The Writers' Block 2012

The Writers’ Block

2011-2012

The Writers’ Block Selections from 2011-2012

An eclectic collection of original, thoughtful, and creative writings from the students of Anderson High School 0

The Writers’ Block

2011-2012

The Writers’ Block Anderson High School 2011 – 2012 INTRODUCTION You can‘t teach creative writing. I don‘t mean you can‘t; I‘m sure you‘re very creative and imaginative and have lots of great ideas and are genuinely encouraging to young people. I mean one cannot teach creative writing. And I don‘t mean just one person, like ―it takes a village‖ or it‘s a Herculean task best left to a team of highly skilled professors or something. I mean it can‘t be taught—not totally.

But I try to. I share what I know, expose students to great stories, impart ideas collected and adapted from various writers‘ techniques or manuals, and generally try to create an environment in which the students and the Muses feel comfortable to express the ideas that emerge. Oh, and I correct a lot of commas, too.

Sometimes, it really works. It comes together, and the students create truly wonderful expressions—hilarious, touching, or otherwise evocative—that amaze me with their wordsmithery. Reading through the pieces in this year‘s Writers’ Block, you‘re sure to experience such a gamut of emotions that you might need a moment to compose yourself before driving or engaging in strenuous physical activity.

This is the fourth year I have taught Creative Writing classes at Anderson High School. I am thrilled once again to share their work, and some works from other Anderson students, with you. However, since this is a high school publication intended for young adults and adults, some of the word choices, themes, and imagery may not be suitable for younger readers. Please use discretion in sharing the contents of our magazine with impressionable young‘uns.

My heartfelt thanks goes out to those who have supported and made this collection possible: Kelly Hawk, an incomparable English teacher and great colleague who helped with design; Anderson‘s ever-supportive principal, Donna Houser; all the teachers of the Anderson English Department; student helpers Derek Peierls, Anne Urban, Rachel Douglas, Kailey Davis; all Creative Writing students past and present; Crissie Ballard; and the people I‘m forgetting at the moment. Thanks also to you, reader, for supporting the creative efforts of the talented students herein.

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

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Table of Contents Author

Title

Page

Anne Urban

Butterflies

4

Aaron Davis

Speak

7

Jenna Gerwels, Alex Zakon, Jason Craft, Elizabeth McLean

Destruction of Setting

8

Elissa Goodman

We Are Through!

10

Henry Graham

Leon’s Biggest Fan

10

Eric Baze

Cray-Cray Break Up Letter

12

Derek Peierls

King of The Sky

13

Patty Olszewski

Flying Away

13

Kelsey Corcoran

The Great Mouse War

14

Xander Slay-Tamkin

Ghost Lincoln Vs. Robo-Hitler

15

Rachel Douglas

Chronicles of The Sun

15

Henry Graham

Forward To K’Laxerogue’s Autobiography, A Galaxy of My Own 16

Evie Ladyman

No More Picket Lines, Please. I Like My Free Cake

17

Lewis DuBois, Jenna Gerwels, Wake Smith, Alex Zakon, Noelle Darilek, Emily Malish, Anne Urban, Jackson Ng, Tom Phillips Jordan Martin

Exercises in Voice

18

Flames

20

Jennifer Gray

Eyes Like His

22

Kailey Davis

To Remember

24

Jenna Lang

A Dream Is A Wish

27

Galen Herz and Kelsey Corcoran

You and Me? (Mad Lib)

28

Chris Oliver

The Double Cross (Mad Lib)

28

Hannah Parks and Daphne Buhrdorf Jackson Ng and Kailey Davis

A Doctor’s Visit (Mad Lib)

29

The_____Story of ____ (Mad Lib)

29

Rachel Douglas

Truth Be Told

30

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Tom Jordan

The Awakening

31

Roshawn Terrell

Curiosity

32

Richard Paul

Alice

33

Jenna Lang

Finding Buttercup

34

Bea Anderson

Eyes Like Mine

39

Neetika Bhargava

Why Did I Miss The Author Talk?

40

Hannah Parks

Uncle Jack

41

Neetika Bhargava

Tiaras and Glass

42

Glenna Nelson

The Perfect Yin and Yang Friends

43

Wake Smith

The Banes and Vexations of Infantile Existence

44

Kailey Davis

Stars

46

Travis Weaver

Math: The Bane of My Pathetic Existence

47

Lewis DuBois

“Sir, Would You Mind Shutting Your Food-Hole?”

48

Sarah Paulos

The Story of the Girl Who Faced Her Fears

49

Bell Nasamran

Finding A Blue Bird

50

Richard Paul

The Canopy

52

Szilvia Haide

Autumn Mornings

54

Keller Hood

The Fruit Everlasting

54

Will Ladyman

The Unintended Banana

55

Matteo Coffman

Furry Guardian

55

Alexandra Anderson

How My Son Beat Your Daughter in a Beauty Pageant

56

Wyatt Weber

Pyramids and Paraphernalia

56

Jordan Martin

A Demotivator

57

Kelsey Corcoran

Follow the Leader

58

Jason Craft

Crazy Letter

59

Daphne Buhrdorf

Crazy Response

60

Read On… 3

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BUTTERFLIES By: Anne Urban We were numb. I‘ve heard that it‘s normal to feel this way. ―Natural causes‖ doesn‘t make anything better. Just because it wasn‘t painful doesn‘t make it better. There was no closure. There was no ending, and there was barely a beginning at all.

June Teresa O‘Brian Born: October 24th, 2010 Parents: Eli and Martha O‘Brian Everything just slid away sometime in the night. It escaped in the night, twisting through the new safety precautions. Maybe it took a little while…finding the magnets to the cabinets, jiggling the safety gates open, peeling the rubber off the counter corners—before it slithered away from my chest and under the bedroom door and was gone. Could I have caught it? Chased it down and wrapped it back up into the sheets? I hated waking up to crying. I hated waking up to silence even more. The breaths in bed now were deep and slow, no more butterfly breaths.

The butterflies had flown away at the funeral, released by a man who had never had children; he just liked butterflies. The butterflies flew into the air, and then away.

The headstone read: June Teresa O’Brian October 24th, 2010 – January 1th, 2011 “I’ll love you forever, like you for always, long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.”

Had I slept long enough to miss the butterflies flying away? They weren‘t very fast, and they were colorful, easy to spot. Butterflies wouldn‘t be back, and if they were I wouldn‘t hear them. I‘d hear her— ―Martha?‖ ―What?‖ I answered a little too quickly. ―How‘re you doing?‖ The apartment was dark expect for the television lights flooding the walls with cold hues of blue and white. I hadn‘t been watching. ―I‘m okay.‖ I could feel his hands rubbing my shoulders like a girl feels someone braiding her hair. A weight loss commercial. ―Did you stay home today?‖

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―No.‖ ―What‘re you doing home so early?‖ He was in the kitchen now, rummaging through the fridge. People couldn‘t lose that much weight in 22 days; it just wasn‘t possible. ―I stayed home today.‖ He was quiet. ―Okay, sweetheart.‖ Eli slid onto the couch behind me, holding me against his chest. ―You‘re cold.‖ ―All of the blankets are in the dryer.‖ ―Do you want one?‖ ―I‘m okay.‖ He held me closer, running one hand over my arm. ―Do you think she‘s really blonde?‖ I felt his chin turn from resting on my head towards the television. ―I think someone dyed her roots back,‖ he answered. ―What if I were blonde?‖ ―I like your hair.‖ We were quiet and watched the television. Flashing lights. The sitcom wasn‘t funny. There was a laugh track, timed perfectly. We sat there… just the two of us. ―How was your day?‖ I asked. ―It was good. I had that lasagna from your mother for lunch today. Did we ever call her to thank her for that?‖ ―No,‖ I shifted my weight, ―I don‘t think so… I‘m going to get ready for bed.‖ I stood up. Tunnel vision. I hadn‘t moved in hours. ―It‘s seven thi—‖ ―And I‘m tired,‖ I snapped. ―All right.‖ We undressed in silence, climbed into our pajamas, and then into bed. Eli turned to face me. His eyes were tired…tired and cold, as if it took too much effort to hold the vibrant blue they normally had. We shared a stare between us because there were no more words for tonight. ―Goodnight, Eli.‖ I closed my eyes. ―I love you.‖ ―I love you too. G‘night.‖ And we settled down to sleep, or to think.

Eli was silent for a long while before he tossed. And that‘s when he whimpered. He was crying; there were no tears, but he was crying in his sleep. I could hear him through the pillows. ―Eli?‖ I whispered through the darkness. I slid towards him and laid my sock-covered feet over his cold ones. ―Eli, wake up.‖ He smelled of shaving gel, a warm mint. ―Eli…‖ His sleeping breaths were uneven and his mouth open, mumbling. I couldn‘t stand to hear him hurting anymore. He was the strong one, he could handle this, if he fell, I would hit the ground…how selfish…he was crying. I had created my own sit-down strike. I had become silent because things had gotten hard, so I just stopped. I was numb, but he was in pain. A deep pain, the sort of pain that beats on your insides from within your own stomach.

My nose tingled, signaling oncoming tears, and I broke. A tear slid down my cheek and melted into his waffle-knit shirt. ―Eli…‖ this time I was calling to him. ―I miss her, too.‖ My voice broke, and I closed my eyes. His breathing wasn‘t anything like butterflies, and now mine was just as broken as his. Broken breaths, broken hearts, broken lives… I was tired of things breaking. ―It was only three months...‖ I hadn‘t talked to him in weeks, not like this. I was good at being silent, and I had left him in the cold. He deserved my words. He shook and I reached over his body and took his limp hand. ―All I could think when I held her was… We created that,

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and she was perfect.‖ He took breaths in without breathing out. My own tears were silent; it was his time to not be okay.

The little ball of sadness building in his stomach was strangled on the way to his mouth and he gasped. ―Shhhhh.‖ He coughed and his swollen eyes fluttered open and it was all conscious now. All the guilt, and the pain, and the emptiness, it was all hurt now. My lungs were torn by his sharp sobs and nothing was okay right now. The hurt was too big to slip under the door, but it was strong enough to break the safety-gate and bend the highchair into disrepair.

He looked straight at me. ―I know,‖ I whispered.

He closed his eyes and he was back to restless sleep, never having been truly awake. ―Eli?‖ I swung my feet out of the bed and pulled the sheet from under the comforter, wrapping it around myself to keep warm. I wiped my face dry with the corner and opened the door. I ushered the hurt out of the bedroom and away from Eli with the shuffling of my socks.

The kitchen was cold. The tea was hot. The night was long. The loneliness was overwhelming. And the clock was ticking. Three AM, and the world was asleep. Tick. I opened the silverware drawer; half the spoons had pink plastic handles. Tick. I closed my eyes and saw her face. 6.7 lbs., 20 inches. Tick. October 24th… to January 1st. Tick. In the reflection of the oven I saw my face. Tick. My skin was whiter than the arctic with eyes and nose burnt a deep red by leftover tears. Tick. The tea was cold now, and I went back to bed.

Eli lay on the bed, hands crossed over his stomach, whites of his eyes glittering in the sliver of light that cascaded into the bedroom. ―I was thirsty,‖ I explained as I climbed into bed. ―I can‘t sleep without her.‖ His voice was raspy and confessional. He took a deep breath. I rolled towards him and ran my hand over one of his shoulders. He turned his head and kissed me. It was messy and passionate. We kissed again and again, warm bodies pressed together, and then stopped. Our hot, heavy breaths mingled between our mouths. It was superficial, impassionate, unready, and dangerous. We rolled back onto our backs. ―Not yet,‖ I whispered. Our warm breaths were lost in the cold air now as we exhaled. ―Yeah. Next time.‖ ―Sure.‖ I closed my eyes. It was time for bed. ―Goodnight.‖ I peeked through my eyelashes, seeing an obscured Eli, eyes open and still filled with old tears left to fall at another time. Eli pulled the pillows from beneath our heads and recreated her little down cradle between us while I spied. I reached for his hand and held it where our baby girl would have lain asleep. I held my heavy breaths, letting each one out in small gasps. I shaped beautiful moths, close imitations of the butterflies. It was almost normal now, and maybe Eli had fallen asleep. ―I‘ll love you forever, like you for always, long as I‘m living, my baby you‘ll be.‖ My eyelids fell and I dreamt of the gardens where butterflies fly.

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SPEAK By: Aaron Davis This is my chance. This is it, my chance to speak up.

I‘ve spent so long listening. That‘s how I spent my childhood.

Listening, Listening, Listening to the world, and all it had to say.

And over that time, I found myself.

I went through Fire, and Ice, And I Hurt, with a capital ―H,‖ And I Loved, with a capital ―L,‖ And then I Hated, with a capital ―H,‖ But after it all, I found Me, with a capital ―M,‖ And now, I Love, again, and from now on, Because that‘s who I am.

I learned who I am, and what I believe, and what I want.

I learned what my Voice sounded like.

And now, I want you to know.

I‘m ready to sing it to the world, my Voice, who I am.

Because I‘ve done my time, figuring it out.

And I‘ve done my time, listening to you.

And now it‘s your turn, Your turn to listen to me.

Because, while I‘m not done with listening, I am done with staying silent.

I want to break it, break my silence.

To Speak.

Speaking, Speaking, Speaking to help, Speaking for those who can‘t speak for themselves.

Speaking against injustice.

Speak …

Speak …

But at the end of the day, I‘ll remember.

Remember what gave me my thoughts.

And I‘ll remember the ones that spoke over me.

And I‘ll remember that for me to Speak, I need to Listen.

And I‘ll Listen, because sometimes, Sometimes that‘s just as important.

This is my chance, My chance to speak up, And I‘ll speak this once, And listen twice, And hopefully it‘ll make me all the wiser.

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SETTINGS: Students were asked to describe an important setting in their lives through its destruction. Some excerpts follow:

By: Jenna Gerwels It‘s soot. My house is the collection of ash at the bottom of an ashtray. The living room, where I would only visit on special occasions, has been redecorated by a flame.

The walls, once blue, are now scarred with black and purple. The carpet is now black sand. The kitchen had been the forest of the house, with mahogany cabinets and flowers crowning the ceiling. Someone came and deforested it, probably screaming ―Slash, Burn!‖ But nothing will grow from these ashes.

My room is the sludge you would pick off the bottom of your shoe after it rained. The walls have collapsed on top of each other, as if they were pick-up sticks. My belongings, all charred and warped, lie beneath them. I bet my toys were running to what seemed like a shelter, but really was a flaming torture chamber.

The man who redecorated the house is still out there, making more loose tangent flames.

By: Alex Zakon White blank walls—50 ft. in height. Perfectly sized dimensions, constructed with the precision of machines. State-of-the-art appliances, everything had a function. No wasted space.

But it wasn‘t the same. This big bleached box was not the home I remember; it was an imposter, a plastic replication.

This sterile living unit now occupied the space where there were once broad oak logs, stacked by strong hands. Instead of a mechanized heater, there had been a hearty fire place that we would crowd around in the winter, bundled in our coats and hats. In place of the shiny microwave oven, we used to have an open chamber made of clay to slowly cook our food, taking time to really let the flavors blend.

But now there‘s no time for bundling in front of fires, or slow-cooking food. We have places to be, work to be done. We have to operate at maximum efficiency. No wasted time. This is good, isn‘t it? Why would you throw away your time with useless, inefficient activities? This is the new house. This is the new way.

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By: Jason Craft The blood was oozing—oh, how it was oozing. The beautifully upholstered car was bleeding. Every crack and neck bled dark red gore. The engine of the Dodge Viper wheezed, and the gauges fluctuated wildly. The blood seeping out of the engine was covered in red dye. The dark blue paint job was turning scarlet. Then the blood began to fill the cabin to peak capacity and burst out in an explosion of red water. The doors flew fifty meters in opposite directions. The engine caught fire, and the tires melted into gooey tar.

Finally, once the implosion of blood had finished, the man turned to the used car salesman. ―I don‘t think I‘ll take that one,‖ he said.

By: Elizabeth McLean The blankets of dust, the safeguards of whispered secrets, had been swept from the shelves. Beneath her feet, the old, musty brown carpet had been torn from its roots and replaced with shiny blue tile. She dropped to the floor and tried to curl up next to the old shelves the way she had always done with Carly. But it was no use. Carly was gone, and so was their magical refuge. The cold floor chilled her to the bone, and even the smell was wrong. The comforting scent of the old shelves was suffocated by the stench of a shiny new coat of paint. With a start, Simone realized that that wasn‘t the only thing that was different about the smell.

She wheeled around to face the books themselves and was horrified to realize that her old friends were gone. The aroma of aged, well-loved paper had been replaced by the plasticy, gluey smell of the shiny new paperbacks. The fantasy section that she knew was gone. She couldn‘t find Half Magic, The Lord of the Rings, or even The Chronicles of Narnia! Instead, everything seemed to be about the lustful teenage vampires. She tried to laugh at the situation—vampires had ―sucked away‖ the life of her library—but she couldn‘t suppress her angry tears.

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WE ARE THROUGH! By: Elissa Goodman Dear Jenkins, If I only knew where to begin with you… Perhaps I shall start with where you decided to begin with me; it‘s only fair for the amount of absolute, total, and utter B.S. I was forced to endure while being your so-called ‗girlfriend.‘ More like full blown obsession to the rest of the world!

Thanks to you, I am forever missing the following: one of my favorite old hoodies that reeks of my sweat from dance practice; my tube of fluorescent-fuchsia glitter eyeliner; three of my dulled-down aqua prisma colored pencils; my left silver high-heel from that dreadful homecoming night I was forced to attend with you; and most importantly, my pride, dignity, and all hope for ever looking at a ‗normal‘ relationship the same way again. Ever.

Sure, it was ‗cute‘ per se the first time you asked for ‗a mental image to last a lifetime of memories and guaranteed happiness,‘ but let‘s face it—the only ‗guaranteed‘ thing here is how completely out of touch you are with how much of a nut-job you truly are.

I mean really… standing outside a girl‘s window with a boom-box over your head blasting mushy 80‘s love ballads is only ‗adorable‘ and ‗sweet‘ in the movies. And if it‘s the 1980‘s. And especially if you possess John Cusack‘s acting talent. But serenading me in the middle of CLASS, FREAKING SPANISH CLASS, with an admittedly sweet-sounding song on Valentine‘s Day—but one that happens to be about a BREAK-UP?! Come on now, that‘s just purely pathetic. You really shouldn‘t be attempting to understand another language if you can‘t even properly speak English first. That is a day I wish I could never experience again. Now I‘m double the laughing stock I was before, from simply being your girlfriend.

Well, because you‘re impaired from even speaking your own native language, I will spell it out for you: W-E A-R-E D-O-N-E. That is all. Now if you would please, please, NEVER acknowledge my existence again ever. Please and thank you.

Elissa

LEON’S BIGGEST FAN By: Henry Graham I was on my usual Thursday route after school, stalking Leon like I always do. I peered through my high-powered binoculars down May Street, but I‘d lost him. ―Drat,‖ I cursed under my breath. Why does this always happen? I thought, frustrated. It’s always on this street when he starts looking over his shoulder and acting paranoid. I’m forced to throw my binoculars in my bag and act natural until he turns back around.

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But it was just then when I spotted him again. He was speedwalking around someone‘s backyard, like some kind of feral animal on caffeine. I could only wonder what he was doing there instead of walking home like usual. I sprinted towards a neighboring house and began climbing it for a vantage point. I hopped up the gutter and shimmied up as fast as any teenage girl could. Catching my breath, I peered down to the house where he was clopping around.

It was a normal house; perhaps some other kids our age lived there as well. Leon tip toed behind the place, and looked around hesitantly (not spotting me, obviously). Leon knocked at the double doors that led to the house‘s basement. A large, pimply ginger kid slammed open the doors. They both greeted each other and pulled out long pieces of plastic. Is that a wand? I thought, puzzled. Perhaps it was just some kind of greeting that the two of them had made up.

But I soon proved myself wrong. Cars began to pull up nearby, all producing guys around thirteen. It’s some kind of gathering, I thought.

A few minutes passed, and as the night gathered, I approached the house. I gazed through the basement‘s dusty window and witnessed one of the most frightening sights ever.

The room was illuminated by twisting candlelight. It was an assembly of about thirty teenagers, all gathered in some kind of circle. They dressed in identical black, flowing robes. They all revealed their wands when the chanting began. That‘s when I knew that I had to leave.

I jogged away and cried, confused and scared. How could this person I‘d been stalking for so long be such a weirdo? He was nothing like the guy I‘d read about in his journal. Of course, he‘d read the Harry Potter series—who hadn‘t—I knew that. But why would he join some kind of fan cult? It didn‘t seem right. It wasn‘t. This wasn‘t the guy I knew. The Leon I‘d been stalking was perfect in every way. I had to make this right. He was meant to be mine.

I decided to do as my father once told me when we went hunting together. ―Sometimes the best way to capture the beast is to join his pack.‖ That was when he dressed up in his extensive wolf attire and disappeared into the Canadian Northwest. I never saw my father again after that trip. Anyways, I knew then that I had to take his advice. Approaching my bathroom mirror, I stared myself blankly in the eyes. I said to myself, ―I must become the beast.‖ The following week at school I sat in front of Leon in math class. On Tuesday, I nonchalantly pulled my copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix out of my bag, and began reading intensely. I felt him breathing heavily, with his eyes on my book. As I pretended to read the fantasy novel, I realized that for the first time, Leon was actually looking at me. ―Is that…?‖ his voice cracked, and he glanced away, red in the face. ―Sorry?‖ I asked, seductively. Has façade reflected a feeling of intrigue, amazement, and nervousness. ―I—I was just wondering if you were reading Harry Potter and—‖

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―The Order of the Phoenix?‖ I finished. ―Yes, it‘s my favorite Harry Potter novel, actually.‖ ―Mine too!‖ he yelped, perhaps a bit too loud. ―I‘ve read it fourteen times.‖ ―Cool,‖ I said, slowly and reluctantly. ―I‘m such a big fan. It‘s almost like I want to attend a fan club or something dedicated to Harry Potter.‖ His eyes widened and he leaned forward conspiratorially. ―I‘m in a club like that, actually. Would you—‖ he glanced around the room. ―Would you like to join?‖ My insides felt like they were on fire. ―Sure!‖ The next Thursday his mom gave us a ride to the club. I brought a robe, some fake spectacles, and a wand. We walked into the basement, greeted by the ecstatic ginger kid. Over the course of the meeting, I was forced to sit through hours of chanting, casting, and reading. It was like some kind of blurred roller coaster ride of strange words and phrases. You can‘t really comprehend the intensity of creepiness present at one of these things until you see it. But I can.

By the time it was over, I never wanted to hear anything about Harry Potter again.

It was this evidence that made me realize that the Leon I‘d stalked for so many hours wasn‘t the Leon I‘d made up in my head. This Leon was a geek, and he was really…creepy.

This Leon studied the lore of Hogwarts. This Leon wasn‘t for me. I would have to find and stalk another Leon.

CRAY-CRAY BREAKUP LETTER By: Eric Baze Dear Ms. McPoopyface,…Ashley, I hate you like a bug on my car window that twitches and spazzes and then flies away on winds that make it hit another car.

How dare you go and eat my girl scout cookie that was my favorite and you KNOW IT? So I still don‘t understand why you broke up with me. All I did was try to hit you with my car. What you don‘t know is that you are pregnant with my alien baby HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Take that, swine! Why didn‘t you believe me when I said that I you was cheating on me, STUPID?!

HAHA yeah, you know you are. Your family hates you, you adopted piece of crap! I still love you! NOT! JK, got ya! You will never amount to anything more than a dried up McDonald‘s worker. All you do is get fat and get me fat and die inside…I miss going to McDonald‘s, but you‘re there so I Hate ITTTTTTTT!!!

See you at school!

Your Hater, Anonymous— (First guy you dated, by the way) P.S. If you didn‘t figure it out, it was me, Mel Gibson!!!! JK, it‘s Eric.

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KING OF THE SKY By: Derek Peierls As Cheng sat on his perch along the Great Wall of China, he couldn‘t help but imagine what it would be like to be king. King of the Sky, that is. The whole magical dream unfurled as he swung his paper airplane around.

The ground started to shake as the plane began its takeoff. I was pulling up on the lever as it happened. Then, all of a sudden, the plane went soaring up in the air. My lifelong dream to be the King of the Sky had finally come true. As I looked down at all the tiny people, all I could think of was how I once was there. I flew from Beijing all the way to Hong Kong.

Once I made it to Hong Kong, a voice from behind me said, “Hey, boy, you think we can keep going a bit?”

It was my long-time idol, General Yuansu. I obviously said, “Of course.” So instead of landing we kept flying to wherever his heart desired. I was so excited about flying with my idol that I didn’t stop to think if I had any fuel left. As we both realized that the plane was out of fuel, it began to dive. In the few seconds it took for the plane to reach the ground, my entire life flashed before my eyes. Instead of trying to get out or save myself, I was content with falling to earth. When the plane hit the ground, I died instantly.

Cheng awoke from his daydream sweating and sitting on the edge of a boulder above the Great Wall of China. Instead of holding on for dear life, he grabbed his paper plane and threw it.

As it flew he remembered the feeling of being the King of the Sky. In his head, he was content with the day and with himself.

FLYING AWAY By: Patty Olszewski I think back to the deepest part of my mind, pulling the fond memories from the long list of sad ones that hide behind the wall where I banished them long ago. As I lay here in this dense hospital bed, I wish to revisit the hidden desires I forgot I had. I have the time anyway, I‘m just waiting. Waiting to fall into the forever dreams of my mind. To finally escape this world.

As I continue to venture through the uncharted land of memories, I pull my most loved one from a group of childhood adventures I once had. Slowly I close my eyes, I can feel my mind drifting from the world and going to the memory of me sitting atop the Great Wall, holding my wooden airplane, the one that took my mother 2 years to create for me. I remember this so well because it happened just a few weeks after her death. I loved her dearly, and when she passed, I lost my best friend. I was no more than 8, and people assumed I knew little about what had happened, but being as mature as I was, I understood perfectly. When my grandmother presented me with this gift, it gave me the idea that I could still be with her. Just once more.

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So I sat atop the Great Wall and closed my eyes as I traced the outline of the airplane. I envisioned my mother calling me from above. I opened my eyes, pulled my arm back, and threw the plane into the endless horizon. I watched as it soared through the gray clouds.

Now I wish I could be on that plane flying with my mom. I imagine her sitting next to me, holding me just one last time. I close my eyes again, as she kisses my cheek. We sit and watch. And once I open them, she‘s gone.

That day I imagined myself on that plane, flying away from this pain to the heavens and into my mother‘s arms.

The urge to be freed from this world has chased me my whole life, and as this thought ends, I come to realize I finally am free.

THE GREAT MOUSE WAR (A Book Pitch) By: Kelsey Corcoran Vladimir is the brave, young mouse king on the first floor of Castle Holiday Inn. Vladimir lives a happy, easy life; his mice are happy and his village is very prosperous as it is inside the kitchen walls. However, Vladimir and his people are blissfully unaware of the mice on the other floor and their politics. Famine spreads throughout Holiday Inn and the hundreds of mice on the other floors suffer while Vladimir and his mice are shielded from starvation.

The other mice discover Vladimir‘s seemingly unlimited supply of food and King Henry on the eighth floor demands the food be shared for all of the mice. Vladimir disagrees and war breaks out in Holiday Inn. Vladimir will have to make new friends and allies to expand his kingdom and stand up to King Henry to defend his beloved home.

My children‘s book, The Great Mouse War, is an epic adventure packed full of action. Corrupt kings against good kings, spies in elevator shafts, marching soldiers in the lobby, a counsel of robed magicians, and much, much more. What will happen when the human owners discover what is going on? How can mice defeat a cat? What will happen to Vladimir‘s beloved home in the Kitchen Walls?

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GHOST LINCOLN VS. ROBO-HITLER (A Book Pitch) By: Xander Slay-Tamkin Picture yourself tied to the roof of a burning building while shooting at flying zombies that have dynamite strapped to their heads. That will give you a faint idea of what it feels like to read this story.

Enter the year 3000. Aliens have picked up transmissions of old Nazi propaganda and have become devoted to Adolf Hitler. They stealthily invade earth to join their Fuhrer; but, finding him dead, they use a sample of his DNA to rebuild him as the mechanized overlord known as Robo-Hitler.

Sensing the impending danger of this malevolently mustached man, the Order of Ghost Presidents send their best warrior to aid America one last time. He is the vengeful and honorable spirit of Abraham Lincoln. He is Ghost Lincoln.

Now, follow this tale, written as a 2000-page rhyming epic poem, through danger, destruction, love, loss, murder, and monkeys as these resurrected leaders duke it out in a battle that is unmatched in scale and glory. You‘ll see intergalactic bounty hunters, demon Nazis, fairies of the sea, and many other wild and baffling creatures that our hero must conquer to save all that is good and American.

Can America withstand another World War II? Can a ghost love a woman? How many punches does it take to destroy Satan? Can the comic relief be killed off fast enough? Find out the answers to all of these questions and more, in…Ghost Lincoln Vs. Robo-Hitler.

CHRONICLES OF THE SUN (A Book Pitch) By: Rachel Douglas Nine-year-old Faylinn is a solar fairy and warrior-in-training on Sonne, a star much like our own sun—flaming, and too hot for most other life-forms. Life for Faylinn is made up of warrior training, riding her flare dragon, Eldin, and waiting for her wings to come in. Then her discovery of darkened and cooling sun spots growing over Sonne changes everything. Time is running out for the solar fairies, because if their Sonne becomes cold and dark, then they too will become cold—and dead.

Their only hope is to try to find the creator of their planet, Solon, the mightiest flare dragon of them all, so he can reignite the dying flames. However, Solon has been in hiding for thousands of years, following a clash between him and the solar fairy council. And the only way he can reignite the planet is if he sacrifices all of his magical power. So the question is, would

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Solon sacrifice everything that makes him the ruler of his dominion for a people that he hates?

The council is convinced that he wouldn‘t, and starts sending out units of solar warriors to find a replacement planet for all the fairies to move to before Sonne‘s untimely destruction. Faylinn and Eldin, however, are sure that Solon could be convinced to give up his powers, for he was once of the solar fairies. There was a time long ago when he was the mount and closest friend of Oberon, the ancestor to all solar fairies.

Taking matters into their own hands, Faylinn and Eldin set out on an expedition to find the lair of Solon, a mission holding many perils. But even if they can find him, will Solon agree to give up his power and authority? Or will Faylinn and her people perish? In this story of believing in legends to believe in yourself, Faylinn must conquer her doubts in order to save her people from the ultimate end.

FORWARD TO K’LAXEROGUE’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY, A GALAXY OF MY OWN, Written by: His Indentured Servant, Tamnallel (a.k.a. Henry Graham) What can I say about K‘Laxerogue? He‘s our supreme overlord. The Master of the Milky Way. He may have existed long enough in what we mortals perceive as ―time‖ to warrant an autobiography, but he is long from gone. Dissimilarly, my wick of a lifespan has burned in accordance with his wishes. If he believes that I should die soon, then so be it.

It is difficult to pinpoint adversaries or challenges he has faced, because he often destroys them with his will. How, you ask? The simplest way to phrase it is that he holds the pen which writes the history of the galaxy. Rather, a pencil with an eraser, for he takes great delight in creating destruction.

Many have disagreed with his more controversial choices. No, I cannot give you an answer to why our omnipotent ruler decided to relocate Madagascar to his personal residence (planet Quadde). No, I don‘t know why he altered sharks‘ genetic codes to make them amphibious. Nor do I understand why he lashes out with random acts of aggression in the form of draining peoples‘ cell phone batteries. Perhaps these events are acts of divine intervention.

Perhaps they are his form of celestial justice. Perhaps he just likes screwing with us.

—Tamnallel

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NO MORE PICKET LINES, PLEASE. I LIKE MY FREE CAKE By: Evie Ladyman

When my great-grandmother was young, she could not vote or own land without her husband‘s permission. When my grandmother joined the Coast Guard during WWII, her family and neighbors were stunned. When my mother went to work at her first job, her boss called her ―honey‖ and paid her half what he paid the men she worked with. Now it‘s 2011, and I can do anything a man can do without anyone raising an eyebrow. In fact, it‘s almost required of me—in a feminist‘s eyes, I have a duty to help prove all over again that women are as good as any man out there. I should be ready at any moment to jump up with my picket sign and righteous attitude to refute all perceived claims made against my sex. And I have a problem with this.

All right, so there‘s a distinction to be made here.

Technically, I‘m a feminist too—a feminist being, by definition, a person with the belief that women should have equal rights as men.

What I protest is the modern feminist movement—the idea that women are still horribly oppressed and need to free themselves.

The truth is, I just don‘t believe women are all that oppressed. In fact, because of the feminist movement, women in today‘s society have nearly more freedom than men do. When a lady walks down the streets of any town in America, wearing clothes she bought at a men‘s clothing store, she‘s progressive, a product of the women‘s revolution. Or, more likely, she‘s just a girl, because women have adopted men‘s clothing into their own fashion schema quite tightly.

But a man, sporting his very own skirt and blouse? Why, he‘s perverted! He‘s gay! The women‘s movement has given women more freedom than anyone knows what to do with, and this is made possible by taking freedom away from men.

Even in more serious situations, this bias comes out. If a woman is assaulted, there are all sorts of places she can go for help. Yet when the same thing happens to a guy, the general idea is that he should just man up. Yeah, there are still people who will help him and phone lines he can call, but they‘re less well known and almost looked down on. Word simply does not get out about these kinds of places. And that is extremely damaging. Worse, this has crept into almost every aspect of society. We are constantly concerned with the female body image and how airbrushed models are destroying the confidence of young girls everywhere. But most never stop to think about the male models who propagate this same unrealistic ideal in the boys who sit next to those girls in math class.

In the end, the only thing left of old male dominance is the dregs of the idea of chauvinism. And frankly, if being oppressed means men have to hold doors for me and buy me food on dates, I‘m not about to complain. So cool it, you super-feminists; you‘re gonna cut off my supply of free dessert!

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AN EXERCISE IN VOICE: Students were asked to transform a thoroughly banal dialogue about a meeting between two classmates into something with voice and dialect. Some excerpts follow:

TRANSFORMED INTO THE DIALECT OF ERNEST HEMINGWAY By: Lewis DuBois It was a cold day and the sky was gray and the streets were wet. I saw Susan. I ran to her. ―Yo. I‘m Jake.‖ ―If we couldn‘t talk to strangers, we‘d never meet anyone.‖ ―I love you.‖ ―I love you, darling.‖ ―No one talks like this in real life.‖ DIALECT OF THE COLOR PURPLE By: Jenna Gerwels A few days back, I‘s walkin‘ home from school and saw sumone familiar from a class. I ran to cutch her. ―Hey thur, I‘m Jake,‖ I says. ―We‘s in Mista Farr‘s Class. What yur name, beautiful?‖ ―Muhname isth Taylor. I don‘t know you livied hur?‖ ―Yesamam. I bes ‗round da corner. What‘d you think ‘bout the book in class?‖ ―It started good, but now is bad. I wisht ita get good again.‖ ―I hope it too. I hope it too.‖ DIALECT OF HOLLYWOOD “MOVIE MOGUL” MEETS A NEW AGE CHICK. By: Wake Smith ―Ey, you, babe!‖ I said. ―Name‘s Jacob Whitner, call me Jake.

Your face, I‘ve seen it, in one of Farr‘s movies, right?‖ ―Well, hello there, Jake. My name‘s Taylor, but in the realm of the fuzzy lizards the massive sea monkeys call me Ithia, Queen of Some, which really frustrates the inverted animals who—‖ ―Let me stop you there, hun, I‘m just tryna poll around here see if you‘re digging that boo religion so, eh whatcha thinkin‘ huh? It‘s cool, just spit it out, I wanna hear it.‖ ―The hairs that line my left pinky knuckle rise and salute, by the arctic cannibals can‘t stand the wretched sound at the cooked powder slapping.‖ ―Damn, sweet lips, you can really sell a pitch. Ever think about writing?‖ DIALECT OF NICE JEWISH BOY By: Alex Zakon A few days ago, I‘m schlepping home from the market, and see some boy I thought I knew from Torah studies. I go up to him, and I say, ―Shabbat shalom, my name is Eliezer Rosenthal. I think my bubby knows your bubby—what‘s your name?‖

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DIALECT OF VALLEY GIRL By: Noelle Darilek Like, OMG! The other day, like, after school, I totally, like, saw this girl I totally know from like one of my classes. So I totally, like, ran up to her. ―OMG! It‘s you! You like live around here? I‘m, like, Jake!‖ ―OMG hey! I‘m Taylor! Like tell me, like, what you, like, totally think about that boring old book! I‘m DYING to know!‖ ―OMG like it‘s almost as boring as, like, that dress Jennifer Aniston wore to, like, last year‘s Grammy‘s!‖ ―Totes, fer sure!‖ DIALECT OF GIRL WHO NEVER BREATHES By: Emily Malish ―SotheotherdayI was walking homeandthisguyfromschool came up to me and started talking tomeabouthow we‘re in a class together.

HisnameisJakeandwe bothlivearoundthesameplace! Heseemsreally cool.

Webothdon‘t reallylike the book that we‘re readingcauseit needs to bemoreintersting and oh my goodness…‖

DIALECT OF APATHETIC BOY By: Anne Urban Long story short, Call of The Wild sucks. Everyone thinks so.

DIALECT OF A CANADIAN AND DR. SEUSS By: Jackson Ng So while coming home from Canadian school I ran into a fellow Canadian. So I spoke with him, yes I did. ―Oh hiya there, I‘m Jake!‖ I said with friendliness. ―We have Mr. Farr‘s class together, don‘t cha know?‖ ―Hello there, young Jake whom I can‘t mistake. My name is Smithers. Do you live right thither…?‖ ―Oh ya, right next to those elks over yonder. So how aboot that book in Farr‘s class?‖ ―I would not, could not, read that book. It does not, has not, got a hook.‖ ―You‘re right, don‘cha know. That book sucks some serious maple syrup!‖ DIALECT OF ONCE UPON A TIME… By: Tom Phillips Once upon a time I, the dashing young man that I am, was traveling to my grand domain from the cathedral of learning in which I and many of my peers reside during the day, when I saw a young maiden on a similar journey. ―Hello, fair maiden. I am Jacob,‖ I spoke as I approached. ―Do we not share in Sir Farr‘s abundant wisdom, lady…?‖ ―Lady Taylor,‖ she replied with a curtsey. ―Dost thou live near?‖ ―Yes, actually. We are quite near.‖ ―Allow me to inquire, fair lady, how dost thou like our most recent tome?‖

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FLAMES By: Jordan Martin I stood in the ashes of what was once my life, dazed, holding a charred photograph of the three of us, rare because my mom hated getting her picture taken. Now I didn‘t know if she was alive or dead. I didn‘t even know if my brother was alive or dead. I glanced back to the raging inferno that had once been our house. The last time I‘d seen either of them, Mom was heading into the kitchen, and my brother was trying to break the window to his room. How many minutes ago was that?

Now I knew nothing of either of them. I knew I was alive. I could feel it. The picture in my hand was proof enough. I had escaped with minor burns on my arm and legs, a few scratches on my hands and a sprained ankle. But that didn‘t matter to me. What mattered was that I knew nothing of my family.

I heard a bark behind me and turned. Our dog had made it out alive as well. I was glad for that I guess, but right now, I just felt numb. I couldn‘t even speak to tell him hello. I walked a few steps further through the ashes, glancing to see if I could find a trace of any of my family. In a pile of ashes that used to be my room. Walking on a sprained ankle hurt, and the paramedic was hovering over me, trying me to come sit with him, but I refused to be treated until I knew my family was safe.

I hurriedly searched through the ashes and, surprisingly, found several of my treasures.

Somehow, my two most treasured belongings had only been burned at the edges. I wondered how that was possible when the entire house had burned to the ground. Grabbing them quickly, I took my valuables away from the ashes and set them by the road. I knew they‘d be safe there.

Forgetting my circumstances for a moment, I went back toward the fire and began looking for other valuables. I found a few of them then brought them to the pile I‘d started. All in all, I had a pile by the curb with several of my valuables, my brother‘s, and my mom‘s. The pile cheered me up because I knew they‘d be happy to see that their cherished belongings were safe.

Then reality hit me again; I didn‘t know yet if they were safe. My thoughts flashed back to the first few seconds when I heard the smoke alarm going off. I had ignored it at first because the stupid thing would go off if you simply turned the oven on. You didn‘t have to burn anything, just turn it on. Then I heard my mom panicking downstairs. I opened the door and noticed it was hotter than usual. ―Get out of the house! It‘s going to burn down!‖ I‘d heard her call. I slammed my door and began trying to find a way to save what was precious to me. I wrapped everything in a wet blanket then opened my window.

From there, everything‘s a blur, a flaming, smoky, hazy blur. The last thing I remember clearly was seeing my family safe. Suddenly I remembered something my mom had said over the roar of the flames. ―Once you get out, go to the safe place. If we get separated, remember that I love you both.‖ Well, now I remembered two important things. One, I knew how my valuables had been saved. Two, I knew where my family might be. I stood up, left my dog to guard our valuables, and went to the safe place.

It was just down the street, half a block from where we lived. I limped to the house and saw my brother. He looked how I probably looked: tired, afraid, relieved, and black from soot here and there. I called his name, and he looked up. The relief on his face grew and I limped over to him. ―Where‘s Mom?‖ I asked. ―She hasn‘t shown up. Where have you been?‖ he asked. ―Going through the ashes and collecting our valuables.‖

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―Was anything saved?‖ ―Yeah. It‘s all back at the house.‖ ―What happened to your ankle?‖ I looked away from him, embarrassed at my stubbornness. ―I messed it up when I jumped out of my window. I would have been treated by the paramedics, but I refused to stay until I knew you and Mom were safe,‖ I said. ―Hopefully Mom will show up soon. She always said to wait and be calm before assuming the worst. I— I‘m not sure she made it out okay, though,‖ he said sadly. ―Not sure she—?‖ Both of us turned to the sound of the voice and found our mom standing to the side of the house. ―MOM!‖ we both shouted before running to her. We almost tackled her to the ground when we hugged her, but she remained upright. ―Mom, we thought you had died,‖ I explained. ―No. I was unconscious for a little while. The paramedics had me in the back of the ambulance and when I woke up, I demanded to be released to see if my kids were safe,‖ she said. Happy joy!

Even though our house had been reduced to ashes, my family was alive and safe.

I thought it was some miracle, but it was just the fact that we were able to get away in time. The fire hadn‘t moved fast enough to get any of us. ―Mom, I found some of our valuables still safe. They‘re back at the house,‖ I said, breaking the long silence between all of us. ―Oh, yeah? Let‘s go see what you managed to dig up,‖ she said. We began walking back to the house when my leg finally gave out. I collapsed to the ground and grunted in pain. ―Dawn, what happened?‖ my mom asked. ―When I jumped from my window to escape from the fire, I hurt my ankle,‖ I explained. ―Why didn‘t you let the paramedics take care of you?‖ ―I didn‘t want to be treated until I knew you guys were safe.‖ ―That‘s not your concern, Dawn. You should have let them—‖ ―I know, Mom, I know. I just didn‘t want to be perfectly fine while you two were either severely injured or—or—or worse!‖ ―Michael, help your sister up. We‘re getting you both to the paramedics.‖ My brother helped me up and we went over to the ambulance. While one took care of my ankle and another took care of Michael‘s wrist, Mom went to the pile of valuables and looked to see what had been saved. As I sat there, my mind kept returning to the last thing I saw before the firemen took me away from the house: a photograph that I left in the pile by the curb. The only thing I could see was a pillar of flames and smoke.

I dreaded what I‘d lost, but that was in the back of my mind. For now I finally knew that everyone, every person that I cared about was safe.

Seven months have gone by since then. Michael, mom and I are living in our new apartment and we couldn‘t be happier. Our collection of prized possessions has grown. I bought myself a fire proof box where I can store anything I want to keep safe in case another fire should hit our house. The only thing I can‘t help but worry about is what if it‘s a flood next time. My mom tells me not to worry about it. Michael thinks that if a flood does hit us, it won‘t be for another couple of years.

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EYES LIKE HIS By: Jennifer Gray He got out of the car, slowly and cautiously. His tone sounded upbeat and happy, the kind you hear when you see a friend, a friend you once loved in another life but now—you see the ghost of something that once was. His eyes, though… they spoke more than his voice. They were full of love, full of wanting something that was lost, and as I looked into them, I felt this hurtful twang in my chest send a hot feeling down into my stomach that made me want to just turn into a sparrow and just fly up, up, up into the sky and never come down.

Memories. It‘s funny how you can pick and choose which ones to remember…which ones hurt, which don‘t. That‘s the way it is with the images of my dad. I went camping with him once. We were all on the beach, or the shore of a lake, I don‘t remember which. All I know is that we were there, together—my mom, my dad, my brother, my sister, me. In my memory, we are all there sitting on logs surrounding a bonfire. Hannah holds a stick with a marshmallow on the end, my mom is sitting next to her roasting about eight all stacked up in a gooey, gushy mess. We are all there, sharing made up ghost stories, just talking.

We three kids play in the blue gray lake all day, a surreal blur of water and rosy, slightly sunburned cheeks and coconut sun tan lotion.

My dad is there, sitting in a fold out lawn chair as we beg him to swim with us. He looks at me and motions for me to come. So I gallop full speed out of the water, barefoot, swimsuit strap drooping off one shoulder and fly onto his lap, laughing and basking in his attention. He cuddles me and calls me ―my little Jessie.‖ My little Jessie. Those three words were like the light of God sinking into my skin and filling me with such an exhilarating lightness. I wanted to hold onto that moment forever, just sit in his arms and say ―Daddy‖ a thousand times, each time sounding sweeter. I loved him, then, only the way a 4-year-old daughter can. It was magical to look at him in total admiration, to overlook all of his obvious flaws and leap into his big arms with an open, trusting heart. My favorite thing to do was to nuzzle my face into his neck and giggle at how scratchy his stubble was after a day of work. Whenever I think of my dad, I think of us laughing and having tickle fights and camping.

This one day, or rather, this one night, I was up in my room drinking a cup of water when the nightly fight started up. Even when I was four and believed I was going to turn into a unicorn (along with my best friend) and that people get pregnant by true love‘s first kiss at their wedding, I knew that my mom and dad fought. Viciously. Sometimes I would hear thuds, crashes, and crying from downstairs and would shut my eyes real tight and cover my ears, hearing the Jesus songs my mom used to sing me to sleep. His voice was scary, deep, and full of anger; it was just a loud clap of furious thunder whenever he yelled. Sometimes I saw bruises on my mom‘s arms, but she always covered them up and acted like nothing in the world was wrong. Sometimes I believed her. After all of these fights, especially if she saw me crying, she would cuddle me real

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tight and read me novels like Where the Red Fern Grows and Robin Hood. To me, my mom and dad loved each other very much, and nothing could ever go wrong in the world. Ever.

Yelling. Oh, the yelling. It streaked through my brain and pierced my mind, no matter how tightly my hands were clamped over my ears. ―This can‘t happen again! Davis! Nitrous Oxide? 10 cans? Oh my God, what the hell! Go off and inhale this shit ‗till you‘re high, huh? Can‘t handle your own family but you sure as hell can spend hundreds of our money on that…that…filth!‖ ―God Damn it, Kate! It‘s my damn business. And if you recall, I‘m the one making all the money in the family with your bullshit dreams of becoming a consultant.‖ What is bullshit? I wondered. I heard a small sob come from somewhere downstairs. The house was deathly quiet and it choked me. I needed air. ―How dare you! Making fun of me?! Well I can see the loser in this situation, and it‘s sure as hell not me! That was money for the kids. Money for groceries. When you see me struggling to make a decent breakfast for our kids in the morning, I hope you look back on this moment. And you know what? We don‘t need you! Our family doesn‘t need you! Get out of my house, now!‖ An electrified silence charged the house just then. I imagined my dad‘s slightly sweaty and face purple with rage, as my mom sat defensively perched on the couch, trying with all of her might to keep a calm, regal demure without shaking or letting on that she was screaming inside. And then, just as sudden as the silence had started, screaming and more swearing erupted from downstairs. My dad was yelling, my mom was yelling and shouting things I couldn‘t understand. ―Mommy! Daddy! Stop it!‖ I screamed as I leapt out of bed and flashed down the stairs as fast as my tiny legs would carry me. Little salty tears rolled down my cheeks as choked sobs caught in my throat. I flew into the living room and saw my mom and dad, face to face screaming at each other, practically foaming at the mouths. ―What are you doing?! Stop! Daddy, Mommy, stop it! No! No! No! Stop it!‖ my futile cries came out in little high pitched sobs. They didn‘t stop.

Suddenly, my dad‘s hand struck out and hit my mom square in the chest. She fell hard to the ground, landing in a twisted heap. ―Daddy, No! Leave Mommy alone! Mommy! I‘ll help you, Mommy!‖ I ran over to them and dove on top of my mom, clutching her body with all of my heart. And suddenly, a crashing force smashed into my back and knocked the wind out of me. My breath left me and I looked up at my dad through a wall of tears. He was about to kick me again when a look of utter horror crossed his face and he froze. ―Jessie? Where did you come fr— Oh, oh my god… oh my god…‖ He burst into sobs and crumpled down into a pile of nothing in the middle of the rug. I was gasping, sucking in air, and trying to grasp the idea of what had just happened. My mom gasped and froze in shock. I slowly rolled off my mother‘s sobbing body and heaved my chest up and down, up and down.

Where was the air? What was going on? My mom was talking angrily into the phone to some person and my dad was sitting with a look on his face that I will never forget.

Then, that fatal knock on the door. ―Police.‖ My insides curdled like old milk and I was seized with nausea. They came in, black and hulking like vultures eyeing a mauled carcass, waiting for the opportune moment to swoop in and pick the meat off. One of them slung a pair of handcuffs lazily from his belt and shook them with such cocky ease, like he was saying, ―Look at your sorry excuse for a family. Here, let me help you tear it apart.‖ They led my dad out the door

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and shoved him hard into their cold car. Lights blared. Tires crunched in the street and drove away with my father.

I had lost something that day, but couldn‘t pinpoint what it was… my father? My love for him? Maybe it was the loss of some fantasy life I had wanted, where I could have a dad to put a flowery hat on and sip tea with in the company of my teddy bears or come home to me after my first day of kindergarten. Sometimes I look at other families, smiling and laughing and playing monopoly together or just simply watching movies together all piled up on the couch. And when I look back at our family, there‘s a little shadow, a ghost of where he should be. I lost him. He was gone in a flash of red and blue lights, in the flash of a hand striking out, in the flash of a single night.

Years later, I stood in my driveway and looked at him, rooted to the spot, wanting to say something back to him, anything! I wanted to say, ―This is where you left me! Right here, right where you‘re standing!‖ He walked forward a little, taking baby steps to see my reaction. My lips were sealed but I was screaming, ―Why did you leave me? Why would you leave when you had me?‖ He stopped for a second and looked at me. I was a teenager now, I had long hair and plucked eyebrows and makeup on. I had long runner‘s legs and delicate shoulders. But my big brown eyes, just like his, showed it all: a little girl screaming for her dad as he drove away from her life. I wanted to say, ―I love you! I always have! Let‘s forget this ever happened and I will run into your arms and you will help me do my math homework and you can torture my boyfriend and we can eat a whole tub of strawberry ice cream by ourselves as we watch movies.

I want that. I really do.‖ He embraced me just then, but everything I had planned to say to him washed out of my brain, and I felt empty.

TO REMEMBER By: Kailey Davis ―I don‘t know if I can do this, guys,‖ Ken whispered. The white stuffed teddy bear his coworkers had all signed and given him for his birthday 10 years ago smiled up at him, but Ken Olson didn‘t see the bear‘s comforting smile. He saw the multicolored signatures, traced the letters with his eyes, and saw the smiling faces of friends that had worked with him on the 79th floor in the South Tower of the World Trade Center.

Ken sighed as he sat on his rumpled bed, the sheets gathered in the middle around him and his pillow on the floor. The blue light of his digital clock read 4:16 in the morning, a period of time where he should be asleep.

But sleepless nights weren‘t new anymore. It used to be that he‘d call home crying, having dreamed he was trapped in a crumbling building with the taste of terror rising up from his gut. Thankfully,

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his sister didn‘t mind so much—at first. But after the first few years, she had snapped. ―Ya know, I need sleep too! Right, Kenneth?‖ she‘d griped after his third meltdown that week. ―I know what you went through was tragic, but for Godsakes! What am I supposed to say when you call, crying about how you can‘t handle anything? Huh?‖ He‘d stopped calling after that because he knew he‘d maxed out his sympathetic sister card. Besides, all the apologies and motivational speeches were tiring after a while. This event had changed him—his sister hadn‘t been there, so she couldn‘t understand.

So how was he going to describe it to an interviewer in a few short hours? ―When I remember: it‘s like everything is moving in slow motion.‖ Ken swallowed, hard. ―My heartbeat is racing, and I know that, but most of what I hear is the blood rushing in my ears.

I also know that there were screams and calls for help, but I‘m not focused on that in my memory. I see the white papers gently drifting down from the higher floors, the ash and fire dripping down, like hell is raining from the skies and painting the world in its fiery glow.‖ Would the interviewer then nod, say something like ―Mmmhmm,‖ and gesture him to go on? ―I‘m not sure how long I stand there. It might‘ve been seconds, or minutes; this might‘ve happened on a different floor completely. But I can see vividly a body, a man in a suit, falling.

Not only is the sky raining hellfire and memos, it‘s raining bodies too.‖ Ken reflexively swallowed, panicked, and rushed to the bathroom.

The vomit swirling in the toilet reminded him of how he felt that day. Ken tiredly got up and rinsed out his mouth. Getting so caught up in a daydream like this wasn‘t good for him, he knew that, but he couldn‘t help continuing to imagine the torturous questions.

Would they ask him about life before 9/11? ―Well,‖ Ken explained to the drain of his sink, ―everything before seems like it was wonderful. Magnificent, superb, marvelous, a freakin‘ Garden of Eden.‖ Ken sat down and examined the handles of the cabinets below his sink intently. ―However, it wasn‘t all puppies and rainbows. Frankly… it was just normal.‖ Ken took a ragged breath. ―Good days, bad days, average days, all in one week. Some days it felt like the world was ending.‖ His eyes glassed over. ―Never days when the world was actually ending.‖ He had smoked cigarettes, disregarding the health impacts. The nicotine relaxed him, and smoking was a convenient social outlet. That was all that had mattered to him. Now, the thought of lighting a fire terrified him, and the ash produced made him shiver. Cigarettes would kill you with the fire and smoke and ash, just like the raging inferno from Flight 175.

Armageddon all wrapped up and sold in packs for convenience.

They would definitely ask him about what happened after the towers burned. He hadn‘t told anyone about that, and he didn‘t know if he was ready to talk about that.

Ken stood up and walked out of his bathroom, his back slumped and the bags under his eyes more prominent than usual. He wasn‘t sure if he‘d dreamed some of the interview or just imagined it, but time had passed quickly into the regular hours of the morning. He puttered around his apartment, brewing his usual pot of coffee and fixing a small breakfast. While his hands were busy, his mind was still fixated on the topic of his interview later that morning.

As he was sipping his coffee, his cherished birthday bear with all the signatures floated into his mind. It wouldn't be right for him to go to this interview without it. This was more than just another step for Mr. Kenneth Olson, a man in a suit with a shiny name tag who happened to survive the 9/11 attack. This was closure for him and his colleagues: men and women who had

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been with him on that day and were now scattered across the country, back home to reconnect with family, or resting beneath a headstone and flowers.

That had been the part that got Ken the most. He'd made it out of the South Tower all right, but what he'd walked into was even more surreal than being evacuated. New York City, the city where he grew up and had lived for 37 years, his city, was changed. The absence of people in those blocks around the World Trade Centers chilled him to the bone, eerily reminding him of those last-person-on-earth moments. He was alone, literally cut off from his friends and family by what he had just experienced, as well as figuratively—emotionally traumatized and unable to communicate about what he was feeling. ―I'm a little bit damaged,‖ Ken whispered as he straightened his tie. ―Just a little bit. But I'm getting there, slowly but surely. I'm getting to that point where I can handle what life has chosen to give me.‖ A sudden vision of the streets, covered in pieces of paper and white dust that had been the shining towers where he worked made him swallow. ―It was too much at one time,‖ he admitted as he buckled his belt. ―But I'm getting there. That's what matters, right?‖ Ken squared his shoulders and pushed them back, his head up high. ―I can do this. I remember, and the world deserves to know.‖ Ken grabbed his briefcase and subway pass on his way to his front door. As he reached it, he remembered one thing he had forgotten—his bear. He quickly rushed back to his bedroom to get the bear, but paused after he'd picked it up. This was really it. He was going to make the effort to face his demons and win. ―This is for all of you,‖ Ken told it. ―All of you. I can't do this without everyone's help, so just support me, and your story will be told. I'm ready,‖ he assured the signatures of his coworkers. ―I'm ready.‖ With that, he strode out of the bedroom, over to the front door, and firmly opened it. The cooler air from the hall swept up to meet his nose and Ken took one long, deep breath. The smell of his aftershave mixed with the smell of the building was the same as it had been that Tuesday morning all those years ago. He‘d had a life, before it had been turned upside down. He could live through this interview—he could live without his past defining him. He hesitantly took a step.

The floor reassuringly thudded when his foot landed. So he took another step. And another one. It certainly wouldn't be the last time he had trouble going forward, but he'd figured that out a while ago. All he could hope for now was that after each step he took, another one would follow.

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A DREAM IS A WISH

By Jenna Lang It was a hot day. The kind of heat that makes kids crack eggs on the concrete and wait for them to cook. The kind of heat that makes you wonder why you didn‘t chop off more of your hair at your last haircut. The kind of heat that leaves sweet tea room temperature no matter how much ice your mother drowns in it.

It was hot, but for once, I didn‘t care. I sat suspended in some happy state of nirvana beyond temperature. My family and I were on the Disney Burbank lot for a tour.

Most my age would complain about the experience, call it boring or childish. But I knew better. I knew of the pure magic of Disney. What others tried to smother with anti-Semitic claims and overt sexism, I saw come through clear as crystal. Disney believes in the purity of dreams, the kind of good triumphing over evil I recognized as imperative to nourish the soul with every now and then, even if it‘s only animated. And I believe with every atom of my being the true heart of Disney is kept safe and cherished in animation.

Going to the Disney lot was my dream of dreams. I‘m convinced the animation studio caught my breath and held it for ransom that day and I will have to return to get it back. Even though it wasn‘t the original lot where the Nine Old Men brought Bambi to life and Walt dreamed up Snow White, I fell in love. This studio witnessed Glen Keane hearing Jodi Benson singing ―Part of Your World‖ and knew, knew, he had to animate Ariel. Saw Howard Ashman give talks to the animators about his fantastical ideas for Beauty and the Beast, and saw them listen despite his title of lyricist.

Most importantly, the tour was the first time I heard about the elusive Animation Research Library. On an undisclosed location in Burbank and part of the Disney Archives, the ARL catalogues all Disney‘s animation and preserves the magic. Just thinking about someone, right then, organizing an animation cel Frank Thomas did of Sleeping Beauty or cleaning Mary Blair‘s concept art for Peter Pan sent shivers on a dance down my spine.

I didn‘t have any sort of talent I could contribute to Disney until that moment. No acting aspirations. No artistic abilities. No musical muse. But I could do this. With the sweat dripping off my brow and the tour guide moving on to the next subject, I let myself fall back into my own mind. It doesn‘t matter how many people tell me my dream occupation seems dull (―An archivist?‖ a friend scoffed when I told her. ―Why?‖ she‘d whined. ―That sounds so boring.‖) It doesn‘t matter; I want it. I want it like Belle wanted adventure in the great wide somewhere. I want it more than I can tell.

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MADLIBS (for you to complete!)

YOU AND ME? By: Galen Herz and Kelsey Corcoran Dear ___________(celebrity), I___________ (verb past tense) your __________(noun) last night. I couldn‘t___________(verb) to sleep. Your__________(adjective) reputation has impressed me.

When I saw you__________(verb) that___________(noun), I shouted ______________(interjection). You___________(adverb) shouted ―Shut your__________(body part)‖ back at me. Best play ever.

Would you like to have____________(type of food) with me? I‘m very ____________(adjective), and I‘m sure we would make a(n)_____________(adjective) couple. I know you‘re very_____________(adjective), so I‘m going to bring a few____________(plural noun) for you. And after we eat, we could___________(verb) at my place. ____________(adverb), ________________(person in the room) P.S. If you don‘t ___________(verb) me, I‘ll____________(verb) myself.

THE DOUBLECROSS MAD LIB By: Chris Oliver There were two___________(adjective) men meeting in a ____________(noun). One of the men was___________(verb ending in ing), looking around to make sure no___________(plural noun) were watching.

The other was a____________(color) man, wearing a___________(adjective)____________(noun). ―You got the dough?‖ he asked. The first man handed him a package___________(adverb). The second man_____________(verb -ed) out a(n)____________(adjective) package and gave it to the first man. As they____________(verb -ed) away, the second man_____________(verb -ed) the package he had received. ―_____________!(interjection) What you trying to pull?‖ The first man took off____________(adverb), and the second man____________(adverb) followed. The second man tackled the first and pulled out a(n)____________(adjective) knife. He _____________(adverb) stabbed him. ―Don‘t mess with me,____________(name), you____________(color) piece of___________(noun).‖ The first man was left to ___________(verb) and died_______(number) hours later.

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A DOCTOR’S VISIT By: Hannah Parks and Daphne Buhrdorf _____________(person 1) wasn‘t feeling too__________(adjective). His/ Her____________(body part) had been___________(verb ending in -ing) all night.

His/Her___________(relative) made him/her___________(verb) the doctor. ―_______________,‖(Exclamation) __________(verb-ed) the doctor. ―Nurse, please _____________(verb) him/her to the emergency room.‖ They___________(adverb) made their way to the ____________(noun). The___________(noun) took him/her to the___________(adjective) exam ___________(noun). The doctor had a ___________(adjective) face on. ―Is it a(n)___________(noun)?!‖ ______(person1) said. ―No, it‘s not a ___________(adjective) deal,‖ the doctor___________(adverb) said.

The__________(adjective) nurse__________(verb-ed) into the room. ―Give ____________(person 1) _________(number) ____________(plural noun). That should do him/her good. And then send him/her to___________(place).‖ THE______ (ADJECTIVE)STORY OF___________(PERSON‘S NAME) By: Jackson Ng, Kailey Davis Lately, I‘ve been rather occupied by my past______________(plural nouns). They‘ve been______________(verb ending in ―ing‖) me, ______________(adverb) ______________(verb ―ing‖) my life. It‘s very______________(adjective), even here, in the______________(adjective) town of_______________(place). To get over it, sometimes I take my______________(noun) and go______________(verb ―ing‖). This is all I want to do—I‘d even gladly leave my______________(adjective) ______________(noun) collection. My______________(family member) doesn‘t approve, but I don‘t care.

On the other hand, my______________(noun) is______________(adverb) trying to keep me here, ______________(verb ―ing‖) everything for me. I‘m not sure how I feel about it, but it‘s about like how I feel towards______________(number) of my______________(noun plural). Maybe I can get through this if I just try to ________________(verb) positively.

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TRUTH BE TOLD

By Rachel Douglas ―Nick told him? He knows?‖ Funny how shocking it was to hear that a secret had reached the person you didn‘t want to hear it. But this was middle school, seventh grade. People didn‘t know how to keep secrets then. Most people still don‘t. ―Rachel, I hate to break this to you, but it‘s kind of obvious. Nick probably didn‘t even need to tell him.‖ I looked down and away. The floors had been well polished. The boy I liked knew that I liked him. No, it seemed as though they had missed a spot on the floor. Oops. ―Just talk to him. It‘ll be fine.‖ ―Sure. Right.‖ Just fine. He must think I’m crazy. He can’t like me. Just fine.

Fast forward to the band hall. Apprehension blurred my concentration. My ears were filled with the ominous thud of my heartbeat. The bell rang, and within moments, everyone was gone, ignoring the daily command to stack the chairs and rack the music stands. It was just the two of us. The band directors were in their offices. The only sounds were our footsteps on tile, the clank of chairs being stacked, the grinding of stands against the racks. Step, clank, rrrrrrrrrrrack. Step, clank, rrrrrrrrrack.

I lifted a music stand, and started sliding it across the rack. He reached over to take it from me. His hand brushed lightly against mine to take the stand. The words were said before my brain realized my mouth had moved. ―I really like you!‖ Though not loud, the suddenness of the outburst was not how I intended to confess. I had hoped to be suave, graceful, maybe even coy. Of course, none of these words described me, or my outburst.

I remember the hall was too warm. Whether that was before or after, I couldn't tell. Blood thudded, my heartbeat echoed in my ears. Time was gone. Every detail was sharpened, vivid, glowing. The band directors talking quietly across the band hall. The dust left on the floor by many passing feet. The dull whites, tans, blues, and greys of the cubbies, walls, and floor. The floor was looking especially nice right now. Everything was, anything but his expression. I didn‘t want to see. ―C-can we at least be friends?‖ I stammered. Maybe I could salvage what little dignity I had left. I don’t want to be friends. I want to be with you forever. For as long as I can. As much time as we have. ―Rachel, I... I really like you, too.‖ As I continued looking at the floor, his hand entered my field of vision, taking mine into his gentle grasp. Lightning tingled up my arms, down my spine. My breath caught. His words entered my consciousness, and meaning slowly permeated. Relief flooded my senses, making me feel weak and giddy.

I asked the first question that came to my mind, ―So we can be friends, then?‖ We laughed, faces red in childish embarrassment. We smiled, and I rearranged my hand in his so we could walk together. Words—the right words—would come later.

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THE AWAKENING By: Tom Jordan Scott stood in his front yard watching the flames lick up the sides of his house. The whole first floor was ablaze before anyone noticed. He could imagine the flame swarming up the staircase and beginning to beat against the door to his parents‘ room with its angry burning fist.

By then a few of the neighbors—the night owls, the ones that never go to sleep—had noticed the growing reddish glow coming from the only two story house on the block.

Then the screams started.

The night owls broke into frantic running. Some others ran toward him, some away, and some just ran around in a panic. Within a few minutes the entire neighborhood was outside in their bathrobes and slippers. The ones that had reached Scott stopped to shake him and ask him what happened. They were met with silence and eventually moved on to the more important task of trying to put out the fire.

By the time the firefighters arrived, the house was totally engulfed in flame. The screaming had died out long ago.

Scott was wrapped in a blanket and set down on the back of an ambulance. The police tried to question him, but he only gave them blank stares and shaky “I don’t know”s or “I can’t remember”s. Theater class was already paying off. Inside he was shaken up. But he, of course, did know what happened.

He killed his parents. *** Scott looked at his younger sister as he finished the story of how their father‘s study had caught fire and taken the rest of the house, and their parents, with it. ―I‘m sorry...‖ he said finally, as if he thought that she had already seen through his masterfully crafted lie and knew he was to blame.

His sister threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around him and sobbing into his chest. ―Mom... Dad...‖ she said between sobs. ―I know, Jen.‖ He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair. ―I‘m sorry...‖ He stayed like that for several minutes while his sister wept. Eventually her eyes dried, and having no more tears to cry, she left the guest room that Aunt Sophie had so generously offered to her orphaned niece and nephew.

Scott pulled his backpack out from under the bed. He had to remind himself what was worth causing sweet, innocent, 14-year-old Jenny so much pain, worth the lives of his mother and father. He pulled the leather-bound notebook—one of only two items he had seen fit to save from the fire—from his pack and passed his fingers over the initials printed on the cover in gold lettering. J.K.: Jacob Knight. His father‘s initials. He opened the book, treating each page with reverence. He flipped past incantations, diagrams, and dated journal entries alike until he found the one passage he was looking for.

Jan. 7

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The year of The Awakening is upon us. Now that the time has finally come, I find myself absolutely overwhelmed with anticipation. Once He is awakened, all will be set to rights and we will know the bliss of the righteous. I am so glad my daughter was born the conduit. Her sacrifice will bring about a new age for humanity. The age of the chosen!

The first time Scott read that, he began setting his plan in motion.

CURIOSITY By: Roshawn Terrell I believe in the power of curiosity, I believe in the want—no, the need—to obtain knowledge. I believe in the everlasting drive to discover something or to delve into a concept that I don‘t understand. I love the feeling I get whenever someone starts talking about something very informative, and my mind literally sucks up every single word as if it were a sponge.

Knowledge truly is nourishment for the mind. There are times when a concept is so profound that I feel overwhelmed just thinking about it, yet at the same time I love every second of it. A good example of this would be understanding just how vast the universe really is, how small we are compared to everything else, the amount of information that‘s out there in the universe that we have yet to discover, how advanced the human race will be in the next one hundred, two hundred years. How black holes are formed, how black holes react with matter surrounding them, where did matter come from, where did the universe come from or how did it originate?

Curiosity truly is a compelling, complex emotional pursuit.

I sometimes ask myself, why am I like this? But as long as I can remember I have always been curious. My parents told me when I was a child, no older than the age of 4, I always questioned everything. I still do. I don‘t think I will ever stop; I don‘t want to. Life would be boring without curiosity.

It aggravates me when people come across a concept so complex that instead of trying to understand it, they simply dismiss it as an act of God or some other thing that has no proof. My 10th grade history teacher once told me something that really made me think: he said, ―People in this world are too comfortable with being ignorant,‖ and I completely agree with him. I remember when a conversation about religion came up in his class, and he asked us what religion we followed. The majority of kids responded with Christianity, Catholicism, etc. Then he asked why we practiced these religions. The majority, if not all the people in the class, said that their parents practiced them so they thought they should, too. Then he asked, ―Have any of you ever questioned your beliefs?‖ No one responded. Maybe they could use some more curiosity.

The truth is, curiosity‘s power over mankind is astounding. Many of our technological advancements are a direct cause of being curious: the invention of the telescope, the process of dissecting dead bodies, Newton‘s laws of motion, and these are only a small fraction compared to all the other inventions and ideas that have been discovered. What‘s even more interesting is to think about what we have yet to discover, such as advances in medical science which may allow us to live longer, healthier lives. Advances in computer science which may allow us store information in even more compact areas, thus allowing us to replicate the power of the human

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mind. Advances in space technology, one of my favorite subjects, which will hopefully allow us to venture further out into space and colonize distant planets. Things like these allow the human race to not be bound to the things of now, but instead venture out and advance beyond belief.

This‌ is why I believe in curiosity.

ALICE By: Richard Paul The words I lack Are the words you possess.

I always thought life was wrong, Yet when things go badly, You are there.

Exactly where you are.

Being beautiful.

Time and distance, Fill empty spaces, Fill closet doors to open New worlds miles away From my own.

Miles away, My mind wanders.

And miles away, My heart rests with you.

I'm but a simple man of Letters, enslaved by The absurd world created by Our fathers, led by DREAMS dreamt by Dreamers long dreamed.

Who long ago, lost the Memory, of that perfect dream.

That perfect picture, Of you and I, In time's arms.

Timeless to the word, And love, to the letter.

Love used in perfect terms, In perfect tense To a life worth living, A soul worth saving.

And a love worth having.

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FINDING BUTTERCUP By: Jenna Lang Emily is printing out posters. She has to stand on the tips of her toes in order to see the papers fly out of the printer while she tries to catch one in her little hands before the next falls to the floor. It‘s like a little dance: she bends and twirls, papers clutched to her tiny chest. Her efforts to collect the posters without crumbling them prove futile, like trying to catch butterflies in bare hands without fingers crushing the delicate wings. Her mother can do nothing but watch as her daughter spins, trying to catch the flimsy pieces of hope before they float to the ground.

One flits over by Haley‘s feet and she stoops to pick it up. Her eyes scan the paper proclaiming: ―Lost dog. Reward when found. Answers to Buttercup. PLEASE return as soon as possible.‖ ―Mommy? When they‘re done copying, can we go put them up?‖ Haley looks down into her daughter‘s bright eyes, taking a moment to breathe in her purity, her goodness—steal a little away for her own, worn lungs. ―Sure, pretty girl. I‘ll go get some tape.‖ Haley pinches Emily‘s cheek affectionately before turning around.

By the time the pair completes their task, the entire neighborhood is plastered with Emily‘s posters, begging pedestrians and drivers alike to keep an eye out for their beloved Buttercup. ―Someone‘s definitely going to find her now, huh?‖ Emily looks up at her mother for reassurance.

Haley wonders if Emily‘s eyes will always blossom over with innocence before answering her. ―I certainly hope so.‖ Haley winks at Emily and the worry lines between her daughter‘s eyebrows smooth. ―Yes, certainly,‖ Emily repeats. Haley gives her a sideways glance as she opens the front door. ―Daddy!‖ Emily screams, running into her father‘s arms. ―Hello lovelies!‖ David returns the little girl‘s monster hug before kissing his wife on her forehead. ―We‘re out of paper,‖ Haley says. ―Oh, my day was wonderful, thank you for asking, dear, and how about you?‖ He waggles his eyebrows at Haley and she furrows hers. ―Sorry,‖ she mumbles. ―We just got back from putting posters up for Buttercup.‖ ―I noticed,‖ David says. ―Seems a bit, ah…‖ He catches Emily‘s accusatory glare. ―Much.‖ Haley shakes her head at him as Emily chastises her father for his lack of faith before proceeding to hypothesize her reconciliation with Buttercup.

Haley remembers the morning she and David told Emily they were going to the pound to pick out a certain present for the little girl‘s birthday. Emily had positively glowed as she‘d bounded back to her room to change into something more ―picking-out-a-best-friend‖ appropriate, which, in Emily‘s mind, was her best Christmas dress, velvet hair bow, and patent Mary-Janes. Emily had worn the absolute biggest, most radiant smile and Haley remembers having the silliest notion of wanting to eat her happiness for breakfast with a side of bacon and hash browns.

David grins at Haley as he pulls Emily into his lap, her accounts for Buttercup‘s imminent return growing more outlandish.

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―I‘ll make dinner,‖ Haley says.

After dinner, David gives Emily dessert as Haley takes out the trash. She goes outside to the community dumpster, holding her nose at the especially putrid smell, before clumsily tripping on something in the dark. She lands on her stomach and puts her hands down to push herself up only to feel something alien under her palms. Something damp and…furry. Her eyes adjust to the dark as she looks at what she fell over. A dog. Buttercup. Dead.

She chokes on the thick air as she finally pulls herself off her belly; avoiding gazing at Buttercup‘s mutilated, decaying form. Must have been hit by a car before crawling over...out of the road… Haley finds herself unable to feed her suddenly starving lungs. After struggling to maintain control, her vision clears and shoulders slump as her arms adjust to cradle Buttercup‘s head in her bloodstained lap. She hears flies buzzing around the corpse, and now herself, vaguely registering that the blood has worked its way through the barrier of her clothes to seep into her skin. Still, she holds the stiff, lifeless body and weeps. ―Haley?‖ a voice calls out. ―You still out here?‖ Haley doesn‘t, or can‘t, respond. ―What the hell is taking so long?‖ David asks as he approaches her. ―If I didn‘t know better, I‘d say you were having a secret rendezvous with the new guy across the—‖ he stops joking once he sees what she clutches in her lap, like a precious child. ―Ah, shit.‖ He moves closer to her. ―Put that thing down.‖ Haley doesn‘t answer, but starts rocking. ―Dammit Haley, put the damn dog down!‖ He rolls up his sleeves and takes the dog, laying it aside before wrapping his hands around Haley‘s arms to pull her up. ―Don‘t worry,‖ he says as he sees her head turn toward the carcass. ―I‘ll take care of it.‖ David grew up on a ranch. He knows what to do when an animal dies.

He leads Haley to the backdoor, wary of Emily eating her ice cream in the kitchen near the front. ―Go,‖ he says, tucking a lock of Haley‘s hair behind her ear. ―Clean yourself up, I‘ll take care of everything.‖ Robotically, Haley bathes her soiled body once inside, then lays her shivering self on the bed.

The phone rings before she can disappear under the cloak of sleep. She debates answering but hears Emily calling for her to. That must mean David is taking care of… ―Hello?‖ she grabs at the phone. ―Hey, Hales,‖ her brother‘s voice answers. ―Look, I gotta talk to you about somethin.‖ ―I‘m not loaning you any money, Scott, so don‘t bother asking.‖ Her voice sounds scratchy and thin. ―This ain‘t about money. It‘s about mom…‖ ―Then why didn‘t she call me?‖ ―She…‖ he gulps, sounding like he‘s trying to gather courage. Courageous has never been an epithet she‘d give Scott. ―She…can‘t.‖ ―What do you mean she can‘t? Did she lose her phone, her service?‖ ―No, Hales. I mean she can’t.‖ He waits for her to respond, to maybe telepathically understand what he‘s trying to tell her. She remains clueless. ―Hales, she, uh, she… died. Mom died.‖ Haley starts to shake her head then realizes Scott can‘t see her. ―Mom didn‘t die.‖

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―Yeah, Hales, she did. She had another stroke… a real bad one. She died last night. The doctors called me and asked that I talk to the rest of the family.‖ Haley is the rest of the family. ―Why didn‘t they call me?‖ she whispers. ―I dunno.‖ ―I guess we need to get everything in order then,‖ Haley says, her already tight throat constricting. They had planned to visit her mother over Christmas. ―Yeah.‖ Haley hears shuffling across the phone, a sign that her brother has run out of things to say. ―You mind if I come down to, you know, stay with you guys for a little while?‖ ―Yes.‖ ―Oh, …that‘s fine… I can just stay with friends…‖ ―No.‖ Haley‘s free hand rubs at her temple. ―I mean, yes, you can stay with us.‖ ―Great, thanks, Hales. I‘ll see you soon.‖ He waits a beat then hangs up; leaving Haley alone to deal with all the death her life has touched today. Her life touched or touched her life?

Everything aches. She needs to sleep.

She awakens hours later and spots David. He leans down and kisses her forehead. ―Hey, Sleeping Beauty, how are you this morning?‖ She doesn‘t give a response and he doesn‘t hold his breath for one. ―I haven‘t told Em yet, I thought we should do it together.‖ Of course he hasn’t told Emily about Mom yet, he doesn’t even know, Haley thinks, before recalling the decaying form she‘d found by the dumpsters. ―David, there‘s something I have to tell you.‖ She takes a deep breath and tells him what little information she knows between quiet, shaking sobs. ―What do we say to Emily?‖ Haley asks, her cheek resting on her knees, legs tucked to her chest after she finishes. ―The truth. That her grandmother died.‖ David shrugs. ―No.‖ Haley raises her head from its perch. ―No, we can‘t just leave it at that—‖ ―We won‘t. We‘ll answer any and all questions. We‘ll comfort her.‖ ―But she may not even comprehend death and all it entails. Not at her age.‖ They weren‘t a stoutly religious family and didn‘t have the church‘s position to fall back on. No great familiarization with Heaven and the like. Haley sighs, the first time in her life regretting not sitting in a pew every Sunday. ―We need to put this in terms she understands.‖ ―We‘ll think of something.‖ David gives her a watery smile. ―I know,‖ Haley says. ―I just don‘t want her to constantly fret or fear death. I also don‘t want her to, a year from now, ask why we never see her grandmother anymore. If it‘s Christmas and she asks ‗Where is Grandma Lily?‘ I think I‘d…‖ Haley trails off, unable to give breath to the sentiment. ―What about Buttercup?‖ David asks after a moment of tense silence. ―God.‖ Haley hangs her head. ―I can‘t even think of that right now.‖ ―Maybe later?‖ David asks, rubbing his hand on Haley‘s back. ―Sure,‖ Haley says, her eyes rolling up, as if the answers to all her problems were written on the stark white ceiling. ―Maybe later.‖ After an hour of more worries and sniffles, the two go to tell Emily. They decide to officially hold off on telling her about Buttercup; hearing her grandmother died is enough for one

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day. They find her in the kitchen, already having poured herself a bowl of Lucky Charms. She’s so… tiny, Haley thinks. She won’t survive under the weight of grief. Her little bones will buckle, crush, and turn to dust. ―Emily,‖ David starts. ―There‘s something we need to talk with you about.‖ Emily nods, her attention still on her breakfast. ―Em,‖ Haley says, sinking to her knees. She doesn‘t know if this is to put her at eye level with her daughter or because her liquid legs won‘t support her anymore. ―You know Grandma Lily, right?‖ Emily nods slowly, looking at her mother. ―We were planning on visiting her for Christmas, remember?‖ Another nod. ―Well, um, we won‘t be able to do that anymore. We can‘t see her anymore.‖ Does Emily understand death? Haley repeats her previous uncertainties to herself. This is the first close one… maybe she doesn’t know. But surely, from movies… surely she knows you can’t live forever. ―Is she hiding?‖ Emily begins to smile, thinking this all a joke. ―No, no,‖ Haley shakes her head. ―Kind of like with Buttercup.‖ Emily doesn‘t know her dog is dead, but she knows it isn‘t an absolute she‘ll return. ―How you may never see her again, only this is permanent…‖ ―So Grandma Lily is lost?‖ ―Sure, pretty girl,‖ Haley says, the promise of tears burning her throat. ―You can think of it like she‘s lost.‖ She tries to swallow the fire before continuing. ―But permanently,‖ David cuts in.

Emily nods, and the little worried crease appears between her eyebrows, indicating she is thinking about something really hard. ―So Grandma Lily is lost,‖ Emily says, her young mind trying to wrap itself around the alien concept of death. ―Like Buttercup is, only I‘ll never see Grandma Lily again?‖ ―Sure,‖ David says, knowing time will make the details less fuzzy for his daughter. ―Okay,‖ Emily says hesitantly before returning to her breakfast.

Haley tries for a comforting smile but merely darts her eyes between her husband and daughter. No, she thinks. That didn’t go right.

Haley spends the day preparing the guest room for Scott‘s arrival and herself for the funeral. She makes a mental list of everything that needs to be done. The will to read, the mail to cancel, the bills to settle, the assets to divide…

In search of a spot of sunshine, Haley goes to check on Emily, who disappeared into her room shortly after breakfast. ―Hey Em.‖ Haley knocks on the door. ―May I come in?‖ ―Yes,‖ a singsong voice answers.

Haley opens the door, and blinks. Expecting sunshine, her eyes have to adjust what looks the perfect white, winter wonderland; only instead of snowflakes covering the surfaces, it‘s drawing paper. Haley squints, confused by the image. Her daughter sits at her drawing table, coloring one of the papers. Haley leans over to see what it says. It reads: ―Lost Grandma. Reward when found. Answers to Grandma Lily. PLEASE return as soon as possible.‖ ―Em…‖ Haley gulps. ―What are you doing?‖ Emily stands and turns to her mother, big eyes gleaming with excitement. ―I know you and Daddy said Grandma Lily is lost permanently, but I thought maybe, you know, if we tried hard enough, we could find her. Maybe someone will find her and return her. I think we should make copies of this one,‖ Emily holds out the poster to her mother. ―NO!‖ Haley snaps, snatching the paper out of the little girl‘s hands.

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Emily yelps, cowering back toward the table. ―No, no, no, no, no!‖ Haley starts grabbing all of the paper, used and new, crumpling them in her arms and taking them to the trash. ―No, Emily, I said no!‖ ―I‘m sorry, I…‖ Tears stream down Emily‘s face but the red haze around Haley‘s vision obscures her sight. ―God, Emily you just don‘t get it!‖ Haley screeches, stuffing more papers into the trashcan before kicking it. ―Yes, I don‘t!‖ Emily screams back. ―What happened to Grandma Lily?‖ ―She DIED Emily.‖ Haley kicks the trash again. ―Died, as in, we‘ll never, ever, ever see her again.‖ ―Why not?‖ Heavier tears flood Emily‘s face. ―Because!‖ Haley runs her fingers through her hair, exasperated. ―Because, that‘s just… how it is.‖ Haley sighs, exhausted and embarrassed by her outburst.

Emily lies on the floor, tears leaving track marks down her face. Haley moves beside her to join in the misery.

After they‘d both calmed down, Emily asks, ―I‘ll never see Bu—Bu—Buttercup again, will I?‖ Her voice breaks on the dog‘s name. ―No baby,‖ Haley smoothes Emily‘s hair off her face, tentative to relay details. ―You won‘t. But that doesn‘t mean everything you lose will be lost forever.‖ Emily doesn‘t believe her, but nods anyway. ―Hey,‖ Haley delicately lifts her daughter‘s chin to look directly into the girl‘s unsettled eyes. ―You want some ice cream and to maybe, I don‘t know, talk about it more?‖ And, despite her cheeks sticky with tears, Emily smiles.

The next morning, after his arrival, Scott finds something taped to the refrigerator. ―FOUND: Buttercup and Grandma Lily.‖ Under the caption is a drawing of a woman and dog, a yellow crayon circle above each of their heads.

Scott, who prides himself on rarely, if ever, indulging in something as girly as crying, chokes on his sobs.

David comes by, patting his brother-inlaw‘s shoulder. ―You‘re gonna be alright,‖ he says to the shaking man. David glances over to see Haley and Emily setting the table for a breakfast of bacon and hash browns. ―We‘re all gonna be alright.‖

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EYES LIKE MINE

By Bea Anderson

Whenever I pass a mirror, I look into it; it‘s almost like a knee jerk reaction. Something compulsive like biting your nails or yawning when someone else in the room does. Not because I‘m checking my outfit, or my hair, or wishing I‘d covered up the large zit forming a planet on my forehead. I‘m looking at my eyes, thinking of my dad touching my cheek and smiling, saying the words I still repeat all the time to remind myself that some part of him still lingers. ―Eyes like mine.‖ It‘s funny the things you remember from childhood. I remember my small chubby hands in my father‘s big ones; I see the lines of his hands, the callouses, and the long scar running from the tip of his middle finger to his wrist that he got in a car accident when he was sixteen. My little hands cup a little white daisy bulb while his hands clasp mine just like the tiny flower. I remember these simple details better than birthday parties or preschool friends.

My mother always says my sister and I look just like her, but nothing could be further from the truth. My dark auburn hair, pale skin dotted with brown freckles, and hazel eyes are all my dad‘s. Isn‘t it odd when we refer to our features as if they belong to our parents? Like they pulled them off and made little copies to paste onto our faces with Elmer‘s glue?

My dad used to joke that he didn‘t need a mirror because he just had to look at me. ―Except,‖ he‘d chuckle and twirl one of my little curls around his finger, ―you‘re much prettier than me.‖ One night when I was three, my dad was simply gone. He took a hundred dollars, the family car, and a suitcase filled with his clothes and took off for Florida. For eleven years, I made due with him flitting in and out of my life like a butterfly coasting on the air currents, here and gone again. My life divided up into two parts: ―when he‘s here‖ and ―when he‘s not.‖ Then when I was fourteen, still waking up at night searching for him in the blurry darkness, I made the decision to cut him out of my life for good. ―Just go away,‖ I said to him when he appeared on my doorstep in the dead of winter, keeping my head down so he wouldn‘t see the hot tears streaming down my cheeks. ―Come here, baby doll.‖ It was something he‘d always called me, with that gentle smile I‘d always thought he reserved for me alone. Till that moment those things had always made me feel loved. Now it only felt like salt scrubbed into a gaping wound. ―Let‘s talk about this—‖ That‘s when I shut the door, literally and figuratively.

Now he‘s gone. I hear about him sometimes from my grandmother in words saturated with bitter resentment. Still, I like to imagine him in my own ways, like looking at a scrapbook.

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Sometimes he‘s under Texas skies, then swimming in the warm oceans of Florida; other times he travels around Louisiana, Arizona, New Mexico. He will keep on soaring about the clouds of reality like the butterfly he always was, and I will make do with his eyes, copied and pasted onto my freckled face. I will stare into mirrors searching for the parts of him that remain, wondering if I‘ll ever see those eyes again, so much like mine.

WHY DID I MISS THE AUTHOR TALK? By: Neetika Bhargava So there I was. Aimlessly walking down the Anderson High School English hallway, unaware of the extreme danger that I was in. Now this may seem like your typical walking-in-aschool-hallway-before-you-are-kidnapped-randomly sort of situation, but it‘s not. But it really is.

You see, when you are in high school, a lot of crazy stuff can happen. You can over sharpen your pencil and break your finger, get a concussion during a friendly game of dodge ball, choke on your own saliva during an especially exciting English presentation, trip on a calculator in World History, and possibly paper cut your arm off with your Latin essay on Andromeda. I know, I know. Why do we even send our innocent middleschoolers to a world so treacherous and unstable? It‘s called a dictatorial democracy. Just kidding!

Anyways, there I was. And suddenly I saw blackness.

Well, my mother‘s black Ann Taylor coat. But it was black, so that‘s the same thing. She was running towards me in slow motion. Or I just like to imagine it that way. She then screamed out the oh-so awful words no high school debate team member ever wants to hear. Ever. Seriously. But not really. ―YYYYooouuuuu FOOOOORRRGOOTTT yoooouuuurrr SUUUUUIIITTTTT!!!!‖ All time stood still. How could I have forgotten something so important? A debater without a suit is like a politician without a teleprompter. My mind reeled back to my morning that day. I could have sworn that I had taken it with me. What was wrong with me? What was I going to do? I couldn‘t be trusted anymore. I needed something, something reliable. Something that could be my best friend, organize my life, and help me with stuff like this without the emotional attachment. Then it hit me. A PLANNER!! AWW, YEAAH. We jumped into my mom‘s seemingly innocent, yet secretly aggressive 2001 Honda Odyssey Minivan and raced down to Office Depot where we bought a planner to help me with my organizational needs, and we all lived happily ever after. So I guess she really didn‘t kidnap me? But she did. But she didn‘t. THE END. But not really. I then raced back to Anderson WISHING that I had gone to the Author Talk. But not really. But really. I mean who doesn’t want to go to an Author Talk? Not this kid. Mmmmhmm. Well… In actuality, I just forgot my suit and lunch in my mom‘s car and missed the talk. But what reader wants to read that stuff?

Huh? Yeah, I didn‘t think so. So… Let‘s just say that my mom kidnapped me, forced me to buy a repugnantly-colored planner and put a mom suit on me. Yeah. That‘ll do.

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UNCLE JACK

By Hannah Parks Hochhiem (ho-hime), a white house out in the country with tall pillars and infinite green grass all around was owned by my Uncle Jack through his family. Rows of bales of hay are lined in the back behind the guest house accompanied by the tire swing. Beyond that are acres of land with a creek, a cemetery, tall walnut trees, and plenty of room for four-wheeling and hunting.

Inside the house on the walls are framed memories taken in that exact room. My uncle always kept it up for us to visit.

I go to that house on New Year‘s, and sometimes the Fourth of July, too. The day before the ball drops, we go to a local firework stand and buy a couple hundred dollars‘ worth of fireworks, including the most expensive one for the finale—for those last seconds of the year.

My uncle always watered the grass the day of, so if sparks land in the fields there won‘t be any accidental fires. He always put so much thought into making sure everything went perfectly. We stay outside, no matter the weather, setting up and shooting off fireworks one after the other while sipping our glasses of Sparkling Cider. After that wonderful night, in the morning in the retro kitchen, wafts the smell of pancakes, bacon, and eggs on the first morning of the new year.

A long, straight sidewalk leads you up to the front door, centered perfectly on the house with green grass on both sides and two large trees. We‘ve always said it would be the perfect place for a wedding. I dream of having my wedding ceremony there. I wish I could have gotten around to asking my Uncle Jack before he passed away a year ago today. It probably would have caught him off guard. He'd probably have said, "Is that so?" and hopefully would have been touched by my feelings for Hochhiem.

As more visits occur, my family and I constantly remember all the things Uncle Jack did for us just so we could have a good time and invade his well-kept country house. So many cherished memories have taken place at that house with my uncle: he taught me how to four-wheel and how to gather walnuts in big bed sheets.

Hochhiem will always be my favorite place to be in the whole wide world. It emits all the characteristics and qualities my uncle had. From room to room, you can feel he's there with you, giving you the background of each room you enter, and I can go there when I miss talking with him.

I know my Uncle Jack will always be there with us for those special holidays to celebrate and, of course, make sure no wild fires start.

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TIARAS AND GLASS

By Neetika Bhargava It‘s funny how something so beautiful and translucent and seemingly non-existent could be the wall between the two of us. But nobody laughs when these tiny hands struggle to touch the window as we drive away.

When people hear ―India‖ they think Taj Mahal. They think elephants. They think delicately decorated rugs that look glamorous in Western society living rooms.

But what I see right now is a little girl. A little girl who is covered in dirt and mud and rags but embodies innocence and naivety and hope like I have never seen or heard before. She taps on the window again, motioning to the Elle Magazine in her hand, her large, questioning green eyes bridging the language barrier between us. Her eyes urging me to buy the magazine, as her smile urges me to hug her, to make all of her poverty go far, far away. ―Don‘t give her any of your attention, Neetika. If you give them attention, they don‘t stop nagging you for money. Just don‘t look,‖ my grandmother declares in her matter-of-fact voice. I hate her matter-of-fact voice.

I look up. She is one of those girls who is naturally pretty, despite her body‘s evident malnutrition. Her smooth shiny skin envelops her small body frame tightly, as if she were a Christmas wrapping project gone wrong. The wrapping paper is beautiful, but too tightly arranged around the box‘s curves. Her bright, expressive eyes speak volumes, inviting me in, and her light, pink lips are engaged in giving me the biggest, most overjoyed smile possible.

She motions to the magazine still in her hand and smiles at me. I push the window down and suddenly the ungodly smells and sounds of the Indian city overwhelm my pampered, ignorant senses. I place a few shiny, coppery-colored rupees in her hand, and place her fingers over them, motioning for her to keep them. ―What are you doing? I told you to look away— stop encouraging them.‖ ―Who‘s them?‖ ―They, they‘re—different.‖ But when I looked back at the girl, something inside me turned 7 again. And 7- year-olds don‘t see differences, they see the similarities between us, or at least imagine them. I imagined this girl in my pretty Osh Kosh dresses. In my frilly white, ―7-year-old- girl‖ socks with the pink lace around the edges. What if she had been born somewhere else? To somebody else? What if I had been born into her life? The idea was so foreign and ridiculous to me, but that‘s what scared me the most. The fact that life was like a game, one in which luck determined how you would fare and what you would amount to. Or more importantly, what your circumstances would allow you to amount to.

I really wanted to pull a dramatic Princess Diaries move. You know, stop the car, get out and preach to this girl of her Princess potential and give her an obligatory tiara that signified her authenticity. I wanted to drive away feeling confident and otherworldly in my actions to better

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the world, one tiara at a time. ―Thank you, thank you very much…‖ But the inherent artlessness that I was so famous for overshadowed my hopelessly nonexistent melodramatic side as I sat back and let the car drive on. Her small, petite image slowly faded away until all that was left was the glass window between us. Beautiful, translucent, shatter-worthy. All that was missing was a tiara. One that would adorn her innocent face. One that would contrast with her dirt-ridden body in the most sparkly, literal way. And one that would let everybody else know that she was truly somebody special, a Princess, somebody they should stop the car for in the way that I didn‘t… in the way that I regret.

THE PERFECT YIN AND YANG FRIENDS

By Glenna Nelson ―It‘s weird.‖ My voice disrupts the singing crickets running through the night. The sky is clear, and I‘ve never seen so many stars at once within the city limits. ―Huh?‖ Erin tilts her head towards me then back up to the sky. Erin and I have been friends since I was in 2nd grade, and she was in 1st. And tonight, just like so many other nights, we‘re sitting in the bed of her big old blue Ford truck, thinking about nothing and everything.

The truck‘s metal walls protect us from the outside world; nothing can get us in here. This is the truck that we feel safe in, where we speak about secrets that no one else will ever hear about, where we talk about our deepest fears, and laugh about the stupidest things till our sides hurt.

I feel like I‘ve spent the majority of my childhood at Erin‘s house, probably more of it at her house than at mine. I don‘t know how many of those countless hours were spent in the bed of the truck, sitting in our own world. When we were younger, it was the boat that pulled us along on our water skis, away from the sharks. It was the secret hideout where the UFO ―Mason‖ couldn‘t see us. It was where time didn‘t apply to us, and we could spend forever there, making shadow puppets against the glass. ―It‘s weird that we met.‖ Erin is silent and the crickets seem to quiet down, trying to listen to our conversation. ―I mean…what were the chances that I just happened to be riding my bike when you got home that day? That when I came over for the first time, we found out that we played the exact same game? One that both of us completely made up on our own.‖ Mine and Erin‘s friendship isn‘t something I can explain well. Neither of us can. It was an instant click the first time we played together back in elementary school. We were, and are, like twins. Yet we have so many differences, like how I hate every food she loves, and when I‘m reckless, she‘s careful, and when I‘m careful, she‘s reckless.

We are the perfect yin and yang friends. ―It is weird, I guess, isn‘t it?‖ I close my eyes and listen to the stars in the sky.

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THE BANES AND VEXATIONS OF INFANTILE EXISTENCE

By Wake Smith "With a cluck cluck here, and a—" "Cut the crap, Janice."

"Awww, is someone a little cranky? It's okay, baby boy. Don't cry," my mother‘s friend Janice stated in a piercingly ignorant squeal.

"Look. Just drop the ‗Ol' Mcdonald‘ BS or I'll spit up on that floral sweater. You're just beating a dead horse. He had a farm. I freaking get it." I stated. I was aggravated, but still took pleasure in the subtle irony of the dead horse being a song about some inbred's livestock. It's been 11 months now, if my memory serves me correctly, and I've yet to be communicated with in a tone which does not flirt with the depths of mental illness. "I mean seriously, Janice, what makes you believe that speaking in that tone is at all appealing to my people. It's discrimina—" "Aww, he's says 'I hungwy… gimmemybottle,' don't you?" Janice was a goddamn airhead.

"Uh, no. Not even remotely. Now, please, for Christ‘s sake, shut your mouth and listen to me, like I have done for you the past 12 minutes. What I was getting at was—" "Wakie says, 'I want mymommy, gimmemymuhmuh!' Isn't that right, baby boy?" "…Seriously? Your ability to converse rivals that of a used Kleenex. Now put me down and do not open your mouth again, unless you come bearing formula. And don't give me that crap about Lynn wanting me to quit. I don't care what my mom says, I'm not letting go of the bottle—" "Somebody needs a visit from the TICKLE MONSTER!" Janice quickly retorted, ignoring my demands.

"Wait… No… No! Don't invite that bastard back into my abode."

"TICKLE TICKLE!" Janice stated.

"Oh god, no. No, no, no. Fight it, Janice, you can beat this insufferable bigot. Think about the children, Janice. Think about me!" Yet, it began. Janice raised her hands up, looming them over my body, in an imposing threat, and just like that, we lost Janice. That imp got the best of her. Her body was consumed by the spirit which she had summoned.

"You leave that woman alone, you demonic parasite." I assertively demanded, but it was too late. She was gone. The hands of the body which Janice once inhabited began to slowly descend upon my vulnerable armpits, striking terror deep within the depths of my shattered perspective.

"It's tickle time!"

"Oh fuuuuu—" And thus began the tickling which contentiously threatened my sanity.

"Stop, you bastard! You… Haha, oh god, oh god, hahahahahahaha, no, god haha, you bit— hahahaa, bitch, stop it, now. Stop. Oh god, I'm going to pee! I'm peeing!" The spirit began to take control of me, forcing me into uncontrollably maniacal chuckles and forcing me to soil my own garments.

"No, don't cry baby. Did you have a little accident, did Wakey go pee-pee?" It was Janice! She was back! But I would not let this under-qualified silver lining eliminate the wrongdoing.

"You tickled the urine out of me, you senseless piece of excrement. I warned you… I warned you of the horror you so willingly called forth, and you ignored me…"

"More tickle? Wakie wants more tickles?"

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"God, Hell no! Absolutely not."

"Don't cry, or the tickle monster just might disappear!"

"What are you suggesting, you hollow monster?" Her hands raised up once again. But they did not stop at the standard height; they ascended upward, where they began to cover her face— "Oh holy terror! Janice! Where have you gone!" I urgently inquired as I searched the room for signs of Janice's body. The tickle monster has evolved. He can now camouflage.

Suddenly Janice appeared right back where she was sitting prior, as her face retracted from her hands.

"What the hell is going on! Look, leave me alone. Turn around, walk over to my toy chest, toss me the orange and blue ball, and walk the hell away from here."

"What are you saying cutie, huh? You want me to take you to mommy?"

"No, seriously, are you freaking deaf?"

"Someone wants mama!"

"No! I want that god damn ball!"

"Ball?"

"Yes, ball. Jesus!"

"LYNN! He said his first words! Lynn come here!"

My mother responded to the summoning and hurried to witness the milestone which she had regretfully missed. "Say it again, Wakie!" my mother requested.

"The ball. I want it. Can you go get it?..."

"You want tha ball? Huh, bubby?"

"Yes…" And to my surprise, my mother responded to my request. It was a moment which I had long since anticipated. Acknowledgement. I found solace in the achievement.

Suddenly the world manifested itself into a realm of infinite possibilities.

"You wan tha ball, baby? Yes, you do?"

"Yes, woman, the orange and blue ball."

"Ball? Yes, I'll go get you da bally."

I watched as my mother rose up, and strutted towards my toy chest. After seconds of rummaging she emerged with a red, ovular ball.

"Here you go, sweet boy!" And just like that, the foundation upon which I fashioned hope of brighter days was fragmented into a thousand incongruent pieces.

"That's it. I quit. It‘s too vexing. Just hand me that freaking red ball, and I'll go back to babbles and throwing up on the Baby Einstiens collection."

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STARS

By Kailey Davis Staring up at the night sky is oddly peaceful. You wouldn‘t think so—you‘re looking into oblivion, a space so unfathomably large that you feel like a little speck of foam in the ocean of life. I‘d never really looked before, so I figured looking at the stars for an hour or so would be an excellent way to score a nap.

I‘m glad I stayed awake.

We were only a handful of people, but we were determined to see a shooting star. I brought my sleeping bag, wore some shoes that were easy to slip off, and a large comfy hoodie to lull me into dreamland. I settled myself, smoothed out my sleeping bag, and looked up.

Stars. Everywhere. Back home, the sky was a flat ceiling with dim little dots in it. Here, 4000 feet above sea level, miles and miles away from hulking cities with all of their lights, the sky had changed. It lost the dullness urban life forced on it and revealed itself as the world‘s most ancient beauty.

The distinct twinkling took my breath away. Each little star had its own personality, glimmering and winking at me as if suggesting it had selected that spot itself, its own take on bedazzling the fabric of space. ―There‘s the Southern Cross,‖ a female voice whispered.

As a group, we hesitantly pointed out the vaguely familiar constellations. Maui‘s Fish Hook, the Big Dipper, and other designs sparkled in the sky. We started telling ghost stories that chilled our hearts, but the dark didn‘t become a menacing enemy in turn. The frightening façade melted, shifted, embraced us, swallowed up our fears, and let us be. The night didn‘t have to put on a tough face and scare us—we were only trying to get to know it better.

We were rewarded with a couple of brilliant streaks across the sky. Those moments were paradoxical in nature—split second fast, so I could barely believe I‘d glimpsed it, yet I had its journey etched into my memory. It had to be a longer moment, it just had to… Otherwise, how had I managed to feel every emotion from awe to anxiety and back again?

When people started picking up to go back to the cabins, I couldn‘t let go. My infinite smallness compared to the sky‘s infinite bigness was such a new experience. I couldn‘t return to being normal-sized. I childishly wanted to stay, yet normal-sized problems like not getting a ride back to the cabins pulled on me. I sighed, but shivered as the cold and damp of lying in the grass registered in my bones.

Now that I‘m home in the city, I can‘t feel that close to the universe. There isn‘t a right place or time for it here. I‘m stuck in a room again, with the low ceiling and dim pinholes of light shining through. When I close my eyes, though, I can go back—back under the stars, under the universe, and find myself.

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MATH: THE BANE OF MY PATHETIC EXISTENCE By: Travis Weaver Why the hell do I have to learn math? I don‘t give a damn. I don‘t want to know what x is.

It won‘t help me. Math consumes more time and energy than I possibly have, and I get nothing out of it but a shrinking sense of self-worth and a craptastic GPA. I may not have my life all figured out, but I do know one thing for sure; whatever I will do, it will involve the least amount of math possible.

It wasn‘t always like this. Counting was cool. I could deal with fractions. The first time I did algebra I said to myself, Hey Travis! This is pretty fun! Then I had to do more and more and more and more and the magic was gone. I would get up each morning and know that regardless of what I did that day, it would involve solving an arbitrary word problem concerning coins or how far away trains are from each other. Trains are irrelevant now, anyways. And so are travel agents. So forget about that pipe dream, kids.

I am a philosopher. A thinker. A man who ponders the human condition. Not some nerdy mathematician calculating pi to the umpteenth digit. I‘m too cool for that crap. And yet, since the beginning of my long life of fifteen years, my father and mother have pressured me to count, add, multiply, solve, simplify, graph numbers proficiently. So I can ―go to a good college and live a happy, productive life.‖ Boy, what a load of baloney. That‘s not to say I like coming to school and writing an essay, but at least writing is somewhat bearable. Hell, I even signed up for a whole other class to write things, creative writing.

But I digress! So back to the crushingly monotonous reality that is maths, as our friends in the silly land of Great Britain call it. Now, I took algebra an ENTIRE YEAR earlier than most people, making me an honorary geek for a while. It was a mistake. A grave mistake. I didn‘t do terribly, but now I‘m still stuck in classes with juniors and boy-geniuses who, as their idea of a crazy Friday night, crunch numbers in their basement, fantasizing about becoming accountants and computer programmers one day. I swear, the best, most social relationships they have are with calculators. ―Oh, Calculatron! That is the best approximation of the square root of three I‘ve seen in my life!‖ they cry out in their sleep. I swear the next time I see a girl cry because she scored below a 95 in an advanced math class, I‘ll punch another hole in my wall. How scary is that?

I‘ve had teachers, and even people my age, tell me what a joy it is to work with numbers.

How great is it that math is concrete? That 2+2 is always, ALWAYS 4. This may work for the minds of those oriented towards the idea that existence itself is concrete. However, I enjoy the fact that you can interpret literature and ponder the mysteries of science. Because this knowledge of math is basic in concept, I cannot possibly find a way to force it into my skull that math is at all interesting. But hey, if you enjoy that, more power to ya, you nerdy little sonuvabitch. But you‘re lucky, in a way, since you can wreck that Algebra test with little to no difficulty.

Please understand that I am not bitter that I‘m not a good math-er. I‘m mainly just frustrated as someone who feels that their time would be better occupied by something other than graphing a function, or desperately deciding whether or not 143 or 234 are more convincing

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guesses. Public speaking isn‘t even half as bad as being forced to do a problem in front of everyone. Because then once you get it wrong the entire class of overachievers will stand and pelt you with numbers and signs and correct equations. I wish I could just tear up every single bit of math homework I‘m expected to do and scream to the heavens that I do not in fact care about math and I hate math and it‘s all so terrible and I can‘t believe I got up in the morning for this!

I think I can sum up this entire paper in a single, simple, yet beautiful equation: Math = bulls**t.

“SIR, WOULD YOU MIND SHUTTING YOUR FOOD-HOLE?” By: Lewis DuBois Envision yourself in a restaurant.

You aren‘t really in a restaurant, though; you‘re in a pigpen. Everyone around you is chewing with his mouth open, letting the food slosh about in his mouth like cement in a mixer. As the cement hardens in your mind, it consumes all of your thoughts, your being, until your head is a lifeless mass weighed down by anguish. You wake up in a cold sweat, out of your dream, but still haunted by the disgusting noise of the mashing of food.

This is my nightmare, the bane of my existence, the very reason why I struggle to get out of bed every morning. The persistence of bad manners, specifically the chewing of food with one‘s mouth open, is somewhere between telemarketing and child abuse on the list of things that I can‘t stand.

Imagine, hypothetically, that you‘re reading a short essay when MUNCH your train of MUNCH thought was inter-MUNCH-rupted by the noises of somebody‘s MUNCH vacuous mouth-hole molesting your ears every two seconds. It‘s enough to make you want to grab them by the collar, bring them in close, and shout, ―This is why we can‘t have nice things!‖ But chewing with your mouth open is not why we can‘t have nice things. It‘s a symptom of the problem, the phlegm of our sickness. Our proverbial swine flu is the lack of consideration for others, manifested through a lack of manners. When we think of our peers, colleagues, wait staff, secretaries, etc. like animals and begin to treat them as such, it comes as no surprise that that‘s how we come off: like animals.

The area where this sickness is most loudly manifested is the restaurant. Something about these feeding grounds gives the reins over to the deepest, most primal parts of our brains where the jerk inside all of us lives, the caveman who dehumanizes every being that interferes with his access to food, yells at the wait staff, doesn‘t tip, and chews with his GOD DAMN MOUTH OPEN. Well, I have good news. We are human, so we (for the most part) possess the ability to take back control over our primal urges to be ―that guy‖ and can behave like the dignified, civilized beings into whom we have been conditioned. If we stopped to consider how intrusive and disgusting our behavior may be to the people around us, personal interaction would be much more tolerable for the majority of us. Hopefully we as a society are capable of treating people

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like—well, people—and can set a precedent of treating those with whom we interact on a daily basis as such. Now doesn‘t that sound delicious?

THE STORY OF THE GIRL WHO FACED HER FEARS By: Sarah Paulos Now, a closet in the daytime is hardly a frightening thing. It is nearly the opposite of scary; it is boring. It‘s just full of clothes and shoes and superfluous clothes-hangers that you don‘t know what to do with, and maybe some old Halloween costumes from years gone by, and maybe some garments last worn by your parents when they were teenagers that are now twenty or thirty years old and laughably out-of-style. So it‘s a little unclear why exactly a closet becomes the terrifying domicile of ghosts and monsters as soon as your mom has tucked you into bed and turned out the light. But somehow it does, and so hopefully you‘ll have a little sympathy when I tell you about a little girl named Mary who lived in constant dread of the things that she knew to be hiding in her closet.

The idea that haunted her was the conviction that a moose—a moose of gigantic size with demonic red eyes—was living in there. No matter how much her mother tried to persuade her that this was a ridiculous delusion (and no matter how much her parents were perplexed that their daughter should fear a moose above anything else), Mary knew that the moose was there. She heard it in the night. ―But how could a moose fit in your closet?‖ they reasoned with her. ―And how could it only be there at night and not during the day?‖ But Mary would not let the unbelievers sway her.

Therefore, as I said, she was perpetually afraid of this moose. She would lie awake at night with her knees up by her stomach and her eyes as big and round as—maybe not saucers, but large washers at least—just watching the door, in case the moose tried anything. On most nights, she would eventually fall asleep in that position, her defenses worn down by sheer tiredness. Other nights, her fears were worse. Those were the nights when she heard the moose snorting or shuffling around, or pawing the door with one hoof. Her mom was getting really tired of Mary sneaking downstairs to her parents‘ bedroom, her thumb in her mouth, to say, ―Mommy, the moose in my closet is scaring me.‖ Her mother would then be forced to trudge upstairs to Mary‘s room, open the closet door, turn on the light, and demonstrate emphatically that there was no moose. It would generally take fifteen minutes before she would be allowed to leave Mary alone again and go back to her interrupted sleep.

For this reason, it is perhaps unsurprising that one night, when Mary was particularly scared out of her wits, her parents simply refused to come. Mary then ran into her parents‘ room. ―Mommyyyyy,‖ Mary pleaded, poking her mother‘s shoulder, but her mother simply rolled over, mumbling something into her pillow that was not fit for her daughter‘s innocent young ears. ―Deal with your [mumble, mumble] moose by yourself,‖ she said. ―But I don‘t want to,‖ Mary said. Her mother had fallen back asleep and was deaf to any further entreaties. Realizing there was no hope, Mary trudged back to her room, her stomach a sickening twisted knot of fear.

She knew there was only one thing to do: she would have to take her mother‘s advice, as much as she didn‘t want to. She was still young enough to actually want to listen to her parents.

Besides, she had reached a point where she could no longer just try to ignore the moose‘s presence. It was like a metaphorical elephant in her bedroom, except it was a moose instead.

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Drawing up her courage, Mary flipped on her closet light, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

The moose was there. ―I d-don‘t want you in my c-closet anymore, moose,‖ Mary said, trying to keep her voice from wavering. ―You‘re not a-allowed. Go away.‖ The moose did nothing, only stared at her malevolently. Its deep-set eyes were underscored by heavy bags. ―I‘m n-not afraid of you, moose,‖ Mary lied. ―Now, go away!‖ The moose again made no reply. Mary felt her fear slightly ebb away. ―I‘m not afraid of you! Go away!‖ But her bravery could not shield her. At her words, the moose snorted alarmingly and reared up, as if infuriated

by Mary‘s impudence. As she opened her mouth to scream, the massive hooves crashed down on her head, crushing her skull. Shaking its antlers around, the moose seemed to dance on the spot for a minute, grinding the young girl‘s bones into the carpet, before walking away unconcernedly.

FINDING A BLUE BIRD By: Bell Nasamran My tale is a strange one. One that is out of my control, and there isn‘t one bit of it that I would change. It‘s one of a burning hatred, but more importantly, love which needs no description. It‘s a tale that is hard to imagine, hard to revisit, and may be hard to believe. But whatever it may be to you, it‘s my one and only tale; it‘s my life.

It was raining when Mama shattered my heart into minuscule pieces. ―We‘re moving,‖ she said softly and calmly.

Oh, the tranquility in her expression! I would never forget how it strangled me breathless.

This was the beginning of the end of my life. The very woman who gave me the gift of life also gave me the curse of losing dear life. How ironic and beautifully morbid. If only she knew the effects of her words on me, and how much it still hurts to hear that curt tone in my dreams. But that was that. I didn‘t get the chance to voice my opinions. We just packed up and moved to another place.

On first impression, this new place wasn‘t very lovable. It was dry. So dry and hot to the point that it was painful to breathe. The unfamiliar warm air must have caused a reaction in my body, for I couldn‘t stop crying during the first months that I arrived. I hated Mama for what seemed like an eternity. I hated her for stripping my happiness away, from stripping my friends and the rest of my family away, for stripping everything away from me. I was naked. I was numb. For a long time I was mute. Not because I couldn‘t speak the new language, but because I didn‘t want to ever change. I didn‘t want to become part of her plans. If she wanted me to live here, then, dying slowly, I would. I would shut myself out from the outside world, keep everyone out from my life, and finally, by myself, I would slowly suffocate to death from the overwhelming hatred and the lack of love which is essential to human life.

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I hurt myself. Not physically, but mentally. I don‘t know which is worse. It didn‘t leave any scars, but it left impressions on my personality. Imagine yourself saying hi to a girl. Imagine her piercing the windows to your soul with her unbelievably dark eyes.

That was me. People don‘t like that because they all have some skeletons in their closets. They‘re all afraid of someone reading their minds, just like Mama was.

She never let me know what was going on in her mind. She never let me know what happened in the past. She never let me know what was going to happen in the future. I was lost. If life was an ocean, then I would be a pebble. So small it was almost possible for me to float, but not small enough. I sank to the ocean floor, amidst the other unfortunate creatures in the darkest place in the world.

But one day, some heavenly being spoke to my soul.

It said, ―Just because I‘m losing, doesn‘t mean I‘m lost.‖ And for a second, light shone on me for the first time in years. The warmth was lost in the journey to the bottom of the sea, but that was enough for me to want to live. To live my life according to my plans and not Mama‘s. On that day, I thought to myself, to hell with the great expectations of others.

From that moment, I started to rebuild myself. But that was no easy task. When you have abandoned society for so long, you have no one left to support you. Without that support, any rain was like a hurricane. More tears were shed as I realized that I was nothing on my own.

I cried out for help, but no help came. It was hard to be indifferent to the affection of others, but it was harder to want the unattainable. Yet I kept on searching. I desired.

It was a long journey, no doubt. I was no longer alone. I was accompanied by a cat. For a moment, my troubles went away with its lively eyes. But the life faded away. It wasn‘t the life that was going to save me.

Next, a cheerful butterfly of a girl bumped into me. She was bubbly and outgoing. She was always smiling at everybody. She was a friend to everyone. She was lovable. That‘s true.

Everyone loved her. But the pressure was too much and she couldn‘t take it. One day, she broke down to me. She spilled out her secrets, she showed me her skeleton. Another day and she was back to her bubbly self. So malleable that butterfly is. I couldn‘t deal with the sudden changes, but I tried to be a friend anyway. I was there for her every moment she needed me. But she wasn‘t there for me. She took me for granted. She went along through her life with others, whom she doesn‘t trust as much as she trusted me. But she left me by myself anyway. It didn‘t matter how much time we spent together after she threw me away like an old, outdated toy. The memories were still there, but the meanings were gone.

One day I met a kind monkey of a boy. He wasn‘t a typical monkey. He was an entertainer but he was very sensitive. He mended my heart a bit. And for a fleeting moment, I was truly happy, and so was he. But I couldn‘t take his kindness. He wanted to be with me forever, and I couldn‘t take all of that love. My intention wasn‘t the same. So I left him with the hope that he would find the perfect companion.

My heart was still in minuscule pieces when suddenly, I couldn‘t go on anymore. I fell and no one was there to catch me. And as I was losing consciousness, a blue bird descended from

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the sky. He was a pretty birdie. With his presence, happiness came into my life. He moved his wings and gentle breezes touched my face. The breezes were filled with love. Suddenly, I realized that he was the one.

That is my tale so far. It may not be one of pure happiness, but it is my tale of a journey of finding oneself and true love.

THE CANOPY By: Richard Paul On the stone, the bloodstained and desolate rock, occupied only by the screaming and thrashing girl tied down with vines. Accompanied by Father Malachi, and shadowed by a congregation of sheep chanting the banter of their so-called savior. A sacrifice, they say, to please the gods. To bring rain, let the crops grow, bring us salvation and what have you.

The chanting comes to a climax; I turn away from the mob just as the screams go silent, and an overwhelming wave of nausea comes over me. I walk over to a log and sit, trying not to vomit as the mob disperses. I guess they lose interest.

These spectacles have been a more common sight below the Canopy, ever since the drought. It's been a year without rain and our crops won't grow. The mystics have been foretelling the end, but I've never been one for their astro-babble. The world will correct itself; the rain will flow from the great stems of the Canopy once again. In that, and only that, I have faith; none of this sacrificial bull. It's barbaric and it sickens me.

But where are my thoughts? I forgot to introduce myself, my name is Wallace Goldberg, and I am of average height, pale skin, brown hair and grey eyes. I am a philosopher, but nobody thinks of me as such. They think of me as a madman, the only people with enough sense to listen are my friends, who are few and far between. But that will change, I will make my voice heard—that much I set my heart on. If I have to post my views on every wall, every log, stem, so be it. As long as I am not reduced to the barbaric acts of my—I hate to say it—peers.

After the girl has been removed from the rock, her blood joining the others‘ on that cursed thing, I lift myself from the log and head for home, my lonely solace in this town. When I reach my hut, the door still gone from when my parents were taken, I search the house for anything stolen (my usual ritual when I get home). Of course I have nothing of great value. My house has been empty since the rations went out and my house was raided. I am engorged with the vacancy of the place, almost as if it purged itself of me long ago. Hearing my stomach rumble, I decide to go out to the ration line, purge myself of this place.

Walking through the shanty town, I pass dry roads, dark shadows on the ground, and lines of sunlight struggling to get past the Canopy. One thing I never understood: if we are in such a bad drought, why is the Canopy still green? The stems and leaves show no signs of a lack of anything, they still sway in the wind, block the harsh sun, and protect us from the space above. As I look up, the Canopy moves with me, silently keeping track of me as I meander toward the ration line. But if I look up, past the leaves, I think I can see something—what looks like a life form—past the Canopy. Could it be something past our world?

A loud smack and a crash bring me back to reality. I have run straight into the exit ration line. The lady I run into has dropped her plate and is absolutely livid, screaming at me. I really can't apologize enough, nor can I really understand what she says. My mind keeps going back to the Canopy—in the proper ration line I stare back up into nothing—it must be my imagination,

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playing tricks on me.

"Looking for rain?" a voice says behind me. I spin around to find the only friend I have in this town smiling at me. "That lady doesn't seem too happy," Alex says.

"Oh yeah. I thought I saw something up there, but it must have been my eyes playing games with me. I guess I got distracted," I say while I move my hands in a wavelike motion, a nervous habit of mine. "Games never end well now-a-days, do they?"

"Not when you're playing with the sky," she says with a smirk. "Saw something, huh? Like what: another plant, some clouds, sky?" She quickly changes to a whisper. "A life form, maybe? You know how dangerous that kind of talk is around here. Especially with Father Malachi around. He likes to creep around the ration lines and listen to the gossip. Look, meet me at my house after dark and we will discuss what you really saw." She disappears in an instant. Just in time, too.

"Ah, Mister Goldberg, how nice it is to see you here. Where is your friend, Alex, going all of a sudden?" The old but strong voice is unmistakable. I know the face before I turn around.

Father Malachi.

"She forgot something at home Father, nothing get flustered over," I say with reluctance; I hate lying.

"I saw you two speaking before, anything I should know about?"

"What, don't tell me one of us is next in line for one of your sick performances, we aren't nearly old enough. You already took my parents, why not take me?"

"Oh, gods, no! I would never do that to either of you," he says with a very hurt look on his face, one that I think he wears a lot. "What must be done must be done." Something I think he says to himself just as much as to anyone else.

As I am coming up with something to say, something comes to my attention that wasn't there before, an extraordinarily loud buzzing noise mixed with the sound of ripping and tearing times a billion. And it's getting closer, much closer, much faster. Soon enough the air is being sucked out of my lungs and I am being ripped off the ground and everything around me is coming with me. Into a big, metal, spinning blade we go. It‘s almost enjoyable, but— * * * * * * On the mower, Joe was overwhelmed with the sensation of destroying something great. But what could have he destroyed? He was just mowing the grass before the rain came; the weatherman said it would be a perfect time to mow. The more he mowed the more the sensation came, so he crossed himself and prayed. There wasn't much else he could do.

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AUTUMN MORNINGS By: Szilvia Haide The sun peeks out from behind the foothills, Streaking the skies with strokes of yellow-red, And spreading warmth to extinguish dawn chills.

A perfect fall morning calls me from bed.

Hints of cinnamon linger in the air, As I wade through a golden leaf lagoon.

Gentle flurries of wind ruffle my hair.

A cardinal chirps a short goodbye tune.

Oh, how little time there‘s left to savor, As day is quenched by night‘s cloak of velvet.

Autumn is hushed to a gentle murmur, Smothered under winter‘s snowy blanket.

Yet, fall‘s short-lived beauty evokes pure bliss, When rememb‘ring the season I dearly miss.

THE FRUIT EVERLASTING By: Keller Hood With open ears and daring intellect, I glimpse divinity, I‘m tasting sound.

A grape, it‘s sweet and such without defect, And like an orange, peeled, the flesh is found.

As seed, the unimaginable sleeps.

Upon inception, stories will unfold.

They grow, cascading, spreading luscious leaves.

In bloom, the fruits are ripe, the tales yet told.

As fruit in mouth, it resonates in ear.

The music fills the mind with dreams inspired.

Although the clock ticks not, the end will near.

But thoughts remain while taste of fruit expires.

I sink my teeth in fruits for but minutes.

I listen close, for sound is infinite.

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THE UNINTENDED BANANA By: Will Ladyman There are a lot of things I can think of That might be subjects of this sonnet here, But as I, pensive, pondered all my loves, Not one quite fit, they all seemed trite, or queer.

I love my fam‘ly and friends, and also Piano, and games, computer or board, I love fossils, and choc‘late, and Jell-O, I love the works of Tolkien, and more.

I made myself this list, and sat a while.

I crossed off each and every choice as bad.

And then I had a thought that made me smile, A thought which, through my gloom, could make me glad – I thought, ‗Just write them all! That‘s what to do!‘ And now I have. My sonnet‘s finally through.

FURRY GUARDIAN By: Matteo Coffman A source of comfort and great amusement Curled up in your lap or chasing his tail His ears perked up alert to each movement To lift your mood up, he never will fail Outside in the backyard he barks all day Scaring the burglar who is never there From real danger he knows to keep at bay To be the sole guardian he feels unfair But at night when it is breezy and dark Digging sniffing and panting are over In everyone 's life he left a huge mark Asleep, he is like a pig in clover My dog's name is Pluto like the planet And he weighs more than the Titanic

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HOW MY SON BEAT YOUR DAUGHTER IN A BEAUTY PAGEANT: I’M BETTER THAN YOU (An Imaginary Autobiography) By: Alexandra Anderson ―A young person‘s face is just like a canvas with clothes,‖ writes Alexandra Anderson, infamous mother on TLC’s hit series Toddlers & Tiaras. Often noted by the tabloid press as ‗savage‘ toward her beloved ‗daughter‘ Francis, who was later revealed to be a boy, Alexandra is a fieldday-and-a-half for magazines and websites such as People and TMZ. In How My Son Beat Your Daughter in a Beauty Pageant: I’m Better Than You, Anderson gives brutal, honest insights into the hardships of growing up too ugly to be on Toddlers & Tiaras. ―Back when I auditioned thirty years ago, they wouldn‘t even look me in the face; they were afraid I would turn them to stone,‖ Anderson recalls emotionally.

From growing up, to falling in love, to getting divorced, to getting pregnant, to getting divorced, and to getting divorced again, Anderson presents us with a sobering look at the life of a Pageant Mom. So, why did she project her repressed need to win a reality beauty pageant on her son? You‘ll have to read to find out!

PYRAMIDS AND PARAPHERNALIA: THE EGYPTIAN ADDICTION SERIES, BOOK ONE (A Book Pitch) By: Wyatt Weber In the sandy wake of a criminal-ridden town, a single pure soul, Jabari Al-Fulani conceals himself within the caged confines of a destroyed inner Egyptian city, averting the crazed casualties of drug mongers, unpredictable U.S. air raids, and the ravenous rag-tag infantry of the rebel leader and drug kingpin, Masud Khaldun.

As his initial act of courage, Jabari must overcome his fear brought on by horrific, bloody screams heard around the dark corners of the now outlandish labyrinth which once was his home. He must step out into lawless land where his dear sister, Aziza, is somewhere held captive after being separated from him in the midst of a destructive airstrike. Only catching the last glimpse of her as she was dragged away by rioting anarchists before vanishing into the havoc of smoke and fire, Jabari holds on to the dim hope his precious sister is still alive and sets off to the shanty towns of the ghetto. Along

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with the information he discovers about the newly named General Masud Khaldun forcibly recruiting young women for sex trafficking, Jabari discovers Aziza‘s name among the victims.

To reach the powerful kingpin, Jabari must commit to doing the dirty work of a local high-ranking mobster, work he had resented as resulting in the destruction of his own city.

Through a close encounter with Khaldun, Jabari finds himself one impure job away from seeing his sister again: performing the hideous act of murder upon the befriended mobster responsible for Jabari‘s quick escalation through the mob hierarchy. Ultimately doubting Khaldun‘s honesty, Jabari must turn to drastic measures. He must find a way to push Khaldun into a checkmate and retrieve his sister before time runs out.

SURVIVAL By: Jordan Martin

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FOLLOW THE LEADER

By Kelsey Corcoran I was thirteen years old, and I was out camping with my friend Brendan in the forest behind his house.

We had promised to camp close to the house, and we did set up our tents close by, but by that time we were on an adventure. Battling enchanted trees and hordes of evil, we swung our wooden sticks and advanced through the woods. It couldn‘t have been that long since we had wandered off, but somehow it was already getting dark. It didn‘t take us long to figure out that we had absolutely no idea which way to head.

I began to panic, and Brendan told me to shut up so he could think. The situation quickly became real and I had to take this seriously. I didn‘t want to be the one getting saved while Brendan made the decisions. It was Brendan‘s backyard so he had automatic authority. But I made it my role to lead anyway. We kept our wooden sticks and our wits about us as I backtracked our way to camp. ―Do you have any idea where you‘re going?‖ Nope. ―Haven‘t we passed that tree already?‖ We‘ve been walking in one direction. ―Kels…Kels?…Kels! WHY IS THIS TAKING SO LONG? WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME?‖ Questions like these kept my spirits high while Brendan‘s faith in my path quickly diminished. I knew it would all be worth it in the end, whether that meant I‘d die a leader in that forest or live to lead another day. Today was going to be my day to shine, my day to lead instead of follow for a change, my day to attempt to save. ―Alright, screw you, man. You have no idea where you‘re going, so I‘m going this way.‖ I didn‘t blame him. It was getting dark and all sorts of creatures roamed these parts at night. I was stripped of my leadership and labeled a follower for the rest of our journey, which lasted about five minutes. I had led us nowhere in thirty minutes. Brendan led us home in five. It was on this day that I learned I‘m not a leader, but a follower. Doomed to keep my wits to myself—however witty they may be—because I can‘t do any better than the d-bag in front of me.

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CRAZY LETTER by Jason Craft

Date: December 11, 2011 To:

Jason Farr, Patient St. David‘s Psychiatric Hospital 6917 Quaker Dr. Austin, TX 78725

Dear Myself, You thought you had me, didn‘t you! But I was too smart for you! I knew about your plans to poison our drink from the very beginning. So I took the liberty of swallowing small amounts of the poison beforehand, so as to build immunity towards it. As a result, you seem to have lost all of your hair, SO I KILLED TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE!!! Consequently, you will not get away with causing my male pattern baldness.

But that is not why I‘m writing this letter to you. Our situation in the hospital has become volatile. It appears that Nurse Jennings intercepted our previous communication and is planning to deal with us, once and for all. I understand that we do not always get along. But for the sake of my life, I believe that it is imperative that we work together to escape from this place. Regardless of our differences, you‘re still my family and I love you, even if I tried to kill me. After all, every family has to be at least a little bit dysfunctional. I miss the days when we didn‘t fight. Every moment with you was like being in suspended animation. My daily showers together brought such joy to my life, there‘s nothing I want more in this world than to run my hands across those— Ahem.

Getting back to the matter at hand, I have enclosed within this letter: one shiv, a piece of chewed gum, 3 weeks‘ worth of medication, and some chest hair I took from you while we were sleeping. You know what to do.

Sincerely, Jason Farr, The Malevolent P.S. Tell that Tiger across the hallway to mind his own damn business!

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CRAZY RESPONSE by Daphne Buhrdorf Date: December 13, 2011 TO:

Jason Farr, The Malevolent St. David's Psychiatric Hospital 6917 Quaker Dr. Austin, TX 78725

Dear I, Jason Farr, Patient, It would appear you are suffering from a case of the loonies. I was always aware of our plan to poison myself, but now YOU have to deal with my baldness, HAHA! Secondly, the tiger is my friend, as we plot to eat us soon. Damn it! Quick, hurry—commence Plan Death by Tiger!

As to Nurse Jennings, I agree. It's time to take action! You should distract her by shoving our enclosed gum up her nose, while I sneak us up behind her and shank her in the side. Then we do away with the body (Operation Feed the Body to Tiger).

Next is escaping into the French countryside, where I will live in a nudist colony (Hang'n Out Hollows) for a year before we relocate to a monastery in Africa (Tiger needs a vacation too).

After learning Latin, I can impersonate a psychiatrist, obtaining a job for us at St. David's where you will steal meds to sell on the black-market while I free my comrades!

Enclosed is: a piece of chewed gum (returned), one white lab coat, and a towel (for the colony).

Don't tell us what to do.

Malevolently, Jason Farr P.S. Love us? Miss me? Really you need to pull us together! And stop stealing our chest hair; we need all the hair I can get.

P.P.S. Our alias will be Mordecai Rousseau.

P.P.P.S. Don't you question me about our name! I have made our decision and it's FINAL!

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Thanks for Reading Anderson High School’s

The Writers’ Block 2011 – 2012

DEMOTIVATOR By: Anonymous

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