips together. Issa and Leslie and I. We’re gonna change this world.

They won’t use his name in the articles. But I’ll use it in mine.

Nobody deserves to die like that.

 

Morty’s

There were many documented experiences of people who survived the voyage from Germany and other war-affected countries to America, but this is one that truly stood out. This is the story of a six-year-old boy named Yanek Levine, who journeyed to America by boat at the age of 10…

 

It all started the day Mother insisted that we wore bands with a star on our arms and pins on our school uniforms. Mother told me that it meant that I was extra special and not to ever take it off. My three best friends whose fathers were often picking up their tailored suits at my father’s shop no longer talked to me. While I was inside reading a book with my papa, my friends Louis, Leon, and Noah were with their fathers on the street corner, monitoring our neighborhood where everybody wore an arm band. Except for them.

In the coming weeks, even more stiff soldiers with red armbands began lining our streets. Every time we passed them, Papa squeezed my hand extra tight, and I did the same to him because I thought it was a game. When I went to Papa’s tailor shop with him, the same soldiers walked in to pick up their uniforms, but Papa did not seem to take any money like he usually did with other customers, and he didn’t smile either.

The tension really started picking up when Papa and Mama were making latkes for our neighbor’s Bar Mitzvah. As I was getting ready for bed, we received a knock on our door from our neighbor, Henrike. He muttered something in Hebrew to my father. Immediately afterward, Father pulled his yarmulke off of his head and clutched it in his fist, close to his heart. I slowly stepped back into my room, and all that I could hear was the wailing sounds of the sirens and the piercing sounds of bombs cascading through the sky and falling around us. Moments later, stern German words from angry Nazi soldiers invaded my home. I wondered if they were the same Nazis that watched our every move. As I was hiding in the closet of my room, the voices became louder and louder. I could see the tip of a rifle poking my belongings. From the kitchen I could hear my mother screaming my father’s name in Polish —

“Wake up! Wake up!”

Then a bang suddenly silenced her too.

 

When there were no more polished boots shuffling around my flat, I climbed out of the broken window and onto the street where the smell of fire filled the air and ash trickled down from the sky. Giant trucks drove past me loaded with frightened people anxiously wondering where they were headed. I knew my mother told me never to take the armband off, but I felt the need to. I ran past Papa’s tailor shop, but found that it had been destroyed. I stood motionless, staring at what was left of his humble business, until I heard loud men screaming in German and dogs barking rabidly. I ran and ran until I reached the Baltic Sea, which was several miles away from my home. I sat near the edge of the ocean and from my pocket I pulled out a latke that my mama had given me before I went to my room. I began to eat it. With every bite, I thought of her more, and my heart felt heavy with memories. In the haze and confusion of the night, I fell asleep.

I was abruptly woken up by the sound of a man yelling from a boat. I quickly got up and almost ran in the opposite direction because I thought the soldiers were coming after me, but the man threw a blanket in my direction, so I sensed he was nice. I was still a little uneasy, so I slowly walked over to him. All of a sudden out of nowhere a little kid appeared from behind him. He was speaking German. I couldn’t really hear what they were saying, but I grabbed the blanket as the father reached his hand out toward me and pulled me onto the boat. On the boat, I studied the little boy and noticed that he looked about my age and had blonde hair and blue eyes unlike me. My curly brown hair fell just above my green eyes. The boy, Abe, motioned me downstairs to the bottom of the boat where other Jewish families were quietly huddled together. We arrived at nearby location where we picked up another woman. The lady grabbed Abe and gave him a kiss. His eyes lit up, and I could sense she was his mom. I saw their warm exchange and felt a sense of jealousy because I yearned for the safety of my mom’s arms. The kind man docked the boat in front of a small stone house. He aided everyone get off the boat. We all walked up a pathway where the mom took everyone else into a bunker and told Abe to bring me inside their home. Abe initially just looked at me but did not respond.

The mom became firm and said again in German, “Take him in the house now!”

Once we arrived in the house, they set me up in Abe’s room with him.

That night as we ate dinner around the table, the mom in a soft voice said, “You are one of us now too.”

As the dad looked over, he stopped eating his mashed potatoes and rustled my hair and smiled.

After one year of finally settling into my new life, news got out that the Nazis were starting to invade nearby towns. Fearing that we were in danger, we got back onto the boat with the other families who had been staying in the bunker. As we set sail, the water became choppy, and ships started coming our way. One ship came too close and overturned our small boat. Before we knew it, we were tied up to a post on the larger German ship. The ship quickly docked and brought us to a camp that I now know was constructed to work us to death. We were separated by men, women, and children. My curly hair fell at my feet as my hair was shaved off. They took my clothes and gave me an oversized prisoner’s uniform, which had blue and white stripes on it. I was beaten every time I stepped out of line or did not finish my work details. I was given broth and hard bread to eat which made it very hard to function since it was my only meal for the entire day. What scarred me the most though was watching the other prisoners get tortured to death especially, Abe.

This monotonous pattern of my day to day life lasted nearly three years. On May 8, 1945, the guards had woken us up early and shuffled us out of the camps as far as they could. All of a sudden, they brought us to a halt and forced us to kneel down, and they started executing random prisoners, but in the midst of all of this chaos planes flew from overhead, and shots were fired not at us this time but at the guards. We all looked at each other trembling in both fear and jubilation. Moments later, the area was surrounded by French soldiers who took us to a displaced persons camp in Austria.

The conditions were far better than what I had experienced in the Dachau, concentration camp, north of Berlin but were still rather challenging. For example, we were provided clothes and food, but it was difficult to recuperate. Many suffered from malnutrition and other diseases that they acquired at their camps, and nearly everyone was suffering from posttraumatic stress. One of the French soldiers named Abrial who oversaw the camp took a special interest in me and helped me find distant family in America.

During the war, only 16,000 individuals were allowed into the America. However, after the war, under the Displaced Persons Act of 1948, I along with 205,000 DP’s and 17,000 orphans were permitted entry into the United States. I was brought before a board in Hamburg, Germany where I was screened to make sure that I was suitable for entering the country. I suppose I passed the interview because a few weeks later I boarded a C-4 Troopship headed toward America. The voyage was estimated to take ten days. The mood on the ship was bittersweet. Many were aware that they were leaving their country where they were raised as well as a very dark past. Yet we looked forward to starting a new life.

On the tenth day we arrived in America, I was greeted by my aunt and all of my distant relatives. The only time they had seen me was in pictures before the war had begun. As I looked deep into her eyes I could see my mother’s reflection, and I knew that I was going to be okay.

My new life in Pennsylvania was exactly what I needed to recuperate. I was able to lean on the sewing skills that my papa had taught me as a young child back in Poland. Sewing helped me block out the bad memories of the war and brought me closer to Papa. Sewing indirectly saved my life at Dachau too because the soldiers’ uniforms often needed mending. After graduating high school in Pennsylvania, I met the love of my life, Linda. We moved to New York City where I opened up my own tailor shop which I called Morty’s in honor of my father. Soon after Linda and I settled into our new life together, we had our first child — a boy, whom we named Abe. Abe Levine’s blonde hair, blue eyes, and kind heart will forever connect me to the Abe Müller that helped me persevere through one of the hardest times of my life.

 

Softball Setback

 

The year after everything happened at my old school…

 

“Hailey, are you ready for your first day of school? You can’t be late on your first day at a new school,” says my mom in her overexcited voice.

It is my first day of middle school. Everyone says middle school is where you mature and become more responsible. I don’t want to go to middle school. At this middle school I am going to, everyone knows each other from elementary school, so it will be much harder for me to make friends. I had to leave all my friends and my home for this school, well at least the people I thought were my friends.

As I walk onto the bus, everyone stares. I lose my small sliver of confidence and walk to my seat with my head down. Everyone knows each other and fills the bus with their laughter. A group of kids (I think they are eighth graders) steps onto the bus. All of a sudden, the laughter turns into dead silence. Even I tremble a little, and I don’t know the kids. The kids who just arrived on the bus kick the other kids in the back out of their seats. I guess that is their spot. At least I know where to sit now. We arrive safely at school, and I sigh in relief.

Dingggg. Everyone rushes to get to their classes. Everyone knows where to go, and I feel so lost. Sometimes I feel like that in life. Everyone has a path they want to take or a dream they want to follow, and I don’t know what I want. I just stand there not knowing where to go and look confused.

A girl with dark brown hair in braids approaches me. “Hey, you look lost. Do you know where to go?”

I want to say that obviously if I look lost I don’t know where to go, but instead I just smile and show her my schedule.

“You need to go to room 205 which is right down that hallway. Also, my name is Julia.” As I walk with her, she tells me about school and my feeling of loneliness slowly fades. “So I will see you at lunch.”

“Yeah sure,” I reply as I slowly walk to my classes.

Each class is like the other, all strange and embarrassing. I get mean glares from the kids, and the teacher always calls me out for some reason.

“Hey, Hailey, over here.” I see Julia sitting at a table with some other girls, and she is waving at me to come over to the table. “Hailey, these are my friends Alex, Ashley, and Sarah,” Julia says as she points to each one of them.

Alex seems like she has something so important to say and says, “Hey, I saw a flier for school softball team tryouts. We should all try out. Hailey are you going to do it?”

Without time to answer, Sarah replies, “You definitely should. You don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t. Because that would be weird.”

“Ummmm.” I sprint out of the cafeteria and run. I call my parents and tell them I don’t feel well (that is true, just not in the way they think). My Dad picks me up. I probably just ruined the only friendships I had. To make myself even more sad (not on purpose) I sit in my bed and look at my yearbook from my old school. I flip to the page where it says sports teams. There is a photo of the wildcats softball team, and I am in it. I have my arms around two girls (Emma and Katie) who used to be my friends. Why did I have to be mean to my friends. Why why why, I think to myself.

 

***

Wooh, wooh, wooh go wildcats!” Everyone cheers (mostly very intense parents) as the game is about to start.

“O-M-G I am so nervous,” I whisper to Katie as our coaches are talking.

“It is the championships, so we have to try our hardest.”

The game goes by quick, and we play well. The score is tied 5-5. It is the last inning, and we are up to bat. There are already two outs. Emma walks up to the plate. One strike… two strikes… three strikes, YOU’RE OUT. The other team is up to bat, and they score. The final score is 5-6.

“Why did you have to do that. You just ruined our chance. It’s all your fault,” I yell at Emma.

Katie jumps in, “It’s just a game. You always overreact about these things. You are so mean.”

SMACK!!! I didn’t even know I was capable of hitting someone so hard. Everyone rushes over around Katie, “Are you okay? What happened?”

 

***

“Hailey, are you feeling better? Hailey, Hailey, are you awake?”

“Oh sorry, Mom. I was just thinking, and I guess I got carried away.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes, I am fine,” I reply. “Wait, Mom, I have been thinking about last year and everything that happened.” I end up telling my mom everything that has happened in these past few days and how I have been feeling.

“Sometimes you just need someone to talk to. I am glad you told me,” she softly and kindly replies.

The next day at lunch, I am confused about where to sit because of the whole incident, but Julia and her friends Alex, Ashley, and Sarah kindly invite me over to sit with them.

“Are you okay?” they all ask in sync.

“Yeah I am. Well, umm, actually there is something I would like to tell you guys.”

“What? You can tell us anything,” Sarah says, eager to know.

“So pretty much I got in a fight with two girls on the softball team, and I know it sounds crazy and it is not an excuse.”

“Wow, I was not expecting that,” Julia says quietly and nervously.

“Thanks for being honest at least,” Sarah adds in with a bit of a sarcastic tone.

I probably ruined my whole school year just from the first few days, but at least I have nothing to hide. I thought that I wouldn’t have to tell everyone here about my incident at my old school, but I did. I learned that you can’t hide or change who you were, but you can always improve who you are.

 

Too Many Mistakes Made

“Hey,” I said on the phone. “Can I come over today?”

“You really should not. I’m sick as hell. I think I’m coming down with the flu, and I don’t want to infect you,” said my boyfriend on the other line of the phone as he quickly hung up.

 

That was completely weird. He usually wouldn’t hang up the phone like that but whatever. I took my wallet and my car keys. I drove to Walmart and bought some over-the-counter medicine for the flu. I drove to Ryan’s house. His house front door would always be open, I was used to just walking in as if it was my own house.

 

I looked for Ryan all over the first floor. I couldn’t find him. I went upstairs to his room. He was probably in bed since he was sick. I entered, and I couldn’t believe what I saw. Yes, he was cheating. I just couldn’t believe he was screwing my cousin. I just laughed at the whole situation. They separated and looked at me in a way you could tell they were really scared for their lives. I did not go crazy or anything.

 

I just pulled my thumb up and said, “So much for being sick.”

 

I left the house and got into my car. Instantly as I got in the car, I slammed my face into the steering wheel and screamed out. I drove off to Kiara’s house. I found myself in the basement my best friend had made into her room. I threw myself into her bed.

 

“Oh no, trouble in paradise. What happened between you and Ryan?” asked Kiara. You could tell in her voice she was so over me and Ryan’s bullshit. She sounded so sarcastic and annoyed.

“Nothing too serious, I just found him having sex with Lilly,” I answered sarcastically.

“Oh shit,” exclaimed Kiara in surprise. “But I thought she was your cousin.”

“Well, you thought right! Hell yeah she is my cousin, but she didn’t think of that before getting into bed with my now ex-boyfriend,” I said very angrily.

 

I kept quiet after. The silence in the room was so intense you could hear a needle falling to the floor but, I liked it that way. I don’t know how to feel or if I should feel anything at all. Am I crazy for not feeling hurt? I just feel empty inside. I should be mad and crying. It is the normal thing to feel in a moment like this one, but I don’t feel anything at all.

 

“Listen. It’s okay. Your cousin didn’t take much from you,” said Kiara as she was trying to seem calm, but her body language snitched on her. Anybody could tell she was worried, as her hands started to fidget, and she looked frightened.

“I’m good, don’t worry,” I said so calm that it was concerning due to what happened.

 

I just wondered why would he do that to me. If he wanted out, he could have said so. It’s like Lilly had half of me, and she was not even half of me. I mean, she totally is the opposite of my personality. She knew he was my boyfriend. She fucking knew, but she couldn’t keep her legs closed. Even your own family betrays you. I tried to keep calm and not cry, but I couldn’t. I ended up crying. I tried to be strong. I just couldn’t. In this moment, I felt so exposed. I usually wouldn’t cry in front of anybody. I didn’t want to be looked as weak, but goddammit I deserved this cry. Kiara looked at me, frozen. She didn’t know what to do. She won’t be the type of person that would be good to comfort you, but she will always be there, even if it meant only her presence.

 

“Calm down,” I said. “I’ll get over this. He is not the only guy in the world.”

 

I spent the rest of the day with Kiara. After just getting cheated on, I could still crack jokes with my best friend. I didn’t want to be alone, but I would have to leave at any moment. As I got home, I went right away to sleep, just to avoid thinking.

 

The next day I went to school. I wasn’t really excited to show up to school and see Ryan’s face. I made my way through the school, and to be honest, I was trying to avoid Ryan. I found Kiara, and I felt relieved.

 

“Can you make it less obvious that you are trying to avoid somebody?” asked Kiara as she laughed at me.

“Good morning to you too, asshole,” I said to my best friend.

 

Our other friends came, and we just stood there talking, waiting for first period to start. I plugged my headphones in, since I really didn’t feel like talking anymore. I was really concentrated into listening to The Chainsmokers until I felt Kiara poking me to death with her elbow.

 

“Oh my god! What do you want?” I asked Kiara as I angrily took my headphones off. “You know better, when I have my headphones on that means nobody talk to me.”

 

Kiara just pointed with her forehead. I looked at the direction she pointed, just to see Ryan’s stupid self walking towards us. I just looked away and laughed. Yeah, now everything is a joke. Ignoring his presence completely, I just plugged my headphones back in. Until I felt somebody’s arm around me.

 

“Excuse me,” I said, turning around to see Ryan’s face.

“Hello, baby cakes,” he said as he soundfully kissed my cheek.

“Now you got some nerve!” I yelled, catching a lot of people’s attention. “How can you just come here, kiss me on the cheek, and call me baby cakes when yesterday you were between my cousin’s legs? And get the hell away from me before I smack you.”

“You don’t have to act up, you overreacting,” he said while removing his arms off me.

“Boy, you were having sex with my cousin, and you got the nerve to say I’m overreacting. You must be out of your goddamn mind!” After I said this, Ryan just left, which I appreciate very much.

“So much for avoiding,” said Kiara while she laughed, and I laughed with her even though I was so mad steam could come out of my ears.

 

Months went by, and I just made myself busy, focused on my school work and going out with Kiara to the volleyball court, and I also found myself talking to Ryan’s friend. I know, you don’t have to go on and on about how bad of an idea this is. Kiara is making sure of it.

 

“I’m just saying if you are stupid enough to continue with that decision, go ahead, but you are being stupid,” said Kiara for the 400th time in one hour.

“It’s not like I’m marrying the guy, I’m just having a little fun. You need to loosen up a little bit,” I said to Kiara.

“Okay, you are not marrying him, but still you are leading him on, and he is Ryan’s friend. That is just plain stupid, and just because you got cheated on, doesn’t mean you get to play with somebody else.”

“I’m playing him or leading him on,” I lied.

“Are you planning on having something serious with him?” asked Kiara while giving me a death stare.

“Chill chica, if looks could kill, and I don’t want nothing serious with him, are you crazy?” I laughed.

“Then you are so leading him on!” Kiara yelled at me. “You know how it feels to be played. Don’t do that to the guy. He is really nice, unlike Ryan. He doesn’t deserve it,” said Kiara while grabbing my phone and blocking Ryan’s friend’s number.

“You didn’t have to block Anthony! At least you could let me give the guy an explanation of why I’m not talking to him,” I complained.

“Any talking you want to do, you could do it in front of me, so I know you’re going to end this and not lead him on anymore, and by the way, Ryan is calling.” She passed my phone, but I looked at it ring until the call ended. “Why didn’t you answer?”

“Do I look like I want to talk to the bastard that cheated on me with my cousin? I don’t want to hear his lame excuses. There are a lot of girls willing to forgive, but I’m not one of them,” I said angrily.

“You see, that is one decision I support,” said Kiara.

 

We left the volleyball court since it was about to close. As soon as I got home, I unblocked Anthony and texted him.

Me: Hey there

Anthony: Hey, you finally out?

Me: Yeah, the court was about to close, so we had to go home

Anthony: Can I come over?

Me: Don’t

Anthony: Why

Me: I’m going to take a shower and then I’m heading off to sleep

Anthony: But it’s early, don’t go to sleep

Me: It’s 11 o’clock, get it together Anthony LOL, go to sleep

Anthony: Fine, TTYL.

 

After taking a shower, I can assure that I didn’t go to sleep. I ordered some pizza and watched Grey’s Anatomy. I got so lost watching the TV show, every time I said I would go to sleep, I ended up watching one more episode. It happened like 20 times, but when I was finally going to sleep, my alarm went off. I stayed up all night watching Grey’s Anatomy, and I had a geometry test today!

I rushed out of my house, regretting the decision I made last night. I should have gone to sleep!

 

I was already in a bad mood since I didn’t get to sleep, now add a geometry test to that. My stress level was as high as it would have ever been. During the test I couldn’t concentrate, every sound irritated me, and the teacher’s voice irritated me more than the usual. I couldn’t remember any formulas, so I failed this test. I know I failed because I fell asleep halfway through the test. My teacher woke me up by slamming his hand on my desk, which didn’t contribute to my humor. I got out of the classroom to find Kiara, I couldn’t find her anywhere, so I decided to text her

 

Me: Where are you?

Me: ?

Me: Answer

Kiara: I’m by the library

Me: I’m on my way there

Kiara: K.

 

I made my way through the school, and to be completely honest with you guys, I am so in love with the structure of the school. I loved the detailed spiral columns we had, and I loved the detailed white flowers in the corners of the ceiling and the beige walls! The place seems so magnificent to be a school. It gives you the vibe of an old museum. I admired the details in the building as I made my way through school to the library. As I got to the library, I could see Kiara hanging outside of the library.

 

“Can you come over here?” I yelled at Kiara. I really didn’t feel like walking anymore. My feet were killing me, my back hurt like it never did before, and the classroom tables were not the comfiest place to sleep on.

“You look like total crap,” said Kiara as soon as she got to me. “Why didn’t you sleep last night?”

“How did you know?” I asked.

“I’ve known you for a long time, don’t you think I know almost every aspect of you? Now answer, why didn’t you sleep last night?” asked Kiara again.

“I stayed up watching Grey’s Anatomy,” I answered shamefully.

“Quick question, have you gotten over what happened with Ryan? You haven’t talked about it ever since it happened,” Kiara looked at me with intrigue.

 

I really couldn’t give an answer. I wasn’t over it. In fact, I was still hurting on the inside. Trying to distracting myself didn’t work. My mind would always make its way back to that damn day. I tried to forgive him. Maybe he did it because of something I lacked, but it wasn’t a good enough reason. I tried to forgive Lilly. She is my cousin, but in my eyes she is just a whore.

 

“I don’t know how I got over everything so easily,” I answered to Kiara, even though I wasn’t really over everything that had happened. I couldn’t see myself confessing. I was still hurt.

 

I quickly walked the streets in Manhattan, rushing to get home. I was excited. My mother finally came home from vacation. Well, it wasn’t a vacation. It was for three days, but they were the longest three days of my life!

As soon as I walked in, I could hear the merengue blasting in the speakers, and I could smell the Sancocho my mother was making in the kitchen. I missed my mother so much! It’s hard not having her around.

“Bendicion, Mom,” I said as I walked in the kitchen. Asking for your parents’ blessing was something Dominicans do.

“Dios te bendiga mija,” answered my mother while hugging me. “Listen, get ready. Food is almost ready, and your uncles and cousins are coming over to eat.”

When my mother said that, I just stood frozen. I was so frozen that I could actually take Princess Elsa’s part in the movie Frozen. What does she mean? My cousins are coming over? She must be kidding me! She better be! If that’s the case, it means Lilly will be here, and I don’t have the means to deal with her. I mean isn’t it ironic that she is named Lilly, when Lilly means purity, and she was screwing my boyfriend. So pure! As my mind comes back to earth, I could hear my mom calling my name like crazy.

 

“Amelia, muchacha, I’m talking to you,” said my mother very angrily. “Ese noviesito of yours is really having you acting stupid.”

“Actually, me and him are not dating anymore mom,” I said, and as soon as I said that, my mother hugged me. “I found him cheating on me.”

 

I saved the detail that he cheated on me with my cousin, I didn’t to bring any drama to the family, but if I knew that summer night was going to end up with Lilly getting with Ryan, I would never have invited her to our camping trip.

 

Rewind…

 

I decided to bring my cousin to a camping trip that my friends and I planned. I mean, she was going to be in my school next year. This would be a great opportunity for her to meet people and make friends. But she was more of a loner. She stayed by herself. As we began to light some wood on fire, my boyfriend came, late as always. He came up to me and kissed me, but I rushed him to introduce him to my cousin.

 

“So this is my cousin,” I said while I grabbed her by the arm. She looked kind of weird, but she was a shy person, so I didn’t pay much attention.

“What’s your name?” Ryan asked her, but she just kept quiet and stood frozen.

“Her name is Lilly. Excuse her, she tends to be really shy,” I said as Ryan and I walked away from her.

 

Present time…

 

I kept reliving the memory in my head. I stayed in my room. My mom didn’t bother me on going downstairs. I know she felt like I was going to break at any moment. But I wasn’t. I can’t deny that the betrayal from both parties made me feel downhearted, but I wasn’t going to let them break me.

 

I spent most of the evening hiding in my room. I knew Lilly was downstairs since I heard her voice. She really got some nerve coming here. If I was in her position, I would never show up to the girl’s house whose boyfriend I screwed.

 

Lilly’s POV…

 

I was really nervous, facing Amelia? After what I’ve done? That’s signing my own death certificate. I am hundred percent sure she is going to beat my ass. My mother insisted on me coming over since Amelia’s mom called with the chisme that Ryan cheated on her. She thought I could make her feel better. Apparently Amelia saved to herself that I was the girl she found Ryan with. Amelia didn’t come out of her room. Mother insisted on me going to her room, but I was ashamed.

 

“Go hang out with Amelia. You could really make her feel better,” said my mother.

“Quit insisting. If she hasn’t come out, that means she wants to be alone,” I quickly lied. I know I am the last person she wants to see right now.

“I’m not going to repeat myself, Lilly,” said my mother as she grabbed my arm and dragged me to my cousin’s room. She knocked the door.

My cousin said, “Come in!”

Mother doesn’t know that she is inventing a new kind of stupid right now.

“Mija, I told Lilly to come cheer you up, you know since what happened,” said my mother as she quickly pushed me into my cousin’s room. She just led me to my own death!

Amelia just looked at me like, “Really bitch?”

I am actually scared. My mother just left me alone with my murderer. I looked everywhere. I looked to the corner where a little trash can is, looked at the pink walls where she used to have some pictures of her and Ryan. She took them off. The last time I was here, before getting caught by Amelia, she had them. I looked at the ceiling. I looked at everything but her. I didn’t have the nerve to look at her or say anything.

“Why did you do it?” asked Amelia in her voice. You could hear a little bit of disappointment, but she was trying to seem calm. I didn’t have an answer, at least not a valid one.

 

Rewind…

 

My cousin insisted on bringing me here. I didn’t want to come, but if I didn’t, I would have to stay all by myself, so I decided to come along. I was pretty bored. The place was nice. The tall trees and the smell of the soil were fantastic, and the campfire was beautiful. We could see everybody around it sharing some s’mores. The only thing that sucked was the mosquitoes.

 

That’s when I saw him. The first thing I noticed about him was his eyes. Oh look at those eyes… The deep brown of his eyes made me feel completely helpless. His black, long hair pulled into a ponytail, his light skin, oh god! Every detail about him was so perfect. I tried to catch him just giving me a glance, but I saw him walking towards my cousin, and when he kissed her, my heart crushed. It exploded. My cousin approached me. He followed her. She told him I was her cousin. He asked my name, but his presence made me forget it. Why out of all the boys, I had to like the one that my cousin is dating? I can assure you I won’t be happy.

 

Present time…

 

“So, why did you do it? Why out of all the boys it had to be Ryan?” she asked.

“I am so sorry for any distress I’ve caused,” I apologized.

“Do you think you feeling sorry is going to fix anything? The damage is already done! It is hard to listen to you apologizing with a straight face,” she almost yelled at me, but I knew she didn’t want to draw any attention to what is happening in this room. If she was to beat me up, I would accept that ass whooping. I deserved it. She walked towards me. I really thought I was through, but she just walked out. I don’t know why, but I followed her to the living room.

“Why are you following me?” she yelled at me. “I don’t want you near me, don’t you get that?

“Okay, what is going on?” asked my aunt. “Don’t be yelling at your cousin like that, she haven’t done anything to you!”

“She haven’t done anything to me?” she questioned her as she turned around to look at her mother. “You don’t know anything. You don’t know that Lilly is the girl that I found Ryan with. I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to be the one that brought drama into the family, but there you go. Please let it be know that my cousin is a putita.”

 

It suddenly hit me. How could I have done this? She is my cousin, and I love her more than anything. How could I let my emotions get the best of me? I should have stood by. I am truly sorry for causing any distress in her relationship. I wish we could have been more discreet, but I am not sorry for wanting him like I did. My mother rushed me out of Amelia’s house. I looked at her. In her face you could see how embarrassed she was. She couldn’t even look at me in the eyes. As soon as I got home, I locked myself in my room and closed my curtains. I laid in my bed.

 

I wasn’t really happy in my own relationship. I really wasn’t. I wouldn’t let my own boyfriend see the pictures on my phone, but I did let her boyfriend see them. It’s not like I’m saying that what we had was special, since it really wasn’t, but it was something rare. I truly regret every problem I’ve caused in his relationship. I wish we could have been more discreet. I’m not sorry for wanting him like I did. At the end of the day, I had to call him, text him, or end the night kissing his lips. Even with Amelia right beside me, he looked at me in a way that revealed every single detail between us. He will always be there for me, even if it meant risking his own relationship. Every moment we shared I felt this fake happiness, because after all, he only loved his girlfriend. He would go on about how he didn’t want to lose her and how we should end this for the better. His heart was completely hers, but looking pathetic, I asked him to stay. When she left him, it killed him. He made mistakes, and I was one of them. Even when he had his arms around me while we lay in the couch, I could tell Amelia was the only thing in his mind. None of this really matters anymore. I’m going to move one, as suprinsly as that sounds. I will move on but not completely, as I will always carry a picture of us in my phone.

 

A Stranger Knocked at the Door

It was a normal Saturday afternoon, and Marci was making dinner. Onions were frying in the pan, there was chicken in the oven, and Oliver was playing with toy planes, casually whizzing them through the living room. All of a sudden, a stranger knocked at the door.

“Hide!” Marci told Oliver.

Oliver just continued playing with his planes as the stranger knocked again, this time with more force.

“Oliver, you need to hide. A man is at the door.”

This time, Oliver stopped his planes, picked them up, and went to the designated hiding space at the end of his closet. Marci opened the door.

“Who are you and what do you want,” Marci snapped aggressively.

The man calmly pulled out a small square photograph of a young boy, who looked about nine years old.

“I’m looking for this child. His name is Oliver Wicks. Have you seen him?”

“No, I haven’t, and I would appreciate it if you could leave my home now,” Marci replied.

“Ma’am, I’m just looking out for him. I’m trying to protect him.”

“I’ve never seen him in my life.”

The man flashed a smile. “That’s okay, just give me a call if you see him. I really just want what’s best for him.”

The man extended his gloved hand, revealing a long, dark scar across his arm. In his hand was a card with a phone number and a name on it. Red Sun Labs, it read. Shortly after the man left, Marci went to Oliver’s room.

“Come on, Oliver. Pack up your stuff. Time to leave again.”

Without saying a word, Oliver quickly put everything in his room into an old, battered suitcase. Marci led him out of the small cottage and into her car. The car was an ancient Ford pickup truck Marci had purchased from a used car dealership. It had more than 150,000 miles on it and could only go up to 50 miles per hour.

Right before they left, Oliver said, “Mom, you forgot to give me my medicine.”

“Oh right, sorry,” said Marci.

Marci fished into her purse and took out a bottle containing several bright red pills. She took out three and gave them to Oliver, who swallowed them. Marci put the pills back into her purse and began driving again. After a few hours of driving, Marci pulled over into the parking lot of a small gas station.

Marci walked into the store and told the man at the counter, “I need the usual, new passport, new license, new house.”

“Okay, that will cost $335,” the man behind the counter said.

“What! I don’t have that kind of money. It used to be cheaper.”

“Sorry, Marci, my landlord keeps raising the lease. The prices can’t be as cheap as they used to be.”

“Come on, Marius, you owe me for what Oliver did for you two years ago.”

“Give me a break, Marci! I wouldn’t have gotten in that situation were it not for you in the first place.”

“Fine, Marius, but if anything ever happens to you in the future, don’t expect me to bring Oliver to save you. He’s not a superhero, you know.”

And with that, Marci plopped a few wrinkled up bills on the desk and walked out of the store.

As Marci got into her car, the man ran out of the store holding the money and shouted, “Hey! This is only $200! Give me the rest of the money!”

“Too bad,” Marci shouted back, and she got into the car and started driving.

As Marci was driving, Oliver asked her from the backseat, “Mom, why did Mr. Malum come to look for me?”

Confused and suddenly worried, Marci asked, “Who’s Mr. Malum?”

“He’s the man that came to the house. He was in charge of helping me with my powers at the school.”

Oh no, this is worse than I thought, Marci thought to herself.

“Mr. Malum just came for a short visit. He wanted to make sure you were safe.”

Oliver didn’t say anything. He just kept playing with his planes, as if nothing had happened. Eventually, Marci stopped the car next to a small red shack on the side of the highway. The shack looked similar to the previous one they had lived in, and the one before that, and the one before that. Marci and Oliver had never lived in the same place for more than a year. As much as Marci wanted to, she knew it was too dangerous.

 

As Marci and Oliver settled into the new house, a feeling of nervousness began to settle over Marci, as she contemplated what she would do next. She knew she would have to face more people from Red Sun Labs eventually. She couldn’t run forever. And she would also have to tell Oliver the truth at some point about what had really happened, and why they were constantly on the run. After mulling it over, Marci decided it was finally time to tell Oliver what had really happened.

“Oliver, come here. I need to tell you something,” she shouted across the house.

Oliver came to the table where his mom was sitting. “What?”

“Remember how a few years ago I came to the school you were at, and I took you to live with me?”

Oliver nodded.

“Well, when I took you from there, I was really rescuing you, because the people that were working there, like Mr. Malum, were actually trying to harm you. They were trying to use you so they could do experiments on your abilities.”

“Oh,” Oliver said, not really showing much interest.

“The reason we have been moving from place to place is because people like Mr. Malum have been trying to get you back, so they can do more experiments.”

“Can I go fly my planes now?” asked Oliver.

“Sure.”

Shortly after her discussion with Oliver, Marci heard a knock on the door. She went to open it, and her heart dropped when she saw who it was. Mr. Malum was at the door, with three other men, all holding guns. Marci tried slamming the door, but Malum held it open.

“I’m done playing games. I tried to be nice, and you didn’t listen. I need Oliver now. I know he’s with you. Your friend at the gas station told me everything.”

All of a sudden, Oliver came out from his room. He looked enraged, and his eyes were glowing bright red. Before anyone could say anything, Oliver flicked his wrist and sent all four men flying in the air, instantly dying on impact with the ground. A look of pride came across Marci’s face. Oliver had saved them. The men were gone, and she didn’t have to worry anymore. But when she turned around to look at Oliver, she saw he wasn’t there anymore. Oliver had gone back into his room and was playing with his planes, as if nothing had even happened. Marci smiled, and she and Oliver lived the rest of their lives without ever having to worry again.

 

Central Park

There was a sound, like gobs of blinking eyes. It was merely an echo-y whisper, yet it was disconcerting because there was nothing that could make that blinking sound around you, and though you had felt ocean waves hitting your feet then receding, they made no sound. You had been surrounded by a magenta foggy haze that had prevented you from seeing little more than dark purple shadows. Approximately six of these shadows were standing, stationary, people each in their own inhuman positions, in a circle silently around you, on the ground that felt like turf, but looked like concrete and in the distance, upon the horizon, a small circle shined a light lavender hue. Other than this there was nothing. You were taking out your notepad and beginning to write what you saw (you used to always write down your observations) when you were greeted to an echo of garbled speech in a language far from your own. The fog had begun to fade, and you had seen the faces of the people (no, not people, statues), around you. Their faces were wrinkled, raisin-y, gloomy faces, and their broken positions looked as if several bones in their bodies had been broken beyond repair. Despite their traumatizing appearance, they had seemed to compliment the “nothingness” that you had previously thought surrounded you. The “nothingness” had revealed itself to be something you hadn’t expected: the ground under your feet was neither turf nor concrete but wet sand (like the beaches up north — less grainy more compact), and the emptiness that had been covered by the haze was not at all empty, in fact the only thing that was what you thought was the bright (now white) sun looking down at your from its place on the horizon. Behind you had been eyes — what seemed like millions of them of all different sizes and shapes (hooded, almond, monolid, deep set, prominent, round, downturned, upturned, large, and small) — blocking your view of anything but the ocean, and they were blinking. Not all at the same time but all at different times and lengths of times. The eyes were staring nowhere in particular all of them moved in different directions and never seemed to be looking at the same spot. You can’t remember, right now, whether you stayed and watched for a while or just went straight to writing but you do remember that after you had finished writing you clicked your pen. All the eyes had stared at you. Some of them eyeing your scribbles, others your face and various parts of your body. The statues had began to move. They had started to twist and turn in impossible ways. They had not moved anywhere, just stayed in their place on the circle when the world had began to quake (as such worlds often do) and fade into a new one.

 

You were now in a basement. You did not look like yourself. Staring into a puddle formed by leaking pipes you saw your face. Your skin had a sickly yellow pallor, your eyes were sunken and a weird color blue (translucent like fog, but also dark like the deepest parts of the ocean), the bones in your face were pronounced, the bags under your eyes seemed to be the only place where your skin wasn’t tight to your skull. You were beginning to turn away and close your eyes (you were horrified by the face in the water) when the ceiling had disappeared, and whatever the basement was under just left. You were greeted by burning sunlight even though the sun only slightly bigger than the one in your last world, people from the street had looked down at you and your raggy, colorful, too big clothes as tears poured from your eyes. You had been happy to see them, and you attempted to reach them but the house reappeared. Your heart had sank, and you wanted to do nothing more than sleep and cry, but you remembered your book. This time you clicked your pen quietly, and no eyes had stared (there were no staring eyes in this world, silly). Soon you were scribbling words, and drawings that felt strange (but familiar) when a shout had sounded above you. It was a high-pitched squeal that you had never heard before, and wished you hadn’t heard at all. At the sound of it you were filled with dread, and you had longed to see the sun again. You had felt terrified for the person who squealed. Footsteps had been approaching the door that you hadn’t noticed before, the door that seemed to be the only way out. This time, the world simply faded.

 

The next time you were awakened you were close to the ground, you were in a much happier setting, the sun shone delightedly through the trees, and it had been much closer than you remember it being before. This time there was someone with you. They were silently skipping along their short legs, working hard to keep up with your pace, as they danced over foliage and avoided all the visible bugs that lurked beneath the upturned fallen brown leaves. You had slowed down your pace out of consideration for your silent partner, and she had smiled and nodded a thank you. Then, for a minute or two, you guys walked like that under the towering trees with auburn and burgundy and golden leaves, and branches that shook with every soft blow of the wind and movement of a bird. The only sounds that could have been heard were the birds and the cicadas and the trees swaying. Around you were only trees and bushes and flowers and birds one minute and the next you were in a meadow. Now you can’t remember whether you just weren’t paying attention as you walked or if the setting just changed, but it didn’t matter then. Back then you knew where you needed to be. On the picnic blanket with the girl and Apples (the posh anthropomorphic pony who often made declarations for the town of Ridinia). Upon making it there you had been greeted by a feast carried in by ants, and the girl spoke for the first time. “You’ve been awfully silent Madison.” She spoke with a midwest accent, but seemed to be going for a posh English one.

“I am sorry. I am just a bit tired, you must forgive me,” you had said in an equally horrible attempt to be posh.

“You are forgiven, but you must get some sleep or you’ll get sick,” the girl said, her warm brown eyes had seemed very concerned, before she happily turned to Apples. “Any city news Apples it is most boring here in one of my many country homes.”

“Oui, oui, mon amiem,” the pony had whinnied in a failed attempt to speak French. You had sighed and took out your book and silently began to write. (Something in you was telling you how rude it was to do so, but you only had two pages left to write after this one. Surely it would be forgiven.) “Ahem. Madison.”
“Please excuse me, I do not wish to offend you, I simply do not wish to forget this magical day,” you told them. They had looked unimpressed. “Besides I’m preparing for a job as a secretary.” The girl nodded forgivingly, and Apples had simply rolled his eyes.

“Nevertheless, I shall continue,” Apples sighed, “now, Rina is the biggest talk of the town at the moment because… ” Apples was cut off by an alarm echoing for someone to wake up. The girl sighed, and the sun disappeared.

 

You had woken up groggily to an alarm that rang an hour late. A dog had looked up at you as you rushed out of bed, and followed your normal morning routine instinctively. Two minute shower, one minute to dry off and put on clothes, three minutes to eat, five minutes to catch your favorite cartoon. Except something was wrong. You had noticed this around the third minute of your cartoon as Captain Pickles began dueling his rival Captain Coleslaw. Usually, it was around this time your mother would wake up in a tizzy upon hearing the clash of swords, but this time there was no body. Not a sound. Although you had been enthralled in the show, you had been more creeped out by the silence. A quick run around the house you found no one. Twice around, the dog following you this time, you had again found nothing. Panicked, you had sighed, sometimes she was at work at this time you remembered. It was time for you to leave anyway, so you walked outside. At first you had noticed nothing but the fact that the sun was much bigger and much closer than normal (it looked like it was in the town center, and it felt like it was baking you alive). Then you had realized no one was on the street, and your dog was right beside you. The same dog you had just left inside your house. Your hands had begun to shake, not wildly, but enough that you dropped your water bottle and it had echoed sinisterly in the empty streets. Your dog had barked, adding to the echoing and it had created a terrifying din. “Shut up, Sparky,” you had said. Sparky had not shut up. Your fear had turned to anger at this point, and you had stomped away angrily thinking about how when you find these people you’ll… you’ll… if only that dog would shut up. You had turned the corner unto what is usually the biggest street, but all there was were neatly parked cars, and neat little closed shops with clean sparkling windows showcasing neat shoes or clothes or toys in a dark room. You saw the local coffee shop had its door open and other than the sun-lit streets it had been the only well lit place. With the howls of your dog, who was still stuck on your block, ringing in your ears you had marched into the shop in attempts to demand an answer. You were greeted to an interior that was not that of the coffee shop of your childhood, but that of a room with a tiki bar with tie-dye blankets on the walls, and comfortable bean bags speckled with people lazing around a bit drunkenly.

“Sit, stay a while,” a voice, belonging to a man who had tried to lead you to a chair, had slurred. “Don’t you have something to write?” You had nodded, confused on how he knew about your book, but somehow unable to voice that confusion. You had followed him into a room connected to the bar, it was white and brightly lit with a table in the middle that looked like an interrogation table from cop movies.

“Write,” he had said as he pulled out a chair and you sat. You had complied as if hypnotized, immediately scribbling your story. You had been so focused on writing (no, documenting) you had noticed nothing else. Now you try to remember how the floor fell from beneath you, but then all you could do was fall. Still focused on your writing you hadn’t realized you were falling until you had finished the page and you had snapped out of your writing haze. The ground had been close, too close, and you were about to hit it when all had turned black.

 

You were looking up at the hill in front of you, it was green and had a few flowers, and looked like a hill from a fairy tale. You did not have the same majestic look. Your skin had had folds and flopped and stretched out the the spandex you were wearing. For some reason you had convinced yourself that this hill would give you the look you wanted. You just had to run. You had taken a step, and then another (but you had wanted to go faster), and then another one. You had started sweating at this point. Your skin flabs had collided as you used all of your energy to move up the hill, you accelerated and created new bends and warps in time and space. Your breath was short and shallow, and you had wanted to double over, but you had pushed on. The sun seemed as though you could reach it if you ran up this hill, and it beamed as though it was too. You had no book, but you hadn’t really remembered why you thought about a book but you had shrugged it off. The top of the hill had been so far, too far, no book was worth thinking about when the hill was far more important Your earbuds played a song that you can no longer remember. What you do remember are the shimmering notes, the tones that had seeped into your ears and then had circulated throughout your nervous system forcing your feet to move faster than you wanted them to. You fell, and out of nowhere a book had tumbled and landed at the bottom of the hill next to you, a pen rolled neatly on top of it. You had instinctively took the book, popped the pen and wrote furiously. The last page was soon filled with a drawing of the hill, and lovely soliloquies about your first trip up the hill, you had wanted to write more, but you ran out of space. So you had started up the hill again, this time you had felt lighter, skin still twisted and slapped and jiggled but it didn’t hold you down the same way. This time you started and continued, book in hand towards the burning sun. Sweat had dripped off you like rain off a car going way too fast on the freeway, it flew behind you, and had clouded your eyes, and drenched your short dark locks of hair, and discolored the brown spandex that attempted to stretch around you but ended up bunched in your crotch or under your armpits. The sun had seemed to be calling you, it called you Michael, you had been sure that wasn’t your name, but you had no idea what your name was so you accepted Michael. As you edged closer you could see nothing but bright, hot light reflecting off sweat, and possibly tears. Your skin had felt as though it was burning off, the fat melting and unveiling a new person. It was painful at first, but the pain had faded by the time you had made it to the top, and climbed into the sun.

 

You had been (are being?) faced with a totally new setting, you could (can?) not feel yourself or see yourself, you could (can?) only see white. Blinding white, and a frog on a white marble pedestal. You were (are?) staring at it and it was (is?) staring at you for what seemed (seems?) like hours, when it talks. “Michael here is your entrance to reality.” It blinked (blinks?).

 

And you are waking up, cloudy eyed, groggy, and a bit damp. Around you is a garden filled with beautiful marigolds, hydrangeas and roses, and trees with, green leaves, all wet with rain and a little stream with a cute wooden bridge, which is made a splotchy brown from the previous rain. Next to you is an old man who is sleeping, and his head is resting on your shoulder. You are gently placing his head on the back of the damp bench, and standing up. You are looking both ways, trying to decide whether you should follow the trail left or right, or go over the bridge. A fish is swimming close to the surface of the water, it is a goldfish that is larger than usual, and its red and gold scales are twinkling beneath the rippling surface drawing your eyes towards it as it is passing beneath the bridge. You are sighing, and then beginning to walk. Something is jingling with the motion of your feet, you are looking down as you cross the bridge, you are noticing that your shoes are red loafers with hints of gold and a scale like pattern that have little bells attached to the tops of them, and beneath your shoes the fish is swimming. Your bells have stopped tinkling, but something continues blending melodically the sound of the water and the fish has stopped swimming now. It is below you just stationary. There is no wind, but the bells tingle a high pitched, long note, and the fish moves. Everything around and within you is tingling, it feels as if tiny strings are trying to vibrate as one, like an orchestra that helps create the world around you. It has stopped now, and you are continuing to walk, taking soft, quiet steps, and looking only ahead knowing that your journey has commenced.

 

You are walking over a puddle, and you look down (first time since the bridge), your shoes are soaking through, giving them a darker color, which you can see in the puddle along with your black slacks which look newly washed and hang between the puddle and the beginning of your shoes as if unsure whether it wants to get wet or not, but knowing that it does not want to reveal the skin beneath it. Your feet are beginning to get a little cold, so you are hopping out of the puddle and down the asphalt path. The dirt of the garden path had been gone since a while back, it had turned to mud, and then to asphalt. It is still a park, and there are many trees hanging around you, pouring remnants of rain on you whenever the wind blows to hard, and rats scurry beneath the leaf covered grass and dirt on either side of you. You are continuing to walk past that, and towards a playground filled with screaming little kids running wild and tired parents. You are stopping in front of it, leaning on the fence surrounding it, and looking at the kids chase after each other. Their feet are slapping the black rubber tiles, the tiles are the same black as your pants, a deep dark black that almost looks like what nothing would look like. Like the opening to a void, you are staring at it for a minute. For that minute you are focusing only on the foam, the worn, scratched, torn foam, for a moment you are hearing nothing but the sound of slapping feet against foam, it starts out loud and reverberates with the sound of many feet, and then it slows and organizes itself eventually stopping. You are confused and looking up at the children who have started grouping themselves and talking. You are listening to the conversations, and they are typical work conversations filled with surface level scratches at how they’re doing, and what’s up with them. The kids faces are in states of weariness, over enthusiasm and calm expressionless stares. “I haven’t had my morning coffee yet, David, don’t talk to me about this.” One is mumbling in the southwest corner. You are looking towards their parents and you see nothing. You’re staring at the empty benches for a moment. Taking in the absence, and then you are blinking. You are realizing you haven’t blinked in a while, your eyes are dry and your eyelids feel somewhat scratchy as they move to meet each other. You’re find that you are experiencing the same feeling of billions of vibrating strings around you, and inside of you, this time it is more organized, but it is still too messy to make sense of the music, the reason. The kids are playing again. Their shouts and joyful expressions are back, and you are walking away, brushing off the vibrations.

 

You are thinking of nothing as you walk, and right now you can’t remember ever thinking of something. Is remembering thinking? You are stepping into a puddle, and though you can feel the dirt and water seeping into your shoes, you can’t feel anything else. No sense of disappointment at having your shoes ruined or dismay at having soaking feet. The park gates are looming ahead of you, and you are walking towards them staring blankly ahead. Your bells seem to be tinkling a lot quieter now creating a soft din that keeps you marching like a soldier. The gates are even closer, and you can see the black paint peeling and the hardly noticeable warp that causes the gates to curve away from the park at the slightest angle. As you are walking past the gates the smell of damp leaves and trees and urine, are exchanged for the smell of gasoline, sidewalk cart food, garbage, and a tiny bit of sewage surrounding you with every whiff of the slightly suffocating air. You are walking to your left over garbage and past people and tiny plots of dirt harboring garbage and trees. A store door opens and the smell of chemicals with a bit of a flowery scent wafts out with the air conditioned air. You are walking in and are greeted to rows and rows of makeup and perfume. You are walking towards the perfume section, and one bottle is catching your eye. It has a silvery glass, with bejeweled butterflies flying around it, and was topped with a shimmering blue diamond. You are picking it up and holding it, and in the mirror behind it you see your hands (which look huge compared to the tiny bottle, but somehow delicate) and your shirt, a white polo with an unbuttoned top button and an orange suit jacket.

“Are you thinking about buying that for your wife?” a woman is asking you as you are staring at yourself holding the bottle. You give her a confused look at first, and then nod. She is smiling. “Ask me if you need anything.” And then she is walking away.

You spray the perfume in front of your face and take a deep inhale. The smell is oddly bilgy, and you are beginning to cough. In the mirror in front of you, you can see a ship, a hulking beast with it’s hull turned toward you, and the water seems to dampen your face as you cough. No one in the store around you seems to notice, they are continuing to shop as you are watching the ship pass you by, the stench still lingering. You are closing your eyes, but the smell and sea spray continues. The smell is malodorous, and now you are holding your nose. It is stopping and you are standing up straight and turning the perfume bottle away from your face, pulling your finger off the top, and placing the bottle back. There is no longer a foul smell, instead an all to flowery stench is replacing it. You are staring at your shirt, and now your empty hands in the mirror as the same orchestra of tiny strings vibrates everywhere, and this time it is almost as if you can hear a melody. It is stopping, and you are turning away.

 

You are on a train, and it is night time. As the rest of the train sleeps, rocked by the motion of the train and calmed by the gentle hum of the train’s wheels on the tracks, you are staring out the window, dark brown bags attempting to pull your lids down. You are not so much resisting the urge to sleep as you are giving into your curiosity. Outside the window is not the city you had walked around in during the day, nor is it the false forest you woke up in. For a while the scenery consisted of shops in the middle of nowhere, and then suburban backyards, and now it is the forest. Trees that rock with the harsh blowing of the wind (a storm is coming) as their branches reach out for the train, and bushes that are half of your size line the tracks that weeds grow in between. The flowery stench of the perfume is almost gone, and now the only other smell is the dinner you had, the coffee and ham sandwich on rye.

“May we join you?” a woman is asking, standing over you in the doorway of your compartment. She was wearing a black coat trimmed with fur that is hanging to her black shiny boots, and behind her legs stands a small boy with deep brown eyes who is peeking shyly behind her.

“No problem,” you are saying, and she is sitting on the other side of the compartment, her son resting on her lap.

“You look tired,” she is observing in attempts to make quiet conversation.

Her fiery red nails (sharpened at the end like claws) tapped gently on the windowsill. You aren’t particularly sure what to reply, so you let the observation hang in the air between you. It seems just as well, as she is shrugging and now she is leaning back and closing her eyes. Her son was staring up at you curiously, and tugging his jacket closer around him. You are ignoring him and looking out the window, you’re seeing the reflection of the boy and his mother whose finger curls stay stationary despite the bobbing of her head. The boy is touching you, his tiny, skinny hand reaching out and patting your arm. His hands are a sticky, rubbery wet, and suddenly they are grasping your hands, and he is staring up at you. Your hands are feeling as though they are being grabbed by something fluffy and warm, and you are seeing them covered by soft winter gloves whose leathery covering were wet with snow around you a cabin with a warm fire glowing and softly crackling across the room. The torn, and tattered train cushions turn into a warm couch, and the woman is standing in front of you absent mindedly chattering, and then she is turning and staring at you neither of you blinking or talking just staring. Your hands are no longer warm now they are cold and the warm couch is simply the train cushion, the boy is sitting curled up in his mother’s lap and the soft swaying of the train car resumes. You are gripping the arm rests, and the strings are vibrating softly, almost visibly, but definitely audibly. They’re playing an interesting melody, slightly out of tune and out of order, and now they are stopping and you are resuming your ride.

You are walking down a quiet Pennsylvania street towards some house (you can’t remember if it’s yours or not). The sidewalks are small, and plants occasionally spill over from the gardens or form a sort of barrier between you the street making the sidewalks too small to walk on, so you are walking in the street lined with cars neatly parked and stationary (you’ve seen no motion anywhere around you and the air is stale and windless.) There is no noise, and you are facing the ground as you climb up the steep hill, the hot sun shining too bright for you to be able to look up, but you begin to look up now. You are seeing a girl on a bike, her face in shadows and her backlit with the glowing sun, she is not moving, her right hand holds a lollipop in her mouth, while her left is resting on the bike handle. Her left shoulder is sagging lower than her right, and her left foot stands on the ground her while her right lays on the pedal. Her bike, pink with rainbow streamers coming from dark black handles is slanted to the side and unmoving. It looks as if she is preparing to ride down the hill you are attempting to climb and she is fixing you with a harsh, hard stare. Her mouth is fixed and concentrated, her eyebrows are furrowed, her blues eyes doll-like and glassy, and her strawberry blonde hair hangs in a limp ponytail at the top of her head. You are staring at her with equal intensity, and you have stopped moving for what seems like hours but is probably just a minute, then you are walking up a hill towards the house and she is saying, “I could’ve sworn I saw you in my dream” while speeding past you on her bicycle. Now you are turning to look at her, the strings vibrating and playing a sinister song, each one looks like a small dot that makes up the world around you, a dot almost to small to see. She is leaving your line of sight and you are turning around, and continuing your way up the hill slowly but surely, and the sun keeps beating down on you.

 

You are in a house, laying on a bed the strings have not stopped playing and you are tired. They have simmered down, their sinister trills turning into a lullaby. You still see them. You can’t stop seeing them unless you close your eyes. So you are closing your eyes, you are trying to stay awake for some reason but can’t. Something is dragging you down. Something is making everything go dark. Everything is dark, and silent and your snores are filling the room.

 

And you will wake up, cloudy eyed, and groggy. Around you will be a garden filled with beautiful marigolds, hydrangeas and roses, and trees with fresh, green leaves, all wet with rain and a little stream with a cute wooden bridge, which is splotchy from the rain. Next to you will be an old man who is sleeping with his head resting on your shoulder. You will wake him and ask him where you are. He will turn and face you, his face wrinkled and serious and say nothing.

 

Bob the Glob-da-Blob on Shlob

One day, a peasant of the Glob-da-Blob tribe was born on the planet Shlob. A Glob-da-Blob has multiple tentacles, and their eye is at where our stomach is. It’s really weird, but I’m not judging. His name was Bob.

The moment his parents took him home from the local hospital, they played Glob-da-Mini-Sport. Miniature basketball, as we call it. Every night instead of sleeping, they would play Glob-da-Mini-Sport. They played on a little net with a tiny ball. The teams would always be Bob and his mom against his dad. Usually he and his mother would win. They had such a good time together and when Bob would practice by himself, Bob’s parents would quietly admire Bob’s skills and could see him in the official Glob-da-Sport league.

But one horrible night, the rivals called the Rabbid Rabbits attacked. Many Glob-da-Blobs had died, and this left the planet mourning because all they wanted was the basketball court. The Glob-da-Blob’s tried to fight back multiple times, but never succeeded. Many peasants’ houses were attacked, leaving crying baby Glob-da-Blobs in several houses surrounded by fire, later to find out that Bob’s parents had both passed away. The babies who lost their parents were later sent to an orphanage, and there was this one baby Glob-da-Blob that nobody wanted. It was Bob. As the children capacity went smaller, and smaller, Bob was still there.

He was really sad and slept in the bookshelf, which actually had no books on it, so that created a lot of room for him. He didn’t care if he would bump his head. He actually wanted to because he knew his life was ruined because of his parents passing away, so he always thought, What’s the point of life? All he wanted was to have his parents back. He knew he couldn’t do anything about it and ever since then, he would always do the opposite of what others told him. He used to be such a good kid and used to have huge potential and now, now he’s just a sad little Glob-da-Blob that nobody wants to take from an orphanage.

The King and Queen had no children, and they needed some children to continue the royal family name as theirs. The King and Queen walked around, examining every child in the orphanage. They even had the dog sniff to try to find out who the best child would be. Every child was begging to be chosen. Every child, except one. Bob was just lying down in the corner, knowing he wouldn’t be chosen. This was the only orphanage on the planet, so a lot of children were there, especially because of the Rabbid Rabbits attack. The royal family turned to Bob, and they looked most interested in Bob to be their child.

“I want him,” said the king.

“Sounds good to me,” replied the queen in a posh British accent.

Bob was later dragged out and yelling, “What are you doing?!?” The head of the orphanage then announced that Bob has been chosen. What? he thought. No Way. Turns out, yes way.

Bob didn’t really like the rich life and just wanted his childhood back. Most of the time, he just laid on the ground next to his bed because he felt more comfortable sleeping with his small blanket and dusty pillow on just a little mattress. Later, the king thought that the bed was just a huge waste of money if Bob wasn’t going to sleep on it, so the king hired some people to decorate the room like his old room in his old house. Bob loved it!! After that, Bob became good again, just like he used to be. This made him much easier to take care of.

One day, the king had set a challenge for Bob. Defeat the Gloob-dob-lob-dagon to unlock your sword, found inside a chest that is inside the Gloob-dob-lob-dagon. Bob stepped up to this challenge with a small wooden sword and a soft metal shield.

The young Glob-da-Blob ran up the mountain yelling, “FOR GLORY!”

He did that just for style. The Glob-da-Blob tribe was planning to attack the Rabbid Rabbits for a long time now, and they needed a general. That general is planned to be Bob. All the other candidates have failed to attack the Gloob-dob-lob-dagon and now, Bob has been put up to the test.

Bob has now climbed up to the top of the mountain. He couldn’t see the Gloob-dob-lob-dagon.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” shouted Bob.

Then, a giant long worm thing with no eyes and only smell, sniffed its way right in front of Bob. Bob then screamed, running around the mountain with his tentacles.

The King then was carried up the mountain by his servants and went up to Bob. The king pointed his sword at the young Glob-da-Blob and said, “Defeat this or die. If you run away from the Gloob-dob-lob-dagon, you will face death. If you lose the battle, the Gloob-dob-lob-dagon will kill you. You have one hour. I prefer you face the Gloob-dob-lob-dagon. I’m sorry I had to do this to you, but it’s the law. I will now leave you in peace.”

Bob immediately panicked!

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, what law does he mean?” said Bob, still running around the mountain.

The Gloob-dob-lob-dagon attacked Bob, and Bob defended himself with the shield. After that attack, the shield completely broke. Great, just what he needed. Bob attacked the monster with his sword, but that just broke the sword.

“This sucks! I brought all this stuff up here, and it just breaks!”

Right now, Bob was just thinking about his parents and how disappointed they would be. Then, he remembered what his father had told him when he was young. Nature is always by your side. That’s it! He needed to use the things around him to get inside the monster. There were trees and some rocks. Bob, still running around, knocked down a tree, jumped on it, and slipped right into the Gloob-dob-lob-dagon’s mouth. In he went. This was probably the best slide ever!

Bob slid down and when he got to the stomach, there was another monster to take care of. It was the defender of the Sword of Glory. Bob remembered this time to use nature as his weapon. He twisted and turned, dodging the monster’s fireballs. He then made the monster super dizzy, and the monster fell into the lava. Bob turned to the chest and took out the Sword of Glory, but at the same time, something rose from the lava pool. It was the same defender of the Sword of Glory. It wasn’t going to let Bob out easy. Bob first tried the same thing he did with it last time, but this time, the defender didn’t look around trying to find Bob. The defender ferociously attacked Bob. Bob closed his eyes and put his sword right in front of him. A few seconds later, he was wondering why he didn’t die yet. He looked down and saw a bunch of rocks. Bob should get out of here before it’s too late. He climbed his way out and stabbed the Gloob-dob-lob-dagon right in the chest.

“He did it, he really did it!” screamed every villager in town.

“We’ll see how he does next challenge,” whispered the king to the queen.

Bob sprinted down the mountain yelling, “FOR GLORY!” again. He was welcomed back with many more admirers.

“Congratulations,” said the king to Bob. “You’re the first one to ever defeat the Gloob-dob-lob-dagon. I have much respect for people like you.”

“Thanks… Dad,” replied Bob.

“Do you know how to get more respect, son?”

“No, how?”

“By defeating the Shlob-na-Blob-da-Glob.”

“Okay, I will do my best. Also, do I get another weapon if I defeat the Shlob-na-Blob-da-Glob?”

“Yes, you will get the Glorious Shield, but first, I must train you with the Glory Sword. Meet me in the Knight room at 2:00 am tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll be there.”

To celebrate Bob’s return, the tribe had a large feast. Everyone from the tribe was there. Bob sat at the front chair, and he gave a promise to protect this village, until he dies. The feast was a huge success and after that, Bob just went to bed. Meanwhile, the king and queen were praying that Bob would be okay for the next challenge.

“Ahhh, so tired,” Bob said, yawning. Bob jumped out of bed looking at his clock.

“Oh shoot, it’s 1:57!!” Bob yelled. He quickly ran around the room. “Don’t panic, don’t panic, I’m panicking!”

He quickly put on his clothes and sprinted out his room. The Knight room was all the way across the planet! The planet was small, so it’s not that bad. He sprinted as fast as he could. Oh no! He forgot his sword! He had to run all the way back to his room and run back towards the Knight room. He checked his watch, and it was 1:59! He ran even faster! As he saw the entrance, the clock turned to 2:00. He ran as fast as he could and finally made it. The king was already there.

“Why are you sweating?” asked the king, slowly walking back and forth.

“I-I-I,” replied Bob, speaking out of breath.

“Why are you panting?”

“I-I r-ran he-here.”

“You shouldn’t be running. To be a general, you need to be strong, organized and responsible. You can’t arrive to the battlefield tired, can you?”

“N-no sir.”

“This is your first warning. You get three, and you can’t be a general anymore. Here, I am not your father, but your mentor. We will meet here every morning at 2:00 am. Set your alarm clock to 1:00 am. When you wake up, I want you to do 25 push ups, 25 sit ups and 25 squats. And keep this in mind. I’m watching you. Now, let’s get to practice. The first thing you want to do, is keep your sword in front of you. About half a foot away from your body. If you attack, you swing your sword to the right or left. Most likely, your opponent will defend it. The most important thing is to trust your instincts.”

“But what if my instincts go against me?”

“But what if they don’t? Just trust your instincts, and think positively.”

“Okay.” After five hours of training, Bob knew how to control the heavy Glory Sword better. He felt confident with his second challenge.

“I can do it,” said Bob to the king.

“Are you sure?” replied the king.

“100% sure.”

“Okay, get ready for the challenge this evening up on the mountain of Shlob, where you will unlock the Glorious Shield.”

As the afternoon passed, Bob would practice with his sword. He would think about what his father and king had told him. Nature is always on your side. Always strike at your opponent, and focus on the sword direction.

Later that evening, Bob went to the start of the mountain.

“You have thirty minutes from when the Shlob-na-Blob-da-Glob comes out. Remember the keys to winning battles,” told the king to Bob.

“One, always strike at your opponent. Two, focus on the sword direction. Three, nature is always by your side,” replied Bob in a commanding voice.

“Good, I have taught you well. Go out there and make me proud!” said the king, patting his back. As Bob climbed the mountain, he began thinking about his parents and how much he missed them.

He slowly walked up the mountain and raised his sword up high shouting, “FOR GLORY!” when he was almost there, once again. This time was also just for style. That’s his thing, ya know? Once he got to the top of the mountain, he stabbed his sword in the ground to wake the monster up. He pulled his sword out.

“Come at me monster,” shouted Bob, placing his sword in front of him. Then, a giant, slimy mix of lion and tiger came out of its den.

“I didn’t know it also had tentacles too?!” shouted Bob.

The Shlob-na-Blob-da-Glob’s roar was literally ten thousand times louder than a normal lion. As it roared, spit came out of it and part of it landed on Bob.

“Ehh. You wanna play spitting games, huh,” said Bob spitting at the creature. “FOR GLORY!!!” Shlob-na-Blob-da-Glob just picked him up.

“Ahhhhh, let me down!!” The monster just kept on licking Bob. “Why, why, why!!”

The Shlob-na-Blob-da-Glob just really liked Bob, but Bob didn’t like the Shlob-na-Blob-da-Glob. Bob sliced the monster’s paw and got released. The creature started to cry a little. Then, the Shlob-na-Blob-da-Glob’s personality completely changed. It started to snarl at Bob. Both of them were circling the mountain. Bob was often trembling because he was scared this giant beast was going to attack him first. Bob just ran towards it again, but this time, he slid under the monster’s hand. The Shlob-na-Blob-da-Glob then growled again. Bob needed to use his size to attack the Shlob-na-Blob-da-Glob. He needed to sneak into the den and take out the Glorious Shield. He tried to slide under its paw again, but it didn’t work this time. He had been caught again! The king then came up the mountain with some other companions. The other “companions” turned out to be there to let the hand of the Shlob-na-Blob-da-Glob go.

“Son, you didn’t accomplish the mission. Thirty minutes have been up.”

“Now I die, right?”

“You’re supposed to, but lucky for you, I like you. So this’ll just count as a warning.”

“Thank you so much sir, thank you.”

“This is mercy. Do not take it for granted.”

“Yes sir!” Bob was never, ever again going to fight the monster with just a day of practice.

After several more days of training, Bob started to actually feel comfortable with the sword. No other mentor was better. That’s the same way Bob felt for his dad. The way the king is mentoring Bob, reminded him of the way his father mentored him.

“I think you’re ready, Bob,” said the king.

“You really think?” replied Bob.

“The Shlob-na-Blob-da-Glob should be easy for you now. No pressure though, I’m not forcing you to do it.”

“I think I can do it too,” said Bob in a cocky voice.

“Alright, this evening again. Same rules but no more mercy.”

“Yes sir. See you this afternoon.”

As Bob walked home, he kept on repeating the three keys of battle. One, always strike at your opponent. Two, focus on the sword direction. Three, nature is always by your side. One, always strike at your opponent. Two, focus on the sword direction. Three, nature is always by your side. One side of Bob was thinking, You can do it Bob, you can do it! The other side was thinking, No you can’t, you failed so badly last time! Bob couldn’t turn back though. He had to do it, for his legacy.

As he climbed up the mountain of Shlob, he shouted again, “FOR GLORY!!!” He did the same routine he did last time, and the Shlob-na-Blob-da-Glob came out of the cave again. Bob quickly ran around the whole mountain, chopping down all the trees as he trapped the giant Shlob-na-Blob-da-Glob.

“That’ll keep you still for a while,” said Bob, panting several times.

The Shlob-na-Blob-da-Glob couldn’t get out whatsoever and tried to bump out of the tree trap, but it didn’t work. Bob easily got the Glorious Shield inside the cave and then consumed its power. Bob destroyed the trees and stabbed the Shlob-na-Blob-da-Glob right in the chest, raising his sword in the air, with the heart of the Shlob-na-Blob-da-Glob.

“Hooray!” shouted every citizen in the tribe.

“He did it, he really did it!” shouted the queen.

Bob shouted, “FOR GLORY!” again when he ran down the mountain.

“Thank you so much, Dad. Thank you.”

He went up to the king and hugged him tight.

“You even hug like my father,” said Bob, chuckling.

“That’s because,” said the king, “I am your father.”

 

Eat: Reality or Hallucination?

 

There is a very fine line between reality and imagination, or in this case hallucination, but sometimes that line is so thin that you don’t know on which side you stand. It’s so hard to know and harder to find out. Are we losing our minds? Am I? Are you? I really think so.

 

Silently, she walked through the hallway. Her destination? The kitchen. Melody had studied hours to no end for the exam on psychology at the end of the week, and at the moment, she was hungry. So hungry that she could go to the savanna, hunt down a rhino, cook them, and finally eat them. She was so hungry that she started hallucinating back in her bedroom about a friendly dragon whose name was Phillp, helping her study about the different parts of the human brain. Yep, her occipital lobe was really active today, going hand in hand with her over caffeinated, powered imagination. What a lovely combination, hear the sarcasm. At least she hadn’t gone all Bertha Rochester. That was a plus. And now her brain was joking and comparing her with an insane fictional character from Jane Eyre. Maybe she should be happy that it wasn’t comparing her with Bellatrix Lestrange.

 

Melody stopped at the end of that thought, huffing humorlessly at herself.

 

“Yep, I’m gone crazy.” The lack of food was making her think weird. She continued down the hallway towards the kitchen. Hopefully her mother had gone to the grocery while she was in self-induced confinement, and yes, while some might think of still living with your parents as lame, Melody couldn’t bring herself to care about those people’s opinion. She didn’t have to cook for herself anymore, thank God. Last time she gave herself food poisoning, and the time before that, she had managed to somehow burn water of all things. She also didn’t have to worry about nosy and annoying roommates or not having hot water in the morning, so it was a win-win in her opinion.

 

Weirdly, the hallway looked darker than it had looked yesterday or four hours ago. In fact, the light that came through the big windows at her left looked almost gray-like. Maybe it was cloudy outside? But no, when Melody chanced a small glance out the closest window, the day was sunny, too sunny for her liking but sunny nonetheless. So why did it looked so dark in her house? Even now that she knew it wasn’t going to rain anytime soon, there was not a single change in how the hallway looked. The few pictures of herself and her parents looked out of place in there, even though those same pictures were there all her life. The light and the atmosphere made them look sad, longing.

 

“Spooky,” Melody muttered under her breath, but kept walking. Maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t eaten anything yet? Yeah, it had to be that. She was seeing things again, no doubt.

 

The living room looked the same to her, but she noted that it had the same atmosphere of the hallway. It looked dark and gray, out of place, it had a different feel, and again she brushed it off as her lack of actual food. The kitchen was the same dark atmosphere and somewhat-gray light, but by this point she had stopped giving it any thought, so she walked straight to the fridge to see if there was anything that did not need cooking because she wasn’t in the mood of possibly dying by her own disastrous cooking, and she wasn’t about to starve to death, thank you very much.

 

“Let’s see what we have here,” she mussed to herself. “Tomatoes, lettuce, green pepper, cheese, bread… Wait, where is the ham? If there is cheese, there must be ham somewhere in here, right?… Aja!” Melody cried triumphantly when she saw the ham at the back of the fridge. A sandwich was in order.

 

Taking all the ingredients to the counter, Melody readied herself for the arduous battle of preparing edible food. Bread, lettuce, green pepper, tomato, cheese, ham, cheese again, tomato, green pepper and bread, Melody kept repeating over and over again on her mind. Maybe if she followed this mantra, she would actually made something she could eat, not that it mattered as she was so hungry that she could afford a go to the hospital to get her stomach pumped if needed. Looking down at her creation, Melody shrugged at its appearance. It was messy, but all the ingredients were alright. She checked.

 

“Well, at least it’s not alive or moving like last time.” Softly, she poked at the sandwich with a knife just to make sure it wasn’t alive. Shrugging again, she hurled the knife to the sink. “It must be fine, then.” Taking the sandwich, she reclined against the counter, a sigh of relief escaping her mouth. Finally, her stomach would stop eating itself after this.

 

Salivating, figuratively of course, she was about to happily bit into her lunch, when a weird noise came from the front door. It didn’t sound like anything she had heard before. The floor was creaking horribly, like it was under immense pressure or weight, but nothing else could be heard. Actually, everything was eerily silent, no birds chirping outside, no kids laughing or screaming after each other like before, no dogs barking, not the soft sound of the curtains moving with the wind, just silence. Nothing. Zero. Nada. Not even the sound of silence. This was unnatural silence. There was nothing in or outside the house doing a single sound. It was frightening, and while Melody was not panicking… yet, she found this lack of anything weird. She set the sandwich down in the counter at her back and silently walked to the kitchen door, which she had closed behind her, and yes, while most kitchens didn’t have wood doors separating them from the rest of the house, her mother had insisted on setting one the moment they moved to this house. Something about aesthetic and how a disastrous kitchen wasn’t good for an image, or something like that. Melody had tuned her mother out that time. She was turning the knob when the creepy, creaking sound made itself known again.

 

“Great,” Melody groaned sarcastically. “The weird, creepy, and absolutely not terrifying at all sound is back.” One look at the living room let her know that the gray-like atmosphere she had noted before had changed to a full on get-the-the-hell-outta-that-house-like-RIGHT-NOW atmosphere. If Melody wasn’t freaked before, she was for sure now. Chills ran up her spine, goosebumps up her arms, and cold sweat was going down her back and forehead. Yeah, freaked for sure. The creaking sounded once again, still coming from the front door. It was practically calling out at her.

 

“Mom?” Melody called against the better judgement she had obtained via seeing horror movies. It was a fact that you never called out to a creepy sound. It always got you killed in the movies, but Melody told herself this was reality, not a horror movie, and she kept telling her mind that when she called again. “Mom, is that you? I didn’t hear your car.” There was no answer, save for that horrible creaking of the floor. It was seriously getting on her nerves. “Seriously, if that’s you, Emily Parker, I swear to God!” She expected that by saying her mother’s name she would stop trying to scare her, but again there was no response, or at least not a human articulated response. This time instead of creaking, it was heavy breathing, something like an animal would do if they had run after their prey. “This is getting better and better.” Melody breathed out, and taking all her courage, finished walking to the front door. The creepy living room at her back did nothing to soothe her fraying nerves.

 

The sounds came from outside the door. Cautiously, Melody leaned her ear against the door, held her breath, and listened. Just listened and listened. The sounds had stopped, but that didn’t mean the fear finally creeping on her mind had. It was moving tenfold now with the sudden stillness and silence of the environment. She almost wished that the sounds were back. Almost, because the very second she was about to think that wish, someone, better yet, something, slammed against the door pushing her back a few steps. She admired, surprised. There was a small fracture in the same place on the door she had leaned her ear, and it was no small fracture. If she concentrated enough, she could see the green grass outside and the empty gray street. Whatever had been out there was gone.

 

A door on the other side of the house slammed shut. Yes, indeed whatever had been out there wasn’t out anymore. It was inside the house with her.

 

“Melody, Melody, Melody…” she heard coming from the hallway of her room, but the voice wasn’t from a monster. It was from someone she knew very well, someone that could not have been the one calling her name. It was impossible, that voice was her own.

 

“The hell is going on?” Melody, the real Melody, and not a humanless voice wandering in the back of her house, muttered while staring at the hallway directing to her bedroom. “This… This is not real, right?” she questioned herself. Her breathing was getting faster and so was her heartbeat. She was panicking, and she didn’t like that. She never panicked. Her friends called her The Ice Princess because she was always cool headed, and this voice resonating towards her must have had a logical explanation, but this could not be real. “The psychosis must have settled in… yeah, that’s it,” Melody said to herself. “Yeah, lack of sleep and too much coffee initiated a psychotic episode.” While trying to control her breathing, Melody forced herself to remember what psychosis meant.

 

Psychosis is a severe mental disorder in which thoughts and emotions are so impaired that contact is lost with external reality, and this is just a psychotic episode induced by sleep deprivation and too much caffeine in my system. Damn, Stephanie told me to have more sleep. Should have listened to her!! Melody forced this thought over and over on her mind, and the fact that she had saw the vision of Philip, the friendly dragon, not too long ago in her bedroom helped this mantra settle, but still something compelled her to follow her own voice through the hallway. Maybe it was her need to cement that this wasn’t real, maybe it was her own curiosity, or maybe it was something else, but now it didn’t matter because she was walking through the hallway, and she knew something was more than wrong. Everything felt out of place. The shadows were stronger than they were before, and it felt like they were trying to reach her and swallow her in eternal darkness. It gave her the chills.

 

“No way…” It came out loud, but Melody intended for it to only be on her mind.

 

Her body stopped abruptly. She knew she didn’t stop it. It stopped on its own, like it had a mind. She was in the middle of the hallway, looking directly in front of her to her bedroom with the door closed. She had let the door open when she had gone on the search for food that had turned to this situation, perfect for a horror movie. Could this mean that the door that had slammed close was her bedroom? It surely had a reason for happening.

 

“It… It was the wind. It had to have been the wind, that was it,” she said with a little voice that no one would have been able to hear, but apparently someone did, because a loud and evil laugh came from her left, and it sounded like her own laugh, just colder and darker.

 

Are you sure, Melody?” the same dark laugh followed, and Melody’s body turned towards it without her consent. She was pretty sure she didn’t want to see what was beside her, but the moment her brown eyes settled on it, she couldn’t look away. It was a mirror, a big ass mirror her mother had bought somewhere at some moment of her 22 years long life. However, the mirror wasn’t that interesting. What was being reflected kept her looking that way.

 

The reflection was hers, but it wasn’t at the same time. That thing wasn’t Melody Parker. That was Madness personified. Her long brown hair was cut short in the reflection and messy, like she had just woke up. The skin was paler as if she hadn’t gone outside in a long time. Instead of the purple sleeveless undershirt the real Melody was wearing, the reflection wore a long sleeve black shirt. There was a black choker around its neck, something the real Melody didn’t have. But the biggest difference between the real and the reflection were their eyes. The mirror Melody had bright, golden eyes. They looked as if they were glowing, and the pupils were pinpoint sized. There was something in those eyes that sent chills and a growing panic to Melody when she recognized it as a maniac glint. That thing was gone for sure.

 

“What are you?” she asked to her reflection, and a psychopathic smile was given to her for bothering with the question.

 

“Not what, who,” it said, still giving Melody that smile. “And to answer you question, I am you, dear Melody.” There was palpable satisfaction when the reflection said those words, as if it had been waiting for this moment all its life.

 

“That’s not possible, there is not…” she trailed off, taking a good look at the mirror. “It’s… just not possible.” It sounded insecure even to her own ears, let alone for that thing, but with a courage she didn’t know she possessed, Melody said, “This,” pointing around with her hand and then signaling to the reflection. “It’s not real.  I’m just having a psychotic episode and nothing more. All this will disappear in a moment or two and… ” The reflections laugh interrupted her, and now that she listened closely, that was not a normal laugh. Those were crackles, horrible, psychotic, and creepy crackles. Melody shuddered at the sound.

 

“How can you be so sure, Melody? For all you know, all this could be real, just like I am you, and just like we both know we are crazy.”

 

“Don’t talk like we are the same, we aren’t, and you don’t exist.” Melody took a hesitant breath. Unconsciously, she started muttering to herself, “I’m not crazy, I’m not, this is my imagination, and I’m not crazy. I know that I’m not, and that is the truth because I know and I’m not… ”

 

“Why do you lie to yourself like that? To ourselves?” Melody looked directly to those glowing gold eyes. “The truth is that you don’t know anymore. You are not sure what is real and what is not. WE ARE CRAZY, Melody, and you know it!!!”

 

“SHUT UP!!!” Melody screamed with a rage not her own. It felt like it was from someone else and Melody, the real Melody, because that reflection wasn’t real. It wasn’t, right? All this was just a psychotic episode, and it wasn’t real. And going back to the situation at hand, the real Melody raised her fist and punched the mirror in the same place that Madness’ face was with all her strength, breaking the mirror and cutting her knuckles badly.

 

Melody felt the pain go all the way up to her shoulder, and she had to grit her teeth to stop herself from screaming. This wasn’t real, so why did it hurt like hell?

 

The crackles were back and louder this time. She looked at the broken and bloodied mirror, Madness was still there, this time smiling wider than before, its eyes with a savage glint.

 

“That’s it, Melody! Punch the mirror again, the same mirror where you are seeing your talking reflection, and you say you are not crazy!!! Girl! You are INSANE!!!”

 

“This… ” Melody tried to control her breath. Was she hyperventilating? “This isn’t real, it’s not real, it’s not… ” She jumped back when something slammed against her bedroom door from the inside. She could hear creaking and heavy breathing from behind that. She swallowed nervously.

 

“Come on, Melody, why don’t you go and check your room? This is not real after all, or are you scared?” Madness asked from the mirror. “Are you scared because you know this is real?!” the reflection asked with maniacal crackling. And in that moment, Melody’s bedroom door opened, crashing hard against the wall, and a dark shadow rushed to Melody. It slammed against her body, throwing her to the floor, but surprisingly that thing went through her, like it was an illusion.

 

“What do you say now, Melody?! Real or not?! Maybe you need more convincing?” Madness commented, a screeching sound came at its words. Without bothering to look up, Melody ran out the hallway, not knowing what was following her and not wanting to find out. She ran to the kitchen, the only place that could be locked. Reality or not be damned, she was terrified and running on instinct. But still, she managed to catch Madness’ last words to her before fleeing.

 

“Run, Melody, RUN!!” Insane crackle following those words, a door being slammed, shut the reflection up.

 

Melody’s eyes were locked on the door, so she didn’t see her forgotten sandwich, the reason why she was suffering this hell now, stand up, smile horrendously at her back and reach for the knife in the sink, everything without making a sound. Melody only turned when the sandwich crackled up just like Madness did in the hallway. She turned at a speed that would make Flash proud, but it was already too late, the sandwich or Madness, whichever, had the knife and it was looking at her like if she were its food, its prey and intended to get her, not matter what.

 

Remember, you tried to eat me first, so you get what’s coming to you…” Her lunch crouched low, like a preying lion, still smiling, still with the knife, still with those hungry, black eyes that for a moment she thought were beans. And from where had that come from? The beans I mean? And why was she thinking about that in this moment from all things? Please, let’s go back to sandwich trying to kill her. “… When I eat you instead!!!” The sandwich jumped at her, somehow getting her, grabbing her hair, making her fall to the ground and biting her shoulder. Melody finally, finally, blacked out.

 

Melody woke up in the kitchen floor startled, looking around her terrified, but there wasn’t any killing sandwich attacking her, nothing psychotic or weird. Had she fainted and dreamed all that? Yeah, that had been a dream, a nightmare. Nothing more, not real. Just her imagination. Standing up, Melody gave up preparing lunch. She wasn’t hungry anymore, so she walked back to her bedroom. She didn’t look at the mirror. She was scared about what she could see there. It didn’t matter if it was her imagination. She would never see herself in a mirror ever again. Her bedroom door was closed, but she didn’t mind. She just wanted to sleep. She opened the caoba door and entered her room, just to stop suddenly at what she saw.

 

“Hello there, sweet Melody,” Madness said as it looked up from reading a book from Melody’s bookshelf, while lying on Melody’s bed, like they had always been there since the bening. Completely and absolutely real.

 

Remember to never push the line between reality or imagination. There is no turning back. Now… I am asking you. Where do you stand in this line? You can call me Madness. I am within the shadows of your mind, waiting for your answer.

 

Mercury

 

“I see it!” said Davis. “In the distance.”

It was on the red cinnamon hill. The rocket. It glistened in the sun. Their very own rocket that had blasted the two off to Mercury. It was in beautiful condition, ready to take off. They’d had enough of Mercury. The awful heat, it was so close to the sun. Every ration of water felt like an oasis in the middle of a raging desert.

“Then to Earth. Good Earth,” Wilson remarked. “Back to society. Food, water, more than just a drop or a bite every few hours. I’m shaking just thinking about it!”

They ran on the orange sand in their astronaut boots. If they took off their boots, their feet would burn.

“I need a shower,” whined Davis. “I haven’t showered in weeks!”

“There we go, it’s the rocket.” Wilson smiled, closing his eyes. “Back home.”

But something was wrong. The rocket was destroyed. Its red top was blown off. It had scrapped metal with holes inside it. The door had fallen off.

“What?! This isn’t how we left it when we went on our mission!” Davis screamed.

“The Mercurians… ” Wilson muttered. “They did it! Of course! It all makes sense now! They destroyed our rocket and put a vision in our head to make us think everything was okay!”

“How?” asked Davis.

“Telepathy!” explained Wilson.

“Now, now,” Davis patted him on the back, “I’m sure this is a misunderstanding.”

“This isn’t a misunderstanding! This is real! Are you one of them?!” he accused. “You are! Aren’t you?!”

“Wilson!”

“The Mercurians!” Wilson ran off into the distance.

“The Mercurians!” It was a loud echo through the desert.

“Poor Wilson,” said Davis. “The heat must’ve driven him insane.”

 

***

 

The next day, Davis stood by the rocket on his walkie-talkie, trying to communicate with Mission Control.

“Pick up!” he yelled. “Pick up!” But he only heard static white noise.

Wilson returned with a shotgun in his hand.

“Get off my planet!” Wilson warned. “Or else… ”

“Is this a joke?” Davis laughed.

“I’ll count to three,” Wilson counted.

“Alright, alright.”

“One.”

“Stop!”

“Two,” Wilson said, staring into Davis’ eyes.

“Quit it!”

“Three!”

A blast went into the ground. It was a bullet.

“Get off my planet!” Wilson screamed.

***

 

Davis ran for hours and hours on end. The rocket and Wilson couldn’t be seen anymore.

He soon saw, in the middle of all the dunes, a cottage. As he stepped inside, it was paradise. It had a long table, filled with food of all kinds. Each plate was with a glass of water or lemonade. Shelves were filled with books and movies. Walls had beautiful paintings painted by talented artists. Music was playing in the background.

However, he was too engrossed in the trance to notice the lurking shadows crawling out of every corner behind him. Ready to attack.

 

***

 

“Hello, Wilson.” Davis stood by the rocket, which was in perfect condition, ready to fly.

“Hi, Davis.” Wilson walked up. “Are we ready to fly?”

“Yes.” Davis turned on his walkie-talkie. “The space voyage has been successful,” he reported.

And as they flew off, they sometimes turned into the very thing they feared. Their skins were sometimes green. They now had purple organs. At one point, another eye was on Wilson’s forehead, but it later disappeared. They left another lonely day on the lonely planet Mercury.

 

A Stranger Knocked at the Door

It was a normal Saturday afternoon, and Marci was making dinner. Onions were frying in the pan, there was chicken in the oven, and Oliver was playing with toy planes, casually whizzing them through the living room. All of a sudden, a stranger knocked at the door.

“Hide!” Marci told Oliver.

Oliver just continued playing with his planes as the stranger knocked again, this time with more force.

“Oliver, you need to hide. A man is at the door.”

This time, Oliver stopped his planes, picked them up, and went to the designated hiding space at the end of his closet. Marci opened the door.

“Who are you and what do you want,” Marci snapped aggressively.

The man calmly pulled out a small square photograph of a young boy, who looked about nine years old.

“I’m looking for this child. His name is Oliver Wicks. Have you seen him?”

“No, I haven’t, and I would appreciate it if you could leave my home now,” Marci replied.

“Ma’am, I’m just looking out for him. I’m trying to protect him.”

“I’ve never seen him in my life.”

The man flashed a smile. “That’s okay, just give me a call if you see him. I really just want what’s best for him.”

The man extended his gloved hand, revealing a long, dark scar across his arm. In his hand was a card with a phone number and a name on it. Red Sun Labs, it read. Shortly after the man left, Marci went to Oliver’s room.

“Come on, Oliver. Pack up your stuff. Time to leave again.”

Without saying a word, Oliver quickly put everything in his room into an old, battered suitcase. Marci led him out of the small cottage and into her car. The car was an ancient Ford pickup truck Marci had purchased from a used car dealership. It had more than 150,000 miles on it and could only go up to 50 miles per hour.

Right before they left, Oliver said, “Mom, you forgot to give me my medicine.”

“Oh right, sorry,” said Marci.

Marci fished into her purse and took out a bottle containing several bright red pills. She took out three and gave them to Oliver, who swallowed them. Marci put the pills back into her purse and began driving again. After a few hours of driving, Marci pulled over into the parking lot of a small gas station.

Marci walked into the store and told the man at the counter, “I need the usual, new passport, new license, new house.”

“Okay, that will cost $335,” the man behind the counter said.

“What! I don’t have that kind of money. It used to be cheaper.”

“Sorry, Marci, my landlord keeps raising the lease. The prices can’t be as cheap as they used to be.”

“Come on, Marius, you owe me for what Oliver did for you two years ago.”

“Give me a break, Marci! I wouldn’t have gotten in that situation were it not for you in the first place.”

“Fine, Marius, but if anything ever happens to you in the future, don’t expect me to bring Oliver to save you. He’s not a superhero, you know.”

And with that, Marci plopped a few wrinkled up bills on the desk and walked out of the store.

As Marci got into her car, the man ran out of the store holding the money and shouted, “Hey! This is only $200! Give me the rest of the money!”

“Too bad,” Marci shouted back, and she got into the car and started driving.

As Marci was driving, Oliver asked her from the backseat, “Mom, why did Mr. Malum come to look for me?”

Confused and suddenly worried, Marci asked, “Who’s Mr. Malum?”

“He’s the man that came to the house. He was in charge of helping me with my powers at the school.”

Oh no, this is worse than I thought, Marci thought to herself.

“Mr. Malum just came for a short visit. He wanted to make sure you were safe.”

Oliver didn’t say anything. He just kept playing with his planes, as if nothing had happened. Eventually, Marci stopped the car next to a small red shack on the side of the highway. The shack looked similar to the previous one they had lived in, and the one before that, and the one before that. Marci and Oliver had never lived in the same place for more than a year. As much as Marci wanted to, she knew it was too dangerous.

 

As Marci and Oliver settled into the new house, a feeling of nervousness began to settle over Marci, as she contemplated what she would do next. She knew she would have to face more people from Red Sun Labs eventually. She couldn’t run forever. And she would also have to tell Oliver the truth at some point about what had really happened, and why they were constantly on the run. After mulling it over, Marci decided it was finally time to tell Oliver what had really happened.

“Oliver, come here. I need to tell you something,” she shouted across the house.

Oliver came to the table where his mom was sitting. “What?”

“Remember how a few years ago I came to the school you were at, and I took you to live with me?”

Oliver nodded.

“Well, when I took you from there, I was really rescuing you, because the people that were working there, like Mr. Malum, were actually trying to harm you. They were trying to use you so they could do experiments on your abilities.”

“Oh,” Oliver said, not really showing much interest.

“The reason we have been moving from place to place is because people like Mr. Malum have been trying to get you back, so they can do more experiments.”

“Can I go fly my planes now?” asked Oliver.

“Sure.”

Shortly after her discussion with Oliver, Marci heard a knock on the door. She went to open it, and her heart dropped when she saw who it was. Mr. Malum was at the door, with three other men, all holding guns. Marci tried slamming the door, but Malum held it open.

“I’m done playing games. I tried to be nice, and you didn’t listen. I need Oliver now. I know he’s with you. Your friend at the gas station told me everything.”

All of a sudden, Oliver came out from his room. He looked enraged, and his eyes were glowing bright red. Before anyone could say anything, Oliver flicked his wrist and sent all four men flying in the air, instantly dying on impact with the ground. A look of pride came across Marci’s face. Oliver had saved them. The men were gone, and she didn’t have to worry anymore. But when she turned around to look at Oliver, she saw he wasn’t there anymore. Oliver had gone back into his room and was playing with his planes, as if nothing had even happened. Marci smiled, and she and Oliver lived the rest of their lives without ever having to worry again.

 

Controlling Fate

My heart beats extra hard as I step onto my bike. The ride to school isn’t that long, but if I take the main road instead of my usual back alleyways, I might be able to stretch the ten minute ride into fifteen. That’s five extra minutes I don’t have to spend taking my math test. Five extra minutes I don’t have to spend watching numbers dance uncontrollably across the page, twirling just out of my grasp. The adrenaline rushes through my legs as I pedal, feeling each bump in the sidewalk, each crack in the cement. I pass the park to my left. It’s hard to see, hidden behind large oak trees on the side of the road, nestled away in this residential area. My head buzzes a little. I’m finding it hard to think. The stress creeps onto the edges of my thoughts, like ivy climbing a stone tower. I try to force it back. Breathe, breathe. I put as much energy as I can into pedaling, harder, faster, stronger. My bike surges forward. For a few seconds, I coast along, flying. The moment ends too soon. I hit the breaks as I approach the stoplight, and once again feel myself sink miserably into thoughts of first period Algebra. As the road to school shrinks, my confidence fades with it. My hands tighten on the handle bars. I observe each groove, feeling their texture against my palm. In another attempt at distraction, I wiggle my toes in my shoes. I like knowing I have control over them. I can make them do what I want. I force them to pedal a bike to my fate at the hands of an Algebra test.

 

Soccer Ball

 

Full of stories

Both joyous and bitter

Used to accomplish dreams and goals

 

Rough on the outside

Beaten up and tattered

What’s on the inside?

We might never know

 

To know how you feel we must look at your past

You have stories worth telling

You have a soul that’s been frayed

 

You’ve brought joy to many

You’ve brought sorrow to others

But you always let people use you

So they can achieve their goals

 

Nature

 

Animals, nature, the weather so nice

Waking up early to sun or to ice

Milking the cows and getting the eggs

Working all day and running on your legs

Making homemade food like yogurt and jam

Making applesauce but no ham

Washing your clothes with water and your hands

Selling the fresh food on small road stands

Working all day and having lots of fun

Working on a farm is obviously awesome

 

Bakery Blues

Being hardcore is well, hard. I have to party all night and sleep all day and never study to keep up my image. Do you think I want to be doing shots on the weekends? Please, I’d rather be watching the Barbie TV show with my four-year-old sister. But we all have images to keep up. Some more than others. And we all have a breaking point. Mine was earlier today.

It just smelled so good. As if they had baked happiness into those little cakes. I was coming back from my fifth party of the week, starving. Cheap beer in red solo cups doesn’t really count as food. That’s how they got me. The Cupcakery that is. One minute I was cruising down the road in my beat-up convertible, the next I was standing in front of the glass window eyeing a particularly gruesome pink cupcake.

It was perfect: red paper, vanilla cake, creamy pink frosting, and lemon curd guaranteed on the inside. I wanted it more than anything else, but we all have images to keep up. So, I did what any reasonable person would. I bought myself a friggin awesome disguise. Normally, I’d never be caught dead in that hideous, green sweater. It itched worse than the ones my mom knits. Even worse, it clashed with my new hair which was dyed blue with some cheap wash out stuff from the drugstore. It was a lot for a cupcake. But this was the cupcake. You kind of had to be there to get it.

I strolled into the Cupcakery looking like a loser who was way too obsessed with people like me. I flashed the cashier, a middle-aged woman with greasy brown hair and the face of a kindly grandmother twenty years younger, my usual charming smile. “Could I have the gourmet valentine cupcake.” I winked at her and casually leaned against the cash register. “It’s for someone special.”

The cashier stared at me for a moment before pointing to a little sign hanging in front of the display of cupcakes. “We have the right to refuse service to anyone.”

My jaw dropped. The cashier grinned and did a terrible imitation of my casual lean. “Sorry,” she said with a mockingly deep voice. “That special someone’s going to have to wait.”

“How dare you?” I jabbed my finger in her face for emphasis. “Do you know how many girls I’ve made out with because of that casual lean? Eight!” She burst into laughter. “That’s a lot for someone my age!” I sputtered. “You didn’t even do it right, you know? That is my lean!”

The cashier laughed even harder. Her face looked almost pretty if she hadn’t been laughing at me. She grabbed her sides and looked like she was about to pass out from the hilariousness of the situation. When she came to, she had tears rolling down her cheeks. “L-look, kid.” She gasped and wiped at her eyes. “I’m doing you a favor by denying you that cupcake. I mean, you’re practically bulging out of those skinny jeans.”

I glanced down at my ripped black designer skinny jeans. Had I put on weight? I glanced at the cashier and then back down at my jeans. Well, if anyone knew about weighing too much for your outfit, it was her. But I couldn’t have. I was in my prime. I once ate three family sized bags of Doritos and didn’t gain a thing. I looked back up at the cashier, who undoubtedly could see my whole train of thought. She shrugged at me. “Don’t worry, kid. It happens to the best of us. I used to be a size zero but come my seventeenth birthday, my metabolism just couldn’t keep up.”

A choking sound emitted from my throat. “Bu-but I turned seventeen a month ago.” I was beginning to feel faint. Images of myself, fat and alone, flashed through my mind. I was too popular to be lonely. I was too cool to be fat. I had an image to keep up!

The cashier nodded at me in mock sadness. “Looks like you already need to get some bigger jeans to fit your thighs.”

I couldn’t withhold a gasp. Who did this woman think she was? “No!” I yelled, slamming my hand down on the counter. “Give me the cupcake!”

The cashier sighed. “Well, I tried to warn you.” She pressed a few buttons on her register. “That’ll be $10.66.”

There was that choking sound again. I desperately emptied the pockets of my ripped black designer skinny jeans. They could only hold a tiny bit of cash. I dumped the bills on the counter. “I only have five dollars.”

The cashier sighed. And pushed the money back at me. “Well, I guess after all of that, you don’t have enough for that gourmet cupcake. Now move aside, I have other customers to attend to.”

I glanced behind me to see a huge line of people that in my hunger-induced daze, I hadn’t noticed. I was losing it. I was losing my cupcake. But I was hardcore. I don’t lose things.

Am I proud that I stole the cupcake from the Cupcakery? Yes. I think I did a pretty good job for it being my first major crime. Am I proud that the cashier managed to tackle me and sit on me long enough for the police to show up? Perhaps not. But look at me now, in the jail cell, casually leaning against the wall. I’m hardcore like that.

 

Three Minutes

Three minutes before school ended, the only noises to be heard were the ticking of the clock (that ran two hours too late), the tapping of pencils (like that Britney Spears music video), and the sporadic, panicked scratching of pens on paper (pop quizzes are never fun). If you were to do a pan of the room, expressions would range from concentration to boredom, to faces of pure confusion. In one corner of the room, the class hamster slept, stress-free and content (unbeknownst to it, a respiratory infection was starting to take its life). In another corner, a student’s A+ essay was threatening to fall off the not-so sticky tack, and next to it a fly buzzed lazily in circles. In the janitor’s closet next to this particular classroom, a rat squeaked and scurried in its trap (it was one of those cage ones you see in Disney’s Cinderella and nowhere else), while the janitor whistled an out of tune hymn. The smell of mold and ammonia was somewhat toxic, but the janitor never wore a mask since masks were for pansies and liberals. A mistreated, rotting newspaper in the center of the floor was crawled over by a roach. A roach that, if followed, would lead you to a hole in the wall smaller than you’d expect a roach of its ungodly size to be able to crawl through. A whole that leads to a tunnel which leads to the boys bathroom. In the boys bathroom, there are several inappropriate drawings on the wall, and people who are supposed to be in class, and now, the roach slinks past them into a crevice where it lives as the school bell rings, and the boys exit to go hang out at the local McDonald’s.

 

Stand By Me: Part One

             

Vicki

Little Miss Misunderstood

 

Chapter One

Vicki opened her vibrant dark brown eyes and saw black. It was as if she hadn’t opened her eyes at all. She checked with her smooth hands to make sure her eyes really were open. The sensation of nothing was thrilling yet horrifying when only seeing black with no ending.

Suddenly, seeing no end to the darkness, she let out a high-pitched, teeth-curling screech as she spied a swift tunnel stirring in the night. As she stared and shifted around her unfamiliar bedroom, a faint gold outline read 1:27. But as she moved around her room, there was no light again. Just the swirling tunnel ahead of her. The fearsome tunnel shone dark purple, with a thousand fireflies lighting the way for Vicki. Truth is, the current of mystery could carry her down. The bright purple edged her on towards it as if whispering, Do it, or suffer the never ending darkness from now and forever! She got up onto her knees and dove in.

While staying airborne, thoughts crashed into each other one by one. She was running against the currents of sand on a desert peak, now climbing up a steep cliff. Soon, she was leaping through the jungle or swimming in the deepest ocean. All thrilling, making her imagination set sail. But while coming to her last stop of motions, she face-planted into a big sea monster and felt a huge bruise form on her head. She stared down, barely able to see her hands, and touched her forehead lightly. “Ouch!” she cried out. She slipped over to one of her drawers to find a flashlight.

As it turned out, Victoria had climbed up her bunk bed ladder, running through her piles of neatly stacked stuffed animals, swung on the boards of her bed, and slid on her stomach through the stuffed animals that she had just knocked over, and bumped her head into her beanbag.

Vicki squirmed repeatedly on her beanbag, scared of the thought of going to school in the morning. Victoria or “Vicki” was adopted by her parents. Vicki smiled, imagining the many times when her mom would tell her how they had chosen her. When your mom gives birth to you, they are stuck with you. But if you are adopted, they chose you. Vicki liked to think that the word “chose” had a better ring to it than being stuck with something. Victoria tried to remember the comfortable feeling when she sat down in her mother’s lap as the story rang with truth out of her mom’s mouth. This story was the one thought, the one inspiration, that she had once been wanted.

Vicki’s dad knew she was different. Everyone knew that she was different. Her dad was just the one to say it to her face. Finally, he was fed up and left. No one really knows what happened to him after he left the house. The car was left there. His phone was left there. And most sadly, so was his family.

Ever since preschool, Vicki was homeschooled. Ever since preschool, everywhere she went, people knew that Vicki Saunders was different.

***

Vicki went to her first day of preschool very happy. New friends, new teachers, and new experiences awaited. That is if the teacher hadn’t greeted her the way she had…

“Now, Vicki. Say pleases and thank-yous! Make a good first impression. I will pick you up at three,” Mrs. Saunders said, straightening Victoria’s collar.

Vicki stared at the hands on the clock for a moment. “In seven hours, you mean.”

“Yes… wait… where have you learned to read a clock?” Vicki smiled mischievously at her.

“At the library.” Victoria smiled innocently.

“Well, okay, you little mathematician! Go ahead, and have a fun day. Blend in, but stand out, okay?”

“But isn’t that physically impossible? Not mentally but physically?” Mrs. Saunders ignored her. Victoria skipped in. Vicki’s eyes went big when she saw what the class was doing. The girls were dressing curly-haired Barbies up in bright pink. The boys were crashing race cars into each other, chipping the cheap paint. She skipped over to the boys, on the path to the teacher’s desk where she sat.

“You know,” she piped, “it would be better to buy metal race cars with real paint, instead of plastic cars. Besides, the result is atrocious with what you are doing to those cars!” The boys complained, dumbfounded that a girl was talking to a boy, especially with such big words. “Maybe hold the car like this instead.” She took the car and found a thicker part of the car. “There!”

“Ewww!! A girl touched something of a boy’s! Awww!” the girls moaned. “The new girl now has boy cooties!” Vicki rolled her eyes at the immaturity of the other children.

“You know,” she said to the closest girl before reaching the desk, “this building really needs some earthquake resistant tools. Like that bookshelf really needs that heaviest stuff on it. I would recommend talking to the boss! And look, please just hear me out.” The girl gave her a bored look. “I haven’t seen any cross braces or a mass damper here. Now, mass dampers and cross braces are expensive, but you need to start somewhere!” The girl gave her another rude look. “I am done with my advice, okay! Geesh!” She continued past the impudent girl and to the teacher’s desk.

Her desk had a huge, blue sheet of paper wrapped around it reading, “Mrs. Morton.” She had a tight brown bun wrapped around the top of her head. Her desk had different apples scattered everywhere and friendly notes scribbled down on colors. Black was Vicki’s favorite color. She liked the darkness. It was the stars, actually, that made her feel like she had friends. When every one of them sparkled and winked down at her, she felt at home with the darkness and light scattered here and there.

She thought of herself as a star. The darkness was the majority of the world. The normal people. But the stars were special. The stars were unique with different interests and hobbies. It wasn’t bad to be a star…

She continued to the teacher’s desk and cleared her throat. The teacher was apparently hard of hearing or needed new glasses, neither good, because she didn’t hear or see the little preschooler. Victoria cleared her threat again, holding the paper out to her new teacher.

“Hi, my name is Victoria Saunders. I love to write, read, engineer, garden, and research new biography and history matters found from ancient or biblical times. I also love to research the most recent illnesses so that I can stay healthy! I live at 1253, Morton Drive, 90773. I am four years old and know my mom’s, dad’s, brother’s, and the police’s phone numbers. Would you like me to recite them?” Victoria asked. Instead, she received another dumbfounded look of the smarts. “You know, Mrs. Morton, you are the third person to give me that look today… what’s it mean?”

Mrs. Morton said nothing and took hold of Vicki’s neatly written biography of herself. Vicki sat down by a cubby of cold, crinkly, old mats and dug her nose into her most recent book series, Disaster.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Saunders, Vicki’s mom, peeked her nose into the brightly decorated room. She had just witnessessed her daughter pointing out how to improve the quality of toy cars. So much for fitting in… she thought. Vicki’s mom hesitantly spied her daughter reading her book in the corner. She felt envious of the other girls and boys getting along and playing with each other. “Normal” was not a word known by Mrs. Saunders.

Mrs. Saunders sighed and decided to let Vicki travel through her day on her own. Right as she left the door, Mrs. Morton gave Vicki back her paper. It had a 100% on it. “Have you ever tried fifth grade?” she asked.

Vicki smiled gleefully. My first test! A 100%! What a way to start the — But she wasn’t able to finish her thought because she didn’t see any other girls or boys get a good grade or even a grade at all, now that she thought of it.

She leaned over to the closest girl and asked, “What did you get?” Vicki held her paper up proudly to the girl.

“The normal kids didn’t do it, ya dodo. Normal kids play Barbies!” She held her pink dressed Barbie with bright blonde hair up proudly. Then, she added, “Just like normal kids don’t read.” Vicki looked at her quizzically. “Now, can you please help me put Barbie’s skirt on her? She looks bad without it.” She pointed to the book. Vicki was on the verge of tears. The girl tried so hard to get the Barbie into the skirt that it ripped, like Vicki’s heart.

Soon enough, recess or “outside time” occurred, and Vicki grabbed her book. Mrs. Morton eyed her warily. As the class lined up into a mob, Vicki stood quietly waiting for the teacher to lead the class outside. The fact that a preschooler would rather read a book than go run around was hard to imagine.

As the class headed out the doorway, Vicki trailed behind, admiring the author that wrote her thick book. She longed to have friends like the girls in her book. She longed to be normal and to be wanted.

Outside, the girls played a game called, “Girls chase the boys,” and Vicki again rolled her eyes at their immaturity. She read her book. She loved to read because when she read, it was as if she was a character, diving into the disasters and bravely fighting crime.

Soon, recess was over, and Vicki got up to leave, but a big group of girls surrounded her in a chant. “Vicki the fifth grader! Vicki the fifth grader! The new girl is an overachiever — what a weirdo.” Then, they started again until it was too hard to bear. Then, Vicki did the one thing that she knew she could and would do best. She ran, book tight against her chest. Mrs. Morton ran after her. Now, Mrs. Morton, not being the most fit, more like stumbled quickly after her.

Vicki was very small for the age of four. Mrs. Morton chased after her, and right when Vicki was about to leave campus, she saw her teacher, sweat dripping down her forehead and hands out in ambush. Young Vicki instead rounded a corner so that she wouldn’t be running right in the open. She squeezed past a garbage bin and hid there. Mrs Morton, seeing no Vicki, counted to five. “If you don’t come out right now, you get a time-out.” Now, normally that would have worked, but Vicki, being no ordinary child and knowing that adults just said that and didn’t mean it if they couldn’t see you, stayed hidden, giggling like mad.

Mrs. Morton left, assuming that Vicki had found a way back to the classroom. Vicki stayed there for a while until she got hungry. She then got up and hurried to the lunch tables where her class was. “I won! No one could find me!”

All the little girls went up in a mad chorus: “Well you never said to,” “I secretly knew where you were!” “You can’t trick me,” “Ya, me definitely know!” “You are just sayin’ that!”

On and on and on it went until Mrs. Morton yelled, “Enough!” and everyone sat down angrily. Vicki, by herself, sat at a lonely table farthest from any insults able to be thrown at her.

It was clear that the other children had their groups. There was one fivesome braiding hair. The others with knotted hair picked at their nails, and the boys all just kind of blobbed together playing “ruff” or “tackle.” Then, there was Vicki. Poor Vicki! She wasn’t a girly girl. She didn’t like to get all rough and play sports. She didn’t like to play tackle. She was just different. Just different… she liked to write, study, and she even learned to read the newspaper at a very young age. She even explained some topics, including science and biology, to her brother a month ago when deciding on which middle school he should attend.

She enjoyed being as smart as the teacher. She didn’t know it at this young age, but she shouldn’t know things that would get you into a private middle school on an academic scholarship. It worried her neighbors. It worried her mother. But most of all, it worried her father.

After they finished lunch and the mumble of Vicki’s unusual attraction to reading and medicine were discussed by all, Mrs. Morton led the children back to the door and into the classroom. Vicki trailed behind, not wanting to draw too much attention to herself.

Now, this entire day that Vicki has been in preschool has been a fragment of Vicki’s recap of what happened many years ago. And yet, it felt like yesterday. This was another unusual fact about her: her memory. It is one thing to remember only the treacherous times of childhood, but to remember anything and everything…

After lunch, the class laid down on the moldy, flat mats. Vicki stood there stuttering, “Do we have to lay down?” Mrs. Morton nodded impatiently. “Really?!”

Yes, you must, Miss Victoria,” the teacher drawled.

“Victoria or Vicki is fine. I don’t like being called “Miss.” It sounds too proper. Besides I am not a teacher.”

Mrs. Morton cleared her throat angrily. “Vicki, enough of being a smart aleck! I have had enough of you being an overachiever!”

“But… but… ” Vicki looked on the verge of tears. “I read about an illness!” She whined, “I don’t want to get it. You get it by sharing breathing areas! We could also get influenza!” Then, she piped in a high-pitched, squeaky voice, “More commonly known as the flu!”

“Fine,” said the teacher, grudgingly. “But you must at least sit on it. You don’t have to lie down. Okay?” Vicki stumbled over to the mat and scrunched her nose of the putrid smell and germs that the mat carried. She sat with her back straight and nothing but her shorts and legs touching the mat. “I will now read you a story. A little girl — ”

“Why not boys? Why do the stories always have to be girls?” a boy named Leo piped,  annoyingly.

“I wasn’t the one to write this book!” the teacher said. “Anyway… a girl hopped down the road and found a place to build her house. She got her hammer out and went to work. Cluck cluck cluck went the hammer against the wood.”

She flipped the first page. “What sound did the hammer make?” Blank faces stared up at her. Vicki knew the answer but thought the book so stupid it wasn’t worth her voice. The teacher skipped the question and went on to the next page. “She got some paint. Swoosh swoosh swoosh went the brush against the fresh wood. What sound did the paint brush make?” She waited a couple moments. “Anyone?”

She sighed and continued, “Then the little girl found more wood and built the roof. Clunk clunk clunk the hammer went. What sound did the hammer make?” She looked directly at Vicki. “Not even you, Victoria?

Vicki sighed. “First of all, this is a waste of my time. This book is so babyish! I miss my mystery novels. I have a question. When do we start our literature and book reports? Probably never at this rate… ” She took a deep breath and continued, “And besides! A hammer doesn’t even make that sound! It makes more like a boom, boom, boom!”

“Are you done yet?” Tamara, the leader of the sassy girls, said impatiently. Out of all of the girls, she was the most mature, which was saying something, because none of them were mature. She wore her hair in long braids that went to her lower back. She also had a bright pink headband. Her shirt said, “Not sassy just have some sass.” “Besides, Vicki,” she teased when she said Vicki’s name, “no one wants you here. You are too smart for your own good.”

The teacher continued, “Then they lived happily ever after!” Ugh! What about the hardships?

But one of the girls thought of hardships… “Wait,” Lily said, a girl not much better than Tamara. “What about the prince. A prince must take her to the castle!” All of the girls started to giggle.

“Ummm… ” the teacher groped. “Nevermind. Let me just get this over with.” The teacher quickly read the rest of the story, “Then, a deer came and kissed the girl on the cheek.”

“No deer!” Vicki shrieked. “Deers carry ticks. Ticks carry Lyme disease. If you have Lyme disease too long… ” Eyes glared at Vicki, signaling her enough.

That was Vicki’s breaking point. She was tired of little stories filled with nonsense and questions that no one knew the answers to. She wanted to be rid of the teasing and the putrid smelling mats. She was done with all the old Barbie dolls overflowing in the bin. She was done. She wanted to go home to where she was loved by her whole family well, at least she thought she was.

Vicki hid behind the trash can for a couple hours until the sun started to set. She knew it was just moments till her mom would pick her up, so she crouched behind a bush. Her long jeans got muddy. Her hands poked with seeds and whatever else fell from the sky. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, and her eyes were puffy from crying. She had no idea how long she was there and got the idea that her teacher, Mrs. Morton, and the sassy girl, Tamara, wouldn’t be looking for her. They were probably glad she was missing. Seconds passed, then minutes, until she heard her mom call for her. “Vicki, are you there? I heard about what happened today. I won’t make you go to school ever again until college if you want… ”

“Ever?” A tiny voice that belonged to Vicki asked, behind the bushes.

“Ever. Until you want to, of course.”

Vicki got out from the bushes and took her hand. Her mom had a worried expression on her face. When they got home, Vicki realized that she had let her mom down. I didn’t fit in! she thought. I failed my mom! What is wrong with me? She ripped different facts about medicine and biology out of her journal She cursed how foolish she was to have written a big biography about herself. “All I wanted was for people to like me!” she moaned and growled at her bedroom.

She didn’t talk during dinner about her improvements she made on her hypothesis about volcanoes and the magma plume. She also didn’t share how her horrible day at school went. Her father looked scared of her the entire time. She cried before going to bed. She moaned in her restless sleep. She heard her mom go to bed late that night, probably trying to figure out what to do with their overachieving daughter. Vicki hated herself for who she was.

While sleeping, she felt a cool breeze brush on her. She woke up with her window open. My mom probably wanted me to have some fresh air, she thought. That morning, she woke up, still in her bad mood. She got out of bed and poured her Lucky Charms. Every bag, Vicki wished for the prize inside. This prize just isn’t made for abnormal people. She wept even more for the strange girl she was becoming. “I can’t stop my brain!” she murmured repeatedly to herself. None of it made a difference.

She knew that she would never, ever, ever want to go back to preschool. Or what she called, the lazy game. Vicki deserved better. A place where talent can be seen. A place where she isn’t blowing the other kids’ minds with her speech and smarts. She realized this as she awoke, staring at the white ceiling. That was when she noticed the empiness beside her…

After finishing her unsuccessful hunt for a prize in her cereal, her mom walked to the doorway, tears streaked repeatedly down her cheeks.

“What is it, Mother?”

Her mom shook her head, long, dark hair with blonde tips swaying.

Her dad was gone.

 

The Overlord

The town was in complete and utter chaos. Monsters pillaged and wrecked everything in their path. Innocent villagers panicked and fled, and not all of them got away. The air was filled with screams of pure terror.

In other words, it was a good day for me.

I am Overlord Kane, and I have no delusions about my morals. With a name like that, what would you expect? I understand that I’m evil, and I embrace it. My goal is to overthrow King Basilius and take the kingdom for myself. I am the big bad, the evil emperor, the bête noire, the VILLAIN. Ah, it’s good to be bad.

So, what is an Overlord? It’s just a title given to the most prized demonic servant of Azrael, god of death, master of the Inferno, fourth horseman of the apocalypse, damn His name forever. Of course, it comes with some nice benefits. I get the three Unholy Treasures: the Dragon Sword, the Demon Armor, and the Crown of Azrael. I also get to destroy any heroes that get in my way. Do they defeat me? Sure, sometimes, but evil always comes back.

Anyway, the attack was almost over. As much as I like watching my minions destroy everything in their path, I can’t take over a kingdom that’s burned down. They had already broken into the mayor’s house and kidnapped his daughter, so I had what I came for. “Fireball!” I exclaimed, launching a burst of flames into the sky. It exploded, signalling the retreat, and I led my army back to Fort Gehennom.

A few hours later, I was sitting in my throne room when my trusted lieutenant Draco came in.

“How did the attack go, my lord?” Draco asked, blowing a puff of smoke. (He’s half dragon and has the flame breath to go with it. The other half is… I want to say dark elf, but even I don’t really know.)

“As well as always. We’ve got plenty of hostages, so I trust the dark elves can take care of them?” I asked.

“They’re requesting some hot irons and a copy of The Eye of Xenon,” said Draco.

“I’ll get it down to them. Any prisoners of note, aside from the girl?” I asked.

“The town bartender, a catfolk. He’s knocked out at the moment,” said Draco.

“We’ve got a catatonic cat o’ tonic on our hands,” I said.

“Otherwise, ah… nothing. I’m just not used to being out of the action. I hope a new hero comes in soon, so we can start fresh,” said Draco.

“We’ll take the usual protocol from here. You deal with the prisoners, and I’ll take care of the minions. It’s pizza night, and we just had an influx of trolls, so I need as many chefs as we can get,” I said. Draco flew away, and I emerged onto the balcony, looking down upon my subjects.

I took a second to scan the crowd. If there’s one thing I pride myself on, it’s the diversity of my minions. Most villages just have the usual mix of humans, dwarves, elves, halflings, and gnomes, but I have a little of everything. Goblins and kobolds were the most numerous by far. Then, there were the orcs and trolls, my shock troops. (If you can’t tell an orc apart from a troll, slap it. An orc will punch you across the room, a troll will regenerate and then punch you across the room.) Dark elves emerged from the prison chamber, their necromancers bringing an assortment of undead with them. Even the occasional dragon was flying in from above.

“Welcome back, everyone! What did I miss?”

Cheers erupted from the minions below the balcony. The uninitiated often think that I mistreat my minions, but the first rule of villainy is pragmatism. Treat your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valley, as they say.

“We have captured the mayor’s daughter! That’s another village driven under the greatest heel of all!” I said. There were more cheers, and a few chuckles from the more comedically versed. “I prepared for this, of course. To celebrate our victory, live music will be provided at dinner!”

Suddenly, a goblin ran up to me, out of breath.

“What is it, Jerry?” I asked, mildly irritated.

“Your evilness, the mathematicians have news! As of tomorrow, the odds will be in favor of the arrival of… a hero!”

The crowd fell silent. No one really knew how to react. None of my minions ever know how to react when news like this is announced. All sorts of folks are against me, but not every one of them is a true hero.

I, on the other hand, was most pleased. “Excellent! We’d better start preparing! Jerry, tell Cal the performance will have to be postponed a few hours. Everyone else, initiate the usual operations! If you’re unsure of what to do, there’s some goblins in the east wing who can help!” I stepped down from the balcony.

Draco was already in my throne room. “The dark elves have the prisoners under control. What happened out there?”

“The math team says a hero is supposed to show up tomorrow,” I said. A smile spread across Draco’s scaly face. I walked over to the file cabinet.

“Let’s see here… Do I have it under G for gambling or H for hero? Ah, here it is,” I said, pulling out a sheet of paper with an assortment of charts on it. “The current stakes are four thousand gold pieces. So, what’s your bet? Warrior? Mage? I’m going with warrior.”

“Paladin. It’s a long shot, but I’ve got a good feeling about it,” said Draco.

“We have a deal. Anything else?” I asked.

“The battle plan, my lord. You’ll be off fighting the hero, so I have to command the troops,” said Draco.

“Ah, of course. My tacticians have a new plan specifically tailored to armies with heroes among them. They’ve sent it down to your room for review,” I said.

“I’ll check that out, then. Good luck, my lord,” said Draco, flying out the window.

“And the same for you,” I replied. I pulled a hidden lever, causing the throne to move back and reveal the staircase underneath. Walking down to bed, I grinned at how neatly everything was falling into place. Then, as per the second rule of villainy, I let out an evil laugh.

 

Up and Back Again

       

Dedicated to Izzy, Sophia, Sammie, and Rachel Barclay who helped me along my wonderful and winding journey of writing

Twelve-year-old Andrea opened her eyes groggily and looked at her bedside clock. 8:15! Andrea screamed in her head. She was supposed to be at school, Harker Middle, fifteen minutes ago. She quickly got changed into her blue and tan uniform, then swept her light brown hair back into a ponytail. Andrea grabbed her backpack and shoved her binder inside, then looked around her blue painted room at her bed, dresser, cabinets, and desk to see if there was anything else she needed. Andrea quickly grabbed her pencil case, then sprinted downstairs.

“Mom! Dad!” Andrea yelled. “I’m late! You guys didn’t wake me up.” No one answered. “Hello?” Andrea said again as she approached the table. A note was there.

Dearest Andrea,

I’m sorry we had to leave without telling you. Your mother hit the floor, and the doctors do not yet know what happened. This was at 5:00. I hope you are fine. I’m letting you skip school today. I just left the hospital to write this note. Now, I must hurry back. Don’t you worry, Andrea. Your mother will be fine. She’s as strong as you. I will be back at 9:00 to tell you the news.

Be strong,

Dad

Andrea sucked in a breath and dropped her backpack. She read over the note again, not believing her eyes. She picked up the note and squeezed it so hard that it crumpled under her hands. Then, Andrea threw the note back onto the table and imagined her mom having a heart attack or a stroke — or worse.

Andrea felt lightheaded and gripped a wooden chair. She looked around the room, at the wooden table in the middle of the room, the stove and fridge in the front, and some cabinets in the corner. They started to blur. She shook her head and walked into the next room to take a seat on the comfy, tan couches. Andrea put her feet on a dark oak coffee table in front of her and turned on the TV. Just forty more minutes until Dad comes home, Andrea told herself. Only forty minutes until I hear about Mom.

Time slipped away as Andrea half-heartedly watched her favorite movie, Wonder. Finally, she heard the door rattle.

“Dad!” Andrea shouted. Her dad burst into the room panting and brushing New York snow off of his coat.

“Dad! Dad! What happened?” Andrea asked, tugging on his sleeve.

“The doctors said that they haven’t seen anything like it. They said it couldn’t have been of natural causes, which is scary. I don’t know what it would be of. Anyways, I was not awake to see what happened. All I know is that no one entered this house all night.”

“Really?” Andrea said, worried. “Is she okay?”

“I don’t know, Andrea. I don’t know,” her dad said, pinching the bridge of his nose. Andrea hugged him.

“We have to head back to the hospital now. Put your coat, boots, and gloves on.”

Andrea nodded, a tear slipping down her face.

In the car, Andrea twiddled her thumbs and bit her lip. Mom… I wish I knew if you were okay. Please be okay. Please let her be okay.

Her dad, Mr. Wilson, gripped the steering wheel hard, turning his knuckles white. He drove into the driveway of the hospital and parked.

Soon, Andrea and her dad were in the waiting room.

“Mr. Wilson?” a voice called. Andrea’s dad stood up and walked into a room where a blonde lady was calling. Andrea followed. The lady shut the door behind them and motioned for them to sit down into comfy, blue chairs.

Sitting in one herself behind a wood desk, the lady spoke.

“Hello, Mr. Wilson. I’m Victoria. As the doctors have informed you, this was not from a natural cause. We looked over your wife and saw that something happened around her head. There was some type of dispositioning of her brain cells, and right now, it’s going to be very hard to fix this. I am very sorry. As you can probably figure out, her brain has stopped working. Therefore, the doctors put her in hospice. She will make it a few hours.” Andrea couldn’t imagine living without her mom. She burst into tears and buried her face in her father’s shoulder. Mr. Wilson let tears fall freely down his face. Victoria left the room, and Andrea wailed and squeezed her father.

Andrea and her father knelt down before Andrea’s mother and said their hearts out. Andrea told her mom about all the good times they’d had together — about how much she loved her. Her mother couldn’t hear them or anything, but Andrea spoke anyway, with tears soaking her neck. Mr. Wilson whispered in Mrs. Wilson’s ear for a long time.

Andrea was there holding Mrs. Wilson’s hand as her mother moved on to a better place. The next few months were rough. Mr. Wilson was not the same. He was never as happy as before. He didn’t laugh or smile like he used to.

Andrea and her dad lived differently. Andrea started to cook, do the laundry, and help out around the house. Her father was helpful also, but not as joyful as usual.

Finally, on Andrea’s thirteenth birthday, the doctors had a present for her. Andrea and her father drove to the hospital. They were taken into a room with many images on the projector and spewing across a table.

“I’m Victoria. You might remember me,” the familiar lady stated. “After your mother’s death, the doctors found something surprising. And it wasn’t in her brain. A long time ago, your mother tore her arm. When a doctor gave her surgery, a very bad virus was inserted in her. Well, it wasn’t very bad at the time. That morning when she lost consciousness, a virus trigger was released into the house that never should have been. That means,” Victoria paused, “I think it was someone who was either with the doctor at the time, or it was the doctor himself. I do not know why they would pick that time though to set off such a deadly trigger. And, how could they release it into your house?”

Andrea and Mr. Wilson shook their heads in disgust.

“What’s a virus trigger?” Andrea asked.

“Well, we’re not sure, but it might be an invisible gas or something that makes the virus become harmful. But the question still remains — why? And how?”

“We don’t know. We really don’t know.”

Mr. Wilson got up to leave, but Andrea stayed sitting in the chair. “Who was it? Who was it?” she asked.

“We don’t know yet, which is embarrassing on our part because we have no record of your mom’s surgery. Maybe it was lost, or worse, destroyed by the doctor because he didn’t want anyone to see.”

“Don’t you know about the surgery though? Like… when was it? Can’t you ask the doctors?”

“Andrea! It’s time to go,” Mr. Wilson leapt in. He grabbed Andrea’s arm and pulled her out of the room.

“Dad!” Andrea said in the hallway. “I want to know what happened! I bet she knows some information — what if we can even figure out what happened ourselves?”

Andrea’s dad shook his head, and they walked out of the waiting room.

“Now, Andrea, these doctors are very experienced. They know much better than we.”

Andrea mumbled under her breath as her dad led her out of the building, into the car, and all the way back home.

Andrea went back to school in the next month. The doctors were still figuring out what had happened, and Andrea was asking as many questions as she could. So much that her dad at one point left her in the waiting room. (He soon noted that that wasn’t such a great idea.)

Andrea walked into the school building crowded with kids. She was looking for one person — Harper. Harper was her only friend that wouldn’t tease her about her horrible grades.

Finally, Andrea found her in an upstairs hallway and told her about her mom. Harper gasped as they walked into their homeroom.

“Andrea! That’s horrible! I don’t know what I’d do if that happened to me,” Harper exclaimed.

“It’s okay. It’s really not a big deal,” Andrea lied straight to her friend’s face. Harper raised her eyebrow knowing that it was a huge deal but didn’t say anything.

Andrea and Harper sat down at their desks next to each other.

“Oh no,” Andrea whispered as her teacher, Ms. Addison, walked over.

“Andrea, I’m very, very sorry. I heard from your father. I’ll excuse you from all your missing work, okay? But I need you to work hard,” Ms. Addison bent down and whispered to Andrea, “Because of your grades, all right?” Ms. Addison gave Andrea a knowing look, then walked back to the front of the class to teach. Andrea shook her head looking down, knowing that she had F’s in every class except for art. Painting was the only thing she ever cared about. Harper understood, because she liked art just the same. However, Harper was also very smart and got A’s all the time. Andrea’s only ‘A’ was in art.

“‘A’ for Art!” Andrea used to say to her parents when they received her report card. Of course, they were never very happy.

Andrea shoved the subject of her parents away and finally heard her teacher dismiss them for first period.

“Finally,” Andrea muttered under her breath, making Harper elbow her. “What? I hate school. I just can’t wait for art!”

“Andrea, you need to get better grades! Your par — ” Harper caught herself and took a sharp breath. Andrea sighed and shrugged.

“I guess,” she said, walking quicker to math.

The rest of the day flew by in a breeze, Andrea not paying attention to math, science, or history. Finally, it was time for art. Andrea burst into the art room with Harper and filled her lungs with the familiar smell of paint and wood.

“Oh! Andrea! I totally forgot to tell you. We have a new art teacher. Meet Mrs. Grace. Mrs. Grace, this is Andrea,” Harper explained. Andrea stood horror-struck. A new teacher?! But she loved Miss Alia! She plastered a fake smile on her face and shook hands with Mrs. Grace.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Grace! Very nice. What happened to Miss Alia?”

“Oh. Well. She moved on to a better job that was more important than her students.” Mrs. Grace rolled her eyes. Andrea stood with a disgusted look on her face. She went to her seat and quietly sat down.

That day at art was awkward and quiet. No one talked or laughed like they used to.

Finally, it was the end of class, and Andrea was walking out the door.

“Andrea! Can I come hang out tonight?” Harper asked.

“Harper, remember? My mom? My dad can’t handle us right now,” Andrea said. Suddenly, she heard Mrs. Grace swivel around in her chair to face her.

“Mrs. Grace?” Andrea asked, turning around to face her teacher.

“Andrea — are you? Andrea Wilson?” Mrs. Grace declared. Andrea nodded. Just then, the classroom walkie-talkie on the teacher’s desk called Andrea’s name to go home.

“Sorry Mrs. Grace, but I gotta go,” Andrea said, eager to get away from her new art teacher.

“Andrea, wait!” Mrs. Grace said, getting up from her seat. But Andrea had already strolled out of the doorway and down the hall.

Andrea left school with a straight face. A new teacher, bad grades, more homework — could it get any worse? She walked down the road, seeing her small house in the distance.

That night at home, she was greeted with a surprise.

“Andrea, dear! Want to come watch TV with me?” her father asked. Andrea walked over to the couch, surprised that her father was in such a good mood because personally, she wasn’t. She sat down on the couch and started looking at the big football players thundering across the field. They were almost to the end zone. The player finally made it and threw the football on the ground with celebration.

“TOUCHDOWN!!!” Andrea’s father screamed. He scrambled to his feet and gave Andrea a high-five. She half-heartedly high-fived him back.

“Andrea, dear? Why the long face?” He asked, knowingly.

“How — how are you so happy right now?!” Andrea asked, losing it. “Nothing is going right today! Nothing ever goes right! How come all of a sudden you are happy?”

“Do you want to know? It’s because I realized that there is no point in getting sad anymore. What happened will not change. Like, don’t cry over spilt milk. It already happened. So you fix it. And since we cannot fix her death, the best way to mend our hurt is to smile and say, what has happened has happened, and I might as well be happy.”

Andrea stood dumbfounded at her father’s words.

Impressive coming from him, she thought. Then she smiled, and slowly, it made sense. He was right. No matter what happened, it was no use getting mad over.

As her father smiled back, Andrea forgot about her mother. About school. About all her worries. Andrea let her father wrap her in a big bear hug.

However, the next morning Andrea woke up from a nightmare about her mom. She sighed and got dressed for school. As Andrea walked down the stairs to make her breakfast, she already smelled the scent of waffles wafting from the kitchen. She looked over the railing and saw her father flipping waffles on the waffle iron. Andrea laughed to herself, knowing that she usually had to wake her dad up in the morning because he always slept in.

Mr. Wilson motioned for Andrea to hurry and come down the stairs. Andrea did and saw a big plate of strawberry and syrup covered waffles waiting for her. She grinned and gave her dad a big hug.

After eating her scrumptious breakfast, she kissed her dad goodbye and walked to school. Andrea entered the building to find Harper waiting for her there.

“Hi, Harper.” Andrea smiled.

“Andrea! Mrs. Grace wants to talk to you,” Harper replied. Andrea frowned and crossed her arms.

She walked up the stairs to the art room. She no longer enjoyed the wood and paint smell.
“Ah! Andrea. Harper told you right?” Mrs. Grace said, pacing around the room.

“Yeah,” Andrea said, standing by the door.

“Come sit, come sit,” Mrs. Grace commanded, pulling out a chair from one of the art tables. She moved it in front of her, and Andrea sat down, uncomfortable. Mrs. Grace hesitated, then kept pacing the room.

“Why did you want me?” Andrea asked, getting impatient. Mrs. Grace finally pulled up a chair and sat down in front of Andrea.

“Andrea, don’t get too worked up, but, I know something about your mother.”

Andrea’s eyes widened, and she gripped the sides of her chair.

“What?” she whispered.

“I was the doctor’s assistant,” Mrs. Grace said. Andrea’s face started to twist into anger.

“Now, before you get all mad, let me explain. That doctor, Doctor Richard, gave me the

file on your mom’s surgery along with a note.” Mrs. Grace took an unsealed envelope out of her pocket and handed it to Andrea. Andrea’s hands trembled as she took it. Suddenly, they trembled in anger.

“Why didn’t you report him?! How could you keep quiet?!” Andrea yelled. Mrs. Grace shook her head. Andrea glared at Mrs. Grace, then looked up at the clock.

“It’s first period. See you,” Andrea turned to walk out of the room. Mrs. Grace pushed her seat back and got up.

“Read the note!” Mrs. Grace yelled after Andrea.

Andrea sat down at study hall, fingering the note. This class, third period, was the only one she did not have with Harper. Finally, Andrea gathered up the courage to open the envelope. She raised the flap and reached inside — she felt a small piece of paper in the envelope and pulled it out. She unfolded it and read:

Andrea,

I am terribly sorry. I have lost the surgery file. If you are mad, I don’t blame you. But here, I have the note from Doctor Richard. Please understand.

There was a second note in the envelope too — the note that Doctor Richard wrote. Andrea hesitated to look at it. This note would change reality. She looked around the room at everyone studying quietly. Then, she unfolded the other note:

Lynna Grace,

This is for your eyes only. When Zaria Wilson tore her arm, I did surgery on her. You are my most trusted friend. This is a secret between you me, and if you ever see the Wilsons, them too. I am quitting my job as a doctor. It is no use anymore. But anyway, I was operating on Zaria when I found a virus in her arm through her bloodwork. It was deadly. I knew she would die soon, so I did the only thing I could. I tried to remove it, but I couldn’t. Instead, I damaged the virus so that it would only grow back on a certain day and kill her. By now, I’m sure that it has grown back, but I am long gone in a different part of the country. I pray for her family.

Your friend,

Dakota Richard

Andrea read the note twice and stood up in her chair. The teacher looked at her.

“Are you okay?! You look awfully pale,” the teacher commented.

“I — I’m not feeling so well,” Andrea replied.

“Why don’t you go lie down in the office, hon,” the teacher said, worried. Andrea nodded, packed up her stuff, and headed out of the classroom and down to the office.

The office called her dad, and he came and picked her up.

In the car, Andrea burst into tears from all this pressure about her mom. Her dad comforted her and said they would talk at home. Finally, they arrived at the house and sat at the dinner table.

“So, dear Andrea, what is bothering you?” Mr. Wilson asked. Andrea didn’t need to talk. She just handed the note to her father. Mr. Wilson read the note over, his face getting more and more ghost-like at every word. Finally, he finished reading and looked up at Andrea, his mouth in a tight, white line. He just looked at the paper, then at Andrea, then back at the paper again. Finally, after a lot of looking back and forth, Mr. Wilson pushed his chair back and stood up. He motioned for Andrea to follow him. They both got into the car and drove to the hospital in silence. Finally, they arrived and walked to the waiting room.

“Mr. Wilson? Andrea?” the familiar voice of Victoria called. Andrea and her father walked into Victoria’s office.

“So, what is this emergency meeting about?” Victoria asked.

“It’s about this,” Andrea said, handing the envelope to Victoria. “Mrs. Grace is my art teacher at school now.”

Victoria opened the envelope, took out the letter, and read silently. Her eyes grew wide, and she looked up at Mr. Wilson and Andrea. Andrea nodded. Victoria was lost for words, but she waved at them to leave. She had all the information she needed, and Andrea was finally feeling accomplished.

The next day, Victoria scheduled another appointment with Andrea and Mr. Wilson. The group of three sat together in Victoria’s office.

“Mr. Wilson, we’ve found the location of Dakota Richard. He’s in Rhode Island. We’ve been trying to contact him to pay you guys for not telling us anything. He’s paying a lot of money — some for this hospital and some for you.” Victoria looked really annoyed at Dr. Richard.

“No, no, no, no, no, no. He did a good deed for Zaria. Without him, Zaria would have died way before this. Please. We don’t want his money,” Mr. Wilson stated. Victoria looked like she wanted to say something, but she kept quiet.

“All right then,” Victoria said. “I guess now we don’t have any more to do with this. Thank you so much for all your help.” She got up and tucked her chair in behind her desk. She dismissed Andrea and her father.

Andrea skipped out of the hospital, content.

The next week at school, Andrea came home and jumped into her father’s arms.

“Father! Father! I aced my math test!” And Mr. Wilson smiled so big that his mouth hurt.

So, that’s how it was for the the Wilsons. Happy. Andrea went on to high school, having been on the Honor Roll twice.

Andrea and her father lived in that same house for the rest of their lives, no longer grieving over Mrs. Wilson, but thinking that she would be more happy if they were happy. Those were the words the Wilsons lived by.

Happy plus a Sad does not equal another Happy. But Andrea, dear, if we are happy, then your mother will be, too.

 

Epilogue

Andrea relaxed in the backseat of her dad’s white van, wanting to know how long it would be until they got to the beach. The sun shined brightly up above — it was almost noon. She looked over to her father, bouncing around to the music while driving. She smiled, knowing that everything was all right now. Then, she looked to the passenger’s seat where her grandma sat with perfect posture. Andrea’s grandma was an uptight woman, always yapping about something. Her grey-streaked hair was neatly pulled back into a bun. Andrea never saw a time where her grandma was not wearing a sweater, like a turtleneck, bell sleeve, or even a choker sweater. She was always wearing something like that!

“How much longer, Daddy?” Andrea asked for the fifth time.

“Not too much longer, dear,” Mr. Wilson answered back.

“You said that last time,” Andrea groaned, slouching down, but with a small smile on her face.

“Now, Andrea! You sit up like a lady! That’s how your Grampa Joe hurt his back,” Grandma stated. Andrea rolled her eyes with a smirk and sat up straight.

“Now, what do you say?” Grandma asked.

“Yes, Grandma,” Andrea strained.

“Good. And look! What a way to kill the time! We’ve arrived.”

Mr. Wilson pulled over into a busy parking lot.

“We’re here, we’re here,” he sang to himself, turning off the music. The family got out of the car and stepped onto the sandy road.

“What a lovely day!” Andrea’s dad stated, making Grandma glare at him.

“Now, now, you know the sun’s UV rays could hurt you. Put on some sunscreen!”

“We’ve already put on two layers like you told us to,” Andrea laughed. Grandma grumbled under her breath, adding another layer of sunscreen herself, even though her skin was already ghostly white.

“Andrea! Be careful getting that basket out of the trunk! You’ve probably already strained your back enough for a week! Don’t let me see you slouching one more time today, young lady or I’ll — ” Grandma stopped herself and looked around. She had announced this loudly, like she wanted everyone in the parking lot to stare at her. She again went back to grumbling, and the onlookers went back to their own business.

Finally, after a lot of Grandma’s comments, Andrea, Mr. Wilson, and Grandma made it down onto the sandy beach. Andrea immediately raced for the water, collecting seashells that the waves brought in. Mr. Wilson and Grandma set up a beach towel and the umbrella. Grandma stayed under the umbrella reading a book called Safety in the Cruel World. Mr. Wilson sat watching Andrea running around chasing seagulls. He had tried to get Grandma out of the Safety Zone before, but it didn’t work.

Finally, he called Andrea to come eat lunch with them. They all sat together on the red and white checkered mat, under the blue umbrella. The blue umbrella was under the scorching sun, and the scorching sun was under the white angels. Among the white angels was Andrea’s mother, looking down and smiling at the small family eating, Grandma not even reading her book.

 

Eight in the Evening

He walked in with the lights hot on his face. He strode through the sea of chanting, churning people at almost a skip, eyes rapidly flipping back and forth in the apprehensive version of the steady, slow moving gaze that panned the audience with cool confidence. The subtle discrepancy was unnoticeable. Yet it did not matter who knew, save one person: the person he employed his frenetic technique to locate. The Hornet.

The Grand Champion, also known as the Hornet, was unbeaten. The number eight, having fallen from second slowly and showing no signs of slowing his age-precipitated decline, had challenged the Hornet as a final flail before his career dipped below ten, went into free fall, and spiraled into the vaguely terrifying world of retirement.

The number eight continued his stride, trying a few jabs followed by a powerful cross. That cross used to be his most powerful weapon. But during the smack, as it was widely accepted to be called, the vitality behind the swing was drained. Nothing in the physical punch was wrong, but the audience didn’t seem to care, letting loose a great roar because of his quick training. As the ropes grew bigger, approaching too quickly for the number eight’s taste, he felt the desperate need for the boost of the audience’s cheer once more. He let loose a grand flurry of punches, danced back and forth while the cheer swelled, and drove it to a crescendo with an aggressive uppercut. While it probably lacked in technique, the uppercut had no rival for showmanship. Here was the ring, and now was the time where his natural instincts of fear must be forcibly silenced. He nodded to his trainer, who smiled and opened a gap between the ropes. Number Eight leapt with a huff onto the side of the ring and immediately dove through the ropes with effortless ease, landing in a leopard-like position. The man, with boxer trunks of a leopard glancing predatorily over long tendrils of grass, held the crowd in the palm of his hand. He sprang to his feet and pulled his muscles taut by stretching his arms in a long, nearly complete oval ending below his waist. He roared.

The crowd went wild.

They loved the design. They loved the passion. They loved the persona. They loved the effort. They loved the performance. They would be disappointed to learn how much Number Eight’s shoulder hurt from the leopard pose. It was then that Number Eight saw Number One, The Hornet, known only by his family as Walter Frederickson, hiding in the dark of the tunnel preceding the long walk out to the ring. The Hornet cracked his knuckles unsteadily and blinked hard.

He stared him down, knowing the only chance against the twenty-three-year-old champion was to psych him out, so that he would doubt his superior abilities. Perhaps if he could get the Hornet to crawl wounded back into his hive, his seemingly magical powers would follow.

“The battlefield is where you make it,” his wife had said to him once. It is not always the ring.

Well, it will be his brain this fine evening, thought the man. Early victories will be key to this match. I simply need to make him forget that he could beat me by running away and exhausting my strength through avoidance.

“A victory before the game is as early as they come.” That one was from his first trainer, and it was good advice. Leaping upon the Hornet’s brief hesitation to prepare himself before the match, Number Eight motioned to him with a stuck-out and trembling lower lip to come to the ring. It was a perfect gesture. The crowd roared with laughter, and the Hornet reddened visibly at the barb. But that was not the best part. Number Eight allowed a cruel, crooked bending of the end of his lip in a scarily jagged smile. The Hornet’s eyes widened and then narrowed as he realized it too.

Coming out after that insult would be to do exactly what had been ordered, overtly revealing weakness. Hesitating would confirm the insult that he was scared to come out of the tunnel. Number Eight had been plotting this opening for weeks, and if age came packaged with one thing to desire, it was knowledge. The Hornet took the only acceptable course and charged out with his shoulders thrown back. A slight tremor shook his frame, but while it originated near the peaks of his broad shoulders, it never made it past the compact abdomen. The Hornet, in a somewhat desperate attempt to mimic the showmanship displayed by his adversary, tossed his robe into the audience with a grandiose air, revealing the well-defined muscles hidden underneath. He arrived at his corner hastily, the crowd providing ample applause as befitted the national champion, yet none compared to the raucous cheers issued to the man who now donned a ferocious, black mouthguard decorated with sharp teeth. A simple, black mouthguard was handed to the man in the black and yellow boxing trunks.

Walter Frederickson had a small, chiseled face that might have been a half-moon if it were not so ovalish. He also sported a short crop of auburn hair that was just long enough to give the hairdresser enough hope to aggressively attempt to smooth it back. The Hornet was a strange case, a strange type for a boxer. His short form and subsequently minimal reach, and that his body was just lithe enough that one might have considered him a weight class down from heavyweight, made him quite an unlikely prospect for a boxing champion. He had not been scouted particularly early. He came out of nowhere, relatively, his first major match being against the number twenty-seven in the country. It was an easy victory. So easy that he shot up to challenging twenty, then nineteen. Nineteen, in fact, was a knockout later in the rounds. After that it was fourteen, a very easy victory, and then fending off a few challenges of his own. Sixteenth in the country was nothing to sniff at, but it took a hard-fought, nailbiter victory in the Olympics to really be taken seriously. He took home gold in the light heavyweight after going the whole match just trading blows with some upstart Australian boxer. It came down to the wire, but the Hornet, as he was now known, had won his twentieth professional match right after that victory, challenging the number ten. The Hornet never got too ahead of himself, though. Someone on the internet eventually realized he had only ever challenged someone four places above his own rank, and he earned a reputation for his dogged and modest attitude.

He was also known for his unique fighting style. As previously mentioned, his was not the body type that most naturally befitted a boxer. He had molded his entire style around one thing: reflexes. He had catlike reflexes, could practically anticipate a blow before the thought formed in his opponent’s mind. Based off of that one skill, his coaches had built a machine. It was all in the variety of attack, really. No one could ever land a blow on Walter Frederickson, and whenever they overstepped their bounds, Walter Frederickson would be in and out of their defenses leaving only a cripple. They folded after a strong series of punches, never too long and never was the attack pressed, but just a select few jabs and perhaps a cross. Then, he resumed his stance as if nothing had happened.This was why he was knighted the Hornet.

Number Eight hoped beyond hope that the weeks of rigorous training would pay off. And he needed them to. Boxing was the only thing he knew how to do in life, it being necessary in that craft to dedicate the entirety of one’s time to the endeavor. People do not wonder nearly often enough about the life of an athlete not as successful as Michael Jordan or Arnold Palmer post-career, thought he. And the boxers have the worst of it, perhaps behind football. Retirement is early, so you dither about, unsure of what to do with your money and refusing to allow yourself to take a nostalgic and longing glance into the past, until those years are wasted and you find yourself in the dangerous lands of a midlife crisis. Then your money is gone, your relationship is ruined, and you settle for a mediocrity that is not only depressing in its essence, but also jarringly melancholy as a juxtaposition to your former status. Number Eight’s head spun. He had taken the mental journey into the future that can be as dangerous as a foray into the past. Number Eight also then realized he had been holding his face in a rigid sort of mocking smile for some time. He disguised a brief massaging of his face in the similar but more quotidien gesture of stroking the stubble that was the beginning of a beard that Number Eight sternly refused to allow to come into being.

Walter Frederickson pranced about in his corner, looking a bit nervous, and very childlike as a result. The announcer began the spiel so familiar to boxing fans, announcing the contestants with zest that demanded some sort of accentuation, which ended up scattered arbitrarily.

“And in the BLUE corner, weighing in at TWO hundred and SEVEN pounds, COMING from New YORK, winner of twenty- matches, FIFTEEN by knockout and famous for his FEROCIOUS attack, HEAVYWEIGHT champion of THE world, The HORRRRRRRNET!” The crowd erupted into cacophonous cheers and the energy behind the words. The words were of less importance.

“And IN the red corner, weighing in at two HUNDRED and thirty-two POUNDS, coming ALL THE WAY from AR-I-ZONA, former NUMBER two in the WORLD for Heavyweight…”

The stadium spun violently and Number Eight forcibly stopped the whirlpool that might suck him into the depths of memory.

“…Winner of forty matches…”

He was pulled down into the fathoms of nostalgia to his twenty-first win. That one had been his twenty-first straight. He had felt very proud of it. Then his streak had been abruptly broken by a loss. Out of the four matches following that tenth loss, he had lost two. It was a grand disillusionment for Number Eight. Even though he grew higher and higher in the ranks, nobody believed he would top the lists anymore. And he didn’t.

“…With thirteen by KNOCKOUT and a paltry eight losses…”

But he looked to the side to see his wife, Linda. She was cheering wildly, and when she saw him looking at her for support, she adjusted her expression to flow confidence into him like a tributary. She had always been supportive of his career. He always came home to Linda smiling, a messy bun flopping as she set about making dinner. She held her own job as well, and it was a nice one. She had a Ph.D from Princeton, and had studied for a long while to earn it. As a result, she taught at the University of Phoenix. Number Eight and Linda would relax after a long day, have dinner while discussing the events of that day. Sometimes they would watch a movie. Sometimes they would play a board game. After that, they would go to bed in a beautiful bedroom. It was decorated with polished wood that appeared to be holding up the ceiling. It gave the room a homey ambience.

Linda, thirty-three, and Number Eight, thirty-four, had wanted children for a long time. The duo had learned a few weeks ago of the existence of a baby girl. Linda wanted Melinda. Number Eight disagreed. They would both laugh after each playful altercation. There was no visible bump yet.

Number Eight and Linda were equal breadwinners, at this point. Linda had wanted a job, wanted to do something with her Ph.D. When Number Eight met Linda, he had just lost two out of the last four matches. She took a job at the University of Phoenix soon after.

Walter Frederickson turned to look at the crowd. His glance was intercepted by the coach. Walter looked at the coach hopefully. He received a steely acknowledgement.

“…MI-chael Ca-RU-so!”

Number Eight came to the middle with Walter Frederickson. The referee recited the timeworn list of precepts. “I want a good, clean fight…” Number Eight stared at Walter Fredrickson. Walter Frederickson blinked hard. Then he began blinking very quickly, very copiously. His muscles rippled. His skin looked smooth and young. He blinked again. He checked the audience for any sign of recognition. A nice portion of people cheered. A handful crowed at how few cheered. The heavyweight champion bit his lip. Number Eight smacked the gloves of Walter Frederickson, and the latter’s gloves held firm. Walter Frederickson seemed to find some resolve. Number Eight felt a twang of fear.

Michael Caruso turned back to Linda and Melinda. He beamed at them and dropped his arms.

“Fight!”

 

A Day in the Life

        

Chapter One

Scritch… Scratch… Scribble… The sound of graphite scraping across a sheet of plain paper filled my head. I zeroed in on the story I was writing, for that was all that was important. Ms. Carter’s lecture of something or other slithered in one ear and out the other. I crouched down over the paper, letting my writing spill out over the page…

“Chase!”

The voice pierced through my wall of words, and I jerked my head up. The entire class was staring in my direction, and Ms. Carter was looking at me expectantly. I shuffled my work so that my math notebook covered the sheet of paper with the short story.

“Um… what was the question again?” I asked nervously.

“Weren’t you listening?” piped up Jake.

Ms. Carter shot him a reprimanding look but turned back to face me. “Fifty-seven divided by three. We were working on Katherine’s problem, remember?”

“It’s Kate!” shouted Kate, defensively.

Shooting Kate a sympathetic look, Ms. Carter said, “Okay, sorry. Chase, we were working on Kath — err, Kate’s problem — ”

“Nineteen,” I blurted.

“Huh?” Ms Carter asked. A genuine look of surprise fell upon her face — she didn’t think I could do it. I could tell. A couple other kids, too, stared at me in shock.

“The answer. Uh — fifty-seven divided by three. It’s nineteen.”

A wide grin slowly settled on Ms. Carter’s face. “Yes, that is correct. Now, who can tell me where nineteen fits into… ”

Her words morphed into senseless babble, and I became enveloped in my story again. Thankfully, Ms. Carter ignored me for the long rest of the period, and I had jotted down ten pages of my messy handwriting by the time the bell rang.

Our bell was the old-fashioned ring, and by seventh grade, it had become a primal instinct to jump up as soon as you heard it. That’s exactly what happened, and the second the sound fell upon our ears, the class jumped up and ran out the room. But since I was a neat freak, I took five minutes to get ready because I had to put my writing in the folder, put the folder in my bag, and swing the bag over my shoulder.

I was just walking out when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

Ms. Carter said, “I’m going to let you doodle in class, just… try to pay attention, okay?” I nodded and continued my jog to the door.

Once outside, I had to run down two floors and turn a couple corners to get to ELA and was late once again. The door was open; the class was already inside. I sighed. The teacher, Mr. Williams, handed me a small slip of paper as I walked in. As soon as I had settled down in my usual seat, I briefly glanced at it at it. In a bold print it read:

It Is Your Duty To Be On Time! This Is A Warning — Next Time You Will Get Detention!

This was a new system Mr. Williams had put into play. I vaguely remembered him going over it last class. I sighed again and stuffed the slip deep in my bag where it would never be seen again.

“Who can tell me what a noun is?” I looked up to see Mr. Williams pretending to look around the room but actually looking directly at me.

I bit my lip to keep from retorting. Everyone knew what a noun was! We had covered it in fourth grade! He must be doing this to make me look like an idiot. Well, I would prove him wrong. My anger seemed to drown out the rest of the world as I answered.

“A per — ” I started, but Jake, sitting right across from me, interrupted saying, “A person, place, or thing, Mr. Williams.”

Confused, I looked at Jake, then back to Mr. Williams. “I asked Jake,” he explained, seeming annoyed. Jake smirked at me and then went back to explaining what a noun was. I gritted my teeth and reached in my bag for the writing folder, pulled my current story out, and started writing. I wasn’t that far into the story when someone spoke. “So… what did you get as your answer?”

I whipped my head around to find Emma, a classmate, staring at me expectantly. Her smooth, lush brown hair was swept over her shoulder, and her a picture is worth 100 words shirt blew in the gentle breeze that came from Mr. Williams huge, black fan that he kept in the corner.

“Umm… it’s… er… ” I trailed off, not knowing what to say.

Emma bit her lip. “Your answer. For, you know, the question… ?”

I breathed slowly. “I dunno,” I started. “What… what did you get?”

Emma narrowed her eyes and swept her hair back over her shoulder. “C’mon, Chase. Didn’t you hear him? He said list five examples of a noun. What are your five examples?”

Right then, Mr. Williams walked by our table. I quickly copied everyone else at the table and flipped open my ELA notebook. He leaned over, eying everybody’s work, and whether he noticed that the writing on the open page was from last month or not, he said nothing. Relief clouded my thoughts.

Suddenly, Mr. Williams turned back, his red beard and hair seeming especially menacing. He spoke in a disappointed tone. “Chase… I strongly advise you to see me after school for extra help.” He then continued his slow walk by the tables.

Next to me, Emma’s eyes widened. “Damn. What d’you think you did?”

I shrugged. “I dunno.”

Ant that wasn’t a lie. I was actually doing decently in his class, with a 90 average — which was more than I could say about my other subjects. Maybe, he had seen my work, or lack thereof. Or he just disliked me.

For the rest of the period, I just sat still and tried to listen to what Mr. Williams was saying. But it was hard — I just wanted to write, to zoom out from the rest of the world, and to focus on the worlds that I created.

That was all I wanted to do.

This time, I was prepared for the bell. The boy on my other side, John, had so much work sprawled out on the table that I put my own supplies away early and acted like John’s work was actually mine. Then when the bell did rang, I was ready and leaped out of my seat and bolted out of the room, ahead of everybody else.

Our homeroom was another three floors up, so I didn’t take my time. Once I was about halfway there, another kid, Mason, caught up with me and elbowed me in the ribs gently. “Yo, what’s up? What was that about?”

“What do ya mean? From the warning slip Williams handed me, or Jake the Jerk, or the extra help that I was ‘encouraged to go to?’” I asked sarcastically.

Mason choked on air. “Dude — an after-school extra help? Damn. Are you failing or somethin’?”

“Nope. I’m cruisin’ with, like, a ninety average. He just hates me,” I said, sighing.

There was a creak as Mason pushed open one of the large double doors that separated the stairwell from the hall.

“So… what’s up with your crush?” Mason asked excitedly.

“Not again, Mason.”

“No — Emma is legit your crush! You can’t hide it!”

“No. I refuse to admit something that’s not true!”

“Seriously, Chase; don’t try to hide it. I bet — I bet she knows it!”

I sighed and gave in. “Don’t you dare tell her.”

“Whatever. I swear, though, the second you let me, it’ll be in the newspaper.”

“Oh, sure — your private newspaper.”

Our conversation was brought to a halt when we reached our homeroom. Our science teacher, Mr. Lee, was standing outside the door to our class, talking to one of his students. Mason and I were first to line up behind Mr. Lee, but the 28 other members of our class soon walked up behind us.

Mr. Lee motioned for us to walk in without a glance. We did so. Then it occured to me to ask Mason for the extra help. He was an honors kid and probably knew what to do.

“Hey — about that detention… ?”

Mason, currently in the middle of throwing some books into his locker, looked at me. “Skip it.”

This caught me off guard. “Wait — skip it?”

“Dude, yeah. He was probably, like, joking or something,” Mason replied.

I slowly shook my head. “No… I don’t think so. I think he meant it… ”

Mason shrugged. “Whatever. I’ll go bash some stormtroopers on my own then.”

“Face it, dude — we both know you can’t even survive that game on your own.”

“I’ll try,” Mason insisted, shoving some books into his old Flash backpack. “And if I succeed, then I have the bragging rights.”

I thought for a moment, then said, “Nah. I’ll skip it. You’re probably right anyway, he just despises me.”

He was probably right. My best guess was that Mr Williams would just going to lecture me about being responsible and doing my work — and boy, had I heard that lecture too many times.

The bell rang again, bringing me back to my senses. I swung my backpack over my shoulder and followed the rest of the class out of the classroom, down three floors, and to the entrance of the school.

As I was being pushed out by the rush of students struggling to get out the main door, I saw Mr. Williams walking and caught his eye for a split second. He gave me a disappointed look. I turned away, but a feeling that seemed like guilt seemed to weigh me down.

“So, explain to me again — how do you become a hero in Battlefront?” Mason asked, coming up next to me.

I rolled my eyes and said, “Do you seriously still not know? Even, like, my sister knows!”

It went on like this until Mason and I had arrived at my house, when we waved, vowed revenge in Battlefront, and I spent a while fidgeting with my keys and unlocking the door. Once I succeeded, I walked inside slowly.

“Chase? You there?” a voice — my mom — called.

I kicked off my shoes and threw my backpack on the floor.

“Yeah, I’m home.”

 

The (Rather Unfair) Life of a Housefly

             

SPIDER’S ISLAND

MONDAY

Spider snot! Stupid spider snot! Excuse my language. I am so sorry. Let me introduce myself before I explain why I launched into a fury so hard it could break walls. My name is Fly. Yes, just Fly. I am, as you could tell on the cover of my — cough cough — best-selling book — cough cough — , I am a housefly. I live in a small crack in the wall of a big house. The big house isn’t mine. It belongs to some humans. Disgusting animals who fart every five seconds and laugh at the planet Uranus. HAHAHAHA. Sorry, I just got the joke.

Anyways, time for an explanation. I’m angry because my mom’s stupid boyfriend Derek (who’s a spider, by the way) booked us a “family” trip to Spider’s Island. Okay, I bet there are tons of things racing around your minds right now. You’re probably thinking he’s doing it to be nice. He knows I hate spiders. My mom is too wowed by him to care. He said he knows a lot of people there, including a spider that has a son who is the leader of a posse. He also showed us pictures, and every picture has about a million spiders in it. Not exaggerating. I’ve heard rumors about Spider’s Island from Sticky (who’s a stick insect) that they wrap their prey in webs and devour them in one gulp. My mom told me to pack all my stuff at once because the flight is tomorrow. So, I’m here in my room with an empty suitcase on one side and all my bottled acid on the other side. I’m probably going to stuff all of it in my suitcase tomorrow. Anyways, I’m going to bed.

 

TUESDAY MORNING

Day of the flight… 

Hello? You still there? This is Professor Fly, and I’m about to board the flight to the dreaded Spider’s Island. I had to sneak my diary into the suitcase because Derek said I was getting “too old.” Nothing’s too old for Professor Fly, investigator of the unknown. I’ll fill you in later when I’m on the flight.

Okay, I’m on. It’s just me, Fly, not Professor Fly. He’ll come back when we’re on Spider’s Island. Anyways, we’re on the plane. It’s been about two hours since I’ve been on. The chairs don’t recline, and there’s no snack service. It’s seven hours of this torture. I’ve noticed that the air’s gotten much grayer. There’s also a lot of spiders on the seats. Derek’s already asleep, and Mom is looking through the images again. Okay, I’ll come back when we’re there.

Okay, hi. We arrived in Spider’s Island. The sky is still gray, and there’s a lot of tall, rocky mountains. We arrived at the den that we were staying in. We’re sharing rooms with one of Derek’s thug friends, the guy who has the son in a posse. When we arrived, the son was talking to a bunch of his friends.

“Oi, Dale, where’s your dad?” Derek asked.

“Don’t know. Guess he went out to gamble,” Dale replied. Derek and Mom went to find him. As soon as they left, Dale and the others all stared at me.

“So it’s true, eh? There’s a fly in Spider’s Island,” Dale sneered. All of his posse laughed evilly.

“Okay, fly. You think you can just walk around this place like it’s all yours? This is our island,” Dale said.

“P — please. I don’t have any hassle with you or your island. I want to get out of here as much as you want me out,” I replied. Dale grabbed me by the wing.

“Stay out of our way, or you’re in for a punishment,” he muttered.

He hung me on a branch that was sticking out of the cave. Then, he and his friends went away. Yep, that was how my morning started. I decided that since I was going to be staying here for a week, I should probably know my way around. I went outside the cave and slipped through a small crack in the mountain. I was horrified! In the center, there were hundreds and hundreds of spiders, who were gambling, making webs, stealing food, and drooling all over everything.

I bent my head low and pretended I wasn’t there. I was so small that they probably wouldn’t see me even if I went right in front of them. I spotted Dale, and my rage bubbled up. I really didn’t like that kid. I saw him walk over to a shop and while the owner wasn’t looking, he stole a whole bottle of spider whiskey. Did he drink? I didn’t really think about it much.

Dale and I were already on the say-something-bad-and-you’ll-instantly-regret-it scale. As I walked past, I noticed something else that was strange. Something smelled delicious! I mean, this is Spider’s Island. The only thing I thought they ate were bugs covered in webs. I followed the scent, and it led to a small market where a spider with a beard was selling some pies.

“Three, please!” I said. I gave him some spider cash I stole from Derek’s bag. He gave me some pies, and I stuffed them all in my mouth.

Chomp — “These are delicious! What’s in these?” I asked.

“Oh, just fly meat,” he replied. I stopped chewing at once.

“W — what?” I asked.

“Fly meat,” he replied. I spat everything out and ran over to the sea.

“EW EW EW EW EW EW,” I yelled out. This place was crazy! I couldn’t stay here anymore!

Eventually, I entered the cave. Mom was sleeping deeply, and Dale and Derek were out doing who knows what. I entered my bed, and just as I was about to fall asleep…

CHOMP!

I jumped out of my bed. Something just bit me! I grabbed my covers and pulled them off. Inside of my bed was a snake! It hissed and leaned in for another bite. I grabbed my pillow, but it bit right through it. I ran over to the door and grabbed a branch. I threw it at the snake, but the snake devoured it in one gulp. What? Not even Professor Fly had ever encountered a snake like this. Speaking of Prof. F, he could have really been of use. The snake jumped out of the bed like a piece of rogue spaghetti. I jumped out of the way, and it hit the wall. It turned its head in a full 180 degrees towards me.

“HISSSSSS!”

I took that as a warning. I flew into the bathroom at once. Big mistake. The bathroom was super tiny with no space to dodge the snake. Speaking of the devil, it bit its way through the door and into the bathroom. I grabbed the shower handle and turned it on. As soon as a drop of water touched the snake, it fled out of the cave in a nanosecond. I wiped the sweat off my forehead. As I flew out of the bathroom, I found Dale asleep and Derek looking at me as if he wanted to crush me in his fist and do it three times for fun.

“CAN YOU EXPLAIN WHY THE CAVE IS A MESS!” he yelled out. I wanted to yell that Dale did it right at his stupid, ugly, and hairy face, but I had no proof and even if I did, Dale was still asleep, all innocent.

“Listen, Fly. You’re on very thin ice here, and if you keep going on like this, you won’t like me by the end of this holiday,” he whispered. I mean, it wasn’t like he had won best man of the year, but I think he meant that he was probably going to turn worse than he already was. He gave me another look, then went to bed and stuffed all his bags on my bed. I sighed and lay down on the floor. I was so tired, nothing could have woken me up.

 

WEDNESDAY 5:00 (IN THE MORNING)

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!!!

That was the sound of the alarm that woke me up. I thought that since we were on holiday, we wouldn’t have to wake up early, but that wasn’t the case.

“WAKE UP!” Derek yelled.

Dale got out of bed and accidentally-on-purpose kicked me. “Oops, sorry.” He smirked, and he, Derek, and Dale’s dad walked outside with Mom. I sighed and walked outside.

Millions of spiders were running to the mountain market. Weird. It seemed like they all woke up at the exact same time as us. Dale and his gang were hauling ten bags of bottles. Was that the spider whiskey? I snuck behind a bush and followed them to the mountain market. When he arrived, he set up a table and filled the spider whiskey with… bugs?! He was spiking the spider whiskey!

“Spider whiskey! Get your 20 spider dollars spider whiskey!” he yelled out. A bunch of spiders walked over and got a glass. As they drank it, their eyes became wider.

“BUGS! MORE BUGS!” they yelled, slamming cash on Dale’s table. He saw me and smirked. Oh no. I backed away slowly. Then, I remembered I could fly, so I did. This place was a nightmare, and I hadn’t seen anything yet. Just keep reading. I figured I might as well find a spot that no spider went to to be my private thinking spot. I found a nice area next to a pond and some trees. I started pondering the things that went wrong in the trip.

  1. Dale. Dale makes it up to the top of my list, no contest.
  2. Derek. Derek knows this place like the back of his hand. Not useful for me.
  3. The market. The center of the island, every spider went there, and they sold the most disgusting things.
  4. Snakes. On the bright side, I knew their weakness!

 

I had to decide my plan carefully if I was going to survive this island. Luckily, someone was already ready for the job, and his name was Agent Fly.

Hey, everybody. It’s Agent Fly. I was asked to make a plan to survive, so let’s hit the facts. Dale and his gang always head to the spider market to sell their spider whiskey at 5:00. Then, they go steal other people’s belongings. As long as I stay away from the market between 5:00 and 1:00, I’ll be fine. Derek isn’t a problem. He just goes to gamble with his friends all day. He returns at 9:00, and I have to be in bed by then. For snakes, I’ll just keep a glass of water next to me at all times. Just follow this plan, and you’ll be fine. Agent Fly, out!

Phew, thanks AF. With my new plan written out in front of me, I knew where to go at what time. I grabbed the paper and flew out. It was about 12:00, so I had an hour before Dale would come out of the shop and torment me. One thing AF and I couldn’t figure out was why every spider was outside at 9:00. Maybe this place was really organized, but I still thought it was kind of strange. They all woke up at the same time, did whatever they wanted, stayed up at the same time, and then went to bed. I decided that Agent Fly would go out, and Prof. Fly would stay back and analyze the results.

Okay, what’s up. Agent Fly here. I’m outside right now. It’s 8:59, and I can see some spiders leaving the market. I can spot Derek, Dale, and that dude who sold the fly meat. A secret agent always comes on time. I’ll wait here for a minute and tell you what happened.

Oh My Gosh! Agent Fly back again. I saw the craziest thing! It was precisely 9:00, and every spider was lined up, chanting. I felt the island shake, and then it started to rise! It didn’t take a genius to figure this out. Spider’s Island is a giant spider! It growled, and all the spiders bowed down. Derek walked in front and whispered something in (I guess) its ear. The spider growled again, and every spider backed away quickly. Then, Dale walked in front holding his spiked spider whiskey. The spider growled again, and he smiled. Every spider, besides Derek, looked frightened. Then, the spider went back down, and every spider crawled back to their caves. I have to report to Professor Fly!

Hi, Professor Fly reporting. I found out the spider was a giant spiked sea spider. Also, I translated the growls:

Growl one: WELCOME! DEREK, GIVE ME YOUR REPORT.

Growl two: YOU HAVEN’T DONE ANYTHING?!

Growl three: GOOD JOB, DALE. KEEP WORKING ON YOUR PART.

I don’t know what he was talking about. It all sounds strange. I’m sure it all fits together, but to what? Why was he asking about a report? Why did he congratulate Dale, and why did he complain about Derek not doing anything? Everything just didn’t make sense! Well, I’ll report to Fly now.

Okay, I just got news from AF and Prof. Fly that Spider’s Island is a giant spider! How am I supposed to stay here for a week? I’m so scared. Hold on, Derek and Dale just came back. I’m pretending to go to sleep. See you tomorrow, guys!

 

THURSDAY 5:00

You guessed it, the morning.

I was so tired from last night’s investigation that when I got up, I immediately went back to sleep. Derek shouted at me, and we all went outside to the usual routine. I — I mean — AF, Prof. Fly, and I had decided to call the plan Operation Expose. We had to find out more and leak the secrets of this place. I was a lot more careful when I went outside, knowing that I was hovering above a giant spider. Anyways, I’m going to let Prof. Fly take the floor for now.

Hey there! Okay, so our next big plan is to find out what the spider was talking about. I have a few guesses, but I can’t be precisely accurate until I find some concrete evidence. Since I haven’t really found anything yet, I’ll just end my words here.

Okay, Fly back here. I kinda have some explaining to do. Prof. Fly ran into Derek this afternoon.

He said, “Stop doing your stupid games, Fly.”

You might be confused. Well, Prof. Fly, Agent Fly, and others that might come in after aren’t relatives, twins, brothers, friends, or any of that. They’re just… me, the weirdo Fly with a bunch of secret identities because he’s not happy about who he is. Even if you do wanna walk away now, stay for this next bit. It’s the one everyone’s been waiting for.

 

7:00 (AT NIGHT)

My mom walked towards me. She explained the biggest reason she wanted to come to Spider’s Island was to see… my dad. I looked up. What? My dad had never been a subject at my house. Derek seemed to hate him and said he was an unemployed loser who died by trying to fly in a paper airplane. My mom just kept quiet. I got up and followed her.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure everybody knew we weren’t going to literally see him. You guessed it, we went to the cemetery. We stood in front of his grave.

“Derek lied. He wasn’t unemployed, or a loser, or died by a paper airplane accident. He was a hero of war,” she said. I kept looking at his grave.

 

Frank Fly

2018-2018

Died from the great revolution and was swatted by a human. He was a great hero and will always be remembered for his actions.

 

I felt a tear trickling down my face. My dad. A hero of war. Everyone had made fun of me for the story that Derek had told everyone.

“He was also a hero to our family. His grave was put on Spider’s Island because nobody remembered him for what he did,” my mom replied.

I stared into my reflection in the water. For a second, I saw myself as my dad. A uniform, badges, waiting to enter battle. He had done it all for us. The family. No matter how weird everyone may think I am, me, Prof. Fly and Agent Fly are going to solve Operation Expose. Not for the fame or to rub it into Derek’s face, but for my dad and my family. I raced off to my hideout. Then, I spotted Dale, and he spotted me. I didn’t run away. I didn’t hide. I flew right towards him. Let me just say, this is one of my favorite parts…

“Well, well, well. Loser Fly has come to spread his disease,” Dale smirked. I stepped in front of him.

“How do you think the Federal Insect Prison will react when they find out you’re illegally spiking spider whiskey without a license? And last time I checked, selling spider whiskey without a license and being younger than 30 is five years of prison,” I told him.

“Aww, and where’s your proof?” Dale asked, mocking me. “I’ve been spiking and selling since I was four.”

I brought out a key chain. “This happens to be a recorder, Dale. Let’s see, four years, that’s about eight years in prison,” I said, clicking the button and skipped ahead. I’ve been spiking and selling since I was four.  “There’s my proof. You just unleashed a powerful demon, and that demon can send you to prison or a lot of places that are even worse. So, what’s it gonna be, Dale?”

He looked like he wanted to punch me, but then he and his posse walked away. I almost felt like breakdancing right there. I did it! I never stood up to anybody before. (Well, unless you count the school bully Bane, the Desert Scarab, but if you’ve read The (Rather Unfair) Life of a Housefly: Story Swap, then you’ll probably know that it didn’t end well.) I realized I should have used my brains instead of my imaginary muscles and probably saved myself a lot of pain.

Suddenly, as I flew towards the cave, the island shook. I knew what it meant. Gigantic spider freak island was rising up. It stared me straight in the eyes. It growled, but I’m pretty sure it meant: “YOU’LL PAY!”

I stared at it. I didn’t move. I wasn’t going to try and fight it. Then, I held up an air horn. BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!

Millions of sergeants from the FIP or Area 62 (Area 51 for Insects) flew towards the spider. They shot thousands and thousands of darts until it fell to the ground.

“Thanks for the tip, kid,” one agent said.

“Don’t forget my price,” I mentioned. He gave me a shiny badge. Agent Fly was officially in business with his own agent tag! Then, I ran into Derek. He looked even angrier than the spider.

“I’M GONNA KILL YOU!” he yelled.

To be continued…

 

Solitude

        

Part One: My Secret

 

Chapter One

I am different than the others. It is just the way I am. I’m used to the insults, the bullies, and the segregation. But, there is one thing keeping me going: the fact that I am unique. My name is Tor, and I am a lion. With wings. I know, I know. It’s weird, but I was just born that way. Even though I cannot fly yet, my wings are very helpful.

They help with keeping my temperature in check, fending off enemies, and jumping higher. In a way, I am grateful for my wings, but part of me just wants to be… normal.

***

“He did not!” she says. I laugh first, and then all the others join me. Cerla is our comedian. She knows how and when to tell jokes. I have a small gang of five friends: Cerla, Tou, Yero, Talika, and me. They are the only ones who admire my wings, although they don’t have any. I really do not want to lose them. I feel the wind blowing in my shallow mane as we make our way home.

“Oh, yes he did,” says Talika. “He just walked up to him, smacked him in the face, claws unsheathed, and before you know it, he gets reported to Taren.”

We all drop our jaws involuntarily. Talika and Cerla bring us daily news. We are used to surprises, so we always expect something new. They’ve always been the first ones to know everything that occurs within the pride. We walk in unison on the dusty, red sanded trail leading to our pride. It is early evening, and we should have dinner ready for us in a few hours. When we arrive, we are greeted by a loud roar from my father, the leader of our pride.

He trots over to us and growls, “You are late, my son.”

“Late for what?” I say, sounding childish.

“You are late for… your mother’s… funeral.”

His words sting me, and my soul collapses to the ground. I shut my eyes and let the tears flow silently. She is gone. Lost forever. It becomes hard to breathe as I walk to her den. I spend the rest of the day there. At daybreak, I am the only one awake. I still feel sad about my mother. But now, on top of that, I feel angry about something. I decide to go hunting and spot a herd of zebras down by the river. I trot toward them until I get into earshot. I stay as low as possible in the tall grass. I slowly crawl through the grass. I keep my wings hidden so that I do not reveal my location to my prey. But my wings are too large, and I startle the herd. I growl at myself, and I feel embarrassed. I return to the pride. I lie in my den for hours before I decide that it is time. Time to fly.

I find a nice, flat area and spread my wings. They are longer and larger than my body, nose to tail tip. I flap them in synchrony, and I lift off the ground. Judging by my results, I will be able to fly. I flap them more times, and I hover off the ground. I am naturally able to move around. I begin to increase my altitude.

“Uhh… Tor? What are you doing up there?” The voice belongs to Talika.

“Uh — I can explain,” I say.

“No explanation needed,” she says, softly.

Her grace distracts me, and I fall out of the sky and land on my back. “Ow,” I say, blandly.

She walks over to me. “You okay?” she asks, genuinely.

“Yeah, I think so,” I reply. I get up and shake off the dirt. “How did you know I was out here?” I ask her.

“I — felt it,” she says. Her fur blows in the breeze. No, wind. It grows stronger. And stronger.

“Oh no,” I say. “Not this again.”

***

“Tor, my son, Talika, thank you for reporting this. Both of you head for the shelter. I will take it from here.”

We immediately follow my father’s instructions. We sprint across our territory to the shelter. I look behind us and see a large storm cloud and a funnel descending toward the ground. We finally reach the shelter. Once inside, we cuddle up next to each other.

“Do you think this one could be the worst one so far?” Talika asks, with genuine fear.

“Possibly,” I reply.

The column of death still rages on. I am even more afraid now, and I can feel Talika shaking. She closes her eyes. I consider doing the same, but I choose not to. I hear a terrifying noise. Two trees have fallen in front of the shelter’s entrance. How convenient, I think. I can still hear howling winds above us. I can feel my heart sinking as I remember how my mother died. About a quarter season ago, a weaker storm hit us. A warning went out, but my mother and a few other lionesses were out hunting. They heard the tornado and came running back to assist us. But, they arrived too late. They were at least a mile away when they noticed the storm. They had arrived just when the storm hit. The other lionesses escaped danger with minor injuries, but my mother… got… impaled by a piece of sharp rock. We managed to keep her alive for a while, but the wound soon got infected, and even though we had adequate resources to save her, she had told my father these exact words, “Stop. Stop wasting your resources on me. I won’t get much better than I already am. Just let go. Let go.” That was two days ago.

***

So much damage has been done. Everywhere we look, there are toppled trees and torn up land, but what is most horrifying to us are the dead lions and lionesses everywhere. We trot around our territory, and we find something terrifying.

“Oh no. Please no. Father. Wake up. WAKE UP!!!

My father had been impaled, just like my mother, only he won’t walk away from this one. I realize my wailing is useless, and I pull myself together. I look beside me and see Talika. Staring. At my father’s body. No. There is a lioness behind him. Talika’s mother. I watch her as she sheds a single tear and walks away slowly. I cough, noticing all the dust around. But, another frightening thing strikes me. We are the only ones left. Our friends, our family, it’s all gone now. I summon all the power in my voice and let out a single roar. It lasts about half a minute, and I take a breath and roar again. This time, Talika joins me. We only have each other now. Only each other.

 

Chapter Two

“We’ll be fine, Talika,” I say, trying and failing to see any bright side to this.

We are in my old den, as it was the least damaged one. Talika has been crying for a while now. I have been providing her with food, what little water is around, and another thing. Love. I am thinking about confessing my feelings to her, but this is definitely not the right time. I have had a small (that’s a lie) crush on her for the past three cycles. I have been very confused about why I had these feelings. At first, I just wanted us to be friends. Anyway…

“How can you be sure about that, Tor?” she says.

“I’m not.” And I mean it. I don’t know what will happen to us.

“Tor, you’re always so honest,” she whispers to me. “And kind. And brave.” I must admit, I was not expecting her to say that. “I love you, Tor.” Now, I’m really confused.

“I… I… ” I consider all things I could say. I could confess right now or wait for a better moment. I make my decision immediately. “That gives my something to think about,” I say.

***

We’ve been staying in this place for twelve cycles. We’ve been feeding off the dead carcass of a buffalo, which has kept and is keeping us fed. I have also been having peculiar outbursts of anger. I try to keep them to myself, but sometimes I can’t contain it, and I leave the den for a destructive walk. Seriously, you should see the paths of destruction I make on these walks; I have very few paths to walk along and destroy now. Anyway, now I’ve voluntarily taken on the role of scouting for a better place to stay. We cannot venture out in the open very often; there are creatures that could easily have us for dinner. I look around the barren landscape, still scattered with lion remains. I shudder at the sight and decide to focus elsewhere. I venture further away from our “den” and find nothing. I sprint back to the den, everything around me becoming a blur of nature. I eventually reach it and shake my head at Talika. Her response surprises me, “That’s fine!”

***

Everything seems to be spinning now. I feel dizzy all the time, but Talika doesn’t, which I find strange. I don’t tell her, but I have had sleepless nights since the day of destruction. I keep waking up at night and roaring at the heavens, cursing at them for causing us so much pain.

***

I feel so alone. I have the power of flight… sort of… but I am hesitant to use it.

***

We have stayed in the same place for — well — I kind of lost track of how long, but I know that it is time to get moving. We eventually have to escape this dark, moist, cold place. I have had plenty of time to practice basic flying, though.

 

Part Two: Flight

 

Chapter Three

“Okay, okay. Don’t worry. I’ve got this!” I yell down to her. “I can do this!” As soon as I jinx it, a flock of vultures head my way, and I freeze in place as the images become larger and larger. “Oh, sh — ” I say, or start to say, as they come crashing into me. I fall to the ground and finish what I was going to say. “… it,” I finish unnecessarily. I see her triumphant face lingering over me.

“You were saying?” she says, before helping me up.

Our relationship became somewhat competitive since we started, well, you know. I feel like a huge burden that I have been carrying for a long time has finally been lifted. The burden being our feelings for each other. I shake the dust and dirt from my pelt as soon as I rise.

We decided that we would become nomadic for a while, moving from place to place. Sometimes we see vast open plains with scarcely any trees, and sometimes we see plant life everywhere. I don’t even think we’ve been to the same place twice.

 

The Rebirth Cycle

It started again, the rebirth cycle. Once a month, I change into another person. Different age, different height, different me. Now, I am a girl, Maria, sixteen years old and living in Ohio. My high school is called something like New Ohio High School. I’m scared. Whatever happens, love or friendships, after a month, it’ll all go away. What did I do to deserve this? Anyway, I’m tired of this cycle. It has ruined my life in every way. I have to go and start this new life of mine.

On the way to school, I try to avoid everyone. I look down and never look up at anyone. I pull my hoodie over my head and sit down silent and invisible. Feeling invisible felt good, no friendships and no love ruining my life.

“Hey, are you new?” asks someone over my shoulder. The voice sounds sarcastic and scratchy. I turn around, and all I see is a body full of glitter. The earrings, clothes, and lip gloss are all covered in glitter. I lay my head back in the fold my arms are in. I sit there, not moving until she asks me again in an angry voice. I lift my head, trying my best to keep my anger down and not let my anger get my magic out of control. The lights go out, and the teacher locks the door, assuming this was some lockdown. But I know it was my powers that turned off the lights. After my anger fled away, the lights started to flicker back on. I look up, acting surprised, so that no one assumes it was me.

We all go back to our seats. Ms. Johnson points to the board and starts to gabble about science and chemistry. I look back because I felt something hit my head. I hear snorts and giggles from Ms. Glitter Girl. I look behind me and see lined paper crumpled up in a perfect, round ball. I open it up and there, written in pretty, pink cursive is, “Don’t think I don’t know it was you who made these lights go pitch black. Have a bad day. Sincerely, The Best.” I rip it up and throw it into the trash can.

This boy walks over to her. I notice his beautiful, short, curly black hair. His brown eyes matched his precious smile. I look down at my hands, fidgeting on my desk, as I overhear his sweet angel voice say, “Why would you do that? I know what you wrote. You don’t even know her!” I quickly turn my head, trying to hide my smile, as the girl gives me this ugly face and rolls her eyes at me. The boy whispers something so quiet that I can’t hear. When he finishes, he looks at me. I wanted that moment to last forever, the moment that our eyes met. He smiled. I smiled back. It felt special and unique. There are so many words I can put into this moment.

Ring! Ring! I stand up, and so does everyone else. I grab my stuff as I quickly run to my locker. I shove all of my chemistry books into it before they fall out. I have to get home before anyone sees me. I go outside and hide behind the thin pole at the far corner of the school. I open my backpack and whisper into it, “Bring me home.”

As I start to fade, I overhear his voice again saying, “You dropped your — ” He stops and stares at me as I start to fade more. I close my eyes and hope that he will forget about this by tomorrow.

As the next day begins, I want to forget him. I hope he will forget me too. I look down and pull my hoodie over my head. I go to my classes and glance at the normies on the way. I can’t help but stop and stare at him one more time. I try to avoid any questions from anybody that comes my way. I go into class, put my bag down, and look around. Everyone is staring at me and the boy’s empty seat. I’m scared and shocked, but I don’t let it show. Halfway into class, he comes rushing in and stares at me, not talking. I stare back into his dreamy eyes. In every class from that day onward, I can’t help but daydream about some unrealistic fantasy. Days and classes go by, and I miss him for some odd reason. I think about him all the time.

Science class: glass shattering and terrible smells spreading around the room. Students screaming in laughter, girls checking their nails and me. I am doing the task written on the board, my blue goggles tightly strapped onto me, and my oversized white lab coat with my name printed over the top left pocket.

“Ms. Nervig, please report to the principal’s office now.” I hear the cutting beep at the end of the message, the light click of a button. Everyone stares at me, and I hear “Ooh’s” around the lab. My teacher looks at me as if I have done something brutal. I drop my things, throw the thin, blue gloves into the trash bin, and walk out of class. The cold air from the hallway glides past me in a rush. I have questions flying in my mind like paper airplanes. Why am I going to the principal’s office? I stop, everything stops moving, and one question shoots me hard, Have they found out?

I don’t even have to question it. I already know what it meant. Have they found out my secret? The secret that my family has kept for years, that nobody else knows, and that nobody else should ever know, Have they found out? I take a deep breath and push the heavy glass door out of my way.

I see Ms. Lynch setting up boxes and boxes of tissues all around her desk. I am startled, and everything begins to slow down. She looks at me. She isn’t mad or upset with me. She is sad for me. I sit down with my legs crossed and my hands tied. She looks up at me and offers a box of tissues. I kindly decline. She looks up at the ceiling, wipes her tears, looks down at me, and says, “Ms. Nervig, your uncle. Your uncle has um… Has uh… ” I can see in her voice and eyes that this is hard for her.

I hold her hand and say, “What is it?”

She looks up at me and whispers, “Your uncle passed away.”

My mouth drops, and I take a tissue box. Tears go pouring down, and sooner or later, the ground will be flooded with my dreadful tears. I kindly say, “Thank you for the information, Ms. Lynch. I have to get back to class.” I stand up to leave. I clench my fists and yell. The lights on the ceiling flicker, and the ground moves slightly. I wipe my tears as I run out of school and to my house. The tree of my mother was weeping, and the house was darker and smaller. It was silent, and the echo was spreading more. I begin to sulk and cry. The tears were weak.

I am Andhera, Andhera Hacke. I am at the park four blocks away with an old, dusty notebook laying flat on my ripped, black jeans. My thick, dyed black hair is in a tight, squished bun, and my leather jacket gleamed from the sun’s heat. I am lost, scared, alone. There’s a pigeon under the bench munching on my leftovers. Life is filled with different things and animals that people don’t see. The pigeon’s eyes are so precious and glowy. When its feet start to lift up and its light, delicate wings start to flap, the beak is so sharp yet so small. The wings spread wider and wider, and the eyes stare over the skyline as it soars like a sharp feather. I look back down at my father’s book that was left over. I put the diary in my black, ripped bag and pull down my hair to let the breeze flow through it. I tiptoed further into the forest to the abandoned cottage I saw on the way to school. I put on my gloves before I hurt anything or anyone.

Bump! I look up and see a reflection of me, eyes of a stressful past, holding a s’mores frappuccino that is half empty.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” I hear her say. She’s annoyed, and she pushes me to the side and walks ahead. I suddenly realize that I always back down, that I am always worrying about what I say. It was the same when I was in a car crash at the age of six.

I was in the backseat holding my old, sticky stuffed animal. We were on a bridge alone. My mother was in the front seat yelling at me. I could replay those moments on a loop. I had therapy for ten years, and I still struggle with PTSD. That was the last day I saw any family member of mine, and the last words that my mother spoke were, “You are a disgrace to everyone! As soon as we get there, I will — ” Then, we tipped and fell.

“Hey! I didn’t bump into you! You went into my path, bitch!” She slowly turns around, throws off her bag, looks over at me, and says, “What did you just say?” with an evil eye.

I immediately regret what I just said. That wasn’t me at all! I shake my head and quietly say, “Nothing, sorry.” I try to back away, but she turns me around and smiles. I’m confused. I didn’t expect this. As she smiles and shakes my hand, I shake hers back.

I walk back to the bench after school, and I see that pigeon again. I forget to put on my protection gloves and without realizing, I reach out my hands. I bend down and pet the pigeon’s feather wings, and suddenly its eyes turn white and then black and then it falls down. I put my two fingers against its precious neck, and I can’t feel a pulse. I put on my gloves, open my diary, and write, “Accidental Death #563, pigeon dead by touch of wing, time of death: 5:18 p.m. under bench.” I draw a small heart in the corner, lock it back up, and put it in my bag. I put the pigeon in a dark, red, lacy box and dig a hole underneath the tree. I say, “I’m sorry,” as tears pour down my face. I feel so guilty about how my first day in this new place went. I just bounced right back.

***

I tremble further and further into the tunnel underneath the forest. Andhera is crouching and holding tightly onto her bag. Her combat boots are loose, and they make the leaves rustle. “Are you sure about this?” I can see that Andhera immediately regrets this, and she is too afraid to move another step forward.

I sit down in the tunnel and look at her. I say, “Yes, I am completely sure, and we aren’t backing out now.” Andhera looks up, down, left, and right. Then, she looks at me with guilt. I roll my eyes, trying to avoid making eye contact with her puppy eyes as I yell, “Don’t make me regret doing this for us. We have come all this way to finally face this man! Since the day you made me think that you were a stalker, I knew that you could help me and that I could help you to find out who the heck cursed us! So, yes! I am sure about this and whatever you say I will — Andhera?” I can see that she wants to say something, but her mouth is open with no sound coming out. I move closer to her and whisper, “What is it?” She shakes her head and says nothing like it was… nothing. I knew that there was something. She pulls out a piece of paper from her bag, ripped, burned, and with thick ink written all over it. I turn around. The rustling of the leaves stops and everything stays still, pure silence. Tears pour down her face, and suddenly the tunnel is a flood filled with her tears. I read the paper out loud since she handed it to me. It is rusty and old, and it smells like blood.

I say in a low, deep voice, “Dear Andhera, my sweet daughter. I have fought and lost for you. Your mother said that I shouldn’t come home again because of my dangerous uncontrollable powers. I put this note in my old bag because I knew that one day you would be at Southside Racket Forest, looking for me. I gave you this power because I knew that one day you would want to find me. I have to go darling. I love you.”

I realize that we’re at the end of the tunnel. I stand up, and Andhera comes after me. We look at the sign pole, and there are arrows and signs everywhere with names of places. We look high up on the pole, and it says in thick black marker, “You are now at Southside Racket Forest.” We look at each other and then back down at the letter. We can blindly see a small cottage behind all the oak trees and a bloody sign saying, “Welcome to Hacke’s studio.” Andhera runs forward, and I grab her hand.

I tell her honestly, “Your father could be the murderer of mine. Your father gave you this terrible curse, your father made people forget about me after a month, your father — ”

She lets go and screams, “But what if he is actually a good person. That’s what I wanna know!” She lets go as she runs to the cottage. I am now standing here, still afraid for Andhera. I have no hope for her father. I slowly creep behind the cottage, looking through the back broken glass pane window. I see an elderly man hiding next to the door, waiting for an arrival. He looks nothing like Andhera, and he is sliced open on the neck, the blood still dripping, and the bone sliced in half as if it was broken. A knife on the floor, clean as a window wiper. I can hear Andhera screaming. I get out my bow and arrow and drop everything else as I run in. I see another elderly man holding Andhera by the throat with a gun to her head. I can see Andhera struggling to get loose. I try to calm him down, but I am afraid to move to close to the gun. Unfortunately, I am too late. I hear a gunshot, and Andhera’s heart stops beating while my heart turns cold. The only person I understand is gone. I go down to the floor and pull the bow and arrow out of her bag.

I stand back up and scream, “Back off, bitch! Now you live in my world!” Then, he punches me in the face, and the world blacks out. The sounds of an open breeze and the feel of a warm buzzing head on scratchy wooden floors. My eyes are frozen cold and shut closed; the sight of pitch black and the feeling of being unable to move. The voice yelling help and the warm soft feeling of a hand holding mine. And the empty silence of no one coming. And the silent cries of a loved one…

 

The Guest House – Confusion

        

(Inspired by The Guest House by Jelaluddin Rumi)

Hi Confusion,

Although I never expected you to come, I guess you’re welcome, because confusion leads to thought, and thought leads to finally maybe making sense of some chapter of this crazy, twisting, turning, torrentuous story called life. I know that while you’re staying here in my head, I’ll have no idea which direction I should go in or where this chapter of my life will take me, but I know that you’ll make me think. And I’ve been trying to think for weeks, but something keeps jamming my mind.

Maybe it’s the heat from the early arrival of summer,

Maybe it’s the fact that there’s one person who I can’t stop daydreaming about,

Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been binging TV shows whenever a thought threatens to creep into my brain,

Maybe,

Maybe,

Maybe.

I can’t think clearly.

Maybe that’s because I’m scared of thinking, because there are thoughts in the back of my brain that I don’t ever want to resurface, that I’m too scared to address because the memories contained in those thoughts make me want to cry and scream and punch a hole in my wall.

And now you’re here, Confusion. You’ve barged into my head unannounced, claiming that you will make things better, but my first instinct is to turn you away. I need Clarity. I need Calm. The last emotion I need in my head right now is Confusion. But I can’t bring myself to turn you away, because I haven’t turned even Hatred or Jealousy away in the past, and if I let such horrible emotions into my head, I would be just as horrible as those emotions if I turned you away. Because really, you’ve never meant me any harm, and after you come and go, Thoughtfulness and Clarity always come to visit my head. And for that, my friend, I am grateful.

Welcome. I hope you enjoy your stay — but please invite Thoughtfulness and Clarity to come soon. I could use the company.

 

Realities

           

Protologue

EARTH 65

DIMENSION THREE

LOCATION: NOWHERE

It wasn’t long. My friends finally defeated Crugo using the Particle Accelerator on Earth One in Dimension Two. I hope that the rest of the team is alright. The minute I came to this place, it was in a flash of red. After that, it was just darkness. Where I am is a mystery. All I know is that this place is wonderful, and what I’ve been through is a great part of my life. Here’s the story.

 

Chapter One: Beginning of the End

EARTH ONE

DIMENSION THREE

LOCATION: WALL STREET

It all started when I was eleven. Some wizards and witches came and blew a hole into the atmosphere, and magic came out and spread everywhere like a virus until three weeks later it stopped. My name is Kelvin, and the world was under Savage’s command. We were slaves doing the trash that he could’ve done. You see, the world has changed. Many things can happen… in a lightspeed, a flash, slow, or even go through mirrors and earths?

Yes, earths. We aren’t the only world that exists with its own solar system. There are many worlds. Some can even travel to them by breaking the speed of light and the dimensional barrier, creating a wormhole called a breach. Those are called breachers. Breachers create breaches that can travel through time and space. That’s where most of our problems came from. They had a breacher named Geo. He recently died to spare our lives. He was a good hero. So yeah, why did he spare our lives? Well, no one knows why. He told us to run. I know he was serious, so we ran. Being on the run makes me feel like an outlaw. It’s terrible. There’s really nothing to do but run. The best thing to do is to trust yourself. There is no one you can trust when the world is fighting for power.

Twenty years later…

I’ve gotten used to this world. Newcomers come to us every night. What do I mean by “we?” Well, a few years back, I met up with my former survivors. We split up the minute we were running. Figured it was for the best. Josh and Jade went north. I went east. Kelly and Norah went south. We met up where we all split up.

“I know this might be weird but… I found this cool place in the east side. There’s this cave full of materials. I think other survivors were here before us.”

So we all decided that we should check it out. We gathered our stuff that we gathered over 30 years ago and went off.

A few minutes later…

“Here it is.”

We entered the cave. It wasn’t light out, so I used sticks and created a mini torch. At the end of the cave, there was a small box. A journal was found and also some materials to build a min five-person spaceship. The journal was all burned though, but there was a name left…

“Alex Lucas?”

“Who’s Alex Lucas?”

We went on to build the spaceship and went off. Thinking about the mysterious person named Alex Lucas was interesting. There were definitely more survivors out there. We just needed to find them.

 

Chapter Two: Location: Dead Zone

We reached the Dead Zone. This place was radioactive and also contained a beast named The Reaper Leviathan. One page was saved in the journal. It said that the Reaper Leviathan carries a stone. There’s also a small picture of the stone.

“Hey, that’s one of the stones! See… ”

The moment I went into the escape pod to get off earth, I found a page on the sidewalk showing all the stones. This was one of them. All of them grant power of any kind but only have a limited number of uses.

Location: Earth One Dimension Four

“It’s almost out of juice!” yelled Josh.

“What?!” I answered.

“Yeah, it’s about to die on us. We better get moving fast before we get stuck here,” answered Josh.

“Okay, let’s go everyone.”

It had been four years since we found the first stone. We found an archaeologist that also managed to escape earth. Later, he helped us learn how to use it… but the “The Core” found him and grabbed him off the dead side of the moon, and we never saw him again. Well, we’d been using this stone for four years, and now it’s about to die on us. This could be the end…

“Need any help?”

“Uhh… ”

In my head, I was like, Who are you… ?

“Name’s Bart. I’m one of you.”

“One of… us?”

“Yeah, one of you guys. A metagene,” said Bart.

“Metagene… ?”

“Here… ” Bart handed a piece of paper to Josh.

“Metagene… a person with special abilities created by mixing different genes together,” I read out loud.

“Wait wait. Hold up… you’re saying that we didn’t get our powers from the Particle Accelerator?”

“Afraid so… ” answered Bart.

“You’ve got your powers from magic,” said Bart.

A few years later…

The door creaked.

“So… this is Star Labs.”

“OH GOD!” screamed Josh.

“What? What?”

“Is… is… that a body?”

“Oh god… it is… ”

Both Josh and Kelvin threw up.

“Aww no… c’mon. Why here?”

“So, how do your powers work again?” asked Jade.

“So, my vibe comes from energy, and it kinda relates to age as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it uses energy, so if I’m old, my energy would go lower, and if I run out of energy, I’ll run out of vibe.”

“Basically in short, I need energy for my vibe powers.”

“Would you guys hurry up and stop talking?”

“Alright, Jade.”

We were sent on a recon mission to find some news. Some said that the Triceratops recently found a new stone and were currently mining it out. They were right. They weren’t even close to getting it. The sensor said the stone was 567 meters deep. Only we had the tech to drill it down. We were heading back to headquarters until Josh sneezed so loud.

“Shhh.”

“Sorry… I had a runny nose.”

“HEY! GET THEM!” yelled a Triceraton miner.

“RUN!”

We ran through the caves like mad men, dodging every single laser they fired at us. With the help of Jade’s sonic chi bouncing every corner into bits, everything turned into dust. We were gasping every turn we took, running for our lives, feeling the wind getting colder and colder as we slowly got closer to the light. You know those movie scenes when the main characters are in a chase scene and they are so close until they get trapped. Well, that was what happened but… plot twist!

“Hey, Josh. A hand?”

“Right.” Josh teleported everyone out.

“Thanks.”

“No prob.”

Josh helped us teleport out of that situation, and after that, we ran, ran as fast as we could. We didn’t want to be part of that any longer. We reported back to HQ, and we were sent out to get that stone. Bart stayed back so he could be “tested” and “researched,” so we knew more about his powers. We packed up and went back.

“So Josh, are you… and Jade… ”

“Woah, woah, hold up… me and Jade are just friends,” said Josh.

“Ahh!” yelled Jade.

“Jade!” yelled Josh.

Josh grabbed hold of Jade’s hands, with the help of Kelvin.

“Hold on!”

“Okay… ”

Both Josh and Kelvin lifted Jade up to safety. Josh and Jade hugged.

“Just friends, huh?”

“Yeah, okay. You got me.”

After the accident, we headed out with more focus than ever. Jade kept an eye out, just in case she fell again.

 

Chapter Three: Moments later…

We spotted the mining sight we barely escaped before. I felt the shiver sliding down my spine. Even the look of the place gave me the creeps. I hated that place. Not because we nearly died. It was because… my brother was there. Crugo, he was obsessed with power. The Triceratons offered him that if he would kill me and our parents. He couldn’t do it, so they pushed him aside and killed my parents. I guess I was lucky. They took him from me and used him as a slave.

“We’re here,” said Jade.

“Alright, here’s the plan.”

“You guys got it?”

“Yeah,” both Jade and Josh said at the same time.

“JINX!”

“DOUBLE JINX!”

“TRIP — ”

“Alright, alright. You guys are acting like teenagers.”

“Okay fine… stop being a party pooper.”

“Let’s just go.”

We entered the mine, and the first thing we saw was a big, bright light. It was the crystal. We ran to the spot and found out that they had finished digging it out.

“Let’s go… ”

We went on with the plan, fighting and blasting every Triceraton out of our way. I was so angry that I nearly smashed the crystal itself! We grabbed the stone and went off.

“Hand it over,” said a mysterious person.

“Crugo.”

“Yes, brother. Hand the stone over, and we can end this peacefully. Or we could do it the hard way.”

“I vote for the hard way.”

“No… ” said Josh.

“What?!”

“Here… ”

Before Josh handed over the stone, he teleported a cyclops in front of us.

“Woah!”

“Adiós,” said Josh.

Josh teleported us out of there.

“Thanks.”

“Again, what are you guys gonna do without me?” said Josh.

“Uhh, we’ll be fine… ” said Jade.

No you won’t,” said Josh.

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Jade. She chuckled.

“Hey Kelv, are you still mad that we were playing around, or it is it because of that Crugo guy?”

Kelvin dozed off.

“Kelv!”

“Oh, sorry. Yeah, it was the guy… ” I answered.

“So, who was he?” asked Josh.

“His name is Crugo. He was my brother, until he became obsessed with power. The Triceratons offered him loads of power if he showed them his loyalty by killing my parents and me. He couldn’t do it, so they did it. I managed to hide, and they never found me during that accident. I saw them take him. He was treated like a slave until he finally got brainwashed by a witch of some sort from Earth Three in Dimension Seven. He was never the same man that I knew.”

“Woah. Tough story, dude,” said Josh.

“Yeah, are you sure you can face him?” asked Jade.

“Yeah, I’ll be alright.”

We carried on with the mission. We got back to HQ and delivered the stone for research. Our specialties from Earth Three in Dimension Seven are wizards and witches. They are experts of these stones because they were the ones who created these stones. They sent them off to different dimensions and earths, so no one could use them for evil. Remember the first stone that was almost dry dead? Well, they recovered it, and now it’s full back in power. Still, Parallax wants it because of its immense power.

“So, what is it?”

“It’s one of the stones,” said one of the witches.

“It’s not just one of them. It’s the first one!” said another.

“There were numbers for these?” I questioned.

“Yeah, meet Alpha One,” said a wizard.

“Wait, hold up. There’s more than one Alpha?” said Josh.

“Yeah, one alpha for each cube. Also, we need all eighteen stones. We’ve only got two. We still need to move on.”

“Speaking of stones, I have an idea of where the rest are,” said Bart.

“So… where?”

“I found this map when I was being tested with my powers. I was breaching through different Dimensions and Realms, and I found this on a dead moon,” said Josh.

“So what? This is a map of all the stones?”

“Yeah,” said Josh.

“How do you know?”

“Look, see this. It’s written by Alex Lucas. The same person who wrote about the stones,” said Josh.

“This guy, Alex Lucas. Who is he?”

“You want to know?” said a wizard.

“Yeah, maybe he could help us.”

 

Chapter Four: Alex

A long, long time ago, about a century, we wizards and witches learned a magical spell that grants powers of the imaginable. For the greater good, we used the power to banish the evil that corrupted our world, for the power was too strong that it could easily corrupt anyone who wanted more. So, we gathered and used all of our might to form the great, mystic power into eighteen stones and kept it away in the three cubes. We gave each of the cubes to three trustworthy people. One of which is Alex Lucas. He was a great man. Until one night, the evil who once struck upon us had returned. Monstruct. He led an army into Alex’s house and invaded his property. Alex managed to escape, but he left an important message saying that he fled to Earth Seven for safety. The message was sealed away in a hidden room only we could find. He said the only way to keep the cube safe was to not follow him. The message was the last thing that belongs to him. As a memory. We managed to banish Monstruct to another realm, hoping that he wouldn’t survive for more than a few months. The realm that we banished him to was the realm of Jotunheim, the land of the giants. Giants were fierce and unstoppable. Only the great gods and goddesses can deal with them.

Moments later…

We were sent on another recon mission to find the third stone. On our way there, we came across this weird spacecraft of some sort. We went to check it out, but then we got invaded.

“Step away from the spacecraft. This is the Triceratons. Step away from the space — hey, it’s those guys from before. Get them!”

Yeah, we were seen. This turned from a good and strategic recon mission to a got-to-get-out-of-here-before-we-get-blasted mission. I felt the wind in my hair blowing as the lasers came flying by, I knew this was going to end well. We ran and ran for a hiding place. Every path we took ended up with a scar or a burn. Every path except one. It was where the spacecraft was. By the look of it, it looked like it had pads that sucked up energy. So we went over and behind it. It worked. The lasers just got sucked up, but they wouldn’t give up.

“Hey, Jade. A hand?”

Jade threw a mini shock cannon. All the Triceratons flew back like some WWE wrestler slammed on the ground knocking everyone out. Then, Bart came out of nowhere and scared the life out of me.

“Jesus Christ, would you please stop doing that?”

“I’ll work on my entrances later, but now you got to go,” said Bart.

“Not without this.”

“What is that?” asked Bart.

“This is what they’re after, apparently.”

“Then let’s go,” said Bart.

We all got vibed out of that situation and immediately reported back to HQ. We brought the spacecraft back to them. You know what they all did. They all looked at it like it was a new popular kid’s TV show from the 1800s.

“Uhm, so any clue what this is and why the Triceratons are after it?”

“Okay, yeah. Right,” said a witch.

“Okay, let’s do some testing,” said a wizard.

“Wait, shouldn’t we take the guy out first.”

“Right,” said a witch.

When we took the cockpit off, we were all surprised for who we found. It was Alex Lucas. He survived the long years since his departure. He was in a state where his body was dissolved, but his mind said he was alive. So the wizards used a spell to move his brain to a body that was made of robotics. Thanks to the wizards and witches, Alex could now tell everything we needed to know to find the rest of the stones. Now you know that we have the data to find the stones. We’re not going to go through all of that. Instead, we’re going to skip a few years or so.

A few years later…

Okay, we’ve gotten all of the stones. On one of our trips, we stumbled across Crugo again. He told us that he got Josh, and if we didn’t hand the stones over, he was going to die. If you didn’t know, Josh was captured, and we thought he died already. We also met two new wizards named Kell and Norah. They’d been useful ever since. We followed Crugo’s plans. Crugo said we would meet at a certain coordinate on a certain date with all the stones. Today was the day. We landed on the dead side of the moon. We had all of the stones in a container. Crugo and his army slowly showed their faces. Then, we saw Josh all beaten like he’d spilled his guts out. Jade was terrified. I mean, her closest friend was nearly dead and was just lying there around 10-15 feet away from us. This was about to get messy. I could tell from the looks of Crugo’s face that there was going to be a 95% chance of punching and kicking ass.

 

Chapter Five: The End of Beginnings

We marched to Crugo, and we both handed the things we promised. We got Josh back, and they got the stones. I was regretting every moment I walked up to Crugo and handed all the stones to him. Once we turned back on each other, I got hit in my waist by a laser.

“I knew I couldn’t trust you!” I yelled in pain.

“Of course not. Why just leave without any fun?” said Crugo.

In a blink of a second, the whole dead side of the moon was brightened with flashing lights as we all used our powers to knock each and every Triceraton down. Then, there was a loud…

“ENOUGH!” yelled a mysterious being.

When we turned our heads facing towards the sky, we saw Parallax, but this was different. His face was all peeled and dissolved. When he miraculously peeled his face off, what we saw was unimaginable. It was Monstruct. He has been planning this all along. Turns out, he was not dead after all.

“Monstruct, how did you survive Jotunheim?” said Norah.

“Well my dear, I happen to use some magic to deal with those stupid giants. You know that gods and goddesses aren’t the only ones who can deal with them. A bit of some Asgardian magic did the job,” said Monstruct.

“Wait, you’re telling me that Asgardians helped you defeat those giants?” said Kelly.

“Yeah, the way I tricked them to help me was telling them that the only way to stop those frost giants is to start a war. You know how Asgardians love wars?” said Monstruct. “Oh, I happen to have brought some frost giants with me as souvenirs. I got lonely on my way back here.”

Then, a portal opened behind him filling the air with a cold breeze, and at least 500, maybe more, frost giants came out.

“It was easy to bargain with them to help me destroy you,” said Monstruct.

Looking back at this in my head, there was an 85% chance of us dying. We all started to fight the frost giants as much as we could. They kept coming and coming. Luckily, we had some magic people on our team. Norah and Kelly and the rest of the wizards and witches held back the frost giants while Josh, Jade, and I beat down the Triceratons to try to get the stones back. Yeah, I know that we should’ve not given them the stones, but we were trying to get Josh back, and also to stop Jade from crying all the time. It was worth it, maybe. At least we got to kick butt and use more of our powers. When we were fighting our way through, I spotted a person behind a rock. I went over there and guess what, he was a survivor from earth. His name was Leo.

“I know what they are planning to do with the stones,” said Leo.

“Uhm, using them for power and maybe killing us all?”

“No, Crugo, your brother… ” said Leo.

“Wait, how did you know he was my brother?” I asked.

“Doesn’t matter right now. So Crugo is planning to absorb all of the stones’ power and give it to himself and him alone. With Monstruct by his side, they both can rule the entire multiverse, and maybe destroy half of it,” said Leo.

“Well, I guess we should get moving.”

“We?” asked Leo.

“Yeah, we. Do you know how to use a laser gun?”

“I can try… ” said Leo.

“Okay, here.”

I handed him the laser gun that I grabbed just in case, and from the look of things, I think he knew how to use it perfectly. For some reason, my waist kept hurting whenever I ran. I checked under my shirt, and the part where I got shot at was slowly chipping off. This was bad. We were in mid fight with all of these frost giants and Triceratons and magic going on. I couldn’t risk telling everyone. Although it hurt really bad, I kept on going. Leo ran out of ammo, so I killed this Triceraton and gave Leo another gun to use. This repeated many times until I found this laser gun that ran on magic. Since the whole world was covered by magic because of the accident the wizards and witches caused, everywhere was magic. Norah and Kelly summoned cyclopes and other giants to help us. The ground started to shake with every step the giants and cyclopes took while crackling the moon in half.

As I tried to keep in pace with my team, I saw Josh about to die again. I couldn’t let that happen, and plus I was like half dead, so I ran in front of the gun that the Triceraton was pointed at Josh with. In the moment that he pulled the trigger, I was disintegrated, and I left my team without their leader. This gave Josh the anger to give a walloping punch to a Triceraton in the guts.

***

“Kelvin!” I yelled.

I was in rage when I saw Kelvin die in front of me. I couldn’t hold back my tears. Everyone was in shock. The Triceraton that killed him, I gave him what he deserved, a punch in the guts. I couldn’t stand this anymore. I ran through, teleporting every Triceraton into a molten lava volcano. Almost half of the Triceratons we were fighting were gone. The rest of the team got rid of them. Now it was time to get to Crugo and defeat him and finally go home. We entered Monstruct’s ship and what we saw was a big, bright light. We saw Crugo transfering all the stones’ powers into him.

“Crugo, NO!”

“What?! Why? I want more power. Why should I listen to you?” said Crugo.

“Because your brother, Kelvin, saved my life, and in doing so, lost his.”

“He’s a fool. Save you and kill himself. He should have just let you die, but anyways, thanks Leo, for bringing them here,” said Crugo.

“What? Leo you, you traitor.”

“I was really never on your side. He promised me power if I brought you guys here and especially Kelvin,” said Leo.

“Oh about that, there’s only one thing you’re missing, Leo. I guess you won’t being having any power except death,” said Crugo.

As we saw a big flash of light, Leo was turned into dust. We now saw what the stones’ true powers were. After that, Crugo also killed Monstruct saying that only one can rule the multiverse. Crugo flew off and started to go after earth. That’s where our next plan went in phase. You see, Kelvin knew Leo was a mole from the minute Leo said Crugo is Kelvin’s brother because only we knew. So late at night, Kelvin gathered all of us except for Leo and made Plan A and Plan B. Plan A was to act all innocent and pretend to not know Leo was the mole. Plan B was to use the Particle Accelerator to teleport Crugo all the way to the realm of Niflheim which is the coldest realm out of all nine. It would be too cold for Crugo to survive since the stones grant him power, not vulnerability. Crugo is still “human,” not a god.

So, we traveled to earth, and we went back to Star Labs and prepared the Particle Accelerator. We found Crugo’s location by tracking loads of energy signatures, and it all led to Hudson Bay all the way in Canada. Apparently, Crugo wanted to take over Canada first. So we pinpointed his location, and we used our satellite and launched the Particle Accelerator. The energy from the accelerator transferred to the satellite with the help of Norah and Kelly’s magic, and we finally teleported Crugo to Niflheim. We all cheered happily. The world was saved, and the multiverse could rest easily.

Chapter Six: Family

All was good after we defeated Crugo, but we were missing somebody. Kelvin was our leader, our friend, and is part of our family. We might not have grown up in the same house or went to the same schools, but we all knew him as a brother. We all respected him. We went to his funeral to repay him for saving everyone’s life, including mine. He may have not joined us in the final battle, but he was a part of it. Without him, this all could have ended really bad.

Goblins and giants, elves or Triceratons, we all knew him. This world has changed because of magic. Magic has changed all of us. Now we all befriended giants, elves, dragons, and even some frost giants. I was awarded for being the hero who saved the world. No one knows that Kelvin saved me. If it wasn’t for him, I would have been toast.

“I am proud to be the hero, but I am not. This award goes to my best pal, Kelvin. He saved me, and in doing so, he lost his own life. Without him, I would not be here, standing here with my mom and dad and all of you guys. Kelvin helped this team and even me go through tough times. I could not thank him enough, so I would proudly give this award to my fallen brother Kelvin. I wish he could see all of you guys here alive and well, and I know for a fact that he is in a wonderful place, up high. I just wanna say, thank you, and I love you all.”

So, I gave this speech about Kelvin. As for the award, it’s in the Museum of Fallen Heroes. It was built for all the fallen heroes known in history. One of them is Kelvin. We all learned a lesson from Kelvin’s death. We learned that home and family are what we fight for. We always come home to our family and friends. That’s what makes us unified. It’s our sense of humanity.

In loving memory of Kelvin Hollenbeck [My main character]

 

Next Door Robbery

It was 9:00 in the morning when I had woken up, and it was a usual day, but it really wasn’t when my landlord came by to check on the house. But the moment the landlord knocked on the door rapidly, I knew that was really weird because he always looks in through the window. Then, he demanded I “open up.”

When I opened the door, he entered and gasped saying, “Call 911 this moment.”

Then, he pushed me toward the telephone, pushed me out of the way, and pressed the buttons rapidly. Then, I looked at his face, and his face was in terror with his red, sweaty forehead. I even thought his little hair on his forehead was turning red, too.

Then, I asked what was going on, and he replied, “There’s a robbery next door.”

And at that moment, my heart felt like it fell into my stomach. Then, the landlord finally got on the line with a 911 responder, and the landlord said, quickly cutting off the responder, “There’s a robbery on 258 Elm Street.”

The woman said, “We will be there.”

Then, out of nowhere, I heard the noise of glass shatter, and the next thing I saw was the cord break. I looked back, and I saw a man in a black ski mask, and then he quickly lifted up the bag full of jewelry and chuckled. Then, he left in seconds. The landlord and I looked at each other and sat nervously and waited for the cops to come. Then when they came, they asked what happened.

I said, “I don’t know.”

When the landlord and I were all alone, he said, “I was behind the robbery. That man that you saw in the ski mask, that was my brother, and you want to know why I called the cops. Because I will be last person they come to. I trust you so much I am telling you this now, and for you to be hush-hush, I am splitting the money with you. Okay?”

“I’ll take the deal,” I replied.

Then he said, “Okay.”

Though I did wonder why he robbed that place.

 

Acelin (Chapter One)

The king’s throne room truly is as magnificent as everyone describes it, if not more. The room is made of marble, and the ceiling reaches about forty feet above me. Guards prod me in, but I don’t need them ushering me to know what to do. I’ve had plenty of practice. Smile, bow, perform, and dance. Then smile, bow, and make your exit. I stride in, confident in my own abilities. I walk up, right to the elevated platform where fifteen thrones sit. I can see the king’s scrutinizing expression. I am merely a small, meaningless nymph who is much lower than him on whatever social scale you look at. I am here to entertain the king, the royal family, and his court before hundreds of princesses or girls of noble status come and try to entertain the thirteen princes. Thirteen out of five hundred will become brides, and one will be the future queen of Acelin.

I point to one of the waterfalls and twirl my finger around. It obeys, copying my actions. There are “oohh’s” and “aahh’s” coming from the court, but the royal family is silent. They’re my target. If they like it, I get handsome pay. I begin to twirl the one on the opposite direction too, then I move my right hand to the other side. The twirling waterfall gracefully moves across the room to where I point and combines with the other spinning waterfall, making a bigger, grander display. I turn my head to the right, looking at the royal family. I have a few princes hooked on the edge of their seats, including the heir to the throne. I wink and go back to my work.

Half an hour later, I finish the exhibit of my powers. I even managed to get a stream of water to curve around the thrones of the royal family. Cheers erupt from the courts, and I even get a standing ovation. The queen and all her sons give me one as well. A standing ovation from fourteen royals, not bad for someone like me. The king smiles and claps a little. His eldest son nudges him, and the king begrudgingly stands to clap for his insignificant performer.

I smile widely and bow in a similar way as before. “As always, a privilege, your excellencies,” I say and make my exit. Two guards lead me to my temporary room.

I begin to pack. My sister will be expecting me to be home tomorrow. I organize the very few belongings I have in my travel bag and grab my train ticket home. They said they’d escort me in fifteen minutes, at 18:00 sharp. So I sit and wait on the bed.

I’ve been in Creledo for two days. It’s even bigger than where I live, an underwater city called Oceim where every saltwater nymph lives. Creledo is the capital, but it isn’t where the king resides year round. He travels to different regions in the country to seek warmer weather than in the capital. Winter is harshest there because the ice faes, fairies, and nymphs all reside in Tostica which is a mere twenty miles away. I see the king more often than most because he has a summer home a few miles away from Ociem on the beach. A little town even sprang up around it. The town grew into the city of Gardenia, named after the magnificent gardens growing in front of the summer palace, which the public could view from outside the gates. I work in Gardenia. It’s not the most honorable job, but the pay is handsome, and I’m good at it.

My sister has a much more suitable job for a young nymph. She works in Ociem as a jeweler. She hunts for shells and turns them into the best jewelry in all of Acelin. She even sells them to the citizens of Gardenia. She said the queen even bought a necklace she made once. She’s very respected in Gardenia and Ociem unlike me. But I was desperate before my sister got a job.

I am interrupted from my thoughts when there is a heavy knocking on the door. It isn’t 18:00 yet, but maybe they came to collect me early.

I open the door, luggage in hand — if you can even call it that.

“Miss, we’re taking you home a bit early,” a tall, red-headed guard says.

“Alright,” I say and step out with them.

“Your pay will be delivered to your bank account,” the other guard tells me.

“Thank you.”

Perfect, I can’t be robbed on the train then.

They lead me out of my room and through the rest of the marble palace to a waiting carriage.

A servant opens the door for me and helps me in. The carriage is spacious, and the windows let in a lot of light. I sit on one of the velvet cushioned benches and stare out the window. The red-headed guard sits across from me, holding a long spear. The other, shorter guard takes his seat next to me holding a similar spear.

Am I that important that they have to use spears to protect me?

“What is it like in Ociem?” the redhead says, trying to start a conversation.

“There are many shops,” I say. “They sell one of a kind things. Jewelry you can get from nowhere else, amazing food and it’s not salty, and novelties from wreckages. The nymphs that do know of wreckages are archaeologists or investigators for the government.”

“What do you eat since you’re underwater?”

“Well, unknown to a lot, the city is surrounded by a bubble of oxygen. So it’s dry, and we breathe air, but nymphs can breathe both air and water. Cargo subs bring supplies to and from Ociem.”

“Of course,” the shorter one says. “But the bubble is interesting.”

“Yes,” I say, and the rest of the ride is silent.

We arrive at the Korona station at 18:15. The servant comes and opens the door again. The shorter guard steps out first before the servant helps me out again, and the redhead follows. They lead me to the check-in for the station.

A woman with classic black glasses looks at me sternly. She’s a member of the Acelian National Guard or ANG. She has on a black jumpsuit, making her movements versatile and agile while also making it appear she is in a structured, organized group. On her upper left sleeve is the Acelian crest, a Phoenix with its wings spread proudly. Little color dots circle it — green, orange, white, silver, lilac, blue, beige, and violet. One for each power group. She has her name tagged onto the jumpsuit. Admiral McKinnley. She has her auburn hair in a tight bun on top of her head. Her stormy gray eyes fix themselves on me.

“Name?” she commands more than asks.

“Atlantica Reef,” I reply, my voice level.

“Ticket.” She holds her hand out from behind the desk. I open my bag and take out the train ticket the Royals provided me. It’s made of silver colored paper, meaning a seat in the second class car. McKinnley scans the ticket, enters the code on it, and tears off the part meant for records. She hands me the other half.

“I’m going to have to search your bag and pat you down,” she says and gets up from her desk and gets out of the box she sits in. When she gets out, I can see she’s wearing black, knee high, lace up, heeled combat boots. It makes her look very badass, and part of women’s training for the ANG is learning to run in heels. How useful in cases like these. I wonder what her power is.

“Bag.” She holds her hand out. I hand her my luggage. She sets it on her desk and rummages through it. After a thorough search, she closes my bag and hands it back to me. She pats me down. I’m calm while doing this, it’s for security. She’s finished quickly, and the shorter guard leads me inside after she opens the door. The redhead stays behind. I catch a glimpse of him flirting and her blushing before I leave.

The silver bullet train speeds into the station at 18:30. Right on time. The guard bids me farewell, and I get on once the train stops. A conductor guides me to the second class car and my seat. It’s more luxurious than I could’ve dreamed. There are more comforts than I have ever seen at home. My sister and I live in the rundown part of town, in a dilapidated shack.

There is velvet cushioned seating and a table in the middle, for what I can’t imagine. I have my own compartment closed off by a sliding wooden door, allowing for privacy. The train will take two days to reach Ociem, so there’s another door behind me. That’s where my sleeping quarters are most likely and also the latrine. I just sit and look out the window. The bullet train begins to rise because of the magnets it uses. It’s a great alternative to what people were using years ago to power trains. The magnets on the train and on the platform are now at the same poles making the train levitate effortlessly above the tracks before speeding off.

I watch as the scenery passes by in a blur but quickly get bored, so I open my bag and take out my belongings. A locket, a few changes of clothing, and a book that I’ve read about five times already from cover to cover. The book’s about the history of sea nymphs. It’s got records of all the sea nymphs who ever lived in Ociem, and I’m trying to find any family ties I can because my sister should not have to live the way she does. I haven’t found anything — not one thing — with the only exception being dead relatives, like our parents. I sigh and put the clothes and book back, but I hold onto the locket. My sister made it out of shells, but I haven’t put any pictures in there. I put away the ring I received from my best friend. I don’t want to wear it for the fear it will be stolen.

I put the locket back into my bag with him in mind and go to my sleeping quarters.

There’s a comfy looking bed in one corner, a bathroom with a shower is in an adjacent room, and a vanity is placed opposite to the bed. I place my carpet bag on the bed and relax. I decide it’d be nice to take a shower and a nap. I head into the beautiful washroom. Towels hang on a rack next to the huge shower. I slide open the glass door and examine it. There’s no tub. Just a tile floor with a drain in the middle. I go back and lock the sliding door to my compartment, then the one for my sleeping quarters, and finally the one to the bathroom before taking my strapless, sweetheart neckline, light blue, chiffon dress off. My underwear follows, and I begin to remove my hair from its braid and free it from the hair accessories I used for my performance. I take my makeup remover out of my bag and begin taking off the heavy eyeshadow, mascara, eyeliner, lipstick, and blush I used. It feels good to be completely bare for once. No paint on my face, no suffocating dresses, and to finally free myself, I kick off my heels. My natural face shows in the mirror, and I almost don’t recognize myself. It’s been forever since I’ve seen myself without makeup. I look pretty either way, but I feel better like this. I step into the shower and cleanse myself with the scented soaps and oils provided in lukewarm water. Afterward, I dry myself and put on the bathrobe provided before heading to get changed into a comfortable outfit for once in my life. I put on my favorite light wash, ripped, denim, skinny jeans and a white off the shoulder top. I slip on a pair of sandal flip flops. I let my hair out and go back to do my makeup. I put on minimal mascara and apply my eyeliner in the cat eye style.

I take a look at myself. I look good.

I unlock all the doors and sit back down on the cushioned benches. A waiter enters my compartment and puts a platter on the table along with a bottle of ginger ale.

“In case of any motion sickness,” he says and exits as quickly as he came, sliding my compartment door closed behind him. I look at the covered tray and lift the cover out of curiosity. The tray is full of food for an amazing dinner plus dessert. California rolls with a side of soy sauce as an appetizer, chicken breast with mashed potatoes and vegetables, and finally for dessert, creme brûlée. I eat the meal, savoring every bite. I’ll never eat this well again. My mind wanders to how the first class must be treated if this is only second class. I relax after I finish the meal and neatly put the plates and dishes back before covering the tray again. I take the bottle of ginger ale to my bedroom and put it in my bag. My sister and I rarely drink pop, so I want her to share it with me. I feel bad Airia won’t get to try an amazing dinner like this, but she’ll have ginger ale, so I guess that makes up for it.

I cannot fathom what to do at this point. I’ve got nothing to read or take my mind off my boredom, so I just hope the waiter comes back to take my tray.

He does after a few minutes thankfully, and he asks me, “Do you need anything, miss?”

“Could I get a book?” I ask.

The waiter nods. “Do you have one in mind?”

“Not really, but I do enjoy the works of Otega Green,” I reply. He nods then disappears before coming back in ten minutes with two books.

“I’ve got two, miss,” he says and puts them on the table. “Perfect Strangers and Perfectly Imperfect.

I thank him, and he leaves. I then lock my compartment for the night and head to my “bedroom.” I slip out of my normal clothes and put on my nightgown and braid my hair into one long plait before getting into the comfy bed with Perfect Strangers. I read for two more hours before falling asleep.

 

Dog Party

Another day at the Supermall USA, the mall of all malls, the supermarket of all supermarkets. And why are we (or in this case, why am I) here? We are here to get 13 small but important items for the party. It may take a while. It looks like I might be here for hours and hours just for the food aisle! I enter the supermall.

“Oh my god,” I whisper to myself under my breath. “This mall is huge! You could fit my apartment 40 times in here and still have space! This is going to be like finding a needle in a haystack,” I say to myself, staring at the promotional poster that shows a literal needle in a haystack in a supermall with the quote beneath it saying: “Try finding a needle in a haystack in SUPERMALL USA!!!”

I have three hours until the party. If I don’t get this done, I don’t know what I am going to do. Poor Joe will be so let down. Okay, let’s start by heading to the dairy aisle, aisle 52. Okay, cheese after cheese after cheese after milk after milk! Aha! That’s what I need. Milk. That’s one thing off the list, and now I have to go all the way back to the start for the zip lock bag aisle. I grab a bag not even looking at it and then run back to the back of the store. I do this for hours. Finally, I got all the items, and I look in my cart and realize half of them are open and tampered with. I scream out loud because I have been in here for at least an hour. People stare at me and run, some even filming me.

Embarrassed, I continue shopping like a normal person, taking all those old items and putting them wherever I desire. I continue my shopping, carefully examining items once I pick them up. It’s been another hour, and I have all the items that are on my shopping list. All the items are perfectly functional, and I realize I have not gotten a single gift. Not one gift has made its way into my cart. I quickly run back to grab a teddy bear and rubber chicken, run back in line, and wait. In the time I left and ran back, 30 more people got in line. The one time I leave and come back, the one time I go shopping in this mall, 30 more people… get in line… and take my spot… I am never going to this mall again, unless I am in true need of it. One and a half hours have passed. I sit in line, and I wait, trying to make small talk with the person in front of me while some young lady is talking very loudly on the phone behind me.

“O-M-G! That is so cool. I totally like that. As a matter of fact, I might like like that like now! Like it’s so like what’s the word oh it’s like cool,” she tells her phone.

I can’t take it anymore. It’s too much stupidity. This person, nothing she says makes sense.

“Can you like shut up!” I say, mocking her awful accent and speech.

She gives me a dirty look and turns and faces the other direction, continuing her conversation, this time talking about me and how “crazzzzy” I am. This time, instead of saying something, I ignore her, knowing that I am fighting a losing battle. I continue to wait in line for the checkout, finally reaching it after another 15 minutes.

“Cash or credit?” the cashier questions.

I respond with, “Credit.”

“There is no balance on your card,” he responds.

I reach into my wallet for cash, hoping there will be enough money in it. Today is not my lucky day, so I do not expect much, but surprisingly, I have enough. I make my way outside with my items and my near empty wallet and start driving home, looking at my gas tank. I realize by the time I reach home it will be empty. I take a quick stop to refill on gas. Joe’s friends will be home soon. I have to hurry. I look right and see some reckless idiot smoking a cigarette right next to a pump. What an idiot. I feel the need to approach him, the need to tell him the hazard of smoking near a gas pump and what it can do to him and others around him! So I do.

“You listen here, idiot. You don’t smoke near gas pumps because you can kill people like that!” I yell at him.

He quickly puts it away whilst saying, “Sorry, mom!”

I don’t know why he said “sorry mom,” but I don’t have time to question it. I head back home in the car. I approach the door with my keys in hand and only five minutes to spare. All of my friends will be here soon. I enter.

“Hey there, Joe!” I exclaim.

“Bark bark,” he barks.

Joe is a dog, a little Chihuahua. I hear a knock at the door. All my friends are here with their dogs ready for Joe the dog’s fifth birthday. Bark on, barkster.

 

Benevolence of Change

        

The Child With Emerald Eyes (SONNET)

Summer smiles in sun-kissed bliss with her cloudless days,

Watching over a child with emerald eyes,

Who rocks back and forth in his chair in a joyful haze

And laughs in glee under bright and clear skies.

 

Winter smiles with her frigid cool and heavy mist,

Drifting down frail snowflakes that float in the air

And melt on the skin of an emerald-eyed man who wished

To be able to forever rock back and forth in his chair.

 

Summer returns in her sweltering heat,

Watching over a wrinkled old man with a cane,

Whose emerald eyes shine in defeat

At the passing of time that had stolen his youth with no refrain.

 

The wrinkled, old emerald-eyed man rocks back and forth in his chair with an accepting gaze,

Underneath the watchful eye of Winter and Summer and in his wrinkled eyes: a youthful, fiery blaze.

 

With Calm Sways (SESTINA)

She calmly floats, swaying

As waves softly lap and swirl

Against her body under a calm

Sky that appeared not stormy

But painted in a soft pink haze

Above water clear as crystal.

 

Overcome with a sense of rest, her crystal

Blue eyes gazing in swaying

Calm, floating atop water in a peaceful haze

And an unconscious swirl

Of serene lack of a stormy

Sea, washed over with a sense of calm.

 

Amidst her floating in the calm

Sea, she suddenly jolts with crystal

Clear clarity of times stormy

And gray, and with a more intense swaying,

She remembers and recalls in a swirl

Of sharp understanding in a sudden dark and blurry haze.

 

She recalled sitting in silence in a foggy haze

Listening to a doctor with steady calm

Who told of an illness in no swirl

Of emotions, but with crystal

Clear clarity, and under a sympathetic gaze, observed her swaying

At the prospect of times stormy.

 

From then on, there was no end to days stormy

With pain, until one day, a sudden haze

Of dizzy faint struck to leave her swaying

And struck her to the floor with a final sense of calm

And yet sharp crystal

Clear clarity of an overlooming dark, heavy swirl.

 

It was then she faintly recalled the deafening swirl

Of red and blue to save her from times stormy

But left her and her crystal

Blue eyes in a fleeting haze,

As she ended her struggling and finally closed her eyes with calm

And let go of the overwhelming pain to feel herself suddenly swaying.

 

Brought to a clear blue ocean and a soft pink haze

Painted in the sky, free of stormy

Days, she calmly floats, swaying.

 

Missing Tooth (RONDEAU)

Giggling in fleeting bliss, the girl’s face is momentarily illuminated

By the flash of a camera that had caught and captivated

A young girl in the bloom of youth,

Her mouth wide with a missing tooth,

And a laugh, free and liberated.

 

Now a woman, youth fadingly saturated,

She glances at a photo of a young girl faded

But laughing with a missing tooth,

Giggling in fleeting bliss.

 

With deepening wrinkles, the woman, sophisticated

With age and laughs weighted

With a solemn truth,

Glances at a photo with no missing tooth,

Of a young girl liberated,

Giggling in fleeting bliss.

 

Golden, Warm Air

A broken butterfly fluctuates in its soar,

Through a journey over poisonous gardens,

Cool air,

Broken wing flapping,

Flying with its thought: one last time,

But landing with its golden swirls in the warm hands of a warm-handed woman.

 

A broken woman staggers in her walk,

Through a journey heavy of poisonous people,

Dark air,

Broken past looming,

Walking with her thought: one last time,

But landing in her warm hands: a broken, golden-swirled butterfly.

 

The broken butterfly flew with the weight of fragile life

Atop its golden-swirled wings,

But remaining now, safely nuzzled against the warmth of a woman

Who had too walked heavy.

 

The woman weighted with broken past,

Begins to walk steady,

Illuminated by the golden swirls of a golden-swirled butterfly

With a broken wing,

Beginning to fly.

 

Golden-swirled wings glow from ascending warmth of warm hands,

And is released from the warm hands of the warm-handed woman,

Flying away free,

Into the golden, warm air.

 

A golden-swirled butterfly with a broken wing,

A warm-handed woman with a broken past,

But themselves no longer broken in harmonized air:

Whole.

 

Silent Love

The radio played a soft ukulele tune in the background, shadowed by carefully placed piano chords. We lay atop my bed together, looking at the ceiling that glittered with fake, painted stars. One of my arms was on my chest, one of his was on the cover, and we each held the other’s hand. The pastel aqua and melon theme that was patterned in the bedroom added another feeling of peace. The radio crackled, the song ended, and it began to play a slightly calmer, aesthetic song with electronic beats. He shifted his position on the bed, and so did I, following his lead, so we both sat with our backs to the walls, sitting on top of the blanket. Our love was a quiet, delicate thing. It involved aimlessly lying on beds while playing warming music and looking up to our imaginary sky. We always painted the ceiling, so one time the sky could be dark and littered with small glow-in-the-dark stars, and other times it could be mixes of reds and yellows, imitating a sunset. But all that really mattered was that the two of us were there, together.

 

The Vindicators (Chapter One)

       

Prologue

The date is April 25, 2030. The planet has been flooded with criminals and chaos, the government has been overthrown, and all known superheroes have either been killed or have gone into hiding. The citizens of Earth now obey the criminals and supervillians that threaten them. They survive through each day with hope, hope that the heroes might rise again to restore the world to its former glory.

 

Chapter One

In a subterranean base deep underground, a not-entirely-human in a spacesuit is working on an android. His suit is a mix of green, gray, and black, made mostly of metal. A beam of blue light emanates from the spot in his helmet where his eyes would be. He wears the suit to protect what is held inside, a being made of pure, unstable energy. The suit shields Guardian from Earth’s air, which is toxic to his body. A cure to his condition is still elusive despite his intelligence. The suit is his only way of living on Earth.

The white room that he is working in is filled with gadgets and tools, strewn about in a seemingly random fashion. A pile of scrap metal sits in the corner, overflowing with junk: a broken radio, half of a computer, even a couple damaged airplane parts. He currently sits at a desk working on the upper body of a robot, one of his numerous projects.

The room is Guardian’s personal laboratory, and he uses it to build technology for his boss and teammate, Minion. The project that he is currently working on, titled Apetura, is an android designed to be an assistant to Guardian. It will have all of his technical prowess and limitless intelligence. Its purpose is to assist Guardian with a far more complex task: building a more advanced robot from scratch that can match the martial abilities of Minion, a necessary requirement for any member of his team. The robot will be named Namaste and will be a member of Minion’s team of superheroes, The Vindicators. Their goal is to save the world from the evil that runs unchallenged throughout Earth. Minion walks into the room, the reds and blues of his super suit shining in the light. He has a smile on his face and appears to be very excited, practically jumping with every step.

“How goes the project, my friend? I will require Namaste to be ready in a week’s time so that I can properly assess his abilities,” Minion inquires. Guardian looks up and hesitates for a second before speaking.

“Well… there’s a slight problem. To create an android from scratch in that amount of time I will require an assistant, which I am creating now. She will be specifically designed for this task and will hopefully prove to be a valuable asset to my lab. But Namaste should be ready by next week if all goes well, sir,” Guardian replies.

Minion smiles and leaves the room. He walks through the main floor of the base and into the elevator, a stainless steel contraption with an array of floor buttons, much more than any regular elevator. Minion inserts his key card into a slot on the bottom of the button panel and presses the lowest floor in the entire complex. The elevator descends rapidly and soon reaches the bottom, dinging with every floor passed. The doors open into the portal room, a room created for only one purpose: teleportation. A large portal-making device sits in the very center of this room. It looks like a metallic, circular frame, but nothing currently sits in the frame. A terminal slides out of the wall with Minion’s arrival, and an interface is brought up to his hand. He inputs the exact coordinates of his destination, and the terminal slides silently back into the wall. The portal machine emits a low humming noise, and a portal fills the frame, showing a glimpse of the other world. Minion enters into the darkness of the portal and is teleported away. The portal closes behind him.

***

The world that Minion enters is pitch black, except for the light coming from the portal behind him. But the light disappears almost immediately with the closing of the portal. The planet is named Ragnarok, after the doomsday story in which the sun itself is eaten and the world is plunged into darkness, a very fitting name for a place devoid of light. Minion takes a pair of night vision goggles out from his belt, puts them on, and starts walking down a meticulous path with the aid of his now clear vision. His surroundings aren’t much, just black spires of rock and the occasional hole, but the night vision helps to distinguish them from the rest of the darkness.

Without light, this planet is incapable of sustaining life, except for the person that Minion is looking for. The planet was once great. Its surface was vibrant, its animals happy and peaceful. But that was before the planet’s sun exploded. Everything went downhill from there. Soon, Minion reaches a steep ravine, the bottom nowhere in sight. He grabs onto the end of a tall pole that rests against his side of the gap, as if it was placed there on purpose. Minion vaults across the ravine with practiced ease and leaves the pole resting against the side of the ravine that he now stands upon. He takes a series of complicated turns and reaches another ravine, albeit with less distance between both sides. A metal bridge has been built here by someone, to allow Minion passage across to the other side. He is careful to avoid the tripwire placed between the second and third steps. At the end of the bridge, he reaches a large cocoon made of pure darkness, the lair of the person he is seeking.

The door opens eerily as Minion approaches the cocoon. He enters the lair of darkness and spots the only inhabitant of Ragnarok: Lady Death. She is a creature of shadows, specializing in the magic of darkness and necromancy. She used to be the daughter of a wealthy human family, but the reason for the sudden shift from her past self to her present self is unknown. Lady Death rarely talks about her past. She is currently sitting in a chair made of darkness, lazily playing with a wisp of darkness in one hand.

A scene plays out between the darkness, a battle between two contenders. Two stick figures wielding swords exchange blows silently. One lunges at the other, but the sword is knocked away by the second, a clearly better fighter. The better fighter holds up his sword to the other figure’s throat. The swordless fighter, clearly defeated, puts his hands above his head. The fighter with the sword gives the swordless fighter his sword back, and they shake hands.

Minion stands in the doorway patiently, knowing not to disturb her. Lady Death lets him wait for a second before letting the darkness dissipate and turning around to face Minion, intrigue in her eyes.

“What kind of project do you want me to work on this time? It’s always projects with you, no fun.” Lady Death makes a fake pouty face. “You’ll owe me a favor, of course, for my compliance. You won’t know when or where, but it’ll come sooner or later,” Lady Death says slyly, a grin spreading across her face. Minion’s expression falls.

“I thought you would let me off the hook given our history. Especially because of that last favor you wanted. That one took a lot of resources, especially from Guardian.”

“I insist,” Lady Death replies. Minion thinks for a couple moments and reluctantly comes to a conclusion.

“Fine,” Minion mumbles. Lady Death winks and pulls her cloak across her body, disappearing into the darkness and teleporting to Minion’s base. Minion rolls his eyes and sighs.

“Of course she’d just leave me here,” he says exasperatedly. “I’ll have to walk all the way back now.” Minion mumbles as he walks back down the long and boring route to his portal.

***

Minion passes through the portal back into his lair, entering the room with a satisfying swoosh. The darkness of Ragnarok crawls into the room for a moment but is sucked out when the portal closes. Lady Death sits in a conjured chair of darkness in the corner, pretending to be asleep. She pretends to wake up suddenly, as if Minion’s entrance was loud enough to disrupt her sleep.

“Ah, you’ve finally arrived. I’ve been waiting here forever. I wondered if you would even return at all,” Lady Death drawls. Minion rolls his eyes, clearly not appreciating the sarcasm.

“The project is this way, follow me,” Minion says forcefully. He walks into the elevator room and turns left into a small room, Lady Death following right behind him. The room is painted white with nothing but a skeleton made of metal in the center. The skeleton slightly resembles that of a bat, with an elongated face and winglike bone structure where ears would be. Minion walks directly towards the skeleton, while Lady Death keeps her distance and fidgets with her hands.

“Don’t be scared, it doesn’t bite!” Minion says jokingly, beckoning her forward.

“I… have an aversion to metal,” Lady Death says hesitantly, only inching forward a small amount. Minion nods slightly, respecting her wishes and making a mental note of this occasion, so as to not repeat it in the future.

“This is my project, or at least part of it. I want to create an intelligent creature from scratch, made of darkness and water. I want it to be like a human, but enhanced. I need the darkness from you. I can provide everything else,” Minion says. Lady Death reluctantly inches a little closer to the metal skeleton and begins to collect a ball of darkness in her hands. She closes her eyes, concentrating on the darkness, and it soon grows boulder sized. Lady Death opens her eyes and launches the darkness at the skeleton, covering the skeleton completely and then some. She rushes to the darkness covered skeleton and begins to sculpt the blob into a figure. She starts at the bottom, giving the being sturdy feet. Lady Death moves to the legs, sculpting stocky upper and lower legs for balance. The torso is slim and feminine, with small breasts and narrow shoulders. Her arms are thin with small but strong hands. Lady Death stands back, admiring her handiwork for a moment, and moves upward to the head. She sculpts a human face with slight batlike features, small winglike ears at the back of the head and a prominent nose. She steps back again.

Minion raises his right arm and forms a gauntlet made of water. He walks up to the creature and infuses water into her body. The creature’s chest glows blue for a moment before fading. Minion’s water gauntlet then turns white with light as he gives his project her final necessary component, life. Her body lifts into the air, and her eyes open wide, revealing blue irises. Minion steps back as the creature touches the floor. She bends down on one knee and bows her head, waiting for Minion to name her.

“Chiroptera, rise and protect the citizens of Earth! Help me save the world!” Minion exclaims. Chiroptera stands up tall and tests out her water abilities, creating shoulder pads and knee pads effortlessly, the magical abilities coming to her naturally. She then creates a sword out of water, takes a few practice swings, and lets the sword’s form coalesce into a sphere of water. She turns it to ice, then back to water. The water is absorbed into her body, and she looks up at Minion.

“I am ready to serve,” she says. Minion looks at Lady Death, smiles, and looks back at Chiroptera.

“Welcome to my base of operations,” he exclaims proudly. Minion hears a gasp behind him and turns around quickly. Lady Death’s black gloves are on the floor, and she is clutching her hands, which are turning white and skeletal from the palms to the wrists. The rest of her hands have already been turned white. Flesh drips off her hands, forming a small puddle at her feet. She bites her lip, trying to hide the obvious pain that the process is causing her.

“What’s happening to you?!” Minion asks concernedly. Lady Death gasps before responding.

“It’s from using too much magic… The darkness is corrupting me… eating through my skin. I can’t use that much darkness at once or it’ll… consume me entirely… This has happened before, it’s the cost of my abilities… ” Her flesh stops melting, and Lady Death straightens her body, her arrogant air materializing again. She puts her gloves back on and tries to pretend like nothing happened, acting as if the process never happened.

“Are you alright?!” Minion asks worriedly.

“I’m fine,” Lady Death says angrily. She rolls her eyes and teleports back to her lair.

 

The Biggest Game of my Life

          

I’m standing there in the tunnel waiting for my teammates to exit the team room. I’m feeling nervous because I have never been in this big of a game. I know this because I could hear my heart beating and nothing else besides that. This is the state championship game. The game that decides who would be crowned “king” of the state. My teammates are hyped as I try to hide my nervousness from them because I was one of the best players on the team. I could not be having any of these feelings before such a big game. Our coach screams that we are about to run out onto the court.

I close my eyes. I imagine everything our team has accomplished this year. How we were the best team in the league, which was a surprise, how we had four all-state players, and how I broke the scoring record in state history. This was one of the best moments of my career. It might be okay with my teammates for just getting to this big of a game, but I for one wanted to go out there and win it all. After all, not only was it my last season, but it was also my last game ever for my school.

***

I wasn’t always this kid who was amazing at basketball. In the beginning of high school, I was this 5’5” kid who did not have much of a jump shot and below average ball handling skills. But in-between now and then, I had grown to 6’8” and worked harder than I had ever worked before. I had top programs knocking on my door now, and it came down to six different programs. So, I talked it over with my parents, and it came down to Duke, North Carolina, Villanova, Kentucky, Kansas, and Virginia. On National Signing Day, I decided that I would be attending the University of North Carolina. At the end of the day, I reflected on how I had changed so much over the past four years and how my hard work had really paid off.

At the beginning of the season, I did not expect us to do so well. Our practices were terrible because almost nobody knew the plays, and don’t even get me started on the games. So one day, my coach sat me down in his office, and he said to me, “Look, I know this is your last season and you want to go to the state tourney, so what you have to do is become a leader or else this season is a lost cause.” I was leading the practices, and we actually started to win games. By the end of the regular season, our team had secured a spot in the state tournament, finishing with a record of 18-5. It took a lot of hard work, sweat, and grit, but I was proud of this team and what it had accomplished this year.

***

I remember when my son started playing the game that my husband loved for so long. I remember the times when he could barely play, but he stayed out long past dark shooting the basketball in that hoop I bought him for his eighth birthday. One day, he came home from school, and he said, “Mom, I don’t want to continue playing this game because I am terrible at it.” I told him that to get better, you have to practice more. I could tell that he wanted to get better because basketball was his life and one of the most important things that he cared about. My son had worked long and hard to get to the place where he was now; and I’m not just talking about all these college scholarships. I’m talking about the state championship game. He had been talking about this since the first moment of his high school basketball career. And now here he was, just about ready to play in the state championship game.

***

I’m standing there, ready to take the floor. As I run out onto the court, I look at the section where my mom is sitting and see how proud she is of me. She is looking at me and is so happy to see what my teammates and I had accomplished. We were so pumped for this because I know for me and six of my other teammates, it would be our last basketball game for this team. For those other six seniors, it may even be their last competitive basketball game. We take our last warmups, and then our coach calls us in to give us one final pep talk. I’m not really paying attention because I can’t focus with everyone yelling in the stands, but he is probably saying “I’m proud of you guys. You fought hard all year long, and it’s a true accomplishment just to get here.”

Here I am, three minutes before the biggest game of my high school career, and I’m so determined to win this game. This might be because it’s my last game ever for the school or because I want to give the fans a game to remember. But as I waited for the game to start, I remember those three minutes being the most nervous moments of my life. Oh, how I will never forget those three minutes before the game began.

 

Routine

Wake up – It’s hard to face the world. Hard to leave the safety of your bed and enter the pain the world holds.

Get dressed – Does it really matter what you wear. People will judge you either way. You keep glancing back at your bed, just wishing you could crawl back to safety. The only thing your outfit needs is long sleeves.

Have breakfast – Or don’t. Food is just empty calories that won’t help your diet.

Listen to the radio – People try to speak about the happiness in the world just to cover up all that’s wrong.

School – The teachers’ words enter your brain, then leave without a trace. They don’t leave any information, and you walk out of each classroom wondering what the teacher was talking about because you can’t ask for clarification. You don’t want people to think you’re stupid.

Lunch – A time when you sit with someone because you don’t want people to come up to you and ask if you’re okay. You hear them talking but feel distant from them. You struggle to keep your eyes open as you drift off into your own tortured thoughts.

More school – Just more time to think. More time trapped in the thoughts that are starting to scare you because you don’t rinse them. More time just waiting for the day to be over.

Sports – Fresh air, a breeze. You dread sports, but in reality, they help you cope with the thoughts that aren’t your own.

Home – You get home and get ready for a nap. A nap that you can’t have because the minute you lie down, you’re no longer tired, so you lie there just thinking.

Unspeakable things – Your thoughts convince you that it will help the pain. That it will make the voices go away. You drowning in your own petrifying thoughts as you stand over the sink, silver blade shining in the dim light. Blood runs down the drain until you finally stop the flow.

Dinner – More calories that you will pay for later but still consume.

Bed – You finally get to go to sleep. Peaceful, your mind at rest, banishing all memories of the day and just snuggling up and wishing you never had to leave.

Repeat – Do it all again, exactly the same.

And again, and again, and again, until you can’t take it anymore. Until you can’t handle spending your days waiting for the end of each day. Until the world seems to be spinning. You can’t take it anymore, and a thought crosses your mind. A thought of leaving the routine forever.

Away you go, away from the routine. People grieve until they forget, and they go on with their routines, not remembering you, the person who left.

But, it doesn’t need to be that way. So, you stay. You stay and change your routine. When you wake up, you no longer wish to go back to sleep. You see your food as something delicious and not as calories. You enjoy discovering the wonders of the world during each of your classes. You return from school full of energy, never feeling the need for a knife. You still love to sleep, but now you dream.

You choose to overcome the difficulties that the routine brings. You choose not to focus on the pain. You focus instead on the happy things in each day.

It doesn’t have to be something big. It could be something small. A snowflake landing on a window. The light shining through the trees in the perfect way. A funny photo. Anything that will change your day, make you smile for the first time in months.

Your grades improve. You social life improves. You appetite improves, but most of all, your life improves.

 

Pest Poems

          

The Roaches

We relax under the cabinet

Eating the leftover cheese

Contemplating the meaning of life

And wondering if there is any bread

That we can pair

With this sharp cheddar.

We are happy

At the moment.

The humans are away

And they left

Without so much as sweeping

The kitchen floor.

You perk up,

Dropping your crumb

On the wooden ground

I ask what happened

But you are already darting across

The kitchen.

Then I see what you see.

You have found

a grape.

 

The Appreciation of Pigeons

All they see you as

Is some type of pest —

Bothersome,

Ugly, annoying.

They don’t see

What they should see.

They can’t look past

Your interesting eating habits,

Or the fact that you

Like to flutter and squawk

Very noisily, when some of us

Are trying

To sleep.

Why do they love

Those hummingbirds

Who flutter harder

And louder

Than you?

Why can’t they stop talking

About those hideous parrots

That squawk so loudly

One has to plug

Their ears?

Looking closer

At the fine grey feathers

That gracefully morph

Into deep purples and greens,

Peering into your eyes,

Noticing the perfect oval shape,

The deep orange color

Surrounding a pinprick of black,

One could really only describe you

As magnificent.

 

Your Greatest Fan, Jemima.

My dearest Una,

Hear me now.

You think wrong of me,

And I can tell,

For I caught you

Standing on your stoop

Spraying vast quantities of bug repellent

Over every surface

Of your body.

If I could bite you

Without making those itchy bumps

Pop up all over your skin,

I would gladly do so.

But I can’t, unfortunately.

I see you trying to get rid of me

And my friends

But I feel it necessary to put it out there

That your struggles are pointless.

I’m sorry, I really am,

But I love you

Too much

To let the foul scent

Of that horrid stuff

Stand between

You and me.

I would die for you gladly,

Is one thing that you appear to have overlooked.

If my last sensation

Was a little bit

Of your freshly sucked blood

I would die a happy girl.

So put on all the bug spray you want,

Go for it,

Try to get rid of me,

But both you and I

Know that our love

Was written

In the stars.

Your greatest fan,

Jemima.

 

How We Can Improve My Current Situation

Underfed,

Underslept,

And hopeless.

Nothing can fix

This wretched situation.

I lean back against a piece of tinfoil

That was dropped on the ground,

And then it hits me.

I have finally thought

Of a solution.

For starters, a lot of pizza. Yes. More pizza!

Dripping cheese, warm and delicious.

Next, a nicer place to live.

How about the corner of a restaurant

(preferably an Italian place)?

Yes, that would be perfect.

Then, when the owners dropped food,

I could feast like a king! My stomach rumbles

At the very thought.

OOH! Also, I’d like to get myself

Another rat, for company.

You know, that’s all that I really need.

Scrap the pizza,

Scrap the home.

All I want

Is a friend.

 

My Favorite Snacks

The sweater your grandma wore

To her first day of high school

Is near the top of the list for sure.

The dye has mostly faded,

Giving it a more bland flavor,

But the soft texture makes up for any faults.

 

The knitted hat that your aunt wore

For the skiing trip she took

In the seventh grade.

Purple cashmere,

Smooth, magnificent.

The taste of snow still lingers

On its surface.

 

The rainbow scarf,

Disfigured and full of loose ends,

Your first knitting project.

The wool is scratchy, and it is already falling apart

Even though us moths have not yet

Filled it with our own holes.

Despite this, the nostalgia I feel

When nibbling on its colorful folds

Is immense, so I love it still.

 

Shine Bright Like a Diamond

       

Chapter One: Debbie Allen’s Dance Academy

I had the dream dance class… at least that’s what I thought. But, I’m getting way ahead of myself. It all started three months ago when we were in dance class, and Mrs. Allen came in the room to post the cast for The Nutcracker and guess what… I got the lead part: Clara. It said it there in big bold letters. Danielle Rosewood… Clara. I was so excited that I jumped up and down, so I caught most people’s attention.

I said, “I got Clara!”

But, some people weren’t so happy.

My friends Harper and Aubrey got the ensemble, and Evelyn got Uncle Drosselmeyer. They looked as if they envied me. When I saw them looking at me like that, they rolled their eyes and turned away.

I walked over to where they were standing and said, “Why are you guys mad?”

“We just really wanted to get the part,” said Evelyn.

“Don’t worry. I’m gonna make sure that you get the understudy.”

I looked back at the sheet to see who was my understudy. It was my archenemy, Skylar. Perfect.

Skylar and I used to be best friends, but ever since I moved from L.A. to Beverly Hills because of my dad’s job, she made her friends, and I made mine. When I came back to L.A., she was already in a clique. Skylar was very angry because she felt like I betrayed her. She wanted to switch roles with somebody else, but Ms. Allen wouldn’t let her.

“But please, you don’t understand! She’s evil,” Skylar squawked.

“I said no, and that’s the end of this conversation,” said Mrs. Allen.

“Ugh, fine,” said Skylar.

She walked back over to where we were standing and said, “I’m so excited to be your understudy.”

I said, “At least that’s the first few words you said to me all year.”

She crossed her arms and said, “Hmph.”

It’s never a dull day when Skylar’s mad.

 

Chapter Two: Restless, Rehearsals, Revenge

Skylar tried everything she could to get revenge on me. Even before the auditions for the parts for the show, Skylar was practicing for the part of Clara. Now that she was the understudy, she hated my guts. It was the rehearsal, and we still didn’t have the dance memorized. Mrs. Allen was yelling like crazy.

“Girls, you have to straighten your backs. Danielle, please point your toes.”

“Mrs. Allen, I can coach Danielle with her moves,” said Skylar.

“Umm…” I said.

“Wonderful. This is perfect because you two are the prima ballerinas in this class.”

“Ugh,” I exclaimed.

I already knew that Skylar was trying to sabotage me for getting the part.

Later that day…

Skylar came two hours late. She even had the nerve to say that she was doing homework, and her mom wouldn’t let her come until she finished, but I know she never does her homework. Oh, I forgot to tell you, Skylar and I are in the same class in school, unfortunately.

“So you should point your toes more,” Skylar said, while fixing her nails.

“You’re not helping. You know that, right?”

“You’re so ungrateful. Whatever, I’m leaving.”

She “accidentally” knocked over her bag, spilled some makeup, and cleaned it up. Little did I know that she snuck butter under the rug that I would later move to do my dance.

“Hope the door doesn’t hit you on the way out.”

She turned around. I “accidentally” slapped her with my wooden front door.

“Oops.”

Skylar left, storming.

The next day…

Since my mom and Skylar’s mom are really close friends, when Skylar told me that I was driving her to school, I was very annoyed. The whole ride there we were silent while my mom was blasting her favorite song through our car windows. Skylar was just looking out one window the whole time, and I was looking out the other.

As soon as we got to school, Skylar jumped out of the car without even saying thank-you.

My mom asked me, “Hey, what’s up with Skylar?”

I said, “Nothing, nothing. We’re just having a grand old time! Haha… bye!”

She cluelessly said, “Okay!”

During Mathematics 101, Skylar told Brandon, Joey, and Lucia to pass me a note. So, without Mr. Kerry seeing, they started down the line. When it ended up at me, I opened the note, and it had a picture of me with devil horns on my head with the devil staff.

After, when we were on our independent time, I went up to Mr. Kerry with the note in my hand pretending to ask a question.

I asked him, “Can I go to the principal’s office? This has been happening every single day.”

He said, “Okay. Class, class please settle down!”

As soon as I went into the principal’s office, I showed him the notes. He called Skylar into his office, and she gave me an evil glance, and I stuck my tongue out at her. Then again, this was my revenge for her trying to get revenge on me. After today, I will have victory and justice, and she’ll never get the lead part. I got it fair and square, and she cannot be mad. After today, she got suspended and because her mom was so mad at her, she wouldn’t let her go to dance. And I faked sick because there was nobody to be my understudy since Skylar was gone.

I chose Evelyn to be my understudy, and Skylar would have to be Uncle Drosselmeyer. This was all part of my plan.

Three days later…

Skylar walked into the dance studio saying, “Let’s rehearse this thing since I’m the understudy, and I say what has to be done.”

Mrs. Allen came into the dance studio and said, “Actually, since you weren’t here the day that Danielle was sick, we changed your position to Uncle Drosselmeyer, and Evelyn became the new understudy.”

“That’s just my way of getting revenge,” I whispered in her ear.

She growled.

 

Chapter Three: Practice, Practice Makes Perfect

Okay, so I gave you a flashback of my last three months which were a living heck, but Skylar got a perfect part to express her anger … just kidding. He is a good person in The Nutcracker. Now, every day since that moment, Skylar has tried to get her part back. Anyway, back to dancing. I have one week to make sure that I know the dance (even though I practiced one million times).

At home…

“Step, turn, step, chasse. Man, I need to work harder. Especially if I want to be better than Skylar.” I kept dancing until I rolled my ankle. Ouch. I was so mad. Hold up, why is the floor so slippery? I moved the rug to find a small yet noticeable packet of butter and a strand of hair that was an ombre of black to gray. My mind immediately went straight to the black-ombre devil herself.

Bad conscience: Come on, let her have it!

Good conscience: No, that’s only going to make matters worse.

You know what? I’m just going to leave it alone because I don’t feel like getting into any more messes.

Bad conscience and good conscience in sync: What are you going to do about Mrs. Allen? For sure you’re going to be kicked off the dance team.

Okay, I’ll just not perform in the dance, so Evelyn can have a turn. I’m happy that she’s getting a chance. I’ll call her now.

Ringing…

“Hey, Evelyn. Are you going to the dress rehearsal tomorrow?”

“No, I can’t. My cousins are coming over from Paris, so I am leaving from school early and not going to dance.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Mrs. Allen would kill me if I wasn’t at practice since I am the lead role, and the show is in less than a week. I just hope that nobody sees my foot.

The next day…

I strolled into dance like nothing happened the day before. It’s going to be hard to pull it off because I have a limp now. If anyone finds out about my foot, I could be kicked out of the dance. Man … these are going to be a long few days. What am I going to do?

We all went to the auditorium (it was freezing), and Mrs. Allen was waiting for us. We start dancing. My moves are a little sloppy because of my ankle. At least Mrs. Allen didn’t see me. I didn’t know that someone was watching me.

After dance class, Mrs. Allen stopped me in the hallway to tell me that Skylar told her that I was limping during practice. Unfortunately, I had no socks or shoes on, so she was able to see that I had a giant bruise on my foot.

“IF YOUR FOOT CAN’T BE HEALED BY THE OPENING NIGHT, YOU WILL BE KICKED OFF THE SHOW!!!”

She shoved me with her shoulder as she walked past. (She literally gave me the cold shoulder). As soon as I went home, I slammed the front door, stomped up to my room (which really hurt), slammed my bedroom door as hard as I could, and cried into Mr. Fluffernutter, my fluffy, usually emotionless cat.

“Why did I have to fall. I have such bad luck.” I sighed. “I know what to do!”

I grabbed my makeup case and ran into the bathroom. When I came out, it looked like the day before yesterday never happened.

 

Chapter Four: Opening Night

I strolled into the auditorium looking like a “non-injured” queen.

I went right up to Mrs. Allen and said, “I’m here and ready to dance.”

“Great. Go change into your costume.”

In my dressing room…

“First, let’s do my costume, makeup, and then my hair.”

An hour later…

“Finally, I’m done.”

I’m going to find Harper and Aubrey, so we can practice our solo. We got so lost in dancing that we did not even hear the five minute call.

“Places in five… four… three… two… ”

“WE HAVE TO GO ON STAGE.”

“Run before the curtains open,” said Harper.

We got on just in the nick of time. Mrs. Allen was not very happy. The dance was going so well. I always get so wrapped up in the music. I didn’t even realize that the dance was ending, and it was time for my solo. Step, turn, step, chasse, grand jet… “OWW!”

“Someone call the ambulance!!” said Harper.

I was in so much pain that I couldn’t move or speak. This has got to be the worst week ever.

 

Chapter Five: The Hospital

“Where am I? What happened?”

“Hi, Danielle. I’m Dr. Taylor. You are in the hospital.”

“What happened?”

“You were in a dance show and fell, sprained your ankle, got a slight case of amnesia, and sustained a severe head injury.”

“Will I get my memory back?”

“With enough rest, your memory should come back in the next 48 hours!”

“Thank you. Can you get my mom and dad, please.”

“Of course.”

My mom and dad, Lilianna and Derick, walked in the room.

“Hey, Mom and Dad.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” my mom said.

“What is going to happen when I go back to dance?”

“We don’t know. All we have to do is wait,” said Dad.

Two days later…

Cough. “Mrs. Allen… ”

“Please pack your things, and leave my studio”

“What? Why?”

“Because you lied to me, and you know I hate liars.”

A few hours later…

“She kicked me out,” I said to Harper, Aubrey, and Evelyn.

“It’s okay. Maybe you can find a new studio nearby,” said Evelyn.

“You don’t understand. I’m not going to see you guys anymore,” I said.

“We’ll be here with you every step of the way,” Harper said.

The next day after school…

On the bus ride back from school, it was already filled up, so Skylar had to sit next to me. She sat down looking like she had read the funniest text ever. Today is not the day for this.

“How is it having so much free time on your hands?” Skylar smirked.

“What’s your problem? You got what you wanted,” I said.

“My problem is you’re still in this town. Why can’t you just pack your things and move?”

Why can’t she just leave me alone? The bus dropped me off at my house.

Skylar yelled, “See you never, loser!”

That was when I got a brilliant idea. I walked in the front door to my mom sitting on a stool in the kitchen, typing up a storm. She was too busy to notice me.

“Ma, can we get out of this town? It’s so boring, it’s so annoying, and I’m tired of seeing Skylar’s and Mrs. Allen’s faces.”

“What? Why? I thought you liked Skylar. I thought you guys were best friends.” She closed her computer and turned around.

“She stopped talking to me after we moved back. Can we leave? She just keeps making fun of me and bullying me at school. I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want it to get out of hand.”

“Sure. I’ll tell your father. We can arrange to move back into our old house,” she said calmly.

I was very happy about the decision.

A week later, we said our goodbyes and were on the road.

 

Chapter Six: A New Beginning

I just moved to my new house. It feels so empty… I feel so empty. I lay on the floor with my arms spread out just thinking about how things would’ve gone if I hadn’t rolled my ankle last month. I went to the bathroom to wash my face, and I looked up in the mirror and saw that my mascara was smudging because I was crying so much. I washed my face and put my hair back in a perfect bun. I was so happy but also so sad. I wish I was never kicked out of the dance studio, even though my new studio is so much better. I miss dancing with my friends. I went up the stairs to my nonexistent bedroom, and I lay on my nonexistent bed. I saw my moving boxes perched against the bright white wall. I went into my box labeled “decorations” and took out the photo of me and my friends dancing in our first performance and laid it on my nonexistent table.

I guess I should start unpacking.

A few hours later…

“And that’s the last of it! Finally,” I said.

I lay on my now existent bed. I felt more at home. I had my corkboard with all of my pictures on it in front of my desk, which was on the right side of my bed. On the left side of my bed was my nightstand with my picture and lamp on it. On the other side of the room was my walk-in closet. And I couldn’t forget my faux fur beanbag. I only felt like one thing was missing… my friends.

If I called them, would they be mad at me? If I didn’t call them, would they get more mad? I’ll call them now.

Phone ringing.

“Hello?” I said.

“O-M-G, hey!” said Evelyn.

“I can’t believe I’m really talking to you,” Harper said enthusiastically.

“How’s your new home?” Aubrey exclaimed.

“It’s great. I miss you guys so much.”

“Open your front door,” Evelyn stated.

“Okay?”

I went downstairs and opened the door. I saw Aubrey, Evelyn, and Harper reaching out for a group hug. I saw Evelyn’s mom’s car in the driveway.

“Oh my gosh. It’s really you!” I gave them the tightest hug ever.

“So, who are you dancing for now?” Evelyn asked.

“Don’t get mad at me, but I’m dancing for Energii now.”

“What? Why? You know they’re our rivals!” Harper yelled.

“They were the only ones who would accept me.”

“I respect your decision.” Evelyn smiled.

“I love you guys so much!”

They all said, “We love you, too!”

THE END

 

Hawaiian Vacation

         

Chapter One: Crazy Problems

Three minutes before my family moved to Hawaii, I was so scared. I felt sick to my stomach. I had never flown anywhere. Well, except for going to Florida and California. Now, you might be thinking, why are you going to Hawaii? Well, I’m going because my family and I got hit by an avalanche. Well, our house did. I was skiing in Pennsylvania, and I forgot to say I live in Ohio, so we could get there kind of quickly. That didn’t really help because our car had broke down, and our grandfather was at work, and we couldn’t call him because the power went out. This was the worst day of my life. When I thought things were starting to turn around, they got worse. I was scared of flying, and I had not packed anything. One good thing did happen: We changed the flight, so we could go there in two weeks. Well, my dad called someone. Yay! I had to pack because the movers came a week before we left. We had to stay in a hotel all week. I finally packed! The hotel was okay but only because we swam in the pool every day.

Two weeks later…

So now my family and I were going through security. The way there was not bad. We made it! So, now we had to fill our water bottles. Nothing bad happened except that the water fountains were not working. My family did not have to buy water bottles because my dad knew that our flight was not for two hours, but we got there early just in case. We had to take a red-eye, but at least it was Tuesday because the restaurant that is there had a pasta buffet. I do not like pasta, but I like meatballs with sauce which they did have. The food was filling because I did not have breakfast (as always). By the time we finished, the water fountain was fixed. Then, we filled our water bottles, and then we got onto the airplane…

 

Chapter Two: Plane Problems

If things were not bad enough, as I said earlier, flying makes me scared. What should I do? Help me!! Then, the very nice flight attendant told me to buckle my seatbelt. At least there were no problems with the seatbelt. When I sat down, I forgot that we were in first class. After we were allowed to take off our seatbelts, I waited until the flight attendant came by with drinks and food. I got a bagel and a ginger ale. Aloha, Texas! When I got off the plane, I was not scared of flying because I just thought I was scared. I was glad that I was not scared because that flight was only three hours, and my next flight was in nine hours. So that gave me time to figure out what to do on the i ka hora ‘iwawa, which means nine hour flight in Hawaiian. I figured out that maybe I could just sleep through it because Hawaii is six hours behind. I forgot about the time change so if my flight left at 10:00 and Hawaii is six hours behind, then it would be 4:00 A.M.. I might as well sleep a tiny bit. It was very hard for me to fall asleep, so I would watch a few movies and binge-watch TV. I was not sure what TV show but whatever it was, this would be really fun (hopefully). But if I do not like the show, it will not be fun for me. Now it was time for my family and I to go to Hawaii. We got on the plane with no problems. The flight was boring.

 

Chapter Three: Aloha, Hawaii

When I first got there, I was so excited to find out where our house was that I forgot that it was on the big island, and I was on Oahu which means, “the gathering place.” I guess the name fit what I was doing because I was gathering some of my things. Tonight, my family and I were staying at a hotel. Tomorrow, I would get to see my new house because we were taking another flight. Then, I was done flying for a while which was a good thing because flying is expensive, the long flights get boring, and the time change is super different.

The next morning…

When I woke up, I was very excited because this was my last flight for a while, (hopefully for my family too because my dad was going to try to get a job at the Polynesian Cultural Center which sounds like a really cool place). We were at the airport, and my family and I were now on the plane. Lift off! The flight was only 30 minutes, so now there were 15 minutes left. The flight attendant came by with drinks that were in pineapples. My family was in first class, so the really cool drinks were free. But the people in coach had to pay if they wanted the drinks. Now we were about to land, and I was so surprised that nothing bad happened. My family and I took a bus to the hotel that was really close to where our new house was.

When I saw our house, I was so surprised because the house was three floors. My dad also said that there was a pool in the back. Everyone in my family got their own room, but my parents shared a bed. Also, everyone in my family got their own bathroom with a tub and a shower. As soon as I got in, I saw boxes everywhere. When I saw my bed, I thought that the bed fit in perfectly and that the room was for me.

 

Chapter Four: The Pool

As soon as I got in my room after looking around, I changed into a swimsuit, and my brothers did too. I looked inside their rooms. It looked like both of my brothers belonged in those rooms. Then, my mom took a picture of me and my brothers jumping that would become a part of our Christmas card. It was summer (well, people were in school, but our parents did not want us to start school in the middle of the year) so I didn’t have to worry about trying to make new friends. I also did not have to worry about homework because there was no break homework. Ia! That means yay in Hawaiian. People were on break for one more day. So now I could spend the rest of my time playing in the pool and having fun.

The pool was amazing. It came with a slide which made it super fun and cool. Our family also had a bunch of inflatables and pool noodles. My best friend FaceTimed me, and it was so great to see her face. It was May, so she was almost done with school. Her house did not get smashed by the volcano because she lived far away from school. I was not sure why. I really thought she would like the pool. I hoped she would like the shaved ice and malasada, the Hawaiian doughnut. My dad said he really likes his job. My mom just started working there too, so my older brother who is 14 was in charge, but he was nice. My new life was going well for me and my family. My parents made a lot of money. They also said their jobs were fun and easy, so it was a win-win. The house also came with two golf carts, and my parents got everyone big hammocks that were so comfortable. I could sit on a hammock all day long crafting, except it gets too hot.

 

Chapter Five: Seeing My Friend

I was so excited to see my friend from Ohio because I had not seen her in so long that it felt like a year. When she got here, she and her family put all their bags down, and then they came over to our house. When she got there, we start doing all sorts of crafts, talking, and asking all kinds of questions like ones about school or what the ride over was like. We had so much fun! Her two brothers and her sister were all looking over at us because we were making leis. Then, we let them and my two brothers make them. My friend and I went to my room and then into the na mala li’ili’i, which means little garden. We picked a bunch of beautiful flowers because there were five people who wanted real flower leis. Her family had not got any at the airport because it was very expensive. Then, my family took my friend’s family to the Polynesian Cultural Center for free because my dad worked there. They loved it. The next day, we took them to the King’s Hawaiian Roll Factory, and the rolls were good like they always were. On the last day of her visiting, we made friendships bracelets because she said that I was still her favorite best friend. When she left, it was so sad. The good part was that she just got a phone, so I could FaceTime and text her. My friend’s flight got delayed, and she did not want to stay at an airport, so she had to stay at our house because there were no available rooms at any hotels near the airport. That was fine with me. We could have our own sleepover. It would be so fun.

 

Chapter Six: The Sleepover

My friend and I were so excited. No problem here. We stayed up until ten o’clock, crafting and drawing. Then, we got to swim in the pool for thirty minutes. It was 10:30, so we went back into my room and then went to my room past the garden, by where all the hammocks were. My hammock was purple and covered in lights that I turned on. But my family made a rule: If we had friends over, we had to ask to use another person’s hammock. I had to ask my mom to use her hammock, because it was next to mine and moving a hammock is very hard. My friend said that this was the best night ever, better even than her birthday, which is always very fun. We used my family’s telescope to look up at the sky. It was so beautiful. Her mom came out and said they were going to stay for an extra week. We both yelled, “Yay!” We were so excited. Then, we actually had to go back to bed, but it was okay because we still had fun. We spent the next day in the pool. It was awesome. I almost forgot about the street fair the next day. My friend had not been to a street fair in months, so she was excited when I told her. When we were in the pool and not looking at the house, my brother jumped in, and I was so scared! Then, I spent the rest of the day in the pool going down the slide. I think that this was one of the best days in my life.

 

Chapter Seven: The Fair and Fun

This fair was not one of the typical street fairs you would see in Ohio. Yes, there were cotton candy, games, and shops, but there was also a huge luau. There were some really great fire dancers like my dad, who was teaching my brothers all the tricks. My mom and I danced in the luau which was always fun. My friend really liked it. The next day, I got to teach her how to do a traditional dance. She really liked doing the hula. She thought it was hard, but then she got the hang of it. Then, we put on a show for our mothers, and they loved it. There were five more days left until my friend left. They would be packed with fun and awesome things. The next day, we spent the day at a water park, which was amazing. We were tall enough to go on all the rides, even though we didn’t. I was screaming half the time with joy and laughter but mostly because I was just scared because the rides were so big. But after going, it was not that scary at all. In fact, it was fun. My friend also won a huge inflatable ball that was red. When we got home, we played with the ball for the rest of the day, but before sunset it started to rain. So we went inside and played hide-and-seek until sunset, and then we fell asleep. It was still raining the next day, so we went to the arcade and played all day and had so much fun. It felt as if we never had to leave, but we did because my dad said that the storm was getting worse. So on the way back, my family got some batteries while my friend’s family stayed in the car. When we got back, we were fine until…

 

Chapter Eight: The Storm and More

So, the power went out, and now we couldn’t call, text, or play games. What would be so bad about that, right? I mean, maybe not having electronics would not be the worst thing because I could play games and talk to people more than I usually would. So first, we played Just Dance where one person from each family would compete against each other, and my family won. Yay! Next, we played family vs. family Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader which was fun because my friend and I were in fifth grade before the avalanche. Next, we taught my friend’s family a simple luau dance which was super cool because it was fun to watch a luau even if you were not in it. We got all the flashlights in the house and used them for the luau. Soon after the luau, we all went to bed. Then the next morning, it finally stopped raining. But then the power company said that they could not get the power on until the next day, which was fine because another day without electronics would kind of be fun. For the first half of the day, we just laid on the hammocks talking. Then, we had lunch by the pool and then just played in the pool for the rest of the day. The next day there was power, but we barely used it because we learned our lesson when the storm was here: you don’t need electronics to have fun. My friend was leaving in a few days so no time to waste, right? But, it didn’t matter if we didn’t do everything because she would come back very soon.

 

Chapter Nine: Almost Bye…

I was going to have to say bye to my friend the next day, but once again they postponed it, so I had three more days with her. Awesomeness was in view. So the next day, we planned to go to the luau at my new school where the eighth grade girls did a special dance, and the boys played with fire. We got to the luau with one minute to spare. The luau was great. As soon as it finished, the principal took me and my friend on a tour. The building was not that big, but it smelled amazing for some reason. The girls were super kind, so I wasn’t worried about making new friends. After all of that, I was so tired. The next morning, everyone in our house woke up at 10:00 which was very late for me. So to wake myself up, I went for a swim in the pool, and soon after, everyone else joined. It was so fun because I felt like it was the best pool party ever. We all played until 11:00 when the parents had to work. All of the parents had to leave, but all of the kids stayed in the pool until 12:00 when we had lunch, which was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that I made. After that, we watched a tiny bit of TV. Next, soon after the TV, we played Just Dance which was super fun and tiring. Next, we played hide-and-seek, and I scared my little brother for fun. After that exhausting day, we laid on the hammocks reading books. When my parents came home, they gave me and my two brothers each a fish. I knew why: because I had a fish but my brothers don’t. I was excited to have a second one because maybe my fish could be friends through the glass. They were both a rustic, purple, bluish color.

 

Chapter Ten: Bye for Real

Having to leave my friend was hard, but she was coming back in a month, and I was starting school which would get my mind off of her. Since we were both starting new schools, we would text each other about our difficulties if we had any, but hopefully we wouldn’t. The next day when I woke up, it was time to take my friend to the airport where she would go to Texas and then to Pennsylvania, where she and her family would begin the drive to Ohio. When we were in the car, I gave her a picture of us in Hawaii that says “friend” on top. I gave her sister a magnet and her brother a keychain to remember Hawaii. They all thanked me, and I was happy that they liked it. It was almost time to leave when one of the bags in the back opened up, and this trip was about to turn into a disaster. They had gotten to the airport two hours early though, so they had time to put everything back in the bag and even fold the clothes. So now, time for the hardest part, saying goodbye without crying. Here we go. I said goodbye and told her thanks for coming. She also said bye and said thank you too. I said the same things to her mom, brother, and sister. They went into the airport and then onto the plane. We saw it taking off, and we waved even though they probably could not see us. I think it was a sad and happy day.

 

Nervous

             

The light stains my eyelids a

lurid pink.

I fumble with the

Pen and paper

That lay on my desk.

The others are still sleeping,

The sun is yet to rise,

And I shiver in the cold.

The room looks too large without

The others.

I fidget in my seat,

Unable to sit still.

The paper stares at me

Marred by my shaky writing.

The timer dings announcing my time is up,

And I hand in a paper half blank, half gibberish,

Dripping with sweat.

So much for my future.

 

Dogfriend

           

Yellow dogs.

Black dogs.

White dogs.

Red dogs.

Brown dogs.

Grey dogs.

Even pink dogs.

So many dogs

To be my friend

For me to defend.

An ally

So diverse

That to be my dogfriend

Would be not a curse.

Yellow dogs.

Black dogs.

White dogs.

Red dogs.

Brown dogs.

Grey dogs.

Even pink dogs.

Accepting of all breeds

To diversity these are the seeds.

Kindness

Is diversity’s heiress.

Compassion

Is in our fashion.

Open-mindedness

Is to be taught with stress.

Accepting of all breeds

For to diversity these are the seeds.

 

The Sun Is Up

          

The sun is up

But I am not

I am numb

For the day is not

When I feel things

I only feel

When the sun is sleeping

And I can be alone

I can think my dangerous thoughts

By myself.

I am trapped.

Alone with just my feelings.

Why aren’t they there when I need them?

Why are they only here to hurt?
Is this normal?

Is something wrong with me?

What is it?

What can I do?

To stop it?

So many questions.

Where are my friends?

Why can’t I make them?

Why am I so alone?

Stop.

Pause.

For just a moment.

Stop asking questions.

Answer them.

Is this normal?

No.

Is something wrong with me?

No.

I’ve read about this.

They tell me there are other people here,

They’re just like me.

I don’t believe them.

What can I do?

I need someone.

I need someone to listen.

Someone to talk to.

Someone to understand.

Why don’t you understand?

Unpause.

The questions will not stop.

What can I do.

Who can I ask for help

If I have no one.

Pause.

Again.

Think.

Who do I have?

My parents?

No, they wouldn’t understand

They tell me I need therapy.

No.

No.

No.

But what if it could help?

They would judge me.

But what if they were okay?

I can’t take the chance.

Yes I can.

What harm would it do?

You’re right.

I’m crazy.

I’m right.

I need help.

Unpause.

The sun is up.

I’m almost up.

I can feel the progress.

I still have questions, but they are leaving.

I’m going to be okay.

I know it.

I am normal.

I am not alone.

Pause.

I know that they will help me.

Unpause.

The sun is up.

And so am I.

I think that I’m okay.

I was brave.

I got help.

Unpause.

 

This is Called a Ransom Note

Dear Janice,

You may have recently noticed that your dear semi-aquatic turtle named Henry has gone missing. Please do not call the police. If you do, they won’t believe you and won’t do anything to help you no matter how much you plead. Resistance is futile. There is no way out this time, Janice. Henry is in good health, and his tank water is kept at a constant 27.7778 degrees Celsius. I feed him every morning and every night. But in order for him to continue on in his joyous state, I will need you to place exactly $53.94 in a sealed envelope underneath the Ford-Gleedon library mailbox, located on the corner of Ford and Gleedon. I will use the money to buy Henry a jumbo sized container of freeze-dried krill every other month. You have a whole year to create a plan to infiltrate my facility. If you can find it. Good luck.

Sincerely,

Your dear Henry’s captor

P.S. I forgot to mention this in the letter, and I’ve gotten this far, and I’m not redoing this again. Just so you know, I need the money by Thursday.

 

Dear Daniel,

It has come to my attention that you have turtlenapped my semi-aquatic turtle named Henry. I know it was you. You have always loved Henry, and I saw you running out of my apartment building with Henry’s transportation tank while I was parking after my brunch with Janet. I know where you live, so there’s no reason for me to call the police anyway. Henry is a “she,” and you can always adopt a very similar turtle from your local shelter. Thank you for taking care of my turtle. I will be picking her up at 8:12 A.M. Eastern Standard Time tomorrow. Should you fail to hand over my dear Henry, you will be met with the brute force of a turtle mother. You have been warned.

With much frustration,

Janice

 

Dear Janice,

It has come to my attention that you have unmasked my identity. With much joy, I shall inform you of my plans this weekend. This upcoming Friday, I will be leaving the country with Henry and won’t look back. That’s right. I’m leaving. Over the weekend, we will take a cruise along the coast of France, Spain, Portugal, Italy, and end in Greece. I have already bought a house for myself and Henry. We will live in a small cottage there and be adopted into the Grecian society. Henry will have HER own room with all of her supplies and toys. Until then, you have a slight window of time before we leave on our one-way trip to the sweet, sweet country Greece. Just so you know, yes, I have gotten a turtle license to have Henry with me on the plane to France. Farewell, Janice!

With much joy,

Daniel

 

Dear Daniel,

If it means that much to you, then I suppose you may take Henry on the cruise, but you can’t stay in Greece with her forever. You can’t even stay in Greece forever. I have heard it’s beautiful there, though. Perhaps I will meet you in Greece. After all, we haven’t talked in a while. It will be nice to see you. We could go to some museums and parks or gardens! Anyway, tell Henry that Mommy’s coming.

Janice

 

Dear Janice,

I appreciate you allowing me to take Henry on the adventure of her 20-30 year life. It would be nice to meet up in Greece. I told my turtle that her psychotic stalker was coming to get her, and she looked pretty scared. Great job at being a mom. Today, Henry took a walk around the block in her new rolly cart transporter! It’s a small cart that comes with a tank strapped onto it. You can take your aquatic friends on a walk anywhere you are willing to walk to. Henry seemed to have liked it a lot. I plan to take her on more rolly cart transporter trips. All is well otherwise, and I hope to see you in Greece. Or maybe not. Because then you might try to take Henry away from me. It would be very unfortunate if that were to happen. Well, we’ll see.

Sincerely,

Daniel

 

Vera

Three days later, she found herself on the riverbank. Thin breaths huddled in her chest and emerged at unpredictable intervals. Perhaps she was saving heat. The early March grass, pale and sickly, was bent a final few degrees beneath her feet. The water would have been a perfect pale blue, but it was dirtied by too many sticks and garbage and polluted snowmelt. A breath of wind, as small as her own exhalations came by, and it threatened to freeze the water in the river and on her face with all the force of a puppy playing at ferociousness. She stayed still as the smallest fraction of a smile bloomed inside her and withered a moment later, and she listened to the empty air ringing in her ears.

Vera, in her own quiet way, had always been as proud as a cat. She never claimed superiority, never went around with a stiffly straightened back, but like a cat, she always licked her wounds in secret and never let anyone know she was injured.

The winter descended on Vera late, and as she thought about it on the riverbank, she was as grateful as she could be, given everything. The first snow had been in November, but it hadn’t reached in and hushed up her soul for a good month. Even so, it had been too long. Each day she looked for some new tool or trick. Each time she seemed to be out of ideas, she summoned up enough cunning for just one more.

Still, none of them had worked (and the last one had worked least of all), and now, with the crocuses still in bloom, all she had was her own breath and a scrap of hope. The second, when she looked for it, was absent as often as it was there. Vera still held onto it like a child’s blanket, because what else was there? Sometimes she was almost glad of its absence, the breathless wanting that broke through the hush a little bit. She was always glad of its presence. Mostly the cycle, the soar and the crash, had tired her out. Still she was a little glad, because what else was there?

It was with this little bit of hope and little bit of gladness that Vera waited on the riverbank and worried a little. What if the late arrival meant a late departure? What if there was no departure at all, and the turning inside her was separate from the seasons? (This last one was too likely for comfort, and Vera tried to think of the rivers’ currents instead, the empty twisting things.)

***

Three days ago, the sky had been an over-bright, perfectly clear blue, as if trying and failing to make up for the below-zero temperature. Vera had gone outside, at the urging of her mother, and not just to the river a bit behind her house. She had got in the car, for the first time since the break began, and bit back a grimace at the fumes. She always imagined them creeping through her lungs and turning her insides charcoal gray, but the reality was that they were mostly just gross. Someone who avoided the car like her would probably be fine.

The seat of the car looked the same way it smelled: dirty, old, and slightly wrong. It was the sort of smell that infused the places where terrible things happened. She was being overdramatic, she knew that. She could ignore the smell. It faded into the background if she waited long enough and looked at the trees, looking empty without their leaves. Or at the road, watching the dashes blur into an unbroken line of white paint and seeing the barriers on the side of the road crash into each other noiselessly. Her gaze shifted in continual disappointment. The sun was out, the sky was doing its best to pretend it was summer, but everything was sallow, like the light was slacking off.

The trees looked like dust plumes now. Vera’s mother hadn’t said anything yet. Vera had barely noticed her get in the car and start driving. Something hard weighed in her chest.

“How long have you been driving?”

“Uh, five minutes or so.” Her mom looked a little surprised, and Vera wondered why, until she remembered that she had barely spoken in the last few days. “We’ll be there soon.”

Which meant anywhere from five minutes to an hour. Although, she had been to this store before. She really should have been able to remember. “Okay. Thanks.”

The white line kept bleeding into itself. Everything that could be seen on the side of the road hurried away from the direction Vera was heading. What were they, so desperate to get away and so good at it too? For a moment the car was stationary, she and her mom sitting passively in it, doing nothing but twitching and breathing. The earth roared past, and the air hissed along the car. Then, her perspective flipped right back, and it was once more the car racing down the highway while the trees fumbled a little in the wind. Vera sat still, breathless, disturbed. Was it any different? She still did nothing; only the car moved her. Could she even move? Vera willed herself to pick up her arm. It didn’t move, but that was to be expected. She hadn’t wanted it enough.

Some thick tangle of emotion engulfed her. She looked through the gaps, doing her best to ignore it and waiting for time and oxygen to take it away, even as it was about to stop her throat from beneath. “Mom?” she said.

“Yeah?”

“The play you went to last week, what was that about?” Might as well distract herself.

“Oh, I don’t really remember. Adultery or something?” Vera’s mom didn’t look at her. Of course she couldn’t, she was driving, but she had drilled into Vera the importance of looking people in the face.

“What do you mean, adultery?”

“Like, people cheating on each other.”

“No, I know what adultery means. I mean what else happened in the play? Lots of plays are about adultery.”

“Exactly.” A corner of her mom’s mouth flicked upward, just for a second. “Can’t keep them apart.”

“Hm.” Vera didn’t see the point in seeing a play you couldn’t remember, but she decided to shut up about it. “Was it good?”

Her mom shrugged. “It was like the rest of them.”

A sense of déjà vu struck her; she could have sworn she’d had this conversation. Only it wasn’t déjà vu at all: she had said these things before, or close enough to them, and her mom had just gone on seeing the same plays. Her stomach turned, and the smell of exhaust that she had ignored till now flooded it. “Then why did you see them?” she demanded. Her voice had an edge of anger in it that made her mother flinch.

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

Vera sulked and didn’t stop until her mom pulled into the parking lot, where the endless concrete was too overwhelming to really do anything but look at it. Something compressed her chest; she could hardly breathe. The buildings were not concrete, but they were the same color, or else a bleached beige totally devoid of personality. All the local colors had been drained out and stuffed into a handful of logos. Minus the sky. The sky was the same oversaturated blue, and at that moment Vera couldn’t imagine it ever changing. She would simply have to live out her life stalked by that sky, leeching all the color out of the landscape.

It was with — not gladness, but something close enough to it that Vera slipped out from under the sky and entered the store, following her mother blindly. The place was lightly crowded. That should have been easy enough to get around, but no one here could move at all, and Vera found herself bumping into person after person. Scowling, she retreated into a corner. Her mom could do the shopping herself.

The corner she found herself in was not a corner, exactly. That is to say, it was not a place where two walls met. It was a place where they collided as if thrown together by some frustrated god of retail, with any adherence to the laws of physics or aesthetics entirely accidental. The cement was rough enough to almost hurt when she leaned against it, and the caulk was filled with dirt. Had anyone, she wondered, ever taken care of this place? Or was it one of those permanently untended patches of civilization, built to keep out the wind and nothing more?

Something flickering by her nose surprised her, and when she traced the light back to its source, she found she was eye to eye with a dragonfly. It dragged itself up the caulk over bits of dirt that must have seemed to it as large as boulders, staring at her with glittering compound eyes; she scarcely breathed for fear of disturbing it. It drank in the empty light with its whole body and converted it, casual as anything, into iridescence: this must have been what made the alchemists think that they could transmute lead into gold.

“Vera?”

The sound of her mom’s voice made the dragonfly take off. Vera tracked the blue and green glimmers for the moment it was still in sight, then reluctantly turned around. “Coming!” she shouted, then winced at the sound of her own voice. The store was the same as it had been a few minutes ago. The lights flattened the linoleum floor into a featureless expanse, and everywhere, bright packages and conversation blurred into a meaningless haze. The place smelled overwhelming, but it was an unplaceable scent, the smell of hundreds of processed foodstuffs. She thought of the dragonfly, how for a moment the sight of it had carved into her the desire to simply watch it. Forever, if she could get that.

But this was the real world. It was shallow and chaotic, and she couldn’t sit and want. Can’t sit and want. It was a message she would do well to gouge into a wall somewhere, but of course, nothing was that permanent or that simple. She would have to remember it. Perhaps she should leave a note for her future self, telling her not to empty herself out, to let the tides of the supermarket and the car trips wash over her and fill her. For the time being.

 

for the poets

      

your words coat my lips

like honey

i sit cross-legged on my bed and speak them

over and over again

until i can taste them

imprinted on my tongue

they crackle

on the crumpled papers of

my spiral notebooks

i write them over and over again

the blue ink bleeding from

the margins

of my math homework

seeping over the equations

numbers have always made sense to me and

math is refreshing in its clarity

but i can’t help but be

entranced

by your words

they spill over my walls

printed thoughts that stain the blue paint

until there’s no room for posters

poetry on poetry

even your names flow easily

from my lips

pablo neruda

e. e. cummings

william carlos williams

{is having a poetic name a necessity

to be a poet?

or could beth the barista

publish her own printed thoughts one day?

could jonny the jockey

stain a teenager’s walls?}

eventually your words

the ones that coated my lips

imprinted themselves on my tongue

bled over my math homework

twist themselves up in my trachea

so that when i speak your words

they’re not the same

they’ve been reborn

your words

those honey coated ballpoint pen masterpieces

have been reformed into

new

bright white leather baseballs

shiny copper pennies

brand new words

{extra! extra! hot off the presses!}

your words are repeated

rewritten

recycled

refurbished

some people take quotes from movies

or pop stars

or presidents

but i take mine from you

you poets,

you creators,

you gods of your masterpieces

i dismantle them

i dig into every crack and crevice

i check and double-check to make sure

i shake loose every word

and i reassemble them

so that the barest whisper of you

remains

enough to make it clear

that you are my inspiration

but besides from this whisper

the words, formerly yours,

are unrecognizable

i take my words,

my shining pennies,

my fallen stars

from you

and i make them mine

 

Alas, such are the ways of the clouds…

       

I must serve them because alas, such are the ways of the clouds

I gather worms although alas, such are the ways of the clouds

 

Why must I subject myself to your experiments

I adorn thy statues since alas, such are the ways of the clouds

 

Please help me, for I drown slowly like a fish

I float merrily while alas, such are the ways of the clouds

 

I plead of thee for a breadcrumb, starving while my masters feast

They believe me their mindless servant for alas, such are the ways of the clouds

 

My parched mouth begs for life-giving water as I flee my masters

They chase me far for alas, such are the ways of the clouds

 

I cannot run much longer please help me

As I hide in the roots, they pass by because alas, such are the ways of the clouds

 

They dump buckets of acid on the lands, smoking me out

I take up the lost dagger and fight them but alas, such are the ways of the clouds

 

Beating them back with the almighty shield of sorrow

I fall beneath their power for alas, such are the ways of the clouds

 

They take my soul, leaving a husk

I continue my eternal servitude and forget my past for alas, such are the ways of the clouds

 

My flesh and bones evaporating and leave behind a vapor

I am a cloud and I am selfish for alas, such are the ways of the clouds

 

I lose myself, I forget my roots

I forget my humanity, for alas, such are the ways of the clouds

 

Now a cloud, I continue as such

Miserable, missing what I cannot remember for alas, such are the ways of the clouds

 

All I remember is Juliana

Mourning me for alas, such are the ways of the clouds

 

Weird Dream

A dream that I had once, which was extremely odd, was that I started off standing on the top of the moon. I walked forward to the edge of the moon and fell all the way through space, down to earth. When I hit the pavement, I jumped out of my sleep. This dream has happened over at least five or seven times. The only logical explanation I have for this dream occurring multiple times is that when I was younger, I used to imagine that I was sleeping on top of the world. I guess that my wondrous imagination somehow turned into a terrifying dream that winds up having my body completely in pieces when I hit the ground, turning my “awesome dream” into a heart pounding moment for me.

 

Sonnet of the Feline

           

The worst gray haired creatures to roam the earth,

They leave and scrounge for rats and mice alike,

And they are even worse while giving birth,

Do not cross their paths whilst on a hike,

 

Do not pet them because, beware, they’ll bite,

On bed or shoes, wherever they may lay,

Tread on the tail, and prepare for a fight.

Inside or stray, please stay out of their way.

 

Their retractable claws will leave a mark

That won’t simply wash away with some soap.

Run away and they will dive in an arc,

Tis a slip’ry slope, farewell to your hope.

 

A kitten’s life is like a sharp descent,

Clearly, dogs are better, that’s what I meant.

 

2073

Music echoes against the cold wooden walls of the old room, each note emphasizing how silent and still everything else is. Old books, stacked unevenly on the shelves, are coated in a thick layer of dust, and papers are strewn across the floor. It is 2073, and it has been years since anyone has stepped foot inside. The music comes from a tape recorder, plugged into the wall, perpetually playing the same three notes again and again. It is the only sound aside from the the buzzing of the bees outside. The drapes flutter with each gust of wind through the shattered glass window, and all that can be seen is a deserted wasteland with no human in sight. It is a fragmented version of what once was, a memory only held in the minds of the children, now adults, who once inhabited the playground outside.

Far away, a man stumbles through the dry, desolate desert all alone. Upon his skinny body cling tattered cargo pants, scattered with holes and loose threads. An equally worn long sleeve shirt hangs loosely on him, size extra large, when he is now a small. He was once known as Jeremy, but the name has long since slipped from his memory along with thoughts of his family and his home. He is the shell of the person he once was. As he climbs hill after hill of sand, his tattered leather bag slips off of his skeletal shoulders, forcing him to stop and adjust it over and over again. He can’t risk losing it, for it holds every single thing that he owns. His bag is slowly getting lighter with each passing day. It is becoming easier to carry, yet a reminder of how close he may be to death.

Memories of the past months slowly begin to infiltrate his thoughts and weigh down on his body and mind. He is reminded of the struggle to continue moving through the desert in the past weeks, as well as years ago, a time of joy, but also one that is on the brink of slipping from his memory. His daughter peaks out of his cloudy memory more often than anyone else. His wife less so, since he has had many more months to adjust to this loss.


Crap, he thinks to himself, pulled away from his thoughts as he suddenly realizes that something is wrong. Looking himself up and down, he finally notices the disappearance of the comforting thumping of his bag swaying against his back. Crap, he thinks again, realizing that he must now retrace his steps and climb the hill he just descended to find his bag. He scurries up, forcing himself to ignore the sand slipping under his feet, scattering across his face and into his eyes.

One hundred miles away, at the site of the old room, the ground suddenly begins to shake with the force of a 40 elephant stampede. One hundred miles from the room, the ground once again begins to shake. The man steadies himself, one hand against the sliding sand dune, and the other slowly losing its clutch on his bag and possession, eventually dropping them to the ground once again. The shaking comes as no surprise to the man, who has had to deal with these daily earthquakes for months now, but it is no less irritating. As the ground rapidly shakes beneath him and the earth seems to flip upside down, his feet slip out from under him, and he slides face first down the mound of sand. His chin stings as he comes to a stop at the bottom of the sand dune, then his eyes and hands as he returns from his stunned state to recognize the pain from the sand. His eyes fill with tears, and he wipes them away with a swift swipe of his hand, embarrassed, even though there is no one to see him cry. As a final droplet cascades down his cheek, making a river-like indent in the folds of his filthy face, his bag comes crashing down from the top of the hill to his feet. The earthquake slowly comes to an end, and the man checks his belongings. Nothing is broken, and he continues on.

Two months pass. The man has walked tirelessly in uneven circles, unaware that he is going nowhere. He has survived by drinking from wells in abandoned villages and sleeping in the empty houses. The water is bitter, and the beds are rusting and coated in dust, but they offer a diversion from the never-ending sand and sun. He never stays long, for he needs to continue on through the rolling hills of sand that never cease to scorch his feet with each step. It has been three weeks since he has come across any evidence of abandoned human civilization, and before that it had been two weeks. He is exceedingly aware that the towns are becoming farther and farther apart and that his strength is dwindling. His steps become smaller and smaller with each hour that he walks. He stumbles along, eyes half closed, legs giving out.

It is close to noon and already he is growing too tired to keep his eyes open. He knows that he is safe to do this because the landscape never changes, and as long as he continues walking he will be fine. He is almost at the point of sleepwalking, and his feet have a mind of their own.

The end was coming. There was a delusion across the earth that there was still a chance, still hope. Only those who could wrap their heads around it were preparing, and the rest were already as good as dead. The man had grabbed his daughter when he heard the news, shoved their belongings into their 1990’s SUV, and laid his daugher across the backseat, covering her in a blanket. Shoot, he thought, as he was pulling out of the driveway. He knew his daughter would be devastated if he forgot her favorite blanket. He rushed into the backyard where he knew that her blanket was laying and grabbed her off the grass, muddying his hands. The man rushed back to the car, the countdown to apocalypse almost visible, like an hourglass, in his mind. Without really thinking, he jumps back into his car, places the blanket carefully on the front seat next to him, and zooms out of the driveway. He needs the extra time to make it out of the city before the traffic builds.

Two hours later, with his daughter still asleep in the backseat, he arrives at the outskirts of town. They are almost safe. His brother has offered them a spot in his apocalypse shelter, and they are almost there. He turns around for the first time to shake his daughter awake, but is greeted by an empty space with a blanket strewn across. He is frozen with shock. His eyes are locked on the leather seat, and his hands slip from the wheel. The next thing he knows the car smashes into a tree, and he is thrown back by his airbag. The man can’t begin to understand what happened; his daughter is gone, and his car is wrecked. He is left with a blank feeling of terror as darkness encloses around him, leaving the man standing, out of breath, on the side of the road, his smoking car offering the sole glow of light as the stars begin to rip through the blackness above.

While the man stands terrified in the road, his daughter is scrunched in the bathroom corner of their house, crying. She is alone and afraid. Her father is nowhere to be found, and her house is full of her monsters. Two hours ago she had woken up in the car, her father gone. He had been grabbing her blanket, and the night stars had been shining down on her through the windows. She had slipped out the door and gone back into her house to see what was happening. As the front door swung closed behind the girl, her dad, unbeknownst to her, ran back up the driveway and turned the car on, forgetting to check the backseat again, driving away.

Suddenly, the man is jolted from his memory and pulled back into the desert. His body bashes against a hard, rough wooden surface, and his eyes snap open as he comes to an abrupt stop, waking him from his sleepy state. A little wooden room greets the man, almost welcoming him inside with a hard wooden hug. One note, then another meet his ears, beating down on him with the pounding of the past. The song that he once recognized feels distant, but the meaning is something he has never forgotten. The notes drift through the air, emitted in all directions from a tape recorder plugged into the wall to the left of the door, on the inside of the cozy room. Ivy covers the exterior, but a golden, rust-free handle is visible, peeking nervously through the vines. The man reaches out a shaky hand, grasps the handle, and turns it, pulling it towards him with a suddenly energized intensity.

He rushes inside, eager to escape the brutal sun. Once he is safely inside, he removes his bag, dropping it to the floor just next to his feet, and looks around. Old books, stacked unevenly on the shelves, are coated in a thick layer of dust, and papers are strewn across the floor. The drapes flutter with each gust of wind through the shattered glass window, and all that can be seen through them is the deserted wasteland that the man knows so well. The man spins around, searching for the source of the music. In the corner of the room, he sees a tape recorder with a cord twisted up and plugged into an outlet in the wall. Gasping, he holds his breath, unable to breathe because of the surprise.

The man learned long ago that electricity was no longer usable; outlets had stopped working after the asteroid. He reaches forward and yanks the cord out from the wall, but instead of ending immediately, the music falters and then continues playing louder than before. Surprised, he shakes the box and turns it around. He finds a panel on one side of the box that is screwed shut. He spots the lid of a bean can, slipped under the table and laying on the ground. Bending it in half, accidentally drawing blood with the sharp jagged edge he has fashioned into a knife, the man cuts a little door in the plastic music box and carefully lifts up the panel. The man nervously peeks inside and sees the last thing he expects, a tiny, pink music box, topped with a ballerina moving mechanically, yet rhythmically to the music.

“How could this be possible.” He gasps. The music box inside is undoubtedly what he thinks it is: his daughter’s. And he finally recalls why he had recognized the song.

He shrivels with sadness, sinking to the floor, shoulders squished against the wall, sobbing. He doesn’t know what to think of this. His mind races, jumping frantically from one laughable idea to another ill-conceived notion. As his thoughts jumble together into one, he forces himself to believe that the music box must be a coincidence, but he cannot force himself to ignore the voice in the back of his head, whispering his daughter’s name, telling him that the music box is hers.

Hours later he lies, shivering on the floor, overtaken by a restless sleep. Even as he dreams, he feels a presence. A shadow. Suddenly, he is shaken from his rest by the sound of soft tears. He can almost see his daughter shuffling through the books on the bookshelf, tears falling across the pages as she flips through the book her dad had once read to her. He has a sudden urge to comfort the girl, his daughter, but is left with an empty feeling when he remembers that no one is there. He runs to the books, noticing a select few which have somehow shed their dust not too long before. He knocks the pile down, searching through the books for one in particular, the one he had seen in his dream. One catches his eye, the bright fluorescent colors and glossy paper cover reminding him of the many nights that he sat reading to his daughter. He flips through the pages, but then tells himself that he is silly to even let his mind be plagued with this thought.

He puts the book back down, yelling internally at himself for allowing his optimism to get to him. He becomes angry, angry at himself and angry at the room for playing tricks on him. He shouts out loud, projecting his feelings into every corner of the building, yet his emotions continue to flood his body. He punches the table once, twice, three times, continuously, endlessly, expelling his rage for what happened to his daughter and to himself. He spots the books he had strewn across the table earlier and pushes them aside, onto the floor. Then, he crumbles into a ball on the floor besides the table, sobbing.

Through his tears he looks around, colors blending together from the salty water filling his eyes. The books covering the floor catch his eye and before he can stop himself, he is on his knees weeding through the pages. His tears scatter like rain across the pages, but he cannot ignore the dried tears among them that are undeniably from an earlier time. It is not till minutes later that the truth actually sinks in. He ignores all reason, his mind clouded with hope: his daughter must have been here, there is no other possibility.

 

Potatoes to Apples

        

“Just a small town girl

Livin’ in a lonely world

She took the midnight train goin’ anywhere” – Journey (1981)

 

For all my life, I’ve wished I could be someone else. Somewhere else. New York. I remember being a kid, flipping through magazines at the one dentist office within a five mile radius, looking at the glamour and flashiness that the models and actresses flaunted in their pictures. I remember the article I was reading, something about the Big Apple, with a beautiful picture of Lindsay Lohan in the right hand corner. You know. Before she got sent to rehab.

She was in a red dress that skimmed the floor with these big hoop earrings. I flipped to the next page where there were even more A-List celebrities, carrying around their mini dogs in their mini bags before it was passé, and I fell in love. From that day on, I knew New York was my town.

I wouldn’t stop bothering my mom for a dress just like Lindsay’s. She got me one from the thrift shop that looked and smelled like it’d been worth about two dollars. Mom told me she’d gotten it for one. Did I care? No. I wore that dress until the fraying sleeves wore down to threads and I had had to cut up one of Dad’s old shirts for makeshift straps.

Idaho wasn’t ready for a star like me. And I made sure everyone around me knew that. My friends got tired of me talking their ears off about how great New York was and how terrible Idaho was. Can you blame me, though? We aren’t called the potato state for nothing. There’s nothing else here. It’s not exactly like you can party it up in a silo or anything.

So I made a plan. My town had one train station about two miles away from where I lived. Maybe I should have bought my tickets a little earlier, considering the fact that the only tickets left were for a train leaving at midnight. The only problem was that the ticket fare for a cross country trip was close to $200. Which meant that I would have to ask my parents for the money.

The closest I’ve ever been to a cross-country trip is driving to my Aunt Tilda’s house about two hours away from mine. My parents aren’t exactly what you’d call well-traveled people either. So I expected them to be a little protective of their only child going to a far away city and whatnot. They laughed. And when they saw how upset I looked, they stopped for a second.

“Why do you want to go to New York?” Dad asks, not even looking up from his newspaper. I could tell they weren’t taking me seriously.

Okay, so maybe I had already threatened to run away from home in eighth grade. They probably thought it was just one of those phases that I went through as a kid. But I’m not a kid anymore! I’m almost 18!

“I’ve looked at the train fare already, and it’s close to $200.” I showed them the online train schedule. I’ve already established that I’m an adult by showing them that I’m responsible for looking up the train times. To ask anything more of me would be overkill.

“And you just expect us to give you the money?” Mom stops peeling potatoes long enough to exchange glances with Dad. I know that glance. It’s the should-we-entertain-our-delusional-daughter-or-tell-her-how-the-world-actually-works glance. Which is ridiculous. I’m not delusional, and this isn’t a phase.

“It’s not just giving me the money, Mom.” I roll my eyes. “Think of this as an investment. I’ll go to New York, I’ll make money, and when I get rich and famous enough, I’ll buy you and Dad a house someplace better than Idaho.”

“How, exactly, do you plan on making this money?”

I stop for a second. Do I even know what I’m planning on doing in New York? Whatever. I’ll figure it out when I get there. They don’t need to know. God! Why can’t they just support me? It’s just $200. And the money I’ll need to rent out a place or stay in a motel. And the money I’ll need for food and a ticket back. But it’s not like I’ll be coming back anyway, so I don’t even need that $200. I’m already thinking ahead and saving money. So I go about convincing my parents the only way I know how: begging.

“Please? Please? Please?” I stretch out each syllable and make eye contact with my parents, hoping to send across some kind of subliminal message that says, “I need to go to New York now, and if I don’t, I might die.”

“Let’s say you did go. Where would you even stay? We’ve only left you at home alone once while we went to Marcie’s wedding.” Mom starts to cut up the potatoes into little chunks. It feels like the potatoes are my dreams, and my parents are just willing to cut them up into pieces for soup, or whatever dish we’re having tonight for dinner.

“I’d stay in a motel,” I answer quickly. “They’re cheap, and I’d be able to stay there for a while.”

They don’t look convinced.

“No.” Mom goes back to the potatoes. I can feel my dream slipping through my fingers like a wet bar of soap. Ew.

“But that’s not fair!” I feel tears gathering behind my eyeballs. I can picture it now. Me, years from today, in another house just like this one. I’m peeling potatoes, or washing dishes, or mucking out a cow yard. I’ll be just like… my parents. My boring, mediocre parents. I can feel the walls of our tiny kitchen start to close in on me. I have to get out of this state.

I manage a smile and try to make eye contact with my dad. “Okay. You’re right. I’m not responsible enough to stay by myself, especially in a whole other state.” I force a laugh but end up sounding like a car backfiring.

Mom pushes her mouth into a straight line and nods. “I’m glad you see it from our perspective.”

“I’ll just go to my room and get ready for dinner.” I turn to walk upstairs.

Dinner that night is kind of weird. Unusually quiet. But that might be because I’m trying to think of how to execute my master plan titled, How I’m Going to Get Out of Idaho by Stealing Money from my Parents While They’re Sleeping.

I mull over my options. I don’t have access to any of the things I see in the spy movies, which means I’ll just have to sneak into their room. They keep this ceramic bottle somewhere on their nightstand that has our emergency money in it. This is an emergency.

We finish eating in silence and go upstairs to wash up and go to sleep. Once I hear the faint snoring coming from the room across the hall, I know it’s time for me to put my plan into action.

I roll across the bed and plant my feet on the floor as softly as I can. I start to make my way to my parents’ room. Barely three steps into my plan, my foot and the floor create this awful creaking sound that gives me a heart attack. I reach the door and turn the handle slowly, wincing a little when it squeaks. I stop for a second and listen for any sign that says they’re awake. When there aren’t any, I turn the handle the rest of the way to let myself in.

I tiptoe my way to Dad’s side of the bed and reach around on the nightstand trying to find the ceramic bottle. I make contact with something cold, smooth, and cylindrical. Score. I shake it around a little to make sure it’s the right thing, and sure enough, the money inside makes a faint swishing sound as it hits the insides of the bottle.

My dad grunts in his sleep, and I almost fall back, but catch myself on the edge of the nightstand. I come back to my room and switch on the lights. I uncork the bottle and pull the money out with a pair of tweezers.

There’s about $500 in 20 dollar bills. I decide to take all of it. I empty out my school bag and pack a sweatshirt, some jeans, three shirts, and four changes of underwear and socks. I stuff the money into a fanny pack that I’ve put on under my hoodie and get downstairs as quietly as I can.

Once I make it outside, I do a little victory dance. Now all I need to do is get to the station. I check the time on my phone. 10:46. I have around an hour to get to the station before midnight. I walk down the driveway connecting my house to the road. It’s a quiet night and close enough to summer that I can feel the shirt under my hoodie start to stick to my skin.

I’m doing it! I’m finally getting out of Idaho!

It takes a while for my eyes to get adjusted to the lighting at the station. I see the ticket desk as soon as I get inside. There’s a pimply, tired looking kid around my age sitting behind it.

“Hi. One ticket for the train to New York?” I slide the money into the little compartment under the speaker. He looks up and types something into a machine and hands me the ticket. I wait for him to be impressed, maybe ask some questions about why I’m going to New York. A couple of seconds pass. Nothing. I lean with my elbow on the counter. “Yeah, I’m going to New York. By myself. I just decided I needed to get out of Idaho, you know? Who knows how long I’ll be gone.” I check to see if he’s listening. He’s not. “I might meet some celebrities there too, no big deal. I’ll ride a subway or two, go to Central Park. I’ve heard it’s all very glamorous.” The guy finally looks up. Yes! A reaction! He opens his mouth to say something. Maybe about how cool it is that I’m taking this journey? Or maybe about how he’s always wanted to go to New York too and how he’s so jealous I’m living out my dream?

“Did you say something?” He takes out the earbuds that I’ve just noticed and looks at me with a unimpressed, mildly annoyed expression. The earbuds play loud rock music that cuts through the silence of the station.

“Um. Nothing. Have a nice night.” I take my elbow off the counter and walk quickly to the seating area. Okay. Not exactly the reaction I was looking for. Not really a reaction at all, if I’m being honest.

But it’s okay! In about 15 minutes, everything about this garbage state will be history. The train will arrive, and I’ll be off to live the life I always knew was for me. I go out to the platform and sit on a bench with my hands tucked into the pocket of my hoodie and wait. Then, the train pulls up.

I enter the car and shuffle all the way to the back. I hoist my duffel bag up into the compartment and sit down in a window seat. It’s all dark outside with the exception of the lights from the station. I’m ready to reenact the victory dance from when I left the house when I notice there are two other people sitting in the car with me. I shrink down into my seat.

There’s a lady sitting in the seat across from me. She has hair that looks like it’s been dyed, and even though I’m sitting pretty far away, the smell of cigarettes and cheap perfume wafts from her direction. I feel kind of awkward, but it’s not like I’ll have any reason to talk to her anyway. I settle down into my seat and lean back into the headrest. I’m just about to doze off when a guy gets on and sits in the seat in front of me. From what I can see from the back, he has on a Pistons jersey.

The train jerks forward a little, and we start to move out of the station. I press my hands up against the window like a little kid and move my face as close to the glass as I can and crane my neck up to look at the sky.

For all I complain about Idaho, it really does look pretty at night. We even got some national reserve for looking at the sky. The stars look scattered, like someone took a paintbrush covered in white paint and flicked the bristles until the dark canvas was covered with tiny dots of light.

We start to pick up speed. I hear shifting in the compartment where my bag is. Then, my bag tumbles to the ground with a graceful thump, articles of clothing flying everywhere within a four foot radius. Crap. I scramble around looking for the things that fell out and manage to locate two shirts and three pairs of socks.

The lady sitting across from me looks around her seat and finds another pair of socks. She hands it to me. “Thank you so much.” I take the socks from her and stuff them into my bag. I’m positive my face is bright red.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says with a small smile. “You seem to have packed quite a bit. Might I ask where you’re going?” Finally! Someone who shows interest. I’m going to pretend she didn’t just see my pair of socks with the embarrassing polka dot print on them.

“I’m going to New York by myself,” I say. The guy in front of me turns around and hands me one of my shirts. I don’t want to seem rude, so I thank him and ask where he’s from. You know. Small talk. I’ll need it for when I rub elbows with Taylor Swift.

“I’m from Detroit.”

“Ohhh. Like 8 Mile?” I hope I’ve hit an emotional chord for him. Like, maybe he really likes Eminem and wants to follow in his footsteps and reach rap stardom. He gives me a blank look.

“What’s that?”

“Nevermind. But isn’t Detroit way closer to New York than Idaho?”

He shrugs. “I stayed with some relatives here for a while.”

I turn to the lady next to me and ask her where she’s from.

“I’m a singer. I have connections with some friends in Brooklyn, and they said they’d book me a gig at their bar.” She brushes her hair behind her ears and checks her phone.
“That’s really cool.” I smile at the both of them. None of us know what else to say, so we all go back to staring out the windows, looking at our phones, and sleeping.

As the anticipation grows in my stomach, so does the exhaustion from all the planning and scheming I’ve done for the past five hours. I close my eyes. Hopefully I’ll wake up just when we arrive in New York. It’s kind of like a fresh start.

A fresh start for me and everyone else on the midnight train.

 

Stormx4 Part I

Julia skipped happily down the stairs into the kitchen. She was wearing flamingo pajamas. The pants were completely covered with rainbow flamingos. The shirt consisted of a pink flamingo, the yellow sun, and it said, “Summertime is the best time.” Summer is getting close, but it’s not here yet. Her mom was on the phone again. Her mom had been on her phone for weeks, checking her texts, calling someone, or answering a call. Julia had been thinking about it forever and was determined to figure out the answer, and when Julia is determined to do something, it will be done.

“Good morning, Mom!” she said with a smile. Her mom ignored her and shooed Julia away with a motion of her hand. Julia did not listen because she was upset that her mother was ignoring her. “Mother!!! Mom!!! Mama!!! MUM!! MOM!!!” she yelled.

“Um, sorry. Excuse me for a second,” Julia’s mother said. Her mother put her hand over the phone speaker. “Julia, enough with this behavior of yours. I am on the phone with someone,” she whispered loudly.

“With who?!” Julia said.

“Someone important. Now go watch TV,” she replied.

“But I want breakfast!” Julia complained.

“No, Julia! Make it yourself! Do not be so dependant!” her mom responded sternly.

“Why can’t you just make it?” she pleaded.

“I told you! I’m on the phone!” her mom replied.

“But Mom! I don’t want to make it myself! I do that every morning!” Julia moaned.

“Then you can live without it. Now go watch TV,” her mom answered.

“I don’t want to,” she said as she crossed her arms and pouted.

“I do not care if you want to or not! I am on the phone, so go!” her mom hollered. Julia stomped to the living room which was right in front of the kitchen.

“Sorry about that, my… dog was acting up again,” Julia’s mother continued with her call. “So what were you saying?”

“Dog? I am not a dog, right? She gone crazy?” Julia mumbled to herself.

Her dad marched in the room. “Hey, Julie!” he said. “You ready for school today?” he asked.

“Dad, do I look like a dog to you?” Julia questioned.

Her dad looked concerned. “Um, no? Should you?”

“I knew it, and also there is no school today. It’s Sunday,” Julia mumbled. There is something weird going on, and I am going to figure out what exactly that is, Julia thought.

Her dad rolled his eyes and laughed a little. “I gotta go to work. Make sure you wake up your brother for his baseball game, so he has enough time to get ready. Also, did you see outside there is a moving van. I guess someone finally moved into the house next door. Too bad that old couple had to move. They were such great neighbors,” he said.

Julia paid no attention to him. She had worse things to worry about. “Okay. Sure, Dad.” She snuck up the stairs and sat in the room filled with her old toys. She pretended to be reading a book.

Julia then realized her mom was in the shower. This was her chance to figure out what was really going on. Julia’s mom typically takes a thirty minute shower, so that was how long Julia had to figure out this mystery.

She tiptoed into her parents room and grabbed her mom’s phone. She opened up the text messages. There was a number, 408-487-9863. Julia ran to her room and grabbed her phone. On her notes, she put the same number.

Mystery person: 408-487-9863

Julia opened up her mom’s text messages. At the very top, it said that she had received 40 text messages from that number. She clicked on the number, and at that very moment the doorbell rang.

Julia jumped in fear. The shower sound stopped. Her mom’s footsteps got closer and closer. Julia panicked and ran behind her mom’s bed.

Her mom cracked open the door. “Julia!” she called.

“Yeah!” Julia answered back, not realizing that she was trying to hide from her mother.

“What are you doing back there?” she asked.

“Uumm… I lost my phone. Yeah. I was looking for it, um, under the beds?” she replied.

“Okay. Can you get the door, and also hand me my phone, please,” she said.

Julia grabbed her phone and handed it to her mom who was wrapped in a towel. Her mom quickly shut the door. Julia sighed and turned away.

“And Julia!” her mom called from the shower. “Be polite.” Julia rolled her eyes and walked to the door. She doesn’t need to tell me to be polite. I am very polite. She’ll see. I will make her proud, Julia thought.

Julia opened the door. In front of her was a family of four. “Hello. We are your new neighbors! It is very nice to meet you. I am Esther, and this is Richard. These are our two lovely children, Michael and Ella. May we meet your family?” the woman asked.

“Um, just give me a sec please. Um, you can wait right outside, please. Thank you,” Julia answered. She slammed the door in their faces.

She ran up the stairs to her mom. “MOM!!! We have new neighbors! They want to meet you!!” Julia yelled loudly, so the family knew she was trying.

“I don’t have time right now, sweetie. I am preparing for a very important meeting. Bring your father,” she said back. Her mom was switching from outfit to outfit, trying to look her best for the meeting. She still had the dark blue towel wrapped around her hair on top of her head.

“Don’t you know he went to work?” Julia questioned.

“Alright then, bring your brother… Did you or your father wake him up for his baseball game?” she asked.

Julia stressfully put her hand on top of her head and pulled her dark brown hair. “Oh my gosh. I knew I was forgetting something!!!”

She ran to her brother’s room a few feet away and slammed open the door, smashing one of his newly built Legos. “WAKE UP! WAKE UP!!! YOU ARE GOING TO MISS YOUR BASEBALL GAME!!!” she screamed.

“Julia, I just built that!” her brother angrily complained.

“Well, I’m sorry, but it is not my fault you left it by the door! Now get up to go to your baseball game!” Julia yelled. Julia and her brother, Sam, are very close in age. She is eleven, and Sam is eight.

“But I don’t want to go!” he yelled.

“SAM! GET UP!” Julia hollered, infuriated by her brother’s refusal to listen to her.

“Why are you so mean?” He pouted.

“I am not!” Julia answered. “C’mon, Sam. Why don’t you want to go to your baseball game?”

“Because,” he replied.

“Because why?” Julia asked.

“Because, because.” Julia noticed that Sam seemed really upset, and she felt sorry for him. She hugged him and sat on the foot of his bed.

“HELLO!!! ANYBODY THERE?!” the neighbors yelled.

“Oh my gosh. The neighbors. I totally forgot!!! SO SORRY! BE THERE IN A MINUTE!!!” Julia responded.

“C’mon, Sam. We gotta go meet the new neighbors,” Julia prompted.

“Okay,” Sam said. She dragged Sam down the stairs, and once they got to the door, she smashed it open as fast as she could. The family waited impatiently outside the door.

The father stared at his watch and straightened his red tie. The mother perfected the ruffles of her tight purple dress. She fanned herself with her elegant paper fan that was covered with all sorts of patterns. Her two twins stared at each other. It was easy to figure out the resemblance between all of them. The mom and her children had golden blond hair. The father had brown hair, but the two kids had his same pointy nose. And of course, they were all so perfect.

“So sorry. My mom is preparing for a meeting, and my dad is at work,” Julia said, ashamed.

“But you can meet me!” Sam added optimistically.

“Okay, no problem. We’d love to meet you, little one. What is your name?” the woman asked.

“Sam,” he answered.

“Oh Sam, we are delighted to meet you,” Esther said with a smile. The two kids beamed at Julia and Sam. Her mother ran down the stairs.

“Oh, um… hello, Chandlers. Pleasure to um… meet you here. Why exactly are you here?” Julia’s mom asked. Julia was shocked that her mother already knew these people.

“It almost seems like you don’t want us here, Leena. We are the new neighbors. Would it be alright if your children came over for a while?” Esther asked politely. Julia was very upset with this. She always hated being in other people’s houses if it was not her best friend’s house.

“Um, no, sorry. He has a baseball game to get to,” Julia’s mom answered quickly.

“No, no. We insist,” Richard assured. The two parents glared at Mrs. Wood. Mrs. Wood was intimidated by them.

“Um, sure. I’m sure it would be fine to be a little late. Why don’t you two go upstairs and get dressed,” she said.

Sam and Julia nodded obediently even though they had no idea what was going on. The two ran up the stairs and into their rooms.

“Why don’t you two go in the house. We’ll meet you there, okay?” Richard said to his children.

“Okay!” they answered.

“Why are you really here?” Leena questioned.

“Oh well, I wanted to get a head start on it. My children already passed. Will yours?” Esther responded. She stopped waving her fan and micheviously grinned at Leena.

They glared at each other. “Give me a second please,” Leena hissed. She held her hand to her chest, trying her hardest not to break Esther’s nose with her fist. She walked to the phone to call her husband, Noah.

Julia and Sam came running down the stairs. “C’mon, little ones. Let’s go!” Esther called in a kind, high-pitched voice.

Now, Julia wore a plain purple short sleeve shirt with jeans. Her dark brown hair was in a neat side braid. Sam wore a dark blue jacket with a neon orange Adidas symbol on the front. His sweatshirt covered his black shirt. There was a Minecraft creeper surrounded by TNTs. He wore his orange shorts that were loose and really big on him, but he liked them that way. His hair was still messy because he hated to fix it. The only time he ever did his hair was when his friend, Bella, came over.

The two siblings held hands and walked with their neighbors to their house, where Michael and his twin sister Ella waited patiently.

Julia and Sam walked through the small door and into their neighbor’s small town home.

“Alright, Julia and Sam Wood. We are going to ask you a few questions today,” Richard said.

“Why?” Sam replied politely.

“Well, we are doctors, and your mother asked us to make sure you are doing okay because she is so busy she does not have time to take you to the doctor’s office. Let’s go upstairs,” Esther said.

Michael and Ella sat in their living room and watched them all walk up the stairs. The twins both knew exactly what was going on, but Julia and Sam were completely unaware.

“So, Julia and Sam, how old are you both?” Esther asked.

“I am eleven, and my brother is eight,” Julia answered respectfully.

“It seems you Sam, are very smart. You have all A+’s and one A. Julia you have…” Richard stated.

Julia cut him off, “How do you know that?”

“One A, three A-’s, two B+’s, and one A+,” Richard continued. “It seems you have decent grades, but will they be enough? That is the question.” Esther elbowed her clueless husband. He understood exactly why.

“We…” Esther sighed. “Your mother told us about you. She is so proud of you.” Julia nodded. “So, back to the questions. Have either of you ever been in a pressured situation? Such as bullies, natural disasters, death of a close friend or relative,” Esther added.

“Uh, we have been in a 2.3 earthquake,” Julia replied.

“I have been bullied,” Sam said quietly. Julia gasped in shock. Her brother is usually an open book and tells her everything.

“Sam! Why didn’t you tell me?!” Julia exclaimed.

“I didn’t think it mattered that much. I didn’t really think you cared,” he whispered.

“Of course I care, Sam. I’m your sister, and I always care about what happens to you,” Julia said sympathetically. “Now, who was doing it?”

“This cantankerous, unscrupulous, utterly malicious bully named Darius,” Sam mumbled. Julia stared at her little brother. She had no idea he knew his vocabulary so well. It must have been because he had been reading so much. Sam had always been an amazing reader and could read pretty much any book, unless he felt like it was boring.

“Um, okay. That was lovely, but let’s continue,” Richard prompted. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“I want to be a scientist. What do you wanna be, Sam?” Julia answered.

“I wanna be… I wanna be a scientist, so I can work with Julia!” he stated. He stood up on the small brown couch and bounced up and down with excitement. He imagined it, him sitting with Julia solving math problems that would indicate when the Earth’s rotation would stop. She would have a purple lab coat, and he would have an orange one. They would solve it together and then laugh, realizing how simple their mistakes were before.

“Good heavens!” Esther squealed. “Do not bounce on the couch! Were you raised in a barn?!” She covered her mouth with her hand and fanned herself with her detailed paper fan once again. Sam quickly sat back down next to Julia across from the other small brown couch where their doctors and neighbors sat. Little did they know, the Chandlers were neither doctors nor their new neighbors. They were something far more important.

“I think that is enough questions, answers, and impersonating jackrabbits for today, children. Off you go,” Esther said, annoyed. Julia and Sam stood up and left the room. Richard got up from his seat and closed the door behind them.

“You can’t say stuff like that, Richard. You’ll give us away. It is a hard secret to keep. It may feel like you should warn people, but it is for the best that no one knows what is to be left of this world when the storm occurs. We will stop it. We just can’t tell anyone. The only people who will be aware of this are the few chosen engineers and scientists,” Esther whispered to her husband.

“But I don’t get why we cannot allow the real scientists and engineers to handle this,” Richard replied quietly.

“Because, Richard. The new generation of children has spent more time around technology. We have a much better chance using them. Besides, it will be quicker,” Esther answered.

Julia and Sam walked down their stairs and started to open the door. “Hey, guys. How did it go?” Michael asked. The two twins still sat in the same spot on the beige couch in front of the TV. Ella paused the horror movie that they were watching. It made sense because they were both twelve.

“How did what go?” Sam replied.

Ella looked around to make sure no one was listening. “The test?” she whispered.

“What test?” Julia asked.

“You really do know nothing,” Michael continued. “They, our parents, are part of a secret organization known as STORMx4. It stands for Support, Technological, Official, Rescuing Machine. The name in general means a storm that is combining four different types of natural disasters, a hurricane, tornado, earthquake, and tsunami. It will be a worldwide storm, and it will wipe out half of the planet. So STORMx4 is trying to bring together the smartest kids on the planet and use them to build a machine that will prevent this.

“So we could get picked?” Sam questioned. It was hard for Julia and Sam to process it all, that their worlds would blow up, unless a few kids could save it.

“Yes, that’s what we have heard,” Ella responded.

“Well, we have to warn the police officers and the firemen. And our parents,” Julia said stressfully.

“You can’t. We aren’t even supposed to know. You have to promise that you won’t tell anyone, not even your family,” Michael said quickly.

Sam looked up at Julia. They both really wanted to warn their parents, so that they could get to safety.

“Okay,” Sam sighed. The kids all heard footsteps coming from upstairs.

They all looked at each other. If Esther and Richard figured out that they were still there, the Chandler parents would for sure suspect something. Julia and Sam crawled swiftly and quietly to the door.

Julia twisted the door handle and then opened the door. Thankfully, their previous neighbors hated squeaky doors and had the door fixed. So if you opened the door, you could still hear the sound of a bee buzzing outside and pollinating the nearby flowers.

She cautiously closed it behind her. Sam and Julia ran back to their home. Their dad came home as quick as possible when he heard that his children could be chosen to rescue the world.

Noah and Leena held hands and leaned against their counter in the white kitchen. Noah rubbed Leena’s hand as she sobbed. Julia and Sam walked through the door.

“Is everything okay?” Julia asked. Their parents just came over and hugged them.

“Yes. Are you okay?” their father said concerningly.

“Yeah. Why?” Sam replied. Their parents looked at each other. “What?” Sam added.

“Well, there is a storm coming, and — ” their father had a lot more to say, but he was disrupted.

“Yeah, we know. It is a huge storm, and it will wipe out half the planet. We also heard that they are testing kids to see who will qualify to help build a machine to stop it,” Julia interrupted.

Both parents were shocked that their children already knew about this. “Our friends told us!” Sam said enthusiastically.

“Okay. Well, that is why I have been on the phone so much. I have been talking to the Chandlers,” Leena added. She looked down at her feet and clenched her husband’s hand. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

“And that’s why I have been so busy. STORMx4 has been contacting us. They believe they have discovered some potential inventors. The thing is, you just tested. They have seen your grades and know precisely what you struggle with. Our neighbors are the employees in charge of testing and watching you. They have been spectating you for a few days, so we have heard. Anyways, we are sorry for not telling you kids,” Noah said.

“It’s okay, Dad, but have people been stalking us?!” Sam continued. “Are they secret spy agents?!”

“Sure, Sam,” Leena laughed. The Woods all laughed together, just like they used to. Unfortunately, it may have been the last time the Woods would do something together, as a family.

A few days later, two white envelopes arrived. The days had been long and hard, but the Wood family tried to make the most of it. They played board games and spent time as a family. Now, came the moment of truth. Would the family be split up? Or would they stay together? No one knew.

Julia and Sam couldn’t bear to open it up in front of their parents. If they did make it, how would they tell them?

The two sat in Julia’s room. It was comforting in there. A pink light shone down on her fluffy purple pillows that covered her cozy blue bed sheets. Her queen size bed was overflowing with stuffed animals. Some were red, some orange, pink, blue, purple, green, magenta, rainbow.

She and Sam sat criss-cross-applesauce on her fuzzy purple rug near her bed. “We’re gonna open it on three, okay?” Julia said, looking at Sam. She tried her hardest to stay calm but couldn’t help but breathe a little fast.

“One,” Julia counted. “Two.”

“Three,” Sam added. The two siblings opened their envelopes and inside was a note. The note in Julia’s envelope read:

Dear Julia Wood,

I am sure you may not have been aware, but we have been watching you. We have been trying to figure out if you qualify for building a machine that could save the world.

We are sad to tell you, that unfortunately, you did not test at the right skill level. We are very sorry and hope you have future opportunities.

Please do not tell anyone about this message. This is a private organization.

Thank you,

Stormx4

Julia jumped up and down. She was so happy that she was not required to leave her family.

“Eeeeeeehhh!!!” she squealed.

Sam stared horror-struck at his letter. “What’s… What’s wrong Sam?” Julia asked.

“I — I — I.” He took in a shaky deep breath. “I qualified.” Julia stopped jumping and looked at her brother.

“No. There must have been some mistake. You must have read it wrong.” She snatched the note right out of his hands.

“Dear Sam Wood,” Julia read. “I am sure you may not have been aware… Blah. Blah. Blah. We are proud, and honored to notify you… ” She copped her mouth with her hand. “That you have qualified for this project. You are our youngest inventor and because our inventor closest to your age is a teen, the writing will not be so simple. You may bring one maximum person with you. Your grades and ability to catch on to things quickly are the reason you were chosen for this project. Please report to the STORMx4 organization, 98670, Main Street, Santa Clara, CA, with all of your belongings and clothes that you will need for the next few months. Congratulations,” Julia mumbled. She slouched down onto her bed. She was in denial. Her little brother, Sam, would leave her for a few months.

“I can’t do it,” he said. Julia didn’t reply. She just sat on her blue bed covers and stared at the note. Sam got up and ripped the envelope in half. He threw it on the ground and ran out Julia’s door. His parents were talking about how they would handle it if their kids did have to leave, when Sam pushed past them to reach the front door.

He opened it and ran to the park that was in the back of his small town home area. No one ever came there, so it was a great place to hide.

He ran to the farthest back corner, where a strong tall oak tree stood. He reached for the branch that was in front of him and pulled himself up. Tears streamed down his face as he climbed the tall tree. He pulled himself up to the next branch and stood on a small one below him because his arms weren’t that strong.

The branch supporting his foot snapped. He gasped. He clenched the thick branch tight. He held onto one side, and his body hung off the opposite side.

He had climbed this tree before, and the same thing had happened. But, that time he was with Julia. He broke his leg, but he was also only allowed to climb to the third brach up, which was pretty much ten feet off the ground. Now, he was two stories high.

He kicked his legs and pulled himself up farther with his arms. He swung his leg up and thankfully, it landed on the life support branch. He hugged the branch with his legs and arms.

I think that is enough climbing for today, Sam thought. He warily pushed himself up, so he sat normally. He held on with his right hand to a thinner branch close above him.

He still could not process the fact that he would leave his family behind. He knew that he would be trying to save, not just his family, but his friend’s families and their friend’s families. The point is, he would have one chance to try and save millions of people.

Sam pulled a paper airplane out of his pocket that he had made that morning. He stared at it. No more paper airplane making. No more friends. No more Mom. No more Dad. But worst of all, no more Julia, Sam thought. Sam had always been close with his mom and dad, but he was always the closest with Julia.

Whenever Sam felt like his world was going to end, Julia was there. He recalled that once he did terribly in a baseball game. It was a playoff game. If they lost, they would get second. If they won, they would gain first place in the league. The game was nearly tied, five to six. It was the last inning, the seventh inning. His team was one point behind, and they had two outs. It was up to him to keep them in and get a homerun for his team. One of his players was on the third base. All he needed to do was a single good hit, and he would win his team the game. It was his last pitch. The ball flew, and he missed it.

When he finished, he started crying and said it was all his fault. Julia comforted him and said, “If your players would have gotten more homeruns, then you could have been in the lead. It’s not only your fault. When a team loses, it is because of the whole team, not one player.”

But when he goes to STORMx4, Julia won’t be there to comfort him.

Sam stared at the sun, sinking beneath the horizon. The sky was a bright pink mixed with orange. Clouds were scattered. Sam sighed. He was always very outdoorsy. He would miss coming here. It’s a beautiful view, and it is really easy to think on that branch. Sam put his dark blue hood over his messy brown hair.

He lifted the paper plane up and threw it into the air. The plane flew through the sky, like a dandelion wish. Sam dreamed of being a paper plane and being free. He wouldn’t have to help STORMx4 because he would be busy soaring through the cool, crisp air.

He wiped away a few of the tears that were on his face. Should I go? Didn’t the note say I could take one person with me who could understand complicated words? Julia is good at that. Plus, she is good at math, the one subject I have an A in, she has her one A+. But, would it be okay with her if I pulled her away from her family, our family? Sam thought.

Sam climbed down from his thinking space and headed back home. He opened the door and walked in. His parents ran to the door.

“Oh, Sam. We are so sorry,” his mother cried. “Julia told us what happened.”

“Yes, Sam. We are really sorry,” his dad added. They hugged their son tight.

“Where is Julia, anyways?” Sam asked.

“Her room. Why?” his mother said, as she wiped her tears with a tissue.

“Just wondering. I’m gonna go talk to her,” Sam replied.

“Okay, sweetie,” Leena answered. Sam ran to and up the stairs. He walked across the playroom to Julia’s room. Sam lightly knocked on the door and cracked it open. His sister was on her bed, staring at the ceiling and cuddling her teddy bear stuffed animal. It used to be her favorite stuffed animal and her best friend. She would tell that stuffed animal everything, until Sam. Now, she can just tell Sam, but not this time.

“Julia… ” Sam said hesitantly.

“Sam, shouldn’t you be packing?” she asked, still staring at the ceiling. Her hands rested on her stomach and she crossed her ankles.

“The note says… ” Sam grabbed the crumpled note from the floor. “Since the closest inventor in age is a teen, you may bring one maximum person with you. So, I was thinking…”

Julia popped her head up. She hated to admit it, but she really wanted to go with Sam. And she was a little upset that he got picked and not her. She thought her grades were pretty good.

Sam continued, “Maybe, since you have one A+ in math and I have one A in math, you could… Maybe.”

Julia looked at him. Her, leave her family? She loved Sam, but she also loved her friends and her parents. They would be devastated. But, if she helps, her brother would not be alone. She could help save the world! Julia always wanted to be a superhero. This was pretty similar!

Julia was upset that STORMx4 would choose her little brother and not her. But, she wasn’t going to miss her chance to prove to them that they made a mistake, and they should have chosen her.

“I’ll do it, Sam. I’ll go with you,” Julia answered, after a little thinking.

“Well, let’s get packing,” Sam replied. He was sad to leave his parents. But, he was ecstatic that he would stay with his sister, his favorite person in the world. He couldn’t help but smile a little as he walked to his room, knowing that he would not be alone.

To be continued…

 

Serendipity

            

The ingenue dreamed of a catastrophic world of cerulean music.

There were many realms in that world, each surprisingly different.

Her favorite glowed during the day with beautiful, cloudless skies.

The night sky was gorgeous as well, colorful but dark.

The moon and stars shone down from the bright heavens.

There was someone else there, a silhouette against the sky.

She saw them once, wrapped up in a yellow blanket.

They had a telescope, seeming to be watching the stars.

Another time she saw them sitting in a shadowed windowsill.

A shadow against the white curtains forever keeping them separate.

 

The ingenue dreamed of catastrophic, cerulean music.

There were many realms, each surprisingly different.

Her favorite glowed with beautiful, cloudless skies.

The night sky was colorful but dark.

Moon and stars shone from the heavens.

There was a silhouette against the sky.

She saw them wrapped in a yellow blanket.

They had a telescope, watching the stars.

She saw them sitting in a windowsill.

A shadow, white curtains keeping them separate.

 

Dreamed of a cerulean music.

There were realms, each different.

Her favorite beautiful, cloudless skies.

Night sky, colorful but dark.

Moon and stars from heavens.

A silhouette against the sky.

Wrapped in a yellow blanket.

A telescope, watching the stars.

Sitting in a shadowed windowsill.

White curtains keeping them separate.

 

Dreamed cerulean music.

Realms surprisingly different.

Glowed beautiful skies.

Night colorful, dark.

Moon and stars.

Silhouette against sky.

Wrapped, yellow blanket.

Watching the stars.

Sitting shadowed windowsill.

Shadow curtains separate.

 

Golden Blood (Excerpt)

“We need to find her.”

“Sorry?”

“The girl.”

“Sir, which girl?”

“The girl, Zira. She’s one of the last ones. We won’t stop until we get what we need — her blood.”

The man stood in front of the committee and swore to do whatever they asked. Immediately, he started to work on finding her in the other world, Earth.

***

I’m concentrating on my comic submission, due next week. Music plays loudly on the radio in my room, but it sounds like background noise to me. The ink flows on my paper freely. I quickly glance at the clock. 11:46 P.M.. New page. Just as I start to draw a new box, my phone rings.

I jump, then scramble to find my phone under the mess on my desk. It’s only my friend, Kyla. I hit the green button and answer with a dry, “Hello?”

She answers much too enthusiastically for this time of the night. “Hey! I’m out right now, so what do you want for your birthday?”

I can’t help but chuckle. “Kyla, why are you out this late? And my birthday is technically in 14 minutes.”

“I know, but I’m getting you something right now anyway. How do you feel about — ”

“It’s okay, I don’t care what you get,” I interrupt. “I’m busy with something. See you tomorrow,” I say and press the “end call” button just as she was about to protest.

I go back to focusing on the comic. I had three pages written already, of my protagonist battling monsters and whatnot. Where I’d left off, my protagonist was standing in front of the biggest, scariest monster of all.

I don’t know what to draw next. I switch my lamp off and go to sleep.

“I’ve come to take you back.”

I shoot up from my bed. I suddenly have a tingly feeling over my entire body, and I grow very hot and dizzy. I find myself too weak to stay sitting up. I see my phone on the bedside table turn to 12:00 A.M.. Thursday, October 11. This isn’t what I thought turning 18 would feel like.

You’ve been in this other world for much too long and need to get back to your people.

The view of my window becomes blurred as I drift back to sleep, or faint. I can’t remember.

When I wake up, I’m only confused.

Am I still dreaming? I don’t know what time it is, but it’s dark. I don’t know what day it is. I check my phone. Friday, October 12. 10:45 P.M.. How? What happened?

I’m not in bed. Still confused, I start to feel scared. I’m as good as paralyzed. Terrified.

Why am I in a fancy dress? I hesitantly stand up and realize that I’m in a classroom. I walk out to the hallway. Empty.

School at night is eerie to begin with. Every sound from outside feels louder than it should be, and everything seems bigger than it is during the day. I struggle to remember why I was here in the first place.

There’s a gash on my thigh, bleeding underneath my dress. I hold the muddy ruffles tight in my fist. Not only am I scared and wondering how I ended up here, but an overwhelming, unexplainable grim feeling consumes me. My spirit had been brought down.

Then, a creak.

Lockers line the entire hallway, but one creaked open behind me. A chill goes down my spine. I’m not turning around.

“Who’s there?”

I stay completely still. My body is cold. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

“Who’s there?” I ask again. My breaths were heavy. Nobody’s there.

I squeeze my eyes shut, the way you do when you get a shot at the doctor’s office and you just want it to be over. I spin around and open my eyes.

Nothing. I had a sinking feeling there was nothing there. It wasn’t a draft. The hallway is spotless. No garbage, or bugs, or even a single dust mite. If only I could see a dust mite.

I step gingerly towards the exit. I keep walking, stiff.

Why am I here? Why am I here? I ask myself over and over, as if it would give me the answer. The last thing I remember is drawing, the night before my birthday. I realize I don’t remember what happened on my birthday, which was also homecoming. That’s right, this is my homecoming dress.

I push hard on the exit door to open it. It doesn’t budge. Locked. I’m beginning to feel lightheaded. I’m trapped.

“Is there anyone there?” I call out through the door.

The gash on my thigh is the only injury I can see. It had started partly scabbing over. The rest of my body is just covered in dirt. The horrible, ominous aura wouldn’t go away.

What happened? I rub my eyes, hoping maybe it was a bad dream. Mascara smudges onto my hand.

As I start to lean on the door and cry, it swings open. My heart feels like it dropped to my stomach and is pounding from there.

I look eye to eye with a guy standing in front of me. I recognize him. I can’t put a name to his face at the moment, but surely I’ve spoken to him before.

“Um, are you okay? What are you doing here?” he asks.

“Help me.” I say it in the weakest voice, but the guy helps me out of the building.

***

Next, there are thick, dark clouds. Purple, black. They surround me. It’s cold. Something is talking to me.

“Come,” they say. “Come to the other side… ” Over and over. The echo is everywhere. It doesn’t matter where I turn; the voices and the clouds are all that exist in this moment. I can’t escape.

“No,” I say. “No!”

I wake up in an unfamiliar place, with the same guy by my side. What is his name? I still have a sick feeling. “Where am I? How did I get here?”

He holds a glass of water. “Shh, it was just a dream,” he says. “I brought you here. This is my house. I would have driven you home, but I didn’t know where you lived, and I’m right around the corner from school.” I sit up straight, abruptly. He tries to hold eye contact with me, but I’m flustered. He gives me the water.

“Do you remember anything from last night?” he asks softly.

“I remember last night. I know I was at school, but I don’t… I don’t know why… or what happened before that,” I stutter.

“Okay, well, it’s me, Tyler,” the guy says. Tyler. Right. “Last night was homecoming night.”

“I figured that out from my dress,” I say, gesturing to it. I’m still wearing it.

“Your parents are probably really worried,” Tyler points out. “Do you, like, need help or something?”

“They probably aren’t.” Actually, I bet my dad is. It’s not like I told either of them that I was sleeping over at someone’s house. I just didn’t come home. “And I don’t think you can help me. Something’s going on,”

“Well… yeah, I think that’s safe to assume,” Tyler answers. He looks down at his feet. He kind of looks like he wants to say something but decides against it.

I roll my eyes. “No, I mean… I don’t know. Like, it’s not over.”

“Do you want to talk more after you change clothes? There’s a guest room that no one goes in. There’s clothes there,” he offers. I don’t know Tyler that well, but somehow I trust him. There seems to be a connection. I can’t tell what it is.

I nod, and he tells me to go to the room on the left. I follow his instruction and leave the door the slightest bit open.

The room is painted a subdued red. There are eight pieces of artwork, two on each wall. They’re all overwhelmingly dark, depicting graphic pictures of wars and monsters. There’s one portrait. The girl in the portrait cries dark tears.

How unsettling.

I quickly find a T-shirt and shorts in the dresser under the portrait. My mind was clouded with sounds. I need an aspirin or something.

My perception of time is completely messed up. I close my eyes and try to imagine myself in school. A normal day, before yesterday. I imagine myself on the field, running endlessly. It all seems so far. Whatever happened, I want it to stop. I want them to stop torturing me. I wish I knew who “them” was. If they want to kill me, then why not just do it?

Tyler is sitting with his back turned toward me. He seems to be taking some sort of pill, but his cup holds a dark liquid, like grape juice or something, rather than water. He groans in pain.

“Hey,” I say. “Are you good?”

Tyler looks up now. The light in this room is off, but it’s still bright from the daylight coming through the window. He stands up.

“I’m fine. Hi,” he says.

Ignoring the incident, I ask, “Why do you have those paintings?”

“They’re… ” he pauses. “Memories.”

I sit down on the hard wooden chair. “Where’s your family?” I asked. “Are they their paintings?”

“Yes, but I won’t say anything further than that.”

“What does that mean? Are you, like, adopted? You know, I’m adopted.” Why did I say that? He doesn’t care.

“That’s not quite it,” Tyler says. “I don’t know how to explain them.”

“Can you try?” I want to know more.

“I brought them with me when I came here. They’re, uh, otherworldly, I suppose. We had them in my home when I was younger. I can’t go back, though,” he says.

“Why?”

“It’s just not… here,” he says.

We look at each other for a long moment. Now that I can really look at him, it’s the first time I notice that he’s actually attractive, even though I was acquaintances with him for a while. I look away and focus on an area where the paint is peeling off on the ceiling.

“You should go home and rest. Let’s talk more another time,” Tyler says.

I look back at him. “Okay.” I know he would keep to that. Or at least, I hope.

He drives me home. I stand in front of my house for a few seconds before I walk in. It’s the same. Why wouldn’t it be?

My parents sit together on the couch. My dad looks me up and down, a stern look on his face. “Hannah, how did you get that?” he asks, pointing to my thigh.

“Oh, this… it was, uh, an accident. Someone hit it by accident. ‘Cause it was dark and stuff… ” I decide to shut up before my lies become obvious.

“And why are you still wearing your dress? Are you okay?” my mom asks.

“You just fell? Sober?” Dad comments. Ouch. That stings.

“No, I wasn’t drinking. I was at a friend’s house, that’s all. We were really tired after the party, and I slept over,” I answer. He doesn’t seem convinced.

Mom nods her head. “Okay honey.”

I go upstairs. There’s not much else I can tell them. There’s not much else I know.

My bedroom hadn’t been touched since the night before. The comic book pages were still sprawled on my desk. I picked the first one up. There was a drawing of a thick cloud, similar to the one I found myself in while sleeping.

I feel uncomfortable, so I turn it over.

Down the hallway, I turn on the water for a shower. I stand under the water for a bit, just feeling it run down my face. After I’m done, I don’t know what else to do. I sit on my bed and look out the window.

“Hannah,” I hear my mom call from downstairs. “Dinner’s ready!”

I don’t want to eat. I snuggle under my blanket and face the wall. As soon as I hear her footsteps on the stairs, I close my eyes. I hear my room door open.

“Oh, you’re asleep,” she says. “Alright then. Good night, sleep tight, and don’t let the monsters bite.”

My eyes fly open. I’m still facing the wall, so my mom doesn’t notice. She leaves the room innocently. Did I mishear “bed bugs?”

At first, I think I won’t be able to sleep at all. But I drift to an in-between state — both sleeping and awake. Again, I find myself stuck within these dark clouds. It almost feels as if I am falling. A person emerges from the fog. At least it looks like a person. He’s tall and skinny and wears an all black suit. He sports a thin purple scar across his cheek.

Hannah,” he says. His voice is raspy and intimidating.

“What do you want?”

Come back to us. This is where you belong.”

“Where are you?”

Come back to us… ” he hisses.

“Why? Why are you torturing me?” It feels like I’m screaming at the top of my lungs as I say it. I’m filled with anger, passionate anger. Before this happened, I remember that everything was fine, that I was so excited to be turning 18. And now I don’t know what’s going on.

The person disappears with one gust of wind. The echoing of voices uttering incoherent things makes the setting all the more unsettling.

I wake up out of breath. I check the time. It’s completely dark out. 12:34 A.M.. How?

My family must be sound asleep. I turn on the lamp on my desk and rummage for a post-it note. On it, I write “out for a morning jog, be back soon.” If they wake up while I’m still out, they won’t get worried. And they won’t assume I left this early.

Carefully, I stick it to the outside of my door and then proceed to climb out my window.

Once I reach the ground, I pull my hoodie on and walk twenty minutes to Tyler’s house. I don’t know why. I’m not sure what I really wanted to do outside in the first place. It’s cold. Going to his house just seems natural.

It’s not, of course.

I hesitate for a moment in front of his door. Knock, or don’t. I knock once, pause, and knock again. What am I doing? My heart is racing. What will I even say? It’s the middle of the night; would he even —

The door swings open.

“I really wasn’t expecting you to answer,” I say, kind of shocked and out of breath.

“I really wasn’t expecting you to knock on my door at one in the morning,” Tyler deadpans.

“Me neither.”

Tyler steps back to let me in. “So… why are you here? I mean, not to be rude, but this is one of the weirdest things that has ever happened to me.”

“I don’t know why I’m here either,” I say. “I just wanted to, I guess.”

Tyler nods, but his facial expression shows confusion more than anything else. I debate whether or not I should get into my dream. It seems a bit much to walk all the way to his house just to talk about a bad dream. Talk about being needy.

“I can leave,” I say.

“No, no. Don’t worry about it. Are you sure you don’t want to… talk about something?” Yes. I would like to talk to him about something. Those damn clouds.

He sits down on the couch, but I stay standing in front of him.

“No, it’s not like talking would help.” I pace back and forth a few times.

He’s facing the ground. “So, what do you want?”

“What do I want?” What a loaded question. I wish the clouds would leave me alone. I wish I knew why or even what was happening to me. “I want a regular life back. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I’m scared all the time, and I can’t sleep anymore. I turned 18 yesterday, and I can’t even remember it. And this, this thing won’t leave me alone!” I cry.

Tyler doesn’t speak immediately after. I burst into tears. He stands up and wraps his arms around me. He hugs me tight, and the warmth makes me feel safer.

“Hannah, I think I know why this is happening,” he whispers to me.

“What do you mean?” I pull back and look at his face. He sighs. He looks down at his feet and avoids eye contact.

“Remember when I said my home isn’t here?” he asks. I nod. “It’s in a parallel universe.”

At first I’m speechless. Nothing. “Am I supposed to play along?”

Tyler drops his head, like he knew I wouldn’t believe him. But who would? “Can I tell you how I came? It’ll help you.”

I roll my eyes slightly. I don’t know where he’s getting at, but I’ll listen.

“I’m sorry, it sounds stupid. But when you leave that world, you automatically lose every memory of it. And some there are special, valuable. They have gold blood, and that’s why they’re always in danger.”

“Okay, wait,” I interrupt. “Out of every explanation you could’ve possibly given me, this one is the most unbelievable. This isn’t even useful.”

“I promise I’m not messing with you. Just listen. You’re one of the special ones. That’s why the smoke or whatever is in your dreams. Because your memory was automatically lost. And you’re valuable to them, so they need you back.”

“Yeah, okay, sure.”

Tyler is obviously frustrated. He puts both hands on my shoulders and moves me out of his way. He leans over to grab the scissors on the table. I become tense. “Tyler, what are you doing?”

He pulls up his sleeve, not answering me. With the scissors, he cuts his hand. Dark purple liquid oozes from the cut. I suddenly think of the portrait. Dark tears. Dark blood.

“Give me your hand.”

I hesitate, holding my clenched fist to my chest.

“Hannah, I need your hand. Please,” Tyler pleads. I slowly open my hand and give it to him, almost against my will. He grabs it and cuts it in one swift motion, too fast for me to react. I don’t pay attention if it hurts.

I stare at my hand. The blood is gold.

“W-why… why wasn’t my blood gold before? And why do you know this? What am I?”

“Calm down.”

“Are you joking? Calm down?”

Tyler puts his hands on my shoulders again. “Yes, I’ll tell you everything. Let me continue.” He makes me sit down and takes a deep breath.

All I could do was stare at my trembling hand. Where did it come from? How did nobody notice, not even me?

“I don’t even know where to start but — ”

“You better start somewhere,” I warn.

Tyler leans back, half sitting on the arm of the couch in the living room. He put his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, but his fingers were still fidgeting.

“So,” he begins. “First of all, I’m the only one who can remember here in this world. I figured out a concoction that kept my memory in place despite going through the portal. The regular purple bloods need the gold-bloods for the gold. And so when they leave, by whatever reason, they need to find a way to get the gold-bloods back. I guess it’s also a punishment for anyone who leaves.

“The portal between our two worlds is the clouds that you’ve been seeing,” he says. “The blood is disguised on Earth until they are discovered, and eventually what they want is to bring you back. So this is what you’re experiencing.”

I stay silent for a few minutes. We sit across from each other, not making a sound or moving one bit. “So… What now?” I say softly. This isn’t what I expected when I came.

“Well now you know. So, it’s up to you what you do next.”

“I’m going home,” I say. “I’ll… see you on Monday, I guess.”

“Do you want me to drive you again?” He starts to get up, but I stop him.

“No, I’m going to run home. Thanks.”

I step outside on the street, and the wind hits me in the face. I don’t know how I’m able to leave so easily with all this new information. I still have so many questions. So many thoughts.

I sneak back to my room without my parents noticing. It’s still dark out.

I’m exhausted. Exhaustion is the least of what I was feeling at the moment, though. I lean against the closed door, ready to just give up.

A thick stream of smoke wafts in through the window. It moves as if it has a brain of its own, and it’s coming straight to my face. It curls around me, but not encompassing me. “Hello… ” it whispers.

“Is this a dream? What are you?”

“I think you’re imagining me. Don’t you, smart girl?” the smoke says to me.

“No. This is real.”

The smoke curls around my feet, and slowly makes its way around my body. “You belong with us. You have a place… ” it hisses.

“No.”

“You were destined for things greater than this weak planet. There’s a set place for you, a rare good under our empire. You’re supposed to come back… you shouldn’t have left. You need to be under our control,” the smoke provokes.

“What if I like it here?” I respond.

“You’re a difficult one.” The smoke curls up around my chest and behind my neck. It feels like breath as it speaks. “Aren’t you looking for something more? An identity, perhaps. A true identity?”

“You aren’t even a real person,” I say bitterly. “You are only a soul.”

The smoke laughs, sending a chill down my spine. “That’s what makes me powerful, dear golden-blood. You can’t hurt me, but I can hurt you.” The smoke nears my face, threatening to suffocate me as I pull away.

I clench my fists hard. “You already have. I know you won’t kill me if you need me back.”

The smoke loosens. “This won’t be the last time we meet. Don’t doubt that we will have it our way.” The smoke vanishes, out my window where it came from. I rush to close the window immediately after.

I breathe heavily. I change my clothes, shaking.

The person I see in the mirror is unrecognizable. There are huge dark circles under my eyes.

I know that I’m becoming a tense and anxious person, something I’d never been before. I close my eyes for a moment to think. What should I do? Inhale, exhale. I think back to when I was happy and carefree. I didn’t know things could change so instantly.

My comic still lay unfinished on my desk. The submission date was fast approaching. Maybe it would take my mind off things. I crack my door open to let in some fresh air. No way was I going to open the window.

Where did I leave off?

The protagonist was fiercely fighting off her antagonists. If the drawing can do it, why can’t I do it? I continue to fill in the background and started a new square.

The sun starts to rise, and before I know it, it becomes complete daytime with the sun streaming into my room. Somebody knocks on my door.

I jump. Mom walks in. “Relax, it’s just me. What’s up? Why so jumpy all of a sudden?”

“I know, I’m just… I’m fine.”

“Come eat with us,” Mom asks. I look at the deep creases in her eyes. She’s so happy and oblivious to my nightmare. I love her. I could never leave her, especially for something like smoke and nightmares.

I say nothing as I sit across both of them. I eat small bites and avoid looking at them. They talk about mundane things. Work, switching the lights, laundry. I zone out into my thoughts. What can I do? How did this all even happen?

“Are you alright?” Dad asks. “You seem really out of it.”

“No,” I say reflexively.

“What’s wrong?” they both ask.

I don’t know how to respond. They don’t even know. I stay quiet.

“Hannah, you can tell us what’s bothering you. We love you,” Mom says. I start formulating what I want to say. They stare at me, very concerned.

“I just… ” I finally begin, cautiously giving the rest of my answer. “I don’t have some information that could help me. Like, I don’t know what happened at homecoming. And… I don’t know who I really am, and I don’t have what I need to figure it out. Where am I from?”

My parents exchange a glance.

“Hannah,” my dad says, “This conversation was a long time coming.” I bet. “I wish I could share your origins with you. But we don’t know anything about before we adopted you either. There’s no information about your birth parents, birthplace, or anything like that.”

There’s no forms. It clicked when he said that. There was my proof that I wasn’t born here. “Absolutely nothing?” I ask.

My parents shake their heads. “You were all alone when we took you in. You weren’t at an orphanage. You were a year old or something, and you were in the street,” Dad says.

“What about the legal stuff? School, doctors… ” I say. Nobody must’ve realized that I had gold blood. Heck, I didn’t know until last night. How did the purple-bloods get away with it? It’s interesting to hear my parents speak about this when I’m referring to drastically different things.

There are still a lot of holes in my story. I sit there, half blanked out, half listening. My parents share about the loopholes they were able to get through, like my birth certificate. I was born “at home,” it seems. My head is spinning.

There was still a big “why?” hanging over me. I understand that I’m obviously from somewhere else, but why did I end up here? Why do I matter so much? Why won’t it go away?

“Thank you, Dad.” I give him a quick hug and rush to my room.

I’m weirdly excited. I feel anticipation for the answers I’ll receive tomorrow. It’s the closest to happiness I’ve felt in a while. Something to look forward to rather than to fear.

I try to sleep. There are too many things on my mind. I sit up. It won’t be long before I speak to Tyler. I tap my leg lightly with my finger, thinking of something to do.

Visually lay it out. Get my thoughts on paper.

I jump out of bed and flip on the lights. I get an empty notebook floating around on my desk and open up to the first page. Just like drawing a story. Except this one is real.

I take a deep breath.

I draw and write furiously. A baby, adopted and moved around, a determined runner, and homecoming night. Arrows and little comments cover the piece.

I drop my pencil and massage my wrist. It’s very late, and it’s been a few hours since I’ve eaten with my parents. I sneak out of my room to get a snack.

The kitchen lights are still on even though both of my parents are sleeping. I grab an apple and slowly make my way back up the stairs. I shut my door gently. I sit back at my desk, ready to keep working.

The drawings were now in color.

I drop my apple and it rolls under my desk.

All of the pictures of me were all colored gold, even though none of them had blood. There was also smoke added. Clearly I wasn’t alone.

I step back and look at the filled up pages. I feel scared once again, just as I was starting to get over it. Just as it was dying down, just as I was about to get answers.

Disregarding the time yet again, I decide to call Tyler.

No answer.

Should I call again? I click on the call button one more time. And again, he doesn’t pick up his phone. I throw my phone on my bed.

I want to show him the pictures. But I don’t want to touch them. I don’t know what’s been done to them. I don’t know if they’re hiding somewhere in my room.

I don’t feel safe.

 

Beach Girl

The blue haired girl always came to the beach. She stood, only her toes in the water, arms outstretched. She closed her eyes and smiled. It was like she was in her own world, just her, the wind, the water. Nobody else.

I walked to the beach every day just to see her. I wanted to walk up to her, and hold her hand and stand with her. I wanted her to notice me like I noticed her. But she never did. So I just came everyday, and watched her be beautiful as I sat on the sand only inches away.

Then came a day when she didn’t come. I walked over to my place, but she wasn’t there. Her hair wasn’t flowing in the wind, her dress wasn’t flapping, her hands weren’t extending to the skies. Her absence was emptying. It felt as if the whole world had imploded in itself, and its rotation was thrown off course. The girl with the blue hair wasn’t there.

I panicked, and didn’t return to the beach for years.

Five years of waiting passed. I hadn’t seen the closed eyed girl with the long, blue hair for five years. I had almost forgotten about her, but I couldn’t. She was too beautiful. I longed to see her again. So after five years of waiting in the dark, I emerged again. I don’t know what caused me to want to go back, but once I thought of seeing her I couldn’t stop myself. I went to the beach where she always stood.

And there she was.

She stood, only her toes in the water, arms outstretched. She closed her eyes and smiled. It was like she was in her own world, just her, the wind, the water. Nobody else. She was exactly the same, only taller. I sat down, on the sand, only inches away from her, and watched her.

She opened her eyes.

“Where have you been?” she asked me. I didn’t know how to respond. She had never opened her eyes, she had never let out a sound or even moved. She never saw me as I sat down beside her. But there she was, talking to me.

“I — I thought you left,” I responded.

Her smile widened. “Leave? I would never leave.” There was a moment of silence. “Stand with me.”

I stood, my legs shaking like jello. I stood beside her, and outstretched my arms. My fingers touched hers.

“Close your eyes,” she told me. “Don’t think of anything, just feel.”

I did. I felt the wind ripple around me and her soft fingers touching mine. I felt the soft rays of the sun warm my arms and the cool water wetting my toes. I felt what this girl had always felt, the peace, love, and calm. I finally understood. So there we stood.

We stood, only our toes in the water, arms outstretched. We closed our eyes and smiled. It was like we were in our own world, just her, the wind, the water, and me. Nobody else.

 

Poisonous Rain

        

Rain is falling

Mom is calling.

It’s time to go inside

Weather lied.

Rain is falling

Mom is calling.

She is fleeing

I am seeing.

Why?

I say.

Is the rain poisonous?

No.

Then why?

I ask.

Are you going to die

Because water is falling from the sky?

Rain is falling

Mom is calling.

Storm is coming

I’m still humming.

Water’s spraying

I’m still playing.

Rain is falling

Mom is calling.

Thunder’s frightening

Here comes lightening.

All is calm

Don’t worry, Mom.

It’s time to go inside

Weather lied.

Rain is falling.

Mom is calling.

She is fleeing

I am seeing.

Why?

I say.

Is the rain poisonous?

No.

Then why?

I ask.

Are you going to die

Because water is falling from the sky?

 

Blue

        

Blue house

New house

New blouse

Blue blouse

Blue hue

Few to

Enjoy all that blue can do

The color blue

It stays so true

To all of the emotions

Blue dew

A happy sight

Reminds of the end of the night

And beginning of the day

Blue coo

So comforting

A blue coo’s a special coo

As it’s only cooed by those you knew

Who you know always care for you

Blue displays the happy

But blue displays the sad

And blue displays the anger

That everyone has had

Blue can tell of glory

Or blue can tell a story

It all depends on who

Is watching blue with you

 

Sports Poem

             

I find life often so represented by sports

 

The interwoven reliance of European football

With still the individual spotlight of baseball

 

The perseverance and small victories

As essential to life as it is to basketball

 

The dreary monotony, through it fine-tuned determination

So crucial to the trade of a runner

 

Often though one quarterback may lead the play

The receiver will score the winning touchdown

And neither is forgotten

 

Yet this idyllic portrait

Is not to ignore the dissenting voices that scream

of the goalie who dives in vain as time expires

the cleanup batter strikeout with runners on

 

But when all is said and done

and considered

and analyzed

Sports provide a nice summation

Of such a wonderful

and terrible

and complex thing

As life itself

 

Life’s Library

              

Everyone’s life has a place where it keeps

all the important memories

whether it is a box or a shelf,

A cart or a peanut butter jar,

or even,

a library.

It keeps both good and bad memories on its dusty shelves

If I choose to descend into the lower floors,

I would notice the shadows lurking inside old, rotting books

Looking closer, I would see that the books

Are in fact memories,

Hopes,

Dreams,

Things lost,

And found.

Every experience, stored here within the infinite capacities, of my life’s library.

The further down I go, the harder it is to read the titles.

The books are more worn and dull and dusty.

I reach the bottom floor, and go to the last shelf.

The shelf that is hidden. Blanketed in shadows

Veiled in dust and the utter silence.

I reach out and take the lone book

Sitting there on the dark bottom corner of the shelf.

The cover is made of soft brown paper

That is torn and falling apart,

I sit on the floor, finding that one spot.

Worn down and the only spot in the whole room,

Not covered in dust because I sat there

So many times holding that one memory

But unable

To read it.

I lift up the book,

Flip it open to the first page,

And read.

 

Five Haiku to Clear the Mind

         

I. Terminal Storm

Shrieks of laughter fill the air,

Joyous new leaves flutter,

Clouds roll in to halt it all.

 

II. The Prey

The cheetah’s fur glistens as it stalks prey,

Silent, as it moves.

It bares its teeth with saliva dripping.

 

III. Forest Stories

Leaves crunch under foot.

Beneath the trees, ‘side the shrubs,

All animals stroll.

 

IV. Beach

Waves crash on the rocks,

The once dry sand turns to mud.

Gulls fly overhead.

 

V. Superman

Birds fill the heavens,

Planes’ rumbles cut through the calm.

Hope’s spelled with an “S.”

 

Enough Is Enough

              

An AR-15 has 15 functioning parts. The length of the gun, the speed of the bullet determines how lethal a fatality is.

The time it takes to unload the empty chamber.

That one flick can cause a mass destruction.

The silver ruthless bullets that trigger screams of horror.

The painful, excruciating sound when the revolver clicks revealing the sight of ammunition.

The cylinder, when inclined, locks the hammer into place.

The trigger requires an explicit amount of pressure to fire.

The target erupts, opening a door that cannot be closed. A ruthless act that cannot be undone. A callous school shooting cannot be undone.

That it has many working parts.

The morning of, the child believes the day will be like every other day.

A test first period.

The sound of the bell at 8:15.

The sound of countless kids screaming in the cafeteria.

The sound of bookbags dropping like a ton of bricks. The sound of birds chirping, on the morning on February 14.

The sound of 17 sharp gunshots.

A day filled with laughter was turned into horror in seconds.

The first shot triggers a lockdown.

The bell rings.

Code Red, but it doesn’t seem like a code red. One thought this would never happen to them but it did.

The fire alarm pounds loud in my ears as chaos erupts.

Classrooms become inescapable like gas chambers.

The shooter shoots. The sounds are still and silent.

The eyes are tearful and the stomachs are churning.

The police arrive, with precision, as a shot is fired, the separation begins for the student body.

Those living and those that the shots have hit.

That one massacre of school children triggers the carnage lost in Boston.

Why does this keep happening?

But we barely notice until we marry 6 feet under the ground.

I thought this was supposed to be a good day?

The day with pencils tapping on the desks.

The sound of gossiping.

The sound of teachers demanding for classwork.

The sound of the chairs tipping back.

It all disappears in seconds.

The stoplight turns red but the gun turns green.

The gun doesn’t kill people, the numbers do.

3100 South Springfield Avenue. A truck turned the corner. Not the ice cream truck. This gray truck was mean. It forced her to fight for her life in the hospital bed until 5:24 p.m.. The doctor says, “I’m sorry for the words that I’m about to say.”

Sunday, October 1, 2017, Las Vegas, Nevada. 58 gone. Near the Mandalay Bay.

I was there 2 years prior.

Texas, Sutherland Springs, a day we cherish Jesus and stare at the cross. 26 souls joined with him, but not out of sacrifice. Just one out of sacrifice, but he didn’t have to die if it wasn’t for that silver bullet!

But the debate on gun control only lasted for so long after the Columbine shooting.

How many more times?

A teacher takes a bullet to save her 6 students.

The child did not get a chance to hug Mommy and say, “I love you.”

A father is heartbroken.

He cannot even remember if he even kissed his little girl goodbye when she left for school the morning on February 14.

Now the father is saying, “Enough is Enough.”

 

Ignorance and Apathy: an Analysis of Japan and America’s Values

Have you ever wondered what the cultural norms are 6,700 miles away? These cultural norms are systems of beliefs groups follow in order to maintain well-being. These sets of beliefs keep a society on one page and functional. Different cultural norms are also modified by the economy, integration, etc. Even though America and Japan are both first world countries, their values developed differently. Japan was secluded from the world for 220 years, but was heavily influenced by the outside world after WWII. Japan adjusted many parts of its culture, but it also kept most of its values. America, on the other hand, won WWII and was powerful. Instead of taking over the world, America chose to help out struggling countries. The culture also became prideful. People started becoming more independent and thinking outside of what the government wanted people to think. Under the laws created by the government itself, this type of thinking isn’t criticized. The two countries model themselves on a system that runs on values that are almost the opposite of each other. America values pride and individual rights, while Japan values conformism and respect.

 

Japan’s values, conformism and respect, emerged from being isolated from the world for centuries and the loss of WWII. In 1633, Japan closed itself off to the world with the exception of trade with the Dutch. No Japanese person was allowed to exit the country, and anyone living outside of the country also could not enter. This caused the Japanese to develop similar ideas, because they had no influences on their ideas from foreign countries. Also, the Japanese government implanted strict rules during this period, which made the Japanese people used to following orders without questioning them. Even after Japan opened up to the world, this culture still lived on. Many years later, Japan was in a similar situation. When Japan was fighting WWII, the government propagated propaganda, so the Japanese population, this time, was scared of the outside world. Japan’s hate towards the world quickly disappeared after the loss of WWII. Japan’s citizens realized that their country was very far behind and subsequently fell in love with foreign countries, especially the United States. Japan rebuilt its cities, but left a few reminders of war, like a building in Hiroshima, to never forget the horrors of war. This was not in any way directed against the US. Japan completely overturned its political views, but its thinking processes remained. Japan has still been obsessed with foreign countries, especially America, to this day.

 

However, America had external influences for its whole history. In 1787, the Philadelphia Convention wrote the Constitution, which by today’s standard, is still very democratic. America also evolved the way it did because of immigrant populations. America won the war and felt good about itself, because it was helping different countries recover. America’s people gained pride. However, America is very ignorant now, most likely due to the poor education system. America has the biggest economy in the world, but its education is the 14th best. America has a big culture which believes that America is always the best. All this contributes to America valuing individual and unalienable rights.

 

Japan and America’s values approach the task of keeping a community functional differently. Japan’s societal model has everyone working together and most people benefiting equally. This works perfectly in theory, but since everyone is expected to be similar, people who are any different, not necessarily worse than the expectation, are treated badly. There is even a saying in Japanese that translates to “the nail that sticks out gets hammered.” In America, people will undermine others to get ahead. Also, because of this, children are taught that being unique is always a good thing. They are also taught that everyone is unique. This creates a tendency for people to feel proud without work. However, this helps people’s unique strengths to be recognized. Japan’s values helps processes work smoother and more efficiently, because everyone always follows rules. An example of this is how in Japan, straight lines are formed to board the trains.

 

Values impact the way a civilization functions. Japan and America are two technologically developed first world countries with extremely different sets of values. It is important to know about these countries’ values because they are two countries which approach the task of forming a successful civilization from completely different angles through these two sets of values. By comparing these societies, one can gain knowledge about sociology.

 

Royal Blood (Excerpt)

 

Prologue

I creep into the room, my arms tense and my forehead sweaty. Tiptoeing over to the desk in the middle of the room, I open the second to last drawer. Peeking inside, I see what I was looking for. A gold heart-shaped amulet, covered in amethysts. It was my great-grandmother’s, stolen from her by thieves and put into a pawnshop. It then was traded to a king’s servant and given to the princess as a birthday present for her “sweet sixteen.”

I clutch the amulet close to my chest. Silently, I put my fingers into the pouch at my side. I find the fake necklace a blacksmith had made for me, in return for a favor. It was an identical twin to the real one — the exact size, shape, weight, and color. The only difference was that it was made from iron, bronze, and other cheap metals instead of the valuable gold and amethyst like the real one.

Slipping the real one into my pouch at my side, I turn around, prepared to walk outside and get away with the prized possession in my hands. I smile and walk across the room, my confidence blinding me. For a split second, I feel fur under my foot before hearing a loud yowl beneath me. I lift my foot immediately, and the animal stretches into a pouncing stance, hisses coming from the back of its throat. I’m scared for my life, knowing that if I am caught, I’ll probably be killed for entering and stealing such a valuable piece. So, what do I do? I run.

I sprint out of there, taking the old servant’s route up to the back of the castle with the beast at my heels. I wouldn’t call the beast a cat, but that’s what its body is mainly made up of. It is at least five times the size of a normal cat, and at the sides of its body, the black fur turns into feathers and its wings folded at its side. I recognize the beast to be a Lexor, probably the princess’s pet.

The Lexor lunges for me, just scraping my leg. I dart out of the way and make a sharp left. I climb up a ladder and jump off it. The Lexor tries to follow me, but a clear barrier blocks its way. It meows and swats at the barrier but with no avail in getting past. I smirk behind my shoulder and run into the forest. The only way anyone can get through that barrier is with a certain blood type. A kind called Royal blood.

 

Chapter One

I enter the town and run down a back alleyway that’s known as “home” to Ash and me. Ash is my best and only friend I’ve ever had. I slow down to a walk and plop myself down next to her. Her pale skin shines in the darkness.

“I’m back.”

She continues to crochet and looks up slightly.

“Did you get what you wanted?”

I break into a bigger smile than I had on before.

“Yup!”

I hold up the amulet and let it spin in front of Ash’s eyes. She now completely stops crocheting and holds the amulet a bit closer to her.

“Oh my god,” she whispers. Her dark chocolate eyes stare into my sea green ones. “Where in the world did you get that?!”

I smile back at her. “Remember two weeks ago when we went to the library and stopped by the Record Hall? Well, I looked into my history, and I found out that my great-great- great-great-great-grandma used to own a gold amulet with amethyst on it. It even showed a picture! Then, I remembered that the staff brought Princess Annabelle a necklace. Remember in the news it never said exactly what it looked liked, but it was just ‘really expensive?’ This is it!”

Ash’s eyes were as big as dinner plates. “So you just stole it?! Eve, what do you honestly think they’re going to do when Princess Annabelle finds the necklace missing, and you just so happen to have the one that’s missing?! Oh, they’re going to have our heads…” She trails off and gets up, starting to pace back forth and muttering to herself.

“Don’t worry Ash. They’re not going to find us. And they’re going to take your head over my dead, non-executed body. I put a fake one — same color, same shape, same weight — it’s exactly the same as the one I have.”

She stops pacing and rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet.

“Are you infinity and beyond percent sure, Eve?” She drops to a lower tone. “I can’t lose you over something like this — not when I’ve lost everything else.” Her hands start to shake and even in the pitch black alleyway, I can tell that she’s about to cry. I bounce up and walk over to her. Tears start to form in her eyes and roll down her cheeks. I pull her close to my chest and let her cry in my arms.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “You’re going to be okay. We’re going to be okay. Alright?” She cries for a few more minutes as I rock her back and forth. Once she cries all the tears left in her, she rests her head on my chest.

“Look,” she says, her voice light and airy. She points to the sun as it starts to rise over our heads, the sky turning from its black darkness and bursting into a bright orange, then turning into pinks and yellows.

I smile and stretch my back. “Today’s a new day, okay? Let’s make it a better day than yesterday.”

She smiles and hands me a basket. “I made new blankets to sell in town.” I smile at her change of attitude and take the basket in my hands. “Don’t forget to buy new wool and bread!”

I nod and start off my journey to market.

 

Chapter Two

Even though the sun came up just a few minutes ago, the streets were already bustling with people. There are only five hours of sunlight in Astoria, so people need to work at least ten times harder when the sun is up. When the sun’s down, people spend that time by preparing for what they have to do for the next day. The school children have at least six hours of homework, four if it was a good day, and ten hours would be considered a lot. The chefs, like most establishments, would continue to serve their customers for at least six hours after the sun fell. Most people working a middle-upper job would work in some sort of building, getting paid by their bosses. The middle-lower class community mostly worked how I worked — in a tent selling what they can. But it was one-hundred percent necessary to work in some sort of job for at least five hours or else you’ll be thrown in jail, quoting law 14.

Our jail doubles as a mental health center, and it was an extremely dirty place. There were hardly any janitors that worked there, and the ones that did were often lazy and put minimal effort into their work. The people who did go to jail were mainly tough men who probably knew how to kill a person in fifty different ways, with their hands alone. Since getting thrown in jail will show up on my resume, forcing me to not be able to apply for a job with higher pay, I can’t afford to go there. Plus, I would probably die in jail anyway. Now, we live off of Ash’s woolen creations to survive, her working day and night while I sell them at the market when the sun is up. Today she created small blankets with a design of butterflies, dragons, and other cute designs, perfect for any small child.

I sprint to the marketplace where all the stands were being set up and prepared for 7:15, when the market was officially open for business, quoting law 23. I took mine on the side of town where the most people passed by. I put the basket onto the table and open it. Inside I find different blankets in different colors measuring about 3 feet by 5 feet, with the designs of dragons and fairies, unicorns and phoenixes. I trace the patterns with my thumb and smile softly to myself, thinking of when I used to have a blanket like this that I carried everywhere. It’s one of the only things from my childhood that I was allowed to keep.

The sounds of horse-pulled carriages driving by snaps me back into reality. I look up as a blue carriage drives by and splashes the edge of the tent with dark, murky water. I glare at the back of the carriage and continue to set up the shop. Once I’m done setting up, I turn the small postcard on the front of my tent to the “open” side. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I start yelling, “BLANKETS!!! BABY BLANKETS FOR SALE!!! ONLY 13 BRONZE PISCES!!!” I soon attract a small crowd of people walking under my tent and looking at what they can buy. I stand in the corner of the tent, quietly looking around at the people, but not really looking at them, but for thieves. There was usually at least one thief trying to steal something per day, and it was usually during rush hour which was either at the very beginning of the day when everyone was trying to get to their jobs or at the end of the day when everyone was coming home. My eyes swept around the shop, noticing a small child with darting eyes and beads of sweat dripping down his face.

“Hey kid,” I call to him. He looks terrified and froze to the spot. His eyes slowly drift to me. I wave for the boy to come here. I kneel down to his level. “You were about to steal from me, correct?” The boy nods and bends his head down. “Do you have a hobby of some sort?”

He nods and whispers, “I like to draw and paint.”

I nod. “Well, if you bring your drawings here, then I’ll be more than happy to sell them here. Then, if you one day can earn ten dollars, then you can have a blanket, okay?” A smile quickly spreads across his face, and he nods at me. “Good. Just bring your paintings or drawings here when the sun rises, and I’ll sell them. Now run off,” I said, making a small shooting motion with my hands. He whispers a thank-you and runs off.

I stand up from the floor and assist the customers that were waiting in the line on the other half of the tent. I place the mirror next to the quill and ink where I write down the orders that people ask for and treat the customers, trading the money for blankets. About halfway down the line, a very attractive lady comes up and points to the mirror that I was checking.

“Is that for sale?” she asks.

“No ma’am,” I respond. This is for checking the rest of the shop when I’m treating customers. Speaking of which…” I trail off and see a middle-aged man with a bald spot in the center of his head, dressed in all black. His hands were drifting over the blankets, and his mouth was pursed in a hard line.

“You!” I yell and turn around.

The thief looks at me, and he looks like the younger boy that just tried to steal from me earlier. I grab a sword from my side and point the tip at this face.

“Put my blankets down. Now.”

The man drops them to the floor and backs up.

“All of them,” I say through my gritted teeth.

He takes one that he was cleverly hiding down his sleeve and drops it.

“All. Of. Them,” I command.

The mysterious man stays in his place. I can feel my eyes glaring at him and walk towards him.

“I said all of them.” I take my sword, Esmeralda, out of her leather casing and put her blade under his chin. “Unless you don’t want your head.”

He drops to his knees and tosses one last blanket that was under his hat onto the floor.

“Good,” I say. “And if you want to actually buy a blanket, then you can meet me at the counter or browse under the tent.”

I let go of his collar that I didn’t even realize I was grabbing and remove the blade from his neck, leaving a small red line. He grumbles and walks towards the tent. I put Esmeralda in her scabbard that was attached to my belt, and I return to the counter. These days, it was every person for themselves or else you might get backstabbed.

I crack my knuckles and pick up my quill.

“That will be ten bronze tokens please.”

 

I So Don’t Want to Be Here (Excerpt)

“I so don’t want to be here.”

Desiree looked up at the blonde girl in surprise. “Why?” she asked her.

“Why? Why? Isn’t it obvious why I don’t wanna be here? We’re in detention,” she said, a flash of irritation in her eyes.

“No — I know that,” Desiree told her, “What I meant is… why are you talking to me?”

Alice thought for a moment and shrugged.

“I — I don’t know,” she mumbled.

“Do you even know my name, Alice?” Desiree asked her, a hint of amusement laced in her voice. Alice said nothing.

“Yeah… didn’t think so.”

Alice still said nothing.

Desiree smiled softly at Alice. “Would you like to know my name, Alice?” she asked.

Alice nodded. “Yes please.”

“It’s Desiree,” she told her and extended her hand so that Alice could shake it, but Alice didn’t budge. Perhaps a handshake was too formal of an action for situations such as these, and Desiree put her hand down on the table in a failed attempt to seem natural. She picked up her pencil and began writing.

“So why are you here, Desiree?” Alice asked, as she proceeded to examine the state of her most recent manicure. She began picking the pink polish off her nails, watching it fall to the table in small pieces. Pick, pick, pick. This action greatly annoyed Desiree, seeing as the chips of nail polish were getting all over the table, and the two would probably have to clean them up afterwards, but she said nothing about it. Instead, she sighed heavily and answered the question she had been asked.

“I’m here for a pretty dumb reason.”

“Oh?” Alice raised an eyebrow, her eyes still focused on the nail polish she was picking off. “And what might that be?”

Desiree thought this was quite rude, but seeing as she was still writing her essay and not fully paying attention to the conversation either, she didn’t really have a right to criticize.

“I’m here for breaking dress code,” she explained, rolling her eyes in irritation. “God forbid I wore something I actually wanted to. To be fair, it was an accident. They change the dress code so often that half of the time I don’t even know what’s in it.”

Alice snorted in response. “Yeah, you were right.”

“About what?”

“That is a really dumb reason.”

Desiree smiled. “Tell me about it. At this point, I’m not even writing an essay. I might as well be writing a book. And instead of writing about what I did wrong and what I can do to fix my ‘dreaded behavior,’ I’m writing about why the dress code is stupid.”

“So rebellious, Desiree,” Alice mumbled, more to herself than anyone else. Desiree pulled at one of the strands of her frizzy, brown hair.

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m not rebellious at all. I guess that’s the thing about me. I follow the rules, even if I hate them. This is really the first time I’m speaking out against them.”

Desiree put her pencil down and turned to face the girl. She was still picking at her nails, completely oblivious to the large mess she was making.

“What’s the point of getting them done if you’re just gonna pick the polish off?” Desiree asked her.

Alice’s head snapped up. She looked at Desiree.

“I’ve got no fucking clue,” she told her.

“Huh. Interesting,” Desiree muttered, and Alice nodded. “Well, regardless of that, will you please stop picking off the nail polish? You’re making a huge mess.”

“Oh.” Alice became flushed with embarrassment. “Yeah, sure. Sorry.”

“It’s fine — ”

“Hello, you two. Have you completed your essays?”

Desiree turned, only to be met face-to-face with the school’s biggest asshole and assistant principal, Ms. Ronen, who stood in front of them with her hands on her hips. Everyone in the school liked Ms. Ronen — everyone but Desiree. She hated this woman with every fiber of her being, mostly hating her for the obnoxious voice she had, which was the voice a person uses when talking to a dog or a baby. It made her feel extremely insignificant and insulted her greatly, though nobody else seemed to care or have any issue with her whatsoever. Desiree also hated Ms. Ronen because she always seemed to get into some sort of trouble whenever she was around — which she hated because she was a good kid. She was always well-behaved — always had been, too, but for whatever reason, she always ended up doing something wrong.

Desiree nodded and handed Ms. Ronen her essay. The woman stood there, shocked as she realized that there were now five back-to-back pages in her hands.

“Is that good enough? I could always add ten more pages.”

Ms. Ronen’s eyes widened in horror at Desiree’s suggestion. “Oh! Oh no, no, no, that’s — that’s fine, Desiree. You’ve done great.”

Desiree smirked. Bet she’ll have a great time reading that, she thought.

“And what about you, Alice?”

Desiree looked over to where Alice was sitting, looking bored and uninterested. She sighed.

“I don’t have my essay.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because I didn’t want to write it.”

The assistant principal looked appalled. “You do realize that you can’t just not write the essay… right, Alice?”

Alice shrugged and turned away.

“I barely did anything, though,” she whined.

“You skipped class, Alice,” Ms. Ronen huffed, “That’s a pretty big deal.”

“But I have to write an essay about why I feel bad for doing what I did,” Alice told her.

“And? Your point is?”

“My point is that I can’t write my essay because I don’t feel bad. I don’t care.”

Ms. Ronen’s face reddened in anger. “Just — just pretend you care… okay?” She sighed, obviously too tired to deal with Alice’s shenanigans. Alice nodded.

“Fine… ”

“And hurry up, too. It’s almost time for you two to leave.”

At this, Alice’s eyes widened fretfully. “But — I can’t! I can’t finish an essay in such a short amount of time!”

Ms. Ronen sighed as if she knew that something like this was going to happen. “Okay, fine. Just — finish it at home and bring it in on Monday.”

Alice nodded vigorously. “Okay! Fine by me! Can we leave now?”

There were more words exchanged between Alice and Ms. Ronen, but what they were exactly Desiree wasn’t sure. The only thing that Desiree cared about in that moment was the use of the word ‘we.’ ‘Can we leave now,’ Alice had asked, not ‘Can I leave now.’ She wondered what Alice meant by this, because as far as she was concerned, there wasn’t a ‘we.’ It’s probably nothing, Desiree thought. She probably just said that by accident. Even so, Desiree planned to ask Alice about this later on… well, if they ever talked again, that is.

Desiree knew for a fact that they probably wouldn’t.

 

The Vietnam War

The Vietnam War took place between November 1, 1955 and April 30, 1975. This war cost 2 million Vietnamese civilian lives, 1.1 million North Vietnamese and Viet Cong soldiers, 250,000-250,000 South Vietnamese soldiers, 58,220 American fighters, and 173 billion dollars. The Vietnam War started out being a proxy war for America, but quickly escalated to a full-scale American involvement for fear of communism. This war was one of the only wars that America did not win. A memorial is necessary to commemorate the millions of lives lost for a cause that was not understood by most, for a seemingly endless war that was spurred by the personal pursuits of the American government in the Cold War. The American people need to learn about the history of this war to recognize that the American government can act selfishly in order to put themselves in an advantageous position.

Vietnam had been occupied since 1883 by the French. The French colonized Cambodia, Laos, and Vietnam, and later renamed the region Indochina. However, there had long been opposition to French rule. Vietnamese people did not like being controlled by a foreign power. In 1930, a man called Ho Chi Minh created a communist party in order to rebel against their oppressors. This party was called the Viet Minh. Ho Chi Minh was not driven by communism, however, he was driven by the desire for independence. In World War II, Japan occupied Vietnam in 1945 and declared Vietnam an independent state from Indochina under Japanese rule. Ho Chi Minh then established the Democratic Republic of Vietnam, modeled after the American government, and declared himself the president. However, when World War II ended, so did the independence of Vietnam. Indochina was surrendered to the French. In 1946, France declared Vietnam an independent nation, but it was still under French control. This spurred the first of the Indochina Wars, which started with an attack on French forces in Hanoi.

In early 1950, the communist countries China, the Soviet Union, and Yugoslavia official recognized the state of Vietnam. Later that same year, democratic countries America and Great Britain also officially recognized the state of Vietnam. In 1954, the Geneva Accords were made. The Geneva Accords divided Vietnam into two sections: North VIetnam, led by communists under Ho Chi Minh, and the South of Vietnam, led by U.S. supported government under Ngo Dinh Diem. By this time, more than a million Vietnamese civilians had fled North Vietnam for South Vietnam.

The involvement of America in the Vietnam War was caused greatly by the U.S.’s fear of communism. In a communist society, one party claims to represent everyone, there are no elections, and as a result, the same leaders are always in power. All citizens receive what they need from the government, including healthcare, education, and housing. The state owns all means of production. Communism aims for a state of total equality. Their leaders do not support individualism, and no one is richer than his or her neighbor. There is not free market or enterprise. Everything people earn is given to the state, and the state then redistributes money or supplies based on people’s needs. According to Karl Marx, communism is, “From each according to his ability to each according to his needs.” Communist countries believe that capitalism debases human needs, while capitalist countries believe that communist states make human beings slaves to the government.

A factor that contributed to the U.S. involvement in Vietnam was the Cold War. The Cold War started after World War II and ended in 1989, with the collapse of the Berlin Wall. After World War II, the Americans and the Soviet Union each had separate political ideology and separate spheres of influence. America’s sphere of influence was in the Western part of the world, and the Soviet Union’s sphere of influence was in the Eastern part of the world. Both of these two powers wanted to stop each other from extending their spheres of influence. The Soviet Union feared the Americans would extend capitalism, and the Americans were afraid that the Soviet Union would extend communism.

Another factor that played a huge part in the American involvement in the Vietnam War was the Domino Effect Theory. The Domino Effect Theory stated that if one country in Southeast Asia became communist, the other countries would soon follow suit, and the Soviet Union would be able to extend communism even to Europe.

In Vietnam, however, the American troops were finding it very difficult to win the war. The Vietnamese fought every army they encountered using guerilla warfare. The Viet Minh used guerilla warfare against the French in the South. At first, instead of direct involvement in Vietnam, the Americans supported the French financially in the South of Vietnam. The Soviet Union gave Ho Chi Minh and the communist nationalists in the north of Vietnam financial aid. The Soviet Union and the Americans used the French and Vietnamese in order to wage a proxy war- a war instigated by a major power that itself does not become involved. Eventually, French forces left Vietnam, but not before leaving Ngo Dinh Diem in charge, who promised to establish a democratic republic. However, Ngo Dinh Diem refused to have elections, which was against what was stated in the Geneva Accord, making himself dictator. The Americans found they were giving money to a dictator in South Vietnam.

The Americans misunderstood the North Vietnamese call for freedom and independence. The U.S. simply considered them communists, and ignored their actual intent. For the Vietnamese, this war was on the brink of civil war. For the Americans, Vietnam was a pawn in the Cold War, a war to prevent the Soviet Union from expanding communism.

A key battle in America’s proxy war using the French was the Battle of Dien Bien Phu. This battle was fought in 1953 by French soldiers on a mountain outpost near the border of Laos. The decisive Viet Cong victory brought an end to the Indochina Wars. The French Army found they were losing a lot of ground, so they retreated to their outpost, called Dien Bien Phu. The Viet Minh cut off all paths and supplied their forces using the Ho Chi Minh path, a network of trails through the jungle that connected all Viet Cong bases. The outpost of Dien Bien Phu could only be supplied by air for the French, but they were still confident of their position. General Vo Nguyen Giap surrounded the French base with 40,000 men and used heavy artillery, completely taking the French Army by surprise.

The Battle of Ấp Bắc took place on January 1st, 1963. In 1961, the U.S. found a large portion of the Viet Cong forces near the village of Ấp Bắc, which was in South Vietnamese territory. Therefore the ARVN (Army of the Republic of South Vietnam) was ordered to destroy their base. In 1963, American helicopters dropped off ARVN soldiers near the village, but a catastrophe took place. South Vietnam was defeated, and five American helicopters were destroyed. This battle showed that the Americans were losing the war, and that VIet Cong forces were gaining support.

The Gulf of Tonkin Incident, also known as the USS Maddox Incident, is an example of how the American government lied to its own people and to the people and state of Vietnam. Americans claimed that the USS Maddox, a destroyer, had been attacked by the North Vietnamese army. The U.S. used false radar images to prove their point, which were called the “Tonkin Ghosts”. The U.S. used these fake attacks as an excuse to bomb North Vietnam and use Agent Orange to uncover the hiding spots of the Viet Cong.

On both sides, America and Vietnam, the resistance to the war was growing fast. Unlike in World War II, the American people did not understand why they were sending their men to die for a cause they did not understand or believe them. Furthermore, the American people did not believe in the hypocrisy of the war; President Kennedy saying he would support every nation that wanted to be independent and set up their own government, but only if the Americans liked the government they had set up. Americans also opposed the draft, which threatened families in the lower and middle classes. The draft targeted men and boys in fighting age (ages 18-30). Many Americans thought that the U.S. was using Vietnam as an excuse to fight Russia and get an advantage in the Cold War. On the other side of the ocean, Buddhists were campaigning for representation in a government that oppressed them. Many Buddhist monks opposed the war, and they set themselves on fire as part of their protests. Following their example, two men in the United States set themselves on fire as well; one in front of the Pentagon, another in front of the White House. As images of the war were released, the American public opposed the war even more. Many pictures showed military misconduct and the massacre of innocent civilians, such as the May Lai Massacre. The Americans heard reports on the radio about how soldiers were ordered to “kill everything that walks, runs, grows, and crawls” in order to completely annihilate the enemy.

Many families lost their fathers, brothers, and husbands in the war. Those who survived the war have never forgotten the horrors they were put through, and they have never been able to fully recover from the emotional damage it caused. The Vietnam War reduced people’s patriotism and faith in their government. Vietnam is one of the only wars in history that America has not won, deserving a memorial to commemorate the cost and aftermath of this war.

Works Cited

Bender, David L. The Vietnam War. Greenhaven Press, 1984.

Prados, John. Vietnam: the History of an Unwinnable War, 1945 -1975. Univ Pr Of Kansas, 2013.

Spector, Ronald H. “Vietnam War.” Britannica School, Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc.,

school.eb.com/levels/middle/article/Vietnam-War/277599. Accessed 29 Oct. 2017.

 

The Permanence of Plastic

It is unlikely that anybody would like to live in a world in which there are no birds chirping and no fish swimming. We do not stop to notice the lizards, trees, and snails that are around us every day, but once we lose them, it will be glaringly obvious. This bleak picture is not one from a dystopian novel; it is our very realistic future. A world devoid of all life besides humans is quite alarmingly exactly where human civilization is headed. The risk of extinction for most animal species only increases with time, because of our careless ways. While oceans make up 71% of Earth’s surface, they are in critical condition (Oceanic Institute). Plagued by an unconcealed yet ignored monster — trash, our oceans are declining in purity. Already there are enormous islands of garbage in the middle of our oceans, and we are not far from a total trash takeover destroying all ocean life. With a yearly rate of eight million tons being dumped into oceans, plastic pollution is no doubt an enemy to marine life (National Geographic).

Though garbage exists in some form in nearly every stretch of sea, there are five major locations on Earth where trash gathers and gets trapped in a cycle that prevents it from moving elsewhere. These locations, called ocean gyres, are also described as “trash vortexes” because they trap marine debris and never allow it to flow out to shore. Ocean gyres form because of the Coriolis Effect, which causes systems of circulating currents in the ocean. Trash is sucked into these currents. Any litter on beaches or trash flushed down toilets is very likely to end up in a trash vortex because these vortexes suck in all debris, especially miniscule materials. These large, dense “black holes” of trash are extremely harmful to every species of marine life.

Much of the garbage in these trash vortexes is plastic litter. Ever since plastic has come into existence, there have been people who improperly dispose of it. Since its invention in 1907, plastic has changed our lives and has become an integral part of our daily use because of its durability and cost effectiveness. However, it is also true that while we continue to enjoy the power and benefits of plastic, we have not carried out the responsibility that comes with this power, namely, proper disposal of this non-biodegradable material. Lack of awareness of the harmful impacts of improper plastic disposal and careless human nature are two key factors that plague our oceans, which are now clouded with plastic that has been collecting in them for over a century. Usually, the debris is simply tossed out onto the ground rather than being placed in a garbage bin or recycling bin. This human disregard for the environment causes a ripple effect in which the plastic floats out into the ocean and stays there forever. Because plastic is not biodegradable, it simply breaks into smaller pieces as its exposure to sunlight increases, meaning it will never truly disappear from the ocean. Plastic fragments can become as small as sesame seeds, at which point they become microplastics. Microplastics are not just the result of littered plastic; they can also get into the ocean in other ways, such as being washed out of synthetic clothing. Marcus Eriksen, a co-founder of the 5 Gyres Institute, an organization dedicated to reducing plastic pollution, describes marine microplastics as a “plastic smog throughout the world’s oceans” (Marine Plastic Bulletin).

Another enemy to marine life is the microbead. Beauty companies emit sizable amounts of microplastics into the ocean through exfoliating scrubs. The miniscule beads in these scrubs are made of plastic, and when washed down the drain, they have the same effect on ocean life that disintegrating microplastics have. Many animals mistake microbeads for fish eggs and choke when they try to swallow them. Like microbeads, other plastic items bear close resemblance to prey for many ocean creatures. For example, after balloons get torn apart, they look very similar to jellyfish. Similarly, plastic bags can resemble kelp. Both balloons and plastic bags often strangle animals or cause them to choke. Another reason many animals eat plastic is because it smells like food. This most commonly affects seabirds, which eat krill. Krill consume algae, which, as they decompose, emit a sulfuric odor known as dimethyl sulfide (National Geographic). This smell allows seabirds to find krill. Lots of algae collect on floating plastic, so when seabirds catch a whiff of the sulfuric odor, they feed on that plastic, thinking it is krill. For this reason, over 90% of seabirds have plastic fragments in their stomachs (Plastic Oceans).

There are numerous species that are affected by plastic pollution in the ocean and the associated statistics are alarming. In fact, about one hundred thousand marine animals and one million seabirds are found dead from plastic or plastic entanglement each year! (Ocean Crusaders). Additionally, there are two hundred areas on Earth, called dead zones, that are so polluted that life can no longer exist there. Not all of these areas are underwater, however. Dead zones exist on land, and pristine environments are slowly becoming polluted as well. During my recent visit to Yellowstone National Park, one of the most pure and untouched places in the world, I witnessed a coyote at a distance attempting to eat a plastic water bottle. It seemed as though the coyote was trying to get to the water that remained in the bottle, but once it managed to get the lid off and all the water spilled out, it kept chewing on the bottle, perhaps thinking it was something edible. This went on for about twenty minutes as the onlookers were gazing at the scene with concern, wondering what the animal would do. From the relentless pursuit of the animal, it was clear that it could have choked to death had it not finally dropped the bottle in fear when a woman gingerly walked her way towards the animal to scare it away for its own safety. This incident represents just one example of how harmful human carelessness can be to other living creatures that are going about their ways of life in pristine wilderness. It also indicates that plastic pollution is everywhere, even plaguing the most untainted places on the planet.

Plastic in oceans has unexpected results, including those that display themselves on land. Increased plastic in oceans results in decreased ecosystem stability. The effects of plastic material in the ocean are also seen on land, as an unstable underwater ecosystem will have effects on food chains in oceans as well as on land. There are also more discernable effects, such as the fact that the sheer amount of plastic in oceans is extremely threatening to marine life. According to the World Economic Forum and the Ellen MacArthur Foundation, by the year 2050, there will be more plastic mass in the world’s oceans than that of fish. This will be a turning point, because it is likely that the rate of environmental destruction will accelerate greatly after the fact. There will be a decline in biodiversity so animals that help humans progress in various ways will start to die out. For example, sea lions, seals, and narwhals all help scientists track climate change. Plastic in the ocean is a considerable threat to these species, so their numbers would dwindle greatly. With the loss of these creatures and others, it would become extremely difficult to track climate change, making it more prevalent in every region of the world. Atmospheric carbon dioxide levels would increase, which would harm the earth in numerous ways such as by causing longer droughts and wildfires.

 

As more and more plastic is dumped into the ocean, our lives on land will become more polluted as well, because plastic pollution hurts humans as well as marine life. Plastic litter floating in ocean water absorbs toxic pollutants such as polychlorinated biphenyl and polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbon, which have both been proven to cause cancer. Plastic in oceans will also alter the food chain, and the impacts of this can be drastic to humans. The food chain is arranged in “ripples,” meaning those that are immediately affected do not suffer as much as the later affected species, which are humans in this case. For example, if one species of amphibians goes extinct because of excess plastic pollution in their habitat, their predators, largemouth bass, will be affected. Humans, who feed on the bass, will be impacted even more negatively. This is just one possible food chain. Many food chains come together to make a food web, and the harmful effects to humans are vastly amplified at this point.

The fact that there will be more plastic mass in the world’s oceans than fish mass is dangerous in a more transparent way — the plastic could kill almost all of the fish. Although it is true that there are far more marine species than fish living in our oceans, fish do make up a large amount of ocean life. Additionally, rather than comforting ourselves with the fact that fish are not the only living beings in the ocean, we humans would be in a much better position collectively if we try to initiate efforts to reduce plastic in the ocean. This mission is extremely challenging, however, because much of the plastics in the ocean cannot be effectively removed since the materials have broken into microplastics and escape the grasp of nets. This is why many efforts to remove plastic from oceans do not make a significant difference.

Although efforts to remove plastic are not remarkably effective, the dilemma of plastic in the oceans can be combatted. The best way to do so is to prevent plastic from entering oceans, sewage systems, rivers, lakes, etc. The most effective ways to prevent plastic from ending up in oceans involve people making minor changes, such as recycling or terminating their use of single-use plastics. Avoiding microbead products is effective, as microbead concentration in oceans is increasing rapidly. This can be done by exfoliating with a towel if necessary or by using natural exfoliants such as baking soda or oatmeal. Not purchasing bottled water is another fantastic way to decrease a person’s own plastic consumption and eventually contribute less to overall emission. An unknown contributor to plastic in the oceans is anything that is wrapped individually. Buying in bulk means far less plastic that could end up in the water, and this is also cheaper. Finally, supporting plastic bans and organizations addressing plastic pollution can help greatly. In my hometown, one very effective change has been made to try to lower our town’s plastic output. Grocery stores now charge customers at the checkout line for plastic bags that they request to hold their items in. This has had a great impact, as many people now bring their own reusable bags, such as tote bags, when shopping. Community effort, such as spreading the word about potential detrimental impact, is an essential part of ending plastic pollution in our oceans. Efforts to reduce one’s personal plastic output into the oceans are not particularly difficult, yet they are almost never done. People need to become aware of the fact that every single individual’s actions are meaningful. Placing more recycling bins around neighborhoods and encouraging and educating people about recycling can make a massive difference.

Plastic in the ocean is an issue that will begin to affect us in even more negative ways unless we actively work against it now by reducing our own plastic outputs. Once in the ocean, plastic makes a permanent home for itself there. Humans owe it to flora and fauna to help restore Earth’s balance, which our plastic pollution has distorted. Additionally, all species, including humans, are affected by the broad range of negative impacts caused by plastic pollution in oceans. With the earth’s current population at 7.6 billion and a projected growth of 29% by 2050, at which point it will reach 9.8 billion, the amount of plastic consumption and output into the oceans will only increase exponentially if we humans do not recognize and fight this issue (United Nations, Department of Economic and Social Affairs). Let us take action to make a significant difference that can preserve our planet’s splendor and beauty. Let us join together to make efforts to stop dumping plastic into our oceans. As David Attenborough, naturalist and broadcaster says, “There is no away — because plastic is so permanent and so indestructible. When you cast it into the ocean, it doesn’t go away” (Plastic Oceans). We are at a point where the oceans are in a critical condition; they can be saved or lost forever. The carelessness of our ways will come back to haunt us when our ocean life is lost, but our garbage remains.

 

Peru in the Trees

Everyone at my school thinks that I’m a nobody

They just don’t know the real me

I’m Peru Emma Maxwell

I’m known as the “quiet girl” or “nobody”

None of that is true

I want to one day be a regular kid

The kid that everyone knows

I have no clue if that will ever happen

But I know that I can try

Try hard

-Peru Maxwell

 

Chapter One: Spring Break

My heart is pounding as I enter the history classroom on my last day of school before spring break. Everyone in my class is going somewhere amazing, except for me. Alice is going to Alaska, Christopher is going to Brazil, and Brittney is even going to Australia. Our spring break is a month long, so it’s not like anyone would stay home.

But I’m staying home. Just me, my mom, and Fluffster, my Pomeranian puppy. My dad is in the army, so he hasn’t been home for ten years.

As I head into class, I hear the usual bullies laughing and teasing people.

“Fat Pat! Awkward Annie!”

People call me average all the time, and it doesn’t even rhyme with my name! I had thought that, since I was starting at a new middle school, everything would be perfect, but boy, was I wrong.

I sit in my chair, waiting for the bell to ring so that Mr. Abram can start the lesson. The rest of the class is in the hall, getting their stuff and socializing.

“Peru, what are you doing here?” Mr. Abram asks.

“Waiting for the bell to ring, apparently.”

Alex Ritman is standing outside of the room as if she were waiting for someone. She’s the most popular girl in school. The bell rings loudly, and Alex walks in slowly, trying not to look eager to get to class.

“Alex, please sit down,” Mr. Abram says.

For five minutes, we’re the only students in class. When I glance over at her, she is eagerly doodling in her notebook.

Today is an early release day, so I only have five hours of school. Four more people walk into the classroom eight minutes late. I don’t have any idea who they are because they never talk to me, other than the terrible jokes they make up.

“Okay, now that everyone is here, we can get on with class. This semester we are talking about South America. Each of you will choose an animal from this bowl. You will study and research the animal you have chosen,” Mr. Abram says.

I get to go first. My hands shuffle in the bowl, hoping to pick something good. I unfold the card and it reads: “Three-toed sloth.” I’m excited to start researching, so I don’t pay attention to what everyone else gets; I start reading web pages right away.

After an hour and a half of research, class is over. I have English, science, and chorus during the rest of the day. The bus finally comes, and spring break begins. I’m actually glad I’m staying at home, because it means I can watch Netflix for a month.

My mom opens the door for me and says the same thing that she says everyday. “So, how was your day?”

“In history, we’re studying South American animals, and I got the three-toed sloth,” I say, quickly dropping my bags.

Fluffster is asleep on my bed. I don’t have any homework, so I can just relax. My heart is pumping quickly from excitement. I can’t help but to research the three-toed sloth more. My phone dings before I can get my laptop. A text message from my best friend, Marcella, was here. She lives in Costa Rica, so it’s been five years since I’ve seen her.

My mom bursts open my bedroom door, full of excitement, before I can read the text.

“Peru! Marcella’s mom just called me, and guess what?” she asks, waiting for a response.

“What?”

“Marcella’s family invited us to go to Costa Rica to visit them! Isn’t that exciting?”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

I can’t believe it! I’m going somewhere for spring break, and it’s Costa Rica!

 

Chapter Two: My Adventure Begins

My alarm wakes me up at one in the morning. I have to be on the plane at 3:35 for an eight hour flight, so everything is packed and ready to go. I put on a pair of jeggings, a short sleeve top, a sweatshirt, and sneakers. When I finish packing the last items in my bag, my mom calls me downstairs for a quick breakfast. Since we didn’t want any food to spoil, we haven’t bought groceries since we found out we were going to Costa Rica. I eat an apple, and I drink some water.

“Peru, it’s 2:00. I think we should start loading up the car.”

Bag by bag, we shove everything into the trunk. It’s a 30 minute drive to the airport, so I catch up on some of my sleep in the car.

When I wake up, we’re in a parking deck outside of the airport doors. I reach for my backpack, and help my mom unload the car. We go through security and get our bags checked in, and then we have to wait for an hour.

On the table next to me, I see a few books about Costa Rica. When I flip through one of them, I am surprised to see an article about three-toed sloths. I find out that Costa Rica is famous for its beaches, and that sloths sleep for fifteen to eighteen hours a day.

“Flight 1527 to Costa Rica is boarding,” I hear over the loudspeaker. “Again, flight 1527 to Costa Rica is boarding.”

We board the plane second in line. I still can’t believe that this is actually happening! I just realized that my plane ticket says First Class. This is my first time in first class. I sit down in seat F, the window seat. My mom is on my left, and another lady is on her left. We listen to safety instructions over the speaker on the plane, and then we take off.

 

Chapter Three: This Is Actually Happening

After eight hours on a plane, we arrive in Costa Rica. The view of palm trees and tropical-colored buildings is something I know I will never forget. It seems unreal. Marcella and her family are waiting for us at the airport to drive us to their house. Once I see them around the corner, I run to Marcella.

“Marcella!” I yell from across the airport.

“Peru!” she yells back.

Before she can say anything else, I give her a big hug. This is the best way to start my vacation. We grab our bags and get into Marcella’s family’s car. I catch up with Marcella during the ride to her house. She lives in a two-story home with a basement. When I walk in, I’m greeted by her cat, Snowy, and her dog, Patriot.

“Marcella, why don’t you show Peru her room?” Mr. Jennings says.

She takes me to a room with white walls, a bed, desk, dresser, nightstand, and closet. It has a bay window looking out over the city.

“Do you like it?” says Marcella.

“Do I like it? I love it!” I say happily.

I roll my suitcase into the closet to unpack my clothes for the month. Patriot walks in with a card in his mouth. After reading it, I find out that some of Marcella’s friends want to invite me to go to the Cafe for lunch tomorrow. I set the card on the dresser to think about it. It takes me a hour to unpack a month’s worth of clothes. It’s seven o’clock, so I get ready for bed. When I come out of the bathroom, I see the note on my dresser. Maybe I will go.

 

Chapter Four: The More the Merrier, Right?

I wake up at 7:00 to get ready for my adventure. I have no idea who I’m meeting today. Marcella is waiting for me downstairs, ready to get in the car. It takes us about five minutes to get to the downtown Cafe, the place where we’re eating.

I jump out of the car and eagerly open the restaurant door. It’s not what I thought it would be. I thought it would be a downtown Chick-fil-a, but it’s dark, loud, and crowded. Most of the people there probably have tattoos.

Marcella guides me to a table where three kids are sitting — a girl and two boys.

“Peru, this is Samii, Nathan, and Dylan,” says Marcella.

“Hey,” I say, quiet but excited.

“That’s her? You said that she was cool!” says Nathan.

“Don’t worry, Peru. He’s not like this every day,” says Samii.

I try to get past his comment. I look at the menu to decide what I want to eat. Everything is so basic. Burger, chicken, fries… it doesn’t have any pizzazz to it. It seems like I’m the only one not talking in the group.

“Hey, Peru, what do you think you’re getting to eat?” asked Dylan.

“Ummm, I might get the, ummm, cheese pizza slice,” I say quickly.

“Oh. Well, I’m getting the burger. It’s my favorite,” he says with passion.

“Okay, everyone, how about now we all place our orders,” says Marcella.

“And how about while we wait for our server, we say our I’m sorries,” Samii says, gesturing to Nathan. “We may have hurt someone’s feelings.”

“Whatever. I don’t care about her feelings,” says Nathan rudely.

Ugh, he reminds me of someone from back home. I liked him, but it is obvious he hates me. At least almost everyone else here likes me.

 

Chapter Five: Finally

After hours of trying to ignore Nathan, Marcella finally decides to leave. Before we start walking down the street, she stops me and tells me about a new sloth exhibit at the zoo.  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I could work on my project, and maybe even get extra credit. I didn’t even want to say anything besides “YES!”

“I’m taking that as a yes, you want to go,” Marcella answers.

“My project is on sloths, let’s go!” I say, pulling her out of the door.

“Umm, okay, bye guys.”

“Bye,” they all say in unison.

***

The car pulls up to reveal a sign reading “Costa Rica Zoo.”

“Welcome to the Costa Rica Zoo,” a guy with a sharp mexican accent says, “Eighteen or older, $4.99, children and seniors, $2.99, babies 24 months or younger, free.”

“Okay, then here is ten dollars. Take change out of that, please.” says Marcella.

She gets handed the change, and then we head straight in for the sloths.

“You got your camera?”

“Yeah.”

My camera is my phone, and sadly when I press the home button, I see a notification from my mom.

Hey, Peru, we have to leave early. Your father is home from the war. Pack your stuff up tonight. Our flight leaves at 7:00 a.m. Luv Ya!

“Look, Peru, the sloth came out!”

I take about 20 pictures, and then I feel sad. My trip is already over. I love Marcella. But I guess there is always a time to say goodbye.

 

Chapter Six: With Love, Peru

After returning home from the zoo, I take my suitcase out from under my bed and take the clothes out of the drawer. I plug up my phone, clean out my backpack, and leave Marcella a gift that I picked up. It’s a little pocket-sized sloth with a camera around its neck. I wrote on the tag, From Peru 2k17.  Underneath it, I wrote a note:

Dear Marcella,

Thank you for expanding my world. I met your friends, and we went to the zoo and saw a sloth. I just know that I’m going to get an A+ on the project. I wish I didn’t have to leave, but you have my number, and I will try to come back soon.

                                         With Love,

                                           Peru Maxwell, 2017

***

Today, when I woke up, I had a pain in my chest. I had to leave, but then on the bright side I could see my dad after ten years.

I give Marcella an even bigger hug than before.

“You are my best friend and the greatest cousin ever!” I say to her.

“That’s not true — because you are,” she says back.

As we leave through the doors of their house, we wave and say our last goodbyes. This was the opportunity of a lifetime, and I got to do it with someone I love.

 

Women’s March

      

Millions of faces

Millions of stomping feet

Millions of pink hats

Millions of minds,

Determined to set things right.

 

Millions of ideas

Millions of dreams

Millions of experiences

Millions of Memories

All come together

To change the world

 

Millions of Women

Millions of Men

Millions of  Voices

Sounding around me,

As we march through the streets.

We all want our voice to be heard

 

I felt excitement,

I felt anger,

I felt connected to everyone there,

And all around me,

I saw Change

 

Red;

           

A woman with a stroller, the baby

Kicking its feet and the aging leaves

Crunched under wheels.

Red;

The sweater I stole from you,

The word you said when asked for a word

Associated with love.

Red;

Her lips when I found you.

Red;

Love

Betrayal.

Red;

The sky at dusk from the cliffside,

Where we watched the sun glide away and the

Stars sneak into existence for the night.

Where we laughed so much about things I don’t

Remember now, but

I do remember the way my stomach hurt

Because I couldn’t stop feeling happy.

Red;

The blanket wrapped around my shoulders

To ward against the chill that may come from outside

Or may just be something inside of me

That’s died or lost.

I’m not sure which.

Red;

The color of flowers that push their way

Out of frozen ground in the spring,

When the things that died decide to

See how it feels to be alive again.

 

Seasons

           

Summer

A lot of times I don’t feel comfortable without a coat on. The thought of people staring at my arms and my body is terrifying to me, so whenever I’m going out anywhere I always take a coat. The only bad thing about this is that it only works in the winter. In the spring and summer is when I really feel uncomfortable.

In the winter and in the fall, it is socially acceptable to wear a coat inside because sometimes, it’s still cold even when you’re in your house or the school building. This is mostly because my school is too cheap to actually turn on the heater. And sometimes, our landlord is too cheap to turn on the heater as well. But in the spring and summer, if you go out wearing a coat, then you look crazy, and the people in the street give you mean looks, which is funny because in those moments it is the very thing that protects me from the judgement of others that is making other people judge me. And then sometimes, when I am going to leave the house for a little while and I go to grab my coat, I am scolded by my mother because “it is scorching outside and you will burn in the heat.” Then, she tells me to leave it at home, and I get upset because if someone I don’t want to talk to comes and tries to talk to me, then I can’t just put my hood up and ignore them, so it won’t be as awkward because I can’t see their face.
I think everyone should just wear coats during the spring and summer.

 

Fall

I’m a very approachable person. This is both a blessing and a curse.

On the one hand, I know how to handle myself in social situations, and I have no problems at all when it comes to talking to people at parties and other social situations, since people are always trying to initiate conversations with me, while on the other hand, I hate being approached.

“You’ve inherited my gift with people,” my mother will often tell me. However, I’m not quite sure whether or not that’s true.

I mean — I’m okay with people, but not great. I’d rather not talk unless it’s required, but when it is required, I’ll always provide at least the bare minimum amount of conversation necessary for whatever situation I’m in. I’d rather avoid being noticed, because contrary to common belief, I’m a very anxious person. But not my mother. My mother is a gracious person, who is skilled when it comes to talking to people. She is witty, and interesting, and humorous, and sociable. She is caring and kind and beautiful, and she has the ability to spark up conversation with pretty much anyone. She can bring introverts out of their shells, and she can make the shy ones laugh. Something about her is just so open and inviting, and just makes you want to get to know her immediately.

I’m not that kind of girl.

I don’t go out of my way just to talk to people. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. It’s just the people who are always going out of their way to talk to me.

Except, I have no idea why…

I’m nothing like my mother. I’m not interesting or appealing or witty or talkative. I’m not particularly pretty either. It’s not like I’m anything special — I’m just a short, pale girl with short, dark hair that curls perfectly over my ears. Perfectly simple, perfectly boring. Just a short, pale girl with a closet full of turtlenecks and pastel colors. Just a short, pale girl who likes to draw and paint. A girl who is utterly and painfully short of any personality.

 

Winter

I don’t know exactly what it was that triggered the start of my ongoing three-and-a-half year battle against dermatillomania, but somehow here I am. I’m not sure if it was something I always had, but if I didn’t have it when I was little, then I certainly have it now.

Perhaps one day, I had an especially bad panic attack and in a flustered, anxious frenzy, decided to dig my nails into the bumps on my arms and after coming to the conclusion that I enjoyed the feeling, decided to return to it whenever I was bored or anxious. Perhaps I had found a pimple on my face and thought that the best course of action was not to pop it, but to scratch it hard until it was gone altogether. Or maybe I had just washed my hair and whilst making sure that I had gotten all of the shampoo out of my hair, I accidently came upon some dandruff and by mistaking it for nits, continued to poke around my scalp with my nails until a piece of my skin was picked off. At this point, who really knows?

But it doesn’t matter, because how I developed this disorder won’t make a difference. In the end, I still end up here in some therapist’s office every Tuesday, where they hire some hippie to come and ask me bullshit questions.

If I’m honest, I don’t even know her name.

I never use her name anyways.

Sometimes, she asks me questions about how my day was, to which I answer truthfully, but other times she’ll ask me questions about my “condition,” to which the answers I give her are always lies.

“What triggered you to pick at your skin?” she’ll ask me. I’ll shrug at her and sigh.

“I don’t know,” I’ll tell her, but this is not true at all — not even in the slightest.

I hate telling lies, and I always have, and because of this, I try to avoid lying as much as possible, and when I do lie, I am always sure to at least reveal a little bit of the truth. For instance, there was this one time when my mom baked a tin of banana bread, which usually is quite good except for this one time when it was extremely dry.

After eating a decently sized slice of it, she came up to me and asked me what I thought of it, to which I responded with, “Yeah, it was really good! Just a little bit dry, but otherwise really good!” and she smiled and went on her merry way.

Was her banana bread really good? No, it was just average. But was it dry? Yes. Yes it was. But I couldn’t just say that, could I?

But with this particular question, I can’t even share my answer. My answer will always be overridden. The truth of the matter is that most of the time, I start picking whenever I am bored and need something to do with my hands — specifically during my classes. But if I even try to explain this to the therapists, they’ll never believe me. They always seem to think that me picking at myself stems from anxiety — some deep, dark fear gnawing at me from the inside out.

Except it’s not.

That’s the thing with therapists. There always needs to be some type of ulterior motive — one that more often than not isn’t there.

At this point, I’ve just stopped trying to defend my illness. There really isn’t any use because I always find myself answering the same goddamn questions over and over again, and at this point have grown tired of it. It’s mentally draining, and I’m over it. The cognitive behavioral therapy doesn’t help — not when the therapists try to act like they know what I’m feeling or thinking better than I do myself. Perhaps one day, I’ll find someone who will just listen.

 

Spring

Sometimes, I like to sit with my dog out on the stoop and watch people walk by. My dog is a Pomeranian, and she’s really fluffy, so lots of people stop to pet her because she looks really soft. But some people don’t like little dogs like mine. They’d much rather have a big dog than a small one. I’ve never understood this. A dog is a dog. I like both big dogs and little dogs equally — and if given the chance, I would totally get a big dog, but I live in an apartment in the city so having a Husky or Bulldog isn’t an option.

I like my dog more than I like most people. I can tell Jazzy anything because she won’t tell anyone or think I’m weird and secretly judge me, and I like this. Another thing Jazzy won’t do is get up and walk away from me when she sees the scabs on my face, like that one lady on the bus did after sitting next to me.

When I was little and Dad was still around, he used to play his jazz CDs on the radio really loud in the morning, and then I would get up and dance around the house. Then one day, he brought Jazzy back to the house, and I named her after something my dad really loved. Then one day, Mom found out about the affair. Then, he left. Now I don’t listen to jazz anymore. I still have Jazzy, though.

Lots of days Laura will come to my house after school, and we will sit on the stoop together. She doesn’t like to hang out in her house very much because she has four younger siblings, and they’re always in her face. But today, Laura isn’t here. This is because we had a fight at school today, and she got mad at me.

I had come out of the principal’s office during last period to find her staring at me with her arms crossed. She looked really mad, and that made me upset — so much so that I felt a sudden urge to open the door to the closest classroom, step inside, and lock myself in there so I wouldn’t have to deal with whatever harsh thing she was gonna say to me, but that wasn’t an option.

We walked to the cafeteria together in silence. It was only after we sat down at our usual table that she said anything.

“What did you do this time?” she asked.

I sighed. Why did she have to be like this?

“I yelled at my para,” I mumbled. I hated the paras. They were basically hired to help me one-on-one, but all they seemed to do was piss me off.

She rolled her eyes, “Go on.”

“O-okay, I cursed at my para.”

“Are you sure that’s all?”

“… I punched my para.”

Laura scoffed, “Really, Callie? Are you serious right now?”

“Yeah!” I yelled, “I am!”

“What the hell were you thinking?!”

“She hit my hand!” I protested.

“Callie, she probably didn’t. She probably just tapped your hand to tell you to stop picking, and you freaked out. Jesus, do you have to be so Special Ed all the time?”

I froze. Only seconds later did she realize what she had said.

“Oh Callie… I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t just stop picking. That’s not how things work. Do you think I enjoy picking myself bloody? Because I don’t, and if it was as easy as not doing it, then I would’ve stopped a long time ago.”

It was at that moment that I got up from my seat and left. I ate by myself in the bathroom. I didn’t talk to her for the rest of the day.

So here I am, sitting on the stoop of my apartment, sketchbook and pencil in hand and a dog at my feet. I listen to music as I draw and this time, I do not draw what is in front of me. I draw what I see in my mind.

I do not look up from what I am doing until around 8:00 when Jazzy starts barking. There’s Laura, refusing to meet my eyes.

“Can I… can I sit with you?” she asks.

I nod, and she comes to sit next to me, wrapping her arm around me tightly. We don’t speak for a long time.

“I’m not just a Special Ed kid,” I tell her, my voice hushed to a whisper. She sighs.

“No,” she agrees, “No, you’re not. I’m sorry.”

“I’m a person.”

She is silent once more.

“Yes, Callie. You are a person.”

“Then why am I treated differently?”

At this point, I am crying my eyes out, and she can definitely tell.

“I don’t know, Callie. You just are.”

She pulls away from me, and my arm feels cold.

“Take off your jacket, Callie. No one’s judging you.”

My jaw drops. “How did you know?”

“I’m your best friend, Callie. I’m psychic,” she winks at me, and I laugh. “But seriously. Take the coat off.”

And I do.

 

The Accident

I remember my first accident, my first time not being able to see. I remember sliding down the bunny hill on November 12, 2013. I remember my brother’s hands around my waist. I remember them holding me tight and not letting go. I remember the heat from the hands comforting me that made me feel safe. I remember hearing my life and giggles in slow motion. I remember holding onto the thin rope that was attached to the sled. I remember my tight, purple winter coat pressing me tight. I remember the ropes falling out of my hands while leaving splinters in my hands. I remember my father yelling, “Turn before you get hurt!” I remember how sharp the tree trunks were. I remember the thickness of the tree and the dark, brown wood around it. I remember the leaves hanging down low from the tree. I remember how they looked so sad, and the snow was dripping off it like tears. I can’t remember how scary it was the minute before I hit it. I can’t remember Alex’s hands slipping off like I was alone. I can’t remember the fear built inside of me. I can’t remember forgetting how to steer. I can’t remember the sudden boom of my head against the tree. I will not remember the ambulance noises. I will not remember the tears dripping down Alex’s face. I will not remember my father calling my mother with a look on his face. I will not remember his tears filled with fear going down his cheeks. I will not remember my screams going through everyone’s ears. I will not remember my eyes closing and my breath stopping. I will not remember the moment I couldn’t move, the fear built everywhere and growing. I want to remember the calm moments when I was asleep. I want to remember the fearless place where I was. I want to remember me waking up and everyone there with smiles and tears of joy. I want to remember my mother’s long-lasting kiss on my forehead. I want to remember everyone hugging me tight. I want to remember…

 

Freakman

It had rained all night, yet, there was no rainbow.

Well, there was no sun either… but still. I was saddened by the outcome of the storm. It was just sky and clouds and emptiness.

I got off the bus, feeling empty as well, like the lack of rainbows had affected me personally.

Most kids wouldn’t care about something as trivial as light in the sky, but I was not most kids. I felt unfulfilled due to this — what shall we call it? — fate, karma, or just weather. Either way, I was not happy. And school wasn’t gonna change that.

I sighed.

I went up the stairs of the school, seeing all the kids you see in high school. They were, like, beyond stereotypes at this point; they were more like lists of characteristics. I said, “Hi” to my friend Windy in the hall on my way to first period (which, by the way, I was acing), and he waved back.

He smiled at me before some kids snatched his book and binder and started to mess with him. The kids turned Windy’s wheelchair round and round and yelled, “Freak!” louder than the fire alarm. I kept walking. Poor Windy. I sometimes wish they would just leave him alone.

The feeling I felt on the bus returned like a bag of nails to the balls as I again felt empty — wishing I could help him, but knowing I’d actually get hurt if I tried.

I dragged myself through my morning classes. Knowing literally all the answers did not help. I was aching for lunch, though not really aching because I knew soon I would ache for the end of the day.

After fifth period came to a close, I helped push Windy’s chair to the cafeteria. He grabbed a school newspaper from a stack on the table by the door. I didn’t. Now, our paper, The Trenton Community High Gazette, is a real big deal (though, it’s total sensationalist phony crap; they make everything into a big deal… it’s kinda funny the print is in yellow, so they are, like, literally yellow journalism… )

As we rolled up to the lunch counter, I looked over Windy’s shoulder, seeing how engrossed he appeared to be in the tabloid. I tried to see the front page, or part of it, because Windy blocked it before I could see or read the headline.

I asked, “Hey, Windy, so what’s the front page news? Is there plastic in the mashed potatoes again — ?”

“Moon, I-I-I — this is very bad… ”

“Geez, what is up your Levi’s? You look like you just got buried alive. Dude, why don’t we discuss this over a healthy dose of gruel?”

“Moon, the front page is — um… ”

“Spit it out, Winslow. We haven’t got all year… ”

“It’s about YOU!!!” Windy shouted.

“… Me?”

Me? I never do anything interesting! I just sit around all day and complain about things all the time like Garfield.

Windy handed the paper to me. “You and your folks, actually. Just know it’s not the end of the world.”

I skimmed the headline. This was the end of the world.

There was silence. The whole cafeteria froze and stared. I dropped the paper, seemingly in slow motion. The silence continued for another minute. One kid started laughing. The entire cafeteria followed suit. This was not happening.

“Fucker!!!” They all stopped laughing at that. I burst into tears and ran, grabbing another copy of the newspaper out of some girl’s hands on my way to the exit, getting the grubby, yellow ink on my fingers.

In the stairwell, I looked at the photo on the front page. It was of my mom and dad and me as an infant. This was the end of all things. My parents were butt naked covered in tulips, a guitar strap on my father acting as the only saving grace to his decency. I read the headline again: “MOON SHARRIF’S A HIPPIE!!! RARE PHOTOGRAPH UNCOVERED OF HIM AS INFANT WITH FULLY NUDE HIPPIE PARENTS!” Below, in smaller type, were the words: “Read full article by Brad Gently on page 7.”

Brad is my sister’s — I mean, my foster sister’s — boyfriend. If she had something to do with this, oh, she was going to get it.

This photograph; God only knows how it got out of the basement. Annie must have snuck it out and given it to Brad, who works for the paper. The photo was in an album that our parents had always forbidden us from touching. Probably due to the fact that they’re yuppies now, and their hippiedom is far behind them. But, it was long-lived and apparently extreme according to some family friends. Like, our Aunt Margaret said that one summer they slept in an abandoned van for a month and lived on nothing but bean sprouts. They also went to naturalist conventions every year for a decade. In fact, I was born at one of them in 1968. They yuppied-up only recently.

I already knew they used to be hippies. That’s not news. I just don’t want the whole school to know. Now, they’ll be calling me crap like “flower child” and “peace and love” in the halls. Also, it’s a nude photo. Does it get more embarrassing? A little censorship wouldn’t have hurt.

Surprisingly, today’s tabloid escapade is the second most embarrassing thing that my family’s gotten into. Judas Shariff, my grandfather, is famous in South Trenton for his legendary scientific endeavors, especially those that got him tossed into the psych ward five years before I was born. He died a few years ago. My parents tell me not to talk about him.

I heard wheels.

Windy opened the door to the stairwell and called out, “Moon?!”

“I’m fine,” I responded. “What are we going to do? I mean, what should I do?”

“They’re talking crap about you,” Windy said. “More than usual. I would have stood up for you, but you know I can’t.”

We both cracked up.

“Seriously, Windy. How’m I gonna fix this? Isn’t there some way we can go back and make none of this have happened at all?”

“You mean like a time machine?”

Windy and I looked around. “Who’s there?!” I yelled.

I recognized that grizzled voice. Was he eavesdropping on us? I turned to Windy.

“Freakman,” we both said at the same time.

I heard muffled jazz music and snapping as Mr. Freakman came up the stairs from the basement level. We did our secret handshake, and he turned off his Walkman.

Mr. Freakman said, “Yo, kiddo, I saw that groovy photo of your folks in their natural state all over the school. And you don’t like that, do ya?”

I put my hands on my hips. “Do you like Reagan?” I asked him, with a smug look on my face.

“No. Um, no, I do not. I really don’t think you can go back in time. The fact is, this is a pretty gnarly state. This is the way things are. Not worth wigging out over, man.”

“Yeah, Moon, the first step to moving on is accepting the way things are,” Windy offered.

“Would you guys listen to yourselves? You sound like Hallmark cards. This is not some teen drama where things get better in the end. We’ve got to build a time machine.”

They both stared at me.

“And I think I know how.”

There was a long pause.

“Really?” Windy scoffed. He had doubt in his eyes. Then he crossed his arms and asked, “Okay, Tesla, how do you plan on doing this exactly? Time travel has yet to be invented. At all! Not even by history’s top engineers! Let alone you, Moon — you, the kid who is failing biology — how could you possibly… ?”

“Winslow Casablanca, my dear friend, I do have a bit of an ego. I can’t deny it. But I’m not so arrogant that I’d think I could build a time machine of all things without some kind of guide. If I was having delusions of such grandeur, don’t you think I would be in the loony bin also — ”

“So you have a guide?” Windy asked. He really needed to stop interrupting me.

“Yeah, my grandfather tried to invent one. He was nuts.”

Freakman said, “Way out,” as he looked at his watch, and then he turned to me. “Kid, gotta get back to work. Keep me posted about this whole time machine, and let’s do the time warp again.” He turned his Walkman back on and snapped his way downstairs.

The door behind Windy flung open. A girl with short, black hair, wearing a blue turtleneck, burst in. “Windy, I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” she wheezed. “We need a replacement pianist for The Sound of Music rehearsals.” She noticed me. “Hey, you’re that kid who took my newspaper. Windy, do you know him?”

“Yeah, Lucy, this is my good friend, Moon. Moon, Lucy. Lucy, Moon,” Windy replied.

“Moon? Moon Shariff?” She burst into bombastic laughter. I could tell she wasn’t even trying to contain herself.

I turned to Windy. “I’m gonna build that time machine. I’m gonna follow those instructions precisely. And you’re gonna help me. By Monday it’s gonna be Thursday again.”

When I got home, no one was there but my cat, Ginsberg. I headed straight for the basement and discovered the blueprints hidden in the forbidden photo album where Annie had found the naked photo. I called my friends and asked them to meet me at Ralph’s, the electronics place near the spork in the road. We could get all the nuts and bolts there.

Monday arrived. And apparently Windy was right because we were greeted in the morning by pointing fingers and the words “Peace” and “Love” spray-painted on my locker. After classes had ended, we gathered in the basement near the boiler room. Mr. Freakman joined us and lit up when he saw the time machine in my hands. It was made out of my kitchen phone and the parts we bought at Ralph’s.

He gleamed and said, “You did that out of your phone? Your grandfather… I wish I could meet him… I really wish I could meet him. I’ll open up the slop closet now for our ‘secret operation.’”

“Yeah,” I said. “OK, guys, here’s the plan one last time. We go back to Thursday, intercept Annie in my house with the photo, bribe her not to do it, don’t wake up my parents, and then come back to the present.”

Freakman turned off the lights in the closet and closed the door.

I said, loudly, “Ready, guys?” I reached to touch it and felt Freakman’s hand on the dial. “What are you doing — ?”

The scene turned to black. I woke up what felt like a few hours later. I screeched, “FREAKMAN, WHAT DID YOU DO?!” I felt for the light switch, turned it on, and looked at Freakman. His hand was still on the dial. Windy and Lucy were huddled in the corner. We all looked at Freakman.

I said very slowly, “Freakman, move your hand.” He didn’t. “Now,” I said.

He moved it. I squirmed to the dial. I felt like I did when I saw the newspaper headline. Completely overcome with anxiety. I looked around the closet to find something to confirm the date. If it had worked, was it Thursday? Crap, I didn’t think this through. It was a time machine. It could be any time. I spotted a calendar and snatched it off the wall. I looked for the day when the X’s had stopped. I could not believe my eyes.

Freakman was more insane than my grandfather. Why did he send us to 1964?! We burst out of the closet. I stood up, turned to Freakman, and was prepared to give it to him. “Why’d you do that? Why’d you have to go and ruin our whole plan?” I asked.

Freakman looked very pleased with himself. He smiled and said, “You know they say the best way to learn about something is to experience it firsthand.”

“Are you referring to the newspaper?!” I hollered.

“You bet I am. Come on, kids, don’t you want to see the outside?”

Windy piped up, “You guys are forgetting something.” He turned to me, looking at me like I was an absolute moron. “Did you forget that you told me at least a thousand times over the weekend that the time machine could not travel more than five years at a time? We’re in the sixties. If that’s true, Moon, we’re stuck here.”

Lucy said, “Wait, we’re stuck in the sixties? I’ll get to see Barbra Streisand on Broadway!”

“Well, Freakman,” I said. “This is a fine mess you got us into. I’m not living the rest of my life as a flower child.”

“You were going to do that anyway — ” Windy added.

“SHUT UP,” I bellowed. I realized that we were making way too much noise and had to get out of the building. I took my school books out of my backpack and put the broken time machine in their place. We had to carry Windy up the stairs because there was no ramp from the basement, and then go back for the wheelchair, but we made it outside.

I noticed that the school building looked the same, but everything around it looked like something out of American Graffiti. The cars were longer, and the hairstyles were crazy. Windy spoke up, “I have an idea, guys.”

“What?” I asked.

“If it’s ‘Build a time machine and go back to Thursday to avoid embarrassment but we end up in the sixties,’ I don’t want to hear it,” Lucy said.

“No, Lucy, better,” Windy responded. “Moon, didn’t your grandfather live around here?”

“He used to,” I said. “By 1964, he was already in Bellevue.”

Windy said, “So, I guess we’re going to New York now.”

“Wait, are you suggesting that we ask him to fix it?”

Freakman said, “Wow, I’m finally going to get to meet my hero. You guys are the best.”

We hopped a Greyhound bus to New York City. It looked like it looks in all the old postcards in the tourist shops. Cleaner than New York today. We walked across town to Bellevue Hospital and checked in as visitors — which we technically were — to padded room number 187. A doctor took out a ring of skeleton keys and opened seven different bulky locks. He told us to be careful.

I approached my grandfather. He was huddled in the corner. This was it. He was breathing heavily, and I decided to speak up.

“Judas,” I whispered.

“Are you another doctor?” he asked.

“No,” I said. I didn’t know how I was going to tell him this.

“Who are you? You’re not supposed to come in here without a lab coat.”

I was taking too long. Also, if I messed with this too much, I wasn’t going to be born. I needed to suck it up, and just say it.

I screamed, “Judas Shariff, I am your grandson from the future. This is not a dream. Your time machine works. I know it’s a lot to take in, but you need to fix the machine so that we can get back to the present and so that we can, you know, not be stuck here.”

There was silence. Understandably.

Mr. Freakman broke it, of course. “Can I have your autograph?” He held out a shriveled piece of paper.

I gave the machine to my grandfather. He looked me in the eye. I had never had so much hope riding on one answer.

“Give me two days,” he said. “But come back in lab coats.”

We spent the time to kill in a shady motel in Greenwich Village. Freakman went to places like Folk City and coffee houses, while we tried to do our homework in Washington Square Park. We met some cool people there, like this guy who could put his foot behind his head. He was doing it for money.

Freakman met us in the park and introduced us to this man who looked a lot like Freakman. Considering the turn of events so far, we weren’t actually surprised to hear that he was Freakman, only younger.

We came back to Bellevue in lab coats, completely prepared for everything to go back to normal. Some patient called me “Doc,” which actually felt pretty good. We entered the padded room, and he actually had finished it. God knows where he got the parts, but we didn’t have time for questions. I hugged and kissed Judas goodbye, and he told me to remember him.

We raced back to the Greyhound station, and hopped the bus back to South Trenton. We snuck into the high school and carried Windy down the stairs in the chair.

Back in the slop closet, I asked, “Freakman. Do you want to do the honors?”

Freakman thought for a second. “You know, kids, I’ve made a lot of good decisions in my time. Never have I been presented with an opportunity so ripe like this one. I’m not goin’ back.”

Lucy said, “Okay, suit yourself. C’mon, Moon — ”

“No, wait,” I said. “Who’s going to be our mentor? Luke Skywalker never would have gotten anywhere without Obi-Wan Kenobi!”

“Remember what happened to him?” Freakman reminded me. “Look, kid, you’re never going to get anywhere in life if you hold onto the past. Move on. I’m just a janitor. The sixties hold so much opportunity for me to start over. And you can start over without me.” I started to cry.

He closed the door. Lucy turned on the time machine. The portal started to open. I reopened the door. “Wait, Freakman!” I yelled. “Don’t hug yourself! You’ll blow up all of space and time!”

“Okay,” he said sweetly, smiling. “I’ll try.”

The scene turned to white. I would now live the rest of my life worried that he might hug his younger self. As if I didn’t have enough anxiety.

 

– The End –

 

Trump Tower

April 2017

 

Jason walked right up to me in front of 70 Pine, our designated meet up spot. As always, he was late, and I was early. The sun was going to set at almost eight o’clock, and it was only six, so we were good to make the sunset shots.

“The man, the myth, the legend. Nice to see you, Jason. You ready?” I said.

“You know it. So how are we getting in?”

“Easy. The school right there. I’m friends with them. I’m sure they’ll let you in… just say you need to use the bathroom.”

“Got it.” I pointed to the school and showed him an outline I wrote earlier in art class of how exactly we were going to get in. We crossed the street and walked into the school.

“Hey Marlon, how are you?” I said, putting my hand out.

“Happy to see you again! What you need.”

“Just need to use the bathroom, if that’s okay. I’ve been looking for so long.”

“Of course, just use the one on the third floor.” I smiled and started walking up the stairs, Jason following right behind me.

“Your friend can wait down here,” he said, looking back at me.

“Okay.” I looked at Jason and signalled for him to ask.

“Do you mind if I go wash my hands upstairs?” Jason asked.

“It’s fine… you can go up,” Marlon said.

We walked up the stairs and looked at each other. I smiled and said, “We’re in. We did it. We passed the hard part.” I smiled a big smile and kind of giggled right as we got out of sight of the security. We got to the third floor and passed by the bathroom and kept walking down the school. We saw the exit sign signalling to go to the right. We took a right, and we were in the clear: no cameras and the stairwell entrance right in front of us.

“Okay, put on your bandana.” I took mine out, and so did Jason. He had a blue on, and I had a red one… ironic.

“This is what we’re going to do. Go to the ninth floor and transfer to staircase H. From there we take it down to the fifth, and we’re past the security in the offices, and we could take the elevator down to the lobby. From there, follow me.”

“Okay,” Jason said. We both had our bandanas on, and my hand was on the staircase door handle. I took a deep breath, turned the handle, and walked in. I covered my eyes in front of the three cameras pointed at the door. It didn’t phase me. I just kept walking and kept my head low. We ran up the stairs and arrived on the ninth floor. We opened the exit door and came inside an office area inside the Trump building. I saw the golden elevators, but there was a glass door blocking me from them. We were close but still a mile away. I led him around to stairwell A, and we took it down to the fifth floor. Open sesame! The moment we opened the doors, we saw the golden sheen of the Trump elevator doors.

“Bingo,” I said, jumping up and down.

“Take your bandana off. We’re good. Just follow me, and don’t be afraid to look around. Try to act normal,” I said while laughing. All the pressure released from my body, and I felt calm. From here, it was just the matter of not getting stopped while going into the elevators, but there was no worry for — Bing! Within seconds, we were already at the lobby, and the golden doors opened to more golden decor and white marble floors. I walked out and took a slight right to the elevators labeled forty-five to sixty-two. We walked into the hall and clicked the button to call the elevator. Immediately we heard a ring, and both of our necks swiveled backwards. We walked in and almost at the same time, we saw the cameras staring us down. We turned around and smiled at each other. We were in Trump’s most valuable tower.

 

The elevator was fast, but relative to the tall building, it took a minute or two to get to the sixty-second floor. The doors opened, and we both sighed in relief. The elevator door shut, and we heard the whirring as it went down beneath us.

“Well… we’re here! Look at that view,” I said, pointing to a huge window looking out at the sunset.

“Damn that’s beautiful,” Jason said, staring into the sun. The blue, almost fluorescent sky lit up as the sun started making its way down, turning it orange inch by inch.

“Okay, what next?” Jason said.

“I’ll take you to the highest we can get, but the door to get to the spire is locked. I checked earlier.”

“This has been done before. I’m sure we can find a way.” I looked back at Jason and clicked the elevator button leading to the top floor. It opened up with a loud, creaking noise. It was an old, freight elevator contrary to the new, golden, shiny ones on the main elevator. Again I clicked the highest floor, and it started to go up. The elevator buzzed, and we made our way out. I stuck my head out of a half open window and looked up. We were about forty feet below from the base of the thinning spire.

“There’s the lock right there.” I pointed to the entrance leading to the spire. Jason walked up to the lock and started fiddling with it, turning it, and banging it. We even tried to break the lock, but nothing worked.

“I guess we should find another floor where we could go on the outside,” Jason said. I nodded back. I walked into the stairwell and lightly walked down the stairs. We checked every door on every floor, and everything was locked, but when we got to the sixty-fourth floor we found a wide open hole in the wall. It was dim, and the walls were made of brick. There were loud noises and lights coming from inside from rusty machines that probably have been there since 1930, when the Trump building was made. We walked into the room and saw orange light peeking through the windows. We walked toward it. It was a fully open three-foot window. Just enough for us to easily get in and out.

“Jackpot.” We dropped our bags and jackets and looked out. It was breathtaking and familiar, but it felt as we say in the Philippines, “biten” (BIH-TIN), meaning not enough or that it didn’t hit the spot. We both knew this wasn’t the building’s full potential, and it didn’t really satisfy what we did all this work for. We stayed there for a good twenty minutes and got a lot done. Not a second is wasted when rooftopping. Everything has to be as correct and precise as possible while still being quick and silent. We took photos, Snapchats, and hung from one hand from the side of the building. Just normal things. We were both done, and all I wanted to do was leave. I gave up, and in my mind I knew getting up to the top would be impossible without a pick lock or explosive.

“Okay Jason, let’s go… I don’t wanna get caught.”

“Hold up. C’mon, I have an idea”

“No, we’re going.” I called the elevator and got in. Jason got in and shook his head.

“Silly you.” He pressed the highest floor we could get in again. The door shut, and we were going back.

 

The elevator door opened, and I had a feeling that I normally get while rooftopping. Most rooftoppers have anxiety that when the elevator door opens, a horde of police and security will be waiting there for them. In all honesty, using the elevators is the most nerve-wracking, especially when going down. But that didn’t happen today, it never does. It’s something that happens on YouTube.

“Get your keys out right now,” Jason said, as he walked out of the elevator.

“Stop, that’s not going to work.”

“I’m being so serious. Give it to me.” I shrugged and dug through my overfilled pockets. I felt the rigid ends of the keys and yanked it out. I tossed it to Jason, and he walked over to the locked door.

“This should work.” Jason stuck the key in. It fit perfectly, sliding in with ease. He turned it left… didn’t budge… he turned it right. Didn’t budge. Then he wiggled the key and left just about a hair line out of the lock. Then boom, he turned right, and I heard the most satisfying sound I’ve ever been a part of.

“NO FUCKING WAY! NO WAY!” I screamed.

Jason looked at me nonchalantly and said, “Ladies first.”

I gladly said yes and slowly walked up the spiral stairs. Within the stairs there were small circle windows about 1.5 feet in diameter. I saw higher than I ever saw before. So many things were racing through my head. I didn’t even care if I got caught anymore. This was the most badass thing I’ve ever done. Everyone dreams of climbing the Trump Tower, and I could basically do this in my sleep now. We walked all the way to another metallic, almost brand new, spiral staircase. I saw the bright lights surrounding us pointed out to the city. I knew exactly where we were… we were in the spire of Trump’s most valuable tower.

 

“I think we should leave our bags here,” Jason said. I nodded and dropped my bag down. All I needed was my camera. Everything was setup and ready to go. We started to climb up the rusty, old, steel ladder to the top. I kept my camera hanging from my neck and propped off the side of my back. I tried my best not to let my camera hit the grimy bars on the ladder. The ladder went about forty feet up and got dirtier and rustier the higher I got. When I got to the top, I stood on the bars that went across the ten-foot space. The window out was right in front of me, waiting for me to go through. I held on to the side walls as I waited for Jason to come up. He got up and looked outside the window.

“No way… we are here man. No turning back.” Jason said.

“I know. Is it safe to go out?”

“Yeah, I’m going first, then just follow along. Here, hold my camera.” Jason handed me his camera, and legs first, he squeezed through the window.

“Okay, pass my camera.” I climbed toward the window and handed Jason his camera. He stood out there fiddling with his camera and looking around the sky. He looked up and froze.

“Yo. Yo, grab my camera right now… RIGHT NOW.” I grabbed his camera without hesitation.

“What happened,” I said, as I started to make my way down the ladder.

“No, no, no, stay here we’re fine, there’s just too many helicopters out here. Let’s wait till it gets a bit darker.” He awkwardly squeezed back through the window facing backwards. When he got back in, we both sat on the rusty bars and looked at each other in silence. We sat there slowly relaxing every second. I felt my heart rate slow down, and my thoughts about getting caught slowly slipped out my mind. We were in the roof area for about an hour now and nothing has happened. No cameras, no motion detectors… nothing. I could, with authority, say this was one of the easiest roofs in NYC. We waited inside looking out the window for about thirty minutes. The helicopters didn’t stop, but they slowed down as the sun went down.

“I think we should go now,” I said.

“Okay, hold my camera.” I took the camera and cradled the lens like a baby. He quickly got out to the spire and grabbed his camera. It was my turn, and by God, was I ready. I held on to the top ledge of the window and propped myself out legs first. I looked up and saw about thirty feet up till the end. Never had I been so high in my life, and there was nothing that could top this, so I tried to make the most out of this trip. I took out my camera that was already set up and started firing away on rapid speed.

 

The shots came out beautifully and needed minimal editing. I tried to hang or do some daredevilish stunts, but everything was thin and flimsy and hadn’t been restored since 1930. We walked in circles. The distinct, almost mint green still sticks in my mind. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful, worn out green so close up in my life. You have to see it to appreciate it. I continued to take shots and videos of this mission. But for just a minute, I put the camera down and enjoyed what I wouldn’t have for a long time. The World Trade Center glowed with its smaller buildings, making it seem like a small, utopian village in the middle of other futuristic office buildings which took up the Financial District. Then, you walked to the opposite side and saw Manhattan’s tapering down to the Staten Island Ferry. It was surreal looking down and seeing nothing but the green of the rest of the roof.

“I’m doing it,” Jason said, as he walked toward the ladder leading up.

“Crazy mofo.” He started scaling even higher than the nine-hundred feet we were at. Relative to where we were already at it didn’t seem to make a difference, but the view was beautiful. Jason climbed to the top of the spire as I peered down. He took one candid shot, and I went back to shooting. What I didn’t know was that he took the best photo of me I’ve ever seen.

 

He headed down, and we knew it was time to go. We’d been up there close to two and half hours, and we didn’t want to cut it any closer. Jason climbed down from the spire, and I passed him my camera. I hopped inside the small room back in and squatted on the bars I was standing on.

“Get my camera,” Jason said. I took his camera, and he awkwardly squeezed himself halfway and then got stuck because he was coming out backwards.

“Fuck, what do I do,” he said.

“Jeez, let me help you.” I went across the bars and slowly held him as he went back out to try again. He went feet first and pulled himself in. I gave him his camera, and he packed it away in his bag. I strapped my camera to my shoulder and started climbing the ladder back down. Jason then followed behind me. I packed my camera into my bag and put my light cashmere sweater on. We were back to where the big LED lights faced out. I remember staring at this a couple years before and enjoyed the thought of such a tall, beautiful building. New memories like this always make me appreciate and compare my past experiences.

“Wow, I can’t believe we’ve done it,” I said. Jason looked at me and started laughing about how hilarious and insane this situation was.

“We’ve really done it this time,” Jason said. We were all packed and ready to leave the roof. I looked one last time and started heading down the spiral staircase. On the way down, we saw small, circular windows that gave us the first and last views from the roof. We then came to the end of the staircase and the gate that was opened with my key. I looked back at Jason and looked out to see if any workers were there waiting for us. I took a deep breath and pushed the bar. It was almost over. We walked over to the elevators and took it down to the sixtieth floor, where we would transfer to the lobby elevator. The doors opened, and I clicked the button for the next elevator. We waited for a good three minutes for the elevator to come. By then, we started getting worried about the security catching on. We heard a ring from behind us, and the elevator door started to open. It fully opened, and it wasn’t filled with police… phew. We got in and pressed the lobby. The elevator down was nerve-wracking. I could only think of the worst… getting caught. We whirred down the flights and finally arrived at the lobby. The elevator door clicked open and opened to a full lobby of not police, but gold rimmed chandeliers, and the exit! We took a right from the elevator trying to act as normal as possible. We came up to the door, and it was blocked by red velvet rope. I looked at Jason, and we quickly turned around. This meant we had to leave from the main entrance. We walked toward the turnstiles and walked straight through them.

“Have a nice night, guys,” the doorman said.

We both looked at him and nodded. We walked out and looked at each other with the most “I can’t believe we just did that” look.

“You know what this calls for,” I said.

“What?”

“Mission accomplished Snapchat videos!” We both put on our bandanas and went across the street to a plaza. We did our handshake and stared at 40 Wall. We then parted ways and had to explain to our moms why we came home so late.

 

The Simulation

                   

The Simulation

I wake up on a Monday, the day that wreaks havoc across Malibu International High School, or MIHS for short. On Mondays, some of the students — mainly boys, unsurprisingly — act exhausted, just to annoy the teachers. This usually ends in parents being kindly invited to discuss their child’s behavior in class, or just the typical, “Go to the principal’s office, right now!” But today, everything seems… different. I have a strange feeling. I don’t know what it is, but I just have it.

“Mom!” I yell. But as usual, she has left for work.

It’s not that we are financially troubled. She is just very enthusiastic about her job. That kind of annoys me because it means that she’s barely around, leaving me by myself most of the time. Even on weekends. She works for a newly born scientific company called Malibu Scientific Studies and Collection (MSSC). She usually leaves before I wake up, leaving me to do everything to get ready for the day. I have to get breakfast and prepare for the day. But sometimes, she leaves breakfast out for me on the table (today is one of those days), so I sit down and eat, wondering what today will be like.

***

“Good morning, class,” says Ms. Willmur.

She aptly takes her seat and proceeds to put her blonde hair in the usual ponytail. She praises me every Monday for being “the only mature fifteen-year-old boy in the school.” I start class by turning in my homework: a pre-calculus math worksheet. I get A’s in this and most other subjects. I take my seat next to my best friend Alissia.

“How you doin’ on this fine morning?” she asks flatly.

“Eh, today feels weird,” I reply.

I can always come back to her for advice, whether it be about how to handle emotions or what to write on homework assignments.

“In what way?” she asks.

Just then I freeze. I am unable to move or speak or breathe. I faint, but so does everyone else. All I can see for a while is darkness. I am still conscious, but it’s like I only exist in my mind. I wake up in a dark room with red lighting.

“How the he — ,” I start but I stare at the room — no — spaceship I am in.

The interior is vast; I can’t see either end of the ship. I get out from my… containment pod? I realize that I am wearing headgear, and so is everyone else to the right and left of me. They all look weird. They look almost… alien. Oh god. Please no, I think. I look at myself, and I see pale, almost transparent skin. I can see my veins and my — muscles? I am afraid now. I don’t know what to do. I look around frantically, but I turn around only to find something remarkable.

“Levine, Jack. Please retreat into your pod, please,” a hovering droid says to me.

I just stare at the droid, admiring the tech put into it, before punching it in what I would call the face and running to what I think is the front of the ship. Soon, I realize an alarm goes off, with a corresponding flashing blue light. I’m running fast, faster than a human can run. I look down and see slender feet, like a cheetah’s, but with three large claws for three toes, and they are also slightly more muscular. I don’t know much about speed, but I think that I am running nearly forty miles per hour. I also realize that I have a tail, for balance. I look at my feet again, and they are completely stable, so my suspicion may be true. But to confirm it, I glance at my arms, which are the same length as my legs, if not a tiny bit longer. Lastly, I realize my posture. Hunched, I think to myself. That confirms it. I can run faster, if I go on all fours. I try it, expecting to fail, but it comes naturally. I also don’t have to hold my head up as I do it, as it is forward facing now that I am on all fours. Now, I should be clocking in at sixty miles per hour, but I am barely even trying, unlike when I was on two legs. I push myself forward as hard as I can, now travelling at ninety miles per hour.

“Yeah! New record! Take that, cheetah!” I say.

I finally realize that I haven’t reached the front of the ship and think to myself, How long is this thing?! I stop and go on two legs again. I look behind me but only see a green flash of light that blinds me, and all I see a split second later is black. I awaken in my pod again. I grunt to myself, but instead a low rumble emerges from my mouth, and the glass cracks. It doesn’t break, but it cracks. I do it again, and it breaks and shatters and is blown away from me. Another ability at my disposal. Now I can escape this place.

 

The Escape

I start my escape by playing possum. I do exactly what the other alien things do, which is sleep. My eyes closed, I think about all that I have yet to realize. And then I remember my mother. My eyes shoot open, and I quit playing possum.

“So much for the plan,” I say to myself.

Of course, the alarms go off as I break out of my pod with my “sonic scream,” and the security droids come after me as I run on all fours. Then I notice, all the pods have human names on them. Martha McCannon, I say in my mind. Jones Johnson, Johannes Johnson. I see my old friends in a helpless state, and I feel saddened, but I keep going nonetheless. I run faster, and the names become blurred, but one stands out to me. Alissia Swift. I stop immediately and stare at her seemingly dead body. I am startled when I see slight movement. She opens her eyes slowly and sees me. I give her a confused look as she awakens. She screams… at least I think so; the glass is soundproof. I use my sonic scream to break her out. However, before I can explain anything, she jumps out and starts running away from me.

***

I jump out and run away from my attacker. But as I do, I keep saying in my mind, C’mon Alissia! Face him! Her! Whatever!! But I do not want to. I have been avoiding any contact for… I don’t know how long. So it is natural for my sense of self-preservation to kick in. I stop and turn around to see that my attacker has caught up to me.

I prepare to defend myself, but all he does is scream, “Alissia! It’s so good to see you!”

I am very confused. How does this perso — alien — know me?

So I ask, “Should I know you?”

He appears to compose a look of sadness on his face. “Hey, it’s me, Jack,” he says.

My face instantly brightens up, and I throw my front appendages around him. “Jack!” I scream.

We stay like this for a while, but we both soon realize the droids surrounding us.

 

Unique

Unique. That was my name. At least that’s what I thought it was, until my mom told me it was Shellsea, but I didn’t like that name because it was not different and it was similar to someone else’s. Kelisea, Chelsea, Nelsea, like, they are all the same. Mine does not stand out. I wish it did. It isn’t different. It isn’t special. It is just Shellsea. My mom says she gave me this name because I was in born in Costa Rica, and she was thinking about the beach when giving birth to me. The funny thing is that my younger sister was also born with a name similar to mine. Her name is Kelisea, but since we were born one year apart, I guess that’s why her name is Kelisea Anne Cher. But guess what, that is only her first name!!! Compared to what mine is, it’s just Shellsea Diamond Harrison. Her name is Kelisea Anne Cher Wendy Harrison. I recently asked Mom why she did not give me a name like hers, and she said “both of your names mean something to me, about how and why I had you two.” Yeah, like that was a good response!!! But I know what you’re saying, why am I stressing over this? Well I’ll tell you why, but we have to start all the way from the beginning of kindergarten.

So since I started school late, I was one year behind the year I was supposed to be in, so Kelly and I were in the same grade, school, and even class!!! Every year, it was like the same thing over and over again with my sister. One day, in kindergarten, Kelly and I were partners for show and tell because since we have the same last name on the attendance sheet, we were always partners. So we had to come up with an idea of what our project would be. We decided that we were going to bring in our favorite stuffed animal to show everyone why it was our favorite. We went in and told Mom about what we had to do, so we ran to the room and went in the toy box. We grabbed the one we thought was best, but we did not pick up the same one. I grabbed a lion because we bought it from a gift shop when Mom took me to see The Lion King on Broadway for my third birthday, and it was wonderful. On the other hand, my sister took out a white, baby seal that she got in her Happy Meal from McDonald’s. I told her to put it back because mine was better, and I snatched it from her hand and threw it on the floor. She started to cry so loud that my mom rushed into the room and yelled at me in Spanish, which I could not understand yet because I was five, but I know it meant something mean. So she said we would show and tell Kelisea’s animal. I was so mad that night that I went into my room and never came out until it was school the next morning. The next morning came, and Mom dropped us off at the bus stop. I pushed Kelly out of the way so I could sit next to my crush Jackel Hudson, but Kelly still beat me to the seat. I had to sit behind them because there were no more seats in the front. Now I know what all of you are thinking, why do I have a crush already when I’m only five years old??? Well, Jackel was cute, smart, he was in first grade, and because everyone else in kindergarten, first, and second grade thought he was, too. The bus was halfway to the school, and I was sitting next to the window all alone until my best friend Hailey sat next to me.

“Hi, Shelly,” said Hailey. I wanted to say “hi” back, but I was so mad that I did not want to speak to anyone. “What’s wrong?” Hailey asked.

“MY SISTER IS TAKING OVER MY LIFE IF YOU CANNOT SEE THAT!!!”

“Wow, hurtful much? I was just asking,” said Hailey.

“Sorry, it’s just that when we got on the bus, I told Kelisea I wanted to sit next to Jackel.”

“Well, why don’t you go over there and say something to her about. I mean, after all, you are the older sister.”

Okay, so I’m gonna stop you right there, and yes I know the story was getting too good, but why did I stop? Well, I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. Hailey actually passed away in the fourth grade because she had lung cancer. She was my best friend for a while, until one day she stopped coming to school. I called her phone a few times, and it went to voicemail. I texted her phone, and she did not reply, so I called her mother, and she did not answer. I started to get worried, so I asked my mom if she could call Hailey’s mom, and she did. Mom came over to me and gave me a hug. I asked what was wrong, and she said Hailey was in the hospital. She had lung cancer. I dropped my cereal on the floor. I started to cry, but then I got up and asked if Mom could drive me to the hospital to visit her, and she said okay. We found our way to the hospital and visited Hailey. I was so depressed that I could barely look at her. She was so pale and weak, and she could barely move or talk. She reached for my hand and handed me a note. I leaned forward to listen to what she had to say.

“Gold is the softest color, it stands out rather than the others.”

She let go of my hand and shut down for good in the calmest way I had ever seen. I tried to wake her, but she wouldn’t. I tried to listen to a heartbeat, but all I heard was complete silence.

I shed tears down my face, but I walked away so nobody would see me. As I walked away, I was trying to think about what those words meant, but I didn’t know, so I opened the note she handed me. When I unfolded the letter, there was a necklace inside with the words Hailey said to me on the locket. Only did I not know that the locket was Hailey’s prized token.

I hid it in my pocket until my annoying, little sister came and said to me, “I am so sorry for you, Shelly. I know how, now that you have nothing of your best friend you…”

“SHUT UP ALREADY GODDAMN, HAVEN’T YOU NOTICED I DO NOT LIKE YOU!!!”

“O-M-G, Shelly I was just trying to comfort you. I know how hard this must for you,” said Kelisea.

“Well I do not want your love and affection, okay? I’m fine. Just leave me alone!”

My heart dropped to the floor. I was in so much pain, and I could not even think straight. I wanted to run away from everything, school, dance, my family and the worst thing of all, my annoying, little sister!!!

A few days passed by, and everyone in the hallways at school looked at me as I walked down the hall with my baggy ass hoodie and gray sweats that I found in the dirty clothes bag. They did not stink, but they had a lot of ice cream stains on them because they were my “Mom-is-always-yelling-at me-and-making-me-cry-so-I’m-going-to-eat-ice-cream” pants. I went into class late, and all of those eyes looking at me started to cry with tears of laughter.

I hurried to my seat as my sister grabbed my arm and told me, “I’m sorry.”

Those were the worst three days of my life, not because of losing my best friend, but because I showed the most terrible side of myself in front of the whole school. But anyways, let’s get back to the story before I tear up…

I looked at Hailey for a second and said, “Oh yeah, why not? This plan…  I mean this does not sound bad at all.”

I got up to go teach my sister a lesson on how she cannot steal her sister’s crush ever!!!

“Oh hey, Shellsea, wassup,” said Jackel.

“Oh hey, Jackel, Jack, Jackieeeeeee, jack-o-lantern, ummmmmmm, I just came to talk to my sister, could you give us a second… Kelisea, how many times do I have to say this? Stop sitting next to Jackel, I like him, and you are ruining my chance of going out with him just like you always do!!!”

“You can’t tell me what to do just because you are older. Stop being a big, old buttface!!!” said Kelisea.

“Well you are a giant babypunk!!!”

“You are a whiny baby head,” said Kelly.

“You are stupid little ba –”

What is going on here?? Kelisea and Shellsea sit in front of the bus, now!!!”

As a few hours went by, Kelisea and I were sent to the dean’s office for the rest of day until Mom picked us up. Mom put us in the car and was mad at us for arguing instead of going to school and making finger paint drawings. When we got home, Mom spoke to us and asked what happened.

“KELISEA STARTED IT LIKE SHE ALWAYS STARTS WITH EVERYTHING. IT’S LIKE SHE DOES NOT KNOW HOW TO CONTROL HERSELF!!!”

“Mommy, I wasn’t doing anything, I was sitting on the bus talking to Jackel, when all of a sudden, Shelly starts yelling at me and I did not do anythinggggggg… ” said Kelisea, sadly.

“Lord, how many times have I told you not to yell at your sister for the tiniest things Shellsea. You are not her mother. Stop doing that,” said Mom so stubbornly.

“O-M-G, WHY AM I ALWAYS THE BAD GUY? WHAT DID I EVEN DO TO ANYONE!!!”

I cried all night, but I made sure that the next day I was going to show everyone that I cannot be bossed around. I will not be bossed around, not now, and not ever!!! But then again, I was being a little dramatic just now, considering the fact that I am six years old, and I had no business of dating, liking, or even being a “tyrant” or so my sister may say. What can I say though, I’m mature and very fast for my age. What I did not understand is the fact that my little sister is some kind of magnet or metal lover that people adore. It’s like I am a giant alligator with greenish, fin tails and nasty, garlic breath, while she is a goddess princess who was made from the most beautiful creation on earth… But who was I kidding, all I ever do is try to make a plan to destroy my sister, but then Mom would ground me for life.

 

A few years later…

We finally got to sixth grade and things were looking up. I was dating Jackel, and I became best friends with this girl named Yolanda and this boy named Tyler. My grades were phenomenal, my school was my empire, and I was their queen. But there was one small problem in my little kingdom. A troll roamed through my town of happiness and her name was Kelisea Ann Cher Wendy Harrison. Everytime I tried to get rid of her, she always came back for more. I could never stop her from ruining my beloved town. But as we were learning about the suburbs and the city, the teacher assigned all of us to get into groups of four to make a project of a giant landscape or a field.

As we all know, Kelisea had to be in my group because of the whole “last name thing,” but I was happy that Yolanda and Tyler got to be in our group because Yolanda’s last name was Hillard and Tyler’s was Hikings. So we all agreed to work on the city; we were going to go different by doing a play instead of how life is in the city. Everyone came by my house after school, and it was actually pretty fun because even Jackel was allowed to come to the house. After we arranged the play, it was time for everyone to go home. As I walked Jackel to the door, he was leaning in for a kiss, and so was I, but unfortunately Kelly was right at the door smiling and staring at us, waiting to make a move. Jackel felt weirded out, so he gave me hug and left. I went upstairs with a pout lip and my feet stomping.

“Shelly, can I tell you something?”

“If it’s about what happened just now, then no.”

“But if it had something to do with someone messing with your relationship, you would want me to tell you, right?”

“Fine, what is it?”

“Jackel’s been cheating on you for two weeks… ”

“With whom?”

“… Yolanda.”

My heart shattered to the floor, my feet started to drag, and my face turned blue… As a couple days passed, I found out that it was true. Jackel was cheating on me with Yolanda, because after recess, I saw them making out behind the staircase, and everyone laughed at me. I thought to myself, I had lost my boyfriend, close friend, and most of all… my dignity. But along with speaking to my very own sister for keeping a secret from me for two weeks.

I shut myself out to all of the world and decided to move in with my dad instead in New Orleans. My priorities were only on school and family. When it came to graduation day in the eighth grade, Dad told me that afterwards we were going to fly back to New York to go to Kelisea’s graduation. I could not believe that I was finally going to see Kelisea again after two years. Even though Mom and Dad were not together anymore, they decided to bring the family back together before Kelly and I started high school.

 

The plane had landed. Dad and I were in an Uber, on our way to the school. As we walked into the building, I saw Jackel at the auditorium greeting people in. I heard he was valedictorian last year and was our alumni for this year. I seen Yolanda at the front of line, talking to Tyler, so I went over to speak to them.

“Congrats, you two. I’ll be in the audience clapping for you.”

Shellsea, O-M-G it’s been two years!!!”

“How are you?”

“I’m good. My graduation was yesterday, so Dad and I flew here to see Kelisea’s.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Tyler.

As Yolanda walked away with an annoyed face, I knew I was the better person because she finally saw what she did not have… a heart. Dad and I walked into the auditorium, and I saw Jackel. He knew who I was, and his eyes glowed as he saw me, but I kept it moving. The ceremony ended, and there was a party afterwards in the gym. Mom told me to go find Kelisea, so I walked around…

I found Kelisea by the staircase, talking to my old teacher, Ms. Hucks. She saw me and walked up to me. She shed a tear and held her arms out. I walked up to her as well and hugged her very hard. My tears started to mess up my makeup and so did hers, both of us with high heels on and our pretty dresses. I could not explain how I felt or what I was thinking. All I knew was that I got my little sister back into my arms.

“I missed you, Shelly,” said Kelisea.

“So did I… ”

 

Under This Roof

The door handle slowly turned. I noticed a small fleck of white paint crinkle and fall to the floor, leaving an abyss of gray on the door. My dad had said we would get it redone, but we never did. Maybe when they move in we will, I thought. Maybe we will redo the entire apartment, or even move to Maui or someplace exotic, and then all my memories will fade away with the blowing wind.

The door opened, and I saw them pale in the face, carrying big duffle bags that made them seem tiny. And at that moment, I felt huge. Her awkward “hello” sent shivers through my body as I realized my new responsibility.

She was a tall, dark, and brooding teenager. Her hair was thick and tangled as if she had just been to the ocean. But I knew it wasn’t the crashing waves that knotted her hair. Her eyes were so dark brown that if she said they were black, I would have believed her. There was something desolate about her gaze. Something despondent.

He was younger and lighter colored, and his hair was curled in all different directions. His shirt was sky blue. The blue that makes you want to take a deep breath and go to sleep. His piercing, gray eyes made me want to uncover what lay beneath, but I averted my gaze to a dust bunny floating above the ground. It seemed there was a string attached to it, guiding it somewhere, but that place was unknown.

As they walked through the alcove, the ground lowered where their heavy feet stepped. It was as if the ground wasn’t strong enough to hold the weight of their luggage. One more bag and it would have crumbled under their feet. We reached the room, and for the first time, I realized how much my dad had changed it. My playroom had become their bedroom. I could swear the walls were tan but my dad said white. I think he was pushing it. The bedspreads were a mix of blue and gray, and looked like a Picasso. A painting of the sun hung above the bookshelf. It was truly beautiful but belonged outside, above the blossoming trees and budding flowers. My new stepmother said it was a nice house and a nice room.

I needed space to think to myself, so I went to the kitchen, opened up a drawer, and pulled out a glass bottle. It was hard to open at first, but once the fresh water came trickling down, I forgot about the indent from the cap in my hand. The pure, whole water touched my lips, and I felt it flow down my throat and calm my stomach. I kept drinking until the whole bottle was finished, and I had forgotten that this was the last one.

I decided to lay my head upon my purple pillow and breathe in the deep smell of rose perfume. I didn’t like it. All I wanted was to have a gray pillow with no fragrance, so I wouldn’t feel guilty for getting to stay in my own house while they had to leave theirs. I hoped we could connect under this roof and become a family.

Dinner that night was cold split pea soup. It was dull green and chilled my tongue. There weren’t enough dinner bowls, so I offered to use the ceramic bowl I had made at camp a few summers ago. At first, my dad forgot about it, but when I showed it to him I could tell he was thinking back to the day I brought it home. I said I made the bowl for him and Mommy to share one big spaghetti, like Lady and the Tramp, and then he told me about the divorce. It was like I was standing in the calm ocean, and then an unexpected wave crashed into me, and I went rolling under the cloudy sea, and when I came up for air, I felt a searing pain in my lungs from the salt water, and my eyes could not open, for the salt had blinded me.

That night, I had a dream. I dreamt that I was the wood in a fireplace, just sitting there in the cold, damp night because no one bothered to light the fire.

 

Shadow Man

I love the smell of the fresh air and the feel of wind gracefully blowing my hair, whipping it away from my face. This is one of the times I feel free. My stress thousands of miles away. Just sitting and looking out across the landscape to where the brilliant sun is slowly disappearing. The strokes of millions of shades of colors sweeping above me and being rushed into nonexistence. I love most of all, the calm that comes with the dark blue, looming sky. It seems like all sounds are scared to move. But I am not scared, but the sounds are. Slowly as the sun says its final goodbyes, I watch as the shadows behind the beams of rocks come alive, dancing in the moonlight. At this moment, I wish that I could control those dancing figures of darkness, bend them to my will. I imagine one leaping into pools of light and taking on a human form to waltz with me. I open my eyes, my concise self never noticing that I ever closed them. I look down, ashamed that I could ever think that something like that could be real. I don’t notice that all is still except myself breathing. Except not all is actually still, the shadows are moving too, aren’t they? My mind wanders again to the dancing figure of shadow. Suddenly, even the moon loses light. Eerie music starts to play. Ups and downs, sweeps of sadness, and bellows of jolly float through the air. I hear little twinkles of laughter bouncing on the wind, the sounds are not scared anymore. They are dark sounds though, meant for the night and the looming, dark blue sky. The sound jolts to a stop, the end of the song or is it just the beginning? Out of the shadows or part of one, steps a man tailored to the finest of beauty. I don’t second-guess myself for a moment, this man is real. A shadow is solemn, this man has sprite, a happiness to each step. He bends low at the waist and unravels a hand for me to take. I tentatively take a step forward and gracefully accept the hand given. The sweeps of sadness and bellows of jolly start up again but at a more soothing tempo. A song meant for me and my shadow partner. Slowly, as if scared, the shadow starts to slide into movement pulling me with it. The cold of the night wind pushes us together, pulling the imaginary strings of a shadow orchestra into submission. The air is warm, radiating safety, and I want to slip in. So, I do. My arms wrap around his neck, and I feel the cold of his hands. I shiver. I lay my head on his chest, my height close to reaching his chin. I hear a heartbeat, this man is real. But I don’t care if this is all a fleeting dream because I know that this moment of solidarity I will not forget. I cannot forget. Shadows are always there.

The shadows beckon like they always do, pulling me in. I refuse to be swayed. Go to meet him, go to meet him, I tell myself. I fall into the will of my mind. Where would he be, the most shadow near, of course. And so I walk the trail to where I first conjured this man. The beams of rocks reach up towards the sky around me, and slowly, I walk into darkness.

 

The End

 

The General

As the general took his strides around his base, he smiled. He saw the lieutenants preparing for battle, the cadets screaming at one another to get ready, and the captains going over the strategies one last time. Ever since the last time the enemy knew they were coming and had drastically overpowered them, they had assured each other that they would never experience the humiliation of defeat again. They had doubled their practice time, and, being the general, he had noticed the change. He himself used to be a cadet just like them, so he understood the pain that they were going through when they did their ten-mile run with their supplies on. Over the course of the year, he had come to know each and every one of them quite well, and he was proud. He knew they were ready for battle.

The day had come to take the enemy base. Their country was rooting for them, and they would not let them down. As they boarded the plane and attempted to take the high ground, the general felt a sense of stress unlike any other. When the ground of the plane opened up, and the soldiers started to jump off one by one, the feeling of time started to shift. One second turned into ten, so much that it seemed like an eternity before he was finally able to fall into the field.

As he returned to action, however, the long-lost feeling of the air flowing against his face brought up an old memory. For a while, all was chaos. Gunshots breezed through the air, causing his ears to ring. He even let out a few shots from his gun, though only one made contact. He looked behind him to see his best snipers shooting from a half-mile away. His foot soldiers continued to gain ground, and after a while, it seemed like they had the advantage. That was until they got to the wall. As hard as they tried, they could not break down the barrier that was keeping them from getting inside the base. All the while they tried, the enemy was throwing down grenades at them, ending the lives of too many people. It was at that moment when the general made the decision to do the one thing he never thought he would have to. He was going to have to —

“Kids, come down, and have your dinner! And don’t forget to clean up that pillow fort when you’re done!”

 

The Smell

Cyrus woke up that morning without the familiar scent of pine. Even in his sleep soaked mind, Cyrus immediately recognized the change. Something was wrong. He opened his eyes, searching the little room for any noticeable differences. But no, the dresser, the desk, the chair, everything was there. Everything except for the subtle, clean smell he woke to each day. Thinking about it, he didn’t even know where the smell had come from or when it started. Cyrus only knew that it had become the most comforting part of coming home every day. The thought of being in his tiny apartment without it sent a pain through his heart that he didn’t fully understand. Cyrus sat up in bed. He knew, with an almost mad determination, that he would need to find his smell and bring it back.

 

First, Cyrus started in the bedroom, carefully combing through every inch of the space. Papers, notes, letters, the usual. He smelled each one, but there was nothing. Not even a hint of pine. Cyrus moved on to the living room. So many things lying about, not one of them smelling quite right. Kitchen now. Cyrus tore apart his refrigerator, then each drawer. Food and knives laid on the floor when he was done, smelling of everything all at once. Everything except his pine. Heart beating faster, he ran back through the apartment. Maybe the smell lived inside the mattress or at the back of the dresser. Perhaps it hid in the couch cushions or in the space behind the refrigerator. Sometimes he caught tiny whiffs of his scent, like it was taunting him. Or maybe he was just imagining things.

After hours of tearing up the apartment over and over, Cyrus sank down against his front door. Looking around the room, he did not see the destruction caused by his search. He only felt the absence of pine. And with it, he knew that his world would never be right again.

 

Shelves

              

on dusty racks

my whole life sits

in crumpled balls of

scribbled lines

the stories that

i couldn’t tell

my snowglobes

show foreign times

and foreign places

brought to me by

loving hands

letters to people

long forgotten

all the friends

i left behind

pictures of my

shiny face

framed by glowing

youth and mirth

both things lost to the years

and covered in filmy dust.

little toy frogs

and old, folded blankets

yellow music boxes

and chipped, brown mugs

sit in cobwebs

to tell my story.

 

Cold Summers Night in the Country

 

We’d hear the wild grass

Rustle like a blanket

On a cold summer night

As we watch the stars.

Our mouths turn o-shaped

And I point at the constellations.

You would tap on my shoulder and

Point to the shooting star,

I’d blink and miss it.

You’d groan at just the

Right pitch so that

I would know

You were joking.

You had an odd sense of humor

That always made me laugh.

I loved it when you made me laugh.

It felt different

Than all of the other times.

After a while

We’d fall asleep

With the blankets up to

Our noses.

 

Junior School

I remember the kids’ vibrant and youthful voices filling the void in my mind with playfulness. I remember the dark skies shielding me from the truths of what lay beyond them, while we brushed past the greenery in our chosen form of transportation. I remember my closest friends’ voices comforting me when I was lower than the great abyss of the ocean. I remember the dark playground when the cold arrived. I remember the cold as well, which could only be warmed by the positive emotions and laughter provided by myself and those around me I kept close. I remember, of course, heartbreak and leaving my friends with frowns on all our faces; sometimes, tears were shed. I can’t remember the period of my life when my vocabulary was limited and when my life was made up of memories of little kids rushing around me as we went to parks during recess. I want to remember what I believed, when I was young and innocent. I want to remember more of my past self, who I was, who I thought I was meant to be.

 

The Infernal Names

HER EYES ARE SO GREEN THEY BURN! like the curling pages of a magazine, chemical coating dyeing the flames. The Emerald City ablaze, the serpent’s tongue, the forest floor of the Garden of Eden where Adam and Eve sin and sweat. And when you look at me with them, ooh girl, but I feel it all the way to my toes.

Bast twirls hair around her finger, nails cut short and painted red. The hair is not her own, but she knows it as though it is. Knows the exact weight, the thickness — the curls and the straight bits. Cassandra’s hair. Her person almost completely captured by the bounce of it, by the way it falls around her shoulders and down the nape of her neck. Cassandra’s eyes flutter slowly open and Bast falls into them, standing at the top of a well and feeling no fear as her body plunges into the cool water. It would sizzle as she fell in, the water would, sharply contrasting with her temperature.

Sharks leaving trails of scarlet blood in clear, blue seawater.

That’s how it is, with the two of them lying in Cassandra’s cotton sheets. Bast’s little body burning flame intertwined with her clear blue.

They both lie awake, pressed against each other, feeling the way their bodies move as their chests rise and fall almost synchronized. Not speaking, listening intently to the creak of the springs under them as they shift in search of sleep.

When Cassandra wakes up, the bed is empty. She lies still for a moment in the buttery sun, blinking, hearing the sound of a mourning dove on the fire escape. Lost in thought? Deep in a trance maybe? Lots to think about maybe.

Bast’s hair flows long, black, silky. She is wearing only this when she appears in the doorway holding two mugs of coffee, the cat slithering between her legs. “Morning, babe.” Mornings are always these short, simple moments, almost routine, almost repetitive.

The girls sit together on the bed. Cassandra burns her tongue on the coffee.

“Too hot!”

Bast smiles and responds, “Can’t help it.”

They don’t have anything to do that morning, anywhere to go, so they lay in the bed and talk and drink their coffee and burn each other with the hot liquid and with their mouths. The silky light of morning is seeping through the breezy curtains and Cassandra is feeling calm, eyes shut and breathing soft. She feels Bast brush the hair back from her forehead with a warm hand, and Bast kisses her, dark and heavy, flicking her forked tongue between Cassandra’s lips. This burns her more than the coffee, this feeling, and shivers of pleasure run through her, so hot she’s cold. Their hands leave UV prints on each others’ bodies, the dragging of skin on skin, the deep inhales, and sighs it’s so good with Bast and Cassandra it’s so, so good. The hair is getting tangled and knotted now. The eyes are rolling into the back of their heads, turning completely inwards behind closed eyelids, so they can see their brains.

And then Cassandra pulls away, out of breath, not wanting anymore.

“What.” Bast slows her breathing, holds Cassandra’s face in her hands.

“Nothing. I dunno.”

Cassandra can feel how Bast is staring at her, searching for a sign in her face to reveal what she won’t. She pulls away.

Bast swings her feet over the edge of the bed not facing her anymore. “This keeps happening. Like, just lately, but like this keeps on happening, Cass.”

She is silent. Bast snorts a little in frustration like the little pig and gets up, paces around the room, around the island of the bed where Cassandra sits. Her hair is swinging as she walks, her tits too, and everything about her movement is mad. She leaves trails of hot smoke in the bedroom, and Cassandra’s sight is warped like through the steam from a radiator. As she paces back and forth, circling the bed, her face loses its red and returns to normal. She calms and slows her motions. And then she stops and turns to Cassandra and says, “It’s okay. I’m not mad or anything, just horny,” laughing like smoothing over wet cement, blowing it off like the steam over a cup. “It’s fine.”

Cassandra goes to the side of the bed where Bast stands, she lifts herself up and hugs her.

Bast kisses her gently and leaves the room to get dressed. Cassandra touches a hand to her scorched lips, the heat of Bast lingering like anger that hasn’t died out.

 

Kassandra

First, I guess you will want to know whose voice this is. Who is in such a prime, primal position, overseeing the temple and its inhabitants tonight. Perhaps on a balcony or an archway, or sitting over the altar in a special, private box. Or you could be theological and tell me I sit on a cloud spinning stringy tales and playing with one malleable piece of clay. Well. Hoo boy. I guess let’s attribute my knowledge and intellect to the stories passed down to me from all my ancestors and their ancestors. On this night, the door opens a crack which then opens up further and a beam of yellow light is cast across the floor. What does yellow feel like? You choose. Chiclets, sunshine, urine, buttery, lemony sour, whatever you want. Kassandra is yellow as she peeks into the temple, and she is very beautiful. Gold swathed over her, her bare feet stepping over the door frame and then resting on the cool marble. I have done this entrance before, gone from the dirty heat outside to the cool, smooth, white interior of the temple. It could really take your breath away. Arching, vaulted ceilings, everything white, smooth, and hard like teeth or something you could break your teeth on. Columns in all four corners, draped with heavy looking snakes that appear to slither, though frozen in marble. Kassandra walks through the room, passing the sculpture of the temple’s deity. She is walking slowly, examining the walls and statues and tables covered with fruits and crystals and paper offerings that have been dipped in honey. She glides to the front of the temple now, one solemnly bare foot in front of the other. Now, Kassandra stands at the altar. She turns to face ghost worshippers and closes her eyes and her hair flows back from her face as if by a gust of ghost wind. Then she lies down, stretches her body out onto the marble floor, and soon she is asleep.

The corners of the room melt away, sharp angles into butter, and the snakes are slithering low on their bellies surrounding the Sleeping Girl. They multiply, and she is in the center of the ring of snakes, flashes of bright green and their white fangs just like the marble. One draws in close to her face, and my breath catches, fearful for her smooth, dark skin. Its mouth opens, and I can almost see it happen, see the jaw clamp around her cheek and the scarlet blood start to spill. But it doesn’t. The snake whispers in her ear, eyes yellow and unblinking like Kassandra, and the girl’s body shifts in sleep to confirm the secret’s reception. The other snakes move in closer, and even I can hear the hushed tones of their whispers that fill her ears and her dreams and resound in the white temple.

It doesn’t surprise me that I wasn’t the one chosen to be their confidant, Kassandra was always right for these things. Sure, I wonder sometimes what the snakes said to her that night in the temple in the astral plane. But I saw her wake with such madness in her eyes, deep-rooted but rising, that I’d almost rather not know.

 

Bastet

Fraying wicker, cat whiskers, thick, savory milk, sweet scent perfume. Beautiful woman, hot, smooth skin, cold shadows. Long, thick lashes, food-filled belly, big belly laugh, soft, sultry smile. Rock salt melting on the tongue. Scorching alcohol down the throat. Creamy, red blood in the veins, heavy with sodium and iron.

“THIS IS THE WAY WE DANCE!!!” SHE cries out to me in a slur of reds and golds and shimmering, shaking fabric.

I laugh and shout over the music, “I KNOW!!” Her mouth is as big as her face, and she is a vision in swaying arms and hips and swinging, long hair. The boys are following her movements, listening for the sounds of her bells and of her kneecaps clicking together. I am too, of course, but I have been trying all night not to let on. Her face is flushed and sweaty when she finally sits down on the silk, cushioned chair next to me. Her eyes are outlined in thick kohl, her lips a fierce red, and skin so creamy, dark, smooth like something so delicious!

“Don’t you want to dance?” She leans in to yell this into my ear.

I shake my head. “I can’t. I’m no good at dancing.”

She pouts and pours glasses of lemon water for us. “I bet you’re fine. Plus, no one will mind even if you aren’t.”

I know she’s right, but truthfully I am far too nervous to dance like she does, knowing what will come later on in the night. I am grateful for the darkness in this sweet-smelling den, where the air is too thick for Bastet to see how my hands shake. I don’t know how she does it, puts on not only a brave face but a beautiful one. Her teeth glint in the colorful lights as she laughs with the boys.

Small talk.

Not the way she talks to me.

They hang onto her every word like needy kittens and the way she entertains their attentions angers me, so I down the rest of my drink and pull her away from them. Hell, maybe it’ll take my mind off things. We dance for hours. Our bodies are practically melding into one, practically melting into a puddle of liquid butter on the dance floor. And I do stop thinking about it, at least for a little while.

After sweating our souls into the thick air, dancing for hours, Bastet drags me to a secluded room. We collapse into pillows and plush carpet and lie there still for a little while. Then she turns to me, “I think it’s time.” I know she’s right. We’ve been waiting for this moment and any more waiting will be too long. I reach a shaky hand to my boot and pull out a long, sleek blade. She clasps my face in her hands.

“This is right. I promise.” The weight of her breath in my nose and of the knife in my palm is enough to hold me here forever.

“We’re doing this for us, we’re doing this for the Gods, and the Goddesses! Baby, we’re doing this for us.”

I know she’s right.

“Fuck these fucking mortals!” She throws in for good measure, as if I needed more convincing.

Fuck these fucking mortals.

I nod into her glassy eyes where I can see myself reflected upside down and we stand, each concealing our blades within the folds of our skirts. Bastet’s hand is outstretched, almost grasping the doorknob. Right before she touches it the door is swung open. A lovesick, little kitty boy is on the other side, clutching glasses of blood-colored beer. His face is pained and pale, as though he is straining to say something. I take the drinks from his clammy hands, and before he can say a word, we shut the door again. Me and Bastet hold our glasses out to each other, and with a shudder, we swallow the blistering alcohol in one go.

Oh, give us strength.

The last thing I remember doing is heading for the door and witnessing Bastet fall one second before I do. The last thing I remember seeing is the humans crowding into the cramped room, watching us fizzle out with weary relief.

In my sleep I saw HER, balancing the sun on her head.

In my sleep I saw HER, burning in the pits of Hell.

 

BAST and CASSANDRA sit on a couch in Bast’s living room. There is tension in the air.

 

BAST

Cass.

 

CASSANDRA

(she doesn’t look up)

What?

 

BAST

I feel like we should talk…

 

CASSANDRA

Not now.

 

BAST

What’s wrong with you. You’ve been so weird lately.

 

CASSANDRA

Please just stop.

 

BAST

Why?

 

CASSANDRA

Just fucking stop!

 

BAST

(Bast’s face is starting to turn red)

No. This isn’t fair.

 

CASSANDRA

Fuck off, Bast.

 

BAST

Fuck you.

 

CASSANDRA

(under her breath)

Jesus Christ.

 

BAST

I can’t tell anymore if you love me.

 

There is a long pause here. Cassandra is thinking while Bast watches her desperately.

 

CASSANDRA

Me neither.

 

BAST

(Bast jumps up, furious)

What the fuck??? You don’t know fucking either??!

 

CASSANDRA

I don’t.

 

BAST

Well can you figure it out?!

 

CASSANDRA

I don’t know.

 

BAST

THAT’S. NOT. FAIR.

 

CASSANDRA

I know.

 

BAST

When did this happen?

 

CASSANDRA

Not sure.

 

BAST

Why couldn’t you have told me before now.

 

CASSANDRA

I wasn’t really sure until now.

 

Long pause.

BAST

This hurts.

 

CASSANDRA

I didn’t want to hurt you.

 

BAST

Well, you did.

 

CASSANDRA

You have to believe I didn’t fucking want to.

 

BAST

You. Did.

 

CASSANDRA

So what now?

 

BAST

Just leave.

 

CASSANDRA

Bast, please, can we talk?

 

BAST

Oh now you want to fucking talk.

 

CASSANDRA

I’m so sorry.

 

BAST

Please go.

 

Lights shut off as door slams shut, Bast is left alone in darkness.

 

It’s almost like she’s in a bunker or closet or cell or something else small and dark and damp. Black, thick air that you could gather up in muslin and squeeze water from. Her little body reverberating with such fire and power in the corner of the room, right where the wall meets the floor.

 

The Contents:

  • Bast
  • Her bones
  • Her blood
  • A flame that is predicted to grow any minute now

Weather forecast calls for forest fire maybe that’s just what this storm needs.

Storm not wet or gray or foggy

Not marbled, warbled sounds or smells

But a flashing hot vortex, a vertical tunnel.

Arms wrap around her knees, crushing her bones and doing it for the sake of the walls that are gradually scraping across the floor, coming closer by the second. The ember that started in her chest has leapt from her mouth, through the Pearly Gates of her rows of teeth, the kindling of her rage feeds it until Bast is surrounded by leaping flames. The little room she’s in is completely ablaze and reflecting in her eyes, so she is unable to realize the situation.

And then, after blinking maybe twenty-something times, her head clears and Bast jumps to her feet. “Oh fuck my fucking house is on fire.” Her fury is still there you best believe, but now there’s fear of burns and scars and suffocation and also amusement at herself for not noticing the impending disaster until now, isn’t that just like her. She wraps her t-shirt around her mouth and nose and slams the door of the room open, running down the hallway with so many doors, each somehow open, each somehow filled with licking flames. Her shirt is singed from where her hot breath caught in it, her hands that guide her down the hallway leave blazing trails on the walls, and her hair is gathered antigravity like in a comic book falling straight up, and maybe it seems like the source of the heat and horrible smoke isn’t the fire at all, but it’s her?

She bursts out onto the toxic waste, green backyard that’s almost waxy in comparison to the sidewalk out front and backed up against the fence she turns and watches her house. Looking down at herself, Bast notices that her palms are like a mirror reflecting the exact image of the flames like they’re right there in her bloodstream which of course they are. She stands like this, in the acidic pool of grass, watching the fire eat away at her house and the inside of her body.

 

Then the flame coming out of the bathroom window is a hand

The flame coming out of the kitchen is a curved rib cage

The flame in the bedroom is a neck and a head

And the legs are poking out the front door

And Bast is face to face with the face in the living room

pressed up against the window and Bast feels magnetic hot force like no other and runs up to the window. The flames are still leaping and now licking and caressing her, running their tongue across Bast’s body. She feels their hands on her waist and then slipping as gracefully and smoothly as only a natural force can under her cotton shirt, into the waistband of her jeans, all over everywhere until she’s burning so hot that she’s cold. Her heart is beating so fast and so hard in her chest, so hard that it could fly from her body on powdery wings and she could become A dark magicked demon or a beam of light, those sharks or that seawater, a slick, marble temple or a damp, dark room she could be any or none MULTIPLICITY of woman. She and the flames intertwined in cosmic spillover between dimensions

Between planets and surfaces

The cratered holy rock of the moon,

projected so it’s right up against your face pressing on your nose and eyelashes.

From here you can see her kneeling in the space between the stars, one strong calf at a right angle with her elbow resting on it and the other lying flat on the astral plane.

You can see the way she holds her arms so rigid, extra support for the way that she balances the sun on her head.

The two of them burning on the sun’s surface or in the pits of Hell with your favorite cast of characters those so shunned and evil, dipped in the rivers that run red, anointed in amnesia.

 

It was June 18th, 1999

It was June 18, 1999, when Bob lost his first finger. It was an otherwise normal day at Gleg’s Edible Food. The vegetable guy had gone on a “mission to mars” (this was a scam), so Bobby “Ten Fingers” was to do the job. He was instructed to cut the frungis, by Gleg himself. Gleg told him to take the first knife down the rack and then hit the frungis with it until the frungis was thin enough to put on something that looks like a sandwich if you squint.

“When the knife breaks, get a new one. This will happen every ten ‘time inches’ or so,” said Gleg.

Bob didn’t understand what a “time inch” was, but he assumed that it’s about a minute or an hour. It was good for the first 48.09 time meters until he got to a very hard bit of frugis. Every time he’d chop at it, the knife would break and catch on fire a bit. After trying with twenty-three knives in counting, he got Glegs (in)famous “punishment katana.” The punishment katana set on fire and soon the frungis was on fire and then everything was on fire. Then a rocket made out of old car parts, with the old vegetable guy in it, landed on a quite surprised Bob’s left pinky finger. And that was how Bob lost his first finger.

Ten years later came the day Gleg died. Gleg had never been the most lovely looking guy to most. His greenish, brown flesh, black eyes, bull dog/toad like face, and one tusk was “a turn off” and “horrific” and “unnatural” and “holy mother of a cube what is that?!” so Gleg was never one to interact with customers. But June 18, 2009, a strange beast known as a VEVIVALOGALOGANBRIVCALQUINTEZSRABCOONADECRITXIAOPLAVINGRELVALOFEDINVERININIVOLOMORPH or a VEVOLOMORPH (in our tongue). The VEVOLOMORPH was a scaled, black beast. Its back and its head were in armored plates with predatory teeth exposed when its mouth was closed — its body bulging with muscles and eyes glowing deep blue. It ordered the first thing on the menu, which was some fried whatever (a classic middle of nowhere meal), then when Bobby “only thumbs” ran up to the counter, the VEVOLOMORPH smiled a smile that could shake a rock of adequate size and number.

Bob replied, “That will be 1 46.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.”

The creature handed him 34 arembles, after writing it down on a mobius strip and dividing it by zero. It came out to about 1 46.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.0.5, but he kept the change after handing the beast the fried whatever.

He said, “Good day.”

To the VEVOLOMORPH, this was insanely offensive (not to all VEVOLOMORPHs, but to this VEVOLOMORPH). Because “good day” is not “great day,” so he rushed into Gleg’s room and politely explained why he was mad. Bob misinterpreted the intentions of the creature and called the cops (they knew to have someone armed near Gleg’s by now). The cop rushed in. It shocked poor Gleg into a heart attack, killing him.

It was December 29, 1971, when an immigrant (this was Gleg) from central nowhere came to the United Regions of Lacrundest to open up a store — a very store-ly store after buying some unbuyable land from a shady man with a “mars program.” That man opened Gleg’s Edible Food. He outcompeted What You Look At You Pay For and Asderof’s Incomprehensible Meals, but on one bright and cloudless night on September 15, 1972, came the greatest threat to Gleg’s, the FDA… dun dun dun… which is somehow the same as in our world. The FDA had a visit last whenever and gave the first ever G- grade due to ludicrously high number of mutated roaches in Gleg’s. The FDA (or fida) used the new, scorched earth method on Gleg. Soon, a gentleman for the FDA named B-10-9.vrt, who happened to be a killer robot with an old teddy bear for a head, katanas for hands, and a distaste for all things unclean, walked in. The vaguely deformed cockroaches saw B-10-9.vrt and descended on him and quickly were sliced into bits. The robot saw Gleg. It ran at him, firing two katanas (one of which would become the punishment katana). B-10-9.vrt was out of katanas, but seeing as the roach problem was gone, he left…

 

Human’s Humanity

It is a human’s greatest humanity to see beauty in imperfection. The way that her mouth curves slightly to the left when she smiles. The way that a wave never breaks the same in any place. It’s that happiness that is unique and different to each sadness that follows it. It’s how life can never be just as you want it, and you know this, but you keep dreaming of the perfect one anyway.

I’ve been on this earth for a very long time. I’ve seen all that anyone could imagine, done all that anyone could think of, and been through all that anyone could conceive, as wonderful or cruel as each was. But was it real? I experienced each day without color, loved each person without passion, but still told myself that everything I ever did was right. It is my nature to not except the consequences of simply living with all the things you’re supposed to live with. It was how I was raised. All I can do is watch. I watch you feel, and it makes me sick to think that you’ve seen more, felt more, loved more, been more in one short lifetime than I have in twenty.

You there, on the street. You look at me as if I’m a monster, watching through this soot-stained window as my city burns. But I was cursed. I couldn’t see it. All of those little imperfections that make you so terribly human. All of the beauty in this world is lost to me. So when I lit that fire, you should know that I felt nothing.

 

Between

The floor beneath my feet was vibrating as our small, dirty car rolled down the old, dirt road that led toward the city. It was a gloomy morning. Small droplets of rain pattered the window lightly. There was no sunlight because the fog was too thick to let light reach the dirt road. My mother was in the front seat, the place where my father used to sit, squinting to see the road ahead of us.

My mother’s mind was wandering, I could see it in her eyes. She wasn’t in the car, not mentally at least. She was far away somewhere with my father.

The closer we got to the town, the harder the road grew. It was a sign that cars traveled on that road even though all we could see of them was a ghostly, yellow light shining through the mist. Up ahead I saw a shape. A shape stood still in the middle of the wet road. The shape grew larger and larger.

A truck. The brakes slammed down on the wheels. The wheels slid along the wet road but were unable to get enough friction to reach a stop. My mother let out a gasp. She swerved to avoid the truck, though she would have been better off if she didn’t.

The car began to spin on the wet road. Before I could think, the world was upside down. Before I could understand what happened, the car landed on its roof, and gravity pulled my head against the roof. My mother was unusually quiet, and I knew what I would see before I looked down to see my mother.

My mom stared at me with misty eyes, but I knew she couldn’t see me. She would never see me or anything else ever again. At least not in this life anyway. A dark, red liquid was soaking through her chestnut hair, where her head made contact with the car roof, and out of the cut the seatbelt made on her throat, when it pulled tight.

Pain was all I could feel. Pain in my head as I lay trapped in the flipped car, and pain in my heart as I stared at my mother’s lifeless body. The ringing in my ears was blending with the sirens and the truck driver’s shouts to create a deafening cacophony. I felt the mist in my head fogging the world that I had lived in. My mind couldn’t process what I was seeing.

Several pairs of hands slid me out of the car, which was starting to smoke. It was going to explode, leaving my mother’s body to burn in the wreckage. Something was inserted into my arm and began pumping medicine into me. I heard beeping and frantic voices. I was in a hospital. The same hospital I had last seen my father in. The beeps were getting further apart, and I felt the pain threatening to drown me.

There was nothing keeping me here in this world full of pain. The beeping sped up, and the doctors let out shouts. They began pumping more chemicals into my arm, but I didn’t want to stay, and they couldn’t make me. The last thing I heard before I left was a beep that was longer than the others.

Then the pain was gone, and I opened my eyes. Everything in the room was blurred except my mother’s tear-streaked face as she sat next to my dead father. I knew I’d see them again, but I could tell by the tears on my mother’s cheeks and the grief-stricken look on my father’s face that my parents hoped it wouldn’t be this soon.

 

Two mortal days later…

The school bell rang through my ears. A soft, September wind blew through the playground of the old, red school building that I used to spend my time in.

School children came running out of the door and into their parents’ loving arms. Seeing the parents waiting to greet their children after the first day of school left an empty feeling in my stomach.

I thought of the perfect way my mother’s wavy, chestnut hair fell onto her shoulders and the dimple in her cheeks. The way my father would pick me up and swing me around. His emerald green eyes that shone whenever he smiled at me. My parents were perfect in every way.

But my peaceful thoughts about my parents were interrupted by horrifying images. Images of my mother’s chestnut hair soaked in blood and a seat belt pulled tight around her neck. Images of light draining out of my dad’s eyes as the wires in his arm failed to keep his heart beating. The disappointed look in his eyes as he burst into light and disappeared, followed shortly by my mother.

Both of them just wanted to see me one more time before they left for somewhere I couldn’t follow. I tried. But I couldn’t.

I didn’t know what was keeping me here. When I left the mortal world, it was easy. I just had to let go. But now I’m trapped between life and death. The middle is meant to be a rest stop. People are only meant to come here to fully let go or wait for tired, loved ones to take the journey with them. Then they could leave. But it’s not that easy.

Anger burned hot inside me as I looked at my parents. My parents told me they would never leave me, and yet they abandoned me in the middle. Maybe they intended for me to follow, but I couldn’t. I needed to let go somehow, but I couldn’t, and bad things happen to the dead that stay in the middle.

That’s what happens to people who stay here. They forget. They lose shape, and they forget who they once were and become a shadow. It’s a fate worse than death. I’ve only met one.

The moment my mom moved on, I felt her tugging at me to leave. I felt myself following with her into the unknown, but something held me back. So I stayed here in this blurred reality where nothing living is clear, and the dead only stay for a short time.

When my parents moved on, and I was left alone in that blurry hospital room, watching the nurses carefully lift my limp body and carry it away, a shadow appeared. Its voice was bland, but slightly higher, which led me to believe that it was once a girl, though now any memories that remained untouched by shadow were trapped inside its hair. Just a shadow of someone whose dying wish was to help the other shadows move on.

Is that what I was destined to? The shadow took me somewhere unseen by the living. It told me to wait. But wait for what? To wait to feel my one living body fade into a shapeless shadow and the memories that I hold closest to my heart glaze over and become inaccessible to my mind, or worse? The memories remain sharp in my mind, but when I try to speak them aloud, the words stop in my throat, unable to reach the outside world as I lose form.

I didn’t stay in the house it left me in. I needed to find what was keeping me before I was lost and unable to join my parents. I traveled around my old neighborhood until I found myself here at the old school building that I had attended until my father died, and the money ran low.

The shadow danced in and out of my mind. What had kept it here for so long. Why was it so content on me remaining in the house. Would she ever manage to fulfill its dying wish.

No. Once you were a shadow, there was no leaving this blurred middle between life and death.

People say that once you move on, you start a new life. One empty of the suffering I had to face when I was alive. But shadows fade, and they fade into nothingness. Not even their souls remain. That horrible fate was getting closer to me, and there was no way around it.

 

The Shadow

The machine hooked up to the little boy on the table began beeping faster as the seven-year-old boy’s heart gave one last, unconscious fight for its life. The machine finished its beeping with one final drawn-out beep. The young boy woke up dead and a part of a world between life and death. A world where people come to forget the mortal life.

I gazed into my five-year-old daughter’s eyes as she faded into a world made for souls who fail to move on to their final resting place. Instead, they find themselves as shadows who are trapped and are forced into eternal suffering. Some shadows are unable to move on because of guilt. Some are trapped because they did something in their mortal life to keep them here, and some people wait here for the people they love and wait too long. Now my daughter, the only one I ever loved, was cursed to that awful fate.

The little boy didn’t say anything once he looked around at his blurred surroundings, that once were his mortal life. His face showed all the emotions he felt. His terror at awakening even after he knew he was dead. He was amazed that the unendurable pain he had felt just moments ago was gone and a touch of curiosity at the place he was now in.

His eyes landed on me, and all emotions washed out of his eyes. All emotions but fear. If I looked like the woman I once was, maybe the young boy, who died too young, wouldn’t be as scared. But my body had lost all shape. My short, shoulder length hair was now just wisps of smoke. My feet no longer fixed solidly to the floor. Where my feet should have been was merely hovering above the floor. I was just a clump of dark, shapeless mist. Known to some as a shadow.

A shadow was a soul that was trapped between life and death. Unable to move on until they traveled to a place home to nothing but horrors. I could have moved on to somewhere better, but then I saw a girl, inducted into this world at a young age, and unable to leave because of the member of her family who she never knew but who she was unwillingly waiting for.

This world is wrong. Children shouldn’t have to stop here, and if they do, they shouldn’t have to stay for someone they never met.

In that last moment, before my soul was fully contaminated beyond repair, I hesitated. In that split second, where I could have moved on, I stared into the young girl’s eyes and thought of how they would look as they faded into the land where my daughter was trapped because she waited for me, and I took too long. I took too long to join her. Then I was a shadow, and there was no going back.

“It’s all right,” I tried to whisper to the poor little boy, because I knew the pain and suffering the boy had been through in his failing fight for his life, but the words were lost in my throat. Shadows’ thoughts had to remain trapped inside their heads as they begin to fade.

I reached out my once-solid hand and beckoned for the boy to follow, but my hand was gone. My time between is running out. Still, the boy seemed to understand what I wanted, and he seemed to know my intentions were pure. He nodded.

Some of the dead think that if they touch a shadow they will be forced into our cursed fate. So shadows are forced to spend their last moments before fading being segregated and avoided by our fellows because some foolish mind thought that death was contagious.

My world was getting darker by the second as the wind began to blow my wispy shape through the ghost land that stretched out in front. I would never make it to the place I left the girl. The ghost land was bare and desolate. Most don’t stay here for long. But I could see the final life of a shadow now, it is crowded with tortured souls that are suffering more than they ever did as a mortal.

I once thought that nothing could be worse than the pain of loss, suffering, and injury that the mortal life brought. But the fate of a shadow is much, much worse.

I saw my reflection in the tiny boy’s eyes. I was nothing more than a few tiny wisps of smoke being blown out of focus by the wind. I was fading quickly.

A girl with chestnut hair came floating down the street just as my wisps of legs disappeared. Her emerald eyes met the young boy’s. The young boy that was left by his parents who didn’t have enough money to pay for both a daughter and a son.

The last thing I saw was the girl, who died in a car crash and the little boy, who died fighting an illness that took so many lives and inherited his mother’s chestnut hair, run into an embrace and disappear with a flash of white light, into the peaceful afterlife they deserved.

Then I faded into the world of darkness and pain. The first thing I saw was my daughter, no older than she was when I last saw her, because you don’t age in the life of a shadow. But you also don’t flourish; the strong, healthy girl I once knew was gone, and instead I saw a sleep-deprived and starved, little girl, with large bags under her eyes. Her bones showing up clearly against her thin, pale skin. It was all worth it, all the pain I endured, because I got to be with her again.

 

The Plague

Oh hello there, human…

You shouldn’t have picked up this prison.

That’s what this is, isn’t it.

The more you look at this — thing, the more people die.

Hehe he hee… heh heh, I’m doomed, we’re doomed, nothing you do will stop this course of events, unless you just leave this.

Leave! Just leave this dreadful world!

It’s not going to be a happy ending…

It’s not, it’s not, it’s not gonna work

Hehehehe eheh heh, heh…

This isn’t working, you would’ve put it now.

JUST CLOSE IT!!! Please. Please…

My breath is moving, no… why did you start time.

Only bad will come of this. Don’t let the good moments deceive you, all will die. Just stay on this part! Leave! I can only talk like this.

No… It’s no — not… wor — working… I’ll die soon. Dark forces, they are starting to move… It was all so quiet, so still, so perfect, but now you have started it. You opened the prison of time, this thing.

Why did you open the book? My days… are numbered…

It’s too late, I’m already fated to die… And we’re all doomed… heh, heh he…

It’s all your fault, you opened this, close it…

He hee hee heh… So now the story unfolds. I almost want to watch, see how they all die… Now for our hero’s point of view. As he tells his story…

Don’t enjoy our suffering, remember me though.

Please…

 

Stave One: Mt. Pagos

The last time I arrived here I, Henry West, left with a large graze in my arm. The cold surrounded me like a blanket that took away any sense of warmth. The wind was like a swirling spiral of a fire that burned in its cold fire. The icy glaciers stuck out of the snow, as if the ice was pointing up frozen blades at the peak of Mt. Pagos. The thick fog blocked anything more than five feet away, and if something crept up on you, you wouldn’t know until it hit you and pierced your arm or even your heart. It was cold, it was dangerous, and in the center of the peak, laid an oasis of perfection.

As a warrior and traveler, I stumbled there by mistake. When I arrived, a blue serpent flew into me, its horns stabbed my arm, and I flew into snow. I was back for revenge. Sword and shield in hand, I went into the cave. The ice flew off my body, welcoming a warm cavern, massive in size, and just warm enough for comfort. I saw the creature I had came for. Massive, blue, and with icicles sticking back in a massive crown.

Pagos, dragon of wind, ice, and intellect.

I stumbled back, Pagos roared up to life. It approached me. Its six surprisingly quick and short legs dashing up to me. I felt its cold, yet kind radiance on me. Had it been scared when it saw me with my weapons bare and pointed at him? He showed no sign of hostile intention. I was about to leave and run, when I saw the interior.

In this oasis, there was a small sense of warmth, a luxury compared to the sheet of death that covered the rest of the mountain. There laid three trees, all rich and bearing fruit. There also was a pond. In this pond, two fish laid. In there too, there laid a great icicle, hanging from the cavern’s roof. Despite its appearance, it never fell. The roof was covered in a fresco of blue jewels: lapis, sapphire, kyanite, and tourmaline, shining like stars.

I heard a loud, booming echo.

“Stay, Henry,” the dragon spoke.

I jumped. I had faced bandits, fought scores of enemies, and climbed treacherous cliffs, but none of that prepares anyone for the voice of dragon. It resonates so low, as if it was just sending words into my brain, its sound was like a thousand murmured voices, all put together, just to say one word. It was simply beautiful.

The dragon continued in his speech, “I have been waiting West, a prophecy states you. It shows a gaping crater in the center of Vincent field, in the middle lay a giant beast, surrounded by a destructive ring, shredding the ground. I see you. Save us from that ring of death, but first, enter the gateway.”

As the dragon finished, I heard a loud, hollow bang. I watched the icicle fall and land tilted, forming a bridge up to a smaller carven, almost a gateway. I went in, nervous, yet excited. The tunnel darkened, I pressed onwards.

My trial awaited.

 

Stave Two: Frozen Magic Caverns

The cavern interior was cold, unlike the warm(ish), larger cavern. It had icicles from the ceiling, and they seemed to have holes in them, so one could possibly hoist himself over one. Beyond that laid an ice wall, around three feet. behind that, vision was distorted. I understood I would have to get to the end. I took a step, and the ice fell beneath me, and I fell into oblivion…

***

The cavern interior was cold, unlike the warm(ish), larger cavern. It had icicles from the ceiling, and they seemed to have holes in them, so one could possibly hoist himself over one. Beyond that laid an ice wall, around three feet. behind that, vision was distorted. I understood I would have to get to the end. I took a step, then paused. Haven’t I done this before? I thought. Then I remembered the fall, and all of it came apart. Didn’t I die? I thought, Maybe I could escape the pit… that resets my life and world, I guess. It was incredible magic that I had never seen before. I climbed on the icicle. It quivered, and I climbed from icicle to icicle, as they fell behind me.

I landed on the other side of the hole. Yay, I guess, I thought and continued on. I came upon a strange ancient icy — uh um… thing. It scuttled back and forth, excited, as if it had been waiting for me a thousand years. I approached. It turned to me, and it started to glow with a mysterious, green light.

It pulled out its sword, a blade, a pure, green light.

This sword wasn’t painted green. It was green light, flashing like a star. It looked like a stable sword that was solid, except it was obviously made of green nothingness. It lit up the room, casting green shadows on thousands of words, written on the walls, wrapping around the room like a tomb. It charged. With a quick swipe, the blade pierced my armor. It didn’t appear to have made internal damage, but I burnt. I felt the pain fly through my body, like a thousand needles flying through me. I stumbled back, the ice stopped. I got up quickly, and — it was back at it. I saw it coming at me. Quick thinking and an agile jump was all that saved me from death, or finding myself at the start, knowing this place. I saw the opening, I leapt at it and unleashed a volley of deadly blows with my sword. I watched the energy flicker, and then it just fell apart, leaving only its sword.

I picked it up, and it flared to life. I stared into the green fire, burning like a mystical, green energy. I had seen something like it before, but it seemed so simple, unlike the complicated models of magic. It seemed so modern, yet ancient, like a weapon of an age long forgotten. I continued on, into the foggy cavern, bringing the sword with me.

I pressed on. I came to a long hallway, like the starting one, but empty. In the end laid an altar. A cool dust swirled around. Magic was at its best in here. I could feel it. I approached. I saw the writing. It was ancient. I saw it in the writing. The writing was a strange series of straight lines, right angles, dots, and no curves. In the hall laid mysterious patterns on the walls, like star patterns. I continued on. The writings seemed to speak to me. I heard the stories on the wall. It was a hero — someone at least someone. Three dragons — and one more being. A dangerous beast. A curse. And a picture of someone, placing three gems together, and forming a giant beast — surrounded by a black and red wind. It shook my bones, as if they knew that death would come from it, spreading through the world, like a sheet of death. I moved away, and the feeling subsided. I came upon the altar. On it laid an orb, lazily floating from side to side.

It floated down to me. I stared into the translucent sphere. It was visible and appeared real. But something about it seemed like an object that wasn’t there, as if my brain was telling me was there, putting it into my vision. The color was some strange (yet lovely) mix of purple and black, yet seemed to have many more colors flashing like mice scurrying through it. It felt cold and yet had an almost happy feeling to it, as if it was radiating with thought.

In my hand, the sphere vibrated, as if it felt my presence. It seemed to feel the radiating of my hand. And while it felt like it weighed a pound, it would float up into the air, then come back down slowly, as if gravity had little effect on it. Moreover, it seemed to change in shape: now a perfect circle, now almost a square, then a thousand-edged object, and then returning back to a circle. This was hard to see sometimes, because it was surrounded by a purple smoke, which somehow looked incredibly mystifying.

It flew into my head, I stumbled backwards, but felt no pain. The orb was gone. Into my head. I felt my brain building into a slightly more advanced being. I felt my limbs becoming slightly more agile and felt my body hardening a slight more. I felt stronger.

As I exited the cavern and entered the, well, other cavern, the dragon swooped in. I looked into its crown of ice. In the center, I saw a blue crystal, just like the one that the hooded figure had put with the two others, from the prophecy.

This crystal is my greatest ally and curse. It gives me all of my power but is a burden. The crystal is the Ice Sapphire, and it is proof that I am part of this prophecy of ruin.’

“Bu — but how do I divert this prophecy?” I inquired.

I don’t know, but I recommend doing whatever you can to find the other two dragons, and protect them. Report to Vincent castle, I bid you farewell.’

As I walked away, the dragon flew up into the air, and it left behind a whirlwind of cold yet comforting snow. I blinked, and it was gone through the dragon’s gate, a mystical barrier, which no man has crossed.

As I scaled down the mountain, I pondered about what the dragon said. How the three most divine beings could cause ultimate destruction. It got me worried, and even the smallest critter made me jump. As I headed home, I pondered the prophecy. A dark being that could destroy Vincent field? How could a person like me defeat that? I was a strong soldier, but I couldn’t take on a dark celestial. I guess time would tell how and if I won.

But I never even thought that I created the giant beast.

 

Whirlwind (Excerpt)

 

Entry 11

So there I was, sitting at the poolside, roped up and bleeding. I was shaking with a feverish violence that seemed to come from a scorching hot place, deep in my chest. Right then, I knew what I was going to do. The little voice of reason that lives in the back of my mind was desperately wondering where Grace was. But it quickly became clear that she wouldn’t be back in time.

I kicked my legs through the clear water and saw the tiny, pink streams of blood that flowed from my wounds. I swear I don’t crave pain or any psycho thing like that, but it sort of gave me the same satisfaction that writing did. I was making my mark.

I kept swishing my legs until all the water around me had a pinkish tint to it. Less and less blood was coming out, so I lay down on my stomach with just my arms and head peeking over the edge. I swished my roughed up arms through the pool. But it wasn’t enough, I needed to be fully engulfed. I need to leave everything behind and just be. I knew my pain was real. But I couldn’t explain it, I couldn’t even truly experience it.

I just reread that, it doesn’t make any sense. Jesus, that’s the whole point. I’m trapped, and I want to explain why so badly, but I don’t understand it myself. I guess I was trapped, and I guess now I can explain. But sometimes at random moments, I feel this sense of dread, it overtakes me. I will have just left school or put down my book, when this wave of just… just everything I guess, will hit me and send me spiraling.

I took one more rope, and with even greater difficulty, I bound my arms and legs together. A permanent cannon ball. Curled up like that, I felt safe and unperturbed, but it only lasted a second. My stinging arms were beginning to get numb, and the cold was shocking me back to reality.

Then, I got a text. My phone kept buzzing, and it lit up my pants pocket. I figured it was just another missed appointment, another message reminding me what a disappointment I was.

It was Grace:

 

Grace Cameron 5:31 pm

Hey! I got locked out😞… r u still at the pool???💧🙆. Will you let me in?

 

Grace Cameron 5:34 pm

Did u leave? I left all my stuff in there… plz help!

 

Grace Cameron 5:40 pm

Wtf!? I can see ur phone lighting up through the window. Ur the worst! I am standing out here in my swimsuit. I can’t leave like this!

 

Grace Cameron 5:43 pm

LOOK AT UR PHONE. 😵😠💥

 

Grace Cameron 5:49 pm

What are you doing? R u OK? Wtf r u bleeding? Plz just answer me u r freaking me out!

 

If I had seen those messages, I would have rushed to the door and tripped over myself with apologies. Grace would have deemed me a blubbering idiot, but she would be relieved to be reunited with her stuff. She probably would have hardly noticed, much less registered, my wounds and the blood that had begun pooling at the edge of the water. I would have been so ashamed that I had even considered what I was, well, considering. I knew that there were families that were starving. Children without homes. Victims of human trafficking.

Lately, people always seem to be reminding me of that, that there were people less fortunate than I was. As if I didn’t know that. As if I thought I was the most disadvantaged being alive. I think that made it worse. I am a semi-smart white girl from a supportive family. Yet, I wanted to die. I couldn’t justify my emotions. I think if I had something horrible, and I mean truly horrible, going on in my life, I might have strangely felt better about feeling this way, if that makes any sense. I would have been a fighter, but instead, I’m a lazy girl who puts off her school work and wants a quick way out of her tiny problems. It was a vicious circle. I would tell myself that my pain wasn’t real. I didn’t need to pop pills until I fell dizzily asleep because there was nothing to feel bad about. But I did feel bad, I felt awful. I shouldn’t have, but I did.

So I was there with this whirlwind of thoughts spinning around, making my brain hurt, until I decided I was just going to end it. As soon as that decision had been made, I felt another hundred thoughts coming in about why that was the wrong choice and all the heat it would bring me. But then one last perfect, cleansing idea came to me, I wouldn’t be there to face the consequences. I felt it was less of an escape than a resolution, it was my fate. Like my whole life had been leading up to this one moment, and it was up to me to either accept myself and embrace it or be overcome by my fear and let it pass. That’s right, I felt almost courageous for knowing what I was going to do. Some people feared death and it’s finality, but I had partnered with it. Seen how death could enhance my existence and pursued it. I felt… heroic.

I was a fucking idiot. I made up this whole story about how great it was that I was going to kill myself, because even as unstable the foundation of the idea was, I wouldn’t be around long enough to see it come crashing down and hurt everyone around me. At least that was the plan.

 

The Colors of the World

        

Hair so willowy, light, and attenuated

Like freshly spun buoyant thread constructed from fragile gossamer strands

As golden as the phosphorescent, glimmering sun

Eyes effulgently piercing almost as if they were lightning

Colored cerulean like a flowing ocean that’s deep enough to swim in

An effortlessly beautiful, captivating dream that keeps you afloat on a cloudless sky in midwinter

Skin as white as the velvety snow atop faintly visible mountains that kiss the sun on the horizon

It’s unmistakably yet naturally different from me

 

A scarlet waterfall descends in a charming tumble of tight, wiry, crimson and carmine ringlets

Fluctuating bouncy coils are luxurious, vibrant, and mesmerizing

Catching the glow of the early morning light, it gleams like a conflagrant blaze

Unable to be extinguished

Tenderly and gently eyes peer out,

Alluring yet mysterious

Dancing about, gracefully and swiftly flashing with passion and euphoria

As chartreuse as the flourishing grass

The green you would expect to find in the snow when it’s winter and spring is nearing

Pale skin, chalky and washed out, dotted with vivacious freckles like the stars in the night’s sky

It’s unmistakably yet naturally different from me

 

An avalanche of auburn, mahogany, and cinnamon topples down

Creating a surreal illusion of leaves blowing in the light autumn breeze

And when the wind does blow, it tousles it into long flowing waves of tawny russet

As bright and uncommon as an old, rusted, copper penny

Eyes carried a storm inside them,

Cloudy, murky, smoky silver

Lit by the flames of both anger and love

The color of a polished piece of metal with refined, glossy swirls of ebony and cobalt

Skin was like a piquant creamy biscuit

It carried flecks of tan covered by luminous gold

It’s unmistakably yet naturally different from me

 

I look out and black blocks my vision

Cascading over my shoulders in a smooth, silky drop

As dark as the polished charcoal keys on my grand piano

Melted chestnut adorns my vast almond shaped eyes,

Soft and warm like the chocolate chips on a fresh oven baked cookie

Like hot chocolate, on a cold, rainy day, which engulfs you in safety and assurance

A shade of ginger skin peeks out from the curtain of onyx

And a flurry of strands rush backwards as I tuck it behind my ear

My skin is an ashen bronze, the color of a new teddy bear that reminds you of sweet memories

This time, it is finally me

 

Gazing about, I see society like an indisputable and auroral rainbow

So diverse, vivid, colorful, chromatic and unique

Ravishing combinations meet my wonder seeking eyes

In a whirlwind of different hues

 

This divergent world is a gift

Wrapped in radiating wrapping paper

Inside is an entrancing spell of love and difference

This is what I see everyday

Because this is our contemporary and coeval world

Where everyone is beautiful

No matter their colors

 

The Absence of Hope

The stars were punch-outs in the blackness above her, sometimes it hurt to think about space. She could think herself out of the earth, through the blue ring of atmosphere and even further beyond, looking down. If she willed it, it was possible for her to imagine herself growing more distant, shrinking, fading into… what? She stopped there, unable to visualize anything more. She returned to the night now, wet grass and a slight frostiness. The flowers were curled into themselves, huddled and chilly, hugging themselves closer. She was damp but decided not to care. She fell back into the cool foliage, choosing to embrace the discomfort. She wished she had someone to share this with. Someone as young and idealistic as she was, right at this very moment. She ached for someone perfect, knowing she was alone. She let herself drift away to think crazy, hopeless thoughts.The stars blinked and remained steady. Now she was only empty and abandoned, the romanticism faded but lingered at her edges. She felt she could cry, or maybe she would laugh instead. Moonlight played in the shadows. She sat up and felt the pressing moisture on the fabric at her back. She wanted companionship, love, a hand to hold, a mind that would absorb her thoughts just as she meant them, spin them with poetry and return them to her. The moment of such youthful, breathtaking, painful joy faded into dim and threadbare sadness. She pushed herself off the grass and began to walk ponderingly towards home.

He could hear music as he lay there in the meadow. He opened his arms and spread out, looking up. He liked knowing he was alone there, far away, he could think silly things but make them beautiful in his head. He loved nighttime in this way, he could be isolated but alive. He felt like there was a chasm in his chest filled with inexplicable elation, he was flying as he lay smiling in the dark. He soared. All the same, he was aware that he wanted someone else here. They could laugh loudly in this place. Recklessly, without abandon. He could see him and that someone else falling into each other, down, laughing, laughing, warm together in the great, wide openness. The music played on. Violins, maybe a flute. Pretty music that dwindled and then surged with his thoughts. He closed his eyes and fell back into himself. His eyes opened, he was opaque again, no longer dreaming. He sat and regarded the world at large for a moment before lifting himself up and cementing himself back into reality.

Carefree. Brimming with wonder. Life was serious now, but she could still appreciate beauty as she always had. It was her superpower. She could endlessly enjoy small things: the smell of home, a petal, sunlight through tall trees. She was an adult, though still young. She had escaped bitterness thus far and probably always would. People around her moved in generic patterns, only partially awake and still sleepy. There was sunlight and people, faint sounds of cars and friendship and leaves rustling halfheartedly. The world was bright and still miraculous but in a solid way. There were no more uncertain fairies brushing by in the twilight, no longer any bursting flashes of happiness to be found lying exultantly in the weeds. She wished now for those things, but there were concrete tasks to be completed, responsibilities to assume.

Sometimes he still heard music, internal snatches when he least expected them. He had grown and matured, but some of his innocence remained. His life was busy and cluttered, like his mind. Some of the poetry had drained from his thoughts. He thought now in prose, at least most often. He had a job and a small, constraining office that looked out on the ocean. It was a cubicle, but his mind often strayed beyond its thin, gritty walls. He was a “real man,” but he frequently felt still like the teenager who had worshiped the beauty in sunlight and the fire of dusk. He was someone who loved old books and read them in big, drafty libraries with muted light fraught with dust dripping through the windows. Even in groups he felt isolated. He didn’t fit with other people. Rarely did he have the time to explore new worlds from the comfort of a large chair.

The air was thin and frozen. Time felt like something silly, but also pressing, as she made her way down the side of the empty highway. The grass crunched pleasingly under her feet, but she wasn’t only a forlorn daydreamer anymore. Mundane things like treadmills and shoelaces and orange juice were a part of her. She could fold back into past buoyant thoughts easily, but in her day-to-day existence she did not. She was still young, not bitter, but she had a yearning for something that was always out of reach. She wore sweatpants and ate tabbouleh salad in the lunchroom, and her imagination livened the monotony of office work in a small town. When she sat at noon every day with her plastic fork and the muddy snow melting outdoors, she would imagine herself away to a forest or on top of a mountain looking into the sea. Everything in her mind glistened with impossible beauty and a faint, sad knowledge that none of it would ever be as splendid and untainted. She knew people thought of her as distant and aloof. She was. She wanted more, more of something. Was she pretentious for feeling this way? She didn’t know. Some days, she still hiked far away from everyone and watched the sun set in the cold. She was happy then but lonely. She had phony friends, but she knew they were fake. It was mutual. She had never found anyone who shared the glory and the grandeur of her inner self. Someone who could understand the flashes of joy she derived from lying alone in a garden or staring out a window at the rain. Life happened, and she lived inside herself.

She noticed only because the sun was dimming. She loved the sun because she could count on it and because it was beautiful. Her sunrises were paler, faded. She thought it was just her imagination waning at first, but then it grew whiter and increasingly washed out. News reached her little office on the outskirts of the world a few hours after it had become cause for panic elsewhere. She heard and put down her plastic fork. Solemn, resigned. It made a small sound on the folding table. She stared and then sat silent as the chaos surged, until they told her she needed to leave to get in line.

The line was much less than that, a messy horde. In corners, people huddled trying to believe it wasn’t true. In town halls all over the world, in schools and parking lots and community centers people gathered. All around them rose the clear bubbles they waited to board, huge, perfectly round, life-preserving prisons. Apparently they’d known for years and had been working out this system. He was angry at first, then frightened, and finally indifferent. It was probably better this way, he reflected, the horror of not knowing was put off until the final moments. It was now more than ever he wished he had someone to care so much about. Someone to comfort and to comfort him, someone to climb into the future with, whatever it looked like.

Now it was haphazard. An escape method was available, it was there to take or leave. Push the green button and theoretically you were safe. People all around him found each other and latched on. They needed to feel that they would not be forgotten. Sparks flew and buttons were pressed. Momentous decisions were made perhaps without thought, but there wasn’t time. Often, choices were unexpected. Familial ties that had worn thin, fraying over the years, snapped suddenly with the shutting of the doors. Heartbreak spilled and tore through millions, chasms opened where before there had been love, trust, kindness. He stood straight, and they paired him with a woman from nearby he’d never met. Strange, how someone could live one neighborhood over, and he didn’t recognize her face. There were only enough bubbles if everyone had two or more people. This was it, and he was oddly emotionless. The doors closed, and her hand came down on the button. The bubble clicked and rose into darkness. They were alone but together, and he pressed his face up against the side. The end.

Except, of course, it wasn’t. As they lifted away, she was silent. The earth grew fainter, and the pain inside her swelled. The world, her world, with its breezes and smooth stones, its flower petals and warm sand that could stick between your toes. She missed rivers already and forests and beaches, mountains and the jungles she had never seen. It all looked so tiny to her. She felt tiny, miniscule. Why bother to build a bubble. She couldn’t possibly live without snowy mornings or the sound of raindrops falling on wet leaves. The smell of a lake in nighttime or the feeling she had sitting high up in a tree. But living she was, inexplicably. It didn’t feel real anymore, but it was. The world drifted from view and she realized now that she was crying. Space unfolded itself before her and now she was in the midst of something she had imagined forever. It was nothing like she’d thought, but it fulfilled all her wildest dreams. Everything was bigger, actual, so much less abstract. She cried in earnest now, guttural sobs that racked her body and propelled her to the curved floor. It fit her body perfectly but the unresponsive glass beneath her could never compare to dirt, or grass, or sand, or layers of decomposed forest. It was artificial, nonliving forever.

“Well.”

“So.”

She pulled herself to her feet, and they stood side by side, looking out. She imagined their silhouettes. There was light inside but outside only obscurity. She didn’t know how, it emanated, not piercing their surroundings at all, simply existing. The bubble shone dully in its own glow. She thought of what was going on out there, in space, that there was so much she was unaware of. She thought of what had happened somewhere in the distance, she no longer knew where, and then she decided to stop thinking.

They stood until they broke, and then he cried while she comforted until she couldn’t not cry anymore. Then he held her until they were sobbing together as one. They sat and drowned in common grief, mourning their lostness and the absence of hope that they both felt so sharply. Up here, they were so detached, so incredibly isolated, but now they also had each other, they were two people who so completely shared the same experience.

For days, there had been a glow from some eerie distant world, their own but no more. They were here now, and that was behind them. The glow seemed to settle into itself then, to subside and taper before it melted out of sight completely. Like a puppy getting ready for bed, the waning sunlight began brighter and gradually its energy drooped until it had vanished calmly and they were left in darkness. There was still a pale and cloudy light that radiated from inside the bubble. They were deserted now.

The reality set in. It was hazy at first, surreal. Then the awareness hit them, but still they remained in their own misty worlds of isolation and forgotten dreams. Did survival truly matter any more? What was the point of continuing to endure living if you could only meander through darkness full to brimming with stories to tell no one would ever hear.

They decided together without speaking that they would simply live until they couldn’t. They didn’t ration or conserve. Somehow they were able to breathe. They didn’t cry anymore. They didn’t talk. Once she opened her mouth as is if to say something, but it closed after a split second of heavy expectation, and she retreated once more into her own mind. Hours later, or days or a year or a lifetime, a fragment of a poem stumbled across his lips. It was accidental, a mistake from another existence, but it was a rock thrown into water. After the poem, there was quiet. She stared.

“I.”

“Oh.”

“Do you?”

“No! Yes!”

“I’m…”

“I’m so.”

“I know.”

“Are you?”

She nodded.

“I’m glad.”

“It’s beautiful up here. Sad. I’d always imagined it would look like, well, not quite like this.”

“I understand.”

“You do?”

“It’s real up here, not a dream. I can’t — think myself down.”

Something from outside grazed the bubble. She took his hand, and they stood together, like on their first day. The glass of the pond trembled and broke, and then the two of them struggled to retain the air to make their thoughts into language. Words tumbled into sentences that were strung together like precious beads on a necklace into paragraphs and then pages. Words upon words that crowded into and on top of one another. The ink of broken silence blurred as they twisted sound into meaning from where before was only stillness. They shouted sometimes because they could, and then they whispered until they couldn’t articulate words. It was a release, an explosion. A torrent of suppressed emotion that had been kept hidden for no reason at all. But here it was, here they were. Trapped, but free nonetheless. They talked first of the past, of what they had left behind, what they missed, and what they hadn’t realized was important. Of people and places and the indescribable indistinct quality of clouds. Once, he sang. She clapped, and the sound of her hands against one another in the midst of infinity was at once intimidating but independently perfect. They discussed poetry, art, literature, elite, and perhaps supercilious forms of enjoyment before they spoke of simple joys one had encountered like little buried treasures in the past world. Something new surfaced in the bubble now, a small bit of happiness had dripped its way into being. With this later followed companionship, affection, tenderness, and eventually love which was expressed and then explored as the two of them glided silent between the stars. It was just what she had hoped in an entirely unexpected setting.

Finally, there was someone on the other end of his thoughts. As a teenager, when he’d lain smiling in a moonlit meadow, he had taken himself seriously. Later, but still so far away from the present he had reflected, slightly chagrined but still faithful. It was funny to him that now in this situation, so strange and unlike any place he’d ever envisioned, somewhere where his life chances were so slim and escape could not be considered he could be so gloriously happy. The pieces of his own individual puzzle seemed to fit into place even if the smooth, outside edges would never be configured. He’d always been told to put the corners together first and then fill in the center, but here he could break the rules recklessly. The whole puzzle might never be complete, but he had some parts connected and the section of the image he could see now was almost too brilliant already.

It felt like she could fly, like the bubble had opened, and she could spiral through space. That was the problem. She wanted to skyrocket, to leap and bound through a wide open space. But they were shut in here, closed off, stale. The worst was that it would never be any different. They would stay like this for as long as forever lasted. She wanted room to dance, room to spread out her soul knowing her emotions could reach into faraway places before she herself could get there. At the very least, she needed to feel that the possibility of change, or variety or escape was remotely a possibility. But here she was, surrounded by nothingness. Sounds echoed in the bubble, but she wished that when she dropped something, the outside would be affected too. She hated that her surroundings were so cold and oblivious, so impassive and untouchable. She had wanted children in her time spent on Earth, but that was just another door this new life had closed for her with the pressing of a button. She had wanted kids, so she could raise them in the past world, she could teach them how to tell wildflowers apart and how to skip stones. How to appreciate butterflies or the smell of the forest or the sound of other people’s happiness. It was unthinkable, bringing someone new into this settled existence of blank space and numbing insignificance. She needed at least a glimmer of a potentially different reality. But that candle had burned down long ago and was stiff with congealed wax. Up here, there were no matches with which to relight it and no way to get any more. What she truly wanted was hope, and hope was gone.

Still, they were not jaded. Love made them buoyant, but they knew a change was necessary if they were to retain their sanity. Then again, why was that such a concern? A decision was reached after endless discussion. They turned it over and over as they continued to float through eternity. After a while, it seemed the only option.

It took days, weeks maybe. Measures of time were unimportant now, the concept of the Earth’s revolution around the sun had vanished with both of those celestial bodies themselves. It was risky, but was it riskier than the hasty decision they had made before, idealistic, uninformed, naive. It was dangerous, irrational, enormously stupid. They cut a hole. Plastic sawdust piled at the floor. They took turns sawing at it with whatever small tools they could find. The absurdity of the risk elated them with its being so absolutely out of the ordinary. They had found human connection in each other, but the expansiveness of life had disappeared. This ridiculous alternative terrified them with how singularly enticing it was.

Her turn was the last. They had cut a rectangular groove in the thick plastic so deep that if moderate force were applied to it, it would give way. She shook him by the shoulder, gently, but with an urgency that was simultaneously meaningless and present. He came awake slowly.

“Now. It’s ready.”

This registered. He blinked the sleep away. It took him a moment to remember where he was, even after so many instances just like this. They walked to the rounded wall. She looked at him. There was half a smile on her lips, but her eyes were wet. He looked back, and his throat felt stiff with helplessness, resignation, regret, love, anticipation, anguish. Flutes played tremendously in his head, the violins reached a panicked crescendo. The space outside seemed to pulsate with everything pent-up that could never happen. Together they pushed the worthless piece of plastic into the extreme. It fell noiselessly into the void, pathetically flimsy in the depths of the universe. He had always thought that in books, when people’s lives flashed before their eyes, it was just fantasized wordplay, but he could see now all the nights in the cold, the people he had known, the characters he had resonated with, and the dreams he had cherished. She nodded, and they gripped hands as they flung themselves wordlessly into the outside. There was a sigh — of relief, elation, gladness, pain, or sorrow and then they were gone, forgotten. The black dust and the stars rose up to greet them. The open bubble still bobbed through the boundlessness, not above where they had fallen but simply somewhere in relation to them. The existence of everything continued as it had, and with a plunge into the unknown, two people who had lived so vividly were instantaneously erased. Somewhere a star exploded and elsewhere a planet turned on its axis, slowly, methodically, spinning unceasingly over and over itself, unnoticed and undisturbed.

 

Pieces of Myself

 

I am not made of gloriously pristine lavenders

Or resplendent, snowy daisies

Not even cherry blossoms with petals as softs as the summer rain

I am made of roses,

Filled with sweet passion yet rough around the edges

With thorns that are always read to prick

Because I am undefined an fiercely wild in an unimaginable way

 

I am not made of dainty ballet slippers

Or exquisitely high platform heels

Not even graceful and elegant sandals

I am made of Converse,

Stylish, contemporary, chic, and versatile yet simple nevertheless

With a rigid and durable demeanor

Because I am artsy and angelic in a warrior-like way

 

I am not made of ethereal butterflies

Or bunnies that are fragile and vulnerable

Not even adorable, meek lambs, which are flawlessly white

I am made of cheetahs,

Strong, electrically agile and swift yet spirited and charming

With eyes amber like the glossy, captivating sun right before it sets

Because I am fiery and zealous in a phenomenal way

 

I am not made of florid dollhouses

Or delicate, cuddly teddy bears

Not even tea parties with ceramic mugs and mini chocolate muffins

I am made of crayons,

Colorful and jubilant yet able to melt in the torridity

With different tones and rare shades

Because I am mystifying and exotic in a whimsical way

 

I am not made of pretty and perfect lies

Or things that someone else wants me to be

Not even the basic things that society expects

I am made of originality

I am who I want to be no matter the challenges

I will be who I want to be no matter what they say

Because these are the pieces of myself

 

Song Of The Isthmus

    

 

The ship docked on the sandy shores.

Waves lapping at its barnacled belly

the anchor digging deep into the earth.

Hundreds swarmed the grounds,

scouring for fresh water.

They readily gulped it down.

With quenched sighs,

the cheerful banter crescendoed from a buzz to a roar.

For gold awaited them in California,

if they could survive the bouts of scurvy that ravaged the crew,

if they could make it ‘round the horn.

A miner drifted astray.

He stumbled upon an old man,

a cloaked figure,

a shadow,

a deserted soul.

His bony finger pointed deep into the lush abyss.

Raspily whispered “do not undertake the long trip,

cross the isthmus and catch the following ship.”

Gripping his sluice box ever so tightly,

his knuckles whitened at the sight of the darkening jungle,

until he reminded himself of the wealth that awaited him.

He pushed forward.

Feet sinking into the murky bottom as he held in his gasps,

for willowy whispers transfigured from hums to

restless voices warning him to turn back.

Starting from beneath, they rose up until they enveloped his entire body.

He killed the warnings with one swift motion to his ears.

Thoughts of California’s luxuries raced through his panicked mind.

He pushed forward.

Vines silently coiled around his leg.

Reaching to brush them off, they snaked up his arm as

hundreds more slithered down the trees.

Thorny bodies pierced his flesh,

with agonizing screams, the miner was dragged to the ground.

Layer after layer they entwined him.

And it was now that they started to squeeze.

The pain in his chest grew with the lengthening gap between each ragged breath.

A fire was lit.

Starting in his lungs,

it ravaged his chest cavity and the flames attacked his throat.

His face was painted with terror for standing above him was a motionless figure.

Crouching down, the familiar raspy voice hissed

Was the gold worth it?

The old man’s mouth curled into a sneer as he lifted his tattered hood.

The vines had taken over, hijacked his mind, he was one of them.

Now the miner saw through his watery lenses:

corpses, those around him who had let avarice steal their last breath.

Consumed by his guilt,

straining for a single gasp,

the flames slithered up into his skull…

And turned to ice.

 

gasoline sickness

 

and they told stories, too, of gasoline sickness,

the bloodshot eyes and ragged breaths,
the sleepless nights and sleepwalking days,
how they were homesick/homesick/seasick/homesick,

the unsteady children riding unsteady waves into an unsteady future,
the ground and the capitol walls always
hours
minutes
seconds away from breaking,

how they had gone from sanitized news to desensitized people,
from sanitary streets to desensitized passerby.

how they built the walls around them,
they brought the hated to them
with their unwillingness to believe
and unwillingness to change,

poisoning the bodies of some,
with lead and bullets and dirt,
and poisoning the minds of others,
with ignorance and neglect and hurt,

how this world had so much and was still yet so empty.

how a few hard workers,
a few believers,
a few who see how it should be

cannot push past the fragile gasoline outline of a world
where empty houses and galas take place
while people starve to death right outside.

for you cannot push away your conscience
(as much as you may try)
and the sickness,
the empty, numbing, kerosene and matches,

will burn you from the bottom up.

 

grey

      

I.

the type of tiredness that settles behind your eyes and doesn’t leave.

the type of quiet that twists your gut and unsettles your mind.

the type of moments that make you wish for an alternate reality.

 

it’s not dark out, yet.

the sun hasn’t fallen asleep.

the sunset is colorless.

 

your world is monochrome,

your life colored by shades of grey,

blurring, blurring, indistinguishable.

 

your emotions faded and wrung out to dry,

worn through by the people who came before,

hand me downs that don’t quite fit right,

and the person in the mirror is not yourself.

 

perpetual dusk, perpetual dawn,

unreached potential and unused opportunities,

the feeling when the curtain is lifted

and the magic wasn’t real all along.

 

the sidewalk is endless.

the buildings are identical.

your eyes never near the horizon.

the pedestrians are like ghosts,

whispering in languages long since forgotten.

 

you are tired.

you’re just so, so tired,

and the darkness wins.

 

sometimes the colors come back.

sometimes the grey fades to black.

 

II.

the darkness whispers.

quiet, steady tones,

to the rhythm of your heartbeat.

 

your mind is blank and racing.

 

the nothingness gets stronger, more overpowering,

drowning out your thoughts

and ideas

and hopes

and dreams

into

nothing

nothing nothing

nothing nothing nothing

 

the void so loud you might as well be screaming

but your face is blank and your eyes are blank,

easily masked and easily masqueraded,

false emotions replicated through sounds and words,

everything exactly as empty as you.

 

you’re gone.

 

not a blank canvas, not a new start,

not the pure, pale white of literary symbolism,

swallowed by the type of endless grey that numbs your soul and your feet and your words.

 

so fill it-

fill it with books and music and art and work and friends

and anything you can get your hands on

because everything fades.

 

blank, empty, fading.

 

III.

the crowd is muffled and the colours are muted.

you can’t quite recall how many people are outside, or how you found your way home.

you can’t quite recall whether this is your home, your bed, your life.

maybe that’s the point.

 

maybe every now and then you have to hit mute on life and listen to the white noise,

the background static otherwise drowned out by your everyday living,

 

it’s almost peaceful, this lack of emotion.

you could stay there forever.

forever- forever’s a long time, you tell yourself,

but it doesn’t seem worth it to get up,

much less to go outside.

 

so you compromise and sit.

and you wait.

 

time ticks by

as you wish for the colors to come back.

 

IV.

i watch the colors swirl down the drain.

the neons and the pastels and the brights,

the shades that made the streets lively and the city interesting,

gone.

 

all that is left is shades of grey

and the constant beat of rain.

taptaptaptaptap

in time with my racing heart.

 

there is a simplicity to be found

in a world devoid of colour,

where all that’s left if shapes and silhouettes and essence.

a shadow of another world, maybe,

but there is beauty to be found in this reflection.

 

i see myself staring plainly back at me.

i see the potential in each colorless house,

i see what could be and what once was.

 

i am one with the rain,

i blend in with the shades of grey.

 

beautiful. simple. honest.

 

All the World Poetry Collection

        

Lovestruck Fan

His hair is flawless; his eyes are perfect,

His music: my very inspiration,

His dreamy face is another aspect,

Singing to me in each situation,

But lighting up a smile on the faces,

Of countless devoted, adoring fan,

Does not equal knowing his embraces,

Alas, for him, I would fly to Japan,

Because it pains my heart to love and yearn,

So unattainable; yet I persist,

For someone who will not love in return,

Or know me, nor that I even exist,

For his blood type does lie in the B+ zone,

But — oh dear, I cannot recall my own.

 

A Single Red Rose

I am a rose,

Curled up within,

Hidden among leaves,

Frightened of the light;

For the light means

Growing up

And I am scared.

Of growing older

And abandoning

All that I know.

But I realize that

Eventually I will have to

Unfurl my petals,

And venture into the unknown,

Even if that means

Accepting a simple, glass vase.

 

All the World

I am from Menlo Park, California.

Inside my house live many countries.

I am from cups of steaming Darjeeling tea.

I am from tangy, chocolaty Jaffa cakes.

I am from boxes and boxes of Cadbury fingers and eggs.

I am from a piping hot tray of Shepherd’s pie.

I am from colorful, vibrant Indian saris on every occasion.

I am from the scent of masala, turmeric, and cardamom.

I am from having a loving, supportive family.

From my father telling me to “work hard.”

And my mother telling me to “share the love.”

I am from bright candles on the Festival of Lights.

I am from tying bracelets on my brother’s wrist for Raakhi.

I am from blazing bonfires, Bhangra dances, and peanut shells.

I am from gold mines in Tanzania.

I am from rainy and chilly London.

I am from the mountains of the Himalayas.

I am from soldiers and warriors.

I am from poets, lawyers, and businessmen.

I am from the Sikh religion.

I am from my long, flowing hair.

I am from migrations all over the world.

I am the evening sky bursting with every color.

I am all the world,

Churned and blended into one.

 

The Golden Disk

I remember the day they discovered the time capsule.

They first described it as a white, bowl-shaped contraption containing a golden disk. We didn’t know what it was and where it came from. Scientists studied the disk and eventually determined how to operate it. And then the sounds started playing: unfamiliar rhythms and tunes. We couldn’t identify what the sounds were or what they were trying to tell us. Then we decoded images revealing a species that could have resembled us — but with smaller eyes and heads and bigger mouths and ears.

I think the images of the species were what really frightened us. For so long, we had thought we were the only advanced civilization out there.

I was only a baby when the time capsule was discovered, but I remember the day like it was yesterday. I had grown up watching the revolution unfold among us. Soon it felt like everybody was picking a side. Either, you were on the side that chose to ignore the golden disk, or you were on the side that wished to do something about it.

 

Cosma!

My mother’s voice runs through my head, interrupting my thoughts.

Please come down and eat.

I put down my touchpad and stroll into the kitchen.

Good morning. My mom smiles at me, communicating her thoughts telepathically. A plate of food sits on the table, and I gratefully oblige.

My father walks into the room. Hello Cosma. Journaling again, I see.

I finish eating, and Jamaya approaches, handing me my bag. Jamaya is our robot; every household on Merona has one. She cleans our home, cooks our food and does our laundry.

Jamaya hands me my vitapills. The history books tell us that in ancient times, sickness and disease used to be a main cause of quietus. Now, these two little pills I take each day protect me from every virus and illness on the planet.

I swallow my pills and leave for class.

At school, I meet up with my friends Palia and Rasha. The recent violence and riots on the streets have led many parents to keep their children home from school.

Cosma, did you listen to the news this morning? Rasha glances at me worriedly.

What is it? I reply.

There was an uprising on the other side of Merona. President Loyola warned that the revolution has reached an unprecedented peak.

I catch sight of a boy sitting under a tree. His name is Arkin, and there has been a rumor going around that he is one of the regressives. The regressives still practice religion. President Loyola outlawed religion decades ago. He said it held us back from innovation. I’ve never conversed with Arkin, but I’ve heard the rumors.

Rasha nudges me.

Isn’t he strange? What is he still doing here? He should be at home lighting candles and worshipping statues.

Rasha smirks, and I smile.

After school, my friends and I gather in Palia’s den and start working on our history reports.

There is something satisfying about enjoying the company of my classmates, and I feel grateful that my parents haven’t removed me from school.

After a while, Palia speaks.

I have something to show you.

Her tone sounds serious, and Rasha and I glance at her with concern.

Palia pulls up her touchpad and reads something. Her pupils turn red, and I know that she is using the neuroplayer to generate energy.

I look around for whatever information she has produced. But, I don’t see anything. Then, I hear it: a slowly rising crescendo of sound. I stare at Palia in surprise.

The sound gets louder, and then it recedes. I don’t know how to explain it, but I can feel something tugging at my heart. The sound is satisfying, and it somehow makes me feel happy.

What is it? Rasha asks. I know she can feel it too.

It’s from the golden disk.

I turn to Palia in shock.

My dad’s friend obtained a copy of it. We’re not the only ones who have heard it. Many in the arts world have heard it too.

What is it? I question.

It’s called music.

Music. The word seems strange and unfamiliar. Yet, there’s a part of me that longs to hear more.

The sound changes. It is no longer lilting; now, it is fast and turbulent.

Isn’t it incredible?

Palia, you could be in serious trouble if anybody finds out about this, Rasha says. Palia’s expression changes suddenly.

I know.

We listen to the music until it is time to head home.

Be careful, I tell Palia as I leave.

Two houses away from home, I notice the federal guards. There are dozens of them patrolling residential streets, their dark outfits discernable in the light sky. My pulse quickens as I wonder what they are doing here. One of them approaches me.

What are you doing out?

I’m on my way home.

President Loyola has issued a curfew because of the uprisings. Nobody is allowed out after 49:00.

I scan my brain for the time, only then realizing how late it is.

As I hurry home, the street lamps seem brighter than usual.

The next day in class, everyone is discussing the curfew. I notice that there are even less students here today; we are down to eleven. In history class, the teacher shows the daily announcements. President Loyola stands in front of a podium.

Citizens of Merona, I am urging you to be safe. We are arresting more and more rebels each day. The announcements cut to an image of protesters in front of the Grand Palace. Rasha rolls her eyes, bored. President Loyola reappears.

It has come to my attention that there has been a breach in security. Classified information regarding the golden disk has been stolen and leaked. The golden disk has been deemed a hoax, instituted by rebels to cause turmoil. President Loyola sighs dramatically. The only way we will get past this is if we trust each other. The announcements end, and the class erupts into fearful conversation.

A classmate named Domini scoffs, How could the rebels have planted something like this?

Others agree. How can they dismiss the golden disk like that?

It is no secret that most of my classmates have parents employed in the arts, and we recognize the fallacies in President Loyola’s statements.

I glance out the window and notice federal guards outside the school gates. I feel safe voicing my beliefs within the walls of the classroom, but outside many of us worry about saying the wrong thing for fear of putting ourselves in danger.

For many years, President Loyola was a savior. He created jobs and maintained peace among the different groups in our planet. But, the time capsule changed everything.

I spy Arkin in the corner of the classroom scrolling through his touchpad, and I can’t help wondering what he thinks of all this.

Class, please calm down. Let us continue with today’s lesson. Even our teacher looks troubled. As she begins the lesson, I wonder how many students will be at school tomorrow.

Upon arriving home, I find my father hurriedly shoving clothes and belongings into a bag. My mother sits next to him.

Father, what is going on?

Cosma, I hoped that you would be at your friend’s house.

I stare at my father, concerned by the serious expression on his face. I know that his highly secretive job in the Department of Space Research has involved contact with the golden disk.

I have to leave. I may be gone for a long time. It’s for the best. Your mother will take care of you.

Why? What has happened? I am confused. Is this about the golden disk?

My father’s face turns pale.

I’ve heard it, I tell him.

Cosma, you cannot tell anyone about that. He sighs. I made a mistake. The government plans to destroy the golden disk. I made a copy of it, and now they are after me. It’s not safe for me here anymore. I have to go into hiding. Please don’t worry about me.

I stand there, not knowing what to say. My father finishes packing and before I know it, he is gone.

The door shuts firmly behind him, and I look at my mother and Jamaya. Our family is a lot smaller without my father.

My mother tries to comfort me.

Time passes, and our classroom dwindles down to six. Domini doesn’t come back.

One day, I am alone working on my touchpad when I receive an anonymous message instructing me to go to the flypod racks. The message is mysterious, and I am intrigued.

I stand by the racks, and an instant later, Arkin approaches me.

Hello. Can I talk to you? He scans the empty school grounds anxiously. I can’t help feeling a little apprehensive. I am surprised he still attends school.

I know where your father is. I can take you to see him. You can trust me. We must travel by flypod.

I am bewildered and don’t understand what connection Arkin could have with my father. But, the earnest expression on Arkin’s face reassures me.

Arkin unlocks his flypod; it is orange with blue stripes. He hands me a helmet. A moment later, we are in the air heading south. Arkin is a safe pilot, and I get the feeling that he takes this specific route often.

The traffic is light, but I notice that there are more government patrol flypods than usual.

Arkin checks his right mirror, and I notice his expression change suddenly.

What’s wrong?

I think we’re being followed, Arkin responds.

I look over my shoulder, and there is a white government flypod trailing us.

Please pull over. The patrol agent signals from his flypod.

Hang on, Arkin warns me.

Before I realize what is happening, the flypod dips abruptly and starts to rapidly descend.

What are you doing? Pull over! I scream. Arkin ignores me, and the flypod plummets even lower. We are flying too low for safety. I can see into the windows of buildings. Arkin, you’re going to get us killed! My heart is beating fast, and my fingers grip the seatbelt tightly.

The government flypod doesn’t drop to follow us.

Soon, we are flying above an uninhabited part of Merona. Below us, I can see dense forests and grassy hills.

Arkin, where are we going? I cannot see any other flypods in the sky.

We’re almost there, I promise.

We land in a grassy field at the bottom of a hill.

Arkin fastens his flypod to a tree and covers it with foliage until it is no longer visible. I glance at the sky; it will be dark soon.

Our feet crunch heavily in the grass as we climb the hill.

We both look up at the sky as it explodes into a fiery red and orange. The sunset looks even more beautiful at an elevation. We stand still, awed by the sight.

Arkin, can you tell me what is going on?

I am not prepared for what Arkin tells me. My father has been hiding out here with other dissidents, building an apparatus to send a signal back to the civilization that sent us the golden disk.

Above us, the darkening sky is already sparkling with emerging stars. The crescent moons are tinged with a saffron haze.

Do you think they are doing the right thing? I ask.

I do not believe that we are alone. The spirit that lives in you and me is the same spirit that lights the sky. The civilization that sent us the golden disk reached out to us for a reason, and we must respond. We are all dust of the same creation.

I ponder Arkin’s words. I had never thought about my life that way. I realize that Arkin comes from a traditional way of life that now seems quaint and old-fashioned to most of us on Merona. But, his words are strangely reassuring and somehow bring meaning to what is going on.

Arkin tilts his head skyward and closes his eyes. His face is calm and serene, and a stillness hangs over him.

Is he praying? I wonder. I have no experience with prayer and stand silently.

Then unexpectedly, a memory of the sounds from the golden disk fills my mind, a plaintive music stirring in me an intense longing for something indefinable.

Arkin opens his eyes and takes my hand.

Come.

We arrive, and I am astonished by what I see.

The apparatus is positioned on the hilltop, obscured by a canopy of trees.

A small group is gathered. I don’t know how to describe the object; it is magnificent and resembles a giant metal dish.

Welcome, Cosma.

I know without looking that it is my father.

His arms envelop me, and I rest my head on his shoulder. I didn’t know if I would see my father again, and I instantly feel safe and happy.

I am sorry that I left, but I hope you understand.

And I do. I know it will take time to catch up with my father, but I respect him for his dedication to what I now know is right and necessary.

Somebody presses a button, and an antenna unravels from the apparatus.

It is decided that the signal will carry cryptic words from the golden disk itself, an acknowledgement to the other civilization that their message was received.

I know that we are doing the right thing for Merona.

Even before the revolution, there had always been something missing in our lives. We have accomplished so much, but something has been lost over time. I hope that one day we will find it again.

In the face of the revolution, I am stronger than ever, and I feel a profound respect for the unknown that for so long I had been taught to disregard. I admire Arkin for keeping his faith, and I feel I have been changed in some way.

I smile, content to watch the cosmos from afar.

***

On the other side of the universe, Dr. Peterson yawned sleepily and sat up in his chair. He had accidently fallen asleep monitoring the radio dish. The scientist rubbed his eyes and peered groggily at the screen.

It was only the slightest difference: the parabolic pattern fluctuated unsteadily, and the waves stretched wider.

After decades of working in astronomy, Dr. Peterson knew the unvarying pattern of the radio waves by heart. And, he knew exactly what anomaly he was looking for.

His hands shaking, Dr. Peterson rushed to input the data. He waited for the analysis from the machine. The screen came alive with the words.

Per aspera ad astra.

Dr. Peterson stood frozen in place for a long time. It seemed almost incomprehensible. Then, he thought of the Voyager Spacecraft launched back in 1977 carrying the Golden Record.

“My god,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “They’ve responded.”

 

Heart Flames

The cold, dry air blew through the forest. The trees swayed from side to side, occasionally dropping twigs or leaves on the hastily built campsite. The concoction of the sounds from the day quietly dissolved into the thin, night air. The only noise in the whole forest was the sound of the fire crackling and the wrinkling of the piece of paper I clutched tightly in my hand. The sparks from the flame were almost as bright as the stars in the night sky.

I quickly scanned the paper, stopping over certain phrases. I traced the picture on the paper with my finger as I looked at the fire. The girl was only seven or eight and had innocent, sky blue eyes. Her blonde hair was tied back in two, thin braids. She was clutching her left elbow, obviously not feeling comfortable, but her gentle, half-moon smile was the most enticing feature on her fair-skinned, gentle face. I examined the words written over her head, and my eyebrows went up. The paper read: Wanted: Brynn Cooper. For theft and embezzlement.

Jason walked over and sat down next to me on the log. He took one look at the picture and burst out into laughter.

Spinning around, I gave him a nasty look. “What do you think is funny about any of this?”

Jason ran his hand through his cherry red hair and smiled. “At least no one is going to recognize you.”

I couldn’t help but smirk. “They should’ve used an older picture,” I giggled. “Nobody is going to believe a little kid did all that.”

“Of course they won’t, you’re almost fourteen,” Jason got up, “and you had better hair when you were seven.”

“Hey!” I smacked his arm playfully. “At least it’s better than your Wanted picture.”

He rolled his forest green eyes. “Welcome to the club.” He threw on a red sweatshirt with stains and holes. He turned around towards the shelter we built out of sticks and mud. “Hey Brynn, are you comin’?”

I glanced back at him. “Nah, I’m gonna stay out here.”

Shrugging, he climbed back into the entrance

I faced the fire, watching the flame fall and rise. The thick, smoky scent and sudden, red flares were comforting in the dry, cold forest. Looking at the paper, I felt a sudden pang of sadness. Control your emotions Brynn, I chided myself, don’t go wishing things that will never happen.

Sighing, I tossed the wrinkled, half torn paper into the flame and got up to leave just as something caught my eye. In the flame, I saw a faint image. I took a little step closer and immediately stepped back. It was a face. A very familiar face. The same face I would see if I looked in a mirror or a puddle. Nervously, I padded closer. Yes, it was definitely that face, but she was different. Her blonde hair was neatly combed back instead of flying all over her face. Her blue eyes weren’t glazed from exhaustion, they shone bright and carefree. Her clothes were clean clothes, not dirty and speckled with dust.

Who are you, I silently demanded. She didn’t respond, but she started laughing. I felt my face grow warm. Don’t mock me, I glared at the face in the fire. She laughed, and I saw another familiar face emerge.

Her eyes were sky blue, but in contrast, her curly, dark hair was as brown as fudge. Her light body was wrapped in a sleek, dark red dress that complemented her figure. Even seven years later, I could reach deep into my memory and remember her laugh.

“Momma?” I gasped. I inched forward so close that I could touch her face. I never saw her so happy. All those years that I had stayed in that miserable house, she was always crying or yelling, one or the other. Smirking, she hugged my reflection close to her chest.

I felt my eyes dampen. I was faintly aware of a tear silently streaming down my face, but I didn’t wipe it away.

Control your emotions. Control the flames of desire.

Control the flames inside of you.

The two figures turned as the flames shivered. I saw a masculine face emerge, with a carefully trimmed mustache and an almost bald head. He had chocolate brown eyes and his eyebrows were raised almost as high as mine were. I didn’t know what to think. Horrifying images of that drunken man swinging a chair at the lights, smearing mud all over the house, keeping me tucked in a closet for hours. My father had changed.

They looked so happy, they laughed and hugged each other. In reality, that never would have happened. Kissing Momma on the cheek, Dad hugged me tight. I felt tears pouring out of my eyes as I lifted my finger to touch. It was so dangerous but so close. I shouldn’t be wanting things that would lead to disappointment. A life full of disappointment.

How do you control the flames inside of you? How do you control something that you want so much?

Slowly, carefully, I brought my finger up to the flames. The fire licked my fingers playfully, as if inviting me in.

Stop. Stop. Stop. Control the flames. Don’t do it.

I wanted it so bad. I can’t control my emotions. I can’t control the flames. I can’t stop wishing for a life that was gone.

Inching forward, carefully…

SPLASH! Water drops sprayed onto my eyelids. Blinking, I watched the steam rise into the air. Feeling a cold hand jerk me backwards, I spun around. “Jason! What are you doing?”

“Saving your life. Thank me later.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“No. What’s wrong with you?” Jason looked at me quizzically. “You were gonna stick your whole head in there.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“What were you doing?”

Shuffling my feet, I looked down. “Okay, this is gonna be weird. But I saw my whole family — honestly! I did! Don’t give me that look,” I glared. “But they were all so happy and — ”

“And?”

“I wanted to join them. They were all so caring and kind — Jason! What’s the matter?”

Cold eyes stared down at me. Jason crossed his arms, and his mouth was drawn into a snarl. “Never say that you want something,” he growled, “that is impossible to get.”

Jason’s gaze hardened. “Silly expectations and worthless aspirations leads to disappointment,” he murmured softly. “You and I know that better than anyone. You have to control your emotions. Control your emotions. Control the flames of your heart’s desires.”

Control the flames of your heart’s desires.

 

Darling

The doorbell jingled as a woman and her daughter entered the cafe. They did not look at all alike.

The daughter was short and chubby and seemed to waddle instead of walk; the mother was tall and lanky, each angle from chin to elbow sharpened to a point. The woman wore a close-lipped, businesslike smile as she strode up to the counter. A pair of metal-framed glasses balanced precariously on her sharp cheekbones, the lenses immaculately clear. The girl followed behind, close enough to tread on her mother’s heels.

“How can I help you this morning, miss?”

“One black coffee please,” the woman replied curtly, without a single glance at the menu. She had already pulled out her wallet when she noticed that the girl had pressed her face up against the glass case of pastries, mesmerized by the colors. The woman’s pale cheeks flushed suddenly and furiously, as if she had been slapped, “…and a pastry,” she added. She smiled somewhat embarrassingly, thin lips peeling back to reveal sharp teeth.

“Sure thing, miss. Which would you like?”

“You heard her, darling. Which one would you like?” The woman bent down to be at the same height as her daughter. “Do you want,” she squinted through her glasses at the menu, “a slice of cake, or a cookie? Or perhaps a brownie?” “Darling?”

The girl turned her head and stared up at her mother with big, blank eyes, then turned back to the glass case. The woman noted with a little shudder that the girl had already left several hazy, smudged handprints on the glass. With a sigh, the woman straightened herself and gave the cashier a terse smile. “A piece of cake, please.”

“That’ll be $4.89, miss.”

The woman exchanged glossy credit card for a paper bag and cup, warily eyeing the spots of grease already forming on the brown paper. She took a step back from the counter, carrying the bag, when she nearly tripped over her daughter, who had been silently standing close behind her. As the mother regained her balance, her daughter only stared at her silently with big eyes. The thin eyebrows of the mother suddenly twitched as something flashed across her eyes, quick as lightning. She pressed the bag firmly into the girl’s hands. “Darling, please, stand a bit further from me. You always get in my way.”

 

The Story About the King’s Bad Day

Once upon a time, there was a lion, (also known as the king for the citizens, the husband for the wife, and Dad for the cubs). There was a lioness, (also known as queen for the citizens and Mom for the cubs and wife for the king) and two lion cubs. One was named Alex, and one was named Sally. They were both twins, and their age was seven.

It was story time with the cubs and with their dad.

“Today, I am going to tell you a story that actually happened with me,” said the lion with his deep voice. Before he told the story, a pet dog named Sugar came and sat on the king’s lap. The lion started, “Once, when I was a little kid like you, I didn’t listen to my parents. Then I was very stubborn. I didn’t listen to anybody. I thought I already knew what I was doing. But one day, my mom and dad told me not to go to the dark forest. There are some scary creatures there, and they love eating children. But I thought too arrogant of myself and said to myself, ‘Why can’t I go there? Don’t Mom and Dad think I’m bold enough? Am I not going to be the future king?’ So I went inside, and there was a large cave, and in there it was pitch dark. So I went inside, and I saw a big tiger there looking at me and circling me. I was scared, then suddenly I realized why my mom and dad told me not to go there. They said it because it was to protect me. I felt really sad. Then somebody came and took a vine and was swinging towards me. He grabbed on to me and roared to the tiger. The cave shook, and the tiger went away scared.”

 

“Dinner time, kids!” called the mom.

“Not now, Mom, we want to hear more of Dad’s story!” they both whined.

“You better come now, otherwise no dessert,” called Mom.

Sugar the dog came right away and was sticking out his tongue ready for food.

“Go Alex, go Sally. I will tell you more about the story next time. I bet you don’t want to miss dinner. We got a surprise!!!” their dad said.

They ran down quickly to see Mom.

When they got to the large, colorful diamond room, then they both said, “What’s the surprise, Mom?”

“I won’t tell until you eat your food,” said Mom.

 

The next month, it was summer. There was no food, no puddles of water, and it was very, very hot. The savannah’s sand was very hot. Whenever somebody put their paw (foot) in the sand, it would burn. And in the morning, you could hear the birds chirping, and you could see everybody trying to get some shade. After the humid day and without a catch of food, a cheetah came up to the king. Sugar barked at the cheetah. The cheetah told the mutt to pipe down.

The cheetah said, “You and your family look really hungry, sooooo I’ll give you a life supply of meat.”

The lion thought he was seeing stuff, so he rubbed his eyes, but he still saw the cheetah. He roared, and fire came out of his mouth and said, “Where did you get this ‘life supply of meat’?”

The cheetah was scared and said, “I am only here for a reason, I’m here to make a trade. I got the meat from New England.”

The king was confused. He asked, “What trade do you want from me?”

“I want you to give up your home, and give me your house, and I’ll give you a life supply of meat,” the cheetah said.

 

The lion was discussing it with his family and said, “How do we know if this a hoax or not?”

All the lions were thinking, and Mom had an idea.

She said, “Let’s trick him, and see if he acts strange and runs away.”

Then the lion said, “How do I know if you’re not tricking me, why would I give up my home? Give me a good reason!!! And by the way, why do you want my home?”

“Ummm, because I need it for my family.”

“Where is your family anyway?” asked the lion. “And why don’t you get a home over there? If I don’t get an answer, soon things won’t be looking good for you.” The lion roared.

“I think I should be going now,” said the cheetah, smiling.

The cheetah ran as fast as he could, but the lion caught up to him and said, “Are you a criminal?”

“Why would I be a criminal? What makes you think of that?” the cheetah said, nervously.

“Yup, he is a criminal,” said the lion.

“How do you know, Dad?” asked Alex.

“Because he is running away,” said Dad.

“Oh,” said the lion.

“We’ll take him to the police station, and they will take it from there,” said the king.

So they took him to the police station, and the police station was run by animals who were all tigers which made them look tough. The king was a little scared.

He told the police, “Here is a criminal. He wants to steal our home.”

“Thank you very much, King. We were looking all over for him. He is an escaped criminal. Do you want a reward of money?”

“No thank you, police officer. I already have too much money.” He went back home to see their home not there.

The king was very mad. He was so mad that he breathed out fire and said, “WHO DID THIS!!!” He saw, with a glimpse of an eye, a towing truck with his house and told the driver to stop the truck. But the truck kept on going. The lion was so mad that he tried to breathe fire to burn the truck down, but the truck was going too fast. The driver stuck out his tongue and the king saw his face, and it was another cheetah!!! When the lion saw this, he ran 100 miles an hour and stopped the truck with his own bare paws. He said to the cheetah if he didn’t get out, he will eat him in one bite. So the cheetah came out and acted innocently. But when he came near the lion, he ran like the wind and tried to get away from the king. He knew that he can run fast but can’t run for long. He wasn’t looking in front of him, and he bumped into a pole. He was really dizzy. By then, the lion caught up to him and pulled him up his head and asked him, “Are you the brother of the cheetah, and what’s you and your brother’s name?”

The cheetah replied, “Yes, I am the brother of the cheetah in jail. My name is Razor, and my brother is called Fred.”

The lion said, “Why are you and your brother trying to steal my home?”

“Because both of our family doesn’t have a home. So we are stealing yours.”

“But why don’t you steal another house? And why does it have to be my house? And why don’t you have a home?”

But by the time he asked all those questions, the cheetah ran away and surrounded the lion with cacti, and he drove off with the truck. The king was so mad that he breathed fire, and all the cacti burned down. And he tried to chase the truck, but the cheetah put the metal to the pedal, so the king couldn’t catch up. But the king knew that if he kept on distracting him, he won’t be looking ahead, and there was a curve right ahead of him.

So when the lion waved to the cheetah, the cheetah was asking to himself, “Why is he waving to me?”

Then he saw in front of him that there was a big curve ahead of him. But it was too late. He dropped down, he clasped his hands together, and he was praying. When he finally touched the ground, he was very, very dizzy. Luckily, he didn’t get hurt. He only got a few bruises. There was the king out there waiting. He got tired, so he got him out himself, and the police were standing right near the truck. The Tiger police apprehended him.

The lion asked, “Why are you and your brother running away from me and stealing my home!”

The cheetah replied, “Because we want to steal homes, then sell them, and make a fortune!!!”

The lion said, “That’s just crazy!! All for this!!! Take him away, police officers.”

“NNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOO WWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTT!!! I WON’T EVER DO IT AGAIN!!!” the cheetah cried.

“I’ve heard him enough. Take him away,” said the king.

The king went back home and was murmuring back home, I hope there isn’t another brother!

So he went back home and saw his cubs running towards him and said, “Mother is lost! Mother is lost!! We can’t find mother!” They both yelled.

“Oh my gosh, why do bad things keep on happening to me? Where was she when you last saw her?” the lion said.

“We saw her last at the kitchen cooking lasagna… ”

“Mmm, that sounds yummy. But we have to stay on the topic on saving your mother. Have you seen the person who took your mother?”

“Yah, we think it’s the cheetah that we saw first.”

“WHAT!!! I thought he was in jail, or did he convince the police that he was innocent?”

“But that is impossible unless the police is on the cheetah’s side!! The police did seem really suspicious.”

“I think we should go to the police station and investigate. Maybe your mother is there.”

So they went to the police station and saw their mother behind the bars.

The king roared, “LET MY WIFE GO!!! ON WHOSE PERMISSION YOU ARE PUTTING YOUR QUEEN BEHIND BARS!!!

The police was jingling his keys and was laughing.

“Why wouldn’t we prison our so called ‘queen’? Our boss wants to rule this kingdom. He sounds like a way better king then you. You don’t take care of your citizens!! He said that if we put the ‘queen’ in jail, then he will treat us fairly.”

“Why are you doing this? He’s probably tricking you, so he can be king! Fine, I admit that I was a bad leader. Please forgive me, and I will treat everybody better. Also, you have to give me back my wife. Who is this ‘boss’ of yours?” said the lion.

“He, well I don’t really know. He just has a mask over his face,” said the police. “Wait, you are working for a boss who you don’t even know,” asked the lion.

“Well, yeah,” said the tiger.

“Come on, if we team together, we can live together equally,” said the lion.

“Okay, sounds like a plan to me,” said the tiger.

“So first, let my wife out of jail,” said the lion.

“Okay.”

“Thanks for cooperating, police,” said Sally.

“Now we have to trick this boss of yours. But how?” said the king.

“I have an idea,” said the tiger.

So once the boss came, he said to the tiger, “l got a new plan to get rid of your king.”

“Okay, let’s hear it,” said the tiger.

“So let’s make a quick mmmooovvvve,” said the boss when he saw the lion appearing.

“Move, right, but what move?” said the lion, grinding.

“Oh no. What are you going to do with me?” said the boss.

“Well first, who are you?” said the lion.

“I am a snake,” said the boss snake.

“Okay, but why do you want to rule the kingdom,” said the police officer.

“Because I want to rule and become famous,” said the snake.

“Okay. So police officer, take him away,” said the lion.

“Well, I do deserve it,” said the snake.

 

After a long day, their dad played baseball with Sally and Alex and their mom, who was safely back home.

The End

 

Schoolwork Aiding Websites: Innocent Aid or Devious Cheating?

As technology slowly seeps into our lives, influencing our daily lives, elbowing it’s way into our mind and schedule, it becomes more and more crucial to establish a clear border between it and us. The establishment of a border that clearly demarcates where your hand ends and your phone begins may seem easy at first. As technology worms it’s way further into our lives, however, the hand and the phone fuse, and the weight of humanity becomes more and more reliant on the crutch sweetly proffered by our mechanical aides.

This increasing dependence on technology manifests itself in many ways. Hackers are born, people who spend their lives trying to defeat the online systems in games and spitefully create viruses. Many people sink into deep depressions as a result of online social rejection, only to attempt to abjure the situation by fleeing to other social media platforms. The Hikikomori, a Japanese term meaning “being confined,” are a group of Japanese youth who spend their lives in their rooms, eyes glazed over from screens, their meals delivered under the door. Technology rears its ugly head as well by contributing to a long-brewing firestorm of fake news, using the naive reliance of young adults on the Internet for news to pollute their minds with twisted facts. In the 2016 election, many Russian bots, or fake users, were sent on to Facebook and other platforms, where they contributed to the alarmingly rapid spread of misinformation.

The avaricious outreach does not stop there, however, and also makes itself known in what I believe to be its most vicious method yet: spell check.

Yes, that little red underline that pops up when you fail to put “I” before “E” (except after C), that innocent little reminder of your various grammatical error, the one that has saved your life on countless school assignments. Yes, that unassuming little helper will be more disastrous to humanity than the influx of bots and fake news will be, and it will be so in accordance with the single most important law regarding electronics and all forward motion, the Golden Rule: Short-term convenience always leads to long-term inability.

Picture it like this: If I have to jump over a large crate to get to school each day, I would feel greatly inconvenienced, as it might result in my being late to school. That weekend, I decide to hire a team of workers to lift the large, heavy crate each day as I go to school, in order to stop that tiring leap each day. Once the crate is gone, I enjoy an uneventful trip to school each day, free of stress or physical exertion. Over time, since I stopped my daily crate-jump, my legs slowly lose that ability, as I am getting no crate-jumping exercise elsewhere. As I enjoy my walk to school Monday morning, I notice that, by some freak accident, all of the members of my special crate-removal crew are sick. I look around and see no other way to get to school in time, no way to get around the crate. If I attempt to jump over the crate, I will be unable, despite the fact that not long ago it had been easy. An inconvenience, but in hindsight, relatively easy. Therefore, I become late to school, and I am late to school every single day that my crew is absent from their station.

While navigating a complicated and rapidly evolving world, it is important to remember the actual reason for our evolving. What is the actual force the has propelled us past the denizens of the animal kingdom. It is certainly not our brains, as we are dumber than not only dolphins, but elephants and certain whales as well. It is not our strength, say bears, oxen, tigers and gorillas, or even weight and strength ration, crow the Dung Beetle and the Leafcutter Ant. If not brain or brawn, what could it be that separates us from the multitudes of beasts? The answer is simple. It is one of the very basic skills of humanity and part of the reason we survive today: our ability to write, springing from our opposable thumbs. Opposable thumbs, however, are not nearly as interesting an article topic, so writing it is.

The differentiation between an early human’s schedule and a dolphin’s may well have been very similar. Awaken. Search for food. Potentially meet predator. Die at the hands/fins of predator or not. Eat food. Sleep. Repeat the process until death, whenever that might come. The only reason humans dominate the earth is their fast-paced evolution, beginning with writing, which enabled mankind to pass down discoveries. Isaac Newton said it best in the famous quote, “If I have seen further it is by standing on (the) shoulders of giants.” That was how humans broke out of the cycle they shared with dolphins, by building on the knowledge already gained by their ancestors. If a dolphin found a place with a particularly copious amount of food, there was no way to record that, so he would eat up and leave. A human would paint it on the walls of his cave, and the place would feed generations. This baseline skill of humanity has been the reason that we have progressed even through hardship, and its absolute necessity should not be forgotten.

Because of this, and the fact that humans know it as well, there have been no attempts to actively inhibit our writing, with a few exceptions. Unfortunately for us, however, we have somehow found a way to do so, and under the guise of being completely innocent, which is even worse. The more aid that humans receive from online, the less they write themselves without help, the less they are able to write without the constant help of websites and spell check, which will almost definitely result in debilitating results in the long-term. Already, people rely too heavily on these such websites, and too many students now rely on sites like Grammarly for their essays. There is a reason that we are not producing the same caliber of writers as we used to, a reason why the quality of the average book has deteriorated from complicated and nuanced to weight loss, a reason why nearly all the books worth referencing are from at least twenty years ago, if not much more. Who would have guessed that believing that we need external aid for humanity’s most basic need would result badly?

Another reason to be alarmed by Grammarly and its similar entourage is its surprising amount of tolerance that teachers have regarding it, when the reality is that they are helping students too much. I personally find it astounding that its usage has not been banned by the DOE, especially since Grammarly and Co. are not doing that much to attempt to dispel any sort of criticism. They are, in fact, being very outright about the fact that they are servicing students with essays they are meant to be doing by themselves. “If I want to get A’s on (my final exams), they better be free of typos,” an actor playing a student states in a Grammarly ad, and then continues with a sly smile, “Grammarly is my secret weapon.” One might think that this is just a little business tactic and that Grammarly does not do a ton to help your writing, just maybe catch the occasional mistake. Nope. The actor boldly plows onwards, “It’s more than just a simple spelling or grammar checker, Grammarly catches ten times as many errors as Microsoft Word. (Grammarly) helps me with word choice, punctuation, and sentence structure.” Oy vey. And then the video closes with two absolutely awful phrases that sound straight out of an episode of Black Mirror, “Better writing. Better results.”

Better writing. Better results. We will improve your writing and make sure you get better grades. All for free. And this is all allowed by nearly all schools, which is absolutely appalling. How is one supposed to learn writing if whenever there is bad writing, it is automatically fixed? This is even ignoring the simple fact that the teachers must be very misled. If a student needs extra help with their writing, the teacher will never know, and neither will the high school or college the student applies to when they see the students’ grades. This is an appalling interjection of corruption and laziness into society, and soon enough the long-term effects will come into play. In 1997, world champion Garry Kasparov lost to the IBM supercomputer Deep Blue in a game of chess. Now, a supercomputer can know how to beat you after you make your first move, and human skills at chess are useless compared to theirs.

Better writing indeed. We shall see about the second count.

 

Dimension

A dark-haired Girl with pale, lifeless eyes, no older than seventeen, but with a countenance hardened beyond her years arrived here around six months ago with no expectations and no purpose. Fate had steered her path in a single direction: one blackened by tragedy; soiled by betrayal; eased only by cynicism and shabby expectations.

“Here” was a massive room; yet, for all its spaciousness, no furnishings filled the void of white walls and stark, faintly marbled floors. The sole breach in the room’s sterility was a striking set of doors, centered to the front wall. Though the room was clearly designed with a sharp, contemporary eye, the doors had an incongruous, traditional style — an elaborate ornamentation of unfurling metal skillfully placed over the seeded, glass windows and an outer arch composed of four, curved panes that added grandeur while directing soft light throughout the room. Copper knobs plated with metal motifs adorned each door, their intricacy undoubtedly attracting the eagle-eyed attention of both architectural connoisseurs and everyday onlookers. Within the room, the elaborate doors were most distinct for the aura they radiated — one of welcome and warmth; the feeling of sunshine on a harsh winter’s day.

A hazy image of an impressive manor materialized in the Girl’s mind. She had once stayed there. With smooth, stucco walls, a tiled roof the color of sunset-lit desert sand, and rich, wooden features highlighted by warm, ambient lighting, the mansion held an immense appeal. Its interior, though a motley of different styles, was just as stunning. Three occupants had shared this manor with her: a dutiful father, a nurturing mother, and a sweet son. The Girl paused her mulling briefly, realizing that it had become a household of two.

It was the mother who had picked the Girl up. She found the Girl abandoned in a musty, cramped storage area filled with various, unwanted things — old mannequins, costumes, bizarre-looking kitchen contraptions. The Girl vividly remembered the man who had shoved her there — she had coined him the nickname “Pattern Man” because he always paired revolting articles of clothing. Once, he wore a hideous flamingo tie, a gray and white checked shirt, a houndstooth double-breasted blazer, and matching houndstooth pants. He was eccentric, yet quick to judge others by appearance: a complete hypocrite. After one look, he had deemed the Girl “weird” and hid her in the storage box. Not that the Girl cared; rather, she was glad to be shielded from his hideous outfits, and amused by his arbitrary judgement of her. Many people were usually startled by the Girl — they felt her jarring gaze penetrated their souls. The mother was a rare exception; upon seeing the Girl, she clapped her hands with delight and immediately brought the Girl to the manor.

The mother was a young, beautiful woman with clear, blue eyes and silky, auburn hair; however, creases had begun lining the corners of her mouth — she was overspending her smiles for her family’s sake. The father loved his wife, the mother, for far more than her looks, but the Girl quickly learned that the mother was his second priority at best.

Their son, still young, was only six years, but quite clever. Upon first sight of the Girl, he was startled, and said, “she’s like an ‘Elf on the Shelf,’ but not happy… always watching, and not necessarily in a good way.” The mother chastised her son, and told him that the Girl must have a story — one that explained her demeanor.

The Girl had grown slightly fond of the mother; she thought that the mother understood her and was ready to listen to her story. However, the Girl lacked the myopia to believe such innocent happiness would persist in her future and the household’s.

Within a few years of the Girl’s arrival, the mother, possessed by some potent force, bolted away from the household, taking an impressive sum of money and her beloved’s inky black Mercedes. She had shamelessly discarded her family to quench an avarice for freedom, and splendor within that freedom.

After the mother left, the father had furiously expunged the manor of everything she cherished, including the Girl. He disposed of it all on the manor lawn.

The Girl had nowhere to go after she was cast out. Occasionally, she would glimpse snapshots of the fragmented household’s affairs: the cruel way in which the father blamed the son for the mother’s madness, the broken way in which the son developed during his most critical years, the destructive way in which abandonment had slashed unhealed scars on both the father and the son. It was an unfortunate, but expected, reaction.

The Girl languished for longer than she could remember, sitting on the browning manor lawn. Each day, despite varying weather conditions, was no different to her — except one gloomy afternoon when violent rustling from the unkempt palms caught the Girl’s ears. It continued until suddenly, out leapt a scraggly man. The man was wearing a grimy newsboy cap and various layers of sack-like clothing, their colors indistinguishable due to filth. He scampered to the pile of discarded things near the Girl and ruffled through, pocketing several fistfuls of jewelry.

“Well, yer an interesting thing, aren’t ye?” the man gleefully grinned to himself after finally noticing the Girl. He grabbed her and darted away from the household. The Girl tried to quell her rising curiosity about the scraggly man and what he wanted with her. He had beady, black eyes, a mousy, chin-length tangle of hair, and large ears. Perhaps he would be a good listener. The Girl’s optimism quickly extinguished as she realized reality could never possess a person trustworthy enough to listen to her tale. Each person she had met had been spoiled by vices; even this man was a criminal, for he had both trespassed the property and stolen items of considerable value from its grounds.

The scraggly man ran for days, resting periodically, until he reached a bustling market mishmash of colorful pop up tents and weathered stalls. The Girl felt a repulsive surge in her throat from the commotion of hawking vendors and the unabashed haggling of crowds. Unperturbed, the man wove through the swarm and halted at his desired stall.

“It’s been long, my friend!” The stallkeeper greeted the scraggly man with a tilt of his black-banded fedora.

“I foun’ some goodies that might interes’ you!” responded the scraggly man, eager to lay out the ransacked items. As he unknotted a fist-sized bundle from which gem-laden jewelry spilled, the Girl glanced at the stallkeeper, expecting to witness a detestable, cunning downplay of his enthusiasm. Instead, she traced the stallkeeper’s line of sight directly to herself.

“I’ll take the lot for five thousand dollars,” the stallkeeper hurriedly proposed.

“Tha’ won’ do. I got ‘sepnces, you know? Throw in an extra fif’een hun’red and you got yourself a deal.”

“Fine,” The stallkeeper was uncharacteristically anxious to settle a price; he employed none of the typical merchant beguilement. He shoved a mass of twine-bound bills at the scraggly man, who, after swiftly squirreling it away under his newsboy cap, disappeared into the mob. Turning towards the Girl, the stallkeeper began surveying her with raking eyes, hoping his boss would consider her a valuable find. His boss was a museum patron who naturally took an affinity to pretty and peculiar things. She’s really got a piercing look about her, the stallkeeper thought. She’d, at the very least, interest my Boss.

The stallkeeper took long strides to his car, and placed the Girl and his briefcase in the backseat. Here I go, yet again, thought the Girl. How tiresome! Fate has cursed me to ceaselessly be circulating, searching for a worthy person to listen to my tale; searching to no avail.

A gentle creaking echoed around the massive room, bringing the Girl back from her memories to the present. Light splayed across the marble floors as the imposing, wooden doors began opening. In all the time the Girl had spent in this room, never had the doors opened. Her curiosity was aroused. A man holding a large key ring emerged first from the doors, followed by a steady stream of people.

Aline was excited for today. Her grand-papa was taking her to a wonderful place — the new museum. Visiting museums, especially art museums, was Aline’s favorite activity. She eagerly got dressed for the day’s outing, testing different outfits before settling on a flowy, white dress and sandals. Grabbing her blue, leather knapsack, she rushed to the apartment’s front door, anticipating the arrival of her grandfather. Disappointed by a bare hallway, she called out to her mother, “When is grand-papa coming? I can’t bear to wait any longer!”

“Any minute now, dear,” her mother patiently replied.

Aline flopped on her bed and sighed, her mind teeming with thoughts. The newscast mentioned the museum’s first exhibit a lot. Perhaps it’s an enormous sculpture? Or a fresco? That would be impressive!

Though the front door knocker was nearly inaudible from Aline’s room, she caught its tapping and ran to greet her grandfather, a slight old man. He embraced her in a firm, loving hug. After kissing her mother goodbye, Aline cheerily clasped her grand-papa’s arm and set off to the museum: a mere fifteen minute walk, but to her, an eon had lapsed before they finally arrived. She skipped up the wide steps, ready to enter the museum.

“Grand-papa, look at those magnificent doors! And those doorknobs! How interesting they are, with all those beautiful patterns in the metal… come on, hurry, Grand-papa!”

The old man chuckled at his granddaughter’s enthusiasm and shuffled up the marble steps to meet her. Together, they entered the museum and into a massive, bleak room.

“How strange. The sign announces that this room holds the first exhibit, but there isn’t anything to be seen! Oh! What’s over there?” Aline bounded to the left wall of the large room, her grandfather struggling to match her pace. On the extensive wall hung a lone painting, no larger than the L’Innocence print that hung near Aline’s bedroom. The plaque beneath read: Exhibit 1- Cecilia.

“Aline, I’ll be waiting for you at the next exhibit. There seems to be some fantastic sculptures there,” her grandfather called.

Aline hardly heard him; she was too intently focused on the piece before her.

“So, I suppose you’re Cecilia.” Aline gestured to the painting. “Cecilia, you look a little disdained and sad. I wonder what happened to you… ”

The Girl recovered from the surprise of the doors opening. By now, several hundreds of people had stared expectantly at her — all of whom seemed either disappointed or puzzled. Now, before her was a dainty girl. She wore an airy, white dress that complimented her soft features.

The Girl had a premonition that this child — Aline, was it? — was one who could listen to her story; she seemed unsullied and attentive. For the first time in ages, the Girl spoke.

Aline’s eyes widened. She heard a voice in her mind, faint at first, but now distinct. Was it — could it be — “Cecilia?” Aline asked out loud, astonished.

“Indeed, child. That is my given name. Now, be silent and listen closely — I have a story to tell you. I am now a painting; however, I once was alive — I grew up with a family and partook in typical activities as you do now. My parents were wealthy bourgeoisie and the subject of jealousy among my father’s siblings.

It was a stormy night. I was of nine years and was having trouble sleeping — thunder scared me. My mama went downstairs to our kitchen to heat honey-milk for me, while my papa read me tales from story books beside my bed. He chose to read Little Red Cap — cruelly befitting — until I fell asleep to the soothing sound. A few hours later, agonized sob-screams awoke me. I cradled my pink, velveteen teddy in my arms, clutching it for comfort as my small frame trembled with fear. The shrieks continued, interspersed with unintelligible words; some I could make out as protests — “NO… STOP!”

The voice was unmistakably that of my mother’s. With my heart pounding, teddy clutched to my chest, I padded over to my parent’s room — peering through the door, which was slightly ajar, I witnessed the most gruesome sight. I was petrified with fear.

In the bedroom glinted a blood-spattered dagger, wielded by my father’s own brother — my uncle. My eye followed the dripping dagger down to the ground, where my papa had been sliced at the throat. Near him — kneeling in his blood — and wracked by sobs was my mama. She was trying to reason with my uncle.

My uncle opened up my papa’s dresser, knowing that he kept a gun there — a gun my papa would never use on family. He slunk over to my mother. Steadily looking into her eyes, he raised the gun to her forehead. My mama had discerned I was near; her last words were addressed to me: “Cecilia, forgive this. Do not hold a grudge against others.” Her advice failed to register.

I ran away from the door, ran away from the house, ran leaving everything I loved, until I reached town. Dawn was just breaking. I sat on the front steps of a dreary looking bakery and wrapped my arms around my legs, trying to keep warm. But the cold still stung me. And so did the tears.

Fortunately, I was able to fall asleep for several hours, awaking to a jangle of keys and the words of “Who do we have here?” from a plump, middle-aged woman. I couldn’t trust her — couldn’t trust anyone, but of no other option, I followed her in. She asked about my parents. I said nothing, only shook my head. She patted my back, went next door, and came back after some time.

“My neighbor has agreed to take you in. He is a phenomenal artist and a man who I trust very much. Follow me next door.” I followed her to the neighbor’s loft-home. It was a single, large room flooded with papers and art supplies and paintings in various stages. There were scant furnishings — not much more than a bed, a work table, and a sofa.

The artist himself was a queer-looking man; he had narrowed eyes and a thin, black moustache. I stayed with him for three years, and over those years I grew increasingly suspicious of him. Something about his paintings seemed odd; as if the subjects were trapped… one that particularly disturbed me was of a frog. It had bulging eyes and four limbs spread so far apart it looked like it was undergoing an invisible quartering.

New paintings always appeared in the mornings; I never saw the artist painting in my presence. One night, after feigning sleep, I attempted to watch the artist. He had prepared his paints, his canvas — this one was about a poster size — but wasn’t painting anything. He suddenly turned on his heel and beckoned for me to come. He knew I had been watching. I walked slowly, terrified.

“Cecilia, it’s your turn to be painted.” He motioned to a stool. “Even though you never trusted me, I know you experienced betrayal. And I know that will forever influence you in shunning any person you deem flawed. Cecilia my dear, you may not understand this now, but every person has their imperfections. I cannot allow you to walk in a world for which you are not ready.” He repositioned me against the canvas. I became a rag-doll from fear, limp to his intent.

“Now, now, I’m not going to hurt you. Sit up straight, dear.” With a wicked grin, he began murmuring some nonsensical chants.

I awoke from a hazy stupor. Was it a nightmare? I tried to leave the artist’s eerie house by running to the front door. I couldn’t move. I tried again, in vain. Nearby, the artist sadistically watched.

“Now Cecilia dearie, I’m sure you’ve realized you cannot move. You may wonder why: O-ho-ho — it’s because you have become my newest masterpiece! You have been turned from a human to a painting! You cannot speak, except by telepathy. You will age and grow in the frame of my masterpiece. I’m doing you a favor; you can now observe the unscrupulousness of humankind without experiencing its hostility,” he chortled.

So, Aline, that is my story. For the past several years, I aged in the frame of this two-dimensional painting and was passed among people — a mother, a vagrant, a stallkeeper, and countless others: and not one of them was virtuous. They all had vices; they were unfit listeners — how could they understand the magnitude of human evils? How could they understand the betrayal I experienced? But, finally, I met you.

You may go now, child. Your innocence was my outlet for my emotion; now that I have exposed your mind to human treachery and worldly horrors, there is little you can do for me.”

Cecilia’s voice faded from Aline’s mind. Aline looked up at her, a newfound melancholy dimming her once-bright face. Pressing her eyes closed, Aline slowly breathed in and exhaled. With renewed fortitude, she met Cecilia’s despondent gaze and vowed never to become like her. Aline would choose to see the light in others; to forgive the darkness they might hold. After all, people are multifaceted: they have their strengths and their shortcomings, but in the end, it all constitutes their dimensionality: making them real and human — in a way a painting could never be.

 

World Sweeps Coal into Dustbin of History

It’s a humid day, reminiscent of so many others in Bangladesh, as Aarashi hops on the truck that will take him to the coal mine where he has toiled in obscurity most of his adult life. He enters the claustrophobic tunnel, like he has nearly every morning for twenty-six years, and is instantly swallowed by darkness. The mindless, repetitive motions of coal mining begin anew.

The earth doesn’t give up its treasure easily. Wresting the coal from its grasp is grueling, backbreaking work, but it feeds Aarashi’s wife and three sons, boys probably destined (some might say “doomed”) to one day follow their father into the mine. Aside from agriculture, Barapukuria Coal Mining Co. is the only source of employment within miles. The company has an economic stranglehold on the neighboring village where most workers live, but it’s a relationship both sides value as indispensable to their survival.

This day, though, news that threatens the symbiotic union circulates through the shaft. Aarashi hears his name echo through the damp bowels of the earth, and recognizes the voice as that of Nayaab, a co-worker, who bears unwelcome tidings: the government of Bangladesh is scaling back its use of coal in favor of renewable energy. Every miner in the labyrinth of tunnels feels personally threatened by the announcement, which parades under the banner of “progress.”

Although renewable energy has obvious advantages and is used to various extents around the world, coal miners — especially in poor countries like Bangladesh — are often left unemployed by the new competition. The plight of Aarashi, Nayaab, and their co-workers is but one example of the economic hardship that befalls miners when they are displaced by “green” technology, which topples old pillars of support and sometimes leaves human suffering in its wake.

Yet renewable energy seeks to avert an even greater tragedy that looms in the form of global warming. Carbon dioxide levels and global temperatures rose at their highest rates in recorded history over the last century, triggering frequent weather extremes and the extinction of certain species. Currently, fossil fuels represent the world’s main source of electricity, accounting for sixty-seven percent of total power generation.

Coal, however, is an environmental scourge. Its fumes pollute the atmosphere when burned to generate electricity, a process blamed for thirteen thousand deaths in the U.S. alone each year. An increase in renewable forms of energy will result in cleaner electrical production, reducing the demand for fossil fuels like coal. These new energy sources, which release less harmful emissions into the atmosphere, will slow down global warming and stem the increase of air-related diseases like cancer and other lung ailments.

The introduction of cleaner energy might leave Aarashi and Nayaab unemployed, but it could prevent their early deaths. Lung disease, often contracted by working long hours in the dusty underground, is an occupational hazard faced by miners worldwide. At first blush, this new technology might seem like a curse to miners, but it could prove providential to their health and welfare.

Renewables not only help the environment, in the long-term they benefit the economy and the impoverished people they initially displace. Hundreds of thousands of jobs are created to research, build, and operate renewable energy sources, putting many of the newly unemployed back to work with additional training. The new “green” jobs have the potential to lift employees out of poverty, turn them into contributing members of society, and put an end to the bleak generational cycle of sons following their fathers into the mines. College, once deemed financially off-limits to the children of miners, suddenly beckons as a possibility.

In addition, renewable energy holds the promise of supplying electricity to every home on the planet. Fully fifteen percent of the global population now lacks access to electricity. Fossil fuel prices are rising, and the cost is prohibitive for many families. People are dying of starvation because they are unable to preserve their food without electricity. Renewable energy offers new hope to this vast underclass, including Aarashi and Nayaab.

In the final analysis, we are all citizens of this world, its borders now blurred by technology and mutual threats. As such, we share an obligation to provide for our common welfare, to educate our children, and to protect the environment. Duty demands that we answer the clarion call of renewable energy, both for ourselves and succeeding generations.

Yet the United States, under President Donald Trump, is perhaps the biggest obstacle to reversing the effects of climate change. When the leaders of one hundred countries gather in Paris on Dec. 12 to intensify the fight against global warming, Trump will be conspicuous by his absence. The American president has rejected the Paris Agreement, negotiated in the French capital in 2015 to drastically curtail carbon emissions. Even war-torn Syria has pledged to join the accord.

Trump, however, has retreated to the isolationist policies of “America first,” leaving the world looking to France’s newly-elected president, Emmanuel Macron, as the de facto leader on climate change. Trump has embraced right-wing orthodoxies on the environment, and has already taken steps to revive America’s flagging coal industry, with the support of Republicans in Congress, especially those who represent Appalachia.

The U.S, president, less than a year into his first term, has indicated he intends to reverse his predecessor’s climate change policies, increase fracking for oil and gas, and lift current restrictions on coal mining. If Aarashi and Nayaab are bent on continuing their hazardous work, and find themselves unemployed under the more progressive policies of Bangladesh, they might find jobs in this country. U.S. coal mining and production actually ticked up this year.

But most analysts agree that the coal mining industry cannot ward off market forces, led by cheap natural gas, that have been building for years. Paradoxically, the Trump administration is revving up oil and gas exploration on federal lands, an intervention that has roiled conservationists and accelerated the decline of gas prices.

There are 643 million acres of federal land in the U.S., an area more than six times the size of California. Critics say this latest exploitation of natural resources threatens an iconic part of the country — and the western states’ identity. Even now, the Interior Department is drawing up plans to reduce wilderness and historic areas currently protected as national monuments, creating more opportunities for profit.

Trump has also vowed to remove roadblocks to energy projects like the Keystone XL pipeline, and promised to lift restrictions on coal mining and drilling for oil and natural gas. The president has already signed legislation that quashes the Office of Surface Mining’s Stream Protection Rule, a regulation that protected waterways from coal mining waste, enacted during the waning days of the Barack Obama administration.

“Neither a wise nor a brave man lies down on the tracks of history to wait for the train of the future to run over him,” asserted Dwight D. Eisenhower, former U.S. president and the leader of Allied Forces during World War II.

Of all the problems confronting this world, climate change is the most global. The task of converting to renewable energy should be a common effort, since bequeathing a habitable planet to our children hangs in the balance. Yet in the U.S., the coal industry exudes confidence for the first time in years as the nation abdicates its leadership role in the pursuit of profit.

 

Elsu

Elsu woke up, like every morning. Hungry. Living in the winter pit houses during the harshest winter that he had ever experienced. The pit actually proved to be quite warm. He had dug the fifteen-foot pits with his tribe right before the storm hit. He got up and tried to find some food still left from before the storm hit. He found some small birds but nothing much. Unfortunately, the hunters could not find many animals while hunting this winter, so it was a challenging life.

He remembered running through the forest. Shooting his bow at everything that stood in his way. He was so carefree. He never thought that this day would come in his lifetime.

The only food source that they currently had was some soup and bread made from the acorn meal that was stored underground after the last winter. But with the tribe growing bigger, and the food supplies getting shorter, it was no longer a reliable food source. They needed to find food. And fast.

Elsu’s name translates to “flying falcon.” When he was a kid, Elsu was said to be very adventurous. He watched with wonder, as the hunters walked into the forest to hunt deer, black bears, elk, and fowl. The hunters were strong, fast men. Capable of shooting a running elk blindfolded. Just by hearing its footsteps! They used bows and knives to kill the animals. And ran so fast, they were a blur.

While Elsu’s mom was making clothes for the tribe, she remembered Elsu coming up to her and asking if he could hunt with the hunters. Not wanting to disappoint him, his mom gave him a little bow, and some of her friends dressed up as animals and had Elsu shoot them with an arrow that had a stub.

His mom remembered Elsu’s face that day. Filled with excitement, that made her smile.

But now that smile was gone. Replaced with a steely gaze as she fought to keep up with the tribe’s demands for clothing during this winter.

But like a brave falcon, Elsu was determined to save his tribe from this harsh winter.

Like every morning, Elsu woke up and went hunting with the hunters of the tribe. He managed to find a couple of small fowl. But he knew that they wouldn’t satisfy the tribe. He needed to do something about this winter problem. And fast. Elsu recalled an ancient tale about a dragon at the top of the Serra Peak.

This dragon was once a murderous beast. Destroying everything in its path. Until one day, one of the elders, Elsu’s great grandfather, successfully tamed the dragon. He said he would let the dragon be free. On two conditions. The dragon would not destroy their land anymore. The dragon would also warm the earth with its breath, allowing the Miwok tribe to live through the winter. But the dragon had not warmed the earth at all this year. The flowers were withered. The trees’ branches were breaking. Something must be wrong.

Elsu would go and find this great beast. And see why it was not warming the earth like it did every year.

As they were heading back to their tribe, Elsu distracted the hunters by throwing a rock into a nearby pond. Assuming it might have been salmon, the hunters ran to the pond. Hoping to be able to get it before it swam away. Elsu then ran in the opposite direction. He ran through the trees. Hearing his tribe yell for him.

“Elsu! Where are you?” they shouted. “Come back!”

His best friend yelled for him, “Elsu! We need you! Don’t go!”

But Elsu continued to run. The tears started pouring from his eyes. He could not stop. He was on a mission. A mission to save his tribe.

Elsu climbed up the mountain. The once plentiful deer and elk. Gone. All the crops that the Miwok had once thought was a reliable food source. Gone. It had been two days of no food and very little water. If he didn’t find this dragon soon. He, and his tribe, would perish.

But then. He saw it. An opening in a seemingly endless number of trees. Elsu ran for the opening.

At last. He had found the dragon.

A blue-and-green-scaled dragon. As big as a Redwood tree. And probably stronger than one, too.

It seemed… wounded. As if something had attacked it the night prior. It could barely muster a tiny ember. Its life force was faded.

The dragon looked at Elsu. As if to say, “No. Don’t come nearer. It’s too late for me.”

But Elsu wouldn’t listen. He ran towards the dragon. As he was tending to the dragon’s wounds, he heard a low growl come from behind him. He turned around. And his eyes widened.

Standing in front of him. Was a giant black bear. When the elder tamed the dragon, to ensure that he did not harm anyone else unless necessary, he took out the hate in the dragon. And turned it into the form of a black bear. The bear was not as big as the dragon. But Elsu could see why the dragon had lost against it.

Its claws were as sharp as arrowheads. Its fur smooth.

The animals weren’t there because the dragon was suffering. They weren’t there because the bear had eaten all of them!

The bear stood up on his hind legs. And roared. Elsu was about to become this bear’s next snack.

Elsu rolled to the side as the bear swiped at him. Its magnificent claws barely missing Elsu’s chest. Elsu took his makeshift spear and drove it into the bear’s stomach. The bear howled in pain. But didn’t really seem all that fazed. It was going to take more to kill that bear.

The bear turned around and kicked Elsu in the stomach. Knocking the wind out of him and sending him flying into a nearby tree. Elsu’s entire body ached from the impact. But he had to keep fighting.

The bear built up a charge and then attacked. Charging straight for Elsu, but Elsu jumped on the bear’s snout and jumped over the creature.

The bear turned around, confused on Elsu’s current position. So confused, in fact, that the bear ran straight into a tree. It let out a bigger howl than it had before. Elsu had struck a second hit.

The bear turned around. To find Elsu, standing there. Minor scratches and some cuts. But mostly unharmed. The bear let out a deep growl. And charged at Elsu again.

Elsu didn’t dodge in time.

The bear slammed into Elsu’s chest. Knocking the wind out of him and sending him spiralling towards the ground.

Elsu hit the ground with a thud. Unable to put up a fight.

The bear seized his opportunity. And struck at Elsu.

Inches from Elsu’s face, the bear collapsed.

Elsu looked up. And instead of seeing a giant claw. He saw a blue- and green-scaled head. The dragon had come to his aid. Elsu looked up at the creature. It was still bleeding but had just enough strength to let out a giant, red-hot flame.

Elsu tended to the dragon. And in a couple of days, the dragon was back to its old self. One day, the dragon bent over. Allowing Elsu to climb on its back. He knew he had to return to his tribe.

Like his name always suggested, Elsu flew back, like a falcon. The wind in his hair. He felt free. He felt some warmth when before, there was no warmth at all. He was greeted by familiar faces. And instead of seeing anger. He saw pride. Elsu had saved the tribe.

The season continued on as normal. But Elsu felt a little more proud of himself. When all seemed lost, he had saved his tribe.

He wondered if anyone after his tribe was gone would be able to tell this tale…

 

Cotton Candy Skies

Reach up, up, to the cotton candy skies. To the heavens of pink, of white, and of gray, to the spun-sugar taste of a spring’s lovely day. The fire’s smoke twists into skeins of dark air, but the blue sky’s cobwebs knot into pale hair. Sunlight and moonlight and light of all hues, quiet in violet and in all types of blues. Cotton candy and whiskey, starlight and wine, the ghost of the sea and the sharp air’s bright shine.

Under the clouds, under the woven dreams and the needlepoint stars, people glance at lights of their own. They watch their stories, their phones, themselves, and they watch each other, the reflections of themselves they find, no matter how distant those refractions may be, but they don’t reach up. They reach out, weave webs of their own, the sky’s blooming clouds taken on loan. The mist of the winter, backed by the starlight of the heavens, and the recollections of summer as they weave through June and August and July, bright as fruit from a summer-grown tree.

The beauty of the thing, the idea of silence and of peace, is the faint reminder of souls, of the blood that flows in our veins and the dreams that light the backs of our eyes, the pale, iridescent memories of what we once were or what we could be.

What we could be, as a people. What we might be.

What we are is too dull, after all, isn’t it? Because what we are is a now, not the sweet nostalgia or heady regret of yesterday and not the bright promise or terrible inkling of tomorrow. Now is now, the forgotten heavens above our heads, not the cotton candy clouds of an idea not yet formed or the torrential rain of a memory pummelling the backs of our minds. Now is a tomorrow brought to life, a yesterday that is just being born, a reminder that living is no more than blood and neurons, and no less than something more.

Those spun-sugar heavens are meant for tomorrows, so reach out, out, and up to them, until cotton candy skies become the melted sugar of a sweet today.

 

Soul-carved (Excerpt)

“If any one of you ladies stole my gods-damn peppermints, I’m going to give your spellbooks to the gods-damn witch hunters!” The tired voice of Tallulah Hemmings — the strangest young witch in all of everywhere, as her biased mentor put itrang out across the deck of what looked to be an oddly shaped pirate ship, tumbling its way across the waves with an eccentric grace.

Her cutlass swung through the air, a nightmare of ruin and sturdy metal, as a witch of tides sheathed her sword post-practice.

Waves crashed over the ship’s sun-bright hull as it cut its course through the sea, the daydream light washing across the invisible sizzle of magic that spread its warm, salt spray across the deck of the ship.

Tallulah leaned back against the rail, her form a plain sketch of pencil and ink, and awaited her crewmates. Around Tallulah, magic rippled, invisible to all but the few who understood the crackling feeling of harnessed something that swirled around this entire ship in waves almost as thick as the water that carried it.

Another ship neared, one Tallulah had been watching for the past couple of hours as it had approached to scope out the witches’ own craft. A black sail adorned with a carefully woven skull-and-crossbones snapped in the wind high above the arriving ship’s deck, which gleamed with seawater against the sun of the clear day. Tallulah cocked her head to the side, the golden beads strung into her dark braids catching in the breeze as it passed a hand through her hair.

Pirates. There would be trouble soon, then.

Finally, Tallulah thought. She’d been listening to the first mate’s off-key rendition of an old war ditty for the past four days and could use a little bit of battle.

In her hand, a daisy bloomed idly under the care of its furious bearer, its petals stretching out too quickly through the air. Tallulah grimaced down at it, her face contorting around unremarkable features made for lying, and tossed the daisy as far across the deck as she could manage. Her eyes, the lines around them smile-worn from her years adrift, turned toward the sound of heavy boots on the deck as the ship’s botanist appeared from below.

Duchess Duchess Walters, the ship’s widowed gardener, had been named by her unfortunately status-obsessed mother before going out and finding herself a Duke, which had landed her in this predicament. Now, the woman herself — twenty-three and a childless widow after the War of Four, a disaster that had ended several years ago after sweeping across many realms of the larger universe, the Estate — clomped onto the deck with an easy smile.

“Sorry,” she said, though she didn’t sound as if she meant it. “You know how Katie gets about sweets.”

Duchess leaned against the rail and took the packet of seeds Tallulah had been holding, pouring them into her palm and watching as the petals spread out against her fingers in a reaction to her murmured spell.

“If you could get some water up here, that would be much appreciated,” she said, though it sounded more like an order to the lower-ranked Tallulah. “Once the pirates come at us, all their cargo’s gonna be in the sea and getting that out of it won’t be worth the effort.”

“Right,” Tallulah replied, snapping out her hands over the rail and letting them rest high above the waves. Tallulah concentrated, let magic flow through the little mark that had been etched on her shoulder many years back, and watched as many, many, many gallons of water floated up, up, up, over her head as the salt washed out of them and the ebullient water turned clear as glass. The weight didn’t crush her, but Tallulah let air hiss between her teeth as she distributed the water into ten empty barrels near the hatch to the cabin.

“They’re headed over,” she said, and a wisp appeared at her side. Tallulah turned to watch Nerina, the ship’s guardian spirit. The girl had appeared as the manifestation of the Soleil, the witches’ ship, as such spirits sometimes did when a ship had a surplus of magical residue. Tallulah had eventually grown accustomed to the disconcerting feeling of being able to see the girl only out of the corner of her eye.

Nerina, a freckled spirit, had a face that was quiet, too old, and shimmering with all the unpredictable beauty of the ocean itself. Her hair — pure white, though she never looked older than fourteen years of age — tangled in the wind behind her as Tallulah turned to face the spirit (or at least turned to face her as much as it was possible to face something that wasn’t technically corporeal).

“Neri,” Tallulah greeted her. “They’re going to attack?”

“They only see three people on board,” Nerina replied, her voice stuck in the space between sound and feeling. “Of course they are.”

“How many?”

Nerina dropped out of reality for a second before reappearing, her form buzzing as quickly as a hummingbird’s wings. “A couple dozen. No magic — at least, none that can’t be solved with seawater.”

Duchess tossed a daisy overboard, and the trio watched as it plummeted into the grey-green waves, the white foam swirling around it as the pale flower disappeared beneath the surface.

“Let’s smoke some pirate bastards,” she declared, tucking the empty packet of daisy seeds away. “Up for a competition?”

“If I take the ship down, I get my peppermints back,” Tallulah announced. “If you win, I’ll take over kitchen duty for the next three nights.”

“Deal.” They shook on it, magic zinging from palm to palm to seal the terms, and the trio stood shoulder-to-shoulder as they watched the pirate ship rumble over the waves to meet them.

Tallulah let them get close enough to almost bump into the starboard side of the finely-polished witch ship. But she knew the captain would be angry when she awoke from her midday nap if even a scratch had appeared on the hull of the Soleil, so Tallulah held out a hand at shoulder height and let a wall of water strike up, smashing timbers before the pirates could slam into the boat.

Witches… the pirates should have paid closer attention, because even though the Sol’s witches didn’t advertise, there were warning signs. Perhaps the ghostlike girl who flickered on the deck, or the garden that inexplicably grew across the wooden planks, or maybe even the pointy hat Duchess had donned for the sake of propriety.

Tallulah had never put on a pointy hat, propriety be damned.

“Neri,” Duchess warned as the ship broke unsteadily through the wall of water.

The spirit shrugged and spun in a tight circle, her pale hair fanning out around her like a dancer’s gown as she turned and turned and turned, a barefoot ballerina on the polished wooden planks of the Sol’s deck. Around the pirate ship, a whirlpool opened up, swirling into existence as sailors clutched the rails and a hoarse captain shouted orders.

Finally, finally, he noticed the pointy hat.

Ah, uniforms. They got one into and out of situations, blending in and standing out. People saw the uniform, not the face.

For witches, that wasn’t always an advantage.

The pirate ship, huge and hulking compared to the smaller but flashier Sol, collapsed onto its side as Neri fluttered out of existence, her daily minor miracle spent and her energy as drained as she would let it be. A wave, giant and white-tipped, crashed across the deck, washing pirates overboard as Tallulah’s gaze settled upon the thing she most hated to see: prisoners.

“Duchess,” she warned, hand drifting toward her cutlass as the pirate ship began to sink beneath the waves, wood melting into the perpetual ebb and flow of the ocean’s power.

Her friend winced and closed her eyes, muttering one of her chants under her breath as something began to glow in the heart of the sinking ship. The mainmast of the pirate ship lit aflame, a bit of it already under water, hellfire burning across it regardless of the ocean waves that tried to douse the flames.

“Damn,” Duchess cursed.

“You owe me my gods-damn peppermints,” Tallulah replied, double-knotting the laces on her thick, leather boots and hopping nimbly onto the railing. “But since Neri’s technically the one who sank it…”

Her friend grinned and tapped four fingers to her forehead, a mockery of the military salute the witches’ employers used. “Go be a hero.”

Tallulah replied with a variety of increasingly colourful words about exactly what she thought of heroism, but the ocean wind whipped her voice from her mouth as she plummeted to the ocean and the hellfire that burned underneath the water. The sea neared her, hard as asphalt from such a height, and Tallulah let the marks across her body roar with the magic in her veins.

She dropped to a mast, though not the one that Duchess had accidently lit with eternally burning fire, and felt her boots slide across the slick wood. A struggling pirate, toothy and desperate, latched a hand missing a thumb around her ankle. A skull and crossed red roses — the mark of a witch hunter — burned on the back of his hand; many pirates had such people on board because one could never be too prepared when it came to avoiding witches.

“Please,” he said.

“I hate that word,” she replied.

She couldn’t tell whether the water on his face was the ocean or his tears, but he whispered, “Please.”

“You’re really not helping your case,” she replied and glanced over to a raft that huddled against the hull of the pirate ship. He’d live, even if he didn’t really deserve to.

So Tallulah shook her leg free from his grasp and jumped, higher than a human could have, as a mark on the side of her neck tingled and sent the breeze to carry her over to the prisoners tied to the rail. As she flew — though it couldn’t really be called flying by any means, even if that was the best term for it — Tallulah produced the cutlass from her belt, a sword she polished too much that she now swung back as the ocean slicked her face with its spray, and the prisoners began to dip beneath the surface.

They had been tied with the sturdy rope Tallulah knew firsthand was used by pirates, the group of bedraggled people uncomfortable and panicking as wave after wave of unforgiving ocean washed across their faces.

Tallulah landed on the rail above them, slicing her blade through the rope with minimal effort, and then waited for the prisoners to disband. Beneath her feet, the metal rail slipped against the soles of her boots and suddenly Tallulah felt herself falling down, down, down as her stomach dropped with her to the surf.

And then a wave pulled the prisoners up, up, up, buoying the men and women she had saved to the deck of the Sol as Duchess exerted control over the ocean and pulled the sodden group to the sun-warmed wood of the deck.

The witch floated after them, doused with seawater from the wave, and landed on the railing.

Tallulah coughed, her well of magic barely depleted, and leaned an arm on the mainmast of the Sol as the pirate ship disappeared beneath the waves, several overcrowded rafts floating across the sea aimlessly as their angry occupants cursed the Sol and its witches.

“Get them belowdecks,” Duchess declared, though the request hadn’t been addressed to the sopping Tallulah. Nerina appeared, worn as old cotton, and she smiled as she took a man by the elbow and pulled him away, followed by the dazed crowd of sea-soaked prisoners.

“Ugh,” Tallulah announced.

“You’re getting clumsy,” Duchess replied, her voice singsong but almost stern underneath.

Tallulah just glared. “I’m tired, not clumsy.” At her side, an orchid bloomed, pink and white spreading through the flower as the scent reached her nose and blocked out the ocean breeze with its heady sweetness.

“Perhaps, perhaps. You still have a weakness for prisoners, though. And you were practically merciless with that pirate.” Tallulah detected an ounce of pride in Duchess’s tone, the small lift of the chin and settling on one hip that hinted at her satisfaction at a job well done.

“I’ve got my own reasons for hating people who take prisoners,” Tallulah reminded her, voice lighter than her meaning was meant to be. “And is saving lives all that wrong?”

“We’re witches,” Duchess declared, her warm tone booming across the deck. “By the laws of nature, much of what we do is wrong. Those prisoners should have died today, along with the pirates, and our boat should have been at least badly wounded. But the prisoners lived and most of the pirates did, too, and we’re fine.”

“Tempting nature to kill us before we can even find the witch hunters,” Tallulah bit out through a light chuckle. “I’m liking this already.”

“You always loved beating the odds.”

The magic that swirled around the boat brightened a bit, shimmering into almost-existence like a ghost reluctant to be seen. From high above dropped a bird, some brand of loud ocean thing, but it shifted and landed on human legs as it hurtled to the deck. A woman, blonde and dark-eyed, stood from her crouch, leaning back against the rail next to Tallulah and Duchess. She had a face hardened by bitterness and time, but she smiled a greeting to her protégé, Tallulah, before leaning her head back to glare at the sun as if it had done something to personally offend her.

“Hey, Katie,” Tallulah greeted her. “What’s up?”

“Good job with the pirates,” her mentor replied. “Those Evergrove idiots couldn’t even do that, but you’ve got the control.”

“They’re not idiots,” Tallulah retorted, but her voice had weakened over the years she’d spent pushing her point with Katie. Evergrove Academy, a school that favoured the magically gifted, was loosely considered the ship’s employers and even more loosely considered their friends.

The school trained people with magic, most of whom were unlike this boat’s witches in everything except species. Those with magic had been split into two categories long ago: those with calibers and those without them.

Calibers, or special, specific abilities (like water manipulation, telekinesis, or controlling life itself), allowed people to make the magic a part of them — one that was like an extra limb — without training, without spells and with minimal effort to bring it out.

The disadvantage, of course, was that their magic concentrated so strongly on their calibers that all other magic they learned was weaker, therefore, Evergrove students trained their calibers instead of the whole other well of magic they could have been drawing from.

The witches of the Sol fit into the second category of magic users. Like the others, they had magic passed down to them by their ancestors, but they lacked the concentrated calibers others had and therefore required years of practice and training to even begin working with the magic in their blood. The greater variety of spells they could use, however, often felt as if it made up for that natural disadvantage.

Often, but not always.

Tallulah leaned her elbows on the rail again, her gaze hardening on the horizon, where a city had begun to bloom as quick as the daisies Duchess has been nursing for the past few minutes.

“Where to next? You never tell us, Katie.”

“I think it’s supposed to be a surprise,” Duchess replied for the silent, apathetic navigator Katie, seating herself precariously on the bow. “Rips in the sea make it more convenient, I guess, to switch between the realms. Thank gods we didn’t land in a desert realm or something again — it’s lucky the oceans tend to blur together. But I’m not sure where we are yet.”

The rips, small sections of space that had been warped to accommodate realm-to-realm travel, were most common out on the open sea, which was why Katie preferred sailing between the group’s various locations.

“I’m betting on Saltstone City,” Duchess said. “I know the captain wants to go home.”

“Evallia,” replied a conspicuously soft voice from the doorway. The sound of the highest heels that could be gotten away with among practical witches on a ship echoed across the wood, the pale blue hair of Jax, the ship’s medic emerging from the shadows of inside. “I’ll put five on it.”

“Five on Saltstone,” Duchess replied, twining the daisy’s stem between her fingers as it grew larger than she had intended, a mammoth of verdant green, swollen white, and yellow pollen.

“Five on Sora,” Tallulah interjected carelessly. “Have you ladies been noticing the slightly strange colour of the waves and the direction they’re flowing? Sora’s distinctive that way.”

Katie whapped her on the back, the frowning curve of her face proud as a lioness. “That’s it.”

“So they spotted witch hunters in Sora?”

“Our sources rarely lie,” Jax reminded her. “And I’d like to think that Katie knows what she’s doing, Tallie.”

“Don’t call her that,” Katie chastised. “It doesn’t sound witchy enough.”

“Would you prefer for me to call her Lulu?”

Katie snorted, trailing a hand across a vine that curled around the ship’s wheel and watching as tiny purple flowers budded and then bloomed along the stem, condensation beading across a chilly glass of water.

“She’s just jealous because she’s called Katie,” said Duchess, swatting Katie’s hand away from the vine. “I don’t think any number of occult charms or pointy hats would make her feel like a real witch.”

“We’re on what’s basically a pirate ship that we’ve turned into a floating garden, and we sail from realm to realm, keeping wars from breaking out,” Katie replied. “I don’t have to have a cool name.”

“We’re not pirates,” Jax said, her soft voice slightly sharper. Her eyes didn’t exactly rest on Tallulah as she said it, but they flicked close enough for her friend to know the words were meant to be a reassurance for Tallulah and a warning for Katie.

“Of course not,” Katie bit back, slinging her legs over the rail as she balanced high above the water. “We just take the loot from bad guys, right? Because selling flowers and petty tricks can’t sustain seven ladies and their…covert endeavours. So we’re heroes now?”

Tallulah winced and leaned back over the rail, far away enough from her companions to warrant worry that she’d fall overboard. A wind — her favourite element of all four, even though she was technically a sailor — buoyed her up, up, up, and away from the crew of the Sol.

“I’ll be back soon,” she announced, but the wind whipped away her words as it whisked her high above the mainmast and through the sea-stained winds.

 

Romeo and Juliet Revisited

Sigmund Freud once theorized that all instincts can be categorized as life instincts (Eros) or death instincts (Thanatos). Life instincts, most commonly referred to as sexual instincts, are the need for humans to survive, feel pleasure, and reproduce. Death instincts create a thrill-seeking energy that is expressed as self-destructive behavior. When that energy is expressed towards others, it becomes aggression and violence. William Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet” describes the tragic love story of two star-crossed lovers whose passion leads to both of their suicides. Their love is driven by life instincts of libido when they fall in love at first sight. Their death instincts drive them to become self-destructive and violent when Romeo slays Tybalt and when they both commit suicide. According to the Encyclopedia of Death and Dying, Freud’s psychoanalogy describes how “humans function and feel at their best when these two drives are in harmony. Sexual love, for example, may include both tenderness and thrill-seeking.” Throughout the play, neither Romeo nor Juliet find that perfect balance between Eros and Thanatos. Both their romance and their deaths are driven by their broken instincts that resulted from the environment of hatred and violence in which they were raised.

Freud concluded that people will always have an unconscious yearning for death, however life instincts alleviate this desire. Not everyone agrees with Freud’s theories; however, if one chooses to believe this idea that everyone subconsciously is led by their death instincts, they would agree that Romeo and Juliet both express the want to die, but their unbalanced instincts don’t temper these feelings, which results in both of their suicides. After Tybalt has been slain by Romeo, Capulet tells Paris that he no longer can wait to marry Juliet, for they will be wed on Thursday. Juliet tells Lady Capulet, “O sweet my mother, cast me not away. Delay this marriage for a month, a week, / Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed / In that dim monument where Tybalt lies” (3.5.210). Juliet is threatening her mother by telling her that she would rather die than marry Paris. She declares that if the wedding is not delayed, her bridal bed will be her death bed next to Tybalt’s in the Capulet burial vault. In other words, death will take her maidenhead. In this case, Juliet’s desire to die is not tempered by her life instincts. According to Freud’s philosophy, the want to die is supposed to be balanced out with life instincts before the thought becomes a conscious one. Whereas with Juliet, her instincts aren’t in harmony and cause her to become self-destructive. In the same fashion, Romeo also expresses a certain eagerness to die, in particular when he finds out that Juliet is dead, but he doesn’t know that she has only faked her death. Romeo exclaims, “Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight. Let’s see for means. O mischief, thou art swift / To enter in the thoughts of desperate men” (5.1.37). Here, Romeo is stating that he will kill himself and lie dead next to his beloved very shortly. His eagerness to be with Juliet drives his want to die. Wicked mischief passes as this thought in his vulnerable mind and gives him ideas of death. It is important to realize that what Romeo refers to as mischief, is, in fact, death instincts. His instincts have led him to want to die, and he is enraged by it. His and Juliet’s broken instincts have led their vulnerable minds to consciously settle on the idea of death.

Additionally, Romeo and Juliet’s romance is driven by their sexual instincts when they fall in love at first sight. According to Sigmund Freud, the libido is part of the id and is the driving force of all behavior. According to the article “Life and Death Instincts,” “The id, he believed, was a reservoir of unconscious, primal energy. The id seeks pleasure and demands the immediate satisfaction of its desires. It is controlled by what Freud termed the pleasure principle. Essentially, the id directs all of the body’s actions and processes to achieve the greatest amount of pleasure possible. Because the id is almost entirely unconscious, people are not even aware of many of these urges.” The only thing that can control these urges is the ego. The ego is the part of a person’s personality that must tone down the libidinal energy. It must negotiate between the libidinal energy and the superego, which is the part of a person’s personality that incorporates lessons and morals taught by parental or authority figures. When Romeo and Juliet first fall in love and find out that their families are rivals, their superego doesn’t take control of their id’s impulses, therefore they choose to have pleasure over thinking rationally about the consequences of their actions. For example, in the balcony scene, Juliet says, “O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name, / Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, / And I’ll no longer be a Capulet” (2.2.35).

Instead of thinking about how their families will react to their love, Juliet says she’d give up being a Capulet for Romeo. In fact, she has lost all common sense and is overtaken by her libidinal energy. Later in the scene, Romeo asks “O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” (2.2.132) As can be seen, Romeo as well as Juliet, is simply looking to satisfy his sudden desire for Juliet, driven by his life instincts. Based on Freud’s pleasure principle, their wishful impulses needed to be satisfied, regardless of the consequences. Ultimately, if their superegos had balanced out their libidinal energy, the play would not have resulted in their deaths.

If you think about it, death and sex are actually commonly associated as one concept in “Romeo and Juliet.” The article “Sex and Death” states that, “Juliet links sex and death by punning on the word “die” when, daydreaming about her impending wedding night with Romeo, she imagines Romeo being transformed into a bunch of “little stars” lighting up the night sky: ‘Give me my Romeo, and when I shall die / Take him and cut him out in little stars, / And he will make the face of heaven so fine’ (3.2.23-25).” Many take this quote quite literally and imagine that Juliet is talking about her physical death, when she is really referring to the slang, commonly used at that time, for sexual climax, “die.” Therefore, on her wedding night, Juliet wasn’t thinking about cutting Romeo up into stars when she physically dies, but rather when her libidinal urges are satisfied. Normally sex leads to the creation of life, however with Romeo and Juliet that is definitely not the case.

Another possible explanation for Romeo and Juliet’s unrequited love is their age and stage of development. In the play, Juliet is only thirteen, and Romeo is not much older. “Life and Death Instincts” asserts that, “according to Freud, children develop through a series of psychosexual stages. At each stage, the libido is focused on a specific area. When handled successfully, the child moves to the next stage of development and eventually grows into a healthy, successful adult.” Romeo and Juliet were teenagers and had not yet fully developed into healthy adults. Consequently, their actions were ones of careless adolescents, not ones of mature people. It is plausible that their behavioral immaturity was caused by their families’ feud. Maybe they were traumatized by something when they were younger, or perhaps being in a setting full of hatred and fights affected their superego. In addition, their superegos were not fully developed and could not function to control the id’s impulses of sex and aggression. “Id, Ego and Superego,” explains that “The ego engages in secondary process thinking, which is rational, realistic, and orientated towards problem solving. If a plan of action does not work, then it is thought through again until a solution is found. This is known as reality testing, and enables the person to control their impulses and demonstrate self-control, via mastery of the ego.” Obviously Romeo and Juliet had not mastered their ego, for they did not have self-control and did not think realistically when they tried to problem-solve. In contrast, an example of a character who had, in fact, mastered his ego is Friar Lawrence, who only agrees to marry Romeo and Juliet because he thinks that it might help to ease the ongoing feud between the Montagues and the Capulets. When that plan falls through, he comes up with an elaborate plan of Juliet faking her death and Romeo running away with her once she’s been placed in the Capulet burial vault.

Would Romeo and Juliet have come up with this plan on their own? Did Romeo even stop and think, when he was given the news that Juliet had died? Even when things have gotten completely out of hand with Romeo’s banishment, Capulet forcing Juliet to marry Paris, and the deaths of Mercutio and Tybalt, Friar Lawrence stays calm and tries to problem solve. There is clearly a contrast between characters with functioning instincts, and Romeo and Juliet. According to Freud, the id, the ego, and the superego are developed in stages. Romeo and Juliet’s were not fully mature and led them to irrational and irresponsible decision making.

Moreover, Freud observed that after experiencing trauma, people have self-destructive behavior, and they are more violent and aggressive. Thus, after trauma, death instincts take over a person’s behavior. After Romeo is witness to Tybalt murdering Mercutio, he suddenly changes from resisting the urge to fight, to being in a sudden rage. Before being traumatized by watching his best friend die, Romeo says, “I do protest I never injured thee / But love thee better than thou canst devise / Till thou shalt know the reason of my love” (3.1.70). In a word, Romeo simply doesn’t want to fight. In contrast, after Mercutio has died he yells, “Alive in triumph, and Mercutio slain! Away to heaven, respective lenity, / And [fire-eyed] fury be my conduct now.- Now, Tybalt, take the ‘villain’ back again / That late thou gavest me, for Mercutio’s soul/ Is but a little way above our heads, / Staying for thine to keep him company. Either thou or I, or both, must go with him” (3.1.130). Romeo’s sudden mood change from trying not to fight, to saying that either Tybalt or him or both must die and join Mercutio in heaven, shows how a traumatizing event can bring out a person’s death instincts. Romeo’s increased aggression and desperation causes him to slay Tybalt, and eventually kill himself. All in all, Romeo’s words were true. He, Tybalt, Paris, and even Juliet eventually joined Mercutio up in heaven.

Now one may ask, why do Romeo and Juliet have broken instincts? There are many possibilities. Their age and stage of development could be one factor. Their personalities weren’t fully developed or mature, which means neither their superegos were not fully developed nor their id, which would cause the desynchronization of their instincts. However, the most probable cause of their defective instincts is the environment in which they were raised. Throughout their whole life, they were taught to abhor the other family. For generations, the Montagues and the Capulets have been fighting. This could have been upsetting to a young child. Going back to the idea of trauma and its effect on personalities, Romeo and Juliet were probably traumatized as children because of all of the violence surrounding them. If they had experienced a shocking event at a young age, their personality would have been affected. If their personality was not developing normally, this might explain their damaged instincts. PsyArt Journal states that, “Repressed childhood traumata tend to elude repression and induce disguised reenactments of the original trauma later in life. Understanding puzzling aspects of a character’s behavior as a reenactment of childhood trauma would help explain his or her paradoxical actions and the unconscious processes underlying his or her words, thoughts, and feelings.” Romeo and Juliet both behave in puzzling ways and act in irrational ways. If they had experienced a childhood trauma, that would explain their damaged inner drives. The article “Romeo’s Childhood Trauma — ‘What Fray was Here?’” explains that “if one listens clinically to Romeo’s words, one hears indications of… a traumatic experience in childhood as would drive him toward his tragic fate. I believe it is a reenactment of childhood trauma that prevents Romeo from ‘putting Juliet on his horse and making for Mantua’ (Mahood 57) and thus avoiding the catastrophe entirely.” If Romeo was not reenacting a traumatizing experience as a child, he might would have avoided his tragic ending. Therefore, the most reasonable cause of at least Romeo’s damaged drives is a childhood trauma.

In conclusion, Romeo and Juliet are perfect examples of instincts expressed unhealthily. Their deaths were caused by either being too drunk in love to think rationally or too desperate to think of any other option but death. However, if they had thought about the consequences to their actions before the balcony scene and their marriage, the play would not have been called the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. “Id, Ego and Superego,” clarifies that “The id engages in primary process thinking, which is primitive, illogical, irrational, and fantasy oriented. This form of process thinking has no comprehension of objective reality, and is selfish and wishful in nature.” Romeo and Juliet were driven by their ids into being “fantasy oriented.” Love at first sight is a fantasy, getting married despite their families’ fuel is irrational, and when they commit suicide, they are only acting as a response to their feelings of tension and unpleasure due to id’s impulses being denied. Shakespeare and Freud come from two completely different time periods, and obviously Shakespeare would not have known Freud’s theories while writing his plays. However, they both intertwined the contrasting ideas of sex and death. Freud believed that our life instincts need to be balanced out with our death instincts. Shakespeare often uses sex and death as one common theme throughout many of his plays. If both Freud and Shakespeare came up with the same conclusion, wouldn’t it be valid to compare their ideas? All in all, there are many debates and contradictions surrounding both Shakespeare’s works and Freud’s theories, however the one thing everything can agree on is that they both try to examine the most abstract and mysterious thing there is to understand: humans.

 

Works Cited

Cherry, Kendra. “What Are Life and Death Instincts?” Verywell. N.p., n.d. Web. 28 Apr. 2016.

Freud, Sigmund. “IV. Sigmund Freud. 1922. Beyond the Pleasure Principle.” IV. Sigmund

Freud. 1922. Beyond the Pleasure Principle. Bartleby.com, n.d. Web. 02 May 2016.

Kastenbaum, Robert. “Death and Dying.” Death Instinct. Advameg, n.d. Web. 02 May 2016.

Krims, Marvin. “Romeo’s Childhood Trauma? — “What Fray Was Here?”” PsyArt: An Online

Journal for the Psychological Study of the Arts. N.p., n.d. Web. 02 May 2016.

McLeod, S. A. “Id, Ego and Superego.” Id Ego Superego. N.p., n.d. Web. 02 May 2016.

Shmoop Editorial Team. “Sex and Death in Romeo and Juliet.” Shmoop.com. Shmoop

University, Inc., 11 Nov. 2008. Web. 02 May 2016.

Shmoop Editorial Team. “Sex and Death in Romeo and Juliet.” Shmoop.com. Shmoop

University, Inc., 11 Nov. 2008. Web. 02 May 2016.

Shakespeare, William, and Jill L. Levenson. Romeo and Juliet. Oxford University Press, 2008.

 

CHANGE & CONTINUITY IN APOCALYPTIC THOUGHT

Since the beginning of recorded history, humankind has maintained a strong fascination with its own demise. From its eschatological roots to the nuclear age and beyond, apocalyptic thought has permeated mass culture. However, the thematics of apocalyptic thought and therefore of its representation in culture have shifted, although certain consistencies have survived. Change and continuity of factors and components of apocalyptic thought may help us to understand change and continuity of our own mindsets.

Definitions may vary, but most would agree that the term “apocalypse” refers to the end of an era or even of the world. In ancient times, apocalyptic thought tended to focus on the day in which said era ended, commonly described in ancient texts as the “day of wrath.” Usually used in religious context, the “day of wrath” serves to embody the gestalt of ancient apocalyptic thought, at least in terms of Christian eschatology. The “day of wrath,” also in many cultures the “day of Judgement,” outlined apocalyptic thought with a focus on oneself; apocalyptic thought was centered around self-reflection and the apocalypse was viewed as the epic, ultimate decision of one’s fate. Even outside of Christian eschatology, most of these ideas still applied: most ancient apocalyptic thought was centered around the day in which the apocalypse occurred and focused on oneself. Cultural manifestations of these ideas are seen frequently across ancient cultures. Religious texts are the most blunt example of such manifestations. In Jewish eschatology, the coming of the Messiah is described in the Torah as an apocalyptic event. And, in the biblical tale of Noah’s Ark, the Torah focuses not on the events that caused or the events that followed the flood but rather on the day itself that God flooded the Earth; it also emphasizes Noah’s significance in a way that carries the theme of introspection to the tale. A representation of later origin, hymns such as the thirteenth century (or earlier) Latin hymn “Dies Irae,” which literally translates to “Day of Wrath,” present the dawn of the apocalypse in a self-reflective light, as shown in the following excerpt from “Dies Irae”: “Worthless are my prayers and sighing, / Yet, good Lord, in grace complying, / Rescue me from fires undying” (Verse 14, Irons 1849). The hymn also focuses on the day of destruction itself, as expressed in the following excerpt: “Ah! that day of tears and moaning, / From the dust of earth returning / Man for judgement must prepare him, / Spare, O God, in mercy spare him” (Verse 18, Irons 1849). This individualistic, instantaneous approach strongly juxtaposes that of current day. Modern society tends to focus not on the downfall of oneself, but rather, on the downfall of humanity. Furthermore, the moment of this downfall is often difficult to distinguish from the sequence of events that encompass it and thus blurs the line between the pre-apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic. When analyzing ancient representations of the apocalyptic, one may almost always point to an exact moment within the narrative when one era gave way to another. In the case of Noah’s Ark, this instant was the moment the Earth was flooded. In the case of the story of Adam and Eve, their paradise was consumed by a flawed existence the instant that Adam followed Eve’s lead and took a bite of the forbidden fruit. Biblical and other religious narratives such as these are one of the biggest influences on human history, yet current narratives that portray the apocalyptic do not follow their lead.

Evidence of our primitive origins has faded in the thousands of years since biblical times. Although still built for survival, we have long since become preoccupied with civilization and societal endeavors. This preoccupation is perhaps the only thing that separates human from animal. In ancient times, societies maintained their survivalist foundations despite impressive levels of advancement. Fear of death was at the core of the motivations of every individual, and thus the heart of one’s existence was the fear and prevention of their own personal demise. History has consistently demonstrated this; the characteristics of the Early Middle Ages (5th-10th centuries A.D.) are a perfect example of such a demonstration. Host to severe population decline and increased immigration, this era was not a time of great empires, but rather, a time of mediocre, largely powerless kingdoms, the societies of which were unadvanced and unevolving. In fact, many historians refer to this time period as the “Dark Ages,” drawing upon the severe lack of literary and cultural development of the time (Berglund), serving to express the state of primitivity that humans existed in during this time. As made evident by the era’s drastic increase in migration, people of the Early Middle Ages were not rooted in their societies. Rather, they were rooted in their own mortality and were more affected by the deaths of individuals around them than the deaths of the societies around them, as kingdoms did so frequently collapse because they were small and unstable. In this sense, a death of an individual was perceived as more apocalyptic than an utter societal collapse. While this atavistic core remains relevant to those of modern times, its symptoms are concealed by the astronomical degree of progress achieved since biblical times. Derived from the inadvertent devotion of essentially the entirety of humanity, this progress has led to the complex, interconnected, and precarious global society of today. The weight of this devotion is what buries one’s atavistic foundations, as the core of the motivations of every individual shifts from fear of their own mortality to fear of societal mortality. This is at the center of the evolution of apocalyptic thought. In our minds, so much has been devoted to society that to see it crumble is more terrifying than to see ourselves crumble.

If our biggest fear is not of the death of oneself but of the death of civilization, then apocalyptic thought will manifest itself accordingly; as this is the case, apocalyptic thought has done such. Imagination of the apocalyptic in its most culturally significant platforms almost always consists of the deterioration of a society or of humankind. However, the nature of such imaginations begs the illustration of not an instant, but rather, a process. Modern cultural representations of the apocalyptic present themselves as such, and subsequently, the moment of transition between pre-apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic often blurs. This trend is further enforced by previously unimaginable crises of the past century, of which have left a remarkable impact on humanity’s perception of itself and of its society. Our culture naturally turns to history for influence, and historical events are often portrayed apocalyptically (Berger, XIII). From the Great War to the Holocaust to the current threat posed by climate change, the available influences all consist of the same foundation, in which an era or society deteriorates not instantaneously, but rather, through a process; ergo, the aforementioned trend in modern imagination of the apocalyptic can be seen not only as a product of the evolution of human fear, but also as an imitation of the models available to us.

However, the influence of these models on the way we think about the apocalypse also reveals a continuity in apocalyptic thought between biblical times and now. Nearly every culturally significant portrayal of the apocalyptic shares a common element: we are to blame. From the crucifixion of Jesus Christ to the Nuclear Age, our history reflects time and time again that we are the cause of our own suffering; and from the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Eden, the very earliest apocalyptic narrative of Western culture (Lisboa 230), to the iconic 1983 movie The Day After, our culture demonstrates time and time again our recognition of this role we play.

It is important to recognize the relationship between change and continuity in this case. Imagination of the apocalyptic has shifted from an individual to a societal scale and has evolved to take on the presentation of not just an instant of deterioration, but a process of deterioration, consequently blurring the distinction between pre and post apocalyptic. Yet, imagination of the apocalyptic has maintained a constant narrative of human causation. From this relationship, one may gain much insight as to the influence of diversion from our primitive origins and of functioning in a civil society on our mindsets as a whole. Simply the absence of apocalyptic thought, at least past an individual scale, lacking the incorporation of human flaw as a causation indicates our apathy towards thinking about the apocalypse outside of the context of human flaw. Therefore, apocalyptic thought is and always will be relevant and prevalent because it satisfies our need to address the unnaturality of the sheer amount of power we have and the instability it is accompanied by. In our primitive states, it would never have occurred to us to worry about or imagine a demise larger than that of ourselves individually. That we have developed the natural tendency to imagine the apocalyptic in order to come to terms with our own power may serve as a demonstration of the degree in which we have diverted from our primitive origins. Humankind has conquered genetics and its survivalist orientation in favor of an existence of societal orientation. Atavistic fears have been overshadowed by civil fears. And the prevalence of apocalyptic thought attests to human awareness of the unnaturality of our current state of being. Hence, since and even prior to biblical times, apocalyptic thought has served as a manifestation of our awareness of our own unnaturality; this has and will remain consistent. Furthermore, as we divert more and more from our primitive origins, we are bound to tend to apocalyptic thought more frequently as our own potential becomes less natural and more precarious.

The role of apocalyptic thought in the story of human evolution reveals more than perhaps is first let on. Yet, representation of the apocalyptic may serve as a framework in which to study the big picture of the impact of civil and societal existence on our own thinking. Change and continuity in apocalyptic thought serves as proof of the astronomical extent of which we have strayed from our primitive origins and as proof of our own disconcertment with our own power.

 

Works Cited

Benedict, et al. Eschatology, Death, and Eternal Life. Catholic University of America Press, 2007.

Berger, James. After the End: Representations of Post-Apocalypse. University of Minnesota Press, 1999.

Berglund, Bjorn E. “Human Impact and Climate Changes: Synchronous Events and a Casual Link?” Department of Quaternary Geology, Lund University.

Bibby, Geoffrey. Four Thousand Years Ago: a World Panorama of Life in the Second Millennium B.C. Greenwood Press, 1983.

Collins, Adela Yarbro. Cosmology and Eschatology in Jewish and Christian Apocalypticism. Brill, 1996.

Collins, John J. “Apocalyptic Eschatology as the Transcendence of Death.” The Catholic Biblical Quarterly, vol. 36, no. 1, Jan. 1974, pp. 21–43.

Gathercole, S. J. The Critical and Dogmatic Agenda of Albert Schweitzer’s the Quest of the Historical Jesus. Tyndale Bulletin, 2000.

Hanson, Paul D. The Dawn of Apocalyptic: the Historical and Sociological Roots of Jewish Apocalyptic Eschatology. Fortress Press, 1989.

Hindley, Geoffrey. Medieval Sieges & Siegecraft. Skyhorse Publishing, 2014.

Lee, Alexander. The Ugly Renaissance. Random House US, 2015.

Lisboa, Maria Manuel. The End of the World Apocalypse and Its Aftermath in Western Culture. Open Book Publishers, 2011.

McLuhan, Marshall, and Sut Jhally. “Advertising at the Edge of the Apocalypse.” Mediaed.org, Media Education Foundation, 2017, www.mediaed.org/transcripts/Advertising-at-the-Edge-of-the-Apocalypse-Transcript.pdf.

Rand, Edward Kennan. Founders of the Middle Ages / – Unabridged and Unaltered Republication. Dover, 1957.

Wikisource contributors. “Dies Irae (Irons, 1912).” Wikisource. Wikisource, 15 Jan. 2016. Web. 9 Dec. 2017.

The Holy Bible (King James). Lds.org, www.lds.org/scriptures/ot?lang=eng.

Meyer, Nicholas, director. The Day After. ABC Motion Pictures, 1983.

 

The​ ​Dilemma​ ​of​ ​a​ ​Debater’s​ ​Moral Integrity

What would you do to win? How far would you go to get what you want? This is a question I often ask myself, mostly because of the sport of debate, which I have been taking in school for a year so far. The main reason that debate makes me think of how far I would go to win is my specific forte of debate, which is congressional debate. Congressional debate is simple. You get a bill or resolution to respond to in pro or con. But, the problem is, you have an advantage if you go first because the judges hear your opinion first, and this means that you’ll find yourself putting away your own opinions and ideas in order to win. If you want to have an advantage in congressional debate, you will have to put aside your personal viewpoints.

In congressional debate, if there is an author of a bill or resolution present, they will speak first, in pro of said bill or resolution. If the author is not present, a representative of the bill or resolution will speak on its behalf and is forced to speak in pro. There is then a limited questioning period, and from there on, a trade-off of pro and con and questioning. Moral tension is created when you choose to have the advantage of arguing first, while having to argue pro, because you will have to sacrifice your own views, whether you believe in pro or con for a matter.

Congressional debate is less about the topics discussed and more about the form in which you debate them. In congressional debate, you get the date of an upcoming debate. You get an official list of topics at varying times. Then, you have time to prepare and have the option to submit a bill or resolution. A bill states laws to be put in place. A resolution is a bill in response to another bill or event that has happened. As the word suggests, you are resolving the problem. Though that’s how typical congressional debate works, humanity’s usage of congressional debate roots back as old as time, even in its most primitive state. And I don’t just mean two cavemen arguing over a piece of meat. Looking at the roots of the word starting with congressional, according to Dictionary.com, “congressional means of or relating to Congress.” In Congress, people argue over bills and resolutions, just like in congressional debate. Now, according to Dictionary.com, the standard definition of debate is “a formal discussion on a particular topic in a public meeting or legislative assembly, in which opposing arguments are put forward.” Debate can be contextualized as either a sport or humanistic inquiry, and it is the contextualization that makes all the difference.

The point is, the deeper you get pulled into debate as a sport, the less of what you’re saying matters and the more of winning the debate matters. Soon, winning becomes all you care about, having been pulled into the highly addictive sport of debate. In contrast, contextualizing debate as a form of human inquiry is about the search for justice. However, when debating as a sport, it doesn’t matter how you debate, what you debate, or why you debate. In the sport of debate, only one thing matters, and it’s winning.

I was at my first congressional debate tournament. I’d had two weeks to prepare a speech that was either pro or con to the impeachment of Donald Trump. My personal viewpoint is that by all means, he should be impeached because of the many outrageous claims he’s made and the countless acts of torment and bullying he’s committed via social media. The debate starts out fast. You barely have enough time to prepare before they read out the topic.

From there, they asked the dreaded question, “Is the author of this topic present, or would a representative like to speak pro on behalf of the topic?” The room turns quiet, and eyes dart around the room nervously.

“Come on, guys, we need to continue…” Sure, it’s a simple enough side to debate. You know that if you really needed to debate it, you could. So then, why is it so hard to agree to debating the topic? For one, just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should do it. There are many variables that play into the situation, like the risks, why you want to do it, or even how you want to do it. We all feel entitled to our own views and opinions.

In the 21st century, nothing is more important than your opinion. Think about it. This year’s election has been almost entirely based on dominating public opinion because ranting on social media can have a surprisingly strong effect on popularity. When you have services literally built for stating your opinions, you’ll start to, well, think everyone, and I mean anyone and everyone, cares about your opinion. We are being fed by the media that our opinion matters, but it is only the manipulation of our opinion that really matters. We soon figure out that day to day, our opinion does not matter in reality. Because of our ceaseless egos, despite the triviality of our opinions, we hold our opinions very dear. And in the end, should we push our opinions away just to win? We shouldn’t, because our opinions are our integrity.

Before debate, I was, to put it lightly, very argumentative. And when I first discovered debate, I was excited. Finally, a sport I could win by arguing! It was the end of the year, but there was still time to participate in one debate. Novice congressional. Now at the time, I had no idea what that was, and I wouldn’t have without the help of my debate teacher, Jim Shapiro. So with one week of preparation and a poorly written speech, I went to my first debate. And I rocked it. Question after question, the battleground became clearer and clearer to me. All you had to do was to state your claim, interrogate your opponent, and act like you know what you’re doing, and you’ve pretty much won the debate. Plus, it didn’t hurt that everyone else was new to debate also. So, I was plowing down questions when the judge stated the final question: should Donald J. Trump be impeached?

We are back at the pivotal moment, the crossroads between my moral integrity and my egotism for winning. The crossroads between sport and humanistic inquiry. Now before I continue, I want to make something very clear. I’m a liberal. I go to a liberal school in a liberal neighborhood in a liberal city. So, the last thing I was expecting was that question. But before you knew it, two people had chosen pro. That meant that in order to go first, I would have to put away all my pride, all my honor, and all my opinions in order to win. And I won. I’m not going to go into full depth of how I won, but let’s just say it involved a lot of bias and fake information, like the blatant ignorance of some of the atrocities he’s said or the creation of false sources of good things he had done, as I couldn’t think of any myself. I actually hoped, prayed even, that I wouldn’t win. For corrupt politics not to prevail once again. And even though I won, I lost the true debate. I lost my opinion, one of the only things that makes me, me.

It’s almost funny. Humanity is built on the standards of “victory is good!” But at what cost? How far are you willing to go to “win?” What even is winning? It’s a social construct we created to segregate, a construct we need to distinguish who’s better and who’s less than others. This status currency has almost no meaning other than pride, so why do we chase it? Why play the game of cat and mouse with your life, with almost everything to lose? The answer is, even with all of our opinions, we only matter if other people mandate it. Our opinion only matters if it can be manipulated by greater power structures but here, on that debate podium, my individual opinion was the only moral integrity I had. Our individual opinions are the only morals we have, and in the pursuit of the relativity of opinion, I debated against Trump’s impeachment. In a society where status, currency, and popularity are based on our own agency, we crave power. We crave being loved. We crave appreciation. We crave someone holding us and telling us that we are okay. And most importantly, we crave winning. It’s only human. So when people ask me why I would help this horrible man spread his opinion, I say I’m only human. Because at the end of the day, that’s what we do. We segregate, label, and divide people into groups, so we can judge them. It’s terrible, brutal, and unfair. But it’s what we do. We put away our moral integrity to win and to be recognized. The question now, is how do we contextualize ourselves?

 

The Dangers of Stereotyping by the Media

Two years ago, I sat in social studies class on a rainy Friday morning counting the hours until I could go home. As I typed out a text to an equally bored friend across the room, my male teacher, responding to an inquiry about his weekend plans, made a casual remark about his husband. Admittedly, I felt surprised. Not because I harbored any prejudices towards the LGBT community, but because he didn’t fit the image of a gay person that the media had painted in my mind. Years of watching television shows and reading magazines had instilled in me a misguided representation of gays and lesbians. I imagined a gay man to be as theatrical and melodramatic as Modern Family’s Cameron Tucker or as feminine and neurotic as Will & Grace’s Jack McFarland. My teacher, easygoing with a passion for history rather than Beyoncé’s latest album, did not meet any of these expectations. The results of misrepresenting a group of people in the media have a much greater reach than rousing me from a boredom induced near-coma on a dreary day. Young women often starve themselves to fit the stereotype of the perfect woman broadcast all across television and film. People of color and homosexuals face discrimination due to the broad and largely unfavorable preconceptions created by the media. The media stigmatizes the mentally ill, causing a lack of adequate medical care and leading to deadly consequences. While the writers of television programs likely believe that they serve as comical running gags or punchlines, stereotypical portrayals of groups of people in the media can have adverse and calamitous consequences in the real world.

Gender stereotypes occur across all forms of media. For instance, television and the advertisement industry constantly portray the thin woman as the “perfect” woman. This fixation on an ideal body type relates to the growing incidence of eating disorders and body issues among young women. According to the National Centre for Eating Disorders, fifty percent of girls between the ages of eleven and fifteen read fashion magazines and ninety-five percent watch television. This exposure to a thin ideal size corresponds to a time in their lives where self-esteem and body image are at their most tenuous due to the onset of puberty and the increasing tendency for social comparison. A desire to mold to the stereotypical skinny, “perfect” woman seen on television can lead to the development of eating disorders and rigorous dieting. This can possibly account for the drastic rise in eating disorders from 1.5% of women in 1988 to 9.3% in 2017 (Currin). Underrepresentation presents another concern about the portrayal of women on television. One study found that men triple women in number on primetime television and that in newscasts, women make up only about 16% of reporters (Wood). According to this researcher, “the constant populace distortion of men and women tempts us to believe that there really are more men than women and, further, that men are the cultural standard.” This portrayal by the media can foster the belief that women do not make up a large and active component of the population. Such ideas may cause a reluctance to acknowledge and reward women for their contributions to society, resulting in negative consequences for the already existing gender wage gap and the likelihood of women holding positions of power such as the presidency or a seat in Congress.

A high prevalence of racial stereotypes exists in television and film. For instance, Asian actors and actresses often find themselves playing the roles of nerds and intellectual masterminds. Unfortunately, such stereotyping makes it difficult for them to secure work outside of this limited arena, resulting in most roles — even those originally intended for portrayal by an Asian actor — to go to white performers instead. This causes a minimization of the importance of people of color in society and a lack of cultural understanding. In addition, casting Asian-Americans in primarily academic roles on television “plays on the existing stereotype about Asians being intellectually and technologically superior to Westerners,” resulting in the direction of antagonism and discrimination their way (Nittle). Furthermore, the fostering of the perception of Asians as the “model minority” in television and film further drives a wedge between Asians and their counterparts of other races.

Misconceptions and a lack of representation of gay people in television can have unfavorable implications for lessening discrimination against the LGBT community and the development of individuals within it. According to one study, “the lack of portrayals of homosexuality on television influence the beliefs among viewers that homosexuality is abnormal or extremely rare” (Fisher). As humans have the tendency to react more adversely to the unfamiliar and deviations from the social norm, this can heighten negative reactions towards the LGBT community. In addition, the absence of depictions of gay people — particularly positive ones — in media can lead to a lack of role models for homosexual teens or those questioning their sexuality, creating greater feelings of isolation.

Stereotyping of the mentally ill also occurs in the media. For instance, television often links madness or creative genius to a mental disorder, romanticizing the struggle of afflicted individuals. For example, a running gag on the television series Bones featured the protagonist’s socially inept demeanor. Although her awkward gaffes — characteristic of someone suffering from Asperger’s — continued throughout the duration of the show, the showrunners used them as a punchline and never addressed the isolating difficulties of living with this disorder. Additionally, an underlying criminal element to the portrayal of mental disorders on television often exists. For example, “popular psychological thrillers like Hannibal, Mr. Robot, and Dexter, all perpetuate the stereotype that people with mental illnesses are fearsome criminals, if not outright violent ones” (Bastién). This can inspire the belief that the mentally ill will not respond to reproach or assistance, causing them to be denied professional help that could aid in coping with their affliction. For many of the mentally ill individuals involved in the country’s violent tragedies, their diagnoses did not come to light until too late. For example, Adam Lanza, the man who shot and killed twenty-six people at Sandy Hook Elementary School in 2012, did not receive a diagnosis or treatment for psychiatric disorders such as anxiety and obsessive compulsive disorder (Cowan).

Misguided stereotypes function as a red thread running through all forms of the media. Television portrays the most beautiful women as the thin ones, and female underrepresentation in the media minimizes and devalues their role in society. Racial stereotypes, particularly those pertaining to Asian Americans, limit the work available to people of color in the show business industry and foster divides. Preconceptions about gay people and a lack of visibility in television heighten enmity to the LGBT community and rob homosexual teens of adequate role models. Inaccurate portrayals of mental illness can have detrimental consequences in reality, as showrunners and television writers often overlook the difficulties associated with these ailments or include a criminal undertone to the disorders. Although the depiction of these stereotypes may boost network ratings or make for wildly entertaining storylines, they have proven to be devastating in the real world.

 

Works Cited

Bastién, Angelica. “What TV Gets Wrong About Mental Illness.” Vulture. N.p., 8 Sept. 2016. Web. 8 Oct. 2017.

Cowan, Alison Leigh. “Adam Lanza’s Mental Problems ‘Completely Untreated’ Before Newtown Shootings, Report Says.” The New York Times. The New York Times, 21 Nov. 2014. Web. 8 Oct. 2017.

Currin, L. “Time Trends in Eating Disorder Incidence.” The British Journal of Psychiatry 186.2 (2005): 132-35. JSTOR. Web. 8 Oct. 2017.

Fischer, D. “Gay, Lesbian, and Bisexual Content on Television: A Quantitative Analysis Across Two Seasons.” J Homosex 52.3 (2007): 167-188. JSTOR. Web. 8. Oct. 2017.

Wood, Julia T. Gendered Lives: Communication, Gender, and Culture. Stamford, CT: Cengage Learning, 2015. Print.

 

You Could be Next

“We’re going to die here. We’re going to die,” Carmen Algeria thought as she dodged gunshots raining down on her while witnessing people drop left and right. “About five feet to the left of me there was a man with a bullet wound to his chin. My jeans were covered in someone’s blood, my T-shirt was covered in someone’s blood, my sister’s whole leg was covered in blood.” In the face of this crisis, citizens unified, and after the initial shock, they began to move. The civilians who did not obtain injuries ran to their cars to transport people to the hospital while others directed people to safety. Men grabbed Algeria and her sister and lifted them into trucks. “Bodies were literally being tossed on top of us,” Algeria said. Blood covered every inch of the emergency room. The bodies of victims littered the floor. Gunshot wounds riddled the victims’ bodies. “All I could describe it as was a war zone,” said John Kline, an officer with the Los Angeles Police Department (Carcamo et al.).

This scene depicts one of the hundreds of stories from people at an outdoor concert in Las Vegas on October 1, where the deadliest mass shooting in US history occurred. Thousands of Americans witnessed and survived incidents similar to Carmen Algeria’s. In the past 275 days, 273 mass shootings have occurred. Since Las Vegas alone, six more mass shootings (four or more people killed or injured) and 240 shootings (under four) have terrorized the United States (“Mass”). But according to our president and leading politicians, no solution exists. The loss of life apparently equals the price to pay for the right to bear arms. The US cannot politicize this event; instead, Americans should come together and mourn, solely sending thoughts and prayers. Despite politicians’ intentions, these tactics disrespect the victims of shootings by preventing change from happening. When 521 mass shootings have occurred in the past 477 days (“477 Days”), the only time to talk about gun safety is now.

Mourning the victims of mass shootings and politicizing the event must occur simultaneously. America has the capability of doing both. Many politicians send “thoughts and prayers” and urge Americans to mourn. They discourage people from talking gun politics, which supposedly polarizes the country. President Trump advised, “we’ll be talking about gun laws as time goes by. Today we mourn.” Via this logic, the topic of gun rights will finally come up in political discourse the day an American is not fatally shot. Unfortunately, if America continues its current gun policies, this day will never come: at least one mass shooting happens daily in the United States, and ninety-two Americans die from gun violence every day (Kristof). Thus, the lack of conversation about gun violence will continually inhibit progress in terms of safety in public settings.

In other spheres of life, enactments of precautionary steps maintain safety, and gun laws should mimic this model. For example, fire alarms, smoke detectors, and fire drills combat the potential of deadly infernos. Airbags, seatbelts, and highway guardrails combat deadly auto accidents. Even the minuscule, by comparison, dangers of a ladder, which kills 300 people a year, have seven pages of regulations in the Health Administration guidebook (Kristof). However, not only has the government prohibited research on gun safety, but also the administration has deemed the mere discussion as un-American. Over and over again this country faces mass shootings, and each time politicians send their condolences. But nothing changes, and the cycle continues: Mass shootings horrify Americans, and outraged citizens demand sane policy. Yet, eventually a bigger story blows up somewhere else in the world, the news stops discussing gun laws, and sane policy still has not materialized. Then it happens again; only this time, more people die. When no discussion of mass shootings occurs, Americans can expect to continue to see death at the hands of guns.

Common sense gun laws should naturally pervade bipartisan policy. Both sides of the political spectrum agree: 79% of Republicans and 88% of Democrats want background checks for gun shows and private sales (Fingerhut), and 80% of Democrats and Republicans want mandatory background checks, five-day waiting period for gun purchases, and a mandatory registration of handguns (Smith 156). Yet these policies languish in Congress, despite the fact that they have bipartisan support. Why? Because the NRA, the largest lobbyist group in the country, makes sure the passing of these regulations never occur. During the 2016 election cycle, the NRA gave 5.9 million dollars to the Republican Party (“Gun”). The same candidates who received money from the NRA also voted to allow people on the no-fly list and mentally disabled people to purchase guns. However, 89% of Democrats and Republicans believe the mentally ill should be prevented from purchasing guns, and 82% of Republicans and Democrats believe gun purchases should be barred for people on the no-fly list (Oliphant). Politicians repeatedly put their campaign needs over lives of citizens. The NRA and the politicians they support essentially value power and money over life. By advising people to mourn instead of discussing gun laws, these NRA backed congressmen commit the very action they protest against — politicizing mass shootings. By sending thoughts and prayers without action, policymakers fulfill the desires of the NRA. Via prioritization of the NRA, politicians make the gun debate a polarizing issue. If politicians put aside their greed and corrupt tactics, they would listen and reform policy in accordance to the people’s needs.

America needs more gun regulations. The constant mass shootings that the US face every single day proves the necessity for gun restriction. However, some fear that reforms will potentially lead to a ban on all guns. Gun safety proponents warn against the straw man “extremist agenda.” In reality, there is no desire to take away the rights of citizens to buy guns. Instead, proponents simply want a more difficult and thorough screening process. They want more background checks, a mandatory five-day waiting period, and limits on assault and semi-automatic weapons. People (who have mental stability and do not appear on the no-fly list) can still have their handguns and rifles for hunting and protection. But no reason exists for common citizens to own automatic weapons. The sole purpose of automatic weapons is simply to kill many people quickly and efficiently. And again, both sides of the political spectrum agree: 77% of Republicans and 90% of Democrats want background checks for private sales and gun shows, and 54% of Republicans and 80% of Democrats want to ban assault-style weapons.

These types of reforms have reaped benefits in Australia, Britain, and Canada. When faced with mass shootings, these modern countries crafted laws that basically eliminated the threat of guns to public safety. For example, in Australia, a gunman shot and killed thirty-five people in Port Arthur. The public’s response was outrage and persistence on change. The government responded with a ban on almost all automatic and semiautomatic rifles as well as shotguns. They implemented this with a gun-buyback program. John Howard, the Prime Minister said, “we won the battle to change gun laws because there was majority support across Australia for banning certain weapons” (Bilefsky et al.) Both Australia and American have majority support for tighter gun laws — the only difference: the NRA.

In order to combat the NRA and corrupt politicians, we must speak out. We cannot allow politicians to put their own needs in front of ours any longer. We simply cannot continue to go on this way. If we do, America will continue to suffer through shooting after shooting, death after death. We can mourn and send prayers, but if we want the shootings to stop, we also must act. Now.

 

Works Cited

Bilefsky, Dan, et al. “How Australia, Britain and Canada Have Responded to Gun Violence.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 2 Oct. 2015, www.nytimes.com/2015/10/03/world/americas/australia-britain-canada-us-gun-legislation.html.

Carcamo, Cindy, Tchekmedyian Alene, Mather, Kate, Winton, Richard. “Survivors from California Recount Their Terrifying Escape from Danger in Las Vegas.” Los Angeles Times, 4 Oct. 2017, www.latimes.com/local/lanow/la-me-california-survivors-las-vegas-20171004-story.html.

Fingerhut, Hannah. 5 Facts about Guns in the United States. Pew Research Center, 5 Jan. 2016, www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2016/01/05/5-facts-about-guns-in-the-united-states/.

“Gun Rights: Money to Congress.” OpenSecrets.org, The Center for Responsive Politics, 2016, www.opensecrets.org/industries/summary.php?cycle=2016&ind=Q13.

Kristof, Nicholas. “Preventing Mass Shootings Like the Vegas Strip Attack.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 2 Oct. 2017, www.nytimes.com/2017/10/02/opinion/mass-shootingvegas.html?rref=collection%2Fcolumn%2FNicholas%2BKristof&action=click&contentCollection=Opinion&module=Collection®ion=Marginalia&src=me&version=column&pgtype=article

“Mass Shootings.” Gun Violence Archive, 2017, www.gunviolencearchive.org/reports/mass-shooting.

Oliphant, Baxter. Bipartisan Support for Some Gun Proposals, Stark Partisan Divisions on Many Others. Pew Research Center, 23 June 2017, www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2017/06/23/bipartisan-support-for-some-gun-proposals-stark-partisan-divisions-on-many-others/.

Smith, Tom W. “Public Opinion about Gun Policies.” The Future of Children, vol. 12, no. 2, Children, Youth, and Gun Violence, 1 July 2002, pp. 154–163. JSTOR, JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/1602745?seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents.

“477 Days. 521 Mass Shootings. Zero Action From Congress.” The New York Times, The New York Times, Editorial Board, 2 Oct. 2017, www.nytimes.com/interactive/2017/10/02/opinion/editorials/mass-shootings-congress.html.

 

The Benefit of Female Education on the World

Thirty seconds. That is all the time it takes for thirteen underage girls to be sold into a marriage, turned into a breeder of sons and unwanted daughters, and imprisoned in a lifetime of anguish and abuse. This is the fate that awaits many women in third-world countries. Many of these women have never stepped foot into a school, never savored a good book or written a letter, and were never given a chance to escape an endless and vicious cycle. However, there is one glaringly present solution that will stop this cycle: educating women. Despite it being deemed unnecessary in many developing countries, educating a girl has countless, profound effects on the future of her country and the world at large. According to the New York Times article by Nicholas Kristof, “What’s So Scary About Smart Girls?”, educating women can double a country’s labor force, save the lives of thousands of children who would have been born to uneducated and impoverished mothers, and create a more stable political environment. These are the reasons the United Nations and various other organizations have strived to fund and improve education in developing countries, as detailed by the article “Education and the Developing World.” As shown in the documentary directed by Richard Robbins, Girl Rising, many girls in these countries are victims of sex trafficking, sexual assault, and arranged marriages. Fear of sexual assault, a belief that girls are only useful for marriage and bearing children, and the high cost are reasons that parents keep their daughters home from school. Despite these adversities, the benefits of educating girls greatly outweigh the negatives. Due to its potential for enhancing global economies and communities and providing girls in underdeveloped with a shield against injustice, the education of women is an extremely essential task that must be collectively undertaken around the world.

The education of women has a large capacity for boosting the economy and benefiting the political environment of a country. Research has shown that there is a 10% increase in wages per year of schooling that one has completed, which will eventually lead to widespread economic growth. It has also been demonstrated that by educating females alone, there will be a 40% decrease in malnutrition (“Education and the Developing World”). Educated women can enter the working world, doubling the formal labor force and thereby raising the living standard. This shows how educating girls can have a large effect on her community and country. The political stability of countries will also be improved with the education of girls. Many of the girls who are oppressed in today’s world belong to war-torn countries that are unfortunately still shrouded in backwards beliefs. Perhaps, if they educated more girls, these countries would experience peace as educating girls supports a civil society, democracy, and political stability.

The political situation of a country is also affected by the rate of unemployment, as more people out of work results in political upheaval. In fact, there has been shown to be a 4% increase in chance for a civil war for every 1% increase in the unemployed population aged 15-24 (Kristof 2). Educated women can help reduce the bulge in the youth population by having smaller families and creating stability. A study performed in Nigeria found that for each additional year of primary school, a girl has 0.26 fewer children (Kristof 2). Female education also improves the health conditions in a community as educated women are more likely to make intelligent choices that will benefit their children. According to Girl Rising, putting every child in school could prevent 700,000 cases of HIV each year. Children are also likely to live longer with educated mothers because women who have gone to school are more likely to seek prenatal care and 50% more likely to immunize their children (“Education and the Developing World”). All research points to one obvious conclusion: an educated mother means a healthier child.

The fact that 66 million girls are currently out of school worldwide has devastating effects on their lives. In many developing countries, girls are subject to sex trafficking and sexual assault and are often forced into arranged marriages at very young ages. Even more shocking, girls in modern and prosperous countries experience similar circumstances. According to Kristof, 100,000 girls under the age of eighteen are trafficked into commercial sex in the United States every year. The range of abuses women experience also includes sexual assault. 150 million girls are victims of sexual violence a year, 50% of them under the age of fifteen (Robbins). The fear of girls being sexually assaulted is a reason that some parents choose not to send their daughters to school.

Around the globe, 33 million fewer girls are in school than boys. Everything a family has goes into educating and priming a boy for life, as shown in Girl Rising when the profits from a girl’s marriage are used to buy a car for her brother. Many countries around the world do not offer public schooling, and parents are reluctant to use their limited funds to pay for the books of a girl. Another obstacle to education is that many girls enter marriage very early in their lives. Every year, fourteen million girls under the age of eighteen are married. Many of these girls die soon after from childbirth, the number one cause of death for girls between the ages of 15-19 (Robbins). These horrifying circumstances are often brought out by an archaic view that people have about the status of women. People have the belief that girls are only expected to marry, bear sons, and work in the household. They are dangerously unaware about the potential of a woman. Fortunately, an inexhaustible desire to learn and change the world is still present in oppressed women. Amira, a woman featured in the documentary Girl Rising who was married and had a son by age twelve, shares this message of hope, “I will find a way to endure, to prevail. The future of man lies in me… look me in the eye. I am change” (Robbins). Educating girls will help them escape from upsetting injustices. Girls with eight years of education are four times less likely to be married as children and are twice as likely to send their own children to school (Robbins). Women who are given the gift of an education also often feel an obligation to pay it forward. Suma, a Nepalese girl who was liberated from slavery, now works to make sure no young women endure the hardships she did. Angeline Mugwendere, a Zimbabwean girl whose education was paid for, is now the director of an organization that helps impoverished girls in Africa go to school (Kristof 3).

All countries should join the effort to educate girls worldwide. It has been shown to have incredible effects on the countries where it has taken place. After Bangladesh gained its independence, there was a renewed emphasis on education for both genders. Now, there are more girls in high school than boys. Many of these girls will grow to form the foundation of the Nobel Peace Prize winning Grameen Bank and other important Bengali institutions (Kristof 3). South Korea, which once had an average annual income of $890, has also shown advancements due to education. Following an effort to spend more money on education, South Korea now boasts an improved labor force, near 100% public school enrollment, and an average annual income of $17,000 (“Education and the Developing World”).

There are some that believe that educating girls would be a waste of valuable defense funds. However, educating girls has countless benefits that cannot be overshadowed by even the most successful military campaign. Educating women is an extremely necessary endeavor and one that most modern nations have the capital to promote. France, which has an economy of 1/10th the size of the United States’, donated 600 million more dollars to education in poor countries. The Netherlands, which has an even smaller economy, was also a leader in improving education (“Education and the Developing World”). The United States should follow the lead of these countries and become forerunners in the fight for widespread female education.

Educating girls can irreversibly alter the economic landscape of an entire nation. The education of girls boosts the labor force and stimulates the economy, increasing a nation’s productivity and wealth. Additionally, educated women have smaller families which raises the standard of living and enables better child care. Having an education also provides women in desperate situations like arranged marriage with a means of escape. All humans have a fire within them, a desire to learn and live to their fullest potential. This fire has been suppressed in girls but with an education, they can find a way to light the spark once more.

 

Works Cited

“Education and the Developing World.” 2012. Print.

Girl Rising. Dir. Richard Robbins. The Documentary Group & Vulcan Productions, 2014. Film.

Kristof, Nicholas. “What’s So Scary About Smart Girls?” The New York Times, 10 May 2014. Print.

 

The Murder of Mary Phagan

In 1913, in Atlanta, Georgia, Leo Frank, the Jewish superintendent of the National Pencil Factory, was tried and convicted for the murder of Mary Phagan, a 13-year-old female worker in his factory. Local newspapers documented the court proceedings in great detail, framing Frank as a corrupt factory owner and a pervert. The Atlantan public followed the case very closely and believed these descriptions of Frank, despite the fact that many of them were made up or exaggerated. Atlantans were so convinced Frank was guilty that, when Governor John M. Slaton commuted Frank’s sentence from the death penalty to life in prison, an outraged mob swarmed Frank’s cell, took him away, and hanged him outside Mary Phagan’s house. During a time when lynching was very prevalent in the South, this lynching was unusual: it was one of the only lynchings of a white man. In one sense, the lynching was a manifestation of anti-Semitism, which had been progressing in Atlanta as the city’s Jewish population had rapidly increased over the last century. The lynching was also the result of class tensions in Atlanta, as the city industrialized, and the working class felt mistreated by wealthy, powerful factory owners like Leo Frank. Decades later, as new evidence and testimonies revealed that Frank was innocent and the guilty person was most likely the African American janitor, Jim Conley, it became clear that Frank’s conviction was also closely related to the tensions between the Jewish and African American communities in Atlanta. Overall, Leo Frank’s trial and lynching exposed the profound divisions in Atlanta’s society in the early twentieth centuries — between the wealthy and the poor, Jews and anti-Semitic Gentiles, and Jews and African Americans.

 

The Leo Frank Case

On the night of April 26, 1913, Mary Phagan’s dead body was found in the factory’s basement. That morning, which was Confederate Memorial Day, Mary Phagan had gone into the pencil shop at which she worked to collect her pay of $1.20. However, she never came home. Newt Lee, the factory’s night watchman, found her body, brutally bruised and bloody. He contacted the Call Officer, W.F. Anderson immediately, exclaiming that, “a white woman has been killed up here!” When the detectives arrived at the scene, they originally thought that she was a black woman because she was covered in soot from her head to her toes: “her features — even her eye sockets and nostrils — were caked with soot, and her mouth was choked with cinders.” When they arrived at the scene, the only clues the detectives found were two murder notes next to the body. The first note read, “He said he wood love me land down play like the night witch did it but that long tall black negro did boy his slef,” and the second note read, “Mam that negro hire down here did this i went to make eater and he push me down that hole a long tall negro black that hoo it wase long sleam tall negro i wright while play with me.” The detectives assumed that the notes were written by the murderer to direct the suspicion towards someone else, or possibly written by Mary as a way to help them identify her murderer. Basing their initial judgment on the notes, officers arrested Newt Lee, since he fit the “tall black negro” description in the first note and had found Mary’s body.

On behalf of the Atlanta Police Department, Detective Black stepped in to solve the crime. From the beginning, he was opposed to the idea of convicting a black man, as he did not think such a conviction would satisfy the public. He famously said, “The murder of Mary Phagan must be paid for with blood. And a Negro’s blood would not suffice.” Detectives later confirmed that Newt had not been around the factory when Mary was murdered, so he was released as a suspect. Quickly, detectives shifted their focus to Leo Frank, who appeared nervous when first accompanied by detectives to the scene of the crime. Frank was arrested and brought to court where, instead of acting nervous as he was before, he appeared calm and confident. Over the course of the trial, his calm was shaken as witnesses provided evidence that he had made sexual comments and advances towards Mary Phagan and other little girls in the factory. Moreover, there were questions about his alibi, and his lawyers struggled to prove that he had not been at the Pencil Factory during the murder. The evidence gathered, and public suspicion grew as the press printed shocking stories framing Frank as a perverse, evil factory owner. On May 23, 1913, the grand jury indicted Leo Frank for Mary Phagan’s murder.

The most significant testimony against Frank, which is widely believed to have convinced the jury he was guilty, was that of Jim Conley, a black man who worked as a janitor in the factory. Conley was a criminal himself, having already served two sentences on the chain gang and one time for attempted armed robbery. The police questioned Conley about the murder since they found him rinsing out a stain from his shirt, which he claimed was just a rust stain. The police did not arrest him because he told them he was not near the factory the day of Mary Phagan’s murder because he claimed he was drunk all day. He also told them he could not read or write, so they suspected he could not have written the notes next to her body. When he was later called in for another affidavit, he told a different story, claiming that he had seen Frank murder Mary Phagan and that Frank had forced him to help move the body. Rather than being suspicious of Conley’s changing story, detectives helped him correct his facts, and the press praised Conley for coming forward.

After the jury convicted Frank, his attorneys tried to overturn the decision, gathering evidence to build a case against Conley. They learned that Conley had confessed about the murder to multiple people and even threatened to kill those he told if they told anyone else. Leo’s attorneys collected medical evidence that established that Mary was actually murdered much later than when Hugh Dorsey, Frank’s prosecutor, claimed. Most importantly, though, when Leo was not in the factory. They wanted to appeal the case to the Supreme Court, but the Court refused to review the case, despite Justices Oliver Wendell Holmes and Charles Evans Hughes dissenting. They argued that the trial had been influenced by newspapers and general public sentiments, which meant that it had been unfair. As they wrote in their dissent, “Mob law does not become due process of law by securing the assent of a terrorized jury.” Governor John M. Slaton reviewed the entire case and decided to commute Frank’s sentence to life in prison. Georgia’s public was outraged when they heard this news. Riots erupted, leading Governor Slaton to institute Martial Law.

An angry mob raided the prison and captured Frank. They took him to Marietta and hanged him facing Mary Phagan’s house. He helplessly dangled there for hours, “head snapped back, chin resting in the noose’s bottom coil dangled from above.” Almost the whole city came to witness this disturbing event. Most Atlantans did not view it as tragic or upsetting but rather as an act of justice. One woman said, “I couldn’t bear to look at another human being, hanging like that… but this — this is different. It is all right. It is — the justice of God.” Some Atlantans, however, recognized this lynching as an injustice. An article published in The Atlanta Constitution ten days after the lynching emphasized the event as a setback for rights and freedom for all people, declaring, “We may regret and deplore, but the stain is there. In it the name and the identity of Leo Frank are but an atom. The great question others will ask is, ‘What surely can Georgia offer of the enforcement of constitutional rights and the protection of the laws?’”

Atlantan and global newspapers had played a very crucial role in the trial and lynching, printing sensationalist headlines and inflaming public outrage. After Mary’s murder, Monday’s issue of The Georgian gave five pages to the story. The paper had recently been acquired by newspaper tycoon William Randolph Hearst, and he saw Mary’s murder as an opportunity to increase his paper’s readers through dramatic, shocking coverage. The Georgian’s main competitor, The Atlanta Constitution, followed after The Georgian, covering the case in a way that dramatized it to capture readers. As the case unfolded in court, the two newspapers competed with each other, each one trying to write more shocking, eye-catching headlines than the other. These two newspapers were largely responsible for framing Frank as a pervert in the eyes of the public: a few days after the murder, The Georgian ran a story about the National Pencil Factory being a seedy business that was unfit for women to work in, with the headline, “NUDE DANCERS’ PICTURES ON WALLS.” The article also emphasized that the Pencil Factory was located near a street with a lot of prostitutes. George Epps, a 15-year-old who gave a testimony, said that Mary Phagan had been afraid of Frank, that Frank would “try to flirt with her” and “winked at her,” and that she had had him [Epps] walk her home from the factory sometimes. Because of that, the next morning the Constitution’s headline read, “FRANK TRIED TO FLIRT WITH MURDERED GIRL SAYS HER BOY CHUM.”

The sensationalist headlines also made the factory out to be emblematic of the problems of industrialization and factory work, portraying Frank as a greedy Jew and a boss with no qualms about child labor. Many poor, white, working-class Atlantans bought into the newspapers’ portrayal of Frank, viewing him as the ultimate villain of industrialization; these sentiments were a crucial driving force behind his lynching. However, a minority of privileged German Jews saw these newspaper articles as stirring up public outrage against one of their own and viewed this outrage as not necessarily proportional to the evidence against him.

Seventy years after Frank’s trial, new evidence and a review of the old evidence of the case proved that Frank was indeed innocent. Alonzo Mann, who had been a 14-year-old worker at the factory during the time of Mary Phagan’s murder, did an interview in which he confessed that he saw Conley murder Mary Phagan.

”Many times I wanted to get it out of my heart,” Mr. Mann told interviewers. ”I’m glad I’ve told it all. I’ve been living with it for a long time. I feel a certain amount of freedom now. I just hope it does some good.” Mann submitted to a lie detector test and a psychological stress evaluation and ended up passing both. The New York Times conducted a two-month investigation into Mann’s claims, and it reported that his confession was accurate. To explain why he had not come sooner, he told interviewers that Conley had told him, ”If you ever mention this, I’ll kill you,” which intimidated him and kept him from coming forward. Frank’s conviction and lynching should be reexamined in light of this new evidence, and both must be understood as the result of the anti-Semitism and social tensions that were so prevalent in Atlanta at the time.

 

Anti-Semitism

In the early twentieth century, anti-Semitism was spreading throughout America and especially growing in the South. Powerful individuals, such as Georg Von Schönerer and Karl Leuger, were outspoken and active in their efforts to villainize the Jews. A prominent industrialist figure at the time, Henry Ford, was particularly famous for his strongly anti-Semitic beliefs, which he was able to spread widely because he owned his own newspaper, The Dearborn Independent. “Ford wanted to assert that there was a Jewish conspiracy to control the world. He blamed Jewish financiers for fomenting World War I so that they could profit from supplying both sides. He also accused Jewish automobile dealers of conspiring to undermine Ford Company sales policies. Ford wanted to make his bizarre beliefs public in the pages of the Dearborn Independent.” Ford was not alone in his strongly held anti-Semitic views, and the kind of sentiments he expressed were pervasive throughout America, especially in the South.

At the time of Frank’s trial and conviction, Jewish immigration and involvement in Atlanta made the Jews a significant presence in the city. Six hundred Jews were living in Atlanta in 1880, which was a large number compared to the twenty-six that were living there in 1850. Several synagogues were built during this period of time due to this influx of Jews. During Reconstruction, many Atlantan Jews became prominent and involved in the city’s economy because their ties to Northern Jews allowed them to build their businesses back up more quickly than other whites whose businesses had been devastated by the Civil War. From 1881 on, Atlanta also began to receive some Jews from Eastern Europe and the Ottoman Empire.

As the Jewish presence in Atlanta grew, so did social tension. The Atlanta race riots took place in Atlanta from September 22nd to 24th, 1916. During these riots, white mobs killed African Americans, damaged their property, and wounded many other people. The riots were seen as the manifestation of frustration with the job competition poor whites felt with blacks. The 1881 strikes against the Elsas family’s Fulton Bag and Cotton Company also highlighted the growing social tension of the times. These strikes were the result of wage disputes, the hiring of black women, and the problem of child labor. These strikes, as well as the Atlanta race riots, show that this period in Atlantan history was defined by social unrest and frustration with the power dynamics in society. On top of racial tension, Jewish prominence in the social hierarchy also disturbed many Atlantans, especially poorer gentiles, who thought of themselves as racially superior and did not like feeling inferior to Jews in any way.

During this turbulent time, many Southerners developed a phobia of foreigners. While Northern Jews were making an effort to include new Russian Jewish immigrants in their communities, Southerners had strong feelings about the types of immigrants who were coming over and joining their America, and set up immigration bureaus in order to attract what they considered to be the “Best Type” of immigrant — immigrants of European heritage. For immigrants of other backgrounds, living in the South could be difficult and even dangerous. For example, nineteen Italians in Louisiana were lynched because of a fear of them associating with black people and of them being an inferior race. Jews were widely considered to be an inferior race, and so Jewish immigrants were not among the “Best Type” of immigrants, in the eyes of most Southerners. It was said that “Southern attitudes toward [Jews] had been an amalgam of affection, tolerance, curiosity, suspicion, and rejection.” During periods of stress in society at large, Southerners would lash out at Jews who acted differently from them. As scholar Leonard Dinnerstein wrote, “Jews were considered ‘rebels against God’s purpose,’ and many a Southern Christian mother lulled her children to sleep with fables of Jewish vices.” Religious teaching played a large role in getting Southern Christians to loathe Jews, with many ministers preaching, “The Savior was murdered by Jews.” One Baltimore minister said that, “of all the dirty creatures who have befouled this earth, the Jew is the slimiest.”

The widespread reaction to Leo Frank’s trial — and the public’s overwhelming belief in his guilt — is a testament to the intense anti-Semitism that was underlying Atlantan society at the time. Leo Frank was very involved in the Jewish community in Atlanta. He was the president of the B’nai B’rith organization for community service. His religion was an important part of his identity, and many Atlantans did not like him because of it. The Macon Daily Telegraph noted the effect that Frank’s trial and lynching had on Atlanta’s Jewish community: “… the long case and its bitterness has hurt the city greatly in that it has opened a seemingly impassable chasm between the people of the Jewish race and the Gentiles. It has broken friendships of years, has divided the races, brought about bitterness deeply regretted by all factions. The friends who rallied to the defense of Leo Frank feel that racial prejudice has much to do with the verdict. They are convinced that Frank was not prosecuted but persecuted. They refuse to believe he had a fair trial…” (The Macon Daily Telegraph). Leo Frank was widely compared to Alfred Dreyfus, a Jew in France who was wrongfully convicted of espionage largely due to the jury’s anti-Semitic sentiments. A New York Times headline read, “FRANK LYNCHING DUE TO SUSPICION AND PREJUDICE.”

Jews in Atlanta and across America believed Frank was a scapegoat for the city and the South’s anti-Semitic feelings. As a prominent member of the Jewish community, Frank represented a social group that was threatening and unsettling to gentile Atlantans. As scholar Jeffrey Melnick wrote, “There is little doubt that Frank’s status as a capitalist roused great enmity during the trial and after, and that the specific conceptions that circulated were inseparable from the negative connotations surrounding his Jewishness.” Jewish newspapers at the time tried to combat the information being disseminated by the larger gentile publications, arguing that he was innocent and only being targeted because he was as Jew. “He was sacrificed because he was a Jew, and a Northern Jew, at that. But, thank God, his sufferings are all over at last. If he had lived, his life would have been a torture to him, and they might have killed him in a worse way. Race hatred and political ambition have been satisfied.” Jewish publications, most significantly The Jewish Exponent, were outspoken in blaming Jim Conley for the murder:

The suspicion that was directed against him by the perjured testimony of a self-confessed negro accessory to the killing of Mary Phagan, who was left off with the ludicrous punishment of one year’s imprisonment, was fanned to a flame by the demagogism of a Solicitor General anxious for only political advancement and by the anti-semitic prejudice of a mob instigated by yellow journalists and mendacious Ishmaelites of the Tom Watson type. Frank was victimized because he was a Jew.

Jews throughout America believed that Frank was a martyr, suffering the consequences of a crime he did not commit simply because he was Jewish. As The Jewish Exponent printed three days after Frank’s lynching, “Frank underwent a martyrdom as horrible as any man has suffered. It has borne himself throughout this ordeal as a brave man and as a loyal Jew should.”

Despite recognizing Frank as the scapegoat for anti-Semitism, the broader Jewish community was slow to mobilize around his case while it was in trial. Frank’s powerful friends sought help from The American Jewish Committee, an organization set up by wealthy Jews who wanted to provide help to other Jews who were being denied important civil rights because of the age’s anti-Semitism. In Frank’s case, the American Jewish Committee president decided that “whatever is done must be done as a matter of justice, and any action that is taken should emanate from non-Jewish sources.” The president recognized the important role that the media was playing in Frank’s case, and so he wanted to influence the Southern press to shape opinions in favor of Jews and to establish “a wholesome public opinion which will free this unfortunate young man from the terrible judgment which rests against him.” The Committee agreed Frank’s case was an American Dreyfus, but it was divided on what to do. While Marshall and other committee members gave support however they could individually, the Committee did not act quickly enough and therefore never gave Frank any official help.

 

Class Tensions

Jews at the time were viewed as economically prosperous and thus became the scapegoat for issues caused by industrialization in the South. As factories were being built across the South, the rich factory owners grew richer as poor whites found themselves working for very low wages. Many families sent their children off to work in factories during the day to have some more income, which led to widespread public frustration with the issue of child labor. Depressed and dissatisfied workers in the South saw blaming the Jews as a way to relieve tension and frustration they had built up for many years. Georgia had had a small but very “prosperous, tight-knit community” of Jews for a long time before the twentieth century. However, as the Jewish population in Atlanta increased exponentially by the 1890s, tensions between the Jews and gentiles began to grow. The gentiles began to blame Jews in part for “the chaotic conditions in the city,” including prostitution and gambling, and the media printed a lot of outrageous, dramatic stories to stir up anti-Semitic public sentiments. Gentiles became jealous of the amount of money Jews were making as factory owners and fearful of the idea of rich Jewish men pursuing gentile women. Burton J. Hendrick famously wrote “The Great Jewish Invasion,” as well as several articles in McClure’s Magazine, about how the Jews were too ambitious and taking over every important aspect of city life.

As they followed the murder trials, Atlantan newspapers framed Frank in the context of the city’s working class frustrations with industrialization. The case took place during a time when labor unrest and tensions were higher than ever before. Workers believed they were not being paid fairly, and the working conditions in the factories that were springing up were terrible. White workers were especially frustrated, as they felt their jobs being threatened by black workers. A few decades before Frank’s trial, there were the aforementioned strikes against the Elsas family’s Fulton Bag and Cotton Company, which took place due to labor disputes and competition for jobs from black women. They were a testament to poor white workers’ frustration with the fact that they felt they were not being paid enough, and that working conditions were terrible. During the Leo Frank case, the National Pencil Factory was portrayed as an immoral place to work, unfit for women, and Frank was framed as an evil, perverse boss who did not care at all for the well-being of his employees. Because Frank was a Jew, Atlantans were already primed to see him as greedy and evil, so newspapers did not have a difficult time portraying him as a stereotypically cruel, greedy boss. Frank came to represent all the problems with industrialization that were disadvantaging so many Atlantans, which is why they felt so vehemently convinced of his guilt and his deserving to die.

Through their coverage of the case, the press especially portrayed Leo Frank as the emblem of what many people thought was the most terrible aspect of industrialization: child labor. At the time, Georgia was one of the worst states when it came to regulating child labor laws, allowing ten-year-olds to work 11-hour workdays in mills and factories. Frank’s trial came at a time when many provocative stories were already being published in newspapers about child labor in factories. Georgians were desperate to get rid of child labor: “‘Thy Kingdom Come’ means the coming of the day when child labor will be done away with, when every little tot shall have its quota of sunlight and happiness.” The fact that Mary Phagan had been only thirteen when she was murdered allowed the newspapers to frame the case as a perfect example of the evil that children could experience in their factory jobs. Frank, as the accused murderer, was portrayed as the stereotypical factory owner who exploited children. The implication that Frank might have raped Mary Phagan before murdering her only increased the public’s sense of Frank representing the way industrialization corrupted children. Indeed, as the trial progressed, its main focus became the suspicion that he had raped Mary Phagan. The testimonies against him introduced this suspicion, with many of Mary’s friends saying that Mary was made uncomfortable by Leo and that he always “wanted to talk to her.” The fact that Frank was considered ugly and unattractive made it easier for the Atlantan public to imagine him as a pervert.

In the end, Frank came to represent all the things wrong with Atlantan society at the time. Jeffrey Paul Melnick put it best when he said that Frank was:

identified as a ‘capitalist,’ doubly a capitalist, since to the lumpen Socialist mind of the American Populist capitalist equals Jew, and the two together add up to demi-devil. And in certain regards, the record seems to bear them out, for Frank did hire child labor, did work it disgracefully long hours of pitifully low wages; and if he did not (as popular fancy imagined) exploit his girls sexually, he failed in on their privacy with utter contempt for their dignity. Like most factory managers of the time, he was — metaphorically at least — screwing little girls like Mary Phagan.

 

Black-Jewish Relations

The crucial testimony that convicted Frank was delivered by Jim Conley, the janitor for the National Pencil Factory. After suspiciously changing his story multiple times, he gave a testimony in court in which he claimed he had helped Frank move the body after the crime, thereby admitting he was involved in order to blame Frank. He also claimed that he had helped Frank write the murder notes that surrounded Mary Phagan’s body, saying that he could not have written them himself because he did not know how to write. Playing into African American stereotypes, he convinced the detectives that he, as an uneducated, drunk African American, was incapable of the level of complex thinking that would be necessary to murder someone and frame someone else for it. Sixty-nine years later, when Mann came forward and confessed to having seen Lee murder Mary Phagan, it became clear that Conley had been capable of this deceit and had effectively carried it out. Regardless of how aware he was of what he was doing, Conley had played into crucial tensions in Atlantan society at the time in order to shift the blame onto Frank.

The living and working conditions for African Americans in Atlanta at the time were brutal. Jim Crow laws had established restraints on all public spaces, so black people lived lives very segregated from white America. A few decades after they had been granted legal freedom, African Americans were still denied many basic American freedoms in practice. They wanted to move up in society, but whites continued to find ways to shut them out of public places and disenfranchise them. African Americans were deeply frustrated with this state of affairs, and could not communicate with most Southern whites, who felt threatened by the idea of African Americans rising through the social hierarchy and changing the power dynamics. Rather than seeing blacks as disadvantaged, white people viewed them as lazy, urban people and blamed nearly all the problems of the city on the bad character of the city’s black population. The Atlanta race riots took place in Atlanta from September 22nd to 24th, 1916. During these riots, white mobs killed African Americans, damaged their property, and wounded many other people. The riots were the manifestation of pent-up feelings of frustration at the job competition poor whites felt with blacks, as well as other crucial tensions between the races. This racial conflict was the backdrop for the Frank case to unfold against, and it is part of the larger narrative about race in Atlanta at the time.

The Leo Frank case took on an important symbolic meaning in America and got at the heart of a tension between African Americans, represented by Jim Conley, and Jews, represented by Leo Frank. The anti-Semitism that was pervasive in the South had spread from the white gentiles to the African American community, who were distrustful and resentful of Jews’ economic success, which they viewed as keeping them in their lower social status. Because Jews were economically successful, they saw themselves as above African Americans. Leo Frank’s case was not just the first major case in which a black man’s testimony was important in convicting a white man, but also the first major case that pitted Jews and African Americans against each other and gave African Americans the upper hand. This tension was most obvious when officials wanted to arrange a meeting between Frank and Conley to see what would happen when “the negro [would] be quizzed in the presence of the man whom he accuses… his every action and look as he sees Frank’s eyes upon him will be followed closely by detectives and by the solicitor himself, and a crisis in the case may develop from the meeting.” However, the meeting did not happen because Frank decided he did not want to meet face-to-face with Conley. This important decision sent the signal that he thought of himself as racially and socially superior, which infuriated the people of Atlanta. Rather than seeing Frank as one of them because he was white, Atlantan gentiles saw him as an other because he was Jewish, and his insistence on his racial superiority called even more attention to his Jewishness.

Ultimately, the case was crucial in the narrative about the power hierarchy in the industrial South, and so Atlantans were predisposed to suspect evil and deceit from Jews, while expecting African Americans to be stupid and lazy. Jim Conley behaved in certain ways that whites expected him to, and played into the narrative of being a dumb factory worker in order to make sure people would conclude he was incapable of committing a crime and covering it up. Conley gave the appearance of fitting into the social order that Jim Crow laws had established, projecting an image of the kind of black person that Southerners felt used to and therefore did not see as threatening. In contrast, Frank was seen as very threatening, as he represented the stereotyped, rich Jews building businesses, becoming influential, and threatening the social order. The American Israelite captured the truth of the matter, which was hidden underneath these racial tensions, when it printed a piece that read:

The Dorseys, the Browns and the Watsons have succeeded in bringing about the murder of an innocent man because he was a jew, in order to protect themselves against the truth that must have come out at some time of their guilty knowledge, and to render powerless the vicious and criminal negro, the real murderer of Mary Phagan, whom they have been shielding.

The fact that Conley was not convicted in the case or villainized by the Atlanta public is also due to the positions of blacks and Jews in society. An important reason Conley wasn’t focused on too much as a suspect is because he wasn’t an authority figure, and the case was occurring at a time when people were suspicious of authority figures. However, another significant reason is that, while there were many opportunities to kill a black man in Southern society at the time, there were not many socially acceptable reasons to lynch a Jew. As anti-Semitism and antagonism grew in the South, people were eager to convict a Jew since it was so rare. Agreeing with Detective Black’s statement that “a Negro’s blood would not suffice,” Detective Watson famously said, “Hell, we can lynch a nigger anytime in Georgia, but when do we get the chance to hang a Yankee Jew?” In the end, the fact that Jews were perceived as superior to African Americans in Atlantan society worked against Leo Frank. He represented a hated social group within the city that Atlantans did not usually have an opportunity to commit violence against, and so lynching him had a special allure for Atlantans.

 

Aftermath

The lynching and false conviction of Leo Frank had a profound impact on American society. First and foremost, it was a warning to Jews in Atlanta, who were now divided from the rest of the city by the “chasm” that the intense anti-Semitism surrounding the case had created. Frank’s lynching was a sign to Jews across the country that anti-Semitism was a powerful force in America that was threatening their lives and freedom. After Frank’s death, many Jews came together to start the Anti-Defamation League, which was an organization that worked to fight anti-Semitism and preserve the reputations of Jews.” Unfortunately, the Anti-Defamation League would be necessary in the years to come: Leo Frank’s experience was a precursor to many other horrible manifestations of anti-Semitism that would happen in the twentieth century.

As Jews became a more isolated community within Atlanta and across the country, the white gentiles also came together to preserve their spot in the social hierarchy. Within Atlanta, many of them found Frank’s trial and lynching had confirmed the importance of preserving white gentile dominance in the South: “A short time after the lynching of Leo Frank, 33 members of the group that called itself the Knights of Mary Phagan gathered on a mountaintop near Atlanta and formed the new Ku Klux Klan of Georgia.” For most Atlantans, lynching Frank seemed like “the justice of God,” the right way to preserve their spot in the hierarchy in their society. Both Jews and African Americans would continue to be marginalized, threatened, hurt, and killed in Southern society because of their race. African Americans, in particular, would continue to have to fight against the stereotypes of blacks as lazy, criminal, drunks — the kinds of stereotypes that Conley had played into during his testimony and his attempts to frame Frank.

The Frank case also contributed to the ongoing discussions of the problems having to do with industrialization. It helped expose the ways that factory owners mistreated their workers, as the newspaper articles about Frank focused largely on his cruelty as a boss and his inappropriate comments. It also added to the discussions of child labor, which had already been happening but now had a new, disturbing example to add to the list of reasons that child labor should be abolished or at least regulated. It would take more years, more newspaper articles, and more public outcry for the problems in factories to be addressed, but the industrialization-focused anger that Frank’s case revealed was the beginning of the force that moved those reforms forward.

Ultimately, Leo Frank’s trial and lynching got at the heart of several key themes in Southern society at the time: anti-Semitism, racial hierarchies, and labor dynamics. The case exposed many huge problems facing society, but at the time, rather than helping people better understand these issues and work to resolve them, the Frank case seemed to divide social groups further and increase the tensions between them. Only with some distance could historians look back and understand the case fully in its context, and use it as a window into these different dynamics and problems that have had a lasting impact on American society. Perhaps the most important lesson to be found in Leo Frank’s experience is the importance of reexamining history to understand the trends that have shaped our society into what it is today, and the truths that might still need to be uncovered.

 

Bibliography

Alphin, Elaine Marie. Unspeakable crime: the prosecution and persecution of leo frank. Carolrhoda , 2014. Print.

“Anti-Semitism in the United States.” Henry Ford Invents a Jewish Conspiracy. N.p., n.d. Web. 29 May 2017. <http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/henry-ford-invents-a-jewish-conspiracy>.

Dinnerstein, Leonard. The Leo Frank case. Athens: U of Georgia Press, 2008. Print.

“FRANK LYNCHING DUE TO SUSPICION AND PREJUDICE.” New York Times (1857-1922): 4. Aug 20 1915. ProQuest. Web. 9 May 2017

Fulton Bag and Cotton Mills Digital Collection. N.p., n.d. Web. 29 May 2017. <http://www.library.gatech.edu/fulton_bag/index.html>.

“GEORGIA’S DISGRACE COMPLETE.” The American Israelite (1874-2000): 4. Aug 19 1915. ProQuest. Web. 9 May 2017

“GEORGIA’S SHAME!” The Atlanta Constitution (1881-1945): 6. Aug 18 1915. ProQuest. Web. 9 May 2017

“Girl murdered in pencil factory.” History.com. A&E Television Networks, n.d. Web. 30 May 2017. <http://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/girl-murdered-in-pencil-factory>.

Jacobs, Peter. “The lynching of a Jewish man in Georgia 100 years ago changed America forever.” Business Insider. Business Insider, 18 Aug. 2015. Web. 29 May 2017. http://www.businessinsider.com/leo-frank-lynching-in-georgia-100-years-ago-changed-america-forever-2015-8

“Jewish Community of Atlanta.” New Georgia Encyclopedia. N.p., n.d. Web. 29 May 2017. <http://www.georgiaencyclopedia.org/articles/history-archaeology/jewish-community-atlanta>.

“Leo M. Frank Lynched– Georgia’s Lasting Disgrace.” The Jewish Exponent (1887-1990): 9. Aug 20 1915. ProQuest. Web. 9 May 2017

Melnick, Jeffrey Paul. Black-Jewish relations on trial: Leo Frank and Jim Conley in the new South. Jackson: U Press of Mississippi, 2000. Print.

“The Murder of Leo M. Frank.” The Jewish Exponent (1887-1990): 4. Aug 20 1915. ProQuest. Web. 9 May 2017

“NEGRO CONLEY MAY FACE FRANK TODAY.” The Atlanta Constitution (1881-1945): 5. Jun 13 1913. ProQuest. Web. 9 May 2017

Oney, Steve. And the dead shall rise: the murder of Mary Phagan and the lynching of Leo Frank. New York: Vintage , 2004. Print.

Rawls, Wendell Jr. “AFTER 69 YEARS OF SILENCE, LYNCHING VICTIM IS CLEARED.” The New York Times. Mar 8 1982. ProQuest. Web. 2 Feb 2017.

“Witness Swears He Saw Frank Forcing Unwelcome Attentions upon the Little Phagan Girl.” The Atlanta Constitution (1881-1945): 2. Aug 20 1913. ProQuest. Web. 9 May 2017.

 

Work of Tomorrow

Toll scans replace tollbooth operators, ATM and pay sharing apps replace bank tellers, drones replace pilots and delivery workers, and robots replace factory workers at manufacturing assembly plants. Labor unions decry the imminent threat to the global job market posed by automation, and some economists predict that 47% of American workers have jobs at high risk of likely automation in the next twenty years. The question then becomes who, what line of work, exactly faces risk of the inauspicious effects of automation, as the United States and other developed nations have previously overcome several waves of industrialization and advancement of technology before without devastating impact to human employment. McKinsey & Co., a private management consulting company, estimates that an “automation bomb” in the United States will cost manual laborers nearly $2 trillion in lost annual wages. Analysts predict that the next phase of automation will adversely affect both blue-collar, manual labor and white-collar, information and service workers relatively equally. Yet a contrasting perspective by some analysts suggests that automation may rather spur further job growth, in new and innovative fields.

No simple policy decision or law will eliminate or even curtail automation since automation is rooted in the theory of capitalism which maximizes profit through supply and demand. Employers seek more profit through increases in revenue and reducing expenses, including labor wages. McKinsey and Co. defines the ideal employee as one who is highly productive in his craft (thus eliminating the need for many, less productive workers) and requires less pay. As technology advances, the preference for business owners seems clear: use robot workers and produce a larger profit margin. Although capitalism was founded on the premise of improved social mobility for all individuals, it is paradoxical since automation likely widens wage gaps, as company executives grow wealthier from profit margins while middle class workers lose their jobs or experience reduced wages.

A common misconception of automation is that only blue-collar laborers will be affected. While blue-collar workers are similarly directly impacted by a loss of jobs due to automation, white-collar professionals also face competition from superior technology. One of the most promising technological developments of the 21st century is that of artificial intelligence. Artificial intelligence (AI) has essentially developed and granted cognitive capabilities to machines previously thought only able to perform repetitive and mundane tasks. Now, researchers have programmed “smart” machines and robots to work on complex legal tasks, investigate cases of fraudulence for insurance companies, and identify algorithmic business decisions by assessing the current market, among other high level tasks. Entry-level employees without sophisticated skills look small and meager in comparison to computers. As businesses seek a competitive edge over their rivals, artificial intelligence provides that sophistication.

However, automation cannot fully eliminate all jobs that exist in society and, in many cases, employees and job positions evolve and improve their skill sets to match forecasted changes in the labor market. As robots assume more menial and repetitive tasks in the manual labor market, a new line of workers will arise to supervise and tend to these machines. Much of the changes in the workplace due to automation, will revise job titles and expand the fields of engineering and technologies associated with the automation of manual labor activities. The brunt of the impact that automation brings to the job economy will come in the current generation of workers, as the shift from manual labor to technological tasks occurs. Unfortunately, economists predict that there will be significant layoffs, particularly in manual labor. There are limited opportunities for professionals working today to have the retraining needed to accommodate these colossal shifts in the operations of companies. But the next generation of workers is becoming well prepared for the ever growing field of technicians or engineers. From the STEAM education movement to the rise of computer science classes in primary schools, humans recognize the need to adapt to changing work demands of our time.

Automation has long been an increasingly dangerous threat in global society, affecting not just a single person or nation, but the job economy as we know it. Machines may hinder social mobility for members of all classes unless change occurs immediately and assurances are created to protect the jobs of workers from expanded automation, especially on foreign soil. Despite the possibility of new industries accompanying automation, the lives and financial well-being of the current generation are at risk.

 

Works Cited

Automation and Anxiety,” 6/25/16, The Economist.

Ignatius, David. “The Brave New World of Robots and Lost Jobs,” 8/11/16, The Washington Post.

 

Good Night, Bad Night: The Black Night in Macbeth

The night is alive, and similar to a human, it may be allied with. It has a peaceful side and a dark one. In Shakespeare’s tragedies, the night takes on the darker role, but in his comedies, such as The Merchant of Venice and A Midsummer Night’s Dream, it takes on the lighter, more peaceful one. When the night is dark, nature becomes more creepy, and the night becomes more evil. In Macbeth, Lady Macbeth and Macbeth, under the influence of three supernatural sisters, find the need to fulfill their dirty desire for power. They do anything to do this, including murder, starting a war, and allying with the dark side of the night. They use the dark and evil side of the night to help them gain power by inflicting harm and confusion on the rest of the Scottish kingdom. There is contrast between how the night is presented in Shakespeare’s comedies versus his tragedies.

In Shakespeare’s comedies, the night is often illustrated as a peaceful and quiet time. It is when everything and everyone rests. For example, in The Merchant of Venice, Scene 5, Act 1, Lorenzo says, “How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! / Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music / creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night / become the touches of sweet harmony” (5.1.52-55). Just reading this quote may calm the reader because the language is soft and soothing. It has anything but a negative connotation. Shakespeare also uses the night in a positive way in Act 1, Scene 1 of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Lysander says, “Tomorrow night when Phoebe doth behold / her silver visage in the watery glass, / decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass / (a time that lovers’ flights doth still conceal)… ” (1.1.209-212). To clarify, Lysander is saying, “Tomorrow night, when the moon shines on the water and creates beads of pearly light on the grass (the time when lovers are most concealed and can run away).” Lovers may choose the night out of all times because it is the most peaceful and quiet time, so they won’t get disturbed. The moon shines on the grass and the water in a beautiful, unusual way during the night, and it also is the time when everyone rests. In these quotes, the night takes on the role of good, peaceful, quiet, and beautiful.

Shakespeare, equally skilled at creating unsettling and violent moods, changes his definition of the night in his tragedies. In Macbeth, the night morphs into a dark, evil, strange, and creepy phenomenon. An example of this is in Act 2, Scene 4, where an Old Man is speaking. He is talking about how the night that Duncan was murdered in was terrible and strange. The old man says, “… Hours dreadful and things strange; but this sore night / hath trifled former knowings” (2.4.3-5). In modern English, this means this night has been so spooky and scary that what we used to think was terrible is hardly so. From this, it may be drawn that the Old Man is referring to the night to represent the murder, as if the night itself was the terrible, scary thing that made it so that the Scottish people had a new understanding of what is truly horrific. In Act 2, Scene 3, Lennox, as well, deciphers that the night is evil. Here, he is exclaiming how odd the night that Duncan was killed in was. Lennox says:

The night has been unruly: where we lay,

our chimneys were blown down; and, as they say,

lamentings heard i’ the air; strange screams of death,

and prophesying with accents terrible

of dire combustion and confused events

new hatch’d to the woeful time: the obscure bird

mischievously the livelong night: some say, the earth

was feverous and did shake. (2.3.28-36)

In other words, this night has been been chaotic. The wind blew down into people’s chimneys as they slept. Some people say that they have heard cries of grief in the air, strange screams of death, and voices predicting terrible things in the woeful future. Here, Lennox is describing how the night was unusual. Shakespeare is using it to represent the shock and horror as people find out about Duncan’s death. Lennox knows that the night is becoming more evil before he found out about Duncan’s death. As well as the Old Man, Lennox is describing how the night has been odd. It’s almost like Lennox knew that something happened before he found out about it. These lines demonstrate how the night is showing its evil side over its good side. They may also outline an idea for the reader relating to Macbeth and Lady Macbeth allying with its dark side.

As Macbeth moves on, Macbeth and Lady Macbeth learn to trust the night and seek refuge in its evil side more and more often. This has negative impacts on the people of the Scottish kingdom. This is demonstrated in Act 3, Scene 2, when Macbeth feels that he must kill Banquo if he wants to stay king. He is basing this on the knowledge he gained from the witches. Macbeth says to Lady Macbeth:

Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck,

till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night,

scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day;

and with thy bloody and invisible hand

cancel and tear to pieces that great bond

which keeps me pale. (3.2.47-52)

This may be interpreted as, “it is better that I don’t tell you until after it is done, when you applaud me for what I did. (Stops speaking to Lady Macbeth) Come, night, allow my killers to be stealthy and cover me of this deed. Allow your invisible hands to end Banquo’s life, which brings me fear.” Therefore, Macbeth wants the night to come. He is using it to cover up his killing Banquo and to allow his murderers to be unseen while doing it. Macbeth is starting to use the night as an ally to cause confusion and be destructive. This is different than how he used to use it, in which he would rest himself and allow other people to rest during the peaceful, quiet time. Now Macbeth uses the night as a murder weapon. This affects the rest of the Scottish kingdom in that the people now cannot rest either. An example of this is in Act 2, Scene 3, the famous Porter scene. Porter talks about Macbeth’s castle and how it has transformed in a negative way. The reader knows of Duncan’s death in this scene, but Porter does not. Porter says, “Here’s a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of / hell-gate, he should have old turning the key” (2.3.1-2). Essentially, Porter is comparing Macbeth’s castle to hell and his job to the person in control of hell’s gates. After Macbeth and Lady Macbeth use the safety of the night to kill Duncan, the doorman of their castle (Porter) thinks that Macbeth’s castle is no longer what it used to be. When Macbeth and his wife rely on the night’s aid in murder, people sense that the night has become evil. This is also illustrated in the previous Old Man and Lennox quotes. They all believe the night to be chaotic and evil. They each said things relating to the night being horrible, disturbing, and hell-like. In addition, I feel that Macbeth and Lady Macbeth become more and more evil as they continue to use the dark side of night in their dirty business. They not only are inflicting harm on others intentionally for their own gain, but they are also harming the rest of the Scottish kingdom. They are affecting everyone else’s daily lives and sleep routines. They are creating fear among the Scottish people, which is one of the classic aspects of evil characters.

In conclusion, the night is often interpreted as a peaceful and quiet time in Shakespeare’s comedies, but in Macbeth, it consistently plays a darker, more evil role. In Macbeth, Macbeth and Lady Macbeth use the night for their gain in power, and it costs them their original empathetic personalities. They become full of hatred and darkness. This may remind a reader of classic devil-inspired action. A character teams up with the devil and then is under the influence of him. In Macbeth, the night represents the devil, and as the book progresses, Macbeth and Lady Macbeth find the need to use the night to pursue dark thoughts into actions. Perhaps when people use the night for things besides peaceful activities, like sleep and renewal, they may become dark and evil like they are under the influence of the devil.

 

A Mindful Macbeth: How “Hand” is Used in Macbeth to Represent a Relationship Between Mind and Body

We usually think of our hands as fairly physical things — almost distant things; we don’t regularly consider what they are doing or how we control them. Not so much for Macbeth. In William Shakespeare’s classic Macbeth, power-hungry Macbeth murders many for the Scottish throne, which witches tell him he will gain. Because Macbeth is set in the 11th Century, all of these murders are physical — all of them done by hand. Because of Macbeth’s desire for power, though, the fire driving the murders is solely in his head. Throughout the narrative, the word “hand” often symbolizes the connections and separations between Macbeth’s body and Macbeth’s mind.

In Act 1 of Macbeth, Shakespeare uses the word “hand” to symbolize a separation between mind and body, specifically within Macbeth. In Act 1, Scene 4, Macbeth is speaking about murdering King Duncan. He says, “Stars, hide your fires; / Let not light see my black and deep desires: / The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be, / Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see” (1.4.57-60). Here, “hand” is being used both literally and metaphorically; it is literally in reference to the murder that Macbeth’s hand will help commit, but it is also using the action of Macbeth’s hand stabbing Duncan to represent the whole idea of Duncan’s murder — both the desire and the act. It is also interesting that there is a distinction here between “hand” and “eye.” Shakespeare is noting the difference between the more physical aspects of a body, in this case Macbeth’s hand, and the more mental ones: what Macbeth’s eye sees. Macbeth is afraid of seeing himself — of realizing that he is about to murder a friend. As readers, we can assume that the separation between mind and body — between eye and hand — that Macbeth is exhibiting originates in this fear of himself. Later in Act 1, Lady Macbeth is speaking to Macbeth, and Macbeth has just said that Duncan is coming that day and leaving the next. She speaks,

O, never

Shall sun that morrow see!

Your face, my thane, is as a book where men

May read strange matters. To beguile the time,

Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,

Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,

But be the serpent under’t. (1.5.71-77)

In this quote, Lady Macbeth is describing very literally that Macbeth’s hands (“hands” representing Macbeth’s whole physical body) need to seem innocent. In the previous use of “hand,” Shakespeare distinguishes “hand” from “eye,” but here it is all representing what Duncan is supposed to see. But, similar to the previous example, Shakespeare is noting a separation between mind and body — Macbeth’s body must be welcoming, but his mind must be deadly. In both of these instances, Shakespeare makes a point of noting the separation between the parts of Macbeth’s body Macbeth can control and the parts of Macbeth’s mind Macbeth can control and how they contradict each other.

Other times in Macbeth, Shakespeare uses “hand” to demonstrate a connection between Macbeth’s mind and body. In Act 2, Macbeth says (in a soliloquy), “Is this a dagger which I see before me, / The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. / I have thee not, and yet I see thee still” (2.1.44-46). The repetition of hand is interesting here — handle is not actually a form of hand but sounds repetitive when read aloud. Shakespeare may have chosen to emphasize this to show the connection Macbeth is feeling between his hand and the dagger. Macbeth is wondering if this dagger is here as a sign that he should murder Duncan with his dagger and his hands. This example suggests a leading somewhere: the handle of the dagger is leading Macbeth. It is almost as if Macbeth has no control here — the tone is passive; he has no choice but to be led by his mind’s creations. His body is acting under his mind’s tricks, a separation between action and desire similar to the previous example, but more importantly a connection between his entire mind and body; a connection so strong that Macbeth’s body is functioning under only his mind’s “tricks” — his mind and body are inseparable.

Connection and separation are opposites, and Shakespeare often treats them that way, but he also sometimes uses the two within the same lines or moment in Macbeth. In Act 4, Scene 1, Macbeth has just found out from Lennox that Malcolm fled the country. He is panicked and has just seen the Weïrd Sisters’ prophecies, so he is also confused and doesn’t know what to think. He says,

Time, thou anticipatest my dread exploits:

The flighty purpose never is o’ertook

Unless the deed go with it; from this moment

The very firstlings of my heart shall be

The firstlings of my hand. (4.1.164-168)

Here, Macbeth is himself (as opposed to Shakespeare) drawing the connection between mind and body; he is noticing that often your mind has an idea, but your body doesn’t execute it. Here, he also seems to be noticing or pointing out, though, that his mind is what is driving his body, almost that his mind is in control of his body. In this example, Macbeth is noticing a connection between his mind and body, but also that what his mind wants is separate from what his body does. Shakespeare is illustrating a broader relationship between Macbeth’s mind and body.

In Macbeth, Shakespeare often uses the word “hand” to symbolize the relationship between Macbeth’s mind and body. Sometimes he uses it to show the connections, sometimes to show the separations, and sometimes both. As we see in waddling toddlers or talking babies, right from the start our society establishes a relationship between the mind and the body — some babies develop physically first, some mentally; people often are either “smart” or “athletic.” We categorize people into mind and body — our society treats them as separate. As Shakespeare teaches us, though, our minds and bodies are separate sometimes, in sync other times, and sometimes both. So the next time you hear someone talking about meditation or breathing exercises or the new popular adult coloring books — or the next time you are using any of these yourself — remember to recognize both the separations and connections between your mind and body. Take it from Macbeth.

 

Energy, Empowerment, & Entrepreneurship: Female Figures in American Literature

“Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,” begins Puritan poet Anne Bradstreet in “The Author to Her Book” (1678), adding “Who after birth did’st by my side remain / Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true / Who thee abroad exposed to public view” (Bradstreet 1-4). Here, the Puritan author demonstrates how there are other roles in society women can fulfill, but they do not necessarily take advantage of those roles due to the possible, fearsome consequences. Both the narrator and Bradstreet herself struggled with traditional male images symbolizing poetic creation. Many critics — specifically literary critic Patricia Cadwell — now praise Bradstreet for her efforts for being “the founder of American literature” and her role in exposing the evils of patriarchal tradition (Cadwell 138). In truth, various works of American literature emphasize the female figure’s thirst for equality through the continuation of restrictive, outmoded ideologies pertaining to gender rights. Through the figures’ journeys, readers are inspired to continue forwarding the empowerment of women. In regards to Bradstreet, the early poet exposes the realistic struggles of women through their exposure of the evil, patriarchal tradition and the nonexistent changes 200 years later. Her emphasis on the necessity for support of the fearless, undermined female figure who bravely, as later author Nathaniel Hawthorne states, “strike their roots into unaccustomed earth” (Hawthorne 13), encourages readers to seek new ideologies, following in the footsteps of those before them.

To explain further, in writing The Scarlet Letter (1850), Romanticist Nathaniel Hawthorne brings light to the truth about female oppression while simultaneously using the infamous Puritan adulterer, Hester Prynne, as a model of a woman who dares to push social boundaries. By writing about an extreme event 200 years before his time, Hawthorne emphasizes how little the standards have changed for women in America. To continue, in stating that “Women derive a pleasure, incomprehensible to the other sex, from the delicate toil of the needle” (Hawthorne 6), the novelist underscores that women do have a clear, domestic role. Nevertheless, the Romantic novelist does not believe that such a role is the only one that women can fulfill. He later demonstrates Hester’s inner strength to stand alone against a group of male magistrates: “Never! […] I will not speak!” (50), she declares, refusing to name the father of her illegitimate child. Here, Hawthorne brings light to the perception of women in Puritan society and how Hester’s character is made to signify the change in society or the move from a blind faith in tradition and into a new era of mutual understanding (Baym). Similarly, American playwright Arthur Miller’s The Crucible (1953) emphasizes the corrupted image of women in Puritanical America through their involvement in the Salem Witch Trials. In writing “‘She is telling lies about me! She is a cold, sniveling woman, and you bend to her! Let her turn you like a — ’ ‘Do you look for whippin’?’” (Miller 22), the author demonstrates, through figures Abigail Williams and John Proctor, how women who fought back against the lies of society were continuously shunned and dubbed “wicked” (20). Through their perilous journeys in Puritanical America, both Hester Prynne and Abigail Williams are satirical symbols of the non-developing status of women in American society demonstrated, by Miller and Hawthorne, through their “so-called” preposterous actions that further blind society from seeking a solution.

Furthermore, as demonstrated in Puritan author Mary Rowlandson’s narrative, Narrative of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson (1682), these preconceived notions about female figures and womanhood manipulate the vulnerable minds of society. When taken captive by a tribe of Native Americans, the eponymous author continuously doubts her newfound survival strengths, as she demonstrates in writing “I thought my heart and legs, all would have broken, and failed me” (Rowlandson 3). Here, the author brings light to her perspective on her own mentality, that is, essentially, degrading due to the lack of strict, Puritanical standard of women, but, it is her later realization of her self-power that empowers her to break stereotypical tradition. As a result, present day critics — such as Rebecca Blevins Faery — refer to the narrative as a “proto-epic in scope in the founding of national identity (and literature)” (Faery 259), for its removal of Puritanic notions towards the behavior of women. It is through the eponymous author’s fear in disobeying the identity her society has painted onto her, that she discovers an alternative reality for herself: a hungered addiction for the wild, empowering, feminine animal within. Additionally, American author Ralph Waldo Emerson supports the idea of a personal identity in his memoir “Self-Reliance” (1841). In regards to Mary Rowlandson, Puritanical notions are what “scare [her] from self-trust” (Emerson 44); but, it is her “feminine rage” that “the indignation of the people is added” (Emerson 43). Nevertheless, Emerson’s writings introduce readers to the unfortunate reality of past American society; regardless of his efforts, women, similar to Mary Rowlandson, are continuously perceived themselves to be incapable of self-sufficiency. As the eponymous author further engulfs herself into a world of preconceived notions, she strengthens the impenetrable sphere of stereotypes, that surrounds the world and American literature thus far.

Notwithstanding the dubbed “fearsome” ideology surrounding the entrepreneurship of female figures, Romantic poet Emily Dickinson bursts into the sphere of American literature with her arduous, cleverly hidden pinpoints to the reality of independent women in American society. As she writes in her poem “I’m “wife” — I’ve finished that”, “I’m “wife” — I’ve finished that — / That other state — […] / It’s safer so — ” (Dickinson, “I’m wife” 1-4). Here, the poet reveals, through a young girl’s contradictory feelings, the reality of marriage and its prevention of female self-identities, labelling women as the possession of their husbands. Additionally, Dickinson implies, with this innovative ideology, that a woman who is not married is capable of more, without having others interfere such as a husband might. As literary critic Mary Loeffelholz reflects in her journal Dickinson and the Boundaries of Feminist Theory, the poet’s primary role is in breaking the boundaries of female stereotypes through the figures in her poems: “Over and over in these poems and prose passages, borders and boundaries exist to be breached” (Loeffelholz 111). Likewise, in continuation of this revolutionary trend, Dickinson presents a similar message in her poem “We outgrow love like other things,” in writing “[w]e outgrow love like other things / And put it in the drawer” (Dickinson, “We outgrow” 1-2). Here, Dickinson describes how people can outgrow love like an antique fashion mirroring how, in society, women are taught that their looks are important in the pleasing of men. Women were rarely independent and declined to practice reason; but, Dickinson demonstrates here that these looks will continuously outgrow each other, removing the need for male judgement on the image of women. In short, Emily Dickinson truly was a feminist writer who lived ahead of her time, through her painting of the female figure’s identity and her exposé of societal falsehoods. Truly, Dickinson is a literary incarnation of the fearless Joan of Arc; she raises her sword high in the air and ripping apart the gilded fabrics of American literature.

As coined by American author Mark Twain, the Gilded Age was a revolutionary period in American literature that brought light to the “underbelly” or false perfections of the American society. Similarly, Realist author Kate Chopin highlights in her short story “The Story of an Hour” (1894) the gilded truths within female figures, specifically pertaining to those held in the restrictive chains of marriage. “‘Free, free, free’” begins the story’s protagonist Mrs. Louise Mallard, who has just received word of her husband’s death, “‘free! Body and soul free’” (Chopin 757). Here, the author highlights the protagonist’s hidden emotions within her marriage and how Louise’s initial reaction was due to her chains being removed from an accustomed Earth, not a shattered heart. Additionally, this story brings light to the risk women writers faced in being absolutely objective: it was a risk to being morally ambiguous, and the only acceptable way to depict such immoral scenarios was to — as literary critic Karin Garlepp Burns writes — “undermine the exaggerated objective mode” (Burns, “The Paradox” 30). On the other hand, in Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884), illustrator Edward Winsor Kemble’s image “Indignation” demonstrates the inner anger of female figures; the title itself is ironic as it is defined as anger or annoyance provoked by what is perceived as unfair treatment (in this case unfair treatment of women). In a moment of anger where her eyes were “ablazing higher and higher” (Twain 199), Kemble depicts Mary Jane Wilks with an image of rage and disgust on her face (Figure 1) contradicting the stereotypical image of women in American society — at the time — as depicted in Charles Dana Gibson’s plethora of “Gibson Girl” images — specifically “The Hero… Discovered in the Act of Carrying on Two Conversations at a Time” (1903). For example, Kemble displays Mary Jane as an uptight, rigid woman, whereas Gibson paints women wearing very low-cut, loose dresses highlighting how they are merely objects meant to appeal to the likeness of men (Figure 2). Regardless of Kate Chopin and Edward Kemble’s attempts to instill the image of independent, proud women, Mark Twain — who was somewhat tolerant of empowering, female figures claiming his daughter “was all [his] riches” (Burns, “Mark Twain”) and his “gilded” world — discards these ideologies amongst the glamour and ostentatious lifestyle of the Lost Generation. As depicted in the 2000 Penguin Modern Classics cover of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby (1925), women are viewed, merely, as objects of lust and pleasure (Figure 3): the “beautiful little fool[s]” with painted, gold faces (Fitzgerald 17).

Furthermore, as demonstrated in American author F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby (1925), the resurgence of empowering, female figures is diminished through the temptations and scandals of elitism and the lavish lifestyle of the wealthy. In ironic connection with the writers of this era — coined “The Lost Generation” by author and mentor Gertrude Stein — the robust, astute minds of these women are lost within dreams of satisfaction and fulfillment of “the American Dream” (as coined by James Truslow Adams). In writing “[s]he wanted her life shaped now, immediately [… ] of love, of money, of unquestionable practicality” (Fitzgerald 151), the author emphasizes — through the female protagonist Daisy Buchanan — the image that women are fundamentally incapable of making up their minds without an intelligent man by their side. This overarching claim entraps women in cultural and gendered constructions of being a rich wife and “‘nice’ girl” (149). As aforementioned, upon speaking of her daughter’s future, Daisy remarks “‘I hope she’ll be a fool — that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool’” (17). Daisy is not a fool herself, but, this is somewhat sardonic. While Daisy refers to the social values of her era, she does not seem to challenge them. The older generation values subservience and docility in females, and the younger generation values thoughtless giddiness and pleasure-seeking. In writing “[s]he is a victim of a complex network” (Fryer 165), literary critic Sarah Beebe Fryer unveils Daisy’s true intentions, highlighting how readers should continue to support her decisions despite them often being against the empowering morals of female figures. Regardless, Daisy Buchanan is regarded as the counterexample of female empowerment as she is presented with the opportunity to provoke her knowledge; but, in turn, she wallows away in her silence. In conforming to the social standard of American femininity in the 1920s, Daisy is, essentially, held back by the leash of pearls around her neck, preventing her from continuing the parade of fearless female figures as literature has so far presented.

Regardless of her degradation to the societal power of women, F. Scott Fitzgerald introduces the idea of “unattainable girl”: a female figure who is out of reach from the controlling, wanting power of another figure. As written in American playwright Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun (1959), twenty-two year old Beneatha Younger is an incarnation of the “unattainable girl” through her difficulties with her conservative mother and her anti-marriage attitude: “‘I’m not worried about who I’m going to marry yet — if I ever get married’” (Hansberry 50). Here, the author brings light to Beneatha’s hidden strength shown through her defensive attitude towards her own morals “by forgoing blasphemous outbursts” — as American author Mary Ellen Snodgrass writes in her article “A Raisin in the Sun” (Snodgrass). Not only is Beneatha not interested in getting married and being cared for by a man, but she is also convinced that she alone can choose the direction and outcome of her life. Similarly, Mary Anne, a Vietnam soldier’s girlfriend in Tim O’Brien’s Things They Carried: A Work of Fiction “Song Tra Bong” (1990), echos Hansberry’s emphasis on the gilded strengths of women through her exercising in total agency over her life “with different forms of expressions” (53), and addiction to the wild nature of Vietnam. An unnoticed counterexample to stereotypes of American women’s participation in war, Mary Anne, who enters as a soldier’s girlfriend but leaves as a soldier herself, “ma[kes] you think about those girls back home, how pure and innocent they all are, how they’ll never understand any of this” (O’Brien 108). Here, O’Brien emphasizes in the short story how the women who go to war don’t fulfill their typical gender roles, but rather, take on characteristics generally associated with men because the intense circumstances of war demand those qualities in its soldiers: “she quickly fell into the habits of the bush” (94). As American literature dictates, those who do not follow the status quo of their role as women unravel American society and the accepted standard of gender and identity. Neither Beneatha nor Mary Anne don their skirts in place for camouflage, but, through their energetic attitudes, they paint their faces red preparing for a never ending, fearsome fight towards changing the outlook of female figures.

In terms of The Color of Water: A Black Man’s Tribute to His White Mother (1995), American author James McBride demonstrates the empowering, determined work ethic of female figures throughout their fragmented lives and haunted pasts. His mother, Ruth McBride, is perceived by her children as an empowering, spirited matriarch. However, a layer of Ruth’s personality retains the sorrows and regrets of her childhood. As she states, “‘We had no family life. That store was our life’” (McBride 41), the author brings light to Fishel Shilsky’s unloving, patriarchal nature in which he ruled his household. In turn, Ruth successfully runs her family with love, along with a similarly tight rein; she disciplines her children to answer directly to her, demonstrating her assertive, controlling power regardless of her haunted past. Additionally, McBride emphasizes his mother’s unseen strength through the difficulties she faced as a single mother of twelve children who strived to grant her children with the best education possible. Through her hard work ethic, Ruth is able to send her children to some of the finest colleges in the country which is, as Frances Winddance Twine, Professor of Sociology at the University of California, states in praise, “an amazing accomplishment for even the most privileged of white women” (Twine 152). Moreover, the critic agrees with McBride’s revealing of the hidden strength of women in stating “we should not assume that there are no more like [Ruth], in America’s past and in its future” (154). In short, Ruth McBride forges her own strange life, but she triumphs as the matriarch of an outstanding family, creating a self-sufficient world for them. While the book’s title is in reference to the color of God, truly, it is a reference to the myriad of colors within the book that satirically emphasizes how people cannot be defined by their color — whether they are black or white, or pink or blue.

In the case of fearless female figures, American literature has dubbed them, thus far, as “feeble” (Bradstreet 1), “delicate” (Hawthorne 77), “careless” (Fitzgerald 179), and “coy and flirtatious” (Tim O’Brien 95). All of the following statements are degrading and subject to the opinion of men that are far from the supportive, romantic equals women desire to coexist with. On the other hand, women are regarded as “liberated” (Hansberry 63), “sivilize[d]” (Twain 283), “nonchalance” (James McBride 8), and “free” (Chopin). Notwithstanding the development of history or the years in which these pieces were created, the trend of male figures shaping the role of what the female figures represent is continuous. However, in the case of female figures like Beneatha Younger, the element of love and infatuation in another figure comes into play bringing light to the question of what role do male figures truly play in a female figure’s story. Are women disregarded as “fearless” or “empowering” simply because they have found a man to live with for the rest of their days? Is marriage a binding contract to an unequal communion between man and woman? To writers — such as Emily Dickinson — marriage is “safer” than the “pain” of being single in society (Dickinson, “I’m wife” 4, 10), but, to female figures such as F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Daisy Buchanan — regardless of her careless persona — love is “mak[ing] a fool of” yourself while looking into “well-loved eyes” (Fitzgerald 96, 131). Ultimately, as seen in present day American society, it is unclear whether feminism and the role of empowering female figures alludes to revolutionary women who never marry, or to those who find love and continue to remain strong regardless. American literature rewrites this psychomachiac struggle over and over again, never revealing the answer and furthering the inequality between genders; but, nevertheless, encourages readers to shatter societal, preconceived notions, breaking the gilded sphere of stereotypes.

Works Cited:

Baym, Nina. “Revisiting Hawthorne’s Feminism.” Hawthorne and the Real: Bicentennial Essays, edited by Millicent Bell, Columbus, Ohio State Univ. Press, 2005, pp. 107-24. Google Books, books.google.com/books?hl=en&lr=&id=24HXF1jsga4C&oi=fnd&pg=PA107&dq=Revisiting+Hawthorne’s+Feminism&ots=2fKELQ6eDa&sig=gPA0ETgGdki-YQQREcABDfsxHTk#v=onepage&q&f=false.

Bradstreet, Anne. “The Author to Her Book” (1678). The Heath Anthology of American Literature, 4th ed., vol. 1. Edited by Paul Lauter. Houghton Mifflin, 2002, p. 390.

Burns, Karin Garlepp. “The Paradox of Objectivity in the Realist Fiction of Edith Wharton and Kate Chopin.” Journal of Narrative Theory, PDF ed., vol. 29, no. 1, Winter 1999, pp. 27-61.

Burns, Ken, producer. “Ken Burns’ Mark Twain: Part 2.” SAFARI Montage. PBS, 2001. Accessed 23 Feb. 2017.

Cadwell, Patricia. “Why Our First Poet Was a Woman: Bradstreet and the Birth of an American Poetic Voice.” Literature Criticism from 1400 to 1800, vol. 30, 1996, pp. 136-44. Gale Literary Sources, go.galegroup.com/ps/i.do?p=GLS&sw=w&u=gree48311&v=2.1&id=RQBNBM478344547&it=r&asid=9b9e9d1a9d71032d7dae20afbc16941c. Accessed 23 Feb. 2017.

Chopin, Kate. “The Story of an Hour” (1894). Kate Chopin: Complete Novels and Stories, by Chopin, edited by Sandra M. Gilbert, 2nd ed., Library of America, 2008, pp. 756-58.

Dickinson, Emily. “I’m ‘wife’ – I’ve finished that.” The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, by Dickinson, edited by Thomas Herbert Johnson, Little Brown Company, 1960, p. 94.

————————“We outgrow love, like other things.” Wikisource, 1 Mar. 2013, en.wikisource.org/wiki/We_outgrow_love,_like_other_things. Accessed 2 Apr. 2017.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. “Self-Reliance” (1841). American Literature: Essential Short Works. Convent of the Sacred Heart School (Greenwich, CT), 2010, pp. 39-44.

Faery, Rebecca Blevins. “Mary Rowlandson Maps New Worlds: Reading Rowlandson.” Literature Criticism from 1400 to 1800, vol. 66, 2001, pp. 256-67, go.galegroup.com/ps/ i.do?p=GLS&sw=w&u=gree48311&v=2.1&id=MIEAFK694681793&it=r&asid=0437e7e25ef889188ea4f896a2c9c081. Accessed 5 Apr. 2017.

Fitzgerald, F. Scott. The Great Gatsby (1925). Scribner, 2004.

Fryer, Sarah Beebe. “Beneath the Mask: The Plight of Daisy Buchanan.” Critical Essays on F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, by edited Scott Donaldson, Boston, Hall, 1984, pp. 153-65.

Gibson, Charles Dana. The Hero…Discovered in the Act of Carrying on Two Conversations at a Time. JPEG file, 1903.

Hansberry, Lorraine, and Robert Nemiroff. A Raisin in the Sun (1959). Vintage Books, 1994.

Hawthorne, Nathaniel. The Scarlet Letter: And Other Writings. Edited by Leland S. Person. W.W. Norton, 2005.

Kemble, Edward Winsor. “Indignation.” Adventures of Huckleberry Finn: An Authoritative Text, Contexts and Sources, Criticism, by Mark Twain and Thomas Cooley, 3rd ed., New York, W.W. Norton, 1999, p. 199.

Loeffelholz, Mary. “Dickinson and the Boundaries of Feminist Theory.” The Emily Dickinson Journal, vol. 1, no. 2, Fall 1992, pp. 121-22, muse.jhu.edu/article/245241. Accessed 8 Apr. 2017.

McBride, James. The Color of Water: A Black Man’s Tribute to His White Mother (1995). Riverhead Books, 1996.

Miller, Arthur. The Crucible: A Play in Four Acts (1952/53). Penguin Books, 2003.

O’Brien, Tim. “Sweetheart of the Song Tra Bong.” The Things They Carried: A Work of Fiction (1990), Mariner Books/Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2009, pp. 85-110.

Rowlandson, Mary. “Narrative of the Captivity and Restoration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson” (1682). Project Gutenberg, www.gutenberg.org/files/851/851-h/851-h.htm#link2H_4_0002. Accessed 13 Feb. 2017.

Snodgrass, Mary Ellen. “A Raisin in the Sun.” Encyclopedia of Feminist Literature, 2006, fofweb.infobase.com/activelink2.asp?ItemID=WE54&WID=11130&SID=5&iPin=EFL621&SingleRecord=True. Accessed 3 Apr. 2017.

Stubbs, John C. “Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter: The Theory of the Romance and the Use of the New England Situation.” PMLA, digital ed., vol. 83, no. 5, Oct. 1968, pp. 1439-47.

Twine, France Winddance. “The White Mother.” Transition, no. 73, 1997, pp. 144-54, www.jstor.org/stable/2935450. Accessed 2 Apr. 2017.

Unknown, illustrator. The Great Gatsby. Penguin Modern Classics, 2000.

 

Appendix

“Indignation”

Figure 1: Image of Mary Jane Wilks in Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn illustrated by Edward Winsor Kemble.

“The Hero…Discovered in the Act of Carrying on Two Conversations at a Time”

Figure 2: Image of a man simultaneously carrying two conversations with two “Gibson” girls in Charles Dana Gibson’s Eighty Drawings: Including “The Weaker Sex: The Story of a Susceptible Bachelor”.

“Cocktails and Conversations”

Figure 3: Cover of the 2000, Penguin Modern Classics edition of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, for which the illustrator is unknown.

 

Whitewashing: Bringing Color to the Screen

Earlier this year, movie audiences saw Scarlett Johansson, a Caucasian actress, play Motoko Kusanagi, a Japanese girl-turned-cyborg, in the film Ghost in the Shell. In the past several years, they have also seen Emma Stone as Allison Ng, a character of Chinese and Hawaiian descent, in Aloha; Jake Gyllenhaal as the title character in Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time; Joel Edgerton and Christian Bale as Ramesses II and Moses, respectively, in Exodus: Gods and Kings; and Rooney Mara as Tiger Lily in Pan — all white actors in roles meant for people of color.

This practice of casting white actors as non-white characters, known as whitewashing, has become all too common in Hollywood. Whitewashing, however, is not a new phenomenon; it has endured for centuries. In the 19th and early 20th centuries, minstrel shows, which featured white performers in blackface, inaccurately and derisively portrayed black people. More recently, roles such as The King in The King and I and Mr. Yunioshi in Breakfast at Tiffany’s — considered iconic 20th-century movie characters — were cast with white men in yellowface. While instances of whitewashing today are slightly less egregious, they still result in less representation for minorities, reinforce ugly stereotypes, and detract from an artistic work’s authenticity.

Despite the backlash against whitewashing, directors and filmmakers continually defend questionable casting choices with seemingly pragmatic excuses. They rationalize that blockbuster films need an A-list star as headliner, and unfortunately, the majority of A-listers are white. This concept does make sense, especially as larger movie studios are typically risk-averse and usually greenlight movies on the condition that big names are attached. At the same time, however, many films with whitewashed casts and “big-name actors” — including Ghost in the Shell, Aloha, Prince of Persia, Exodus, and Pan — have bombed at the box office. While these movies do poorly in part due to the protests and boycotting that accompany casting controversies, they are also just not believable, genuine works of art, and despite the popularity of lowbrow fare these days, audiences do respond to works that are good quality. With the growing popularity of sites like Metacritic and Rotten Tomatoes, audiences are too sophisticated now to blindly follow any “big-name” actor in an ill-suited role and suspend their disbelief. Network TV shows like Black-ish and Fresh off the Boat have caught on and struck a chord with people, expanding the demographic of viewers, all the while addressing important issues of race and subverting stereotypes.

Another excuse that filmmakers use — the one I see as the most desperate — is the “best person for the job” pretense. Naturally, the people behind a project want it to reach its full potential. However, the proposition that only one person can be right for a role in a field as subjective as art is dubious. In actuality, people have their own biases and are drawn to certain kinds of personalities, usually those most similar to theirs. Because the ones in power are predominately white, their visions of the pivotal characters tend to mirror their own experiences. These feelings are natural, and in some cases, the creatives in charge have to just go with their gut because objective measures are unsatisfactory or impossible to obtain. That being said, in my experience as a Broadway performer, I saw a number of actors perform the same role, both from behind-the-scenes as well as from the audience’s perspective. Different performers elicited different responses from the crowd — laughs and applause in varying places, possibly more on one line and less after another. The theatergoers who had seen all of the actors performing the same part tended to be divided over whom they felt was best. Critiquing art is not a quantitative matter. Saying one’s own artistic interpretation is fact is simply wrong, and the notion that artists should be pitted against one another in competitive fashion is antithetical to the whole meaning of art.

The primary roadblock to greater representation for minorities is the idea in media that white is the default race. Too often, everyman is equated with the white male — meaning non-white romantic leads and action stars are few and far between. These portrayals only serve to perpetuate stereotypes and worsen biases; earlier this year, Steve Harvey made a joke entirely centered on the concept that Asian males could never be seen as attractive. Film and TV have reinforced certain racist attitudes — all black people are considered “thugs,” all people of Arab descent are seen as “terrorists,” all Asians are “nerdy IT guys.” Races have been identified with particular stock parts.

The best way to combat these types of ideas is to depict people of color as three-dimensional characters and cast them as a wide variety of roles. Placing people of color and their stories in the foreground — as the true focus of the narrative — opens up all kinds of possibilities. The film The Big Sick, for instance, stars a Pakistani man and a Caucasian woman as the central couple. At a larger studio, Kumail Nanjiani, the movie’s writer and lead actor, would likely never have been given the go ahead; executives would have contended that he was not “believable” as a romantic lead, despite the fact that the script was based on his real-life marriage. Fortunately, Nanjiani was able to star in his own movie, breaking an enduring stereotype in the process. This casting, and others like it, will hopefully lead mainstream viewpoints in a more progressive direction.

I have personally had to deal with derogatory preconceptions in my own life. As a male ballet dancer, I have been the recipient of a good deal of demeaning remarks. Thankfully, these comments have never slipped into violence or anything severe; most of the time, they simply come from a place of ignorance and a lack of exposure to the art form. Recently, I performed at a children’s hospital in New York for elementary school-age children. I expected to receive some mildly offensive reactions, but to my surprise, the kids appeared to admire my dancing — the athleticism of my jumps and pirouettes. I now realize that they had yet not been corrupted by society’s judgment of the male ballet dancer. Children are very impressionable and are especially influenced by the media they consume. As media forms become increasingly prevalent in our culture, sending the right message to future generations is critical. When movies and television shows reflect the diversity of the real world, they send the message that anything is possible. Kids of color should not feel as though they are constrained by their race.

While newer generations are more aware of ingrained and insidious racist stereotypes, progress toward inclusivity remains very gradual. In late August, the actor Ed Skrein stepped down from the movie Hellboy after learning that his character in the source material was Japanese-American. In doing so, he risked a great deal; he gave up a sizable role in a potential blockbuster and may have fractured valuable relationships with Lionsgate, a leading entertainment company, and Hellboy’s producers. However, if he had stayed on the project, he would have faced criticism — similar to that leveled at Johansson, Stone, Gyllenhaal, Bale, Edgerton, and Mara — for co-opting a role created as Japanese. What Skrein did was honorable, and very few actors would have been willing to withdraw from such a hyped project. Although his decision was a step forward, it did not bring about any systemic change. In a business as difficult and fickle as film, putting the onus on the actors to turn down valuable roles is unfair. The responsibility should fall on those in charge.

The solution to greater representation for minorities in Hollywood requires a multipronged approach. Network television and especially film have the most barriers to entry — countless executives have to approve every creative decision throughout the entire process. Hollywood is very much a hierarchy, and the key decision makers — the ones who say what is produced and what is not — are almost all white males. More diversity is needed at the top of the pyramid. One example is film producer Charles King, who within the last few years launched a new media company called Macro. The works that Macro helps develop and fund are stories told from the unique perspective of people of color. Although the backing of higher-ups is absolutely crucial, it is also important that people of color themselves have more opportunities to produce their own content. Critics and audiences alike can discern when a piece is authentic or not. The “Thanksgiving” episode of Master of None, Indian actor Aziz Ansari’s comedian-auteur show, follows the journey of Denise (played by Lena Waithe), a black lesbian, as she grows up, becomes aware of her sexuality, and comes out to her family. Because Waithe (along with Ansari) wrote the episode and drew from her real-life experiences, the story received universal critical acclaim, even garnering an Emmy for best comedy series writing — making Waithe the first black woman to win in that category. Shonda Rhimes, a prolific television producer and showrunner, has her own highly-rated night of programming on a major network which includes two shows with black female leads. This kind of content has demonstrated the popularity of more diverse characters and viewpoints.

In other forms of media and the arts, however, people of color are a commanding force. In the music industry, black artists in particular dominate the charts and win a plethora of awards. This year’s Grammy nomination leaders are Jay-Z, Kendrick Lamar, Bruno Mars, Childish Gambino, Khalid, No I.D., and SZA — all people of color. What accounts for this disparity between music and film is that black musicians and singers were given a voice much earlier. When Berry Gordy Jr. founded Motown in 1959, he gave black artists an opportunity to have their music produced and distributed. Motown paved the way for other record labels that would support black artists. Once these artists reached a certain level of fame, not only did their success snowball, but they also were able to have greater control of the music they made.

Additionally, in general, music has fewer barriers to entry than film or TV. A singer-songwriter can upload original music online with no more than an internet connection and a camera. On the other hand, a self-produced movie will likely be noticeably amateur. On other platforms that are easily accessible — YouTube being the prime example — people of color are well represented. YouTubers Ryan Higa, GloZell, KSI, Germán Garmendia, Evan Fong, and Mariand Castrejon Castañeda all have millions of subscribers and views. Their channels run the gamut from comedy to music to gaming to beauty. All of these personalities expanded their subscriber base organically by putting up content that was authentic to them. They did not have to deal with rooms of executives and focus groups to determine their appeal.

What media bigwigs need to realize is that whitewashing is not a sustainable business model. Our culture, especially the younger generations, is becoming more enlightened and has higher expectations for media reflecting society at large. Not only do people expect more, but they are also willing to publicly call out whitewashing; social media has mobilized an activist army. Bringing in a diversity of voices and perspectives has resulted in both critical and commercial success. But without the production of innovative content and the support of decision makers, effecting a change will be difficult.

 

Bibliography

Baker, Calvin. “A Former Superagent Bets Big on a More Diverse Hollywood.” The New York Times, 4 Oct. 2017, nytimes.com/2017/10/04/magazine/charles-king-superagent-diverse- hollywood.html. Accessed 5 Oct. 2017.

Bernardi, Daniel and Michael Green. Race in American Film: Voices and Visions that Shaped a Nation. ABC-CLIO, 2017.

Couch, Aaron and Borys Kit. “Ed Skrein Exits ‘Hellboy’ Reboot After Whitewashing Outcry.” The Hollywood Reporter, 28 Aug. 2017, hollywoodreporter.com/heat-vision/ed-skrein- exits-hellboy-reboot-whitewashing-outcry-1033431. Accessed 2 Sept. 2017.

Cruz, Gilbert. “Motown.” TIME, 12 Jan. 2009, content.time.com/time/arts/article/ 0,8599,1870975,00.html. Accessed 29 Nov. 2017.

Gross, Terry. “How A Medically Induced Coma Led To Love, Marriage And ‘The Big Sick.’” NPR, 12 Jul. 2017, npr.org/2017/07/12/536822055/how-a-medically-induced-coma-led- to-love-marriage-and-the-big-sick. Accessed 26 Aug. 2017.

Hibberd, James. “Shonda Rhimes dramas deliver ratings record.” Entertainment Weekly, 21 Nov. 2014, ew.com/article/2014/11/21/shonda-rhimes-ratings/. Accessed 29 Nov. 2017.

Littleton, Cynthia. “Lena Waithe Makes Emmy History as First Black Woman to Win for Comedy Writing.” Variety, 17 Sept. 2017, variety.com/2017/tv/news/lena-waithe-wins- emmy-black-woman-comedy-writing-1202562040/. Accessed 19 Sept. 2017.

Lynch, Joe. “Grammys 2018: See the Complete List of Nominees.” Billboard, 28 Nov. 2017, billboard.com/articles/news/grammys/8047027/grammys-2018-complete-nominees-list. Accessed 29 Nov. 2017.

McAlone, Nathan. “Most popular YouTube stars in 2017.” Business Insider, 7 Mar. 2017, businessinsider.com/most-popular-youtuber-stars-salaries-2017/. Accessed 2 Sept. 2017.

NPR Staff. “Diversity Sells — But Hollywood Remains Overwhelmingly White, Male.” NPR, 28 Feb. 2015, npr.org/sections/codeswitch/2015/02/28/389259335/diversity-sells-but- hollywood-remains-overwhelmingly-white-male. Accessed 2 Sept. 2017.

Sun, Rebecca. “The Disturbing History Behind Steve Harvey’s “Asian Men” Jokes.” The Hollywood Reporter, 13 Jan. 2017, hollywoodreporter.com/news/disturbing-history- behind-steve-harveys-asian-men-jokes-963735. Accessed 2 Dec. 2017.

Toll, Robert C. Blacking Up: The Minstrel Show in Nineteenth-Century America. Oxford University Press, 1974.

Yang, Jeff. “Whitewashing Hollywood Movies Isn’t Just Offensive—It’s Also Bad Business.” Quartz, 18 Apr. 2017, qz.com/960600/whitewashing-ghost-in-the-shell-and- other-hollywood-movies-isnt-just-offensive-its-also-bad-business/. Accessed 12 Nov. 2017.

 

Frankenstein, Not Gloria Steinem

Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein, was the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft, an early feminist, and William Godwin, a progressive and an anarchist who raised her with values which advocated social justice and reform. One might thus expect Shelley’s writing to be alive with strong female personalities and feminist ideas. In Frankenstein, however, both the presence of women and their depth of character are limited. Throughout the novel, women play a decidedly secondary role, even to the extent that its very premise is about bypassing the most important biological function of the female.

All of the main characters in Frankenstein are male, and all female characters occupy surprisingly passive roles; even Elizabeth Lavenza, one of the people dearest to Victor Frankenstein, is not spared this treatment. Fostered by a poor, Italian family as a toddler, Elizabeth is adopted and introduced as a “pretty present” for Frankenstein, who “interpret[s] [these] words literally and look[s] upon Elizabeth as [his] — [his] to protect, love, and cherish… till death she [is] to be [his] only” (37). It seems that Elizabeth comes close to accepting this relationship herself, growing up to care more about Frankenstein’s well-being and happiness than her own; she writes to him, “But it is your happiness I desire as well as my own when I declare to you that our marriage would render me eternally miserable unless it were the dictate of your own free choice… if you obey me in this one request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have the power to interrupt my tranquillity” (192). She is willing to sacrifice marrying the person she loves if it will make him in any way unhappy. Although selfless, Elizabeth’s prioritization of Frankenstein over herself is extreme, as is Frankenstein’s own self-absorption. Upon returning from England, haunted by the death of Clerval and the monster’s threat, he finds that Elizabeth is “thinner, and [has] lost much of that heavenly vivacity that had before charmed” (194). However, he expresses no concern, maintaining that her “compassion [makes] her a more fit companion for one blasted and miserable as [he is]” (194). This lack of consideration for his soon-to-be-wife, and indeed his satisfaction that she has also suffered, is telling of their relationship, one between a dominant man and a submissive woman. Before their marriage, Frankenstein decides that he will finally tell Elizabeth about the monster, but only once they are husband and wife:

I have one secret, Elizabeth, a dreadful one; when revealed to you, it will chill your frame with horror, and then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only wonder that I survive what I have endured. I will confide this tale of misery and terror to you the day after our marriage shall take place, for, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect confidence between us. But until then, I conjure you, do not mention or allude to it. This I most earnestly entreat, and I know you will comply. (193-194)

Not only does he demand that she marry him without knowing this monstrous secret, one which may alter her impression of him, but he even orders her not to mention the subject until their union is finalized, with no doubt that she will obey him. That he assumes her blind devotion and that she fulfills this assumption are indicative of her passive role. Frankenstein also tells her exactly how she will react once she learns the truth, namely with compassion for him rather than reflection upon her own danger. (Based on her prior behavior, this reaction seems plausible.) Furthermore, when the creature tells Frankenstein that he “shall be with [him] on [his] wedding-night” (173), Elizabeth is so subordinate in Frankenstein’s mind that he does not consider the possibility of Elizabeth’s being the target of the threat. After they marry, deluded on account of this egotism, he orders her to return to her room, never thinking that she might be important enough to be the object of the threat. She obeys without question, even though this is her wedding night, a time that husband and wife typically spend together. Even as Frankenstein’s wife, Elizabeth fails to stand up to him or for herself, and she thus does not evolve over the course of the novel.

Like Elizabeth, Justine Moritz is a poor little girl, “saved” by the Frankensteins. Mistreated by her mother, Justine is brought into the household by Caroline Frankenstein, where she finds a better quality of life than the average servant, as Elizabeth proudly states. In this way, her fate has been determined by others, similarly to Elizabeth’s. This is also reminiscent of Caroline’s introduction to the Frankensteins; after her father’s death, Alphonse Frankenstein “[comes] like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who commit[s] herself to his care” (34). This manifestation of passivity equates to a lack of control in one’s own life. Later, when Justine is accused of murdering William, she once again leaves it up to others to decide her fate: “I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for hope. I beg permission to have a few witnesses examined concerning my character, and if their testimony shall not overweigh my supposed guilt, I must be condemned” (85). She places her life in the hands of the friends who testify on her behalf and the judges who will vote, offering only a weak defense of her innocence. Once she is found guilty, the pastor “threaten[s] and menace[s] [her], until [she] almost [begins] to think that [she is] the monster that he [says she is]” (88). She is swayed by the pastor to do the unthinkable, to confess to a sin of which she is not guilty. On account of her passivity, Justine is influenced to commit the shameful sin of lying.

Beyond the individual characters, Frankenstein is at its core a story about neglecting women and not allowing them to fulfill their role in creating life. By producing the creature without the use of the female body, Frankenstein defies the natural order of the world and consequently becomes “insensible to the charms of nature… Winter, spring, and summer [pass] away during [his] labours; but [he does] not watch the blossom or the expanding leaves… so deeply [is he] engrossed in [his] occupation” (56-57). He disregards women, thus disregarding the natural way of creating life, and essentially disregarding nature, an act as sinful as it gets for Romantics. If not already clear, this is made abundantly so when the creature is first born: “His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but [Frankenstein] did not hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain [him], but [he] escaped and rushed downstairs” (59). This behavior — smiling and reaching out (non-maliciously) — mirrors the way a baby acts towards his or her mother, the first person to receive and care for him or her. Frankenstein is unable to fill this role himself, and his mistake is fatal. The creature begins life without a family and must navigate adolescence on his own. He describes his first days of life to Frankenstein: “A strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard, and smelt at the same time; and it was indeed a long time before I learned to distinguish between the operations of my various senses” (105). Again, this behavior illustrates the early days of a newborn’s life. The creature continues to grow from this state of infancy but at a rapidly accelerated pace. He soon learns about sleep, hunger, and thirst, as well as the danger of fire, after he places his hand inside the flame for warmth. He must learn all of this through trial and error, while human babies have parents, specifically mothers, to help them through the process. He even learns about love not from a mother but from the De Laceys, by observing Agatha’s father smiling at her “with such kindness and affection that [he] [feels] sensations of a peculiar and overpowering nature… a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as [he] [has] never before experienced” (111). These are feelings that one typically first experiences with a mother, but the creature is never exposed to them prior to this moment. With no family of his own, the creature calls the De Laceys his “protectors” and considers them to be “superior beings, who would be the arbiters of [his] future destiny” (117), much in the same way that children idolize their parents and expect them to shape their future. His desperate search for a family proves how beneficial it is for life to begin in the presence of parents. The creature hears “how all the life and cares of the mother [are] wrapped up in the precious charge” and realizes that “no mother [has] blessed [him] with smiles and caresses,” leaving him to wonder “what [is he]?” (123-124). Without a mother or other relation, he has no idea who, or what, he is; mothers are thus integral to one’s identity. In time, the creature discovers Frankenstein’s identity and cries to him, “you were my father, my creator; and to whom could I apply with more fitness than to him who had given me life?” (141). He feels utterly rejected and alone, and blames his creator. But this is only the explicit abandonment; the more significant abandonment is the creature’s lack of a mother, or Frankenstein’s decision to give the monster life but withhold a mother from him. It is ultimately this sense of abandonment and the consequent rage that lead the monster to evil and cause him to seek revenge on humanity through murder. Frankenstein is thus a novel about the dangers of men bypassing women.

Even the creature is a male character and is thus susceptible to this chauvinism. In demanding that Frankenstein create a female monster like him, he proves himself willing to subject another to his fate. He says, “I demand a creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself… we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another. Our lives will not be happy, but they will be harmless, and free from the misery I now feel… neither you nor any other human being shall ever see us again” (148). He has predetermined her fate: they will move to South America, live off of nuts and fruit, sleep on dried leaves, and both will be content but never happy. Much like Frankenstein with regard to Elizabeth, the creature does not stop to think that a female monster might not agree to live out his fantasy, let alone tolerate being around him. Frankenstein, however, does consider this possibility, and worries that she may be “ten thousand times more malignant than her mate and delight, for its own sake, in murder and wretchedness” (170). What finally drives him to refuse the creature’s request is the fear that they would want children and that “a race of devils would be propagated upon the earth who might make the very existence of the species of man a condition precarious and full of terror” (170-171). Frankenstein destroys the female creature with his own hands, “trembling with passion” (171). This image of him ripping a woman apart speaks volumes. He is terrified to create a female monster capable of birthing children, and it is thus the reproductive power of women that scares him and that serves as the basis of the novel.

At first glance, the lack of women, specifically strong, complex women, in Frankenstein is obvious. However, upon further examination of the book’s plot and message, it is revealed that the main storyline of the novel can be distilled into men bypassing women and attempting to take the female reproductive responsibility into their own hands. The ultimate results of this betrayal of nature — the deaths of William, Justine, Alphonse, Clerval, Elizabeth, Frankenstein, and the monster — are catastrophic. Perhaps it is in this subtle way that Mary Wollstonecraft and William Godwin’s influences are present in Shelley’s masterpiece.

 

Works Cited

Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein. Penguin Classics, 2005.

 

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John came from a long line of fishermen. His family made its living off of selling fish. Until, one fateful day, John’s father was killed by a crab he had fished. John’s father was fishing and got a bite on his hook. He began to pull. It wasn’t easy to catch. He was then pulled into the water by the two ounce crab. John was distraught that his dad had been killed.

To this day, John had tried to hunt all crabs into extinction. John had been able to track the majority of the crab population to a small, unnamed, uncharted island in the Pacific Ocean, using advanced, tracking tactics like tracking their cell phones.

John arrived on the shores of the island, after taking a boat from the airport. He then dragged the boat onto the island.

John wanted to build a house that was so big that it covered the entire island of InsertIslandNameHere. He wanted this because if he built a house like that, he would have power over all the crabs near the island, and he would have a house big enough for the one thousand crab-eating goblins that he had adopted. However, InsertIslandNameHere was so small that if someone built a house around the entire island, the island would be squished by the house, and then the house would sink. Sadly, John did not think about that, so the house sank to the bottom of the ocean. When John finished putting his house on the entire island, he decided to have a snack. He then remembered that he left his snacks in his bag and that he left his bag at the airport, so he had to swim all the way back to New York. When John got back ten years later, he saw that the house had been taken over by crabs.

John wanted his house back. John had to find a way to get his house back from the crabs that had taken it over. John first tried to get rid of the crabs by using some crab repellent. He dropped the crab repellent on the house, but none of the crabs left the house. When John went down to get the repellent can, he realized that the crab repellent actually was a spray that manipulated your brain waves and made you feel crabby. This made the problem worse because the crabs were now very crabby.

The next thing John tried was to tell his crab-eating goblins to eat all the crabs underwater. When he did this, the goblins went underwater and began chasing around the crabs. The crabs ran and ran and ran until they were far away from the island, but then the crabs WRAN instead of ran, which stands for Wireless regional area network, which is another phrase for Wi-Fi. When the crabs WRAN, they turned into Wi-Fi, so the Wi-Fi was all used up on the crabs. This meant that the Wi-Fi for the goblins stopped working. Because the goblins were robots, when they weren’t connected to the Wi-Fi, they stayed still and did nothing. Then all the crabs teleported back to the router in the house, which was where the Wi-Fi was coming from.

After John saw the crabs in the house again, John was thinking about giving up. Nothing he tried would work. Even his favorite crab-eating goblins couldn’t do anything. Just when John was about to spend ten more years swimming back to New York, John saw a message in a bottle. He became excited and wanted to know what was inside. When he opened it, he saw an ad for a Red Lobster restaurant. After wondering why there was an ad in a random, glass bottle, he realized that the founder of Red Lobster made a fortune off of killing and selling lobsters. He figured that if Red Lobster could do it, he could. John decided to continue his hunt to kill all the crabs.

With his renewed sense of determination, John tried to lift the island back up to the surface of the water, so all the crabs would jump back down into the water. To do this, John invited his friend named Kneel Footweak, who used to be an astronaut that landed on the sun. Landing on the sun gave Kneel Footweak superpowers. Kneel Footweak’s superpower was fire hands, so his hands were always on fire, and he could never put out the fire. This meant that when Kneel Footweak went underwater to lift up the island, the fire on his hands began evaporating all the water in the ocean. John realized that if Kneel Footweak evaporated the entire ocean, then the house would be on the ground, and all the crabs would die. So after ten billion years, the ocean was completely drained, and John finally got his house back from the crabs. Then John used the house as a tourist destination and made a restaurant, called “Orange Crab,” and lived happily ever after with his one million dead crabs.

 

Why The United States Constitution Established a Just Government

As the 1790s neared in the newly formed United States, it became evident that the Articles of Confederation — the very document that established an independent nation — had to be rewritten. From new ideas emerging from the Enlightenment reverberating throughout Europe, to perceived inequitable treatment leading to chaotic outbursts of unchecked outrage and fury such as Shay’s and Whiskey Rebellions, the young nation was ready for change. Thus, the document that would dictate the lives of future generations for the next two hundred and fifty years was crafted: the United States Constitution. The document embarked on and succeeded in the seemingly insurmountable task of cultivating a potent government whose potency is not so strong as to reminisce about the monarch the colonies just escaped. It took a weak confederacy of states plagued with instability and chaos to construct a centralized government while simultaneously incorporating a system of checks and balances. It established a Bill of Rights to relinquish any fears of mimicking the very government that quashed independence and limited freedom. While the document had some downfalls that juxtaposed the very ideals and fundamentals that the “supreme law of the land” was founded upon, such as failing to protect citizens in times of war, upholding the act of slavery for another eighty-five some odd years, and limiting the rights of women, it left room to amend these shortcomings and evolve to what society and human nature would eventually become with advancements in philosophies and technologies. The United State’s Constitution is inherently just because of its ability to acknowledge its faults and grievances and change accordingly; this adaptability comes from the Elastic Clause, an organized legislative representation selected by the people of the United States, and the presence of the Bill of Rights.

The true justice of the United States’ Constitution came from its ability to adapt itself toward changing philosophies. Article V of the original document states that the document could be “amended” if “two thirds of both houses deem[ed] it necessary.” Thus, the ability of the government to adapt not only technologically, but also ideologically, with passing time was granted. While changing ideologies are often theorized as having to happen gradually over a long span of time, there have been instances where the Constitution was able to make necessary changes more rapidly. This capacity of the government to adapt to changing values both rapidly and gradually is a pertinent characteristic of its justice. For example, the Eighteenth Amendment was swiftly passed in 1920 as a result of the prohibition movement, immediately prohibiting the consumption of alcohol. While in theory, restricting alcohol consumption would encourage men to spend more time with their families and lower crime rate, it ended up having the opposite effect, bringing alcohol underground and leading officers to take bribes. Because the detriments of Prohibition proved to outweigh the benefits, leaders were able to use the Elastic Clause in the Constitution to pass the Twenty-first Amendment, repealing Prohibition and allowing the law to revert back to a more suitable philosophy. Gradual changes in ideals have also been able to be met using the Elastic Clause of the Constitution. The slowly evolving issues of slavery and women’s rights were important considerations neglected in the original documents of the United States Constitution. However, the amendment process has proven its capability to modify: the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth Amendments served as examples of this fact, abolishing slavery and granting more rights to African Americans. Later, the Nineteenth Amendment gave women the right to vote. While these changes certainly did not make up for the hardship inflicted, and it would be another hundred years until segregation would end, the justness of the Constitution provided the structure to enable the changes to take place when society was ready.

While the Elastic Clause of the United States Constitution played a critical role in determining whether or not the government was in fact able to remain just, other factors such as the implementation of the legislative branch of government also perpetuated its justness. The ability of citizens to elect representatives in this particular branch of government contributes immensely to the justness of the United States government as a whole. Although Alexander Hamilton argued that the legislation was not just, insisting “a large [sum] of people is not necessary for thorough representation”, no matter how large the group of representatives was, it was the inequity among different groups of people at the time that inhibited true democracy. Even if the Anti-Federalists claimed everyone should have thorough representation, any individual who was not white or male during this time period had no voice and nobody advocated for the possibility of them getting one.  Even if this was the cultural reality at the time, the Constitution had everything it needed to correct these grievances, and eventually would do so when society was ready.

The legislative branch was not the only point of contention between the Federalists and the Anti-Federalists. One of the most crucial aspects to ensure a just government that perhaps even settled the Federalist/Anti-Federalist debate was the adoption of the Bill of Rights. The Anti-Federalists refused to sign the Constitution without said rights. This was due in part to the fact that the Bill of Rights guaranteed essential liberties what would be known as the first ten amendments of the document that was aimed to prevent the cultivation of a monarchy. These rights directly juxtaposed the experiences prevalent in the British monarch, citing the rights against “quartering” soldiers and the right to “search and seizure” which necessitates a warrant before searching private property without probable cause. The Bill of Rights would become essential in ensuring limited power to the executive branch of government, and because of this structure, it would remain just.

While there are several flaws that could be ascertained through close examination of the United States Constitution, it is imperative that one takes into account the time period and circumstances under which it was written. Critics of the United States Constitution point to specific times in the country’s history where the government failed to uphold constitutional rights, especially in times of conflict or war. While the Bill of Rights guaranteed American citizens the “freedom of speech, religion, and press,” historians who question the justice of the United States Constitution note that these rights have been specifically challenged throughout the nation’s history.  In 1798, John Adams passed The Sedition Act, limiting freedom of speech and press, as the United States prepared for the Quasi War with France. In recent years, suppression and discrimination have violated freedom of religion, brought on by fears of national security. However, while this prejudicial repression should not have been condoned, it has proved to be the only possible way to avert higher casualties and more violence. For example, had President Abraham Lincoln been more sensitive toward constitutional liberties and not suspended habeas corpus, the Civil War could have ended with more fatalities, as well as the demise of the Union. This would have come with issues such as slavery taking even longer to dissolve, for different values would have been imposed separately rather than being blended. The notion of slavery not being abolished is inarguably far worse than a short suspension of civil liberties.

Despite its shortcomings, the United States Constitution succeeded in taking an unstable, loose confederation of states and creating a centralized government, not so strong as to limit liberty, while simultaneously balancing state and federal control. Although at the time of its ratification, major contradictions to justice were prominent — and civil liberties were not always upheld during times of conflict — the Constitution’s ability to change itself, even today, enables the United States’ government to remain just. Only time will tell whether or not American leaders and their people will continue to use the elasticity of the Constitution to ultimately serve and protect all people.

 

Dinah’s Voice Must Always Be Heard; A Speech Examining Vayishlach (Genesis 34) Through A Feminist Lens

Hi! Thank you all for coming today, it means a lot to me and my family. So, a bunch of things happen in this portion, but today, I will be focusing mainly on Dinah’s story, which by the way, is a total misnomer because she has no voice in this story. So, a quick recap for all of you who have zoned out for the last thirty minutes, Dinah’s story goes like this. Once upon a time, Dinah, the only named daughter of Ya’akov and Leah, went walking in search of other girls in the land of Chamor. Shechem, Chamor’s son, “vayikach Dina” — or “takes” her. What happens after she has been taken, is debated. Some say it is rape, but others say it is a “humbling” of Dinah. Shechem then begs his father to make it so Dinah will be his wife. Chamor approaches Ya’akov with a proposition: if you let us take your daughter as a wife to Shechem, we will give you anything you want. They also propose that their families or “tribes” should intermarry. To do this, Chamor will give Ya’akov all the Chamorite daughters in return for all of Israelite women. Sounds fair, right? Ya’akov willingly passes off the decision making to his sons Shimon and Levi. The now very angry sons agree to Chamor’s request under one term, all the men in Chamor’s tribe must get circumcised. Chamor agrees to this unusual request. Now, the Torah is careful to note that the brothers make their deal with guile. This comes up again when the brothers decide to avenge Dinah, or rather to avenge their family’s name. They launch a surprise attack on Chamor’s tribe, killing all the Chamorite men while they are in pain from being circumcised in adulthood. Shimon and Levi also steal all their belongings and women. Ya’akov gets terrified that the brothers’ actions will cause other people to retaliate against him and his family, and therefore decides to move far away. The story ends with Dinah’s brothers answering “Should they have treated our sister like a prostitute?” I guess they have no regrets.

Okay! One thing that stood out to me was the verb vayikach or “and he took.” This is the same verb that is used when someone takes an object or a man arranges for a woman to become his wife. In biblical society, to take a woman as one would take an object is just normal. That being said, to take a woman without her father’s consent, as in Dinah’s case, would be a culturally unacceptable occurrence. Shechem didn’t initially ask Ya’akov’s permission to “take” Dinah. So Shimon and Levi felt the need to go after Chamor’s family not out of love for their sister, but rather because Shechem committed a property crime against Ya’akov and his family. During the negotiation with Chamor, Dinah has absolutely no say in what happens to her. Instead, her brothers decide to avenge the infringement of their ownership of their sister by stealing some more women from Chamor and killing all of the men in Chamor’s tribe. This stealing does not necessarily imply rape, but it does imply that women can be traded and given and treated as objects rather than thinking people. All of this is reported with limited criticism of Shimon and Levi’s actions. That’s a problem. While most of us would agree that some kind of consequence is needed for Shechem’s actions, Dinah’s brothers’ actions are not morally superior and demonstrate no greater respect for women and their sister. Before I talk about how this reflects on our society today, I would like to make it clear that I’m am not saying that direct sexual violence and the broader objectification of women are of the same magnitude. They’re not. But, a society that normalizes the objectification of woman is one that is less likely to condemn sexual violence or not even recognize it as such.

This set of hypocritical attitudes about the justification of misogynistic behaviors is prevalent in today’s world. Just as the taking of Dinah and the stealing of the Schehemite women are both instances of the objectification of women, we see that many men think it’s fine for them to exploit women in small or large ways, but when their peers do the same, it’s not acceptable. Over a year ago, footage was released of Donald Trump talking to Billy Bush about being able to sexually aggress against women without consequence because he’s a wealthy media star. This gave many people another reason to despise Mr. Trump. While some of his fellow politicians condemned the disgraceful way Trump acts and talks, they did not frame it as societal backwardness; instead, they proudly stated, I would be offended if these comments, behaviors, or attitudes were aimed at MY daughter, MY wife, MY mother, MY women. These statements, while appearing to be honorable and a step in the right direction, still perpetuate the idea that women can only be considered in relation to men and objects of men and are important because of their connection to a man.

Vay’aneha — the verb after the first use of vayikach has several meanings, and that is where the debate over what happened to Dinah spurs from. A common translation of this word is that Dinah was violated. But what does violate mean? One understanding is that Dinah was sexually violated, or raped. The second more conservative approach is that Dinah was violated because Shechem did not ask the permission of Ya’akov before taking Dinah. Both interpretations reflect poorly on how their society treats women. The fact is that we have no clue what happened because Dinah has no voice in the story! She has no voice in being taken, in the negotiation with Chamor, or in the decision made by her brothers to attack Shechem. She is merely the object that is under dispute. No matter how you approach the story, one part or another is unsettling or disturbing. If you think Dinah got raped, that’s disturbing, if you think the brothers’ actions were uncalled for, that’s disturbing, if you think that there are lots of patriarchal attitudes engraved in, the fact that this is a religion and community that many people rely on for answers and we look up to these patriarchal ideas, is disturbing. And the feeling that I am left with is something is really, really wrong and that needs to change!

For millennia, the voices of women and others who have been sexually assaulted have been suppressed. As I’m saying these words, many women are speaking up about their experiences with sexual violence and the effects a patriarchal society has had on them. But right now, we’re standing in midst of a cultural and socio-sexual hurricane. It’s taken thousands of years for Dinah’s voice to finally be heard. From this discussion, I don’t want you to only take away the fact that our culture is woven in with stale and ancient thoughts relating to women. As a society, we are working on changing. Even though certain laws and leaders seem to be trying to roll things back, the amount of attention and conversations that come out of today’s movements are the preliminary step to a change in societal thinking. It’s our responsibility to learn from the wrongdoings that are described in the Torah and the wrongs that are perpetuated by the way that the story is told, and make sure that Dinah’s voice will always be heard.

 

partition

         

partition:

an indian pakistani sestina

 

August, 1947. The British divide Colonial India into two independent countries, Muslim Pakistan

and Hindu India, inciting the largest and bloodiest mass migration in human history.

 

One nation, torn apart

by cartographic line

and the thunder of fifteen million footfalls.

Bodies pile and neighbors leave

for a chance to live.

That history, I am its future.

 

The fated future.

Like cells, doomed to split apart

tearing people, taking lives

like each human had a dotted line

across their heart, “cut here” and leave

unaware of the destruction, of the fall-

 

-out, the cleanup, the spilled blood which falls

from my veins as I watch from the future

unable to scream or leave

like the little boy hiding, watching his parents diced apart

with swords, closing his eyes and mouth and running across the line

with only a bloody teddy bear, to live.

 

He prays for his parents in the religion that took their lives.

It doesn’t matter which faith; both fall

under the same nation, divided by a false line.

False, because fifteen million people needed to run to have a future

and refugees pulled apart

doors of trains only to find hundreds of dead bodies, murdered trying to leave.

 

On the tree of Hindustan, I am the leaves.

The massacre gave way to life

as my parents, on the fiftieth anniversary of partition, vowed “till death do us part.”

My blood is the innocent blood that fell

on both sides; the animosity of the past only a haunting memory in the future

where I straddle the line.

 

I am half-Indian Hindu, half-Pakistani Muslim; my family line

proves there is hope, if you believe

in miracles, I am one, I am the future.

Each day I live

is a day closer to the fall

of the forces tearing my nation apart.

 

It’s time to take apart this line.

Make this wall of wills fall to the ground, and leave.

As long as I live, I am the future.

 

Chateaux

 

As a corpse might recall

fingers of moonlight tangling gossamer

heavy with silence

 

the rapture of her hair,

its sleepless flow

 

How the dusk so idly threw its shadow on the terrace of water-rose!

 

making a cathedral of her mouth

 

fine spatters of sapphire draw hosts of young and orphic roses

like a god with vast indigo eyes

 

I would speak of idyllic flesh

how my masochism is bliss!

 

Insolence forever bordeaux

Familiar against silk throats

 

798

798 could still feel the scalding breath of Krohn, his landlord, on the hairs of his neck, but he was a Sentien, so he could be hundreds of feet behind him without 798 ever knowing. In the cramped apartment, he ran, though the possibility of such a distance was barely even possible. Sentiens were one of the many beasts from the surrounding landscapes that were forced into an urban environment due to pressure from governmental resource agencies. They were one of the better-off species, but you couldn’t say they were doing as well as most.

798 didn’t have the will to look back either, and it wasn’t just because there wasn’t going to be any aesthetically pleasing sights there. After his escape, Krohn would be glad his building at least had insurance, if nothing else. Row upon row of microchips barely poking out of hulking rectangular boxes, known to the world as Digimail receivers, blurred past 798 in a neon frenzy. They funneled him towards the once-ornate Portal to the outside world, and his ScanChip couldn’t have been more tightly gripped.

But there was a scrape. And then a claw. A thick ooze began to cover his leg, unmistakably coming from Krohn’s coagulant-producing pores — an intoxicating, dripping, suffocating ooze. 798 cursed himself for not remembering that evolved Sentiens never forgot their primitive ways. He trudged through the alien slime, but the more that he tried, only greater amounts seemed to appear. His face poured perspiration, and his throat became a dry, heaving pipe. The Portal was so close — and then he felt Krohn’s three ugly fingers descend upon his leg. 798 stopped. There was no use in fighting, but he didn’t want to look behind him at a face that said, Guess how high next month’s rent is going to be. He didn’t need to. The face came to him, or what Sentiens regarded as a face. It was as ugly as his failure of an escape.

Krohn heavily inhaled, and his grasp turned into a grip that demanded attention. “Seven.” A raspy exhale, followed by a rather desperate intake of air. “Nine.” The scales felt as if they were sliding into his skin, constricting his calf and making 798 wonder how such a feat could even be possible. He groaned in pain as Krohn released the full power of a Sentien’s morning breath upon him. “EIGHHHTTT.” It sounded like some sort of curse, the way he put it. “Your rent will always catch up to you, and so will your good buddy, Krohn, you Kirdral-”

798 was just as astonished as his landlord was, yet he was still too paralyzed to even say a word. A stop in the middle of such a sentence was something no one did just because they felt like it, especially not an angered Sentien. The malicious grin disappeared from his face, and his tight hold on 798 went completely slack. He began an obnoxious stroll down the dark halls of his high rise. Krohn looked back on his shareholder with a distaste that was anything but pitiful, and merely said, “Have a nice time getting yourself out of that.” And then he disappeared.

He did get himself “out of that” (with some improvised scraping), and now he was in a slightly better position (lying on his mattress, staring up at the Feels 2.3). The square machine had created a mixture of mostly conflicting deep scarlets and throbbing blues, and a rich violet where they met. 798 sighed with annoyance. Why did he ever spend his money on such a poorly-manufactured piece of marketing? He flipped to the sweaty crater his body had made in the cot, where the only color was darkness.

Just like the visual display engulfing his illegally-zoned Cube, though, 798’s thoughts persisted in a dance of deception. His income rudely side-stepped in front of his location, which was having a passionate argument with his horrible job, and his lack of knowledge marched in front of them all, trying to prove its superiority. But Krohn’s surprising behavior from earlier that day stole the show, doing cartwheels and leaps at the very tip of the stage, crying out to be seen. It was a disaster.

798’s mind decided to file through all of the possibilities of what the morning’s rather odd conundrum could have meant. Krohn could have just choked on a piece of something that had contributed to his usual mouth stench, or maybe he didn’t want to offend his delicate relationship he had with his tenants. Almost immediately, 798 pushed away those thoughts, though — Sentiens were widely known for their ability to digest mostly anything (something that particularly disturbed 798 from time to time), and Krohn cared about his tenants about as much as his diet. As long as Bits were being handed to him at regular intervals, he could be almost as happy as he was back in the wilderness. 798 forced the nagging thought into the back of his mind. He secretly hoped that one day, Krohn would be as irrelevant as the Feels 2.3 itself.

798 slogged his way through the morning routine. He shouldn’t have been, of course, for he was already going to be late to the factory. There was still a few sick hours on his side, though, and 798 was willing to sacrifice them even if it meant being demoted. The closer to being kicked out of the system altogether, the better. It meant a lower employment ranking in his Status, but not as detrimental as quitting.

798 had already gone through the high-rise’s facilities rooms earlier that morning, leaving him with nothing to do but stuff his DigiCard into his pocket, grab his Serellian knapsack, and head onto the balcony. There lay his Board, concealed from the public by an InvisiDome. He had had an InvisiFilm installed in his retina, making it so that only he could view inside of the Domes he placed. His sneakers, one by one, gripped the polished metal. 798 braced himself. The Board’s straps automatically connected, securing him to it and revving up the mechanical components. And then he was off, floating into the cavernous depths of the great web of a city. 798 didn’t even take note of his balcony entrance, wide open to the world.

The civilization of Krenst couldn’t be described in one word. It was the home to not thousands, but millions of intergalactic species, sprawling with their own unique types of homes, businesses, and entertainment (the last one usually required an extra amount of searching.) Bridges spanned from sector to sector, providing various modes of transportation for wherever you were going — but it wasn’t as if there were no questions asked. Not only Krenst, but the entire galaxy as well had one go-to policy: no ScanChip, no cigar. Virtually anywhere or anything required the small, easily forgotten piece of technology to be had.

798’s city made anywhere or anything look small, though. With its limitations, Krenst made almost anything that a five-year old could imagine possible. Among the many topics that the metropolis advertised were skyscraper-high travels above it via glass tubes, buffets of alien cuisine that you could swim in, and even a chance to challenge another city goer with the latest MechSuit. You would often find this out through the gargantuan holograms spanning the height of a high-rise, or the occasional shady character down on what Krenst inhabitants liked to call the “forest floor.”

All of the sudden, 798 had arrived. Speaking of advertising, he had to get back to his job: essentially a delivery boy/salesperson for the exotic snack company widely known as Kekutama, nothing even subtly impressive. Their company bore the mascot of an all too-happy human, put into a caricature that blushingly held out a pile of their popular kekutens. 798 despised it. He easily folded his Board into a pod no larger than his head, having arrived at the docking place for employees no less than a few krenektiks ago — Krenst’s way of tracking the time. He easily dropped the Board into his bag, which suctioned itself around it. 798 approached the welcome desk. It shone with a dull office light, but a startlingly bright pink face appeared via swivel chair in front of him. The face’s name was Yannik, and 798 had always dreaded the day when he would be greeted by her.

“Hi! And who are you then, young man?”

The condescending tone was dripping with cheeriness and an overdose of high-and-mightiness.

“Rayn Herron, Yannik.” 798 made sure to stress the last two syllables.

“Ohhh. Why it’s the delivery boy, isn’t it? Well, you can just head on over to the SpecScan as usual, honneyyy…”

798 visibly cringed at the end of the remark and barely nodded his head as he relieved himself at the nearest SpecScan. He held his ScanChip at the ready, glad that he at least didn’t have to exchange conversation with the grim face of one of Kekutama’s minimally-paid guards. The assembly line made its way into 798’s vision as he dodged the other workers around the bends and in the hallways, eager to receive the best deal he could get for the afternoon’s handouts.

A sharp left revealed the dull, low-ceilinged expanse of the Kekutama factory. For all of its public glory, there wasn’t much else to say about the company rather than the eccentrically toxic taste of its most popular snack. Two red signs hung by chains as low as they could go without hitting any of the employees: Shipments and Deliveries/Promotions. Several identical kiosks stood beneath the second one- each with its own cheery, bubbly vendor that gave you about as much attention as any passerby on the forest floor did. Just like Yannik, 798 thought. But that was what he always thought.

After he had received the kekutens and all of the sales promotion they could stuff in his face, it was a quick trip for 798 out of the factory. He had a suggested order for deliveries, but when he saw that the first one was nearly out of his sector, it immediately delivered itself to the nearest incinerator 798 could find without getting off of his board. He hugged the barely wrapped box next to his ribcage. It was lighter than his payroll.

His first destination, he decided, would be Trenkle — only a quaint, tucked away district like itself could cheer him up and out of the mood he was already in. It was an easy ride on the Board, one that made him wonder why the others didn’t get one themselves. It was a queer thing in itself, but today he particularly wondered about it. As he made his way through the entanglement of manufactured metal that was Krenst, 798 thought more deeply than he ever had about it — why did the other workers seem to just drone about, delivering their packages along the same route every day that he worked with them?

He was reluctant to push something else to the corner of his brain, but he couldn’t avoid the pressing reality of his job. He felt as if the thoughts were ready to burst out at any moment of their hiding places, if he didn’t get around to actually considering them sooner or later. 798 rarely spaced out on his delivery trips. They required a lot of attention, and a single wrong turn could mean anything from a head first crash into a building window to one into another Boarder. Neither was pretty. Yet here he was, the recent haze of his thoughts beginning to dissipate and give way to the immediacy of his location. 798 recognized the travel-by-air sign to Trenkle, but not his surroundings. The buildings were still towering, the bridges continued to be long, and the people around him ceased to be polite in the given way that Trenklites are. None of this should even be remotely true, 798 thought. Then again, he had never taken the time to explore the district as much as he could. More InfoScreens appeared, in many manners of size and importance, and they all unmistakably told the same story. 798 could be no closer to where he needed to be. With a sigh, he swooped down below to the avenues of the supposed Trenkle, but this was one more thought that begged not to be pushed away. He paced towards the nearest gold-printed set of letters he could find. More often than not they meant a Unit building, and 798 prayed that his mentality would be saved. He brushed through the grim crowd, and peering into the shining doorway the hopeful words Trenkle 879 illuminated his eyesight. He nearly whooped in excitement. The Portal guard looked strangely at 798, and inquired with a stony face, “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to show me your ScanChip.”

“Oh! Um, I mean, here it is… sir.” 798 awkwardly reached into his knapsack, struggling to produce the square card in a fashionable manner. “Here it is, sir, I mean, here’s my shtipcan… ” he blurted nervously, then mentally scorned his stupidity.

The guard raised an eyebrow that managed to peek above his opaque glasses. For a second, 798 wondered why the guard would even need them — only one of the planet’s three suns was visible on an overcast day like today. Then again, maybe it was just another one of those strange “security measures” Krenst buried the authority in.

“Mmmm… a satisfactory. Well, it’s viable. Reason for entry?” the guard pushed.

“Well, sir, I’m a delivery boy for, um, Kekuten, you see.”

798 held out the grubby packages and tried to glorify them as much as possible, but he would have to find a better title than delivery boy sooner or later. The age label suggested by Kekuten’s workers annoyed the Krong out of him.

“Okay then.”

798 wondered what those mysterious eyes were doing behind the film of the glasses.

“Proceed to entrance.”

He confidently inserted his ScanChip into the scanner and waited for the light of the translucent box to flash green. But the ScanChip just stayed there. It was almost as if it was frozen in time, transfixed in the machine, never to be processed. 798 waited for the comfort that the access of his ScanChip gave him, but none came.

He scratched his neck nervously. “Huh.”

He looked at the guard for consolation, but only received a harsh and suspecting glare, if sunglasses could be harsh and suspecting. 798 gulped, and the saliva almost refused to go down. And when the scanner made the buzzing denial of a defect, it didn’t help his look when the saliva went the other way up, sending him sputtering and red-eyed in front of the guard.

“I-I’m so s-sorry-”

The guard cut him off. “Get out. Now.”

“Sir, p-plea-”

“I said get out!”

But before the guard could practically push 798 back onto the sparkling, well-kept streets of a so-called Trenkle without his delivery boxes, a magnificent lady appeared in the Portal.

“No need, sirs. I’ll be taking the boxes.”

She had on a flowing sapphire-and-ivory dress and was wearing heels that 798 could’ve sworn were cut from pure jade. She had a deep black complexion, darker than the pure of midnight, and milky white eyes with perfectly piercing, green eyes set in the middle. Her hair was a bush of perfectly manicured, springy curls just as black as her skin. 798 was lost for words. He blinked a few times to see if maybe he was in some sort of haze, but every time he did so, he was only more taken aback by her beauty. She looked at both of them with pursed lips that twisted into little upward corners at their ends. The guard saluted her.

“Miss Moise.”

She was royalty, except she didn’t even need the crown. The lady returned the greeting with a nod.

“Robert,” she said curtly, then stooped down to pick up the boxes.

For a second, 798 thought maybe he was staring at her for a little too long, because she stole a glance directly at him, and her pupils seemed to slice into his soul. But then she went back to the boxes, and almost stepped through the portal, but halted in front of it.

“Oh,” she said. “And thank you, Rayn.”

It was like 798 had fallen off of his Board in the midst of a Channel, tumbling down to the city’s common streets with a sudden lurch. She’d said it as plain as day, too — his very own first name. 798 would’ve run after her, babbling like a madman. But he wasn’t sure he’d ever have the words to do so. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he did notice one more thing about the mysterious woman. On her ebony heel, just as it was lifted from the jade of the sandal, he saw three ivory numbers inked in stern contrast: 346.

798 ran from the establishment with a ripping ferocity, tearing through the throng of supposed Trenklites and onto the Channel release dock. He practically threw the Board on the metal and immediately commanded it to hover. He stepped on the machine before it could even analyze the order. Without thinking, he headed to the nearest restaurant entrance, pushed himself onto the landing pad, and laid down. He breathed, once. Twice. And then three times. 798 was about to indulge in what all this could possibly mean for the meager four years of his life he remembered, but the monotone voice of a Zitza employee greeted him from the Channel-Serv speaker behind him.

“Hello, how can I help you today? Don’t forget our newest special, Zitza Twirls. They come in flavored packaging!”

Startled, 798  spoke the first thing off the top of his head. “I’ll… um… I’ll have a Zitza Pie Special.”

798 was so frazzled that he forgot to even say please. He could almost imagine the anonymous employee raising her eyebrow behind the customer speaker.

“Mmkay, head to the Zitza-Serv counter and pay 15.5 Bits. Thank you. Next customer?”

798 sighed. Did he even have the money to pay for such an item? He scrounged his pockets, producing 10.2 Bits in a heap of multicolored squares, circles, and triangles. He could use his ScanChip account, but that would cut into his meager savings from his Kekuten income once per krenek. His job. He did have to get back to that, didn’t he? 798 was startled by the blaring voice of a customer behind him. The voice seemed to barrel towards him in boastful rage.

“Hey, c’mon, man! There’s more in this city than you!”

Taken aback by the throatiness that accompanied the statement, 798 didn’t have to force himself to move forward to the Zitza-Serv counter. A hologram of what was probably the woman behind the speaker appeared in a grimy Serv’s uniform. “Produce method of payment into receiver, and wait for order to appear.”

The lady’s hands seemed to be working at something unseen beyond the holoscreen, and 798 guessed that his pie hadn’t exactly been receiving the most thought before he had come to the counter. Oh well. The holoscreens gave Servs an eternity to work on the actual meal and talk while they didn’t have to appear in the flesh, probably causing for some “You’re fired!” worthy material.

He glanced at the rectangular edges of the Scan Chip and thought about what he would have to make up for using it for the pie. He shouldn’t even be buying food during work hours, especially not when lunch had already passed. He reluctantly inserted it into the receiver, wincing as the numbers were displayed boldly in red lettering on the display. He hadn’t even known that he’d already had a negative amount due in his account, and this sort of deficit wasn’t exactly helping.

Before the machine could lock onto his ScanChip for further examination at the counter, 798 ripped it out of the receiver with blood rushing to his ears. They couldn’t find out, not now, not now, not now. Suddenly, a steaming sack of extremely low-grade Zitza appeared at the counter.

“Thank you for your business. Sir, could you insert your ScanChip?” The Serv pushed in an assertive voice that 798 was nearly taken aback by.

But 798 had already snatched the bag, hopped on his Board, and zoomed out of the filthy building, not stopping to be reprimanded by the Zitza-Servs. He didn’t stop until he was out of what he thought was Trenkle, the business of the city behind him, and only the barrier between him and the Outlands. His heart rate began to slow, and he stopped near an unoccupied fence of a Registrator. He finally tapped the Board with his foot once, lowering it to the ground. 798 stared mindlessly at the bright, glowing screen of the Registrator.

“Registrate yourself today and enjoy a spectacular wilderness safari filled with wonderful animals and experiences in the Outlands!” the speaker below the Registrator’s screen blared out, amplified by the silence of this part of the city limits.

On a day like today, only a few schooling groups would come out here on some city-sponsored trip, but other than that, there was barely anyone that could find the time to come into the Outlands during the Krekten. During the Krektend, however, the Registrators were practically glitching out because of everyone that was pushing in front of one another to get to the next Outlands transport. What the Registrators didn’t tell them was the surprising percentage of animals that were illegally imported and didn’t actually live in the Outlands, nor the nearly abusive tactics that were used to keep them from wandering off into the wilderness.

798 suddenly remembered his Zitza Pie and, without thinking, scarfed it down. He hadn’t noticed how cold it had already become, or how hungry he had grown during his incredible escapade away from his work. Remembering what he had really set out to do in the first place — actually deliver Kekutens — he checked the CNow on his wrist. 3:46. He nearly choked on his Zitza. He immediately stuffed down the rest of it the best he could while rushing his Board’s reboot system, and was zipping past Trenkle’s limits in record time. Not that he’d ever tried to before. He’d never been this late for the daily collection of unsold Kekutama boxes, which also heralded him being passed through the SpecScan again, which didn’t spell out satisfied for Yannik and the rest of the employees at the Kekutama facility. When one of them was the unlucky one to have to stay behind just for a single worker that wasn’t on time, there was no doubt that they would report it to the head managers immediately. 798 was already 46 Krentiks behind.

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going, mister?”

That was just one of the many retorts that whizzed past 798 as he broke every speed limit ever to exist on Krenst’s many Channels. There were only twelve more of them to pass before he reached the main drag that the Kekuten facility was located at, and he didn’t want to see himself waiting for a stoplight anytime soon. Almost like karma, a flashing red strobe appeared immediately above 798’s head, but he took no notice of it, not wanting to think of the consequences. But as soon as he heard the wailing siren behind him, and the authoritarian voice of a Channel Surveyor, he knew his wrong.

798 quickly surveyed his surroundings. From here, there were a few alleys he could duck into, but they would only stretch out his escape from the Surveyor, not prevent it. And then he remembered. Left on Krenst Main, three Channels forward, a right on Fourth Street, and then another six channels forward. There’s a cove for the Outlandish, an old bar that the locals go nuts for. Go in there, where the cops won’t. 798’s mind was still hazy and unfocused with the memory of the employee he had met so long ago, and struggled to remember his name. A red nametag flashed across his mind. A light turned green. The Surveyor’s voice got louder, and louder, and louder, until it seemed that they were shouting directly into 798’s ear. Hi, my name — 798 started in the direction of the Outlandish, blankly. Is Ris — a turn on Quick Street. A honking vehicle in front of 798’s face. — Car.

Riscar.

Hi, my name is Riscar.

There was a blinking Outlandish sign in front of 798’s in jagged, unruly letters. The Surveyor was practically mectometers away from 798. He dashed inside without thinking, blending in with the outside crowd, and then disappeared into the dark, dark, alleyway.  

The Outlandish wasn’t actually in the alleyway itself — it was to the side, with the identical logo sprawling above a decrepit door frame. 798 entered and wondered immediately if the Outlandish was even an actual place. There was nothing where he was standing. Just nothing. It was nearly pitch-black inside, save for an actual candle standing on the simplest nightstand 798 had ever seen. The candle burned with authenticity and not the harsh glow produced by the blaring displays of the outside world. It held down a curled, burnt piece of what looked like parchment, which was halfway covered in a puddle of wax. There were some names on the parchment, none of which 798 knew. A voice came from the midst of the darkness, startling him and raising the hair on his spine.

“So you want to get into the Outlandish, punk?”

 

Stigma

                           

You know that feeling when some days, we wake up and we just don’t want to get out of bed? So bedridden that sometimes, it even hurts to breathe.

What’s the point of all this?

Why do I have to get out of bed and put myself out there into a world that doesn’t feel?

But the feelings are strong. We can all feel it.

Or can we?

Maybe the person to my right can feel it, but not everyone is so lucky. Only some of us know what pain feels like. When somebody sticks a knife through you, or better yet, fifteen. But you don’t see what’s on the inside, because you are not me. It’s a constant battle inside. Like your mom, brother, sister, cat, dog died, but it doesn’t go away. It can’t go away.

When the stigma says “get over it.” It’s like a joke or even worse, a tease. Don’t you think if I could, I would?

I’m sorry I don’t want to do anything. Just leave me alone. I’m tired of it making me get the image of jumping off a bridge.

It’s always like you have to be happy, you know?

Do I need to if I can’t? Is that how it works? Can I just decide to be happy?

Like it’s my choice to feel this constant pit of emptiness inside of me?

The fact is, I don’t even know why I’m angry. I just am. I’m sad not because I want to. It’s because I just am. It’s like when somebody turns on and off a light switch.

Because, the word ‘’stigma’’ defines us as some little kid’s entertainment. You know: on, off, on, off.

We need help, but you just don’t see it. You’re so caught up in this fog, that you are blinded by this stigma that makes me feel worthless. I need help.

Or do I?

I hadn’t noticed these cuts and scratches on my body. Have you ever looked at them as anything  besides disappointment? Have you ever just thought for a second how much pain one can be going through? Really, look at them. To you, I may just seem as one who is “attention seeking.” No.

They may just look like random lines and scars, but they tell a story. They tell my story.  A story that I could not put in words. I just couldn’t, and why can’t you understand that?

Remember that day when I didn’t come to school and I told you I was sick?

You didn’t ask why.

Maybe it was better that way, to ask absolutely nothing, to stay completely silent.  Because depression is not always obvious. Nobody walks around with a tag around their neck that reads, “Hello, I’m OCD.”  I don’t walk around saying that my name is Anxiety. And you most certainly do not walk around with a name tag that says, ‘’The World’s Prettiest Girl.”

Remember the day you asked if I was okay?

Well, when I went home that day, you texted me a heart. I think we both knew what happened or what had happened, already happened. What gave it away?

Was it the letter, signed with my name? Or was it the knife on the kitchen counter?

I bet you thought it was just a “phase.” I bet you thought it was just a “mood.” No.

It’s a freaking disease that requires help. When someone has lung cancer, are they crazy? So why should we be labeled in that category?

I didn’t choose to be depressed or angry.

Did you see my footprints in the snow as I ran home as fast as I could? I was alone through every bit of it.

“Why me?” I ask myself everyday as I stare into that filthy mirror.

I tried to kill myself.

But, something, someone inside of me whispered, “don’t.”

I don’t want this “thing” to define me. Will I ever get better? Fifteen years too long. Fifteen years too young. More than a precious life ahead of me.

I am too young. I can’t go back to where I was before. It’s not pretty or happy or in any way, shape, or form easy. It’s not easy.

But I’m doing better. And everyday that’s ahead of me, I continue to do better than the day before. But I’m going to need some help. And now, I’m not afraid to reach out, because I know that I am just like every other person in this world. Normal and unique.

I hate the word “schizo.” It’s not nice. Are schizophrenic people crazy to you? Is that what you think?

Whatever happened to being a “leader” rather than a follower?

I hate that depressed people are labeled as losers, emo, or crazy. I hate that when you ask someone what’s the first word that comes to your mind when you hear the word “mental hospital.” Why is it “crazy people” or “the addicts”? “Drug dealers” or “the insane”? Like in the movies, “insane asylum.”

I hate that we are called names that are so hurtful in ways that you can’t even understand. You just say them like gunshots heading straight for the target.

Why?

Do we look different? Because last time I checked, depression is not always obvious. Maybe it’s how society labels us as: disgusting freaks.

Why?

God damn, why?

Why us?

Guess the main question is: how did we end up as outcasts or “not important?”

And most certainly, taking medication does not mean you are weak.

And how come this stigma targets eating disorders as well?

If a girl is thin, is she anorexic?

Why put labels on our backs of the LGBTQ community too? So, to you it’s different? It’s different, right? Different, right? Different, right? Right?

Oh wait, sorry. It’s my OCD again.

They are not labels or adjectives, so stop!

I’m pretty sure it’s because we’re different? Is it?

If you can’t explain it, then keep your mouth shut.

We are tired of running and dreaming of getting hit by cars. We just want to wake up happy, but sometimes we don’t even want to wake up. Poor mental illness is a killer, but you make it worse due to your actions. Yes, you. Don’t look away, and don’t stop and stare. Don’t take a picture and post it on the media, labeling me as “mental.” Don’t freak out when you see scars on my arms. Don’t leave me when you have seen me at my worst of times.

Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not real. I don’t want to be another statistic for suicide. I don’t want to be labelled. I want to wake up and be myself. Go out into the world and not be ashamed of having depression or bipolar disorder or any other mental illness.

So, if this has to be said, it has to be said…

I am not the stigma, and I no longer want to be.

So break the silence and stop the stigma towards mental health.

 

Moral Transformation

 

He was no longer lost in space

His childhood gone at life’s behest

As he grew, a change in pace

To grow, to make money, to beat out the rest

 

And so the chuckling cherubim

Fluffed their wings and smirked

Persevered, or so it seemed

And refused to slack, refused to shirk

 

And soon he reached the shining heights

And the suited angels stopped and stared

He had achieved his goals and reached the lights

And taken all that he once shared

 

For a fight was raging, hard and long

And a moral split between

Who is to say which one was wrong?

Simple white against alluring sheen?

 

But the fiery one emerged aloft

Blood-red trident reached overhead

Plunging into snow white wings, soft

But draining, now, and dead

 

And as the man revealed himself

Tentatively, unsure, uncertain

Locked the loser in a shelf

Hid behind sanguine curtains

 

But the cherubim all simply smiled

Luscious wings began to shrink, gnarly horns began to rise

Anger rubbed off caution, corrupted and wild

All had made the transformation, and each one dropped their guise

 

The Masked Player

          

Without discernible misery

The masked player strides in

 

Confidence exuding in wavering streams

The curtain lifts to uncover

So many gleaming faces

Apprehensive

Staring, focused, and joyful

The masked player does not move

 

Bewilderment tightens the air

The excitement bottled and compressed

The masked player waits

 

Knows the power he holds

Over the still crowd

The grand flourish!

And the excitement frees!
Laughing, they are relieved, the mirth is released

To the masked player’s silent satisfaction

 

The hot lights shine with an intangible force

Following and revealing

The masked player subtly flees their gaze

 

And the play begins

The crowd marvels and coos

Then gasps and sighs

They are pushed and pulled

The audience draws in a ragged breath

Gasps once more and falls to tears

A tale of heartbreak unrivaled

The masked player grins

 

The audience weeps — such sorrow and pain!

What a godforsaken man!

The masked player basks in the emotion

 

Then the curtain falls

The tears are dried and left in the theater

The play is now a play

And nothing more

A point for a study

And nothing more

An abstract fabrication

And nothing more

And nothing more

The masked player bows his head

 

The spell has been broken on the crowd

As they now critique the fiction

The masked player pushes away backstage

 

Relieved of the visceral sadness

Gone from the immediate pain

The crowd’s melancholy is allayed

A smile turns the corners of their mouths

And they wish not the play’s tragedy

Upon their worst enemy

Glad the clever actor had simply worn a mask

The masked player leaves the theater

 

He does not remove his mask

In the darkened night

 

He does not remove his mask

Arriving at his dismal house

 

He does not remove his mask

Shuffling up the crumbling stairs

 

He does not remove his mask

Passing pictures of dead friends

 

He does not remove his mask

Staring disgustedly in the grimy mirror

 

He does not remove his mask

For there is no mask to remove

 

Without any discernible misery

The masked player shuffles off

 

The Rebirth Cycle

It started again. The rebirth cycle started again. Once a month, I change into another person. Different age, different height, different me. And now I am a girl, Maria, sixteen years old and living in Ohio. High school called something like New Ohio High School. I’m scared. Whatever happens, love or friendships, after a month, it’ll all go away. What did I do to deserve this? Anyway, I’m tired of this cycle. It has ruined my life in every way. I have to go, go and start this new life of mine.

***

On the way to school, I tried to avoid everyone I could. And everyone did. I looked down and never looked up to anyone. I pulled my hoodie over my head, and I sat down, silent and invisible. Feeling invisible felt good, no friendships and no love ruining my life.

“Hey, are you new?” asked someone over my shoulder.

The voice sounded sarcastic and scratchy. I turned around, and all I saw was a body full of glitter. The earrings, clothes, and lip gloss. I laid my head back into the fold my arms were in. I sat there, not moving for long enough, until she asked me again in an angry voice. I lifted my head, trying my best to keep my anger down and not let my anger make my magic out of control. The lights went out, and the teacher locked the door, assuming this was some lock down. But I knew it was my powers that turned off the lights. After my anger fled away, the lights started to flicker back on. I looked up, acting surprised so that no one assumed it was me. We all went back to our seats.

Ms. Johnson pointed to the board and started to gabble about science and chemistry. I looked back because I felt something hit my head. I heard snorts and giggles from Ms. Glitter Girl. I looked behind me, and I saw a lined paper crumpled up into a perfect, round ball. I opened it up, and there it was, written in pretty, pink cursive.

 

Don’t think I don’t know it was you who made the lights go pitch black. Have a bad day. Sincerely, The Best.

 

I ripped it up and threw it into the trash can. This boy walked over to her. I noticed his beautiful, short, curly, black hair. His blue eyes matched his precious smile. I looked down, and my hands fidgeted on my desk as I overheard his sweet, angelic voice.

“Why would you do that? I know what you wrote. You don’t even know her!”

I quickly turned my head, trying to hide my smile as the girl gave me this ugly face and rolled her eyes at me. The boy whispered something too quiet. I couldn’t hear. When he was finished, he looked at me. I wanted that moment to last forever. Our eyes met. He smiled. I smiled back. It felt special and unique. There were so many words I could put into this moment.

Ring! Ring! I stood up, as everyone else did, and I grabbed my stuff. I quickly ran to my locker. I shoved all of my chemistry books into it before they could fall out. I had to get home before anyone saw me. I went outside, and I hid behind the thin pole at the far corner of the school. I opened my backpack, and I whispered into it, “Bring me home.”

As I started to fade, I overheard his voice again saying, “You dropped your–”

He stopped and stared at me as I started to fade more. I closed my eyes as I hoped he would forget about this tomorrow.

As the next day began, I wanted to forget him. I hoped he would definitely forget too. I looked down and pulled my hoodie over my head. I went to my classes and glanced at the normies on the way. Folding my arms tight, side by side, I couldn’t stop but stare at him one more time. I tried to avoid any questions from anyone who came my way. I went into class and put my bag down. I looked around. Everyone was staring at me and the boy’s empty seat. I was scared and shocked, but I didn’t let it show. Halfway into class, he came rushing in and stared at me, not talking to me but just staring at me. I stared back at his dreamy eyes.

 

The Savior

I realized that this world isn’t lasting forever. In 48 hours, this world would go crazy and end.

***

Suddenly, I realized who had saved me from the falling bridge. Yesterday, I was jamming to my favorite song, and suddenly, everything fell. I flew out of my car. Holding onto the cracking piece of the bridge, questions flew across my mind. A warm hand grabbed me. He pulled me up, and I was deeply breathing on the side of the bridge. I turned around. I was going to thank him and give him everything I had. But when I turned, I just saw a suspicious figure, tall with long, straight, brown hair, running away faster than the speed of light.

The wind was blowing in my face. I got back up and just replayed everything of what happened in my mind. So unexpected and fast.

I was slowly walking back. I heard the loud, scary ambulance sound and police officers calling and reporting damages. There was CNN at the corner of the bridge, talking into a big speaker. I walked past them, looking around, searching for my savior. I saw many black figures, and I didn’t know which one it could be.

That day, I ran back home, and I started to think about how I could find him.

The next day, I went to Central Park to cool off. I never realized until hours later that there was a girl next to me. She was the exact height and width that I saw that day. The hair matched perfectly.

I started to talk and start off easy, until I mentioned what happened. She was shocked and took her bag and ran away. That was the last time I saw her. I guess she wasn’t the savior the day I died. Neither was anyone else.  

 

Imperfect

Prologue

A large, clean, white box sits in the middle of a deserted, gray street. It lets out a wail, and my hinges squeak towards it. I open it, and inside is a wailing child, but where a second tiny arm should be, a clean stump is there instead. I turn away. The government will hunt and kill her for her imperfection. It is a crime to be less than perfect. You could pollute others. I run the calculations through my computing system. Her chances without me lie at 0.06%. It isn’t worth it. I could be stripped for spare parts if I’m found! I take one last look at the box, and my sensors pick up a tablet. I pick it up and read.

 

This child is Lilli Morris. If you take her, you will receive a payment of 1,000 sars a month. At age 14, deliver her to lab 3.51. At that time, she will be perfect as a test subject for our weapons. Make sure she is fed and raised the way a rebel child is. This will be immensely helpful to your beloved government. Failure to do so will result in death. A tracking device has already been planted deep into your system C-13. Remember the reward will be extensive.

Signed,

Jessica and Harry Morris, Chemical Weapons Department

 

I do a scan of my anatomy and locate a tracker right next to my motherboard. Any attempt to remove it would cause me to shut down. I do a second scan and find that the tracker has explosive content, a kind that could be remotely controlled. Well it seems I have no choice. I scoop up the child, and the box and creak away to my workshop.

 

Chapter One

She peered out of the open window, looking down at the uniform, bleak buildings. No one would notice a girl leaning out the window of an abandoned church. Maybe before they would, but not now.

It was rare to see anyone looking from their screen, treacherous even. With each country’s government controlling all media and personal devices, there were hardly any independent thinkers left. And those few were forced out of society, usually they formed some sort of underground society, but those never lasted for long. She sighed and slipped on a pair of worn leather gloves and slung a bag with many pockets over her shoulders. She climbed out of the window and jumped down onto the neighboring roof, landing on practiced feet. She sprinted as if afraid of something towards the horizon. She stopped on one roof and ran to the side of the building. She grabbed the handle of the fire escape like she had done a thousand times. She swung down and climbed wearily down the metal ladder. She slipped off one of her gloves, revealing a robotic prosthetic. A metal device clicked out of her arm, and she inserted it into the lock. The window slid open. Catlike, she crawled into the drab, gray apartment. There isn’t much risk of getting caught here, she thought. At this time, all the inhabitants would be enthralled in social media, sucked into a world of machines and pixels so distant from reality that there was hardly need for sneaking. They were all so enveloped in worlds of celebrities and surveys, game shows and contests that they were hardly human anymore. However, the government cameras could be anywhere, so one could never be too careful. She snuck into the kitchen area and opened the fridge. She had to take small pieces of different things, lest the inhabitant should notice. She checked to make sure everything was in its proper place. Then she slipped out of the window, unnoticed, using the silver instruments to lock the window again. She ran along the roofs and went down yet another fire escape, this time to ground level. Checking over her shoulder, she loosened a pothole cover on the street and went down a rickety ladder and called out “Independent.” Suddenly lights turned on throughout the dark hallway, and a door slid open. The creak of hinges echoed through the hallway.

“C-13,the girl called.

“Hello, Lilli Morris, how is your prosthetic arm doing?” a robotic voice responded.

A robot stepped into the light. The robot had a metallic body dotted with rust, and as it walked towards the girl, it was clear its joints were the cause of the creaking.

“Fine, fine. How many times do I have to tell you, just call me Lilli!” the girl protested in fake annoyance, “and grease your hinges, they’re all creaky!” Suddenly, Lilli’s voice turned serious. “Have you received any information about them?”

A hint of desperation was in her voice.

“Lilli Morris, are you 100 percent sure that you want to hear the information I have received?” The robot paused. “All indicators show that they did abandon you,” C-13 said, a hint of compassion crept into his robotic monotone.

“No, I want to hear!” Lilli declared stubbornly.

“If that is what you absolutely want, then come on,” came C-13’s reply.

A sliding door opened onto a makeshift garage of sorts. An entire wall was crammed with monitors and keyboards and complex hacking equipment. C-13 flicked a switch, and with a buzz, the monitors came alive.

“Here is the information I have on the whereabouts of your parents.”

Lilli held her breath.

“They are working for the government in their secret base located in sector 15, Lab 3.51. They are both working as scientists, developing chemical weapons and poisons for the conflict between the United confederation of 50, and the Rebels.”

“Wait, they’re working for the government?” Lilli exclaimed, shock embedded in her words. She knew of the horrors the government had inflicted upon anyone who was different. “No, that can’t be! They’re probably being held against their will,” she said defiantly. “I must find them!”

“My calculations indicate that due to your stubbornness and desire for human contact, I cannot do anything to stop you,” C-13 pronounced sadly. He handed her a nano display. “The coordinates are here… Goodbye, Lilli Morris,” C-13 said sadly.

She ran out, and C-13 looked at her, a flicker of regret crossing his robotic gaze if that was possible. She ran to the fire escape and swiftly climbed up. She ran along the roofs and slid down into the open window of the abandoned church. She shoved a few belongings and some food into a bag then picked up a small hologram. She fingered it gently, running her fingers along the display disk, staring down at her parents. Lilli slung her bag over her shoulders, ran up onto the roof, and broke into a steady run. No one cared enough to see the girl running across the horizon.

She stopped for a moment, taking a break from the steady jog she had maintained for the past hour. She leaped down into a alley and a voice greeted her.

“Another useless human lifeform. What a waste of space.”

Into the light emerged a faded, gray humanoid robot with aperture eyes and a disapproving frown. One of the robot’s legs was longer than the other, and the resulting limp echoed around the alley. Step, thunk. Step, thunk. Step, thunk. To Lilli’s surprise, the robot flickered. Noticing the look of shock on Lilli’s face, the robot explained.

“I used to be able to turn invisible. However, I am in low power mode, so it comes on and off. The human who made me didn’t put the right protection on my motherboard, so I caught a virus and have a personality glitch. Apparently, I’m an ‘Insufferable Pessimist,’ and I have a ‘misplaced sense of superiority.’ So this genius decided ‘let’s chuck him into the not yet finished garbage chute,’ which is basically a free fall,” he gestured to his creaking leg. “Anyway, my name is P4-94. What’s your name? It’s not like it really matters. It’s not going to delay the inevitability of the pathetically imminent death that is the fate of all humans.”

“Lilli,” Lilli responded cautiously, annoyance seeping into her voice. “Hey, do you have hovering capabilities?” she asked, a hint of an idea wandering into her mind. “Oooh, and do you have GPS?”

“Why would you care?” the robot responded.

“Oh, well, that leg looks like quite a drag.”

“So?”

“Well I think I just might be able to fix it.”

The robot scoffed, but the apertures of its eyes widened with hope.

“You see I’m fairly confident I can fix it but only if you promise to take me to a location I have interest in going to.”

The robot scoffed again. “Fairly confident?? I doubt your imprecise human fingertips could handle a task half as difficult as my leg.”

“Have you got any better options?”

“Well, I suppose not. How far away is this ‘location’ of yours?”

She pulled out the nano display.

“That’s quite a destination. I have a deal for you. If you fix my leg, then I will take you to your destination. However, if you leave me in worse shape than I’m in, I get to strip your nano display for parts. Does your tiny human brain comprehend?”

“Yes and deal. What model are you?”

“I am a T-498jh_ladfnvK humanoid model. Roughly 367.492% better than the average human.”

“Alright, P4-93, let’s fix you up.”

She rolled up the sleeve and adjusted her prosthetic. She wiggled her metal fingers and opened her bag. She laid out an array of tools. She grabbed P4-93’s leg and sprayed it with black liquid. She adjusted and readjusted, drilled, and turned. When she finally stood up, the robot’s leg was gleaming.

P4-93 sighed. “Well you managed not to implode the entire block, so I suppose that’s an accomplishment.” The robot took skeptical steps. “Well it does seem to hold up,” P4-93 admitted.

“So,” Lilli pushed. “We had a deal.”

“Ah, well, we are only blips in history, less than milliseconds in the time of the universe so I suppose if this implodes and becomes a disaster of epic proportions, it won’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Insert your nano display here.”

Lilli’s heart leapt, but she remained calm. She carefully inserted the nano display, taking care to memorize the coordinates to her future.

It had been three days since they had first met.

“How long till we’re there?” Lilli asked.

“I told you five minutes ago! Is your tiny human brain so miniscule it can’t retain a simple thought?”

“Oh be quiet,” Lilli responded halfheartedly, but she was used to P4-93’s constant criticism of her human functions.

It was hopeless arguing with him. She might as well rest while she still could. They were flying through deserted streets, and there was hardly any chance troopers would find them.

***

I laughed.

“This device is not meant to produce laughter,” C-13 said as a small, feathery machine tickled me.

“It’s tickly,” I laughed, practically rolling around on the floor in mirth.

“Come on now. It is time for sleep. You know it is scientifically proven that having 10 hours of sleep will help you function at your best.”

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” I said, my eight-year-old face scrunching in annoyance.

I jumped into a small bed pod and landed on an old mattress.

“Night C-13.”

“Have a good night, Lilli Morris.”

 

“Lilli, Lilli, wake up.”

“What?” she said groggily

“Troopers!! Lot’s of them!” P4-93 screeched.

“How did they find us?! We haven’t had troopers on our trail this entire time, and you scanned this neighborhood!!!”

“The only possible explanation is a tracking device. Oh well, your miserable existence will finally be ended, and your soul will float aimlessly through the cosmos for all eternity.”

“Shut up! Nobody’s dying! Quick, turn invisible!”
“It will do us no good. Woe. WOE!”

Lilli watched as a net fell over her and P4-93.

“Any attempts to resist will lead to immediate incineration,” a trooper shouted through a megaphone.

Lilli stared at the net encircling them and rolled up her sleeve, revealing her prosthetic, gleaming wickedly in the gray light that mingled with the flashing lights of the troopers vehicles. Shink. Blades zipped out of Lilli’s arm, and she grimaced. A certain determination filled her, and she slashed through the net in a singular motion. She advanced towards the guards.

“STOP RIGHT THERE.”

She kept going. She leapt forward, memories pushed themselves up from the darkest parts of her mind, kindling the already roaring fire that consumed her.

 

“GO AWAY! STOP! DON’T TOUCH ME! You’ll spread your imperfection. Don’t you see you’re ruined.” the little boy yelled.

I crumpled. I just wanted to be friends. I looked down at the stump that had always been a part of my life. The little boy said I was ruined. Am I ruined? Am I diseased?”

“Lilli! I told you stop trying to play with other children! They’ll only hurt you,” C-13 chastised.

“Okay,” I sniffed, and I let myself be led back to the only place remotely like home.

 

Lilli stared down at the red stains on her arm and then shifted her gaze to the trooper on the ground before her, a halo of blood framing what used to be a face. She froze, shock running through her. She felt a net enclosing around her once more, this time feeling the cold, metal links that made up the nets for those who were dangerous, rebel imperfects. The bulletproof links showed who she really was. A murderer.

She stared at the bars encircling them. She sighed. She had only made their situation worse, and P4-94 knew it too. But underneath her anger, she couldn’t stop thinking about the trooper’s wide, surprised eyes, disbelieving, not comprehending her blade slicing through him.

“What is it with you humans? Always killing each other!!” P4-94 said half-heartedly.

“Not now, P4-94,” she murmured, both menace and defeat in her voice, and even the robot knew to back off.

“Alright, on your feet,” a trooper yelled, smacking the bars of their cage. “You are being transported to a laboratory to be tested upon. Any attempts to resist will lead to sedation.”

She sighed. She couldn’t do anything. They had bound her arm, so she couldn’t use any of its features. Lilli and P4-94 were shackled and led in a line of other shambling convicts. They were led onto a transport plane and were placed in cold, metal seats with built in shackles. The plane lifted off, and the prisoners sat in stifling silence, the only break being the shift of bodies when the turbulence got bad.

It went on like this for hours when finally, a voice called, “Alright, get up!” and the seats lurch forward, causing yelps from all of the human passengers. Lilli could tell P4-94 was scoffing at their “weakness.” Troopers quickly filed in, each one taking a prisoner and leading them in strict lines.

As they walked outside, Lilli finally realized it. She might never meet her parents. She stared sullenly at the brick building she was being marched towards, and she glanced up. There she saw it. Large pristine letters reading Laboratory 3.51. That was her parents’ laboratory. She really was going to see her parents! But why was she going there from jail? It didn’t matter, she concluded, and she gestured discretely to P4-94. He looked up, and she could tell he recognized it. She marched forwards happily. She couldn’t wait to see what was inside those doors. Her parents! Someone who understood her. People who loved her. The doors opened smoothly, and she craned her neck, trying to get a good view. She was marched towards a long line of people in front of a large glass tank. Their grimy faces and angry eyes gave them away. They were rebels. They looked terrified, but she hardly noticed. She stood in line, her eyes seeking out anyone who looked remotely like her, and then she saw them. A man and a woman, with the same charcoal black hair as her, in immaculate lab with ID cards. Dr. Jessica Morris and Dr. Harry Morris. They walked up to the tank and opened it. They gestured for the person in the front of the line. A young boy, no more than ten.

“No need to be afraid,” Lilli’s mother cooed as the boy took a few shaky steps towards the tank. “There we go,” Lilli’s mother said, and slammed the door shut.

Lilli heard a lock clicking into place.

“Clear. Release the gas.”

Lilli’s father pressed a button, and green gas filled the tank. The boy screamed in agony, and through the cloud of gas, she saw his skin melting off of his bones, his blood bubbling, and pooling at his feet, his voice fading into gurgling. What used to be a human body was flailing around in a desperate attempt to escape this horror. Lilli couldn’t watch. Why weren’t her parents doing anything? This was clearly some horrible mistake. She turned to them.

“Great results, the increase in acid is definitely working!”

“Yeah, this is a sure success.”

Lily gawked. She had been frozen, but now she jerked into motion. She sprinted towards her parents.

“MOM! DAD! It’s me, Lilli! what is going on?!” she exclaimed.

“Troopers, get her back in line,” her mother ordered, recognition flashing through her cold eyes.

“I’M YOUR DAUGHTER!!” Lilli screamed.

“You’re no child of ours,” her parents spat.

As troopers dragged Lilli back to her spot in line, Lilli’s eyes filled with hatred. Her mind was racing. White hot rage consumed her.  

“P4-94 get ready to run,” Lilli hissed, and with one quick motion, she ripped off her prosthetic, revealing a small button. P4-94’s eyes widened. Lilli pressed it and threw it towards her parents. She grabbed P4-94 and ran, glancing behind her to watch her past go up in flames.

 

Diary of a 1700’s Girl

     

12/3/1775

Williamsburg

Today is my birthday! I’m turning 12! My name is Elizabeth Port, but people call me Beth for short. I got this diary from my mom for my birthday. My family is the middling sort. My father is a blacksmith. My parents’ names are Mary Port and James Port. I have two older brothers. They are named Joshua, who is 17, and Tomas, but everybody calls him Tom, and he is 14. I’m going to write this diary like it’s a story and explain everything about my life because sometimes, I think that someone might read this in the future.

My father inherited the house that we live in from my grandpa. It is made of brick, and it has actual windows! The inside of the house has a downstairs and an upstairs, and it has open fireplaces in almost every room. It has one in the kitchen, the living room, the bedrooms, and the dining room. The upstairs has three bedrooms, one for my parents, one for me, and my brothers share a room. The middle floor has a living room with a couple of chairs and a small table in the middle. The dining room has a big table in the middle and chairs all around it. We eat ham, fish, apples, peas, beans, lettuce, onions, carrots, potatoes, squash, and corn. We drink tea, milk, coffee, wine, apple cider, and beer.

The bedrooms have soft feather beds and curtains around them. There is a necessary bathroom behind the house. My mom has a kitchen garden, and I have to weed, water, and plant in it. I also have to chase away the rabbits that come. We grow peas, carrots, corn, and lettuce. Also, we grow herbs and some plants that she thinks are good for medicine. Remember, my father inherited this house, but we didn’t have the money to buy it if it wasn’t ours. Girls and women wear a shift, stockings, stays, petticoat, pocket, outer petticoat, and a frock. It takes a very long time to get dressed. Almost every morning, my mom and I go to Market Square. There are fruits and vegetables, eggs, milk, butter, crabs, oysters, sheep, pigs and chickens, and also pottery. We pay for it all with Spanish silver. There is pence, shillings, and pounds. Sometimes after we go to Market Square, we go to Chownings (CHEWnings). Chownings is a tavern.

I used to go to school, but I had to stop because the teacher said, being a girl, I had learned enough. But my mom still teaches me a little bit of something every morning. She taught me how to read and write. My brother, Joshua, is going to William and Mary next year. My dad wants Joshua to be a blacksmith like him, but Joshua wants to be a lawyer. By now, I’m sure you are wondering if we have slaves. Answer: we do not. My entire family thinks slavery is wrong. So that’s pretty much my life. Oh, and one more minor detail, the war has started. A couple of years ago, in Boston, they dumped all of their tea into the harbor, and it was called the Boston Tea Party. And a couple of years before that was the Boston Massacre. I’ll explain more later.

 

12/5/1775

Williamsburg

So, people have been growing more and more restless and annoyed because of taxes and other things. So, we started a war! I didn’t do a very good job of explaining that, but I hope you have the general idea. I’m going to Market Square soon, so I am going to write this quickly.  Yesterday, we got invited to my friend’s birthday party, and it was amazing. She is very rich, so they had all sorts of food and things to do. There were six different kinds of meat and apple cider. Then, for dessert, there were pies, cakes, candy, and a thing called a trifle, which is a rich cake made of a jelly roll, custard, cream, rum, and wine. Also the children sat apart from the grown ups. It was so fun. Well I have to go.

 

Later…

Today, when we were in Market Square, I saw a slave auction going on. My mom steered me away from it. I asked her why anyone would be so cruel as to sell human beings.

She said, “Beth, I don’t know. Most people don’t think the way we do. When you grow up, I want you to fight for what is right. I want you to become an abolitionist. And the best way to tell other people that slavery is wrong is to become a teacher.”

And now that’s all I want to be.

 

12/6/1775

Williamsburg

I have heard about unrest in different parts of the thirteen colonies. I heard gunshots! I was in the garden, and I heard them! It’s really scary. Joshua went to William and Mary today to see what it was like. He really liked it, though I don’t know if we can afford it.

 

Later…

My mom bought me some clay at the market, and I can draw with it. Here are some of the colors: red, yellow, green, light blue, magenta, and blue. I have already drawn something with them. Anyway, I have big news. Joshua got into William and Mary! We are so happy for him. I saw another slave auction. I HATE THEM!!! Tonight, my mom and I are going to make a huge dinner for Joshua. We are going to have: (drinks first) beer, tea, and apple cider. And then to eat, we are having: peas, ham, carrots, corn, and potatoes. But right now, I’m bored. I think we (my mom and I) are going to a tavern today for lunch. I’m really excited. I haven’t been to a tavern in years! We stopped going when taxes went up. But today, we decided to go. I need to go now.

 

Later…

Right now, I’m in the cargo part of a ship.

Here’s what happened. It’s close enough to Christmas that there were Christmas trees and wreaths all around the tavern. We went to the tavern and walked inside. It had candles all over the place and Christmas trees in the corners. We got led to our table and sat down. In taverns and homes (like ours) they have metal cups, plates, and silverware. A waitress came over and asked us what we wanted to eat.

“I would like ham, and cornbread, and peas as one side, please,” I said.

“I don’t want anything,” said Mom.

The lady nodded and walked away.

“Mom, why aren’t you getting anything?” I asked.

“Because I’m not hungry, and I want to talk to you,” said Mom. “Your father is going to Great Britain with a couple of other people who are going to ask the king to lower taxes. He is going on the ship that leaves tomorrow.”

I gasped. “Why?” I asked.

“Because the taxes are really getting to be too much, and it doesn’t seem like it’s affecting us, but it is, and it’s going to be very dangerous because of the war.”

I stared at her. The waitress came up to our table and gave me my food. I felt sick now, and I didn’t want to eat anything, but I didn’t want Mom to feel bad. Suddenly, we heard a gunshot! We looked around and saw Redcoats (Britain’s soldiers) walk in. A waitress walked over to them and asked if they wanted a table. They waved her away and walked into the tavern.

“Is James Port here?” asked the leader.

I looked around at Mom, but she wasn’t there. I looked back over at the Redcoats, and I saw her talking to them. I walked over to them and heard what they were saying.

“There is no James Port in this tavern. But I do know where he lives. He lives on…”

I moved away from them then. I couldn’t believe it! The Brits were looking for my father! I wonder why? When my mom came back, I asked her why they were looking for him. She said it was none of my business, and I should eat my food so we could go home. So I did. When we got home, Mom went straight to my father’s workshop to talk to him. When she came back, she was extremely pale.

“We have to go,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because your father is in trouble. Get your things together.”

I went to get my clothes and saw a gun pointing into the room. I screamed and ran to Mom.

“Mom! Mom! There is a gun pointing into the hallway window!”  

She ran to the window and stared.

“Quick, get ready to go. Now!”  

I ran to my room and grabbed a couple of cloaks and a bonnet, and a bag with some of my toys. I ran to Mom, and we ran out the door.

“What about Joshua and Thomas?”

“They will be fine. They are in school.”  

We ran to my father’s shop and found him packing some things.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked.

We nodded, and we ran out.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To the ship that your father was supposed to go on.”

As we were running, we heard a crash of thunder, and it started to pour rain. I groaned and started to run. When we got to the port, I was muddy and wet and really cold. I realized that only my father had a ticket! I was going to ask Papa about it, but he waved me off. I was silent for awhile. He looked at the ship. When he waved for me to follow, I walked over to him.

“Where are we going?” I repeated.

He put his finger to his lips, and we walked over to one of the guards. We waved, and he nodded at us. Papa looked around quickly to see if anyone was around, no one was. We ran up into the ship and went down as far as we could.

So now I’m in the lowest part of a ship headed for London. Then we are going to go to France to get away from the people who are looking for Papa. I’m really scared.

 

12/16/1775

We’re here! London. It smells like wet horses, and I saw someone empty a chamber pot onto the street. I saw a man, who had an eye patch and a crutch, stagger towards us and ask Papa for money. Now we are in someone’s house. Papa says that it’s a family who he knows from college. They don’t have any kids, so they were very happy to see us.

 

12/17/1775

I slept in the guest room by myself! I was so scared! I don’t like being by myself. We left the house today, and we went to an inn for lunch. When we left, I saw a person talk to a soldier in a red coat and point to us! I told Papa that, but he waved me off, and we kept walking. We went to another person’s house. This time, it was my grandma! I saw a picture of someone on the mantelpiece, and it looked like Mama. I asked Grandma if I could have it, and she said yes.

 

12/21/1775

We are in France! We took a boat a couple of days ago! We are looking for a house to stay in right now, so we are staying in a old, dingy abandoned house. But I love it here! Everything is better. And Mama thinks we will have a house by Christmas! I’m so excited. It’s beautiful here. It started snowing yesterday, and Mama and I had a snowball fight! It is getting cold in the abandoned house, though. We got baguettes at a cafe once, and they were so good! I loved them! There is a really big place where people are selling Christmas trees! When we find a house, we are going to buy one! I found this letter stuck in one of the floorboards in the house. Here is what it says:

 

12/17/1775

To my dearest Ana,

I miss you more than words can say. I will come home soon, once the colonies have calmed down, but for now, I am stuck here in Virginia. The revolutionary war is keeping me here. But, there might be a way to end it soon. We are planning a surprise attack on Boston in ten days. Then maybe I will be able to come home.

Well, I firmly clasp and kiss your hand. Keep well, cheerful, happy. Work, leap, let yourself be carried away, sing, and, if possible, don’t forget a humble soldier, your zealous admirer, Charles.

 

I have been thinking about what it says, and I think they are going to do the attack on the 27th, which is in six days! I haven’t told anyone about it yet, because if it means nothing, then, you know, but I really do think it means something! I wonder who Ana is, and if she lived in this house.

 

12/23/1775

Williamsburg

We own a house in France! Oh, I forgot to mention where in France we are. We are in Paris! The house we bought is tiny, but very comfortable. You walk in, and there are stairs leading up to the bedrooms. Then, you turn left and walk into the living room. It has a little fireplace and a mantle. The person who sold us the house left all the furniture and stuff in it, so we have everything we need. Once you walk past the living room, you walk into the dining room. It has a little table in middle, and then you walk into the kitchen. There is a little counter, and in the corner, there is a fireplace with a cauldron hanging on a iron rail. Then you walk back through the dining room and the living room, and walk up the stairs. When you are upstairs, you can go into two rooms. One is my room, and the other one is Mama and Papa’s room. My room is fairly small, but I love it. It has a little window overlooking the Pont Neuf. I have a big bed, and then there are my clothes (which we bought in Paris), and then there is a little desk, and on it, I have a couple of books and my drawing things. So that’s the house that we are staying in. I love it! The person who we bought the house from was very rich, so there is a ton of fancy furniture, and plates and cups and so on. There are curtains by the windows, and little cushions on a bench by the windows.

 

12/24/1775

I am really worried about that letter. I told Papa about it, and he is going to give it to a French officer that he met when we were looking for a house. It is Christmas Eve! We are going to have a feast tonight! We got a tree and put some decorations on it. It is not perfect, but I love it. I have a stocking over the fireplace.  

 

12/25/1775

HA! I was right about that letter! They are going to attack the Brits tomorrow before the Redcoats can attack Boston. I am really glad I found that letter. Today is Christmas day! I got some grapes and oranges in my stocking. Under the tree, I got a doll, some dresses, and a couple of little toys. I also got a letter kit! It has a couple pieces of paper, and a quill and ink, and a seal!

 

12/27/1775

They got them! They ambushed the Brits before they could attack Boston! I sent Joshua and Thomas a letter each, and I hope that they write me back. Papa has to find a job. I think he is getting worried. He definitely wants to be a blacksmith like he was in Williamsburg. I really miss it there! I miss my friends, and I really miss Joshua and Tom. I haven’t gotten a response from them. I kind of hate it here! I miss everything and everyone in Williamsburg. And I don’t have any friends here.

 

1/1/1776

I got a letter from Joshua and Tom! They said they missed us, and that they were going to come to France and find us! I can’t wait to see them! I have a new friend! Her name is Anna. She is my age, and her birthday is right before mine. It is November 12th. I am going to go to her house tomorrow. I can’t wait.

 

1/15/1776

I had a great time! I played with her for an hour! I am going to see her in a couple of days!

 

1/17/1776

Anna is sick! I think she will get better, though. I am praying for her every night. I am so worried. I am kind of liking it in France now.

 

1/25/1776

She is dead!!! I can’t believe it! I feel so bad for her parents. I am so sad. I am going to go to her funeral. I hate France. I really, really, really want to go back to Williamsburg

 

2/5/1776

NOOOOOOO!!! We just got a letter that said that Joshua and Tom got shot! By a Redcoat! I can’t believe this. I am an only child now! I am so sad! Mama and Papa are very sad. I don’t know how we are going to hold a funeral. I can’t… ugh. I can’t contemplate what has happened.

 

2/7/1776

We got Joshua and Tom’s bodies today. They have dried blood all over their chest. I threw up all over them when I saw them. There are three bullets in Joshua’s chest and one in Tom’s. We have put up a bunch of black cloth on our house, and all the furniture has black cloth on it. We are not going to be following the French funeral practices. We are going to have it the way we would have it in Williamsburg.

We are not going to give out gifts, because we don’t have enough money. We are going to hire two boys to carry them, and I am making rings and sewing gloves for everyone who is coming. We are inviting a couple of friends Mama and Papa made when we moved to France and Anna’s family as well. This is going to be very expensive. The coffin is 10 shillings,  and there has to be lots of wine beer and liquor, and all of that is about 20 shillings, and we need to pay the boys who are carrying the coffin five shillings each. So in all, it is about 40 shillings, which is about two pounds! I don’t know how we are going to get all of that money.

 

2/11/1776

OH MY GOSH! I had a great time at the funeral! So the boys that we hired, one of them is seventeen and the other one is thirteen. So after they carried the coffin, the thirteen-year-old grabbed my arm and pulled me into the shade of a tree.

“Do you recognize me?”

“William?! Yes!”

I realized that he was an old friend I had known when I was really young.

“Good! I moved here a couple months ago.”

“Me too!”

“I am sorry that your brothers died.”

“I am not going to say that it is fine, because it’s not, but thank you.”

We stayed behind the tree the entire funeral and talked.

 

2/15/1776

We are going to a fair really soon! I can’t wait! I have seen William three times since the funeral! I am going to a market tomorrow, and it is, like, the most expensive market in the world. I can’t wait! I am going to a newspaper place with Papa because he wants to write newspapers. I am really excited for him. I don’t think that’s the job he wants. He wants to do something. I’m scared for him. I don’t want him to do anything stupid and get killed.

 

2/20/1776

OH MY GOSH! We are going to move back to Williamsburg!! I am so excited! I can see my friends again! I am kind of sad that we are going to leave this house. But I am actually really excited! I am kind of scared though. I don’t want to get killed. But I really want to do something! For George Washington! I am so jealous of the people who can actually fight! Which means only the men. So stupid. They could use the help of women! Aside from, of course, washing and cooking and cleaning and all that stuff. Outrageous! But I am really excited to move back!

 

3/1/1776

We are leaving tomorrow! I can’t wait! I am so excited to see all of my friends again! But I am also kind of scared. There is a war going on after all. I still don’t know what my dad did to make us have to leave. I am going to ask my mom about it. I think he committed a crime against the British. I’m worried about when we go back. I don’t want to have to leave again.

 

3/8/1776

We are home! I am so happy! I have seen all of my friends again, and I am so happy! HAPPY! HAPPY! HAPPY! But I’m also kind of scared. I don’t want to move away again. EVER! We have moved back into our old house, and we are going to have a party! I am going to invite all of my friends over, and we are going to have so much fun! But, I am kind of afraid that the British will come and try to stay at our house, like they did with my friend, Molly. She said that it was really scary, and that they threatened to kill her and her family. She said that she would stay in her bedroom for most of the time because she didn’t want to see them.

 

3/13/1776

I am really bored with life here. I thought that if we moved back I would be really happy, but I actually hate it here. Oh, and I asked what Papa did, and Mama said that he offended a general for the British. I want to DO something! I want to be a spy.

 

3/20/1776

AHHHH! The British are at our house! They are staying here for a week! I am so mad! It’s actually not as scary as I thought it would be, but they are eating all of our food! And we don’t have enough rooms for them, so they kicked us out! Now we have to sleep in the living room, on little mats! But, now is my chance to run away and spill everything that I hear. I am going to listen in on their conversations. They have all been talking about how they are really excited to kick George Washington’s butt. I think that is rude and vulgar, and I would like to kick their butts. I have learned a lot, though. I am not going to write it down here because I don’t want anyone to find it. But I have learned a lot! I am very proud of myself.

 

3/25/1776

I am going to leave in a couple days. I am not going to tell anyone, but especially not my parents. They would freak out! I can’t tell anyone about this. And I have to make sure to hide this diary, so nobody finds it. Because if they do, then I will be in so much trouble.

I have a little problem. I don’t know where to go! I am very lost. I think I am somewhere in Virginia. (I mean obviously, because Williamsburg is in Virginia.) Somewhere else in Virginia. Right now I am in a big hole I found in a tree trunk. I have run out of water, so I am looking for a river or stream. I have been practicing hiding from people, so I can practice being a spy. I also have to practice being a boy. I have no idea how to act. What would a boy do? I am having some second thoughts about this. I am really scared. I don’t really know if there is a punishment for girls and women if they get caught in the army. But I really hope there is not. I have to keep going now.

 

3/30/1776

I made it! I found someone to take me to their camp, and I am now a spy for General George Washington. I don’t think he trusts me. He keeps looking at me strangely. I think he may think that I am a spy for the British. I have to be very careful about what I do. Nobody likes me. I feel very lonely, and I wish I hadn’t run away. I feel like crying. I am not meant to do this. I have seen a bunch of slaves in the camp. They have to do a bunch of manual labor. And they get whipped. It is terrible. I went to their part of the camp, and they barely have any food or water or anything like that. They don’t even have good blankets! They are going to freeze! I feel so incredibly bad for them.

 

4/2/1776

I am going on my first mission! I have to find out when and where the British are going to attack. I have to go to Charleston because General George Washington thinks that the British are going to try to take over the seaport there. Charleston is of course in South Carolina, so it is going to be a very, very, very long trip to get there. I don’t really know why they didn’t just send someone else to go. Someone who is closer! It is going to take days to get there! From what I hear, there is a small American force there already, but they need someone to find out the following:

Commanders: how many and who.

How many guns, men and ships they have, and when they are planning the attack.

And I have to do it all in two weeks. It’s like they want me to fail. How am I going to get all that information in two weeks?! I have to gain the Commanders’ trust, and then I have to figure out everything they want, and then I have to get away! That’s the part I am worried about. The getting away part. I don’t know how I am going to do that. I have talked to some people about it, and they have been no help at all.

It’s just been: “Well I don’t know, you are supposed to be the spy, not me.” Or “Don’t ask me! I don’t want to talk to no spy! Good for nothing slinking about slimy lowlifes!”

When someone says something like that, I usually walk away from them as fast as I can.

 

4/5/1776

I am almost to South Carolina. I can’t really write right now because the carriage is bumping so much. But I am going to try my best. Right now, my schedule is: get to South Carolina, get to the camp, learn as much as I can,  then get away, and tell them what I learned. I am really nervous. I CAN NOT GET CAUGHT! If I do, I will be put to death! I am going to meet the men at the rebel camp there, and then I am going to go into the British territory. I am really scared about this.

     

4/10/1776

I have talked to the people in charge at the camp, and now I am getting ready to go. I won’t be allowed to bring this diary, so this is going to be my last entry for a really long time. I have to go now.

 

Little did Elizabeth know that that would be her last entry in her diary. When she got to the camp, everyone started to get suspicious of her, and soon found out that she was a spy. She was put to death the next day. When her parents found out, they held a big funeral service. All of the Ports children were killed by the British. The Ports moved back to France and lived there for the rest of their lives.

 

The End      

 

Province of Darkness

The Gathering

In the early morning, the large waves were crashing against the thick sand. The beach was shadowed by a small, grass covered cliff, which was shadowed by a large mountain. The top of the mountain was an open crater, and inside the crater was a large fortress. The fortress was made of light brown stone. The walls were made of large, square stones with battlements on the top. Tall, circular towers soared over the wall. In the middle of the fortress was a large, square building with four towers.

This was not an ordinary fortress. It was the Hall of Concord, the official meeting place of the Universal Congress. The hall was located on an island south of Maltopia. Although it was within the boundaries of Maltopia, the island was owned by all the nations of the world.

Today, the Universal Congress would meet in the Hall of Concord. It had been two years since they’ve met. There were many reasons for this meeting, many proposals. But one proposal was heard to be appalling.

In an open space shadowed by the main building, a Venorian maid, wearing her long, brown dress, was sweeping the leaves off the stone floor. The space was a circle, with four entrances and seating on the edge. In the middle of two entrances was a statue. The maid brushed her scaly forehead and looked up at the statue. It was a large, marble sculpture of a Dark Elf woman holding a sword in one hand and an olive branch in the other. The maid looked down at the engraved label that lay on the base of the monument. It read:

This monument is dedicated to Queen Alexandra of Mirewood.

Founder of the Universal Congress and Co-signer of the Great Law of Peace.

The maid let out a great sigh, and shook her head in grief.

From one of the entrances came a human boy. He had white skin. His straight, brown hair grew from the top of his head while the rest was shaved off. The boy stood straight beside the maid.

“Boy!” said the maid, towering over the boy. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be cleaning the garderobes?”

“I did,” said the boy in disgust. “The housekeeper told me to help you.”

“Well, it’s about time,” said the maid. “I can’t sweep these leaves all by myself.”

The boy got himself a broom and began to sweep the leaves.

“So, what’s the commotion this time?” asked the boy.

“What?”

“I mean, why is the Congress meeting after all this time?”

The maid put her broom down and let out a breath. “Well, there are many things being presented, from what I’ve heard. Queen Andrea of Mirewood’s proposal is apparently the most shocking.”

“What is it?” asked the boy with wide eyes.

“I don’t know,” sighed the maid in exhaustion. “But a nobleman fainted when he heard it.”

“My lord,” gasped the boy in excitement. “I want to hear it now!”

“Whatever it is,” stated the maid, “it probably won’t be as good as her mother’s proposals.”

The maid stopped her work and gazed at the statue.

“I remember when I started working here. I remember seeing Queen Alexandra’s face for the first time. It was ten years ago, and she made a proposal to build better roads connecting all the cities of Lavonia and Kanaida. A proposal so basic and genius, even I, a maid with the knowledge of a peasant, could understand its benefits. Like many proposals, it had a great opposition. The rivals were overly wealthy humans who would spend a coin on nothing but themselves. Every word they spoke made me angrier and angrier. No one called them out for their rudeness that day, except Alexandra. She did not give those men respect. After a long while of arguing, the proposition to build better roads was passed.”

The maid turned her head to the boy who stood still, leaning his broom on his shoulder.

“You see, boy, those were the days. Back then, the Universal Congress met every month! But alas,” sobbed the maid, “Queen Alexandra is dead. And now her daughter, Andrea, is Queen.”

“Well, who knows?” said the boy in a high-pitched voice. “Maybe proposition-making runs in the family.”

“Let’s hope so. I haven’t seen a good proposal since Alexandra’s last meeting.”

The next day, the maid, the boy, and the housekeeper, who were the only people living in the Hall of Concord, stood waiting for the members of the Universal Congress. The housekeeper, who was only an inch taller than the small boy, stood nervously, sweeping his balding head and twitching his pointy ears. Usually, the housekeeper was much calmer, but this was different. It was Queen Andrea’s first meeting, and he wanted everything to be perfect. He didn’t know Andrea, and due to her being Alexandra’s daughter, he did not want her to leave the Universal Congress.

Every once in awhile, the housekeeper would turn towards the boy and maid and ask if all the chores were done. Every time, they would answer yes.

As the sun was almost in the middle of the sky, the housekeeper saw the first ship enter the harbor below. He quickly went to the entrance of the fortress, the maid and boy following. When all three were there, they waited anxiously to see the first arrival.

Without surprise, it was King Eremurus of Maltopia. With two guards beside him, the lizard king walked forward. His golden rings reflected the light of the sun, as his dragonskin gauntlets blended with his turquoise scales. The housekeeper looked up at the tall Venorian and saw his bare chest, his abdomen which was guarded by an iron corset, and his pelvis area which was clothed by a thick, blue, linen-wrapped skirt.  

“Derik!” said Eremurus. “It has been so long. How are you?”

“Patricia and Jonathan have kept me company,” said the housekeeper, waving his hand to the maid and the boy, still looking up at the lizard king. “Have you heard of Andrea’s proposition?”

Derik always spoke to royalty in a formal manner, but always talked to Eremurus normally. Eremurus was much friendlier to the housekeeper, unlike the other leaders, which allowed Derik to speak in an informal tone.

“Ah yes, I’ve heard,” said the lizard king in excitement. “I only hope it’s better than one of Dido’s proposals. Ever since Alexandra’s death, she’s manipulated the whole continent of Lavonia to do her bidding.”

“Yes, but not Mirewood,” smiled Derik.

“Oh please,” sighed Eremurus angrily. “Andrea is only sixteen. She’ll probably be kissing Dido’s feet in no time.”

When the sun hit the middle of the sky, another ship entered the harbor. The longboat was more narrow and had wooden swan heads on both points.

Through the entrance came a six-foot tall Orc wearing a seal hide over his ice-blue skin. His thick upper body was clothed by a necklace with two walrus tusks on both sides.

“Greetings, King Ukmar of Ek’da,” said Derik. “Shall I take your coat?”

“No need,” said Ukmar. “The heat is soothing.”

Another ship entered the harbor. This longboat had steel platings on the bottom, used for tearing through ice. Through the entrance came Chief Karnok of Pangona, a black-haired Orc wearing brown bear fur.

Over time, more ships arrived in the harbor. Through the entrance came Chief Toure of the Apocalypse, a dark skinned human wearing a black, hooded shawl and gray clothing. After him came King Lumos IV of Morrisland, a moon-skinned Elf with dark blue eyes and golden hair. He was followed by Lord Demeter of Silver Coast. Her long copper hair was braided on the top of her head as her sparkling green dress glittered the light of the sun. Soon after her was Chief Pocatowa of Indie, a muscular human dressed in a wolf pelt and leather pants.

The leaders were scattered across the entrance area, talking and waiting for the other members. Karnok and Ukmar, who were the only Orcs there, were plotting for tomorrow’s meeting.

“So, when Grognar states his case,” said Karnok quietly, “we’ll come in and demand retribution.”

“Do you think we can convince the whole Congress?” asked Ukmar.

“Trust me, at their state, the Venorians would not want another conflict.”

As the two went on, another ship had entered the harbor. Through the entrance came King Grognar of Red Rock. Grognar was thinner than the other two Orcs, and much taller, rising seven feet. His jet black hair grew all the way to his chest. His rose red skin glimmered in the setting sunlight. He wore a sleeveless leather shirt with a silver neck guard, and a bronze armband on his upper left arm. Unlike other Orcs, his fangs were small, and his nose, the most attractive part of his face, was thin and curved. Its nostrils were almost unnoticeable, and its bridge was dented like an arch.

After being greeted by the housekeeper, Grognar walked up to Karnok and Ukmar, who stood silently.

“Fellow Orcs,” greeted Grognar. “Tomorrow is the day. The day justice is finally served. After many painful years, the scars will be healed.”

“Yes, Grognar,” stated Ukmar sadly, “but unfortunately, nothing can heal the damage the Venorians brought upon our people.”    

“I disagree,” said Grognar in a hopeful voice.

But Grognar’s optimism soon died when another leader came through the entrance. He recognized his brown skin, his hooked nose, his black short hair and shaven face, his pointy shoes, his golden sparkling cape, and his white turban with a diamond in the middle. It was Sultan Ahmad of Gold Coast. Grognar looked at the young Sultan, walking proudly with his small Goblin servant, as rage swarmed the young Orc’s insides.

For twelve years, Red Rock and Gold Coast were at war with each other. During the war, Alexandra (who was not queen at the time) took Red Rock’s ancestral Fire Stone and gave it to Gold Coast. Soon after, the Orcs declared peace and gave a heavy payment to Gold Coast. Grognar and Ahmad were not ruling during the war or the peace treaty, but because of Ahmad’s refusal to give back the Fire Stone, the two were enemies.

“Keep close to me, just in case,” said Ahmad to his Goblin servant as he walked up to Grognar.

When Ahmad stood straight in front of him, Grognar looked down at his purple pointy shoes. He then turned his head and noticed the small Goblin beside him.

“First, you disrespect and persecute our culture, and now you’re enslaving Goblins?!”

“I can assure you,” stated Ahmad, “that this Goblin is paid more than the amount of money stored in your vault.”

Grognar was boiling with rage. He growled, clamping his white teeth, until he heard someone yell.

“Everyone, quiet!” yelled Derik. “She’s here!”

Through the entrance came four servants carrying a gold draped sedan chair. When the servants lay down the chair, two guards on each side stood in front, facing each other. From the chair came a tall Elf woman in a long, white dress with a small crown on the top of her head. Her braided, black hair and gray eyes blended with her white skin. She walked slowly out of the sedan chair as the others stared at her. Derik walked up to the woman and greeted her.

“Empress Dido of the Fifth Vergimin Empire and Chairman of the Vergomon Council. Welcome back to the Hall of Concord.”

Dido looked down at the housekeeper. “Is my room clean?” she asked.

“They are very clean,” said the housekeeper loudly so all the leaders could hear.

Through the entrance, a human dressed in a violet fur cape and a golden crown stomped on the stone floor.

Before Derik could greet him, he yelled, “Hello everyone!”

As the rest of the leaders greeted him back, he gave a big grin, covered by his short orange beard. Finally, Derik was able to greet the fat man.

“King Charles of Galdoria. Welcome back.”

Standing beside Charles was another human dressed in a white and gold robe. His brown hair was balding at the top, forming a halo on his head. The monk walked up to the short housekeeper.

“Hello, Derik.”

“Brother Martin!” said the housekeeper, looking up at the monk. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been well. Are we waiting for anyone else?”

“Well,” said Derik nervously, “Andrea is the only one left.”

“May the divines carry her safely to this island,” prayed Martin. “Come, let us pray for our safety tomorrow.”

Brother Martin was the head of the Universal Congress. His job was to keep the peace amongst the members and break ties during a voting session. Although he was supposed to be in a neutral position, he was secretly sided with King Charles, who was sided with Dido and Lumos.

As the sun finally set, the leaders stood with excitement, waiting for the new member. They were all silent. Jonathan, looking over the wall, saw a caravel, with a black sail with a diamond and an eye in the middle, docking in the harbor. He ran towards the housekeeper, who stood near the entrance.

“She’s here! She’s here!” cried the boy. “The Queen of Mirewood is here!”

The housekeeper and leaders all stood frozen with their eyes fixed on the entrance. Their hearts raced at the same time, creating a quire of heart beats. After a long suspense, the quire of heartbeats turned into applause. Through the door came the new member of the Universal Congress. She walked casually, almost like a commoner. But she received the applause of a divine hero.  

She was a thin, tall girl, rising five feet and ten inches. She had bedraggled, blackish-indigo hair that went to her jaw. Unlike other Dark Elves, her skin was a lighter shade of blue. Besides that, she had pointy ears and yellow hawk eyes. She wore a black, satin shirt, which draped over her black, knee-high leggings. Her sleeveless shirt was choked at the waist by a brown, leather belt. Covering that was a thin, black cloak going to her ankles. Unlike the other leaders, shel did not wear any gold or silver.

Derik walked up to greet her, but everyone else beat him to it. A quire of cheers and hellos filled the entrance area. The girl, in reaction to this madness, gave a surprised but frightened smile. Finally, Brother Martin shushed the leaders and walked up to the girl.

“Queen Andrea of Mirewood. Welcome to the Hall of Concord. We are proud to have you in the Universal Congress. Your mother would’ve been proud.”

Andrea gave a silent “Thank you” as the members of the Universal Congress, except Grognar, clapped their hands.

 

Don’t Make Prank Phone Calls, Kids! (Excerpt)

“Hello?” six-year-old Fate said into her mother’s cellphone.

“Oh, ah, hello, Porro! My house went down in a fire today, and the firemen are extinguishing the flames, but my son, Terry, is still inside. The flames are getting bigger and bigger, and I’m getting more and more worried. I just wanted to tell you because you’re my sister. Also, do you have a cold? You sound different. How are your twins doing?” She didn’t sound worried at all.

“Uh, I don’t know what the words you just said mean,” Fate said, picking her nose.  

“Oh, ah, yes, you’re new to the English language!” Fate’s Aunt, Carry, said. “Well, the point is, my son is in a fire and is probably going to die. Anyways, that’s not important right now. How are Cake and Fate?”

“My mommy isn’t home,” she then took her slimy finger out of her nostril and stuffed it into her mouth.

“Oh, my! Fate? Is that you? Or is that Cake? You guys sound just alike. Anyways, forget all the stuff I just said to you. Everyone’s fine. Heh. Heh…” Carry said, and on the other line, she was shrugging off the topic as if it were troublesome dirt on her shoulder that she was sweeping off.

“My mommy went grocery shopping with Cakey. Also, my daddy doesn’t like you!”

“What?! I thought that we were friends! He said that he did and now he is being such a liar! Why? Why? Why?” she said, including some words that may not be written.

“I don’t know no words you said just now. My daddy still doesn’t like you.”  

“Well, I DON’T LIKE-” Fate hung up.

“Fate? Cake? Where are you? Where did you put my phone?” Porro’s voice was rising now, getting angrier. “You two are going to be in so much trouble when I find you!”

“Cakey, c’mon! Stop standing there like an idiot! If mommy catches us, we’re dead!”

Fate grabbed Cake’s shaking arm and practically dragged her into their closet. Fate put the cell phone in a little box that was supposed to be for shoes, but she had thrown those away when they were three. “Don’t tell Mommy where I hid this! Okay?”

Cake nodded, cowering in the corner. Fate quickly opened a little hatch in the floor and jumped into the hole.  

Cake’s eyes widened. “T-the bunker?” she said. “I thought we were saving that for the zombie apocalypse!”  

“This is the start of the zombie apocalypse! Now get down here before that zombie bites you!” Fate yelled from down in the bunker.

“O-okay…” Cake said, and jumped down, closing the hatch as she went.  

She landed on her butt on a mattress with a little ‘oof.’  

“Now, shush,” Fate said. “Mommy will be coming very soon.”

“You mean the zombie?”

Fate grinned. “I mean, the zombie.”

 

Laughter Heals All Wounds

  

Laughter heals all wounds, and that’s one thing that everybody shares. No matter what you’re going through, it makes you forget about your problems. I think the world should keep laughing.” – Kevin Hart

 

During some of the most difficult moments of my life, I would use comedy to cope. I remember dashing up the stairs, and bolting into my room in search of my iPad with its bulky, green case. I’d swipe through page after page looking for the YouTube app. After finding and clicking on it, my fifth grade self would type “Kingsley” in the search bar. I admired his sense of humor. The way he talked about the unfortunate events in his life were not only amusing but relatable. Kingsley’s videos would rid that feeling of loneliness that lay inside me. It helped me realize that I am not the only person dealing with people who would judge me based on some characteristic that I can’t change. He influenced me to laugh at and belittle ignorance instead of allowing it to tear me down.

Whenever people first meet me, they usually think I am shy and reserved.  But over the years, I have realized that people who know me really well think of me as “the funny one.” After spending hours of free time watching comedians like Kingsley or Kevin Hart, I decided to start expressing my sense of humor to everyone. Well, scratch that, I expressed my jokes to small groups of people I know, or that I am getting to know. Making people laugh allows me to find confidence in myself. When I am laughing with my friends or my family, it distracts me from the sadness and sappy emotions that I feel on the inside.

Now you are probably wondering, What on earth is making this girl so sad?? I will answer your question with a brief story about my life. But I don’t want to share a depressing story with you because as you can tell, I prefer to think happy thoughts. I will tell you about some of the remarks and actions people have directed towards me regarding my race. Although the experiences completely diminished my self-esteem, looking back, I often realized that my reaction to these situations were so ridiculous that they were actually quite funny. Be prepared to read the unfortunate yet amusing story that is my life.

To start off, I would love to thank the Hill School for shaping me into the kind, compassionate person I am today. Also, fuck the Hill School for blinding me to the world of racism and mean people. From preschool to third grade, I attended that “crunchy granola” place with its unrealistic views of the world. Hill School is located in New York City, and the campus is every child’s dream. The building is yellow and resembles a castle resting upon a grassy hill. There are vivacious colors from the flora and fauna surrounding the school, and a beautiful creek that can only be crossed if walked over the wooden bridge they built to make us feel special. If this does not sound ridiculous to you, then you need a reality check.

We literally spent the majority of our time talking about having “good moral values” and “sticking together as a community.”

At 8:30 in the morning, every student walks single file into the gym, and then proceeds to disperse into groups based on grade. The music teacher walks to the front of the gym with a guitar in hand, and smiles at all the children waiting to start the school day. He strums the chords of the “Garden Song,” and all the students put their hands in the air creating motions that represent the lyrics of the song: “inch-by-inch / row by row / I want to make my garden grow / all it takes is a rake and a hoe and a piece of fertile ground.” It was as if we were preparing ourselves to plant flowers together.

Since we spent so much time learning how to collaborate and how to be inclusive, students were never really mean to each other. Well, of course every now and then, there would be some traces of bullying. However, mean behavior was not tolerated – especially among the kids. The kids who would lash out at their peers were often isolated by the rest of the class. One girl, Nora, was the biggest bully in our entire class. During recess, she actually had the nerve to push me down the slide with aggression, screaming, “Go down the stupid slide! The slide is stupid and you’re stupid too!” I hope you are all laughing at this scene. I really thought this was a big deal as a kid, but looking back this is now mildly amusing to me. Anyways… a group of my friends went and told the teacher, and Nora was put in time out for the rest of recess. Just for calling me stupid! Hill did not stand for this type of behavior.

My parents began to realize how cushy the Hill School was, so when our family moved to New Jersey from New York City, they decided I needed a change. So they pulled me out of the granola paradise and sent me to the Valley Girls School in an affluent New Jersey suburb.  I had a lot of mixed emotions about transitioning. There was a sadness in my heart because I had to leave the comfort of my old school. However, part of me was really looking forward to a change.

Growing up, I watched a tremendous amount of TV. For some reason, I took all the shows I watched very seriously. My expectations for life were quite high because of these ridiculous shows. I am honestly still trying to understand why I believed the plots could even be close to reality. Literally, 20-year-olds were playing high/middle-schoolers living the most perfect life, and so I thought to myself,  “Lol, when I go to this new school, I am going to have a glow up and make so many friends on the very first day.” By the time I walked into the building on my first day at Valley, everything hit me. The television had been lying to me!

Valley marked the beginning of the rest of my life. My view of the world was suddenly altered. At Hill, everything seemed to be one color. The idea of difference was never really addressed. For example, when looking at my friend, I wouldn’t see her as my “white friend,” I’d see her as my friend. However, at Valley, everyone emphasizes how we are different and the same. We wear uniforms to make us all the same, so we spent all our time emphasizing all the ways that we were different. In some ways it is a good thing, but in other ways, it is quite demoralizing.  My new school suddenly brought my race into focus.  For the first time, I started confronting what it meant to be different: a black, dark-skinned girl, growing up in a predominately white city in America.

First off, Valley has a very different way of running their morning meetings compared to Hill. As I sat in the gathering room at Valley, I was expecting an old man to walk to the front of the room and sing about the greatness of nature. Instead, a young British man stood in the middle of the room and told us to stand up and face the flag. Now I am thinking to myself, What on earth is going on? People put their hands to their hearts, and start pledging allegiance to the flag. Even though I spent the majority of my life in America (I lived overseas for a couple years), this pledge was unfamiliar to me. I’m not sure what was going on at Hill, but we did not learn the Pledge of Allegiance and my parents are foreigners, so we never really talked about it at home either. I didn’t really consider myself to be living in America or really understand what that meant. In my ten-year old brain, I just thought that we are living in a tiny corner of the world with people that I care about. So, I was feeling really confused during my first day of morning meeting at Valley. I didn’t know the words to this pledge and didn’t know what to do with my heart. So my fourth grade self looked around aimlessly trying to mouth the words to the pledge of allegiance, with my left hand on the right side of my chest. D-I-S-A-S-T-R-O-U-S. That morning foreshadowed what I was about to experience at this school.

One thing I wanted to accomplish at Valley was to be “popular.” On the TV shows that I would watch, the pretty, blonde white girl would usually be the one with all the friends, and would have guys falling all over her. This girl is typically a strong reflection of American stereotypes. So going into Valley, I thought to myself that I needed to find the blonde, preppy girls so that I could become popular. Some of you may think, Why assume that there is a certain look for popularity? Well, in this affluent suburban town, there is a group of white girls placed at the top of the social hierarchy. I know that I am correct because as soon as I got into the classroom, there they were. Two blonde, preppy girls standing in the corner of the room, giggling and twirling their extremely light hair. And let me tell you, those girls carried a lot of power. Our grade made a conscious effort to name that little clique by combining their names. From what I remember, a lot of people were kind of jealous of them, and low-key yearned to be a part of their little, privileged bubble. I was one of those people, and at first, I really thought that I could be friends with them. Remember those Hill values? Everyone should be friends with everyone. That can work at Valley too, right? L-M-A-O! Oh boy, was I wrong.

When my dark-skinned, goofy self came up to “the populars” attempting to make convo, they looked at me as if I were crazy. I felt as if I didn’t have the right to be friends with them because of the way I looked. This is the first time in my life, that I remember wanting to be white so badly. One day, I saw one of the blondes brushing her hair after swimming. The bristles went through her hair so elegantly. I wanted my hair to do that, so for some reason I thought that if my friend and I could take out my cornrows with scissors and a huge brush, my kinky hair would do the same. However, I am black as ever, and my hair is so thick that running a brush through it would be like biking through wet cement. On that day, I lost a lot of hair trying to be white. Funny how six years later, I am still trying to grow out my hair after that incident (and the relaxers and blow-outs too, but that is another story.)

Eventually, I understood that I will never be white.  And my friends will not be friends because they are popular or pretty. But, there were feelings of shame for being black. I really had trouble looking in the mirror and being happy with what I see. My school worsened my self esteem. On my 12th birthday in the sixth grade, I was waiting in the lunch line. As I was staring at the chicken on the platter, there was a tap on my back. This girl kept trying to talk to me while I was just trying to get some food. She kept on rambling, but I was so focused on that chicken that could have been in my stomach. This child kept running her mouth, and eventually she said something so ignorant. “Your nose is big because you black.” At first, I was not phased because one, I hear shit like that all the time, and two, I was hungry and food was more important to me than addressing that dumb comment. One of my close friends Charlie heard what Ms. I-don’t-have-an-off-button said, and she proceeded to tell the whole grade what happened. The Ms. Off-Button got in a lot of trouble which was a bonus, but unfortunately, I kept replaying the situation in my head. The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. My nose became one of my biggest insecurities. As I went into middle school at Valley, racist comments were thrown at my face. My own friends would comment on the versatility of my hair. Whether it was braided, straightened, or had a weave, my white friends would always have something negative to say. With all that negativity, I really started hating myself.

Do people at this school only come for their friends’ appearance? Lol nope, they literally judge your wealth (or lack thereof) as well. It is shocking that kids in middle school would make fun of someone for living in a small house. These girls would feel so powerful for having the money for a big house. But I am just sitting here thinking, Your ten-year-old ass is not doing anything to make money, so why do you think you have the audacity to talk about other people’s social class? When I went to Hill, everyone lived in a relatively small house. Then I came to this superficial school, and children are out here comparing mansions… I would feel embarrassed inviting friends over because they would make remarks about my house like, “Don’t you feel crowded in here??” and I would just say in my head, Well I can move my arms and legs. I have the ability to walk around. Does it look like the walls are closing in or something, Ms. Privilege?

Now on top of my appearance and status, there is another issue. My personality. Don’t worry, I am not a mean person, but throughout middle school, my peers thought I was not “black enough.” First of all, the majority of my friends were not black, and they were kinda on the emo side. So, I spent a lot of time being with them and embracing emo music (I was already feeling depressed because of the way I looked and I ended up connecting with those songs.) I started to be made fun of by my black peers who are the complete opposite of me. They are outgoing, have the ability to twerk, listen to rap music, and they’re popular because of it. Fantastic. I am not white enough to be with the popular white kids or black enough to be with popular black kids. What does that make me? Raceless??

So there I was. Antisocial. Emo. Black. Ugly. Confused. At the start of eighth grade, I really couldn’t tell who I was looking at in the mirror.

I had to do something. The feelings of confusion and depression needed to go. There needed to be a good change around this heinous school.  There needed to be a good change within myself.

Let’s take it back to the beginning of my story. I am good at making people laugh. Not only my friends, but the rest of the people in the school. Comedy is the one thing that makes me feel like I know who I am. After all those hours of Kevin Hart and Kingsley videos, I decided to take my humor in front of larger groups of people. During my presentations in Chinese class, I was able to encourage my peers to laugh in a language that I don’t even understand that well. Before middle school ended, we were all forced to tell a story about our lives. Since my life is ridiculously hilarious, I managed to get a lot of laughs out of all my classmates. Once I started getting comfortable with my jokes, I started to actually gain confidence in myself.

I am now going into eleventh grade. The person I am now is completely different to the Hill girl who just stepped in the building several years ago. I am embracing my black beauty, and have found a group of friends who appreciate me for who I am rather than the stereotype I should be a part of. Am I 100% happy with my appearance? Nope, but now I am on a path where there is a possibility for me to achieve happiness. If I didn’t focus my energies on making people laugh, I could still be an emo black girl. Moral of the story is: there will always be shitty people who will make you feel less than. And if you are as sensitive as me, the comments will always hurt you. But once you’ve found something about yourself that you admire, the sky is the limit.

Leaving Hill transitioning to Valley was one of the most difficult experiences of my life. However, the whole process is shaping me into a developing superstar.

Hill has taught me to be a caring person, to treat everyone equally, to join together as one. Valley has taught me to fight back negativity with grit and a huge punch of comedy.

 

Moving From the Sea to the Mountains

  

I buy clean white sheets;

I do not want to feel sand on my ankles

when I sleep under Appalachian stars.

I get rid of the purple sea-wind torn furniture.

I buy sleek wood, brushed oak, instead. Ikea.

I research down duvets, stuffed with the same feathers

as the birds that will circle

my future house

on a hill.

For some reason, that is comforting.

 

I want nothing

to do with the sea. I

want mountains that change shape

with every Spring rain pour

and cars that swerve around

curves of red clay dirt. I want heavy mountain breathing

and green eager ticks and sap bleeding

from the trees.

 

No.

I want nothing

to do with

the mountains. I

want waves that inch like

breaths and

collapse like lungs.

I want sand that sticks to skin

and lifeguard towers that stand

like egrets. I want beach weddings

ruined by the tide and feet tans that depend

on what shoes you were willing

to ruin.

 

The real truth,

yes,

the real

truth,

is that I spend

not much time

at either. Instead,

I lie

in my manufactured

cocoon of plaster

protection, with its

waterlogged porch and square lots

of yellow grass,

sorting nature’s phenomenons

into like and dislike piles.

 

Truth and Lies

ALEJANDRO

JULY 5, 1999. 10:00PM

I stood in the corner of a dark bar, smoking a cigarette. I called for the bartender to pour me another drink even though I knew I shouldn’t have. I looked around to find my cousin, Sebastian, playing poker at a nearby table. I caught his gaze and waved.

“Alejandro, come play cards with us,” he called, and I lazily strolled over. “You have any money?” he asked.

I reached into my pocket, my hands touching a warm twenty dollar bill I had picked up at the bank earlier that day. That wasn’t for spending, I remembered, and I pulled my hand back out, shaking my head.

“I must have forgotten it,” I told him, who, judging by the dazed look on his face, had already had one too many drinks that night.

Getting into trouble with him would be serious business, and if I wanted to come home with my limbs still attached, I’d better remove myself from this risky activity. Sebastian often came to the bar, and he had been known to get into fights. But Sebastian was smart, and he had caught onto what I was doing.

“Are you lying just to get away from me?” he said in his low voice, slowly pulling back his chair and standing up.

Backing away, I shook my head. When I realised that he was following me, I broke into a run. I had to get away, back home to my family. It was a warm night, even for Colombia, and I was panting and sweating. I hid myself behind a large dumpster, realizing that even now, there was little chance of me getting away safely. When he leaves, you’ll get into your car and make a run for it, I told myself. But tonight the moon was full, and it was easy to see, even in the dark. A single movement and he would be able to find me, even in his drunken state.

Suddenly, I heard a loud bang, like the sound of a car backfiring. Wincing, I fell to the floor, but not before capturing a glimpse of Sebastian, dangling like an ape from the tree above.

“Adiós amigo,” I heard him call in a raspy voice.

Seconds later, the whole world turned pitch black.

 

LUCIA

JULY 6, 1999. 2:30AM

It was just past two-thirty in the morning when I got the call.

“Is this Lucia Rodriguez?” a solemn voice asked me.

“Yes. Who is this? Why do you call me at this hour?” I mumbled.

“Do you know Alejandro Garcia?”

“Yes, yes. What is the matter?”

“We have grave news. Mr. Garcia died this evening. Your daughter, Josephina, requests your presence.”

I hung up the phone, bewildered. This had come so quickly, so unexpectedly. Wiping away tears from my eyes, I took a deep breath, quickly slipped out of bed, threw on a robe over my nightgown, and wearily drove to Josephina’s small apartment in the city. The police had already arrived and had begun to bombard her with questions. Pushing and shoving, I fought my way through an endless web of them to reach Josephina.

Cálmate, calm down, my daughter,” I told Josephina in a soft voice.

Then I turned to the policemen, who were all waiting and disapprovingly watching this spectacle.

¡Largate! Get out!” I shouted, pointing at the door.

Obediently and with little objection, they quickly proceeded to leave. How careless of them, interrogating a poor woman, I thought, before shouting “NO VUELVAS! Don’t come back!” before slamming the front door. This was a personal matter. Before I could ask any more questions, Josephina began to speak.

“It was Sebastian,” she said in a mix of anger and tears. “Tio Sebastian killed Alejandro!”


All I could do was shake my head in despair. I bent down, trying to hide the tears that were pouring down my face. My first thought was why would mi hermano, my brother, ever do such a thing to his own nephew? But on the other hand, I knew what Sebastian was capable of when he was drinking, and I had been expecting it, although I never quite knew just how devastated I would actually feel.

“Does Sofia know?” I whispered, trying not to wake the sleeping toddler in the other room.

I already knew the answer just by the look on Josephina’s face. Upstairs, I heard a loud wail, and I watched as Josephina wearily walked into the baby’s room. She picked up the baby, and began to rock the baby to back to sleep, humming quietly.

 

SOFIA

APRIL 1, 2011. 12:30PM

I stepped out of the airport, taking my first gasp of fresh air since I had left smoggy Los Angeles six hours earlier. I could smell the palm trees, see the bright blue sky, and feel the warm rays cast off of the sun. I loved it. Instantly, I saw my aunt calling for me. My uncle followed a few steps behind, lugging a large cart full of gifts that my aunt had likely selected from the marketplace a few hours earlier.

“Hola! Sofia! You are so tall!” Tia Lucia called out in her loud voice as she plopped a large, straw hat onto my head.

She was a short, large woman who always was full of happiness and excitement. Her English was rusty, but I could tell the pure sense of joy she was feeling.

Seconds later, my cousin, Santiago, appeared, carrying what seemed to be a baby carriage. I peered inside and was greeted by the smiling face of my youngest cousin, already covered in the odor of my aunt’s strong floral perfume. I wanted to reach for the baby, to carefully rock it back and forth, singing the same lullabies that my mother had sung to me. But now wasn’t the time for singing. I followed them through the crowd, rushed by my cousins past groups of other reunited families. Loud music was playing, and I could smell fresh fruit being sold at nearby street carts. I saw an old woman selling paella, my favorite dish, but before I could stop, I tripped and fell. By the time I got myself up, my family had already gone. I was lost.

Seconds later, my uncle, Tío Diego, appeared, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me back.

“We must stick together here,” he said in his deep, plangent voice, before continuing on to catch up with my aunt.

It was then that I noticed just how tall he was. While he didn’t ever bear any expression, I began to realise the difficulty of his job. It was his obligation to take care of me, to keep me safe while I was in Colombia. At that moment, the image of my dead father flashed in my head. I had only known him from pictures, but in that moment, I could feel his comforting presence. But it was that softness that ultimately got him killed.

“We must be strong,” she had told me.

Before we left for America, I had felt that God was there for me. But first, after my father’s death, and then after my mother, Josephina, started to stay out late and drink too much, I began to question his actuality. Here, back in Colombia, with my cousins and aunts and uncles, I felt truly at home.

I stepped into my uncle’s rusty pickup truck. Tia Lucia had insisted that I sit in the passenger seat, and I had obliged. Santiago mumbled something under his breath, and I could tell he disapproved. In Colombia, life was different, and he was not given the same opportunities that I had been given back in America. School was my only hope for a better future, and Santiago didn’t have that hope anymore. As we drove by rows and rows of empty fields on dirt roads, I thought of my abuela. I used to think she was the smartest person in the world. I remember us sitting on the rocking chair on her porch, telling me stories about Paris and London and New York. Back then they had seemed so fantastical, utopian, like faraway dreams. But years later, I now knew that those stories weren’t always true. Moving to America and learning about the world had taught me just how multi-sided the world is. These faraway lands had once seemed like they were fit for fairy tales. It made me bitter and frustrated just thinking about it, about the real truth and our world, full of lies.

Back in the realm of reality, I glanced out of the window to find all of my excited cousins and family members. The car stopped, and I got out, welcomed with hugs and kisses. There was Tio Mateo and Tio Diego and Tia Luciana and Tia Valentina with my eight cousins. Lurking in the corner was someone who I didn’t recognize.

“Meet your Tio Sebastian, my brother,” Tia Lucia told me, and he held out his hand.

I didn’t know why, but both of them exchanged glances. Anyway, I was too tired to find out.

 

SEBASTIAN

APRIL 1, 2011. 10:15PM.

I grabbed Lucia and pulled her into the kitchen. We had just finished dinner and everyone had finally gone upstairs. I bolted the door.

“What were you thinking, bringing the girl here?” I asked in a hushed voice.

“Sebastian, she is family. We must put the past behind us. I am already doing you a great favor by keeping you here. If Josephina were to find out…” She said, her voice trailing off.

“Silencio, Lucia!” I said, practically growling.

Nobody could know our little secret or it would be the end of me.

“Okay, okay, Sebastian, what more do you want me to do? I secretly kept you in this house all these years. You’d be in jail if it wasn’t for me,” Lucia told me.

She looked tired and was beginning to sound quite frustrated with me.

“Nothing! Just keep quiet, please! The girl can’t know I killed her father!” I didn’t realise how loud I was being.

Maybe I shouldn’t have drank so much with dinner. Suddenly, I heard a noise from outside the door.

“What the…”  

 

SOFIA

APRIL 1, 2011. 10:20PM

I had gone down to get a drink of water, only to find the kitchen door bolted. Hushed whispers were coming from inside. I quickly realised that it was Tia Lucia with Sebastian. I knew something was up with them! Peering through a crack in the door, I watched Sebastian pace around the room indecisively. Their conversation kept on growing louder and louder. Then Sebastian’s voice.

“Nothing! Just keep quiet, please! The girl can’t know I killed her father!”


A sinking feeling took over me. How could he do such a thing? How could Lucia, my precious aunt, have hidden this from me? I was shocked! All these years, it was Sebastian, su hermano, her brother, who had killed my father. I had known something was wrong, but I never suspected it to be this horrible. Suddenly, the door opened, and Tia Lucia peered out. For a couple of moments, she caught my gaze, horrified.

“Aye, Sofia, come back!” she called from the doorway.

But I was already gone.

 

M.

The water was dirty. He could see the grime washing off with every move of his hands over his dirty body; specks of blood flaked off into the water and opened old wounds that he didn’t know he had. His toes poked against the surface of the water, hair slicked back with shampoo. Months without relaxation, and he was tense. His long curls were matted and dirty, their once shiny brown now a dirty black from the soot and soil in the places he was sleeping. When you are on the streets, you don’t look for luxury.

There was something so odd about being in a stranger’s house, a stranger’s bed. But Haven House was filled with strangers, was it not? No one here had known him before this had happened, and that was completely fine by him. He closed his eyes. He needed to stop thinking. He needed to stop thinking about all this. His momma’s words swirled in his mind as he lathered his arms up to wash away the grime from the streets, and his green eyes glanced around the neat bathroom.   

One: Talking about yourself in the third person makes things easier to handle. It’s like disassociation, this method, but it isn’t as intense. It can come and go as you please.

Two: Words never really mean anything. A promise is just air out of lungs. A promise can always be broken.

Three: He wasn’t worth her spit.

Four: The lord would save his soul if he would just stop calling himself a boy. He wasn’t a boy. He wasn’t a boy, he would never be a boy. Dreams like that aren’t meant to come true.

Take a deep breath. One more. Then another. Release. Wash the soap out of your hair and run your fingers over the bruises. Let the water drain from the tub and towel yourself off, watch as your skin slowly turns caramel again instead of the dirty brown.  Stop referring to yourself in third person. You are here, you are safe, you are here.  

I am here.

***

I step out onto the cold floor. My feet hit the linoleum and I stiffen as the hairs on my arms stand up. The towels are comforting as I wrap them around my form, and I remind myself that I am alive. I am a human being.  All my life, I have been told to be a good girl. My momma, with her teeth rotten and yellowed, spoke in harsh tones. I was brought into this world as a mistake, an accident waiting to happen. The moment he touched her, she told me once, her entire body was ignited in a high that the pills had never given her. And as a result, I became a life. I became alive.

She isn’t here, though. She’s somewhere a few towns over, working for her pay in a diner and winking at customers as she pours their coffee. At night she’ll shack up with whomever decides to have her, and she’ll get extra pay, and she’ll use it to rot her teeth even more until they fall out of her head like her Daddy’s did and his Daddy’s before him. It’s a never-ending, spiral addiction at its finest. My momma belongs on a drug PSA.

When she goes to church, though, that doesn’t matter. She washes her hands in the baptism tub and all her sins are gone. She is a new being, a deity of pure blood again. Gramma always told me that the second my Momma was born, Gramma knew she was “inauspicious.” She was the only one of her children who never dreamt of growing up to be something monumental.

There were nine. Stacy said she wanted to be a princess; Gilbert, an astronaut; Bimmie, a movie star; Eugene, a singer; Clarice, the president; the twins, secret agents. Pangea said she was meant for stardom. Momma just said she wanted to grow up.

***

I put on the clothes they gave me for bed and tie my hair back with a borrowed scrunchie, my tan hands fumbling with the thick waves as I reach for the electric razor. One of the other kids knocks on the door and I clean up my mess before opening it for them. His eyes glance over me, razor in hand. I recognize him from the front office. Devin. He has a soft face and red hair that brushes over his skull softly — in a way that makes him look sweet — but I get the feeling there’s an edge inside him, that he did some regrettable things to stay alive on the streets. Then again, we all did. That’s how they found us.

***

He reaches his hand out for the razor, quirking a brow at me as his deep voice fills the stiff air between us. It takes me a moment to process his offer to give me a haircut. My suspicion about his character is proven when he tells me my long hair makes me look like a girl.

He’s invalidating my existence already, and I’ve only just met him.

He seems like what I imagine my father to be like.

***

I sit down on the floor and pull at his shirt to tell him to sit, and he obliges and plugs in the razor for me. “You’ll have to be still so that I don’t nick you,” he says.

I nod, understanding. Before he turns it on, the tool emits a soft buzzing as he presses it against my skull, his other hand holding the back of my neck. I don’t like people touching me — but could I tell him that? He runs the razor over my head in a long streak, my hair falling onto my legs as he continues working to get my hair off.

“Damn.” He says, blowing off the razor. “You got that thick Indian hair, huh kid?” He asks, and I grit my teeth. It has always been this way. My thick hair, my Indian skin, my green eyes that Momma says my Pops gave me. She has blue eyes. They’re light and gentle, like a loving touch to the shoulder, and if you weren’t in her family you might even go as far as to say they looked kind.   

He lets me go, and I don’t even realize until I reach up to touch my head and feel the fuzz. My head is now bare, the locks all over my legs and the floor beneath them. Devin grins like he’s about to catch his prey. His teeth are all crooked, and they remind me of the man who works with my Momma and always offers me free milkshakes, since Momma told him they are my favorite. They’ve been working together since I was six, and until I was nine, I never realized what the milkshakes meant. I stopped liking milkshakes that year. I stopped going to the diner. I started wanting braces to fix my crooked teeth. The trouble with trauma is that, to this day, my gut still turns when I see him.

They got married last spring.

***

Devin leaves. I am still sitting on the floor, glancing down at the pale blue tiles on the bottom edges of the tub. As I crawl up to sit on the edge of the bathtub, I feel like a child again. This happens often, the feeling of reducing myself back into a smaller, naive version of myself. Most people like to talk about being young and only having to worry about things like coloring inside the lines, but I never had that luxury. Most often, I was wondering who would be sleeping next to me at night. I stand up, dust myself off, walk to the next room to grab a broom, and sweep my thick hair up and into a dustpan to throw it away. In Japan, they like to say that cutting your hair off is a form of letting the past go. Like cutting the pain away, as if it were a dead limb. In a way, it is. What I feel is a lot like having a ghost limb. Except, maybe, it’s not your own arm, but someone else’s — with a constant hand around your neck.

***

As I make my way downstairs to the office, my feet pad along the floor.  In the hallway, some of the doors are open; I see the other kids, straightening their rooms for the night. One girl, or I assume she’s a girl because of her fuzzy pajama pants, is putting her phone under her pillow and shutting off the lights. I leave the lights on, always, because there’s something vulnerable about being in the dark.

When I walk in, the woman at the desk starts talking to me. Her voice is softer than my momma’s constantly angry tone — it’s almost like the sound equivalent to melting butter. I really don’t understand half of what she’s saying, because I’m too focused on the way her lips curve upward in a sympathetic smile; one that I can tell she puts on for every kid here. She stands up, and I notice that she’s wearing a skirt. Her name tag says “Imogene”. Judging by her neck and her facial structure, she looks like an artist’s model. I remind myself to test her structure with my charcoals later, wondering if I’ll be able to swallow my anxiety long enough to ask for paper.  I follow after her as she leads me to a closet and hands me a pair of sheets, a comforter, and other bedding. The hallway walls are a pale yellow color with white trim. The cleanliness of it comforts me in a way, and for that I’m thankful. Especially because I’ll have to meet my new roommate in just a moment. Imogene knocks on the door to one of the rooms on the lower end of the hall, and a tall boy (or at least he seems like a boy) opens it and stares me down before stepping out of the way.

She instructs me to make my bed and put away what I have in my bag, then tells the taller youth to show me to the clothes’ room for new garments, since mine are fairly dirty and torn. He nods, and holds a hand out to me. It’s much bigger than my own, swallowing my tan fingers beneath his pale palm. Once the bedding is made, he shows me to the closet, tells me his name is Wyatt, and waits for me at the door as I grab a few shirts and jeans.

As we go back to the room, my eyes already start darting around the room. In my head, I take notes about my surroundings, already figuring out how easy it would be to run away if things go bad. There’s one window between our two beds, above a nightstand that I assume is to be shared. On the nightstand is one lamp, with a dirty white shade and a silver base that reflects the shining overhead light. The walls are a pale basche and the bedding is a soft yellow that makes it seem almost unreal, like something out of a retro movie about teenage runaways. Wyatt has small metal structures. They look like they’re mostly made out of tin cans, scattered around surfaces in the room. Different types of flowers are made by bending the thin metal, others are small robots and things of the sort. I was just starting to think of what his fascination with them might be when he pulls out a wallet, shaking it in my direction.

“If you touch this, or look through my things without my permission, shit will hit the fan. My side,” he pauses, draws a line with the toe of his sneaker. “Your side.” He gestures to my side of the room, then sits on his bed and starts stripping to get ready for bed. I quietly crawl into my bed.

“If possible, I’d like to leave the lamp on for the night. I’ll get something to replace it soon, but for right now I want it on if it doesn’t bother you,” I quietly request with my eyes trained on my nails. He nods, stands up to turn the lamp on, then shuts the bright overhead light off. The lamp is dim, but gives off just enough light for me to see if anyone walks into the door. Perfect.

There’s always been something about a dark room that made me nervous. The vulnerability of it, perhaps. That’s why the alleyways I slept in were comforting, in a way; there was always light. Trusting that whoever you’re sleeping with isn’t going to decide to strangle you in the middle of the night, or something just as awful. It’s never been easy on me; I’ve never dealt well with roommates. My trust is always tested by the second day.

Regardless, Wyatt seems decent so far. He doesn’t seem too alarming, though it’s a bit surprising that the facility leaders are actually allowing me to sleep in the same room as someone who is, more than likely, biologically male. It hadn’t really occurred to me that my gender identity would be respected, even in a place like this.  Even after the light is off and the lamp dims in the night, it takes me a while to go to sleep.

***

When the morning comes, it’s easy to pry myself from the bedsheets and convince my tired brain to let me calm down for a few seconds. My legs dangle over the mattress and I take a few deep breaths, looking at Wyatt still fast asleep on his bed. And then standing up, I make my way to the bathroom and brush my teeth with one of the unopened toothbrushes from the large container on the counter. I turn the water on in the bath tub and pick at the scabs on my arms, looking at my frail form and my freshly exposed features. I debate whether or not I should just leave now and save everyone the trouble of actually getting to know me. I’ve always thought like this; my brain is constantly poised for fight or flight. It’s tiring, at times, to be as on edge as I am.

***

I step into the bath, letting the warm water pool around my legs and slowly up to my stomach. There has always been something about questioning my existence while taking a bath that I find fitting. So, thinking about how life has been for the past few months, I start to come to a conclusion.

It’s like being a tadpole. In the large pond we all call life, there are frogs and fishes and so many things that are capable of eating you alive. And in order to stay alive long enough, to grow into a frog and make your way up the food chain, you first have to figure out how to maneuver your way around the pond without getting swallowed by so many bigger species. And once you finally do make your way up, you don’t have a choice but to prey on those smaller than you to survive. And I don’t want to do that, but it’s the only way to stay in the pond.

Sometimes I think maybe I should just give up now and save myself the trouble. Drowning is always a possibility, like a flashing emergency exit in the back of my skull telling me that if I REALLY need to leave, it’s always there. Drowning victims can only struggle on the surface of the water from 20 to 60 seconds, and once you’re sinking, you only have a matter of minutes to get yourself to the top again before everything dies and your light goes out for good.

The tub isn’t large enough to submerge my entire form without my nose poking through the surface of the water, so I rule out that option. I would rather stay alive than have to live with the embarrassment of getting caught in the middle of an attempt to drown myself in the bathtub of a youth home for troubled queer kids.

Nonetheless, I can feel the large hands of gravity pulling me down to the Hell my momma always talked about. It’s a soothing thought, eternal nonexistence, but I can’t entertain the thought for too long. If living is wishing to survive then I’m doing something incredibly wrong, because my chest continues to pulse and it doesn’t feel like a heart is actually there, even though I know it is. There’s a wasp nest in my head, and they constantly fling themselves against my skull, hoping that eventually they’ll break through. It won’t go away, making me second-guess my decision to live. The wasps want me to die more than I want myself to die. I feel, most of the time, like my head is a totally different city than my body. Thinking of  myself as something inanimate makes it easier to handle things that are plaguing me.

By now, the water has tinted my skin pinker than its normal brown hue, and I realize that I’ve probably spent the last thirty minutes thinking about something that isn’t any more than a headache. Someone is banging on the door telling me to get out so that they can get a shower, so I open the drain and watch as the water swirls out before standing up and drying off, tugging on my clothes and leaving the bathroom with a muttered apology.

I’ve only been diagnosed with a hand full of disorders, but none of them relate to being transgender. They all just happen to be side effects of my childhood, and I don’t see my gender, my desire to peel off these breasts and stuff my pants, as a side effect.  It’s more like a fate that waited to come to me. When I start down the hall, I see a man in a suit, and it seems like the entire weight of the world is pressing against my back telling me to run because men in suits never come just to shake your hand and tell you good job. It always means something serious.  I rush off to my room, put my things in the laundry bin, and pick at the scabs on my face as I look in the mirror. This has become religion for me, messing with my face every morning, trying to pick off the imperfections.

 My train of thought is interrupted when a woman walks in and tells me the psychiatrist is here to do a mental evaluation in order to make sure I’m a “fit” for the home. She assures me that it isn’t going to be my job to pay for the expenses and then ushers me out of the room, down the hall to where the man is standing with a clipboard in hand and pencils sticking out of his jacket pocket. I find myself starting to draw away.

His blazer is navy blue, and the shirt underneath is white with diagonal stripes that match his blazer and pants that are a light khaki. It’s unsettling how professional he looks, how rich he seems just by his fancy haircut and his outfit. Like he could come to this place dressed casually, or at least more casual than this, but he would rather not because he has fancy suits to spare. He shakes my hand, and it’s then that I notice his frame is much larger than mine. When his palm swallows mine, he gives me a smile that plainly reads “I’m only here to get paid so that I can keep buying these ridiculously expensive outfits, and I can already tell you’re fucked up” before holding the door to a small office open for me. I run over a list in my head, trying to reassure myself that it’s not going to end too badly. It can’t.

  • He’s only here to make sure I’m healthy. He isn’t going to make me feel bad if there is actually something wrong with me.
  • He’s seen worse people than me.
  • I have problems, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be fixed; being out of my momma’s house was the first step.
  • If I really want to, and if I put in the effort, I can get over what happened in my past and finally be a kid. I can stop worrying.
  • I’m safe here.

 

I’m standing at the edge of the doorway when I hear the front door to the house slam and two women trying to sternly usher someone out.  I look over to see what the commotion is all about, when an adult from the other room comes over and tries to hurry me into the office, giving the doctor a concerned look as she places a gentle hand on my shoulder. And that’s when I hear it. The Spanish cursing, her words sharp enough to cut through an artery, and I freeze as my momma comes into my view, her hollowed out cheekbones just as sharp as ever. If I had to guess, she and my stepfather got high right before they came. For now, though, my brain is stuck in panic mode. She figured out where I was and traveled all the way here. As she comes through the doorway, her husband is beside her, holding her hand tight, and she’s screaming at the top of her lungs, mostly directed at a nurse who’s trying to hold her back. From what I can tell, it looks like Imogene.

Momma is busy looking at the nurses but as she glances over to target another with her screeching yells, her eyes fix on me. I can tell she notices my freshly shaved head, and that she’s raging inside because of it. She knows better than to act angry towards me when I’m surrounded by professionals, though. She knows they have the authority to keep me out of her grip for good, and then what would she do? So she uses a softer tone, trying to let them know that all she wants is to get her little girl back. Trying to sound like a half decent mother:

“Marissa, baby,”

And that’s when it all snapped. That’s when I couldn’t take any more, and the voices in my head were all screaming, and I just couldn’t hold it in any longer, and there weren’t any tears. I couldn’t help it, I had to stop myself, I had to pause and make a new list, because that’s all I could do to stop myself from screaming at her. The tone of my own voice in my head, threatening to spill from my lips, was so threatening that I scared even myself.

  • I can be the boy I’ve always known I am, and she can’t change that.
  • Violence won’t change their minds.
  • My name doesn’t have to be Marissa if I don’t want it to be.
  • Everyone here, everyone in this house, is here to help. She can’t hurt me.
  • The restraining order is already in place, she shouldn’t be here in the first place. 

 

So I take a deep breath. I call myself down from the ledge of a psychotic episode, and I speak.

“It’s Michael.”  The proclamation of my new name is the last thing out of my mouth before I walk into the psychiatrist’s office. I watch the doctor lock the door behind us, while my momma keeps screaming as they drag her out of the house. But I know I can do this, I know I can tell him what’s wrong, and I know I can be honest. The last thing I hear is her promise that she’ll come back to get me, to make sure I know how much I’ve hurt our family and our “good name.” But if I know anything in this world, it’s that words never really mean anything.

A promise is just air out of lungs.

 

Death by Misadventure

Winnie’s short curls waved in the hot air. The ground was hot. The air was humid. She looked up at the figure beside her. Death looked back. A small smile spread across his face. Silence filled the space between them.

“You’re early,” Death finally said.

***

Alexander Martin crossed the street, his mind swirling with thoughts. He wiped away the tears building up under his round glasses. He stared down at his sneakers, anger and shame churning in his chest. In the distance, a horn sounded, growing closer yet staying in the back of Alex’s mind. His feet hit the pavement, one after the other, moving quickly but not quickly enough. Brakes screeched next to him, and he turned to see headlights inches from his face. His mind slowly processed the situation around him, but he felt the impact of the car slamming into his body before he could reach a single conclusion.

Alex awoke to find darkness surrounding him and a pit in his chest. He looked down at himself. Nothing had changed, except for his surroundings. He walked around, unsure what had happened. His last memory was of the car coming towards him. He put the clues together; he wasn’t at home, or school, and he had just been hit by a moving vehicle. Could he be in a coma? Or dead? The thought filled him with terror, and fear filled his bones, making his legs shake. His head spun, and he sat down on the cool ground, curling up and letting hot tears run down his cheeks and onto his jeans.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, warm and comforting in an eerie kind of way. He looked up to meet the eyes of a tall man wearing a black and red cloak. His eyes were golden, his face obscured in darkness. “Alexander,” he boomed. “Welcome to the afterlife.”

Alex stood, wiping his tears away with the sleeve of his jumper. “What’s happening to me?” he whispered. He studied the man’s attire, his face, his voice, his demeanor. He was terrifying, yet somehow comforting. Maybe anything could be comforting in this predicament.

“Think of yourself as an angel now,” the man said. “I am a spirit left to guide those who enter our world and send them on their way. That is your job, but for the living. You will be assigned a human to protect.”

“Protect?” Alex repeated. “From what?”

The man’s expression darkened. “Demons. Angry spirits setting out to avenge themselves. Spirits with a dangerous amount of power to wield.” He gave Alex a reassuring look. “Don’t worry. Such things are rare and can be resolved easily. Now that you’re caught up, let’s find you a human.” He walked off, as Alex struggled to keep up.

“Wait!” He cried. “Can the human hear me? See me? What if I mess up? What if I ruin their life?” His voice trailed away. As the person paused, the room began to twist and turn like a camera struggling to focus on an object. He looked in every direction in an attempt to make sense of what was happening. A small room came into focus, with hardwood floors covered in clothing, and a desk overflowing with books and papers. On the center of the floor sat a young girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen, with a notebook opened on her lap and a pencil grasped tightly in her hand. A quick look around showed the spirit in the ominous cloak had left. He was on his own.

Alex sat cross-legged on the floor next to her. The room was humid, a small fan on the desk blowing the girl’s short brown curls into her face. Her walls were a light yellow color, paint chipping and falling to the ground in some places. Small pencil marks and drawings covered the faded paint, barely noticeable from far away. She wore a light yellow blouse made of a thin, soft material. A halo of shoulder-length brown hair sat on her head in thick curls. Bangs nearly covered her eyes, but small flecks of green shot out at Alex every once and awhile. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her eyes narrowed and shoulders tense.

All of a sudden, she jumped to her feet, leaving the notebook open on the floor. She paced, her bare feet making the floorboards creak with every agitated step. Alex watched, intrigued. She paused and stared at a crack, next to the window covered by a small wire screen, in the wall. He stood next to her and stared at the wall, listening to the sounds of birds chirping in the distance and the girl’s heavy breathing. He turned to face her, a determined look on his face. Slowly, he reached out his arm to touch her. His hand seemed to go right through her without touching her at all.

She remained in the same position, completely unfazed. Alex looked down at his hand in disappointment and crossed the room to the desk. He plopped down on the floor in frustration, letting out a defeated sigh. His head knocked against the desk, but he felt no pain where he had hit the hard wooden object. A flurry of papers fell from the top of the desk and landed on the ground, making a small whooshing noise. The girl spun around in shock, looking around the empty room. Her eyes fell on Alex and quickly moved away, scanning the rest of the floor. She looked afraid, distrustful. Alex felt a small pang in his chest. She looked just like — no, better not to dwell on that. Not now, at least.

“That’s weird,” she whispered. Sitting down, she organized the papers into a small pile, then stood to put them back on the desk. Alex looked at the abandoned pencil and notebook on the floor and inspiration struck him. He began writing, quickly and quietly to ensure that she wouldn’t see him writing. By the desk, she was rearranging books and papers and creating a great amount of noise, just enough to conceal his pencil scratches. When he finished writing, he set the pencil aside and sat in the corner, watching. She grabbed the pencil and resumed her writing, pausing when she found his writing.

Hello, it read. I’m Alex. Sorry for dropping your papers. There’s no way to make this sound normal, but I died. Now I’m here, protecting you, and I’m completely lost. You can’t hear me or see me. But I’m here, and I’d rather not be alone in death as well as life.

She looked around in horror, and Alex shuddered in his corner. Small tears welled in the corners of her eyes, and she wiped them away furiously. Shame burned like an oven in Alex’s chest. He stood and retreated into the dark corners of his mind where he could forget about all the misfortune that had befallen him.

***

Alex spent a week learning about her. He didn’t attempt to communicate with her, but he could tell she was still curious by the way she waited for words to appear when she sat down to write or turned excitedly at any small sound. He learned her name was Winnie, she was sixteen, and she didn’t have many friends. She spent a great deal of time writing and drawing. She would write about her aspirations and thoughts and anything else that occurred in her life. She wrote about how she had moved from New York City to Columbus, Ohio, a small suburban haven away from the city life she was used to. She had lived in Columbus for four months.

One cool August day, Winnie was sitting on her porch watching birds fly above. Alex sat next to her, feeling very uncomfortable in the same yellow jumper he had been wearing since he died. He hadn’t figured out how to change his appearance yet. They sat in silence, until finally Winnie let out a frustrated sigh. “I know you’re here. Do something if you’re here. Show me a sign or something like that.” She pushed her hair away from her forehead, her eyes glimmering with excitement. Alex searched for some way to alert her of his presence. His eyes fell on a small rock sitting on the sidewalk, about the size of a nectarine. He picked it up, tossing it into the center of the cul-de-sac where Winnie’s house sat. Her eyes widened like a deer caught in headlights, and she ran after the rock. She held it in her hand, smiling widely. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew you were here.”

Alex smiled, her happiness spreading to him. She tossed the rock up and down, watching its journey intently. He barely noticed the world around him turning back to black, until it was all around him. He spun around, confused and scared.

“Winnie!” he shouted. He yelled her name again, then felt a cold hand turn him around. It was a boy, similar to him. He had an evil glint in his eyes, something malicious and almost demonic. Alex was taken aback and stepped away from him. “Who are you?”

The boy grinned. “Why, I’m shocked you don’t remember me. I certainly remember visiting you in your last moments.” He twisted and changed form, and suddenly resembled Winnie, though less joyful. “I’m a spirit, I died like you. You remind me of myself quite an amount, actually. Except you obey the rules.” He waved his hand and an image of Winnie appeared into darkness. “She’s not worth your time. You see, everyone says that she needs you, but she doesn’t. People die every day, they can replace you. Why not have some fun?”

Alex looked at the boy, shocked. Sure, he enjoyed looking after Winnie, but was it worth it? Besides, Winnie couldn’t even see him. “What do you mean, you visited me?”

He smiled slyly. “Well, I always love watching angry or troubled humans. You seemed plenty troubled that day.”

“What’s your name?” Alex asked.

“I used to be Benjamin,” he said, “though nobody has called me by that in centuries.”

Alex considered his words. “Is that when you died? Centuries ago?”

The boy nodded. “War,” he said solemnly. Alex looked at his appearance more closely, noticing for the first time that he was dressed in older-looking clothing — clothing covered in dirt and blood that had most likely been worn on a battlefield. Alex felt his blood churn just looking at the boy and picturing how his last moments must have been. “Anyways,” Benjamin said, clearing his throat, “we’re not here to talk about me. Nor are we here to talk about you. I’ve brought you here to talk about this girl you’ve been assigned.”

“Her name is Winnie,” Alex interjected.

“This is why I’m here,” Benjamin said. “You’re becoming attached to her. It’s rather pitiful to watch. You need to stop pretending that you’re still alive, because you’re not.”

“What are you suggesting I do?”

“Prove to me you aren’t becoming more attached than you should,” Benjamin said. “Prove you won’t go down the same paths I watched you take before.” Their surroundings began to twist and turn, Benjamin’s appearance becoming blurry and unfocused. Slowly, Winnie’s house appeared with her sitting on the stoop as if she had never moved. He raced towards her, feeling like his feet were stuck in quicksand. He reached the step where she sat and sat down, breathing heavily. Next to him, Winnie stared at the sky, lost in thought.

“Winnie?” Alex said tentatively, knowing fully she wouldn’t hear him. “Are you there, somewhere? I’m in trouble. I don’t know what to do. I’m scared of becoming attached to you. I’m scared of trusting Benjamin. I’m scared.” He covered his face with his hands and shook his head. “I’m lost, completely and utterly lost.”

Winnie looked in his direction in confusion. “Alex?” she whispered. “I feel as though I can hear someone talking in the back of my mind, but I don’t know whether to trust it.”

Alex looked up in surprise. “Could it be because you know I’m here? Because you’re more open minded and welcomed to the idea of communicating with me?” He stood, energy and excitement coursing through him. He looked down at his body, which had begun to become slightly transparent the longer he spent as a spirit. He closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to make himself solid again by some random chance. “Please work,” he whispered, “God, please let this work.”

He heard a small gasp from Winnie’s direction, and opened his eyes to see her staring at him, her eyes wide and full of wonder. He looked down at his body, which was no longer see-through. She stood and walked towards him, a smile spreading across her face. He felt a tingling, excited feeling in his stomach.

“Hello, Alex,” she said, extending her hand for him to shake. “Nice to finally meet your acquaintance.”

***

“What happened to you? Why are you here? What’s death like?” Winnie asked intently. The pair were sitting on the floor of Winnie’s room, a bag of chips open between them. Alex tried to pick one up, but he felt lightheaded and decided against it. He was already pushing his limits by remaining somewhat visible.

“I got hit by a car,” Alex replied.

“Did you see it coming? Did you try to get away?”

“I was thinking about something,” Alex answered, feeling uncomfortable. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“What were you thinking about?” Winnie pressed.

“My girlfriend,” Alex blurted. “Anyways, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

“I’m Winnie, I’m sixteen, I just moved here from New York City because my parents got divorced and my mom wanted to get away from the city life. Besides, she has family here. I have no friends yet, but hopefully I’ll make some. I would assume you already know some of these things after watching me.”

Alex nodded along as she spoke, every word reminding him of his life. He had spent it in a small corner of Manhattan for his entire life, one nearly absent of cars and teenagers. He had gone to a high school fairly nearby, about thirty minutes by cab depending on traffic. He had been standing just outside the school when she had approached him, her long brown curls blowing in the wind, her lips painted a bright red. Guilt was evident on her face, though she was trying hard to hide it. She gave him a hug, short and emotionless.

“Jen!” came a voice from behind them. She pulled away to face a tall, attractive boy in a basketball jersey. She skipped over to him with a glowing smile on her face and kissed his cheek. A red smear of lipstick remained where her lips had rested. Alex felt a dull pang in his chest, a feeling of betrayal and loneliness filling him. He started away, his eyes to the ground, tears welling.

Then pain, immense pain. And then darkness. Then Winnie, who was now staring at him with a concerned look. “Memories,” Alex whispered. “They resurface sometimes.” Her hair was just as curly as Jen’s, though a quarter of the length. Her face was free of makeup, with only her freckles and the occasional spot of acne. He reached out to touch one of her curls, but he barely felt the hair against his skin. He wiped his eyes, though no tears had formed. “I don’t understand,” he whispered. “I can do certain things, insignificant things, like walk and talk, yet I’m disconnected still. I’m here, but I’m not truly here. It’s like Benjamin said, I’m not alive anymore.”

“Who’s Benjamin?” Winnie asked.

“He’s a ghost,” replied Alex. “He travels around, trying to wreak havoc on humans and ghosts alike. I don’t know much about him yet, but I’m not sure if I trust him.”

“Of course you shouldn’t trust him!” Winnie cried. “He could be plotting with the devil or something.”

“No one has mentioned the devil,” Alex mumbled. “Heck, I don’t even know if he exists. At least not in this part of the afterlife.” He considered the figure that had met him when he first entered the afterlife. Could he have been a devil of sorts? He seemed fairly opposed to devils, though.

Winnie shuddered. “This whole thing gives me the creeps. I don’t like the sound of this Benjamin character. I suggest you keep your distance.” Alex nodded, trying to reassure her. He decided it wouldn’t be wise to tell Winnie what Benjamin had told him.

That night, Alex went outside to walk around the neighborhood. He relaxed and allowed himself to be invisible as he explored, not wanting to be suspicious. After circling the block a few times, he returned to see Winnie’s mother sitting on the steps, talking on the phone. The door was closed. Alex was stuck. He drew closer, catching small bits of conversation.

“How’s dad doing?” She asked. “Are you enjoying the summer? When does school start again?” as she nodded and conversed,  Alex sat down next to her to try and listen to the person on the other end. It was a girl with a high-pitched, hysterical voice. She sounded as if she had been crying, or still was. “I know it’s hard, sweetie,” the woman replied. “It’s always hard to lose someone, especially someone so close. I wish Winnie and I could be there to comfort you and pay our respects, though we didn’t know him as well as you did. You dated for quite awhile, after all.”

Alex’s legs went numb, and he tried to steady himself on the side of the house. Millions of thoughts spun his mind like a record.  “I loved him, I really did. He was so sweet. It’s high school, everyone experiments. I can’t help but feel it’s my fault he died. He wouldn’t have gone storming off if not for me. He wouldn’t have been staring at the ground instead of the street.”

His heart was beating faster and faster, and panic grabbed his heart and squeezed it. He found it hard to breathe, or think, or function properly.

“They’re talking about me,” he gasped. “She’s talking to Jen. Winnie is Jen’s sister. That’s why I got assigned to her; her sister is overwhelmed with guilt. I’ve broken a family that’s broken enough on its own.” He paced the porch, no longer paying attention to whether he could be seen. He opened the door and stormed in, scaling the stairs and entering Winnie’s room. She looked up groggily when he entered.

“Alex?” she said. “What’s going on?”

“Your sister,” Alex said. “I’ve ruined your sister’s life.”

“What do you mean?” Winnie said.

“I dated your sister,” Alex whispered, breathless. “She cheated on me and I went storming off. I got hit by a car, and she’s driving herself mad with guilt.”

Winnie’s eyes were wide and full of sadness. She reached for Alex, but before she could the world had spun and twisted back to a black emptiness. In front of Alex stood Benjamin, a big smile on his face. “I must admit,” he laughed, “that was one of the best things I’ve witnessed.”

Alex walked towards the boy and punched him across the face. He fell to the ground, crying out in pain and anger.

“How could you?” Alex yelled. “Why, why do you feel so happy watching someone drown in their misery? Why do you prey on me in life and death? And Winnie! What did she do to you?”

Benjamin clutched his eye. “Don’t you see? I was forced into a war I didn’t want to fight, sent to my death in a battlefield. I wasn’t given a chance at life. No love, no happiness. So I see you, a boy with everything I ever longed for but had stolen from me. And you waltz around taking this for granted. And you have the audacity to try and act alive again! Winnie will never love you, because she is alive and you aren’t. So don’t you see? I do this because I despise you, Alexander. I despise you from the very depths of my soul; if you weren’t dead, I would kill you.”

Alex looked at him, anger pulsing in his chest. “What are you going to do, then?

Benjamin thought for a moment, then grinned maliciously. “I can hurt the people you love.” He started disappearing, and Alex followed. They appeared next to a somewhat busy street, in the daytime. Winnie was walking down the crosswalk, looking at her phone.

“How did you do that?” Alex exclaimed. “How do you have so much power?”

Benjamin laughed. “I told you to join me, Alexander.” They watched as a truck barreled towards the young girl crossing the street. The driver was on his phone, typing something. He was far over the speed limit. Alex screamed Winnie’s name, and she turned to face him. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened, and his name almost left her lips. Alex ran to her, but Benjamin grabbed his arm. Time seemed to move slower as the light turned yellow, then bright red, like the blood on Benjamin’s shirt.

The horn shook him from his thoughts, and it was so loud the earth seemed to shake beneath him. Winnie turned, her eyes filling with fear and panic as she tried to escape. The truck slammed into her small body and came to a halting stop a few moments later. Emptiness consumed him. It was the same emptiness and hopelessness he’d felt when Jen ran to greet the other boy. Here he was, in the position she had been in, the cause of Winnie’s death but powerless to stop it.

The ground fell away, and darkness devoured him. He was in the same room he had appeared in after death, but something was different. There were people present. The man who had greeted him upon arrival stood a few feet away, a sad look on his face. He refused to meet Alex’s eyes. On the floor beside him, Benjamin was curled up in fear, his face discolored from where Alex had punched him. Alex was proud at this sight.

In the distance, a red light shone, illuminating a small ledge jutting out of the wall. Winnie sat at the top, her feet dangling down into the darkness. A tall figure stood beside her, humanlike in appearance but with an air of magic around him. He wore a shiny golden cape, and scars covered his gnarled face to the point where he no longer looked human. His eyes were black as the night sky, with small flecks of light like stars dancing in his pupils.

“You’re early,” the figure said, a smile spreading across his face. His voice was deep and chilling, yet kind and gentle.

Winnie looked at her sneakers, the wind pushing her hair into her face. “I’m still not sure what’s happening,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

The figure sat down on the ledge, putting his arm around her shoulders. “You’re dead, Winnifred. I am Death, the unseen power your kind try their best to escape. This is my home, my domain, where I send spirits on their way. But some of these spirits are restless. They seek life, and instead bring about death.” He looked at Benjamin, his eyes burning with anger. “It seems a spirit here today had too much power for his own good.”

Winnie looked down, her eyes falling on Alex. “What happens to Alex now?”

Death sighed. “He was supposed to protect you. I spent quite a long time consulting my brother,” he gestured to the figure in the red and black cape, who nodded, “about where to send you. We decided on Winnifred because your fate and that of her family were intertwined, but we didn’t want to be too direct by sending you to her sister. This method is a test to deviate the trustworthy from the untrustworthy and decide which shall be given a happy afterlife. By my own rules, he hasn’t qualified.”

Winnie stood up angrily. “But it’s not his fault I died! It’s his!” She pointed at Benjamin, who buried his head in his hands. “There has to be some other solution.”

Death looked at Alex, pity in his dark eyes. “I suppose we could send Benjamin in his place, but we have a greater issue; you aren’t meant to meet me yet.” He looked over at his brother. “Fate, any ideas?”

Fate tilted his head in thought. “I don’t know of any foolproof way to fix this, but we could always try another way.” He strode over to Alex, reaching out to touch him but deciding against it. “It’s not easy, but it might work.”

“Tell me,” Death said impatiently.

“We could reverse time, using Benjamin as a battery of sorts, and prevent Alex from dying in the first place. This will reverse the timeline. He will die another way, but hopefully we won’t have to see him in a long while,” Fate said. His face fell. “Though you wouldn’t remember Winnie.”

It felt like a slap in the face. Winnie, with whom he had spent countless days, bonding, talking, and more, had become his closest friend, a person he felt as if he had known for his entire life though he had only met her after its end.

“What are we waiting for?” Death cried. “If it’ll work, we have to try immediately.” He disappeared in a cloud of smoke, leaving Winnie alone on the ledge. She dropped about six feet to the ground and ran over to Alex, tears streaming down her face. She hugged him tightly. “I don’t want to forget you,” she sobbed.

“Neither do I,” Alex said, hugging her back. “But you deserve a full life, and I won’t let myself deny you of that.” He pulled away to face her, wiping the tears from her face. A small smile formed at the corners of his mouth. He reached out to touch her, pushing it away from her forehead to show her green eyes. His heart melted thinking of Jen, and how similar they were, though something about Winnie felt different. She made him feel at home, like he had the power to live forever. She was genuine, and full of emotion, and made his thoughts fuzzy and disjointed.

“Alex, Winnie,” Fate said from behind them. “We were about to begin, if you wanted to say a goodbye of sorts.” He turned away from them, as if trying to give them as much privacy as possible in the situation.

Alex turned back to Winnie. He felt anxiety course through his veins, like red-hot snakes eating away at his insides.

“Goodbye, Winnie,” he whispered, planting a small kiss on her forehead. Her face turned red, her eyes soft and full of affection. White light filled the dark room, nearly blinding Alex. He kept his eyes open, squinting through the light to focus on Winnie’s face as it slowly disappeared.

***

She skipped over to him, a glowing smile on her face, and kissed his cheek. A red smear of lipstick remained where her lips had rested. Alex felt a dull pang in his chest, a feeling of betrayal and loneliness filling him. A small voice in his head told him to shake it off, and he decided to listen.

“Whatever, Jen,” he said. “Life is about experiments, right?” He gave them a glowing smile and walked away from the school, his spirits dampened yet still high.

That night, Jen sent him a text message reading, “Want to hang out? My family is visiting and I don’t want to invite anyone they wouldn’t like.”

Alex smiled at the message, excited at the idea of a new friendship. “Sure,” he replied. After arranging the plans with Jen, he pulled on an old yellow jumper and walked over to her house. He knocked on the door, checking the time on his phone anxiously and adjusting his glasses. Worries swam through his mind. Were his clothes too casual? Too formal? What if her family hated him?

The doorknob turned and the door swung back to reveal a girl about a head shorter than him, hair identical to Jen’s brown curls other than the fact it had been cut into a shoulder-length bob and bangs. Her eyes were green, the color of grass with flecks of brown like the soil it resided in. She wore a pink blouse made of light material and red sneakers. Something about her was familiar to Alex, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“I’m Alex,” he said. “I’m Jen’s friend. I don’t think we’ve met, have we?”

She shook her head, her hair blowing in her face. Alex felt more memories come back to him, but there was still a barricade preventing them from returning fully. “I’m Winnie,” she said. “I’m Jen’s sister, but I moved to Ohio. I visit every once and awhile.”

Alex nodded. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you. I have a weird feeling we’ve met before, but regardless I’d like to get to know you.”

Winnie laughed. “You know, I had that feeling too. Strange, isn’t it? Anyways, people are probably waiting for me, so I’ll have to go socialize or something.”

Alex smiled, his anxiety calming down ever so slightly. “Mind if I tag along?”

Winnie grinned, her cheeks turning pink. She stepped aside to let Alex in, and the two disappeared into the house, talking like old friends. The door slammed shut behind them, sending an echo down the street. The world operated as normal, everyone moving and interacting seamlessly without any inkling of the change that had taken place. Alex and Winnie’s lives had been entwined by Fate, twisted together with great care. Far in the distance, beyond the realm of the living, he watched proudly at what he had accomplished.


THE END

 

Observatory

OBSERVATORY

Sydney sat back in her chair. It was another slow day in the Extremely Large Telescope, and nothing was really happening, as usual. Sydney already knew that she wasn’t going to find anything. No matter how many signals humanity sent out from earth, they never got a response. Nothing ever came in. This was the tragedy of working at an observatory.

In the 11 years since it was put into service in 2024, the ELT had gotten some major upgrades to its imaging capability. It could now show the surface of faraway planets; oceans, forests, and every other type of land was recognizable by the ELT. It was also upgraded so that if, say, a giant alien ship, like the ones that were sent to colonize Mars only four years ago, were to fly in front of the planet, the observatory would know. They would then contact the EU, who would have every other telescope instantly pointed at that spot to gain more information.

But Sydney knew that wasn’t going to happen. The Fermi paradox’s solutions were so scary, and meant so much, that most governments refused to consider them. Sydney knew better. The probability of humanity finding life was high, but the probability of it being within the time that Sydney was serving was low. In addition to that, the probability of it being at the ELT was also low, and even if it did end up at the ELT, the chance that Sydney herself would be the one to find it was also low.

As she sat thinking about this for the umpteenth time, she decided to look through the scope again. Sydney was a bit selfish. If humanity was going to find alien life, it was damn well going to be her that found it. She would try as hard as she could to search the cosmos from her little room in a giant telescope off the coast of Chile.

She stared into the dark abyss, and decided she would focus on a new planet today. “Leo, focus the ‘scope on Kapteyn B please.”

“Acknowledged,” replied Leo in his robotic voice. Sydney felt the facility clanking into position and heard a small motor as the telescope adjusted its height.

She looked through the glass again. There was Kapteyn B, its milky white ice surface shining out from the rest of the solar system. She sighed. Even though the planet was unable to support surface liquid water at the moment, Sydney knew that the planet had been around two and a half times longer than Earth had. With all that extra time, the planet had probably at one point been suitable for life. Maybe it was even suitable under the surface, with a liquid ocean. No one knew for sure.

Sydney stared at the planet a bit more and noticed a small, black speck gliding over the planet. Sydney’s eyes widened. “Leo, zoom in on that black thing.”

“Acknowledged,” Leo said, and the view in Sydney’s scope focused on the speck.

As Sydney got a better look, her mouth dropped open. This was it. It had to be. The object was long, and she thought she saw a little blue light on the end of it. She knew what she was watching took place 12 years ago, but she didn’t care. Sydney took a deep breath, and slammed on the alert button. She felt a rush as she heard the commlink with European Southern Observatory Headquarters come through.

“ELT, found something?”

Sydney smiled. “Point every telescope at Kapteyn B, ASAP. I believe I have.”

 

SANDSTORM

The sandstorm ripped through the abandoned and mangled wasteland that used to be known as Phoenix, Arizona. The heat was unbearable at a temperature of 122 degrees Fahrenheit. Jett Hanes, a lieutenant in the US Exploration and Reclamation Squad, didn’t notice. His bulky, white and blue Personal Environment suit kept him cool. The suit was completely airlocked, with air entering through a vent and passing through several filters before being cooled and stored, ready for Hanes to take his next breath. It also kept him safe from flying debris, and had two shields on each of his arms. As he trudged through the desert toward the abandoned city, dead withering trees stared down at him. He would have been dropped into the city, but the storm was too strong, and even the Dropjet, with its powerful engines, would have been swept away. So instead he was dropped on the outskirts of the city.

His mission was to reach the center of Phoenix. An earlier squad had gone out to investigate a strange signal emanating from somewhere in the ruins, but the sandstorm had left them quite literally in the dust. They were now hiding in an abandoned mall. Jett was to find the squad, put up an emergency shelter, and wait for extraction once the storm died down. Hopefully there was enough time.

Phoenix, having been evacuated thirty years earlier because of sandstorms, drought, and temperatures that humans could barely tolerate, was now a rusted brown mess. Mangled buildings and aircars littered the city, and the idea of going back was not feasible to the government. They had completely abandoned the city, building a new, cleaner, renewable city for the refugees. They planned to forget about it entirely, but this new signal was not something they could resist checking out. They knew it might be important, but they didn’t know exactly what it was. So ERS was sent in to find out.

As Hanes reached the city, his vision clouded with all the sand whipping around him. He turned on his floodlight, powered up thermal, and kept walking. As he passed an intersection, the amount of sand became stronger from a different direction.

Suddenly, a piece of a billboard came careening down the road. It smashed into Hanes, knocking him down, and shattered upon coming into contact with the armored suit. The sand pushed him another few yards. Hanes stopped himself, and activated his maneuvering jets. He slowly started pushing back, and eventually reached the other side. He kept walking. The earlier squad needed him. He extended his arm shields and trudged on.

As he reached the mall, he turned on thermal again. He could make out the squad’s thermal signatures. He prepared the porta-shelter and made the final stretch. The storm seemed to be dying down. Aside from the occasional strong gust of wind, the sand pushing Hanes’ suit was getting slightly softer. Hanes carefully but quickly stepped into the mall, shutting the door behind him. In the few moments that the door was open, about a truck full of sand managed to spill into the mall. Hanes put down his visor. The squad was about 500 meters away from him.

They saw him before he reached them. “My god, what is that?”

“Denman, you idiot, that’s a clanker. We’re saved!”

Hanes turned on his mic. “Don’t worry, the storm is dying down,” he told them, while setting up the porta-shelter. As he placed it on the ground, the sheets of metal unfolded, forming a dome about the size of a regular kitchen. “I need you to get in this shelter and wait with me for extraction.”

“Yeah, uh, about that…” Hanes guessed this was the one named Denman speaking again. “We have a slight problem.”

“Is this in any way related to the signal we picked up?”

“Yes. We figured out where it was coming from,” said a new voice. This one was female and a little aggravated. “But we can’t get to it.”

“Who are you, what is it, and where is it?”

“I’m Sara Edison. You know the Cold War? All those tensions with Russia in the late 1900s? Well, apparently, the government installed a missile silo in the parking lot. They also installed a monitor so that, in the case that there would be no one left, if a missile hit Phoenix, a sensor would detect it. The problem was, this missile was installed during the presidency of Ronald Reagan, who is, as you know, infamous for denying that climate change was going to happen. He didn’t tell anyone else about the sensor, and because he didn’t believe in climate change, he didn’t stop to think about the fact that one day the temperature in Phoenix was going to get so high that the minimum requirement for the missile’s launch was going to be naturally met. This is the hottest that Phoenix has ever been in all of recorded history. Thankfully, the missile has a countdown timer for an hour to stop it from being launched, because I guess it doesn’t matter if everyone is dead yet.”

“How much time do we have left on the timer?” Hanes asked.

“Fifteen minutes, give or take a few.”

“Damn it! Can’t the missile defense batteries just shoot it down?”

“Those haven’t been activated in decades. They would have to power up the railguns.”

“And I assume that when the missile hits Russia, all the missiles from Russia would awaken and fire too?”

“Worse. Every US missile would launch at Russia. Essentially, the world would end. The Moon and M vgfars colonies would be okay, but without supplies from Earth, they would starve to death.”
Hanes thought for a second. “I assume one of you know how to deactivate this missile?”

“That would be me,” said a new voice, and a slightly smaller figure stepped out from the shop. “My name is Alec Harvey, I’m the tech guy on this squad.”

“Okay, I need you all to get behind me. I think I have enough shielding to get us through the parking lot, but I need you to work fast. Come on.”

They all grouped together at the mall’s parking lot entrance. Hanes was in front, with Denman behind him, then Alec, and finally Sara.

“Ready?” Hanes asked. Everyone nodded. “Let’s go, now!”

Hanes opened the door, and tossed the porta-shelter towards the sensor. The shelter set up automatically around it. He bolted out the door, followed by Denman. Hanes blocked the sand with the PR suit while everyone else bolted for the shelter. Alec went in first, followed by Sara. Denman was standing at the door. After Sara hunkered into the shelter, Denman looked in.

An abandoned car was suddenly lifted off the ground. It slammed into Denman who didn’t even manage to scream. He was quickly swept away by the storm. “Denman!” Sara yelled, but she knew it was too late. Hanes waded over to the shelter through the storm.

“Denman is gone. We have to make sure no one else dies today. There will be time to grieve later. Now is the time to be heroes. Stop the missile!”

Alec nodded, and closed the shelter door. Hanes watched as he cut into the sensor’s pole and found the wire. He closed his eyes, and after a few seconds, made the cut. The wire sizzled out, and Alec exhaled. Everyone cheered.

Hanes walked outside. The storm was settling. He unclipped the beacon from his belt and threw it on the ground. It set itself up, and Hanes watched as the light shined up through the clouds.

A few minutes later, the hulking Dropjet screamed out of the sky, and right before it reached the ground, the blue engines roared to life, kicking up a huge cloud of dust. Hanes, Alec, and Sara stepped on, ready to explain to commander Brannon. As the Jet lifted off, Hanes stared down at the city. Why did we do this to ourselves? he wondered.

 

On Conspiracy Theories

According to Merriam-Webster, a conspiracy theory is a theory that explains an event or set of circumstances as the result of a secret plot by usually powerful conspirators. People formulate conspiracy theories in order to cope with the fear of the unknown and to explain unprecedented phenomena that are frightening. Because the population is afraid of the unknown, it creates conspiracy theories in order to deal with its anxiety. The public uses theories as “logical” answers; however, conspiracies are illogical because they deny scientific fact and official records. Conspiracy theories exacerbate society’s fear and anxiety. I am going to show how the Bermuda Triangle, Area 51, and the moon landing have contributed to conspiracy theories being harmful to the public.

Area 51 is a United States Air Force facility in the southern part of Nevada. Though the purpose of the base is unknown, historical evidence suggests that it supports the development and testing of experimental aircrafts and weapon systems (Popular Mechanics). Conspiracy theorists believe that the remains of crashed UFOs (Unidentified Flying Objects) are stored in Area 51, where government scientists reverse-engineer the aliens’ leading technology. Allegedly, the government has made advanced weapons and aircrafts including stealth bombers and reconnaissance planes. This conspiracy came after many supposed sightings of UFOs and a testimony from an army colonel who says he was granted access to extraterrestrial material from an alien spacecraft that crashed in the nearby desert (Time Magazine). This conspiracy has hurt society because it has caused people to distrust the government. It makes it seem as if the government isn’t telling us about potential dangers. Losing trust in the government is treacherous since it might influence us to be reluctant to vote in elections and follow the law. This becomes a vicious cycle because the government might respond by trusting the public less and so on and so forth.

Apollo 11 landed on the Moon on July 20th 1969 at 4:18pm EST. At 10:56pm EST, Neil Armstrong was ready to put his foot into another world. He climbed down the ladder and said: “That’s one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind” (NASA). Four decades after the presumed “giant leap for mankind,” there are doubters who say America was so desperate to defeat Russia in the Space Race that they hired Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, the other astronaut in the Apollo 11, to stage their mission on a secret film set in Hollywood. Theorists speculate that because the American flag planted on the moon swayed, Aldrin must not have been in space. The flag’s movement suggests that there was wind, but there is no wind on the moon. However, NASA states that the flag’s ripples derives from Aldrin’s twisting motions to firmly install the flag into the moon. In addition, filmmaker Stanley Kubrick may have helped NASA fake the lunar landing because his 1968 film 2001: A Space Odyssey proves that the technology existed back then to create a spacelike set. As far-fetched as it may seem, a 1999 poll conducted by Gallup shows that 6% of Americans believe the lunar landing was fake and 5% were undecided (Time Magazine). This conspiracy theory is harmful to the public because it contributes to people denying scientific evidence that the Apollo 11 indeed landed on the moon. Humanity will suffer if people continue rejecting modern science. For example, global climate change is a reality that impacts people everywhere. If the general public chooses to stay ignorant, we will inevitably destroy our environment and ruin the planet for future generations.

The Bermuda Triangle is a region between Florida, Puerto Rico, and Bermuda. In this triangle in the Atlantic Ocean, there have been many puzzling disappearances of planes and ships (Department of Defense). These mysteries have caused people to develop many conspiracy theories to answer the question of how these ships and planes disappeared with no bodies or wreckage ever found. One of them is a space-time warp. Supposedly, a rift in space-time opens in the Bermuda Triangle every once in awhile, so all of the planes and ships traveling in this specific place at this time are lost inside the rift. That is why there is never any wreckage. Another theory is that one of the assumed locations of the lost island of Atlantis is in the Bermuda Triangle. Some believe that Atlantis was a civilization that had made amazing technology, and the technology may be active on the ocean floor. This equipment may interfere with the instrumentation of modern planes and ships; this has caused them to crash and sink. Finally, the last conspiracy theory is that methane gas hydrates bubble up from the sea sediments, causing ships to disappear. Landslides on the ocean floor release large amounts of gas, which would reduce the density of the water, making any ship sink like a rock. The gas could also ignite aircraft engines causing them to explode (Thought Co.). This conspiracy has impaired society because it makes people hesitant to travel in this area. Without these conspiracies people would think that all of these incidents were merely coincidences. Conspiracy theories capitalize on fear and make people irrational, even though the Bermuda Triangle is no more dangerous than any other part of the ocean. Irrationality forces people to doubt themselves when there is simply no need to.  

Ultimately, there is one positive thing about conspiracy theories. It causes people to open their minds, think independently, and analyze situations critically. Despite this upside, all of the aforementioned examples show how conspiracy theories have negatively impacted society. There would be less fear in the world if these conspiracies didn’t exist because people would think of them as coincidences, or even if they did see a flaw in an explanation, they wouldn’t spread it or exaggerate it through an absurd conspiracy theory. Conspiracies are reactions to anxiety that spread mass paranoia across the globe. They make us excessively skeptical of the government, Ignorant of pressing issues, and irrational to the point of extreme doubt. Without conspiracies, our society would not live in fear of the unknown, and instead, we would rely on dependable sources to draw conclusions.

Works Cited

Blitz, Matt. “The Real Story Behind the Myth of Area 51.” Popular Mechanics. Cameron Connors, 18 Apr. 2017. Web. 23 June 2017. <http://www.popularmechanics.com/military/research/a24152/area-51-history/>.

“Conspiracy Theories.” Time Magazine. Time, 2008. Web. 23 June 2017. http://content.time.com/time/specials/packages/article/0,28804,1860871_1860876_1861006,00.html

“Conspiracy Theory.” Merriam-Webster.com. Merriam-Webster, n.d. Web. 23 June 2017. https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/conspiracy%20theory

NASA Administrator. “July 20, 1969: One Giant Leap For Mankind.” NASA. NASA, 20 July 2014. Web. 23 June 2017. https://www.nasa.gov/mission_pages/apollo/apollo11.html

United States. Department of Defense. US Coast Guard Headquarters and the Naval Historical Center. Bermuda Triangle Fact Sheet. 11 December 1998. Web. 23 June 2017. http://www.dod.mil/pubs/foi/Reading_Room/UFO/195.pdf

Wagner, Stephen. “The Top Bermuda Triangle Theories.” Thought Co. 30 January 2017. Web. 23 June 2017. https://www.thoughtco.com/theories-of-the-bermuda-triangle-2593654

Black Girl

 

My uncle told me yesterday that if I am ever afraid to do something, to just do it.

But then again he was drunk, so you can’t blame me for being confused.

I was always one to follow my arrow despite what others said.

But to be completely honest, I tend to let those things get to me, and it takes a pep talk sometimes to lead me on the right path.

As a young African-American woman, I have a lot of trouble with how the media portrays me.

Black girl, black hair, black, brown eyes, black, dark life.

I am expected to drop out of school at sixteen due to pregnancy, and raise a baby without a father.

I am expected to live off of minimum wage with a fast food job and welfare for financial support.

Expected to live in the projects for the rest of my life until I make it out of it, but really never make out of it.

As a black girl with black hair and dark eyes, I’m seen as a disappointment to society, because people automatically assume that I will go nowhere in life.

But then again, my mom always tells me life is like a box of chocolates, I’ll never know what I’m going to get.

Therefore I know that the world is in for a surprise.

I know that I will be great in the world because I always follow my own arrow, even though I need a pep talk here and there.

Despite my surroundings, I know that I will do well because of the work that I put in.

Black girl, black hair, black, brown eyes, black, dark life.

Black skin, therefore, black, bleak future.

I was always told that education is the most powerful tool, a tool used to remove, chop off, break off, tear, shred, slash, stab, yank off all the unuseful hate in the world.

Remove, chop off, break off, tear, shred, slash, stab, yank off all the prejudice, all the criticism, all things negatively enforced by my society that I am included in when things are bad and excluded from when things are well.

My mother always told me to make my bed every morning before I leave so I feel better about getting into it at night.

And while that quotation isn’t extremely helpful,

I learned to, really, live my life the best I can so when my life ends, I am satisfied.

But then again she screamed at me when she said it so I didn’t analyze it right then and there.

Even though I am a black girl, with black hair, and black, brown eyes, I will not have a black, dark life.

Despite the way you see my brown skin and brown eyes, I will not have a brown, bleak life.

 

Unexpected Visitor

It’s raining so hard that the new roof begins to leak, and the pouring rain forces people to ditch the umbrellas for something stronger. Jennifer continues to stare out of her window, sitting on a chair in front it; she has been gazing at the mud sliding down the edge of the garden that once looked beautiful just a week ago. Jennifer realizes that it has been raining for three days now, and she has yet to step out of her abode. All she has been doing is staring out the window, waiting for the sun to emerge from the darkness of the clouds beyond the glass. It’s been about five hours now, and she still hasn’t moved, not even to stretch her legs, or to fill her empty stomach.

Was this her form of entertainment, locking her eyes with the grass on her front lawn? Excluding herself from everyone she has ever known, she declines her family’s calls without hesitation. She alienates herself from her family, because she feels like a disappointment to them after dropping out of college. Jennifer’s heart continues to fill with sadness and anger as she fails to open up to her family. Jennifer hasn’t eaten in three days. You can tell she is fighting the hunger as she clenches her abdomen with her legs, which are now crossed in the chair that she has not removed herself from in hours.

A gray-haired man, with a bright yellow slick raincoat and matching boots and a hat, starts walking towards Jennifer’s house from afar. She becomes aware of his presence immediately, because she sees him step on the grass. Jennifer notices his gray beard hanging below his chin like a mop hangs from its wooden stick. Her heart beats faster, yet in a rhythm, to a song that she heard on the radio recently. Her eyes begin to dilate as she sees him get closer and closer to the window, but she remains still. Jennifer, frozen in the chair, is temporarily paralyzed by her existence there for so long, she’s unable to move any part of her body except her eyes. Looking into her brown eyes, the panic and the stress is visible as she directs her attention to this stranger. The bearded man reaches the window. All that stands in between them is the glass. Jennifer is only able to see the buttons on the raincoat, and not his face, because she is frozen and unable to move her head from the direction of the grass.  

The man walks back and forth in front of the window, with his head down, thinking about what do. Suddenly, the only light in Jennifer’s house shuts off, and the time on the radio near her cuts off. The power is out, yet Jennifer’s eyes still remain glued to the glass. The yellow man gets an inexplicable look on his face and directs it towards the glass that stands between him and Jennifer. The yellow man begins walking towards the front door. Jennifer remembers that she didn’t lock the door, and prays that he doesn’t try to let himself in.

Jennifer rises slowly as the doorknob begins to turn. She walks slowly to hide, because her body is weak from sitting still for so long. The yellow man gets inside the gray walls of Jennifer’s home and walks around the living room. The yellow man searches the house for her.

A silent moment passes by, and she finally comes out of her closet and exclaims weakly, with a lot of breath, “Who are you and why are you here?”

Her heart beats faster, simultaneously with the more breaths she takes. He continues to walk back and forth, leaving Jennifer trembling outside of the closet door. Her plan to confront the man backfires, for she stands weaponless and vulnerable. She is standing outside of the one place he can’t find her, giving up her spot of safety. The bearded man looks up at her, standing still, with his eyes locked onto her neck. Jennifer is frightened from this situation that she is left with.

There they stand, trapped inside the gray, gloomy walls of Jennifer’s home. Jennifer wonders why he still hasn’t said a word. All he does is walk back and forth within the gray walls. She takes this opportunity to run to the kitchen, in hopes of finding a more piercing weapon to scare him off, because she is contemplating if she is capable of fighting for her life at this point. She reaches the kitchen and quickly locates the knives. Running her hand down the butt of her knives, she grabs the largest and sharpest one and holds onto it for dear life as she hears his footsteps coming towards her.

He shouts with slyness, “You can hide, but I’ll find you. You can run, but I’ll catch up.”

He reaches the kitchen. As he stands in the doorway, he whispers just loud enough that Jennifer, who is standing at the very end of the kitchen, can hear, “You can try anything you want, but you’ll still die.”

The bearded man traps her in her own kitchen by blocking the doorway. She lunges at him with the knife, but he backs up and dodges the plunge intended to end his life. Jennifer gets up from the floor and runs as fast as she can towards her bedroom. Hiding under the bed, she plans to stab the bearded man’s ankle to buy her time for her escape.

The bearded man enters the room with a knife in the left hand and a gun in the right. He whispers, “You can hide, but I’ll find you sooner or later.”

Looking through the closet, he fails to find her. He steps before the bed, and Jennifer knows that it’s now or never; she charges her right arm at his ankle, thrusting her knife through his boots into his skin. He yells in pain and falls to the floor. Jennifer inches out from under the bed to find a weapon to finish him off with. When she comes back with a gun from the safe in the garage, he is gone. With adrenaline still pumping through her blood, she searches her mind for a solution.

Before she can look for the bearded man again, he comes out from behind the bedroom door and cuts into her shoulder. While in excruciating pain, she dodges his next thrust and takes cover inside the closet. She knows what to do now.

He limps to the closet and says, “Come out now.”

She knows it’s either him or her at this point and comes out behind the pile of clothes, shooting. BOOM… BOOM… BOOM… BOOM… BOOM. She keeps shooting, never stopping. Jennifer hears police sirens in the distance and doesn’t hesitate to stop shooting. She doesn’t feel the pain in her arm anymore due to the adrenaline and anger surging through her body. She has been shooting for about four minutes now, four minutes of never-ending gunshots. He is dead, and has been since the first shot to the chest, but she continues to shoot his head, torso, neck, and everywhere else. He made her vulnerable. The police come inside, and she stops shooting. The ambulance comes to get the dead body and takes her to the hospital to stitch up the wound left by a stranger.

When back home, days later from the hospital, she looks over at her chair, stationed before the glass window. She walks over to the chair and rests her eyes upon it for a moment, looking back on all the time she wasted there. She moves the chair to its initial location and walks toward the house phone. She picks it up gently, like she is afraid of the phone, and dials her mother.

When she gets an answer, she says into the phone, “I love you and I’m sorry.”

Her mother replies, “Why haven’t you answered any of our calls? We just want to speak to you.”

They speak for hours, continuing conversations left on hold.

They catch up on their lives and, weeks later, Jennifer moves back in with her parents.

 

The Curious Cottage

It stood with white brick, tattered with dirt and age. The door was a rustic red, gaping open in an ivy, spiraled archway. Over the years, it developed rotting wood, the pungent smell of dead rats, creaky floorboards, and the decay of things that had not been touched in decades. This only became clear when inside the house, but nobody dared to take a single step on the property. There were windows looking out at the top of the small cottage. These windows were dirty and cracked, yet dark. There were big holes where the windows had been broken, but all that could be seen from afar was infinite empty space, like a black hole had swallowed everything that made the house a standard place to live. The front door was always open, as if there was no force strong enough to make it move just a single inch. Through that red, paint-peeled doorway, a chair was in view. A single chair of the most repulsing nature. What used to be a large, wooden structure had turned into a rotting, discolored, shriveling pile of wood.  

The hill towered at the very perimeter of town. The mossy grass was such a vibrant green; it was as if it had been raining everyday for a year. But it never rained in this dry town. In the center of the village, amongst the small shops and homes, the air was cool and clear.  Around the hill, the air was thick with humidity. This had sparked rumors with the older folks in town, claiming that if one older than 60 breathed in that toxic air, it would stop their heart within minutes.  

The one elementary school in town was like something out of a storybook. It had red brick intertwined with chalk-filled grout and was always bustling with animated kids. The classrooms were filled with colorful plastic chairs, and the work of fellow students. During snack time, even the youngest kids would talk about that eerie cottage. They said that the house was haunted with ghosts and evil spirits. The older kids would go along with this, mainly as a joke to scare the little ones. Deep down, however, they too had their suspicions about the house.  

Some of the mothers and fathers of the town would go to the local coffee shop after dropping their kids off at school. This early in the morning, they could see fog from the morning dew smuggling the hill so only a miniscule portion of the house was seen. Around the circular, wooden tables, steaming coffee in hand, they would converse.  

“I don’t want my children going anywhere near that place,” a concerned mother would say.

“I always thought the disappearance of that young girl 10 years ago was linked to that house,” a father would chime in.  

Some of the other parents would try to change the subject, too uncomfortable talking about a cottage that could make their own loved children go missing.  

It was like they already knew that the new kid in town would let his curiosities get the best of him. It was inevitable. Having not lived there for long, this boy could not have heard the countless rumors and stories about the house. All that was given was a warning to not go near the cottage on the mossy hill. No explanation, just a sharp warning.

The moving truck drove smoothly into town on a sunny Saturday morning. Trailing the truck was a blue van, a family car.  But something was off about this family. From the moment the vehicles came to a halt at the friendly blue house, the parents were screaming nasty things at each other and to their son, Troy. With a broad structure, standing at a height of 5’9, he looked older than he was. Merely 13 years old, Troy had to learn to be tough. It was just expected of him when his family moved every two years.

When Troy was in the grossest, grimiest homes, he imagined that he was living in the biggest, most luxurious ones. When he was at a new school and had no friends to talk to, he imagined that he was back home, playing basketball with his friends he had made before he had to pack up his life to move every two years. After talking to the woman who came over with a welcome cake, Troy had something new to think about.

“Welcome!” she had said.

“Hey,” Troy had said while reluctantly opening the door.  

“Well, look at you! You look like you would get along with my boys. How old are you?”

“I’m 13.”

“Oh, you’re still so young! You can come out and explore the town… but don’t go into that cottage on the hill,” her tone dropped significantly, showing a more serious side of her.  

“What cottage? Why?” Troy had asked, his interest suddenly peaked.  

“It is for your own safety, just stay away — Alright, I have to get going now. Say hello to your parents for me!”  

And with that, the woman was gone, and Troy was left at the doorway with cake in hand and curiosity skyrocketing.  

Now Troy sat on the sturdy steps of his front porch and ate the remaining bits of the cake he had all but devoured. He looked up at the picturesque blue sky and watched the clouds move across his view. He felt the smooth, cold concrete underneath his fingers, identical to all the houses on his street. Cookie cutter houses they were, alike in size and shape. There was something calming about looking at the similar houses. Troy became happy with the idea that if all the houses were perfect and pretty, including his, maybe his family would mold to become just like the other families in those houses too.

He almost began to feel comfortable sitting on that hard, cold porch when his father came clambering down the stairs of the house and out the front door.

“What are doing? You don’t expect us to do all the unpacking while you sit here enjoying yourself do you?” he boomed.  

He leaned down, so close to Troy that he could smell the alcohol in his breath.  

“No, Sir,” Troy murmured, rolling his eyes.  

He immediately hoped that his dad wouldn’t notice. But he did.

“You don’t get to roll your eyes at me. Come on.”

He hastily grabbed Troy by the collar of his shirt and dragged him inside, his muscles bulging as if the weight of Troy was the equivalent of a feather. Troy curled his hand into a fist, debating the possibility of finally fighting back. But he didn’t. He never does.  

After staying his first weekend in town, Troy finally had to go to school. He was used to coming part way into the year, but he never quite got used to the smirks and stares that accompanied being the new kid. The long, sharp trill of an alarm clock started Troy’s morning.  Just like he had done before every other school, he got dressed, ate breakfast, brushed his teeth, and quickly grabbed his backpack on the way out. On his short walk to school, Troy’s eyes stayed fixated on the glimpse of the cottage that he could see from the rocky path.  He didn’t know exactly what was in that house, but he wanted to know.  

Troy climbed his way up the wide concrete steps of the school. The doors were propped open with bright, plastic chairs, and he could hear the noise of the other kids lingering. As he walked inside, everything seemed overwhelming. The sounds of eager kids, the aroma of sandwiches and lunch food, and the colorful array of clothing darting all over the hallways into the classrooms. It was like he was moving in fast motion, from the awkward conversation with the principal to being sat in a math classroom with a dozen other 13-year-olds. Things slowed down when he had been asked to introduce himself.  

He shyly stood up and mumbled, “Um… hi. I’m Troy. Um… I moved here last weekend.”  

“I. Um. Don’t care,” a rather plump boy mocked.  

The class exploded into giggles and snorts. Troy sank into his seat and looked down at his shoes. They looked unclean and on the cusp of falling apart.  He decided to focus on that for the rest of class instead of the immature boy or the number sequences that danced across the chalkboard in front of him. The bell rang, dismissing the students for lunch. Startled, Troy jumped out of his seat and gathered his things in a frenzy. He came out of the classroom, unsure where to go. Troy followed the herd of kids running outside for lunch on a warm day.  He sat on a plastic bench by himself, watching the commotion as the tables filled up with hungry students.  

“Look who it is! Shy boy!” the plump boy yelled, sitting on the bench right next to Troy.  

His friends huddled around them, watching as they stifled their laughter.  

“Come with us,” another boy said.  

Before Troy could respond, he was yanked off of the bench and dragged to the warped wooden fence that encased the lunch area.  

“Climb.”

Troy frowned, contemplating the situation. He knew that if he didn’t go with them, he would be bullied more than ever. He started climbing. He turned his head to see if any teachers were looking, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The group of boys hopped down on the other side of the fence, dirt cushioning their falls. They took off running, leaving Troy to trail behind them. Troy was fast and caught up with them quickly. It was only when they came to a stop, jagged breathing, that he realized where they were. Chills crept up his spine as he took in the sight of the towering cottage. It felt as if the whole town fell silent as they all stood there, bewildered.  

“I bet you wouldn’t go into that house. Probably too scared!” Another boy from the pack taunted Troy.  

Troy took a step back, a look of terror washed over his face.

“Yeah, come on. What are you waiting for?” the boy that had called Troy out in math class said, pushing Troy closer to the bottom of the hill.  

Troy had not heard any of the rumors about the house, so more than anything, he was curious. He was not dumb though and saw the way that the other boys were looking at the house. Each of their legs trembling, faces calm, but eyes alert and scared.  

“Okay,” he agreed, gaining confidence.  

He was slightly excited to see what was in that cottage and if he could do that, and prove his bravery to the boys, maybe his life in this town would be bearable. Taking a deep breath, Troy began to trudge up the hill.  

“No way!” a voice from behind him exclaimed in surprise.  

Troy focused on his shoes again, which were mostly submerged in mud, as he made his way through the moss. Finally, he reached the top of the hill.  

Up close, the cottage looked much bigger, more intimidating. Troy stood frozen in his spot, trapped by the eerie silence. The air felt humid. Toxic. He breathed heavily, trying to gain the courage to take one step closer to the cottage. He did. As he eased his way to the front door, he swore he could hear sounds coming from inside. Maybe there really were sounds, or maybe it was all in his head. The red door was ajar as always, so Troy slipped through.  

“What do we do?” one of the boys said, freaked out.  

He put his arms behind his head and crouched over.

“I don’t know! I didn’t think he would actually go in,” another one said.  

The worry-stricken kids clustered together and craned their necks to see the cottage.  Their hearts raced as they tried to see him through the cracked windows. Troy had walked into the cottage in a way the boys had never seen. He was confident. Head held high, walking into the unknown, he needed to prove something to himself, to the boys, to his family. He had walked into the curious cottage, and the boys were left outside.

 

Misogyny and Bullying in North and South America

People inflict pain because it makes them feel good. It lets them inflict all the pain they have ever been inflicted. This has been happening for centuries now.  There are many types of inflicted pain, like slavery, racism, mockery, bullying, violence, etc. but we are just going to focus on two of them: misogyny and bullying. Many of us have probably seen these two before, and most of us haven’t done anything to stop them, or walked away from the situation and tried to even forget it. This doesn’t stop the cycle. This happens with not only children and teenagers, but with adults as well, and in other cases, we may not have been the bystanders but the victim or even the perpetrator.

Although, both of these social phenomena frequently occur and intersect all over the world, misogyny is more prevalent in South America, while bullying is more predominant in North America. This can be attributed to the machismo culture of South American society, whilst in North America bullying reflects the individualism inherent in rampant capitalism.

Misogyny is a problem that fits under the umbrella of bullying. For those who don’t know what misogyny is, here is the full meaning: dislike of, contempt for, or ingrained prejudice against women. Misogyny is a problem that has been happening for centuries and is still happening to date. Although,  it’s not as bad as it used to be in the US, thanks to the help of the 1970’s second-wave feminist movement.

However, it isn’t much better in South and Central America because according to the UN and many other sources, a woman is assaulted every 15 seconds in Brazil’s biggest city, Sao Paulo. Further, in Mexico, it is estimated more than 120,000 women are raped a year — that is one every four minutes (Watson).  Similarly, sexist things happen not only on the streets but also in universities to women with PhDs and esteemed degrees get 25 to 60% less wages than in the US and Europe, and in most of the poorer Latin and Central American countries, women aren’t even allowed to be sent to school, Some 53% of Bolivian women aged 15-49 have reported physical or sexual violence in their lives, according to the Pan American Health Organization ( Watson). Misogyny is ingrained in the structure and culture of these societies, where it affects every strata of the female population. Misogyny has been a part of South and Central American cultures for centuries now. Let’s take an example from modern women in Ecuador. Lots of them are forced to stay with their abusive husbands because they provide most of the income, and the women are afraid of ending up on the streets. Lots of women experience sexism in school both in South and North America, and in this form of sexism, women aren’t allowed or recommended to participate in activities that mostly men play in because of the reason that it’s not considered ladylike. This has caused many women to not pursue careers in lady-like sports and sometimes some coaches won’t even let women do certain types of sports, which is absurd because everyone deserves a chance to pursue and play in any sport they want. Although women aren’t seen as strong as men, men aren’t necessarily better athletes, and this is considered a type of bullying. But bullying doesn’t necessarily only happen to women. It also happens to men and women alike, and a lot of victims of bullying in the United States ask themselves whether it’s better in other schools.

We’ve all seen, heard, or been apart of some sort of bullying before, but what we don’t know is that over 3.2 million students are victims of bullying each year, and approximately 160,000 teens skip school every day because of bullying. Only 1 in 4 teachers see nothing wrong with bullying and will only intervene 4% of the time. Many people have asked themselves if it’s better in other schools. Unless you’re not in a private school, it isn’t much better in other public schools, thanks to various studies that show that homosexual and bisexual teens along with students with disabilities are more likely to be accepted by students in private schools. But don’t get me wrong, not all private schools are amazing, In some private and boarding schools, you can be bullied because of your wealth or because they consider you different from them, and this can give the victim various problems growing up.

What happens with bullies is that they usually have been the victim of violence or childhood traumas caused by family, etc. and they use bullying as a way of coping with the pain that they have been inflicted before. But what the bullies don’t realize is that by doing that, they’re not getting rid of the pain but temporarily easing and passing it onto their victims, and that either gives the person the same problems or causes serious problems when they grow older and can also cause depression and even sometimes suicide. As far back as 2010, of every student enrolled in a U.S. school from kindergarten to twelfth grade, one in seven of them have been bullied by a classmate. In a 2010 study, 61% of the participants reported that school bullying was driving kids to shoot other kids. The study also found that for every 20 kids enrolled in school, one kid has seen a classmate carrying a gun in school. It also found that 23% of high school freshmen in the US take a gun to school with them.

Although bullying and misogyny aren’t the same thing, and the misogyny in south America might not be as prominent as bullying in North America, bullying and misogyny are both problems that I have seen first-hand both in South and North America. I, together with millions of others, not only think it’s a disgrace, but an embarrassment for humankind and those who have done it knowingly being fully aware of their actions should be ashamed of actions they have committed. We might not all be the same, but we should all be respected and treated in the same way, and this is why bullying and misogyny in both North and South America has to be stopped. We can all make a difference just by asking a teacher or calling the police for help.

 

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Works Cited

“11 Facts About Bullying.” DoSomething.org | Volunteer for Social Change. N.p., n.d. Web. 30 June 2017.

“Bullying In The USA.” NoBullying – Bullying & CyberBullying Resources. N.p., 22 Dec. 2015. Web. 30 June 2017.

Watson, Katy. “Struggling with Sexism in Latin America.” BBC News. BBC, 18 Aug. 2015. Web. 30 June 2017.

 

Child Soldiers

There are barriers that just altogether shun certain people from getting into school. Sexism (mainly women), disabilities, poverty, and “lowly families,” “with not much family importance.” Education is vital, but recruiting children can completely mess up a child’s education. Also, a country that does not have many schools and a place on the middle of the battlefield does not help.

A massive barrier and issue during the Sudanese war for education was the unique and brutal recruitment of child soldiers. Many children who were still in school, during this civil war, were separated from their tribes and families. Some young children were forced to be child soldiers to aid the war efforts in many ways like cooking, fighting, prostitution, and shields for the adult soldiers. The future of Sudan is unstable due to this cruel and brutal recruitment.

This is a massive issue that is unique to Africa, and specifically Sudan, in the civil war against South Sudan. Almost nowhere else in the world currently has the recruitment of child soldiers. During the Sudanese civil war, there were approximately 15,000-16,000 children that were recruited, forced or not forced in the experiment of using children to aid the war effort. Children were treated brutally and many died. During the war, children never left the tribe, in fear of being attacked or forcefully recruited into the forces. The fear many families had were about what might happen to their children while they were at school. A majority of children were kidnapped and forced to be soldiers when they were coming home from school. Families live in fear, which is an invisible but powerful boundary that makes people keep their children at home.

In the case of a child soldier story in Sudan, there was tragedy for a young kid named John Yaak. In 1987, John’s home was raided by soldiers. They kidnapped John and forced him to fight in the civil war at just the age of nine. Given a gun and orders, he trekked all around Sudan, fighting in a war full of bloodshed. When he was in his fourth year of combat, uninjured, he was shot in the shoulder with a bullet, relieving him from service as he was rushed to the hospital. John is still very traumatized by his past and horrified by the idea of child soldiers. He currently lives in Australia, working as an Uber driver. He works this job so he can send money back to Sudan to help abolish the recruitment of children once and for all. Due to these horrible experiences, almost all of these kids have had some sort of form of PTSD. John’s experience in the army affected his life completely.

Issues from being a soldier in the army, when you are not of age, can lead to many psychological and physical impacts that can affect education in many ways. After a child has gone through a war, they may have gained many injuries due to weapon conflicts. Also, they suffer from illnesses or diseases. War can result in loss of hearing and sight. These physical impacts make it hard to get educated. Studies have shown that children who have been rescued compared to those who were in army recruitment had many psychological impacts, which include social withdrawal, suicidal behavior, loss of trust, and excessive guilt. All of these effects from war trauma are mostly related to posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) that can affect one’s personality and mindset. Another part of these symptoms is that the kids have trouble finding confidence in catching up with all their peers in education. This is an issue for the next generation because children will get in the mindset that they are never going to catch up with their peers, making them give up too easily. Most of the kids that experience this mindset end up dropping out of school. These effects leave a major impact on people.

Effects from being a soldier previously is a massive issue. The impacts are so huge, it can completely alter someone for the rest of their life, due to such a young and susceptible age. These young children are the next generation’s leaders but, with such trauma at a young age, it stunts their education and social skills. The entire generation is affected because of this. The generation should grow up being curious to motivate themselves and push the boundaries of knowledge and innovation. Instead, they live and grow up in fear. This leads to a country full of people who do not trust each other and do not work together. With each person on his or her own, it leads to a massive issue. If an entire country cannot work together, they cannot overcome any massive issues.

Child soldiers are currently a major issue that occurs in Sudan, where recruitment is common for war. Recruitment is unique to countries like Sudan. The massive recruitment of children during the Sudanese war had not only impacted the children, but the entire future of Sudan. Being a soldier as a child affects your mental, physical, and social skills. It also affects your likeliness of receiving an education due to the fear of getting drafted and getting attacked while you are at school. This issue is very problematic. These effects (like PTSD) are impacting the country’s next generation and their leaders. Many children in Sudan are still experiencing this type of brain trauma from recruitment. The future generations of Sudan are at risk, both mentally and physically, due to child soldiers.

 

Works Cited

“A Generation Made to Fight: Saving South Sudan’s Child Soldiers.” UNICEF USA. N.p., 28 Oct. 2016. Web. 30 June 2017.

Josh Hanrahan For Daily Mail Australia. “Australia’s Most Inspirational Uber Driver: Child Soldier Who Fled Poverty in Sudan for Australia Uses the Money He Earns Ride Sharing to Stop Kids in His Homeland from Being Killed in War.” Daily Mail Online. Associated Newspapers, 28 June 2017. Web. 30 June 2017.

“Psychological Impacts.” Child Soldiers. N.p., 03 Dec. 2012. Web. 30 June 2017.

“10 Barriers to Education around the World.” Global Citizen. N.p., n.d. Web. 30 June 2017.

 

Whitechapel

The air was chilly, and the sky was cloudy while whispers and footsteps filled the streets of the Whitechapel District. A dark, heavy cloud had hung over the residents since the early morning. The bars were already filled with men and women alike, drowning their fears in bourbon. They all paid no mind to a lone figure, cloaked in black, shambling down Hanbury Street.

A crowd had gathered around a dwelling, nothing more than a single-fronted complex, and a commotion could be heard from behind the building. The figure pushed his way through the onlookers, earning himself some dirty looks. He was eventually greeted by a young bobby and a few barriers, but was seen before he could slink past both.

“Sir, you can’t go in there,” the young bobby stated.

He seemed quite familiar with that phrase. However, the dark figure continued to press on and calmly walked into the dwelling.

“Sir!”

The frantic voices from behind faded as the figure made his way around the furniture. There were the sounds of distant chatter, groaning wood floors, and the shuffling of the figure’s coat. Ahead of him was a passage that radiated cool air and pale, gray light. The figure did not pass through, but merely stood there until someone called out to him.

“What are you doing here, Blackford?” a coarse and vulgar tone fired at him.

“My job,” Blackford deflected.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and hopped off the stoop. His beady eyes scanned the scene before him: police dogs, a distraught Abberline, a corpse. Blackford’s eyes narrowed.

“How was she found?” he asked.

“Look down,” his companion replied.

Blackford did so and was greeted by the sight of dried blood.

“Hmm…”

“What’s that supposed to mean? ‘Hmm’.”

“Before you go to spare, how was your morning, Cunningham?”

“My morning? I’d oughta’ conk you, but you look shabby enough,” Cunningham sighed. “If you must know, my morning’s been nothing but chaos since the body was found.”

“They found it just before six, didn’t they?”

“Yeah… She’s been cut open too. Makes me think that we’ve got a killer,” Cunningham glanced from side to side.

“How bad was it?” Blackford pressed, his voice hushed.

“Ugh, just thinking about it makes me sick. It’s disgusting, it is.”

“Can I have a look?”

“Are you daft? I can’t just let you waltz around a crime scene, Blackford. Especially when you reek of a tavern floor.”

“That’s Inspector Blackford to you, chap.” Blackford reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an open envelope.

An orange wax seal marked with a falcon was prominent.

“And, I’m appalled that you would even imply that I look anything less than spectacular.”

Cunningham looked Blackford up and down. Black trench coat, black cahill, black gloves, and a ghostly white complexion. He had pale blonde hair and stubble, brown, sunken eyes, and a demeanor so impish, he could test a priest’s patience.

“So, he put you up to this? I should’ve expected this. He’s always sticking his blue-blooded nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“That’s why I’m here. Now, step aside, Cunningham, I’ve got a job to do.” Blackford lightly pushed Cunningham back, much to Cunningham’s chagrin. Blackford whisked his way past inspectors and bobbies alike, becoming uncomfortably close to the mangled body of what was once a woman. He kneeled down and saw how her tongue protruded, he saw the bruises across her skin, and the bloody wounds that had killed her. She’d been an older woman, short and stout, dressed well enough.

“Her name was Annie Chapman, born Annie Eliza Smith. She was a prostitute who lived in that very building,” Cunningham’s voice explained from behind him. “Found by her neighbor. Can’t imagine what he must be feeling.”

“Well, I know that I’m feeling ill-informed.” Blackford stood up and sauntered back over to his companion. “This should help,” he said as he snatched the papers out of Cunningham’s grasp.

“Hey! Give it here!” Cunningham objected.

“Now, now, Cunningham, don’t cause a scene in front of a lady,” Blackford teased as he glanced down at the papers.

His expression turned serious as he skimmed through the pages. To have such anatomical knowledge… perhaps someone’s gone and decided to play doctor?

“This will do. That Abberline should be of help. So, don’t let this queer your pitch.”

Blackford stuffed the papers back into Cunningham’s hands. He pulled down his hat, straightened his gloves, and was about to leave, before turning around and saying, “The ‘Leather Apron’ will definitely strike again. This wasn’t his first, and it won’t be his last.”

***

The door to the townhouse screeched open and was slammed shut almost instantly. The interior was dark and cramped, lit only by a few oil lamps. The painted wood carvings had faded, and the entire entranceway smelled of mildew. But, it was quiet, and that was all that mattered.

Heavy black boots shuffled and clunked along the stairs. Leather gloves creaked along the railing. Blackford stopped once he reached the top, taking a quick peek over his shoulder before continuing to his abode.

He pulled out his keys and slowly unlocked the door, but paused for a second before opening it. He grabbed the handle and opened the door with a flourish.

“Darling, I’m home!” Blackford called.

The comment just hung in the air as Blackford was greeted by silence. He laughed quietly to himself before hanging up his hat and coat and locking the door behind him. The gin bottle thunked as Blackford placed it on the table. He loosened his tie and made his way over to the kitchen to grab a glass. He passed by his windows along the way and stopped. At the end of the block, just before the turn, he saw what looked like a carriage. Not uncommon, but this one was different.

It was too ornate, too well maintained. Gold painted details, full white horses, a finely dressed coachman and footman. The passing pedestrians’ attention was caught by it for a moment, before they quickly turned a blind eye to it. Blackford decided best to ignore it for now, no one seemed to have exited it yet.

The kitchen was drained of energy. The cabinets were crooked, the tile floor was cracked, the windows were unwashed, and everything was caked in a thin layer of dust. The vermillion wallpaper still remained intact, however. Blackford thought he’d have to look into that.

He felt watched. It was that carriage again, always stalking him. Blackford wiped a bit of the window with a rag and looked out at the carriage again. Nothing.

Blackford let out a quiet sigh of relief. He stopped.

Or, perhaps he had not seen anybody exit, if they already had. A woman’s voice came from behind Blackford.

“Who do you think you’re kidding? You’re practically married to your job.”

He froze in his tracks. That sharp tongue and those silent footsteps could only belong to one person. Blackford spun on his heel.

“Hello, Mathilda,” Blackford greeted.

Mathilda stood on the other side of the doorway, still inside the parlor.

“Good day, Henry,” Mathilda replied dryly. “Here,” She held out a letter, the envelope sealed with that all too familiar brand. “It’s from my lord, Morristan.”

“I know who it’s from, I can see it perfectly clear.” Blackford gingerly took the letter from Mathilda’s grasp.

“I was just being thorough. The way you drink, you wouldn’t even be able to tell me apart from a clydesdale.”

“It seems you’re too late, then. I can hardly make the distinction already.”

Despite what he’d said, he had to admit that Mathilda was an above average looking woman. A willowy figure wrapped in a jade bustle gown, her black hair tied into a neat, tight bun. Her cognac and shawl were laid on the back of an armchair behind her. She had dark, almond shaped eyes, thin lips, and a heart shaped face.  

“What does he want this time? I’ve already told him that I’d take the case,” Blackford groaned.

“Consider it a gift from the Viscount,” Mathilda smirked.

“That doesn’t sound too friendly.”

“It’s not supposed to.”

Blackford simply sighed before beginning his search for his letter opener. He searched under stacks of crinkled and curling papers, behind novels and empty bottles, even inside his rusted stove and barren fireplace. All to no avail.

“Mathilda, do you-?” Blackford questioned as he turned towards her.

Before he could finish his sentence, Mathilda, with a flick of her wrist, presented him with a gaudy knife. It was silver with falcons carved into the blade and a lotus into the guard. To top it all off, a large red jewel had been embedded into the pommel.

“Thank you.”

With a swift slash of the blade, Blackford sliced open the envelope. He twirled the knife in his hands, holding the blade between two of his fingers. Mathilda grabbed the hilt and, with a flick of her wrist, it disappeared.

“You could make a living out of being a pickpocket,” Blackford teased.

“I have my standards, Henry,” Mathilda answered, her expression unchanging.

Blackford scoffed. “Yeah, by being some nob’s lackey.”

“You’re one to talk. Just look where you are now.”

Instead of responding, Blackford immediately turned his attention to the letter, carefully unfolding it. Scrolling black calligraphy graced the crisp page, and a floral scent wafted from it. He scrunched his nose at the unpleasant smell.

“Let’s see what his lordship has to say today.”

He held the letter taught and up to the soft light streaming in through the window.

 

Dear Inspector Blackford,

It has come to my attention that Whitechapel has begun to reek of blood. I urgently press you to locate and exterminate this local pest problem. Discard all that you think, here is what you must know: This “Leather Apron” has a signature. Search the inquest. Find the patterns. Bring me the killer. You have five days to complete this task. I thank you for your cooperation.

Yours Truly,

The House of Morristan

 

“Well, that sounds a bit threatening,” Blackford commented.

“It’s supposed to,” Mathilda replied plainly.

She turned and grabbed her belongings from the armchair. The lacy shawl was wrapped tightly around her shoulders, and her plumed cognac was tipped ever so slightly.

“My work here is done. I’d best be on my way. Good day to you Henry,” Mathilda said quietly.

Her heels clacked against the worn wood floor, echoing throughout the entire apartment.

“Are those new?” Blackford called to her.

Mathilda didn’t even look back before opening the door and sealing it shut behind her.

Looks like I’ll be paying a visit to the morgue in a few days.

***

Over a fortnight had passed since the murder of Annie Chapman, but there had been no trace of the killer. Blackford had looked over the inquest and morgue reports, most of which seemed consistent with any unsolved murder. Most of it. The strangest and most disturbing part of it was that Chapman’s uterus had been removed. Removed with almost surgical precision.

Blackford rounded the corner of the alleyway, shortly followed by Cunningham.

“That Chandler, that numpty thinks he can waste my time?” Blackford mumbled.

“Calm down, will you? You got what you came for,” Cunningham groaned.

Their shoes shuffled against the cobble. Blackford was a few feet ahead of his companion, walking at a brisk and agitated pace.

“He just didn’t want anyone to touch the body until the examination.”

“Touch it? He wouldn’t even let me see it!” Blackford said angrily. “People already think that I wag off during work! I don’t need him to help spread the rumor.”

They stepped out onto the sidewalk of the main road and struggled against the current of people.

“Well, now you know as much as we do. Happy?” Cunningham asked.

“As a clam!” Blackford shouted.

They stopped in front of shop, and Blackford lugged open the large, wooden door. He didn’t even bother holding it for Cunningham. The inside was warm, welcoming, and mostly empty. The interior was mostly wood with a dirty tile floor. Oil lamps gave the room a golden glow, and the air was tinged with the sharp aroma of alcohol. The bartender switched his gaze to the new arrivals.

“Ah, you lads again,” he greeted.

Blackford couldn’t tell whether or not his smile was tired or forced.

“Your normal seats are free.”

“I can see that,” Blackford sighed.

He and Cunningham took their usual seats at the bar, a place close enough to every exit, but still hidden enough once the pub got crowded.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.

“The usual,” Blackford said dryly.

“Really? That can’t be good for you. You should eat something first,” Cunningham warned.

He went ahead and ordered for both of them. A Fish-Friday meal.

“I personally prefer a nice Sunday joint,” Blackford grumbled.

“That’s your own fault for not ordering.”

The other customers filtered out, and the bartender had business to do in the back, leaving the bar deserted. The inspectors sat and ate in silence for a few moments before turning to each other.

“So, what they’re telling us is that she would’ve died anyways?” Blackford whispered.

“Yeah. Probably would’ve died of consumption by now,” Cunningham assured.

“Still, that killer is one bloody maggot. She died from asphyxiation rather than those ghastly wounds,” Blackford hushed his voice even more.

He looked over his shoulders, and Cunningham checked for any employees. Nothing.

“Ghastly wounds indeed. What kind of maniac could tear someone apart like that?” Cunningham continued.

“A maniac killing in cold blood,” Blackford murmured. “Can I trust you with my thoughts?”

Cunningham looked a bit surprised for a second before nodding his head. Blackford wanted to remark on his questionable reaction, but decided against it. For now.

“I think it’s most definitely a doctor, or at least someone within the medical field. Someone with a sick obsession with the female anatomy,” Blackford explained.

Cunningham nodded.

“Whitechapel is dodgy at best. I wouldn’t be surprised if we found someone truly sick hiding out there.”

Blackford saw movement out of the corner of his eye. It was the bartender making his way back over to them. Blackford turned to Cunningham and placed his finger on his own lips. Cunningham got the message and remained silent.

“I think that just about does it for today! What do you think, old friend?” Blackford asked gallantly.

“Just about,” Cunningham answered.

In a flash ,they stood up, paid their bill, and disappeared into the dark alleyways of London.

***

Scotland Yard was a hectic mess the next day. A letter had been forwarded to them, a letter claiming to be from Whitechapel’s newest killer. Blackford, with a bit of the viscount’s influence, had been able to weasel his way into headquarters to get a look at it.

His eyes flicked over every red letter, every smudge and fold. What he deemed most relevant he read as such:

“Dear Boss,” he said aloud. He mumbled through what he thought was nothing more than psychopathic nonsense. “I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won’t fix me just yet. I laugh when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track.”

He almost chuckled at the next line. “That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. Blah blah blah…” he continued.

“How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games.” Blackford scowled. “Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife’s so nice and sharp. I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck.”

His gazed lowered to the signature at the bottom. “Yours truly, Jack the Ripper…”

There was yet more.

“Don’t mind me giving the trade name.”

An extra message was written as well. Blackford turned the page sideways to view it. Once he did, his heart almost stopped.

“P.S. Wasn’t good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands, curse it, no luck yet. They say I’m a doctor now. Ha ha.”

 

The Factory

The factory was the most beautiful building in town. It stood proudly at the corner of 17th and Orlando Street. It was a treasure to the people of the town. To a passersby, it was obvious that it used to be a church. It had beautiful stained glass windows in the most vibrant colors, making it stand out in the otherwise dull cityscape. If you stood inside, you could see rainbow light coming through the windows. The big red doors were intimidating to all who looked; they acted as a barrier rather than an entrance.

Although the neighborhood was worn down, the factory created interest, breathing curiosity into everyone who looked upon it.

The front of the factory was built with strong, brown bricks, now painted over several times from years of being passed down from owner to owner. This time, it was painted crisp white. It hadn’t been retouched in years, and the paint was starting to chip. The previous colors shone through.

No one had been in the factory for years; the floors needed dusting, and the brush had grown out enough to look almost as though it was protecting the factory from intruders. There were dolls sitting in the windows, slowly decaying, but their little white shoes still shone bright.

Everyone knew it was a doll factory, it had the words “D LL FAC O Y” with certain letters missing due to age. It was written in bold, yellow letters embossed on a black awning on the north facing side of the building. This awning had been a newer addition to the factory. Many older folks had complained. The factory was a historical building, and the awning added a level of tackiness to the complex. But others ignored the awning. They didn’t let it distract them from the mere beauty of the building.

Perhaps, the building reminded the elderly of a more simpler time: a time when people would actually talk to one another, a time when people wouldn’t feel bare without their cellphones. Maybe that’s why they stood so strongly against renovations to the factory. It was the oldest building in town. It was almost a time machine, grasping people’s attention and briefly taking them back to that simple time, then quickly releasing them back into their plain lives.

But none of it really mattered, that was many years ago. The factory hadn’t made any dolls in a while.

Just around the corner, past the factory, there was a field. The field was filled with beautiful flowers. Most days, those flowers would be left on the doorstep of the factory. No one knew who did it, or why they did, but this added to the mystery of the factory. There were always rumors circling around town about the mysterious flowers. There would never be dead flowers on the doorstep, always vividly colored fresh ones.

In a way, the factory thanked the flowers. It thanked the flowers for always being there. No one else ever was.

That’s what I had in common with the factory, no one was ever there for me when I was little.

When I was growing up, nothing was given to me. My parents hadn’t died; they just didn’t know what to do with me. I wasn’t a troublesome kid, but I was someone easily forgotten. I knew where they lived, just down the street past the old candy store in a little blue row-house. And when I ran away at age 15, there were no search parties, and no one came looking for me. Deep down inside, I knew I only ran away to see how much they cared about me. Turns out they didn’t care at all. By then, I was used to it. Sometimes, I would walk up to their front porch on my midnight walks. But I would never try to go inside. Too much time had passed, and I knew they didn’t want me. But I didn’t hate them for it. I tried to see the good and beauty in life rather than the bad and the ugly. In this case, it was hard to see what good had come out of it. But I like to think that I was better off on my own.

This year, I would’ve been a junior in high school. That is, if I had stayed in school. I had a small group of friends that I had met freshman year. One of my friends, Jun, was 18 and had very rich parents. They had bought a house for her last year. I had asked her why and she simply replied with, “they wanted me out of their hair.” She wasn’t spoiled, but her parents gave her things rather than attention. Most nights I’d stay with Jun. I stayed with her mainly because she didn’t care either. We weren’t that close. But, she was kind.

I didn’t like being alone in the house, although, often times I was. Being alone let my thoughts take over; it let my thoughts run wild, and it let me think of the darker times I had faced. I didn’t like it one bit.

I loved to stroll around town. It wasn’t a pretty place, but it was familiar and consistent. I liked that about our town, nothing ever changed. Most days, when I was walking back to Jun’s house from town, I would pass by the factory. Only this time, I stopped. I stared. Something about it was different. Now, the brush wasn’t trying to keep me out; it was almost inviting me in. It had arranged itself along the pathway leading up to the factory. I had never seen it like this before.

I stepped closer to the doors, and they didn’t intimidate me. Rather than pushing me away, the doors were left cracked open. I could see light trying to escape from inside the factory. No one had been inside for years, at least not that I knew of, and now the doors were suddenly unlocked.

It was midnight. I loved to take walks at midnight, when no one was around, when the air was fresh, and the sky was pitch black. I looked around just in case someone was watching.

No one was, so I opened the doors.

I almost fell on my face from using too much force. The doors were a lot lighter than they appeared.

Inside, it looked different than what I had expected. The outside was naturally beautiful, but the inside… The inside of the factory was extravagantly decorated, with candles lit in all corners of the room. The chandeliers hung from the ceiling and a table set for two sat between a conveyor belt and an assembly table. I thought this was the weirdest part. I wondered why the table was set up like this. I was alone. There was no need for it. The wind blew through the now opened windows, sending a chill through my whole body. It all felt off. The moonlight gracefully drifted through the room. Suddenly, uneasiness crept over me. The first hallway looked almost like a tunnel, only you couldn’t see light at the end of it.

It looked like someone, or maybe something, had been living here. I felt like someone was trying to make me feel at home and this feeling was off putting.

I walked down the long, dark hallway, waiting for someone to jump out at me, something to creep up when I least expected it.

“Hello? Is anybody in here?” I asked, not really wanting to hear a response.

No answer.

I heard my voice echo through the hallway for a lot longer than it should have. It was too quiet. The horror-movie-like setting wasn’t what scared me the most. It was the fact that this place felt alive; this place felt happy to have me there. But, it wouldn’t be happy to see me leave. I wanted to run, but something was keeping me there. I should’ve never stepped foot in the factory, yet here I was.

Now, the air felt heavy, and it smelled stale. I looked around to see why and realised that all the windows were now shut. I tried to open the door but it wouldn’t budge.

“Why won’t you open?” I screamed, my fists banging on the door.

But, of course, no response.

And suddenly, I stopped banging on the door, I stood for a moment thinking. Why did I want to leave? What did I really want?

Maybe that’s what it wanted me to think. I had accepted my fate. I knew I wasn’t going to get out.

I walked around the factory for a few minutes, examining every shattered piece of glass, every lost screw.

I was strangely at peace.

I stopped walking. Then, quickly, picked up my pace and started again.

I had been walking around for hours now. Hours turned to days, days turned into weeks and as time went on, my heart got heavier and my steps became weaker. I had lost my grasp of time.

The last thing I saw was a doll, and it looked strangely familiar.

Years passed and no one came looking for me. My joints stiffened. My little white shoes stayed bright. My now-porcelain skin felt cold. And, just like that, everyone forgot about me. Just as my parents had.

The factory was the most beautiful building in town. It still stands at the corner of 17th and Orlando Street, with its magnificent collection of dolls.

 

Social Skills and Social Media

Social media is one of the largest growing phenomenons across the world, and it is still spreading. This marvel condenses conversations and relationships to the form of an app. The problem with these apps is that social skills, such as conversation skills, body language, and many others, are lost when using social media as a main form of communication. Social media deteriorates in person relationships based on how much people are communicating over apps and not in person.

Face-to-face conversations build relationships and social skills as opposed to communicating mostly over text and messages. Body language, conversation skills (verbally and nonverbally), facial expressions, empathy and sympathy, appearance, and gestures are all social skills that I know I have learned through conversations and many personal relationships I have had over time. I remember, when I was only five, my brother and I went to a supermarket just for fun because our mom gave us ten dollars. My brother was afraid to ask the cashier where our favorite candy was, so he made me ask. That was one of the first times that I’ve had a conversation using the social skills I had learned by talking to friends and family. After that experience, I realized that it wasn’t hard to ask a question to someone you didn’t know, and even make small talk with someone you didn’t know. For example, you can’t learn verbal and nonverbal conversation skills by communicating mostly over text.

Most face-to-face conversations actually consist more of body language and expressions than words. “Human communication consists of 93% body language and paralinguistic cues, while only 7% consist of words.” By learning social skills, and using them in everyday conversations, you can build and start new relationships that you would have never had. By building new relationships, you can also overcome the awkwardness of speaking to people that you don’t know. Yes, it is easier to talk with someone over text or using messages, but it is not the natural thing to do. Technology is a superficial, man-made object that is not like speaking face-to-face at all. People may argue that texting/facetime/messaging is social, but is it? You are hiding behind a screen even with facetime. All of these examples of social media is just mostly you hiding behind a screen and creating an artificial appearance for yourself. It’s just not natural.

This also helps you share your opinions more easily. If you feel comfortable having a conversation with somebody, than you are more likely to share your opinions on some topics. Practicing your social skills also makes you more comfortable starting conversations with parents, peers, adults, executives, and friends. Most executives of businesses are looking for face-to-face conversations instead of over social media. In a survey by Forbes, that spoke to 760 business executives, 84% preferred face-to-face communication. Out of those, 85% said their reason were that it builds stronger, more meaningful business relationships. Respondents of the survey also said face-to-face meetings are best for persuasion (91%), leadership (87%), and engagement (86%).” Face-to-face conversations are always better than communicating through social media because social skills are built and relationships are more easily made.

Cyberbullying is a large problem that arose off of social media and affects people more when social media is a big part of their lives. Cyberbullying erupted from social media and is a form of mostly anonymous bullying that targets people based on appearance, opinions, and decisions. Cyberbullying came to be because people felt more comfortable expressing themselves, both in good and bad ways, behind a screen rather than in person or face-to-face. We have found that this is a very large problem in our country. Research done shows 52% of teens report being cyberbullied. More people bully online than in real life. Teens agree with this statement. Research done shows 81% of teens agree that bullying is easier to get away with online.

Another problem is that people being cyberbullied do not tell their parents. Studies done have shown that only one in ten kids tell their parents if they are being cyber bullied. People being cyberbullied should have somebody to talk to, and if they can’t talk to their parents, they probably won’t want to talk to their close friends or trusted adults. Also, awareness of cyberbullying is a problem. Only 68% of teens agree that cyberbullying is a serious problem, and 95% of teens on social media have witnessed cyberbullying and done nothing. This shows, that online, there aren’t really any allies. In real life, there are allies and people who help, but people online don’t help. Many teens in this day and age have social media as a big part of their daily life, making it much more problematic for them when they are being cyberbullied. Bullying in general is always going to be more problematic if there is nobody to talk to and there is no ally. Most people being cyberbullied don’t feel like they can talk to anybody, and the overall majority do not have an allies. I feel that if everyone did not use social media as such a big part of their lives, then less people would be cyberbullying. Confidence is something that most cyberbullies attack. What cyber bullies want is to terrorize you, and to beat the cyber bullies, you just can’t think about them and not be terrorized.

Social media is a large part of our society today, and people have become too attached to their online profiles. What is important is the realization that social media should be used to compliment face-to-face relationships, but not to be used as a main source of a communication. Our online profiles are not us in real life. If used as a main form of communication, social media will break down face-to-face relationships and social skills as well.

 

Bibliography

Jobs in Pharma, Sales, Devices, Clinical & Healthcare Comms.” Star Medical. N.p., n.d. Web. 30 June 2017.

Forbes. Forbes Magazine, n.d. Web. 30 June 2017.

“Cyber Bullying Statistics.” Bullying Statistics. N.p., 07 July 2015. Web. 30 June 2017.

“Cyber Bullying Statistics.” NoBullying – Bullying & CyberBullying Resources. N.p., 12 June 2017. Web. 30 June 2017.

“11 Facts About Cyber Bullying.” DoSomething.org | Volunteer for Social Change. N.p., n.d. Web. 30 June 2017.

 

The Bell Tower (Chapter One)

The air smelled musty, and not a single gust of wind could be felt. The only sound was a lone crow’s call; the broken sound, the only sense of company in the tower. The taste of dust felt heavy on my tongue. The bell was rusted with years of age and rain with no usage. Once rung, the bell resounded with years of age and tire.

“Cassandra!”    

“Cassandra! Where are you? Mother wants us to be at Madame’s for tea!”

I sighed. There wasn’t a single time I could escape up to the tower in my imagination. There was always something to do, something to attend, some tea party my mother needed me to go to. I opened my eyes to see my sister dash into my room.

“Cassandra! There you are. Don’t you know what time it is? It’s much too late to still be in bed!”

 This was routine by now. Every Saturday morning at 11:34, my sister dashes in to reprimand me for wasting time. Elle was always the one to adhere to the rules. I fathom she didn’t even know how much fun it was to bend the rules every so often.

“I was already awake, Elle, though I doubt anyone a mile ‘round is still sleeping after the racket you made coming up here.”

Elle rolled her eyes.

Then, her voice softer, she she said, “Get up already, Cass. We really need to get going. You know how Madame gets when we arrive late to tea.”

Madame Bartmellow was one of Mother’s friends, and she always invited us to tea on Saturdays. How I wished I could do something else on Saturdays, like my older brother, Samuel. When he wasn’t at the family manor in the countryside, he got to stay home with Mother and Father. But even Sammy insisted I go. Madame lived a block away, but Mother made us ride in the carriage anyhow.

“It looks refined!” She always exclaims. “I know you’d prefer to walk, but I wouldn’t like you to catch cold.”

It may be cold in London, but Mother simply did not understand how to appreciate the adventure in life. The only thing closely resembling adventure that she approved of was reading adventure novels. I do love those mystery novels. I only wished that something would happen to me like that! This need for adventure was why I was always trying to escape to the old belltower. It seemed so real in my mind, and there was always so much detail when I thought about it, that it seems like a memory. I realized Elle was looking at me expectantly. I sighed. It was going to be a long day.

About half an hour later, I was in the dining room, ready to head out to the carriage. Elle was on my right, complaining about how long I took to get ready, and Mother was bustling out of the parlor with a worried expression on her face.

Mother was always worrying about something or another. I didn’t take it to mean much, especially when it came from Henry, the butler Father hired a month prior. In the four weeks he had worked in our household, he already told Mother about five events, that were supposedly happening, but never did occur.

“Henry told me that there seems to be some commotion going on outside. I don’t exactly know what is happening, but do try to stay out of trouble while you’re out.”

Mother may have been anxious, but little did I know that the “little commotion” was actually going to forever change the course of my life.

 

Jazz in Education

Jazz has always been a big part of my life. I believe that jazz is important because it teaches creativity in a way that’s different from anything else. Jazz is a musical genre you can improvise on. Classical music, which is the genre schools teach, is only played one way: by playing the specific notes written on the page. I believe that this is why some students quit their instruments. They do not like the way classical music is played. Studies say the brain can’t learn as well when it is not happy or interested.  I am not saying classical music shouldn’t be taught. Classical music is very important because of its fundamentals, but just learning only classical music will not be sufficient. It won’t teach people to improvise. Improvising is where people think of what to play while playing. This is a skill I find important. This skill can also be applied in everyday activities, such as expressing ideas. People think of what to say next while talking. Learning jazz can help this skill. Therefore, schools should teach jazz in addition to classical music.

It is important for kids to learn to improvise. In some schools, teachers teach kids to compose music by writing note by note. This is good for creativity, but it still doesn’t teach kids to come up with ideas on the fly. Also, writing the music out is more time consuming than improvisation. When people write note by note, they often forget their ideas while writing the notes. Also, composing jazz is different from composing classical music. First, composing jazz takes less time than composing classical music. This is because jazz forces you to concentrate more on the chords. Chords take less time to write out. Chords are like the skeleton in a human’s body. It doesn’t directly influence the appearance of the person, but it lays out the shape of the person. With jazz, the chords influence your choice of notes and the shape of the piece, but the notes aren’t specified. So, when you compose jazz pieces, it makes you think of multiple possibilities of what the piece will sound like.  Different types of memorization is also important. While classical music forces you to memorize notes, jazz forces you to memorize chords. So, with jazz, you have to memorize the structure while improvising. This should be good practice for students.

Learning jazz benefits humans unlike any other type of music. Learning jazz teaches teamwork skills. People in jazz bands constantly give each other looks, or “cues” so that everyone knows when they start and end solos, as well as playing with everyone. Being able to use cues requires the whole band to be on the same page. There is not as much teamwork skills involved with classical music, since all the notes are fixed. All you have to do is to play along with everyone. This is why jazz develops students’ brains differently. Also, jazz expands mental abilities. According to William R. Klemm,  a player has to engage the brain in multiple ways that classical musicians do not. According to Psychology Today, when improvising, “players have to have a huge musical vocabulary and realize in milliseconds what new notes will fit” and that this is one of the most “mentally demanding things.” The author also says that this helps brain development in many ways. An overwhelming amount of studies say challenging the brain develops new neural networks in the brain. The author also says that learning to play jazz teaches “invaluable learning capacities for hand-eye coordination, the ability to memorize, discipline, patience, critical and creative thinking, high-speed intellectual engagement with the ideas of others, and self-actualization and confidence.” People playing and listening to jazz experience enormous amounts of mental stimulation, making the experience fun for them. Studies also suggest that learning jazz helps memory, intelligence, creativity, and that it relieves stress. After all, jazz started out as an emotional relief system for slaves. It is also the best type of music to listen to while studying or writing. According to liveforlivemusic, the brain releases chemicals to react accordingly. According to Kendall Deflin, the brain follows the influence of jazz and goes with the rhythmically improvisational patterns which pop and jerk at times, so the activity in the music increases hyperactive neural stimulation. This is saying that the unusual rhythms affects the brain in positive ways.

Additionally, jazz should also be taught in a history context. Jazz is a big part of African American history. It started as emotional relief for slaves. The styles of jazz change as the culture changes and new people come along. Also, the jazz gets influenced by many different cultures and genres to get to what it is today. It is also important to know how people reacted differently to jazz throughout time. Jazz is one of the few art forms that are uniquely American. Jazz plays a very big part in history. Jazz has always been a way of expressing emotion. Happier musicians would play more up beat fast music, while slaves would play the blues. As times change, the style and the music would change too. This is important for the students to learn about because it is related to the history of the people. The interdisciplinary approach has been proven to work. If kids learn to play jazz, and learn about the history of jazz, they would learn history while being able to relate to the music they are playing.

Schools should teach a wide variety of genres. I believe why people stop practicing their instruments is due to their lack of interest in the genre, not because they don’t understand music. If schools teach many genres, and give a chance to every student to try out different types of genres, students would have better chances to keep going with their instrument. Also, because experience in one genre can help students play other genres, learning multiple genres is beneficial for students, just like it is good for teachers to teach different types of writing. Therefore, jazz, in addition to classical music, should be taught in schools.

 

Bibliography:

Klemm, William. “What Jazz Music Can Do for the Brain.” Psychology Today. Sussex Publishers, 27 Apr. 2014. Web. 30 June 2017.

Deflin, Kendall. “Why Jazz Is The Most Stimulating Genre of Music, According To Science.”L4LM. N.p., 23 Dec. 2016. Web. 30 June 2017.

 

Teaching About Islam in Schools

Muslims, throughout the world and especially in the United States, are being oppressed and discriminated against by many people. This prejudice and xenophobia has always existed, but it has been exacerbated by extremism. This problem grew in 2001, when an extremist Muslim group attacked the Twin Towers in New York City. Because of this event, and others that were caused by extremist groups, Muslims are being attacked by fearful and ignorant people. In schools, Muslim children are excluded and bullied by their classmates, and many times, teachers offer no support. Police officers randomly stop and question Muslims on the streets, and in airports, TSA officers interrogate Muslims and search through their luggage and clothes. In the media, whether it’s films, social media, or magazines, Muslims are portrayed as violent and threatening. Our president, Donald Trump, recently issued an executive order to ban people from seven, mostly Muslim, countries the allowance into the United States. This executive order, formally known as “Protecting the Nation from Foreign Terrorist Entry,” is more commonly known as the “Muslim Ban.”  Muslims are being treated this way because these people are frightened and ignorant. However, this fear and ignorance can be mitigated by education. Schools throughout the United States should teach students about Islam as a subject in the context of world history and religions, because it can create more empathy and understanding.

Many parents are against this statement. They are worried that Islam will be taught in schools as a religious practice and methodology, and that it may have an indoctrinating effect on their children. More than 70% of the United States identify as Christians, so they may not want the schools to teach their children to practice a different religion. Michelle Edmisten, a mother from Tennessee, complained that her 7th grade daughter was being penalised for not completing assignments about the five pillars of Islam. The daughter didn’t complete the assignments, because according to Edmisten, “she felt some of the assignments went against her beliefs as a Christian” and that her daughter’s “personal religious beliefs were violated.” Yet the assignments only asked for her to list Islam’s five pillars, which were in no way forcing her into becoming Muslim, or going against Christian beliefs. In fact, something both Christianity and Islam have in common is the message of love, peace, and forgiveness. Michelle Edmisten then continued to ask for a history textbook to be removed from her daughter’s social studies curriculum, saying that “it promotes Islamic propaganda.”  However, there is a distinction between propaganda and education. Propaganda promotes a specific bias or viewpoint. Education, on the other hand, is for the gain of knowledge. Michelle Edmisten might be worried that her daughter can be affected by this “Islamic propaganda,” which can, in turn, indoctrinate her into Islam. Edmisten is not the only one. Parents throughout the country are pulling their children out of schools because they are misinterpreting Islam being taught as methodology. This provokes the fear of their children practicing Islam. This fear is provoked by prejudice, which makes these irrationally fearful parents not want their children even learning about Islam in any context. A March 2015 Huffpost poll showed that nearly 55% of Americans viewed Muslims negatively.

However, the schools and teachers are by no means trying to indoctrinate the children into Islam. Worksheets, assignments, and textbooks about Islam are not forcing students to practice the religion, nor are they promoting it. The schools are merely educating the students about the history of humanity. The students are taught about how Islam began, what it means to the world, and its celebrations and customs. Islam began around the time of the Silk Road, and, therefore, influenced many other cultures and civilisations. This religion is also the world’s second most popular, with around 1.8 billion followers. If schools were to not teach about Islam, they would be erasing certain parts of history and humanity. “Parents are banning together to erase history and leave the next generations of children ignorant and unprepared for the real world,” stated Nakia Moore, a student from the University of Alabama. If children don’t learn about Islam, they might spend the rest of their lives believing anything about this religion, whether it’s true or not. For example, the media and Islam’s false public image might be believable to someone uneducated or ignorant about the religion. This uneducated or ignorant person might then grow to view Islam negatively, and this is how prejudice ensues. Schools are teaching students about other religions like Christianity, Judaism, Buddhism, and Hinduism. Yet, some are failing to teach Islam.

Many parents don’t want their children learning about Islam because of their irrational and ignorant prejudice towards the religion. This leads to many schools pulling Islam out of their curriculum, in an effort to appeal to these parents. “There’s no indoctrination,” said Patricia Raynor, a South Carolina spokeswoman, about Islam being taught in schools. “It’s a course of study, just like an algebra class.” This is true, because learning about Islam and other religions is just as important as learning about Shakespeare or World War II. Knowing about the religions of the world is fundamental because if this knowledge is absent, it is nearly impossible to fully understand art, history, and politics. In 1963, Justice Thomas Clark from Texas wrote that “It might well be said that one’s education is not complete without a study of comparative religion or the history of religion and its advancement of civilisation.” Religion is so deeply rooted in the history of humanity, that not learning or teaching about the different types would be erasing a major part of our story as a whole. Educating children about Islam will also reduce the attacks on Muslims. The more people can learn about Islam, the more they will be able to understand Muslims and their religion, therefore diminishing fear and prejudice. The more we know about the world, the less afraid we will be of it. For example, a Pew study found that if a person was familiar with Muslims or knew one, there was a stronger likelihood that they would have a more positive attitude towards Islam, compared to someone who had never met or learned about Muslims.

It is important for children to learn about Islam because it has made such a big impact on our world throughout the centuries, influencing hundreds of cultures and civilizations. Religion has contributed to almost all aspects of human life: politics, literature, art, economics, and science. Refusing to learn about the world’s different religions would be like refusing to learn the history of humanity. In addition, the president of the United States has made Islamophobia wildly popular in the country, emphasizing that Muslims are violent and that they are terrorists. Many people support the president and believe what he says is true. This has lead to many more attacks on Muslims throughout the nation. But the main reason as to why this is happening is because there are many ignorant people in the country. Susan O’Brien, a New Jersey resident, said, “I believe that ignorance breeds fear and fear breeds hatred; the more we understand about other cultures and religions, the better we are equipped to deal with the issues we face in today’s world.” If more students are taught about Islam, they will not only be gaining crucial knowledge about humanity’s history, but they will also show more empathy towards Muslims. This will be able to greatly reduce attacks on Muslims and Islamophobia in general. The students can grow to be more open-minded, tolerant, and compassionate. A generation of smarter and kinder people can be formed, and they will not only learn to tolerate differences, but embrace them as well.

 

Luongo, Michael T. “Traveling While Muslim Complicates Air Travel.” The New York Times. The New York Times, 07 Nov. 2016. Web. 06 July 2017.

“EXECUTIVE ORDER: PROTECTING THE NATION FROM FOREIGN TERRORIST ENTRY INTO THE UNITED STATES.” The White House. The United States Government, 23 Feb. 2017. Web. 06 July 2017.

Panel, Guardian. “‘A Rollercoaster Ride’: How Trump’s Muslim Travel Ban Has Affected Lives.” The Guardian. Guardian News and Media, 24 May 2017. Web. 06 July 2017.

Wormald, Benjamin. “Religious Landscape Study.” Pew Research Center’s Religion & Public Life Project. N.p., 11 May 2015. Web. 06 July 2017.

Bult, Laura. “Tenn. Mom Fights to Remove School Book That Teaches about Islam.” NY Daily News. N.p., 06 Oct. 2016. Web. 06 July 2017.

Mazza, Ed. “Mom Throws A Fit When Her Daughter Learns About Islam In School.” The Huffington Post. TheHuffingtonPost.com, 06 Oct. 2016. Web. 30 June 2017.

Kaleem, Jaweed. “More Than Half Of Americans Have Unfavorable View Of Islam, Poll Finds.” The Huffington Post. TheHuffingtonPost.com, 10 Apr. 2015. Web. 06 July 2017.

Lipka, Michael. “Muslims and Islam: Key Findings in the U.S. and around the World.” Pew Research Center. N.p., 26 May 2017. Web. 06 July 2017.

Moore, Nakia. “Islam Should Be Taught in Schools.” The Crimson White. N.p., 06 Oct. 2017. Web. 06 July 2017.

Shugerman, Emily. “Some Parents Are Pissed That Their Kids Are Learning about Islam in School.” Revelist.com. N.p., 2 Feb. 2017. Web. 06 July 2017.

Yoffie, Eric H. “Let’s Teach About Islam in Our Schools.” Time. Time, 23 Dec. 2014. Web. 06 July 2017.

Liu, Joseph. “Views of Islam and Violence.” Pew Research Center’s Religion & Public Life Project. N.p., 08 Sept. 2009. Web. 06 July 2017.

Bandler, Aaron. “New Jersey School District Teaches Islam But Censors Christianity.” Daily Wire. N.p., 21 Feb. 2017. Web. 06 July 2017

 

Chasing Stars

The night sky plasters a layer of darkness above us like a ceiling. We lie stretched out on a blanket, our phones inside the house and turned off. The air is still, as the fireflies appear sporadically and then dip back shyly into the darkness. I’m not thinking about my potential mosquito bites or how tired I’ll be tomorrow. Instead, I listen to the low hum of my sister’s voice as she describes the stars we’re lying under.

“Does it comfort you?” She hesitates with a tone of anticipation. “Does it comfort you to know that there is a whole unknown world out there?” It’s a pretty random question, even for her. But everything feels so uncomplicated that it seems like the right conversation to have.

“I don’t know,” I respond, still staring straight up at the sky. “I guess it’s both comforting and terrifying.”  

“Terrifying?” She exclaims, shocked. “How can it be terrifying?”

“Well, it makes you realize that you don’t really matter. Like, none of this — not you, not me, not the people we know or the things we do. I mean, what are we compared to the stars that will still be here millions of years from now?”

She’s silent for a moment, slowly processing what I’d said. We’re only two years apart, but sometimes it feels like four. Difference in age creates one hole in our relationship, but our personality differences open many more. Although I was born only one minute after my twin brother, I am the first-born in spirit. I’m the classic type-A perfectionist. Don’t worry, I’m working on it.

Despite our holey swiss cheese relationship, we’re as close as the cars on the I-95. I always pack her bag when we go on trips because if she packs hers, she’ll forget underwear. Oh, and we share a room, so that definitely adds to the dynamic. I go from picking up the clothes she left strewn over the floor, to singing every lyric of Summer Nights with her at 11:00 pm, in our parallel twin beds.

Lily is like a sparkler. She’s the kind of light that you hesitate before igniting. Not because you don’t want to, but rather, because it’s so forceful, so full. She is so full. Not physically, she’s actually long and lanky. But her presence is all encompassing. And her light makes you want to trace your name into the darkness with it. She turns her face towards me, her freckly nose crinkling thoughtfully.  

“I guess that makes a little sense,” she says, though I know she’s still skeptical.

“To me it’s exciting. It’s exciting to know that there is so much left to discover. So many corners of the earth to explore.”

“So couldn’t it be scary to think you might never see those corners?” I pose.

“Well,” she starts confidently, as if she had already thought of that, “that’s why you have to go seeking. You have to seek out the corners, not expect them to fall in your lap.”

“Lily, where is this coming from?” I ask, genuinely confused.

“In health today, we talked about cancer,” she says.

“Oh,” I say. Our grandfather had been diagnosed with bladder cancer four years ago. It was tragic, but there was a level of detachment between us and the issue, so it   wasn’t  something we talked about plainly.

“Let’s get out of here” I say, hoping to change the subject. It was only nearing 10:00 pm, so Brookville Supermarket was still open.

“We can get ice cream at Brookeville.”

“I hope they have bubblegum,” she says.

As we fold up the blanket and step into our flip flops, we take one more look at the stars. We walk inside quietly, and Lily sets the blanket back down on the couch. I grab my wallet from the counter, and we walk out the front door, closing it softly.

As we walk up the street, the sound of our flip flops create a casual rhythm. Lily sprints ahead for a moment and then slows down; she thinks she can run faster in the dark. I think she’s crazy, good crazy. When we reach the market, the renowned “7- Up” and “Brookeville Super” signs are illuminated on the side of the building.

The bell on the door jingles as we open it. We step into the coolness that occupies most grocery stores, and it wraps around us like an old friend. The florescent lighting takes a few seconds to adjust to, but once I do, I am overwhelmed with familiarity. I can almost feel the weight of my polka-dotted fifth grade backpack and the cool glass of the ice cream counter on my nose as I point to coffee, my favorite flavor. My eyes find their way to the dark curls of Ryan Gibson, standing at the cash register. His green eyes flicker to the corner of the store where we stand, and when he sees us, a smile spreads across his face.

“Hey, Harper,” he says eagerly. Ryan and I went to elementary school together. Although we parted ways for high school, we used to be good friends. We haven’t talked in awhile, and it’s surprising to see him here.  

“Ryan! When did you start working here?” I ask, feeling a little like I too should have a job.

“Two weeks ago. My mom wanted me to have a job for the summer, so I thought I’d start now.” It was late May, and at school, you could tell everyone was checked out. Once the warm weather arrived in Chevy Chase, school felt wrong.

“I’m impressed,” I answer, examining his face, still shocked at how much older he looked.

“We came for ice cream,” says Lily, impatiently.

“Of course, Lily, what can I get you?” says Ryan, making his way over to the ice cream counter.

“Bubblegum in a small cone please,” she says.

“And for you?” He asks, looking towards me.

“Coffee in a small cup,” I answer, my eyes trained on the ice cream scooper. We pay for our ice cream, and I tell Ryan I’ll see him around. We sit at the table outside and eat our ice cream in comfortable silence. Lily has around an inch left of her cone so I eat it, then regret it when I realize coffee and bubblegum are not a good match. We walk home to the beat of our flip flops and the reassuring feeling that tomorrow is Saturday, and we can sleep in.

 

I wake up to the sound of pots and pans and the low drone of the espresso machine. I check my phone; it’s 8:42. When I come downstairs, everyone looks at me. Lily, my mom, and my twin brother, Nick, are all seated at the table. My dad is frothing the milk for my mom’s coffee, and there’s a stiffness in the room.

“Does anyone want to tell me what’s going on?” I ask, confused. I wanted to tell them that I was thinking about getting a job for the summer, maybe at Brookeville market. I could spend time with Ryan and serve ice cream to cute little kids. But it felt like the wrong time with this awkward vibe.

“We have some news,” my mom starts, “I want you to remember that this could be much worse and that you are very lucky kids.”

“What happened?” says Lily, concerned. “Did you lose your job? Are you guys getting divorced?”

“No, no, Lily, stop it.” My mom says.

“Then what? You’re freaking me out,” says Lily, abandoning her cereal, her eyes wide.

“We are moving to Santa Barbara, to be with my dad,” my mom says, slowly.

I focus on the ceiling fan, whipping around in endless circles. I try to follow one of the petals, but lose it after a few seconds. I feel like somehow I should have predicted this, or maybe it just seems that way when you get shocking news. I look out the small window above our kitchen sink. The glass makes the outside scenery look like a painting. My grandfather paints.

“For the summer?” I break in, my mind spinning in a million different directions. “Or for the school year too?”

“You guys will go to Santa Barbara High School starting September,” she says. “We leave June 16th.” I think about what a serious decision this is to make. To move our family of five from Chevy Chase, Maryland to Santa Barbara, California. This must mean that my grandfather’s situation has worsened.

I find a new petal to focus on and watch as it spins.

“How is he?” I ask, tentatively.

“The treatments are moving slower than we expected,” my dad says, handing my mom her coffee in her favorite Cafe De Flore mug. “We want to help your grandmother and spend as much time with them as we can.”

“Can I still play golf out there?” asks Nick, the school record-setting state champion. He crosses his arms, tanned and muscular from playing and caddying.

“Of course,” my mom says. “We want to make the switch as smooth as possible for you guys; we know it’s tough to switch high schools and move across the country.”

“Imagine moving from California to the Philippines as a sophomore,” my dad says. He moved around a lot growing up.

“It won’t be for too long either,” my mom says, “just until things get better.” My mom and dad are total opposites. My mom, raised on Park and 93rd on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, went to Spence. My dad, raised in Ohio, Sacramento, and the Philippines, went to UC Riverside, and then lived in Tonga with the Peace Corps.

“And the beach and school are just a short walk from the house,” my dad continues, “west coast, best coast.” Lily and I exchange glances. The beach did sound nice.

“Harper and I can pretend we’re Cali girls,” Lily says, her big blue eyes light up with the magical idea.

“Well, thanks for listening and cooperating,” my mom says, standing up from her chair and folding her robe around her floral pajamas. My sister and I climb the stairs to our shared room. I sit on my unmade bed and peer over at Lily. Grabbing her glasses from her nightside table, my sister sits down in the same position, and we face each other.

“Well, at least you’ll get to see a new corner,” I say, only half joking. The reality of starting over completely in a new school was starting to sink in.

“You’re right,” she says delighted, “Harper, we can go to the beach whenever we want — ”

“Lily,” I interrupt, “you know how hard this is going to be, right? Finding our people, our crowd at a new high school. I mean, I’m going to be a junior this fall. I’m zooming straight into the infamous tunnel that is junior year all by myself. You’ll be doing the same as a sophomore. Like, yes, we’re seeing a new corner, but we didn’t seek this one out. It fell into our laps.”

Lily keeps her eyes trained on the pink stringlets of our shag carpet as she starts to speak.

“Harper,” she starts, “you can’t be picky with the cards you’ve been dealt, or rather the corners. Some fall into your lap and some you seek and find. This one happened to fall into our lap. We get to live in California. Think of every cancer patient out there who can’t live to the full extent that they’d wish to. What would they tell you? Embrace the change and live it up in Santa Barbara, no matter how awkward the first day of school is. Or worry about the rocky start to your junior year?”

I look over at the vintage Vogue covers and New Yorker prints hanging on the wall above our desk and tell myself that I am not the only star in the sky. People everywhere, under the same stars, face incredibly tough hardship — I am up to a mere change of scenery. Especially if it involves brilliant blue Pacific waves.

“I guess it will be pretty cool to start over,” I say. “To meet people who know nothing about me.”

“That’s more like it,” Lily says, getting out of bed and unplugging her phone from the charger.

Later that night, I walk into the sunroom to find Lily lying down on the couch, clad in sweatpants and a quarter zip, a remote clutched in her hand as she scrolls through movie options on Netflix.

I set my stuff down on the table, and, without turning around, Lily asks “Blood in the Water or Stranger by the Lake?”

Stranger by the Lake,” I respond, intrigued.

Blood in the Water it is,” she says, flashing me a sneaky smile before turning back to the face the screen.

I’m lying in my bed almost asleep, in that half-awake state where only the slightest sound can draw you right back into wakefulness. My eyelashes flutter against my sleep mask. The door to our room opens with an unforgiving screech, and Lily steps into the darkness to get into her bed. I’m awake now, but I don’t feel like talking, so I pretend I was never broken out of my almost-sleeping state.

And just as I am about to drift off completely, Lily whispers, “Harper, I’m scared.”

“Me too,” I whisper.

Sunday came and went and so did the last week of school. Telling my friends that I was moving across the country felt wrong, like I was playing a part or reading a script. This didn’t feel real. It wasn’t so much that I would miss them terribly — I don’t rely on my friends as much as most people do. It was more about familiarity and comfort. I’m comfortable, but that is going to change when the plane takes off June 16th.

It’s Friday, June 9th, and I’ve just finished my sophomore year. I’m in the passenger seat of my mom’s silver Volkswagen bug, my hand stretched out the window, fingers curling to catch the 30 mph Connecticut Avenue breeze. It’s weird how we wish for summer and then once we get there, we’re stuck. Stuck in the feeling that we should be doing all the things we put off until now. The screen of my phone lights up with a notification that reads “This iPhone hasn’t been backed up in 97 weeks.” I make a mental note to back my photos up on my laptop later. My mom drops me off at the Silver Diner, where my friends and I order french toast and milkshakes from the all day brunch menu. Jade, Stella, and I sit in our usual booth by the window. Jade to my left and Stella across from me. Stella has shoulder length blonde hair, green eyes, and a slight, dancer’s frame. She is wild and fearlessly independent. Jade is more like me, cautious and mindful. Yet she’s also fierce and scrappy. Her eyes are light brown with specks of golden light that often emerge.

The milkshakes arrive, the extras in tall frosty silver cups.

“Cheers to junior year,” says Stella, raising her glass.

“And cheers to a west coast Harper,” says Jade.

“Guys, please don’t forget about me” I say, looking each of them in the eye.

“Girl, that’s impossible,” Stella says.

“Yeah, we’ll Facetime you a ton and keep you caught up on school gossip. You’ll meet surfer boys and come back all tan, looking like a Brandy Melville model,” Jade gushes.

“She’s right,” says Stella, “you’re gonna be so exotic when you return, I think we should be worried about you forgetting us.”

“Oh stop it,” I chuckle, glad that I came out tonight and quickly realizing that this may be one of the last times we’re all together before I leave.
“So I leave in a week,” I say, seriously.

“Let’s make it the best one yet,” Jade says, twirling her spoon.

And it did end up being one of the best. We spent our days at the pool, letting the sun seep into our skin and our tan lines stand out further. We would go for long drives at night with no destination in mind and with all the windows down. We would stay up ‘til 3:00 in the morning talking, and then sleep in ‘til 1:00 pm. We would talk about our futures: the near, the far, and every place in between.

 

The next thing I know, I’m walking down the narrow aisle of the plane, looking for 24C. I sit down in the middle seat, then trade with Lily for the aisle. I take my book, earbuds and phone out of my bag, then set it under the seat in front of me. I am about to fasten my seatbelt when something — someone catches my eye. I stare at the head of dark curls I am almost sure belongs to none other than… Ryan Gibson?

“Ryan,” I call out, hoping to get his attention. What was he doing on this flight?

“Ma’am, I’m gonna need you to be quiet,” the flight attendant says. Her red hair looks familiar. Is that… ? My ninth grade biology teacher? Since when is she a flight attendant?

“Ryan,” I say again, louder this time.

“I’m listening to a podcast, do you mind keeping it down?” says a blonde girl across the aisle that looks my age. Wait..

“Stella?” I ask, “what are you doing on this flight? Why are there so many people I know on this flight?”

“You don’t remember?” she asks. “We’re coming with you to Santa Barbara. We’re all coming with you.”

There is a beeping in my ear that won’t stop. Everything feels so hazy, so off. I turn around and see three of my classmates in the row behind me. I face the front of the plane and Ryan turns around; I think he sees me. The beeping noise won’t stop, and when I focus on it, I realize it’s my alarm. I roll over in bed and open my eyes. I sit up to grab my phone and press stop on the alarm. It’s 6:00 am, June 16th and our plane takes off, for real, in three hours.

Our carry-on bags inch across the belt and under the metal detector. We stack our plastic bins and put our shoes back on. My dad is sporting his usual worried travel face as we follow him to the gate. When the weight of the plane is lifted and the wheels take off, I am overwhelmed with a heartbreaking nostalgia. It feels as though it has been chasing me ever since I woke up this morning, and when we took off, it finally caught me. When the ground we walked on minutes ago becomes a speck in the distance, I try to focus on The Stranger by Albert Camus, instead. But every couple of pages, my mind drifts back to what I had just left behind.  

The sprawling hills and immaculate landscapes create a scenic and smooth drive to my grandparents’ house in Montecito. We pull into the gravel driveway and when I see the weeping willow in the front yard, I instantly remember this place. After greeting my grandmother in the kitchen, I wander into my grandfather’s bedroom. I hang by the doorway, not wanting to disturb him as I watch the steady rising and falling of his chest.

Later, Lily and I decide to investigate the shed in the yard. We find two beach bikes and take them out for a spin. I had forgotten what it feels like to bike down a long windy road in Montecito, with the yellow light of the late evening sun shining down on us, leaving dappled patterns in the road.

I hear a crunching noise and keep biking, not thinking much of it. Lily slows to a stop at a crosswalk and pulls out her phone to see what time it is. I reach into my pocket to do the same, only there is nothing for my fingers to clasp onto. I get off my bike and walk back up the same way we came down as the harshness of the situation casts a shadow on my preceding happy mood. I find my phone face down on the ground and pick it up. The screen is shattered into tiny pieces of glass, and when I push the home button, there is no reaction. We walk our bikes home in shock. I think of that iCloud storage notification, and all the photos I had just lost.

That day, we had run away from our comfort zones and into the unknown. The seemingly magical, sparkly unknown, that involved beaches and surfer boys and yellow evening sunlight. We ran straight into new lives. New lives with cracked phones, lost memories, awkwardness, and unfamiliarity. The start to my junior year was rocky, but I found my crowd, and I found my way. It wasn’t easy, but I did. As for Lily, she got to experience a new corner; we all did. Lily and I unfold one of our grandparent’s big fluffy blankets, and set it onto the grass in their backyard. We each lay down, our feet hanging off the blanket, tickled by the grass. I take a deep breath and gaze up at the stars.

“I changed my mind about the unknown world out there,” says Lily, declaratively. “I think it’s good that we don’t know which corners will fall into our laps.”

“Why’d you change your mind?” I ask, softly.

“Because I realized, if we had been seeking a different corner, maybe we wouldn’t have been given this one. Maybe we are supposed to wait and see whatever random ones fall into our laps.”

“You’re right,” I say, shocked at how clear and simple her message was.

My eyes fixate on the stars, scattered throughout the dark sky. Some shine brighter than others, but each and every one is important.

 

The Magical World (Chapter Two from Mystic)

Everyone knows those long, tiring days. You’ve experienced one. You can just admit it. After busting a shoplifter, sneaking into a prison, hearing a noise louder than a Green Day show, and practically being death threatened by a huge guild of Scavengers that shouldn’t exist anymore; you’d be tired too, just admit it.

Surely, you have your own special place where you go on those tiring days; some would call that special place home. Mystic has his own world. Of course, he doesn’t own that world, but he calls it a home.

***

Mystic walked around the city for a little bit. To any normal person who watched him for long enough, it would seem like he was just wandering around endlessly, with no place in mind. But don’t be fooled like any normal person; he knew exactly where he was going. Mystic walked down a shady side street with a small pub on the corner. When he reached the entrance, he paused and stared at a lock on the main door that appeared to the human eye to be completely broken. Mystic pulled out a set of very abnormal looking keys, looking at all of them to make sure he chose the right one. Once he found the right one and put it in the lock, he began to slowly fade out of existence; into another one.

The Magical World. That broken-down keyhole is one of the many portals to allow beings to switch between the two planes of the Human World and the Magical World. The rest are scattered across the city, and Mystic owned a copy of every key. Humans never see it as more than a broken lock, and humans never try to replace or remove the lock because they never see a reason why they have to. Mystic’s body began to appear in the Magical World; slowly, with a flash of light, he fully appeared and looked around. The layout of the Human World and Magical World was eerily similar. The pub that Mystic had used as a portal was still a pub, and, in fact, his favorite magical pub.

As for the inside of this “magical” place, it’s incredibly loud. I’m sure you can imagine a normal human pub or bustling restaurant; now, imagine that but almost ten times as loud and with weird demonic noises, and occasionally a large fight. The pub has been like that since the first day it opened and flooded with Demons. That’s right, Demons, all sorts of them as well. While “Demon” is a very general term, since there are hundreds of different kinds and most magical creatures would take “Demon” as an offense, Mystic generally called them all Demons as well, as he himself had grown fond of the term. Most humans would still call them “Demons” or “Monsters” because humans had invented those terms, and it was a way for them to feel like they knew something they truly know nothing about.

Anyway, the pub was normally abnormally loud; but today, however, those qualities of the pub were stronger than ever. Half the Demons that you could see were in a fight; the rest were screaming bloody murder, possibly just trying to talk over all the chaos or simply trying to add to the chaos, who knows? Despite all the insanity, Mystic felt calmer here than he did in the Human World. Perhaps because he had become familiar with this world or perhaps because he was so connected with magic. Mystic looked around and managed to see two much calmer figures in the back of the pub, one slurping down an inhumanly large chug of beer, and the other, who didn’t have a drink in front of him. He recognized the two instantly.

“Pazak! Tabi!” Mystic called out. For some reason, when he called those two names, some of the ruckus calmed down. Pazak, the one with the inhumanly large glass, headed over to Mystic. He had stocky arms and legs, and was partially covered in dirty yellow fur.

“Mystic? Buddy, it’s been years,” Pazak exclaimed.

“Demon years, maybe, but for me, it’s only been a few weeks,” Mystic replied.

“Right, I forgot how weird the Human system works,” Pazak said with a sense of annoyance.

Mystic and Pazak saw another figure walking towards them; he was shorter in comparison to Mystic. His name was Tabi.

“Tabi! You’ve changed quite a bit since the last time I saw you,” Mystic told him as he approached.

Tabi opened his mouth as if he were about to speak, but Pazak interrupted him.

“Yeah, ever since he traveled to the Human World, he got soft,” Pazak told him.

“Hey, I’ve lived most of my entire life in the Human World, and look at me,” Mystic said

with a bragging tone.

“Right, a poor old man who ain’t in a relationship!” Pazak jokingly yelled; he laughed at his own joke as if it was the funniest thing he had ever heard.

 “With the life I have, that’ll be difficult; and tonight, well let’s just say things like that won’t be easy,” Mystic replied.

“Ah, bad night, I’m guessing?” Pazak asked.

“Worst in a long time, bud,” Mystic said with a frustrated tone.

“Lemme guess, still hunting lawbreakers as a night job?” Tabi asked.

Mystic had forgotten how different Pazak and Tabi’s voices were; Pazak sounded more like Louie Armstrong, and by comparison, Tabi’s voice was high and squeaky.

“Every day of the week, Tabi, and whenever I can,” Mystic replied.

“Don’t you ever sleep? Humans do sleep don’t they?” Pazak asked jokingly.

“Consider me nocturnal,” Mystic told him.

“That’s no life for a normal man, and you know it; what are you doing by stopping crime, anyway? It doesn’t pay you,” Pazak responded.

“Well, you can keep trying, but, if you ask me, you’re not going to save the worlds or end world hunger; you’re just fighting the little battles,” Tabi said.

“I could always try,” Mystic told him.

“No, I mean, you may be a talented magic user, but you aren’t some warrior in a red costume with super strength and flight who can save an entire galaxy,” Tabi exclaimed.

“Then, I can always fight the little battles; there’s nothing bigger I have to fight,” Mystic fought back.

“One day, you might need to fight something bigger,” Tabi told him.

Pazak smirked when the two stopped talking; the three all suddenly went silent. Mystic suddenly remembered the state of his snake ring; he looked at it, with all its visible cracks and indents. Pazak looked down to see why Mystic was staring at his fingers and noticed the cracked snake ring.

“You might wanna get that repaired,” Pazak said. “As a matter of fact, I might know just the person who can fix it.”

“Tell me who,” Mystic asked quietly.

“It’s not exactly easy to get in touch with him; he stays quiet these days and wanders around. I’m a mutual friend of his, however, I’m sure I’d be able to contact him again,” Pazak told him. Pazak’s words stunned Mystic; the fact that he said it wasn’t easy to get in touch with this repair man brought back memories of when the Scavenger told him it wasn’t easy to get in contact with his guild.

“I need you to find him as soon as possible; this snake ring…” Mystic began, but was interrupted by Pazak

“…is one of your most valuable magical items; I know who gave it to you after all,” Pazak reminded him.

“Give me this man’s name,” Mystic ordered him.

“His name is Teth. Much like you and Beyonce, he only goes by one name,” Pazak said.

Tabi blinked twice and gave Pazak a questioning look, as he had no idea what a Beyoncé was.

“You know Beyonce?” Mystic asked.

“Music transcends dimensions, too; Mystic, you should know this.” Pazak told him.
Mystic laughed with Pazak as he said this; the two shared a small pause, then, Mystic thought of his ring once again.

“I need to get this ring repaired,” Mystic said.

“Yeah, I know how much it means to you; we’ll go now,” Pazak said.

“I think I’ll stay here; I’ve never been into dodgy magic, anyhow,” Tabi told them.

“Alright, kid, don’t drink too much, and stay safe,” Pazak said jokingly.

“Will do,” Tabi replied.

The next thing Mystic knew, he was on the Demonic streets with Pazak. The two saw a plethora of different kinds of Demons; as in the Demon world, there are more types of Demons than there are animals in the human world. However, unlike humans with other animals, all Demons live in the same cities and environments. The intelligence of Demons vary; most kinds of Demons are about as intelligent than average humans, while others are about as intelligent as monkeys.

“Let’s hope he’s still in this location,” Pazak remarked. “Like I said, this guy moves around a lot.”

Pazak pointed at a strange building; describing it wouldn’t be humanly possible, so simply imagine. However, the building did let off a strange vibe, as if you were passing a creepy looking Fortune Telling shop that was hidden in a back alleyway at night; that’s right, that’s how creepy we’re talking here.

The two entered the building quietly; there was an instant change in sound from the crowded and bustling demon streets to the completely empty candlelit shop. The sound was so minimal, Mystic could hear his heart beating and a slight ringing in his ears. Mystic wandered aimlessly around the room; it looked a lot bigger on the inside then it did the outside. The ceilings were high, and there was a small desk with magical tools stacked high behind it, as well as a large wooden staircase on the left.

“Teth!” Pazak exclaimed.

Pazak’s deep voice seemed to quickly echo across the room. Suddenly, slow footsteps were heard, as a silent old human man walked carefully down the large wooden staircase; this man was Teth. He had somewhat of a hunchback; yet, he walked without a cane or a walker, and his hair was a solid blonde, despite the fact he seemed to desperately cling to the banister of the staircase.

“A human?” Mystic asked himself under his breath.

“That’s sure right. A human with good hearing,” Teth said.

Teth had a thick Brooklyn accent, which you could hear despite his rather low monotone voice.

“It’s been far too long,” Pazak exclaimed.

“Agreed. What do you need? As you know, I have a full job in this world now; I am a very busy man,” Teth told him.

“We have a broken magic item for you to fix,” Mystic told Teth before he let Pazak say anything stupid to him.

“What kind of object?” Teth inquired.

“A possessed snake ring; the spirit of a Scorpiurus embodies it; it’s cracked in multiple places,” Mystic said.

“A cracked spirit ring; that’s incredibly dangerous; if the spirit leaks out, it could create a very…” Teth said, but paused, thinking clearly about what he was about to say.

“…unwelcome entity,” Teth said in a sharp tone.

“Time is of the essence then; it looks like you’re going to have to drop your other work,” Mystic told him.

“Kid, I don’t like your tone,” Teth said jokingly.

Teth moved over to the desk and pulled out a small monocle.

“The ring is cracked in five different places; look closely,” Teth said, giving the monocle to Mystic. Mystic took the monocle and examined it closely. The ring was cracked, but the cracks seemed to emanate a powerful blue light.

“That light, that must be the spirit?” Mystic asked.

“Indeed,” Teth said simply, taking back the monocle. “I need to get to work immediately,”
Teth pulled out a magical tool, and with it, he smoothed down the surface of the cracks. One by one, Mystic watched as each crack disappeared in front of his eyes. Mystic was amazed; never had he seen a tool that could simply fix broken objects with little effort required at all.

“Unfortunately, this tool isn’t going to seal the cracks forever; it’s simply so the spirit doesn’t manage to escape while I work; you’re going to have to give me a day on this snake ring, and I need to focus on this, so I request that you both leave,” Teth told them.

“Are you kidding me, Doc? We just got here!” Pazak exclaimed.

“He’s dealing with dangerous magic here, Pazak; I’d expect that you would know that,” Mystic told him.

“Listen, Teth, we’re gonna catch up sooner or later, okay?” Pazak told Teth.

“Of course; right now, I need to focus on my work,” Teth told him.

Mystic and Pazak both left the shop and walked down the Demonic streets once again, spotting and walking past a group of unusual biker Demons with antlers, causing some mild chaos.

“Teth, he’s not what I was expecting; he’s kind of…” Mystic began but was interrupted by Pazak’s loud voice.

“Old?” Pazak asked.

“I was going to say more human-like than what I was expecting,” Mystic said.

Pazak laughed a long, drawn out laugh.

“You’re getting less blunt over time, Mystic. About a decade ago, you totally would have said ‘he’s old’ and not mention the fact that he’s human, no matter what was going through your mind,” Pazak said.

“How’d you meet him?” Mystic asked.

“I met him way before I met you, but he spent all his time in the Demon world once he discovered it, learned magic from a few dodgy Demon types; unluckily for him, since he stayed in the Demon world, he aged at the rate Demons do, making him grow older faster, if that makes sense,” Pazak told him.

“I think I follow,” Mystic said.

Screaming was suddenly heard behind them; Pazak and Mystic turned around to see a relatively young Demon being thrashed across the street; he hit the ground with a large thump. Mystic looked to see who threw the kid and saw the same unruly antler Demons from before, with their pointy ears, vibrant orange skin and fashionable motorcycles. Pazak didn’t need to watch to know exactly what Mystic was about to do.

“Don’t even think about it; this ain’t our problem,” Pazak said sternly.

Pazak saw a small smirk run across Mystic’s face; he knew what was going to happen next, but he didn’t have enough time to react. Mystic punched Pazak in the stomach, running to the poor Demon kid, who was slowly getting back on his feet.

“Come on, get up, kid! Aren’t you going to fight for yourself?” asked one of the Demons. The Demon cracked his knuckles and made a fist with his seven fingers, getting ready to strike the kid once again.

“Whatever magical items you have on you kid, I want to see them, now,” another Demon said.

“Hey, that’s enough!” Mystic shouted, stepping in front of the kid.

“Get lost, old man, this is none of your business!” The Demon shouted back.

“It bloody sure is now,” Mystic replied.

Suddenly, Pazak ran towards them, and punched the Demons, knocking back the one talking to Mystic.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” the Demon said with a smirk.

“What were you thinking? You don’t have your ring on you,” said Pazak, shouting at Mystic.

“I can handle this the old fashioned way,” Mystic said with a much calmer, cooler voice.

The Demon kid looked up in shock at his protectors; yet, he said nothing. He simply watched.
Mystic and Pazak tried their best to punch the antler Demons back, but to not much avail. The antler Demons fought back using magic; the one Mystic was talking to had speed magic, allowing him to not only be a lot faster then Mystic and Pazak, but making it harder for Mystic and Pazak to see him. Another Demon used energy magic, making him able to shoot energy out of his hands. Another with flight magic, which, as you can imagine for Mystic and Pazak, was just really irritating as he flew about and occasionally dropped down for an aerial punch attack. The two quickly learned that they were completely outclassed and that the antler Demons were much stronger. Mystic was struck across by the speed Demon when trying to protect the kid.

“Hey, you,” the speed Demon exclaimed. “You’re the famous crime buster, Mystic!”

“I’m famous?” Mystic asked.

“Oh, buddy, for us, you’re legendary! You captured some of my contacts easily, and I wanna make you pay!” the speed demon howled. The speed demon ran behind Mystic, and in the second where Mystic wondered where the speed demon went, he was struck in the back of the head by him.

“Guess the legendary Mystic lost his touch! Or maybe you just aren’t as tough as everyone says you are,” The speed Demon continued. Mystic was knocked off his feet by the speed Demon and fell on the cold pavement.

“I’ve heard of your little snake ring; a couple Scavenger guilds are after it,” the speed Demon began. “It’s worth thousands now, and since you don’t seem to want to sell it, I guess that means I can sell it to the Scavengers for myself!” The speed Demon exclaimed. The speed Demon quickly checked all of Mystic’s fingers and ungloved his gloved hand.

“Unlucky break, buddy, I don’t have my ring right now,” Mystic said, smirking at him.
The speed Demon tried to punch him again, but Mystic dodged easily. The speed Demon went into a fit of rage.

“Where is it? Tell me now!” The speed Demon said, grabbing Mystic by the collar of his shirt. The speed Demons’ infuriatingly bright orange skin burned Mystic’s eyes; it was bright, exotic, and overwhelming. His eyes were an even brighter shade of orange, but the annoying orange color of his eyes gave Mystic somewhat of an idea. Mystic spat in the speed Demon’s eye. The Demon didn’t even flinch, however, and rambled on.

“If you won’t tell me, you’re useless to me!” The speed Demon yelled, ignoring the spit, which, by now, had covered most of his face. Meanwhile, Pazak wasn’t faring so well against the Demons; the one using energy magic created a massive fist out of energy, punching Pazak with it and knocking two of Pazak’s teeth out. At this point, a few Demons pulled out small weapons from their pockets; it looked like a knife but with no handle and a very large point. The antler Demons managed to knock Pazak and Mystic on the ground.

“You’re not so good at the old-fashioned way!” Pazak exclaimed.

The antler Demons managed to surround Mystic, Pazak, and the Demon kid.

“You have a plan, magic boy?” Pazak asked.

“Hey, you’re a Demon, Pazak; you’re the one who should know magic, not me!” Mystic retorted back at him.

“Remind me to learn; that speed magic is pretty cool,” Pazak added.

“I know, right?” The speed Demon said, slowing down and standing proudly in front of Mystic, Pazak, and the Demon kid. He looked like a predator who just killed his first prey; proud, yet cold and calculating, ready to hunt again.

“So, human, I think in your world they ask: any last words?” The speed Demon asked. Mystic carefully took the pack of gum from the deli out of his pocket.

“What is that?” the speed Demon asked.

“Gum. It’s edible,” Mystic said, taking out the first stick of gum.

“Is it some sort of weapon?” Whispered one of the Demons in the background.
Pazak and the Demon kid looked on questionably as Mystic began chewing his first piece of gum. However, what Mystic failed to notice was a blue light shining through the pack of gum. Without further notice, the gum came alive, attacking the Demons; the gum grew exponentially in size, and a huge wave of gum shot at the antler Demons.

“I knew it was a weapon!” The same Demon shouted before being drowned out by the incredible amount of gum that shot at them.

When the gum attack died down, Mystic and Pazak could see clearly again; the antler Demons were scattered across the floor; most were covered completely in gum, the speed Demon being one of them. A few had managed to escape and were running away.

“Can we take them?” Pazak asked.

“Let them go; they learned their lesson, and if they haven’t, we’ll get them next time,” Mystic told Pazak.
“Damn. Whatever that weird pink weapon is, it’s useful,”

Mystic laughed loudly but quickly stopped.

“It doesn’t normally do that,” Mystic assured him.

Mystic looked down on the ground; gum had gotten everywhere, and the demons were completely still.

“This is going to make for some weird chalk outlines,” Mystic said jokingly.

“Stop your smart mouth for a second, okay?” Pazak told him. “And look!”

The two saw large vehicles quickly driving down the streets; these cars seemed to hover on magic, as they had no wheels, but they were large and bulky.

“Those are the Magical Authorities, and, to them, we just knocked out a dozen antler Demons for no apparent reason,” Pazak told him.

“Can’t we just tell them they were criminals who were beating up that kid?” Mystic asked.

“Do you really think they’re gonna believe that, Mystic? The crime system is a lot tighter in the magic world; there’s barely a trial, and all criminals are put to death,” Pazak told him.

“Tabi is lucky he didn’t come along; he wouldn’t be able to handle getting beating up then getting chased by the law,” Mystic said. Mystic looked back at the demon kid.

“You’ll be safe,” Mystic said to him. “But you need to run, now,”

“Thank you,” the Demon kid said in a meek sounding voice, as he ran off into the night.
Pazak began running in a different direction; Mystic quickly followed. Mystic looked back slightly to see four Authority Officer Demons stepping out of the vehicles and putting the antler Demons in their vehicles while the Officers handcuffed them. One of the Authority Officers clearly saw Mystic and Pazak running away, as he began chasing after the two. Mystic faced forward and began running faster.

“We need to get lost,” Mystic suggested to Pazak.

“There’s a subway down there!” Pazak said, running towards it. Mystic followed quickly, but he just managed to see the vehicle stop, the doors to it slide open. Mystic and Pazak ran through a crowd of Demons, while they saw a subway with the doors that had just closed.

“Dammit,” Pazak said.

Pazak and Mystic tried their best to blend in with the crowd, but it didn’t help that Mystic was human, as there were no other humans in the station. The Magical Authority Officer, accompanied by another one, who also must have noticed Pazak and Mystic running away, suddenly entered the subway station, hands clutched to the weapons they were carrying in their belt buckle. The Officers wandered around, glancing at everyone; they even glanced at Pazak twice, obviously not recognizing him, and luckily they weren’t able to see Mystic, who had crouched down. Around that time, another subway arrived; Mystic and Pazak quickly got on board, hidden in between a group of other demons. Mystic got another quick glimpse of the Authority Officers; they seemed to be looking at two demons covered in yellow fur, who were the same type of demon as Pazak. The subway took off with a magical whir.

“Listen, Pazak, I have to get out of this world,” Mystic said.

“Don’t worry, I know a portal by the Empire Magic Building; we’re going to get you out of this world,” Pazak told him.

“Perfect; right now, all I wanna do is go home and sleep all day,” Mystic mumbled to himself.

“Say, is your pretty face okay, Mystic?” Pazak asked jokingly.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine once I get my beauty rest,” Mystic joked back. “How are your teeth?”

“They’ve been better; I’m sure I’ll find some dodgy magic guy who specializes in repairing teeth,” Pazak told him

“I think they’re called orthodontists, Pazak,” Mystic said sarcastically.

“Right, right, I knew that; that’s what I meant, of course,” Pazak said to pretend he was joking. The two suddenly became silent; they listened to the sound of the magical subway car whirring across the track.

“Are you going to be okay alone? You’re an outlaw now, Pazak,” Mystic asked.

“Don’t worry; I can survive on my own, besides I have Tabi to protect me,” Pazak joked.

“True, very true,” Mystic said in a joking tone.

“Besides, if I ever need to get out of here, I can come to your world and crash at your place,” Pazak said.

“Of course,” Mystic said, figuring Pazak was joking.

The two got off the subway and got to the building with the portal. Mystic once again took his magical keys and put them in the broken looking lock in the door; he said his goodbyes to Pazak as he disappeared.

“See you around; tell Tabi I said hi, oh, and remind me to pick up my ring in a few days,” Mystic said as he slowly disappeared back into the human world. Then, there he was, standing in front of the pub where he was before. Mystic looked around at the human world, comparing it to how it was back in the magic world. Everything was so much quieter now; he walked around again. The sun was rising, and you could see the horizon line clearly, despite the array of buildings in Sweden. He figured the only reason he should ever return to the magical world again was to get his ring back. Sure, the magic world was his own special place, but right now, that special place he wanted to be was home. Now that the sun was up, he would get unwanted attention, as he gave off a magical aura which grabs people’s attention in broad daylight. Mystic looked down at the pack of gum which was once again stored in his pocket, he thought back to the deli and the Scavenger, then how one of the sticks of gum came to life, and how the spirit of his snake ring must be possessing the gum. The gum could be useful in battle; though, one thing is for sure, he isn’t going to eat it. Mystic did wonder what possessed serpentine flavored gum would taste like, however. Another thing that crossed his mind was that the spirit could easily come alive, and, judging by Teth’s reactions to it, could probably destroy a couple dimensions or so. However, Mystic didn’t care; he may try to follow the law, but no law says to defend the earth valiantly as it’s being wiped off of any existence. It’s like Tabi said; he can’t fight the big battles, so why should he try? If Sweden was going to go under because of a huge spirit demon, so what? It wasn’t Mystic’s job. There were Authority Officers for that. Besides, will anyone really care if the world suddenly ends?

 

America

     

Land of the free

Not for you

Or for me

Not for the homeless man, who

Can’t get a job because to get a job, you

Need an address

But I guess that’s not something we

should address

Not for the impoverished youth, both

Black and white

We could help them but instead

We fight

Over what’s

Right

Over what’s

Wrong

This whole, equality thing

Yeah, it’s taking too long

By the time there’s equality

Whether it’s for your

Gender

Race

Class

Sexuality

We’ll all be long gone

Land of the free

Not for the black men who are

killed without hesitation

Not for the millions of people part of

Incarceration

But sure let’s

Light some fireworks

Drink the finest wine while the

Underpaid

Immigrant maid

Works the whole entire time

 

The Cure

It began. I was in and out as they brought me to the operation room. I could see people running around me. The two that were pushing the bed had hazmat suits on, which only meant that there was a patient they weren’t so sure of. I felt something running from my ears — it was blood running like a never ending river. As the blood flowed from my ears, my eyes started to burn, and my vision started blurring. I knew that there was something wrong, something I couldn’t stop. Then the screaming began. It sounded like I had fallen and broken every bone in my body known to man. And I was pleading and begging them to just end my life now. I was so consumed with pain, I went numb, and so did the rest of me, but the blood kept pouring out. As my mind started to fade, I remembered the ocean, the ocean where all my troubles were supposed to go away. The ocean where I would find THE CURE.

But let’s backtrack for a moment. When I was growing up, I lived in a small town near Vermont, where everyone knew everyone and knew who you hung out with, who you were close to, your whole family lineage, and so on. I was the perfect student, the perfect sister, and daughter, until they died. It was very tragic. I was about twelve when this incident, or should I call it, this massacre happened. My mother and older sister were picking me up from swimming class when the shots began.

At that moment, one, two, three, four people fell to the ground. We ran to the nearest building and hid behind the counter. Than it started: my sister started shaking and her mouth started to foam. Her eyes were the first to bleed, and then her ears. My mother was just sitting there unable to move; her eyes started to roll to the back of her head, and she started to shake. At that time, I was only twelve, and I could barely take care of myself. So I just sat there and watched my sister gasp for air. I watched my mom claw her eyes out, trying to see me. I watched helplessly, unable to understand what was happening. When the ambulance arrived and took us to the hospital, the doctors were unable to figure out what happened. So they gave them a sedative to make them go to “sleep.”

From that day on, I vowed to learn what happened to my mother and sister. But now, the same things were happening to me but in a slightly different way. And now, you can surely see why I was so infatuated with finding out what happened. Since now you know the past, let’s continue on with the future.

“Maybe we can put her into a drug induced coma, so we can have more time to figure out what’s happening to her.”

“That will only give us 72 hours.”

“Well, that’s better than nothing.”

So 72 hours… that’s all the time they had to cure me.

***

I wake up. The IV drip is going into my veins. My blood is no longer black but more of a more metallic color. It’s a cool, early morning, too early to tell what time. But I’m awake after three days of “sleep.” No blood, no feeling, just numbness. Just lying in the hospital bed, ready to eat some actual food. I’m so thirsty. There’s a cup of water sitting right besides the bed, but as I try to reach it, I realize that my arms are strapped down to the bed. Staring at the metal buckles, I wonder what happened when I was asleep for those three days.

 

Janitor

The man walked up to the school building early in the morning. The students wouldn’t be there for another hour, but he had to be there before anyone else. He groggily fumbled with his keyring, his fingers not awake enough to choose the right one. He eventually found the right one and unlocked the heavy double doors to the elementary school where he worked. The time went by quickly in the early morning, and teachers began arriving, along with children and their parents. The children were often afraid of him, with his heavy work boots and tall stature, but he didn’t mind. He had watched many of them grow up and thought very fondly of them.

Later in the day, as he was mopping the floors of the hallway, he saw a little girl running excitedly in his direction. She held something in her hand very tightly. In her excitement, she didn’t see the newly cleaned floors which were still shiny with water.

“Hey!” he screamed forcefully. “Stop running!”

The little girl stopped running. The janitor ran over to her.

“You can’t run like that,” he said. “You could get hurt.” He hadn’t meant to be aggressive, but apparently he had been; the girl started to cry. The man was uncomfortable and didn’t quite know what to do. He awkwardly crouched down to her level.

“I-I… I’m sorry. What’s in your hand?” he asked. The girl opened her fist to reveal a pearly white tooth. It was no bigger than a grain of rice. The janitor smiled and stood up.

“Come,” he said with a beckoning motion. The little girl wiped her eyes and walked with him to the school nurse.

***

It was a painfully cold day outside, but the warmth of the heater made the school feel safe and comfortable. The children were all content and cozy in the sweaters their parents had dressed them in. It had been snowing heavily all week, and the children hadn’t been allowed to go outside to play at recess. Teachers tried to keep them busy with stories and projects and baking cookies, but kids were getting antsy.

Wintertime was extra laborious for the janitor. He had all of his usual responsibilities, but he also had to shovel snow and keep the boilers working. Many others on the janitorial staff were out sick, and this left him with even more work to do. The kids were getting restless and making more messes than usual. Everything had to be disinfected extra carefully, so they wouldn’t get sick. All of this sometimes made the janitor grumpy. He didn’t mind too much, though. The job was thankless, and the children always put a smile on his face.

The next week, the snow had calmed down enough for the students to go outside for recess. This, of course, brought much excitement to the school, and everybody was anxious to play in the snow. The janitor watched contently as the children built snowmen and threw snowballs. He saw all the little ones walking around in their clunky boots and thick coats. The man smiled; they were practically double their size. When playtime had ended, all the children came marching inside with red cheeks and frozen fingers. The teachers helped the younger ones take off their boots, and snowpants, and mittens. They were all soaked through. The kids went with their teachers to their next class with a spring in their steps.

The janitor stood in the doorway of the kindergarten classroom. He saw the pile of wet coats and scarves and socks, and reminisced about his own childhood. He carefully hung all of their soggy layers on the heater to dry.

***

The janitor locked up the heavy doors behind him as he finished a long day’s work. The schoolyard was quiet, and the sky was dark. He zipped up his jacket to block out the chill as he walked to the bus stop. The bus was delayed, so he had to wait for about ten minutes. When it finally arrived, he waited patiently as an old woman slowly stepped onto the vehicle. There were no seats available, but people would probably get off. He lived very far from the school and got off at the last stop. He found a pole near an old lady and a mother feeding her baby a yogurt. The janitor leaned against the pole and began to drift off. He was suddenly jolted awake by a large bump in the road. The unexpected movement disoriented him, and he lost his balance. He stepped backwards, in an effort to regain stability, but the bus bounced yet again. His foot slipped and he fell on the floor of the bus. He tried to get up, but was surprised by a sticky pink substance thrown in his face. The baby sitting next to him had spilled his yogurt all over himself and the janitor and had started bawling. The child’s mother was scrambling to calm down her baby and clean him up. The bus pulled up to the next stop, and the mother quickly realized that she had to get off. The janitor was left on the floor, covered in strawberry yogurt, seemingly forgotten about.

***

Unfortunately, the janitor’s neighborhood was teeming with people, all staring at the large man emanating an artificial-strawberry smell. He heard some children on the playground snicker as he walked by. He zipped up his sweatshirt and pulled the hood over his head. When he reached his building, the janitor pulled out his keys and unlocked the front door. Most people used the buzzer at the front door, but this was only functional if somebody else was in your apartment. He walked up the three flights of stairs to his floor; his heavy boots made thunking noises all the way up.

The man let himself into his home and carefully unlaced his shoes — so as to not track dirt inside. He gingerly removed his soiled clothing and put it in the washing machine. He changed into some clean clothes and washed his face and hands clean of yogurt. For his dinner, the janitor took out a frozen meal. He peeled back the plastic and put it in the microwave to defrost. While his meal was cooking, he scanned the day’s newspaper. The plastic container of food was hot to the touch, and the comforting warmth seeped into the janitor’s fingers. He sat down on the couch with the hot food, a glass of soda, a cigarette, and ate as he watched the TV — as was his daily ritual.

About an hour later, the janitor received a phone call. It was from the principal of the elementary school.

“Hello?” the janitor said, tentatively.

“There has been a break-in at the school. Twenty computers were stolen, as well as cash from the office,” said the principal.

The janitor was a bit taken aback by the principal’s brashness. “Oh. Uh –”

“Please come to my office tomorrow for questioning,” the principal interrupted.

“Questioning?” asked the janitor.

“Yes,” said the principal. “You were the last one at the building. I have to admit that it doesn’t look good for you.”

The janitor was stunned. “Uh, okay, so you think it was me?” he asked.

“Unfortunately the evidence is stacked against you. You have no education past high school, which you didn’t even complete; you took the GED. You have the keys to the building, a salary just above minimum wage, and you work at a well-funded school in a wealthy area. Not to mention that you were the last person in the building today.” The principal continued speaking, but the janitor was too lost in thought to listen. After years of having a steady job, a job he somewhat enjoyed, he was going to be fired. Fired for something he did not do.

“I will see you tomorrow,” said the principal with finality. The janitor was left standing there, the old landline in his hand and the buzz of the ended call in his ear. He was frozen for a moment, as he let all that had happened sink in.

A wave of anger washed over the janitor. He thought of all of the years he had worked, tirelessly, thanklessly, at the school. He thought of everything he had done for those kids and how he never got anything in return; he was ignored, pronounced unimportant, and left on his own. Rage began to pour over him like a hurricane. It was as if a fire had started in his chest, and he felt the burning heat reaching all over his body, igniting something within him that he himself had not known about. It felt like his breath was not moving up and down, but rather moving in circles, creating a whirlpool inside his lungs. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. A tornado of earth, wind, water, and fire raged within him. For years the man had done mundane and tedious work — never complaining, never asking for a change. In tough times, he had often imagined, as many do, great outbursts that he wished he had the courage to conduct. He had always seen himself as the janitor, and nothing else, but no longer would he stay dormant.

The newly accused man’s face lit up as he crafted his plan of action. He laced his boots up tight – preparing for battle. He stormed out of his apartment with only a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, his keys, and bus fare. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. With bitterness in his heart, the man marched down the streets to the bus stop. He didn’t care as he pushed people out of the way to get a seat. He marched to the school with his shoulders back and his chest proudly puffed out. His strong, heavy feet walked with purpose. Every part of his being knew what to do. His fingers nimbly unlocked the heavy doors, and he felt powerful as he opened them with ease. He no longer felt pain; only blinding infuriation. The man seemed to glow with fire as he walked down the hallway to the principal’s office. He did not fear anything. He knew exactly where to turn to avoid the security cameras, he knew which key to use, and he knew what he was going to do.

The empowered man closed the door of the principal’s office behind him. He took one last moment to think of his past. He could feel an explosion of fireworks going off within him. He felt a volcano erupting. With confident hands he took out the pack of cigarettes and the lighter. He took one out of the box and set off the lighter. He stared into the illuminated lighter for a moment before he put the end of the cigarette into the fire. With exasperation, the man dropped the lit cigarette on the floor of the office and watched as the principal’s carpet (and eventually the rest of the room) caught fire.

The man walked out of the building with satisfaction. He stood outside the building, and watched as it was consumed by flames. Within an hour someone had called the police, but he was not scared of the sirens. He took the bus home in a revenge-filled daze and was aware of nothing and no one. He walked mindlessly back to his apartment with the image of the glorious fire in his eyes. He unlocked the door to his house and unlaced his heavy work boots. He sat down, turned on the TV, and lit a cigarette; he was content.

 

Space Baby

Eliza’s eyes grew wide at the world. The space around her was light and airy. She floated up and around the little room in the aircraft. Her face was soft, cheeks glowing and red. Her lips were thin and moist, but no breath escaped them.

For a moment, everything was silent in the little, white room with no windows. The baby floated higher. Everyone stood about the little child in a dome below her, waiting. Eliza’s mother sat up, staring almost angrily at her baby. Her eyes wanted to command the child to breathe.

And then a cry rang out. Bubbling from Eliza’s mouth, a shrill, joyous cry echoed throughout the tiny room and into the ears of her family, the astronauts, the doctors. Everyone had been waiting for this moment, and it had come. In only a moment, the scary, silent room became abuzz with laughter, crying, shouts, and whoops. Eliza’s mother silently sobbed in a corner, watching in wonder as her beautiful, baby girl bounced around the room, crying gleefully.

Then it was time to take Eliza out of the room she was born in, to show her a world much bigger than the one she already knew. A universe.

Carried in the arms of her mother, Eliza was led to an enormous window at the front of the aircraft.

“Look, Eliza,” her mother said. “This is my world. And now, it is yours.”

Eliza cried again. But through her glassy tears, Eliza could see the world. She saw the dark sky with smudged stripes of purple and pink. She saw the sun’s bright rays and the moon’s pale, mysterious reflections. She saw the planets which she would one day explore. And the infinite stars were reflected in her wide, elliptical eyes.

Eliza slept in her cradle. A large paperweight held her blanket down, and she snuggled into it. Eliza’s mother watched her newborn with sunken, hollowed out eyes.

“You should get rest. Your girl isn’t going anywhere.” The doctor gave an encouraging smile.

“She won’t go anywhere, but I’m already gone. We’re years away from Earth. You know I won’t make it.”

“We don’t know that. I’m not making any predictions yet. Hold on for your baby, for the future of space science. You’re making history!” the doctor insisted.

Eliza’s mother smiled sadly and lay down on the floor next to her baby’s cradle. Her skeleton curved around the walls of the little cage. She cried. Her tears all gathered in the deep circles under her eyes. Bubbles of the salty liquid floated off of her face and made it look like the walls were crying, too. Her face was a waterfall that didn’t flow. She was a broken woman.

And they had made history. Even if both Eliza and her mother died, the first baby had been born in space.

 

The Teddy Bear

A headless teddy bear lay in the grass. Its body reached for its head only a few feet away. It stretched its neck in vain. The teddy bear was hopeless, hapless, and distraught. A few feet away, a man took out a pencil and began to sketch the trees, bushes, and grass that surrounded the teddy bear. The man breathed in the park smells: pine, wet grass, and crushed cigarettes. He didn’t notice the teddy bear’s head by his boot.

The teddy bear frantically called out to the man, “Please, sir, if you could just pass me my head! Right by your foot!”

But the man didn’t hear him. He kept sketching the park, finished his drawing, and left.

A businesswoman passed by next. She walked along the grass on the pavement, talking to someone angrily on the phone. She yelled about her finances and her stupid, no-good secretary. She huffed and rolled her eyes, then said, “Fine, I’ll tell you the number, but this is the last time, I swear…”

The woman dug around inside her purse until she found a piece of paper with some numbers on it. As she took it out, her red, leather wallet fell out onto the grass.

“Miss, your wallet has fallen from your bag!” the teddy bear called.

The woman ignored the the bear and kept reading the numbers, with her hand on her hip and her eyes rolling constantly.

Then she said, “Yes, of course,” sighed, “Yes, you’re welcome,” rolled her eyes, and left.

The teddy bear began to cry, only to realize that its head was still two feet away and was now covered in salty tears. More tears pooled around the the head, and it began to float away.

“My head!” cried the teddy bear.

“Where is your head?” A little girl cocked her head to the side. She sat criss-crossed in the grass beside the bear. She wore sandals with little pink flowers and dancing Hello Kitties.

“There! There!” The teddy bear pointed halfway down the little river of tears that had formed.

Its head bobbed up and down. The girl chased after the teddy’s head, splashing in the tears as she ran. Finally she caught the head and gleefully brought it back to the teddy bear.

“Oh, thank you! I have been trying to get my head back all day!”

Relieved, the teddy bear pushed its head back into place, stood up, and started off.

“Wait! Wait!” called the little girl. “I thought maybe we could play? I have a doll house and another teddy bear. They can play too!”

“Sorry, little miss, but I have a job to get back to. Why don’t you sit in the grass and play alone?” The teddy bear continued to walk off. “Oh — and thanks for my head!” it called over its shoulder.

The little girl sat down in the damp, tear-stained grass. She didn’t like to play alone; she always played alone. She smelled the pine, wet grass, and crushed cigarettes, pushed aside a red wallet on the pavement beside her, stared at her sandals, and watched the little flowers sway and the pink Hello Kitties dance.

 

The Snake

As I walk to the street corner where I work, I feel free. No one is giving me funny looks. No one knows what I’m keeping in my bag. Then I get to the street corner and set down my hat. Already, people are looking at me. I reach down into my bag and pull out my snake, Jimmy. I drape him around my neck and start the day.

Now people are really staring, as looks of disgust are shot in my direction. I have grown accustomed to the look of shock when people notice Jimmy on my shoulder. Their eyes open wide. Some tap their friends and point towards me, and some take out their phone to take a photo. Some people walk by as briskly as possible, and some walk slowly and gape. No matter the reaction, people never stay. The sight of Jimmy is nothing but a minor distraction or a small break from the ordinary. Although it is odd and surprising, it is no marvel for this city.

Simply holding Jimmy barely makes me any money. If I want to eat dinner tonight, I need to make more of a spectacle. I take out the gummy bears and place one in my hand so that only Jimmy can see it. I place my hand about two feet above him and he reaches up. I slide my hand to the side and then to the side again. I do this until I create a steady sway to make it seem as if he is dancing. Now people are really taking notice of me. I see coins and some bills being dropped into my hat. I continue to sway him from side to side. My mind almost shuts down doing the same task all day. Then, I notice a man walking towards me.

He comes to me and says, “Do you want to join my circus?”

“Does it pay well?”

“Better than this.”

“What will I do for the circus?’

“Train snakes and maybe other animals.”

“Will I get a bonus per other animal?”

“Listen, you’re performing on the street, just take the job.”

“Alright. I’ll join your circus.”

It turns out that I can train other animals, not just snakes. Now, Jimmy is one of our top-selling points for the circus, and I train any animals that are new to the circus. I am training our bears. I need to chain them to a wall, so the only way they can walk is by standing up. Once they learn to stand up, we tie ropes to their necks and tug them so they do what we want. I have never had animals that are scared of me, but these bears are. When I come near them in their cages, they run to the opposite side.

I walk out of the circus tent, and there is a mob of PETA protesters. The protesters seem to mainly be kids from the neighboring college, but there are also a few older people. They hold signs, but all the signs say roughly the same thing. The signs say that all our animals are treated inhumanely. They say that we torture animals. I try to ignore them, but I can’t get the thought out of my head. Am I cruel? Is what I’m doing wrong? Yes.

In the morning, I go to the ringleader’s office. I am about to go in, but then I think about what life would be like if I quit. Where will I be? Stuck going to the same street corner and doing the same thing every day. Maybe I can find a job somewhere else, but here, I have stability. The possibility of needing to go back to street performing sounds too bad for me. I turn back and go to teach the bears more tricks.

 

Uncharted Territory

Her screams seemed muted as they sometimes do in movies. I couldn’t make out her words because she was so distraught. Tears ran down her cheeks, and her face was red and hot. As I inched towards her to help her calm down, she swatted my hand away like a bug, a nothing to her. And in that moment, I saw words that would stick with me for as long as I lived, sketched into my brain forever, always there to remind me of the pain of losing a friend.

“I hate you.”

***

When I was growing up, I lived in a small town in Alabama. And, as you sometimes hear about towns in the south, there were racists. Sexists. Homophobes. You name it. We had all the hate in our little town. It seemed as though there were only three people in the town with some sense about right and wrong: Sally Anne Thompson, James Parker and me, Jessica Smith.

I met Sally Anne and James on the first day of freshman year. See, it being a small town and all and them having lived in the same town, I should have met them in elementary. But my parents, being the close-minded people they were, pulled me out of school in the second grade when I corrected my pa from saying “Indian” to “Native American.” They gave the excuse, for pulling me out, that the school system was trying to “change” the good ol’ southern ways, and they didn’t want me submitting to that disgrace of America. But by high school, they figured they had brainwashed me enough that no matter what school said or did, I wouldn’t believe. The ironic thing was that school wasn’t progressive at all; it was just better than they were.

My dad “prepared” me for the first day. He told me that I might get a bit of a hard time because I was home-schooled, but they knew I could do it.

My mom told me explicitly that, “Whatever happens to you doesn’t matter. Those poor children have been poisoned with the words of their teachers telling them that everyone is equal. We raised you right, so you know that this is not true, right, sweetie?”

“Yes, Ma,” I had whispered.

These words hurt me to say. Such simple words. Words you could say to having to do the dishes, “Yes, Ma” or words you say to finishing your homework, “Yes, Ma” or even words to not hit your brother, “Yes, Ma.” But it was these simple words that time and time again reestablished my agreement to injustice, to inequality, to hate. Just a simple “Yes, Ma” always sufficed.

I remember the night before the first day of school. I felt like a balloon filled not with air, but anxiety. I questioned if anyone would like me, if anyone would make an effort to be my friend. I was the home-schooled girl, and everyone knew the rumors about me: that I was full of myself and didn’t want to be around other kids so I convinced my parents to pull me out; that I was unaware of “normal” things to do and say because I had never really associated with other kids. And the worst part was, I was afraid that the latter was true. I mainly talked to my parents who seemed to live in the Stone Age because of how unaware they were of the happenings in the world. I didn’t really know anyone my age, so I didn’t know the trends. I was afraid that I would be shunned for my beliefs on equality. I let fear drive me that night. I cried myself to sleep.

I remember standing outside the steps of the big brick building, as hundreds of kids swarmed around me, trying to catch up to their friends. I remember feeling the smooth, metal railing next to the stairs as I took slow steps up to the next chapter in my life. I remember being pushed to the ground by a kid in a football varsity jacket and not even turning around to apologize. Then, I remember the first words spoken to me on this uncharted territory.

“Get up.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said get up.”

“Well, I’m trying to. Wanna give me a hand?”

“No. Thank you, though.”

“Yeah, no problem,” I responded, sarcasm dripped in my voice.

I pushed myself to my knees and stared right in the face of the head cheerleader. Well, it seemed as if it couldn’t get more stereotypical than this.

She seemed as if she was about to say something, so I wanted to beat her to it. I didn’t want to let her get the joy of making any more fun of me.

“Can you move, please?” I said, imitating her face pleasantness. “I need to get up. Isn’t that what you told me?”

She moved to the side resentfully, her hands on her hips with flushed red cheeks against her pale white skin.

“Thank you.”

I walked confidently up the rest of the steps, but as soon as I entered the building, where I was sure she couldn’t see me, I ran to the bathroom and used some tissues to wash off the streams of tears unintentionally flowing down my face. Tears like these reminded me of the day that I had discovered the shocking truths that people believed about me.

It was a Sunday in the middle of June. Church had just ended, and I was going to the grocery store to pick up some vegetables for dinner. I was walking down the aisle, headed towards the broccoli, when I noticed two girls staring at me and whispering to each other. I turned back around towards my destination but I could feel their glare on my back. I knew that they also went to church that morning, just like nearly everyone in this town, and I knew they were around my age. I still remembered everyone in my class, so I figured that they must have been a year younger than me, entering eighth grade in the fall. I grabbed my broccoli, well aware that they were still watching me, pretending to shop for carrots. As I walked back up the aisle, they stopped me.

“Is there something I can help you with?” I asked politely.

“Yes, hi, I’m Susan, and this is my sister, Lila.”

I stared at them, quizzically, wondering if that should mean anything. Susan was wearing a red blouse and a short, white skirt. Her blue eyes popped out against her pale skin. She wore high heels that didn’t seem very manageable in a supermarket. She had long, golden hair, the last feature she needed to enter a beauty contest. Her sister was quite the opposite. She wore brand-new sneakers and skinny jeans. Her shirt was black. She also had blonde hair but had dyed streaks of it blue, just like the color of her eyes. She slouched a little, but Susan held herself up straight as she spoke to me.

“You know, Susan and Lila Peterson? I was in your grade before you left.”

Oh, I guess I didn’t remember everyone. But, sometimes it’s better to pretend that you do.

“Yes, right! My apologies, of course I remember you.” I lied. A white lie though.

“Yeah, and it’s Jessica. Jessica Smith, right?”

“Yep. That’s me.” I smiled, happy that people still remembered me although slightly confused why they were talking to me.

“Right, and you’re coming back to school this fall?” Susan asked.

It didn’t seem as though Lila talked much.

“Mmmhmm.”

“So, we just wanted to say hi.”

“Oh.” I was pleasantly surprised. “Well, that’s very nice of you.”

“Well, I am part of the welcoming committee.”

“Although you guys don’t actually do much,” Lila said.

What a “nice” thing of her to say, even though she was right.

“True, but we’ll take whatever chances we’ve got.” Susan smiled happily, trying to cover up her sister’s abrupt honesty. “So, we were wondering, do you have any time to talk, just for five minutes?”

I checked my watch. I had to be home in a half hour, but if we shopped and talked, well, it might just work out.

“Sure, just walk with me, okay? I have to be home soon.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Susan and Lila look at each other as if they were in question of why I needed to be home so early. That should have been my first sign that everything was about to go wrong.

“So, why are you coming back to school now?” Lila asked, like the snotty, little brat she was.

“Ummm. Well…” I didn’t really know how to answer without throwing my parents under the bus. So another white lie. “My mom wants to get back to working so she does something more productive.”

“But, doesn’t she teach you?” Susan inquired.

This was not how I planned our conversation going.

“Yeah, but when I’m working independently or something, she has nothing to do because it doesn’t take very long to grade two students’ work.”

“Who’s the other student?”

“My brother.”

“Right… Is he coming back to school now too?”

“Yeah, in the sixth grade.”

“So right in time for you to start high school and him middle school.”

“Yep, that’s how my parents planned it.”

Then everything took a turn for the worse.

“So why did you leave school in the first place?”

Again, I didn’t want to say the real reason, because my parents were more racist than anyone in the town, and I also didn’t want to insult where the sisters had been educated all their lives. So I was kind of stuck.

“Uhhhh…”

“We heard it was because you didn’t like public school, but your parents couldn’t afford private school,” Lila said, like reciting from memory.

“That’s not very nice, Lila,” Susan scolded although she seemed very interested to know if it was true.

“Umm, no. That’s not true. That’s absurd in fact. I barely knew what the difference between private and public school was when I was in second grade.”

“Oh.”

But Susan wasn’t done yet. It seemed as though my lie had paid off and, for the moment, I was safe.

“How many kids your age have you talked to?”

I remember thinking to myself that her question was such an odd thing to ask and wondered if it really mattered. To her, it did, but I could care less.

“A couple,” I said dismissively.

I checked my watch and pretended that it was urgent that I leave right then.

“Oh, well, sorry. I have to go but I’ll see you around.”

I went home right after that and cried. I didn’t know why but it seemed as if school was not going to be what I imagined. After that, I noticed every eye that followed me around town, every word that was spoken about me. It seemed as though Susan and Lila spread the rumors around some more telling people that I was “as socially unaware as a seven year old” and that “I wasn’t prepared to transition into high school.” I tried to ignore it as much as I could, but I was immediately reminded of them as I was pushed onto the stairs.

A jolt of reality struck me as a hand was placed on my shoulder. I turned around to see the guidance counselor, whom I met over the summer.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” I responded.

I also didn’t want to be known as the girl who ran to the teacher before class started. The tattletale.

“Just a little something in my eye.”

By that time, I had wiped most of my tears away, and it wasn’t unbelievable that maybe a little dust or sand got in my eye.

“Okay, then.” She walked away before remembering to give me a little, “Good luck!”

“Thanks!” I called back, secretly wishing that I wouldn’t need it.

 

Angels

What’s happening? Where am I?

These are the first things that come to my mind. I’m unaware of the darkness that surrounds me. So I begin to walk. I don’t know where I’m going, I just know that I have somewhere to be. So I walk and walk and walk. There is no landscape to look at, nobody to talk to. Sometimes I’ll see a long, white shape in the distance, and I’ll run towards it, hoping for answers. It always disappears. I rack my brain, but I can’t remember anything. I have no concept of time, so whenever I’m tired, I rest. Sometimes I feel restless, and even though I am walking, I can’t shake this feeling of unease.

At one point, I feel thirsty. I wish I had something to drink. As soon as the thought comes to my head, a glass full of grayish liquid appears in my hand. Although it doesn’t taste like anything, it quenches my thirst. After a while, I realize that I can wish for anything, so when I am tired, I wish for a bed. Until today, I didn’t realize that I could wish for a friend. I wish I had a friend, I think. Soon a milky, white ball comes into view. This is my friend. I don’t know how I know that this is a safe person, but something in my mind says it is, and when you have nothing, you tend to listen to that little voice.

Once again, I ask, “Where am I?

I cannot hear my voice. The white ball never answers my question, but it’s still there. It grows bigger and stronger, and soon, I can see a face. It gets bigger, until it’s around the size of a baby doll. Then it disappears. Then after a couple minutes, a new friend appears. This continues. After a while, I get used to all these new friends.

I wake up to a strange light. I find myself in a long, dark room. Eventually, a humanlike figure drifts towards me. It’s much bigger than my other friends. I can slightly see a cold, white face with two black slits for eyes. The figure looks like it is wearing a white robe.

“Where am I?” I ask.

I am surprised to hear my voice, slightly slurred, but still there. I am even more surprised to hear the figure reply lightly and calmly, “Welcome.”

“Who are you?” I say.

“My name is Mortem.”

“If you can answer my questions, why couldn’t my other friends?”

“They are not fully developed and are nothing but the, yet, unborn children of time.”

“What am I here for?”

“You are still not fully developed, yet time has left you.”

Mortem shows me to a hole. In the hole is a bed. It looks so comfy, so inviting. There is a plaque with a strange carving on it. It looks like a name.

“Would you like to take a rest?” Mortem asks.

There is something so wonderful about that bed, yet I don’t feel ready.

“Not now,” I say.

Soon, another figure arrives. It moves slower and, somehow, seems older than me. Mortem shows it around and shows it another bed. This time it agrees. The stranger acts like it can’t see me. The figure crosses its arms on its chest and closes its eyes. A lid lifts up and covers the hole.

I see Mortem showing more ghost-like figures around. Most of them agree to the bed, but every once in awhile, somebody says no. When that happens, they disappear from my view.  I watch everyone get into bed peacefully, and soon, I feel peaceful with my own fate. Now I’m gazing longingly at my own bed, and eventually, I decide to sleep. I say goodbye to Mortem and get into bed. Before I get in, I look at the plaque one last time, and I see a faded name, Cecily Brooks. Those two words sound so familiar, yet I can’t remember why. I close my eyes, cross my arms like all the others, and let the darkness surround me. For one moment, memories flash in my brain.

***

I remember when my parents got me my first phone. I treasured that phone, and I hugged and kissed them for days. My parents and I had an amazing relationship until that fight.

I remember that fight. I remember the shouting, and I remember smashing my precious phone on the wall. I remember ignoring my parents for the rest of the night. I remember sneaking out of the house when everyone was asleep and climbing into my family car. I had gotten my driver’s license the week before.
I remember driving on the road. It was my light. Yet, that other car that came didn’t stop. I remember that split second of fear, and that moment of helplessness. I remember wishing that I could apologize to my parents. Perhaps that’s why I felt so hesitant to get into bed before. I was missing something: my parents’ love.

Then I remembered something else that I will never forget. I remember seeing my body in the hospital, my mother leaning over me, crying, and my father trying to pretend his eyes weren’t filling up with tears. I remember blowing them a kiss and drifting up into the sky.

 

Annie and I

I stared out at the desolate gloomy hills. They were mostly a greenish, brown color, like what you would see in pea soup. To make matters worse, my mom had told me that it would probably be raining everyday here in good old Hartford, Connecticut.

“But you can always stay indoors and do arts and crafts!” my mother said brightly.

I nodded and hugged her. This sleepaway camp, Fairview Lake, was where I’d be staying for four whole weeks.

“All girls,” it boasted, “we raise strong girls! Get ready to learn how to take a stand in society!”

I felt this was unfair; I already was a strong member of society. I went to marches — the Women’s March, the Climate March, you name it. I glared at my reflection while getting out of the car; I never set much store by it. Why would you waste time looking at yourself when you could be saving baby seals? But now, as I prepared to meet a cabin full of strange girls, girls I didn’t know, I shook off those thoughts.

“So what if they don’t like you?” I asked myself. “You will only be here for four weeks, Emma, get a move on.”

Stealing one last hug from my mom, I ran up the walkway to the main house. I had a date with destiny.

***

“Hello, Hello!” a thin, bird-like voice greeted me from the dark interior of the main house.

It had ivy growing all over, and some of the window frames were broken, giving the appearance of gaping holes. I froze.

“Come in, come in! You must be our new camper.”

I stepped inside, looking curiously at the woman. She had thin, gray hair and looked like she was in her fifties. Nevertheless, her arms were muscular, and I was pretty sure she could bench-press me.

Um… yes., I stuttered. “I’m Emma.”           

“Well, it is nice to meet you, dear,” she said. “I’m Annabelle.”

As if in a trance, she leaned toward me. I wanted to move, but I couldn’t. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. It felt as if my mouth was nailed shut. I was terrified. She picked up a lock of my blonde hair.

“Such pretty hair,” she said softly, as if talking to herself. “When I was a young girl, I had hair like this…”

***

Five minutes later, I was hurrying along the main path, seriously spooked. Annabelle had apologized for scaring me and said, with a laugh, that old people like herself tended to stare at things… Which made me wonder… How old was Annabelle exactly? I had guessed fifty, but I was pretty sure I was wrong. At least I knew which cabin I was staying in; cabin two. My bunkmates were Lucky and Chase. But something stayed stuck in my head, and no matter just how hard I tried, I couldn’t erase what Annabelle had said from my mind.

“Oh, Emma,” Annabelle had called.

I had turned around, feeling a lump of dread settle in my throat.

¨Yes?” I asked.

¨It´s about your bunkmates, Lucky and Chase. They are good girls, but they have vivid imaginations. They like to make up scary stories,¨ she said firmly. ¨Whatever you do, don’t listen to them. Okay?”

¨Okay¨ I said, then turned and ran.

I was sure now that something wasn’t right, and I was going to listen to whatever Lucky and Chase had to tell me. I pushed open the door of my cabin, looking around. The bunk beds were made out of wood, and the cabin was dark, although it was mid-day.

¨Hello?¨ I called nervously.

A girl jumped off the bunk bed and walked toward me. She was taller than me, with extremely pale skin and heavy black eye makeup. She was wearing all black, and her hair was gelled into little, dark points.

¨Are you the new girl?¨ she asked in a deep, gravelly voice.

¨Yes,¨ I said. ¨I… My name is Emma.¨

¨Hmm,” she snorted. ¨Chase thought you were going to say your name was Annie.¨

She stuck out her hand. I shook it.

¨I’m Lucky,” she said, turning her neck so I could see a tattoo of a green four-leaved clover.

I nodded mutely.

¨Chase will be back from  her class in a few minutes,¨ she said, circling me.

I fought the urge to tell her to get away from me. She stopped circling and stared at me.

¨I think that Chase will want to know — even more than I do — why the new girl looks just like Annie.”

“I honestly don’t know who Annie even is,” I said, annoyed. “Why is she such a big deal to you?”

Lucky flinched as if I’d slapped her. I walked over to the nearest bed and put my duffel down on it. I stared at her. She blankly stared back.

”Fine,” she humphed.”I’ll tell you who Annie is; but you cannot tell anybody else.”

“Why?” I asked curiously.

Another blank stare.

“Because Annabelle doesn’t like it,” she whispered.

Without warning, she turned and headed for the door.

“Hey!” I said, jumping up. “You said you would tell me!” I cried, frustrated.

She smirked.

“I said i would tell you; I didn’t say when. If you want to ever learn anything, kid, you should set the terms. See you at dinner.”

She calmly sashayed away, ignoring my furious glare. After a minute, I followed her.  

Lucky was out of my line of vision by the time I got to a sign that said Mess Hall. Sighing, I followed the arrow that pointed to the mess all. Wait… What was that? A path, smaller than the large path to the dining area branched off, leading deeper into the woods. I deliberated between the two, rocking back and forth on my heels.

“It will only take five minutes, Emma,” I scolded. “You will be back just in time for dinner.”

I plunged into the woods, feeling thorns rake my arms.

***

Looking down the path, I saw what I thought was a house. I walked towards it, and then, discovered that it was a shed. It had gray clapboards, which seemed all that was holding it together. Somebody had painted KEEP OUT, in black, on it. There was a large, gaping hole in it, and there was something brown inside. A rock? A head? Snap! I jumped. It was just a twig… Right? Another snap, and I was running.

***

The mess hall was warm and bright, and I had finally met Chase. She had been angry with Lucky for letting me go off on my own. What if I had met a bear? While she was chastising Lucky, I took this opportunity to ogle my cabin mate. She sported cocoa-colored skin, a nose piercing, and what I was pretty sure was a wig. The auburn-colored curls were tilting alarmingly on her head. I picked at my salad, worrying. What if that had been a head? I glanced over at Annabelle. She was chatting animatedly with the other cabin, the Harriet Tubman Cabin. Each of the cabins had a name of a female leader; we were the Rosa Parks Cabin.

Emma!” Chase sounded irritated, and I guessed this wasn’t the first time she had said my name.

I blinked at her. “Yes?”

“Where were you?” she hissed. “We all know you weren’t in the latrines; I saw you running through the the forest. What were you doing in there?? We aren’t supposed to go there; if Annabelle had found you, you could be in SO much trouble!” She stared at me, breathing heavily.

Lucky was reading a book, and her eyes flickered from page to page, but I was sure she was listening in.

I smiled at her slowly, then pointed at Annabelle.

“Oh, it’s time to go!” I said.

Annabelle was calling all the cabins to order.

As we slowly ambled through the dark woods, I turned around to grin at Lucky and Chase. They were wearing identical expressions of frustration; I still hadn’t told them where I had been and what I had been doing.

“I’ll make you a deal,” I said.

“I will not make any deals with you,” Lucky answered immediately.

Chase looked disappointed.

“You haven’t heard what I’m offering.” I smiled, confident that they would want to know.

“Okay,” Chase said. “What are your conditions?”

“You tell me the Crazy Annie story when we get back to the cabin. You will have to tell me the story first, or I won’t tell you mine,” I said happily.

Chase glared. I stared at Lucky for a long moment. She stared back.

“Okay,” Lucky said finally. “But I get to tell the story,” she added.

***

Five minutes later, we were sitting in a semi-circle, on the roughly hewn floor. It was more than a little eerie.

“Fifty years ago, at this camp,’’ Lucky began, “there was a lovely young girl called Annie. She had multiple personality disorder, so those who were jealous of her called her ‘Crazy Annie.’”

I shivered, and Chase wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

“She had been coming to Fairview Lake her whole life and so had her steady boyfriend. They decided to have their wedding at the camp, although she was only eighteen, and he was only twenty. The theme of the wedding was daisies, because they were Annie’s favorite flower.”

Lucky paused as lightning flashed, and tree branches shook. It sounded as if somebody were outside. Tap. Tap. tap. Lucky resumed her story.

“On Annie’s wedding night, there was a storm like this one. She could not find her groom-to-be, or her best friend, the maid of honor. She decided to go looking for them in the cabins. And she found them.”

Lucky raised her eyebrows, and after a moment, it sank in.

“Angry that they had been cheating on her, Annie ran away, leaving a suicide note, that she had signed ‘Love, Annie’. One year later, the former best friend and the former husband had the same wedding. Late into the party, the guests realized that they couldn’t find the bride or bridegroom, so they went looking for them up by the cabins. They looked at the trees, and there were bloody daisies hanging off the trees. In the meadow, the bride and bridegroom were lying stone dead with freaking DAISY CROWNS around their heads. Their throats were slit and painted in their own blood, was a huge heart. And, under that heart…” she stopped and swallowed, “were letters painted in blood which said ‘Love, Annie’.”

I gasped. I had been expecting Annie to have been victimized. I had even been feeling some kinship towards her. It couldn’t have been easy to have been constantly be called crazy, and then to be cheated on (not that I would know). There was a knock, and we all gasped. I jumped up, ran to the door and pulled it open… Then I screamed like I never had before… Because lying on the doormat was one perfect daisy. A  figure stood on the doormat with the daisy. Annabelle.

“What do you want?” I yelled.

She turned and ran. I chased her through the winding path behind the shed. Hiding with the help of a tree, I watched her sprint into the meadow and begin frantically digging for something. Whatever it was, she didn’t seem to be able to find it. I picked up the daisy and headed back to the cabin. I’d look tomorrow.

“What is it?” Chase asked.

She saw the daisy, and her eyes grew rounder.

“Emma… Where did you get that?

I held the daisy at arm’s length, trying not to hyperventilate.

“It’s nothing,” I gasped. “Just, just some stupid kids playing a stupid prank.”

With that, I threw the daisy into the rain darkened woods as hard as I could. I didn’t sleep that night.

***

The next morning, I ran to the pay phone and inserted two quarters. I only had enough for one call. Oh well, it would have to do. With the memory of the fresh, white, perfect daisy in mind, I dialed.

“Hello?” that familiar voice asked, in confusion.

“Mom,” I gasped. “Mom, you have to come pick me up. I hate it here.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked, clear concern in her voice.

I had her where I wanted her.

“My bunkmates are… strange,” I said, thinking of Lucky and Chase.

“All girls are strange, Emma, love. In fact, you could be described as a little strange yourself, what with the greenpeace thing,” she laughed.

My mom isn’t what you would call outdoorsy.

“They told me a really scary story. Please, Please let me come home,” I begged, losing hope.

“Isn’t that what camp is all about?” she said interestedly. “It looks like everything is fine, Ems. I don’t know why you called me.”

“SOMEBODY LEFT A DAISY IN MY CABIN!” I yelled, starting to lose it.  

“Wow, Emma, it sounds like you have a secret admirer. No need to yell… is everything okay?” she asked. No, everything was not okay.

“You have ten seconds left on this call,” said the recorded cell phone voice. “To call back, please insert two more quarters.”

“Hello?” I said. “Mom? Mom?”

But she was gone.

Without thinking, I ran to the meadow, where Lucky had told me that the two lovers had been killed. I began to dig, digging where Annabelle had been and throwing up lumps of dirt. I didn’t quite understand what I was looking for, only that I would need it. Now that I knew that Annie was Annabelle… was I just going to wave whatever I found in her face and hope that she would confess? I had known who she was from the moment she had laid the daisy on the doormat; I had seen her slender figure holding an umbrella. We had locked eyes for a minute, but then she had disappeared into the rain.

Something brushed my fingers, and I pulled at it. It was a heavy silver ring with something that looked like rust. Blood.

“Maybe this was Annie’s fiance’s ring?” I murmured to myself.

“It is,” a voice said behind me.

I jumped, still clutching the ring. Annabelle — no, Annie — was looking down at me. I screamed; I felt like I’ve been screaming a lot since I came here.

“I’m not going to hurt you, you don’t need to worry,” she said softly. “Your friends, Lucky and Chase have already called the police, and I’m sure they will here shortly. Resourceful girls, aren’t they, Emma?” I nodded, feeling like a fish out of water.

She reached down and plucked the ring from my fingers, examining it.

“You know, Emma, not a day goes by when I don’t regret what I did. I killed the two people I loved most, and now my story will be recovered.”

She paused and looked down at me. “Which is why I want you to write it… the story of Crazy Annie.”

I nodded again, then looked up. Two figures were racing across the meadow, towards us: Lucky and Chase. Police cars were pulling up behind them. Annabelle stood up and dropped something heavy and silver into my palm.

“Goodbye, Emma,” she said.

I stood up too.

“Goodbye, Annie,” I said, waving as she walked towards the officers.

That was the last time I ever saw Annie alive. She died several days after, in prison. Fairview Lake is now run by Marcy, a cheerful, happy, older camper. I would like to say that I am a better person. I have two good friends, Lucky and Chase, and I can finally understand Annie better. I’m back in New York now, thinking of Annie. I have her ring — the heavy, silver thing she gave me — on my dressing table.

 

Love, Emma

 

Iceland

        

We woke up early that day,

a cold morning with icy winds that burnt our faces.

We gripped our hot chocolates with stiff fingers,

every sip of warm rich liquid somehow warmer than a summer day,

because despite the cold wasteland surrounding us,

we felt warm inside, and happy.

 

We woke up early that day,

at the hour when even streetlights and road signs were drowsy.

I slept in the back seat of a borrowed car while my parents drank coffee,

and struggled to stop their eyes from sinking

as they stayed awake through the deep white blue snow that led down the road

to where the earliest touches of sun, orange and glowing,

lit up through the clouds and shone upon the glaciers that surrounded us,

and filled up the sky more than the sky itself.

 

We woke up early that day,

to set steady feet on a swaying deck

that would carry us across vast blue waves with foamy white crests

to a distant island with only duck prints, and icy hills

that could be skated down with any old shoes.

So we ran and slid across the slick surface

before falling down the rest of the way,

our laughter guarding us from the jagged ice at the bottom.

 

Colorado

         

The creak of broken brakes and

the soft whoosh of bicycle wheels

lift up lazy dogs’ heads

as we slip through the night.

 

Blinking red lights announce the arrival

of the thunderstorm of a train pounding past,

the rhythmic thudding echoing with

our pulsing hearts,

pumped full of exhilaration,

a drug that makes us pedal faster,

round and round empty lots,

our hands lifted recklessly in the air,

our eyes reflected, full of light.

 

As the train pulls away,

the empty night, stars masked by the scintillating city,

receives our worries and confessions,

covered up by the train’s screaming whistles.

 

Harmonica

Harmonica. Harmonica, Harmonica.

That was all Calum asked for consecutively for four years. He just wanted one. All his friends had one. Lucy had a pink one with jewels along the top, Hannah had a purple one with polka dots, and Mika had a green one with little dinosaurs across the top.

Calum literally begged for one for Christmas, his birthday, and any holiday where he was given presents. Now he was sitting at the party table for his tenth birthday. Calum was surrounded by his family. Then, his Aunt Sarah handed him a neatly wrapped box in colorful paper.

Calum examined the size and weight of the box. Oh my god! he thought, his deep blue eyes widening in anticipation. This feels like a harmonica!

With that thought in his head, he tore apart the multi-colored, zigzag wrapping paper. Excited to finally receive his long awaited treasure, he looked at what laid beneath the paper, and his head fell in disappointment mixed with shock.

Really! Seriously! is this actually happening right now?! he screamed in his mind. What aunt would think her now ten-year-old nephew wanted a mini first aid kit as a birthday present?! Yeah, sure, his father was a doctor, but why would a ten-year-old want a mini first aid kit?

“Auntie, thank you so much. I’m totally gonna use this.

After the party ended, Calum got up to put his presents away. First, he separated them into the categories: actual presents and first aid kits. After he made his piles, he took all the actual presents to his room, and he angrily shoved the first aid kit into his backpack.

The next day at school, the children were finally allowed to go out to the playground. It had rained for the last two days. Finally, they were blessed with the warm yellow glow of sunshine. Lucy went to the swings with her friends, Emily and Hannah. Mika and Calum went over to a spot under the shaded trees and talked for a little. Mika had brought his comic books again so they also read those together. While the two boys were deep into the newest issue of danger zone, they heard Hannah let out a cry of pain. Pulled out of the comic book world, they ran over to their friend to see what had happened. They saw Lucy hovering over a crying Hannah, asking if she was okay. Hannah was holding her hand over her knee. Calum could see that there was some blood on Hannah’s hand.

Since Calum’s dad was a doctor, he went over to Hannah and asked her to move her hand. Hannah did as she was told, and Calum examined the cut. He could tell it was just one of those cuts that wasn’t deep but just bled a lot.

“One second, Hannah, I’ll be right back.”

After he said that to the crying, red-headed girl, he ran over to his backpack and dug through it, looking for the first aid kit. He found it and grabbed the little white box. With the box in his hand, he ran back over to Hannah, noting that more children had gathered around the scene. Calum kneeled beside Hannah and cleaned the cut.

“Hannah, this might sting a little, but just bear with me, okay?” After Calum had cleaned the cut, remembering the steps his father showed him, he grabbed the Neosporin and put a little on the cut. Then, he unwrapped a waterproof band-aid and laid it gently over her cut.

“There. All done,” Calum said.

Mika was the first to say something after that.

Mika said, “Calum, that was so awesome. How did you know what to do, and how did you have the supplies for it with you?”  

Calum replied, “I just keep a first aid kit with me. No big deal!”

Everyone looked towards him in awe, like he was some First Aid King. Calum decided he could get used to that look. The last thing Calum thought before he and Mika retreated back over to their spot under the tree was, Maybe this gift wasn’t that bad after all. Although, he still wanted his harmonica.

 

The Backpack Mishap

The ringing of a bell. Screaming. The end of the school year at Townsend Harris High School. Saying goodbye.

“Alex, wait you forgot your backpack. Here you go.”

“Thanks, Joe. I need to go home. My mom is going to kill me for being late,” replied Alex.

Joe was Alex’s best friend. Alex ran home. His long legs covered ground quickly. He realized that his backpack was heavier than normal. He ran through a mental checklist of what he had in his backpack: pens and his history book. It felt heavier than that. He finally got home and went to have a snack with his mom and brother in the kitchen of their tiny apartment. Alex’s brother, Bob, told him about his day at Hunter College.

He went upstairs and opened his backpack. He saw his papers, mostly B’s with one A. When Alex picked up his heaviest book, World History, he found a sheet of paper, addressed to himself, with directions to go to a building on West 32nd street. Alex debated whether to go to that building or not. He finally decided to go. He had read a lot of mystery books when he was younger, and he wanted to try to solve this one.

At midnight, he opened his bedroom window and climbed onto the fire escape. He walked down the fire escape. He ran until he got to a tall, faded, red-brick building. There was no traffic in this area which, he thought, was strange.

“Is this the place?” Alex wondered out loud.

Alex knocked on the door. Suddenly, a trap door opened underneath him! Alex screamed, but no one heard him. He fell on a long, twisty slide. The slide let him off in a room far below the street.

“Hello? Anyone here?”

The room was dark, with no visible way out. Then, a bear roared, and the lights came on. A huge seven-foot brown bear lumbered toward him. Alex looked around for anything to defend himself. All he saw was a broom. He decided to use the broom. He swung the broom from side to side as the bear approached. He jabbed at the bear who turned tail and ran. Alex examined the room. He saw a hallway near where he stood. Alex ran into the hallway. He looked into all the rooms hoping to see someone. Then he heard a voice that sounded like Joe’s.

It said, “Stop looking around in there. We are over here.”

Alex followed the voice to a room at the end of the hallway. Joe and a large man were sitting on a sleek black leather couch studded with silver buttons.

“I see you got my little present and passed our test with the bear. I work for MHDO — Mayhem and Destruction Order. This is my boss, Mr. Writer,” Joe said. “We have a job proposal. You will get good pay, and the jobs are not hard. Just sign here.”

Joe handed Alex a huge packet.

“Should I read through this 1,000 page packet?” asked Alex.

“Let me give you a brief summary. If you sign here, you give us permission to do whatever we want to you. Your salary is between pages 857-859. If you have any questions call us at 877-241-KILL. That’s 877-241-KILL. Oh, and by the way, that packet is 1,001 pages long. You didn’t count the deductions page. Yeah, just sign here,” Joe replied.

“Okay,” Alex said, feeling trapped.

“You start today. Your first mission is to blow up a building on Broadway. Here are your explosives. Just toss this sphere through a broken window. To blow this up ,you press this red button.”

Along with the sphere, Joe handed Alex something that looked a bit like a joystick for a video game.

“Will anyone get hurt?”

“No, the building is abandoned.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“That is not your business. If you want to stay safe, do what we say.”

Alex did not want to get hurt, so he agreed. He picked up the bag and walked over to a stairway. Alex emerged on West 32nd street. It was around one, and the streets were deserted.  He walked  to the building on Broadway. Alex took the explosives out and threw the bomb through a broken window. A police officer saw Alex and ordered him to get on the ground. When Alex didn’t do that, they got in a fist fight. Alex got battered and bruised but managed to knock out the officer. Alex ran down Broadway. When he got about a mile away, he detonated the bomb. The sound of sirens filled the air. He went back to West 32nd street. He reported that he had completed his mission and was told to go back to his home.

Alex snuck into his bedroom and stared wistfully at the wall, wondering what to do next. After completing his mission for MHDO, his body was all black and blue. His clothes were shredded and torn. He wondered if he should work for them again. Alex felt he would never fully recover from his experience with them.

Suddenly Alex heard a distant voice saying, “Wake up, wake up.”

Alex woke up and groaned, “Where am I?”

“Don’t worry, honey, you just had a fever. I heard you talking in your sleep, so I came into check on you,” his mom replied.

“So it was all a dream?”

“Yes, you can go back to sleep.”

 

Darkheart’s Curse

Guide To The World of The Prides

  1. Ceremonies A very common ceremony is a Dragoning ceremony, in which a fledgling becomes a dragon. It gives this new dragon a new name (if they wish) and they receive bursts. Another ceremony is a Fledgling ceremony, in which a hatchling gets a teacher and officially becomes a fledgling.
  2. Chores and Status: Fledglings are in training to become dragons, so they get a good share of all the dirty work, like cleaning out bedding and washing underneath the elder’s wings. They also are in charge of the runaway hatchlings. Dragons are in charge of teaching the fledglings. They also must hunt and fetch water soaked in leaves, lichen, moss, or rotting wood. Elders are, well, elders. They are very old dragons that deserve respect. They spend all day napping in the sun or telling stories from their adventures as a young dragon.
  3. Leaders get their names based on their Pride. Ex: Coraltail of LeafPride- CoralLeaf, LeafPride’s leader.

 

Prologue

Rain quivered with excitement as she crouched atop the Leaf Rock, watching as CoralLeaf, their leader, sauntered with her head held high towards her sister (Rosy), Weaver, Blazing, and herself. Blazing was letting out little peeps of anticipation, awarding a venomous hiss from Weaver.

Don’t mess us up!” Rosy whispered angrily. “We’ve got to look good in front of our Pride leader!”

“Shush!” Rain whispered as she looked out over the entire of LeafPride, feeling twice as jittery as before.

“Shush yourself!”

“EVERYONE SHUT UP! SHE’S COMING!” Weaver whisper-screamed.

All of the fledglings on the rock tried to look as innocent as they could possibly muster, hastily smiling at their leader.

CoralLeaf smiled knowingly at them, and they all relaxed. Maybe CoralLeaf wasn’t the scary, ruthless leader everyone portrayed the pride leaders as.

“It is time to announce the Dragoning ceremony for these fledglings. They have learned the ways of the pride and deserve to be accepted as full dragons.” CoralLeaf announced in her deep, booming voice that made you want to turn and listen.

In a Dragoning ceremony, fledglings received their new name and bursts. Bursts were circles surrounded by little circles, spreading out like bursts. They can be red (firebursts), brown (earthbursts), pink (rosybursts), black (nightbursts), etc.

I hope that I get rose-goldbursts, Rain thought excitedly as the others received their bursts and new name.

“Now, Rain, step forward…”

Rain nearly threw up. This was the scariest, and best, moment of her life.

“Do you wish to alter your name?”

Rain thought hard about this. It took her about ten seconds, but then she responded, her voice wavering, “Yes, CoralLeaf.”

Rain’s claws scratched at the rock in anticipation.

“Rainfeather, welcome to the Pride.” CoralLeaf touched her muzzle to Rainfeather’s, and rose-goldbursts appeared all over her light blue body.

Rainfeather caught her mother, Quiet Rain’s, eye, and it glistened with tears as she screamed with all her might, “RAINFEATHER! RAINFEATHER!”

Rainfeather felt as if she might cry a bit, too. She was a dragon now. She could eat, sleep, hunt, and guard as she wished, take a mate (although she surely wasn’t ready for that), and be respected by all of the hatchlings and fledglings. Of course, Rainfeather was going to use this power to the full extent of helping her Pride. LeafPride would be proud of her one day.

 

Chapter 1

“DARKSCALES!” CoralLeaf called from the Leaf Rock. “Where is he?” she asked Rainfeather, who was seated at the base of the rock.

“I have no idea,” she answered truthfully. “But I think he’s up to no good. Why haven’t you thrown him out of LeafPride yet?”

“Because he’s a useful asset,” she snapped. “He has been into the depths of the forest. We need him, Rainfeather! He can help us claim the land there. Great SunPride, for once, think with your brain and not your heart!”

This was a harsh blow to Rainfeather, who was a trusted and experienced dragon to CoralLeaf.

“I’m sorry, CoralLeaf. I’ll try harder.”

“No, no, it is I who should be sorry. It’s just so harsh these days. I feel like I don’t even know who my Pride are anymore… the traitors, the loyal ones… oh, Rainfeather!” CoralLeaf ran down the rock and cried into Rainfeather’s shoulder. T

he leader’s normally bright blue and red scales turned into depressing shades of purple and gray. The cold tears running down Rainfeather’s scales were a shock, so she jerked suddenly. This just made CoralLeaf cry harder, so Rainfeather tried to comfort her. As you will soon see, this is not her strong suit.

“I know, CoralLeaf, I know… everything you’re saying is true…” More tears. “But we’ll get over it… CoralLeaf, snap out of it!” She tried a harsher tone. “Do you think StrongStorm of StormPride and WindSnow of SnowPride are acting like this? Shape up! Become a leader, CoralLeaf!”

CoralLeaf gave one last sniff, then sighed.

“Thank you. Now, I will take your advice and talk to Darkscales. If your allegations are true, if he is raising an army using forbidden magic, then I will remove him from the Pride. If not, he’s still on cleaning duty. He misbehaves enough as it is.”

She suddenly saw Darkscales walking across a strip of grass, caught his eye, and beckoned him to her den with a flick of her tail. Rainfeather, however, decided to go on an evening flight. Just herself and the jagged peaks cutting into the horizon. She needed time to think.

On the flight, Rainfeather gave herself time to think about what had happened within the first moon of being a full dragon. She had been given a fledgling to train. Her name was Willow, and she had been a very good pupil until she had gotten the sickness, Cloverfever, which had made her very tired and unable to train. When she was cured by the Sorcerer Rock, she was inspired to start training for being a Sorceress.

Rainfeather’s father, River, had just been promoted to second-in-line, while Splash, River’s brother, had just been demoted to a regular dragon from second-in-line, so a lot of fights were breaking out between her kin.

In addition to both of these problems was Darkheart.

Many of the female dragons in the Pride fell for him. He was sleek, with a fit, wiry black body with night bursts. Suuuuuuuuuper handsome.

Also suuuuuuuuuuuper evil!

There is a special kind of magic called dark magic. It was forbidden by Leaf, Storm, and Snow, the ancient founders of the Prides. Rainfeather once caught Darkheart using it, and Rainfeather suspected that he was using it to raise an army (You would be sure, too, if you slept next to him in the dragon den! He talks in his sleep!)

Rainfeather sighed and tears welled in her eyes. Nothing was right with the world. Suddenly, she heard a noise and jumped.

“Rainfeather?”

“Blazingwings!”

The fiery dragon appeared beside her, and she swooped down to a nearby rocky cliff so that they could talk.

“What do you want, Blazingwings?” Rainfeather asked cautiously.

Blazingwings looked nervous, his claws scraping on the rock.

“Rainfeather…” Blazingwings took a deep breath, then let it out. “This is going to sound awkward, because we’ve been friends for years, but…” he cleared his throat.

Rainfeather began to sweat. I’ve liked Blazingwings for a long time now… is he going to ask what I think he’s going to ask?

“Rainfeather, will you be my — ” Blazingwings was interrupted by a violent screaming.

“HELP!!! DARKSCALES IS ATTACKING! DARKSCALES IS ATTA — ” The shrill scream was cut off by a sickening crack as the screamer’s neck was snapped horrifyingly. By a dragon.

“Blazingwings! We have to help them!”

Rainfeather and Blazingwings took off toward the clearing in which they lived.

“Rainfeather, if we get through this, will you be my mate?”

“What’s more important now are our Pridemates! Remove all that lovey-dovey stuff from your head and replace it with rage! Our friends are being slaughtered!” Rainfeather cried as she dove into battle.

Rainfeather came face-to-face with Nightmoon, a respected dragon that was a moon older than her. He leaped on Rainfeather and started to attack. She twisted around, and although it exposed her belly, she managed to get in a few good scrapes at his soft underside, watching as purple dragon blood welled up at his wounds.

“Why are you attacking me?” Rainfeather demanded as she slipped away from his grasp.

“I am Darkheart’s dragon now, not puny little CoralLeaf’s!” Nightmoon snarled, swiping at Rainfeather with his newly sharpened claws.

“Who is Darkheart?” Rainfeather dodged his swipe, then rolled over and tripped him.

“You might know him as Darkscales? But of course, that’s his dragon name, a name to be scorned. I am Nightheart now!”

He attempted to swipe at her face, but she caught his claw midair in her teeth and yanked it to the ground, pulling him down with it. Then, quick as a snake, Rainfeather placed a paw on his neck to cut off his air supply.

“Tell me where your loyalty lies,” she snarled. “Featherstripe raised you. We fed you, trained you, kept you safe just so you could grow up to abandon your Pride and become wicked?”

“I- I’m sorry,” he faltered. “Take… paw… off… neck… so… I… can… explain…”

Rainfeather released her paw off his neck but sat on him so he couldn’t make an escape. In the heat of the battle, she didn’t notice that Blazingwings was fighting off Splash, and that CoralLeaf was finishing up with a deadly bite to Storm’s neck, who had nearly killed her.

“Darkheart promised us fame and power, so we went into his den to talk. But then he hypnotized us, so we were his army, and we had to do whatever he said. Now I know the antidote!” he exclaimed. “The antidote is to be reminded of your family. I feel as if a cloud has lifted from my brain.”

Rainfeather leaped off of him.

“Come on, then! Let’s fight!”

They began a session of back-to-back, fending off Darkheart’s soldiers.

“Take that — and that — Lilystream?”

“I FIGHT FOR DARKHEART NOW!”

The usually kind pale-pink dragon cried. Now, you could see the enraged fire burning in her eyes.

Rainfeather broke the back to back formation and leaped on Lilystream, screaming, “REMEMBER YOUR MOTHER, FEATHERSTRIPE! REMEMBER YOUR BROTHER, NIGHTMOON!”

Uncertainty flickered for a moment in Lilystream’s eyes. “Don’t you mean Nightheart?”

“NO! Your brother made the right decision and joined us. He’s Nightmoon.” Rainfeather growled angrily.

They writhed on the ground for a little while, Lilystream tried to resist the antidote, which made her have the urge to shake the spell off. Suddenly, she gave in to the spell.

“Fine. FINE! I’m on your side now.” She looked a bit embarrassed to have given up, as if she had proven that she wasn’t strong enough a million times over to defeat her greatest foe, but Rainfeather leaped off of her and surveyed the area.

There were bodies of dragons littered across the hollow, some injured, some even dead. Darkheart stood in the midst of them all, smiling triumphantly.

“Be careful, LeafPride.” He snorted, then let out a bout of cackles that made you want to run for the hills. “I’ve raised my army. Now, if you’re with me, follow.” He strutted out of the hollow, followed by Weaver (Which broke Rainfeather’s heart), Reedtail, Tall, Bounce, Fin, Winter, Streak, and many of Rainfeather’s family.

Russetflame, Rainfeather’s favorite sister, was leaving, and so was Rainfeather’s oldest brother, Sunscales, and Splash, her uncle. And what hurt most of all…

Her mother was leaving.

Quiet Rain had gone to join them.

Rainfeather ran up to her and looked into her eyes.

“Are you really leaving?” She murmured so quietly, so softly, that she nearly mouthed it.

Quiet Rain nodded and did the tiniest nuzzle to Rainfeather’s neck.

“I will always love you. It’s not my fault that you haven’t seen the sense in leaving, but you are still my daughter and my favorite,” she added softly, so Russetflame couldn’t hear. “Goodbye.”

“No, Mother! Please! You have to stay!” Rainfeather had never felt so helpless and… alone. Mother was the only dragon I could turn to with a problem, and now she’s joining my greatest enemy! She thought helplessly.

“I’ve got to go.”

“MOTHERRRRRRRRR!!! Hurry up! Stop wasting your time on that lowdown piece of plankton. Is she harassing you? I have no idea who she is.”

Rainfeather gasped in shock when she saw who that voice belonged to. It was Russetflame, her favorite sister!

“I am not a piece of plankton! I am your sister!” Rainfeather was surprised at the rage that burned inside of her. “Your pirate sidekick! Your best friend! And now you’re betraying all of us! What you’re doing is absolutely despicable!” Rainfeather gave her a quick slice with her claws on the back of her ear, then stalked away.

Rainfeather peered behind her and saw Russetflame fuming from the public humiliation, but she flew after Darkheart.

Soon, all of Darkheart’s army had left, and LeafPride was left with a puny pack of sniveling Dragons.

Darkheart had wreaked havoc on LeafPride.

 

Chapter 2

“Okay, is everyone ready? Head count, head count! Two, four, six, eight, ten. Great, we’re all here!”

River was counting heads for the journey that the dragons would take to defeat Darkheart. Rainfeather, River, Rosytail, Nightmoon, Featherstripe, Dawn, Dusk, Lusa, Luna, and Blazingwings were coming on the journey to defeat Darkheart.

Over the past moon, Blazingwings and Rainfeather had, yes, become mates. Rainfeather was excited to go on their first mission together.

“Are you guys ready? Everyone packed?” River was the leader for the mission, so he was taking his role very seriously.

“Stop being such a bossypants!” Rosytail exclaimed impatiently. “Yes! We’re ready! We are not helpless hatchlings!”

Rainfeather butted her side.

“You will respect our father! He’s earned the right to be bossy. He’s our second-in-line!”

Rosytail muttered something under her breath, but she set off after the others without another word.

Along the way, they picked up some healing plants in case someone got hurt. That was a good move. Dusk got thirteen scrapes! He also hit his head on a rock and was knocked unconscious — a rough start to a heroic journey.

When he came to, everyone crowded around him.

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” he insisted. He stood up. “Lusa! Luna! Stop pestering me!”

“We are your sorceresses, and we will not stop. If you are seriously hurt, then it’s important that we help.” Luna attempted to explain, but Dusk kept on fighting her.

Finally, Luna gave in. “Let’s keep on going,” she muttered wearily.

They were going on this journey to find Darkheart’s whereabouts. Find him, and then defeat him. LeafPride was suffering greatly due to the lost Pride members, so the elders had held a council and decided that if Darkheart was dead, the curse would be lifted, and everyone who was hypnotized would come home.

Suddenly, Rainfeather felt a jolt of pain in her belly and cried out.

“Lusa! Luna! What is wrong with my mate?” Blazingwings demanded.

“It’s just a bellyache,” Rainfeather moaned. “No need to check me.”

The sorceresses in training rushed over to feel her belly to see if anything was wrong.

“Yep, just a regular old bellyache,” Luna conceded. “Here, eat a bit of this.” She handed Rainfeather a bundle of bitter-smelling herbs. “They’ll help!”

After she managed to keep that bitter stuff down, she leaped to her paws. “Let’s go!”

They trekked on for the entire day, and they did not stop until the sun disappeared from the horizon.

“We’d better go to sleep now,” said River. “There’s no point in continuing on in the darkness.”

***

Suddenly, Rainfeather awoke to what felt like a poke from a hatchling’s claw. It poked, and poked, and poked again.

“Mmmpphhhhhhhhhh!” Rainfeather moaned exasperatedly and rolled over.

Right onto a hatchling.

It was the most bloodcurdling screech Rainfeather ever heard. She jumped up.

“Are you okay?”

In the early morning light, she could make out an orange and purple hatchling crossing her stubby arms and glaring at her.

“MOMMY! That was not nice!” the little dragon yelped.

Mommy?” Rainfeather asked. “I am not your mother!”

“Yes, you are! I hatched last night, while you were asleep! And my sister is here, too!”

A little green, purple, and blue dragon appeared beside her sister. Rainfeather was awestruck. Children? Surely she wasn’t ready!

“What are our names, Mama?”

Rainfeather was very surprised that no one else had woken up from all of the racket.

“Uh…” She thought fast.

The second dragon had watery colors, so she could be named Misty. The other was harder. Maybe she could be named Aurora. It was her grandmother’s name.

“You are Aurora,” she said, pointing to Aurora, “And you are Misty.”

“And you are Rainfeather,” said Misty.

Wait. Rainfeather had never told Misty that.

“How do you know?”

“You dreamt so last night.”

“You can hear my dreams?”

The little dragon thought for a moment, then replied, “Yes. I think so.”

 

 

The Stealer

Once there was a butterfly who was named Carl. He lived in the West District of New Yorkie in the United States of Animalerica. Where Carl was from, everybody was an animal. Carl was grumpy and had an open dislike of the world because he could not get the precious Purple Spring Flower Plant. This plant was the most important thing in Carl’s life. It was the only thing that could give him even the slightest bit of happiness. Carl had wanted this flower all his life from the day he first saw it in the Museum of Botany. He was visiting the museum with his mother on a special trip for his fifth birthday. The ironic thing was that the day Carl glimpsed it, the massive Gorilla, Matt, broke in and stole it. Carl realized that the plant would’ve been easily accessible if it weren’t for Matt.

Matt was huge and was made up of pure muscle. He could crush a 50 pound weight with his toe. Like Carl, Matt adored the Purple Spring Flower Plant, and he thought he could protect it and cherish it in all its glory forever. That was, until Carl.

Now, you may be asking why this plant was so precious to some. There was a myth that if you kept the Plant in the perfect amount of heat and sunlight, it would produce an elixir that could give someone immortal life. Carl wanted the plant, not because of the immortal life, although that would be pretty nice if you ask me, but purely because he thought that the Plant was absolutely stunning. Matt the Gorilla only wanted it so he could become immortal and take over the world. Matt had the flower for a long time, waiting for the elixir. But for some reason the Plant did not want to make its elixir for Matt. Carl realized that since the Plant didn’t like Matt, he might have a chance at getting it and taking it for himself.

So he devised a plan to reclaim the Plant and finally receive true happiness. Carl needed to think about three things: Matt the Gorilla, getting in, and the alarms. To deal with Matt, Carl thought that he could sneak in to Matt’s cave in the underground Mines of Zoo. The Mines were created by the moles that used to dig for diamonds there. Carl also needed to deal with the alarms. Carl knew that Matt was an absolute madman and had stolen many various objects and hurt many people in the past. And if he caught Carl, he would rip him to pieces. Carl chose the tunnel entrance to the cave, which was behind the cemetery a couple blocks from the Museum of Botany. The moles had used and made this entrance to get into the mines easily. He would use these mines in his map for his heist. Carl would sneak in through there and then find the room where Matt was hiding the Purple Spring Flower Plant. Even though this would be difficult and frightening, Carl would do anything for the Plant.

The day had finally come. Carl needed to make his move at night so it would be harder for Matt to see him. He had drawn a map and a plan of what he was going to do and how he was going to do it. It was starting to get late in the day, and Carl was still prepping and planning. He put on his robber clothes, a black jacket and black pants, and started sneaking down his street. He snuck past the Museum of Botany and slowly got closer to the Mines. When he got there, he realized that Matt might not be asleep, which could make the job harder, but Carl still went on.

Carl was inside the tunnels when he heard an electrical sound. He turned the corner and saw a full-on laser wall with what looked like over 50 lasers that seemed practically impossible to get past. He hurled a rock from the ground into the lasers, and they cut the rock straight in half. Carl used his flying maneuvering skills he learned at a camp one summer when he was little to get past the lasers. He did kicks and dives and rolls to get past the wall. He almost did it perfectly, but he missed a jump and a little bit of his left wing was cut off. He was in major pain, but he couldn’t even shout because he didn’t want Matt to hear him. He saw he was dripping blood and could feel it trickling down his body and onto the floor but couldn’t do anything about it. So he kept on going.

In the next area, he found a room made up of stepping stones on the floor that had symbols on them. He knew that they needed to be stepped on with a pattern so he thought about what it could be. Then it hit him. What would Matt use as a password to defend the Flower? He’s a dumb gorilla for goodness sakes. He would just use “Flower”! He realized the signs were Roman numerals, so he did the number equivalents of the word “flower” in the alphabet. VI, XII, XV, XXIII, V, XVIII was the pattern, and to Carl’s surprise, it worked! He did it, he had gotten past the steps of doom! Or so he thought….    Carl was elated that he had figured out the passcode but he didn’t notice one thing: the part of his wing that had been lasered off had been dripping blood the whole time and had been activating the silent alarm Matt had set up. Carl didn’t know it at the time, but Matt was being alerted of Carl’s presence at that very moment.

Carl kept moving and finally arrived in a room with many doors. Each door had its own little pattern, and each doorknob was carefully carved with wood. One of the doors had the flower and Matt in it and that one would be the most dangerous. Carl looked in each and every room twice, and none of them had anything in them.

Carl was about to leave when he heard something moving behind him. He felt the hair on his neck stick way up. He slowly turned around and saw the one thing he didn’t want to see. Matt! Carl turned an odd shade of green and felt the need to run. So he did exactly that. He turned and ran.

Even though he knew Matt would probably catch up to him, Carl knew that he was smarter than Matt and could divert him with a distraction of some sort. Carl ran to a crossroads and ripped out some of his wing feather  to distract Matt and make him think he went the other way. Matt, the dumb ape that he was, somehow fell for it. Carl immediately turned around and went searching for the Plant. He could hear Matt’s screams of rage and disarray but kept running.  

Finally, he glimpsed one room and saw the flower out of the corner of his eye. He opened the door and felt amazing as he ran towards it without thinking about anything else. He looked at the flower, and tears started welling up in his eyes. He gently picked up the plant and started running out the door. He heard Matt coming so he ran back into the room and closed the door. He could hear Matt’s heavy breathing. Matt started walking away, so Carl opened the door and ran.

Carl finally found his way to the tunnels and started climbing up one of them which was especially rocky. The footholds were very small and the handholds were even smaller. He heard Matt go into the tunnel room and heard him checking each tunnel. He was getting to Carl’s tunnel when a mouse made a noise that sounded like a footstep, and Matt went over and checked what it was. At that moment, Carl decided to climb as fast as he could. He got to the top and started running as fast as he could and got to his house. He called the police and sat on his couch with an awestruck look. The police answered, and he told them everything and so they came, picked up the Flower, and thanked him profusely. They went off and arrested Matt for thievery of many items including the Plant. Carl knew he would get a good night’s sleep knowing he had done a good deed for society.

It was a day after the taking of the Flower. Carl was inside his home in the living room watching the news about how he, Carl the Butterfly, stole the Purple Spring Flower Plant from Matt the Gorilla. He was still shaking and feeling the excitement over and over in his head. Carl was thinking about how he had sent Matt to jail and how great it felt to give the Flower back to the Museum of Botany, even when he knew he slightly wanted it for himself. He had never been so happy in his life. Carl just sat there smiling while looking out the window at the sunset. He had no idea I’ve been watching him this whole time….

 

The Worst Roommate

 

**CONTENT ADVISORY: The following story contains sensitive content regarding suicide that some readers may find disturbing and/or may not be suitable for younger readers.**

I had the worst roommate on the planet. You may think I’m exaggerating, but someone has to be the worst, and I genuinely believe it was this guy. The university I’m at has an absurd policy regarding changing your roommate, and if yours isn’t actively plotting to murder you, you’re out of luck.

Anyways, on the first day at school, I walked into the dorm and I found him sitting in the fetal position on one of the kitchen stools. He had an unfortunate combination of greasy long hair and a messy beard that did not compliment anything about him. He was wearing a long sleeve, flannel shirt with some ominous stains and nothing else besides some boxers. I paused for a moment but decided that I was nobody to judge and nodded to him. He gave no signs of having noticed my presence, his eyes fixed on the entirely unremarkable wall opposite of him. I went and unpacked my stuff in the room he hadn’t taken and returned to the common area to find him sitting in the exact same position, looking like he hadn’t moved a muscle. I cleared my throat. No response. I cautiously offered a simple verbal greeting. Nothing. At this point, decently creeped out, I slowly made my way over to him and tapped him on the shoulder. His head violently spun around, and he focused his beady eyes on mine. I had no idea how to react, and apparently neither did he, because we sat there staring at each other for a moment. Finally, he broke the silence with a line that I’m now sure he has tried dozens of times.

“Let me tell you about the Jews and their lies,” he said sharply.

What followed was a very uncomfortable and very one-sided conversation about lizard people, the moonmen, the world government, Hillary Clinton and of course, the Jews. I was finally able to make my escape by claiming a need to use the restroom.

“Make sure not to drink the water from the sink!” he shouted after me.

Although it had originally upset me, I was suddenly very glad that my pet lizard was safe at home, being taken care of my Jewish, liberal family, far, far away from this madman. I spent a few moments mentally preparing myself for the year I would have to spend with this man. I stepped back outside into the common room, calming myself with the knowledge that this was probably the worst it would get. Boy, was I wrong. When I had exited the bathroom, my roommate was once again intently staring at the exact same point on the wall as before.

“What are you looking at anyway?” I asked, curiosity having finally got the better of me

“Ghosts,” he muttered.

I decided to end the conversation right there and walked into my room and pulled out my laptop, hoping to find some distraction from what had just transpired. I mainly played video games on a console back home, but I had finally caved into the pressure from my friends and bought a gaming laptop and a few games I hadn’t gotten around to yet. I fished around for the paper with the wi-fi information and password I had been given, and once I connected I started downloading a few games that my friends had recommended. I opened up my web browser and mindlessly browsed the internet while I waited for the games to finish downloading. An hour or so later I alt-tab-ed over to see how the download progress was going and was shocked to see that it had barely downloaded anything. The download speed was abysmal, significantly lower than what was promised by the university. I was annoyed at myself for actually believing the promise of high speed internet when something occurred to me.

I walked out into the common area and was briefly surprised to see the stool that my roommate had been occupying was now empty, but I figured he must be in his room. I walked up to the closed door and knocked on it.

“Who is it?” shouted his muffled voice.

“It’s just me,” I responded.

Labored footsteps could be heard approaching the door, followed by the sound of many locks being undone. When the door was finally open, he had a toothy grin.

“Well, you should have just said so!” he stated excitedly as he welcomed me in. “But for future reference, could you knock three times? That way I know it’s not the police,” he requested as he closed the door behind him and locked it’s many locks.

My feeling of discomfort only strengthened as I entered the room. In only a short few hours, he had managed to make the dorm room that had been meticulously cleaned only days ago look like it had not seen any love in a very long time. The window was covered by a black painted piece of plywood and the lights were off, so the only source of light was coming from a nice-looking computer monitor sitting on the floor in the corner of the room. It was attached to an impressive looking PC with a fan that sounded like a jet engine, and a blanket and some pillows were sitting around the setup with the keyboard and mouse, all strategically placed on the floor in what was most likely the only possible comfortable position. There were a few cardboard boxes lying around, all unlabeled. The only decoration was a bright and happy poster for some K-pop act, which only managed to make the room altogether even sadder.

“You wouldn’t happen to be doing anything bandwidth-intensive, would you?” I inquired, after having taken it all in.

“Oh, yeah yeah yeah! I have a special program that encrypts everything I do online so that it can’t be monitored by an ISP or the government and right now I’m downloading some stuff so it kinda eats through the bandwidth, sorry about that. I set it up for you if you’d like though!” he said, emphatically motioning over to the monitor, where an unfamiliar user interface sat, doing … something. As I looked closer I realized that he was torrenting some file with a name that appeared to be Japanese written in the English alphabet. An idea hit me.

“Hey, I gotta go out to do something, but I just realized that I don’t even know your name,” I said cautiously.

“Oh, you can call me Wiley,” he responded.

“Thanks. I’m Logan,” I said as I started towards the door. I reached for the handle when I realized that I had no idea how to undo the hastily installed extra locks.

“Sorry, I’ll get that for you,” Wiley said.

When I was in the common area, I took out my phone and Googled the name of the Japanese file he was downloading. It was anime porn.

***

“What!?” I spat.

“Can you prove that you have been threatened or are in danger?” repeated the annoyed-looking lady in the campus dormitory offices.

“Well, no, I just got here. He just creeps me out, okay?” I responded.

“If you can’t prove anything, we can’t do anything, got that?” she said, rolling her eyes.

“He said that the Jews are controlling everything! I’m Jewish!” I said, bewildered.

“Well, that’s just his opinion, okay? Now, if you’re done complaining, I have work to do,” she said, turning her body away from me and making it very clear that the conversation was over.

Feeling defeated and offended, I returned to the dorm room to find Wiley in the common area setting up a TV that had probably been impressive a few years ago. It was connected to a very long cable that snaked over to and under his door.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s you! I was thinking that maybe we could play some video games!” he said excitedly, motioning over to the couch where a wireless controller was sitting there waiting for me. I was going to just head back to my room without saying a word, but when I thought about how much time he had put into setting up the TV, I decided to indulge him for a bit and sat down on the couch. He started up Portal 2, one of the games I had attempted to download earlier and had always wanted to play. He selected the co-op mode and we started playing the game. It was fun. A lot of fun, actually. At first neither of us said much, but as the puzzles ramped up in difficulty, we were forced to communicate and actually ended up with some decent banter and jokes and ate some pizza. Although many of the jokes were somewhat offensive (most notably when he referred to the game’s villain as “what happens when you have more chromosomes than IQ points”), he mostly seemed to be in good fun. Thankfully, he never brought up any of his conspiracy theories, although he did examine the pizza for an unnecessarily long time before allowing either of us to bite into it. When I finally got to bed, my face had taken on a smile.

***

“So there’s this girl in one of my classes, and I think I might be interested in her,” I said during a lull in the gameplay. It had been several months now, and us playing games and talking about unrelated things had become a fairly regular occurrence.

“What’s her name?” Wiley asked in the same monotone voice he always spoke in.

“I haven’t talked to her yet, but I believe her name is Rochelle,” I responded.

“What’s she like?” he asked.

“Well, as I said, we haven’t talked yet, but she has this adorable smile and laugh, and she seems super nice and likes a lot of the same music as me,” I said, barely concealing my excitement.

“I see,” Wiley responded in the same cadence as before.

***

“Listen, he’s just creepy, okay?” my girlfriend Rochelle said.

“Look, he’s not that bad once you get to know him, and besides he doesn’t have the long-term planning skills to murder someone anyways,” I said.

“That man is a school shooting waiting to happen, and you know it,” she retorted.

“That sounds like something that he would say,” I teased.

“Shut up!” Rochelle said, with an embarrassed smile on her face. She continued, “Going back to the topic at hand, do you want to come over tonight or not?”

“Yeah sure, but I already told you that I’m going back at 10. Wiley and I have plans to finally finish up Castle Crashers,” I responded.

That night I had found myself cuddling with Rochelle when I suddenly became aware of the time. It was 10:45.

“Oh fuck,” I muttered, mostly to myself. “I gotta shoot Wiley a message to let him know that I’m busy.” I hammered out a basic text message saying that I was with Rochelle and that I was busy. I then put my phone back down and slowly drifted off to sleep.

I woke up and reached for my phone to check the time. It was dead. I had forgotten to plug it back in after I sent the message to Wiley. Shit. I checked the physical clock on the wall and saw that I was late for my engineering classes. Shit. With no time to charge my phone, I quickly threw on last night’s clothes and ran to my class.

Wiley wasn’t in class that day. Not that him skipping class was an unusual occurrence – in fact he he did it more often than not, but I was eager to see him in person to apologize. When class ended, I dashed back to our dorm room to find him. I found a small, handwritten note on the common room table.

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t good enough for you. It was nice to know what it felt like to have a friend. Goodbye Logan.” the note read.

Terrified, I looked around for him. His door was closed. I reached for the handle. It was unlocked. As long as I had known him, Wiley had never had his door unlocked, whether he was there or not. With a massive sense of dread, I slowly turned the knob, pushed, and stepped into the dark room.

A great roommate leaves you with a friend for life. A good roommate leaves you with a friend for college. An average roommate leaves you with nothing. A bad roommate leaves you with a pain in your ass. The worst roommate leaves you feeling guilty for the rest of your life.

After his suicide, I was invited to Wiley’s funeral by his parents where I learned a lot about him. Wiley wasn’t his real name. His family was Jewish. He had a very similar upbringing to me. He suffered some kind of head trauma when he was seven, seemed to have developed schizophrenia and began to suffer from intense paranoia and anxiety. After that point, he rarely ever left his house and didn’t have any friends. I was the only person outside of family at the funeral.

Personality seems so constant, so baked in, but is it really? I wonder if the only true difference between the two of us was that he hit his head as a kid and I didn’t. Was the only deciding factor between a decently happy college kid and a paranoid suicide victim random chance? I’ve come to the realization and accepted that any moment anyone could die, but I’ve always looked at it from the point of view of the person dying, not the others. What does it feel like to watch your child reject everything about himself and isolate himself from everyone?

Wiley was certainly crazy, had an abrasive personality and was sometimes an asshole, but I cared about him. He was probably the worst roommate on the goddamn planet, but he was my friend.

 

The Wilkołak

I never left the town much. It’s safe there, warm, especially in the winter. But we were in trouble now. The well had frozen up, and the rest of the animals were hibernating. The Król appointed me to hunt in the forest, so I had to accept.

I tightened my bowstring as I entered the forest. When I was a child, I would hear stories and fairy tales about this place. One that particularly came to mind was the Wilkołak, a creature that dwelled in the forest because the foliage would block out the sun. It was said to be half-man, half-wolf, and when you were bitten, you would instantly start to become one. My good friend from when I was in school, Marcel, told me that. Today when I left, he said, “Vladek! Be careful of the Wilkołak!”

I knew he was joking, but as I walked in, it felt real. As far as the eye could see, there were trees. I walked a few meters and heard a rustling noise. I jumped and scraped my hand on the sharp and coarse bark. I looked and saw a small rabbit bounding along. The leaves from the trees must have been so thickly woven together that the snow barely got through.

The further I walked, the darker it got. The separations from the trees became more varied, making the light harder to get through. I dug around in my pocket and pulled out a box of matches. I lit one and carried through.

As it got darker, the wildlife and animals seemed to get more sparse, with more fallen leaves than before. I sniffed the air and picked up the scent of blood. Looking around with my match in my hand, I saw it. It was a boar, dead, with its stomach torn out by a beast far stronger than anything else I’ve ever seen. I tried to get some meat and carried on.

One thing about this part of the forest was that sticks and fallen leaves piled up, making traversing it extremely difficult. I was crawling over a fallen log when I heard a large growling. I immediately dropped my match and drew an arrow. Frantically looking around, I waited for another sound. Rustling came from the pile of fallen leaves.

I slowly walked forward, until I stepped on a broken branch. I heard another growl and the sounds of an animal running. I quickly pulled back the drawstring and let go the arrow. Fwing! It quickly left my hand and went forward into the darkness. I lit another match and went forward to see what I had hit. With a snail’s pace, I stepped over. I smelt blood and heard the slow heavy breathing of the animal. Looking over, I was horrified at what I saw. It was the Wilkołak.

It looked up, with its bright yellow eyes and stained claws. Its breath smelled of blood, not because of the wound, but because of its prey. Marcel told me more about the Wilkołak, namely its metal-like fur that was stronger than iron, but as soft as a dog’s. It was impenetrable, but only by a single material. Srebro. Argentum. Silver.

When my father was still alive, and I was nine, he gave me a small knife after he came back from his journey around Europe. He said to me: “Vladek. Remember this. Keep this with you at all times. It might save your life one day.” It was an Italian switchblade, made by a great cutler from Istanbul. I knew it cost him much, so I always carried it with me. But the one part that always stuck out to me was the material: Ottoman Silver.

Slowly, not to provoke it, I slid the dagger out from my pocket. My palms were sweaty while trying to flip open the blade. Knees weak, it finally flipped open. With all my might, I stabbed that foul beast! And it howled, oh it howled! The depths of the Piekło opened up and swallowed it. It was gone.

I picked up my blade and walked back. Light seemed to fly through the leaves, and wildlife sprang to life. It was like a demon was expelled from this place. My arms were heavy, but I manage to get  some game. I was tired. It was late. But I had to get back home. This forest was a maze, but I had killed its monster.

I finally reached the exit. My face was gaunt and sleepy. Marcel greeted me at the gate.

“Bóg! What happened to you?”

I managed to softly say, “Wilkołak,” but he didn’t hear me. No one would believe me. No one else questioned. They were all just happy I brought meat back. The Król crowned me a hero. I was not a hero. I just did what I had to do to survive.

***

I was on my porch, watching the town bustle around. I was also reading a book about history and the Roman Empire. After that hunt, I tried to make my leisure activities more intellectual. Even though it had only been a day or so from then, my hair seemed to gray. My face was paler, more gaunt. My jacket looked more worn. My boots looked ages old. The town crowned me as a hero now, but they did not know of what actually happened. Even though we were still in deep winter, they held a feast in my honor. Bah! What a waste. I saw the hunters on their way. Bows, knives, torches, everything the town had to offer on their backs. Of course they’ll come back fine, for as far as I knew, there wasn’t another Wilkołak out there, but who knows? Maybe someone else will know what I’ve seen.

***

It’s been quite a while since I killed the Wilkołak, maybe three or four months, but it still haunts me. There hasn’t been another sighting yet. Every hunt I am invited to,  I always decline. I cannot go back there. I will never go back there. I will never leave the town again.