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Grade
11

The Traveler

 

    Drowning.. only drowning, the distance to far to break now… It sits, drowning in the modern world, with no way up…. Outdated, rotting, sinking, yellowing exterior, missing shingles; it sticks out like a sore thumb. No longer inhabited, the house sat for what seemed years, without so much as a second look. With window eyes that stir the soul, eye contact is highly avoided. No one ever enters it’s interior, not one dares step on the lawn; afraid they will be cursed. Afraid; that their children will vanish, that anyone could be swallowed by the house or by the mere blade of grass at their feet, that within it still resides a maniac murdering child, that the interior is stained with fresh blood from the victims kept in the basement.

 

Mikage knew all of these superstitious rumors to be false. There aren't any murderers or victims or even blood in the house. And children no longer vanish. Straying from his manuscript, his eyes wander to the window. To the thick flakes of white falling softly, to the drowning house among them. Seeking something, he leans back in his office chair, capturing a glimpse of a swing in the neighbor's backyard. It moves with the wind, abundantly flowing over each gust, rising higher and higher. He catches a glimpse of something- no, someone- rising with the swing. A girl in a patterned dress with a head full of blonde. At the sight of her, Mikage spills his beverage all over himself. With the startling heat of the drink, Mikage crashes to the floor. Quickly placing the cup down, he frantically examines the damage. Only to find hot chocolate seeping into his stripped vest, soaking into a lake shape stain. Choosing to forget it, he presses against the window. Through the fogging glass he eyes the yard again. The swing sits still and empty.  

…………………………………………

 

"Mikage? What happened?  What was that noise just now?" Mrs. Ashton,  Mikage's mother, stood in the doorway, a hand rested against the frame with a face of exhaustion and a voice laced with worry. He hated seeing her in such a state, as if she expected him to break so easily.  He was fourteen now and it had been four years since their move here. On top of that two years had passed since he'd recovered from his weak state of health. So she needn't worry. Surely he could manage a little fall on his own.

 

"Nothing mother." He didn't plan to tell her of the nightmares. "Nothing at all." He slowly sat up as he spoke and rubbed the back of his head. "Just didn't realize how small my bed was." He looked up at her from his spot on the ground. Mikage saw how fragile his mother appeared in her silk violet night gown. The light from the hall streamed in around her and across his floor. Her limbs were thin and useless, skin porcelain like, hair piled lusely on her head with strands astray and just enough rouge to tempt workaholic father to bed. She was very much a worry wart when it had come to him.

 

He crawled back in bed, rubbed various hurt places and pulled the covers to his chin. His mother had come up beside him, her presence wavered like that of a ghost. She was delicate and didn't always seem all there to him.

 

"Good night Mikage." Mikage continued to face the wall, worried about just that- the night. He could not remember the last time it was a good night.

 

…………………………………………………...

 

The dark swirls in Mikage’s new hot chocolate gives little comfort as he settles back at his desk. They swirl in dark curls, giving off an appearance of another world beyond it’s sweet taste. Once you get to the bottom though, it composes of clumps of  powder and is hard to swallow with its bitter taste and dry texture. Looking into it different shapes appear, swimming in and out of focus.  He sees something that resembles a face, with dark eyes and a lighter structure.  Someone familiar, someone from a dark dream. Someone from a nightmare. Seeing the face looking up at him reminds Mikage of the nightmares he used to have as a boy.

 

`The crying, that always came first. Dreadful,  fearful, begging cries. Cries of children. Mikage recalls that then he was just a teenager, and those cries resembled that of children his age. The crying continues, but piercing screams join them. He was always surrounded by darkness while both were going on. Though soon after they start, the darkness would part, revealing the all too real carnage that belonged to the screams and cries and above the piles of ripped up boys was the most beautiful beheld beauty. Drenched in glistening blood like a dress and fangs for teeth that were just as red. Even with powerful beauty, there was always an air of an allusion. She was hiding something, but she always just smiled at him, hand extended.

 

Mikage should have connected the nightmares to reality then, but now it no longer mattered.

 

…………………………………………………………….

 

Mikage stumbled down the spiral stairs in a rush. He had less than ten minutes before the bell rang, defining him tardy and he hadn't even left the house yet. His mother had her back to him as he entered the kitchen and seeming to sense his entrance she twirled to him. His lunch dangled in her manicured fingertips while she stretched over the counter. Snatching it from her, he stormed for the door.

 

"Be careful Mikage. Come straight home and don't speak to a soul." He didn't bother replying knowing there would be more. "Recently there have been disappearances... all of boys your age. Please be careful on the way home Love."

 

"Yes, mother dear." He was hardly able to get the words out. His breath had caught at the mention of missing boys. Visions of blood splattered piled bodies raked chills through him. She didn't seem to have noticed the rigidness from his back for she said nothing else. He was out on the wooded path to school in an instant.

 

…………………………………………...

 

Mikage is drawn back to his manuscript laying patiently on the desk.  He needs to get writing since it's do next week. Though looking out the window again he eyes the swing. It's empty seat, longing for a companion as it swings faintly with the breeze. The girl flickers into existence at his thought of her. She was always there, just swinging. Seeming to not have a care in the world. Now just a figment of his imagination.

 

…………………………………………………

 

"Sandee May Scarlet." The name resounded around the room. Not a face showed recognition to the name. No one replied. Mikage looked at the other faces in the room as everyone else did. Silenced ensued till the teacher taped her papers against the desk. As she started marking the name absent, crashing outside caused the door to rattle violently. It slide aside just as violently revealing a girl hunched over huffing. One hand gripped the door for dear life. Blonde locks reached for the floor as they concealed her face, a few strands were pulled back in a tiny braid by her face. The other hand clutched at the straps of her bag that was flung over her shoulder. Her dress was dotted with all kinds of flowers, printed over a deep red. Without looking up she released the door to hold up her hand.

 

"Present!" The class instantly bursted in an uproar. They laughed hysterically from their seats, not even attempting to conceal their boyster behavior.

 

“Ms. Scarlet! Its the first day of school! What kind of impression were you thinking of making?!” The teacher’s voice was a shrill siren that made everyone cringe and retreat to murmurs. Ms. Scarlet or Sandee May looked up at the sound of her voice with a red complexion that continued to crawl to her ears. She was a mystic beauty and Mikage was in love at first sight. She had freckles that dotted every inch of her face, complimenting her wonderfully. Her eyes were turquoise fires; sparks flying and a heat growing in Mikage’s chest. She never glanced in his direction.

 

“It won’t happen again.” She dashed to an empty seat in the corner overlooking the view of the sea and the light house. She wasn’t ever late again.

 

He tried having purposed in counters with her. In a few short weeks he knew the routes she took throughout the school. In a few short weeks he'd gone from a sickly healthed nerd to a healthy stalker nerd. He couldn't believe a girl was capable of driving a man crazy. Except for her path home, he knew her routes. Tonight he thought he'd change that. After the bell, she swiftly left the room. If he didn't watch closely she'd be gone without a trace.

 

In the forest Mikage cautiously followed her. She swiveled gracefully through gnarly tree to the next, almost like a fairy. He wouldn't have been surprised if she sprouted wings. A snap from behind him echoed in the large forest and Mikage instantly turned towards it. Three senior boys stood close behind him. They watched him with devilish grins. Mikage thought they looked like they were hungry, here to devour him whole. One of them grinned wider and licked his lips seductively.

 

Sandee May was probably far out of range in order to hear a desperate scream. Mikage needed to run. He wasn't strong, but he needed to try to get away. No one was going to be able to help him, but himself. He turned swiftly and headed in the direction he'd last seen Sandee May disappear.

 

The forest was a corpse except for the crunch of debris as Mikage and his pursuers raced through. Mikage felt bullets of sweat trail down his covered forehead. He was never one for physical activity, he'd barely been out of the hospital by the age of ten. He lived in the hospital since he was born. The crack of twigs became louder and he felt himself running low. Something gripped onto his hood and then Mikage was flying. His skull vibrated at impact and the lights went out.

 

"Hey there." Pain shot through Mikage eyelids as he peaked up at the speaker. Blonde locks hung like a curtain around his face. Turquoise fire like eyes shined down on him, a subtle smile spread upon a mouth. Freckles dotting every inch of skin. "You are Mikage right?" Sandee May looked down at him, the object of his love and he had nothing intelligent to say.

 

"Ah, yes?" He slowly lifted himself to a sitting position and Sandee May settled in front of him, her legs tucked beneath her. She spread her fingers across her thighs smoothing out her dress. “I mean- yes, I am.”

 

“I’m Sandee May. Nice to meet you.” Her hand stuck out between us like a peace offering. He took it and she shook heartly,a grip like steal. She stared into his face, awkward silence filling the small space that he suspected to be her room. Sandee May’s face glowed with innocence and her eyes smiled with a secret. “So, we should be friends! Want to be friends?” Her smile grew even wider as she released his numbed hand.

 

……………………………………………………………………………………….......................................................................................................................................

 

Mikage watches the snow thicken with its descent, slowly covering his neighbor’s abandoned home. He remembers the days they spent together in it’s decaying interior. The laughs, the cries and the fights. He’d gotten to know her so well since that fateful day. He grips onto the mug tighter with the memories pouring in.

 

He remembers when he first found out that she lived alone. There was parents in the house occasionally when he spent time there, but he had always sensed something false about them. Like they weren’t all there. His mother had had the same feel about her when he was young, but he realizes Sandee’s parents were never like that. They just never felt real to him and they weren’t. Sandee invited Mikage over one night after school to devour pizza and a movie. But while he was in the kitchen with her mother and Sandee in the livingroom, something happened. Mikage was getting ice for their drinks when he dropped one of the cubes. He searched for it, but couldn’t find it. He had given up and walked back to the counter. Instead he slipped on it and fell head first into Mrs. Scarlet’s bracing arms. Except he went through them, right to the floor. Sandee’s mother combusted into trillions of little pieces, glowing little sparks. After confronting Sandee about it, she confessed that she hadn’t any parents, ever.

 

……………………………………………

 

“So you have been lying to me the whole time? All of it!?” Mikage’s voice rose to barely a defiant whisper. He couldn’t believe he just fell through a ghost or whatever Mrs. Scarlet happened to have been. Chills swam through his petite frame as he felt the room grow colder with the thought of her. Sandee May starred up at him through stray hairs with an expression as if the very parents he spoke of had just died.

 

“Yes Mikage, I have been lying to you,” Her face grew darker and her eyes twinkled mischievously with secrets. It suddenly felt like ice was growing up the walls around them, Mikage’s breath came out in white puffs and his teeth began to chatter. A violent storm began to stir. “the whole time.” He stood frozen to the spot as she stepped closer within an inch of his blueing face.

“Why?” The question escaped his mouth too quick to suck back in.

 

“Why? Why!? I’ll tell you why! To make you trust me! To become your friend! Like I really care, but that’s the thing” As she yelled the storm grew stronger and Mikage’s heart grew colder. He felt numb with every word she spoke. “its the only way to get you humans to come with me.” She said the word as if it were poison, as if the very word was laced with the devil itself. He had nothing to say, nothing he wanted to say and it broke his heart. She continued to scream in his face as he felt his legs stiffen like icicles. “I don’t like pizza! Or movies! Or that stringy covered red food that tastes so good!” Her breathing was becoming quick and ragged as she too started to feel the cold. “Oh! You’ve heard about those boys that have gone missing these past couple weeks right?”

 

“Y-YYYes. Mother warned me about them..” Mikage’s voice was hardly a whisper as the cold crept up his throat. Sandee May thrusted her head back as she cackled heartly. She looked possessed; head lulled, hair flying up around her, face cracked in a smile, and a gusting wind spun around her as objects joined the growing storm.

 

“Did she ever warn you about fairies?” Sandee May’s voice came out a slippery velvet as she looked at him, her head tilted to one side, hands spread out, and fingers flexing with untamed power. The flowers on her dress wilted and crumbled to ash into a circle around her. Mikage’s eyes were sauces at the sight of the blood, red dress dripping with carnage. There was no mistaking it, that was the dress from the nightmares he’d been having since the night they came to this town. That would mean that the girl that stood before Mikage was the “She” from his nightmares as well. Then she killed all those boys and… she was going to kill him too. He couldn’t afford to think like that, there had to be good in her. Did she not feel anything for him when she’d saved him?

 

“NO.” A slow smile spread across his face. He felt his voice come back to him as his throat began to thaw. “No, she didn’t. That’s only because fairies are good, they wouldn’t harm a hair on a creature’s head, even if it were for their own benefit. You are good too Sandee May! I’ve seen it!” Mikage’s heart warmed as the cold retreated it’s grasp. The storm slowed and became softer as if the better to hear him.

 

“You…..really think so?” Over her own storm, she was barely audible. Mikage’s smile widened at her careful question. Why of course he thought so, he loved her.

 

“Yes.” He closed the space between them and held out his arms. She fell into them, digging her face into his bony shoulder. “I know you wouldn’t hurt anyone Sandee May.” She stiffened at his words. He was going to reassure her everything was alright, but the words never left his lips. His airway was cut off by delicate, but capable hands. Stumbling back, he gazed down at her blonde head and small frame. She wouldn’t look at him.

 

“But I have. I have hurt people Mikage….everyday that I’m here I do. I’m not one of those goody-two-shoe fairies you read about in Fairy Tales. I bring children to their deaths.” She lifted her head to look at him with water logged eyes. “I’m in with the wrong kinds of Queens.” He knew she needed him to understand that she was evil, but not by choice. She wanted him to say something, but he needed her to release him. He grabbed at her hands as he felt his face change colors. “OH! My goodness, I’m sorry! You should have said something! Of course you couldn’t I was choking you, hahahaha….my bad..” She was scratching the back of her head as she turned tomato. Mikage swiftly brought her to his chest.

 

“It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean to.”



    Saturday night Sandee May asked Mikage to meet her in the woods at the abandoned tree house after dark. When he had arrived there, he waited outside the entrance. He stuffed his hands deep in his pockets and shivered through the wintry breeze. December was upon them and he'd forgotten a coat. He was breathing in his cupped hands as the first flakes of snow began to fall, when Sandee May showed up. A flower tiara of daisies adorned her braided hair, a Queen Anne's lace dress was snug to her form and she was barefoot.

 

"Thanks for coming Mikage."

 

"Um, you're welcome?” He eyed the old tree house with uncertainty. “But Why did we come here?" By its appearance it could collapse at any moment.

 

"We're meeting here because it's the farthest from the Fae plane portal as possible. I don't want our meeting to come to the Royal's ears." She took hold of Mikage’s hand and lead him into the tree house. Little warm flames ignited at her entrance, just floating in mid air. Beneath the dozens of floating flames was a small table with two mushroom stools. A queen sized bed, covered in the same lace as Sandee May’s dress, sat in the low ceilinged corner and clustered in every available space was human nic-nacs. It looked just like a fairy cove to him. Sandee May released Mikage and practically floated to the bed where she plopped. She lay the width of it, spread out like a snow angel. He sat on the end next to her and waited..

 

"I discovered this place on my first night in this world…  I was running around frantic and afraid, having just been dropped here with no explanation on how to survive.” She closed her eyes and moved her arms around on the lace covers. “When I stumbled upon this tree house,...I felt as though I was seeing a reflection of myself. It looked just as alone and afraid as I was… So I stayed with it throughout the night." A smile sneaked it's way to her face. "I ended up renovating it, after I discovered magic worked here."

 

"Why are you telling me this? Don't you get on people's good side just to end with killing them?" The smile slipped from her mouth and she grew perfectly still. She didn't answer, but he knew she was listening. “Why me?”

 

“I don’t know… I mean… when I’m with you, I feel like a better person. I feel like the person I always wanted to be… ” She flung herself over to face him, laying on her side watching his seaweed eyes. Her face was twisted, like the feelings in her words tore her in every direction. Anguish filled every pore of her freckled face. “You make me want to be the hero!” She was suddenly inches from his face. Her eyelashes fluttered shut nervously. Mikage let her sit there waiting for him to meet her halfway. A smile captured his mouth, pulling the corners up. He slowly reached out to trace the side of her face with the back of his trembling hand. She shuddered at his touch, but then leaned against it as a smile spread to her own mouth. Then closing his eyes he leaned in to capture her lips. As his met with her’s gravity seemed to drop and he was floating amongst the flames overhead. Sandee May’s hands grasped both sides of his face as she returned his kiss. She then pulled away so suddenly that Mikage fell forward with surprise. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.” She bit her lip trying to restrain the devilish grin on it.

 

    “Then why did you stop?”

 

    “Because, there is unfinished business for me to attend to.” She rose as she spoke to retrieve a cloak draped over one of the stools. “You have inspired me. I want to be the hero of my own story.” She was grinning from ear to ear as she tied the cloak around her neck and flung the hood over her braid. Turning swiftly she took for the door. Mikage didn’t understand, what was she going to do? What was it she needed to fix, what was unfinished? He rose as well and stalked toward her.

 

    “What is it your going to do?” He held tightly to her wrist, afraid of letting go. Afraid that he would be alone again, that she wouldn’t come back.

 

    “I will be back Mikage and when I do I will explain everything to you. Don’t worry, Love.” As she said that her other hand rested over his before heading out of sight. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning, at the swing. “ Then she was masked within the night…

 

The next morning Mikage found himself asleep in his own bed. He looked groggily around his room trying to recall how he had returned. Then having remembered the night before, rushed to his window, flung back the curtains and knelt there, waiting. Sure enough she was there. She sat on the swing, pumping and gliding along like a bird on the wings of the wind. Gathering height, the wind around her began to blur and it became harder and harder for him to clearly see her. As she rose higher than he’d ever seen someone go, she turned to look in his direction, a smile plastered there and suddenly she vanished. He pressed himself harshly to the window, but no matter how many times he blinked or rubbed his eyes, nothing changed. She was gone.

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

 

Mikage opens the drawer under his desk and pulls out a faded photograph. A blonde covered in freckles smiles at him through turquoise eyes. A younger Mikage is next to her, with just as much glee in his expression. He rubs the photo with his thumbs, a smile forming on his lips.

 

    “Mikage? Darling?” Delicate hands slide down his shoulders to cross over his chest and a airy laugh escapes the tender lips at his ear. “Where did you get that from darling?”

 

“Found it in a draw somewhere, forgotten.” He turns to the woman standing behind him. She has blonde locks flowing down her chest and turquoise eyes smiling with secrets.

 

“I’m guessing you're ready for me to tell you everything now.”  



 

Grade
8

The wind whipped my hair across my face, making it even more difficult for me to see.  I turned around and pulled my bedroom window closed.  I took in the last image I would see of the house I had grown up in.  The memories it brought back encouraged me to go through with the plan.

I used the sleeve of my sweater as a tissue and wiped away the stream of tears running down my cheeks.  How could it have ever gotten this bad?

My hair slapped me in the face, seeming to discipline me for my negative thoughts.  It reminded me of my mother, and I knew the long locks would have to go.

I shoved my hair out of the way, and my eyes locked on the beat up truck sitting in the driveway.  I pushed against the wind, getting closer to my goal with every step.

I climbed into the truck and closed the door as quietly as I could, which was probably one step below slamming it.  I waited 10 seconds in utter silence, fearing that someone may have heard.

When nobody came, I took a deep sigh.  Maybe I’ll be lucky…  Deciding it was time to give my luck another test. I fished the car key out of my pocket, the cold metal like ice in my fist.

I put the key in the ignition and turned it.  The truck rumbled to life, sounding louder than an avalanche.  That’s when the neighbor’s dog started yapping.  When I saw a light flick on, my heart froze.  They always seemed to be the gossips of the neighborhood, and I definitely didn’t want to be the next big topic.  Or did I?  I had been craving attention…

I tore out of the driveway like my life depended on it.  It did, actually.  If I were to get caught, my parents would beat me to a pulp.  I have to get out of here.

Wiping my eyes once more, I drove down the street and headed towards the highway, repeating Glenda’s address in my head over and over again.  

It took me nearly 10 minutes to get out of my town and on the highway.  At the first stop light, I had taken in the innards of the truck.  Beer cans were flung around in the passenger seat, cigarette packets covering every inch of the floor.  I knew a carton of them would be in the glove box, and I also knew my father would have no others for the rest of the week; he would go crazy.  Even more berserk than he was now.  I had never been so thankful for not having siblings.

I pushed the thoughts of my parents to the back of my mind, and observed my surroundings.  One more turn and I’d be on the highway.  Excitement flooded my body.  I’m doing it! I’m finally doing it!  A grin took over my face, this had to be the first real happiness I had felt in months, maybe even years.  I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, and when the tires touched the smooth pavement, it felt like I had crossed boundaries of misery to freedom.  I felt like I was in the clouds.

7 more hours stuck in this piece of junk.  The pessimistic side of my brain poked it’s way through my joy.  I let out a huff.

I turned on the radio,  wanting to rid myself of all thoughts and get lost in the music.  The first thing that came on was the weather forecast.  Probably the only normal thing about my parents.  

I changed the station immediately, searching for a song that I recognized.  Once that was done, I felt like a free spirit, traveling to a new life.

Time passed by faster than I had expected, and soon enough, I was nearly out of gas.  Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t have been an issue, but right now?  Right now I was on a long stretch of road at least 20 miles from the nearest exit.  I had little faith in the truck lasting that long.  After passing 5 more miles, the truck was sputtering to a stop.

I pulled over to the side of the road and let out a groan of frustration.  Why did this have to go wrong?  Why do I have to get punished for trying to save myself?

I sat in the truck for a while longer, letting out my frustration on the steering wheel.  Eventually, that got tiring, so I decided it was time to find a gas station.

I hopped out of the truck, landing on the hard pavement.  I would give anything to have the sun come up right now.

It had only been 2 seconds and my paranoia already had the best of me.  I couldn’t help but glance back every 30 seconds, getting more frightened the farther away the truck was.  By the time it was a mere speck in the distance, I had started jogging, wanting to get somewhere safe as quickly as I could.

My whole life I had had a fear of the dark, and right now, it was only making things a million times worse.  Why couldn’t the truck die in the daylight?

The whole time, my paranoia seemed to be chanting, “You’re gonna die, you’re gonna die, someone’s gonna pop out of nowhere and you’re gonna die.”  I started running.

When I came across the first sign, it told me I had 10 more miles to go.  I sat down next to the sign, leaning my back against one of the poles.  The cool metal soothed my aching muscles.  

I wiped the sweat from my forehead, then curled up into a ball and sobbed.  It was all so stupid.  How was I ever going to make it to Tennessee this way?

After weeping for a while, I decided that it’d be better to stay on the move than just sit in one spot.  I pushed myself up off the ground, wiping the dust from my clothes and the tears from my eyes.  I took in a shaky breath and started dragging my feet across the beginning of 10 miles.

The first car I had seen in ages drove past me, throwing pebbles across my legs.  At least it wasn’t mud.  The optimistic side of my mind tried to cheer me up, although it didn’t do much.

The journey to the exit seemed to drag by, and I was beginning to think that the exit didn’t exist.  That’s when I saw a sign in the distance.  I picked up my pace, taking on a power walk.  In 5 minutes, I learned that I had 5 more miles to go.  I let out a loud groan.  Why does the world hate me so much?  Why can’t I just magically teleport to the stupid gas station?  I just want to get to Glenda’s house!

I closed my eyes, taking in deep breaths to calm myself.  After a few seconds, I opened my eyes, and took off at a jog.  During that time I did a great deal of thinking about my future plans.  First of all, I will never let the gas get so low again.  Second of all, I should probably get something to eat.  Third of all, I may need to call Glenda to get directions.  I could stop somewhere and get a map, though.  That would probably lower some unnecessary risks.  Map it is then.

15 minutes later, I was back to dragging my feet across the ground.  I should’ve worked out more.  My regrets showed through my sweaty back and heaving chest. Who would’ve thought running away would be so difficult?

Finally, I had made it to a gas station.  I pushed my way through the door, finding a tall, middle aged man behind the counter.

“Good mornin’ ma’am.”  He nodded at me, and I forced out a smile towards him.

“Do you happen to sell gas cans?  I had to walk 15 miles to get here because my truck ran out of gas.”  It would’ve been impossible to keep the distress from my voice.

“I do believe we may have some over down the 5th aisle,” he pointed towards a row of maps and miscellaneous objects, “but if we don’t, I can lend ya one, Miss, and a ride back if ya need.”  His southern accent somehow made the offer seem less like hitchhiking and more like a ride with a friend. I knew I’d be taking him up on his offer.

“Thank you so much.  I would really appreciate that.”  I grinned at him as I made my way over to the aisle the cashier had pointed me to.

I grabbed a map of Tennessee as a state and of each of the most popular cities, one of which my only hopes resided in.  I then scavenged the aisle for any gas cans, finding absolutely none.  I let out a deep sigh.  I hated having to ask people for favors, it always made me feel like I was in debt to them.

“Hello mister uh,” I searched his shirt for a name tag, “James?” He looked up at me, or rather down seeing as he was much taller than me.

“Yes ma’am?”

“Do you think you could, uh, possibly give me a ride to my truck and, um, let me borrow a gas can?  I would really appreciate it.”  I stuttered my question, glancing around the room.  

“Of course!” he smiled at me, “Just let me go an’ get ma gas can real quick, I’ll be back in a jiffy.”  With that, he sauntered out the door and to the only vehicle in the parking lot, retrieving a red can and returning to the store, “I’ll be in here while you get yourself some gas.”

I quickly left after giving him my thanks.  Soon enough, I had payed for the gas and we were back to my truck.  

“Thank you so much James.”  I told him as I poured the last of the gas into the truck.

“Anytime.”  he replied with a short smile before heading back to the gas station.  

Now perhaps I can get the rest of the way to Glenda’s house without anymore unnecessary interruptions.

I climbed into the truck, started it, then headed on my way, taking a look at the maps at nearly every stop.

It took me nearly 7 more hours before I ended up pulling into Glenda’s driveway, including my short nap and stops for food.  I let out a sigh as I parked my truck.  I sat there for a moment, thinking about what was to come.  Will she really let me stay or was that just the dreamer in me hoping?  I’d have nowhere else to go…

Nervousness creeped through my body, eventually filling all the nooks and crannies.  I took in a deep breath and then climbed out of the vehicle.

I made my way to the door on wobbly legs, my arms crossed in front of me to stop them from shaking.  What if she tells me to leave just like everyone else?  I shook my head, trying to remove my negative thoughts.  She’s my best friend, she’d never do that to me.

With that in mind, I marched up to the door and tapped one, two, three times.  I held my breath as I waited.

After what seemed like an eternity, someone answered the door.  Someone that was in baggy jeans, a flannel shirt, and short hair accompanying it.  Someone that was most definitely not Glenda.

My eyes widened and my heart beat sped up. Oh my god, what am I gonna do?  Am I at the wrong house?  That’s impossible, I followed all the right directions, didn’t I?

“What do you want?”  The stranger snapped at me.  That definitely did not help with my panicking.

“Um…” c’mon, just ask if Glenda lives here, it’s as simple as that.  The thing is, it wasn’t that simple.  My tongue felt like separate from my body, and there was no way I could possibly form a sentence with it.

“Sometime today.” The man standing in the doorway said impatiently.  I felt my neck heat up, god, just say something useful! Stop wasting this man’s time!

“Does, uh, Glenda live here by chance?”  I squeaked out, glancing down at my shoes as I asked.

“Glenda?  Glenda Lee?”  He finally lost the snarl, a shocked look replacing it.

“Yeah.”  I confirmed, hope beginning to erase my nerves.  Maybe I got the right house after all.

“I’m a friend of hers from college and I’m watching her house while she’s gone.” The guy informed me.

“Gone?  What do you mean gone?  When will she be back?”  I asked in a rush of panic.  What am I supposed to do if she’s not here? Where am I supposed to go?

“She’s visiting her family ‘cause of an emergency.  What’s it to ya?”  Back to snappy.

“Um… She’s a family friend and I was going to surprise her by visiting for the weekend.”  I spit out the first lie that I could conjure.  He seemed to buy it, thankfully.  

“Well, she won’t be back for a while.  You should’ve called her before deciding to show up randomly.”  That’s when he started closing the door, and my desperate mind made it’s final decision.

“I need to stay here,”  I forced the words out as I grabbed for the door before he could shut it, “I, uh, I wasn’t really trying to surprise her…”

“Any idiot would’ve been able to guess that.”  The stranger rolled his eyes at me, his harsh humor igniting a temper I had inherited from my oh so lovely parents.

“Listen bud,”  I began, my anger only rising when he began to laugh at me, “not all of us can get lucky and have the perfect little family and the perfect little life.  Some of us have real problems and don’t have the energy to deal with ignorant people like yourself.  Now, either let me inside, or let me borrow a phone to call Glenda so she’ll tell you to let me inside.”  I let out a huff when he just leaned against the door and smirked at me.

“That was a real nice speech you made up there, but there's no way I’m letting you inside my friend’s house, especially with a psychotic attitude like that.”  He easily denied me.  I couldn’t believe he was just going to leave me to my own defenses out here on the streets.

I should’ve known that anything I could possibly think of would actually work.  I was stupid to think things would actually work in my favor.  Tears started to well up in my eyes, and I looked down in hopes that he wouldn’t notice. Nobody can ever see just how weak I am.

Against my feeble attempts, he had obviously noticed that I was about to cry.  Why else would he have suddenly had a change of attitude.

“Listen,”  the stranger began, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’ll lend you my phone, and you can call Glenda.  If she says you can come in or stay or whatever, I’ll let you…”  He finished reluctantly.

“Really?”  I sounded, and probably looked, like a child that had just realized their parents were finally taking them to Disney World.  He then pulled his phone out of his pocket, dialled Glenda’s number, and handed the phone to me.

The next few moments consisted of me explaining everything to Glenda, and her telling the guy, who I found out was named Ryan, to let me stay as long as I needed.  I had never felt so happy in my entire life.

Ryan eventually hung up the phone with a sigh, then surprisingly offered to help me bring my things in.

“Um, thanks, but I only brought one small bag.  I can handle it.”  I declined.

“Whatever.”  he replied, turning away from me and walking back into the house.  He left the door open, and I closed it behind me after I retrieved my bag.  Ryan then showed me around the house, it was very modern yet quirky, just like Glenda.  It felt like home.

Soon enough,  I was settled in and in the guest bedroom that I’d be staying in for who knows how long.  

“Thanks, Ryan.”  I told him as he walked by the doorway.

“Uh, yeah.” he replied, probably having no clue why I was thanking him.  I’m not even sure I knew why, I was just thankful to be there.

The moment passed as soon as it appeared.  I walked over to the doorway and closed the door, wanting to change into more comfortable clothes and sleep forever.

 

I quickly changed into the only pair of pajamas I had brought and dragged myself to the bed in the corner of the room.  I climbed into the bed in a sleepy stupor, falling asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

Grade
11

            I can’t say how long the Other had been inside of me. Maybe a week, maybe an eternity. I didn’t know much besides that it was there. Really it didn’t matter. Not after I’d left home and started toward that rock concert. Well, no. Scratch that. It did matter, because the rock concert was just a cover. An excuse to make it seem that I had a destination. Really, I had no idea where It was pulling me. I just knew it was in control.

            The rain plooped and plopped, which for some terrible reason reminded me of gumdrops. I hated those things. Despite the fun colors, despite the sugar, I hated them. Or did I? Did the Beast hate them? I couldn’t tell.

            Headlights appeared in the distance and I found myself sticking out my thumb. A simple gesture, but why? I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t answer why I had no car in the first place. Didn’t I own one? No, no that’s right I didn’t. Mom and Dad had refused to buy me one. I’d refused to raise the money for one. And so that’s why it only had this as Its transport. My own two feet.

            To my horror the car stopped. An old pickup truck, red and battered, with steel peeling off it like blood. I was mortified. I couldn’t let this thing get out! Why had I hailed this poor fellow over? Why had I stuck out my thumb!?

            “Yeah?” he said, rather softly. He had a mop of hair, thick glasses, and reeked of beer. His eyes were the worst though. They pierced me, and I was slightly worried they’d see the Monster. The Monster was slightly worried that they’d see It. Neither of us could tell. “You want a ride?”

            Everything in my mind screamed no.

            The infestation in my soul whispered, “Yes.” Free of the gumdrops, It felt safe. I felt dead.

            We sat in silence. The driver was an odd fellow, I could tell right away. He wasn’t exactly drunk, but he’d been drinking. The empty beer cans strewn about could attest. There was a steely edge about him that made me think he was used to the side effects. Too used to them.

            “What’s ya’ name?” he asked, slurring only slightly.

            “Steve,” I replied. I was compelled too. “How ‘bout you?”

            “Jeff.” And then as if for reassurance: “Jeff Dahmer.”

            The name carried no clout with me. It meant nothing for the Creature.

            “Where ya’ headin’?” Jeff asked as a follow-up.

            “Lockwood Corners,” I said, again compelled to give up this information. But by what? The Thing? Jeff’s charisma? God knows he probably lived in his mother’s basement.

            “Ah, yeah, the Corners,” Jeff said as if I’d immediately recalled a thousand and one precious memories. “Rock concert going on over there, ain’t it?”

            “Yes,” I said.

            “Looks like shit weather for it though,” he said, peering up through the windshield at the starless sky.

            “Yes.”

            “You thirsty?” He took a swig from a half-empty beer can in the cup holder next to him. I just knew he was going to crash. I wanted out. I begged the Beast for out. I was denied.

            “No.”

            “Really? Shame, it really is. Gotta’ whole ‘nother six pack back at the house. Two actually. Hear that? One for you, one for me!” He said it as if it were the greatest thing in the world. I forced the bile back down my throat.

            “No, honestly I’m alright. If you could—ah!” A sharp pain hit my chest. I clutched for it, but there was nothing there. Just my skin, cold, wet, and clammy. Jeff gave me a funny look, but I waved it off.

            “Just one of those weird pains, you know? I think I broke my collarbone as a kid or something.”

            “Yeah, broke it…” His eyes were back on me, and I could feel the truck drift toward would surely be all three of our deaths. “How, might I ask?”

            “Huh?” was my feigned response. How did someone break a collarbone? Dumb luck?

            “How’d you break it? Just curious is all.”

            “Oh, a, uh, freak accident. Yeah, round the house. Fell off a ladder.”

            “Really?” His eyes knew I was lying.

            “Yes,” I said slowly, which for some reason It thought would be more convincing.

            “Humph,” was the short breath. “You sure you don’t want a beer or something? It could be fun.”

            “Yes, I’ll have one,” I felt it slip like putty through my fingers. It had squeezed the response out, and in Jeff’s demeanor I saw no way I could take it back.

            “Great,” he said, a genuine smile crossing his face. That set me at ease a bit. Didn’t it?

            The ploop, plop began to taper off and as I found my feet mechanically moving out of the truck and toward the darkened house at the end of a lonesome highway, I smelt the freshness of the place. The Monster turned up its nose, and I tried to drink as much of it in as I could. The gumdrops had washed all away, and I could sense a renewal all over. Except for Jeff, and for the first time It really realized this. He was a black hole drawing life from everything he touched.

            “Come on,” he urged, waving a hand toward me. “It’ll be cool!” Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, through the door, down a hallway, around a corner, and into a living room. A TV was there, its screen blue. As there were no other lights, the machine doused the room in a sapphire bath. There on the table was the eponymous beer Jeff had spoken so highly of, side by side with two thirty pound dumbbells.

            The contrasting light and shadow made Jeff’s face look gaunt. Thin. Stretched. His jaw hit the floor, his forehead the ceiling. He was this anamorphic ghost come to eat my soul. The Snake felt a tinge of something then. A tinge of fear most likely. I know I was petrified.

            “Go ahead,” Jeff motioned, stretching out an equally ghastly hand. “Take one. Or two if you like!” He jumped over the couch there in that living room with all the grace of a well refined tiger. He stretched out his claws and clasped the cardboard of one of the packs. Tearing into it with a tenacity unparalleled in any other endeavor. I could bear it no longer when he turned his head, ever so slowly, his smile leaving just as laggardly.

            “Don’t you want to have fun?”

            “I-I-I, got ta’ piss.”

            “First door on the left.” Following the direction of his bony finger, I used all of my remaining courage not to sprint. I was sure he could smell fear, just like the aforementioned tiger.

            I fumbled for a light switch, found it, and looked into the mirror. I was a mess. My blonde hair was pointing every which way, my plain red T-shirt was stuck to my body, and mud caked the cuffs of my jeans and the soles of my shoes. What the hell was I doing? Where the hell was I? Just in the middle of Nowhere, Ohio, with some psycho. Alone with some psycho.

            And then It wriggled and writhed and let me know it was there inside. I jumped, startled, and smacked my hand on the towel rack as I did. Blood flowed outwards, and I looked down at it. It was bright, cherry red, yet there was something wrong. It wasn’t my own. Not entirely anyways. Fro the Thing had yelped in anguish too, and then Our rage became One. Who was he to do this to Us? WHO WAS HE! There was something wrong with him, clearly. We wanted no part of it. Before, It had wondered if maybe Jeff’s useless body could be of some use. No more. We would walk five hundred miles in the gumdrops if only to avoid Jeff.

And then Our courage evaporated outside, back in the living room. Our anger remained, but the drive to act was gone.

“How was it in there bud?” As if we’d known one another all our lives.

“Great,” I muttered. Again, We (now it was most certainly We) felt driven to walk around the couch, take a seat, and bask in the eerie glow with him.

“Here,” he said passing me a beer. I grasped it, though I didn’t want too. We couldn’t handle anymore of this. It wanted out.

I popped the tab, sipped, and sighed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I grited my teeth to lie. It howled at this. What was doing this to Us. Who was controlling Us?

“Nothing. Are you sure?” Jeff inquired, soothingly, caringly. His lean build said otherwise. He was as taut as a tightrope. Ready to pounce. Ready for the kill. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” We replied, a smile shoved upon Our face. “Why would We be?”

The temperature dropped, and Jeff’s eyes rolled back into his head. I’m sure We screamed. Well I, not It, but We did. We screamed. Only the room remained silent. Maybe it was the psychedelic wallpaper absorbing it all, maybe the TV blue. Whatever it was, We heard nothing.

“What’s the matter, Steve?” Jeff asked, only the whites of his eyeballs visible. “Are You All, not having any fun? That’s a shame. I like my guests to have fun. Here have another.”

Frozen, I couldn’t take the can he offered me. I couldn’t move my hand. I wouldn’t have been able to hang on tight enough.

“Take the can, Steve,” Jeff cooed, his skeleton frame fidgeting and jerking. It was all terrifically gothic. We couldn’t.

“Take the goddamn can!” He threw it at me, at Us, at We, with all the force he could muster. His voice had changed. It wasn’t his own anymore, but Something Else’s. That’s when I realized my It, wasn’t the only one. There were two of Them. One in him, One in me. Jeff, Steve, and Co.

The can had hit Us in the arm, and there was a definite mark on it.

“Get out bastard!” he shouted. “Leave you stinking Hellspawn.”

“Speak for yourself,” Our voice croaked, though not my own anymore. It would seem that Jeff and Steve had been purposely excluded from this bit. “This vessel is mine, and so is that one!”

“No, no, no,” Jeff’s It pouted. “He’s mine. He’s got a terribly dark head, you know, and I want it! I got here first!”

“Damn it, I want it worse! And I’ll take the rotten thing from you whether you relinquish it or not!”

My hand clutched for the dumbbell, while Jeff swung to punch me. I ducked, he overstepped, and my fist came back around clutching the iron. Luck would have it though, he fell flat on his face, and I over-swung. He was on his feet just as fast, before landing a punch at my gut. I went flopping to the floor.

“I’m not afraid of you, Rangda,” We piped up.

“Really, Tannin? Ha! I could smell your fear from that shit bowl these creatures use. You are very afraid indeed!” But We weren’t, that was just it. We were angry. Terribly angry. This vile demon had drawn Us to his lair, and yet he had shown no courtesy. No common hospitality! Even We demons could appreciate brotherhood! My fist raised still clenching the weight. With a screech, We were upright, charging, and throwing everything we had at Them. We swung, we brought it down with all Our might.

Jeffrey Dahmer caught it with his hand, as if They’d done it a million times before. As if it were easy. Just as fast he brought the other dumbbell at me, launching it at my left temple. He connected, and We crumpled to the ground. He was over us then. He beat us, repeatedly, with the weight, and We cried out, repeatedly, for it all to stop.

And then It was gone. I can’t even be certain where It left, just as I was never certain when It had arrived. One moment, We were inseparable. The next, separated. But Jeff and his It (Rangda, as had been the name) continued to bludgeon me. I cried out for mercy. In the name of the Lord, mercy! There was only a chuckle, as Their hallow eyes found me one last time.

“Yes, this one has a dark mind, indeed.”

Grade
10

    I woke up to the stale smell of the bus seat, it reeked of tobacco and bodily fluids. Groggy, I looked out the windows to see where I was. Well, to see anything for that matter. But there was nothing. Just white. White? I started to frantically look around, only to see a toothless lady giving me her best cheshire smile, four inches from my face. She smelled of printing ink and wore a tight fit apron. Only an apron, how curious. What is wrong with this woman? How many drugs is she on? Her presence began to make me nauseous and all I wanted was for her to go away, at least to a different seat. My hands began to clam up as I clenched my teeth and squeezed my eyes shut. When I released my eyes of their own corset, the lady was floating, and her gums formed into blades as her eyes became hollow. She opened her mouth and influenced by many horror movies, I expected a gut wrenching shriek, but only heard her vocal chords imitate an old, creaky staircase. I could even hear feet ascending each stair. Left. Right. Left. Right.

    I woke up in a puddle of my own sweat, my baby blue sheets a now sopping, navy blue mess. This was how it was every day. Every day I had the same dream of the odd woman. Everyday I woke up frantic and sweating, and everyday, I had to care for Mum. Knowing that she must have been hungry, I quickly showered then rushed to make breakfast. She only likes toast, no butter or jam or anything on it, just toast, cut into ten equal rectangles. I brought it to her on her favorite Conway Twitty china plate. It’s peculiar, she doesn’t even like Conway Twitty, or music at all for that matter, but in all fairness, many things were strange about Mum. She had all these quirks that assimilated into ways of appeasing her infinite superstitions and paranoia. As I approached her room, I knocked on her door nine times. The only way I am allowed to knock on her door. She began to whistle, signaling me to come in. Her room was brown. Everything. The tv set, the sheets, ceiling, duvet, drapes, everything. Mum smiled at me from her bed that was lumpy from being stuffed with sprigs of eucalyptus. She believed it warded off the “evil ones” as she once put it. Clearly longing for her toast, I handed it to her and backed away, standing behind the blue line of painter’s tape she’d stuck on her floor. She doesn’t like me too close when she is eating.

    Out of nowhere, Mum began to sob hysterically, quickly I sat on the edge of her bed and held her hand. This seemed to calm her down for a moment, she stroked my hand with her thumb and looked up into my eyes, as if she were examining something. Then she acted in a way that I had not been expecting, she had let out a wail of pure terror. Shaking, she attempted to speak. I leaned in, Mum hadn’t spoken in three years. I do not know why she became mute, but she did.  All my mother seemed able to do was croak, I hushed her and brought her hands to my lips to plant a kiss. Her hands smelled of rubber cement and a little bit of something else, lilac maybe. She freed her fragile hands from my loose grasp and gripped the sides of my head. Mum began to sway her arms, moving my head back and forth rhythmically. I thought she’d been imagining a song playing in her head, at least something semi-reasonable, but she began chanting beneath her breath. After her chant, she grabbed a scalpel from her nightstand and gripped my arm. I began to panic as she brought the small blade to my freckled skin. I didn’t move though, I was curious as to what she wanted to do. She proceeded to cut a symbol into my skin, kissed it, then whispered “For protection, my child.” I’ve never seen the symbol before, it seemed old. Why would it protect me? What do I need protection from?

    “Mother. Protection from what? Where did you get the scalpel? Go to bed, you aren’t right today, less so than usual.” I rambled on attempting to convince myself, more so than my mother, that there was nothing to fear.

    “They are coming Zerxes, they are coming.”

    At this i began to heave. Who was coming? What did they want? My name is not Zerxes? Mum always had strange outbursts, but nothing like this.

    “I can only protect you so long, my child.”

    I decided my mother’s condition was simply worsening. I called the doctor to schedule a time he can visit, then put some antiseptic and bacitracin on my new protection cut. Subsequently, I went to the store to get myself some ibuprofen for my headache, and of course some more bread for Mum’s morning toast. I walked to the store, for it was just a mile away. The store’s sign that read “Welcome!” was faded and quickly rusting. I walked inside quickly, wanting to get home to Mum before lunch time.

    Walking down aisle two, I felt a small hand grip my shoulder. I turned to see a young girl whom possessed a type of inhumane youth and beauty, accompanied by an aura of authority. “Zerxes, my beloved, you have gotten handsome.” I gasped at her statement.

    “But. But, my name is not Zer-”, I was cut off by a swift blow to the face from the young girl, followed by an aggressive darkness.

    I woke up to the smell of the bus seat, it reeked of tobacco and bodily fluids. I looked out the window to see where I was. My home. Relieved, I stepped away from my seat and into the aisle. Something didn’t feel right, I don’t remember getting on a bus. Nevertheless, once I reached the front, I turned to thank the driver, except, there wasn’t a driver. I shrugged it off, perhaps he went on break or something. I walked up to my house, the gutter was falling and the mailbox was rusted, I thought, I should probably fix those soon. I opened the door slowly and saw something I hadn’t expected. A ten story spiral staircase. In the living room of our ranch style home. Out of curiousity, I moved up the stairs, sluggishly. Each step I took let out a chorus of creaks from the aging stairs. Left. Right. Left. Right. After what seemed like years, I reached the top, only to see the hallway to Mum’s room. The hallway that used to be at ground level. I would have liked to find some reasonable explanation, but there was not a single one.

    I knocked on Mum’s door, nine times, and heard a faint whistle. Opening the rotting door, I saw white. Lots of it. The room was no longer brown. I looked up and saw Mum’s empty bed and raced to it. Now, up close, the bed didn’t seem so empty. There was a group of girls laying upon it. A toothless girl. A girl who only wore an apron with no other garments. A girl whose scent of ink pierced my nose. A blind girl, with grey, seemingly empty eyes. A floating girl. And lastly, a girl with blades for teeth. Six girls. In synchronization, they said. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t find you, did you Zerxes? Come. Time to return home.” The girls combined, intertwined, and melted together. All forming one girl. A specific one perhaps, but not how I’d expect. I expected them whilst in their combination to morph into the woman I see when I sleep. Instead, I saw the beautiful, young girl from the supermarket. She spoke, “Come Zerxes, it’s time you see me somewhere other than a nightmare, let’s go to a dream.”

 

Grade
9

Carefully, Phillip poured the golden powder into the jar, making sure that not even the smallest grain escaped the glass confinement.  His five and six year-old sons, Jacob and Wilhelm, watched curiously.

 

“Father, what is that powder you pour every day?”  Jacob, the eldest, stood up on his toes to view the high shelf of jars that he could not yet reach.

 

Phillip smiled.  “Perhaps in a few years, my son.”  Jacob, making a face, let out a huff.  But his attention was not one to be held for more than a few seconds, and before long, he had run out to the field to play.

 

And while Philip went to his room to retire for a nap, the young Wilhelm arched and craned his neck, trying in vain to catch a glance at the mystifying jars on the shelf.

 

He could not see what occurred up above, but as he moved, the contents of the jars swirled and twisted, as if coming alive, just for him.

********

 

She ran, as fast as her legs could carry her.  The wolf was behind her, close behind, and she knew that he was to catch up soon.  She should have given up, should have just never tried to deliver the letter in the first place, but for some foolish, foolish reason, she had not.

 

And she ought to warned Hunter, too.  If she had, he wouldn’t be lying in pieces, all over the cottage - an arm in the living room, a foot on the bed, everything else in the wolf’s stomach.

 

The crisp night air was supposed to help her breathe better, to help her to keep on running until she finally reached her safe haven, but the heavy crimson cloak on her back caught the wind and the branches, and slowed her down.

 

She longed to rip it off, to cast it into the foreboding woods, but she could not.  It had been sewn, stitch by painful stitch, onto both her shoulders.  She wondered now, as it tore agonizingly into her flesh, why it was her that had to have thick, twisted scars that served as the seam to her cloak and her shoulders.

 

There was a loud crash, and the sound of shattering glass exploded from behind her.  Although her mother had warned her to never look back when running, she did so nonetheless.

 

And that night, the very last night she would ever bear that crimson cloak, she turned, and she saw -

 

Shimmering dust, the deep red of scarlet, glittering, despite the infinite dark.

********

 

           Wilhelm could not sleep.  His father was gasping and thrashing around in the adjacent room, and the desperate cries that escaped him brought chills to Wilhelm’s spine.  He’d always been a light sleeper, and listening to the sounds of his father’s endless nightmares never ceased to wake him.

 

Seven years had already passed since his father begun to collect those sparkling, multi-colored powders.  And seven years had passed since his father filled the night with those haunting wails.  It was time, Wilhelm Wilhelm decided, to find out what exactly those strange jars were full of.

 

So he crept out of the bed, silently and cautiously, careful not to wake Jacob.  He took small, tentative steps, stepping only on the parts of the floor that did not creak.  The cottage that they lived in was a modest one, and it did not take long for him to reach his father’s bedroom.

 

He slowly pushed open the door, and entered the room.  As he expected, Philip was sweating heavily, and his sheets were tossed about him.  But then something caught his eye - there was a thin dusting of glitter upon his father’s nose and lips.  The powder was a dark shade of green, exactly matching the constituents of the the jar on Phillip’s nightstand.

 

Was this some strange concoction that his father hoped to improve his health?  If so, it was a rather useless one; it certainly did nothing to cure the dreams that plagued him.

Wilhelm, determined to finish his task through to the end, silently padded across the room to the nightstand.  He dipped a finger into the jar, and smeared it under his nostrils.  Anticipating some sort of agony, he held his breath, but nothing came.

 

Finally, when he could hold it no longer, he exhaled.  Perhaps the powders only had an effect on grown men.  He stepped back, ready to leave, when Philip suddenly moved.  Wilhelm inhaled sharply, afraid that his father would catch him.

 

Suddenly, he felt his limbs stiffen, and a wave of heat washed over his body.  He toppled over, and before he even hit the floor, he was fast asleep, and dreaming.

 

And when he dreamed, not even Phillip’s frantic shaking could stop wake him from his nightmares.

********

 

The rose was completely and utterly dead.  Adam paced, his claws curling into his palms.  He was a prince, not a beast, and it could not end like this.  How could the petals have fallen so quickly, so suddenly?  Unless the crone who cursed him had lied, the ensorcelled flower was supposed to stayed alive for years.

 

It had to be the witchcraft of that girl, the newest addition to his staff.  She was beautiful, hypnotically so, nicknamed Beauty by all his other servants. Yet there was something odd, something strange, about the way her eyes would flash when she saw him, and the abnormal sharpness of her incisors.  But what scared him most was the rapidly disappearing servants.  Chip, a young cook, had been the first to disappear.  He’d left, without even a word to his mother.  Adam had assumed Chip was simply hoping to set up a better life for him and his lover, Margarita.

 

But when Cogsworth, an older, kindly gentleman, went out into the courtyard for an evening stroll, and never returned, Adam began to worry.  There were certainly wolves who lived in the woods, but even then, how could they have possibly scaled the towering iron gates?

 

His suspicion for Beauty began when he had seen her one night, reading over the strange, antiquated books that she locked away in a small metal box.  He did not mean to intrude upon her privacy, but Ms. Hyes, one of his older workers, had encouraged him to pay Beauty a visit.  After all, the entire household had whispered that perhaps Beauty would be the one to break the curse.

 

When he arrived at her door, he had lain his eyes on her - and could not look away.  She’d been so mesmerising - so utterly mesmerising.  The moon had cast a an ethereal glow over the ivory of her skin, and her hair was a velvet curtain draped over her shoulder.

 

Then she’d sensed his presence, and looked up.  But her eyes were not the soft brown he’d expected.  They were a yellow, an unnatural kind of yellow, and the whites of her eyes were a dark onyx.

 

A knock on the wall penetrated the spell of his thoughts.

 

“Master Adam?”  The voice was male, breathless and hoarse.  Only one person in this castle could become so winded on a short walk up the stairs - Lumiere.

 

Adam turned his head to look over his shoulder, but immediately proceeded to spin his entire body around when he was greeted with the bloody mess that was Lumiere.  Grisly wounds tore across his chest, and fresh blood lined the gashes along his jaw.

 

“My Prince,” Lumiere panted, his split lip hanging at a bizarre angle, “I have come to save you.”  He stumbled, falling onto his knees, and Adam rushed to his side.

 

“Lumiere!”  Adam slung an arm around his butler’s waist, attempting to keep him upright, but Lumiere pushed him away.

 

“Before I die, Your Majesty, you must grant me one last wish.”  Lumiere fumbled around his pocket, and retrieved a small glass vial.  Inside was what looked to be sparkling green dust, catching even the dim lamplight.

 

“Do you wish for me to pour this with your ashes?”  When the butler lurched forward once more, Adam reached out to help, but Lumiere pushed him away again.

 

“Move back, your Majesty.”  Taken by surprise, Adam took staggered three steps back towards the table where the dead rose lay.  The moment he retreated from the soft glow of the candles, Lumiere lifted the vial high into the air.

 

“You were a wonderful Prince, Your Majesty.”

 

And then he shattered the vial at Adam’s feet.

********

 

Phillip kneeled before the the dead Rapunzel.  Her long, golden hair was now greasy and dull, and a thick, purple bruise adorned her neck.  It was obvious that she had been suffocated.  Her eyes, a blue the color of robins’ eggs, were devoid of life.

 

He found it a pity, the fact that the daughter of a king had been reduced to this.  Alone, lost, and yearning for a prince that would never come.  She had died young, never to see the world beyond the stone tower she occupied.

 

That was what the powder was for.  It took her story - her nightmare of a story - and embodied itself in the fine, enchanted particles.

 

Philip could have, like his father, buried the jars along with their horrific stories, yet he found himself unable to do so.  Unwilling to simply erase a life that had once been.  

 

So he took the nightmares for himself.  He breathed them in and lived them again, engraving every grisly detail into his very soul.  It was pure torture, every single moment of it, but at the very end, there was a light.  It would overtake him, invading every inch of his body, and it would whisper, “The story belongs to you, Philip Grimm.  You control the endings.”

 

And he did exactly that.  One by one, he transformed each and every gruesome second of their memories into wondrous fairy tales.

********

 

The clock struck midnight, and it began.

 

Figures dressed in all black dropped from the ceiling, slipping in between every crack of the palace. They carried swords - large, heavy ones, ones that were foreign and strange to the guests inside the Glass Palace.  

 

“Guard the slippers!”  The Prince, slightly drunk, but still handsome and commandeering, began to run towards the balcony, the royal guards close behind.  The glass slippers, a family heirloom, had to be guarded at all costs.  They were a gift from an enchantress, and they brought wealth and power to the Glass Palace.

 

A moan escaped from below the Prince’s feet, and he glanced downwards to see a young girl that had gotten caught under the stampede.  A red gash marked her nose, and her eyes had rolled up into her head.  He contemplated saving her, but then noticed that her nose was far too large for her face.  

 

“Perhaps if you were prettier.”  He shook his foot, freeing it of her tangled skirts, then continued up the stairs.  His guards, stalled by the large crowd, had fallen behind, but he cared not.  If he lost the slippers, he would lose his kingdom.

 

He was fast, spectacularly fast, but a girl in black had already reached the slippers.  Her filthy fingers slid over every inch of the glass casing, hoping to find a way to reach the treasure inside.  The Prince smirked at her idiocracy.  The fool did not know that one good blow could have destroyed the thin glass.

 

The girl’s back was turned to him, so he took the opportunity to walk up behind her.  She did not even notice him, and for a moment, he considered playing around.  Her profile was certainly very unpleasant, and ugly girls were always the easiest ones to tease.

 

But the slippers were at stake, regardless how simple this girl seemed, so he took no time in dragging out the affair.

 

He placed both hands on either side of her head, and twisted.  There was a sharp snap, and her lifeless eyes faced him.  He recognised the face, and it took him a moment to realize who it was - it was Cinder, the hideous servant girl who relentlessly followed him around the palace.

 

“Quite a relief, to be rid of that monstrosity.”  He wrinkled his nose in disgust.  The only reason he’d ever kept Cinder around was because her step-sisters had been so pretty.

 

With a careless shove, he pushed her lifeless body off the balcony.  He was about to leave, when he realized that he could have pushed her body into his mother’s treasured gardens.  He would surely be punished if he had.

 

He leaned over the railing of the balcony, and cringed when he realized that Cinder had, indeed, landed among his mother’s apprized petunias.  The only consolation was that there was a strangely dressed man, leaning over her body.  His eyes widened as the man smashed a jar full of dark purple powder over her body.  

 

Had been anyone else’s body being disgraced, he would have rushed down to save them.  But it was Cinder, ugly, little Cinder, and she deserved the fate that she was dealt.  Besides, he thought to himself, as justification for his actions, if someone looked that hideous, surely they had committed a heinous crime in their previous life.  

********

 

The scene that lay before him was far more horrific than any monster that had ever beleaguered his imagination.

 

There was blood, everywhere, caked over and flowing from the bodies of the hundreds of thousands of people.  No, no, they were not people - they were far too short.  He bent down, to get a closer look at one of the slightly less gory bodies, and found that it had rough, coarse skin that had been darkened by the sun.

 

Wilhelm did not want to walk around, to go further into the massacred village, but some sort of mysterious force lifted his feet, moving him deeper and deeper into the midst of the bodies.

 

He tried to close his eyes, to block out the horrific image, but he could not.  He was completely and utterly paralyzed, and there was naught that he could do to regain command of his body.

 

Soft muck shot through with crimson squelched under his feet, and he wanted to cry.  He needed to scream, to yell “stop” - anything to release the frantic hammering that threatened to burst inside his chest.  The more he saw, the faster his heartbeat seemed to pulse, until he saw him, and his pulse screeched to a stop.

 

It was his father.

 

Philip kneeled over a girl - a pale, sickly looking girl, with hair as dark as the sky that hung over them.  Wilhelm watched as his father pulled out a small glass vial from his pocket, one filled with the powders that he stored on the uppermost shelves.  He lifted the bottle into the air, ready to break it on the ground beside the girl, when he stopped.  And he turned.

 

He looked at Wilhelm, an almost regretful expression on his face, and whispered, “This shall be the last time I do so.”

 

And as he smashed the glass, the world around him seemed to explode.  An earth-shattering boom reverberated through the sea of bodies, and the waves of sound were almost visible.  A blinding white light crashed across Wilhelm’s vision, and with it, the beating of his heart resumed.

 

Then the light left, leaving Wilhelm in utter darkness.

 

A faint voice, belonging to Jacob, spoke, muffled by the thick miasma that hung over his mind.  “Wilhelm?  Are you alright?”  

 

Finally.  The vision was finally, finally over.  The world began to come into focus once again, Jacob and his father appearing through his peripheral sight.

 

But just before the final patch of darkness slipped away, a soft murmur caressed his ear.

 

“Their stories now belong to you, Wilhelm Grimm.  You control the endings.”

 

And then he awoke.

 

Grade
9

I first feel it late Friday night.

I’m lying on the ratty carpet in my cluttered room, among stacks of books I’ve been meaning to read and piles of clothes I’ve been meaning to hang. I throw my arm across my face, and the cuff of my sweatshirt smells gently of old butter; a milky scent that reminds me of empty bowls and crusted-over microwaves. Yet also a little like flowers...but nothing in my room should smell like flowers. You could probably come to that conclusion just by glancing at this mess.

Briefly I wonder why it smells so nice, my sleeve, before lapsing into a somnolent staring contest with the ceiling. It’s hot and I can feel a rivulet of sweat meandering down my temple, and although it bothers me I leave it there. Somewhere outside an insect is calling ardently, alone.

A filmy spiderweb from last week is still swinging languidly in an invisible breeze, and the sweat has crawled to somewhere deep in the carpet when my breath hitches and the feeling overcomes me.

It’s a peculiar sensation; sort of like riding down a fast elevator, when your stomach feels as if it’s been left somewhere on the twenty-first floor, and your body seems weightless in the few moments between the pleasant little dings the door makes as it opens. For a few minutes I lie completely still, alarmed.

Momentarily I wonder if I am dying.

Finally when I begin to feel as if the wild elevator is beginning to slow, I reluctantly glance around. And there is a boy.

Yes, a boy, and a very pale one at that, maybe close to my age. He’s next to the lopsided shelf with the empty orange juice cups, leftover droplets coagulating in the summer heat. At first I think he might just be very tall, but on closer inspection, he’s actually hovering above the ground. As I squint in his general direction, he wafts towards me, casually, like an old friend. His fingers are clenched into tight fists. I’m still sprawled awkwardly on the ground, wondering if I should get away before the horror music begins to play and I have to die suddenly off-screen; the tragic first girl to perish by the hands of the supernatural.

“Hello there,” he says placidly, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. For some reason his nonchalant greeting and lukewarm expression in the midst of my mounting panic really piss me off. So before I can even begin to freak out, my first thought is, “I really want to punch this guy”.

In the surreality of the situation I guess my brain decides to shut down, and just before I fall asleep all I can smell is the thick fragrance of flowers.

 

Upon waking the next morning, a heaviness is wrapped around me. It seems unnatural, sudden. I feel my lungs straining against ribs, expanding with nowhere to go, like an unwanted thought, as I slowly inhale through dry nostrils. Gradually the weight reestablishes itself as a normal, comfortable pressure. At that point I dismiss the events of the previous night as a too-much-orange-juice induced dream. Yawning, I stretch into the routine of another restless day, another sunup to sundown full of the same familiar faces and the usual sounds, all blending into an aimless smear of fleeting color.

My parents have already gone out somewhere; their shoes are gone as I stumble down the stairs and try not to trip over my own ankles. Blearily I scrub at my eyes with sleeves that no longer smell like anything, and start to reach for a bowl. It’s what I do everyday in the summer; wake up late, have some cereal, think about doing things when nothing’s really happening, maybe loiter around at the library, do my chores half-assed, and then the grand finale, stare at the ceiling late at night, wondering about what life should be making me feel. Rinse and repeat.

Sighing, I look through the screen window. The sky is blue, deep blue. Blinding blue. Quickly I look away before I can lose myself in it.

“Hello again,” a voice says. My head jerks up.

He is seated on top of the refrigerator, holding a large pineapple with deliberate arms and the same irritating half-lidded eyes as yesterday. I guess it wasn’t the orange juice after all. We stare at each other across the counter, and for some reason it isn’t uncomfortable. His irises are so dark I can’t find his pupils.

“What’s up with the pineapple?” I blurt suddenly. Because who cares about meaningful questions like “Are you a ghost?” or more importantly, “Is this really happening?”. Let’s cut straight to the pineapples. Mentally I punch myself in the face.

“I have to hold things,” he says simply, unfazed. “Or I’ll float away. And when I grabbed your soul the other day you passed out or something so I figured I should hold something else,” he continues apologetically. “I won’t do it again. It’s just...I was so tired and...it’s so easy to hold onto a soul. Like holding someone’s hand”. He finishes by waving his own hand through the tepid kitchen air. His fingers are long and they move like silver minnows.

Dumbfounded I just stare back at him.

“Well, I kind of need the pineapple for a smoothie,” I say randomly. I think I made a smoothie once before. When I was like, seven. So more than half a lifetime ago. I don’t know why I say it, but I just want to take that pineapple from him and smash it to a pulp. With some bananas and strawberries. And then drink it.

He seems crestfallen, and I finally see his face deviate from yesterday’s half-open eyes and linear mouth. His eyes droop further and the thin lips curve down. It feels somewhat triumphant but at the same time painful.

Conflicted, I say, “Listen, you can, uh...hold onto my soul or whatever for a little while and I’ll just take that pineapple and make a nice little smoothie, ok?” I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore. This all feels like some strange, shimmering hallucination.

“No no no, it’s fine, I’ll just hold this refrigerator handle or something, don’t worry about it. What if...I...nevermind.” He trails off and clutches the pineapple, uncertain.

“You said it was like holding a hand, right? How bad can it be? C’mon, I need the pineapple.” I reach up towards him and he leans in closer as if pulled by a string. Tentatively, he reaches for the air above my head, and begins to float slowly down from the refrigerator.

My stomach lurches and for the second time I feel as if I’m holding a large umbrella against a mighty upwards gale; as if the organs inside me are restlessly lifting skywards towards the lemon sun.

This time I laugh, and my eyes are wide. The pineapple tumbles down and falls anticlimactically on the linoleum with a dull thud.

Now suspended in the air, he looks nervously at me, probably thinking I’ll fall over like an opossum after last night. Instead I grin at him, a real smile, and I feel like I’m remembering how to ride a bike.

“I’m Nadia,” I say, trying to breathe properly under the strange weightless feeling.

“I’m Arthur,” he replies, back to the same unconcerned expression.

I glance at the pineapple cast to the foot of the sink, and suddenly realize I have no idea how to make a smoothie, much less how to properly cut a pineapple. So instead I ask, “Say Arthur, would you like to come to the library with me?”

 

The air is cool in the library, maybe a little too cool, and I shiver without meaning to. Arthur follows me wordlessly, drifting behind me, a strange companion belted to me through my soul. The library is mostly empty on this Saturday morning, yet the few people I pass by don’t seem to see Arthur. Good. The last thing I need is to explain this bizarre situation to random strangers. I just want to get to my usual spot, so I move quickly to the back shelves, where there are large windows allowing golden light to filter through and illuminate the motes of dust that swim around in the circulating air.

I grab a collection of poetry off the shelf and plop down against the wall. Arthur settles down close, and I can feel the soft whisper of his presence against my arm. Something smells transiently sweet, and then just the musty smell of books.

As I breathe shallowly and begin to read, it feels less soporific with someone beside me, even if they’re not a confirmed human being. Less like the same day stuck on repeat. Less like I’m trapped in this moment staring at the bookshelves and trying to understand the beautiful words I see, yet never completely grasping them. Less like I’m wasting time yet never using it at the same time.

“What are we doing back here?” Arthur whispers into my ear just as I flip the third page, a cold mist of words tickling the cartilage. I shiver.

“Stop talking into my ear, that feels weird. And nobody can hear you anyway.”

“Fine,” he says, still whispering, and turns away from me. His thin back to me, I feel remarkably alone despite the fact that he is still sitting by me, and despite the continual feeling of being pulled towards the clouds.

It get quiet for a bit, really quiet, and the only sound is the soft hiss of the air vent, blowing an occasional clump of lint towards the high darkness of the ceiling. The colorful books are still and silent. Arthur is turned away from me, head leaning against the rough brick of the wall.

I can see bumps of his curved spine through the cloth of his shirt. Reluctantly, I open my mouth and begin to speak. “Sometimes I come back here and just sit down. Other times I read poetry and pretend I know what it means. Well, even if I don’t know what it means I still cry sometimes, ‘cause of the words, you know?” He says nothing, still turned away. I don’t know if he hears me, and I ramble on, unsure of myself. “Anway I sit and I read, pretending I have a purpose and pretending I know what’s going on.” His back is still to me, shoulderblades shifting and realigning like lost planets. “Pretending I have a clue about the real meaning of this poem,” I whisper a little louder, flipping the pages of the poetry book, waiting for him to look at me and nod or something. My voice is rising. “Pretending I’m actually doing things. Pretending I know what I’m living this life for. Pretending this corner doesn’t feel like an entire universe I’ll never get out of. Pretending…” I take a shaky breath. “Pretending that my life is about to begin someday.”

My chest is heaving and I don’t remember when I started getting so worked up. I want to grab all the words I just said and swallow them back quickly, down into my stomach where they can burn and disappear. I close my eyes and watch the sunlight burn the skin of my eyelids translucent orange.

Arthur is silent, but suddenly I feel a crushing pressure.

He must have let go.

Alarmed, my eyes fly open and as the weight of the world crushes down on me I throw a desperate hand out, gasping, reaching instinctively for something just out of reach.

I can feel my throat catch, some pathetic tears pooling. I’m a tiny dot shrinking smaller and smaller. Soon I’ll be nothing.

Then suddenly a hand is around mine and for the third time in two days I think I am going to surge up into the open air. His fingers are not cold and not hot, just solid and reassuring against the tremblings of my own.

“Sorry. I wanted to hold your hand,” Arthur says, not looking at me. “It’s just like holding a soul”.

I don’t know what to say, so instead I suggest we go to the park.

 

I haven’t been to this park for years, even though I live close enough to walk over. Once again the sky is an effulgent and radiant blue, small pearls of cloud murmuring across. Children shriek and chase one another, their tiny hands reaching for each other until they touch and hold on tight. Some of them are singing a song I used to know.

I take Arthur to the field.  

Here it’s wide open, the sky bright and full and curving over us like an overwhelming swath of silk. There are no benches here. No trashcans. The faint joyful cries of children can be heard, but none of them run here. Just me and Arthur and some thin grass. He’s still holding my hand.

“Arthur,” I start quietly. “I don’t know where you came from and I don’t know why you found me in particular that day, or yesterday really, even though it feels like it was longer ago. I don’t even know if I’m still dreaming and you’re just something my stupid brain made up.”

The sky seems to yawn at us, widening at the edges, and a breeze picks up, moving the grass slightly in waves.

“But I...even though you stole my pineapple...wait, I got the pineapple back...What am I saying?” I struggle to find the words, and his fingers grip mine a little tighter.

“I - even though...even though I said some weird things and I thought you disappeared, you’re still here.”

He meets my eyes with his dark ones, and I feel like the sky is swallowing us both.

“I just - why did you hold onto my soul that night?”

Arthur smiles for the first time, and I feel myself slipping.

I almost can’t hear his whisper over the wind. “I lied. It’s not easy to hold onto a soul. It’s because yours was shining.”

My fingers lose their grip and Arthur begins to rise, not quickly like you’d expect, but gradually, like his body is unsure which way is up. He looks just as calm as the first second I saw him, but he still smiles faintly. I don’t try to grab him, I just watch as he slowly ascends and I am again firmly in the Earth’s grip, riveted to its vastness. I try to breathe.

The scent of flowers is all around me and inhale deeply, until I can only smell the dry clippings of grass and the hot summer air. Until Arthur completely disappears in the great blueness of the sky, and the children continue to laugh and sing.

 

Grade
8

It’s always darkest before the dawn.

At least, that’s what her mother always told her. Yet the saying is being contradicted as light leaks through the horizon, running ahead of the sun. The sky is tinted a gentle embrace of blue and yellow, a faint glow brimming at the edge of the Earth.

She’s zipping up her jacket as the sun begins to rise, a whisper of warmth on her face when the first rays shine through the window.

Her steps remain silent as she shuffles through the hallway, the distant chirping of birds the only sound to be heard. Closed doors ignore the greeting of the day and keep the corridor dim. The door to her mother’s room remains slightly ajar, revealing only a sliver of a curtained window and the pearly toes of feet that peek out of the blanket. She pauses only for a moment to look before continuing down the stairs.

Once outside, she can let go of the breath she didn’t know she was holding. It escapes as a sigh, taken away by the wind as she begins to run. Dew on the grass glistens in the sunlight and bites at her bare feet, shocks of coldness for every step she runs.

She runs until the chill of the morning leaves her bones, until her breathing gets heavy and her heart is going to burst. She runs until she gets to the place where she allows her breath to go short and her heart to fall out.

Part of her soul resides in the bay by her house, an expanse of water that runs off the lake. She sits on the muddy grass ledge at the shore, the water swirling around her legs. Dirt caked on her feet washes off, dissipating into the clear water and turning it a cloudy brown. There’s a beach over at her neighbor’s property, made of bleached sand and scattered children’s toys. It’s far away, as the houses are spread widely apart. She doesn’t know her neighbors that well, only exchanging smiles and nods when passing by on the dirt roads.

Her home isn’t that far south, yet there is a patch of watermelons that grows near the water. Perhaps it was someone who lived there before, or some strange accident that they ended up in a place they normally don’t belong. They’re not ripe yet, at the moment petite spheres you could hold in your hand. Sometimes she comes down to eat the watermelon deep into the summer time, trying to pick the sweetest one. Most of the time she guesses wrong and they end up bitter.

Sitting on the grass, she kicks her legs a few times in the water and sends up sprays of water. She knows she has to get home soon to get ready for school, but she lingers, repeatedly telling herself that another minute wouldn’t hurt. Eventually the sun crawls up higher, whispering to her the time as the rays warm her shoulders. Her feet sink down into the squelching grass, mud seeping through her toes. It flies behind her and speckles her clothes as she sprints up the hill to her house.

Back at home, her mother is awake, drinking black coffee and looking at the wall. When she returns her mother doesn’t say anything, and neither does she.

Her mother’s name is Rien, with eyes of the sky and hair like fields of wheat. She doesn’t understand her eyes like the mud splattered on her legs, her hair the like the trees surrounding their house. She doesn’t understand Rien’s willowy figure and her own sturdy built self. Why the amount of similarities is about the same as the conversations exchanged on a daily basis. Why the only time she can see inside Rien’s door is before the day really begins.

It’s about time to leave for school, so she takes her things and runs out the door. Rien is taking a shower and is not there to see her off. She catches the bus and lets the scenery blur away to speeding green of trees and foliage. And then she closes her eyes to darkness.

Sometimes she thinks about school, wonders why people go. She watches at nature documentaries where the mother tends to the child and teaches it the ways of life, and hidden away in her mind, she tells herself that maybe if she didn’t have to go to school then her mother would talk more than greetings and sayings. That Rien would help her learn from the world.

But she doesn’t know if it’s possible, as Rien spends most of her spare time in bed. Sometimes she stares off into space, forgets her keys or what she was doing. Her mother leaves for work a little later than when she leaves for school, so she can never tell if the woman really went. What the job is remains an enigma. They don’t talk about it much— just as they don’t talk much about anything. Whenever Rien comes home her daughter remains silent, and neither say more than a “welcome back” or “hello”. They murmur their greeting and their lips remain pressed together, uncertain words retained in her mouth. She knows that most children hate their parents’ questions, that every “how was your day?” is replied to with a monotone “good”. Yet how she wishes for that question, that Rien could give her more than a few words and the salt from the bitter tears that she sheds when she’s feeling lonely.

Rien does not give her knowledge like she wishes for her to, and so she goes to school like every other child who needs to survive in life.

Right now they’re learning about genetics, how family members will share different genes and traits. They have homework to find the traits of two other family members and compare them with their own. One of the tests is the PTC test, where their teacher hands them the strips and tells them to bring them home for the testing. Some of the eager students tear off a tiny corner and place it on their tongue when the teacher isn’t looking. But they are found out as soon as they make faces and complain about the bitter taste.

She brings the strips home along with the other things to compare and tests herself on it. Her pencil makes lopsided circles around the traits she possesses, saving the PTC for last. It really is bitter, biting at her tongue and growing thorns down her throat.

Her mother is not home yet, so she looks at the space for her third person and makes up her father. From her imagination she pulls down his brown hair and eyes, his short but strong frame. She draws his hand in hers and circles yes for PTC. A father to look like her. A father who can feel the pain.

She’s testing another square of PTC when she hears the wheels against the gravel and the door closing. Rien walks in as she says a broken sort of “hello” with her tongue still sticking out. Her mother’s putting her keys in the basket by the doorway when she sees her and stops.

When she sees her mother’s face, she’s not quite sure what feelings were portrayed. Her lips are pressed together, unknown words crawling beneath, eyes slightly widened with shock yet crinkling at the corners. A mother staring at her daughter and a daughter unsure of how to respond. She swallows down the paper stinging at her tongue and her mother lets out a gasp, eyes glistening in the light of the room until she turns around and leaves, turning off the light behind her.

In the darkness, her mind is spinning around what just happened. In the dim light from the window she can barely see the outline of her hand, the slight white glow of her papers and PTC strips. Whenever Rien left for work, she turned off the lights, an occurrence that became a habit. Habits, like the quiet hellos and the silence of a shared meal.

What just happened wasn’t a habit. It hadn’t even ever happened before. She had never remembered her mother ever being so emotional, normally a tight face that occasionally smiled. It didn’t make sense as to what her mother did, why she would get so sad over something that her daughter had no clue about.

She wants time to think about her mother, so she runs down the hill to the shore. It’s where she normally goes when Rien is in her room with the door closed, when she lets the water wash away the the tears and the pain that her mother never notices.

In the night the ground is firm, a slight chill settling into the air. She shivers a little and then runs to warm herself up.

By the time she gets to the bay, her heart is pounding in her ears, the sound filling her mind. She’s not paying much attention to anything else and she doesn’t see her at first. When she does, she stops and she takes a sharp breath.

Her mother is there, sitting on the grass ledge she would always be on. She looks up to her daughter, then back at the water her eyes tracing the edges where the water meets the sky.

She doesn’t know what to do but sit next to her mother, so she does, dipping her toes in the water still warm from the day. In this special place of hers, a part of her soul, for once she doesn’t keep the words blocked by the dam of her lips. She looks at her mother and explains the homework, the genetics and the PTC. Her mother listens, and she sighs when her daughter is done.

Rien begins to talk, but then stops. She falters for a moment, and then says to her daughter that she is going to tell her a story.

Once upon a time, there was a princess, who lived in a large castle beside the bay. She had everything, loving parents and a bright future, but sometimes it stressed her out too much. The princess would always go down to the shore when the work seemed too much for her, and she liked to play on the grass beside the water.

When the princess turned eighteen, an evil witch gave her a magic potion that made everything turn into brilliant colors. The princess returned home with a whole new world, but her parents told her it was a curse. Furious, the princess fled the castle and ran down to the bay. Down there, she met a frog who told her he was a prince. He begged her to kiss him and turn him back, that he could make her life wonderful, and under the curse of the magic potion she believed him. Even after her parents moved away and he kept giving her potions she thought of him as a prince until the magic wore off and she finally realized he was but a frog. The princess had lost her everything as the frog left here too, leaving behind a single child to show her failure.

Rien hangs her head between her legs, tears choking her words. She murmurs how she had thought her daughter had found the potion that night, that she would go down the same path her mother had. Through her broken words she says that she is sorry, that she wanted the best for her daughter and didn’t want her influence on her daughter’s future. That she tried not to give her personal thoughts for they would be bad influences.

Her mother whispers All I wanted to do was raise you well and she whispers back I love you, mom.

***

They go back home, to the papers strewn across the kitchen table and the lights turned off. Her mother helps her finish her work, grimacing at the PTC but placing it on her tongue and exclaiming the bitterness.

She learns in class the next day that every parent will contribute a gene to their child. Every person either has a dominant, recessive or a mix of genes. As long as there is a dominant gene, it will overtake the recessive. Rien’s daughter closes her brown eyes and thinks about her mother, with her eyes of the sky and her hair of fields of wheat. And how deep inside, those genes don’t show, but they are inside her body.

When she comes back home that day, her mother is already there, with the packed basket. They walk together down the hill, to the grass ledge above the water. Her mother picks out a watermelon, and cuts it to eat with their picnic dinner.

 

As they kick the water and laugh, they eat. The watermelon isn’t ripe yet, but it's slightly sweet.

Grade
9

What if humans lived for 90 days instead of 90 years? My eyes pop open, only to be covered by a thick blanket of darkness. The air seems calm and silent, but tension hides in the blackness.

It was a question my old friend Jesse had shot at me out of the blue as we sat uncomfortably on our slippery plastic lunchboxes one day. That was back when I attended St. Heliers School, back when I could experience the refreshing freedom of 30-minute recesses, back when I could whip through my homework in 10 minutes and dash outside to bath in the ravishing sunlight. Back when I could be a roamer, a dreamer, whenever I desired.

The question rings sharply in my head, conquers my thoughts. Would life be less valuable? Would society be full of betrayal, murder, and law-breaking? Would no one care about the nasty scars they left on the world because life was too short? Or would life be of the same value, just of less time, because no one would know any better, longer life?

Jesse was wild, crazy, impulsive, spastic. My other friends had made fun of him, treated him like an inferior pet. To them he had simply been an annoyance, a little mosquito always buzzing about their heads, threatening to bite. But I loved him. I loved him because he was unique, reflective, and philosophical. I had always sat with him - whether he was crying or screaming or clamping his mouth shut angrily. Salty tears nearly burst from my eyes when I saw him for the last time before he moved back to China.

Where is he now? Who is he now?

I squirm and twist under my covers until I can see the fluorescent numbers of my clock. It’s 2:58 a.m. I still have two and a half hours until it’s time to drag my body out of bed. For a while I lie there listening to the soothing white noise of the rain drumming down on the roof, the punctuation of the TINs and BLOOPs that the drops make when they worm their way inside and float down to the metal bucket my grandmother has set on the floor. But I can’t sleep. And I know why. The race is today - the daunting, intimidating, beautiful race.

Am I excited or apprehensive? Nervous or confident? Intrepid or terrified? The questions bounce around in my head. I force myself to squeeze my eyes shut, but they slowly creep open again to reveal the luminous circle of my projection night light. It is a small, round, blurry picture of the Milky Way, seeming to cut a bottomless hole in the blank ceiling of my bedroom.

I jump out of bed and yank the nightlight out of the wall. I have always hated the dark - it’s thick, menacing, mysterious. But it will put me to sleep.

After I dump out the drip bucket and intently watch the water swirl down the drain like a snake, I crawl back into bed. Darkness. Peace. Silence. Finally.

* * *

I awake a second time, this time to the merry music of my Wallace and Gromit alarm clock. I vaguely remember my mom handing it to me when I was a little boy, her eyes gleaming in the bright lamps of our family room. Now I live with my grandparents; it is a lonely life. I hate being trapped in this house, letting the emptiness surround me and choke me.

I leap silently out of bed, throw on some tattered old jeans and my London Underground T-shirt, and make for the door. Tiptoeing towards the kitchen, it takes me a while to realize that I’m holding my breath.  I let out a sigh of relief and almost chuckle at myself for the feigned suspense. I’m alone; my grandparents are probably with the hiking club by now, pushing deep into the forests of Auckland.

On most Friday mornings, I love to wake up early to watch the sun inch its way over the horizon, imagining what I will do that weekend, what I will explore or create or wonder. There’s something about that bright, radiant ball of orange fire illuminating the crisp blue vastness of the sky that’s so inspiring and enlivening. It reaches out to me, calms me, renews me.

But not today. Raindrops are shooting down from the sky like bullets; the sky is a mat of gloomy gray. The trees look sad and dull against their backdrop. Besides, I’m too jittery and agitated today. There will be no relaxing.

After I eat my breakfast in a silent bubble of deep thought, I snatch up a jar of peanut butter, an apple, a sleeve of Ritz crackers, a tub of Mediterranean hummus, and two chocolate chip biscuits from the cupboard. It should suffice. I toss everything into a faded Sierra Club backpack that belonged to my mom and bolt out the front door.

I practically skip to my bicycle under the carport, the puffy clouds dousing me with fat drops. It’s an old and rusty bike, a 1985 Motobecane Mirage that my father carried home from France. My father had been adventurous, daring, passionate.

I hop on the light metal frame and pedal down the steep black slope that’s my driveway, exploding out into the open-mouthed circle of the cul de sac.

Here we go. I dread the steep, treacherous climb up Tarawera Terrace. The street is named after Mount Tarawera, and I definitely understand why. A few years ago, I couldn’t even make it up the slope on my bike without hyperventilating. Now I can conquer it, but it takes a heavy toll on my strength.

When I finally crest the ex-volcano, I turn sharply onto Long Drive. I let out a frustrated sigh when I see the shards of glass strewn on the concrete, the jagged void in the window of the bus shelter. It seems to be smashed almost weekly.

What angry wanderers have so much pressure built up inside of them that they must erupt this violently? Of course, I was once in such a state.

I decide to take the scenic route through Dingle Dell Reserve, a small isolated park in the middle of suburban Auckland. Dingle Dell has always fascinated me, amazed me. Stepping into the reserve is like plunging into the Amazon rainforest, especially today - fresh drops of water roll and glide down the brilliant green leaves; creeks flow gently through the trees. The paths are worn and squishy with thick mud.

I vigorously pedal my way through the peaceful community of nature. One day I will journey to the real Amazon, descend from the clouds in a tiny airplane. I will marvel at the diverse wildlife: the vivid colors and delicate feathers of the birds darting through the canopy, the blurs of growling pumas and playful orangutans. I will breathe in the damp, humid air, smell the aroma of the rich soil.

I slam on the brakes. The bike halts to a grinding stop, cutting a deep slit in the mushy ground. I climb clumsily up a small cliff, yanking on the wiry strands of ivy until I poke my head over the top.

There it is - the old, thick rope that my dad had used to make our tire swing. I remember it being an exhilarating swing, sweeping over the small lemon trees in our backyard and shocking me with an electrifying thrill.

Then a more gruesome memory flashes across my brain. I recall running into the arms of these trees, begging them to let me kill myself. I had the noose around my neck like a fatal leash and was preparing to make that final decisive leap off of the log. And then a creature appeared at my feet - a sweet, elegant, peaceful little creature. It was a robin with a wriggling worm trapped in its beak, holding it up to me interrogatively as an offering. It was then, as I watched the bright orange feathers on its breast twitch, that I realized I couldn’t rebuke and chastise Mother Nature. It hadn’t been her that had ruined my life; it had been fate or some stronger force. I would have to forgive her.

* * *

The school day creeps by slowly, painfully. Usually I am engaged and excessively attentive, but on this day I am lost and tangled in my own thoughts. It’s like I have already climbed into the boat, I have already transformed into the dreamer that I become on the water.

“That began in which year, Stephen?” Mrs. Davidson inquires suspiciously. It is a loud knock on the door, a quick snap to reality.

“Uuuuuhhh….1873?” I take a tentative shot in the dark. The class tries to stifle their subtle laughs and toxic comments.

“Not quite, I’m afraid. Stay with us, please,” she chides. Mrs. Davison was typically kind and sympathetic. I could tell she liked me; I was almost alway respectful and diligent in her class.

Glendowie College is a diverse school, packed with students of all different races, religions, attitudes, and financial backgrounds. Streams of chatty, obnoxious kids flow through the wide hallways; it’s easy to become stranded in the current like a helpless salmon.

In my eyes, the school is as ugly and joyless as a prison: the windowless classrooms with colorless plaster walls, the heavy metal gates that fall after school hours to block off the halls, and the generic linoleum tiles littered with greasy food wrappers. As I listen and watch each day, I witness the classic archetypes: giggly girls with heavy globs of mascara inflating their eyelashes who peer into tiny mirrors to examine themselves scrupulously, buff football jocks with sandy hair and blue eyes who joke and laugh cockily, awkward nerds with froggy glasses and tinny, nasal voices.

Who am I? I wonder for the first time.

The bell rings, sharp and clear. I dash down the stairs, two by two, and dive into my car. I race to the reservoir, where my buddies are waiting eagerly on the dock. These are my real friends - my old, loyal, accepting friends who will always forgive me and never turn their backs on me. We jump into a boat and wait suspensefully for the Auckland Junior Rowing National Championship to begin.

The gun fires, piercing the still air. We push off into an isolated world. No one can harm us, no one can touch us, and no one can tell us how to live when we’re stuck in the rhythm of the oars. As the skinny boat slices through the calm water like a knife through a block of blue butter, our bodies glide across the seats in unison.

It is not long before I feel a slight tingle in my arms, and then a sore ache in my legs. I use the rhythm to drift off into my dreams as I watch the scenery flick by: the stone monument of One Tree Hill stabbing the soft sky, the steel point of the Sky Tower poking through the clouds, the gradual green mound of Rangitoto in the distance...

I had always loved the island of Rangitoto until three months ago. Although it was once an active volcano that exploded violently and wreaked havoc on its surrounding environment, I viewed it as one of the most peaceful places I had ever visited. Birds chirped a hypnotic song every day from dawn to dusk. The dense forest made me want to forget the troubles that lay on the other side of St. Heliers Bay and instead bask in the freedom of the luscious greenery and the wondrous wildlife. I had once read in a brochure that there were over 200 species of native trees and flowering plants on the island. On Rangitoto I could hike for hours on end, all the while contemplating the life ahead of me. I secretly wished that it was like the land of the Lotus-eaters from The Odyssey, that there was an addictive, delicious fruit which would lure me in and trap me there forever.

All these feelings changed on May 9, 2004. My family had decided to take a Sunday day trip to Rangitoto. By the time we reached the top, the sun was baking the clean New Zealand air. The strong wind felt refreshing as we bounded up the final stairs. My dad was exhausted from carrying my little sister, Emma, who was three years old. I was 14 at the time, and I hated that our ages were so far apart - I felt like we would never be able to bond like most siblings.

We took our usual rest stop at the overlook and ate our lunches silently. The view was breathtaking - the entire city of Auckland was spread out before our eyes against the deep blue sky. I felt like I was looking down from an airplane, but I didn’t have to sit in a shabby old seat and peer through a tiny plexiglass window while breathing in stale air.

My parents departed to fill up their empty water bottles at the sad, weak drinking fountain.

“Keep an eye on her, please!” they shouted back at me. It was one of those things that parents couldn’t help but blurt out, just so they couldn’t blame themselves later if something happened. I barely heard it, waved it away ignorantly. Didn’t even notice when Emma climbed curiously onto the railing and began to walk hesitantly, advancing slowly as if she were balancing on a tightrope. Two minutes later, I glanced up from my camera to watch my beautiful little sister float down to her death like an angel, crash into the trees like a lightning bolt. One bone-chilling gust of wind, and she was gone.

Although my parents naturally didn’t blame me - how could they? - I began to dream more and remained in my own fantastical world to lift the burden of my sister’s death from my shoulders. I soon found my scrawny neck being held prisoner by that noose in Dingle Dell Reserve. But my attitude changed when I saw the bird at my feet.

Two weeks after that incident, my parents were killed by an earthquake in Christchurch. I was staying with my grandparents for the weekend, and on Saturday I threw open the front door to find my grandpa lying heavily on the sofa, shattered bits of his cell phone strewn all over the carpet. He was clutching a bottle of scotch as tightly as his shaky fingers would let him. His eyes were bloodshot and under them lay sagging, dark, crescent-shaped bags. I knew something was up.

When I heard the news, I promised myself that I would never step foot in my old house again. I didn't want to experience the memories it might arouse; I was too tender and emotionally bruised.

And that's when I began to row. Rowing gave me silence, time to think and recover. It let me forgive nature and begin to love it once again. The sweat that dripped down my acne-ridden skin was comforting somehow, and I enjoyed the company of the other guys. They were hard workers, self-punishers who were all motivated by their own weaknesses and conflicts. I formed a quiet, everlasting friendship with them.

We are suddenly 500 meters from the finish. I glance around us hopefully. Second place. It's time to pick up the pace; our coxswain is shouting commands at our exhausted bodies.

400 meters. The sweat forms a slippery film between my hand and the oar. In my peripheral vision I can make out crowds of anxious spectators cheering wildly on the grassy hills that slant up and away from the water.

300 meters. My leg muscles are burning, stinging. We're neck and neck with the other boat; we take turns inching ahead of it and then falling back again in a seemingly endless cycle. I stare blankly at the ovular head of my friend sitting in front of me, Awais. The light brown tone of his Pakistani skin seems to glow as the sun reflects off of the surface of the reservoir.

200 meters. All of the sounds around me are muted: the light splashing and dipping of the oars, the creaks and clashes of the boat, the panicked panting of the crew members.

Focus, Stephen, focus! I shout at myself as I struggle to synchronize with the oars around me.

100 meters.

"POWER TEN IN TWO! ONE...TWO!" The coxswain's voice rips over the water. Everyone groans and yells as we almost tear our muscles, pushing harder and harder to produce ten powerful strokes. Somewhere in the distance, I know my old house sits patiently, waiting for my return, for some familiar foot to step across its threshold. Maybe I will finally go visit it today, maybe I will go grab that rope from Dingle Dell Reserve and rebuild that tire swing. Maybe I will hike up Rangitoto for the first time since it claimed my little sister's life. Maybe.

I let out a puff of hot air and collapse on my seat as we soar over the finish line.

We have taken second place. Most of our crew look defeated, disappointed. But not me. As I make my way to shore and claim my silver medal, I realize that I can't care less about whether we have taken first or second or third place, about the color of our medal, or about our fame and glory. All I know is that I have overcome the impossible: I have truly forgiven Mama Nature. And I am sure she is smiling down on me today.

 

Grade
6

Balance_Symbol_by_Pirateguybrush.jpg

“Wake up. NOW,” growled a baritone voice above me.

I slowly opened my tired eyes, squinting up at my brother. It was still dark outside, and the soft green grass below me was just barely beginning to break into dew. The air smelled cold and gray, like it does every morning before sunrise. The birds had not yet broken out into their chorus of songs; the small river a few yards away continued its soothing, never-ending music of water rushing over stone and sand.

“I KNOW this is yours,” he said angrily. Cerius was holding up something between his claws that was indistinguishable in the darkness, his body’s silhouette outlined with silver moonlight. “I don’t know WHERE you found it, but I do know that it’s yours, and that you SHOULD have picked it up LAST night, not now.”

As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see the irritated  expression on Cerius’ face, as well as whatever it was he held up. I slowly turned my gaze towards the squirming gerbil in his talon.

“Sorry,” I moaned sleepily. “Just put it down.”

He narrowed his burning red eyes at me. “Say it first,” he snarled.

“Do I have to?”

“Do it or I eat it.” My brother teasingly tossed the small rodent in the air then caught it by its tail, the gerbil bursting out in a sequence of high-pitched, terrified squeaks.

I let out a long groan, load and indignant. “Fine,” I grumbled.

Cross my heart,

Hope to die,

Drive a needle through my eye.

Never denied,

That I’m a fool.

‘Cause my brother’s super cool.

“Hmm . . . Do it with the ridiculous  dance,” he said.

I groaned again, got up, and sang the chant once more while I  reluctantly did the Macarena.

“Good enough, you have my approval,” Cerius grumbled, tossing me my gerbil and sauntering away, his tail slowly slithering back and forth through the grass.

My family of shapeshifters had been visited by the government yesterday morning. No, they didn’t know about us until they came for some pointless inspection because they thought we were a group of assassins and a threat to the president’s safety. (At least, that was my hopeless fantasy. It turned out to be something about taxes.) Sadly, they entered while my little sister, Anais, and I were chasing each other around our incredibly large house in our true forms.

Then our parents freaked out and practically fainted from fear. My siblings and I escaped before the agents were able to either kill us, interrogate us, or capture us and run experiments; or whatever they planned to do.

We had no idea where our parents were, if they were still alive, and had absolutely nowhere to go for help. That’s when we decided it was time to go out into the wilderness and stand together. Anais convinced Cerius that we could all bring one object with us: I brought my gerbil, Cerius brought some kind of hair gel (don’t even ask), and Anais brought our mother’s necklace. All of these items have some sort of sentimental value to each of us.

Now we are all wanted by the military, government, and creepy old men who probably live in their mothers’ basements and want chemical readings on our powers, so they can do some sort of cloning process and “understand” us through the probable autopsy. Gosh, not even we understood ourselves.

The average Tracker would call me a shapeshifter, somewhat. None of us are actually anything like the myths, apart from the shapeshifting and tail-business-thingy-ma-doodles.

Anais and I together had tried to talk Cerius into letting us sleep as owls or some other bird of prey last night, just in case, but he simply snapped back at us and threatened to scratch up our wings all night if we dared to do it. Of course, shapeshifters don’t naturally have wings, although we can change into any kind of bird or bat to fly. We actually look more like wingless dragons with fluorescent scales than anything else.

I looked from the gerbil in my talons to my brother, who was just about to wake up Anais as harshly as possible, his dark red spines rattling faintly through the forest. I really, really hated him. As I expected, Anais didn’t even flinch or tense when Cerius commanded her to wake up.

I soon became fully awake and took the long way around the clearing to get to Anais, who was still slumbering peacefully while Cerius was shouting so loud I feared combat drones might just drop out of the sky.

Eventually, he gave up and disappeared into the forest to do who knows what. After waiting a few seconds, I stepped out of the trees and walked up to Anais and stared at her for a long moment.

I finally bent down. “I like to watch you in your sleep,” I whispered in her ear in a creepy, hushed voice.

My sister immediately let out a surprised squeak, somersaulted forward, and sprang to her feet. She seemed about ready to run as fast as she could at the first opening, her eyes wild and scanning the clearing. When Anais’ gaze landed on me, she immediately let out a relieved sigh and relaxed her muscles, smiling warmly.

Anais suddenly looked like the most adorable and forgiving living thing in the universe.

“Is he gone?” she asked. I nodded. “Oh, Lithell, thank you so much for waking me before the sun is up. Did you realize that, by the way? the fact that about a fourth of the world should be asleep?” she said with a hint of sarcasm.

I thought she would say that, so I simply smiled back. “I know, but we have to keep moving around. Perhaps something that nothing would deliberately kill.” There was a long pause between us as I listened to the birds starting their whistles and songs.

“Oh!” Anais burst out. “How about moles?”

“We wouldn’t be able to see each other. That, plus we could very easily get off course and travelling would be slow,” I observed. “We need an animal that would usually be in a small-ish group. Songbirds travel in larger groups, same with geese and ducks. We could turn into something like a wolf, and one of us could be the alpha.” Anais looked at me in a way that I thought meant that is possibly the most amazing and absurd idea I have ever heard.

“How about we sneak some woodsorrel into Cerius’ food,” I suggested. Woodsorrel is a common herb in the forest that tastes delicious, but our brother is slightly allergic to it. “That way, he can’t be alpha and it could be one of us instead.”

Anais looked uneasy, shifting on her talons. “But...what if Cerius figures it out before he eats it? And if he does eat it, wouldn’t he try to punish us once he goes back to normal?”

That was a terrifyingly brilliant point. Anais was almost always right about things like this, and so was I, more or less. Except I insist that I’m right more than I actually am right. There was only one way that I’ve discovered to work in this situation, even then, it hardly took any effect, but it was worth a try.

“That’s the future’s problem,” I insisted. “Now let’s go find some woodsorrel. We’ll sneak it into whatever he found to eat while he’s looking away, then you and I go find something to eat for ourselves.”

Anais gave up and shrugged. “Fine. I’ll do it. But if we get in trouble-”

“He’ll slowly peel out our finger nails one by one?” I suggested. She smothered a laugh. “He’s already done that, he hates repetitivity.” I looked down at my claws and uncomfortably remembered the time he once did do that. If he managed to come up with something even worse, it would probably involve eating someone.

Anais slowed her laughing and looked up expectantly at me with her black eyes. I had an idea and smiled.

“OH MY,” I said snidely, deliberately mocking my brother, “WHAT A BUNCH USELESS SQUID-SMELLING IDIOTS WHO NEED TO SHOWER AND NEED TO GET FOOD OF THEIR OWN AND DON’T HAVE ANY SORT OF PHYSICAL WEAPONS THAT CAN ACTUALLY DO SOMETHING ‘CAUSE I’M SO MUCH BETTER THAN EVERYBODY ELSE IN THE UNIVERSE EXCEPT FOR ALL THE GIRLS WHO ARE TOTALLY AWESOME AND GET COLLEGE DEGREES SOONER THAN ME BECAUSE THEY’RE WAY TOO COOL FOR BOYS AND WILL NEVER BECOME TRACKERS LIKE ME GUESS I’M THE HALF-BAKED FREAK AND THEY’RE NOT THE HALF-BAKED FREAKS AND I’M GONNA GO CRY AND SNICKER IN THE CORNER NOW ABOUT MY SAD, DESPERATE LIFE THAT WILL NEVER GO ANYWHERE! I’m gonna start CURSING and go on an ICE-CREAM FIT now in the CORNER and sob ENDLESSLY about my inferior UGLINESS!”

Anais was now rolling all over the place, crying and giggling and laughing so hard I feared she couldn’t breath. Suddenly, she stopped, in the middle of a “floppy” pose, looking at something over my shoulder.

I turned to follow her gaze and there was Cerius, standing on the treeline, his jaw wide open, staring at me. I wondered exactly how long he had been there, then decided it was best not to know.

“Get any...breakfast?” I said awkwardly, clawing up some grass.

Nobody liked the long silence that followed. We each kept glancing at each other, then looking away quickly.

“This is a dream, isn’t it?” I asked, half to myself.

Cerius smiled at me. “When hasn’t it?”

 

Just like that, I woke up from the best nightmare I’ve ever had.

 

Grade
8

Chapter 1 LMI

Living metal is nanotechnology cells mixed with various metals. There are several types of living metal.
There is living metal designed for augmentation of animals and people and it is called organic grade living metal - that type of living metal derives its energy from glucose in the surroundings. As such it is often injected or used where it remains in a mixture of FC-40 and glucose into which a person is inserted.

There's also generic living metal that derives its energy from fission. It is used for tools and other applications where the metal has to change shape
or form. A subtype of generic living metal is alchemy grade living metal which is used for machining other materials, since it is so
small to an inexperienced person it looks like magic or alchemy.

LMI or Living Metal International produces all the living metal in the world or at least tries to by destroying any competitors or counterfeiters, as LMI calls them. LMI has three main branches.
First is the PES or Patent Enforcement Squad which destroys counterfeiters and also serves as LMI's mobile army.
Second is the Perimeter Defense also called the sea urchins due to their symbol which defends the perimeter of LMI which is a
tall concrete-steel wall 90 meters tall and 5 km in diameter.
Lastly is the Laboratories and people who work there are nicknamed "the flasks" due to their symbol. They research new weaponry and other types of living metal.
Those who are perfect at two branches are called "bi's" and those who are perfect at all three are called "tri's".
The founder of LMI is a person simply called “He”.
The co-founders of LMI are Litha, Mark and Bob.
So far the only tri's are He and the co-founders.
The most known fact about He and Litha is that, He is cruel, Litha is extremely nice.

Chapter 2
The Fourth PES expedition

He said "it's the fourth time someone tried faking living metal"
"There's two kinds of missions: suppression and annihilation" He said. "Today it's going to be a suppression mission"
As the PES was getting ready Litha said to Him " I even got you favorite draconian dragon coffee."
Finally the LMIS Crocodile started moving He then went to get everyone in the PES a Electric Gecko and Bird.

An Electric Gecko and Bird consists of two electro-magnets that can be turned on and off to climb iron and steel surfaces, Thats what the gecko part is, the bird part is a jet engine and a large wing suit.

He then said "tomorrow at noon we should arrive at the fakers base"

Next day Litha made Him a cup of coffee.
As he drank it he thought " the EGB suits are all red which is easily visible by the enemy and Two of them are numbered 4 and 13."

Then suddenly Mark ran into the control room and shouted " Captain, a type 2B war robot has destroyed two of our photon cannons"

He got an oxy-hydrogen torch and went to the deck of the ship to cut the bent bolts holding the heavy bases of the photon cannons, He thought "why waste energy carrying a ten ton chunk of scrap metal?"

Then everyone was on the deck ready to stop that type 2B war robot He saw that Litha picked the EGB suit with number 4
on it. Then Litha Said " Mark, Bob and I will fight the war robot"

He then made the decision he will regret for all eternity and agreed with Litha.
At first it all seemed to be going well as Litha with her two sledgehammers bashed out the war robot's
cameras. But what Litha did not know was that the operator of the robot installed a peephole in the robot. As all of the
PES excluding Him tried to cut every hydraulic hose visible. The war robot first attacked Mark which turned him
into a red cloud, Litha out of shock lost control of her EGB suit and fell straight down which the
robot used as an opportunity to kick Litha also turning her into a red cloud of blood. Bob then tried to land on the LMIS Crocodile but out of horror aimed 5 degrees lower which is the difference between landing normally and exploding like a blood balloon.

As He watched what happened he took a canister of mustard gas mixed with capsaicin and carbon dioxide along
with oxy-hydrogen torch cylinders as He ran up the 2B war robot He remembered it's weakness

Chapter 3 Attack on Megatronics

He called asking why Megatronics sold a type 2B war robot to his rivals. The response He got was that it was for profit.

Not trusting the answer He got He told to the 2nd in command, Mike to dismantle core 4 of infinitus potentia, He
joked " Megatronics are going to have a bright night."

That's exactly what happened. He then grabbed some weapons and supplies for His one-manned mission to Megatronics,
including the oxy-hydrogen torch, the living metal "adzet" and some spare living metal then went on the LMIS Crocodile
to Megatronics.

When he arrived the Megatronics wall was in chunks and all the surface buildings were flattened by the explosion.
He then descended using his EGB to the bunker floor in the Megatronics city, floor 404 but the door was locked so
using his oxy-hydrogen torch He cut around the perimeter of the door and kicked it out. There He found the Megatronics
leader, Tina and captured her as prisoner and went back on the LMIS Crocodile to LMI. Upon arriving at LMI He took Tina
to the interrogation room, floor - 20 and attached her to the machine. Then He questioned Tina about why Megatronics
sold the type 2B war robot to his rivals and got the same response. After that He asked the same question but at the same
time threatening to activate the machine, this time he got the real answer: "because Maria was Tina's sister"

Tina tried taunting him about what happened to his elite squad but He said "let the meat fly" and pressed the button.

Chapter 4 LMIS Crocodile

He says "the LMIS Crocodile has a maximum speed of 10 mph and that will be increased to 120 mph."
He then converts it into a hovercraft, four jet engines for propulsion and one for the LMIS Crocodile to hover.
He then says "next the fuel tanks need to be expanded as it will burn all it's fuel in one hour."
"How were these even considered primary weapons" He laughs at the photon cannons
Then He replaces them with heavy guns. When thinking about weapons He realizes that LMI is lacking in powerful weaponry compared to
CFU( oh it's the counterfeiters' union). So using the LMIS Behemoth, He will seize control of the CFU's weaponry lab. He then says "the reason I don't
use it is because it eats fuel like there's no tomorrow!"
First He needs to start the LMIS Behemoth if there is to be a mission (which is quite a challenge), so He starts the starter motor (a jet engine) and cranks it
up to full speed of 9000 rpm and with a 10 to 1 gear reduction presses the clutch. There is a problem however, on the deep howl of the diesel engine He hears
the sound of ground gears, He then says "the engine will not be shut off"
Just as He is about to leave He remembers the third expedition
Unlike the LMIS Crocodile the Behemoth requires at least five to control it: first is the weapons operator, which is Philly next is misc. systems manager who is Bob
at that time, Next is problem remover who moves around the ship and solves problems, who is Mark
After that there's also the radar, sonar and optical operator, who is Litha.
And finally there's the captain, who is He.
So while returning to LMI, Litha spots that there's an enemy trying to get in by cutting a hole in the middle arch of the ship while in a canoe.
He then sets the engine to full power and says " that enemy earned himself a one way ticket down the river Styx!"
After about half a minute the spray coming out the back of the ship has turned red.
Litha then says " that was cruel"
He then replies "yes, maybe pulverizing someone with a six meter propeller was cruel."

Chapter 5 The Raid

This time for the control group, He has some mercenaries.
As the LMIS Behemoth approaches the CFU weaponry lab he finds that the CFU have a cargo ship loaded with Olympus robots headed to LMI.

Olympus robots are crab shaped robots the cut and incinerate most materials.
The LMIS Behemoth's main cannon shoots and half of the robots are annihilated also the fuel tank of the cargo ship starts leaking.
He then says "all they need is an inferno" and goes to the cargo ship in a small boat. For big operations like this He carries a 40 kilogram hydrogen tank filled with
liquified hydrogen.

As He arrives, He ignites the fuel and says "hydraulic systems explode when heated"
However the tank had little fuel to begin with so now it's empty.
After dealing with the first problem He goes to conquer the weapons lab.
Upon arriving at the lab he discovers that CFU's general Aurum arrived first with his squad and taken control of the lab.
There is none of Aurum's squad on the first floor, but He knows that the entire army might arrive in half an hour.
So He goes to the second floor( which is a concrete storage room with concrete pillars every 15 meters).
As He leaves the staircase he is attacked by one of the General's soldiers, so He quickly throws his adzet at the soldier which slows the soldier for 15 seconds, during which He uses his adrenaline injector. As the soldier runs at him, He quickly kicks the soldier with enough power that he hangs half-way out a window and slowly falls out, He then yells " defenestration!"

Then Igna, one of the general's soldiers taunts by saying "Maria really nailed Litha". He replies " I will f***ing nail you to the wall"

Igna then tosses a flashbang close to him. This sets off the photoreactive glasses that He wears. After that He hears that
the general plans to attack him while He "can't see". So He quickly calculates "40 kilos divided by two equals 20, 20 times 20 squared equals 8 kilojoules equals
lethal". Then when the fog begins to clear the general notices the He "can see" and so quickly yells " Igna, run"

He then shouts " too late!" and flings the tank at 44 miles per hour. The tank impacts the concrete pillar with such force that it
sends cracks through the pillar as well as staining it with blood. He then says " oh I forget a railroad spike as the nail part"

Then general Aurum starts chasing him with a sword. He while running down the stairs shoots a modified magnesium flare straight at the general
and says " What a miserable fool" That attack severely burns the general's face. He then says " while you and your troops have been putting on
a show my mercenaries have gotten all the data on the weapon technology"

He then sails back the LMIS Behemoth to LMI.
After arriving at LMI, He asks how is far is Luci-01 built.
The people who build the robot, the flasks said “it’s 20% done”
He then says “can’t believe what horror happened when Luci-00 detonated”
They reply “if it happened not on the lowest five floors the floors underneath it would have cracked and fell down like a giant avalanche”
He then says with horror “the upper floor has a giant crack from the previous three impacts and if anything large hits it all of LMI would come crashing down”
He then says ”the plan is that I get inside of stick shaped container and seal the heavy hatch,
the container is then flooded with a mixture of FC-40, living metal, and glucose”
He continues” then that stick shaped container is inserted into the Luci-01 like a stick of RAM into a computer”
He finishes “ then I go to CFU’s main bases and demolish them to shreds”
Then a swarm of dots appears on the radar screen.