By Paul Roever
I was walking home from school when it happened. Suddenly, I was able to hear things that I had previously not heard before. The man in the house to my left, he was lamenting the loss of his wife, although it had occurred more than three years ago. The woman in the house to my right was almost bursting with happiness. She had just won the lottery. There was a lost child wondering around in one of the gardens, playing hide-and-seek by itself. All of these feelings overwhelmed my own. I felt a panic rushing at me. I knew I had to block these feelings out, and fast, or I would be nothing more than a disheveled wreck lying on the ground. I began trying to think of ways to block out these feelings. I though about my family, but to no avail. I though about going fishing with grandpa, but to no avail. Finally I had the idea to think of math. I thought about Algebra, and I tried to remember some of the homework problems so that I could solve them in my head. This worked. As soon as I began trying to solve a problem, I felt the feelings of other people recede into a secluded space of my mind. Shaken, I proceeded on my way to my house, all the while focusing on Algebra. I got home, and my mother smiled at me and said, “How was school today, honey?” Instantly I could hear her thoughts, her worries about how my father’s company was doing, whether or not she should call him, and worries about my sister’s cold. Suddenly I understood the hardship she had to go through every day, and right then and there, I hugged her as hard as I could.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
The Flu Shot
By Jaye Boissiere
If there was one thing in the world that was certain to Sarah, it was that she hated needles. She hated everything that had anything to do with needles. Sarah couldn’t stand shot needles, absolutely wanted to destroy blood drawing needles, and thought in the most negative way about pushpins. The thought of any needle like object made her shiver.
As the dreaded month of the year, October approached she got less and less sleep. Every night she would get terrible nightmares about the flu shot. In her nightmares she could feel the thin needle breaking her skin, as the color quickly drained from her fragile face. Her own scream filled her ears, and she woke up panting, struggling to get her breath back. Small beads of sweat trickled down the sides of her face, the sweat passed her terror filled eyes. Her mouth opened to let out a scream hoping to get all the fear out in a single yell, but no words came out. Endless cycles of fear swirled through her during the night. Sarah was nothing but sleep deprived.
A week before October her softball coach had a discussion with the team. Sarah listened with excitement. Her coach usually had interesting news that always made the team laugh.
“This year I have decided, for the good of the team, that we will all get flu shots,” Sarah’s coach announced. Sarah nearly fainted with fear.
A week later Sarah walked numbly into the shot room. She tried to calm herself down but couldn’t stop herself from panicking. About a minute after Sarah walked into the room her teammates heard an ear-piercing scream, followed by teary-eyed Sarah walking out of the doctors office.
“It’s all my coaches fault,” Sarah thought. After that she never played softball again.
If there was one thing in the world that was certain to Sarah, it was that she hated needles. She hated everything that had anything to do with needles. Sarah couldn’t stand shot needles, absolutely wanted to destroy blood drawing needles, and thought in the most negative way about pushpins. The thought of any needle like object made her shiver.
As the dreaded month of the year, October approached she got less and less sleep. Every night she would get terrible nightmares about the flu shot. In her nightmares she could feel the thin needle breaking her skin, as the color quickly drained from her fragile face. Her own scream filled her ears, and she woke up panting, struggling to get her breath back. Small beads of sweat trickled down the sides of her face, the sweat passed her terror filled eyes. Her mouth opened to let out a scream hoping to get all the fear out in a single yell, but no words came out. Endless cycles of fear swirled through her during the night. Sarah was nothing but sleep deprived.
A week before October her softball coach had a discussion with the team. Sarah listened with excitement. Her coach usually had interesting news that always made the team laugh.
“This year I have decided, for the good of the team, that we will all get flu shots,” Sarah’s coach announced. Sarah nearly fainted with fear.
A week later Sarah walked numbly into the shot room. She tried to calm herself down but couldn’t stop herself from panicking. About a minute after Sarah walked into the room her teammates heard an ear-piercing scream, followed by teary-eyed Sarah walking out of the doctors office.
“It’s all my coaches fault,” Sarah thought. After that she never played softball again.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Missed Call
By Sienna Stritter
My foot started to tap. Beads of sweat rolled off my forehead to my nose, dripping off slowly, one by one. I wanted to scream. I was waiting for the phone call.
My cell phone vibrated suddenly. I picked it up instantly.
“Hello?” I said in a weak whisper. Silence. “Helloooo? Is anybody there? Hello?” I repeated. Silence. I froze with fear. The beads of sweat that were dripping seemed to turn to ice. I turned slowly and quietly closed my phone.
My sweat “ice” melted back into perspiration. My heart started to beat again. It was pounding a million times a second. I was scared again. I needed that phone call.
The doorbell rang. I jumped up. I stepped towards the door. I stepped back. I stepped forward again. “No,” I said, “No, I can’t leave the phone!” Was that smart or dumb? Now that I look back, maybe I should have gone to the door.
My cell phone vibrated again. Immediately, I snatched it of the counter. I paused, silently praying. Please let this be the call. Please, please, please!
Those few seconds were like my execution day. A message flashed across my screen. Low Battery.
Now let me explain a bit. My phone is so old that sometimes I can't trust it to make anything happen. And that was one of those times. Seconds after I answered the phone, the screen fell black, like a curtain closing.
I screamed.
“That was my call! I know it was,” I hollered, “How could I miss it? That meant my life to me!”
“Gosh, kid. Chill,” my older brother said as he walked by my room.
And after that, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I chucked that phone out the window and never saw it again.
My foot started to tap. Beads of sweat rolled off my forehead to my nose, dripping off slowly, one by one. I wanted to scream. I was waiting for the phone call.
My cell phone vibrated suddenly. I picked it up instantly.
“Hello?” I said in a weak whisper. Silence. “Helloooo? Is anybody there? Hello?” I repeated. Silence. I froze with fear. The beads of sweat that were dripping seemed to turn to ice. I turned slowly and quietly closed my phone.
My sweat “ice” melted back into perspiration. My heart started to beat again. It was pounding a million times a second. I was scared again. I needed that phone call.
The doorbell rang. I jumped up. I stepped towards the door. I stepped back. I stepped forward again. “No,” I said, “No, I can’t leave the phone!” Was that smart or dumb? Now that I look back, maybe I should have gone to the door.
My cell phone vibrated again. Immediately, I snatched it of the counter. I paused, silently praying. Please let this be the call. Please, please, please!
Those few seconds were like my execution day. A message flashed across my screen. Low Battery.
Now let me explain a bit. My phone is so old that sometimes I can't trust it to make anything happen. And that was one of those times. Seconds after I answered the phone, the screen fell black, like a curtain closing.
I screamed.
“That was my call! I know it was,” I hollered, “How could I miss it? That meant my life to me!”
“Gosh, kid. Chill,” my older brother said as he walked by my room.
And after that, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I chucked that phone out the window and never saw it again.
The Volcano Man
By Jordan Stone
Waters washed up pillow lava from the sea. I walked in a brisk manor towards an abandon lemonade stand on the beach, the wind howled around the volcano. My feet were glazed with sand, imprinting molds into the ground. The cool nigh3t air fed my lungs with the sweet oxygen. The water lunged out of the sea and seeped up to where I was walking along the beef. The hair on my arms stood up from the wind chill. A man wearing a white mask and a black cape strolled along the jagged lava about a mile up ahead. The broken wood blockaded the water along the water line. A green shadow edged out a picture in the mist of the night. The entrance of the volcano at the forefront of the beach, forging its way into the forest. I followed the man into the forest. Footsteps swiped across the jungle floor, time almost stood still. The trees caved in forming a tunnel of green that lead to the top of the mountain. The man swiftly scampered up the path to the volcano. The rocks of lava formed a maze, the man entered. I heard a noise right in front of me My heart started pumping faster and faster, sprinting through the maze, I found a mask, white with a black cape lying piled up half burned by lava half still intact. A section of dry lava formed a bridge that lad to a straw hut 15 yards away. The rich smell of coconuts filled the room, the thatched roof made the house warm and cozy. I walked around the house searching for life. Nobody came or called. The next day at the bar there was a poster with the face of a burned man, he went missing last night.
Waters washed up pillow lava from the sea. I walked in a brisk manor towards an abandon lemonade stand on the beach, the wind howled around the volcano. My feet were glazed with sand, imprinting molds into the ground. The cool nigh3t air fed my lungs with the sweet oxygen. The water lunged out of the sea and seeped up to where I was walking along the beef. The hair on my arms stood up from the wind chill. A man wearing a white mask and a black cape strolled along the jagged lava about a mile up ahead. The broken wood blockaded the water along the water line. A green shadow edged out a picture in the mist of the night. The entrance of the volcano at the forefront of the beach, forging its way into the forest. I followed the man into the forest. Footsteps swiped across the jungle floor, time almost stood still. The trees caved in forming a tunnel of green that lead to the top of the mountain. The man swiftly scampered up the path to the volcano. The rocks of lava formed a maze, the man entered. I heard a noise right in front of me My heart started pumping faster and faster, sprinting through the maze, I found a mask, white with a black cape lying piled up half burned by lava half still intact. A section of dry lava formed a bridge that lad to a straw hut 15 yards away. The rich smell of coconuts filled the room, the thatched roof made the house warm and cozy. I walked around the house searching for life. Nobody came or called. The next day at the bar there was a poster with the face of a burned man, he went missing last night.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Going, Going, Gone
By Hidehiro Anto
It was the year 2015, September 12. I was sprinting away, exhausted and breathless. The police were chasing me, riding in their noisy police cars, trying to aim and shoot at me with their ebony black pistols.
I just stole the Constitution, burned the Articles of Confederation, and shredded the Declaration of Independence, but that doesn’t mean I’m guilty. When I went to the National Archives, the burly security guards would have machine-gunned me down, even though I just looked at the Articles of Confederation about ten feet away. Those guards shoot down anyone who looks even slightly Arab, ever since Osama bin Laden and Al-Qaeda attacked the World Trade Center again on September 11, 2011. Come on, I’m only a quarter Arabian, and I’m a twelve-year-old on a annual field trip that never had a bad thing happen. Why in the world would the guards attack me? I’m guessing that one of their loved ones got killed in the 9/11 attacks.
In any case, they immediately saw my slightly Arabic face and quickly got their .50 caliber M2 machine guns. I was on the track and field team at school and like a ninja, I saw that the guns were aimed at me and ran through the crowd gazing at John Hancock’s signature on the Declaration of Independence. I heard the guns opening fire and my teacher Miss Baxter’s high-pitched cry as her leg was wounded, as loud as a high-pitched opera singer. Suddenly, like God sent it, the Constitution, a burnt Articles of Confederation, and a shredded Declaration of Independence flew in my hands. And this is where I am now, running forward, going, going, gone.
It was the year 2015, September 12. I was sprinting away, exhausted and breathless. The police were chasing me, riding in their noisy police cars, trying to aim and shoot at me with their ebony black pistols.
I just stole the Constitution, burned the Articles of Confederation, and shredded the Declaration of Independence, but that doesn’t mean I’m guilty. When I went to the National Archives, the burly security guards would have machine-gunned me down, even though I just looked at the Articles of Confederation about ten feet away. Those guards shoot down anyone who looks even slightly Arab, ever since Osama bin Laden and Al-Qaeda attacked the World Trade Center again on September 11, 2011. Come on, I’m only a quarter Arabian, and I’m a twelve-year-old on a annual field trip that never had a bad thing happen. Why in the world would the guards attack me? I’m guessing that one of their loved ones got killed in the 9/11 attacks.
In any case, they immediately saw my slightly Arabic face and quickly got their .50 caliber M2 machine guns. I was on the track and field team at school and like a ninja, I saw that the guns were aimed at me and ran through the crowd gazing at John Hancock’s signature on the Declaration of Independence. I heard the guns opening fire and my teacher Miss Baxter’s high-pitched cry as her leg was wounded, as loud as a high-pitched opera singer. Suddenly, like God sent it, the Constitution, a burnt Articles of Confederation, and a shredded Declaration of Independence flew in my hands. And this is where I am now, running forward, going, going, gone.
The Train
By Justin Wang
“Click!”
“You have the two twenty train,” a man behind a glass panel said. I walked up to the train.
“Now boarding the two twenty train to Manhattan, New York,” a static speaker sounded. There was much confusion as people pushed people out of their way to get onto their train. I could here some arguments here and some street performers there, but the sounds evaporated as the train’s doors closed.
In the train was a horrible odor that made your insides crawl trying to get away from that magnificently bad smell protruding from the door to my right. I urged as far to the left as possible, accidently bumping into exasperated people as I went.
“Watch it!”
“Hey!” I just ignored them like my ma told me, her two rules, don’t look a stranger in the eye, and don’t get into any fights. The first rule overlaps with the second rule, but the second rule is pretty apparent. I could see young business men and a laughing couple and a few gangsters snickering. There was the sound of commerce and a sick person was coughing and sneezing on the odorous side of the train. His sense of smell was probably clogged I thought. The seats were hard as cement. The wood was chipped and there were love notes and names engraved in the seat’s surface. People were grasping the metal poles that stuck a foot deep into the train’s floor. Holding on nonchalantly just like this was another day on the train. The room suddenly turned quiet for a split second and I could hear the “chuga” of the train’s wheels.
“We have arrived in Manhattan, please exit through the door on your right, have a nice day!”
I stepped out and gleamed.
“Click!”
“You have the two twenty train,” a man behind a glass panel said. I walked up to the train.
“Now boarding the two twenty train to Manhattan, New York,” a static speaker sounded. There was much confusion as people pushed people out of their way to get onto their train. I could here some arguments here and some street performers there, but the sounds evaporated as the train’s doors closed.
In the train was a horrible odor that made your insides crawl trying to get away from that magnificently bad smell protruding from the door to my right. I urged as far to the left as possible, accidently bumping into exasperated people as I went.
“Watch it!”
“Hey!” I just ignored them like my ma told me, her two rules, don’t look a stranger in the eye, and don’t get into any fights. The first rule overlaps with the second rule, but the second rule is pretty apparent. I could see young business men and a laughing couple and a few gangsters snickering. There was the sound of commerce and a sick person was coughing and sneezing on the odorous side of the train. His sense of smell was probably clogged I thought. The seats were hard as cement. The wood was chipped and there were love notes and names engraved in the seat’s surface. People were grasping the metal poles that stuck a foot deep into the train’s floor. Holding on nonchalantly just like this was another day on the train. The room suddenly turned quiet for a split second and I could hear the “chuga” of the train’s wheels.
“We have arrived in Manhattan, please exit through the door on your right, have a nice day!”
I stepped out and gleamed.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
The Confused Death
By Mikey Diekroeger
The wheels on my bike turned and turned as I kept pushing myself to pedal. Something felt unusual. The skies were as dark as the depths of the ocean floor, although it was around noon. The leaves of the trees were constantly being blown off its branches onto the un-paved path. It was the typical day where I felt like snuggling up in my bed and sipping hot chocolate to steam up my throat. I wanted to ride back to the market but I was already halfway to my cottage in the woods. As I kept on pedaling, the rain became colder and colder. Every drop chilled my legs to the point where it felt as if someone were rubbing ice on my leg. I wondered if the water on my leg would freeze into icicles.
The wheels on my bike turned and turned as I kept pushing myself to pedal. Something felt unusual. The skies were as dark as the depths of the ocean floor, although it was around noon. The leaves of the trees were constantly being blown off its branches onto the un-paved path. It was the typical day where I felt like snuggling up in my bed and sipping hot chocolate to steam up my throat. I wanted to ride back to the market but I was already halfway to my cottage in the woods. As I kept on pedaling, the rain became colder and colder. Every drop chilled my legs to the point where it felt as if someone were rubbing ice on my leg. I wondered if the water on my leg would freeze into icicles.
Suddenly I saw a strange green light shimmering from above. My mind was confused like the leaves that were blown off the trees. Along with the shimmering light I noticed some sort of bird flying. It can't be a bird I thought to myself. As seconds passed by, it seemed as if it were transforming into a ship. But, what kind of ship would have a green light shining from its body? Then my thoughts were pulled back to together. It must be a UFO.
As it hovered down, I believed myself as I saw an alien walking out blended into the green light. His eyes were in the form of an antenna. The myths of humans dying when seeing sight of aliens flowed through my brain like liquid, but I didn't believe it. When his eyes met my eyes he suddenly fell and died like a redwood tree being chopped down. I had discovered that day what happens when an alien meets a human.
Friday, October 10, 2008
The Chase
By: Jack Heneghan
Straining, my legs drive like pistons from the pavement. After a mile of sprinting, the only thing propelling me now is raw instinct. I don’t know the name or face of my chaser. Even though my movement blurs his image when I glance back, the sight of him chills my bones with fear. My heart rushes as I wheel around a corner and take another left. The empty suburban streets serve as a poor camouflage, leaving me as vulnerable as a wounded animal.
Looking ahead, I see the bridge. The long archway easily stretches over the wide river. I focus my eyes and charge ahead toward the other side, to the hectic city. I feel no pain now because I know that once there, I will be able to lose my chaser among the bustling activity of the streets.
The end is in sight, only thirty yards from the end of the bridge, my excitement is that of a ship’s captain who can see the harbor ahead. As I cross from bridge to land I can see that my captor is a ways, perhaps 50 yards behind me. My joy soon turns to panic as I hear the horrific sound of searing metal behind me. I am one of the lucky ones, as I had made it off the bridge and into a nearby observation deck, but as I stop, the only thing that holds the floodgates of exhaustion shut any longer is the horror before my eyes. Plunging to the water is a mass of iron and steel. Cars and people free fall towards the river. In this tangled mess, I can clearly make out the body of my chaser. In this moment of clarity, I see for the first time, that his face is that of my fathers.
Straining, my legs drive like pistons from the pavement. After a mile of sprinting, the only thing propelling me now is raw instinct. I don’t know the name or face of my chaser. Even though my movement blurs his image when I glance back, the sight of him chills my bones with fear. My heart rushes as I wheel around a corner and take another left. The empty suburban streets serve as a poor camouflage, leaving me as vulnerable as a wounded animal.
Looking ahead, I see the bridge. The long archway easily stretches over the wide river. I focus my eyes and charge ahead toward the other side, to the hectic city. I feel no pain now because I know that once there, I will be able to lose my chaser among the bustling activity of the streets.
The end is in sight, only thirty yards from the end of the bridge, my excitement is that of a ship’s captain who can see the harbor ahead. As I cross from bridge to land I can see that my captor is a ways, perhaps 50 yards behind me. My joy soon turns to panic as I hear the horrific sound of searing metal behind me. I am one of the lucky ones, as I had made it off the bridge and into a nearby observation deck, but as I stop, the only thing that holds the floodgates of exhaustion shut any longer is the horror before my eyes. Plunging to the water is a mass of iron and steel. Cars and people free fall towards the river. In this tangled mess, I can clearly make out the body of my chaser. In this moment of clarity, I see for the first time, that his face is that of my fathers.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
The Wheel Chair Girl
by Claire Chen
Lin Lin wheeled herself into the line for walking sticks. Even though she didn't need one, she felt that she was more protected with it. She loved hiking and today she was ready to undertake the most risky hike there was in all of China. And there she was, bright eyed, and ready to go. She had crooked teeth and thick glasses but most surprisingly, she was sitting in a wheel chair. For all her life, she sat in this wheelchair. She was not known as Lin Lin, but as Lin Lin with the wheelchair. One day, she hoped to be known as Lin Lin, the 14-year-old girl who climbed the highest peak in China.
In her backpack, there was plenty of water, energy bars, allergy medication, and bug spray to go around. In her lap were a journal and a wooden pencil. Her dad accompanied her on her hike. He was a middle-aged man with patches of white hair dotting his sleek black hair. He wore khaki shorts with a baggy T-shirt. A wind breaker hid the many stains on it. On his back, he carried a big tent, sleeping bags for the both of them, and a couple of spare tires for Lin Lin’s wheel chair. He rolled her over to the immense mountain looming over them. Together they gazed up at the giant, stunned by how high the peak was.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Lin Lin’s father.
“Yes I am sure. I have never been so sure in my life,” Lin Lin said as she assured her father.
Hearing these words from his own daughter made him realize that there was really
nothing to fear. Together, they headed of towards the luminescent mountain not aware of any journey that lay ahead.
Lin Lin wheeled herself into the line for walking sticks. Even though she didn't need one, she felt that she was more protected with it. She loved hiking and today she was ready to undertake the most risky hike there was in all of China. And there she was, bright eyed, and ready to go. She had crooked teeth and thick glasses but most surprisingly, she was sitting in a wheel chair. For all her life, she sat in this wheelchair. She was not known as Lin Lin, but as Lin Lin with the wheelchair. One day, she hoped to be known as Lin Lin, the 14-year-old girl who climbed the highest peak in China.
In her backpack, there was plenty of water, energy bars, allergy medication, and bug spray to go around. In her lap were a journal and a wooden pencil. Her dad accompanied her on her hike. He was a middle-aged man with patches of white hair dotting his sleek black hair. He wore khaki shorts with a baggy T-shirt. A wind breaker hid the many stains on it. On his back, he carried a big tent, sleeping bags for the both of them, and a couple of spare tires for Lin Lin’s wheel chair. He rolled her over to the immense mountain looming over them. Together they gazed up at the giant, stunned by how high the peak was.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Lin Lin’s father.
“Yes I am sure. I have never been so sure in my life,” Lin Lin said as she assured her father.
Hearing these words from his own daughter made him realize that there was really
nothing to fear. Together, they headed of towards the luminescent mountain not aware of any journey that lay ahead.
The Water
By Amelia Blackburn
Early in the morning, I silently got out of bed and rode my bike down the street. I stepped off of my bike when I saw a sign saying Public Beach Access, and locked it up where a group of seagulls were squawking noisily. My tired legs limped down the rocky steps to the beach that was so familiar to me, and I thought of her. The warm, wet sand squished beneath my feet as I walked by the sea. Suddenly, my feet were knocked out from beneath me and my limp body fell into the water. The currents tore at my clothes as I struggled to get free. I stopped fighting the waves and looked down beneath me. The strong currents seemed to stop abruptly, as if they were frozen. My eyes shut and I dove down, deeper than I had ever gone, to see what was in store for me.
When I got home, I took a warm shower and crawled under my cozy sheets. I tossed and turned in my bed, wondering what had happened to my dear friend. I thought back to the day I dragged her out of the cold water. She had been so full of life until then. Now she lets the waves in her life pass her, without struggling to break free of them. The difference between us is that she stopped fighting out of exhaustion. I stop fighting out of curiosity and wonder. I wanted to find new, mysterious waves. Maybe that was what happened to us. I remembered how I saw her thrashing against the currents, not stopping until I swam to save her. I guess that pulled the fight out of her. Maybe that’s what happened to us. Whatever had happened in that water, she never recovered from it.
Early in the morning, I silently got out of bed and rode my bike down the street. I stepped off of my bike when I saw a sign saying Public Beach Access, and locked it up where a group of seagulls were squawking noisily. My tired legs limped down the rocky steps to the beach that was so familiar to me, and I thought of her. The warm, wet sand squished beneath my feet as I walked by the sea. Suddenly, my feet were knocked out from beneath me and my limp body fell into the water. The currents tore at my clothes as I struggled to get free. I stopped fighting the waves and looked down beneath me. The strong currents seemed to stop abruptly, as if they were frozen. My eyes shut and I dove down, deeper than I had ever gone, to see what was in store for me.
When I got home, I took a warm shower and crawled under my cozy sheets. I tossed and turned in my bed, wondering what had happened to my dear friend. I thought back to the day I dragged her out of the cold water. She had been so full of life until then. Now she lets the waves in her life pass her, without struggling to break free of them. The difference between us is that she stopped fighting out of exhaustion. I stop fighting out of curiosity and wonder. I wanted to find new, mysterious waves. Maybe that was what happened to us. I remembered how I saw her thrashing against the currents, not stopping until I swam to save her. I guess that pulled the fight out of her. Maybe that’s what happened to us. Whatever had happened in that water, she never recovered from it.
Superman
By Will Kittler
A boy was scampering towards the center of the roof. The fright of falling off made his bones go cold, the nerves starting to slow down. He began to grow dizzy with weariness. He had been stuck on the 42nd floor of his dads apartment building; the roof. He called for help endlessly, but there was nobody to hear him. The slanted slate slid and splintered into tiny pieces as he struggled up the side of the building. The slippery material screeched under his feet. He began to tumble down, crashing into the gutter with a loud bang. He suddenly awakened, his senses free of any lock that had been holding them still. But there was still the problem of him falling and dying. Simultaneously, he spread out his arms and began to soar out into the open skies. He flew all over New York City, dazzled by the green trees and the fountains across Central park. He flew high over the Empire state building, gaining elevation. He could see all of New York now, the land stretching out in the distance. He wanted to test how high he could fly, but scared of freezing in space or losing his ability he dove down, gaining speed as he went. The flew right down through an alleyway and out onto the other side at 5th street. He was gathering attention, as spectators pointed to the flying wonder. “Today has been a great day,” the boy said, “I discovered I could fly for the 4th time.” The next day, the headline of the New York Times read, “Superman Spotted Again!”
A boy was scampering towards the center of the roof. The fright of falling off made his bones go cold, the nerves starting to slow down. He began to grow dizzy with weariness. He had been stuck on the 42nd floor of his dads apartment building; the roof. He called for help endlessly, but there was nobody to hear him. The slanted slate slid and splintered into tiny pieces as he struggled up the side of the building. The slippery material screeched under his feet. He began to tumble down, crashing into the gutter with a loud bang. He suddenly awakened, his senses free of any lock that had been holding them still. But there was still the problem of him falling and dying. Simultaneously, he spread out his arms and began to soar out into the open skies. He flew all over New York City, dazzled by the green trees and the fountains across Central park. He flew high over the Empire state building, gaining elevation. He could see all of New York now, the land stretching out in the distance. He wanted to test how high he could fly, but scared of freezing in space or losing his ability he dove down, gaining speed as he went. The flew right down through an alleyway and out onto the other side at 5th street. He was gathering attention, as spectators pointed to the flying wonder. “Today has been a great day,” the boy said, “I discovered I could fly for the 4th time.” The next day, the headline of the New York Times read, “Superman Spotted Again!”
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Elevator
By Donya Sheikhrezai
Every morning Mr. Bentley would awake to the sound of his beeping alarm. He would slip out of his bed, clicking the off button on his alarm and make his way to the bathroom. After brushing his teeth Mr. Bentley would put on the clothes that were hung up neatly inside of his mirrored closet doors.
Mr. Bentley only contained the same pants, shirts, jackets and shoes. He grabbed a black t-shirt from the top shelf of his closet and the rest of his clothes off their hangers and quickly put then on.
Mr. Bentley headed down through the stairwell. A man waiting by a silver car opened the door and he stepped in. The man quietly shut the door and made his way to the drivers seat.
On their way to the office Mr. Bentley drank his coffee. When they reached the office the driver silently opened the door. Mr. Bentley stepped out of the car and into the building. He made his way to the stairwell.
Mr. Bentley walked up to the 25th floor. When he swung the door open beads of sweat were dripping down the side of his face and he was breathing heavily.
“Good morning Sir,” his secretary said holding out mail for him. He grabbed the papers went to his way to his office. As he sat down, Mr. Bentley flipped through his mail searching for a state inspection letter. He finally found the letter and excitedly opened it. Inside was a small plaque. It said ‘ Jet Bentley & Co. Inspected’ Mr. Bentley took the plaque and slowly walked to the elevator. He stepped through the open elevator doors at the end of the hall and placed the plaque on the inside of it. Mr. Bentley never used a stairwell ever again.
Every morning Mr. Bentley would awake to the sound of his beeping alarm. He would slip out of his bed, clicking the off button on his alarm and make his way to the bathroom. After brushing his teeth Mr. Bentley would put on the clothes that were hung up neatly inside of his mirrored closet doors.
Mr. Bentley only contained the same pants, shirts, jackets and shoes. He grabbed a black t-shirt from the top shelf of his closet and the rest of his clothes off their hangers and quickly put then on.
Mr. Bentley headed down through the stairwell. A man waiting by a silver car opened the door and he stepped in. The man quietly shut the door and made his way to the drivers seat.
On their way to the office Mr. Bentley drank his coffee. When they reached the office the driver silently opened the door. Mr. Bentley stepped out of the car and into the building. He made his way to the stairwell.
Mr. Bentley walked up to the 25th floor. When he swung the door open beads of sweat were dripping down the side of his face and he was breathing heavily.
“Good morning Sir,” his secretary said holding out mail for him. He grabbed the papers went to his way to his office. As he sat down, Mr. Bentley flipped through his mail searching for a state inspection letter. He finally found the letter and excitedly opened it. Inside was a small plaque. It said ‘ Jet Bentley & Co. Inspected’ Mr. Bentley took the plaque and slowly walked to the elevator. He stepped through the open elevator doors at the end of the hall and placed the plaque on the inside of it. Mr. Bentley never used a stairwell ever again.
Monday, October 6, 2008
The Car Trip
By Sarah Samuels
It was finally happening I thought. After weeks of planning we were finally going camping, by ourselves. It was my best friend Sadhbh, Sadhbh’s annoying little sister Maeve, and me. I was diving into the unexplored thoughts about the trip we were making when I was suddenly brought back to reality with the high pitched, 8 year old voice of Maeve. “Are we there yet?” she whined.
“No!” Sadhbh snapped. It was common knowledge that Sadhbh and Maeve, although they were sisters they despised each other. Well it was to be expected; Sadhbh and Maeve although they had tried for their parent’s sake just couldn’t get along.
I had been over millions of times and knew both sides of the story. I knew how to solve arguments right before they happened. The key was, distraction. “Want some gum?” I asked suddenly butting on Maeve’s unfinished sentence. I shook the pack tempting her to take a piece. “Sure.” said Sadhbh and took a small wrapped up piece of gum dramatically from the package. “I want some too!” whined Maeve
“No!” Sadhbh said, “You can’t.”
“Can to!” yelled Maeve
“Can Not!” yelled Sadhbh in return “Your not old enough and you’re already rotting out your teeth.”
“ I Want Some GUM!” screamed Maeve. Without hesitation she started screaming and banging her hands and feet all over the car.
“Oh Maeve.” I said reaching in the pack for another piece to give to her
“No.” said Sadhbh sternly “ She’ll never learn her lesson if you give her what she wants.”
After an hour of screaming, Maeve finally gave up. I was looking out the window gazing at all the things I would draw. Suddenly we passed a sign “Now Entering Black Wood Campgrounds.” We were there.
It was finally happening I thought. After weeks of planning we were finally going camping, by ourselves. It was my best friend Sadhbh, Sadhbh’s annoying little sister Maeve, and me. I was diving into the unexplored thoughts about the trip we were making when I was suddenly brought back to reality with the high pitched, 8 year old voice of Maeve. “Are we there yet?” she whined.
“No!” Sadhbh snapped. It was common knowledge that Sadhbh and Maeve, although they were sisters they despised each other. Well it was to be expected; Sadhbh and Maeve although they had tried for their parent’s sake just couldn’t get along.
I had been over millions of times and knew both sides of the story. I knew how to solve arguments right before they happened. The key was, distraction. “Want some gum?” I asked suddenly butting on Maeve’s unfinished sentence. I shook the pack tempting her to take a piece. “Sure.” said Sadhbh and took a small wrapped up piece of gum dramatically from the package. “I want some too!” whined Maeve
“No!” Sadhbh said, “You can’t.”
“Can to!” yelled Maeve
“Can Not!” yelled Sadhbh in return “Your not old enough and you’re already rotting out your teeth.”
“ I Want Some GUM!” screamed Maeve. Without hesitation she started screaming and banging her hands and feet all over the car.
“Oh Maeve.” I said reaching in the pack for another piece to give to her
“No.” said Sadhbh sternly “ She’ll never learn her lesson if you give her what she wants.”
After an hour of screaming, Maeve finally gave up. I was looking out the window gazing at all the things I would draw. Suddenly we passed a sign “Now Entering Black Wood Campgrounds.” We were there.
WWIII
By Peter Bouret
“He’s hit, He’s hit, chief down, I repeat chief down.” I panicked over the radio. Two minutes ago he saved me as I was surrounded by four soldiers with their guns pressed against my head already feeling the harsh bullet penetrating my brain. He shot them down, but how could I let him get sniped by a soldier on a rooftop. I brutally banged my head on the ground as my eyes mirrored his blood meander down his neck and stain the beach below. Finally a medic came.
“How’d you let him get busted this bad. He has three bullet wounds one in his neck. There are to many soldiers that need my help. He’s just ‘bout dead,’” the medic stated this in a monotone voice. I slammed him to the floor and demanded,
“You help him right now or not another breath will seep through your lips.” Then I realized what in the world was I doing. I was sitting here bashing this poor medics head into the ground while my friends already dead. I started to glance around seeing the scattered men lying helplessly on the ground like beached whales. The bombs smelled of rotten eggs and fire was scorching the land around me. Finally I snapped out of it, took my rifle and stormed the beach, which they had taken over. The few survivors left rallied with me and we gradually took the bases out. But once we got over the hill we were bombarded by machine guns. I watched as the men around me crumpled into balls of blood on the ground slowly slipping down the hill that we had just conquered. They fell down the beach like shells getting dragged out by the sea’s currents. Then it was my turn to die. BANG.
“He’s hit, He’s hit, chief down, I repeat chief down.” I panicked over the radio. Two minutes ago he saved me as I was surrounded by four soldiers with their guns pressed against my head already feeling the harsh bullet penetrating my brain. He shot them down, but how could I let him get sniped by a soldier on a rooftop. I brutally banged my head on the ground as my eyes mirrored his blood meander down his neck and stain the beach below. Finally a medic came.
“How’d you let him get busted this bad. He has three bullet wounds one in his neck. There are to many soldiers that need my help. He’s just ‘bout dead,’” the medic stated this in a monotone voice. I slammed him to the floor and demanded,
“You help him right now or not another breath will seep through your lips.” Then I realized what in the world was I doing. I was sitting here bashing this poor medics head into the ground while my friends already dead. I started to glance around seeing the scattered men lying helplessly on the ground like beached whales. The bombs smelled of rotten eggs and fire was scorching the land around me. Finally I snapped out of it, took my rifle and stormed the beach, which they had taken over. The few survivors left rallied with me and we gradually took the bases out. But once we got over the hill we were bombarded by machine guns. I watched as the men around me crumpled into balls of blood on the ground slowly slipping down the hill that we had just conquered. They fell down the beach like shells getting dragged out by the sea’s currents. Then it was my turn to die. BANG.
The Egg Watcher
By Hunter Brown
Jenny was a watcher, someone who would receive an egg to watch over. Her egg would hatch a sky lion, a creature that had wings of gold. The lion’s lithe figure gave it speed and flexibility that made it a symbol of courage in her city, Ká Leon known for the power of the sun. The largest temple was made of glass but had a stone interior. On the day that the egg was going to hatch, the egg would be placed on pedestal in the temple as a sign of good luck during birth.
On the day of the birth, Jenny put the egg into her bag and she cautiously went to the temple. She fastened her grip on the egg preoccupied by the thought of a bounty hunter stealing it. Her heart skipped a beat when a man with a black glove grabbed her. She trapped the egg holding it close to her. The man then told her, “The road ahead is not safe, and I shall protect you, as I was one the egg watcher myself”.
Jenny replied, “Thank you sir,” as she slowly pushed the temple doors open.
Jenny dashed to the pedestal despite the man’s warning; a woman with dark hair and a whip halted her. She gave an evil smirk that implied cruel intentions. The man then jumped between them. He unsheathed a knife as Jenny placed the egg on the pedestal. The man and the woman fought, but the duel saw little bloodshed. As the man went in for a thrust, a flash of light blinded Jenny, and the sky-lion appeared in place of the egg. The man was there, but the woman was nowhere to be found.
Jenny was a watcher, someone who would receive an egg to watch over. Her egg would hatch a sky lion, a creature that had wings of gold. The lion’s lithe figure gave it speed and flexibility that made it a symbol of courage in her city, Ká Leon known for the power of the sun. The largest temple was made of glass but had a stone interior. On the day that the egg was going to hatch, the egg would be placed on pedestal in the temple as a sign of good luck during birth.
On the day of the birth, Jenny put the egg into her bag and she cautiously went to the temple. She fastened her grip on the egg preoccupied by the thought of a bounty hunter stealing it. Her heart skipped a beat when a man with a black glove grabbed her. She trapped the egg holding it close to her. The man then told her, “The road ahead is not safe, and I shall protect you, as I was one the egg watcher myself”.
Jenny replied, “Thank you sir,” as she slowly pushed the temple doors open.
Jenny dashed to the pedestal despite the man’s warning; a woman with dark hair and a whip halted her. She gave an evil smirk that implied cruel intentions. The man then jumped between them. He unsheathed a knife as Jenny placed the egg on the pedestal. The man and the woman fought, but the duel saw little bloodshed. As the man went in for a thrust, a flash of light blinded Jenny, and the sky-lion appeared in place of the egg. The man was there, but the woman was nowhere to be found.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
The Banshee
By Jackie Kerns
A boy sat slumped over an open book in his lap. His face was pressed against the glass, stinging his cheek with bursts of frost. If was raining. Drops of water slid down the outside of the window like turbulent rivers.
He stirred. His eyes opened slowly, then blinked rapidly. The book in his lap caught his attention. “Haunting Tales of Desperate Souls”. The boy flipped to his favorite story. The story took place in America around the late 1700’s. It was about a banshee who haunted an old Tudor house. A family had just moved into the old house. At night, the ghost would howl and scream, sometimes it would leave deep cuts on the new born baby girl. The story tells that only the youngest boy could see the apparition. Unlike some other horror stories, this one didn’t have a happy ending.
The window seat was the best spot to read the story; it was there that the banshee killed the young boy.
The boy’s eyes scanned each page eagerly, a retracting feeling in his chest at every turn. At last he was at the second to last page; the next would be the page where the boy dies. He stopped reading. The last page of the story was gone. It looked like there shouldn’t be another page, since there were no hints that the page might’ve ripped out.
The wind howled as it picked up speed, sending shivers up and down the boy’s spine. He looked outside at the damp, dark landscape. The twisted pine tree stood outside his window, reaching toward him with is pointed, woody fingers.
His eyes widened as a figure with red eyes appeared on a bough of the tree. It leaped. He screamed. It dug its nails into flesh. Blood spattered everywhere.
A boy sat slumped over an open book in his lap. His face was pressed against the glass, stinging his cheek with bursts of frost. If was raining. Drops of water slid down the outside of the window like turbulent rivers.
He stirred. His eyes opened slowly, then blinked rapidly. The book in his lap caught his attention. “Haunting Tales of Desperate Souls”. The boy flipped to his favorite story. The story took place in America around the late 1700’s. It was about a banshee who haunted an old Tudor house. A family had just moved into the old house. At night, the ghost would howl and scream, sometimes it would leave deep cuts on the new born baby girl. The story tells that only the youngest boy could see the apparition. Unlike some other horror stories, this one didn’t have a happy ending.
The window seat was the best spot to read the story; it was there that the banshee killed the young boy.
The boy’s eyes scanned each page eagerly, a retracting feeling in his chest at every turn. At last he was at the second to last page; the next would be the page where the boy dies. He stopped reading. The last page of the story was gone. It looked like there shouldn’t be another page, since there were no hints that the page might’ve ripped out.
The wind howled as it picked up speed, sending shivers up and down the boy’s spine. He looked outside at the damp, dark landscape. The twisted pine tree stood outside his window, reaching toward him with is pointed, woody fingers.
His eyes widened as a figure with red eyes appeared on a bough of the tree. It leaped. He screamed. It dug its nails into flesh. Blood spattered everywhere.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Insomnia
By Sean Morgenthaler
Rain pattered softly on the roof as Mark started to sleep. He took a big breath. ‘Today had been a long day,’ he thought. He had studied hard at school, been yelled at by fitness coaches and exercised tiring hours in the midday sun for PE. Relaxed, he started to drift off into sleep. Out of the blackness of his thoughts, he decided that he needed water. He sat up, yawning, and took several steps toward his sink. He slowly reached toward the handle, and cranked the faucet. The water started pouring out, and he bent over and drank it from the sink. Mark sleepily crawled back into his bed and lie down to sleep. Mark could hear the dripping from the sink’s faucet. Drip. Drip. Drip. ‘I cannot sleep with this noise,’ he muttered. He walked the same way again, and turned off the faucet all the way. He carefully inspected the faucet. There was no dripping coming out of the silver polished thing, so he shut the door and leaped into bed. Drip. Drip. Drip. Mark had had it. Fully conscious of what he was doing, he walked out of the bed, and plugged each and every sink in the house with towels, confident that he would not hear that mad noise again. He settled down into bed with the same thought in his mind, ‘I am going to sleep well tonight.’ Drip. Drip. Drip. “No. No. No!” he said, “This can’t be happening.” Mark, his eyes bloodshot, and his legs unable to move, screamed to the heavens. “MAKE IT STOP! PLEASE STOOOOP!!!!” His parents, who had put him to bed earlier that night, found him on his bed in the morning, his eyes blank, repeating the words he adopted as his own. “Drip. Drip. Drip.”
Rain pattered softly on the roof as Mark started to sleep. He took a big breath. ‘Today had been a long day,’ he thought. He had studied hard at school, been yelled at by fitness coaches and exercised tiring hours in the midday sun for PE. Relaxed, he started to drift off into sleep. Out of the blackness of his thoughts, he decided that he needed water. He sat up, yawning, and took several steps toward his sink. He slowly reached toward the handle, and cranked the faucet. The water started pouring out, and he bent over and drank it from the sink. Mark sleepily crawled back into his bed and lie down to sleep. Mark could hear the dripping from the sink’s faucet. Drip. Drip. Drip. ‘I cannot sleep with this noise,’ he muttered. He walked the same way again, and turned off the faucet all the way. He carefully inspected the faucet. There was no dripping coming out of the silver polished thing, so he shut the door and leaped into bed. Drip. Drip. Drip. Mark had had it. Fully conscious of what he was doing, he walked out of the bed, and plugged each and every sink in the house with towels, confident that he would not hear that mad noise again. He settled down into bed with the same thought in his mind, ‘I am going to sleep well tonight.’ Drip. Drip. Drip. “No. No. No!” he said, “This can’t be happening.” Mark, his eyes bloodshot, and his legs unable to move, screamed to the heavens. “MAKE IT STOP! PLEASE STOOOOP!!!!” His parents, who had put him to bed earlier that night, found him on his bed in the morning, his eyes blank, repeating the words he adopted as his own. “Drip. Drip. Drip.”
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
The White Powder of the Devil
By Ben Garfinkel
Five minutes and Gilopian hadn’t delivered the goods. I stared at my watch as it ticked along, leaving 1:05 a.m. in the past. I looked into the New York skyline. From the abandoned construction site, I could see the shimmering lights of downtown. I rubbed my hands together and blew on them in an effort to defrost them. It was to no avail. The only warmth I was receiving was the cigar I was smoking and the Colt .45 resting under my oversized jacket.
I heard a rumbling from below and a car came screeching out of the black. The car was growling and grumbling as boxes of stolen arms were being unloaded. After six cars had been emptied, a man stepped out of the car. He was freshly shaven and had dark brown hair. He wore a black suit, white undershirt, and a black tie. He wore long dark pants with brown loafers; he had a sense of poise and strut about him as if he thought he was too good for this business.
“You’re late Gilopian, it's 1:23. Getchya’ act togetha buddy.”
“Sorry Nico we stopped fo drinks down at the plaza. Com’on, it's Christmas buddy gimme a break!”
I ran my fingers through my short hair, what a pathetic example of a mobster, I thought. “My boss don’t care Gilopian. There’s no time for holidays when you’re a legitimate mobster.”
Offended, Gilopian snarled, “I am a mobster you moron. You still workin’ for that Vito Rizzuto?”
“Ya I am and Vito ain’t paying for those pieces of scrap.” I pulled out my Colt .45 and shot Gilopian in the head. Blood erupted from his head like a fountain, bathing the concrete in a crimson liquid.
Five minutes and Gilopian hadn’t delivered the goods. I stared at my watch as it ticked along, leaving 1:05 a.m. in the past. I looked into the New York skyline. From the abandoned construction site, I could see the shimmering lights of downtown. I rubbed my hands together and blew on them in an effort to defrost them. It was to no avail. The only warmth I was receiving was the cigar I was smoking and the Colt .45 resting under my oversized jacket.
I heard a rumbling from below and a car came screeching out of the black. The car was growling and grumbling as boxes of stolen arms were being unloaded. After six cars had been emptied, a man stepped out of the car. He was freshly shaven and had dark brown hair. He wore a black suit, white undershirt, and a black tie. He wore long dark pants with brown loafers; he had a sense of poise and strut about him as if he thought he was too good for this business.
“You’re late Gilopian, it's 1:23. Getchya’ act togetha buddy.”
“Sorry Nico we stopped fo drinks down at the plaza. Com’on, it's Christmas buddy gimme a break!”
I ran my fingers through my short hair, what a pathetic example of a mobster, I thought. “My boss don’t care Gilopian. There’s no time for holidays when you’re a legitimate mobster.”
Offended, Gilopian snarled, “I am a mobster you moron. You still workin’ for that Vito Rizzuto?”
“Ya I am and Vito ain’t paying for those pieces of scrap.” I pulled out my Colt .45 and shot Gilopian in the head. Blood erupted from his head like a fountain, bathing the concrete in a crimson liquid.
The Butterfly
By Jasmin Gutierrez
It was a warm, sunny day, with light winds coming by every once in a while. I was sitting by the riverside, throwing small pebbles in the water. I could hear some birds singing, but they were so far away, and their song barely reached my ears.
It had been days or even weeks since I’d seen any of my people or any animals even. I’d been lonely and empty for a while now. I didn’t’ know how I got here, but I knew I was lost with no way out, and surrounded by the world of green, trapped in the center of the forest.
I was in a deep sleep when something tickled my ear. I rubbed my eyes, and turned to lie on my back. My eyes opened in shock as soon as I saw it. It was a butterfly. She was beautiful, colored in with bright colors, and she danced around me joyfully. I finally got the strength, and stood on my feet. I took a step forward, as I tried to touch her, but she moved forward as well. I took several steps, and stretched my arm out to feel her wings, but again, she too moved forward.
After some time, I realized I was running. I ran with all my strength, following her to the unknown. As I ran, everything was a blur except the butterfly. I didn’t know why I was chasing her, but I knew that I had to keep going.
After running like the wind, I stopped, and I was there. I saw my cousins having a picnic down the hill, by the river. A smile grew across my face, and I turned to thank the butterfly, but it was gone, and that was the last time I ever saw a butterfly.
It was a warm, sunny day, with light winds coming by every once in a while. I was sitting by the riverside, throwing small pebbles in the water. I could hear some birds singing, but they were so far away, and their song barely reached my ears.
It had been days or even weeks since I’d seen any of my people or any animals even. I’d been lonely and empty for a while now. I didn’t’ know how I got here, but I knew I was lost with no way out, and surrounded by the world of green, trapped in the center of the forest.
I was in a deep sleep when something tickled my ear. I rubbed my eyes, and turned to lie on my back. My eyes opened in shock as soon as I saw it. It was a butterfly. She was beautiful, colored in with bright colors, and she danced around me joyfully. I finally got the strength, and stood on my feet. I took a step forward, as I tried to touch her, but she moved forward as well. I took several steps, and stretched my arm out to feel her wings, but again, she too moved forward.
After some time, I realized I was running. I ran with all my strength, following her to the unknown. As I ran, everything was a blur except the butterfly. I didn’t know why I was chasing her, but I knew that I had to keep going.
After running like the wind, I stopped, and I was there. I saw my cousins having a picnic down the hill, by the river. A smile grew across my face, and I turned to thank the butterfly, but it was gone, and that was the last time I ever saw a butterfly.
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