Oak Leaves

A Journal of Works-in-Progressby Students Entering Grades 7-12

Creative Writing CampSummer 2010

Thank You...Through monetary contributions, moral support and other good deeds, many people come together to make Creative Writing Camp a memorable and enriching experience for our young people. Red Oak would especially like to thank the following individuals and organizations:

Judy Bridges & Dave BlankMargaret CrockerSatchi Hiremath

Kris JaegerLinda Mrochinski

Marian Center for NonProfi tsMarjorie Pagel

Pam ParkerAlison PolivkaLaurel Poston

Robert VaughanLaura Sear

Susa SilvermarieTen Chimneys Estate

Jason M. WaltzKristine Weir-Martel

Wilson Center for the ArtsCarol Wobig

Copyrights are held by the writers whose work appears in this book. If you wish to quote a passage, please submit a written request to Red Oak Young Writers, llc. Your request will be forwarded to the writer. Red Oak accepts no responsibility for the material or copyright arrangements.

Published by: Red Oak Young Writers, llc P.O. Box 342 Genesee Depot, WI 53127

414-881-7276 www.redoakyoungwriters.com

First Printing: September, 2010 Printed in USA

Young Writers at Red OakSummer, 2010

We are very proud of our young writers and the work they did during our week together at writing camp. In fi ve short days, the pieces in this book have emerged from idea to draft, from draft to workshopped piece. Participants learned that our best writing usually doesn’t fl ow easily from our pencils the fi rst time, but -- with hard work and a little help from our friends -- it grows like fl owers in a well-tended garden. We know the lessons learned at camp will serve our young people well, both at the page and later in life.

We hope you enjoy reading these “works in progress” as much as our young writers did creating them.

The Red Oak Coaching StaffThe Red Oak Coaching StaffKim SuhrKim Suhr

Robert VaughanPam ParkerPam ParkerKris JaegerKris Jaeger

Susa SilvermarieLaurel PostonAlison Polivka

and our “cookie lady,” Carol Wobig

A Word about our History...

Over 15 years ago, Judy Bridges of Redbird Studio founded a summer program to support young writers in the thing they love most: putting pen to paper. The concept was simple: provide young people with time, space, and expert writing coaches, and they will make magic happen at the page. It did.

Over the years, the camps and staff expanded. Young people and their parents requested more programming and a wider geographical reach. Soon, we realized it was time to create an organization dedicated specifi cally to young people and their writing needs. In January 2008, Red Oak Young Writers was born.

We will be forever grateful to Judy Bridges for the vision and support she has provided young writers -- and their teachers -- over the years. Without her, this would not have been possible.

Thank you, Judy!

Entering grade 7

Emilie BElsa C

Beckie JMadison K

Ellie LMax M

Autumn RWill R

Brendan ZJosie Z

Entering grade 8

Kali AAmanda BGrace H-D

Laura KAlex KJames K

Dylan L-HSharon LIvan RMaya S

Entering grade 9

Maya BMona C

Morgan MEmily MPatrick MSydney R

Amy TAlina T

Meredith W

Our Young Writers2010

Entering grade 10

Ellen AKatie B

Madaline EMeredith HMegan HRachel I

Entering grade 11

Alexandria BKatie HKatie MLuke P

Mitchell SJennifer V

Entering grade 12

Rissa GCharlie H

Sara LRai T

Emilie B

The Quiet Soldier’s Eyes

Journal,

I wonder what time it is. What if the light from the high window begins to fade? I won’t be able to see to write. I want to get out of here. I’m in the book clos-et. I was locked in here by the runaway soldier, Alfred, the same soldier I’ve been writing about for the past few days. After sitting in that chair day after day staring outside, Alfred suddenly stood up. I thought he was going to run out the door, but instead he grabbed me by the arm and pushed me into the open closet. Then he locked the door. Somehow he knew where we kept the old key. What will he do now? What about Elphaba? She’ll be coming home from work soon. Does he plan to capture us both? I hope someone fi nds my note. I thought El was just being a crazy sister when she gave me a journal for writing “boy ideas.” Now this journal of mine might save our lives.

Will

Dear Diary,

Excuse me if this is rather sloppy. I am writing while walking home from work. Mother fi nally agreed on giving me two cents to buy the journal I wanted for Alfred. Maybe he would fi nd it easier to share emo-

tions through writing. He speaks of nothing; only his eyes move. They move toward the open window and gaze out at the swaying trees. Will says Alfred is a tough soldier, just like our father, but sometimes when Alfred looks at me, I think I can see a tear rolling down his cheek.

Always hopeful,

El

Diary,

We’ve been kidnapped!

Everything happened so fast. I planned on giv-ing Alfred his gift this afternoon. I wanted to place it near his chair. But when I walked in, I didn’t see him by the window. He was standing near the door. Confused, I stood there, completely still. He pointed to our book closet. I didn’t understand. Did he want me to get some-thing from in there? He grabbed my arm fi rmly and dragged my fro-zen body toward the closet. Key in hand, he opened the door. Inside was my brother, Will, holding his jour-nal. Alfred didn’t seem to notice a sheet had been torn away and partially hidden under Will’s left foot. Alfred pulled from his pocket a rusty soldier’s knife and mo-tioned us against the wall. He covered my mouth with an old bandana and then tied a dark blue cloth across Will’s mouth. We walked to a mysterious carriage he’d

by students entering...

Grade 7

shirt, with faded, baggy jeans, and Nikes to top it off. I stared at him quizzically. He gave me a warm look. “Now why are you lying on the sand?” he asked me playfully. It looked as if he were Aaron’s age, thirty-six. I stood up and brushed myself off. He inspected me. “Now, see, if you wouldn’t have fallen, you wouldn’t have ruined your pretty dress,” he said. I looked down. I was holding my black, strappy heels in my hand. My silk black dress had water droplets sprinkled over it. Wet sand clumps stuck to the side of the dress, where I had fallen. My dark, curly hair hung in clumps from my scalp. It was no longer beautiful; it was starting to get frizzy, and it was wet and full of sand. “Why did you fall down?” the man asked. When I didn’t answer, he asked again. I was about to answer, when I heard my name being called. “Alaina! Alaina, where are you?” I looked around the young man, and saw Aaron running towards us. “Aaron!” I called. My husband, Aaron, was now right behind the young man. He gave me a quizzical look, and I shrugged. The man followed my glance, and slowly turned around. Then I heard both men gasp.

Beckie J

Alone and Knowing

You’re safe. You’re back at boarding school. It was a nightmare. Our dorm room was dark, with only a sliver of moon as our source of light. “Zoe? Are you okay?” my roommate, Kelly, asked from above. “Yeah.” “Then be quiet!” I crawled out of bed and sat on the fl oor. That was the third night I’d had that nightmare. I needed to see Macey. Macey was a senior at the school and was a unique kind of Different. She was what’s known as an Aura Seer. She can see what kind of Different someone is. I stood up and began the long walk through the twisting hallways to the senior dorms. She was wait-ing. “Again, Zoe?” I nodded and she sighed.

hidden. It was in the back, behind that tree he often stared at through the window. He must have got the horse earlier, because she was hooked up and ready to take us to an old shed deep in the forest. Too nervous to speak, Will and I have been rapidly writing in our books. I don’t know why Alfred let us keep them. The moon will soon be out. This small candle will not last long; without its fl ame, I will be unable to write.

Very scared,

El

Elsa C

Untitled

I looked out at the ocean. There was no one, not a soul, standing beside me on the beach. No one: not my beautiful, laughing children, running along the waves, splashing and playing, nor my strong, handsome husband, holding my hand, trying to comfort me in this diffi cult time. No, there was no one. The world also seemed to feel my pain. The sky was grey and bleak. There was a cold edge to the chilly, mid-November afternoon. The waves were dark. They lapped up against my toes. The cold water sent chills running up and down my spine, giving my arms and legs goosebumps. I looked down at my feet. Dave had always told me that my feet looked like chicken feet because they were small and delicate. I still couldn’t believe he was... I let out a loud sob, and crumpled to the ground like a wilted fl ower. Dave was my son. Without him, I was just as good as dead. I was lying there, feeling sorry for myself, when I heard a man yelling. I sat up, and tried to look for the source, but my eyes were clouded with tears. I wiped them, and saw a young man running toward me. He stopped when he was several feet away from me. He brushed his dark, wavy hair across his forehead reveal-ing dark, green eyes, which watched me like a hawk’s. You really couldn’t tell what he was thinking. His eyes looked like they had been covered up by a veil. They were mysterious, but they somehow told me that if you lifted the veil, you would discover all kinds of things that you wouldn’t know by looking at the young man. His cheeks were fl ushed, and he wore a black

“Come in.” I followed her into the simplest room in the school. There was a cot, a desk, and a laptop, as if ev-erything were totally temporary. She gestured for me to sit on the cot. Taking her usual place in front of me, she stared at my forehead until her eyes grew weary and her feet grew sore. She plopped down next to me, gritting her teeth. “Well?” “Well, what?!” she hissed, her eyes gleaming with rage. She leaped to her feet. “I’ve seen the aura of Transporters, Minds, Thoughts, Pains, Attractions, Seers, Trackers, Shape Shifters, Disappears even! Yet I’ve never seen an aura that color!” “What color?” “Black,” she mumbled, throwing her weight to her right leg. “You have to know something, Macey!” “I don’t,” she argued, “but your mom might.” Yes, my mom; the legendary defeater of the Dif-ferent Army that tried to destroy the government twenty years ago. She might know... or not. But maybe. “Thanks,” I muttered. She simply held the door open. I began my trek back when I heard whispering behind me. I dove into a nearby classroom, and pressed my ear to the door. “Who’s that dork who doesn’t know what kind of Different she is?” “That one with no friends except the senior? That’s Zoe.” “What’s her deal?” “Don’t know. The sooner she leaves the bet-ter.” As their footsteps faded, I was shocked into si-lence. Even the new kid thought I was an outcast. En-raged, I raced for the offi ce, grabbing keys from my mom’s coat. I threw myself into the driver’s seat of her car. I started it and fl ew towards the highway. I drove for hours, listening to the hum of the engine and the static of a radio that was older than me (I’m fi fteen, FYI). I paid no attention to the signs and exits I passed or the curious glances from other drivers. I drove through the next day, ignoring the sun’s daily climb through the sky.

I fi nally found a station that worked and blasted it through the car. For a while, I forgot why I was driv-ing. Then I saw the “Headmistress of the Academy for Gifted Children, Grades 1-12” sticker on my mom’s dashboard. I fl oored it.

Madison K

An excerpt from a short story

I lay perfectly still in the blood-stained snow on that cold and dark December night. There was a tinge of iron in the air from my crimson blood. My body was torn open. The wolves charged at me in unison. As they would with a deer, the wolves leapt at me, sinking their pearl white fangs into my skin. I didn’t struggle at all. I had no will to live. I wanted to die. My breathing became ragged gasps. My mother was murdered in our own house. My father had gone out in search of the killer leaving me with my older sister, Liz. She wasn’t much of a parent or a babysit-ter. She was just a normal twenty-two-year-old college student who only cared about her job and hanging out with her friends. Now that I thought about it, I didn’t want to leave Liz behind. Or my dad, if he ever came back. I felt my body become numb and I swore my fi ngertips were turning blue. I struggled to inhale and exhale. A tear rolled down my cheek. This was all my fault! I had always walked in the woods at midnight whenever I couldn’t sleep. When I woke up this time, I should’ve read a book or something. I no longer felt my feet or my hands. I was standing at death’s door. It was a full moon tonight, as if that made a difference. I felt a slight tug on my hood. I tilted my head up and two large golden-orange eyes stared back at me. It was a black wolf. It was too late to do anything now. I was going to be fi nished off. Thoughts of death swirled through my mind. My vision slowly faded as I blacked out.

Ellie L

Untitled

“Brrring!” A magical noise chimed when, as if by the fl ick of a wand, a miniature door appeared in the very center of Jacqueline’s room. A little creeped out, Jacqueline jumped awkwardly off her bed and

away from her idiotic boy crazy magazine. She leaped over moving boxes while making her way to the bizarre scene where the apparition of the door occurred. Approaching the door, Jacqueline was tossing around the idea of opening it. She gingerly stuck out her hand and waved it slowly only to fi nd that the door was not a fi gment of her imagination. The door appeared to be the same on both sides. There were two, large, rustic brass doorknobs and the same crisp, white coat of paint. Jacqueline grabbed the knob closest to her and pulled cautiously and curiously. When she peered through the door, she saw nothing more than the other side of her room. A little discouraged that she might not being going on a jour-ney she frowned. Nothing, not a thing was different from her current room. But still she stepped solicitously forward, only to fi nd herself on the other side of the door. Then something happened that Jacqueline could not explain. The fl oor began to quiver. Shaking more and more until...BAM! The fl oor completely gave way. Jacqueline felt her stomach fl ip and a rush of adrenaline as she realized what was happening. And so she fell deeper and deeper. Just moments later a deeply startled and con-fused Jacqueline landed with a soft thud in the middle of her room, right where the door had appeared just mo-ments before. But something was still different besides the fact that the room was lacking the presence of a strange door. There was an unfamiliar fl are. Instead of the moving boxes strewn on the fl oor, there was dif-ferent furniture. Well it was new to Jacqueline, but to anyone else it was ancient. The room as a whole had a rather moldy, dusty and disheveled look. She turned around to see a sight even more star-tling than the décor. Lurking in the shadows of this old bedroom was a man. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed him. It came as such a surprise to Jacqueline that she only managed to gasp.

Max M

King of the Sky

I am the great hawk of this land and I sing praises of fl ightI am powerful but graceful and fl y alone in the airI am king over all the immensity of the great blue skyI will fl y through storms or winds stronger than II do this just so I can fl y and feel fl utters of wind brush-ing my wingsI fl y over vast deserts, lush trees, and over buildings standing strongI do this because it is my life and my duty as King of the Sky

Autumn R

Cancelled Plans

The fog covers the sky,Making it as gray as could be.The trees are standing stillBecause of the dampness of the earth.Rain hasn’t fallen,But is fast approaching.

The air smells fresh,But there’s a hint of sadness.I had hoped the sun would shine.Nothing could go so wrong,Because I had plans,I wanted to write,I wanted to play.

A poem for Erin

Every day I think about what you mean to me.And what I’m supposed to show,What I’m supposed to be,As the little sister you know.

When I’m feeling down,You’ll always comfort me.I’ll wipe away my frown,And that’s the way it should be.

Other times we yell with rage.They don’t like to see the frowns,So we’re forced to turn the page,And laugh and laugh like clowns.

We’ll talk at night,Even when you say to go to sleep.I can’t because the hallway is so bright.Then you question why my clothes are laying in a heap.

I know we have our emotions,And I respect them, so do you.Then they cause commotion,And it’s hard to be so true.

Whatever this poem means to you,It might be just a bore.No matter what I say or do,As my older sister, I love you even more.

Will R

Excerpt from “ESPIONAGE! The Story of Johnny Danger!”

Johnny landed on the roof, and his parachute landed behind him. His lapel pin, which proclaimed “0028: Four times smarter than Bond” glinted in the moonlight against his black Armani suit. “Spy of the Year is as good as mine...” he thought. Johnny jumped down to the ground. This was gonna be a good night, and he was going to get that microchip. As he arrived at the complex, Johnny dropped into a crouch. He took out his “Chapstick,” twisted the cap three times to the right, and threw it at the security camera. Ka-bang! Exploding lip balm...Sanders really is good with gadgets, thought the spy. As Johnny entered the complex, a burly guard waddled up to him. “ID?” he grunted. Johnny set his jaw and snarled, “Your worst nightmare.” Our hero brought his fi st up and made con-tact with the gorilla-like man’s nose. He crumpled, and Johnny gave him an injection of Sleep Serum. He took

a step forward through a second set of doors leading into an elevator. Johnny adjusted his bowtie, cracked his knuckles, and pressed 3. When Johnny arrived at the third fl oor, he traipsed down a long, concrete, brightly lit hallway to-wards the receptionist’s scrawny desk. The receptionist turned out to be yet another gorilla-like man. “Do you have an appointment?” he drawled. “Yes,” declared Johnny. “With whom?” “JUSTICE!” he snarled. Our hero vaulted over the desk and double kicked the man in the side of his head. The man retaliated by throwing a vicious left hand jab, but Johnny was quick enough and drove his elbow into the man’s forehead. The receptionist was thrown from his chair and into the copy machine, which smashed under the man’s weight. Johnny gave a small pump of his fi st. “Poor copy machine,” he lamented, and walked on. In the next hallway, Johnny found a service ve-hicle marked “Russian Central Intelligence Agency.” Johnny hotwired the cart and started to drive. He was another step closer to fi nding that computer chip. Soon enough, three identical vehicles were on his tail. Johnny eased off the gas and became level with the fi rst driver, who was smoking a cigarette. “Smoke this!” Johnny yelled, and threw a small grey pellet into the back of the man’s cart. The spy ac-celerated as a thick, grey smoke blossomed from the pellet. This caused the fi rst driver to swerve and collide with another service vehicle. Two down, one to go, thought Johnny, and promptly leapt from his cart to the third driver’s cart. Screaming with all his might, he landed on the man with a thud and tossed him off the vehicle. “NOW THAT’S HOW JOHNNY DOES IT, BABY!” he bellowed.

Brendan Z

The Five Orbs of Zanon

I never wanted to be on this expedition. I was just sitting outside, enjoying the wonderful weather, when I saw a strange, shiny black book with a white symbol on it. I opened it up, and it said--

To Brendan, you have been chosen to go on an expedition to the planet of Zanon, which is in the gal-axy of Paxel. By then I was really scared on how the author knew my name. I closed the book to look at the front cover, but it didn’t have anything on it about the author, only that weird symbol. I opened the book back up, and noticed that something completely different was written in it. My heart started beating faster and I was petri-fi ed for a moment, but I calmed myself down and said, “Forget it. It’s probably just a joke some stranger who knows my name is pulling on me.” I turned towards the forest, and threw the book as far away as I could. I walked back into the house, picked up my fl uffy white cat named Shaggy, and sat down on my favorite chair. I thought petting my cat would calm me down, but I just couldn’t get the book out of my mind. I wanted to tell my mom about the strange book, but she was at work, and she would be for another two hours. I decided some TV would make the time go by, and take my mind off things. I walked up to the TV, but when I got there, I screamed as loud as I could. The remote wasn’t there. Instead, there was a book in its place. The book was a shiny black color, and had a mysterious white symbol on it. Also on the book was a post-it note that said- You cannot hide from your destiny, Brendan. Now I was really freaked out.

Josie Z

Reignforest

“Amari, wake up. I need you to go get some fruit for breakfast.” It was a beautiful morning. The sun was shining in the cloudless sky; all the birds were chirping. And when Amari looked out of the window of her hut she could see an ocean of green leaves shimmering in the sunshine as vibrant orange birds tinged with red fl ew around, while butterfl ies pollinated the many fl owers. Amari could also see frogs hopping around and sloths slowly making their way toward food while a family of squirrel monkeys played with a mango. “I thought you went out to get food yesterday,” Amari said irritably. It was a beautiful day and the re-bellious ten-year-old did not want to waste it searching the forest fl oor for food for her family — a human fam-

ily who lived high above the ground among the ani-mals and treetops. Not to mention that the long climb down from their hut in the canopy to the forest fl oor was exhausting. “Amari, you know why I couldn’t fi nd enough food for two days. Do I have to explain again?”

“Yes, you do have to explain again,” Amari re-plied although she knew the whole thing by heart. She knew about the strange people and their scary machines and she knew about how they were cutting down all of their trees. She didn’t know why they were cutting down the trees but she wasn’t worried. She was sure that if they just asked them to stop they would. But Amari asked her mom to tell her again because she wanted to stay up in the canopy as long as possible. “...and that is why I didn’t get enough fruit for two days. Now go before you wake up your brother!” So Amari grabbed a basket and headed down the long ladder to the forest fl oor.

Kali A

The Visiting Boys

The clock ticks into the late hours of the nightChildren and parents sleep soundlyTwo young glowing boys appear in the old hallway holding handsThey stroll down the hallway making no noise and their white night gowns fl owingDown the creaky stairs and through the door to outsideA small glowing dog appears with a ball in its small mouthThe boys throw the ball to one another while the dog sleeps across the yardAs soon as the boys and dog appeared they disappeared into the darkness of the night

Amanda B

Shadow of the Mansion

My name is Shadow, and I live in a mansion with my childhood memories. Mrs. May was my caretaker. She raised me as a normal child, although I was far from it. I still remem-ber her standing in the doorway. The door and the door-way were painted black, just like almost everything else in the mansion. The walls and the fl oors around her displayed a battle-worn blue-grey that had long since faded into the woodwork. Even now I can still see her gray hair and her soft eyes, peering out at me through

wrinkled skin. Mrs. May was a solemn old lady. She wore black, white and every shade of grey you could imagine. Mrs. May was also very kind and looked after me well. My favorite part about her was that she never called me Shadow. It was always “Little one” or “Dearie” until I got to the age of nine. After that she just called me “Dearie.” She disappeared when I was eleven. Now I live alone...well, almost alone. My eyes fl ickered with a longing hopefulness as I sat on my bed, looking out of a gray-lit window. I looked over to my right and saw another version of me, watching the raindrops dance along the window. I wasn’t startled. My memories usually appeared at the strangest times. Sometimes I even get to talk to them. I got up and left the ten-year-old version of me to watch the clouds drearily move across the sky. I walked out of my room and onto a platform overlooking the fi rst fl oor. I quickly hopped over the grey railing and fl oated down to the fi rst fl oor. There were stairs but I never bothered to use them. I decided to go sit in the tea room, as Mrs. May called it. This was the only place I could think and right now that was just what I needed. You see, before Mrs. May had disappeared she had signed me up for school. Tomorrow was the fi rst day.

Grace H-D

Confessions of an Average Girl

I really am quite average.I look average. Nothing stands out about my appear-

by students entering...

Grade 8

ance.I act average. I don’t ever speak very loud or do things rash. I speak average. My voice isn’t the kind that sticks in your head, or makes you remember something about me.My grades are average. Never lower than a C, but never higher than a B+. My friends are average. No real drama goes on at school, and we don’t do things that are very exciting.My family is average. We fi t every stereotype about an American family as if the stereotypes were modeled af-ter us. Average.Average. Average.But if you really knew me... You’d know that I am secretly harboring a love of all things scary.Thrill rides. Horror stories.Slasher movies. You know; basic things that any truly average person would stay well away from.I don’t really tell anyone... Because no one ever asks.But if you did ask me... I wouldn’t tell you.Not because I’m shy... Just ‘cause I want to stay average.Does that make sense?

Laura K

Untitled

Is there any place,so serene,so wonderful,that could match the magic ofthis hundred year-old housewhere the water rushing to the kitchen sinkmakes the pipes humin gentle harmony?where the windows don’t have notches, or tracksbut are simply raised by the pulling of a rope?where the fl oors are old woodpainted over in

blues,greens?where the ceilingsbear a hundred cracksfrom elevenand two-tenthsdecades of footstepson the fl oors above?is there any place quite like it?creaky staircasegentle swishof the air breathing though the stained glass windowsthat have sat for but a hundred years?Is there a place where the tile is chippedfrom one thousandthree-hundredand forty-fourmonths of hard wood dragged over the hearth?Is there a spot with a special servants’ stair?does anything match the oldwell-built wallsthat breathe whispers of voicesspoken below?the porch with a latticeon which tall purple fl owersare beckoned togrow?what place could there bewhere the window peeks out on the fast city life?Who dreamed up the three stories of magicthat sat in the spot withundiscovered potential for forty-thousandeight-hundred and eighty days?Auntie Ji.

Alex K

Untitled

I was six years old when Scout entered the spot-light. When Daddy got a job all the way on the other side of the whole country, Mama and I had to go, too. We packed up all our stuff into BIG boxes, and loaded them into a HUGE truck. When we got to our brand new home, Scout walked right up and grinned at us, his blonde hair askew and his deep brown eyes sparkling

mischievously. “Hi! What’s your name?” I asked Scout just smiled and ran off. Later, when I played with my new neighbor, Janie, she told me, “Oh, that’s Scout. He’s six, like us!” From that moment on, whenever Mamma let me go out to play, I would fi nd Scout. We were going to be great friends. Of course, me being a princess, nobody could refuse. We all loved Scout, but I like to think I loved him most. He would go along with all our games, his shaggy hair tucked under a tiara or a baseball cap, whichever costume we forced him into. But he never complained. When Janie and I played, Scout would tag along. When Charlie and I threw baseballs or Frisbees, Scout would want to play, too. We were inseparable. That was, until I went to the horror house my parents called “school.” Homework was thrust upon me, and my days of freedom grew less and less. My feet were in my shoes for longer than fi fteen minutes; My clothes were not to be made dirty or torn. I was trapped by a cage that a princess like me should NEVER meet. But I, Kitty Fitzgerald, was “defi nitely not a princess,” and was to get back to my work “IMMEDIATELY.” At least, according to Mrs. Hensworth. I longed for more suitable company. Lucky Scout. He didn’t have to deal with Mrs. Hensworth. He went to a special school because he was “different.” They didn’t have ANY desks or chairs, just a bunch of pillows on the fl oor, and if they did some-thing good, they got yummy treats. It was the complete opposite of mine! But it had the same air, like an evil prison meant to scare innocent children into submis-sion. Either way, it was a school, and schools stink of chalk and Mrs. Hensworth’s ghastly perfume. Scout would be waiting for me every day when I got off the monstrous yellow school bus. After I fi n-ished my addition work, I moved onto my sentences, and whatever else Mrs. Hensworth assigned. Then I was free. If Charlie came over, Scout and I played outside. If Janie came over, and we talked girl stuff, we went up in the tree house where Scout couldn’t go because Scout couldn’t hear. “Kitty, you and Scout are meant to be together! Wouldn’t you be a pretty couple? And your children would be so adorable!” Janie called this a perfect match. Mamma called this “Oh, you silly girls.” I still don’t know why.

James K

Routine Hand-Off

The Story So Far: Evan McHail, drug smuggler, has just lost another ship-ment of narcotics to unreliable delivery men. He and his bodyguard, Russ Jorgenson, are returning to their headquarters to receive a new form of weaponry prom-ised by Evan’s personal tech specialist, Trevor Skills, which is his real name.

Chapter Two: Vegas Baby! “Sir, remind me again why our headquarters are located in Las Vegas?” asked a bemused Russ. They had made it to Vegas in a day, and they had arrived at the perfect time: night. Hundreds of thousands of signs, casinos, hotels, and billboards were lit up, advertising products, vacancy, casino cards, and almost anything anyone could imagine. The whole city looked like a giant neon sign. “Because, Russ, if you don’t remember, I used to be connected with the mob. That’s how I got into the drug business,” Evan reminisced as the tanned, muscu-lar, fi gure of his bodyguard wove the Hummer expertly through the streets. The two friends soon arrived at Evan’s house, and what a sight it was. It was modeled after the House on the Rock, ex-cept instead of being on a rock in Wisconsin, it was on an exceptionally well-trimmed lawn on one of the outer edges of Las Vegas. This wasn’t the fi rst time Russ had seen his su-perior’s house, but he was awed every time he did. “How much did it cost again?” Russ asked, awestruck. “About one point fi ve million dollars, not in-cluding the inside,” Evan answered calmly. Russ pulled the car into the driveway, and then escorted his superior to the front door. He was just about to open it when the door fl ew open. Outside stepped the man they wanted to see. Trevor was in a lab coat, black goggles, and jackboots with black pants. “Welcome, gentlemen, to the lair of Trevor Skills, evil genius,” Trevor said in a fake German accent. He pulled a controller with an oversized red but-ton on it out of his pocket. He pressed it, and when he did, a fl urry of things happened at once. A small button on Trevor’s lab coat lit up. It said: TREVOR SKILLS,

EVIL GENIUS. That wasn’t the only thing lit up. Evan’s lawn and roof lit up as well, both saying the same thing: TREVOR SKILLS, EVIL GENIUS. While all this was going on, hidden speakers were playing a choral ver-sion of “Ode to Joy.” Trevor was ecstatic; Evan was worried. There were certain people in this city who best not know he was there. He wanted to arrive in Vegas subtly, and having a house looking like a giant neon sign while blaring “Ode to Joy” was not his idea of subtly. As if to testify to Evan’s thoughts, several car alarms went off in the distance. Evan looked at the pale, thin faced man and shouted through clenched teeth, “Turn that music off!” Trevor looked at Evan for a second, and then solemnly pressed the oversized red button once more.

Dylan L-H

A Lifetime of Nothingness

Jimmy was special. Special in a bad way. Ev-eryone else in the City had blue eyes, pale skin, and snow-colored hair. Jimmy had one green eye and one blue one. I don’t know how it happened; it had been there for as long as Jimmy could remember. I was Jimmy’s only friend. The only one who talked to him, played with him. Jimmy could’ve robbed a bank and no one would have even noticed, but he wouldn’t, he was too nice. Everyone acted like he was not even there. But I knew he was. For a time, I thought I was crazy, but I’ve learned to be observant. If Jimmy bumped into someone, sometimes they would portray a little emotion. If he talked to someone, their ears would sometimes perk up, showing that they’d heard him. For a little while, everything was okay. Jimmy went to school and came home with me; he sat in the back for all his classes. At the end of the day, I com-forted him. I told him that he was real, that everyone just hated him because he was different, because of his eye. But that all changed on the day that I died. It happened on a Saturday. Jimmy had just left, saying that he had an experiment he wanted to try. I asked to come with him, but he refused my offer. I told him I’d wait on the front steps until he came back. While I was waiting, surveying each and every house, perfect and exactly the same, my big brother Jake came to sit next to me. “I see you’re not talking to that imaginary friend

of yours anymore, Leo,” he said. “He left,” I sighed. “He said he had some ex-periment to do, and he’s not imaginary.” “Well now that he’s gone, do you want to spend some time with your big brother?” “No, he’s coming back.” “Is he?” “He is!” I cried, jumping up. I ran into the street, not looking where I was going. That’s when the car rammed head-on into me, crushing my hip and shat-tering my ribs.

I saw many things in that moment when the car hit me. I saw Jake, my mom, and my dad. I saw the City, perfect in every way, from the tall skyscrapers to the quiet suburban neighborhoods. And I saw Jimmy. Jimmy, in all his moments, somber, rejoicing, crying. I saw Jimmy walking away from me, never looking back. I saw his anger emerge.

Sharon L

Untitled

Prologue-2010 Anger, not blood, pulsed through her veins that night. It had fi nally happened: the last straw. So now she was done. She’d fi nd her own way, ignoring all the people who wanted to “help” the poor, orphan girl who had never known her father. The girl looked up when someone kicked her door, instead of knocking. “Yo, Biscuit! I’m s’posed ta’ check on ya’! You still there?” Jesse Bick asked, using his name for her, instead of calling her by her last name, which she pre-ferred to her fi rst. When the girl was little, her mother had told her that her father had named her; now, she hated her name. “The name,” she said stiffl y, “is Bizet! Now go away, you freak of nature!” He laughed and Bizet heard him walk away. She turned from the door. The room was pretty typical of what you’d expect from foster care. An old desk, a bed with a scruffy comforter, and a nightstand that was falling apart with a lamp and a clock. On the bed was almost everything Bizet owned. She was about to continue packing when she stopped and glared at the door, or, more likely, the memory of Jesse standing behind it. For just a moment, her eyes glinted with an evil red and she bared her teeth, which

were much sharper than you would expect. But she turned after a moment, and she looked so much back to normal, you could have thought you’d imagined it. She pushed some of her jet hair out of her face and stuffed her backpack with the minimum amount of things she would need. The other bag had food but not a lot; she couldn’t carry that much, since she was riding her bike. Bizet put the bags onto her shoulders and pulled a stuffed animal from between the pillows. She wasn’t sure if she had meant to leave it, or not, but now she knew she couldn’t. The cat was red and dark purple, and one of the only reminders of her best friend. Her friend had gotten a dog, which she had named Peanut Butter, while Bizet named her cat Jelly. The last time they had seen each other, she had been six, the year both their moms had died in the same car crash. Bizet shoved the cat into a bag and pushed the window open, and swung onto the tree branch. With quick, lithe movements, she climbed down the tree and landed on the ground. She was rather tall for her age, fourteen, but slender and fl exible, so it hadn’t been too diffi cult at all. The night before, when she had decided she’d be leaving soon, Bizet had locked her bike to the tree. Now she pulled out the key and it opened the lock with a satisfying click.

Abby M

The Unfortunate Demise of Snaily the Snail

It was a sad, sad day when Snaily the Snail died. Albertine, in particular, was inconsolable. Though the whole family shared the fi sh tank and the care of its inhabitants, it was she who had spilled the can of Sprite the night before, and it was she who felt the weight of guilt heavy on her brow. To Albertine, seven years old at the time, Snaily had been her best friend and lifelong companion, with her through thick and thin. His death devastated her, but even more hor-rible was the knowledge that she had caused it. Tearfully, she sought redemption from her fam-ily. “Am I a bad person because I killed Snaily?” she asked her mother. “No, dear,” Mrs. Bleer replied absently. “Just try to be more careful with your pets.” Albertine sighed with sorrow and relief. Yes, she had killed her dearest friend, but that act, however vile, did not doom her to a life of evil. She could still be

a good person. But Albertine’s older brother, Albert, told a dif-ferent story. “You killed Snaily. He’s dead because of you. That makes you a murderer, Albertine. Why don’t you just turn yourself over to the police right now?” “No!” Albertine cried, horrifi ed. “Mommy said I’m a good person! I’m not bad!” “Mommy lied. You’re not a good person. You’re a bad one. Ha ha ha!”

Albertine sank to her knees, struck by this sud-den realization. It was true. She was a bad person. A horrible person. The worst in the world. Why should she even try to fi ght it? No matter what she did or where she went, her evil nature would always show through. That day, Albertine vowed never to hide her true, wicked self. Half-crazed by grief, she swore to do wrong everywhere she went. Snaily’s death would only be the fi rst in a long series. As the lightning crackled and the rain poured down outside, Albertine dried her tears and smiled a malignant smile, determined to show the world just how bad she could be.

Ivan R

The Chicken Farm

I guess the whole business started that day when my old Uncle Silas an’ I was feedin’ the chickens, an’ he said t’me “Now, Jimmy. You’re gonna be a man soon, an’ this whole chicken farm’ll be yours. I-ah-I think there’s something’ you oughtta know.” “What is it, Uncle Silas? You didn’t do nothin’ wrong, did you?” Silas looked at me real hard like he was tryin’ to decide if he was really gonna tell me somethin’. “Well, no, not exactly. But...well, like any place, there’re some secrets around here, and it’s just gettin’ about time when you start knowin’ ‘em. “Y’see, things here in Kentucky haven’t always been this good. A long time ago, we was just barely strugglin’ along. We could hardly ‘fford t’ keep the barn, we was so busy tryin’ t’ keep ourselves around. Then, one rainin’ stormin’ night, there was a knock at the door.” I gasped. “We was surprised, too, so I sent your Aunt Margie, bless her poor heart, to go answer it.” “It was a city man wearin’ a fancy suit, but it looked to me like he’d been out in th’ rain a while. He was clutchin’ th’ envelope close to his chest, like his

soul was trapped up inside. He said he was runnin’ from some mighty dangerous men, but he wouldn’t say who. An’ he said they was tryin’ t’ get the envelope he had. So he tried t’ hand it t’ me, but I wouldn’t take it. But he said I had no choice an’ then he—he-” Uncle Silas stopped, swallowed, an’ then kept goin’. “He took out a gun an’ said, ‘You’re going to take this envelope. I hope I don’t have to resort to vio-lence, but I will if I must. Those men may kill me, but I can’t let them get this!’ He shoved it into my hands an’ said awful fast, ‘Keep this safe. Don’t drop it. Don’t tell anyone about it. I’m counting on you.’ An’ then he was gone.” I started to chuckle, but Silas gave me a nasty look. “Gee Uncle Silas,” I said, “that’s it? That’s not much of a secret!” He scowled. “Did I say I was done?” “N-no.” He went on. “Well, now, I don’t know ‘bout you, but I was mighty curious ‘bout what was in that envelope. I managed t’ keep myself from openin’ it for a while, but ‘bout a week after he gave it t’ me I took a peek inside. It was mostly wires an’ other electeronical stuff. Th’ only thing in there I could even start to un-derstand was these little red numbers that kept getting’ smaller. I guess it was some kinda message resender ‘r somethin’.” I didn’t have time to ask if he was fi nished so I just shouted out “Uncle Silas! That ain’t no message resender! That’s a bomb!”

Maya S

Excerpt from a Short Story: The Full Account of Ms. Sabine Pabmara and her Best Friend, Jen

She fell. No, not she, I. I was me. Me was she. I was falling.

“What’s the matter?” “Her temperature and her heart rate shot up the moment you left.”

Ah, Jen is back, My horrible vision disappeared and I was back in my dreamland, the darkness lifting me up to the light, up to Jen.

“Sabe, guess what? Since you insist on me stay-ing here, I got you something while I was away. Guess what I got you, Sabe.” “Ha ha, she can hear you, her heart rate is going up.” “Sabe, I got you a chocolate chip cookie! It’s gooey and mushy and melty.”

My body was a rocket and that cookie was the moon. Chocolate! Right now, waking up would be bliss so waking up to chocolate, I don’t even know, it would be something even better. I burst through the light and even with my eyes closed I was blinded. As the ringing in my ears faded, I heard: “Sabe! You’re awake!” and “Ms. Pabmara, please lie down!” I opened my eyes for the fi rst time in eons and everything was white with a few blurry lines where sol-id shapes should be. The fi rst words that escaped my chapped lips were, “Gee thanks for the cookie” and “I feel kinda dizzy,” and then I passed out cold.

“Sabe, here’s the report the doctor wrote up for you. You probably want to know what happened.” “Haha, I guess. Do I want to know?” “Yes, you do. Read it out loud.” “Okay. ‘Ms. Sabine Pabmara woke up eight days after her fall from a height of fi fty-two feet. She had a concussion, a hair-line skull fracture, but no brain injury. She also broke her right leg, left wrist, and her right arm has lost a lot of blood.’ Ouch! ‘She has made a full recovery,’ Thank you, thank you, please, hold the applause, ‘but should not do any sports or other trying activities for a few months.’ Ha ha, how could I do sports? I’m in a wheelchair.” “They have wheelchair basketball and stuff, I can sign you up...” “No, no, I was kidding. I’m totally okay with sitting at home, stuffi ng my face, and watching movies for a while. I need rest.”

Maya B

Excerpt from a short story

It’s September 1st for the fourteenth time in my life. It’s still my least favorite day. My mother drops me off in front of another brownstone building that I guarantee I’ll hate within the hour. Then she rolls down the window of her ugly beige Corolla and says the words I dread to hear. “Have a good day, Chloe. Keep your head up high.” She’s trying to act cheerful. I hate it more every time she says it. Repeated words spoken through a false smile get old fast. I say good-bye to my mother and wish her well at her new job. After a few tense seconds, my mother turns her head away from me and wipes her eyes. “Have a good day, Chloe. Just have a good day,” she whispers, and pulls away. I slowly turn around to face the building. “It’s all just part of the script,” I tell myself. Everything passes by in a blur. Teachers ask the new students to introduce themselves, so we do. They ask us questions and we try not to crack dirty jokes or ask the same questions of the teachers. Nothing that hasn’t been done before. As I pass people in the hall, their words jumble together. Homework, homework, new, cool, teacher, new, new, homework, lunch. Just words. Just people. It’s all just part of the script. I don’t pay attention. I don’t listen. I don’t

watch. I’m a good actress. I nod when I should nod and I write when I should write. I pass through the halls with the numbness an addict would feel. It’s all just part of the script. The numbness lasts until the bell rings; sudden-ly it’s 2:30 and everyone can go home. But not me. I live many miles away and my mother doesn’t get off of work for two more hours. She didn’t want to pay the extra money for a bus pass, either. So I wander the blue-tiled halls of the school I now hate until something catches my eye. It’s a yellow notebook. A yellow notebook with letters on it. Letters that happen to spell out my name. My heart pounds in my chest. This notebook is not mine. “It’s all just part of the script,” I tell myself, try-ing to calm down, “just part of the script.”

Mona C

An excerpt from an Untitled Novel

Once her grandmother had freed the fairy, he fl ew up over their heads, out of reach. “There was no need for the cage,” he said grumpily, dusting himself off. “If you’d’ve just asked, I’d have stayed.” “Would you have, Luke?” her grandmother asked, skeptical. “Well, um...fi ne. No, I wouldn’t have. But re-ally Annabelle, think about it. You’re surrounded by

by students entering...

Grade 9

a bunch of giant people yelling and brandishing huge jars. Would you stay? By the way, when did you get so old? Last time I saw you, you were, what, twenty?” As her grandmother smiled, Katie saw her chance and jumped in. “Could someone please explain what the heck is going on here?” Her grandmother explained. “This is Luke. As I already told you, Luke is a fairy.” Katie rolled her eyes. “Uh-huh. Very funny. Ha ha. Now, tell me, what is it?” “He’s a fairy,” Annabelle repeated. “Grandma Annabelle, there’s no such thing as fairies.” “Actually, there is, and I think you know it, too. Only people who believe in them can actually see them. Besides, what other explanation is there? He’s a talking moth with arms and a face?” “Excuse me,” Luke interrupted. “But could you please stop talking as if I’m not here? Because it’s not true.” “It’s not true that you’re a fairy?” asked Katie, surprised. “No,” Luke said, exasperatedly running his hands through his blonde hair. “No, it’s not true that I’m not here. I am a fairy. As you can clearly see at least I hope you can, since I’m fairly sure that you’re not blind I’m fl ying. And fairies are the only magical beings at least on our side of the portal, I don’t know much about yours that can fl y, or even have wings unless of course you include bugs, but they’re not magical, so I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway, or fl ying salamanders, which you could classify as magical, or not, depending on which expert you talk to, since they have wings and can fl y, too the salamanders, I mean, not the experts, although if the experts are fairies, they have wings and can fl y, as well, at least I hope they can, since it’s rather pitiful if they’re old enough to be experts on salaman-ders and they still don’t know how to fl y pitiful because the only reason a fairy can’t fl y is because they don’t have wings, and if they have wings, then they have the ability to fl y.” He said this all at once, and very quickly. “Huh?” Katie was utterly lost. Luke sighed, not even out of breath, even though he looked tired. “Yes, I’m a fairy.”

Morgan M

Life on Mars

James noted the landscape of Mars was very dif-ferent from that of Earth. There were no trees or shrubs or plants. No animals or birds. No weather either, but for the occasional acid rain. Only miles and miles and miles of red dirt. The housing was much the same. The people of Mars all lived in identical buildings situated behind the school in neat, organized rows, one for each family. All of them were white and non-descript, dome-shaped like the bottom of a bowl. Twisting quickly on the top of each was a solar panel collecting rays to fuel the large air conditioners, the temperature regulators for all of Mars. James watched his parents lock the door of his house. They turned and waved at James, their hands clothed in great, grey heat gloves. Callum and Sue were headed to the supply shuttle, as well, having just got-ten off of work for the hour. James’ father’s job was with President Lowe in the Enforcer’s Department. He had a gun strapped across his chest, just protecting the people. Against what, James didn’t know. His mother was a nurse at the hospital, usually caring for burns or dehydration. There was no sickness on Mars. The heat killed off all of the germs. Ahead of James, three girls, Marion, Lucy, and May, were chattering. No braids dangled underneath their helmets. No fancy ribbons tied back their curls. Their hair was cut short during the acclimation period. To the touch it felt like thread, so lacking in nutrients. Some of the girls were even bald. Most of the boys were, too, but they had less to lose. All of the children had dark brown skin, rough from the continuous sun-shine. The deadly rays permeated everywhere. Despite their marred appearances, the girls con-tinued to talk. The chattering increased as the school group reached the supply shuttle. The water was lined up in metal containers, the to-go coffee mugs previ-ously used on Earth. They protected against the heat surprisingly well. The water stayed cool and, if one was careful, did not evaporate. From the back of the shuttle, crates were being unloaded, fi lled with foods compat-ible with the surface of Mars. Every day the supply shuttles would rocket to Earth. The Gatherers would collect crackers and nuts, cereal and bread: dry foods mostly. James even had a dog treat once. Then, they would get the water. Early

on, a purifi er had been built, suspended above the At-lantic Ocean, which continually glubbed water into its enormous basin. Spindly spouts like spider’s legs hung beneath the basin, spigots to fi ll the water cups.

Emily M

Reflections of the Past

Beep! Beep! Beep! My hand shot out from un-der the covers, fl ailing around in search of my accursed alarm clock. Morning had come too quickly as usual, and I, as anything but a morning person, was not happy. Finally fi nding the off switch on my alarm, I sat up and instantly regretted it as the summer sun glared through the window. I fumbled for a moment with my blanket, contemplating pulling it over my head and going back to sleep, but decided I had better get up rather than face the wrath of my mother. Groaning I blindly shuffl ed to my window while holding a hand out in front of my face, and pulled the curtains shut. Bleary-eyed, I stumbled towards the staircase, and down to the kitchen. My family sat around the table munching on their breakfasts. Curse those birds! How were they even awake at this hour? Five o’clock was far too early in the morning to be doing anything other than sleeping. “Good morning, Lanie!” my little sister Anna happily sing-songed from her highchair, swinging her legs back and forth. She had a spoon in one hand and what looked to be mushy oatmeal squished in the other, as well as oatmeal coating her face. Pulling out a chair, I slumped down and pressed my face against the cool wood of the table. Too. Early. For. Human. Function. “Elaine, get your head off the table and get something to eat. You’re going to be late!” My mother was scolding me from her position in front of Anna. Anna was resisting the washcloth my mom was using to wipe the oatmeal from her face, and my father was hiding behind his newspaper, no doubt reading about some new burglary that had happened over night. Beyond my father lay the kitchen counter which was home to the toaster and a bunch of ripe yellow ba-nanas. Picking myself up, I slowly made my way to the freezer, moving past the counter, and skirting around the island in the middle of kitchen, to grab my prize: blueberry waffl es. I sidled back over to the toaster and plunked two waffl es in. Looking over at the clock on our big, black microwave, I saw it only read 5:15. I’ve been up for fi fteen lousy minutes and my mom is al-

ready nagging me to get a wiggle on it. Sheesh, I had to be at work by six not fi ve-thirty. Anyway it’s not as though Mrs. Kingbomb would have cared. She was the sweetest old lady I’ve ever met, and, even if I was an hour late, she just would have shrugged it off and said something about how hard working kids are these days and being a little late was no big deal. I loved Mrs. Kingbomb; she was like the grandma I never had. Both my mother’s and father’s parents had died when I was little, so Mrs. Kingbomb was the only grandmother-like fi gure I had in my life.

Patrick M

Baron

Daniel stepped out from the portal to see the beautiful nature that surrounded him. The birds were singing and the woodland creatures scurried about. Un-fortunately, Dan did not live in a time where the sun could shine with a cloudless day, and temperatures would be at a relaxing sixty degrees. But no, the time Dan lived in was far from this and maybe even an-cient. The year was 2102, and the Second War of the Forsaken was occurring. Man had consumed the last of Earth’s resources and was now fi ghting over what remained. The Forsaken were people like you and me who had been deserted by civilization. When life sup-port ships Adam and Eve, carrying the remaining hu-man population, took off into the stars, not everyone was aboard. Not everyone was able to afford a ticket into space, so they were left behind with the Peacemak-ers. The Peacemakers controlled every last country in the world, but their headquarters was in America, now called the American Empire. They were assigned to give money to the poor and wandering souls, but in-stead they used that money to enslave them like mad conquerors. The American Empire was divided into several territories, scattered all across the world. Dan resided in the Midwest region which is known as No Man’s Land. There is where no one ruled, but Forsaken wandered the unclaimed territory. Cur-rently, Dan is staying at a small foster home with his foster brothers Sam and Tank. Now we join him in a small settlement known as Rustbucket. “Samuel, I need you to go the purifi ed market,”

Tank told the ten-year-old boy. “Ah, c’mon, it’s Danny’s turn! I did that a few days ago already!” Sam shouted. “Fine...Danny!” Tank shouted up the stairwell. “It’s your turn to make a trip to the market for more purifi ed water.” Dan dashed down the stairs and itched his shag-gy brown hair. “Wasn’t it Sam’s turn today?” “No, it’s your turn, nimrod!” Sam argued. “Okay, okay, I’m going. Sheesh.” Dan put on his jacket. “Don’t forget to bring a weapon with you,” Tank reminded. “I got it!” Dan grabbed a baseball bat by the front door and walked outside. He looked up to see ash, dust and a green glow in the sky. Same as usual. The distance from Rustbucket to the Stop ‘N’ Shop market was roughly three miles. Dan grabbed his bike, hopped on, and sped off into the middle of nowhere. There could have been other settlements out there, but everyone was too afraid to look. “Is it just me, or does this place look more and more deserted each day?” Dan asked himself. As he ap-proached the shop, he noticed a couple of thugs hang-ing out by a burnt out car. He kept biking and didn’t look glance back at them. “Hey kid!” a thug with a Mohawk shouted. Sud-denly a loud gunshot was heard.

Sydney R

Above the Ocean

She gazed deep into his eyes, searching for the soul that lay beneath. She stared, never looking away, memorizing the sea green, speckled with golden fl ecks that made up his irises. She was sure that he felt the same way as she did at that very moment, as sure as she knew what would happen next. He pushed the edge of his blade harder against the side of her neck, drawing blood as he did. Feeling blood and sweat staining her skin, she inhaled, careful not to move her neck, closed her eyes and waited for the boy to end her life with a fl ick of his wrist. She felt him draw the sword back just enough to slice through her neck in one blow. Instead of feeling the searing pain ripple through her body, she heard the shrill bell sound behind her -- the bell whose ring fi nal-ized the event, whose sound named the challenger. Yet,

the boy had not delivered the fatal blow; she certainly hadn’t killed him. Her brain was a jumble of confused thoughts as they were ushered into City Hall, the only explanation given to them was from an elderly man in tattered black robes that neither of them recognized. “You have both been chosen,” he said, just above a whisper so they, and no one else, could hear him over the roar of the crowd. “Abigail Windson and William Tucker, I am proud to pronounce you both the challengers of this year’s Acumen Quest. If you complete your quest and follow through all of your prophecy, you will be given the highest honor along with the utmost praise. Joy and sorrow are no doubt around the corner, yet we feel that with your determination and tenacity, you will un-doubtedly be delivered to the fi nish line. Trust in your prophecy, go where your heart leads, and leave in your wake an accomplishment unimaginable to millions. We of the counsel have no explanation to why two chal-lengers have been chosen this year, only that our faith lies in you.” The man in the front of the room fi nished his speech and motioned with his hand to step forward. Ab-igail and William approached the dusty old book and read their prophecy:

Above the OceanBelow the SeaTo fi nd common groundYou need to trust Me

Salted with black pepperAnd surprisingly sweetGo to the placeWere two people meet

They who are greatAnd those of no heartSunrises are beautifulAnd a great place to start

A beautiful sunfl owerInside a rockNot every keyOpens a lock

Inside a cloudMystery is greatYou always seemTo share the same fate

Frozen red tearsDrip from the scarFeel the rhythmThrough every star

A blinding lightYou can’t help but look.Clear your conscienceGive back what you took.

“Prepare for your journey,” the man who had given the monotone speech told them.

Amy T

Untitled

Want to know what the most pathetic part is? His mind isn’t totally developed yet. And no, he isn’t handicapped. In fact, he’s special. I’m special, too. We’re all special. I know what you’re thinking right now. “Everyone is special!” That’s what everyone tells kids these days, that you always have something to bring to the table. But, I mean this in a more literal sense. We’re special. All fi ve hundred of us, hidden by the government in a small town in Maine, are special. It’s sort of complicated to explain why. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure how it all works myself, and I’m living it. It’s sort of like being a super hero. You get bit by some radioactive spider or fall into some vat of toxic waste, and all of a sudden you’re a comic book star. That’s sort of how it was with us, except we went vol-untarily. If we had known what would happen, most of us wouldn’t have done it. I know I wouldn’t have. I didn’t get bitten by some spider, or born on a planet far, far away, or anything weird. It was sup-posed to be medication. You see, I was diagnosed with depression---Dysthymia to be exact-- when I was about ten, probably a bit older. As you probably know, the majority of antidepressants are not approved for people under the age of eighteen, a category I fall under. Since it seems that so many young people are developing de-pression, scientists have been working on something that will be okay for us kids. Thing is, they need guinea pigs, someone to try it out on. So, when my parents saw a poster in the subway offering money for test subjects, they immediately signed me up. I was getting paid to take medicine that might help me. What could be so

bad about that? Anyone between the ages of eight and eighteen could sign up, so I guess I was one of the younger ones. All of us were from the area around Washington D.C., so some are from the capitol itself, and others are from surrounding states, like Virginia or Maryland. That was two years ago. As you most likely are aware, depression is mostly in your head. So, when this medication didn’t re-ally work out as planned...well, it affected our brains. It usually happens around the time someone turns fourteen. People I’ve talked to -- I can’t tell you from personal experience because I’m only thirteen -- say it’s like someone fl ipped a switch. Some people start seeing things. Some people begin to move things without touching them. Some people start remember-ing things that no normal people would remember, like the womb. The oldest kids, ages fourteen and up, took about two weeks for strange things to start happening. And, of course, the government got involved. They couldn’t let the public know that there really were ‘super people’ around. So they relocated us. Not our families. Just us.

Alina T

Dreamer (prologue)—an excerpt

The night was draped in a dark ebony sash, lit up by the feebly fl ickering stars that blinked in and out of the skies like tiny fi ngers groping their way through the darkness. Silver moonbeams seeped through the thick curtain of mist that swathed the air with an opal-escent glow, like cobwebs of gossamer thread refl ecting the light of the moon. They wove luminous ribbons of liquid night through the air, casting eerie silhouettes of the ancient elderwoods that towered above the forest, their thick, knotted roots sunken deep beneath the damp earth. Their crooked branches cast an ominous fi gure against the blackened horizon, limbs jutting out and fl owing toward the foreground; it created the effect of dripping ink dribbling down a night-washed canvas, trickling off into all directions as if the ink were blown by the breath of the wind. Ivy vines climbed their trunks and draped them-selves across their branches, a deep emerald coiled into a lithe serpentine form upon which a snowy owl was perched, leering in silence as its golden eyes stared into the depths of the darkness. Jagged rocks poked out from

the soil surrounding the trees’ aged roots, moss cover-ing them in a crust of sickly green dotted with festering mushrooms, odd pale grey organisms that hid beneath the shadows to conceal their spotted facades. Just beneath the rocks, something special lurked, dazzling the forest with a soft glow that not even the moon or the stars could muster--moonfl owers. They peeked out from the cracks and crevices in the soil, so graceful and so lithe, yet so meek and so fragile. In the light of the full moon, they would blossom, fl uttering away into the zephyrs like tiny wings. Mira slipped out of the shadows, like Luna moth as she glided between the gaps in the trees, her pale lav-ender dress fl owing in the wind behind her--until she stumbled over a fallen branch. She muttered curses un-der her breath--it was always the same. She was tall, thin, and willowy and had beauti-ful long dark brown hair, yet she was such a klutz, and it drove her crazy, especially since everyone seemed to expect her to have perfect grace because of her slender form. She walked along a narrow path that wound and twisted through the forest, stepping off onto the grass near a pond surrounded by a circle of weeping willows; she had to be careful not to trip over any earthly debris. She stood at the pond’s edge, the rush of a waterfall in the distance fi lling the silence. She closed her eyes and listened, her mind wandering into the realm of not-so-distant memories that loomed ahead of her.

Meredith W

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The heat of the fi re clashed with the coolness of the night. I had the perfect scary story to tell. I loved telling them, but all of my friends at camp hated them. My stories usually had to do with the outhouse. It was practically a wooden box with a door and a hole. The outhouse was full of spiders and had absolutely no light. “Claire?” Lexi asked. Was it my turn? I had spaced out, which is what I always do when other people tell scary stories. I loved telling the stories, but I was terrifi ed of hearing them. “Coming,” I replied, jumping up from the log. Laura and Mandy groaned. Erin didn’t. She wasn’t afraid of the stories but she hated when I scared other people. I ignored the groans. I sat down on the bucket that served as a stool, brushed my curly copper hair out

of my face and began in a low hair-raising voice. “A few years ago, here at camp, three girls were in their tent when they heard creepy sounds com-ing from the woods. Cracks and snaps and a whistling sound echoed around the campsite. These three friends were very brave, so they went out to investigate. The noises got louder, but they abruptly stopped when they reached the old outhouse.” “Wait, like this outhouse?” a girl interrupted me. I sighed. “Yes, exactly like this one, now shut up and listen.” Then I continued. “The girls walked behind the outhouse to see if the source of the noise was there, and to their amaze-ment, they found a headstone. One girl, Sheila, ex-claimed, ‘That’s my name, why is it on the headstone?’ She went to peek inside the outhouse to see if there was anything weird in there. She found a long, sharp jag-ged dagger that was covered in blood. Then, she heard a new noise. Someone, somewhere, was digging into the ground. ‘Emily? Sam?’ she called out, but nobody could hear her. She set the dagger precariously on the edge of the bench, and went outside. They were gone. Right in front of the headstone, there was a deep hole, and inside were Emily and Sam’s lifeless bodies, blood seeping out of their necks.” A few people around the fi re gasped; others started inching away from the outhouse. “She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. Her friends’ names were now on the head-stone. But why was hers still there? She went back into the outhouse, closed the door and took a step. It was her last step. She tripped and fell right onto the knife she had left hanging over the edge of the bench. “When a camper came to use the bathroom lat-er, there was no headstone, just a mound of dirt. In the outhouse there was blood all over the fl oor, but there was no body.”

Ellen A

Untitled Excerpt

“So you’re an evil demon that helps people?” “Pretty much,” Nari interjects. Deshi stares at us. “You guys really believe this, don’t you? You really think you’re a demon and that an imp attacked me and everything.” I’m not participating anymore. “Tell you what. Why don’t you come on patrol with us? Ria’ll kill something from Hell and you can watch.” I think we responded within nanoseconds of each other. “What?” Deshi looks as if Satan has appeared. I know my face portrays my dismay quite clearly, but Nari is steadily warming to the idea. “Yeah. That’d be great. We can hunt that one devil down. You know the one Ria, the one over on Oak and Jefferson? The one that advertises itself as a time demon? It’s operating illegally. We could take it down.” My mind races, trying to think of a way to get out of going. It’s not the devil that bothers me. It’s tak-ing Deshi along. I’m full? Too obvious. I have other plans? Outright lie. I’m stuck and Nari knows it. “Excellent. Let’s go.” “Let’s not,” I blurt, completely desperate. “Lucifera Rialta Cometa! You will accompany me to apprehend an illegal immigrant!” Ouch. My full name. Nobody uses it except Boss, who doesn’t comprehend nicknames, and Nari

when she’s pissed. I slink over to her, head down and tail swishing. Deshi stands still in the middle of the room, his shirt still on the fl oor. “Well, come on!” Nari states. “Put your shirt on! Let’s go!” Deshi pulls the T-shirt over his head quickly still straightening the hem as Nari shoves him out the door. I follow silently yet radiating waves of reluctance. Outside in the bright sunshine, Nari has already put Deshi in her Jeep and waits, foot tapping, for me. I shift to my human form and clamber into the passenger seat. Nari guns the engine, heading out of the parking lot with the face that threatens her bursting into song. She’s really psyched about this. I just want to go back to bed. Oak and Jefferson isn’t too far, so we get there inside of fi fteen minutes.

A large sign announces: Time Demon! Find Your True Love, Your Ideal Job, Even Your Children’s Names! I get a sick feeling in my stomach. Inside, a long- limbed devil perches on a stool. Blue skin, black eyes, small horns: an essence devil. “Hello and welcome to my store, fellow wan-derers. How may I help you un-cloud your futures?” it croaks. I roll my eyes and look around. I give Deshi thirty seconds to check the pretty blue devil out. Then I reveal my true shape, just to prove I am what I say I am.

by students entering...

Grade 10

Cat ears, gold eyes, needle sharp teeth. I gain another four inches in height and grow thinner. Deshi switches his attention to me until the imp gives out a strangled croak and falls off his stool. Showtime.

Katie B

Gone But Not Forgotten

Bright green forest, stretching as far as the eye could see, the bright morning sun making the leaves almost sparkle with last night’s rain. Disgusting. I was a city girl, and proud of it, too. I was used to the sharp angles and shiny fl at surfaces, things new and smooth and modern. My uncle’s home was anything but. He was the exact opposite of me, a real out-doors-man, never in living memory seen without his hiking boots and soil caking his fi ngernails. He lived in a tiny cabin at the edge of a large wood, four miles from the nearest neighbor and eleven miles from the nearest town. My uncle thumped me on the back as I stared in horror at the place. “Isn’t it beautiful, Lex?” he boomed, his arm making a gesture that included everything from one ho-rizon to the next. I didn’t answer right away, as I was still recov-ering from his ‘friendly pat on the back’, which had nearly knocked me into a mud puddle. “Uh...sure,” I said after a moment of hesitation, not wanting to hurt his feelings, but incapable of a more sincere response. Beautiful was not the fi rst word that came to my mind. Not even in the top fi fty. Oh, I could see how it could be beautiful—captured in 2D form and trapped within the confi nes of a rectangular frame or the glossy pages of a travel magazine. But in all its muddy, bug-infested 3D glory? Let’s just say I’m more of an indoors person. I took my time getting unpacked, meticulously arranging every piece of clothing, every book, every CD, organizing them by color, type, amount of use. Anything to keep from going downstairs. I knew Uncle Hunter would want to go outside. I also knew he would probably drag me with him. Suddenly, a chill passed over me and I got the uneasy feeling that someone was watching me. I walked over to the window and peered out, but no one

was there. The light in the room dimmed as I drew the curtains, spooked. I ran my hand nervously through my pin-straight hair, stopping when it caught on something hard. Tears sprang to my eyes as I fi ngered the silver clip in my hair. The only thing I had left of my mother. I jumped as I heard Uncle Hunter’s footsteps thundering up the stairs. I took a deep breath, wiping my eyes, trying to pull myself together. He was not about to see me cry. “Ready for a hike, kiddo?” he said, grinning widely. I could tell he was trying to cheer me up. It wasn’t working very well.

Madaline E

dear Fledgling Self,

look at youtall and awkwardwatching but never speakingloving but never admittingliving, but only justyou are made of piecesto be given awayso give them out; your heart can take it

i promise

Sweater

my love fi ts you like an old sweatera little bigworn around the edgesfaded with lack of use

but

like a sweatermy love is only beautifulbecause it is fi lled with you

Meredith H

Mugging

The mugging had an elegancea delicacy about itthat hauntedthe bittersweet suckling of his handagainst my shoulderdrawing me back into an alleywaywhich held dawn like darkness.Perfectly shavendelicate cheekbonesand freshly shorn hairhad inspired no suspicion in me.His cologne mixed sickeninglywith the dirty wet-leaves stenchsaturating the breath of spacebetween the two brick buildings.He hardly fumbled asthose deft fi nger searchedmy pockets, my purse, my hands.The money was swallowedby a soft, uncalloused fi st.My ribs swelled and sankwith deep, metronomic breaths--it was the only movementwhich stirred my bodyotherwise trapped in stillnessby something kin to curiosity.Hands found the vulnerable fl eshof my upper armsas he held me in that momentand looked into my face--searching, fi nding, losing.My eyes, virgins to crime,found his and caught their tender lighttrapped in folds of nighttime.The rough wool of his oversized coathung off his thinning shouldersand scraped at my suddenly raw fl esh.“I’m sorry,” he murmured,and wrapped long fi ngersaround a fragile wrist--gently squeezing oncebefore parting.

His face, it struck mein all its soft sorrowand eyes so full of emptiness;lips parted as if for a kiss.How can I be a victimif I did not struggle against him?He only took ten dollarsfrom a wallet fat with money.

This thief and Ishared a secret of forced generositywhich left no marks on usexcept for the invisiblescars on my arms,and his apology burned into me.

Megan H

Bus Stop

They both stood waiting for a bus. No, the bus they were taking would not drop either of them off at the store, work, a friend’s house, or the mall. They were both going to a new life, free of the people they had come to believe they knew. But then, do we ever really know anyone? He glanced over at her, barely noticing a baby’s face poking out between the colors of the patterns on her faded yellow dress. Its eyes opened as she shifted her weight and gazed back at him, curious. Uncomfort-able, he turned away, but his gaze was pulled back by her luggage. A leather bag was bulging and each pocket seemed to have been fi lled--even the zippers weren’t shut completely. Near the handle were the initials SBG. If she was who he thought she was, then he would fi nd a scar on her left ankle. She could feel him staring. Had she seen him at the store? Was he familiar? Unless he wasn’t from here, she should recognize him. In such a small town, it was more than likely they’d seen each other before. But if he was from around here, he certainly wouldn’t stop her from leaving. She doubted that anyone would stop her now; with her and her husband gone, the whole town could forget they had ever come back. But she had to know who he was; maybe she could try to explain her-self. Her eyes traveled up his faded cords, not fail-ing to notice the numerous holes, and past his simple, gray T-shirt until she met his eyes. A rich brown inno-

cence reminded her of a boy from her past. The baby made a little whine, and he quickly averted his eyes. She swayed back and forth, each time taking another glance at his hair. If he was who she thought he was, his hair had faded and thinned from the vibrant red it used to be. He thought she was judging him. Everyone here was. His brother was loved around this town, and it was his fault his brother wasn’t standing next to him; al-though, if his brother were still here, he wouldn’t have to leave. She had an unstoppable curiosity. She had to know. “Sir?” She seemed hesitant to him. Maybe he didn’t know her after all, “Sir? Do you live here, in this town?” “Until the bus comes.” Something in her beck-oned to him, a kindness of sorts. “You have no luggage, though.” “I know.” She felt an awkward silence now, but pushed it away. “Did you grow up here?” “Sadly, yes,” he replied, “Just up the road, until my parents died. Then my brother and I- wait. Sally?” She was somehow ashamed to be recognized by him.

Rachel I

The Sinister Thermos

She had gotten the thermos At a modest price Nine bucks, fi fty cents To be quite precise And so, she assumed The quality to be swell And for the cap to come off Of the thermos as well Was it too much to ask To drink her beverage? Who knew she would need Quite so much leverage? “I’m thirsty,” she moaned, Her voice rose to a yell, “I just want to consume My fruit fl avored Propel!” But with each grasp of the cap Each twist and each turn

It became evident that This Propel must be earned She handed it off to Get some assistance And each tablemate tried With heavy persistence The lid was so tight, Growing harder to grip When all that she wanted Was something to sip The thermos was passed From person to person Though the dire situation Seemed only to worsen “I know what to do!” She fi nally said, A fi gurative light bulb Glowing over her head. “You take the bottom, I’ll hold the top. See?” And on three we will Twist simultaneously!” And so, with her tablemate Twist it, they did Until pop! One of them Just snapped off the lid. She drank the Propel, With none of it wasted, For this drink was the best she ever had tasted.

Ali L

The End

What if the world’s end isn’t at all what we’re expect-ing? No great fi res sweeping through cities while loved ones cling to each other and weep. No massive ocean waves destroying the world’s important buildings and monuments. No aliens coming to enslave the human race before blowing up the planet. What if Earth just blinked out one night, as if someone had fl ipped the light switch on existence? Would anyone even notice?

Alyxa B

Fallen Angel

Come to me sweet fallen angel.In my dreams come to me.I’ll be waiting for you on the highest mountain,The richness of soil swirls around meIn the deepest wood near the shallowest stream.In my dreams I’ll wait for you.

Come to me sweet fallen angel.By the city’s gate come to me.I’ll wait at the edge of town.Cigar smoke smothers meIn an alley behind a bar.By the city’s gate come to me.

Come to me sweet fallen angel.Under the stars come to me.I’ll wait in the pale moonlight,Lilac perfume envelops meBeneath the velvet sky.Under the stars come to me.

Come to me sweet fallen angel.Wherever you want me to,I’ll be waiting for you.When I hear your voice,I’ll come to you.

Only Human

I come from...The darkened forest of my mind.Trees surround me with their evil grins.But I run not alone from their woody grasp.My pack is there in spirit.I hear them howling from afar.As fast as I run, I cannot fi nd them.I am alone and lost.The wind blows around me,Catching my silvery tears.My alarm buzzes in my ear.I open my eyes to the rising sun.Alas, it was only a dream.And, sadly, I am only human.That is where I come from.

Margaret C

The Orange Coat

I stepped out of the cab after paying the less-than-helpful driver his fee and gathering my bag from the seat beside me. The evening was foggy and the city that never sleeps seemed tired. “Thank you,” I said. He nodded, nearly speed-ing off before I’d had a chance to close the door. “Take a tablet, why don’t you,” I muttered to myself, pushed the auburn nuisance that is my hair from my face.

by students entering...

Grade 11

It was starting to rain, more of a drizzle really and the drops fell against my coat, darkening the color of it. That earthy rain smell emanated from the cement sidewalk along 67th street just off Central Park West. They certainly weren’t very creative with street names. I stumbled once on the slippery walkway. Heels had been a bad choice; they almost always were. I saw a little girl standing outside of my build-ing beside a woman in a long, black coat. The girl, on the contrary, wore an orange coat and bright green rain boots spotted with little pink dogs. I was a good block away from them, but I could tell they were in front of my building, a brownstone of four stories, the third of which was mine. The little girl reminded me of my sister, or at least the memory of her as a little girl; our childhood had been when we were closest. Since then, we’d grown up and we’d grown apart. I hadn’t seen her in years. The child was like her in the way she stood pa-tiently and resisted the temptation of the puddle in the street. I thought back to a photograph of us that I had tucked into my bedroom mirror. Our mother had taken it on our fi rst day of school the year our father had died. My sister, six years my se-nior, wore a polished skirt and blazer while I had stood in pigtails, a school dress and knee-high socks. I’d been missing both of my front teeth. The photo made me smile, even though it was in that faded, 1970’s color and had a coffee spill in the upper left hand corner. The woman and the little girl in the colorful coat still stood outside the building, their backs turned to me. The girl had hardly fi dgeted and stayed patiently beside the woman, who, I assumed by the way she pulled the girl’s coat around her when the rain grew harder, was her mother. The fog grew thicker as I approached the build-ing. The woman, and resultantly the daughter, turned as I approached them. The woman spoke my name. Surprised, I looked up and met her eyes. They were similar to mine in color and shape and held the same determined look that the girl in the photograph had. I knew at once she’d fi nally come looking for me, and a refreshing feeling of relief washed over my whole body because I knew she was safe.

Katie H

The Week of Binding

The Charlotte’s Dream was massive for a mere trading vessel, and seemed even bigger as a shipwreck. The fi gurehead – a lady in a dress – had eyes that had been eaten away and were now home to the sea corals. Massive holes had been blown into the hull, and they gaped now like yawning mouths. What was left of the sails was coated in the green slime of sea slugs and al-gae. A wreck, indeed. “Great seas, it’s massive,” exclaimed Eric. I nodded. Before I could say anything, I caught a fl icker of motion out of the corner of my eye. Was there some beast moving out there? Eric caught my stray thought. I must have been projecting by accident. He surveyed the area, pretending to shield the sun from his eyes. I knew he was mocking me. “I don’t see nothing out there,” he announced. “You don’t see anything,” I corrected automati-cally. Of course he ignored it. “Gail, I think all your mage business made you a little paranoid. There’s no one and nothing here but us and that wreck.” I folded my arms. “If you really believe that, you’re the one who goes on board fi rst.” Eric scowled. “No way!” “Yes way.” “Aw, come on!” he groaned. I sighed. Eric had been begging that time. “Fine. But if we’re going to be getting into some trouble, you’re the one I’m blaming.” I cautiously swam closer, my movements greatly exaggerated underwater. Eric followed close behind. As a kind of refl ex, I switched my vision. It only takes the tiniest fl icker of thought to go into mage-sight, as if you’re donning a pair of glasses. These “glasses” let me see the energy inside of everything. I saw the life force of the sea slugs and plankton coating the sail rem-nants, all shining little packages bound up by their own skin. I saw their connections, the ones to the creatures that ate them, and then the next step, and the next. A quick glimpse back, I saw Eric. The wild en-ergies of his mind, soul, and destiny were all a-swirl under his skin. The package of his body – the expres-sive green eyes, the shaggy blond hair, the stocky frame

– held in his secret self. “What are you waiting for?” he said, impatient. “Sorry.” I turned back to the ship. Immediately, I was hit by a wave of pure terror and agony. I fl inched some-thing horrible. Images started crowding in my mind. Explo-sions of fi re and wood and sea, people running, people diving into the water, people laughing and crying, all those people. The sounds, they were the things coming next. The roaring of the pirates’ cannons, the shattering and splintering of the ship’s wooden timbers, the horrifi ed screams of the sailors and passengers. And always, all those words. “To your post!” “Fire!” “We’re sinking!” “I can’t swim!” And then the order came: “Abandon ship!” I shook my head violently. I had to clear away the memories, but they were so embedded in this ship-wreck I couldn’t help but see them.

Katie M

Untitled

As we entered the temple, I couldn’t help but stare in amazement at the statues of Apollo looking down on us, watching our every movement. I quickly offered a silent prayer to him and hoped for the best. Before I knew it, my family was already ahead of me and I would have to hurry to catch up. I picked up my pace, trying to reunite with my family. The bright-ness started to fade into darkness, only enough light fl ickering from the candles to see a few steps ahead of me. I could no longer see my family, and I knew if I did not hurry, I would ruin the ceremony. “Helen, are you there?” I heard coming from up ahead. “Milo, I’m coming. Please wait,” I replied, afraid if I talked too loud, I might anger the God of the Sun. “Hurry up; mother and father are already pre-paring to enter.” I sped up, hoping Milo’s image would come be-fore me, but with no such luck. It seemed like the tun-nel continued on forever, with only the fl ickering of the candles to lead my way.

“Milo?” I called out, in hopes that my family was nearby. “Mother? Father?” But I received no an-swer. “I must be close, I have to be,” I told myself try-ing to reassure myself. That’s when I heard it, the patter of feet behind me. I froze in place, afraid to move, but I didn’t know why; I had nothing to fear. I waited, wanting to know who was behind me, who was coming. The sound of feet grew closer and I swore I heard the person mumbling, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I started to see a fi gure in the distance, a lady. She headed toward me in a trance-like state, but I told myself it was just my imagination. She was only a few steps away from me when I was fi nally able to see her clearly. Her skin was bronze, and her hair lay fl at on her back, black as the night sky. But it was the eyes that startled me: they were cloudy, colorless, unblinking. “Hello,” I greeted, not wanting to be rude. “Are you ill?” I asked when I didn’t receive an answer. She just stared at me, unmoving, unblinking. I would have thought she were dead if it were not for the steady rise and fall of her chest. “Shall I get you help? Are you lost?” I asked, my fear rising one again.

Luke P

Exaction (an excerpt from a medieval fantasy novel)

The fi rst soldier to stand before her hadn’t truly grasped the situation he’d so suddenly been presented with; or if he did, chose instead not to believe it. “My uncle, he’s on the Governing Council down at the Kilmer, he’ll have your head for this, you poxy bitch. End this now and I’ll--” “Were you, sir, in any way responsible for what happened here?” The clarity and utter steadiness of her tone would later surprise her. She was ice. “Those bloody savages? Yeah, I was, though I hear some fancier people be calling it euthanasia; wretches were miserable enough before they decided not to pay the tax. Y’ask me, I--” “That will be enough, sir. Bring him forward,” she intoned, her voice a glass of water. Two Crimson Guards grabbed the man and led him before her, forcing him to his knees as they shoved his head unto the fresh stump. The man still could not believe what was happening to him, or perhaps he sim-ply did not think the young woman capable of such an

act. He kept on, even as Sir Thomas handed Isabel his sword. “Stupid, bloody assignment this; sent out to a backwater to deal with buncha dirty tree-crawlers. My uncle, he’ll--” “May the Holy Fire keep you.” The sword was heavy, barely manageable with one hand. She held it in two high above her; its own weight speeded its de-scent. You were wrong, Father Markem, Isabel thought with bile. All life is not sacred. Only when the sword came down did the man fi nally fall silent. For a moment she did nothing, felt nothing, was nothing. She was a shell, a cold, echoing husk with fi lth on her boots and blood on her sword. But gradually, ever so slowly, something woke and panicked and screamed inside her. God, oh God, he’s dead, he was fi ne a moment ago, and now he doesn’t have a head. He doesn’t have a head, and I took it from him! Her grasp on the hilt slackened, and she nearly dropped the blade as she took several quavering steps back. Blood, so much blood. His eyes! They never closed! At that moment she wanted nothing better than to forget everything, the bodies in the plaza, the fi ght, the soldiers and what they had done to stand before her now. One of her Guards could handle this; they had trained for this sort of business. She wanted to vomit, spill the virulent acid she could feel climbing up her throat, and perhaps expel some of the evil she had ab-sorbed along with it. But her men were watching; the soldiers were gaping wordlessly at their shortened comrade, still bent grotesquely over the stump. She could do none of those things. This is not revenge she told herself. I never knew those people, those bodies, and they never knew me. I am exacting justice in their name, nothing more. She steadied herself, breathing as evenly as she was able, and motioned for the next man to be brought forth. This is justice. It has to be.

Mitchell S

Sekigahara: The End of Honor

Ash, Blood, DeathCrows circle in the skyI wander away from the landChange is what has taken this manA Belief centuries old

Now Holds nothing but in fools’ hopesThis BattleThe end of Honor

The plan perfectMy strategy fl awlessI would not loseWe could not loseYet that man on the hillThe man on the crucial hillGave in to greedHe betrayed us.

The East and the West the battle was betweenThe West fought for honorTokugawa of the EastUsed only his greedNow he is the one destined to lead

How could this have happened?He had no virtueHe was wrongHow Honor has lost to greed

We trusted KobayakawaIt was a mistakeTokugawa offered goldKobayakawa did take.

He betrayed his kinHe marched on my menThat traitorous curI wish for revenge

But I cannot take itIt is not rightMy honor is most importantSo I will not fi ght

I lost and so the west has goneI guess honor is doneAnd so I sit in shameIf only we had won

Then Japan would be oursAnd peace would reignA time of honor and virtueNot one of pain

It is no use to think of the pastToo much blood has been spilledI came from a time of honorA time that has since passed

The Great Outhouse

Outhouse!

Jennifer V

Cooking with Aunt Irene

The door swung open with a loud bang, reveal-ing a tall woman wearing a plaid apron. She had wiry, coffee-colored hair streaked with gray and pulled back into a sloppy ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her face was thin, bony, and a bit ruddy, with crinkly topaz eyes that had a special, warm glow. “Kimberly Ann Dawson is here at last!” Aunt Irene exclaimed just as she did every week, as if she’d been waiting all day for Kimberly to come. “I stopped at Drimble’s and picked up the stuff you asked for,” Kimberly reported, gesturing to the bag she carried. “Splendid! How much do I owe you?” “Um, fourteen dollars and twenty-nine cents, I believe.” Aunt Irene fi shed through one of the six differ-ently sized pockets in her apron and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. “Here you go,” she said cheerfully, sliding it smartly into Kimberly’s pocket. “I don’t have any change.” “Eh, it’s close enough.” Aunt Irene shrugged and put her hands on her hips. “Now what news have you for me today?”

“Julius says hello. Fernando’s back from France and says bonjour. Jared also says hi and that he’s run-ning low on pumpkin cookies.” “Oh, that brother of yours!” said Aunt Irene air-ily, turning towards the kitchen. “I still can’t believe he graduated from college already. What’s his major again? Anthropology?” “Business, actually.” “Yes. Now come in, dear. Let’s see what you’ve brought us.” It was not an easy task getting to the kitchen.

Aunt Irene’s house resembled something of a jungle; there were potted plants lining every one of the walls, which were each painted stark white and almost com-pletely masked by tangles of leaves and stems. Large, bulbous Christmas ornaments of every color imagin-able were suspended from any branch strong enough to support them. Peering into the family room, Kimberly glimpsed a young maple tree in a pot near an overstuffed orange armchair in the corner. Any wall space that wasn’t con-cealed by branches was covered in photographs from weddings, birthdays, and vacations, or mundane things, like an apple or pigeon. Few were framed; most were Scotch-taped to the wall, overlapping each other like a giant collage. All the kitchen plants were dangling precari-ously from hanging baskets Irene made herself, with bunches of herbs tied with twine and hanging from the ceiling to dry. The window above the sink overlooked the lake and Aunt Irene’s terrace, which she’d trans-formed into an entire vegetable garden of tomatoes, zucchini, cucumbers, peppers, and dozens of herbs. “Have you gone to any friends’ houses lately?” Aunt Irene asked as Kimberly entered the kitchen. Kimberly grimaced. “No.” “Why not?” Kimberly sighed. “I just haven’t felt like it.” Aunt Irene glared. “Kimberly Ann Dawson, you’re a teenager, not a boring grown-up. You need to get out and have fun!” “I am now!” “You need to have fun with other kids! See a movie! Walk around town! Live a little, Kimberly. You’re eighteen!” “I’m sixteen, Aunt Irene.” “You’re sixteen! Start living like it, girl!”

“Fine,” Sara reluctantly conceded. Stepping closer to Stephen, Riona slowly raised the crowbar above her. His eyes fl uttered. She froze. After a long moment, she renewed her determination. Breathing deeply, she prepared to bring her weapon down, crushing Stephen’s skull thus ending his misery and preventing the transformation that would make him zombie. His eyes opened. A torrent of emotion immobilized Riona. His eyes, once such a compelling green, were now infected with burst blood vessels surrounding a crimson pupil. Inside them, Riona could read rage, chaos, and blood-lust. Frantically she searched for any trace left of her husband. She discovered nothing but madness. Unable to bear the sight, Riona covered her eyes and backed away. The crowbar clattered to the fl oor. After a moment of agony, she gathered her re-maining will and wrenched her eyes open. They fl ew to her husband’s eyes. She felt the horror rising again, but forced herself to ignore it. It’ll help him, she thought. It’d be mercy...but the chaos in those eyes...Where’s my husband? She saw Sara raise the crowbar, preparing to kill what was left of Stephen. Sara let the tool fall but Riona managed to catch it before it hit him. “I said I’d do it.” She couldn’t disguise her an-ger. Sara began to protest, but stopped and handed the crowbar to the woman with the wild hysteria in her eyes. In possession of the crowbar again, Riona faced her infected husband, saying a silent farewell. Unwill-

Rissa G

Untitled

“Riona.” Her eyes shot open. Sara was looking at her in-tently. Riona loosened her grip on the crowbar. “Stephen’s worse.” Sara looked away. “Damn,” muttered Riona. “Is it time?” Sara hesitated. “Let me see him.” Riona attempted to cloak the quiver in her voice. Sighing deeply, she pushed herself off the ground of the storage room. Riona had been dreading this moment. Stephen lay sleeping in the back corner. His skin, already turning green and sickly, glistened with sweat. Spasms shook his body. The wound itself was now completely infected. A nauseous smell emitted from its thick yellow pus. “Can we do anything else?” whispered Sara. After examining the man, Riona shook her head. She attempted to fi ght off the consuming sorrow. After a moment Sara spoke again, “I’ll get the gun.” “No. We can’t risk any unnecessary noise that could draw a zombie in,” she paused, looking back at the man. “He’s too far gone to feel much pain any-way.” “Do you want me to do it?” “No.” Riona’s answer was curt. “I can do it.” “Are you sure? After all, he’s your-” “That’s why it should be me.”

by students entering...

Grade 12

ingly, she gazed into his chaotic eyes. The hatred within them and their savage nature began to pollute her mind. Struggling against the evil that threatened her sanity, she raised the crowbar above her. Quietly, forlornly, Riona intoned, “Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” She let the crowbar fall.

Charlie H

Left 4 Dead: an Excerpt

Rain poured across the sign. Vans, cars, and trucks rushed by the billboard, each with a driver that had a destination in mind. The sign promised its readers several things. Among them were comforting words - “Don’t Worry” - mysterious words - “Indestructible” - and words with a more menacing tone - “Weapon.” The whole phrase, when put together properly, read as follows: Don’t Worry, America. Indestructible Weapons of Defense Are On Their Way. The logo at the bottom corner of the sign read “CEDA” - Chemical Engineering Defense Association - the ones who brought about the infection. CEDA’s labs were located not by that rainy highway where Patient Zero was, in fact, driving, but much further east in rural Pennsylvania. The buildings of CEDA were set up in such a way that the labs were located in a large, central build-ing while the offi ces concerning business matters sur-rounded it, in much of the same way that the University of Iowa is centered on the Old Capital. This “Old Capital” was where the “dangerous” experiments would occur. Of course, there was never any chance that an experiment could go awry. Never in the CEDA labs. CEDA was the pioneer in the world of modern engineering; it was just that few people knew it. CE-DA’s prototypes consisted of a car that used a quarter of the amount of gas used to power a Prius (which was powered by a miniature nuclear reactor), a fruit that re-quired no water to grow from seed (admittedly, the fruit glowed slightly), and a chemical agent which gave in-creased strength and endurance to whoever ingested it. This last case was the only experiment that gave the scientists at CEDA pause - the only prototype that wasn’t completely safe. Experiments on animals had been less than positive, and the side effects - aggres-

sion, violence, and insanity - were themselves trouble-some. But, it was contained, safe, secure, behind a wall of glass in the central building. Nothing ever went wrong in the central building.

Sara L

Strawberry Stems

“No one I think is in my tree,” John Lennon moaned into a microphone one day in 1966, and by some miracle of time, technology, and memory, these words now echoed through Jillian Deville’s mind, summing up her feelings as she stood humming in the elevator, remembering, listening to the song at the age of four while lounging lazily on her uncle’s knobbly mattress, which was the only place fi t to sit in his room—or, well, stand, for that matter, because man, did he “collect” a lot of garbage. At that age, she thought about a literal fi eld of strawberries as Lennon sang and the trumpets rang. She pictured it as grainy and pale bronze as a fi eld of wheat, but with orbicular bubbles of pink rising between the infi nite blades. An effervescent fi eld in perpetual straw-berry effl orescence. Kids are funny. Jillian remembered the time when her sister, Angela, was four, the year they had gone to Disney World. Jillian was eleven then, and she, precocious as ever, thought she was a little old for the costumed, com-pletely diaphanous miens of Snow White and Belle and the “magic” of Cinderella’s castle. But she wasn’t too old not to love parades and fi reworks and candy and spending money, which she did with alacrity. Angela really had a ball, Jillian remembered. Angela ate “croosantses” at the bakery every morn-ing, and was in charge of remembering exactly where the family had “pahked the cah.” Jillian, at the age of twenty-two, exited the elevator and began her hike to class, since she didn’t have a cah. Robotic eyes blinked back at an eleven-year-old Jillian as her family’s fairy-tale pink boat fl oated through mercifully clear water alongside cartoonish rainbow scenes of holistic frivolity. Dolls were Irish dancing and can-can dancing and hula dancing; play-ing accordions and tubas, guitars and African drums amongst swaying pink elephants with glittery ears and spinning carousels and carnival lights, all whilst singing and forcing the listener into thinking in a bemused sort of way that damn, it really is one small, small world.

Angela sang along with the dolls the whole ride, with her Boston accent ringing clear in the ears of her family of Midwesterners. And after the ride, An-gela asked to go on it again. Again. And guess what. They did.

Rai T

Peaches: Or Otherwise Untitled

“What kind of name... is Ignatius?” I asked, be-wildered both by the vendors trying to sell me a load of shit and the man at my right trying to feed me a load of shit. The dark-haired hunk of eye candy started a sharp answer which was abruptly interrupted by a jerky movement and permanently cut off by my Oh, Shit as I careened towards the cobblestone. A man in a Japanese peasant cone-hat gingerly stepped over the pile of me-fl esh and offered Ignatius a bundle of fi sh heads on a stick. I started to pull myself up as Ignatius curtly explained the meaning of no, and tiny drops of sticky ichor fl ung across my cheek as the fi shmonger turned away, offended. Ignatius muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Stupid girl” and I gave him a sideways look through squinty eyes, even as he pulled a monogrammed handkerchief out of his pocket and began to groom me like my father had when I was two. I continued the squinty eyed thing- which given my Asian heritage, is not diffi cult- and tried to choke back an apology. His disappointment was not my fault, regardless of how piercing his disapproval of my gar-gantuan grace. “So what...” I began alternately, “is this?” I motioned to his perfectly tailored three-piece suit and sunglasses. His hair was razored at an angle, giv-ing him a franken-mafi oso anime character vibe. He stepped uncomfortably close. “This is the formal attire for an afternoon ap-pointment for what I was led to believe was tea with the renowned operatic vocalist, Arianna Nakamura. Clearly I was mistaken and have successfully escorted a mere klutz through the heart of an oriental market where she has managed to fall on her face, bathe in eau de poisson, and question my intentions- in public!” He practically hissed the last words. If I had had pointy ears, they would have lain fl at against my head. “I-I’m sorry, Ignash-“ “And the grand fl ourish to this exercise,” he fl ourished with his hand and lowered his voice,“ is that

the subject of such disarray can’t even remember a sim-ple, basic rule. Every syllable in spoken Latin, is pro-nounced. My name. Is Ignatius.” As his baritone voice stretched deeper in direct correlation to his irritation, I felt a cool chill envelop my spine, despite the pressing summer heat and proximity of other bodies. “All right!” I chirped, recovering from my mo-ment, “Tea then? Complete with ceremony?” I asked, my erratic lap-dog anxiety coloring the phrases with question marks. He sighed and offered me his arm, which I awkwardly accepted and followed a delicate half-pace behind. When we arrived at the teahouse, a short woman with chopstick antennae asked, “How many?” in per-fectly metered Japanese. I opened my mouth to speak, but Ignatius covered my voice with his. “Ni, asacha, Kenato-san.” “Ignatius... morning tea ceremony is for... uh... morning,” I whispered. “I know, Arianna,” He looked down his nose, “Ceremony. It’s good for the digestion.”

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..at Ten Chimneys Estate.at Ten Chimneys Estate

...at the Marian Centerthe Marian Centerth