CopyofBlock6-FlashFictionFinals

8/11/2019 CopyofBlock6-FlashFictionFinals

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Block 6 - Flash Fiction to read and judge for Sept. 5th

Post your story here! Be sure to include your name and your storys title. Yay!

Hidden Identity

By Noah Brisco

My name is James Cricket. Yes, they call me Cricket sometimes for short or Mr. Insect but thatis beyond the point. I am a social outcast when Im not behind my masks, almost as if Im the

opposite of how they tell you to fit in. My body physique is as small as the food servings you get

at school, more grease than calories or anything that matters. However, when the masks go on,

my whole identity changes. Its like the worlds best magic trick, except nobody knows the

secret. Im what most people call a super hero. My day goes as follows: bed head in the

morning, nerd genius by day, and curfew late superhero by night. You would be surprised at

how everyones attitude changes when Im in my one of a kind super hero suit. The school kids

who know me as James talk about me something like this, What do you think is heavier, his

brain or his body, or If you want X-ray vision, just wear James glasses for a day. Once the

mask goes on though, Im known as Insigno.

I believe it was August seventeenth the day I d ied. I apologize, Im skipping some parts. I need

to explain how I died first. You see, women were always my weakness, I could never get near

them as James, but I couldnt keep them away from Insigno. I guess you could say I got the

ladies, but at the same time I didnt. It was a tricky situation and I was stuck in the middle. I

could either say who I was, but then the name of Insigno would get trashed just like James

Cricket does already. However, it might actually change my life for the better, like a new start.

Now I can describe August seventeenth.

It was a glorious day to die, the birds were singing, the clouds were as white as snow, and there

was a building on fire. The only thing that mattered to me was the skyline clouded with smoke.My hooks, swishing through the air like fishing line, connecting to everything they hit. I was

approaching the fifty second floor. A girl, as beautiful as the bird songs that day, was screaming

all high and mighty for the firemen down below, "Please rescue me

This might be the time when I inform you of my biggest weakness. Most super heroes have a

super villain or arch enemy. However, mine are girls. I could never find them anywhere near me

when I was James Cricket, but found them flocking to me when I turned into Insigno. I loved

having their attention, but the stereotypical secret identity rule had found its way to my

reasoning, so I could never show them who I was let alone take off my mask and reveal my

identity. My life was two totally different worlds, when I only wanted to live in one.

I'm trapped!" Her arms waving towards the street. I landed on the perch of her window and

said, It sounds like you need help. As you could tell, I hadnt really had any practice with

smoothing it over, but I could tell we were having a moment. Her breath reeked of smoke and

ash which filled my nose with a horrifying stench, but her golden hair seemed untouched by the

kindling of the roaring fire. Her golden locks of hotness were tangled in my biking goggles but I

wasnt fazed as I dropped from her window just as the furnace of death lunged through it. I

threw my grappling hook which caught fast to another building; however she wasnt prepared for


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Later that day when Max was back at his locker, he saw Wendy walking towards him with a

frown.

"I'm so sorry that I stopped talking to you earlier! It's just that Brent and I are kind of a thing

and we haven't seen each other since last school year."

He was deflated from hearing she is taken, but wasn't about to give up all hope yet."It's alright! I had to get to class anyways," Max said, noticing her blue eyes.

"Are you liking it here?" she asked.

"Sort of, it's really loud and busy during passing periods, but the classes are fine." he knew

that he had to start flirting sometime, or else he would be out of the running for sure.

"That's good!" she said.

Max was gaining courage by the second. He could hear blood rushing in his ears and his

heartbeat was a hammer hitting the ground faster and faster. He thought about what he was

planning to say one last time. "You-your eyes is-are-your eyes are really pretty," he blurted out.

It felt like a rock hit the bottom of his stomach, all while his face grew to be on fire.

"Um.. Thanks. I have to go." she said curtly, all while backing away.

"Ok bye! I have to go too, you know, to class, because we're in school, and that's what you

do at school, go to class, I was going to go anyways.." Max slumped his shoulders and heard

the shrill warning bell ring again. Knowing that he blew it, he screamed obscenities at himself in

his head as he dragged himself to the next class.

After class Max didn't want to go to his locker at all, but he had to get his algebra book. To

his great surprise and relief Wendy wasn't there. Right as he was about to step into the flow of

people passing by, a group of football players appeared out of nowhere. The leader of the group

stepped forward, looking as large as Max remembered.

"Hey squirt. I hear you have been flirting with my girl," Brent said in a deep voice.

"N-no!! What are you talking about? I was just talking with her." Max was scared."No, I don't think so. You were definitely flirting with her. Time to come with us," he said.

The whole team of thugs lifted Max off of his feet and carried him into the bathroom. One of

them threw open a stall door to reveal an old toilet. Brent took his head and stuffed it face first

into the bowl, flushing it at the same time. After for what seemed like years, the bullies let go of

Max and ran into the hall. When Max dripped out of the bathroom, he saw the hall was empty

except for one person. To his left he saw that Brent was just turning the corner. About 20 feet

from the corner was an open locker. He stopped and stared at the locker, realizing that it was

almost certainly Brent's.

It was Brent that pushed his head into a toilet. It was Brent that had called him a mean name.

It was Brent that had taken the girl that he could be dating.

"I just can't take it anymore, I'm sick and tired of getting pushed around! I have to stand up to

him!" Max thought in a rage.

Suddenly Max saw his chance. He ran back into the bathroom, grabbed all of the toilet paper

rolls he could, and soaked them in water. Running back into the hallway and the open locker, he

started unwrapping the mushy paper and hanging it all over the locker. He scratched "squirt"

into the locker door, the squeaks of paint coming off rang into the hall like nails on a chalkboard.


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Finally satisfied with the mess he created of the once clean locker, he slammed it with a bang

and walked off.

At the end of the class period, Max rushed down the halls to get to Brent's locker. Rounding

the corner, he stopped dead in his tracks. She shrieked. His jaw fell as he realized that the

locker he trashed wasn't Brent's, it was Wendy's. There was a crowd of football players formingaround the locker, just as Brent himself walked up with glaring eyes and a scowl.

"Squirt..." someone read.

"There he is!" Brent yelled. It seemed as if everyone in the hallway stopped and looked at

Max.

"Get him!!" another person shouted.

And Max ran.

Memories

By Andrea Cooper

The memory is sharp, and cutting. Edged like a knife, wedged into my back. They had a heavy

presence, they all did. They walked in a single file line, their shoes scuffing the mirrored tile

flooring. Leaving behind a trail from one victim to the next. Dependent on no one they led their

way through the shuffle of children. Their eyes expressing detestation and solitude. The frowns

they sported were cracked and worn from the many years of resentment. The halls were hollow

and sound echoed through them. I had stood at my locker, my face turned inward, into the tiny

void space Id called my own. The collectionof kids had multiplied. All aimed at me. I, being

myself, went against their virtues, their belief that all should be identical. Im unaware of the

damage that caused this abhorrence towards myself, but the constant strain to keep my self

unnoticed, not bothered and unresented has grown tiring. I observe my self through their eyes.

The relentless banter and whispers do not go undetected. I scrutinize my self the same as they

do. My clothing too wrinkled, my hair too dull. My personality to distinguishable. My glasseshave long before been destroyed, smashed in half they rest in my room, a perpetual reminder of

the damage done in my life. They marshel around my locker, not a sound, just their heavy

presence unearthing my fears.They notice my uneasiness, I pretend not to care. My heart is

thrashing, trying to escape its catacomb of hurt and mistreatment. They spoke with vulgar

tongues.Their words reaching deep into my soft soul. Denting my insides as the words slide

down my eardrums.

Why so quiet? Theyd ask.

As if they wouldnt know.

I stand my ground, but the floor beneath me seems to shake, as if uncomfortable by their sight

as well. Their eyes full of rage. I understand why they hate me. Im peculiar, my clothes are

worn and I dont play sports. Its not that Im a man of science, no, just simply an outcast. Not fit

and formed to my society. I possess friends, a handful or so. But where are they now as Im

tormented and teased. Their faces haunt me in my sleep. The scars I can hide, but the

memories stay locked in my mind. Pressing at my skull, yell that I should do something! But

whats to be done? The damage has settled. They may leave my locker, but they dont leave my


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nightmares. Even after they leave, my hands remained shaken. I sit in my room. I take a breath,

breathing it all in. Its better this way. My worldly possessions scatter the floor. Its one action,

one thought provoking moment. But still, my hands shake. My body trembles and breaks. My

breath comes in gasps. My eyes clenched tightly. My fears haunting, my movements

unpredictable, but expected. Theyll no longer hurt me, my troubles vanishing. My selfish

thoughts consuming my brain. I scream in desperation! There must be another way! The tearsseep through my eyes. The rage I feel towards them grows. Theyre the ones doing this to me! It

was never my fault! The room is filled, but somehow empty. The oxygen leaving, flowing out the

door. Leaving me utterly alone. I sit in terror. The anxiety closing in around me. I flip the lights

off. Its better in the dark. With one last breath. I flip the cap off. But one last thought creeps into

my mind, unwanted, but there. The reason they hated me, was because I hated me. With that

the world around me goes dark.

Hell no, Sir

By Olivia Doherty

The announcer's voice blares through the speakers barely audible, but clear enough for me

to understand that it is my event. The overwhelming scent of chlorine burns my nostrils as I

hobble over to the first block and sit down on the slippery wet tile. The chilled water makes me

shiver and I breathe in shakily as my prosthetics clack on the floor next to me. I hesitate for a

brief moment trying to still my quivering arms before hoisting myself up onto the block. I get into

position and try to focus, but there's too much noise. Inaudible chatter and whoops of

encouragement on either team break my concentration.

I start to breathe faster in short wisps as the other swimmers hop onto the blocks down the

row. I begin to feel dizzy, the burning sting of hot tears fill my eyes behind my goggles. I look

over at my team, their faces painted with blatant expressions. Some concern, some pity. I begin

to feel the cold rush of panic seep into my suit and skin clutching my heart. Coach must have

noticed since he hurried over."Joan, you alright?" He asks laying a warm hand on my back.

I readjust my body and sit down removing my goggles. "Coach," I say my voice cracking. "I

can't do this."

"That's bull and you know it!" He said sternly pointing his finger at me.

"No... I can't." I whimpered a few tears escaping down my cheeks.

"Fine," he said his voice full of disappointment. "Just know you're letting them win."

He didn't mean the other swimmers. I look over at my prosthetic legs. He didn't mean the

other swimmers at all. A screeching howl erupted from the speakers as the microphone

malfunctioned. It hollered and then cut off in an instant, a cold chill ran up my spine as I

remembered the similar sound of the screaming brakes of a car wreck.

It had been eight in the morning on a cold gray rainy day. I was in the passenger seat of the

car when it happened. Another driver started to hydroplane and lost control at the intersection.

They hit the front passenger side and I was knocked unconscious, the only thing I remembered

before waking up in the hospital was the smell of burning rubber and the heat from the fire.

Third degree burns and shattered tibias where Id been pinned left me with no legs below my

knees; a couple weeks in physical therapy as well as emotional recuperation followed. People


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said I was lucky to be alive, I thought they were wrong, Id probably feel better dead; nothing

would ever be the same. I was devastated at the fact that I might never be able to swim again.

One day, Coach showed me websites and practice routines for disabled and amputee swim

teams. He convinced me to attempt the butterfly stroke and worked me to the bone during

practices. Once in a while I would stop and suck down my entire water-bottle; sweat dripping off

my face, my arms and abs burning from all the push-up and crunches, and my thighs throbbingfrom running with the fake legs, Coach would yell: Come on Ledger, I know youre tired, why

dont ya just quit? I wont judge ya!

I would yell back, Hell no, Sir! And beginning again.

Or when I had to catch my breath in the pool after a two hundred butterfly.

You can stop now Ledger; go home for the day.

Hell no, Sir!

Despite all the hard work it seemed pointless now, even if I tried my best I wouldnt be as

good as I was before the accident. The roar of the crowd around me quieted to hushed whispers

of tension.

Theyve already won. I sniffed.

No they havent, not unless you let them. Coachgrumbled back. You havent let them win

yet, are you going to start now?!

I wiped my nose, seeing what he was trying to do. Hell no, Sir. I said with a small grin.

Alright then. He said and walked back to join my team.

I pulled my goggles back on and got back into position, a series of cheers erupted from my

team and a surge of pride blossomed in my chest.

Swimmers-take-your-mark! The speaker crackled.

We all leaned forward. Anticipation began to build in my chest. The bell rang and we all shot

off the ends of the block. The race was relatively even at the beginning, but then some started

to pull ahead. By the first fifty I was last. I started to become discouraged when I caught aglimpse of my team screaming my name, cheering me on. Someone had even picked up my

prosthetics and was waving them in the air like flags. I laughed inwardly and charged ahead.

Swinging my arms up and around my body I propelled myself forward until I touched the wall. I

placed sixth out of eight competitors and Id never felt so alive!

Silver

By Yilin Dwyer

Lena stared at the blinking cursor in the search bar, bathing in the faint blue glow of the

computer screen, lost in thought. The neighborhood was eerily silent except for the occasional

chirp of a cricket, the moment of peace before a violent summer storm, with thick tension

buzzing through the air. The church bell behind the house struck midnight, its echoes bouncing

down the dark, empty alley. A flash of lightning illuminated the world, followed by the distant

rumble of thunder. She clicked the login button on the PowerSchool page as it came alive, her

mind bursting with agitation. Her mouth felt dry, and her heart was pounding furiously in her

chest. Seconds felt like eternity as she waited for the webpage to load. However, when Lena


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saw the loathsome, heartbreaking number, it took a moment for the painful realization to sink in.

The whole world crumbled into pieces around her. She felt as if she was slowly suffocating from

the sharp, stabbing pain in her heart. Number two. Again.

Lena had placed second in pretty much everything for as long as she could remember.

Memories of cello recitals and cross country meets in middle school galloped through her mind.Someone was always smarter, more athletic, or more talented than she was. She thought all

that would change once she got to high school, but competition only became more intense than

ever. Oh God, what would her mother say if she found out? Her overbearing mother had

grounded her from going to a friend's sleepover when her grade in Physics had merely dropped

down to an A-. Lena suddenly felt dizzy. It was like everything in her life was slipping away,

spiraling wildly out of control.

Her best friend, Heather, always reassured Lena that being second best was still pretty good.

Well, screw that, Lena thought. It's not good enough for anyone. Heather was an aspiring

lawyer, and she had been accepted early decision to Yale University. She also won the state

championship in gymnastics three years in a row. Everything in Heathers life was going

smoothly, and she had a future full of potential. Heather never had to sacrifice anything; she

never knew what it felt like to be second best.

A wave of jealousy washed over Lena, as it began raining outside. She leaned her head on the

cool glass and listened to the water dripping from the rooftop. She could taste the bitter betrayal

on the back of her tongue. It was her senior year, and she and Heather had been looking

forward to receiving their diplomas together at the commencement ceremony, surrounded by

thundering applause, ever since they tied for first place in sophomore year. The perfect, delicate

balance of their friendship had been shattered. But how could she blame Heather, after all

they've been through together?

In that moment, she didnt care anymore. Lena was so determined to achieve her goal that

everything else faded away. She was even willing to jeopardize their friendship if it would help

her win back the victory that once belonged to her. Success is more important, after all, she

whispered to herself, swallowing the lump of guilt in her throat. Her silver medal was made from

her tears, her broken dreams, and years of trying her best, but still not being good enough. It

was her burning ambition to show everyone, once and for all, that she deserved to be the best.

Lena opened the window, letting the rain wash away her despair as her vision blurred. The

battle to the top wouldn't be easy, but it was no reason to give up.

Chloe Fisher

The egg shell white caved me in. The fluorescent light made my eyeballs peel. Perhaps this

bleached color pallette was supposed to make us feel pure, but for me, i felt more

contaminated. Maybe once this room was full of color, purity, and happiness but unfortunately

the people who visited had left their mark. I could feel the black sticky tar that had been left by

the souls of patients whod checked in before me. The white paint just wasn't enough to cover


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up the strong presence of regret and pain of past patients. The mood was tense the the air was

dry. AA wasn't the place for kind souls, everyone knew that. Much like their message, A clean

slate; a new you, this room was bullshit. Utter bullshit.

Looking to the right of the circle, i see a man much like myself. He has a stocky build, blue shirt,

and vibrant yellow hair. This is the first color felt by my conscious in over a year. Like the othersin the room, the look of embarrassment and guilt flushed through his eyes. Just as silence

overwhelmed all in the room the counselor introduced himself and began to spew more

wisdom. Lets continue our journey tonight with step number 7, Anyone willing to raise their

hand? With no response the counselor began circling the room with his eyes looking for

victims. Gazing in my direction with a soft smile he asks, Trent, would you start us off? I

respectfully decline. Needless to say, I am just as thrilled for step seven as I was for step 6

...and the other 5.

As Dr Seuss continuously drones on, I let in thoughts of past summers. Weeks of trashing my

parents lake house in a raging banger. With visions of having the best summer yet. Our

priorities were not in favor of the law or, for that matter, our overall health. Summer was an

euphoria that i wasnt willing to give up. Eager to do anything and everything for a good time it

became quite the routine.

The supply of girls, popularity, and booze was long-winded. For me and my best friend Jake,

our luck was endless. Or at least it all seemed. Although some resented us in high school, most

envied our will to party and careless demeanor. We owned Noblesvilles exclusive spots of fame

and we deserved it. As the year went on we continued our rainbow of partying. Little did we

know, the pot of gold at the bottom consisted of AA.

In the middle of my thoughts cheek bones speaks up, Hello, my name is Jake. Sudden guiltcollapses on me like a tumbling building and reality slaps me in the face yet again. My memory

jogs and a face is added to the boy in my daydreams. Although, this man is not the boy I was

once was so close to. This man, or should i say this drunk, does not have the confidence he

once had to bestow. Fortunately, this man of whom I don't recognize is somewhat of a

distraction from the dung of which the counselor, or as i call him, Dr Seuss is speaking. The

message Dr Seuss speaks is so embedded in some of my fellow sojourners brains that they are

able to forget about the bastard they really are. For me, I don't buy it. I will not be in shame of

the past, nor will I forget who I am. Alcohol has managed to take everything from me. Character

is something I plan to never lose. Even if my character consists of bastard like conduct.

As the feeling of hopelessness dawns on me I look in the direction of my friend. He is smiling.

His once drowning eyes seem to have drained. At that moment what felt like a permanent

essence of hate disappears. My mood swings, and the hairs on my back stand up. As my body

jerks upward, my eyes turn their attention to the middle of the circle. For the first time ever I start

to hear Dr. Seusss words as he says them. Without filters of sarcasm or hate I can hear what I

came near. Open minded and free for the first time in years with a first from my past to thank. I

slowly pull my chin from my neck and raise my hand.


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Bethany Gammon

She sits there. The cold white floor beneath her. The sanitized air around her. Room 308.

She stares aimlessly at the different diagrams on the wall. The doctor will be right in,she was

told. That was 20 minutes ago. The stiff and rigid table she sits on reminds her of the operatingtable she will lie on in less than an hour. It feels dense and unforgiving under her fingertips. But

she wants this so bad.

He sits in the room down the hall from her. Ten steps to the right. A sharp turn to the left.

Room 348. The doctor was there talking to him now, but he could hardly register the words

coming from his mouth. They just look like useless information, falling from the doctors lips like

dead weight. It wouldnt matter in a few hours, anyways.

Are you sure that you still want to do this? the doctor asks.

I dont really have a choice anymore.

There is always a choice.

He thought about the doctors suggestion, he thought about abandoning his decision, but he

soon realized that they, too, were worthless words.

She thinks of their last talk. He said goodbye a few minutes before she went with the nurse.

He smiled sweetly. She smiled back. He was the reason she was able to make it through the

years. He was her inspiration.

She couldnt speak since birth, mute all her life, but that never stopped him from being her

voice. And she loved him for it. She picked up the notepad that she carried everywhere. It was

the easiest way to communicate with people. A gift from him.

I love you, he had told her, holding her arm as she stood in the door. All she could do was

grin bashfully back, hoping he could see the love in her eyes, but that would change after theoperation.

Years ago some might of thought it would never be possible, yet now almost anything is

possible.

Someone had donated a voice.

His thoughts traveled to her as he prepared for the operation. She had wanted to sing all her

life. Talking was only a bonus. He had wanted to give her what she had longed for the most

ever since they met, and he offered his help whenever he could. He had no reason not to. She

was what made him content. She was his delight.

Ever since she was told of the anonymous donor, she had been as animated as ever and he

could do nothing but be thrilled back. She told him that the doctors said the donor would be

operated on in the same room which frightened her, as she later confessed to him. She was

fearful of what it would be like to see the person that would so willingly give the precious gift of

being able to communicate through words.

He looked at his reflection in the wall. The glass made him look grubby and convoluted,

which was probably true. He hadnt slept well last night. Too many futile thoughts. As he looked


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through the glass, he couldnt help feeling like this would be the last time he would see himself

as he was right now. It will be a new beginning for both him and her.

The doctor appears behind him in the window. Were ready. She is under the anesthesia.

No turning back now.

She dreamt of a song. It was not one she had heard of before nor written. It was a new song.With new words. With a new voice. But not just with one voice, it was a duet. She saw colors

that changed with the mood. First bright yellows, then deep maroons, then browns.

But then the dream changed, and the feelings that coursed through her were extraordinary.

Her dream frightened her. She was unable to find what she was looking for. It confused her and

shocked her. But then as suddenly as it came, it left her.

And just like a soft breeze sweeping across her face, in through her bones and hovering over

her skin; she breathed in and felt peace.

He dreamt of nothing. Just darkness. Yet contentment...

Her eyes opened. Where is she? The lights above her make her squint and her head is fuzzy

as the medicine wears off. The hospital. Thats where you are, she tells herself as she takes in a

familiar deep breath. She feels a little of the fogginess leave her. Another deep breath. She

brings her arms up underneath her and pushes herself up into a sitting position. Deep breath. A

quick observation of the room reveals another bed on the other side of the room.

The donor.

Her heart pounds and she blinks her eyes multiple times to clear her view...

Her First Word: Not even a word really. The opposite actually. In truth, what came from her

mouth was a deep, unfamiliar, cry. A plea for her eyes to be deceiving her. It came from the

bottom of her heart, from her soul. But this noise was not a foreigner to her. The origin of thevoice came from something quite familiar. A someone. Someone comforting.

His eyes scarcely open from exhaustion, he grinned at her from the bed across the room.

Nothing Yet

By Mia Kerr

Sam was walking home from school, again. Another boring day in her boring town with the

same boring people while she was wearing the same boring outfit. Everything about her was

boring. Even her name. Her dull brown hair, her grey eyes, her small lips. Everything. Boring.

Her life had never been something to talk about. Sam didn't want anything different. She just

wanted to get everything over with. No change, just finished.

She stepped in the door of her family's apartment, to see something a little different. The

woman wasn't in the compact kitchen. The woman's boyfriend wasn't in his usual chair, booze in

hand, in front of the TV. In fact, the TV wasn't even there. She heard subtle sobs coming from

the half bathroom. She bursted through the door, becoming slightly annoyed. The woman was


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on the ground. Blood splattered across her cheek and all down her shirt. She did the fake little

"Hi sweetie. How was your day?" As if Sam hadn't noticed the disgusting red all over the place.

"Don't be annoying. What the hell happened to you?"

"Don't use that language with me." The woman slurred every word that left her mouth.

"WHAT HAPPENED? Don't change the subject."

The woman just cried. She couldn't get the words out. But she didn't have to. Sam knew. She

grabbed that same boring jacket with the slowly growing hole by the wrist, and dashed out of the

door. The woman chased her out of the door, following close but never managing to catch up.

Sam didn't know where the boyfriend had gone, but she would eventually find out. He couldn't

hide forever. She went everywhere he might be. The local bar was the best bet in her mind. It

was one of those places that when you walk up, you protect your pockets (whether you have

something in them or not). You'd never find anyone cleaning anything. The chances of it getting

anything higher than a D on the annual health inspection are slim to none. But for some reason

he spends a lot of time there. It's probably the cheap beer and the bartender who pretends to

listen and even more than that, pretends to care. Surprisingly enough, he wasn't there. Sam left

and started visiting the other disgusting joints. The woman slowly fell back, but was behind her,

still trying to catch up. Sam said aloud, hoping the woman would hear but knowing she wouldn't,

"props. ya made it this far."

After almost an hour of running, without thinking about the sharp pain in her chest (due to the

lack of exercise), Sam began to walk. She was going to give up. When she passed by the

casino, she caught a glimpse of a car that looked junk yard worthy. His car. Sam ran toward it

to look in the windows. Sitting up on the dash was Sam's crumpled school picture from last year.

She full speed, ignoring the growing cramp in her leg, ran toward the doors. The casino

manager followed, yelling something about how she wasn't old enough and how he would call

security. Sam instantly found the woman's boyfriend by the black jack tables. The same oldshirt, same old jeans, and same old boots. As soon as he saw her, his face lit up, "SAMMY!" He

squat down and opened his arms, just as he always had.

"Why didn't you wait for me? I thought we were going to do it together."

"I just couldn't wait. Your mother needed it."

Sam rolled her eyes "She's not my mother. She's nothing. She's just her."

"I know baby girl, I know. Let's get to going. You shouldn't be here."

They happily walked out and got into that same old car, to go back to the same old life. Only

one difference. That same old woman wouldn't be there

Road Kill and Fred the Cactus

By Emily Krohn

Thumbs up have never been such a discouraging sign.

I attempted to burrow the self pity beneath the toe of my boot, but the wind blew too strong from

the mechanical herd, and the sorrow remained uncovered. I could smell the distinct scent of


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matured road kill across the road: comfortable in its own stench and peacefully settling into the

cracks of the pavement.

I had places to be, or rather a place to be I suppose. My making it to the end was an addictive

drug, and the withdrawal was slowly killing me. The intended resolution was the only way to

peace and freedom and certainty in who made my choices. Every human deserves that much.

I stood to sudden courage, determined to walk the distance in paper soles. With the pounding of

rubber hooves at my back and the dust they shed caking my airways, I walked a few paces. But

a battle broke out and cowardice overcame anyhope for revolution, so yet again I sat. Stuck on

the side of the road. One finger naked to the sand, wiry brush, and blurry faces.

I contemplated calling Jeff, but a prison cell had more bars than I, and took better care of its

inmates. I had no one else, no family or friends. Being a foster child left me to depend on the

people I was simply assigned to. That dependency didn't hinder my skins refusal to dwell in

shades of black and blue, my eyes in a salty haze, and my heart in a percussion racket. The

thirty-nine lashes should've been enough for Jeff, but nothing was legal about it anyway. Go the

extra mile.

Mrs. Lorien always monologued before each introduction. The father's name, the school district,

the expected credentials of becoming "a part of the family" rolled off her tongue in a

perpendicular direction to my own line of caring. A different colored pant suit and heels for each

new home, she found more interest in the fashion than the foster faction. Her fiery red hair had

more heated passion than her aid to an orphan's distress.

The curb disturbed the flashback; the slow nudge of hard concrete ignored my groans of

uncomfortable sitting. The eighty percent fist fell to my side in the crushing weight of blank time.No one stopped to offer a ride. I admired those who returned a smile, tolerated those who gave

a glance, loathed those who ignored. Gingerly, I untucked Fred the Cactus from the pastel

purse to my left. The crayon letters around the circumference of the clay pot had slowly peeled

during their captivity in the satchel. He was wilted to the right, despite my desperate attempts to

keep his small stature vertical. His green skin wrinkled in orami folds. The voice of Jeff's young

daughter rustled my ear drums in a rhythm of relief and irreplaceable innocence. One gift from

his precious gem.

"I made this for you."

She couldn't hear her father's vexed accusations from the preschool. She couldn't see the

saltwater drips from her room. She couldn't feel how my flesh molded around his fist from her

crib. She couldn't understand that I would never ever ever be his daughter.

"Oh. Thank you."


13/30

Fred the Cactus couldn't be left behind. He stared at me long and hard from the ledge above the

kitchen sink the night I left; his needles scraping out my hidden compassion for a naive child. I

snatched him up. As the screen door bounced back in a chilling echo and the pitch sky

swallowed us whole, I found my heart chicakabobed and steaming in wishful thinking. Maybe I

should've stayed. I didn't need to go. I could be losing my last chance at any family. But just as

gravity enforces, my hope also came back down and did not tread lightly on me below. I had toleave. I only had a couple months that I could've stayed at Jeff's residence, anyway. Soon

enough, the big number eighteen would come without streamers and balloons and cake, and

the foster care penance would seize. Jeff sure didn't open up his home out of pure integrity.

Fred became my complicatedly disabled conscience and best friend: not even able to listen, but

only to sustain a presence of which I greatly depended on. He didn't need much care and he

survived the trip. We bonded quickly.

The pot was cold on the terrain of my hands. I slowly traced the letters with my pinky, letting

crayola shavings drop into my lap in a clutter of vibrant hues. Down the road a semi released a

gray caterpillar of smoke. I placed Fred gently on the edge of curb, letting him gaze into the

current by my side. We had no one but ourselves. I thought about my destination. Every human

driving by had the opportunity to stop me. To tell me no. To tell me that life had purpose and my

decision wasn't simply a conclusion of the increasing pressure of being worth nothing and that I

could at least delay my arrival or maybe wait for it to come on it's own time. Their speedometers

never went under 60.

The ongoing conflict in my feet broke way once more: the last more. I heaved the tissues and

bones and the organs that made up my mass and threatened my joints to participate in the

steady march. The distance from the curb grew. My brain was the heaviest. It released friction

against my dying heart's wish.

"HOLD ON!" it screamed.

But soon enough my toes hit the yellow mark. A cold sweat trickled behind my ear, whispering

lost apologies from Jeff, Mrs. Lorien, and countless years of temporary homes. Fred seemed to

be waving from the sidelines. I turned, eyes wide, hair thrown back, thumb clothed in a tight fist,

and defeat darkening my features into an abyss of pain. Some say they saw a light. I saw a

headlight.

Gray caterpillars. Desperate screeches. And the stench of road kill.

Hello, Farewell

By Kat Lynch

Her heart jumped with her every breath as she stared at the open, white doors. Her hands

trembled, making the flowers look as though they moved in a brisk wind. She was meeting him

today. She had visited him before but he was always asleep, his mouth open a little and his

hands curled up under his chin like an insecure child. No, today they would talk, listen, and love

each other.


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Her delicate, nail chipped fingers closed around the door way for support as she saw her

love. His grimy, unkept hair covered his eyes as he stared into his novel. His bed was covered

with novels, pillows, and dirty clothes. She giggled, like a small stream over some pebbles.

"Hello." Her voice soft and smooth like silk.

He looked up and as his eyes broadened, he enquired, " Who are you?"She smiled. "I'm your flame in the dark. The one to guide you home. The one who loves you

with all my heart." Her eyes darted to the delicate flowers in her hands, remembering his sweet

song. "Don't you remember me, baby?"

"Flame in the dark? Home? Love? Who are you?" His hands began to crinkle the soft, fragile

pages. Her eyes benumbed and her heart fell onto the floor like the flowers. Her heart slowed

but her breath was fast.

"What are you doing in my room? How did you get in here?" He leaned forward and

considered her. "Do I know you?"

She sighed and thought of what to say next. "Baby I...... I'm..... Confused. We've been dating

for five months now."

"Dating? How did we meet?"

"We met in school. In English to be exact. We worked on a project together and a few weeks

later we started dating." She smiled at the memory. " We did everything together. We talked, we

toyed, and we even danced. Everyone called us delirious but....." She looked at the fallen petals

at her feet. "..... You never gave up. You kept telling me you wouldn't yield to their cries. You

promised, we would be happy together." Her eyes started to get moist and her nose began to

run. "You called me angel, beautiful, lovely. We always talked about your favorite books, and

movies. I even brought some last night...."

"Wait, you came to my room last night? Why?" His voice got louder. She backed up and

folded her arms in an attempt to comfort herself.

"I've always done it." She gazed at him. "Don't you remember me?""No. I'm sorry." His voice seemed too delicate to speak any louder. "How long have you been

coming to my house?"

"Since I first met you. Even before we started dating." Her hand swept under her eye and

looked down. "You said you loved me." Her heart melted to the floor.

"I've never met you in my life." He whispered urgently.

"But I know everything about you!" She pleaded, falling hopelessly to her knees. "I know your

favorite book, your favorite clothes, your video games!"

"How did you get in here anyway? The front doors locked." He swung his legs off the bed.

She sighed and sniffled. "You broke into my house? How long have you done this?" His voice

filled with a dangerous softness. She gazed into her loves eyes. He was different when he was

awake, meaner, darker.

"I loved you."

"You have to go." He hauled her up, pushed her out of his room, stepping on her melted

heart and petals.

"I love you."


15/30

He didn't look at her. He only ushered her to the door. Giving her one last shove he

muttered, "Go find some help." He looked into her broken, lost, lonely eyes. "I'm sorry.

Farewell." He closed the door.

She felt it creep through her stomach, to her lungs and heart, into her throat and then her

mouth. She wailed and howled. She banged her fist on the door and she crumpled to the

ground. Her voice was broken, just as her heart. Her world was shattered.

She pulled out the silver blade. A notion made her mouth twitch on its sides, curling up to

touch her tears as her nail chipped fingers turned the knob to the front door. She was going to

visit him, one last time.

"Farewell, indeed my love. Farewell."

Love of the Game

By Bryce Masterson

The smell of the fresh mown grass fills my head. The feeling of the dirt under my feet gets me

giddy with excitement. The adrenaline coasts its way through my bloodstream, making me feel

like I am capable of anything. The glare of the summer sun beats down on me, sweat dripping

from my body like a leaking faucet. I cross the plate, my cleats making the chalk rise like

mushroom clouds, and my head clears. I can hear nothing, the focus is entirely on the next few

moments.

I think back to the days where everything wasn't automated. Where we actually played

America's pastime instead of the virtual games where a kid doesn't have to leave their couch.

The room around me is a silvery metal color, smooth as silk bed linens after an exhausting day.

The chair I sit in is cushioned just to my liking, one invention I do agree with. I move the chair

closer to the door, knowing when I get up, it will return to its original position.

I rise from my chair, my old knees screaming with the effort. My body works it's way down the

hall to the bedroom, my hand sliding on the smooth wall the entire way. I hobble my way to the

closet. A box sits here, untouched by the hands of my grandchildren. They are undoubtedly with

the rest of the generation, letting these new "miracle machines" do everything for them. A

shame that even my kids have been brainwashed and taken over by the advancements in

technology. To them, machines are salvation, to me, a constant threat.

The pitcher is playing with the dirt on his cleats, taking his sweet time. The anxiety is getting to

me, when he finally foots the mound. I grasp the wood in my hands tight, ready for anything that

comes to me.

I wake from my daze with a startle. I open the box, the smell of worn leather makes it's way to

my brain, bringing memories back from my youth. Moving my most precious keepsake aside

gently, I feel the rough wood on my hands. The weathered laces of the ball find there way into

my fingers like it was yesterday. I hear the all too common footsteps of my wife coming down

the hall. I listen to her pause at the door, concerned. She knows the pain this causes me.

"Come on honey," she says.


16/30

"Give me a minute sweetie," I reply.

She resentfully consents.

Everything disappears again. I'm back in my uniform, the rough and worn cotton scratches my

legs. The pitcher winds his body to fire the ball towards me. I guess I'm not ready for everything.

The last thing I remember is the ball an inch from my face. Then, nothing. Forever nothing. Adoctor telling me I've been in a coma for more than a month, and that I should be thankful to be

alive. I'm not thankful. I'll never be able to play again. I won't feel that dust under my feet. The

anticipation won't set in, knowing I'm about to play. I won't be able to walk out of the dugout

stairs, and lose myself in the game.

To this day all I see is darkness. Jealousy runs through my body as fluently as my blood. I envy

those kids that have able bodies. What's worse is they don't use them, instead they let them

wither away, like the leaves on the tree during autumn. Selfishly letting their bodies wane away,

not knowing what they are capable of. I rise, and slowly make my way to the kitchen, knowing

its fifteen steps strait then three to the left. My fingers, once again, lead me down the hall. I step

into the kitchen, the smell of chicken and noodles entices me with its aroma. I sit in my chair, my

knees give a sigh of relief. My wife puts a spoon into my hand, and turns the radio on to an old

broadcast. One of a real game, back then. I suddenly get that feeling, the chill down my spine

I've been missing for so many years.

Suddenly I feel the dirt under my feet, I feel the sun warming me.

Just like when I stepped on the field.

Just like when I was able to see.

Colin McMonagle

Darkness. Darkness and the crisp, crunch of dry leaves shattering beneath my feet. So much

darkness. Darkness so complete that if it werent for the sound of those leaves, or the bitter

numbness at the tips of my fingers, I may as well be dead. Nothing, not the ghastly oak tree 6

inches from me, is visible. Panting. Soon the wheezing begins, but I hurry on. The barely

-audible shuffling behind me picks up speed... Its closing in, so i have to keep moving. The

shack is just up ahead, I know it. I should be safe there.

The low-key gust of midnight breeze makes me shudder as it whistles through my ears, but still I

move on. I quicken my pace, not daring to look over my shoulder. Fear. Fear so intense that it

heightens my every physical action. With this stamina, I should be a track star. But no. Its fear.

The shack. I would have passed it had I not stumbled on the rusty rocking chair, thrown onto the

lawn. I hurry in, moving by muscle memory rather than intellectual thoughts. I light the kerosene

lantern on the nearby table.

Finally, sight. For the first time in what seems like hours. I look wildly around, searching for

signs. Listening with all my might. Deeming myself safe, I trudge on, deeper into the once


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18/30

The long, narrow hallway. IT. Its body, like that of a monkey or small animal, two feet in height

and length. The tail, long and swishing, not unlike that of a cat. The face. Its razor sharp teeth

filling its smiling mouth to the brim. And the stretch of empty skin above it, the shade of cream

that matched the rest of its body underneath the thin layer of brown hair, or fur. We share a

moment, a fraction of a second. I look at It, and It looks at me. Even without the cones and rods

needed to see, it can obviously sense my presence. It stands... well, crouches, between me andthe exit. It starts towards me, slowly at first, then scuttling to me at a rapid pace, like the march

of a thousand angry cockroaches. I try to take the only option I have left... the final door on the

right. Im opening the door as the Thing launches itself at me, and as I start to slam the door, I

believe myself to be safe. However, its too fast.

Too fast for me to close the door, too fast for me to raise my gun.

The wild flash of cream skin and brown fur.

Silence.

I Dream of Red

By Andrew Owens

The glimmering sun sets in the distant space illuminating the horizon a bright red. Shadows far

away lay on the ground standing out in front of the red background. That was a recollection of

the most recent dream I've had. I have dreams about the color red. Sometimes it's drizzling from

my body. Or dried on my face. I don't know if you can tell but I like the color red. I only see the

color red. It's the only color that stands out to me. Some might see these dreams as nightmares

but they're not nightmares if you enjoy them. I just like the color red. I would do anything to see

that color.

I remember one dream I had where I was very little.I was at school. We were cutting out paper.

The kid next to me was cutting his picture out when he cut his finger with scissors. Bloodgushed out of the wound and dripped onto my paper. The color melted into the paper and dried

beautifully. I stared in awe and eventually reached down with my finger and dabbed the dark

fluid. I was thinking how dry and thick it felt between my fingers and thought how wonderful it

seemed. Later when I was in my room, still thinking about it, I knew I had to see more of that

color. I looked around the house for items that looked like what I had seen but none of them had

the same feeling. Then it dawned on me that all I had to do was do what the other kid had done.

So I got a pair of scissors and cut my finger. It oozed in small doses but not enough for me to

get excited. It became apparent to me that I would have go bigger to be satisfied. I made a

larger incision. The color spewed out. I put my palm up to the piercing and felt the slip between

my fingers. I played with it for a while just letting it spread around my body. It is about then that I

realized that it wasn't just the color red that I loved so dearly but in fact it was the presence of

blood. Just being drenched in blood made me feel ecstatic.

That was the dream that got me hooked. I couldn't get enough of it. Every once in a while I'd

grab scissors or a knife, whatever it may be, and make a quick slice on my arm. The habit grew

until it became an obsession. Soon I began examining the toll it took on me. I knew it wasn't


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good for me but I couldn't stop. I started having dreams again at about this time and they gave

me more insight. In my dreams I was able to solve my problem by the help from other people.

The dreams opened up new ideas and understanding. In the dreams I began to target people

for the extraction of blood. I picked out the weak humans who would provide the least

resistance. The first trial was on this short, chubby kid that lived down the street. In thebeginning dreams all I did was watch him. I watched him whenever I could, dying for the perfect

chance to strike. My fetish was too strong to wait very long. One dream started like the rest

where I was just watching and waiting. He was walking on the sidewalk close to where I was

perched. This dream was different though because I felt the urge spring through me and I

couldn't wait any longer. I pounced on top of him and clasped my hands around his mouth. It

wasn't too difficult because like I said I selected him for this reason. I had him pinned and I even

got a handkerchief in his mouth. I suffocated him and dragged him out of sight. I had the bottles

waiting and made a nice, even slash on his arm. I slowly collected the drainage in my beakers

but as I waited I came to a critical conclusion. What I didn't think of doing was wearing a mask to

secure my identity. I thought about my options. I knew I couldn't get caught me there was no

way of deleting that memory. It became obvious what I had to do. I slit his throat and watched

him bleed out. It was quite funny really. No one would even miss him... even in a dream.

That became the routine for me in my dreams. But every once in a while I go back to the last

dream I had. Me just staring to the shadows in the horizon. To the place know one will ever find.

The place where I keep my lifeless friends who so generously offered up their blood. It's not a

big deal really. I am so accustomed to these dreams that sometimes they seem real. They are

apart my life now. I couldn't escape it even if I wanted to. What's done is done and there's no

changing that. Dream or not I'm having a great time.

EnoughBy Kayla Packard

"It was you?"

The words slipped off her lips and into the moonlit nursery. The window behind her was stuck

open, allowing cool air to swim into the room. Her long brown hair blew around her innocent

face. Her tired baby brother sat in the arms of him. Why did it have to be him?

"How could you betray me? Our family, like that? I thought you left for good this time!" She

couldn't hold it in, tears were welling up in her eyes threatening to splash out at any second.

She had dreamed of the moment he would come back to them, but never like this.

He saw her face and stood there motionless, contemplating what he had just done. "Now that

you know," he started reluctantly, "you might as we'll let me explain."

Her hostile eyes inspected him, trying to dig out a reason, any reason, that could make this

okay. Her gaze shifted from his weary, slumped over body to the little infant in his arms, and

soon the last bit of empathy she had for him vanished. "My own father," she said under her

breath. She spoke louder, "How could my father, the person who was always gone, who never


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cared, do something so, so..." she stumbled into silence trying to comprehend what had

happened.

"Rachel," he pleaded, guilt stinging his throat as he spoke. He stared her down with eyes like

darts poking at her soul. Rachel looked away. Was he asking for her forgiveness? She

thought. "Please, Rachel," he attempted again, "Please just hear me out."

"Ever since you left, this family has been in shambles. You could've at least stayed and helped

mom when you divorced! But you had to leave, to get away from us. You gave our family a

false hope. You were always the one with the money and you took it and ran! Then you came

back! I thought it was because you missed us, and mom said it was because you noticed you

did something wrong, but you pretended we didn't exist. It pained me to watch you do

something so harmful to us, but when I heard mom up crying each night after you left, that was

the thing that really broke me. My dislike for you hasn't stopped growing since then, and I don't

think it ever will." Rachel's eyes darted from her tired, grimacing father to the sleeping baby he

was looming over, and back again. Finally she spoke again, "She stopped crying after a few

weeks, but I can't forgive you. So go do what you do best, give my little brother back and leave

our family alone! You're not welcome here. You were never welcome here."

Her words had hit the right spot and Rachel could tell. Her father fell back, a loss in his eyes.

The wind from the open window blew his brown hair over his face. The exact shade of brown

surrounding Rachel's head as well. Her only true tie to him. Her hazel eyes pierced through the

quiet, but her father still challenged them. The silence between them was deafening, a non stop

absence of sound, and both sat on edge waiting for a response. Her father gained some

courage and spoke meekly, "Not until you hear my explanation Rachel, please, just listen." He

paused and started again, "I know I haven't been the best father to you, and I haven't been

there for you or your mother at many times. I just wanted to change that with Jack." He heldthe boy closer to his chest and gave him a soft kiss on his forehead. "He deserves better than

that, and I wanted to give him more."

Jealousy fought its way into Rachel's voice. "You think this could possibly make up for

anything?" She yelled. "All of the pain you caused; the people you hurt! The family that you

have broken?"

"Rachel, Jack is my second chance. I know that I haven't been a great father since mom and I

broke up, and I need another chance to prove it to you. Please just let me and I will become the

person that you've always wanted me to be. For you and for him." He peered down at Jack's

face, then looked Rachel in the eyes. "That's why I've been coming here, to see him and spend

time with him," he pushed on. "Ever since I left that night, I wanted to come back. But

something stopped me from turning around. I thought that I lost you. I have done so much

thinking and hoping, trying to figure some way that I could come back and make things right.

But I thought that I lost you, Rachel. Then I thought of Jack and I finally realized that I needed

you and Jack in my life and I still wanted to makes amends with your mother. I've started with


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Jack and I need you to try to let me into your life again." He paused, staring strongly at Rachel

with a lasting expectancy.

Rachel gazed at her father's ocean blue eyes. Deep, full of secrets, and yet they were so soft

that her exasperation suddenly melted into the air. Something that he said had calmed her, but

only a little. It was his eyes that really did the talking, and Rachel only had one chance. Shespoke quietly as if unsure about what she was about to do, "Do you promise?"

"Yes," her father answered earnestly, he took a deep breath and sighed happily.

A small smile crept to Rachel's lips as she agreed to start trusting her father again. She needed

her father in her life, and although her trust was brittle, it was just enough to soothe her to sleep

that night. Her life was about to change, it already had changed drastically, for better or for

worse she wouldn't know, but for now it was enough.

The Trap

Isaiah Penn

5-0! 5-0! Dip! Dip!

The poor excuse of a door is kicked in of the apartment. Blinding lights engulf the room as

bodies dart looking for any route of escape. It reaks of the potent smell of weed. One of the

bodies is tackled into the wall.

You have the right to remain silent. the police officer shouted.

The school bell rings and all of the children run out of their classrooms to their homes.

Derrick arrives home, out of breath and excited to tell his mom the good news. He enters the

kitchen and sees her black swollen eye, but try's not to mention it.

Guess What!What?

I Aced my test! Derrick said, while trying to contain his excitement.

To think, my boy will be the first to ever go to college in this family.

He ran outside to go shoot some hoops with his friends. Later that night on the way home he

stopped by his Uncles house. Looking around the poorly lit room, to the left there was a stove,

on the right a table with a scale, and in front of Derrick stood his Uncle.

Whatd up Big D?

Nothing much

Whats cookin?

The usual, I got you somethin

Woah is it real?

Sure is, if anybody messes with you, flash this piece and then see whos makin fun of who.

You become the one with the power

Derrick walked home through the pitch black of the night. When he arrived home he

unlocked the door, and flipped on the light switch. There was red, red everywhere. Red walls,

carpet, couch, the baseball bat. Everything was covered in the warm dark red. It spilled from her

head, through her once dark black hair. The room was filled with the smell of alcohol. It came


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from the spilt bottle of malt liquor. Next, to the bottle was a dark figure, sprawled across the

floor.

You did this! Who do you think you are! Derrick shouted. He reached into his jacket and

pulled out the glock 17 his Uncle just gave to him. Kicking the figure until it groaned. Get up!

Scrambling to his feet, the drunk stumbled around the room.

Hey kid calm downHis finger gripped the cold trigger. The whole street was awoken with the six loud bangs.

Derrick unloaded the whole clip on his Moms former boyfriend. Standing with the smoking gun

still in his hand, he was frozen still in shock and disbelief. Sirens rang out and he threw the gun

in the river as he ran down to his Uncles house.

Is all that for you!?

I put six in him, he killed momma

We gotta get outta here boy

They sprinted to his Uncles car and the peeled out as the tired burned against the

pavement. The music was blaring when his Uncle pulled out a blunt and lit it.

Hit this, itll make you feel alot better

As he inhaled, Derrick felt the strong smoke go down his throat into his lungs, leaving a

burning sensation that made him cough. He started to feel calm and relaxed.

Where are we

We are at the trap

They pushed open the door and Derrick went and sat on the couch.

His Uncle came back from another room with a bag of a white powder. Emptying it on the

table he proceed to open his wallet and pull out to crisp dollar bills and a chase credit card. He

then organized the cocaine neatly into six even, neatly divided lines. He passed a bill to Derrick.

You a real G now nephew, just like me. To think, you were gonna waste all that time in

college

It stung as it went up his nose. Soon all of the lines of powder disappeared. Life was good forthe next five minutes.

College would have been a waste Derrick thought to himself.

Mind Over Heart

By Rachel Small

No one seems to care. Not one person cares to listen. Not even the friendly neighborhood

patrol. This is why I am sitting in the shadows of an alley off Opulent Street. I do not know how

or why I came to such a lonesome place, but I do know when. Men and women's feet shuffle

past the alley. Clomping and clicking in tune with the bustle of the street. Each foot inches from

my trash bin, taunting me with their perfect lives. If only those people knew what horrors life

really has to offer. They would be like me, cowering in the corner of a damp trash bin. Losing

sight of life and heartfelt memories. Those people were handed life while I was robbed of it. My

memory and most importantly my wife were stolen from me by cancer. Penelope was her name.

Thirty-three and beautiful. My brain fogs up as I try to remember her. I lower my head, and my

eyes fill with tears. Each attempt at recalling a memory of her, sends a tear down my face. They

drip from my lips and burn my open sores like poison. All I can recall of her is the poison. It

haunts me. Our last kiss, was blocked by the poisoned cancer. The next morning she was


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covered in my poisoned tears. Nothing more of Penelope resides in my brain, but in my heart

my love still aches for her. I cry louder. The clouds shift. My breaths quicken and my pulse

pounds through my chest.

"Someone bring her back to me," I cry out through gasping breaths, "She is a part of me!"

I quiet my tears to mear sniffles. The street is now dead silent. I take in a shaky breath and

slowly lift the trash lid. My eyes wander to the light streaming from the lids crack. I slap mymouth to hide my gasp and shiver beneath my rags. A pair of shoes are frozen in the midst of a

long stride. They slap to the ground and slowly slither their way right before my eyes. The shoes

face me with their tounges out wide. Hissing and swaying like cobras ready to snap. I instruct

my eyes not to gaze up past the cobras. But up they go, taking in the clumps and lumps of a

dark blue uniform. The bronze buttons on a jacket ready to escape. A thick layered neck with

bubbles and worts. A face, taut with destruction. Lips twitching and drooling out of control. Eyes

desperate for blood. Designed only for one type of human. The eyes designed for a cop. His

eyes shoot down on me like lasers. My first instinct is to run, but I'm hidden well. The only light

in the alley way is a run down street lamp that flickers on occasion. Surely he wasn't looking

right at me, but my thought was interrupted when all of a sudden a loud thud richochade off the

metal walls. Over and over again.

"Stop it!" I manage to scream as I wrap rags and trash around my face. The sound was

never ending. Anything to clog my ears was better than it. I curl up in a ball, arms around my

head.

"What do you want?" I shout muffled through my mask.

The richocha stops, replaced by the creak of hinges. "Anthony I just need you to stay calm,"

the cops words pass straight through my head," I am here to help."

A thick beam of light enters the bin. Its touch burns my shoulder and cheek. I wince and

shrug away. The cop pleads, "Listen to me! Your wife will always love you. She doesn't want her

Anthony trapped in a trash bin his whole life." He raises the lid a few more inches. Light flickers

on the cops face. I press against the bottom corner of the bin, avoiding any light."You don't know" I whisper for only cockroaches to hear. Silence. "You don't know!" I scream

at the top of my lungs.

The cop jumps away startled and the lid slams shut. A thud and snap come from outside,

followed by grunts of his travel back to me. He takes slow agonizing foot steps. Each louder

than before. A slam comes down on the lid. I jump.

"Listen." the cop states. The cop starts quietly, "I believe it is time you get help. I know it's

hard to hear. Ever since she has left, your mind has started to leave, too." My lip starts to twitch.

"Please come back to me. I've lost mom. Please not you this time. Dad, I love you." exclaims

the cop leaning on the lid, resting his hand on my shoulder. My whole body and mind start to

spasm and then it all snaps.

I kick the top of the lid with all my might. The lid flies open, as the cop goes sailing in the air.

He lands against the alley wall with a thud and a snap of the neck. His corpse slides down the

wall, leaving a trail of blood. It oozes from his body and collects in a puddle below. A child

flashes before my eyes. I force it away. I uncover myself and crawl to the top of the bin. Trash of

all sorts, start to scratch my body, as I sprawl my way up. Blood drips, yet I have no feeling of

pain. Just the thought of death and escape. I use my hands sweaty with blood to pull myself up


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and out of the bin. Just like my son, lifting himself up for the first time. A cool breeze swarms

around me.

My eyes drop to the corpse. "He is my kid...my son," I let out. "Johnathon."

The breeze becomes angry at me. It starts pushing and pulling at me. Screaming down my

ears and tugging at my seams. It shoves its way into my lungs. Choking me. I swallow and gulp

for an escape. I can not fall before my mind. I try to resist but it is no use. My mind is strongerthan my heart. It starts to pull me down deeper than the concrete. It takes me into the depths of

the bloody water puddled below. I lie there on the concrete staring. The pale face of my son

rests before me. My vision blurs and I know what I need to do for my son.

"I love you." I release with my last breath.

I feel my heart fail under the pressure, as my mind takes over.

The Clock

By Cassie Snay

The crisp darkness in the air might have scared people away, but it does not bother me. I find it

best to stay away from others and bind into the dark corner of my room. I hug my legs making

sure they will not run away. My knees turn white and my arms hurt from holding on. I lay my

head on my knees, the voices around me keep wispering in my ear. The whispers keep trying to

tell me something, but I do not understand. I can only catch their icy breath that trickles down

my neck.

I do not know how long I have sat here. I lost track of the ticking clock or it died from the silence.

Maybe it could not handle its flaws or the weight of living. My head perks up as I thought I heard

a strain of a tick. Silence. It was probably just the house creeking. Its body unable to stay strong

with its inability to feel. The creeks become louder which means the whispers outside have

grown angrier. I can make out the faint tears falling to the ground.

The silence was poisoned. The toxins slowly getting to my head. The whispers become louder

and I try hard to stop and listen to their intricate words. Though the more I listen the whispers

intensify and slur together. Sometimes they are like knives stabbing my brain as if they are

trying to tell me why they are here.

I told my mother about the whispers. She cannot hear their voices. My mother tells me I am

crazy and if I mention it again she willl take me to the doctor's. I am not sick though. Why would

she take me there? I try my best to not say anything but the whipers could not stay hushed.

They caused my mother to take me to the doctor's. Apparently the doctor knows everything and

I guess there are no such thing as whispers. Who gave him the right to tell me what I can and

can not hear? The doctor told my mother that I have a mental illness. I am not sick. They do not

hear the whispers. I am not sick. They just will not believe me.

The shivers enter my veins and I curl up in my corner. Darkness blanketing my skin. The

comfort of deception whisping throughout the air. I rest my head on the wall but the warmth

sickens me. I lift my head up and stare at the beige wall. It causes my mind to ponder about


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stillness, but the whispers soon take over. I am only able to concentrate on one thing: the words

in my head.

My mind could not wander. The whispers would simply not allow it. Instead they keep chatting

away never stopping to take a breath. I could not stand their constant mumbles and accidentally

mentioned it out loud. My mother overheard me and I think she took me to the hospital; eventhough I can not remember leaving my corner, I somehow ended up in a different room. Sitting

in its corner, this one white with cold walls, I turn my head to see a tall man lingering above me

with my mom right beside him. He smiled and bent down so his icy blue eyes stared directly into

me. I sat on top of my ankles trying hard to sufficate them. Why did they walk away from my

corner at home? I fold my body until my sore nose grasps my knee. I scrape my nails through

my scalp and tug the cascading DNA that fell upon my shoulder. I can no longer control my

mind. The whispers have offically invaded and taken control. "There are no whispers," the

doctor said to my mother.

"What is happening to her?" mother said.

The doctor replied, "She is going through a mental breakdown. She is mentally ill and is going

insane." I glare at the doctor. He does not believe me. My mother does not believe me. Nobody

will believe me. Do I even believe myself? What is happening to me?

Tick. Tick. An all too familiar sound from my corner in my room. The peaceful darkness wraps

itself around me. My whole body leans into the wall like a crutch. The ticking has returned but

there is no clock on my wall. The whispers are more powerful now. They have the capability to

shut my conscience off, but when it's on I can only peer into it through a crack in my mind. The

only part they have yet to conquer.

Tick. Tick. I have not yet figured out how or why the whispers are here. I am frustrated that they

will not speak clearly. I can not handle their voices any longer. The whispers will not stop and

the ticking of the clock gets louder. My fallen DNA has become a blood speckled river bed as if

the river dried up and all of the fish exploded.

Tick. Tick. A rigid air floods my corner. I look through the crack and take control of my limp legs.

I am weak and stumble to the ground with every step. I fight to ignore the whispers and seek

what now is a small hole. Tick. Tick. I reach the other side of my room where a bed lays still.

Under the pillow, I fumble for the only thing that will save my life. Tick. Tick. I grasp it the best I

can as the hole begins to close. Red leaking from my palm as I raise it to where the whispers

trickled and catch the reflection of my soul in its surface. Tick. The whispers stopped. The clock

ceased. There was no longer a mind to control.

Inhumed

By Esma Taylor

It's dark, mucky, suffocating in here. Where am I? My breathing is fast but hangs over me like a

cloud of grief. I feel light headed, feel my airways clogged with anxiety. I can't move. Every part


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of my body inches away from dense wood. No way out. Surrounded. I'm trapped. I'm trapped in

a box. Cave darkness. Shattered dreams. I can't breathe. I can't see.

I'm fully aware of where I'm at now. I don't understand. I won't. It's just a nightmare. A very very

real nightmare.

My whole body is shaking. I'm screaming. Scratching. Nails to wood. Furious. Thinking that if I

claw enough I will break free. Thinking if I scream loud enough someone will hear me

I'm choking. Gasping for air. My fingers are dripping. My throat dry. Parched.

How long have I been in here? Minutes, hours, weeks, seconds.

I can't stop crying. Hysteria. Seeing things. I can't see things. No, it's too dark. But I do.

Shadows dancing. Floating. Moving so fast I can't catch them. But they have me firmly in their

grip. They're suffocating me. Get them off! Oh please, get them off!

The shadows fade back into the backdrop of black and I'm breathless. Trembling with pure

terror. I start to remember something.

The feeling of ice. Cold. So cold it's warm. So cold you stop shivering. It's like your body has

already given up. Stopped fighting back to stay warm. To stay alive.

Screams are ringing. Screams full of dread. Already mindful of the situation but unwilling to

accept. Sirens are bawling. Over and over and over again. So silent but so loud. A screech that

feels endless.

Then, more black. But this time it comes with tears. My soul trapped inside my limp body trying

to break free. Screaming out,"Stop! Can't you see! Listen to me! Please stop, I'm not dead!

Please!"

Sorrow dangles from the ceiling. Regret pounding at the door.

They're back. The shadows. Ghouls. Tormenting me. Dancing around in circles. Laughing. But

this time I'm in control. I also begin to laugh. Laughing at the ghouls who think they can take me.

The scrapings of metal against earth are below me. But I'm...calm. It's so far away. I feel

untouchable.

Thunk, thunk. Steel on wood. Rattling. The lid begins to open.

My rescuer can't help but smile because I am dead. Intense heat rains down upon me as I find

myself in another foreign place.


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It smells like rotting, burning flesh. Screams run wild. Red. Blood red. I am in hell as I've been

for months. A continuous cycle. That's what it does to you. But I am content. For I'm nothing

more than a dead thing below the earth. An occupant of the cemetery for tomorrow and eternity.

They Came at Night

By Regan WatsonFive years ago, November thirteenth, I was sixteen, Wes was five months, and my parents

were dead.

They came in the night. No one expected it, no one knew they were supposed to be inside

by 8 p.m. No one knew.

November thirteenth, I always feel this deep gut instinct, this bitter taste in my mouth. I've

had this feeling for as long as I can remember.

Five years back I made my parents go out on a date, because it was the first time since

they had had Wes; they said to call if I needed anything. I just didn't tell them to do the same

thing.

I never saw them again.

I hear Wes cry so I run up the stairs. It's 7:45 p.m., Mom and Dad only left forty five minutes

ago I cannot call them now. It has been five months, I can give them a couple hours, right?

"Shhhh, Wes, it's alright. They will be home soon," I try to soothe him.

It takes me about fifteen minutes to get him to calm down.

Then I hear a scream, a cry of desperation.

I hold Wes very close to my chest and secure his little blonde head as I run down the stairs. I

look outside, it's pitch black, the full moon glistens and shines some light but not enough. None

of the street lights are on. I look out my window to see who screamed but see no one.

Another screech echoes through the night.

Then another one.Scream after scream after scream, Wes is crying again.

I call Mom, no answer. Dad, no answer. 9-1-1, no answer. The front doorknob is being

shaken. Stay calm, stay calm. I run to the concrete basement, lock the doors, huddle in a corner

with Wes, and grab a bat for protection. I leave the lights on.

I can barely hear a rumble, I hear a low growl, and the screams follow. I cry, I wait for our

death. It doesn't come, it never comes.

The next morning, I must have dozed off. Wes is fine, he's breathing. In one arm I have Wes,

in the other, my bat. I scan the empty basement, then slowly and silently walk up the stairs. I

look into my kitchen, still spick and span. Not an object moved, completely still, expect one

thing. I see a note on the maroon table. I tiptoe over to it.

"We love you, we're sorry we didn't tell you earlier... In case we don't see you again,

remember... there no monsters in the light." I freeze, what!?

Mom, Dad! I run to the door and turn the knob. It's hot! I pull my sleeve over my hand and

open the door.

Blood. Bodies. Limbs. Mom. Dad.

I gasp and let out a sob.

"MOM, MOM!!! DAD, NO, DAD, WAKE UP!!!"


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I look around and see the horrified faces of my neighbors, the ones that aren't slaughtered.

My street is full of blood and gore, sobbing and death.

An elderly man runs up to me and yells, "It's the dark. The monsters came when it was dark

and left when the sun began to shine through. You've been warned."

My gut feeling was always right, but why November thirteenth?

"Sapphire, it is 7:55 p.m. should we get ready?" Wes asks me.

"Yes, it's time."

It's been years since we have heard a scream; people know now. They come at night. The

dark creatures come at night. The neighborhood all turns out their lights. The gigantic monsters

guard the neighbor's doors because they turn the lights off, but not me. I know better.

Then I hear the roar, the soft grumble, "Wes, do you hear that?" I ask.

"No, stop trying to scare me Sapphire!"

We go to the basement. We sleep in our beds that we moved down their now.

"Goodnight Wes," I whisper.

I hear the grumble, it's always louder on this day. On November thirteenth, the first day they

came five years ago. The day my parents were murdered. But why did they come, why did they

kill us when we have done nothing wrong. Why are they here?

I still get that gut feeling, but why?

November thirteenth, November thirteenth, November thirteenth, WHY?! What did my

parents mean when they said they should have told me earlier? What does any of this mean?!

I'm screaming in the walls of my mind, then I see it.

"Me" I whisper under my breath.

November thirteenth, I was four, I was in the forest, I lost dad, it was dark. I thought I saw

something, then another, then these giant black, big toothed, harry beasts surrounded me. I

could smell the stench of blood and death. I screamed. Then, then, I don't know! I can't

remember or make out any more of the memory. I don't have any memories from when I wasyoung, it's like it was wiped...

A scream is launched, I hear them crumble to the ground. I jump up, 5 years it's been 5

years since there was a scream. I run upstairs. No one knows what these things are, and I'm

tired of the injustice, I'm tired of the anger boiling inside of me. I know now what to do.

November thirteenth, that's where it all began.

Then the door opens, and I walk out. Dark beasts surround me, I feel their hot air engulf

me.They came to earth for me, it is time I surrendered. I can't be saved this time by dad, by

anyone. It's time for people to stop dying. I have had my time and people need to have theirs' I

love you Wes.

Light is safety, and now my light is out.

The Lullaby

By Meagan Whitted

I could still smell her sweet scent as its remnants roamed through the halls of our now lonesome

apartment, as it lingered on our bed and pillows. Her gentle caress would still wake me up in the

middle of the night to remind me that she was there and still lying by my side as my comfort,

even though she no longer was. When my eyes slid shut her face flashed behind my closed


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eyelids smiling that signature grin that never failed to light up a room. The taste of her kiss

lingered on my lips although they had been apart for far too long. Her voice would still softly call

to me through the empty halls, "Come to me, my love. We're apart only as long as you're here. I

miss you."

"I love you, I miss you. We will be together again someday," I would reply to the empty walls.

My torment never left me. It hovered above and around me, consuming me and engulfing me in

its dark, shadowy cloak of pure aloneness. I hadn't smiled since she'd been gone. I hadn't

laughed either. She took my refuge, my comfort, my happiness with her when she left me. The

only time I didn't feel like my insides were trying to destroy themselves was when her heavenly

form started to visit me.

She came to me always in the late hours, when the sun was nowhere to be seen and darkness

ruled the sky. Her glowing form was shimmery and she wore a beautiful white nightgown that

she must have loved since she never wore anything else when she came to visit me. She didn't

have to wake me. I always sensed her presence. She climbed into our bed and up under the

sheets, snuggling against me. She sang to me then a lullaby in the voice of a Siren, "Goodnight

stars, goodnight moon. Goodnight small child, in your heart I'll loom. Forgive me, forgive me for

all that I've done. I love you, I love you forever plus one."

In the morning I would wake and discover she had vanished but everything about her lingered

behind. I'd suffer through the daylight hours to wait for her visit in the dead of night. During

those meek hours of the day, my cape of darkness was returned to me and I wore it on my

defeated shoulders. I had gotten so used to her coming in the night to lessen my pain that when

she made no appearance, my heart stopped beating altogether.

I rose out of bed and roamed the halls of our empty apartment calling out to her, "My darling!

Where are you, my darling? Come back to me now." She appeared then clad in her white

nightgown. Her shimmery appearance was worn and tired and her nightgown had become

tattered, but still she was beautiful.

This happened for a while, became the new regular ritual. One night when I was calling out to

my beloved as I always did, I found her in the kitchen. I could tell something was wrong now.

She looked sickly; pale as the full moon in the sky above us and frail as a bird with an injured

wing. She leaned on the counter to support her own weight, which seemed to be crushing her

small body. Her white nightgown draped over her in shreds.

I started to run towards her but she held up her hand to tell me not to come any closer. "My

love, my beloved! What has stricken you?" my words came from across the kitchen.

"Do you love me?"

"Yes I do love you, my darling. More than there is water in the sea."

"If you truly love me, you wouldn't make me wait any longer, my love."


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My eyebrows drew together. "My darling, my dear, I would never make you wait."

"If you truly love me, you'll join me tonight," she said softly. She stepped forward in her weak

state to reveal our collection of cooking knives behind her. "Lead the cold blade to its warm

home."

In that moment I felt all the loneliness could be gone. I didn't hesitate. I began approaching theknives, crossing the kitchen. With each step I took, she appeared to improve in health. Step and

her eyes gained that full-of-life sparkle and shine. Step and her skin went from ghostly pale to a

normal hue. Step and the rose color returned to her cheeks. Step and her frail form transformed

into her luscious curves that I loved and her white nightgown returned to its original glory.

I reached the knife selection and pulled out the longest, sharpest knife. As I turned it towards

mys

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